The Lovely Becky and I were scheduled to begin our vacation today, a luxurious jaunt down south where the temperatures are rumored to be above freezing. Of course, that means it was time for a UP snowstorm to shit all over our plans. On top of that, I have been working like a dog all week so that I can take a week off like a gentleman.
So the Random 11 is snowed in as well, unable to rock or groove much. I'm taking my computer, though, because I will have time to blog next week, and that in itself feels like a vacation.
So open thread for parental advice, your favorite strange meat stories, and/or punning so excessive, it violates the Geneva Convention.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we unveiling in our address to Congress?
Special extra wordy edition!
13) Opening set by Rahm Emmanuel from his new one-man show, "Suck My Donkey Dick, You GOP Leg Humpers."
12) New remix of "Hail to the Mothaf****n' Chief (feat. Jay-Z, TI, and Rihanna)."
11) Plan to place all unemployed Americans in suspended animation chambers until new jobs are created for them.
10) Method to solicit new ideas for economic growth through a new TV show, So You Think You Can Rescue the Economy from Apocalyptic Collapse?
9) A revolutionary new program that will increase our health, reduce our dependence on foreign oil, and greatly reduce the number of traffic fatalities: walking.
8) Immediate lowering of the unemployment rate by officially recognizing "slacker" as an occupation.
7) Plan to firm up investor confidence and get the stock market pumping again by merging the financial sector with the porn industry.
6) Proposal to cut Post Office expenditures by requiring all non-essential mail to be Twittered.
5) Tearful, factually-challenged apology about unethical banking practices, delivered by Alex Rodriguez.
4) Initiative to reduce teen sexual activity by requiring children aged 12-17 to watch their parents having sex (mandatory minimum of three sessions of intercourse).
3) Bold new declaration to end our current economic depression by invading Germany and Japan.
2) A wardrobe malfunction that gives a little stimulus to the ladies (and certain male supporters).
1) A call that the nation should commit itself, before the next decade is out, of going to Mars, bitches! M.A.R.S.!
13) Opening set by Rahm Emmanuel from his new one-man show, "Suck My Donkey Dick, You GOP Leg Humpers."
12) New remix of "Hail to the Mothaf****n' Chief (feat. Jay-Z, TI, and Rihanna)."
11) Plan to place all unemployed Americans in suspended animation chambers until new jobs are created for them.
10) Method to solicit new ideas for economic growth through a new TV show, So You Think You Can Rescue the Economy from Apocalyptic Collapse?
9) A revolutionary new program that will increase our health, reduce our dependence on foreign oil, and greatly reduce the number of traffic fatalities: walking.
8) Immediate lowering of the unemployment rate by officially recognizing "slacker" as an occupation.
7) Plan to firm up investor confidence and get the stock market pumping again by merging the financial sector with the porn industry.
6) Proposal to cut Post Office expenditures by requiring all non-essential mail to be Twittered.
5) Tearful, factually-challenged apology about unethical banking practices, delivered by Alex Rodriguez.
4) Initiative to reduce teen sexual activity by requiring children aged 12-17 to watch their parents having sex (mandatory minimum of three sessions of intercourse).
3) Bold new declaration to end our current economic depression by invading Germany and Japan.
2) A wardrobe malfunction that gives a little stimulus to the ladies (and certain male supporters).
1) A call that the nation should commit itself, before the next decade is out, of going to Mars, bitches! M.A.R.S.!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
As I mentioned last week, Libby and I had some solo time together because The Lovely Becky had to go to conference. TLB was worried a little bit about how Libby would handle being away from her mommy and, more specifically, mommy's boobs. Libby is eating solids now and also drinks formula in addition to breast milk, and there were frozen bags of the real McCoy in the fridge, so the issue was going to be more psychological than physical.
The nights went by, and Libby and I did just fine. Sure, there were a few times when she attempted to lift my shirt, which I prevented lest it end in unspeakable horror. She also missed TLB at bath time—we do a little game every night where one of us chases Libby up the stairs as the other person carries her up for her bath. All in all, though, we just chilled out, played, ate, and slept.
I, however, really missed TLB. I love my time with Libby and we have a lot of fun together, but I found myself missing the three of us having fun. This will sound really cheesy, and it is cheesy, but we waited so long to have this opportunity that we cherish our time together as a family. By the time day three rolled around, I was ready for TLB to come home, not because I couldn't handle Libby by myself, but because I wanted to handle Libby with her mom around.
TLB asked every day how our baby girl was doing. While my positive reports were certainly a relief, I could also hear the disappointment in her voice, disappointment that Libby didn't seem to be missing her mommy more. Finally, when we went to the "airport" to pick TLB up, Libby spent the first minute gazing at her surroundings before finally delivering a much-needed smile to TLB.
"What's the matter?" I asked TLB.
"Nothing. I just wished she missed me a little more," she said.
"Yeah, but do you know how difficult it would have been if she had really bad separation anxiety?"
"I know, and I'm glad she didn't," TLB said. "But a little separation anxiety would be okay."
Funny how we were so focused on how Libby would adjust when it was us who had the harder time of it.
Okay, time for some music.
1) "Beat Connection," LCD Soundsystem. The problem with listening to dance music when you're not dancing is that you're missing the point of the music. There's lots to like here—bongos, blurbing synths, and cowbell—but it just reminds me that I'm sitting here in my sweats instead of jumping on a table and letting loose a vodka-fueled fusillade of happy feet. I have to give the kids in the video here some props for bringing the dance party home.
2) "You Curse at Girls," Fountains of Wayne. The liberal in me says that girls are entitled to be cursed at the way men are. The chivalrous guy in me says absolutely not. Sometimes those things are difficult to reconcile.
3) "Southern California Wants to be Western New York," Dar Williams. My experience in So Cal leads me to believe that Southern Californians don't even know where western New York is, let alone wanting to be like it. It's like the reverse image of the famous New Yorker cover showing the view of the country from Manhattan.
4) "Dancefloors," My Morning Jacket. I feel like I should be in an 18-wheeler listening to this, heading out west and getting into adventures. And I should have a monkey. And maybe a trailer full of females who are there of their own free will and just happen to feel more comfortable in skimpy outfits and tight t-shirts.
5) "You Can Have It All," Kaiser Chiefs. It turns out we can't. In fact, getting half of all seems like a pretty good deal these days. This is one of those choruses I usually sing when no one is looking.
Speaking of having it all and wearing sweats: The thing that almost always comes up first when I talk to someone about working at home is "do you work in your sweats/pajamas/hot pants/leather gear?" (For the record, I do not own either of the last two items to the best of anyone's knowledge.) Most of the time, the answer is no. I follow the same routine I used to follow when I worked in an office: up at the same time, shower, shave (usually), a bowl of Colon Blow cereal for breakfast, and too much caffeine. The only difference is that I walk upstairs to my office, I get to play music as loud as I want, I can go downstairs to see my lovely wife and daughter, and I know who to blame if something in the fridge is half eaten.
Today, however, I am in my sweats, because I can. And that's why working at home is awesome.
6) "I Know It's Over," The Smiths. Morrissey mentioned earlier this week that he plans to retire in a few years. That seems like it should be a reality show. What exactly would someone like him do in retirement? He could be out in the garden, watering his plants with tears of unrequited love. Trying to buy a box of Just for Men covertly but constantly getting recognized, not by kids, but by their parents who were big Smiths fans. Having Robert Smith over for tea and trying to out-morose each other over their approaching demises. That sounds less far fetched than giving a show to Poison's Brett Michaels where he tries to convince us that he's still sexy and not bald.
7) "Tonight, Tonight," Smashing Pumpkins. I know it's completely uncool to like the Smashing Pumpkins, the way it's uncool to like U2. But Siamese Dreams and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Album Title are full of the kind of big, anthemic rock songs I would love to play in Rock Band. There are already a couple in the game, but I really want the chance to screech Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage at a frequency that causes the cats to run into the basement.
8) "Juanita," The Flying Burrito Brothers. Sad songs about drinking to forget...is there anything they can't do?
9) "All the Wine," The National. I talk about music a lot in real life, and it's not unusual to run into people in their late 30s or older who would listen to new music if they could find anything they liked as much as what they heard growing up. I understand the sentiment, and even though I spend a lot of time and money acquiring new music, it doesn't have the same effect music did on me when I was a teenager or college student. There are too many other things that occupy that happiness and too many distractions to make music as important as it once was. But it's songs like this (and albums like Alligator) that make me happy that I still carve out a space for new music in my life.
10) "Girlfriend," Matthew Sweet. On my Can't-Be-Overplayed list and a song that gets cranked to 11 whenever possible. The interplay between the main riff and the lead guitar, the sugar-sweet backing vocals, and the way it feels like great late 60s rock delivered with the force of 90s production always get me. Sadly, couldn't find the original, but found a revved up live version he played with John Hiatt.
11) "Comes a Time," Neil Young. Neil Young at his most beautiful and a wonderful way to head into the weekend.
Enjoy yourselves.
As I mentioned last week, Libby and I had some solo time together because The Lovely Becky had to go to conference. TLB was worried a little bit about how Libby would handle being away from her mommy and, more specifically, mommy's boobs. Libby is eating solids now and also drinks formula in addition to breast milk, and there were frozen bags of the real McCoy in the fridge, so the issue was going to be more psychological than physical.
The nights went by, and Libby and I did just fine. Sure, there were a few times when she attempted to lift my shirt, which I prevented lest it end in unspeakable horror. She also missed TLB at bath time—we do a little game every night where one of us chases Libby up the stairs as the other person carries her up for her bath. All in all, though, we just chilled out, played, ate, and slept.
I, however, really missed TLB. I love my time with Libby and we have a lot of fun together, but I found myself missing the three of us having fun. This will sound really cheesy, and it is cheesy, but we waited so long to have this opportunity that we cherish our time together as a family. By the time day three rolled around, I was ready for TLB to come home, not because I couldn't handle Libby by myself, but because I wanted to handle Libby with her mom around.
TLB asked every day how our baby girl was doing. While my positive reports were certainly a relief, I could also hear the disappointment in her voice, disappointment that Libby didn't seem to be missing her mommy more. Finally, when we went to the "airport" to pick TLB up, Libby spent the first minute gazing at her surroundings before finally delivering a much-needed smile to TLB.
"What's the matter?" I asked TLB.
"Nothing. I just wished she missed me a little more," she said.
"Yeah, but do you know how difficult it would have been if she had really bad separation anxiety?"
"I know, and I'm glad she didn't," TLB said. "But a little separation anxiety would be okay."
Funny how we were so focused on how Libby would adjust when it was us who had the harder time of it.
Okay, time for some music.
1) "Beat Connection," LCD Soundsystem. The problem with listening to dance music when you're not dancing is that you're missing the point of the music. There's lots to like here—bongos, blurbing synths, and cowbell—but it just reminds me that I'm sitting here in my sweats instead of jumping on a table and letting loose a vodka-fueled fusillade of happy feet. I have to give the kids in the video here some props for bringing the dance party home.
2) "You Curse at Girls," Fountains of Wayne. The liberal in me says that girls are entitled to be cursed at the way men are. The chivalrous guy in me says absolutely not. Sometimes those things are difficult to reconcile.
3) "Southern California Wants to be Western New York," Dar Williams. My experience in So Cal leads me to believe that Southern Californians don't even know where western New York is, let alone wanting to be like it. It's like the reverse image of the famous New Yorker cover showing the view of the country from Manhattan.
4) "Dancefloors," My Morning Jacket. I feel like I should be in an 18-wheeler listening to this, heading out west and getting into adventures. And I should have a monkey. And maybe a trailer full of females who are there of their own free will and just happen to feel more comfortable in skimpy outfits and tight t-shirts.
5) "You Can Have It All," Kaiser Chiefs. It turns out we can't. In fact, getting half of all seems like a pretty good deal these days. This is one of those choruses I usually sing when no one is looking.
Speaking of having it all and wearing sweats: The thing that almost always comes up first when I talk to someone about working at home is "do you work in your sweats/pajamas/hot pants/leather gear?" (For the record, I do not own either of the last two items to the best of anyone's knowledge.) Most of the time, the answer is no. I follow the same routine I used to follow when I worked in an office: up at the same time, shower, shave (usually), a bowl of Colon Blow cereal for breakfast, and too much caffeine. The only difference is that I walk upstairs to my office, I get to play music as loud as I want, I can go downstairs to see my lovely wife and daughter, and I know who to blame if something in the fridge is half eaten.
Today, however, I am in my sweats, because I can. And that's why working at home is awesome.
6) "I Know It's Over," The Smiths. Morrissey mentioned earlier this week that he plans to retire in a few years. That seems like it should be a reality show. What exactly would someone like him do in retirement? He could be out in the garden, watering his plants with tears of unrequited love. Trying to buy a box of Just for Men covertly but constantly getting recognized, not by kids, but by their parents who were big Smiths fans. Having Robert Smith over for tea and trying to out-morose each other over their approaching demises. That sounds less far fetched than giving a show to Poison's Brett Michaels where he tries to convince us that he's still sexy and not bald.
7) "Tonight, Tonight," Smashing Pumpkins. I know it's completely uncool to like the Smashing Pumpkins, the way it's uncool to like U2. But Siamese Dreams and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Album Title are full of the kind of big, anthemic rock songs I would love to play in Rock Band. There are already a couple in the game, but I really want the chance to screech Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage at a frequency that causes the cats to run into the basement.
8) "Juanita," The Flying Burrito Brothers. Sad songs about drinking to forget...is there anything they can't do?
9) "All the Wine," The National. I talk about music a lot in real life, and it's not unusual to run into people in their late 30s or older who would listen to new music if they could find anything they liked as much as what they heard growing up. I understand the sentiment, and even though I spend a lot of time and money acquiring new music, it doesn't have the same effect music did on me when I was a teenager or college student. There are too many other things that occupy that happiness and too many distractions to make music as important as it once was. But it's songs like this (and albums like Alligator) that make me happy that I still carve out a space for new music in my life.
10) "Girlfriend," Matthew Sweet. On my Can't-Be-Overplayed list and a song that gets cranked to 11 whenever possible. The interplay between the main riff and the lead guitar, the sugar-sweet backing vocals, and the way it feels like great late 60s rock delivered with the force of 90s production always get me. Sadly, couldn't find the original, but found a revved up live version he played with John Hiatt.
11) "Comes a Time," Neil Young. Neil Young at his most beautiful and a wonderful way to head into the weekend.
Enjoy yourselves.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we changing our retirement plans?
10) Practicing grocery bagging skills for post-retirement employment opportunities.
9) Altering goal of moving to Las Vegas to Leaving Las Vegas.
8) Moving our 401k allocations into more stable Powerball Fund.
7) Using kids' college fund to send ourselves back to college until its safe to graduate again.
6) Investigating tasty new ways to die of a heart attack before the age of 65.
5) Obtaining a fake ID so we're young enough to enlist.
4) Squatting in foreclosed McMansions.
3) Feeding on the pigeons.
2) Getting the food, shelter, and health care we'll need by sticking up the nearest police station.
1) Working ourselves to death so we won't have to be scared about retiring.
9) Altering goal of moving to Las Vegas to Leaving Las Vegas.
8) Moving our 401k allocations into more stable Powerball Fund.
7) Using kids' college fund to send ourselves back to college until its safe to graduate again.
6) Investigating tasty new ways to die of a heart attack before the age of 65.
5) Obtaining a fake ID so we're young enough to enlist.
4) Squatting in foreclosed McMansions.
3) Feeding on the pigeons.
2) Getting the food, shelter, and health care we'll need by sticking up the nearest police station.
1) Working ourselves to death so we won't have to be scared about retiring.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday Random 11: Be My DJ Today
I have been tied up with work and also with watching Libby for the last couple of days, as The Lovely Becky departed for an expenses-paid round of boozing and dining a writing conference. This has left little time to post some of my fabulous new pieces or a Random 11 today.
However, acting on a tip from a certain undead blogger, I recently signed up for eMusic. It's a monthly subscription music service: I pay a flat fee for so many downloads. They have a free trial where you can get your first 25 songs free, so I thought I'd give them a shot.
After downloading one album (of nine songs), I became paralyzed. I only have 16 free songs left! I have to make sure I get my non-money's worth!
This always happens with me when I have credit or gift cards, I over-analyze what I should get with them. I often get gift cards for places like Best Buy, and I horde them like Elaine Benes storing Today contraceptive sponges, waiting for the purchase that will be gift-card worthy. I am convinced that, at least in my case, it is the anticipation of consumerism that is more enjoyable to me than the actual purchase. I should just keep all those gift cards forever and live in a perpetual state of possible purchases.
Anyway, since I need help with my free songs, let me know what you're listening to these days. New, old, famous, obscure...no matter. EMusic is a little limited, but there seems to be a lot of stuff on there. And besides, I'll need new ideas when I get gift cards again.
Oh, and as far as this whole taking-care-of-the-baby-by-myself thing goes, it's amazing how docile they get with a little bourbon and KFC.* Just like daddy.
*Something Snag has known for years.
However, acting on a tip from a certain undead blogger, I recently signed up for eMusic. It's a monthly subscription music service: I pay a flat fee for so many downloads. They have a free trial where you can get your first 25 songs free, so I thought I'd give them a shot.
After downloading one album (of nine songs), I became paralyzed. I only have 16 free songs left! I have to make sure I get my non-money's worth!
This always happens with me when I have credit or gift cards, I over-analyze what I should get with them. I often get gift cards for places like Best Buy, and I horde them like Elaine Benes storing Today contraceptive sponges, waiting for the purchase that will be gift-card worthy. I am convinced that, at least in my case, it is the anticipation of consumerism that is more enjoyable to me than the actual purchase. I should just keep all those gift cards forever and live in a perpetual state of possible purchases.
Anyway, since I need help with my free songs, let me know what you're listening to these days. New, old, famous, obscure...no matter. EMusic is a little limited, but there seems to be a lot of stuff on there. And besides, I'll need new ideas when I get gift cards again.
Oh, and as far as this whole taking-care-of-the-baby-by-myself thing goes, it's amazing how docile they get with a little bourbon and KFC.* Just like daddy.
*Something Snag has known for years.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we admitting to?
10) Loving sheep for more than their wool.
9) The second and fourth victims.
8) Begging girlfriend to go see He's Just Not That Into You.
7) Watching the Grammies.
6) Paying for bailout by sending U.S. gold reserves to Cash4Gold.
5) Making the Skippy extra nutty.
4) Record-breaking weekend of marathon sex achieved through aid of performance enhancing drugs.
3) Only bought a new Amazon Kindle so we'd look like we read.
2) Coming up with broad, open-ended topics for humorous lists when we can't think of something more creative to write.
1) Being a New York Yankee.
9) The second and fourth victims.
8) Begging girlfriend to go see He's Just Not That Into You.
7) Watching the Grammies.
6) Paying for bailout by sending U.S. gold reserves to Cash4Gold.
5) Making the Skippy extra nutty.
4) Record-breaking weekend of marathon sex achieved through aid of performance enhancing drugs.
3) Only bought a new Amazon Kindle so we'd look like we read.
2) Coming up with broad, open-ended topics for humorous lists when we can't think of something more creative to write.
1) Being a New York Yankee.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
Blue Girl started an interesting discussion about hate this week, and in leaving a comment, I said that while I wasn't a big fan of hate, I felt that anger was healthy. I'm usually at my best creatively when I'm mad about something. I think that's because my creativity almost always expresses itself as humor, and it's much easier for me to be humorous when I'm irritated about something. I don't need to do a Lewis Black, but there usually needs to be some conflict to drive my creative impulses.
The same day, Dr. Fish (who is a doctor in real life but I think plays a fish on Animal Planet) posted a link to a dance remix of Christian Bale's ice-cap destroying metldown on the set of Terminator 4. I didn't know much about this incident, so I listened to the original audio. (Neither of those links are work safe.)
I definitely believe that Bale went way overboard and acted like a complete prick, but I also sympathize with him trying to concentrate on something and having another person repeatedly interfere with his work. I had a boss once who had me research a project, a free item we could include with a promotional mailer we were doing. My boss was notoriously flaky, and after spending a good deal of time finding some items based on the parameters he gave me, I presented what I found. Sitting in his office, he suddenly changed his mind and wanted to go in a completely different direction. Not a big deal, and certainly par for the course when you work in marketing and advertising. However, he talked to me like I was an idiot for presenting what I presented, when I simply gave him exactly what he asked for. That little bit of attitude made every other little irritation I had with him suddenly boil over, and I proceeded to yell at him, loudly enough that my coworkers were prairie dogging over their cube walls. I probably laid into him for about two minutes, letting him know that I did exactly what he asked and if he wanted something different, he should have said something. When I finished, I got a bit nervous, because he certainly could have taken disciplinary action against me. I probably would have done that if a copywriter came into my office and talked to me like that. Instead, he actually apologized and we moved on. So anger can be constructive.
At the same time, I didn't pepper him with profanity or threatened to "kick his ass" (I was pissed, not insane). If I had done either of those, I would have been out on my ass, because that's how things work in the real world. He makes a call to HR, HR has me escorted from the building. But I guess there's no HR in Hollywood, and if you're Batman, you apparently get to deliver a little vigilante justice.
The irony is, if Terminator 4 is as bad as Terminator 3, this might be the best scene from the film. And Bale's little tirade produced a hell of a dance mix. So in honor of the creative power of anger, here are 11 random songs about anger or angry-sounding songs.
1) "Can I Play With Madness," Iron Maiden. The Bruce Dickinson two weeks in a row? Maybe my iPod is having anger issues. Or spandex withdrawal.
Funny story: Despite harnessing anger for comedic purposes and yelling at condescending bosses, I'm not an angry person by any stretch, and in fact am quite laid back. However, I have had a couple of "Hulk" episodes, where something sets me off and I just go Lou Ferrigno. The Lovely Becky saw one of these very early in our relationship. We used to go to an under-21 dance club in the north Chicago burbs—the kind of place that would have played the Christian Bale remix. You had to present ID to prove you were under 21 to get in.
This place was about a 45-minute drive, and one night, one of the guys forgot his ID (despite a reminder before we left to make sure everyone had ID). I had my military dependent ID in addition to my driver's license, so I decided to give that to him. We didn't really look very much alike, but he clearly wasn't 21 and it's not like we were trying to sneak into a bar. We spaced it so that I would go in first, then he'd come in about five minutes later.
Inside, his date came up to me. The bouncer didn't buy it, and worse, he took my ID. I was pissed at our doofus companion already, and now had to go beg for my ID back. The bouncer gave me an earful about it, and I explained what happened and that I wasn't trying to be a dick, we just wanted to dance. He started to hand me my ID back, but right before I reached for it, he dropped it so I would have to pick it up.
I lost it. I started screaming at the guy, letting loose a Bale-ish broadside of f-bombs, c-bombs, and pretty much any form of profanity I had in the armory. I was so furious that even though I was sure this guy would probably kick my ass, I didn't care. Luckily my friends led me away before that could happen. But poor TLB had to walk with me to my car and get in, with me cursing like a man bitten by a profanity werewolf on a full moon. Like the werewolf after the moon goes down, once I returned to normal, I felt like a complete jackass, because even if the bouncer was a jerk, I was in the wrong.
Luckily I didn't scare her off.
2) "From Ritz to Rubble," Arctic Monkeys. Hey, a song about getting thrown out of the club by a bouncer. SPOOKY.
3) "Fuck You Aurora," Alkaline Trio. Given that they are from Chicago, I think they are referring to the town of Aurora. However, when TLB and I lived in Iowa City, we always got excited when we hit Aurora on the highway, because it meant we were almost to Chicago. Which, if you've ever been to Aurora, is a little sad.
4) "Never Talking to You Again," Hüsker Dü. "Anger" would be even angrier with an umlaut. "I am so ängry at you!"
5) "Prison Sex," Tool. On the surface, that would indeed seem angry, but don't forget about the make-up sodomy. (I really wish I had a clip for the last one. It's one of my favorite SNL skits.)
6) "Hyper Enough," Superchunk. Pretty much every Superchunk song sounds pissed about something.
7) "Stan," Eminem (feat. Dido). I like this song enough to not do the FACK voice. Plus there's been plenty of all caps on the blog this week. Really, a pretty brilliant song about stalkers, with a little O. Henry twist at the end.
8) "Angry Mob," Kaiser Chiefs. They give the word "mob" a bad name.
9) "Helter Skelter (live)," U2. When you inspire the Manson family, you're going to wind up on an angry song list. Their cover is too tame, though, compared to the raw original.
10) "Fight the Power," Public Enemy. It's kind of depressing that one of their members went from this to Flavor of Love. I imagine that has to make Chuck D a little angry.
11) "Ace of Spades," Motörhead. What's even more angry than umlauts? Face warts. Which Lemmy has in spades. If I was more badass I would consider having this played at my funeral. The fact that I have to think about it means I'm not badass enough. I also don't own a belt made out of bullet cartridges.
Here's to a happy, peaceful, non-confrontational weekend.
Blue Girl started an interesting discussion about hate this week, and in leaving a comment, I said that while I wasn't a big fan of hate, I felt that anger was healthy. I'm usually at my best creatively when I'm mad about something. I think that's because my creativity almost always expresses itself as humor, and it's much easier for me to be humorous when I'm irritated about something. I don't need to do a Lewis Black, but there usually needs to be some conflict to drive my creative impulses.
The same day, Dr. Fish (who is a doctor in real life but I think plays a fish on Animal Planet) posted a link to a dance remix of Christian Bale's ice-cap destroying metldown on the set of Terminator 4. I didn't know much about this incident, so I listened to the original audio. (Neither of those links are work safe.)
I definitely believe that Bale went way overboard and acted like a complete prick, but I also sympathize with him trying to concentrate on something and having another person repeatedly interfere with his work. I had a boss once who had me research a project, a free item we could include with a promotional mailer we were doing. My boss was notoriously flaky, and after spending a good deal of time finding some items based on the parameters he gave me, I presented what I found. Sitting in his office, he suddenly changed his mind and wanted to go in a completely different direction. Not a big deal, and certainly par for the course when you work in marketing and advertising. However, he talked to me like I was an idiot for presenting what I presented, when I simply gave him exactly what he asked for. That little bit of attitude made every other little irritation I had with him suddenly boil over, and I proceeded to yell at him, loudly enough that my coworkers were prairie dogging over their cube walls. I probably laid into him for about two minutes, letting him know that I did exactly what he asked and if he wanted something different, he should have said something. When I finished, I got a bit nervous, because he certainly could have taken disciplinary action against me. I probably would have done that if a copywriter came into my office and talked to me like that. Instead, he actually apologized and we moved on. So anger can be constructive.
At the same time, I didn't pepper him with profanity or threatened to "kick his ass" (I was pissed, not insane). If I had done either of those, I would have been out on my ass, because that's how things work in the real world. He makes a call to HR, HR has me escorted from the building. But I guess there's no HR in Hollywood, and if you're Batman, you apparently get to deliver a little vigilante justice.
The irony is, if Terminator 4 is as bad as Terminator 3, this might be the best scene from the film. And Bale's little tirade produced a hell of a dance mix. So in honor of the creative power of anger, here are 11 random songs about anger or angry-sounding songs.
1) "Can I Play With Madness," Iron Maiden. The Bruce Dickinson two weeks in a row? Maybe my iPod is having anger issues. Or spandex withdrawal.
Funny story: Despite harnessing anger for comedic purposes and yelling at condescending bosses, I'm not an angry person by any stretch, and in fact am quite laid back. However, I have had a couple of "Hulk" episodes, where something sets me off and I just go Lou Ferrigno. The Lovely Becky saw one of these very early in our relationship. We used to go to an under-21 dance club in the north Chicago burbs—the kind of place that would have played the Christian Bale remix. You had to present ID to prove you were under 21 to get in.
This place was about a 45-minute drive, and one night, one of the guys forgot his ID (despite a reminder before we left to make sure everyone had ID). I had my military dependent ID in addition to my driver's license, so I decided to give that to him. We didn't really look very much alike, but he clearly wasn't 21 and it's not like we were trying to sneak into a bar. We spaced it so that I would go in first, then he'd come in about five minutes later.
Inside, his date came up to me. The bouncer didn't buy it, and worse, he took my ID. I was pissed at our doofus companion already, and now had to go beg for my ID back. The bouncer gave me an earful about it, and I explained what happened and that I wasn't trying to be a dick, we just wanted to dance. He started to hand me my ID back, but right before I reached for it, he dropped it so I would have to pick it up.
I lost it. I started screaming at the guy, letting loose a Bale-ish broadside of f-bombs, c-bombs, and pretty much any form of profanity I had in the armory. I was so furious that even though I was sure this guy would probably kick my ass, I didn't care. Luckily my friends led me away before that could happen. But poor TLB had to walk with me to my car and get in, with me cursing like a man bitten by a profanity werewolf on a full moon. Like the werewolf after the moon goes down, once I returned to normal, I felt like a complete jackass, because even if the bouncer was a jerk, I was in the wrong.
Luckily I didn't scare her off.
2) "From Ritz to Rubble," Arctic Monkeys. Hey, a song about getting thrown out of the club by a bouncer. SPOOKY.
3) "Fuck You Aurora," Alkaline Trio. Given that they are from Chicago, I think they are referring to the town of Aurora. However, when TLB and I lived in Iowa City, we always got excited when we hit Aurora on the highway, because it meant we were almost to Chicago. Which, if you've ever been to Aurora, is a little sad.
4) "Never Talking to You Again," Hüsker Dü. "Anger" would be even angrier with an umlaut. "I am so ängry at you!"
5) "Prison Sex," Tool. On the surface, that would indeed seem angry, but don't forget about the make-up sodomy. (I really wish I had a clip for the last one. It's one of my favorite SNL skits.)
6) "Hyper Enough," Superchunk. Pretty much every Superchunk song sounds pissed about something.
7) "Stan," Eminem (feat. Dido). I like this song enough to not do the FACK voice. Plus there's been plenty of all caps on the blog this week. Really, a pretty brilliant song about stalkers, with a little O. Henry twist at the end.
8) "Angry Mob," Kaiser Chiefs. They give the word "mob" a bad name.
9) "Helter Skelter (live)," U2. When you inspire the Manson family, you're going to wind up on an angry song list. Their cover is too tame, though, compared to the raw original.
10) "Fight the Power," Public Enemy. It's kind of depressing that one of their members went from this to Flavor of Love. I imagine that has to make Chuck D a little angry.
11) "Ace of Spades," Motörhead. What's even more angry than umlauts? Face warts. Which Lemmy has in spades. If I was more badass I would consider having this played at my funeral. The fact that I have to think about it means I'm not badass enough. I also don't own a belt made out of bullet cartridges.
Here's to a happy, peaceful, non-confrontational weekend.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
A Prayer for Sarah Palin
by John Irving McCain
I am doomed to remember a woman with a wrecked voice, not because of her voice, or because she was the dimmest person I ever knew, or even because she was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because she is the reason I no longer believe in God. I am no longer a Christian because of Sarah Palin.
I met her at a prayer breakfast after she had been selected as my running mate. She was pretty in a J.C. Penny catalog model sense, although she was not rich enough for my tastes. It was when she opened her mouth that I realized how unique she was. She had a voice that sounded as if it came from another time zone. Now I’m convinced that it was a voice not entirely of this world.
“HI YA, JOHN. I’M SARAH,” she said. “WE’RE GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.” She spoke with a series of tongue clicks and winks that made me think she had Tourette’s. I think she had all of those tics because the endless reserves of incompetence and incoherence that bubbled beneath her soul needed to escape in any way possible.
Her manicured hand had mine in a crushing shake. “DO YOU LIKE HUNTING?” she asked me.
I did not, but it was an election season, and I did not want to appear less manly than my female running mate. “Sure,” I said.
“WE SHOULD GO. BRING YOUR MOM,” Sarah said with a wink.
It took some cajoling, but I convinced Mother that this would be a great photo opportunity for my campaign. I dispatched my aides to the nearest Cabella’s store to purchase suitable attire. When Mother and I arrived for the hunt, wearing orange jackets and hats, Sarah stood in full camouflage, her face painted the same green and black pattern as her outfit. She carried a large rifle on her shoulder. She leaned against a helicopter, bathed in the machine-gun bursts of flash bulbs from the reporters. “Oh, dear,” my mother said.
“Why do we need a helicopter?” I asked.
“I LIKE TO HUNT FROM THE AIR,” Sarah said. “LIKE A BALD EAGLE. ONLY WITH A GUN.”
I saw Mother blanch, but in her classic WASP demeanor, she swallowed all emotion and plastered a smile across her face. “Sounds splendid,” she said, climbing into the helicopter.
We flew above the forest. “TAKE THE FIRST SHOT,” Sarah said. I spotted a moose down below, in a break among the trees. I aimed and fired, missing, and sending our prey galloping back into cover.
“YOU HAVE TO LEAD,” Sarah said. “LIKE THIS.”
She spotted another moose. Raising her rifle to her shoulder, she turned quickly to her right to track the animal. The gun barrel slammed into Mother, who lost her grip and tumbled out of the open chopper door. I screamed and grabbed for her, but my hands came away with only her orange hunting cap.
“OOPS,” said Sarah.
At the funeral, I said that it was an accident and that I didn’t hold Sarah accountable. Sarah said she was sorry, although she told the reporters, “THAT’S WHY THEY SAY BUCKLE UP FOR SAFETY.” Inside, I wanted to throttle her, to crush the very box that produced that voice. Instead, I smiled and hugged Sarah in front of reporters, swallowing my fiery rage for political gain. It’s what Mother would have wanted.
We met before the Republican convention and discussed policy points. When I asked her about her position on science, she said, “THE DINOSAURS DIED OUT BECAUSE NOAH DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM ON THE ARK.” We talked about health care, and she said, “JESUS IS THE BEST DOCTOR YOU’LL EVER HAVE, AND THERE’S NO PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS, EVEN IF YOU’RE JEWISH.” Regarding Iraq, she said we had to stay because “QUITTERS NEVER PROSPER.”
“No, it’s, ‘Cheaters never prosper,’” I corrected her.
“THEY DO IF THEY DON’T GET CAUGHT,” she answered.
After consulting with my advisors, I told her, “Maybe the convention is not the best place to discuss policy. Just go out there and be yourself.”
“WHO ELSE WOULD I BE?” she asked. “I COULD BE SOMEONE ELSE, THOUGH. I WAS IN A SCHOOL PLAY ONCE. I PLAYED A TREE.”
The eve of the convention, I could not sleep. What had I done? How could I ask America to vote for this woman when I wouldn’t vote for her?
But then it happened. She stepped in front of the microphone and won over not just the party, but America. She was folksy, charismatic, and not dim. “You did great,” I told her when she came off the stage.
“I HAD ALL THESE THINGS I WAS GOING TO SAY,” she said. “BUT THEN ALL THESE WORDS APPEARED BEFORE MY EYES, LIKE MAGIC. I JUST READ THEM, AND THEY SCROLLED DOWN AND MORE APPEARED AND THEN PEOPLE CLAPPED. I THINK JESUS WAS SPEAKING THROUGH ME.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to go out and speak the magic words too.”
“YOU SHOULD SAY THAT ‘COMMUNITY ORGANIZER’ IS A CODE WORD FOR ‘SECRET MUSLIM.,’” she said.
“I will if that’s what Jesus writes,” I replied.
The polls shot up and what looked like certain political doom turned into a convention miracle. Maybe I was wrong about Sarah. Maybe I really did not understand what ordinary Americans wanted.
“THAT’S EXACTLY RIGHT,” she told me. “I’M LIKE THEM. OR THEY’RE LIKE ME. AND YOU NEED TO SHOW THAT YOU’RE ONE OF US.”
She started telling me about The Plan. It came to her in a dream. “I SAW A MAN, UNDER A SINK. I COULDN’T SEE HIS FACE, JUST THE TOP OF HIS HINEY STICKING OUT OF HIS JEANS. YOU WERE IN THE SINK, NOT REAL SIZE, BUT TINY SIZE. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked her.
“I DON’T THINK THE PIPES ARE REALLY PIPES. THEY’RE AMERICA. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT WHO’S GOING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
I looked at her, thanked her, and told her I would take her advice under advisement. “WOW, NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THAT BEFORE,” she beamed.
She started doing interviews, and things turned disastrous. When asked about looking for oil in ANWAR, she said, “I HAVE THE SAME BELIEF ABOUT OIL THAT I DO ABOUT SNUGGLE TIME WITH TODD: DRILL WHERE YOU WANT, AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, WITHOUT ANY PROTECTION.” She told Katie Couric that she had a plan for dealing with Russia. “IT’S LIKE D-DAY, ONLY WITHOUT NAZIS. AND WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS.”
“Sarah,” I told her. “You have to watch what you say.”
“I WAS,” she said, “BUT THE JESUS WORDS DIDN’T APPEAR, SO I SAID WHAT I HEARD IN MY HEAD. GOD TALKS TO ME THAT WAY, TOO.”
After another meeting with my advisors, we fixed it so she would only talk when she had ‘Jesus Words’ in front of her—at least until we could get her to memorize the Jesus Words we wanted her to say. But the damage was done. The media had a field day with her. One evening, she telephoned me. Her voice was quick and her pitch a full tone higher. The receiver was like a diamond-cutter sawing at my eardrums.
“JOHN,” she yelped. “I’M ON THE TV, BUT I’M ALSO RIGHT HERE. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?”
I turned on the set. “Which channel?” I asked.
“CHANNEL SEVEN,” she said.
Channel seven on my system was the cable guide. “Which network?”
“THE ONE THAT’S ON CHANNEL SEVEN.”
I eventually found what she was looking at. “Sarah,” I said, “That’s not you. That’s Tina Fey.”
“WHO?”
“An actress playing you.”
She paused for a moment. “WHEN DID THEY MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT ME?”
My political fortunes continued to slide. Privately, I resigned myself to losing. But Sarah would not accept defeat. She kept admonishing me to follow The Plan, even though she didn’t know what The Plan really was.
Sarah called me. “TURN ON YOUR TV TO CHANNEL 32.”
After some investigation, I determined she was watching CNN. They were running a piece on my opponent, who was being questioned on a campaign stop by a plumber named Joe. I asked her what was so important.
“THAT’S THE GUY WHO WAS FIXING THE PIPES IN MY DREAM,” she said, her voice giddy. I asked her how she could know that when she had not seen the man’s face. “I JUST KNOW,” she said. “YOU HAVE TO TALK ABOUT HIM. IT’S THE PLAN.”
I may never know why I listened to her. Maybe I was desperate. Maybe I wanted to seem like a man of the people. And maybe—and this is what I think, deep down, is the answer—I wanted to believe. I wanted to be part of the America that thought they could find answers in dreams and Jesus Words, to be able to just believe what you wanted, without the gnawing fear of being wrong.
During the debate, I didn’t just talk about Joe the Plumber. I invoked his name over and over, making him my prayer, my mantra, my hymn to the average American that my running mate so clearly exemplified. When I finished, Sarah greeted me as I left the stage.
“IT’S GOING TO WORK. IT’S THE PLAN.”
The part that haunts me, more than anything, is that I believed her.
Of course, it didn’t work. It failed spectacularly, and in many respects, The Plan made me look even more out of touch than ever. On the night of the election, after I conceded, I turned to Sarah.
“So much for your plan.”
“I KNOW. I THINK I MISUNDERSTOOD THE DREAM. DREAMS ARE HARD, LIKE MATH.”
She looked genuinely sad, and for a moment, I felt bad about hurting her feelings. I hugged her and told her that was okay, that we gave it our best shot.
“I HAD ANOTHER DREAM,” she said. “IT WAS 2012 AND PEOPLE WERE CALLING ME ‘MADAM PRESIDENT,’ LIKE ON BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. ONLY IT WAS REAL LIFE AND NOT IN SPACE. MAYBE THE PLAN WAS TO GET ME THE EXPERIENCE I NEEDED SO I COULDBE PRESIDENT.”
“So you’re saying that The Plan—God’s plan—was for me to lose so that you could become president?” I asked her.
“YES,” she said. “AND IF I WIN, YOU CAN BE MY VICE-PRESIDENT. IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE.”
For the second time, I believed her. That God wanted her to become the leader of America because she was the future of America. And that belief—that searing, hot, ball of conviction in my gut—is why I am no longer a believer. Yet I still pray. I pray that I will join Mother in the sweet, peaceful oblivion that is as far away from The Plan as possible.
I am doomed to remember a woman with a wrecked voice, not because of her voice, or because she was the dimmest person I ever knew, or even because she was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because she is the reason I no longer believe in God. I am no longer a Christian because of Sarah Palin.
I met her at a prayer breakfast after she had been selected as my running mate. She was pretty in a J.C. Penny catalog model sense, although she was not rich enough for my tastes. It was when she opened her mouth that I realized how unique she was. She had a voice that sounded as if it came from another time zone. Now I’m convinced that it was a voice not entirely of this world.
“HI YA, JOHN. I’M SARAH,” she said. “WE’RE GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.” She spoke with a series of tongue clicks and winks that made me think she had Tourette’s. I think she had all of those tics because the endless reserves of incompetence and incoherence that bubbled beneath her soul needed to escape in any way possible.
Her manicured hand had mine in a crushing shake. “DO YOU LIKE HUNTING?” she asked me.
I did not, but it was an election season, and I did not want to appear less manly than my female running mate. “Sure,” I said.
“WE SHOULD GO. BRING YOUR MOM,” Sarah said with a wink.
It took some cajoling, but I convinced Mother that this would be a great photo opportunity for my campaign. I dispatched my aides to the nearest Cabella’s store to purchase suitable attire. When Mother and I arrived for the hunt, wearing orange jackets and hats, Sarah stood in full camouflage, her face painted the same green and black pattern as her outfit. She carried a large rifle on her shoulder. She leaned against a helicopter, bathed in the machine-gun bursts of flash bulbs from the reporters. “Oh, dear,” my mother said.
“Why do we need a helicopter?” I asked.
“I LIKE TO HUNT FROM THE AIR,” Sarah said. “LIKE A BALD EAGLE. ONLY WITH A GUN.”
I saw Mother blanch, but in her classic WASP demeanor, she swallowed all emotion and plastered a smile across her face. “Sounds splendid,” she said, climbing into the helicopter.
We flew above the forest. “TAKE THE FIRST SHOT,” Sarah said. I spotted a moose down below, in a break among the trees. I aimed and fired, missing, and sending our prey galloping back into cover.
“YOU HAVE TO LEAD,” Sarah said. “LIKE THIS.”
She spotted another moose. Raising her rifle to her shoulder, she turned quickly to her right to track the animal. The gun barrel slammed into Mother, who lost her grip and tumbled out of the open chopper door. I screamed and grabbed for her, but my hands came away with only her orange hunting cap.
“OOPS,” said Sarah.
At the funeral, I said that it was an accident and that I didn’t hold Sarah accountable. Sarah said she was sorry, although she told the reporters, “THAT’S WHY THEY SAY BUCKLE UP FOR SAFETY.” Inside, I wanted to throttle her, to crush the very box that produced that voice. Instead, I smiled and hugged Sarah in front of reporters, swallowing my fiery rage for political gain. It’s what Mother would have wanted.
We met before the Republican convention and discussed policy points. When I asked her about her position on science, she said, “THE DINOSAURS DIED OUT BECAUSE NOAH DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM ON THE ARK.” We talked about health care, and she said, “JESUS IS THE BEST DOCTOR YOU’LL EVER HAVE, AND THERE’S NO PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS, EVEN IF YOU’RE JEWISH.” Regarding Iraq, she said we had to stay because “QUITTERS NEVER PROSPER.”
“No, it’s, ‘Cheaters never prosper,’” I corrected her.
“THEY DO IF THEY DON’T GET CAUGHT,” she answered.
After consulting with my advisors, I told her, “Maybe the convention is not the best place to discuss policy. Just go out there and be yourself.”
“WHO ELSE WOULD I BE?” she asked. “I COULD BE SOMEONE ELSE, THOUGH. I WAS IN A SCHOOL PLAY ONCE. I PLAYED A TREE.”
The eve of the convention, I could not sleep. What had I done? How could I ask America to vote for this woman when I wouldn’t vote for her?
But then it happened. She stepped in front of the microphone and won over not just the party, but America. She was folksy, charismatic, and not dim. “You did great,” I told her when she came off the stage.
“I HAD ALL THESE THINGS I WAS GOING TO SAY,” she said. “BUT THEN ALL THESE WORDS APPEARED BEFORE MY EYES, LIKE MAGIC. I JUST READ THEM, AND THEY SCROLLED DOWN AND MORE APPEARED AND THEN PEOPLE CLAPPED. I THINK JESUS WAS SPEAKING THROUGH ME.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to go out and speak the magic words too.”
“YOU SHOULD SAY THAT ‘COMMUNITY ORGANIZER’ IS A CODE WORD FOR ‘SECRET MUSLIM.,’” she said.
“I will if that’s what Jesus writes,” I replied.
The polls shot up and what looked like certain political doom turned into a convention miracle. Maybe I was wrong about Sarah. Maybe I really did not understand what ordinary Americans wanted.
“THAT’S EXACTLY RIGHT,” she told me. “I’M LIKE THEM. OR THEY’RE LIKE ME. AND YOU NEED TO SHOW THAT YOU’RE ONE OF US.”
She started telling me about The Plan. It came to her in a dream. “I SAW A MAN, UNDER A SINK. I COULDN’T SEE HIS FACE, JUST THE TOP OF HIS HINEY STICKING OUT OF HIS JEANS. YOU WERE IN THE SINK, NOT REAL SIZE, BUT TINY SIZE. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked her.
“I DON’T THINK THE PIPES ARE REALLY PIPES. THEY’RE AMERICA. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT WHO’S GOING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
I looked at her, thanked her, and told her I would take her advice under advisement. “WOW, NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THAT BEFORE,” she beamed.
She started doing interviews, and things turned disastrous. When asked about looking for oil in ANWAR, she said, “I HAVE THE SAME BELIEF ABOUT OIL THAT I DO ABOUT SNUGGLE TIME WITH TODD: DRILL WHERE YOU WANT, AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, WITHOUT ANY PROTECTION.” She told Katie Couric that she had a plan for dealing with Russia. “IT’S LIKE D-DAY, ONLY WITHOUT NAZIS. AND WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS.”
“Sarah,” I told her. “You have to watch what you say.”
“I WAS,” she said, “BUT THE JESUS WORDS DIDN’T APPEAR, SO I SAID WHAT I HEARD IN MY HEAD. GOD TALKS TO ME THAT WAY, TOO.”
After another meeting with my advisors, we fixed it so she would only talk when she had ‘Jesus Words’ in front of her—at least until we could get her to memorize the Jesus Words we wanted her to say. But the damage was done. The media had a field day with her. One evening, she telephoned me. Her voice was quick and her pitch a full tone higher. The receiver was like a diamond-cutter sawing at my eardrums.
“JOHN,” she yelped. “I’M ON THE TV, BUT I’M ALSO RIGHT HERE. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?”
I turned on the set. “Which channel?” I asked.
“CHANNEL SEVEN,” she said.
Channel seven on my system was the cable guide. “Which network?”
“THE ONE THAT’S ON CHANNEL SEVEN.”
I eventually found what she was looking at. “Sarah,” I said, “That’s not you. That’s Tina Fey.”
“WHO?”
“An actress playing you.”
She paused for a moment. “WHEN DID THEY MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT ME?”
My political fortunes continued to slide. Privately, I resigned myself to losing. But Sarah would not accept defeat. She kept admonishing me to follow The Plan, even though she didn’t know what The Plan really was.
Sarah called me. “TURN ON YOUR TV TO CHANNEL 32.”
After some investigation, I determined she was watching CNN. They were running a piece on my opponent, who was being questioned on a campaign stop by a plumber named Joe. I asked her what was so important.
“THAT’S THE GUY WHO WAS FIXING THE PIPES IN MY DREAM,” she said, her voice giddy. I asked her how she could know that when she had not seen the man’s face. “I JUST KNOW,” she said. “YOU HAVE TO TALK ABOUT HIM. IT’S THE PLAN.”
I may never know why I listened to her. Maybe I was desperate. Maybe I wanted to seem like a man of the people. And maybe—and this is what I think, deep down, is the answer—I wanted to believe. I wanted to be part of the America that thought they could find answers in dreams and Jesus Words, to be able to just believe what you wanted, without the gnawing fear of being wrong.
During the debate, I didn’t just talk about Joe the Plumber. I invoked his name over and over, making him my prayer, my mantra, my hymn to the average American that my running mate so clearly exemplified. When I finished, Sarah greeted me as I left the stage.
“IT’S GOING TO WORK. IT’S THE PLAN.”
The part that haunts me, more than anything, is that I believed her.
Of course, it didn’t work. It failed spectacularly, and in many respects, The Plan made me look even more out of touch than ever. On the night of the election, after I conceded, I turned to Sarah.
“So much for your plan.”
“I KNOW. I THINK I MISUNDERSTOOD THE DREAM. DREAMS ARE HARD, LIKE MATH.”
She looked genuinely sad, and for a moment, I felt bad about hurting her feelings. I hugged her and told her that was okay, that we gave it our best shot.
“I HAD ANOTHER DREAM,” she said. “IT WAS 2012 AND PEOPLE WERE CALLING ME ‘MADAM PRESIDENT,’ LIKE ON BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. ONLY IT WAS REAL LIFE AND NOT IN SPACE. MAYBE THE PLAN WAS TO GET ME THE EXPERIENCE I NEEDED SO I COULDBE PRESIDENT.”
“So you’re saying that The Plan—God’s plan—was for me to lose so that you could become president?” I asked her.
“YES,” she said. “AND IF I WIN, YOU CAN BE MY VICE-PRESIDENT. IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE.”
For the second time, I believed her. That God wanted her to become the leader of America because she was the future of America. And that belief—that searing, hot, ball of conviction in my gut—is why I am no longer a believer. Yet I still pray. I pray that I will join Mother in the sweet, peaceful oblivion that is as far away from The Plan as possible.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How did we celebrate our Super Bowl victory?
10) Filled the streets of Pittsburgh with molten steel to preserve the city just as it was when the Steelers won their sixth title.
9) Overturned and burned any car with Arizona plates.
8) Went to Disneyland and shot up It’s a Small World.
7) Added masking agent to the postgame champagne.
6) Made a trophy out of the buffalo wing we choked on when Holmes caught the winning TD pass.
5) Added new love stains to our Ben Roethlisberger Fathead.
4) Called Kurt Warner to tell him it’s Jesus and, because he didn’t win the game, he’ll be left behind.
3) Vowed to not change out of Steelers jersey until next season, no matter how much wife threatens divorce.
2) Conceived our next child, Santonio Polamalu Tomlin (or Santonia if it’s a girl).
1) Put that sixth championship ring on something other than a finger.
9) Overturned and burned any car with Arizona plates.
8) Went to Disneyland and shot up It’s a Small World.
7) Added masking agent to the postgame champagne.
6) Made a trophy out of the buffalo wing we choked on when Holmes caught the winning TD pass.
5) Added new love stains to our Ben Roethlisberger Fathead.
4) Called Kurt Warner to tell him it’s Jesus and, because he didn’t win the game, he’ll be left behind.
3) Vowed to not change out of Steelers jersey until next season, no matter how much wife threatens divorce.
2) Conceived our next child, Santonio Polamalu Tomlin (or Santonia if it’s a girl).
1) Put that sixth championship ring on something other than a finger.
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