Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we reducing our defense spending?

Special extra savings edition!

12) Saving on ammunition costs by replacing inefficient automatic weapons with bullet-saving muskets.

11) Eliminating full-time staff and instead hiring temporary workers during the heavier holiday bombing season.

10) Guaranteeing to win all wars within 30 days or the next war is free.

9) Restricting surgical strikes to countries that are enrolled in our bombing networks.

8) Cutting down on nightvision expenses by only attacking in broad daylight.

7) Switching from expensive training bootcamps to one intensive weekend session of Call of Duty.

6) Transitioning from paid private contractors to unpaid interns willing to beat a detainee with a urine-soaked Koran for the free experience.

5) Saving on fuel costs by introducing the Bradley Fighting Prius.

4) Outsourcing our policing of the world to China.

3) Allowing the GI Bill to only pay for tuition at the School of Hard Knocks.

2) Replacing our expensive, fallible fleet of military analysts, experts, and secretaries with Paul the Psychic Octopus.

1) Carefully considering whether a future military action is truly necessary and exhausting all other options before embarking on the costly course of war...just kidding, we’ll just stick to invading countries whose asses we know we can kick.

Vacation

I don't think I've ever needed a week off as much as I do right now. Thankfully we make our annual trip to the beach tomorrow, complete with beer, children, and Canadians...and hopefully not too much dumb-assery. I plan to return refreshed, revived, ready to blog and ready to turn 40.

In the meantime...

Top Ten Wednesdays: What are we issuing an executive-level apology for?

10) On behalf of everyone in our corporation/administration/technology cult, we would like to humbly/deeply/sort of apologize for poisoning your coastline/firing you for being a racist/assuming human beings hold their cell phones with their hands. Please accept our transparent attempt to avoid a Congressional subpeona/calculated attempt to avoid any further slides in the polls/blatant attempt to hold on to your chains of brand slavery.

9) What’s that? You want a little more. Jesus Christ, we already said we humbly apologize, you ungrateful...fine.

8) As a symbol of our media-/newscycle-/market research-driven regret, please accept this heartfelt series of touching television commercials/heartfelt statement from our press representative/heartfelt accusation that you’re a moronic dumb ass who doesn’t know how to hold a cell phone properly.

7) So there you go, are we square? No?! Well if that’s not good enough, you can take your environmental disaster/unwarranted termination/dropped calls and shove them up your whiny little....

6) Ahem. On advice of counsel, we would like to humbly/deeply/sort of apologize for our comments in number 7.

5) Furthermore, to rectify this situation, we promise to dispatch our very best underwater robots/spin doctors/automated tech support message.

4) In addition, to prevent a repeat of this situation, we also vow, to the best of our profitability/approval ratings/product release schedule, to not treat environmental safety like a junior executive willing to trade sex for a promotion/beg for approval from conservative bloggers like a GOP Congressman begging to lick the heels of a $300-an-hour dominatrix/design beautiful cell phones that handle actual phone calls like a supermodel recoiling from your greasy touch.

3) Finally, we would also like to offer you a free lube, oil, and filter for your local beach/your old job back at the same crappy government salary you were making before everyone thought you were a dirty stinking bigot/an ugly rubber casing that makes your shiny $600 phone look like Fisher Price's My First Overpriced Piece of Technoshit.

2) Now that surely should take care of all your concerns, right? Oh, come on! Are you telling us that you’re not satisfied with our slow and ineffectual/rash and haphazard/condescending and arrogant response to the situation? Okay, fine, have it your way.

1) We hereby announce that we assume full responsibility for the situation and will now be jumping from our nosediving corporate stock with an $18-million-dollar golden parachute/buying your silence with the promise of a personal phone call from the President and a new job, “Undersecretary for Sweeping Things Under the Rug”/letting you exchange your phone for a refund like the uncool, drooling, Droid-loving loser that you are. Happy now?

USDA Nearly Fires Official Over Concerns of “Blackness”

Agency accused of overreacting to conservative criticism that official was "unapologetically 100 percent black"

Agricultural secretary Tom Vilsack came under attack today for firing Shirley Sherrod, an official in the United States Department of Agriculture, after a conservative Web site produced video evidence of her being black.

The firing came after conservative publisher and facts fornicator Andrew Breitbart posted a series of accusatory messages on Twitter during one of his so-called “Twitdumps.”

"[Oh my God], this gov’t official is at NAACP meeting and is totally black. Video proof forthcoming," Breitbart dumped.

The video showed Ms. Sherrod indeed not only being black, but being black with other black people at an NAACP panel discussion. After discussing her lineage, which she offered unprompted as "completely black," Ms. Sherrod unabashedly declared, "I will always be black." Many of the other blacks attending the panel could be seen nodding in approval.

Conservatives quickly pounced. "This is precisely the kind of behavior the NACCP should be against," wrote blogger Michelle Malkin, an honorary Caucasian.

Talk show host Glenn Beck, an actual Caucasian, told his television audience, "This is what the Obama administration has sown. Can you imagine a situation where a white person would get up in front of a group of other whites and claim they will always be white?" He then wrote "WHITE" on his chalkboard and drew a heart around it and an arrow through the heart, which he labeled "BLACK."

After his initial burst of Twitdumping, Mr. Breitbart produced a longer diatribe on the Fox News program The O’Reilly Factor. "The problem here is that Shirley Sherrod is being a racist exclusionist. She’s only interested in being black. Not once does she even consider being white."

"Furthermore," he continued, "this blackness is inherited, not earned, which goes against our American way of life. Why does she get to be black and I can’t?" Host Bill O’Reilly concurred, saying this was the rudest thing he’d seen a black person do "since asking for more motherfucking iced tea in a restaurant."

Faced with this overwhelming evidence and ironclad logic, the Obama Administration reacted swiftly. "We have made it clear from day one that complete, unfiltered blackness is not something this administration is comfortable with," press secretary and total cracker Robert Gibbs said. "Our threshold for blackness has always been and will remain, at most, 50 percent."

Agricultural Secretary Vilsack moved quickly to rectify the situation, calling Ms. Sherrod and asking her to resign. Ms. Sherrod balked at the suggestion, reportedly commanding the secretary to display a sign of affection on her dark posterior. At that point Vilsack fired her.

"Historically, the USDA has simply not tolerated blackness of any kind," Secretary Vilsack said at a press conference, "and we're not about to let non-black farmers face that kind of discrimination."

Evidence of whiteness surfaces

However, some bloggers had misgivings about the authenticity of the tape. Writing for Salon, Glenn Greenwald, described as "stunningly white," thought Sherrod’s tape had been edited. After repeatedly trying to contact the NAACP for the unabridged tape, the organization came out from the desk it was hiding under and delivered the full recording.

The unedited tape showed that, after her controversial comments about being black, Ms. Sherrod went on to describe watching a Golden Girls marathon and shopping at Yankee Candle.

"Clearly," Greenwald wrote, "the reports of Ms. Sherrod’s blackness have been greatly exaggerated."

Mr. Brietbart, however, was not so easily convinced. Speaking on CNN through his official spokesman, a talking sack of shit, he stated that the unabridged tape could not be trusted as much as the heavily edited tape. "We have no idea who did not edit that tape," the talking sack of shit said, "and for all we know, she was watches marathons of 227 and buys Soft Sheen hair products at Rite Aid."

After additional media outlets verified that Ms. Sherrod was also a member of a scrapbooking club, the White House and Department of Agricultural quickly reversed their race to judgment. "It is clear to us that Ms. Sherrod demonstrates more than acceptable levels of whiteness we demand from our public servants," Secretary Vilsack said. "And I would like to take this opportunity to not only rehire her, but also invite her to catch up on all the work she missed while she was away from her job."

"That’s mighty white of you," Ms. Sherrod replied.

Ed. note: We originally reported that a talking sack of shit was speaking on behalf of Andrew Breitbart, when in fact the talking sack of shit was Andrew Breitbart. CJSD regrets the error.

Top Ten Tuesdays: What new words are we creationing in our political Tweets?

10) dallusion: a comparison between great literature and one’s frontier hillbilly ramblings

9) conservatize: to make something like the original, but dumber

8) birthriotic: insisting that a person can only be president if their mother’s placenta has "Made in the USA" stamped on it

7) Becked: to weep uncontrollably at the sight of poor people receiving assistance

6) Christgasm: the joyous release one experiences after pounding home a Christian legislative agenda

5) bodesty: the state of keeping one’s womanhood tastefully concealed by nipple zippers

4) GOPeed: a conservative public figure who demonstrates the gross erosion of traditional family values by paying a sex worker to urinate on him

3) tealeaves: the love stains left from an overexcited gathering of Teabaggers.

2) imPalin: crushing logic/facts/English language with one folksy wink

1) persetweeted: to have one’s dumb-fuck ideas thrown back in one’s rosy fucking cheeks for no reason other than being completely fucking wrong

Your Basement Smells Like Pussy: A Tale of Real Estate Woe

In 2007, when The Lovely Becky and I moved from Iowa City to da UP, we sold our house in less than a day. The realtor put the sign on the lawn in the morning, and before the sun set, we had an offer that we accepted. No muss, no fuss, just the usual cleaning and moving out.

In 2010, after being on the market for three months, we got a very shitty offer on our UP house. We negotiated our way to a smelly offer, one that was substantially less than what we paid but acceptable in a market where foreclosed McMansions litter the landscape like used Porta-Johns after a Lollapalooza concert.

My Spidey sense tingled a bit when the buyers, who I will dub Lord and Lady Douchebag, started off with their shitty offer. When I told my father—the former Navy man turned car dealership manager, a man who is the best salesman I know—what they offered, he said that I should tell them I would burn the place to the ground before I’d give the house away at that price. Maybe I would have in 2007. But this was 2010, and not only was it a buyer’s market, I was in the UP and looking to get out of it like a bad marriage.

I’ve tried over the last three years to not bad mouth the UP too much. I’ve often failed, and in retrospect, it’s not the UP, it’s me. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula does indeed have a lot to offer. It’s beautiful, and thanks to the size of Lake Superior and the presence of big-ass tanker ships moving in and out, Marquette often felt more like a quaint Atlantic seaside town instead of a Great Lakes hamlet. There were some creature comforts of civilization like Starbucks and a very good hair salon. However, the very fact that those two things stick out for me says a lot about why I was not meant for the UP. The three main S’s of life in the UP—stalking, skinning, and shoveling—did not mesh with mine—shopping, shows, and summer. I was the Zsa Zsa to the UP’s Eddie Albert (ed. that's Eva to Eddie Albert, doh! Thanks to Terry for the correction). And unlike the 200-inch winter we had two years ago, this break-up was not bitter. I just wanted us to go our separate ways and meet other people and places we were better suited for. I was even willing to give the UP the one thing I loved in the final settlement: our house.

The house was critical to making three years in the Great White Near North, because for at least half the year, I didn’t want to go outside. The finished attic in particular was my salvation: it not only served as my home office and offered a beautiful lake view, but it eventually became my first man-cave where I could watch movies and Rock Band-out to my heart’s content. (Given that it was at the top of the house and had a lot of windows, I couldn’t really call it a man-cave, so I instead dubbed it The Cock Pit.) Even the basement was perfect for our needs. It was an old, unfinished room we could use for storage and for the fleet of cat boxes that serviced our three fuzzy, purring shit machines.

Said shit machines were initially a thorn in our side during the selling process. We had showings, but they tended to complain about the cat smell in the basement. The basement did indeed have a cat smell, because that’s where the cats were (duh!). We also had one cat with a kidney problem who started peeing on the floor during the past year. We cleaned the basement frequently but you can only do so much to keep that kind of environment bakery fresh. We didn’t worry about it too much, however, because we figured someone would come along who saw the basement for what it was: an old, ugly place to store Christmas decorations, cleaning supplies, and cat accoutrements.

Three months into the process, Lord and Lady Douchebag appeared. They visited the house, and the initial report was that they liked it a lot and that the basement was not a big deal. They liked it enough to come for a second showing that lasted nearly two hours, with TLB and I driving by the home during the second hour knowing that every minute longer they took probably meant they were seriously interested. They made their shitty offer, we negotiated to the smelly one, and we proceeded to the seller’s agreement. We even agreed to their request to be out in 30 days.

They had a couple of contingencies, one of which was that we have the basement professionally cleaned “to their satisfaction.” At the time, that didn’t seem like a big deal to us, as we had planned all along to get the basement cleaned by some pros. When TLB and I had moved into the place, it had been left in a pretty dirty state, and we vowed to pass it along to our buyers in a state so scrubbed it would give Mr. Clean an erection.

The inspection is where things began to go to shit, literally. Our agent called us and said the buyers had gotten adamant that they would not buy the house if the basement smelled like cat. We were caught off guard by the shift in tone, but thought we found the culprit: our middle cat, Stinky. We had stuck him and the others in their cat carriers during the inspection, and Stinky had pooped in his cage while the buyers were inspecting the house. We understood their concerns and reiterated that we’d get the basement cleaned. In fact, we boarded the cats so that said scrubbed basement would not be touched by feline ass again.

The cleaners came and did a number on the basement with one of those scrubbers like you see in grocery stores, working the floor hard enough to take off some of the paint. Post-clean, the basement smelled free of cat. The Lovely Becky and I left for the weekend to start the first phase of our move to Illinois, confident we had held up our end of the bargain.

The following Monday, our panicky agent called us. The buyers had come to sniff the basement and were not happy. They still insisted that the basement smelled like cat.

It was four days before we were supposed to close.

TLB and I mobilized, planning to leave our daughter Libby with my mother-in-law and heading back to the UP on Tuesday, with my father-in-law joining us to provide additional elbow grease and olfactory analysis. Our agent also suggested we talk to the house inspector for cleaning suggestions. Apparently he had had fuel oil spilled in his basement, and he recommended a product that had removed the smell. Marquette was not a center of janitorial supplies, however, and TLB had to go online to a New York company to order the product and pay $200 for overnight shipping.

The next morning, just before we left, the owner of the New York janitorial supply company called TLB. We’ll call him “Bobby.” The first thing Bobby asked TLB was, “What’s with this crazy shipping?” TLB explained the predicament. “You don’t want that stuff,” Bobby said about what she ordered. “I been in this business 20 years, I’ll give you something better.” We suspected that Bobby knew not only how to make the evidence of cats disappear, if you know what I’m talking about.

We returned to our house. The basement smelled...like an musty, old, unfinished basement. It did not smell like cat pee. If we got down on our hands and knees, we found a few faint hot spots, but overall it didn’t seem like enough to derail the deal. We figured we could beat it.

We started with a pre-Bobby barrage of hydrogen peroxide, letting that work its bleachy magic overnight. The next day UPS arrived with our assortment of Bobby-approved products, mostly enzyme cleaners good for urine, vomit, blood, and guys who talk. Then, just to be My-Cousin-Vinny sure, we mopped up with Mr. Clean orange with Febreeze. Even on my hands and knees, I could smell no cat, just the scent of hard work and modern chemistry. Our agent and her assistant came over, and both concluded that the basement smelled fine. “I don’t smell cat,” the assistant said. “It just smells like an old Michigan basement.”

Confident that the buyers would agree, we waited for them to come over and smell the scent of victory. Except that they didn’t want to come over. In a note to their agent that we saw, they said they felt “pressured” into making a decision, had called off the closing, and wanted to wait until the following Monday.

I went Lou Ferrigno on our agent. Granted, she was the messenger, but frankly she had been very passive and annoying during the process. She had been badgering us with questions about how we cleaned the basement and bringing in a different cleaning company instead of, you know, selling the goddamned house. I laid out a cell-phone salvo where I said I was ready to blow the whole deal up just to keep Lord and Lady Douchebag from owning the house. We had left our child behind to meet their demands, and they couldn’t deign to visit us because they felt “pressured”? Our agent tried to calm me down, and at one point changed the topic to other possible cleaning solutions. “I don’t want to talk about fucking cleaning products!” I said. “You are a real estate agent, not some cleaning expert.”

If the squeaky wheel gets the grease, then the screaming wheel gets the KY, because lo and behold, Lord and Lady Douchebag changed their minds and said they would come on Friday. That happened to be the day the movers came, because while Lord Douchebag was cavalier about the closing date, we still had to stick to the moving date we had arranged in order to meet their Douchebag demands. Their highnesses came, they smelled and we conquered. Our agent said that they didn’t smell anything. Huzzah!

Except not. The Douchebags were worried that the smell would come back, like a monster from Stephen King’s Pet Dysentery. They still wanted to smell it again Monday. TLB, also known in our relationship as “The Smart One,” figured the deal was over, and that they were just delaying the inevitable. I, known as “The Other One,” thought we still had a chance.

Guess who was right?

Our agent called on Monday. The Douchebags had given the basement four nostrils down, and I knew for a fact that they were just looking for a way to back out. We were positive the basement was fine, fine enough that what had not seemed like a big issue to them shouldn’t have become a deal breaker later on.

In the end, it’s not so much that they didn’t buy the house that angered me, it’s the way they didn’t buy the house. The LeBronned us for a few weeks instead of just making up their minds and letting us know. The worst part was the inconsideration. They treated the whole process like they were shopping for fruit, as if our house was a cantaloupe they could tap for a while and put back whenever they wanted. They didn’t seem to comprehend that, in order for them to move in, people had to actually move out.

So, we’re left with an empty (albeit cleaned) house in Marquette that’s still on the market, with a sad, empty Cock Pit just waiting to shake again with the sound of poorly played plastic drums. Meanwhile, we received no earnest money from his Lordship, because you can’t disprove a subjective condition. They weren’t satisfied, ergo we got no money for taking our house off the market during the 30 days we tried to please them. I blame myself for not being more savvy and will definitely never agree to something like that again.

We are, however, out of the UP. Despite all the frustration, expense, and aggravation this has caused...despite the last month leaving me mentally and physically exhausted, to the point where creating a Top Ten full of low-hanging dick jokes seemed too taxing...despite having to take care of a house I no longer live in...I’m no longer dealing with all of this while living in the second-snowiest city in the lower 48. I’ll take going through The Tale of Lord and Lady Douchebag by Alexander Dumbass over not having a way out of the UP. Now I just hope we find a buyer and that the house finds an owner who appreciates it, one who will love what the UP has to offer.

TBD Turns 2

Hard to believe it's been two years since To-Be-Determined turned into To-Be-Our-Beautiful-Little-Girl (TBOBLG). We're giving her Chicago as a birthday present.

Hiatus

It's been quite a week here at CJSD International. The initial offer for our house blossomed from crappy to acceptable, we passed inspection, and the buyers want to take possession quickly. That means our rustic adventures in the frozen fingers of Michigan will be coming to and end almost exactly three years after they began.

With all the packing and preparation, not to mention trying to keep up with work, the blog will have to go into sleep mode for a few weeks. Or sleepier mode, as the case may be. When it awakes, it will be surrounded by skyscrapers and Blackhawks fans and Chipotle outlets.

We started boxing things up last night, starting with our books. I couldn't help but think of just how much stuff we'd need to box up, which of course, made me think of this:



Happy Friday

Top Ten Tuesdays: Why do we hate our political incumbents so much?

10) Refuse to wipe their feet before using us as human footstools.

9) Looking to replace old, boring political incompetents with exciting new incompetents who are even crazier in the political sack.

8) Fat/crying/screaming man on the radio/TV/Internets told us we should.

7) Decided to embrace candidates who promise a zipper over every nipple.

6) Finally had time to pay attention to politics while being unemployed since last election.

5) Don’t trust any candidate not wearing at least fifteen pieces of American flag flair.

4) Keep ignoring our demands for a return to the facial hair of our forefathers.

3) Angry at establishment politicians who don’t look out for the interests of white men.

2) Ate the cake they told us we could eat.

1) Frustrated that the only jobs they’ve created are of the hand variety.

Bleh

It's a crappy, rainy day here in Marquette today, a perfect day to play some tunes, stare at the gray sky, and contemplate the frailty of human existence/make some dick jokes. Unfortunately, my white collar has become electrified this week (although thankfully not explosive), so I need to pay The Man his dues today.

Despite the workload, things are good. We have an offer (albeit a crappy one) on the house, and more people coming to look at it. Libby grows more adorable daily, although I had not one but two dreams this week about confronting her about her pot smoking (as a teenager, not as a toddler, which would have been kind of awesome). And today's weather notwithstanding, the weather gods in Marquette have definitely smiled upon us this year. Who says blood sacrifices don't work?

However, this doesn't mean we can't have a little fun. I saw a great question on Facebook this week: what's the best opening track on an album? My answer was super obvious but I had to be honest -- not even my beloved Rush gets me as pumped as this does:



Hit me with your nominees, and have a good weekend.

Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we still trying to resolve the Gulf oil spill?

10) Scooping it up in Gulf-sized Ziploc bag.

9) Raising money for future cleanups by letting Hollywood directors use it as a setting for dystopias about a future America ravaged by environmental disasters.

8) Soaking it up with millions of worthless BP stock certificates.

7) Mumbling something about robots and hoping no one asks a follow-up question.

6) Creating a new reality show, So You Think You Can Clean Up a Catastrophic Man-Made Environmental Disaster?

5) Proposing to flip the orientation of the Earth so that the oil flows “up” into the Gulf floor.

4) Mobilizing the 101st Scrubbing Bubbles Division.

3) Talking tough, because nothing cleans up oil faster than a stern promise of investigations.

2) Sticking heads further in the sand until we no longer see any leaking oil.

1) Handing Sarah Palin a rubber hose and telling her to “suck, baby, suck.”

Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

Today is the 16th wedding anniversary for myself and The Lovely Becky. We’ve beaten the seven-year itch twice and have change to spare.

I apologize if this sounds a bit smug, because for a lot of people marriage is work, but being married to TLB has been the easiest experience of my life. I am one of those fortunate people who found the person they are supposed to be with. I don’t necessarily believe in the idea of soul mates. Had TLB and I never met, I think we could have found other spouses who would have made us happy. But I am convinced I found the person I would be the happiest with.

The reason why being married to TLB has been so easy is because I am so at ease with my wife. We spend so much of our lives putting up fronts. Even with close friends, there are often barriers between who we really are and who those friends see. I don’t have to do that with TLB. I get to be myself with her, and that is refreshing. In fact, I am probably more myself with her than I am with myself, because I have an exceptional ability to bullshit myself, whereas she sees right through that.

We have that level of comfort where it’s like we share each other’s brains, without the socially awkward requirement of having two heads on one body. Over the years, we’ve gotten to know exactly what the other person is thinking. In fact, it’s gotten to a level of comic specificity. We might be at a park with lots of other parents, and I’ll lean over to say to TLB, “You know what’s an awesome look? Having your camouflage T-shirt tucked into your jeans so that we can see your cell phone holster.” TLB will smile and say she was just about to say the exact same thing, because our ideas of what looks ridiculous and how to mock said ridiculousness are perfectly synchronized.

Some men have trouble with marriage because they miss the excitement of the new (see Woods, Tiger). And that’s certainly a trade off. At this point, there are probably few surprises left for us. Every once in a while TLB uncovers some new wrinkle to my personality that she didn’t know existed, but it’s often just a bigger reveal of a pre-existing neuroses that she’s known about for years. I think about it like a favorite movie, like Pulp Fiction. Sure, when I first saw it, it was immensely fun to experience the twists, turns, and lines for the first time. However, the reason Pulp Fiction is my favorite movie is because I am so familiar with it. I revel in knowing every line, every scene, because knowing what happens on the surface of the film allows me to dive deeper into why I love it so much. I also have more fun watching it now because now I can anticipate the parts I like the best—OMG, Travolta’s about to stick the needle in Uma Thurman’s chest, I love this part!

That’s why I love being married to TLB. Do I know the story now? Sure, more or less. But it’s also my favorite story, which makes every day with her like seeing my favorite movie. Minus the crazy rednecks trying to sodomize us, of course. And TLB is also the only one who knows what’s in the case.

1) “Take It Easy,” The Eagles. Another reason for making my marriage work is that I was built for monogamy. I have enough trouble trying to drive with one woman on my mind, let alone seven. TLB sometimes jokes about me having an affair, and I tell her a) she would know instantly if I was, to the point where I may as well arrive home with a t-shirt that says “Yes, I’m having an affair,” and b) I’m not interested because an affair would cut into my video game time. When would I be able to save the princess?

2) “And I Will Be With You,” The Mr. T Experience. I am convinced that if I had not met TLB when I did, I would have gone through my 20s writing stuff like this. The funniest band to every sing about unrequited love.

3) “Revolution,” Bang Camaro. TLB loves me despite my love of hair metal, both the real thing and imitations like this. This sounds more Def Leppard then Def Leppard does these days.

4) “Pressure Drop,” Toots & the Maytals. I’m not sure if it makes me more white or less white that this is my favorite reggae song. I dig the combination of the urgent vocal with the laid-back rhythm.

5) “Experiment IV,” Kate Bush. TLB’s two musical calling cards when we first started dating were ‘Til Tuesday and Kate Bush. I am glad she introduced me to them.

6) “Catholic Pagans,” Surfer Blood. Probably an apt description for us. The two of us are irrevocably Catholic in our mentalities, even if as we find ourselves more unreconciled with the church than ever. There is no way either of us would ever convert to another religion, including atheism. We just find exorcisms too fascinating.

7) “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now,” The Smiths. Did Morrissey intend for us to laugh at this? Because that’s the reaction I’ve always had. It’s a stack of flapjacks made out of tears and pining, covered with a sticky syrup of sighs.

8) “Letter From an Occupant,” The New Pornographers. I have always been jealous of the way TLB sings. She has a heavenly singing voice, whereas mine is more like deleted scenes from Dogma in quality. I like playing any Neko Case songs because her voice is right in TLB’s singing sweet spot.

9) “Video Killed the Radio Star,” The Buggles. And MTV killed music videos.

10) “Situation,” Yaz. In the early days of synth pop, what was it like to write on a synthesizer, before one had a bevy of preset sounds available at the touch of a button? Did groups like Yaz sit around discussing the sounds as the keyboard player tried them out? “Nah, too boopy. Nope, too blippy. No, no, no, way too farty. Hold on, hold on, give me slightly less farty but just a touch more blippy. Okay, now add just a smidge of boop. Perfect!” This also reminds me of going to this under 21 New Wave dance club with TLB, where we would go and shake our groove things. Never underestimate the power of farty synths, electronic drums, and a masculine-sounding female singer to bring two crazy teenagers together.

11) “Since I’ve Been Loving You,” Led Zeppelin. In honor of TLB, I will make this Random 11 un-Led-ed. Let’s try again.

11) “Master of Puppets,” Metallica. Goddamnit. Stupid iTunes, I need more love of my life, less metal up your ass. Take three.

11) “The Winner Takes It All,” ABBA. Sigh, the things we do for love.

Happy anniversary, baby. I will play ABBA for you to the ends of the earth.

Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we recouping our losses?

10) Holding up bank until they agree to buy our house at the price we paid for it.

9) Cutting back grocery expenses by wearing our deluxe cargo pants to the buffet.

8) Putting all our money into Glenn Beck Teardrop Futures.

7) Selling superfluous offspring on eBay.

6) Developing combustion engine that runs on worthless stock options.

5) Leaving behind dead-end field of investment banking for the dramatically explosive growth field of ice road trucking.

4) Draining all that pesky water out of the Gulf of Mexico so it’s easier to recover our valuable oil.

3) Scanning our last $100 bill and printing our way to financial freedom/free room and board for the next 3-5 years.

2) Following the classic Wall Street advice of selling high after buying blow.

1) Setting off hydrogen bomb in the hopes that it resets our portfolio to 2004.

Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

I downloaded—correction, purchased—Winger’s “Seventeen” this week. Had I suffered some sort of blunt force trauma to the head? Returned from traveling in a time-warping hot tub? Lost a bet? No. However, amid my purchasing of Dio tracks from eMusic this week, I fell into a bit of metal nostalgia, and lo and behold, there was Winger’s debut, glaring at me with its glowing eyes. And while I may find the idea of Winger grotesque and incomprehensible, deep down in places I don’t like to talk about at parties, I want “Seventeen,” on my iTunes, I need “Seventeen” on my iTunes. I dig the music and the swaggering cockism of the lyrics entertains me, even if this song could probably double as an anthem for the Catholic church if you changed the gender of the pronoun in the chorus. Besides, “My Sharona” includes the infamous line, “I always get it up for the touch of the younger kind,” and that’s considered an 80s classic, so I said fuck it and clicked the download button.

I told The Lovely Becky about said purchase. “You shouldn’t have told me that,” she said.

Oh shit, I thought. Had I actually done something so stupid I had lost the respect of my wife? I had always expected this day to come, I just never thought it would be triggered by a Winger purchase. “Why not?” I asked.

“Because I’ll make fun of you for it.”

Whew, what a relief, I had only provided a case of insult ammo. “I don’t care,” I said. “You’ve made fun of Rush for 20 years, and I love Rush. In fact, I’d get on my roof and yell, ‘I love Rush’ to anyone passing by.”

“You were embarrassed when I made fun of you for owning a Lita Ford CD.”

That hurt. I paused, then quietly said, “That’s because that is embarrassing, and I was secretly ashamed.”

Some pleasures are simply too guilty to admit and drag you down into the depths of embarrassment like a millstone around your neck. Congratulations to Winger for just barely beating out "Kiss Me Deadly" in my Hall of Shame.

Tunes….

1) “Tribulations,” LCD Soundsystem. One of the most fantastic covers of a non-existent 80s song that I’ve ever heard. Seriously, I am almost positive I danced to this once with my hands over my head and my pants tight-rolled. Love how the little guitar solo in the middle adds just enough rock to the house party.

2) “Girls Got Rhythm,” AC/DC. My most cranakable rock band. No matter how loud my speakers are when a Bon Scott-era AC/DC song comes on, I instinctively turn them up even more.

3) “Shirin,” Jens Lenkman. Not a bad song by any stretch—actually quite good—but after the AC/DC lead-in I feel like I just slammed on the brakes of my IROC-Z at 120 mph. Also, this song reminds me that one of the things I'm going to miss most about Marquette: my hair stylist. Not making that up.

4) “Nothing Achieving,” The Police. Sting’s later antics aside, they were an incredible band, and incredible for completely different reasons with each album. This is them at their rough, early best, when they were still punk but could actually play their instruments.

5) “Carl Perkin’s Cadillac,” Drive-By Truckers. Probably neck-and-neck with New Pornographers on my list of bands I’d like to see live…which may happen because I’ll soon be living in a place that gets acts other than the Country Bear Jamboree. And especially for TLB: the video is from The Blue Note in Columbia, MO.

6) “I Am a Scientist,” Guided by Voices. The best two-and-a-half minutes of rock from the 90s.

7) “Add It Up,” Violent Femmes. Funny, this song actually came up in e-mail conversation today –Tickle’s friend Fög called it the greatest rock song ever. Quoth Fög: “It has all the essentials. There is cussing, sex talk, great solos both electric and bass, and you can’t turn it up loud enough.” While it’s not my greatest I can’t argue with any of that. Don’t shoot shoot shoot that thing at me….

8) “Seasons in the Abyss,” Slayer. Slayer is not my cup of dark black tea, but I do love this song. There’s a slow build of epic menace at the beginning before the band kick out the jams and rock my face off. Also in my top 5 of all-time favorite drum fills.

9) “Away From the Numbers,” The Jam. Much like The Police, they were awesome for completely different reasons as their career evolved. They were good enough to slow things down and still sound pretty punk, with Rick Buckler hitting his tom-toms like they owe him money.

10) “March of the Pigs,” Nine Inch Nails. The Morrissey of anger. I SCREAMED AND I SCREAMED AND I SCREAMED, OH DID I TELL YOU HOW I SCREAMED?

11) “Metal Health (Bang Your Head),” Quiet Riot. A song so metal, it got Kevin Bacon arrested in Footloose. Now make no mistake, Quiet Riot were Winger terrible, a total joke of a band who couldn’t write their way out of a leather codpiece (when your two biggest hits are covers of Slade songs, that should tell you your career will be short-lived). But somehow these studded savants managed to write one of the all-time great metal anthems. This still hits right between the eyes: the driving rhythm, the guitar riffs, and most of all the insane vocals from the late Kevin DuBrow. It is on my Must Be Cranked list, and dare I say I turned it up louder than “Girls Got Rhythm” today. I want to literally feel it rattling my ribs a little. So a tip of the cap to Quiet Riot: the large turd pile they produced did provide fertilizer for one magnificent black rose.

Have a head-banging weekend, literally or figuratively.

Top Ten Tuesdays: What will we find out during the series finale of Lost?

10) Ben Linus commits an act of betrayal so terrible, he kicks his own ass.

9) The present, past, future, and sideways timelines converge to form an explosive “flash reacharound.”

8) The castaways defeat the Smoke Monster by trapping it in a giant cigarette filter.

7) During a time-travel sequence, Desmond runs into Scott Bakula, who helps Desmond lead the show to cancellation.

6) In order for the castaways to return home, the island demands a sacrifice of Kate’s top.

5) Sawyer finds a script called, “Series Finale.” He turns to the last page, only to find it blank. “Son of a—,” he says as the screen cuts to black and “Don’t Stop Believing” plays.

4) Jack encounters a freak Socratic Vortex that forces all of the show’s questions to be answered with more questions.

3) Out of all available travel options, the survivors escape by constructing a raft out of Hurley.

2) The real source of the island’s mysterious behavior: a deranged Bobby Brady rubbing a tiki he calls “Alice.”

1) The cast turn the wheel and wake up on a new show called Found, set a mysterious customer service counter that may or may not be purgatory.

Rock In Peace

The world's a little less interesting without Ronnie James Dio in it. The first time I ever heard him was watching the video for "The Last in Line," which also doubles as the best episode of Voyagers ever.



It's funny because, while I was not really a huge Dio fan, I was a huge fan of Dio, if that makes sense. He embodied everything that I found entertaining about heavy metal. So R.I.P, RJD.

Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

Sometimes when life is stressing you out, you just have to step away and get a sub sandwich. Thank you, Jimmy Johns, for knowing just what I needed.

Speaking of which, I read an Atlantic article about the expanding porkitude of the American population and how most of the ways you think you can lose weight are fool’s gold. One of the things it talked about was the problem of psychological eating: consuming food to make yourself feel better. I then found it ironic that an article about how we’re gobbling our way to a permanently fat future (and that there’s not a whole lot we can do about it) depressed me to the point where I wanted a piece of pie to feel better. And that's my problem: I love psychological eating. There is nothing that a piece of delicious fatty food cannot make better. Football? Chicken wings. Kid’s birthday party? Cake and pizza. Hot sex? Pretty much everything in Mickey Rourke’s fridge. If I have my choice between feeling great and feeling great while eating a stack of Walker Brother’s pancakes, guess what? I’m choosing “b” seven days a week and coming back for dinner on Sundays.

Which is precisely why I and so many of my fellow Americans are completely fucked unless they find a way to make broccoli taste like a hot fudge sundae, a thought so depressing it makes me want a hot fudge sundae.

1) “Different Names for the Same Thing,” Death Cab for Cutie. I have been pondering the idea of different names for the same thing as I watch my daughter learning to talk. It has to be pretty damn confusing to babies that there are different names for the same thing. Why is it “dog” and “doggie”? Or why does “kitty” refer to young cats and big cats? Why are you assholes trying to confuse me? I’m just a baby, for Christ sake!

2) “California,” Semisonic. Is there a more fucked state in the country right now than the Golden State? A state so poor I believe Moody’s is downgrading them to the Golden Showers State. It’s pretty bad when having a futuristic killing machine as your governor seems like the least of your problems.

3) “Harden My Heart,” Quarterflash. Underrated as far as one-hit wonders go. The vocals find a nice spot between Pat Bentar and The Motels, and the saxamaphone tarts up the otherwise simple music. It’s a perfect track to kick off any “fuck you” post-breakup mix-tape, which is yet another reason why it’s too bad we no longer make mix-tapes. I also wish they still made videos like this.

4) “Oh Caroline (Live),” Cheap Trick. It has to be a little odd to have your career defined by one concert. It’s one thing to be a one-hit wonder and have one song hang over you for the rest of your life. But with Cheap Trick, despite not being one-hit wonders, they are pretty much defined by one gig, to the point where their songs sound odd to me without the accompaniment of screaming Japanese girls.

5) “Inertiatic ESP,” The Mars Volta. Filed under Bands I Should Like But Don’t. My wanky prog side should guzzle this down like a Hummer slurping cheap unleaded, but I think the problem is they wank too much. Just when they find a good lick or groove or movement or whatever, they cock it up with something else, seemingly for the sake of just cocking it up. Yes, even I sometimes believe less is more.

6) “Woods,” Bon Iver. Autotune must be stopped.

7) “Making Time,” Creation. Thank you, Wes Anderson, for introducing me to this overlooked British Invasion gem. The production locks it in the 60s, but as a certain Project Runway winner would say, it’s still “fierce.”

8) “Little Secrets,” Passion Pit. I’m glad the weather is getting warmer again because this music is tailor-made for cranking while driving with the windows open. High probability of me table-dancing if I heard it in Vegas.

9) “A Pot in Which to Piss,” Titus Andronicus. From a conceptual album about the Civil War, recorded by a loud Jersey garage band whose band name references Shakespeare and whose last album referenced Festivus. Sometimes you can’t make this stuff up. Not everyone’s cup of tea but definitely mine. It’s like Ken Burns’s Civil War Block Party.

10) “Black Gold,” Southeast Engine. Almost memorable. One of those tracks that I’m happy to hear when it pops up, but not enough to seek out. A bit like Turducken: a blend of too many tastes when I would rather just have turkey. Still pretty good with gravy, though.

11) “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Queen. I’m linking to The Muppets version because it is too awesome and Libby loves it. It’s really, really difficult to combine “ridiculous” and “awesome,” but I firmly believe this is the most awesome ridiculous song of all time. Queen managed to make the rock equivalent of What’s Opera, Doc?, the famous “Kill the Wabbit” Bugs Bunny cartoon, absurd and comedic, but also skillful and epic. That’s a pretty good standard to shoot for.

Have a good weekend.

Top Ten Wednesdays: What are we covering up?

10) Shallow grave.

9) Herpes (just 'til we're married).

8) Our backyard tiger pit before the kids' birthday party.

7) That less-than-fresh feeling.

6) Erection we got at the blackboard when drawing a Venn diagram made us think of boobies.

5) Parasitic twin.

4) Portion of Oval Office tape where we drunk dialed Sarah Palin.

3) Fine print that bequeaths first-born child after two late payments in a row.

2) Our natural reptilian skin (just 'til we've enslaved humanity).

1) Pretty much everything with Febreze.

OH FACK I'M HAVING A KID

I am on sick baby duty today, as our little girl has a little viral infection. So no rocking out for me.

It's also a historic day as my brother Tickle, he of the annoying Eminem voice, is also becoming a dad today. He and his wife will be welcoming a baby girl. During the pregnancy, they started calling her Tina, named after a certain wonder llama from a cult film. So for the last few months, we have been trying to lure her out by telling her to come get her ham. I guess it finally worked.

The interesting thing will be seeing how this affects my brother. As hard as it is for me to believe he will be a father, I know he'll be a good one. However, I also wonder what reproductive domestication will do to his wild side. I know he'll be a good, responsible dad when needed, but what about when he's released back into the wilds of Vegas? We were already discussing going there next spring for my cousin's bachelor party, and can't help that Tickle will be like a Sigfried & Roy white tiger released from its contract into the jungle for a few days. I don't think it will take him long to find his claws, and all of his pent up Call of the Wild instincts may very well explode the minute his feet touch the Vegas Strip. I've already said that under no circumstances will I room with him, unless the Doctors bring heavy sedatives along with the IV bags.

Speaking of unleashed wild animals, we had a black bear wandering around our neighborhood this past week. He was sitting in someone's yard just a few blocks from our house. I don't even want to think about how I would react if, while out on a walk with Libby, I saw a FREAKING BEAR DOWN THE STREET. It reiterates that I am much to Zsa Zsa to be here in this rustic setting. The only bears I want walking around my street are the pro football-playing kind or the hairy gay man looking for love kind. Those I can deal with.

Have a great weekend.

Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we cleaning up the Gulf Coast oil spill?

Special ever-expanding disaster edition!

11) Building a coastal sea wall out of Depends.

10) Sending in crack team of Jiffy Lube commandos.

9) Setting it on fire to send a message to any other oil rigs that are thinking about spilling.

8) Launching the new Dyson Disaster Vac. Because the only thing that sucks harder than a catastrophic man-made disaster is a Dyson.

7) Building a complete replica of the Gulf Coast along the South American shore, tricking the oil into going the wrong way.

6) Sinking a tanker full of Oxy Clean.

5) Letting Red Lobster use the slick to create its new Petroleum Popcorn Shrimp (available in 5W30 and 10W30 flavors).

4) Offering Michael Brown as a sacrifice to Poseidon

3) Giving the Coast Guard authority to detain anything that behaves like a slow-moving oil spill.

2) Having oil industry lobbyists wade into the slick and scoop up the oil in their deep pockets.

1) Harnessing the same energy source used to construct oil rigs that will never, ever cause an environmental catastrophe: wishful thinking.