or Anatomy of a Comedy Breakdown!
As I mentioned on Friday, I entered a video for Slate’s comedy news contest. The premise was simple: write a joke based on an actual news story and film yourself delivering it. The folks at Slate would select 10 finalists, who would then be judged by a celebrity judge: Kevin Bleyer, a writer for The Daily Show. Right up my alley, right?
The problem is that, when I have some external pressure to be funny, I sometimes turn into Ted Knight after Rodney Dangerfield says, “1000 bucks says you miss that putt.” I immediately felt the greasy, ethereal clump of writer’s block clogging my psyche. I read through the Sunday New York Times, scanned the Web for news stories, and watched The Daily Show for inspiration. After a week, my best effort was a mildly amusing joke involving Dolph Lundgren. Not the stuff that wins contests. But since writing is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration, I managed to keep grinding away and finally had a breakthrough two days before the contest. I wrote about four pages of jokes, whittling it down to 10 I really liked. Now all I had to do was pick one and film it. Piece of cake, right?
I don’t have any kind of video device in the house, so I picked up a Microsoft Web cam. Of course, I forgot that Microsoft is English for doesn’t work worth a shit. The picture was grainy and the audio kept going out of sync with my lips, which would have been hilarious if my joke was about fucking Godzilla. I returned it for a Logitech cam, got it to work flawlessly, and seemed ready to go. I planned to finish work for the day, then film myself that evening, plenty of time to meet the midnight deadline.
Except that when I was ready for my closeup, the video started stuttering for some reason. I tried disabling programs, installing it on another computer, and offering to blow someone at Logitech if it would result in 25 seconds of workable fucking video. After a good hour of troubleshooting, I figured out the light settings were cocking up the works and got the video back to acceptable quality. Now I was ready.
Except I wasn’t. I couldn’t for the life of me get the delivery down. Despite being a ham, I am not really a performer. I am not kidding when I say that I did at least 50 takes. I would get my voice right but my face wrong, or my face right and the voice wrong. I looked stiff, I looked stoned, I looked like a man who had been saying the same thing over and over. After all that, I got a take I liked and showed it to The Lovely Becky.
“Why did you add ‘there’ at the end? That’s throwing off the whole joke.”
Fuck! She was completely right, one word I had added almost unconsciously screwed up the joke. I broke for dinner(!), deciding that only the soothing meatiness of a Culver’s Butterburger could take the edge off. Rehearsing in the car, I managed to get the joke just as I wanted while I was waiting for my food. I came back, ate my dinner, and finally recorded 21 seconds of video I was happy with. If by some stroke of luck I happen to win this thing, the $500 should cover the cost of my medication.
Anyway, after all that, here are my ten favorite jokes that came out of this process. Number one is the one I submitted.
10) Researches at New York University believe they have located two parts in the brain that trigger optimism in people. Still undiscovered: the parts of the brain that caused people to vote for George Bush twice.
9) Legendary rock group Led Zeppelin has finally agreed to release its songs in digital form on iTunes. The band promises that these new digital versions will sound even more overplayed then the originals.
8) Top forest officials in the U.S. said that global warming may be contributing to “hotter and faster” fires like the ones that spread through Southern California. A spokesman for the Bush administration denied those claims before leaving to tour the devastation in his coal-fired Hummer.
7) British biologists said that changes in the shape of a St. Bernard’s head can only be explained by evolution, and that these changes offer strong evidence against creationism. Creationists responded that the St. Bernard could not be used as evidence since the dog is not mentioned in the Bible.
6) Recently declassified files revealed that during the 1968 presidential elections, the FBI monitored candidate Eugene McCarthy, who vowed to fire FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. It’s believed Hoover oversaw the operation personally as the files were smeared with lipstick.
5) According to a recent study, inflation and a drop in real earnings are making it harder for Americans to live paycheck to paycheck. The study also finds that it’s easier than ever to find employees willing to give dollar handjobs in the executive washroom.
4) This past week, wildfires decimated Southern California, Turkey prepared to invade Iraq, and a nuclear-armed Pakistan suffered a series of destabilizing attacks from Islamic terrorists. This prompted the White House to announce that it is way ahead of schedule in triggering The Rapture.
3) Scientists this week reported progress in developing a blood test for Alzheimer’s. In other news, scientists this week reported progress in developing a blood test for Alzheimer’s.
2) An Australian barmaid was convicted of indecency for crushing beer cans between her bare breasts and hanging spoons from her nipples. During the trial, police noted that the investigation was especially arduous, requiring two dozen officers, hundreds of hours of overtime, and thousands in tips.
1) In the recent Republican presidential debate, Senator John McCain mocked Senator Hillary Clinton’s support for a Woodstock museum, joking that he could not participate in the legendary music festival, because as a POW, "I was tied up at the time." When asked for his opinion of the museum, President Bush said he couldn’t attend Woodstock because, "I was way too drunk to drive."
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
If you tag yourself too much, you’ll go blind
Blue Girl has this funky meme that seems tailor made for my blog. The idea is that you find five statements that, when typed into Google, list your blog as the number one hit.
Given the kind of search terms I find in my site meter, I thought this could be...enlightening. I also decided to up the degree of difficulty by not using “circle jerk” in the search, although the terms I did use showed the same level of charm, class, and sophistication.
5. mitt romney dry hump. I have to give credit to dooce for inspiration, because her blog was where I first read about what passes for a randy Friday night at BYU.
4. nipple nazi rat poison. This goes to The Lovely Becky’s favorite piece I’ve ever done. I was always sorry I never did another sketch show -- I would have loved to see this performed.
3. iraq quagmire ass bacon. It’s because I walk around with things like this in my head that I started this blog.
2. republicans longing clinton’s penis. Since I wrote this, the “clinton” part has really become superfluous.
1. girthy sodomizing tribulation. I’m not only number one for this term, I am the only result for this. That’s probably for the best.
Given the kind of search terms I find in my site meter, I thought this could be...enlightening. I also decided to up the degree of difficulty by not using “circle jerk” in the search, although the terms I did use showed the same level of charm, class, and sophistication.
5. mitt romney dry hump. I have to give credit to dooce for inspiration, because her blog was where I first read about what passes for a randy Friday night at BYU.
4. nipple nazi rat poison. This goes to The Lovely Becky’s favorite piece I’ve ever done. I was always sorry I never did another sketch show -- I would have loved to see this performed.
3. iraq quagmire ass bacon. It’s because I walk around with things like this in my head that I started this blog.
2. republicans longing clinton’s penis. Since I wrote this, the “clinton” part has really become superfluous.
1. girthy sodomizing tribulation. I’m not only number one for this term, I am the only result for this. That’s probably for the best.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Friday CJ Random 11
I didn’t do much blogging this week because I was working on my entry for the Slate comedy news contest, which I have to submit today. I will probably write more about that later. For now, let’s listen to read about some tunes!
1) “Happy,” The Wrens. Hands down, The Meadowlands is my favorite album of the 2000s (or is it the aughts?) Four guys living together in a house in New Jersey, working day jobs while working on this album for seven years, and releasing an astounding pop/rock record. This song really epitomizes the album, starting out bitter and sad over a slice of life that went bad, yet ends on an optimistic note thanks to the closing jangly guitar riff that offers much needed therapy to the first part of the song. That’s what makes this desert-island-disc material for me.
2) “There’s No Other Way,” Blur. The Manchester-drums will forever keep this stuck in the early 1990s. But the mark of a good band is one that can add the flavor of the month without becoming that flavor, which is why Blur didn’t become EMF after this hit.
3) “Waking Up,” Elastica. Hey, it’s the Blur guy’s ex-girlfriend. Their debut album is very underrated, and unlike the drums in “There’s No Other Way,” it doesn’t sound dated to me.
4) “Airplane,” Peter Case. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, and a whole lot of good. There’s just enough steel guitar to sweeten things up without drowning it in syrup.
5) “A Fine Day for a Parade,” Fountains of Wayne. They definitely flirt with the sweet/saccharine edge. They manage to stay sweet here with a nice, low-key number that indeed sounds like the blue skies and warm temps of parade weather.
6) “O My Soul,” Big Star. The gold standard of power pop. Catchy yet original, adventurous yet familiar. Also one of the few songs in rock history that manages to incorporate the band’s name into the lyrics without sounding like it came from a bunch of egotistical cobags.
7) “Country Girl,” Black Sabbath. Dio!
8) “Knife,” Grizzly Bear. They love, love, love reverb. I saw them in concert in Iowa City, the reverb in the singer’s voice sounded like going to a barber shop as a kid and looking at yourself in the mirror looking at yourself in the mirror to infinity.
9) “Somebody to Love,” Queen. Speaking of piling layers of vocals on themselves. The backing vocals stretch upward like the Tower of Babel, only the tower gets to stay because God loves to rock.
10) “Day of the Lords,” Joy Division. I have this thing about spicy food. I go into restaurants and they will have a little asterisk or maybe a red pepper next to the spicy items on the menu. Nine times out of ten, the item is mildly spicy, and I get annoyed that they made a big deal out of how spicy it is. But one time, at a Cajun restaurant called Heaven on Seven in Chicago, I ordered the spiciest thing on their menu: Hot as a Mutha Chicken. The menu was all blah blah blah burn your face off. They even brought out a little consent form that said I, NAME, being of sound mind and soul, have ordered the Hot as a Mutha Chicken blah blah blah. Like George Bush, I looked the waiter in the eye and said “Bring it on!” And like George Bush, I bit off more than I could chew and got the shit burned out of me. I could tell I was in big, big trouble as soon as I smelled it. This wasn't spice, it was napalm. I only got through about 1/3 of the dish, and it took a half dozen beers just to get that much down. The next day, I had a 12-hour day at work, and let me tell you, I had many conversations with The Lord, asking him to take me if it would make the burning stop. So Hot as a Mutha chicken is my standard for "spicy."
The reason I bring this up is because a lot of bands get labeled as dark. Ooh, you have to listen to Morose Belly Lint, they’re so dark! And I listen to Morose Belly Lint and think, “eh, they’re not so dark.” But when I get to the point where I think no band is really dark, Joy Division pops up on my iPod and reminds me what the standard for "dark" really is. Pick a song, any song, and it really won’t surprise you that Ian Curtis killed himself. Nick Drake sounded sad, Kurt Cobain sounded angry, but Curtis sounds haunted. Thirty years later, songs like “Day of the Lords” still pack a chill, especially when Curtis sings lines like where will it end? That’s pretty damn dark.
11) “Destination Ursa Major,” Superdrag. Destination major hooks. Soaring, guitar-driven songs like this are why speakers should go to 11. Joy Division has its place, but when I’m getting ready to head into a weekend, I need some audio parade weather.
Have a good one.
1) “Happy,” The Wrens. Hands down, The Meadowlands is my favorite album of the 2000s (or is it the aughts?) Four guys living together in a house in New Jersey, working day jobs while working on this album for seven years, and releasing an astounding pop/rock record. This song really epitomizes the album, starting out bitter and sad over a slice of life that went bad, yet ends on an optimistic note thanks to the closing jangly guitar riff that offers much needed therapy to the first part of the song. That’s what makes this desert-island-disc material for me.
2) “There’s No Other Way,” Blur. The Manchester-drums will forever keep this stuck in the early 1990s. But the mark of a good band is one that can add the flavor of the month without becoming that flavor, which is why Blur didn’t become EMF after this hit.
3) “Waking Up,” Elastica. Hey, it’s the Blur guy’s ex-girlfriend. Their debut album is very underrated, and unlike the drums in “There’s No Other Way,” it doesn’t sound dated to me.
4) “Airplane,” Peter Case. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, and a whole lot of good. There’s just enough steel guitar to sweeten things up without drowning it in syrup.
5) “A Fine Day for a Parade,” Fountains of Wayne. They definitely flirt with the sweet/saccharine edge. They manage to stay sweet here with a nice, low-key number that indeed sounds like the blue skies and warm temps of parade weather.
6) “O My Soul,” Big Star. The gold standard of power pop. Catchy yet original, adventurous yet familiar. Also one of the few songs in rock history that manages to incorporate the band’s name into the lyrics without sounding like it came from a bunch of egotistical cobags.
7) “Country Girl,” Black Sabbath. Dio!
8) “Knife,” Grizzly Bear. They love, love, love reverb. I saw them in concert in Iowa City, the reverb in the singer’s voice sounded like going to a barber shop as a kid and looking at yourself in the mirror looking at yourself in the mirror to infinity.
9) “Somebody to Love,” Queen. Speaking of piling layers of vocals on themselves. The backing vocals stretch upward like the Tower of Babel, only the tower gets to stay because God loves to rock.
10) “Day of the Lords,” Joy Division. I have this thing about spicy food. I go into restaurants and they will have a little asterisk or maybe a red pepper next to the spicy items on the menu. Nine times out of ten, the item is mildly spicy, and I get annoyed that they made a big deal out of how spicy it is. But one time, at a Cajun restaurant called Heaven on Seven in Chicago, I ordered the spiciest thing on their menu: Hot as a Mutha Chicken. The menu was all blah blah blah burn your face off. They even brought out a little consent form that said I, NAME, being of sound mind and soul, have ordered the Hot as a Mutha Chicken blah blah blah. Like George Bush, I looked the waiter in the eye and said “Bring it on!” And like George Bush, I bit off more than I could chew and got the shit burned out of me. I could tell I was in big, big trouble as soon as I smelled it. This wasn't spice, it was napalm. I only got through about 1/3 of the dish, and it took a half dozen beers just to get that much down. The next day, I had a 12-hour day at work, and let me tell you, I had many conversations with The Lord, asking him to take me if it would make the burning stop. So Hot as a Mutha chicken is my standard for "spicy."
The reason I bring this up is because a lot of bands get labeled as dark. Ooh, you have to listen to Morose Belly Lint, they’re so dark! And I listen to Morose Belly Lint and think, “eh, they’re not so dark.” But when I get to the point where I think no band is really dark, Joy Division pops up on my iPod and reminds me what the standard for "dark" really is. Pick a song, any song, and it really won’t surprise you that Ian Curtis killed himself. Nick Drake sounded sad, Kurt Cobain sounded angry, but Curtis sounds haunted. Thirty years later, songs like “Day of the Lords” still pack a chill, especially when Curtis sings lines like where will it end? That’s pretty damn dark.
11) “Destination Ursa Major,” Superdrag. Destination major hooks. Soaring, guitar-driven songs like this are why speakers should go to 11. Joy Division has its place, but when I’m getting ready to head into a weekend, I need some audio parade weather.
Have a good one.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: What's the most unattractive aspect of our cities?
Special expanded Eat it, Fodors edition!
Travel and Leisure magazine recently ranked the attractiveness of 25 American cities. What did the magazine find most unattractive about each city?
Atlanta: No matter how hard you squint, you can’t forget you are in Georgia.
Austin: Citizens unable to mate without singing Texas fight song.
Boston: Accent makes pillow talk sound like orders from a dock foreman.
Charleston: Can still smell the burning rubber from General Sherman’s treadmarks.
Chicago: Four words—mustaches and zubaz pants.
Dallas: Sexual partners always call out "Romo" (male and female)
Denver: Overuse of pickup line, “In Denver, you’re already in the mile high club!”
D.C.: High probability of having blood drained by member of the Vice President’s office.
Honolulu: Can’t erase image of tarantula crawling on Peter Brady.
Las Vegas: Seemingly large number of eligible men is actually just Danny Gans impersonating different guys.
Los Angeles: Most citizens now contain only 53% organic matter.
Miami: Airport call letters are STD.
Minneapolis: High horny-Republican-to-restroom ratio.
Nashville: Ten gallon hats conceal secret rib stash.
New Orleans: #1 recreational activity is gunplay.
New York: Prevalence of attractive footwear offset by prevalence of public urination.
Orlando: Inordinate number of furries.
Philly: Standard greeting is a shiv to the kidneys.
Phoenix: Hot date consists of an early bird special and shopping for Depends thongs.
Portland: 90% chance of getting carjacked by a Trailblazer.
San Antonio: Tallest downtown building shorter than average bang height.
San Diego: Two words—fish tacos.
San Francisco: Total eclipse of the Sun every time Barry Bonds’s head is in town.
Santa Fe: Conversations never move past, “So what do you want to do?”
Seattle: Frequent rains still fail to wash away the bad taste of grunge.
Travel and Leisure magazine recently ranked the attractiveness of 25 American cities. What did the magazine find most unattractive about each city?
Atlanta: No matter how hard you squint, you can’t forget you are in Georgia.
Austin: Citizens unable to mate without singing Texas fight song.
Boston: Accent makes pillow talk sound like orders from a dock foreman.
Charleston: Can still smell the burning rubber from General Sherman’s treadmarks.
Chicago: Four words—mustaches and zubaz pants.
Dallas: Sexual partners always call out "Romo" (male and female)
Denver: Overuse of pickup line, “In Denver, you’re already in the mile high club!”
D.C.: High probability of having blood drained by member of the Vice President’s office.
Honolulu: Can’t erase image of tarantula crawling on Peter Brady.
Las Vegas: Seemingly large number of eligible men is actually just Danny Gans impersonating different guys.
Los Angeles: Most citizens now contain only 53% organic matter.
Miami: Airport call letters are STD.
Minneapolis: High horny-Republican-to-restroom ratio.
Nashville: Ten gallon hats conceal secret rib stash.
New Orleans: #1 recreational activity is gunplay.
New York: Prevalence of attractive footwear offset by prevalence of public urination.
Orlando: Inordinate number of furries.
Philly: Standard greeting is a shiv to the kidneys.
Phoenix: Hot date consists of an early bird special and shopping for Depends thongs.
Portland: 90% chance of getting carjacked by a Trailblazer.
San Antonio: Tallest downtown building shorter than average bang height.
San Diego: Two words—fish tacos.
San Francisco: Total eclipse of the Sun every time Barry Bonds’s head is in town.
Santa Fe: Conversations never move past, “So what do you want to do?”
Seattle: Frequent rains still fail to wash away the bad taste of grunge.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Mutated Gene Meme
Kathleen tags me with the most complicated meme in history:
There are a set of questions below that are all of the form, "The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…". Copy the questions, and before answering them, you may modify them in a limited way, carrying out no more than two of these operations:
— You can leave them exactly as is.
— You can delete any one question.
— You can mutate either the genre, medium, or subgenre of any one question. [For instance, you could change "The best time travel novel in SF/Fantasy is…" to "The best time travel novel in Westerns is…", or "The best time travel movie in SF/Fantasy is…", or "The best romance novel in SF/Fantasy is…".]
— You can add a completely new question of your choice to the end of the list, as long as it is still in the form "The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…".
You must have at least one question in your set, or you've gone extinct, and you must be able to answer it yourself, or you're not viable.
Then answer your possibly mutant set of questions. Please do include a link back to the blog you got them from, to simplify tracing the ancestry, and include these instructions.
Finally, pass it along to any number of your fellow bloggers. Remember, though, your success as a Darwinian replicator is going to be measured by the propagation of your variants, which is going to be a function of both the interest your well-honed questions generate and the number of successful attempts at reproducing them.
My origins:
My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Pharyngula.
My great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Metamagician and the Hellfire Club.
My great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Flying Trilobite.
My great-great-great-great-grandparent is A Blog Around the Clock.
My great-great-great-grandparent is Shakespeare's Sister.
My great-great-grandparent is Excuse This Mess....
My great-grandparent is Jennifer.
My grandparent is Snag.
My parent is Kathleen of the Oakland Dilletante Kathleens.
1. The best comedy in alternative universes is: Fox News. Sean Hannity, a scary DeVinci Code albino who says people are at war with Christmas, fembot and mandroid newscasters, Ann Coulter without irony, and Bill O'Reilly, all packaged by a greedy Australian.
2. The best sexy song in rock is: "Hot Girls in Love" by Loverboy. Headbands! Mullets! An album cover featuring a man's ass in red leather pants! And 100% Canadian! Yet they were hunted by many hot girls in love. That takes a special kind of sexy.
3. The best cult novel in absurdist fiction is: The Apprentice by Lewis "Scooter" Libby. A grown man named Scooter writes scenes of animal sex before working for a vice president who eats puppies.
4. The best Jim Varney movie in American film is: Slam Dunk Ernest/Ernest Scared Stoopid (tie). In the first film, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar plays an angel who teaches Ernest how to dunk. It's nice when the facts write the jokes for me.
5. The best use of ground meat in American cooking is: The Culver's Butterburger. In my heaven, these grow on trees, and in real life, every bite gets you that much closer to going to heaven.
6. The time-travel story in nonfiction is: The Republican Party national platform. Gays, back in the closet. Women, back in the kitchen. Hispanics, back in Hispanola. Blacks, back of the bus. Michael J. Fox and DeLorean sold separately.
In keeping with my actual biological status, I will be unable to pass the meme onto others. But with answers like these, it's probably for the good of the species.
There are a set of questions below that are all of the form, "The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…". Copy the questions, and before answering them, you may modify them in a limited way, carrying out no more than two of these operations:
— You can leave them exactly as is.
— You can delete any one question.
— You can mutate either the genre, medium, or subgenre of any one question. [For instance, you could change "The best time travel novel in SF/Fantasy is…" to "The best time travel novel in Westerns is…", or "The best time travel movie in SF/Fantasy is…", or "The best romance novel in SF/Fantasy is…".]
— You can add a completely new question of your choice to the end of the list, as long as it is still in the form "The best [subgenre] [medium] in [genre] is…".
You must have at least one question in your set, or you've gone extinct, and you must be able to answer it yourself, or you're not viable.
Then answer your possibly mutant set of questions. Please do include a link back to the blog you got them from, to simplify tracing the ancestry, and include these instructions.
Finally, pass it along to any number of your fellow bloggers. Remember, though, your success as a Darwinian replicator is going to be measured by the propagation of your variants, which is going to be a function of both the interest your well-honed questions generate and the number of successful attempts at reproducing them.
My origins:
My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Pharyngula.
My great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Metamagician and the Hellfire Club.
My great-great-great-great-great-grandparent is Flying Trilobite.
My great-great-great-great-grandparent is A Blog Around the Clock.
My great-great-great-grandparent is Shakespeare's Sister.
My great-great-grandparent is Excuse This Mess....
My great-grandparent is Jennifer.
My grandparent is Snag.
My parent is Kathleen of the Oakland Dilletante Kathleens.
1. The best comedy in alternative universes is: Fox News. Sean Hannity, a scary DeVinci Code albino who says people are at war with Christmas, fembot and mandroid newscasters, Ann Coulter without irony, and Bill O'Reilly, all packaged by a greedy Australian.
2. The best sexy song in rock is: "Hot Girls in Love" by Loverboy. Headbands! Mullets! An album cover featuring a man's ass in red leather pants! And 100% Canadian! Yet they were hunted by many hot girls in love. That takes a special kind of sexy.
3. The best cult novel in absurdist fiction is: The Apprentice by Lewis "Scooter" Libby. A grown man named Scooter writes scenes of animal sex before working for a vice president who eats puppies.
4. The best Jim Varney movie in American film is: Slam Dunk Ernest/Ernest Scared Stoopid (tie). In the first film, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar plays an angel who teaches Ernest how to dunk. It's nice when the facts write the jokes for me.
5. The best use of ground meat in American cooking is: The Culver's Butterburger. In my heaven, these grow on trees, and in real life, every bite gets you that much closer to going to heaven.
6. The time-travel story in nonfiction is: The Republican Party national platform. Gays, back in the closet. Women, back in the kitchen. Hispanics, back in Hispanola. Blacks, back of the bus. Michael J. Fox and DeLorean sold separately.
In keeping with my actual biological status, I will be unable to pass the meme onto others. But with answers like these, it's probably for the good of the species.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Friday CJ Random 11
I’m always surprised that driving wears me out. It’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous. I’m sitting in a chair, listening to tunes or talking, and occasionally getting annoyed with drivers who don’t understand that the left lane is for passing, not passing the time (I’m looking at you, Wisconsin!). Honestly, if I had a TV and controller, it would be just like playing videogames, and it’s not like I ever say I just played Halo for eight hours, and my ass is kicked! Yet two consecutive weekends of driving 18-20 hours round trip wore me out and made me just want to sit on the couch and play videogames all week.
Last weekend's engagement party for my brother Tickle and his fiancée was fun and free of fecal prop bets. I can tell the wedding will be a blast, as my future sister-in-law’s family seems a lot like ours: a fun machine that produces even more entertainment when properly lubricated with alcohol. We played a game of Balderdash on Friday, where Tickle would take five minutes to come up with an answer, only to have it be something with the word “balls” in it. Yes, he has a college degree. The clear winner of the weekend was The Lovely Becky, who not only mopped the floor with us in Balderdash, but took everyone’s money in a poker game the next night. Come to think of it, maybe staying up late drinking and playing games had something to do with me being so damn tired.
I am also ashamed to admit how excited I was to go to a real shopping mall. Not only does the local beaver trading post lack reproductive endocrinology services, it lacks something almost as vital: a Banana Republic. On to the tunes...
1) “Coming Up Close,” Til Tuesday. A classic long-distance-mix-tape song from The Lovely Becky. We made a lot of those for each other back in the day, and I this wonderful, catchy, earnest song was on the one she gave me right before I left for college. Jesus Christ, we are old.
2) “Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way,” The Streets. The Ray Davies of English rap music. His rapping is really more like storytelling set to music, with the emphasis on the plot than the beat, with an accent that would be perfectly suited for a Guy Richie movie. This song involves our hero sitting on the couch, smoking a spliff, wondering where his relationship with his girl went wrong. Which, while not an ideal way to resolve your relationship woes, is much more effective than watching Dr. Phil.
3) “I Apologize,” Hüsker Dü. Classic 80s indie aggression. Catchy enough to sing along to, hard enough to slam around to. That’s a tough combination to get just right and it’s really what made Hüsker Dü so great.
4) “Hoboken,” Operation Ivy. The counterpoint to the above. More slammin’ than jammin’. On the surface, it almost seems like mindless hardcore, with rapid-fire shouting and a speed-addled beat. But there’s a real energy and charisma underneath that makes me want to stick around. Kind of like Hoboken itself.
5) “How Many More Times,” Led Zeppelin. I miss the time when bands could be enormously popular and still considered good. As much as the Zepp gets overplayed on (deep announcer voice) the home of classic rock in [YOUR CITY HERE], they rocked. They gave the people what they wanted—big, fat riffs and vocals so charged with sex they were like a lemon ready to be squeezed—and yet they still took a lot of chances with their music. That’s why people like the guy at Jiffy Lube and the indie rock critic getting the oil changed on his Gremlin can love them. Now it seems like if a band is popular, indie guy assumes they suck, and if it’s a great band no one has ever heard of, Jiffy Lube guy asks you to play some Zeppelin.
6) “Southern Anthem,” Iron & Wine. Not your father’s Southern Anthem. And definitely not your grandfather’s. Beautiful, wistful folk music from the real soul successor to Nick Drake.
7) “That’s What I Get,” Nine Inch Nails. The Journey of industrial music? I’m not sure, but what seemed so angry then does seem kind of corny to me now, even though I still like Reznor’s first album.
8) “To the End,” Blur. This is at the exact opposite end of their stadium-shaking woo hoo! It wouldn’t be out of place at a cocktail lounge, albeit a very cool, ironic cocktail lounge.
9) “Boomtown,” The Blasters. Classic roots rock, with that chugga-chugga-chugga train-track beat that Johnny Cash used all the time. It reminds me of driving into Barstow, seeing just enough artifacts of past prosperity to answer the question, why the fuck did anyone live here?
10) “Kreuzberg,” Bloc Party. Overdub Bono singing and this wouldn’t sound out of place on a U2 album. Whether you like it will depend on whether you think Bono is the shit or just full of shit. I am in the former camp myself, but I understand the latter and admit giggling a bit.
11) “The World Is a Mess! It’s in My Kiss,” X. I got a fever, and the only prescription...is more Hammond organ. That sweet Hammond sound takes an already perky, revved up X song and turns it up to 11. It’s one of those keyboard parts where you can feel the player standing up and doing that jerky, epileptic pounding that you only see during a keyboard solo or on every episode of Letterman. It’s as if the keyboard guy is so happy he gets to do a solo, he loses control over all motor functions except his fingers. Much like Bono, I love that shit.
Have a good weekend.
Last weekend's engagement party for my brother Tickle and his fiancée was fun and free of fecal prop bets. I can tell the wedding will be a blast, as my future sister-in-law’s family seems a lot like ours: a fun machine that produces even more entertainment when properly lubricated with alcohol. We played a game of Balderdash on Friday, where Tickle would take five minutes to come up with an answer, only to have it be something with the word “balls” in it. Yes, he has a college degree. The clear winner of the weekend was The Lovely Becky, who not only mopped the floor with us in Balderdash, but took everyone’s money in a poker game the next night. Come to think of it, maybe staying up late drinking and playing games had something to do with me being so damn tired.
I am also ashamed to admit how excited I was to go to a real shopping mall. Not only does the local beaver trading post lack reproductive endocrinology services, it lacks something almost as vital: a Banana Republic. On to the tunes...
1) “Coming Up Close,” Til Tuesday. A classic long-distance-mix-tape song from The Lovely Becky. We made a lot of those for each other back in the day, and I this wonderful, catchy, earnest song was on the one she gave me right before I left for college. Jesus Christ, we are old.
2) “Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way,” The Streets. The Ray Davies of English rap music. His rapping is really more like storytelling set to music, with the emphasis on the plot than the beat, with an accent that would be perfectly suited for a Guy Richie movie. This song involves our hero sitting on the couch, smoking a spliff, wondering where his relationship with his girl went wrong. Which, while not an ideal way to resolve your relationship woes, is much more effective than watching Dr. Phil.
3) “I Apologize,” Hüsker Dü. Classic 80s indie aggression. Catchy enough to sing along to, hard enough to slam around to. That’s a tough combination to get just right and it’s really what made Hüsker Dü so great.
4) “Hoboken,” Operation Ivy. The counterpoint to the above. More slammin’ than jammin’. On the surface, it almost seems like mindless hardcore, with rapid-fire shouting and a speed-addled beat. But there’s a real energy and charisma underneath that makes me want to stick around. Kind of like Hoboken itself.
5) “How Many More Times,” Led Zeppelin. I miss the time when bands could be enormously popular and still considered good. As much as the Zepp gets overplayed on (deep announcer voice) the home of classic rock in [YOUR CITY HERE], they rocked. They gave the people what they wanted—big, fat riffs and vocals so charged with sex they were like a lemon ready to be squeezed—and yet they still took a lot of chances with their music. That’s why people like the guy at Jiffy Lube and the indie rock critic getting the oil changed on his Gremlin can love them. Now it seems like if a band is popular, indie guy assumes they suck, and if it’s a great band no one has ever heard of, Jiffy Lube guy asks you to play some Zeppelin.
6) “Southern Anthem,” Iron & Wine. Not your father’s Southern Anthem. And definitely not your grandfather’s. Beautiful, wistful folk music from the real soul successor to Nick Drake.
7) “That’s What I Get,” Nine Inch Nails. The Journey of industrial music? I’m not sure, but what seemed so angry then does seem kind of corny to me now, even though I still like Reznor’s first album.
8) “To the End,” Blur. This is at the exact opposite end of their stadium-shaking woo hoo! It wouldn’t be out of place at a cocktail lounge, albeit a very cool, ironic cocktail lounge.
9) “Boomtown,” The Blasters. Classic roots rock, with that chugga-chugga-chugga train-track beat that Johnny Cash used all the time. It reminds me of driving into Barstow, seeing just enough artifacts of past prosperity to answer the question, why the fuck did anyone live here?
10) “Kreuzberg,” Bloc Party. Overdub Bono singing and this wouldn’t sound out of place on a U2 album. Whether you like it will depend on whether you think Bono is the shit or just full of shit. I am in the former camp myself, but I understand the latter and admit giggling a bit.
11) “The World Is a Mess! It’s in My Kiss,” X. I got a fever, and the only prescription...is more Hammond organ. That sweet Hammond sound takes an already perky, revved up X song and turns it up to 11. It’s one of those keyboard parts where you can feel the player standing up and doing that jerky, epileptic pounding that you only see during a keyboard solo or on every episode of Letterman. It’s as if the keyboard guy is so happy he gets to do a solo, he loses control over all motor functions except his fingers. Much like Bono, I love that shit.
Have a good weekend.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we reaching out to religious voters?
10) Through hole in bathroom stall.
9) Tying story of loaves and fishes to campaign contributions.
8) Going ix nay on the Mormon-ay.
7) Offering to retroactively stone Bill Clinton.
6) Calling for the revival of the Crusades.
5) Revealing “Church” and “State” tattoos on each buttock.
4) Letting Fox News crucify our opponents.
3) Outlining national Manishevitz/Blood-of-Christ exchangepogrom program.
2) Swearing that sanctity of remarriage will not be sullied by gay unions.
1) Promising The Rapture by 2008 or your money back!
9) Tying story of loaves and fishes to campaign contributions.
8) Going ix nay on the Mormon-ay.
7) Offering to retroactively stone Bill Clinton.
6) Calling for the revival of the Crusades.
5) Revealing “Church” and “State” tattoos on each buttock.
4) Letting Fox News crucify our opponents.
3) Outlining national Manishevitz/Blood-of-Christ exchange
2) Swearing that sanctity of remarriage will not be sullied by gay unions.
1) Promising The Rapture by 2008 or your money back!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
On the road again
The Lovely Becky and I are embarking on another 8+ hour car ride today, this time to the engagement party for my brother Tickle. There should be no soiling of garments for money, but given that many members of Clan Brando shall be attending, there may be airing of grievances for free.
Actually, given that I'm not sure what Tickle's fiancee or my parents know about the scandalous Poop-for-Gambling-Relief program, there could be some money-making possibilities....
I am traveling with a computer, so there may be some blogging this weekend.
Actually, given that I'm not sure what Tickle's fiancee or my parents know about the scandalous Poop-for-Gambling-Relief program, there could be some money-making possibilities....
I am traveling with a computer, so there may be some blogging this weekend.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we putting in our memoirs?
10) Five-page sex scene that really only lasted about a sentence and a half.
9) An assload of coveting our neighbor's razor.
8) El Presidente Bush es un chingando pendejo grande!
7) A few dozen pertinent facts that we forgot to tell the jury.
6) Revelation that we would only cut interest rates after killing a drifter and reading his innards.
5) Harrowing tales of snorting coke off of Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s tits.
4) Harrowing tales of snorting coke off of Vince Neil’s tits.
3) A marriage secret: the couple that stays together is the couple that shoots old men in the face together.
2) Lots more material for this blog to plagerize.
1) Limited edition pubic hair bookmarks.
9) An assload of coveting our neighbor's razor.
8) El Presidente Bush es un chingando pendejo grande!
7) A few dozen pertinent facts that we forgot to tell the jury.
6) Revelation that we would only cut interest rates after killing a drifter and reading his innards.
5) Harrowing tales of snorting coke off of Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s tits.
4) Harrowing tales of snorting coke off of Vince Neil’s tits.
3) A marriage secret: the couple that stays together is the couple that shoots old men in the face together.
2) Lots more material for this blog to plagerize.
1) Limited edition pubic hair bookmarks.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Home away from home
I didn't post a Random 11 yesterday because The Lovely Becky and I were on the road. We traveled back to Iowa City this weekend as part of our War on Infertility. You can get a lot at the local beaver trading post in Da UP of Michigan, but not reproductive endocrinology services. So we had to come back to Iowa for a quick visit to the hospital (the outcome of that will be forthcoming).
The body of our former home is still warm, and not just because of global warming. Coming into town was a bit like looking through a photo album, reminiscing about the past, and then stepping into the picture. By Saturday, after a trip to the mall (such a modern luxury!), I felt like we were still here, that the move had been part of some two-dimensional past stuck in a bound book. I'm sure that will reverse itself once we drive back up to our Sasquatch-infested new home.
There was a fun music-related event on Friday: I saw Suzanne Vega in concert. My friend Bob, who used to tour with Vega before he settled down in Iowa City, opened for her. The show was great, with Vega doing a cool version of "Left of Center" accompanied only by her bass player. Afterward, Bob and I hit the bar for a drink with Suzanne and the band. I sat outside on the main Iowa City drag, enjoying the warm weather, cool suds, and feeling like I never left.
Here's a clip of Suzanne Vega performing her new song "Anniversary" on David Letterman. I'll be back to regularly scheduled jerking after the weekend.
The body of our former home is still warm, and not just because of global warming. Coming into town was a bit like looking through a photo album, reminiscing about the past, and then stepping into the picture. By Saturday, after a trip to the mall (such a modern luxury!), I felt like we were still here, that the move had been part of some two-dimensional past stuck in a bound book. I'm sure that will reverse itself once we drive back up to our Sasquatch-infested new home.
There was a fun music-related event on Friday: I saw Suzanne Vega in concert. My friend Bob, who used to tour with Vega before he settled down in Iowa City, opened for her. The show was great, with Vega doing a cool version of "Left of Center" accompanied only by her bass player. Afterward, Bob and I hit the bar for a drink with Suzanne and the band. I sat outside on the main Iowa City drag, enjoying the warm weather, cool suds, and feeling like I never left.
Here's a clip of Suzanne Vega performing her new song "Anniversary" on David Letterman. I'll be back to regularly scheduled jerking after the weekend.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Bush Makes Children’s Health Care a “Faith-Based Initiative”
WASHINGTON – President Bush, explaining why he used a veto to block an expansion of health care to lower income children, said he was reclassifying children’s health care as a faith-based initiative.
“Health care is expensive,” said the president at a press conference. “But prayer is free. So it was a no-brainer.”
When reporters challenged President Bush on the effectiveness of faith to heal childhood diseases, Bush defended his beliefs. “I prayed to Jesus to become president and it happened. My prayers also kept me out of Vietnam and kept my urine clean. So I believe that if prayer can do that for me, it can cure childhood diseases like mumps or Scarlett Johansson fever.”
Bush also emphasized the importance of praying to the right Jesus for healing. “Children under the age of 12 should pray to Baby Jesus, while those ages 13-17 should pray to Teenage Jesus. Those prayers are much more effective if you stay within your Jesus prayer demographic.”
Bush’s decision touched off a heated debate in Congress, as Democrats sought to gain enough votes to overturn the veto. “It is more than usually desirable that we make some slight provision for the poor and uninsured,” said Democratic Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. “Many thousands are without comprehensive coverage. Hundreds of thousands are in want of even Flintstone Vitamins.”
Representative John Boehner, the House Republican leader, stood with President Bush and delivered the GOP rebuttal to those sick children who were not cured by prayer.
“Are there no emergency rooms?” asked Boehner. “And the Ronald McDonald Houses—are they still in operation?”
“Many can’t go there,” Pelosi countered, “and many will die.”
“If they would rather die,” said Boehner, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!
“Besides,” Boehner continued, “when we ban abortion, we will have plenty of replacements."
“Health care is expensive,” said the president at a press conference. “But prayer is free. So it was a no-brainer.”
When reporters challenged President Bush on the effectiveness of faith to heal childhood diseases, Bush defended his beliefs. “I prayed to Jesus to become president and it happened. My prayers also kept me out of Vietnam and kept my urine clean. So I believe that if prayer can do that for me, it can cure childhood diseases like mumps or Scarlett Johansson fever.”
Bush also emphasized the importance of praying to the right Jesus for healing. “Children under the age of 12 should pray to Baby Jesus, while those ages 13-17 should pray to Teenage Jesus. Those prayers are much more effective if you stay within your Jesus prayer demographic.”
Bush’s decision touched off a heated debate in Congress, as Democrats sought to gain enough votes to overturn the veto. “It is more than usually desirable that we make some slight provision for the poor and uninsured,” said Democratic Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. “Many thousands are without comprehensive coverage. Hundreds of thousands are in want of even Flintstone Vitamins.”
Representative John Boehner, the House Republican leader, stood with President Bush and delivered the GOP rebuttal to those sick children who were not cured by prayer.
“Are there no emergency rooms?” asked Boehner. “And the Ronald McDonald Houses—are they still in operation?”
“Many can’t go there,” Pelosi countered, “and many will die.”
“If they would rather die,” said Boehner, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!
“Besides,” Boehner continued, “when we ban abortion, we will have plenty of replacements."
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: Why did we become conservatives?
10) Desired socially acceptable outlet for hating minorities.
9) Envisioned self as more of an armchair general than a foot soldier.
8) Learned the power of the capitalism after parents made us find a free-market solution to potty training.
7) Wanted the thrills of gay sex without the spills of being “gay.”
6) Saw first-hand the dangers of illegal immigration after being raised by Salvadoran nanny who didn't let us get our way.
5) Enjoyed the ease of answering all of life’s tough questions with “God’s will.”
4) Tended to shout rather than talk.
3) Launched crusade against high school girls being easy after getting turned down by the easy girls in high school.
2) Felt that Locke’s social contract entitles all men to seek their fortunes in a free and unfettered fashion...okay, we just wanted to lower taxes enough to get a gold bidet for the yacht.
1) Forced to have childhood lobotomy due to lack of mental health coverage.
9) Envisioned self as more of an armchair general than a foot soldier.
8) Learned the power of the capitalism after parents made us find a free-market solution to potty training.
7) Wanted the thrills of gay sex without the spills of being “gay.”
6) Saw first-hand the dangers of illegal immigration after being raised by Salvadoran nanny who didn't let us get our way.
5) Enjoyed the ease of answering all of life’s tough questions with “God’s will.”
4) Tended to shout rather than talk.
3) Launched crusade against high school girls being easy after getting turned down by the easy girls in high school.
2) Felt that Locke’s social contract entitles all men to seek their fortunes in a free and unfettered fashion...okay, we just wanted to lower taxes enough to get a gold bidet for the yacht.
1) Forced to have childhood lobotomy due to lack of mental health coverage.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Friday CJ Random 11
Is it possible that, for once in their entire sad history, the Chicago Cubs could do something the easy way? They finally get a good lead on the Brewers, need just a couple wins to more or less cement winning the division, so what do they do? Get swept by the last-place Florida Marlins to keep the Brewers in the hunt this weekend. They even brought in Bill Murray to try and loosen the players up, which apparently worked about as well as showing Garfield to a roomful of people over the age of seven. I know the idea of a playoff run is an illusion for this year's team, but how about at least getting to the playoff part of that illusion and let me dream during their first-round exit?
Okay, music will soothe the savage sports fan…
1) “Me in Honey,” R.E.M. Out of Time always makes me think of visiting The Lovely Becky at Mizzou. We did the long-distance thing in college, with me in California and her in the Show Me State. I would come out to visit her, and we played this album and Crowded House’s Woodface to death during those visits. This song in particular, with Kate Pierson’s vocals, makes me think of that excitement of seeing her and the dread of having to leave.
2) “Ain’t No Easy Way,” Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. They have all the honky tonk pieces in place—slide guitars, harmonica, a Steve Earle-ish vocal—but I sense just a little more honky and not as much tonk. Still, a pretty good foot stomper for a Friday morning.
3) “Vincent O’Brien,” M. Ward. It still amazes me that M. Ward can sound so old when he sings, but also not seem like an affected cobag. He gets a little more poppy here, with an energetic tune that throws enough curveballs—a chirping piano, some feedback—to keep things interesting.
4) “Sing It Pretty, Sue,” Johnny Cash. How can he say so much in a song that’s less than two minutes long?
5) “Tryin’,” Eagles. Ruh-roh! There was a pretty heated debate over at Neddie Jingo’s blog about the Eagles, with Neddie blaming the Eagles for everything from destroying country music, to giving birth to Journey and Britney Spears, to killing puppies (I’m paraphrasing and possibly making stuff up). Blue Girl responded, as only she can, that the Eagles “ARE HUMANS!” The whole thread is an entertaining dive into the pool of polarizing bands. Personally, I’m in the middle. I was never a big fan, but it’s pretty hard for me to not crank “Take It Easy” and “Already Gone.”
6) “Message in a Bottle (Live),” Sting. Hey, it’s Mr. Polarizing himself. I have poked a lot of fun at Sting on many a Friday. This, however, is one of the greatest live renditions of a song ever. It’s from The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball, an Amnesty International comedy/music benefit from the early 80s. Sting did this song and “Roxanne” just on an electric guitar, and he absolutely brings the house down. One of the best things I have on my iPod.
7) “The Tallest Man, The Broadest Shoulders…,” Sufjan Stevens. I am too tired to type out the whole paragraph that is the song title. Sufjan walks that razor’s edge between “baroque” and “twee,” but I always like his arrangements and song structures. There’s almost a filmstrip feel to this, yet it manages to not suck the way every filmstrip ever made did. For those of you not born at the same time as the Geico Cavemen, filmstrips were a mind control device used by schools during the 1950s through 1980s. Still pictures would illustrate an important event in history, while the warbled audio coming from the cassette tape would mask backward messages: In 1820, the Missouri Compromise allowed Missouri into the Union as a slave state EAT YOUR VEGETABLES SIT UP STRAIGHT YOU’LL GO BLIND IF YOU KEEP TOUCHING IT SO MUCH!!!
8) “Heaven or Las Vegas,” Cocteau Twins. Another Brando/TLB kollege klassic. TLB always sings along very well to the incredible harmonies here. The title bothers me, though: are they suggesting that Las Vegas cannot be part of Heaven? If that’s true, does it mean that heaven will be like Branson, Missouri? Because if it is, I swear I’m turning around and heading the other direction after I die, if I’m not already where Las Vegas is.
9) “Magic Man,” Heart. Since we’re going back in time, here’s a fun family fact: Magic Man was my uncle’s CB handle. Our family had our brief six-month flirtation with CBs around the time Smokey and the Bandit came out. And thankfully it ended long before Smokey and the Bandit II was released. Every time someone goes off on how annoying cell phones are, just be thankful you don’t have to say breaker breaker before you call home to ask if we're out of milk. As for the song, the decent beginning and end are assaulted by the marshmallow fluff synthesizer noodling in the middle.
10) “I Can’t Get Over You,” The Queers. Immature? Yes. Original? No. These guys were so much like The Ramones that they did a complete cover of the Rocket to Russia album. But good? Hell yeah, at least on the one album of amazing Beach Boys punk they produced, Don’t Back Down, which this song is from. This is a sunny, catchy tune featuring a female vocal from Lisa Marr (of Cub). Good stuff.
11) “Crummy Lovers Die in the Grave,” The Fucking Champs. Three guys cranking out retro instrumental prog metal. They sling crazy 80s metal riffs like short-order cooks working the batter at a Waffle House, channeling Iron Maiden without the Bruce Dickinson howling about secret Satanic rituals and cavalry charges. Plus they have song titles that tickle my inner 14-year-old: “Thor Is Like Immortal,” “These Glyphs Are Dusty,” and “Esprit de Corpse.” So up my alley they should be called The Fucking Brandos. And yes, my poor wife went through years of long-distance romance to wind up with a grown man who loves this stuff. Pray for her.
Have a great weekend. Go Cubs, damn it!
Okay, music will soothe the savage sports fan…
1) “Me in Honey,” R.E.M. Out of Time always makes me think of visiting The Lovely Becky at Mizzou. We did the long-distance thing in college, with me in California and her in the Show Me State. I would come out to visit her, and we played this album and Crowded House’s Woodface to death during those visits. This song in particular, with Kate Pierson’s vocals, makes me think of that excitement of seeing her and the dread of having to leave.
2) “Ain’t No Easy Way,” Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. They have all the honky tonk pieces in place—slide guitars, harmonica, a Steve Earle-ish vocal—but I sense just a little more honky and not as much tonk. Still, a pretty good foot stomper for a Friday morning.
3) “Vincent O’Brien,” M. Ward. It still amazes me that M. Ward can sound so old when he sings, but also not seem like an affected cobag. He gets a little more poppy here, with an energetic tune that throws enough curveballs—a chirping piano, some feedback—to keep things interesting.
4) “Sing It Pretty, Sue,” Johnny Cash. How can he say so much in a song that’s less than two minutes long?
5) “Tryin’,” Eagles. Ruh-roh! There was a pretty heated debate over at Neddie Jingo’s blog about the Eagles, with Neddie blaming the Eagles for everything from destroying country music, to giving birth to Journey and Britney Spears, to killing puppies (I’m paraphrasing and possibly making stuff up). Blue Girl responded, as only she can, that the Eagles “ARE HUMANS!” The whole thread is an entertaining dive into the pool of polarizing bands. Personally, I’m in the middle. I was never a big fan, but it’s pretty hard for me to not crank “Take It Easy” and “Already Gone.”
6) “Message in a Bottle (Live),” Sting. Hey, it’s Mr. Polarizing himself. I have poked a lot of fun at Sting on many a Friday. This, however, is one of the greatest live renditions of a song ever. It’s from The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball, an Amnesty International comedy/music benefit from the early 80s. Sting did this song and “Roxanne” just on an electric guitar, and he absolutely brings the house down. One of the best things I have on my iPod.
7) “The Tallest Man, The Broadest Shoulders…,” Sufjan Stevens. I am too tired to type out the whole paragraph that is the song title. Sufjan walks that razor’s edge between “baroque” and “twee,” but I always like his arrangements and song structures. There’s almost a filmstrip feel to this, yet it manages to not suck the way every filmstrip ever made did. For those of you not born at the same time as the Geico Cavemen, filmstrips were a mind control device used by schools during the 1950s through 1980s. Still pictures would illustrate an important event in history, while the warbled audio coming from the cassette tape would mask backward messages: In 1820, the Missouri Compromise allowed Missouri into the Union as a slave state EAT YOUR VEGETABLES SIT UP STRAIGHT YOU’LL GO BLIND IF YOU KEEP TOUCHING IT SO MUCH!!!
8) “Heaven or Las Vegas,” Cocteau Twins. Another Brando/TLB kollege klassic. TLB always sings along very well to the incredible harmonies here. The title bothers me, though: are they suggesting that Las Vegas cannot be part of Heaven? If that’s true, does it mean that heaven will be like Branson, Missouri? Because if it is, I swear I’m turning around and heading the other direction after I die, if I’m not already where Las Vegas is.
9) “Magic Man,” Heart. Since we’re going back in time, here’s a fun family fact: Magic Man was my uncle’s CB handle. Our family had our brief six-month flirtation with CBs around the time Smokey and the Bandit came out. And thankfully it ended long before Smokey and the Bandit II was released. Every time someone goes off on how annoying cell phones are, just be thankful you don’t have to say breaker breaker before you call home to ask if we're out of milk. As for the song, the decent beginning and end are assaulted by the marshmallow fluff synthesizer noodling in the middle.
10) “I Can’t Get Over You,” The Queers. Immature? Yes. Original? No. These guys were so much like The Ramones that they did a complete cover of the Rocket to Russia album. But good? Hell yeah, at least on the one album of amazing Beach Boys punk they produced, Don’t Back Down, which this song is from. This is a sunny, catchy tune featuring a female vocal from Lisa Marr (of Cub). Good stuff.
11) “Crummy Lovers Die in the Grave,” The Fucking Champs. Three guys cranking out retro instrumental prog metal. They sling crazy 80s metal riffs like short-order cooks working the batter at a Waffle House, channeling Iron Maiden without the Bruce Dickinson howling about secret Satanic rituals and cavalry charges. Plus they have song titles that tickle my inner 14-year-old: “Thor Is Like Immortal,” “These Glyphs Are Dusty,” and “Esprit de Corpse.” So up my alley they should be called The Fucking Brandos. And yes, my poor wife went through years of long-distance romance to wind up with a grown man who loves this stuff. Pray for her.
Have a great weekend. Go Cubs, damn it!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
O’Reilly expresses surprise that Asians “can be good drivers and bad at math.”
NEW YORK - Days after a controversial broadcast about his visit to a Harlem restaurant, Bill O’Reilly is in hot water again after making comments about Asian Americans.
“I’m at this great Oriental restaurant,” said O’Reilly on his radio program, The Radio Factor. “And I’m trying to figure out the tip. Our waitress was terrific—you might say she serve us long time. So I asked another waiter, who was also Asian, if he knew how much 18 percent of $24.07 is.
“He just gave me this blank stare and said, ‘I don’t know, I go to Juilliard.’ That’s an arts school, for the Factor listeners out there. I replied, ‘Okay, but you probably have to know math really well to play the cello, right?’
“The kid gives me a funny look and says, ‘The correct tip would be eighteen dollars, Mr. O’Reilly.’ That sounds a little high, but what do I know about math: I’m Irish and he’s Asian. So I left an eighteen-dollar tip. Sure enough, I find out later that eighteen percent of $24.07 is not eighteen dollars. I thought maybe he was just rounding up to make it easier, but eighteen dollars was more than three times what I should have left.
“It just goes to show how stereotypes can mislead us, because Asian college students can be just as stupid as other college kids. Next time I need to calculate a tip, I’ll use a calculator or ask one of my Jewish friends.”
O’Reilly then went on to discuss his trip home.
“I hailed a cab, and as soon as I see the driver’s last name is Wong, I start thinking, this is going to be a Wong drive. But I’ve never seen such driving. He got me to the office in record time, without coming close to causing an accident or backing up traffic. I told him at the end, ‘Wong, you’re all right!’
“I learned more about Asian guys in one day than I had learned in my whole life.”
Kelly Cho-Meyers, head of the Asians Against Stereotyping and Slander (AASS), said that Mr. O’Reilly’s logic “doesn’t add up.”
“It puts Asian Americans on the spot when people assume we can naturally solve for x or break boards with our bare hands,” said Ms. Cho-Meyers. “If he thinks we're all good at math, I’d like to show that blue-eyed white devil my checkbook.”
Mr. O’Reilly did not take very kindly to the criticism. “My attempt to point out stereotypes has been undermined by limp-wristed, freedom-hating liberals. When I say black people can eat without swearing, Asians can drive as well as I can, or American Indians can have last names that sound like normal last names, I’m fighting racism.
“Now we need to put this racist nonsense behind us,” O’Reilly continued, “and talk about real problems, like those dirty illegals darkening our fair country.”
“I’m at this great Oriental restaurant,” said O’Reilly on his radio program, The Radio Factor. “And I’m trying to figure out the tip. Our waitress was terrific—you might say she serve us long time. So I asked another waiter, who was also Asian, if he knew how much 18 percent of $24.07 is.
“He just gave me this blank stare and said, ‘I don’t know, I go to Juilliard.’ That’s an arts school, for the Factor listeners out there. I replied, ‘Okay, but you probably have to know math really well to play the cello, right?’
“The kid gives me a funny look and says, ‘The correct tip would be eighteen dollars, Mr. O’Reilly.’ That sounds a little high, but what do I know about math: I’m Irish and he’s Asian. So I left an eighteen-dollar tip. Sure enough, I find out later that eighteen percent of $24.07 is not eighteen dollars. I thought maybe he was just rounding up to make it easier, but eighteen dollars was more than three times what I should have left.
“It just goes to show how stereotypes can mislead us, because Asian college students can be just as stupid as other college kids. Next time I need to calculate a tip, I’ll use a calculator or ask one of my Jewish friends.”
O’Reilly then went on to discuss his trip home.
“I hailed a cab, and as soon as I see the driver’s last name is Wong, I start thinking, this is going to be a Wong drive. But I’ve never seen such driving. He got me to the office in record time, without coming close to causing an accident or backing up traffic. I told him at the end, ‘Wong, you’re all right!’
“I learned more about Asian guys in one day than I had learned in my whole life.”
Kelly Cho-Meyers, head of the Asians Against Stereotyping and Slander (AASS), said that Mr. O’Reilly’s logic “doesn’t add up.”
“It puts Asian Americans on the spot when people assume we can naturally solve for x or break boards with our bare hands,” said Ms. Cho-Meyers. “If he thinks we're all good at math, I’d like to show that blue-eyed white devil my checkbook.”
Mr. O’Reilly did not take very kindly to the criticism. “My attempt to point out stereotypes has been undermined by limp-wristed, freedom-hating liberals. When I say black people can eat without swearing, Asians can drive as well as I can, or American Indians can have last names that sound like normal last names, I’m fighting racism.
“Now we need to put this racist nonsense behind us,” O’Reilly continued, “and talk about real problems, like those dirty illegals darkening our fair country.”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we committing career suicide?
10) Accepting position in Bush administration.
9) Delivering the most embarrassing spectacle at the MTV Video Music Awards since Adam Curry’s hair.
8) Adopting a narrow stance on everything except our pants.
7) Letting John Daly pee for us.
6) Putting name and address on the collars of our fighting dogs.
5) Greenlighting show about the Geico Cavemen.
4) Giving Lorne Michaels a funny sketch for Saturday Night Live.
3) Not shooting well with others.
2) Believing that acting like a screeching, screaming, sobbing psychopath is no way to land a TV deal.
1) We don’t recall.
9) Delivering the most embarrassing spectacle at the MTV Video Music Awards since Adam Curry’s hair.
8) Adopting a narrow stance on everything except our pants.
7) Letting John Daly pee for us.
6) Putting name and address on the collars of our fighting dogs.
5) Greenlighting show about the Geico Cavemen.
4) Giving Lorne Michaels a funny sketch for Saturday Night Live.
3) Not shooting well with others.
2) Believing that acting like a screeching, screaming, sobbing psychopath is no way to land a TV deal.
1) We don’t recall.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Friday CJ Random 11
It’s one more random than 10!
Inspired by Danny Gans, I have decided to christen my office The Brando Circle Jerk Theatre. I realize what the name implies, but please, no unzipping until the captain has turned on the unzipping sign.
There’s a Hollywood-quality storm going on today, which is one of my favorite times to listen to music.
1) “The Revolution Starts Now,” Steve Earle. For a country that was founded on revolution, we’ve really come to hate revolutionaries. I think that’s the crux of most of Earle’s recent music.
2) “Back to the Lake,” Guided by Voices. I can’t see how to get back to the lake because it’s shrouded in mist right now. Luckily it’s not green, or I would be worried I was starring in the real-life remake of The Fog. Marquette definitely gives off that Fog vibe, but I’m not sure if there were many pirates on Lake Superior. If there were, they probably went, “Arrg, eh?” As for the song, this is like a Friday night with me: three minutes of bliss that you wish would go on longer. That joke is dedicated to The Lovely Becky.
3) “Explode and Make Up,” Sugar. I never thought the 90s had a unique sound when I was going through them. It seemed like bands just pulled their sounds from bits and pieces of the 60s, 70s, and 80s. But Sugar definitely sounds of the 90s: the crunchy guitar chords and thick drums.
4) “Born to a Family,” The Go-Betweens. A nice bit of Aussie pop that can make the sun shine even on a cloudy day.
5) “Magic,” The Cars. Whenever I hear this song, I am always in eighth grade again, wearing corduroy Op shorts and Pony sneakers and parting my hair down the middle. The production is Exxon Valdez-slick, but the guitar riff and the way the bass chimes in between the chords hits a sweet spot for me.
6) “Flavor of the Month,” The Posies. This has been the greatest year of music acquisition I have ever had. I’ve managed to catch up on a lot of bands I missed back in the day, and I’m often scratching my head: how did I overlook this? That goes especially for The Poises. They play classic power-pop, Big Star with bigger guitars that would easily help me pass the days on a desert island. Although I’d need to make some type of coconut charger for my iPod.
7) “Army Corps of Architects,” Death Cab for Cutie. Talk about music for a rainy day. Classic DCFC, with a slow, chiming guitar riff and melancholy Ben Gibbard vocals. They do that voodoo that they do so well.
8) “Hounds of Love,” Kate Bush. A great blast from the 80s. I have to thank TLB for this one. She was a big Kate Bush fan when we met, and I had the natural teenage boy reaction to Bush’s lilting, theatric pop: that’s girly music. But because I love and respect TLB, I gave Kate Bush a shot, and this song in particular got the scales to fall from my ears. It manages to sound orchestral and kick ass at the same time.
9) “Where Have All the Rude Boys Gone,” Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Already on my cannot be overplayed list. Bounces with the energy of an eight-year old after four bowls of Cookie Crisp, but without making you want to give him a Flinstones With Insulin vitamin.
10) “Let’s Call It Love,” Sleater-Kinney. How many female groups have recorded a song longer than ten minutes that can out-cock-rock just about any boy band on the planet? I know of only one. Crazy drum fills, searing guitar licks, and a female singer howling about how much she needs some lovin’? For ten minutes? I don’t need a cigarette, I need the whole damn pack. In fact, just leave the carton.
11) “Add It Up,” Violent Femmes. I really could use a couple slow songs and maybe a roast beef sandwich before another fast song about sex, but the iPod wants it now. The Violent Femmes feature the most in-your-face brush drumming in rock history. This one reminds me of piling into a car to go to a high school party, singing along at the top of our lungs, hoping we’d get to add it up later, even though we were much more likely to wind up dancing with ourselves. Hands-down the best thing to ever come out of Wisconsin (not that the list is that long….that’s my worm on the hook for billy p.)
I am sadly bacheloring it this weekend, as TLB is gone until Sunday. I’ll probably do my usual: play a lot of videogames, watch a lot of football, and have a tea party with the cats. I hope your weekend is as exciting as mine.
Inspired by Danny Gans, I have decided to christen my office The Brando Circle Jerk Theatre. I realize what the name implies, but please, no unzipping until the captain has turned on the unzipping sign.
There’s a Hollywood-quality storm going on today, which is one of my favorite times to listen to music.
1) “The Revolution Starts Now,” Steve Earle. For a country that was founded on revolution, we’ve really come to hate revolutionaries. I think that’s the crux of most of Earle’s recent music.
2) “Back to the Lake,” Guided by Voices. I can’t see how to get back to the lake because it’s shrouded in mist right now. Luckily it’s not green, or I would be worried I was starring in the real-life remake of The Fog. Marquette definitely gives off that Fog vibe, but I’m not sure if there were many pirates on Lake Superior. If there were, they probably went, “Arrg, eh?” As for the song, this is like a Friday night with me: three minutes of bliss that you wish would go on longer. That joke is dedicated to The Lovely Becky.
3) “Explode and Make Up,” Sugar. I never thought the 90s had a unique sound when I was going through them. It seemed like bands just pulled their sounds from bits and pieces of the 60s, 70s, and 80s. But Sugar definitely sounds of the 90s: the crunchy guitar chords and thick drums.
4) “Born to a Family,” The Go-Betweens. A nice bit of Aussie pop that can make the sun shine even on a cloudy day.
5) “Magic,” The Cars. Whenever I hear this song, I am always in eighth grade again, wearing corduroy Op shorts and Pony sneakers and parting my hair down the middle. The production is Exxon Valdez-slick, but the guitar riff and the way the bass chimes in between the chords hits a sweet spot for me.
6) “Flavor of the Month,” The Posies. This has been the greatest year of music acquisition I have ever had. I’ve managed to catch up on a lot of bands I missed back in the day, and I’m often scratching my head: how did I overlook this? That goes especially for The Poises. They play classic power-pop, Big Star with bigger guitars that would easily help me pass the days on a desert island. Although I’d need to make some type of coconut charger for my iPod.
7) “Army Corps of Architects,” Death Cab for Cutie. Talk about music for a rainy day. Classic DCFC, with a slow, chiming guitar riff and melancholy Ben Gibbard vocals. They do that voodoo that they do so well.
8) “Hounds of Love,” Kate Bush. A great blast from the 80s. I have to thank TLB for this one. She was a big Kate Bush fan when we met, and I had the natural teenage boy reaction to Bush’s lilting, theatric pop: that’s girly music. But because I love and respect TLB, I gave Kate Bush a shot, and this song in particular got the scales to fall from my ears. It manages to sound orchestral and kick ass at the same time.
9) “Where Have All the Rude Boys Gone,” Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Already on my cannot be overplayed list. Bounces with the energy of an eight-year old after four bowls of Cookie Crisp, but without making you want to give him a Flinstones With Insulin vitamin.
10) “Let’s Call It Love,” Sleater-Kinney. How many female groups have recorded a song longer than ten minutes that can out-cock-rock just about any boy band on the planet? I know of only one. Crazy drum fills, searing guitar licks, and a female singer howling about how much she needs some lovin’? For ten minutes? I don’t need a cigarette, I need the whole damn pack. In fact, just leave the carton.
11) “Add It Up,” Violent Femmes. I really could use a couple slow songs and maybe a roast beef sandwich before another fast song about sex, but the iPod wants it now. The Violent Femmes feature the most in-your-face brush drumming in rock history. This one reminds me of piling into a car to go to a high school party, singing along at the top of our lungs, hoping we’d get to add it up later, even though we were much more likely to wind up dancing with ourselves. Hands-down the best thing to ever come out of Wisconsin (not that the list is that long….that’s my worm on the hook for billy p.)
I am sadly bacheloring it this weekend, as TLB is gone until Sunday. I’ll probably do my usual: play a lot of videogames, watch a lot of football, and have a tea party with the cats. I hope your weekend is as exciting as mine.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Vegas 2007: In the Hall of the Crimson Gans
Prelude: Make way for pirate jokes
Friday night, I sat in the Chili’s Too at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, eating dinner and waiting for my connecting flight to Las Vegas. I knew I was near the gate for the Vegas flight because a girl wearing a purple sequined tank top walked by. She may as well been wearing a sandwich board that said, “Follow me to Sin City.”
My cell phone buzzed with a text message from my younger brother, Tickle. He was already in Vegas with our youngest brother, Snake Anthony, our Uncle T, and our cousin, Youngblood. We were on the trip to initiate Youngblood into the Vegas club—he just turned 21, and as we did with Snake Anthony in 2006, we wanted to show him all the new and exciting ways he could lose hundreds of dollars and kill millions of brain cells.
“Where does a pirate vacation?” Tickle’s text message asked.
“Arrrgkansas,” I guessed.
“Arrrgentina,” he wrote back.
Pirate jokes before I even landed. It would be a good trip.
Never double-down against a guy named Elmer
Right when I got in, I sat down with the rest of my war party at a blackjack table against a dealer named Elmer—the same name as our grandfather (and Uncle T’s father). I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or bad sign, because Grandpa Elmer was a broken-down drunk. I only knew my grandfather when he sat in the corner of his house in his pajamas, drinking coffee and listening to ballgames on a transistor radio. Elmer the dealer, however, was clearly a productive member of society and also seemed very friendly. So I took it as a good sign.
It was a very good sign for Youngblood. He wound up winning $1000 against Elmer. Uncle T, Snake Anthony, and I more or less broke even. Tickle was not tickled by Elmer, and a few of his Benjamin Franklins made their way across the felt to the house.
Tickle, while annoyed, vowed to rebound. “I’m the People’s Champ,” he said. I have no idea what he meant, but it was an assertion he continued to make all weekend.
To kill ya
I do not like tequila. Uncle T loves it. Whenever we drink with him, he preaches the Gospel of Good Tequila. I have had the good stuff with him, and even the good stuff seems like a bad idea to me. But when you’re in Vegas, the whole good-bad polarity is reversed, and you find yourself doing things like drinking more tequila in one weekend than you have over the past decade.
After our Elmer encounter on Friday, we hit the bar. I had already had a few vodkas and felt myself on the slow, pleasant journey from Buzzistan to Drunkerbaijan. Uncle T decided to buy us a ticket on the express train by setting us up with four giant shots of top-shelf bad idea. I assumed that the size and price would indicate we would sip this most demonic of demon rum, but Uncle T rocked back and downed it. The rest of us couldn’t let the oldest guy show us up, so we all threw our shots back.
There are few things worse than realizing, as you’re downing a shot, you can’t get it all down in one shot. I got half down my throat before I felt the Mexican napalm shooting up from my belly. I stopped with the other half of the shot in my mouth, waiting to be swallowed, which is not a happy place to be when you don’t really want to swallow what’s in your mouth. I managed to get it down and immediately got the pre-hurl saliva mouth. As Ralphie would say in A Christmas Story, “Oh, fudge.”
I stood, breathing deeply, fighting to pass from Code Red to Code Orange. Slowly my stomach returned to its seated and upright position.
Of course, this didn’t prevent me from drinking three more shots of tequila the next night. And yes, I am three years away from turning 40.
We obsess over Danny Gans, though we know not who he is
Danny Gans was plastered all over the Mirage. On the Mirage sign, inside the lobby, even on the chips, Danny Gans and his Osmond-white teeth smiled at us. “Entertainer of the Year,” boasted one poster blurb.
“Who the hell is Danny Gans?” we asked. We did not know.
We found ourselves talking about Danny Gans constantly. Our mantra for the weekend was What would Danny Gans do? We relayed sightings of him: in the men’s room, at the craps table, in line at Chipotle.
Stumbling into the Mirage buffet for dinner, we chatted up the cashier. “Does Danny Gans ever eat here? What’s his favorite dish? He seems like a crab cake guy, does he like crab cakes?”
She laughed at us, then said, “Actually, he calls in sick a lot.”
That random bit of information poured gasoline on the Danny Gans fire. Danny Gans abuses his sick leave—who knew he even had any? Did he accrue hours, or did he just call up and, Rick James-like, say, “I’m Danny Gans, bitch!” After all, he performed in his own Danny Gans Theater at the Mirage.
“So what happens when Danny Gans cancels?” one of us asked. “Does somebody else perform?”
“No way,” another replied. “How do you replace Danny Fucking Gans? You can’t substitute for him. If Danny Gans calls in, then the magic has to wait.”
The man who would have been king of YouTube
Our party grew larger on Saturday. Tickle’s friends, Trapper and Hawkeye, joined us. By day, they are respected professionals. Or at least professionals. By night, they are Tickle's companions in pranksterism.
We went to the club in the Mirage again on Saturday night. Trapper proceeded to hit the dance floor and conduct the single greatest night of Caucasian dancing I have ever seen. To fully appreciate it, you have to know that Trapper has a similar vibe to Steve Carell. He’s friendly looking, very hirsute, and seems very down to earth. But the minute his feet touched the dance floor, he started a four-part dance routine:
I cannot really do justice to how funny this routine was. Talking about it the next day, we agreed that if we had been able to videotape it, Trapper would have been the King of YouTube. He would have entered that pantheon of YouTube gods: Lightsaber Kid, Crying Britney Spears Fan, Profane Asian Uncle. Inboxes around the world would have been flooded with FWD: OMFG ROTFLMOA at the Dancing White Guy! He would have been so popular, there would have been a Dancing White Guy backlash.
Alas, we did not have a video camera.
Hawkeye’s indecent proposal to Tickle
Tickle is one of those people who will do anything for a laugh, especially if there is a profit involved. He’s taken bets on if he could drink a gallon of milk in one sitting, ride all the way to Milwaukee in the middle of summer with the heat on, and even rub his face with Trapper’s sweaty boxers for 10 seconds.
Sunday night, Hawkeye dropped a prop bet bomb: would Tickle, right there in the bar, crap his pants for $400? Trapper chimed in that he would throw in $200 to make it $600.
Most normal people would immediately reject that bet. Tickle, however, is not most normal people. The bet would erase his losses from the trip. Negotiations began in earnest: How long would he have to sit there? Would he have to walk around? Would he collect if he was tossed out before the allotted time? I don’t think the Iraqi government worked as intensely on their constitution as Tickle, Hawkeye, and Trapper did on this Magna Crappa. After 45 minutes of haggling, they finally settled on Tickle pooping himself and either staying in the bar for 30 minutes or winning if he was thrown out before then.
“You’re not really going to do this?” I asked my brother.
“I could use the money,” he said. “You wouldn’t do it?”
“No way,” I said.
“Come on, name your price.”
“You can’t put a price on dignity,” I said.
“Would you do it for a million dollars?” he asked.
“Okay, yeah, for a million I would.”
“Then name your price.”
He had a point. “Five grand,” I said. “That would be enough that even if people were grossed out, they’d say, ‘Well, five grand is a lot of money.’”
The bet escalated. Trapper offered to match Hawkeye’s $400 and raise the bid to $800. As if that wasn’t enough, Snake Anthony moved from the don’t do it camp to throwing in $200 to make it an even thousand.
I know Tickle. At that price, it would take an act of divine intervention for him to not shit his pants at the Mirage bar. Uncle T decided to play the role of God. “Tickle, you are not doing this,” he said. He had protested earlier, but half-heartedly as he was amused by the negotiation process. Once it became clear that Tickle was going to do it, he put his foot down. After all, who wants to be the uncle to a nephew who craps himself?
Tickle finally called it off. I was mostly relieved, but I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t disappointed.
The People’s Champ is going to miss his flight
Tickle has missed more flights than everyone else I know combined. If he doesn’t miss the flight, he is always cutting it close. He had an 8 a.m. flight on Monday, and Tickle decided he was going to stay up all night with Hawkeye and Trapper rather than sleep for a couple hours.
Snake Anthony and I did not join him in this pursuit. We went back to the room, packed, and managed to crash at a reasonable 2:45 a.m.
Snake’s cell phone rang at 4:00. He ignored it. Then mine rang. “What?” I asked.
“I’m the People’s Champ,” Tickle slurred through the receiver.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, closing the phone. It rang again.
“Tell me I’m the People’s Champ,” said Tickle.
I knew how this would go if I fought. “You’re the People’s Champ,” I said.
“Tell Snake Anthony I’m the People’s Champ,” Tickle said.
“Snake Anthony, Tickle is the People’s Champ,” I said to the other bed. Back into the phone I said, “Now fuck off.”
Tickle came back to the room at 5:00 and of course woke us up. He made a wake-up call for 6:15, then flopped into my bed next to me and started snoring.
When hammered, Tickle snores like Shemp Howard of The Three Stooges. There’s the exaggerated sawing on the intake, then some kind of yipping on the exhale. The only person I’ve ever heard snore like that, aside from Shemp, was my Grandpa Elmer.
After nudging Tickle did no good to stop the snoring, I put a pillow over his face. That woke him up. “Roll over and stop snoring,” I barked. He did.
At 5:30 the hotel phone woke me up again. It was Tickle’s friend, Smoke, who lives in Vegas. He had visited that night, left his cell phone in our room, and needed it back before we left. Tickle told him to meet him in the lobby at 6:30 and he’d give him the phone if he’d take Tickle to the airport. Then my brother fell back asleep and started snoring.
At 6:15, his wake-up call rang. I punched Tickle in the back. “Wake up, you’re going to miss your flight.” My brother did not budge. I decided to just get up and take a shower, figuring I could catch a ride to the airport with Smoke and get some breakfast. When I was all ready at 6:40, Tickle finally woke up.
My brother rarely worries about anything, but he went from passed out to full-bore panic. He had 80 minutes until his flight left, and the screening lines at Vegas are legendary in their length. Tickle threw all his stuff into his suitcase, making a giant ball of clothes that prevented the suitcase from closing. He had to take everything out and repack so he could close the suitcase.
By this point, Snake Anthony and I were doubled over laughing. We had talked all weekend about this moment, and now it seemed highly appropriate that Tickle was being punished by the Vegas gods. “You’re never going to make it,” I said as we finally left at about 6:50.
“I know,” he said with genuine regret. “And I only have one flight to catch because I took Allegiant. I’m going to get stuck here til tomorrow.”
“Oh no, you’ll get stuck here longer than that,” I said. “And you’ll be out of money. You’ll be on the Strip, offering to shit your pants for ten bucks.”
Smoke, however, came through big time. He drove like the People’s Champ to the airport. Tickle got inside at 7:15 and sprinted to his check-in desk. I left for mine, checked in, and headed to the very long security line.
Near the scanner, I saw Tickle ahead of me, his Bears cap pulled low, his face dragging with fatigue, waiting for the security scan to finish. He saw me and we pointed at each other. I watched him go through security in time to make his flight.
“That was a triumph of the human spirit,” I texted him. “You truly are the People’s Champ.”
And to think we’re probably going back in May for Tickle’s bachelor party.
Friday night, I sat in the Chili’s Too at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, eating dinner and waiting for my connecting flight to Las Vegas. I knew I was near the gate for the Vegas flight because a girl wearing a purple sequined tank top walked by. She may as well been wearing a sandwich board that said, “Follow me to Sin City.”
My cell phone buzzed with a text message from my younger brother, Tickle. He was already in Vegas with our youngest brother, Snake Anthony, our Uncle T, and our cousin, Youngblood. We were on the trip to initiate Youngblood into the Vegas club—he just turned 21, and as we did with Snake Anthony in 2006, we wanted to show him all the new and exciting ways he could lose hundreds of dollars and kill millions of brain cells.
“Where does a pirate vacation?” Tickle’s text message asked.
“Arrrgkansas,” I guessed.
“Arrrgentina,” he wrote back.
Pirate jokes before I even landed. It would be a good trip.
Never double-down against a guy named Elmer
Right when I got in, I sat down with the rest of my war party at a blackjack table against a dealer named Elmer—the same name as our grandfather (and Uncle T’s father). I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or bad sign, because Grandpa Elmer was a broken-down drunk. I only knew my grandfather when he sat in the corner of his house in his pajamas, drinking coffee and listening to ballgames on a transistor radio. Elmer the dealer, however, was clearly a productive member of society and also seemed very friendly. So I took it as a good sign.
It was a very good sign for Youngblood. He wound up winning $1000 against Elmer. Uncle T, Snake Anthony, and I more or less broke even. Tickle was not tickled by Elmer, and a few of his Benjamin Franklins made their way across the felt to the house.
Tickle, while annoyed, vowed to rebound. “I’m the People’s Champ,” he said. I have no idea what he meant, but it was an assertion he continued to make all weekend.
To kill ya
I do not like tequila. Uncle T loves it. Whenever we drink with him, he preaches the Gospel of Good Tequila. I have had the good stuff with him, and even the good stuff seems like a bad idea to me. But when you’re in Vegas, the whole good-bad polarity is reversed, and you find yourself doing things like drinking more tequila in one weekend than you have over the past decade.
After our Elmer encounter on Friday, we hit the bar. I had already had a few vodkas and felt myself on the slow, pleasant journey from Buzzistan to Drunkerbaijan. Uncle T decided to buy us a ticket on the express train by setting us up with four giant shots of top-shelf bad idea. I assumed that the size and price would indicate we would sip this most demonic of demon rum, but Uncle T rocked back and downed it. The rest of us couldn’t let the oldest guy show us up, so we all threw our shots back.
There are few things worse than realizing, as you’re downing a shot, you can’t get it all down in one shot. I got half down my throat before I felt the Mexican napalm shooting up from my belly. I stopped with the other half of the shot in my mouth, waiting to be swallowed, which is not a happy place to be when you don’t really want to swallow what’s in your mouth. I managed to get it down and immediately got the pre-hurl saliva mouth. As Ralphie would say in A Christmas Story, “Oh, fudge.”
I stood, breathing deeply, fighting to pass from Code Red to Code Orange. Slowly my stomach returned to its seated and upright position.
Of course, this didn’t prevent me from drinking three more shots of tequila the next night. And yes, I am three years away from turning 40.
We obsess over Danny Gans, though we know not who he is
Danny Gans was plastered all over the Mirage. On the Mirage sign, inside the lobby, even on the chips, Danny Gans and his Osmond-white teeth smiled at us. “Entertainer of the Year,” boasted one poster blurb.“Who the hell is Danny Gans?” we asked. We did not know.
We found ourselves talking about Danny Gans constantly. Our mantra for the weekend was What would Danny Gans do? We relayed sightings of him: in the men’s room, at the craps table, in line at Chipotle.
Stumbling into the Mirage buffet for dinner, we chatted up the cashier. “Does Danny Gans ever eat here? What’s his favorite dish? He seems like a crab cake guy, does he like crab cakes?”
She laughed at us, then said, “Actually, he calls in sick a lot.”
That random bit of information poured gasoline on the Danny Gans fire. Danny Gans abuses his sick leave—who knew he even had any? Did he accrue hours, or did he just call up and, Rick James-like, say, “I’m Danny Gans, bitch!” After all, he performed in his own Danny Gans Theater at the Mirage.
“So what happens when Danny Gans cancels?” one of us asked. “Does somebody else perform?”
“No way,” another replied. “How do you replace Danny Fucking Gans? You can’t substitute for him. If Danny Gans calls in, then the magic has to wait.”
The man who would have been king of YouTube
Our party grew larger on Saturday. Tickle’s friends, Trapper and Hawkeye, joined us. By day, they are respected professionals. Or at least professionals. By night, they are Tickle's companions in pranksterism.
We went to the club in the Mirage again on Saturday night. Trapper proceeded to hit the dance floor and conduct the single greatest night of Caucasian dancing I have ever seen. To fully appreciate it, you have to know that Trapper has a similar vibe to Steve Carell. He’s friendly looking, very hirsute, and seems very down to earth. But the minute his feet touched the dance floor, he started a four-part dance routine:
- He would hop up to someone—male and female—and conduct a space-invading blend of grinding and vogueing. He had his hands down low, palms out, as if he was ready for some naughty business. We called this the Bad Cop move.
- After anywhere from two seconds to two minutes, the object of Trapper’s attention would appear to get annoyed. He would immediately back off and throw his up hands in a no-harm, no-foul fashion. This was the transformation to Good Cop. He wasn’t really going to grind you, he was just playing!
- When the person gave him the look of what in the hell are you doing—or verbally asked what the hell he was doing—Trapper put a finger to his lips and made a shushing motion.
- Finally, he would hop away backwards from the person, but make a come hither motion with his shushing finger, inviting them to join him.
I cannot really do justice to how funny this routine was. Talking about it the next day, we agreed that if we had been able to videotape it, Trapper would have been the King of YouTube. He would have entered that pantheon of YouTube gods: Lightsaber Kid, Crying Britney Spears Fan, Profane Asian Uncle. Inboxes around the world would have been flooded with FWD: OMFG ROTFLMOA at the Dancing White Guy! He would have been so popular, there would have been a Dancing White Guy backlash.
Alas, we did not have a video camera.
Hawkeye’s indecent proposal to Tickle
Tickle is one of those people who will do anything for a laugh, especially if there is a profit involved. He’s taken bets on if he could drink a gallon of milk in one sitting, ride all the way to Milwaukee in the middle of summer with the heat on, and even rub his face with Trapper’s sweaty boxers for 10 seconds.
Sunday night, Hawkeye dropped a prop bet bomb: would Tickle, right there in the bar, crap his pants for $400? Trapper chimed in that he would throw in $200 to make it $600.
Most normal people would immediately reject that bet. Tickle, however, is not most normal people. The bet would erase his losses from the trip. Negotiations began in earnest: How long would he have to sit there? Would he have to walk around? Would he collect if he was tossed out before the allotted time? I don’t think the Iraqi government worked as intensely on their constitution as Tickle, Hawkeye, and Trapper did on this Magna Crappa. After 45 minutes of haggling, they finally settled on Tickle pooping himself and either staying in the bar for 30 minutes or winning if he was thrown out before then.
“You’re not really going to do this?” I asked my brother.
“I could use the money,” he said. “You wouldn’t do it?”
“No way,” I said.
“Come on, name your price.”
“You can’t put a price on dignity,” I said.
“Would you do it for a million dollars?” he asked.
“Okay, yeah, for a million I would.”
“Then name your price.”
He had a point. “Five grand,” I said. “That would be enough that even if people were grossed out, they’d say, ‘Well, five grand is a lot of money.’”
The bet escalated. Trapper offered to match Hawkeye’s $400 and raise the bid to $800. As if that wasn’t enough, Snake Anthony moved from the don’t do it camp to throwing in $200 to make it an even thousand.
I know Tickle. At that price, it would take an act of divine intervention for him to not shit his pants at the Mirage bar. Uncle T decided to play the role of God. “Tickle, you are not doing this,” he said. He had protested earlier, but half-heartedly as he was amused by the negotiation process. Once it became clear that Tickle was going to do it, he put his foot down. After all, who wants to be the uncle to a nephew who craps himself?
Tickle finally called it off. I was mostly relieved, but I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t disappointed.
The People’s Champ is going to miss his flight
Tickle has missed more flights than everyone else I know combined. If he doesn’t miss the flight, he is always cutting it close. He had an 8 a.m. flight on Monday, and Tickle decided he was going to stay up all night with Hawkeye and Trapper rather than sleep for a couple hours.
Snake Anthony and I did not join him in this pursuit. We went back to the room, packed, and managed to crash at a reasonable 2:45 a.m.
Snake’s cell phone rang at 4:00. He ignored it. Then mine rang. “What?” I asked.
“I’m the People’s Champ,” Tickle slurred through the receiver.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, closing the phone. It rang again.
“Tell me I’m the People’s Champ,” said Tickle.
I knew how this would go if I fought. “You’re the People’s Champ,” I said.
“Tell Snake Anthony I’m the People’s Champ,” Tickle said.
“Snake Anthony, Tickle is the People’s Champ,” I said to the other bed. Back into the phone I said, “Now fuck off.”
Tickle came back to the room at 5:00 and of course woke us up. He made a wake-up call for 6:15, then flopped into my bed next to me and started snoring.
When hammered, Tickle snores like Shemp Howard of The Three Stooges. There’s the exaggerated sawing on the intake, then some kind of yipping on the exhale. The only person I’ve ever heard snore like that, aside from Shemp, was my Grandpa Elmer.
After nudging Tickle did no good to stop the snoring, I put a pillow over his face. That woke him up. “Roll over and stop snoring,” I barked. He did.
At 5:30 the hotel phone woke me up again. It was Tickle’s friend, Smoke, who lives in Vegas. He had visited that night, left his cell phone in our room, and needed it back before we left. Tickle told him to meet him in the lobby at 6:30 and he’d give him the phone if he’d take Tickle to the airport. Then my brother fell back asleep and started snoring.
At 6:15, his wake-up call rang. I punched Tickle in the back. “Wake up, you’re going to miss your flight.” My brother did not budge. I decided to just get up and take a shower, figuring I could catch a ride to the airport with Smoke and get some breakfast. When I was all ready at 6:40, Tickle finally woke up.
My brother rarely worries about anything, but he went from passed out to full-bore panic. He had 80 minutes until his flight left, and the screening lines at Vegas are legendary in their length. Tickle threw all his stuff into his suitcase, making a giant ball of clothes that prevented the suitcase from closing. He had to take everything out and repack so he could close the suitcase.
By this point, Snake Anthony and I were doubled over laughing. We had talked all weekend about this moment, and now it seemed highly appropriate that Tickle was being punished by the Vegas gods. “You’re never going to make it,” I said as we finally left at about 6:50.
“I know,” he said with genuine regret. “And I only have one flight to catch because I took Allegiant. I’m going to get stuck here til tomorrow.”
“Oh no, you’ll get stuck here longer than that,” I said. “And you’ll be out of money. You’ll be on the Strip, offering to shit your pants for ten bucks.”
Smoke, however, came through big time. He drove like the People’s Champ to the airport. Tickle got inside at 7:15 and sprinted to his check-in desk. I left for mine, checked in, and headed to the very long security line.
Near the scanner, I saw Tickle ahead of me, his Bears cap pulled low, his face dragging with fatigue, waiting for the security scan to finish. He saw me and we pointed at each other. I watched him go through security in time to make his flight.
“That was a triumph of the human spirit,” I texted him. “You truly are the People’s Champ.”
And to think we’re probably going back in May for Tickle’s bachelor party.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Top Ten Tuesdays: What did we leave in Vegas?
10) Kids’ college funds.
9) Future paternity suit.
8) Old mob identity.
7) Healthy kneecaps.
6) iPhone loaded with password e-mails, contact information, pictures of our families, and all of our paranoia.
5) Every memory of what happened from 3:35 a.m. Friday through 10:13 a.m. Sunday.
4) Plenty of chances for blackmail.
3) Every last shred of dignity.
2) Faith in a just and loving God.
1) We’re not telling.
Note: the above are completely fictional and not at all a representation of what happened to a particular blogger this past weekend. Mostly.
Back tomorrow with a recap of this past weekend's trip.
9) Future paternity suit.
8) Old mob identity.
7) Healthy kneecaps.
6) iPhone loaded with password e-mails, contact information, pictures of our families, and all of our paranoia.
5) Every memory of what happened from 3:35 a.m. Friday through 10:13 a.m. Sunday.
4) Plenty of chances for blackmail.
3) Every last shred of dignity.
2) Faith in a just and loving God.
1) We’re not telling.
Note: the above are completely fictional and not at all a representation of what happened to a particular blogger this past weekend. Mostly.
Back tomorrow with a recap of this past weekend's trip.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)