10) The Police Used My Facebook Photos as State's Evidence.
9) I'm Only on Facebook to See If My Ex- Got Fat
8) Can You Tell Me If This Looks Infected?
7) I Was So Drunk I...
6) Let's Super Poke Glen Beck's Eyes Out.
5) My Spouse Is Cheating With One of My Aliases
4) How Did I Bill My Facebook Time to Clients?
3) Please Call Us by Our Jedi Names
2) What's the Status of Your Pants?
1) My Stupid Parents Friended All My Friends
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
I recently purchased Resident Evil 5, the latest iteration of the zombie-blasting video game series. I played the first one a dozen years ago, and despite the series retaining many of the cringing elements of that first game—controls that resemble a remote-control car, porn-level voice acting, and a storyline that makes the fake Apollo landing conspiracy theory sound reasonable, I love playing it.
I made a reference to this on my Facebook page, and several folks commented about how Resident Evil is great training for a zombie apocalypse. Which is good, because frankly, I need that training.
Ever since moving to the UP, I've thought more about the kinds of skills it takes to survive. Driving through here, I pass lonely houses out in the middle of nowhere. They certainly possess elements of civilization: cars, septic tanks, satellite dishes. Still, the area is in sharp contrast to the suburban and urban landscapes I previously inhabited. If I were to suddenly be weaned from the teat of mass produced society—growing my own food, heating my own house, making my own clothes—I'd be dead or someone's manservant within two weeks. I'd have to pledge my fealty to a camouflage-wearing lord who has his own arsenal of firearms, built his own compound, and can offer protection against the Feral Wraiths who crave man flesh.
Because I have no real skills. When the end comes, no one will need convincing marketing copy. No one will care about engaging in detailed discussions about progressive rock. And certainly no one will be looking for people with mad video game skillz. If I'm lucky, my liege appreciates a good dick joke and I at least get to perform as the court jester—which is actually more appealing than some of the work I do. More likely than not, I get shuffled into the human stable to join the other members of the man-herd who have to pull the master's gasless Chevy Silverado around, until we grow to old and weak and get traded to the Feral Wraiths in a peace agreement.
Although, if Resident Evil is any indication, I am pretty adept at finding ammunition and healing herbs in crates and barrels. So I have that going for me.
On to the tunes...
1) "Real Love," John Lennon. It takes real love to ask Yoko to sing. Thankfully, she does not here.
2) "Valentine," The Replacements. (No band video, but a nice solo performance from Paul Westerberg.) I suspect a valentine from The Replacements would be smudged from spilled beer and stop halfway through because they passed out while writing it.
3) "Takk/Glósóli," Sigur Rós. "Takk" is actually the one that came up, but it leads so beautifully into "Glósóli" that I couldn't leave it off. Music like this is why I'm glad we have ears. Cool performance here too, and a band I would love to see in concert, if we had things like concerts here in the UP. Although if we were going to hook anyone to perform here, it would be a band from Iceland.
I recently read the article "Lost" in The New Yorker, about how Iceland recently went broke. Imagine taking our economic situation, having the financial system completely collapse, and putting it on an island in the middle of the Atlantic. I don't think we'd be as polite about it as the Icelanders appear to be.
4) "I Want Your Hands on Me," Sinéad O'Connor. It's funny to go back and listen to this after all the hullabaloo of her career, because her first hit sounds so conventional. It's pleasant enough, but certainly not Papal-shredding. I guess you could say the same thing about Madonna and "Borderline."
The video has an unfortunate rap portion tacked on, which is fine on it's own, but feels like it was applied with safety scissors, construction paper, and Elmer's glue.
5) "Laid," James. Our previous female singer focuses on the foreplay, while James here goes straight for the main event. Personally, I don't know why so many men are (allegedly) averse to foreplay. Foreplay is so easy. I never have to think about baseball during foreplay or apologize afterward. Foreplay is the offseason, when all our hopes and dreams for a championship are still there, before we realize our starting pitching has trouble finding the strike zone consistently.
6) "Bad Moon Rising," Creedence Clearwater Revival. CCR may be the most appealing classic rock band around. The usual classic rock suspects like Zeppelin, The Stones, Aerosmith, AC/DC, et al are certainly popular, but they also have plenty of detractors. CCR is one of those bands that everyone seems to like at least a little. You could be going through any type of music collection—rap, metal, punk, pop—and have a decent chance of finding the Chronicle best of, and also not run into any justification for owning it like "I only like 'You Shook Me All Night Long'" or "That's from when I was smoking a lot of pot." They simply gave the world a collection of songs that are both strong and let kind of unassuming.
7) "The Rat," The Walkmen. The only other group I can think of that produced a song I loved to death on an album I otherwise strongly disliked is The Breeders and "Cannonball." Trying to describe rock songs is difficult, because the legions of awful rock critics have laid minefields of clichés over the decades, and speeding up their output exponentially with the invention of the Internets. But "The Rat" is genuinely thrilling. The buzzing guitar, the fat drum rolls, and the desperate vocals completely hooked me on the first listen. So good that the money I spend to buy the rest of the disappointing album was worth it, which I can't say about "Cannonball."
8) "Long Distance Runaround," Yes. Are you ready to wank? That's not really fair, considering that this is under four minutes and it grooves. Warning: Guitarist Steve Howe looks like that guy at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when he grabs the Holy Grail and starts to age. Rick Wakeman is wearing a sparkly shirt, though, so that helps balance it out.\
9) "Cecila Ann," The Pixies. They give a nice metallic edge to this surf rock.
There's a lot of fun poked at the alternative reunion trend, with bands like the Pixies getting back together, touring, and probably making more money in one month of gigs then they ever did when they were together. I say good for them. It's bands like this that deserve to get paid. If they get together and give their fans a night of greatest hits, even if they're not in the greatest of shape, I don't see the harm. Better them than fucking Van Halen. Not that Van Halen shouldn't necessarily reform if they really miss playing together. But they certainly don't need the money and look like they need to freebase Cialis before then can be horny enough to play "Hot for Teacher." And let's face it, no one would consciously decide to spend a lot of time around David Lee Roth if there wasn't a large financial incentive to do so.
10) "Blue Orchids," Sun Kil Moon. Simply beautiful. It's very hard to make very delicate music that still has a strong presence.
11) "Don't Do Me Like That," Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. The spiritual successor to Creedence in universal rock appeal. Even though Petty gets played a lot, I never feel like he gets overplayed. Classic rock radio ruined a lot of songs I really liked (including, seriously, "Freebird"). If I'm stuck listening to a station that thinks Foghat still rocks (that one's for you, Jennifer) and they just finished getting the Led out, and I'm seriously debating looking for Christian radio so I can at least be entertained, Tom Petty can come on and save the day, even though I've heard him over and over again. That's a pretty sweet legacy to have.
Have a good weekend.
I recently purchased Resident Evil 5, the latest iteration of the zombie-blasting video game series. I played the first one a dozen years ago, and despite the series retaining many of the cringing elements of that first game—controls that resemble a remote-control car, porn-level voice acting, and a storyline that makes the fake Apollo landing conspiracy theory sound reasonable, I love playing it.
I made a reference to this on my Facebook page, and several folks commented about how Resident Evil is great training for a zombie apocalypse. Which is good, because frankly, I need that training.
Ever since moving to the UP, I've thought more about the kinds of skills it takes to survive. Driving through here, I pass lonely houses out in the middle of nowhere. They certainly possess elements of civilization: cars, septic tanks, satellite dishes. Still, the area is in sharp contrast to the suburban and urban landscapes I previously inhabited. If I were to suddenly be weaned from the teat of mass produced society—growing my own food, heating my own house, making my own clothes—I'd be dead or someone's manservant within two weeks. I'd have to pledge my fealty to a camouflage-wearing lord who has his own arsenal of firearms, built his own compound, and can offer protection against the Feral Wraiths who crave man flesh.
Because I have no real skills. When the end comes, no one will need convincing marketing copy. No one will care about engaging in detailed discussions about progressive rock. And certainly no one will be looking for people with mad video game skillz. If I'm lucky, my liege appreciates a good dick joke and I at least get to perform as the court jester—which is actually more appealing than some of the work I do. More likely than not, I get shuffled into the human stable to join the other members of the man-herd who have to pull the master's gasless Chevy Silverado around, until we grow to old and weak and get traded to the Feral Wraiths in a peace agreement.
Although, if Resident Evil is any indication, I am pretty adept at finding ammunition and healing herbs in crates and barrels. So I have that going for me.
On to the tunes...
1) "Real Love," John Lennon. It takes real love to ask Yoko to sing. Thankfully, she does not here.
2) "Valentine," The Replacements. (No band video, but a nice solo performance from Paul Westerberg.) I suspect a valentine from The Replacements would be smudged from spilled beer and stop halfway through because they passed out while writing it.
3) "Takk/Glósóli," Sigur Rós. "Takk" is actually the one that came up, but it leads so beautifully into "Glósóli" that I couldn't leave it off. Music like this is why I'm glad we have ears. Cool performance here too, and a band I would love to see in concert, if we had things like concerts here in the UP. Although if we were going to hook anyone to perform here, it would be a band from Iceland.
I recently read the article "Lost" in The New Yorker, about how Iceland recently went broke. Imagine taking our economic situation, having the financial system completely collapse, and putting it on an island in the middle of the Atlantic. I don't think we'd be as polite about it as the Icelanders appear to be.
4) "I Want Your Hands on Me," Sinéad O'Connor. It's funny to go back and listen to this after all the hullabaloo of her career, because her first hit sounds so conventional. It's pleasant enough, but certainly not Papal-shredding. I guess you could say the same thing about Madonna and "Borderline."
The video has an unfortunate rap portion tacked on, which is fine on it's own, but feels like it was applied with safety scissors, construction paper, and Elmer's glue.
5) "Laid," James. Our previous female singer focuses on the foreplay, while James here goes straight for the main event. Personally, I don't know why so many men are (allegedly) averse to foreplay. Foreplay is so easy. I never have to think about baseball during foreplay or apologize afterward. Foreplay is the offseason, when all our hopes and dreams for a championship are still there, before we realize our starting pitching has trouble finding the strike zone consistently.
6) "Bad Moon Rising," Creedence Clearwater Revival. CCR may be the most appealing classic rock band around. The usual classic rock suspects like Zeppelin, The Stones, Aerosmith, AC/DC, et al are certainly popular, but they also have plenty of detractors. CCR is one of those bands that everyone seems to like at least a little. You could be going through any type of music collection—rap, metal, punk, pop—and have a decent chance of finding the Chronicle best of, and also not run into any justification for owning it like "I only like 'You Shook Me All Night Long'" or "That's from when I was smoking a lot of pot." They simply gave the world a collection of songs that are both strong and let kind of unassuming.
7) "The Rat," The Walkmen. The only other group I can think of that produced a song I loved to death on an album I otherwise strongly disliked is The Breeders and "Cannonball." Trying to describe rock songs is difficult, because the legions of awful rock critics have laid minefields of clichés over the decades, and speeding up their output exponentially with the invention of the Internets. But "The Rat" is genuinely thrilling. The buzzing guitar, the fat drum rolls, and the desperate vocals completely hooked me on the first listen. So good that the money I spend to buy the rest of the disappointing album was worth it, which I can't say about "Cannonball."
8) "Long Distance Runaround," Yes. Are you ready to wank? That's not really fair, considering that this is under four minutes and it grooves. Warning: Guitarist Steve Howe looks like that guy at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when he grabs the Holy Grail and starts to age. Rick Wakeman is wearing a sparkly shirt, though, so that helps balance it out.\
9) "Cecila Ann," The Pixies. They give a nice metallic edge to this surf rock.
There's a lot of fun poked at the alternative reunion trend, with bands like the Pixies getting back together, touring, and probably making more money in one month of gigs then they ever did when they were together. I say good for them. It's bands like this that deserve to get paid. If they get together and give their fans a night of greatest hits, even if they're not in the greatest of shape, I don't see the harm. Better them than fucking Van Halen. Not that Van Halen shouldn't necessarily reform if they really miss playing together. But they certainly don't need the money and look like they need to freebase Cialis before then can be horny enough to play "Hot for Teacher." And let's face it, no one would consciously decide to spend a lot of time around David Lee Roth if there wasn't a large financial incentive to do so.
10) "Blue Orchids," Sun Kil Moon. Simply beautiful. It's very hard to make very delicate music that still has a strong presence.
11) "Don't Do Me Like That," Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. The spiritual successor to Creedence in universal rock appeal. Even though Petty gets played a lot, I never feel like he gets overplayed. Classic rock radio ruined a lot of songs I really liked (including, seriously, "Freebird"). If I'm stuck listening to a station that thinks Foghat still rocks (that one's for you, Jennifer) and they just finished getting the Led out, and I'm seriously debating looking for Christian radio so I can at least be entertained, Tom Petty can come on and save the day, even though I've heard him over and over again. That's a pretty sweet legacy to have.
Have a good weekend.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What side effects are we experiencing?
10) Seller Shingles (apply Bailout Balm until buyers appear)
9) Tween Fang (may lead to Hemoglobin Huffing)
8) Facebook Fatigue (can be triggered by Quiz Overload and Chronic Status Discourse)
7) Nyquil Spiritwalk (warning: drool pooling may cause drowning on kitchen floor)
6) Beano Backfire (avoid open flame)
5) Syrup Syphilis (caused by indiscriminate IHOPping)
4) Xanax Panics (triggered by empty bottle of Xanax and lack of a new prescription)
3) Label Liability (may cause Legal Brief Rash)
2) Viagra Flashback (consult doctor if erection lasts longer than the entire history of the universe, man)
1) Geithner Gout (symptoms include currency hardening, liquidity discharge, and retirement dream dissapation)
9) Tween Fang (may lead to Hemoglobin Huffing)
8) Facebook Fatigue (can be triggered by Quiz Overload and Chronic Status Discourse)
7) Nyquil Spiritwalk (warning: drool pooling may cause drowning on kitchen floor)
6) Beano Backfire (avoid open flame)
5) Syrup Syphilis (caused by indiscriminate IHOPping)
4) Xanax Panics (triggered by empty bottle of Xanax and lack of a new prescription)
3) Label Liability (may cause Legal Brief Rash)
2) Viagra Flashback (consult doctor if erection lasts longer than the entire history of the universe, man)
1) Geithner Gout (symptoms include currency hardening, liquidity discharge, and retirement dream dissapation)
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday Random 11
Is more random than 10 by factor of 1!
I am going to have the Russian scientists voice from the Colbert Shmeat episode in my head for a while. In fact, I am considering putting "Is inescapable future of humanity" on my tombstone (the grave, not the pizza).
We thankfully had the full monty appearance of spring this past week. It opened up its trenchcoat and flashed us with 50+ degree weather for a few days. We grabbed Libby and the stroller and headed out for a walk, not caring that the sidewalks were still slushy from the 200 inches of snow that had begun to melt. We were outside! And warm! And wearing but sweatshirts!
Our fellow residents joined us, rubbing their eyes like survivors emerging from their caves after a nuclear winter. Even the ice cream place on the next block opened up, and the line was at least two dozen deep. It was like the whole town was letting out one giant huzzah!
Last year, even though we had much less snow, we had no spring at all. The weather sucked Donkey Kong until around mid-June. Now, even though the cold has returned and we seriously did have 200 inches of snow around here, we experienced enough spring to recharge our batteries. And enough melting snow to remind me that I have to rake the leaves still, because they were buried under snow about three days after they finally fell off the trees.
Oh well. It's sunny and there's college playoff basketball. I also would like to say that the ability to stream these games onto my computer while I work is the greatest use of the Internet that doesn't involve pictures of naked people or cats with humorously misspelled captions.
1) "Radio Ga Ga," Queen. Not one of their finer moments, especially with the Con Agra Foods Extra Cheese Powder 80s production.
Even though the concept of radio is very different now, the songs from the 70s and 80s bemoaning the state of radio are still pertinent, even when they leave your ears covered in orange cheez dye. When we were on vacation, our rental car had satellite radio. It was great because we had a lot of stations to choose from, we found a few we liked, and we didn't have to worry about losing them. But of course you lose any local flavor, and we also noticed (since we were in the car a lot) that there was a lot of repetition, even on stations like the New Wave one. I suppose it's more transparent than Clear Channel owning an alleged "local" channel, but it's sad that great independent stations like Chicago's WXRT are so rare. Radio ga ga, indeed.
2) "The Writ," Black Sabbath. Holy shit, Ozzy's voice is unbearable on this (insert "when is it bearable?" joke here). He sounds like he sucked out the nitrous from of a dozen cans of Redi Whip. Be glad there is no video.
3) "Eleanor Rigby," The Beatles. The lyrics to this were in the poetry section of my senior-year English textbook. The editors dumped in a few rock songs to try and hook the kids into poetry ("Born to Run" and a Dylan song were included). Compared to the poets we were studying, they certainly seemed contemporary. To a class full of seventeen-year-old boys, it was a little too Big Chill. Our poets were more "I used to do a little but the little wouldn't do it so the little go more and more." It does go to show that the tradition of trying to trick kids into reading poetry goes back at least a couple of decades.
4) "Call Me on Your Way Back Home," Ryan Adams. Mandy Moore, really? I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. I saw him in a concert performance a while ago, one of those little intimate Unplugged kind of shows. He took questions from the audience, and all the questions were from cute girls. So maybe he has more Vincent Chase in him than I suspected.
5) "Goon Gumpas," Aphex Twin. The Richard D. James album has a brilliantly unsettling cover. It's one of those images that creeps me out enough that I can't stop looking at it, especially since the eyes follow me around the room.
6) "Cold Life," Ministry. Hard to believe that before Al Jourgensen was all fuzzed out guitars and relentless industrial beats, he was kind of Eurotrash dance. He has disowned this period of his career, and pulled the even greater cop out of saying he was pressured to make music that's more Drakkar than noir. That's code for "If I could, I would go back and kick my own ass."
7) "World's Apart," ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead. They are dead to me now, and this track was the turning point. I dig the music, but there's a huge slice of cobag pie in the lyrics. They're so kiddie-protest, this song should be called "If I Had a Hammer-Time."
8) "Dancing Days," Led Zeppelin. (A surprisingly not terrible cover by Stone Temple Pilots) VH1 Classic is a black hole for my attention span. I torture poor TLB with it from time to time, like a couple weeks ago when I insisted on watching the Behind the Music on Ratt. Why? I have no idea.
The other night, I was staying up to give Libby her midnight bottle, and flipped on VH1 Classic just in time to see a sweaty Jimmy Page in the middle of his cello bow guitar solo in The Song Remains the Same. Complete with dragon-embroidered jumpsuit, which you can purchase for your character in Rock Band. Despite being really terrible in parts, I watched for a good half an hour. Why? I have no idea. I also occasionally watch a nerdy fat guy and his meathead Long Island co-hosts interview washed up metal stars on That Metal Show. I have a problem.
9) "Saturday Nite," Ghostface Killah. I am way too white for this. Me listening to this is kind of like this guy dunking—kind of exciting to me, but awkward and difficult to watch.
10) "Chromakey Dreamcoat," Boards of Canada. Boreds of Canada is more like it. Creative stuff, but it's a bit like found sound wanking—a bunch of samples that don't really go anywhere. If there was an actual song here I would dig it the way I dig DJ Shadow.
11) "Top of the World," The Carpenters. Like I said, the sun is out and the greatest sporting event of the year is underway. This is a good way to go out.
I'd also like to extend an M-I-Z...Z-O-U for The Lovely Becky and our other Missouri alum friends. Here's hoping the Tigers avoid another gut-wrenching tournament loss.
I am going to have the Russian scientists voice from the Colbert Shmeat episode in my head for a while. In fact, I am considering putting "Is inescapable future of humanity" on my tombstone (the grave, not the pizza).
We thankfully had the full monty appearance of spring this past week. It opened up its trenchcoat and flashed us with 50+ degree weather for a few days. We grabbed Libby and the stroller and headed out for a walk, not caring that the sidewalks were still slushy from the 200 inches of snow that had begun to melt. We were outside! And warm! And wearing but sweatshirts!
Our fellow residents joined us, rubbing their eyes like survivors emerging from their caves after a nuclear winter. Even the ice cream place on the next block opened up, and the line was at least two dozen deep. It was like the whole town was letting out one giant huzzah!
Last year, even though we had much less snow, we had no spring at all. The weather sucked Donkey Kong until around mid-June. Now, even though the cold has returned and we seriously did have 200 inches of snow around here, we experienced enough spring to recharge our batteries. And enough melting snow to remind me that I have to rake the leaves still, because they were buried under snow about three days after they finally fell off the trees.
Oh well. It's sunny and there's college playoff basketball. I also would like to say that the ability to stream these games onto my computer while I work is the greatest use of the Internet that doesn't involve pictures of naked people or cats with humorously misspelled captions.
1) "Radio Ga Ga," Queen. Not one of their finer moments, especially with the Con Agra Foods Extra Cheese Powder 80s production.
Even though the concept of radio is very different now, the songs from the 70s and 80s bemoaning the state of radio are still pertinent, even when they leave your ears covered in orange cheez dye. When we were on vacation, our rental car had satellite radio. It was great because we had a lot of stations to choose from, we found a few we liked, and we didn't have to worry about losing them. But of course you lose any local flavor, and we also noticed (since we were in the car a lot) that there was a lot of repetition, even on stations like the New Wave one. I suppose it's more transparent than Clear Channel owning an alleged "local" channel, but it's sad that great independent stations like Chicago's WXRT are so rare. Radio ga ga, indeed.
2) "The Writ," Black Sabbath. Holy shit, Ozzy's voice is unbearable on this (insert "when is it bearable?" joke here). He sounds like he sucked out the nitrous from of a dozen cans of Redi Whip. Be glad there is no video.
3) "Eleanor Rigby," The Beatles. The lyrics to this were in the poetry section of my senior-year English textbook. The editors dumped in a few rock songs to try and hook the kids into poetry ("Born to Run" and a Dylan song were included). Compared to the poets we were studying, they certainly seemed contemporary. To a class full of seventeen-year-old boys, it was a little too Big Chill. Our poets were more "I used to do a little but the little wouldn't do it so the little go more and more." It does go to show that the tradition of trying to trick kids into reading poetry goes back at least a couple of decades.
4) "Call Me on Your Way Back Home," Ryan Adams. Mandy Moore, really? I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. I saw him in a concert performance a while ago, one of those little intimate Unplugged kind of shows. He took questions from the audience, and all the questions were from cute girls. So maybe he has more Vincent Chase in him than I suspected.
5) "Goon Gumpas," Aphex Twin. The Richard D. James album has a brilliantly unsettling cover. It's one of those images that creeps me out enough that I can't stop looking at it, especially since the eyes follow me around the room.
6) "Cold Life," Ministry. Hard to believe that before Al Jourgensen was all fuzzed out guitars and relentless industrial beats, he was kind of Eurotrash dance. He has disowned this period of his career, and pulled the even greater cop out of saying he was pressured to make music that's more Drakkar than noir. That's code for "If I could, I would go back and kick my own ass."
7) "World's Apart," ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead. They are dead to me now, and this track was the turning point. I dig the music, but there's a huge slice of cobag pie in the lyrics. They're so kiddie-protest, this song should be called "If I Had a Hammer-Time."
8) "Dancing Days," Led Zeppelin. (A surprisingly not terrible cover by Stone Temple Pilots) VH1 Classic is a black hole for my attention span. I torture poor TLB with it from time to time, like a couple weeks ago when I insisted on watching the Behind the Music on Ratt. Why? I have no idea.
The other night, I was staying up to give Libby her midnight bottle, and flipped on VH1 Classic just in time to see a sweaty Jimmy Page in the middle of his cello bow guitar solo in The Song Remains the Same. Complete with dragon-embroidered jumpsuit, which you can purchase for your character in Rock Band. Despite being really terrible in parts, I watched for a good half an hour. Why? I have no idea. I also occasionally watch a nerdy fat guy and his meathead Long Island co-hosts interview washed up metal stars on That Metal Show. I have a problem.
9) "Saturday Nite," Ghostface Killah. I am way too white for this. Me listening to this is kind of like this guy dunking—kind of exciting to me, but awkward and difficult to watch.
10) "Chromakey Dreamcoat," Boards of Canada. Boreds of Canada is more like it. Creative stuff, but it's a bit like found sound wanking—a bunch of samples that don't really go anywhere. If there was an actual song here I would dig it the way I dig DJ Shadow.
11) "Top of the World," The Carpenters. Like I said, the sun is out and the greatest sporting event of the year is underway. This is a good way to go out.
I'd also like to extend an M-I-Z...Z-O-U for The Lovely Becky and our other Missouri alum friends. Here's hoping the Tigers avoid another gut-wrenching tournament loss.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Pass the Shmeat balls
Americans spend a lot of time worrying about what's going in their mouths. We worry if we're eating too much, not eating the right stuff, or, if we're Republicans, about the homosexual menace ramming Item 6 of the Radical Gay Agenda down our throats.
However, none of that is as shocking (or as funny) as what I saw on The Colbert Report this week. It's Brave New World meets Oscar Meyer. I give you...Shmeat.
However, none of that is as shocking (or as funny) as what I saw on The Colbert Report this week. It's Brave New World meets Oscar Meyer. I give you...Shmeat.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we justifying our bonuses to taxpayers?
Special bonus edition!
11) Achieved bonus goal of obtaining tax money to pay for bonuses.
10) Giving needy citizens rides to the unemployment office in our new Porsche (pending available seating).
9) Obtaining bids from multiple vendors before using bonus money to purchase hookers and blow.
8) Managed annual salary so poorly, need a bonus to bail us out.
7) Need additional funds to pay for our guillotine insurance.
6) While it's right for the government to give businesses public funds, it will make Baby Jesus cry if it says how businesses should spend those funds.
5) Promising to invest that bonus money in companies that will help the American economy and not those like A.I.G.
4) The same way we justified them to our shareholders...through equations that no one wants to admit they don't understand.
3) Sitting back, lighting a cigar with a $100 bill, and letting the Times do our justifyin' for free.
2) Hey, nobody took away George W. Bush's salary.
1) "Justify"...sorry, we're not familiar with that word. We're MBAs, not English majors. Now who wants a little caviar with their fillet mignon?
11) Achieved bonus goal of obtaining tax money to pay for bonuses.
10) Giving needy citizens rides to the unemployment office in our new Porsche (pending available seating).
9) Obtaining bids from multiple vendors before using bonus money to purchase hookers and blow.
8) Managed annual salary so poorly, need a bonus to bail us out.
7) Need additional funds to pay for our guillotine insurance.
6) While it's right for the government to give businesses public funds, it will make Baby Jesus cry if it says how businesses should spend those funds.
5) Promising to invest that bonus money in companies that will help the American economy and not those like A.I.G.
4) The same way we justified them to our shareholders...through equations that no one wants to admit they don't understand.
3) Sitting back, lighting a cigar with a $100 bill, and letting the Times do our justifyin' for free.
2) Hey, nobody took away George W. Bush's salary.
1) "Justify"...sorry, we're not familiar with that word. We're MBAs, not English majors. Now who wants a little caviar with their fillet mignon?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
This is the second Friday the 13th we've had in a row? Isn't that bad luck? Or is it good luck, like multiplying two negative numbers? Maybe 2012, the year everyone says is the big apocalyptic year, has 12 Friday the 13ths, and the last one will unlock the mystical 13th Mayan month that brings about The End. Actually, that sounds like a good idea for a highly successful, semi-literate novel that generates a lot of controversy and gets made into a somewhat successful, slightly more literate movie staring Tom Hanks and a bad haircut.
Okay, onto some big freakin' news: While we were on vacation, The Lovely Becky sold her next novel! It's a love story about a female writer who is married a fantastic husband who is as good in bed as he is funny, and every chapter reveals just how awesome he is, especially in bed.
Wait, that's my novel.
Her novel is a dramatization of the life of this lil' ol' lady, written from her point of view. I would describe it as a portrait in human cruelty, and it's the kind of book that I think could do well enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a kept man. It's being published by a little publisher that some of you may have heard of.
In all seriousness, I am ecstatic for TLB. I have always reveled in my wife's success, and her happiness makes me happier than my own ever could. Her lifelong dream has been to be a writer, and now she gets to continue that dream.
Plus, I'm totally going to ride her coattails to my own book deal.
1) "Cath...," Death Cab for Cutie. The thing I like about Death Cab is that there's always something bubbling under their shiny, jangly musical surface. There's a whole mass of dark, depressing lyrics beneath the driving drums and chugging guitars. The live video here has a hilarious introduction.
2) "Rest My Chemistry," Interpol. Our Love to Admire is the most disappointing album I've heard in a while. I loved their first two discs and still play them very regularly, so I had my inner hype machine going full-bore, which made this dull, uninspired group of songs thud that much harder.
3) "Daddy's Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car," U2. An annoying song from an otherwise underrated album. I really like Zooropa. The toughest thing to do in music is follow up an album like Achtung Baby: a work that both redefines a band's sound and becomes a massive hit. Do you play it safe and make Guten Tag Toddler? Put out a live/studio hybrid album called Der Rattel und Humm? Or get a little weird and maybe even let The Edge do vocals? They took a chance by going the weird route and made the most unusual album of their career.
4) "Friday, I'm in Love (Live)," The Cure. What Friday would Robert Smith love more than Friday the 13th?
5) "Don't Go," Yaz. I am man enough to dance with my hands over my head to this song.
Speaking of embarrassing sights, I got this text message from my friend Smokey, who is on her first trip to Vegas: "At XS at the Wynn, lots o people dacin on tables!" So it's not just me.
6) "Wish," Nine Inch Nails. My favorite song by Trent Reznor, and not just because it uses the phrase "fist fuck." The guitars cut through the speakers like Ginsu knives, and I dig how the snare drum beat manages to sound industrial without sounding like your usual industrial jackhammering. An awesome song for the gym or driving when angry.
7) "Sentimental Fool," Roxy Music. Kind of grungy for them, with the guitar walking around Bryan Ferry's pristine bachelor pad in its dirty bare feet, until Bryan comes back home and cleans up the mess. No vid, sadly.
8) "Quality of Armor," Guided by Voices. I think I read that Robert Pollard turned down an offer to license this for a car commercial. It's perfect for one: the chant of Oh yeah, I'm going to drive my car with the standard awesome GbV guitar line seems like the perfect accompaniment to images of a Chevy Stimulus SX driving near a cliff. I would have definitely taken the money because those videogames don't buy themselves.
9) "Lie," Dream Theater. I grabbed a bunch of music from my brother Snake Anthony, who, being an avid musician, tends to listen to some stuff that only avid musicians like. Dream Theater is supposed to be like Rush—hard prog for the progger who wants more double-bass drums and less Keith Emerson keyboard-farting. But I find Dream Theater to be soulless. Rush, for all their pun-inducing faults, have an organic feel, three guys who come together to make songs. This DT song feels like composition-by-committee, where every member has their contractually-obligated time to wank off. That's fine when you're Joe Satriani and everyone else is a musical fluffer there to support your wanking, but it's messy and kind of ugly when everyone's blowing their wads at once.
10) "Surprise, Honeycomb," The Wrens. Compare that to this Wrens song. There's all kinds of shit in the spin cycle here, little bits of guitar and noises swirling around and making this more than your standard hummable pop fare. Yet it still has personality. It's not in its room playing scales for 12 hours so it can dazzle other guys who like to play scales really fast.
11) "Razorblade Salvation," Jedi Mind Tricks. More stuff from Snake Anthony, who mentioned he had also gone on a hip-hop bender for a while. This is good, like Eminem if Eminem wasn't so FACKING annoying, but it also illustrates why I am not a true fan of rap: My least favorite aspect of rap songs like tends to be the rapping. I dig the samples here, the female vocals, the overall groove, and could completely live without the guy popping into to speak-sing about not killing himself. Still, a cool song and a great band name, although they should have an album called These Aren't the Rhymes You're Looking For.
Hidden bonus track
"My Generation (Live)," The Who. From Live at Leeds, the greatest live album of all time. The great thing about music, and especially live albums, is there's a chance someone will record you at your peak, that a moment where you are at your best will be preserved for all time. Here are one the best bands of all time, rocking fifteen minute jam of one of their best songs, at a time when they were playing better than they ever did. I wish that could have happened to me, someone recording me when I was 17 and courting TLB, during the brief 10-12 month period where I learned how to be cocky, but in a charming way, before my natural neuroses returned and dragged me back to my usual state. It would be cool to pop that recording in every so often.
Have an awesome weekend. We're supposed to be over 40 degrees for a few days, and I'm so happy, I'm considering going out and buying a gun so I can fire it in the air in celebration.
This is the second Friday the 13th we've had in a row? Isn't that bad luck? Or is it good luck, like multiplying two negative numbers? Maybe 2012, the year everyone says is the big apocalyptic year, has 12 Friday the 13ths, and the last one will unlock the mystical 13th Mayan month that brings about The End. Actually, that sounds like a good idea for a highly successful, semi-literate novel that generates a lot of controversy and gets made into a somewhat successful, slightly more literate movie staring Tom Hanks and a bad haircut.
Okay, onto some big freakin' news: While we were on vacation, The Lovely Becky sold her next novel! It's a love story about a female writer who is married a fantastic husband who is as good in bed as he is funny, and every chapter reveals just how awesome he is, especially in bed.
Wait, that's my novel.
Her novel is a dramatization of the life of this lil' ol' lady, written from her point of view. I would describe it as a portrait in human cruelty, and it's the kind of book that I think could do well enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of being a kept man. It's being published by a little publisher that some of you may have heard of.
In all seriousness, I am ecstatic for TLB. I have always reveled in my wife's success, and her happiness makes me happier than my own ever could. Her lifelong dream has been to be a writer, and now she gets to continue that dream.
Plus, I'm totally going to ride her coattails to my own book deal.
1) "Cath...," Death Cab for Cutie. The thing I like about Death Cab is that there's always something bubbling under their shiny, jangly musical surface. There's a whole mass of dark, depressing lyrics beneath the driving drums and chugging guitars. The live video here has a hilarious introduction.
2) "Rest My Chemistry," Interpol. Our Love to Admire is the most disappointing album I've heard in a while. I loved their first two discs and still play them very regularly, so I had my inner hype machine going full-bore, which made this dull, uninspired group of songs thud that much harder.
3) "Daddy's Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car," U2. An annoying song from an otherwise underrated album. I really like Zooropa. The toughest thing to do in music is follow up an album like Achtung Baby: a work that both redefines a band's sound and becomes a massive hit. Do you play it safe and make Guten Tag Toddler? Put out a live/studio hybrid album called Der Rattel und Humm? Or get a little weird and maybe even let The Edge do vocals? They took a chance by going the weird route and made the most unusual album of their career.
4) "Friday, I'm in Love (Live)," The Cure. What Friday would Robert Smith love more than Friday the 13th?
5) "Don't Go," Yaz. I am man enough to dance with my hands over my head to this song.
Speaking of embarrassing sights, I got this text message from my friend Smokey, who is on her first trip to Vegas: "At XS at the Wynn, lots o people dacin on tables!" So it's not just me.
6) "Wish," Nine Inch Nails. My favorite song by Trent Reznor, and not just because it uses the phrase "fist fuck." The guitars cut through the speakers like Ginsu knives, and I dig how the snare drum beat manages to sound industrial without sounding like your usual industrial jackhammering. An awesome song for the gym or driving when angry.
7) "Sentimental Fool," Roxy Music. Kind of grungy for them, with the guitar walking around Bryan Ferry's pristine bachelor pad in its dirty bare feet, until Bryan comes back home and cleans up the mess. No vid, sadly.
8) "Quality of Armor," Guided by Voices. I think I read that Robert Pollard turned down an offer to license this for a car commercial. It's perfect for one: the chant of Oh yeah, I'm going to drive my car with the standard awesome GbV guitar line seems like the perfect accompaniment to images of a Chevy Stimulus SX driving near a cliff. I would have definitely taken the money because those videogames don't buy themselves.
9) "Lie," Dream Theater. I grabbed a bunch of music from my brother Snake Anthony, who, being an avid musician, tends to listen to some stuff that only avid musicians like. Dream Theater is supposed to be like Rush—hard prog for the progger who wants more double-bass drums and less Keith Emerson keyboard-farting. But I find Dream Theater to be soulless. Rush, for all their pun-inducing faults, have an organic feel, three guys who come together to make songs. This DT song feels like composition-by-committee, where every member has their contractually-obligated time to wank off. That's fine when you're Joe Satriani and everyone else is a musical fluffer there to support your wanking, but it's messy and kind of ugly when everyone's blowing their wads at once.
10) "Surprise, Honeycomb," The Wrens. Compare that to this Wrens song. There's all kinds of shit in the spin cycle here, little bits of guitar and noises swirling around and making this more than your standard hummable pop fare. Yet it still has personality. It's not in its room playing scales for 12 hours so it can dazzle other guys who like to play scales really fast.
11) "Razorblade Salvation," Jedi Mind Tricks. More stuff from Snake Anthony, who mentioned he had also gone on a hip-hop bender for a while. This is good, like Eminem if Eminem wasn't so FACKING annoying, but it also illustrates why I am not a true fan of rap: My least favorite aspect of rap songs like tends to be the rapping. I dig the samples here, the female vocals, the overall groove, and could completely live without the guy popping into to speak-sing about not killing himself. Still, a cool song and a great band name, although they should have an album called These Aren't the Rhymes You're Looking For.
Hidden bonus track
"My Generation (Live)," The Who. From Live at Leeds, the greatest live album of all time. The great thing about music, and especially live albums, is there's a chance someone will record you at your peak, that a moment where you are at your best will be preserved for all time. Here are one the best bands of all time, rocking fifteen minute jam of one of their best songs, at a time when they were playing better than they ever did. I wish that could have happened to me, someone recording me when I was 17 and courting TLB, during the brief 10-12 month period where I learned how to be cocky, but in a charming way, before my natural neuroses returned and dragged me back to my usual state. It would be cool to pop that recording in every so often.
Have an awesome weekend. We're supposed to be over 40 degrees for a few days, and I'm so happy, I'm considering going out and buying a gun so I can fire it in the air in celebration.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
United States Has to Let Two States Go
Alaska and Hawaii given notice under ‘last admitted, first omitted’ policy
WASHINGTON - Faced with a severe contraction in revenue and a bleak economic forecast, the United States was forced to downsize by two states, giving notice to Alaska and Hawaii that they would no longer be part of the union.
“It is with great sadness and sorrow that I had to let these two magnificent states go,” President Obama announced at a news conference. “I am especially saddened that my home state of Hawaii will now be considered foreign soil.”
President Barack Obama called the states into his office to deliver the news personally. He thanked them for their contributions to America’s history and economy, and said he would be happy to provide glowing references. He also said he would consider readmitting both should conditions change and the United States begin expanding again.
Alaska took the news in stride. The state has long had an independent streak and made no secret of its ambitions to set out on its own. “We thank the U.S. for all it has done for us,” the state said in a prepared statement. “We will always feel a close bond with the Lower Forty-Eight, and we especially value our close relationships with the military and oil industries. But as we say, you can’t make a fur coat without clubbing a seal, and it’s time for us to make our coat.”
Alaska announced that it was now the independent Kingdom of Alaska, Ltd., and that Governor Sarah Palin would become Queen Sarah I. “Gosh, I don’t know what to say,” said the new queen. “I’ve had a few tiaras placed on my head, but never one that let me do whatever I want. This is awesome!” She immediately announced the banning of the 21st Century.
Hawaii was not so amicable. Sources at the White House say that they heard both crying and shouting from the state inside the Oval Office. At a later press conference, The Aloha State, its flowered shirt undone and carrying a drink with a tiny umbrella in it, delivered some harsh words to its former country.
“This is bull----!” Hawaii said. “We get put out to sea while f----- Delaware gets to stay. You know what’s the difference between Delaware and a guy with a thumb up his a--? The guy with the thumb actually does something. But you sign a Constitution a million years ago and you’re a state for life.
“Have fun vacationing in Dover, a--holes!”
Sources close to the state said it had already been approached by Japan, China, and Australia.
Hawaii’s outburst hinted at the difficulty the last two admitted states had fitting in with the existing Union culture.
“Don’t get us wrong, we have a lot of respect for Alaska and Hawaii,” said one Midwestern state that wished to remain anonymous. “Unfortunately, they never really bought into our continental values. Alaska wanted to do things its own way, while Hawaii never really matured from its territory stage. There’s more to statehood than pristine beaches and Macadamia nuts. You need to bring more to the table, like hog byproducts or ethanol.”
Another Northeastern state said that the two states never should have been admitted in the first place. “The U.S. is a closed shop. Our criteria is ‘from sea to shining sea.’ We work better when our states have common borders. You start rewriting Manifest Destiny to include any discarded Russian province or island full of fornicating savages, and pretty soon you find yourself having to pay attention to Guam. And no one wants that.”
Both states received two months of interstate highway severance, but no health benefits.
WASHINGTON - Faced with a severe contraction in revenue and a bleak economic forecast, the United States was forced to downsize by two states, giving notice to Alaska and Hawaii that they would no longer be part of the union.
“It is with great sadness and sorrow that I had to let these two magnificent states go,” President Obama announced at a news conference. “I am especially saddened that my home state of Hawaii will now be considered foreign soil.”
President Barack Obama called the states into his office to deliver the news personally. He thanked them for their contributions to America’s history and economy, and said he would be happy to provide glowing references. He also said he would consider readmitting both should conditions change and the United States begin expanding again.
Alaska took the news in stride. The state has long had an independent streak and made no secret of its ambitions to set out on its own. “We thank the U.S. for all it has done for us,” the state said in a prepared statement. “We will always feel a close bond with the Lower Forty-Eight, and we especially value our close relationships with the military and oil industries. But as we say, you can’t make a fur coat without clubbing a seal, and it’s time for us to make our coat.”
Alaska announced that it was now the independent Kingdom of Alaska, Ltd., and that Governor Sarah Palin would become Queen Sarah I. “Gosh, I don’t know what to say,” said the new queen. “I’ve had a few tiaras placed on my head, but never one that let me do whatever I want. This is awesome!” She immediately announced the banning of the 21st Century.
Hawaii was not so amicable. Sources at the White House say that they heard both crying and shouting from the state inside the Oval Office. At a later press conference, The Aloha State, its flowered shirt undone and carrying a drink with a tiny umbrella in it, delivered some harsh words to its former country.
“This is bull----!” Hawaii said. “We get put out to sea while f----- Delaware gets to stay. You know what’s the difference between Delaware and a guy with a thumb up his a--? The guy with the thumb actually does something. But you sign a Constitution a million years ago and you’re a state for life.
“Have fun vacationing in Dover, a--holes!”
Sources close to the state said it had already been approached by Japan, China, and Australia.
Hawaii’s outburst hinted at the difficulty the last two admitted states had fitting in with the existing Union culture.
“Don’t get us wrong, we have a lot of respect for Alaska and Hawaii,” said one Midwestern state that wished to remain anonymous. “Unfortunately, they never really bought into our continental values. Alaska wanted to do things its own way, while Hawaii never really matured from its territory stage. There’s more to statehood than pristine beaches and Macadamia nuts. You need to bring more to the table, like hog byproducts or ethanol.”
Another Northeastern state said that the two states never should have been admitted in the first place. “The U.S. is a closed shop. Our criteria is ‘from sea to shining sea.’ We work better when our states have common borders. You start rewriting Manifest Destiny to include any discarded Russian province or island full of fornicating savages, and pretty soon you find yourself having to pay attention to Guam. And no one wants that.”
Both states received two months of interstate highway severance, but no health benefits.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we doing over spring break?
Special extra long vacation edition!
12) Cramming hard for our forthcoming hepatitis test.
11) Waking up in the sweet embrace of one of our frat brothers.
10) Leaping to our feet in horror when we see the Web cam.
9) Saving money on hotels by constructing our accommodations out of empty Red Bull cans.
8) Using our pre-law training to argue our Constitutional right to not wear pants.
7) Hosting Ye Olde Spring Breake on World of Warcraft.
6) Passing comp by letting our TA do a Jell-O shot off of us.
5) Wishing we’d paid more attention in Spanish so we could negotiate our release from the cartel.
4) Smoking our Pell Grant.
3) Taking a shortcut to the beach through the swamp and yadda yadda yadda hanging on a meathook.
2) Playing that game where you do a shot after you do a shot...wait, what?
1) Chronicling our eventual expulsion on Facebook.
12) Cramming hard for our forthcoming hepatitis test.
11) Waking up in the sweet embrace of one of our frat brothers.
10) Leaping to our feet in horror when we see the Web cam.
9) Saving money on hotels by constructing our accommodations out of empty Red Bull cans.
8) Using our pre-law training to argue our Constitutional right to not wear pants.
7) Hosting Ye Olde Spring Breake on World of Warcraft.
6) Passing comp by letting our TA do a Jell-O shot off of us.
5) Wishing we’d paid more attention in Spanish so we could negotiate our release from the cartel.
4) Smoking our Pell Grant.
3) Taking a shortcut to the beach through the swamp and yadda yadda yadda hanging on a meathook.
2) Playing that game where you do a shot after you do a shot...wait, what?
1) Chronicling our eventual expulsion on Facebook.
Monday, March 02, 2009
"Ice to see you!"
The Lovely Becky, Libby, and I drove to the airport on Friday, ready to begin our Southern vacation. All three of us have had cabin fever, even our eight-month-daughter who doesn't know what "cabin" or "fever" mean.
As I mentioned on Friday, the UP had other plans. A blizzard rolled in, as if to remind us that Old Man Winter still runs this town. Still, the blizzard died down enough that it appeared we'd get out of town that evening.
We arrived at the local "airport," an old Air Force base where one converted hanger serves as the terminal. We piled into the tiny turboprop that would carry us to civilization. The plane had been sitting outside all day, and the pilot informed us it would take a little longer to get going because the crew had to do some extra procedures to make sure the plane was ready to go.
I could tell how bored my daughter is with being housebound during the winter, because she looked excited to be someplace new, even if that new place was the kind of flying craft I once heard Lewis Black describe as "one of those Buddy Holly-fuck planes." She looked around and watched as the crew outside hosed the plane with de-icer.
The right engine roared to life, but the left one couldn't get started. The pilot said that the engine was just cold, and that turning the plane away from the gate and into the wind would help get more air into the intake. The right engine revved up and the plane rocked a little back and forth.
"Uh, folks," said the pilot in the voice all pilots use when you should be moving but aren't. "It appears that the wheels of the airplane are frozen to the ground."
I've flown a fair amount, in good weather and bad, and have dealt with my share of meteorlogical, mechanical, and illogical disruptions. I have never, however, ever been delayed because my plane is stuck to the tarmac like a third-grader's tongue to a frozen flag pole. The pilot assured us, however, that it would be temporary, and that the ground crew were going to spray de-icer on the wheels to free us. "We should be underway shortly," he said.
A few minutes later, there was a puddle of orange de-icer under the plane, pooling like a melting slushee. The right engine revved up, the planed rocked back, and, after a few minutes, the pilot came on. "Uh, folks...." Apparently, we needed more than the power of one airplane engine to break from the icy grip of winter. A towing tractor would be summoned to give us a little shove. The pilot apologized, but said, "We should be underway shortly."
Outside, we heard the tow working. The plane rocked a little but kept do it's imitation of a tree planed in frozen ground. "Uh, folks...." The ice was not confined to just under us, but all over the tarmac, and the tow couldn't get enough traction to move us.
The ground crew tried other methods. They brought up big heaters to melt the snow. They tried the de-icer again. At one point, I saw a guy walking under the plane with a shovel. I would have brought my snowblower if it wouldn't have cost me $15 to check it. In the meantime, another plane arrived, unloaded, reloaded, and took off again. For a moment, I really hated those people. I didn't want anything bad to happen to them, but I hoped they had a really crappy time when they arrived at their final destinations.
The ground crew, after deciding that sacrificing a moose would likely not free the plane, decided to call the Bigger Tow, a device that must have been travelling the UP, dazzling everyone with its feats of pulling, because it took 45 minutes to arrive.
Finally, plane moved. It turned around and lurched toward the runway. The propeller on the left engine slowly started turning, faster and faster, and soon I was very greatful for the deafening, filling-loosening roar of 1920s-era aviation engineering. Three hours after we boarded our Buddy Holly-fuck plane, we lined up and took off for Detroit. I was so relieved to be moving that I found myself yearning to land in Detroit and welcomed the thought of spending the night there, having long missed our connection, because that meant we were no longer stuck to the runway.
(How did our daughter do? She smiled, she cooed, she ate, and five minutes after takeoff, she slept. She cried for maybe two minutes. She was far more mature than I was, as I kept peppering TLB with "my act" to help pass the time.)
We landed in Charlotte the next day and picked up our rental car to begin the first part of our trip: visiting my parents in Tennessee. It was a rainy, 40-ish degree day, but at least it was green and I didn't need my winter coat. On the road, my father called me. "You know, it was beautiful here a few days ago, and then you come here and bring this shit with you," he said.
"Hey, it's not my fault," I said.
The next day, big fat flakes fell from the sky, and the nearby mountains were hit with a winter storm. Perhaps my father was right and I was a weather monkey's paw.
We left the day after the storms, heading to Hilton Head to spend some warm vacation time with TLB's parents. As soon as we hit the Smokey Mountains, we saw snow from there until well into South Carolina.
"It looks pretty," TLB commented as we drove near Ashville.
"It does," I agreed, "because it's like a little, sweet, powdered-sugar snow. As opposed to the bag of flour we live in."
The snow stuck with us until we got halfway to Columbia. Even then, the temperature remained below 45 until we got near Hilton Head, when it crept up a couple of degrees. "If it it hits 50, I'm taking off my pants," I said to TLB. The temperature reached 48, then 49, teasing me, but never getting higher.
"Did it hit 50?" TLB asked.
"No, 49," I said. "I had a button undone and my zipper halfway down, but it's not to be."
The forecast calls for it to get warmer, and even possibly something known as "hot," a concept I vaguely recall but don't really remember. But I'm not going to believe it until my pants are off and the tingling I feel on my thighs is the warmth of spring and not the burning of frostbite.
At least I'm not stuck to the runway, though.
As I mentioned on Friday, the UP had other plans. A blizzard rolled in, as if to remind us that Old Man Winter still runs this town. Still, the blizzard died down enough that it appeared we'd get out of town that evening.
We arrived at the local "airport," an old Air Force base where one converted hanger serves as the terminal. We piled into the tiny turboprop that would carry us to civilization. The plane had been sitting outside all day, and the pilot informed us it would take a little longer to get going because the crew had to do some extra procedures to make sure the plane was ready to go.
I could tell how bored my daughter is with being housebound during the winter, because she looked excited to be someplace new, even if that new place was the kind of flying craft I once heard Lewis Black describe as "one of those Buddy Holly-fuck planes." She looked around and watched as the crew outside hosed the plane with de-icer.
The right engine roared to life, but the left one couldn't get started. The pilot said that the engine was just cold, and that turning the plane away from the gate and into the wind would help get more air into the intake. The right engine revved up and the plane rocked a little back and forth.
"Uh, folks," said the pilot in the voice all pilots use when you should be moving but aren't. "It appears that the wheels of the airplane are frozen to the ground."
I've flown a fair amount, in good weather and bad, and have dealt with my share of meteorlogical, mechanical, and illogical disruptions. I have never, however, ever been delayed because my plane is stuck to the tarmac like a third-grader's tongue to a frozen flag pole. The pilot assured us, however, that it would be temporary, and that the ground crew were going to spray de-icer on the wheels to free us. "We should be underway shortly," he said.
A few minutes later, there was a puddle of orange de-icer under the plane, pooling like a melting slushee. The right engine revved up, the planed rocked back, and, after a few minutes, the pilot came on. "Uh, folks...." Apparently, we needed more than the power of one airplane engine to break from the icy grip of winter. A towing tractor would be summoned to give us a little shove. The pilot apologized, but said, "We should be underway shortly."
Outside, we heard the tow working. The plane rocked a little but kept do it's imitation of a tree planed in frozen ground. "Uh, folks...." The ice was not confined to just under us, but all over the tarmac, and the tow couldn't get enough traction to move us.
The ground crew tried other methods. They brought up big heaters to melt the snow. They tried the de-icer again. At one point, I saw a guy walking under the plane with a shovel. I would have brought my snowblower if it wouldn't have cost me $15 to check it. In the meantime, another plane arrived, unloaded, reloaded, and took off again. For a moment, I really hated those people. I didn't want anything bad to happen to them, but I hoped they had a really crappy time when they arrived at their final destinations.
The ground crew, after deciding that sacrificing a moose would likely not free the plane, decided to call the Bigger Tow, a device that must have been travelling the UP, dazzling everyone with its feats of pulling, because it took 45 minutes to arrive.
Finally, plane moved. It turned around and lurched toward the runway. The propeller on the left engine slowly started turning, faster and faster, and soon I was very greatful for the deafening, filling-loosening roar of 1920s-era aviation engineering. Three hours after we boarded our Buddy Holly-fuck plane, we lined up and took off for Detroit. I was so relieved to be moving that I found myself yearning to land in Detroit and welcomed the thought of spending the night there, having long missed our connection, because that meant we were no longer stuck to the runway.
(How did our daughter do? She smiled, she cooed, she ate, and five minutes after takeoff, she slept. She cried for maybe two minutes. She was far more mature than I was, as I kept peppering TLB with "my act" to help pass the time.)
We landed in Charlotte the next day and picked up our rental car to begin the first part of our trip: visiting my parents in Tennessee. It was a rainy, 40-ish degree day, but at least it was green and I didn't need my winter coat. On the road, my father called me. "You know, it was beautiful here a few days ago, and then you come here and bring this shit with you," he said.
"Hey, it's not my fault," I said.
The next day, big fat flakes fell from the sky, and the nearby mountains were hit with a winter storm. Perhaps my father was right and I was a weather monkey's paw.
We left the day after the storms, heading to Hilton Head to spend some warm vacation time with TLB's parents. As soon as we hit the Smokey Mountains, we saw snow from there until well into South Carolina.
"It looks pretty," TLB commented as we drove near Ashville.
"It does," I agreed, "because it's like a little, sweet, powdered-sugar snow. As opposed to the bag of flour we live in."
The snow stuck with us until we got halfway to Columbia. Even then, the temperature remained below 45 until we got near Hilton Head, when it crept up a couple of degrees. "If it it hits 50, I'm taking off my pants," I said to TLB. The temperature reached 48, then 49, teasing me, but never getting higher.
"Did it hit 50?" TLB asked.
"No, 49," I said. "I had a button undone and my zipper halfway down, but it's not to be."
The forecast calls for it to get warmer, and even possibly something known as "hot," a concept I vaguely recall but don't really remember. But I'm not going to believe it until my pants are off and the tingling I feel on my thighs is the warmth of spring and not the burning of frostbite.
At least I'm not stuck to the runway, though.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Nothing says vacation like blizzard warnings
The Lovely Becky and I were scheduled to begin our vacation today, a luxurious jaunt down south where the temperatures are rumored to be above freezing. Of course, that means it was time for a UP snowstorm to shit all over our plans. On top of that, I have been working like a dog all week so that I can take a week off like a gentleman.
So the Random 11 is snowed in as well, unable to rock or groove much. I'm taking my computer, though, because I will have time to blog next week, and that in itself feels like a vacation.
So open thread for parental advice, your favorite strange meat stories, and/or punning so excessive, it violates the Geneva Convention.
So the Random 11 is snowed in as well, unable to rock or groove much. I'm taking my computer, though, because I will have time to blog next week, and that in itself feels like a vacation.
So open thread for parental advice, your favorite strange meat stories, and/or punning so excessive, it violates the Geneva Convention.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we unveiling in our address to Congress?
Special extra wordy edition!
13) Opening set by Rahm Emmanuel from his new one-man show, "Suck My Donkey Dick, You GOP Leg Humpers."
12) New remix of "Hail to the Mothaf****n' Chief (feat. Jay-Z, TI, and Rihanna)."
11) Plan to place all unemployed Americans in suspended animation chambers until new jobs are created for them.
10) Method to solicit new ideas for economic growth through a new TV show, So You Think You Can Rescue the Economy from Apocalyptic Collapse?
9) A revolutionary new program that will increase our health, reduce our dependence on foreign oil, and greatly reduce the number of traffic fatalities: walking.
8) Immediate lowering of the unemployment rate by officially recognizing "slacker" as an occupation.
7) Plan to firm up investor confidence and get the stock market pumping again by merging the financial sector with the porn industry.
6) Proposal to cut Post Office expenditures by requiring all non-essential mail to be Twittered.
5) Tearful, factually-challenged apology about unethical banking practices, delivered by Alex Rodriguez.
4) Initiative to reduce teen sexual activity by requiring children aged 12-17 to watch their parents having sex (mandatory minimum of three sessions of intercourse).
3) Bold new declaration to end our current economic depression by invading Germany and Japan.
2) A wardrobe malfunction that gives a little stimulus to the ladies (and certain male supporters).
1) A call that the nation should commit itself, before the next decade is out, of going to Mars, bitches! M.A.R.S.!
13) Opening set by Rahm Emmanuel from his new one-man show, "Suck My Donkey Dick, You GOP Leg Humpers."
12) New remix of "Hail to the Mothaf****n' Chief (feat. Jay-Z, TI, and Rihanna)."
11) Plan to place all unemployed Americans in suspended animation chambers until new jobs are created for them.
10) Method to solicit new ideas for economic growth through a new TV show, So You Think You Can Rescue the Economy from Apocalyptic Collapse?
9) A revolutionary new program that will increase our health, reduce our dependence on foreign oil, and greatly reduce the number of traffic fatalities: walking.
8) Immediate lowering of the unemployment rate by officially recognizing "slacker" as an occupation.
7) Plan to firm up investor confidence and get the stock market pumping again by merging the financial sector with the porn industry.
6) Proposal to cut Post Office expenditures by requiring all non-essential mail to be Twittered.
5) Tearful, factually-challenged apology about unethical banking practices, delivered by Alex Rodriguez.
4) Initiative to reduce teen sexual activity by requiring children aged 12-17 to watch their parents having sex (mandatory minimum of three sessions of intercourse).
3) Bold new declaration to end our current economic depression by invading Germany and Japan.
2) A wardrobe malfunction that gives a little stimulus to the ladies (and certain male supporters).
1) A call that the nation should commit itself, before the next decade is out, of going to Mars, bitches! M.A.R.S.!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
As I mentioned last week, Libby and I had some solo time together because The Lovely Becky had to go to conference. TLB was worried a little bit about how Libby would handle being away from her mommy and, more specifically, mommy's boobs. Libby is eating solids now and also drinks formula in addition to breast milk, and there were frozen bags of the real McCoy in the fridge, so the issue was going to be more psychological than physical.
The nights went by, and Libby and I did just fine. Sure, there were a few times when she attempted to lift my shirt, which I prevented lest it end in unspeakable horror. She also missed TLB at bath time—we do a little game every night where one of us chases Libby up the stairs as the other person carries her up for her bath. All in all, though, we just chilled out, played, ate, and slept.
I, however, really missed TLB. I love my time with Libby and we have a lot of fun together, but I found myself missing the three of us having fun. This will sound really cheesy, and it is cheesy, but we waited so long to have this opportunity that we cherish our time together as a family. By the time day three rolled around, I was ready for TLB to come home, not because I couldn't handle Libby by myself, but because I wanted to handle Libby with her mom around.
TLB asked every day how our baby girl was doing. While my positive reports were certainly a relief, I could also hear the disappointment in her voice, disappointment that Libby didn't seem to be missing her mommy more. Finally, when we went to the "airport" to pick TLB up, Libby spent the first minute gazing at her surroundings before finally delivering a much-needed smile to TLB.
"What's the matter?" I asked TLB.
"Nothing. I just wished she missed me a little more," she said.
"Yeah, but do you know how difficult it would have been if she had really bad separation anxiety?"
"I know, and I'm glad she didn't," TLB said. "But a little separation anxiety would be okay."
Funny how we were so focused on how Libby would adjust when it was us who had the harder time of it.
Okay, time for some music.
1) "Beat Connection," LCD Soundsystem. The problem with listening to dance music when you're not dancing is that you're missing the point of the music. There's lots to like here—bongos, blurbing synths, and cowbell—but it just reminds me that I'm sitting here in my sweats instead of jumping on a table and letting loose a vodka-fueled fusillade of happy feet. I have to give the kids in the video here some props for bringing the dance party home.
2) "You Curse at Girls," Fountains of Wayne. The liberal in me says that girls are entitled to be cursed at the way men are. The chivalrous guy in me says absolutely not. Sometimes those things are difficult to reconcile.
3) "Southern California Wants to be Western New York," Dar Williams. My experience in So Cal leads me to believe that Southern Californians don't even know where western New York is, let alone wanting to be like it. It's like the reverse image of the famous New Yorker cover showing the view of the country from Manhattan.
4) "Dancefloors," My Morning Jacket. I feel like I should be in an 18-wheeler listening to this, heading out west and getting into adventures. And I should have a monkey. And maybe a trailer full of females who are there of their own free will and just happen to feel more comfortable in skimpy outfits and tight t-shirts.
5) "You Can Have It All," Kaiser Chiefs. It turns out we can't. In fact, getting half of all seems like a pretty good deal these days. This is one of those choruses I usually sing when no one is looking.
Speaking of having it all and wearing sweats: The thing that almost always comes up first when I talk to someone about working at home is "do you work in your sweats/pajamas/hot pants/leather gear?" (For the record, I do not own either of the last two items to the best of anyone's knowledge.) Most of the time, the answer is no. I follow the same routine I used to follow when I worked in an office: up at the same time, shower, shave (usually), a bowl of Colon Blow cereal for breakfast, and too much caffeine. The only difference is that I walk upstairs to my office, I get to play music as loud as I want, I can go downstairs to see my lovely wife and daughter, and I know who to blame if something in the fridge is half eaten.
Today, however, I am in my sweats, because I can. And that's why working at home is awesome.
6) "I Know It's Over," The Smiths. Morrissey mentioned earlier this week that he plans to retire in a few years. That seems like it should be a reality show. What exactly would someone like him do in retirement? He could be out in the garden, watering his plants with tears of unrequited love. Trying to buy a box of Just for Men covertly but constantly getting recognized, not by kids, but by their parents who were big Smiths fans. Having Robert Smith over for tea and trying to out-morose each other over their approaching demises. That sounds less far fetched than giving a show to Poison's Brett Michaels where he tries to convince us that he's still sexy and not bald.
7) "Tonight, Tonight," Smashing Pumpkins. I know it's completely uncool to like the Smashing Pumpkins, the way it's uncool to like U2. But Siamese Dreams and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Album Title are full of the kind of big, anthemic rock songs I would love to play in Rock Band. There are already a couple in the game, but I really want the chance to screech Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage at a frequency that causes the cats to run into the basement.
8) "Juanita," The Flying Burrito Brothers. Sad songs about drinking to forget...is there anything they can't do?
9) "All the Wine," The National. I talk about music a lot in real life, and it's not unusual to run into people in their late 30s or older who would listen to new music if they could find anything they liked as much as what they heard growing up. I understand the sentiment, and even though I spend a lot of time and money acquiring new music, it doesn't have the same effect music did on me when I was a teenager or college student. There are too many other things that occupy that happiness and too many distractions to make music as important as it once was. But it's songs like this (and albums like Alligator) that make me happy that I still carve out a space for new music in my life.
10) "Girlfriend," Matthew Sweet. On my Can't-Be-Overplayed list and a song that gets cranked to 11 whenever possible. The interplay between the main riff and the lead guitar, the sugar-sweet backing vocals, and the way it feels like great late 60s rock delivered with the force of 90s production always get me. Sadly, couldn't find the original, but found a revved up live version he played with John Hiatt.
11) "Comes a Time," Neil Young. Neil Young at his most beautiful and a wonderful way to head into the weekend.
Enjoy yourselves.
As I mentioned last week, Libby and I had some solo time together because The Lovely Becky had to go to conference. TLB was worried a little bit about how Libby would handle being away from her mommy and, more specifically, mommy's boobs. Libby is eating solids now and also drinks formula in addition to breast milk, and there were frozen bags of the real McCoy in the fridge, so the issue was going to be more psychological than physical.
The nights went by, and Libby and I did just fine. Sure, there were a few times when she attempted to lift my shirt, which I prevented lest it end in unspeakable horror. She also missed TLB at bath time—we do a little game every night where one of us chases Libby up the stairs as the other person carries her up for her bath. All in all, though, we just chilled out, played, ate, and slept.
I, however, really missed TLB. I love my time with Libby and we have a lot of fun together, but I found myself missing the three of us having fun. This will sound really cheesy, and it is cheesy, but we waited so long to have this opportunity that we cherish our time together as a family. By the time day three rolled around, I was ready for TLB to come home, not because I couldn't handle Libby by myself, but because I wanted to handle Libby with her mom around.
TLB asked every day how our baby girl was doing. While my positive reports were certainly a relief, I could also hear the disappointment in her voice, disappointment that Libby didn't seem to be missing her mommy more. Finally, when we went to the "airport" to pick TLB up, Libby spent the first minute gazing at her surroundings before finally delivering a much-needed smile to TLB.
"What's the matter?" I asked TLB.
"Nothing. I just wished she missed me a little more," she said.
"Yeah, but do you know how difficult it would have been if she had really bad separation anxiety?"
"I know, and I'm glad she didn't," TLB said. "But a little separation anxiety would be okay."
Funny how we were so focused on how Libby would adjust when it was us who had the harder time of it.
Okay, time for some music.
1) "Beat Connection," LCD Soundsystem. The problem with listening to dance music when you're not dancing is that you're missing the point of the music. There's lots to like here—bongos, blurbing synths, and cowbell—but it just reminds me that I'm sitting here in my sweats instead of jumping on a table and letting loose a vodka-fueled fusillade of happy feet. I have to give the kids in the video here some props for bringing the dance party home.
2) "You Curse at Girls," Fountains of Wayne. The liberal in me says that girls are entitled to be cursed at the way men are. The chivalrous guy in me says absolutely not. Sometimes those things are difficult to reconcile.
3) "Southern California Wants to be Western New York," Dar Williams. My experience in So Cal leads me to believe that Southern Californians don't even know where western New York is, let alone wanting to be like it. It's like the reverse image of the famous New Yorker cover showing the view of the country from Manhattan.
4) "Dancefloors," My Morning Jacket. I feel like I should be in an 18-wheeler listening to this, heading out west and getting into adventures. And I should have a monkey. And maybe a trailer full of females who are there of their own free will and just happen to feel more comfortable in skimpy outfits and tight t-shirts.
5) "You Can Have It All," Kaiser Chiefs. It turns out we can't. In fact, getting half of all seems like a pretty good deal these days. This is one of those choruses I usually sing when no one is looking.
Speaking of having it all and wearing sweats: The thing that almost always comes up first when I talk to someone about working at home is "do you work in your sweats/pajamas/hot pants/leather gear?" (For the record, I do not own either of the last two items to the best of anyone's knowledge.) Most of the time, the answer is no. I follow the same routine I used to follow when I worked in an office: up at the same time, shower, shave (usually), a bowl of Colon Blow cereal for breakfast, and too much caffeine. The only difference is that I walk upstairs to my office, I get to play music as loud as I want, I can go downstairs to see my lovely wife and daughter, and I know who to blame if something in the fridge is half eaten.
Today, however, I am in my sweats, because I can. And that's why working at home is awesome.
6) "I Know It's Over," The Smiths. Morrissey mentioned earlier this week that he plans to retire in a few years. That seems like it should be a reality show. What exactly would someone like him do in retirement? He could be out in the garden, watering his plants with tears of unrequited love. Trying to buy a box of Just for Men covertly but constantly getting recognized, not by kids, but by their parents who were big Smiths fans. Having Robert Smith over for tea and trying to out-morose each other over their approaching demises. That sounds less far fetched than giving a show to Poison's Brett Michaels where he tries to convince us that he's still sexy and not bald.
7) "Tonight, Tonight," Smashing Pumpkins. I know it's completely uncool to like the Smashing Pumpkins, the way it's uncool to like U2. But Siamese Dreams and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Album Title are full of the kind of big, anthemic rock songs I would love to play in Rock Band. There are already a couple in the game, but I really want the chance to screech Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage at a frequency that causes the cats to run into the basement.
8) "Juanita," The Flying Burrito Brothers. Sad songs about drinking to forget...is there anything they can't do?
9) "All the Wine," The National. I talk about music a lot in real life, and it's not unusual to run into people in their late 30s or older who would listen to new music if they could find anything they liked as much as what they heard growing up. I understand the sentiment, and even though I spend a lot of time and money acquiring new music, it doesn't have the same effect music did on me when I was a teenager or college student. There are too many other things that occupy that happiness and too many distractions to make music as important as it once was. But it's songs like this (and albums like Alligator) that make me happy that I still carve out a space for new music in my life.
10) "Girlfriend," Matthew Sweet. On my Can't-Be-Overplayed list and a song that gets cranked to 11 whenever possible. The interplay between the main riff and the lead guitar, the sugar-sweet backing vocals, and the way it feels like great late 60s rock delivered with the force of 90s production always get me. Sadly, couldn't find the original, but found a revved up live version he played with John Hiatt.
11) "Comes a Time," Neil Young. Neil Young at his most beautiful and a wonderful way to head into the weekend.
Enjoy yourselves.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we changing our retirement plans?
10) Practicing grocery bagging skills for post-retirement employment opportunities.
9) Altering goal of moving to Las Vegas to Leaving Las Vegas.
8) Moving our 401k allocations into more stable Powerball Fund.
7) Using kids' college fund to send ourselves back to college until its safe to graduate again.
6) Investigating tasty new ways to die of a heart attack before the age of 65.
5) Obtaining a fake ID so we're young enough to enlist.
4) Squatting in foreclosed McMansions.
3) Feeding on the pigeons.
2) Getting the food, shelter, and health care we'll need by sticking up the nearest police station.
1) Working ourselves to death so we won't have to be scared about retiring.
9) Altering goal of moving to Las Vegas to Leaving Las Vegas.
8) Moving our 401k allocations into more stable Powerball Fund.
7) Using kids' college fund to send ourselves back to college until its safe to graduate again.
6) Investigating tasty new ways to die of a heart attack before the age of 65.
5) Obtaining a fake ID so we're young enough to enlist.
4) Squatting in foreclosed McMansions.
3) Feeding on the pigeons.
2) Getting the food, shelter, and health care we'll need by sticking up the nearest police station.
1) Working ourselves to death so we won't have to be scared about retiring.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday Random 11: Be My DJ Today
I have been tied up with work and also with watching Libby for the last couple of days, as The Lovely Becky departed for an expenses-paid round of boozing and dining a writing conference. This has left little time to post some of my fabulous new pieces or a Random 11 today.
However, acting on a tip from a certain undead blogger, I recently signed up for eMusic. It's a monthly subscription music service: I pay a flat fee for so many downloads. They have a free trial where you can get your first 25 songs free, so I thought I'd give them a shot.
After downloading one album (of nine songs), I became paralyzed. I only have 16 free songs left! I have to make sure I get my non-money's worth!
This always happens with me when I have credit or gift cards, I over-analyze what I should get with them. I often get gift cards for places like Best Buy, and I horde them like Elaine Benes storing Today contraceptive sponges, waiting for the purchase that will be gift-card worthy. I am convinced that, at least in my case, it is the anticipation of consumerism that is more enjoyable to me than the actual purchase. I should just keep all those gift cards forever and live in a perpetual state of possible purchases.
Anyway, since I need help with my free songs, let me know what you're listening to these days. New, old, famous, obscure...no matter. EMusic is a little limited, but there seems to be a lot of stuff on there. And besides, I'll need new ideas when I get gift cards again.
Oh, and as far as this whole taking-care-of-the-baby-by-myself thing goes, it's amazing how docile they get with a little bourbon and KFC.* Just like daddy.
*Something Snag has known for years.
However, acting on a tip from a certain undead blogger, I recently signed up for eMusic. It's a monthly subscription music service: I pay a flat fee for so many downloads. They have a free trial where you can get your first 25 songs free, so I thought I'd give them a shot.
After downloading one album (of nine songs), I became paralyzed. I only have 16 free songs left! I have to make sure I get my non-money's worth!
This always happens with me when I have credit or gift cards, I over-analyze what I should get with them. I often get gift cards for places like Best Buy, and I horde them like Elaine Benes storing Today contraceptive sponges, waiting for the purchase that will be gift-card worthy. I am convinced that, at least in my case, it is the anticipation of consumerism that is more enjoyable to me than the actual purchase. I should just keep all those gift cards forever and live in a perpetual state of possible purchases.
Anyway, since I need help with my free songs, let me know what you're listening to these days. New, old, famous, obscure...no matter. EMusic is a little limited, but there seems to be a lot of stuff on there. And besides, I'll need new ideas when I get gift cards again.
Oh, and as far as this whole taking-care-of-the-baby-by-myself thing goes, it's amazing how docile they get with a little bourbon and KFC.* Just like daddy.
*Something Snag has known for years.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we admitting to?
10) Loving sheep for more than their wool.
9) The second and fourth victims.
8) Begging girlfriend to go see He's Just Not That Into You.
7) Watching the Grammies.
6) Paying for bailout by sending U.S. gold reserves to Cash4Gold.
5) Making the Skippy extra nutty.
4) Record-breaking weekend of marathon sex achieved through aid of performance enhancing drugs.
3) Only bought a new Amazon Kindle so we'd look like we read.
2) Coming up with broad, open-ended topics for humorous lists when we can't think of something more creative to write.
1) Being a New York Yankee.
9) The second and fourth victims.
8) Begging girlfriend to go see He's Just Not That Into You.
7) Watching the Grammies.
6) Paying for bailout by sending U.S. gold reserves to Cash4Gold.
5) Making the Skippy extra nutty.
4) Record-breaking weekend of marathon sex achieved through aid of performance enhancing drugs.
3) Only bought a new Amazon Kindle so we'd look like we read.
2) Coming up with broad, open-ended topics for humorous lists when we can't think of something more creative to write.
1) Being a New York Yankee.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Friday Random 11
It's one more random than 10!
Blue Girl started an interesting discussion about hate this week, and in leaving a comment, I said that while I wasn't a big fan of hate, I felt that anger was healthy. I'm usually at my best creatively when I'm mad about something. I think that's because my creativity almost always expresses itself as humor, and it's much easier for me to be humorous when I'm irritated about something. I don't need to do a Lewis Black, but there usually needs to be some conflict to drive my creative impulses.
The same day, Dr. Fish (who is a doctor in real life but I think plays a fish on Animal Planet) posted a link to a dance remix of Christian Bale's ice-cap destroying metldown on the set of Terminator 4. I didn't know much about this incident, so I listened to the original audio. (Neither of those links are work safe.)
I definitely believe that Bale went way overboard and acted like a complete prick, but I also sympathize with him trying to concentrate on something and having another person repeatedly interfere with his work. I had a boss once who had me research a project, a free item we could include with a promotional mailer we were doing. My boss was notoriously flaky, and after spending a good deal of time finding some items based on the parameters he gave me, I presented what I found. Sitting in his office, he suddenly changed his mind and wanted to go in a completely different direction. Not a big deal, and certainly par for the course when you work in marketing and advertising. However, he talked to me like I was an idiot for presenting what I presented, when I simply gave him exactly what he asked for. That little bit of attitude made every other little irritation I had with him suddenly boil over, and I proceeded to yell at him, loudly enough that my coworkers were prairie dogging over their cube walls. I probably laid into him for about two minutes, letting him know that I did exactly what he asked and if he wanted something different, he should have said something. When I finished, I got a bit nervous, because he certainly could have taken disciplinary action against me. I probably would have done that if a copywriter came into my office and talked to me like that. Instead, he actually apologized and we moved on. So anger can be constructive.
At the same time, I didn't pepper him with profanity or threatened to "kick his ass" (I was pissed, not insane). If I had done either of those, I would have been out on my ass, because that's how things work in the real world. He makes a call to HR, HR has me escorted from the building. But I guess there's no HR in Hollywood, and if you're Batman, you apparently get to deliver a little vigilante justice.
The irony is, if Terminator 4 is as bad as Terminator 3, this might be the best scene from the film. And Bale's little tirade produced a hell of a dance mix. So in honor of the creative power of anger, here are 11 random songs about anger or angry-sounding songs.
1) "Can I Play With Madness," Iron Maiden. The Bruce Dickinson two weeks in a row? Maybe my iPod is having anger issues. Or spandex withdrawal.
Funny story: Despite harnessing anger for comedic purposes and yelling at condescending bosses, I'm not an angry person by any stretch, and in fact am quite laid back. However, I have had a couple of "Hulk" episodes, where something sets me off and I just go Lou Ferrigno. The Lovely Becky saw one of these very early in our relationship. We used to go to an under-21 dance club in the north Chicago burbs—the kind of place that would have played the Christian Bale remix. You had to present ID to prove you were under 21 to get in.
This place was about a 45-minute drive, and one night, one of the guys forgot his ID (despite a reminder before we left to make sure everyone had ID). I had my military dependent ID in addition to my driver's license, so I decided to give that to him. We didn't really look very much alike, but he clearly wasn't 21 and it's not like we were trying to sneak into a bar. We spaced it so that I would go in first, then he'd come in about five minutes later.
Inside, his date came up to me. The bouncer didn't buy it, and worse, he took my ID. I was pissed at our doofus companion already, and now had to go beg for my ID back. The bouncer gave me an earful about it, and I explained what happened and that I wasn't trying to be a dick, we just wanted to dance. He started to hand me my ID back, but right before I reached for it, he dropped it so I would have to pick it up.
I lost it. I started screaming at the guy, letting loose a Bale-ish broadside of f-bombs, c-bombs, and pretty much any form of profanity I had in the armory. I was so furious that even though I was sure this guy would probably kick my ass, I didn't care. Luckily my friends led me away before that could happen. But poor TLB had to walk with me to my car and get in, with me cursing like a man bitten by a profanity werewolf on a full moon. Like the werewolf after the moon goes down, once I returned to normal, I felt like a complete jackass, because even if the bouncer was a jerk, I was in the wrong.
Luckily I didn't scare her off.
2) "From Ritz to Rubble," Arctic Monkeys. Hey, a song about getting thrown out of the club by a bouncer. SPOOKY.
3) "Fuck You Aurora," Alkaline Trio. Given that they are from Chicago, I think they are referring to the town of Aurora. However, when TLB and I lived in Iowa City, we always got excited when we hit Aurora on the highway, because it meant we were almost to Chicago. Which, if you've ever been to Aurora, is a little sad.
4) "Never Talking to You Again," Hüsker Dü. "Anger" would be even angrier with an umlaut. "I am so ängry at you!"
5) "Prison Sex," Tool. On the surface, that would indeed seem angry, but don't forget about the make-up sodomy. (I really wish I had a clip for the last one. It's one of my favorite SNL skits.)
6) "Hyper Enough," Superchunk. Pretty much every Superchunk song sounds pissed about something.
7) "Stan," Eminem (feat. Dido). I like this song enough to not do the FACK voice. Plus there's been plenty of all caps on the blog this week. Really, a pretty brilliant song about stalkers, with a little O. Henry twist at the end.
8) "Angry Mob," Kaiser Chiefs. They give the word "mob" a bad name.
9) "Helter Skelter (live)," U2. When you inspire the Manson family, you're going to wind up on an angry song list. Their cover is too tame, though, compared to the raw original.
10) "Fight the Power," Public Enemy. It's kind of depressing that one of their members went from this to Flavor of Love. I imagine that has to make Chuck D a little angry.
11) "Ace of Spades," Motörhead. What's even more angry than umlauts? Face warts. Which Lemmy has in spades. If I was more badass I would consider having this played at my funeral. The fact that I have to think about it means I'm not badass enough. I also don't own a belt made out of bullet cartridges.
Here's to a happy, peaceful, non-confrontational weekend.
Blue Girl started an interesting discussion about hate this week, and in leaving a comment, I said that while I wasn't a big fan of hate, I felt that anger was healthy. I'm usually at my best creatively when I'm mad about something. I think that's because my creativity almost always expresses itself as humor, and it's much easier for me to be humorous when I'm irritated about something. I don't need to do a Lewis Black, but there usually needs to be some conflict to drive my creative impulses.
The same day, Dr. Fish (who is a doctor in real life but I think plays a fish on Animal Planet) posted a link to a dance remix of Christian Bale's ice-cap destroying metldown on the set of Terminator 4. I didn't know much about this incident, so I listened to the original audio. (Neither of those links are work safe.)
I definitely believe that Bale went way overboard and acted like a complete prick, but I also sympathize with him trying to concentrate on something and having another person repeatedly interfere with his work. I had a boss once who had me research a project, a free item we could include with a promotional mailer we were doing. My boss was notoriously flaky, and after spending a good deal of time finding some items based on the parameters he gave me, I presented what I found. Sitting in his office, he suddenly changed his mind and wanted to go in a completely different direction. Not a big deal, and certainly par for the course when you work in marketing and advertising. However, he talked to me like I was an idiot for presenting what I presented, when I simply gave him exactly what he asked for. That little bit of attitude made every other little irritation I had with him suddenly boil over, and I proceeded to yell at him, loudly enough that my coworkers were prairie dogging over their cube walls. I probably laid into him for about two minutes, letting him know that I did exactly what he asked and if he wanted something different, he should have said something. When I finished, I got a bit nervous, because he certainly could have taken disciplinary action against me. I probably would have done that if a copywriter came into my office and talked to me like that. Instead, he actually apologized and we moved on. So anger can be constructive.
At the same time, I didn't pepper him with profanity or threatened to "kick his ass" (I was pissed, not insane). If I had done either of those, I would have been out on my ass, because that's how things work in the real world. He makes a call to HR, HR has me escorted from the building. But I guess there's no HR in Hollywood, and if you're Batman, you apparently get to deliver a little vigilante justice.
The irony is, if Terminator 4 is as bad as Terminator 3, this might be the best scene from the film. And Bale's little tirade produced a hell of a dance mix. So in honor of the creative power of anger, here are 11 random songs about anger or angry-sounding songs.
1) "Can I Play With Madness," Iron Maiden. The Bruce Dickinson two weeks in a row? Maybe my iPod is having anger issues. Or spandex withdrawal.
Funny story: Despite harnessing anger for comedic purposes and yelling at condescending bosses, I'm not an angry person by any stretch, and in fact am quite laid back. However, I have had a couple of "Hulk" episodes, where something sets me off and I just go Lou Ferrigno. The Lovely Becky saw one of these very early in our relationship. We used to go to an under-21 dance club in the north Chicago burbs—the kind of place that would have played the Christian Bale remix. You had to present ID to prove you were under 21 to get in.
This place was about a 45-minute drive, and one night, one of the guys forgot his ID (despite a reminder before we left to make sure everyone had ID). I had my military dependent ID in addition to my driver's license, so I decided to give that to him. We didn't really look very much alike, but he clearly wasn't 21 and it's not like we were trying to sneak into a bar. We spaced it so that I would go in first, then he'd come in about five minutes later.
Inside, his date came up to me. The bouncer didn't buy it, and worse, he took my ID. I was pissed at our doofus companion already, and now had to go beg for my ID back. The bouncer gave me an earful about it, and I explained what happened and that I wasn't trying to be a dick, we just wanted to dance. He started to hand me my ID back, but right before I reached for it, he dropped it so I would have to pick it up.
I lost it. I started screaming at the guy, letting loose a Bale-ish broadside of f-bombs, c-bombs, and pretty much any form of profanity I had in the armory. I was so furious that even though I was sure this guy would probably kick my ass, I didn't care. Luckily my friends led me away before that could happen. But poor TLB had to walk with me to my car and get in, with me cursing like a man bitten by a profanity werewolf on a full moon. Like the werewolf after the moon goes down, once I returned to normal, I felt like a complete jackass, because even if the bouncer was a jerk, I was in the wrong.
Luckily I didn't scare her off.
2) "From Ritz to Rubble," Arctic Monkeys. Hey, a song about getting thrown out of the club by a bouncer. SPOOKY.
3) "Fuck You Aurora," Alkaline Trio. Given that they are from Chicago, I think they are referring to the town of Aurora. However, when TLB and I lived in Iowa City, we always got excited when we hit Aurora on the highway, because it meant we were almost to Chicago. Which, if you've ever been to Aurora, is a little sad.
4) "Never Talking to You Again," Hüsker Dü. "Anger" would be even angrier with an umlaut. "I am so ängry at you!"
5) "Prison Sex," Tool. On the surface, that would indeed seem angry, but don't forget about the make-up sodomy. (I really wish I had a clip for the last one. It's one of my favorite SNL skits.)
6) "Hyper Enough," Superchunk. Pretty much every Superchunk song sounds pissed about something.
7) "Stan," Eminem (feat. Dido). I like this song enough to not do the FACK voice. Plus there's been plenty of all caps on the blog this week. Really, a pretty brilliant song about stalkers, with a little O. Henry twist at the end.
8) "Angry Mob," Kaiser Chiefs. They give the word "mob" a bad name.
9) "Helter Skelter (live)," U2. When you inspire the Manson family, you're going to wind up on an angry song list. Their cover is too tame, though, compared to the raw original.
10) "Fight the Power," Public Enemy. It's kind of depressing that one of their members went from this to Flavor of Love. I imagine that has to make Chuck D a little angry.
11) "Ace of Spades," Motörhead. What's even more angry than umlauts? Face warts. Which Lemmy has in spades. If I was more badass I would consider having this played at my funeral. The fact that I have to think about it means I'm not badass enough. I also don't own a belt made out of bullet cartridges.
Here's to a happy, peaceful, non-confrontational weekend.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
A Prayer for Sarah Palin
by John Irving McCain
I am doomed to remember a woman with a wrecked voice, not because of her voice, or because she was the dimmest person I ever knew, or even because she was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because she is the reason I no longer believe in God. I am no longer a Christian because of Sarah Palin.
I met her at a prayer breakfast after she had been selected as my running mate. She was pretty in a J.C. Penny catalog model sense, although she was not rich enough for my tastes. It was when she opened her mouth that I realized how unique she was. She had a voice that sounded as if it came from another time zone. Now I’m convinced that it was a voice not entirely of this world.
“HI YA, JOHN. I’M SARAH,” she said. “WE’RE GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.” She spoke with a series of tongue clicks and winks that made me think she had Tourette’s. I think she had all of those tics because the endless reserves of incompetence and incoherence that bubbled beneath her soul needed to escape in any way possible.
Her manicured hand had mine in a crushing shake. “DO YOU LIKE HUNTING?” she asked me.
I did not, but it was an election season, and I did not want to appear less manly than my female running mate. “Sure,” I said.
“WE SHOULD GO. BRING YOUR MOM,” Sarah said with a wink.
It took some cajoling, but I convinced Mother that this would be a great photo opportunity for my campaign. I dispatched my aides to the nearest Cabella’s store to purchase suitable attire. When Mother and I arrived for the hunt, wearing orange jackets and hats, Sarah stood in full camouflage, her face painted the same green and black pattern as her outfit. She carried a large rifle on her shoulder. She leaned against a helicopter, bathed in the machine-gun bursts of flash bulbs from the reporters. “Oh, dear,” my mother said.
“Why do we need a helicopter?” I asked.
“I LIKE TO HUNT FROM THE AIR,” Sarah said. “LIKE A BALD EAGLE. ONLY WITH A GUN.”
I saw Mother blanch, but in her classic WASP demeanor, she swallowed all emotion and plastered a smile across her face. “Sounds splendid,” she said, climbing into the helicopter.
We flew above the forest. “TAKE THE FIRST SHOT,” Sarah said. I spotted a moose down below, in a break among the trees. I aimed and fired, missing, and sending our prey galloping back into cover.
“YOU HAVE TO LEAD,” Sarah said. “LIKE THIS.”
She spotted another moose. Raising her rifle to her shoulder, she turned quickly to her right to track the animal. The gun barrel slammed into Mother, who lost her grip and tumbled out of the open chopper door. I screamed and grabbed for her, but my hands came away with only her orange hunting cap.
“OOPS,” said Sarah.
At the funeral, I said that it was an accident and that I didn’t hold Sarah accountable. Sarah said she was sorry, although she told the reporters, “THAT’S WHY THEY SAY BUCKLE UP FOR SAFETY.” Inside, I wanted to throttle her, to crush the very box that produced that voice. Instead, I smiled and hugged Sarah in front of reporters, swallowing my fiery rage for political gain. It’s what Mother would have wanted.
We met before the Republican convention and discussed policy points. When I asked her about her position on science, she said, “THE DINOSAURS DIED OUT BECAUSE NOAH DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM ON THE ARK.” We talked about health care, and she said, “JESUS IS THE BEST DOCTOR YOU’LL EVER HAVE, AND THERE’S NO PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS, EVEN IF YOU’RE JEWISH.” Regarding Iraq, she said we had to stay because “QUITTERS NEVER PROSPER.”
“No, it’s, ‘Cheaters never prosper,’” I corrected her.
“THEY DO IF THEY DON’T GET CAUGHT,” she answered.
After consulting with my advisors, I told her, “Maybe the convention is not the best place to discuss policy. Just go out there and be yourself.”
“WHO ELSE WOULD I BE?” she asked. “I COULD BE SOMEONE ELSE, THOUGH. I WAS IN A SCHOOL PLAY ONCE. I PLAYED A TREE.”
The eve of the convention, I could not sleep. What had I done? How could I ask America to vote for this woman when I wouldn’t vote for her?
But then it happened. She stepped in front of the microphone and won over not just the party, but America. She was folksy, charismatic, and not dim. “You did great,” I told her when she came off the stage.
“I HAD ALL THESE THINGS I WAS GOING TO SAY,” she said. “BUT THEN ALL THESE WORDS APPEARED BEFORE MY EYES, LIKE MAGIC. I JUST READ THEM, AND THEY SCROLLED DOWN AND MORE APPEARED AND THEN PEOPLE CLAPPED. I THINK JESUS WAS SPEAKING THROUGH ME.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to go out and speak the magic words too.”
“YOU SHOULD SAY THAT ‘COMMUNITY ORGANIZER’ IS A CODE WORD FOR ‘SECRET MUSLIM.,’” she said.
“I will if that’s what Jesus writes,” I replied.
The polls shot up and what looked like certain political doom turned into a convention miracle. Maybe I was wrong about Sarah. Maybe I really did not understand what ordinary Americans wanted.
“THAT’S EXACTLY RIGHT,” she told me. “I’M LIKE THEM. OR THEY’RE LIKE ME. AND YOU NEED TO SHOW THAT YOU’RE ONE OF US.”
She started telling me about The Plan. It came to her in a dream. “I SAW A MAN, UNDER A SINK. I COULDN’T SEE HIS FACE, JUST THE TOP OF HIS HINEY STICKING OUT OF HIS JEANS. YOU WERE IN THE SINK, NOT REAL SIZE, BUT TINY SIZE. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked her.
“I DON’T THINK THE PIPES ARE REALLY PIPES. THEY’RE AMERICA. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT WHO’S GOING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
I looked at her, thanked her, and told her I would take her advice under advisement. “WOW, NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THAT BEFORE,” she beamed.
She started doing interviews, and things turned disastrous. When asked about looking for oil in ANWAR, she said, “I HAVE THE SAME BELIEF ABOUT OIL THAT I DO ABOUT SNUGGLE TIME WITH TODD: DRILL WHERE YOU WANT, AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, WITHOUT ANY PROTECTION.” She told Katie Couric that she had a plan for dealing with Russia. “IT’S LIKE D-DAY, ONLY WITHOUT NAZIS. AND WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS.”
“Sarah,” I told her. “You have to watch what you say.”
“I WAS,” she said, “BUT THE JESUS WORDS DIDN’T APPEAR, SO I SAID WHAT I HEARD IN MY HEAD. GOD TALKS TO ME THAT WAY, TOO.”
After another meeting with my advisors, we fixed it so she would only talk when she had ‘Jesus Words’ in front of her—at least until we could get her to memorize the Jesus Words we wanted her to say. But the damage was done. The media had a field day with her. One evening, she telephoned me. Her voice was quick and her pitch a full tone higher. The receiver was like a diamond-cutter sawing at my eardrums.
“JOHN,” she yelped. “I’M ON THE TV, BUT I’M ALSO RIGHT HERE. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?”
I turned on the set. “Which channel?” I asked.
“CHANNEL SEVEN,” she said.
Channel seven on my system was the cable guide. “Which network?”
“THE ONE THAT’S ON CHANNEL SEVEN.”
I eventually found what she was looking at. “Sarah,” I said, “That’s not you. That’s Tina Fey.”
“WHO?”
“An actress playing you.”
She paused for a moment. “WHEN DID THEY MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT ME?”
My political fortunes continued to slide. Privately, I resigned myself to losing. But Sarah would not accept defeat. She kept admonishing me to follow The Plan, even though she didn’t know what The Plan really was.
Sarah called me. “TURN ON YOUR TV TO CHANNEL 32.”
After some investigation, I determined she was watching CNN. They were running a piece on my opponent, who was being questioned on a campaign stop by a plumber named Joe. I asked her what was so important.
“THAT’S THE GUY WHO WAS FIXING THE PIPES IN MY DREAM,” she said, her voice giddy. I asked her how she could know that when she had not seen the man’s face. “I JUST KNOW,” she said. “YOU HAVE TO TALK ABOUT HIM. IT’S THE PLAN.”
I may never know why I listened to her. Maybe I was desperate. Maybe I wanted to seem like a man of the people. And maybe—and this is what I think, deep down, is the answer—I wanted to believe. I wanted to be part of the America that thought they could find answers in dreams and Jesus Words, to be able to just believe what you wanted, without the gnawing fear of being wrong.
During the debate, I didn’t just talk about Joe the Plumber. I invoked his name over and over, making him my prayer, my mantra, my hymn to the average American that my running mate so clearly exemplified. When I finished, Sarah greeted me as I left the stage.
“IT’S GOING TO WORK. IT’S THE PLAN.”
The part that haunts me, more than anything, is that I believed her.
Of course, it didn’t work. It failed spectacularly, and in many respects, The Plan made me look even more out of touch than ever. On the night of the election, after I conceded, I turned to Sarah.
“So much for your plan.”
“I KNOW. I THINK I MISUNDERSTOOD THE DREAM. DREAMS ARE HARD, LIKE MATH.”
She looked genuinely sad, and for a moment, I felt bad about hurting her feelings. I hugged her and told her that was okay, that we gave it our best shot.
“I HAD ANOTHER DREAM,” she said. “IT WAS 2012 AND PEOPLE WERE CALLING ME ‘MADAM PRESIDENT,’ LIKE ON BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. ONLY IT WAS REAL LIFE AND NOT IN SPACE. MAYBE THE PLAN WAS TO GET ME THE EXPERIENCE I NEEDED SO I COULDBE PRESIDENT.”
“So you’re saying that The Plan—God’s plan—was for me to lose so that you could become president?” I asked her.
“YES,” she said. “AND IF I WIN, YOU CAN BE MY VICE-PRESIDENT. IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE.”
For the second time, I believed her. That God wanted her to become the leader of America because she was the future of America. And that belief—that searing, hot, ball of conviction in my gut—is why I am no longer a believer. Yet I still pray. I pray that I will join Mother in the sweet, peaceful oblivion that is as far away from The Plan as possible.
I am doomed to remember a woman with a wrecked voice, not because of her voice, or because she was the dimmest person I ever knew, or even because she was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because she is the reason I no longer believe in God. I am no longer a Christian because of Sarah Palin.
I met her at a prayer breakfast after she had been selected as my running mate. She was pretty in a J.C. Penny catalog model sense, although she was not rich enough for my tastes. It was when she opened her mouth that I realized how unique she was. She had a voice that sounded as if it came from another time zone. Now I’m convinced that it was a voice not entirely of this world.
“HI YA, JOHN. I’M SARAH,” she said. “WE’RE GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.” She spoke with a series of tongue clicks and winks that made me think she had Tourette’s. I think she had all of those tics because the endless reserves of incompetence and incoherence that bubbled beneath her soul needed to escape in any way possible.
Her manicured hand had mine in a crushing shake. “DO YOU LIKE HUNTING?” she asked me.
I did not, but it was an election season, and I did not want to appear less manly than my female running mate. “Sure,” I said.
“WE SHOULD GO. BRING YOUR MOM,” Sarah said with a wink.
It took some cajoling, but I convinced Mother that this would be a great photo opportunity for my campaign. I dispatched my aides to the nearest Cabella’s store to purchase suitable attire. When Mother and I arrived for the hunt, wearing orange jackets and hats, Sarah stood in full camouflage, her face painted the same green and black pattern as her outfit. She carried a large rifle on her shoulder. She leaned against a helicopter, bathed in the machine-gun bursts of flash bulbs from the reporters. “Oh, dear,” my mother said.
“Why do we need a helicopter?” I asked.
“I LIKE TO HUNT FROM THE AIR,” Sarah said. “LIKE A BALD EAGLE. ONLY WITH A GUN.”
I saw Mother blanch, but in her classic WASP demeanor, she swallowed all emotion and plastered a smile across her face. “Sounds splendid,” she said, climbing into the helicopter.
We flew above the forest. “TAKE THE FIRST SHOT,” Sarah said. I spotted a moose down below, in a break among the trees. I aimed and fired, missing, and sending our prey galloping back into cover.
“YOU HAVE TO LEAD,” Sarah said. “LIKE THIS.”
She spotted another moose. Raising her rifle to her shoulder, she turned quickly to her right to track the animal. The gun barrel slammed into Mother, who lost her grip and tumbled out of the open chopper door. I screamed and grabbed for her, but my hands came away with only her orange hunting cap.
“OOPS,” said Sarah.
At the funeral, I said that it was an accident and that I didn’t hold Sarah accountable. Sarah said she was sorry, although she told the reporters, “THAT’S WHY THEY SAY BUCKLE UP FOR SAFETY.” Inside, I wanted to throttle her, to crush the very box that produced that voice. Instead, I smiled and hugged Sarah in front of reporters, swallowing my fiery rage for political gain. It’s what Mother would have wanted.
We met before the Republican convention and discussed policy points. When I asked her about her position on science, she said, “THE DINOSAURS DIED OUT BECAUSE NOAH DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH ROOM ON THE ARK.” We talked about health care, and she said, “JESUS IS THE BEST DOCTOR YOU’LL EVER HAVE, AND THERE’S NO PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS, EVEN IF YOU’RE JEWISH.” Regarding Iraq, she said we had to stay because “QUITTERS NEVER PROSPER.”
“No, it’s, ‘Cheaters never prosper,’” I corrected her.
“THEY DO IF THEY DON’T GET CAUGHT,” she answered.
After consulting with my advisors, I told her, “Maybe the convention is not the best place to discuss policy. Just go out there and be yourself.”
“WHO ELSE WOULD I BE?” she asked. “I COULD BE SOMEONE ELSE, THOUGH. I WAS IN A SCHOOL PLAY ONCE. I PLAYED A TREE.”
The eve of the convention, I could not sleep. What had I done? How could I ask America to vote for this woman when I wouldn’t vote for her?
But then it happened. She stepped in front of the microphone and won over not just the party, but America. She was folksy, charismatic, and not dim. “You did great,” I told her when she came off the stage.
“I HAD ALL THESE THINGS I WAS GOING TO SAY,” she said. “BUT THEN ALL THESE WORDS APPEARED BEFORE MY EYES, LIKE MAGIC. I JUST READ THEM, AND THEY SCROLLED DOWN AND MORE APPEARED AND THEN PEOPLE CLAPPED. I THINK JESUS WAS SPEAKING THROUGH ME.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to go out and speak the magic words too.”
“YOU SHOULD SAY THAT ‘COMMUNITY ORGANIZER’ IS A CODE WORD FOR ‘SECRET MUSLIM.,’” she said.
“I will if that’s what Jesus writes,” I replied.
The polls shot up and what looked like certain political doom turned into a convention miracle. Maybe I was wrong about Sarah. Maybe I really did not understand what ordinary Americans wanted.
“THAT’S EXACTLY RIGHT,” she told me. “I’M LIKE THEM. OR THEY’RE LIKE ME. AND YOU NEED TO SHOW THAT YOU’RE ONE OF US.”
She started telling me about The Plan. It came to her in a dream. “I SAW A MAN, UNDER A SINK. I COULDN’T SEE HIS FACE, JUST THE TOP OF HIS HINEY STICKING OUT OF HIS JEANS. YOU WERE IN THE SINK, NOT REAL SIZE, BUT TINY SIZE. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked her.
“I DON’T THINK THE PIPES ARE REALLY PIPES. THEY’RE AMERICA. WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT WHO’S GOING TO FIX THE PIPES.”
I looked at her, thanked her, and told her I would take her advice under advisement. “WOW, NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THAT BEFORE,” she beamed.
She started doing interviews, and things turned disastrous. When asked about looking for oil in ANWAR, she said, “I HAVE THE SAME BELIEF ABOUT OIL THAT I DO ABOUT SNUGGLE TIME WITH TODD: DRILL WHERE YOU WANT, AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, WITHOUT ANY PROTECTION.” She told Katie Couric that she had a plan for dealing with Russia. “IT’S LIKE D-DAY, ONLY WITHOUT NAZIS. AND WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS.”
“Sarah,” I told her. “You have to watch what you say.”
“I WAS,” she said, “BUT THE JESUS WORDS DIDN’T APPEAR, SO I SAID WHAT I HEARD IN MY HEAD. GOD TALKS TO ME THAT WAY, TOO.”
After another meeting with my advisors, we fixed it so she would only talk when she had ‘Jesus Words’ in front of her—at least until we could get her to memorize the Jesus Words we wanted her to say. But the damage was done. The media had a field day with her. One evening, she telephoned me. Her voice was quick and her pitch a full tone higher. The receiver was like a diamond-cutter sawing at my eardrums.
“JOHN,” she yelped. “I’M ON THE TV, BUT I’M ALSO RIGHT HERE. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?”
I turned on the set. “Which channel?” I asked.
“CHANNEL SEVEN,” she said.
Channel seven on my system was the cable guide. “Which network?”
“THE ONE THAT’S ON CHANNEL SEVEN.”
I eventually found what she was looking at. “Sarah,” I said, “That’s not you. That’s Tina Fey.”
“WHO?”
“An actress playing you.”
She paused for a moment. “WHEN DID THEY MAKE A MOVIE ABOUT ME?”
My political fortunes continued to slide. Privately, I resigned myself to losing. But Sarah would not accept defeat. She kept admonishing me to follow The Plan, even though she didn’t know what The Plan really was.
Sarah called me. “TURN ON YOUR TV TO CHANNEL 32.”
After some investigation, I determined she was watching CNN. They were running a piece on my opponent, who was being questioned on a campaign stop by a plumber named Joe. I asked her what was so important.
“THAT’S THE GUY WHO WAS FIXING THE PIPES IN MY DREAM,” she said, her voice giddy. I asked her how she could know that when she had not seen the man’s face. “I JUST KNOW,” she said. “YOU HAVE TO TALK ABOUT HIM. IT’S THE PLAN.”
I may never know why I listened to her. Maybe I was desperate. Maybe I wanted to seem like a man of the people. And maybe—and this is what I think, deep down, is the answer—I wanted to believe. I wanted to be part of the America that thought they could find answers in dreams and Jesus Words, to be able to just believe what you wanted, without the gnawing fear of being wrong.
During the debate, I didn’t just talk about Joe the Plumber. I invoked his name over and over, making him my prayer, my mantra, my hymn to the average American that my running mate so clearly exemplified. When I finished, Sarah greeted me as I left the stage.
“IT’S GOING TO WORK. IT’S THE PLAN.”
The part that haunts me, more than anything, is that I believed her.
Of course, it didn’t work. It failed spectacularly, and in many respects, The Plan made me look even more out of touch than ever. On the night of the election, after I conceded, I turned to Sarah.
“So much for your plan.”
“I KNOW. I THINK I MISUNDERSTOOD THE DREAM. DREAMS ARE HARD, LIKE MATH.”
She looked genuinely sad, and for a moment, I felt bad about hurting her feelings. I hugged her and told her that was okay, that we gave it our best shot.
“I HAD ANOTHER DREAM,” she said. “IT WAS 2012 AND PEOPLE WERE CALLING ME ‘MADAM PRESIDENT,’ LIKE ON BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. ONLY IT WAS REAL LIFE AND NOT IN SPACE. MAYBE THE PLAN WAS TO GET ME THE EXPERIENCE I NEEDED SO I COULDBE PRESIDENT.”
“So you’re saying that The Plan—God’s plan—was for me to lose so that you could become president?” I asked her.
“YES,” she said. “AND IF I WIN, YOU CAN BE MY VICE-PRESIDENT. IF YOU’RE STILL ALIVE.”
For the second time, I believed her. That God wanted her to become the leader of America because she was the future of America. And that belief—that searing, hot, ball of conviction in my gut—is why I am no longer a believer. Yet I still pray. I pray that I will join Mother in the sweet, peaceful oblivion that is as far away from The Plan as possible.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How did we celebrate our Super Bowl victory?
10) Filled the streets of Pittsburgh with molten steel to preserve the city just as it was when the Steelers won their sixth title.
9) Overturned and burned any car with Arizona plates.
8) Went to Disneyland and shot up It’s a Small World.
7) Added masking agent to the postgame champagne.
6) Made a trophy out of the buffalo wing we choked on when Holmes caught the winning TD pass.
5) Added new love stains to our Ben Roethlisberger Fathead.
4) Called Kurt Warner to tell him it’s Jesus and, because he didn’t win the game, he’ll be left behind.
3) Vowed to not change out of Steelers jersey until next season, no matter how much wife threatens divorce.
2) Conceived our next child, Santonio Polamalu Tomlin (or Santonia if it’s a girl).
1) Put that sixth championship ring on something other than a finger.
9) Overturned and burned any car with Arizona plates.
8) Went to Disneyland and shot up It’s a Small World.
7) Added masking agent to the postgame champagne.
6) Made a trophy out of the buffalo wing we choked on when Holmes caught the winning TD pass.
5) Added new love stains to our Ben Roethlisberger Fathead.
4) Called Kurt Warner to tell him it’s Jesus and, because he didn’t win the game, he’ll be left behind.
3) Vowed to not change out of Steelers jersey until next season, no matter how much wife threatens divorce.
2) Conceived our next child, Santonio Polamalu Tomlin (or Santonia if it’s a girl).
1) Put that sixth championship ring on something other than a finger.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday Random 11
It’s one more random than 10!
I was talking to one of my friends about politics this weekend, and I got on the subject of why I went from being conservative to a liberal. It boiled down to two things: the anti-intellectualism of the post-Gingrich GOP, with its emphasis on faith over reason; and the policing of personal behavior, instead of letting people manage their morality themselves.
Part of that policing involves the annoying overhyping of how depraved American culture has become, that we’re a “culture of anything goes.” Nothing exposes that myth more than Super Bowl week. It’s the biggest game of the year, and nothing adds to the excitement of sport like a little wagering on the side. Yet I can’t make a bet on the game because it’s against the law. I have to jump through a bunch of hoops and send my money to offshore agencies which may or may not be run by drug cartels or Al Qaeda or Danny Gans. I don’t find the effort worth it, especially since I am terrible at betting on sports anyway, so I don’t bother. But it’s such a crock of shit that our society is “out of control” when I can’t put $20 on Baby Jesus giving Kurt Warner another Super Bowl.
However, I am also a big believer in questioning your own beliefs, especially when confronted by evidence that suggests the other side may be on to something.
While I have given up on online sports wagering, I play poker online regularly, as does The Lovely Becky. A couple years ago, we did jump through the hoops of getting our money into an account at a poker site that rhymes with Bull Shilt, because the only thing worse than listening to a sermon about the evils of gambling is playing poker for fake money.
Since then, we’ve managed to win enough that we didn’t need to deposit additional money. In fact, at one point, we went on a pair of tears. We managed to go from $5 tournaments to $10 ones to $24 ones. We had enough money that we actually talked about cashing some of it out.
Of course, the poker gods taketh more than they giveth, and we went on a reverse tear that was like watching the Cubs collapse in the playoffs. It was hard to go back to the cheaper games, in part because the more expensive ones featured better players, and we both damaged our bankrolls by lingering longer in expensive waters than we should have. However, when it became clear that we either had to go cheap or go through the hoops of depositing more real money in our accounts, we grudgingly went back to the $5 games.
I mentioned this the other night when I was talking to TLB about how much we had in our accounts: would we have taken this more thrifty approach if it was really easy to deposit our money? I’m sure the answer is no, and it was in fact the efforts of the American Purity Police that kept me from dumping more into my account and probably losing more money. They may not have saved my soul, but they certainly saved me some money.
It sucks to realize that.
1) “Going Mobile,” The Who. Speaking of going mobile, how about Governor Blago getting kicked to the curb? That’s a man who needs a reality show. We could see him jogging, shoplifting from the store, getting his hair done and asking what the stylist is going to do for him if he leaves her a tip. It takes a lot to get the good people of Illinois, who anticipate corruption like they anticipate snow every winter, to sit up and say, “wow, that’s pretty corrupt.”
2) “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better,” The Byrds. I do feel better now that the waste of our 43rd president has been flushed back to Texas, but the aftermath is certainly depressing. It’s going to be a long time before we right the ship.
3) “Green Arrow,” Yo Lo Tengo. This song certainly helps, though. A quiet, beautiful instrumental track that feels like dusk descending on my ears.
4) “Run to the Hills,” Iron Maiden. I have to give them credit for writing a song sympathetic to plight of American Indians, but it makes me laugh because I watched “The Cigar Store Indian” episode of Seinfeld last night. The scene where Jerry is going out with the Native American woman and tries to avoid saying words like “reservation” and “scalper” is both funny and a biting comment about how much we’ve demonized and stereotyped the original Americans. BTW, this video has got some amazing pants in it.
5) “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey,” The Beatles. Their greatest song title. I also see that the creationists were at it in Texas again, losing their bid to expose the “weaknesses” of evolution. In an earlier article about this, the New York Times mentioned that the head of the Texas State Board of Education, Dr. Don McLeroy, is not just a creationist. Oh no, he’s a Young Earth Creationist, who thinks the earth is a few thousand years old, because dag gummit, that’s what the Bible says. Like I said to Michael Baines earlier, how do you become the head of a state educational board when you clearly hate education?
6) “Ride,” Joe Satriani. One of the best Guitar Heroes, who manages to be flashy without wanking like this Swedish meatball.
I am facing a bit of a fake music game dilemma. Both of my fake plastic toy guitar game controllers are dying. My old Guitar Hero one won’t strum, and the Rock Band one has always been a little wonky and imprecise. I told this to The Lovely Becky last night while I was playing (and she was playing poker), after my own ham-fisted strumming coupled with the controller’s malfunctioning made one guitar solo sound like a coked-up Neil Young playing in a clothes dryer. “Just get another one,” she said. She really is quite lovely.
The problem is I feel like a fool. I have already gone through TWO fake guitars, and now I need another one because I can’t quite play my fake music game at the level of expertise I would like. A normal person would either say enough is enough, or realize that, fake or no, said game provides hours of real pleasure and another guitar is no big deal. Instead I have to spend too much time analyzing this before eventually succumbing and buying the goddamned thing anyway. This is how I make myself nuts.
Of course, I have the money to buy a new controller because I haven’t been spending all of it on poker.
7) “No More My Lawd,” Ollabelle. This is how you can make Christian music that doesn’t sound like Tiffany singing about holding hands with Jesus. TLB and I are friends with Ollabelle’s bass player, and we got a big thrill when we saw them play on Conan O’Brien a few years ago. Why is that? We were of course happy for him and the band’s success (he may be the nicest person in the music business), but why do we take such pride in “Hey, I know that guy”?
8) “Suffer,” Bad Religion. Their songs are like lectures set to punk rock. I liked going to class in college (usually) and I like punk, so they don’t bug me the way they bug some people.
9) “The Fox in the Snow,” Belle & Sebastian. That might be what’s leaving tracks outside my back door. By the way, we’ve hit nearly 160 inches of snow for the winter. And only two more months to go!
10) “Sing for the Moment,” Eminem. OH FACK, IS THAT AEROSMITH? I DON’T LIKE AEROSMITH EXCEPT FOR “SWEET EMOTION.” THIS IS LIKE RAP KARAOKE.
11) “The Boy With the Thorn in His Side,” The Smiths. OH FACK, I’M SO FACKING MISERABLE BECAUSE NO ONE LOVES ME….*cough*, ahem, sorry. Hard to turn that off. Here’s my imitation of every Smiths song: I cried and I cried and I cried, oh did I tell you how I cried?
Enjoy yourselves this weekend.
I was talking to one of my friends about politics this weekend, and I got on the subject of why I went from being conservative to a liberal. It boiled down to two things: the anti-intellectualism of the post-Gingrich GOP, with its emphasis on faith over reason; and the policing of personal behavior, instead of letting people manage their morality themselves.
Part of that policing involves the annoying overhyping of how depraved American culture has become, that we’re a “culture of anything goes.” Nothing exposes that myth more than Super Bowl week. It’s the biggest game of the year, and nothing adds to the excitement of sport like a little wagering on the side. Yet I can’t make a bet on the game because it’s against the law. I have to jump through a bunch of hoops and send my money to offshore agencies which may or may not be run by drug cartels or Al Qaeda or Danny Gans. I don’t find the effort worth it, especially since I am terrible at betting on sports anyway, so I don’t bother. But it’s such a crock of shit that our society is “out of control” when I can’t put $20 on Baby Jesus giving Kurt Warner another Super Bowl.
However, I am also a big believer in questioning your own beliefs, especially when confronted by evidence that suggests the other side may be on to something.
While I have given up on online sports wagering, I play poker online regularly, as does The Lovely Becky. A couple years ago, we did jump through the hoops of getting our money into an account at a poker site that rhymes with Bull Shilt, because the only thing worse than listening to a sermon about the evils of gambling is playing poker for fake money.
Since then, we’ve managed to win enough that we didn’t need to deposit additional money. In fact, at one point, we went on a pair of tears. We managed to go from $5 tournaments to $10 ones to $24 ones. We had enough money that we actually talked about cashing some of it out.
Of course, the poker gods taketh more than they giveth, and we went on a reverse tear that was like watching the Cubs collapse in the playoffs. It was hard to go back to the cheaper games, in part because the more expensive ones featured better players, and we both damaged our bankrolls by lingering longer in expensive waters than we should have. However, when it became clear that we either had to go cheap or go through the hoops of depositing more real money in our accounts, we grudgingly went back to the $5 games.
I mentioned this the other night when I was talking to TLB about how much we had in our accounts: would we have taken this more thrifty approach if it was really easy to deposit our money? I’m sure the answer is no, and it was in fact the efforts of the American Purity Police that kept me from dumping more into my account and probably losing more money. They may not have saved my soul, but they certainly saved me some money.
It sucks to realize that.
1) “Going Mobile,” The Who. Speaking of going mobile, how about Governor Blago getting kicked to the curb? That’s a man who needs a reality show. We could see him jogging, shoplifting from the store, getting his hair done and asking what the stylist is going to do for him if he leaves her a tip. It takes a lot to get the good people of Illinois, who anticipate corruption like they anticipate snow every winter, to sit up and say, “wow, that’s pretty corrupt.”
2) “I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better,” The Byrds. I do feel better now that the waste of our 43rd president has been flushed back to Texas, but the aftermath is certainly depressing. It’s going to be a long time before we right the ship.
3) “Green Arrow,” Yo Lo Tengo. This song certainly helps, though. A quiet, beautiful instrumental track that feels like dusk descending on my ears.
4) “Run to the Hills,” Iron Maiden. I have to give them credit for writing a song sympathetic to plight of American Indians, but it makes me laugh because I watched “The Cigar Store Indian” episode of Seinfeld last night. The scene where Jerry is going out with the Native American woman and tries to avoid saying words like “reservation” and “scalper” is both funny and a biting comment about how much we’ve demonized and stereotyped the original Americans. BTW, this video has got some amazing pants in it.
5) “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey,” The Beatles. Their greatest song title. I also see that the creationists were at it in Texas again, losing their bid to expose the “weaknesses” of evolution. In an earlier article about this, the New York Times mentioned that the head of the Texas State Board of Education, Dr. Don McLeroy, is not just a creationist. Oh no, he’s a Young Earth Creationist, who thinks the earth is a few thousand years old, because dag gummit, that’s what the Bible says. Like I said to Michael Baines earlier, how do you become the head of a state educational board when you clearly hate education?
6) “Ride,” Joe Satriani. One of the best Guitar Heroes, who manages to be flashy without wanking like this Swedish meatball.
I am facing a bit of a fake music game dilemma. Both of my fake plastic toy guitar game controllers are dying. My old Guitar Hero one won’t strum, and the Rock Band one has always been a little wonky and imprecise. I told this to The Lovely Becky last night while I was playing (and she was playing poker), after my own ham-fisted strumming coupled with the controller’s malfunctioning made one guitar solo sound like a coked-up Neil Young playing in a clothes dryer. “Just get another one,” she said. She really is quite lovely.
The problem is I feel like a fool. I have already gone through TWO fake guitars, and now I need another one because I can’t quite play my fake music game at the level of expertise I would like. A normal person would either say enough is enough, or realize that, fake or no, said game provides hours of real pleasure and another guitar is no big deal. Instead I have to spend too much time analyzing this before eventually succumbing and buying the goddamned thing anyway. This is how I make myself nuts.
Of course, I have the money to buy a new controller because I haven’t been spending all of it on poker.
7) “No More My Lawd,” Ollabelle. This is how you can make Christian music that doesn’t sound like Tiffany singing about holding hands with Jesus. TLB and I are friends with Ollabelle’s bass player, and we got a big thrill when we saw them play on Conan O’Brien a few years ago. Why is that? We were of course happy for him and the band’s success (he may be the nicest person in the music business), but why do we take such pride in “Hey, I know that guy”?
8) “Suffer,” Bad Religion. Their songs are like lectures set to punk rock. I liked going to class in college (usually) and I like punk, so they don’t bug me the way they bug some people.
9) “The Fox in the Snow,” Belle & Sebastian. That might be what’s leaving tracks outside my back door. By the way, we’ve hit nearly 160 inches of snow for the winter. And only two more months to go!
10) “Sing for the Moment,” Eminem. OH FACK, IS THAT AEROSMITH? I DON’T LIKE AEROSMITH EXCEPT FOR “SWEET EMOTION.” THIS IS LIKE RAP KARAOKE.
11) “The Boy With the Thorn in His Side,” The Smiths. OH FACK, I’M SO FACKING MISERABLE BECAUSE NO ONE LOVES ME….*cough*, ahem, sorry. Hard to turn that off. Here’s my imitation of every Smiths song: I cried and I cried and I cried, oh did I tell you how I cried?
Enjoy yourselves this weekend.
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