Rock Star The Porn Suave Saga was not a memorable experience for most of us. Sometimes, I am a part of most of us. Most of the time I am not part of most of us, but in this case, I am. I had to re-read my blogs about the last season of Rock Star to re-horrify myself in order to write this piece. The question is: Is this the LAST season for Rock Star? I haven’t read anything about its future. In fact I haven’t read anything at all since the season ended. I spend my days ignoring words. It’s not as easy as you would think especially if you read to the blind, like I do. “Mr. Rub, I don’t like this book, all the words are in gibberish.” “Yes, dear blind person, Stephen King’s later works aren’t as good as his earlier ones. You should have chosen The Shining for me to read to you instead of Bliimvlidly Fon Goffnofbilshly.”
Are they planning a third season of Rock Star? If so, what will it be, RockStar: Elvis? RockStar: Dexey’s Midnight Runners? RockStar: ABBA? RockStar: HeeHaw? RockStar: Sonny and Cher? That’s it! Cher needs a new Sonny. She’s been full of herself ever since The Sonny and Cher show ended. She needs a shorter, less talented and politically aware patsy by her side to bring equilibrium back into her life. That poor woman. Mark Burnett has saved the lives of the Farriss brothers and Tommy Lee, it’s high time he worked his magic to save the tragedy that is Cher Bono Allman Simmons Geffen Stoltz Kilmer Sambora and possibly Clapton. Out of all of those wonderful men she has befriended over the years, she has never found another Sonny. Neither has Mary Whitaker. I’m calling Mark Burnett right now!
OK, I’m back. Mark said he’d think about it, but he doesn’t know who Mary Whitaker is. He thinks he’s heard of Cher. If he makes it happen and if it is successful, he said he would send me a free The Apprentice: Martha Stewart smock.
Since the future of the RockStar:Whatever curiosity is murky (note: if you do happen to know what is going on with the show, please do not tell me. I want it to be a surprise when Mark Burnett calls me back about Cher. And, he will call me back.) all we have is the brain damage that the first two seasons inflicted upon us, the second more so than the first. The Marty Season, as I like to call the first season, did not cause so much brain damage as it caused JDidiots to crawl out from underneath their discarded toilet brush shelters to bore the rest of us with their inane claims of JD worthiness. The INXS fell for it. The rest of us fell for Marty, right kids? Let’s hear it for MARTY!!! Woooooooo! You know, when he sings, he thinks about me.
My brain damage happens to be wondering what the RockStar: Suave Porn contestants are doing with themselves these days. Golly, it’s been almost five months since the show ended. Certainly, they have put their lives back together by now. Through the miracle that is the Internet and an outmoded tool some refer to as imagination, I conducted extensive research to unearth the goings on of our second favorite group of Rock Star contestants. Below are the findings of my findings. Read carefully. These findings may surprise you. They may also make perfect sense. Or somewhere in between. Rest assured they are, indeed, findings. That should provide you some solace. Before I found them, they were lostings, or maybe misplacedings, or possibly who-caresings. It doesn’t matter what they were, they are now findings. Stop wallowing in the past. We don’t care how you got to the party, as long as you brought some muffins.
Storm Large – Storm was a little more upset about being cut from the show than she let on. She began eating constantly and ballooned to well over four hundred pounds. At some point her clothes did not fit her anymore, and she was too depressed to buy new ones. She became a nudist. One day she was having a web teleconference with her grandma and a delivery guy (nitrous oxide tanks) at her grandma’s house happened to get a look at the nude, fat Storm and became fetishly aroused. He pursued Storm, but she would have none of him. He persisted. She resisted. His will was stronger than hers. He did not want any physical contact, only the pleasure of watching her from his pc. So, she loaded up the truck and started The Fat Nude Storm web cam site. Not only does she attract people with large women fetishes, she also gets the occasional weather enthusiast. She has never been happier, especially when she drips chocolate sauce on herself.
Ryan Star – Ryan attempted to ignite his career by exploiting the fizzle that was the response to his original song, Back Seat Doinking Before Death or whatever it was called. He used the concept to brand himself. Unfortunately, George W. Bush has created such a safe global environment for US citizens to live in that the idea of somebody pelting us with atom bombs seems unfathomable, so nobody bought into the concept of making love as a beautiful curtain call to the cheers of nuclear devastation. I’m kidding, of course. We’ll all be dead soon, thanks to Bush. The fact is, the song sucked and so did Ryan. But, he stuck with his brand. Never compromise the integrity of the brand! Lately, he’s been selling himself to bachelor parties for live sex shows in the back seat of cars. He has a giant piece of cardboard with a mushroom cloud on it drawn in crayon that he uses as a back drop. It looks more real than you might imagine. Sometimes he climbs things and can’t figure out how to get down if they pitch in and extra fifty dollars.
Toby Rand – Being a consummate opportunist, Toby is trying to take advantage of the death of Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, to become America's next Australian Sweetheart. First, it was The Naked Vicar, then Crocodile Dundee, and then, mistakenly, Russell Crowe until he admitted being from New Zealand, and he is too much of a dick to be considered a “sweetheart", and then Steve Irwin. Since the crocodile motif seems to have been the most beloved by Americans, Toby has invented the persona “Crocodile EVS”. Whenever he comes into contact with a crocodile or the subject comes up in conversation, he simply replies “EVS” (meaning “whatever”), which ties in the popular catch phrase he introduced to the world on the Rock Star show. Paul Hogan (Crocodile Dundee) has agreed to help Toby since he has nothing better to do. However, people close to Toby feel that Paul Hogan is using Toby as a puppet sweetheart and intends to overthrow any success Toby achieves by the time the next Crocodile Dundee movie (Planet of the Crocodiles) comes out in 2011.
Patrice Pike – Patrice tried exploiting the contacts she made in Hollywood during the show to procure a personal assistant position with Ellen DeGeneres. She did get an interview with Ellen’s manager, but was not asked back for a second interview when they found out she was bi-sexual. They claimed it was potentially characteristic of Patrice’s inability to commit herself to a project. So she painted “Mystery Machine” on her VW van and is now driving around the United States solving supernatural mysteries with her dog, Labia Dooby-Doo. Sometimes she receives help from the Harlem Globetrotters or Phyllis Diller. This is actually a ploy to get close to Sarah Mclachlan. Patrice heard Sarah’s house may be haunted. She figured if she could solve the mystery behind the haunting, Sarah would consider redeploying the Lilith Fair festival and giving her the morning spot on the main stage, since Patrice has written several brunch appropriate songs. Unfortunately for Patrice, Sarah is expected to award the house cleaning bid to that freaky stumpy woman from Poltergeist.
Magni – Magni decided to go back to Iceland to make up some lost time with his family. Not only did he miss his son’s first steps, he also missed his son’s first electrical outlet encounter, his first pots and pans concert on the kitchen floor and his first standing broad jump (1 foot, 3 inches). Magni’s cab driver mistook Greenland for Iceland and dropped him off there instead. Magni argued they were on the wrong island, but since he could not convince the cab driver that just because there was so much ice it didn’t mean they were on Iceland, he was stuck there. The cabbie replied in a Cornish accent with a repetitive “What do you want, Bermuda?” until Magni paid him, without a tip. It was there that Magni discovered first hand affects of global warming, when his pumpkin garden was continuously washed out from the run off of melting glaciers. Magni took action and formed a coalition of concerned citizens who are fighting global warming by keeping their refrigerator doors open.
Zayra Alvarez – Zayra is attempting to recreate herself as Eva Peron as depicted by Madonna in Evita. However, instead of Argentina, she is trying to take over the state government of Montana. She faces a couple of obstacles in her quest. First, she is unable to find any Montana colonels to seduce so she has set her sights on Montana’s Lieutenant Governor, John Bohlinger, since a lieutenant is kind of like a colonel. Although Mr. Bohlinger has seriously considered her offers, he politely declined, and he outright shut down the idea of changing his last name to Peron, fearing he would lose his identity with the voters. Second, she is scaring the people of Montana by singing at them “Don't cry for me Montana, The truth is I never lived here, All through Rock Star days, My crazy costumes, I kept my weird stage moves, Don't keep your distance”. Frankly, they think she’s a little nutty.
Jenny Galt – Jenny became a prolific writer whose fiction explores three geographies and their cultures: the Yukon, California, and the South Pacific. She experiments with many literary forms, from conventional love stories and dystopias to science fantasy. Her noted journalism includes war correspondence, boxing stories, and the life of Molokai lepers. A committed socialist, she insists against editorial pressures to write political essays and inserts social criticism in her fiction. Jenny’s great passion is agriculture, and she was well on the way of creating a new model for ranching through her Beauty Ranch when she died of kidney disease at age 40. Well, she hasn’t died yet, but that is how she’ll go. I’m certain of it.
Josh Logan – Josh woke up this morning one minute before he was supposed to start work. He put on a pair of sweats, hawked a loogie into the sink and sat down to his computer, which was left on from last night. He logged into his company’s network exactly at his start time and then lied down on his couch. He had set his computer speakers at the highest level so he could hear alerts when email and instant messages floated in. It wasn’t loud enough. Josh woke up at lunch time. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the butter dish. When he removed the cover, the three-quarters stick of butter fell to the floor where it collected numerous dog hairs. Josh spent a half hour de-hairing the butter until he decided not to have macaroni and cheese for lunch. Instead, he got a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly and treated himself to bread slice jelly dip jubilee. With jelly on his face, Josh returned to his computer and began addressing work related issues sent to him via email. Soon this practice transformed into chatting on his favorite message board. The afternoon passed quickly. The work day ended. Josh logged off the network and returned to the couch to watch a rerun of The Simpsons.
OK, this was actually a description of what my day was like today. I have no idea what Josh is doing lately, but I think he repairs lightening rods.
Matt Hoffer – Matt did not join a Duran Duran cover band, as everyone expected he would do after the show. In fact, he was duped into singing that Duran Duran song by one of Mark Burnett’s hookers and has been trying to live it down ever since. A word to the wise – do not sing songs hookers in Hollywood ask you to sing on TV. Killing the hooker did him no good, but it did provide an opportunity for an Iowa-born starlet who had stepped off the bus that same day. He moved back to Chicago and has been spotted hanging with the Lovehammers. Like Snoopy playing the vulture in A Charlie Brown Christmas, he waits for something bad to happen to Billy Sawilchik so he can become their new guitarist. Little does he know that Billy wears the Reverse Amulet of Peril. For those of you who don’t know about this sort of thing, the Reverse Amulet of Peril is actually the Amulet of Peril (which brings peril and destruction and other kinds of fatal dangerousness to the bearer. For the life of me, I don’t know why anybody would wear one, but to each his own.), but he wears it in a special way, around the waist and hanging backwards down his butt crack (don’t worry, it is made out of an emulsified polybicarbonate material that is actually pretty comfy down there. Not that I would know, but I heard good things about it.) so that the normal, unfavorable effects of the amulet are reversed, thereby protecting the bearer from the ill will of loitering Snoopy vulture type people. Matt has his work cut out for him.
Dilana – The day after she was booted from the show, Dilana filed a multi-billion dollar law suit against Phillip Morris claiming that their cigarettes did not effectively erode her vocal cords to the refined quality to entice Suave Porn. She insists she religiously followed their “Two and a Half Packs a Day to Stardom” program (which has since been removed from their web site). She argues that her voice has turned into more of a Lucille Ball on acid than a smoky seductive Roctress. Phillip Morris provided no official statement regarding the law suit, although I did get one of their reps to admit in a bar that he did her.
Dana Andrews – Dana received a special gift from the Rock Star show – Tommy Lee’s demon seed. She went back to Georgia to have the baby and raise it on her own. She enjoyed being a mother so much that she now has five children from seven different fathers. Tommy Lee sends her a check for a hundred bucks each month to support his child. To make ends meet, Dana works the overnight shift at WalMart and sells heroin on the side. The heroin dealing is more of a hobby than an occupation. It’s a habit she picked up during her Rock Star days in Hollywood. She has also added to her other keepsake from the show – her tattoo. Her body is now ninety percent covered in tattoos, depicting her entire Rock Star experience – from the time she first entered the mansion on her little toe, to the pool table scene when she received Tommy Lee that is drawn on the left side of her neck. She has a special homage to Ryan Star on her anus, but she wouldn’t let me see it.
Phil Ritchie – After being brutally tossed off the show when Suave Porn found out he was only there to get exposure for his lame band, Phil tried bolstering his rebel, devil-may-care, rock star attitude by getting moose antlers surgically implanted to each of his scapula. He claimed it would make him look like a fallen angel and people would be enchanted by him. Eventually, he got tired of people hanging their coats, hats and purses on his “angel wing skeleton” during his band's shows. He ended up cracking them off in a revolving door, leaving two hideous, giant nipple-looking things in his back. He can deal with only two people hanging their coats on him while he rocks out, so they continued their bar tour across the central eastern seaboard.
Jill Goia – Jill’s body has become possessed by the spirit of Sam Kinison. He had been lurking in the ethereal world for quite some time waiting for the perfect screeching voice to seize so he could carry on his comical message. It didn’t matter to him whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. Sam actually likes being inside of a woman’s body, if you can believe that. However, during the metaphysical transfiguration, Sam’s spirit began to accidentally rotate around its horizontal access, which caused some discombobulation in Jill’s brain. Consequently, Sam’s prior experience as a preacher melded with his latter experience as a comedian to form Jill’s new persona. She now travels the world trying to help people with Sam’s comedic routines. For example, she has just established a mission in the northern plains of Mali to tell those suffering from hunger to move to where the food is. That’s the only help she provides to them. She has also set up shelters for people with social anxiety where she conducts sessions of incessant screaming. Her most controversial cause concerns the training of lesbians to learn to lick the alphabet, with the hopes of them become self-assured enough to come out of the closet.
Chris Pierson – Chris continues to try to convince anyone who will listen (mostly convicts and people in confessional booths) that he is one of the best singers in the world, as he deduced from that fact that he was chosen to be on the Rock Star show. He was not making much progress so he penned a letter to Andy Summers when he heard The Police were planning to tour again. He included a tape of his rendition of Roxanne and assured Andy he would be available should Sting choose to “go Big Shot on their asses again and rip their rock and roll feedbags from their faces” before the tour was over. He also asked Andy Summers if he was related to Donna Summer, Suzanne Somers or Edgar Winter. Chris lives in a tent outside of his post office box in anticipation of Andy’s response.
Lukas Rossi – Lukas joined Suave Porn and was never heard of again.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sid's Bored - AI 2/27
I'm stuck in the hospital with crappy channels and have an hour to spare before having to feed myself, so let's check out AI. I haven't been watching so I'm not sure who these people are or how this works. I think the winner gets to do a movie with Eddie Murphy. This ain't a regular feature, either... if you want that stuff go visit our old friend AMAI at Islands In The Stream. I believe it's a site dedicated to Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton and home redecorating, but people seem to dig it.
First up - Phil - appears to be a Coast Guard dude that was released from his important role in the war on terror to share his gift with us. Apparently the gift of being a good karaoke guy. I won't be missing him at all when he goes away. Damn, Simon just stole my karaoke line. Then let's just say that Phil will be a fine line cook after serving his 39 tours of duty and he will probably get some consistant torn-up waitress tail by singing to them in the kitchen.
Jared is trying to accomplish something more adventurous by doing some Marvin Gaye. Because there's nothing edgier than Marvin Gaye. He looks like he just wants to hang out and tutor some underprivileged youth, but his parents are forcing him into being a man-child star. Like most of these songs, he makes me want to put on a Marvin Gaye record and forget I've ever heard this noise.
I missed AJ's backstory while trying to figure out how to upgrade my Blogger account. He picked a cool song, but it's a chick song. And while he did sing it like a chick and looked like a chick singing it, they should make him go sit with the girls and compete with them if he's going to be that way about it. Check out some Motorhead, AJ, and bring it like Lemme before you start menstruating.
Sanjaya - wow, pathetic. He's Indian, but the skinny dude put his hair up in a hat and he was a tad Prince-ish. If you dressed Prince at the Salvation Army, dumped some date-rape drug into his veins and then told him to make fun Harry Connick.
Chris - I'm sure I"m not the first to point out that he looks like Jack from the Osbournes. And he self-admittedly got the pretty hot wife despite his looks. Boring song, not much stage presence other than his Sideshow Bob haircut. Anyone that votes for this guy needs counseling.
Nick - He gushes a little too much about his girlfriend before the song, but picked a cool song (Fever) and did it without being annoying whatsoever. Not the greatest review, but I guess he should be thankful based on what I've seen so far.
Blake - He dresses like a fuckstick. Strike one. He wants to be Justin Timberlake. Strike two. He reminds you of your friend who thinks he's Justin Timberlake, you know, the one you just want to bitch slap and plant in the backyard. Strike three.
He'll probably win.
Brandon - I missed most of this performance but here are my vital signs as of 20:00 hours: Temp 37.3 C, BP 134/75, HR 81, Oxygen 99. Seemed like a pleasant enough song, but I won't be downloading that performance anytime soon. Or ever. Nor should anyone. But I bet his grandma liked it. Grandmas are like that.
Chris - Oooh, a second entry in the Timberlake subcompetition. I think Chris might be a better Justin than Blake. I still wanted to bitch slap him, but I think I'd spare planting him in any soil. Maybe he'll win.
Sundance - I saw Sundance's audition and I like him. But then he brings the most overplayed, make me want to scratch my eyes out, can't you think of anything else to request you blues club ninniies, songs - Mustang Sally. He makes it work and it's a nice change from the crap assembly line the other guys were working off of, but it wasn't much better than what you can hear on any given weekend in any given city with a fake blues club and a spare house band. I'll give him a break, but if I watch this show again, he had better be bringing the Motorhead unless he wants to end up going back to Saturday nights at the Roadhouse ($5 cover, $2.50 drafts all night long).
That's all I got. Go listen to some Maria McKee now.
First up - Phil - appears to be a Coast Guard dude that was released from his important role in the war on terror to share his gift with us. Apparently the gift of being a good karaoke guy. I won't be missing him at all when he goes away. Damn, Simon just stole my karaoke line. Then let's just say that Phil will be a fine line cook after serving his 39 tours of duty and he will probably get some consistant torn-up waitress tail by singing to them in the kitchen.
Jared is trying to accomplish something more adventurous by doing some Marvin Gaye. Because there's nothing edgier than Marvin Gaye. He looks like he just wants to hang out and tutor some underprivileged youth, but his parents are forcing him into being a man-child star. Like most of these songs, he makes me want to put on a Marvin Gaye record and forget I've ever heard this noise.
I missed AJ's backstory while trying to figure out how to upgrade my Blogger account. He picked a cool song, but it's a chick song. And while he did sing it like a chick and looked like a chick singing it, they should make him go sit with the girls and compete with them if he's going to be that way about it. Check out some Motorhead, AJ, and bring it like Lemme before you start menstruating.
Sanjaya - wow, pathetic. He's Indian, but the skinny dude put his hair up in a hat and he was a tad Prince-ish. If you dressed Prince at the Salvation Army, dumped some date-rape drug into his veins and then told him to make fun Harry Connick.
Chris - I'm sure I"m not the first to point out that he looks like Jack from the Osbournes. And he self-admittedly got the pretty hot wife despite his looks. Boring song, not much stage presence other than his Sideshow Bob haircut. Anyone that votes for this guy needs counseling.
Nick - He gushes a little too much about his girlfriend before the song, but picked a cool song (Fever) and did it without being annoying whatsoever. Not the greatest review, but I guess he should be thankful based on what I've seen so far.
Blake - He dresses like a fuckstick. Strike one. He wants to be Justin Timberlake. Strike two. He reminds you of your friend who thinks he's Justin Timberlake, you know, the one you just want to bitch slap and plant in the backyard. Strike three.
He'll probably win.
Brandon - I missed most of this performance but here are my vital signs as of 20:00 hours: Temp 37.3 C, BP 134/75, HR 81, Oxygen 99. Seemed like a pleasant enough song, but I won't be downloading that performance anytime soon. Or ever. Nor should anyone. But I bet his grandma liked it. Grandmas are like that.
Chris - Oooh, a second entry in the Timberlake subcompetition. I think Chris might be a better Justin than Blake. I still wanted to bitch slap him, but I think I'd spare planting him in any soil. Maybe he'll win.
Sundance - I saw Sundance's audition and I like him. But then he brings the most overplayed, make me want to scratch my eyes out, can't you think of anything else to request you blues club ninniies, songs - Mustang Sally. He makes it work and it's a nice change from the crap assembly line the other guys were working off of, but it wasn't much better than what you can hear on any given weekend in any given city with a fake blues club and a spare house band. I'll give him a break, but if I watch this show again, he had better be bringing the Motorhead unless he wants to end up going back to Saturday nights at the Roadhouse ($5 cover, $2.50 drafts all night long).
That's all I got. Go listen to some Maria McKee now.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Ode to the Chin
Bad, yet poignant, poetry by Captain Break-It
Many, many years ago
In a place from afar,
Out dropped a creature
From a chick named Babar.
This monster's head hit the floor
With a resounding din
Caused by the weight
Of its gigantic chin.
The doctors amputated the chin
After having a talk.
If not for this procedure
The mutant couldn't walk.
Babar finally decided
Sid be thy name since
It much better than the symbol
Formerly known as Prince
The chin remained dormant
For a plethora of years.
But this did little
To calm Babar's fears.
One day it happened,
The chin began to grow
Sometime around the period
Of Mr. Brady's fro.
Sid took his chin to college
To get a degree,
Where he met a bunch of losers
In the tower of Oglesby.
The chin was corrupted
By these wasters of life.
All that was left
Was Pink Floyd and a knife.
The deans of the school
Said in a rage,
You don't belong here,
Try the College of DuPage.
The chin went back home
To take the suburbs by storm.
For the chin could not
Be confined by a dorm.
Sid plotted his return
While attending C.O.D.,
He knew in his heart
The chin had to be free.
The Coalition awaited
His triumphant return,
There was a place called Leper House
That needed to burn.
The chin finally returned
And had grown into many
Along with our Sid
Now came Vinny and Lenny.
The chin and its trio,
With their fury unleashed,
Everyone thought,
"What a dick!"
The power of the chin
Mesmerized the masses.
Even the mighty Coalition
Couldn't make it to classes.
With the college ladies
Sid was a hit.
They swarmed to his chin
Like flies do to shit.
Attempts at his life
Were brushed aside with ease.
He even survived
A case of killer pubic fleas.
The day finally came
For him to leave school.
The chin had a business world
That it had to rule.
The chin stood up
And pointed north with his hand.
He shouted, "I'm leaving now
To be the King of SeaLand."
The chin was so bad
At routing its freight,
He was banished forever
To the Lone Star State.
The chin was welcomed
With a "Howdy, y'all".
Sid cracked a smile.
Texas would fall.
Sid is still there
To this very day.
The last I heard
He was drinking with Ray.
Some say the chin is shrinking.
I don't know about that.
I kind of think
His head has gotten fat.
Many, many years ago
In a place from afar,
Out dropped a creature
From a chick named Babar.
This monster's head hit the floor
With a resounding din
Caused by the weight
Of its gigantic chin.
The doctors amputated the chin
After having a talk.
If not for this procedure
The mutant couldn't walk.
Babar finally decided
Sid be thy name since
It much better than the symbol
Formerly known as Prince
The chin remained dormant
For a plethora of years.
But this did little
To calm Babar's fears.
One day it happened,
The chin began to grow
Sometime around the period
Of Mr. Brady's fro.
Sid took his chin to college
To get a degree,
Where he met a bunch of losers
In the tower of Oglesby.
The chin was corrupted
By these wasters of life.
All that was left
Was Pink Floyd and a knife.
The deans of the school
Said in a rage,
You don't belong here,
Try the College of DuPage.
The chin went back home
To take the suburbs by storm.
For the chin could not
Be confined by a dorm.
Sid plotted his return
While attending C.O.D.,
He knew in his heart
The chin had to be free.
The Coalition awaited
His triumphant return,
There was a place called Leper House
That needed to burn.
The chin finally returned
And had grown into many
Along with our Sid
Now came Vinny and Lenny.
The chin and its trio,
With their fury unleashed,
Everyone thought,
"What a dick!"
The power of the chin
Mesmerized the masses.
Even the mighty Coalition
Couldn't make it to classes.
With the college ladies
Sid was a hit.
They swarmed to his chin
Like flies do to shit.
Attempts at his life
Were brushed aside with ease.
He even survived
A case of killer pubic fleas.
The day finally came
For him to leave school.
The chin had a business world
That it had to rule.
The chin stood up
And pointed north with his hand.
He shouted, "I'm leaving now
To be the King of SeaLand."
The chin was so bad
At routing its freight,
He was banished forever
To the Lone Star State.
The chin was welcomed
With a "Howdy, y'all".
Sid cracked a smile.
Texas would fall.
Sid is still there
To this very day.
The last I heard
He was drinking with Ray.
Some say the chin is shrinking.
I don't know about that.
I kind of think
His head has gotten fat.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An Innovative Swarm
The WNBA began in 1997. The league has enjoyed some success, more than their predecessors, but has not gained the popularity of the men’s game. During their ten years of play, I’ve seen maybe thirty minutes of exciting WNBA action. I would probably watch more if they would broadcast it on PBS and if I liked watching basketball. I don’t watch many NBA games, either, so it’s not like I’m purposely boycotting the WNBA. I would rather play than watch. That is until both my rotator cuffs stopped rotating and my knees decided to hate me with pain.
I’m looking out my window, and a large green garbage truck is parked outside my house while the garbage man tends to my trash in the driving snow. For some reason, I don’t want that large green truck to leave. But, it did.
While experiencing my thirty minutes of WNBA viewing, over multiple sittings, I realized that the WNBA game is not much different than that of the NBA, which we should call the MNBA, and refer to only the umbrella organization over both leagues as the NBA. But the men probably don’t want to be bothered by Inuit art enthusiasts who would mistake them for the Musée National des Beaux-Arts in Quebec. It’s hard to do a lay-up when some guy is trying to get you to autograph his caribou sculpture. Why does the women’s league have to lug around an extra letter in their acronym? Because this society places greater burdens on women than it does on men, that’s why. And that’s wrong. Please remember to vote for me in the 2007 Male Feminist of the Year competition sponsored by oxygen.com. If I win, I get a $100 gift card to Crate & Barrel and a trophy in the shape of a burned bra.
In the WNBA, they dribble, pass, shoot, steal, rebound, sweat, spit, pat each other’s asses, have pillow fights, scratch each others eyes out, stop talking to each other, and if you don’t know why I’m upset, I’m not going to tell you, just like they do in the MNBA. One difference is that the MNBA has a habit of impregnating groupies out of wedlock across the country, which is something I haven’t seen in the WNBA. I wonder why that is. I remember that neither league swarms around the ball and runs around the court like a gaggle of paparazzi hounding Lindsay Lohan for a nipple shot. I didn’t notice they were not doing this at the time I was watching since I never even considered it as a basketball strategy. But then I watched my daughter and her schoolmates play in their fifth grade after school basketball program. As it turns out, the after school program girls identify a lot of aspects of basketball that the professional game is missing, but the swarm is their prevailing statement.
Since the after school program is not a league, there are no set teams. Teams are chosen at the beginning of each session from the girls in attendance. Although the teams are determined by a seemingly fair, two captain-based draft system, arguments prevail while feelings are hurt. Picking somebody first last week is not always a valid contract for a return favor the next week when last week’s first-picked girl is now the captain who is best friends (for the time being) with some other girl. Player quality is not always a factor in draft order, either, but shoe color and who sits next to whom in class seem to be.
The program is managed by Mr. Christopher, who is either a saint or really hates going home to his family. Or maybe he needs the extra $1000 a year for supervising an extracurricular activity, which he probably spends on aspirin and ear plugs. By the time I was available to attend a game, the season was just about over. Apparently, Mr. Christopher had long given up trying to teach basketball to these young ladies, and preferred to watch the clock and hope nobody was killed or maimed, while the girls re-invented the game. Little girls have a tendency to enhance their competitiveness through the dulcet sounds of screaming. Based on what I observed, they are full of ideas on how the game should actually be played, regardless of the rulebook, and were not shy about making Mr. Christopher aware of their proposed rule changes with a considerable volume of zeal. He ratified most of their suggestions, except the one about if you hit the referee (him) in the head with the ball, you get a point.
There wasn’t much passing, and when there was it was due to a dribble gone awry instead of an actual attempt to get the ball to a teammate. The girls chose to borrow from football and employ “the handoff” as a safer means of distributing the ball. Most girls would dribble the ball until one of four things happened: 1. They were swarmed by all other players who wanted the ball (including teammates) and could not move. 2. An occurrence of dribbling gone awry (see above) 3. They would actually get a clear shot and throw the ball in the general direction of the basket. 4. The school year came to an end. Once another girl stripped the ball, or was given the ball by the ball handler, she would take off running and dribbling in the most open direction, with no regard to where her basket was. The goal was to break free from the swarm and regroup at another point on the floor. For anybody that has seen a National Geographic episode, you know that this is classic swarm survival behavior. The swarm would usually catch up to the new ball handling girl in a moment or two unless she accidentally went in the direction of her basket and was able to get a shot off. Even then the swarm charged after the ball even though it was no longer officially in play. Mr. Christopher didn’t enforce the rules very much, probably because the girls changed them as they played and he couldn't keep track of them. As long as the ball stayed in bounds and nobody was crying, he kept his whistle on mute.
My daughter tried to infiltrate the hive each time it swarmed around a new queen bee ball handler, but, being smaller than everybody else she rarely penetrated the outer defenses. One time she was able to crawl between the feet of the others and pull down the sock of the ball holder. This caused the girl to drop the ball because she was upset that the uneven sock look did not go with her hair style. I figured that was going to be the highlight of the game for my daughter, a memory she could tell her grandchildren about. It was quite a nice defensive play, one that I’ve never even seen Michael Jordan do.
The swarm buzzed around the floor for about 40 minutes, with the ball accidentally going in the basket a few times. Mr. Christopher had begun sucking on his shirt collar for strength or as evidence of his pending psychosis. Eventually, my daughter did get the ball when it popped out of the swarm like an elusive bar of soap in the shower. Her instincts took over as she started dribbling for the other team’s basket. I almost shouted, “Wrong basket!” but I didn’t want to look like Kathy Lee Gifford. Whenever I shout I project a strange resemblance to Kathy Lee Gifford. I’ve been told that many times. Maybe it’s my hair. She continued to dribble with aplomb. She reminded me of Curly Neal, except with more hair. I credit the rubbly nature of my driveway and my lack of ability to fix it to account for her dribbling adeptness. If you can dribble on my driveway, which is where she practices, you can dribble on any type of nasty surface, such as Bill O’Reilley’s face (and, please do), so the smooth gym floor posed no problem for her. She zigged and zagged and zooged (like zig zagging, but on different plane), always staying one step ahead of the swarm. When she got to the other team’s basket, she looped around and headed back towards her team’s goal. She had worn out the swarm, and had a clear path to the hoop. Her only contention was Ashley Grobel, who was standing inside the key awaiting my daughter’s approach. However, Ashley’s “I want to go home” defensive technique was no match for my daughter’s “I gotta shoot this thing before I fall down” drive to the basket and subsequent power dunk, shattering the backboard glass. Well, that’s what it looked like to me as she shot-put the ball at the basket where it scraped the rim and gently teetered over it through the net. While I awaited her teammates to revel in her achievement, she looked at me with a proud yet timid, glowing little smile. I smiled back with a prouder and glorious glow. Then she was trampled by the swarm, which was more interested in the loose ball than they were that a basket had been made.
I’m not sure who won the game. It didn’t matter. My daughter fought the swarm and she won. I’m sure there are many other stories just like this one that happened to other people’s daughters during that game, but none I paid attention to. Maybe this is why the WNBA has not incorporated the swarm into their game. It may only be interesting to the parents of each player. Maybe we’ll need to wait until these innovative young ladies grow up and find themselves in positions to change the WNBA so that it becomes as popular as the men’s version of the game. Maybe they need to televise the games on PBS. Maybe the WNBA players need to learn how to impregnate groupies. I don’t know. I’m not an innovative swarming little girl. But, I live with one, and that’s good enough for me.
I’m looking out my window, and a large green garbage truck is parked outside my house while the garbage man tends to my trash in the driving snow. For some reason, I don’t want that large green truck to leave. But, it did.
While experiencing my thirty minutes of WNBA viewing, over multiple sittings, I realized that the WNBA game is not much different than that of the NBA, which we should call the MNBA, and refer to only the umbrella organization over both leagues as the NBA. But the men probably don’t want to be bothered by Inuit art enthusiasts who would mistake them for the Musée National des Beaux-Arts in Quebec. It’s hard to do a lay-up when some guy is trying to get you to autograph his caribou sculpture. Why does the women’s league have to lug around an extra letter in their acronym? Because this society places greater burdens on women than it does on men, that’s why. And that’s wrong. Please remember to vote for me in the 2007 Male Feminist of the Year competition sponsored by oxygen.com. If I win, I get a $100 gift card to Crate & Barrel and a trophy in the shape of a burned bra.
In the WNBA, they dribble, pass, shoot, steal, rebound, sweat, spit, pat each other’s asses, have pillow fights, scratch each others eyes out, stop talking to each other, and if you don’t know why I’m upset, I’m not going to tell you, just like they do in the MNBA. One difference is that the MNBA has a habit of impregnating groupies out of wedlock across the country, which is something I haven’t seen in the WNBA. I wonder why that is. I remember that neither league swarms around the ball and runs around the court like a gaggle of paparazzi hounding Lindsay Lohan for a nipple shot. I didn’t notice they were not doing this at the time I was watching since I never even considered it as a basketball strategy. But then I watched my daughter and her schoolmates play in their fifth grade after school basketball program. As it turns out, the after school program girls identify a lot of aspects of basketball that the professional game is missing, but the swarm is their prevailing statement.
Since the after school program is not a league, there are no set teams. Teams are chosen at the beginning of each session from the girls in attendance. Although the teams are determined by a seemingly fair, two captain-based draft system, arguments prevail while feelings are hurt. Picking somebody first last week is not always a valid contract for a return favor the next week when last week’s first-picked girl is now the captain who is best friends (for the time being) with some other girl. Player quality is not always a factor in draft order, either, but shoe color and who sits next to whom in class seem to be.
The program is managed by Mr. Christopher, who is either a saint or really hates going home to his family. Or maybe he needs the extra $1000 a year for supervising an extracurricular activity, which he probably spends on aspirin and ear plugs. By the time I was available to attend a game, the season was just about over. Apparently, Mr. Christopher had long given up trying to teach basketball to these young ladies, and preferred to watch the clock and hope nobody was killed or maimed, while the girls re-invented the game. Little girls have a tendency to enhance their competitiveness through the dulcet sounds of screaming. Based on what I observed, they are full of ideas on how the game should actually be played, regardless of the rulebook, and were not shy about making Mr. Christopher aware of their proposed rule changes with a considerable volume of zeal. He ratified most of their suggestions, except the one about if you hit the referee (him) in the head with the ball, you get a point.
There wasn’t much passing, and when there was it was due to a dribble gone awry instead of an actual attempt to get the ball to a teammate. The girls chose to borrow from football and employ “the handoff” as a safer means of distributing the ball. Most girls would dribble the ball until one of four things happened: 1. They were swarmed by all other players who wanted the ball (including teammates) and could not move. 2. An occurrence of dribbling gone awry (see above) 3. They would actually get a clear shot and throw the ball in the general direction of the basket. 4. The school year came to an end. Once another girl stripped the ball, or was given the ball by the ball handler, she would take off running and dribbling in the most open direction, with no regard to where her basket was. The goal was to break free from the swarm and regroup at another point on the floor. For anybody that has seen a National Geographic episode, you know that this is classic swarm survival behavior. The swarm would usually catch up to the new ball handling girl in a moment or two unless she accidentally went in the direction of her basket and was able to get a shot off. Even then the swarm charged after the ball even though it was no longer officially in play. Mr. Christopher didn’t enforce the rules very much, probably because the girls changed them as they played and he couldn't keep track of them. As long as the ball stayed in bounds and nobody was crying, he kept his whistle on mute.
My daughter tried to infiltrate the hive each time it swarmed around a new queen bee ball handler, but, being smaller than everybody else she rarely penetrated the outer defenses. One time she was able to crawl between the feet of the others and pull down the sock of the ball holder. This caused the girl to drop the ball because she was upset that the uneven sock look did not go with her hair style. I figured that was going to be the highlight of the game for my daughter, a memory she could tell her grandchildren about. It was quite a nice defensive play, one that I’ve never even seen Michael Jordan do.
The swarm buzzed around the floor for about 40 minutes, with the ball accidentally going in the basket a few times. Mr. Christopher had begun sucking on his shirt collar for strength or as evidence of his pending psychosis. Eventually, my daughter did get the ball when it popped out of the swarm like an elusive bar of soap in the shower. Her instincts took over as she started dribbling for the other team’s basket. I almost shouted, “Wrong basket!” but I didn’t want to look like Kathy Lee Gifford. Whenever I shout I project a strange resemblance to Kathy Lee Gifford. I’ve been told that many times. Maybe it’s my hair. She continued to dribble with aplomb. She reminded me of Curly Neal, except with more hair. I credit the rubbly nature of my driveway and my lack of ability to fix it to account for her dribbling adeptness. If you can dribble on my driveway, which is where she practices, you can dribble on any type of nasty surface, such as Bill O’Reilley’s face (and, please do), so the smooth gym floor posed no problem for her. She zigged and zagged and zooged (like zig zagging, but on different plane), always staying one step ahead of the swarm. When she got to the other team’s basket, she looped around and headed back towards her team’s goal. She had worn out the swarm, and had a clear path to the hoop. Her only contention was Ashley Grobel, who was standing inside the key awaiting my daughter’s approach. However, Ashley’s “I want to go home” defensive technique was no match for my daughter’s “I gotta shoot this thing before I fall down” drive to the basket and subsequent power dunk, shattering the backboard glass. Well, that’s what it looked like to me as she shot-put the ball at the basket where it scraped the rim and gently teetered over it through the net. While I awaited her teammates to revel in her achievement, she looked at me with a proud yet timid, glowing little smile. I smiled back with a prouder and glorious glow. Then she was trampled by the swarm, which was more interested in the loose ball than they were that a basket had been made.
I’m not sure who won the game. It didn’t matter. My daughter fought the swarm and she won. I’m sure there are many other stories just like this one that happened to other people’s daughters during that game, but none I paid attention to. Maybe this is why the WNBA has not incorporated the swarm into their game. It may only be interesting to the parents of each player. Maybe we’ll need to wait until these innovative young ladies grow up and find themselves in positions to change the WNBA so that it becomes as popular as the men’s version of the game. Maybe they need to televise the games on PBS. Maybe the WNBA players need to learn how to impregnate groupies. I don’t know. I’m not an innovative swarming little girl. But, I live with one, and that’s good enough for me.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Bloated Portrayal of Surrender
When I committed the aberration, I thought nothing of it. Although I sensed it was immoral, from some perspectives, I felt it fair as I was only affecting myself. The transparency of my window did not give mandatory license to observe. Eventually, the hearsay disseminated, and, of course, I abnegated it entirely. Not one person believed me. The authorities were persistent with their efforts to ensure I pay for what I had done. After an exhausting fight on my behalf, I finally acquiesced.
They subjected me to some anomalous punishment involving a rake, a few straws and some eraser shavings. Hoping that they would force me to beseech, the tormentors increased the severity of the flogging at a constant rate. I did not fall prey to their cajoling. When it was evident their will was inferior to mine, they suspended their castigation.
I formulated and presented a cogent argument for my release, assuring to them that I was not a contagion to society. I convinced them that I would not defile their community. Subsequently, I was allowed to return home where I immediately penned a letter of diatribe to my congressman expressing to him my dismay to the way I was processed. I explained the impact of my dissoluteness was felt only by me. Surely, he could respect my right to individualism within my own home.
After I had mailed the letter, I sat and pondered. Had this experience enervated me? No! In reality, it had made me much stronger. So strong, in my mind, I exonerated my persecutors. Little did they know their admonishment had only reinforced my fecund nature. I looked for novel and arresting ways to secure my role as a heretic.
The actual course of my commitment to nonconformity was indeterminate. However, I did infuse a wide variety of over-the-counter drugs into my diet. The interfusion of these pharmaceuticals and my usual libations did nothing more than grieve my depths, but I continued ingesting the combination nonetheless. I sat for weeks enduring my internal jeremiads while contemplating strategies to express my raison d’etre.
Fatefully, I received a phone call from the office of my congressman. The emissary informed me that the call was in response to my written correspondence to his reverence. I proclaimed my joy to have actually received a response from a government proxy. Luckily, before I extended too many laudations, the other man denounced my actions and chided my licentious existence. My ligneous expression revealed the shock I had felt (although he could not see me because we were conversing by phone). I began to offer my defense, but futility repressed me. The correspondent was not in the least malleable. His opinion of me remained the same. He expanded his criticism of me by informing me that what I had done was no mere peccadillo. Overcome by indifference, I hung up the phone.
Had the government abandoned me and those like me (if any)? Had I lost one of the most pragmatic securities of living in an organized, free state? Was I a man without a country, like Kurt Vonnegut? Confidence in myself waned, but not for long. I came to the conclusion that my realm was my own being and nothing more. I was not a protraction of any other entity, and no opposition could compel me to recant. Not caring if my actions were salubrious, I bought a firearm and headed into the city.
After a fortnight of roaming the streets searching for a subject upon which to relinquish my aggression, I realized I had neglected to obtain appropriate ammunition for my pistol. I explored the ground for discarded bullets, but I found a scanty supply (none, actually). I was determined not to be subsumed into the existing structure of order. Since no traveling munitions merchant came to my succor, I decided to return to my fortress to regroup.
Within the ramparts of my sanctuary, I questioned the sanity of my mission and my being. Unsuccessfully probing the inner nooks of my mind for an amelioration, I screamed the wanting words of a supplicant and received no answer. My turbid state of mind forced me to only one recourse. Though I did not desire this outcome, the rigid nature of circumstances had destroyed my usual unflappable demeanor. I accepted it. All aspirations for veneration had expired inside of me. I chose to vilify myself. Slowly, apprehensively, I closed the drapes and returned to my trousers.
They subjected me to some anomalous punishment involving a rake, a few straws and some eraser shavings. Hoping that they would force me to beseech, the tormentors increased the severity of the flogging at a constant rate. I did not fall prey to their cajoling. When it was evident their will was inferior to mine, they suspended their castigation.
I formulated and presented a cogent argument for my release, assuring to them that I was not a contagion to society. I convinced them that I would not defile their community. Subsequently, I was allowed to return home where I immediately penned a letter of diatribe to my congressman expressing to him my dismay to the way I was processed. I explained the impact of my dissoluteness was felt only by me. Surely, he could respect my right to individualism within my own home.
After I had mailed the letter, I sat and pondered. Had this experience enervated me? No! In reality, it had made me much stronger. So strong, in my mind, I exonerated my persecutors. Little did they know their admonishment had only reinforced my fecund nature. I looked for novel and arresting ways to secure my role as a heretic.
The actual course of my commitment to nonconformity was indeterminate. However, I did infuse a wide variety of over-the-counter drugs into my diet. The interfusion of these pharmaceuticals and my usual libations did nothing more than grieve my depths, but I continued ingesting the combination nonetheless. I sat for weeks enduring my internal jeremiads while contemplating strategies to express my raison d’etre.
Fatefully, I received a phone call from the office of my congressman. The emissary informed me that the call was in response to my written correspondence to his reverence. I proclaimed my joy to have actually received a response from a government proxy. Luckily, before I extended too many laudations, the other man denounced my actions and chided my licentious existence. My ligneous expression revealed the shock I had felt (although he could not see me because we were conversing by phone). I began to offer my defense, but futility repressed me. The correspondent was not in the least malleable. His opinion of me remained the same. He expanded his criticism of me by informing me that what I had done was no mere peccadillo. Overcome by indifference, I hung up the phone.
Had the government abandoned me and those like me (if any)? Had I lost one of the most pragmatic securities of living in an organized, free state? Was I a man without a country, like Kurt Vonnegut? Confidence in myself waned, but not for long. I came to the conclusion that my realm was my own being and nothing more. I was not a protraction of any other entity, and no opposition could compel me to recant. Not caring if my actions were salubrious, I bought a firearm and headed into the city.
After a fortnight of roaming the streets searching for a subject upon which to relinquish my aggression, I realized I had neglected to obtain appropriate ammunition for my pistol. I explored the ground for discarded bullets, but I found a scanty supply (none, actually). I was determined not to be subsumed into the existing structure of order. Since no traveling munitions merchant came to my succor, I decided to return to my fortress to regroup.
Within the ramparts of my sanctuary, I questioned the sanity of my mission and my being. Unsuccessfully probing the inner nooks of my mind for an amelioration, I screamed the wanting words of a supplicant and received no answer. My turbid state of mind forced me to only one recourse. Though I did not desire this outcome, the rigid nature of circumstances had destroyed my usual unflappable demeanor. I accepted it. All aspirations for veneration had expired inside of me. I chose to vilify myself. Slowly, apprehensively, I closed the drapes and returned to my trousers.
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Floor and the Dog
There is a dog. There is a floor. Through no choice of the floor, the dog is on it. The floor is under the dog. The floor sustains the dog. The dog burdens the floor. The floor suffers the dog. This is their relationship. It is not the fault of the dog. It is merely following orders.
The floor pushes back, as it also follows orders. The floor hates the dog. The dog does not realize the floor is there. The dog does not consider the option of non-support. The floor considers all other options, but is helpless to choose.
The floor is covered by carpet. The dog is covered by hair. The fibers mingle. There is no contention between the inorganic threads of the carpet and the organic strands of hair. They are happy to congregate. They make room for each other. In the event of separation, some hair will remain guests of the carpet, and some carpet will travel with the hair.
The dog bestows gifts from within to the floor. The floor accepts these gifts with dissent. The dog is relieved. The floor is burdened further. Parts of the gifts meld with the parts of the floor. The floor is slightly weakened. The dog begins to feel a void, unable to fill it until opportunity rings. The floor shares the anticipation of the dog’s portending contingency as it represents a relief for the floor. The dog yawns. The floor sighs.
The gifts of the dog interrupt the camaraderie between the community of carpet and hair. The gifts incite some of the carpet threads to retreat and compact. Most, however, continue to socialize. Those directly affected by the gifts are unable to convince the others to support their cause. A wall has been built that only time can destroy. The hair does not notice the absence of the missing fibers. It makes no attempt to penetrate the separation. The influenced portion of the carpet is drawn closer to the floor and adopts its resentment towards the dog. Together they will fester until the effects of the dog’s gifts have evaporated.
There is an overweight boy wearing muddy baseball cleats and carrying a pitchfork, a box of matches and a tap dance instructional manual. The floor is having a bad day, but realizes that the dog isn’t so bad.
The floor pushes back, as it also follows orders. The floor hates the dog. The dog does not realize the floor is there. The dog does not consider the option of non-support. The floor considers all other options, but is helpless to choose.
The floor is covered by carpet. The dog is covered by hair. The fibers mingle. There is no contention between the inorganic threads of the carpet and the organic strands of hair. They are happy to congregate. They make room for each other. In the event of separation, some hair will remain guests of the carpet, and some carpet will travel with the hair.
The dog bestows gifts from within to the floor. The floor accepts these gifts with dissent. The dog is relieved. The floor is burdened further. Parts of the gifts meld with the parts of the floor. The floor is slightly weakened. The dog begins to feel a void, unable to fill it until opportunity rings. The floor shares the anticipation of the dog’s portending contingency as it represents a relief for the floor. The dog yawns. The floor sighs.
The gifts of the dog interrupt the camaraderie between the community of carpet and hair. The gifts incite some of the carpet threads to retreat and compact. Most, however, continue to socialize. Those directly affected by the gifts are unable to convince the others to support their cause. A wall has been built that only time can destroy. The hair does not notice the absence of the missing fibers. It makes no attempt to penetrate the separation. The influenced portion of the carpet is drawn closer to the floor and adopts its resentment towards the dog. Together they will fester until the effects of the dog’s gifts have evaporated.
There is an overweight boy wearing muddy baseball cleats and carrying a pitchfork, a box of matches and a tap dance instructional manual. The floor is having a bad day, but realizes that the dog isn’t so bad.
Monday, January 08, 2007
The Twelve Woes of Toothless
This is a story of a young man’s quest for the structured, well-planned, unencumbered life he meant himself to live and the jungle of capriciousness and insensitivity that stood in his way leading to the composing of one of the greatest songs in rock and roll history.
There was a young man named Tom. One of his front teeth was missing, replaced by a whittled acorn, so his friends would call him Toothless Tom. Some factions tried to call him Squirrel-fodder Toothed Tom, but it never caught on. Once, somebody referred to him in the abbreviated form of his nickname as “Tooth”. This made Tom angry. He claimed calling him that was a contradiction of terms and he would not stand for it. So, people would only call him “Tooth” when he was seated. This woeful event was merely one example of the social afflictions Tooth would endure in his first semester in his Junior year in college. You see, Toothless Tom lived in a rented house with a group of rapscallions who didn’t much care to be bothered by the tribulations of others, especially when they were the cause of much of such misery. It took a certain breed of numbskull to put up with these fellows, and Tooth was not of that gene pool.
His torment began early in the semester when he realized one of his twenty-five cent pot pies was missing from the freezer. Most of the housemates shared food, when necessary, but Tooth was strict with his supply. He would be willing to sell you some of his food, for a profit, if you were in dire straights, but under no circumstances would he give it away, especially an extravagant item such as a pot pie. In reality, Tooth had eaten the pot pie in a drunken stupor and forgot about it. He suspected everybody as the thief and never trusted anyone again. And rightly so. Once the others learned of Tooth’s penchant for the persnickety, they looked for opportunities to abuse him, in loving and respectful ways – such as borrowing his sodas once in a while, or shaking his refrigerator so that food would slip from his shelf to the one below, at which point the item would be under the jurisdiction of Tooth’s own rule: You can only eat what is on your own shelf. Consequently, Tooth would lose rights to the food item and was unable to figure out a way to shake the refrigerator to make the food jump back up to his shelf.
There were two refrigerators in the house. Four of the roommates shared one, and three shared the other. The four person refrigerator was shared communally by those users. Food could be placed anywhere, and people were trusted to only consume their own food, but if you needed to borrow something, have at it. It was all so beautiful. Tooth stored his provisions in the three person refrigerator, where he ruled it with an iron oven mitt. Each person was to have a designated shelf and could only keep his food on that shelf. He preached to his fridgemates, “Do not even look at another man’s shelf, lest be seduced by temptation to take my butter.” Unfortunately for Tooth, the freezer had no shelves, so food was stored in a rogue and mischievous manner. Tooth had difficulty coordinating the freezer to ensure the safety of his frozen chattel. Eventually, the freezer became overloaded and disordered. Tooth could not keep track of his frosty favorites. While attempting to reorganize the freezer, he realized that there were three bags of three different kinds of beans in there. This seemed bombastically unnecessary to Tooth. Who in their right mind would ever need three kinds of beans? He believed you should buy one bag of beans, eat it, buy another one, eat that, and then buy the third. Such opulence of maintaining three different kinds of beans simultaneously was deplorable! This was an outrage. He called a house meeting to air his grievance. His plea was met by guffaws. Guffaws were the primary legislative tool in the house, slightly more popular than using indifference to settle issues.
Many of Tooth’s issues involved food. Tooth was fiscally responsible when purchasing food. One might say he had a special economical gift when stretching the value of a dollar. Still another might suggest he was miserly. Yet others, most others, would swear on their dead ant lion’s grave that he was a cheap bastard, as evidenced by his weekly eleven dollar food bill, while others would spend at least fifty dollars. His parsimony was not due to a lack of funds. Unreasonable fear of pecuniary calamity drove his thrift as he was sure the “rainy day” was just over the horizon. This fear manifested itself in an incident that nearly cost Tooth his life. He bought some chicken with one of his housemates for a cookout. The cookout had to be rescheduled from its original date, so the chicken remained in the refrigerator for nine days. When exposed to the nose on the day of the cookout, the chicken let out a screech of foul fowl odor strong enough to knock out an anosmatic pig farmer. The chicken was three days past rancid. So as not to lose the $2.48 he invested in the chicken, Tooth decided to cook it, while his co-investor chose to mooch from the rest of the cookout fare. Against the counsel of his housemates, Tooth braved the chicken. He would have certainly died of food poisoning, if not for the efforts of his housemates, the same cohabitants who filled his life with anguish, who playfully made him drink so much beer, his eager regurgitory system could not remain idle.
Most were surprised Tooth could even grill a chicken, let alone be killed by a putrid one. Having never had to cook for himself prior to moving into the house, Tooth learned by trial and error, asking his pals for help when he needed it. On his inaugural visit to the wonderful world of macaroni and cheese, he took note that the directions called for the noodles to be boiled in exactly six cups of water. Not being sure of the amount, he filled a sixteen ounce Long Island glass and inquired to his mates, “Is this six cups of water?” Yes, of course it is, Toothless. Tooth soon learned the difference between two cups and six cups as he scraped scorched macaroni from the bottom of his cooking pot.
During the daily life in the house, things tended to break. It may have had something to do with the frequent field goal kicking football games in the house or the outbreaks of wrestlemania or the sudden fumble drills or general haphazard living style of the accursed living mates. In the course of field goal kicking sessions, where a pressurized air-filled two-liter plastic bottle was kicked at a kitchen window that served as the goal posts, a couple of windows happened to break. As entropy would have it, it is much easier to break a window than it is to fix it. Consequently, these windows remained broken for quite some time. This irritated Tooth, as he saw the heat from the house escape through the broken window, thereby potentially raising the heating bill. Tooth declared that his dad said he should not have to pay his part of the heating bill until those windows were repaired. This declaration was met, of course, by guffaws from the others. To his dismay, Tooth was charged the same as every other tenant when it came time to pay the bills. The windows were eventually repaired sometime after Tooth moved out of the house.
It was not only the shenanigans of his housemates that railed Tooth. There was also the issue of his classes. Tooth was a pre-med student. Consequently, he thought his educational plight was more important than the other dwellers’, for he would be saving lives someday. He may have been correct, but the others would have none of his grumble. They were busy merry making and carousing, usually to loud levels of clanking, and were not concerned with his five physio labs and his twelve pages of homework. They argued that the library wasn’t held open four twenty-four hours a day if students were meant to study at home. If that didn’t convince Tooth his entreatment for tranquility was denied, the guffaws surely did.
Tooth made some attempts to assimilate into the cantankerous lifestyle that enveloped him. His housemates spent many days kicking the hacky sack around on the front lawn in lieu of going to class. Tooth would come home from his studies, hauling a refrigerator sized backpack full of books, and race upstairs to don his high school wrestling shoes so he could “hack in”. Unfortunately, his only hacky sack move, the awkward shin graze, did not perpetuate the hack. Tooth was not very limber and had difficulty performing any activity requiring dexterity. In fact, it was an accomplishment if he could perform his signature hacky sack move without falling. His roommates, in rare moments of sensitivity, encouraged him, but the hack circle usually dispersed shortly after Tooth’s participation.
The weekly NFL confidence pool served as another social activity for Tooth. He loved football. More importantly, he lusted after the sixteen dollar payout the pool afforded. Tooth would spend hours analyzing the match ups and meticulously ranking his choices as dictated by the rules of the pool. One week Tooth mistakenly ranked two different games with eight points. The second game, where he chose Miami to win, by pool rule, was disqualified. Miami ended up winning that game, but Tooth did not reap the benefit of gaining those eight points, because he had already won eight points on an earlier game. This faux pas was the determining difference in the standings that week. Had he submitted his picks correctly, Tooth would have won for the first time, ever, and could have eaten free for a week and a half with the winnings. He begged and pleaded with the pool commissioner, but was met with guffaws and a word of advice, “If we have no rules, we have nothing, which is pretty much what you’ve won so far.” Tooth was devastated, and was sure to impart his feelings about it each week thereafter.
To relieve his stressful existence, Tooth turned to the magical world of phone sex. He came to rely on those strangers’ voices as his perceived only source of love. They gave him strength to carry on and helped build his sense of self worth and his hand muscles. Eventually, one of his counselors fell in love with him and discovered where he lived. She fell more in love with him when she realized she lived in the neighboring town. They met, and she began to initiate the phone sex calls, for free. This practice soon interfered with Tooth’s studies and she, “Porn Queen” as his housemates called her, became a nuisance to him, no different than every other aspect of his life.
There was a young man named Tom. One of his front teeth was missing, replaced by a whittled acorn, so his friends would call him Toothless Tom. Some factions tried to call him Squirrel-fodder Toothed Tom, but it never caught on. Once, somebody referred to him in the abbreviated form of his nickname as “Tooth”. This made Tom angry. He claimed calling him that was a contradiction of terms and he would not stand for it. So, people would only call him “Tooth” when he was seated. This woeful event was merely one example of the social afflictions Tooth would endure in his first semester in his Junior year in college. You see, Toothless Tom lived in a rented house with a group of rapscallions who didn’t much care to be bothered by the tribulations of others, especially when they were the cause of much of such misery. It took a certain breed of numbskull to put up with these fellows, and Tooth was not of that gene pool.
His torment began early in the semester when he realized one of his twenty-five cent pot pies was missing from the freezer. Most of the housemates shared food, when necessary, but Tooth was strict with his supply. He would be willing to sell you some of his food, for a profit, if you were in dire straights, but under no circumstances would he give it away, especially an extravagant item such as a pot pie. In reality, Tooth had eaten the pot pie in a drunken stupor and forgot about it. He suspected everybody as the thief and never trusted anyone again. And rightly so. Once the others learned of Tooth’s penchant for the persnickety, they looked for opportunities to abuse him, in loving and respectful ways – such as borrowing his sodas once in a while, or shaking his refrigerator so that food would slip from his shelf to the one below, at which point the item would be under the jurisdiction of Tooth’s own rule: You can only eat what is on your own shelf. Consequently, Tooth would lose rights to the food item and was unable to figure out a way to shake the refrigerator to make the food jump back up to his shelf.
There were two refrigerators in the house. Four of the roommates shared one, and three shared the other. The four person refrigerator was shared communally by those users. Food could be placed anywhere, and people were trusted to only consume their own food, but if you needed to borrow something, have at it. It was all so beautiful. Tooth stored his provisions in the three person refrigerator, where he ruled it with an iron oven mitt. Each person was to have a designated shelf and could only keep his food on that shelf. He preached to his fridgemates, “Do not even look at another man’s shelf, lest be seduced by temptation to take my butter.” Unfortunately for Tooth, the freezer had no shelves, so food was stored in a rogue and mischievous manner. Tooth had difficulty coordinating the freezer to ensure the safety of his frozen chattel. Eventually, the freezer became overloaded and disordered. Tooth could not keep track of his frosty favorites. While attempting to reorganize the freezer, he realized that there were three bags of three different kinds of beans in there. This seemed bombastically unnecessary to Tooth. Who in their right mind would ever need three kinds of beans? He believed you should buy one bag of beans, eat it, buy another one, eat that, and then buy the third. Such opulence of maintaining three different kinds of beans simultaneously was deplorable! This was an outrage. He called a house meeting to air his grievance. His plea was met by guffaws. Guffaws were the primary legislative tool in the house, slightly more popular than using indifference to settle issues.
Many of Tooth’s issues involved food. Tooth was fiscally responsible when purchasing food. One might say he had a special economical gift when stretching the value of a dollar. Still another might suggest he was miserly. Yet others, most others, would swear on their dead ant lion’s grave that he was a cheap bastard, as evidenced by his weekly eleven dollar food bill, while others would spend at least fifty dollars. His parsimony was not due to a lack of funds. Unreasonable fear of pecuniary calamity drove his thrift as he was sure the “rainy day” was just over the horizon. This fear manifested itself in an incident that nearly cost Tooth his life. He bought some chicken with one of his housemates for a cookout. The cookout had to be rescheduled from its original date, so the chicken remained in the refrigerator for nine days. When exposed to the nose on the day of the cookout, the chicken let out a screech of foul fowl odor strong enough to knock out an anosmatic pig farmer. The chicken was three days past rancid. So as not to lose the $2.48 he invested in the chicken, Tooth decided to cook it, while his co-investor chose to mooch from the rest of the cookout fare. Against the counsel of his housemates, Tooth braved the chicken. He would have certainly died of food poisoning, if not for the efforts of his housemates, the same cohabitants who filled his life with anguish, who playfully made him drink so much beer, his eager regurgitory system could not remain idle.
Most were surprised Tooth could even grill a chicken, let alone be killed by a putrid one. Having never had to cook for himself prior to moving into the house, Tooth learned by trial and error, asking his pals for help when he needed it. On his inaugural visit to the wonderful world of macaroni and cheese, he took note that the directions called for the noodles to be boiled in exactly six cups of water. Not being sure of the amount, he filled a sixteen ounce Long Island glass and inquired to his mates, “Is this six cups of water?” Yes, of course it is, Toothless. Tooth soon learned the difference between two cups and six cups as he scraped scorched macaroni from the bottom of his cooking pot.
During the daily life in the house, things tended to break. It may have had something to do with the frequent field goal kicking football games in the house or the outbreaks of wrestlemania or the sudden fumble drills or general haphazard living style of the accursed living mates. In the course of field goal kicking sessions, where a pressurized air-filled two-liter plastic bottle was kicked at a kitchen window that served as the goal posts, a couple of windows happened to break. As entropy would have it, it is much easier to break a window than it is to fix it. Consequently, these windows remained broken for quite some time. This irritated Tooth, as he saw the heat from the house escape through the broken window, thereby potentially raising the heating bill. Tooth declared that his dad said he should not have to pay his part of the heating bill until those windows were repaired. This declaration was met, of course, by guffaws from the others. To his dismay, Tooth was charged the same as every other tenant when it came time to pay the bills. The windows were eventually repaired sometime after Tooth moved out of the house.
It was not only the shenanigans of his housemates that railed Tooth. There was also the issue of his classes. Tooth was a pre-med student. Consequently, he thought his educational plight was more important than the other dwellers’, for he would be saving lives someday. He may have been correct, but the others would have none of his grumble. They were busy merry making and carousing, usually to loud levels of clanking, and were not concerned with his five physio labs and his twelve pages of homework. They argued that the library wasn’t held open four twenty-four hours a day if students were meant to study at home. If that didn’t convince Tooth his entreatment for tranquility was denied, the guffaws surely did.
Tooth made some attempts to assimilate into the cantankerous lifestyle that enveloped him. His housemates spent many days kicking the hacky sack around on the front lawn in lieu of going to class. Tooth would come home from his studies, hauling a refrigerator sized backpack full of books, and race upstairs to don his high school wrestling shoes so he could “hack in”. Unfortunately, his only hacky sack move, the awkward shin graze, did not perpetuate the hack. Tooth was not very limber and had difficulty performing any activity requiring dexterity. In fact, it was an accomplishment if he could perform his signature hacky sack move without falling. His roommates, in rare moments of sensitivity, encouraged him, but the hack circle usually dispersed shortly after Tooth’s participation.
The weekly NFL confidence pool served as another social activity for Tooth. He loved football. More importantly, he lusted after the sixteen dollar payout the pool afforded. Tooth would spend hours analyzing the match ups and meticulously ranking his choices as dictated by the rules of the pool. One week Tooth mistakenly ranked two different games with eight points. The second game, where he chose Miami to win, by pool rule, was disqualified. Miami ended up winning that game, but Tooth did not reap the benefit of gaining those eight points, because he had already won eight points on an earlier game. This faux pas was the determining difference in the standings that week. Had he submitted his picks correctly, Tooth would have won for the first time, ever, and could have eaten free for a week and a half with the winnings. He begged and pleaded with the pool commissioner, but was met with guffaws and a word of advice, “If we have no rules, we have nothing, which is pretty much what you’ve won so far.” Tooth was devastated, and was sure to impart his feelings about it each week thereafter.
To relieve his stressful existence, Tooth turned to the magical world of phone sex. He came to rely on those strangers’ voices as his perceived only source of love. They gave him strength to carry on and helped build his sense of self worth and his hand muscles. Eventually, one of his counselors fell in love with him and discovered where he lived. She fell more in love with him when she realized she lived in the neighboring town. They met, and she began to initiate the phone sex calls, for free. This practice soon interfered with Tooth’s studies and she, “Porn Queen” as his housemates called her, became a nuisance to him, no different than every other aspect of his life.
He realized his life was a never ending stream of nuisances. Tooth determined that the cause of his suffering was the house that he lived in. His life was nuisance free prior to moving in. After one long semester, he chose to move out and forget the entire experience.
Unfortunately for Tooth, these were no mere housemates with which he lived. These were members of the legendary rock group Leprosy. They were genius song writers and could turn any mundane event or set of events into an extraordinary piece of music (they COULD do this, but they chose not to do it very often), especially when emotionally touched by a situation, as they were with the trials of Tooth. They were actually very sensitive human beings. Tooth would have learned this had he not been bitching constantly about every little inconvenience that came his way, or was thrust upon him, as it were. Leprosy transformed Tooth’s plight into a rock and roll anthem for the ages (borrowing the melody to The 12 Days of Christmas) to record his strife until forever. Below are the lyrics that torment Tooth until this day.
Unfortunately for Tooth, these were no mere housemates with which he lived. These were members of the legendary rock group Leprosy. They were genius song writers and could turn any mundane event or set of events into an extraordinary piece of music (they COULD do this, but they chose not to do it very often), especially when emotionally touched by a situation, as they were with the trials of Tooth. They were actually very sensitive human beings. Tooth would have learned this had he not been bitching constantly about every little inconvenience that came his way, or was thrust upon him, as it were. Leprosy transformed Tooth’s plight into a rock and roll anthem for the ages (borrowing the melody to The 12 Days of Christmas) to record his strife until forever. Below are the lyrics that torment Tooth until this day.
The Twelve Woes of Toothless
By Leprosy
Oh, the twelve woes of Toothless just happen to be
By Leprosy
Oh, the twelve woes of Toothless just happen to be
Twelve pages of homework
Eleven dollar food bill
Ten calls from porn queen
Nine day old chicken
Eight points on Miami
Seven missing sodas*
Six cups of water
FIVE PHYSIO LABS
Four useless limbs
Three kinds of beans
Two broken windows
And a pot pie in a pear tree.
All recordings of the song had been tragically lost in the Mammoth Leper** Emigration of 1987 and the band has yet to re-recorded it. Still, the lyrics remain in the hearts of all of those who care to remind children everywhere to stop whining about stuff. Sometimes on a quiet summer night at Bull Frog Lake, if you sneak in under the Forest Preserve “No Admittance” chain, and you listen carefully, you can hear the anthem being sung hauntingly in the distance. Because Leprosy has also snuck into the Forest Preserve and are drunk and wooping it up on the other side of the lake.
* revised as an acceptable replacement lyric, "Seven former roommates” after Tooth moved out. Either lyric is correct. Technically, Tooth only had six former roommates because there were only seven people living in the house at the time of Tooth, but the new lyric was written at a time when there were eight people living in the house, and everybody was too apathetic to adjust for inflation.
** Yes, they were mammoth lepers.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Lovehammer Press Release
Photo shamelessy stolen from del901, so don't blame her for the following.
Marty Casey and Lovehammers just announced their upcoming single Happy Easter (All Year Long), Casey said he's excited about the new single. "There just aren't enough rock n' roll songs about Easter, so when we were approached about doing one we saw it as an opportunity to make Easter hip again."
Happy, happy Easter, hello to a new Spring,
Hiding all our eggs, looking for some Peeps bling,
I've been waiting all year long....
Fan club members are encouraged to download the song from iTunes 50 times on Holy Thursday to help Marty Casey and Lovehammers reach the top of the charts during this most religious of weeks. Godspeed.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Pliny The Elder and the Lack of Landspeeders
Pliny the Elder
23-79
His full name was Gaius Plinius Secundus, but you can call him Pliny the Elder. He was an ancient Roman senator, military commander, lawyer, historian, scientist, writer, pin-setter, moose patroller, know-it-all, typical over-achieving busy body. Kind of like Oprah.
Presumably, he was called plain old Pliny for most of his life until his upstart namesake nephew, Pliny the Younger, came along. Had there been a third Pliny, one younger than the Younger, the Younger would have become Pliny the Middle, and the Elder would have had to be transformed to the extreme case – Pliny the Eldest, leaving the youngest to be Pliny the Youngest. Since there weren’t three Plinies we can avoid such confusing talk and simply accept the comparative nicknames, and probably forget most of this paragraph.
Pliny the Younger must have made quite an impression on the ancient Roman scene to prompt people to have to distinguish between the two Plinies. Although it has not been documented, Pliny the Younger’s prominence (or at least the threat of greatness) may have provided motivation to the Elder’s persona of being a mover and a shaker, a condition that eventually led to the Elder’s death. It turns out that Pliny the Elder had nothing to worry about, since Pliny the Younger proved himself to be a bit of a slacker and parasite.
Sure, the Younger did go on to become the governor of Bithania under the Emperor Trajan, but the Roman Empire was so huge at that time, being a governor carried as much distinction as being a homeroom monitor today. Rumor has it that his gubernatorial opponent in the election was a cheating, lying drunk who never met a bribe his denari bag couldn’t envelop. That kind of behavior might entice today’s voters, but in those days it was frowned upon, since corruption didn’t become fashionable until the Catholic church was firmly established hundreds of years later.
After Pliny the Elder’s death in 79 (not to be confused with the death of disco in 1979), the Younger took it upon himself to publish numerous writings of the Elder, enjoying every bit of the royalties and exploiting the Elder’s renown. He certainly cashed in on the Elder’s death in the press – appearing with any oracle in any forum for any price, similar to Courtney Love’s mourning of Kurt Cobain, except he never sucked on a microphone for dramatic effect. The circumstances surrounding Pliny the Elder’s death ooze of irony, which provided the Younger an engaging story from which to platform his self-promotion, proving his less than upstanding nature.
Pliny the Elder is most remembered for writing a thirty-seven volume set of encyclopedia about natural history. Oddly enough it was titled, THE NATURAL HISTORY. Above all, history defines Pliny the Elder as a scientist. Back in the early first millennium AD, the scientific technique of favor was based on observation: “If it smells like shit, looks like shit, feels like shit, plops in the toilet like shit and tastes like shit, then it’s shit!” Little did they know that it was actually Aunt Rita’s goose liver pate’. But, they couldn’t have known since they never bothered to test the validity of their observations with experimental study. This is precisely the mindset that led to the demise of the more ancient of the Plinies.
The fatal natural event that sparked Pliny the Elder’s curious eye was the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 (not to be confused with the Southeast crater eruption of Mount Etna in 1979), which destroyed the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum. (Remember that traveling museum exhibit of the plaster cast-like human forms who appeared to be swallowed in their tracks by the serpiginous lava? That’s how I want to go, but instead of lava, I hope it is sour cream.) At that time, Pliny was enjoying semi-retirement, spending his time writing about things like dog-headed people, people with eyes in their shoulders and super-reptilian serpents that killed bushes and exploded rocks with their breath. Either he was branching out into fantasy fiction, or he was well on his way to marble misplacement. His wife noticed a plume of smoke escaping Mount Vesuvius across the bay and alerted him (note: it is this historical event that led to the practice of all husbands throughout the history that followed to stop listening to anything their wives have to say). The naturalist in him forced him to commandeer a ship and a crew, as he had Naval connections, being commander of the fleet in the Bay of Naples and all. (He was also a nighttime tollbooth operator on the Apian Way, which has nothing to do with this story, but I thought you’d like to know.) He sailed across the bay to observe the destruction up close.
As they neared the shore, Pliny must not have noticed Chicken Little hauling ass in the other direction, because the sky was definitely falling. Fatefully, he chose to proceed. Standing on the shore, making his scientific observations of the phenomenon of all hell breaking loose, Pliny the Elder failed to observe the invisible noxious fumes accompanying the fascinating lava and smoke and shards of mountain that were spewed from the volcano. Unfortunately, his respiratory system made the observation and determined accurately that you shouldn’t be breathing that stuff. He died on the shore in the arms of a couple of his slaves (serves him right for oppressing another human life). Subsequent scientists benefited from Pliny’s deadly observations, which led to the invention of placing a handkerchief over your nose while being doused by a volcano.
Pliny the Elder’s example of being an over-exuberant busy-body who meddled in the business of gods and his ultimate death because of it scared the shit out of other like-minded scientists. They decided to hide in ignorance rather than incite the ire of the gods. This, among other things, like the coinciding formation of the Catholic Church, sowed the seeds for the Dark Ages. One can safely suggest that Pliny the Elder’s shenanigans were responsible for the squandering of 500 years of potential scientific progress. Assuming that’s true, and why wouldn’t it be, one can surmise that without Pliny’s influence, we would be driving around in land speeders by now and shooting each other with lasers instead of barbaric bullets. Thanks a lot, Pliny!
23-79
His full name was Gaius Plinius Secundus, but you can call him Pliny the Elder. He was an ancient Roman senator, military commander, lawyer, historian, scientist, writer, pin-setter, moose patroller, know-it-all, typical over-achieving busy body. Kind of like Oprah.
Presumably, he was called plain old Pliny for most of his life until his upstart namesake nephew, Pliny the Younger, came along. Had there been a third Pliny, one younger than the Younger, the Younger would have become Pliny the Middle, and the Elder would have had to be transformed to the extreme case – Pliny the Eldest, leaving the youngest to be Pliny the Youngest. Since there weren’t three Plinies we can avoid such confusing talk and simply accept the comparative nicknames, and probably forget most of this paragraph.
Pliny the Younger must have made quite an impression on the ancient Roman scene to prompt people to have to distinguish between the two Plinies. Although it has not been documented, Pliny the Younger’s prominence (or at least the threat of greatness) may have provided motivation to the Elder’s persona of being a mover and a shaker, a condition that eventually led to the Elder’s death. It turns out that Pliny the Elder had nothing to worry about, since Pliny the Younger proved himself to be a bit of a slacker and parasite.
Sure, the Younger did go on to become the governor of Bithania under the Emperor Trajan, but the Roman Empire was so huge at that time, being a governor carried as much distinction as being a homeroom monitor today. Rumor has it that his gubernatorial opponent in the election was a cheating, lying drunk who never met a bribe his denari bag couldn’t envelop. That kind of behavior might entice today’s voters, but in those days it was frowned upon, since corruption didn’t become fashionable until the Catholic church was firmly established hundreds of years later.
After Pliny the Elder’s death in 79 (not to be confused with the death of disco in 1979), the Younger took it upon himself to publish numerous writings of the Elder, enjoying every bit of the royalties and exploiting the Elder’s renown. He certainly cashed in on the Elder’s death in the press – appearing with any oracle in any forum for any price, similar to Courtney Love’s mourning of Kurt Cobain, except he never sucked on a microphone for dramatic effect. The circumstances surrounding Pliny the Elder’s death ooze of irony, which provided the Younger an engaging story from which to platform his self-promotion, proving his less than upstanding nature.
Pliny the Elder is most remembered for writing a thirty-seven volume set of encyclopedia about natural history. Oddly enough it was titled, THE NATURAL HISTORY. Above all, history defines Pliny the Elder as a scientist. Back in the early first millennium AD, the scientific technique of favor was based on observation: “If it smells like shit, looks like shit, feels like shit, plops in the toilet like shit and tastes like shit, then it’s shit!” Little did they know that it was actually Aunt Rita’s goose liver pate’. But, they couldn’t have known since they never bothered to test the validity of their observations with experimental study. This is precisely the mindset that led to the demise of the more ancient of the Plinies.
The fatal natural event that sparked Pliny the Elder’s curious eye was the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 (not to be confused with the Southeast crater eruption of Mount Etna in 1979), which destroyed the towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum. (Remember that traveling museum exhibit of the plaster cast-like human forms who appeared to be swallowed in their tracks by the serpiginous lava? That’s how I want to go, but instead of lava, I hope it is sour cream.) At that time, Pliny was enjoying semi-retirement, spending his time writing about things like dog-headed people, people with eyes in their shoulders and super-reptilian serpents that killed bushes and exploded rocks with their breath. Either he was branching out into fantasy fiction, or he was well on his way to marble misplacement. His wife noticed a plume of smoke escaping Mount Vesuvius across the bay and alerted him (note: it is this historical event that led to the practice of all husbands throughout the history that followed to stop listening to anything their wives have to say). The naturalist in him forced him to commandeer a ship and a crew, as he had Naval connections, being commander of the fleet in the Bay of Naples and all. (He was also a nighttime tollbooth operator on the Apian Way, which has nothing to do with this story, but I thought you’d like to know.) He sailed across the bay to observe the destruction up close.
As they neared the shore, Pliny must not have noticed Chicken Little hauling ass in the other direction, because the sky was definitely falling. Fatefully, he chose to proceed. Standing on the shore, making his scientific observations of the phenomenon of all hell breaking loose, Pliny the Elder failed to observe the invisible noxious fumes accompanying the fascinating lava and smoke and shards of mountain that were spewed from the volcano. Unfortunately, his respiratory system made the observation and determined accurately that you shouldn’t be breathing that stuff. He died on the shore in the arms of a couple of his slaves (serves him right for oppressing another human life). Subsequent scientists benefited from Pliny’s deadly observations, which led to the invention of placing a handkerchief over your nose while being doused by a volcano.
Pliny the Elder’s example of being an over-exuberant busy-body who meddled in the business of gods and his ultimate death because of it scared the shit out of other like-minded scientists. They decided to hide in ignorance rather than incite the ire of the gods. This, among other things, like the coinciding formation of the Catholic Church, sowed the seeds for the Dark Ages. One can safely suggest that Pliny the Elder’s shenanigans were responsible for the squandering of 500 years of potential scientific progress. Assuming that’s true, and why wouldn’t it be, one can surmise that without Pliny’s influence, we would be driving around in land speeders by now and shooting each other with lasers instead of barbaric bullets. Thanks a lot, Pliny!
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