I saw Two For The Money, starring Al Pacino, Renee Russo and that guy who messed with Jodie Foster’s brain about god versus science in the movie Contact. It was pretty good. You should go see it.
I went alone. I like going to movies alone. It’s easy to find a seat, I can concentrate on the movie without interrupting questions and comments from others, and people tend to feel sorry for me and offer me their Goobers. Free Goobers, now that’s livin’. Usually, if the theater has a good sized crowd, I’ll pick out the hottest chick next to an open seat and sit next to her. I’ll pretend she’s there with me. By the end of the movie, I’ll pretend we had a fight and storm off without her, so she doesn’t expect a good night kiss. That leaves them none the wiser, although at times a little freaked out, and I avoid any tiffs with annoyed boyfriends. This time the theater was pretty empty, so I sat right in the middle of an open row about two thirds up. There were some other loners there, too, a few sets of pals and a couple on a date.
I’ve noticed that when a man and a woman go to see a movie together, nine times out of ten, the woman will choose where they sit. The guy will hang back, holding the food and drink, and wait so as not to get reprimanded for not picking the ideal viewing spot. Sometimes I’ll see a man lead the way and sit somewhere, only to find that his woman is still selecting. Then he has to get up, pretend there was cheese on his chair, and cower back to her while she is interviewing already-seated-people to find out how the viewing experience is from their seats. Some women attribute this male behavior on a supposed inability for men to make a decision. In reality, it doesn’t matter too much to us where we sit, as long as there is no cheese on the seat and we aren’t getting yelled at.
I was set. I had my oil drum of popcorn, my 40 gallon Coke and the security of my own row. As the previews rolled, a few stragglers came into the theater and sat down toward the front. That is good movie going etiquette. If you get there during the previews, sit in the first available seat. Some people are watching the previews, and you don’t want to bother me, I mean, them. I felt comfortable. I had my own row. Until.
Right before the movie was about to begin, in walks this couple on a date. The man, holding three trays of food and the woman’s purse, beckons with his shoulder to sit down in the first row off the floor. But the woman was paying him no attention. She wore her night vision goggles scanning the seats for the optimal viewing location. I saw her look at my row, so I removed all of my clothes and placed them on various seats in the row as if they were being saved for someone. To no avail. She marched right up to my row, picked up my underwear, threw them in my face and sat about four seats down from me. Drat. And I mean DRAT! There were at least 9 empty rows available to these people, but they chose to invade my row of solitude. Oh, my poor row of solitude, revitalizing me with the life so wrung from me by a hard day’s staying awake at work, infiltrated by these callous comers. Would she dare pick up Superman’s underwear and heave them in his face at his Fortress of Solitude? No, she wouldn’t. I’m not sure if Superman wears underwear. I’ve never seen any panty lines underneath his tight red outer briefs. Maybe that IS his underwear. Maybe he’s the type to wear his underwear on the outside so as not to soil them. Maybe he wears a thong underneath. Ya know, I just don’t know. Regardless, I believe I deserve the same respect. I was even wearing a cape.
Without taking too much time to consider my possible streams of recourse, which is how I handle most adversity in life, I reacted by moving to sit in the seat next to her before her beau hunk could even finish unpacking their luggage. She was a bit startled. "Excuse me?" she asked.
"Why, did you fart?" I replied.
"Why are you sitting next to me?" she continued.
"This is my row", I explained, "and you are a trespasser."
"What are you talking about?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, I think you know, lady. What’s wrong with that row back there?"
"What?!" she stammered incredulously.
"This is my row," I reiterated.
"We are free to sit anywhere we like," she argued.
"Aha! And so am I. And if you choose to desecrate my row of solitude with your presence, I choose to sit next to you where I can keep an eye on you. And consider yourself lucky, baby, because you’re not even that hot (she was pretty hot, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of me admitting it to her), and there is no way I am kissing you good night!" I don’t know how I could have been more clear.
"Carl, do something!" she pleaded.
"I wanted to sit up there," Carl sighed.
Before long, we worked out an agreement. I agreed to return to my seat and put my clothes back on if they chose another row, and she agreed not to report me to the manager of the theater until after the movie was over. I wasn’t worried since I had already been banished from that theater and had managed to sneak by security. What could they do, double secret banish me? More importantly, I had my row back and the movie was only about half over.
Having missed the character development, plot building and any roots of parallel narratives taking place, I wasn’t sure what the movie was about. I did, however, get to see somebody pee on the religious guy from the movie Contact and see Al Pacino act as if he was doing an impression of Larry David doing his impression of George Steinbrenner on Seinfeld. Nobody was murdered, there were no car chases and I was pretty darned confused as to what was going on. In spite of that, I recommend this movie. Try to see it on a night Carl and his girlfriend stay home to fondue. The characters seemed happy and fulfilled at the end of the movie, which made me feel happy and fulfilled as well.
If you would like to hear a more thorough review of this movie, check out a Regular Guy on WXRT radio.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Call Me Kitty I
I swear I saw Moist Rub on a flatbed trailer singing ABBA tunes for the crowd at the Chicago White Sox parade. Others report seeing him board a jet to Venezuela later that day, so I'm not sure when to expect his return.
I briefly celebrated the White Sox win on Bourbon Street, then got back to work at the sweatshop. It's been busy there, so I raided the archives for a series I wrote some years back called Call Me Kitty. It all started after a long evening out on the town, but instead of passing out upon getting home I continued mixing my own drinks through the dark of night and had scribbled this out by dawn. It also marks the beginning of my Charles Bukowski phase...
Call Me Kitty I
Dave rolled away form the daylight that had filtered through the closed blinds, and his eyes pulled into focus as he checked the time. It took him several seconds to determine that it wasn’t a work day, after which he pulled the covers over his head. His mouth tasted like the smell of stale beer in the alley behind a tavern, and it forced him into action. After pulling on a pair of shorts, he sleepily stumbled in the darkened direction of the kitchen. In the cabinet he discovered a clean pitcher, and filled it with a can of Minute Maid he grabbed from the freezer. Within minutes, he tried to wash his mouth with the taste of freshly unfrozen orange juice, but it only made him wince as his taste buds rejected the attempt. Hair of the dog he thought to justify pulling a Moosehead from the fridge. The cap quickly joined others scattered across the counters, and Dave took the beer with him to the bathroom. Knowing a steamy, hot shower always helped resurrect his body, he cranked up a hot one and stripped his shorts to the floor. After relieving himself, he stepped through the mildew ridden curtain and into his own fountain of youth. As the water flowed over his waiting body, he drank the first half of the beer that accompanied him this day. The sauna-like atmosphere of the shower made the beer taste like it was just pulled from an ice-filled cooler on the Fourth of July as he took one more swallow before setting it next to the bottle of unused conditioner left by a discarded woman. His mind wandered to the night before as the water soothed his body, and he remembered the girl from Berwyn, PA drinking a Rolling Rock, brewed in the glass lined tanks of Latrobe, PA. He thought of his own hometown brew, Old Style. In Chicago, everybody’s dad drank Old Style, and so would he. He would get a six pack of Old Style if he had time today.
Suddenly he realized that he would never take a sleigh ride with Sarah Jessica Parker and fall asleep next to her while making snow angels. It must have been the blast of cold air as he stepped out of the shower that triggered the change of season in his mind. It was that pessimistic thought that followed him to his closet as he chose his clothes for a new day.
I briefly celebrated the White Sox win on Bourbon Street, then got back to work at the sweatshop. It's been busy there, so I raided the archives for a series I wrote some years back called Call Me Kitty. It all started after a long evening out on the town, but instead of passing out upon getting home I continued mixing my own drinks through the dark of night and had scribbled this out by dawn. It also marks the beginning of my Charles Bukowski phase...
Call Me Kitty IDave rolled away form the daylight that had filtered through the closed blinds, and his eyes pulled into focus as he checked the time. It took him several seconds to determine that it wasn’t a work day, after which he pulled the covers over his head. His mouth tasted like the smell of stale beer in the alley behind a tavern, and it forced him into action. After pulling on a pair of shorts, he sleepily stumbled in the darkened direction of the kitchen. In the cabinet he discovered a clean pitcher, and filled it with a can of Minute Maid he grabbed from the freezer. Within minutes, he tried to wash his mouth with the taste of freshly unfrozen orange juice, but it only made him wince as his taste buds rejected the attempt. Hair of the dog he thought to justify pulling a Moosehead from the fridge. The cap quickly joined others scattered across the counters, and Dave took the beer with him to the bathroom. Knowing a steamy, hot shower always helped resurrect his body, he cranked up a hot one and stripped his shorts to the floor. After relieving himself, he stepped through the mildew ridden curtain and into his own fountain of youth. As the water flowed over his waiting body, he drank the first half of the beer that accompanied him this day. The sauna-like atmosphere of the shower made the beer taste like it was just pulled from an ice-filled cooler on the Fourth of July as he took one more swallow before setting it next to the bottle of unused conditioner left by a discarded woman. His mind wandered to the night before as the water soothed his body, and he remembered the girl from Berwyn, PA drinking a Rolling Rock, brewed in the glass lined tanks of Latrobe, PA. He thought of his own hometown brew, Old Style. In Chicago, everybody’s dad drank Old Style, and so would he. He would get a six pack of Old Style if he had time today.
Suddenly he realized that he would never take a sleigh ride with Sarah Jessica Parker and fall asleep next to her while making snow angels. It must have been the blast of cold air as he stepped out of the shower that triggered the change of season in his mind. It was that pessimistic thought that followed him to his closet as he chose his clothes for a new day.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
El Sid in Mexico City
Mexico City helped me solve one of the great mysteries that I have struggled with for many years. As I walked through the business district last week I noticed that all the women looked as if they had just stepped out of a Robert Palmer video and all the men looked like Freddie Prinze Jr. No business casual in this city.
So what’s the mystery, you ask? It helped me solve the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. What the hell is Aprieta y Gana, you ask? Only one of the greatest TV shows of our time. If you haven’t seen it, you need to start watching more Univision. Sure, they speak Spanish, but that hasn’t stopped me and the only Spanish that I know is “Deja de morder mis pezones, por favor.” (Please stop biting my nipples.) But I digress. But please stop biting my nipples. Really. I’m serious.
Aprieta y Gana is some sort of Hispanic game show that matches a team of four hot women against a team of four supposedly hot men. Hosted by the great Camila Canabal (currently #8 on my list). And by great, I mean hot. So the hot guys compete against the hot women in games involving ponchos, whip cream, tricycles, blindfolds and feather boas, some singing, dressing as sandwiches, fake moustaches, silly string, and possibly midgets. I want to attend a taping, but there is also an audience participation element and I don’t know all the songs and related motions yet. That would be like showing up to a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show without rice or toast. But I digress.
I checked out a US map and found that Texas borders Mexico, which explains the large Hispanic population in Texas and in my particular neighborhood. However, I have yet to see a Hispanic woman that looks like Camila Canabal, let alone any of the other four hot women contestants. In fact, I don’t even think there are any women in my neighborhood that weigh-in less than a buck eighty. And therein lied the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. Now I know that all contestants are recruited from Mexico City and not my little neighborhood in North Texas.
In addition to all the Mexico City women looking like they stepped off the set of “Addicted to Love”, they’re making out all the time. Only guys shake hands when saying goodbye. If it’s a chica/guy or chica/chica, then they kiss goodbye. I’m sure they were just being polite in my presence by doing the cheek-to-cheek thing, but I know there’s got to be tongue when dirty Americans like me aren’t around. I tried to let them know it was OK by blowing in their ear, but all I learned was that Mexican women know how to stomp a guy’s instep with their heel as well as their American counterparts. I limped away and decided they probably don’t French kiss after the first meeting.
With a sore foot, I got a taxi back to the hotel. In Mexico City, the road markings are merely guidelines and drivers pretty much go where they need to regardless of who might already be there. It’s called “throwing metal” down there and seems to work for them. My host said he gets nervous driving in the US since he has to concentrate on staying in his lane and using his turn signals. I get nervous when bears come to my door trying to sell me magazines. I really don’t want to say no and piss them off, but I really don’t need a subscription to Field & Stream.
Anyway, we threw metal back to my hotel in La Zona Rosa (the Pink Zone), which ironically is full of titty bars and gay male couples, and I got to bed early and looked forward to the French kissing the next day. Now both feet hurt.
So what’s the mystery, you ask? It helped me solve the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. What the hell is Aprieta y Gana, you ask? Only one of the greatest TV shows of our time. If you haven’t seen it, you need to start watching more Univision. Sure, they speak Spanish, but that hasn’t stopped me and the only Spanish that I know is “Deja de morder mis pezones, por favor.” (Please stop biting my nipples.) But I digress. But please stop biting my nipples. Really. I’m serious.
Aprieta y Gana is some sort of Hispanic game show that matches a team of four hot women against a team of four supposedly hot men. Hosted by the great Camila Canabal (currently #8 on my list). And by great, I mean hot. So the hot guys compete against the hot women in games involving ponchos, whip cream, tricycles, blindfolds and feather boas, some singing, dressing as sandwiches, fake moustaches, silly string, and possibly midgets. I want to attend a taping, but there is also an audience participation element and I don’t know all the songs and related motions yet. That would be like showing up to a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show without rice or toast. But I digress.
I checked out a US map and found that Texas borders Mexico, which explains the large Hispanic population in Texas and in my particular neighborhood. However, I have yet to see a Hispanic woman that looks like Camila Canabal, let alone any of the other four hot women contestants. In fact, I don’t even think there are any women in my neighborhood that weigh-in less than a buck eighty. And therein lied the Aprieta y Gana dichotomy. Now I know that all contestants are recruited from Mexico City and not my little neighborhood in North Texas.
In addition to all the Mexico City women looking like they stepped off the set of “Addicted to Love”, they’re making out all the time. Only guys shake hands when saying goodbye. If it’s a chica/guy or chica/chica, then they kiss goodbye. I’m sure they were just being polite in my presence by doing the cheek-to-cheek thing, but I know there’s got to be tongue when dirty Americans like me aren’t around. I tried to let them know it was OK by blowing in their ear, but all I learned was that Mexican women know how to stomp a guy’s instep with their heel as well as their American counterparts. I limped away and decided they probably don’t French kiss after the first meeting.
With a sore foot, I got a taxi back to the hotel. In Mexico City, the road markings are merely guidelines and drivers pretty much go where they need to regardless of who might already be there. It’s called “throwing metal” down there and seems to work for them. My host said he gets nervous driving in the US since he has to concentrate on staying in his lane and using his turn signals. I get nervous when bears come to my door trying to sell me magazines. I really don’t want to say no and piss them off, but I really don’t need a subscription to Field & Stream.
Anyway, we threw metal back to my hotel in La Zona Rosa (the Pink Zone), which ironically is full of titty bars and gay male couples, and I got to bed early and looked forward to the French kissing the next day. Now both feet hurt.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Rodney - Oct 18, 2005: A Review
Rodney, which airs Tuesdays on ABC, is a show about some guy named Louis, but since the show is named Rodney, everybody on the show calls Louis by the name of Rodney. This running joke draws incessant guffaws from the audience every time it occurs. If this were actually the case, it would make the show twice as interesting as it actually is.
Standup comedian Rodney Carrington plays Rodney, a chawbacon numbskull father typical of the new millennium. This seems to be the trend in today’s representation of fathers on sitcoms. Is this how the world views us fathers nowadays – as inane, childish boors? I would be offended if I wasn’t such an inane, childish boor. Personally, I consider myself more of a concerned circus shovel thrower who, through a combination of playful and circumstantial events, is financially responsible for my children, and not so much a goof of a father. Whatever happened to the Howard Cunninghams, Mike Brady’s and Ward Cleavers of the world? They must be in rehab. Speaking of Ward Cleaver, remember that one episode where Beaver got his head stuck in the wrought iron fence? That really happened, and they wrote a show around it. It’s true; some guy told me.
Rodney (the show) fills the ABC quota of providing a country-style, Blue Collar TV type show to accommodate the yokel demographic. Rodney (the goofdad) has a wife, two sons, a slut sister-in-law, a knucklehead friend and crappy job at some plant. This raises the question, why do I need to watch this on television when I can go down to the bar and experience it firsthand by listening to Stan, Joey the Toucher, Irv and Bouncin’ Reggie whine about their lives?
This week’s episode offered two story lines. The son had grown pubes, and the friend had grown breasts. The writers’ challenge was to come up with as many man-boob jokes and as much father puberty talk awkwardness as possible. They were successful in their quantity, but fell short on the quality. Throw in a concerned mother, a perturbed younger brother and the slut sister-in-law grabbing her own chest and you have a show. That’s all it takes in today’s programming. Not one mention of anybody getting their head stuck in a fence. I took a page and a half of notes detailing the specific events in the show, but I choose not to relive them now nor bore you with them. I bore you enough as it is. If you feel like committing brain damage on yourself for a half hour each week, go ahead and watch the show. Although, I did find myself laughing uncontrollably during the fourth scene. I composed myself by the next commercial break by which time my dog had finished licking the raw ground beef from the bottom of my feet.
There is a looming issue more important than the lack of quality of this show. That is its title. Rodney. That’s the best they could do? Not even Rodney: Goofdad Warrior Princess, or Rodney Scratches Himself, or Rodney Shouldn’t Be On TV, or Little Rodney on the Prairie. Couldn’t they come up with something unique to show us they actually tried to make the show a worthwhile watch? Not to mention an entirely different issue in that we already have an established Rodney in the world of comedy, be he dead as he is or not – still receiving no respect from beyond the grave. Why don’t you call me sometime when you have no class?
Titles are important. They set the tone. They make an impact. Consider Moby Dick by Herman Melville. What if that book (as well as the whale) was called Rodney? Does the word "rodney" sufficiently provide the reader with the foreboding peril that is depicted in the book? No, it does not. Come to think of it, neither does "moby dick". What the hell is a "moby dick"? Nobody knows, but at least it causes you to wonder until you reach the conclusion, "I don’t know what a "moby dick" is, but it can’t be good, and it probably forebodes of peril." The word "rodney" suggests visions of bumbling and stumbling and a general disregard for competence. A whale with those characteristics would be lucky to scare plankton into submission, let alone stouthearted sailors. Here is an example of how Moby Dick might read if it were instead titled Rodney.
Ishmael: Captain Ahab! Captain Ahab! Rodney is attacking the boat and picking his teeth with our harpoons!!!!!
Ahab: What’s the big deal? Can’t you buffoons do anything for yourselves? It’s only Rodney, for criminy sake.
Captain Ahab reaches into his tackle box, grabbing a fishing net, and walks up to the main deck. He reaches over the side of the boat where Rodney is chewing on the anchor, and scoops up the whale with the net. After sauntering to his cooler, Ahab drops Rodney into the awaiting ice and slams the lid.
Ahab: Now, was that so difficult? Everybody better leave me alone until I finish crocheting these harpoon cozies or else it’s the plank for the lot of ya!
Ahab storms back into his cabin.
Ishmael: That man is amazing. Oooh, I love him, so.
Queequeg (apprehensively gnawing on a tuna): I suppose if I were a bear, I’d probably like eating fish.
This version doesn’t seem to portray the distinction of a literary masterpiece. Lucky for us, Melville took five years to compose the title, Moby Dick. Legend maintains that he almost chose "The Whale-inator" as the book’s title. Imagine the possibilities if he had opted for this instead. Not only would the book have been a success, Ahh-nuld would have another hit movie on his resume’. Even the great Herman Melville had his limitations – everybody makes a wrong choice sometimes. After he determined the title, Melville completed the text in about a day and a half. The title transformed a mere whaling manual into a masterpiece.
The creators of Rodney would have done us a favor had they committed to the same title choosing diligence as Melville. Had they done so, the show would not yet be on the air, relieving us the possibility of accidentally watching it. Instead, they chose to slap on a generic title to reinforce the show’s entertainment value, and force feed it to us through our airwaves IV tube, while a tear drips down the collective face of Howard, Mike and Ward as they cling to sanity at the sitcom father convalescence home.
Standup comedian Rodney Carrington plays Rodney, a chawbacon numbskull father typical of the new millennium. This seems to be the trend in today’s representation of fathers on sitcoms. Is this how the world views us fathers nowadays – as inane, childish boors? I would be offended if I wasn’t such an inane, childish boor. Personally, I consider myself more of a concerned circus shovel thrower who, through a combination of playful and circumstantial events, is financially responsible for my children, and not so much a goof of a father. Whatever happened to the Howard Cunninghams, Mike Brady’s and Ward Cleavers of the world? They must be in rehab. Speaking of Ward Cleaver, remember that one episode where Beaver got his head stuck in the wrought iron fence? That really happened, and they wrote a show around it. It’s true; some guy told me.
Rodney (the show) fills the ABC quota of providing a country-style, Blue Collar TV type show to accommodate the yokel demographic. Rodney (the goofdad) has a wife, two sons, a slut sister-in-law, a knucklehead friend and crappy job at some plant. This raises the question, why do I need to watch this on television when I can go down to the bar and experience it firsthand by listening to Stan, Joey the Toucher, Irv and Bouncin’ Reggie whine about their lives?
This week’s episode offered two story lines. The son had grown pubes, and the friend had grown breasts. The writers’ challenge was to come up with as many man-boob jokes and as much father puberty talk awkwardness as possible. They were successful in their quantity, but fell short on the quality. Throw in a concerned mother, a perturbed younger brother and the slut sister-in-law grabbing her own chest and you have a show. That’s all it takes in today’s programming. Not one mention of anybody getting their head stuck in a fence. I took a page and a half of notes detailing the specific events in the show, but I choose not to relive them now nor bore you with them. I bore you enough as it is. If you feel like committing brain damage on yourself for a half hour each week, go ahead and watch the show. Although, I did find myself laughing uncontrollably during the fourth scene. I composed myself by the next commercial break by which time my dog had finished licking the raw ground beef from the bottom of my feet.
There is a looming issue more important than the lack of quality of this show. That is its title. Rodney. That’s the best they could do? Not even Rodney: Goofdad Warrior Princess, or Rodney Scratches Himself, or Rodney Shouldn’t Be On TV, or Little Rodney on the Prairie. Couldn’t they come up with something unique to show us they actually tried to make the show a worthwhile watch? Not to mention an entirely different issue in that we already have an established Rodney in the world of comedy, be he dead as he is or not – still receiving no respect from beyond the grave. Why don’t you call me sometime when you have no class?
Titles are important. They set the tone. They make an impact. Consider Moby Dick by Herman Melville. What if that book (as well as the whale) was called Rodney? Does the word "rodney" sufficiently provide the reader with the foreboding peril that is depicted in the book? No, it does not. Come to think of it, neither does "moby dick". What the hell is a "moby dick"? Nobody knows, but at least it causes you to wonder until you reach the conclusion, "I don’t know what a "moby dick" is, but it can’t be good, and it probably forebodes of peril." The word "rodney" suggests visions of bumbling and stumbling and a general disregard for competence. A whale with those characteristics would be lucky to scare plankton into submission, let alone stouthearted sailors. Here is an example of how Moby Dick might read if it were instead titled Rodney.
Ishmael: Captain Ahab! Captain Ahab! Rodney is attacking the boat and picking his teeth with our harpoons!!!!!
Ahab: What’s the big deal? Can’t you buffoons do anything for yourselves? It’s only Rodney, for criminy sake.
Captain Ahab reaches into his tackle box, grabbing a fishing net, and walks up to the main deck. He reaches over the side of the boat where Rodney is chewing on the anchor, and scoops up the whale with the net. After sauntering to his cooler, Ahab drops Rodney into the awaiting ice and slams the lid.
Ahab: Now, was that so difficult? Everybody better leave me alone until I finish crocheting these harpoon cozies or else it’s the plank for the lot of ya!
Ahab storms back into his cabin.
Ishmael: That man is amazing. Oooh, I love him, so.
Queequeg (apprehensively gnawing on a tuna): I suppose if I were a bear, I’d probably like eating fish.
This version doesn’t seem to portray the distinction of a literary masterpiece. Lucky for us, Melville took five years to compose the title, Moby Dick. Legend maintains that he almost chose "The Whale-inator" as the book’s title. Imagine the possibilities if he had opted for this instead. Not only would the book have been a success, Ahh-nuld would have another hit movie on his resume’. Even the great Herman Melville had his limitations – everybody makes a wrong choice sometimes. After he determined the title, Melville completed the text in about a day and a half. The title transformed a mere whaling manual into a masterpiece.
The creators of Rodney would have done us a favor had they committed to the same title choosing diligence as Melville. Had they done so, the show would not yet be on the air, relieving us the possibility of accidentally watching it. Instead, they chose to slap on a generic title to reinforce the show’s entertainment value, and force feed it to us through our airwaves IV tube, while a tear drips down the collective face of Howard, Mike and Ward as they cling to sanity at the sitcom father convalescence home.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Zydeco Sid
Just to dispel any rumors regarding my trip to New Orleans that are still floating around out there, I wasn’t eaten by the alligator that got eaten by the python. I wasn’t even eaten by the old lady that swallowed the fly. She’s dead, of course, after swallowing the horse. I think I saw a clip of it on the internet. But I digress.
There was only one day that I had to venture outside of the nurturing bosom of the Commercial Business District and the Quarter, and I found myself behind the wheel of a large automobile driving through a particularly devastated area, finding myself grateful for my shotgun shack in another part of the world.
As soon as my business was done, I returned to my home base for the week – the Le Pavillon Hotel. Not only is it one of those cool, old historic hotels, but I was pretty pumped knowing that it was featured on one of my favorite shows on the Travel Channel – Great Hotels hosted by the even greater Samantha Brown. There was even a one in 226 chance that I might even stay in the same room that Samantha did. For those not familiar with Samantha or not having cable TV, you can check out her work here. When Mrs. F’er tires of me, I might have to give Sam a call. Then we can return to Le Pavillon and share in the nightly tradition of PBJ’s and milk in the lobby. Then I'll go back to the room and puke since I'm allergic to peanuts.
I don’t watch the Travel Channel much, but Great Hotels is on Sunday mornings and a pleasant alternative to Meet the Press. Samantha is way cooler than the egotistical windbag guests that inevitably give me heartburn and ruin Mrs. F’er’s killer French toast (inspired by the Cottonwood Inn in Taos, NM).
Back to the hotel. The hotel normally caters to a high end clientele, but one guest showed up in the hotel bar one day wearing cowboy boots, black dress slacks, a gray tank top, a cheap white mesh baseball cap, and a Bluetooth headset, as if he couldn't get time off of work to spend a day at the beach and go line dancing but tried to fit it all in anyway. Fortunately, New Orleans is currently operating under what’s being termed “Katrina Casual” and this week he sat mostly unnoticed amidst the generic white businessmen.
The house pianist was there in style and plying her craft for any guest that wandered into her bar that week. And wander I did. I didn’t sit down but just milled about smartly, watching the action from the marble ledge that separated the bar from the lobby. We had flirted all week – me with a nod that said, “I know that most of these clowns sitting in the bar aren’t listening to you and you might as well pipe in some elevator music, but I’m digging what you’re laying down.” And her acknowledging smile in return that said, “Glad you’re enjoying it, because you’re right… these bloated business fucks wouldn’t recognize talent unless you stuffed it in an Abita bottle and hit them over the head with it.” It’s always nice to find people with similar non-verbal communication skills. By Wednesday our relationship evolved and she would greet me with a, “Have a seat, Dallas.” No, I wasn’t wearing a ten-gallon hat and spurs, but she asked earlier in the week where I was from and that became my name. Or maybe it was the ass-less chaps... I don’t know.
I didn’t take a seat until Thursday when one of her tunes captured my attention more than usual. It was as if Shania Twain had shown up at a cheap beer joint to buy me a beer and hand me some jukebox money. The piece was inspirational, and not in the usual way where I end up in a holding cell in my underwear apologizing for something. I asked her who it was and after telling me, we had a very brief discussion about songwriting and she played some old pieces from the late 19th and early 20th century that inspired her. She didn’t get to play those often, but her playlist was temporarily limited since the Discovery Channel was on-site taping a documentary and requested that she didn’t play anything they would have to pay royalties on. And once Eminem is off the table, what else is there?
When I went back to my room, I did a little research on the tune and found Richard Clayderman’s website and immediately thought I might be gay. He appears to be some sort of Yanni/John Tesh new age, bad haircut wearin’ artist. I didn’t want to believe that I went from Led Zeppelin to Blue Oyster Cult to Concrete Blonde to Beth Hart to Richard freakin’ Clayderman. I might as well just start calling bingo games down at the Sunshine Home Assisted Living Community. But I was alone in my hotel room so I decided to explore this new side of myself and downloaded the song (Ballade pour Adeline). And it sucked. It was nothing like what I had just heard downstairs. I started to feel better as my self-esteem and masculinity slowly returned, and I took a hot shower to remove any Clayderman remnants still clinging to my violated soul.
I returned to the scene of the crime (iTunes) and decided to try another one that my muse recommended. Even if this song sucked, I was intrigued with the stories she told me about New Orleans native Louis Moreau Gottschalk. Great stories about a forbidden affair, a ticket on the disoriented express, and a mysterious death on foreign soil. I reluctantly hit “play” after downloading “The Dying Poet” but this time there wasn’t any of that new age crap, just a cool piano composition like I heard earlier that day. The kind that would have made Lucy fall in love with Schroeder if they had been hanging around New Orleans in 1864. Not my favorite version, but download it here.
Or if you're into masochism or comas, download Clayderman here.
Leper Pop hits the road again and El Sid will be signing blogs at the Marquis Reforma Hotel in Mexico City through the end of this week. Stop by and buy me a shot of tequila. I hear it's like beer.
There was only one day that I had to venture outside of the nurturing bosom of the Commercial Business District and the Quarter, and I found myself behind the wheel of a large automobile driving through a particularly devastated area, finding myself grateful for my shotgun shack in another part of the world.
As soon as my business was done, I returned to my home base for the week – the Le Pavillon Hotel. Not only is it one of those cool, old historic hotels, but I was pretty pumped knowing that it was featured on one of my favorite shows on the Travel Channel – Great Hotels hosted by the even greater Samantha Brown. There was even a one in 226 chance that I might even stay in the same room that Samantha did. For those not familiar with Samantha or not having cable TV, you can check out her work here. When Mrs. F’er tires of me, I might have to give Sam a call. Then we can return to Le Pavillon and share in the nightly tradition of PBJ’s and milk in the lobby. Then I'll go back to the room and puke since I'm allergic to peanuts.
I don’t watch the Travel Channel much, but Great Hotels is on Sunday mornings and a pleasant alternative to Meet the Press. Samantha is way cooler than the egotistical windbag guests that inevitably give me heartburn and ruin Mrs. F’er’s killer French toast (inspired by the Cottonwood Inn in Taos, NM).
Back to the hotel. The hotel normally caters to a high end clientele, but one guest showed up in the hotel bar one day wearing cowboy boots, black dress slacks, a gray tank top, a cheap white mesh baseball cap, and a Bluetooth headset, as if he couldn't get time off of work to spend a day at the beach and go line dancing but tried to fit it all in anyway. Fortunately, New Orleans is currently operating under what’s being termed “Katrina Casual” and this week he sat mostly unnoticed amidst the generic white businessmen.
The house pianist was there in style and plying her craft for any guest that wandered into her bar that week. And wander I did. I didn’t sit down but just milled about smartly, watching the action from the marble ledge that separated the bar from the lobby. We had flirted all week – me with a nod that said, “I know that most of these clowns sitting in the bar aren’t listening to you and you might as well pipe in some elevator music, but I’m digging what you’re laying down.” And her acknowledging smile in return that said, “Glad you’re enjoying it, because you’re right… these bloated business fucks wouldn’t recognize talent unless you stuffed it in an Abita bottle and hit them over the head with it.” It’s always nice to find people with similar non-verbal communication skills. By Wednesday our relationship evolved and she would greet me with a, “Have a seat, Dallas.” No, I wasn’t wearing a ten-gallon hat and spurs, but she asked earlier in the week where I was from and that became my name. Or maybe it was the ass-less chaps... I don’t know.
I didn’t take a seat until Thursday when one of her tunes captured my attention more than usual. It was as if Shania Twain had shown up at a cheap beer joint to buy me a beer and hand me some jukebox money. The piece was inspirational, and not in the usual way where I end up in a holding cell in my underwear apologizing for something. I asked her who it was and after telling me, we had a very brief discussion about songwriting and she played some old pieces from the late 19th and early 20th century that inspired her. She didn’t get to play those often, but her playlist was temporarily limited since the Discovery Channel was on-site taping a documentary and requested that she didn’t play anything they would have to pay royalties on. And once Eminem is off the table, what else is there?
When I went back to my room, I did a little research on the tune and found Richard Clayderman’s website and immediately thought I might be gay. He appears to be some sort of Yanni/John Tesh new age, bad haircut wearin’ artist. I didn’t want to believe that I went from Led Zeppelin to Blue Oyster Cult to Concrete Blonde to Beth Hart to Richard freakin’ Clayderman. I might as well just start calling bingo games down at the Sunshine Home Assisted Living Community. But I was alone in my hotel room so I decided to explore this new side of myself and downloaded the song (Ballade pour Adeline). And it sucked. It was nothing like what I had just heard downstairs. I started to feel better as my self-esteem and masculinity slowly returned, and I took a hot shower to remove any Clayderman remnants still clinging to my violated soul.
I returned to the scene of the crime (iTunes) and decided to try another one that my muse recommended. Even if this song sucked, I was intrigued with the stories she told me about New Orleans native Louis Moreau Gottschalk. Great stories about a forbidden affair, a ticket on the disoriented express, and a mysterious death on foreign soil. I reluctantly hit “play” after downloading “The Dying Poet” but this time there wasn’t any of that new age crap, just a cool piano composition like I heard earlier that day. The kind that would have made Lucy fall in love with Schroeder if they had been hanging around New Orleans in 1864. Not my favorite version, but download it here.
Or if you're into masochism or comas, download Clayderman here.
Leper Pop hits the road again and El Sid will be signing blogs at the Marquis Reforma Hotel in Mexico City through the end of this week. Stop by and buy me a shot of tequila. I hear it's like beer.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Apprentice - October 13, 2005: A Review
I viewed only a portion of this episode of The Apprentice, as I was busy being distracted with not watching The Apprentice. I tuned in about twenty-five minutes into the show and watched the rest of it intermittently between doing laundry, cleaning out the gutters, writing my congressperson a letter about my neighbors’ trees spewing organic debris clogging up my gutters, mowing the carpet (don’t ask) and building a mechanical bite size nugget. I’m telling you, positive procrastination is the uncle of necessity. As it turns out, what I did witness of the show was plenty.
The contestants were split into two teams. Coincidentally, all of the men were on one team and all of the women were on the other team. I thought segregation was an outmoded practice in our society. Who am I to question Trump? I wonder if they were each bussed in from varying apprentice districts. Their challenge was to create a mascot and marketing strategy for Dairy Queen. I didn’t know Dairy Queen still existed. Apparently they are in the need for some strong new and exciting marketing. Being desperate, they turned to reality television to save them. If I were them, I would have waited to see what happens with the INXS’s career before making that decision. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but the consensus in these parts is to attend the new tour to see the Lovehammers and then head back to the bar before the JDINXS hits the stage. But it may work out for them. Who knows, maybe reality television will become the newest trend in business consultation.
My induction into The Apprentice experience began with the passively hostile women’s team mitosising itself into two work groups, although I’m not sure what the purpose of each group was. From their behavior, I assume their purpose was to berate the women in the other group behind their backs. The men were portrayed in a more communal and amiable light. In defense of the women, I don’t know if I merely missed dissension among the men, due to my gutter cleaning, or if it was withheld by the editors of the show, or if there was none to be shown. I’m sure the women are all kind, generous people looking to climb up the knives in other people’s backs to the top. That’s how I got to where I am today. Actually, as I type this, I’m not sure who’s house this is, but they sure do keep their refrigerator stocked, and they own unusually comfortable underwear. But the point is I got here by back-knife climbing. I don’t know how I’m going to get back down.
The women’s team created an ice cream malformation of Inspector Gadget afflicted with Grave’s Eye Disease wielding a giant rubber spoon. This thing, named Zip, was their proposed mascot. Their presentation suggested that this milky mutant would appeal to children and teenagers alike. And by "appeal" I can only imagine they meant "scare the shit out of". The DQ marketing geniuses seemed to be a little freaked out by it themselves. As we'll learn later, it would have behooved the ladies to incorporate a giant set of hooters on Zip to help make the DQ guys stand at attention. The DQ guys didn’t buy the spiel, especially since there was no mention of the Dairy Queen brand in the character (and no boobies). One of the team members suggested that the signature ice cream swirl (barely identifiable as the body of Zip) and the behemoth rubber spoon were clear expressions of the Dairy Queen charm. Maybe if she would have described it the way I just did, she may have had a better chance of the DQ suits falling for it. But she didn’t and they didn’t.
Surprisingly, the men chose to recreate Barbara Eden as a snow genie who dispenses soft serve ice cream from her nipples. Even more surprisingly, the DQ rakes took to the idea like...uh...er...well...like a man takes to ice cream dispensing nipples! One of the team members was dressed in the coquettish costume portraying "Ginny the Genie", whose soft serve hair, shapely silhouette, plunging neckline and man hands sent ripples of hubbub through their assessors. As soon as the mascot manifestation strutted into the room, the DQ guys transformed into Pavlov’s dogs and doused the conference table with drool. The men’s team of innovators held fast to their underlying premise: everybody, especially ice cream eaters, loves cleavage. Whether that is true or not did not matter as truth plays a very small, if non-existent, role in marketing. The DQ dogs agreed, stating that the mascot gave them boners, which was all they were pretty much after, since in addition to cleavage, they felt everyone, especially ice cream eaters, loves boners. They didn’t even seem to mind that the mascot was a man dressed in fantasy drag. Speaking of which, the guy in the costume, let’s call him Genie, since I forgot his real name, refused to have his package duct taped down so as not to protrude the groinal region of the get up. Genie, sir, if I can offer some advice, don’t knock it until you’ve try it. But that’s a tale for another article. Even the bulge in the costume didn’t subdue the DQ henchmen. It helped them notice the "DQ" belt buckle on Genie’s costume, which would be easily noticed as dirty old men switched their gazes back and forth between Genie’s snow hills and her glacier crevasse. And then they’ll buy ice cream!
Amazingly, Zip the wonder whatever it is didn’t make the cut. Consequently, the men’s team won, sending the women’s team to the boardroom of death. There, Trump allowed the women to cat fight at will. I’m not sure what all the bickering was about. It was evident that Toral, a tool and dye machinist, was able to get only one other girl, a cripple who had broken her ankle trying to climb up Trump’s ass in an earlier episode, not to want to scratch her eyes out. Trump picked up on this and ripped her a new orifice. This was the best part of the show, although I think it would grow old if I saw it happen more than six and a half times. As soon as Trump smelled the blood resulting from the cat fight, he pounced. He was relentless. At this point logic was futile. Toral tried to fire back, but she had no chance. If I were her, instead of arguing, I would have kept repeating "nice hair" at him until he started to cry or until I was removed by security. Toral left in a cab telling us that those Apprentice grapes were sour anyway. The rest of the women returned to their lair to sharpen their nails for next week’s episode. Trump stopped by and finished cleaning my gutters so that maybe I could watch the entire episode next week. I don’t think so, but at least my gutters are now clean.
The contestants were split into two teams. Coincidentally, all of the men were on one team and all of the women were on the other team. I thought segregation was an outmoded practice in our society. Who am I to question Trump? I wonder if they were each bussed in from varying apprentice districts. Their challenge was to create a mascot and marketing strategy for Dairy Queen. I didn’t know Dairy Queen still existed. Apparently they are in the need for some strong new and exciting marketing. Being desperate, they turned to reality television to save them. If I were them, I would have waited to see what happens with the INXS’s career before making that decision. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but the consensus in these parts is to attend the new tour to see the Lovehammers and then head back to the bar before the JDINXS hits the stage. But it may work out for them. Who knows, maybe reality television will become the newest trend in business consultation.
My induction into The Apprentice experience began with the passively hostile women’s team mitosising itself into two work groups, although I’m not sure what the purpose of each group was. From their behavior, I assume their purpose was to berate the women in the other group behind their backs. The men were portrayed in a more communal and amiable light. In defense of the women, I don’t know if I merely missed dissension among the men, due to my gutter cleaning, or if it was withheld by the editors of the show, or if there was none to be shown. I’m sure the women are all kind, generous people looking to climb up the knives in other people’s backs to the top. That’s how I got to where I am today. Actually, as I type this, I’m not sure who’s house this is, but they sure do keep their refrigerator stocked, and they own unusually comfortable underwear. But the point is I got here by back-knife climbing. I don’t know how I’m going to get back down.
The women’s team created an ice cream malformation of Inspector Gadget afflicted with Grave’s Eye Disease wielding a giant rubber spoon. This thing, named Zip, was their proposed mascot. Their presentation suggested that this milky mutant would appeal to children and teenagers alike. And by "appeal" I can only imagine they meant "scare the shit out of". The DQ marketing geniuses seemed to be a little freaked out by it themselves. As we'll learn later, it would have behooved the ladies to incorporate a giant set of hooters on Zip to help make the DQ guys stand at attention. The DQ guys didn’t buy the spiel, especially since there was no mention of the Dairy Queen brand in the character (and no boobies). One of the team members suggested that the signature ice cream swirl (barely identifiable as the body of Zip) and the behemoth rubber spoon were clear expressions of the Dairy Queen charm. Maybe if she would have described it the way I just did, she may have had a better chance of the DQ suits falling for it. But she didn’t and they didn’t.
Surprisingly, the men chose to recreate Barbara Eden as a snow genie who dispenses soft serve ice cream from her nipples. Even more surprisingly, the DQ rakes took to the idea like...uh...er...well...like a man takes to ice cream dispensing nipples! One of the team members was dressed in the coquettish costume portraying "Ginny the Genie", whose soft serve hair, shapely silhouette, plunging neckline and man hands sent ripples of hubbub through their assessors. As soon as the mascot manifestation strutted into the room, the DQ guys transformed into Pavlov’s dogs and doused the conference table with drool. The men’s team of innovators held fast to their underlying premise: everybody, especially ice cream eaters, loves cleavage. Whether that is true or not did not matter as truth plays a very small, if non-existent, role in marketing. The DQ dogs agreed, stating that the mascot gave them boners, which was all they were pretty much after, since in addition to cleavage, they felt everyone, especially ice cream eaters, loves boners. They didn’t even seem to mind that the mascot was a man dressed in fantasy drag. Speaking of which, the guy in the costume, let’s call him Genie, since I forgot his real name, refused to have his package duct taped down so as not to protrude the groinal region of the get up. Genie, sir, if I can offer some advice, don’t knock it until you’ve try it. But that’s a tale for another article. Even the bulge in the costume didn’t subdue the DQ henchmen. It helped them notice the "DQ" belt buckle on Genie’s costume, which would be easily noticed as dirty old men switched their gazes back and forth between Genie’s snow hills and her glacier crevasse. And then they’ll buy ice cream!
Amazingly, Zip the wonder whatever it is didn’t make the cut. Consequently, the men’s team won, sending the women’s team to the boardroom of death. There, Trump allowed the women to cat fight at will. I’m not sure what all the bickering was about. It was evident that Toral, a tool and dye machinist, was able to get only one other girl, a cripple who had broken her ankle trying to climb up Trump’s ass in an earlier episode, not to want to scratch her eyes out. Trump picked up on this and ripped her a new orifice. This was the best part of the show, although I think it would grow old if I saw it happen more than six and a half times. As soon as Trump smelled the blood resulting from the cat fight, he pounced. He was relentless. At this point logic was futile. Toral tried to fire back, but she had no chance. If I were her, instead of arguing, I would have kept repeating "nice hair" at him until he started to cry or until I was removed by security. Toral left in a cab telling us that those Apprentice grapes were sour anyway. The rest of the women returned to their lair to sharpen their nails for next week’s episode. Trump stopped by and finished cleaning my gutters so that maybe I could watch the entire episode next week. I don’t think so, but at least my gutters are now clean.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Societal Moralistic Calamity and the Virtues of Pornography
A contemporary item that has great influence on the morals of people around the world is Playboy magazine. Playboy magazine has many explicit photos of nude women, a few sexually orientated articles, and occasionally an investigative article that is worth reading. The magazine itself does not really try to convey a message to its readers, but instead claims to be an entertaining and informative magazine. Playboy is in the magazine business to make money and does not really care if the magazine conveys a message or not as long as men keep buying it. There are many people who are offended by Playboy and many others who are against the magazine because Playboy is a form of pornography. Although the magazine does not attempt to influence people, it succeeds in influencing people’s morals. Many people believe that there are two basic reactions to pornography: 1) it causes people to commit sexual crimes like rape or child molestation, 2) it suppresses sexual aggressiveness in would be rapists or other perverts.
Playboy magazine can affect a person’s morals for the worst. The magazine is capable of turning a man who previously had good morals into a rapist. A man could be walking down the street and notice Playboy on the shelf at a news stand and decide to purchase the magazine because it has an interesting article in it. The man would go home and start scanning the pages trying to find the article. Before you know it, the man stumbles upon the centerfold which contains a picture of a lovely, young girl and the man gets so sexually excited that he forgets all about the article. The man starts to get obscene thoughts and decides that he must satisfy himself, so he goes outside and sees a woman who reminds him of the naked girl in the centerfold. He cannot control himself and he attacks and rapes here. What is it that can turn an honest, law-abiding citizen into a madman? Playboy, or pornography in general, works on a man’s natural sex drive to turn him into a “Doctor Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde” type of person. Of course this example is an extreme case, but it is possible for men’s morals to be affected by something as simple as a magazine.
On the other hand, some people say that pornography (Playboy) is a blessing to society. People claim that pornography actually satisfies the sex drives of perverts who roam the streets of America. I find this statement hard to believe and I raise the question: How did these perverts come to be sexually deviant in the first place? The answer to this question in my mind is that the pervert was exposed to pornography at one time in his life which affected his morals. The pornographic exposure could have been a peek at a Playboy at a young age or exposure to a family member. There is no valid way that pornography can influence morals for the better.
Everyday, millions of people are exposed to some form of pornography. Some people can control themselves better than others can and are not affected morally by the exposure. But there will always be some person who will be affected for the worst and take it out on an innocent victim. As long as pornography is so easy to get, there will always be sexual crimes committed all over the world. I am not saying that pornography is the one and only cause of sexual crimes, but I believe that it is capable of affecting the morals of even good men.
Playboy magazine can affect a person’s morals for the worst. The magazine is capable of turning a man who previously had good morals into a rapist. A man could be walking down the street and notice Playboy on the shelf at a news stand and decide to purchase the magazine because it has an interesting article in it. The man would go home and start scanning the pages trying to find the article. Before you know it, the man stumbles upon the centerfold which contains a picture of a lovely, young girl and the man gets so sexually excited that he forgets all about the article. The man starts to get obscene thoughts and decides that he must satisfy himself, so he goes outside and sees a woman who reminds him of the naked girl in the centerfold. He cannot control himself and he attacks and rapes here. What is it that can turn an honest, law-abiding citizen into a madman? Playboy, or pornography in general, works on a man’s natural sex drive to turn him into a “Doctor Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde” type of person. Of course this example is an extreme case, but it is possible for men’s morals to be affected by something as simple as a magazine.
On the other hand, some people say that pornography (Playboy) is a blessing to society. People claim that pornography actually satisfies the sex drives of perverts who roam the streets of America. I find this statement hard to believe and I raise the question: How did these perverts come to be sexually deviant in the first place? The answer to this question in my mind is that the pervert was exposed to pornography at one time in his life which affected his morals. The pornographic exposure could have been a peek at a Playboy at a young age or exposure to a family member. There is no valid way that pornography can influence morals for the better.
Everyday, millions of people are exposed to some form of pornography. Some people can control themselves better than others can and are not affected morally by the exposure. But there will always be some person who will be affected for the worst and take it out on an innocent victim. As long as pornography is so easy to get, there will always be sexual crimes committed all over the world. I am not saying that pornography is the one and only cause of sexual crimes, but I believe that it is capable of affecting the morals of even good men.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Tell Tale Dad
I intended to watch this season’s inaugural episode of The Apprentice so as to begin a string of season long reviews of the show. However, my objective was interrupted by a rapping at my chamber door. It was my son standing with the decomposed remains of Edgar
Allan Poe interrogating it for clues as to what the hell The Tell Tale Heart was all about.
Son, I asked (he was named after blues legend, Son House), are you reading The Tell Tale Heart in school? Yes, they had read it together in class that day. Being the über-dad that I am, I feigned interest in his schooling and asked him what he thought of the story. After about fifteen minutes of word fragments, you-know’s and um’s, I figured he didn’t comprehend much of the plot. I asked him if he was actually in the classroom when they read the story. He was there physically, but I’m guessing, mentally, he was wandering around the girls’ locker room handing out towels. Luckily, I was wearing my über-dad utility belt, which contained duct tape, a butter knife, two cans of beer, one paper towel, a golf score card, a roll of Lifesavers and the Unabridged Edgar Allan Poe. I suggested we read the story together, thinking it would be easier than me explaining the it to him, seeing that all I could remember about it were the car chases and the nude scenes.
We took turns reading paragraphs, crossing out the words neither of us knew, with me providing explanatory commentary along the way. As we delved, he became more and more stoic as I immersed myself in the story, enthralled by Poe’s dazzling imagery and effortless flow. Before long, I had a set built out of the couch and entertainment center, and I was acting out the story using the dog as the old man with the "evil eye". I may have been a little over enthusiastic with my portrayal, as the dog is now dismembered and buried underneath the house. Not to worry, we have another dog, who is more of a writer than an actor. So, she’s safe.
After my Tony Award winning performance, Son continued to wallow in Poe bewilderment. He still didn’t comprehend the gist of the story. Again, I tried to explain and retell the story to him in words he could understand. I even offered to kill the other dog. Eventually, I gave up. I don’t know, Son, let’s ask the rotted corpse of Edgar Allan Poe. It was lying on the floor next to a stuffed Sponge Bob doll. "‘Gar", I asked, "can you please explain to the boy what The Tell Tale Heart is all about?" To which he replied, "I’m not sure, I was drunk when I wrote it. In fact, I don’t even remember writing it. Do you have any cheese?"
Son and I looked at each other for a moment. Then, simultaneously, we both bust out laughing, holding each other’s spleens. "Dad," he said, wiping a jovial tear from his eye, "I guess drunk people just write weird stuff sometimes." That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past two hours! The important thing is that he finally got it, and he is now a big fan of Poe. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my dadhood. A feat right up there with the time ex-Mrs. Rub left me alone with the kids for the first time and neither of them died. To celebrate, I unhooked the two cans of beer from my über-dad utility belt and let my son watch me drink them. We hung Poe on a hanger and put him in the closet, in case either of us is ever required to read The Murders in the Rue Morgue or listen to the Iron Maiden song of the same name.
Allan Poe interrogating it for clues as to what the hell The Tell Tale Heart was all about.
Son, I asked (he was named after blues legend, Son House), are you reading The Tell Tale Heart in school? Yes, they had read it together in class that day. Being the über-dad that I am, I feigned interest in his schooling and asked him what he thought of the story. After about fifteen minutes of word fragments, you-know’s and um’s, I figured he didn’t comprehend much of the plot. I asked him if he was actually in the classroom when they read the story. He was there physically, but I’m guessing, mentally, he was wandering around the girls’ locker room handing out towels. Luckily, I was wearing my über-dad utility belt, which contained duct tape, a butter knife, two cans of beer, one paper towel, a golf score card, a roll of Lifesavers and the Unabridged Edgar Allan Poe. I suggested we read the story together, thinking it would be easier than me explaining the it to him, seeing that all I could remember about it were the car chases and the nude scenes.
We took turns reading paragraphs, crossing out the words neither of us knew, with me providing explanatory commentary along the way. As we delved, he became more and more stoic as I immersed myself in the story, enthralled by Poe’s dazzling imagery and effortless flow. Before long, I had a set built out of the couch and entertainment center, and I was acting out the story using the dog as the old man with the "evil eye". I may have been a little over enthusiastic with my portrayal, as the dog is now dismembered and buried underneath the house. Not to worry, we have another dog, who is more of a writer than an actor. So, she’s safe.
After my Tony Award winning performance, Son continued to wallow in Poe bewilderment. He still didn’t comprehend the gist of the story. Again, I tried to explain and retell the story to him in words he could understand. I even offered to kill the other dog. Eventually, I gave up. I don’t know, Son, let’s ask the rotted corpse of Edgar Allan Poe. It was lying on the floor next to a stuffed Sponge Bob doll. "‘Gar", I asked, "can you please explain to the boy what The Tell Tale Heart is all about?" To which he replied, "I’m not sure, I was drunk when I wrote it. In fact, I don’t even remember writing it. Do you have any cheese?"
Son and I looked at each other for a moment. Then, simultaneously, we both bust out laughing, holding each other’s spleens. "Dad," he said, wiping a jovial tear from his eye, "I guess drunk people just write weird stuff sometimes." That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past two hours! The important thing is that he finally got it, and he is now a big fan of Poe. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my dadhood. A feat right up there with the time ex-Mrs. Rub left me alone with the kids for the first time and neither of them died. To celebrate, I unhooked the two cans of beer from my über-dad utility belt and let my son watch me drink them. We hung Poe on a hanger and put him in the closet, in case either of us is ever required to read The Murders in the Rue Morgue or listen to the Iron Maiden song of the same name.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
On The Road With Sid
One of the reasons I went to college is so that I could get a job that didn’t require an updated tetanus vaccination. Not really. I went because my only work skills after high school consisted of cutting grass in the local parks to a safe level for children to play on. Sure, I was good at it, but minimum wage wasn’t going to impress Crystal Bernard. So I sucked it up and went off to higher educate myself. Unfortunately, I got the term “tuition & fees” confused with “cover charge” and missed out on most of the education piece. But I digress.
I really don’t need to get my tetanus vaccination updated since I had that done a few years ago when I crashed my bike and found a tree branch sticking out of my leg. I had it removed since my wife insists that I wear pants in public and I really didn’t want any birds nesting on me. Especially if I would have happened to attract something endangered. Then federal law would have required me to leave the branch until the Darwinian victims relocate on their own. Still digressing, here.
Anyway, the reason I bring up the whole tetanus thing is because it looks like I’ll be spending next week in New Orleans. I guess the recommended tetanus shot will help if I trip over a corpse and fall into a pile of spoiled meat. Just kidding – I’ve been assured they’ve taken care of that corpse issue. However, I was also assured that the water at the hotel would be suitable for bathing. Then I read a little EPA notice reminding hotels and restaurants to only get their water from reputable vendors, because “fuel trucks, chemical haulers, and other waste collection vehicles should never be used to transport potable water.” Well, now I feel better.
I wonder if they’re trying to tell me something at work. They also like sending me to Oklahoma during tornado season. Last time I was there, the seasonal pastime appeared to be sitting at the local Chili’s and watching tornado warnings on the bar TV.
You might remember I was also in Jacksonville while Hurricane Ophelia sat off the coast, taunting the city before turning north.
Last spring I had to go to Columbia, SC during the Masters. Pretty cool if you’re a golf fan since Augusta is right down the road, but I’d rather watch Marty and Jordis play dominoes than watch a round of golf. In fact, I’d rather watch a staring contest between Dick Cheney and Al Gore than watch a round of golf. Not only that, but the golf junkies took up all the available accommodations so I was forced to stay at the Bait n’ Switch Motel and rent a ’74 Ford Pinto.
But it’s all good. I make twice the minimum wage now and Crystal will start returning my calls any day now.
I really don’t need to get my tetanus vaccination updated since I had that done a few years ago when I crashed my bike and found a tree branch sticking out of my leg. I had it removed since my wife insists that I wear pants in public and I really didn’t want any birds nesting on me. Especially if I would have happened to attract something endangered. Then federal law would have required me to leave the branch until the Darwinian victims relocate on their own. Still digressing, here.
Anyway, the reason I bring up the whole tetanus thing is because it looks like I’ll be spending next week in New Orleans. I guess the recommended tetanus shot will help if I trip over a corpse and fall into a pile of spoiled meat. Just kidding – I’ve been assured they’ve taken care of that corpse issue. However, I was also assured that the water at the hotel would be suitable for bathing. Then I read a little EPA notice reminding hotels and restaurants to only get their water from reputable vendors, because “fuel trucks, chemical haulers, and other waste collection vehicles should never be used to transport potable water.” Well, now I feel better.
I wonder if they’re trying to tell me something at work. They also like sending me to Oklahoma during tornado season. Last time I was there, the seasonal pastime appeared to be sitting at the local Chili’s and watching tornado warnings on the bar TV.
You might remember I was also in Jacksonville while Hurricane Ophelia sat off the coast, taunting the city before turning north.
Last spring I had to go to Columbia, SC during the Masters. Pretty cool if you’re a golf fan since Augusta is right down the road, but I’d rather watch Marty and Jordis play dominoes than watch a round of golf. In fact, I’d rather watch a staring contest between Dick Cheney and Al Gore than watch a round of golf. Not only that, but the golf junkies took up all the available accommodations so I was forced to stay at the Bait n’ Switch Motel and rent a ’74 Ford Pinto.
But it’s all good. I make twice the minimum wage now and Crystal will start returning my calls any day now.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
EXCLUSIVE LEPER POP INTERVIEW WITH MARTY'S BROTHER - StivOO
Many readers have asked how we know Marty. Well, long before the Lovehammers existed Moist and Sid had a little band called Leprosy. Leprosy needed a frontman and wanted Marty Casey, but Marty wasn’t old enough to buy us beer so we settled for his older brother StivOO (pronounced Stiv Balls). This was also before shows like Rock Star: INXS, so Leprosy toiled in relative obscurity until Sid sold his amp to cover his rent payment, Moist knocked up the band's only groupie, and StivOO went on to a successful career designing Kool-Aid factories.
Leper Pop had Marty Casey lined up for an interview, in fact he just about begged us to interview him. He even offered us publishing rights to Trees. Out of the goodness of our hearts, we were going to patronize the lad and toss him a few softball questions (favorite color, most embarrassing moment, pick a number from one to ten, who'd you get gonorrhea from - yeah, us too, basic interview stuff), just to satisfy his Leper Pop obsession so he can turn his attention back to his shaky music career. However, we noticed that the Internet is full of Marty Casey interviews, and they all pretty much reveal the same information: Marty wanted to win, but he's happy to be back with the Lovehammers, he'd be nothing without Leprosy and he owes his whole life to Sid and Moist, blah, blah, blah. We've heard it a hundred times.
So, we here at Leper Pop decided to dig a little deeper to provide our deserving readers with some real meat about Marty Casey. To do that, we drove down to the nearest Oriental massage parlor and waited for them to throw some deadbeat jerk out the back door. Who would have guessed it was StivOO Casey, Marty's youngest older brother. StivOO was elated to offer his insight into the life and times of Rock Star first runner up, Marty Casey. (He was more elated to accept the twenty bucks we gave him since that meant he didn't have to sell his blood this week.) Below is exlcusive Marty Casey information we guarantee you will not find anywhere on the whole entire Internet.
Enjoy.
LP: If you weren't Marty's brother, who would he replace you with?
SC: Velvet Revolver
LP: What's the deal with the chick that bailed on him and went to NYC?
SC: That was a sad case of mistaken identity. It was actually Fred Willard in a lumberjack outfit. Try playing the song backwards, it will all be clear then.
LP: How have you and your band, Leprosy, influenced Marty?
SC: I can’t believe you would actually ask that question. It should be obvious. Next question.
LP: How do you feel about Marty being better than you?
SC: You know the old saying, “Every Marty has his day.” Besides, 2006 is the year of the StivOO in the Chinese calendar.
LP: How do you feel about Marty being able to score with an unimaginable amount of hot chicks while you're stuck with your wife for the rest of your life?
SC: You forget that I’ve already been there, done that as lead singer for Leprosy. Let me tell you, it gets old real fast. I’m perfectly happy to settle down with my beautiful wife and two kids.
LP: If Marty was a duck, what kind of animal do you think he'd be?
SC: Peking duck
LP: Have you been back to the Power House bar recently? Does it still smell like puke? How's our crack whore doing?
SC: This brings up a good point about smoking in public places, and Mike Ditka should sit up and take notice. If you recall, the Power House bar used to be a puke-crusted smoky crack whore open-butt smelling dive. Now, thanks to the California ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants, the Power House bar has blossomed into a puke-crusted crack whore open-butt smelling dive. If a smoking ban is good enough for Bhutan, it is good enough for the old US of A.
LP: What did Liz's appearance on the mansion show do for her career? What is her career?
SC: Liz is Chief Technical Officer of Casey MegaCorp, Inc. Her and Marty’s appearance on this show is just one small part of the Casey family plan to take over the world.
LP: Are you bitter that there aren't any TV shows about aspiring chemical engineers?
SC: When you think about it, Cooking with Julia Child, and all such shows that followed, are really just demonstrations of chemical engineering.
LP: Will you ever again give your hair a body wave?
SC: That ‘do was actually the consequence of early attempts at honing my performance art as lead man for Leprosy, by sticking my finger in a light socket. Marty clearly benefited from and was able to build upon those initial experiments.
LP: Have you ever seen Marty naked? Would you like to?
SC: Would you like to buy some pictures?
LP: What are you, some kind of perv?
SC: It’s up to you to figure out what kind. I’m not incriminating myself.
LP: Tell us some stories of Marty as a youngster. At what point in his youth did you figure out he was better than the rest of your family?
SC: I think it was down at U of I when he single-handedly defeated the Leper House team in a game of 16” softball.
LP: Compare and contrast your singing style with Marty's.
SC: Marty’s style lends itself to more of a deconstruction approach. Take “Trees,” for instance. While on the surface it may seem to be a light love serenade, it really is a dark song about how the mind will color the world to satisfy one’s true desires. Hence the seemingly incongruous line, “it’s a combination for disaster” manifests the reality that his subconscious mind is simply missing the forest for the trees, and that the girl is really Fred Willard.
My style, on the other hand, is more, “Wang, dang, sweet poon-tang.”
LP: Why couldn't you do for Leprosy what Marty has done with the Lovehammers?
SC: There you go, hitting my sore spot again. If we didn’t have Navin R. Johnson trying to hold down a beat, and SLAPPY the SLIDE WHISTLE SHOE-HORNING IN, AND… AAARG, We coulda been HUUUGE… No, no, no, it PISSES me OFF a little bit. I WORK, and I WORK, and I WORK, and the band sounds like SHIT, and what do they say? “Lets have a coupla more Old Style grenades, and try it again.” RIGHT. Nice work ethic. THAT’s it. I’m outta here.
(footsteps, door slams).
LP: I tried to pull up www.stevecasey.org, but it appears that your server is down. When do expect it to be back up?
SC: It’s not actually down. That cover page is just the firewall to the Casey MegaCorp portal. If you click on the right pixel, you’ll be able to enter the password and get in.
LP: At what age are Caseys taught the scary conductor?
SC: Once they make exempt status.
LP: Marty's never going to talk to us again, is he?
SC: Come on, like he ever did before.
LP: Can we be roadies?
SC: Ho hoo, no. I’ve seen Cap’n Break-It in action.
LP: Do you think Marty wants to title their next album "Leper Pop" with a picture of Sid and Moist on the cover?
SC: No.
LP: Why not?
SC: Because I said so. Don’t make me come back there.
LP: Did Marty nail Jordis or what? Are Caseys naturally attracted to Ungas in the wild?
SC: Wow, good question. The Caseys have been domesticated for generations now. I’ll have to check farther back in the family tree and get back to you.
LP: Did all the Caseys get those circle tats behind their ear?
SC: Personally, I had three of them in a row tattooed on the back of my head, but due to unfortunate positioning in relationship with my 111 birthmark, I am now no longer allowed to attend church.
LP: Marty wore boxer briefs on the show - what do you wear? What about Liz?
SC: The whole family wears complementary Incredibles undergarments.
LP: Are you creeped out answering questions about your sister's underwear?
SC: No, its common knowledge since the endorsement deal with Pixar.
LP: Can you ask Marty about the $20 he owes Moist Rub?
SC: He insists it was a grant, not a loan.
LP: I've seen you spit fire using a bottle of Everclear and a can of aerosol cheese as part of Leprosy's stage show, but does anyone in the family actually drink Kool-Aid?
SC: Yes, have some.
LP: Are you the brother Marty refers to when he talks about listening to his "brother's music" growing up? Or was it Chris, because Chris is everybody's favorite, and Marty hardly knew StivOO was even part of the family? Is that why you tried to buy his love by giving him your red Ibanez guitar?
SC: Well, I wasn’t actually adopted by the Caseys until SLH had already formed, so, yes, I would say is was Chris. And I didn’t so much GIVE Marty the guitar, rather he grabbed it from me, shoved me to the ground with a hand to the face and said, “thanks for the GIFT, punk.” Same goes for the blond neck-through-the-body Ibanez.
LP: You do realize that the opportunity to hang out with Sid and Moist is way cooler than having to hang out with Dave Navarro like Marty, right?
SC: Well, you both are taller than the Pocket Prince, but beyond that, it’s hard to say.
There you have it. Thanks for your time, StivOO, and good luck with those needles we found for you.
Leper Pop had Marty Casey lined up for an interview, in fact he just about begged us to interview him. He even offered us publishing rights to Trees. Out of the goodness of our hearts, we were going to patronize the lad and toss him a few softball questions (favorite color, most embarrassing moment, pick a number from one to ten, who'd you get gonorrhea from - yeah, us too, basic interview stuff), just to satisfy his Leper Pop obsession so he can turn his attention back to his shaky music career. However, we noticed that the Internet is full of Marty Casey interviews, and they all pretty much reveal the same information: Marty wanted to win, but he's happy to be back with the Lovehammers, he'd be nothing without Leprosy and he owes his whole life to Sid and Moist, blah, blah, blah. We've heard it a hundred times.
So, we here at Leper Pop decided to dig a little deeper to provide our deserving readers with some real meat about Marty Casey. To do that, we drove down to the nearest Oriental massage parlor and waited for them to throw some deadbeat jerk out the back door. Who would have guessed it was StivOO Casey, Marty's youngest older brother. StivOO was elated to offer his insight into the life and times of Rock Star first runner up, Marty Casey. (He was more elated to accept the twenty bucks we gave him since that meant he didn't have to sell his blood this week.) Below is exlcusive Marty Casey information we guarantee you will not find anywhere on the whole entire Internet.
Enjoy.
LP: If you weren't Marty's brother, who would he replace you with?
SC: Velvet Revolver
LP: What's the deal with the chick that bailed on him and went to NYC?
SC: That was a sad case of mistaken identity. It was actually Fred Willard in a lumberjack outfit. Try playing the song backwards, it will all be clear then.
LP: How have you and your band, Leprosy, influenced Marty?
SC: I can’t believe you would actually ask that question. It should be obvious. Next question.
LP: How do you feel about Marty being better than you?
SC: You know the old saying, “Every Marty has his day.” Besides, 2006 is the year of the StivOO in the Chinese calendar.
LP: How do you feel about Marty being able to score with an unimaginable amount of hot chicks while you're stuck with your wife for the rest of your life?
SC: You forget that I’ve already been there, done that as lead singer for Leprosy. Let me tell you, it gets old real fast. I’m perfectly happy to settle down with my beautiful wife and two kids.
LP: If Marty was a duck, what kind of animal do you think he'd be?
SC: Peking duck
LP: Have you been back to the Power House bar recently? Does it still smell like puke? How's our crack whore doing?
SC: This brings up a good point about smoking in public places, and Mike Ditka should sit up and take notice. If you recall, the Power House bar used to be a puke-crusted smoky crack whore open-butt smelling dive. Now, thanks to the California ban on smoking in all workplaces, including bars and restaurants, the Power House bar has blossomed into a puke-crusted crack whore open-butt smelling dive. If a smoking ban is good enough for Bhutan, it is good enough for the old US of A.
LP: What did Liz's appearance on the mansion show do for her career? What is her career?
SC: Liz is Chief Technical Officer of Casey MegaCorp, Inc. Her and Marty’s appearance on this show is just one small part of the Casey family plan to take over the world.
LP: Are you bitter that there aren't any TV shows about aspiring chemical engineers?
SC: When you think about it, Cooking with Julia Child, and all such shows that followed, are really just demonstrations of chemical engineering.
LP: Will you ever again give your hair a body wave?
SC: That ‘do was actually the consequence of early attempts at honing my performance art as lead man for Leprosy, by sticking my finger in a light socket. Marty clearly benefited from and was able to build upon those initial experiments.
LP: Have you ever seen Marty naked? Would you like to?
SC: Would you like to buy some pictures?
LP: What are you, some kind of perv?
SC: It’s up to you to figure out what kind. I’m not incriminating myself.
LP: Tell us some stories of Marty as a youngster. At what point in his youth did you figure out he was better than the rest of your family?
SC: I think it was down at U of I when he single-handedly defeated the Leper House team in a game of 16” softball.
LP: Compare and contrast your singing style with Marty's.
SC: Marty’s style lends itself to more of a deconstruction approach. Take “Trees,” for instance. While on the surface it may seem to be a light love serenade, it really is a dark song about how the mind will color the world to satisfy one’s true desires. Hence the seemingly incongruous line, “it’s a combination for disaster” manifests the reality that his subconscious mind is simply missing the forest for the trees, and that the girl is really Fred Willard.
My style, on the other hand, is more, “Wang, dang, sweet poon-tang.”
LP: Why couldn't you do for Leprosy what Marty has done with the Lovehammers?
SC: There you go, hitting my sore spot again. If we didn’t have Navin R. Johnson trying to hold down a beat, and SLAPPY the SLIDE WHISTLE SHOE-HORNING IN, AND… AAARG, We coulda been HUUUGE… No, no, no, it PISSES me OFF a little bit. I WORK, and I WORK, and I WORK, and the band sounds like SHIT, and what do they say? “Lets have a coupla more Old Style grenades, and try it again.” RIGHT. Nice work ethic. THAT’s it. I’m outta here.
(footsteps, door slams).
LP: I tried to pull up www.stevecasey.org, but it appears that your server is down. When do expect it to be back up?
SC: It’s not actually down. That cover page is just the firewall to the Casey MegaCorp portal. If you click on the right pixel, you’ll be able to enter the password and get in.
LP: At what age are Caseys taught the scary conductor?
SC: Once they make exempt status.
LP: Marty's never going to talk to us again, is he?
SC: Come on, like he ever did before.
LP: Can we be roadies?
SC: Ho hoo, no. I’ve seen Cap’n Break-It in action.
LP: Do you think Marty wants to title their next album "Leper Pop" with a picture of Sid and Moist on the cover?
SC: No.
LP: Why not?
SC: Because I said so. Don’t make me come back there.
LP: Did Marty nail Jordis or what? Are Caseys naturally attracted to Ungas in the wild?
SC: Wow, good question. The Caseys have been domesticated for generations now. I’ll have to check farther back in the family tree and get back to you.
LP: Did all the Caseys get those circle tats behind their ear?
SC: Personally, I had three of them in a row tattooed on the back of my head, but due to unfortunate positioning in relationship with my 111 birthmark, I am now no longer allowed to attend church.
LP: Marty wore boxer briefs on the show - what do you wear? What about Liz?
SC: The whole family wears complementary Incredibles undergarments.
LP: Are you creeped out answering questions about your sister's underwear?
SC: No, its common knowledge since the endorsement deal with Pixar.
LP: Can you ask Marty about the $20 he owes Moist Rub?
SC: He insists it was a grant, not a loan.
LP: I've seen you spit fire using a bottle of Everclear and a can of aerosol cheese as part of Leprosy's stage show, but does anyone in the family actually drink Kool-Aid?
SC: Yes, have some.
LP: Are you the brother Marty refers to when he talks about listening to his "brother's music" growing up? Or was it Chris, because Chris is everybody's favorite, and Marty hardly knew StivOO was even part of the family? Is that why you tried to buy his love by giving him your red Ibanez guitar?
SC: Well, I wasn’t actually adopted by the Caseys until SLH had already formed, so, yes, I would say is was Chris. And I didn’t so much GIVE Marty the guitar, rather he grabbed it from me, shoved me to the ground with a hand to the face and said, “thanks for the GIFT, punk.” Same goes for the blond neck-through-the-body Ibanez.
LP: You do realize that the opportunity to hang out with Sid and Moist is way cooler than having to hang out with Dave Navarro like Marty, right?
SC: Well, you both are taller than the Pocket Prince, but beyond that, it’s hard to say.
There you have it. Thanks for your time, StivOO, and good luck with those needles we found for you.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Hockey Night with Sid
When I was a single, successful guy back in Chi-town I had season tickets to the Chicago Blackhawks. Not quite that successful, so I had to split them with 3 other guys so that I could still afford the beer payments. Second balcony, in the corner of the old Chicago Stadium and worth every penny. I knew the shortcuts around Chicago’s west side and which ones would get me there on time without risking my life or a carjacking. It’s hard to fully enjoy the game if you feel a twinge of guilt over having to sacrifice your date to street thugs to be there on-time for the national anthem. I don’t know much about Canada, but I do know that they kick our ass in beer, hockey, anthems and replacement singers for INXS. I secretly looked forward to games against our neighbors to the north just so I could hear O’ Canada. They should have put that on the songboard during Rock Star. But I digress. I got to see the Pittsburgh Penguins win the Stanley Cup on that ice back in 1992 with LA Ray, then shook his hand and moved to Dallas the next day. A town without hockey. I take losses very hard.
Upon my arrival, Dallas threw together a minor league hockey team called the Freeze. Minor league hockey is like going from Michael Hutchence to JD Fortune. Not even friggin’ close, but it will do in a pinch and it’s easier to get a ticket. I highly recommend the movie Slapshot if you haven’t already seen it. You can feel good about yourself since you make more money than the players and don’t have to ride a bus home. However, the future didn’t look bright when I saw the zamboni up on blocks in front of the arena. Luckily, the Minnesota North Stars left the land of 10,000 lakes and moved down to Dallas for the waters. They were misinformed. They dropped the “North” from their name, although I would have left it for comic effect. Hell, they should have just kept Minnesota in the name, too, if not just to taunt their ex. Regardless, I ponied up for some season tix. It’s a well-known fact that hot girls like hockey and tickets increased my chance of contending for the scoring title that year. Unfortunately, about this time hockey players thought that they were worthy of NBA type money and ticket prices went up faster than a barrel of oil. I eventually gave up my season tix and found less expensive pastimes like petty larceny.
I still love the game, but tickets haven’t been in the F’er budget so I was pretty excited when Mrs. F’er called, told me her manager offered her a couple free tickets to the Stars game Saturday night, and asked if I wanted to go. I asked her if the Pope was Polish, having forgotten about the new guy from Germany, but she knew my answer was yes. Then I asked her who I should take. That wasn’t a good question and I was advised that if I wanted to take my girlfriend I would have to find my own tickets. So I waited for Mrs. F’er to get off work and we ended up leaving a little later than I had hoped.
Mrs. F’er (on the way to the game): “If we were on The Amazing Race I would let you drive, but I would be scared the whole time.”
We didn’t crash and only missed the first 30 seconds of the game. You can read a recap of the game in the newspaper, so I’ll discuss the peripheral activites.
Our seats were two rows off the ice (face value $110). People sitting down here have little interest in hockey and should feel great shame. I find that the real fans in any arena are usually in the cheap seats. I’ve left games at the Chicago Stadium with a broken hand after Chicago streets and sanitation workers high fived me a little too enthusiastically in the second balcony. Down on the glass people seem most concerned with making sure their children don’t spill their nacho cheese sauce. Note to the 17 year old white suburban boy sitting next to me: You’re a dork – lose the giant diamond earring, homeboy.
The Stars have added the Dallas Stars Ice Girls to “assist the club’s game operations staff with ice maintenance during television timeouts.” Whatever. Scraping up ice shavings is as necessary as shaving Jon Farriss’ ass during an INXS concert. The Ice Girls are there for the enjoyment of the predominantly male, horndog crowd. I told Mrs. F’er my plans to freeze the kitchen floor so that I could take an Ice Girl home with us (in particular the tall brunette in the center of the back row, who looks much better in person), but I guess she doesn’t like ice skating as much as I do.
The Dallas Stars Jukebox – At intermission, the PA announcer plays three song clips and the crowd votes for their favorite by clapping, cheering, or giving their neighbor a noogie. The winning song gets played in full.
Bon Jovi – Have A Nice Day: No cheers and lots of booing. It appears that your typical hockey fan is smarter than mainstream America. A scary thought.
Green Day – Wake Me Up When September Ends: Mixed bag, but support from what sounds like the high schoolers in the crowd.
AC/DC – You Shook Me All Night Long: Massive cheers, no contest. My faith in humankind and Australian rock bands is restored. It would have been more amusing if they chose Big Balls, but I guess that’s why I’m not in the promotions department.
Speaking of music, I’ve noticed that at major sporting events they feel the need to fill up every second that the clock isn’t running with music. It ends up sounding like you’re listening to a broken IPod that can only play the first 10 seconds of each song and pretty soon you just want to shove that broken IPod up the arse of whoever is responsible. If your attention span is that short, just stay home and watch MTV and leave my wide world of sports alone before I have to give you a lesson about the agony of defeat.
For as long as I can remember, the zamboni has not changed a bit. In fact, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much since being invented by Catholic priest Giuseppe Zamboni. Or maybe it was Frank Zamboni back in the early 40’s. Is it really necessary to have something that big and slow to accomplish the resurfacing? You would think they might have developed something more efficient over the years. I’ll get the Ice Girls on that project.
During the second intermission, Mrs. F’er was kind enough to issue a fake boob alert to me. However, she also issued a slap upside my head when I looked a bit too long. I need to find out exactly where that line is so I can avoid the headslap without shortchanging my visceral pleasures.
We stayed until the bitter end, including the exhibition shoot-out, since you never leave a hockey game early. In fact, I pretty sure that’s a felony in Canada. And you never know when a Mountie might be lurking around the corner.
Upon my arrival, Dallas threw together a minor league hockey team called the Freeze. Minor league hockey is like going from Michael Hutchence to JD Fortune. Not even friggin’ close, but it will do in a pinch and it’s easier to get a ticket. I highly recommend the movie Slapshot if you haven’t already seen it. You can feel good about yourself since you make more money than the players and don’t have to ride a bus home. However, the future didn’t look bright when I saw the zamboni up on blocks in front of the arena. Luckily, the Minnesota North Stars left the land of 10,000 lakes and moved down to Dallas for the waters. They were misinformed. They dropped the “North” from their name, although I would have left it for comic effect. Hell, they should have just kept Minnesota in the name, too, if not just to taunt their ex. Regardless, I ponied up for some season tix. It’s a well-known fact that hot girls like hockey and tickets increased my chance of contending for the scoring title that year. Unfortunately, about this time hockey players thought that they were worthy of NBA type money and ticket prices went up faster than a barrel of oil. I eventually gave up my season tix and found less expensive pastimes like petty larceny.
I still love the game, but tickets haven’t been in the F’er budget so I was pretty excited when Mrs. F’er called, told me her manager offered her a couple free tickets to the Stars game Saturday night, and asked if I wanted to go. I asked her if the Pope was Polish, having forgotten about the new guy from Germany, but she knew my answer was yes. Then I asked her who I should take. That wasn’t a good question and I was advised that if I wanted to take my girlfriend I would have to find my own tickets. So I waited for Mrs. F’er to get off work and we ended up leaving a little later than I had hoped.
Mrs. F’er (on the way to the game): “If we were on The Amazing Race I would let you drive, but I would be scared the whole time.”
We didn’t crash and only missed the first 30 seconds of the game. You can read a recap of the game in the newspaper, so I’ll discuss the peripheral activites.
Our seats were two rows off the ice (face value $110). People sitting down here have little interest in hockey and should feel great shame. I find that the real fans in any arena are usually in the cheap seats. I’ve left games at the Chicago Stadium with a broken hand after Chicago streets and sanitation workers high fived me a little too enthusiastically in the second balcony. Down on the glass people seem most concerned with making sure their children don’t spill their nacho cheese sauce. Note to the 17 year old white suburban boy sitting next to me: You’re a dork – lose the giant diamond earring, homeboy.
The Stars have added the Dallas Stars Ice Girls to “assist the club’s game operations staff with ice maintenance during television timeouts.” Whatever. Scraping up ice shavings is as necessary as shaving Jon Farriss’ ass during an INXS concert. The Ice Girls are there for the enjoyment of the predominantly male, horndog crowd. I told Mrs. F’er my plans to freeze the kitchen floor so that I could take an Ice Girl home with us (in particular the tall brunette in the center of the back row, who looks much better in person), but I guess she doesn’t like ice skating as much as I do.
The Dallas Stars Jukebox – At intermission, the PA announcer plays three song clips and the crowd votes for their favorite by clapping, cheering, or giving their neighbor a noogie. The winning song gets played in full.
Bon Jovi – Have A Nice Day: No cheers and lots of booing. It appears that your typical hockey fan is smarter than mainstream America. A scary thought.
Green Day – Wake Me Up When September Ends: Mixed bag, but support from what sounds like the high schoolers in the crowd.
AC/DC – You Shook Me All Night Long: Massive cheers, no contest. My faith in humankind and Australian rock bands is restored. It would have been more amusing if they chose Big Balls, but I guess that’s why I’m not in the promotions department.
Speaking of music, I’ve noticed that at major sporting events they feel the need to fill up every second that the clock isn’t running with music. It ends up sounding like you’re listening to a broken IPod that can only play the first 10 seconds of each song and pretty soon you just want to shove that broken IPod up the arse of whoever is responsible. If your attention span is that short, just stay home and watch MTV and leave my wide world of sports alone before I have to give you a lesson about the agony of defeat.
For as long as I can remember, the zamboni has not changed a bit. In fact, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much since being invented by Catholic priest Giuseppe Zamboni. Or maybe it was Frank Zamboni back in the early 40’s. Is it really necessary to have something that big and slow to accomplish the resurfacing? You would think they might have developed something more efficient over the years. I’ll get the Ice Girls on that project.
During the second intermission, Mrs. F’er was kind enough to issue a fake boob alert to me. However, she also issued a slap upside my head when I looked a bit too long. I need to find out exactly where that line is so I can avoid the headslap without shortchanging my visceral pleasures.
We stayed until the bitter end, including the exhibition shoot-out, since you never leave a hockey game early. In fact, I pretty sure that’s a felony in Canada. And you never know when a Mountie might be lurking around the corner.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Snot-Nosed Christmas
For those of you who don’t read the Bible, I have some information for you. The story of the birth of Jesus is depicted a number of times throughout the text of the New Testament. None of the accounts describe the occurrence with extensive detail. The tales inform us of who was there and how they came to be there, and the setting is explained, but not much else.
I’m guessing that from the time that Mary’s holy water broke to the time a manger cow licked the baby Jesus clean, at least twelve hours should have passed. Add in the travel time to Bethlehem by all the characters involved, the post birth celebration and the gift presentation by the three kings that weigh the same, it must have been at least two full days before the manger nurse kicked everybody out for violating visiting hours.
It seems to me that the birth of Christ is one of the most defining events portrayed in the Bible, but in each of the Books that chose to describe the incident, the authors could only belt out a few paragraphs to venerate the miracle. First he’s born and, all of a sudden, John the Baptist is giving him a sponge bath in a river. What the hell happened?
As an author wouldn’t you expect your readers to want to know more about such a significant happening as it relates to the rest of the plot? I know when I was reading it, I wondered how Mary handled the delivery, was Joseph worried about the manger bill and life insurance, was Jesus in danger of contracting Lyme disease or some other insect carried bacterial ailment, who signed the birth certificate, did Joseph have to legally adopt Jesus, did the Wise Men have the decency to provide gift receipts, how did the Holy Spirit live with itself knowing he let another man raise his son, who ate the afterbirth, did an episiotomy need to be performed, did they have to order out for food, was all this covered in the HMO - even the neonatologist, etc.? The questions pile up with no answers in sight. The stories are suspiciously lacking.
This leads me to believe that the truth of what happened in the manger is not known or, at least, it was not made known to the common folk. It makes one question the validity of the entire Christian belief, not to mention the very existence of the Little Drummer Boy. Why would the authors omit such important information? Were they trying to hide something? You bet they were, but what?
To find out we must trust our faith and read between the lines. I have done this for you, so there is no need for you to waste your time trying to figure it out. What I have determined is remarkable. I understand why Matthew and Luke and Pat Robertson and the others chose the conservative approach to their retelling.
It turns out that the tiny infant Jesus could talk. True, he was part deity, part mortal, but he had to learn his human skill just like any other child. But, God wanted him to begin "spreading the word" as soon as possible, so he blessed Jesus with the power of speech. The unfortunate part, and I’m not saying God screwed up, is that God did not bless Jesus with the power of tact and courtesy. These were human skills that JC would have to be taught - an unexpected responsibility for which Mary and Joseph were not quite prepared the first night on the job.
Being a newborn, Jesus had a lot of questions and thoughts that an immature (non-existent) super ego could not restrain. If recorded, these first words of the savior’s wisdom would have scarred Christianity until forever. Had the authors included this scrap of history in their narration, the religion would have had a difficult time getting off the ground, attracting only the most vulgar and uncouth followers (like me). For those of you interested in starting your own religion, if you want it to consume the world, start by attracting the popular people, like movie stars. Then the more abundant mopes will follow. Look how well the Church of Scientology is doing. I’m still waiting for my application to be approved so I can finally give Tom Cruise a foot bath.
As the notion of a speaking baby Jesus was denied print, so too was any dialog that may or may not have occurred. After months and months of research, I have unearthed a snippet of his first words of wisdom. Here is a sample of what transpired:
Jesus: Pss. Hey Joe!
Joseph (dumbfounded): What? Who said that? Is that you, God?
Jesus: Well, sort of. Down here, dude.
Joseph (looking down at the child): Holy Shit!
Jesus: Oh, you can smell that? Sorry. I couldn’t find a bathroom.
Joseph: You can talk!
Jesus: Mom didn’t tell me you were a genius. Of course I can talk! But don’t tell anybody. I want it to be a surprise.
Joseph: It’s a miracle!
Jesus: You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet. Just wait until I stop shitting in my pants.
Joseph: Now, son, I don’t approve of you using that foul language.
Jesus: Look, before you start getting all heavy on me, let’s get something straight. I know you are not my real father, so can the orders, pops.
Joseph: I am you worldly father. It is my duty.
Jesus: Duty my ass. You haven’t even done the nasty with my mom yet. From what I’ve heard, you were the only guy hard up enough to agree to this gig. Where’s your self respect, man? Can’t you get a chick without divine intervention?
Joseph: I do not intend to discuss my personal life with the likes of you. You may be the savior, but you must respect your elders.
Jesus: Take it easy, big boy. I’ll go easy on ya. Hey, what’s that? (Jesus eyes a donkey standing in the manger.)
Joseph: That, my son, is an ass.
Jesus: Can I have it?
Joseph: Yes, I suppose so.
Jesus: Oh, goodie! I got myself a new ass. I love my ass. It’s a big ass, too. I love my new, big ass.
Joseph: Yes, Jesus, you are very lucky.
Jesus: That ass is sure hairy. I've got a big, hairy ass. Take a look at my big, hairy ass, Joe.
Joseph: I see it. It is very impressive.
Jesus: You know what else? It’s kind of smelly. Don’t you think?
Joseph: I’ll agree that there is some pungency wafting our way from that direction.
Jesus: My big, hairy ass is smelly. I’ve got a big, hairy, smelly ass. What’s a boy to do with a big, hairy, smelly ass?
Joseph: You can try washing it.
Jesus: I think I want to shave it. Joe, can you do me a favor and shave my big, hairy, smelly ass? Please?
Joseph: Ask your mother.
Jesus: I think he’s hungry. Maybe he wants a carrot. Hey, Joe, go get a carrot and stick it in my big, hairy, smelly ass. That should make my big, hairy, smelly ass feel better.
Joseph: There are no carrots to be found.
Jesus: I’d like to take my big, hairy, smelly ass for a ride. But I can’t. I'm too little. Wow, if I could ride my own big, hairy, smelly ass, I would never leave the house. Maybe you would like to ride my big, hairy, smelly ass, Joe. You look like the type.
Joseph: Maybe in my younger days, but I’m too old for that now.
Jesus: Did a little experimenting in college, huh, Joe? Oh, well. My big, hairy, smelly ass is standing kind of funny. Maybe he’s sore. I think my big, hairy, smelly ass is sore. Joe, I need you to rub my big, hairy, smelly ass. Could you do that for me? But don’t rub too hard. I don’t want my big, hairy, smelly ass to start bleeding. There is nothing worse than a big, bloody, hairy, smelly ass, don’t you think?
Joseph: Enough already! I’M SICK AND TIRED OF HEARING ABOUT YOUR BIG, BLOODY, HAIRY, SMELLY ASS! NOW SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!!!
Mary: Did you say something, Dear?
Jesus: Uh oh, somebody's in trouble. Yo! Melchior, what did you bring me...
As you can see from this depiction, the true story does not lend itself to the creation of a successful religion whose major premise is faith. It’s tough to convince people to have faith in a snot-nosed kid with a potty mouth. The authors may have done right when they chose to overlook this part of history. Otherwise, their religion could have gone that way of the Davidians and Jonestown. And what kind of Christmas would that leave us? I shudder to think of the possibilities.
I’m guessing that from the time that Mary’s holy water broke to the time a manger cow licked the baby Jesus clean, at least twelve hours should have passed. Add in the travel time to Bethlehem by all the characters involved, the post birth celebration and the gift presentation by the three kings that weigh the same, it must have been at least two full days before the manger nurse kicked everybody out for violating visiting hours.
It seems to me that the birth of Christ is one of the most defining events portrayed in the Bible, but in each of the Books that chose to describe the incident, the authors could only belt out a few paragraphs to venerate the miracle. First he’s born and, all of a sudden, John the Baptist is giving him a sponge bath in a river. What the hell happened?
As an author wouldn’t you expect your readers to want to know more about such a significant happening as it relates to the rest of the plot? I know when I was reading it, I wondered how Mary handled the delivery, was Joseph worried about the manger bill and life insurance, was Jesus in danger of contracting Lyme disease or some other insect carried bacterial ailment, who signed the birth certificate, did Joseph have to legally adopt Jesus, did the Wise Men have the decency to provide gift receipts, how did the Holy Spirit live with itself knowing he let another man raise his son, who ate the afterbirth, did an episiotomy need to be performed, did they have to order out for food, was all this covered in the HMO - even the neonatologist, etc.? The questions pile up with no answers in sight. The stories are suspiciously lacking.
This leads me to believe that the truth of what happened in the manger is not known or, at least, it was not made known to the common folk. It makes one question the validity of the entire Christian belief, not to mention the very existence of the Little Drummer Boy. Why would the authors omit such important information? Were they trying to hide something? You bet they were, but what?
To find out we must trust our faith and read between the lines. I have done this for you, so there is no need for you to waste your time trying to figure it out. What I have determined is remarkable. I understand why Matthew and Luke and Pat Robertson and the others chose the conservative approach to their retelling.
It turns out that the tiny infant Jesus could talk. True, he was part deity, part mortal, but he had to learn his human skill just like any other child. But, God wanted him to begin "spreading the word" as soon as possible, so he blessed Jesus with the power of speech. The unfortunate part, and I’m not saying God screwed up, is that God did not bless Jesus with the power of tact and courtesy. These were human skills that JC would have to be taught - an unexpected responsibility for which Mary and Joseph were not quite prepared the first night on the job.
Being a newborn, Jesus had a lot of questions and thoughts that an immature (non-existent) super ego could not restrain. If recorded, these first words of the savior’s wisdom would have scarred Christianity until forever. Had the authors included this scrap of history in their narration, the religion would have had a difficult time getting off the ground, attracting only the most vulgar and uncouth followers (like me). For those of you interested in starting your own religion, if you want it to consume the world, start by attracting the popular people, like movie stars. Then the more abundant mopes will follow. Look how well the Church of Scientology is doing. I’m still waiting for my application to be approved so I can finally give Tom Cruise a foot bath.
As the notion of a speaking baby Jesus was denied print, so too was any dialog that may or may not have occurred. After months and months of research, I have unearthed a snippet of his first words of wisdom. Here is a sample of what transpired:
Jesus: Pss. Hey Joe!
Joseph (dumbfounded): What? Who said that? Is that you, God?
Jesus: Well, sort of. Down here, dude.
Joseph (looking down at the child): Holy Shit!
Jesus: Oh, you can smell that? Sorry. I couldn’t find a bathroom.
Joseph: You can talk!
Jesus: Mom didn’t tell me you were a genius. Of course I can talk! But don’t tell anybody. I want it to be a surprise.
Joseph: It’s a miracle!
Jesus: You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet. Just wait until I stop shitting in my pants.
Joseph: Now, son, I don’t approve of you using that foul language.
Jesus: Look, before you start getting all heavy on me, let’s get something straight. I know you are not my real father, so can the orders, pops.
Joseph: I am you worldly father. It is my duty.
Jesus: Duty my ass. You haven’t even done the nasty with my mom yet. From what I’ve heard, you were the only guy hard up enough to agree to this gig. Where’s your self respect, man? Can’t you get a chick without divine intervention?
Joseph: I do not intend to discuss my personal life with the likes of you. You may be the savior, but you must respect your elders.
Jesus: Take it easy, big boy. I’ll go easy on ya. Hey, what’s that? (Jesus eyes a donkey standing in the manger.)
Joseph: That, my son, is an ass.
Jesus: Can I have it?
Joseph: Yes, I suppose so.
Jesus: Oh, goodie! I got myself a new ass. I love my ass. It’s a big ass, too. I love my new, big ass.
Joseph: Yes, Jesus, you are very lucky.
Jesus: That ass is sure hairy. I've got a big, hairy ass. Take a look at my big, hairy ass, Joe.
Joseph: I see it. It is very impressive.
Jesus: You know what else? It’s kind of smelly. Don’t you think?
Joseph: I’ll agree that there is some pungency wafting our way from that direction.
Jesus: My big, hairy ass is smelly. I’ve got a big, hairy, smelly ass. What’s a boy to do with a big, hairy, smelly ass?
Joseph: You can try washing it.
Jesus: I think I want to shave it. Joe, can you do me a favor and shave my big, hairy, smelly ass? Please?
Joseph: Ask your mother.
Jesus: I think he’s hungry. Maybe he wants a carrot. Hey, Joe, go get a carrot and stick it in my big, hairy, smelly ass. That should make my big, hairy, smelly ass feel better.
Joseph: There are no carrots to be found.
Jesus: I’d like to take my big, hairy, smelly ass for a ride. But I can’t. I'm too little. Wow, if I could ride my own big, hairy, smelly ass, I would never leave the house. Maybe you would like to ride my big, hairy, smelly ass, Joe. You look like the type.
Joseph: Maybe in my younger days, but I’m too old for that now.
Jesus: Did a little experimenting in college, huh, Joe? Oh, well. My big, hairy, smelly ass is standing kind of funny. Maybe he’s sore. I think my big, hairy, smelly ass is sore. Joe, I need you to rub my big, hairy, smelly ass. Could you do that for me? But don’t rub too hard. I don’t want my big, hairy, smelly ass to start bleeding. There is nothing worse than a big, bloody, hairy, smelly ass, don’t you think?
Joseph: Enough already! I’M SICK AND TIRED OF HEARING ABOUT YOUR BIG, BLOODY, HAIRY, SMELLY ASS! NOW SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!!!
Mary: Did you say something, Dear?
Jesus: Uh oh, somebody's in trouble. Yo! Melchior, what did you bring me...
As you can see from this depiction, the true story does not lend itself to the creation of a successful religion whose major premise is faith. It’s tough to convince people to have faith in a snot-nosed kid with a potty mouth. The authors may have done right when they chose to overlook this part of history. Otherwise, their religion could have gone that way of the Davidians and Jonestown. And what kind of Christmas would that leave us? I shudder to think of the possibilities.
Sid's Fall Preview - Saturdays
There's no TV on Saturdays. Nothing worth watching anyway unless you're a college football geek. And don't be one of those. Get out and do something. I'll be on my bike pissing off soccer moms and dodging their Chevy Suburbans as they race to Starbucks for a fix before they're due back for pick up at dance class.
However, if you choose to stay home and do something, put on some tunes. Turn it up. Clean out your closet. You're never going to fit into those pants again so get rid of them. Burn all those capri pants while you're at it. You'll thank me later.
Don't know what to listen to? Yeah, yeah, Marty is all cute and everything, but there's more to life than just hanging out in trees. Remember all the good stuff you used to listen to before you started getting your music from reality shows and the soundtrack to CSI? Still stuck? Then try some Frank Black. Listen to it and pretend you're Moist Rub if you want. That's what I do.
Frank Black - I Love Your Brain
As always, this is for sampling purposes only, so if you like it then go buy the 8 track. If you don't know what an 8-track is then step away from the blog and get back to the O.C. forum. In fact, everyone just step away from the blog and have a good weekend. We'll be here when you get back. I promise.
However, if you choose to stay home and do something, put on some tunes. Turn it up. Clean out your closet. You're never going to fit into those pants again so get rid of them. Burn all those capri pants while you're at it. You'll thank me later.
Don't know what to listen to? Yeah, yeah, Marty is all cute and everything, but there's more to life than just hanging out in trees. Remember all the good stuff you used to listen to before you started getting your music from reality shows and the soundtrack to CSI? Still stuck? Then try some Frank Black. Listen to it and pretend you're Moist Rub if you want. That's what I do.
Frank Black - I Love Your Brain
As always, this is for sampling purposes only, so if you like it then go buy the 8 track. If you don't know what an 8-track is then step away from the blog and get back to the O.C. forum. In fact, everyone just step away from the blog and have a good weekend. We'll be here when you get back. I promise.
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