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Below are two files that Josh recorded on Saturday night (with his schmancy phone) of my son, Max, first repeating what his father calls the President of the United States, and then, Josh getting creative and feeding him new lines.
In this vein, Christie and I were trying to get him to say "US out of Iraq," but the closest we got last night was "Get out of my rack," which creates a different mental image entirely.
Karl Rove is a Jerk
Now, go see/hear them in their original location at Layer 8!
Otherwise known as "the Story of Thanksgiving." Or at least, this past weekend. Also called, "How I managed to miss seeing Mike Basford," (sorry, Mike) or, "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Poppycock."
We have just today returned from our mini-vacation to the wilds of Wisconsin, and what a trip it was, what with the whirlwind of well, basically, it was a whirlwind of food. And friendship, of course, music and fun - but really, shit, man, there was a lot of food.
On Tuesday of last week, we bailed from Christie's school thinking we would shoot to the airport, duck out, and be in Madison by night. This was ultimately not to be, because Northwest Airlines sucks (see previous entries). So, we drove all night with Jody & Kathy, these random people we met as Memphis AIrport (never forget ya, gals) and got into the Madtown by 8:30 in the morning, rather than the 4 PM NWA said they could do. We spent Wednesday hanging out first with Greists (Ellen has a car epic to rival our plane one) and then with the Jester-Heling crew, eating too much and drinking good sweet hot coffee. When we got back to Jesse's house that night, Julia was in from work, and EP came by. We spent the evening playing Encore. I think I had maybe played this before, but I don't remember having fun with it previously. The title of this entry is taken from the groove on Julia's internal record during this game in which she was, irrevocably, stuck.
On Thursday, we were invited to Anne and Owen's Thanksgiving dinner, which was wonderful. I have had very good Milwaukee Thanksgiving experiences. There was good company, with Anne and Owen as very gracious host-type people, and Kate & Brian, Mike & Peg, and many of their family members and friends I hadn't met before. We went for a walk along Lake Michigan (which is not a salt-water body) played outside, and eventually, Max stole the chocolate mousse out of the refrigerator.
Friday was a day of rest and preparation, mostly, and it rained all day. I would have liked to have partcipated in "Buy Nothing Day," but I blew it pretty badly. I needed to get stuff to make dips and the Guinness ginger bread (once again, a hand for Mike Basford, ladies and gentlemen) for Saturday's festivities, and once we got to Room of One's Own for Arjuna's show, I ended up buying books, a calendar, and bumper stickers for pissing off Pensacolons. Arjuna's show was great, with a very different crowd than she had for the first Madison show I saw her at - and the show will have its own review on this blog. I was also introuduced to someone at the show who reads this blog - I was introduced as "Squidbag," which is a side-effect I hadn't anticipated of this thing.
After the show, we adjourned to Jesse & Julia's house for various things. There was alcohol and conversation and alcohol and more Encore, and Diane and Gwen and more and chilled out fun. I enjoyed myself, and awakened the next morning hung-over and rarin' to make dips and bake. Once everything was in readiness, it was time for the Ninth Annual Friend Thanksgiving, AKA Gwai-Lo Turkey Day, AKA an excuse to hang out and imbibe. This gave us the opportunity to see everyone we hadn't already seen, and too much of some people. My man Evan G was in full effect (well, unless you go and count his voice) and the Butler-Broad posse was there with cutest new addition, Raya. Though Colleen will never read this due to her Blogcotting policy, she was positively radiant with motherhood, and JB was daddying like a champ, I thought. Kid's adorable, too.
Ben's coming right along, and he's going to walk any second now. He's awfully playful and friendly, and I can't wait until he and Max can play without him getting stepped on a little. It was good to see Dug & Liv again, and Brian and Kate were once again in attendance, and I was glad to spend more time with them, given that our Nash visit had been truncated.
Major props to Jesse and Julia for their hospitality complete with bathroom with write-on walls, Ellen for Poppycock and dinosaurs, Josh & Amy for putting up with the 4:30 AM activity this morning, Evan for the massive Italian infusion to Thanksgiving, Liv, for her work with the Parsnip Awareness Council, Arj & Julia for uplifting musical experiences, in cars and otherwise, Brian for holding...the soundtrack to our lives...and for his mandolin accompaniment to Max's made-up game thing, Eric for the Hulk poster, Dug for the San Francisco Shit Story, and everyone who makes getting away from Pensacola the fun time it should be.
I love you guys.
Happy Turkey day! I have decided today to be thankful for my sense of humor, such as it is, and since I also believe that there is not nearly enough making fun of Vice President Dick Cheney - I have elected to deal with that as well. To this end, I have decided to address the burning question: How is Dick Cheney like (and unlike) a turkey?
Every year, people give thanks for turkey.
No one gives thanks for Dick Cheney.
A turkey is juicy, and full of flavor.
Dick Cheney has juice, but very little flavor.
A turkey has a wattle, and gobbles all the time.
Dick Cheney also has a wattle, and gobbles all the money.
A turkey is filled with stuffing and gravy.
Dick Cheney is filled with hate and self-righteousness.
A turkey has organs inside, called giblets.
Dick Cheney has a black heart, a pacemaker, and no soul.
A male turkey is called a Tom.
Dick Cheney is called a Tool.
A turkey has a wishbone, and if it breaks for you, you get a wish.
Dick Cheney seeks to break you, and destroy all your wishes.
I hope this helps. You may think that this is over the top, as this same blog recently asserted that the VP was a bag of hyper-intelligent squirrels. You may indeed be sitting there (or, perhaps, hanging upside-down in a pair of those gravity boot things - or maybe even reclining, decked out in only a condom and a fishbowl) thinking to yourself, "What's with all the animal comparisons? Does he lack for metaphor? What, I say, what the fuck?" To you, I would suggest that perhaps (as one former reader found out recently, after being referred to as a "pansy," a "brat," and a "conservative troll") your best bet for blogotainment lies elsewhere on Al Gore's fabulous invention, the InterWeb.
Oh, and also? Mary Cheney is gay.
Aside from the fact that this version of their logo is funny to me as a fan of old school rap, Northwest Airlines pretty much blows the Bactrian camel's dick. Hello, and welcome to the tale of my escape from Pensacola, FL to Madison, WI for the Thanksgiving weekend.
We left from the Cradle of Naval Aviation at 4:30, after the staff at the front counter had told us that we had no seat assignments, and that there was a distinct chance that our three seats would not be together. Keep in mind, we are traveling with a three-year-old, here. After the front counter, (and security, which is clearly not Northwest's fault, but is patently ridiculous - one freakshow lights his shoes on fire, so this is what we check for now?) we were treated to the tender mercies of the secondary check-in desk, where we got two employees we will graciously refer to as "Ears," and "Bizarro Howard." (This last one will only be funny to Christie, and the rest of you can roll with the punches.) Ears seemed to have a pretty good bead on how to do his job, but BH was one of those martyr types - every aspect of his job was hard, you just can't understand, and it's slowly killing him - you know, how Dubya behaves. Additionally, he was copping major league attitude, at one point snapping at a potential passenger to get his attention, and later yelling at one young woman. I hope they fire him and then scoop out his colon into an air sickness bag.
In Memphis, we suffered a broken plane. After waiting on the plane for 1/2 an hour, sitting through a taxi, a re-boot of all the electrical systems and then taxiing back and kicked off, we were told that we were fucked, stuck in Memphis for the night, and that they would do their best to get us in by four o'clock the following day. Fuck 'em. We got our money back, found other like-minded people, and we drove. Ten fucking hours from Memphis to Madison, night driving, most of it in the pouring rain. It was bloody well worth it, too.
Here's my problem: When the plane was broken, there was no back-up vehicle, no contingency, no idea of how to deal with forty angry people, just to get them into hotels and waste a fucking day of everyone's vacation. No good solutions being offered, no creative thinking. In Pensacola, a policy of overselling and overbooking led to anxiety for all that could have been avoided, and maybe screwed up someone's well-deserved leisure time. All because they're operating on a wire without a net, and no one's doing anything outside the box. When a flight gets cancelled, and you waste someone's time, you steal from them, and you mess with that person's life.
I hope all these people, hard done by Northwest, and indeed, all airlines everywhere, rise up and squeeze until someone's eyes come out. It's the least we can do to a monolithic, bureaucratic corporation that puts the dollars first and people last.
For three days now, two hundred thousand people in the Ukraine have been peacefully protesting the results of their recent elections. They believe it was rigged. Leaving aside for a moment the painfully obvious observations and comparisons to our own elections recently, (which you can and should read about here, on Josh's blog) I'm more curious as to why they can pull this off with a modicum of organization and dignity, and we here in the US can't seem to get through a Pistons/Pacers game without a major incident involving violence and criminal charges. Also, why is this getting just as much news coverage as what's happening in the Ukraine?
Once again, for the cheap seats: What the fuck is wrong with us?
Okay, folks. We know that no one we know eats fast food. No one here indulges in the sticky-sweet, greasy, oily, artificial fare that only an American industry would have the balls to call food. Still. It is one of the biggest industries in America, growing all the time, and so I think it deserves a little attention. Here's what I want to know: What's the worst shit ever served on a bun? What's the worst-tasting, what'll kill ya the fastest, what will you never order again - until you get drunk and forget how bad it is? Consider these before you answer:
Taco Bell - they have a huge burrito now, that in addition to the Grade W beef, includes big chunks of fried potato. Wow, talk about pandering - and getting less and less Mexican all the time.
The McRib - Sam Kinison referred to this in a routine as the "McShit Sandwich," and they bring this fucker back out every year. I don't get McDonald's right now, it seems like they have two directions they're headed in simultaneously. They've introduced fruit and milk and white-meat chicken to the menu, while bringing back the McShit and introducing those breakfast sandwiches with the fucking maple syrup cooked in. Bleagh.
Sonic Drive-In - The Footlong Coney Dog with cheese, chili and Jalapeno peppers, enough to kill the romance any old time! Put this next to some Tater Tots with cheese, and there's enough calories there for both Olsen twins for a month! And, it'll "take the fuckin' ass right outta ya."
KFC and Hardee's are the only places where you can drive right up and order a tub of gravy - by itself. Yes, usually it comes with mashed spuds or biscuits, but if you were so inclined, you could knock back a warm mug of gravy from these places if you chose. Add this to the urban legend about KFC standing for Kentucky Fried Chicken-based genetically altered mutant creature beast thing, and Hardee's new "Monster Thick Burger" and you've got the dynamic duo of heart failure.
Okay, let's have the feedback, the flapjack and the heart attack.
I seem to have misplaced my wristwatch. I shall have to ask all of you to suspend your activities until I find it, please.
Ah, thank you.
Anyway, this story keeps coming up in conversation, for one reason or another, and I actually told my mother & my grandmother about it recently, so that officially puts in the public arena. You can file this under, "life's rich pageant."
In early 2003, I was standing in a crunchy hippie grocery store in Madison, Wisconsin looking at lip balm. It was winter, and it was night. It was six PM or so, and I had just left work, and decided I would get something for my generally parched mouth. With my drink in hand, I went to look at lip balms. It is my contention that Chap-Stick is pretty much a placebo, and so I use things like Carmex, or in this case, some kind of tangerine thing with bee's wax I ended up buying. As I am standing there alone in the store, attempting to read the miniscule print on the tube of lip stuff over the rims of my glasses, completely into my own head, a man in a gorilla suit jumped into my field of vision, hands raised, and said something very like, "RRAAAAAAARRRGGGHH!"
Truth is, he really startled me.
I punched him in the face. Total reflex.
It was a good punch, not like the ones that hurt your knuckles or miss entirely - I felt this in my shoulder. It connected with the gorilla's nose and mouth area, there was a sharp grunt and a muffled crunch, and he hit the deck. Like dropping a bag of potatoes on the floor. I put my foot on what I thought was his neck (the part EP always objects to when I've told this story in the past) and looked up from the gorilla under my sneaker.
You know when, you're off in your own little world, and your perception widens as you come out of it? I became slowly aware of a whole store, looking at me, other people in gorilla suits, screaming women (who I'm convinced establishments hire and keep around for drama - ever been in public place when the lights go out?) and folks pointing in my direction. My mind began feeding me a re-play, as we tried to see if this thing we had done was justified. In seconds, there were people all over him, putting their cameras down, and sitting him up. I had never seen blood pour out of the eyeholes in a gorilla mask before, and it remains unique in my experience.
As folks ministered to the now-unmasked and mostly unconcious guy with a re-deisgned nose, a conversation sprang up about the drunken office party scavenger hunt that had brought these people into the store, and about how the other customers had been harrassed by them, and what were going to do now? Should police be called, or maybe an ambulance? I listened to this, never contributing anything past my initial, "He startled me," as I removed my foot. I glanced up now, and caught the eyes of bald, pierced store employee, who cocked his head twice toward a register near the door while looking directly at me. I moved quietly in this direction, was silently checked out by a girl with a sword earring and purplish-red hair, walked briskly out the door and to my car and bailed.
"You're kind of late," my wife remarked upon my arrival at home.
"I punched out a guy in gorilla suit."
"I see."
Now, this story belongs to you.
November 22nd is a momentous day in history for a number of reasons. On this day in 1718, Blackbeard the pirate, who was almost as hard to kill as Rasputin, was hacked to bits and shot. They eventually decapitated him to kill him, and later there was a pub in Virginia, claimed to have his skull on display. In 1942, in Stalingrad on this day, the Russians showed Hitler and his boys what they'd already showed Alexander and Napoleon - you don't fuck with the mama bear.
On November 22nd, 1963, our entire system of government was invalidated when a huge conspiracy orchestrated the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, in Dealey Plaza, at 12:30 PM. (If you have the odd fortune of reading this at 12:30, Central time, I ask that you take a moment of silence.) For those who believe Oswald acted alone, I would say to you, "Bushwah." And also, "Pshaw." I think that should do it. In spite of all of that, I would still like to play this.
Additionally, this is the birthday of everyone's favorite ex-patriate journalist and photo guy who's also a mean chef and falls on his head real good, Matt Olson. Take a bow, MO. He's however old he decides to be, since having turned 30, I've decided age no longer matters. Anyway, hoist a round for Matthew, and maybe we can get Cayce to give him a spanking. And post the pics on this blog!
Happy Birthday, Matt, and congrats on being born on such a significant day in history. Your folks have excellent timing. I share my birthday - month, day, and year - with Leonardo DifuckingCaprio. Also Vonnegut, the Armistice, and Dostoevsky, but Leo always sticks in my craw.
This weekend, C & I went through all of our old papers. Brett has moved, so we're reclaiming his room, and we need to make some more space, because we have all this stuff from my office coming in. We hadn't really done anything organized with this stuff since about 2000, so you can imagine (and if not, check the visual aid) what it was like. There were clippings, there were photos, and I don't think I've ever seen so many bank statements in one place. We have stuff dating back to 1981 in that pile, and it was time for it to get filed or thrown away.
I realized, part of the way through this process, (just about the time that I was no longer enjoying myself and just wanted this shit to be over) that I was having Greekly thoughts. This Greekliness snuck up on me, mostly because my son was spending the night with his grandparents. (They requested it, we took advantage of it, and we still couldn't resist spying on them a little.) It started out as a Herculean endeavor, and I felt good about dealing with this massive problem. When weariness set in, the story of Sisyphus was more prevalent in my mind, and by the end, I was firmly in the realm of Thanatos, thinking only about death. See, my mind would never have gone down this path if Max - who represents life and potential the way all babies and toddlers do, except for the sullen ones - had been there.
I saw my grandfather's recent obituary, and filed it. Also that of my great-grandfather, my uncle, and my best friend. And his grandfather. I encountered mementos of my great-uncle, and my first girlfriend, all dead. I know a lot of dead people, it seems. (I can only expect that this phenomenon will increase, unless I keep smoking and eating fatty foods.) I began to wonder what it will be like for someone when I die, going through all of this stuff, when the only reason this stuff matters has passed.
So wondering, I decided to read some Hulk comics and go to bed. It's all you can do.
I have an additional, non-Dilbert reason that I look forward to Fridays right now, and I thought I'd talk about that a little. WUWF, the public radio station out of the University of West Florida, (and yes, their mascot is a little dog) is broadcasting the radio documentary, Leonard Bernstein: An American Life, every Friday from eleven to noon. It's narrated by Susan Sarandon (and I have recently decided that anyone who does not like her is an asshole), and has stuff from Sondheim, Alec Baldwin, various composers and performers, and of course, fantastic music. It's got his letters, personal testimonials, and all this great stuff, just piled on in layers for an hour every Friday. Even if you don't give a flip for Bernstein, (which would make you a mutant or something - go back and watch West Side Story again), I think there's a lot of really good music history, American and otherwise, in there, and all kinds of stuff about the theory of music that I really never think about without the help of musicians, since I think that part of my brain is defective. Also, I recommend Bernstein's book, the title of which is also the title of this entry.
Today on the program I heard something remarkable. Lenny, as his friends and the program affectionately refer to him, conducted a protest concert when Nixon was re-elected, to protest not just the Vietnam War, but also Nixon's very return to the White House. He scheduled this to conicide with the inauguration festivities. Where Tricky Dick had requested the 1812 Overture, complete with cannonfire, Bernstein had chosen music that would make a point about peace, and further that agenda. Dude, that's brilliant stuff! Why aren't we doing stuff like that anymore? What the hell is wrong with us? Everyone from Springsteen to frikkin' P-Diddy was stumping BEFORE the election, but now it's all over? No wonder we say things like, "They just don't make 'em like that anymore."
Anyway, the schedule for the documentary is here, along with a list of stations and whatnot. I recommend you catch some of it while there are still a few weeks left.
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