1. "Does He Love You?" - Rilo Kiley - I love the way the guitar storms in right after the "at last, you are complete" line. Really dramatic. The strings at the end are a great touch. God, I love strings.
2. "Ill-Placed Trust" - Sloan. After the first 10 or 12 songs on the new Sloan album, it starts to tail off a bit (though I do place it as #3 between One Chord To Another and Navy Blues among my favorites), but this rocker is the one song I remember from the second half of the album from my first listen. The lyrics are dumber than hell, but the sheer power of the song more than makes up for it.
3. "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)" - The White Stripes. Zeppelin reincarnated. It flicks my Bic.
4. "Hell Below/Stars Above" - Toadies. I love the way the "response" lines of the verses are double-tracked or whatever ("feathered hair and tall and tan," "stroke his cheek and hold his hand"). And the second movement of the song (the "Stars Above" portion, after the fast part) is beautiful - like, "f**k you, woman, I'm so beyond you now, and you'll never hurt me again, because I am possibly dead; the lyrics are somewhat vague in this regard."
5. "More Adventurous" - Rilo Kiley. Let me be loved.
6. "Gravity's Gone" - Drive-By Truckers. I haven't posted a review of the latest DBT album yet, because I'm not sure. Sure, DBT is supposedly a bit of a democracy, sometimes to their detriment - you wish sometimes that Patterson Hood would just grab the reins and make the band in his image. But while his songs can tend to dominate, the hidden gems are in the tunes written by Mike Cooley ("Zip City" on Southern Rock Opera, "Marry Me" on Decoration Day, this one).
7. "White Collar Boy" - Belle & Sebastian. A fuzzed-out rocker that's emblematic of their change in direction the last couple of albums. It still boggles my mind that this is the same band that did "If You're Feeling Sinister" - but while pointing your musical compass 180 degrees in the opposite direction can often mean doom for your band, B&S still has the songs to back it up. I love B&S mark II almost as much as the more orchestrated "chamber pop" they used to play.
8. "Right or Wrong" - Sloan. Whereas DBT's "democratic ideals" can be a bit of a disadvantage, the fact that all of Sloan's members contribute different styles of songs make the whole greater than the sum of its individual parts. For all of his time spent under the radar, Jay Ferguson, I think, is Sloan's strongest songwriter, even if he doesn't write the big driving rockers, and this breezy little 2-minute gem is a perfect example, with a vocal hook that just won't quit. A perfect little pop-rocker.
9. "I Never" - Rilo Kiley. Redemption through love. "I've lied, cheated and stole, been ungrateful for what I have" - and, in the same verse, "all of the oceans and rivers and showers will wash it all away and make me clean for you." God, I hope their new album doesn't suck.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Stick with me.
Even though I can be a bit of a drag some days
And a stick in the mud on others
I ask only that you stick with me.
I promise I won't always be like this.
You are the greatest gift.
Your presence make my pulse quicken and my knees weak and causes me to forget where I am.
Your sweetness brings cheer to my heart and a warmth that's been missing for years.
Your caring, giving nature inspires me to do not just good things, but great things.
Your love lifts me higher every day and brings me such joy.
What I did to deserve your presence in my life, I will never know, but I am thankful.
Even on the days and nights when you grab me and shake me and tell me I did wrong,
I know that it's only because you want the best for me, just as I do for you.
You know now that I am not perfect, and I know now that you accept this.
There's not much I can promise you, save for this:
I will never lie to you, never try to hurt you, and will always be on your side, no matter what.
And I don't expect the same from you, but my heart knows that you'll give that to me,
because that's the kind of person you are.
I will always do my best to give you nothing less than my best.
I will always do my best to give you nothing but everything.
I ask you for nothing in return, except this:
Stick with me.
Better days are coming, if you'll help me see it through.
Even though I can be a bit of a drag some days
And a stick in the mud on others
I ask only that you stick with me.
I promise I won't always be like this.
You are the greatest gift.
Your presence make my pulse quicken and my knees weak and causes me to forget where I am.
Your sweetness brings cheer to my heart and a warmth that's been missing for years.
Your caring, giving nature inspires me to do not just good things, but great things.
Your love lifts me higher every day and brings me such joy.
What I did to deserve your presence in my life, I will never know, but I am thankful.
Even on the days and nights when you grab me and shake me and tell me I did wrong,
I know that it's only because you want the best for me, just as I do for you.
You know now that I am not perfect, and I know now that you accept this.
There's not much I can promise you, save for this:
I will never lie to you, never try to hurt you, and will always be on your side, no matter what.
And I don't expect the same from you, but my heart knows that you'll give that to me,
because that's the kind of person you are.
I will always do my best to give you nothing less than my best.
I will always do my best to give you nothing but everything.
I ask you for nothing in return, except this:
Stick with me.
Better days are coming, if you'll help me see it through.
Friday, July 27, 2007
I needed a case of beer just to sit through "SpaceCamp," so what's the big deal?
So.
You strap yourself onto a rocket that contains more than a half-million gallons of a highly explosive liquid hydrogen/liquid oxygen mixture, encased in an aluminum-lithium alloy that's but 1/8 of an inch thick. In addition, you're also propelled by twin solid booster rockets, the most powerful rocket known to man. Put it together, and the total force provides around 7 million pounds of thrust to push you up and through the atmosphere before they detach and fall back to earth. Combined, these propel you to somewhere around 17,000 mph. (There are no soft landings at 17,000 mph, I'm fairly certain.)
Once in outer space, if you were to accidentally become exposed to the vacuum of space, the pressure gradient would suck the air out of your lungs. The oxygen in your blood would try to empty into your lungs to equalize the pressure. This, combined with the evaporation of any moisture on your person, would cause almost-instant death, as your brain starves on deoxygenated blood.
Faced with only these two realities - nevermind all of the other things that could go and have gone wrong - I'd want a fucking drink or 12 also.
Cut these guys some slack. They're heroes. (Yeah, even the crazy one who put on an adult diaper and drove across three states to confront her love rival. That was dedication.)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Pop quiz:
Panic attacks often manifest themselves by:
a) causing shortness of breath
b) causing an elevated heartbeat
c) causing confusion
d) causing you to chop up your buddy and stuff him in a 55-gallon drum, then rolling that drum into the river
If you answered "d," then chances are that you're this guy.
I'm no crime-scene analyst, so take my intuition for what it's worth, but it seems like the "getting out of jail" party took a turn for the worse when the pills, or the alcohol, or the PCP came out.
"Killer party, dude. Oh, shit."
Oops. I'm so torn up about this story that I think I need counseling.
"He came away from his counseling session last night out of breath and a little sleepy," my wife noted. "But his mood is generally better, so whatever he's getting out of these phone calls, he should keep it up.
"That's neat that they have 24-hour counselors there," she added.
"He came away from his counseling session last night out of breath and a little sleepy," my wife noted. "But his mood is generally better, so whatever he's getting out of these phone calls, he should keep it up.
"That's neat that they have 24-hour counselors there," she added.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
singing.
You could tell a million lies, and I'd think they all were true .... that's my trust in you. (from "I Can Feel It" by Sloan)
(I had planned in this space my 20 favorite Sloan songs, with notes on each, till I realized that I left this one off. An oversight more egregious, I can't fathom.)
(I had planned in this space my 20 favorite Sloan songs, with notes on each, till I realized that I left this one off. An oversight more egregious, I can't fathom.)
Say it ain't so, Batboy.
There are tragedies, travesties, and then there is this news that the Weekly World News will shut down as of its August 27 issue.
Truly a sad day for supermarket shoppers. The newsstands in the checkout line are dominated by People/Us/In Touch, and the Star and Enquirer are making forays into celebrity-based reporting as well. WWN truly stood out, if only for its sheer absurdity. I will miss it.
Update: I wish I had a consortium. Or a group. Or some investors. Or something. I'd buy WWN just to keep it alive. I think it provides a service. What that service is - hell, I don't really know. But it's damn important, if only to keep the tradition of stories like "Osama Captured By Rednecks!" alive.
Truly a sad day for supermarket shoppers. The newsstands in the checkout line are dominated by People/Us/In Touch, and the Star and Enquirer are making forays into celebrity-based reporting as well. WWN truly stood out, if only for its sheer absurdity. I will miss it.
Update: I wish I had a consortium. Or a group. Or some investors. Or something. I'd buy WWN just to keep it alive. I think it provides a service. What that service is - hell, I don't really know. But it's damn important, if only to keep the tradition of stories like "Osama Captured By Rednecks!" alive.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Liveblogging Bollywood/Hollywood.
I avoided it the best I could, but I'm too good a sport, I guess. So, I will share with you my screening of Bollywood/Hollywood.
00:45 - Well, I'm going to have to turn captions on.
01:02 - Well, this movie doesn't support captioning. I heard something about baseball.
01:30 - "I am dying, my son. You are now the team captain of the family." So, this is a baseball movie, then?
01:40 - "And don't get distracted by the cheerleaders in their short skirts."
02:20 - The transition to the title cards: "Simply ten years later."
02:45 - A white chick! The title sequence looks like a Madonna video (early Madonna, where she's a skank). Reminds me of the "My Name Is Earl" episode where they go to Mexico, and Earl gets kidnapped by bandits whose knowledge of America stopped in 1988, when their satellite went out.
03:53 - Is the whole movie going to be this poorly lit? I want some goddamned baseball.
08:00 - God. This is actually kinda funny. The protagonist (sitting in a dark room, of course) is watching the news, and the anchor breaks in with the news that pop star Kimberly - the Britney Spears of Canada - died while attempting to levitate in front of the Hollywood sign. And they show a tourist video of this girl levitating and then falling. Kinda screwball, really. Unfortunately, "pop star Kimberly" - the white chick noted in the title sequence - was the protagonist's girlfriend.
09:18 - After some footage of Pop Star Kimberly smiling in happier times, we transition to some Indian song. The screen reads, "Rahul-Ji's Song. 'Life Is So Empty With No You.'" I could really use some captioning here. I don't know how to describe Indian music. (Dots, not feathers.) Oh, and it's dark. I believe in this case, it's actually night.
10:00 - Transition to a woman laying in bed with Rahul-Ji and an unnamed other woman sitting nearby. She is weeping for some reason - I can't understand a friggin' word - I guess she is the matriarch. Says something about "Devdas" (I reckon), and the screen reads: "Devdas - Very Tragic Bollywood Hero."
12:05 - General weirdness, with a light red filter on the camera. I can't watch this anymore. Fuh-fuwid.
22:00 - A slightly heavyset housekeeper undoes her top and pushes a gentleman's head into her cleavage. My kind of movie. This must be that "undity" I heard about. She says she will sing him lullabyes, and starts singing. He says that "Lucy - this is not a lullabye. My heart is with someone else." "What's her name? I will kill her." "Rocky."
23:00 - An Indian drag show? A "woman" named "Rocky." Screen: "Rocky's Song: My Heart Is A Pigeon Coop, Come In." Fuh-fuwid.
38:00 - We join another musical interlude in progress. Fuh-fuwid.
45:00 - Subtitles. "I've seen London, Paris and Japan. I've seen Michael Jackson, I've seen it all. But my India beats them hollow."
1:00:00 - Another musical interlude. Fuh-fuwid.
1:09:00 - Hey, the CN Tower! I've been there! So this is in Toronto?
1:10:00 - Another musical interlude, not really in English. Fuh-fuwid. I didn't realize I borrowed friggin' Chicago. Indian women can be very pretty. Indian women with big bobs are also very pretty.
(I found out something neat. When I turn the center wheel on my mouse, the movie advances three minutes. this is very interesting, and explains how I've watched about 80 minutes of this movie in about 20 minutes.)
And ...... we're done. I can still talk intelligently about it when he asks me about it tomorrow without actually having seen it. In summary, I couldn't understand a frickin' word half the time, and there wasn't any baseball in it. Also, it was just pretty friggin' weird in places. (If you wanted a real review, go borrow Roger Ebert for the evening.)
00:45 - Well, I'm going to have to turn captions on.
01:02 - Well, this movie doesn't support captioning. I heard something about baseball.
01:30 - "I am dying, my son. You are now the team captain of the family." So, this is a baseball movie, then?
01:40 - "And don't get distracted by the cheerleaders in their short skirts."
02:20 - The transition to the title cards: "Simply ten years later."
02:45 - A white chick! The title sequence looks like a Madonna video (early Madonna, where she's a skank). Reminds me of the "My Name Is Earl" episode where they go to Mexico, and Earl gets kidnapped by bandits whose knowledge of America stopped in 1988, when their satellite went out.
03:53 - Is the whole movie going to be this poorly lit? I want some goddamned baseball.
08:00 - God. This is actually kinda funny. The protagonist (sitting in a dark room, of course) is watching the news, and the anchor breaks in with the news that pop star Kimberly - the Britney Spears of Canada - died while attempting to levitate in front of the Hollywood sign. And they show a tourist video of this girl levitating and then falling. Kinda screwball, really. Unfortunately, "pop star Kimberly" - the white chick noted in the title sequence - was the protagonist's girlfriend.
09:18 - After some footage of Pop Star Kimberly smiling in happier times, we transition to some Indian song. The screen reads, "Rahul-Ji's Song. 'Life Is So Empty With No You.'" I could really use some captioning here. I don't know how to describe Indian music. (Dots, not feathers.) Oh, and it's dark. I believe in this case, it's actually night.
10:00 - Transition to a woman laying in bed with Rahul-Ji and an unnamed other woman sitting nearby. She is weeping for some reason - I can't understand a friggin' word - I guess she is the matriarch. Says something about "Devdas" (I reckon), and the screen reads: "Devdas - Very Tragic Bollywood Hero."
12:05 - General weirdness, with a light red filter on the camera. I can't watch this anymore. Fuh-fuwid.
22:00 - A slightly heavyset housekeeper undoes her top and pushes a gentleman's head into her cleavage. My kind of movie. This must be that "undity" I heard about. She says she will sing him lullabyes, and starts singing. He says that "Lucy - this is not a lullabye. My heart is with someone else." "What's her name? I will kill her." "Rocky."
23:00 - An Indian drag show? A "woman" named "Rocky." Screen: "Rocky's Song: My Heart Is A Pigeon Coop, Come In." Fuh-fuwid.
38:00 - We join another musical interlude in progress. Fuh-fuwid.
45:00 - Subtitles. "I've seen London, Paris and Japan. I've seen Michael Jackson, I've seen it all. But my India beats them hollow."
1:00:00 - Another musical interlude. Fuh-fuwid.
1:09:00 - Hey, the CN Tower! I've been there! So this is in Toronto?
1:10:00 - Another musical interlude, not really in English. Fuh-fuwid. I didn't realize I borrowed friggin' Chicago. Indian women can be very pretty. Indian women with big bobs are also very pretty.
(I found out something neat. When I turn the center wheel on my mouse, the movie advances three minutes. this is very interesting, and explains how I've watched about 80 minutes of this movie in about 20 minutes.)
And ...... we're done. I can still talk intelligently about it when he asks me about it tomorrow without actually having seen it. In summary, I couldn't understand a frickin' word half the time, and there wasn't any baseball in it. Also, it was just pretty friggin' weird in places. (If you wanted a real review, go borrow Roger Ebert for the evening.)
Friday, July 20, 2007
One of my running (stupid) jokes is that when Doom is on vacation, he will occasionally call in from his vacation spot to check in (because we are incapable of governing ourselves without his austere, fairhanded, calm leadership). He asks me how things are going, and I will say something smart like, "Well, after the fire department left, things calmed down a lot, and we're doing OK." I say this in hopes of eliciting some sort of reaction from him, because I like him a lot better when he's in a bad mood, because I like to make fun of his overreactions to everything.
The fire department was actually here on Wednesday.
I'm almost certain that this is related to Sandals pre-heating the microwave for such a long time before I put the "don't pre-heat the microwave" sign on it. Regardless, the lady who originally alerted me to the pre-heating situation put a small bag of popcorn in the microwave, set it for 2 minutes, and stepped away to the restroom.
As a point of reference, back when I was bringing Heart Attack In A Bag (tm) brand microwave popcorn to work, I would cook the popcorn for no more than 2:15. This was a regular-sized bag of corn, and while it would take about 3:30 or so to microwave it at home, the wattage on the microwave at work is so messed up that it would be done between 2 minutes and 2:15.
The bag that she was nuking on Wednesday was one of the smaller bags that are popular these days. The buttery aroma wafted over to my desk, and I was all, "Ahhhhhh. That smells quite nice."
****
A quick aside: Why they haven't come up with a perfume that smells like microwave popcorn, I'll never know. Picture it:
'Happy anniversary, honey!'
'Oh, you got me Redenbacher #12!'
'Yeah, 'cause I like boning you, and I like microwave popcorn too.'
'Oh, honey.' *swoon* *kiss* *grope*
****
A few moments later, I heard this from the kitchen:
"Oh no!!!"
I turn in time to see smoke just billowing from the microwave, filling the kitchen and creating that acrid burnt microwave popcorn odor.
I rush over with a manila folder and start frantically trying to dissipate the smoke. I know how sensitive the smoke alarm in our building is, and ---
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
The staff evacuated to its designated meeting spot/smoking area outside. Mrs. Redenbacher called the fire department to let them know that it was only a popcorn fire, so if someone could just come out to turn the alarm off, that'd be great.
Five minutes later, the entire fargin' fire brigade comes screaming up. Two pumper trucks, a third fire truck that did not have a pumper on it, and a fourth truck affiliated with the fire department. Plus, a police car parked itself at the end of the drive to block entry.
I'll grant that maybe they used the incident as a drill, but nonetheless, it was beautiful. Four trucks, the man in full fire gear entering the building, all for burnt popcorn.
Wouldn't you know it - Doom had left early on Wednesday, so when he came in on Thursday, he overreacted. "WHO PUT POPCORN IN THE MICROWAVE AND WALKED AWAY FROM IT??" I wanted to pipe up, "Well, who among your staff has fucked up the microwave to the point where you can't even leave popcorn in it for two minutes?" But I didn't.
I was scared for a moment that I was going to have to track everyone down for an impromptu staff meeting re: popcorn. (This has been known to happen for equally unimportant events, and I feel like such an ass for tracking everyone down on their cell phones and telling them to come back to our building for a meeting.)
(This morning [Friday], you could still catch a whiff of the burnt popcorn.)
The fire department was actually here on Wednesday.
I'm almost certain that this is related to Sandals pre-heating the microwave for such a long time before I put the "don't pre-heat the microwave" sign on it. Regardless, the lady who originally alerted me to the pre-heating situation put a small bag of popcorn in the microwave, set it for 2 minutes, and stepped away to the restroom.
As a point of reference, back when I was bringing Heart Attack In A Bag (tm) brand microwave popcorn to work, I would cook the popcorn for no more than 2:15. This was a regular-sized bag of corn, and while it would take about 3:30 or so to microwave it at home, the wattage on the microwave at work is so messed up that it would be done between 2 minutes and 2:15.
The bag that she was nuking on Wednesday was one of the smaller bags that are popular these days. The buttery aroma wafted over to my desk, and I was all, "Ahhhhhh. That smells quite nice."
****
A quick aside: Why they haven't come up with a perfume that smells like microwave popcorn, I'll never know. Picture it:
'Happy anniversary, honey!'
'Oh, you got me Redenbacher #12!'
'Yeah, 'cause I like boning you, and I like microwave popcorn too.'
'Oh, honey.' *swoon* *kiss* *grope*
****
A few moments later, I heard this from the kitchen:
"Oh no!!!"
I turn in time to see smoke just billowing from the microwave, filling the kitchen and creating that acrid burnt microwave popcorn odor.
I rush over with a manila folder and start frantically trying to dissipate the smoke. I know how sensitive the smoke alarm in our building is, and ---
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
The staff evacuated to its designated meeting spot/smoking area outside. Mrs. Redenbacher called the fire department to let them know that it was only a popcorn fire, so if someone could just come out to turn the alarm off, that'd be great.
Five minutes later, the entire fargin' fire brigade comes screaming up. Two pumper trucks, a third fire truck that did not have a pumper on it, and a fourth truck affiliated with the fire department. Plus, a police car parked itself at the end of the drive to block entry.
I'll grant that maybe they used the incident as a drill, but nonetheless, it was beautiful. Four trucks, the man in full fire gear entering the building, all for burnt popcorn.
Wouldn't you know it - Doom had left early on Wednesday, so when he came in on Thursday, he overreacted. "WHO PUT POPCORN IN THE MICROWAVE AND WALKED AWAY FROM IT??" I wanted to pipe up, "Well, who among your staff has fucked up the microwave to the point where you can't even leave popcorn in it for two minutes?" But I didn't.
I was scared for a moment that I was going to have to track everyone down for an impromptu staff meeting re: popcorn. (This has been known to happen for equally unimportant events, and I feel like such an ass for tracking everyone down on their cell phones and telling them to come back to our building for a meeting.)
(This morning [Friday], you could still catch a whiff of the burnt popcorn.)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
On July 11, I posted the following in reference to being held hostage by Sandals:
And then - yes, it gets weirder - he says that if he remembers it, he will bring in a Bollywood movie for me to watch.
Today, he remembered.
The back of the DVD case for Bollywood/Hollywood shouts, "Canada Loves 'Her Big Fat Indian Wedding'!"
Well. That just sounds fabulous.
The topper? In very fine print at the bottom of the back of the DVD case, it cautions:
"Viewer discretion is advised. Some Scenes may contain undity and/or videlence."
Fuckin-a! Undity! I hope I get to see some bobs, or maybe a little bit of sas.
And I love gratuitous videlence!
I can't fucking wait.
And then - yes, it gets weirder - he says that if he remembers it, he will bring in a Bollywood movie for me to watch.
Today, he remembered.
The back of the DVD case for Bollywood/Hollywood shouts, "Canada Loves 'Her Big Fat Indian Wedding'!"
Well. That just sounds fabulous.
The topper? In very fine print at the bottom of the back of the DVD case, it cautions:
"Viewer discretion is advised. Some Scenes may contain undity and/or videlence."
Fuckin-a! Undity! I hope I get to see some bobs, or maybe a little bit of sas.
And I love gratuitous videlence!
I can't fucking wait.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Due to liability concerns, "hot metal in the sun" no longer an option.
The county fair was once the highlight of the summer, and my county's was no different. As recently as 20 years ago, which was about the last time I went, the fair was vibrant, sticky, filled with a cornucopia of odors (cotton candy and cow poop), and, by and large, fun. At least as I remember it, anyway. Maybe time colors my memories in sepia, but I can't help but think that something is lost whenever your county fair's midway now looks like this during the week of the fair:
That big ol' building in the background wasn't there during my childhood. Nor was the drive, or that parking lot. If memory serves, the building to the left in the foreground might have been present, but it wasn't enclosed. I don't recall for certain.
I understand that small, poor counties like ours possibly can no longer afford the extravagance of having a carnival as the centerpiece of the county fair, especially if you combine that cost with liability issues. (Yet another consequence of living in an overly litigious society. Thanks, you fuckers.) Still …
I wasn't around when they put that big dumb "community building" right smack in the middle of the fairgrounds, thereby ruining in perpetuity the opportunity for my son to make his own memories on the Ferris wheel or The Scrambler. (At the very least, in my county. He'll have to go to the next county over to make out with some chick behind the Fun House, and I'm going to have to make sure he has all of his shots.) The quarter-mile dirt track adjacent to the fairgrounds is mostly grown over now, with only the front stretch being continuously maintained for demo derbies and tractor pulls.
There weren't even any games (and your correspondent didn't go inside the "community building" – now available for receptions and Your Company's function). If there were any inside, fuck that – the fair's not about being inside.
Anyway, the occasion for my first visit to the fair in two decades was the kiddie tractor pull.
I think Son might have had a little bit of stage fright, given that he pulled about 5 inches (seriously – 5 inches was the measurement), but he got a ribbon for participating, and he did his best. I was proud of him.
Before the tractor pull, however, we visited the concussion pit
(because the line to Box of Glass stretched all the way to the goat barn).
This was the extent of the "midway." Weep with me.
Better suited for a cut-rate street carnival than the county fair.
How fucked up have things gotten at the fair? My brother-in-law went a food stand sponsored by my high school alma mater. Wanted some nachos. Couldn't get nachos, because the 4-H people wouldn't let them sell nachos because they were selling their own nachos.
That, my friends, is fucked up. Isn't 4-H about, like, sharing and shit?
All in all, I would have had more fun fucking my neighbor's chicken.
That big ol' building in the background wasn't there during my childhood. Nor was the drive, or that parking lot. If memory serves, the building to the left in the foreground might have been present, but it wasn't enclosed. I don't recall for certain.
I understand that small, poor counties like ours possibly can no longer afford the extravagance of having a carnival as the centerpiece of the county fair, especially if you combine that cost with liability issues. (Yet another consequence of living in an overly litigious society. Thanks, you fuckers.) Still …
I wasn't around when they put that big dumb "community building" right smack in the middle of the fairgrounds, thereby ruining in perpetuity the opportunity for my son to make his own memories on the Ferris wheel or The Scrambler. (At the very least, in my county. He'll have to go to the next county over to make out with some chick behind the Fun House, and I'm going to have to make sure he has all of his shots.) The quarter-mile dirt track adjacent to the fairgrounds is mostly grown over now, with only the front stretch being continuously maintained for demo derbies and tractor pulls.
There weren't even any games (and your correspondent didn't go inside the "community building" – now available for receptions and Your Company's function). If there were any inside, fuck that – the fair's not about being inside.
Anyway, the occasion for my first visit to the fair in two decades was the kiddie tractor pull.
I think Son might have had a little bit of stage fright, given that he pulled about 5 inches (seriously – 5 inches was the measurement), but he got a ribbon for participating, and he did his best. I was proud of him.
Before the tractor pull, however, we visited the concussion pit
(because the line to Box of Glass stretched all the way to the goat barn).
This was the extent of the "midway." Weep with me.
Better suited for a cut-rate street carnival than the county fair.
How fucked up have things gotten at the fair? My brother-in-law went a food stand sponsored by my high school alma mater. Wanted some nachos. Couldn't get nachos, because the 4-H people wouldn't let them sell nachos because they were selling their own nachos.
That, my friends, is fucked up. Isn't 4-H about, like, sharing and shit?
All in all, I would have had more fun fucking my neighbor's chicken.
Persistence of Time (zone issues).
Great news from the Department of Transportation. My county, along with four others, is proposed to move to the Eastern time zone from Central.
When I say "great news" in this particular context, what I really mean is "that really sucks."
Public comment on the proposed change starts shortly (maybe now). I haven't been involved up to this point, and it's probably too late to really make a difference, but I guess it's time to see if "too little, too late" still has any meaning. I bet it does!
When I say "great news" in this particular context, what I really mean is "that really sucks."
Public comment on the proposed change starts shortly (maybe now). I haven't been involved up to this point, and it's probably too late to really make a difference, but I guess it's time to see if "too little, too late" still has any meaning. I bet it does!
I said in a post earlier this week that sports fans had ruined sports. They are not the sole culprits, though. You can also throw overbearing sports dads in the pile.
Overbearing sports dads … like me!
Tonight is Son's first competition against other children in his weight class. The county fair is having a kiddie tractor pull, where small children hop on pedal tractors and … pull, I guess.
Son's training regimen hasn't been as thorough and comprehensive as I would have liked, seeing as how we just made the decision last night to take him to the fair and enter him.
Last night, we warmed him up by putting him in our defunct dog pen and letting him chase rabbits around. After about 20 minutes of that, I put him on his trike, tied a cinder block behind it and let him drag it around the sidewalk. My peppers are ruined now, but what price, athletic glory experienced vicariously through your offspring?
"Pedal! PEDAL! Do you think little Danny Matthews is resting tonight? You think he's at his house drinking chocolate milk and watching DragonTales? No! He's busting his ass harder than you so that he can squeeze another quarter of a second out of his time! COME ON - ARE YOU GOING TO BE A MAN OR A GIRL?"*
"Airplane, Daddy! Look!"
Seriously … it'll be fun. The bitch of it all is going to be getting him off the tractor. I imagine a scene will be made.
* - to you "children's rights" folks: relax. Tongue is planted firmly in cheek, except for the "Airplane, Daddy!" bit. That actually happened.
Overbearing sports dads … like me!
Tonight is Son's first competition against other children in his weight class. The county fair is having a kiddie tractor pull, where small children hop on pedal tractors and … pull, I guess.
Son's training regimen hasn't been as thorough and comprehensive as I would have liked, seeing as how we just made the decision last night to take him to the fair and enter him.
Last night, we warmed him up by putting him in our defunct dog pen and letting him chase rabbits around. After about 20 minutes of that, I put him on his trike, tied a cinder block behind it and let him drag it around the sidewalk. My peppers are ruined now, but what price, athletic glory experienced vicariously through your offspring?
"Pedal! PEDAL! Do you think little Danny Matthews is resting tonight? You think he's at his house drinking chocolate milk and watching DragonTales? No! He's busting his ass harder than you so that he can squeeze another quarter of a second out of his time! COME ON - ARE YOU GOING TO BE A MAN OR A GIRL?"*
"Airplane, Daddy! Look!"
Seriously … it'll be fun. The bitch of it all is going to be getting him off the tractor. I imagine a scene will be made.
* - to you "children's rights" folks: relax. Tongue is planted firmly in cheek, except for the "Airplane, Daddy!" bit. That actually happened.
Nu Mew Sick (plus a second opinion)
Been slogging through the stack of CDs that I received last week. A couple of more thoughts, and keep the change:
Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous - Great album. When the Captain put "Portions For Foxes" (a great song, by the way) on It Will Grind Your Dick 14 a couple of years ago, I had dismissed RK as a cutesy one-shot wonder, kind of a modern-day Letters to Cleo or Frente! (each having had excellent singles and mediocre albums). I was wrong. This album delivers ample portions of heartbreak ("Does He Love You?"), wry humor ("It's A Hit"), yearning ("I Never," "Portions For Foxes") and love and loss ("Love and War (11/11/46)," "A Man/Me/Then Jim"). Aimee Mann is the obvious reference point - the lyrics are smarter than the average bear, but the songs pack more heft, and when necessary, Jenny Lewis' pipes can be called upon to be more solid and packed with emotion as anything you'd hear on American Idol (without being overwrought). This is a fabulous rock album from beginning to end, with not a clunker in the bunch, but I'm curious to see how their big-label debut coming later this summer will affect their edge. Favorites: "I Never," "Does He Love You?", "Love and War (11/11/46)"
White Stripes - Icky Thump - Other than the hurdy-gurdy shit that plagues the title track and a couple of the middle tracks, I'm really impressed that the Stripes continue to get excellent mileage out of their current model. Start with the title track, a energetic, raw rocker worthy of Led Zeppelin II (replete with monster riff). The radio-ready "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)" has a big chorus perfect for singalong, while the goofy "Conquest" is sort of the Stripes' "Immigrant Song." "Little Cream Soda" is another driving rocker that recalls their own "Astro." It may be a slight step backwards from Get Behind Me Satan, but if so, it's only a baby step. Favorites: title track, "Effect and Cause," "I'm Slowly Turning Into You"
Toadies - Hell Below/Stars Above - Upon further review, I've gotten major-league hooked on this one. Out of the 12 songs, I could have imagined about 6 of them getting major radio play if they were still playing good music on rock radio back in 2001. Monster choruses ("You'll Come Down," "Push The Hand") abound, and "Little Sin" is just off-kilter enough to avoid being pigeonholed as cock-rock, but still damn memorable. This album is a perfect example of why I actually need to listen to something more than twice before spouting off about it. "It's samey. It's interchangeable," I whined. Bullshit.
Rilo Kiley - More Adventurous - Great album. When the Captain put "Portions For Foxes" (a great song, by the way) on It Will Grind Your Dick 14 a couple of years ago, I had dismissed RK as a cutesy one-shot wonder, kind of a modern-day Letters to Cleo or Frente! (each having had excellent singles and mediocre albums). I was wrong. This album delivers ample portions of heartbreak ("Does He Love You?"), wry humor ("It's A Hit"), yearning ("I Never," "Portions For Foxes") and love and loss ("Love and War (11/11/46)," "A Man/Me/Then Jim"). Aimee Mann is the obvious reference point - the lyrics are smarter than the average bear, but the songs pack more heft, and when necessary, Jenny Lewis' pipes can be called upon to be more solid and packed with emotion as anything you'd hear on American Idol (without being overwrought). This is a fabulous rock album from beginning to end, with not a clunker in the bunch, but I'm curious to see how their big-label debut coming later this summer will affect their edge. Favorites: "I Never," "Does He Love You?", "Love and War (11/11/46)"
White Stripes - Icky Thump - Other than the hurdy-gurdy shit that plagues the title track and a couple of the middle tracks, I'm really impressed that the Stripes continue to get excellent mileage out of their current model. Start with the title track, a energetic, raw rocker worthy of Led Zeppelin II (replete with monster riff). The radio-ready "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)" has a big chorus perfect for singalong, while the goofy "Conquest" is sort of the Stripes' "Immigrant Song." "Little Cream Soda" is another driving rocker that recalls their own "Astro." It may be a slight step backwards from Get Behind Me Satan, but if so, it's only a baby step. Favorites: title track, "Effect and Cause," "I'm Slowly Turning Into You"
Toadies - Hell Below/Stars Above - Upon further review, I've gotten major-league hooked on this one. Out of the 12 songs, I could have imagined about 6 of them getting major radio play if they were still playing good music on rock radio back in 2001. Monster choruses ("You'll Come Down," "Push The Hand") abound, and "Little Sin" is just off-kilter enough to avoid being pigeonholed as cock-rock, but still damn memorable. This album is a perfect example of why I actually need to listen to something more than twice before spouting off about it. "It's samey. It's interchangeable," I whined. Bullshit.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Tip 1: Type slowly so people can understand you.
Against my better judgement, I took another stab at one of those sportswriting contests on foxsports.com. This contest seems to be a little more NASCAR-themed, so I figured, "Hey. Something I used to muster a teensy bit of passion about. Hooray." And I had a go at it.
(Captain - in my post, I co-opted one of your comments to me about Kyle Petty and Moses Speedway. As payment, please accept a second copy of the Gin Blossoms' comeback CD, Money Grab.)
On the one hand, my contest entry has already garnered more feedback than my previous effort from last year, when I blogged to widespread apathy and disinterest.
On the other hand, I hate people.
See, people have a unique capability of completely missing the point. And I admit that this medium doesn't really allow for the kind of nuance that I specialize in - you know, the kind that takes me about 300 words to express; if you don't carry a big hammer to bludgeon your point home, then you're wasting keystrokes.
Still, people are fucking morons. Especially sports fans, who are tools and who have fucking ruined sports.
(I ought to write a guide. "So Your Audience Is Composed Of Morons: A Quick and Dirty Guide to Writing For Sports Talk Radio Enthusiasts.")
Every time my faith in human nature starts to be restored, I do something like this and end up being disappointed.
****
Anyway, about that contest. The topic:
As NASCAR roars into the second half of its 2007 season, what are the biggest issues facing the sport? How can it sustain the kind of phenomenal growth it’s enjoyed in the past decade? What needs to happen for the sport to appeal to a broader audience? More speed? More woman drivers? More engaging personalities? Let’s hear your detailed master plan for making NASCAR bigger and better.
In case you're interested - and I have no indication as to why you would be - my train wreck of a contest entry is here. I took kind of contrarian point of view that NASCAR sucks and needs to be imploded so we can start fresh. This rubbed some people the wrong way - people who, as I stated above, missed the point completely.
Update: OK, so it was all a bad joke. But my point remains legitimate, even if it was some sort of retarded "initiation."
(Captain - in my post, I co-opted one of your comments to me about Kyle Petty and Moses Speedway. As payment, please accept a second copy of the Gin Blossoms' comeback CD, Money Grab.)
On the one hand, my contest entry has already garnered more feedback than my previous effort from last year, when I blogged to widespread apathy and disinterest.
On the other hand, I hate people.
See, people have a unique capability of completely missing the point. And I admit that this medium doesn't really allow for the kind of nuance that I specialize in - you know, the kind that takes me about 300 words to express; if you don't carry a big hammer to bludgeon your point home, then you're wasting keystrokes.
Still, people are fucking morons. Especially sports fans, who are tools and who have fucking ruined sports.
(I ought to write a guide. "So Your Audience Is Composed Of Morons: A Quick and Dirty Guide to Writing For Sports Talk Radio Enthusiasts.")
Every time my faith in human nature starts to be restored, I do something like this and end up being disappointed.
****
Anyway, about that contest. The topic:
As NASCAR roars into the second half of its 2007 season, what are the biggest issues facing the sport? How can it sustain the kind of phenomenal growth it’s enjoyed in the past decade? What needs to happen for the sport to appeal to a broader audience? More speed? More woman drivers? More engaging personalities? Let’s hear your detailed master plan for making NASCAR bigger and better.
In case you're interested - and I have no indication as to why you would be - my train wreck of a contest entry is here. I took kind of contrarian point of view that NASCAR sucks and needs to be imploded so we can start fresh. This rubbed some people the wrong way - people who, as I stated above, missed the point completely.
Update: OK, so it was all a bad joke. But my point remains legitimate, even if it was some sort of retarded "initiation."
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The final verdict after one listen of Sloan's Never Hear The End Of It:
OK, it tailed off a little bit just past halfway through. It still knocked most of the dust off Sloan's fading legacy, which had built up over the last five years or so of below-average releases - and really, how would *you* follow up Between The Bridges except by putting out albums that don't quite measure up to that record's sheer excellence?
All in all, if you're new to Sloan, this album's not a good place to start. I love the band, and even I was overwhelmed by the 30 songs on Never Hear ... the songs are really good, by and large, but there's just so many of them. Perhaps my next few listens will be in 5- or 6-song increments, and maybe it will add to the overall experience of hearing the album a few weeks from now.
(See, Captain? I can't write music reviews anymore either.)
OK, it tailed off a little bit just past halfway through. It still knocked most of the dust off Sloan's fading legacy, which had built up over the last five years or so of below-average releases - and really, how would *you* follow up Between The Bridges except by putting out albums that don't quite measure up to that record's sheer excellence?
All in all, if you're new to Sloan, this album's not a good place to start. I love the band, and even I was overwhelmed by the 30 songs on Never Hear ... the songs are really good, by and large, but there's just so many of them. Perhaps my next few listens will be in 5- or 6-song increments, and maybe it will add to the overall experience of hearing the album a few weeks from now.
(See, Captain? I can't write music reviews anymore either.)
One other thought about Sloan's newest before I stop liveblogging my fawning initial reaction to it, because I think it'll make all of us sick:
30 songs? My thinking was that, after their uninspired output of the last 5 years, the band got together and said, "OK. This is it. We've sleepwalked through the last two albums, so we're wrapping it up after this. If you have any songs you want to go onto a Sloan album, now's the time." And after hearing the first 7 songs of this album, I hope to God I'm wrong - and if it is their swan song, then they couldn't have done better. This is great.
I haven't been this positively thrilled with an album in years, B&S' Dear Catastrophe Waitress excepted (and that took about three listens for me to get into). I feel my eyes starting to glisten, almost reminiscent of my first listen to Grandaddy's The Sophtware Slump, but in a different way.
"Fading Into Obscurity" is pure pop-rock goodness, by the way. "Right or Wrong" made chills jump up on my arms. Why these guys never broke big is, pardon the pun, so beyond me.
I'd better stop before I run out of superlatives.
30 songs? My thinking was that, after their uninspired output of the last 5 years, the band got together and said, "OK. This is it. We've sleepwalked through the last two albums, so we're wrapping it up after this. If you have any songs you want to go onto a Sloan album, now's the time." And after hearing the first 7 songs of this album, I hope to God I'm wrong - and if it is their swan song, then they couldn't have done better. This is great.
I haven't been this positively thrilled with an album in years, B&S' Dear Catastrophe Waitress excepted (and that took about three listens for me to get into). I feel my eyes starting to glisten, almost reminiscent of my first listen to Grandaddy's The Sophtware Slump, but in a different way.
"Fading Into Obscurity" is pure pop-rock goodness, by the way. "Right or Wrong" made chills jump up on my arms. Why these guys never broke big is, pardon the pun, so beyond me.
I'd better stop before I run out of superlatives.
I don't know about the other 29 tracks on the album, but the infectious "Who Taught You To Live Like That?" on Sloan's Never Hear The End Of It caused Son to dance alongside me (or, at the very least, nod his head along in unison with Daddy).
Definitely has a Between The Bridges feel to it, through about 5 songs. It already blows away their previous two albums.
Definitely has a Between The Bridges feel to it, through about 5 songs. It already blows away their previous two albums.
My head 'doesn't hurt'
A fire earlier this week destroyed a local historic structure. The Washington (IN) Times-Herald announced some preliminary results to the investigation with this headline:
Dig deeper, though, and you'll find that the fire chief is quoted as saying:
"The fire was purposely set or by accident." (Emphasis added.)
To be fair, the fire chief did also say that accidental causes have been ruled out, but the context of the paragraph makes it appear that "accidental causes" in this case include lightning strikes or freak electrical accidents.
My head hurts.
Meredith House fire ruled 'not an accident'
Dig deeper, though, and you'll find that the fire chief is quoted as saying:
"The fire was purposely set or by accident." (Emphasis added.)
To be fair, the fire chief did also say that accidental causes have been ruled out, but the context of the paragraph makes it appear that "accidental causes" in this case include lightning strikes or freak electrical accidents.
My head hurts.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Yesterday at lunch, I was sitting outside at the picnic table in the dumb heat with another guy who I don't have a blog-ready pseudonym for yet. We're sitting out there smoking, not saying much: "Hot." "Yep." (It's a quiet respect we have for one another, I'm certain.)
The door to the office opens. It's Sandals. And he's walking our way.
"If you are out here waiting on rain," he says in his best Samir Nagheenanajar voice, "you will be waiting a long time."
(Great, I think to myself. Can't operate a microwave, and now he's a friggin' weatherman?)
"Heh. Yeah," I replied. (Nameless Guy says nothing.)
So Sandals lands at the picnic table. We all sit sweating in silence for about a minute, then he starts talking about his daughter's wedding reception. Which would have been appropriate if it were, say, last weekend or something. But it was in 2003.
"The appetizers were excellent. And we had two types of chicken. Both prepared Indian-style."
I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Worse, at this point, Nameless gets up and goes back in the building.
So, it's 90 degrees, and I'm sitting in the sun, listening to Sandals blather about endless inanities, and, like the bulk of our conversations do, it goes back to how wonderful of a school IU is and how a person graduating from the business school there can move immediately into a job starting out at $70,000 a year. (This usually comes up in conjunction with a discussion about the college I graduated from, and he always says, "I've not heard of that school." I think that Indians - dots, not feathers* - are preoccupied with prestige and annual income. At least this one is.)
And I'm feeling like a hostage. A sweaty hostage who, instead of having a bomb strapped to me, has Sandals strapped to me listing all of the prestigious business schools in America. (Yes. For real.)
... "and the Ivy League schools, and the Wharton School at Northwestern, and Stanford, and ..."
So, while I'm sitting there wondering through what immigration loophole he slipped into the country, Nameless comes back out and gets in his truck. I eyed him all the way there and gave him the dirtiest look I could muster. (It's a quiet respect that we share.)
And then - yes, it gets weirder - he says that if he remembers it, he will bring in a Bollywood movie for me to watch. Like I've not been fucked in the ass enough already.
Finally, I have to put a bullet in this conversation. "It's really hot out. I'm sweating. I need to go in."
"Sweating? It's probably because you are smoking."
Yes. Probably so. I thought it was my all-consuming ennui that burns hotter than 1000 suns, one of which is beating down on me right now. But it's because of my tobacco habit. A weatherman, a top-notch microwave operator, and a general physician. What a beautiful man.
****
Upon my return to the air-conditioned environs in which I work, I immediately tapped out an e-mail to Nameless:
"Just so you know, just so you won't think that Sandals has one up on me - I, too, had two types of chicken at my wedding reception. Grilled and McNuggeted."**
About an hour later, I heard a laugh come from his cube.
* - thanks, A.
** - thanks, Earl.
The door to the office opens. It's Sandals. And he's walking our way.
"If you are out here waiting on rain," he says in his best Samir Nagheenanajar voice, "you will be waiting a long time."
(Great, I think to myself. Can't operate a microwave, and now he's a friggin' weatherman?)
"Heh. Yeah," I replied. (Nameless Guy says nothing.)
So Sandals lands at the picnic table. We all sit sweating in silence for about a minute, then he starts talking about his daughter's wedding reception. Which would have been appropriate if it were, say, last weekend or something. But it was in 2003.
"The appetizers were excellent. And we had two types of chicken. Both prepared Indian-style."
I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Worse, at this point, Nameless gets up and goes back in the building.
So, it's 90 degrees, and I'm sitting in the sun, listening to Sandals blather about endless inanities, and, like the bulk of our conversations do, it goes back to how wonderful of a school IU is and how a person graduating from the business school there can move immediately into a job starting out at $70,000 a year. (This usually comes up in conjunction with a discussion about the college I graduated from, and he always says, "I've not heard of that school." I think that Indians - dots, not feathers* - are preoccupied with prestige and annual income. At least this one is.)
And I'm feeling like a hostage. A sweaty hostage who, instead of having a bomb strapped to me, has Sandals strapped to me listing all of the prestigious business schools in America. (Yes. For real.)
... "and the Ivy League schools, and the Wharton School at Northwestern, and Stanford, and ..."
So, while I'm sitting there wondering through what immigration loophole he slipped into the country, Nameless comes back out and gets in his truck. I eyed him all the way there and gave him the dirtiest look I could muster. (It's a quiet respect that we share.)
And then - yes, it gets weirder - he says that if he remembers it, he will bring in a Bollywood movie for me to watch. Like I've not been fucked in the ass enough already.
Finally, I have to put a bullet in this conversation. "It's really hot out. I'm sweating. I need to go in."
"Sweating? It's probably because you are smoking."
Yes. Probably so. I thought it was my all-consuming ennui that burns hotter than 1000 suns, one of which is beating down on me right now. But it's because of my tobacco habit. A weatherman, a top-notch microwave operator, and a general physician. What a beautiful man.
****
Upon my return to the air-conditioned environs in which I work, I immediately tapped out an e-mail to Nameless:
"Just so you know, just so you won't think that Sandals has one up on me - I, too, had two types of chicken at my wedding reception. Grilled and McNuggeted."**
About an hour later, I heard a laugh come from his cube.
* - thanks, A.
** - thanks, Earl.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Everything I've learned about sales is in this post.
Widgetmania continues here at Bramble Tamble. In a permanent position at the bottom of the page, you will find an eBay widget that lists some of the items I have posted for sale. Or, as I call it, "whoring myself out to the highest bidder in a desperate attempt at positive feedback."
Buy my crap!!!
Buy my crap!!!
A follow-up to the microwave post.
I didn't mention it after posting the story about Sandals pre-heating the microwave, but the following Monday, a different lady came up to me and recounted the exact same story.
It was evident at that point that Something had to be done by Someone, and I guess that Someone had to be me, but what would the Something be? A harshly worded anonymous memo? Gently taking him by the hand and slamming it in the microwave door?
Of course not.
Someone, and I'm not saying who to protect my innocence, put a sign on the microwave that stated, quite succinctly:
It was evident at that point that Something had to be done by Someone, and I guess that Someone had to be me, but what would the Something be? A harshly worded anonymous memo? Gently taking him by the hand and slamming it in the microwave door?
Of course not.
Someone, and I'm not saying who to protect my innocence, put a sign on the microwave that stated, quite succinctly:
Microwave is already pre-heated.
Turning microwave on with nothing in it can damage the heating element.
I have heard of no further incidents with the microwave.
If anyone from my employer is reading this, you can go ahead and put this in my file under "Kudos."
Since Indiana's cigarette tax increase went into effect last week, I decided that $4 a pack or ~$38 a carton was it, that my wallet and general health would be better served if I unchained myself from the habit.
Is this the week that I quit smoking? Probably not. Is this the week that I give it another half-assed effort? Probably, if the below is any indication.
Attempt #1: Friday afternoon, about 1pm CDT. My last cigarette, or so I hoped. By 3pm, I was digging through my vehicle, trying to see if there was a pack that had a single cigarette in it that I'd overlooked. No dice. I ate about half a tin of mints in the interim. Clocked out at 3:30 and, instead of driving straight to the daycare, went instead to a convenience store to get two packs. Total quit time: 2 hours, 45 minutes.
Attempt #2: Saturday night/Sunday morning. Smoked my new last cigarette at roughly midnight; had been drinking pretty fiercely that evening (had bought beer for the 4th, and was finishing it off). Went to bed. Woke up the next morning, slept in the recliner for about 9o minutes. Wife comes into the living room - "Go back to bed." I went. Woke up around 11 that morning.
"Do you, ummmm, need anything from town?"
Wife: "No."
"Well, don't you need gas put in your truck, and weren't you wanting some fresh watermelon and canteloupe from the produce stand in town?"
Wife: "If you're going." (There was some residual pissed-offness from the evening before, no doubt related to me being up at midnight looking at naked girlie pics.)
So I went, and against my better judgement, picked up three packs when I was filling her truck up. Total quit time: about 12 hours, 10 of which were spent sleeping.
When will half-assed attempt #3 take place? Stay tuned.
Incidentally, I was discussing smoking and the tax increase with a trusted confidant at work who also smokes. We agreed that it would be just awesome if everyone stopped smoking now for the sole purpose of cutting off the funding that Your Man Mitch (Indiana's Governor Daniels, for the uninitiated) is anticipating with the tax increase. And then we both lit up.
Is this the week that I quit smoking? Probably not. Is this the week that I give it another half-assed effort? Probably, if the below is any indication.
Attempt #1: Friday afternoon, about 1pm CDT. My last cigarette, or so I hoped. By 3pm, I was digging through my vehicle, trying to see if there was a pack that had a single cigarette in it that I'd overlooked. No dice. I ate about half a tin of mints in the interim. Clocked out at 3:30 and, instead of driving straight to the daycare, went instead to a convenience store to get two packs. Total quit time: 2 hours, 45 minutes.
Attempt #2: Saturday night/Sunday morning. Smoked my new last cigarette at roughly midnight; had been drinking pretty fiercely that evening (had bought beer for the 4th, and was finishing it off). Went to bed. Woke up the next morning, slept in the recliner for about 9o minutes. Wife comes into the living room - "Go back to bed." I went. Woke up around 11 that morning.
"Do you, ummmm, need anything from town?"
Wife: "No."
"Well, don't you need gas put in your truck, and weren't you wanting some fresh watermelon and canteloupe from the produce stand in town?"
Wife: "If you're going." (There was some residual pissed-offness from the evening before, no doubt related to me being up at midnight looking at naked girlie pics.)
So I went, and against my better judgement, picked up three packs when I was filling her truck up. Total quit time: about 12 hours, 10 of which were spent sleeping.
When will half-assed attempt #3 take place? Stay tuned.
Incidentally, I was discussing smoking and the tax increase with a trusted confidant at work who also smokes. We agreed that it would be just awesome if everyone stopped smoking now for the sole purpose of cutting off the funding that Your Man Mitch (Indiana's Governor Daniels, for the uninitiated) is anticipating with the tax increase. And then we both lit up.
Disqualified from "World's Best Dad" competition.
Here's something that made me feel about 6 inches tall, and convinced me that I need to work on my temper.
It was about 9000 degrees yesterday in Southern Indiana, at about 3000% humidity. It was a hot one, even if I slightly overestimate the actual numbers.
I push-mowed a part of the yard, over by the small orchard that we don't maintain, and was drenched in sweat after about 45 minutes. After I finished mowing the steep bank by the road, I flopped down in a lawn chair in the shade and was replenishing my fluids with Gatorade when Son walked up.
I've spent the spring and summer nurturing some flowers and plants in front of the house (pictures of sunflowers forthcoming just to brighten this dreary blog up). I've never done anything like this before, making the excuse that I am often instant death to foliage, greenery and other plant life. But I decided to give it an honest effort this year, and lo and behold, I'm having a little bit of success.
That said: Near where I was sitting was a small plot of peppers, about four plants. Son, of course, was happy to be outside in spite of the stifling heat, and was running around haphazardly near me. I projected that in about three steps, he would have his little feet in my peppers, destroying them. 1 - 2 -
"Son! Stop! NO! Not in the peppers! STOP!"
- 3.
Shit.
I cursed and tossed my Gatorade bottle about 40 feet into the driveway. And then I cursed again, yelling something about "how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my plants" and whatnot.
Very quietly, and very dutifully, Son walked around the peppers and toward the driveway, where he picked up the Gatorade bottle, which still had a couple of swigs left in it. He carried it back to where I was sitting, handed it to me and said, "Don't do that again. Got dirt on it."
If that doesn't make you at least get something in your eye, then you have no heart.
Ultimately, they're just plants. This is something that I am prone to forget, and need to remind myself of.
It was about 9000 degrees yesterday in Southern Indiana, at about 3000% humidity. It was a hot one, even if I slightly overestimate the actual numbers.
I push-mowed a part of the yard, over by the small orchard that we don't maintain, and was drenched in sweat after about 45 minutes. After I finished mowing the steep bank by the road, I flopped down in a lawn chair in the shade and was replenishing my fluids with Gatorade when Son walked up.
I've spent the spring and summer nurturing some flowers and plants in front of the house (pictures of sunflowers forthcoming just to brighten this dreary blog up). I've never done anything like this before, making the excuse that I am often instant death to foliage, greenery and other plant life. But I decided to give it an honest effort this year, and lo and behold, I'm having a little bit of success.
That said: Near where I was sitting was a small plot of peppers, about four plants. Son, of course, was happy to be outside in spite of the stifling heat, and was running around haphazardly near me. I projected that in about three steps, he would have his little feet in my peppers, destroying them. 1 - 2 -
"Son! Stop! NO! Not in the peppers! STOP!"
- 3.
Shit.
I cursed and tossed my Gatorade bottle about 40 feet into the driveway. And then I cursed again, yelling something about "how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my plants" and whatnot.
Very quietly, and very dutifully, Son walked around the peppers and toward the driveway, where he picked up the Gatorade bottle, which still had a couple of swigs left in it. He carried it back to where I was sitting, handed it to me and said, "Don't do that again. Got dirt on it."
If that doesn't make you at least get something in your eye, then you have no heart.
Ultimately, they're just plants. This is something that I am prone to forget, and need to remind myself of.
Dear Economically Depressed Area with a Casino:
Is your local casino dead last in your state in admissions and customer winnings? Was it expected to bring an economic boon to your otherwise depressed community, but it's just not working out yet?
Then you would do well to follow the lead of the French Lick Resort and Casino.
My initial impression of the casino was that if you took a gigantic turd and wrapped it in a casino, the French Lick Resort and Casino would be the end result. Since then, my opinion of it has gone greatly downhill, so much that if I ever stepped foot in there again, it'd still be too soon.
See, the place is a shithole on so many different levels. Dead last in admissions? That's a shock. It is, after all, in such a remote area that BFE and Outer Mongolia are getting together specifically to laugh at it - "Man, we thought we were in the middle of nowhere!"
There is, quite frankly, no quick way to get there unless you live in the French Lick/West Baden/Prospect metroplex - you can, if you so choose, risk life and limb on any number of winding, dangerous two-lane highways to get there.
Dead last in gross revenue and customer winnings? Another jaw-dropper. Speaking solely as a disinterested, detached, unbiased observer who has just happened to lose a small bundle there, I'd have to say that this news is as astonishing as the news that the sun rises in the east.
(A quick side note here. Yes, I fully understand the ultimate result of gambling - I say all of this as a person who is pro-legalized gambling. I love casino junkets. Probably a little too much. I'm a big fan of gambling, yet I don't want to spend another cent in French Lick's casino, at the very least, not until they get their collective shit together, and even then, not for a few years after that. It's 45 minutes away from me, and I'd rather drive 2 hours to Aztar or Caesar's, or 7 hours to Tunica. Does that give *anyone* there a clue? Anyone? Hello?)
But fret not, Orange Countians! Help is on the way to your struggling French Lick Resort and Casino.
The key to solving all of the casino's problems can be found in this imaginary conversation (though the result is, unfortunately, very real - don't believe me just based on my word, click on the link below the conversation!):
Man #1: "Our casino is struggling. We're dead last - dead fucking last in the state. We've got the state gaming commission on our backs. Even that craphole Aztar is ahead of us on every level. What should we do?"
Man #2: "Well, we could stand to educate our dealers a little better." (Blank stares all about the room)
Man #3: "Hey, maybe we could loosen up the slots just a hair - even if we're paying out more, people will be more willing to gamble more here if they feel like they have more of a shot of winning." (Howls of laughter)
Man #2: "Some people think that the $159 weeknight room rate is a bit steep, nevermind the weekend rate."
Man #1: "Well, Jenkins, we've had this discussion before; we don't want those people in our casino. The people who are coming here for the golf and the other hoity-toity shit that we've got going on don't want to consort with the rabble. Their money spends better, so that's who we're targeting."
Man #3: "Oh. Shit the bed. It just came to me."
Man #1: "What's that?"
Man #3: "We'll do … a biweekly radio show … from our casino … you ever listen to 'A Prairie Home Companion'?"
Man #1: "Heard of it."
Man #3: "Yeah - we'll get a bunch of alt-folkies and faux hippies down here and broadcast a radio show from our ballroom. They'll do skits and down-homey music and other crap like that. It'll all have a very rustic, very Southern Indiana feel to it. And we'll sell tickets to it. Yes, that's right - we'll sell tickets to the broadcasts."
Man #1: "You're a genius, you know that? Raises for everyone! Except for Jenkins, who's an idiot." (Mocking) "The $159 room rate is too steep. It makes my vagina hurt. Muh muh muh."
They are calling it "The Hoosier Jubilee." From the Indianapolis Star's article:
"The Hoosier Jubilee" features music along with stories of small-town life in French Lick – including the fictional Bobber’s Bait Shop and the Fraternal Fellows of Order – by Tom Wright of the band. The idea is similar to the Lake Wobegon tales by Garrison Keillor on public radio’s "A Prairie Home Companion."
This just sounds Godawful. I don't mean to be a pessimist, because really, I want the casino to succeed. But honestly, does anyone with a lick of sense think that this friggin' thing is going to draw flies?
Listen. People who go somewhere for the sole intent of gambling - and let's not fool ourselves; all of the other "amenities" in the casino package (the golf, the spa, the other ephemera) are just window dressing - aren't going to spring for tickets to … to … this.
A more apt name would be "A Shithole Home Companion."
A radio show! Christ.
Is your local casino dead last in your state in admissions and customer winnings? Was it expected to bring an economic boon to your otherwise depressed community, but it's just not working out yet?
Then you would do well to follow the lead of the French Lick Resort and Casino.
My initial impression of the casino was that if you took a gigantic turd and wrapped it in a casino, the French Lick Resort and Casino would be the end result. Since then, my opinion of it has gone greatly downhill, so much that if I ever stepped foot in there again, it'd still be too soon.
See, the place is a shithole on so many different levels. Dead last in admissions? That's a shock. It is, after all, in such a remote area that BFE and Outer Mongolia are getting together specifically to laugh at it - "Man, we thought we were in the middle of nowhere!"
There is, quite frankly, no quick way to get there unless you live in the French Lick/West Baden/Prospect metroplex - you can, if you so choose, risk life and limb on any number of winding, dangerous two-lane highways to get there.
Dead last in gross revenue and customer winnings? Another jaw-dropper. Speaking solely as a disinterested, detached, unbiased observer who has just happened to lose a small bundle there, I'd have to say that this news is as astonishing as the news that the sun rises in the east.
(A quick side note here. Yes, I fully understand the ultimate result of gambling - I say all of this as a person who is pro-legalized gambling. I love casino junkets. Probably a little too much. I'm a big fan of gambling, yet I don't want to spend another cent in French Lick's casino, at the very least, not until they get their collective shit together, and even then, not for a few years after that. It's 45 minutes away from me, and I'd rather drive 2 hours to Aztar or Caesar's, or 7 hours to Tunica. Does that give *anyone* there a clue? Anyone? Hello?)
But fret not, Orange Countians! Help is on the way to your struggling French Lick Resort and Casino.
The key to solving all of the casino's problems can be found in this imaginary conversation (though the result is, unfortunately, very real - don't believe me just based on my word, click on the link below the conversation!):
Man #1: "Our casino is struggling. We're dead last - dead fucking last in the state. We've got the state gaming commission on our backs. Even that craphole Aztar is ahead of us on every level. What should we do?"
Man #2: "Well, we could stand to educate our dealers a little better." (Blank stares all about the room)
Man #3: "Hey, maybe we could loosen up the slots just a hair - even if we're paying out more, people will be more willing to gamble more here if they feel like they have more of a shot of winning." (Howls of laughter)
Man #2: "Some people think that the $159 weeknight room rate is a bit steep, nevermind the weekend rate."
Man #1: "Well, Jenkins, we've had this discussion before; we don't want those people in our casino. The people who are coming here for the golf and the other hoity-toity shit that we've got going on don't want to consort with the rabble. Their money spends better, so that's who we're targeting."
Man #3: "Oh. Shit the bed. It just came to me."
Man #1: "What's that?"
Man #3: "We'll do … a biweekly radio show … from our casino … you ever listen to 'A Prairie Home Companion'?"
Man #1: "Heard of it."
Man #3: "Yeah - we'll get a bunch of alt-folkies and faux hippies down here and broadcast a radio show from our ballroom. They'll do skits and down-homey music and other crap like that. It'll all have a very rustic, very Southern Indiana feel to it. And we'll sell tickets to it. Yes, that's right - we'll sell tickets to the broadcasts."
Man #1: "You're a genius, you know that? Raises for everyone! Except for Jenkins, who's an idiot." (Mocking) "The $159 room rate is too steep. It makes my vagina hurt. Muh muh muh."
They are calling it "The Hoosier Jubilee." From the Indianapolis Star's article:
"The Hoosier Jubilee" features music along with stories of small-town life in French Lick – including the fictional Bobber’s Bait Shop and the Fraternal Fellows of Order – by Tom Wright of the band. The idea is similar to the Lake Wobegon tales by Garrison Keillor on public radio’s "A Prairie Home Companion."
This just sounds Godawful. I don't mean to be a pessimist, because really, I want the casino to succeed. But honestly, does anyone with a lick of sense think that this friggin' thing is going to draw flies?
Listen. People who go somewhere for the sole intent of gambling - and let's not fool ourselves; all of the other "amenities" in the casino package (the golf, the spa, the other ephemera) are just window dressing - aren't going to spring for tickets to … to … this.
A more apt name would be "A Shithole Home Companion."
A radio show! Christ.
The headline is really too good to be true.
Punchline count: 24.
Honestly, it's a great story, really sweet. And good for the girl.
It's just that - well, I think the headline writer failed her in this case, conjuring up an image of a little girl groping along some back roads between Indy and Los Angeles.
Punchline count: 24.
Honestly, it's a great story, really sweet. And good for the girl.
It's just that - well, I think the headline writer failed her in this case, conjuring up an image of a little girl groping along some back roads between Indy and Los Angeles.
And a mighty cheer erupted from CSRs across the globe.
This - oh, this is beautiful! This - this is about frickin' time, is what this is.
As someone who's spent too much of his life on the "service" end of the "customer service" cycle, I just have to say: Bravo, Sprint. Well done.
As someone who's spent too much of his life on the "service" end of the "customer service" cycle, I just have to say: Bravo, Sprint. Well done.
Friday, July 06, 2007
It'd be next to "Tops on the Lot." (inside joke)
If I were still at my high school newspaper, here's how my review of the Gin Blossoms' comeback album Major Lodge Victory would end, or possibly start, or maybe even read in full:
If you like the kind of music the Gin Blossoms play, then you will enjoy Major Lodge Victory.
Really, there are no surprises here. It's pleasant, inoffensive, and ultimately forgettable. This assessment comes after one half-assed listen, by the way; I may expand on this later.
If you like the kind of music the Gin Blossoms play, then you will enjoy Major Lodge Victory.
Really, there are no surprises here. It's pleasant, inoffensive, and ultimately forgettable. This assessment comes after one half-assed listen, by the way; I may expand on this later.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
It took me six years to pick up the second Toadies album, which took *them* six years to put out. Hell Below/Stars Above starts out of the gate real fast - "Plane Crash" and "Push The Hand" continue the precedent first set on Rubberneck, with their off-signature tempos and general rawkin' goodness. Sadly, the album loses steam about halfway through with some slightly interchangeable numbers before the band salvages the end (the title track is excellent, and "Pressed Against The Sky" is an awesome non-traditional rock ballad). And a Toadies album wouldn't be a Toadies album if the band didn't bring sufficient quantities of Creepy - here, the dark "Jigsaw Girl" fills the bill.
Really, it's still a fun album, though they'd set the bar so high with their debut that they were really doomed from the start, I think. My thought while listening to the middle of the album was this:
It was six years between records, but I wonder if they should have had more time to put out the album. I mean, six years, and they couldn't do any better than "Heel"? Really?
Really, it's still a fun album, though they'd set the bar so high with their debut that they were really doomed from the start, I think. My thought while listening to the middle of the album was this:
It was six years between records, but I wonder if they should have had more time to put out the album. I mean, six years, and they couldn't do any better than "Heel"? Really?
Monday, July 02, 2007
I know that I said that I would post no further updates on the job until I heard something for sure. It still says so over there in my Twitter widget.
And still, I have heard nothing, mind you. However, what I'm about to share is so deliciously random that I couldn't help but pass on the weirdness to you.
Remember the one basic fact: I have heard nothing - nothing more than positive rumors as to any near-future change in scenery. But as far as even something "unofficial" to keep under wraps - nothing. And I wouldn't lie to you about that; I can't keep secrets about myself.
But. Keeping this in mind (that I have heard nothing):
I do know for a fact that they are already in the process of interviewing for my current position.
(I have heard nothing.)
I have been asked for a list of my duties so that the job description can be written.
(I have heard nothing.)
And - here's the capper that compelled me to break my "no new posting about this job till I hear something" promise:
This morning, I started receiving e-mail sent to the group of which I would be a part in this new job.
At the very least, this has dispelled most of the notions that I've had that this "new job" looks more and more like an elaborate hoax played on me, extending to the highest levels of my company's middle management. And no, I am quite aware that they wouldn't go to such great lengths to do such a thing. A little paranoia is healthy, though (and I'm not differentiating between "thoughtful, well-reasoned paranoia" and "stupid paranoia").
But remember: In spite of all of this - I have heard nothing.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm already supposed to be at my new position and someone just didn't make a phone call. These things do keep me up nights. That's kind of a Charlie Brown thought, isn't it?
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