It's pretty quiet just now, except for the wicked Wisconsin wind that's blowing. It's late afternoon and the wife & kid are busy out running errands. Things have been pretty crazy around here, getting the house in shape for the holiday trifecta.
With a couple of quiet moments to myself, I'm feeling pretty relaxed, taking a much-needed break from cleaning. This Thanksgiving, I'm feeling particularly thankful for several things.
My ninety-five-year-old Grandmother is still with us and in good spirits. Her eyesight is failing, but she's still strong enough to crack me with her cane when I'm being a smartass.
My wife finally got to the bottom of a food allergy that was causing her incredible difficulty with leg pain and swelling. She's on the mend and feeling a lot better.
At a two-hour rehearsal with my band a few nights ago, we played for only about a half an hour. The rest of the time, we talked about our kids and common issues we're all facing. I always jokingly referred to our regular weekly rehearsal as "bowling night," because none of us bowl. I realized this past week, though, that these guys are like brothers to me.
Lastly, I'm extremely thankful that I have a warm place to sleep tonight and that I'll soon be eating a warm meal with the girls when they get home.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
A Shot Of Stress
It occurred to me recently that we're all stressed out. We talk about the stress of our job, the stress of family matters, money, health, etc. We massage our foreheads, let out exasperated sighs and exhale "I'm so f-ing stressed out." We live for the week that we get to go to Michigan every summer, foolishly thinking that this will rid us of all this dreaded stress. We're surprised, when we return, that all the sources of our stress are still resolutely in place, awaiting our arrival.
What do we do next? Well, we plan a bigger vacation, a more exotic vacation. If we can only get a little further out of town, perhaps staying a little longer, THEN things will be different. We'll undoubtedly return to our normal life with our batteries recharged. We're wrong, of course, but we still hold onto the myth like Harold Lloyd dangling from a Los Angeles skyscraper.
Back in the day, when our fathers were young married guys, I doubt that they ever uttered the "S" word. Their friends would've slapped 'em. They didn't bitch about their lives, because most guys were in the same boat. You worked ten hours a day busting your hump at the mill. You struggled to feed your family, hoping there'd be enough money at the end of the month to pay the next month's mortgage.
Guys like my Dad got thru it all by stopping at the corner tavern on their way home for a shot and a beer every night. Sure, they were stressed out, but they never let on. They sucked it up like the real men they were. They had a couple of belts and got on with their lives.
I'm sure it didn't hurt that when Dad got home, Mom had a big potroast waiting for him. The bullshit encountered during a day at the mill must have been a little easier to stomach when it was followed by a tender cut of beef and a pile of mashed potatoes swimming in butter and gravy. Who could be stressed out after a meal like that?
I propose, dear friends, that we rid ourselves of this demon called "Stress." I further propose that we apply ourselves at frequenting our neighborhood bars after work and that we indulge in consuming far more meat and potatoes than we currently do. Let's suck it up, old school, like our fathers did. Our cholesterol will be thru the roof, but we just may find a little f-ing peace in our lives.
What do we do next? Well, we plan a bigger vacation, a more exotic vacation. If we can only get a little further out of town, perhaps staying a little longer, THEN things will be different. We'll undoubtedly return to our normal life with our batteries recharged. We're wrong, of course, but we still hold onto the myth like Harold Lloyd dangling from a Los Angeles skyscraper.
Back in the day, when our fathers were young married guys, I doubt that they ever uttered the "S" word. Their friends would've slapped 'em. They didn't bitch about their lives, because most guys were in the same boat. You worked ten hours a day busting your hump at the mill. You struggled to feed your family, hoping there'd be enough money at the end of the month to pay the next month's mortgage.
Guys like my Dad got thru it all by stopping at the corner tavern on their way home for a shot and a beer every night. Sure, they were stressed out, but they never let on. They sucked it up like the real men they were. They had a couple of belts and got on with their lives.
I'm sure it didn't hurt that when Dad got home, Mom had a big potroast waiting for him. The bullshit encountered during a day at the mill must have been a little easier to stomach when it was followed by a tender cut of beef and a pile of mashed potatoes swimming in butter and gravy. Who could be stressed out after a meal like that?
I propose, dear friends, that we rid ourselves of this demon called "Stress." I further propose that we apply ourselves at frequenting our neighborhood bars after work and that we indulge in consuming far more meat and potatoes than we currently do. Let's suck it up, old school, like our fathers did. Our cholesterol will be thru the roof, but we just may find a little f-ing peace in our lives.
Never Enough Time
There never seems to be enough time to get things done these days. No matter how much I get done in one day, I never seem to be able to make a dent in the great "To Do" list.
I was in bed staring at the ceiling one night, when my wife asked, "What's the matter?" I answered that I was trying to make some sort of priority list in my head.
"You need to stop worrying about it," she said. "Make a list tomorrow and then you can choose one or two things to get done every day, checking them off as you go."
In theory, this sounds like a great idea. In reality, the list quickly became six smaller lists of related objectives. Once again overwhelmed, I scrapped the idea altogether.
There's a scene in The Marx Brothers' movie "Go West," where Chico and Harpo are knee-deep in separate holes, digging for gold. Everytime Chico throws a shovel full of dirt out of his hole, Harpo does the same, only he's throwing his dirt in Chico's hole. Chico can't help but notice that he's getting nowhere, no matter how furiously he digs. I used to think this scene was funny, now I fast-forward right through it.
I was in bed staring at the ceiling one night, when my wife asked, "What's the matter?" I answered that I was trying to make some sort of priority list in my head.
"You need to stop worrying about it," she said. "Make a list tomorrow and then you can choose one or two things to get done every day, checking them off as you go."
In theory, this sounds like a great idea. In reality, the list quickly became six smaller lists of related objectives. Once again overwhelmed, I scrapped the idea altogether.
There's a scene in The Marx Brothers' movie "Go West," where Chico and Harpo are knee-deep in separate holes, digging for gold. Everytime Chico throws a shovel full of dirt out of his hole, Harpo does the same, only he's throwing his dirt in Chico's hole. Chico can't help but notice that he's getting nowhere, no matter how furiously he digs. I used to think this scene was funny, now I fast-forward right through it.
A Brush With Greatness V3.0 (The Smithereens)
I first became aquainted with Pat DiNizio of The Smithereens (one of my all-time favorite power pop bands) when he was offering a service thru his website. For $100, you could send him either lyrics or music, and he'd finish off the song and send it back to you. Inspired by similar offers often seen in the back of comic books back in the day, DiNizio hoped to revive a bit of kitsch and suppliment his income when The Smithereens weren't touring.
I emailed DiNizio my lyrics and waited anxiously for the tune to arrive in the mail. It never did. Due to a sudden surge in touring after the release of "God Save The Smithereens," he was forced to abandon the project for lack of time.
Apologetically, he phoned and explained the situation to me. I understood and absolved him of the commitment to write a song with me. I was extremely disappointed not to have that little credit on my resume', but Dinizio made up for it by sending me a nice assortment of Smithereens' merch. During our conversation, we began talking about The Smithereens' newest release. DiNizio asked me how I thought it stacked up against some of their earlier work and I gave him my unfiltered opinions.
In possession of his home phone number, I called again a few weeks later to ask if I could send him a copy of my band's CD. "Sure," he said, "I'd love to give it a listen." After sending him a copy of the disc, we spoke again and talked about our favorite records and musicians. I was amazed to find him without rockstar ego, willing to chat about everyday things like what our daughters were doing.
I still talk to DiNizio every now and then and, though I wouldn't presume to consider him a close personal friend, we are at the very least friendly aquaintances. I may not have gotten to write a song with him, but there's something to be said for just being able to call the guy up and talk about music.
More on this later....
I emailed DiNizio my lyrics and waited anxiously for the tune to arrive in the mail. It never did. Due to a sudden surge in touring after the release of "God Save The Smithereens," he was forced to abandon the project for lack of time.
Apologetically, he phoned and explained the situation to me. I understood and absolved him of the commitment to write a song with me. I was extremely disappointed not to have that little credit on my resume', but Dinizio made up for it by sending me a nice assortment of Smithereens' merch. During our conversation, we began talking about The Smithereens' newest release. DiNizio asked me how I thought it stacked up against some of their earlier work and I gave him my unfiltered opinions.
In possession of his home phone number, I called again a few weeks later to ask if I could send him a copy of my band's CD. "Sure," he said, "I'd love to give it a listen." After sending him a copy of the disc, we spoke again and talked about our favorite records and musicians. I was amazed to find him without rockstar ego, willing to chat about everyday things like what our daughters were doing.
I still talk to DiNizio every now and then and, though I wouldn't presume to consider him a close personal friend, we are at the very least friendly aquaintances. I may not have gotten to write a song with him, but there's something to be said for just being able to call the guy up and talk about music.
More on this later....
The Not-So-Family Channel
I recently sent the message below to the powers that be at ABC. I received an instant reply assuring me that my message would be considered, along with the thousands of others they get each day....yeah, right.
"It would be really nice if when watching the ABC Family channel, or family-oriented shows like "Extreme Home Makeover," you didn't show promos for adult-themed shows like "Desperate Housewives." People watch family shows, and the Family Channel, with kids who don't need to see a man crawl out from underneath Eva Longoria's wedding dress to comment that he can't believe she's not wearing underwear. Isn't ABC now part of Disney? How about a little discretion?"
Somebody's asleep at the wheel. If you agree, drop by ABC's website and weigh in.
"It would be really nice if when watching the ABC Family channel, or family-oriented shows like "Extreme Home Makeover," you didn't show promos for adult-themed shows like "Desperate Housewives." People watch family shows, and the Family Channel, with kids who don't need to see a man crawl out from underneath Eva Longoria's wedding dress to comment that he can't believe she's not wearing underwear. Isn't ABC now part of Disney? How about a little discretion?"
Somebody's asleep at the wheel. If you agree, drop by ABC's website and weigh in.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Back To School
My wife's twenty-year high school reunion was this past weekend. As with most school-type reunions, I was in boycott mode. Now, I know what you're thinkin'..."Boy, high school must've really sucked for you." All things considered, high school wasn't that bad. I was voted "most musical" my senior year, played a little baseball and was the feature editor of my school's paper. I belonged to no certain clique, yet was accepted by most and moved freely among them. Looking back, people have said that they thought I was this mysterious guy who lived on the fringe, doing my own thing. That's simplifying things a bit, but there is some truth there.
Back in 1995, I received an invite to my ten-year reunion. Included with the invite was a lengthy questionaire, inquiring as to what I'd been up to for the past decade. I answered the questions, giving info on my marital status, my daughter & a number of other things, like who my favorite teachers were. Eventually, booklets were going to be made up so that we could all check in with our former classmates, regardless of whether we were physically attending the reunion or not.
Weeks after the reunion had passed, my copy of the booklet arrived in the mail. I flipped thru the pages, expecting to see the answers I had placed on my questionaire. What I found were only five words....Bradley is married to Louise. Curiously, I noticed that other former classmates had much more space dedicated to their "beautiful children" and their "fulfilling careers." Some even had nearly two pages of accolades.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that those alotted the most space were the same people that planned the reunion. And, as you might have guessed, among them were the "mean girls" of 1985. You know the type, you'd walk into a party and they'd all scowl at you in unison. Venomous young ladies, all.
I guess that, even after ten years, they still had the compulsion to in some way prove to their classmates that they were superior. The funny thing is, back in '85, the only people who considered them to be superior were them. Ten years later, they no longer looked mean, but just pathetic. Their lives had peaked when they were eighteen and this was their desperate attempt to recapture a little bit of their glory days. You can hardly blame them. It must be a pretty rude awakening to realize that you were once head cheerleader and now you're a fat mother of four with a part-time job at Target. Boy, that must sting. Age has an ironic way of levelling the playing field, doesn't it?
Now, I'm not saying that every kid that was popular, or a football player, or a class officer was an asshole. Many of my best friends were all of these things. The difference between them and the "mean girls" is that they were also good people who knew, even back then, that being the Jake Ryan of your school only carried one so far in the real world.
I'm told that attendance at the ten-year was less than half of our graduating class of two hundred. For the twenty-year, the total was around forty, which included spouses and significant others. So, out of a class of 200, only 10% had anything to do with the last reunion. It's a pity that the "mean girls" didn't use the reunions as an opportunity to show that they'd actually grown up. I would expect that by the time the thirty-year reunion rolls around, the "mean girls" will be the only ones in attendance. Then, the real fun will begin. Without the rest of us there, they'll undoubtedly turn on each other. I'd pay to see that.
Back in 1995, I received an invite to my ten-year reunion. Included with the invite was a lengthy questionaire, inquiring as to what I'd been up to for the past decade. I answered the questions, giving info on my marital status, my daughter & a number of other things, like who my favorite teachers were. Eventually, booklets were going to be made up so that we could all check in with our former classmates, regardless of whether we were physically attending the reunion or not.
Weeks after the reunion had passed, my copy of the booklet arrived in the mail. I flipped thru the pages, expecting to see the answers I had placed on my questionaire. What I found were only five words....Bradley is married to Louise. Curiously, I noticed that other former classmates had much more space dedicated to their "beautiful children" and their "fulfilling careers." Some even had nearly two pages of accolades.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed that those alotted the most space were the same people that planned the reunion. And, as you might have guessed, among them were the "mean girls" of 1985. You know the type, you'd walk into a party and they'd all scowl at you in unison. Venomous young ladies, all.
I guess that, even after ten years, they still had the compulsion to in some way prove to their classmates that they were superior. The funny thing is, back in '85, the only people who considered them to be superior were them. Ten years later, they no longer looked mean, but just pathetic. Their lives had peaked when they were eighteen and this was their desperate attempt to recapture a little bit of their glory days. You can hardly blame them. It must be a pretty rude awakening to realize that you were once head cheerleader and now you're a fat mother of four with a part-time job at Target. Boy, that must sting. Age has an ironic way of levelling the playing field, doesn't it?
Now, I'm not saying that every kid that was popular, or a football player, or a class officer was an asshole. Many of my best friends were all of these things. The difference between them and the "mean girls" is that they were also good people who knew, even back then, that being the Jake Ryan of your school only carried one so far in the real world.
I'm told that attendance at the ten-year was less than half of our graduating class of two hundred. For the twenty-year, the total was around forty, which included spouses and significant others. So, out of a class of 200, only 10% had anything to do with the last reunion. It's a pity that the "mean girls" didn't use the reunions as an opportunity to show that they'd actually grown up. I would expect that by the time the thirty-year reunion rolls around, the "mean girls" will be the only ones in attendance. Then, the real fun will begin. Without the rest of us there, they'll undoubtedly turn on each other. I'd pay to see that.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Phoning It In
This past Sunday, my family headed out to a local farmstand. It was a perfect Fall day (I realize it's not OFFICIALLY Fall, but weather-wise it has been) and we felt the need to get some fresh Wisconsin apples and perhaps a pumpkin or two.
As we browsed the produce, a woman in a mini-van pulled in with her toddler daughter. She was having some trouble navigating the sharp curve of the driveway, as her head was tilted to the side, keeping her cellphone in place on her shoulder.
She exited her van, slid the side door open, and wrangled her kid out of her carseat...all without a break in her phone conversation. They walked towards the pumpkins, where the kid had a field day, running up and down the long, orange rows. Overjoyed at the sight of so many pumpkins, she tried in vain to get her mother's attention. Putting up her index finger, the mother mouthed "In a minute," and turned her back towards her daughter.
We went about our business of picking out some nice, crisp apples, when I see the duo walk up to the counter to pay for their produce. Even as she asked the salesperson about the price of a pumpkin, she barely stopped talking to whomever was on the other end of the line.
She then took her purchase, her kid (who had by now given up on getting mom's attention) and her cellphone and hopped back into her van. Having as much trouble navigating the driveway on her way out as she did on her entrance, the van disappeared in a cloud of gravel dust.
Years from now, I'm sure the little girl will look back on the day and say, "Remember when we used to go to the pumpkin farm and have mother-daughter time? I'd be laughing as I ran through the pumpkins and you'd be making calls....good times, Ma, good times."
As we browsed the produce, a woman in a mini-van pulled in with her toddler daughter. She was having some trouble navigating the sharp curve of the driveway, as her head was tilted to the side, keeping her cellphone in place on her shoulder.
She exited her van, slid the side door open, and wrangled her kid out of her carseat...all without a break in her phone conversation. They walked towards the pumpkins, where the kid had a field day, running up and down the long, orange rows. Overjoyed at the sight of so many pumpkins, she tried in vain to get her mother's attention. Putting up her index finger, the mother mouthed "In a minute," and turned her back towards her daughter.
We went about our business of picking out some nice, crisp apples, when I see the duo walk up to the counter to pay for their produce. Even as she asked the salesperson about the price of a pumpkin, she barely stopped talking to whomever was on the other end of the line.
She then took her purchase, her kid (who had by now given up on getting mom's attention) and her cellphone and hopped back into her van. Having as much trouble navigating the driveway on her way out as she did on her entrance, the van disappeared in a cloud of gravel dust.
Years from now, I'm sure the little girl will look back on the day and say, "Remember when we used to go to the pumpkin farm and have mother-daughter time? I'd be laughing as I ran through the pumpkins and you'd be making calls....good times, Ma, good times."
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Sick Of It All
The events of the past week have forced me into what I refer to as a news blackout. Occasionally, when world events become so frustratingly bleak and hopeless, usually due to our meat-headed president, my only recourse short of the dry-heaves is to give my blood pressure time to adjust to a non-life-threatening rate.
We observed another 9/11 anniversary, which was more difficult for me than usual this year. Bin Laden is no longer on Chimpolean's radar, even though before the last round of elections, we were assured that U.S. Special Forces were only a few weeks behind him, then a few days, then possibly hours. To vote Democrat meant that the hunt for Bin Laden would somehow be derailed. You know the usual Republican bullshit...no matter how horrible things look, they'll be much worse with Democrats in office. Once again, the fear card was played just before an election, ultimately resulting in Chimpy's second term. After the winning of his second term, our illustrious leader's earpiece went on the fritz just long enough for him to mutter "I don't spend much time thinking about him (Bin Laden)."
I also don't need to watch MSNBC's real-time replay of their original 9/11 broadcasts. I know it makes a swell bumpersticker, but "We Must Never Forget" doesn't mean we need to wallow in the tragedy for 24 hours once a year. I couldn't forget 9/11 if I tried. I remember where I was, seeing those planes crash into the towers, seeing people jumping to their deaths rather than be burned alive....I remember it all, every hellish second of it. It's almost as if we're now celebrating it, as if it's some sort of cruel holiday. My wife happended to pass an icecream place on 9/11 that was serving "red, white & blueberry" as their flavor of the day. Jesus Christ, how twisted is that? Can I get that in a waffle cone? I don't need to be reminded to "Never Forget." That's a complete implausability.
The second major happening leading to my withdrawal, was the mock September progress report that was just layed on us. I don't think anyone, Liberal or Conservative, was surprised by what was (or wasn't) revealed. According to the White House, things are going swimmingly since "the surge." In fact, we''ll now be able to start sending troops home. Those of us interested enough to read the fine print, are aware that the reduction amounts to bringing us back to pre-surge troop levels. The term "fuzzy math" becomes particularly ironic at this point.
The surge was also supposed to allow Iraqi politicians some breathing room to finally get their puppet show of a government on it's feet. While Chimpy claims the surge to be a victory, it's whole original purpose remains unfulfilled. Things are better in Anbar, but that's not where the fucking capitol of the country is now, is it? It's absolutely ludicrous. Chimpolean shites on a paper plate, then goes on TV to convince the gomers that it's a piece of chocolate cake. "Ain't it dee-liscious?"His surprise visit to Iraq also curiously didn't include a trip to the capitol city, which is now supposedly becoming so safe. Think I'll turn on Fox for a few minutes before I go to bed. They're undoubtedly playing that great tape-loop they have of Marines handing out soccer balls and candy to Iraqi children. WTF.
We observed another 9/11 anniversary, which was more difficult for me than usual this year. Bin Laden is no longer on Chimpolean's radar, even though before the last round of elections, we were assured that U.S. Special Forces were only a few weeks behind him, then a few days, then possibly hours. To vote Democrat meant that the hunt for Bin Laden would somehow be derailed. You know the usual Republican bullshit...no matter how horrible things look, they'll be much worse with Democrats in office. Once again, the fear card was played just before an election, ultimately resulting in Chimpy's second term. After the winning of his second term, our illustrious leader's earpiece went on the fritz just long enough for him to mutter "I don't spend much time thinking about him (Bin Laden)."
I also don't need to watch MSNBC's real-time replay of their original 9/11 broadcasts. I know it makes a swell bumpersticker, but "We Must Never Forget" doesn't mean we need to wallow in the tragedy for 24 hours once a year. I couldn't forget 9/11 if I tried. I remember where I was, seeing those planes crash into the towers, seeing people jumping to their deaths rather than be burned alive....I remember it all, every hellish second of it. It's almost as if we're now celebrating it, as if it's some sort of cruel holiday. My wife happended to pass an icecream place on 9/11 that was serving "red, white & blueberry" as their flavor of the day. Jesus Christ, how twisted is that? Can I get that in a waffle cone? I don't need to be reminded to "Never Forget." That's a complete implausability.
The second major happening leading to my withdrawal, was the mock September progress report that was just layed on us. I don't think anyone, Liberal or Conservative, was surprised by what was (or wasn't) revealed. According to the White House, things are going swimmingly since "the surge." In fact, we''ll now be able to start sending troops home. Those of us interested enough to read the fine print, are aware that the reduction amounts to bringing us back to pre-surge troop levels. The term "fuzzy math" becomes particularly ironic at this point.
The surge was also supposed to allow Iraqi politicians some breathing room to finally get their puppet show of a government on it's feet. While Chimpy claims the surge to be a victory, it's whole original purpose remains unfulfilled. Things are better in Anbar, but that's not where the fucking capitol of the country is now, is it? It's absolutely ludicrous. Chimpolean shites on a paper plate, then goes on TV to convince the gomers that it's a piece of chocolate cake. "Ain't it dee-liscious?"His surprise visit to Iraq also curiously didn't include a trip to the capitol city, which is now supposedly becoming so safe. Think I'll turn on Fox for a few minutes before I go to bed. They're undoubtedly playing that great tape-loop they have of Marines handing out soccer balls and candy to Iraqi children. WTF.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Power To The People
Regardless of party affiliation, I think we can all agree on the neccessity of breaking our dependence on foreign oil. The alternatives are varied, ranging from solar to hydrogen to wind, etc.
For some reason, there are those who refuse to acknowledge the viability of the alternatives, particularly solar and wind. The rationale, across the board seems to be "Well, the sun doesn't always shine and the wind doesn't always blow." on the surface, this statement might seem like good old-fashioned horse-sense, but it's perpetuators know that, in truth, it doesn't hold water.
First of all, solar power units, as well as windmills, are capable of storing the energy that they generate. Solar panels, in fact, are capable of absorbing solar light and converting it into usable energy even on the cloudiest of days. I guess you have to ask why some people are so vehemently opposed to exploring it's value. Are they misinformed or simply looking out for interests that would rather undermine energy independence than promote it?
As for hydrogen, I'd be interested to hear a little more about how they'd prevent people from using it in bomb-making. Sure, someone could easily make a bomb out of conventional gasoline, but the actual volume and weight of gas makes it much less likely to be used in the large-scale way that hydrogen could be.
I also think that it's massively hypocritical of Bush, at this crisis stage of the game, to try to mandate the manufacture of hybrid vehicles and set impact-less, distant-future fuel standard requirements. This should have begun at the beginning of his first term. Hell, had this been set in motion during Clinton's first term, we'd already be independent of foreign oil. The next president would do well to make any future mandates more than just symbolic.
As world events have shown us in the last seven years, events that shape the future are controlled by those who have the means to execute their own visions, good and evil. It looks to me like energy independence won't truly be achieved until those that are able to achieve it are actually willing to do so.
For some reason, there are those who refuse to acknowledge the viability of the alternatives, particularly solar and wind. The rationale, across the board seems to be "Well, the sun doesn't always shine and the wind doesn't always blow." on the surface, this statement might seem like good old-fashioned horse-sense, but it's perpetuators know that, in truth, it doesn't hold water.
First of all, solar power units, as well as windmills, are capable of storing the energy that they generate. Solar panels, in fact, are capable of absorbing solar light and converting it into usable energy even on the cloudiest of days. I guess you have to ask why some people are so vehemently opposed to exploring it's value. Are they misinformed or simply looking out for interests that would rather undermine energy independence than promote it?
As for hydrogen, I'd be interested to hear a little more about how they'd prevent people from using it in bomb-making. Sure, someone could easily make a bomb out of conventional gasoline, but the actual volume and weight of gas makes it much less likely to be used in the large-scale way that hydrogen could be.
I also think that it's massively hypocritical of Bush, at this crisis stage of the game, to try to mandate the manufacture of hybrid vehicles and set impact-less, distant-future fuel standard requirements. This should have begun at the beginning of his first term. Hell, had this been set in motion during Clinton's first term, we'd already be independent of foreign oil. The next president would do well to make any future mandates more than just symbolic.
As world events have shown us in the last seven years, events that shape the future are controlled by those who have the means to execute their own visions, good and evil. It looks to me like energy independence won't truly be achieved until those that are able to achieve it are actually willing to do so.
A Brush With Greatness, V2.0 (Rosanne Cash)
In my early years as an amatuer songwriter, I often concocted elaborate schemes in order to get my songs to famous performers. One of my best-executed plans involved country singer Rosanne Cash, back in 1988.
Cash was on tour, promoting her "King's Record Shop" album. I was able to get two tickets, which wound up being in the first row of tables at The Vic Theater in Chicago. Usually, shows at The Vic were general admission, with the main floor being open. Occasionally, with acts that had older followings, though, they moved in tables and chairs.
At any rate, my plan was to demo a song I had written for her called "I Hold On." The day of her show, my friend Kleinfeld and I headed to my local studio, where I cut a simple demo of the song with only vocal and guitar. We mixed it and made a few cassette copies, leaving ample time to grab some dinner and get to the show.
Cash's show was phenominal. I paricularly remember how the spotlight that was on her sparkled in her eyes. As a young, lonely guy in my early twenties, I was crushin' pretty hard. Throughout the show, people walked up to hand her flowers, stuffed animals and other gifts. Some simply tossed them onstage, mid-performance. The latter was something I didn't want to attempt, for fear of breaking her concentration and/or being ejected from the premises.
So, I decided that I'd toss one of the cassettes onstage as the lights dimmed between songs. Thinking I had my timing right, I stood up at the next interval. Just as I tossed the cassette, the lights came up. In full brightness, myself, Kleinfeld, the entire Vic audience, Cash and her band, see a cassette come sailing out of the darkness to land squarely inbetween her legs. She smirks, picks it up and sets it on the amp behind her. The show continued without my being thrown out.
After the last encore, we headed outside, where I was determined to actually meet her face to face, so that I could present another copy of "I Hold On." I knew full well that a stagehand would be collecting everything the audience had given her, ultimately giving it all away to a local charity.
We walked around the perimeter of the theater, looking for the stage door. Luckily for us, there was only one door with any sort of activity going on near it, so we staked out our territory and waited. Some roadie poked his head out of the door and seeing us said, "She's not coming out here, she's going out the front." Yeah, right. Then why was there a big stretch limo parked out back? Ten minutes later, she emerged and headed towards the limo.
I walked up to her and said "Hi, I really enjoyed the show. I'm the guy that threw the tape." She kinda giggled, not seeming to mind that I was walking her to the limo. Oddly enough, the only security present was her then-husband Rodney Crowell, who was a few steps behind us. "I wrote this song that'd be perfect for you called "I Hold On."" I handed her another copy as she said, "Sure, I'll give it a listen." As she got into the limo, she turned and said "Thanks for coming to the show." What a sweet woman. Everything considered, as close as I got to her, I really deserved to be in a security guard's headlock at that point.
Rosanne Cash never did record my song, but she was thoughtful enough to send me an autographed photo a few weeks later. To this day, Kleinfeld remarks, "Man, I still can't believe how that plan of your's went off without a hitch." I can't either. My memories of that night, when I stole a few minutes of Rosanne Cash's time, will rank among the best moments of my life. Okay, so maybe I'm still crushin'.....but just a little.
Cash was on tour, promoting her "King's Record Shop" album. I was able to get two tickets, which wound up being in the first row of tables at The Vic Theater in Chicago. Usually, shows at The Vic were general admission, with the main floor being open. Occasionally, with acts that had older followings, though, they moved in tables and chairs.
At any rate, my plan was to demo a song I had written for her called "I Hold On." The day of her show, my friend Kleinfeld and I headed to my local studio, where I cut a simple demo of the song with only vocal and guitar. We mixed it and made a few cassette copies, leaving ample time to grab some dinner and get to the show.
Cash's show was phenominal. I paricularly remember how the spotlight that was on her sparkled in her eyes. As a young, lonely guy in my early twenties, I was crushin' pretty hard. Throughout the show, people walked up to hand her flowers, stuffed animals and other gifts. Some simply tossed them onstage, mid-performance. The latter was something I didn't want to attempt, for fear of breaking her concentration and/or being ejected from the premises.
So, I decided that I'd toss one of the cassettes onstage as the lights dimmed between songs. Thinking I had my timing right, I stood up at the next interval. Just as I tossed the cassette, the lights came up. In full brightness, myself, Kleinfeld, the entire Vic audience, Cash and her band, see a cassette come sailing out of the darkness to land squarely inbetween her legs. She smirks, picks it up and sets it on the amp behind her. The show continued without my being thrown out.
After the last encore, we headed outside, where I was determined to actually meet her face to face, so that I could present another copy of "I Hold On." I knew full well that a stagehand would be collecting everything the audience had given her, ultimately giving it all away to a local charity.
We walked around the perimeter of the theater, looking for the stage door. Luckily for us, there was only one door with any sort of activity going on near it, so we staked out our territory and waited. Some roadie poked his head out of the door and seeing us said, "She's not coming out here, she's going out the front." Yeah, right. Then why was there a big stretch limo parked out back? Ten minutes later, she emerged and headed towards the limo.
I walked up to her and said "Hi, I really enjoyed the show. I'm the guy that threw the tape." She kinda giggled, not seeming to mind that I was walking her to the limo. Oddly enough, the only security present was her then-husband Rodney Crowell, who was a few steps behind us. "I wrote this song that'd be perfect for you called "I Hold On."" I handed her another copy as she said, "Sure, I'll give it a listen." As she got into the limo, she turned and said "Thanks for coming to the show." What a sweet woman. Everything considered, as close as I got to her, I really deserved to be in a security guard's headlock at that point.
Rosanne Cash never did record my song, but she was thoughtful enough to send me an autographed photo a few weeks later. To this day, Kleinfeld remarks, "Man, I still can't believe how that plan of your's went off without a hitch." I can't either. My memories of that night, when I stole a few minutes of Rosanne Cash's time, will rank among the best moments of my life. Okay, so maybe I'm still crushin'.....but just a little.
Baggy Trousers
As the family was pulling out of the driveway on our way to a cookout, my wife noticed a high school age kid pedaling a motorcross bike down the sidewalk. While we're waiting for street traffic to clear, she sees that his jeans are hanging half-way off his ass, exposing his boxers (as is the current style).
Traffic being too heavy to pull out, we watch the kid as he pedals by, all the while standing upright. "He's gonna lose his drawers," says the Mrs., just as his jeans slide off his ass, completely revealing his boxers.
Traffic opens up and we drive by just as the kid's pantleg gets caught in the chain, causing one great big tangle of denim and bike chain. I would've loved to yell "It's called a belt....look into it!", but the sight of this loser taking one of the worst fashion trends ever and turning it into his own karmic embarrassment was reward enough. It's ever so hard to look cool when you're on one of the busiest streets in town, pantsed by your own idiocy.
Traffic being too heavy to pull out, we watch the kid as he pedals by, all the while standing upright. "He's gonna lose his drawers," says the Mrs., just as his jeans slide off his ass, completely revealing his boxers.
Traffic opens up and we drive by just as the kid's pantleg gets caught in the chain, causing one great big tangle of denim and bike chain. I would've loved to yell "It's called a belt....look into it!", but the sight of this loser taking one of the worst fashion trends ever and turning it into his own karmic embarrassment was reward enough. It's ever so hard to look cool when you're on one of the busiest streets in town, pantsed by your own idiocy.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Island
I've run across a few people in my days that were exceptionally horrible. Not just bitchy or vindictive on occasion, but truly evil to the very core. I've often imagined that there was an island that I could send all of these miscreants to, where they'd be forced to choke down their own medicine 24/7. The first person (and I'm being generous by calling him a person), was my boss at a horrible job I had for about a year in 1992.
I worked for a company that sold hardware by mail. I had to fill orders, working ten hours a day in a warehouse that wasn't air-conditioned in summer or heated in winter. The floor was concrete and absolute murder on my feet, which were already tore-up and bloody from wearing Herman Munster-style safety shoes. The work was back-breaking and demoralizing.
My boss was a guy from the Middle East who was the definitive officious prick. He was the kind of guy who always looked like he'd just got a haircut. Oh yeah, and he also ironed his jeans. Add to that his bushy mustache, hardhat and general hairiness, and he looked like the leader of the Iranian Village People.
This guy was your basic asshole, elevated to banishment to the island for one incredible incident. One day, I noticed that he was clearly not up to his usual caliber of evil. I asked one of the other supervisors, "What's up with him today?"
The supervisor went on to tell me that, not only was this guy's wife in the hospital with a brain tumor, but she was being operated on that very day. This guy's wife was going under the knife and he thought it was more important to be at work than by her bedside. It still stymies me to think about the shear lack of humanity. Clearly an asshole act that I've never seen equaled.
I worked for a company that sold hardware by mail. I had to fill orders, working ten hours a day in a warehouse that wasn't air-conditioned in summer or heated in winter. The floor was concrete and absolute murder on my feet, which were already tore-up and bloody from wearing Herman Munster-style safety shoes. The work was back-breaking and demoralizing.
My boss was a guy from the Middle East who was the definitive officious prick. He was the kind of guy who always looked like he'd just got a haircut. Oh yeah, and he also ironed his jeans. Add to that his bushy mustache, hardhat and general hairiness, and he looked like the leader of the Iranian Village People.
This guy was your basic asshole, elevated to banishment to the island for one incredible incident. One day, I noticed that he was clearly not up to his usual caliber of evil. I asked one of the other supervisors, "What's up with him today?"
The supervisor went on to tell me that, not only was this guy's wife in the hospital with a brain tumor, but she was being operated on that very day. This guy's wife was going under the knife and he thought it was more important to be at work than by her bedside. It still stymies me to think about the shear lack of humanity. Clearly an asshole act that I've never seen equaled.
Still Too Early.....
As the ridiculous presidential debates roll on, I'm still not able to pick a clear winner. For what it's worth, here are my current thoughts. I'm not considering any of the Republican candidates, because I'd really rather not have some idiot like Fred Thompson pick up where Bush left off, sending thousands to their deaths and shipping pallets of money half way around the world to a place that we've never even secured.
Hillary: Well, she may have a heap of understanding about all things presidential, but her inability to actually answer a question directly has me puzzled. She seems totally afraid to say much of anything. We KNOW she's a strong woman, so why hide the strength? She needs to do more than look handsome in a pantsuit.
Edwards: I liked Edwards as Kerry's running mate and even attended one of his rallys in lovely Racine, Wisconsin. The impression that I'm currently getting, though, is that he needs to turn down the smarmy, southern, car salesman thing that he's got going on. It makes me uncomfortable.
Obama: I believe what this guy says. He actually sounds like he's speaking his mind and not reciting talking points that made it past the focus groups. When people say that he doesn't have enough experience, I have to laugh. If ever there was a good reason to elect someone, that's it. We don't need another guy who's going to swing for the fence every at bat and strike out 9 times out of 10. We need a guy who sees the value in a good drag bunt, knowing he'll steal second and then make it to third on a wild pitch.
Biden: Joe's another seemingly honest talker, even taking the president to task in the Oval Office from time to time. I think he's a good guy who won't be noticed by enough people to make the final four. He's also one of the best "Hardball" guests ever.
Hillary: Well, she may have a heap of understanding about all things presidential, but her inability to actually answer a question directly has me puzzled. She seems totally afraid to say much of anything. We KNOW she's a strong woman, so why hide the strength? She needs to do more than look handsome in a pantsuit.
Edwards: I liked Edwards as Kerry's running mate and even attended one of his rallys in lovely Racine, Wisconsin. The impression that I'm currently getting, though, is that he needs to turn down the smarmy, southern, car salesman thing that he's got going on. It makes me uncomfortable.
Obama: I believe what this guy says. He actually sounds like he's speaking his mind and not reciting talking points that made it past the focus groups. When people say that he doesn't have enough experience, I have to laugh. If ever there was a good reason to elect someone, that's it. We don't need another guy who's going to swing for the fence every at bat and strike out 9 times out of 10. We need a guy who sees the value in a good drag bunt, knowing he'll steal second and then make it to third on a wild pitch.
Biden: Joe's another seemingly honest talker, even taking the president to task in the Oval Office from time to time. I think he's a good guy who won't be noticed by enough people to make the final four. He's also one of the best "Hardball" guests ever.
Happy Anniversary, Katrina!
Well, The Chimpster was at it again yesterday, the second anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Instead of rolling up his sleeves to aid in the clean-up, he was zipping around Louisiana doing photo-ops in places that have been re-built. He could've picked up a shovel for five minutes or actually delivered some of the financial aid that's been promised, but no, better to "WOW" a bunch of gradeschoolers with his enormous head.
Proclaiming that New Orleans and LA were "Coming Back!", the preznit again ignored those still in need in favor of bulking up the propaganda video that's assuredly running in a continuous loop on Fox News, as we speak.
Proclaiming that New Orleans and LA were "Coming Back!", the preznit again ignored those still in need in favor of bulking up the propaganda video that's assuredly running in a continuous loop on Fox News, as we speak.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Praise The Lord (or non-denominational icon of your choosing)!
Well, today looks like it's gonna be one great freakin' day. I opened my newspaper to find that Gal-berto Dishonezt is resigning, years too late, in my opinion. This piece of shite wiped his ass with the _______________ (insert name of sacred document) more times than I can count. Good riddance. Our only hope is that we don't get someone worse. Given the cowboy chimp's track record of appointments, though, '08 might not be all roses and chocolate either.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Drive-thru This
The wife sent me out earlier today to pick up some breakfast from a local fastfood place. The drive-thru was backed up, so I waited patiently and popped The Beatles' "Revolver" into my CD player. Looking at the line ahead of me, I notice the Nascar dad in front of the car in front of me. There's been a huge advancement in the line, but
Git-R-Done doesn't notice because he's reading the paper.
Because myself and the middle driver are willing to act like human beings, we give the guy a few minutes to notice what's going on before we move on to the polite "toot" honk. You know what Nascar dad does? He looks in his rearview mirror at us, looks forward to see the gap, then goes back to reading his paper. Eventually, the folks behind me get impatient and give their horns a few good blasts. Finally, Jethro relents and speeds up to the window, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. Stupid is as stupid does.
Git-R-Done doesn't notice because he's reading the paper.
Because myself and the middle driver are willing to act like human beings, we give the guy a few minutes to notice what's going on before we move on to the polite "toot" honk. You know what Nascar dad does? He looks in his rearview mirror at us, looks forward to see the gap, then goes back to reading his paper. Eventually, the folks behind me get impatient and give their horns a few good blasts. Finally, Jethro relents and speeds up to the window, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. Stupid is as stupid does.
Drawn And Quartered, Part 1
You might not know this about me, but there was a time back in the day that I was almost a syndicated cartoonist. That is to say, that my comic strip would've appeared in newspapers across the country. While I have found some success working as a newspaper columnist and contributing cartoonist, syndication has always been the brass ring that I could never quite get my hands on.
Back in the early '90's (remember, kids?), I had been working on an original comic strip that was about a young guy trying to figure things out. He lived with his mother, a woman who was oblivious to the fact that her advice often emotionally levelled her son, due to it's insulting nature. When he wasn't in school, the kid also had a series of dead-end jobs with horrible co-workers and bosses.
My work caught the attention of a comics editor at one of the big syndicates. He was quick to tell me how special I was to be getting his attention. He went on to say that there were only three major syndicates, though, at the time, there were at least a half dozen. He also told me that I was one person picked out of nearly 30,000 yearly submissions to recieve a development contract.
What's a development contract? Well, basically, it's comparable to the minor leagues in baseball. They throw just enough money at you to pay off a credit card or to buy a rusted out '83 Toyota Tercel. They also make you sign a contract which basically ties up your strip for one calendar year. If, after working with you on developing your strip for that year, they feel that you're ready to be syndicated nationally, they launch your strip. If that happens, kids, you could potentially be looking at a six-figure income within a couple short years. With each new newspaper that carries your strip, your paycheck gets a corresponding bump up by %50 of whatever the syndicate is making. Add on to that whatever might come in from merchandizing, and you can see how the income adds up quick.
So, I signed my contracts and prepared to give it my all, knowing this was probably my one real shot. I made every change my editor suggested, no matter how ludicrous.
Early on, I realized that no matter how hard I argued for my content not to be tampered with, my editor had some obscure reference or example to illustrate just how wrong I was in my opinion. I vowed to just keep my head down as the shrapnel whistled by my head. My eventual payday would more than make up for all the strife.
At the end of my development deal, after dodging my phonecalls for months, my editor finally fessed up and admitted that I was being released from my obligations. The strip hadn't matured enough, he said, and the market just wasn't right for launching a strip about Generation X's own Charlie Brown. Six months later, they launched a strip called "Zits," which is eerily similar to the strip I was doing. It turns out this whack-job of an editor would decide what kind of strip might sell. Then, he'd string a couple of guys like me along, pretending that he was cultivating our art. All the while, though, he was bastardizing the content to fit some stupid idea that he had in his own head. In the end, I hated what my strip had become. He had wrung all of the sarcasm out of my humor, drastically changed my characters and then brushed me off like a drop of coffee that had dripped on his stain-guarded Haggar slacks.
I wish I could have that year of my life back to do over. I'd cash that jackass's check and then send him a bunch of smudged ballpoint pen drawings on the back of Ho-Ho wrappers.
Back in the early '90's (remember, kids?), I had been working on an original comic strip that was about a young guy trying to figure things out. He lived with his mother, a woman who was oblivious to the fact that her advice often emotionally levelled her son, due to it's insulting nature. When he wasn't in school, the kid also had a series of dead-end jobs with horrible co-workers and bosses.
My work caught the attention of a comics editor at one of the big syndicates. He was quick to tell me how special I was to be getting his attention. He went on to say that there were only three major syndicates, though, at the time, there were at least a half dozen. He also told me that I was one person picked out of nearly 30,000 yearly submissions to recieve a development contract.
What's a development contract? Well, basically, it's comparable to the minor leagues in baseball. They throw just enough money at you to pay off a credit card or to buy a rusted out '83 Toyota Tercel. They also make you sign a contract which basically ties up your strip for one calendar year. If, after working with you on developing your strip for that year, they feel that you're ready to be syndicated nationally, they launch your strip. If that happens, kids, you could potentially be looking at a six-figure income within a couple short years. With each new newspaper that carries your strip, your paycheck gets a corresponding bump up by %50 of whatever the syndicate is making. Add on to that whatever might come in from merchandizing, and you can see how the income adds up quick.
So, I signed my contracts and prepared to give it my all, knowing this was probably my one real shot. I made every change my editor suggested, no matter how ludicrous.
Early on, I realized that no matter how hard I argued for my content not to be tampered with, my editor had some obscure reference or example to illustrate just how wrong I was in my opinion. I vowed to just keep my head down as the shrapnel whistled by my head. My eventual payday would more than make up for all the strife.
At the end of my development deal, after dodging my phonecalls for months, my editor finally fessed up and admitted that I was being released from my obligations. The strip hadn't matured enough, he said, and the market just wasn't right for launching a strip about Generation X's own Charlie Brown. Six months later, they launched a strip called "Zits," which is eerily similar to the strip I was doing. It turns out this whack-job of an editor would decide what kind of strip might sell. Then, he'd string a couple of guys like me along, pretending that he was cultivating our art. All the while, though, he was bastardizing the content to fit some stupid idea that he had in his own head. In the end, I hated what my strip had become. He had wrung all of the sarcasm out of my humor, drastically changed my characters and then brushed me off like a drop of coffee that had dripped on his stain-guarded Haggar slacks.
I wish I could have that year of my life back to do over. I'd cash that jackass's check and then send him a bunch of smudged ballpoint pen drawings on the back of Ho-Ho wrappers.
Kenosha Blues
One of the reasons I love living in Kenosha, Wisconsin is that during the summer, there's always something to do. Every thursday, the city puts on free concerts near the lake called "Peanut Butter & Jam." A couple of thursdays ago, the great Alligator recording artists Lil' Ed & The Blues Imperials brought their rockin' show to Kenosha.
My ten-year-old daughter was a little reluctant to go. I assured her that Lil' Ed wasn't the slow, mournful blues, but a party waiting to happen. It took only about five minutes of Lil Ed's powerhouse slide guitar antics before the kid was hooked. Hey, who wouldn't love to see a five-foot tall guy wearing a be-jeweled fez and playing a big red guitar that dwarfs him? It was like watching a kind of blues cartoon (in a good way).
Ed's show was so energectic and contagious, that during the 45-minute set, my daughter never once asked to go home or "Is this almost over?" She revelled in Ed's good-time atmosphere and seriously rocked out to the tunes. As for me, for a little while, I felt like maybe I wasn't such a bad dad after all.
My ten-year-old daughter was a little reluctant to go. I assured her that Lil' Ed wasn't the slow, mournful blues, but a party waiting to happen. It took only about five minutes of Lil Ed's powerhouse slide guitar antics before the kid was hooked. Hey, who wouldn't love to see a five-foot tall guy wearing a be-jeweled fez and playing a big red guitar that dwarfs him? It was like watching a kind of blues cartoon (in a good way).
Ed's show was so energectic and contagious, that during the 45-minute set, my daughter never once asked to go home or "Is this almost over?" She revelled in Ed's good-time atmosphere and seriously rocked out to the tunes. As for me, for a little while, I felt like maybe I wasn't such a bad dad after all.
Toxic People
I'm looking down the barrel of forty years old, and there's still so much about life that I struggle to figure out. There are a few major answers, however, that have revealed themselves in the past few years, one of them being the negative affect of toxic people.
My twin sister, the proverbial bad seed, who's lived the same forty years on Earth that I have, has always surrounded herself with a swirl of drama; being evicted from her tenth apartment, brushes with the law, lies, treachery, deceits too numerous to totally recount.
I realized, one day, after speaking with her on the phone, that my whole being had changed. My face was clenched in a harsh frown, my blood pressure was elevated and I literally felt sick to my stomach. One little phonecall from her and I was tied up in a knot of angst that had me feeling physically ill.
When I really looked at the sum total of our time spent together as brother and sister, I realized that any good times we'd had together were pre-Reagan era. For decades, I had allowed her to draw me into her swirl with confrontational bait. Enough was enough.
I vowed to stop taking the frantic phonecalls and reading the rambling letters dropped at my door. Life is far too short to be surrounded in such bullshit. I'd rather spend time playing with my kid or doing something else that actually makes me happy. Long-term exposure to toxic people like my sister can be a very stealthy thing. Some people might just brush it off and say "Oh, that's just how she is" or "I wish she would be a little nicer." As for me, the lesson that I've learned is that if you keep breathing the asbestos, sooner or later you're gonna get the cancer.
My twin sister, the proverbial bad seed, who's lived the same forty years on Earth that I have, has always surrounded herself with a swirl of drama; being evicted from her tenth apartment, brushes with the law, lies, treachery, deceits too numerous to totally recount.
I realized, one day, after speaking with her on the phone, that my whole being had changed. My face was clenched in a harsh frown, my blood pressure was elevated and I literally felt sick to my stomach. One little phonecall from her and I was tied up in a knot of angst that had me feeling physically ill.
When I really looked at the sum total of our time spent together as brother and sister, I realized that any good times we'd had together were pre-Reagan era. For decades, I had allowed her to draw me into her swirl with confrontational bait. Enough was enough.
I vowed to stop taking the frantic phonecalls and reading the rambling letters dropped at my door. Life is far too short to be surrounded in such bullshit. I'd rather spend time playing with my kid or doing something else that actually makes me happy. Long-term exposure to toxic people like my sister can be a very stealthy thing. Some people might just brush it off and say "Oh, that's just how she is" or "I wish she would be a little nicer." As for me, the lesson that I've learned is that if you keep breathing the asbestos, sooner or later you're gonna get the cancer.
The Left-hand Turn
What is it about the left turn that turns drivers into automotive retards? Sorry, bad choice of words. I apologize to the handicapped for comparing them to these idiots who can't seem to (as Queen Latifah might say) "get their turn on."
You've been behind them in the same lane, waiting for that magic little green arrow to appear. It makes us feel soooo wonderful, doesn't it? Love that little green arrow. It's like getting a green apple sucker when you're a kid, after your doctor just stuck you with a needle. It's a lovely little gift....except, that is, to the moron in front of you. Instead of yelling "YES!!", he's yawning. And, instead of stepping on the big pedal, he's doing about 5 MPH thru the intersection.
Oblivious to the fact that we all have places to get to, or that we're even there at all, this dipwad's pace means that at least three of us aren't getting thru the intersection. Isn't that thoughtful? You can ride this simp's bumper 'til the cows come home, but he's not going to notice. He's busy wondering if his disability check will arrive today or when the next season of "The Simpson's" will finally be out on DVD. I'm wondering how I always manage to be in the turn lane behind the guy in the 1986 Ford Tempo with plastic tarps where windows should be.
You've been behind them in the same lane, waiting for that magic little green arrow to appear. It makes us feel soooo wonderful, doesn't it? Love that little green arrow. It's like getting a green apple sucker when you're a kid, after your doctor just stuck you with a needle. It's a lovely little gift....except, that is, to the moron in front of you. Instead of yelling "YES!!", he's yawning. And, instead of stepping on the big pedal, he's doing about 5 MPH thru the intersection.
Oblivious to the fact that we all have places to get to, or that we're even there at all, this dipwad's pace means that at least three of us aren't getting thru the intersection. Isn't that thoughtful? You can ride this simp's bumper 'til the cows come home, but he's not going to notice. He's busy wondering if his disability check will arrive today or when the next season of "The Simpson's" will finally be out on DVD. I'm wondering how I always manage to be in the turn lane behind the guy in the 1986 Ford Tempo with plastic tarps where windows should be.
A Brush With Greatness, V1.0
Back in high school, I had a summer job as a starter at the public golf course in Waukegan, Illinois. While Waukegan was once a nice place to grow up in, it's now a crime-ridden haven for cash loan and cellphone stores. But, that's another post. We're here today to talk about celebs. Somehow or another, I've managed to run across quite a few in my time.
I remember working a charity tourney one weekend, which featured several prominant Chicago Bears. The only Bear that I clearly recall, though, is one Noah Jackson. Weighing in at roughly 400 pounds, this no-neck had his quadruple X, yellow Izod (It was 1984!) bursting at the seams.
I mention Mr. Jackson, not because of his exploits on the field, but for the way he was challenging the snackshop staff to keep up with his vacuum-like eating style. He ordered one cheese-burger (fries would only slow him down) and began chomping it down T-Rex style. Mid-bite, he ordered another. Just as he was throwing back the last drops of his beverage, number two arrived. This time, the follow-up was ordered immediately. Numbers three and four soon arrived, only to meet the same fate as the first two. Wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, he grunted "I'll be back," and headed out to the back nine. Impressive.
Every year when I see the hotdog eating contest from Coney Island, I think about Jackson and his superior eating ability. I can't remember any of his accomplishments on the field, but I'm certain that I'll never forget the sight of him laying waste to four pounds of rare hamburger in about fifteen minutes.
I remember working a charity tourney one weekend, which featured several prominant Chicago Bears. The only Bear that I clearly recall, though, is one Noah Jackson. Weighing in at roughly 400 pounds, this no-neck had his quadruple X, yellow Izod (It was 1984!) bursting at the seams.
I mention Mr. Jackson, not because of his exploits on the field, but for the way he was challenging the snackshop staff to keep up with his vacuum-like eating style. He ordered one cheese-burger (fries would only slow him down) and began chomping it down T-Rex style. Mid-bite, he ordered another. Just as he was throwing back the last drops of his beverage, number two arrived. This time, the follow-up was ordered immediately. Numbers three and four soon arrived, only to meet the same fate as the first two. Wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, he grunted "I'll be back," and headed out to the back nine. Impressive.
Every year when I see the hotdog eating contest from Coney Island, I think about Jackson and his superior eating ability. I can't remember any of his accomplishments on the field, but I'm certain that I'll never forget the sight of him laying waste to four pounds of rare hamburger in about fifteen minutes.
A Brief Introduction
The other morning I finally decided to get off my duff and start this thing. I awoke after my wife, who was uninterested in hearing about what I'd dreamt about the previous night. "See? This is why I need a blog." I guess maybe after fourteen years of recurring dreams about tornadoes, attack dogs and lockers that won't open, she'd had enough. Who can blame her, really? I'm such a child sometimes..
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