I suppose that this holiday leaves most fathers feeling appreciated. Our kids proudly present us with homemade cards or greatest-dad-ever t-shirts and breakfast in bed. We're given a much-needed day of rest, with nothing being asked of us all day long.
My daughter is fifteen now, but when she was much younger, I spent a lot of my time worrying about whether I was really a good father or not. I eventually was able to arrive at a place where I could recognize the areas in which I excelled, and forgive myself for the areas in which I came up short. This is a pretty good place to be. I usually ask myself "Would my dad have done blank for me?" If my answer is "no," and I'm doing whatever the blank is, than I can at least take comfort in the knowledge that I've gone beyond the average requirement. I'm doing the best that I can 90% of the time, for crying out loud, if I can't excuse myself a lousy 10%, than I must not be human. If my major league batting average was .900, I'd be hailed as the greatest hitter of all time. Give yourselves a break, fellow fathers, it's the most liberating thing you can do.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Getting My Ducks Lined Up
Last year, I subscribed to a songwriting service called "Taxi." Basically, it's a company made up of former record label and publishing executives that brokers songs written by it's members. Taxi's customers are artists, record labels, music publishers and music supervisors for TV shows and movies. In a nutshell, anybody who's not a songwriter, but needs a song.
I had been a member many years ago, but never really seemed to get any positive feedback. It seemed that no matter what the particular criteria they were looking to be met was, I was failing miserably at it. In the end, I began to think that maybe it was all just a big come-on, designed to get the $200 yearly membership fee out of me.
Although I had pretty much written Taxi off as a viable way of weaseling myself into the music industry, I would still occasionally get mailings from them, with stories of their members' success. This guy licensed three songs to a TV show, that girl got her song covered by a well-known country artist. Each story was more tantalizing than the last. Once more, I started to let myself dream of an established artist including one of my songs on their million-selling album, the way that a lottery ticket holder spends their pre-drawing time imagining what they'll do with their jackpot, should they win. The standard royalty that goes to the songwriter is roughly $.09, making placement on a million-selling album a $90,000 payday. For me, a life-changing amount of money.
Last year, I figured I'd take another shot at it. I also decided that I'd make a concerted effort to view Taxi's want ads as assignments, as if I was a Brill Building songwriter in the early 1960's. My first few submissions were not forwarded on to clients, but I was getting some great feedback from the Taxi screeners about how well my songs were structured and recorded. Eventually, my song "Call On Me" was forwarded to a publisher. Although they eventually turned it down, I felt as though I'd jumped a major hurdle. Maybe this was going to work after all.
During the course of the year, I had six songs forwarded to record labels and publishers. Though none produced any contracts or five-figure royalty checks, I was encouraged by my nominal success rate of 17% (percentage of songs being forwarded to clients). Being that my previous year with Taxi had yielded a 0% success rate, I was feeling pretty good about what a possible round three might eventually produce. This third try, however, would require me to do a little more groundwork, if I was going to gain further traction.
Several months ago, I began recording a small batch of songs which I thought would be good to have at the ready; two country/pop songs (lots of country artists rely on outside writers), two Christmas songs (not many good new ones out there) and two songs that sound like they're from the 1980's (music supervisors are ALWAYS looking for these). I've made some pretty good headway on the recordings, and I've even decided to bring in outside singers to help me with the quality and overall feel of the vocals. I know a lot of talented singers and if they can make my song sound better, I'm going to use them to help me sell it. I should be done in a couple of weeks, and then I'll join Taxi again and see if my strategy works. I'm optimistic.
I had been a member many years ago, but never really seemed to get any positive feedback. It seemed that no matter what the particular criteria they were looking to be met was, I was failing miserably at it. In the end, I began to think that maybe it was all just a big come-on, designed to get the $200 yearly membership fee out of me.
Although I had pretty much written Taxi off as a viable way of weaseling myself into the music industry, I would still occasionally get mailings from them, with stories of their members' success. This guy licensed three songs to a TV show, that girl got her song covered by a well-known country artist. Each story was more tantalizing than the last. Once more, I started to let myself dream of an established artist including one of my songs on their million-selling album, the way that a lottery ticket holder spends their pre-drawing time imagining what they'll do with their jackpot, should they win. The standard royalty that goes to the songwriter is roughly $.09, making placement on a million-selling album a $90,000 payday. For me, a life-changing amount of money.
Last year, I figured I'd take another shot at it. I also decided that I'd make a concerted effort to view Taxi's want ads as assignments, as if I was a Brill Building songwriter in the early 1960's. My first few submissions were not forwarded on to clients, but I was getting some great feedback from the Taxi screeners about how well my songs were structured and recorded. Eventually, my song "Call On Me" was forwarded to a publisher. Although they eventually turned it down, I felt as though I'd jumped a major hurdle. Maybe this was going to work after all.
During the course of the year, I had six songs forwarded to record labels and publishers. Though none produced any contracts or five-figure royalty checks, I was encouraged by my nominal success rate of 17% (percentage of songs being forwarded to clients). Being that my previous year with Taxi had yielded a 0% success rate, I was feeling pretty good about what a possible round three might eventually produce. This third try, however, would require me to do a little more groundwork, if I was going to gain further traction.
Several months ago, I began recording a small batch of songs which I thought would be good to have at the ready; two country/pop songs (lots of country artists rely on outside writers), two Christmas songs (not many good new ones out there) and two songs that sound like they're from the 1980's (music supervisors are ALWAYS looking for these). I've made some pretty good headway on the recordings, and I've even decided to bring in outside singers to help me with the quality and overall feel of the vocals. I know a lot of talented singers and if they can make my song sound better, I'm going to use them to help me sell it. I should be done in a couple of weeks, and then I'll join Taxi again and see if my strategy works. I'm optimistic.
My Skeleton Hurts...
Spent a goodly portion of the day tending to a small project in the yard with the wife. It was more physical labor than I'm used to doing these days, and my 45-year-old body is screaming at me. Still, it was a beautiful sunny day here in Wisconsin and, dare I say, I had a good time. We don't get to spend so much time together these days, and we had a bunch of good laughs. I think it helps that we took the "perfect yard" pressure off of ourselves and decided to just focus on getting the front yard in shape this spring/summer. If we get more done, great. If not, we're not gonna sweat it. There's grillin' that needs to happen.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Fountains of Wayne
The band Fountains of Wayne is just about the best thing going right now, FYI. If you're gonna argue the point, you're just an asshole that's lookin' to argue.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Nit-picking
The best thing about having home recording equipment is that, instead of paying a professional studio $50 an hour, you can record without sweating the budget clock. It's also the WORST part. With unlimited access, you can find yourself in the horrific position of re-doing parts and tweaking until you're pulling your eyebrows out.
In a previous post, I mentioned that I have a song that's coming out on a charity compilation CD, to benefit our local school system's music programs. I'm very happy about being a part of this, as it's very likely that more instruments will find their way into the hands of kids who are desperately in need of a creative outlet, because of extra funds raised by the CD. I remember when I got my first guitar, and the hours I'd spend trying to learn songs off of records. This was a great escape from the drama of the high school years. It annoyed the hell out of my family, who'd bang on my bedroom door and say, "How many times do you have to play that same song?"
At any rate, I turned in my song to the producers of the CD, though I wasn't 100% sure I was happy with it. I had previously recorded it in a higher key, but felt like my voice was straining a bit, so I lowered it a full step, from E Major to D Major. Now, after officially submitting it, and being beyond the point of no return, I took another listen to the original version in E. Turns out I was wrong, it sounded just fine. In fact, it sounded better than what I turned in. I second-guessed myself right into putting my club foot forward. What an idiot I am sometimes.
The good news, though, is that I haven't sent this inferior version, along with a Marshall Crenshaw cover, to be manufactured as a single yet. It'll be easy enough to swap in the better recording, making for a much-more impressive teaser to my forth-coming album, "Wake Up To Music." I've got the instrumental tracks for another ten songs done, I just have to find the time to get my singing voice in tip-top studio shape.
In a previous post, I mentioned that I have a song that's coming out on a charity compilation CD, to benefit our local school system's music programs. I'm very happy about being a part of this, as it's very likely that more instruments will find their way into the hands of kids who are desperately in need of a creative outlet, because of extra funds raised by the CD. I remember when I got my first guitar, and the hours I'd spend trying to learn songs off of records. This was a great escape from the drama of the high school years. It annoyed the hell out of my family, who'd bang on my bedroom door and say, "How many times do you have to play that same song?"
At any rate, I turned in my song to the producers of the CD, though I wasn't 100% sure I was happy with it. I had previously recorded it in a higher key, but felt like my voice was straining a bit, so I lowered it a full step, from E Major to D Major. Now, after officially submitting it, and being beyond the point of no return, I took another listen to the original version in E. Turns out I was wrong, it sounded just fine. In fact, it sounded better than what I turned in. I second-guessed myself right into putting my club foot forward. What an idiot I am sometimes.
The good news, though, is that I haven't sent this inferior version, along with a Marshall Crenshaw cover, to be manufactured as a single yet. It'll be easy enough to swap in the better recording, making for a much-more impressive teaser to my forth-coming album, "Wake Up To Music." I've got the instrumental tracks for another ten songs done, I just have to find the time to get my singing voice in tip-top studio shape.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
New Possibilities
It's early on a quiet Saturday morning. In a little while, I'm going to a meeting about getting one of my original songs on a compilation CD to benefit music programs in our school district. And, as excited as I am to be part of this worthwhile cause, I'm even more excited about finally putting something tangible out there, instead of defaulting to my usual "I'm too busy to record now, I have to mow the lawn" position.
I realized something awhile back about all creative endeavors. If you quit trying or are endlessly putting things off, you're guaranteed not to succeed. I don't mean to get all Deepak Chopra on you, but it's the truth. As an artist, there's nothing more exciting and fulfilling than actually having an iron in the fire, no matter how much of a long-shot it is. It's SOMETHING. It's an EFFORT. It's a DREAM IN THE EARLY STAGES OF FRUITION!
I've been a musician and a songwriter now for nearly thirty years. Some people look at me and think "Oh, that's sad, he never really made it, did he?" I think it all depends on what your definition of "making it" is. I've achieved things in music that millions of other aspiring musicians never have. Likewise, there are those who've gone further than me. That doesn't mean that I'm going to quit doing what I love, based on someone else's criteria, it fills me with excitement thinking of what might be.
Huey Lewis was much older than the average pop star when he finally hit it big in the '80's. Actor John Mulroney was a local Chicago actor until he was in his 60's and found the role of a lifetime on "Frasier." If either of these guys had quit after ten or fifteen years of pursuing their dream, just think of the creative loss to all of us.
So, as I sit here typing, on the cusp of my 45th birthday, I'm still as excited as I was when I was fourteen and got my first acoustic guitar at a neighbor's garage sale. Oh, the possibilities!
I realized something awhile back about all creative endeavors. If you quit trying or are endlessly putting things off, you're guaranteed not to succeed. I don't mean to get all Deepak Chopra on you, but it's the truth. As an artist, there's nothing more exciting and fulfilling than actually having an iron in the fire, no matter how much of a long-shot it is. It's SOMETHING. It's an EFFORT. It's a DREAM IN THE EARLY STAGES OF FRUITION!
I've been a musician and a songwriter now for nearly thirty years. Some people look at me and think "Oh, that's sad, he never really made it, did he?" I think it all depends on what your definition of "making it" is. I've achieved things in music that millions of other aspiring musicians never have. Likewise, there are those who've gone further than me. That doesn't mean that I'm going to quit doing what I love, based on someone else's criteria, it fills me with excitement thinking of what might be.
Huey Lewis was much older than the average pop star when he finally hit it big in the '80's. Actor John Mulroney was a local Chicago actor until he was in his 60's and found the role of a lifetime on "Frasier." If either of these guys had quit after ten or fifteen years of pursuing their dream, just think of the creative loss to all of us.
So, as I sit here typing, on the cusp of my 45th birthday, I'm still as excited as I was when I was fourteen and got my first acoustic guitar at a neighbor's garage sale. Oh, the possibilities!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Back From The Dead!!!
A friend of mine recently started a blog. It's really good, and well worth giving a looksy....www.garykunich.blogspot.com. It's reminded me that roughly five years ago, I had one going myself, which I had completely abandoned. As I read through my old posts, I had to swat the memories away like so many bees buzzin' 'round my extra-large head (size 7 & 5/8, for those of you scoring at home). What a time capsule it was; lots of angry, anti-Bush tirades and stories about being annoyed by people in general. I'm in a slightly different place now, so I figured I'd take another shot at waxing Miyagi's car collection. I hadn't even finished typing that last sentence, before I realized how dirty it sounded. Maybe this is a bad idea.
My wife has also been putting together some ideas for her own blog, which, from what I've seen, looks to be a really worthwhile collection of stories and inspirational quotes. She's had some health issues crop up in the past few years, and I think she wants to make her blog a place where people with similar problems can go to get in out of the rain. I'm glad she's doing it. She's a very creative person who doesn't get much opportunity to be creative. I'm proud of her.
Lastly, the idea of blogging again has really appealed to my current sense of legacy. I'd love to know what my Dad or my Grandfather were thinking as they made their way through life. Someday, I'll tell my daughter about this online journal, so that she can get a sideways peek into her own family history. It's a little more personal than if a third person was recollecting what I was like. As for me, even just writing this "Hey! Remember me?" post has left me feeling more positive and calm. Onward.
My wife has also been putting together some ideas for her own blog, which, from what I've seen, looks to be a really worthwhile collection of stories and inspirational quotes. She's had some health issues crop up in the past few years, and I think she wants to make her blog a place where people with similar problems can go to get in out of the rain. I'm glad she's doing it. She's a very creative person who doesn't get much opportunity to be creative. I'm proud of her.
Lastly, the idea of blogging again has really appealed to my current sense of legacy. I'd love to know what my Dad or my Grandfather were thinking as they made their way through life. Someday, I'll tell my daughter about this online journal, so that she can get a sideways peek into her own family history. It's a little more personal than if a third person was recollecting what I was like. As for me, even just writing this "Hey! Remember me?" post has left me feeling more positive and calm. Onward.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
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.
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.
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.
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