August 31st, 2007
Let
my people go...
What? Blog posts at 11pm the night before
Michigan's opener when you don't have the Siddhartha? Yup, tbaggervance.com
is proud to announce the return of Moses to the promised land. My dad,
the Moeman, King Shit of Fuck Mountain© when it comes to the maize
and blue football program, is in town to watch the dismantling of Appalachian
State. I could go for hours about Moe. If there's a better example of
the wisdom that comes with age I don't know it. Someday I hope to balance
the passion and sensibility about our Wolverines the way he does. There's
alot of ways I could say that I've made more of my life than my dad
has, but not in anyway that truly matters. I had a roommate in college
that attributed his friendliness to the fact that he thought that there
was something to learn from everyone he met. I still haven't gotten
round to that way of thinking, but I do believe that the Moeman could
teach everyone something. About class. About priorities. About knowing
what's right and following that up with your actions. And there's probably
nothing more important than those lessons. So here's to you Moses. Let's
hope those Wolverines carry the day.
And for those of you that care for such
things, there's baby pictures of our youngest up at mgovan.com.
Go Blue...
Posted 11:01pm
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August 30th, 2007
5
innocuous things that are making me happy in and around the present moment.
Its
late August. The students are returning to campus, making the bars more
crowded, parking spots more scarce, and the chance of me hitting a drunk,
stumbling co-ed on the way home from the bar all the more likely. Here
is what I'm concentrating on to offset that lamentable circumstance:
- Of course everything in my life is secondary
to college football at this point, and any piece of information I can
scrounge up feeds my addiction. But this, oh this, is like a blow job
on Christmas morning right before you open your presents. Of course
I hate tOSU coach Jim Tressel. He wears sweatervests and looks like
a pedophile. One of my favorite t-shirts that I own is the one that
says 'Tressel drinks wine coolers', because it has both the comedy of
a ridiculous premise, and the likelihood of being true. These accusations
are buoyed
by this article, which proves beyond the shadow of a doubt, that
he is a Celine Dion fan. Oh happy day.
- I don't get too worked up over fall TV
anymore. I miss certain shows, but anymore it often feels like an obligation
keeping me from more productive things, rather than pure entertainment.
One obvious exception is NBC's The Office. I won't waste my breath
extolling the virtues of this show, you're either on board at this point
or are more than one standard deviation below average on the IQ chart.
For the mentally proficient among you, here is a
3 minute + promo telling you what everyone's been up to on summer
vacation. 'I don't remember much about Scranton. I think I dated a black
girl...' Can't wait.
- A girl on stage in a band can go from
a 5 to an 8 faster than you can say beer goggles. And taking the inverse,
the music played by these sexy beasts becomes infinitely more palatable
than if they were dudes. Both of these facts are exponentially true
for a music snob such as myself. Which is why Candie
Payne and The
Pipettes get me all worked up. I can only imagine the boner inducing
bonanza their live shows must be.
- Nothing is funnier than a hypocrite getting
caught in the act. Its even funnier when its a public figure. And it
boarders on head-exploding giggling when its a conservative Senator
and it involves gay sex. For those of you following the trials and tribulations
of Larry Craig and want all your questions about the mysterious underworld
of bathroom sex explained, have
I got an article for you.
- We're less than 46 hours from Michigan's
kickoff, and to say I'm bursting at the seams is an understatement.
This despite the fact that our game is a functional DNP against a IAA
foe. I usually have some kind of empathy for these lesser teams, having
to trod out on the field only to be eviscerated by superior athletes.
Apparently, Appalachian
State isn't scared. Oh how I wish Woodley were still around to teach
these guys what happens when you talk about fight club...
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August 28th, 2007
The
softening of America.
Admit it - you are never going to be as
tough as your parents. As a kid, you just intuit
this - as being an actual adult - much less one that is responsible
for your own well-being, is an unfathomable concept. As you get older
you begin to get regaled with stories of 'back in my day' coupled with
a lot of criticism of 'kids today'. This something most kids usually
slough off until you eventually start having those thoughts yourself,
and thusly wonder if your parents weren't right all along.
And while yes, old people exaggerate and
just because a younger generation's circumstances aren't as rough as
the previous one's doesn't mean they wouldn't be equal to the task,
we are much, much softer. My grandparents didn't have indoor plumbing.
My parents grew up when television and air travel weren't commonplace.
I didn't have the internet or cell phones until I was an actual adult.
God knows what the Buddha will be able to say in twenty years.
But you can't stop technology and progress;
nor should we. I'm not about to eschew indoor plumbing because walking
out in the snow to take a shit makes you more hearty. Nor am I going
to stop sending emails because a hand written letter is somehow more
thought-out and personal. But there is a softening, and if you'll excuse
my french, a pussification of America happening. And this, ladies and
gentlemen, is exhibit 1A:

I am cooler than the generation that postcedes
me because in my day, we held our lighters aloft during concerts when
the power ballads came on. Not our fucking cell phones. I don't care
if it costs me a lung and ten years off the end of my life, the above
is gay. Do these people think they are being cool? Or ironic? They are
neither. My grandfather would punch these people in the face for their
behavior. Me, I stand in the back making snarky comments and then write
about it in my blog. I guess that pretty well illustrates that the downward
spiral is inevitable.
Posted 3:22pm
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August 27th, 2007
You
are an obsession. You're my obsession.
ob·ses·sion n.- A compulsive, often
unreasonable idea or emotion.
When
last we spoke I was pontificating upon my somewhat irrational fixation
with football and more specifically, college football as played by the
University of Michigan. As such, its less than 5 full days until the
kickoff of the 2007 campaign, and my brain is mush. Productivity, both
personal and professional, has come to a screeching halt. This is extremely
exacerbated by the developments going on over at our sister site, mgovan.com.
But anyway, when brain occasionally drifts from thoughts of Mike Hart
and Chad Henne, there a few other obsessions occupying my world at the
moment. These are those:
- Tokyo
Police Club - I first heard this band months ago on the radio
and immediately took a shine to them. I got their debut EP, gave it
a few spins and forgot about it. If someone were to ask, I might go
as far as to say 'I love the Tokyo Police Club.' Well through hap and
circumstance, I put them on the other night and now I am in a state
of full blown infatuation. Try and deny their deft juxtaposition of
avant garde and pop. I dare you.
- Straight
Man
by Richard Russo - I can't remember where I got the recommendation
to pick up this tome, but I owe them a beer. To paraphrase the blurb
on the cover, its the funniest serious book I've read since A Confederacy
of Dunces. And that's saying something. Part of it may be that I
envision the book's lead character to be some version of myself in 20
years. Which should scare the shit out some of you.
- Flight
of the Conchords - I mentioned this HBO music/comedy show a
few months back when it first premiered. I liked it, and then grew somewhat
tepid on it after I began to doubt its ability to sustain itself. I
wholeheartedly admit that my doubts are now unfounded. This is the best
new thing on TV I've seen in quite some time and I plan on spending
the rest of my life watching the shit out of the DVDs when they come
out.
That's it for now. Time to go back to breaking
down game film from last year and listening to Animotion. Nope, not
at all kidding (well, about the game film part).
Posted 3:03pm
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August 24th, 2007
Last
call for free time
Its
shots and carryout only for yours truly, as this weekend marks the last
time that my life will exist for several months without the omnipresent
thought of football. As of Sunday at 4 o'clock, the start time for my
first fantasy draft, there won't be an hour that passes me by in which
I don't spend an inordinate amount of time thinking, talking, watching,
reading and dreaming about football. Whether its my fantasy teams, my
many gambling endeavors, or the big daddy of them all, Michigan Football,
intellectual pursuits will take a backseat so I can obsess over the
minutia of these seemingly trivial matters.
Its the same every year. August brings
preseason college rankings and the publishing of fantasy football magazines.
My friends and I start to spend more and more time speculating on the
viability of such and such a running back, or the prospect of who will
be starting at right guard for the Wolverines. And it snowballs from
there. Before you know it my season tickets show up in the mailbox,
I begin to scour the internet for fantasy info, and saddest of all,
I start to watch game film from last year's season. Call it obsessive,
call it pathetic - come Monday morning I'll wake up more excited than
a kid starting winter break anticipating his Christmas morning booty.
And by Friday I won't be able to sit still.
Michigan's first game (Saturday) is an exercise in futility for its
opponent. Its a designed can't lose for the Wolverines. That doesn't
change my longing to get to the tailgate Saturday morning, to watch
Chad Henne take the first snap, and to high five everyone in my row
when we score for the first time in 2007. Its a tad ridiculous, to hang
one's emotional well-being on the fortunes of a bunch of college kids
playing a game, but I'm past the point of no return on this. And I wouldn't
have it any other way. Ayesha once said that were we ever to get married,
she would plan the wedding during a home Michigan Football game, so
she could finally know where my allegiance lay. God help me if any woman
actually makes good on that threat.
Posted 3:53pm
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August 23rd, 2007
The
good, the bad, and the ugly: random shit from around the internets edition.
So, yeah, I've been sick. When I'm sick
I lay around the house watching TV, reading books and getting fat. So
not a whole hell of a lot happens to me worth mentioning. As such, please
enjoy these things of note from around the internet:
The Good:
- The
first of the super babies hath arrived! Tom Brady's first born,
and eventual leader of the army of superbabies he's obviously breeding
to bring us multiple national championships, is here. Thankfully, its
a boy, thus eliminating the awkwardness of having to be the first Division
IA team quarterbacked by a girl. The Vegas odds on U of M winning the
2027 National Championship have just gone to even.
- Don't
tell the South he's black. Political man crush Barack Obama made
an appearance on The Daily Show last night. I'm in the odd position
of agreeing most politically with the guy I'd also most like to have
a beer with. It's not awkward bad, but I've told to many people over
the last 6-7 years that wanting to have a beer with someone has no bearing
on whether or not he should be president. I'm just sayin'...
The Bad:
- Who
greenlit Armageddon 2? Its obvious to those of us paying attention
that Hollywood has been bereft of ideas for some time now. Couple that
America's penchant for swallowing whole the things that look similar
to that which they've seen before, and you end up with movie ideas obviously
conceived by a fucked up boo butt©. I'm talking about Lost Boys
2 and even more egregious, Ferris
Bueller 2: Another Day Off. I'm not kidding.
- Don't
make us beg you to go away. This could be filed under 'who gives
a shit?' but apparently Axl W. Rose is providing vocals to Sebastian
Bach's new solo album. I actually kind of like Sebastian's cartoon-y
shtick, but musically guys, its over. Stop embarrassing all of us for
ever thinking you were cool.
The Ugly:
- The
two worst three letter acronyms known to man. There's two perils
to risky behavior that most people with certain proclivities subject
themselves to and eventually end up with one or the other. I'm of course
speaking of DUIs and STDs. According to rumor, Jessica Alba got the
herp from Derek Jeter. This surprisingly does nothing to lessen my crush
for Ms. Alba nor my respect for Mr. Jeter (despite him being a Yankee).
Its just funny is all. Oh yeah, and ugly.
- My
wikipedia page says I have 18 inches of swinging death. Finally
in the 'no shit' department, it appears corporations are changing their
Wikipedia pages to make themselves look better. I wondered why I wasn't
losing weight on that all Arby's diet.
Posted 2:11pm
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August 22nd, 2007
Lather.
Rinse. Repeat.
As a music snob, I have more music than
I could ever possibly listen to. Well that's not totally true, as my
iTunes is telling me that I could get through my entire current collection
in 38 days. But even I don't have that much free time on my hands. Now
some of this polysaturation of music is by design. You're right to think
that I will probably never have an urge to listen to Harvey Danger's
Little by Little again, nor do I need more than 3 to 4 songs off
of the Kenny Rogers Definitive Collection box set, but that doesn't
stop me from feeling that I do. There's something in my makeup that
drives me to be a collector, and some aspect of my personality requires
me to be a completist. This leads me to track down obscure EPs of Ben
Gibbard's high school bands and download a 2 disc collection of Joe
Walsh's Greatest Hits, even though I already have a James Gang
Best of and I only like about 4 of Joe's solo songs. I guess
to some that's more than a little sad.
But as per a discussion I recently had
with Ayesha and the Jesuses, music snobs listen to music differently
than casual fans. Now I'm not here to make some pompous argument about
how I 'get' music more than you, casual listener and dear blog reader.
But I do think that while most people listen to the same thing over
and over again, music snobs are in constant search of something new
to listen to. Let's break this down into what I call the three levels
of the music consumer:
Level One: Arrested Development
Listeners at level one stop actively consuming new music somewhere between
the ages of 18-22. Their favorite stuff is what they were listening
to in high school or college. The last album they bought was either
a greatest hits compilation or a 'comeback' album by Boston, Def Leppard
or Metallica. Once in a while they will hear a song on the radio by
accident that they like and go out and buy the album. They will then
proceed to listen to that one song over and over.
Level Two: Laissez Faire
Level Two listeners share a commonality with those in level one as their
favorite stuff was also produced during their hay-day of drinking and
partying, albeit their tastes are usually a tad more esoteric. They
used to go looking for new stuff, but the ravages of time and responsibility
have left them to rely on there music snob friends to keep them up to
date. It gets harder as you grow older to find new music that fits into
your wheelhouse, and these people would love to do that, they just,
for myriad reasons, don't.
Level Three: 'Did you hear about the
new Art Brut/Hold Steady split 7 inch?'
Yeah, the music snobs. The people who care too much for their own good.
The people who hear an album once and overreact one way or the other
by saying it sucks 2 songs in or declaring it a classic by the first
track's chorus. The people who, when asked by the Arrested Development
people what they are listening to, raise an eyebrow and answer politely
knowing the ADs won't recognize one name. When the LF's ask, they speak
slowly, because they know the LFs will try to remember everything, hoping
to mine one new artist that they can listen to that's not a waste of
their time.
As a member of level 3, I'm proud to provide
albums for people's iPods and recommend an artist someone's never heard
of when they say things that make me cringe like 'I really like Coldplay,
what else should I listen to?' But the original argument that kicked
this thing off was being posed the question 'You don't listen to songs
on repeat?' And the truth is, I don't have the time, or the inclination.
There's too much stuff out there that I'll never have time to even get
to. That doesn't stop me from listening to the White Album enough
to have it burned into my brain, but you're not going to find me listening
to Amy Winehouse's new album twice in a row, much less the single 'Rehab'
on repeat. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Posted 3:49pm
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August 20th, 2007
Today's
sign of the apocalypse...
...or how I am an old fucking man. Perpetual
feeder into our worst fears and wants, USA Today, has an article entitled
'Backpacks:
A new badge of cool.'
Now I'm not old enough to have forgotten that by the time you get to
high school most of the decisions you make about your person are scrutinized
by every one of your peers. Fair enough, I remember begging my mom for
certain brand names clothes with the utmost futility. And maybe its
that fact, coupled with the relative podunk-iness of my upbringing,
that leads me to believe this, but who gives fucking two shits how much
your backpack costs? This is completely fucking generated by industry
and fed into by shit purveyors like USA Today. I get that what car you
drive can get you laid and that a certain wardrobe will make certain
people more or less likely to talk to you, but really? Backpacks? They
hold your shit more comfortably than a paper bag. End of story. Start
the countdown until I'm on the front porch telling those damn kids to
get off my lawn.
In unrelated affairs, I tried to write
a post (with several false starts) about fighting with Ayesha and how
I have a propensity to say one thing when I'm drunk and trying to convince
a girl that I like her in some way, only to have different thoughts
during the light of (sober) day. But then I thought that the idea of
guys not telling the truth to women when they're drunk isn't noteworthy
in any way. We're all dicks more often than not - whether due to lack
of courage, not wanting to see someone cry, wanting to keep our options
open for as long as possible, or just being really, really horny. We
can apologize and claim the noblest of intentions (and blame the alcohol),
but its really just a dick move. In my case it was all of the above,
including noble intentions. But even I can see how its a miracle that
the fairer sex would ever put up with any of us assholes.
Posted 3:43pm
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August 18th, 2007
Thanks,
but I'm actually not a member of NAMBLA
Most people's drivers license pictures
are fairly awful. I guess waiting in line at the DMV can give one quite
the sour puss. Last night I was at the Jesuses (again) and I was wondering
aloud if I could renew my drivers license through the mail, thus saving
me a trip to the dreaded secretary of state. Would
they send me a whole new license? Would I get some kind of sticker for
my old one? What if I had to carry around an extra card that says my
old license is still ok? So while MJ whipped out the laptop and found
me my answer, I whipped out my license to gander at my punim and try
to decide if the picture was still viable. I knew it was at least wince
inducing, but let's be honest, as the years go by I get carded less
and less, so its not like anyone really sees it. Upon closer examination,
I stared a bit and thought 'That doesn't even look like me' That's when
AJ decided to see for himself, so he could weigh in on the debate. Wanna
know what he said?
Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like
a pedophile in this picture.
How do I take that the right way? So yeah,
I'll be off to get my pic re-upped so I don't get confused with a sex
offender again anytime soon. And just so it can never be said that I'm
afraid of making fun of myself:

And just so MJ doesn't feel left out, she
got the second biggest laugh of the night out of me with 'I don't mind
the heat, I just get wet. But not in the naughty way.' Which I guess
is good, because otherwise she'd be way too insatiable to visit Ayesha
out in the desert heat.
Posted 8:59pm
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August 17th, 2007
Oh
yes its ladies night...
This is likely obvious to anyone who has
seen tape (or actually witnessed in person) of women in a male strip
club, but let it be stated here unequivocally: girls night out is far
more likely to devolve into abject debauchery than guys night out. Last
night I watched some friends of mine participate in a ladies night worthy
of a cheesy female empowerment movie where someone gets their groove
back. I sat in awe as they cajoled the local pipefitters union #1138
(in town for the convention) with their feminine wiles. I can't imagine
the disappointing rides back to the hotel as they all went home alone.
Yes I can. We've all been on the 'I can't believe how well this is going,
I think I've got a real shot' road, only to come back from the bathroom
to find what we thought was a smitten kitten gone daddy gone. ANYWAY,
like I said, a group of ladies looking to blow off some steam away from
significant others is much more volatile and dangerous than their male
counterparts. Why? Two reasons:
- Alcohol. This, of course, is where most
(if not all) debauchery begins and ends. Let's be honest, men tend to
handle their alcohol a wee bit better than the ladies. Don't get me
wrong, I know plenty of girls who could drink plenty of guys under the
table. But while a preponderance of guys will go out and have a few
drinks a couple times a week, women seem to save it all up and try to
blow their wad in one night. This can lead to guys saying 'one more
beer and then I gotta go' at the end of the night while women suck jaeger
out of their best friends mouth and sheepishly say things like 'I don't
normally act like this!'
- Viability. Follow me on this one. Guys
who get out from under the thumbs of their wives or girlfriends for
an evening participate in the things their sig. o's don't care for.
This usually involves sports, drinking, cursing, scratching, etc. The
last thing they want to do is go out and be rejected by women at the
bar. They spent years doing that, the race is over. They won. Women,
on the other hand, when traveling in packs, go trolling for attention
from the opposite sex. Its easy enough for a woman in a low cut top
to get affirmation from drunks at a bar, so let's not begrudge them
that. This leads to men watching football and playing poker on 'guys
night', and the ladies grinding on some guy named Pedro at the Necto.
To be my own devil's advocate, I know I'm
playing with semantics here. Guys do all the shit that a ladies night
would dictate on any random Tuesday. But its the pack mentality were
dissecting here. And be it ladies night, bachelorette party or the secretary
pool at Friday happy hour, chicks in a pack will devour dudes like a
lion on a gazelle. It is after all, the girls that go wild. Thank you
Jesus.
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August 16th, 2007
Viewing
art objectively.
Fucking
kids these days. I try not to be an old curmudgeon most of the time,
as well as keep my temper in check. Otherwise I'd walk around screaming
at random people for their idiocy and accomplish little else. I've been
known in the past for getting in people's faces over things seemingly
trivial, even when I have little to no connection to that person. Last
night was a perfect opportunity to eviscerate someone for being a complete
fucking Grade-A douche bag, and I held my tongue. And I'm having trouble
being OK with the decision.
The story goes like this: I was at music
trivia last night with my friends the Jesuses and some friends of theirs.
We were rolling through the first round of 80's music and, given the
relative youth of the rest of the people at the table, I was providing
most of the answers. At one point the male friend of a friend says 'I
don't think I was even born when these songs came out.' He was right.
Born in 1985; not one song in the round came out in his lifetime. Boring
for him I guess, but no skin of my back. He was engrossed in the Tigers
game so I think he had found his peace with the situation. Later on
we're sucking the pipe during the Elvis round and MJ says 'Its too bad
its not a Beatles round, because then we'd clean up.' And just as I'm
about to agree with her, I hear Mr. Born-in-1985 chime in with 'The
Beatles suck.'
Not 'I don't care for their music' or 'Ringo
couldn't sing' or even 'The Stones kick the Beatles ass', just 'The
Beatles suck.' I'm sure if you could see my face at the the time my
eyes would have rolled back in my head and steam would have shot from
my ears. For the sake of my friends I lightly questioned it and basically
left things at 'You lost all hope of finding any credibility with me.'
Which I'm sure he could give a shit. But let's face it, when it comes
to music you're not going to find more consensus about anything than
the Beatles were a pretty fucking great and influential rock band. The
only thing people might agree more about, is that those who posture
that the Beatles suck are doing so to try and look cool when everybody
in the room sees them as overly douche-y. I wanted to tell him that
he was an ignorant fucktard, and that I shouldn't expect much from an
asshole in a Korn T-shirt who things Magglio Ordonez sucks too. But
I didn't. No diatribes about how none of the craptastic shit he listens
to would even be possible were it not for the Beatles. Nothing about
how they redefined the recording process while making strides in song
structure and arrangements. Certainly no barbs about how Paul's bass
on 'Helter Skelter' is 100 times more menacing and evil than anything
his precious Korn has ever produced. Just a 'You lost any shot at credibility.'
Sometimes it sucks being mature and holding your tongue in the face
of abject ignorance. The next person who's woefully ignorant in front
of me is going to rue the day, because I've got some pent up frustration
to release.
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August 14th, 2007
No
time for love, Dr. Jones.
Regular readers will by now have noticed
my obsession with Indiana Jones. First and foremost, I believe that
Raiders of the Lost Ark is the greatest action movie of all time.
I've had the debate hundreds of times, only to have become that much
more resolute in my belief that it is a perfect movie and superior to
everything else in its genre. Secondly, Harrison Ford is the coolest
person on the face of god's green earth. Han Solo and Indy. The argument
really stops there, but I will point out the boner inducing fact that
when he played the President
of the United States, he did so as a graduate of the University
of Michigan. (And of course I never miss an opportunity to point out
that Keanu Reeves played a former
quarterback of the Ohio State Buckeyes. Twice.)
So with all the Indy IV traffic hitting
the internets these days, I decided that it merits its own, dedicated
post. First of all, today saw slashfilm
post a little investigative journalism in regards to the title of the
Dr. Jones fourth adventure. Seems Lucasfilm register six possible Indy
related titles. Best guess so far? Indiana Jones and the City of
Gods. Not great, but its pry just a rumor anyway, so need to get
your panties in a wad.
A while back at Comicon, they released
the first teaser poster for the film. You can catch
a glimpse at iwatchstuff.com. Total nerds will note that the crate
is similar to the one used to house the ark of the covenant at the end
of Raiders. Uber nerds will almost pass out when they realize
that the number on the crate in Raiders is nearly
identical to that on the one in the poster. I felt woozy.
Finally, there's a
little teaser video up on the official site called 'Reuniting the
Family'. You'll notice that yes, that is Karen Allen back as that sexy
minx Marion Ravenwood. Good God I think I'm going to go pass out. Thankfully
college football starts soon, or I may go crazy with anticipation.
Posted 2:12pm
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August 13th, 2007
Looks
like we got ourselves a reader...
It is my new stated goal to talk more
about books here on the ol' bloggy blog. Don't worry, it'll be like
once a month after I've read a few worth talking about. Most of you
can ignore it the way you do when I talk about whatever indie rock fetish
I'm currently having. Come back tomorrow and I'm sure I'll be back to
telling stories about being a drunk, or hopefully whatever predilection
makes you keep coming back here.
For some reason I've been on a real nonfiction
bent as of late. I don't know why that is, but I promise you that each
of these are as well-written as they are insightful. I was going to
call this 'Words Words Words'... like Beavis always used to do (was
there ever anything funnier when you were high than Beavis and Butthead?
Not that I remember) but felt it wouldn't translate. Hopefully there's
a Bill Hicks fan or two out there who gets my second choice.
- The
Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby
Nick Hornby wrote on of my favorite books ever about pop music, Songbook.
So it stands to reason that he could likely write about literature as
well. And gosh darn it if that's not what he does within the pages of
this tome. Mr. Hornby (in this collection of monthly columns from The
Believer magazine) provides you the laundry list of the books he's bought
and read in the last month, and then finds a narrative thread to write
about what he's read. Its really not as meta as it sounds, except that
reading about some reading is inherently kinda meta. In any case, its
brilliant, even if it makes you feel slightly guilty about not reading
more than you do. I chalked it up in my head to the fact that he's British,
at which point it didn't bother me at all.
- Blockbuster
by Tom Shone
A few years ago some
d-bag wrote a book in which he at least implied that George Lucas
and Stephen Spielberg ruined the Hollywood renaissance of the 1970's
with movies like Jaws and Star Wars. As you can guess,
I had more than a little problem with that argument. Sure the 70's were
a golden age for thoughtful, intellectual filmmaking, but it was the
Lucases and Spielbergs that saved Hollywood, not the Altmans and Townes.
If you don't believe me, Tom Shone takes the time to back up that assertion
with things like facts. He chronicles the last 30 years of 'blockbuster'
movie making in such detail and with such prose, that every chapter
will leave you wanting to break to watch whatever film he's describing.
- Moneyball
by Michael Lewis
About 5 years ago everyone wanted to know how the Oakland A's managed
to win games at a pace that was out of concert with their anemic payroll
and rogue's gallery of players. Michael Lewis set out to answer that
question and does so both thoroughly and beautifully. Anyone who's played
more than a season of Roto baseball (and especially those of us who
remember a day when playing roto meant doing stats by hand from the
USA Today) will get a huge boner from this book. And while boners and
baseball don't necessarily go hand in hand, I highly recommend this
for stat nerds and fantasy geeks alike.
- God
is not Great by Christopher Hitchens
A very smart, well written defense of atheism and attack on the evils
of religion and its dogmas. It will give structure to every argument
you've ever had about the existence of God (if you are one those people
inclined to such conversations). I'd recommend this just as much to
the pious who believe in informed faith as I would the pagans out there.
- Harry
Potter and the Deathly Hollows by JK Rowling
Alright, so yeah I read it. I've read them all. I kind of had to go
in kicking and screaming. When people back in the day tried to convince
me that a boy wizard was worth my time, they'd often do so by comparing
the writing to that of Roald Dahl. And you know what, its not Roald
Dahl, but to call it the bastard child of Dickens and Dahl raised by
Tolkien might not be far off. But whatever, you've either read this
or you're not going to, so why am I wasting keystrokes?
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August 12th, 2007
Morals
and standards
"I need to know your type if I'm
going to find you a girl." That's how the short 60 second exchange
started, the one that I'd think about for the next 24 hours. The last
time a female friend asked me that question she produced a made to order
girl that I immediately fell for, so it was a query that I was at least
a little intrigued by. But before I could even answer, she began pointing
to girls around the bar, hoping to find my archetype within the confines
of a place that had about as much chance of holding her as it did a
cure for cancer. She realized her mistake quickly, as the girls she
pointed to illicited out and out laughter from the other people in the
group. "The all-American girl isn't really T's type," said
my friends wife who had only known me 10 years. God knows what the guys
who had known me for 20+ we're thinking as she tried to find my type
in a dive bar in Napoleon, Ohio.
So if for no other reason than to be polite,
I quickly ran off my quick list of wants and desires in the fairer sex.
Not wanting to bore the shit out of everyone, I kept it short. "I
like short, petite girls with short dark hair. Girls who wear glasses
and are quirky. Ones who eschew religion and embrace the booze."
She immediately came back in quid pro quo fashion with "So like
that girl over there in the bustiere?" pointing to a girl who with
a tattoo on her breast that had obviously shown up on a motorcycle.
"Think more of someone in Chucks," I responded, trying to
get her to wrap her head around what I was looking for. After explaining
what Chucks were, I also tried
to wrap things up with a little self-deprecation by noting "Really,
I just want someone who weighs less than I do who is willing to have
sex with me."
That's when it happened. A friend not known
for necessarily being insightful popped his head in and said "Its
all about morals and standards. You need one, but you can't have both
if you want to get laid." It prompted a lot of laughter, and a
few accusations that the person making the statement had neither (he
incidentally claimed to have standards but zero morals). And that was
supposedly the end of it. But I kept thinking about what he said off
and on, and fuck it all if he wasn't probably right.
Which leaves me with a conundrum. Say what
you will, but I think I am burdened with both morals and standards (what
happens when I'm black out drunk notwithstanding). I eventually went
back to something Ayesha txted me the other night - that I act like
its a chore to get laid when its clearly not. She may be right in some
respect, but I don't think she's taking into account our new hypothesis
of morals and standards. Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint and not trying
to make myself out as a sexual martyr, but as one very close, single
friend and I used to often lament, most of the time its just not worth
it. I don't want to waste my time with some fucked up boo butt©
because she's hot but boring or ugly but willing. Its really not worth
it to me. So yes, this is me giving you permission, loyal reader, to
slap me right across the face next time I'm drunk and diatribing about
my dating ineptitude. To tell me to fuck off next time I complain about
lack of sexual gratification. Remind me about morals and standards and
tell me to loosen one or shut up. Then I'll go back to looking for the
bottom of my vodka and soda.
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August 10th, 2007
One
not-so-innocuous thing that has me all pissed off in and around the present
moment (plus some other stuff to offset that)
My very first football hero growing up
was Jim Harbaugh. He emerged about the time I finally awoke from my
nerd cocoon and started to notice things like that football stuff my
dad and brothers spent so much time on. (This of course would start
a life long, tenuous relationship that would cause other, more important
areas in my life to suffer needlessly, but that's a discussion for another
time). ANYWAY, Harbaugh played the QB position like he was packing 18
inches of swingin' death and unless you played nice, he'd prove he knew
how to use it. So I instantly fell in love - a love that wouldn't wane
despite his shitty pro career. Which is why it both depresses and enrages
me that as it turns out, he's a total douche bag.
For those of you who haven't been following,
Harbaugh basically threw U of M under the proverbial bus. He shook his
stupid finger at our athletic admissions policies, decried us for pushing
athletes into easy majors, and lamented that we used up and discarded
these young men like so much blast rags. A bigger bunch of bullshit
you will find in no other man, at any other level of intelligence. mgoblog
went out and proved him wrong in a more eloquent and thorough manner
than I could here, so I'll let you read
his take if you're interested. The bottom line is that its sad when
you're heroes turn out to be dimwitted fucktards that have a lesser
understanding of public discourse than my 12 year old son. Please Tom
Brady, don't ever do this to Sid. Neither of us could take the heartbreak.
- Speaking of Captain Dreamboat, here's
a funny
little Who's Now? parody that pits Tom against Galactus. I actually
didn't read it, but the two little pictures and profiles almost made
me pee, so its worth two seconds of your time, even if it happens to
remind you that the stupid fucking Who's Now? thing ever existed.
- Here's a profile
of Superbad's Michael Cera. He's that kid from Arrested
Development that also has this
sweet web show I told you about a few weeks back. The piece is well
written enough that it pissed me off that I'm not a better writer, so
you know, whatever that's worth.
- "Newspaper" (and I use that
term loosely) USAToday talks
about decorating your dorm room. Its laughably stupid. You want
to know how to decorate your room? Steal a bunch of shit from around
your parents house, add your 4 foot water bong, throw everything else
in a corner. Voila!
- This is a friend
of a friend's commercial for Heinz Ketchup (or perhaps catsup -
depending on where you're from. Your mileage may vary, offer not valid
in Tennessee). I think he would appreciate it if you looked at it and
rated it highly. I hate giving homework on weekends, but I hardly ever
ask, thus eliminating the need for guilt when I do. So get going....
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August 9th, 2007
Wet
pavement and the crack of fiberglass
I have little to no need to drive a 'nice'
car. I in no way view my automobile as representative of my status in
life nor as an extension of my penis. My favorite car I've ever owned
was the first I bought myself - a 1979 Toyota Celica. It never broke
down, was a tad funky looking, had a manual transmission and a moonroof
you had to open by hand. Everything an 18 year old could want in a car.
I'd have driven it until it literally fell apart, had my brother not
totaled it while I was away at college. But that's a story for another
day.
My dream is always to drive my cars until
the repairs get too expensive to justify it. I long for the day when
I don't have a car payment. I haven't had too much luck with that in
the recent past - in large part, because of days like today. I was chauffeuring
Siddhartha from one side of A2 to the other over my lunch break. It
was raining. I am impatient. And people sometimes take FOREVER to turn
into a driveway. These three factors combined into me slamming on the
breaks and ending up with a trailer hitch size dent/hole in my front
bumper.
It could have been much worse. We were
going like 3 mph. I did little more than scratch said hitch on the other
persons car. It will (knock on wood) end up being completely superficial
damage that I can learn to live with. But seriously? Why can't I just
for once have something a little nice that lasts until I pay it off.
I really don't think I'm asking too much. Besides, if that yellow piece
of shit can hang on for four more years, Sid can get behind the wheel
and beat the shit out of it and I'll get something new to defile with
my carelessness.
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August 8th, 2007
The
neuroticism of unjustifiable ownership
Music
snobs such as myself often find ourselves in the following conundrum,
catch-22, rock and a hard place, what have you: the desire between wanting
our favorite bands to be wildly successful, in accordance with their
talent and ability, and wanting to keep the secret all to ourselves.
Its a fine line at that. I want to turn people on to new, obscure music
that makes the hair on my arm stand on end. I want hipsters to recognize
and get excited by the t-shirt I bought at my last Magic Stick show.
But I also want bands I seek out and love to be a well kept secret.
I want to be in the exclusive club that 'gets' the cool things that
nobody else knows about. I was in love with Death Cab for Cutie the
first time I heard them. I became more and more obsessed to the point
of infatuation. Then they signed to Atlantic. And they showed up on
The OC. And M&M commercials featured Postal Service music.
Don't get me wrong, I still love Death Cab. But those of you who are
reading this and have no idea who they are can see how small an amount
of fame can tweak someone like me (who obviously cares waaaay too much
and is completely too sensitive and inexplicably proprietary).
I'm sure I've written a similar rant before
- or at least touched on these themes in the past. I do so again now
because my favorite-ist of favorite indie darlings are getting some
serious pub out in the blogosphere. You may remember Maritime as the
band that Ayesha
and I drove to Dayton and back on a Friday to see. Well they've
finished recording their new album (Heresy and the Hotel Choir)
and have leaked
the first two songs out to internet listening public. My biased
ears are happier than they've been in months, and it seems that other
uber snobs are in agreement with me. I encourage you to listen and judge
for yourself. I wish them nothing but success. Hell, a band the size
of Maritime can struggle to survive enough to keep making music, so
support the shit of 'em. Just remember who got there first...
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August 6th, 2007
Back
to the Bay 2007
At
the end of the day, our 2007 annual trip to Put-in-Bay will probably
be most remembered for the things that didn't happen. Sure, there was
your standard, boilerplate debauchery - featuring drunkenness that approached
Fucked Up Boo Butt status. But instead of packing people into Harriet's
House like sardines, we topped out at actual capacity on Saturday night
(with Friday featuring a scant 5 of us). No Kanes, no Germans, no Anee,
no random Columbus peoples. And somehow, only the Bickels got to eat
Chicken dinners from the Patio. Of the 10 people there on Saturday,
7 had kids in the last year.
Which really served as a reminder of just
how newly single I am. With even Stov bringing his girlfriend with him,
I was the only remotely single person in our group. Its something I'll
have to get used to again, and I'm honestly not looking forward to it
- especially when it leads to Jen forcibly trying to get me to dance
with bachelorette parties. Ah well, let's get on to the pictures, complete
with commentary you may or may not understand:
 |
After drinking at the house for several
hours, it was finally time to head out. Kiki says "I bet he
loves her stretch marks from head to toe" |
 |
I'm not sure the impetus of this, but
clearly we are clinging hopelessly to sobriety. |
 |
This was an all too common sight over
the weekend. Someone would by shots for the group, and then everyone
would start to worry about buying more shots over a sense of reciprocity.
That is a slippery slope, people. |
 |
It is amazing to me that either of
these cats appear remotely sober here, as it is the beginning of
the end. Turt notes that 'Men are the new women'. |
 |
See what I mean? This is Turt giving
his wife some kind of lap dance at the bar moments later. He whipped
that belt off faster a stripper on meth. |
 |
Luckily, there wasn't too much lovey-dovey
stuff like this. Stov was working overtime to try and overcome the
curse of Put-in-Bay, which is commendable. |
 |
More 'Turtle is wasted' goodness. We
can only assume that this is in tribute to Troy. |
 |
Final pic of the night. I have no idea
what's going on at this point. Stov later refers to me as a 'marionette'
that he and Arrika manipulated into doing their bidding by the end
of the night. Luckily, I remember very little of that portion of
the evening. |
 |
Next day, more dude's show up. 2007
marks the return of the Puma. |
 |
Aarika reminds us that 'Stretch marks
are the new sickle cell' as we dominate tippy cup at the Round House. |
 |
11:27 - Stov pees his pants... |
 |
... at which point its time for buckets
on heads. |
 |
I'm not sure what is happening here,
but I'm guessing Turt is drunk. |
 |
This is quite standard. |
 |
This is quite scary. |
 |
Aarika was a rookie to the PIB, trying
to overcome years of us bringing girls to the island, only to see
the relationship immediately fall apart when we returned to the
main land. Only time will tell if she managed to break the curse,
but if this photo is any indication, she stands a pretty good chance. |
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August 2nd, 2007
Sobriety
is a terrible thing to waste have
Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you are sitting
down because the news I am about to impart may shock and appall you.
I, tbaggervance, have been sober for four days. Now before you pass
out let me quickly point out that this is not by choice. I am a victim
of streptococcal
pharyngitis, which among other things, has caused me to go on a
course of antibiotics on which alcohol is verboten. After a lengthy
discussion with my medical professional where I pleaded to have just
one beer, or two take two pills at once so that I could drink 12 hours
earlier than scheduled, I was informed that my lifestyle has already
placed my liver in a precarious position, and that I should stick to
the schedule. Given that this weekend is the annual trip to Put-in-Bay
and I will likely be testing the tensile strength of said liver anyway,
I acquiesced and vowed to abstain from the booze until noon on Friday
(at which point my body will think St. Patrick's Day or OSU/Michigan
has come early).
Last night I was asked if five days is
the longest I've gone in my adult life without taking so much as one
drink. While I can't say definitively, its a pretty safe bet that it
is. At which point I was immediately asked that if like when George
Costanza abstained from sex and became a genius, had I noticed any increased
brain power or other heightened senses? Alas, I feel more like Popeye
without his spinach, or Samson after his hair cut. The source of my
powers and prowess has been taken away. I will forever claim that everything
I attempt in life is done with greater aplomb after 3 beers. This increased
virility lasts through beer #6, at which point we see a small, and then
exponentially greater decline. Whether this acuity is perceived or real
matters not, because like politics, perception is reality, and that
leaves me currently feeling utterly flaccid.
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August 1st, 2007
The
subjectiveness of perspective
I try not to brag too much here on the
ol' bloggy blog. I've always had somewhat of a problem where my arrogance
is only exceeded by my hubris. Hopefully those who both read these posts
and have regular conversations with me note the disparity. If not, then
what did you expect? And when it comes to Siddhartha, you probably have
experienced the inherent chaos theory that's on display when I start
talking about him (the butterfly that flaps it wings in NYC and causes
a hurricane in Singapore). But the conversation we had the other night
was too good to not share with you, intrepid reader.
Sid and I were discussing the latest Harry
Potter book, and he admitted to me that he had 'accidentally' read the
last page of the book. I lost it. How could you do that? You're spoiling
all of the secrets that yet to be laid out and then revealed to you
over the next few hundred pages! You're cheating! You're cheating! He
calmly explained to me that there were no rules, written or otherwise,
when it came to reading fiction, and thus calling him a cheater was
unfair. I railed against this quick-fix way of going about things; about
how the journey was as rewarding as the goal. That now all of the twists
and turns that the author would make along the way would be lost on
him. That in a sense, he had cheated himself by spoiling the pleasure
he would derive from reading the thing left to right, top to bottom.
After a brief interlude in which we discussed subjectivity and how that
without right and wrong, black and white definitions of things, everything
is subjective, Sid laid it out for me.
You see, he explained. He's seen everything.
Kids his age have been subjected to such an onslaught of pop culture
through television and DVDs and video games that surprises were no longer
truly surprises. That knowing the absolute end would not, in fact, ruin
the twists and turns, as he could still objectively judge them as clever
or not, and evaluate their appropriateness. For a second I was sad.
Are kids that much more aware and jaded these days relative to where
I was when I was his age. And then, of course, a split second later
I realized: You're talking to a teenager. Their arrogance knows no bounds!
Of course they've seen it before! Of course they know what will happen
next! They won't be impressed my mere pop culture. They are dialed-in
in a way you can never hope to be again.
We talked some more about the differences
in his evaluation of Harry Potter versus mine, which led to an assessment
of the Star Wars films that looked like this:
Sid
VI* > III > V >IV > II > I
tbaggervance
V > IV >VI > III > I > II
Yes, that is only mildly interesting to
the nerds out there, so I'll go into it no further. I just wanted to
let you know that I had a frighteningly deep conversation with a 12
year old. Yes, even the smart ones have a long way to go. So if any
of you run into Sid in the next five years, please don't mention Keyser
Soze. Or that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time or that the chick
from The Crying Game has a schlong. Because eventually he will
realize, that even the most jaded of us can be surprised.
* We had just finished watching Jedi
as the discussion took place, which may have played into this placement.
-ed.
Posted 7:35pm
Post coming (one that's pertinent to the
headline). I'm doing some maintenance now, so for the moment, gaze upon
your 2007 Ann Arbor Rec + Ed Tuesday Night Men's League Champs:

Posted 2:35pm
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July 30th, 2007
This
just in: We are so good at Beer Fest
For
reasons passing understanding, I had never been to the Michigan Brewers
Guild Summer Beer Festival. You'd think that I'd be a staple at something
called 'Beer Fest' that took place five miles from my house. But strange
as it may seem, 2007 brought on the 10th annual festival and it was
my rookie year. Luckily, my friends had a year under their collective
belt and upon sitting down, boike took time to remark that 'We do Beer
Fest so much better than everybody else.' and it was hard to argue.
What followed was five hours of imbibing
some of the finest ales, stouts, lagers and every other variety under
the sun of matled hops, barley, yeast and water imaginable. Such circumstances
don't necessarily lead to concise, accurate synopsis. So here's a few
things that happened:
-
Turns out Beer Fest is also, for some, stupid hat fest. People brought
and bought some of the stupidest things to wear on their craniums that
I've ever seen. It was like some retarded version of the Kentucky Derby.
Early in the day, Greg asks me if I'll give him the rest of the beer
I was drinking if he goes and steals the stupid hat of the stupid girl
right behind us. He did. And then drank the last sip of my beer
- Hangover cure extraordinaire Vitamin
Water was at the Festival giving away free vitamin water. They had parked
their van 50 yards from us and we proceeded to take about 20 free samples.
We spent the rest of the day trading them for tokens (tokens=beer) to
suckers who had missed on the swag. But unfortunately, the VW van was
blasting some annoying techno from the speakers on top that was preventing
us from enjoying the live music at the Festival. After enough was enough,
Boike got up, walked over, and removed the keys, rendering the van utterly
silent. Their was a small skirmish with the driver of the van (along
with an ineffective attempt to pass off Boike as 'Mr. Vitamin Water')
but 20 minutes later they had picked up and left. Next time, don't let
us have to tell you twice.
- Some fucked up boo butt© swung by
our table, started chowing on some beef jerky we had lying around, telling
us how she's vegan and never eats meat. An aghast friend pulled her
away before we could make things truly interesting.
So yeah, beer, boobs, beer, sun and beer.
I won't make the mistake of missing it again. For posterity, here are
the beers I 'sampled' on that memorable day:
1. Shorts Brewing Co. - Pontious Rd. Pilsner
2. Dragonmead Microbrewery - Nagelweiss (Small
and white, Clean and bright...)
3. Arcadia Brewing Co. - Whitsun
4. Schmoz Brewing Co. - In Your Face IPA (We
liked these guy's attitude, and their beer)
5. Dragonmead Microbrewery - Final Absolution (This
one best beer in the world at the World Beer Cup. I failed to see what
all the fuss was about)
6. Motor City Brewing Works - Ghettoblaster (A
favorite of Stov's from last year, I tried this in honor of him. Stov
- Your taste in beer is awful)
7. Bastone - Belgian Wit
8. Saugatuck Brewing Co. - Kolsch Pilsner
9. Michigan Brewing Co. - Celis White
10. Kuhnhenn Brewing Co. - Fouth Dementia (10%+
alcohol on this bad boy. Ouch)
11. Schmoz Brewing Co. - John T. Pilsner
12. Royal Oak Brewery - Northern light
13. Copper Canyon - Summer Haze Wit
14. Fletcher St. Brewing Co. - Sunrise Wit
15. Tri-City Brewing Co. - Phoenix Golden (Hi
Ayesha)
16. Atwater Block Brewery - Vodoovater (we drank
this because it sounded like it was named after the Haitian Darth Vader)
17. Black Lotus Brewing Co. - People Mover Pilsner
18. Black Lotus Brewing Co. - Detroit Hip Hops (we
immediately went back here after we happened to notice that the girl
serving had large breasts that were falling out of her tank top)
19. Schmoz Brewing Co. - In Your Face IPA
20. Great Barraboo Brewing Co. - Wit's End (The
last of the day - they were one of the few still pouring)
Posted 7:55pm
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July 26th, 2007
This
is for the people of the sun...
Part one: Preamble
In which Sting has the body of pro athlete,
I narrowly avoid capture and the drinking begins
The Palace of Auburn Hills
is far away and in the middle of nowhere. It was an obvious observation
for someone who 12 hours later would be driving 2000 miles across country.
I thought about making the drive to The Palace 8 times a day for four
straight days. That's what I would soon be up against. But first things
first - time for some white reggae.
Stov and I weren't exactly
sure what to expect from a bunch of 50 year olds who hadn't put out
and album since either of us reached puberty. It could have been a complete
trainwreck - Sting slowing down Roxanne to a crawl and playing it acoustically.
But he seemed to remember that know matter how big you think you've
gotten, its still a song about a hooker. I turned to Stov about half
way through the show and noted that if you closed your eyes, it was
almost like it was 1983 (Sting can't hit all the notes he could when
I was in 3rd grade, but it rarely takes you out of the moment) Open
your eyes and it was your dad and his poker buddies fiddling around
on instruments.
With one exception - Sting's
arms. Most of the time the sight of any guy in a sleeveless/tank top
number elicits either a giggle or the head shake of disbelief. Somehow
Sting's arms brought on something just short of 'Holy shit I'd fuck
that guy.' Stewart looked to be in the shape of someone half his age
as well, leaving Andy Summers (a quite average looking 50 year old man)
looking like the world's biggest schlub. If I were him I'd be injecting
the other guy's vitamin water with bacon fat.
So we left the Palace of
Auburn Hills triumphant and somewhat tipsy - determined to get back
to Ann Arbor so we could get really drunk. But before we could get back
to the 696, disaster struck. In a hurry and fueled by vodka and sodas,
I decided to run through two very yellow lights on the way back
to the highway. OK so they were orange. At least. I didn't think too
much about it until I saw the lights in my rearview a few miles later.
'Have you been drinking this evening?' was the question I had been waiting
for. I told him the last drink I had was hours ago, which to the relief
of everyone inside the vehicle, seemed good enough for him. We got back
on the rode a little lighter in the wallet, but as Stov finally said
after five minutes of complete silence 'That could have gone much worse.'
We returned to A2 to meet
up with some friends who, surprisingly, had also been drinking that
evening. So much so in fact that they were in complete shot mode when
we showed up. It didn't take us long to catch up. By the time I got
to bed around 3ish, I had completely forgotten about the ticket and
the fact that according to Ayesha, our trip would commence in a mere
5 hours. Unfortunately for my liver, the bags under my eyes and generally
my body as a whole, precedents were being set...
Part two: A2 to STL
In
which we learn about Beechwood Aging, start the bar crawl and Ayesha
shows her matronly disdain for the bouncer
Any drunk will tell you
that 8am comes awful early when you were at the bar the night before
listening to the bartender beg 'Come guys, its seriously 2:30, you have
to get out of here.' It somehow hurts even more when its 8am and you're
on vacation. But Ayesha the anxious was in full Willy Nelson mode and
wanted to get on the road (again). I contemplated the no shower, but
smelling like a beer soaked ashtray in a tiny Honda Civic for 8 hours
seemed like cruel and unusual punishment for Ayesha, me and the car.
So I stood underneath some hot water for a few minutes, mostly trying
not to fall down and crack my head wide open on the porcelain. We finished
packing the car to the ceiling, climbed in the car and I was asleep
again by the time we hit the highway.
A
few scant hours later and we were out of the home state and it was my
turn to drive. As you can guess, driving south 5 hours through Illinois
is about as interesting as watching old vacation slides at your girlfriend's
parent's house. The thought of one thing drove us onward and kept me
from casually steering the car into a goddamn bridge embunkment: we
were headed to the promise land. A place so magical that Willy Wonka
himself would worship at the alter of it. I'm of course referring to
the world headquarters of Anheuser-Busch, in St. Louis, MO.
In the weeks leading up
to our little excursion, Ayesha would often ask what places I wanted
to stop along our way. My response was always the same, always singular
- The Budweiser plant. I felt it was only fair, like the prodigal son
returning to the place from which he taken so much. And all I can say
is that it didn't disappoint. From the brewing process to the bottling
of the sweet amber liquid, we saw it all. And at the end, we were given
two complimentary glasses of the aromatic nectar. I ended up purchasing
a Natural Light T-shirt and pint glass from the gift shop, as a way
of paying homage to that which had got me through so many tough times
in my youth.
 |
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In an effort to be carefree and spontaneous,
along with no set agenda we had booked no rooms at any of our planned
stopping points. While this would bite us hard on the ass very soon,
we grabbed a visitors guide after our brewery tour and found a room
downtown fro a mere $70. Of course $70 in downtown STL gets you a room
just this side of rinky-dink (no wi-fi? who does that?) but for our
purposes (walking distance to the bars) it was perfect. So we showered
and washed the smell of Civic off of us and preceded to the bar.
Now
the one thing every guy knows about women's fashion, is that for some
reason passing explanation, it usually comes sans pockets. These leaves
boyfriends and husbands the world over in a common predicament - have
her boil things down to the essentials (wallet, keys, cell phone, camera,
etc) and tote her life around in your pockets for the evening, or bring
the purse. And its the definition of a catch-22. Take on all her stuff
like a sherpa and you may look and feel like Schneider
from One Day at a Time all evening. Don't, and you spend half
the night purse sitting. 'Can you hold my purse?' 'Can you watch our
purses while we go to the bathroom?' 'Can you please tuck this under
your arm for a while so I can both claim and emasculate you at the same
time?' For the record, that night I walked around with about $2000 worth
of electronics in my pants.
So we toured the little strip of STL riverfront
bars. We ate some unbelievable food (and they even let us draw pictures
on the table) and drank our body weights. There was a teaching conference
in town so Ayesha chatted up her peers and got several job offers. One
desi
girl cornered her for twenty minutes - seeing that they were the only
two brown people in a sea of white, I guess it made sense. We drank
and drank and then decided to hit one more bar at the end of the night
on the way home - some little hole in the wall that 4 people were drinking
at. We sat down and Ayesha started to talk to the bouncer. I paid little
attention, as Ayesha will talk to anyone. I vaguely heard them discussing
where he was from and what he did, but I was mainly concentrating on
my drink. Then, like hearing a hot girl's voice say your name in a crowded
room, my head snapped around as I heard Ayesha's condescending tone
query 'And that's what you want to do with your life?'
I chugged my drink in an effort to get us home ASAP as they argued a
little (the 250# bouncer was a tad nonplused). It was clearly time to
call it an evening, especially since I had a feeling there would be
another very early wake up call the next morning.
Part three: STL to OKCity
In
which we delve into the tourist trap, ponder why a major American city
would shut down at 10 and take time to increase diplomatic relations
between muslims and jews
Luckily
the booze had made Ayesha a little sleepier than the previous morning,
and we were allowed to sleep until 9:30. As soon as we were out of STL
proper, we got our first glimpse of tourist trap America. The stragety
for these places seems to be 'put up a billboard every five feet until
we beat it into their heads that they should come here'. And we fell
prey to the first of these such schemes - Meramec
Caverns. We got off the highway after being begged like a child
who neeeeeeded some candy and I immediately heard the theme song to
Deliverance in my head. I had commented to Ayesha before we left
that I hoped nobody would take offense to the fact that we were an interracial
couple while in some of the more 'rural' parts of this great nation.
I figured if we could make it to Texas, we could pass her off as hispanic
and no one would pay any attention. And while I've never gave much thought
about our differing skin tones, the hour we spent off the beaten path
in rural Missoura gave me pause once or twice.
Luckily,
the tour was too expensive both monetarily and of our precious travel
time to stay, so it was back to the interstate. Then we proceeded to
make a number of inefficient stops and side routes that made for a day
that felt like eternity. Long story short (yeah, I know...) we got to
Oklahoma City tired, cranky, and hungry. It was 9:00 by the time we
stopped in the visitors center to ask about hotels. I asked for the
cheapest place in walking distance to the bars in 'Bricktown'
- which seemed like where we wanted to be. It was an
old historical part of town with bars and restaurants and entertainment.
Score. So she points us to the Marriot where we are promptly told that
they are booked for the night. But we were in luck, their sister hotel,
the Residence Inn right down the road, had plenty of rooms. So we drive
a few blocks only to be told that it'll be $200 a night. A go-fuck-yourself
later and we're in the car calling hotels looking for a room. Even the
airport wants $120. So on the verge of beating each other's heads in
halfway to the airport hotels, we agree to suck it up and pay the $200.
We clean up and go looking for sustenance, as no one wants to poke a
hungry Ayesha witha stick.
My spirits were buoyed when we found ourselves
at the corner of Mickey Mantle and Flaming Lips Alley. Truly a more
juxtaposed intersection has never existed. I get excited at the prospect
of running into Wayne
Coyne, and we continue our leisurely walk through OKCity, deciding
which restaurant will get our business. After circling the small neighborhood,
we tried some Bistro or other, only to find it closing shop for the
night. Weird, we thought, but ah well, on to the next one. Then we got
worried - as we got gas faced by the maitre d at our second choice.
Panic set in at restaurant three when when we got another 'Parks closed,
Moose out front should have told you.' We start trying anywhere that
looks like they might have food an has hours past 10. We finally settle
down in a shitty sports bar for nachos and quesadillas at 10:30, and
all the momentum of Flaming Lips Alley has dissipated. How could Wayne
let this happen? He should be ashamed. 10 o'clock on a Thursday and
people are telling us the only restaurant open is the IHOP? 10 is when
we start to think about going out in my town, bitch. If I was Wayne,
I'd take my name off that alley.
Luckily,
the booze helped to calm our vitriol. We began (or continued day two
of, if you prefer) our bar crawl through OKCity. There was a pub with
800 beers and guitar hero, a trendy place with a giant door and decent
hipster music, and then there was the final stop at the hole in the
wall. We happened upon by accident, after trying get into some rooftop
'oonce oonce' bar that wanted $10 cover for dudes. A go-fuck-yourself
later and were in some non-descript joint with three drunks at the bar
and us. We sit down and start to talk to the bartender about how drunk
the other three patrons are. One eventually notices us noticing them
and comes over to us. The guy recognizes my Promise Ring T and we start
to talk about music. After several minutes of ignoring her (caught up
in conversation) I eventually make some sort of gesture to introduce
Ayesha. She immediately pipes in with 'I know you. You're the guy who
wouldn't give us a room at the Marriot.' Turns out he was the guy working
the desk earlier when we had tried to procure a 'cheap' room. He immediately
blames it on the fact that he thought that she was muslim and he is
a jew. A few more minutes of solving the mid-east peace crisis and our
attention turned to the female that Jewy McJewstein was with. Fucked
Up Boo Butt© doesn't begin to describe this girl. We watched her
make out with every single person in the bar, minus me and a failed
attempt at sucking Ayesha's boobies. She bit Jewy's nips so hard they
bled. Thank God we were too drunk to be scared.
After being kicked out (well, everyone
but the Fucked Up Boo Butt©, who we assumed stayed to suck off
the bartenders) we start to tell our new jew-friend about our next stop
on our trip. He immediately offers to get us a room at the employee
rate in ABQ. We all hugged and wondered why Israel and Palestine can't
get along so easily.
Part four: OKCity to
ABQ
In which we learn that in
the desert, you don't need to build up when you can build out and how
painful living in corporate hell can truly be
My first instinct for this leg of our journey
was to give the ubiquitous two word review: shit sandwich. But that's
not exactly fair to anyone. We decided not to 'sleep in' the next morning
and were on the road bright and early. Our only goals for the day were
to find some authentic Tex-Mex in Amarillo and get Ayesha a car charger
for her cell phone - since she was drunk when she packed her regular
cell charger, couldn't find it in the overpacked Civic and now had a
phone with 0% battery life. Without going into particulars, the first
attempt to find a Sprint store was disastrous, and threatened to make
make day 3 as stressful as day 2. But we persevered on, deciding that
if we see one sitting off the highway, we'll stop, but otherwise not
worry about it. We the brown sprawl of Amarillo and our bellies burned
for some down home Tex-Mex. We found what we looking for tucked away
underneath an overpass. When the waitress gave us easy directions to
a Sprint store right down the road, we left Texas with a skip in our
step, after all, we had a cheap-o room waiting for us in ABQ.
To
paraphrase Dave Atell, you know what's fun to do in Albuquerque? Pack
up and leave, because it sucks. As we drove through the 'city' I kept
looking for 'downtown'. And even though we drove right through and around
ABQ, I couldn't tell you within 5 miles what's considered 'downtown'.
In my world, downtown is the place you point to from the highway with
all the buildings over ten stories. Apparently nobody told ABQ this.
Our hotel, while very nice and very cheap, was no where near much of
anything that didn't have 2,000 locations coast to coast. And we learned
that a cab ride to 'downtown' was about $25. We began to wonder if our
cheap-o room was a blessing or curse.
We eventually found a micro-brewery with
decent food, and ended up drinking all night at some corporate cookie-cutter
bar, filled with stereotypical, cookie-cutter patrons. At least it was
near a complex that allowed us to take the sweet picture below, which
reads 'Ayesha @ 25' - which she is. Well it was all for the best perhaps,
as we had to be in PHX early the next morning and getting to bed before
two was very necessary.
Part five: ABQ to PHX
In which we learn what it feels like to live
on the face of the sun and just how much it costs to furnish an apartment
I wasn't a huge fan of
Ayesha's move to the desert for several reasons, many obvious, some
not so much. But once it was avalanche comin' down a mountain that I
could neither outrun nor avoid, I decided to not make too much fun and
be supportive in my limited ability to do so. But the one thing I wouldn't
compromise on is the heat. A person as white as I wasn't built for the
desert, and I would in no way be silent on the subject. So I had been
surprised, despite our driving south and west for 1500 miles, that the
temperature was still very bearable. Even
when hit Flagstaff, AZ, it was raining. Raining! In the desert! What
will they think of next. Turns out, rain doesn't cool things off in
the desert like it does up here near the great lakes. Because 30 miles
South of Flagstaff, a half hour after it had finished raining, we pulled
over at a rest stop, stepped out of the car and onto the face of the
sun. Dry heat my ass.
But before you knew it we were at Ayesha's
new living quarters, right across the way from the
site of Super Bowl XLII. After signing away the next year of her
life, we started to unpack the sum of her possessions into the apartment.
It became immediately clear that this place was going to need furniture.
And toilet paper. And garbage bags and towels and all the other things
that make a house a home. So for the next 16 hours we ran to Ikea (twice)
and Target (twice) and the other places that one buys things to furnish
an apartment. And then we hammered and screwed and covered and adjusted,
until we had formed a suitable living space - at least the outer shell
of one that could be a foundation for the next year of acquiring more
'things'. And while we managed to celebrate a little in the middle of
all that settling for a while with Ayesha's friend Detta, Sunday night
it was time to unwind, Naptown style.
Part six: PHX to A2
In
which Napoleon reunites in the desert and life begins anew
By sheer twist of fate, a few of my good
friends from way back in high school lived 30 minutes from Ayesha's
new place. So we had made tentative plans to see them while I was out
there. After finally getting a return call from Sketchasorous Rex (Jer)
we headed across the valley to spend the evening with Larry and the
Brothers Spencer.
After much reminiscing, grilling, guitar
playing and drinking, it was time to venture out of the house. They
took us to a dive called Ernies, where we did shots, sang karaoke and
did shots. AZ has a smoking ban, but everywhere had outside patios which
you walk out on and sneak a toke. Ernies even provided you with a light
mist of water to cool you down on hot summer nights. Unfortunately it
smelled like it had been pumped straight from a river where people were
dumping raw sewage and left you feeling like you had just sweat through
all your clothes. It could be argued that just walking into Ernies makes
you feel that way, but I was to drunk to draw any distinction.
Unfortunately, not much more remains in
memory from that evening. I know it was great to see Pants and Larry.
I miss those guys. Its a good feeling to know that the first time and
last time you got blind drunk with someone are more than 15 years apart.
Wait, is that good? Yeah, consistency is good. Shut up, I'm going with
it.
The next day we awoke with colossal hangovers
we drove to shower and then grab lunch. After that and Ayesha's compulsory
nap. We decided to visit Taliesin
West, Frank Lloyd Wright's Scottsdale compound. It was beautiful,
impressive, and appropriate, as we bookended our trip with the only
two touristy things we followed through on. After Taliesin, there was
just enough time to go home, grab the bags, and head to the airport.
Ayesha dropped me off at the Northwest gate and we said our goodbyes.
She was to stay in the desert heat and start a new life, I to return
to the midwest and resume my old one - that is my old old life before
Ayesha entered it, a single guy amongst all the married folk. I supposed
one could argue that its not the same, that I'm a far richer person
for all my experiences with Ayesha. And I know one could argue that
now I'm really up shit creek, as a year later more and more of my friends
are either no longer single or no longer childless, leaving my pool
of irresponsible drunkards slowly dwindling. That's about as philosophical
as I'm going to get about it. For now. Best of luck ¡Pobrecito!
I love you. You'll do great out there in that desert heat I'm sure.
After all, your melanin
levels are far better suited for it than mine.
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July 24th, 2007
My
liver, why hast thou forsaken me?
Its true, even a drunk has his limits.
As I rolled back into A2 this morning fresh my cross-country jaunt,
my liver whispered to me that maybe a night off is in order. And that
maybe watching Leaving Las Vegas would be a good object lesson
for me. To say we drank our way across America doesn't even quite do
the trip justice. Needless to say, it was a blast. Full recap is forthcoming,
but it may take a bit as I try and piece my life back together - a process
that becomes more and more difficult as we get older and take longer
vacations.
So I quick thank you to Anheuser-Busch,
Jewy McJewstein of the OKCity Marriot, the disappointment of Wayne Coyne,
The Spencers, Larry, Frank Lloyd Wright and especially my ¡Pobrecito!
It was truly unforgettable. And yes, I hope to clarify the previous
sentence shortly. Just as soon as my enzyme levels get back to their
normal levels.
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July 16th, 2007
365
days until my breakdown.
Its presenting itself to be the greatest
week of my life. Of course the pragmatist in me (take that cynic label
and shove it up your ass) realizes that the expectation alone will lead
to nothing but disappointment. That notwithstanding, I'm ready to jump
into the deep end like its a 75 degree day in June. Brace for impact
and let your body adjust once its in the thick of it - it'll all be
worth it in the end.
- Tuesday marks the fulfillment of a decade
long dream. As a ginormous music snob (someone recently remarked 'I
thought I was music snob, but T takes it to a whole new level'. Who
knew?) I go to a lot of concerts. But they're mostly of the $20, dive
bar variety. As such, I'm diametrically opposed to overpaying to see
a band. $20 to see a solo Ben Gibbard? Totally there. $100 to see Paul
McCartney? Go fuck yourself. But I've always said that I'd pay anything
to see a reunited Police. I think they're one of the most important
bands of the last 25 years and that they still have the stones to pull
off a show that would be somewhat reminiscent of what they were in their
heyday. So when they announced their reunion tour, my erection was massive.
My attempts at procuring tickets were rebuffed by $50 offers for seats
behind the stage or $250 tix for the main floor - offers that were either
insulting to my intelligence or my pocketbook. Somehow - call it karma,
kismet, or dumb luck, Stov managed to get us decent seats for the paltry
sum of $75. So Tuesday night, I, much like Spider-man or Batman, fulfill
my destiny and kneel before the alter of Sting, Stewart and Andy. How
I'm going to concentrate the next two days I'll never know.
- Wednesday the off again/on again trip
to AZ will finally commence. I'm taking Ayesha to her new life in Phoenix,
crisscrossing the country via St. Louis, OK City and ABQ. Driving across
America has always been a dream of mine, so its another fulfillment
I can check off the list. Anyone with cross country travel tips, the
comments section is below. The plan will be to update things from the
road, modern day Kerouac style, but I make no promises.
- And the week begins with Siddhartha's
entry into his 12th year of existence. It really seems like yesterday
that I was a college kid shitting my pants over how I was going to make
my way in the world and raise a kid at the same time. We've made it
this far, and if you ask me, we're doing just fine. He's truly unbelievable
and my absolute favorite person in the world. Who knows how I managed
to get so lucky. Check back in a year for a post of a different color
where I have a mental breakdown at being 32 and having a teenager. More
to come.
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July 13th, 2007
5
innocuous things that are making me happy in and around the present moment.
- The new Spoon record is out and getting
some illusrious
reviews. I had a chance to check 'em out live last Wednesday, and
it is a much recommended experience.
- Two great albums in one week? Check.
After a long absence, Buffalo Tom is back with Three
Easy Pieces, their first album in almost a decade. It'll definitely
take you back to the days when Angela snuck out of her house to see
them on My
So Called Life, but it also manages to sound fresh. An impressive
feat for the first band I ever interviewed back in 1996.
- The word is finally
getting out, W is the worst. president. ever. I try not to laugh
since its quite sad what him and his cronies are doing to this country,
but tee hee anyway.
- In the words of Fark:
Suck
it, creationists. Let us end the debate now.
- If I haven't seen you and mentioned it
yet (and if I've seen you, I probably have) Once
is the best movie I've seen in some time. Well, if not the best, certainly
the most charming and original thing I've laid eyes on in ages.
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July 11th, 2007
Movin'
on up like George and Wheezy.
I have an unnatural love for the place
I live. It was a big deal for me to make my way to the University of
Michigan. As such, I formed an instant attachment to the place and the
city that surrounds that rivals the bond between mother and child. Its
been ten years since I graduated college, and I'm still here, still
working for the University, still in that hazy, lovey-dovey head space
that you find yourself in when you're 13 and the girl who gives you
day long erections agrees to slow dance with you during Mr. Big's "To
Be With You".
I bring it up because two people I know
are leaving A2 in the next week for 'greener' pastures. A week from
today I'm schlepping Ayesha across this great country of ours out to
the oppressive heat of Arizona. A native Michigander (and State alumnus)
Ayesha has come to the conclusion, in her words, that its time to leave
the mitten. While I like to think that in the last ten months I've made
Ayesha more fond of my little hamlet here in SE Michigan than she had
previously thought possible, she came here with plans to leave. Plans
that were years in the making and that even my charisma and animal magnetism
could not overcome.
More apropos to our little one sided discussion
here is Wex's exodus to the Windy City. After 30 years in Michigan and
several degrees from one of world's elite institutions of higher learning,
the Mantooth is leaving it all behind for work in the city of big shoulders.
He's leaving the comfort of the well worn paths of softball, tailgating,
and bars where everybody knows your name to start again with a new job
in a new city. I realize this happens everyday and let's not get over
dramatic about it, but the older I get, the more I wonder if I'll ever
do it.
I was lucky enough to have the Buddha (and
his baby mama) come to Ann Arbor about 8 years ago. And their existence
will ensure my sticking around this place for the next half dozen years
or so (more likely 10 if and when the Buddha enrolls at UofM). A lot
of people assume that if it weren't for them, I'd have left this place
long ago, going forth to make my way in the world in some exotic locale.
No one can say where I might have ended up if not for my teenage entrance
into fatherhood, but with each passing year, this place feels more like
home. Secretly, I think I'm glad to have the excuse of the Buddha keeping
me here, instead of having to explain that I'm so head over heels for
this place that I may never leave.
Of course who knows how I'll feel in ten
years. Maybe the cabin fever will set in and it'll be time for me to
pack it in and start fresh someplace where everybody doesn't already
know I'm a loud drunk asshole. But as it stands, I can't imagine walking
away from the people and places I've grown so accustomed to. That may
be complacent. And it may make me a townie. But as any guy will tell
you, its difficult to get up and leave when you have a massive erection.
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July 9th, 2007
Time
is an illusion. Lunchtime On vacation, doubly so.
Did
you ever see that awful film (starring America's favorite anti-Semite
and purveyor of torture porn Mel Gibson) Forever
Young? If you're lucky enough to have never witnessed it, let
me save you the trouble. Mel gets frozen in some military experiment
and yadda yadda yadda what was supposed to be 5 weeks ends up being
50 years. Eventually he wakes up, 1940's Mel makes his way in 1990's
America, hilarity ensues. The reason I reference it now is not to warn
you against seeing a 15 year old movie that if you've successfully avoided
to this point in your life you're pretty obviously safe from. Rather
because after Mel makes up from his psuedo-carbonite deep freeze, his
body eventually starts to catch up with time. Those 50 years he slept
through still happened, and at the end of the movie, Mel looks like
the old man you'd expect.
OK, so my terrible synopsis of a terrible
movie aside, both our points are this: you can't stop time. It moves
forward despite our best efforts to ignore that it is a constant (with
apologies to Mr. Einstein for that oversimplification) This is glaringly
apparent to me when ever I decide to take a vacation. It used to be
that a guy could leave the world behind for a week or so and when he
returned he would insert himself back into the continuum unnoticed.
And pardon me for a second if I sound egotistical (you should be used
to it) but that doesn't work for me anymore. I have become too important.
Which is to say, leading up to a vacation requires a lot of running
around and prep work to ensure that protocol is in place for disaster
should it strike in your absence. And of course upon your return, you
must put out all the fires that flared up while you were gone and no
one either knew how to or cared to extinguish.
I'm sure most people feel this way as they
get older and are assigned more responsibilities at their job. I find
myself checking and even answering (ANSWERING!) emails while I'm on
vacation. This is ridiculous. I'd like it to stop. Somehow, I'm not
holding my breath on that one. I took 2 days off last week and I'm complaining.
Sheesh. Let's attribute it to the anticipatory headache of being gone
for an entire week soon. Because I'm going to try and enjoy myself and
not even think about work during that. Wish me luck. I know if I succeed
I'll likely be setting myself up for that much more pain and disaster
upon my return. Welcome to adulthood, where everything's a catch-22.
That being said, the last 5 days were wonderful
and ultimately worth it. I got to see Spoon
and Cheap
Trick, I got to pretend I was 22 again with a spontaneous trip to
Cedar
Point (the new coaster rules, btw), and most importantly, got to
take 3 generations of Brubakers to see the Tigers beat the Red Sox.
That's totally worth all the extra work a vacation can induce.
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July 3rd, 2007
On
social contracts and harrier jets
I love me some John McClane. I've often
had the drunken bar argument about what the greatest action movie of
all time is. And while we all know in our hearts that the correct answer
is Raiders of the Lost Ark, I respect those that make their case
for the original Die Hard. In the end, Nazis and the ark of the
covenant are just cooler than Alan Rickman and the Nakatomi building
(even though Rickman gives the more interesting performance, Ronald
Lacey's face being melted off wins in the end.)
So I was giddy when I saw the latest Die
Hard installment getting good reviews. I was even more pleased when
I went to see it this weekend and it rocked my face. In a summer of
underwhelming sequels, Die Hard brought the shit. It stayed away
from becoming some sort of hackneyed perversion of itself and just ran
through 2 hours of action packed goodness, with dear old (OLD!) John
lamenting what he was going through again the entire way. The end was
satisfying and I walked out thinking, 'That's what a summer blockbuster
should be.' Except for that one tiny bit near the end.
Let me preface this by saying I have no
problem suspending belief. I realize that even your garden variety action
hero is going to pull off the impossible before the credits roll. He
wouldn't be an action hero if he didn't. And given the context of the
movie, I'm willing to raise or lower my acceptable level of plausibility
based on circumstances. Which is to say I don't worry about the physics
of Spider-man swinging his way through NYC and I don't calculate the
odds of whether or not Indy could have actually outrun that boulder.
But you know when they've crossed the line. It often involves unintentional
laughter from the audience and usually attributes superhuman abilities
and uncanny luck to a mere mortal, with no acknowledgment that they're
doing so. Remember when you saw the last Pierce Brosnon James Bond movie
and he parachutes/surfs into the bad guys hideout? Yeah, that stuff.
(Actually, just for the record, pretty much every scene in the last
Brosnon Bond felt like that.)
Which is why I felt my eyes beginning to
roll when the harrier jet shows up at the end of Die Hard 4.
When you buy a ticket for an action movie (and well, almost any movie
really) you are entering into an unwritten social contract with the
makers of the film. You promise to give us your best effort, and either
stay within the bounds of believability, or justify it when you skirt
the laws of physics, etc. I don't care how you do it - maybe your protagonist
is a meta-human. Maybe you're in the Matrix. Maybe you're playing something
up for comedy and the little wink or shrug your hero gives the camera
makes everything all right. And in quid pro quo fashion, we agree to
let you stretch that plausibility to its breaking point. Hey, its a
movie after all. We're there to be entertained. But when 50+ year old
John McClane takes on a harrier jet with a semi and wins! All the yabadabado
yipee kay yea mutherfuckers in the world won't make it all right.
That being said, I still liked the movie.
Just please, film makers of the world entrusted with 100 million dollar
tentpole films, remember sometimes less is more. Because, without giving
anything away, the low key, personal, no-explosion ending was waaay
better than McClane falling onto the harrier and then falling off just
in time to have it explode over his head. C'mon people, you're better
than that.
Posted 4:07pm
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July 2nd, 2007
...into
a goddamn bridge imbunkment!
Its
not hard to rile me up. Especially when I'm in my car. I often dream
of rear ending assholes who cut me off on the highway and am a frequent
deployer of the 'naughty' finger. But at least those are semirational
flights of fancy. My real dementia kicks in when it comes to bumper
stickers. I honestly get pissed when I'm behind an SUV with W sticker
on it. If I see a car sporting a jesus fish, I assume that the passengers
are self righteous assholes. I want nothing more that to hope in some
Mad Max deathmobile and pick these dolts off one by one. Thankfully
I'm a much calmer person in my old(er) age, and these are nothing more
than idle fantasies - the severity of which is dependent on my mood
at any one time.
And the sad part is that bumper stickers
that espouse attitudes or ideas that I'm in agreement with bring me
no pleasure. I don't want to get out and shake the hand of someone with
a pro-choice bumper sticker. And I'm not necessarily more likely to
allow someone to merge in front of me if he has a Michigan sticker on
his car. OK, maybe a tad more likely if I'm in a real good mood. Maybe
I just have an unnatural dislike of people who choose to express themselves
politically through the back of their hoopty. But yesterday, I found
myself in a bit of a conundrum.
I was driving back to Michigan from Ohio
along the all too familiar route of US23. Shortly after crossing the
boarder back into our great state (thus allowing me to exhale after
28 hours of holding my breath) I saw something that my blood into the
liquid hot magma of krakatoa herself. There, on the smug SUV in front
me, was a small sticker in the lower left hand corner of the window
that read 'The Ohio State University'. (On a side note, if anyone can
figure out how to type an 'i' without dotting it, please LMK ASAP).
Now having just spent sometime in truck driver country, my immunities
to scarlet and gray were pretty high. You get inundated by it down there,
and eventually you just go numb to it. But this guy was spoiling my
return into God's country. I almost let it go, but then I glanced down
at his license plate, and this douche wasn't someone from Ohio sneaking
north for some clean living, he was from Michigan.
So I again start to imagine my (irrational)
fantasy where I put this dude into the burm Blues Brothers style. And
that's when I noticed the other statement my new nemesis had decided
to make with his unit. There, below the hideous ode to tOSU, was the
Darwin fish. Now I had myself a real quandary. Does the tribute to science
and reason negate, or even outweigh (?!?) the douche baggery that I
had so recently credited to someone who would reside in the great state
of Michigan yet root, nay proclaim love for!, tOSU? Its certainly a
question the philosophers will wrestle with for ages to come. While
I've gone through numerous permutations as to how I should feel about
the situation, my current state of mind is that the guy bought the car
with the Darwin fish already on it, and added the OSU decal himself
later, thus justifying my loathing hatred of everything he stands for.
Let's just hope I don't ever see a Michigan alumni decal next to a 'God
created Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve' sticker. My head may explode.
Posted 1:51pm
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July 1st, 2007
Ernie
Harwell is far from loooooooong gone.
We've talked
quite a bit in the last few weeks and months about the start of
summer and when you know its finally arrived. And while I stand by them
(at least on the principle that if you challenge me on them I'll argue
with you until you admit I'm right) we've never really discussed what
will forever be summer in my mind. Because that as far as I'm concerned,
revolves around a screened in porch, the Moeman's pipe, and Ernie
Harwell.
To avoid going into the tedium of backstories,
I'll assume most of you know the Moeman and his profession as a sportswriter
of neigh these 50 years. This fact lead to my dad spending the majority
of his time consuming sports and information on the whole as I was growing
up. And back in those days, that meant newspapers and AM radio. So during
those lazy hazy days of summer in my youth, the Moses would sit on the
back (screened in) porch of 1006 Westmont and devour half a dozen newspapers,
smoke his pipe and listen to the Tigers on WJR. And given my parents
financially prudent penchant for not turning on the AC, my brother and
I would join him there to play whatever G.I. Joe/Transformer/Lego thing
we were into at the moment, as it was the coolest part of the house.
So as Pavlov would tell you, the smell
of a pipe, the feel of a broadsheet and the voice of Ernie always immediately
take me to the summers of my youth. Perhaps nothing more than the sparse
stylings of Mr. Harwell, and his myriad catchphrases and signature ability
to turn a phrase. Which is why I feel like I stepped right into Mr.
Peabody's wayback machine tonight.
After driving 80 miles south for a quick
hitter in Napoleon to see the family and spend some quality time, I
returned to A2 to find ol' Ern in the booth helping to broadcast ESPN's
Sunday night baseball with the Tigers. And I immediately wondered if
I might be killing of brain cells at too rapid a pace. Because 89 year
old Ernie was as sharp as anyone I'd ever heard pontificate about anything.
His recall of statistics and events was uncanny, and I can only assume
he was 100% right about everything he said.
Before his all too brief guest appearance
in the booth was over, Joe Morgan and John Miller stepped aside and
let Ernie do what he did for 55 years as well as anybody has ever done
- call the game. And I don't care what philosophy you ascribe to, it
was kismet that his final words got to be 'He stood there like the house
by the side of the road and watched it go by,' Because Ernie should
know - no one's sat there and watched more baseball go by than he has.
Posted 9:44pm
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June 29h, 2007
Take
me drunk I'm home.
While I have some devilsihly interesting
thoughts gestating inside my head at the moment, I had five beers at
lunch (who does that?) and thusly am incapable of giving them the literary
justice they deserve. So instead, enjoy these things you can stare at
on the internet:
- Fans of the Will Ferrel short 'The
Landlord', its good news/bad news. Pearl is back! This time as a
no nonsense renegade detective in 'Good
Cop, Baby Cop'. The bad news - she's
retiring.
- Cousin lusting George Michael, late of
Arrested Development, has a pretty funny web show up
and running here. If you like you're comedy like your sherry (very
dry) you might enjoy it. If you hated Arrested Development, go
back to laughing at the dramatic
squirrel.
- Do you love Reno 911! and think
voting apathy is deplorable? Have I got the site
for you.
- I've pretty much liked Aaron Sorkin ever
since I saw A Few Good Men for the first time. That and The
West Wing were pretty much home runs, if not solid stand up triples.
However he's always been more an architect of dialogue rather than a
master plotter in the Hitchcockian sense. There's no better example
of this than his latest cancelled series Studio 60. Great acting
and dialogue, with a plot and storylines that only a mother could love.
Those who missed the whole thing or just the last few episodes they
recently aired after an extended hiatus, can watch
full episodes here.
Posted 2:55pm
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June 28h, 2007
Take
on me...
I can't even look at myself in the mirror
this morning. Last night Ayesha and I were hanging out and for lack
of something better to do, we decided to go up to the bar to participate
in music trivia night. Given that it was just Ayesha and I, hopes didn't
run high that we'd win the thing. While I pride myself on my trivia
prowess (as well as my knowledge of music), Ayesha isn't so much on
the trivia tip. And she's the polar opposite of me when it comes to
competitiveness - which is to say while I've had games of Cranium come
to blows, she has a marked indifference to winning or losing. Put it
all together and we were basically there to have a couple beers and
laugh about the songs I knew all the lyrics to that she didn't even
recognize (often because they came out before she was born).
But a funny thing happened on the way to
half drunk. My semi-encyclopedic knowledge of obscure Peter Cetera songs,
coupled with Ayesha's recall of turn of the century 'booty' music, stood
up better than we thought against the competition. Despite being undermanned,
we somehow managed to squeak into a tie for third place by the end of
the evening. And as it the old maxim goes, all ties must and will be
broken. So it was time for a music nerd showdown of Potsie like proportions.
We were called up to the front where the
host would play one (and only one) song, the first to name that tune
would walk away triumphant. Of course as my old buddy TJ implemented
all those years ago, to
the victor go the spoils, so the quickest wit got a king's ransom
of bar swag, whilst the synaptically challenged went home empty handed.
But I felt good. We'd come this far on smoke and mirrors, surely we'd
be rewarded now that we were so close to snatching victory from the
jaws of defeat.
The song began to play. My mental rolodex
of mid eighties synth pop began spin like a weathervane during a tornado,
as I immediately recognized the time and genre. But it was nondescript.
I began to sing along in my head to frantic beat. I was on cusp. I knew
the giveaway melody was about to enter - I needed to get there before
my opponent. I tried to sing faster but it just wouldn't come. And when
it finally did, I felt wicked stupid. I immediately felt sorry for myself.
I started to picture the classic video, with lead singer Morten
Harket trying to break the confines of his comic book world. How
could this have taken me this long? And as soon as the name began to
slide off my tongue and parse my lips, that's when I heard it. "Take
on Me".
I was too late. While I was busy feeling
stupid and sorry for myself, I had been vanquished. Sucker punched by
a song I've probably heard 500 times. A song that has one of the most
easily identifiable keyboard lines in music history. Stabbed by synthpop!
I walked back to the table a beaten man, cursing that damn Norwegian
band for ever existing. Stupid one hit wonders. I'll never hear that
falsetto 'For a day or twoooooooooooo..' the same again. Damn the persistence
of memory.
Posted 11:15am
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June 27h, 2007
On
blackouts and such (no, not those kind of blackouts)
I
love thunderstorms. As a kid I would sit on our screened in back porch
on stormy summer nights and just take in the rain. Listening to the
barrage of thick, heavy raindrops ('Chubby Rain', as Steve Martin might
call it) was like meditation for me. Or maybe more accurately like one
of those old magic eye pictures. If I relaxed my ears enough, I could
hear the pattern in the drops hitting the earth. Of course it also helped
that my big sister was deathly afraid of thunder and lightning - so
taking joy in her fear was also part of the equation. I on the other
hand, think I felt strangely empowered by the flash and rumble. A good
lightning strike accompanied with a powerful thunder clap can make you
jump a bit, but I think being so close to something so powerful, yet
harbored safely away from it made me feel above nature's fury. Its probably
all well and good I don't live in Florida or New Orleans.
And blackouts are the best. As a kid, not
always so much. All blackouts meant was that you were stuck home with
your parents and had no TV to watch. Now a blackout is like Christmas
come early. Power goes out at 2pm on a Wednesday? There's nothing for
me to do at work, so go home! Blackout at 8pm on a Thursday? Best call
some peoples and throw together an impromptu session of binge drinking!
Blackout at 5am on a Monday? I'm not late for work because I'm hungover,
my alarm clock is just flashing 12:00! So here's hoping the lightning
fairy blows a transformer in your neighborhood - but just long enough
to dig out flashlights and pretend like its the 19th century - not long
enough that you have throw out shit in your freezer that thawed.
Posted 3:09pm
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June 26th, 2007
Old
man take a look at my life...
Its hard to make me feel old anymore.
My son is about to turn 12 and start the seventh grade, so pretty much
everything else pales in comparison. But that wasn't always the case.
Someone recently posted a comment on my myspace account, noting that
I attended high school in 1990, replete with an incredulous exclamation
point. I shrugged it off, as somewhere in my head 1990 doesn't seem
that long ago. When reflecting on things that happened in pop culture
during the 90's, I think of them as happening yesterday, despite the
fact that 1990 was 17 years ago. I'm sure that this is all tied up in
clinging to youth and viewing myself as perpetually somewhere between
the ages of 16 and 24.
But it did get me thinking about the first
few times my age hit me. The first was when I was someone wearing a
varsity jacket with '00' as the year. For some reason when I saw that
for the first time the same incredulous exclamation mark showed up in
my head. The second was when I saw the first Playboy centerfold that
was born in 1980. That one came with a great tinge of sadness. And of
course related to that and even sadder, is when the signs in the bar
that read something to the effect of 'You must be born before this date
to drink alcohol' started to show dates in the 80's. All three were
striking visual reminders that I may not be who they were talking about
anymore when they bitched about 'kids these days.'
And as someone in my *cough* early thirties,
I know I'm not that person anymore. My friends are all married - homeowners
that pop out kids like pez dispensers. I see high school kids hanging
out at the movies and I think 'punks'. I talk to college aged interns
at work and wonder what they must think of me. Because in my mind, I
relate to them more than I do the PhDs in their early forties - despite
the fact that they probably lump me in with them, and probably rightfully
so. But I guess part of me will always see the 90's as not that long
ago, even when somebody who graduated high school in 2000 deems it necessary
to put in an incredulous exclamation mark after it. Maybe that'll change
in 2 years when I have a teenager about to start high school. In all
likelihood my head will explode and it will be a moot point. Either
that or it'll be time to buy a corvette.
Posted 11:15am
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June 25th, 2007
This
just in: Billy Corgan is a huge fucking douche bag
The
other night I was having a long, heated, drunken debate about the temerity
of artists who allow their music to be used in television commercials.
I was trying to make the nuanced point that lower tier artists (say,
Wilco) can not only help to eke out a living by getting paid through
new revenue streams for their music, but help to promote their music
and attract new listeners. Did anyone know about The Postal Service
before they started showing up in commercials everywhere? I'll admit
that they overdid it a tad there, but it is largely responsible for
making their album Give
Up the second biggest selling album in the history of Sub-Pop
(at a mere 650,000 copies) Sure I think it's hideous to hear Zep in
a Cadillac commercial, or for Sting to sit like a pompous ass in the
back of a Jaguar. But Wilco pimping VW? With the death of commercial
radio and the rise of CD pirating, any way Wilco can get their music
out there is fine by me - esp. if its for a product that's (at least
in my mind) less evil than say Microsoft. My friend's counter argument
was that whatever product it is, its a sellout. And Wilco ain't hurtin'
anyway. We agreed to disagree, except on the Sting bit and the fact
that Of
Montreal let Outback Steakhouse rewrite one of their songs. That
should be bile inducing to everyone.
And
so should this be: uber-dork Billy Corgan wants you to go to the
mall. The once and future Smashing Pumpkin is putting out no less than
four (FOUR!) versions of his new Pumpkins album Zeitgeist. This
is a move that only George Lucas could love. There will be different
songs on the copy of the album you buy, depending on where you buy it.
Target, Best Buy, and iTunes will all have 'exclusive' tracks that you
won't be able to buy anywhere else. Those of you trying to support small
,independent record shops, suck it, so sayeth the Pumpkins.
So thanks Billy, for shitting on small
business and trying to make your devoted fans buy your new album four
(FOUR!) times. Normally I don't (publicly) endorse using the power of
the internets for lawlessness or copyright infringement, but if you
still think you want to hear this d-bag's latest opus, become one with
the power of the bittorrent.
Posted 11:18pm
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June 22nd, 2007
Keep
that up and you'll go blind
Any cop or lawyer will tell you - there's
nothing less accurate than an eye witness account. Turns out our brains
ain't so good at remembering things as they actually happened. And of
course any quantum physicist will readily remind you that by observing
an even you inherently change it. I was reminded last night about how
our terrible memories, along with 'observing' events over time in our
own heads, really disproves the maxim that hindsight is 20/20.
A few weeks back I was having drinks with
a female friend who was relating the events of a recent first date that
went impossibly well. There was great chemistry, he said the right things
and my friend was one smitten kitten. He even called the next day, verifying
for her that they were on the same page. Cut to two weeks later when
my friend and I again are out to imbibe and swap stories. When we sat
down and the headline wasn't about the intervening two weeks with the
new Mr. Wonderful, I figured she'd buried the lead. But when I eventually
got around to asking about the guy, history had been somewhat rewritten.
Turns out that after the next day phone
call from Mr. Wonderful (post first date), he was never heard from again.
And Mr. Wonderful had become Senior Asshole. And suddenly, I was being
relayed a different account of the first date that originally went impossibly
well. Now there were signs. Things that were originally cute and endearing
were now signs and precursors for someone who would call the next day
and then disappear into the ether.
And I don't want to insinuate in any way
that I feel my friend was duped or played - there's a million different
scenarios for what happened and given that she never heard from the
guy again, we'll never be sure what actually went down. But for our
purposes, that's neither here nor there. The point is that the perfect
night had become something drastically different in a span of a fortnight.
The event was being viewed in hindsight both times, but intervening
events had changed the flavor of what went down. Things that were ignored
were suddenly prescient and quirky behavior had become the tenets of
an asshole. Keep in mind that nothing that actually happened that night
had changed in the fabric of space time, just how this person viewed
it.
Theoretically, we could find out tomorrow
that Mr. Wonderful/Senior Asshole was kidnapped by militant Uzbekis
and upon his return from captivity his first call would be to my friend
he dicked over and suddenly he'd have a whole new moniker of Captain
Sympathetic. And the impossibly good/I should have known first date
would be back to the former. Thus is history always in a state of flux.
Unless you can get your hands on a Delorean with the optional flux capacitor,
the events won't change. But how you remember them will. All we can
hope for is that revisions work in our favor, and we can fondly remember
people and events as better than they were. Take it from an old pro
- alcohol can greatly improve the chances of this happening. Just don't
expect to make your eye witness account any more credible.
- Your boner inducing moment of the day
- the first
official pic of Harrison Ford back in the saddle as Indiana Jones.
Let me year long erection begin.
- I don't necessarily have a problem with
Republicans, conservatives, or anyone who has beliefs that differ from
my own. But I think that we all can agree that no one likes a hypocrite.
Which is why I overly enjoyed this
smackdown of fucktard extraordinaire Bill O'Reilly. Seriously, what
a douche.
Posted 11:22am
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June 21st, 2007
My
eyes are up here!
There's a study
recently published that found that women were more likely than men
to stare directly at the crotchal region when viewing nude photos of
the opposite sex. The long and short of it is that women spend more
time on the dong, while dudes spend more time looking at the face. This
is seemingly counterintuitive, at least superficially, as we'd assume
the opposite to be true (with the guys jumping up and down yelling 'Boobies
Boobies! Boobies!' all the while). But researchers hypothesize that
women go straight for the junk because its an immediate barometer for
whether or not the guy is 'in the mood', whereas guys are trying to
glean any speck of info they can from say, a raised eyebrow.
Which when you put it that way, makes perfect
sense. Like most guys, I have to be some weird amalgam of Sherlock Holmes,
James Bond and the Hubble telescope to figure out if a girl is interested
in me. Did she lean in to hear me or was that a sign? Did she mean to
just touch my arm? She took a drink at the same time I did, what does
that mean again? Now I get that its not (always) as easy for women as
looking for an erection, but let's admit that the playing field isn't
exactly level either.
In my single life, I've been in the position
where women were supposedly throwing themselves at me and I had no fucking
clue. Naturally I've also been utterly convinced that a woman was dying
for me to make a move only to be completely rebuffed. The hope is that
as we get older we get better at reading the signs, and ideally learn
to take rejection so that when we're wrong we're not devastated. But
forgive me if I still hold out for someone to discover the female equivalent
of an erection.
Posted 10:40am
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June 20th, 2007
Whistlin'
Zip-a-dee Doo Da out our assholes.
I
am not well traveled. Not because I don't like to travel, quite the
opposite is true. I've road tripped to Boston, make bi-monthly trips
to Chicago and Vegas annually beckons me and my high school friends.
I've visited my brother when he lived in places like Arkansas and Minnesota,
and friends in places as godforsaken as Orlando, FL. I once even got
to see Michigan win a National Championship in Pasadena, CA. Unfortunately,
that more or less encapsulates my travel experience.
Growing up, we didn't go on vacation. Once
we went to Chicago with my dad as he attended the Big Ten Football meetings.
Another time some friends of my parents invited us to Hilton Head, SC.
And that's all she wrote. Every other year, our vacation was a trip
90 minutes East to Cedar Point. Not that I'm complaining - between that
and Mud Hen's games I never really knew I was missing anything. But
it didn't exactly instill a sense wonder for the exploring this great
land of ours either.
One thing it did provide is a sense of
wonder for the open road. I was 22 before I set foot on a commercial
airliner, so anytime we went anywhere growing up it was in the back
of the stationwagon (and later a conversion van). Now when I dream of
getting away, my mind turns to hoping behind the wheel and driving 8
hours in any one direction to find something semi-interesting and most
importantly, different from my everyday life.
As it stands, I haven't had a real vacation
in about 18 months. Just as I'm sure was true for my dad when I was
growing up, work, family and finances don't exactly permit me to hop
on a flight to anywhere and spend a weekend dining out, staying in hotels
and taking in shows and ballgames. And as I seem to be in a state of
arrested development while my friends around me are growing up, travel
partners are becoming a problem as well. But I feel like I need to get
away. I don't know where I want to go. I'm not sure who I want to go
with. But something is compelling me to get in my car and drive. I have
no idea when I'll find time to do this or where I'll end up, but maybe
I'll get a blog entry or two out of it. Hey look! I just did.
Posted 11:10am
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June 18th, 2007
The
audacity of hope.
Hope is a wonderful thing. The promise
of something wonderful happening is what keeps us going on those days
when things look their bleakest. Mind you hope isn't much without some
action behind it to get things moving in your favor, but its still great
conceptually - esp. for the things that are beyond your control. Like
say, I hope the teams I like win most of their games (or in Michigan
football's case, all of there games). I also hope I get a big raise
at work, but that's something largely in my control, so we should try
and keep away hope from such endeavors and concentrate on the actions
that eliminate the need for it.
The reason I bring it up is that hope isn't
always positive. In fact, and maybe this is me, but hope can denigrate.
In fact, in the two specific instances I'm thinking of, hope is down
right condescending. Its almost always that way when someone says one
of these things to you:
- I hope its worth it.
- I hope it makes you happy.
If you're unlucky enough to hear either
of these phrases, the person saying it to you neither thinks that 'it'
will make you happy nor be worth it. Its a backhanded way of saying
'You know you're wrong. I think you're doing something stupid. If you'd
stop to think about it, you'd reach the same conclusions.'
Now I'm self-aware enough to realize that
this a sentiment that needs to be imparted to me from time to time.
But please, if you find me in a situation where I'm about to do something
dumbfounding, don't try and stop me by saying 'I hope its worth.' It
will assuredly only embolden me to press onward. Because if you can't
do better than a condescending 'I hope it makes you happy', than I may
proceed on spite alone. Trust me, whatever it is you're trying to warn
me about, I've done worse. For stupider reasons. I know that in the
end, I'll still come out all right. And that knowledge is worth an avalanche
of hope.
Posted 4:31pm
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June 17th, 2007
Who
is your daddy?
I don't want to get overly sentimental
or philosophical about parenting - I feel like I do that enough around
here. But I do want to give props to all the dad's I know out there.
As a parent, I always tell people that the worst part is having to deal
with other parents. But luckily, most of the dads I know are top notch.
They're old school dad's who recognize the importance
of teaching their kids to be independent thinkers, while making sure
the boys are tough and the girls are princesses. Some may call that
a little outmoded, but a dad's gotta do what dad's do. We're not the
one they run to first when they scuff their knees, but we can teach
them to throw a ball and when to bluff at poker and to stay away from
guys who drive trans ams - and those are the things that in the end
will get them through the day.
- There's some new content around the site.
Well, ok two little things. A marquee pic from the Pig was added to
the 'Marquee Pics' section, and there's an obit over at mgovan.com.
Bring your kleenex.
Posted 8:28pm
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June 15th, 2007
Is
it name dropping if no one recognizes the name?
Last night marked the triumphant return
of tbaggervance.com's most famous friends, the band Taproot.
They were playing a warm up gig at the Blind
Pig as they prepare to play some summer festivals and finish up
their latest opus. Its always weird to tell people about 'my friends
in this band'. Sometimes people look at you like 'how are they famous
if I've never heard of them?' and other times they think you're lying,
because there's no way you know people that cool. That's when I get
to tell stories about living with Jarod for three years, knowing Phil
before he knew how to play the bass, and seeing Steve get drunk and
stumble around my apartment well before he hit 21. Now they're rock
stars and I occasionally get to seem cool because I have their phone
numbers. It helps that I like their music, because even if I was best
friends with the guys in Rascal
Flats, I don't think I'd mention it to a soul.
- Spoon's new (kick ass) album is streaming
over at gagagagaga.net
- The White Stripes new album 'Icky Thump'
is rocking
out here.
- In an unrelated note, venerable indie
publisher McSweeneys is having
a fire sale. Turns out they got dicked over by a distributor and
need to raise some quick cash. So go buy something, its a win-win.
Posted 3:03pm
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June 14th, 2007
The
TiVolution will be televised, but feel free to watch it at your convenience.
We
talked a
while back about the summer being the doldrums of the television
schedule - with a dearth quality programming available to you, the viewing
public. And while I'm not about to change my status (regardless of how
awesome you think Hell's Kitchen is) there are some gems to be
mined from the vast wasteland of summer programming. As always, we here
at tbaggervance.com suggest you set your DVR
(preferably your TiVo
if you're hip) and watch these when your hungover on Saturday or Sunday
morning, rather than make these appointment television.
- The long awaited Robot
Chicken episode of Star Wars airs this Sunday. It doesn't
get much nerdier than this, but those in the tbaggervance.com target
demo should giggle with glee repeatedly at Luke Skywalker is gay jokes.
- I watched this
premier episode of the new HBO comedy show Flight of the Conchords
and laughed repeatedly. As a rule, HBO does comedy with a consistency
of quality unparalleled in tv history, so I obviously have high hopes
for continued hilarity here. Plus, its the dude from those old
Outback commercials, which I at least snickered at.
- Tomorrow is the final Bob Barkered episode
of The Price is Right. This
article speaks pretty well to the shows calming impact and regenerative
properties. Sick
days will truly never be the same. I only wish I had a pet to spay
or neuter tomorrow in honor of Bob's 35 years of public service.
- Finally, few premises are more of a home
run than Triumph the insult comic dog. And while Triumph
making fun of the Star Wars nerds will never be topped, Triumph
at the Tonys makes a strong case for number 2... for me to poop
on.
Posted 2:22pm
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June 12th, 2007
Pop
culture through osmosis.
I've seen half an episode of Survivor.
I watched American Idol for about a month (5 years into the show's
history). It took me four years to watch my first episode of 24.
I don't know that I've ever heard a Justin Timberlake song in its entirety
and I assure you, I've never seen something from The Fast and the
Furious franchise. And despite these lapses in my viewing or listening
database, all of these phenomenon still managed to find their way into
my lexicon.
The permeation of pop culture into are
daily lives has become polysaturated. With the rise of channels like
E! and VH1 (along with syndicated staples like Entertainment Tonight
and Extra!) there are as many shows about these entities as there
are entities themselves. Couple that with venues that consider themselves
actual news organizations who spend an inordinate amount of time on
entertainment related ventures and voila! You have pop culture through
osmosis.
The most recent example of this is Sunday
night's series finale of the Sopranos. I watched about a season
and a half of this show about 4 years ago. Through apathy and the cable
company taking away my free HBO, I stopped watching. Yet somehow, I
didn't. I knew when the show was up and when it was down. I knew when
somebody got popped, and who was talking to the feds about what. All
without ever seeing an episode. Which is why I didn't have to run for
zee hills today and try to avoid the omnipresent spoilers everywhere,
just in case I wanted to go back and actually watch the rest of the
series on DVD at a later date, with surprises intact. There's no need.
I've already experienced it.
Which is why I know about the gay guy who
won the first Survivor, and his crotchety old nemesis. I know
about Taylor Hick's Soul Patrol and Jack Bauer's daughter's incident
with the cougar. I know who's bringing sexy back and that Vin Diesel
is a tool. All without ever having to experience any of it for more
than five minutes. Is this a positive thing? I'm not sure. In the case
of things like American Idol, its a resounding yes. For I can
be 'in the know' as its discussed by the mouth breathers around me without
having to actually endure watching the show. But quality programming
like the Sopranos? I'm probably missing something by not being
able to get away from it. My faux-experience is tainting any real one
I could ever hope to have with the show, which puts me a little worse
for wear. But as long as this osmosis thing keeps me in the loop without
having to watrch people make asses of themselves on reality TV, I say
my brain is a sponge, ready to be soaked.
Posted 4:16pm
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June 8th, 2007
That's
not what I meant when I said 'suck it' Ms. Hilton.
I
normally wouldn't waste my breath talking about Paris Hilton, as I feel
the mere utterance of her name contributes to her continued status as
America's #1 celebutard. (Let's be honest, giving a good blow job qualifies
you for dinner, maybe jewelry - not fame and fortune). But this is too
good to pass up.
The quick breakdown - Paris Hilton violates
parole - twice. Is sentenced to to 30 some days in jail. After serving
3 days, is released and relegated to house arrest. And then some judge
(apparently hoping to gain King Shit of Fuck Mountain© status)
stood up and said 'Not
on my watch'. He dragged her ass kicking and screaming (literally)
back to court and told her to get her skank ass back behind bars. She
sat there, cried and asked for her mother. Too fucking sweet.
Paris pretty much embodies everything I
loathe. She walks around with a sense of entitlement, she seems to have
an aversion to any kind of pursuit of knowledge, and she's ridicalously
famous for doing nothing. Which is why this is such sweet, sweet karmic
justice. I hope she gets the shit beat out of her repeatedly. And I
hope that when she gets out, she decides to stay out of the public eye.
Forever. But I'm not holding my breath. As for me, I'm officially going
back to refusing to mention her, even as a punch line. I'll do my part.
Will you do yours?
Posted 3:34pm
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June 7th, 2007
5
innocuous things that are making me happy in and around the present moment.
- I managed to know
a preponderance of these words, which always makes me feel good
about myself. Its good to be able to appropriately express oneself when
some loquacious asshole is making you lugubrious.
- I know a lot of you are entertained by
the ol' bloggy blog (albeit mildly) and in return, I've never asked
for anything. But if you really loved me, you'd buy
me a bracelet made out of Ben Gibbard's old guitar string. Its only
a measly $100 (and it goes to charity!)
- As a pragmatist, I'm not one to usually
lead the charge of 'keep hope alive!'. But as Lloyd Christmas once said
'So
you're sayin' there's a chance...'
- I'm pretty sure that Jack White sold
his soul to the devil a few years back to become the baddest guitar
player alive. So I'm ecstatic that rumors are circulating that their
new album has made
its way into the ether. What more do you want out of an album title
than Icky Thump?
- Kevin Smith is attempting to put his
View Askewniverse to bed (again). But I'm generally excited about a
movie called Zack
and Miri Make a Porno. Its gotta be better than Jersey Girl,
right?
Posted 4:04pm
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June 6th, 2007
The
number of the beast
Like most guys, I'm horrible at remembering
dates. Birthdays, anniversaries, you name it - I'll eventually forget
it from time to time. Well, not as much anymore I guess. Thanks to the
ubiquitous Palm pilot, I get yearly reminders when people's birthdays
are, so I have no excuse to ever forget. It doesn't help so much for
things like '6 month anniversary of our first date' because there's
no way I'm ever typing that into my Palm. And as you can guess, I'm
not much for celebrating the 6 month anniversary of our first date to
begin with, no matter how much chicks dig on that stuff.
But before Palm pilots there was nothing
but the firing of neurons between your ears to remind you when birthdays
were. We
talked awhile back about birthdays that fall on holidays and how
its great because they're easy to remember. Its also great when you
get 'double ups' - two occasions on the same date. My nephew and father
have the same birthday, so, you know, one less date to remember. But
even better are dates that need remembering that have some sort mnemonic
device that make them unforgettable.
My dear sister has the greatest birthday
of all. She was born on 6/6/66. Which is why I know that today, my sister
is 41 (41!) It seems like just yesterday I was dragging her out into
the street and locking her out of the house so that I could have control
of the TV (true story). So happy birthday Teeny. Your my favorite person
that I've never seen drink (minus that wine cooler in 1987). Loveyameanit.
Posted 3:11pm
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June 5th, 2007
Denouncing
the arbitrary and capricious
I feel like the worst is yet to come. The
shit has yet to really hit the fan, so to speak. George W. Bush is certainly
an awful, awful president. An ideologue unable to admit failure, have
a nuanced policy or change a position to fit circumstance. He's hijacked
the Republican party, along with the religious right, to the point that
I can't even find the ideals of that party that I once respected anymore.
But I digress, because the worst is yet to come.
When W was re-elected (really? I'm stil
lshaking my head at that) I ran around like chicken little trying to
warn people what he was going to do to the US court system. I'll never
understand why a party that believes in state's rights, smaller government
and personal responsibility wants to be all up in my business when it
comes to civil liberties. Anyway, W's been appointing these ass fucks
to lifetime positions of power everywhere, and we should all be afraid.
There. I've said it again. Be ready for my 'I told you so'.
But apparently, not yet. The US court of
appeals just told
the FCC to go fuck themselves, calling the FCC's indecency policy
'arbitrary and capricious'. Hooray logic and reason! The FCC's policy
is based on complaints. Which means that stations get fined because
a small group of religious people with no lives go looking for shows
where people say 'blow job' and 'asshole' and then call the FCC. Does
that make sense to anyone? Because it doesn't to me. And this is without
going into the argument of what actually is indecent (because I have
a feeling my definition might be different than yours). I don't think
that full frontal nudity is necessarily appropriate for 9pm on NBC,
nor should Dr. House go around telling patients to 'Fuck Off.' But I
also don't think that Oprah can have show where she discusses sexual
habits of teenagers and bandies about terms like 'rim job' and nobody
says boo, yet Howard Stern is fined millions for saying 'penis'. I long
for a day where we can all be adults and realize that bad words and
sexuality exist, and that if you prepare yourself and your children
for it, nobody is going to get hurt. Now go fuck yourselves.
- This list of the '20
Best 'That Guys' of All Time' made me laugh. That'll do pig.
Posted 11:11am
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June 3rd, 2007
Wormer...
dead! Niedermeyer... dead! Charles Nelson Reilly...
I'm
a tad late on this, but it really hit home for me today. I woke up rather
early for a Saturday (9:30ish) and schlepped out to the couch to find
some mindless tv entertainment. I scrolled through the channels looking
for anything mildly interesting to veg out on.
I got nervous when I had hit channel 170 without finding anything to
satisfy my idiosyncratic tastes. That's when I came upon Saturday hangover
heaven - a day long salute to Charles Nelson Reilly on the Game Show
Network.
And of course when I say day long salute
I'm referring to 12 straight hours of Match Game - the iconic program
that brought Mr. Reilly's wit and personality into the public consciousness.
To me its not as surprising that Charlie was an overt and obvious gay
man on the most popular daytime show of an era where its an understatement
to call homosexuality taboo, but rather that how much it was no big
deal. It really seemed that everyone was in on the joke and OK with
it. I guess I'd assume that he'd be the butt of most of that type of
humor, but apparently his wit and demeanor were able to overcome something
that, to this day, makes a shit ton of people uncomfortable.
But let us not focus on the fact that CNR
was gay. Or that somehow, after we've managed to push the bar for what's
allowable on TV to unimaginable levels from where it was 30 years ago,
Match Game still seems bawdy and hilarious. Let's take note that its
so lamentable at how shows like Match Game and specials like the Dean
Martin Roasts don't exist anymore.
Match Game was a party. You can always
tell in the first five minutes of watching a Match Game rerun whether
it originally appeared at the beginning of the week or at the end. The
shows at the end of the week were always better, because everyone was
wasted. Match Game would film a week's worth of episodes in a day, and
as the celebrity panel imbibed throughout the taping of the shows, things
got looser and funnier as the day went on. And that's what made Match
Game work - it was people with great rapport hanging out and trying
to make each other laugh.
To remake Match Game now, you'd find B
list celebs showing up to plug their latest project and everyone would
be out for number one. It'd be filled with reality TV stars and up and
coming starlets with zero personality. In short, it would suck. Even
now, when Comedy Central has its roasts, its not people who hang out
with each other off the set getting drunk and trying to make each other
laugh, its low rent comedians auditioning to get casted in some shitty
sitcom. The camaraderie isn't there and it shows.
So tbaggervance.com salutes you Mr. Reilly
- master of the double entendre, skewerer of Brett Summers, and wearer
of the neckerchief. You're an icon and thanks to GSN, you'll live for
ever. Just thinking about you makes me want to BLANK.
Posted 11:05am
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June 2nd, 2007
Peter
Parker: NASCAR driver
I
love movies. The Moeman's encyclopedic knowledge of film when I was
growing up set the bar pretty high, and I've been trying to catch up
ever since (incidentally, Moeman the movie buff is probably responsible
for my music snobbery and overall penchant for wanting to know everything
and always wanting to be right. Thanks dad?) Of course at some
point I eschewed Daddy Moe's populist taste for one more, let's say
esoteric.
Which isn't to say I don't love me some
summer blockbusters. I am still a comic book geek after all. And when
you can pull off a great popcorn movie that still tells a great story,
the hair on my arm stands on end. The first two Spider-man movies, the
last James Bond, all 3 Indiana Jones movies - I love these movies every
bit as much as I love a film by Almodavar
or Wong
Kar-wai. But after seeing a pair of fairly disappointing sequels
in the last month, its apparent to me that summer movies have gone the
way of NASCAR.
If I had the time and wherewithal, I'd
extend this argument to all summer blockbusters (and films costing more
than $100 million in general) and cast stones at the likes of Michael
Bay and Jerry
Bruckheimer for ruining my life. Hell, I suppose I'd have to take
an apologetic shot at George
and Stephen
too. But since I don't want this to turn into actual work, let's refine
out argument to sequels - especially since I'm still reeling from the
three hours (3 hours!) I spent watching Pirates 3.
People watch NASCAR for two basic reasons.
One is that they find a driver to root for and stick with him. As a
sport, NASCAR realized a few years back that their bread is buttered
by the fans who root for a single driver. As such, they've done a great
job of making these guys personable and accessible. The merchandising
alone boggles the mind. Your average NASCAR driver identifies with his
'hero' and views all other drivers as the enemy. Its a real us against
the world thing that keeps fans following the sport week to week, despite
the fact that, let's be honest, its dudes making left hand turns for
5 hours.
The other reason people watch is the high
potentiality for mayhem. At 200mph, anything could happen and often
does. I don't want to insinuate that people wait for cars to crash,
but when they do, its a spectacle, and anyone who says they don't enjoy
it is trying to be politically correct (and lying to your face).
Unfortunately, this business model has
been adapted whole hog by the sequel industry. Give the people their
heroes in the same old costumes and situations we've seen them in before
and wait for the spectacle to ensue. The story? We'll get to it if we
have time. Just don't disappoint anyone by not giving them what they
expect. And oh yeah, don't forget the merchandising.
As studio's bottom lines become more and
more dependent on these tentpole movies that can makes or break them
with every outing, we're unlikely to see things revert to a place where
storytelling is king. Take the Matrix trilogy for example. The
first film was a triumph of storytelling and effects, that became a
phenomenon by word of mouth. By the time the sequels rolled around,
the budgets and egos became bloated, and all we were left with was a
convoluted crap bag of an impossible to follow story with some pretty
fighting. Eck.
So while I hold out hope that Live Free
or Die Hard has the wit and witticism of the first flick, I'm not
holding my breath. Thanks to There's Something About Mary, the
other staple of summer is the irreverent comedy. And thankfully you
can still make those movies on a shoestring budget where directors are
given freer reign to follow their artistic vision, rather than making
sure somebody blows something up every 20 minutes. Let's hope that Knocked
Up lives up to the hype, otherwise I'll be looking for redemption
from Transformers. God help me Moeman, God help us all.
Posted 12:01am
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June 1st, 2007
The
power of not thinking.
Last fall was a magical time. The universe
seemed to align and things opened themselves up to me in what can only
be described as an embarrassment of riches. Its documented
in
the
bloggy
blog.
Pretty much everything seemed to go right and
I was receiving things I didn't even know I wanted that were making
my unbelievable life even better. And I attributed it all to the power
of not thinking.
You see, I'm a tad neurotic. Like most
people, I tend to overthink things. And then I play out these disastrous
scenarios in my head that keep me from taking action, thus paralyzing
me and keeping from getting what I want. Yes, that's a shit ton of hyperbole,
but you get the point. At some point early last September, I made a
conscious decision to not be that way. To make decisions based on what
I felt I wanted in the moment without trying to consider too many of
the consequences. To assume things would work out and not try and plan
escape scenarios for when they didn't. In short, I decided to not think.
And by at least the correlational evidence,
it worked. I espoused the theory to those around me, encouraging them
to stop thinking, and just enjoy. And we were all happy, frolicking
through a land of milk and honey. And then my dormant brain became antsy.
It begged to be involved. ("Father, the sleeper has awakened.")
And before you knew it, the thinking began to creep back in. It was
inevitable I suppose. You can't not think forever. But it snuck up on
me. In hindsight, I didn't even realize I had started to think again.
I guess old habits die hard. But before you knew it, Michigan was losing
to Ohio State and my life began its slow descent back to baseline.
Which, not to be conceited, is still pretty
good. But it was like having super powers for a while. And I didn't
realize that they were slowly fading away until they were all but gone.
I had forgotten my mantra and the privileges it had provided me. Until,
of course, I was reminded.
Last night I was brought back into the
fold of not thinking. I remembered what it can provide and the doors
it can open. I was born again. So with people leaving the state, more
babies on the way and the constant coupling of my remaining single friends,
I'm ready to embrace my inner nothingness. I may not catch lightning
in a bottle twice, but it should minimally produce some good stories.
And what am I good for if not drunken anecdotes?
Posted 10:55am
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May 31st, 2007
5
innocuous things that are making me happy in and around the present moment.
- Knocked
Up comes out tomorrow, after what seems like months of waiting.
I hope that I'm not setting myself up for the proverbial disappoint
via expectations. But what I'm equally excited about, is this new redband
(read: NSFW)
trailer for Superbad,
a movie by a lot of the same guys. I predict that it will make the world
finally realize how much the American Pie movies sucked hairy
asshole.
- I swear to christ I had
this conversation with someone this past week about Griffey/Bonds,
proving once and for all that The Onion should hire me.
- My favorite Detroit rock club the Magic
Stick has made this
list of best places to see a show in the USA. And there's this
interesting list of great songs from bad albums, which looking at,
should piss off very few people.
- The schedule
for Top of the Park in Ann Arbor is finally up. It looks like the
best nights will find me otherwise engaged, so that's disappointing.
Although I anticipate that the Buddha will asking to be 'dropped off'
here to join the rest of the degenerate punks who hang out at places
like this.
- Most of you know how I feel about Phil
Fulmer. (He's one fat fuck.) And now he's taking
pot shots at Michigan. I'd love to punch him in the balls, but I
think I'd be too tired after lifting up his belly to get to them.
Posted 4:44pm
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May 30th, 2007
Come
sit on Uncle Drunky's lap...
Memorial day weekend serves as an unofficial
kickoff to the summer. Not for me mind you, as regular readers are well
aware of my summer precursors. But the public at large seems to kick
off the summer lifestyle by breaking out the shorts, grills and beers
the last weekend in May.
Of course far be it from me to not oblige
social conventions, therefore it was incumbent upon me to partake in
the grilling, the lounging, and of course, the drinking. So I saw a
lot of family, lots of friends, and it became painfully clear over the
weekend that life as I know it is slowly dwindling away.
I made a joke at some point early in the
weekend about every one of my friends who is married has either given
birth in the past year or is currently pregnant. Not technically true,
but close enough to elicit a 'huh.' And over the weekend one of my friends
had a baby, and another announced that they were pregnant. Huh.
Monday I hung out with some very good friends
and their two kids. We had fun enjoying the only great weather of the
weekend. I commented on how everyone was procreating like they needed
to repopulate the earth. They quipped that all that means is that I
get to be 'Uncle Drunky' to a lot more kids.
So for some reason all of my friends seemingly
collectively decided that it was time to grow up. And I'm here to tell
everyone that I am not ready.. Ayesha is leaving for browner
greener pastures in July, and I told her that my greatest fear is that
she'll leave, and then all my single friends will decide to get married,
and all my married friends who enjoy going out will have kids, and I'll
be all alone. I'm just not ready to be the sad old guy at the end of
the bar who the kids point at and wonder 'what is he doing here?'
And yes, one could argue I'm already that
guy. Fuck off. I'm not ready to stop living like every night is quarter
draft night and I don't have class the next day. But I'm also not ready
to do it alone. So I implore you - if you've yet to tie the knot, consider
picking a fight with your significant other and meeting your old buddy
baggervance at the bar. And you - married guy who still comes out to
the bar with alarming frequency - wear a condom. Uncle Drunky is asking
you to stay away from jewelry stores and wrap it up. Is that too much
to ask?
Posted 4:44pm
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May 24th, 2007
The
rise of the txt message.
There's a lot of shit that runs round
your head at the end of a relationship. Most of it can be covered by
your Rhino 'Slow Jams' box set. As such, I'll stay away from quoting
Spoon lyrics in an attempt to convey my pain. But usually after a significant
relationship, certain things stick out in your life that you realize
are remnants of that person. Things that weren't there before and are
now pervasive. With Ayesha, the residue is glaring - I've become a txt
messenger.
Txt messages were one of the first thing
to ever make me feel old. I can't remember when thumb typing started
to appear in the wild, but it was obvious that it whenever it was that
I noticed it, it was being done my those much younger than I. I'm not
sure if I was pissed because I thought they were being rude, or because
I didn't have anybody to txt myself. Let's be honest, its invaluable
to be able to remove yourself from a boring conversation and have a
better one by whipping out your phone and typing.
Which I learned very early on by dating
someone 7 years my junior. Ayesha and I communicated to the point of
ridicuosity via txt messages. I quickly became the person I previously
loathed - squirming my way out of boring conversations by whipping out
my phone and attempting to find interesting interaction. Fortunately,
txting has blown up and most of my friends are not immune to the occasional
message. Stov will txt me to tell me to "turn it to channel 62" or Boike
will make long-distance fun of Brady Quinn as he huffs his way through
his free-falling draft status. All good stuff. But the pervasiveness
of the txting is likely to fall like an erection when your mom walks
into the room. No more expecting txts every few hours (minimum) and
no more txting while I'm actually having a good time. It'll be awkward,
but what about things right now isn't?
Posted 7:27pm
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May 23rd, 2007
3
to make you giggle, one to make you horny.
-
Bob Odenkirk was one of the geniuses behind the seminal sketch comedy
program Mr. Show. He also just happens to be the original purveyor
of the phrase 'King Shit of Fuck Mountain©.' That alone
should be enough for you to check
out his new web series . Anyone who ever let
slip an 'I love you' can really commiserate on this week's episode.
- I know of a few teachers who read this
here bloggy blog, and let me say I love you. I paraphrase something
I heard once somewhere by saying that I think schools should be palaces
and you should be paid like doctors (I also think that, like police
and fireman, you shouldn't be able to strike - hence the incredibly
bitter picture to your right that's sat on my desk since 1994, but that's
another story for another day). ANYWAY, this McSweeneys
article really made me laugh, and I though of all of you teachers
out there fighting the good fight. Keep your chins up.
- What's more ironic about images
of dead rock iconoclasts Kurt Cobain, Joe Strummer, Joey Ramone
and Sid Vicious being used to sell shoes? That they're all anti-corporate
guys who would piss on these ads or that if any of them even believed
in heaven, they all knew they weren't headed there?
- Dane Cook is not funny. I'm fairly sure
that you can walk into any crowded bar on a Friday night and find one
gregarious guy that will make you laugh harder than Dane Cook. In fact,
I think Dane Cook probably was a guy like that, and just started to
write down all of his and other people's stories and turned them into
an act. That's not good stand up to me, but I guess whatever floats
your boat. My point is that this poster of Dane getting a hummer can't
impugn my enjoyment of what's above it: Miss Jessica Alba looking
so hot she's getting sticky. I'll always love you Jess, no matter
how dumb you probably are in real life or how many bad movies you make.
Call me.
Posted 3:11pm
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May 22nd, 2007
Please
allow me to bring you out of your comfort zone.
There's a lot of disturbing shit
on the internet. Here's some things that will make you huh?, wha? and
d'oh!
- I don't know that I've ever been 'scared'
of Lindsay Lohan's vajayjay, but let's just say I always knew I wouldn't
want to come across it in a darkened alley. Turns out I woefully
underestimated things. Be afraid... be very afraid.
- Christians can get real scary real fast
for me - even the supposedly 'normal' ones. But anyone not at least
scratching their heads over these
nut jobs probably has a screw loose themselves. And not to get into
a theological argument, but how does one interpret the bible and leave
out the 'Love thy neighbor' bit?
- I can't remember if I mentioned this
on the bloggy blog or not (and I'm too lazy right now to check) but
I recently watched the last Rocky sequel (titled Rocky
Balboa) and it was pretty good. I found it almost believable
and nostalgically enjoyable. But it in no way erased my skepticism for
the upcoming Rambo installment (titled John
Rambo - notice a pattern?) My
fears are realized in this clip. For those of you who think this
isn't worth watching, what if I were to tell you that 2 minutes in Sly
PUNCHES A GUY'S HEAD OFF. I shit you not.
- Who doesn't love greedy bastards? Especially
when they're greedy corporations. Well, the RIAA wants
money from radio stations for playing music. If that isn't ridonkulous
enough for you, read the
Onion's account of this debate, dated 2002. Thanks Fark
for the links.
Posted 10:20am
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May 21st, 2007
And
like that, poof! They're gone...
We've all made colossolly stupid and expensive
mistakes that happen in a tenth of second. Sometimes
you pull out of the driveway too quickly and its some expensive body
work on your car. Others you don't pull out at all and its some painful
work on your body via penicillin. In any case, by the time you realize
you made the mistake - whether careless or stupid or both - its too
late to do anything about it. Which is what happened to me Saturday.
I had traveled down to Lake Erie for a day of trolling around the lake
on my friends boat. We are at the dock prepping the boat for our departure,
and I lean over to place the cooler into the boat. That's when I hear
'Sploosh' and I knew before I looked that I was fucked. I stared below
to see my glasses, that had been hanging on the neck of my shirt, sinking
to the bottom of the Lake. And given the temperature of the water and
what I was likely going to have to search through on the weedy bottom,
any idea of rescue was immediately abandoned. So my dumb ass is out
one very expensive set of glasses. Thank Christ for insurance - it should
take most of the sting out of dropping a few hundred bucks into the
lake. And of course the great irony - completely and utterly sober.
I guess every story doesn't have to start with 'So we were having a
few drinks...'
- Last week we had a quick Tecmo update.
In Quid pro quo fashion, here's a great RBI
Baseball update. It also includes a link to play
the game online. I tried it - its not nearly as fun as holding the
old school NES controller in your hand, drunk, sitting next to Stov
while he tries to take Doyle Alexander the distance. Now that's how
RBI was meant to be played.
Posted 4:04pm
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May 18th, 2007
Are
you reelin in the years?
It took me a long time to warm up to Bill
Clinton. It wasn't hard to see from the flop that he was a smarmy charmer,
and all that time he wasted on universal healthcare really pissed me
off. But in don't know what you got till its gone fashion, turns out
he was a pretty good president. Not perfect, but when major criticisms
start with 'liberal' and 'blow job', its not hard to see how things
could be worse (as most people usually like one of the aforementioned).
But unlike some blinded by the light dems
out there, I in no way want a Hillary Clinton nomination, much less
a presidency. I'm not sure what people think they'll be getting with
her. I know there are probably some that are enamored with a woman president
and others who equate electing Hillary as reelecting Bill. But I'm here
to tell you that both of those are stupid reasons to vote for someone.
I'll spare you the policy debate, and just say if you're a dem, look
into Barack Obama.
And should you be one of those republican types, please don't even consider
anyone who'd raise their hand when asked 'Which
of you doesn't believe in evolution?' (or Mitt Romney for that matter).
So if you're like me and are blanching
at the thought of having Hillary Clinton represent your party of choice,
or you're like my friends Boike and Stov and just have a justifiable
hatred of the woman, know is the time to express yourself creatively.
Turns out Ms. Clinton is having her constituents pick
her campaign song. And as Stov put it, even more foolishly, they
allowed the option of a write-in vote, which deliciously serves to open
the door to exploitation
from assholes such as ourselves. So whether you're like Stov and
want to cast your vote for 'The
Bitch is Back', like Boike and want to cast for 'Dumb
Girl' or like myself and want to express your displeasure with 'Bitches
Ain't Shit', your opportunity is now. At least some flunky staffer
will have to wade through and read your response. That thought makes
me smile, and distracts me momentarily from the fear of a Clinton nomination.
The things that pass for knowledge I can't understand...
Posted 10:22am
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May 17th, 2007
I'm
a slave, I'm a slave, I'm a slave to your lovin'
I watch too much TV. Its the time of year
that the networks
announce
what's
going to be on
the schedule for the following fall. I always hope for two things:
That the marginal shows I watch aren't renewed and that there's nothing
promising debuting. Its especially prescient because these announcements
come at the same time as the regular season shows are ending. If the
first sign of summer is Oberon and the second is softball, the third
is when there is no new TV to watch.
When I was growing up, it was as if the
networks and Americans came to a mutual understanding that while it
was nice out, the networks wouldn't tempt us to stay inside and watch
new programming. Sure, they were there with the reruns and the movies
in case it was raining, but otherwise there seemed to almost be an attitude
of 'Why don't you go outside for awhile?' coming from the big 3. Now
summer brings on the shittiest of the shitty low rent reality programs.
Broadcast TV isn't the King Shit of Fuck Mountain© it used to be,
so these days they'll try and scrape a dime from any hour of shameless
programming they'll think a few million people will watch. And it turns
out, people will watch anything. But I implore you, next time its 82
degrees out and you're sitting on your porch enjoying an Oberon and
your friend turns to you and says 'Let's go in and watch 'America's
Next Top Hottest Dwarf!'', punch them in the face.
- I realize that most of you look forward
to those few seconds of anticipation as you click your bookmark for
tbaggervance.com and wait breathlessly for the site to load, hoping
that there's a new post. However, I understand that some of you don't
have the time or inclination to click 'refresh' every hour on the hour
waiting for some new bile to spill forth from my keyboard. So,
for those of you who want the latest updates as soon as they happen
without all that needless checking to see if I'm too hungover to write
anything, we've created the tbaggervance email list. Its right over
there on the right. Enter your email address and through the magic of
the internets (its a series of tubes!), you'll receive an email every
time I post something. Because we here at tbaggervance.com know your
time is valuable - well, some of you anyway.
Posted 10:58am
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May 16th, 2007
Wormer...
dead! Niedermeyer... dead! Falwell...
Now,
I live in the little liberal bubble of a college town, so hedonistic
tendencies tend to rule the day thus making me immune to this, but I
can only assume that the homosexuals and abortionists are running rupshod
through the streets now that Jerry
Falwell is dead. A few weeks ago I insinuated that I was raised
right and would not speak ill of the dead. But I would be remiss if
I didn't take the opportunity to say that Jerry Falwell was an intolerant,
imbecillic, hateful bigot. And let me also mention that if all the things
I consider to be wrong with this country (at least politically) could
be traced back to one person, ol' Jerry would be a candidate. He made
George W possible. If for nothing else, he should burn in whatever hell
he believed in for that. Slate compiled some of the stupider
things he said over the years, and the Onion got some reaction from
people in the street.
- Just as I am convinced that college girls
take every opportunity when guys aren't around to strip down to bra
and panties and have a tickle fight, I feel like this
is what every night at Bruce Campell's house must be like.
-
I love video games. Not in that cliché, sitcom-y way where I'm
sitting home playing Playstation while my girlfriend begs me to go out
for the evening (at least usually) - but I've always played them and
always will. And while I enjoy the innovations shit like the Wii and
Guitar Hero have brought along over the years, nothing will ever compare
to RBI
Baseball and Tecmo
Bowl. (Apologies to Goldeneye
and Mario
Kart on the N64)
And once and for all, OG Tecmo, not Super
Tecmo - which actually resembles an attempt at a quality football
game. Well it appears that Tecmo
is looking to make a come back. Let us all sigh, lament the fact
that this has a 90% chance of sucking, and go back to dreaming about
throwing touchdowns to Cap
Boso.
Posted 10:16am
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May 15th, 2007
Summertime,
and the livin's easy
If
Oberon is the unofficial marker that summer has begun, softball is the
sign that it is in full swing. This will be the 8th
season (in like six years - I'll spare you the complicated math)
and since we've started playing together, its become as intrinsically
intertwined into my summer experience as driving around campus looking
for girls laying out in bikinis.
Our
team was designed from the outset to be nothing more than friends
getting together to play and then subsequently go to the bar and begin
to truly enjoy ourselves. As such, no one's ever been cut due to a substandard
skillset, and in recruiting new players, a willingness to hit the bar
and play poker after the game is as big of a consideration as the ability
to run down a fly ball. Of course if you're familiar with the guys on
the team, an immediate paradox begins to rear its ugly head.
For to call most of the people on our team
'competitive' is like referring to the pope as 'a tad religious'. Amongst
ourselves we spend an inordinate amount of time playing games that pit
one friend against another. Most are gamblers and left out in the wild
with nothing to do, within five minutes a group of us would invent some
sort of contest in attempt to prove which of us could throw one rock
the closest to another. Needless to say that when outsiders become the
opposition, tempers are armed with hair triggers and failure becomes
infuriating.
Its often joked that softball is an excuse
to go to the bar afterwards and drink. While that's not necessarily
untrue, I often think that the real focus of the evening is to play
softball for an hour so we can to the bar and TALK about the game for
3 hours. Every close call is debated and every questionable statement
or gesture by the opposing team is broken down. If we win, triumphs
are celebrated. If we lose, blame assessed. No matter the outcome, we
discuss how if we took this more seriously how good we could really
be. But thankfully, we have the casual nature of friends getting together
to play a game to fall back on. And that's what at the heart of summer.
Playing games with your buddies amongst all that sweet, sweet booze.
Posted 1:10pm
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May 10th, 2007
Christ
on a bike!
We've got updates on some old favorite
topics around the the ol' bloggy blog. These may be of no interest to
anyone but crotchety old me, but we try to be nothing if not self serving
around here.
- Kirk
Cameron proves God exists! Most of you know that Kirk Cameron is
a hard core evangelical who hosts a show that, for some reason, has
the kung fu oriented name 'The Way of the Master'. The
other night on ABC he debated some atheists in an attempt to prove,
scientifically, that God exists. Now, I don't care what you believe
and as long as you leave me alone, I don't care how you choose to believe
it. However, YOU CAN'T PROVE GOD EXISTS. Not scientifically. That's
why its called FAITH. By definition, its believing in the absence of
evidence. So just stop it. I respect you if you believe in God. I think
you're a fucking idiot if you think you can prove he exists. I'd plead
with all of you to just separate science and religion and try to be
OK with that, but its too much fun to watch Mike Seaver flounder around
illogically.
- They went and did it. Sex
= Violence = Smoking. It just depresses the ever living shit out
of me what we choose to protect our children from and they ways in which
we choose to protect them. Thankfully I believe in teaching my kid about
these things myself and not relying on some governmental agency to do
my job for me.
Posted 11:10am
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May 9th, 2007
Cleaning
house
So
I have this folder on my computer that I throw things into as I'm surfing
the web so I can share them with you here on the bloggy blog. What follows
(including the bad ass picture of Han Solo directly to your right) are
things that have been floating around in there for an undetermined amount
of time. As I am not sure what they have in common and I fear I may
never find a place for them, I dump them on you now, like a boyfriend
who's breaking up with you right after he borrows $20. That's a terrible
analogy, which is why I got rid of it here.
- Zack Galafinakis is funny. I'm not sure
how
clever this clip is with its fancy splicing and editing, but there's
some great lines in here. Its so raven.
- Your local pride minute: A big write
up on Zingermans in the NYTimes.
- I've always thought that in the analogy
comparing the Bush Presidency to the Empire, that Cheney was the Emperor,
Rove was Vader
and Bush was Grand
Moff Tarkin. But that didn't stop me from enjoying
this quiz that requires you to differentiate things associated with
Darth from things associated with Dick.
Posted 4:00pm
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May 8th, 2007
Tennis
is gay/not gay
One of the first thoughts I had when the
Buddha was born was that someday he'd play football at the University
of Michigan. Brand new fathers are delusional. Of course once I did
the math I realized that the chances of that dream ever becoming a reality
were slim and none (though in the back of my mind I'm still hoping for
some massive weight gain that would allow him to become a long snapper).
So I turned my thoughts to other, more plausible athletic outcomes for
me to live vicariously through my son. Basketball was out for similar
genetic reasons. Baseball seemed like my best shot, but after a few
years of gently nudging him in that direction, he's abandoned that as
well.
So I'm stuck at an impasse. The big 4 (football,
basketball, baseball, hockey (immediately excluded due to Asian heritage))
are out. He tried Lacrosse for a season. I had no idea what a violent,
sweet sport that is! But alas, after hundreds of dollars of equipment,
it was over after a few short months. I'd almost resigned myself to
spending my energy in getting him to NOT play soccer - because that
might kill me.
And just when I thought all hope was lost
and was ready to concentrate solely on getting him to become the Marching
Band's Drum Major (backbend practices are grueling) Sid's mother's influence
reared its ugly head. See, my baby mama is somewhat of a tennis nerd.
She played in high school and still watches femme dudes hit a fuzzy
ball back and forth on Sunday mornings. So Sid has had plenty of tennis
exposure. I always worried that some day it would manifest itself in
an interest from Siddhartha himself. That day has come.
When Sid decided to abandon baseball this
summer, his mother and I immediately made him cognizant of the fact
that he needed to replace that with some other form of scheduled athletic
endeavor. He immediately popped back with 'I think I want to play tennis.'
Oh god, why have you forsaken me? All my hours of teaching him the infield
fly rule down the drain. Well, at least he's outside exercising, right?
And if history is any indicator, this whole nightmare will be over by
labor day.
So having never picked up a racquet in
his life, we signed him up for beginner lessons. He seemed to be enjoying
it, and I was glad he was doing something other than playing video games.
In fact, he came home from his lesson last night with some news. "My
teacher says I need to be in the advanced class. She has me demonstrating
things to the rest of the kids, and its pretty obvious that I'm better
than most of them." So there you have it. As difficult as it is
for me to say, my son is a tennis player.
And of course despite my hatred of the
sport and my default feelings about the dudes who normally play it,
I was immediately immeasurably proud. I guess the fact that my son is
showing any athletic ability outweighs the bitter pill of what arena
its in. And this could all still be a fad that's over in 6 months when
the only thing he cares about at all becomes 12 year old girls - but
I can imagine my future as a 'tennis dad'. Its frightening, but these
are the sacrifices we make as parents. It makes me shudder. I just have
to keep telling myself - at least its not soccer...
Posted 11:23am
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May 7th, 2007
The
cheese stands alone
Breakups
are often long, painful protracted things. They're filled with massive
amounts of Death Cab, August
and Everything After and of course, a bit of booze. At least
with me apparently. I think its because I'm trying to figure out whether
in six months I'm going to look back and think 'That was the dumbest
decision of my life' OR 'Why in the fuck did I put up with that for
as long as I did?' I've been on both sides of the equation before and
I've apparently learned little to nothing about the process - other
than it sucks so much that I usually end relationships before a breakup
voice mail would be considered rude (please shelve any 'breaking up
over voice mail is never appropriate' comments, as you're only making
things harder on the next poor girl who gets tricked into going out
with me.) So that being my state of mind, here's what I've found recently
in and around the internets:
- Spinner has a list of The
25 Most Exquisitely Sad Songs in the world. Its great break up fodder,
even though a lot of the songs have to do with pets, relatives, and
the civil rights movement. I would add the previously mentioned Counting
Crows album, induct DCFC into the Hall of Fame, and sign a petition
to get Buckley's
version of "Hallelujah" moved up to number one. That song
can make me cry at the drop of a hat.
- The nerds at Engadget
found it hilarious when Conan made
fun of the nerds at Intel. As a nerd, I laughed and wondered 'Is
this what people assume I do for a living?' - at which point the laughing
stopped.
- Here's a note from the AV Club about
Ben Gibbard's solo
shows in Chicago. I will say 3 things about it:
1. I agree with it.
2. I got to hear him do a cover of Neil Young's "Harvest Moon"
which fulfilled a dream I did not know I had, so suck it.
3. Notice the headline in the very first comment after the post. Why
y'all have to hate?
Posted 1:49pm
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May 6th, 2007
Hell
is other parents people
This isn't a new thought for regular readers
of the ol' bloggy blog - or, for that manner, anyone with kids over
the age of two, anyone who's ever been a teacher/coach or anyone who's
been to a public place and just stopped for a second to watch the traffic
go by: parents are the most vile and despicable people on the face of
god's green earth.
I often tell people about to have kids
or those with newborns that parenting is a surprisingly easy endeavor
most of the time (providing you have bottomless patience and a child
not intent on seeking revenge against you for bringing them into this
world.) But I quickly follow that up with 'Except for other parents.'
Now call me a snob or elitist or even a pot calling the kettle black,
but it will never cease to amaze me how few parents get it.
Saturday as you know was the science olympiad.
And I have to say that in some respects, running the thing was almost
better than coaching. Because while the kids were running the actual
event, I was excited. I was cheering for every team to do better than
the next. I wanted every kid to bounce the ball in the bucket on the
first try and answer the questions on their first guess. The genuine
excitement on the faces and in their expressions was infectious. And
ultimately, that's why I volunteer my time. But of course, for every
kid that succeeds, there are several that fail. And when kids fail,
parents point fingers.
Because that's what I mean when I refer
to parents that don't get it. Guess what? You're kid may not be the
best. You can't protect them forever and sooner or later they will fail.
Which means that you can either teach them to give 100%, enjoy the process
and be prepared for the outcome, or you can bitch about the general
fairness of things and scream at people who've given their time and
energy so your kids can have a rewarding experience - regardless of
outcome.
The truth is I've been very lucky over
the years. I've coached and volunteered for Sid's various activities
at nearly every opportunity presented, and almost without fail we've
been surrounded by parents and kids who have the right attitude and
expectations. And honestly, there were 100 or so kids who ran my event
Saturday which means there was a possibility of 200+ parents who could
have put there two cents in. Its just too bad that the half dozen or
so that chose to do so can really spoil how you feel about a certain
experience. I guess really more than anything I feel sorry for the kids
who have to grow up under such auspices. It makes the kids whose parents
never show up at all seem lucky.
Posted 2:44pm
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May 4th, 2007
The
glove compartment, isn't accurately named
For the obtuse in the audience, the last four months
of posts have been archived. Those interested in walks down memory lane
need to merely click on the link, directly to your right.
Some say that weekends were meant for relaxing.
But religious convictions aside, weekends should
be spent doing the things that our weekly obligations prohibit us from
enjoying. Especially things that happen late at night that require staying
in bed until a minimum of 10am the next day. Which is why I'm spending
this weekend doing the following:
- Siddhartha and I are kicking things off
with a screening of every nerds dream, Spider-Man
3. The reviews are coming in mixed
at best (sounds like they tried to throw in a few too many kitchen
sinks) but there's little chance of either of us being disappointed.
Sandman,
Venom
AND the Green
Goblin all in the same movie? OK, give me a second to settle down.
And of course the best aspect of all of this is that Sid is excited
too - which means the experience is disaster proof regardless of fanboy
style nitpicking or Return
of the Jedi type Ewok disasters.
- Tomorrow (at 7:30am!) we're officiating
the Pentathlon at the Washtenaw
County Science Olympiad. Some of you may remember previous
mentions of this event where I was a coach and Sid was a participant.
Apparently we were gullible enough to volunteer so good at it
in the past that this year we're running it. Let's hope I don't have
to bitch slap any overbearing parents who don't like some of my rulings.
Then again, maybe that'd be fun too.
- After a quick nap to refresh the mind,
body and spirit, its back to Woodward
Ave. to see a solo Ben
Gibbard. One could argue that a 31 year old guy going to see a sensitive
singer/songwriter sing and play his hits acoustically is a little, well,
gay. To those people, I say 'have you seen how dreamy he is?'
- Sunday (after sunrise service) I'll be
headed north to help the Storch's
put their boat dock back in the water for another summer. This process
is exactly as arduous as it sounds. It involves waders, massive amounts
of profanity, and the questioning of whether or not my friendship with
these people is actually worth all of this pain and suffering. Since
this is about the fifth year of doing it, I guess it must be. I just
wish we were better at it than we are. At least we'll be outside and
in the sun - taking care of one of those things that the hustle and
bustle of Monday through Friday prohibits.
Posted 10:42am
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May 2nd, 2007
Link-O-Rama
This weekend looms large - what with Spider-Man,
science olympiad, and a dream date with Ben Gibbard on the docket. But
more on that later in the week. Right now all I can muster is some links
that I've been wasting my time with recently:
- I miss good ol' bat-shit crazy Tom Cruise.
Whether it was railing against psychology, marrying someone half his
age with a crazy 'I've been kidnapped' look in her eye, or just trying
to hold his tongue when somebody called him out on the cult that is
Scientology, he was damn entertaining. Britney Spears is doing her best
to be a similar trainwreck, as these fairly legit looking semi-topless
photos attest to. But don't we all feel that this is just an uber-white
trash chick who'd be doing the same thing(s) if she wasn't famous? It
all just seems inevitable, thus far less enjoyable.
- Rolling Stone has a cool list of the
25
most underappreciated artists. Hard to argue with most of these,
and there's some well deserved names on the list. We used to have a
debate in college as to what the greatest American band of all time
was (as most great classic rock bands are British). I think my vote
right now goes to Wilco. Look at the evidence and prove me wrong. Yeah,
they don't have a quintessential group of songs that any FM radio head
would know, but I think by the time I'm an old man, at least us rock
snobs will be in agreement on this.
- The Onion's AV Club has a summer
movie preview up. Its smartly taken from the perspective of what
to rush out to the theater to see and what to wait to watch on hangover
Sundays this fall. I have to admit that after reading it, I'm pretty
psyched to hit the multiplex this summer.
Posted 1:42pm
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