10) Acknowledging Oscar the Grouch's influence on the American Teabag Movement.
9) Giving The Count a supporting role in the next one…two…three Twilight movies, ah ah ah.
8) Taking Snuffleupagus to the salon for a good Muppetscaping.
7) Raising money Grover needs for counseling after realizing he is the monster at the end of the book.
6) Alleviating Big Bird’s midlife crisis by replacing his old nest with a new Porsche.
5) Declaring a National Talk Like a Yip-Yip Day.
4) Taking Elmo to the Champagne Room for the tickling of his life.
3) Vowing to not stop pushing until Ernie and Bert can legally wed.
2) Giving Cookie Monster a lifetime supply of insulin.
1) Commemorating 40 years of intelligent, groundbreaking, unforgettable children’s programming—programming that taught us how to count, remember our ABCs, use our imaginations, share with others, and be better people…programming so timeless that our children love it as much as we did when we were children—by making a bunch of low-brow jokes about the Muppets.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Super Suck
Yesterday, I came downstairs at halftime of the Bears game—with the Bears down 31-7 to the Arizona Cardinals—and announced, "I fucking hate football."
Of course, the Bears came back and made it interesting, before a Jay Cutler interception ripped my heart out again. The good news is, my eyes are open and my hope is officially crushed. No more thinking things might work out. My team officially sucks. I'll still watch, but now I can just sit back and be critical, which is much more entertaining than waiting for a crappy team to finally fulfill its crappy destiny.
In fact, last week, one of Tickle's friends, Grumpy Fog, said he was quitting the Bears completely. (Keep in mind this was after a 30-6 Bears win, which is why he's Grumpy Fog.) Grumpy Fog decided that life was too short to watch a football franchise that was not only headed in the wrong direction, but had been headed in the wrong direction for most of his life. This set off a round of discussion of what Fog would actually do on his Sundays—he didn't say—and a plea from our friend Smoke, who often can't see Bears games because he lives in Vegas. "Fog, don't do this. Where am I going to get my grumpy Bears news?"
The other good side is that grumpiness tends to fertilize comedy, and I find it much easier to write about the Bears when I'm mad. My latest blog post has Jay Cutler begging Denver to take him back.
It could be worse. I have been watching the Detroit Lions this year as well, with a friend who is a lifelong Lions fan. After the Bears debacle, I was happy for him as the Lions raced out to a 17-0 first-quarter lead at Seattle, before being outscored 32-3 in the next three quarters. He just kind of sat there and laughed it off, because, you know, it's the Lions. I sadly suspect I'm going to be in that same place for the next few years.
Of course, the Bears came back and made it interesting, before a Jay Cutler interception ripped my heart out again. The good news is, my eyes are open and my hope is officially crushed. No more thinking things might work out. My team officially sucks. I'll still watch, but now I can just sit back and be critical, which is much more entertaining than waiting for a crappy team to finally fulfill its crappy destiny.
In fact, last week, one of Tickle's friends, Grumpy Fog, said he was quitting the Bears completely. (Keep in mind this was after a 30-6 Bears win, which is why he's Grumpy Fog.) Grumpy Fog decided that life was too short to watch a football franchise that was not only headed in the wrong direction, but had been headed in the wrong direction for most of his life. This set off a round of discussion of what Fog would actually do on his Sundays—he didn't say—and a plea from our friend Smoke, who often can't see Bears games because he lives in Vegas. "Fog, don't do this. Where am I going to get my grumpy Bears news?"
The other good side is that grumpiness tends to fertilize comedy, and I find it much easier to write about the Bears when I'm mad. My latest blog post has Jay Cutler begging Denver to take him back.
It could be worse. I have been watching the Detroit Lions this year as well, with a friend who is a lifelong Lions fan. After the Bears debacle, I was happy for him as the Lions raced out to a 17-0 first-quarter lead at Seattle, before being outscored 32-3 in the next three quarters. He just kind of sat there and laughed it off, because, you know, it's the Lions. I sadly suspect I'm going to be in that same place for the next few years.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Friday Random 11
It’s one more random than 10!
One of the great things about being married to The Lovely Becky—aside from the obvious great things—is that I have gotten to meet a lot of writers thanks to her. Yesterday I met Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer-Prize-winning author, on tour to support his new book, Hell.
I’m an afterlife obsessive, and Butler’s book, about a newscaster in hell, is right up my alley. In the space of the few pages he read, he managed to deliver a vision of hell that is both horrifying and hilarious, with allusions to Dante, Ann Boleyn, Federico Fellini, Humphrey Bogart, and Dante’s Beatrice, with a meta-fictional appearance by Butler himself—all with vivid prose packed with more zinging jokes than an episode of 30 Rock.
It was one of those readings where I’m not only entertained and enlightened by what the author is reading, but inspired to push myself to be a better writer. It’s the act of watching a master who’s in complete control of his craft, who doesn’t worry that you won’t pay attention or think he sucks or will close the book, because he projects the confidence of someone who knows you won’t. I’m sure that winning a Pulitzer does wonders for said confidence, but I was amazed at how Butler had the room in the palm of his hand with the first sentence. That’s what I want, and I felt the gears in my head already turning, analyzing my own book-in-progress, looking for ways to turn it into something that causes a room full of strangers to hang on my every word.
As I said, being Mr. TLB has its author-meeting privileges, and I had a chance to chat with Mr. Butler, who was as nice and friendly as he was commanding. “Becky tells me you’re into comic writing,” he said to me. I felt a flutter of nervousness. What should I say? A simple, “yes, I am” hardly seemed the response of someone who is into comic writing. But what if I told him about my book and got one of those, “Oh, that’s nice,” polite-but-uninterested responses that would send me into an overanalyzing funk for days, nay, months? (Did I mention I need to take Troy McClure’s advice and “Get confident, stupid!”?)
In the nanosecond psychological tug-of-war, I decided to go for it. I gave him a quick, back-catalog-copy synopsis. He actually laughed, made a couple of related quips, and said, “I’d like to read it when you’re done.” I was dumbfounded by this, because he said it with such genuine interest that I thought perhaps I’d given the synopsis for someone else’s book. He then repeated this invitation later, and I told him I’d take him up on it.
If that’s not inspiration to not only finish this sucker, but turn it into something that could have a Robert Olen Butler blurb on it, then I should just hang up my Word right now. Luckily, it had just the opposite effect.
Time for some tunes...
1) “Perfect Kiss,” New Order. Dance mixes can certainly stretch out even the most ordinary songs to prog-lengths. Few of those mixes ever justify listening outside of the club, however, because they are simply stretched out versions of the original. Not so with Substance. The tracks here are epic, not just in length, but in their soul. “Perfect Kiss” is a perfect example, full of twists, turns, and returns, with a relationship story that says so much despite the Twitterish length of the lyrics.
2) “Bullet in the Head,” Rage Against the Machine. Much like the John Woo film of the same name, not nearly as interesting and forceful as the title would imply. This Rage song could use more rage.
3) “Jemima Surrender,” The Band. Jennifer’s been blogging about visualization lately, and as soon as this song started, I was immediately in a dank roadhouse bar, watching The Band cranking it up a notch for the drunks who manage to stop crying in their beer long enough to stomp their feet.
4) “Goodbye Caroline,” Aimee Mann. Her songs are almost always perfectly populated. There are little elements—a twinkling piano, a tugging guitar solo—that are exactly where they need to be, not just supporting Mann’s wordplay, but telling their own little parts of the story. She strips it down in the clip but the banter is very funny.
5) “Revolution Calling,” Queensryche. Operation: Mindcrime is one of the most under-appreciated metal albums of all time. Seriously, stop laughing. Ok, wait, come back, I promise not to write 100 more words about Queensryche, but instead use the title to set up one of my patented Friday Random 11 Random Segues.
Speaking of revolutions calling, today I read the dumbest fucking thing I’ve read from a major pundit in quite some time. Not surprisingly, it was from Charles Krauthammer. The Post’s resident lawn gnome argued that the Democrats have overplayed their sweeping victory in 2008, seeing a liberal mandate where there wasn’t one. Okay, I disagree, especially since the liberal wing of the party continues smothered between the flabby folds of the conservative and “mainstream” Democrats. But Krauthammer’s reasoning: that the election results of this week signal a resounding anti-mandate mandate. So, a small sample of elections completely outweighs a huge national election from just one year before. Jesus H. Christ, is it any wonder why newspapers are dying when they have to dole out salaries to people like this? You get the sense that conservatives would cut open an animal right now, point to the intestines, and say that those intestines clearly show that the Obama Administration is doomed.
6) “Fixed Income,” DJ Shadow. Sounds like it really belongs in a Tarantino movie, when a character is smoking a cigarette he or she rolled herself and thinking about the person he or she just killed/is going to kill/is going to free from a group of horny, sadistic, hillbilly furries.
7) “Magical Mystery Tour,” The Beatles. Poor TLB. It’s difficult being in the minority of a pop culture opinion, especially when that opinion is, “I don’t like The Beatles.” But the recent flurry of videogame-fueled Beatlemania pushed her over the edge. She came home from writing at our local Starbucks and declared, “I now hate The Beatles!” Apparently the incessant playing of the Fab Four had put a lemon in her latte, pushing her from mutual non-aggression to open hostility. Although increasing one’s anger and hostility probably helps when your writing a novel from the perspective of Elizabeth Bathory.
8) “Garageland,” The Clash. I’ve never thought of British bands as being out in the garage, flailing away until the neighbors call the cops, because having a garage big enough for a band seems like an American phenomenon. But then again, where would an up-and-coming British punk band practice? Probably not under a tree in Cornwall.
9) “Staying Fat,” Bloc Party. A good song to play when doing activities to avoid staying fat. Also an indictment of my post-Halloween candy binging.
10) “Fire,” The Jimi Hendrix Experience. At one point, Hendrix sings, Move over rover, and let Jimi take over. He then rips into a guitar solo, which I think is supposed to represent the taking over. The solo is amazing, but lasts a mere 12 seconds, before Hendrix says, That’s what I’m talking about and continues rocking. In real life, however, that 12-second solo would turn into a blues song called, “I’m Sorry, Give Me 30 Minutes and We’ll Try Rocking Again.”
11) “Morning Glory,” Oasis. The angriest eyebrows in rock. For all their faults—and there are many, starting with those Politburo-style caterpillars over their eyes—Oasis know how to make big, fat, rocking songs. Often derivative and annoying, yes, but those traits are often stomped by 50-story layer of overdubbed guitars and a nasally vocal that still manages to sound huge.
Here’s to a good weekend.
One of the great things about being married to The Lovely Becky—aside from the obvious great things—is that I have gotten to meet a lot of writers thanks to her. Yesterday I met Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer-Prize-winning author, on tour to support his new book, Hell.
I’m an afterlife obsessive, and Butler’s book, about a newscaster in hell, is right up my alley. In the space of the few pages he read, he managed to deliver a vision of hell that is both horrifying and hilarious, with allusions to Dante, Ann Boleyn, Federico Fellini, Humphrey Bogart, and Dante’s Beatrice, with a meta-fictional appearance by Butler himself—all with vivid prose packed with more zinging jokes than an episode of 30 Rock.
It was one of those readings where I’m not only entertained and enlightened by what the author is reading, but inspired to push myself to be a better writer. It’s the act of watching a master who’s in complete control of his craft, who doesn’t worry that you won’t pay attention or think he sucks or will close the book, because he projects the confidence of someone who knows you won’t. I’m sure that winning a Pulitzer does wonders for said confidence, but I was amazed at how Butler had the room in the palm of his hand with the first sentence. That’s what I want, and I felt the gears in my head already turning, analyzing my own book-in-progress, looking for ways to turn it into something that causes a room full of strangers to hang on my every word.
As I said, being Mr. TLB has its author-meeting privileges, and I had a chance to chat with Mr. Butler, who was as nice and friendly as he was commanding. “Becky tells me you’re into comic writing,” he said to me. I felt a flutter of nervousness. What should I say? A simple, “yes, I am” hardly seemed the response of someone who is into comic writing. But what if I told him about my book and got one of those, “Oh, that’s nice,” polite-but-uninterested responses that would send me into an overanalyzing funk for days, nay, months? (Did I mention I need to take Troy McClure’s advice and “Get confident, stupid!”?)
In the nanosecond psychological tug-of-war, I decided to go for it. I gave him a quick, back-catalog-copy synopsis. He actually laughed, made a couple of related quips, and said, “I’d like to read it when you’re done.” I was dumbfounded by this, because he said it with such genuine interest that I thought perhaps I’d given the synopsis for someone else’s book. He then repeated this invitation later, and I told him I’d take him up on it.
If that’s not inspiration to not only finish this sucker, but turn it into something that could have a Robert Olen Butler blurb on it, then I should just hang up my Word right now. Luckily, it had just the opposite effect.
Time for some tunes...
1) “Perfect Kiss,” New Order. Dance mixes can certainly stretch out even the most ordinary songs to prog-lengths. Few of those mixes ever justify listening outside of the club, however, because they are simply stretched out versions of the original. Not so with Substance. The tracks here are epic, not just in length, but in their soul. “Perfect Kiss” is a perfect example, full of twists, turns, and returns, with a relationship story that says so much despite the Twitterish length of the lyrics.
2) “Bullet in the Head,” Rage Against the Machine. Much like the John Woo film of the same name, not nearly as interesting and forceful as the title would imply. This Rage song could use more rage.
3) “Jemima Surrender,” The Band. Jennifer’s been blogging about visualization lately, and as soon as this song started, I was immediately in a dank roadhouse bar, watching The Band cranking it up a notch for the drunks who manage to stop crying in their beer long enough to stomp their feet.
4) “Goodbye Caroline,” Aimee Mann. Her songs are almost always perfectly populated. There are little elements—a twinkling piano, a tugging guitar solo—that are exactly where they need to be, not just supporting Mann’s wordplay, but telling their own little parts of the story. She strips it down in the clip but the banter is very funny.
5) “Revolution Calling,” Queensryche. Operation: Mindcrime is one of the most under-appreciated metal albums of all time. Seriously, stop laughing. Ok, wait, come back, I promise not to write 100 more words about Queensryche, but instead use the title to set up one of my patented Friday Random 11 Random Segues.
Speaking of revolutions calling, today I read the dumbest fucking thing I’ve read from a major pundit in quite some time. Not surprisingly, it was from Charles Krauthammer. The Post’s resident lawn gnome argued that the Democrats have overplayed their sweeping victory in 2008, seeing a liberal mandate where there wasn’t one. Okay, I disagree, especially since the liberal wing of the party continues smothered between the flabby folds of the conservative and “mainstream” Democrats. But Krauthammer’s reasoning: that the election results of this week signal a resounding anti-mandate mandate. So, a small sample of elections completely outweighs a huge national election from just one year before. Jesus H. Christ, is it any wonder why newspapers are dying when they have to dole out salaries to people like this? You get the sense that conservatives would cut open an animal right now, point to the intestines, and say that those intestines clearly show that the Obama Administration is doomed.
6) “Fixed Income,” DJ Shadow. Sounds like it really belongs in a Tarantino movie, when a character is smoking a cigarette he or she rolled herself and thinking about the person he or she just killed/is going to kill/is going to free from a group of horny, sadistic, hillbilly furries.
7) “Magical Mystery Tour,” The Beatles. Poor TLB. It’s difficult being in the minority of a pop culture opinion, especially when that opinion is, “I don’t like The Beatles.” But the recent flurry of videogame-fueled Beatlemania pushed her over the edge. She came home from writing at our local Starbucks and declared, “I now hate The Beatles!” Apparently the incessant playing of the Fab Four had put a lemon in her latte, pushing her from mutual non-aggression to open hostility. Although increasing one’s anger and hostility probably helps when your writing a novel from the perspective of Elizabeth Bathory.
8) “Garageland,” The Clash. I’ve never thought of British bands as being out in the garage, flailing away until the neighbors call the cops, because having a garage big enough for a band seems like an American phenomenon. But then again, where would an up-and-coming British punk band practice? Probably not under a tree in Cornwall.
9) “Staying Fat,” Bloc Party. A good song to play when doing activities to avoid staying fat. Also an indictment of my post-Halloween candy binging.
10) “Fire,” The Jimi Hendrix Experience. At one point, Hendrix sings, Move over rover, and let Jimi take over. He then rips into a guitar solo, which I think is supposed to represent the taking over. The solo is amazing, but lasts a mere 12 seconds, before Hendrix says, That’s what I’m talking about and continues rocking. In real life, however, that 12-second solo would turn into a blues song called, “I’m Sorry, Give Me 30 Minutes and We’ll Try Rocking Again.”
11) “Morning Glory,” Oasis. The angriest eyebrows in rock. For all their faults—and there are many, starting with those Politburo-style caterpillars over their eyes—Oasis know how to make big, fat, rocking songs. Often derivative and annoying, yes, but those traits are often stomped by 50-story layer of overdubbed guitars and a nasally vocal that still manages to sound huge.
Here’s to a good weekend.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What will we learn from today's elections?*
10) OMG, everything!
9) These three races will tell us all that we need to know about whether the Obama administration has been a big, fat failure!
8) We have a representative race and a mayor’s race and not just one, but TWO governor’s races! Our home schooling in statistics tells us that’s a significant sample of the national mood!
7) In fact, if the two Republican and one Conservative candidate guy all win, then Obama may as well resign because it means the country wants him impeached!
6) Especially since he’s just a foreign-born Muslim who is serving illegally!
5) (huh, huh, huh…give us a second to catch our breath….)
4) Okay, where were we? Oh, yeah, gay marriage, the scariest thing to come out of Maine since Stephen King! If that fails in Maine it means, in no uncertain terms, that America is still a Republican country, even if it elected a bunch of Democrats!
3) Finally, if Michael Bloomberg wins again in New York, it means America still loves rich people and hates every socialist policy of this administration. Three huzzahs for money!
2) What it all means is that every American has had it up to here with this socialism and is saying, "I'm a teabagger, too!"
1) Come to think of it, after this election, we won’t even need another election, because it will signal that America loves conservatives and wants them to run everything forever! So say goodbye to President Obama and all hail Queen Sarah!
*This list sponsored by the American media, who desperately want you to pay attention to the most important election of our lifetimes, or at least, the most important election since the last election, and will do anything to get you to pay attention to us, even if it means asking Karl Rover for his "honest" opinion. And please patronize our sponsors!
9) These three races will tell us all that we need to know about whether the Obama administration has been a big, fat failure!
8) We have a representative race and a mayor’s race and not just one, but TWO governor’s races! Our home schooling in statistics tells us that’s a significant sample of the national mood!
7) In fact, if the two Republican and one Conservative candidate guy all win, then Obama may as well resign because it means the country wants him impeached!
6) Especially since he’s just a foreign-born Muslim who is serving illegally!
5) (huh, huh, huh…give us a second to catch our breath….)
4) Okay, where were we? Oh, yeah, gay marriage, the scariest thing to come out of Maine since Stephen King! If that fails in Maine it means, in no uncertain terms, that America is still a Republican country, even if it elected a bunch of Democrats!
3) Finally, if Michael Bloomberg wins again in New York, it means America still loves rich people and hates every socialist policy of this administration. Three huzzahs for money!
2) What it all means is that every American has had it up to here with this socialism and is saying, "I'm a teabagger, too!"
1) Come to think of it, after this election, we won’t even need another election, because it will signal that America loves conservatives and wants them to run everything forever! So say goodbye to President Obama and all hail Queen Sarah!
*This list sponsored by the American media, who desperately want you to pay attention to the most important election of our lifetimes, or at least, the most important election since the last election, and will do anything to get you to pay attention to us, even if it means asking Karl Rover for his "honest" opinion. And please patronize our sponsors!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday Random 11
It’s one more random than 10!
I am home alone this weekend, as The Lovely Becky and our little Libby have taken off to visit TLB’s parents in a place called Civilization. So my Halloween costume will be Grown Up Nerd Playing Video Games Until His Eyeballs Fall Out. Seizures, here I come! Although part of me would like to dress up as a dog and scare the hell out of our cats.
1) “Secret Touch,” Rush. iTunes must know that The Lovely Becky is gone and that means I can crank my Rush without any fear of reprisal, scorn, or withering laughter. As much as I do love Rush, I also would not want a secret touch from any of them. Our relationship is strictly musical.
2) “Atomic Power,” Uncle Tupelo. Remember how back in the early 90s it seemed like the fear of nuclear destruction was washed away with Boris Yeltsin’s Vodka of Freedom? That the only thing we had to fear was SKYNET sending a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger back in time to kill John Connor? Now, thanks to an unstable Pakistan and a Holocaust-denying Iranian cobag with a fear of neckties and the new Russia that looks a lot like the old Russia, the fear of mushroom clouds is hip again. You know the return of the “No Nukes” t-shirt can’t be far behind, which would likely foreshadow a Wham reunion...a far scarier fate than fallout.
3) “Madam Me,” Alkaline Trio. One of my workout favorites. It gives me the shot of adrenaline and anger I need to show that elliptical machine who’s boss, even if just for two minutes and twenty seconds. Bonus: video from a Halloween-night Trio concert featuring a ridiculous upside-down cross above the drummer. Takes me back to when I was a lad and drew pentagrams on my notebooks. I had no interest in worshiping the devil, I just thought pentagrams were badass. Amazingly, my parents and Catholic school teachers never said anything, but if I had been drawing penises, I'm sure I would have been shipped immediately into therapy.
4) “Blue Northern Lights,” Ollabelle. I think the pedal steel guitar is the Official Instrument of Relationships That Done Gone Bad. This song kicked in and I immediately wanted to go to the bar down the street, pull up a lonely stool, and sip a bitter beer while wondering how I let TLB get away. Even though she’s coming back on Monday. Sadly, only video I could find lacks the pedal steel, but you can feel it haunting the song.
5) “Kizza Me,” Big Star. Like someone took a great power pop song, cut it into bits, and pasted it back together. I mean that in a good way.
6) “Lost in Space,” Fountains of Wayne. Whereas this is a seamless piece of power pop, shaped out of one shiny sheet of rock. They sound like they’re covering a Cars song that you’ve never heard before. Again, I mean that in a good way.
7) “When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What’s Still Around,” The Police. Apologies for another appearance from The Official Spokesman for Tantric Lovemaking, but old Sting is too good to keep locked out of sight behind bedroom doors. I didn’t go to the reunion concert a couple years ago because the only tickets I could get were $250 a pop, but I recently saw footage of them playing at some UK festival and wished I’d dug into the cookie jar to spring for the tickets. I know, that's crazy money to spend to see anyone unless they figured out a way to bring someone like Hendrix back from the grave and send him on tour. But there are few bands that could play an entire concert without playing a song I wish they skipped, and The Police are one of those bands—assuming they didn’t let Andy Summers sing “Mother.”
8) “Green Lantern,” The Mutton Birds. New Zealand jangle pop with the kind of pleasant, well-crafted sensibility that makes me like Nada Surf so much. Sadly no video, but worth seeking out.
9) “Swinging London,” The Magnetic Fields. I’ve had the rock band fantasy since I first started listening to music, and it always involves being in some sort of guitar-driven band, whether, metal, prog, punk, garage, bar, Rockford-based, etc. While I like synth-pop, I never visualized myself in a synth-pop band. Until I started listening to The Magnetic Fields a couple years ago. There’s so much deadpan humor and clever turns of phrase in their songs, it’s almost like a Friday 11 set to a Casio keyboard, only with the clever part added.
10) “Hard to Explain,” The Strokes. Super-fuzzy but still soft, like cashmere. I still don’t believe those drums are being played by a human.
11) “Rockin’ in the Free World (Live),” Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Two weeks in a row of live Neil awesomeness. He’s written more poignant songs, more touching songs, more creative songs, but this one is my favorite. Dare I say the most fist-pumping political song ever? (Dare, dare! as Cleavon Little would say in Blazing Saddles). Yes, most fist-pumping political song ever. The punks could rock louder and faster and snottier, and Bono could be more flag-waveier, but this just plows ahead with a steady beat, a lot of distortion, and lyrics that drip with anger while never moving into Screed County. Gets me every time with that’s one more kid that’ll never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool before that thunderhead chorus comes and shoots lightening into my ears. Bonus: all-star jam with Max Weinberg playing the drums like he was playing with a Ouija Board and got possessed by John Bonham.
Have a Happy Halloween!
I am home alone this weekend, as The Lovely Becky and our little Libby have taken off to visit TLB’s parents in a place called Civilization. So my Halloween costume will be Grown Up Nerd Playing Video Games Until His Eyeballs Fall Out. Seizures, here I come! Although part of me would like to dress up as a dog and scare the hell out of our cats.
1) “Secret Touch,” Rush. iTunes must know that The Lovely Becky is gone and that means I can crank my Rush without any fear of reprisal, scorn, or withering laughter. As much as I do love Rush, I also would not want a secret touch from any of them. Our relationship is strictly musical.
2) “Atomic Power,” Uncle Tupelo. Remember how back in the early 90s it seemed like the fear of nuclear destruction was washed away with Boris Yeltsin’s Vodka of Freedom? That the only thing we had to fear was SKYNET sending a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger back in time to kill John Connor? Now, thanks to an unstable Pakistan and a Holocaust-denying Iranian cobag with a fear of neckties and the new Russia that looks a lot like the old Russia, the fear of mushroom clouds is hip again. You know the return of the “No Nukes” t-shirt can’t be far behind, which would likely foreshadow a Wham reunion...a far scarier fate than fallout.
3) “Madam Me,” Alkaline Trio. One of my workout favorites. It gives me the shot of adrenaline and anger I need to show that elliptical machine who’s boss, even if just for two minutes and twenty seconds. Bonus: video from a Halloween-night Trio concert featuring a ridiculous upside-down cross above the drummer. Takes me back to when I was a lad and drew pentagrams on my notebooks. I had no interest in worshiping the devil, I just thought pentagrams were badass. Amazingly, my parents and Catholic school teachers never said anything, but if I had been drawing penises, I'm sure I would have been shipped immediately into therapy.
4) “Blue Northern Lights,” Ollabelle. I think the pedal steel guitar is the Official Instrument of Relationships That Done Gone Bad. This song kicked in and I immediately wanted to go to the bar down the street, pull up a lonely stool, and sip a bitter beer while wondering how I let TLB get away. Even though she’s coming back on Monday. Sadly, only video I could find lacks the pedal steel, but you can feel it haunting the song.
5) “Kizza Me,” Big Star. Like someone took a great power pop song, cut it into bits, and pasted it back together. I mean that in a good way.
6) “Lost in Space,” Fountains of Wayne. Whereas this is a seamless piece of power pop, shaped out of one shiny sheet of rock. They sound like they’re covering a Cars song that you’ve never heard before. Again, I mean that in a good way.
7) “When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What’s Still Around,” The Police. Apologies for another appearance from The Official Spokesman for Tantric Lovemaking, but old Sting is too good to keep locked out of sight behind bedroom doors. I didn’t go to the reunion concert a couple years ago because the only tickets I could get were $250 a pop, but I recently saw footage of them playing at some UK festival and wished I’d dug into the cookie jar to spring for the tickets. I know, that's crazy money to spend to see anyone unless they figured out a way to bring someone like Hendrix back from the grave and send him on tour. But there are few bands that could play an entire concert without playing a song I wish they skipped, and The Police are one of those bands—assuming they didn’t let Andy Summers sing “Mother.”
8) “Green Lantern,” The Mutton Birds. New Zealand jangle pop with the kind of pleasant, well-crafted sensibility that makes me like Nada Surf so much. Sadly no video, but worth seeking out.
9) “Swinging London,” The Magnetic Fields. I’ve had the rock band fantasy since I first started listening to music, and it always involves being in some sort of guitar-driven band, whether, metal, prog, punk, garage, bar, Rockford-based, etc. While I like synth-pop, I never visualized myself in a synth-pop band. Until I started listening to The Magnetic Fields a couple years ago. There’s so much deadpan humor and clever turns of phrase in their songs, it’s almost like a Friday 11 set to a Casio keyboard, only with the clever part added.
10) “Hard to Explain,” The Strokes. Super-fuzzy but still soft, like cashmere. I still don’t believe those drums are being played by a human.
11) “Rockin’ in the Free World (Live),” Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Two weeks in a row of live Neil awesomeness. He’s written more poignant songs, more touching songs, more creative songs, but this one is my favorite. Dare I say the most fist-pumping political song ever? (Dare, dare! as Cleavon Little would say in Blazing Saddles). Yes, most fist-pumping political song ever. The punks could rock louder and faster and snottier, and Bono could be more flag-waveier, but this just plows ahead with a steady beat, a lot of distortion, and lyrics that drip with anger while never moving into Screed County. Gets me every time with that’s one more kid that’ll never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool before that thunderhead chorus comes and shoots lightening into my ears. Bonus: all-star jam with Max Weinberg playing the drums like he was playing with a Ouija Board and got possessed by John Bonham.
Have a Happy Halloween!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: How are we bringing Anglicans back to the Catholic Church?
10) Replacing communion wine and wafers with stout and chips.
9) Swapping out guitar mass for Beatles Rock Band mass.
8) Reversing Catholic decree forbidding annulment by decapitation.
7) Incorporating Cockney “Gov’nor Jim Bible” into liturgy.
6) Mailing out coupon book including five free indulgences.
5) Letting married Anglican priests remain married under the doctrine of pre boneum.
4) Allowing priests to wear Union Jack vestments.
3) Promising that all gay clergy will remain securely closeted.
2) Offering exchanges for full parish credit on female priests.
1) Agreeing to excommunicate the 21st century.
9) Swapping out guitar mass for Beatles Rock Band mass.
8) Reversing Catholic decree forbidding annulment by decapitation.
7) Incorporating Cockney “Gov’nor Jim Bible” into liturgy.
6) Mailing out coupon book including five free indulgences.
5) Letting married Anglican priests remain married under the doctrine of pre boneum.
4) Allowing priests to wear Union Jack vestments.
3) Promising that all gay clergy will remain securely closeted.
2) Offering exchanges for full parish credit on female priests.
1) Agreeing to excommunicate the 21st century.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Four quarters of pure, unfiltered ugh
Great googly moogly, did the Bears shit the bed yesterday. I could tell by the time the Bengals finished their opening drive it was going to be a long day -- the Bears looked like they were sleepy from a big pasta dinner as the Bengals pushed them around. I did not, however, expect a 45-10 beating that resembled Andy Dufresne running into The Sisters in the Shawshank Penitentiary laundry room.
My brother Tickle and I have a long-running joke about evaluating the Bears play. When the Bears do well, we'll text each other "Super Bears, Super Bowl." When they do poorly, we change it to, "Super Bears, Super Suck." Yesterday I couldn't even muster the first part of that joke. "Super suck," I texted him.
"That should be the title of your blog," he wrote back.
A fine suggestion, but since this is an official NFL blog, I felt I should stay away from "suck" or references to prison rape. So I turned that frown upside down and then slapped that smile on Cedric Benson for my latest Bears post.
Thanks for the Self-Esteem Boost, Bears!
My brother Tickle and I have a long-running joke about evaluating the Bears play. When the Bears do well, we'll text each other "Super Bears, Super Bowl." When they do poorly, we change it to, "Super Bears, Super Suck." Yesterday I couldn't even muster the first part of that joke. "Super suck," I texted him.
"That should be the title of your blog," he wrote back.
A fine suggestion, but since this is an official NFL blog, I felt I should stay away from "suck" or references to prison rape. So I turned that frown upside down and then slapped that smile on Cedric Benson for my latest Bears post.
Thanks for the Self-Esteem Boost, Bears!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Friday Random 11
It’s one more random than 10!
I was at the gym earlier this week, doing my gerbil-on-a-wheel imitation, pumping my legs in the fruitless quest for The Cheese of Eternal Youth. I looked up at the bank of TV monitors for some type of sports to both motivate me and distract me from 30 minutes of repetition, when I saw Kelsey Grammer’s tits.
One of the TVs was showing Grammer’s new sitcom Hank, about an executive who loses his money and has to live among the common proles. He was lying in bed with his wife, seemingly after some lower-middle-class boning, and the sheets were down low enough that there was double-barreled man-nipple action on TV.
Here’s what’s completely fucked up about American television standards: It’s perfectly acceptable for Kelsey Grammer to flash his hi-beams during network prime time, but his wife—the rather fetching Melinda McGraw—spent the scene with the covers up to her bare shoulders. Why? Because the Puritans fucking ruined this country and set the precedent that you can’t see female nipples outside of marriage, premium cable, or an unmonitored Internet connection.
I’ve seen every Seinfeld episode, and on multiple occasions I have been subjected to the shirtlessness of Jason Alexander, Michael Richards, and Jerry Seinfeld. What have I gotten from Julia Louise-Dreyfuss? A popped blouse button and a wet shirt. I’ve seen Chris Fareley’s bare chest while Amy Poehler remained covered up. Jon Hamm’s chest hair practically has its own subplot on Mad Men, but Christina Hendricks bosoms remain trapped behind an Iron Underwire Curtain.
The examples go on and on. While there are certainly plenty of attractive male chests being flashed on TV—hey, even I’ve felt a little seduced by Don Draper at times—the point is that flabby man-boobs can be trotted out like a marching band at halftime, while perfectly good breasts have be hidden under brassieres, bikinis, blankets, or blurred circles.
In the case of this episode of Hank, we also missed a valuable lesson for American’s youth. Melinda McGraw is not only attractive, but age-appropriate, and lowering the sheet to Kelsey Grammer levels would have been a teachable moment in showing the natural beauty of “older” women. Won’t someone think of the children?
But worst of all, seeing this at the gym threw me off completely. When I work out, I visualize: this is me, sweating out the bad, pumping up the good, lifting up the sag and pulling in the drag. Seeing a droopy bit of male breast when I’m ellipticalling my way to a better me is like working out while looking in the bathroom mirror in the morning. I know what I look like with my shirt off, thank you very much. I sure as hell don’t need to be reminded of it when I’m exercising, and all that does is make me want to get off that machine and scrub my eyes as quickly as possible. But put an attractive pair of breasts on that TV screen, and I could probably reach down deep and find the energy to exercise for another 10 minutes.
Let’s play some tunes….
1) “Changes,” David Bowie. I am getting some gray hair and frankly being a bit of a baby about it, and then being a bit of a baby about being a bit of a baby about it. On the one hand, part of me things a little coloring would be okay—nothing crazy, just my natural color. On the other, part of me thinks that’s totally ridiculous, that I’m being a vain idiot and that I should be happy that I still have a very full head of hair (that part sounds quite a bit like TLB’s voice). Which is why David Bowie is brilliant. He’s been dyeing his hair since he was 18 months old, so he has the built-in excuse that it’s a tradition for him, that he likes it for the variety or something. I wish I had figured that out when I was 22.
2) “What Do You Want Me to Say,” The Dismemberment Plan. Never lived up to the awesomeness of that band name, although I dig this song.
3) “Heretic Pride,” Mountain Goats. The-feel-good-dragged-to-your-execution-for-religious-reasons song of the decade.
4) “Elephant Stone,” The Stone Roses. About as good as music gets for me. Some songs are sunny, but this one is the sun, giving off heat and warmth and just lighting me up, even on a dreary October day after I’ve come face to face with my own gradual pectoral demise.
5) “The Wagon,” Dinosaur Jr. At their revved-up best. I love how the bridge turns it up a notch, high-fiving my ears before Mascis rips into one of his patented controlled-chaos solos.
6) “Iron Man (Live),” Black Sabbath. The drums that kick off this live version give off some serious Spinal Tap vibes, so much so that I almost expected to hear David St. Hubbins instead of Ronnie James Dio. While I loves me some Dio, he can’t do this one justice. This song is 100% Ozzy. After all, he’s the Prince of F---in’ Darkness!
Doesn’t old-school metal Satanism seem so quaint these days? I remember how much of an uproar there was over this stuff, and now you get Jack Black starring in a videogame that makes Hell look as cool as a heavy metal album cover. So it was like a trip down memory lane when people actually flipped over Black leading an audience in a Satanic “prayer” at the Video Music Awards. If you ever wonder, “Gee, how did such atrocious Rapture porn like the Left Behind series sell 66.6 million copies,” here’s your chance to meet the readers.
7) “I,” Bad Brains. Like it just leaps out of the speakers and pulls me into the pit.
8) “Plush,” Stone Temple Pilots. Here’s something I don’t think you ever hear: “Man, am I glad I started doing heroin!” I get the allure of drugs, sure, but you have to wonder what the hell possesses people to try something like this. I know what gets them to keep doing it (Addiction? You’re soaking in it!). But what pushes them to say, “I keep hearing all these remarkable things about heroin. I’ve just got to see what all the fuss is about.” It’s the drug equivalent of investigating a house with blood coming out of the walls—you know it’s not going to end well, so why not just move into that nice little bungalow at the corner of Booze Ave. and Hemp Ct.”
Also, with regard to the video: just because you're heroin skinny doesn't mean you should take your shirt off.
9) “Powderfinger (Live),” Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Like a great pair of worn jeans: goes with everything, fits perfectly, and the little frays and rips just make them that much cooler.
10) “Love Is the Seventh Wave,” Sting. I’m not a world music guy. No offense to the rest of the world, and unlike the previous administration, I have no intention of trying to convert world music fans into my music fans or bombing them with rock. It’s just not me, much in the same way jazz and classical are not me, and if I tried to make them into me, I’d look like a poseur. So, jolly good show, Sting, but I’m more of a “Next to You” man.
11) “My Morning Song,” The Black Crowes. There’s a balls-out quality to this song that pumps me up every time I hear it. It sprints out of the gate, gets my heart going, then slows it down to a crawl before building everything back up and rocking me even harder than before. The only thing missing is for a hand to come out of the speakers and light the cigarette afterward.
Look at that, a bunch of songs people might have actually heard! Have a good weekend, and may any breasts you see be pleasant.
I was at the gym earlier this week, doing my gerbil-on-a-wheel imitation, pumping my legs in the fruitless quest for The Cheese of Eternal Youth. I looked up at the bank of TV monitors for some type of sports to both motivate me and distract me from 30 minutes of repetition, when I saw Kelsey Grammer’s tits.
One of the TVs was showing Grammer’s new sitcom Hank, about an executive who loses his money and has to live among the common proles. He was lying in bed with his wife, seemingly after some lower-middle-class boning, and the sheets were down low enough that there was double-barreled man-nipple action on TV.
Here’s what’s completely fucked up about American television standards: It’s perfectly acceptable for Kelsey Grammer to flash his hi-beams during network prime time, but his wife—the rather fetching Melinda McGraw—spent the scene with the covers up to her bare shoulders. Why? Because the Puritans fucking ruined this country and set the precedent that you can’t see female nipples outside of marriage, premium cable, or an unmonitored Internet connection.
I’ve seen every Seinfeld episode, and on multiple occasions I have been subjected to the shirtlessness of Jason Alexander, Michael Richards, and Jerry Seinfeld. What have I gotten from Julia Louise-Dreyfuss? A popped blouse button and a wet shirt. I’ve seen Chris Fareley’s bare chest while Amy Poehler remained covered up. Jon Hamm’s chest hair practically has its own subplot on Mad Men, but Christina Hendricks bosoms remain trapped behind an Iron Underwire Curtain.
The examples go on and on. While there are certainly plenty of attractive male chests being flashed on TV—hey, even I’ve felt a little seduced by Don Draper at times—the point is that flabby man-boobs can be trotted out like a marching band at halftime, while perfectly good breasts have be hidden under brassieres, bikinis, blankets, or blurred circles.
In the case of this episode of Hank, we also missed a valuable lesson for American’s youth. Melinda McGraw is not only attractive, but age-appropriate, and lowering the sheet to Kelsey Grammer levels would have been a teachable moment in showing the natural beauty of “older” women. Won’t someone think of the children?
But worst of all, seeing this at the gym threw me off completely. When I work out, I visualize: this is me, sweating out the bad, pumping up the good, lifting up the sag and pulling in the drag. Seeing a droopy bit of male breast when I’m ellipticalling my way to a better me is like working out while looking in the bathroom mirror in the morning. I know what I look like with my shirt off, thank you very much. I sure as hell don’t need to be reminded of it when I’m exercising, and all that does is make me want to get off that machine and scrub my eyes as quickly as possible. But put an attractive pair of breasts on that TV screen, and I could probably reach down deep and find the energy to exercise for another 10 minutes.
Let’s play some tunes….
1) “Changes,” David Bowie. I am getting some gray hair and frankly being a bit of a baby about it, and then being a bit of a baby about being a bit of a baby about it. On the one hand, part of me things a little coloring would be okay—nothing crazy, just my natural color. On the other, part of me thinks that’s totally ridiculous, that I’m being a vain idiot and that I should be happy that I still have a very full head of hair (that part sounds quite a bit like TLB’s voice). Which is why David Bowie is brilliant. He’s been dyeing his hair since he was 18 months old, so he has the built-in excuse that it’s a tradition for him, that he likes it for the variety or something. I wish I had figured that out when I was 22.
2) “What Do You Want Me to Say,” The Dismemberment Plan. Never lived up to the awesomeness of that band name, although I dig this song.
3) “Heretic Pride,” Mountain Goats. The-feel-good-dragged-to-your-execution-for-religious-reasons song of the decade.
4) “Elephant Stone,” The Stone Roses. About as good as music gets for me. Some songs are sunny, but this one is the sun, giving off heat and warmth and just lighting me up, even on a dreary October day after I’ve come face to face with my own gradual pectoral demise.
5) “The Wagon,” Dinosaur Jr. At their revved-up best. I love how the bridge turns it up a notch, high-fiving my ears before Mascis rips into one of his patented controlled-chaos solos.
6) “Iron Man (Live),” Black Sabbath. The drums that kick off this live version give off some serious Spinal Tap vibes, so much so that I almost expected to hear David St. Hubbins instead of Ronnie James Dio. While I loves me some Dio, he can’t do this one justice. This song is 100% Ozzy. After all, he’s the Prince of F---in’ Darkness!
Doesn’t old-school metal Satanism seem so quaint these days? I remember how much of an uproar there was over this stuff, and now you get Jack Black starring in a videogame that makes Hell look as cool as a heavy metal album cover. So it was like a trip down memory lane when people actually flipped over Black leading an audience in a Satanic “prayer” at the Video Music Awards. If you ever wonder, “Gee, how did such atrocious Rapture porn like the Left Behind series sell 66.6 million copies,” here’s your chance to meet the readers.
7) “I,” Bad Brains. Like it just leaps out of the speakers and pulls me into the pit.
8) “Plush,” Stone Temple Pilots. Here’s something I don’t think you ever hear: “Man, am I glad I started doing heroin!” I get the allure of drugs, sure, but you have to wonder what the hell possesses people to try something like this. I know what gets them to keep doing it (Addiction? You’re soaking in it!). But what pushes them to say, “I keep hearing all these remarkable things about heroin. I’ve just got to see what all the fuss is about.” It’s the drug equivalent of investigating a house with blood coming out of the walls—you know it’s not going to end well, so why not just move into that nice little bungalow at the corner of Booze Ave. and Hemp Ct.”
Also, with regard to the video: just because you're heroin skinny doesn't mean you should take your shirt off.
9) “Powderfinger (Live),” Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Like a great pair of worn jeans: goes with everything, fits perfectly, and the little frays and rips just make them that much cooler.
10) “Love Is the Seventh Wave,” Sting. I’m not a world music guy. No offense to the rest of the world, and unlike the previous administration, I have no intention of trying to convert world music fans into my music fans or bombing them with rock. It’s just not me, much in the same way jazz and classical are not me, and if I tried to make them into me, I’d look like a poseur. So, jolly good show, Sting, but I’m more of a “Next to You” man.
11) “My Morning Song,” The Black Crowes. There’s a balls-out quality to this song that pumps me up every time I hear it. It sprints out of the gate, gets my heart going, then slows it down to a crawl before building everything back up and rocking me even harder than before. The only thing missing is for a hand to come out of the speakers and light the cigarette afterward.
Look at that, a bunch of songs people might have actually heard! Have a good weekend, and may any breasts you see be pleasant.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Top Ten Tuesdays: What are we treating with medical marijuana?
10) Futon Back
9) Led Zeppelin Intolerance
8) Gigglephobia
7) Blacklight Eye
6) Conversational Blockage
5) Chronic Alertness
4) Parking Lot Malaise
3) Post-Graduate Employment Stress Syndrome
2) Revenue Atrophy
1) Drug-Enforcement Fatigue
9) Led Zeppelin Intolerance
8) Gigglephobia
7) Blacklight Eye
6) Conversational Blockage
5) Chronic Alertness
4) Parking Lot Malaise
3) Post-Graduate Employment Stress Syndrome
2) Revenue Atrophy
1) Drug-Enforcement Fatigue
Monday, October 19, 2009
Chicago Bears Blogging
What's better than watching your favorite team lose a crucial Sunday night game, losing to a team in almost the same gut-punching way that they did the year before?
Staying up to blog about it.
I've been blogging for a few weeks for NFL Blog Blitz, a new football-blog that has a fancy official partnership with the real NFL. The partnership has finally been consummated via press release, so I am free to link to my orange and blue blood, sweat, and tears. And what a way to make this public:
"Are You There Bears? It's Me, The Running Game."
Since this is an official NFL blog, dick jokes are a banned substance. But I managed to work in a Judy Blume reference and make a double-entendre out of "spread offense," so I'm still being me.
Admittedly, these posts won't probably make sense or be that entertaining if you don't follow the Bears, but there are a couple others I've done that I am rather proud of:
Top 10 Ways the Bears Spent Their Bye Week
The Fellowship of the Bears Fans (because nothing goes with football like Tolkien).
Staying up to blog about it.
I've been blogging for a few weeks for NFL Blog Blitz, a new football-blog that has a fancy official partnership with the real NFL. The partnership has finally been consummated via press release, so I am free to link to my orange and blue blood, sweat, and tears. And what a way to make this public:
"Are You There Bears? It's Me, The Running Game."
Since this is an official NFL blog, dick jokes are a banned substance. But I managed to work in a Judy Blume reference and make a double-entendre out of "spread offense," so I'm still being me.
Admittedly, these posts won't probably make sense or be that entertaining if you don't follow the Bears, but there are a couple others I've done that I am rather proud of:
Top 10 Ways the Bears Spent Their Bye Week
The Fellowship of the Bears Fans (because nothing goes with football like Tolkien).
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