How exactly does one walk onto a yacht

For those interested, Marisol came through Lasik fine. Last night before I left her house she could read the smaller (not smallest) print on television. Her followup visit to the doctor this morning found her with 20/20 vision! She was ecstatic and rightfully so. Thus ends 25 years of visual aides for her. Not to fear, I have no plans to change my bespectacled status as everyone's beloved correspondent. I've worn them for so long now that when photos from my high school days without them, I just look odd. Or odder. I think more odd is actually grammatically correct but grammar is 4 eggheadz and losers. Both of which I've accuse myself of being far too often.

The other night found me screening How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. As I told MB the other day, the book has been on my to-read list for a bit; I suspect I'll never get around to it. That's generally how I do things: find something that sounds interesting, put it as a to-do, forget about it, have something remind me about it, remake vow, forget about it, die an emptier person.

I was unaware a movie was being made until I saw the poster in the London Tube of all places. Remembered my past interest, noticed the great Simon Pegg (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Spaced--absolute genius tv show that everyone everywhere should watch continuously) was in it and told Andy "I want to see that." I believe his response was, "I don't." I'm not sure it ever received a wide release here, if at all. Anyway, brief synopsis: snarky writer for small celeb-hating mag (ahem!) takes job at large celeb-loving mag (think EW), attempts to bring down system from the inside. Of course, snarky writer gets corrupted and falls into glitzy world before finding redemption and true love. The end.

In the midst of all this are digs at celeb culture, some of which work better than others, and some decently funny parts. But on the whole, the movie feels a little too tame and rushed. I'm guessing the book is a bit more fleshed out, since it's allegedly a true, if fictionalized, story. On film, though, everything happens pretty darn quickly and a bit too easy. It seems a bit unlikely that a big, glossy mag would give an upstart so many chances to lose friends and alienate people. Not having much knowledge of such a world I can't be sure nor do I really care all that much.

It probably didn't help matters that none of the characters were particularly likable and fairly one-dimensional. Don't misunderstand; the movie wasn't awful and I don't regret watching it. I just was expecting more from a movie with such potential and starring one of my favorite current funnymen. I'll get over it. Somehow.

Oh, golly it's Killdozer

I suppose the big news around here today is that finally after months, years even, of threatening the EPJ is finally getting that pool. We're all about fiddling whilst Rome burns around here. My family took that unnecessary (but greatly enjoyed and sadly too short) England trip; the EPJ helps out the financial situation by paying a crew to park some heavy machinery in her yard and dig a big hole. We are nothing if not good Americans.

So in between her judgely duties, she's been taking regular trips to her house to chart the progress. She's even been taking pictures to document the progress or perhaps to see where it all went wrong. Ordinarily, I'd threaten to put those pictures up here, but even I have my limits. And since she referred to the bulldozer driver as an "artist", I'm almost tempted. But no matter how skilled, I see no need to put more pictures of smoking, overweight dudes whose butt cracks are showing on the interwebs. Nevertheless, the EPJ has sent all her closest buds and family regular updates today so regardless of how rough your life is, it could be worse. You could be in her address book.

The time frame for the completion is supposed to be a couple of weeks. A period which, to me, seemed a bit quick, but then we're only talking about digging a big hole, pouring some concrete in and filling 'er up. Plus I figure the EPJ will head out to the backyard this evening with her own shovel to speed up the process. I keed her but in fairness this is something she's been threatening to do for several years. She figured since the world is going to hell, and the good folk of our county will let her wear the iron fist for four more years, now was a good time to do it. Okay, maybe her granddaughter had something to do with it. But that's really not as snarkable a reason now is it?

Of course, tomorrow I'll be taking Marisol in for her Lasik surgery. Wouldn't want her to feel left out of all this recession-era spending. So if anybody needs some glasses, there's about to be a pair available. Though I quite like her glasses (on her, not me) I'm excited about her excitement. I know, awww.

Reading press clippings at The Hair Hut

An unexpected break due to circumstances beyond my control. Though I'm the captain of this particular ship, my duties are more or less ceremonial as they pertain to the real world. Nevertheless, some interesting notes in the interim. I've still not managed to get the photos of the immolated house. Not due to slackness, mind. My source in the local media, (the dear Marisol) has been tied up with other things. Surprisingly a rope was not one of them. Hopefully when things settle down, which probably won't be until next week, I can get some up here. Until then, my advice is to put those Disney imagineer skills to work. If you can dream it, do it. Etc.

So last Saturday was the big 15K in Jacksonville. The race itself was a grand time and I was quite pleased with the event itself as well as my time, 1:20. Good organization, the course was not as easy as I'd anticipated but not all that rough either. This was still Florida, which I believe is the flattest state in the union. Some may argue Delaware is. I like to call those people wrong.

There were no great tales from the run that I'm aware. There were some bands playing along the way that for the most part were probably getting paid too much for the services provided. I appreciate that some hard-working cover band is willing to get up on a Saturday morning and crank out all the songs I never want to hear again and badly at that. However, it's really not necessary. I along with, I'm guessing, 90% of the runners had their own little soundtracks and the other 10% didn't want/need to hear bad cover versions.

The bright spot/low point was one of the bands rocking the runners with some Candlebox. Kudos to them for dredging up a past we'd all rather forget but in the name of Kurdt and all that he unwittingly spawned, please consider trading in those guitars for shovels. On second thought, perhaps a third-rate version of a third-rate grunge song from a third-rate grunge band played roadside to disinterested/annoyed runners at 9 am on a Saturday morning is the respect the song deserves.

In a further quest for cutting-edge relevancy, perhaps I'll go after Everclear in my next post. Consider yourself warned, gents.

But before all this, MB and MB's hubby wanted to show me and dear old Dad around their newly adopted home. And by home, I mean current place they receive their mail. Since it was a surprisingly chilly, drizzly and foggy night, they wanted to take us to the one place to best take everything in: the beach. Figuring this to be more like an Adams Family excursion than a popular destination on a such an eve, I was surprised to find out that everyone else in Jacksonville decided to do the same thing. I guess if you've paid for the rooms though, you're going to have that beach experience regardless.

Jimmy: "But Dad, I can't feel my toes."

Dad: "Shut up, Jimmy and build that sand castle. You're having fun; you just don't realize it."

Mom: "I hate my life but at least I've got my pal Jimmy Bean to keep me warm since you don't anymore."

Enid: "My family is so lame. Thankfully, they sell rebellion at Hot Topic. At last, I can use someone else's money to get clothing that will adequately express my angst and turmoil over my current domestic situation. I can't wait to go to art college." (Enid, being a reader of Camus and huge fan of The Cure, is more sulky and verbose than the rest).

And scene.

Where was I?

I don't remember and it doesn't matter anyway. It was a good weekend though.

No, I'm not going to reference that awful Talking Heads song

For all interested, it seems the house was burned down last night and a guy, possibly on fire/probably not, did indeed jump out and all was filmed for posterity or Hollywood or mankind or something. I've not ridden out to the smoldering embers this morning but Marisol confirmed that the house is no longer there and the location was, in fact, smoldering this morning. I have not confirmed whether the house was actually blown up, but I'll presume it was. That makes a far more riveting tale, which this all definitely needs. Big ass Hollywood film crew makes once in a blue moon trip to sticks to torch local collapsing mansion on the hill for semi-big ass Hollywood flick starting real, actual big ass movie stars is indeed a bit vanilla.

Alas, I was not able to personally witness said destruction. The local authorities blocked off the road yesterday morning and wouldn't let anyone pass. All the bribes of doughnuts (just kidding, guys) were ignored because we have a dedicated sort who are very dedicated to protecting the peace. It takes more than fried dough and clichés long past their sell-by date to get them to violate their oaths, by gum. I had thought we could maybe walk up closer to everything but it was not to be. There were all sorts of army vehicles, heavy machinery and possible nuclear weapons to keep us would-be gawkers at bay. Tempting though it was to be in the same square mile as the action and imagine what was going on just over the hill, I ultimately decided why bother and didn't even go out there. So the destruction of important family history (that I'd largely forgotten about) was accomplished with no one there to represent our clan. This is all somehow fitting.

Nevertheless, it all was documented by the local organ. Since I have connections to said paper (namely Marisol), hopefully I can get some pix up here before too long. According to Marisol, her boss got plenty of before, during and after. I suppose being a member of the working press in a small town occasionally has advantages besides getting into local high school games for free. Those are pretty much the only two advantages I can think of however.

Anyway, if I get a chance to get out there this afternoon, I'll try to put up a couple of photos of the smoking ruins. Tremendously exciting and worthwhile though they will be. For a preview, I would suggest going outside and starting a fire in the yard. Please be sure to extinguish afterwards. We certainly wouldn't want anyone burning up any neighborhoods. Unless, of course, you hate your neighbors.

What else is there to say about Don Dokken?

As I'm sure virtually no one reading this knows, they are shooting a movie just down the road in Crawfordville. Or were. I think shooting wrapped yesterday. Who they, one may ask? Some Hollywood commie pinkos and Robert Duvall--who's not, btw, of course. I think they've been there for a couple of weeks though I saw no signs of a production, big or otherwise, when I was through Crawfordville a couple of weeks ago on the way to Athens. Considering they roll up what's left of the streets at sundown in that tiny town, I see no reason why they couldn't find some extra space for camera and such.

Every so often a flick is filmed in Crawfordville because, as every article (like this one)that mentions Crawfordville, uh, mentions, the town has changed very little in the last 80 years. I personally can vouch for the fact that it's changed hardly any in the last 35 years. They do have electricity and the police have actual vehicles with four wheels and a combustion engine, perhaps that's why there's so little crime. Nevertheless, I wouldn't be surprised if the last technological update they've had was the addition of a traffic light. Which, I hasten to add, gives them an equal number as my fair little town. Bully for them.

The other interesting (to whom?) factoid about Crawfordville is that it's the only place mentioned in R.E.M. liner notes where I actually have family from. All inclined go dig up your copy of R.E.M.'s Eponymous and in the liners for "Can't Get There From Here" you'll find in mentioned as being near Philomath. Indeed it is. Perhaps I should pause to give you, dear reader, a chance to recover from the palpitations that info no doubt caused.

Ready? Onward.

I'm not certain but I think the last movie filmed there was the always adorable Reese Witherspoon's thoroughly unnecessary chick flick, Sweet Home Alabama. Regardless, there have been more movies filmed there than probably any other small southern town. For once, I don't believe I'm exagerrating. Which, for a town with a population of less than a 1000 and oblivious to the march of time, is pretty darn impressive even I must admit.

But since dying southern towns must stick together the good folks in Crawfordville threw a little Hollywood love our way: a house on the outskirts of town here will be burned to the very ground. Awesome. So for the past week Georgia Power, Georgia Natural Gas and various Hollywood special effects people have been rigging up the old house to blow up real good on Sunday night.

To top it off, they'll even be a man jumping out the second story window. Natch, I hope he'll be on fire but won't be too bummed if he's just takes a running jump. It goes without saying that I plan to see it all go down for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is I can't imagine they'll be anything remotely as exciting going on at that particular time around here. Unless some local tweaker manages to blow his little meth lab up by accident, of course.

The other reason is that the house is actually a part of my family history. (Andy/Chris, it's the old two-story house past Wheland) My father's family lived there for a bit, two separate times, way back when. However, we didn't build it and don't own it now which means that my chance to get a little payback from Hollywood will have to wait a bit longer. Come to think of it, I suppose my grandparents would have been living there when this movie is set, the 1930s, which is a fairly interesting coincidence. Or at least it is to me.

My Dad went out there today to take a few pictures of the house and all the excitement. Because he's a folksy, personable guy he struck up a conversation with the lady organizing everything. After refusing her repeated request to leave or be shot several times, she took another tactic: talk this local yokel and hopefully he'll go away. I keed.

She was apparently quite nice and interested in his history on the house. Since she couldn't bear the thought of such a priceless family heirloom perishing without photographic evidence she let him go inside and take a few pictures of everything.** She also promised to send him a copy of the finished movie. Maybe she will. Either way, it's still pretty cool to think that a part of my family's history that's been ignored for years, literally falling in, will be immortalized in a movie. In a fiery blaze of glory, no less.

**Of course, I don't have them right now but perhaps I'll put them up later on this evening or tomorrow. Hopefully, I can get some pix of the actual shoot on Sunday but until then, this is what it looks like.

A view from inside the front door. Though I think the stairs were original, I believe they had to reinforce them, also replaced some of the ceiling/2nd floor. If you look close around the windows, you'll notice the propane line they'll use to blow out the windows and "control" the fire.

The view of the house from the back. As you can see everything is pretty much falling in and has been for decades. Not sure if they removed that back wall or it was already long gone. They built the ramp to the porch for cameras/equipment.

Laziness pt. 12

Here it is folks. The Jeremy Stairway to the Stars rolling ladder. (Bonus points if anybody gets the reference) It's nestled deep within the confines of the ginormous WFMU record library in Jersey City, NJ and is mine all mine for the next year. Or at least the naming rights. I suspect if I marched up to WFMU and asked to step on my ladder I would probably be forcibly removed by one of the station's numerous hired goons. Freeform radio being a rather dangerous business, you know.

So what does owning the naming rights mean? Virtually nothing beside causing me to feel good about helping out the greatest radio station in the world and getting my name on a picture of not great quality on the station's flickr page. Sadly, this means more to me than it probably should.

Of course, there's probably some dude somewhere who's bummed that he didn't get the naming rights to that ladder and will have to settle for naming the station trash bin. Funny thing about altruism, somebody always gets hurt.

Suzy Snowflake's older, uglier cousin

All weekend we were told/promised/warned that at long last we would get our first snow of the year. Make it through the deluge of Friday and Saturday and we'd have more white stuff than the Escopito cartel in Bogota. I talked to Andy yesterday afternoon and he not-exactly-excitedly but with a slight lilt in his voice described the conditions in PTC: winter wonderland. He even broke out the camcorder that's been collecting dust since the England trip to record a few moments for the still unnamed Baby Ziegler. (Horatio is still in the running, yay!) A silly idea on the surface perhaps, but at the rate we get snows here BZ will probably vote for his first U.S. President before he builds a snowman in his yard. Of course, that's more to do with Andy's reticence to frolic outdoors than a lack of snow. I digress.

Before Andy the auteur became wholly mesmerized by the snow, he assured me that the system (or snow for the non-weather geeks) was headed right for us and we'd be blanketed in mere hours. Rebel that I am, living the life on the edge that I do, I decided against a quick run for the customary bread and milk. With my M & M's and bottled water I should be able to hold out for an hour or two. If trapped for longer than a couple of hours, I can always use my survival skills learned from Man vs. Wild. My bloodlust is getting antsy and my Swiss Army knife has been dormant for far too long.

In the meantime, Cybil's mother called about the guest list for the upcoming BZ shower she and an assortment of hens are throwing. (Er, apologies, the EPJ corrected me that one doesn't "throw" a shower; it is held. I quickly informed the EPJ that I didn't give a care, er, I mean, a shit.) But since Andy and Millicent do not live here and I am not invited nor particularly interested in such matters (but am nonetheless a renaissance man), it makes perfect sense that the duties of creating a guest list would fall upon me. Though the final list was somewhat longer than the 5 or so Andy figured, it's somewhat less than every female that's ever come in contact with us. Nevertheless, if you're reading this and you fail to receive a request for a gift please know that we're very disappointed in you. Shame.

So in the midst of our convo, I looked out and noticed it was snowing. Finally. Local weathermen went into storm mode and promised 5-6". Suddenly the idea of Monday at the office seemed a little less likely. I could hardly wait to write my name in the snow. A few minutes later I looked out again and there was nothing but the cold silence of the first day of March. No worries, sayeth Marisol, it's supposed to get much worse after midnight. So much so that all the local schools, including Buster's, have already been closed. Certainly the local school systems wouldn't waste a snow day on a mere threat. As luck would have it, the local authorities, Andy, Marisol and everybody else who warned me of my impending snowboundness was right. Let's go make snow angels.

The view from my desk. Apparently we got the special invisible snow.

I was briefly excited to find something white on the ground. Turned out to be a cigarette butt.