Get your customs here

Somewhere along the way last week Buster crossed over from 7 years old to 8. Because this was viewed as a somewhat significant event, it seemed only fitting to celebrate in a significant locale. After very little thought and probably no prayer, Buster chose Chuck E. Cheese. A place loved by kids and, more or less, feared by parents. Being neither, I guess I was a sort of indifferent.

Sure, I could think of better things to do on a Saturday afternoon, discuss ways to improve the sewer system of some third world village, for instance. But I could also think of worse things. If my options were Chuck E. Cheese or being torn to shreds by bears, I would chose Chuck E. Cheese with little or no hesitation. A little known fact that before it was decided "Where a kid can be a kid" would be their slogan, some of the less stuffed shirts as Cheese HQ were hoping for "Better than being shredded by bears. Guaranteed."

Since this was Marisol's baby (so to speak), I didn't have to do much more than show up prepared for fun. This wasn't too much of a task since I'm pretty much always on standby for fun. A good thing since I'd hardly gotten in the door when Buster grabbed hold of me and dragged me towards all manner of sensory overload.

It touched my heart a bit that while his Mom was greeting his guest and getting everything ready to go he wanted me to share these moments with him. In return, I figured maybe I'd give him a few pointers in skee-ball or blow him away with my ridiculous skills at the basketball game. However, I quickly realized that the only part of me that was needed was my hands. His cup full of tokens and tickets wasn't going to hold itself now was it? Though I realize he would probably have grabbed the next familiar face he saw, I like to think he chose me because no one but no one could dispense a token faster than yours truly. Even after all these years college continues to pay off.

Either because they're good people or were paid to do so, Chuck E's cheesters handled all the set up, take down and provided the "entertainment". This they manage to do in a rather efficient but somewhat impersonal fashion since they manage to hold 6 (!) parties at a time. Each party has their own table, cleverly identified with a balloon with the birthday boy/girl name on it. The guests sit down, are delivered a pizza that rises to the level of edible but somewhat less than good and marvel at the fact that all the other tables are doing the exact same thing. Each table has a handler, ostensibly to ensure a smooth event. I strongly suspect, however, they're really there to ensure that each table stays on schedule and doesn't think they're actually going to sit past the allotted time.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, the animatronics come on and a band of something or others strike up a tune. Figuring kids focusing in on one particular thing might not be enough, they also add in a video on one side of the band and a animatronic chef playing the drums for no apparent reason on the other. Needless to say, all are playing different things at different times.

Ordinarily, this sort of thing would be right up my alley, but here I find it less than appealing. And in the middle of all this the handlers start to dance to, I guess, one of the songs being played by one of the three groups. I can't be sure because at that point I was quite certain that my my coke had been spiked with LSD.

With anticipation at a feve pitch, Chuck E. Cheese comes out and any kid that wasn't screaming before is screaming now. For those unfamiliar, Mr. Cheese, while lacking the elegance and dignity of Mickey Mouse, is a mouse who likes to skateboard, wear cool clothes and high-five. That seems to be about it.

Though the kids seem to take him at face value, it all seemed a bit too much like Poochie from The Simpsons for me. A character developed after years of intense R & D for maximum realism by a group of folks who've never been around a kid. Somehow, I just knew he was going to say "Hey, doooodes. Let's go be cool" or however it is the kids talk these days.

I suppose the joke's on me though. The good folks at Cheese HQ are doing something right. Scarcely after Buster had opened his last gift, the handlers were already cleaning up this go round and setting up for the next. I briefly felt sorry for the handlers and figured that after the third event in a row, they wish they were elsewhere, but then I remembered at least their not being torn to shreds by bears. Guaranteed.

Laziness pt. 18

Q: Mr. Putin, how do you like your glasnost served?

A: With a slice of beefcake.

Where's Melissa Sue Anderson when you need her?

Believe it or not today marks one year since I started doing this and this makes post #137. This information is offered for no reason other than most blogs fail to make it a year--I still despise that word, blog, if for no other reason than its connotations of mindless ramblings of self-centered boobs. Erm. Most blogs don't even make it past a couple of months. And pretty much all should never have been started. Mine is no different, but I enjoy doing it anyway and am quite the civic-minded gent as you know. As for the quality? It's a free service I provide so how much can one really expect?

Because there's nothing more depressing than looking back and realizing how much time one has really wasted, here's a brief trip through the year that was. (Apologies I don't have this soundtracked with some syrupy song and accompanied with a hazy, slow motion video. Instead you'll just have to hum "Thank You For Being a Friend" to yourself and read very, very slowly until someone cuts off the computer.)

Some numbers:

Total posts - 136
Posts that were useful/informative - 9
Trips to major U.S. cities other than Atlanta - 1 (Boston)
Trips to England/France - 1
Welcome signs for delightful French actresses seen - 1 (Juliette Binoche)
Delightful French actresses actually seen - 0
Record stores I finally went to - 2 (Twisted Village - Boston/Ultima Thule -Leicester, England)
Records purchased (cd) - 202
Records purchased (vinyl) - 63
Songs on ipod - 18,464
Trips to Disney World - 2
Marathons ran - 1
Other races ran - 3
Total miles ran - 1323
Throw-ups after long runs - 6
Pairs of running shoes - 3
Adorable nephews born - 1
Diapers changed - 0
Pictures of adorable nephew taken - approximately 30,000
Times Tech beat UGA in sports folks care about - 3 (1 each in football,basketball,baseball)
Super funny professional comedians met - 2 (Patton Oswalt,Paul F. Tompkins)
Unfunny professional dolts met - 787
Vaughn Meader references - 1
References even more arcane than the Vaughn Meader one - too many (including the title of this post)
Bad Jokes - far too many
Countries other than U.S. that visited this site at least once - 24
Countries that are now satisfied U.S. population consists of a lone, dorky, wise-acre who listens to weird music and has no life - 24

I could go on but I figure that's enough to show just what a quality waster of time I've been around here. Now let's go explore the future together!!!!!!!!!!!

Giants under the sun

For some unknown reason, Sonic likes to pump 80s music throughout their rather fab fast food franchises. Probably because, for some unknown reason, some people actually enjoy 80s music. Yeah, I know...the music is fun. Whee. Well, so are water slides but you don't see me clamoring for more of them now do you?

Anyway, during our weekly Saturday night Sonic stop for ice cream, Marisol and I were pummelled by the usual 80s soundtrack: Madonna, Culture Club, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam with Full Force, etc. Since she has a much greater patience for things in general, but 80s music in particular, Marisol sang along to the occasional song. We lamented how much of a wasted talent Boy George was. (There's probably a pun in that previous sentence, but I'm not sure how much of a "talent" Boy George actually was.) It was all very intense and as riveting as any discussion on the oeuvre of some late-20th century cross-dressing, singing sensation could possibly be. Perhaps even more so. Perhaps not.

As I'm sitting there wondering how this all relates to post-modern gender roles and eating my hot fudge sundae--mostly eating my hot fudge sundae, on comes Owner of a Lonely Heart by Yes, one of my all-time favorite musical combos. I've seen them numerous times through the years. I have all the albums, including multiple copies of most of them. I can bore even the most disinterested with all manner of minutiae on the band, from line-up changes to the equipment used on which song. I can even tell you why Savannah, Georgia, of all places, plays a role in Yes history. Though vilified by some in the critical community as being the sole reason Punk had to happen, I'll gladly, willingly and continuously defend Yes and their entire genre (Prog) until the day I die. So there.

That being said I really have no need to ever hear Owner of a Lonely Heart again. Sure, it's a catchy tune and somehow managed to find its way to the top of the charts, the first and last time of Yes' career. Its video even made these prog rock gods, brief stars of MTV. Surprising since to it's still one of the more bizarre videos I've run across to this day. This would probably be a good place to put that very video. Oh well.

But back to my Sonic evening, Marisol is not much of a fan of repetition in music. Though she doesn't realize it and couldn't care less, she's very much of the punk ethos of song structure: get in, get out. There's been a few times I've heard her singing along to something and then after the third repeat of the chorus announcing, "Okay, that's enough of that. Let's move on to the next song." It's actually kind of cute the way she does it and doesn't really realize it. I'm sure you agree.

So during the seemingly endless fadeout of Owner of a Lonely Heart, she quit caring if the protagonist's freewill is deceived at all and demands an end to the song now. Look, I may not need to hear the song again, but as stated above, this is the fighting side of me she's dangerously close to walkin' on.

Marisol: "Enough. Geesh. New song, let's go."

Me: "You know Yes is just about the end all, be all for me. Even if I don't want to hear this song again."

Marisol: "Yeah." What she really means is "So. I don't come to you with my problems." Actually, she does, but that's sort of beside the point.

Me: "You'd really love one of their 20-minute epics. They go through all sorts of sections and changes. Awesome. Why, did you know Yes put out a double album with only four songs on it?" This sort of knowledge usually drives women wild. It also explains my tremendous success with them.

Marisol: "Uh...why?" She answers unimpressed, without missing a beat and with a succinctness that would make Lester Bangs proud if he wasn't dead.

Me: "Uh, well because...they just did. That's why. It's all about the search for the meaning of life, God, creation and Lord knows what else. But it's all very deep and means SOMETHING. Apparently. These songs needed breathing room. They couldn't possibly have been contained within the tradition 4-minute pop song structure. It is possible that Yes was high back then."

I paused to give her a chance to process the profound knowledge which I had only just began imparting on her. Letting the silence linger, I was confident that she was formulating a question that would demand more of this esoterica. That I could help her navigate these Topographic Oceans as it were. Finally the silence was broken.

Marisol: "Did they give us any napkins?"

And I didn't even get to tell her about the bass solo on side four. Shucks.

Raise your hand if your sure

In my morning scanning of all things internetty, I ran across a rather pointless article on Yahoo about ways to ensure a job interview will go south. Like most articles of this type, it's filled with all manner of suggestions. Most of which range from the glaringly obvious to the obviously glaring, e.g. don't be a liar or a bad comedian. So walking in and announcing "I'm 'bout to git all up in this interview, bee-yatch." is not recommended. Not only because it manages to violate both of the aforementioned rules, but it also lets the interviewer know you're a complete tool whose death would be welcomed by your family. Apologies for being the rain on an otherwise gay parade, but unless you're an 18-year old gangbanger from the hood--by virtue of applying for a job you're almost certainly not--never threaten to "git all up in" anything. It's not 2004, you know.

In the midst of the article's 'help' there are a couple of head-scratchers though. To wit, smiling too much can be a bad thing. A suggestion which, in turn, suggest the author is even more of a miserable bastard than I and not, as implied, really concerned that the interviewee will appear nervous. Of course you're nervous going into an interview. Why wouldn't you be? Your life is on the line. This potential job may be the final strand keeping you in respectable society and off the streets working for a biznessman named Huggy Bear. So a smile, nervous or not, is wholly recommended. Look how at ease it puts most folks when dealing with used car salesmen. It lets you know they're one of us.

Continuing with the nervous theme, the most ridiculous assertion is that one can sweat too much. I'm not sure why the author is under the assumption that you'll be interviewed by an inhuman, emotionless Vulcan or that you're interviewing for a job as a contract killer, but that's about the only way I could figure some level of nervousness wouldn't be forgiven. How does one could cut down on the sweating anyway? This seems to be an unfortunate aspect of being born and a fact that most accept. I suppose the sweaty interviewee could launch into a tirade about how God cursed the human race with sweat glands, but I'm fairly certain so doing would be seen in a less than positive light. Unless you're being interviewed by some godless God-hater, that is.

Nevertheless, the article suggests that wearing too many clothes, or more specifically, an undershirt, could cost you a job. Unless the job is at Hooters or Chippendales, I can't really see how too much clothing would be a turnoff. As a proud wearer of undershirts and one who's been known to sweat, I must take offense at such a notion, but now understand why I'm working here instead of some fancy high rise in New York. Damn elite corporate scum.

However, I must give bonus points to the author for writing what is without a doubt the stupidest tip I've ever run across for anything. No small feat considering the tips and helpful hints I get at my job on a daily basis. But then, I generally ignore the EPJ on most everything anyway.

Broadway Danny Zuko

Being a fairly decent boyfriend (if I do say so myself) and an all-around good guy, I took Marisol and Buster to see Grease in Atlanta this past Saturday. Though I saw the movie upon its release 48 years ago and wore out the soundtrack when I wasn't listening to Kiss back then, I'd sort of lost touch. Though there were no hard feelings at the end of my relationship with Grease, it wasn't one that I've ever had much desire to revisit either. And truth be told, I suspect Grease hasn't missed me a whole lot either.

Every new crop of preteen girls seem to find something more relevant than the last in the coolness of leather-clad guys who know how to rumble and smoke, but can still sing and dance as any well as any Joel Grey. And I suppose preteens can relate to lyrics about "being lousy with virginity" and "getting lots of tit." That the movie, soundtrack, musical and place mats are more popular now than ever says something about us as a society. I'm not sure what, but it can't be good.

A few weeks ago on one of our amazingly, incredible nights on the town, Marisol purchased the Grease soundtrack with the promise from me that we'd "definitely" listen to it on the way home. I "forgot" since I had no intention of hearing "Summer Nights" again. I keed. But even the most cold-hearted bastard couldn't help but notice Marisol's excitement over her new purchase. Therefore, I vowed then and there that we'd take it in when the production came to Atlanta. True, I figured that would be sometime in the middle of the next decade. It just happened to be coming to Atlanta in a couple of weeks. Hot damn. Figuring that Buster could use a little more culture than he was getting from SpongeBob Square Pants we decided to take him as well. It certainly seemed age appropriate.

For Marisol the couple of weeks wait was interminable. I, however, was willing to wait a little bit longer. Not because prolonging the anticipation sweetens the enjoyment, but more because I figured that gave the world a little more time to end. Again, I keed. The big day arrived and after an uneventful drive to Atlanta and an even more mundane march to our seats, we sat.

The crowd grew restless and a gent came out to tell us all about the super-fab season of musicals that was on tap. And maybe we'd like to get some tickets now for some of those. Amid heaves of tomatoes and cries of "Give us Zuko" and "Get to Greased Lightning, greaseball", mostly from me, the host announced that this production would contain songs from the movie not in the original Broadway version.

Apparently, this announcement was a big deal since the audience oooh-ed like they were going to be privy to some special performance that a more pedestrian crowd wouldn't appreciate. I must confess, however, it had no real effect on our enjoyment of the proceedings. Or lack thereof. I did briefly consider standing up and asking if the original production wasn't sacred then what was, but decided were I ever going to riot it would be over something a little more visceral than a musical. Even if said musical involves delinquent teenagers, hot rods and the somewhat questionable notion that being good is good and all, but if you want to get the super hot dude with the duck tail you'd best become the tramp he really wants. Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere, I suppose.

It's probably not much of a shock that I'm for a constitutional amendment to ban musicals. There's scarcely any need for anyone to ever "jazzbox" and there's even less need to do it whilst singing. And even more less need to do it whilst singing in the midst of telling a story about how tough life was for horny teenagers in the '50s. Nevertheless, I kept looking over at my two companions and couldn't help but notice they kept enjoying the show more with each number. A warming sight to this silicone heart if ever there was one. Honestly, my protestations to the contrary, it really wasn't that bad of a way to spend an afternoon. Well, compared to having to actually endure life in 1958.

Adorableness pt. 3

Babies having babies. When will we learn?
(l-r) Buster, Claudette and Baby Zeigler