The whisper of epithets

My Facebook account has been acting rather strange for the past couple of days. This is hardly cause for an adjustment of the nation's DEF-CON status. However, it does, as the kids used to say, blow. (Pretty impressive I used 3 commas in a 10-word sentence, no?) Though I'm generally not too keen on fads or what keeps contemporary minds afloat, I have become somewhat enamored with Facebook. Sure, we can lament how it has replaced actual, meaningful contact between friends and family, but I suppose any contact is better than nothing. And the stinker in me can't help taking devilish delight in giving totally random, absurd "updates" to friends waiting for some bit of self-insight or reflection.

Back in the 20th century, we had to actually attend family reunions and class reunions for the awkwardness unique to seeing people you sort of know but not really and probably spent the interim between meetings devising ways to avoid those very people. Now we can just click "add as friend" and never give them another thought. Your unknown relative/forgotten friend day will probably be brightened thinking you're really interested in what he/she has been up to all this time. You'll feel good in knowing you gave the appearance of caring but didn't actually expend any energy. Everybody wins.***

But as for now, I can't do anything like that. Every time I try to log on I get a slightly different message telling me that my account is temporarily unavailable. Try again in a few minutes. While this is likely due to some aspect of the communist conspiracy and general effort to keep a brother down, it has the ultimate effect of keeping me uniformed. And since news cycles, even personal ones, are so quick these days, there is no telling what I have missed. I fear I will now be on the outside looking in as new references and inside jokes are made amongst folks whom I've known for far too long. This has caused great consternation.

Damn you, Facebook. Damn you all to Hell.

Until you get this ship righted and I'm back in the chosen fold, of course.

***Understand this doesn't apply to my friends and relations on Facebook. You are all awesome in every way. I was just waiting all those years until something as mind-blowing as the internets to come along to make communication easier. What with the monopoly AT & T had on the phone service all those years, I thought of it as saving you a little scratch. And then all that food preparation that would have to be done for any reunions. And let's not even talk about the postal service.

A flat Earth calls for a flat hero

There's a children's book called Flat Stanley. I realize this news is most likely not a shock to the plugged-in readers of this particular site. I like to think that I'm with it as well. Alas, it would appear that I've let my plugged-in-edness lag a bit in the children's literature dept: I'd never heard of it.

Wikipedia says the book came out in the early 60s and since Wikipedia never lies, I'll defer to them and admit defeat. It goes without saying that I wasn't born yet so perhaps that will hold my excuse, however tenuous. The timeline of when Flat Stanley did or didn't come into being really has nothing to do with the rest of my tale so it's probably best just to move on.

In this book, there is a boy called, surprisingly enough, Stanley and through some sort of misfortune he ends up being flattened. Whether by a suitcase or a 10-ton weight or a piano or something, Stanley goes from being a rigid, normal boy to the malleable and paper thin fellow the so man schoolkids apparently love.

One would reckon this to be a somewhat traumatic situation for the little gent. That his family probably would require years of intense therapy resulting in hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, and the very real possibility that the family would shatter. But since Stanley's family is made of stronger stock, and this is a children's book not a Lifetime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney, they made lemonade out of life's lemons.

Clever, if somewhat cruelly, his parents dub him Flat Stanley and discover he can fit in an envelope. While I'm not really sure how this problem or solution came up--again, I've not read the book--this eureka moments results in the newly christened Flat Stanley being sent sent all over the world. I suppose getting to see the world for the price of whatever a postage stamp goes for these days isn't that bad. But considering what Stanley's been through, it seems a little macabre that his parents immediately hatch a plan to send him as far away and as frequently as possible.

Of course, this may have been in their best interest as well. It seems rather likely that DFACS would start snooping around after hearing about a little boy getting flattened in his own home. The whole tale really doesn't suggest the best environment for child rearing, but I guess we're not really dealing within the confines of reality with this one.

Given the popularity of the book with everyone (except me, apparently) some ingenious soul, probably a teacher, decided kids might enjoy making their own Flat Stanleys and sending him all over the world. That way some do-gooder can take his picture in front of, say, Big Ben. The cynic in me can't help but think this is little more than a means to prop up our lagging postal service, but I'm sure the stated goals of the project are a bit more altruistic. Probably to promote peace, equality and acceptance of flat persons or some such. Maybe even teach kids that geography can be fun. I don't know.

What I do know is that this notion has become quite popular and folks seem to get awfully excited about getting the opportunity. Look at me, I've written an entire post on taking a picture with a paper cutout. (There should have been a spoiler alert before that last sentence. Oh, well.) But there's a web site devoted to all things Flat Stanley and his many travels and the people, famous and otherwise, he's met along the way. If, by chance, I've not gone into enough detail about this whole business or you really need to see Dave Matthews shaking hands with one Stanley, then head on over there now. Don't worry, I'll wait.

Thanks to a cousin from somewhere other than here, Saturday night was my turn. Figuring that there was no better place to be than the Georgia Tech-Virginia Tech game, we decided to take Stanley along. Since Tech is rather stringent on everyone having a ticket, Stanley was smuggled in. Quite probably I was the only fellow smuggling in something other than a potent potable, but I felt no less rebellious. "Power to the people" being one of Stanley's less popular credos. As I get more set in my ways, my civil disobedience gets tamer and tamer. Or lamer and lamer.

So with Tech leading 7-3 at halftime and figuring the ushers were on a smoke break, I felt the time was right for Stanley to make his appearance. I realize that the average person probably would feel a bit stupid doing such things in any situation, let alone a football game. However, I love the children and believe they are our future and gladly obliged.


Afterwards, I didn't have the heart to fold Stanley up and send him back into the pocket of my Dad's seat cushion. My Dad's a nice guy and all, but I really wouldn't want to smell his ass for 3 hours and can't imagine a piece of paper would either. So I tucked Stanley in between my sweater and there he stayed for the rest of the match.

Stanley watched the contest amazed that an otherwise sensible 30-something would assign feelings to a cutout when Stanley's own parents clearly didn't seem to care to begin with. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere, but who cares Tech won. The real Tech, that is. Georgia Tech.

A home no more

It was announced yesterday where Furman Bisher is calling it a day. I suppose it shouldn't be too much of a surprise to hear a 90-year old doing such things, but Bisher is a little different. He was (is) the dean of southern sports journalism and was on the job longer than I've been alive. Actually, his career started before my father was born; my father is 67.

I'd wager Bisher has seen just about every major sporting event that has happened in the past 50 years and an untold number that simply occurred and time forgot. An interesting life to be sure. Perhaps as a result, he was also one of the finest columnists, on any subject, I've ever read.
These days whenever one of the old dogs of journalism hangs it up, it's common for the young turks to lament the passing of an era. Often such lamentations are unoriginal and trite. Faux sentimentality used to code the underlying message: "Time passed him by."

With Bisher though, it is doubtful his like will be seen again. Sports reporting today is more about flash, "wit" and the cult of personality than anything to do with an event. The game is a mere backdrop. Snark has replaced insight. Being clever is held in higher regard than being good or, God forbid, the facts. And the less said the better about the notion, sadly increasing, of modern sports reporters deciding they're de facto political commentators, peppering their columns and stories with unneccesary partisan asides.

In short, the idea that the reporter is there to report and not actually part of the story is as outdated as some probably think Bisher is. Since sports are such an integral part of our culture, I suppose it's only fitting that sports reporting is as shallow and meaningless these days as anything else we subsist on. Thank you, ESPN.

But there was a time when journalist actually knew how to relay events. To put them in their proper context--contrary to popular belief, not every strike out or touchdown is a significant moment in the life of a sports fan. To put us in that moment without self-aggrandizement. No, sports really aren't that important compared to death and taxes. However, they do help make all the unpleasantness in between a little more bearable. In that regard, Furman Bisher helped more than most. Selah

I think your car alarm is going off

Golly, it's a pissy day. The type of day where one is sure that's it's raining all over the world. Or maybe the sky is crying as I'm sure some blues song somewhere says. I hate the blues, btw, so I'll presume I'd hate that song. Actually, come to think of it there was a Stevie Ray Vaughan song by that very title some years back. Maybe he wrote it. Maybe he didn't. But I was correct. I did hate the song. Still do, in fact. Much like 99.9% of his output. Sorry, SRV. Nothing personal, but again, I hate the blues.

Life can be depressing enough. So when I want a musical escape from the daily humdrum, I really don't need to listen to some geezer moan about how shitty their life is because their old lady done left them for a back door man or their hands are bleeding from picking cotton all day. Situations, I hasten to add, that the (most likely) white performer is not currently experiencing nor ever has. Plus, I would think bleeding hands would make plucking cat gut strings on an old cigar box or blowin' that harmonica difficult. Thank God Led Zeppelin invented rock and roll so we don't have to listen to such moaning anymore.

That all has very little to do with the weather here. And in reality it's not raining all over the world. It's not even raining 20 miles south of here. Or at least so says the radar. And we all know how reliable those things are. What this all ultimately means is that it is highly unlikely that Buster's mighty mites match will be held this evening. Which is a shame since they're currently riding a one-game winning streak. No, they probably haven't turned any corner. But I'd like to think the first taste of blood (read:victory) has turned this otherwise somewhat well-behaved bunch of ragamuffins into raving lunatics desperate to feast upon the entrails of another group of unfortunate miscreants. Blood lust knows no age. Plus, they get snacks after it's all done. That seems to be the most popular part of the day for all involved.

But win they did on Saturday morning. Braving a monsoon at the start only to find the sun peek out by the end. The weather as peculiar as the game was normal. Though it was fairly close, the game was never really in doubt since Buster's crew scored two quick touchdowns and held the other team scoreless for the first quarter. At this level, the game is more or less deciding when the first team fails to score on their possession.

Added in was some rather bizarre play calling by the other team who insisted on lining up in the shotgun. Questionable logic if you're going to run it up the middle every time. And at this level, every team does. Every time. Except for when the snap went over the quarterback's head (often). And when they tried a reverse! Kudos to the coach for doing just what no one was expecting him to do, but there's a reason no one was expecting it. These are 8-year old who have never played football before. If you tell one of them to run the opposite way with the ball, that's just what he's going to do. Oblivious to the fact he's supposed to hand it off to the guy coming towards him. So instead of scoring that easy touchdown, he got tackled by his own teammate. Oops.

Surely, the coach was bummed he couldn't attempt the amazing fake field goal he worked on all week. That would have really caught us off guard.

Laziness pt. 20

Mia Farrow learns Woody Allen has signed the Free Roman Polanski petition.

Not one of the better ones

It didn't occur to me until I was walking to the post office yesterday afternoon, but I'm already upon the one-year anniversary of our France/England trip. Given the 5-hour time differential I would go so far as to say that at this precise moment one year ago my fingers were working diligently away at updating everyone on that day's events. The highlight of that particular day was going to Ultima Thule record shop in Leicester and buying an awful lot of records. By coincidence, I received two records in the mail today. Zounds. Plus ça change, je suppose.

Along the same lines, I was watching Stephen Fry In America last night. Not really sure what it is about titans of British comedy discovering a second life as your jolly, inquisitive travel guide, but it's worked for various Monty Python guys so why not Fry? Though he's a British national treasure with numerous series under his belt, if Fry is known in the U.S. at all, it's for being Hugh Laurie's (TV's House) comedy partner from way back when. That is a lament for another time, however.

As the title suggests, this particular series finds Stephen Fry in America, confused, bemused and bamboozled by the curious ways of us yanks. All of which is delivered with that dry reserve of which only the British can muster. Bemusement seems to be a recurring theme with the British. The idea that Americans are a lovable sort but, dear me, somewhat unrefined with an silly desire to have everything bigger, louder and all-around better just because we can. A fair point, but an oversimplification.

Fry himself seems to quickly realize this as he dwells deeper into the country, into the less heralded segments and rural areas. A coal mine in West Virginia, a Thanksgiving dinner in Savannah, even an Auburn-Alabama football game. Seems telling that the only stop in this episode that Fry found truly revolting was the pastel nightmare of Miami. Refreshingly, this was the one example of that big, garish, glaring distraction America that was highlighted.

I'm sure my surroundings color my view, but I tend to find more of interest in the forgotten. In this overexposed culture that we call the modern life, it's nice to (re)discover something and delve deeper into that which has not been rehashed endlessly. Which is not say, I don't enjoy a thriving metropolis, I do. But it just seems that in order to find any semblance of the unique or the individual it takes traveling along that overused phrase: the road less traveled. But I've already probably gotten too pretentious and really don't feel like developing that further.

I think I lost my train of thought somewhere along the way and probably shouldn't hit post. I will anyway. Maybe I'll delete it sometime. Maybe not. The next entry will be better. Unless it's not.

He's holding with impunity

It took an awful long time, most of September to be exact, but I was quite jazzed to feel a cool, crisp autumn morning this morning. Over the years, I've determined that this is, in fact, my favorite time of year just because. I suppose it would be manly of me to say autumn is my fave because it's football season. Nothing says machismo like sweaty dudes in skin tight uniforms running into each other and popping each other on the butt after a job well done.

In reality, though, I have no real reason. Feel free to give me a reason in the comment section. But this morning's full blown splendor was a reminder that those god-awful hellish days of hell we call summer are gone until they come back. Which, given my luck, will probably be a couple of days from now.

Speaking of football, Buster has joined up with a local team of ragamuffins for an introduction into that very sport. Having never known him to show interest in any sport that doesn't involve cute creatures and a gun, I was pleasantly surprised. And finding my attempts to discuss the more obscure realms of the early 70s Swedish prog scene with him meeting with indifference, I've been looking for something of mutual interest. Besides iCarly, of course.

Not that I have much experience actually playing football. But I've got a decent enough handle on the formal qualifications and rules: the match is usually played on a field of some description among contestants wearing colorful uniforms with mascots that are usually ferocious animals, insects or rapers/pillagers. UC-Santa Cruz Banana Slugs being a notable exception of outside-the-box mascot thinking. Probably why they suck.

Practice started a few weeks ago; his first game was this past weekend. In the interim, Marisol had been giving me updates on how things were progressing. I was expecting to hear how he stacks up with his teammates or how many tackles he made. Marisol's updates covered these things somewhat. The major point, however, seemed to be the fact that Buster's not a big fan of 'the cup' and can't really understand why he has to bother with it.

Not wishing such trauma for the tyke, I told Marisol it would only take one shot in the business for him to decide his cup as vital his helmet. She then proceeded to tell me how she managed to install it incorrectly, creating much discomfort. It would seem that of the two possible ways for it to go, she guessed wrong. While I enjoy talking with Marisol and am sure there was no doubt an interesting and possibly amusing tale therein, discussion of her 8-year old's nether regions and the protection thereof is something I'll leave to his parents. Sometimes you've just got to take a stand. Cameron taught me that.

So after all the talk of practice and cups fell away, that left nothing left to do besides play an actual game. Being one of the bigger kids out there, they stuck Buster on the line; His instructions being to hold off the fellow directly in front of him until he hears the whistle. This he does well, but is still working on the idea of following the ball. It's good that him and his opponent can batter like rams with neither giving in, but not quite as important when the fella with the ball has already finished his endzone dance.

And in a remarkable attempt to induce an asthma attack, they have him playing both ways, offense and defense. At this level, that means little. Essentially, after four downs or less, he's doing the pushing instead of being pushed. I say less, because the world of mighty mights is feast or famine. Either a play loses 5 yards or scores a touchdown. There is no slow, methodical grinding drive and on every play either the offense or defense simply imposes their will.

(An aside--that's my all-time favorite holler I've ever heard at a football game: "Defense, impose your will." That it was said by a tiny-ish dude of Arabic descent and not, say, Russell Crowe in full battle armor atop a fiery steed made it all the more better. My second all-time fave just happens to be this post's title. We Tech fans are an erudite bunch of fanatics.)

Thus far, Buster's team has been on the receiving end of most of that imposing. Though they managed 19 points in the first game on about 4 plays, they've also gave up the better part of 50 points. Unlike some areas of modern life, on the football field having more means you win. Last night, they only gave up 27 but were held to a goose egg. Progress perhaps, but the cheerleaders didn't even bother to show up. This made that whole "We've Got Spirit" cheer as lopsided as the game, and it is ultimately what I blame the shutout on.

Those looking for the bright side would be pointed towards the fact that Buster's defense stopped an extra point. A few tears aside, no one was injured. Buster's early game cup difficulties were corrected. And Marisol's post-game snacks were a hit. Rah.

Do you wish you had Jeff Goldblum's hair

It's interesting the way events unfold. As previously mentioned, for the past week or so Georgia has more closely resembled the rainy season in Vietnam instead of its usual easing from summer to autumn. After close consultation with the weather radar courtesy of the interwebs, it does appear that most of the heavy rain has fallen, and the flooding has peaked or crested or whatever it is flood waters do when they can rise no more. The sun has even managed to rear its forgotten head most days this week. So good on ya, golden orb of the sky.

Photographic evidence, and common sense, to the contrary, Six Flags continues to insist they will be open this weekend. That's good news for the 40 or 50 customers they'll no doubt have. However, I sort of figure most people in the Atlanta area are more concerned with trying to get rid of that pool in their living room that God just delivered. Going wild on the Mindbender just doesn't seem that important right now. If by chance some locals aren't so distracted, I'd question the parenting prowess of any who would send their child to a dilapidated amusement part, already expecting in its death throes, that just happened to have spent the better part of the week totally submerged. What could possibly go wrong?

But in the middle of all this rain, the big story around here was that the local barbecue pit burned. To the world outside, I realize this sounds trivial. Yes, the messiah is busy ridding the world of nuclear weapons, hatred and general uncoolness, and your beloved correspondent is moaning about not getting to eat roasted swine flesh. Fair enough, but out in the hinterlands, losing a local business has far more real-life impact. The only way my little burg is going to be struck down by a nuke, targeted by terrorists or invaded by the Ruskies (Red Dawn to the contrary) is if some crackpot somewhere goes horribly off course. Where I'm going to eat lunch on Thursday, on the other hand, is about as real as realpolitik can get.

As a result, there's been much handwringing and gnashing of teeth the past week as we all try to figure out just what to do for lunch. One of the many advantages of the modern world is the restaurant. I've no interest in sitting in a field/stand/pond for hours on end hoping that my next meal hops/flies/swims my way. Apologies to the Nuge, but the extent of hunting and gathering I prefer to do for most meals is hunting the menu for and gathering my tray with.

I realize that in olden times I would have probably been among the first to succumb to starvation, but the upside is that I'd have been so thin, the others wouldn't have bothered eating me. Oh, sure those rugged frontiersmen could fell a buffalo at 300 yards, but polio could stop them dead in the tracks. Today, we've got Ted's Montana Grill serving bison burgers and polio is all but eradicated. Who's laughing now, pioneers?

And even the barbecue pit has a happy ending. Since the lunch rush had just ended, the fire was quickly discovered and brought under control that the building was not destroyed. More importantly, no one was injured. And some slaughterhouse gave a few pigs a last-minute commute.

Of course, that also meant that some slaughterhouse workers lost their jobs and probably the trucking company lost some business. Maybe there is something to the Chaos Theory after all. I just hope there's not another butterfly flapping away on the other side of the world for a few weeks.

Laziness pt. 19

As most have heard by now, most of Atlanta is currently underwater. Thankfully, my little corner of the world is not. Instead, we've only gotten about 7" of rain since last Thursday. Some folks may recognize this picture as the the big hill on the Scream Machine at Six Flags Over Georgia. Wow. They claim they'll be open this weekend. Um, yeah.

Put whatever you want here

Being that Marisol is a highly influential member of the local media (entire population: 4), she sometimes gets in to events that us mere mortals wouldn't. Snazzy soirees with really beautiful people doing really beautiful things and the like. Most of the time, however, she just goes to events that the average person doesn't want to read about in the paper, let alone actually attend. Often she attends these sorts of things stag, a lone reporter braving the fierce world of rotary club meetings and secretary luncheons.

Every now and then, though, she'll decide that it's okay to be seen with me and bring me along. Usually she doesn't even request I not embarrass her which is awfully sweet. As most know, two of my hobbies are telling inappropriate jokes in mixed company and starting fights with random strangers for no reason. A high-class function offers a golden opportunity to do both. Why else would they hold them? Certainly not because polite society really cares who the Rosicrucian of the year is. Which is a shame considering the joy they bring driving those funny little cars in parades. Or maybe that's the shriners. Whatever.

Anyway, last night found us sitting at a table at the annual Soil/Water Conservation banquet. Now this probably sounds like the snoozefest to end all snoozefest. Au contraire. I suspect Jack Bauer himself would have found the evening's festivities too intense and requested the powers that be take things down a notch.

Actually...that's not true.

The dinner was just as one would figure. Plenty of very nice and very decent people sitting down and breaking bread together. A nice meal. Free in fact, but since I generally avoid the foods most normal people eat, I mainly ate bread and picked the bananas out of my banana pudding. Our meal was interrupted by the occasional award. But these all seemed to be controversy free so I'll presume the recipient is a no doubt deserving super person. Then we enjoyed a speech on bio fuels. Yes, bio fuels. They said it's the future but they never offered if there bio-fueled future involved jet packs. It had better or I think I'll pass.

More or less the one thought that never left my mind was that this was the perfect moment for a dude engulfed in flames to just come running through. Maybe to show how bio-fuels can burn a man just like good ol' fashioned gasoline. Or for the matter, show how bio-fuel can be set aflame but never burn. I'm guessing that would guarantee the business of the entire world of popular music. A blazing Axl Rose marching around the stage singing Welcome to the Jungle? That would take badassness to another level. Heck, Axl might even would be cool again.

The possibilities are endless, I suppose. Lord knows I had plenty of time to think about all the wonders that will await as soon as we surrender to our bio-fuel overlords. But I did keep a close eye on the door for a man on fire. Alas, no such dude ever showed. Probably because it was raining.

Hang in there

The other day as the EPJ and I were getting ready to close up shop, the phone rang. Not much of a phone fan to begin with, calling as I'm walking out the door is virtually guarantees no answer. I know it's very popular for automated answering services to repeat the mantra about "Your call being very important to us. Please stay on the line." Of course, "your call" is not important to them. Otherwise, you'd be greeted by a friendly human voice instead of Mr. Roboto. That's how you know the EPJ and I really do care, that personal touch.

However, I often dream of automation--even my dreams are geeky-- just for those instances when someone would call our office at 4:59 and hear the "please stay on the line" part. I can imagine some dude sitting on a couch, throwing various things at his wife/kids, repeating, "I'll give them 5 more minutes," for the next 15 hours. This particular thought has lighten many of my darkest moments.

Until we take that technological leap, folks who call so close to quitting time are taking their lives into their own hands. So to speak. I figure that in the extremely unlikely event the caller is someone I'd actually want to talk to, he/she has my cell and our recreational plans/discussion of the weather can be handled outside of company time. Should the call be regarding business, well, I suppose that's what one gets for daring to call at the end of the day. A surefire way to be trampled is to get between the EPJ, me and the door at 5 o'clock. Strangely, there's no mad dash to get here in the mornings.

For reasons best known to her, on this particular day the EPJ actually answered that last call. Just as well; it happened to be her husband on the other end, who although I've not given him a snazzy pseudonym, is a decent enough fellow. At precisely the same time, Maureen from across the hall burst in to tell us the building was on fire or the town had exploded or something. I didn't really care and wasn't paying much attention. It was dangerously close to 5:01 pm, and my car wasn't going to drive itself home.

But somewhere in all the confusion, Maureen overheard the EPJ say she "dropped them off." While this statement would have seemed to be of no interest to anyone other than Mr. EPJ, Maureen was rather intrigued.

Maureen: "Dropped what off, where?"

Me: "A bag of kittens at the bridge."

Please understand I did not think this a particularly witty quip nor one that would have even the slightest ring of truth. Quite simply, it just popped in there. Much like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Had I workshopped the line for hours on end and arrived at the most awesome comeback in the history of awesome comebacks, I couldn't have gotten a more perfect response.

Maureen: "Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!? Oh, no!!! How could you do that?"

The EPJ was still on the phone and had not the slightest idea what she had done. She looked on clueless.

Apparently, I sold this line incredibly well. Likewise, Maureen obviously thinks the EPJ is pretty all-around awful person even though they've been friends for years. In fact, the EPJ is a pretty all-around decent person, but I always enjoy confirming one's worst fears. Plus, I try to encourage irrational conclusions at every opportunity.

So...yes.

The EPJ's day job as an upholder of law, justice and the American way is merely cover for her true passion: feline-icide. It's a well-known fact that in America's seedy cat underbelly, the EPJ is more feared than a Chinese restaurant. It's the grandmotherly types one really has to watch out for, I guess. My cats certainly don't like her.

But because I like to promote harmony and brotherhood, or sisterhood in this case, I quickly assured Maureen I was only joking. The EPJ, no friend of the most adorable of God's creatures, but not, you know, psycho, hadn't dropped any cats off any bridge. Certainly not within the last 50 years anyway. A moment of relief was had by all. Then we all went out and kicked a dog.

Randomness pt. 2

Work, government holidays and other stuff have made for a rather busy past week for yours truly. Nothing too bad, but enough that I've not posted for a week. I'm sure that others, say POTUS, would argue they've had even less time for this sort of thing of late than me. But pissing matches don't really suit me. And it probably would be in my best interest not to enter into one with someone who could remove all traces of my existence with the snap of his finger. Apparently, he has a very powerful snap. But if I were going to get into such a contest with him over something, it probably wouldn't be over who is the bigger time-waster. Nevertheless, I'm going to stay in training.

To wit:

1.) A lady called this morning and wasting no time with formalities or particulars asked me the phone number for Statesboro. Not Statesboro police department. Not Statesboro bait & tackle. Just "what the number for Statesboro." Maybe they have a phone in the town square to take random calls; I wouldn't know since I've been to Statesboro, which is about 2 hours away from here, exactly once in my life. Nevertheless, because I'm the helpful sort, I suggested she call 411 and just ask for Statesboro. Undeterred, she then asked when her brother was to be released from jail. In a town about an hour from here. In another county. That I'm pretty sure doesn't have a jail. I then decided she terribly confused. Or drunk.

2.) Walking to get Marisol's morning libation (Gatorade fruit punch), I observed a gent pick up a still-smoldering ciggie from a newspaper dispenser. Figuring why waste a good smoke, he walked off, puffing away. His enthusiasm was as contagious as his cough. I understand from reliable sources that the pull of nicotine is rather strong. I know all too well that some bastards somewhere--govt., big tobacco, Hollywood--have just about priced the common folk out of the habit altogether. This leaves only club-hopping, trust fund hipsters and old, rich people with nothing much to live for anyway as the remaining customers for cancer-sticks. I guess those caught somewhere in between, like this dude, have to be thankful for the castoffs of strangers.

3.) Last year at halftime of the Ga Tech-Jacksonville State game, the Jacksonville State band did a sort of bizarre tribute to Mother Russia. Giving the dancers hammer and sickle flags to boogaloo with, the band played the works of various Russian composers and told of the Oktober Revolution in the only way fitting: song. They left out all the mass killings and such though. Reaction in the stands was pretty evenly divided between confusion and anger. This was, after all, a football game in the south, not Cal-Berkeley. I'm sure I would have had a similar reaction had I not been at the concession stand getting a hot dog. Though I suspect my reaction would have been tinged with laughter upon hearing numerous upstanding, God-fearing men yell out, "What the hell is this commie shit?"

Afterwards, the commie band director in question offered one of the more amusing non-apologies I've heard, saying essentially, "It's not my fault you uncultured rubes can't appreciate high culture like we Alabamans can. But hey, whatever, sorry." Tech fans, I do believe we just got served.

Making no such mistake this year, the Jacksonville State band marched triumphantly back into halftime with a patriotic display that even Sam the All-American Eagle from the The Muppets would have found over the top. Nothing but red, white and blue, old glory and nothing more left wing than a few selection from Mr. John Phillip Sousa. It all seemed to be that most American of symbols: the middle finger. All right you boors, you want patriotism then, by gum, here it is. Enjoy the perty dancing girls as you choke on this; we're going back to Alabama.

Who knew football could be so boorish?

Everyone's gone to the movies

I mentioned a few months back that our local do-gooder organization (which, much to their dismay, has me for its president) was just starting to think about getting on the road to maybe deciding on helping out on the potential renovation of our long-since-shuttered local movie house. Since then several strides have been made on that front, namely that the entire front exterior has been renovated and all the neon replaced.

Since I walk by the theater every day, I've been able to track the construction process the past few months. I'd gotten used to seeing workers coming and going as the cobwebs were gradually cleaned away from the entrance and the dirty, chipping red and lime green paint became a fresh shade of white and red. Once I saw the new doors go up I determined this project was actually happening and some day we just might see the old show look better than ever. When the workers quit showing up, I deduced that an unveiling couldn't be too far off. Logic being a good friend of mine that rarely lets me down.

On Monday night, not too far off got a whole lost closer. The locals brought out lawn chairs and sat on the street in front of the show for the grand unveiling of all this progress. I figured the turnout would be pretty good since the theater holds a special place in the hearts of so many around here. And, truthfully, there ain't a whole lot going on around here on a Monday night at the end of August.

Actually, there's not ever a whole lot going on around here, but I guess that's why people like it. Or at least drink to numb the pain. Anyway, even I was surprised at just how many folks showed up. I didn't recall advertising free beer and strippers, but apparently somebody did. Certainly all these people wouldn't have come just to see a theater lighting, but it seems they did.

As this was a theater lighting, it only made sense to have popcorn and cokes for to the assembled throng. Since the concession stand and the entire interior work hasn't even been started, we brought in a popcorn machine and a couple of of coolers of cokes. This necessitated the need for brave souls to man this particular fort. Using questionable logic, the powers that be figured that if anybody knew how to prepare popcorn it would be the one person who finds the very concept of popcorn thoroughly disgusting, i.e. me.

Therefore, that's where my two cohorts and I spent most of the night, handing out bags to whoever wanted one. This seemed to be everyone who wasn't me. Who knew not liking popcorn was such a revolutionary stance? I figured since the popcorn was free no one would complain if it was awful or attack the chefs. No one did. A riot would have sort of violated the spirit of the occasion anyway.

After a few, brief, well-meaning speeches that I'm guessing no one paid much attention to, the big moment arrived. The switch was thrown. Since I'd been assigned to concessions, I was afraid that I wouldn't get to see the lights actually come on. But, as luck would have it, I was out in the crowd doling out popcorn at that very moment.

For someone with my general demeanor, it's probably not a stretch to say there haven't been too many moments in my life I would describe as breathtaking. This was one. As the neon kicked on, townsfolk got to see a sight they most certainly never expected to see again. There was an collective gasp from the crowd that was quickly followed by a round of applause and then silence as we took the moment in. Though the moment quickly passed, it really did seem like some Norman Rockwell painting come to life. A nice evening to say the least. I suppose having to touch all that popcorn wasn't all that bad either.

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

Vocal interpretations by Greg Lake

My father is many, many things. Patient, decent and bunion-footed. Heartless, cruel and cynical, however, he is not. How Andy and I got that way is a mystery of some import. Probably not to the level of who actually built Stonehenge, but certainly on equal footing with who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong. But that's not really relevant right now, I suppose.

Anyway, as we were watching the news at lunch, on came the "developing" story of the ship that's disappeared in the Atlantic. At some point over the last few days it's occurred to the powers that be that, in general, ships don't just disappear and that, perhaps, there is strangeness afoot. Maybe even pirates. Again. Oh dear.

Being the fan of civilized culture that I am, I don't have much time for pirates. I'm grateful for the fun ride they sourced at Disney, and often drop "avast" and "yar" into casual conversation just for fun. But I'll admit the overall pirate contribution to our planet Earth has been less the positive. However, until they hoist the jolly roger on the top of the local courthouse I can't say that I'll give them a whole lot of thought. This is probably of little interest and even less comfort to the families of the folks involved in this latest pirate go round.

Perhaps because of the lack of thought I'd given to this very issue, I'd never placed it in the context of the bigger picture, which is where dear old Dad comes back in. I was suitably impressed when the helmet haired anchorman informed the two of us "The Atlantic is a very large body of water." On this I cannot argue; in fact, I believe that is why they call it an ocean. But it took my Dad to really understand the full impact of this story by announcing, "I wouldn't want to buy a yacht right now."

Putting aside that I'm pretty sure this is a freighter, i.e. big ship with few to no topless sunbathing babes on it, and not a luxury vessel that's gone a' missin' and the impact on the world's wealthiest will be minimal, the decency of my Father shines through. For if the richest among us can't be happy, what chance have we, the common folk? Well played, old man.

Civility, decency, truth, justice and the American way are all losers here. There will no doubt be much handwringing thereof, but, aside from James Bond villains, who weeps for the yacht market? If you cut them do they not bleed? Those yachts just aren't going to sail themselves and, frankly, there's only so many Russian oil magnates in the world. In these terse financial times do we really want another industry going belly up? How many international playboys and trophy wives will be forced to retire to their Swiss chateaus, unable to find safe, luxurious water transportation to their remote islands off the coast of places you'll never visit anyway? Beats me, but I'm pretty sure 1 is too many and 1000 is not enough.

Starting left but turning right

When I was smaller and less cynical...well, smaller, I used to enjoy the all-request shows on the radio. Since I spent most of my days listening to the radio rather than going to school, I suffered through a seemingly endless cycle of awful Doobie Brothers songs, oh so smooth Steely Dan tunes and generally unnecessary pablum, most of which seemed to have Paul Rodgers singing in a bluesy rasp. I'd sit there for hours on end hoping to hear some Yes song that I already had in my collection and probably had just finished listening to. Meanwhile, my friends chatted up girls. Boneheads.

So what a godsend the all-request hour. For one brief hour, the entire programming was turned over to us dutiful listeners, some of whom, I liked to think actually had taste. The inmates were in charge of the asylum. No doubt, the dusty vaults of years and years of free records were a treasure chest waiting to be discovered and giving an hour a day would ensure we'd never run out of quality obscurities. Up until the very end of the hour, I always expected the throngs of us more refined, cultured ears to break through and pummel the masses with ELP's Karn Evil 9 3rd Impression, instead of the (still) overplayed Karn Evil 9 1st Impression, part 2 (Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends...). It never happened. This is probably just as well.

Instead, we newly empowered listeners were more like the dog who finally caught the car: now what? The more I listened, the more I noticed that the request hour really didn't differ a whole lot from regular programming. Instead of Hot Rockin' Ronny hipping us that "Up next is Bad Company with their song, Bad Company, from their album, Bad Company," was Doug from the sticks hoping to hear "a little Bad Company by Bad Company because that song is, like, bad." Being fairly clever and all, after several years I began to suspect that the DJ was just playing what was next on the playlist with some yahoo "requesting" it. Surely, no one actually wanted to hear Bad Company. And if one actually did, it was a fairly safe bet that it was coming up right after they got through playing Bad Company. There was no need to waste a request. Boneheads.

Flash forward a few years and I find myself interning at a real radio station that had real, live DJs. Ever since watching WKRP (still my favorite show of all-time), I'd dreamed of being in this environment, going behind the curtain as it were. I'd talk about music all day, hang around with super-cool people and take drugs with rock stars. And there'd be a sales guy with impeccable fashion sense, a goofy owner and a night-time DJ who, while cool, really didn't fit with the overall vibe of the station. Of course, we'd have all manner of hi-jinks as well. And try to see if turkeys could fly.

Though I enjoyed my time interning and have some good memories, the reality was more like actually meeting the Wizard of Oz: a myth-destroying soul crusher. For every cool DJ really into music and eager to talk at length was another one who just landed at that particular station because he saw a help wanted sign. As interested in music as he was the dissolution of the Soviet Union, which is to say not at all. Then there were the lifer DJs, the ones who bounced from station to station, format to format with an genre-appropriate name. Alex Steele for a rock station would become Al Friendly for a top-40 station would become Uncle Al for an oldies station.

Those "dusty vaults" were a simple wall of cds that probably wasn't much larger than what I had at the time. The "totally happening" on-the-spot-remotes where "everybody really should be because it's where the party was" were usually just me and a DJ at some abandoned location hoping for a teenager or some drunk to pester us for a sticker. Trust me, a bored DJ trying to fool folks into thinking an empty bar is the nexus of fun is an image that even Charles Bukowski would find desperate. Go wild.

But it did confirm my suspicions about all-request hours. They were rigged. Even the phone calls weren't live but were usually taped at some point during the day and played back when needed. Even now, I still feel bad for Jim from Scranton, calling in at 1:30 pm and being told by the DJ that his request was coming right up, only to hear the very call much later followed by his "instant request." I suspect Jim from Scranton had been hanging from the ceiling fan for a couple of days by then, which is what he gets for listening to The Smiths anyway.

Looking down from Olympus on a world of doubt and fear

I'm not sure if it's WDW specifically or just being on vacation, but generally people are friendlier down there. There's a surprising amount of patience that comes along with an overcrowded resort full of screaming kids and annoyed parents. Maybe because we're all in it together. I don't know. I do know that I find myself striking up conversations with total strangers from time to time, which is something I would NEVER do in the real world. Yes, I hate strangers just that much. But at WDW if there's a fellow wearing interesting apparel, usually plaid, I've been known to comment on his sartorial choices.

Being a runner, I have this ability to recognize what could best be described as "running clothes". It's a pretty useless ability I will admit, but we can't all cure cancer, can we? So when I see a gent wearing some high-tech, moisture-wicking, shiny clothing along with running shoes standing by himself doing nothing much, I thinks to myself, "Self, there's a runner. Why not go over and talk to him because that's what runners do to fellow runners. Trade secrets, compare ipod playlists, swap bread recipes. "

Almost immediately I was reminded of why I generally avoid talking to people. Especially strangers.

Me: "You must be a runner."

He: "Used to be, but mainly cycling. Did 100K. EVERY ride." (Emphasis his)

Fearing I was too stupid to know the basics of the metric system and recognize this was a ride of some significance, he quickly added, "That's 60 miles you know."

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

Hey pal, I watch the Tour de France. Got a brother with a degree from a fancy institute of technology to boot. I know all about the metric system. Suddenly this didn't seem like a great idea.

He: "Look at my calves. There huge!"

Yes, he actually requested a complete stranger, another male no less, look at his huge calves and flexed accordingly. My loins remaind unstirred. Though they were indeed "huge" and were no doubt intended to let me know I was in the presence of a deity just down from Olympus, I was able to contain myself enthusiasm. Just. I did bow, but only slightly.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go. You got me beat."

So for the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I find myself comparing calf muscles with a complete stranger at Disney World. I'm generally not into such blatant displays of homoeroticism, but sometimes one gets caught up in the moment. Particularly when making idle chatter in an ice cream line. And when fortune smiles like that, I suppose an ice cream just has to wait.

He: "Yeah, my father in law's was a runner but his knees gave out and he's barely 60. Knew as much as I was doing, I'd be next. So I got me a $2000 treadmill."

I was in awe of his continued awesomeness and started to offer that I run outside for free. But I figured this was another of his one-upmanships so I needed to reestablish my dominance. I considered telling him I had a $50 ipod shuffle. However, I knew I was all but defeated and resistance was futile. So I stayed with the script.

Me: "Yeah. Way to go."

For the first time and hopefully last time in my life, I actually hoped that Buster would run up screaming, maybe even bleeding (but not seriously, of course) for me to come quick.

He: "It's really awesome. But I don't get on it that much."

I can't really blame him. That would take away valuable time from him marvelling at his "huge" calves. There's only so many hours in a day and when a large chunk is already spent flexing and massaging baby oil on them yams, well, priorities. Speaking of which, bowing my head because I knew that I'd been beat, I mustered up the courage to split. I figured that if I'd been invited to feel up a dude, learned about his $2000 treadmill and, in general, how incredible he was in the span of about 2 minutes, there was no where to go but down. Unless, he was going to tell about the time he turned that water into wine or walked on water. I decided these were stories I'd just have to miss.

Me: "Hmph. Guess I need to go. See you later."

He: All right. Take 'er easy."

It's a toss-up between who gave the dumber final remark. I had no plans to see him again. We certainly weren't going to hit up at Dumbo for a couples ride. And unless I have an incredible string of bad luck that finds me looking for $2000 treadmills in New Jersey, I can't imagine ever running into him again.

But "take 'er easy"?!?! Is this 1975? Are we comparing calves in a Chevy van with Frank Frazetta artwork on the side and a bumper sticker that says Gas, Grass or Ass: No one rides for free? Somehow this all seemed fitting for reasons I still can't even understand. Perhaps this is the way people still talk, and I'm just really, really not with it. And I guess I should give him credit for not calling me "bro" or even worse, "brah." Regardless, I made a vow then and there to never speak to a stranger ever again. Probably won't even speak to most people I know unless I'm bleeding or they're on fire. I'm sure people will understand. I apologize in advance but my fragile psyche can't take many more instances of friendliness being met with an impromptu Mr. Universe contest. Keep on truckin'.

I think that is the case

Obviously, I love the whole of WDW, but if I had to rank the parks from favorite to least, Magic Kingdom would be tops by a ginormous margin and Animal Kingdom would bring up the rear. I don't hate Animal Kingdom and usually spend the better part of a day there on my trips, but generally, it's not a repeat stop like the other parks.

Since Buster is slightly enamored with animals I figured I'd spend a bit more time there this go around. We did. Just not looking at animals. Sure, we did the safari and gawked at all the animals, even took a few pictures along the way. For some reason, Buster has an odd fear of rhinos and was fearful they would come after him if he left the safari vehicle. Being as Disney and good, old common sense frowns upon leaving the vehicle, I assured him we were probably safe if we followed the rules. Maybe not as much adventure that way, but it greatly increased our chances of walking out with all limbs intact and our skeletal systems free of any fractures.

But what really grabbed Buster's goat was the new Expedition: Everest roller coaster. He'd been rather geeked up about it all along. I had told him before we left that I would ride anything he wanted to ride, but honestly figured once he saw Everest, he'd back out. I think Custer guessed more correctly at Little Big Horn. We did it once, which was fair enough. My eyes shut most of the way, praying he'd never want to do it again. My prayers were answered for about 10 minutes. And then we hit it 5 times in a row whilst Marisol patiently waited in the gift shop. Thanks, Mom. Somewhere in the middle of the second ride, I was able to open my eyes and maybe, almost enjoyed ride #3. The fourth spin found things getting a little dicey in the stomach region and on the fifth I vowed I would not ride Everest again on this trip. Had we not told Buster firmly that that was it for the day, he'd probably still be riding it right now.

Everest was not reserved just for fun, however. I also used it as an opportunity to drop some knowledge on him, telling him all about the real Mt. Everest. I know all about it since I watched both seasons of Everest on Discovery Channel; not because I actually read a book or really cared. Though it took some convincing, he did finally accept that this tall structure, for WDW, was not, in fact, the highest peak in the world. That there was an actual, real Everest and it's taller than all the buildings put together on the entire Disney complex. His mind was blown and he scarcely said much the rest of the day. I suppose a crack about his silence being a blessing would be a bit too predictable.

Speaking of predictable, there is the Florida weather. In the summer, it's always going to be hot, humid and one can count on an afternoon thunderstorm just about every day. This trip was no different, except that I discovered that when it rains really, really hard Disney has really, really bad drainage. So I squished around Hollywood Studios and Epcot on subsequent evenings wondering how they could bring Abe Lincoln to life, but put enough of a slope on walkways for water to run off. I vowed to fire off a nasty letter to the powers that be about such matters, but have thus far resisted the urge. Like most white folk, I find civil disobedience and community activism ain't all that important once you get home. Unless its something really important, like the cable going out or McDonald's getting one's order wrong. Then it is on.

Hawaiian gospel music is something

It was about this time last week that I was heading down to the Volcano pool at Disney's Polynesian Resort. I suppose when I pulled out of Marisol's driveway shortly after 4:30 am, I didn't really figure our first stop in Disney would be the pool, no matter how volcanically impressive it was. But then, I never fail to underestimate the pull a giant hole full of chlorinated water has on a 7-year old. So when my somewhat leading question of "What do you guys want to do first?" was answered with "Go to the pool," it was all I could do to shrug.

Pools have never been my thing. I'm far from hydrophobic and am actually quite competent with all the major swim strokes. Admittedly, the Butterfly generally doesn't see a whole lot of action. I'll go so far as to say I've only regretted a handful of my swimming excursions. However, were I offered the choice of going to a pool with a really cool slide or "the happiest place on Earth" I'd pick "the happiest place on Earth" every time. I would have presumed most people not named Andy would take that option as well. Apparently, Buster's super secret lost middle name is Andrew. So with Magic Kingdom beckoning in the distance, we headed for a swim.

One of the more pleasant aspect of being poolside is that females tend to wear fewer clothes. Likewise, one of the more unpleasant aspects of being poolside is that males tend to wear fewer clothes. And at a family resort like WDW, the overriding characteristic of both sexes could best be described as sagging. The French Riviera this ain't. Thanks to all the running, I don't sag quite as much as I used to, but I more than make up for that with my complexion, which could best be described as White Out on a particularly white day. Given the pummeling my eyes take at the pool, I suppose it's only fitting that I blind everyone else.

Though the swimming segment lasted a wee bit longer than I'd had hoped, we did leave the same day we arrived which was no small feat. Every time I'd suggest to Buster that there was even more fun just across Bay Lake, he'd throw water in my face. He found this funny for some reason. Finally, I'd had all I could take and ordered the lifeguards to remove him from the pool area. Sure, this upset him but we were at WDW to have fun, not swim and by gum, we were going to have fun even if it meant scarring him for life. I knew Buster would admit his error when we saw Cinderella Castle and apologize for wasting such precious, precious time on something so frivolous as a swimming pool. I'm still waiting.

We still had plenty of time to hit all the high points. Actually, we had enough time to hit them a couple of times, except for Splash Mountain. This water ride is one of my faves and since it's normally closed during January, I haven't been able to ride it on my past few trips during the marathon. Therefore I was pumped. Pumped is a tad strong and a bit scary, but I was eager for Marisol and Buster to experience a soaking at the hands of Brer Rabbit. Perfect sense that for this I left the pool.

Alas, the 110-minute(!) wait assured we would not be thrown into the briar patch until another day. Other families were not as fortunate and I could see the pleading looks coming from the queue, begging for the sweet release of death. Feeling the queue's pain beginning to assail our joy, I ushered Marisol and Buster towards Pirates of the Caribbean because what's more uplifting than pirates pillaging unsuspecting villas?

For the rest of the day we gradually made our way around Magic Kingdom and nothing of interest to the world at large really happened. Forgive the assumption that something of interest had already happened. Though the crowds were large as expected, they were not overwhelming. Or at least nothing a swift kick in the pants couldn't take care of. Buster was offended by the pirate giving rum to the kitten on Pirates and vowed never to ride it again. Marisol did her best to get sick on Big Thunder Mountain and vowed never to ride it again. For my part, I continued to be amazed at how miserable "the happiest place on Earth" makes some people, but then I like to assume that if they're miserable at WDW then they're probably miserable everywhere. Except Andy. He's usually pretty happy at Tech games.

Laziness pt. 17

Attention, Please Note, Etc.: If you stumbled upon here through a Google search expecting to hear of my meeting with Captain Beefheart, prepare to be disappointed. I've never met him. Ever. I am somewhat of a fan though I'm pretty sure he doesn't know I exist. *sigh* But just in case, "Hi, Don." I accidentally published my working title of this post (How I Met Captain Beefheart) before it was changed to Laziness pt. 17.

Look at the other posts around here, the titles are generally non-sensical or somewhat cryptic. This one was no different. Except. Said working title was apparently immediately entered into every search engine known to man and now anytime anyone searches "meeting Captain Beefheart" this is what they get. My mistake. So...sorry I can't give any clues as to how he really felt about Zappa or what his favorite brand of cola is. Probably Coca-Cola, Beefheart's pretty all-American.

And now the actual post.

I promised I would return, and for the most part, I'm good at keeping promises. As expected, WDW still charges for internet access. I still refused to pay. Perhaps on my next trip I'll organize a protest against this ridiculous policy. Until then, I'll continue to bear a burden only people with nothing much else to complain about can understand. Never fear though, I'll give a complete rundown of all the parts of the trip I choose to run down over the next few days. And probably a word or two about Seth's, Bonnie's & my delightful evening with high-quality yukster, Paul F. Tompkins, in Atlanta. Maybe even a random tale from my past. Oh, there's so much to look forward too. In fact, the only thing that gets this combo more excited is some good old-fashioned, white-bread Dixieland. Well, that and clear cutting.

Guilty of caring too much

Tomorrow, or more accurately, tonight is departure time for WDW '09 round 2. This is the first trip in 3 years that will not be centered around running a marathon. Accordingly, I've actually been able to look forward to this trip as a vacation and not an exercise in stupidity. So to speak. Which is not to say those recent trips haven't been fun and filled with much levity involving reasonably sane adults interacting with folks dressed as cartoon characters. It's just that before the marathon there's the fact that knowing I've got a good 5-hour run ahead of me which sort of puts a damper on my whimsy. The bulk of the post-race visit is spent trying to recover the energy I left somewhere between mile 18 and 21. The energy is usually found huddled in a corner, shivering and cursing me.

In order to squeeze the maximum amount of hap, hap, happiness into this trip, I have informed Marisol that the bus will be leaving at 4 am. Her response: We can leave earlier if you want. What a gal. My heart skipped a beat. But no, a 4 am call should put us through the gates around lunch. More to the point, it also means that my companions could (they won't) sleep much of the way down there, and no stops will be needed. Snacks will be provided and any major hunger issues will be dealt with via drive-thru. Should nature call, there will be a bottle. If privacy or discreetness is required, I recommend Depends and will roll down the windows. If we have a blow out, God forbid, I'll drive on the rim until we get there. Roadblocks? I'll be driving a Tahoe, 'nuff said. In short, my attitude towards driving is like being on the lam but without the danger of guns and knowing that I'll be headed to federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prison when I get caught.

I did surprise myself yesterday by going ahead and packing. I'd like to think it was to get ahead of the game, but it was really so when asked if I was packed I could say, "Indeed I am." Right on cue this morning, the EPJ had scarcely closed the door before the inevitable was asked. "So Jerms, are you packed?" She had already started the follow-up, "Well, when are your going to?" when I cut her off. "Yep, yesterday afternoon while you were probably taking a siesta. So in yer face, EPJ. I am unstoppable." She then fired me.

So while the world is sleeping this evening, I'll be heading out for Florida. I will be taking my laptop, but may not have internet access. Disney used to charge for in-room access which is ridiculous. Andy would say it's par for the course. Hopefully, there are some free wi-fi spots around. I love my readers dearly and generally don't put a price on our relationship but $10 is $10. If I was made out of money, it's all gone into this trip. With any luck there will be daily updates, but who knows. Regardless, I'll give a wrap up when I get back because if there's anyone who deserves to know what I did on vacation, it's random strangers or folks who stumbled on here through an internet search for learning French. In the meantime, world, please do not blow up.

What if it is cheese, indeed

In all the hubbub surrounding my car blowing up, deciding to get a new car, talking with actual, real, live salesman, deciding which car to purchase, eating several delicious bowls of tapioca pudding, entertaining second thoughts on a decision (cars, that is. When it comes to pudding, Je ne regrette rien.), ignoring obtrusive phone calls from overeager salesmen, wondering why I thought spending 5 figures for a new vehicle made more sense than spending barely 4 figures to get my Jetta fixed, and ultimately, scrapping the whole idea in order to better enjoy the Tour de France, I neglected to mention that I'm going to Disney World. In fact, one week from today that's where I'll be along with Marisol and Buster.

Sometime ago I had this crazy notion that I would try to take them this summer. Partly because they'd never been and partly because I'm always looking for an excuse to go back. I was not particularly demanding in my planning but did have a few modest goals in mind. Namely, go when the crowds would be their largest and the Florida temps would be their most hellish. I figure what better place to be miserable than "The happiest place on Earth." After much thought and prayer, I chose the final week in July. Yes, I am awesome. I know.

As this is Marisol's & Buster's first to Mouseville, I wanted them to get the full experience. And that includes long lines, tired feet and screaming kids. I can't lie. It's great fun when you can hop on rides with little wait or march right up to Mickey and shake his hand without having to kick a rugrat or two out of the way. But in order to truly appreciate those moments, one has to earn it. To be in the shit, as we said back in 'Nam. Admittedly, even on the best of days at WDW, Andy would probably rather be in Vietnam but then he's not invited. He (and us) will get our chance with Baby Zeigler in a few years. Andy's already started popping Valium for that trip.

Much like last fall's trip abroad, the EPJ has been expecting my bags to have been packed sometime ago. Each morning for the past 6 months, I've been asked if I was packed. Much like last fall's trip abroad, I expect my bags will get packed sometime Monday night. Unless the EPJ comes over sooner and does them, of course.


Yeah, I know I'm a day late. It took that long to clear the publishing clearing house. Which is not the same as Publisher's Clearing House, just so you know.

Finding out your birthday is wrong

It had been pretty slow around here today which is generally the way we prefer it. It's not that we're lazy, but after all these years we've found that a boring workplace is a happy workplace. Sometimes work must be done though. Even on Friday afternoon, especially when there's a wedding to be held.

I've never thought of Friday after lunch as being the optimum time for a wedding. I've also never really had dreams of getting married in the friendly confines of these concrete walls either by the EPJ. I'm the first to admit she does a bang-up job giving the vows and the happy couple do save a fortune on all those cute cocktails wieners and booze. Plus, a moderate amount of amount of our weddings stick. Not sure how our figures stack up with the national rate, but we've only had one that didn't make it through the honeymoon. As a result, we briefly considered implementing a "first week free" policy but ultimately went with "all sales final." It's all about the benjamins with us.

The couple just now were a gregarious enough bunch, full of life. The groom even mentioned they'd have a stripper tonight and I was invited over. I thought this quite neighborly and was definitely intrigued. Unfortunately, he never said where "over" was. Dang. My evening would have been set otherwise. I did mean to ask him if strip clubs give group discounts for wedding receptions. My guess is yes. A recent survey of newlyweds found that the one thing most missed at their reception was the pole dancing of Kandy Kane. Surprising.

Before I could get the full details on the post-wedding throwdown, he started telling the assembled throng about how he'd just gotten Season 1 of Alf on DVD. Like most dudes, I loves me some nekkid women. But when you start talking Alf, we're talking a-whole-nother level of bliss.

Since some of the assembled throng were unfamiliar with Alf (whatup with that?) a brief explanation was in order. He's "like an anteater but an alien" was all that was offered. It's doubtful a career as a Hollywood pitchman awaits, but I can't argue with his succinctness. This was enough to grab the assembled throngs attention, and he continued on telling exactly how he got Season 1 of Alf on DVD. It involved a van or something. Seriously. Feeling a connection with me since that whole stripper business, he asked me if I liked Alf. "Does the Pope poop in the woods? Melmac (Alf's home planet) is like my second home." We then high-fived as I wondered just how my life had arrived at this point.

Alas, his bride-to-be didn't share his enthusiasm. A development that could present trouble later on after the stripper and everybody else leaves, but right now I think he's OK. May want to hold off on Season 2 of Alf on DVD for right now though.

Regardless, he knows how to save face. He quickly added to no one in particular that he's also got Season 1 of Walker, Texas Ranger on DVD as well. Whether or not this involved the same van as Season 1 of Alf on DVD I don't know, but it definitely lifted the bride's spirits. That's understandable. I often think of Chuck Norris' moustache when I feel blue. A hunch that she'll be thinking of that moustache a lot in the coming days, weeks and months.

I no longer have a feel for my automobile

Hopefully the blogger godz won't destroy this post. Still not sure what happened yesterday but I'm pretty sure someone just didn't want my truth to be heard. Please know that even though the posted post was short, I spent much time crafting a much better one that probably said even less.

Since this car-buying process has dragged on for a few weeks, i.e. too long, I'm coming close to pulling the plug on it for now. Maybe I'll just get the compressor on the Jetta fixed and drive it for a few more years until the rest of the engine explodes, taking me and half of the town with it. There's something to be said for going out in a literal blaze of glory. That you'd be dead is probably what I would say, but others may have a different take. I digress.

While nothing is set in stone, that's the direction I'm leaning towards today. This time yesterday I was lining up the finances. So who knows what tomorrow holds. By then, I may be in the market for a hovercraft or the Earth may have exploded. I suspect neither will be the case.(There seems to be a recurring theme of explosions today) Ultimately, I guess I decided I couldn't make Sophie's Choice after all: Taurus or Aztek. Both are of such a quality that to purchase one, or both, would be to deprive some other sad, sappy sucker of the thrill of driving the median of what Detroit has to offer. I just can't do that. I love people too much.

And while I was prepared to throw around the mad sums necessary to procure such a vehicle, my miserly ways appear to have won this battle. The war is by no means lost. It's just going to be more of an Israeli-Palestinian millennia spanning conflict than Israel's uber-concise Six Day War with Egypt, Jordan and Syria. Maybe I should get Netanyahu to help me buy a car.

The EPJ was reading of my car search the other day and though her opinion was not requested, offered "Germs, I really like that Aztek." These words speaks for themselves on a number of different levels. However, it was with great gentleness and humility that I told her I'm not really looking at the Aztek or Taurus. I need something hipper, brasher, bolder. A Toyota Camry, for instance, which is also not on my list. I hated to add to an already broken-hearted EPJ that no Ford Taurus' have been sold in 3 years though the line is still in production. As for the Aztek, Pontiac halted the line in 2005 after selling approximately 17 units. Apparently, they could have sold 18 if they had just held on 4 more years.

P.S. The EPJ has a sore throat. She wants you to pray for her. She actually requested I put that notice in this post. Not sure if the prayer request is for throat healing or just to help her be a more awesome person. It might as well be for the latter because I'm pretty sure the sore throat is God's punishment for liking the Aztek.