Gobbledy goop

Even though I like to think of myself as a relatively plugged-in gent, things sometimes get by me. My car is 10 years old, I didn't take up exercising until about 15 years ago and didn't take up serious running until 4 years ago. I have heard rumors of man actually walking on the moon (I know. Sounds absurd, doesn't it?) and that this very nation may have elected a non-white as President (Again, absurd.) Thus far I have little confirmation of either, however.

But I keep up with my pop culture if for no other reason than to have something of little importance to vent my spleen. I may drone on ad nauseam about what a goober that Sean Penn is, but other than giving me something to write about on an otherwise boring day, he ain't really going to effect my life a whole lot. Though I was pulling for him and Madge back in the day. They seemed so happy. I digress. Sooooooooooo....Given all that, it was a shock that I knew nothing of the lovely Gwyneth Paltrow's foray into self-help and the interwebs, Goop. (I'm sorry but my decency will not let me provide a link.)

In the midst of our convo this eve, MB was telling me about Gwyn's very own corner of the web and that I simply must check it out. Since I'd already napped, eaten and proven cold fusion there was nothing much else to do. I can listen to King Crimson any old time, but only every so often does one of the leading lights of our generation climb down from Olympus to mingle with the common folk. Even if it is in an impersonal, certainly ghost written, condescending way.

As best I can tell, Goop, (a crack about the name would be too easy. Nevertheless, I'll presume it stands for Gwyneth's Oblong Oligarical Prairie. If not, it should.) is dear Gwyn's attempt to pull the rug out from under the Oprah empire or at least head our O off at the pass on this whole internet thing. The logic being, the bored, Luddite housewives that make up O's audience aren't as sophisticated as Gwyn's homies, i.e. they can use a computer and go to far away places and are interested in fancy things and the people Gwyn does them with.

The interested visitor can find an actual introductory letter 'written' by Ms. Paltrow in which she sort of lays out the theme for the rest of the site's newsletter. Think of it as Russian Roulette offering a fate worse than death. See Gwyn's interested in all facets of life so who knows what will be on her staff's collective brain that day. Possibly travel, food, parenting or just general thinking stuff at any given time. No doubt years of having a personal assistant who attends to every planning detail/unlimited funds, a personal chef, a nanny and a therapist for each day of the week has given her much insight as to how we as a civilization survive.

A recent update told the tale tale of how when she was twelve and her mother was shooting a movie in London, her Dad (a director) took her to Paris for the weekend. He enjoyed one on one time with her and her brother, a revelation that is offered to us as if some heretofore unrealized avenue of parenting. She left out whether they rode over on their private hovercraft or had France provide them with transportation. Unfortunately, the British/French governments were not given enough warning to have the channel tunnel ready for them. I suspect someone was fired or killed for that. If not, they should have been.

Anyway, she goes on with her favorite restaurants and hotels, among them The Ritz. She admits The Ritz is a little pricey though. Who knew movie stars married to rock stars with multiple homes had to penny pinch? I wonder if she clips coupons too? Or if she knows she can buy double ply toilet paper and get two separate rolls. Ooh, I can't wait to tell her that.

Though Paris is special to her; she even lived there for a bit, she informs us. Jealous? Vagabond that she is, she has trouble staying in one place too long. There's also editions devoted to her other favorite cities and all their requisite charms, surprisingly Lincoln, Nebraska is not one of them. Maybe next month. But the whole shebang is just encased in condescension that I'm guessing even Gwyn doesn't realize how elitist it sounds. Restaurant reviews mention the oh-so-trendy neighborhoods she frequents and lives. Books are recommend by famous friends. I almost expected her to tell of how when she was talking on the phone to Obama, God himself spoke from the heavens and told her to get Him that recipe for her Sunday dinner. It was divine. (Rimshot)

Whether or not God had anything to do with it, somewhere along the way apparently Gwyn got to thinking (steady on, Gwyn) about life and stuff. She's now a mother and married to the one person in the world who's actively campaigning for Bono's title as the most annoying rock star the world has ever known (that bozo from Coldplay). So like all folks she's searching for the meaning of it all. Since, as she casually throws out, she's interested in all manners of faith and spirituality--yes, even the blood sacrifice of the ancient Aztecs, apparently. Gwyn truly is remarkable--she phoned up her friend, Deepak Chopra, guru to the stars, as well as her therapist. She had her assistant phone some other scholarly types and passed that work off as her own. I've no idea what conclusions they came to but my guess is something along the lines of you are awesome Gwyn. If only more people would listen to you and your recommendations we'd pretty much have the world's problems licked by sundown. Oh, and can I plug my new book?

Now, I really don't care a whole lot what Gwyn does or what she thinks about much of anything. This is no doubt a shock to most, myself included since I spent the past minutes writing how much I do. She's pleasant to look at and has never annoyed me in the way that most unavoidable celebs do. Honestly, I have no real opinion of her one way or the other. Sure, I wept when she and Pitt called it quits, held out hope for her and Affleck and was relieved when she ended up with that Coldplay blowhard, but who didn't?

But this Goop. Though it's far more professionally done with a staff and an actual headquarters, I guess there's really not a whole lot of difference between it and my own little Goop, or Joop as MB put it. Essentially, it's all about random thoughts and interests. The big difference is that I really don't expect anyone to care. That's not to say I hope to plug away in willful obscurity. Ultimately, I do this because I enjoy it and not because I think I'm doing the world a service. If someone finds something interesting or amusing here then so much the better. If one doesn't then there's always Gwyn's Goop. She's all too eager to tell anyone who'll listen what her close personal friend Madonna's favorite books are.

Madge has a lot of time on her hands now that the only thing she can do to shock is not suck. A near impossibility for her.

Oh no he didn't.

Indeed. He did.

Namely not speaking about tires

Names are important things for a band. Probably more important than the band's music. Honestly, in a world in which there are literally 52 million bands you really have got to stand out. Of course, you've got to be mindful of how the name can pigeonhole your band. Call yourself The Super Dudes** and you best be a totally wacky group of 10 with matching suits and a horn section who do wacky songs mostly about jumping around. Better yet just shoot yourself now and save us the trouble.

By the same token, if you name your crew Thunder of Blood**, you best be able to lay waste to all false prophets of metal and pretty much everything else. Failing that, you pretty much deserve all the raw meat that will surely be thrown your way.

For the more earnest, Waiting For a Bus in the Rain** is going to guarantee your (no doubt crappy) band an audience of suburbanites. Emo kids with dumb hair who feel the need to hold cry sessions because being a white teenager with parents that just don't understand, you know, sucks. If this is not your target audience--and unless you're 14 years old it shouldn't be--perhaps a name change should be considered.

Give yourself an obscure, preferably literary/arthouse hipster reference, non sequitur or both (bonus points for irony) and prepare to enjoy the fat life of playing 3rd on the bill in some college town on a Tuesday night in front of too-cool-for-school trust fund hipsters. Tonight at The Barrel: Yo La Tengo with special guests, Frightened Rabbit, also appearing, Camus Laughter**. Again, this may be an audience you're going after. That way you can tell yourself that you may only have 20 fans but, by gum, they're a smart bunch. Maybe they'll give you some of their parents money to help you pay for gas to get out of town. And a book to read.

I can't say that some of the bands I like are exempt. There's plenty of could be better names throughout my record collection. Some you may have heard of (The Flaming Lips, Death Cab For Cutie) while others (Plastic People of the Universe, Hash Jar Tempo) are probably known only to the people that get the references in their names, i.e. 20 or so. If you happen to be one of those 20, pat yourself on the back and then immediately get a life.

"But aren't there bands whose names are so unbelievably awesome that they transcend the music", one may ask? "Absolutely", will be the reply. I just happened to have the 5 most awesome names (that I could remember off the top of my head) available from Aquarius Records. I can't say this list is definitive since each new release list of theirs seems to have another contender. Nevertheless, I'm sure if Nickelback (I guess they're still around) had chosen one of these names they would be slightly cooler. They would have still sucked, yes. But that's preordination for you.

5. Blue Sabbath Black Cheer

4. Kiss the Anus of the Black Cat

3. Green Milk From Planet Orange

2. The Shitty Listener

1. Make A Change Kill Yourself

Note: I made up the names with a (**) up but the rest are honest, real live bands with honest, real live musicians.

P.S. Before the hate mail, I love Yo La Tengo and in no way am implying they are deserving of playing dives in college towns to disinterested drunk Lit majors. YLT's audience of single, usually overweight, bespectacled record collector dudes is the life for them.

P.P.S. Not to pat myself on the back but I think Thunder of Blood is the baddest metal name I've come up with since Ludichrist (how in the world there is no death metal band named that is beyond me). And yes, these are trademarked; I have a team of lawyers monitoring all band activity.

Motion pictures on my tv screen

So last night was the Oscars and I didn't watch a second of it. Nonetheless I am certain I didn't miss anything and therefore regret nothing. Even if I had missed something, I'm still quite certain that I would regret nothing. I admit that it's strange for someone who is as into movies as I am that I couldn't care less. But then, I suppose it's precisely because I am so into movies that I don't care. As should be painfully obvious by now, I've little interest in the glamour and glitz of showbiz and the self-importance, self-righteousness and self-love that so many of our 'favorites' tend to bless us with. And yes, I'm looking at you (this time anyway) Sean Penn.

While I didn't watch any of the show, thanks to the miracle of the interwebs I've heard of the former Mr. Madonna's Best Actor acceptance speech. While I fully admit that Penn is one of the greatest actors of his generation, heck, maybe the greatest--or at least the greatest most folks recognize--I've little need to hear his opinions on much of anything, particularly the issues of the day. Though the video of his would be cavalry charge leaking water in his attempt to single-handily rescue New Orleans from the ravages of Katrina or, more precisely, Bush did make some of his sanctimony worth it.

This is not to say I don't think Penn's entitled to his opinion. Of course he is. It's just the notion that because he's a brooding method actor who really digs down deep for his performance he's somehow qualified as a voice of reason on non-movie related stuff that I find absurd. In essence, I've played important/interesting/smart dudes in the movies so I must be be important/interesting/smart myself. Maybe he is, but that doesn't mean I have to care. I want Sean to entertain me or, to put in a more ego-boosting way, give me some sort of insight into the human condition. He did this quite well as Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. On that I think we can all agree.

But back to the Oscars. In his speech, Penn made some comment about how he was proud to stand for gay marriage as it was one of the great civil rights of our time. Maybe it is but that's besides my point here. I don't remember the exact quote (it's easy enough to find out there) but his inference was that he was somehow taking a bold stance. Never mind, he was in a room in which virtually everyone was wearing a ribbon supporting that very cause. But only a man, a fiercely heterosexual one at that, who had the courage to play a gay icon could take. And that this might somehow damage his career with us rubes in flyover country. No offense, Sean, but flyover country doesn't go see your movies. Whether or not this is a good or bad thing is something for someone else to decide.

No, your audience is primarily city folk and bored yahoos (like me) who have life so good that we need to go to the cinema to feel emotion and glimpse 'real' humanity. We won't have to get our hands dirty but can still claim empathy on some level. Whatever. I'm surprised Penn didn't pull a muscle patting himself on the back. Of course, if he had there was no shortage of arms willing to do that. And more.

Battlefield bravery, this ain't.

It's more like me standing up in church and proclaiming that I think Christmas is pretty good idea after all. Where's my ribbon?

Your new shoes are worn at the heels

It really is a rather nice day out today. A bit cold, but blue sky, sun and a light breeze. If I were more motivated I'd probably take a picture so the world could see this little corner of itself. However, I'm not motivated and probably should have never mentioned it in the first place. But then I changed my mind as I'm wont to do. If you look close you can probably see your home or at least the renovations being done on the local picture show that's been closed for 13 years. Final screening: Booty Call.

In other local news, the powers that be have decided to replace the trees along Main Street with...more trees. I'm not entirely sure the logic but I'm guessing somebody complained that the old ones were too bare or spindly or wood. For all I know, we may have gotten a grant for new trees as part of the big stimulus package. What better way to stimulate the global economy that hire a couple of Mexicans to put out 10 trees along a street in the middle of nowhere? I certainly can't think of a better solution. This is of no interest to anyone, including me, except for the fact that moments after arriving at work this morning, I was requested to move my increasingly dirty machine of German precision. And while I'm out, howsabout moving the EPJ's somewhat cleaner little machine of German precision. Yeah, we both drive VW. Fascinating. So I grumbled and did as requested only to find that the workers had already moved the back hoe into place between our cars. Oh. Not wishing to get on the wrong side of a fella driving equipment that could render my beloved auto flat, I figured I'd keep the wisecracks to myself. Truthfully, I couldn't really come up with anything anyway since there aren't too many quips to be made regarding backhoes. Maybe they should have put a commission to study the lack of quality blue collar/heavy machinery jokes in the stimulus package. Oh wait, they did. Page 732 line 25.

In case anyone was wondering, we all survived the bad weather the other night. I believe they did actually put out two tornado warnings for us, but both were in the southern part of the county. All we got here was some rain and a little bit of wind. Out in the county, however, there was trees down and some scattered property damage. Meaning the property damage was scattered and not scattered property was damaged. But I'm sure that was already clear. I like to think I have a bright audience.

Regardless, the melodramatics of local weathermen in their super shiny weather centers are a little less melodramatic when you're in the direct line and a tornado is bearing down on you. Or you're "under the gun" as the pros like to say before they give the "all clear." And then apologize to the city denizens that Knight Rider is being preempted cause there's some rubes out in the hinterlands who didn't have the smarts to move to the more refined city. Apparently, nothing bad ever happens there and life is so joy-filled that any disruption of, say, Knight Rider is cause for riots, looting and street fires.

Actually, I guess I can see the point. Hasselhoff or not, there's still a talking car. Besides it's what he would have wanted them to do.

Imagine if you were president and they named a cartoon cat after you

President's Day. The day in which we honor those who've achieved one of the most prestigious and rare positions on Earth. Our nation thinks so much of these good folk that we lump all of them into a generic holiday that virtually no one other than government workers get off. Somehow it all seems fitting. What better way to honor and respect Washington than by shutting it down for a day whilst the rest of us keep the country going?

I suppose depending on which end of the all-time ass-kicking-ist president list one falls would determine how that particular family feels about the whole day. Must be nice if you're a Zachary Taylor or a James Garfield to merit a holiday on the coattails of a George Washington or a Abraham Lincoln. Not quite as a nice if you're a George Washington or a Abraham Lincoln to see your own "day" eliminated and morphed into a one, big old catch all that equates, well, Zachary Taylor with George Washington.

Which is, unfortunately, an undeserved slight on Taylor. Like most presidents not named Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy or whoever the contemporary occupant of Casa Blanca is, he's a mere footnote. Just another in a long line of old/not so old dudes that most people remember for the 6th grade social studies test and forget (except Andy). Even on the so-called "big issues", our sight and memory is so short and limited that although we're sure EVERYONE can name every president from Kennedy forward, I'd wager the reality would be a bit more sobering. Maybe from Reagan forward and only then because 2 of the 4 are related and one of the remaining is the current occupant.

The point being that if we can't even remember all 44 men who've ruled this country with an iron fist what chance do you or I have of being remembered? In short: give up now and beat the rush. Happy President's Day.

Some brief, forgotten President fun facts that Andy already knows:

President Lard Ass - W.H. Taft, weighed around 350.

President Bachelor - James Buchanan, possibly gay not that there's anything wrong with that.

President Moustache - Chester A. Arthur, find your own damn picture. Really. It's worth it.

President Burns - Martin Van Buren, see above.

President Pneumonia - William Henry Harrison, allegedly got sick after refusing to wear coat for his inauguration. Regardless end result still the same, died a month after taking office.

President Awesome - Millard Fillmore, seriously look at his picture on the whitehouse.gov page. And he was 13th. And named Millard.

The drug of a nation

A brief glimpse into my private world. In the course of our phone convo last night, MB mentioned that she was getting ready for her big Thursday night line-up of Gray's Anatomy and Private Practice. Yeah, I know, wow; same here. Never having watched Gray's Anatomy or Private Practice because, well you know, I don't have a vagina, I'd dismissed Gray's as General Hospital with younger, prettier actors for a younger, prettier audience. Oh, and it is comes on at night. Private Practice, I mistakenly thought, was that Bill Shatner/James Spader legal boilerplate. That's Boston Legal, apparently. No, I didn't really care either.

But MB did and rushed to defend her stories, assuring me that Gray's was hardly a General Hospital knockoff. Why they've got real storylines involving real medical issues. Oh. And Private Practice is actually a spinoff of Gray's. Before I could offer, "You mean Private Practice is the Port Charles to Gray's General Hospital. Far out," she provided an example of the realistic medical issues the show tackles: some chap has had the misfortune to go and get worms in his brain. Bummer. I suppose the writers thought having the character die in a car accident after sleeping with his sister's husband only to come back to life as his father who's really still himself was a bit over the top. Whatever, just get to the pretty folks getting it on.

One of supposed benefits of being sick this week is that I've had plenty of time to flip around the channels and catch all those programs that I'd otherwise ignore. So when I stumbled across VH1's 100 Greatest Songs of the Last Days, or maybe it was the 90s. It doesn't matter. If it does then perhaps it's time to do those sledgehammer/head experiments you've been hoping to get around to. Anyway, the particular song I caught was Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca and after the requisite 'wisecracks' from professional quipsters, the announcer provided that Mr. Martin hopes to one day adopt a child from each continent. Wow. Brangelina, the gauntlet has been thrown down. Consider yourself warned, Antarctica.

No reason was given, but what else has Rick got to do these days? Personally, I'm kind of looking forward to the Martin family Christmas photo. The Rickster, his 6 little kids of varying sexes/continental backgrounds sitting around the hearth in yuletide bliss while his seventh son, a burly, bearded dude in a heavy-weight parka and snow boots, throws back another tall boy. Livin' La Vida Loca, indeed.

Laziness pt. 11

Still not feeling tip top so regular posting is probably a day or two away. In the meantime, Bonnie Dearest sent some pix of our meeting the funniest man on planet Earth, Patton Oswalt. If all famous (or even not so famous) people were as cool as him, I'd probably have a lot more use for celebs. Well, probably not, but the point remains.

Bonnie Dearest a/k/a Bonnie from GA to TBSOWFMU listeners and funnyman, Mr. Patton Oswalt. I'm not sure who was more excited to meet the other, Bonnie or Patton. Srsly.Get ready to meet my little friend. Seth and Patton.

Your beloved correspondent and Patton. Considering it was almost 2 a.m., I'm surprisingly wide awake. P.S. I really am 8 ft. tall.