May 14, 2004
Can I Put You On Hold?
Ever have someone call you, and then ask to put you on hold? Sure is irritating! But when it happens, hide that irritation: this is opportunity knocking. It's best to agree to their request with a cheerful tone, and when you hear the line click off, cheerfully hang up on them.
The smart ones will get the hint and learn their lesson. "Hey, I called that guy and then put him on hold; that was a dick move. I feel really bad about that and will alter my conduct in the future." The other 99.5% of the population will call you back:
::ring ring::
You: "Hello?"
They: "Hello, I just called? We got disconnected."
You (Act innocent): "I know. I thought they fixed that! That seems to happen when people call in and then put us on hold. I'm glad you called back. So what can I do for you?"
They: "Well, I...."
You: "I'm sorry, can I put you on hold a second?" Hang up.
By now all but the dumbest and rudest will give up and leave you alone. But there are still those out there who either can't or won't help themselves: "Wow, disconnected twice! That's a really unreliable phone system...I'd better call back! They must be frustrated!"
::ring ring::
You (with fake Middle-Eastern accent): "Hello, White House switchboard, Hakamel speaking."
They: "Oh, sorry, I must have the wrong number...uh...well, that's strange...I hit redial!"
You (briskly, with Scandinavian accent): "We change this number on a regular basis, for security purposes. Please hold." Hang up.
The rude ones will give up at this point: clearly, you're the victor. You're unstoppable: they cower at your feet. But the dumb ones remain. They're too stupid to beat: their lack of intellect renders them invulnerable. So you have to entertain yourself. Pick up the ringing phone and put it next to your keyboard. Type loudly. If it's a cordless, bring it into the bathroom. Have a loud conversation with someone (imaginary, if necessary) about the complete moron who called and tried to put you on hold. Mock them mercilessly. Pick up the phone and tell them their haircut reminds you of a kid from the short bus. Then put it back down and cue up a porno movie at full volume.
If they're still on the phone after that, pick it back up and ask if you can put them on hold. Being put on hold is really irritating.
April 28, 2004
Impulse Research
I was watching the Sharks attempt to sweep their series against the Avs tonight. A Yahoo! ad came on, and as it ended, one of those strange, over-tired realizations washed over me: that yodel, so familiar, catchy in its unashamed lameness...it's, it's...Slim Whitman! It's gotta be! It sounds just fucking like him!
A quick search, however, reveals the truth. It's not Slim Whitman. It's some dude named Wylie Gustafson, who was originally paid $590 to do it for one commercial. Then Yahoo! used it over and over again, and Wylie sued them for $5,000,000.
I vaguely recall having heard this at the time. I'm glad Wylie got his money. But it begged the question: shouldn't Slim Whitman be suing Wylie for copying his signature stylings? And that question begged another question: would Slim himself sue, or would it be the estate of the late Slim Whitman? I mean to say, is Slim still kicking? Another quick search revealed this site, which is definitely worth a look. Slim's got a smiley face, which means he's still alive. He's 80! Dead people get a skull. Hey, Archibald Cox is still alive! Alfred Hitchcock died on this day in 1980!
As near as I can tell, Slim never sued Wylie for combining twang with yodel. There's still time, Slim! Turns out, you're still alive! Can you hear me? Turn the hearing aid up, Slim! Get out of that casket and sue that warbly bastard!
April 26, 2004
Sorry, Fluffy
So I killed a little living thing today. It darted out into the road, under my rear tires. Didn't see it until it was next to the car...just a glimpse of gray tail. Too late to react. Sorry pal. Keeping my fingers crossed for reincarnation.
April 17, 2004
Waves
I woke up in the hotel room, relaxed and grinning happy. I yawned and stretched, shuffled to the curtain and threw it open.
The day was grey. Grey sky above grey ocean. White sea foam. The waves, after a full day of rain, pounded the land, chaotic.
I thought about the waves, how I'd never really considered the physics until the day before:
"Why do the waves break on land, but not out to sea?""Well, uh...hm...ah. The earth slopes upward, and the tops of the waves run up and over the receeding water, and suddenly, they don't have enough to support them anymore, so they break and receed themselves..."
As I stared and thought of this, the waves became dismal allegory. My life was like those waves: my decisions, my directions, my being. I felt like I was constantly running one way, and parts of me were going the other: I was doomed to trip over myself. How can we know we're doing the right things in life? What if we're going the wrong way? What if there is no right way? How come things aren't easy?
No one told you when to run. You missed the starting gun.
I was suddenly so unsure of myself, the things I do. What was I doing with my life? While my friends were getting married, having kids, moving across the country, making good money, I was doing none of these things. I had no desire to get married, no drive to father a child, no wish to leave my beloved home state. And money never seemed so important to me. What shallow ground my water had run upon.
My reflections browsed my life and leisure pursuits. I love playing bass, and spend much of my time on it. But I don't practice enough to be a professional. Certainly no one would listen to me and use the phrase "accomplished bassist." "Capable" and "passable" are more apt terms. And I'm pleased for it. But I'm not building a great life out of it.
I experiment with web development, and I love that too: it's the perfect creative environment for someone with my creative strengths. The blank canvas terrifies me, to be sure...but put the tiniest flaw, a little splotch of color, an accidental mark, and I can tweak it until it's something pleasing. Web development provides me with enough structure to let me do good things. I love the challenge, and the learning. But honestly, can I really expect to turn it into a profitable business? Perhaps. But perhaps not. And that day, it seemed likely to fail.
And yet, if I shouldn't be doing these, then what? Pissing away my life on TV and games and junk food? And I realized that what was really bothering me was the sudden realization that my life wasn't going to amount to anything. I'd always assumed it would. People always told me if you were smart, you'd do great things: invent something, write a book, help the needy. And I'd always tried to reflect on that hope when I was depressed. Somehow, no matter how bad life was, I maintained this expectation of grandeur. Sure, I'm smart! Great things are headed my way! And now that expectation was seeming like a delusion, and with the realization, I was stripped even of the comfort of delusion. My intelligence was a mirage: the "book smarts" of the American Educational System. Sit in this desk. Read this text. Explain. Take a test. Repeat. It was like waking up from a nice dream.
I'd hit the shore, turned, and run the other way, tripping over myself. I landed face-up on the cold, wet sand, and felt a tugging at my feet. I was dragged out to sea, back under the water. It covered up my face, and weighed heavy on me...the weight of a long, mediocre life looming ahead.
I was stunned, numbed. Paranoia gripped me. And the negative emotion became like the sea: ebbing and flowing, rising and falling, but always present, unignorable. I moved through the day like an automaton, thinking of nothing but my impending lame, meaningless existence. Not to be enjoyed by myself or others, to leave no lasting mark after it was gone.
Then I thought, "Wait: who am I to think I deserved a grand life in the first place? What makes me so fucking special?" Ah, the grand existentialist question. Somehow, it just made me feel worse, so I left it unanswered.
Eventually my mood softened. I smiled, made conversation with those around me, took interest in food and travel. But the knowledge remained, like a stain on the wall covered with a painting: no one may see it, but you know it's there. It's there. It's there. It's there.
April 11, 2004
Holy Shit!
The Root Beer Blog's fixed!
I can't say the fix was quick, or fun: it was pretty much the opposite of both. Let's just say MT uses some needlessly complex filenames, and I got really good at typing "db_dump185 -f...".
Fortunately, I haven't done anything particularly interesting during the downtime. Quick updates (though most of my readers know much of this):
- Seastar NT is planning a 2-cd set for release in the forseeable future.
- Elevator Cops is gelling nicely, with about 1 1/2 sets of enjoyable material.
- Work is good, though busy.
- Apple brandy is really good instead of moderately shitty, like Apple Schnapps.
- I lack inherent poker ability.
- Still fat.
- Studio MX is really, really amazing software (especially at 80% off).
- and I'm going on vacation for a week :)
Nice to be back. See you in a week :P
March 14, 2004
Low Frequencies
No, no, it's not me, it's Dave Blood, from the Dead Milkmen. But I was thinking about that, and flipping through Bass Player, and listening to Jaco, and I thought, since I haven't blogged in a while (for shame!), that I'd ramble a bit about bass playing, if you'd indulge me.
I can credit my experiences with Elevator Cops and Seastar NT for the increases in my speed and dexterity, as well as my progress in making up interesting, expressive basslines (and solos). My appreciation for and understanding of music have picked up. I've noted improvements in my ear, and I can learn to play songs more quickly. (Now if only I could practice six hours a day, I might really have something here!)
All that is great. But what's more important to me, in a largely selfish way, is that through bass playing I really think I've come to understand what people mean when they talk about a feeling of one-ness with something. I'm not naturally attuned to such things, so it caught me off guard at first. I didn't know what to make of it...a moment, a few seconds at most, when I just stopped existing, but instead of a blackout, it was the polar opposite, the feeling that this one moment was the whole point of life. And it was so startling that it threw me, and I fucked up the line. It was gone before I knew what it was, and though it was indescribably beautiful, there was no sense of loss: just a feeling of having been briefly blessed by a force hitherto unknown.
But it kept happening, again and again, and I began to understand its nature, to feel it coming on, and to accept it without distraction, that moment when the equation of bass + bassist ceases to exist, and you're left with only the sum. A brilliant feeling, though it's really no feeling at all...just total peace, total happiness, total tranquility. English may lack the word...something like bliss. Bliss squared, maybe. I'm too unaware to know it as it happens, but I can feel it before and after. To be and not to be.
Like a smile over a telephone, this feeling can be heard in the music, which (I try to convince myself) makes it not entirely selfish. You can hear it when Jaco Pastorius plays, especially lead. Victor Wooten seems to have harnessed it for the past 15 years straight. Outside the bass realm, I think of Jimi Hendrix, Thom Yorke, and Jerry Garcia.
I have the sense that much more is wrapped up in that feeling. It's difficult to study, for as I say, I cannot perceive it as it occurs. I must make guesses based on the dissipating vapors left behind as I regain consciousness. I'm betting this feeling touches everyone, sooner or later, more or less often. We may or may not recognize it for what it is. But it's something.
February 29, 2004
Trip
I went for a drive yesterday, south on 5, in early afternoon. The hill on my right blocked the sun, and the fields to my left were bright, the roadside trees dappled with unseasonable sun. So begins the Vermont spring. Had some trouble keeping my eyes on the road.
Tommy blasts. "Sparks" and the beautiful day whooshing by are too much: I have to feel the air, and I roll the window down.
With the rolled-down window comes a cigarette: in my fit of rage, I snagged them just before I left, and as I lit the first on that beautiful day, sharing the moment with the late John Entwhistle, I knew, with little regret, that I would always be a smoker.
Stopped at a Cumby's in Bellows Falls for more smokes and a root beer. As I drove away, I became curious about the time, and began scanning the buildings for a clock. What if I just kept going? How long could I last?
Heading out of town, the road became shitty, the pavement wracked by frost heaves, melt draining from field to field. Desolate fences marked odd lots with trailers, broken cars, rusted farm equipment. Up a hill, round a corner...and suddenly the forest to my left drops off, and an astonishing view of the mountains beckons. My neck twists to see, and I look for a place to pull over, even a wide shoulder...but there is nothing, and then the view is gone.
I ponder the reasons for my dissatisfactions, my aggravations. Why can't I finish anything I start? Why do my accomplishments sap my confidence? Have I known the essential futility of life since my youngest days, trying and failing to express what I didn't fully understand? And why must I dwell on it? Maybe that's the whole problem. I think in circles and don't come up with anything...and on I drive.
I near a bridge and slow down, picturing a black spring river far below, slicing through the last of the ice, coming alive. My gaze is drawn down, down...to an 18-wheeler on the Interstate. And that seems to say something to me, but I'm not sure what, and on I drive, no longer seeing or listening or thinking about anything except the disappointment of seeing an Interstate where I expected a river.
By the time I snap out of it, Tommy's about to become aware, and I've hit Putney. Seems like a good time to take the Interstate back north. There's a big Do Not Enter sign on the road that leads to the on-ramp. How can this be? Too late, at 60 mph, I see the second road. Turn around, drive back. Get on 91N. Luck out at speed trap.
The sun is out in full force now: no trees between, and it's almost too much for me.
February 12, 2004
A Heartwarming Story, Just in Time for Valentine's Day
Bimbo Leaves 43-Year Relationship for Australian Boogie Boarder.
February 08, 2004
Hrm
So a little while back, Elevator Cops, Seastar NT, and alcohol joined forces to create a strange, impromptu cover of two songs at once: Feel Like Makin' Love, and Runnin With the Devil. Fortunately, it was caught on video, digitized, and burned onto CD. We called it (what else?) Feel Like Makin' Love With The Devil. Yes, it's a funny song, not available in stores. Ask nicely and maybe we'll let you hear it!
Now, I don't really know how Windows Media Player matches the audio files it sees to the database it retrieves information from. But somehow WMP guessed that our unknown Feel Like Makin' Love With The Devil was a Ray Boltz tune called Great is the Lord. I hope you find that as funny as I do. :)
February 05, 2004
Go. Play.
Routeword. More fun than you're having right now, unless there's a head in your lap.
January 30, 2004
Pee Frizza
So I deposited my check today, and afterward the little lady and I went to the pizza place. There weren't any other customers. And we're sitting there eating and the guy behind the counter says, "You guys want some slices, like in a box?"
I'm stunned. He can't mean...free pizza! He must be trying to sell us some. Our bewildered, hopeful faces make him stammer.
"I, I mean...we're getting ready to close in a while...and nobody really comes in this late, and uh...we're just gonna keep, like, a rack of slices and chuck the rest...so, if you guys wanted some...uh...I mean...."
The little lady breaks the silence. "Are you telling us you want to give us free pizza?"
"Yeah, yeah, do you guys want some?"
"Well hell yeah!"
So he fills up a box with varied slices, and I'm thinking "free lunch tomorrow!" But then he fills up another one, and then a third, smaller box. And we walk out with three slices of veggie lovers, two meat lovers, two chicken ranch, two barbecue chicken, half a cheese pizza, and half a pepperoni with mushrooms. Too sweet!
January 28, 2004
One of Those Nights
It's been a while since I posted, so I feel obligated to check in. I'm not doing anything special on this particular night, and so I have no excuse. Truth is, I do: there's stuff I meant to do tonight. But I'm not going to do it, and I've moved on. I'm doing this instead. But what to write about? The motivation has escaped me.
My eyes drift to the left and watch the hockey game. Florida has tied it up. Hooray.
I drift back and contemplate writing about politics. Kerry. Why Kerry? How was he underestimated for so long? But my heart's not in it, and away it goes.
Away again, I stare to my right this time, and follow the odd orbit of the second hand on my counter-clockwise clock. Tock, tick, tock, tick.
And back. I've tried two new brands of high-quality gin this week. Hollingsworth has a cucumber infusion, and claims to be the gin of "1 in 1000 gin drinkers." Truthfully, I'd guess it's an inflated claim. The other brand, Magellan's, is much better, easily one of the best gins I've had. It's also infused, but it made the safe choices of petals & irish root instead. But I don't feel like writing about that either.
And there's a pretty damn funny new Heineken commercial out, but there's no link from their site, and I don't really feel like going into detail about it.
Poker is best played with Playboy playing cards. And a clean desk gets messy much faster than a messy desk gets messier.
So no post today, guys. Sorry.
January 21, 2004
Too Sweet!
Here's a site you absolutely need to see: MusicPlasma.com. Too damn awesome! I'd explain it, but it explains itself much better. Let's just say this is the best resource I know of for discovering new music that's likely to appeal to you.
Speaking of music that appeals to you, check out Seastar NT's music page! Download some crazy good shit! I recommend "OnoMo", "Yeah! Come On", "Timmy Crimson", and "Apple Tree." Pretty good stuff, imho...coming along!
That's it for tonight. Life plods along.
January 09, 2004
I Don't Want To Say It's Bitter Cold, But...
...the sign at the bank said it's "negative zero."
Must we include the "-"?!
December 26, 2003
The Definition of Insanity
They say the definition of insanity, in effect, is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I am therefore insane.
I have previously admitted to being woefully unversed in the ways of the fist. But those who've known me for a while know that I'm far, far LESS capable in the ways of the toolbox. Sure, I can do simple things: put together a bookshelf, change my oil, adjust my truss rod, etc.... But when I really think about it, I have to admit that even these simple things take much longer for me than for others, and tend to generate bizarre problems. Now I'll admit I'm a clutz, and I'll admit that I have far less exposure to such things than others do. But nonetheless I have to believe that those shortcomings don't justify the extraordinary level of trouble I have doing such ordinary things. So I generally avoid mechanical trials, because I always have or cause some bizarre problem, and I just get frustrated, and often the job doesn't get done well, or at all. It would be insane to keep trying to do what I obviously can't.
And then I started reading Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I'm only a very short way into the book, but there's been discussion of people who look at the world afraid of technology, mechanics, the underlying functions of things: people who look at the world in a romantic way, seeing surface beauty and basically expecting that things work, and declaring that those things that suddenly fail to work are "fucking with their chi." That's me, and I don't particularly like it.
"Let's change that," I thought to myself, and the perfect opportunity arose when my wiper blade tore and needed replacing. I've done it before, quite often, and no possibility of danger entered my mind. The old wiper came off with minimal trouble. The new wiper had an adapter on it, but the wrong one. No problem: retrieve screwdriver, snap off adapter. Done! Install new wiper. Fumble, fumble, pull...snap! Done! Perfect. One down, one to go. Push wiper arm back down on winshield...hrm. No reassuring springing into place. Why not? Wiper arm broken.
Wiper arm BROKEN!? WHO in GOD'S NAME breaks a wiper arm changing the blade?! In meager defense to myself, a postmortem revealed that the arm was ready to break at any point. Not a screw or bracket broke, but rather the metal of the wiper arm had weakened to the point where it snapped, despite my not-unreasonable pressure. Nonetheless, I've never even heard of anybody doing this. It's humiliating, and I'm embarrassed to admit it. Why admit it? I'm behind on my blogging, and I didn't have anything better to write about.
Once, in middle school, I expressed my distaste for shop class to my uncle. "No nephew of mine hates shop!" It's not my fault, uncle Bob: it's a curse beyond my control.
December 15, 2003
WinterGreenMountainStatement
Thrice already, this season, has New England been pummeled by storms, and thrice have we dug ourselves out. They have not been especially severe: no worse, to be sure, than the Christmas/New Year's storms of last winter...but there's something about them, something about their timing and insistence that upgrades them from meterological annoyances to wretched harbingers of a horrible winter to come. I'm talking about the kind of winter even your grandfather wouldn't mention; the kind of winter that makes men bestow names on their snow rakes; the kind of winter Norse gods inflict on followers who build their statues 15 cubits off the mark.
You fools! I indicated that tree over there! I cannot bear a statue here! An inch I would have forgiven...and possibly two. But fifteen cubits?! The devil winter for you! I'll leave just enough of you alive to rebuild a new civilization, more capable of fine measurement and following instructions! The rest of you had best fetch coats...
Forget, for a moment, your religious preconceptions, whatever they may be: you believe in Hell, and your greatest fears are sinning and going to Hell, except those are only your second greatest fears: your real greatest fear is that you were unspeakably evil in a past life, and you've already died and gone to Hell, and this is it: except it's freezing, not hot at all. That's the sort of winter I'm talking about, people. El Nino is alive and well, coming back for revenge. Don't let Jack London fool you, kiddies: Alaska's not the only place with harsh winters. We get our share, and I've got a hunch this'll be a doozy.
Still, I could be wrong: these could merely be regular storms, and we could be in for a winter with no evil overshadows, no cackling trickster gods.... And yet, either way, I must reflect for a moment on the joys of my coat.
Yes, my new coat, which I love like a son that never cries or asks for anything. It's a deep green & gray, and it fits like a glove. Inside, it has a removable fleece lining, which is now my fall coat. It has a waterproof hood, and pockets galore. It is a long coat, but it unzips from the bottom, so as not to limit my range of leg motion. Other features include something called a "radial sleeve," which I guess lets me move my arms in circles, and a deluxe ventilation system which means I can shovel snow without undue sweat. This is no mean parka, son: this is a fully modular, customizable, personal environment system, and with it I can laugh in Loki's face (until he turns it into a swarm of ravens that shit on my head and fly away).
Such a coat doesn't come cheap. I found it around 40% off, and had a $50 gift certificate, and I still couldn't believe I was about to pay this much for a coat. I justified it as being two coats, really, and since neither my winter nor fall coat were up to much more abuse, it seemed like a reasonable investment. And now, looking back, I'd highly recommend it to anyone.
But who in Loki's name cares about my coat? Colin Powell has cancer (Hah: Colin cancer!! Nah, prostate cancer...). And we've finally caught Saddam, which will be touted as a great humanitarian victory. And it certainly is, and I gladly add it to my short list of positive things I can say about the current American regime. Since it's still new & good news, I won't go off on the reasons people seem to have such a boner for the Iraq thing. I will say that most of the people who seem really charged up on "getting Saddam" and bringing about justice for all his horrible human rights violations seem, despite their deep and obvious passion for humanity, oddly unaware of other human rights crises around the world (or here at home). They also seem to have relatively bad attitudes about the actual Iraqi people who were victimized anyway, if not Arabs in general...so why the hurrah? Surely we're not scoring our political victories as humanitarian, spitting in the faces of those who oppose us? No! Well, we've been doing that from the get-go, I suppose. And my frustration with that, and all the spin that I can already see, crystal-clear, starting now and spinning on through W's re-election, and on and on blindly into the shitstorm that'll follow that horror...well, it's enough to drive a man to write about how great his coat is, instead of all the bullshit.
Ah, now see? My grumpiness has caught up to me. Anyway, it's a great coat. Columbia Sportswear. Warm, comfy. Good stuff.
December 14, 2003
Bows
Today the little lady's neice came here to wrap a present for her friend. She was sent in to me for help with the bows, which come from a huge clear bag about the size of a minivan.
"Which color do you want?"
"Um...purple."
"Purple?! Purple's way at the bottom! Pick another color!"
I was kidding, of course, and had in fact already started fishing for the purple bow. The joshing would surely have been obvious to anyone older than 10, but she's far younger than that, so over her head it went.
"Green!"
I triumphantly pulled hand from bag to reveal the coveted purple bow, which apparently was no longer quite so coveted: to be sure, it met with a vaguely confused expression and a disappointed yet surprised "oh!"
"Do you still want it? How about two bows?"
So the gift was adorned with a purple bow and a green bow. She smiled and made a noise something like a cross between a hencluck and the word "done!" and returned to the other room, festooned package held high.
After that there was, among the adults, considerable frustration over the precise spelling of "Caitlin," which involved repeatedly yelling the letters "C-A-I-T-L-I-N" from one room to the other and then the quieter expression of doubt over my spelling choice...which may well be wrong given the recent propensity of parents to bestow on their children common names, ridiculously-spelled. Through it all, the child, who never knew nor cared how to spell "Caitlin" remained silent, but I could hear the thoughts in her head:
"What the hell is the matter with you people?! Why don't I just fucking hand it to her?"
Ah, kids in small doses...my style. Happy holidays.
December 06, 2003
Iron Chef Retarded
So I'm watching Iron Chef USA. It's hysterically bad.
Shatner is his typical overdramatic self, but he's not referred to as "Shatner," or "William," or "Billy." He's just "The Chairman." We've taken all the subtlety out of the show...which shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, really, except that instead of just stripping it away and leaving a slightly brash version of the delicate original, we've twisted it into a ridiculous amalgam of American Gladiators and Emeril Live. We play this game in an arena disturbingly similar to the Who Wants to be a Millionaire set.
The theme music is a cheap arrangement likely inspired by--but quite inferior to--the Japanese version's "Backdraft" theme. Shatner starts the whole wretched affair with a huge toes-to-ceiling gesture and a scream--"Turn up the Heat!"--after which a busty but less-attractive version of Vanna White rings a big gong. Today's secret ingredient is turkey. The meat, not the country.
There is a huge digital screen on each side of the studio, displaying camera closeups and other crowd-pleasers. The color scheme for the graphics work is red white and blue, with unpleasantly psychedelic displays for the names of the Iron Chefs.
There's actually an "Iron Chef American." His specialty is brisket. The tasting panel has Ron Popeil on it, for Christ's sake!
Iron Chef Italian, it has just been announced, will be making Ravioli! The crowd, stunned for a brief moment, erupts in applause, and then the sound level quiets down so we can hear the intense music, complete with a steady high-hat that simulates the ticking of a stopwatch. All the music is deliberately cheesy.
I cannot believe what I'm seeing. It's the absolute greatest comedy show of the fall season, ousting all the network suspects, and I predict nothing funnier will come on in a year unless they make a reality TV show about Dick Cheney's family.
"I'm a lesbian, Dad! I love other women!" "It's damned EVIL, Mary! EVIL!!! Talk about laughs!
Back in Kitchen Stadium, or whatever it's called now, Iron Chef Italian has dropped a piece of saltimbocca. The crowd, in unison, makes a loud "oh!" The challenger's foamer doesn't work! What will he do?
The announcers are particularly qualified. "Now, what's he got there?" "Uh, that's a food processor. It chops things up, real fine." "And what's that tool called, that he's using there?" "It's a ravioli-cutter." "Oh. It's a good thing you're here."
I've just been reminded that this venue is called "Kitchen Arena," not "Kitchen Stadium," as I previously guessed.
The boisterous crowd quiets down as Ron Popeil calls the challenger's tuna-and-turkey dish "bland." Some guy from a sitcom I don't remember says they don't go together. Kelly Hu says it's good. The guy says "Tuna belongs on toast with some mayonnaise. A black woman named Loretta says it's "nothing she was used to eating in the hood." The canned lauger from the crowd.
As the judging begins, the tasting panel opens their notebooks. Popeil dons his Rumsfeld sunglasses. A fanfare plays, and we're into a commercial break. Who will win? It's obvious, from the commentary, that the Iron Chef will. So why do we stay tuned? In case something funny happens. Which I'm virtually positive will be the case. The little lady just asked if this was on Comedy Central.
And we're back. The Iron Chef has won. Shatner The Chairman has shed his sparkly purple overcoat, but retains his silken purple vest. He ends with a Springer-style "final thought," a droning soliliquy that touches on individiality and courage and a bunch of blather I couldn't be bothered to listen to. Cut to a shot of the crowd doing the wave, cue the triumphant music, and we're done.
Now that is some funny TV. Good job, Food Network.
December 03, 2003
A Nerd Most On
Today I left Best Buy because of terrible customer service. To give you an idea of how bad it was, I found much better customer service at STAPLES. Normally, the only place worse than Staples is Radio Shack. But Best Buy beat even my worst Radio Shack experience. Details too painful...cannot explain. Must...let...anguish...pass....
Calpundit theorizes that Ralph Nader's likely presidential run will be good for the Democrats because so many of them hate Nader they're likely to come out of the woodwork and actually vote. My theory is that the 35% of eligible voters nationwide that vote are actually all the people who really exist, and the apparent population discrepancy is the result of census numbers forged to aid in local electoral redistricting measures. So I think 100% of eligible voters are actually voting, and there are way fewer people in this country than we're told.
Don't mistake my kindness in letting you cross the street with an unwillingness to run your FAT FUCKING ASS OVER if you slowly saunter across while I sit there. Bitch.
Tires are expensive.
Take back Saskatchewan.
December 01, 2003
How Can I Live With Myself?
I was thinking today, for no really good reason, of a time about eight months ago when I was parked in the mall, waiting for the little lady. I'm just reading Bass Player, minding my own business. And this little old lady pulls up and parks on my passenger side, and opens her door. Hard. And she hit mine. Hard. I should explain: this was not a tap. It was a real thunk.
So the old lady finishes tottering her old lady body out of her old lady car, and peers down at the old lady damage she caused. And she gives me an old lady look, through my passenger side window, and watches me getting out of the driver's side...and just fucking walks away.
At this point, a few options occur to me:
1. I could yell at her. What would that accomplish? It's not like she'd come back and apologize: it's obvious enough that when an old lady makes eye contact with you and walks away, an apology is not forthcoming.
2. I could run her down, tackle her, and beat her face in. Despite not being in shape, or particularly versed in the ways of the fist, I feel confident that the battle would go my way. What would that accomplish? I'd feel a sense of retribution. She'd learn lessons about parking lot etiquette that she wouldn't forget for the rest of her life (I'm guessing 2-8 months). But I'd most likely be seen, and I'd go to jail, and they don't serve A&W root beer in jail, so that would've been a bad idea.
3. I could glare ominously at her and inspect the damage caused to my car. This is what I chose to do. Fortunately, the damage was slight, and I care little about the aesthetics of my car. This is probably why I didn't do something so drastic as run her down and beat her senseless.
But you see, it was my societal obligation to chase and pummel her, because that would've taught her a lesson! Now other poor schmoes have to deal with that situation again...and again...and again...as she lives out her old lady life opening her old lady door into other cars, and walking away like fucking old people just rule the goddamned world! I had an opportunity to improve society, make my lasting mark--however subtle--and I hung my head and let the opportunity slip away. For shame!
How can I live with myself after not beating Holy Hell out of that old woman?
November 26, 2003
Inspired
Memo to all readers, frequent and occasional, interested and otherwise:
Today, DJC saw fit to post the following comment on my previous entry "Uninspired:"
this blog never gets updated anymore. I want my money back. ;-D
You can have it, plus interest.
Anyhow, if this sort of thing is going to go on, we should have an organized way to deal with it. With that in mind, I've added a Complaints Department. Effective immediately, please direct all complaints there.
Thank you,
Brother Root Beer
November 19, 2003
Sweet Boredom
Excellent! The dullest blog in the world is back!
And for some laughs, check out "Neo-Whig Candidate Challenges Howard Dean to 'Step Outside'." Since you can never be sure these days, I should point out that this is a satirical, and not factual, story. But it features a link to the Neo-Whig party page. Neo-Whig touts itself as "The Smart Party, For Smart People...and you," which I find refreshingly honest.
November 15, 2003
5 Guys Named moe.
Yes, I saw moe. in concert, who wants to touch me? I said who wants to fucking touch me?!
The show was amazing. They played a killer "Captain America," and they covered Radiohead's "Karma Police," which was really great. The jams were long and flowing, and amazingly intense. And thanks to the magic of Instant Live, I walked out of the auditorium with a three-CD set of the show I had just seen, so I can listen to it again and again. Joy!
And the light show! Normally, I couldn't give a rat's ass about the lights. But these were incredible, the perfect visual accompaniment to the music, like Christopher Walken dancing to "Weapon of Choice," or Britney Spears with the sound muted. If the music were a physical thing, swirling and spinning, it would have looked exactly like the lights...and over the night it just kept getting better and better. Wild!
Jamie Masefield, of Jazz Mandolin Project fame, came out and joined the band for a phenomenal "Moth," and stayed out for a 40-minute jam that was so entrancing that the entire crowd forgot to smoke pot for at least half of it.
"Yodelittle," "She Sends Me," and "Not Coming Down" were also particularly good. And I got some free bass lessons from a true master, Rob Derhak.
They didn't play "Opium," but somehow I smelled it all night anyway.
November 13, 2003
Toilet Humor!
Most workdays after lunch I go and take a refreshing dump. And this time of year, when the leaves have fallen and the cold air bites the skin, I find it's desirable to switch to a nice heated bathroom. I use one in the science building.
This bathroom has many appealing features. There's a nice, sturdy coat hook in each stall. The handicap stall is gigantic, big enough for a La-Z-Boy and an entertainment center. Next to the throne is a warm heater, so your legs don't get chilly. It's very clean, well lit, and rarely used. And the tile floor is trippy. And because it's in the science building, it's assumed that the bathroom patrons have a certain basic grasp of physics.
How do I know this? Because the bathrooms in the Arts & Sciences library don't make the same assumption. They assume you are bewildered and terrified of physics; but they assume you can read. These bathrooms have a peculiarity I've never noticed before. They have instructions on the toilet paper dispensers:
Pull gently. Tear here.
Honestly, is this REALLY necessary? Are there people out there who see the toilet paper, grab hold, assume a stable crouch, and yank with all their might? When they've unraveled the entire roll, do they panic, wide-eyed, with the realization that they lack the capacity to decide, on their own, the best place to tear? Are these instructions a contingency plan to ward off potential lawsuits? And most important of all: who knows how to read, but can't understand the physics of toilet paper?! When as a society did we reach the point where people need toilet paper instructions? In ten years, will our halls have walking instructions?
Lift one foot. Lean forward. Put your foot down. No, not that one, the one in the air. Good. Now repeat with your other foot. That's it: you're doing great! Have confidence. Have faith.
It'd be nice if more public bathrooms had music. It's nice to hear a soothing melody instead of hunkered-down straining. Automatic flushing toilets are far too common, while automatic faucets are far too rare. Stall doors could come a little lower, couldn't they? And don't get me started on trough urinals...that's just wrong.
November 12, 2003
God Rest Ye, Spoon
Yesterday was Veterans' Day, and I found myself thinking about someone I try not to think about. See, when I was in Nam, I had this Spoon buddy. Now we had different religious beliefs, and we wouldn't have been friends in another situation, but in Nam, the guys you were stationed with came to mean the world to you.
We were stationed in Danang. There was a lot of action, and a lot of good men died. We got word in January of '73 that the war was finally gonna end, that Nixon was getting us the hell out, finally. I told my Spoon buddy that when I got home I was gonna go to college, and maybe teach high school. My Spoon Buddy told me he was gonna open up a restaurant and serve 50 varieties of rice, and everyone would eat it with spoons. I said I didn't like to eat rice with spoons, and actually tended to use a fork for borderline utensil situations. He gave me this funny look--hurt, confused, and angry--and said he was gonna take a walk.
That was the last time I saw my Spoon buddy alive. He stepped on a mine a couple klicks outside the camp, and it cracked his stem right up the middle. It was tough to see him that way, and tough to know that he died thinking I was mad at him. I mean, I never got to say goodbye. It still hurts, you know?
Anyway, I eat rice with a fork.
November 11, 2003
Pretty Good Day On Balance, In Spite of Illness and a Strange Propensity for Writing Unnecessarily Long Post Titles, Such as This One, Which, God Willing, Will Be the Exception Rather Than the Rule
So I was pretty sick when I left for work today, and it just got worse. When I got there, I put on the headphones, cued up some Seastar NT on repeat, and settled in with a mindless, repetitive project that would take me most of the day. It was all about speed, and slamming through the task at hand, and not forcing my brain, slow from illness, to do anything at all.
Some days I think it would be really cool to have a little script that counted every keystroke, so at the end of the day I could know exactly how many taps my fingers had made. How much money do I earn per keystroke? On a day like today, though, the answer would probably kill me.
But the day turned out pretty well. I had 45 minutes at the end of work, so I plucked away at a little PHP script I've been toying with and managed to increase its functionality, which felt good. And then I came home and my lady bought me some cough drops, which helped. And I finally solved a major strategy problem I was having with Age of Mythology, so I can stopped getting assfucked like a kid at the Neverland Ranch. But even that wasn't the highlight of my day: this was. Remember this woman's example, if you ever find yourself in a police car.
November 06, 2003
Quick One
Well, the Bruins are tied heading into the third, and I'm tired and aggravated by today's PHP trials. Also, I'm a little weary of being pissed off about the media and government. So instead of commenting on something useful, I'll leave you with this:
I can't believe I don't already own forty of these...
November 03, 2003
Bwwaaaahhheeeyyaaieee
As you may recall, one of the questions on the Political Compass test was "Abstract art that doesn't represent anything shouldn't be considered art at all." To get Clintonian, my reaction depends on the definition of "anything."
If "anything" in this case literally means "anything," I'm inclined to agree with the premise that it's not art. But I thought it appropriate to read the question as "anything visible," instead of "anything at all." This is an important distinction to me, because the thing that draws me to any given piece of art is not the content, but the emotion. I love Kandinsky and Dali because I feel something of their personality and passion when I look at their works.
The little lady happens to be quite knowledgable on the visual arts, while I am quite ignorant, and we playfully disagree on these matters. I'm into Jackson Pollock: she just sees splatter. She's into Rothko: I just see squares. Which leads me, of course, to the bass guitar.
Playing a fretted bass, each bassline is exactly what you make of it: it's C#, F, G, B, with a reggae feel and a triplet on three. Or it's straight eighth note chord-following. Or a slap-pluck groove in A minor. Or whatever. The possibilities are almost endless.
Playing a fretless, the possibilities actually are endless. Notes are not played: they're sculpted. The bassline is now a physical entity, each note a symphony in itself. Emotion pours through you and into the strings, which become like living, magical things. Think of knights or rabbits, water or death; feel angry or afraid, melancholy or boastful; say "oiseau" with your fingers; tremble, glide, slip, stumble: every nuance, every mistake, every lightest touch shines through. You can hide nothing, and you can express the deepest, most heartfelt sounds imaginable, more emotion than music.
Or you can sound like a big douchebag. That happens too. But it's worth it, in the end.
October 31, 2003
Vacation Over!
Happy Halloween, folks! Boy, it's nice to be back. Time to settle in and sit back with a nice Root Beer and a cigarette. No lighter, though...anyone got some fire? Oh, thanks California!
All right, that was out of line. I should delete it.
I'd like to thank Don Rumsfeld for guest blogging while I was away. And I should mention, since he didn't, that it was actually Lolly who pointed out the Wired article on Miniluv.
We might as well face it right now: this is a choppy entry. Topic...topic...topic. No segues or decent transitions. Fuck transitions hard, and steal their TV afterward.
Here is an interesting online test of political/economic views from the good folks at Political Compass. For the hell of it, I'll show you my results (yes, I make the Dalai Lama look like Hitler). Here too are the Little Lady's results...she's a more authoritarian and laissez-faire, than I am, but not as much as some current Presidents I could name. So anyway, you should all take it. Everybody's doing it!
Our final topic for the day: we ran out of Halloween candy today, which was unfortunate because it is Halloween. Panicked, I frantically searched the house for what we could give the little beggars. Stale goldfish crackers. A frozen sausage. Heroin. Dammit: nothing! And then, like a shining beacon of salvation, I saw it--right next to the sink: our grease can.
I babbled excitedly: "We can divide it up into little baggies! We should have enough for at least four kids! We'd probably make the news!" I pictured some kid dumping out his Halloween sack: Snickers, Payday, Three Musketeers...hey, what's this? It's kind of squishy. And it smells funny! Call the police!
To a certain extent, we thought this might happen, so we did something horrible. You must never, ever do this thing, because to do it is to see too much of the darkest, saddest part of humanity. No matter what the circumstance, you must NEVER repeat our sad deed. And though I'm scarred for life from the experience, if I can save even one other person from the horror, I've done something worthy of sainthood.
The thing we did, and which you must never do, is this: we stopped at a major supermarket at 4:00 PM on Halloween, and visited the remains of the candy aisle.
People of a sort I hope never to see again stared at the decimated shelves and empty boxes with the forlorn expression of pilgrims who travel many miles in search of salvation, only to find a used tampon on a pedestal. They looked like kids watching their dogs get run over. And they didn't move, or give up. They stayed there, huddled around the carcass of a candy aisle, as if it would suddenly be resurrected: surely, around some corner, Willy Wonka would soon arrive, and these giant bags of Swedish Fish and Candy Corn would be magically replaced with piles of the greatest candy the world has ever seen. It was a horrible, horrible thing, to be in that aisle. And you must never subject yourself to this experience.
Anyhow, I have a bunch more stuff to say, but I'll say it later.
October 27, 2003
Vacation
Well, I'm taking a break from blogging for a few days. My schedule is too hectic. In my stead, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has agreed to blog here for a few days. I'm thinking til Thursday or so.
Before I go, I'd like to extend my congratulations (or whatever sentiment is appropriate in this situation) to Brother Nadreck, who has reached 100 Posts! The current entry is an interesting one on King Crimson, which should prove fun to read even if you don't like KC, and just might inspire you to check it out.
The hundred entries on that site are all well-written and enjoyable, and will provide you with hours of quality reading entertainment...each. Ha! I mean, they're long posts. Just a little good-natured ribbing, eh? But seriously folks! I just flew in from Akron and...
In other news, Adam has posted a photo that would make a fantastic background. :-)
That's it for me. Be nice to Don, and I'll talk to you later this week.
Disclaimer: Don Rumsfeld is not actually going to post on this blog. The coming entries will be a hilarious parody of the man's speaking style, and should not in any way be construed as actual posts from Mr. Rumsfeld. It sucks that I have to put this in, because I'm sure the posts, by their very nature, will be recognized as farce; but you can't take any chances these days. Hi Mom!
October 26, 2003
Meh II
Alas, yet again, I'm slacking on the posting. I apologize. Instead, here are some pictures of our Jack O'Lanterns.
My bass clef pumpkin:
And the little lady's kitty pumpkin:
That's it for now; shortly, the Democratic debacle debate will start, and I will watch it. It's on Fox News, which is claiming to be the "News Channel of Political Record." Just in time for Halloween. Spooky. And why in God's name are the Dems debating on Fox News?
October 23, 2003
Meh
I have a bunch of foamy political stuff I want to mention, but I need some downtime and tonight the Bruins continue their brutal early-season schedule. Anyhow, I thought I'd post some links to interesting stuff I found. And I'll get to some foam tomorrow. Or maybe Saturday. Or Sunday. Calm down! I'll get to it!
Here goes:
1. Sci-Fi Channel may sue NASA. Not to sound pessimistic, but this may not go well: I'll wager NASA has good lawyers. Especially when it comes to protecting classified documents. But honestly, Sci-Fi, I wish you the best!
2. Next, since we're coming up on Halloween, check out Extreme Pumpkins.com. Side note: Christmas lights should NOT GO UP BEFORE HALLOWEEN! Seriously, it's killing me.
3. Here's a game I didn't even realize I'd been desperately waiting for: Worms 3D! Sweet!
4. Engrish.com. It was said with sufficiently this topic.
96. And finally, a mayor in Ecuador has found a way to simultanouesly increase government efficiency and improve the quality of political press conference. I say we try it here, if only a the local level.
The way if be a health and a happiness.
October 17, 2003
Two Brief Horrors
An old joke:
::ring ring::
Hello?
Honey! Don't get on the Interstate! I just saw on TV--some lunatic's going the wrong way!
Hell, it's not just one...it's hundreds of 'em!
Tonight, for the second time in just over a year, I met some nutcase going the wrong way on the Interstate at night.
So that was one brief horror. The rest of the evening was actually pretty good: my girlfriend and I had an exceptional meal at Koto and a relaxed visit to Borders.
But my bookstore-induced relaxation was interrupted when I used one of the computers to look up a title I couldn't find (Al Franken's Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot and Other Observations). Yes, it's in stock: it's in the "humor" section, in section C; You Are Here. So I went to section C...and there was NO humor section, no matter how many times I walked back and forth willing it into existence.
I began loudly pontificating on the bad-for-business choice of placing a disinformation machine right in the middle of your bookstore with the words "Title Finder" over it. I normally don't get worked up over stuff like that (at least not in public), but the section I found myself in was full of twisted, wretched books written by twisted, wretched people: Coulter, Hannity, O'Reilly...oh my! With each passing second, I could feel my capability for rational thought draining out of me, being replaced with opium dreams of how great the world would be if rich, white Texans ruled it and told everyone what to think. Would I be saved in time, or descend into an Orwellian nightmare?!
Surely this was some kind of trick, a vast, right-wing conspiracy to prevent people from buying "undesirable" books! Fortunately, the moment of horror was brief: my girlfriend found the book, way on the other side of the store. I fled the section before being tricked into buying any of the evil brainwashing books, and left the store with only good brainwashing books.
So there you have it: two brief horrors in reverse chronological order. Them enjoyed you hope I.
October 16, 2003
Cheating
Yes, it's true: I'm cheating on Root Beer. I just got home and made myself a Gin and Tonic. And I'm settling down with my nice G&T to watch the Avs beat the bejeezus out of the Wild. Ah, the pure, violent joy of hockey season! May it never end...
While I'm thinking of them, here are some links for you:
First: if you have a mind, Andrew Lipson's Lego Page will blow it. And not like you're thinking, pervert. Sheez.
Second: you know that feeling you get when you're expecting water but you drink milk? That's about the feeling I got when I visited the Society for News Design. Elaborate joke, or just ironic, terrible design? YOU make the call! Of course, I guess I'm one to talk, with my brown website...
Third: today I discovered the unwieldily-named Association of Alternative Newsweeklies. Good stuff. I've added it to the links list. Check out AlterNet as well. It's like journalism, but with investigation and reporting!
Baseball is lame.
That's all for now.
October 13, 2003
Welcome
Yea, the great question of life: is the mug of root beer half full, or half empty?
"Half Full? Half Empty?" What of life can be said that hasn't been better said before? Or hasn't been said better before? Or hasn't before been said better? Whatever.
Well, tough it out with me: we'll find something unique and fascinating to say, even if it takes decades!
And now I must leave you: some assholes honk their car horns outside my window, and I have to go part the blinds and stare down with an irritated scowl on my face.
I mean, honestly...where else would I have an irritated scowl?
More and better content to come.