Um, she was a first lady, and then a 1-term junior senator.
If she wins the primary, McCain should run this ad without making any changes.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
South Side - Represent
Quadrant: One of the four parts into which a plane is divided by the coordinate axes.
We were adventurers, explorers, sailing the asphalt sea in a 1973 Chevy van. Like Columbus, Vespucci, Magellan and Cook, we ventured out into the unknown, seeking new land and places to get good tacos.
We would drive out into greater Los Angeles, without a map. Without a destination. The point was to get lost. Then, find our way back. That was the game, and it was fun. We always found our way back, but first, we always seemed to find our way to LAX.
It is a true, but little known fact; all roads in LA lead to LAX.
The benefit was, through trial and error, we all learned the full functional layout of a very large place, which is necessary, because, down there, no one actually lives in the city where they live. For instance, you may live in one city, like Glendale, and you may work in another city, like Culver City. Maybe your dad lives in West Covina, but your band has a gig in Pomona.
If you live there, like some of you do, you know that you really live in the place as a whole. If you have to go shopping, maybe you go to Santa Monica, or Pasadena, or Newport. If you're going to the beach, you have literally hundreds of miles of choices. In LA, "LA" means anything from Malibu to Palm Springs to Dana Point. It's all the same place, and folks wander, subject to traffic restrictions, across the grid.
Portlanders, on the other hand, look at the world in a much less-adventurous way. The Portland metro area, for folks who don't know, is essentially divided into four quadrants by the Willamette River and Burnside Street: NW, NE, SW and SE. Of course there is an area just called "North Portland" or "NOPO," but there is no such thing as a "fifth quadrant," so most folks, including the city council, just pretend that NOPO doesn't exist.
In Portland, however, very few folks cross the arbitrary lines. Eastsiders do NOT go to the Westside, and Westsiders do NOT go to the Eastside. Downtown is technically on the Westside, but it has been declared neutral. Oddly, there is less discrimination between North and South.
What's worse is, even though most all of Portland is suburban-like, with very few actual urban dwellers, folks who live within the city's suburbs like to think of themselves as urban-savvy, street-tough and oh-so-metropolitan. Ironically, they deride and dismiss those "folks in the burbs," as they themselves sit in the landscaped back yard of their single-family row house...
The divisions are silly, but frustratingly quite real. It is like pulling teeth to get a Westsider to drive anywhere East of the Willamette River or to get an Eastsider to travel West of the Washington Park Zoo.
I'm not kidding. The fear, anxiety, prejudice and obstinance is palpable. Look, folks are entitled to their opinions, but I really just cannot understand it.
As I live at the southern tip, along a major freeway, with social and financial interests in every quadrant of the city, I dwell in the whole place, as I did in Los Angeles. I am as comfortable at Clackamas Town Center as I am at Washington Square. I am surrounded by three equidistant Costcos. I feel fine to dine in the Pearl, or I will wander Hawthorne looking for a meal. I can play darts on the Westside at the Dublin Pub, or I can play on the Eastside at the Horsebrass. My office is on the Westside but my bank and my wife's office are on the East.
Portland is not just any one quadrant. It is the flavor of the city soup when you mix in the artsy yuppies from the NW, the pot smokers from the SE, the earthy soccer moms from Lake Oswego, the Asian frat-boy techies from Beaverton and the gentrifying gay men from NE... Portland should be taken as a whole...
Well, all of Portland, except Gresham. Nobody likes Gresham. That place sucks!
We were adventurers, explorers, sailing the asphalt sea in a 1973 Chevy van. Like Columbus, Vespucci, Magellan and Cook, we ventured out into the unknown, seeking new land and places to get good tacos.
We would drive out into greater Los Angeles, without a map. Without a destination. The point was to get lost. Then, find our way back. That was the game, and it was fun. We always found our way back, but first, we always seemed to find our way to LAX.
It is a true, but little known fact; all roads in LA lead to LAX.
The benefit was, through trial and error, we all learned the full functional layout of a very large place, which is necessary, because, down there, no one actually lives in the city where they live. For instance, you may live in one city, like Glendale, and you may work in another city, like Culver City. Maybe your dad lives in West Covina, but your band has a gig in Pomona.
If you live there, like some of you do, you know that you really live in the place as a whole. If you have to go shopping, maybe you go to Santa Monica, or Pasadena, or Newport. If you're going to the beach, you have literally hundreds of miles of choices. In LA, "LA" means anything from Malibu to Palm Springs to Dana Point. It's all the same place, and folks wander, subject to traffic restrictions, across the grid.
Portlanders, on the other hand, look at the world in a much less-adventurous way. The Portland metro area, for folks who don't know, is essentially divided into four quadrants by the Willamette River and Burnside Street: NW, NE, SW and SE. Of course there is an area just called "North Portland" or "NOPO," but there is no such thing as a "fifth quadrant," so most folks, including the city council, just pretend that NOPO doesn't exist.
In Portland, however, very few folks cross the arbitrary lines. Eastsiders do NOT go to the Westside, and Westsiders do NOT go to the Eastside. Downtown is technically on the Westside, but it has been declared neutral. Oddly, there is less discrimination between North and South.
What's worse is, even though most all of Portland is suburban-like, with very few actual urban dwellers, folks who live within the city's suburbs like to think of themselves as urban-savvy, street-tough and oh-so-metropolitan. Ironically, they deride and dismiss those "folks in the burbs," as they themselves sit in the landscaped back yard of their single-family row house...
The divisions are silly, but frustratingly quite real. It is like pulling teeth to get a Westsider to drive anywhere East of the Willamette River or to get an Eastsider to travel West of the Washington Park Zoo.
I'm not kidding. The fear, anxiety, prejudice and obstinance is palpable. Look, folks are entitled to their opinions, but I really just cannot understand it.
As I live at the southern tip, along a major freeway, with social and financial interests in every quadrant of the city, I dwell in the whole place, as I did in Los Angeles. I am as comfortable at Clackamas Town Center as I am at Washington Square. I am surrounded by three equidistant Costcos. I feel fine to dine in the Pearl, or I will wander Hawthorne looking for a meal. I can play darts on the Westside at the Dublin Pub, or I can play on the Eastside at the Horsebrass. My office is on the Westside but my bank and my wife's office are on the East.
Portland is not just any one quadrant. It is the flavor of the city soup when you mix in the artsy yuppies from the NW, the pot smokers from the SE, the earthy soccer moms from Lake Oswego, the Asian frat-boy techies from Beaverton and the gentrifying gay men from NE... Portland should be taken as a whole...
Well, all of Portland, except Gresham. Nobody likes Gresham. That place sucks!
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
In The Bag
7 years I have languished. 7 years I have lamented. 7 years I have stood in line watching with dismay, the craptacular display of ineptitude at the checkout stand of my local Albertsons.
7 years I have shopped in that grocery store, and for 7 years I have wondered why the management could not take 10 minutes to teach the dying art of proper bagging techniques to its new employees.
Sure, this is not a new topic for the Lounge. Certainly, I have gone on about this many times before. I have enumerated the ignorance and sins of the bag boys and girls. The slow packing. The single-item bagging. The heavies stacked on top of the squishables. The lack of internal structural integrity...
Anyone who knows me well enough in real life knows how particular I am about my grocery experience. In the cart, frozen rides with frozen, cold with cold, and non-food is quarantined with non-food. Produce stays up by me, so I can keep a wary eye on it. Fruit bruises easily, and nearly nothing makes me sadder.
Once at the checkout stand, I get a little weirder. Often times, when shopping with a friend for the first time, they dig in, wanting to help, and begin to spread the goods willy-nilly upon the conveyor. I rarely say anything, but really, I wish they wouldn't. The missus has learned, and just stands back. She lets me do my thing.
I unload in logical order, considering the relative stacks and bundles and the order in which they will reach the bagger at the end. I provide structural boxes first to allow proper bag-building. Cans are next, and other stackables. Again, frozen stays with frozen, and non-foods with non-foods. Produce, bread and eggs at the end. All the bagger has to do is build each bag according to the measured bundles of groceries I send down to them. I try to make their jobs easier.
Am I obsessive? Oh, hell yes. Am I frequently disappointed by my squandered efforts ignored by the hapless youth as they bruise my peaches?? Yes, heartbreakingly so...
Oh, but tonight. TONIGHT! Something amazing occurred... Something unexpected. Something delightful.
My cart was not full. It was a smallish load of necessities, and there was no wait at all.
The groceries flew in a well-ordered flurry across the scanner, and found their way into rigidly packed, well-build and stackably balanced bags. There were few bags used and, once in the car, the bags stood upright, they way they are supposed to. They did not wallow to the ground like spineless jellyfish, as so often happens. The contents did not dribble out of the bags, rather, they remained stacked, tautly-packed, straight and rigid.
Once home, the bags retained their intended shape. The produce was safe. The frozen foods were still cold. None of my purchase was lost, bruised or broken! It was a miracle.
Of course, I discovered tonight that Albertsons has recently installed a self-checkout check stand and my grocery bagger was none other than ME.
7 years I have shopped in that grocery store, and for 7 years I have wondered why the management could not take 10 minutes to teach the dying art of proper bagging techniques to its new employees.
Sure, this is not a new topic for the Lounge. Certainly, I have gone on about this many times before. I have enumerated the ignorance and sins of the bag boys and girls. The slow packing. The single-item bagging. The heavies stacked on top of the squishables. The lack of internal structural integrity...
Anyone who knows me well enough in real life knows how particular I am about my grocery experience. In the cart, frozen rides with frozen, cold with cold, and non-food is quarantined with non-food. Produce stays up by me, so I can keep a wary eye on it. Fruit bruises easily, and nearly nothing makes me sadder.
Once at the checkout stand, I get a little weirder. Often times, when shopping with a friend for the first time, they dig in, wanting to help, and begin to spread the goods willy-nilly upon the conveyor. I rarely say anything, but really, I wish they wouldn't. The missus has learned, and just stands back. She lets me do my thing.
I unload in logical order, considering the relative stacks and bundles and the order in which they will reach the bagger at the end. I provide structural boxes first to allow proper bag-building. Cans are next, and other stackables. Again, frozen stays with frozen, and non-foods with non-foods. Produce, bread and eggs at the end. All the bagger has to do is build each bag according to the measured bundles of groceries I send down to them. I try to make their jobs easier.
Am I obsessive? Oh, hell yes. Am I frequently disappointed by my squandered efforts ignored by the hapless youth as they bruise my peaches?? Yes, heartbreakingly so...
Oh, but tonight. TONIGHT! Something amazing occurred... Something unexpected. Something delightful.
My cart was not full. It was a smallish load of necessities, and there was no wait at all.
The groceries flew in a well-ordered flurry across the scanner, and found their way into rigidly packed, well-build and stackably balanced bags. There were few bags used and, once in the car, the bags stood upright, they way they are supposed to. They did not wallow to the ground like spineless jellyfish, as so often happens. The contents did not dribble out of the bags, rather, they remained stacked, tautly-packed, straight and rigid.
Once home, the bags retained their intended shape. The produce was safe. The frozen foods were still cold. None of my purchase was lost, bruised or broken! It was a miracle.
Of course, I discovered tonight that Albertsons has recently installed a self-checkout check stand and my grocery bagger was none other than ME.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Rocket Man
The key is to bring kids. Kids who are old enough to run long distances across wide fields and find their way back. Young enough not to care about being cool, but mature enough to know when to duck and cover when there is a launchpad mishap...
It is a complete act, made better with cold beer and attention to detail. It is self expression. It is visceral anticipation. It is the act of launching a small piece of your soul into the endless blue sky.
It is, of course, model rocketry, and I'm getting the urge.
It's been several years since I last launched a souped-up wrapping paper tube into space, but I still have all of the gear. I have nose cones and parachutes. I have balsa sheets and model paint. The X-Acto knives are still sharp, and the launch pad remains sturdy.
Tail fins, nose fins, and high-pressure low-grade dry fuel engines. Sizes B and C for the stubby ones or the skinny ones. D and E for the long girthy monsters...
I have a taste for it.
Sometimes, I hanker for scaled rail road. Sometimes, I am lured to sea by RC sail craft. This summer, though, I think may return to orbit...
The craft table is large, and the beer is cold. Just sayin...
It is a complete act, made better with cold beer and attention to detail. It is self expression. It is visceral anticipation. It is the act of launching a small piece of your soul into the endless blue sky.
It is, of course, model rocketry, and I'm getting the urge.It's been several years since I last launched a souped-up wrapping paper tube into space, but I still have all of the gear. I have nose cones and parachutes. I have balsa sheets and model paint. The X-Acto knives are still sharp, and the launch pad remains sturdy.
Tail fins, nose fins, and high-pressure low-grade dry fuel engines. Sizes B and C for the stubby ones or the skinny ones. D and E for the long girthy monsters...
I have a taste for it.
Sometimes, I hanker for scaled rail road. Sometimes, I am lured to sea by RC sail craft. This summer, though, I think may return to orbit...
The craft table is large, and the beer is cold. Just sayin...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Lessons Learned
Oh, and...
I completed my high-risk-driver class today. My fourth and final license-endangering traffic infraction will soon sleep with the fishes...
8.5 hours sitting in a crowded hospital conference room, listening to nurses, patients, victims, and police telling tales of woe and horror to scare "dangerous" drivers, like me, straight...
This, in sum, is what I learned:
1) I strongly dislike jack-ass youths with bad hair.
2) No matter how well you drive, there is always some other jack-ass on the road just ready to kill your family and break your legs.
3) It is, apparently, extremely dangerous to drive 10 miles per hour in a parking lot.
4) Under the right circumstances, former cheerleaders who suffer massive traumatic brain damage can still be sorta-hot, in that easy-retard sort of way...
5) If, for some reason, I am involved in a (god forbid) serious trauma accident, Please Dear God, do not let them take me to Legacy Emanuel Hospital. Those nurses are sadistic fucking bastards who cannot wait to gleefully impale your sorry helpless ass with every know sharp-poking instrument known to man...
It was a good course though. I promise to drive slower.
I completed my high-risk-driver class today. My fourth and final license-endangering traffic infraction will soon sleep with the fishes...
8.5 hours sitting in a crowded hospital conference room, listening to nurses, patients, victims, and police telling tales of woe and horror to scare "dangerous" drivers, like me, straight...
This, in sum, is what I learned:
1) I strongly dislike jack-ass youths with bad hair.
2) No matter how well you drive, there is always some other jack-ass on the road just ready to kill your family and break your legs.
3) It is, apparently, extremely dangerous to drive 10 miles per hour in a parking lot.
4) Under the right circumstances, former cheerleaders who suffer massive traumatic brain damage can still be sorta-hot, in that easy-retard sort of way...
5) If, for some reason, I am involved in a (god forbid) serious trauma accident, Please Dear God, do not let them take me to Legacy Emanuel Hospital. Those nurses are sadistic fucking bastards who cannot wait to gleefully impale your sorry helpless ass with every know sharp-poking instrument known to man...
It was a good course though. I promise to drive slower.
Night
It was late and I was done with a post for this very blog, which I was apparently done working on weeks ago...
Who knew!
Anyway, I was brushing my teeth and scratching my balls when I happened to look up. It was well into to the early a.m. 1:00-ish I think, and i looked up through the master-bath sky light to see an amazing sight.
The moon was full (to give you some perspective) and low clouds were streaking across the sky, literally ablaze with the luminescence of lunar rays. They were stark. They glowed.
I put down my toothbrush, ran downstairs, and slapped the 17 mm wide angle on my camera. The following are a small sample of what I caught. Remember, it was 1:00 in the morning...
Who knew!
Anyway, I was brushing my teeth and scratching my balls when I happened to look up. It was well into to the early a.m. 1:00-ish I think, and i looked up through the master-bath sky light to see an amazing sight.
The moon was full (to give you some perspective) and low clouds were streaking across the sky, literally ablaze with the luminescence of lunar rays. They were stark. They glowed.
I put down my toothbrush, ran downstairs, and slapped the 17 mm wide angle on my camera. The following are a small sample of what I caught. Remember, it was 1:00 in the morning...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Bad driver alas
Greetings from bad driver class. I definitely have better accident photos than these people. In case you are wondering,
Thursday, February 21, 2008
We Hold These Truths
Essentially, my job is to get lied to all day long. Clients lie to me. Opposing parties lie to me. Insurance companies lie to me. Chiropractors lie to me. Defense attorneys lie to me. I expect it. It's the way the world works.
You get lied to also. Everyday, you get lied to, and usually, you lick it up like a dog to its own vomit.
Salesmen lie to you. Advertisers lie to you. Marketers lie to you. Your friends lie to you. Your co-workers lie to you. Your favorite politician lies to you. Your favorite magazine lies to you. Your parents have been lying to you for years. Psychologists lie to you. Religious leaders and religious counselors lie to you. Fashion designers lie to you. Organic farmers lie to you. Your children lie to you. The news media lies to you. Anyone who has ever told you that they know the way or the truth or the ultimate meaning to it all, has lied to you.
You lie to you, maybe more than anyone else...
I do believe, under all of the lies, however, that there are truths, and I hold them to be self-evident...
1. I believe in insulin.
2. I believe the Earth is round, though I don't believe that "North" is synonymous with "up."
3. I believe that Human beings are not as evolved or as important as we convince ourselves we are.
4. I believe that the entertainment industry as a whole is overrated.
5. I believe that homemade ice cream on a hot summer day is good.
6. I believe that Hugh Hefner is one of the greatest men of the 20th century.
7. I believe that abject poverty is the root cause of ALL global unrest, including conflict dressed up in religious garb.
8. I believe that kilts are a superior form of men's wear.
9. I believe in the truth of my children's laughter, though I often doubt the veracity of their tears.
10. I believe in my Gin & Tonic recipe, though Fred may have her doubts...
11. I believe that my dreams speak to me. Even those crazy ass ones about drinking in a kitschy cowboy saloon with Carl and Ryan, while waiting to catch our plane to China...
12. I believe that beer made in Oregon is the best in the world.
13. I believe in the smell of meat cooking over flame (either directly or indirectly)
14. I believe that government is mostly bad, can never adequately solve our problems, and should be limited at every juncture.
15. I believe that first-harvest Strawberries always taste the best. (Tom, who fears Strawberries, will disagree)
16. I believe that there is nothing like like a scotch buzz to make a man feel invincible.
17. I believe that zip lock bags should never be washed and re-used. EVER. (Good lord, I get sick just thinking about it...)
18. Tomatoes are good in sauce, but that's about it... Well, OK, the caprese salad is pretty good, but only with good fresh Basil and EVOO...
19. After what he did to Star Wars, George Lucas should never have been given the opportunity to fuck around with another Indiana Jones movie.
20. I believe in my three-dollar tip rule; it's good for the dancers, it's good for the patrons and it's good for me.
You get lied to also. Everyday, you get lied to, and usually, you lick it up like a dog to its own vomit.
Salesmen lie to you. Advertisers lie to you. Marketers lie to you. Your friends lie to you. Your co-workers lie to you. Your favorite politician lies to you. Your favorite magazine lies to you. Your parents have been lying to you for years. Psychologists lie to you. Religious leaders and religious counselors lie to you. Fashion designers lie to you. Organic farmers lie to you. Your children lie to you. The news media lies to you. Anyone who has ever told you that they know the way or the truth or the ultimate meaning to it all, has lied to you.
You lie to you, maybe more than anyone else...
I do believe, under all of the lies, however, that there are truths, and I hold them to be self-evident...
1. I believe in insulin.
2. I believe the Earth is round, though I don't believe that "North" is synonymous with "up."
3. I believe that Human beings are not as evolved or as important as we convince ourselves we are.
4. I believe that the entertainment industry as a whole is overrated.
5. I believe that homemade ice cream on a hot summer day is good.
6. I believe that Hugh Hefner is one of the greatest men of the 20th century.
7. I believe that abject poverty is the root cause of ALL global unrest, including conflict dressed up in religious garb.
8. I believe that kilts are a superior form of men's wear.
9. I believe in the truth of my children's laughter, though I often doubt the veracity of their tears.
10. I believe in my Gin & Tonic recipe, though Fred may have her doubts...
11. I believe that my dreams speak to me. Even those crazy ass ones about drinking in a kitschy cowboy saloon with Carl and Ryan, while waiting to catch our plane to China...
12. I believe that beer made in Oregon is the best in the world.
13. I believe in the smell of meat cooking over flame (either directly or indirectly)
14. I believe that government is mostly bad, can never adequately solve our problems, and should be limited at every juncture.
15. I believe that first-harvest Strawberries always taste the best. (Tom, who fears Strawberries, will disagree)
16. I believe that there is nothing like like a scotch buzz to make a man feel invincible.
17. I believe that zip lock bags should never be washed and re-used. EVER. (Good lord, I get sick just thinking about it...)
18. Tomatoes are good in sauce, but that's about it... Well, OK, the caprese salad is pretty good, but only with good fresh Basil and EVOO...
19. After what he did to Star Wars, George Lucas should never have been given the opportunity to fuck around with another Indiana Jones movie.
20. I believe in my three-dollar tip rule; it's good for the dancers, it's good for the patrons and it's good for me.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Not-So-Laminated
Since the early days if the blog, the semi-anual re-shuffling of the laminated has become a sort of tradition, a public display of my fickle and fluid tastes. The last list was listed in July, you may recall, heralding the departure of long-time front runner, Nicole Kidman.
It is time, at last, for a new list. However, the last list will be hard to improve upon. In case you don't know, the laminated list is a list of five opposite-sex celebrities that I call-out in advance, and if I get the opportunity to hook up with one of them, the laminated list is my implied permit to do so. Two catches: First, the missus gets her own list. Second, I have to name a same-sex alternate to validate the list.
Those are the rules
So, here is the updated list.
It is time, at last, for a new list. However, the last list will be hard to improve upon. In case you don't know, the laminated list is a list of five opposite-sex celebrities that I call-out in advance, and if I get the opportunity to hook up with one of them, the laminated list is my implied permit to do so. Two catches: First, the missus gets her own list. Second, I have to name a same-sex alternate to validate the list.
Those are the rules
So, here is the updated list.
1. Scarlett Johansson
The whole Natalie Portman kiss thing, only improved her standings...
2.
Christina Ricci
Yes, I was in fact the only person in America to enjoy Black Snake Moan.
3.
Dita Von Teese
It's not smut. It's performance art.
4.
Jenna Fischer
Really, it's Pam, her character on the office, but you can't have a one-night laminated list encounter with a TV character.
Check out Mr. Gin-&-Tonic... making copies...
5.
Mary Louise Parker
Look, I adore Maggie Gyllenhaal, but someone had to go. She's recently gained weight, and so, it had to be her. Mary Louise Parker has been flipping my patties since she played the lesbian fry-cook in Fried Green Tomatoes. The sad smile. The doe eyes. The up-tilted nose. She should have been on the list from the start.
Finally, here comes the gay...
Originally, my gay pick was Jeremy Piven. Then, I was drawn by the force, as it were, to Ewan McGregor. And recently, I've been a little gay for Obama. However, the one true undeniable same sex alternate has to be the shirtless wonder, Matthew McConaughey
Bird
A bird just hit my window. It made a loud thump, which frankly startled me a bit. I'm on the 7th floor, and things don't usually bang on my window.
(Hey Fred: It was smallish, dusty brown, short dark-colored beak, with a surprised look on its face. Any idea what it was?)
(Hey Fred: It was smallish, dusty brown, short dark-colored beak, with a surprised look on its face. Any idea what it was?)
Did You Know
Sitting in the dark blue light of the boy's fish-patterned room, pouring the last 4 ounces of liquid food down his gullet, my mind locked on to the ubiquitous night-night music playing over my shoulder.
It was an istrumental version of a familiar song.
a-b-c-d
e-f-g
how I wonder what you are...
Wait a minute. That wasn't right.
And then I remembered, "Oh ya, Twinkle Twinkle Litte Star uses the same melody as the ABC song..."
And, my mind drifted back into lull-status... However, once the music was back in my brain and the lyrics mix began to run like cerebral karaoke, I was surpised to discover additional unexpectd words weaving in.
twinkle twinkle little star
yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...
Wait a minute. Baa Baa Black Sheep too?? I had no idea.
Having reported this discovery to the missus, she nonchalantly shrugged, as if she'd known this all along and said, "Oh ya, and the music was written by Mozart."
I doubted this, and ran off to Wikipedia, only to discover that she was half-right. Thew whole thing actually started with the melody of an old french tune called: "Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman." Mozzart did, in fact, write 12 variations on the tune, but borrowed his inspiration from the French.
The origianl melody is currently used, in English, for the ABC song, Twinkle Twinkle, and Baa-Baa Black Sheep. Furthermore, it is also used in a smattering of other Northern European children's songs
There, now don't you feel a litte smarter?
No?
Fine, here's one of those Lindsay Lohan pictures everyone is talking about...
It was an istrumental version of a familiar song.
a-b-c-d
e-f-g
how I wonder what you are...
Wait a minute. That wasn't right.
And then I remembered, "Oh ya, Twinkle Twinkle Litte Star uses the same melody as the ABC song..."
And, my mind drifted back into lull-status... However, once the music was back in my brain and the lyrics mix began to run like cerebral karaoke, I was surpised to discover additional unexpectd words weaving in.
twinkle twinkle little star
yes sir, yes sir, three bags full...
Wait a minute. Baa Baa Black Sheep too?? I had no idea.
Having reported this discovery to the missus, she nonchalantly shrugged, as if she'd known this all along and said, "Oh ya, and the music was written by Mozart."
I doubted this, and ran off to Wikipedia, only to discover that she was half-right. Thew whole thing actually started with the melody of an old french tune called: "Ah! vous dirai-je, Maman." Mozzart did, in fact, write 12 variations on the tune, but borrowed his inspiration from the French.
The origianl melody is currently used, in English, for the ABC song, Twinkle Twinkle, and Baa-Baa Black Sheep. Furthermore, it is also used in a smattering of other Northern European children's songs
There, now don't you feel a litte smarter?
No?
Fine, here's one of those Lindsay Lohan pictures everyone is talking about...
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Inog Has Big Meat
Or so he likes to tell me. Frequently...
Apparently he smoked something like a 100 pounds of beef Satuday night and invited my family over for a beef and beer BBQ on Sunday. I'm sure it was good. It alsways is. And it would have been nice to have seen Mrs. Inog, the girls and Ryan's family...
Unfortunately, I had other plans.
Most of Sunday, in fact, was spent on my back, crammed into cramped spaces, installing various new kitchen fixtures. Which leads to an appology for the somewhat cryptic conversation many of you had with my wife over the weekend. We were simply taking a survey to determine which sort of sink was the most popular. Thanks to ya'all who played.
So, anyway, the day was spent with tubes and pipes and wires and whatnot. I only nearly took out an eye once. And tomorrow, there are a few addional bits of harware to procure...
Plumbing, for the most part, I decided today, is fun. It's a puzzle. It's a logic test.
I wore loose pants to accentuate the "crack." I plan to send myself an exhorbitant bill.
And the inevitable punch line to the whole thing is, that I was not able to put Inog's meat into my mouth becasue I was too busy handling pipe.
[rim shot]
Apparently he smoked something like a 100 pounds of beef Satuday night and invited my family over for a beef and beer BBQ on Sunday. I'm sure it was good. It alsways is. And it would have been nice to have seen Mrs. Inog, the girls and Ryan's family...
Unfortunately, I had other plans.
Most of Sunday, in fact, was spent on my back, crammed into cramped spaces, installing various new kitchen fixtures. Which leads to an appology for the somewhat cryptic conversation many of you had with my wife over the weekend. We were simply taking a survey to determine which sort of sink was the most popular. Thanks to ya'all who played.
So, anyway, the day was spent with tubes and pipes and wires and whatnot. I only nearly took out an eye once. And tomorrow, there are a few addional bits of harware to procure...
Plumbing, for the most part, I decided today, is fun. It's a puzzle. It's a logic test.
I wore loose pants to accentuate the "crack." I plan to send myself an exhorbitant bill.
And the inevitable punch line to the whole thing is, that I was not able to put Inog's meat into my mouth becasue I was too busy handling pipe.
[rim shot]
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Salesman
I see him standing there in his tan corduroy pants. His wrinkled polo is the same two colors as his employer's logo. He looks to be in his indeterminant 40's. Man, I think, what a shitty life this guy must have...
He is a sales clerk. Yet, all I see is an irritatingly unnecessary obstacle between me and the durable good I've come to inspect.
"Can I help you?" He asks, with that slight over-eagerness that can only come from a commission sale.
"I seriously doubt it." I think to myself. And it's true. Chances are, if I am standing in your store, and I am looking at any particular fixture, appliance or gizmo, I have already educated myself about it. I have price compared. I have read the specs. I have read the online reviews. I have been to the manufacturer's web site, and I know all of the options, add-ons and trim levels. I seriously doubt that the retail sales clerk will be able to tell me anything that I don't already know.
...Well, except where the damn thing is.
I am prepared to plow past the menace, as I would a street punk begging for change. However, the display in unhelpful, and I suspect (and hope) that the sales clerk might happen to at least know where the merchandice is in his own department.
So, I ask.
And he doesn't.
Quickly, he takes to reading the same product tags on the shelves that I was just reading. By "help," it appears that he is basically offering to help me read. Something, by the way, that I do not need help with.
Turns out he can't do that well either. So, I wander away to read the tags on my own.
My buddy at work recently observed that I have a lot of personal rules. I was surprised by this, but he began to list them for me: no soggy bread, no tomatoes on sandwiches, matching leathers, no added-s to places names, jihad against the coffee plant, etc...
It was a pretty long list. However, I guess there is another rule to add. "Do not ask sales personnel for help." This is a universal rule. I have never once met a sales person who trully knew anything about the product they were selling. This is extra doubly true for big-box retail sales clerks. They are minimum-wage clock punchers, not product experts. Their only goal is to get the commission after you lay down your credit card.
I know people who break this rule. You, in fact, may be one of those people. I cringe when I hear folks say, "Well, I asked the sales guy, and..."
Chances are, what the sales guy said was entirely made up on the spot. At the very least, the information was wildly inaccurate, and led you to spend more money than you needed to.
He is a sales clerk. Yet, all I see is an irritatingly unnecessary obstacle between me and the durable good I've come to inspect.
"Can I help you?" He asks, with that slight over-eagerness that can only come from a commission sale.
"I seriously doubt it." I think to myself. And it's true. Chances are, if I am standing in your store, and I am looking at any particular fixture, appliance or gizmo, I have already educated myself about it. I have price compared. I have read the specs. I have read the online reviews. I have been to the manufacturer's web site, and I know all of the options, add-ons and trim levels. I seriously doubt that the retail sales clerk will be able to tell me anything that I don't already know.
...Well, except where the damn thing is.
I am prepared to plow past the menace, as I would a street punk begging for change. However, the display in unhelpful, and I suspect (and hope) that the sales clerk might happen to at least know where the merchandice is in his own department.
So, I ask.
And he doesn't.
Quickly, he takes to reading the same product tags on the shelves that I was just reading. By "help," it appears that he is basically offering to help me read. Something, by the way, that I do not need help with.
Turns out he can't do that well either. So, I wander away to read the tags on my own.
My buddy at work recently observed that I have a lot of personal rules. I was surprised by this, but he began to list them for me: no soggy bread, no tomatoes on sandwiches, matching leathers, no added-s to places names, jihad against the coffee plant, etc...
It was a pretty long list. However, I guess there is another rule to add. "Do not ask sales personnel for help." This is a universal rule. I have never once met a sales person who trully knew anything about the product they were selling. This is extra doubly true for big-box retail sales clerks. They are minimum-wage clock punchers, not product experts. Their only goal is to get the commission after you lay down your credit card.
I know people who break this rule. You, in fact, may be one of those people. I cringe when I hear folks say, "Well, I asked the sales guy, and..."
Chances are, what the sales guy said was entirely made up on the spot. At the very least, the information was wildly inaccurate, and led you to spend more money than you needed to.
URGENT ALLERT!!
***URGENT ALLERT!!***
On-the-scene news sources from Berlin, Germany report that last night on the red carpet for their latest movie release, Scarlett Johansson and Natalie Portman shared a hot kiss in front of cameras.
I'm still looking for photos of the kiss!
We'll provide continuing updated coverage as we learn more about this exciting developement.
On-the-scene news sources from Berlin, Germany report that last night on the red carpet for their latest movie release, Scarlett Johansson and Natalie Portman shared a hot kiss in front of cameras.
I'm still looking for photos of the kiss!
We'll provide continuing updated coverage as we learn more about this exciting developement.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Quest
Most of you know, or at least have heard, that much of my accademic youth was squandered on rough-hewn scribbles and sketches, in box-frame format, upon poor-quality blue-ruled note book paper.
It started innocently enough, I believe, in Mr. Contreras's English class. Maybe it was Mr. Ihsen's history class. I'm not sure.
It started as a juvenile note, passed in class, a continuation of, and elaboration on, an earlier thought. It was Dave, I believe, who I forgot to mention by name in last night's video... It was Dave who passed the first incarnation. The first draft. The embrionic concept...
I imagine it has been the same in other places and other times. Perhaps John Belushi and Harold Ramis sat stoned, half conscious, in a room smelling of stale pizza and bong water, when John suggested that they could make a movie about a fraternity...
Perhaps Bill Murray and Chevy Chase lay about a fetid bachelor pad in Soho, up to their asses in coke and whores, when Bill got a half-cocked epiphany about making a golf flick...
Dave passed the first draft.
It was a poorly drawn pencil-sketched comic book cover. The moronic action-posed characters were recognizable. They were us.
Well, sort of.
In the beginning, there were four. Tom, Dave, me, and Mark. "Mark?" you ask. Yes, Mark. He has visited the Lounge, but not often...
"But what about Dr. Brian??" Shut up! I'm getting there...
We called it "The Quest." It was a serially-drafted collaborative graphic narative (comic book) and it was drawn, with varying degrees of talent, by Tom, Dave and I. This was late in our freshman year. I was doomed.
In the years that followed, many many many volumes were created. For no reason obvious to us, other folks found some interest in the work, and well-worn copies were handed about for subversive consumption. Guest contributors came and went. New friends were made. Eventually, pre-dental Dr. Brian joined the cast. However, the three core authors remained the same.
Collaboration. It was the key. We fed off each other. We riffed on themes and challenged each other's narative prowess with rediculously loose ends. Alone, it would have never happened. It would never have been anything like what it was. The whole became far greater than just the sum of its parts.
(Which isn't to say that Dave's comic, Dead Honkey, isn't spectacular. In fact, he's starting it up again HERE. For you new readers, yes, the "Brian" character is based loosely on me. "Dave" is a characture of Dave...)
And so, we come to Tom's comment from yesterday, and I have to stop and ponder the appeal. Collaborate with a team to perpetuate the Lounge? Fresh material daily to satiate the masses? Fewer nights spent scanning crapass news sourses looking for filler?? It appeals. Greatly.
Also, though, it brings about an unexpected wave of anxiety. The Lounge has been my baby, subject to my sole direction and design. To bring on a team means to give up control. But perhaps it is a sacrifice worth making to let it live on.
The question is, "who?"
I have ideas. I think I know who has the pazzaz; the Lounge ethic; the twist of lime, as it were...
But, I'm currious. Who would you want to read? Who would bring you to the Lounge? Maybe this is nothing more than an ill-fated boondoggle of hurt feelings, bruised egos and resentment...
Then again, those things are nothing new here in the Lounge.
It started innocently enough, I believe, in Mr. Contreras's English class. Maybe it was Mr. Ihsen's history class. I'm not sure.
It started as a juvenile note, passed in class, a continuation of, and elaboration on, an earlier thought. It was Dave, I believe, who I forgot to mention by name in last night's video... It was Dave who passed the first incarnation. The first draft. The embrionic concept...
I imagine it has been the same in other places and other times. Perhaps John Belushi and Harold Ramis sat stoned, half conscious, in a room smelling of stale pizza and bong water, when John suggested that they could make a movie about a fraternity...
Perhaps Bill Murray and Chevy Chase lay about a fetid bachelor pad in Soho, up to their asses in coke and whores, when Bill got a half-cocked epiphany about making a golf flick...
Dave passed the first draft.
It was a poorly drawn pencil-sketched comic book cover. The moronic action-posed characters were recognizable. They were us.
Well, sort of.
In the beginning, there were four. Tom, Dave, me, and Mark. "Mark?" you ask. Yes, Mark. He has visited the Lounge, but not often...
"But what about Dr. Brian??" Shut up! I'm getting there...
We called it "The Quest." It was a serially-drafted collaborative graphic narative (comic book) and it was drawn, with varying degrees of talent, by Tom, Dave and I. This was late in our freshman year. I was doomed.
In the years that followed, many many many volumes were created. For no reason obvious to us, other folks found some interest in the work, and well-worn copies were handed about for subversive consumption. Guest contributors came and went. New friends were made. Eventually, pre-dental Dr. Brian joined the cast. However, the three core authors remained the same.
Collaboration. It was the key. We fed off each other. We riffed on themes and challenged each other's narative prowess with rediculously loose ends. Alone, it would have never happened. It would never have been anything like what it was. The whole became far greater than just the sum of its parts.
(Which isn't to say that Dave's comic, Dead Honkey, isn't spectacular. In fact, he's starting it up again HERE. For you new readers, yes, the "Brian" character is based loosely on me. "Dave" is a characture of Dave...)
And so, we come to Tom's comment from yesterday, and I have to stop and ponder the appeal. Collaborate with a team to perpetuate the Lounge? Fresh material daily to satiate the masses? Fewer nights spent scanning crapass news sourses looking for filler?? It appeals. Greatly.
Also, though, it brings about an unexpected wave of anxiety. The Lounge has been my baby, subject to my sole direction and design. To bring on a team means to give up control. But perhaps it is a sacrifice worth making to let it live on.
The question is, "who?"
I have ideas. I think I know who has the pazzaz; the Lounge ethic; the twist of lime, as it were...
But, I'm currious. Who would you want to read? Who would bring you to the Lounge? Maybe this is nothing more than an ill-fated boondoggle of hurt feelings, bruised egos and resentment...
Then again, those things are nothing new here in the Lounge.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Parenting Tips
As a parent, and a world-class blogger, I feel it is important to share with the world a few useful parenting lessons that I have learned. (usually the hard way...)
And don't worry, no aquarium fish were harmed in the learning of the lessons...
And don't worry, no aquarium fish were harmed in the learning of the lessons...
Happy Thoughts
I don't tell my daughter to say her prayers before going to bed. It would be dishonest and misleading, not to mention hypocritical. I'd rather she buy into the fanciful Tooth Ferry or the Easter Bunny than some vengeful bearded man in the clouds waiting to judge with wrath our every move.
No. there will be none of that nonsense in my house.
Instead, I tell her to have happy thoughts as she settles in under her blanket and closes her eyes. "Have Happy Thoughts" and "I love you" are the last things she hears before sleep.
Sometimes, however, being the inquisitive girl that she is, she will ask: "But what are my happy thoughts, Daddy?"
"Playing with your friends," I will say, "or kisses from Daddy..." the list grows longer as she and I take turns adding new entries.
It's not a bad way to end the day, and on occasion I will lie quietly in the dark making my own list in my head as I drift toward sleep...
"So, what are your Happy Thoughts Mr. G&T?" You may ask.
Well, let me tell you:
-Bright smiles from my children as I walk in the door after work.
-The smell of meat grilling over charcoal.
-Hot Wings and cold beer.
-Bonus checks.
-Naps on the futon.
-Singing songs badly with my daughter in the car.
-Comfortable shoes.
-The Smell of fresh cut grass.
-Fat fresh Mackerel at a Sushi Bar.
-Heaving Cleavage.
-A tall glass of Scotch and a long cigar on the back deck under a full moon on a warm summer night.
mmm... I'm getting sleepy. I don't suppose you have any happy thoughts, do you?
No. there will be none of that nonsense in my house.
Instead, I tell her to have happy thoughts as she settles in under her blanket and closes her eyes. "Have Happy Thoughts" and "I love you" are the last things she hears before sleep.
Sometimes, however, being the inquisitive girl that she is, she will ask: "But what are my happy thoughts, Daddy?"
"Playing with your friends," I will say, "or kisses from Daddy..." the list grows longer as she and I take turns adding new entries.
It's not a bad way to end the day, and on occasion I will lie quietly in the dark making my own list in my head as I drift toward sleep...
"So, what are your Happy Thoughts Mr. G&T?" You may ask.
Well, let me tell you:
-Bright smiles from my children as I walk in the door after work.
-The smell of meat grilling over charcoal.
-Hot Wings and cold beer.
-Bonus checks.
-Naps on the futon.
-Singing songs badly with my daughter in the car.
-Comfortable shoes.
-The Smell of fresh cut grass.
-Fat fresh Mackerel at a Sushi Bar.
-Heaving Cleavage.
-A tall glass of Scotch and a long cigar on the back deck under a full moon on a warm summer night.
mmm... I'm getting sleepy. I don't suppose you have any happy thoughts, do you?
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Jesus, Here I Thought the Republicans Were Morons...
Listen, I apologize here and now for the 2000 election. I apologize for voting for Bush during that first round. I was duped by Cheney's minions into believing Bush was an intelligent bi-lingual moderate.
I fess up. I take responsibility for my errors.
I voted Libertarian in 2004.
And now, here we are in 2008, with a lackluster Republican field made up of a Mormon, a Baptist and a POW. Christ, it sounds like a bad joke.
Huckabee will likely pray on his knees before making the big decision, so if something goes wrong, he can blame God. Romney, likewise, will search for the burning in his bosom before making a big call.
And McCain? Well, he'll be just fine until some one shows him the Queen of Diamonds... (go look it up)
Anyway, I'm not looking forward to another 8 years of this crap. So, really, it's up to the Democrats to get us out of this.
Now their choice of two senators is simple, really if you think about it. They both want to raise taxes to astronomical levels to pay for servcies for people who are too lazy to work. They want the government to run every aspect and detail of our lives. They want to overrule the 2nd Amendment. They want to increase the power scope, and influence of the federal bureaucracy and Labor Unions.
Fine. It's no worse than the corruption and greed we've seen over the past 8 years.
All I want is someone with a brain who can string multi-syllabic utterances together in a cohesive sentence structure. They're all going to squeeze my paycheck like a fatted udder.
So, here it is, with the current Republican administration wallowing in the worst approval ratings since Hoover, this race is the Democrats' to lose, and what do they do?? How do they mark this momentous occasion? What is their grand strategy??
Do they give it to the left-leaning, handsome, well-spoken, centrally-appealing, Senator from Illinois, with his message of hope, winning smile and strange lure for moderate Republicans??
No.
They fumble.
They give it to Bill's wife.
Half of the Democrats hate her. All of the Republicans hate her. Very few of the independents can stomach her.
Yet, the bare majority of voting Democrats, with absolutely no eye toward ELECTABILITY, voted with their hearts rather than their heads. Obama has the mass appeal necessary to defeat the dull cookie cutter right-wing candidate, no matter who it happens to be.
Hillary cannot. She cannot win. Perhaps if she was running against Cheney, but even then, it would be too close to call.
So, thanks a lot Democrats. Thanks for nothing.
Good lord, 8 years of President McCain??
10-to-1, he finds an excuse to bomb Hanoi...
I fess up. I take responsibility for my errors.
I voted Libertarian in 2004.
And now, here we are in 2008, with a lackluster Republican field made up of a Mormon, a Baptist and a POW. Christ, it sounds like a bad joke.
Huckabee will likely pray on his knees before making the big decision, so if something goes wrong, he can blame God. Romney, likewise, will search for the burning in his bosom before making a big call.
And McCain? Well, he'll be just fine until some one shows him the Queen of Diamonds... (go look it up)
Anyway, I'm not looking forward to another 8 years of this crap. So, really, it's up to the Democrats to get us out of this.
Now their choice of two senators is simple, really if you think about it. They both want to raise taxes to astronomical levels to pay for servcies for people who are too lazy to work. They want the government to run every aspect and detail of our lives. They want to overrule the 2nd Amendment. They want to increase the power scope, and influence of the federal bureaucracy and Labor Unions.
Fine. It's no worse than the corruption and greed we've seen over the past 8 years.
All I want is someone with a brain who can string multi-syllabic utterances together in a cohesive sentence structure. They're all going to squeeze my paycheck like a fatted udder.
So, here it is, with the current Republican administration wallowing in the worst approval ratings since Hoover, this race is the Democrats' to lose, and what do they do?? How do they mark this momentous occasion? What is their grand strategy??
Do they give it to the left-leaning, handsome, well-spoken, centrally-appealing, Senator from Illinois, with his message of hope, winning smile and strange lure for moderate Republicans??
No.
They fumble.
They give it to Bill's wife.
Half of the Democrats hate her. All of the Republicans hate her. Very few of the independents can stomach her.
Yet, the bare majority of voting Democrats, with absolutely no eye toward ELECTABILITY, voted with their hearts rather than their heads. Obama has the mass appeal necessary to defeat the dull cookie cutter right-wing candidate, no matter who it happens to be.
Hillary cannot. She cannot win. Perhaps if she was running against Cheney, but even then, it would be too close to call.
So, thanks a lot Democrats. Thanks for nothing.
Good lord, 8 years of President McCain??
10-to-1, he finds an excuse to bomb Hanoi...
Duct Tape
I have a wart. It is on the base knuckle of my right index finger. It has been there before. For years, in fact.
It first emerged when I was about 11 or 12. It was flat and unobtrussive. It caused little discomfort,and often I would ignore its existence.
Then, in my latee teen years, I became a little obsessed with it. I would pick at it. I would clip at it. I would burn it.
All of these things, of course, hurt like a motherfucker. And so, sometime in college, I actually medicated it. Compound W, to be precise, but it did not work. After several attempts, I was left essentially with a black and bloody scab with a fresh wart growing happily underneath.
And then, one day, about three years ago, it shriveled up and disappeared.
"That was that," I thought. Still, it seemed a little odd. it was a part of me, or at least, it had become so, but then it simply receeded and vanished. It would be like having one of your toes pack up and move out. It simply was a bit odd.
although, it was kinda nice.
Well, now, it's back. Having been all-but-forgotten, it has reemerged, back in its old spot, back to its old size. And the skin around it is unhappy, cracked and stinging a wee bit. Not bad, mind you, just enough to be irritating.
Something has to be done. I've been eyeing the the nail clippers and lime juice...
Rumor has it, though, that the glue on the business side of duct tape bears anti-wart medicinal qualitites. Sooo, duct tape it will be. Couldn't hurt, I suppose, to wear a small spot of tape on my knuckle for a few days.
(And now, Dr. B will make a snarky comment about the thing that used to be on my nose...)
It first emerged when I was about 11 or 12. It was flat and unobtrussive. It caused little discomfort,and often I would ignore its existence.
Then, in my latee teen years, I became a little obsessed with it. I would pick at it. I would clip at it. I would burn it.
All of these things, of course, hurt like a motherfucker. And so, sometime in college, I actually medicated it. Compound W, to be precise, but it did not work. After several attempts, I was left essentially with a black and bloody scab with a fresh wart growing happily underneath.
And then, one day, about three years ago, it shriveled up and disappeared.
"That was that," I thought. Still, it seemed a little odd. it was a part of me, or at least, it had become so, but then it simply receeded and vanished. It would be like having one of your toes pack up and move out. It simply was a bit odd.
although, it was kinda nice.
Well, now, it's back. Having been all-but-forgotten, it has reemerged, back in its old spot, back to its old size. And the skin around it is unhappy, cracked and stinging a wee bit. Not bad, mind you, just enough to be irritating.
Something has to be done. I've been eyeing the the nail clippers and lime juice...
Rumor has it, though, that the glue on the business side of duct tape bears anti-wart medicinal qualitites. Sooo, duct tape it will be. Couldn't hurt, I suppose, to wear a small spot of tape on my knuckle for a few days.
(And now, Dr. B will make a snarky comment about the thing that used to be on my nose...)
Sunday, February 03, 2008
XLII
It wasn't actually Christmas, but it felt like it. Tots running amock, dodging and weaving, smaller kids working hard to keep up with bigger kids...
OK, not christmas, but certainly holiday-ish. It was Super Bowl Sunday, of course, and I couldn't really care less. I mean, it's just another sporting event, but it's one that rides such a rediculous wave of hyperbole and hype that is has trully achieved holiday-like stature. Families come together, meals are planned, groceries are purchased in astonishing ammounts.
So the game was on, mostly to provide the appropriately festive background noise for the day. One friend, and frequent reader, brought her children by to play with the Ginlettes, while their dad was away watcing the game with actual SPORTS FANS.
The girls (being roughly similar in age) shrieked for four hours while making a magnificent mess, and the boys, both bracketing the 1-year mark, made grunting noises and chased each other up and down the hall.
Then another Lounge-friendly family, dad sharing my view on the entertainmet value of professional sports, arrived with their brood-of-three, and we had ourselves a splendid tot-fiesta....
I made hot wings and drank beer...
Then, in a lull, I found myself staring transfixed at the flashing blinking colors on the screen. The reminder was everywhere, in case anyone forgot, I suppose, that this was Super Bowl XLII.
"42," for those sports fans who can't read Roman numerals (and really, I have to assume there are a lot of you out there...)
(And no, this isn't going to spin into a discussion about Douglas Adams...)
42. There have been 42 of these fucking monstrosities, and there is no end in sight. It's gone on longer than I've been alive, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
But the question is, how far can it go? Next year will be XLIII. Then it will be XLIV, and so on... Eight years from now it will be "Super Bowl L," and that will just look stupid on the marketing ads.
But seriously, how far will it go? It's not easy to contemplate a world without the Super Bowl, but like any endeavor pursued by man, there is destined to be an end. Rome ended (although their numers live on...). The British Empire shrunk. Istanbul was Constaninople... Everything comes to an end...
But when you uses a sequential numering system in the title of your thing, whatever your thing is, it suggests that you are counting down to the end, or at least counting up the number of times you were able to skate with your shiny pile of bullshit.
How far will it go?? Will there be a Super Bowl C? CC? Could there possibly be an M? Will it outlast the United States itself? I mean, thanks to the eforts of Cheney, we are well on our way to the nostalgic dung heap of history (but I digress...)
It's the same problem faced with other numerically-titled events. UFC 83, for instance, or the 80th Anual Acadamy Awards. Good lord, 80 years of glad-handing movie stars for doing the easiest job in the world??
When does the relevance run out? The problem with the Super Bowl is this strange holiday aura. I spent the afternoon with 5 adults, not one of whom gave one rat's ass about the game whatsoever. Yet, we celebrated, in a sense of speaking, if gnawing on snacks around the tall table counts as celebrating. We celebrated a holiday we did not believe in, and that demonstrates the reason why the game will go on.
The end of Super Bowl Sunday, if an end shall come, will not be in my life time. Not, that is, unless our alien overlords come down and destroy us during half-time...
OK, not christmas, but certainly holiday-ish. It was Super Bowl Sunday, of course, and I couldn't really care less. I mean, it's just another sporting event, but it's one that rides such a rediculous wave of hyperbole and hype that is has trully achieved holiday-like stature. Families come together, meals are planned, groceries are purchased in astonishing ammounts.
So the game was on, mostly to provide the appropriately festive background noise for the day. One friend, and frequent reader, brought her children by to play with the Ginlettes, while their dad was away watcing the game with actual SPORTS FANS.
The girls (being roughly similar in age) shrieked for four hours while making a magnificent mess, and the boys, both bracketing the 1-year mark, made grunting noises and chased each other up and down the hall.
Then another Lounge-friendly family, dad sharing my view on the entertainmet value of professional sports, arrived with their brood-of-three, and we had ourselves a splendid tot-fiesta....
I made hot wings and drank beer...
Then, in a lull, I found myself staring transfixed at the flashing blinking colors on the screen. The reminder was everywhere, in case anyone forgot, I suppose, that this was Super Bowl XLII.
"42," for those sports fans who can't read Roman numerals (and really, I have to assume there are a lot of you out there...)
(And no, this isn't going to spin into a discussion about Douglas Adams...)
42. There have been 42 of these fucking monstrosities, and there is no end in sight. It's gone on longer than I've been alive, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger.
But the question is, how far can it go? Next year will be XLIII. Then it will be XLIV, and so on... Eight years from now it will be "Super Bowl L," and that will just look stupid on the marketing ads.
But seriously, how far will it go? It's not easy to contemplate a world without the Super Bowl, but like any endeavor pursued by man, there is destined to be an end. Rome ended (although their numers live on...). The British Empire shrunk. Istanbul was Constaninople... Everything comes to an end...
But when you uses a sequential numering system in the title of your thing, whatever your thing is, it suggests that you are counting down to the end, or at least counting up the number of times you were able to skate with your shiny pile of bullshit.
How far will it go?? Will there be a Super Bowl C? CC? Could there possibly be an M? Will it outlast the United States itself? I mean, thanks to the eforts of Cheney, we are well on our way to the nostalgic dung heap of history (but I digress...)
It's the same problem faced with other numerically-titled events. UFC 83, for instance, or the 80th Anual Acadamy Awards. Good lord, 80 years of glad-handing movie stars for doing the easiest job in the world??
When does the relevance run out? The problem with the Super Bowl is this strange holiday aura. I spent the afternoon with 5 adults, not one of whom gave one rat's ass about the game whatsoever. Yet, we celebrated, in a sense of speaking, if gnawing on snacks around the tall table counts as celebrating. We celebrated a holiday we did not believe in, and that demonstrates the reason why the game will go on.
The end of Super Bowl Sunday, if an end shall come, will not be in my life time. Not, that is, unless our alien overlords come down and destroy us during half-time...
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