"Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas"

The greatest Christmas song ever written. Just a few good versions. My favorite is Tony Bennett with strings. But it doesn't have the crucial original lyric: "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow." That's the whole point of the song!

Anyways, I can't decide whether to watch It's A Wonderful Life, or Sense And Sensibility.

Big storm coming in tomorrow night. Might be another chance to give the easement a try with the plow.

Some kind of peace, any kind of contentment, to you guys and your families.

switters and Moonpie

Just Another Day

Yeah, yet another day that I'm almost grateful that death has spared my mom and my dad from having to see... the very worst of inexplicability and helplessness, and, well, hopelessness.

The Duke

"The Duke" is Dave Brubeck's greatest composition, and a great tune. Inspired by Ellington and Darius Milhaud, with whom Dave studied briefly, the best version is, as many songs are, by Gil Evans with Miles Davis on, I think, Miles Ahead. (I won't check my vinyl in the garage.)

1. Chord progressions that, on a cheat sheet look arbitrary, sound to the ear organic.
2. Not so much the birth of the cool as the puberty of the cool, "the cool" being more or less the west coast response to bebop.
3. Really fun to play if you can wrap your head and hands around the constantly morphing chord changes.
4. Played in the exact right tempo, it swings hard whether solo piano or quartet or big band.

Though more often than not, Dave's experimentation with polyrhythms and progressive harmonies feuded with both Paul Desmond and what ended up being the legacy of novelty in jazz, and most hardcore (and arrogant!) jazzers would find Dave's music ultimately gimmicky. Understandable, but not necessarily fair.

Album to own: Time out.

Definitely a worthy ambassador of jazz and a tremendous human being. Which is more important we'll still never know.

Whew.

Well, Dog and I made it through deer season again, without getting shot, or shot at this time.

Good job, Dog!

Ken Burns' "Dustbowl", A Review

Wow.

Company

Good Steve Sondy show. But enough about me.

My sister, Julie, and her husband, Steve, came up yesterday from Athens, Ohio, for a visit. Nice time.

Steve is a former SeaBee, and they weren't here 10 minutes before he fixed the light on the '90 Ford that goes above the plow. Later we put the plow back on.

What a day. The weather the last several days has been nothing short of cruel. Moonpie, even with visitors, has spent the majority of the last 24 hours camped beneath a tree in Tom's tree line to the northeast. Raccoon. Damn I love that dog.

Shelves and mom's books. I need to talk more about this because there's an earnestness and alleged annoyance about it that wasn't there mere weeks ago.

Today prettier than yesterday, but a turn for the cold next week.

Please note deafening reticence re: Alabama game yesterday.

Whew.

You're welcome.

Alabama versus LSU

Whew.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep."

But not extensive. At the end of the easement.

Stopped by Heath's place on the way back from town Sunday to reintroduce myself. Long story short: he's given me full access to his micro forest to cut whatever fuel I need. Which means not only will that get me through till Tom gets his beans out of the east field so I can get to the mother load along his creek line, but there's another neighbor who gives a shit who doesn't need to be the least bit generous and yet is anyway.

Good day.

Ben Folds Five, The Sound Of The Life Of The Mind

A Review

Unsurprisingly outstanding.

Thoughts On The Vice Presidential Debate

Something something missed it something.
Former Saved By The Bell cast member Paul Ryan is a skeezy twerp.

Anyways, the Pegassus is real, and the fleet is united. Or are they? And for how long? A squeemish episode referencing gang rape of the enemy, begging the question, I guess humanity is its own worst enemy yet again already, making this the greatest tv show ever. Except for Cheers. And The office.

Dying Daisies And Goldenrod

"One result of throwing away all the maps of human experience and the guides to conduct that a tradition offers, and flying by the seat of your moral or social pants, is that you fly into situations that are absurd or pitiful, depending on how indulgently one looks at them. My own indulgence is wildly variable."
-from last night's episode of Battlestar[^1]

[^1]Just kidding.

([^1]Angle Of Repose, Wallace Stegner)

Stupid Dumbass Paul Thomas Anderson On Fresh Air

Podcast worthy. Because he seems to say so little while at the same time conveying even less. And vice versa. Which makes the whole ironicality of his art that much more severe considering his movies are so profound.

The Order Of Things, Part 1

So I finally broke down and netflixed the Battlestar mini series and watched all 4 (okay 3) hours. I was hooked immediately, needless to say, and the next 3 DVDs are awaiting my watching. Add the fact that the stove is drafting pretty well, and the first week of autumn remains uneventful. (Fingers crossed.)

Still, there are times when I second guess myself for what could be a pretty isolated winter. Keeping busy shouldn't be a problem, but motivating myself to actually stay busy is almost always a wild card. Good thing nobody likes to be cold.

Also, I've decided that the question of whether excessive alcohol abuse is more toxic than daytime tv is just way to close to call, and that it's an answer best left unheard of.

Moon River

Sadly, Andy Williams shouldn't be remembered for this perfect song. The definitive version is the original Henry Mancini arrangement for the fun for the whole family romp, Breakfast At Moon River.

The best version is by a trio consisting of bassist Larry Grenadier, drummer Jorge Rossi, and some doofus on piano, live at The Village Vanguard. To make it even cooler, they play it in the alternating keys of F and D throughout, with a sublime solo piano exploration at the end, which the doofus does at the end of most ballads.

Some of Johnny Mercer's most profound lyrics. The song itself nearly personifies melancholy and hope. At the same time.

Makes me sad just listening to it in my head.

Hey Emmy, what's with all The Homos on TV?

Move over, Modern Family. There's a new gay in town.

Ryan Murphy has taken the queer stereotype of his Glee and launched it into full-on caricature in The New Normal, only to be outdone by CBS's no-holds-barred Family Circle comic-esque Partners. (Perhaps a Sunday paper edition of the strip.)

Hey Ryan, your shows are controversial alright: lifting 30-year old jokes, recycling generation-old homogenized themes, and stories that have the eyebrow-raising ability to destroy their own momentum.

You go girl!

Jesus Was Hazed

I mean, they hazed the hell out of Him. Literally. Begging the question, What would Jesus do? (Were we to forget about his super powers [supper powers?] for the moment at least. Keeping in mind that smiting, while distinctly Old Testament, is not necessarily limited to That Text, especially if it turns out he was married, which I think we already knew.)

Sounding Beckett

Now why didn't we think of this?

Music inspired by plays that are themselves so musical that it wouldn't make sense to have the music incidental because Sam provides his own incidental music within his own prose, so have composers write music as a response to the musical prose? Call and response? Prelude and fugue?

I'm listening.

Also, I love that song "Call Me Later Baby" by Carla May Jefferson. Reminds me of the good old days with Rick O'Cassick's "Never Gonna Give You Up". Good times!

Oh, and is it just me, or did Mitt just say that the purpose of having a job is so that you can pay taxes?

Oy, Royal Pains

1. This may sound hypocritical coming from me (A RABID ZIONIST!!!), but I wonder if it isn't too much to hope for that The House Of David mightn't ought to be expected to take care of itself. Oh, sure, they're surrounded by insane lunatics on all sides. But given this election season, SO ARE WE.

2. So the future Queen Of England is extremely attractive in all of her extreme awesomeness. I think we already knew that. She's also smart and likable. Next? I wonder if this whole mess couldn't be solved simply if England and France went back to war against each other again, just for old times' sake. It's been awhile.

I miss Michele Bachmann?

She said the president needs to cancel his interview with David Letterman and Beyonce and JayZ and instead go meet with Bubbi Nat over there in Biblevania.

First of all, the last people Barry should be talking to are powerful blacks. She's absolutely right about that. Powerful blacks are a personal threat to white people of all races. And creeds. But you cancel an interview with Letterman at your own peril. Not on my watch.

Michele Bachmann represents admirably that which we all hold closest to our hearts, namely, staying in a loveless marriage in which the husband engages in homosexual acts with gay men of a queer nature at local dog shows with other homosexual gay queers. And lesbians.

You go girl! Been there done that! Don't go there! Definitely not TMI!

The thing I admire so much about attendees of the value voters convention is that they have none. Except for penis envy. Looking at you, guys! And lesbians.

Ready Set Go Day One

Is is just me, or has Mitt in the last 4 days made the best case yet for himself as to just exactly why he probably shouldn't be running anything? Unless it involves his own money and not legally?

Proof, m'ladies?

Posit:
1. Mitt Romney we're told has appointed many many many women to positions of importance, both in his professional life and in his campaign life.
2. Mormons not that long ago appointed many many many women to positions of importance in their marital life and in their reproductive life. And in their sexual intercourse life.
3. {2.} is a manifestation, a sublimation, and a projection of {1.}.
4. {3.} is just wonderful for women, and all women should vote for Mitt as American States president.
5. Unrelated: Planet Psyborg VI of the Zaxxon System (Valarius) needs women.
6. Terry Jones will get us all killed. Not the guy from Python. I think he's dead.

Everybody talks about the weather but nobody ever pays attention.

Is it just me or is the crux of this whole middle east problem basically the weather? Too hot. Oh, sure, they've got a couple cold nights and some sandstorms to deal with, but I'm talking about winter: sustained, miserable, relentless cold and snow and ice and wind and dark. And cold.

And wind.

So yeah, some shiftless evildoers sitting around a fire surrounded by a blizzard.
"Hey, let's go kill some ambassadors."
"Too cold. 4-wheel drive isn't working."
"Yeah. Kind of pointless anyway."

Winter gives you time, makes you give time, to put things a bit more in perspective. Sit in front of a cold stove not yet kindled at 4:15 in the morning and you just might hear yourself say, "Maybe I won't murder anyone today."

Yet again, Mother Nature is holding all the cards. And the newspaper and matches. Be quiet and listen. You might even learn something from your dog.

Where have all the modest proposals gone?

Eliminate insurance of all kind. Life is enough of a crapshoot without trying to stack the deck against the house's slot machines; we'd be better off trying to mix our metaphors. Let catastrophe be the ultimate river card, whether it's a flood or bone cancer, and it won't take us long to figure out that death may be the great equalizer, but three of a kind still beats a flush. Or the other way around.

Let the market decide! Pull back that curtain, Occam, and will we see State Farm, or Scarface?

Slug Fest 2012

I can't think of a final with two more evenly matched players. Not just skill level, e.g., Roger/Rafa (arguable), but game style and set management. We could be here all night. (Let's hope so. I don't feel like working anymore today/tonight.)

Pan-Network "Go Fuck Yourself, Cancer!" Presented Commercial Free

If the networks took the billions they spend on developing and producing new shows like The New Normal and Revolution and instead donated it directly to "science", we'd all be cancer free and live to be 173.

But then we wouldn't have shows like The Neighbors or commercials for cheese-flavored applesauce.

(Note to self: Cheese-flavored applesauce would be awesome!)

In The Wake Of Hurricane Clinton

Now it's just a matter of time to see whether Mitt or Paul channels Frank Burns first:

"[... yeah... well... ] I once killed a gopher with a stick."

Magic Chef! [sizzle sizzle] Season Finale Part 1: The Reaping

I don't know if it's because I've been watching Hell's Kitchen since the beginning, but Gordon is so much more likable on this show. And I mean really likable.

Cornish hen, scallops, fish... Fruit Loops. With milk. Chocolate milk. Boom!

Joe's mom has a cooking show on PBS.

There's a frog that lives somewhere around the well. He comes in sometimes after a rain to watch tv with us, in the garage. Moonpie is confounded by him. And I hope he doesn't come in tonight until after this segment. This is why I need to keep chickens.

Oh yeah, kale. I could live in kale. Not a typo, which is to say, e.g., I could cram it between them cabin studs for insulation. Kale rules! Can you smoke it?

Rigorous honesty: I've been on a cold fried chicken binge for the last 4 days. Where does it end?!?

I'm going to watch Michelle now because I don't think she looks like a real First Lady like Ann does. (I think she looks like a President.)

Why The Hunger Games Is The Greatest Movie Ever Made, I. Music

(Coinciding by no mistake with The Childhood Obesity Awareness Month.)

I. Music

James Newton Howard? Sure: a little John Williams, some Thomas Newman to fill in the dead spots, musique concrete = musique congreat!
There's no such thing as musical theft. It's called borrowing. Or stealing.
T Bone Burnett  can do no wrong. Just the mention of mandolins makes me sob uncontrollably.
But rewind the tape back to the "Countdown" scene. Now unless I've stopped taking my anti-inflammatory meds, that's Steve Reich, and it's "Music For 18 Musicians". I haven't checked IMDB, but I'm certain it is.
Steve Reich at the movies. Have you ever seen the like?

Music, a reason The Hunger Games is the greatest movie ever made.

Chronicles Of Roddick

Gloomy, muggy, lazy day today, a great one to take a lot of breaks, which is almost ideal considering I want to watch Andy play as much tennis this week as I can, given this is his last Open. Whatever!

Well, he's playing like he did when he first hit the scene, like he doesn't know what it would mean to play it safe, like he just loves to play. And he's actually approaching the net!

Which leads me to believe that he should've retired years ago.

He's fun to watch again.

High Tide of the Crimson Wolverine

Well it's that time of year already again.

This is the most important game of the day and will determine the rest of the entire season. Easily. And I shall be blogging it happily. Let's Go Blue Tide Roll!

So let the tailgating begin, which already has in Tuscaloosa, but not until after Freshmen Orientation, which are the same thing, really, if you think about it.

Now, back to my complimentary copy of Obama 2016. Oh it's a wild ride that may or may not happen based entirely on fact checking which should hold no man back.

Facebook

It doesn't seem to fit, might be all the weight I've gained. Anyways, there really is something appealing to me about not being easy to find. And anyone I really like to visit with already knows where I am. Right now, I need the world to be too big, not too small.

Then there's that nagging anxiety that I'm not even close to being ready for winter. My plan for "the outhouse" keeps getting muddled by ceiling height and square footage. The double edged sword of both rustic and single life. And too much Angle Of Repose.

Yet so much to look forward to, football, fires, etc., and momentum. And movies and fall tv premiers. That needs to be enough right now.

An 18 Month Old Beer

When the stove was delivered and installed December first 2010, it came in this giant cardboard box, into which I would throw my empty beer cans until it was full. Today I decided I would finally pack them all up in garbage bags and recycle them. And wouldn't you know it I came across an unopened one. Panic. Totally unexpected. I had started a trash fire earlier because I'm trying to organize my lumber, and you would have thought just by watching that I was carrying a dead rat to the pile to burn.

It never ends, and it's never fair, and it's never easier.

And to make matters worse, a couple Jehovah's witnesses stopped by to help me read the bible smarter. I didn't welcome their visit, nor did I condescend to them. Here's the thing. I live at the end of a half mile easement that isn't exactly what you would see as inviting. Gotta admire their faith, at the very least. And I can't help but think that the two incidents are somehow related.

40

Ya ever meet someone and just like them right away? Now, ya ever never actually meet that person? Yet? 7 years and change. And still going. Places have changed, but your presence presents the unmistakable pre-scent (good lord) of presents, namely, "You're not by yourself, and you're gonna be okay."

I have never met someone who ever seemed so much on my side before ever.

I suspect you're an excellent mom. I know for a fact you're a remarkable person.

Anyways, never have I wished someone as sincere a blessed birthday as I have tonight. And my very best to your family.

David

Some Pictures

That last one is of limestone slabs for the hearth. Which I'll be fiddling with today, if I can find my truss. And my chastity belt. And I'll post some interior pictures, when it starts to look a little bit less like I'm about to start my Manifesto.

The Slippery Slope Of Fake Rape

There was an episode about this controversial issue on L.A. Law many years ago, I'm sure. Great show!

Remember when it was funny to say that people who thought this way could drive cars and vote? Recall that? Now people who think this way can drive cars and be elected to public office. From which one could infer, if I can perform one of my famous leaps of illogic: There are a majority of people who think this way who drive cars and vote.

Another leap of illogic: The female body knows the difference between legitimate rape and illegitimate rape, and can, therefore, perform its own "abortion" accordingly, which, by the way, should also be illegal, even in the case of legitimate rape, because that abortion is performed without the consent of the body's owner, the female. Proving yet again the timeless Euclidean postulation: "You gotta know your body!"

Final leap of illogic: Knowledge may be power, whatever knowledge means these days. But it doesn't follow that ignorance is weakness. Ignorance is evil. Especially, especially, when it's willful.

And I'm paraphrasing here:

"[Ignorance leads to fear.]
Fear leads to anger.
Anger leads to hate.
Hate... leads to suffering.
[And misery.]"
-Yoda

Okay, whatever, Yoda! There are people that think this way. There always have been. It's just that technology (internets) has given them a wider audience than they used to have, e.g., their journals, their barfly drinking buddies, their basement sex closets, &c., figurative and literal.

Small Minded Thinking About Income Taxes

I got a bill earlier this year from The Alabama Department Of Revenue (Montgomery, capital, home of The University Of Montgomery Fighting Lynchers) telling me that I owed them 349 dollars from 2010. (Income from money my mom left me after she died. She's been dead for over 3 years and she's still lending me money!)

So I paid it.

349 dollars will buy you a really good chain saw. Not a great one, but a really good one. Say, a 14 inch Echo, my new favorite brand.

Small minded income tax thinking. Good heavens!

Best we get back to the large minded issues. Like not freezing to death, and Pussy Riots. And food. Though it's probably just me being out of touch.

***EMERGENCY LAST MINUTE EDIT***

1. I still use only Stihl chains exclusively, and am required by my sponsors to say so.
2. Please try to listen to This American Life this weekend.

Murder On The Central Orient Express

You didn't kill Osama bin Laden, Mr. President. America killed Osama bin Laden.

"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
"I killed Osama bin Laden!"
... etc., and so forth.

Okay, I may have killed him. But given the time frame, I was drinking real heavily at the time.

But I'm still not Spartacus. And I don't think some of those guys were either. Did we ever find out who was?

Pens And Swords And The Culture Wars

When every ball has its point.

Attack Of A Killer Tomato

"German Johnson" voted Best Tasting Tomato by You Bet Your Garden listeners. [Philly]
Splendid Table fans counter with "Black Prince". [St. Paul]

To be decided by moral combat that can only be referred to in the wastelands of future generations as "The Lowdown Throwdown On The Downlow In Lone Rock, Iowa (during the 'Farm Days' act of their version of a Renaissance Festival, adjacent to the old train depot between The Museum Of Traveling Negro League Baseball and the giant boulder)".

This is Clash Of The Titans next-level reality, as we know it. It goes without saying: festival seating anticipated.

The Closing Ceremony Of The 2012th Olympiadic Hunger Games

Through Britain's A Brief History Of Time, when it went from Zoolander to V For Vendetta, launching the tide carrying the H.M.S. Black Pearl captained by Annie Lennox's voice itself, 'tis then I realized I'd already missed the part when Arthur Pendragon accidentally had "relations" with his half-sister, giving birth literally to his hubristic downfall in the name of Mordrid, his biographical son, unleashing the flood that became The Spice Girls, telling us what we want, when every single athlete in the house, all atwitter, exclaimed in a moment of mass hystrionics (keeping with the Mallory spellings here), "What's a 'spice girl'?", and Ryan Seacrest recaps the fortnight's most memorable moments, including but not limited to when NBC couldn't decide whether during primetime viewing to cover Rhythmic Gymnastics, Synchronized Swimming, or The 100 Minute Tin Foil Chew, Bob Costas' face fell off, and was folded up and handed to the Esteemed Representative From Rio, Lancelot Del G'wain von Heydrich ben Meier. [paging those boys from Brazil sfx here]

(The highlight of the evening still being NBC's decision to renew Community, Parks And Rec, and Up All Night. And the weather, of course.)

Full disclaimer: I am and always shall be moved by any and all footage of Freddie Mercury.

Yo D-Rak!

If I may paraphrase the wonderful Babs Mandrell:
David Rakoff was alternative when alternative wasn't alternative, or even cool.
What a generation we're becoming as we die.

Kiss The Day Goodbye

Marvin was almost a great song writer.

And while I've got my giant Broadway Queen hat on that's never fit quite right, A Chorus Line is one of our stupidest musicals in the library, though not nearly as offensively terrible and banal as Rent, by the end of which I was actually pulling for the AIDS virus.

And because like most people at the age of 11 or so I was going through my "Ragtime phase", I never understood how he could've accepted an Academy Award for music he didn't even write. It's akin to some Celine Dion hot mess of a song at the end of yet another animated comic disaster beating out something like "Kiss At The End Of The Rainbow", which is actually in the movie at a point when you don't know whether to laugh or cry.

I think "I Need This Job" is a perfect song, and not just because he lifts its main theme from Elgar's "Nimrod". That's fine; we all steal. I've lost count of the number of times I've heard guys on tv name their biceps. Only on Modern Family is it still funny after 10 years. (England Dan and John Ford Coley.)

But like most of his work, you kind of have to dig "I Need This Job" out of the bargain bin at the TJ Maxx to appreciate it and differentiate it from all the mismatched scarves and satin belts. (Queen hat still on, I guess.)

The thing about Marvin is that he couldn't keep up with the music he heard in his head. He was enormously gifted, to be sure, but most of the time he was just holding onto his own coattails for dear life while scribbling away furiously on blank music paper only to hear from a distance tune after tune appear to outrun him in the subway car ahead. (Sondheim was always one step ahead of his own mind because he always took a cab.)

And then there's "Through The Eyes Of Love".

But even the worst musical snob when he hears the last refrain of "I Need This Job" can hear himself say upon being quite moved: Please don't let this feeling end.

Sikh and ye shall find.

"In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes [after having greased a bunch of people]."

It makes me think about The New Testament Multi-Volume Commentary my mom left me, where is says in John: "... do this in remembrance of Me. Also, let's try to shoot at people a lot less. Maybe table that whole 'love one another' discussion for another time and concentrate instead on 'leave one another alone more'. Okay, I gotta go die for all y'all later so I need to wrap up some personal matters."

I mean, we can drop a Chevy Volt faultlessly down in the middle of a Neptunian canyon, but we can't tell the difference between a Sikh and a Buddhist? Come on, Comparative Religion Departments! Science is winning!

2012 Olympledon: MurFed Crazy Gold Match Play Time

Murray: Be aggressive, charge, first serves on serve, jump on second serves off serve, use the energy of the home field advantage, employ The Royal Wii, look for Pippa. Oh, and it's "serve and volley," not, "serve and just stand there."

Federer: Err... Just be yourself, I guess.

Michael Phelps, Some Final Thoughts

Wow.

(!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!)

So, yeah, I have cravings, not for alcohol, per se, but for the effect of alcohol. Then I think about the next day, and how horrible that would be. Then I start to feel sorry for myself that I've been cursed with this overwhelming disease that won't even allow me to have half a beer on a hot day.

Then I see on my television set this dude running around the track with no legs.

Then I think to myself that my cross just isn't that heavy, as long as I continue to believe in myself and that ice cream is a food group.

Julian Gore!

Is it just me, or does anyone else wish that Vidal had punched Henry Miller in the head on the Dick Cavett show?

O Fried Chicken Ye Tuna O' The Land

There was no egg wash or batter with corn flakes and bread crumbs. Mom would just coat it with a bit of flour and throw it in a cast iron skillet in rendered bacon fat that she got from 5 inches away on the top of the stove in a mason jar. Dad made fun of her for saving things such as bacon fat and leftovers in general. Dad hated leftovers. Of course Verna, dad's mom, did the same thing. So dad saw it as a sign of poverty because dad grew up poor. So mom would say, "Well at least we didn't have to eat field corn." "We didn't have to eat field corn! We liked the lack of flavor!" This exchange, as predictable as sunday dinner, made mom and I laugh as if no one was ever going to die ever, not even the dogs.

It should be noted that the chicken mom grew up eating was alive shortly before it hit the pan, which is why whenever we moved around one of the first things she always looked for was a good butcher with "connections".

Now frying chicken in bacon fat is probably something that those genius nutritionismists would look down upon in scorn and condescending assholedness because they know everything there is to know about food, namely, that food is nothing more than the collection of a bunch of chemicals. Do not dispute them or you will have to punch them in the head.

Now eating chicken fried in bacon fat just after watching tv all day and just before drinking beer all night may indeed not be the ideal diet. But most of my and your people come from those whose day went from sunup to sundown, then started again at sundown and went to sunup in the winter on account of livestock, who are like children in their neediness but are much more worthwhile and are nicer people with non-psychotic tendencies, unless they're chickens. So my people, needing fuel as much as their horses, then their tractors, did eat things like boiled potatoes doing the butterfly in a lap pool of butter and salt. Grandpa Kading's favorite lunch was cold chicken leftover from last night's supper. During planting and harvest my mom would take it out to him and his brothers to save time. Their farms weren't at all huge by today's standards, but "making hay while the sun shines" wasn't just a metaphor and actually has its origins in farming, if you can even believe that!

So cold chicken, also called by many "the lobster of the midwest" (where "many" means "me"), with it's high fat content, protein and other chemicals we need to live (oh you nutty nutritionistas!), was the perfect fuel for men who smoked and washed their hands in gasoline and died at 63.

Rambling a bit here. I've been on a 2-week Kentucky Fried Chicken binge. It's the gravy.

Mom liked it when I rambled on the phone. Today is her 72nd birthday. She was 10 times smarter than all her kids combined. My siblings would agree with this tacitly, believing in their hearts that this couldn't possibly be true. Problem is, shit-for-brains, it was and is true. And it's your sense of self-importance and unearned arrogance that prevents you from realizing it and therefore renders you incapable appreciating who she was. Idiots. It's always the baby of the family who bears the brunt of inconsolable loss. But I'm learning to bear it gratefully.

Nota Bene: When my sister had the idea of sauteing chicken without the skin, without the skin, and in a non-fat substance with the look of snot, dad tasted it and said, "Perhaps it would've been better had you just boiled it." My dad was funny without being mean. Most of the time.

Romney Storms Europe Dressed As Saxon Redcoat

Arranges Joint Press Conference With MI6, Mossad, Thanks Both For All The People They Secretly Kill For Our Freedoms, Promises White House With Fewer Security Leaks On Behalf Of Our Freedoms As Well, "'Munich'" Is My Favorite Motion Talking Picture Show!"

Perhaps The Most Misunderstood Genius In The History Of Music

Like I even have to tell you.

I know where I'll be friday night. Oh yeah! Just try to stop me.
I dare you. Just try to stop me.
Just try. Seriously. I dare you.
Try to stop me. Really. Try to stop me.
Okay, stop me. Try. I'm begging you.

It should be noted here, though relapse is no joke, that I'd have to be screaming on pot like a baked ham in a can, knee-walking drunk. And that would be just to buy the ticket. But I would. But it should also be noted here that if I were to go sober I'd have just as bad of a hangover the next day, and my soul would also have a little mold and mildew on it.

Life can be such a chore.

I need to sort my scrap lumber and my salvaged lumber so that I can proceed with getting the "cabin" ready for winter. I don't have to do the sorting chore, but it will make the process so much more organized, easier, and, dare I say, even pleasurable.

But boy it's hard to get motivated to haul boards all over the property and centralize them in the part of the original house that's not weather-proofed (chortle!) but still has a roof on it and is held together by recycled beams, posts, and plaster.

You'd think it's practically thankless work. But when I start, with the radio blaring and organization blooming and the scent of sobriety ripe in the air, momentum, inertia and cumulative progress seem to happen without me even thinking about it, which is key, because when I get into the midst of mindless, thankless work and life begins to move at the speed of time*, I'll look up, and without having thought about it, there are dents in otherwise intimidating piles.

Does that make any sense?

Not to mention the fact that tonight is the season premier of Bachelor Pad, so everybody wins, except for those watching it and on it.

P.S. Bryan Cranston really is enormously talented and looks a lot like Gary Oldman.

*Michael Scott

The Batman 3: Dark Night Rider, A Movie Review

With a talking car named "Kat", and a talking catwoman named "Katnip Evergreen", this bat man will be littering the streets with MeowMix till the poop is scooped, the hairballs are coughed up, and Kitty von Meowington has been sprayed for neutral.

Riddle me that, Robin! Who? Exactly!

The last movie I actually went to the theater to see was Team America: World Police. But since I was a fanatic of Nolan's franchise from the first frame of Begins, and because anyone who isn't is stupid, I may actually have to head on down to the GigantoPlex in Troy for this gem. I won't.

Movies I Wish I'd Seen In The Theater:

Star Trek
The Matrix
Batman Begins
The Dark Knight
Zoolander
War Of The Worlds
Rachel Getting Married
Lord Of The Rings
Mr. And Mrs. Smith
Hey I Fuckin' Shot That!
Jerry Maguire
Phantom Menace
The Bourne Ultimatum
Sense And Sensibility

Also, and while we're on the subject, here's a list of shows that should win many Emmys but will be cancelled:

Parks And Rec
Community
Up All Night
The Season Finale Of Whitney In Which The Whole Gang Is Gunned Down By 2 Broke Girls With A Gattling Gun
The Firm
30 Rock
Sewing With Nancy
Dateline NBC When It Explodes All Over
Happy Endings
Master Chef!
Marc Shaiman

Full Disclosure:
1. I don't have cable.
2. The cable shows have an unfair advantage on account of their being so much better.

The Emmys have been retarded for some time now. But they went full Simple Jack when Jim Parsons beat out Alec Baldwin a few years ago. Which is the same reason why President Obama will lose. Because when it was revealed during the premier of Big Brother xxiv that they would be joined by 4 Big Brother All-Stars, the quote of the show by one of the contestants was, "It just got real." "It just got real." "Real." "It." "Just." "Got." "Real." And that Julie Chen is considered a journalist.

Oh, skitch!

Boy I'm glad my mom and dad are dead.

I get so mad sometimes when I see someone like Michele Bachmann go on the tv and claim that the current administration has been infiltrated by The Brothers Of The Muslim Fraternity Of Islam and that Hillary Clinton pilots unmanned drones in order to kill American citizens in Yemen and Mankato. And that Michelle is fine with her husband paying 14-year old boys to come to the house so he can suck their cocks.

That folks like Michele and Sarah rise to prominence and importance not in spite of their ignorance but proudly because of it really grates my cheese.

Then I think of my parents and realize I have a lot to do yet to get ready for the first fly of snow. And I'm grateful, so very grateful that I continue to retain the privilege of being their son.

And I calm down. A little. And I get back to the art of living.*









*Oh, IOZ!

Master Chef! Paula Deen! [racing heart monitor sfx here]

When the Mystery Ingredient Box began to be raised I was thinking the reveal would reveal either Paula Deen, or a piano. I was right.

Then, as if to add sugar to Type 9 diabetes, when the Secret Ingredients Crate was raised to reveal the revealed ingredients for tonight's supper, I was shocked to see an entire chicken, bacon, peppers, creamed bacon, a fried chicken fried in fried chicken skin stuffed with bacon-fried chicken skin, buttered butter, oil, oiled butter, cream of cheese-buttered cream oil, okra, a life-size Paula Deen salt sculpture, Fritos-crusted onion rings, a Red Lobster Fudge Overboard! Chocolate Volcano Fountain, grass clippings, and a midget with fresh ground pepper and a porn mill. For those of you not watching, don't ask.

How many people have you killed, Paula? And how many with your food, m'lady?

The Mystery Container Challenge? Sushi. Or as I like to call it, "bait". Full disclosure: I love sushi, but only because I also like to call sushi rolls "soy sauce sponges".

I'm guessing The Pressure [Cooker] Challenge Coffin will reveal a bag of potato chips, a jar of mayonnaise, a loaf of Wonder Bread, 20 endless minutes on the egg timer that can be seen from space were we still going there on a regular basis, and no leftovers. And product placements that make the nose twitch and twist.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to check on my Fruit Loop casserole to see if it's risen.
---------
It has risen indeed.

Braking Back!

I have an irrational appreciation for actors, known mostly as "That One Guy", who work a lot and are so very good in nearly every part. Some that come immediately to mind:

Gary Cole
Jason Bateman
Bruce Greenwood
Miguel Ferrer
Michael Hitchcock
Brad Pitt
John Michael Higgins
The Newspaper Guy From Spiderman, And Juno
David Koechner
Richard Something Something (older guy, seems sad all the time)
Bob Balaban
Jeff Tambor
Justin Theroux
Tom Cruise
David Paymer

We knew them when (they were still "That One Guy" [some still are]):

Paul Rudd
Tom Wilkinson (personal favorite)
Alec Baldwin

I've seen maybe 3 episodes of Malcolm In The Middle. Good show. But Brian is the sort that you just know right away about, especially when you hear yourself say, Oh, yeah, the one armed guy from Saving Private Ryanwith maybe 2 scenes.

I like Jason Bateman on there because of Starsky And Hutch and Pepper Brooks.

Though I'm a drunken pothead, in counseling we talked about heroin and crack and meth. The counselor said that though all are devastatingly addictive, meth seemed the hardest to come off. In a weird way it helps to see others hit bottom, but only if it's on TV or in memoirs. Though I suspect it's going to be years and years before I'll ever be able to watch Leaving Las Vegas again.

Full disclosure: I've heard so many interviews from cast and writers and creators and directors of the show, it was only a matter of time before I ordered Season 1. Curiously, it was Bob Garfield of On The Media going on and on about the show during a story about a Slate writer who said it was pop culturally self-defeating to watch an entire series in 3 days. I kind of agree. When I watched Deadwood for the first time, I made myself stop after 2 episodes every saturday afternoon, sober, oddly enough.

And I've never seen The Sopranos. Frankly, the show scares me. Or just the thought of it.

(And lest we forget: Tom Cruise is the greatest actor of all time.)

Guthrie 100th Spawns NPRmageddon: 5.97 Billion Left Behind

As if Arlo still around weren't bad enough.

Tough Room

I don't know how many of all y'all have spent much time in The Deep South ("American by birth, Southern by the grace of God, retarded by the heat and humidity."), but white people love to see other white people being treated poorly by blacks, especially if those "other people" are northerners. It's a sort of "We tried to tell you so!" teachable moment regarding what happens when you give "those people" "a say".

The punch line turns out is that whoever orchestrated this bombing at the NAACP is right. And because stereotypes exist for a reason, it allows the Romney folks to say, "Well, sure, this guy may well indeed be the president and all, for the most part. But he's still black, which means we can pretty much say anything we want about him."

Breakfast At Wimbledon: The End Of An Era

Somehow I've never managed not to watch at least the Championship no matter where I was no matter how I was. Well, thanks to greed, probably, this will be the first year, minus an act of god, or My Mom And Dad, I will miss the men's final. ESPN3 does not seem to want to talk to my verizon bot, so tomorrow morning I'll try to listen to it on the radio.

I was trying to think of the most fun I had watching Wimbledon that didn't include watching it with my dad, because that wouldn't be fair. I have concluded with not much thought that it would have to be Eastman School Of Music, summer of 1985, Boris Becker.

This fiasco has not improved my mood, so I may have to listen, again, to the "Fiascos" podcast from TAL.

1. Serena Williams is a thug who hates tennis.
2. If the purse is to be equal amongst men and women, then does it follow that the women should be required to compete for best of 3 sets as well?

Fire Crackers!

25 years ago, I was back home in Ohio for the summer after my first year in New York City. When July 4 rolled around, this stray dog, a pit bull mutt, wandered on to the property and didn't seem to have any intention of leaving. She was terrified of the fireworks all day and that night, so my little nephews named her "Crackers".

Dad did not like her, did not like her at all. We already had a dog, adopted as Sidney, a German Shepherd/Husky mix, but his name had changed over the years from Old Thunder to Charles Albert, on account of stories in the paper dad and I had read, and the last one on account of an old, old lady at the vet whose tiny dog was named Charles Albert, mom surmised, after the old lady's late husband.

Crackers was a pain. In the garbage, needy, nearly vermin, you would think. And dad didn't want her muscling in on Charles Albert's attention, even though he didn't care for attention. Dad did not want this dog. At all. We already had a dog.

But she wouldn't leave, and my parents weren't the sort to take dogs to the pound. They were the sort to adopt dogs from the pound. So they decided to keep her until someone who actually wanted this dog could be found.

I'm not having a particularly good week. Not a bad week, but not overly positive. Probably the heat and the power loss over the weekend, and the heat is still here. (Though July and August in The Ham for 13 years has pretty much inured me to anything Ohio can and will throw at me.) And I'm almost as sick of saying, "One day at a time," as I am hearing myself say it. But as smart as I like to hope everyone thinks I am, that's just what it ends up coming down to: One day. I"ve got today. It's hot, but it's a blessing.

Every 4th Of July, I think about what ever happened to that dog that didn't want to leave. And it makes me wonder. And it makes me sad.

Well, what happened to that dog was that she never did leave. And she became the most adored dog ever in the history of dog history. Often, when my dad would get up at 5:15 in the morning, while my mom was still asleep, he would coax Cracker up into the bed where he had been laying and put the covers up to her head so that my mom would wake up with this dog sound asleep with her head on the pillow as if it were the most natural, predictable thing one wouldn't even have to imagine. My mom would get so mad telling of it that she'd have to laugh.

Then there was the time they were gone for 3 days, a story for another time.

When Charles Albert died in 1993, Crackers helped us bury him in the woods and wouldn't leave the site of fresh earth for 3 hours; she just laid there, waiting for him.

One of the sweetest, saddest things I've ever seen was right after dad died the last week of March 2001. People were bringing food for our family at all hours of the day all that week. So there were cars coming up the driveway too often to count. Yet every time a car would start down the driveway, that dog would think for just a second or two that it was dad, and would lumber over to the front door only to be disappointed yet again for the two dozenth time. Then she'd mope on back to mom. Mom and I would share a look that from what I can remember was an odd combination of comfort and devastation.

Crackers died almost exactly 6 months after dad did, having lived a pretty good dog's life, having broken in mom's last stray dog, Sophie, who, it breaks my heart to think, is still waiting at the front door waiting for mom to come pick her up and take her back home.

P.S. Moonpie got to meet my mom exactly 3 times and was, as you might imagine, smitten by her immediately, and remembered her as if on cue the 2nd and 3rd times right away. I suspect there's a little Crackers in Moonpie dog. At least I like to think so.

Heroic Icon, Or Iconic Hero? Anderson Cooper Notes

Anderson Cooper 360??? 180?!?!?!? Try 540!!!

Anderson bravely blows lid off story everyone already knew and really didn't care about and now cares even less about.

"We prefer our gays to be more stylish and less self-absorbed. And that they can actually read."

It's his pioneering new style of Don't Ask Don't Tell journalism that really gets our nipples hard.

Fox News Reports It May Now Believe That Real America Is Actually Gay, Making Real Americans Gay, Making Most Republican Legislators Real Americans, Again, Check Mate

Newsman breaks news by making news by being news that isn't news thereby breaking news even more.
Or:
"... [F]act is, why simply report the news when you can be it, no matter how lame and predictable..."

Mini Cooper-Cruise Power Marriage In The Works?

Anderson Cooper comes out of closet, goes back in, comes back out with even uglier shirt.

Gay Vanderbilt Queer Heir (Queir) Raises Stakes And Eyebrows In Attention Whore Game

"... [F]act is, I'm gay. [But don't worry, I'm still very not smart.]"

Today Leads With Bleeding Ann Curry, Follows With Howie Mandel, Parallel Parking Jap Thug, talking ball of yarn as possible Romney running mate

"His fudge packs a real punch."

&c., and so forth, and the like...

Speaking of which, Deadwood, Season 2, Episode 8, "Childish Things". 'nuff said.

"I feel like I just lost my best friend: AMERICA."

Stephen Colbert didn't say that.
Jon Stewart didn't say that.
I didn't even say that, sort of.

"I feel like I just lost two great friends: America and Justice Roberts," wrote GOP Rep. Jack Kingston on Congress's main public outreach platform, Twitter.

But I did, to my shame, actually ROFLMAO. Be assured absolutely no lesbians or omelettes were injured during "the incident", that we know of.

"Baby fish mouth! Baby fish mouth!"

Without "Baby fish mouth!" I don't think we'd have "Baby with a nail gun!" or even "Dog on fire! Dog on Fire!"

She didn't write, "I'll have what she's having." Billy did. But that movie was nothing if it wasn't her baby.

Not to mention that women attracted to men they're not with have been looking for a pair of red suede pumps since the beginning of time on our planet, earth.

The Shortest Night Of The Year Begins

Ushering in again already... THE 29TH ANNUAL TALK AS YOUR FAVORITE DEADWOOD CHARACTER DAY OF SUMMER SATURNALIANNA!

This year I'm going with Calamity Jane. It's short, funny, subtle and loud.

Dirt worshippers have slaughtered a family of Square Heads on the road to Spearfishing. Or so we thought. It was actually Road Agents hired by Gem owner, Al Swearington, who, upon hearing of the slaughter, offers circa $5 (dollars) for every decapitated Indian head, no longer attached to its other attached parts, brought into town. Posses plan to leave first thing in the morning (circa 11:15 on the A.M.). Jane, upon hearing their quest for revenge starts not until the following morning, exclaims, "Well what's your FUCKIN' HURRY!!!" [sic]

(Full Disclosure: I knew, I knew, Rock Of Ages, would be terrible. Great cast, sure, but way too many Top 10 Terrible Rock Songs Of All Time. I just didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.)

"You've seen White Fang like, a hundred times, right?

"And Babe?

"So, yeah, you know I could turn on you at the drop of a hat, that same hat you tried to put on my head this winter because you thought my being warm was more important than my not looking almost as stupid as one of those halfwits on my new favorite show, Dogs In The City? And I'm not talking about the dogs either.

"Just so you know.

"Now back to work."

Fort Piqua, June 19th(?!?), Looking Northeast

Comic Relief

"What was it he said a few years ago, his campaign slogan? 'Hope and change'?!? Now he's HOPING they'll CHANGE the subject! Oh. That's good. And funny as well, what I said there!"
(You gotta admit, he would kill at the Correspondents' Dinner. Literally. He's been voted Presidential Hopeful Most Likely To Kill Someone Accidentally.)

---------

Smartest Guy In The Room

"Whatever, Putin. You best quit dicking with Iran and Syria, motherfucker, or I will cut your fucking throat. You see how it works with those sand niggers? I cut their leader's fucking throat, another one pops up like Jack cocksucking Jeebs, so I cut his fucking throat. I won't fucking blow his head off with one of those ray guns; I will fucking slit his throat Dan fucking Dority-style with the Presidential Letter Opener. Not that one; the one with the picture of John Adams on the sheath. So go ahead, cocksucker. Pop your bald-ass head up out of the Persian Gulf again, and I will will fucking cut your motherfucking cocksucking throat. Oh. Enjoy your day."

---------

Georgia Snatch

"I want other guy, one before him, the retard, with vice president machine man Darth Vader. He was stupid and malleable. And rich. This new dark guy, scares me. I must go pretend kill shark."

Happy Mothers' Day, Part 2 (I.e., Happy Fathers' Day)

E.g., good job, dads, impregnating someone, your wife, perhaps. Newsflash: She did all the work.

As the proud father of an 11-year old (dog, or so, we think), my plans for today:

1. Construction begins and ends on The Moonpie Memorial Beef Rib Rack Smoker Plus Chamber Of Mysteries.
2. Setting one post with homemade L bracket into ceiling main cross beam. But let's try to do two.
3. Feel the love! (Or, in Moonpie's case, barely noticeable gratitude mixed with the utter joy only a dog can feel that no human language on earth has a word for. The latter is worth... that word.)

Pictures of progress to follow as I go through the magic of edit, depending on reliability of The Moonpie Memorial Beef Rib Rack Smoker Plus Chamber Of Mysteries.

Full Disclosure:
A. Once a week I go into town specifically to buy Moonpie the biggest rack of beef ribs I can find. I give her one first thing in the morning as a special treat. But since I've not been the best dad to her for the first 10 years, I aim to be the best for the next 10 years, please, god willing.
B. I don't know how the private sector is doing, but my family seems to be doing just fine. They don't have to have jobs, though one of the few things we all share is a scary work ethic (I was a very hard-working drunk), and they lead lives of relative leisure and want for nothing, and there's nothing they don't want. Oh, and, by the way, this is the case because of our Father.

Happy Fathers' Day.





"Moonpie. I'm tired. But it's a pretty good tired. Shall we see what the 4-1-1 is over there in Deadwood?"

What Would A 2nd Term Obama Presidency Look Like?!?!?!?

Day0001.

1. There are not, and there never have been, libraries filled with bipartisan studies concluding that legal Mexican immigrants, or illegal immigrants, not only do not take jobs away from patriotic citizens, but, in times of economic growth, actually add to the stimulating of the economy.
2. If there are or ever have been such studies, they were conducted exclusively by Obama supporting Nazi faggots 48 years ago.
3. Children of illegal Mexican immigrants who get into college have done so because of affirmative action, not because their application package was superior to those who did not get in, even if those who did not get in planned on majoring in Not Going To Class with a minor in Too Drunk From Frat Party Still.
4. Their admissions packages were probably superior only because they cheated off the paper of a blond white girl, and because liberal arts colleges' admissions boards are made up of liberal faggots. A meritocracy is still a meritocracy, no matter how it's redefined to appeal to the so-called lazy. And stupid.
5. Illegal Mexican immigrants are in fact taking jobs away from legal patriotic citizens. The studies that prove this are: a. "When was the last time you saw a white landscaping crew member mowing your lawn?"; and b. "When was the last time you saw a white mason's apprentice repairing your custom brick barbecue pit?"
6. Faggots.

So, a vote for Sambo is a vote for illegal Mexican immigrant Nazi faggots. And Fear Of A Black Planet will be the least of your worries. Replaced by fear of a brown planet, you see. Where the brown is not a tan.

Your move, gringo.

Should Bryan Fischer have the AIDS virus assfucked directly into his pancreas?

Yes.

I suppose I could and should go on and on and on citing various citations and quoting various quotes, but I'm tired and I still have to calibrate my chain sharpener so that I can stay warm this coming winter so that I can mind my own business and not tell people what they should and should not do with their bodies, and, yes, their love.

And while my telling Bryan Fischer what he should do with his own body, or, rather, what should be done with his own body, and, yes, frankly, to it, is, indeed, ironic, when you think about it, it's pretty a priori,* and a posteriori.**

"Yeah, so if you guys would like to be treated less like idiots, you should probably think about behaving less like idiots."
-Jesus (as told to us by our dad, through his actions and attitudes, rather than anything he said, ever)

*Latin for "high priority"
** Latin for "up the ass"

[And a classical education is yet again... VINDICATED!!!]

Drop Deadwood, Or, "Deadwood Revisited"

Anyways, I may have mentioned that I went ahead and bought the entire series a couple weeks ago. I couldn't stand it anymore, having not been back to that crazy town with all the zaniness and hijinks since 2007. And all that post-civil war Montana cocksucking.

So last night I finally threw in the first disc and watched Episodes 1 and 2. And after having spent so much time away from the series and so much time being a character in the series, just in B'ham and Piqua, and, you know, modern day, give or take, I have just this to say on my reunion with David Milch's writing:

"Poetry."

Feels good to be back. And it continues to have one of the greatest TV show theme songs of all time, and that includes both "Alice" and "Good Times".

Also, I was a bit surprised at my family re: their reactions, support, congratulations, "attaboys!", keep it ups, &c., and so forth and things of that nature with regard to my 1 year birthday. It reminded me: I don't drink not for them; I don't drink for me. Because I still haven't heard from any of them. Which is good. Because, frankly, that whole time I was drunk for 10 years I forgot to notice what self-absorbed assholes many of them are.

Which, unless I'm sorely mistaken, gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Sour grapes!" No resentment; just disappointment. That has to be okay, but I'm not sure how much longer it's healthy to keep it to myself, yet, at the same, just who "benefits" from me sharing my feelings with them. Best sometimes not to care.

This Old House Hour, French Open, Chores

The property to the south of me is owned by, what all my neighbors and I agree upon, a real dick -- what dad would call a bad neighbor, and what mom would call a pud. They've damned up the creek that runs north to south, which floods Tom's bean field to the east, and they don't see to the drainage tile, which floods Tom's west corn field. Right now the land isn't tillable, and is basically a wetland.

I don't want to buy the property; I need to buy the property, if for no other reason than it might make Tom's life just a little easier.

The problem: How would I set up a series of channels and ditches and levers and pulleys in order to create a pond that at the same time keeps the water out of Tom's fields?

Answer: I don't know. But something tells me every pond begins with a shovel. (Or explosives.)

And on the 7th day, God rested.

And cracked open a Natty Lite.

Okay, alright. Well this hell-hole pretty much puts the "geddon" in "armageddon". It's like Mars, but with slightly better weather and less promising life forms. Jesus.

The woman thing was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. Smart, funny, wise beyond her gender. [cosmic Chortle here] Soft, bumpy, smells good. So not a total loss.

But what we need is some sort of creature whose loyalty is surpassed only by its protectiveness. Affectionate, but not needy. Definitely not needy. I mean Adam over there really puts the "depend" in "codependent". (Note to self: Pre-engineer basic bladder failure at around age 32 -- like they'll survive that long! I'll call it "Intelligent Designed Obsolescence".) Well, at least Adam gives me something to point and laugh at already again.

So. Something with 4 legs, maybe a tail, with a look that conveys just the right amount of, "Yeah, uh, Simple Jack, were you gonna feed me anytime soon?" mixed in with, "I'm beginning to wonder just who belongs to whom," and perhaps a touch of, "Well I suppose I'd better slog through this fiasco with him so he's not completely alone."

I.e., something that's not a cat.

Hmmm... I'll call it "Undetached Dog Parts". Everybody wins, and a real hoot for the squirrels.



Good!

Checking list... Oh, I've gotta meet with that one pernicious angel who loves music about setting up a timetable where The Dawn Of The Dead Of The End Of Times Of The Night Of The Rise Of The Mindless Worship Of Sloppy Thinking And Mediocrity is ushered in, in the early 21st century, by One Direction, and something called a Bieber. Yikes! Even Baal will want to kill himself when he hears that puss-laden ear crap!

Hey Gabe, let's pump up the jams!

Doesn't it feel good?

Sunset, East Of Piqua, Ohio, June 4, 2012

Something I'm beginning to think that I may not be completely off the beam about with regard to... something Goethe may or may not have said:

"God is in the [re-tells*]."

To me, today, at the beginning of the week, profundities are small, sometimes overlooked, or taken for granted, or dismissed as mundane, by virtue of their supposed insignificance. Me? I'd like to strive, but never reach, obviously, the perfection of Thorton's "poets" and "saints" from Our Town, population: It could always be worse! Because, Jesus, it was; it was so much worse, which makes today, this moment, that much more profound and precious.

*(Oh. Hey, mom, hey dad. Remember when we were watching that episode of The Simpsons and dad laughed so hard at the part where oil lobbyists wanted to drill on Mount Rushmore in Teddy Roosevelt's head? I never get tired of telling that story.)

Well, this might be a good time and place to try to launder my karma.*

[Ongoing.]

There's a rod at the top of which is a bolt that lives on top of my water heater. I believe it's called an anode rod, or something, and its job is to collect the iron in well water like a magnet. Since my hot water smells of iron oxide and sulphur, I need to replace it with a new rod, which entails removing the old one, which I've deemed impossible, considering I've used WD40, PB blast, a blow torch, and the blood of unbaptized jews and mormons. Nothing works. So I've decided to replace the water heater en masse, which scares me on account of my soldering skills, or the lack thereof. Goddamn immovable bolts.

I understand The Church's concern over freedom of religion and birth control. But I wonder if The Church should consider some concerns many folks have with the freedom of young boys not to get ass-fucked out of bible camp.

Tower Heist wasn't very good. I thought it was going to be more ironical. But for the record, I've been in love with Tea Leoni since The Naked Truth. And I realized just recently that every woman I've been in love with, on screen and off [chortle!], has in some way resembled Parker Posey.

The night my mom died was the same night President Obama held his first televised primetime press conference, during which my family decided to ridicule him and anyone and everyone who ever had the least notion that he was a good man who had the chance to be a good president if not a great one. Now, they did this knowing full well that: 1. I really liked him and was hopeful and optimistic, though in my cups at the time mainlining vodka by the mouthful not-so-secretly out of mom's freezer; 2. mom had liked him very much, had voted for him, had watched the inauguration from her hospital bed; 3. mom thought Sarah Palin was not very smart, that Rush Limbaugh was both ignorant and bad for reasonable discussion and disagreement, and that she liked me best.** That was as alone as I've ever felt, and I was made to feel alone by the other kids my mom had raised. Was it intentional? It's my understanding that many better educated people hold that healing begins with forgiveness. But when your own kin starts blaming their own mother's sociopolitical beliefs with which they disagree on cancer and pain medication, I'll take my chances.

I find it hard to fathom that Roger could be past his prime. I don't really care. What I do care about is that my love of watching him play is interfering with my ability to be a straight non-gay male of the heterosexual persuasion. But I'll just add that to the list of things I need to surrender to my higher power, which, currently, is Roger's backhand.

I'm finding it increasingly hard to have to be rigorously honest with myself and others when others neither have to be rigorously honest with themselves nor choose to be.

Where were you when you heard that Kurt had blown his head off? I was at work, at Studebaker's Nursery Farm, in New Carlisle, Ohio. My supervisor kind of made fun of me for how hard I was taking it. Still, working primarily with Mexicans and ex-cons might do that to you. Still, that job remains one of my favorites, the further I get away from it, which is probably why.



*David Randall/Pigeonhed
**Probably, I should say.

What Will Be* Different About A Romney Presidency?

1. Well, for one thing, according to the commercials, he will seem just a tiny little bit less like an android in his campaign commercials than he seems in [real life].
2. Spelling.



[The Matrix]







*"Might Look"

I give up.

I don't know. I guess I'm naive. But I wonder how presidential it would be for Mitt to say, "You know, Donald, you're an attention-whoring boob. The President was born in an American State, not Sri Lanka. So save your money and your support for someone who needs it. You're living proof that patriotism really is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Good day, sir. I said good day." Any minute now...

Maybe it's this: While Mitt was punching long-haired faggots in the head at prep school and Donald was banging hookers in Vegas coming down from a 9-day diet pill binge, Doc Watson was unwittingly putting Appalachian music on the music history map* where it belongs (somewhere in Appalachia**). I say unwittingly because Doc thought playing and listening to music could help you get through the tougher times in life.

I don't know. This probably won't get me many karma points, but it makes me sad that Doc is dead and Donald isn't.

But, again, I find music important in sublime ways that passeth understanding.***

*Actually, some would suggest (and by "some" I mean "me") that the reason Appalachian music is so compelling is because it's folk songs brought to The New World by Druids, Celts and Wodes (aka, Woads) married with ancient hymns brought to The New World by Goths and Teutons.

**There's a video of Robin And Linda Williams singing "Across The Blue Mountains" somewhere on the internets which, as usual, I can't find.

***An ongoing theme, I guess.

1-Day Diary Of A Scatterbrained Procrastinating Drunk

Not to be confused with Dr. Phil's "Confessions Of A Morbidly Obese Bridezilla", or Anderson Cooper's "Profiles In Courage Of Men In Love With Blow Up Sex Dolls", or "Uh-Oh Hoda And Kathy Lee In Their Cups Yet Again Whilst Making Kristen Wiig's Departure From SNL All About Them [Indecipherable Journal Entries]". At least not right away. But the whole thing is just so Memorial Day.

Hot. That's what it is. Hot. But Today's list:

1. procrastinate some more on putting up the corner post
2. plywood exterior siding experiment

Join me, won't you?!?!? You might not hate my iTunes ultimate party mix and profanity-drowning-out music fest. E.g., "Clearly I remember/Pickin' on the boy/Seemed a harmless little fuck."

Almost Famous

So it's about 3, I've been puddering all day, and it's hotter than Atlanta asphalt, and on comes my favorite Cam Crowe movie. His best in my opinion. Though Singles is good. So think I'll take a couple hours off and watch it, siesta style, and pick back up when the sun gets a little lower.

Tenacious D Week: Big Finish

Well it's three pm, time to lug the gear,
Gotta get it on the stage.
My muscles flex, my f!ckin' sweat will save the day.

When I check the mic, I f@ckin' check the mic,
I f#ckin' checka-checka one, two, three.
I plug it in, I make a sound as good as can be.

Cause the rockers rock, but the roadies roll.
Gotta take the mic because I take control.
Gotta get that $hit up on that f%ckin' stage.

Because the roadie knows what the roadie knows,
And the roadie knows that he wears black clothes,
And he hides off in the shadows off the stage.

Because the roadie
Looks a thousand miles with his eyes.
And when the crowd roars --
--Brings a tear drop to the roadie's eyes.
Tears of pride.

Because he brought you the show,
But you will never know.
He's changing the strings
While hiding in the wings.
No matter how hard, the show must go on.

Then a beautiful girl come to me.
She say, "Hey, can I s^cka your d&ck?"
I say, "Yays, I am in love."
Then she quickly say, "I s!cked your d@ck.
Now give me [sic] that backstage pass.
I do not want you roadie; I want KG's ch#de."

I'm standing at the threshold of your dream$;
Without me there'd be no sound from those @mps;
Without me there'd be no !ights on the stage.
But you don^t applaud for me.

No, I am the r*adie:
Lonesome warrior searc#ing for his soul.
No, ! am the roadie;
I make the roc# go.

Roadi3... Roa9ie... R0adie...

End of story. (Punctuation mine.)

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed The 2nd Annual Tenacious D Week as much as I have, though I find that hard to fathom.

Tenacious D Week: A Closer Look At "Roadie", And Kelly Clarkson

I think we can all agree it's in E, and it pulls that old bit where it flirts and flips between E major, E minor and, of course, the old open E. Examples of this flirting and flipping can be found in "Behind Blue Eyes", "Seasons", "Summer Breeze" (Hippies!), and much of the music of Paul Hindemith. (Hugo gave me a copy of the full orchestration of Mathis Der Maler in Paul's own hand. Turns out the Nazis weren't fond of his unpatriotic music and his hatred of Nazis' hatred of Jews, so he had to write it out himself without the benefit of a publisher.)

So, long story short, no measure notation: E D/F# E D/F# and on; but then a really nice progression that's nothing more than C to A to E, then C to A back to C back to A to E. But the cool thing is, the C is a Cmajor7, and the A is an open A9, which means the B natural in the Cmajor7 becomes the 9 in the open A.

Lyrics: amplifiers, sweat, something about a blowjob, and, of course, a young man's love of music. And blowjobs. We'll talk more about this tomorrow.

As for Kelly, it really is all about singing the right note, and singing it right in the middle of the note. And pipes. Hope this doesn't hurt anyone's feelings, but Kelly was and has always been the real deal. I'm still convinced that Justin was a cardboard cutout prop the whole first season. That is until From Justin To Kelly, one of the most misunderstood works of genius in the history of the art of the taking of pot. Watching that sober must be akin to that waterboarding next-level shit Tricky Dick Torture Ticker Cheney was so fond of watching whilst bathing in the afterbirths of aborted anti-freedom haters. (Just spitballing here.)

Tenacious D Week: Wait Wait Don't Kill Me

Peter doesn't necessarily buy it, but because he thinks there's not much there he knows that that's precisely the point, which means everything.

At first listen, the lyrics seem banal and gratuitously hate driven, so one may retreat to the music, which really is first rate. But then something happens with regard to the lyrics, and they become neither hate-driven nor banal. Not exactly funny, per se, but, rather, honest in a way that's both ridiculous and upsetting. So, well, real.

Let's just get something straight right now: Kyle is an above average guitar player, and gets a sound out of his acoustic that's almost enviable.

I think it's fair to say that Tenacious D is congruent artistically with Spinal Tap. Christopher and Michael are very good musicians. But Jack is a really good musician, and is more invested in Tenacious D than Chris and Mike were in Tap, or The Folksman, for that matter. And though Spinal Tap is more sophisticated, Tenacious D, at least for me, ends up being more authentic, for better or worse.

No, Jack. Metal never died. It just went gay for awhile there.

Tenacious D Week: Fresh Air On The G String Of Rock

Terry loves it but doesn't get why or how there's nothing there.

I first noticed the entity that I'm currently talking about inside of Jack Black in a little movie called Bob Roberts, a Tim Robbins movie about a guitar-wielding asshole-savant whose most famous song is "The Times They Are A-Changing Back", at a small art house movie theater in Hardwick, Vermont, with one Tia, in the winter of '92 or so. (It was Hardwick, wasn't it?) Jack plays a closeted psychotic Young Republican bent on the total destruction of all things not Bob Roberts. You can't help but notice him in the movie despite the relatively small role because it seems he could almost kill you with nothing but his thousand mile stare of death. Almost an anti-Bruno before Bruno was even born. (It's worth noting here at this point that Bob Roberts' campaign manager is also Laura Palmer's father!)

I can live without most Jack Black-driven movies; he has what I call "The Brad Pitt Syndrome", namely, that Jack and Brad are better in movies when their roles are supporting rather than starring. The one exception that proves the condition is Richard Linklater's head-banging love note to those of us who still own all our vinyl. Which makes it nothing short of a coincidence that Jack stars in animated features also starring Brad's future wife. [cue massive head-spinning brought on by euphoric moment of realization]

Got off the bean pole a little bit there. Which only proves that when Jack Black acts, he does better when he plays some twisted version of himself as opposed to some version of somebody else's notion of "Jack Black".

Which begs the question: Just exactly who is Jack Black?

Man. Anyways, Jack Black is what all the lead-singing closeted faggots from the 80's hair bands wish they had been, namely, an Ozzie that can actually sing. Well.*

Casting against a certain type of vocal flexing

*I.e., David Bowie-esque

Tenacious D Week: "Roadie" On Letterman

Dave doesn't really get it, but he knows something's there. And it might or might not be worthwhile to research the family-unfriendly version from the actual album.

Jack Black isn't a good singer. He's a great singer. He's also quite barely sane.

Tenacious D, for better or worse, is quickly becoming The Dan Band covering Spinal Tap, but completely devoid of anything resembling irony, were that ever to happen, which, now, can never happen, mercifully, making that particular problem "unsolvable".

(Sorry. Just finished William "Bill" Gibson's Neuromancer. I have no idea what just happened. In the book.)

Hi/Lo Fidelity All Stars

Half Wits And Nuance

Remember when I told you guys that I told mom I'd move closer to my nieces in order to better protect them from their parents? Well, turns out not only was I not joking (too "sick" at the time to understand that), but I may have outflanked them. Unwittingly. Like there's another way for me to outflank anyone, especially without archers.

Full disclosure: I was already familiar with the link one of my nieces sent me on behalf of one of my nephews.

"Mom-agers"*: Dina Lohan Versus Kris Jenner

Kris sets Dina's hair on fire while Dina shoots at it, exploding. 5 killed.

First of all, Today Show writers (Oh! Good one!), if you're going to do a play on words, it has to sound like an actual word without being that word, e.g., "Linsanity", or "celebretard", or "refudiate".

So I"m watching this documentary on nomadic yak farmers in rural Tibet (somewhat redundant, I know), and it got me to thinking. When the revolution comes, and it will come, and you find yourself in a ditch fending off homophobic bigoted evangelical robot cannibals, whom do you want next to you in that ditch: Mongolian farmers who can make gunpowder from petrified clay and livestock dung, or someone who kind of sort of designed a handbag that also functions in a pinch as a birth control device that clearly doesn't work?

I SO WANT THAT HANDBAG!!!?!!!

*The hyphen really sells it.

In Defense Of Marriage

"The sanctity of marriage consists of one man and one woman [at a time, more or less*, void where prohibited**]."

*Though 3 continues to be a magic number.

**You know who you are!

Happy Mothers' Day, Ladies.

And sons and daughters, all of us.

2 Things I Didn't Know Until Today

1.) Mitt Romney saved Detroit and the automotive industry.

2.) There are gay persons of an homosexual persuasion who are so frustrated with President Obama's evolving understanding of same-sex marriage that they won't vote for him, which could cause him to lose the election, thereby electing a president whose unevolved notion of same-sex marriage involves opposing it adamantly [unless some of the same-sex spouses are additional wives*].







*cheap shot

(Well, I guess it's evolved after all. I blame it on living in a house with 4 women.)

I'll never turn 10 either.

And for the life of me I could never figure out how, after all that monstering, his supper was still warm. Amazing.

A sweet, brilliant man with a giant middle finger. We're losing them faster than I'm comfortable with.

(Hi, bright. Always comforting to see you.)

Smash Penultimate: Megan Hilty V. Christin Chesenwith

Christin Chenawith. Kirsten Posteltwaith. Chiselwhite?

Anyways, I hate to say it, but the only song I've ever heard Christen sing that didn't annoy me was when she was just another sickeningly talented nobody singing "Taylor, The Latte Boy" on Garrison.

Megan had me at "Crazy Dreams", episode 2. And then last week, her solo, on camera, not dubbed, not mixed/mastered/fucked with. Just her, singing.

"We're here to play the new news theme!"
-Marc Shaiman, Broadcast News

"Put that shit back on the shelf."
-MCA,

"MCA, where have you been?"

Man, didn't expect this, or to take it this hard. Ridiculous, I suppose. Anyways, one of his geniuses was to embrace punk rock early and then quickly think, "Man, punk rock really sucks and is pointless." He had the same smoldering timbre as Chuck D, but whereas Chuck's arose out of a kind of anger, Adam's was born out of... bemusement.

47?

Multitasking

You think crying, "Foul out-of-bounds ball!" on President Obama's partisan rant against your own video-taped call to inaction 5 years ago on bin Laden while sucking Rudy's 9.11 centimeter dick at the ground zero museum of short memories is easy?

Well, come to think of it, regarding a citizenry's collective attention span of the lowest common denominator and median fuckheadedness, yeah, I can it is pretty easy. Never mind.

Celebrity Apprentice: Wow I Forgot How Easy It Is To Write A Song

I knew Barry Manilow. Barry Manilow was a friend of mine. Clay Aiken, you are no Barry Manilow.

In addition to rooting against people being bad sportsmanship, it is fundamentally unAmerican to want people to fail. You should let them do it quietly so that they can keep it to themselves.

For the record, I have never met Barry Manilow. However, having had many "incidents" with "Fanilows", I feel like I have.

Mitt&Ann Romney On Saturday Night Live!?!?!?!?!?!

I don't know. It would be an odd career move for the Mormon Twins considering they're already so hilarious being not on it.

And: Glee, Some Final Thoughts

As soon as I can figure out how to spell "eeichxle", I'll get back to you.

Celebrity Apprentice Versus Hallmark Hall Of Fame's "Firelight"

I love Hallmark commercials. It's a sign of weakness I'm fully willing to admit. The music makes me cry! But there was mention of Aubrey O'Day's vagina, so... well... we're still sorting out the details.

Thank Christ For Dan Savage

I heard this first May of 2009, and again, during a rebroadcast, then another time, and then again just about 5 minutes ago listening to WBHM in Birmingham Alabama (computers are crazy!). So this really was about the 4th or 5th time I stopped what I was doing and sat down and listened to it. The first time was almost exactly 3 weeks before my Mom's memorial service in Burt, Iowa, where I had memorized the poem John pointed me to, in which Mom wasn't lying in the clay, and recited it to myself quietly while the minister yammered on and on and on about God knows what.

I've always liked Dan. I hope you like it as much as I hope I know how to link youtube videos. Call your moms.

in my thoughts

I still miss you, ya old bag.

Moment Of Clarity #19

Good Morning, America! beats The Today Show! in ratings war for the first time since 1995-or-so-ish!

Dancing With The Stars! weigh[s] in on "Princess Pippa Longstocking's Nazi Gun Prank!".

Conclusion #19:
Morning shows approach making/having any resemblance to sense only and if only when you've been drunk for 32 days straight (and counting). Reason enough for this white-trash bro-bro, his 1971 tractor with a brand-spankin' new battery, and a coyote-ass-kicking best dog in the world not to relapse.

I.e., 45 weeks and counting, tomorrow. Best part? All week I thought it was only 44 weeks. And whether (weather!) all y'all like it or not I have each and every one of you to thank for it. And Matt "Megatard" Lauer, my trigger man. So, well, thanks. Again. And I hope we all have a really good day tomorrow. And if not, we'll fight through it one moment at a time.

columbiannian whoregate

man. staff soliciting hookers and then not paying, or tipping, booze, prescription pill abuse? add a burlap bag of blow, scarface and a carton of viagra and this pickle trap could be rush limbaugh's spring-fuckin'-break. meanwhile clinton's doing jello shots at the vargara sports bar threatening off the record but on the mic that if her wetback counterparts don't get their shit together she will personally come to their homes in the middle of the night and punch them to death? i love my secretary of state.

Ann Romney

Well crap. This one is so ripe for a whirlwind scathing, but I've hit a bit of stride on the tractor shed and I'm more concerned with Revenge: 5 days, several hours or so, and counting. So let me leave it to better men who don't hate women as much as I (and Mitt) do and simply say this:

"Hey assholes. You think it's easy choosing which caddy to drive all day? Fuck all y'all, and your dead jews. We're just trying to help!"

I Am... The Power King...

Mine's a bit nicer, with the most comfortable tractor seat I've ever sat in, and better tires, and it runs pretty good so far. I don't know if it's a 1967 or a 1972. Haven't found the serial number yet. But tomorrow I start converting the lumber salvage shed into a full service tractor shop. I.e., a covered gravel pit with an air compressor. Gotta start somewhere.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm hooked on Revenge.

Quote of the day: "I dig music... I'M ON DRUGS!!!"

Oh, almost forgot. I think the-one-that-got-away is now married. Got a cryptic text last month about her "getting hitched" in The Bahamas. I hope she's happy. And I love my tractor. I hope that's not wrong.

Scientific Method Proved Unscientific By Creationism

"So, yeah, I create heaven and earth, the sun, some firmament here and there, then man and woman. I give them free will and intellect, reason, logic, love, compassion, decency and birth control. Then I turn myself into my own son, die on the cross, rise on the 3rd-ish day, tear satan a new one, and how do you ignorant fucks repay me? By poking me in the ribs with a stick, hating women, One Direction, condemning queers, Florida, Texas, Tennessee? Nice. Well I've had it. Let's just say when I come back (and for those keeping score at home this will be the 19th time), by the time I'm done with this dimension The Hunger Games will seem like The Biggest Loser. You guys are on your own. Again."

Karma Volume 23: What Would Jesus Do?

Dear [switters]
... Due to the delay in closing, you incurred additional days interest on your Bank of America payoffs, resulting in an additional $xxx.94 owed for closing. Please return a personal check in the amount of xxx.94, made payable to [lawyer trust] at your earliest convenience. I am enclosing a self-addressed, pre-paid envelope for your convenience. Please feel free to call me if you have any questions.
Sincerely,
[lawyer]

"Dear [lawyer],
Please find enclosed a check for xxx.94 which I have over-nighted for your convenience. It occurred to me that sending the remainder in the pre-paid envelope you included was insufficient considering the gravity of the matter. I would, however, like to point out that the delay in closing was caused not by me but, rather, by the buyers, who seemed at every turn to have out-retarded themselves farther than the time before, culminating in having to delay closing for a week on account of not being able to gather the necessary documents from their lender and having to have emergency botox surgery at the last minute because, again, in addition to being retarded they are clearly extremely unattractive, both inside and out, again, clearly.
So despite the delay being caused by them and costing me the funds, I have decided to reimburse you and your firm. Don't ask me why. Though I have decided to include in the memo section of the personal check, 'Fuckheaded Twats', in order to remind myself that the only person you can really trust in this life is no one, and my dog. And that doing the right thing is always its own reward, except in this case.
Happy Easter, praise The One Who Gladly Died On The Cross For Our Sins, and go fuck yourselves hard, you inconsequential pricks.

Very sincerely, really,
[switters]"

so nice to see your nic again, john.

Cialis Commercial Erupts Prematurely At Campaign Event

So, should we unzip Mitt and see just exactly how not stiff he is?
Lame. And too easy. Sorry. But I'm still waiting for the part where The Mittster and The Misses are sitting naked in adjoining and matching bathtubs by a lake. Or is that just me?

Kentucky v. Kansas v. Smash

Smash. Have I mentioned lately just how much I hate plumbing, and not just because I suck at it so bad, or the smell? For me, it's that you get 1 chance - 1 chance - to get it right, or you have to start all over again. Well, it's not like I've got anything better to do.

The Academy Of Country Music Awards Show Awards v. Celebrity Apprentice

Just this: If these "celebrities" get any more retarded, the charities they're trying to raise money for will eventually end up being themselves.
And I grew up on country music. But the country music of today seems mostly dominated by country music stars who sing songs they haven't written about things they've never done or things it would never occur to them to do, other than dress really stupidly. It just makes me feel completely unfuddled!

Let's go bucks!

I'm hoping for an Ohio State v. Kentucky final because the not-so-fictional town of Port William is just northwest of Lexington and Andy Catlett had an epiphany just east of Columbus. As usual the Amish were involved in both instances again.
Also, Danny Branch bought a mowing machine, slightly used, in southwest Ohio.

Smash, issue 6.5

This show has everything that makes a show a show that has everything: Fame, Footloose, Cop Rock, The Color Of Money, Head Of The Class, All That Jazz, break dance fighting, Will & Grace, bold italics, unambiguous sexual innuenda, and bowling.

And William Devane as Dr. Juan Suarez. Can't look away.

You can have my hoodie when you pry it off of my cold dead body.

I wore a hoodie all winter, and no bigoted fuck ever shot at me. That I'm aware of. And I live in Gunville, population: BLAMMO!!!

I'd like to point out the obvious, as usual. It wasn't that long ago when a dead negro black boy shot down to death was just another saturday night of hijinks in the deep south. Look how far we've come!

Of one thing we can be sure: this is somehow the black president's fault.

I'm just assuming, then, for the sake of argument, that the tears of Yeshua ben Joseph are one of those renewable unlimited resources all the tree-hugging faggots are always whining about?

cunning, baffling, powerful

you know, i can say it's all about the baby steps as many times as i think i can get away with it. but it's my understanding that eventually i have to take some big boy strides or i'll just change by not changing at all. i can't go back there. or i won't. i'm supposed to do a daily inventory. my sober date is june 10 2011. in the meetings they call it my 2nd birthday. sorry for the rambling. the last thing they talked about in counseling was relapse. they also said that 9 to 12 months of sobriety is a crucial time. that i'd have to mourn my mom's death all over again. that the rigorous honesty, i call it brutal honesty, will catch up with me and back up on me. even that things about me will trip me up and things about my family will create doubts. when mom died my sister and my brothers just wanted to get things back to normal. i was able to do anything but. sorry for the grammar. i may need a meeting. i kind of resented the ease with which they all slipped back into everyday life, whereas i quickly just slipped and backslid. this has been my 1st serious attempt at anything resembling sobriety in about 10 years of very heavy drinking. being drunk more than being sober for 10 years is a lot to take in. i'm blessed in so many ways, but so fucked up as well. maybe i miss the counseling. brutal honesty. the last thing mom said to me was, "i respect your mind... i really do..." she was goofed on opiates but pretty lucid. i said, "well, mom, that's your and dad's fault." resentment is the fast track to relapse. but right now sobriety is the most valuable thing i own. the mood swings are brutal as well, nearly paralyzing such that i have to make myself get up and do something, anything productive. and i get the sense that my family could easily be a graduate school case study in denial. i'm just gonna keep going and really try not to edit myself. and/or chainsmoke.

Hungry Game!, a movie review

ah well. i really miss doing those. they were so much fun to write, and i had the perfect audience for them. i think "batman: new beginnings" was my first one. "the de vinshy cold" wrote itself, as did "broken back mountains". "the exercising of emily rose" was a clear triumph for all of us, including those still binding and rebuking those little demons of our own to this day. (you know who you are.)

I must've been on some sort of auto pilot at the time. one of the first comments i got for "the batman" was "it's christian bale, not christian slater [dumbass!]", a comment which i treasure to this very day. and how could "x-man united: the last dance" not sweep the tony awards, considering the headliner was jew hackman?

tortured therapy, i suppose, born from a mother who was simply incapable of getting the title of a movie or its stars correct. i think we all knew her. those were for you and dad, mom! you and dad. a meager tribute, i suppose, to a mother who knew the difference between condescension and constructive sarcasm, and a father who really did put the "b" in subtle. ("Su'b'tle," he might say.)

"The issues I will be campaigning on will be exactly the same."

"It's just my answers that will be different every time." ["Next question?"]

smash, episode 5-ish: The Bernadette Peters Workshop

she's one hundred and thirteen years old, guys. 1-1-3!
nick looks like my sponsor.
i worked on a workshop back in 1989, as, let's say, a "music editor". the show was "the prince of central park". it sucked so bad it closed after intermission. you're welcome.
speaking of divas, as part of my so-called music education, i was required to take a semester of choral conducting. the chorus was provided by the voice major department. so, me and about 19 voice majors, who traditionally think "sight singing" is a week in the hamptons. that semester i killed myself. 3 times.
113 years young, gang.
i used to know shaiman. he is 1. disgustingly talented; 2. disgustingly decent; and 3. a darn good piano player.
dang. seems like a lifetime ago.