Ghostwriter in the Machine Gun

Hello, Live Journal

2009-12-23T03:37:22Z

Who's been making me neglect you so much?

R.I.P. Dan O'Bannon

2009-12-21T14:51:25Z

Ash: You still don't understand what you're dealing with, do you? Perfect organism. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility.

Lambert: You admire it.

Ash: I admire its purity. A survivor... unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.

Parker: Look, I am - I've heard enough of this, and I'm asking you to pull the plug.

Ash: [Ripley goes to disconnect Ash, who interrupts] Last word.

Ripley: What?

Ash: I can't lie to you about your chances, but... you have my sympathies.

Glurge

2009-12-02T05:07:02Z

The Seven Wonders of the World

Junior high school students in Chicago were studying the Seven Wonders of the World. At the end of the lesson, the students were asked to list what they considered to be the Seven Wonders of the World. Though there was some disagreement, the following received the most votes:

1. Egypt’s Great Pyramids
2. The Taj Mahal in India
3. The Grand Canyon in Arizona
4. The Panama Canal
5. The Empire State Building
6. St. Peter’s Basilica
7. China’s Great Wall

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student, a quiet girl, hadn’t turned in her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The quiet girl replied, “Yes, a little. I couldn’t quite make up my mind because there were so many.” The teacher said, “Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help.”

The girl hesitated, then read, “I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:

1. to touch…
2. to taste…
3. to see…
4. to hear… (She hesitated a little, and then added…)
5. to feel…
6. to laugh…
7. and to love.

The room was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.

Then all at once, the students began gagging and vomiting, flooding the floor with a tsunami of lunch meat.

After the regurgitation subsided, the teacher told her, "No, that's wrong. You've entirely omitted the sense of smell" and awarded her an F for the quarter.

And she never spoke up and bothered anyone again.

Update

2009-11-23T15:18:45Z

Mike and I saw Kathy yesterday, and she looks good. Some expected pain, naturally, but while she's not ready to run any marathons, she's able to get up and move around the room. Drop her an e-mail or comment at semibold!

Update

2009-11-21T18:10:46Z

Kathy is fine and in her room. She sounded groggy and said there was pain, of course, but it was bearable. Basically, she feels like she just had surgery. The docs say everything looks good and she looks healthy. She sat up and they're going to try walking down the hall this afternoon.

More info as this develops.

Just Saw Her LJ Post About Updates...

2009-11-21T06:49:32Z

So, I figured I should give one. semibold's mother called us and spoke to Mike. The surgery went well after about two to three hours, and she was put in the recovery room earlier this evening. No new news yet, but she said Kath's doing fine. We'll probably visit her tomorrow or Sunday. Before going in she asked me to bring reading materials, particularly Watchmen. I look forward to bringing them to her.

More updates as I hear them.

Soot and Spit: A Rambling Rumination on the James Castle Exhibit

2009-11-17T04:55:22Z

(Apologies for the none-too-good photos. No flash photography allowed at the museum.)

I've been meaning to blog about the James Castle exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute. It's been two weeks since I saw it for the first time, but I've been back twice to reassess it (family membership at the museum is worth it if you work down the street). You should see it; really, you should. I wouldn't go with overly high expectations, unless you already have a hard-won appreciation for so-called outsider art. Otherwise you may, justifiably, wonder what all the hubbub is about over strung together scrap paper, scrawled upon and reapportioned by a deaf/quasi-mute/possibly retarded/more likely autistic Idahoan.

James Castle, from the little I've read about him, resides the artistic sphere occupied by Holy Goofs like Henry Darger or Christopher Smart. By Holy Goofs I mean the generally gently inoffensive loons who create art lacking formal training and that seems a little off. Like off the planet. Far, far off. Not mention off regarding most people's ideas of what is and isn't art.

And God bless the Holy Goofs for it.

Outsiderness does not guarantee great or even good art, but it does offer a pure, unhindered differentness, unimpeded (at least until discovery by the aesthetic opinion leaders) by outside opinion. What's the Charles Mingus quote I'm searching for?:

"Do you understand that poem, Dr. Wallach?"

"Well, Charles, it certainly is a very personal expression."

I assume Dr. Wallach avoided commentary since he was Chuck Mingus' therapist. He didn't want to put thoughts into Mingus' head, or notions about whether he approved or disapproved of the great bassist/composer's art, music, ethics, or morality. In general, however, I submit that declaring something a "very personal expression" is a gentle cop-out. "What you did, is what it is," says the uncritical critic, afraid to comment, whether too polite or simply confused. One encourages children this way, but one insults adult artists this way.

Yet, perhaps the two can come together. James Castle's art is a very personal expression. Absolutely withdrawn and uncommunicative as he was, it could be called the ultimate very personal expression. What he did was what it was, and thus resists easy definition. Castle didn't necessarily know better, lending his art more heft than if he was a suburban hausfrau taking Art 101 at night school.

The very personal expression is often dismissed because it is unidentified, unknown, uncommon, and thus unloved because it carries no identifying marks, it lacks a familiar and comfortable scent. It does not meet with the prescriptions of what is "art," and is easily, often justifiably, ignored. But when you encounter a holy goof, especially a prolific one, we give pause and ponder the worth of their output with more charity and patience. It is, after all, a very personal expression, with the extra grace of being unpowered by ego. Also, while it may not be "good" there's usually an awful lot of it, and many, little things—even badly rendered pieces— can come together to create an awesome and overwhelming effect. One of the most interesting observations on Warhol's work I've heard is that is you multiply the ordinary, it becomes out of the ordinary, even bizarre. James Castle's work is hardly ordinary, so what happens when you mass it together in a few galleries at the Art Institute of Chicago? Oddness abounds.

I can't say I think much of Castle's constructions. A few work. His dolls are winsome and charming, and weird and creepy by turns. It's interesting that such a thing isn't "art" if it's created by a little girl, but it is if a child-man creates it. The freestanding cardboard whatsit that greets you as you enter the gallery, on the other hand, simply looks like trash, or bad hobo art. From what I gather, however, this is the sort of stark, spare piece that makes the critics and aficionados ooh and ah.

I mean, really.

What appealed to me were the many mini-books Castle cranked out, and the man's obsession with typography. He painstakingly reproduced letters and combinations of letters through his favorite, if distasteful, medium, soot and saliva, with no apparent interest in or knowledge about what they meant. We could pretend that Castle pictured himself as a latter-day necromancer, inscribing little spellbooks with mysterious glyphs meaning... what?

Castle's work reminds me of a English -as-a-third-language version of the Voynich Manuscript. Some have suggested that the Voynich Manuscript may be nothing more than a work of outsider art—spontaneous bibble-babble created by a fool or a prankster. Even so, at the time of transcription, for Castle and the Voynich Manuscript's creator, there was a moment of decision to render this character or that glyph. Castle may not have known what the words on a page said, but that didn't mean they didn't hold power for him, however transiently. Spellbook/spelling book, Castle's books carry multitudes of beautifully meaningless un-words. Exploded telephone books and Ouija boards shaken like Etch-a-Sketches, until the mystifying oracle within became too addled to keep its letters and numbers in order.

Good-bye?

Yes?

No?

JE J& JZ JX JH JK P!D?

Reply hazy, try again.

Lastly, we have Castle the cartoonist. I don't think the world lost another Winsor McCay or Dan Clowes, but it's interesting stuff. Like a mishmosh of Ben Katchor, Edward Hopper, and Buck Rogers. Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot, but not before being greatly confused. When we see panels of illustration we seek a storyline even though, in Castle's case, we know this is quite impossible. Behold my pitiful attempt.

A man and his son(?) view the sea from the rail of a pier or a ship. Cut to a scene of a house, followed by a close-up on individuals chatting away on the front porch. Behold a witch comes. it is at this moment that Castle's Crazy Cartoons attempt to outdo Finnegans Wake for purest mindfuckery. How the cyclopean robot comes into play, I know not. Best to leave it alone, especially since, you will recall, Castle's main media were carbon and enzymes.

Spitting images, as it were.

More here.

Alas...

2009-11-16T17:38:54Z

R.I.P. Edward Woodward
May Morrison: Can I do anything for you, Sergeant?

Sergeant Howie: No, I doubt it, seeing you're all raving mad!

You're Never Too Young to Ride the "Crazy Train"

2009-11-09T19:23:59Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5foc1YJ4wE

Chili Saturday

2009-11-08T04:39:55Z

Cincinnati Five-Way Chili

A tasty if mild chili with some interesting variations on the southwestern style. First time I ever used baker's chocolate in a chili recipe, and I'm shocked I never considered barbecue sauce before. But dammit, it works. Plenty of interesting seasonings, like coriander, cardamom, and allspice; and laid on a bed of spaghetti, and covered with red beans, raw onions, and cheese. God DAMN it was good.

From Chili Nation, which I recommend for any culinary library.

Browning the meat with the onions. Always a good idea.

Adding the spice mix to the meat, onions, and barbecue sauce. What an aroma.

The final dish. Oyster crackers on the side. Went down smoothly.

Mr. Dan Kelly Presents... The End of Irish Civilization

2009-11-06T06:33:27Z

Paying homage to Mike Sterling's Progressive Ruin Presents... The End of Civilization series (Mike reviews and roundly mocks the most fanboyish of fanboy trinkets and devices from Previews The Comic Shop Catalog), I felt obligated to create the following when the Creative Irish Gifts catalog showed up in our mailbox. Some might call this plastic Paddyism. I suggest that there may be a more fake material than plastic that better symbolizes this crap. And don't get me started on the nonsensical inclusion of several "Scottish" items. Irish, Scottish... who can tell the difference, right? Ah, you Celts all look the same.

Fresh from walking the streets of Bannockburn, Scuttish/sluttish Barbie brings all the lads to the moors with her bagpipes, wee plaid skirt, and CFM tam-o-shanter.

Bring out the tangy, smoke-flavored soul of your lamb and potatoes, just like they do in Donegal, Ireland. Yeah, sure. Some use mesquite, others use charcoal, and still others hardwood. I've always barbecued with peat myself. Mmmmm, peat-meat.

Speaking of peat. I don't really know what the stuff smells like, but I'm trying to imagine the wisdom of filling your living space with the scent of smoldering rotted and compressed vegetation. I mean, what could be stupider?

Oh.

Hang it on the wall near your Mammy cookie jar.

And somewhere in a small country village, an Irishman is shoveling dirt from his compost pile into little bags, and laughing himself sick.

Because nothing says Irish pride like a stoned hippie jam band. I guess Garcia was part-Irish, so.. Nah... I can't see it.

"It will also be a hit at parties and parades."

I think we go to different parties and parades.

I seem to remember hearing a similar phrase somewhere. Where was it...?

Oh, right...

He: "But, honey... They're smaller and quieter than a full-sized bagpipe."

She: "I want a divorce. Now."

Finally, BEHOLD THE TRUE END OF IRISH CIVILIZATION:

Then again, maybe she's a druid high priestess. A snuggly-warm druid high priestess.

I Buildered This

2009-11-05T03:09:56Z

I Was Young and Beautiful Once, Now I Am Old and Repulsive. Will No One Kiss Me?*

2009-11-03T22:42:58Z

I'm watching a friend's apartment while she's out of town (I'm not mentioning her name because I don't feel like advertising "Hey! Crooks! She's not there!"). Last night, after checking to make sure her kitties had food and water and had failed to poop on the furniture in protest (non-cat owners, this really happens), I came across a photo album she'd left out in the open (so, it's not snooping, so, shut up, you) and decided to flip through it. As expected, there were photos from the early 90s, showing my friend, me, and the circle of folks we hung out with back then.

I have plenty of photos of myself from all stages of my life, but familiarity has made them seem unremarkable. I see the flaws: the extra chin fat, the droopy eye, the pock mark left over from a childhood bout with chicken pox, the poor grooming, the uninspired wardrobe, the far-too-large genitals. The usual.

But at 42 there's something about seeing a squirreled-away photo of the twenty-something you you don't remember being taken. A moment of "Who the hell is that?" and the shivering suggestion there's a young clone of yourself wandering about, wearing dated clothing, hanging out in strange places, and glomming onto girls who aren't your wife. Dude's got some nerve.

Especially funny is when you find yourself hating young you a little bit. When I see younger pictures of myself, I quickly judge the guy as a skinny dork who used too much hair product and was obviously, painfully concerned about how people perceived him. He had unimaginative taste in clothes, and a shifty, hunted look in his eye. That's hunted not haunted, by the way. Like he was always afraid someone was about to hit him over the head with a club. Stark, staring, but not mad--just wary. Sometimes he had good reason; mostly he didn't.

On the other hand, he seems to be enjoying himself. He appears comfortable with the people around him. Hard to believe so many of them dropped away in the coming years. The shows, apartments, stores, and restaurants he's in are zeitgeists for their era, stirring up nostalgic squishiness or roiling revulsion inside my heart's heart. The lad is easing into adulthood without giving up too much control—and that's fine by him. Sort of. Sometimes he looks like he wants to bolt. Find some weirdness. Get dirty. Squirm. Yet, he knows he's content. He can't complain.

A part of old me wants to pull up a chair beside him; ignore the pop-eyed looks his friends give me when a fatty, wrinkly, greyer old shoe version of him sits down beside him; and start pointing. "See that guy? Total asshole. Dump him NOW. Her? She's cool. She'll be your son's godmother. That woman? She'll shred your heart." Then I poke him in the chest, hard. "But don't think you're so special or blameless, chum. Behind the scenes you were occasionally the perfect shit. You were more than a little nuts too. I'm just telling you to be a little more aware of your surroundings. Maybe consider that your actions/his actions/her actions are already mingling to make a poison soup of your life for a few years. But, hey, don't think your life is so awful. You had it better than a lot of folks. Always have. That's not just the Catholicism talking either, sonny. Okay, calm down. You'll meet an adorable little Danish chick and make a terrific kid. Feel better? Okay, I gotta go. No more spoilers."

The grief rests in the fact that I would have listened to myself, without surprise or doubts. Most of my life I've had an agreement with all my future selves to—should time travel become possible—zoom back and tip off the rest of us. Maybe, just maybe, 99-year-old Dan has been working behind the scenes to keep our life interesting, but not boring. Certainly, I have few complaints about this life of mine, and I'd never trade it in.

"A book contract would be nice though. Get to it, 99-Year-Old Dan."

"You have to finish a book first, you lazy shit," 99-year-old Dan wheeze-whispers in my ear. "Just for that. No stock tips."

* Please do not reassure me about my attractiveness. I know that I am actually as beautiful as a young blond ballerina twirling about in a sun-dappled field with gardenias in my hair. It's true. Also, I have the firmest ass this side of Bruce Lee. With gardenias in its hair.

It's Not Enough That I Succeed, Others Must Not Have the Opportunity to Fail

2009-10-27T20:11:05Z

Last Friday, the Times reported on the latest endemic non-problem: marathon malingerers. (I went for alliteration there, by the way, because marathon goldbrickers didn't quite snap.)

In every sport, you have an elite, an accomplished middle, and a large group of strivers of middling to negligible ability. You see it in different forms in all genres, fields, and societies.

The elite are the folks who appear on the magazine covers, talk shows, and cereal boxes. They're the Michael Jordans, Lance Armstrongs, Michael Phelps, Mia Hamms, and Shannon Millers, and in their prime they were the nearest thing, body-wise, to gods that this poor old world ever had. At their heights they made the fittest and most athletic folks you know look like wheezing sacks of jellyfish, and the rest of us like simmering blobs of chicken fat. Michael, Lance, Michael, Mia, and Shannon are only the tip of Mount Olympus too. Just below them are the demigods who miss Titan status by a matter of milliseconds or a handful of points. Regardless, they are the elite, and it's likely one NBA player could take on you and your after-work/weekend basketball/soccer/rugby/what-have-you buddies without breaking a sweat. I'm sure there are exceptions, but I can't imagine many of the elite complaining, or at least caring, too much about the motives of those beneath them. I just can't see Mia booing a preschool soccer game, or Lance whizzing by and razzing a recreational cyclist in the forest preserve. "You call THAT cycling!?!" Armstrong screams. "I had stage three testicular cancer, wimp, and look at me! LOOK AT ME AND DESPAIR!!!" Then he rides off while doing a headstand on his seat and servicing every cheerleading captain in the nation. Call me sentimental, but I'd like to think that, by and large, the elites are gracious, or at least comfortable in their abilities. By and large, they seem like people who love what they do and focus on getting better, and the relevancy of the recreational masses' motives and approach is negligible to them. Hell, they WANT to promote their sport to as many people as possible.

Next you have the accomplished middle. Think back to high school or college, or hell, the person three cubes over who always seemed or seems to be prepping for some body-punishing event. He/she is the one who, even if they didn't seem like they were going to the big show, they were undeniably good at it. He/she threw, hit, jumped, tumbled, raced, swam, dove, or (insert action verb here) better than anyone else. Maybe they weren't even involved in the sports program at your school; just a gifted amateur who slept, ate, and breathed their sport. Perhaps they were a nice guy or gal who tried to encourage you to run till you puked or toss the old pigskin around. But largely, and less pleasantly, they seemed slightly nuts. A strutting eugenics experiment who couldn't resist poking your belly or critiquing every slice of pizza you gobbled down. You can see them now, can't you? Curling a dumbbell in their dorm room while taking hits off a warm glass of brown sludge (F*CK berries and yogurt, man. If it tastes good it's no damn good at all!). Yet, even as they declared that just a spoonful of sugar sends your body straight to hell, you couldn't help but giggle at their receding hairline/tremendous Adam's apple, man dugs/pie plate breasts, and grotesquely stringy musculature. But they never saw the flaws They were FIT. The fittest, tannest, creepiest mummypeople you ever saw, God help them.

Finally, you have the strivers. Some are better than average, most are just average, and a base segment are trying their darnedest not to look too stupid while pursuing something they love—or at least something they'd like to give a shot, possibly fail at, but still be able to say, "Well I tried, didn't I?"

Indeed you have the goof-offs and the screw-ups. They're unavoidable, but it's fair to divvy them up into the hopeless but hopeful, the obvious slackers, and the oblivious bastards*. The slackers are the ironic doofuses, chuckling it up and messing around on the track because... it's funny?, uh, spending eight hours of lifetime strolling for the entertainment of... who? Got me. I can't imagine those shirts and medals have much of a comedic shelf life either. I can't believe these folks are all that prevalent, particularly at marathons. Maybe 10, maybe 20 giggling idiots, yes. But swarms of them? I'm not buying it.

The oblivious are sporty incompetents who dispense unsolicited, nasty advice to the hopeless/hopeful with the same aplomb as the health nuts—though at least the nuts are able to back the chatter up with action rather than sweatiness, erractic breathing, and heart palpitations. I used to practice hapkido with a two-pack-a-day man with red, red skin who I figured would die of a simultaneous heart attack, brain aneurysm, and clotted artery. Despite this, the man thought he was the picture of health, and told healthy old me how I (puff) had it (huff puff) all wrong.Yea, let the slackers and oblivious ones be anathema, though they're not the ones I want to talk about here.

What I'm talking about are the folks who just want to run a little, then walk a little, then run a little because they'd like to enjoy the marathon experience without, you know, being an monomaniacal freak about it. Seriously, where's the harm?

Ah. The harm apparently comes from being unsightly to those who are there to (sort of) WIN. The first miffed quote comes from one Adrienne Wald, who, I am scarcely surprised, is a professional coach.

“It’s a joke to run a marathon by walking every other mile or by finishing in six, seven, eight hours,” said Adrienne Wald, 54, the women’s cross-country coach at the College of New Rochelle, who ran her first marathon in 1984. “It used to be that running a marathon was worth something — there used to be a pride saying that you ran a marathon, but not anymore. Now it’s, ‘How low is the bar?’ ”

I am curious if, since 1984, Ms. Wald has also pumped nightmare fuel into the dreams of countless chubby, nonathletic, and shy gym students. Mostly, I wonder why, if the woman is finishing in the first few hours, does she give a damn, since the perambulating porkers are hours behind her? I picture the tautly-necked, pipe-cleaner-limbed Wald bumping like a pinball between hundreds of tubby ambling human hippopotami as they wolf down eclairs, cheeseburgers, and melted gallons of Ben and Jerry's.

"Let me through! Let me through!" she shrieks. "I could break three hours if it weren't for all you plushbottomed lollygaggers holding back real marathoners like ME!"

"Haw haw haw!" laughs a fat-bedecked bumblefuck. "Skinny scarecrow wants to 'win' and 'do well'! C'mon, folks, let's help her out!" Suddenly, Ms. Wald is set upon and ensconced in the chubby posteriors of four trundling tubagoos.

"Let me go! Let me go!" shrieks the wiry woman, fruitlessly wriggling about in the jiggly fleshsacks. "I could run 26 miles very quickly for the 25th time, if only you suet-bottomed shuffle-whales weren't here to incapacitate me mentally and now physically!"

Now.

Accomplished middle-folks who hate the plodders, I don't mean to be cruel, and I'm glad the Pheidippidean experience gives you some pleasure... but if you're not one of those Kenyans or Russians in front, and you're still pulling in an impressive time of three point something-or-other hours, the general public is impressed, yes, but we're not that impressed. I hate to break it to you, but most of us are barely interested in the Kenyans and Russians. Your "sport" has all the drama of watching ants crawling across the sidewalk—it's hypnotic for a few seconds before some part of us says, "Eyuugh." and moves on. You aren't knocking anything out of the park. You're not performing killer tackles. You're not scoring incredible goals. You're not even punching one another, like in hockey, along the route. It's not a showy sport.

Personally, I think it's quite admirable to run, or even run-walk the marathon. However,, if you're one of the above insistent types who think the slowsters and huskies are making a mockery of an sacred event that is, essentially, thousands of sweaty humans moving in a single direction, I start to view you as a vain, sinuous stringbean with money to burn on fancy footwear and training programs, who invested hours of their life for the purpose of running in a foot race. Wow. I'm in awe.

Conversely, and oddly enough, if you run with honor and humility and patience for the penguins, I see a healthy individual who invested a lot of effort in becoming good at something who's also possessed of some graciousness.

It's all about perspective though, chums. Maybe I'm wrong about the running elite. Consider this: Perhaps, occasionally, the Kenyans and Russians look over their shoulders once in a while, see you, and say, "Oh! It's disgusting to see these toned dilettantes, crawling along with their three hour times, pretending they have any clue about the sacredness of the sport. My God, they're letting anyone in these days."

For That Feeling of Well-Being

2009-10-25T02:55:23Z

Found this again while cleaning the basement. In short, it's an early (1940s/50s) vibrator, though I'm pretty sure I'd never want this steampunk monster near my boys. I'll be scanning the other manual very soon.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonny_Quest#Characters

I think the above qualifies as the most disturbing page.

Vincent Price Reads Winnie the Pooh to a Child

2009-10-22T14:44:47Z

"And then Christopher Robin found Pooh, engorged on honey and trapped--enTOMBED really--in the hole to Rabbit's hutch. Heavens, whatever will Rabbit do when his carrots run out? Meanwhile Eeyore remains enSORcelled in the depths of desPAIR, slowly pricked by the thistle bushes and left ALL ALONE. Oh look! Tigger has pounced upon Roo with a wild look in his eye! Is there no escape from this frighteningly positive creature of the jungle? Wait, why are you crying, little one?"

(Inspired by a Facebook post by Kerry R.!)

Girlymachomen

2009-10-19T20:16:09Z

Through my friendships, I'm glad Nate has a circle of men to look up to who balance creativity with traditional masculinity. Seriously. Dave edits an arts and culture mag and spends the odd weekend mending fences, toting bales, and such at a farm up in Wisconsin. Eric is an assemblage artist who has a knack for the industrial/shop arts. Grandpa Dan (Mike's dad), plays jazz piano and composes, but he's also good around the garden, a great handyman, and a helluva barbecuer. Uncle Seth is a schoolmarm... I mean teacher, but the man's got street smarts—he boxes and dances salsa, and can tell you the best place to get Cuban food at 3 a.m. Pat draws and plays guitar, but is an outdoorsy sort of guy from Maine, where they're born in the woodlands wearing flannel and field jackets. And dear old Dad (me)? Why, I'm a writer and a self-taught (soon to be taught) carpenter with a voracious appetite for how stuff works. Also, I shot a man in Toronto just to see him cry.

Now, when I say masculinity, I don't mean machismo. I mean being a guy who you can rely on to get shit done. And by "get shit done" I don't mean strictly being able to wield a socket wrench. I mean being tough and dependable, yet not afraid of a little self-expression via the creative arts. My friends are good men to a man. I like that my son can look up to guys with a hammer in one hand and a vial of glitter in the other.

Oh Facebook Sidebar Ads... How You Confuse Me So!

2009-10-19T14:50:49Z

My main quibbles with this are (1) what on my Facebook page made this ad appear? I infrequently write about super-bulletproof, ball-producing paper, and (2) what exactly do you use this stuff for and how is it made? Is it created by the husband of the teeth-whitening housewife in their basement? And what are their kids cobbling together in R&D?

Casualties of War

2009-10-17T22:20:33Z

My poor Epiphone Strat copy (I think), which semibold gave to me, had a small accident while we cleaned the basement. Sigh. Thank God it wasn't my Martin. On the plus side... New guitar restoration project!

***

2009-10-17T20:38:46Z

Kathy! Don't tell! You are allowed to comment with an "AGGGGH!" if you wish.

Ich Bin Orlock, the Wrath of GOTT! AGGGHHHHH!!!

2009-10-16T19:17:25Z

I really don't think I'm doing the Horrorshow again this year. I don't feel comfortable sticking Mike with Nate for 24 hours. Next year though for sure.

And the flicks on this soundtrack should probably be on the schedule.

I imagine a Kinski horror flick proceeding this way: A monster comes to a small village. But then Klaus Kinski falls from the sky, naked and masturbating, and screams at the beast until it dies in the unrelenting heat of the German actor's intensity.

mrdankelly @ 2009-10-09T13:03:00

2009-10-09T18:01:13Z

Boy, I remember when you couldn't tear me away from my LJ.

And Then After I Won My Eighth Oscar, I Heard I'd Been Given Four Fields Medals

2009-10-09T17:13:59Z

Once, back in the eighties, long before his current romantic problems, Dave Letterman interviewed some perfectly gorgeous actress. I can't remember which one, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't just the latest hottie. Anyway, Letterman, as is his wont, was flirtatious as hell. Then the actress suddenly threw him off by asking him out on a date.

Dave hemmed and hawed amusingly and tried to joke his way out of it, but she insisted that she was serious. At that point he stopped clowning and demurred gracefully (I'm not sure if he was seeing anyone at the time), to which the audience hooted and howled in dismay.

"Oh, like you have a CHANCE!" Letterman said to the audience, getting big laughs.

I come back to that whenever I see anyone offering advice or criticism on situations they have no real input on, or which they'll never experience themselves.

Politically, let's consider two situations where we might be tempted to kvetch. In the case of a president who pulls us into a war, spending our tax dollars and wasting our soldiers' lives, we have an investment—we can comment freely. It's a matter of import that affects us all personally. In the case of an accomplished young man who worked his way to the top, and who has already made progress in opening dialogues and turning back the horrors created by his predecessor (and yes, he has much work ahead of him)—who are we to say he doesn't deserve a prize that extols humanity's highest ideal?

If nothing else, the Nobel Peace Prize is a polite "up yours" to the dark forces. It offers the recipient an opportunity to direct the world's attention toward his or her pet peace project. That, to me, is the real prize. Complaining about the president receiving the prize for whatever quibbling, social faux pas-fearing, hand-wringing reason is the sort of counterproductive whinging that lost us elections for a decade.

Maybe it's just the Midwesterner in me, but when someone offers me a Nobel Peace Prize, I always say, "Why, thank you. What a gracious gesture! This is a marvelous opportunity to talk to the world about subjects dear to my heart, like human rights, healthcare, disarmament, and the environment." I do that every time I win one.

But wait, I've never won a peace prize. Never will either. And neither will most of you, sorry.

But Barack Obama did, and I think he's a fine choice. So, before you criticize the man because a group of Swedes decided to award him with a shiny bauble previously worn by some pretty fine pieces of humanity, just think for a moment about what you'd do in that situation.

And if you persist in your bitchiness, just remember: "Oh, like you have a CHANCE!"

A Tale of Two Kingdoms

2009-09-27T23:59:12Z

Taco AND burrito king? Just remember, sir, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Screech! Screech!

2009-09-27T23:52:41Z

Mike and I tried Toreore Chicken tonight (shrill and head-drilling song plays for about a minute at that link; you are warned). Not bad. Sweet and sour KFC (Korean-fried chicken) with a radish relish. I'd like to sample the garlic version before passing judgment on the place. Great cover art! I assume the mascots are supposed to be a fox and a very nervous chicken, which makes sense. I'm not sure what's up with the Santa imagery though.

I also appreciate that the chopsticks packaging promises both chicken and joy.