Ladies and ...well, ok, you dudes too... Circus Kelli!
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Reality...what a shitty concept.
I seem to be in the minority here and since it is familiar territory, it worries me not. However, I am concerned for the well-being of others and future of present-day society and for our planet as a whole. Yes, I care. It's a curse.
(At this point in the YPS!! meal, you have the choice of a subtle snicker or evil cackle)
As a compassionate, caring gentleman of the world, I must ask a simple question that has plagued me for quite some time. It keeps me up at night and makes my daily life even more Hellish than usual.
What in the hell is going on with all of this so-called "reality television" bullshit? I need an explanation of the appeal of a bunch of has-been celebrities living in a swanky mansion while acting overly melodramatic and silly. I would like to know why someone with mediocre vocal abilities can become an American Idol while there are folks out there with legitimate talent and style that will likely remain unknown. I will give someone 3 paper clips and dried-up ink pen if they can provide sufficient evidence that a celebrity dance contest or skating show is not a sign of the fall of civilization.
I have no clue what's going on with this crap show trend and yet it constantly regenerates into a new show that is even worse than the previous lump of shit. Apparently someone is watching the televised trainwreck, because the dough is rising and the lame trend wasn't smothered in its crib at a young age.
Enlighten me. Please.
A lot of the trend seems to have originated with MTV's The Real World. I guess it wasn't entirely terrible from a soap opera point of view, but I've never been much of a fan of soap operas. I also wonder what that show has to do with the "real world." Taking a group of photogenic twenty-something folks and housing them in a swanky abode while they don't have any true source of employment doesn't seem very real to me. How about taking the same people and putting them on skid row and building a show out of that? I think I would find that more interesting, but I guess that wouldn't be good for morale or most importantly, it would kill ratings in that all important too young to know shit about shit demographic. They buy product and companies strive to sell product to folks that can't think for themselves.
When the pseudo soap opera version of reality became a tad passe, it was only a matter of time before competition entered the well-lit shot. Framed nicely with soft-focus so folks wouldn't know they were being presented with shit.
Enter American Idol.
Admittedly, I have only seen minimal moments of American Idol. Usually, I can only stomach about 3-5 minutes before erupting into a fit of rage and threatening to shoot out the television like Elvis. The show Friends has the same effect on me. I can't explain my hatred for it except that it is intense and runs deep. However, I hear so much AI talk even when trying my absolute best to tune it out. "____ did really well last night, but _____ was really bad..." It's even more annoying than the people who cuss and discuss a University of Kentucky basketball game to the point of nausea. Unfortunately, it's my nausea and not their nausea. At this point, I will drop the phrase "Fuck UK" here for no apparent reason and move on. "Fuck UK." I slipped an extra in there because I was feeling generous like that little toga-wearing Roman dude at Little Caesars. Pizza Pizza indeed.
From what I gather, this competition takes a person who can or cannot sing, can or cannot play an instrument, can or cannot write a song and makes them a musical "artist." That's like calling McDonalds fine cuisine. If that's all you know, I guess it's as good as it gets. But if you know there is better food out there, then McDonalds is something of a disappointment. Some folks only like McDonalds and I respect that. I don't understand it, but I respect it.
I guess my biggest question surrounding American Idol is at what point in time did Paula Abdul become a barometer for musical vision? Correct me if I am wrong, but she had 2-3 "hits" and her musical career was, to quote Diamond David Lee Roth, "Here today, gone later today." Once again, I am not saying that she is not a musical genius, but perhaps I need to have someone explain it to me. Bring some flow charts, diagrams, outlines, and please avoid Power Point. I'm tired of that shit. All I remember about Paula's musical career was Straight Up, a video with animation in it, and a whole lot of her clomping around like a well-choreographed Clydesdale. I think Arsenioooooooooooooooo Hall might have been in a video, too. I guess that qualifies her as a musical visionary. Who am I to argue with that? I guess they couldn't get Hootie, his Blowfish, any member of Loverboy or Corey Hart to offer their genius to prime-time television. Perhaps television networks cannot afford the price tag of the guy who wears sunglasses at night.
I'm sure volumes could be written about that poncy dude with the British twang, but that's too easy. He's the token bad guy that supposedly has had a big career behind the scenes. Without wasting time doing the research on someone ultimately not worth the time, I would be interested in knowing whose careers ol' Goldfinger there has, uh, fingered. Again, I'm not denying, but simply do not know. For all I know, he could have been the one responsible for making Hootie a household name. If that was the case, I think we'd all have reason to file a grievance with him.
I know nothing about the other dude on the panel, so he will be let off with a warning. Cut the shit out or your name will be beaten senseless on a low-rent blog such as this. I am sure that he is quaking in his fancy-ass designer shoes. As well he should.
If the American Idol wanna-be's want to make a career in music, here's an idea. I'm a maverick in my thoughts so it might be difficult to comprehend and embrace. How about learning how to sing or play an instrument, practice like your life depends on it, and bust ass to make the dream happen? In other words, drive your ass in a crappy van that should have been declared wreckage on wheels across the frozen tundra, load and unload heavy equipment, and pay dues like countless others. That would make for a much more interesting program and actually VH1 had a similar, yet glitzy and overdone version. It wasn't bad, but it seemed a tad less gritty and real than the stories told in Henry Rollins' excellent book/audio book, Get In The Van. If the folks only strive to be a one-hit wonder with fifteen minutes of fame, then I guess American Idol is the place for them. As a fan of music, I have a lot more respect for a band like Motorhead that have carved out a 30+ year career and for better or worse, fly under the radar of the mainstream. In fact, most folks have never heard of them aside from my pissy rants and raves. Maybe folks have heard of Metallica. Chances are good that if it wasn't for Motorhead, Metallica would have a much different sound. That's not to blame Motorhead for the shit band that Metallica have become. It's just giving selective credit where selective credit is due.
As much as I dislike the attention that American Idol gives to musical mediocrity, I find it's spin-off shows to be even worse on the fecal scale. A celebrity dance contest with one of the New Kids On The Block and one of the more annoying characters on Seinfeld? What in THE hell is that about? I would like to think they've already scraped the bottom of the genre's bucket, but I know they won't stop scraping the dregs until they've gone subterranean.
Chances are good that when things do indeed go subterranean there will be a retrospective show to document the rise and fall of a lame genre of entertainment.
Reality TV...it's craptastic.
(At this point in the YPS!! meal, you have the choice of a subtle snicker or evil cackle)
As a compassionate, caring gentleman of the world, I must ask a simple question that has plagued me for quite some time. It keeps me up at night and makes my daily life even more Hellish than usual.
What in the hell is going on with all of this so-called "reality television" bullshit? I need an explanation of the appeal of a bunch of has-been celebrities living in a swanky mansion while acting overly melodramatic and silly. I would like to know why someone with mediocre vocal abilities can become an American Idol while there are folks out there with legitimate talent and style that will likely remain unknown. I will give someone 3 paper clips and dried-up ink pen if they can provide sufficient evidence that a celebrity dance contest or skating show is not a sign of the fall of civilization.
I have no clue what's going on with this crap show trend and yet it constantly regenerates into a new show that is even worse than the previous lump of shit. Apparently someone is watching the televised trainwreck, because the dough is rising and the lame trend wasn't smothered in its crib at a young age.
Enlighten me. Please.
A lot of the trend seems to have originated with MTV's The Real World. I guess it wasn't entirely terrible from a soap opera point of view, but I've never been much of a fan of soap operas. I also wonder what that show has to do with the "real world." Taking a group of photogenic twenty-something folks and housing them in a swanky abode while they don't have any true source of employment doesn't seem very real to me. How about taking the same people and putting them on skid row and building a show out of that? I think I would find that more interesting, but I guess that wouldn't be good for morale or most importantly, it would kill ratings in that all important too young to know shit about shit demographic. They buy product and companies strive to sell product to folks that can't think for themselves.
When the pseudo soap opera version of reality became a tad passe, it was only a matter of time before competition entered the well-lit shot. Framed nicely with soft-focus so folks wouldn't know they were being presented with shit.
Enter American Idol.
Admittedly, I have only seen minimal moments of American Idol. Usually, I can only stomach about 3-5 minutes before erupting into a fit of rage and threatening to shoot out the television like Elvis. The show Friends has the same effect on me. I can't explain my hatred for it except that it is intense and runs deep. However, I hear so much AI talk even when trying my absolute best to tune it out. "____ did really well last night, but _____ was really bad..." It's even more annoying than the people who cuss and discuss a University of Kentucky basketball game to the point of nausea. Unfortunately, it's my nausea and not their nausea. At this point, I will drop the phrase "Fuck UK" here for no apparent reason and move on. "Fuck UK." I slipped an extra in there because I was feeling generous like that little toga-wearing Roman dude at Little Caesars. Pizza Pizza indeed.
From what I gather, this competition takes a person who can or cannot sing, can or cannot play an instrument, can or cannot write a song and makes them a musical "artist." That's like calling McDonalds fine cuisine. If that's all you know, I guess it's as good as it gets. But if you know there is better food out there, then McDonalds is something of a disappointment. Some folks only like McDonalds and I respect that. I don't understand it, but I respect it.
I guess my biggest question surrounding American Idol is at what point in time did Paula Abdul become a barometer for musical vision? Correct me if I am wrong, but she had 2-3 "hits" and her musical career was, to quote Diamond David Lee Roth, "Here today, gone later today." Once again, I am not saying that she is not a musical genius, but perhaps I need to have someone explain it to me. Bring some flow charts, diagrams, outlines, and please avoid Power Point. I'm tired of that shit. All I remember about Paula's musical career was Straight Up, a video with animation in it, and a whole lot of her clomping around like a well-choreographed Clydesdale. I think Arsenioooooooooooooooo Hall might have been in a video, too. I guess that qualifies her as a musical visionary. Who am I to argue with that? I guess they couldn't get Hootie, his Blowfish, any member of Loverboy or Corey Hart to offer their genius to prime-time television. Perhaps television networks cannot afford the price tag of the guy who wears sunglasses at night.
I'm sure volumes could be written about that poncy dude with the British twang, but that's too easy. He's the token bad guy that supposedly has had a big career behind the scenes. Without wasting time doing the research on someone ultimately not worth the time, I would be interested in knowing whose careers ol' Goldfinger there has, uh, fingered. Again, I'm not denying, but simply do not know. For all I know, he could have been the one responsible for making Hootie a household name. If that was the case, I think we'd all have reason to file a grievance with him.
I know nothing about the other dude on the panel, so he will be let off with a warning. Cut the shit out or your name will be beaten senseless on a low-rent blog such as this. I am sure that he is quaking in his fancy-ass designer shoes. As well he should.
If the American Idol wanna-be's want to make a career in music, here's an idea. I'm a maverick in my thoughts so it might be difficult to comprehend and embrace. How about learning how to sing or play an instrument, practice like your life depends on it, and bust ass to make the dream happen? In other words, drive your ass in a crappy van that should have been declared wreckage on wheels across the frozen tundra, load and unload heavy equipment, and pay dues like countless others. That would make for a much more interesting program and actually VH1 had a similar, yet glitzy and overdone version. It wasn't bad, but it seemed a tad less gritty and real than the stories told in Henry Rollins' excellent book/audio book, Get In The Van. If the folks only strive to be a one-hit wonder with fifteen minutes of fame, then I guess American Idol is the place for them. As a fan of music, I have a lot more respect for a band like Motorhead that have carved out a 30+ year career and for better or worse, fly under the radar of the mainstream. In fact, most folks have never heard of them aside from my pissy rants and raves. Maybe folks have heard of Metallica. Chances are good that if it wasn't for Motorhead, Metallica would have a much different sound. That's not to blame Motorhead for the shit band that Metallica have become. It's just giving selective credit where selective credit is due.
As much as I dislike the attention that American Idol gives to musical mediocrity, I find it's spin-off shows to be even worse on the fecal scale. A celebrity dance contest with one of the New Kids On The Block and one of the more annoying characters on Seinfeld? What in THE hell is that about? I would like to think they've already scraped the bottom of the genre's bucket, but I know they won't stop scraping the dregs until they've gone subterranean.
Chances are good that when things do indeed go subterranean there will be a retrospective show to document the rise and fall of a lame genre of entertainment.
Reality TV...it's craptastic.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Two Cell Phones, Two Jackasses, One Call
Is this a first??
Phone A: calls Phone B
Phone A: starts a three way call by calling Audioblogger.com
Phone A: picks up the call wtih Phone B and Audioblogger.com and both can talk at the same time!!
This initial test just *may* be used in the future for the Staff at YPS!! to interview YOU...our beloved commenters! Any takers?
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
That 70's Show - or - That 70 Year Old
Well, Dad is 70. SEVENTY. Shit that’s old! Hehe
There was a boatload of us at dinner tonight. Me and Bloggy Jr. My oldest sister. My younger sister, her hubby and 4 kids. My brother, his wife and one of theirs. One of Mom’s friends & one of Dad’s friends. My aunt (The “icky one”, and because it was the icky one, the less-icky one didn’t show). And of course, Mom and Dad.
We were at the world famous House of Canton and all seated when Dad rises out of his chair to make a speech. I’m sure each and every one of us thoughtfully kept to ourselves the words, “Oh shit.”
This will surprise you, but when we’re all together, we’re loud. Very loud. We’d been there for like 7 minutes tops and we’re already breaking sound barriers. Dad knew if he didn’t make his move then, he’d never manage to launch the evening. I looked up and noticed he was standing and his lips were moving so I doled out shushes like free church pamphlets in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Nobody wanted them, but all took them politely. [MS Words wants to know if I want to change “free church” to “Free Church” like it’s the name of an actual church.]
Dad’s eyes thanked me as he began, “I just want to say thank you all for coming out tonight…” but was interrupted by a wiseass heckler in the back of the room, “What’s your name again? Introduce yourself!”
After the giggles died down, Dad gave a very nice and very short speech. He’s always been a pretty darn nice guy, but I’ve seen big changes, for the better, since his heart surgery several years ago. He’s never been a big macho acting guy, but I never saw him afraid of anything like after he came out of surgery. He tried, but he could never talk about it fully. He could never share all of the details. It scared me to know HE was so scared that he couldn’t talk about it. That surgery changed him and I watch from the sidelines seeing his growth. I don’t believe a person can be led into this kind of growth. You either find it on your own, or you don’t.
And as usual, he didn’t let any of us buy our dinner.
Happy birthday Dad. You’re unassuming, down-to-earth, funny and can tell some of the best (=longwinded) stories. If I have this many people that love me show up at my 70th birthday, I’m going to be surprised as hell, tell them all to shut the hell up and make damn sure they pay for they’re own meal.
What? I can’t get all of your traits, I’m supposed rebel aren’t I?
Oh, and that's Dad, wayyyyy back when, in his favorite Halloween mask. He kept it for years and years and kept stapling on fresh rubber bands to hold it into place. The other photo is of all of us and likely the last group church photo we took before some of us *cough cough* quit going. As you can tell in the photo, remove one bolt on each of us and our hair is completely interchangeable.
Bring It A Rooouuuunnnnd Town
May the elasticity and water tension of the packaging of your day suck less, such that the bubble doesn’t prematurely burst, and the many wondrous colors brighten your blogging existence in a most swirlerific way.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Monday Morning Burning Out
As an added bonus, a Quote Of The Day...road rage style:
"Drive faster, you motherfucker, or I will rip the Jesus Fish off the back of your vehicle with my teeth."
Have a nice day.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Altered Packaging of the 70's (Or Whatevva Year it Was)
"Now all I need is a Tenille!" -a young Bloggerific
That was the most uncomfortable and itchy amount of clothing ever on the face of the planet.
Dad's birthday is coming up. Here he is seen holding truly altered packaging. He was overheard ordering a "Pepsi Delicious" at one point in a restaurant and we never let him live it down. I have NO idea who changed the packaging with that fancy font like that, but good GAWD I look good in yellow. (Feel free to ignore that little punk in the red.)
Dad at his same birthday dinner as above, only he's not too thrilled with the cake. It seems sister to the Floridian Cuz managed to put icing on a cake made of...cornbread. Ouch. (Don't worry, the true cake was revealed after much giggling.)
You can easily see how pleased Mom was with this cake. This was a surprise party at the famed PizzAroma and it was exceeding all her expectations. That's her brother, my uncle of course, and he was one funny guy.
Friday, January 20, 2006
The Who's Tommy & Bonus
Bone Machine and I took in a performance of The Who's Tommy this evening. I'm sure we'll have all sorts of comments to share with you concerning the performance. I must warn you in advance however; Red Hots were had.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Smut in the newspaper!
Straight from an advert in the local newspaper--Clipped and selectively cropped, but otherwise unaltered. Smut is out there and it's up to you to find it.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
From Whence We Came – or – Functionally Insane
Brain mentioned the other day, “No wonder we're so warped.” And boy was he right.
In preparing for my next image post (Ok not true. I have one done and it’s posted and hidden from view.) I was going to edit another in the series of the unofficially titled “Scary Family Photos, Only Not My Family.” I think those weird ghost-like images are fun to mess with and since I’ve stolen all those from the Net, I thought about going through my stock of family photos. Before I even began the search, I knew EXACTLY which one. And I wouldn’t even have to edit it. Spooky, ain't it?
When I was a kid, I spent far more time with my mom’s side of the family than my dad’s. The night-and-day differences pretty much kept it that way all these years. No offense to Dad and his side of the family (well, except a few key figures) but …how to say this delicately …they’re just, not uh…I mean they weren’t as…and so you can see why I naturally migrated to Mom’s side. (Love ya Dad! Smoochy!)
Although the now Floridian Cuz was FAR too busy to entertain the drooling likes of me, I spent time at her house. Her mother and I would be up to all sorts of stuff from eating, to video games, to snacking, to making stuff to chowing down. Mostly it was me that did all the eating, and look what it’s done to my waistline. It’s wasted!
As the tween and teen years roared in, just like any other snot-nosed punk, I would find myself over there less often. But when I got my first car and had to show it off, straight to their house I went. Then, I got it painted, so straight to their house I went. Then I got another car, and straight to their house I went. Time between each vehicle grew, visits between shrank, and eventually I’d find myself getting married and having less time to visit anyone at all. Once my boy arrived, I started borrowing my aunt’s photo albums to pick and choose from the tons and tons of photos to scan for my collection. It gave us a great chance to visit and for me to see people that I’d known all my life in their younger formats.
Her husband, my uncle, father to the Floridian Cuz and sibs, liked to take the photos, and he was extremely good at it. The man was smart and talented and all of us were secretly jealous. Good with cameras yes, but he could make or build just about anything you wanted. Between his skill, and my aunt’s craftiness, something new was always in the works over there.
As I was enjoying the treasures of his work, and the work of others in the many photo albums of my aunt, I ran across several photos that stuck out and HAD to be scanned. One of them, I’m sure he took, was of my aunt. Maybe it’s just me because I’m not used to seeing her this way, but to me, it’s a haunting photo straight out of a Hitchcock flick. It is photos like this that make me say, “No wonder we’re so warped.”
So, if this starts a series of odd family photos being put into the mix, blame Brain. I know I do. I’d also like to blame him for my poor grades in school, though I’m sure that’s my fault. I’d also like to blame him for my noisy neighbors, and the growing national debt. And damn it Brain, if I find out you had anything to do with the creation of ANY sport, you are in trouble mister!
Friday, January 13, 2006
We got your smut...
right here. And here. A little bit of exotic Chinese smut. A sprinkling of pornography here. Geriatric smut. And a couple of hamsters gettin' it on.
Bone Machine, I apologize for jumping in here without your permission, but I feel I must add to this post with this timely addition. I was minding my own business, making a comment on Swampy's blog when this happend! This image is in no way edited beyond a simple cropping. I shit you not.
Maybe He Wasn’t Such a Good Boy After All
I know, the post is too long. :P
So yeah, I shouldn’t post this, but what the hell. Right?
It’s been an interesting couple of days. I’ve been busy as whack at work for what seems like 6 weeks now. (Shush Angels!) Something odd seems to be in the air, but maybe it’s just me.
Today I came home from work, just completely wiped. I was determined to not do a damn thing. In fact, during the drive home, I plotted, planned and schemed the ways in which I was not going to do a damn thing. It was all laid out before me. First I would have to do the daily End of Day Routine. Park the car, set my stuff down, turn on the water in the kitchen sink, turn the oven on, let the doggie out whilst saying “Helloooodare Kitty! How are you?!”, come back in and close and lock the door, fill up the coffee decanter and then the maker, put in a new filter, fill it with coffee, set the timer for the morning, put out some food for the doggie, give him fresh water, turn the water off, and go to change clothes….RING. Damn phone.
Only it’s not just any ring. It’s Buck Owens. Damn! Mom and Dad are calling. Waleshee! They’re wanting me to go out and eat with them at the Cracker Barrel. Shit. Don’t get me wrong, I like the food, and I like the cute young waitresses, but damn if the service isn’t slow and damn if it isn’t a noisy place. I’m wanting silence and a net connection people!
“Yeah, ok, what time?”
So, 15 minutes later I’m heading down the road to the Barrel of Crackers. I’m proud of myself that I managed to change clothes, get the dog in AND remembered to turn the oven off whilst I’m listening to Audioslave. (Which is funny, because it doesn’t remind me of anything.) I’m sure it was just me, but even the color of the sky was looking odd. But I’m zooming around traffic, slowing down in front of SUVs because everyone that drives one is a complete asshole that deserves to be late for wherever they’re going.
I get to the joint and find a table because the folks aren’t there. I’m 5-10 minutes early, which is pretty common for me. They show up 20 minutes late, which is very common for them. Why don’t I slow up because I know they’ll be late? I don’t know. But I don’t. I can’t. You tell me 4:45, and I’m there baby. While I’m waiting on them I nearly choked on my watered down Mr. Pibb. “Holy shit!”, I say to myself, “That’s Mr. Bryant, my old math or algebra teacher! Yikes! He hasn’t changed a bit!” and I immediately turn my head and shift my position. I am now in full Barrel of the Cracker blend in mode. Damn I’m a sly bastard.
The folks show, we order and whilst we are eating I nearly choke on my turkey patty when some other sly bastard sneaks up behind me and puts the double-Vulcan death grip on me. Bone Machine has entered the building and the cute redhead at the front dares not announce him. Bitch! He wisely does not join us, and heads off to his table.
So at one point, I’m eating and trying to get in a word in edgewise. (I’m sure you’ll all have a hard time believing it, but when Ma and Pa Bloggerific are around, you pretty much don’t talk, you pretty much just listen. To both of them. At the same time. I don’t know how, but you can actually understand them. Neither of them appears to realize the other is talking. I keep looking for the ventriloquist to pop his head out of their ass and introduce himself. He has yet to do that.) Just as I’m working on biscuit number 3 up walks…Mr. Bryant. GULP!
Now Dad is the best host in the world. I don’t give a watered-down refill who you are, what you do for a living, what kinda spill you’ve had on that same tie for 10 years, if you walk up to us, Dad’s going to go around the table and introduce you. Now, he’s not going to get up out of his chair to do it, but you’ll be part of the family. So of course, Dad starts to talk to Mr. Bryant for like 2.36 seconds and then realizes I am at the table and maybe better break and introduce his son to ...one of his customers. Customers. Customers. Customers. Holy fucking shit.
“Mr. Bryant, this is my son…” and Mr. Bryant cuts him off. He’s shaking my hand, but looking at Dad. “Now I’ve met your other son I guess, but I don’t know this one.”
Now, this is an OBVIOUS sign I should shut the fuck up, smile with honey coated biscuit crap stuck to my 5 O’clock shadow and nod. This bonehead doesn’t even remember me. Ha! I’ve got them all fooled!
He’s still shaking my hand. Dad tells him my name and he turns and looks at me and smiles. Politely. Not a gleam of recognition.
Fuck yeah. I got this mutha snowed. I’m just going to do my pleasantries, yank back my hand and wolf me down some food.
Still shaking hands, I wisely lead off with, “Hello. I’m the son that probably should be apologizing to you.” And his smile fades. (So quickly that no one noticed, I got my hand back, stood up, scooted my chair back, and looked around to find the fool motherfucker that opened his wise-ass ‘cause I wanted to see me some teacher boot hanging out of it. When no one raised his hand, I sat down, scooted up and snuck my hand back into the now withering grip.)
Perplexed, yet still shaking my hand, I decided to enlighten him a little as to who I was. “I had you for algebra or something and it was either middle school or high school.” Still perplexed. “Mind you, this was pre-1987.”
Bingo! The light went on, the years flooded back and sky-rockets of chalk and written in margins filled the air. Ka-poof poof POOF!!
He stopped shaking my hand.
I went on. “Actually, Mr. Bryant, I owe you more than one apology, I’m sure I owe you several. We gave you quite a hard time back then.” I looked over at Ma and Pa Bloggerific. They were so uncomfortable, that I was starting to enjoy this moment. A little too much, perhaps.
He then faded into the reruns of his early years as a professional. He was looking at me, but I can see he saw the younger, skinnier, cockier version. (Ok, strike that last one.) “That was my first year teaching.”
I smiled. “Yeah, we, uh, we knew.” The right side of his smile went up, but the left side was stuck in the mid-80’s.
“I remember you now.”
“Yeah, like I said, I owe you an apology.”
Ma and Pa are now acting like the waitress (they’ve named her Giggles) should be arriving at any second to break up the odd moment. She didn’t. Mr. Bryant fades back in, “That was 1984. You sat in the back. Now, who was that guy you sat with? Dark hair?”
“Gosh, I have no idea.” (and still don’t)
“I remember taking him down to the office…” This time I cut him off. Holding both hands up. “Whoa. Whoa now! We uh, we don’t want to give too much detail with the folks sitting here.”
As it ended, he shook my hand again and was smiling when he left. My apology was sincere, but I bet so where his curse words out in the parking lot. And in his car. And in his own home. In fact, I have to wonder if he’ll be sleeping tonight. In all honesty I have to wonder how he’s still teaching. I told the folks, I would have kicked me out and refused to resume teaching until I was rid of myself. (Damn, that made sense when I typed it, but it lost a little luster on the meltdown.)
I could be wrong, but I think I got a couple of karma points tonight. I think I made a good, valiant effort at righting some wrongs from oh so many years ago. Mr. Bryant, I gotta salute you man. You put up with my shit (and whoever that other guy was – though I think it was a gang of us) and you’re still teaching. Well done. I’m truly sorry for honing my skillz as a smartass while on your watch, especially your first year. But I had so much fresh material, I was just dying to try it out and I couldn’t very well do that at home, to my parents. Hell man, you met them, they’re nice people. You wouldn’t want me treating them like…like…well, a first year teacher that would just be…oh, sorry. Maybe I better quit while I’m ahead.
And while I said you didn’t look any different, well, that’s not entirely true. You look much better now that your face isn’t all puffy and red with anger. Hey! Do you remember that time when I…
So yeah, I shouldn’t post this, but what the hell. Right?
It’s been an interesting couple of days. I’ve been busy as whack at work for what seems like 6 weeks now. (Shush Angels!) Something odd seems to be in the air, but maybe it’s just me.
Today I came home from work, just completely wiped. I was determined to not do a damn thing. In fact, during the drive home, I plotted, planned and schemed the ways in which I was not going to do a damn thing. It was all laid out before me. First I would have to do the daily End of Day Routine. Park the car, set my stuff down, turn on the water in the kitchen sink, turn the oven on, let the doggie out whilst saying “Helloooodare Kitty! How are you?!”, come back in and close and lock the door, fill up the coffee decanter and then the maker, put in a new filter, fill it with coffee, set the timer for the morning, put out some food for the doggie, give him fresh water, turn the water off, and go to change clothes….RING. Damn phone.
Only it’s not just any ring. It’s Buck Owens. Damn! Mom and Dad are calling. Waleshee! They’re wanting me to go out and eat with them at the Cracker Barrel. Shit. Don’t get me wrong, I like the food, and I like the cute young waitresses, but damn if the service isn’t slow and damn if it isn’t a noisy place. I’m wanting silence and a net connection people!
“Yeah, ok, what time?”
So, 15 minutes later I’m heading down the road to the Barrel of Crackers. I’m proud of myself that I managed to change clothes, get the dog in AND remembered to turn the oven off whilst I’m listening to Audioslave. (Which is funny, because it doesn’t remind me of anything.) I’m sure it was just me, but even the color of the sky was looking odd. But I’m zooming around traffic, slowing down in front of SUVs because everyone that drives one is a complete asshole that deserves to be late for wherever they’re going.
I get to the joint and find a table because the folks aren’t there. I’m 5-10 minutes early, which is pretty common for me. They show up 20 minutes late, which is very common for them. Why don’t I slow up because I know they’ll be late? I don’t know. But I don’t. I can’t. You tell me 4:45, and I’m there baby. While I’m waiting on them I nearly choked on my watered down Mr. Pibb. “Holy shit!”, I say to myself, “That’s Mr. Bryant, my old math or algebra teacher! Yikes! He hasn’t changed a bit!” and I immediately turn my head and shift my position. I am now in full Barrel of the Cracker blend in mode. Damn I’m a sly bastard.
The folks show, we order and whilst we are eating I nearly choke on my turkey patty when some other sly bastard sneaks up behind me and puts the double-Vulcan death grip on me. Bone Machine has entered the building and the cute redhead at the front dares not announce him. Bitch! He wisely does not join us, and heads off to his table.
So at one point, I’m eating and trying to get in a word in edgewise. (I’m sure you’ll all have a hard time believing it, but when Ma and Pa Bloggerific are around, you pretty much don’t talk, you pretty much just listen. To both of them. At the same time. I don’t know how, but you can actually understand them. Neither of them appears to realize the other is talking. I keep looking for the ventriloquist to pop his head out of their ass and introduce himself. He has yet to do that.) Just as I’m working on biscuit number 3 up walks…Mr. Bryant. GULP!
Now Dad is the best host in the world. I don’t give a watered-down refill who you are, what you do for a living, what kinda spill you’ve had on that same tie for 10 years, if you walk up to us, Dad’s going to go around the table and introduce you. Now, he’s not going to get up out of his chair to do it, but you’ll be part of the family. So of course, Dad starts to talk to Mr. Bryant for like 2.36 seconds and then realizes I am at the table and maybe better break and introduce his son to ...one of his customers. Customers. Customers. Customers. Holy fucking shit.
“Mr. Bryant, this is my son…” and Mr. Bryant cuts him off. He’s shaking my hand, but looking at Dad. “Now I’ve met your other son I guess, but I don’t know this one.”
Now, this is an OBVIOUS sign I should shut the fuck up, smile with honey coated biscuit crap stuck to my 5 O’clock shadow and nod. This bonehead doesn’t even remember me. Ha! I’ve got them all fooled!
He’s still shaking my hand. Dad tells him my name and he turns and looks at me and smiles. Politely. Not a gleam of recognition.
Fuck yeah. I got this mutha snowed. I’m just going to do my pleasantries, yank back my hand and wolf me down some food.
Still shaking hands, I wisely lead off with, “Hello. I’m the son that probably should be apologizing to you.” And his smile fades. (So quickly that no one noticed, I got my hand back, stood up, scooted my chair back, and looked around to find the fool motherfucker that opened his wise-ass ‘cause I wanted to see me some teacher boot hanging out of it. When no one raised his hand, I sat down, scooted up and snuck my hand back into the now withering grip.)
Perplexed, yet still shaking my hand, I decided to enlighten him a little as to who I was. “I had you for algebra or something and it was either middle school or high school.” Still perplexed. “Mind you, this was pre-1987.”
Bingo! The light went on, the years flooded back and sky-rockets of chalk and written in margins filled the air. Ka-poof poof POOF!!
He stopped shaking my hand.
I went on. “Actually, Mr. Bryant, I owe you more than one apology, I’m sure I owe you several. We gave you quite a hard time back then.” I looked over at Ma and Pa Bloggerific. They were so uncomfortable, that I was starting to enjoy this moment. A little too much, perhaps.
He then faded into the reruns of his early years as a professional. He was looking at me, but I can see he saw the younger, skinnier, cockier version. (Ok, strike that last one.) “That was my first year teaching.”
I smiled. “Yeah, we, uh, we knew.” The right side of his smile went up, but the left side was stuck in the mid-80’s.
“I remember you now.”
“Yeah, like I said, I owe you an apology.”
Ma and Pa are now acting like the waitress (they’ve named her Giggles) should be arriving at any second to break up the odd moment. She didn’t. Mr. Bryant fades back in, “That was 1984. You sat in the back. Now, who was that guy you sat with? Dark hair?”
“Gosh, I have no idea.” (and still don’t)
“I remember taking him down to the office…” This time I cut him off. Holding both hands up. “Whoa. Whoa now! We uh, we don’t want to give too much detail with the folks sitting here.”
As it ended, he shook my hand again and was smiling when he left. My apology was sincere, but I bet so where his curse words out in the parking lot. And in his car. And in his own home. In fact, I have to wonder if he’ll be sleeping tonight. In all honesty I have to wonder how he’s still teaching. I told the folks, I would have kicked me out and refused to resume teaching until I was rid of myself. (Damn, that made sense when I typed it, but it lost a little luster on the meltdown.)
I could be wrong, but I think I got a couple of karma points tonight. I think I made a good, valiant effort at righting some wrongs from oh so many years ago. Mr. Bryant, I gotta salute you man. You put up with my shit (and whoever that other guy was – though I think it was a gang of us) and you’re still teaching. Well done. I’m truly sorry for honing my skillz as a smartass while on your watch, especially your first year. But I had so much fresh material, I was just dying to try it out and I couldn’t very well do that at home, to my parents. Hell man, you met them, they’re nice people. You wouldn’t want me treating them like…like…well, a first year teacher that would just be…oh, sorry. Maybe I better quit while I’m ahead.
And while I said you didn’t look any different, well, that’s not entirely true. You look much better now that your face isn’t all puffy and red with anger. Hey! Do you remember that time when I…
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Two Bloggy's Workin' Hard
(Thank you muchly Office Type for the shot, and J for the idea!) Once in a while, the stars and celestial heavenly moons align their zebra striped library ass cheeks and I get to take the boy to work with me. He’s been going with me since he was two. He was QUITE disappointed when I left the accounting firm, let me tell you. They had this “really cool” typewriter there, and well, it’s just too painful for me to go into.
Today I snuck out of the office *cough cough* and picked him up from school and brought him back with me until closing time. He got in the car at school all smiles and asked, “How come you’re picking me up?”
All casual, “Oh, I just thought you might want to go to the office with me.”
“YES!!”
Seen above I am laboring away with my Dell laptop, while the boy is accessing a Dell desktop via a KVM switch and utilizing our T1 connection to hit up our favoritest game website. (Nearly appropriate for all age levels.)
http://ferryhalim.com/orisinal/
This is the first one we ever played and it was LUV from then on:
http://www.ferryhalim.com/orisinal/g2/stars.htm
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Bobba Ga Dooce Dot Com
Looking through the private files this morning I was thinking how, to me anyway, Dooce just ain’t all that. It’s a little vanilla and every once in a while I see someone comment about Dooce in a post or in a comment so I’ll take a chance and go read her latest post. I don’t mean to be insulting, but, big deal. I say this not because it sucks, because it doesn’t. I’m just not really all that thrilled when I go there. I don’t read it post for post, but when I drop in like that I keep scanning the page after I’ve read the post and I’m like “Ok, where is all the stuff that caused the excitement?” I ain’t buyin’ it.
I’m sure someone will say, “Well, you shoulda read it when…” or “But did you see that post about…” But it won’t work. I haven’t kept a scorecard on how many times I’ve been there, but each time the brilliance flies right over my puny little pea brain. I’m sure it’s just that it’s not my cup of blog and that it’s a perfectly splendid, ad driven, little blog.
So, I keep coming back to the links on this blog, or the same ones that are in my Blogroll and am comforted. Comforted that ya’ll are as messed up as you are. Each of these blogs fit in to the category of Real Blog in my mind. Each of you post in a way that makes me feel like you would be just like that in person. Maybe you’re not like that at all, but I like the people you play in the blogosphere.
All this sends me this morning searching my private stash of files. “Works” as I call them. Yet, as I look through them this morning, I hate every damn one of them. The animals heard me say, “Now that’s REALLY bad.” They also heard, “Good GAWD, that’s terrible. Oh wait, I do like that line. That one line.”
I thought perhaps I’d post a little poetry because it’s been a while. I wanted to cause utter confusion but I found no “post worthy” material. I *should* write something original, but the time is not there and I’m just not inspired.
I remember once talking to someone who said that they didn’t write at all unless they were deeply, deeply depressed and while it was a good thing when they didn’t write, it was also bad. For the moment, I am not depressed, sound the alarms. I’m not depressed, I’m just delaying any effort to rise to the occasion of work. Maybe I could slam my boss and mention how his shirt yesterday made it look like he’s gaining weight and get dooced out and find that high-paying perfect job and be on my way to the riches and the bitches, but that’s not my style. I don’t think it was the shirt at all
I post before you all that I’m proud we’ve got some real blogs going on here. We may not be profound or touching hearts in every post, but we sure can make rat poop as attractive as all-get-out! We might not be changing the world one post at a time, but damn if we don’t know how support each other with tacky humor. We might not be the Martha Stewarts of the blogosphere, but that’s a good thing. We’re here, we post, we’re real baby!!
Be sure and visit the Packaged Links now and then. They’re supposed to be in order of appearance, but I think I messed that up a bit when I edited the template at one point, and Blogger fried the sucker. (I bet Dooce never lost any ads due to something like that, she probably has her own fancy server and everything. Redundant backups: both on and off-site. Probably has a staff devoted just to ad selection and ad revenue.)
Sunday, January 08, 2006
The Car Did a #2 – or – Daddy’s Camera Don’t Take No Crappy Pictures
Here in the Bloggerific household, it’s just like any other, typical ‘merican home. On any given weekend, you can find the boy and me up to common, everyday, ‘merican activities. Today was no different. Here it is not even 11am and the house has been filled with joy with the following activities:
1. The boy spent a great deal of time attempting to figure out a mystery and save the Titanic at the same time whilst I complained about the “dated” music of the time. “Please turn that crap off,” I could be heard saying.
2. We learned that Pilsbury Fat Free Breadsticks, while good, are MUCH better if you sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on before baking and drizzle with homemade icing …once the sticks are on your plate as to avoid any loss of icing.
3. The boy washed the license plate I let him keep after helping me put on the new one.
4. Randomly I could be heard yelling out “oh that’s got to suck for you” as the television informed the boy the opposition had taken over his command posts. At one point he would yell “STOP!” as I kept saying, over and over and over, “All your base are belong to us.” Apparently that was a sore spot.
5. Also, we managed to recover what is most assuredly rat poop from the engine of the family automobile and post photos for your review. In fact, we painstakingly made sure to add in a coin so that you would have the perfect idea of the scale of said rat poop. (At one point I told the boy I put the rat poop in the litter box as to confuse Simon and in my best Simon voice I said, “Huh! I’m actually a rat! Who’da thunk it!?”) Please note that the Baby Buddha is riding a homemade, tricked out, Model Magic surfboard as he wields his power to protect us from the vile fecal matter.
6. I would be astonished at one point to learn that, “Dad! I just walked on a dude’s head and it was Darth Vader!”
7. Many CDs containing live music have been burned for the Machine of Bone.
So, Swampy, how do you plead? Poopy, or no poopy?
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Happy Birthday August95 AND Susie!! :UPDATED
....soooo sorry about the design of that library though. (Don't stand too close.)
Since I am a slacker and completely went and left Susie off of this post, I think it only fair she get to CHOOSE HER CHEEK. Which will it be Susie? Left and Loose, or Right and Tight? It's your day too.
Going Around the Block for a Joke – or – I’m Such a Rat!!
Sometimes I go out of my way for a good joke. Or, one that’s not so good.
Today I went into Office Type’s office (sounds redundant doesn’t it?) and asked her, “What’s mouse poop look like?”
Wide-eyed she asked, “Why! Do you have one?!”
I told her no, not here I didn’t. Relieved, she drew the size and shape of mouse poopy on a pink Post-it. (Insert trademark symbol here.)
I looked at it and said it was much smaller than I expected and explained that when I lifted the hood on my car the other morning I saw something on the top (of some part I have no idea what the name is) that looked like mouse poop. Then I drew how big it was next to hers. She was like, “Oh, well maybe that’s rat poop. It’s probably bigger.” (See boys, size matters!)
Then I held out my hand to give her something.
She looked at my hand. She looked at me. She looked at my hand and CHEATED. She was actually peering between my fingers and could tell what I was holding and asked, “Is that a mouse ball (from a computer mouse, not an actual animal) you’re holding?”
Proudly I said, “Why, yes. Yes it is.”
“Did you just come in here and go through all that just so you could hand me a mouse ball?”
“Why, yes. Yes I did.” Grinning from ear to ear. “But it was a true story and I thought it seemed appropriate to put them together. Ahhh how the mind works. Or, doesn’t.”
Much laughter filled the entire side of our building.
The End.
*takes bow*
[According to the image I just found, I must have some imported rat bastards in my carport.]
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Original Applicants
In light of the recent anniversary, I thought it would be a good time to thank a few of the original applicants for The Gnome’s position. As you can see, it was quite the challenge at the end of the hiring process. We feel, no, we KNOW, we went with the right candidate. But we’d like to thank all those that came out in the early days.
So, uh, thank you, all who came out in the early days.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Is nothing sacred? (or packaging that sucks [!!] in '06)
Welcome to a new year of exposing packaging that sucks(!!). Please excuse my raincoat, but fear not, because it is much too cold to expose anything else. Now on with the show, 2006 style.
Anyone that knows me knows that I like Motorhead. Even folks that I don't know get the subtle hint that I might like the band when they step into my office and see the shrine hanging on the all or see the beast hanging around my neck. I take the shit seriously, because it's one of the few things in life that I like and well worth taking seriously.
When the gents in Motorhead announce a new project, it's a big deal. There were rumblings that a new live DVD set was on the horizon and this alone was cause for celebration. The added icing on the cake was when I acquired an early bird copy of said set, lovingly entitled Stage Fright. They say the early worm gets eaten by the bird, but sometimes, both of them get their asses kicked by something gloriously wonderful.
When my connection (who shall go nameless, but not thank-less) called with the good news that the DVDs had indeed arrived in our unfair city, all was well for a brief, shining moment. Of course, those moments can be extremely fleeting. When the time was right, I high-tailed it over to pick up the audio-visual badassity. On the surface, everything appeared to be okay--It was Motorhead, the song selection was damn fine, the extras looked enticing, and in the immortal words of Daffy Duck, the set was in my now sparkling clean hands.
The first packaging aspect that I noticed is the usual shrinkwrap and bastard strip issues that we've all dealt with countless times. This one contained a hellish strip that indeed put the "bastard" in "bastard strip." By the time I finally removed it, I felt like I'd been through a war.
The second packaging aspect that my bloodshot green (just in time for Christmas) eyes noticed is that the case was somewhat different from traditional DVD packaging. Personally, I think the standard issue DVD case is pretty nifty, because it seals your shit up air-tight and protects the goods from intruders until manually opened. But as I said, the folks at SPV/Steamhammer decided to whip a new case design on us like a dry hump in the middle of the day. Sort of rude and potentially painful yet totally spontaneous. The case is a tad thinner than most with nice crisp edges and requires the pushing of a subtle button to unleash the beast inside. Just when you think the sexual innuendo portion is over, I say read on.
(Upon further reflection, even the word "innuendo" sounds sort of obscene)
Once gaining access to the inner sanctum (I so wanted to make a labia joke here, but I am going to take the high road for a change) of Stagefright, you see a handwritten message from Lemmy himself lovingly reproduced on a snazzy booklet. The line "I wanted to call it 'A Box Of Fish', but maybe next time" prompted a chuckle as I wiped away tears of joy knowing that I was caressing approximately 240 minutes of prime Motorhead brilliance. In other words, "HOT DAMN!"
As my gaze moved to the right side, I had a vague recollection that this beauty was supposed to be a two-disc set. Okay. This is odd, because I only see one disc. Surely, those crafty Germans at SPV wouldn't short-change me a disc even though they're sitting safe and sound from my wrath half a globe away. No way. They're still suffering the backlash of the dickhead Nazi pole jockeys and unleashing that Winds Of Change (complete with gay-ass whistling) piece of shit by the Scorpions on an unsuspecting world. They would never short-change me. Never.
Indeed, they did not rip me off, but they did give me packaging that sucks(!!). Rather than design a 2-disc case that gives you easy access to both discs via separate spindles and trays, these folks decide to put both discs on the same spindle. In other words, disc 1 is riding atop disc 2 like a jack rabbit on a date.
Surely I need not explain the potential dangers of such lame packaging to you good people. However, since this showboat is all about exposing such inadequate packaging, I will anyway, because this is what I do. I care.
The most serious issue is that while mounting and dismounting disc 1, there is a chance of scratching the hell out of it on disc 2. I am one of those completist fanboys, so I like to retain precious things in as close to pristine shape as possible. Not that I am going to Ebay it, but because I don't want my shit sounding and looking like a 98 year old hooker suffering from years of nicotine and whiskey abuse. If you need a specific example, I will ask if you've heard Marianne Faithfull's voice these days. While she's not a 98 year old hooker and I have no clue about her nicotine and whiskey habits, but she sounds somewhat like Harvey Fierstein these days. At least she did on that shitty Metallica song of recent years. Don't ask me to be more specific on which shitty Metallica song as there have been so many lately, because I don't care enough about them to provide the title. No offense to any party mentioned above, except maybe Metallica who went to shit many years ago. I actually like Marianne's voice much better than that squealer with the apparently damaged testicles in The Darkness or the frothing douchebag in Creed. She appears to have more balls than both of those guys combined.
The next packaging issue is more annoying than hazardous, but annoying has a tendency of adding up over the years where it could potentially become hazardous to innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders. Say you might like to view something on that kick ass second disc of the Stagefright (available at a store near you on January 10...BUY IT!!) set. You remove the funky slimline case from your shelf. You know, the case with nice crisp edges that requires pushing the secret button to gain access to the discs. Yeah, that's the one. After you've sufficiently recovered from the exhaustion of these actions, now you have to remove disc 1 in order to get to disc 2. While you're doing this, you have to either place disc 1 somewhere safe where it won't fall to the floor and ride bareback on the dust bunnies below or stand there dangling it on a finger while trying to remove disc 2 from the spindle on the funky slimline case with nice crisp edges that you've read about. Regardless, the process of removing the second disc is a pain in the ass and in my less than humble opinion, a stunning example of packaging that sucks(!!).
In all honesty, I am not sure just what in the hell the design folks were thinking when they came up with the idea for the case. In the defense of SPV, it's not just the Motorhead set and their products that have bad case designs. I can say that the more staggered approach contained in AC/DC's Family Jewels set and the recent Cream reunion set are equally as bad. While they are a little more visually appealing because you can see both discs, but the design still sucks. However, you will still be removing disc 1 to get to disc 2 at some point in your future. Maybe this isn't a problem if you are a professional juggler, but to someone like me with minimal motor and balance skills, it's a test of patience and endurance.
Will this packaging lead to someone's untimely demise? Probably not. While the packaging indeed sucks(!!), the product is still what matters here. Like everything else that Motorhead has done, it is well worth a portion of your disposable income and quite frankly, your existence isn't complete without a little (or better yet, a lot) of Motorhead in your life.
SPV (and any other DVD pimp that puts their product in similar cases), your products are top notch and could possibly induce whiplash from their brilliance, but I must say that (give me a drum roll there, Ringo) YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!
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