Mind Yer Arse

What Do You Do When It's All Over?

2011-01-11T21:54:00.000-08:00

There is a great little cautionary essay in the Wall Street Journal, called "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior." [Jan. 8, 2011] by Yale Law Professor, Amy Chua from her forthcoming book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother."

The essay, some 30 paragraphs long [and well worth reading], makes the case that Chinese children are raised in a superior way that stresses achievement. In the Chinese view, children need to achieve. In order to achieve, they need to work. In order to work, they need to be driven. In many cases, the parent must be the driver because children, left to their own devices, will give up. And parents should enthusiastically and without remorse play the role of driver, even if the child balks or resents being driven.

Chua states:

"Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

As if the Western approach is in some manner in conflict with the aims stated as what the Chinese believe. What Chua is missing is the recognition that children are not fungible. One child may be a tennis prodigy, another a math whiz. In her essay, she states that Chinese children are only allowed to learn violin or piano, never the ... clarinet? And why not? If one wanted to create a culture of enforced sameness, a culture where innovation and creativity were squelched, she has, in my opinion, described the perfect petri dish for incubating such an environment.

Her proscribed approach is primitive and unyielding, the only redemption occurring if the child is or becomes successful. While there may be small victories along the way [her child learning the piano piece], the endgame had better yield a similar victory, otherwise the child's resentment will be justified. And then what, Professor Chua?

It is in my nature

2010-12-25T22:33:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas! I'm blogging again. Just too many ideas in my head not to.

First, I was reflecting on the biography of genius jazz guitarist, Ted Greene [who sadly passed away much too soon] written by his widow [they were never married, but that's a minor nit, she was for all practical purposes his wife] Barbara Franklin. What struck me was the story how late in his life Ted came under the thrall of a homeless women. And Ted, having a heart as large as his knowledge of chord theory, started - more or less secretly - providing money to this homeless woman. And the woman concocted ever more complex and compelling tales of hardship and misery and imminent disaster in order to fuel Ted's sympathy. Only after some time had elapsed did Ted realize that he was being conned by an addict, a low-life, a grifter. The story struck me as sad, and maybe a little funny - funny in the way that is not entirely unsympathetic to either Ted or the women.

Which is to say, the story is a bit like the koan about the frog and the scorpion, in which the scorpion, perched on the back of the frog as he is ferried across the river by his benevolent host the frog, stings the frog thus assuring that both will drown. When the frog, dying, asks the scorpion why, why have you done this? The scorpion replies "It is in my nature."

This notion, "It is in my nature" permeates so many of the things I think about. The recent brilliant song "Belinda" [lyrics by Nick Hornby / music by Ben Folds] is but one example. In it, the singer, evidently a man in his fifties or perhaps early sixties, is singing about his one hit, the eponymous Belinda. He is wistful, he is sorry, he misses Belinda. Why did he ever leave her? He met a stewardess who had "blonde hair, big breasts, a nice smile ... she gave me complimentary champagne."

In short, it was in his nature.

The Ballad of El Goodo

2010-03-22T22:47:00.000-07:00

I live in a tiny space. A tiny perfect little space that contains a universe. And that space is the mysterious, boundless universe known as music. It is infinitely deep and wide, it contains all things. One note can summon all the colors visible and many only hinted at by the visible world.

That's my world.

And near the middle of that world, very close to its perfect beating heart, was Alex Chilton.

Alex died last week, on March 17, much too soon at age 59. Alex was all the good things about music as an art. He was intelligent, spirited, uncompromising, talented, willful ... brilliant is too vague a word. His body of work serves as a cogent commentary of all that surrounded him in the musical world. He took the best of the Beatles and discarded the rest. He revered soul, tin pan alley, New Orleans barrelhouse, blues in all forms, and good old pop music. And he could play it all.

He was humble. It was his music that was audacious.

Don't just listen to Big Star. Or his solo work. Or the Box Tops. Listen to all of it. Repeatedly. And deeply.

God bless you Alex.

Calling Dorothea Lange

2009-08-09T22:56:00.000-07:00

I spent an enjoyable weekend in Fresno, California, visiting friends. I ate, had great conversation, ate some more, drank, and drove around a city that should sparkle like a jewel, as it is located in the very center of the country's richest agricultural area.

Instead, Fresno stood as an example of our nation's inability to shift quickly. The most troubling aspect of capitalism is that everyone's problems are no one's problems. And indeed, the problem created by the blight of dire poverty was writ large in Fresno.

We passed buildings that were half completed, boarded up. Some will undoubtedly never be finished. Homes were abandoned, plywood on the windows. We went to no less than three restaurants that had recently been reviewed online. All three were shut down tight, with various explanations. If business had been booming, no doubt all three would have been open. This morning, the Starbuck's had the sadly familiar notice that it, too, would be closing next week.

The most troubling sight was something that I thought I would never see in my lifetime: a Hooverville. A tent city. I felt the ghost of Dorothea Lange tap me on the shoulder. It was a feeling that sent a chill through me.

And in this season, when Congress and President Obama are deliberating over much-needed health care reform legislation, dealing with North Korea, filling a Supreme Court vacancy, extending incentives for car buyers, and other issues, who is troubling over creating jobs for the able-bodied tent dwellers of Fresno?

Can't say enough ...

2009-07-05T22:26:00.001-07:00

about Laura Nyro.

What she did for modern pop music shouldn't be underestimated.

Before Laura Nyro, who came to prominence in 1967 both as an artist and as a songwriter, there was a certain oppressive formulaic quality to pop music. While many bands, notably the Who and the nascent prog and heavy blues bands were expanding the form of pop music in terms of length, they didn't much challenge the conventions. Nyro did that by infusing standard pop music with jazz, blues, tin pan alley [the pre-1960 kind of tin pan alley, not the Neil Diamond or Jeff Barry-Ellie Greenwich kind] and just a kind of raucous, smart-girl joy that made her writing so ingenious.

Her songs didn't follow the standard format [verse/chorus/verse/chorus/bridge/chorus]. They followed whatever felt right. Whatever fit the mood, the story, the "feel" of the song. The songs slowed down. The songs sped up. They danced, and jumped around. They went on way too long. They ended too soon. But after you heard them, you knew who you were dealing with. Someone who would challenge you. And you were being challenged by an incredibly talented 20-year old girl.

I'm a saloon and a moonshine lover, indeed.

From the Department of "We Need Better Copy"

2009-06-21T21:24:00.000-07:00

The genetics profile company, 23andme, has you spit in a cup, and you mail it to them, and you essentially get a carfax on yourself. All this for $399, quite a bargain.

And really, quite useful, at least in theory. So, here - directly from their very own website - is some copy that you may consider when deciding whether or not you should purchase this interesting service:

"You may learn surprising things about yourself.
There is a chance you could be surprised by what you learn about your genome. For example, you could discover that your father is not your biological parent. You could
learn that individuals with your genetic profile are at increased risk of developing a currently incurable disease. You might learn something unexpected about your ancestry. In certain cases, these discoveries could have social, legal or economic implications."

Wow. That makes me want to rush out and buy it right away! I've always suspected my father is not my "biological parent." Wait, biological parent ... no, he's my biological parent. What I meant was that I always suspected that he was the source of my deep-seated feelings of shame. Is there a marker for that?

In short, you supposed smart guys and gals at 23andme need better copy. How 'bout playing up the conversation starter aspect of the test results? Or, what a lovely present for the extremely self-absorbed person [or people] in your life. You must know at least one.

Dennis Quaid is in my Belly!

2009-06-15T16:47:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I post just to write about something unusual. Right now would qualify. In my GI tract, I have a small encapsulated camera traveling through me, sending pictures to a pack that I am wearing outside my waist. The little pack is blinking blue right now, because it is happy. If it were to blink orange, it would signal some problem with the system, and I would have to call my doctor. So, somewhere in my torso, I have a little tiny cameraman snapping pictures of my ileum.

[The title of this post is in reference to this crappy movie].

Trivial Pursuits

2009-06-14T20:56:00.000-07:00

I was talking with a co-worker the other day, someone who is well-paid, educated, and roughly my age. She is sort of the artsy type, so I was talking about some films that I happen to like a great deal, not obscure movies by any stretch of the imagination. The references completely stumped her, and she remarked that I seemed to know a lot of "pop culture trivia."

Pop culture trivia. Okay, I have at least 2 problems with that statement. First, if movies are art, then we're not talking about "pop culture." We're not talking about the vicissitudes of Jon & Kate's marriage. Or Lady Gaga's pants, or lack thereof. We're talking about something important. Art.

Secondly, there is a big difference between knowledge and trivia. Trivia means "things that pertain to petty or unimportant things." Trivial things. Like the fact that Charles Mingus trained his cat to use a toilet. That's trivial. Unless you're the cat. But knowing who Charles Mingus was? That's not trivial.

It just seems to me that anyone who knows anything is derided as having lots of trivial information. I guess the only important things to know nowadays are the URLs of Google and Wikipedia. All the rest is trivia.

This just in: I just finished reading the AP article on David Carradine's funeral service. The article contained this gem:

"Among the hundreds of guests were numerous actors, including Michael Madsen, Jane Seymour, Tom Selleck, Frances Fisher, Daryl Hannah, Lucy Liu, Edward James Olmos, Ali Larter, and James Cromwell. Rob Schneider also attended, carrying a basket of flowers."

Nice subtle exclusion of Rob Schneider from the "numerous actors" list.

Someone to Believe In

2009-06-10T21:54:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking how important it is, and has been to me, to have people who believe in you. It's such an odd quirk of human character, to care so much what other people think. And whether they "believe" in you.

It just strikes me as such a random variable. And it depends on the believer's whim. And it depends even more on whether you have a good circle around you, or if not, you can create one.

I have known people who have forsaken their whole families, moved halfway around the world in search of a support network. In search of loving, supportive people.

I have known people with massive inferiority complexes despite having loving, supporting families and friends.

But all in all, it is so much better to have a soft pillow to lay your head on, that pillow being the confidence that your friends and family will be there for you, and that they believe you can overcome obstacles, hardships and setbacks. It means so much.

Them's the odds

2009-05-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

I have my next medical appointment on June 1, with Dr. S, my GI doc. At that time, I should be well on my well to figuring out where I fit on the above chart. Right now, I'm in column 1, Local Stage. If we find that there is indeed a second tumor, I move to Column 3, Distant Stage.

I guess that's like being moved from the main stage at SXSW to a small tent, on a Monday afternoon, opening for say, Skillet Gilmore's side project. A truly distant stage.

The reality is that my chances of seeing Miley Cyrus's 21st birthday bash may be less than 50%. Who knows. At this point, my brother is - like a bible literalist - decrying all the recent medical tests and claims that his wife, the House of Cave Creek, believes that all my tests are wrong, and that the lung tumor was the only one.

This time I hope he's right.

Gearing up for round two ...

2009-05-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

... in the never-ending fight against Tumor World Dominance.

It's weird to be ill. I'm loathe to say "seriously ill." Just because of all the types of tumors to get, I have a rare one, a barely understood one, a fringe cancer if you will.

And like many things that are bad for you, it's producing little in the way of primary symptoms.

Maybe my GI tract is a little more stressed than it should be. I do fatigue easily. But both things have been true for years.

So, this week, I go in for the complete GI tract scope, the full Monty. A colonoscopy and an endoscopy. Only Nina Hartley's ass gets more attention than mine.

After that, they should get a visual on this pernicious little creature, the tumor only revealed by the stealth octreotide scan. Which produced a shadow image, somewhere in GI tract, or maybe my kidney, or ... well, it's down there somewhere. Hiding out, not paying taxes, not reflecting on the social issues of the day. Just producing serotonin and chilling.

Did it metastasize to my lung? Or visa versa? No one is telling. The theory is that these are most common in the GI tract, therefore it probably started there. And so the one in my lung - God rest its tumorous soul - was the splinter tumor. Are there any more?

So the marker - aside from the CAT scan - that discovered all this was my bloodwork. I test positive for pertussis and Rheumatoid Factors. And not just a little. Like Billy Joel lately, I'm off the charts.

So the markers indicated that my immune system was churning out a protein responsive, usually, to RA and pertussis. Yet, being symptom free, the thinking is now that carcinoid tumors were playing ding dong ditch and shifting blame to those other diseases. Quite clever.

When they removed my first tumor [Ah, those were the days!], they expected that that would be the end of it. That my blood work would go back to normal. But no.

The markers did decrease. By about half. Leaving me still crazy high [normal RA factors are 30, mine were - pre-surgery, about 4,000, post-surgery, about 2.000. You do the math.

So I'm gearing up to be poked, prodded, sliced, diced, drugged, mugged and processed like a Honeybaked ham.

As long as they keep me in Versed and Diloted, we will be able to get through this.

Another day, another ...

2009-05-13T19:50:00.000-07:00

tumor! Apparently, I have another carcinoid tumor, lurking in my digestive tract.

Which means lots more diagnostic work to find it. And more abdominal surgery. So strange to go through this. By the time I'm done, I will have more scars than Mickey Rourke.

But the hope is that this will be the end of it. But who knows? Cancer doesn't negotiate.

Burned by the Angry Mob

2009-05-07T21:38:00.001-07:00

First, the photo is of a bumper sticker I saw earlier this evening. It made laugh so. I don't know what the reference is to, and I don't particularly want to know. I just like it.

This week has been eventful. First, I helped, assisted - one could say "caused" - our company's table tennis team to play measurably worse in the recent Corporate Games. The Corporate Games are a regional event, staged in these parts, and pitting company against company. So my fair corporation played against Baxter, Amgen, the County of Ventura, the Navy, and other companies. We played last Saturday at the Balboa School in Ventura, a depressing little place with the portrait of Ol' Smitty or some deceased former coach painted in acrylics on the wall. Eerie. And the field of play? Well, those tables were probably new about the time Ol' Smitty was still alive and dancing the mambo.

So I showed up, paddle in hand, prepared to do battle. With the best intentions. With goodwill in my heart. With the desire to compete and emerge victorious. Things went south from there.

The first thing I realized is that my presence on the men's singles team was probably not a good idea. The rules limited us to four players. And of the four players, I was the weakest. I was surprised and depressed to learn, on Saturday morning, while warming up, there was at least one other men's player who was significantly better than I was. So unless I won, and won big, I was blocking a better player.

So I played. I played Chad. Chad was big and imposing and bald and white. He looked like the lead singer from Midnight Oil. Chad beat me like an angry wind-up chimp beating a tambourine. Which is to say it required no consciousness on his part and was not particularly pleasant to watch. He was appropriately dismissive and disdainful while thanking me for a "good game". He was a bad liar.

So I prepared to call it a day, but I was called back before I could slink away. They wanted me to play doubles! Ah, I could redeem myself! So, paired up with Mabel, who had won a bronze in Women's Singles, I thought, well maybe I can hide behind her prodigious talent. That's what I thought. You know, I'll set them up, she'll knock them down.

Before we could even get deep into match one, we were behind. It was clear that we were behind because one of us wasn't very good. One of us was mediocre. That one was the non-Mabel portion of the team.

So Mabel, understandably, played harder. And in her effort to cover up the team's obvious weakness [namely, my play], Mabel made a lateral move. An impressive quick, cat-like lateral move. The problem with her lateral move was that its genius was lost on me. I failed to show my appreciation for her quickness by moving out of her way. So Mabel moved through a field of space that I partially occupied. While executing her lightning fast move, she tripped over my right foot, and went flying. And she landed badly on her wrist.

Now, I don't know for a fact that the wrist is broken. It may just be a bad sprain. I don't know. But I feel like it's broken, and that I broke it. It's a bad feeling. One could argue that she moved too aggressively, I suppose. But seeing her, on the ground, saying repeatedly "I'm done! I'm done!" I felt as if I had shot Hoss on Bonanza. Or backed over Bambi. Or punched Tom Hanks in the nose.

Now, I did go and get ice and an ice bag. And I did apologize. But really, what can you do? Not much. I sulked away and tried to find a silver lining. I tried to find some good takeaway. I am still looking.

The title of the post refers to the recent events surrounding my activity on Halos Heaven, the Angels blog. I posted a topic that, in essence, said that the Rally Monkey was tired and needed to be retired. That this idea was unpopular is an understatement. The mighty throng rose up and smited me. Of the 100+ fanposts, about 2 of them were in support of my humble proposition.

It's not that I hate the Rally Monkey. It's just that (a) the joke has gotten old, to paraphrase Morrissey, (b) it wasn't that good a joke to begin with, and (c) it's been copied to death. Can we not think of something new? Apparently not.

Family Vacation 1978

2009-04-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

Where the hell this is, I don't know. Somewhere in California, I know that. I was 15, my older brother, 18 and just starting at UCLA. My sister was 10, my mom was 42 and my dad was 46, the age I am now. And he looks about 10 years younger than I do now. But yes, once I was 15.

Getting Back To My Original Point ...

2009-04-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

The reason I do a blog at all is that some time ago, a friend requested that I share my musical insights in this more or less public forum.

To say that I am passionate about music is a severe understatement. If I could be just a brain and a set of ears, and do nothing except listen to music for the rest of my days, I would die happy. Music is pretty much it for me. Music is connected to the pleasure center of my brain. I enjoy even depressing music. Need I say more? No.

But continually I write about other things, and I feel a little guilty. So this post will be exclusively about music.

A couple of great, great newer songs have come to my attention lately. One by an old favorite, and one by a somewhat newer artist. Juliana Hatfield put out a record called "How to Walk Away" last year that has a great song on it, "This Lonely Love." While the title might seem a little underwhelming and an exercise in self-pity, you can safely ignore the lyrics. And you can ignore the somewhat irrelevant background vocals by the great Richard Butler [he of Psychedelic Furs fame.] And the somewhat flaccid drumming [I kept thinking "What would Jody Stephens have done with this?]. Three negatives and you still call the song "great"? Why, yes I do. Because Juliana has written a groove that cannot be stopped, even as the song melts into a dreamy sludge at the end. Great job, Juliana. The groove is like some sort of Motown, early Grassroots, ELO mix ... hard to define, impossible to defy.

The other great new song is by the Hold Steady, everyone's critical darling band. And they've crafted the song that really highlights, to me, how disappointing Elvis Costello's post 1979 work has been. And what the flaw in his pre-1979 work is. The song I am referring to is "One For the Cutters" off their 2008 album, "Stay Positive." This song is such a work of immense greatness, it is hard to overstate it. The swirling harpsichord introduction, the menacing guitar figure, the snarling delivery of Craig Finn - you'd think that Finn was filled with bile and contempt as he sings about the unnamed young girl who'd "party with townies." But the lyrics - even though they scan miserably - show a wonderful restraint and an undeniable narrative gift. Finn recounts the story of a young college girl, the "sophomore accomplice in a turtleneck sweater" who has "one drop of blood" on her "immaculate Keds." He pulls you through the story of this girl, from a good background, who volitionally falls in with the townies, drinks with them, and is present when a stabbing occurs. And he doesn't stop pulling. You get pulled through her driving the murderer to Cleveland. And through the trial. You get more detail, more narrative in this 4:43 song than you do than in most short stories. And a bonus! A great hook. But what you don't get is what marred most songs by hippies, and the same flaw that the young Costello fell victim to: relentless smug snarkiness. The "I'm Better Than You" syndrome. Finn neither respects, nor judges, nor praises any of the participants. He flits through the "cute little town" like Jay Gatsby, or better, perhaps looks out benignly like the eyes of T. J. Eckleburg.

Back to Elvis Costello. So what that he hated working stiffs. I am one, now. So is he, kind of. What else did he hate? Mainly easy targets. Women who settled. Women who wouldn't sleep with him. Fascists. Wrote some great music [still does.] Wrote a lot more crap music. But the lyrics that he is so vaunted for, like those of Chris Difford, are overrated. He's not a bad lyricist, mind you [neither is Difford], but the amount of critical lust heaped on these guys is simply not warranted. Neil Finn beats both of them, in my book, and certainly Richard Thompson does. And don't get me started on Aimee Mann.

I am confused

2009-03-26T22:07:00.000-07:00

So sad. What a sad, sad week.

What do I mean? Well, for example ...

Sarah Palin could find no one to pray with before the debate. Pity I wasn't around. I would gladly joined hands with her. And offered to do lots and lots of missionary work with her. I mean, I was willing to get behind her for the long haul. Etc. etc. etc.

A co-worker and I were talking about exercise and so forth, and I said, "You can't escape genetics." And he said [about himself], "I already have!" To me, that's the line of the decade.

A person I have known for 33 years recently revealed to me, for the first time, that he went out with Michael Steele aka Micki Steele [birth name: Sue Thomas] of the Bangles when they were in high school. Sadly, they went to a Clapton concert [lame, even then.] Even more sadly, he did not seal the deal. But he is so much cooler in my eyes now. Does that make me superficial?

Baseball is almost here. But since my health woes, I just don't care as much about sports. They're fun, yes, but not that fun. But it is sad to think that this year there will be no Ben Sheets, Eric Gagne, Trot Nixon, Dave Roberts, Jay Gibbons, Daryle Ward, Aaron Fultz nor Brendan Donnelly. We all get old.

I have recently completed a mix CD of songs that feature whistling. Too much time on my hands, indeed!

I want Malcolm Gladwell's next book to be called "Harmful Anecdotes".

We have a particularly idiotic vendor who has this tactic that I find charming. He says dumb stuff then when you call him on it, he says "You are confused." I love that in a person.

McFlurry

2009-03-23T21:35:00.000-07:00

Things some to be swirling around. Lots of crazy activity all at once, seemingly. Peter Case, Robin Williams and Aaron Boone all have heart surgery. John Martyn dies. Natasha Richardson dies. Ron Silver dies. Longtime bachelors David Letterman and Bruce Willis marry, but sadly, not each other. Bonuses are handed out. Bonuses are handed back. Obama is great! Obama sucks. I find myself oddly attracted to Meghan McCain. And then repulsed. And then attracted. Nick Cage, in what must be some type of experiment, makes ever-worsening movies, and yet still retains vast popularity. Newspapers fold, and no, not in that way.

So, old fat Pete Case is on the mend from heart surgery ... surely he was knocking on death's door for quite a bit and happily he's gonna pull through and live to fight another day. And the former Plimsouls' guitarist, Eddie, uses Pete's well-wishing board to tell people how he [Eddie] needs a job. Just seems so odd. I mean, did no one tell Eddie that (a) it's in bad taste to use the get well Pete board to complain about your own predicament? and (b) that there is little to no demand for a rock and roll guitarist pushing 60? I mean, that's why I stopped playing in bands at age 22. I knew that one day I would be old, and no matter how good I was at the ol' axe, no one would care once I hit 30. Porn stars have better career longevity than rock and rollers. The script writes itself, son.

He's the Maker of Nothing

2009-03-19T22:26:00.000-07:00

The lavishly underappreciated Chrissie Hynde has a song on the new Pretenders' recording called "The Nothing Maker." It's a song about [and I deliberately did not use the words "ode to", "tribute" or "paean"] her "man" or "guy".

The song is a "Nowhere Man" but without the editorializing that marred so many songs from the 1960s. Instead, her man makes nothing and expects little. Instead of being crassly judged, he is portrayed as a man who is neither vain nor outwardly successful. But is he a failure? Hynde states that "he lives by a code known only to him." He does not succeed for successes' sake. He does not make, or take, or do anything of permanence. He's the nothing maker.

So, instead of being a song that catalogs the lack of things this guy does as failures, she lists them and lets the listener judge. Is making nothing perhaps better? If anything, Hynde makes it clear that his choice to make nothing is a volitional act, as volitional and deliberate [and as well-crafted] as the decision some make to create. In essence, the Maker of Nothing is indeed a maker after all.

I was so devastated when I heard the song. Her best songs have that ability. Songs like "Kid" or "Middle of the Road" or "Talk of the Town" have certain lines, delivered in that peerless Hynde fashion that utterly destroy the listener. And unlike so many of her peers, Hynde has lost nothing off her fastball as she has grown numerically older. "The Nothing Maker" proves that. Here are the lyrics:

He doesn't make shoes
or design a new shirt
or take photographs
But no one gets hurt

And he doesn't look trendy
like guys in magazines
You won't see him at parties
he's not the face behind the scene

He Makes Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the Maker of Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

And he doesn't paint pictures
or write poetry
or act on a stage
for others to see

And he don't expect much
Santa Claus knows
Cause he doesn't make lists
Of toys and new clothes

He Makes Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the Maker of Nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

Everyone's chasing
A reason to live
Mostly they take more than they give
The succeeder justifies
Why he needs more than the rest
believes his own lies
And thinks he's the best

but my guy doesn't make movies
to suit an audience's whim
He lives by a code
known only to him
And he doesn't make money
to buy watches and cars
cause there's no time and no place to go
for a man who has nothing to show

He makes nothing
He's the Nothing Maker
He's the maker of nothing
He's the Nothing Maker

This Desert Life

2009-03-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

Once again, it's nearly Spring. And once again, I'm in Arizona.

Some good things have happened since I got here. Had a nice visit with Dad and the step-mom. Found them an estate planning attorney that was both reasonably priced and excellently credentialed, and hopefully really good. Saw the Angels pummel the D-backs. Got in some good runs, including one in Old Town Tucson, site of the filming of Rio Bravo and (ta-da!) The Three Amigos. Won $250 at the Indian Casino. Saw "The Palm Beach Story" and finished "Blink" and closed a couple of deals. I should get away more often.

But today is a day of mourning. Mandy Moore and Ryan "Gimme a Haircut and a Bath" Adams got married. We're just counting the days until this one comes to a fiery end.

On a similar note, Bristol Palin and Levi "Don't Call Me Stubbs" WhateverHisLastNameIs broke up. But she won't be off the market for long. Look at that mom. You know Bristol will age well, folks.

I had several goals for this trip. For one, I purposefully did not bring any guitars along. Because I'm sort of at a crossroads, although not of the Robert Johnson variety. I own a bunch of guitars. I check out eBay all the time to look at guitars and guitar parts. But I don't get that much joy out of it. It's like a bad habit. I play, and I like to play. I like to write and sing. But I really don't do any of it that well. I mean, I will make no one forget Joey Molland.

So I was scouring websites looking at interviews and webpages with frustrated musicians. And I recall the words of Robert Christgau: "Nothing to say and no special way to say it." He was (wrongly) describing Jules Shear. But really he was talking about me, musically. I think the only validity I have is that I'm a pretty good live guitar player, a pretty good bandmember. But that's about it. But actually, I'm a pretty rotten bandmember when I'm not playing guitar. Because I don't get along that well with other people most of the time. By choice. It's just who I am.

So I play guitar at home and think of getting more and different guitars, and recording and writing and maybe someday ... making someone else uncomfortable.

It's kind of pathetic being 46.

Fuck That Shit

2009-03-01T15:22:00.000-08:00

Apparently, it's no cussing week. To which I say, It's about fucking time.

I had this friend, a fellow smart kid, in grammar school. He was named John M. and he was a nice enough guy, very bright and not too big of a nerd. I, on the other hand, was too big of a nerd. But I knew that. I knew I was a nerd. So I learned how to cuss and I did it with great frequency and enthusiasm. It was 1973. There was a lot to be angry about. But John didn't see it that way. I would say "I don't give a shit." Or I would say "I don't give a fuck." Or sometimes I would say "I don't give a flying fuck." Mind you, I was ten, and it would be years before I even really appreciated what a "flying fuck" was. But I said it anyways. John took great offense at my colorful language. He would ask me, politely - as all inveterate non-cussers do - to not cuss, and he suggested that I say, instead "I don't give a care." I remember two things about my response to him. First, I remember being stunned that he cared what I was saying. My immediate reaction was gratitude: "Someone is paying attention!" My next reaction "Geez, what a busybody!" And secondly, I carefully explained to him that "give a care" did not accurately represent what I wished to convey. I mean, what the fuck?

Sunday Evening Dribblings

2009-02-15T19:10:00.000-08:00

Weekend TV is just the pits. Weekend TV is there to remind you and shame you that you are not doing anything. It says to you "Pathetic loser, watch me and rue your existence!"

The time between the Super Bowl and Spring Training needs to be eliminated. Either extend football playoffs so that the Super Bowl happens the last week of February, or make pitchers and catchers report February 1st. I can't take the month and a half of crap sports.

The guy who flew the plane that landed [safely] in the Hudson is going to have a life of hell from here on out. Every time there is a plane crash, some mishap, every time a goddamn kitten gets stuck in a tree, the press will call him. "Sully, should the pilot of the plane that crashed in Buffalo have had his plane on autopilot?" "Sully, what's your take on the election crisis in Israel?" "Sully, what would you do with the bailout money?" "Sully, should I get the chicken sandwich or the Double-Double?" That guy is gonna wish he had never been born.

Let's talk art. I just rented I Vitelloni [which was, apparently some sort of made-up word that was meant to connote an intestine. Or fat calves. Or something. The non-literal translation was "The Idlers." Think "Diner" set in a small destitute Italian town in about 1952.] The movie is about five aimless male friends, all unmarried, all jobless [oddly there is no mention of the war or their service or lack thereof in it] and all of them are about 30. The plot, what there is of it, mainly follows the exploits of Fausto, the handsome, charismatic, skirt-chaser who gets his girlfriend, the young, attractive, somewhat virtuous Sandra, pregnant. So the shotgun comes out [wielded by the groom's father] and the young couple gets married. And Fausto continues to chase skirts. So, at the end of the movie, Sandra has had enough of Fausto, she runs off. Fausto, it is implied, decides to change his womanizing ways and go find Sandra. When he does, Sandra has taken refuge in the very modest apartment of Fausto's father. Who then proceeds to beat his son with a belt. The penultimate scene has the smiling Fausto - with several bandages and cuts on his face - happily reunited with Sandra, and their baby. And Sandra says to him, the next time, I will beat you and it will be worse!

I'm thinking to myself as I'm watching this: score one for good old fashioned corporal punishment.

I have a friend who is fiercely anti-capital punishment. I am not. I am not anti-corporal punishment either. Which may seem odd to my friends who know that I got hit when I was a kid. And not always justly. So there is that problem. But still, the reality remains: when the fear of pain is involved, one tends to learn more quickly. One hopes that the people who dole out justice do it using enlightened good sense.

But to beat someone who is thirty? Wow. You go, Fellini.

Any predictions on (a) will the Ryan Adams - Mandy Moore nupitals go down, and (b) if so, how long the marriage will last? I mean, I can only think of ... Stiv Bators with Debby Boone ... I mean, Mr. Chain-smoking Speedball with the Miley Cyrus of 1999? Wow. Things have gotten strange. The world is right when rock stars marry groupies or models - like baseball players marrying stewardesses and cocktail waitresses. But this - this just shouldn't happen!

Or You Could Have Just Stayed Silent

2009-02-02T18:22:00.000-08:00

I write a lot of emails. And a lot of blog posts. And I wind up deleting many of them in their entirety, especially if they are directed at specific people. Sometimes, I'll let them slip through, but I carefully consider it before I do ... lest this happen.

Why It Is What It Is

2009-01-25T18:58:00.000-08:00

Crazy. We live in absolutely crazy times. I would hate to be a person afraid of massive, glacial change. Because we live in a time where by this time next year, gas could be 10 cents a gallon. But try to find that dime.

The changes aren't limited to economic ones, either. In fact, the economic changes are being driven by larger cultural and technological issues. People everywhere are living differently. You can't give laptops to children in the slums of Buenos Aries and expect things to remain the same.

I was talking with three pretty bright co-workers, and they were talking about a recent book. I just happened to say that publishing houses were done. Record companies, done. Magazines and newspapers, done. Next up, movie studios [as we know them now] ... done. Because the business models depended on scarce access. Difficult access. Within 5 years, people will be able to make and distribute their own movies. Felicia Day will be the norm, not the exception.

Maybe people will pay for public appearances of celebrities, since that's the only scarcity that will still exist. Maybe celebrities will cease to exist. People will hunger for something else. Who knows.

One more or less scarce commodity will be Ryan Adams, or Dave, as I call him. He's announced his retirement from music and blogging. We can only wonder if the latter is worth the former.

I tried to slog through Sarah Kate Silverman's "Jesus is Magic" last night. Couldn't make it. She telegraphs all her punchies like a shameless mug. I just can't get past that. She's one of the cool kids, can't get over being one of the cool kids ... just don't like the conceit. And her material just isn't very witty for the most part. She's no Chappelle, or Gervais ...

Speaking of the Master, I got a chance to watch Gervais' recent HBO special. Pure genius.

One last thought: Windows Vista is pants.

New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-10T17:44:00.000-08:00

This year, I resolve to spend less time in the hospital. That's it.

Sick With It

2009-01-03T01:31:00.000-08:00

Funny thing, being ill. Aside from the existential aspect of it, one becomes strangely popular [at a very unfortunate time!] And not, say, popular with hot women or rich generous benefactors. No, the death watch people come out. And they are looking for that one greasy, binary bit of news: Are you or are you not going to make it? And if not, when will you be kicking? [And if you do kick, as JW asked, can I have your guitars?] These folks practically salivate for this information.

So sadly, one has to face a particularly thick brand of inquisitor, one who assumes sort of a journalistic function, trying to "fix" you, factually. In their inartful clumsiness, they try to nail you down. This despite their utter lack of medical training. So you can say the whatever words you wish, but it doesn't really matter. Because, think about it -- you can't nail down the health of an individual any more than you can nail down the flight of a hummingbird, the rhythm of a song by the Shaggs, or the plot in a Henry Jaglom movie. Can't be done.

And getting information from me, good straight honest information, is even in the best of circumstances a useless endeavor. I tend to lie all the time, seeing no distinction between lying and an incomplete and misleading truth.

So these odd people came and went. And when they did ask questions, I tended to answer using the words of others. My brother, a doctor, whomever. I mean, what the hell do I know? I had a carcinoid tumor. The surgeon removed it and a bit of lung. I should be fine. We'll know more next week.

For example, my sister [who should know better, as she knows me and is medically trained] asked me how long the surgery was expected to last. I could care less! I mean, it wasn't going to be 5 minutes long. Nor was it going to take 2 hours. And she wasn't waiting for me in the lobby. And I would be blissfully under the influence of Versed.

Let us now sing the praises of the following three drugs, in order of wonderfulness: Versed, Dilauded, Vicodin. When the Dilauded hits your bloodstream, everything is wonderful. I could sit through Ron White talking about his everyday observations after even a small hit.

Speaking of Ron White: First, who does he know? He was on Craig Ferguson last night! Craig, how dare you! Did you owe someone a favor? And please, Ron's latest hair style is completely ripped from Clay Aikens [someone with tons more credibility and talent than RW.]

So, hopefully the weirdness is over for a while. But if I get bad news from the doc next week, then all this starts anew. Which is another reason one should hope for a short painless death.

When You Get Out Of the Hospital

2008-12-31T02:05:00.000-08:00

... please let me back into your life. Sang the slightly neurotic Jonathan Richman back in about 1972. He sure was weird back then. What's the quote? Looked like Dustin Hoffman, moved like Mick Jagger.

So I got out of Cedars-Sinai this afternoon, a release delayed by several hours due to my inability to produce a sterile bodily fluid. Comically, I had the contents of my bladder analyzed by several nurses, who determined, using a ultrasonic bladder scanner, that after drinking 3 cartons of juice, a glass of water and a grande Starbucks cappuccino, that I had literally nothing in the old internal bota bag. So I proceeded to guzzle a bunch of cranberry juice, apple juice, all your well-known diuretics. I go back to the room, nothing! And then of course, the orderly tells me that with any juice, no matter how diuretical it is, your kidneys have to process away all the solids. Which was his way of saying, "Why didn't you just drink some water?" He was right, of course.

With that out of the way, I had a couple of visitors. More on that later.

Quick question: why didn't my dog catch this? No biscuits for you, Kelly!

Yes, I am blogging high. I've had 6 Darvies, and plan to Vike it up bigtime tomorrow. I was fine until I went to bed tonight, and then boom. Everything in the manner of pain medication wore off at the same time. Ocho Cinco, indeed.

So of course, I can't sleep. Does anything need filing?

Bad Car, Great Review

2008-12-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

I love cars. The cultural complexity they engender due to the complete incompetence of the auto industry, is of course, tragic. That is why this piece of writing is so excellent.

I have a nomination for Best Pants of the 1970s. And really, the most over-the-top ultra-sensitive song that really delivers the goods. The "goods" being dicklessness.

And speaking of such, what sort of mocking is needed in addition to the get up that Gilbert O'Sullivan was wearing for this very early performance, of what was otherwise a badly produced but decent song. I mean - how do you get an adult male to wear that sort of clothing?

But that's what I love about the 1970s. The utter randomness of it all. It's like no one had any idea of what to do, so they did random things. The whole world lost its culture. At once. And no one had any idea what to do in the vacuum. So they did ... amateur hour. For years on end. I miss it so.

My Sweet [Mary Lou] Lord

2008-12-15T19:29:00.000-08:00

Once in a while it occurs
You find that you're not where that you thought you were
Or even where you hoped you might be in the field
It sounds like a lie but you know that it's real

And then you came and you reached out a hand
And so you stepped in as a part of the plan
The summer came and went and the leaves turned to red
Tell me were we wrong to believe what you said?

It can't be helped if we get on your nerves
We just wanna touch what you said we deserve
It's not that we don't know what you've done for the cause
It's just that there's a name on the line and its yours

[chorus] Hey hey hey, its another dog day
You never know what's on its way
Till its landed in your old tin tray
Hey hey hey, its another dog day
You never know what's on its way
Till its landed in your old tin tray

We can't say we'll succeed on our own
At least if we try and we end up unknown
It won't be 'cos of you that we're still on the shelf
It's easier to take if you do it yourself

And you know once in a while it occurs
You find that you're not where you thought you were
Or even where you hoped you might be in the field
You know what you can do with your sad little deal

[chorus]

That's "Old Tin Tray" as sung by the indisputably great Mary Lou Lord. I was gonna write about what a kickin' cool songwriter MLL was/is, but then I discovered this was written by her frequent collaborator, Nick Saloman, of the Bevis Frond. What makes that unusual is that, I would assume, that he wrote this song about MLL's specific situation with her record company, her career [busking], the DIY thing. I could be mistaken.

I'm thinking of doing "screwed by the record company" list of songs. This would be one of them.

1. Any number of Aimee Mann songs. "Way Back When". "I've Had It." "You Could Make A Killing." "It's Not Safe."
2. Traffic "Dear Mr. Fantasy"
3. Graham Parker "Mercury Poisoning"
4. Badfinger "Keep Believing", "Rock and Roll Contract"
5. Grant Hart "2541"
6. Nick Lowe "I Love My Label"
7. The Records "Starry Eyes"
8. Tom Petty "Into the Great Wide Open"

9. The Smiths "Paint a Vulgar Picture"

I'm certain that there are tons more songs out there that bemoan the state of record companies. Sad state of affairs, it will be a pity when all the record companies are gone.

Last note: Mike Penner is back, and with a sassy new attitude.

Is That All There Is?

2008-12-11T23:21:00.000-08:00

First, a true American icon has passed. Let's reflect on that for a moment, instead of our petty problems.

Now, onto our petty problems.

First, the cancer thing. Let's clear this one out: As my brother said, so eloquently earlier today ... "It's not really cancer." Which is not exactly true. But sort of. It's the most benign of the malignant cancers [which is sort of like saying how Billy Baldwin is the most normal of the Baldwin brothers.] I got his point. What he was trying to do was to once again disparage one of my achievements. I got cancer and he didn't. Simple jealously.

Can we get back to Bettie Page? Wow. That's all I can say.

Oh yeah, the carcinoid. I suppose I could throw in with all the nutty carcinoid overreactors out there -- that is, the people who seem to take this disease seriously, and want to do a lot of due diligence. But what would that get me? A lot of trouble from my ~~employer~~ insurance company. God forbid.

Personally, I believe that if you even mention the "C" word, you increase your odds of contracting the disease by a factor of five. I've got temporary immunity, I believe, at the present, as Dr. House has shown me that the odds of getting something while you already have something else are the same as the twitty foppy English guy on the show getting laid.

And really, the carcinoid people could do with some better branding. Carcinoid. Sounds like "paranoid" and "carcinoma" did the old hayride bop and had a child. And they named it "Carcinoid!" Neither entirely scary nor a good title for an early sixties surf tune.

So to answer the carcinoidians out there ... the oncologist says no to the drip. Unless it is a drip consisting of 3 parts dry gin and a splash of vermouth. In which case, drip away! But as I have said many times [and may say so less in the future, as I will be down half a lung] "the internet is the playground of the obsessive." And so, gentle readers and lurkers and obsessive compulsives out there, please tread lightly on imaginary artificial turf on the playground surrounding this blog. And do not roughhouse on the monkey bars.

Tropic of Carciniods

2008-12-09T22:00:00.001-08:00

I found out the afternoon of December 1st, Monday, in the office of possibly the most soft-spoken pulmonologist in California, that I have cancer, more specifically, a small carcinoid, in the lower lobe of my left lung.

And it's no major tumor either, just a modest little carcinoid, that previously - for the prior 6 months - was thought of, if at all, as a lesion. So it's like a promotion. It has been upgraded, if you will.

Sadly, for it, a carcinoid is barely cancer. Which is both good news and bad news. The good news is that, like being in my company, it will take fuckall forever to kill you. The bad news is that it is tougher to kill than John Travolta's career. Because, as cancer goes, it is horribly unambitious.

Unless it metastasizes. In which case, like a lot of things, once it hits the liver, you're cooked.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The overall survival rate is better, say, than that of members of any mid-1990's rock band. That is, somewhere approaching 83% for 5 years. And hell, I don't even have a 3 year plan, let alone a 5 year plan. What am I? V. V. Kuibyshev?

So many questions! And I haven't even begun my Christmas shopping.

So I check into Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles the Monday after Christmas, when some naughty bits will be removed from my lung. Sadly, some of my lung - and lymph nodes too - will have to pay the price. But them's the breaks. Not all body parts will make it to the finish line. And if you do make it with all parts intact, lucky you!

And so, that's the news. I have cancer. So what. I get phone calls from doctors [instead of me calling them.] And they treat me better. Is it worth it? Oh, hell yes!

In some quarters, folks want me to get inspected internally so that we can make damned certain no other carcinoids are crawling around. Oh, and that sounds fun! So throw an endoscopy on my plate, too! I really need some stranger to stick a camera down my windpipe. I'd rather watch the Lions play the Chiefs.

So I think I'll go out and run 3 or 4 miles, while I still have 2 good lungs to wheeze with.

Misleading Headline Dept.

2008-12-02T20:06:00.000-08:00

Eagle Swoops Down and Steals Cat. That's putting it nicely. The eagle did not merely steal the cat, I must report. Well, that's your liberal news media for you -- always soft peddling the hard truths, and over-selling the soft ones. My good woman, your cat is toast.

I would write about the proposed auto company bailout, but really, it's too depressing. In short, I would propose to give the money to Honda or Toyota, and have them transition production of the existing plants to Camrys and Priuses [Priux? Prii?] One thing baseball does right: When the team fails, the manager gets fired. Sure, the rest of the team may suck too, but rarely do they suck more than the manager does [Bill James, I dare you to prove me wrong!] In this case, the LEADERS of an entire industry which sucks are asking to be financially forgiven for their sins. Their cars are produced and sold much more cheaply than the competitors' cars, and yet they blame the unions, medical costs, legacy contracts and ... I don't know ... zombies from Neptune ... could it be their inept and incompetent management? Just maybe. Have you driven a Ford lately? Have you bought one?

My dog turned 4 yesterday. So the photo up top is my birthday honor for her.

Worst Person in the World

2008-11-12T21:21:00.000-08:00

I use the title with tongue in cheek. For several reasons ... first, it seems a shame to me that Keith Olberman is wasting his impressive intellect, yet marginal power of reasoning, doing political commentary. In many ways, I feel that Stephen Colbert is really parodying Olberman. That's another story, however. But the fact, the utter dumb hubris, that Olberman feels he can bestow the title "Worst Person in the World" from his bully pulpit [in his case, aptly named] is beyond defense. Liberals can claim no quarter as long as he continues to take the low road much traveled.

Can I say this? This election makes me miss Buckley the pere, and Tim Russert so much.

Anyways, back to the matter at hand.

The "worst" in this matter is the author of a column from a recent LA Times. Her name - and I do not know this woman, sorry - is Norah Vincent. I'm not going to even google her, as I fear what I might find. So, Exhibit A-jillion in the ongoing saga of "The Times Ain't What She Used To Be", is this woeful piece of writing that they saw fit to publish. Slow news day? No news day, one would think.

In the immortal words of Andy Partridge, "Let's Begin."

The title of her piece? "A vote too late for Obama" with the telling subtitle "At the time, not voting felt right. Now it's time for regrets." She explains that she felt good about not voting, but now - a few days hence - she feels "out of it." Even though she had good reasons not to vote for either candidate, being a libertarian and "fiscally conservative."

Well, I can understand not voting for either McCain or Obama, given those credentials -- but no love for Bob Barr? I mean, we all bite our tongue and swallow the bile when we vote. Personally, I have much distaste for Joe Biden, and a whole lotta love for Sarah Palin, yet I weighed the issues and pulled the lever. No regrets - yet!!! So I am confounded that Norah feels "out of it." If she had voted for Obama, would she be "in it" or "with it"? I mean, just because you voted for Kennedy, that doesn't give you a magic pass to Camelot, I'm afraid.

Here's what I believe -- like a lot of "libertarian / fiscally conservative" people, Norah is a closet liberal, a secular humanist who hates the moral aspects of government only when they rub her the wrong way. Good way to shield your true convictions [Norah gives away her true beliefs later in the column.]. This explains two things about her -- when Obama won, she felt left out because she really wanted to vote for him, but didn't because she was soooooooo disappointed when Kerry and Gore lost, she wasn't strong enough to lose a third time. She hedged her bet, and lost and now is left feeling ... regret. As they say, so sad, too bad. Secondly, what is it about voting for someone that allows you to feel a part of the franchise? I would say, unless you are talking about Ted Stevens, Al Franken or Hannah Beth Jackson, you're barking up the wrong tree if you over-esteemed that your vote meant a good God doodly-damn to anyone. So, really, as far as being "out of it" is concerned, get over yourself.

Let's go on. She makes the stupid argument that Obama's tax plan "penalizes" people who make more than $250,000. Well, it's a whole lot less the marginal rate under Eisenhower, lady. That rate was 92%. Our current rates, well, they resemble the rates under Hoover. Obama's plan is hardly a return to the rates we saw under even Nixon. He'll maybe move the needle a couple of points. Not exactly going to create a nation of tax exiles.

Here's where I start to chortle. She defends her decision not to vote for McCain as the good Senator is a man of "brittle intellect and doctrinaire sensibility." Wha? As for as "doctrinaire sensibility" is concerned, are we talking about John McCain or ... Keith Olberman? John "Hated By The Right For His Tendency To Work Too Well With Others" McCain?" Hardly doctrinaire. And WTF does "brittle intellect" even mean? If you're talking about Joe Biden, I'm with you. Granted, John McCain is not Obama, intellectually, but he is no slouch. His intellect is brittle? Meaning "easily broken"? Broken by what? Years of confinement in a jail? A lengthy political campaign? Years of battle in the Senate? See what I mean.

Norah really lowers the boom on Palin:

"The second reason I didn't vote for McCain is -- big surprise here -- Sarah Palin ... She is a belligerent ignoramus. resounding theme of her candidacy was a shamefully rabble-rousing, nauseatingly populist denunciation of knowledge, intellectual expression and reasoned debate, all apparently the vicious province of the media elite and not the hard and hardy backbone of the "real" America."

Wow. When the truth diverges from the myth, print the myth. And so Norah follows the crumbs laid down by the Rachel Maddows of the world, without so much as thinking for herself or checking the facts. Sarah Palin is "belligerent"? Because why? She raised "rabble"? I guess that's like raising "hope" but backed by specifics. And when John Edwards or Joe Biden appeals to the common man, it rings true but when Sarah Palin does it, it becomes "nauseating." I see. And please, let me know when and where Sarah Palin denounced knowledge or intellectual expression and reasoned debate? Did she not show up and have a "reasoned debate" with Joe Biden? Or did she kick him in the shins and wave the flag? Maybe Norah's TV pulls in more cable channels than mine. My recollection is that the good Governor from Alaska did very well with both the reasoning and the debate. That would be consistent with her membership in the Honor Society in high school.

Well, the thread just goes on. Norah bemoans not voting for Obama, missing the historical moment, going to bed early and missing Obama's acceptance speech. She muses "Am I going to feel a little caught out one day when I have to say that I did not vote for him?" Caught out by whom? Self-important, self-righteous blowhards like yourself? Probably.

But here's where she reveals her true colors -- why she didn't vote in the first place:

"Or will I feel vindicated by what will surely be the many and great disappointments of the Obama administration?After all, what man could live up to so much expectation? So much hope? I honestly don't know how the man gets out of bed in the morning."

She has to hedge, doesn't she?

And what's all this about the "many and great disappointments"? We shouldn't have elected Obama. The bar is too high. Who set the bar? Michael Chabon? It wasn't me, Jack.

I have a close friend, a reasonable soul, who felt a little mixed about Obama, not because the good Senator himself posed insurmountable problems. No, it was because his followers tend to be as dim as Scientologists, or, say, Earth Liberation Front members. People who have ill-reasoned, childish expectations of the world, and especially, politics. These people - the thin skinned, overripe bananas [mushy headed, easily bruised] of the world -- tend to criticize but never try. They are the human black holes, always sucking the sunlight and starlight from a fundamentally optimistic world.

By the end of the article, Ms. Vincent allows for a little hope, cracks the door a little. Good for her. What I hope for her is that when Obama succeeds and fails and all manner of in-between as President, she has the responsibility to participate in that reality and help fund the account of hope that Obama has created for the pie-in-the-sky eaters who are surely hearing their stomachs gurgle as Inauguration Day nears. It's up to her, and all of us, now. Obama can't do it alone.

The Life of a Playwright is tough ...

2008-11-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

As my favorite movie, at least part of the time, is "My Dinner With Andre", I thought the above clip from today's NY Post was sufficiently amusing to share. No one can construct an argument like the brilliant and sexually devastating Mr. Shawn.

Mr. Zeit, meet Mr. Geist

2008-11-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

I have this mental picture of some guy in a beige cardigan in the fall of 1960, sitting in a small tract home in Rancho Park in front of a Philco, glowing incandescent in black and white. He's watching Huntley and Brinkley, hunched forward on a low slung Milo Baughman couch. He's maybe 35 or 40 years old, single, listens to jazz and drives a new Corvair. Very hip guy. A Democrat who has suffered through the 1950s, likes the fact that he lives near UCLA, that hotbed of radicalism. Goes to lectures there on occasion. He's enjoying the election coverage, and he's projecting all these positive things that are going to happen if Kennedy wins [which was by no means certain on election night that year.]

So he wakes up the next day, listens to the radio or picks up the paper and reads that Kennedy, indeed, has won. He's a happy cat. An extra bounce in his step. Refills his Corvair with Hi Test, just as a lark.

What he doesn't realize is that when Kennedy won, something much larger than a political shift happened [In fact, the paper-thin difference between the moderate Republican Nixon and the conservative Democrat Kennedy is, in retrospect, laughable.] No, what happened on that Fall night, in the wee hours of November 9th, 1960 was that a new zeitgeist occurred. Which is a bit like saying that a nuclear bomb "occurred" in Hiroshima in 1945. The values of an entire culture shifted overnight. And our hero, from then on, despite his good intentions, his contributions to UNICEF, his tolerant attitudes, his Munsingwear shirts and his jazz patter, would became a relic, a footnote, a sad little man who from then on would be working on a combover that would never quite cut it with the chicks in Westwood Village.

That same wind is blowing in America tonight, folks. Do you feel it?

The Horror of the Internet

2008-11-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

Before the Internet cast its web over us, thus interconnecting us in this fairly pervasive way [such that I have exchanged emails, for example, with both Jill Sobule and Jane "Issa" Siberry], we could live our lives free of so much knowledge.

And I'm not talking about about really useful facts. I'm talking about news about people you barely knew 30 years ago. I scanned the Classmates.com bulletin board [broke my own code doing so, sorry to say] and found out that a few girls I remembered as being young, vibrant and beautiful were in fact, quite dead.

Now, I'm 45, and pretty far from dead, I hope [to prove it, I ran 4 miles today.] So to think of these girls, who when I last checked, were 18 years old and pretty cute are now dead, well ... that's just repugnant. The heavy metal dudes who were drunk or stoned or both during high school - I can picture them dead. Hell, they pictured themselves dead. The boring, back of the packers? Dead, too. The surfers? The bad girls? Dead, and dead. But the cute, carefree, Ditto-wearing girls? They're supposed to outlive us. That was the plan.

And when the plan is not followed, I get upset.

This is a remote chance, I know, but I'm wondering what would happen if Obama doesn't get elected? What would happen? So many people have invested their "hope"currency into the Obama Bank. And I'm just saying that I predict that there is - whether he gets elected or not - irrational exuberance factored into the value of that currency.

End of the Weekend Madness

2008-10-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

So the weird turn pro? At what point?

For example, about 13 years ago, I dated a really nice woman, J. for 5 years. J. has a younger sister, a very intelligent, very conservative blogger named, for my purposes here, D. Here's where it gets interesting. There has been an Internet hoax circulating, that purports to show a copy of Sarah Palin's grades and SAT score [reproduced above.] It turns out that the "template", if you will, was taken from D.'s grades, which she posted on her own site [yes, she posted her own grades on the internet. And some deign to call me solipsistic.] So, some pro-Obama hoaxers were attempting to discredit Palin [who was an honors student, I'm sorry to say to the liberals in the audience] with the heavily altered report card of another controversial conservative and very attractive woman.

I would suppose that implicit in there, somewhere, is the prejudiced idea that if a person, especially an attractive woman, is conservative, she must be stupid. Where are the feminists out there defending against these allegations?

Not to say that there aren't stupid conservatives out there. A co-worker, like me, male and middle aged, was having a loud protracted conversation with another co-worker on Friday morning. Seems that this guy couldn't decide who to vote for. He might vote for McCain, but [and I quote] "for selfish reasons" he might vote for Obama. What might these selfish reasons be, I wondered? Greater chance that Armageddon might happen if Obama wins. So he would be able to meet Jesus a little quicker.

Maybe that makes him dumb, or maybe he just has bigger balls than I do.

In my fair burg, the "Yes On 8" people are everywhere. To these people, teaching one's children that men can marry men and women marry women is just too horrific a thought. What was nice, and actually touching to me, was that the "No On 8" demonstrations in my area were largely DIY efforts thrown together by kids. And I mean young "under 18" kids. With homemade signs. It was very cool to see the activism from these youngsters.

If you can't tell by now, fiscally I'm conservative, socially, I think the government should be largely absent. I even have qualms with the government getting involved with the legal aspects of marriage. When women needed legal protection [because of pervasive and powerful legal and societal discrimination], it made sense. But now? Why? To me, family law seems to be the relic of another age.

That's enough politics. I was in the Ralph's yesterday, buying them out of low fat sugar-free yogurt as I do on a weekly basis. And the Christina Aguilera song "Fighter" blared over the store's background music system. Really loud. It's a nice song and all, but I don't know that I want to pick out my bran flakes to it. So mercifully, the song ended. And what played next? Talk about a change of pace: "Blowing in the Wind" as sung by Peter Paul and Mary. Now, for the next two and a half minutes, I swear to you, everybody my age [45] or older in the store was softly singing along. Surreal but nice little moment.

And what is with supermarket music nowadays? When did Matthew Sweet, Jane Siberry, Belle & Sebastian, Nanci Griffith and other staples of my musical diet become acceptable as being background music? Bring back Horst Jankowsky!

Back to the World Series.

The End of the Beginning

2008-09-21T20:26:00.000-07:00

Last thoughts on my prior post:

I have no idea of the "carrying capacity" of the planet. How do you measure it? I mean by that, bring on the arguments and I will refute them. So let us, for the sake of argument, assume that there are way too many people on the planet. What to do?

Personally, I can tell you that anyone with a plan is to be feared, not admired.

Does that mean that people - as the Earth continues to have resource allocation and production difficulties [as it has throughout the history of civilization] -- will suffer, perhaps needlessly? Oh yeah. But the alternative -- you don't even want to contemplate it.

So, what about the economy? Too much softness. The erosion of the middle class has largely caused the larger gambit to fail. At least temporarily. I could write about 2,000 words on this topic alone, but I will spare you.

Cheer up, people. Listen to some Rickie Lee Jones and have an iced mocha. You'll feel better.

In case anyone was wondering, I am still undecided as to who I will vote for. On two fronts I favor Senator Obama: first, his health care plan does not present the level of upheaval and risk that Senator McCain's does. Second, he voted against the unnecessarily draconian Bankruptcy reform of 2005. So he does have more sense in some meaningful ways than Senator McCain does.

And yes, to me, policy does matter. Why? For two reasons: first, it might actually happen. Even if the odds are long. Things change. So based on the potentiality, no matter how latent, I care. Secondly, judgment in future events can be based at least somewhat on prior judgment. And Senator Obama has quite convincingly presented as someone of good judgment.

The Last Man Alive

2008-09-06T21:59:00.001-07:00

I grew up in the early 1970s. It was one weird era for a young person. The Nixon government was adjudged corrupt. The Viet Nam war ground down to a depressing halt. The Munich Olympics produced a very public and very upsetting mass killing of athletes. Serial killers roamed the planet pretty much dispatching people at whim. Music got increasingly slower, mellower, more self-involved, coked-out, and irrelevant sounding as if produced by a race of zombies. Middle-aged people were getting freaky, which was probably the most disturbing event to me of all of the preceding.

As an aside, I note that by the end of the 1970s, Gram Parsons, Chris Bell, Marc Bolan, Sandy Denny, Keith Moon, Pete Ham, Jim Croce, Nick Drake, the talented halves of Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers, Cass Elliott, and Judee Sill were all dead. They knew when to get out.

But something else happened to profoundly shape the generation I grew up in.

Optimism was beaten out of us. It was beaten out of us by Watergate, Chevy Chase and George Carlin. It was beaten out of us by Joan Didion, Jimmy Carter and Michael Crichton. By Robert Redford, Steely Dan and New West magazine.

But it was really beaten out of us at the movies. Big screen movies like "Three Days at the Condor." "The Parallax View." "The Planet of the Apes." And so many others like them, and worse. These movies were way beyond cynical. They were bad and bad for you. Sure, they amused and provoked the intelligent, stable and strong. But as for the rest of us? They left what I believe was a permanent and negative tattoo on my generation.

Let me explain. Here is but one example. There was a movie called "Z.P.G." You can guess what the initials stand for. It's impact? Both my elder brother and many other friends believe that the world is overpopulated. There are too many people on the planet. The earth would be better off with fewer people. How many? They won't tell me! But all of these people are so proud of the fact that they have not spoiled the earth by having little ones. They are proudly, smugly non-breeders.

Conversation with elder brother earlier today:

Brother: "I really don't like Sarah Palin. What do you think?"

Me: "I really like her. I don't agree with her on all her political issues, but she has a compelling story. I mean, five kids! That's remarkable."

Brother: "Yeah, she has too many kids. The world is overpopulated."

Me: "By how many? When we get down to just you and Chuck Heston, you'll be happy then I suppose."

So you can see what I'm up against. People who hate people. They want to have us managed like a crop, like an ant farm. They hate the mess, the disorder, the randomness. Sadly, these people tend to be intellectual, so they keep the capital, don't pass it on [irony, anyone?], yet criticize [I mean "damn"] the uneducated masses who breed without concern, reflection or consequence.

Again I say, Sarah Palin has touched a nerve. She has the audacity to reproduce.

Lloyd's is Pants

2008-09-01T17:03:00.000-07:00

Proof again that the Brits are just a superior race, as far as my defining criteria [wit] is concerned.

What other things are pants? Labor Day is pants. Having roommates is pants.

Sweet Vindication

2008-08-30T22:05:00.001-07:00

Yes, I posted here, in this blog, on December 26, 2007 that McCain - Palin would be the Republican dream ticket. And the dream has arrived, folks. Deal with it.

Sarah Palin is a logistical nightmare for the Dems. Here's why: she's the real thing. She's pro life? No, she's pro life, having recently carried her fifth child to term, knowing the child had Down's Syndrome. That's not a theoretical position. That's not street talk. That is reality.

She's pro business? Well, she's owned a commercial fishing business that she actually worked. She's an actual small business owner.

Think she has some working mom cred? A little. She's governor, formerly mayor, has 5 kids, married to the same guy for 20 years. She is a soccer mom. Do you think she can speak meaningfully about identifying with blue collar mom's plight? She is one.

Both her parents were schoolteachers. Yes, she's beautiful. But she's not just a show horse. She was an outstanding athlete and runs 5 to 7 miles a day. After having 5 kids. But, really, she says the best workout is driving a snowmobile at high speed. Good for your upper body.

Is she for gun rights? Yep. Lifetime NRA member. No - this isn't some policy position for her. She's a crack shot, and kills and dresses her own game. Any arguments? I didn't think so.

Like McCain, she has a son reporting for duty in Iraq. That definitely adds to her gravitas on the subject.

And she can talk Energy Policy, essentially the Number One domestic issue right now, like no one else can. She lives and breathes energy policy.

All this, and she has impressive maverick cred, taking on her own party, the oil industry and home state perks, like fighting the infamous "bridge to nowhere."

[Am I concerned about her ability to withstand the rigors of the race? To stand toe to toe against Joe Biden? Sure I am. And the investigation into her potential misuse of influence to get a former b-i-l removed? Sounds overblown, but let's see.]

She is the housewife made good. The little man who stood up to City Hall. The pretty girl who didn't just coast on her good looks. The smart girl who didn't sell out for the high paying job. The ambitious girl who didn't leave her blue collar husband for the rich guy in order to jump start her career. The working girl who didn't sacrifice family for career and made both work. And took care of herself in the meantime.

If you are a liberal, she's your worst nightmare.

This is like football, baseball, anything else

2008-08-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

This is the all-time rant. No question about it. The guys get shirts, that's just the fuckin' way it is. I thought of this spectacular piece of Internet madness because the perpetrator is playing a local casino [funny how things come full circle, ain't it?] And so they've been advertising the gig by showing a clip of him singing a song ... and I couldn't place the song, but I knew it wasn't part of the Great American Songbook ... and then it hit me -- Spanka was taking a page of the Pat Boone playbook and redoing rock tunes! He was singing Van Halen's "Jump."

Let me also say here that Planka is a Canadian. I think it is well-documented what I think of the damned carpetbaggers who come here to steal our bounty and breed with our beautiful women: it's a scandal.

What else? Jeff Kent has been bagging on Vin Scully. It's official: my love affair with Jeff Kent is officially over. He lacks the refined judgment and class of a tatted-up Norco speed freak.

Medical update. The rheumatologist has a diagnosis of no diagnosis for me. Other than having rheumatoid factors through the ceiling [and by "ceiling", I mean the ceiling of the Chrysler building - the last test came back over 4,000 - and normal is less than 20], I am completely healthy [save for the spot on my lung.] So that's what it is. And so I'll go for a run tonight and try to ignore it.

Go Angels!

All-Time Todds

2008-08-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's well-known. I'm a lister. A harmless drudge to be certain.

And for some reason it struck me to make a list of the best baseball players named "Todd." Why? For a couple of reasons. First, Todd - as a name - has high comedic potential. Bill Murray pretty much made his name as the noogie-maven Todd on the old SNL. Todd Flanders, the younger son of Ned, of course lives in cartoon infamy, for [in Ned's words] "having the Devil's curly hair." And we need not speak of Todd Rundgren.

Second, there is neither a longer version, a diminutive nor a female version of the name Todd. Todd is Todd.

Third, Todd seems to be a product of the mid to late 1960s, my era. The era of wussy, surf movie names. Names like Jay, Dennis, Chas, Scott, Tommy, Bobby, Kurt and my name. And Todd. If you look at the baseball record, above, you'll see that most of the Todds played in the 1990s. So, like the Nehru jacket and Cuban heels, the name Todd is destined to fade away, a product of its brief era.

So, with that, here is my list of all-time baseball Todds.

Time Between

2008-08-12T23:50:00.000-07:00

"There's the moment it's decided, then there's later when you find out the deciding's all been done."

That's always been one of my favorite lyrics [by my favorite songwriter, pretty much the king of singer-songwriters, Jules Shear.] He wrote that back in the late 1970s, when I first learned of him and his great band, Jules & the Polar Bears. One of my desert island albums would definitely be "Got No Breeding" from 1978. I remember hearing it, and thinking that at once it made both Elvis Costello and Jackson Browne dispensable.

I quote the above lyrics because I'm waiting for the results of my latest round of blood work - something like 7 or so vials of the stuff that I work so hard to produce [and then I just give it away. So sad.]

I see the doc, the rheumatologist - another specialist, thank you very much - next Monday, and I have a feeling, to paraphrase Jules, that the deciding's all been done. That there will be some diagnosis [and concomitant prognosis] at that time [or sooner, if it's really dire and he calls.]

It's a weird feeling; I've been on this health rollercoaster since April, when I got back from Europe. First, acute appendicitis and surgery. Next, a lesion on my lung. Third, blood panels that come back with absolutely inexplicable results. Positive for whooping cough [huh?] And rheumatoid factors that are exponentially higher than they should be. But one or more could be false positives.

So many, many rounds of blood work. A CT scan. A PET scan. An MRI. No diagnosis. So many tests, so many specialists. No answers.

At some point, calling in grumpy misanthrope House would seem a relief. Anyone who had to go on this merry-go-round would welcome his hateful, sarcastic yet ultimately unimpeachable visage. At least he gets things done.

Much like when after I took the bar exam but had not yet gotten my results, I am waiting for an outcome that is likely already determined. A tested already graded, the results not yet published. It's a strange feeling. Or to quote another great songwriter, Lyle Lovett, "She's Already Made Up Her Mind." And I'm just waiting for her to tell me where the chips have fallen.

Empty Chambers

2008-07-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

Australian alt.country wannabe Kasey Chambers has been hyped, such as hype is in the No Depression world, for neigh on a decade now. And why are we hyping her when true talents like Kathleen Edwards, Caitlin Cary and so many others essentially get hung out to dry?

I take particular exception with Ms. Chambers as she has the peculiar inability to come up with an original song title ... for example, she has songs named "Runaway Train" [no, not either the Soul Asylum or John Stewart/Rosanne Cash song], "Surrender" [nope! not Cheap Trick], "Pony" [no, not Caitlin Cary], "Nothing At All" [Nay! not the Heart song!] and ... "Cry Like A Baby" [Not a single Boxtop involved in this one], ... how about "The Captain" ... perchance the Doobie Brothers hit? You'd be wrong! Please, Ms. Chambers, let's try to do at least one original thing in your career.

Physician's Full Employment Act

2008-07-20T18:42:00.000-07:00

The sage continues.

So, to deal with my out-of-control rheumatoid arthritis factor numbers, my pulmonary specialist is referring me to a rheumatologist. Which seems logical ... except for the fact that my sister-in-law, Dr. House, thinks my docs are incorrect [not exactly her words] and that my rheumatoid factors and pertussis aka whooping cough positives are both false. Which means that I have ... what? Who knows. And of course, I haven't gotten to the referral to the orthopedic surgeon. This whole things just seems suspicious.

I tend to believe that there are "unified field" theories to explain the medical mystery, and I think that that is what my SIL, Dr. House, is getting at. Something autoimmune related, perhaps. Maybe sarcoidosis? Who knows.

On the good news front ... the Angels swept the Red Sox this weekend at Anaheim. Life doesn't get better than that.

Stuff I Dislike

2008-07-16T20:41:00.000-07:00

Okay, let's get the party started.

1. Jon Stewart. Not a fan. I don't find him funny, or witty, or a particularly good interviewer. He is, however, a fairly good judge of talent. Stephen Colbert, Rob Corddry, Steve Carrell, and Ed Helms come to mind.

2. The Films of Christopher Guest. On the whole, I find his humor elitist. Genius, but elitist.

3. Baseball's All-Star game. What a piece of crap. Who cares!

4. Musical artists who (a) refuse to license their work for commercials and/or movies, and then publicly act like they possess some higher level of morality, and (b) artists who don't sell their work digitally. I've gone over this before, but please let's get on the bus.

I like how videos and mp3s have sort of fostered the reemergence of the single as the most important unit of music. Because it is. Artists who focus on "albums" are just deluded. Even the greats - Bowie, Neil Young, Van Morrison - were at their best when they were singles-focused. Domino, Suffragette City, Cinnamon Girl anyone?

They're All Wasted

2008-07-13T17:40:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the Who have a song in their canon entitled "Teenage Wasteland." I'm surprised the "author" of this piece didn't rename the song "They're All Wasted," instead of its real name.

I have a friend who constantly chides me for not reading newspapers. After reading crap like this again and again, I am thinking he may have a point. There are no fact checkers on the internet. Only dogs.

What Gives?

2008-07-04T15:27:00.000-07:00

I'm in Napa today, hanging out for the 4th. As many cities do, they have a 4th of July festival. And so they have street vendors, kids' activities, and they hired a band to entertain the assembled throng. A really bad band of guys in their 40s and 50s, playing lame Chicago-style blues. Old white guys playing bad blues, that's pathetic.

Napa is a strange city. I would expect it to be more like San Luis Obispo, upscale with some sense of uniformity to it. But Napa really seems to be a lot more low-end than even say Petaluma or Santa Rosa. Napa reminds me much of Monterey: one or two really nice streets, a cute downtown and then a lot of shop turnover in the downtown area, and a lot of small blue collar businesses on the periphery. But all in all, aside from being located in some of the most valuable agricultural real estate in the world, it is unimpressive. The town deserves better.

I go on a wine tour tomorrow. I don't particularly like wine, or wine snobs, but sometimes I do things just to do them.

One last note ... for some reason, I was researching the chart history of Nilsson's cover of the Badfinger song [and perenial chart topper] "Without You" [a song cobbled together by the two suicides in the group, Pete and Tom, who really couldn't live, if living is without you.] What I found interesting is that (a) the song was a number one hit on both sides of the Atlantic, and (b) the songs that preceded and succeeded it in America were "Heart of Gold" by Neil Young, and "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by Roberta Flack, two great songs, brilliantly done. In England, the songs that preceded and succeeded it were "Son of My Father" by Chicory Tip and "Amazing Grace" by the Pipes & Drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. Ah, they do things differently across the pond, now don't they.

Culture Clash

2008-06-20T18:29:00.000-07:00

I need someone to check something for me: Joe Strummer's grave. Because I am fairly certain that Joe is spinning like a Philipino sweatshop loom right now.

If you don't know what I'm referring to, please take a good look at the photo, at the top of this posting. That's Mick Jones, alright. But it's the "Mick Jones" Joe was referring to in "Complete Control" as "You're My Guitar Hero!" The Mick Jones who wrote "Train In Vain." The Mick Jones of the Clash. The Yahoolagins at Yahoo! have put his photo to accompany the story about Foreigner. That Mick Jones is the Mick Jones of, really, the worst rock and roll band of their era. Foreigner got everything wrong about rock music. Too loud. Too leaden. No irony. Did not "roll" [or as the Angel Apologist would say, "swing."] No sense of humor. In short, no compelling reason to listen to these guys.

Two points: you can tell a lot about the quality of popular music in an era by looking at who was popular. When the era includes Yes, Toto, Foreigner and Rush as top selling acts, you can safely say that the era was bereft.

The second point. The Clash often had the same failings that Foreigner did. But they also had Joe Strummer, whose single-mindedness [he was a good deal older than most of the punks] redeemed the fact that they were often too preachy by half. And usually they swung, and could be very funny [see, for example, "Rudy Can't Fail."]

So, Joe, wherever you are, try to rest easy knowing that the rest of us, up here and not in heaven, still believe in you.

Hell to the Yeah

2008-06-18T15:06:00.001-07:00

Once again, the Japanese are trend-setters. And this - in Time magazine of all places. What would Henry Luce say to this?

Robot Wars!

2008-06-17T18:50:00.000-07:00

“You’re opening the doors for everything else. You got instant replay, next year it’ll be something else. They’re going to have robots playing the game one day, you watch.”—Angels OF Torii Hunter, on reports that MLB will start using instant replay to make difficult home run calls.

See also this unnerving development.

Or worse yet, this.

Well, Andy Kaufman tried to warn us of this evil way back in the 1980s, an era that was blissfully free of robot-inspired paranoia.

So, Robots were to be feared in the 1950s, welcomed in the 1960s, feared in the 1970s, welcomed in the 1980s, feared and respected in the 1990s and ... slept with now? It's a logical progression.

You Got Rickrolled

2008-06-13T05:20:00.000-07:00

As I have stated before, the Internet is the playground of the obsessive. And this has never been more plainly demonstrated than as in this example [I know what you're thinking: why couldn't it have been the Red Sox? Probably because their fans are too dim to pull off such a witty stunt.] God bless Rick Astley for, say, not missing the point. And he correctly pointed it out that this was a bit "spooky" and demonstrated that this was a "brilliant" use of the Internet.

Something both spooky and brilliant? Yes, though seemingly inconsistent, he is correct. Generally, we Americans like to denigrate things that annoy us. We would say that it is "idiotic" and "harassing." We would say that it is "pathetic" and "intrusive." But as has been demonstrated so many times before, the Brits are a superior people.

Where have I been lately? Three really cool events. The Kids in the Hall show at the Grove in Anaheim [where I did not get my head crushed, sadly.] Aimee Mann last Friday night at the House of Blues [again, in that cultural mecca, Anaheim. I got to see the uncomfortably skinny Ms. Mann walk around Downtown Disney before the show with her friends, and I have the blurry cell phone pix to prove it, should I ever learn how to download them.] And, on Saturday, I saw the dreadfully slow-paced "The Hunger" at the Hollywood Forever cemetery, along with several hundred live friends and many more dead celebrities. So, yes, I'm getting out.

What happened to the Lakers last night? They're in the deep stuff now. Down 3-1 ... but, hey, if the Red Sox can do it, then surely the Lakers can ... I would put their odds at around 10% at this point. Let's see what the Zen master can do.

While I have your attention, I would just like to point out that 91 year old Walter Cronkite is "keeping company" with Carly Simon's [older] sister, Joanna. Who, though 68 years old, is 33 years his junior. Rickrolled, indeed.

We Don't Have Diddley

2008-06-03T07:03:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Bo Diddley died at age 79.

In a world where we grieve the passing of people who are famous for either having little or no talent, we are faced with the loss of a giant. A pioneer. A force of nature.

Besides coming up with the oft-imitated but rarely duplicated Bo Diddley beat, he created or popularized so many other iconic elements. The audacious square guitar. The ever-present hat [this photo is a rare pre-hat shot]. The self-referential lyrics. He seemingly invented himself and then mythologized himself.

And he pulled it off.

We live in this strange age where the architects of the great fabric of rock and roll have either died way too young, or are seemingly immortal. Well, I suppose this proves that they are indeed mortal.

I for one am glad to have lived in the time of Bo. The time of Jerry Lee, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, the Everly Brothers. The founders, the creators, the architects. I always hold these people in higher esteem than the ones who came later. As much as I love the Byrds, the Boxtops and the Kinks, the raw energy and the electricity of the pioneers of rock and roll is the real deal. God bless Bo Diddley.

My Karma Ran Over What?

2008-05-27T19:58:00.000-07:00

Here's more on the Karma front: an idiot actress decides that she'll speak on God's behalf on the nature of bad luck. Apparently, thousands of innocent children were killed, en masse, by an earthquake due to China's relationship with Tibet.

This is why I hate the Secret, the Power of Positive Thinking, and all those attitudinal philosophies. They are both insulting and arrogant. And passive-aggressive. The dumb blonde thinks that she is invoking the moral high ground, but really she is petulantly wagging her wrinkled finger, inappropriately invoking a Hindu philosophy in order to insult a billion, largely Buddhist people who (a) are suffering and continue to suffer due to an act of God, and (b) have nothing to do with formulating official Chinese foreign policy.

This is just another exhibit in the dossier entitled "Actors Should Not Veer From the Script."

Decisions

2008-05-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

Can someone be too decisive? That's me, likely. As opposed to "deliberative." At least in some areas [not relationships, to be sure.] I mean, since 1989, I've lived in [in order of appearance] San Diego, Davis, Stanton, San Jose, Los Gatos, San Luis Obispo, Seattle, San Francisco, Newbury Park and Thousand Oaks. I fear change, like anyone else, but I keep doing it, over and over. The job I'm currently in is my longest [approaching 5 years] and it's hard for me to stay places. I just get tired of the repetitive nature of things.

I think a lot of people are like that. They want more adventure in their lives, and they consciously or unconsciously create it.

Norm Macdonald endorses John McCain. If that means anything to you.

After what seems like an eternity of not buying any guitars, I bought the above guitar. It's a Fender Toronado, a discontinued model. It has so many features that I find compelling ... the humbucking pickups. The string-through body design. The 24.75" scale. I'm hoping its coolness will rub off on me.

I'm down to one roommate. I'm looking forward to some peace around here, although the dog is a little depressed. You can't please all the animals in this house at one time.

The Virtual Wild, Wild West

2008-05-22T18:36:00.000-07:00

The internet is better than it was ... but it's still not as good as it was back in 1999 - 2001. That truly was the wild west era of the internet.

I hope someone writes a book about that era. The era of Suck.com. Napster, in its original incarnation. Peapod, Pets.com ... stores would literally take a loss to get your business ... they'd pay you to "acquire" you as a customer. People would send away for free toothpaste, clothes, whathaveyou.

It was the era of "Bathe with Jesus" [the dude had www.jesus.com as his URL]. The rent-a-genius dude, who really was just another egotistical middle-aged wimp, mad at his ex. Of "Pork Pork Pork." All the good stuff.

I miss it. It seemed like there were real people behind the websites, that people were connecting with each other. Once I posted some Cretones songs on Napster, and someone in Chile instant messaged me, thanking me for doing it. I was able to download so much cool stuff ...

Karma Pot

2008-05-20T17:50:00.000-07:00

I hate it when I go to coffee shops and cafes, typically in the Bay Area, Venice or college towns, and there is a little tip jar by the register [why am I being asked to tip someone who works at a register?] and the jar is labeled "Karma Pot." Usually, my first impulse is to take some money out of the pot, as I am entitled to some good karma, in my opinion. Or better, if they give me some money, they will get some extra good karma. And I will get some money, thus it is a win-win.

A few notes on the Replacements [big-haired alt.rock band from the 1980s.] The Replacements, called "the Mats" by insiders [or outsiders?], were the ultimate 1980s band. They were perhaps the most nihilistic band of all time. Moreso than the Velvet Underground. They literally rivalled ... oh, Black Sabbath and Blue Öyster Cult for being negatively inspired, or passionately uninspired. What did the Replacements stand for? Hard to say. Most bands, in the great Rock and Roll tradition, rebelled against something. They stood in opposition to something. They were threatening. Or they expressed something akin to pure joy, a la Buddy Holly, the early Beatles, or Jonathan Richman. The Replacements? Not so much. They hated themselves, and didn't like others so much. They brimmed with a lack of self-confidence. They shoe-gazed before there were shoe-gazers. Were they funny? Yes. Drunk? Hell yes! Did they exude anything close to "Rock and Roll spirit?" Not at all. They were dead inside, and to prove it, they've written all about it. Again and again.

I still like them. But Westerberg came up with inventive riffs, funny lyrics and the band could play. But in terms of legacy? It can be expressed only as a negative, folks.

Here is why I think Obama will win in the general election. Every time a brash outsider has run against a TOPH [Tired Old Party Hack], the BO has won. Reagan beat Carter. Clinton beat Bush. Carter beat Ford. Kennedy beat Nixon. The guy with the fresh new ideas wins. We're a nation of fresh new idea lovers.

Wild Times

2008-05-15T09:04:00.000-07:00

So I went in for a routine procedure [aka "a colonoscopy"] on Tuesday, and they wound up doing an emergency appendectomy on me that day. So, for the past few days, for the most part, I have been under sedation. I recommend it.

The docs and nurses have all been great. So, Glenn Beck, you need to move to Thousand Oaks. And stop whining.

You learn who your friends are when you get sick or in trouble. And I am truly blessed in that department. I had friends, co-workers and my sister completely step up. It shouldn't but it does amaze me.

To change the subject ... I have an idea. Senator Obama should choose this guy as his running mate. That would solve his blue collar white guy problem. Or should I say "Git R Done."

I still believe that McCain will choose someone he perceives as an "Obama blanker" [I can't say the word "killer" because that would upset people who don't understand non-literal language] as a running mate. A Sarah Palin [if she were a little more experienced]. No, not Condoleezza Rice. IMHO, Charlie Crist, Haley Barbour and Mark Sanford do not fit the bill. Is it possible that no one fits the bill? Yes, it's possible.

It seems likely that Obama will choose Edwards as his running mate. They're both vain enough to think it will work.

Time for a little sleep. Bring on the Darvocet!

Health Matters

2008-05-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

Well, to my great surprise, my recent bloodwork came back better than it ever has. Which shocked me. I actually asked them to check the name on the report.

But that does not mean I do not have to have a colonoscopy on Tuesday. It's not that I'm apprehensive, I actually want to see if there are any GI issues that I need to know about, especially given my mom's medical history [it is mother's day, after all, so she should get a mention]. So we shall see.

I immediately thought of Zevon when my bloodwork came back ... Zevon had kicked most if not all of his major addictions, had become a gym rat and was healthier than ever. And then he got cancer and died. So knock on wood.

Bumpy Ride

2008-05-05T20:36:00.000-07:00

Just got in to Indy this evening ... the flight in from Phoenix was a little bumpy. Definitely a two-bourbon flight, if not a three-bourbon flight.

I tried out my new Kindle on this flight, and it served its purpose really well. Meaning, I could bring the equivalent of several books with me, without the weight and hassle. So that was cool. But really, reading from a weird little screen? It is bizarre.

So I wish I had some good news about stuff generally. Health? Not so good. A guy wants to stick a pipe up my butt. That guy - this time - is a doctor. The job? Three other guys got promoted over me. Finances? Let's not discuss it. Love life? See "Health."

But I did manage to get a family reunion going. I hoodwinked my Dad and Sister to go to Phoenix at the end of the month. Let's see how that goes, meaning let's hear one more refrain of "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."

So, I am in Indianapolis on the eve of [yet again] the most important Democratic primary this season. Maybe. We'll see what happens.

One More Thing To Despair Over ...

2008-04-21T21:18:00.000-07:00

You can't see the actual captions on the poster that I am pointing to, but this was a popular poster in Paris, and it was for the show "Les Monologues du Penis." And the three hommes, er ... mecs, er ... guys in the photo are captioned "Un Intello, Un Macho, Un Homo." One of each, I suppose.

The other thing that has made me laugh and cringe recently is Michael Chabon's bizarre and embarrassing endorsement of Barack Obama. He had to give himself permission to hope? Wow. What adult talks like that? This leads me to my theory: there are two Michael Chabons. One is a spectacularly hideous middle-aged man, covered perhaps with scars and pustules, laboring away in a shotgun shack outside of Fresno. A genius writer capable of transforming even the most mundane soupçon of an idea into pure quicksilver, yes, but also incapable of appearing in public without attracting rage and scorn. The other Michael Chabon is a fine-boned bisexual actor. You get the picture.

No, please do not mistake me for a Barack Obama hater. I am far from it. But I do reserve the right to critique that which passes as praise, and that which passes as criticism to see if they pass the "whiff" test. And this, my friends, does not.

The Great Aimees / Amys

2008-04-17T20:13:00.001-07:00

We live in an era of 3 great Aimees / Amys. They are, in no particular order:

Amy Poehler, Amy Sedaris and Aimee Mann [playing a wicked cool hippie telecaster.]

Now, some of you may think that Amy Winehouse belongs in the mix, but neigh! Too soon! These Amys have proved their mettle time and again. Wait your turn, young Jedi, and you may one day walk amongst these greats.

Living Icons from the 1930s

2008-04-14T22:26:00.000-07:00

This is a game I like to play ... name three living icons from the 1930s. It used to be pretty easy, with Kate Hepburn, Artie Shaw [a local resident!] and Shirley Temple Black all still living. But then the former two passed, leaving a gaping hole in the list. So, my friend J. nominated Bob Feller. Rapid Robert qualifies, I suppose. But the third ... who could it be? Finally, after screwing around on the Interweb, I found a third: Patty Andrews [the blonde lead singer] of the Andrews Sisters is still with us. And who doesn't like the Andrews Sisters?

If anyone has any other living icons of the 1930s they'd like to nominate, please post a reply!

Day 10: Leaving Amsterdam

2008-04-11T09:53:00.000-07:00

Okay, first, the jacket. I saw it on Day 1 or 2, and it was magnificent. I made a point to comment to D. [who suffers me better than anyone should] that the jacket was remarkably stylish in a way that would never be appreciated in America. It was a non-descript tan waterproof men’s jacket with a stand up collar. Straight cut, without the usual non-sensical elastic at the bottom that does nothing but make men look fatter. The jacket was smartly styled but non-descript save for one notable feature: orange piping around the zip pockets and zip front. That detail transformed the jacket from being a bore to being something that I will obsess over until my dying day. I’m like that.

That being said, I did buy one of the faggiest shirts [unknowingly] in Paris. I loved the pattern but the cut is one of those weird French dress shirts with fake French cuffs and a high collar. I look like a member of Spandau Ballet.

So we spent some time after Paris [and a brief sojourn in Brussels] in Amsterdam looking for that damned jacket.

We arrived back in Amsterdam late on Tuesday. We checked in to the Marriott and discovered that it did not have wireless connectivity, nor was the in-room connectivity anything close to affordable. So we trekked in search of connectivity, which we found outside of a bar near the Herengracht. D. had dinner at McDonald’s, though he did not have the McMomentje, or whatever it is called. That means that twice that day he ate at McDonald’s [I must note that the breakfast at the Paris McDonald’s was great. Their version of the McMuffin has it all over ours. And later that morning, in the bakery on Rue Beaubourg, the counter woman at the bakery chided my French, after which I said “Ecoutez et repetez!, and she laughed. I thanked her for the lesson.] We had a couple of drinks at the bar, I admired the nonpareil beauty of the Dutch women, and D. went out while I went back to the Marriott for some much-needed sleep.

So on our final full day in Europe, what did we do? Quite a lot actually. We had breakfast at the hotel [mediocre, but blissfully it was expensive as well], and went for a bike tour with Mike’s Bike Tours. Our gay stoner Canadian ex-pat guide, Pete, took us on a tour that revealed his profound and abiding interest in getting stoned. But we learned. And mainly – for me – we got off our asses in a way that did not involve walking. Traveling with D. means that your main mode of transport will be a la pied. And he has a pair of those god-forsaken Masai Barefoot Technology shoes that one would think can also cure cancer. So walk we did. But the bike tour was a nice respite from hoofing it. Next time I travel with D., I will get shoed by a blacksmith beforehand.

D. complained that the bike tour of Paris was not “vigorous” enough for him [what does that mean?], the Amsterdam tour made up for that. It was vigorous, lengthy and filled with all the dangers that biking through an unfamiliar city can bring.

The bike tour took us outside of town and we saw more of the canal system, a windmill, a statue of Rembrandt, and a cheese-and-clog factory [did you know that one existed?] The c-and-c factory produced some fantastic smoked gouda, so like the good tourist, I bought a wheel even though I am not a cheese person. We saw the making of both items, and then were shepherded in to the store to buy [feeling much like the cows that were outside making the raw materials for the cheese, but thankfully not for the shoes.]

During the tour, we befriended a woman from California named B., and we had beers and pancakes with her. D. had bacon and onion, I had ham and mushroom. They were much like American pancakes save for the fact that they were filled with meats and other savory flavors. That did not stop D. from putting Stroop on his. Stroop is a burnt sugar syrup product, essentially maple syrup without the maple. It was a nice meal, and a nice way to cap our evening. We then went to Haarlam, just to look around. It seemed like a nice little city, with a quaint little train station. We walked around for a bit and enjoyed the warmer weather that had finally come our way after a week of intermittent rain and biting cold. When we arrived back in Amsterdam, D. had a headache, I did not. So I walked the canals, much like the protagonist in The Fall, while D. went back to Marriott, where one of the largest and most comfortable beds in all of Europe waited for him.

The solitary evening walk was a most enjoyable way to end my first trip to the Continent. I found most of the trip to be near perfect. Europe was a riddle waiting to be answered, and I found the answer to be satisfying to me in many ways. From the people who laughed at my bad French [only a couple, mercifully], to the small kindnesses from many strangers, to the little charms I found in so many unexpected corners. And of course, the tiny cars, the brisk weather, the fashion sense, the seriousness and intelligence of the residents, the bicycles with baskets, the trains, the fact that – as D. remarked – literally half a dozen nations packed into a small space which had fought bitter wars against each other and still had distinct cultures and languages, yet managed to co-exist and share a currency, rail systems and so much shared history. It shouldn’t work but it does.

This morning, we went back to Pancake Corner, and amidst working girls, smokers and local eurotrash boys, we [again] had breakfast – but this time in the morning. This was the first non-McDonald’s breakfast that reminded me of home and it was vastly welcome. The orange juice, uniformly, has been excellent in Europe.

So, now, we’re on the plane, heading to Houston and then onto Los Angeles, and for the vast majority of the flight, it will be daylight until we arrive in Los Angeles this evening [it has been light late every night. So it goes in the higher latitudes] D. has it in his head that he will drive back to Napa tonight, I think that that is a ludicrous idea, but he is the border collie on steroids.

Day 8: April In Paris ... Is Freaking Cold

2008-04-10T04:06:00.000-07:00

Wow. Paris. What can one say? It is a city that is literally overwhelming with potential experience.

First, some observations. The music on the radio, in cabs, and in shops – if it is typical of French music – is truly bad. They play a lot of American pop music; they require 40% French language content during prime hours [daytime], so the deejays at night take liberal advantage of the lack of restrictions by playing a lot of American music. I heard Credence, Sheryl Crow, Bill Haley & the Comets, Frank Sinatra …

Second, the people were almost uniformly friendly, helpful and pleasant to deal with. And contrary to what my friend S. says, the women do not have “stinky dog breath.”

Third, this confirms the cliché: People here dress so much better than Americans. Women tend towards skirts, dark colors, boots, and always dark hose. Lots of coats, gloves and scarves here as it is still very cold. Both men and women tend to wear their clothes more tightly here. But as they are thin, they can get away with it.

I bought some shirts from a wonderful shop on Rue Vielle du Temple. The shopkeeper, an officious women of certain-age, showed me what shirts would fit me [size 42] and I was nosing around looking for interesting patterns when she firmly stated: “Non, monsieur, those are not for you! Those are slim cut.” Thank you very much. The fat boy from America buys shirts!

We had some great crepes, poulet avec Norman crème, soup a l’oignen [exceptional – much less reduced than in the US], entrecout [ribeye] aux fines herbes, and the wonderful bread and pastries. So good.

One thing I can’t get over is the lack of a protein based breakfast. They eat sugar and carbs for breakfast, and don’t seem to mind. Zut alors! We actually ate at a McDonald’s on Rue Beaubourg this morning! We did it just to satisfy our perverse curiosity and it was fun. Their egg mcmuffin has American style bacon, and tastes much less rubbery. The breakfast came with orange juice, strong coffee [they called it espresso, but it wasn’t], a yogurt with fresh fruit [delicious], the egg mcmuffin, and a choice of pancakes sucre [which tasted like the old Aunt Jemima pancakes my father made for us as children], brioches or pastries [a small croissant, and two other similar items, one with a chocolate filling, the other with raisins]. All in all, it was similar to the US experience, but better.

The Hotel Beaubourg was located right next to the Georges Pompideau. Literally. But the little street we were on [Rue De Simon LeClerc in the 4th Arrondisement] was quiet and easy to find, but close to many major landmarks. We were right next to the Notre Dame and the City Hall, and very close to the Seine. The Seine was much larger than I expected it to be, and very green and not a placid river by a stretch. If one leaps into the Seine, one can call it a day. It is cold and treacherous.

Saturday, we arrived mid-day. We had a great lunch, and took a boat tour of the Seine. That night, we crashed early.

On Sunday, we took a bicycle tour [Fat Tire Bikes] that was wonderful. We rode from the southeast corner of the Eiffel Tower throughout central Paris, lunching at the Tivoli Gardens near the Louvre. The tour guide, Crystal - a young, attractive girl from Texas, - was formerly a Starbuck's barista. She did a great job of telling us informative stuff about Paris, from the story of Gustave Eiffel having to finance the construction the Eiffel Tower, to the story of Napolean’s tomb [one has to lean over – bow, that is – to see Napolean in his crypt. One final act of arrogance.]

After the bike tour, we met up with a woman named Kelly from the tour who joined us for a trip up the Eiffel Tower. We unknowingly bought tickets to walk up to the second level [4 Euros!] and it is about 670 steps. Way too many. I was exhausted going up to that level. So it was a welcome relief to take the time to take the elevator to the top – some 81 stories above Paris. The view is magnificent. And as I was telling D., three things have conspired to make Paris the exceptional city that it is: central planning – the hub and spoke design of the city, the fact that the city was more or less completely built up by the 1920s, and the fact that zoning prohibits buildings of more than seven stories in height [although there are a couple of very notable exceptions.] The location on the Seine doesn’t hurt either. Sunday night, D. wanted to find a certain restaurant in the Latin Quarter, and it was another comedy of errors for us trying to find the place. It was cold and rainy, so we were both pretty miserable. But we did find the place and it was charming, with a pianist with espresso-fueled fingers playing bouncy standard after standard, entertaining the crowd. A group of convivial old men were seated next to us. A pair of hormone-supercharged young couples playfully occupied the table against the wall. It was a good time, though the main course was underwhelming. I think the place was called Les Trois Maillets. Great salad, and nice pommes frites [which are everywhere].

We got up and had breakfast at the Hotel yesterday, and it was very similar to all the other European breakfasts that I have had. No surprises. Yogurt, bread and coffee. We did see Montmartre yesterday afternoon. It does provide some of the most stunning view of the city, and the neighborhood is charming. But it is a bit on the touristy side. After that, we actually went into the George Pompidou. They had an exhibit of Louise Bourgious’ work, but it did not run to my tastes, so we headed for the permanent collection. The permanent collection, understandably, has a ton of Picasso, Miro, Bracques, Dali, and Man Ray. They have some fine Jackson Pollacks, but none of the Ashcan artists, no Diego Rivera, no Thomas Hart Benton, no Warhol or Hockney … in short, I would give the collection a B-. Not enough variety to show the impressive scope of the modern art movement. But I’m glad I went nonetheless. Being inside the Pompedieu reminds one of what Guy de Maupassant said about the Eiffel Tower. De Maupassant hated the tower, yet ate lunch there every day. When asked why, he said “Because it is the only place in Paris where I cannot see it.” The Pompedieu is a hideous structure but not from the inside.

We were to do a double decker bus tour late last night, but I was so very completely wiped that I had to call it a night.

So now onto Brussels and Amsterdam this fine Tuesday morning. We leave for America on Thursday, which will be sad. But I will return.

Day 5: Back to Brussels

2008-04-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Spent the second day [half day] in Bruges, and took a tour of WWI battle and grave sites, including the medical station when John McCrae worked and wrote “In Flanders Field.” The tour was inevitably depressing, but our tour guide Philip was exceptional. Very knowledgeable, and he covered a lot of ground during the nine and a half hour tour.

D. wasn’t so pleased; his heart was set on the “Medieval Bruges” tour, which takes you to a chocolate factory, a brewery, a country estate and you get Belgium waffles for lunch. So that didn’t happen. Instead of getting the Fellini train, he had to take the Bergman train. But I would have been bored on the “Medieval Bruges” tour, so I was happy. Circumstance has it that the chocolate-brewery-waffle tour because the microphone on the second bus was broken.

So last night, we took the train from Bruges to Brussels, which was in full Friday night mode. This time, we checked into the fabulous Welcome Hotel, and caught the Thailand Room. Which had cool skylights that gave us extra atmosphere in the amplifying the sound of the light rain that fell last night and this morning [I have been getting up at between 5:00 and 5:30 each day. Far earlier than most Europeans I can assure you.]

I have to go into some detail on the Welcome Hotel here, as it is exceptional. From the great brunch every morning [crepes, bacon, eggs, croissants, croissants with chocolate, Cocoa Pebbles, three types of juice, yogurt, what more could you ask for!], to the exceptional service provided by Stephanie and Vincent [they found all the stuff that D., the absent-minded traveler, left behind, they did laundry on short notice, they disposed of a suitcase that I no longer needed], the Welcome Hotel is fantastic. Not to mention the out-of-control rooms, each themed in a style that would make Elvis proud [each represents a different exotic country.]

Brussels is a big modern exciting city. It retains the cultural flavor such as the churches and 18th and 19th century shops and houses that define so much of Europe. But it is very alive with clubs, restaurants and people in the street at all hours. Young men were drunkenly singing pop songs in the metro station at midnight. A couple was passionately [a little too …] in the train station. People outside smoking, talking, just living and being with each other. All the things that we don’t do in America.

So now I’m on the train to Paris, arriving at the Paris Nord station in a couple of hours. My first time to Paris, and I can tell you that my French is abysmal. So, donc, it will be zut alors this and zut alors that.

Day 4: In Bruges

2008-04-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

No, I did not see "In Bruges" in Bruges, although I was tempted. Sounds like a good flick.

But instead, we took a canal tour, walked our asses off [again], got profoundly lost [again], learned how to dial direct numbers from our hotel phone, ate Belgian waffles [delicious] and saw the only Michaelangelo to leave Italy during the artist's lifetime [here at the church.]

The train from Brussels to Bruges was crowded, which must be due to the vigorous tourism here in Bruges ... as there is no industry here. Only tourism, and lots of it. It's the most well-preserved medival town in Belgium. So it's a destination city. Not the sort of thing I'm particularly interested in. I mean, I'd rather spend a day in Cleveland than in Solvang.

A little rain today, a canal tour, chatted with a family [mother & 2 daughters] from Chatsworth on the boat. Odd to meet people who live 25 miles from you some 5,000 miles from home. Bus tour of WWI battlefields tomorrow.

Oh, and a strong recommendation of the Welcome Hotel in Brussels. What a cool place.

Day 3: Brussels

2008-04-02T11:41:00.000-07:00

I will definitely need new shoes, and possibly new feet when I come home from Europe.

Which is to say that D. and I have walked, walked, walked around two of Europe's larger cities. And they have those cobblestone streets that pulverize one's feet. I'm hoping we can get some kind of rickshaw tour of Brussels.

A couple of thoughts about Amsterdam while the thoughts are fresh.

One: you really get a sense of how over-regulated America is when you come to Europe. No one wears bicycle helmets. Not adults. Not kids. Not adults driving kids around in the little wooden baskets that are built over the front wheel. Second, there is no such thing as the ADA here. Sure, they may prohibit discrimination against the handicapped [and/or the "differently abled"] but they don't require buildings to be rejiggered to include ramps and handles. Also, I noticed no smoke detectors in any buildings that I have seen. Third, their cars are so tiny and underpowered and rudimentary, there is no way most of them would pass any sort of safety test. In short, if America thinks that it is the land of the free, in so many ways it is not.

And the two things that Amsterdam does regulate - sex [for money] and drugs - both do work for society's benefit. They provide safe environments for people to do what they would otherwise do but do illegally, and the government can gain taxation revenue and also look out for the public health [both appropriate uses of government authority.]

We did visit the Anne Frank house this morning. It is undeniably moving to see this building, which stands as the testament to one young girl's brave struggle to examine, preserve and document her humanity in a situation which sought to, and succeeded in, depriving her of that humanity. And in doing so, she became the symbol for the humanity in all the innocent victims of the Nazi and Axis killing machines.

But ultimately, the experience was a disappointing one for me. And if I fully explained why, it would take me too long. Let me say this much: to quote from Walter Benjamin's "Illuminations", the proper view of history is "to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out in a moment of danger." The contemplative, precociously mature voice of Anne Frank, to me, is too safe, too perfectly cast as victim. She seems predestined for an early martyrdom, as if she knew her ultimate fate from the inception of her diaries [and what would her diaries mean if she would have lived?]

Rather, I believe the story of that era is the story of people like the Oxford and Eaton educated RAF pilots, who - though critically outnumbered - held the Germans at bay for two or more years prior to fortifications from the Americans. People who left privilege or safety for service. Fifteen and sixteen year old American farmboys who left Nebraska and Iowa, lied about their age, and enlisted, only to die on the beaches of Normandy and in the forests of the Ardennes. The well-known or monied who, though influence and connection could have evaded service [think George Bush the younger, or Ronald Reagan] but did no such thing. People such as Ted Williams and George H.W. Bush who valiantly served without expectation of anything more than the privilege of service to country. The negro, Mexican, women, or minority who even with bitterness against his or her native or adopted land a justifiable position, served without complaint for the greater purpose. And every businessman and woman who did not gouge, did not profiteer, did not collaborate, and sacrificed potential profit knowing that price controls, wage freezes, rent controls were part of that effort, too. That, to me, is the story of the good of World War II.

And let's not forget evil. The nameless collaborators, conspirators, profiteers, architects and actors both in Europe and abroad who designed, built, enabled and executed the plan to kill so many. These mundane evil, as Hannah Arendt so aptly put it, were like you and me in so many ways. In looks and lifestyle, in wants and in aspirations, they resembled us. But they defined themselves by acts as trivial as revealing the whereabouts of a small band hiding in the upstairs annex at Prinsengracht 263. And for some transgressions, there cannot be any meaningful human forgiveness. These images to me define the experience contextually of Anne Frank. Otherwise, her story is too pristine to truly resonate.

Also: the "liberation" was obliquely referred to in the presentation of the materials at the Anne Frank House. I wanted to yell, "The liberation made possible by American forces, armaments, British forces, free French and the very small but determined Dutch resistance." Or more like "When your country was staining its skivvies, waiting to be bailed out after stupidly and immorally clinging to neutrality, our women were building boats to carry the bombs to kill the bad guys."

But I digress ...

Brussels is a much more stately city than Amsterdam. Amsterdam has charm. Brussels is a big, serious, imposing city. In Amsterdam, the shops open late, the people seem to go to work late and knock off early. Shops may be open as few as 4 days a week, without that being considered abnormal. A local pancake house opened at noon each day. Brussels is much more conventional in the way that it operates. More traffic ... [there seemed to be 10 bicycles for every man, woman and child in Amsterdam] ... more people, more different ethnicities ...

And unfortunately, we travel south and west to Bruges tomorrow, so we leave the Welcome Hotel much too soon.

Day 1: 5 am in Amsterdam

2008-03-31T21:33:00.000-07:00

And this is how I know ...

The great Michelle Shocked song from her first [boosted] record ... well, the church bells toll at 5:30 am here in Amsterdam. Not 5 ... sorry, Michelle.

I was expecting it to be colder, but it's warm enough. Overcast. So many bicycles, all of them big, sturdy, plain and slightly rusty. Thousands and thousands of bikes. Mothers on bikes, with two children in wooden baskets. No baby seats, just wooden seats. No one wears helmets. Young pretty girls who, if they lived in America would never walk or bike after the age of 15, bike around without any consciousness of how unusual this would be half a world away.

Sure, there are a lot of cars, but there are a lot more bikes. And lots of mass transit.

It's also nice not being the palest person in the room for a change. Being partly Dutch [my mom was a DeWaal], I feel something of a connection to these people. They seem serious. I get that.

Someone said that the Dutch were a tall people. I don't find that to be unusually true. I'm 5' 11" and seem to be no more or less tall than the average here.

Lots and lots of graffiti here, everything is tagged or defaced. That surprised me. I felt like I was in the other Holland, Brooklyn, for a while.

And the canals, and the marshy ground. Everything is underwater. How do you keep buildings from rotting? It seems an impossible task. I would expect the cars to be all rusty, but generally they are not.

Very few dogs here. It's like San Francisco, there is no place here for dogs or babies.

And the red light district and the coffee shops? More on that later.

T for Texas

2008-03-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

In Fort Worth tonight. Windy, not too cold. Indiana [this morning] was cold, unmelted hail still on the ground. And Charlotte [this afternoon] was warmer, but windy. This is my road show. 6 flights in 3 days. Tomorrow, DFW to PHX, PHX to LAX.

A couple of good things about work travel. One, you're not in the office listening to non-stop inanity. And believe me, 90% of my reality is inanity. Second, you discover weird cool things - TCBY has a new spin-off chain called Yovana, which purports to be healthy & natural. It is fresh [and fresh-tasting.] They make it fresh each day at the franchise, the process by which I do not wish to know. But I can tell you this, it is delicious. By far the best tasting frozen yogurt I have ever had. Creamy and thick, with great mouth-feel [Insert joke here.] They have one at the Charlotte, NC airport, where I have been twice in the last two days, courtesy of US Air.

I'm not shy, but I am reticent to talk with people I don't know well. It's hard for me, especially as I have a few good friends that I speak a kind of shorthand with [and have done so for over 30 years.] We can drop references to Gatsby, Fernwood 2Nite, Spy magazine, Wilhelm Reich, Robert Evans, the Wobblies, and the talking flute on HR Pufnstuf in the same conversation. And the conversation will make perfect sense. Try that sometime.

Baseball season is just around the corner. And can we just do something about the Twins disposing of all their talent each year? This has been going on for as long as I can remember. Hell, thank you for giving us Doug Corbett, Lyman Bostock, Rod Carew and Rob Wilfong. We owe you.

One more thing I never want to hear about again in my lifetime: the Sean Young/Catwoman audition incident. For the love of pete, why is this woman maligned for showing up to an audition for the Catwoman movie in a Catwoman costume? You are supposed to wear the outfit of the job you're seeking, that is behavior that we encourage! She was showing commitment, initiative, and what I would call "old fashioned moxie." Is she bat-shit crazy? Oh yeah. But is this incident further proof of that behavior? Quite the opposite.

I have an ungodly wake up time tomorrow, so off to bed. Damn the time difference.

Ten Years Gone

2008-03-11T21:25:00.000-07:00

This week marks the tenth anniversary of the passing of one of my very best friends, Dennis Hayden Turner. Here's a photo of the Big Swede.

Travel Notes, the Desert Edition

2008-03-06T21:23:00.001-08:00

Just got back from sun & fun in Phoenix, which is habitable about 1/2 of the year. Somehow, in three days, I packed in 2 airplane rides [on underserviced Southwest planes, no less], 1 trip the Phoenix zoo [dug the giraffes], 3 baseball games [Angels won 2, woo hoo! Go Torii!], 1 hockey game where I got to sit behind the goal, a movie [the delightful and oddly emotionally resonant Semi-Pro], a trip the mall, breakfast at a wonderful small restaurant, and saw two old friends - one who I have not seen for over 20 years. So it was a great trip, very relaxing and went off without a hitch.

Only downside was that we did not go see the dogs run, nor did we go slick cart racing. Maybe next year.

In the airport, on Monday night, two notable conversations were overheard. A couple of young women, kind of typical 30-ish women, neither model-thin nor chubby were heard talking about Hillary Clinton, "Yeah, she's one of us. She's got a butt on her." So now, we're tracking the "Girls with Butts vote" ...

Other conversation was between this guy, about 40 who was talking with a rather nice unassuming housewife-looking woman, in her mid-50s. This guy was blabbing on about how he worked as a trainer for marines, he was in charge of this and that, he was Mr. Bigshot marine trainer dude ... finally, after boring this woman with what he expected was a pretty impressive resume, he asked her what she did. She matter-of-factly said, sounding very much like Mary Tyler Moore, "Oh, I was a flight surgeon in the Army, after I got out of medical school in the early 70s." Blabby jarhead boy wasn't so talkative after that.

Arched Eyebrow

2008-02-27T22:11:00.001-08:00

Of course, I'm referring to the recently late, and now eternally great, William F. Buckley, Jr.

I came to admire him late, as I have always suspected conservatives as people with not much in the way of compassion, but my suspicion denied me the pleasure of apprehending the value in a way of thinking that seems largely structurally sound. Not all of it, mind you ...

What I mean is that Buckley, one of the architects of the New Conservatism [was he a conservative or a libertarian? Depends on which day you asked him], was a post-WWII creation, a child of much privilege. Perhaps not the best fellow to ask about civil rights or the labor movement [both things helped advance our experience of civilization in profound ways that were not immediately apparent during their nascency.]

Conservatives are not good with societal change, generally. And Buckley was no exception. He was glaringly, embarrassingly wrong on civil rights. He admitted that. But be fair - he also left the American Mercury due to its anti-Semitic leanings.

To focus on his shortcomings would be to ignore the immeasurable gift he bestowed upon us all, as Americans. Long before the Watergate break-in was exposed, thus ushering in a popular skepticism of government, Buckley had advocated - forcefully and correctly, as it turned out - the same position, albeit from the right. One must credit Buckley with being appropriately concerned.

Also, the current group of anti-war drum beaters owe a debt of gratitude to Buckley. He was there first as well, arguing against involvement in illegal, expensive foreign wars under the guise of "nation-building."

And so on. One could write volumes on his correct pronouncements.

But mainly, I admired Buckley because he could construct an argument that came at you with a relentless intelligence, an unapologetic high-mindedness. He elevated the discourse in every subject he undertook to write about, and his writing about a subject made the reader take it with greater seriousness. The same cannot be said of any other current commentator that I can name.

Also, Buckley occupied a large swath of the collective cultural consciousness. In the latter half of the 20th century, one could name perhaps 10 Americans who loomed so large. Dylan. Reagan. Updike. Brando. People like that. People who mattered to us, who helped change the nature of how we think about ourselves and our culture. And when one of those people leave us, we wait, with some degree of apprehension, to see who will carry the mantle.

Second Guessing

2008-02-22T21:45:00.000-08:00

Looking at the numbers, 12 of the 17 most populous states have had primaries or caucuses, so far. Senator Clinton has won two-thirds of those contests, some handily [states nos. 1 and 3, California and New York, some 56 million people]. Two of those states, including no. 4 [Florida] and no. 8 [Michigan] are non-factors [that's 28 million people, folks] and will effectively have no say in the candidate selection process. Both went for Clinton [again, by substantial margins.] True, Senator Obama has won a number of contests ... mainly in smaller states, southern states, a couple of majors ... Illinois, his home state. But the reality is that Senator Hillary Clinton, by an incredibly unfortunate convergence of events, will not be the nominee of the party despite having earned it.

Here is what is so odd: the coalition of states that Senator Obama has cobbled together to gain advantage over Senator Clinton closely resembles the amalgam of states that Bush used to defeat Kerry and Gore. Let's ignore New York and California, and focus on the south and the midwest. There might be some kind of irony there.

How liberal would Senator Obama be if he were elected president? I don't think we know based on his record as a senator. I think we'd be electing something of a tabla rasa, someone with neither a family tradition, or much of a relevant track record.

Here are some notes of interest about the junior Senator from Illinois: Both of Senator Obama's parents earned PhD's, his mother when she was about 50. Both his parents died young. His father was only 46, his mother was 52. He has at least 5 half-brothers and sisters [one on his mother's side, the rest on his father's side.] However, he essentially grew up as an only child.

I'm personally excited by this political season, saddened by Senator Clinton's seeming irreversible fall from popular grace, but encouraged by what seems to be a real increase in the number of people involved and engaged in politics. The rest of the race will be very interesting. Let's hope the press focuses on issues and not on tepid half-baked scandals and innuendos.

Time To Call It

2008-02-19T22:03:00.000-08:00

Senator Obama trounced Senator Clinton in the Wisconsin primary tonight. By around 17 points. That's impressive.

Here are some of my thoughts, as it appears we are standing on the precipice of history here.

Senator Obama is the most dynamic speaker I have ever seen in a candidate. His charisma and personality are incredible. Simply put, the man is a force of nature.

Even with his incredible personal magnetism, I am at odds with the Senator.

For example, I do not favor Senator Obama's position on withdrawal from Iraq. I was opposed to the war, but do not think you can abandon the effort at this point, unless you are prepared to (a) cede the area to hostile forces, and/or allow tribal violence and potentially genocide to occur, and (b) airlift all the displaced Iraqi exiles who would like exile back to the US. Does anyone else remember the population explosion of Vietnamese [esp. in Southern California] that occured in the late 1970s and early 1980s? I do.

While I do not approve of Senator Obama's position, I am glad he is taking it because it will sharpen the debate about the war during the campaign. As will the differing views of Senators McCain and Obama on immigration [although, I believe that if they got together in private, they'd have much common ground on this issue.] And the economy. And health care.

The additional problem I have with Senator Obama is his position on business. It is naive to think that corporations exist as some sort of cash cow that can be and should be milked in order to make up for whatever class inequities exist. Unless you are prepared to accelerate the economic slowdown. It's hard enough [and dangerous] to impose large social policies on a vibrant economy. Much of the malaise of the 1970s was attributed to the "guns and butter" policies of Johnson and Nixon [coupled with the oil crisis.] Both of these factors are present now, and any aggressive social program mandate could easily place us into a lengthy recession.

So, while I do believe that he presents a very positive symbol of social change, I resist the substance of his platform. But he is a brilliant man, without question. I don't know whether that is enough at this point. Were he more moderate on the above issues, it would not be a close call. But it is not up to me. History is speaking to us, and its voice is getting louder and louder.

Post of the Day

2008-02-17T16:17:00.000-08:00

I wrote a really long post about the immigration issue and haven't posted it yet. I need to so some more research, because unlike most of the yokels with some opinion on the issue, I want to have some facts behind me before I spout off. But don't hold your breath waiting for me to post it. I can only say that I'm happy that the 3 remaining presidential candidates are at least semi-enlightened on the topic.

I had a run-in with a consultant who is running some projects at my workplace. In short, this guy browbeat me for about 45 minutes, was completely hostile and disrespectful towards me. Even when I worked for places where it was clear I did not fit in [such as the San Jose law firm, where I would have agreed with most of their criticisms of me], I was treated with respect. This is a new low, and it is happening so late in my career. One can take nothing for granted, it seems. Even the terra firma gets a little mushy sometimes.

One of my favorites songwriters [from a notoriously dark era, the late 1970s] passed away a long time ago - 1997 - and I didn't even know it. His name was Peet Coombes. When I was about 16, a friend who managed a record store recommended the Tourists record to me ["Reality Effect"] In short, since then, I've never been without it. Such a great record. The young Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart were in that group. She would perform shows in a wedding dress. Fortunately, the songs were gimmick-free. They were mostly a power pop band, devoid of most of the excesses of the New Wave era. Sort of a less quirky Buzzcocks with female vocals and better songs.

Saw Aimee Mann live a couple of weeks ago at Vibiana, in downtown Los Angeles. The new songs are great, the hall was awful. Beautiful space, terrible acoustics. I had a good time.

Rain, Pain and Taxes

2008-01-27T21:57:00.000-08:00

It is still wet. And when it rains, it pours. It's tough to see friends, co-workers and family members go through hard times. And lately, it is raining hard times.

Mike Huckabee is touting his "fair tax" in Florida, on the eve of the Republican primary there. His plan is to replace the income tax with an increased sales tax. Now, I personally know people who have a strong and averse reaction to this proposal. And I think their reaction stems from being daunted by the prospect of unimaginably large wholesale change to a massive bureaucracy which directly impacts the private sector. The IRS would be eliminated. Tax lawyers, accountants, bookkeepers and so forth would be largely displaced. So, a foundational question is -- Are the short-term displacements offset by long-term results?

Secondly, naysayers are daunted by the potentially negative consequences of such a tax on the economy. So the additional question is "Would the resultant change be better or worse than what we have now?"

What we have now is a two-fold system. First, your employer is a tax collector, who works on behalf of the government. Second, each individual, married couple and each corporation [and some other business entities] file a tax return to clean up what their employer missed. Meaning, you get some additional deductions or penalties, some in the name of fairness and some that are just there. Under Huckabee's plan, employers would get out of the tax business [as it pertains to the employee]. Companies that sell anything [products and/or services] would now be in the business of collecting very large amounts of tax. So, the first benefit to taxpayer is that you would keep your money for longer. Instead of having it deducted from your check, you'd see the money [all of it? Would the deductions for Medicare, Social Security, Unemployment Insurance and so forth still exist? Or no?]. The second benefit to the taxpayer: no more yearly return ... aside from your state return, if your state has an income tax. And most do.

However, in lieu of the Federal tax filing and a employer deduction, Joe Taxpayer would face the following scenario: the car that cost $19,000 plus sales tax [which used to add about $1,400 to the bill] would now cost another $5,700 [that $1,400 is a state and local tax. The new tax would be incremental.] So your sales tax bill for that purchase would be $7,100. So be prepared to pay $26,100 instead of $20,400. That's about 27% more - not an insignificant amount.

Steve Landsburg, in Slate, argues that that the net result would be small -- that, in effect, the National Sales Tax is really an unlimited IRA in disguise.

What is unstated [or, at a minimum, understated] by Mr. Landsburg is that this plan does three things. First, it encourages saving. You only pay the man when you buy something. Second, necessarily, it discourages spending [duh!]. Intelligent people avoid paying taxes. So, purchases, especially major ones, would be put off as long as possible. Third, it would encourage every sort of underground barter and purchase-evasion economy imaginable.

Now, it appears that I have slammed the Hucka-plan to the mat. Not true. I despise paying taxes. I think our government should be much, much smaller than it is currently. We have far too many stupid regulations, and corporate America has influenced the drafting of laws such that the regulations that do exist are flimsier than Michael Jackson's nose cartilage. So I say that any plan that encourages people to save, and discourages spending - until such time as such spending is a necessity - is a plan that works for me.

Would it grind the economy to a halt? It would slow it down, definitely. Would it cause a depression in prices? In the short term, again, yes [until people adjusted psychologically to the new schema]. Is it regressive? Punitively so! But would the long-term net effect be positive? Hucka-hell yes!

Sunday Morning Comin' Down

2008-01-27T14:46:00.000-08:00

And it is comin' down. Rain, that is. In buckets like it can here in the Southland. So I can safely say this Winter, that I've seen fire and I've seen rain. And when you see both, you also are likely to see mudslides [coincidentally, Lame James had an album named "Mud Slide Slim."]

Senator Obama [Hillary never calls him "Barack", it's always SO] won the South Carolina primary yesterday. But significantly, he captured only 1 of 4 white [non-black] Democratic votes. Among non-blacks, Hillary got 37% of the vote, and Edwards got 39% of the vote. Despite besting Clinton among white voters, Edwards lost because he received virtually no support [3%] from the black Democratic voters.

What does this mean for Obama? Well, in states where black Democrats do not have numerical hegemony, Obama has to do better than capture only 24% of the non-black vote. He simply has to. Why? Because 76% of non-black Democratic voters did not vote for him -- 3 of 4 white Democrats chose another candidate [I would like to talk to the people who voted for John Edwards over Clinton or Obama. These people need adult supervision and/or guidance]. The reality, going forward, is that in a country where about 13.1% of the population is black, carrying 78% of the black vote while only getting 24% of the non-black Democratic vote is a marginal victory at best. Obama's camp has to be concerned about those numbers.

The reality is, on Super Tuesday [Feb. 5th], it will come down to California, New York and Illinois. And I see two of three of those states going for Clinton. But as the Dems do not have a "winner takes all" system, all three of the candidates should continue piling up delegates in this strange and divisive political process. We shall see what happens.

Little Dog got into another scrap. I was parking the car in my garage, and a dog in a neighbor's yard, some 100 yards away became a white blur as she came running towards Little Dog. And before I could scoot her butt into the house, dog fight! And again, Poops was putting the beat down on the neighbor's dog, but I was able to break it up pretty easily. Lucky for the other dog, because my dog is the Chuck Norris of dogs. In a nice gesture, the neighbor came over to check on my dog. She was fine, of course. Poops is 3-0, and looking for a contender.

Cold

2008-01-22T17:21:00.000-08:00

It's freaking cold here. Not North Dakota cold, to be sure. But cold all the same. I'll be glad to fly to California tomorrow afternoon and leave this sorry, frozen mess behind.

Got a lot done today. Feels good.

I have a very short definition of what constitutes an adult. To be an adult requires two behaviors, one a positive act, one a negative act. On the positive side, being an adult means one has to engage in sacrifices. One does not always get one's way. One does not always get what one wants. One has to give up things. One has to do things one does not want to do. That is reality. On the negative side, one has to not complain. Complaining is a sign that one does not realize the appropriateness of sacrifice, hardship, declining health, the finiteness of life.

I do not mean to state that I engage in either behavior to the degree that I aspire. But I am better than most, and worse than some.

Some notes: The economy is in a controlled free-fall. Why? There is a tipping point. When productivity cannot be relied upon for aggressive growth, when oil prices [which drive so many other metrics] rise at aggressive levels, when thousands and thousands of jobs get shipped overseas, the economy cannot always backfill quickly enough to shore up these factors. And that is what has happened. Keeping money cheap will do two things: (a) it will prohibit investment in the dollar [but it will make trading with the US more attractive], and (b) it will create inflation to the extent that it increases the availability of credit, and thus dollars chasing goods. So, inflation is inevitable, and I for one would welcome inflation for 2 - 3 years. Why? It served to make our parents' house payment a non-factor in their income, which -- more than any other factor -- fueled the recovery of the 1980s. More discretionary income was created. People were able to spend more [once inflation slowed.] We'll see what happens this time.

Additionally: Heath Ledger died today at 28. The talented actor was found dead, presumptively of an overdose. He starred in "I'm Not There", the fantastic movie about Bob Dylan. Sad news.

Also ... Blogger is now publishing in Arabic, Persian and ... Hebrew? Coincidence? I think not. Can one say "fomenting controversy?"

Right Said Fred Thompson dropped out of the presidential race today. Didn't he just announce? I think he proved all the pundits right who said that he didn't have the work ethic to do the job [of running for President? or being President? Where are those pundits? I need answers.] So, Mike Huckabee, Christmas came late for you ... maybe one state too late [He surely would have won South Carolina had Thompson not split the Christian Kook vote. I mean ... the evangelical vote. Sorry, God!]

Supposing that Heath did off himself [which is already being disputed by his family], what does one make of the fact that Australia has, for its national song, a little ditty about a vagabond drowning himself rather than surrender his ill-gotten catch to the authorities? One could do better ...

Lost Him In the Sun

2008-01-21T17:50:00.000-08:00

I'm here again in Indiana, where it is 20 degrees more or less, less if you add wind chill. Which it does: chill. Anyone with half a brain would have moved away from here eons ago.

Some notes: Sadly, one of my favorite singer-songwriters has died. John Stewart passed away during the weekend in his native San Diego at age 68. You may know that he wrote "Daydream Believer" which was famously recorded by the Monkees [they changed the lyric "now you know how funky I can be" to "now you know how happy I can be." Wise change] Did you know that he replaced Dave Guard in the Kingston Trio? His late 60s albums, particularly "California Bloodlines", were my first introduction to him. I grew up in Northern California, Central California really, and I listened to KNBR 68 in the early 1970s. They played the song "Mother Country" by Stewart, and I can safely tell you that it was the first song that really affected me deeply. It's a song about turn of the century San Francisco, about some characters reminiscing about the old days, about E.A. Stuart driving the Old Campaigner stone blind one last time on parade. And it's a song that cuts right through you. He was a master songwriter, on par with anyone. He wrote such great songs as "Armstrong" ["Young girl in Calcutta barely eight years old. Flies that swarm the marketplace will see she don't get old, Don't you know she heard it on that July afternoon, she heard a man named Armstrong had walked upon the moon"], "Lost Her in the Sun", "Kansas Rain" and so many, many others. Never a false note, never a false word. And as Stewart wrote so aptly, "day by day, one by one, we fall like candles in the sun." Sadly.

Additional thoughts. Obama really does have to fight two Clintons. That's not fair. Can he trot out anyone to help? Where's Al Gore on this one [scratching chin].

Good news for Mitt Romney in Indiana: I checked the drawer of the nightstand here at the Marriott. There is a book of Mormon. [If you're reading this, Mitt, please have them remove my name from your rolls. You know what I'm talking about.]

Allan Melvin died last weekend, as did Suzanne Pleshette [whom everyone I know found sexy. Men and women alike adored her.] Melvin must've really had to do some soul searching when his agent called around 1970 and said "Got a part for you. Brady Bunch." Okay, I'll bite, he probably said, and which point his agent had to break it to him that he would be cast as Alice's love interest. That's an ego deflater. "Uh, can't Sam have a brief fling with Florence Henderson? Marcia? Anyone? How about Bobby?"

So, go check out John Stewart on YouTube and enjoy the master. But really, go out and buy some of his music.

Taking Sprint to Multitask

2008-01-13T17:27:00.000-08:00

The new Sprint commercial commits multiple sins. First, the guy who has the lead in it looks like a homeless painter. Second, the visual depiction of the ad's concept - multitasking - is creepy. People doing some act of work [a women carries groceries to a car, another women rides a bicycle, a man waits for a commuter train] are surrounded by smaller clones of themselves. That's disturbing. And what is more, aside from the first guy, both the women have clones who are doing the same exact thing they are doing. That's not multitasking. That's doing more of the same thing. So boo to Sprint.

The Frank Caliendo guy who does all those impersonations is neither funny nor good at impersonations. He did a David Letterman [and Paul] that was so unfunny that when they cut back to the studio [this was during an NFL broadcast, and Terry Bradshaw, Jimmy Johnson and Joe Buck were in the studio], the talking heads sat stunned for a second.

Speaking of stunning, I read an article on the impending South Carolina Republican primary. As one would expect, they interviewed some regular folk. Here's the quote that I found interesting:

"I'd be comfortable with four of the six of them," said Steve Folks, 56. He considers former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani too liberal on social issues and said he "just hasn't connected with" former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney, who is a Mormon.

So this dude would be just fine with any of the following: Mike Huckabee, Fred Thompson, John McCain or ... Ron Paul? Go figure.

Another Year

2008-01-07T23:44:00.000-08:00

So, I'm 45.

I had a dream the other night about Jane Siberry aka Issa. I was talking to her, and I told her that she accomplished the rare feat wherein she is the artist who has become the art. She has been recreated by herself, almost totally, as a conceptualized artist.

That's high concept. Like Andy Kaufman. Her whole life is performance.

I have a few resolutions this year. Watch less sporting events on TV, and listen to less sports talk. Talk a little less. I'm going to Europe this Spring. Don't know if that qualifies.

The Men Who Killed Rock and Roll

2008-01-01T22:26:00.001-08:00

For some reason, today I have been reflecting on why Simon & Garfunkel are so damn odious.

First, a little history. I grew up garnering my early musical education through a variety of sources. The radio, my Mom, Casey Kasem's American Top 40 every Saturday, record stores, friends, the hip music teacher who loved the Beatles, the babysitter, and the television, such as it was.

I moved to Southern California when I was 13, in 1976. I met new people, record store managers, new radio stations etc. And I read music magazines.

When I was about 16, Rolling Stone published a record guide. It was the first time, in my knowledge, that someone tried to put together a comprehensive guide to the whole musical enchilada. In that first edition, the Rolling Stone Record Guide gave every later work of Simon & Garfunkel 5 stars. That was the highest ranking. I think only "Bookends" got 4 stars.

The critics agree: Simon & Garfunkel are the pinnacle of the art.

Not so fast.

To me, Simon & Garfunkel took all of the form of folk and nascent rock and roll and stripped it of anything resembling sex. No swagger. The only moods they were really capable of expressing were righteous indignation, self-righteousness, self-pity, and a certain type of really chaste longing.

Don't get me wrong, I think Paul Simon is a songwriter of great talent. But compare him to Laura Nyro, a contemporary. She swung. She brought blues and jazz into the mix. She was barrel house, she was a little naughty, and yes, sometimes a little precocious, but she lived in her music. Simon, on the other hand, was as restrained and neutered as any Wally Cox character. You get the impression that if he played a flatted 5th, his audience would start crying. Art would have wet his pants, at the very least.

S & G concerts are a sad hoot to listen to. Garfunkel breathlessly introduces the songs, and clearly he is Simon's biggest fan. He recites how many songs Paul has written. He speaks of Paul as some sort of significant cultural event.

Now, I have seen Paul Simon on TV. He seems genuinely funny and self-effacing. This whole late 60s weirdness had to play a large role in Paul's decision to "break up the act." I mean, to get treated like some sort of deity by your performing partner had to be disconcerting.

But, in terms of an impact on music, S & G introduced a swaggerless intellectual preciousness that has never really gone away. Don Henley and Sting embody that value, and get accolades for it. It's fine to have intellectual pretensions. But rock music and pop music should not be tools by which the self-proclaimed intellectually superior remind us how dumb we are. And if you're going to do that, at the very least, please allow us to dance.

It's Late

2007-12-29T00:46:00.000-08:00

Let me confirm my status as a loser. It's Friday night, about 1 am and I'm drinking Jack Daniels neat, and watching Colin Ferguson with my dog. The dog, being properly diurnal, is trying to sleep. If left to my own devices, I get tired around 3:30 or 4:00 am, but pick up a second wind around 4:30 or so. I used to pull all-nighters during two periods in my life: when I was in college, particularly at Irvine, and when I worked in San Luis Obispo. I can guarantee you that when I worked in SLO, I was the hardest-working person in town. I never took a vacation, worked nights and weekends ... and it paid off ... not at all.

Julia Sweeney and Fountains of Wayne are on Colin Ferguson. That's a dream lineup for me.

Here's irony: Chuck Norris's real first name is Carlos. Carlos Mencia's real first name is Ned. Who's fooling who?

Lastly, a close friend of mine gave me the new Mindy Smith record for Christmas. Nice record, nice piece of work - it's a holiday affair with several original songs written by Mindy with co-writes by Chely Wright and Thad Cockrell. So she shows good taste in collaborators.

I got the impression from listening to her, reading about her, looking at videos of her on YouTube, and from the fact that she plays up the loss of her mother [who died when she was 17] in one of her recent songs "One Moment More" that she was 21 or 22 years old. I was wrong. She's 35. Now, a woman of 35 I would expect to have a little more perspective ... a little more seasoning, if you will. She really sounds and acts like a very young girl. Weird.

Rock Star

2007-12-26T21:29:00.000-08:00

I have the dream ticket for disaffected voters. John McCain and [drum roll, please] Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska. Despite being a former Miss Alaska contestant, and being featured in an upcoming Vogue magazine shoot, she just screams to be on someone's ticket.

She is young, 43 years old
She has cred as a reformer
She increased taxation of the oil industry
She is an environmentalist
She is married and has four children, the eldest of which is in the army
She is a lifelong member of the NRA
She is strongly anti-abortion and anti-gay marriage, but vetoed legislation that would have prohibited state employees in same-sex relationships from getting benefits for their spouses
If you haven't noticed, she is attractive
She is female

It is only a matter of time before Washington comes a-calling. See the draft Susan Palin blog here.

Please don't construe the above as being my endorsement of any or all of those positions. I occasionally listen to NPR. That doesn't mean that I agree with all of its mushy-headed liberalism, either.

I saw the movie "Juno" on Christmas Eve. Boy, did I have problems with that one. So many great performances wasted on such an amateurish script. But really, how could you do a movie about a 16 year old girl who has sex and gets preggers without going into the "how the F did this happen?" mode? I mean, really, uh, we had unprotected sex, even though we weren't high or drunk, but I want everyone to not question my judgment and to respect me.

In short, I'm tired of living in non sequitur universe. You know the one where people hate the government on one hand, yet on the other hand, want it to take over everything that they have to pay for.

People who have never owned businesses have no idea how little freedom business owners have. From taxation, medical insurance, employment laws, etc., you have to be a freaking lawyer in order to know how to run a business. And that is sad.

Some year end thoughts.

CNN's tiresome coverage of Youssif. God love ya, CNN but can you stop thanking yourself for helping this kid out? The last thing the kid needs is to become a de facto instacelebrity. And please, the more you feature him, the more the story is really about CNN. And that stinks to high heaven.
I don't dislike Mitt Romney. I would like him to go away, however.
I tried to watch an episode of genius Ricky Gervais' follow-up to "The Office", "Extras." Couldn't make it through. That's more a reflection on me rather than Mr. Gervais.
I missed Christmas Eve Mass this year. Made me sad.
People who are borderline religious who lose someone close to them at a young age tend to get more into it. Contrarily, Israel in the 1960s, populated largely by people who had firsthand experience with voluminous loss, had a statistically high percentage of atheists. The maxim, I guess being, lose a little, get more faith, lose a lot, give up on faith.
Same for adopted kids. They tend to be anti-abortion. Nothing like self-interest to get you straight.

Out!

Christmas Angels

2007-11-16T21:22:00.000-08:00

So, the season is upon us. Such as it is.

Notes ... two of my favorite Christmas songs are "Fairytale of New York" by the Pogues & Kirsty MacColl and "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses. Sad irony is that both Patty Donahue [lead singer of the Waitresses, and New Wave sex icon] and Kirsty died right before Christmas, Dec. 9, 1996 and Dec. 18, 2000 respectively. Patty was 40 and Kirsty was 41.

Love them both.

Jane Siberry popped her renamed head up due to journalistic interest in the Radiohead "The Music Should Be Free, Man" thing ... does anybody else think that Joni Mitchell should call these people up and give them the "You're acting like a bunch of tourists" Isle of Wight speech? Didn't we resolve that the music couldn't be free back in the 1960s? Who are these hippies?

Teach A Man To Fish

2007-11-10T19:25:00.000-08:00

I try to stay away from naming names [and kicking butt] in this blog, but we'll break some rules and see how it feels.

I've been trying to train my sister about budgeting for the last 3 or 4 months. This is in response to her getting laid off, which caused her to learn - for the first time - that she actually had some retirement assets. Now, her reaction upon learning this information was that she would use her retirement to "retire" her credit card debts. An altogether reasonable, yet slightly insane, response.

Not that I didn't do that when things were dire. But my dire situation involved potential trouble with the Feds. But I digress.

So I've been auditing her spending, putting together spreadsheets, lining up resources for her, giving her exercises to do. In other words, spending a lot of time on her with regard to this topic. And she is semi-interested.

But I think ... gee ... why don't I spend this kind of time on projects to improve my life?

That's always the way it is. You know, I'm just too altruistic.

So after this project, I have pledged to spend more time on me, getting in shape, investing better, going on dates. I have to be more me-centric.

I have the soul of Mr. Novak.

But thinking about it for 10 seconds, I did undertake this project for some non-altruistic reasons:

I wanted to foreclose the possibility that she'll move in with me when she retires
I wanted to quell the stupid speculation [she blows all her money on good times and lottery tickets ... yada yada] about how she is leading her life [after doing this, I know exactly how she is leading her life. Maybe too much.]

So I'm not exactly ready to be worshipped just yet.

Everyone Knows It's Windy

2007-10-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

Ironically, I was listening to the great hoary old pop-psychedelic number by the Association just yesterday. And today, we are having windstorms and fires and downed trees and power lines. Unintended coincidence is more like it.

I'm enjoying a quiet evening alone with my dog. The roomies and their assorted hangers-on [pluralized like "Attorneys General] are still in Las Vegas. And may they stay there.

I am listening to as much Theme Time Radio Hour as I can possibly can. That's Bob Dylan's radio show. You can learn a lot about things from Bob Dylan's radio show. But mostly you will hear great great music. You can download all of his shows from this site. What shines through most, I suppose, is the Master's wit. I wanna be Bob Dylan? Well said, Mr. Duritz.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series. The Cleveland Indians are going home. You could make a lot of money betting against the teams that I want to win.

My brother and his wife are buying what looks to be an unbelievably cool home in Carefree, Arizona. I'll post a picture. You won't believe it.

That's all I have for tonight.

One Big Thing

2007-10-09T23:29:00.000-07:00

... is from the famous quote from Greek philosopher Archilochus, popularized by Isaiah Berlin in his long essay, "The Hedgehog and the Fox." That is, "The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing."

You can probably tell from reading this blog that I am not a hedgehog. I have lots and lots of little hedgy-wedgy friends, and it is a struggle for me to endure their hogged-ness. For the world, in its nearly infinite variety, so appeals to me. Or repulses me. Anew every day.

It is sad that Isaiah Berlin is so obscure generally. I delight in reading quality writing. I just finished "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Pulitzer-winning prettyboy, Michael Chabon. Such a great book. The language play reminded me of Martin Amis, perhaps Anthony Burgess ... the characters and plotting are somewhat more surefooted than in Chabon's prior works. I sometimes get the feeling that Chabon doesn't always appreciate the implications that arise from the worlds that he so energetically creates. As if these theoretical worlds only exist in flits as he writes, perhaps overwhelmed by the power of his own imagination. Ah, but I speculate. And much of his prose is as breathtaking as Fitzgerald's. You want to quote it to yourself aloud as you finish the sentence. Such a pleasure.

Why I don't need to watch TV: A co-worker posted the Serenity Prayer on her cube wall, in poster form. A very large poster. And - this was a nice touch - it contained attribution. So I noticed, and she said, "Yeah, I think he's the guy that founded AA." Of course, of course. That made me want to go out and have a drink. I mean, Reinhold Niebuhr, one of the most prominent and influential thinkers of the 20th century. And she had no idea of who he was, his impact, his writings. And further, she had no idea who Bill W. or Dr. Bob were.

I was gonna slam her further. But I will not.

I will however slam nearly all artists who include words / phrases in the artwork. If your name is not Magritte, don't even try it.

And I truly hate most public art, especially public art displays not done as either (a) part of the WPA, (b) done by Diego Rivera, or (c) both of the above. When I read articles like this one I truly become almost hysterical [not in the Freudian sense, though]. [That article brought me back to one of my favorite books, Ordinary Money, by Chabon's flatmate at UCI, Louis B. Jones.]

One day I will tell you about the "Child With Poodles" exhibit at SFMOMA by Katharina Fritsch. We'll have a good laugh, I tell you.

Fox enough for you?

Nothing Is Real, and Nothing To Get Hung About

2007-10-02T22:18:00.000-07:00

My hold on reality has always been a little tenuous. Okay, a lot tenuous. And now, it's moreso.

That is to say that people - the people around me from day to day, my co-workers, friends, roommates - seem unreal to me. I'm traveling through a world of symbols, metaphors and cyphers.

For example, a co-worker was having a friendly argument with another co-worker about which one of them was more "contained." [I do not make this stuff up.] So I went to the white board in my cube and transcribed their recounting of who was most contained, and who was least contained [I was amongst the least, if that counts for anything.] And then they made further lists, that I transcribed, of who was funniest [I came in 4th], smartest [4th again], most successful in ten years [did not place] and so forth. We were about to make the list of who would be dead in ten years when the one with the most common sense [not me] called a halt to the list-making.

But in this endeavor, all I saw was the reflecting pool. The meaning this had to the lister. What were they really trying to say ... I felt as if I saw it clearly, the striving to express placement, esteem, to express some deeper question about their own identity and self-worth [in their own eyes.] To express their disapproval of "showy smartness" and their approval of "cunning and modest smartness". And so forth. It was a display of values, and really nothing more. And it pleased me to watch it play out, almost exactly as I expected.

In short, it delighted me to come in 4th. I wish it could have been even lower.

Let me elaborate even more. Where others see a young girl with a tattoo, I see a broken home. A young man driving a small foreign car tuned for performance? I see a deep-seated insecurity. A toupee? An inappropriately young mate? A fear of mortality. But the people become unreal to me. I only see their calling card.

So what is my calling card? I have two hot Norwegian girls as roommates presently. It is so very odd. But I think it is meaningless as it happened by unexpected happenstance.

Well, I have had to confront some long deep-seated feelings I have had ... deep seated feelings of resentment against ... socialistic European countries.

I have discovered, for example, that Norway has the 2nd highest standard of living in the world [What does that mean? If you make more money but pay most of it in tax, does that still count?] But for me, what is more impressive is that they have $300 billion dollars in a fund, invested on behalf of their citizens. Now, that may not sound like much. But it is. When your country has 4.7 million citizens. That's about $70k in CASH for every man, women and barn [that's Norwegian for "child" you idiot] in the freaking country.

I don't know about you but I would feel much better about my life & world if I knew that the government had $70k waiting around in a fund with my name on it. And this is a country that has a reproduction rate of 1.84 [that is, you get 1.84 little Norskies back for every 2 full-grown Norwegians you bet. So it's a losing proposition.]

[One day, I will write a blog entry about my saddest realization ever. Witnessing my friend Tony's white coat ceremony. And knowing that the room would not regenerate itself. Sad? Yes, criminally so.]

But let's wrap it about about Norway. Regularly, Leonard Cohen albums reach number one on the charts [do they not realize that the man cannot sing a note? He makes John Cale sound like Bono. I apologize for that Dennis Miller-like take. Sorry.]

Not much else to add. Go Angels. And Trevor Hoffman, wherever you are, I still believe in you. Coors Field is the Bermuda Triangle. It wasn't you.

No One Wants to Know

2007-09-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

This is truly the age of anxiety. We're living with so many arguments unresolved. So many ideological beefs like cars idling at the starting green.

For example: if science could develop tests to effectively determine your medical future, would you want to know it? When?

Should it determine your ability to get medical coverage? What if you were a minefield of medical calamities? Should the medical companies be able to get their hands on that information, if they could? Even if you didn't want it?

The short answer is - too late, those issues will be decided for you.

I was discussing this with a friend, who is a college professor [Ha! Try guessing that one. Half my friends are college professors.] He was discussing privacy, and the subject of being watched/tracked by the government. And I think his students were debating this subject. I gently pointed out to him that on the drive to where we were, we were caught by dozens of security cameras, our cells phones triangulated our whereabouts, and so forth. In short, these students are terrifically naive to think that they will have any say whatsoever with regard to privacy issues.

Delete those cookies? Use an anonymizer? How about a phony address when you sign up to Yahoo! mail? Good luck. You're whistling in the dark.

For example ... in my profession there is this notion of Consumer Directed Health Care. Which means, the consumer gets more ... options. Which means the consumer takes more risk. Which means the consumer also has to disclose more information about their own choice-making. If you choose wisely, you pay less. If you eat at In-N-Out, you pay more.

The endgame is that (a) people with better genetics will pay less for insurance, and (b) people with more discipline and self-control [or people who just like to exercise obsessively] will pay less. So the favored will be favored even more. And their coverage will really only cover pandemics and accidents.

And the disfavored will be taxed up their massive wazoos.

If you hate the thin, healthy and beautiful now, you will really hate them when they are also richer than you are.

Indiana Wants Me

2007-09-19T21:34:00.000-07:00

Stuck here in Indianapolis for the week.

Reminds me of a saying a particularly witty ex had. She was from Lemoore in California. She said "It was a dairy area."

I'm a little nervous about being away as the 24-Hour Party People [aka the Roommates] are in charge of the house. I fully expect my dog to be in a roofie coma, dressed in Prada when I return. There is a downside to having 2 Norwegian hotties as roommates. So far the immense charm more than makes up for it.

Everyone who reads this blog should stop and take a moment and witness the convergence of two geniuses: Jennifer Warnes and Leonard Cohen [by way of Bill Elliot who co-wrote the song]: Song of Bernadette. Does this performance make me cry? A little.

Just got some news that my Dad's cousin Phil has had a stroke, and is being cared for at his cousin Loretta's home [where she is also being cared for.] These people are so old and fragile, so wonderful. They've been on the periphery of my life for so long, it's so bittersweet to see them get so frail, they have such intelligence and good humor and vulnerability and grace. The spouses, if they had them, fell a long time ago, and yet they hang on. They're the last ones, next my Dad and his siblings will be become the frail ones.

I'm going to try to get down there and see them on Sunday. It will be emotional.

I have been described as critical. I would think analytical is more accurate. [Now, there is irony. I say something critical defending myself against charges of being critical. But again, what do you do if someone labels you "defensive"? It's a no win.]

I think you can have a low level of ambition and still maintain a fairly high standard of living here in Indiana. The average home sells in the $100s. Irrational exuberance is an unknown combination of words in these parts.

I had more to say, but I'm tired. I saw Crowded House a couple of weeks ago. Kind of a mediocre show by some very talented musicians. Paul Hester's death or absence wasn't addressed. They played a very perfunctory version of "Don't Dream It's Over", which I understand. I think they are trying to de-anthemize the song. And they did. But why the long, sing-along version of "Weather With You"? It's not much of a song. But the version of "Private Universe" was good. And they were very funny. Neil and Nick are like an old, very funny, married couple. Nick is a particularly good bassist.

More Is Better

2007-09-03T19:52:00.001-07:00

An ironic post title.

This Owen Wilson thing is food for thought.

First of all, I can never keep them straight, the Wilsons. I thought Owen was the dark-haired one. So when I heard the latest troubling news, it made sense. I thought, "Yes, I always pegged him as a cutter." But when I found out it was the Butterscotch Stallion, it made no sense.

So when I analyze it, I think "99.7% of the male population would love to trade places with this guy, that only proves to me that his mental health problems are real and profound."

Which is not good news.

The main mistake that people make when discussing depression [which I am not necessarily certain correlates with suicidal tendencies] is that they presume that some event or situation triggered the episode. My experience is that mostly it is the opposite - when good/happy stuff happens and you feel nothing, you may have a problem with depression. Or when you avoid the good/happy stuff.

You need to know this stuff, that's why I write it.

Weekend Update

2007-08-26T23:36:00.000-07:00

CNN has a series of quotes regarding the energy situation in America, from ... regular Americans. And a bunch of lunkheads [what should I expect?] Increase taxes! That's the answer! Europe is so far ahead of us!

And who would get the taxes and what would they be spent on? And isn't a fuel tax punitively regressive?

Whenever I hear someone asking for increased taxes, I say to them, "Why don't you get your checkbook out, and write a check to the government? They'll take your money without a new tax being passed."

That is not to say that I believe that the markets will solve every problem. The markets are only as good as the individuals participating. And, as we've seen with Microsoft, the fact that the market has selected MS as the dominant leader, might does not equal right.

But that does not mean that the government can or will do any better. Sure, the government gave us the Hoover dam, but it also bailed out Chrysler.

And secondly, Europe is a TINY LITTLE landmass.

What people generally fail to realize is that changes to the infrastructure are expensive. If you want mass transit, or if you want to drill for more oil, or if you want to get people to live in urban areas, thus decreasing their consumption, those changes are expensive.

Do you know what else is expensive? Transitioning from fuel platform A [fossil fuels] to platform B [anything else]. In terms of dislocation in the economy. Transitioning those giant empty fuel processing stations into ... giant jungle gyms.

I was on a conference call on Thursday, and a senior executive said that China was a "socialist" country [her actual quote was much funnier and pathetic]. The disease of ignorance does not discriminate by title.

I broke my own rule about writing about work. Sorry.

Speaking of apologies, if my earlier post upset Owen Wilson, I apologize. No need to do anything drastic, my highly talented friend. It's always Owen Wilson and never Carrot Top. It's always Mitch Hedberg and never Pauly Shore. It's always Richard Jeni and never Tom Arnold.

Or am I wrong?

Letter from the Boys

2007-08-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

Apparently, they make a habit of doing these things.

But I guess one [or two] has time to do this sort of thing, when one takes 300 years between albums. And one never tours [true until recently. They're in Japan right now.]

I like their letterhead. It's so bright, sunny, so "dot.com 1999" ... so un-Steely Dan-like.

I wonder what I can do to get a letter from them?

Well, let's look at who they have taken to task.

Luke and Owen Wilson. Laura Ingram. Wes Anderson.

Oh, they composed a couple of songs for Wes ... one for his upcoming movie "Darjeeling Limited." You'll like this couplet:

"Cause baby every single time I'm with you,
I'd like to have as many arms as Vishnu"

So, it takes some level of notoriety, some offense - real or contrived - to get W & D off their worn Herman Miller loungers. I'm guessing it's mainly W and not so much D.

Question: Does Pretzel Logic write spurious open letters to Kevin Smith?

Strange Days Indeed

2007-08-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

True incident Told Without Embellishment: I was in Plummer's, the store for people too lazy to drive to Ikea, and I was shopping for a new chest of drawers for my guestroom. The somewhat attractive 40-ish saleslady was helping someone, but she turned to me and asked if I needed help. I said "Yes, I want to purchase a chest of drawers." She looked across the rather cavernous store and yelled to a co-worker standing about 40 feet away in a loud voice: "Mitch, this gentleman needs help in the bedroom department!"

It's all too true, but still I laughed.

My two new roommates have moved in, and they are surprisingly unscrewed up [so far, knock on Norwegian wood]. We'll see how they work out. Coincidentally, I'm going to see the vintage rock group Crowded House next week. And I live in one. Scratching my chin thoughtfully.

My car blew up on Wednesday in just the worst way. Spitting up green stuff, high fever, bedridden. I'm thinking it's bird flu. It threw a serpentine belt, which took out ... etc etc.

The Angels are playing good ball. The Mariners are playing great ball. F the F-ing Mariners.

"Ratatouille" and "Superbad" are two excellent movies. I fault "Superbad" for having too much cop stuff in the movie, although the cop stuff was funny.

Help in the bedroom department, indeed.

The New Bossa Nova

2007-08-19T21:17:00.000-07:00

Apparently, there is a "new" bossa nova. Which makes it a new new thing.

I'm tired of new new things. I don't want any more new new things. New new things make me tired and annoy me, and make me even more nostalgic for dumb bad old things like space food sticks, cars that overheat even on short trips on cool days [see photo], and bad hairstyles.

We have cell phones, PDAs, multifunctional devices and high-speed connectivity now. We have functionality. We have telephony.

I miss just having a telephone. I don't like telephony.

Even cable TV annoys me. It's just so bad! Do we really need "House" and "Psych" and 97 "Law & Order" franchises? TV shows shouldn't have franchises! Didn't we learn anything from the All In The Family-The Jeffersons-Maude-Archie Bunker's Place-Gloria debacle of the 70s and early 80s?

I think I've become a worse person having a cell phone. The thought of being accessible most if not all of the time makes me irritable, cranky and fatigued. Don't call us, we'll call you - that's a phrase I miss.

Until my grandmother passed away about 4 years ago, my Dad would call his mom [or parents, when grandpa was alive] once a week - each Sunday night. And when I went off to grad school, he would call me once a week. I preferred [as I still do] writing to people rather than talking to them. Now, people call all the time, call call call. Talk talk talk.

I think there are many things that are lost by this new pace of life. Reading. Decompressing. Coming up with one's own ideas. Taking a walk.

I hate to sound like Jonathan Richman, Henry Thoreau or any other hippies out there. It's just maddening.

I never wanted to be this productive, I can tell you that with great certainty.

Comments on the Passing of a Successful Confirmed Bachelor

2007-08-17T07:43:00.000-07:00

Merv Griffin died recently. And apparently, he was a gay man.

Actually, some of us knew that already. No, not from first-hand experience with the crooning real-estate and game show mogul. We had a friend whose ex-girlfriend's father worked for Merv. And this was back in the early 1980s.

And as I always say, if I know something, I assume - and usually correctly - that everyone not comatose knows it.

The article Reuters release, written by Doug Danger [actually by Ray Richmond] chastises the late, great Merv for not coming out of the closet.

I disagree with it on a few levels.

First, if a single man is seen around town squiring say Loni Anderson, Eva Gabor, Parker Posey or Liza Minelli to a social event, there is a good chance that that man may be gay. So, I don't know how deep in the closet Merv was.

Secondly, so what. If he was closeted, let's have some respect, and - dare I say it? - some admiration for Merv. Merv was a celebrity who kept his private life private. Instead of condemning him, I applaud him. God bless Merv Griffin for not assuming that the public's interest in a celebrity extended beyond being entertained by him or her. I don't recall one time seeing Merv when he wasn't attempting to be entertaining. That was his job, and unlike so many other celebrities, he insisted on doing it. It's called "professionalism" and I commend him for it. Can you imagine the degree to which the white noise that is created by celebrity culture would be decreased if other celebs acted like this? I'm sorry, I don't care that you are in rehab, that you bought a new painfully miniature dog, that you are getting divorced from Lisa Marie Presley ... I try to save getting emotionally involved in people's lives to the people who I am personally involved with -- my actual family and friends. And not the people I may assume I know because I have seen them act, or heard them sing.

Spoiler alert: This is where I am certainly going to offend some people.

I don't believe that the premise of the author's article is true. Does having more openly gay celebrities equal more acceptance for gays? Not necessarily. This is a highly suspect theory [more = better] for a few reasons. Imagine a world where all homosexuals made their gender preference known. Does disclosure equal acceptance? I don't think so - this new evidence [certain unknown homosexuals are now known] could be used by interested parties to support the acceptance or condemnation of homosexuals. "See, I told you [insert boorish celebrity name here] is gay, and he acts like a complete ass!" So, unless Mr. Richmond could have only the upstanding, mature and non-threatening homosexuals come out, he might regret having homosexuals - as a policy - come out.

While I do agree it is harder to condemn homosexuality as a lifestyle choice when one personally knows homosexuals who are great people, I don't think that we are lacking for known gay celebrities. So, the addition of Merv to the cluttered miasma would have been, as they say in sports, piling on.

Also, I somewhat reject the notion that there is necessarily a tipping point in the culture. I think people either accept or reject the concept of homosexuality not on the basis of the known sample size of homosexuals, but on a moral basis ["I'm against homosexuality based on my moral beliefs, unless I can just find one more successful homosexual."] It does not logically follow that increasing the known sample size increases acceptance of behavior that some people deem immoral.

For example, many married people cheat on their spouses. Now, some people say that the behavior is immoral. Some say it is acceptable. It appears to be a popular behavior. If you knew that 95% of all married people cheated on their spouses, would it change the morality of the behavior? Not if your morals had any underlying basis, it wouldn't.

That being said, the landscape does improve as it becomes normalized. I do agree that if one does not know any out gays, it makes it easier for one to be both a homophobe and an idiot. And conversely, if one does know gays, it is harder to be a homophobe and an idiot ["My uncle is gay, and he was always the coolest relative" for example]. But again, I differentiate the policy that Mr. Richmond espouses [celebrities should come out], from the logical extension of that argument - that all homosexuals if out would equal greater public acceptance. The logical extension, I agree with. The half-measure is not strong enough medicine to cure the patient.

But let's address reality here: given the state of American law, being openly gay can get you fired in some states. And some people still discriminate against, hate and beat gays. This reality is deplorable. But to implicate Merv, by inference, and hold him responsible for the state of gays in America, is misguided. And the timing is weak, coming just after the death of this extremely successful and laudable man.

So, that - to me - is the sad reality of the state of dialogue. One more gay celebrity does not mean one step closer to tolerance towards gays. One more gay schoolteacher, co-worker or relative might.

I'm Not There, Either

2007-08-12T23:08:00.000-07:00

The brilliant [cough] Todd Hayne's magic-realism biography talking picture of Bob Dylan comes out in November. It stars six different actors, including Cate Blanchett and a young black child, as Zimmie. Did no one think of casting Adam Sandler as the Great One?

That being said, a double slammy-whammy on Todd for (a) appropriating the great lost song "I'm Not There, I'm Gone (1956)" as the title for his movie-art-thing, and (b) remaking "The Jerk" without telling anyone. Bob Dylan: "I was born a poor black child."

I wouldn't let Haynes film my dog taking a dump. I saw "Far From Heaven" and I was truly offended by its disregard for the audience. The minimum I require from a movie is this: tell me an interesting story.

Speaking of my dog, I woke up to the strains of her throwing up. That'll kick your morning off right.

I've been painting all day. I hate painting. Painting is the worst thing I can imagine doing around the house, even worse than cleaning up dog barf. It is painstaking, attention-to-detail, make one mistake and you're covered with paint work. I'd rather build a fence, dig, mow or fix appliances.

The Angels have been on a hot streak, but one that makes me nervous. The no-stars [Figgins, Willits, Mathis] have been unreasonably hot. Like white hot. That can't last, can it? I would like a list of the trades that Bill Stoneman didn't make in the last five years, just to see how things have worked out. I think looking at his track record over that time would be interesting.

The really great weird non-comedy from the early 70's [1972], "The Heartbreak Kid" has been remade, starring Ben Stiller. I will tell you this much: it will not be the bizarre work of genius that the Elaine May-Charles Grodin original was. You want to see some acting? Check out the scenes with Eddie Albert and Grodin. Albert tries to bribe Grodin into not marrying his daughter. I would have taken the money and run off with Cybill Shepherd. Instead, Grodin sticks around in order to prove that his intentions are ... um ... honorable.

So if one has dishonorable intentions and one is tenacious, the intentions acquire some sort of nobility? That's the classic American trait -- a good quality brought to bear in a bad effort will redeem the whole messy affair?

Op Ed

2007-08-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

Let's go on the record regarding steroids in baseball.

There is some talk that records set during this so-called steroids era are tainted records. And therefore these records should be viewed as suspect, and perhaps even discarded [or at the very least, visited with additional punctuation.]

Maybe we should take these guys out and shoot them? Um, shoot them full of more steroids, I mean!

First response: under the current rules, the statistics that are achieved RIGHT NOW if you are caught using steroids are ... untouched! Still valid! Unimpeachable! So let's dismiss any and all talk of discarding statistics.

And as for the asterisk? I think not. Baseball, soon enough, will have to do two things. One, make peace [or at least declare détente] with its past, and the fact that steroids existed and were used by not only home-run hitting behemoths, but also pitchers, catchers, big guys, little guys who became big guys and harmless enough hackers like 54 career home run guy Marvin Benard and 48 career home run guy Bobby Estalella. The juice was just part of the landscape, and yes it impacted stats, and players' health, and there is something unseemly about using "performance enhancing" drugs [unless it is you or I whose performance is being enhanced]. But the landscape is the landscape. You can't change yesterday's lunch. You're stuck with it. The adult thing to do is to come up with some real workable adult position today, admit that Baseball has been slow coming to the party and move on.

So that brings me to the second point. What to do about it now? Can anything be done? Should anything be done? There are likely many Libertarians out there who say "Let the players use the juice!" As the stuff hurts only the player [victimless crime?] and is undetectable [thus making it close to impossible to prove], I'm warming to this approach. Look at the utter mess bicycling is in. Everyone is clean this year! Um, by clean, we mean they have brand new blood! The problem with this approach is that it would encourage, and perhaps require, all players to use steroids reactively [just as Bonds juiced up, apparently, as a reaction to McGwire and Sosa.] I would say, that on the balance, that approach is not pragmatic, even though I like that it shifts the responsibility to the player. And the fans could show their displeasure or support at the ballpark, and on call-in shows, as they do [for Bonds, at least ... but not for Clemens! I'm not saying Clemens used or anything, cough cough.] right now.

Then, you should have some sort of policy? Self-policing? How about team policing? If a player on a team is found to have taken steroids, or some performance enhancing drug, the team suffers a serious penalty. More games on the road. No DH. Wearing pink uniforms. In my opinion, as long as the penalty is player-specific, and the likelihood of getting caught is slender [and the Players' Union will back you no matter how untenable your defense], then players will use. Especially players on the bubble who perceive that their existence as a Major League player is in jeopardy.

So I have two conclusions. The Libertarian approach will produce more bad than good. A penalty that is leveled only against an individual will not achieve an acceptable result. The only meaningful compliance result will occur when an individual's behavior threatens the whole team.

Some might say that this option would create a powerful incentive for a team to conspire and cover up any use, thus making them even more likely to become complicit. That's possible, but it is even more possible that teams, in this era of Sarbanes-Oxley, will take their responsibility seriously. And more importantly, that players will take their responsibility and allegiance to the team and teammates more seriously than they take their responsibilities to themselves.