And so it goes

Short one tonight. Just the observation that insomnia sucks. Even with my darth vader mask. Oh well, maybe another twenty or thirty games of free cell will do it...

Goodbye, sweetheart

This morning, the first day of winter, 2010, I had to say goodbye to my little white angel. Karli's hips and back finally betrayed her, and in a cruel surprise, led to her demise before her cancerous tumors.

I had a few people today tell me how lucky she was to have had a home that cared for her so much, blah blah blah, after what appears to have been a brutal and taxing existence. And I appreciate those kind thoughts and words. But, I keep thinking about it, and I don't see it that way. It seems more appropriate to thank Karli for blessing me with five months of her life. She did me the favor by being here, by being the completely trusting, and loving little dog she was. I will miss her. Will? Shit, I already do.

Winter Wonderland

Today was the first really nasty day of winter. It truly was a blustery day, Winnie-The-Pooh.
But, that doesn't mean everything was bad. I discovered that my senior citizen dog, that I got in July likes the snow. She enjoyed a nice waddle around, and a good lay in it.
And my outdoor decorations took on a whole new look with the snow. The photo doesn't really do it justice, but the reindeer in the snow looks pretty darn good!

Release the Kraken!

My latest love affair is with rum, and as such, I have recently remembered an old line from a song. Written by the great Ray Davies, it was actually a rumble against taxation, and just what the British government was doing. And as he was moaning about needing to take exile and avoid the poisonous rates, he wrote this...
"Goodbye champagne and the caviar set, I wanna slum and drink all of the rum I can get, I'm away, I'm away in a foreign land"

I'd link to it, but I'm afraid it is a little too obscure for You Tube. A sample from Amazon, perhaps?

Anyway, if you care to download the song, it's only 99 cents, and is, if nothing else, a cheery finger poppin' tune. And you can enjoy it over a mojito, rum and coke, or god bless us all, a little egg nog with rum. Go about 50-50 for diet purposes, eh?

Something to smile about

Damon Gough, better known as 'Badly Drawn Boy' has to have the market cornered on whimsy. The tunes bounce, the words are playful, I mean, how brilliant is "Ipso facto, using up your oxygen, you know I'm shallow, calling out for extra help ,you've got to let me in or let me out" with the little 'dee doo dee dee" keyboard bits. If this song can't make you smile, you really are just a miserable so and so.
Something To Talk About


And as long as I'm enjoying that, I have to line up Paul Carrack doing "I Need You". One of the cleverest little choruses going..."I need you like a shark needs to shoot" Never fails to make me grin.

Hazy Shade Of Winter

Just in time for the winter weather, ladies and gentlemen, the bar is OPEN! It has been fully restocked, it now features the telescoping tv, the sound is great, the furniture comfy, and the fireplace inviting.
If I haven't seen you in awhile stop in for a drink, if I have seen you recently and you want to stop in anyway, bring something to eat will ya, I got the booze!

Egg noggily yours,
Me

Another Brick In The Wall Of Civility

Last night went to see Roger Waters perform "The Wall" in all it's titantic, sprawling glory...and it was done very well. The Wall was erected thru the first half of the show, and was used to great effect as a giant film screen, displaying vivid imagery, photographs, graffiti etc. Musically, it was locked tight. No real surprises, just good solid performances=though there was one bit of interesting theatre-The song Mother was performed as a 'duet' of the 60 year old Roger Waters singing with himself from a recorded performance of the original tour some 30 years ago.
Regardless, the show really was well done, with good musical performance, great theatre, explosions, inflatable characters, planes flying into walls, helicopters circling, choruses of children from local schools, blah blah blah.

And it all teetered on being ruined because there are some people that cannot understand something quite simple. If you want to discuss the world series, if you want to talk about the "cool thing your neighbor did", then why do you pay $120 for a ticket, so that you can stand amongst other people that paid the same, and shout about it at the top of your voice throughout the show? Couldn't you just play the CD, and talk in your living room, dickhead? Huh? Would it be too much to think that just maybe, just the thinnest possibility, that I, and everyone else that has never met you before, and hopefully will never see your dull dimwitted, thick as pigshit self again do not care, and better yet, would like to hear the BAND without your running f-ing commentary on your own miserable, shitty little existence. It was amazing. We were surrounded by them. I felt like I was in a Stealer's Wheel song, with clowns to the left of me, and jokers to the right. I did finally grab one guy, who couldn't seem to grasp that I was in actual fact, not his buddy, and I didn't appreciate him rocking back onto me as he launched into yet another of his endless air guitar solos.
Anyway, in the second half of the show, the mentally challenged were overwhelmed by the louder songs of the show, and my annoyance was lowered, but still...people...please. Get your heads out your asses. If the music is so loud that you have to yell at each other in order to be heard, perhaps that's a hint. You don't need to be having a conversation...

Ouch!

Can I just say that waking up with your calf having spasms due to a very nasty cramp hitting you just before the alarm goes off is NO FUN. Won't be swimming this morning...hate to think what jumping in a pool full of cold water would do.

Bummer

A quandry

OK, at the risk of sounding like a misogynist, I have to ask: What's up with our women politicians lately? A quick poll-which party has the most batshit crazy woman running for office this year? On the right, the GOP has Michelle Bachmann, Christine O'Donnell and Sharron Angle. And in this corner, Nancy Pelosi, and the awe inspiring Kesha Rogers. For volume, the GOP has more, but Kesha is hard to top. And considering the GOP is sporting a threesome of whackos, that's saying something!

Hilary and Condoleeza just have to have their head in their hands when they see this stuff.

At first blush

So what's the deal with embarrassment? I think far too many of us get embarrassed about things we shouldn't bother getting worked up over, and far too few of us get embarrassed over things we should be.

This is prompted by a few discussions I've had over the past few days about various and sundry drinking escapades. Such things as falling off roofs naked, sliding under tables in restaurants, paying a visit to the drunk tank dressed in stylish BVDs, paint the side of a car in vomit-tone pink at 60 mph down the highway on chilly January night...maybe its just me, but these just aren't things worth being embarrassed about. A bit of fun was being had, and something happened to provide an amusing story. Whoop-dee-do.

Here are a few things to actually be embarrassed about: We're one of the most affluent societies in the world, and we have somewhere in the neighborhood of 750,000 homeless people. "Survivor" has managed to have 21 different series. Kim Kardashian is famous. As a nation we bounce back and forth between our two political "choices" in the vain hope that one of them isn't lying this time. Our next generation has one hell of bill sitting in their mailbox, courtesy of the tax cut and spend, and tax increase and spend even more idiocy of the said two parties.

And there are lots more...feel free to provide any additions to the list..

What's Goin' On

Ok, so most people who know me, know that I currently have a senior canine residing in my house. Karli is a sweet old girl, who's past is a bit of a mystery.
She has the worst teeth I've ever seen on a dog, a large cancerous tumor on her underside, and advanced hip dysplasia. These three things would leave you to think she was an escapee from some puppy mill hell. Except she doesn't exhibit any fear of people, or wide open spaces, like a lot of those dogs do.
But one thing that does send her off the deep end is unexpected noises. She just hauled ass out of the living room because I opened a soda can. Sheer terror.
Whassup with that, Karli?

Perry Mason, I'm not...

I was talking with a friend the other day, who mentioned the notion of feeling guilty about things. This got me to thinking-namely, that there is an awful lot of guilt in this world, a lot of it the product of religious indoctrination. I mean, the Jewish and Catholic faiths in particular seem to have been built on a bedrock of feeling guilty!

Oddly enough though, I'm not here to discuss how everyone should be absolved of their guilt. Yeah, there's such a thing as overkill in the guilt category, but the truth is, barring some neuroses, if you're feeling guilty, there's usually a pretty damned good chance that you've done something, or not done something that you know you either shouldn't have, or could have done better. That's not to say everyone should walk around feeling awful about the way they picked on little Johnny Dorko in 4th grade, or surrender their life's earnings to a charity as penance, but rather that there seems to be a whole new industry out there that seeks to absolve people of guilt.

"It's not your fault!" "Be empowered"! "You're not responsible for others feelings, they are!". I dunno-if you crap all over someone, I think you're probably a little responsible for them feeling bad. Lord knows, I've been a dickhead more than once in my life, and when I look on it in hindsight, I feel bad about it, and try not to repeat those actions. Its what makes me (hopefully) a better person than I was. And unless you're some kind of infomercial trained psychopath, you probably ought to feel at least a little bad about it too, and try to do better next time. I mean, if your attitude is "fuck'em, its their issue", you're going to leave a wake of unhappy folks behind you, and sooner or later you will be well and roundly hated by those familiar with your remarkable self-centeredness, and complete lack of remorse.

So, what's the bottom line? If you f-up, yes: you should feel bad. And then you should either rectify the situation, or at the very least make note of it, and improve the way you handle it next time. I don't think you need to let the guilt devour you, but I do think you need to feel it bite, just so you remain in touch with what is right and wrong.

Just sayin.

Let's Talk About Sex

No, no...let's not, It's all dark and wet, and well let's face it, it is just an uncomfortable subject. How about those Rams, eh?

Please.....kill....me....

OK, so that's a little over dramatic, but don't you just hate colds when the weather is nice? I mean, you pretty much hate them when the weather is bad, but at least all you really want to do at that point is hide inside anyway.

Started coming down with this thing about two days ago, and thought it was going to be a little 24-48 hour thing. Nooooooo. I am now stuck here, typing on a blog, about how my head feels like it is full of poured lead.

On the plus side, baseballs on. On the downside, I don't like any of the teams playing. Well shit!

Lies, and the lying liars who tell them

Ok, so I stole that...

Everyone in the world lies at some point, let's face it. If you always told the truth, you'd probably get punched in the nose a lot, and the human race would die off because sex would cease to happen. My job exposes me to a multitude of fibbing, and of course, like anyone else, I get (and to be fair, give) my share of BS'ing.

However-what is an acceptable lie, and what goes beyond the pale?

Here's my opinion, that is probably stupid and ill-informed, as I'm sure someone will e-mail me and tell my I'm wrong.

1) Lies for entertainment value, or "fishing stories". Who cares? If it enhances a story, is any harm really done? I mean, yeah, its BS, but no one is hurt if an embellishment or two is thrown in.

2) Lies to hide something. This is tricky. Ultimately, the answer comes down to: Is something being hidden that would cause hurt or harm, and that will NOT be found out unless you open your big mouth, and that no one is hurt by not being told it? In that case, it's an acceptable lie. An example might be that you know a friends recently deceased (and well loved) spouse, was actually planning on dumping said friend in a divorce when the car wreck happened-nothing is gained by you opening your big mouth.
If however, it is a lie being told to hide something, that is merely putting off the inevitable, then that's just throwing wood onto what will eventually be a fire. "No, that child in the paternity suit isn't mine dear, I promise" would be a fine example!

3) Backstabbing accusations. well, that's just wrong, isn't it?

4) Lies of omission: OK, here's where I get in trouble. When does not volunteering unasked for information cross the line into being devilishly dishonest? Right here, right now, I will confess to this one. If asked directly, I will answer pretty much any question thrown at me, and do my level best to do so honestly. But, sometimes you just have to know the right question to ask.

Sunday morning, coming down

So, I'm walking through the grocery store this morning, shaking out the cobwebs of the night's activities, and in the background, I can hear the music being pumped in, mixing in with the noise of the stock people and shoppers. For the most part, like everyone else, I'm oblivious to it, but it happened to catch my ear, at a precise moment in the song. And all I could do was stop and wait for it. The line, the moment, that one precious piece of songcraft that set this particular song apart.

The song was Bob Seger's "Against The Wind". I'm not his biggest fan, but sometimes he can just catch a moment with a line. And in that song, he's singing about the past, and how weary we get moving forward...and then drops the line-"I wish didn't know now, what I didn't know then"...and it is just perfect. The innocence is gone, and you just can't undo it.

And then I pushed my cart down the aisle, and bought the adobo sauce and beans...

The Winter of My Contentment

In the late summer of 1973, our family was temporarily torn asunder, as my father was stationed TDY in Thailand, and the remaining three, my sister, mom and I went to England to stay with my maternal Grandparents, and my Great (in both senses of the word) Aunt Ivy.

Rather than being overly traumatic, it actually turned out to be a time that I look back upon with as much wistfulness and longing as any period of my life.

Upon arrival, I was placed in the local high school, though as memory serves, that provided some trauma-whereas I was top of everything, and brain the size of a planet in the US school system, as the English children started school earlier (and the PC brigade hadn't quiet broken the old system entirely), I found myself having to actually WORK at school for the first time in my life. And I enjoyed it. A challenge at last. There were some false starts, and some rotten moments at the school, but really, once I got used to the uniform, I settled in.

School however, isn't what this is about. This is about the magic of memory, of anticipation, the joy of seeing something so fabulous, its burned in your mind for life.

In the village, there was exactly one toy shop. And this was, in hindsight, pretty second rate in comparison to the shops on the High Street in Leicester. But to me it was absolutely magical. Being England, and being the early 70's it was a marvelously perverse truth that the shops shut before I could get there after school, except on Wednesdays, when they stayed open late. Until six o'clock! Brilliant!

Not that I let the shop being shut dampen my enthusiasm. I can still remember standing in a misty rain, wearing my ubiquitous duffel coat, breathing heavily on the glass, as I stared at the incredible things contained within.

I was at an age where I was particularly enamored with Dinky Toys. Had the entire collection of Captain Scarlet vehicles, and several of the Thunderbirds too. They carried an relatively impressive array of Action Man toys and accessories, but even they paled before my ultimate fascination. The sticker book for the upcoming 1974 World Cup. Lord, I purchased, or had purchased for me, more packets of those stickers, trying to get my set completed. Never could get all the players for Zaire, who in their one and only World Cup appearance (ever, as they have since ceased to exist as a country) resulted in a series of humiliating defeats as yet unrivaled. No matter, being the completest I am, I pursued those Zairian players as though the fate of the universe depended on it. My dismay when they quit selling the stickers in the shop, prior to my completing the set was one of the first rude awakenings, and learning of the lesson, that yes folks-You really can't always get what you want. Sadly, it never occurred to me to order them from the form in the book!

TV was a completely different experience. At the time, the British believed quality certainly trumped quantity-I was, and still am amazed at just how good the series "The World At War" was. The footage, the narrative, the interviews. Just engrossing. It made my Wednesday evenings worth getting home for.

But...Thursday was when it all came together. Yes, it was time for Top Of The Pops! And it was time to watch all the latest, greatest, and most outrageous music acts on offer. It was the time of Glam, and the gloves were off. The more ludicrous and over the top the outfits or behaviour, the better.

Looking through the glass backwards, 1972 was the year when Glam ramped up-T-Rex were huge, Bowie was becoming Ziggy, and Slade were starting to boogie down. But in 1973, everything blew up.

The first big Glam hit to come out while I was there, was David Essex's Rock On. He was kind of a hybrid between your standard teen idol and your glam boy- I think my poor sister wanted to cry (or something) every time she saw him.
In quick succession, there was a Ballroom Blitz, Alvin Stardust channeling some sort of bizarre Elvis, Gary Glitter in his pre-kid fiddler mode being more ridiculous by the week. There was Mud with their retro sound and choreographed stage performances, Roxy Music were delightfully weird, and then as the bizarreness grew, the ultimate Glam smackdown took place. Yes, it was Christmas, and two of the greatest rock and roll Christmas singles of all time went toe to toe.

It was Wizzard vs Slade. In the end, Slade won in a rout, but Roy Wood surely out-weirded them.

There were still artists like Mott The Hoople, Queen, Suzi Quatro, Cockney Rebel, and even Sparks left to come, but it all really peaked that Christmas. From there, Glam began its decline into irrelevance, and on came...disco *sigh*

Anyway, it was remarkable year for an 11/12 year old boy. Vacations in Wales, enforced fun at Butlins, having my evening rice pudding with my granddad...it really was the best of times.

Because I want to

This is just about songs that I love, or have loved for different reasons, for no other reason than I feel like putting them out there. Most are well known, some maybe not so much, but they all remind me of something or someone, or perhaps just a period in time. So, without further ado...

The Waterboys Pagan Place has such a marvelous sense of urgency. First time I heard this was while working at Record Bar, and we were just amazed. It was never going to get any airplay in a backwater town like St.Louis, but we hipsters in the stores got to listen to all the latest and greatest, and this was really a game changer. No flcok of seagulls here, boys and girls.

Neil Young wrote a lot of great rockers, some brilliant acoustic material, and this... It's just one of those songs that has that certain melancholy feel, and longing. It leaves me Helpless, Helpless, Helpless I got the record in high school, and was stunned. It was a what I like to refer to as a needle dropper. I picked it up, and put it back at the start, closed my eyes, and listened to it again. Kids with CD's and MP3's have no idea how easy they have it these days!

As an avowed power pop guy in the late 70's, this was a revelation. Their most popular song was a love song to an inflatable doll, but wow-this was just a revelation as to what could be done with a great song. I'm A Believer already!

The first 45 I ever purchased with my own pocket money! Well actually I bought two that fateful day...here's the second one. I would just love to hear someone like Ryan Adams or Matthew Sweet do the first one.

When I was a kid in England, the radio was limited-you just couldn't rock and roll with the BBC at night. But when the sun went down, under the covers with my transistor plastered to the side of my head, I could pull in the joyous sounds of Radio Luxembourg, broadcasting in English, all across the continent, and most importantly, into my bedroom, there on Hillcrest Avenue, in the cozy little village of Kibworth. And that, ladies and germs was where I heard, and was captivated by this.

In the next few days (or maybe a week) I shall do a lengthy post on the joys of the Top of The Pops in the UK in the Glam era. Fasten your seatbelts, kiddies. Mud, Slade, Wizzard, and yes, even Suzi Quatro are headed your way!

The Weighting (Is The Hardest Part)

As the furious Battle of the Bulge has resumed, it is time for an update.
Shirt size...down two inches in the neck
Pants...down six inches in the leg--I shrunk! No, but the waist has wasted
T-Shirts-down 2 "x's" on the old xxxxxxxxL scheme.


It has been my contention for a long time that losing weight and keeping it off is the hardest thing I've ever tried to do...reason I can say that is, I have consistently failed. And, there are simple reasons for that-when you quit smoking (which I kicked a 3 pack a day habit 12 years ago this month)you simply quit. Period. You don't smoke differently, or less often, or only on Sundays-you just QUIT. Can't do that with food, oddly enough. Well I suppose you could do a Bobby Sands, but that isn't really a very good answer. So, you're left with being in a constant state of monitoring. And if you've never had to fight the battle, trust me, it is hard. And you get lazy...and your vigilance slips. And things taste soooo good. And it's raining, and you don't want to exercise. And everyone is going to the pizza joint, and you're invited. And there's a party on Sunday, and there'll be beer and brats. It is a bugger! Oh well,, hopefully I shall reign victorious THIS time. It is the goal...

I will rave, and I will ramble

I'll do everything but make you stay...

I have loved this song from the first moment I heard it. It is ethereal, it is a thing of transcendent beauty. Enjoy

The Waterboys

Goodnight sweetheart

The tough assed kitty breathed her last on Wednesday. As reported last week, Maggie was a terminal case, but she'd bounced back so many times. This time it was just a little too much to ask her to come back again, and it was time to let her go with a little dignity.
You really knew it was over when we got to the vets office and opened her crate (which like any good cat, she hated), and she didn't even bother coming out of it. The fight was well and truly gone from her. She did have a couple of strolls around the vets office, but no happy leaps from surface to surface, just unsettled anxiety from being somewhere she really didn't want to be.
When the time came, she made a couple of her trademark meows as the injection was given, and then she was gone. As she laid there, I was struck by just how lovely she really was. Her fur was so soft, and just beautiful. I feel horrible for Debbie, who has had to say goodbye to several of her furry friends so close together.
Maggie was a talkative sort, whose varied utterings actually sounded like she was discussing things with you sometimes. I know I had more than one conversation with her.

It is going to be a lot quieter in Ms.B's office, without her feline visitor there to give an opinion, or take a short stroll across the keyboard at a crucial moment, ensuring that the e-mail says "%Um)gaLIHWBySu" instead of, "I'd like to paint the shutters green"

Goodnight peanut. Love ya.

Through a glass, darkly

Scattered thoughts on the general condition, through the lens of being awake at 3:30 in the morning. It ain't pretty, folks.

Beautiful loser: Heard this song the other day, and it got me to thinking- Is it ok for someone to think of themselves as one, or is that a trifle narcissistic? Is it a label that can only be assigned by a second or thrid party. And if that's the case, isn't it a little nasty to refer to someone you know well enough to call a friend as a "loser"? Perhaps it's mutually exclusive, and you lose the "beautiful" part, by being aware of the "loser" part? Or maybe you're not such a loser, if you realize the grace and dignity involved in the "beautiful" part? This is what laying in bed being overly analytical will get you, by the way.

Letting go: Why is it so hard? Rationally, I think 99.3% (a scientifically made up number, I actually pulled directly from my ass to this webpage) of people know when it is time to let go of things, or perhaps maybe they know when it is futile not to, yet it never really seems to make it easier, does it? I suppose that's what mourning and feelings of regret and loss are all about-an inability, or unwillingness to let go. Boy that was deep. Watch out Freud, I'm gunning for you.

Satisfaction: The time honored question remains. Why can't I get no? If someone had told me at 16 that the refrain from what in my mind is the greatest R'n'R single of them all would ring true to me at 48, I'd probably have answered "well what's the fucking use then?" Oh well, I try, and I try...and I can't get no

Tough ass kitty

Sometimes, like me you think you've had a bad day. Then you find out yours isn't so awful.
Hang in their Mags-It IS Friday!

Made a trip last night, ostensibly to send this fine piece of feline creation to her final resting place. Only she didn't want to go just yet. Maggie has a few tumors, and has had surgery to remove it once, but ultimately what ails her is fatal. Last night, after shopping at Target, her owner and I returned to be greeted by blood all over the place. Vessels in her nose had erupted from the pressure of the tumor, leading her to spray blood every time she sneezed...which was often, because her nose kept filling up with blood.

After some deliberation, it was decided to take that long last car ride, to say the final goodbye. But Mags is a bit tougher than that. By the time we'd arrived at the clinic, she was full of vim and vigor, playing with the vet, jumping from the counter to the floor and vice versa...soooo-she was given some nasal spray to get the bleeding to stop, the vet said it was likely down to a week or two before she would start to actually suffer, but right now, she was probably good to go.

Maggie rocks, and truly does have nine lives. The thought that it was all a con in order to get an extra can of salmon and some Fro-yo hasn't escaped me.

Old dogs, new friends

OK, so on Saturday Miss Butts and I loaded off to the Columbia area to pick up the rescue's latest and greatest. And I do have to say she is something else.
Karli is what is known as a "whitely"-namely, her fur forgot to turn red, or black, or fawn, and just stayed white. So, you have a snow coloured corgi, which takes a few minutes to get used to if you're familiar with the breed, though she certainly draws comments about how pretty she is and so on.

Anyway, Karli has a whole heapin' helpin' of health problems as it turns out. She has mammary tumors, bad hips, she was loaded with ticks (thank you Ms.Moore for disposing of those) and she also has the single worse case of death breath I've ever encountered. The dog's teeth are absolutely rotting in her head, and as a result, her breath can melt glass from forty paces. My boy Vinnie has a bit of a pooh eating problem, and frankly in comparison to hers, his breath is that of a fresh spring breeze. Oh, and she has a urinary tract infection too...

Enough of what is WRONG with her. It has to be said, she is gorgeous. She is gentle, she's house trained, and she likes to stick close to people. Her first night here she stayed in her crate, but after seeing how well she seemed to be housetrained, I figured a little gamble with letting her sleep in my room wouldn't be too bad. And it wasn't, though she gave me a scare this morning, as I couldn't find her. Turned out she'd nosed her way into my closet, and sacked out in the back on the old shoes.

Oh one other thing-she isn't going to be bullied. Vinnie tried her on, and she bared all six teeth, and let him know that she'd gum his butt if he pushed his luck!

And on a mildly related side note. If you're ever in Columbia Missouri, and you're looking for a place to grab lunch and have a beer, you could do a lot worse than the Flat Branch micro-brewery. Though you should also note that they do expect you to put money in the parking meters, even on a Saturday, damn it!

Oh, and not that I'm begging (or even, not that I'm not begging. I ate my pride quite some time ago, on a toasted wheat roll, with just a dab of peanut butter), but Pet's Second Chance does accept donations. She's going to cost a small fortune to fix up. Everything from a dollar up is appreciated. :-)

http://www.petssecondchance.org/donate.html

Bitterness Rising

Unfit to live in - just about fit to burst
Like the banks of a swollen river
As bitterness does its worst
Working on your feelings - eating you all up
But you have to shake that shit to move on
And let love carry you on up

It's just bitterness rising - taking you off
Bitterness rising - you gotta shake those feelings off

My once stated goal to be the world's most bitter man may yet still be attainable...

Oh well, a nice wallow in the unfairness of life, the universe and everything is pretty much a normal occurrence in everyone's life, and it's my turn.

I think I'm gonna go eat some worms :-)

Vacant, room available...

Off for a week of booze, food, and beach, in Florida, the land of sunshine and sharks.

Quick observation: Watching a little "Palladia" on the boob-tube-Do The Fray actually suck as bad as I think they do? I'd heard of them, but until this morning, had avoided hearing them. What a bunch of silly twerps, obviously drunk with feelings of their own self-worth. As long as I'm being abusive, I'd like to insult Shinedown. Lord are they just about useless, non-descript repetitive garbage. They could be The Fray...or any number of crappy, carbon copy bullshit inoffensive, non-creative garbage.

Back in the day, myself and Mr.Boston would regularly opine to anyone that would listen, that it was better to try something different, and fail miserably, than to just recycle the same old crap that everyone else does. And lord knows The Fray, Five For Fighting, Theory Of A Deadman, Shinedown, Nickleback, Daughtry (whose musical cred isn't helped by having a disturbing resemblance to Vin Diesel) and just about every other "new" artist I've heard in the last xx years who do well to keep that in mind.

Jesus, I'm old...

Shake Your Groove Thing

A dilemma in regards to proper etiquette:

If you are at a movie, concert or sporting event, and you need to move down the row to go to the restroom or perhaps concession stand, is it best to stick your butt or your crotch in people's faces? Is it optional, depending on who's sitting in the row you're going down?

As long as I'm discussing convention, yesterday I went to the outdoor pool, and bore witness to some of the odder behavior I've seen in a public place for some time. Not one, but two independent cases of Mr.Speedos making spectacles of themselves. I mean, as previously observed, anyone that wears speedos and is not named "Spitz" or "Phelps" is obviously a delusional twit anyway, but these two guys took great pains to separate themselves from the pack. The first, after completing his afternoon swim (which didn't appear to be an Olympic calibre performance) proceeded to engage in an exercise routine at the poolside, which involved lots of push ups, and sticking his butt in the air. We observed that this display would certainly have been easier, and more comfortable for him to perform at home, instead of on hot, rough concrete, and could only surmise that he was either homeless, stupid, or hoping to provide entertainment to the pools' various social commentators. As it turned out, this man was a mere piker. A warm-up to the main event as it were.

The second Mr.Speedo (or Beard-o as he shall now be known) was astonishing. After completing his non Olympic performance (At one point I was swimming in the lane next to his-my fat ass passed him, and rest assured sports fans, my swimming style is more akin to that of a wounded manatee than a dolphin), Beard-o proceeded to launch into a series of contortions worthy of a sideshow at a cheap and seedy circus. This clown was performing yoga, in his speedos, again, on hot rough concrete, right next to the pool, as if he were on a stage. Which I suppose he was. Lord knows, we couldn't quit watching. It was fascinating to watch the intent look on his face as he turned himself into all sorts of bendy positions. He was a torso twisting, toe extending, one leg balancing machine. I was half expecting him to launch into a one person interpretation of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake at some point.

And what made it even more amusing, was the guy's over all appearance. His facial hair stylings were those of an Al Queda agent, bent on some form of Jihad. Imagine a depiction of the Prophet Mohammad in speedos, and you're getting the picture. Outstanding public theatre!

Tubthumping

Thought for the day: What if I got knocked down, but just didn't bother getting up again? Would that be so bad? Maybe the view is nicer from the floor? And if I'm only going to get knocked down again, why not just stay there on the floor, and make the best of it? Lord knows, according to the song, I'm drunk as a lord anyway.

I would write a handbook for how to be a better slacker...except it would take more effort than I'm willing to invest.

Hey you, I want to be your boyfriend

Oh yes boys and girls, let us hearken back to those glorious days, when power pop ruled. I think a part of me will always be stuck in 1978 and 79. All this incredible, wonderful, finger poppin', toe tappin' music was just flying out. Unfortunately, here in St.Louis, it couldn't get on the radio, as it was choked out by disco on the top 40 stations, and Rush/Triumph and a lot of other very very bad music on K-Shit 95.

Which reminds me of K-She's stupid polls they used to do, in which their loyal listeners were to fill out their fave three songs so that "Real Rock Radio" could favor us with a 'countdown' on whatever holiday weekend was coming up. Quite predictably, the top three, in varied order were: "Stairway To Heaven", "Layla", and "Freebird". Me, I always dedicated Elvis Costello's "Radio Radio" to our good friends at K-SHE. For a modern rock station, they sure didn't believe in playing any. I can flat out tell you that no new wave, punk, or even U2 got played through the mid-80's. Too 'edgy' is all I can guess.

Anyway, if you want some ear candy, direct your browser (and PC speakers) here, and then just click around...

A waist is a terrible thing to mind

It's sad, and it's true. The mind is the first thing to go. Time to tell a story on myself.
Just got home from work, and as per usual, let the dogs out to take care of their business. I went downstairs to throw a load of laundry in, and upon coming back figured I had better let the furbags in, as it is about 100 degrees out. So I do...and as Simon runs in, I notice he has a rather large "hanger on" sticking out of his poopchute. So, without thinking, I quickly step out into the middle of the yard, and call him back out in the hopes that he will run out before the poop falls off his backside and on the kitchen floor. So far so good, huh? Did I forget to mention the part where when I threw the load of laundry in, I thought I may as well wash what I was wearing?

The neighbors just have to love living next door to me, I tell ya. Opal was nice enough not to say anything as I quickly ran back in the house, but I'm sure she has to be wondering what I've been smoking, drinking, swallowing or injecting.

Metamorphosis

What do you do when life throws you a curve?

Experience has taught me the cliche "patience is a virtue" is a pretty wise concept. And the older I get, the easier it is to resist the temptation to ignore that wise little snippet.
Yet another indication that no matter how hard I may fight it, maturity continues to work its magic. Who knows, a fully functioning adult may yet emerge from the childlike cocoon that is me.

When I was younger, it was standard procedure to try to force things, jam my opinions down people's throats, make things that weren't going my way, be my way. The belief was that sheer force of will was enough. The truth is, life just doesn't work that way. To use a baseball parallel, you're sitting dead red, guessing fastball, and anytime a curveball, or off speed pitch is thrown to you, you whiff. Horribly. Like Willie McGee chasing a Steve Carlton slider. And in all likelihood, with this aggression, you cost yourself a lot of life's smaller pleasures. And for what? The possibility of a little instant gratification? Maybe one in every fifteen or sixteen efforts you hit a home run?

So, continuing the baseball theme, my more mature, and hopefully wiser self has gradually embraced the idea that you have to hang back, wait for the pitch, and if it's a strike, then smoke that sucker into center for a clean base-hit. And if it ends up out of the zone, then you just enjoy your at-bat, and take a walk...

Off the scale

Shrek here...out of curiosity, I went to a website to calculate my body's frame size. Ostensibly, this is because I know I have a large frame, but even given that, am always amazed at the height/weight recommendations they have for me. Namely, they like to tell me that because I am a "large" framed person, I should weigh no more than 222lbs. Now, there are several people that read this blog, that knew me back in the 80's when I did indeed get down to the 220's. And I looked like an escapee from Auschwitz. When I went to the doctor, he insisted that I gain at least 25 to thirty pounds.

So, I go on about this because of the following. Apparently, if you bend your arm at a ninety degree angle, and measure from bone to bone in your elbow, that tells you your frame size. A medium frame is between 2 7/8's inches, and 3 1/4. So considering the entire "medium" range is a mere 3/8's of an inch, if your elbow is 3 7/8 inches, thus an entire 5/8 inches larger than the upper end of the medium scale, does that mean you've blown the whole scale away? Have I moved two notches into the BONUS super large frame category? Should I indeed, embrace my life as an ogre, paint myself green, and start eating peasants? How best are they prepared? Boiled, with cabbage, onions, and hearty helping of garlic? Or maybe baked, with potatoes and parsnips?

Anyway, enough silliness. Operation normal sized me continues. Down 63lbs as of this morning. Another 45 to 60 or so to go. Unless I'm aiming for that perfect body weight, as recommended by the non-Andrew friendly charts!

The long dark tea-time of the soul

In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2.55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.

To my dear friends, with their settled lives;

It is the metaphorical Sunday afternoons, those moments when you just have too much time to reflect, that bring you down. Optimism smashes to pieces, like water slapping off the rocks on a stormy coastline. The bright cheery thoughts fade into nothing, as you realize that the rest of your day, at best is likely to be spent doing the dishes, or, if you're really lucky, watching someone else do the dishes. Even the dogs can't be bothered to be entertaining on this late Sunday afternoon.

Invariably, thoughts turn to the dramatic, as you languish in the despair that is your own personal boring hell, and you envision yourself doing something great, magnificent...and then reality raises it's ugly head once again, as you're forced to acknowledge that even on your best day you couldn't throw a strike, let alone slip a fastball past Derek Jeter. Now, you're an old arthritic man, who considers it a fortunate day if you remember to zip up your pants before setting off to work.

All of my friends at school grew up and settled down
And they mortgaged up their lives
One things not said too much, but I think it's true
They just get married cause there's nothing else to do, so

I'm just sittin' on a fence

Yes my friends, you are getting old. Your life is dull, and your pleasures are fleeting. See, that's what you get for growing up!

Sincerely,

Peter Pan

Grimly Fiendish

I have been humbled by something as ridiculously dainty as pastry. There's a blow to my machismo. While trying to make empanadas, I cooked up the filling with no issue, in fact, it is delicious-combined a few different recipe suggestions to come up with my own, and was feeling pretty pleased with myself-the white wine substituting for chicken broth came out very nice indeed. But then came the pastry...

Now I have had people tell me that pastry is tricky, and it's an art, and it requires a certain feel, and blah blah blah. In fact, at gourmet.com, they have this to say about pastry. "Pastry is notoriously persnickety and usually requires exact measurements and precise handing in order to turn out well." Well damn, Guess they were right. It was downright fiendishly "persnickity". One could almost say it was really f-in' persnickety. Stuck to the roller, stuck to the counter, then it was too dry and flaky, then it broke apart, then the egg wash didn't do what it was supposed to do so I could pinch the edges...I may have sworn a few times. Maybe.

Anyway, I salvaged a couple of them to bake tomorrow, but I can pretty much tell they're not going to be right. On the plus side, I have lots of filling left over, and am gonna have some kick ass burritos out of the deal-along with a cilantro/lime sour cream spread for it. And furthermore, after three or four mojitos, who's gonna care anyway?

But if anyone out there is good at pastry, and wants to give a neophyte a few pointers, I'm all ears...and flour and sticky dough.

Fever In The Funkhouse Now

More ruminations on my favorite recent re-release, as I listen to it for about the 20th time since it's street date....

How the hell does anyone even think about topping "Rocks Off" as a way to start a record? The guitar line comes in with a nice little riff, and then a quick "oh yeah", and Mr.Riff-hard grinds it out, the horns kick in, Nicky Hopkins and that sainted piano, Jagger at the high water mark of his abilities, both vocally and lyrically, and all the while being nailed down by the steadiest drummer in the world, period. If you can't shake your ass to that, give it up, you're dead. Kick me like you kicked before, indeed.

And then, because someone needed to demonstrate that there was a song that could make people jump around and act like a bigger idiots, they roll straight into Rip This Joint, which you know damned good and well was REM's inspiration for the End Of The World As We Know It...except they did it too slow. The frenetic pace, the word play-it is a gas, gas, gas.

Mister President, Mister Immigration Man,
Let me in, sweetie, to your fair land.
I'm Tampa bound and Memphis too,
Short Fat Fanny is on the loose.
Dig that sound on the radio,
Then slip it right across into Buffalo.
Dick and Pat in ole D.C.,
Well they're gonna hold some shit for me

And just why the hell didn't ZZ Top get the holy hell sued out of them for copping Hip Shake and calling it La Grange? I mean, it isn't the most original riff in the world, but Christ they lifted it pretty much note for note.

I met a little girl,,,in a country town
she say whaddya know...there's Slim Harpo
didn't move her head...din't move her hands
din't move her lips....just shake her hips

Anyway, the whole first side is just a buttshaking experience, even Casino Boogie, which is one of the weaker on the whole shooting match, is a rump moving riff machine. And then it's Tumbling Dice, and what a great way to end a side, huh? There are bands that spend twenty years trying to come up with one song as good as these, and the whole damned side is filled with'em. I'm not sure if that should be viewed as inspirational, or depressing for the aspiring musician!

All Down The Line

Batten the hatches, boys and girls. It's about as silly as can be, but I haven't been this excited about a new release since...well, since Some Girls in 1978. And this is just a reissue. I say "just", but as noted in a previous posting, it is this humble blogger's opinion that Exile On Main Street is the greatest start to finish rock and roll record ever made. It's big, it's sloppy, it's murky, it's dirty (very), it's mumbled, it's awash in a drug induced haze, it is everything I love about rock and roll.

Take your Abbey Road/Pink Floyd/technical perfection and tell it to Mozart. Rock and roll is a euphemism for sex folks, and as Woody Allen famously pointed out, sex is only dirty if it's done right. And let's face it, nobody is gonna think about sex with Comfortably Numb playing, now are they? ("Oh dear, I'm all numb..dead from the waist down, as it were")

So, onto the reissue. Thankfully, they didn't clean it up too much. And this is why I'm excited. Had an incredible fear that you'd actually be able to tell what Jagger was singing on Let It Loose, or for that matter any of the damned songs. He once said Fats Domino told him the only parts you should be able to figure out are the choruses (a la Blueberry Hill) and he stuck to it on Tumbling Dice. Hell he could be singing verses of the bible for most of the record, and you wouldn't know it.

So, yeah, the drum sound is a bit clearer, the bottom end a bit more forceful, but the mass of horns, the gospel choirs, Nicky Hopkins and that wonderful piano (just pounding on Soul Survivor) Mick Taylor and the slide, are all still just hitting you in the head, in all their massed (and massive glory). I don't even give a damn about the "bonus" tracks. As long as they didn't screw up the real deal, I am happy...and they didn't. Oh joy.

On a side note, it would be a mistake not to point out the one serious foul up. What's with the packaging? No postcards, the inner sleeves aren't reproduced. Might have to see what the Japanese do-they always do these things right!

Just Wanna See His Face

My religious views tend to be...oh, not quite the standard operational western variety. I mention this because I had a discussion last night about this very topic-and found that I had a hard time articulating exactly what it was I did believe.

So, here's me, religion, god (or if you prefer, God), spirituality, (ir)reverence, yin/yang, and perhaps a little hoo-doo thrown in, just to keep the hellhounds off my trail.

I was born a small black child...no that joke's been used already...I was actually born into the Church of England, though for the majority of my early childhood, we really didn't do much with church.

My first recollections of going to church were in South Carolina, at which time I was expected to go to Sunday School, and sing in the choir. I was prepared to sing in the choir, because they promised me free soda. Everything has a price.

To say I was unimpressed with my initial exposure is a bit of an understatement. Though I do remember going to a synagogue on some kind of cross-faith Sunday school venture, and thinking that Judaism might be the thing for me, as I wouldn't have to give up my Sundays. The notion that the Saturday trade off might not be a winner didn't occur to me at the time, I just knew that there had to be better things to do with my time than spending hours hearing about some chap no one could see, that supposedly went around fixing what to me, even then, seemed like a pretty messed up place. Frankly I felt this god fellow wasn't doing a very good job, and perhaps someone should start looking at either replacing him, or at the very least hiring an administrative assistant or something.

Fast forward a few years to England-I never actually attended church regularly at St.Wilfrids' (the local church in the village), but on the plus side, I did become a bell-ringer. I have to say, learning how to work the ropes in the belfry was great fun for a curious 12 year old. We learned how to strike the hour, and more impressively, how to do rounds. Très cool.

After my return stateside, there really was no further family push to get me into religion. I think they'd arrived at the conclusion that either the boy was going to find "it" on his own, or he wouldn't, but pushing him would just annoy him and cause the heels to be dug in harder. This was correct on the parental units part.

So I wandered forward in my godless, oblivious fashion, not asking too many questions, and not seeking any answers, until...and this is kind of funny...I got my first copy of Jethro Tull's Aqualung. I reproduce the liner notes for your pleasure (and certainly infringe on someone's copyright)

1 In the beginning Man created God; and in the image of Man created he him.

2 And Man gave unto God a multitude of names,that he might be Lord of all
the earth when it was suited to Man.

3 And on the seven millionth day Man rested and did lean heavily on his God and saw that it was good.

4 And Man formed Aqualung of the dust of the ground, and a host of others likened unto his kind.

5 And these lesser men were cast into the void; And some were burned, and some were put apart from their kind.

6 And Man became the God that he had created and with his miracles did rule over all the earth.

7 But as all these things came to pass, the Spirit that did cause man to create his God lived on within all men: even within Aqualung.

8 And man saw it not.

9 But for Christ's sake he'd better start looking.

Well this just changed my whole ballgame. Here was someone articulating a lot of what I felt, even if I had failed to explain it to even myself. The entire organized religion just seemed like a way to keep everyone in line, and really has f-all to do with the real meat and potatoes of god, a supreme being, spiritual truth or what have you.

The notion that an all knowing God would pick a small tribe in the middle east as his favorites, is silly. And while we're at it, so are the following. Having a son, so he can be whacked up on a chunk of wood, thus making everyone forgiven for the naughtiness, or talking to an Arab gent, and later having him ride a horse up a beam of light into heaven. It's daft. Eight armed gods in India, flying spaghetti monsters on the internet, sun gods pulling chariots across the sky *sigh*. It is all hooey to me.

But yet...if you ask me if I think there is some god, or spirit, I will answer in the affirmative. I certainly don't pretend to know it's nature, but I think it is safe to say that it is not a direct intercessor. I think that people are rewarded for good deeds, and ultimately, be it cosmically, or in the material world, punished for being schmucks.
In my conversation, we touched upon prayer, and whether or not I thought it was a good thing or bad thing. I think it can't hurt, particularly if it makes you feel better. I'm not sure that god is going to fulfill a wishlist, but again, with the karmic thing, I think if you are working hard enough, and hoping hard enough for the RIGHT thing, you just might find that things turn unexpectedly your way. And I suppose that is at least a mild endorsement for the power of prayer.

As I look back over what I've written above, I could go back and change a few things, but I'm not going to. I meant no offence to those who do believe in chosen people, sacrificed sons, or magical horse rides, but felt I have to be true to me, and express my own serious reservations about those things. I think they're fantastical stories meant to woo the masses with their miraculous nature. And I'm not buying at that deli counter.

On an unrelated side note, I've been listening to my blog's name sake LP while typing this. I must state it clearly: Exile On Main Street is the greatest rock and roll album ever. Period. No room for argument, cram your Beatles, Dylan, Nirvana, or anyone else you want to throw out there. They just aren't in the picture.

Merry Christmas

So, I was thinking again (dangerous, isn't it?), and the thought occurred to me that people are like Christmas presents. And the onus here isn't on the women/men being viewed as the presents, but rather it is on the men/women that think of them as such.

The prevailing thought process is that we're all adults, and we're all mature, and by gum, if you have the prettiest package in the world, or just a plain brown wrapper, it really doesn't matter, because what does matter is what's inside, right? And just about everyone loves to say that. You hear it all the time. "Great personality", "wonderful sense of humor", "insightful, intelligent rapier mind" and so on. To not say that the ugly duckling can be a swan-well by God, it's shallow! But the truth is, most people simply don't mean it. Hell, I don't, so I'm certainly not climbing up on some pedestal as a representation of what is good and righteous in the world. You simply can't blame people for this. All I'm pointing out is the God's honest truth, as opposed to the saccharin concept of inner beauty. Let's face it, if the box looks like one of Santa's reindeer gave it a good kick, most people aren't too interested in the present.

So there's the rub-we (as in most of us) are still mostly fascinated by what's on the outside. If you're looking under the tree, the package that gets your attention is the one with the right shape, the right wrapping, the right bit of heft...and then you open it to discover it's all wrong, or even worse, it isn't even remotely similar to what you'd expected. It's a deluxe box of Band-Aids, not an I-Pod! And it happens to us time and time again. Oh look, someone got me the new CD I wanted...nooooo, they got me a cut-price cd-rom computer game, that looked like a music CD when in its pretty paper...

And don't try to tell me that people and their expectations of each other are any damned different. We build this fantasy vision of what a person is like based on how much we like the way they look, or in this digital age, how much we like the way we THINK they look. And we do it over, and over, and over. Pavlov would be disheartened.

As noted, I'm as guilty of it as anyone-there's no stones being thrown. I was just driving in the rain the other day, pondering this human condition. Which is really quite a mess, methinks.

Regardless, I think a little honesty with ourselves would go along way. So next time you're congratulating yourself on how wonderful you are, and how you're really interested in someone new because of what a neat person they are, think about it. Would you really be as enthused about this "wonderful" person if they looked like Amy Winehouse or Karl Malden? The short answer of course is "no". The slightly longer answer is "hell no".





Sometimes I really am just a shower of the brown smelly stuff, it's true.

It's just that demon life, has got me in it's sway

Quick thought, before a grumble about the weekend: Dogs are better than people.

Consider: How often do you take a dog into your house as your lifelong (well at least his or her life) friend, and end up seeking a divorce? How long a grudge does a dog hold if you forget dinner? Or if you're late? What if you want to go out with another friend. Oh sure, they'll jump around at the door as you leave, but they won't give you the cold shoulder when you get home...for DAYS. And has the dog ever complained because you want to watch something else on the tube?

OK, so on the downside, they're lacking in conversational skills. But considering the inanity of a lot of human conversation, is that really such a bad thing?

Spent the weekend working around the house, doing a lot, and yet feeling as though more was just piling up behind me. A lot like quicksand-the more I would do, the more I seemed to uncover to do. On the accomplishment list, straightened up the garage (somewhat-still have some stuff being stored that will wander off before too long, I hope), jet-washed most of the back patio, weeded the back garden, put up a temporary fence to keep the aforementioned pooches off of the daylillies, picked up and planted a variety of hostas, ferns, astilbes, and junipers, as well as planting an array of other previously acquired plants, did the laundry, cleaned up the kitchen, bbq'd, hit the pool twice (including, and this did pump me up big time, completing a mile non-stop), began to clean out the music room...and ran out of time. And to be fair, energy.

My plea- I need someone to come over, rub my aching back and knees and feed me grapes-because aside from conversation, that happens to be another thing dogs aren't so good at!

Anyway, had a nice dinner with Mom (and Dad, and nephew and Bob and his mom, too) and I am now going to do more in the music room...maybe.

Love Minus Zero/No Limit

Random rumblings from a rough morning...

Big discovery this morning. Sleeping without my CPAP machine after an evening's libations is ill-advised. I feel like I have swallowed a cat. With it's claws intact. Did I mention the cat was in a bad mood at the time it was swallowed?

So, on that note, I must now concede the following to old age...losing weight isn't going to get me off that infernal machine.

And another thing...why is it I always end up with this malaise, kind of a feeling of slight regret after a night on the tiles? Don't get me wrong, it isn't strong enough to make me not do it again (and again), but it is an odd sensation. One I've had since my teens. Is this normal? Maybe it's just due to not having had the best night's sleep. Hmmmm

But, on the plus side of the equation, I am going to get Simon this morning. And pancakes. I've missed the little fellow, and I love breakfast. A good recovery from a bad start.

But it will be brief. After essentially taking a weekend off from being responsible diet-wise, I'm going to have to recommit (right after breakfast, that is) and regain focus. I've reached the 50lb mark, which means...another 70 or so and I'm there-now that's depressing to type!

Trivia 2010!

The Must Do Event Of The Season!!

Click on the photo to see details full sized!

When the going gets weird

The weird turn pro...

If it is true that good things happen to good people, is it equally true that odd things happen to odd people? Cause I must say, things are getting weirder than a cheez-whiz and clam sandwich around here, ladies and germs...

Oh well, there's a weekend to deal with it. Time to shift in to serious "ponder" mode.

Nuttin' but a hound dog...

I'm watching a few furry friends for a couple of days, and took some photos at 6 this morning as they all did their dog-type thing....