Hbee

2003-05-02T11:21:00.000-04:00

In Which Open Mikes In Beverly Are Different Than Boston/Cambridge

I did the Wine Cellar in Beverly last night and all I can say is - wow. I knew absolutely no one there. Of the 10 of us, there were three that had tight sets. The rest, for the most part, floundered. The last act, and I don't remember her name, was just...I'm not even sure how to say it properly. "Bad" doesn't do it justice. It was a debacle. It was a classic case of "hey, you're really funny! You oughta do stand up!" Think of the woman in her forties working the counter at the gas station/convenience store. Choosing a defining moment is hard, so I'll just list some of them
- I'll be whoring on the corner after the show. $50 bucks, if you're interested
- I'm broke, so if you can just throw your bottles and cans into this sack, I'd appreciate it. I know a nickel doesn't seem like a lot to you, but it means everything to me.
- [At the doctor's office] They stick their arm all the way up your vagina and then twwwwwist it.
- [Still at the doctor's office] Ooh, what are those? Rubber gloves? I can give the dog an anal with those.
- The woman next door stutters and it drives me out of my fucking mind. "Ek ek ek ook ook". [She spent about two minutes doing stuttering stuff]
- [About the flexible mike stand] I love this thing! Put a battery pack on it and I'll never need a man again!
It went on and on and on and on. She rambled for at least ten minutes. In some ways, you have to commend her for her pluck. She looked oblivious to the fact that absolutely no one found anything she said funny, but goddamn it, she'd plug away until she'd said her piece.

[Brief tangent on the spelling of the word "piece". "'I' before 'E' except after 'C'." I HATE English. Is there any other written language that is so flagrantly illogical? There. I feel better.]

7 minutes into it the host, Jack Lynch (very funny!), and the booker, Dave Rattigan (also very funny!), could be heard saying, "We gotta save this night. Go up and do a good five and then close out."

As I got ready to leave, the short old guy (and you can gauge the status of an open mike by whether there's a short old guy performing) says to Jack, "Hey! If ya evah need someone to fill in some whay-uh lemme know, awright?"
Jack: Uh. Yeah. Will do.
Short Old Guy: You was great! Real funny! Can I steal your stuff?
Jack: Uh. Heh-heh. Um. Don't do that.
Short Old Guy: Heh-heh! Ah'm only kiddin' ya! Just kiddin'!

2003-05-02T08:45:00.000-04:00

In Which WBUR Diversifies

BUR is having a Mother's Day fundraiser with a twist this year. According to Bob Oakes, for $120 they will "take care of Mom" for you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Contract killers usually charge upwards of $5000 to "take care" of someone. While I question the wisdom (not to mention the legality) of making such an offer, it's nice to know that BUR is willing to do whatever it takes to keep the coffers full.

2003-05-01T09:43:00.000-04:00

In Which People Confuse Me

[Preface - In the off chance that there are non-New Englanders and/or people who do not listen to Heavy Metal, Great White is a band that played The Station nightclub in Rhode Island. During the show they set off pyrotechnics that ended up burning down the club and kill 99 people.]

Great White is getting ready to go back on tour. The details are sketchy, but some of the money will go towards helping victims of The Station fire. That's a good thing, right?

"I wouldn't even want any money that they made performing. ... I call it blood money. Our children died because of them," said Carol Sweet who lost a 28 year old son in the fire.

I guess not. Does this mean that she will not be part of any of the myriad of lawsuits against the band? If that's true, I have the utmost respect for her. It shows an acceptance missing from Amercian Society - Just because shit happens doesn't mean that you're automatically entitled to compensation for said shit. Think McDonald's coffee. More than anything I would love to see a news story where the family member said "you know, s/he died and I'm heartbroken, but that's what happened. I don't money. Money won't bring him/her back."

In the case of Ms. Sweet (and I realize how judgemental I'm about to become), I doubt that's going to happen. When someone dies, you get a check because if someone dies then somebody messed up and they must pay. This is the new rule; the new American Paradigm - Mistakes Must Be Literally Paid For. The Station fire is problematic because of the scarcisty of money. To rectify this, the scope of defendants has broadened to the point where Budweiser and Clear Channel Communications, the owner of the radio station partially sponsoring the concert. They're also pressing for Federal compensation, claiming the fire approaches 9/11 status.

9/11 was a fluke, a devestating fluke to be sure, but a fluke nonetheless. It interesting to see how quickly Americans denigrated this most horrible point in history to just another standard for compensation. When the government first announced a victims' compensation fund, I cheered. An event of this magnitude deserved generosity on the same scale. Shortly thereafter, it turned out that the fund was mostly to ward off lawsuits. SOMEONE MUST PAY! Why, though? The terrorists outsmarted us. They won. We lost. It goes against everything we teach our children. "Be a good loser" becomes "If you lose, blame somebody".

Another reason for The Station lawsuits - everybody's broke. Rhode Island is not a rich state, excpet for Newport. The economy sucks. Money is tight and the rent must be paid. A nice compensation package would ease the fiscal pressure. In this way, lawsuits are like the lottery. You dump thousands of dollars into both of them with only a slight chance that you'll break even. Either way, the state and lawyers will recoup a good portion of your winnings.

I'm drawing this out a little in hopes that my browser will crash. If it does, I plan to sue Microsoft for loss of income, since there was a chance that someone might find this brilliant and pay me to write for them. It would then be Microsoft's fault that I'm sitting at home writing for free instead of getting paid. Also, if I stare at my monitor long enough, I might go into photostatic shock and I can sue ViewSonic, as well. With any luck, by doing nothing, I'll achieve my goal of retiring before my 41st birthday.

I once had a boss who suggested that I sue him for sexual harrassment and we could split the money. He was only half-serious.

Damn.

I don't think it's going to crash.

Maybe I'll go buy some scratch cards instead.

Damn.

2003-04-29T22:46:00.000-04:00

In Which Ann Coulter Makes Me Laugh Until I Piss Myself

Yes, I'm behind the times, but I ran across Slander: Liberal Lies About The American Right at the library the other day and felt compelled to get it. Most of my friends, deceitful liberals all, looked aghast when they saw it. None, of course, had read it and rightly so. And chances are that you wouldn't and won't. And I don't blame you. But as a public service, here's the Cliff Note version.

"Liberals are stupid and the stupidest thing they do is call Republicans stupid because we're smarter than they are."

That's the book. Really. I'm not kidding.

She's very precise about how horrible Liberals are. "Liberals hate America, they hate "flag-wavers," they hate abortion opponents, they hate all religions except Islam (post 9/11). Even Islamic terrorists don't hate America like liberals do. They don't have the energy. If the had that much energy, they'd have indoor plumbing by now." Wow! I had no idea what a scumbag I was or how much I hated America. Plus, I actually have indoor plumbing. So I must have a lot of energy, too.

Coulter includes 35 pages of footnotes painstakingly documenting her documentation of Liberal wrongs. She must have learned in college that the more footnotes you use, the more impressive your paper looks and the less likely the professor is going to read the footnotes. Footnotes are a great way to bait and switch. For example -

"...Time magazine columnist Barbara Ehrenreich gives two thumbs up to 'The Communist Manifesto'..."

Gosh, you say to yourself, Time magazine allows that sort of thing in their covers?! Follow the footnote and you find that (huhmmm) the quote is from Salon.com. More to the point, Ehrenreich is making a point that "once every century or so" someone stirs the masses "to rise up against their oppressors. The prophet Issiah said something like this, and so, a little more recently, did Jesus." So, what does this say about Jesus?

Another wonderful example of footnoting comes in a passage showing how mean Liberals are to Clarence Thomas. The paragraph, which I'm too lazy to type all of, starts by criticizing the New York Times for criticizing Clarence Thomas. She then proceeds to tells us that all the nasty names he's been called - "race traitor", "black snake", "chicken and biscuit eating Uncle Tom", and others. The way the paragraph is constructed you would think that the New York Times called him all of these things. A quick (well, actually fairly arduous) check of the footnotes tells you the seven names Coulter cites are from two different people, none of them from the New York Times.

Remember when Jerry Falwell pinned 9/11 on gays and lesbians? Here's a refresher -
"The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked. And when we destroy 40 million little innocent babies, we make God mad. [T]he pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way — all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen.'"

Ok, he took it back...kind of. Here's Coulter's paraphrasing of Falwell
"Falwell, it seems, had remarked that gay marriage and abortion on demand may not have warmed the heart of the Almighty."
Gosh. It all seems so reasonable. And fair.

Quick quz! Katherine Harris, the former Secretary of State responsible for that little ballot problem in the 2000 election, took a lot of flak for her unique style of make-up. Who said the following of her?

"One wonder how this Republican woman, who can't even use restraint when she's wielding a mascara wand, will manage to use it and make sound decision in this game of partisan one-upmanship....Why should anyone trust her?"
A) James Carville
B) David Brock
C) Go!, the daily dish in the Boston Globe Living/Arts section
D) Jenna Bush
The answer, of course is C. Yes, Ann Coulter is not above using a gossip column to prove her point about Liberals being, well, stupid.

And Rush. Oh, Rush. Rush would never say anything horrible about Liberals. And even if he chose to he's "an openly opinionated talk radio host - not the president, the vice president, a United States senator, editor of the New York Times or a putatively objective TV news anchor." See? Rush is on the radio. Get it? Neither did I.

Enough.

Ok, one more.

What does it say about your target audience when you have to explain that an extra chromosone causes Down Syndrome? That they might be a little bit...stupid?

2003-04-28T23:04:00.000-04:00

In Which I Have Cause To Think About Hand Dryers On The Trip Back

One of the legacies handed down to me from my family is travelling by car. All of us love to drive. My parents like to drive so much that when we visit them in Utah, they have us fly into Vegas and then drive us back, which is a good two hours. Many of our family vacations (if not all of them) involved driving. As the only boy in the family, I always went to the bathroom in the rest stop with my dad. After washing his hands he always splashed water on his face, which I found incredibly stupid. I could not for the life of me understand it.

Nine years ago, on my own new family's first driving vacation to North Carolina, I understood. I was about to fall asleep at the wheel and needed something more than caffiene to wake me up. Answer: Cold Water splashed in my face.

Driving back from NYC, I could have used some cold water in my face. But they only had electric hand dryers. Fuck it. I wet my eyes and wiped them on the shoulder of my t-shit. I washed my hands and went to go dry them. There was an old guy next to me in a flannel shirt and scruffy, oil-soaked jeans. He pushed the button on his dryer, clapped his hands together hard and proceeded to rub them under the hot air. I'd never seen this method before - clapping your hands first. Did it do anything special? Does it make your hands dry faster? Is this one of those things, like with my dad, where my ridicule was misplaced? I was too self-concious to try it and find out. Besides, doing somebody else's bit while they're still in the room is just bad manners. Maybe next time.

2003-04-28T22:35:00.000-04:00

In Which I Return From A Brief NYC Vacation And A Few Of The Things I Found There

A few houses up Sterling St. from 5th Av there are several trashcans chained outside the brownstone. There are signs on each, but one of them reads "To The Dogwalkers - Stop throwing your dog shit in this trashcan!"

We stopped at a crosswalk in Manhattan down from Central Park. About thirty of us stood waiting for the Walk sign when a well-dressed elderly woman (70, if she was a day) came muscling through us like a retarded hockey player, all elbows and attitude. In a voice that was a cross between a road grader and Tom Waits, she croaked "Get outta the way! I gotta get through! Get outta the way!" Resistance was futile as she pushed us aside. The walk sign shed it's "don't" and we left her in our dust.

After spending three hours at the Museum Of Natural History , I began to wonder if everything I saw there would one day wind up on Antiques Roadshow.

I first came across Jules Feiffer during high school, combing through the humor section of whichever library I was in at the time. I started picking up the Village Voice because of him. I used to do one of the monolouges from his play Hold Me, and it was always a crowd pleaser. As time went on, I thought less about him, but he always stuck with me. Every few years or so I pick up one of his cartoon collections and laugh my head off. A few years ago, while at the library with my kids, I discovered that he was writing children's books (both board books and kids novels). My kids fell in love with him. If you're a guy, artistic and never quite understood by your dad, you should read "The Man In The Ceiling." He gets it all right. So it was a lovely surprise to walk down Central Park West and see a banner for a Feiffer retrospective at the New York Historical Society. It's closing soon, but well worth it.

Feiffer On Clinton - just for the taste.

2003-04-24T08:20:00.000-04:00

In Which The Title Would Have Worked As An Ironic Twist To The Text Below, If I Hadn't Burned Myself Out Constructing The Title And Spent More Time Coming Up With The Actual Blog Itself

The concept of self-fulfilling prophecy is one that I...

2003-04-23T09:19:00.000-04:00

In Which I Add A Brief Postscript

Whatever happened to the word "ball" as a substitute for the word "fuck"? As in "Heeeeeey, maaaaa-an, get outta my microbus! I'm trying ta ball my old lady!"

2003-04-23T00:07:00.000-04:00

In Which Rick Santorum Gets Cut Off

"I have no problem with homosexuality. I have a problem with homosexual acts."
-Sen Rick Santorum
Here's what I suggest - Anyone who has a problem with a homosexual act automatically gives up the right to blowjobs or head. If you are convinced that heterosexual fucking is the only thing that will get you into heaven, then all you get is the missionary position. That's it. Getting a blowjob makes your wife gay. Going down on your wife makes you a lesbian. You don't want to risk anyone's soul by making them emulate sinners.

"If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual (gay) sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything"
-Sen Rick Santorum
In my view, nobody makes these kinds of statements unless they have something to hide. I'm not accusing Sen. Santorum of cheating on his wife with his two sons (I'm not even sure if he has sons) but if Roy Cohn has taught us anything, if Jimmy Swaggart has taught us anything, it's to be wary of grandstanding statements like this. Now, I'm not sure who would want to fuck Sen. Santorum, so it may just be a lust-in-the-heart kind of thing.

"In every society, the definition of marriage has not ever to my knowledge included homosexuality. That's not to pick on homosexuality. It's not, you know, man on child, man on dog, or whatever the case may be."
-Sen. Rick Santorum
Yes, a senator of the United States Of America made a reference to fucking a dog. Tell me there's nothing up with this guy.

Click Here for a partial transcript of this timeless interview. Act now while the dogs last.

2003-04-22T09:46:00.000-04:00

In Which A Fetish Is Still A Fetish

I'm surfing WinMx looking for songs for the show tomorrow. One of the genres I love is pre-1960 children's songs, but they're not that easy to find. Most of these songs you'd never play for your kids. They are completely over the top. A favorite is a song called "The Little Taxi" which includes the lyrics -

This is the way he likes to drive
Seventy, Eighty, Ninety-five
Fast as fire engines go
Compared to taxis they are slow

One of the methods I use to find kids' songs is to do a search on "sparky". This is a classic 40's era story about a boy named Sparky and his hallucinatory imagination. The most famous is Sparky and The Talking Train, in which Sparky thinks he can hear trains talking to him. It turns out that he actually can . During a train ride, the train tells him the right front wheel is loose ("right-front-wheel, right-front-wheel"). Sparky prevents a horrific accident by pulling the brake cord. If someone has Sparky, they usually have more. But then you have to wade through the hundreds of other songs to find what you're looking for.

This morning, I found Sparky and began to browse the user's directory. "Midnight Train to Georgia", "Pullman Porter's Parade", "Red and Green Signal Lights". I sensed a pattern. Indeed, every single song had something to do with trains. There were 20-plus versions of "Folsom Prison Blues". Innumerable versions of "Orange Blossom Special". All in all she had more than 3000 songs about trains totalling almost 12g. 12g of train songs! This goes beyond obsession into the realm of fetish. I sent her an IM asking her about why all the train songs, but an auto-answer came back. "I'm not at my computer right now. If you know of any train songs that I do not have, please let me know."

I sense a new Wes Craven film in the making.

2003-04-21T23:58:00.000-04:00

In Which Other People's Children Are Inexplicably Drawn To Me

I was sitting in the park today while my kids played and this two-and-a-half year old came whizzing by me trying to catch a bubble on her bubble wand. She wobbled back and stopped in front of me.

"My bubbah flew 'way," she explained.
"Oh, that's too bad. Why don't you make more bubbles?"

She nodded and did so, whizzing past me again to chase the new bubbles. She wobbled back and stopped in front of me.

"My bubbah flew 'way," she explained.
"Oh, that's too bad. Why don't you make more bubbles?"

This went on for about ten minutes. Then she came over to me.

"I'm gonna blow a big big big big big bubbah."
"Ok. Wow! That is big."

And we did this scene for another ten minutes until walked outside the park to have a cigarette.

Kids are easy. Comedy is hard.

2003-04-20T23:08:00.000-04:00

In Which The Previous Post Was Read By My Daughter

Fact: I have broadband and use this computer as a server for the other machine in the house, so it never gets turned off.
Fact: Generally, since I compulsively check email, I leave the monitor on.
Fact: Since I take care of the kids, when they're watching TV I'm on the computer.
Fact: My "office" is the front room and has no door.

Since I've taken over what's now referred to as "primary care", I've had battles with my oldest when I'm writing. She loves nothing more than to stand and look over my shoulder. So, after alt+tabbing if neccessary, I ask her politely to stop and that I'll be there in a few mintues. She sulks off, I finish and lovingly tend to whatever needs need tending to. I wrote the previous post in the morning. (It's one of my favorite bits. The subject used to be Santa, which meant that it could only be used in a two-three week period. Now, thanks 2 Jesus, I can use for two (2) two-three week periods.)

I'd brought up the Dura-Luxe site to show my wife a one of the most brilliant posts I'd seen. (Do a search on the word "rape". It's probably not for everyone) If you don't have kids, you should know that one of the Laws Of Parenting states - "Whenever you want to show or talk to your spouse about adult matters, the child will appear." Don't ask me how they do it, but they know. It's really pretty creepy. Sensitive parent that I am, I alt+tabbed, since a ten-year doesn't need to skim a post about rape, no matter how well-constructed it is. The problem was, I didn't register what I had switched to, which was the editing page for this blog...which, of course, had the Easter post beneath it.

About a half hour later, as we're getting ready to go out for Easter Dinner, she says, "Dad?"
"Yup?"
"Did you write that thing on your computer?"
"What thing?"
"That thing...you know...the..."

I'm not sure whether she couldn't describe it or just didn't want to describe it. I walked back and jiggled the mouse to wake up the monitor. And there was the Easter Post.

What to do?

I was understandably shaken. She hates being talked about to begin with, but that was the least of the problem. The bigger problem was that she'd read "No, honey. There's no God."

It's not that we're "christian". We go (pardon the word) faithfully to the Unitarian Universalist church every week. "God" is a not the Jesus' Dad. It's a concept and a framework for faith that the world, despite everything, is a kind and decent place. So, the thought that her father was saying that there was no God...it almost broke my heart to think what could be going on in her head. "What kind of a monster is raising me? Is there really no God? Are they lying to me about God, just like the Easter Bunny?" I felt like I'd just mindfucked by daughter.

After going through the whole Kubler-Ross progression in the space of two minutes, I got my shit together and took her out on the back porch to talk.

"Look," I told her, crouching down to her size, "Two things. The first is that what you read was a joke for adults. It's got nothing to do with you. The stuff that I write isn't stuff for kids to read. I'm sorry that you read it. It doesn't mean anything and it's supposed to be funny. The second thing is that this is why I ask you not to read over my shoulder when I'm writing. This is like my diary. I think you'd be pretty mad at me if I stood over you watching you write in your diary. Right?"
"Right. So...that stuff like your diary. I didn't understand that."
"That's ok. I should have turned off the monitor after I was done, and I'm going to start doing that now. But, please. If I'm at the computer..."
"I understand, Dad."
"'K?"
"'K."

How will this all affect her emotional and intellectual development? It's in God's hands now...or the Easter Bunny's.

2003-04-20T10:40:00.000-04:00

In Which I Wish You A Happy Easter

My oldest daughter became quite withdrawn while we colored eggs yesterday. Some silences aren't obvious until much later and it wasn't until around bedtime that I noticed how pensive she'd become. I asked her if everything was ok and she unconvincingly assured me that she was. I let it go, knowing that she'd talk when she was ready. As I hugged her at bedtime, it came out.

"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Um...It's Easter tomorrow, right."
"Yeah"
"Um...and we just died eggs and I was wondering..." She trailed off.
"What, honey. What are you thinking about?"
"Well, tomorrow..."
"Uh-huh?"
"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?"
"Of course, I will, honey! What do you want to know?"
"Umm...There really isn't a God, is there?"
"No, honey. There's no God."
"You're really God, right?"
"That's right, honey."
"I thought so. I love you, Daddy."
"I love you, too, honey. Good night."
"And...Dad?"
"What?"
"The Easter Bunny is still real, right?"
"Of course he is. You go to sleep now"
"'K, Dad. Love you."

2003-04-19T09:24:00.000-04:00

In Which It's Just As Important What You Don't Say

A quick up date on the boy who crashed and burned. He's back with this stunning example of how not to ingratiate yourself with the people you've pissed off -

"Now that I've learned a valuable lesson, I'd like to be sincere, it seemed to work better for me." He goes on to ask advice that he once gave so freely himself.

Maybe he's a literary genius. Maybe he just lucky. Either way, it's not that easy to write a sentence that's as sincerely insincere as this one. It shows you how the words you use tell who you are. For example, I'm pretentious and tend towards the quick point based on shaky logic. This guy is, literally and metaphorically, an actor.

"Now that I've learned a valuable lesson..." - Starting off like this, there's a presumption of inclusion, as if it's all been just a frat boy hazing that he assumes he survived. No one really meant it when they called him an asshole. It's just something comics do. He knows this from his "friends who are professional comics". Yes, it sucked, but now that it's over, everybody will love him as he should be loved.

"...I'd like to be sincere..." - This is perhaps one of the funniest things I've ever read! The willingness to be sincere, as opposed to the promise of sincerity. It's like saying "I'm not usually sincere, but I like you guys so much I'm going to break with tradition". And why?

"...it seemed to work better for me." I mispoke earlier. THIS is the funniest thing I ever read. All of us at one time or another have purposefully manipulated someone or some situation. It may have not been on par with perpetrating securites fraud or bilking a church of it valuable silver, but we have. The key to successful manipulation is NOT TO TELL PEOPLE YOU'RE DOING IT!

A paraphrase of the above might read - "I'm not really sorry and I haven't changed at all. You're all idiots but I'm going to pretend that you're not since that's what you seem to want. Does that work for everyone?"

A simple "Sorry" would have sufficed. Or not bothering to post at all.

2003-04-18T13:42:00.000-04:00

In Which The Rhetoric Oddly Jumps

It started with one car outside of my house. The bumper sticker is yellow. There's a peace sign and, in black lettering the words, "The Footprint Of The Great American Chicken". When I first saw it, half asleep as I took the kids to school, it struck me as one of those "Visualize Whirled Peas" kind of things - a goofy and slightly clever twist on an old bumper sticker; nothing political, just fun. It wasn't until the second time I saw that I got it. "You fuckin' commie peace-nik fuck! You just don't like the war because you're a PUSSY!" Well. How did the rhetoric jump to protesters being cowards? There's no draft. For the most part, nobody hates the Army. The argument, up until now, was that the protesters were unpatriotic, not cowards.

The key is, oddly enough, recycling. Hollywood recycles horrible half-hour cartoons into live action features (The Flintstones, Scooby-Doo). Celine Dion recycles Cindi Lauper tunes that weren't that great to start. The protesters are too lazy to invent new slogans and spend their parents money on recycled 60s-ish clothing. Why shouldn't the warmongers be as uninventive as everyone else? This fight between factions doesn't really need to stay focused since it's just outright disgust and loathing. Any port in a storm will do. So why not recycle a bumper sticker from the Vietnam war?

The funniest thing is I only started seeing the bumper sticker after the war ended. No wonder they're chomping at the bit to get to Syria, the war was too short to allow the 4-6 weeks for shipping. Already, the bumper sticker is outdated. That's how fast the world changes.

Someday when I feel like getting my ass kicked, I'll ask the owner what the bumper sticker means and see if he knows that's it recycled. Patton said that the point of being a soldier was not to die for your country; that it was to make the other dumb son-of-a-bitch die for his country. Sounds like a Great American Chicken to me.

Here's a new bumper sticker idea - A picture of a ICBM with the words "Footprint of the Great American Dick".

2003-04-17T19:03:00.000-04:00

In Which I Count My Blessings

Sometimes, just the simple act of making dinner (breaded chicken breast w/butter and capers, pilaf and brocolli) gives you perspective on things. As I pounded out the chicken, I started thinking about the war and the pain that the Iraqi people have gone through; whether it will be worth it for them in long run; about the people that I know here that have been affected by the war - families thrown into turmoil. Hundereds of thoughts bounced around in my head, each more depressing than the next. I searched for a silver lining hidden in the cloud of this egregious act of self-justification disguised as liberation when the though occured to me -

At least no whiny, overly sincere inde-rock band has done a cover of "Where Have All The Flowers Gone".

And I felt better.

2003-04-17T10:38:00.000-04:00

In Which Rainy Days And Mondays, More Often Than Not, Get Me Down But For A Different Reason

"What I've got they used to call the blues", croons Karen Carpenter.

What do they call it now? This question has bugged me ever since I first heard this song in 1971. This kind of songwriting drives me up the wall. Maybe it's because I wish I could write lines that don't mean anything. The number of songs that I've written that died because I couldn't make logical sense out of the lyrics would fill a good sized notebook. This stretches to sketches and standup. There's a difference between writing a non-sequitar that adds to a piece and writing one just because you need to fill space/time.

Also, these kinds of definitive statements about something always making something else happen make me cringe. And it always makes me think of the song "Always" by Irving Berlin. George S. Kaufmann commented that the lyric "I'll be loving you/Always" was unrealistic and suggested that it should be changed to "I'll be loving you/Thursdays."

Lastly, there's a wonderful tribute album called "If I Were A Carpenter" that you should pick up if you ever come across it. Sheryl Crow's version of Solitaire was on my mp3 player for many, many months. Plus, you can hear just how good a pop song writer Paul Williams really was/is.

2003-04-17T00:07:00.000-04:00

In Which I Swear I'm Not Lying

I was driving back from the radio show, dropping my guest from the evening in Harvard Sq, when we stopped at a red light. I looked in my rearview mirror. And...well...you hear about this kind of stuff all the time and you never believe it. Many have see the Pamela Lee Anderson/Tommy Lee video, so there's documentation and all, but...still...it doesn't really happen. I mean...people just don't...not that I'm adverse to it...but...

The woman in the car behind me, and there's no delicate way to put this, was giving head while they waited for the light to turn green. And to push your incredulity even farther, she was driving. If I didn't have a witness, I would question what I saw. But I do.

Speaking as an American Male, having seen this I can now feel even more inadequate than ever. It's just not fucking fair. It just confirms my suspicions that there's an alternate porno world where porno films(like the WWF) are actually documentaries. Now that I think about it, that wouldn't be a bad idea for a porno movie.

2003-04-16T13:46:00.000-04:00

In Which I Consider Becoming An Actor Or Model

The Wilhemena Modelling Agency, according to commercial I just saw, is holding auditions in my area for actors or models. Some of their clients, they rightfully boast, have acted in Legally Blonde 2! Please don't tie up the line (1-800-Modelling). They are waiting for me to call.

2003-04-16T09:55:00.000-04:00

In Which Someone Self Destructs Before Your Very Eyes

It was really quite stunning to watch this poor kid sink deeper and deeper into a hell of his own making. After only two open mics, he somehow got the idea that, like Alec Baldwin in Malice, he was god. His descent is fast and furious. He miraculously pissed off one of the nicest and most senior guys on the Boston comedy scene. One post was apparently so venal that it was deleted from the board. How can someone manage to do this in the space of one day? At one point, he offers this explanation - "People say I take things too far some times." HA!

Is he a cokehead? He is simply a sociopath? Is there something about growing up in Portland that twists a person into behaving this way? Portland does have an odd vibe. For years, every time my wife I drove through Portland we would get into an argument. By the time we reached the end of the city, we wound up in a better, stronger place. We refer to it as the City Of Processing.

I feel almost sorry for him having made a different but no less career crushing mistake in my twenties. He's scrambling frantically to repair the damage done. At best, he's metaphorically spit on for the foreseeable future. At worst, phone calls are made to the casting agents who hire him for commericials and, mysteriously, the demand for him drops to nothing.

It would make a helluva documentary, though.

2003-04-13T18:05:00.000-04:00

In Which I Defensively Point Out That I'm A Unitarian Universalist

Here's a fun bit of something! Apparently, if you reverse the "s" and the "p" in blogspot.com no matter what you put in before the first "dot" brings you to the page for Aaron's Bible! How clever are they! You can put anything! Satanislord.blogpsot.com. Godisgay.blogpsot.com. Islamicjihad.blogpsot.com. ANYTHING! Who said Christian were dull and unimaginative?!

And maybe it's coincidental (I'm too lazy right now to test the theory), but it looks like Aaron's Bible does a cute lil full screen pop-up windows for NBC Gas Masks! The moral? Have fun, fellow Christians, but BE SAFE!

2003-04-13T17:37:00.000-04:00

In Which It Never Ceases To Amaze Me

Yesterday morning, my youngest got it into her head to buy to go to KB Toy And Hobby and buy something. After she thought about it, she decided on a Micropet. She had eight dollar bills and a ton of change. Where she got the change from, I'm not sure. I know that she saves her nickels from lunch. Milk is forty-five cents. She became convinced at the beginning of the year that she had to give the milk lady two quarters or else she wouldn't be given milk. Thus, she always has a nickel left over, which she defends bitterly. "It's MY nickel!", she'll wail. Trying to explain to her that, while I don't mind her having the nickel, that it's still in reality not really her money, is useless.

Micropets are $10 so, being short a couple of dollars, we sat down to count her change. We emptied it out onto the bed, got a couple of bowls and sorted it out. I told her that I'd convert her coins into dollar bills. She seemed fine with that. I counted the 273 pennies. How she got these pennies, I'm not really sure. She must pick up anything she finds on the floor. I threw the pennies into the milk bottle that I keep my change in. She looked a little worried about something. I wrote down $2.73 on a piece of paper. "When we've counted your change, we'll add it up and I'll give you the dollar bills." She still looked a little odd.
"Everything ok," I asked?

"What happens to my change?"

"I'm putting it my bottle."

This didn't seem to clear it up for her, but she just kind of nodded. I started counting the dimes and her bottom lips started quivering.

"What's wrong, honey?" She now looked on the verge of tears.

If you don't have kids, it's hard to describe how hard it can be for them to tell you what's going on with them. In some respects, they're like ESL students. They know what they want to say, but can't find the proper English words to get their point across. When my oldest was four, it took a half an hour to figure out that she couldn't find her lunchbox. She just couldn't remember the word. "The pink thing with the girl", she kept saying. At six, the youngest just gets so wrapped up in her emotions that words fail her.

Finally, we figured out that she thought I was taking her money and not giving it back. She saw it coming out of her piggy bank and into my change bottle. Irregardless of the the fact that I was giving her dollar bills, she couldn't make the connection that the dollar bill I had given her was equal to the 100 pennies I'd take from her and put in my bottle. That was her money! And now I had it! In my bottle!

What amazes me is that my oldest did the exact same thing at almost the exact same age. She got a dollar for allowance, but we only had a five. So, I took four dollars out of her piggy band and gave her the five. I did the whole transaction very slowly and explained exactly what I was doing. I didn't matter. I had taken four of something from her and given her one of something back. It was unfair.

It's completely understandable. But there are sometimes, as a parent, when you just don't expect your kids NOT to understand something.

2003-04-11T23:48:00.000-04:00

In Which I Am Glad That Jim Varney Was Not My Father

If Jim Varney had been my father, things might have turned out very differently for me. I might own a house rather than rent an apartment. I might have been interviewed on E! Entertainment television. More than likey, Jim (I'd have called him Dad) might have quietly supported me in a performance career but would have made it plain that I had to stand on my own two feet. I think he would have been a kind father and he would have taught me to fly fish.

But, I would have been known as Ernest's son. I wouldn't have liked that. I would have been teased by complete strangers who had seen me interviewed on E! Entertainment television. "Are you really Vern" the refrain would go. The pressure to write a tell-all book about being Jim Varney's son would have driven me to the depths of despair, particularly because he would have been a loving father and any dirt I served up would have been a lie. This would have affected my marriage and possibly led me to the edge of suicide.

I have heard of many people who wished they were Jim Varney's son. I am not one of them. I am happy with my life as it is. I would not trade my father for the world.

2003-04-11T10:00:00.000-04:00

In Which There's Some Kind Of Lesson From The Cosmos

If you take a moment and read the post below this one (feel free to forego the poem) you'll see that I was not having an upbeat kind of day. As I finished taking out the leaves and bought the carrots, I made a decision not to worry about the fact that I've been incredibly unproductive. In program-speak, I "turned it over to my higher power." So I picked up the girls from school and while they were watching their afternoon TV, I started looking through some stuff that I haven't finished. Last night, I kept almost getting to sleep when fragments of something would pop into my head. I'm trying to resist the urge to convince myself that it's soooo fucking funny that I will remember in the morning, so I got up and typed the fragments. I did a little work on those. Nothing earthshatteringly funny, but at least I was writing as opposed to moping around not writing.

So, while I'm sitting and typing, trying to convince my children that it's a nice day and they should play outside and GIVE DADDY SOME SPACE, I got an email inviting me to The Comedy Studio.

It could just be a happy co-incidence. There's really no logical basis for connecting the two things. A lot of life is rationalization, though. Why did this bad thing happen? Why did this good thing happen? Why has nothing happened? It's not like I haven't been working towards this goal and that the invitation fell from the sky. Why, then, ascribe it to some ethereally-crunchy nameless something? It's comforting, that's why. It's comforting to know that, occasionally, when you really need it something good happens. It can be a tiny thing that just eases your day - after a miserable day at work, the subway comes just has you hit the platform. These are the moments when it's most important to say "thanks" to who/whatever you say thanks to. Or at least to realize that in the middle of a shitty day, at least one thing went right.

It's getting difficult to type now, as my body has begun to float up into the ether. I truly hope that I don't dissapate into the...

2003-04-10T13:34:00.000-04:00

In Which I Whine And Post Poetry (God Forgive Me)

Is it possible to whine cleverly about not feeling particularly clever? I'm not sure that it is. It feels like the smart part of my brain has been quarantined off from the functional part. Thus, I can carry the leaves out to the curb but I can't find a suitably humorous opposite task with which to compare it to. I could, of course, waste time with Spank The Monkey. Or play some of the lovely games at Orisinal. But the leaves have to go out and I have to buy carrots.

So, instead of torturing myself I'll just torture the readers instead by posting a poem.

I was naked and happy
Eating when I was hungry
Sleeping when I was tired
Content to be where I was
Content to do what I was doing

When it said “better” I didn’t understand
It asked what fruit tasted like, I said “sweet”
It said “more sweet, bigger sweet”
He led me to that tree
And even though I’d looked at them before
They looked bigger now
Redder
Sweeter
Inside me I could feel the word “need” replaced by the word “want”

I touched one because I wanted to and because I could

A Voice said
“Why better? Why want?”
And I said
“Because I can’t see You.”
The Voice said
“But you know that I am here.”
And I said
“I can’t see You.”

I raised my arm
The fruit sat heavy and firm in my hand
Still attached
But as if it were picked
My fingers closed around it
The words echoed
More sweet...bigger sweet

“Happy or unhappy
I am unseen
And I will always be with you.
Happy or unhappy”
As I pulled gently, the Voice faded away

I’m not naked and not content
There are days when it’s all I can do not to eat
There are days when it’s all I can do not to stay in bed
Sometimes I think I hear the Voice

2003-04-09T10:21:00.000-04:00

In Which I'm Grateful For A Murder/Suicide

What a pleasant surprise to look at the Boston Globe today and find that the front page was not the usual banner headline about the war! Instead, the space above the fold was shared with a murder/suicide at MGH. The war must have shifted.

(A quick note on the layout of the article on the web site - The way the Globe inserts ads into its stories created this wonderful little piece of cyber-flotsam, similar to William S. Burroughs cut and paste poetry. It reads "A woman who worked with a prominent cardiologist at Massachusetts General Hospital fatally shot the doctor and then killed herself yesterday in his office near the hospital's main lobby, police said 8-day sales British Airways plus, flexibility to change flight dates for FREE...")

Indeed, apparently we've taken control of Baghdad. Good for us! I always knew that we could do it! I want to go on record right now (and I must admit I'm ashamed of myself for not saying this earlier) that I never had a doubt that the United States of America Armed Forces could take over a country the size of California. Not one.

The question that remains is - How do I get MY slice of the pie in terms of reconstruction dollars? I've looked on the Free Money website but there's no "Iraq Reconstrutction Bux" section, which disappoints me. As taxpayers, we're shareholders in the war, aren't we? Our money went to finance this whole adventure (which I'd like to repeat was blessed from the start) so, following a business paradigm, we should be getting some dividends. A Conflict Dividend, if you will.

Back to the original point, though. It's good to know that a good juicy murder/suicide of a someone who makes a ton of money can scootch the war, even slightly, from prominence.

To sum up
1) Local Murder/Suicide => War
2) I probably won't get a cut of the reconstruction money, even though my taxes paid for the war. Which is unfair.

2003-04-08T00:31:00.000-04:00

In Which Local Politics Suck

All I can say is GODDAMN IT! I went to a school committee meeting tonight. Two weeks ago, the meeting was going to feature the firing of the school superintendent. She quit before it happened. So, instead, the meeting became a "public forum" for Watertown citizens to voice their opinions to the school committee. The committee, before the last election, was 4:3 in support of the superintendent. After the election it was 4:3 against her.

The main question of the evening was - "Why are you against her"?
Them: We can do better.
Us: How could she have done better? [Long list of accomplishements, awards and money brought into the school district]
Them: We can do better
Us: But HOW? Tell us.
Them: Well, she [list of fairly innocuous wrongs and other poorly conceived problems].
Us: Ok. But - HOW WILL YOU SOLVE THIS?
Them: We're not educators.
Us But you were going to fire her. What is your vision? Where do you see the school system going?
Them: To something better.

The sad thing is, I'm not really exaggerating. And this meeting went from 7pm to 11:30pm.

To be fair, neither side of the audience was that well behaved. A rule was made to disallow applause during or at the end of speeches. Neither side obeyed and the chairman never bothered to enforce his own rule. Some of Them would shout out in the middle of a speech, not to be reprimanded by the Chairman. When Us shouted out we were reminded that it was not allowed. Personal attacks, the Chairman stated up front, were not to be allowed. Again, this was selectively enforced. This led to the high point of the evening when this completely insane woman launched into an attack on one of the Us-members of the committee.

Completely Insane Woman: He's a lawyer and he knows the in and outs of the legal system and all the loopholes to get around things to get what he wants. He has frequently engaged in highly suspect practices in his legal career...
Chairman: I think that's enough...
Completely Insane Woman: Just a second...he has frequently engaged...
Chairman: I can't allow this, I'm sorry...
Completely Insane Woman: ...in highly suspect...
Chairman: I really can not allow you to go into this...
Completely Insane Woman: I wasn't gonna! That was the next thing I was gonna say "but I don't wanna go into it"! It's right here in black and white.

In another highly amusing moment (amusing in a dark kind of the-world-is-completely fucked-up-and-please-God-kill-her-now way), she shrieked on about how a child of the Watertown schools would never be hired in the school district because they went to Watertown schools. As the superintendent calmly ticked off a number of residents that worked for the school, Completely Insane Woman woman counted loudly.

The other amusing moment (amusing in the same way as stated previously) came when Partialy Insane Man asked "YOU TELL ME HOW MANY O' THESE KIDS ARE GOING TO HIGH CLASS SCHOOLS!" The Us committee members asked to consult the superintendent and the refused shouting "I DON'T NEED TO HEAR NO ANSWERS!"

It's all completely depressing. The election in November will hopefully put an end to all of this. If any good has come out of this debacle, it's that the citizens of Watertown have been polarized to action. Almost everyone finds it intolerable. It's sad that the system has to break down in order for the system to work again. But, that's what happens when you take things for granted.

2003-04-07T16:14:00.000-04:00

In Which Socks My Me Question Myself

When I sort the laundry, I start with the big stuff (shirts, pants etc) and work down to the smaller stuff (underwear, socks). I found that among my socks, are one style of the same sock but in different colors. One is darkish gray, the other is darkish olive. Without a strong overhead light, they look exactly the same color. Somehow, this makes me nervous. Do I dress that dully that I would conciously choose socks that are indistinguishable? Why not just buy all the same color instead of pretending that I'm sprucing up my wardrobe? Can I only tolerate chance to an infintesimal level?

I'm not sure whether to start therapy again or shrug.

2003-04-07T00:41:00.000-04:00

In Which I Try To Feel Guilty About Smoking

I started smoking not to be cool but because I wanted to smoke pot. I knew that I had to learn to inhale and, since none of my peers at the time were smoking pot, cigerettes seemed like the logical place to start. I'd get good at it and then when pot became available I would at least be able to hold it down. I swear that this was my reasoning. Finally, we found pot and it was all that it was cracked up to be. I smoked pot from 1978 to 1992-ish. I wouldn't trade that time for the world.

While the pot went by-the-by, the cigerettes have stayed. I didn't have any trouble putting the pot away outside of nostalgic longing. Pot was not physically or even psychologically adictivie for me. If I didn't have it - whatever. Putting down alcohol sucked, though, for a good year or so. Even now, I still get the longing for it. I was at a Meat and Martini party yesterday and, goddamn it, I would have given anything for a nice Manhattan or just a straight bourbon on the rocks.

Cigerettes and I are still good friends, though. Well, "good" is probably not the best word for it. I still truly enjoying smoking (most of the time) even if I can feel the little bastards starting to take advantage of me. While this is blogged, I'll more than likely have one when I reach a point where I need to think. I'll have to smoke outside, though, in the 20 degree weather since smoking inside is forbidden. I don't neccessarily mind, although I don't mind as much in the summer.

I'm one of the few parents in my circle of parents who still smokes. Many of them are ex-smokers and are incredibly jealous/pissed-off that I have not succumb to the bad-role-model-for-your-child thing. I tell my kids that smoking is a stupid thing to do. They hear my hacks first thing in the morning. They're not idiots. I remember in 5th grade seeing the ubiquitous cancerous lung that was passed around and promising never to smoke. Christ, we were all so serious back then! I truly hope that my kids don't start smoking. If they do, we'll have to talk. The talk will be far different then the one my (smoking) parents gave to me. I'm not going to scare them because that rarely if ever works. I plan on holding myself up as a good reason not to smoke. My parents always acted as if it were ok for them because they were adults. This, I think, is the difference between modern parenting. The double standard is less relied upon as a justification.

I was picking my kids up at school a few weeks ago. I was walking towards the enterance to the school, finishing my cigerette. Some guy in a big I'll-kick-your-ass pickup said something I didn't catch as I passed. I turned around. His truck was sitting in a handicapped spot. There were no handicapped plates or temp permits on it. His 13yr old daughter slumped in the passenger's seat.

"What?"

"I SAID," he leaned out the window, "Ya ought not to smoke around here. It sets a bad example fer da kids."

I couldn't help but laugh. Improper parking is one of the things that makes me crazy. I got it from my mother. Here was a guy sitting in a handicap spot with his daughter lecturing me on setting a good example. I dare you not to have taken the bait.

"Oh," I said. "A bad example for the kids like...well...parking in a handicapped spot illegally? You mean, that kind of bad example?"

His face turned grim for a moment and then brightened.

"Hey! I'm handicapped!" Slowly, he raised his arm, which was in a cast. As he rasied his arm, he raised his middle finger. "Yah see that? Huh? Didja? Didja see that?" He was grinning like a fucking idiot. Boy! He was showing me!

"See what?", I said, now looking directly at his daughter. "Oh! Did I see that you just told me to go fuck myself? Yeah, I saw that. Your dad's a great example, isn't he? Did you see how he just told a complete stranger to go fuck himself. Especially after he told me I was setting a bad example." I turned back to him. "That's really great. You're teaching her a good lesson right now."

His face was murderous.

[NB - Just had a smoke]

As this fun little episode ended, a cop pulled up and told the woman double parked a few feet in front of us to move the car or she'd be towed. They argued back and forth until she finally drove off. I couldn't resist.

"Excuse, officer. Do you want to get this guy parked in the handicapped spot?"

The cop looked over at him. The guy was purple. The cop took a quick scan of the truck.

"Sir, please move your truck from the handicapped zone."

"But," the guy spluttered, holding up his arm, "I'M HANDICAPPED!"

"Sir, do you have a temporary handicap permit?"

He waved the cast at the cop and tried to make his case.

"Move the car, sir, or it will be towed. Now."

As the truck pulled away, I waved. The girl in the passenger seat looked like she was about to die of embarassment. All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good lesson.

I should feel guilty about smoking. I know that I should some days, I actually do. When my girls pretend their carrots are cigerettes, I feel particularly badly. I use those moments to reinforce that smoking is a stupid thing to do. My oldest asked me one day - "Dad, if it's so stupid then why do you keep doing it?" She was 7 when she asked me that. She's had the same bunny since she was 2. Since she was given the bunny, it has been her constant companion. Anywhere she went, bunny went. When she turned 4, we told her bunny could not leave the house because he was too worn. This bunny would give Wes Craven the creeps. Yet, at almost 10yrs old, she still sleeps with it.

I told that her bunny was a habit that brought her comfort. And my cigerettes were a habit that brought me comfort. And someday, she'd give up her bunny and I'd give up mine.

2003-04-06T16:32:00.000-04:00

In Which I Begin To Fix The Troubles Of The World

There's a car dealership called Lou Winz Auto Sales whose slogan is "You Win With Lou Winz". This makes me nuts. The rhyme of "you" and "Lou" is cute and catchy, but the "win"/"Winz" makes me...well...wince. I spend far too much brain space thinking about this slogan every time I see it. The solution has finally come to me. The new slogan is "Who wins with Lou Winz? Everybody Wins!"

I will bring this new and better slogan to Lou. He'll read it, a bemused smile on his moustachioed lip. "Kid," he'll say, throwing a well muscled arm around my shoulder (he'll call me "kid" because he's impressed by my pluck), "Kid, I appreciate you tryin' ta help, but I made this slogan up myself and I'm kinda attached to it."

Now, I go into my best John Cusak imitation. "Lou," the earnestness in my eyes and urgency in my voice take him slightly aback, "I'm not saying that you didn't do a great job with the slogan. I wouldn't be here wasting your time if I thought the slogan was lousy. I wanna make this great slogan, a...", I fumble for the right words, racking my brain for the perfect adjective, "superb slogan. Listen to the cadence 'You WIN with Lou WINZZZZZZZ'. It just...it's that...doggone it, Lou, it just sounds wierd." His eyes narrow. "Ok. Wierd is the wrong word. Clunky. Now listen to the new one. Just listen, that's all I'm saying. 'WHO wins with LOU Winz? EVerybody Wins!' Did you hear that? 'WHO wins with LOU Winz?' It's got a flow. It's says everything that you want it to say AND it includes EVerybody!"

I stand before him. He's not really looking at me. He's lost in thought. His lips move almost imperceptibly as he turns the words over, smiling a little more each time he says it. His bald head begins to nod. Now, he looks at me. The grin is big. The grin is genuine.

"Yer right, kid. It's better. Thanks a mil! I'm givin' ya a new car every year fer this."

"I can't take it, Lou. I just can't take it."

He shakes his head then shakes my hand. Unexpectedly, he pulls me into a bear hug.

"I gotta run, Lou," I manage to eke out through my crushed rib cage, "I got more people to help."

"Take care, kid," he says affectionately, tousling my hair, "Take care."

As I pull my car out of the lot, I can see him at his desk on the phone. I can just make out what his lips are mouthing. "Who wins with Lou Winz? Everybody Wins!" Kicking it into fourth, I watch the sun going down in my rearview.

2003-04-06T01:03:00.000-05:00

In Which I Am Tired

Goodnight

2003-04-04T22:05:00.000-05:00

In Which It's Too Short To Title

The British invasion of Baghdad began today when Herman's Hermits stormed in from the south under protective fire power supplied by the Dave Clark Five....You get the idea.

Oh, I just remembered how the BBC described the videotape of Saddam Hussein released today - "The video showed a man in a military uniform with a thick black moustache visting the troops." Oh, my. Not even "a man purported to be Saddam Hussein". Just "a man in a military uniform". Oh, and just in case you're slow like I am, the big bad booming bash of an insurrection in Basra didn't happen. Someone...ummm...jumped the gun on that. The report that George dresses in a Barney costume every night and pumps his fist saying "yuh-huh-huh-huh, feels goods" while Ari Fleischer pees on him has not yet been substantiated. It is thought to be false.

"A psychotic is a person who needs help
Each and every day
If a little bird is telling you to kill the pope
You're (bomp bomp) A-OK!"
- From Alternate Reality Barney

2003-04-04T21:33:00.000-05:00

In Which I Write The Blog I Was Intending To Write Before The Day Decided To Go Someplace I Hadn't Anticipated

I am "the primary caregiver" for my children. My wife is out the door at 7:15 most mornings and until she gets home around 6, it's all me. I supervise the rousing drowsy children, breaksfast, make lunches, make sure they're dressed and don't look homeless and drop them off at school.

Every morning when I open my youngest daughter's lunchbox, I see the pear and carrots from the previous day. They're always there. I've told her she needs to eat them, but she won't. (In all honesty, I say this to her for the benefit of my wife. I'm not the most health conscious person in the world.) It's not that she doesn't like pears and carrots. She leaves them for last and doesn't get to them. At least that's what she says.

What I would like to say to her is - "Look, you don't want to eat them, fine. I'm not going to sit next to you at lunch and force you to. But...could you toss the pear and the carrots out after lunch and pretend you've eaten them? Appearance of action is more important than actual action, anyway. Just a lil hint from your old dad."

I can't, of course, say this. These are things that children learn on their own.

Looking back over the last few entries, I should probably somehow tie this into some kind of statement about the war, since I haven't said much about it lately. But, I'm not going to.

2003-04-04T15:34:00.000-05:00

In Which I Am Not Who I Was Supposed To Be

A little under two months ago, Mr Beef Jar and Terry appeared on the Board for the first time. If you didn't follow the link they are kind of like Lemony Snicket Meets Jean Genet Meets Don Rickles. Their sole function is to annoy. Are they funny? Not really. I have a certain respect for the world of torture, sex misanthropy that they've created for themselves. I don't think I could come up with it.

As a matter of fact, I didn't. Someone decided that I did. I'm hoping that the link that implicated me will be removed soon. [Which, during this blog, it has]

MRBJAT has reportedly been killed by his captors. Let's hope he stays dead.

2003-04-03T17:47:00.000-05:00

In Which I Buy A Clarinet And The Reasons Therefore

In the summer of 1972, after fourth grade ended, my family moved from sunny Southern California to miserable, wretched Commack, Long Island. After six hellish months, during which my mother ran out of the house yelling she was never coming back (she did...she'd forgotten her wallet and had no shoes on), we moved to Rochester, NY. I came in in the middle of fifth grade. I was told to go sign up for an instrument. That was the extent of the instructions. I thought that I'd like to do clarinet. Unfortunately, my naturally reticent temperment combined with a new school, poor instructions and parents with a marriage that was just barely together conspired to keep me from finding out exactly how to get signed up. Thus - no clarient lessons.

Now, a clarient is for sale. And I'm buying it. Certainly, and I've watched The Music Man enough to know this, once I put it together I will be brilliant. The Ghost of Benny Goodman, intrigued, will appear before me desparately attempting to clap his ectoplasmatic hands. The Ghost of Woody Allen will join...wait...he'd not dead yet...but he doesn't look too good.

You get the idea. This clarinet wipes out all the past disappointments that I have ever suffered. All of them. No therapy. No Zoloft. Just a sweet lil candystick.

[NB - Well after the fact, I learned that Commack is where Henery Hill, the mobster from Goodfellas lived. It did not surprise me in the least.]

2003-04-03T09:56:00.000-05:00

In Which Teri Gross Gets Me Hot And The War Is (Once Again) Bemoaned

I dropped the girls off at school this morning, as usual. On the way to school, we listen to the CD from the radio show and after I drop them off I turn on NPR. War, war, war. NPR is all war all the time now. No Fresh Air. No Car Talk. No respite. How long will it take for 24hr war coverage to stop? Surely there's been some decent serial killings, environmental disasters, corporate fraud or shake ups in an international symphony orchestra NPR could report on. BBC be damned, it feels like ages since I've heard a good pro-Palestinian piece. I miss the days when I could fantasize about Teri Gross interviewing Susan Sontag wearing a cream-colored crotchless teddy and touching Susan's hand far too much.

What's it going to take to knock the war off the front pages? "Elizabeth Smart's Parents Hire New Handyman". "Alan Greenspan/Dick Cheney Love Tryst". "Condy Rice - I'm Half Iraqi". "Bush - Sorry, America, I Fucked Up". Only another terrorist action on US soil will get rid of the war news. And I pray to God that it doesn't happen.

Still, at some point, the war ratings will go down. "Poorly plotted...strains the credibility of the audience," the critic from the Times will moan. "Talky and ponderous", the critic from Time will whine. "Two Thumb Up" Roger Ebert will crow. Americans will get bored with this war. They'll write to the networks and say "Enough with the updates! I don't watch TV to be reminded of the world. I just wanna watch Fear Factor."

In 1977 my high school Distributive Education teacher (read - business for geeks) said two things that always stuck with me. The first was - "You will never have the lifestyle that your parents give you now. The money that your parents have is due to a burp in the economy. Get used to this now." The other thing he said was - "The US may not always be the super power it is now. It may happen in your lifetime. You can't afford to be smug." Now, maybe he was just a crank. Maybe he was a prophet. Mabye, at least as far as money goes, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. The frightening thing about this war is that Bush is betting the bank on it. I can see him in the Oval Office with Richard Perle whipering in his ear "it's a sure thing! Ya can't lose!" I have no doubt that we will kick the ever-loving SHIT out of Iraq. I do, however, have reservations that this will increase the stature of the United State of America as a kinder, gentler nation willing to use its power humbly.

2003-04-02T23:37:00.000-05:00

In Which Talking About Socail Retardation Makes Me A Social Retard

Dammit! On Tuesday, I had to write a very awkward email essentially begging for work. The guy was supposed to come by and watch my set, but he didn't show, although he'd seen me a few days before. So, I had to write and say "So...ummm...I...whadja think? Didja like it? The set you didn't see was better than the set you did see, which isn't to say that what you saw was bad, but what you didn't see was better. Sooooooo...." I think I spent about an hour on it. Revise, re-revise, re-re-revise. I'm obsessing over it. Is the tone right? Am I sounding accusing? Am I too pushy? Am I not pushy enough? That word doesn't work there, it's too strong, but that word makes me sound like a pussy and...

You get the gist. All during this process, I'm thinking what a social retard I am, and half-considered admitting it in the email and asking for clear and specific instruction on how I should approach and address him. Since Tuesday I've been thinking "social retard, social retard" pretty much the whole time, thinking I should do a blog on it. And then, I read another comics blog and - **sigh**.

To add more social retardity (?), I'm feeling like I want to say "Hey, I was just thinking the same thing! How remarkable!." But how retarded is that to say? "Uh, I kinda know you from the web board and...ummm...I'm a retard, too. And I was gonna do a blog about it but now I can't, which I want to make clear that I don't hold against you, it's just that it's kinda weird but mostly I just wanted to sympathize with you about it, although that's probably the last thing you want to hear, since it's probably the last thing I'd want to hear...."

And, thus, the cycle continues.

It was one of those days where I spent almost the entire morning obsessively checking my email in an effort persuade myself that I was actually doing something productive. I was rudely awakened far too early by my nine-year old singing at the top of her lungs "HOO-RAH FOR THE TOYLAND TRAIN!!! HOO-RAH FOR THE TOYLAND TRAIN!!! HOO-RAH FOR THE TOYLAND TRAIN!!!". This is from an English childrens song from the 50's. The original Noddy which you might know from the hipper version on PBS. The same Noddy of Ian Drury's song "Fuck Off Noddy", which it took all my parental gumption not to scream back at her.

God, let the weather turn even slightly decent so I have some incentive to go outside.

2003-03-31T11:50:00.000-05:00

In Which Protesting And Conformity Are Wrastled With

I've heard at least one report of someone losing their job because of the die-in protest in Boston. The guy works in IT. A server crashed and he was unable to make it in the hour time frame the contract specified. It reflects more on the company that fired him than it does on the protesters, but this kind of mass disruption doesn't do anyone any good. It polarizes the issue rather than convert those on the fence.

There are some that see leftists as hippie-wannabes, decked out in their tie-dye, beads and foreign-looking hats. This, of course, is not the case. I have never worn or wanted to wear tie-dye. It's understandable that the media would pick up on the most outlandishly dressed people to put on TV. It's a visual medium. But it does "the cause" no good to look like a trustafarian who's playing at politics before settling down into law or accounting. Mr and Mrs On-The-Fence have just cause to rethink supporting Al Gore when he's surrounding by 20-somethings wear t-shirts with digitized-out profanity on MTV. The marginalized are frequently marginalized for a reason. They just don't look "normal". I don't support this, but that's what happens. Look at the Gay Pride Parades. Men and women playing directly into the stereotype that's expected of them. The hip-hoppers doing the exact same thing.

It's a thorny issue. Putting on "nomal" clothes to conform to expected societal norms connotes selling out or giving in. But, as much as I'd like to, I can't take someone seriously if they're wearing a costume that doesn't fit the verisimilitude of the play being performed. Likewise, I can't expect respect if I walk into Man Ray on Fetish Night wearing...wait...anything goes at Man Ray on Fetish Night.

2003-03-31T00:13:00.000-05:00

In Which I Reach The Point Of Saturation With War Coverage

I did what may be the world's first comedy cover night this evening. Peter Dutton put the idea together to have comics cover material done by other comics. The audience then has to guess which comic is being done. Very cool idea. I'm pleased to say that I had the most obscure comic. One person guessed him and then crossed it out. I did Peter Cook who is incredible!

Less than two weeks into it, I'm losing steam on the whole war-thing. At first, I was following it fairly closely. NPR is always on in my car. CNN in the afternoons and at night. I saw raw footage from Al Jeereza on CNN of a guy screaming in pain because his foot was blown off. Another time, Marines were kicking in the doors of houses and brutally yanking people out of them. They might have been terrorists. Maybe. I think that's when my enthusiam waned. What's the point of watching this? What's the point of following this insanity blow-by-blow? Will the war end because of it? Will the US stop being collosal idots because I know three minutes after the fact Rumsfeld is distancing himself from blame if the war goes poorly? Prrrrrobably not. Does that then cast me into the apathetic American who doesn't know what's going on in his country? Not neccessarily. But it makes me feel stupid and guiltly as hell.

Christ. I'm tired. I have to make lunches in the morning.

2003-03-28T09:19:00.000-05:00

Homeruns
I did The Comedy Studio for the first time last night (Thanks, Tim!). I was nervous as hell. The Comedy Studio is the home of smart comedy, which means the dick joke quotient is very low. My set went well. It wasn't killer. It wasn't stunning. I will not be written up in the Globe as the Next Big Thing. And that's fine.

It feels freakish to say it, but I'm not looking to take over the world. I interviewed this 20yr old on my radio show this week. His goal was to be the next Leno. Yaaaawn. That holds no appeal for me. The people I respect (ok, I'll use the words - my heroes), unfortunately, are almost unknown. Peter Cook, Bill Hicks, Burgess Meredith. Each incredibly talented. Each had a long career, except for Hicks who died too soon of cancer. None of them neccessarily superstars, but influential to others. Peter Cook opened the door for Monty Python. Dennis Leary stole Bill Hicks act. Burgess Meredith worked consistently for 60 years on stage, film and TV. If any of them were walking down the street, chances are you would not recognize them.

I've thought about fame ever since I was a kid. I'm not sure I want to be a celebrity. When I was doing comedy in Rochester, NY, I was downtown and some approached me and said, "Aren't you that guy I saw last week?" Yes, it was flattering, but a little fucked up. The thought of 100 people all wanting to say hello to me as I walk to the corner to get cigarettes just makes me shudder. Performing, though, is a drug. There's a driving need to get my voice out there.

It comes down to this - I crave feedback, but hate people.

2003-03-27T09:17:00.000-05:00

R-E-S-P-E...Aw fuck it
Saddam.

We call him by his first name. Saddam. Not President Hussein. Not Hussien. But Saddam, like he's a character in a sitcom. Even though he's public enemy #1, even though we fear him enough to invade his country and forcibly remove him from power, we still refer to him by his first name. Like Cher. Like Maddona. Saddam.

One of the tactics of war is to dehumanize your enemy. What better way to do this than to deny him his rightful stature as a leader by robbing him of his title. I'd love to see CNN refer to them as Saddam and George.

All this talk respect-for-the-rules-of-war is just whining. It just confirms my suspicion that the country is being run by junior high school students.
Bush: (Throwing a fit) THEY'RE NOT PLAYING FAIR!! WE INVADE THEIR COUNTRY AND THEY'RE FIGHTING BACK!! DON'T THEY KNOW WHO I AM? WE COULDA WON THIS WAR IN THREE DAYS IF THEY'D STOP FIGHTING!! WAAAAAAAAAH! DAAAAA-ADDDD!!

And fuck Bush. I'm not moving to Canada.

2003-03-24T22:37:00.000-05:00

More.

I'm watching this war unfold on CNN, on NPR. But I can't believe it's actually happening. It's too wierd. There are too many people against it for it to be happening. It's an out-of-body expirience. With every word the government speaks, they strain their credibility. The front page of a Boston Globe had a photo of an Iraqi POW with a gun pointed at his head. Two days later, the US decries footage of US POW's being shown on Al Jereeza. The govt cries foul that Iraqi soldiers are dressed in civilian clothing. The US was founded in great part to the fact that the colonists fought dirty. The military seems downright pissed off that (shock and horror) that Iraqis dare defend themselves and fight like hell for their country. Bush says the war will cost $75b and last 30 days.

When I was a kid, I begged my parents to buy me Pong. They told me to save my money and buy it myself. No money, no Pong. I wish the Congress would say that to Bush - "No money, no pong."

2003-03-24T16:04:00.000-05:00

Oh, boy! For the longest time, my wife and I lived on one car. It kind of sucked, since I was the one relying on public transportation, taking the bus to the train and a 15min walk after that. Whatever. Half the year it sucked and the other half it was fine. Then I got a job that needed a car. Woohoo! We talked about the cars we could afford. It came down to a new, crappy car (Focus) or a used worthwhile car (Saab). We went with a used Saab 9000, since we drive on vacations and there's enough room to keep the kids from fighting.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because one of the benefits of buying a Saab (at least from Charles River Saab) is when you make an appointment for service ahead of time, you get a loaner. And the loaner I got on this brillant, sunny and almost warm day was - a red 93 Convertable! Like I said - Oh boy!

2003-03-23T14:56:00.000-05:00

It all comes down to trusting my instincts, which I generally don't. At heart, I think I'm 60-40 mean-spirited/earthy-crunchy. The wasp inside is constantly ripping people to shreds. The W.A.S.P. I was brought up to be is congenial and concilitory. There's a bit of a battle that goes on there. As the youngest child constantly craving approval, it's a bit of a stretch to go against the grain even when I'm chomping at the bit to do so.

The fight referred to in the last post was on a board for Boston comedians. The guy I was arguing with is one of the best political comedians in Boston. He reads far more than I do. I'd not met him before instigating the argument and I thought it was a huge mistake going up against him. It turns out that it was fine. I met him about a month later and he seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. He said some very flattering things. Of course, my low self-esteem brain told me he was lying, but I took it on faith that he was sincere. Sometimes you got to have conflict before your taken seriously.

20 years ago, I stage managed a play. The set designer was a short round bull-dyke named Linda. She hated me. Why she hated me, I never figured out, but she did. Nothing I did was up to her standards. Any questions I had for her were either an affront or proof of my stupidity. This went on for about three weeks. As we got closer to opening and the tension mounted, she became harder and harder to deal with. One night, she pushed me over the edge with some comment or another. I whipped around on her and let loose, starting, if I remember, with a resounding "FUCK YOU". The director and the actors gaped at me as I ranted and spewed obscenities at her. I stormed outside and started kicking things. Once I got back in, we resumed rehersal. At the end of the night, she bought me a drink and we became great friends.

It's always stuck with me how completely fucked up it is that I had to get angry at her to respect me. It takes all kinds.

2003-02-28T23:08:00.000-05:00

As much as I know instinctively that I'm lousy at winning idealogical fights, I can't help myself. It's a sickness. I have to join the the battle even though I know that I'm going to get my ass kicked. I don't have the patience to stick them out. Most idealogical fights come down to endurance - who can say "you're wrong" enough times until the other person throws up their hands and skulks away. I tend to lose my patience. BUT - I'm very good at pissing people off. I poke holes in arguments like nobody's bidness. I listen closely and process quickly. The main problem for me is getting my point out of my mouth. Listening closely makes me choose my words carefully and that takes time. In the fight paradigm, I've got a killer punch, but I'm slow as a dog.

But - every bruise is a lesson.

2003-02-24T17:22:00.000-05:00

In Which I Pointlessly Back-Title The First Blog Entry

Jesus. I'm not exactly sure why I'd want to do this, but here it is. Am I really a joiner after all?