Patriside

Fuck ABC News... don't watch on Tuesday night...

2010-10-30T11:57:00.002-07:00

Digby says it so much better than I could...

I can't believe those pandering sacks of shit could flush their souls down the toilet with such ease by hiring a child molester like Andrew Breitbart to cover the elections.

Then again, I can't think of ANY reason I'd watch ANYTHING on ABC, anyway.

Toast

2010-10-13T20:59:00.002-07:00

That's what I am.
Slather me up with butter and then rub jelly all over me.
Then take a bite. I assure,I won't mind.

The soccer diaries

2010-10-12T21:09:00.004-07:00

My, we live in interesting times.
Goddamn it was cold.
We have been lucky this year, weather-wise. Last season, storms came up daily every game during the last two weeks of the season as winter edged its way over summer remainders of the season, as a test of parental endurance, hoods pulled tight, backs to the wind, stomping on decaying turf to our keep limbs alive, each of us wishing the ref would just call the game and let us get back into our warm vehicles. While children practiced their practiced chaos, chasing and kicking the parquet ball and sideliners showered each other with blades of grass, oblivious to the mayhem on the field.
Until today, the weather held and we've been blessed with frabjous skies, a blessing for the parent out on the soccer fields four days a week.
Three kids, three different age groups -- you do the math. Between conflicting games and gratuitous practices, I got much more fresh air than I require to pass the centurion mark. My curse, I suppose.
After we move into the house (the "special surprise" Jonboy asked about), we can return to some semblance of normality, even if I'm moving some 10 miles out of town. I'll get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour, we'll have time to interact before bed and everything will return to a regular schedule.
Until basketball season starts.

Day sumpin' sumpin'

2010-10-11T22:09:00.002-07:00

Only one day left of soccer -- thank God. With three kids, three different age groups, games four days a week and often not getting back to the house until well after 7... and then making dinner, organizing homework, doing dishes, coordinating baths and bedtimes...Christ, I'm exhausted.
Maybe I'll finally get some time to write now that the season is almost over.
Good night.

Sunday night, nothing to say

2010-10-10T21:59:00.002-07:00

Actually, working on this week's column (about The Yardbirds) and "nothing to say" actually means, "no time to say it here," since I'm busy buttering my bread. But, to give you an idea of where that's going, I give you this...

I'm sure that fine video gives you an idea of where my column will go -- certainly, you'll read it here, in due time.

Nikey turkey, what?

2010-10-09T01:29:00.002-07:00

No need to travel over the river and through the woods to get your obligatory Thanksgiving column, my friends; your heaping plateful of turkey is right here. No room for seconds, for which we’re all thankful, I assure you.
There’s scant music for a Thanksgiving mix, barely a handful of tunes even remotely associated with the holiday. In fact, I can think of only three songs directly related to Thanksgiving, only two of which are worth a serious listen. Adam Sandler’s “The Thanksgiving Song,” doesn’t warrant discussion here: The lyrics are infantile (much like Sandler) and his singing is cloying, annoying and mind-destroying. Not that I’d give Sandler the benefit of the doubt — I’d rather inhale a bucket of candied yams than sit through any of his movies. Adam Sandler has all the appeal of a head cold, massive amounts of mucus and the rest.
Much more appealing is Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree,” an 18-minute plus monologue”telling the story of Guthrie’s arrest — for littering — on a Thanksgiving Day in 1965, a song that became a classic of anti-war protest songs. “Alice’s Restaurant” is a Thanksgiving Day tradition in my household (and really, the only time I listen to the song). But the song is hilarious, almost a Guthrie stand-up routine.
Not associated with Thanksgiving in any way, I usually follow up the song with Jamie Brockett’s “The Legend of the U.S.S. Titanic” only because it is folky, long and very funny (and likewise gets heard but once a year).
It is the last song of the three that is the most powerful in its evocation of the holiday — and, by far, the most beautiful.
The final movement of “A Symphony: New England Holidays” by American composer Charles Ives, “Thanksgiving” captures not only the Puritan roots of the holiday but the sweetness arising from Thanksgiving’s place as a quasi-family reunion, its power residing in the ability to capture the emotional and psychological contradictions of the holiday — why bringing a family together for a feast can be joyous ... or tragic.
Not so much a symphony as a song cycle, the “Holiday Symphony” is probably Ives’s best known work (though, arguably, not his best work); it also shows Ives to be one of the most original and most challenging composers of the 20th century (at least, to my untutored ears). “Thanksgiving” is more conservative than the previous three movements of the symphony, more subdued, less dissonant. While the movement begins ominously, portentously suggesting the anxiety of being thrust into a situation where scabs are torn from old wounds, it eventually softens its tone, taking bits of inspirational and traditional music (Ives quotes liberally from American standards and hymns) in most of his music to weave in moments of joy and tenderness.
Like most music that matters to me, I recall the exact moment when “Thanksgiving” made it into my holiday repertoire. At the time, I was working towards an honors distinction in an undergraduate neuropsychology program, spending several hours every day administering stress hormones in rats and running them through several behavioral tasks. Since research doesn’t take the day off, I was in the lab on Thanksgiving, focused on the task while resentful that I had to be there.
I’d tuned the radio to the local classical music station for background noise, when Ives came on. I stopped everything that I was doing. Sitting down and listening, it occurred to me that it was like nothing I’d heard before. More than that, when the announcer said that the song was “Thanksgiving” from the “Holiday Symphony” by Charles Ives, it was as if the entire piece was perfect for that moment in time.
Those of you who have read this column from time-to-time will know that the ability of music to lock a moment in time is a common theme with me. Indeed, it is how I define most great music. Furthermore, I’ve written about how some music stands outside space and time, actually evokes a moment, through creating a tableau, one that ineffably brings to mind an atmosphere or feeling by its very essence. “Thanksgiving” manages, for me, to accomplish both.
Believe me, it’s probably not a piece you want to slap on to create the festive spirit you need for your Thanksgiving gathering: It’s far too disconcerting and there are moments in the movement that are far too reminiscent of drunk relatives releasing some long-held animus while unfortunate spouses huddle in the kitchen and weep. Nor is it something to play after the wine and tryptophan have kicked in for the inevitable post-gorge nap. You. Do. Not. Want. To go to sleep to it (bad dreams, I assure you).
However, after the guests have retired to their rooms or have driven off into the night, the symphony (or at least that movement) is something I highly recommend for your personal enjoyment, to see how it jibes with the gathering you’ve held, or attended.
As I said, this obligatory holiday column was not meant to build a mix; the options are far too thin to build a cohesive whole for the holiday. If you’ve insistent on creating some kind of themed collection for the party, you’re out of luck. Fix your food and don’t bother with Thanksgiving songs. Be thankful you have just enough time to plug in your shuffle or stack some CDs into the carousel.
However, if you’re driven, Sam and Dave’s “I Thank You” is about as good as it gets, Thanksgiving-wise. It has “Thank” in the title and, while it speaks to gratitude for something bigger than themselves (“You didn’t have to love me, but you did, but you did … and I thank you!”), there’s no mention of turkey or mashed potatoes or the Bears vs. Lions game. And a great companion piece to Sam and Dave would be “As Time Goes By” from Casablanca (with Dooley Wilson singing, as he did in the movie). Although it has nothing to do with Thanksgiving and nominally dealing with thanks, it speaks to memories which is, I think, a huge component of the season.
If indeed, “the fundamental things apply,” Dido’s wonderful one-hit wonder “Thank You” seems to capture the season’s zeitgeist: As things build up and everything appears hopeless, there’s someone to catch us, preparing us for the next time we’re overwhelmed (probably why Eminem sampled it for his scary-stalker cut “Stan”). At the end of the night, if the relatives are being far too judgmental, Sly and the Family Stone’s “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)” is a perfect side to let the chinless, soulless examiners of our lives know that we’re snubbing every snippet of gossip they’re holding onto like a slab of gut built with their own indulgence.
Really, that’s all I’ve got. You’re on your own as far as Turkey Day music. I assure you, you can’t go wrong with Arlo Guthrie (and the accompanying Jamie Brockett — it’s a good follow-up, really) as a Thanksgiving tradition. Sam and Dave, Dooley Wilson, Dido and Sly and the Family Stone (maybe toss in Led Zeppelin “Thank You” from II, Ben Folds’ “You to Thank” and Earth, Wind and Fire “Gratitude” (for, um, just something) and maybe you’ll have a mix.
For myself, I’m popping a turkey in the oven, putting on “The Wizard of Oz” and “Singing in the Rain” (a couple of traditions, hereabouts) and during dinner, probably listening to Phoenix, “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” (my favorite, recently) while my kids ask, “Do I have to finish the asparagus?” with an eye on the pecan pie and whipped cream.
Then, after they’ve been overwhelmed by tryptophan and too much fun, I’ll put on Charles Ives, pour myself a couple fingers of port and allow the music to transport me because, despite the inevitable battle over asparagus. There’s much to be thankful for and, in this economy, that says so much.
I sincerely hope that you likewise find a reason to be grateful. We’re a close community in Pagosa Country and there’s no reason anyone should go for want. There are many who have plenty and, in my experience, they’re willing to share. All one needs to do is ask.
Ask me, though, and you’ll eventually be subjected to Charles Ives.

Day two

2010-10-08T02:12:00.000-07:00

Heh...

Day one or something

2010-10-07T21:40:00.002-07:00

Obviously, I picked the wrong day to begin fulfilling a challenge (blogging daily for the next two months). Enjoy the tune, so you can share my pain -- our pain.

Something old, new, belated and true

2010-10-06T21:38:00.004-07:00

No one's telling me what the fuck to do

This was published here a couple weeks back and I'm just now getting around to posting it. Sue me.
----------------------

While the calendar claims that summer has crawled off into memory, I’m not convinced nor am I letting go gladly, clawing desperately to warm, long days and frost-free mornings.
I can be stubborn that way.
The ostensible change of season brought a busy week for me: six soccer games, preparation for parent-teacher conferences and, two days after the autumnal equinox, the twelfth birthday of Eldest Daughter. And like my refusal to let go of summer, I cling to my daughter’s childhood like a dear plushy, cradling that idealized vision of her nine years ago, bare feet beneath her nightgown and tussled, golden hair falling over her eyes, her soft hands holding a stuffed Simba close to her chin.
There are a few things I own and cherish but their value is meaningless compared to the significance of those memories. Although all I have is today, ultimately, the here and now is never a clean slate and possessing the memories of my children makes my being in the moment all the more sweeter. It is the treasure of those memories that remind me how important it is to hold fast to present.
Eldest Daughter is my Golden Child, the one consumed with doing the right thing, devastated when she disappoints daddy. She’s been like that ever since she was born. Whereas her siblings cavil and cry at the injustice of me telling them there’s something they can’t do, willful and obstinate imps they are, Eldest Daughter cries because her deep, inbred sense of shame tortures her with the idea that she has not done the right thing. It troubles her to the core, knowing she has displeased me in some way.
Although twelve and at the threshold of adolescence, she retains the innocence of her earlier years as she explores (treading lightly) more adult themes and concerns. Last year, she replaced her tween obsessions (Hannah Montana, the Jonas Brothers, High School Musical, etc.) with everything “Twilight” — books, movies, soundtracks and merchandise.
I confess I haven’t read the books nor have I seen the movies. I’ve heard the books are innocuous, if inferior to the “Harry Potter” series and that the movies are definitely geared to specific, inchoate tastes. Nonetheless, she adores “Twilight” and I have no inclination to subvert her affection.
After all, my parents had no compunction against dropping me off in front of McNichols Arena, when I was about Eldest Daughter’s age, to watch Alice Cooper (my own preteen obsession) cause my ears to ring with his brand of nascent heavy metal and entertain his audience with mock executions and buckets of blood.
Indeed, if there is anything about the “Twilight Saga” that excites me, it’s the quality of the movie soundtracks. Populated with big names of the Indie Rock scene, it is not without undue alacrity that I’ve greeted her own pre-teen obsession given that she has been exposed to, and embraced, an entirely new brand of music in her preteen world.
To the credit of the movie’s producers, the soundtracks have included terrific cuts by some really exciting bands: Muse (providing songs on all three soundtracks), Perry Farrell, Iron & Wine, Death Cab for Cutie, Thom Yorke (wow), The Killers, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Sea Wolf, OK Go, Grizzly Bear, The Black Keys, Vampire Weekend (but, of course!), Unkle, The Dead Weather, Band of Horses — a veritable Who’s Who of College/Indie Rock.
Despite my desire to keep Eldest Daughter locked into the precious years of her childhood, I’ve learned to embrace the fact that she slowly, steadily marches towards adulthood, with baby steps (thankfully). Rocking all the way with a new found sophistication.
Thinking ahead to Eldest Daughter’s birthday and considering her new found affection for Indie Rock, I spent a few hours last week creating a new folder for her in iTunes. Somewhat inspired by the “Twilight” soundtracks but also filled with songs meant to say, “If you liked that, you might really like this!”
Boldly, I included a great deal of ’60s Motown, Soul, R&B, and Girl Groups in her folder, my rationale being that the pop tradition informing the type of Indie Rock that Eldest Daughter has grown to love. There would be no Death Cab for Cutie had there been no “Stand By Me” by Ben E. King, “Baby Love” by The Supremes or “The Way You Do the Things You Do” by The Temptations.
Unabashedly romantic and celebratory, the Soul Music of the ’60s perfectly captured the urgency of the teenage heart, that desperation of adolescent longing and unrequited love. While The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Jefferson Airplane, et al edged more and more towards adult themes and psychedelic excess, African-American music of the era remained firmly entrenched in matters of the heart — the redemption of a first kiss, the security of intertwined fingers and the exhilaration of a love note.
Yet, that music was anything but formulaic: the performances alone made the music transcendent while some of the finest writers and composers endowed the songs with an emotional power and timelessness that endures today. I would have been tragically remiss had I failed to include Otis Redding, The Four Tops or Martha and The Vandellas in Eldest Daughter’s iTunes folder.
Naturally, I included some new music as well. Ratting myself out here — if I’m putting these artists into Eldest Daughter’s folder, it means that I necessarily have those songs on my iPod — Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Cee Lo Green, Aaliyah and Missy Elliot, artists that get her and her sister rocking and singing aloud as we blaze down the road, “Turn it up, daddy!” they shout over music that’s already overly loud.
A guilty pleasure of mine from this summer was Robyn, playing Swedish pop at its best. Probably a little too twisted for American radio, Robyn’s music combines techno/electro beats with pop rhythms that could only come from Sweden.
During the summer, Robyn released two EPs from her “Body Talk” trilogy, a cycle of songs so infinitely danceable and incredibly entertaining, I would have been a bad dad to exclude them from the Eldest Daughter folder. Songs such as “Dancing on My Own,” “Fembot,” “Hang With Me” and “U Should Know Better” (with Snoop Dog), I knew I couldn’t go wrong introducing Eldest Daughter and her sister to the most fun I had this past summer.
However, it was Robyn’s song, “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What to Do” that was the essential inclusion into the folder. Full of bravado, attitude and adolescent snottiness, I may have stepped into something that I will regret somewhere down the road (although I somehow doubt that, given Eldest Daughter’s investment in being good). However, it is Robyn’s message that the pressure of society — and the expectations of being a woman in that society — that is both hilarious and compelling. Hoping to raise strong, self-sufficient women, ultimately, I hope both my girls carry that steel with them well into adulthood.
Robyn demanded a certain amount of Hip-hop in the mix and I was not shy including songs that will surely get Eldest Daughter censored if she’s blasting 50 Cent (“In Da Club,” of course) or Jay-Z (“99 Problems”) on the team bus.
Black-Eyed Peas and Outkast were easy selections to make — “Hey Ya” or “Pump It” are chaste enough to hear during an Aerobics session at the Senior Center — but I’ll confess to a brief pause (and sustained cringe) with songs such as Kenye West’s “Gold Digger” or Lil Wayne’s “Lollipop.”
Not one to censor what my kids listen to — if they don’t hear it from me, they’ll hear it somewhere else and with that will come a certain amount of subversive energy — I’ll nonetheless ask that the iPod stay home during sleepovers; not many parents understand my libertarian approach to music.
With well over 200 songs in the folder, Eldest Daughter has not had the chance to hear everything. And while the Hip-hop and old soul have been with some enthusiasm (“I love this song!” she cried when Stevie Wonder’s “Don’t You Worry Bout’ a Thing,” came on), most of those cuts were met with the resignation of, “Well, that’s just Daddy, he listens to all kinds of stuff!”
However, with the folder designated for her, she took new interest in the Indie Rock I had included, associating them with the music on her “Twilight” soundtracks. Thus, while “Beat Your Heartbeat,” by The Kissaway Trail or “Yellow Dress,” by Sore Eros might have slipped into the background of my pod set on random shuffle with Eldest Daughter’s attention turned elsewhere, the tunes took on a new significance as she listened intently to her special folder. Although “Actor Out of Work,” by St. Vincent, “Rill, Rill,” by Sleigh Bells and “Mexico,” by The Soft Pack had previously passed without her notice, suddenly she heard those songs anew, as if hearing them for the first time, placing them in proximity to everything she’d heard on her “Twilight” disks and suddenly deciding that she really, really liked those songs.
For the rest of my life, I will repay a debt (and never fully repay that gift) owed from the moment the delivery nurse pushed a bundle toward me, “Here’s your daughter, dad,” the nurse said as took Eldest daughter in my arms for the first time with a tremulous and uncertain embrace.
It was as if I had been touched by an alien and the knowledge of another universe had been telepathically transmitted to me. In that moment I became immediately aware that my own life had no significance in relation to the tiny life I held in my arms, that my own safety and well-being, my own aspirations and desires, were all secondary to the needs and security of the tiny person in my arms.
It was at that moment that I became aware of authentic love was — unconditional and nurturing and compassionate and dedicated to a higher purpose, serving something else beyond my own selfish appetites. In that moment, I realized that my own life held a purpose that would light my way forever.
That way continues to unfold in tandem with the evolution of Eldest Daughter as she glides seamlessly from her infancy into adulthood, a process that has occurred in the blink of an eye, faster than I had anticipated and could have ever wanted.
My debt continues to grow, gifted as I am watching her evolve and become the person she is supposed to become. If I can provide that process with my own soundtrack, bringing her the gift of music, I am ecstatic that my own gift is well-received.
As summer eases its way into fall and Eldest Daughter grows from toddler to teenager, I can only cling to the memories of what she was and these present moments of what she’s becoming. There is nothing I would trade to pass up those transitions.

CNN: the most trusted name in Teh Suck

2010-09-26T12:48:00.004-07:00

Yeah, but when do I get the REAL drugs?
Ah, Sunday morning for the un-churched (as the local fundie fusspots like to call us), us great unwashed, unshaven, uninterested in anything other than a lazy bacon and egg breakfast, copious amounts of coffee and political blather on the box.
Every Sunday, watching the babbling rabble opine and pretty much get everything impeccably wrong and wondering why I allow those those fluffheads, zippernits and thimbledicks to chew up a few of my weekend hours, a testament to my ability to suffer fools gladly and spill a few drams of Bloody Mary.
Inside the Beltway, incompetence and a complete lack of perspicuity are rewarded with keys to lobbyist's security boxes and the Cadillac Escalade that broadcasts its OnStar like a CB radio, wheels in the ditch, forehead full on in an air bag.
In the midst of cleaning up kid detritus, Fareed Zakaria (the least odious and best informed of the Sunday chatter-monkeys) finished up his show, followed by the grinning boobs who spew the news. I usually allow the shining teeth crew about 15 minutes of mindless reporting (just in case an asteroid is heading straight for us and I have to pack an overnight bag) then crank up some tunes over a muted football game.
Today's leading (and incessant) story was some homophobic preacher from a Wal-Mart church denying he'd plied teenage boys with sports cars for some of the fun that turned Sodom and Gomorrah into sand and stone -- just like the surrounding landscape.
Normally, when some shitbag religious hypocrite/bigot gets caught with his pump still workin' cuz' the vandals still have their hands on the handle, I get the kind of hard on that would have have made Ted Haggard seek out man hands for his back -- and front.
However, CNN has been raping the corpse of this story as if it was still lactating. For fuck's sake, it's been a week and yes, homophobic preacher, boys with toys due to preacher's largess, doo-dah. Barely a footnote much less four days worth of reporting. CNN, however, made fag-hating fag preacher yet another top story and half hour of mindless
Just before I almost shut down the jabbering idiots, "Dad bloggers are increasing in popularity," teased me past the commercial break. CNN acting like Dad bloggers had just landed on the planet and asked for infants stuffed with kittens, then slow roasted with a red wine sauce.
I've been doing this "dad blogger" thing (off and on) for about five years and I've come to know several "dad bloggers" that warrant recognition; of course, none of them were mentioned in CNN's report. Instead, the focus was on several SAHDs (Stay at Home Dads), one who's wife was "A high powered attorney" and several others with way too much time on their hands (I assumed the wife cooks and does the laundry, despite their sad SAHD status, the bozos looked like pantie wastes).
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. The dad blogger has been around for years and suddenly see, see, CNN walks in on the party with their borderline retardation and Pabst Blue Ribbon and grinning cluelessness to celebrate a few fat fucks with about as much parenting savvy as an Inernet connection and a nubile, nympho nanny.
Fuck those idiots and the whores they rode in on. If I was living at home while my "high powered attorney" spouse was bringing home the scratch, at the very least, I'd work on being a better writer, engineering a better site at best.
I await CNN to talk to a dad who raises his kids on his own but I assume they're working on the next story, a dog with two heads or the snake in John Boehner's pants.

3000 miles of delicious

2010-09-14T21:56:00.004-07:00

First of all, go check out this site:
http://hobagsdoesamerica.tumblr.com/
I met these hotties while covering a chi-chi soirée on Friday night (a post on that, later. Their site is fun, an ultimate kick-ass road trip. Give em' a visit and say hello.

The Pied (or Pie-eyed) pipers of happy drunks...

2 out of 3 hotties agree: Karen is the rockinest bartender in all of Pagosaland.

Happy travels, my dears... it was a distinct pleasure crossing your path!

Q: It is to be handled with special care! Bond: Everything you give me... Q: ...is treated with equal contempt. Yes, I know.

2010-09-14T02:26:00.004-07:00

My girls came along first.

Initially, a whiny, crying difficult child who maintained her distance from the beginning but, through the years, became mellow and laid back, a jeans and t-shirt girl who skis like a fiend, flies down the mountain with aplomb, turns her skis into a stop and asks, “Are you planning on making your way down the hill?” A girl who has realized the role of leader of my brood and wrapped her younger siblings beneath her wings, chucked her beak skyward to accept what sunlight offered to warm her dark, amber eyes.

My Golden Girl, the one so invested in being “good” that, when things turn against her, she cries at the thought of being “bad,” puts down what I don’t want her to do and fills up her eyes with tears with shame, stricken by the sense that she has, in some way, done wrong.

The second was, from almost day one, scooting across the floor to greet me after work, standing up in her crib, arms wide open, to send me off to work, the Daddy’s Girl. Unlike her sister, she became, through the years, the “girly girl,” playing soccer only because she could shine (yet, shining brightly) and, in her own way, attempting to usurp her sister’s “Golden Girl” status despite no investment in being “good” — she cried not because she was ashamed at being wrong, but because she wanted to continue whatever it was that I’d decided was not what she wanted to do.

Raising two girls, very different, I was convinced I was prepared to raise a son; I learned I, um, had a lot to learn.

Once, I read a feminist author who, under my same delusion, assumed that raising a child was a matter of socialization, that gender would not matter to any great degree. In her essay, she identified the “Q” gene — the sound a little boy makes when he points his finger at someone else and spouts out, “cue, cue, cue,” to sound like a gun firing — surmising that the Q gene was inborn and a boy would, lacking a toy gun, create his own.

Little girls don’t make those sounds, point their fingers thusly. Little girls rarely pretend they’re shooting anyone.

Little boys do.

I was unprepared for the “boy” energy – girls crying because a HotWheels car had been bounced off of someone’s head, a little girl had been rolled on the floor and rubbed down with Play-Dough, Barbies desecrated and tossed to the Lego fire that I was supposed to tamp or raise — I was used to little ladies who held a pinky out as they held their tea cup, not a monster chewing at the sides of the saucer and grinning like a fiend as he destroyed whatever stood as “sister” stuff.

Yet, my Little Man is hugely protective of his sisters and indeed, anyone female. He once took on three boys, all two years older, to protect the younger girl those boys picked on. He brought home a “pink slip” for punching, kicking, biting and spitting, earning a lecture from me — and silent approval.

He will be ten times the man I wanted to be; putting his coat down for his queen, taking up a challenge for a woman scorned. Converse to Stone Temple Pilots, not “half the man I used to be,” but so much more than I ever will be.

Given that, am compelled to make a mix for my little boy – and all little boys.

Of course, I used to be a little boy as well; not your typical little boy, but I think what it’s like to be young and wanting to be a hero. After all, there is nothing else a little boy aspires to be other than a hero, a hero to his mom, dad, siblings, society and everything else. So, here is my little boy mix, standing outside myself and wondering where our next generation will go. Given the example of my son, we’re going to do pretty damned well.

Lyle Lovett — If I Had a Boat; probably the best song about being a little boy, taking his pony out on a boat, knowing his sneakers are better than lightning and girls are icky. Few songs are better than this.

They Might Be Giants — Particle Man; ridiculous stuff but if you’re creating a mix for a little boy, why not? If Universe Man can degrade Person Man (beneath Degraded Man, of course), then anything is possible for a little boy.

Africando —Yah Boy; There’s no equivocation here; Yah Boy and nothing else.

Eminem — The Real Slim Shady; kind of creepy (listening to his entire story) but the kid should realize who should stand up and declare himself not so screwed up … Slim Shady won’t have enough to muscle (but enough spine) to shove his face forward and scream… God knows, better him than us.

Kanye West — Jesus Walks; it doesn’t matter if your kid is Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim or whatever, Kanye shakes ya’ll down, asks where you’re at and then demands you make a stand. Eminem is a clown; in comparison, Kanye is a prophet. “I want to talk to God but I’m afraid because we ain’t spoke in so long,” is, honestly, something Kanye ties us all into, between prostitutes, politicians and everyone else. The hate comes from fear and outdated thinking (look at Prop 8), the love apparently arising from music.

Gorillaz — Clint Eastwood; Little Man and I spend Saturdays watching Westerns, some Clint Eastwood, but mostly John Wayne. I wonder what the Duke would make of, “The essence the basics Without it you make it/Allow me to make this/Childlike in nature/Rhythm /You have it or you don’t that’s a fallacy/I’m in them/Every sprouting tree /Every child apiece/Every cloud you see /You see with your eyes/I see destruction and demise/Corruption in disguise/From this f*****’ enterprise/Now I’m sucking to your lies/Through Russ, though not his muscles but the percussion he provides/with me as a guide/But ya’ll can see me now cos you don’t see with your eye /You perceive with your mind.”

I assume Clint Eastwood would be appalled, but Little Man and I laugh both at him, the Duke, their thin, coffee shop philosophy and a code that never really existed but in a Hollywood script. Libertarianism is stupidity served up on a cracker, a trifle for tastes too unsophisticated for complexity.

Blur — Song #2; Really, why not? Whoo-Hoo!!! Although the song sounds celebratory, it’s actually a kick to our collective solar plexus (plexes?), the joy of wrecking things — something little boys are prone to do. Despite this song’s ubiquitous appearance in commercials and movies, I never tire of its idiotic glee with woo-hooing about wrecking stuff.

Suicidal Tendencies —Institutionalized; sent to a Nut House merely for asking for a Pepsi. We all suspect that Mike’s parents needed more drugs and Mike needed to own up for whatever weird stuff led his parents to come in his room and make a scene. More than that, we wonder why a Pepsi might be a metaphor for dope.

NOFX — Suits and Ladders; do I really need to say anything here? Fair warning for our sons, I suppose, the ladder entails wearing a suit and really, who wants to do that?

Descendents — Suburban Home; I used to have this as a ring tone for whenever my parents called. If this is the least of Little Man’s stabs at irony, I’ve done well.

Bad Brains — Pay to c***m; Little Man heard this song and asked me if music could be any harder; I told him, “No, not much.” Included here because the song makes my little man move (and I defy anyone to say they can understand any of the lyrics).

Girls Against Boys — Rockets Are Red; boys know this. Applying that knowledge is another matter. A sneering playground taunt of the caliber little boys are know to make and a whole lot of fun.

A.C. Newman — Submarines of Stockholm; the best 60-ish psychedelic song of the last decade. If my son eats acid, I hope I’m there to catch him before he takes an irreparable leap.

The Beatles — Maxwell’s Silver Hammer; when we were heading to hand the kids off to my ex for the summer, Little Man kept asking to hear this song… should I be afraid?

R.E.M. — Superman; never an REM fan, I have to say that the fact they covered this obscure garage band tune elevated them in my estimation (see also, Golden Palominos, “Omaha”). An incredible little boy song as it captures the bravado of a cape made out of a bed sheet and socks stuffed up sleeves to make muscles.

Ted Leo & the Pharmacists — I’m a Ghost; another perfect little boy song, even if it’s about being in love, completely, unconditionally. If Little Man knew what this song was about, he’d ask what the hell was up with Scooby-Doo and Shaggy. Really.

TV on the Radio — Wolf Like Me; a song feeling like being shot out of a cannon and ripped through the tops of trees. More bravado and superhero posing which, well, what this mix is supposed to be about.

Rolling Stones — Can’t You Hear Me Knocking; ostensibly a song about a stalker but honestly, if Jagger and Richards came knocking at your window, you’d call the cops? That would be like Christ speaking at your church and saying, “Yeah, let’s nail this guy to some tree.”

Frank Zappa — Broken Hearts Are For A*****s; because an 8-year old boy should know better. And that little boy would completely agree with Zappa on this one.

Stevie Wonder — I Wish; I guess Little Man should appreciate that I don’t slap him around the way Stevie was, but then, will he be as successful as a blind African-American musician?

Radiohead — Go To Sleep (Little Man Being Erased); wow. Time to go to bed or… Sheesh. My whole, “Songs For a Little Man” idea seems to end on a bad note and,

Half-Japanese — Baby Wants Music; heh. Not like this.

Honest, these songs are for a little boy and he’ll appreciate you going to the trouble of making the mix. If he, in later years, blames his disposition on this mix, turn your finger towards me.

It wouldn’t be the first time. The Q sounds, I assume, will continue.

Little boys need their guns. No matter how much I try to turn him away from that nitwittery, I know he’ll somehow be bigger, more powerful with the Q satisfied.

For me… I make mixes, my noise, my Q.

Happy "Even though I didn't die and didn't know anyone who did on 9/11, it's my day to hate," day

2010-09-12T04:34:00.001-07:00

While the kids and I roasted wienies on a few blazing copies of the Koran ("Quran" if you're not wearing some fruity biker mustache and flimsy comb-over in a failed attempt to deny your parents weren't related, in any way, before they begot another Elmer Gantry), chatting about killing moozlim babies and merkin baby killers, it was remarked how all brown people are really the enemy. "Agreed," I said, looking for another Koran to stoke the fire and, not finding one, grabbed a Torah scroll (they make great Yule logs, BTW).
Wienies consumed and brown people hiding out and calling the cops (apparently I have a constitutional right to own a gun but not to actually point it at people and fire it. What fun is that?), we strapped bibles on the bottoms of our feet and stomped out the fire, singing "My god is an awesome god; your god is substandard, at best."
Swaying back and forth, with our arms in the air and our eyes closed, we stomped those cinders dead.
Unstrapping the bibles from our feet, my son asked why 9/11 was such an important day.
"Why did they fly planes into buildings?" he asked, "and isn't a few more than three thousand dead kind of, um, small potatoes?
"You mean like a few million dead in Sudan?"
“Yeah, that, but why fly airliners into skyscrapers? And why those buildings?”
Chickens coming home to roost, I told him.
Watching the metaphor in his mind (he’d just “metaphor” in school), his eyes tracked a chicken screaming across the sky to topple a tall building, while soldiers torched families in mud huts.
“2 million in Sudan?”
“Two, three, who’s counting? At least ten times that many die in Africa every year due to famine, disease and thug governments.”
“So when is Africa Day?”
Too many brown people, I told him. Not gonna’ happen.
His mind again tracked metaphors and seeking out chickens, counted the eggs, knowing that more than just a few would hatch.
“So what am I going to do with these?” he asked, waving the bibles from his feet, pages still smoking and stinking of burnt Koran and Torah.
“Toss em’ up in the air.”
And, as soon as he had done that, I peppered it with a burst of my AR-15, bits of paper and shards of leather sprayed across the horizon, shrapnel taking to the air like cabbage moths.
Blasting the next one similarly, we watched bits of Luke and Deuteronomy drift down on pine needles and leaves of scrub oak, snow in September so to speak.

A little post for my little man

2010-09-10T15:09:00.002-07:00

He turns eight today. Seems like just yesterday when he was like this.
So, I have a party to plan and Tacos to make; no time for blogging.
Mister would like to pass on this party favor, though:

We didn't need dialogue. We had faces!

2010-09-09T05:36:00.005-07:00

"Popcorn?"
Apologies for having delved into the cream of the crop as far as Rock and Roll cinema — an admittedly mundane exercise in which my poison pen was set on “dull” and aimed in the worst fanboy direction. A nominally interesting column meant to steer the untutored towards some truly great movies but ultimately, my self-indulgence got the best of me; mea culpa.
This week, I steer my craft to the galaxy of stupid and, adjusting my poison pen to “obliterate,” I set my sights on the worst Rock and Roll movies, the ultimate losers, those films that aspired to nothing and inspired even less. The most worthless and meretricious pieces of trash exhibiting a feckless disregard for the music and the viewer, lame ideas germinated in the well-fertilized fields of corporate greedheads and then cultivated for no other reason to feed the fatted, golden calf. Films that didn’t just fall flat, but sagged so low their bellies displaced the detritus, taking their dubious position at the bottom of the barrel.
What binds these turkeys together is their unabashed cynicism; all over-preening big studio releases basted in bombast and barfed upon the movie-going public with no other reach than to the bottom line. More than that, the music — Rock and Roll — takes a back seat to the sludge that the studios, producers, director and everyone else involved dumped on our doorstep like a flaming sack of dog crap.
Last week, I mentioned the gawdawful schmaltz from the late ’50s/early ’60s, a class of dreck unto itself. Doubtlessly, the studio heads responsible for those abortions were due the bad acid trips they inevitably suffered (a twisted karmic retribution where the infantile were reduced to wearing diapers ala David Vitter) but they achieved a level of Technicolor camp, harmless (and mindless) B-movies meant as nothing more than 90 minutes of cotton-candy piffle. They can only be viewed as quaint, in retrospect, like walking down into your grandmother’s basement and finding a washboard and an old ringer dryer — with sufficient imagination and psychotropic adjuncts, the entertainment value is immeasurable (if not perverse).
Conversely, nothing redeems the mangy curs on this list and the only a masochist, strapped down and forced to watch a few minutes of these, would appreciate a single frame of these monstrosities.
Working backwards, from the least worst to the absolute wretched, behold the power of Hollywood to walk the strip in fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and a faux latex miniskirt and ask, “Wanna’ suck on a sewage pipe?”
It has always been my considered opinion that Karaoke is one of the signs of the Apocalypse and “The Rose” (bound to be sung several thousand times a night across the country by tipsy account executives) arose from one of the most overwrought and maudlin cinematic murder scenes ever produced. Why, in 1979, Hollywood felt we needed an extended allegory on the life of Janis Joplin is beyond me; it reminded me of the Monty Python sketch where a slimy movie producer promises Marilyn Monroe to star (her corpse falling out of cupboards or standing in as a footrest).
Bette Midler’s histrionic performance as the drugged-out Rose (“Pearl” — get it?) is all emoting and no emotion, endowing her character with all the psychological depth of a junebug banging against a light bulb. Worse yet, Middler and the music make a travesty of Joplin’s legacy. Whereas Joplin could command her corner of the universe with her boozy, bluesy ferocity and move mountains, the performances in “The Rose” are flat and flatulent, moving little more than my feet to the exit.
The fact that the Academy granted this stinker four nominations merely proves that, with enough powdered sugar, waste products can look like a cruller.
Never a fan of Oliver Stone — “Salvador” and “Wall Street” were OK — I’ve found most of his work pedagogic and preachy. However, as bulimic as his worst excesses are (tons of junk thrown in, followed by the inevitable purge of a movie), “The Doors” (1991) presses the gag reflex beyond human endurance. Between the trippy sequences and the pseudo-spiritual palaver, Val Kilmer’s portrayal of Jim Morrison, while probably accurate, amounts to a movie that (in the words of Roger Ebert) “is like being in a bar with an obnoxious drunk while you’re not drinking.”
Apparently uninterested in endowing his characters with any depth or sympathy (like the incidental cartoons of Mickey and Mallory in “Natural Born Killers”), Stone seems torn between trying to reproduce the high of a peyote trip as well as the gut bomb and somnolent agony of a hangover. He succeeds on the latter; on the former, well, only someone who’s ingested a fistful of buttons knows where that goes.
Neither a fan of Stone’s movies nor much of a fan of The Doors music (though I’ll concede they made several truly great songs, however), I can say that no animals were harmed as I decided this garbage was about as endurable as a BB-sized hole in a molar.
I really, really should have enjoyed “Streets of Fire” (1984). With direction by Walter Hill (“The Warriors,” “48 Hours”), Ry Cooder’s musical direction and the pulp/comic book attempt to tell a “Rock and Roll fable,” the movie should have achieved greatness. Unfortunately, this seven-car pile up amounted to little more than art-house pretention and some truly awful Springsteen mock-ups (compositions courtesy of Jim Steinman, the creator of Meatloaf… nuff’ said) via Eddie and the Cruisers, the band for which “Bruuuuuuuuuce” really is “Booooooooooo!”
I won’t even go into the absurd plot except to say that it merely confirms Willem Dafoe has, by far, the worst actor’s instincts for choosing roles. Michael Paré (with a face looking like silly putty wrapped around the head of a G.I. Joe doll) and Diane Lane (um, actually at her hottie-est) round out a cast babbling out dialog that Raymond Carver would have ascribed to a night of bad whiskey.
The harder this movie attempts to achieve its “fable” status, the more it comes across as an episode of “Robot Chicken” after the writers had huffed gold-speckled spray paint.
Breaking out the Miller’s Analogy Test booklet, “Streets of Fire” is to inhalants as “Tommy” (1975) is to horse tranquilizers and self-induced oxygen deprivation — an interminably bad trip with all the joy of landing face-first on the floor.
With performances by Tina Turner as The Acid Queen, Eric Clapton as The Preacher and Elton John as The Pinball Champ, one wonders how the movie could go so horribly wrong but it does to an extent surpassing “so bad it’s good” territory to “Anyone associated with this road kill of a movie should be sentenced to a year in rehab.”
The blame has, I’ve always believed, largely rested with the confused direction of Ken Russell. Many of his films (“Altered States,” “Gothic,” “The Lair of the White Worm,” among others) have been almost rococo in their surrealistic and hallucinatory elements; in “Tommy,” Russell outdoes himself, splattering the screen with images both sickening and scatological (the scene with Ann-Margret writhing around in a sea of baked beans had all the erotic impact of Don Knotts in a speedo). The more Russell assaults us with fetishist imagery and dumbed-down Dadaism, the more our skin crawls with the distinct sense that we’re watching something filthy (in a John Waters “Pink Flamingos” sense of the word). The result is a execrable piece of cinematic excess that should only be viewed under severe restraints with a ball-gag firmly in place.
Along with casting non-singers like Ann-Margaret and Oliver Reed in principal roles — Ann-Margaret has a two key range (both flat) and Reed moans like a man with a bad hernia — Russell certainly deserves his share of the blame for the 30-car pileup that is “Tommy.” However, the real culprit is producer Robert Stigwood, the same producer of the Gehenna Toilet of bad Rock and Roll movies, by far, the worst of the worst.
Having produced one of the best Rock and Roll movies ever made (“Saturday Night Fever” — see last week’s column) and a passable piece of pop pabulum (“Grease”) back to back, Stigwood decided to embark on an ambitious (if ill-conceived) project in 1978, a cinematic version of The Beatles’ classic “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
As careful as The Beatles had been up to that point with their catalog, largely due to their entrenched mutual acrimony, I’m surprised this clunker even made it out of the scrapyard. Unfortunately, the laws of physics and the dictates of good taste were shamelessly violated as this lemon wheezed its way into theaters everywhere, fouling the air wherever it appeared.
With the BeeGees and Peter Frampton starring as the Fab Four (I. Kid. You. Not.), the movie strings together performances by a few late-’70s headliners (Steve Martin, Aerosmith, Alice Cooper and Earth, Wind and Fire) and a cast of thousands who, for all intents and purposes, wander in and out of scenes as if they’ve lost their way to the buffet table.
The venerable George Burns was enlisted to provide the film’s narration — I guess after playing God it was felt he could raise Lazarus and make him dance like a frog on a hot plate — citing a tale, told by an idiot, full of ear-splitting sound and moronic fury, signifying nothing.
Whatever plot existed in pre-production was subsumed by the musical-revue construction of the film that took over, with bands taking the stage and then shuffled off to make room for the next act, with the ruthless efficiency of a subway turnstile.
As for the performances of Frampton and the BeeGees, to describe it “wooden” would be to deny the organic quality of timber. Their acting repertoire amounts to raising one eyebrow to express pleasure, both to express dismay. Otherwise, “deadpan” takes on an entirely new meaning as they sleepwalk through their roles and even their musical performances exhibit all the animated glee of half-filled water glasses shimmying with the vibration of a passing city bus. Apparently, the shame with which they obviously felt in butchering perfectly good Beatles’ songs held them in some sort of catatonic paralysis.
There was no reason to make this film and even less reason to watch it. The original Beatles’ album was already cinematic in its ambition and effect; putting on the headphones and closing the eyes is more than enough to produce an infinite number of mind movies.
As far as watching Stigwood’s atrocity exhibition: Imagine yourself trapped in a flea-bag hotel room with an hysteric, coked-out drag queen while you watch paint peel. While you have a raging hangover. And your wallet is gone.
That would be heaven compared to watching this movie.
Maybe I’ve been overly cruel in applying my poison pen to these horrible movies. I think not. What was cruel was taking the time to commit these to celluloid and expecting us to be entertained by them. Sometimes, I concede that sociopaths are born and not made, that the extent of sadism knows no bounds.
Watch these movies (this is not a recommendation) and see if I’m right.

Good movies, Pt. I

2010-07-31T01:54:00.000-07:00

While movies embraced rock and roll a little late in the game, they did so with the same cynical precision that has tainted the studio system since celluloid itself became more than just a fad.

Hollywood, an industry run by pseudo-puritanical suits possessing a tin ear (like almost all businesses) has never been very kind to rock and roll. Most of what passes for rock and roll in cinema is, and has always been, innocuous schmaltz presented with the sole purpose of making a quick buck (not unlike much of the music industry).

Yet, when the movie industry managed to look at rock and roll off the ledger and acknowledge it as something more than the silly music of adolescent angst, the results have been sublime. Unfortunately, it took some time to rise above the sludge.

One of the great unanswerable questions of the universe is when rock and roll began. Certainly, some of the blues, R&B and jump jazz of the late ’40s and early ’50s qualified as rock and roll but the success of the sound on those sides was confined to a handful of white teenagers (with whom “race music” was rising in popularity, in every sense as an underground movement) and African-Americans — something that hardly mattered in the Jim Crow America of the time.

It’s the Sun Records session of July 1954 that is largely agreed upon as the point where rock and roll found its voice, when Elvis Presley cut Arthur Crudup’s “That’s All Right” and Bill Monroe’s “Blue Moon of Kentucky” for Sam Phillips. Within a few months from the record’s debut on a Memphis radio station, DJs across the country were spinning records similar to Presley’s sound. Chuck Berry, Little Richard and various Rockabilly bands had been recording for years but it took Elvis to ignite the fuse on the underground and make it a movement.

Hollywood, like the rest of the establishment, refused to accept that America’s youth had fallen under the spell of the new sound. Convinced that teenagers across the country had succumbed to mass psychosis, the establishment negated rock and roll as nothing more than a moment of pubescent hysteria.

The first rock and roll movie was the 1956 comedy “The Girl Can’t Help It” and was produced merely as a vehicle for propelling its star, Jayne Mansfield, to prominence. The opening sequence, a none-too-sly innuendo of Mansfield walking down the street clutching two bottles of milk against her prodigious breasts (with Little Richard’s title tune pounding out on the soundtrack), the tone was set for a satire of the silly fad that was sweeping the nation — rock and roll.

Yet, despite its sneering disregard of the music, the movie sabotaged its own intent, convincing American teenagers that their new music had at last achieved affirmation.

What followed was, in Hollywood’s cynically greedy tradition, was a slew of rapacious rubbish that was both sophomoric and soporific. Almost all rock and roll movies amounted to nothing more than a musical revue (with current hot acts) tied together with the thinnest of plots, all meant to cash in on the budding baby boomer’s taste for The Rock and Roll.

By the early ’60s, those movies had largely devolved into Beach Party movies (riding the wave of surf music’s popularity), almost all of which involved a plot in which some middle-aged villain was determined to squelch the kid’s desire to just dance and make-out. In the end, the bad guy was vanquished, either locked in a closet or found redemption in that, well, the kids were all right and that music was actually kind of catchy.

On the flip side, while Elvis made a few movies that rose above the standard Hollywood Rock and Roll movie dross (“Jailhouse Rock,” “Kid Creole”), asking what was better is rather like asking, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

Given the truly dismal state of Rock and Roll movies, it appeared that the music would remain marginalized by Hollywood; the music presented as Rock and Roll in “proper” movies of the time was largely lousy jazz passed off as “that crap the kids are listening to.” However, in 1964 two movies forever changed how the movies would treat Rock and Roll.

In 1964, experimental film maker Kenneth Anger released “Scorpio Rising” with the first all Rock and Roll soundtrack. Including artists like Elvis, Ray Charles, The Crystals and Martha Reeves and the Vandellas (among others), the film hinted at a trend that wouldn’t find its footing until the ’80s — exploiting the emotional power of rock and roll to score a narrative.

That same year, The Beatles released “A Hard Day’s Night” (directed by Richard Lester), the first excellent Rock and Roll film.

Largely regarded by film and music critics as the greatest Rock and Roll film ever made (although not at the top of my list), the movie fictitiously chronicles 36 hours in the life of the band that was, at that time (and in the words of John Lennon), “more popular than Jesus.”

With zany dialog and madcap action, the movie zips along with the chaotic energy of the best Marx Brothers as The Beatles dodge throngs of screaming fans, confused cops and British blue-bloods just to make it to their gig. Interspersed with numerous Beatles’ performances (a precursor to modern music videos), there is barely a wasted frame in the film.

While Rock and Roll movies had been maudlin and mawkish in their portrayal of the music’s effect, “A Hard Day’s Night” is vibrant and fresh, never missing a chance to make fun of the music (or The Beatles, for that matter). The movie is, quite simply, celebratory, an expression of utter joy that is at the authentic heart of Rock and Roll.

What makes the greatest Rock and Roll movies is that spirit of celebration, that expression of the joy of life lived at its fullest and on the edge. It is a characteristic shared by all the best Rock and Roll movies I discuss here.

Number two on my list is “Almost Famous” (2000), a veiled retelling of Cameron Crowe’s adolescent experiences as a budding rock critic (Crowe wrote and directed the movie).

Probably the best cinematic portrayal of what it’s like to be in love and, more so, what it’s like to be in love with music, the movie the young William Miller from his first stab at rock journalism to his travels with the fictional band Stillwater (a kind of amalgamation of The Eagles, Allman Brothers and Led Zepplin). Transcending familiar Hollywood plot lines of emergence (and the journey leading up to that), love, betrayal and redemption, the movie possesses the gift of transporting the viewer into William’s world, allowing us to see that world through his innocent eyes — and experiencing his transformation as we share his pain.

Honestly, I have never met anyone who has said that they don’t like this movie; on the contrary, anytime I have mentioned “Almost Famous,” they’ve only said that they love this movie.

Not so, regarding my fifth favorite Rock and Roll film, “Hedwig and the Angry Inch” (2001). Definitely a “love-it-or-hate-it” movie, I think some people are disturbed by the transgendered lead character while others find some of the film rather depressing. However, the movie is, from start to finish, celebratory in its declaration of the redemptive value of music and how that value is the soundtrack of a life lived on the edge.

Also depressing in much of its plot, “Saturday Night Fever” (my fourth favorite Rock and Roll movie) from 1977 is nevertheless a celebration of life and how important music is in that.

Stuck in a racially-charged Brooklyn with a dead-end job, a squabbling family, and a group of lunkhead macho friends, Tony finds himself elevated at the local disco, the king of dancing. Painfully aware of his limited chances in life (and made more self-aware by his new dance partner, the successful and educated Annette), Tony seeks an escape from his narrow existence and the trap that life has set for him.

With a soundtrack comprised of some of the most exhilarating music of the ’70s, the movie is liberating, both for Tony and the viewer. Like “Almost Famous,” “Saturday Night Fever” is about how someone risks everything in order to fulfill a dream, to make life everything that it is supposed to be — an expression of love for someone and something.

In its own odd way, “This Is Spinal Tap” (1984) is precisely about expressing love of someone or something except that it does so in a way that is sidesplittingly hilarious. In fact, it is not just the funniest Rock and Roll movies ever made, it is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Marty DiBergi, a documentary film maker and longtime Spinal Tap fan, follows his heroes around on what proves to be, the demise of the band.

With a lethal history of losing drummers — one by spontaneous combustion, another by choking to death on vomit (“but not his own vomit”) — and apparently having outlived their shelf-life, Spinal Tap is unable to bring out a single fan to an autograph signing, gets lost in a labyrinth on their way to the stage, wind up with midget stage props (due to a misunderstanding of proportion), find themselves trapped in other, malfunctioning stage props, find their latest album rejected by their record company, and unceremoniously land a gig for an officer’s dance in a U.S. Air Force hangar.

Yet, in the meantime, the band remains completely optimistic (even the drummer, aware of the life-span of past drummers) at their ability to make their comeback and oblivious to their ineptitude. Indeed, they have complete faith in their talent and music, even if the rest of the world has passed them by.

“It’s very special, because, as you can see, the numbers all go to 11. Right across the board. Eleven, 11 ... And most amps go up to 10? Exactly. Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder? Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not 10. You see, most blokes are going to be playing at 10 — you’re on 10 on your guitar, where can you go from there? Where? I don’t know. Nowhere! Exactly! What we do, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do? You put it up to 11. Eleven. Exactly. One louder. Why don’t you just make 10 louder, and make 10 be the top number, and make that a little louder?” says guitarist Nigel Tufnel to Marty as he explains the unique configuration of his equipment. And it is that “one over the top” attitude that expresses the sheer joy of Spinal Tap.

It is that joy that sets these movies far above the standard Rock and Roll cinematic fare. In these movies, the liberating quality of music and the Zen of maximizing the moment are evident in every frame.

A 1974 Ford Pinto

2010-07-17T00:02:00.001-07:00

In less than four months, our country is having an election and, frankly, I’m depressed.

Not in a partisan, us-against-them kind of way; I’m far too realistic and jaded to concern myself with party politics. Ideas excite me, political parties both amuse me and bore me.

No, I’m depressed because I fear our system is so broken that a fix only distracts the voters from the real condition. Politicians and a complicit, duplicitous media (more interested in the stench of celebrity than in honoring the spirit of the First Amendment) are merely morticians applying makeup to a corpse.

There’s a lot that needs to be done in this country but we won’t get there under the current system. Short of creating a Parliamentary system (my preferred solution, giving rise to a multi-party system, one among many advantages), the House and Senate need to :

Restrict races to six weeks; if a candidate can’t articulate a clear vision in that amount of time, they’re just more muddle for the game. The endless media circus we call political campaigns is an essentially endless process. Allow the electorate catch its collective breath and force the media to pursue real news.
Pass The Fair Elections Now Act to get the mega-rich and large corporations out of the business of buying politicians. Influence peddling has become the primary purpose of politicians and our representatives too often side with paid interests rather than voting in the interests of their constituents. Legislators are so busy rounding up favors to fund their next campaign that they forget why they’re in office.
Pass filibuster reform. It’s silly that the Senate requires 60 votes to pass critical legislation and the only argument in favor of the filibuster is that it protects the rights of the minority party. What drivel. The only purpose of the filibuster is to create gridlock, preventing the Senate from getting any work done, and creating a tyranny of the minority.
Enact Legislative reform. Rules for legislation in the House demand that amendments are germane to a bill and no riders are allowed. Unfortunately, the same doesn’t apply to the Senate and too often, good bills are killed by bad amendments or riders. Conversely, bad legislation often gets passed riding on the coat tails of a good bill.

Look, if your pet legislation is so crappy that no one will vote for it, get a clue. And if you oppose a bill, be honest and lobby against it, round up votes or get over the fact that things don’t always go your way. Defeating a bill with a poison pill amendment or grabbing some pork through the use of a rider is puerile.

Call me a dangerous radical (or depressed idealist) but until our government can pass the four reforms above, we have a 1974 Ford Pinto of a government.

The worst of the Best Of

2010-07-14T23:00:00.001-07:00

Too often, so many “Best Of” CDs contain what amounts to a collection of cuts from albums that, on their own terms, weren’t worth buying — a single cut and a dozen songs of absolute crap.

Or so we think.

As conscientious music buyers, we buy the “Best Of” CD in an attempt to avoid buying an entire collection, assuming we’re getting the “Best Of” as determined by the artist’s record company or some other dimwit who has decided they’ve decided what you’ll consider what’s best by the band, disregarding the gems by the band. Worse yet, some worthless weasel has decided that a band deserves a “Best Of” designation due to their years of assaulting our ears and our spare moments of avoiding that band’s crap.

As a service to my readers (or as a way to irritate a lot of people), I present you with the Worst Of the Best Of: Those collections of hits and knock-offs that should be avoided at all costs, to avoid embarrassment (and someone like me identifying the worthless cur in your collection, in an announcement as welcome as genital warts on a wedding night) or save you precious coinage when you could have purchased something worthwhile.

You’ll thank the IMS in the end, I assure you.

Strictly Commercial: The Best of Frank Zappa. Yes, commercial, but hardly the best and barely anything I’d want to hear as far as Zappa’s output. Indeed, a Zappa “Best Of” release is about as much as an oxymoron as “Pagosa night life,” Chimera, like the Black-Winged Snipe or the left-handed Skyhook. “Best Of” Zappa barely scratches the surface and the cuts on this disk, while “Strictly Commercial,” are hardly the songs that matter to anyone looking for an introduction to the man’s genius. Skip this and purchase a score of Zappa (and Mothers) disks.

The Best of Billy Joel: Really? Was there anything he did that resembles real Rock and Roll? If there was anything Joel produced that didn’t elicit at least a slight gag reflex, please alert me and we can listen to that cut over a slice of white bread slathered with Ragu. Until then, send this disk flying towards the back 40 and fill it full of buckshot; spare the clay pigeon.

Ultimate Yes: Ultimate migraine. Between Jon Anderson’s hideous screech, Rick Wakeman’s onanistic manipulation of the keyboards and the rest of the band’s plodding, prog-rock pretensions, a minute of this tripe is like an evening trapped between two stoners discussing theories of The Pyramids, aliens and Eleanor Roosevelt’s breasts. If you’re intent on playing this disk, do so with the engine running and the garage door closed; we’ll figure out why it was important to you at the inquiry.

Legend — The Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers. A disk for people who don’t really like reggae but believe they need a Marley disk to impress their friends. Sure, all the Marley songs you’ve ever heard are here, all overplayed and redundant in their own way, with the collection a complete disservice to arguably the most influential musician in the world (even more than Elvis or the Beatles). A true “Best Of” Marley collection would include at least a half dozen disks and even those would be impoverished and not worth owning with the availability of his individual albums.

Light & Heavy: Best of Iron Butterfly. Owning this disk is like framing and displaying that freshman year report card for the semester you pulled a .25 GPA. This disk is a testament to the fortitude of the sound engineer who, apparently, enough drugs in his system to tranquilize a herd of elephants, still managed to stay vertical at the mixing board. Including 21 cuts of some of the most pointless and moronic sludge ever recorded, the collection doesn’t even include the LP version of “Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida” — as interminable as any Grateful Dead self-indulgent noodling — but the “single version” which, in its very existence, verifies that humans are not nearly as evolved as we’d assumed. Living Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida Loca translates into “A quart of tequila and a quaalude won’t get me through this garbage” without a power drill and several well-placed targets along the scalp.

Hold the Line: The Very Best of Toto. Fly to Africa, eat some monkey brains, catch a nice case of Ebola and then chart the progress of your decaying flesh with a cheap digital camera. Print your favorite photos from that process and glue them onto pieces of cardboard, all tied together with old shoestrings. Your “Best Of” photos, chronicling your lesions and oozing scabs will be immensely more entertaining and socially relevant than anything included in this collection. “I bless the rains down in Africa,” indeed; a nice dose of Ebola is preferred.

Tom Waits — Greatest Hits. Owning this is like buying a .44 Magnum and a box of Nerf bullets. I can only imagine that this exercise was the result of some meretricious contractual obligation that Waits was unprepared to argue away. Ill-conceived and essentially useless, this collection forsakes truly great songs (“Goin’ Out West,” “The Earth Died Screaming,” “Filipino Box-Spring Hog,” among dozens of others) for some truly baffling choices. It’s as if some record executive hired his idiot nephew to pick whatever he liked and the kid made hash marks on the back of Waits’ albums while playing “Metal Gear Solid 4.” Waits deserves much, much better.

Very Best of John Coltrane, is not just a lie but a damned lie: At best this collection is a Reader’s Digest sampler for a twisted rest-home version of musical chairs, at worst, a proud declaration of ignorance regarding Coltrane’s expansive and inestimable genius. There’s no excuse not to own dozens of Coltrane CDs and even less excuse to own this expression of absolute disrespect for an American treasure. Owning this disk makes one as about as cool as Tucker Carlson astride a plastic pink pony.

1 — The Beatles, is OK, I guess, if you’re 14 years old and your parents think an evening of Lawrence Welk is a nifty way to kill a couple of hours, but how realistic is that (and is Lawrence Welk even broadcast anymore?)? I remember this disk topping the charts about a decade ago and thinking that, in this age of easily digestible information, broken down into fruity and chewable Flintstones vitamins, “1” was a perfect example of how distracted our society had become. A race of shattered skulls, continuing to run face first into tree after tree while the forest remains obfuscated. Apparently millions of listeners bought this shameless attempt to continue to milk the Beatles cash cow but the only purpose for owning this disk is to hand it off to our alien overlords and saying, “Listen to this and get back to me when you can tell me what you think of these guys.”

Best of the Beast, Iron Maiden. No true metalhead would own this and the only purpose I can think of for releasing this collection was to give it space on countless jukeboxes in pool halls.

Made in the Shade, Rolling Stones, was a cynical attempt by the Rolling Stones to make a few more million dollars and skirt the fact that they had done far too many drugs in the early ’70s. Drawing cuts off of two great albums (Sticky Fingers, Exile on Main Street) and two mediocre albums (It’s Only Rock and Roll, Goat’s Head Soup), Made in the Shade was released as a way to mollify fans and make a few bucks while the Stones dragged themselves out of their most debauched and demoralizing period. Unfortunately, Jagger and Richards would not redeem themselves for a few more years, nearly going over the edge with the halfhearted Black and Blue, rising back to something of their former stature with the cocksure Some Girls. Skip Made in the Shade, buy Sticky Finger and Exile on Main Street (truly, two essential albums) and if you absolutely must own the rest of the cuts on this travesty, purchase them off iTunes.

Playlist: The Very Best of the Spin Doctors, is a groove-infused, hippy-dippy whippit fest of putrid mid-’90s jam-band excess. These guys didn’t do anything remotely memorable or notable and to there’s any “Best” here is like choosing between puking in the shower or in bed.

Every Breath You Take: Classics (the Police). I don’t know what is more amazing: that these guys managed to sell so many records or that they had so many people that they were a “new wave” band. If edgy haircuts and skinny ties make the “new wave” band then I guess you could include Huey Lewis and the News and Hootie and the Blowfish in that category (and you’d be dead wrong). The Police were, from start to finish, a band that produced some passable pop music and gave millions of teenagers an excuse to puff up their dos and dye them blue. I shouldn’t be so hard on the Police except for the fact that they gave us Sting, the most annoying, nauseating pap-producer to hit the carousels of middle-aged women attempting to stay hip and young, a Vegas lounge act for the geriatric Gen X set.

Enough. It was a good friend who led me down this path and, this far into it, I’m beginning to realize that the Worst of the Best of is an infinite road, a moebius strip of mediocre and mindless music that, not worth listening to when it was first released, is even less worthy on a Best Of compilation.

Either bands are far too great to require a Best Of compilation and their output should be recognized on the merits of individual works or bands are so inept and awful that a Best Of compilation is a painful reminder of a bad idea gone horribly wrong.

Perhaps the age of the MP3 player has made the era of the Best Of compilation as dead as cassette tapes. Unfortunately, I don’t have faith in that evolved state. While my music snobbery may be insufferable, my savvy regarding the recording industry’s infinite capacity for greed refuses to bury the dead an rotting cur. And, in the words of H.L. Mencken, “Nobody ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public.”

Happy non-snark day

2010-06-20T14:19:00.003-07:00

A lachrymose start to my day. Was just getting out of the shower this morning when I heard a tiny knock at my door. Throwing on my bathrobe, I ran to answer, discovering my nine year old neighbor (a friend of my daughters), holding out a little envelope to me.

"This is for you, for Father's Day," she said, pedaling off on her bike after I took it from her.

"Ohhhh... thank you so much, sweetie!" I called out to her as she rode away, looking back to make sure I had the gift in my hand.

After closing the door, I looked at the envelope, "from Dani" and "To: Jim" written on the back in a tenuous, second-grader scrawl. Opening it, a carefully folded sheet of stationery, the same scrawl reading:

"To: Jim From: Dani," underlined and then, printed below, "happy Father Day I wish you have a fun Father Day Jim your nice and funny." Beneath it all, a smiley face drawn, speaking of the breadth and width of a nine year old's heart.

I cried. Not in that in neurotic, maudlin Glenn Beck way but with a genuine flood of emotion. Missing my children, of course, but mostly touched by the fact that my little neighbor remembered that my kids were 200 miles away and that I was alone today.

It's just after 3 P.M. and it's already beer-thirty for me. Hammering out this week's column, a piece on building a house and a Lego-like approach to my novel, I am incapable of drawing upon even a scintilla of snark or cynicism -- it escapes me.

The bittersweet atmosphere made sweeter and less bitter by the light tap at my door this morning.

Thank you, Dani, more than you know.

No particular place to go...

2010-03-28T11:43:00.002-07:00

Kids are gone for Spring Break and I'm about to head out to a friend's for a day of food and frolic...

Bad blogger me, I've been terrible about reading other's blogs, much less posting anything here. And as mean-spirited as my last post was, it was a true tale and little there that was strictly bilious. Anyway, thanks anonymous and Johnboy, I do appreciate the support.

I'll again cheat and post last week's column but I have HUGE news to post here (probably in the next day or so) but, until then, I hope you enjoy this:

The lamb laid down this past weekend, after the lion took a somewhat vicious nip on Friday. A nice slice of springtime on Saturday and Sunday, following a blast from the past the day before; as if March is a spoilt child — adorable one moment, a candidate for the river-bound gunny sack the next.

For more than a month, I’ve heard locals grumble at the hint of snow, “I’m done with it, already.” No argument from me but I also know that, if this spring is anything like the previous two I’ve experienced in Pagosa Country, the massive mounds of snow will disappear quicker than we could imagine, the afternoon sun will warm our shoulders, with more hope than despair and more green than white, brown or gray, but the lion will continue to return.

Readers here will have noticed that I keep bringing up springtime in my columns and for that, I won’t apologize; spring is, for me, air. Arising from the dark cave of my despondency, the winter of my discontent, I embrace every ray of sunshine and bask in the warmth, breathe deeply, savoring the aroma of new life, celebrating the numerous moments of my own rebirth.

Yet, the season does not come without some regrets; some bittersweet some need to seriously reflect on the march of time (as Pink Floyd said, “Shorter or breath and one day closer to death”).

This spring is no exception. During the past week, the passing of one Rock God occurred in tandem with the resurrection of another Rock God.

Close as we are to Easter, I’ll begin with the resurrection: the release of “Valleys of Neptune” by Jimi Hendrix, a compilation of previously unreleased material that, apparently, hasn’t pissed off Hendrix fans in the way that previous posthumously released albums have.

And, considering the album shot to number one on the album charts the day it was released, I figure the rest of the world was, like me, waiting for another Hendrix album.

Considering my first guitar came with a “Hendrix note-for-note” tablature book, I have to admit to a certain bias and affection for Jimi, “Purple Haze” being the first proper song I learned how to play on guitar (my band would eventually arrange the tune of “Purple Haze” to feature the lyrics to the “Green Acres” theme). Everything Hendrix played was my standard as a lead-guitar player. I knew I’d never come close to the bar but we all need something to shoot for, no matter how impossible to reach.

So, to see some dead Hendrix stuff released had my chain yanked — and I was not disappointed. While the previously recorded songs on the album — “Stone Free,” “Fire” and “Red House”— all involve much more production than the originals, yet not substantially different, we hear those cuts as if experiencing them for the first time.

Of course, Jimi’s playing is sublime … who the hell else plays like him?

No one. Hendrix stands head and shoulders above anyone else, not just as a guitarist but as an arranger and “Valleys of Neptune” shows him as both, miles above Count Basie or George Gershwin — I’d bet Hendrix will continue to stand long after many of his predecessors have fallen from renown and memory.

For instance, the version of Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” bypasses anything Eric Clapton could have done, raising it beyond — if you can imagine — anything Cream or Clapton could have conceived of or arranged. Whereas the Cream version is a classic in its own right (deservedly so), Hendrix turns it into a garage band rave up that nonetheless pits the slow hand against Magic Sam’s dice. Who shot the sheriff? Who cares, there’s a new sheriff in town, Hendrix declares.

As a guitar player, however, I listen to songs like “Hear My Train a Comin’” or “Ships Passin’ Through the Night” or the title cut and wonder how I ever imagined that I could even imagine to play guitar. Hendrix didn’t just intimidate me, he reminded me of my tiny place in the universe. Just an insignificant speck on a small planet in a tiny solar system residing in one in a billion galaxies ... dude.

Rising from the dead, Hendrix brings an awareness: the eternal nature of music, the miracle of his talent and its ability to transcend time and death itself.

Likewise, lyrically (and compositionally) so did the guy that died last week: Alex Chilton.

I have to admit that I walked backwards in order to understand Alex Chilton. Whereas Hendrix held me close to my guitar (I slept with my first one for years, a Fender Broadcaster teddy bear), Chilton escaped me for a long time. In the ’80s, as a punker, I read how bands like REM and Teenage Fanclub would go on and on about how awesome Big Star and Chilton were and, well, I just wasn’t convinced. The little access I had to Chilton and Big Star didn’t really impress me.

It was another example of how nearsighted and closed-minded I could be. When I finally took the time (and shelled out the scratch for the records), it was apparent to me how wrong I had been. It was as if I’d pulled an old suit jacket out of the closet, something I’d never worn before because I’d made up my mind that it was ugly and boring, only to discover a hundred dollar bill in the pocket and the coat made me a chick magnet.

Anyone listening to indie rock now hears Big Star (and, by implication, the genius of Alex Chilton). #1 Record” — Big Star’s first release —has plenty of evidence: “The Ballad of El Goodo,” “In the Street” (which became the theme song of That 70s Show (with a brilliant remake by Cheap Trick), and “My Life Is Right,” are complete classics. Likewise, songs like “Thirteen” and “Try Again” remind one how modern how Big Star was — off of one album. One incredible album, that was, one off for whatever reason. While we were listening to Zep or Lou Reed or whatever, this album was out there, floundering, unheard until we got hip.

Whereas #1 Record never came close to grabbing whatever Chilton hoped to achieve (he’d done fabulously with the Box Tops and hits like “The Letter” and “Soul Deep”), Chilton continued to create some of the most revolutionary pop music ever. The rest of us be damned; his follow up album, Radio City, really wraps it up with an emphasis on Beatlesque harmonies and song structures thirty years ahead of their time – songs like “Life is White,” “Way Out West,” “Daisy Glaze” and “September Gurls” could be heard on XMU today, without a second thought or a wayward glance.

Whether #1 Record or Radio City, it’s all contemporary, as fresh as if you’re listening to the latest Frightened Rabbit or the Shins or A.C. Newman (all profoundly influenced by Chilton) — and the records were from the early 70s, amazingly enough.

Whereas most music contemporary to those two albums sound dated and quaint, snapshots of that place in time, #1 Record and Radio City remain timeless, not of that time or any other time, for that matter. The Zen quality of Chilton’s music on those two albums is that it captures the here and now.

While Chilton’s arrangements refuse to be locked in time, it’s the lyrics that seal the deal. Universal and consistently fresh, Chilton’s themes are simple: a celebration of love and life, even if heartbreak is involved. He manages emotional complexity only because he is capable of capturing exactly how we feel; there is never a false note nor inauthentic phrase. There is nothing maudlin or manipulative about the music, nothing rococo or pretentious. What draws us in is that we know precisely what Chilton is singing about.

The music is an exuberant testimony of what it is to be young, to have no other worry than to steal a kiss or score some beer, to drive all night with no particular place to go. “Hanging out, down the street/the same old thing we did last week/not a thing to do but talk to you,” might have been turned into a dirge of adolescent angst and ennui (see Big Black, “There’s kerosene around, there’s something to do ... set me on fire!”) but Chilton makes it a paean to having nothing but time to talk to his sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing angry about the sentiment.

At the risk of being a blowhard, I state the obvious and declare that adolescence is a tumultuous time, the threshold between the nursery and the workplace, full of adventure and sorrow and confusion and discovery and love and fear — but mostly, fun. Chilton risks nothing, he states it with such clarity and unassuming wisdom that we are only reminded what it is to have loved and lived, reminded that the simple things are indeed what we should most appreciate.

And so, with his passing last week, I was reminded of those simple things: the slight chill in the morning after sleeping with the window open all night, the distant sound of a lawn mower and the smell of fresh cut grass, the rattle of a baseball glove dangling from the handlebars of a bike, the taste of Coke from an ice-cold bottle, the way the horizon looks like it has caught fire at the end of the day, well into the evening, with the chatter of the neighbors on their porch, the cool skin of the hood of a car and the exhilaration of finally, finally touching the fingertips of a new love and feeling her hand move timorously to respond, palms pressed together, warm and wet.

Chilton’s music is just about that, really, and not much else. Were he still with us, he’d ask us to crank up the new Hendrix CD, I think, pull a cigarette from behind his ear and light it up, smiling and looking up from behind the bill of his ballcap to say that, yes, it’s about time. Spring is here.

OH! To be her!

2010-03-14T03:54:00.004-07:00

In better times, seeing what a phony tastes like

So, last year we filed taxes together, 'married, filing jointly' because the IRS likes everything on the up and up, supposedly.

However, this year we're no longer married and I need copies of those taxes.

Nope, she says, you can't have them.

What? I mean, I signed my name to that shit and everything, I should have them. Already one agency has asked for my taxes from the last three years and I have this big blank from last year, because she... well, she just doesn't want to give them to me. God knows why she just doesn't want to, maybe she has her reasons, but it seems fucked up.

Supposedly she's all spiritual and shit, moaning at the moon every other week with her supposedly-spiritual friends, burning incense and chanting in their made up moon people babble but, hey, isn't spirituality about treating people right?

Right. All you have to do is look at all the Christian assholes and Muslim assholes and Jewish Assholes and Hindu Assholes and on and on, with their guns and fire and bombs and frothing-at-the-mouth zealotry and you'll see that "spirituality" gets you a hole in the head when you're standing on the wrong end of dogma.

OK, not getting my taxes from last year is not the same as a hot poker down my gullet but stay with me, in some circles, it's just as good.

Per my last post, I live marginally -- hell, I wouldn't pay for internet except that sometimes I have to work from home when my kids are sick (I swear, that's the only reason... well, you got me there but it is handy) but we're frugal. No vacations here, no nights out. I'm no welfare mom.

So, as my last car was on its last legs, I decided to buy a truck from a co-worker, a big truck, a pig on gas but relatively new and reliable. What I didn't know (nor he) was that I'd have to pay nearly $500 to get plates on it. I'm not shitting you, $500 for plates on a 12 year old truck.

Tax refund, I figure, is the best way to get out of this conundrum, I can keep my trips to a minimum and keep the cops ignorant until I get my plates. Going on Turbo Tax, I find I get about $2000 more than I can figure out on paper -- cool. All I need to do is efile and all I need to do that is get a PIN from the IRS based on information from last year's filing.

Uh-huh. Except, she's not going to give me that even though, um, it's kind of mine, also?

This is a woman living off her dead dad's money, doesn't work at all, doesn't volunteer in the community, kind of squirrels up in the family's 200-acre compound and pretends she's head Hecuba for a handful of other aimless women, all going up to the Big House to bow down at the Goddess's feet. Big time spirituality and watch where you walk, motherfucker; bombs and all that shit.

Thing is, if I want to get my own copy of the tax forms, I have to ask the IRS to fax it to the nearest office (in Farmington, NM, a five hour round trip). On my expired tags (she doesn't have to purchase tags, dead daddy's company pays for those), in my vehicle (again, dead daddy's company pays for that), with my gas (ibid), taking a day of from my job (she doesn't need one, dead daddy, yadda)... yeah, there's your spirituality!

It's always amazed me how socialism is considered obscene in his country except how it applies to the rich (the hand outs go to them) and how "a sense of entitlement" gets bandied about for those of us struggling but those at the top -- again, they're immune, it means nothing.

Don't get me started on her lawyers insisting on me filing on 'married - filing separately' to benefit her rich ass (and keeping my kids from their EIC, which she had NO problem filing for last year!)...

Sorry for "my ex is such a bitch" post but there you have it.

Weasels tore my flesh

2010-03-14T03:28:00.002-07:00

Thank you, you unfortunates who've read me and keep checking in -- I deserve much better (and you deserve much better than the likes of me) -- you keep me humble. No, OK, nothing keeps me humble, I'm a prick like that.

As some of you know, I'm writing for a small town paper, kind of picking cotton and putting ink down on it. Living in a HUD house, collecting Food Stamps, CHP for my kids and working just enough hours so they don't have to provide me benefits.

Yeah, I'm livin' the life. Just like 27 million other Americans. Because, as they told us, oh, 30 some years ago that, if we cut taxes, and it will all just trickle down.

I have to say, I'm wanting a little more than the trickle and I'd venture a guess that some Americans less fortunate than me, would be happy to share the trickle I'm getting.

Still, I love what I do and I'm apparently willing to do whatever it takes to make that dream work.

In my next post, I'll discuss the life and times of the idle rich... should be fun!

Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)

2010-02-13T14:54:00.002-07:00

(Quietly trying to slip the key into the door, one-eyed, then, finally hitting my mark, unlock the door and slowly open it, cringing as it creaks; gently, closing it, softly resetting the lock. Pause. Take off my shoes and tip-toe across the floor, stopping with a mouthful of my own heart at every soft announcement of my presence).

Like a running sore, I return at the most inopportune moment. Fortunately, many of you scrubbed me away, so you'll be unaware of my return. Hopefully, you made your partner aware that I once infected your blogroll (you were younger then, somewhat promiscuous about who you listed, you were really drunk when you added me...) and those days are over.

Things are much different here as well and over the following days and weeks and months I'll explain that in great detail.

For me, it means the world and, no matter how hackneyed it may read, it will truly be a single, full-time dad figuring it out.

Sometimes, ice cream dribbling off my chin is just... ice cream

2009-12-03T21:58:00.002-07:00

"On top of that," she said, "your blog is a piece of crap!"

The blogger people (who have one eye and horns and teeth like those rubber erasers you used to stab with a pencil in first grade), told me that, if I was committed to writing a blog, I'd better do it, goddammit.
At least that's what the email said. It had a link to a site for a bank that I don't use that asked for my personal information, so it must have been legit. Figured I'd better get a'bloggin'. Don't want THOSE people crawling up my drain pipes.
Unfortunately, since all my writing mojo goes into tweeting ("Car won't start no jumper cables and I didnt shave - ur prayers appreciated"), there's little left to do but steal from my column. Once those run out, I suppose I'm back to blogging about psycho ex-girlfriends and my bosses breath.
Until then, another blast from the recent past:

As Steely Dan sang, “When Black Friday comes/I’m gonna’ dig myself a hole.” That sentiment seems to have been shared, if initial reports are to believed.

But not by me.

And while I confess the temptation was there for me, I did not go over to the Dark Side. Not a cent was spent, not here in Pagosa Country, not in Durango, nor anywhere, not even online.

I boycotted the day and I was glad for it.

Besides, I believe the real bargains will be just at the last moment when merchants are truly desperate because, I think, well … they’ll be truly desperate.

My holiday version of Game Theory.

If there was indeed an inclination to dig a hole, it would have been something around six feet deep, in a remote location, and furnished with ample amounts of lime. The brain trust that determined a week off from school during Thanksgiving break was a nifty idea would now be facing charges as accessories to murder.

With them having the whole week off, I was at my wit’s end. Literally. By Sunday, I was lip diddling, drooling, der der derrrrring.

Back when Wooly Mammoth was served during the big day and the Macy’s parade was comprised of a dozen or so Native Americans toting a pilgrim effigy, we might have had, at the most, Black Friday (known then as the-day-after-Thanksgiving) off from school; maybe Wednesday if we were travelling to be with distant relatives. Times were hard back then and it used to snow a lot more.

Thus, it was my three, cold weather, a feast and scant reason to travel beyond the tribe.

If you’re not afraid, yet, get afraid.

With no shopping, no sanity and no motivation to do much of anything (including, digging deep holes — I was wearing the stretchy pants, yo), I was further left with no decent programming on the tube, unless endless holiday movies or Deadliest Catch marathons is your thing. Not mine. Click, Monk. Click, Law and Order. Click, Mythbusters.

Yawn. Rinse, repeat.

Late one night, however, scrolling past the standard dross on HBO, I came across “Control,” a biopic based on the life of Joy Division’s lead singer, Ian Curtis. And it occurred to me, as I watched it, that I had stumbled across the final part of an unintentional triptych of movies: the aforementioned “Control” (2007), “Velvet Goldmine” (1998), and “24 Party People” (2004). Although the threads are all there, as surely as they are for the Lord of the Rings trilogy, each movie was produced independently (in every sense of the word) with no connection with the other. Except that, they are all connected, in extremely interesting ways.

While “Velvet Goldmine” is certainly the least of the three, it is the necessary starting point in the trilogy.

Less documentary and more allegory, VG charts the rise and fall of a David Bowie-esque character named Brian Slade (none-so-subtly hammering the point home with four songs on the soundtrack by either Slade, Brian Eno or Eno-era Roxy Music) and through his story, the similar mercurial story of Glam Rock.

Ostensibly paying homage to Citizen Kane (with a young Christian Bale, as the journalist sent out to discover the story of Slade), the movie soon loses its way, slipping quickly from a potentially brilliant story to become a mediocre movie. Thinly veiled references to Iggy Pop-slash-Curt Cobaine in the character of Curt Wild (and, ho hum, Oscar Wilde) and Lou Reed do little to salvage the car wreck the film. However, with a little imagination and ample substances (and a mind open enough to overcome the movie’s outré sexual themes), one can get an idea of what was happening in the early ’70s that led to the early punk scene in England.

It’s important to note, however, that while the early Glam Rock scene influenced the British punk scene (especially bands like the New York Dolls, Mott the Hoople, the previously mentioned Slade and Bowie, himself), punk took an ethos and sound from the Glam Rock scene and twisted it to — well, anarchic ends.

Following the worst of the bunch, “24 Hour Party People” is the best of the bunch. A quasi-documentary about the Manchester scene from the mid-’70s until the early-’80s, 24HPP does a brilliant job of capturing how punk, disgusted in its emergence from the Glam Rock scene, evolved in so many directions. In a short amount of time, like tentacles from an amorphous (and sexually ambiguous) dark cloud, that influence continues to confound record executives. Digital downloads or not, the suits have never figured out what the kids like. Ever.

The next movie charms us from the beginning. Narrated by British TV newsman Tony Wilson (a real character, played by comedian Steve Coogan), the movie charts the fortunes of Factory Records and Wilson’s own demise (for better or worse) as his record company and club gives rise to the Rave scene, something that lingers with us, like a case of herpes.

Don’t let my description dissuade you, however; the movie will have you laughing out loud. It’s not just a movie for music geeks. Of the three, it’s the one that I recommend as a stand-alone, the one that is, by far, the one you should see.

Early in the film, Wilson signs “Warsaw” to his label, a band not completely within the punk umbrella — and definitely problematic. As its lead singer deals with a relationship he doesn’t want and epilepsy he can’t control, Wilson realizes he has genius on his hands and he’s signed all his control away. Furthermore, after the band changes its name to “Joy Division” (the name the Nazis gave to women forced into prostitution in concentration camps), the band acquired an unwanted following by neo-Nazi skinheads. Not an auspicious beginning for Wilson’s first signed act, an act he signed, by blood.

While the next two-thirds of the film deal with the Factory Records fortunes and the aftermath, “Control” sits just beneath 24HPP. It’s not a bad movie (“Velvet Goldmine” is not a bad movie either, in that “so bad it’s good” sort of way). It’s just not great’– and kind of depressing.

If you want to end your mix on an upbeat song, “Control” won’t allow you that; you’re going to bed feeling bummed.

As I said, the movie delves into the life of Joy Division lead singer Ian Curtis and his, frankly, bleak existence (despite the fame). While 24HPP lets you know that, what remained of Joy Division became New Order (and the biggest money maker for Factory Records), it doesn’t tell you the danger of nihilism, in all it’s stripped down realism; “Control” does, almost to the point of making you gag.

So, how does this all become, as I said, an unintentional triptych?

Joy Division was never a punk band; their influences go back to the Glam Rock movement, no matter how un-glam they seem. In fact, what they did was blur the lines, spread velvet across the fissures that were created while rock was spitting into seemingly indivisible lines.

The evidence is there in the second movie. The wrap up is in the third movie.

The spear that brings it through, like it’s ripping through a hunk of Jamaican goat (seared in the offices of Factory Records), is the weird little movie that starts the watching.

As much press as was given to Curt Cobain blowing his brains out, Curtis had sparse mention. He hung himself. The TV was on while he did it. One in a million in America knew what he did as opposed to Cobain, who one-in-five or something like that knew what happened, a pretty face shattered face all over the covers of grocery store magazines.

Yet, while Curt Cobain gets reverence from a certain, narrow segment of music, Curtis’s influence remains widespread — from Lady Ga Ga to, yes, Widespread Panic.

With more holidays coming up and many of us wondering if we can afford the local day ticket or maybe it’s better to stay close to home, on those nights locked in the cabin, I recommend those three movies, back–to-back or at least, a few nights in a row. Fill your jug, though.

Eh, it wasn't as bad as I made it sound. Neither were the movies, for that matter.
In the future, I'll work on making everything sound worse.
It's why they pay me a substandard wage. Dontchaknow.

Hello, hellhole

2009-11-09T22:08:00.010-07:00

Lucy hears about the Stupak amendment.

Psst, psst, test, test, one, two, three...

Well... that didn't work out.

Not going into details but here I am again, no regrets, just rugrats.

It's not that I haven't been writing: in fact, I'm still at the paper, columning and everything (which, at a small town paper everything means high school sports and bikers with bags of Bakugons strapped to a sissy bar).

Come to think of it, since I've just reappeared here, I guess I could step back out quietly and slip back into the darkness. Light a cigarette and wait. A Ninja with no thought of his lungs. Blending into the background. Hmmmmm. I eat my cigarette butt.

But I'm not like that. The humor value of a doorbell, flaming poop and stomping feet.

And since the two or three of you who read me remember the kiddie snapshots, I give you this:

When it comes to my children and my music, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Well, that’s one-third true. For awhile, my girls have immersed themselves in the tween scene, all Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers. Prepackaged pap bundled with product placement, the insidious reach of the Disney empire (I, for one, welcome our mouse-eared masters). Tentacles of consumerist madness that go back farther than the Dan Quayle My Little Pony. Indeed, in my time, girls bought into the Osmonds and David Cassidy (and all their crap), while we guys laughed at how gay those guys were. The same-oh lame-oh.
Nuff’ said, that nonsense gets shut down at bedtime. Then, Mozart seems to be their favorite, with Debussy and Bach a close second and third. Smart kids.

My son is another matter. He has no taste for tween twaddle or sing-a-long schmaltz (no “wheels on the bus go round and round” for that kid). In fact, at any given moment, Basement Jaxx, (or other CD remnants from my prior taste in trance/house/electronica), Black Sabbath or Bobby “Blue” Bland blast from his room — and those are just the Bs. He has the same mad eclectic tastes as his dad it seems, abecedarian or not.

Not that this surprises me; it was something I noticed about him early on, when he was maybe a few months past two. I was up late one night, reading, listening to Frank Zappa’s album “Hot Rats” (one of his best, a jazz-inflected excursion in the tradition of the Sun Ra Arkestra), reveling in the brief down time. An hour or so into my repose, Mister arose, wide awake, “I can’t sleep, daddy.”

Mellow, I agreed to allow him to hang out with me, “Do your own thing,” I told him, “just be quiet, let me continue reading, let me pretend you’re not here.”

I tried to focus on my book but my little man’s body kept banging against the couch, in time to the music. I had to stop, watch, put my book and see him bump as “The Gumbo Variations” (the jazziest of the jazz on that album) pounded through the room, the rhythm of his bounces increasing with the songs steady race to its crescendo. Suddenly, the song stops, with a singular, conclusive beat. “Awesome!” he yelled just past the thud of that beat, his chubby arms in the air with a wave, his eyes still staring straight ahead, his body twisting with resonance of the groove.

He continues his taste for jazz to this day.

Just as Justice Potter described pornography (“I know it when I see it”) and Louis Armstrong described jazz (“You know it when you hear it”), my little man will ask me to rule on any given moment. John Coltrane or Oscar Peterson or Dave Douglas, “This is jazz, isn’t it daddy? Because, I like this!”

Yes, I say, I’m glad you like this. Alpha male watching his pup take down a doe. Sweet.

I was up early, throwing up a batch of oatmeal (so to speak). Little man was likewise up, yakking. He diverges from his dad in that he’s an early riser, stirs at the first light and pads around the house while the rest of us snore. Conversely, as a morning person by necessity and not by choice, I was making breakfast and relying on coffee and loud music to shake the sleep from my eyes.

Mister was sitting in a futon, wide awake and watching daddy zombie stomp through the kitchen while “Pay To C***m” by Bad Brains rattled the rafters (if you’re not familiar, it’s arguably the first-ever, hard core punk, the song ripping by like a 440 Nova, fat tires, loud, dual pipes).

Tugging at my shorts, Mister declared, “Daddy, this song is fast!”

“Yes it is,” I said, listening to him and the song. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah!”

He bounced around and pressed his elbow to the floor, rolled, began dancing again.

“Did they play music this fast when you were a kid?”

I was a kid when I first heard this music, I thought, and now he’s hearing it for the first time, a generation later. Thinking that there couldn’t have been anything like it, way back when.

“This is the best music, ever,” he said and, in the spirit of that, I mixed him a CD: Bad Brains, 7 Seconds, The Misfits, all kinds of early hard core. Even though he still listened to Paul Oakenfold, Miles Davis and Green Day, hard core ruled his world for a year or so.

And then, he heard the Stones.

The other day I was doing dishes when “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” came on a mixed CD. Mister stopped, doing nothing, no longer lining up cars and army men and making “cue cue cue” sounds, just sitting still, alert, listening. “What is that, daddy?”

“The Rolling Stones, Mister. They’re the best band ever.”

“Even better than Beethoven? Because I like him.”

“Depends on your perspective,” I told him. “Where you are, at any given moment.”

“What does that mean?”

I considered his question. “It means that there’s are all kinds of different answers, there are no winners.”

“There doesn’t have to be a best of everything?”

“You mean like Superman?” Mister loves him some Superman.

“Yeah, like Superman.”

“Do you think Elvis was, like, the Superman of Rock and Roll?”

“Mommy says so,” he says, his eyes searching the room, unsure.

“Well, if Elvis was Superman, the Stones are like a shower of Kryptonite.”

He thought about that, wondered if it was bad or good, or what it might have even meant. “Do you have any more Rolling Stones?”

I put on “Jumping Jack Flash” as an example of what I meant. Tons of Kryptonite at once and no way to duck it, just find a cave and wait it out..

He agreed. Superman was dead.

Slipping back and forth on his skateboard across the floor, Mister grinned, enrapt, Stones falling on him like beams of warm light.

“Daddy, this music makes me happy.”

At that moment, watching him roll, rock, beaming, in tune, there in love with what he was hearing, the whole thing wrapped my heart in wool. I snuggled in it and remembered.

For now, he’ll be enamored with the Stones; for awhile my girls will continue to hang onto fluff. In thirty years, the girls will look back on their music as a goof, an embarrassing karaoke moment. And all three of my children will rock with the Stones.

And I’ll be thirty years older, happy to have just locked all of them into that moment, Bad Brains, Jonas Brothers and all of it.

After I wrote that, I woke the kids up, made them watch me pour a can of lighter fluid on a junk tire and roll it down the hill. The flaming tire crested the hill and kept on going, rolling center on the road, heading into downtown.

Then we went to bed. The sirens never woke us.

Coda

2009-03-18T20:10:00.003-07:00

Well, I went and did it.

As I said in my last post (ok, my next to last post), I have been kicking around with starting another blog since this old place was losing its luster, getting a little threadbare and, admittedly, becoming dreadfully boring. Furthermore, I'd started this blog to chronicle the life, loves, and trials of a single dad. In case you haven't been reading carefully, I got married. No really, to a wonderful woman and everything, not to some farm animal as a few of you were placing bets that would be where I'd end up (I mean, before the inevitable stint in prison).

Having lost my enthusiasm for this - the 4 or so posts in the last year should have been the clue - I've decided to move on and write about what's going on with me right now. And not make up crap, like I was doing.

So, it was fun for awhile but time to say "toodles" and have a toddy.

I'm not going to get all weepy. As much fun as I had with this, better things are in the boiler and my life now rocks. I don't regret leaving this to wither away.

For those of you who stumble here, my new blog, co-written with my beloved, is called Hogepotte and can be found at http://jimandmara.com where you can read both our takes on everything from blending a family to how to stretch roadkill into a veritable feast.

I'll keep comments open here for a month and then, we're done. If you have something to say after April 19, shout it into your pillow. Saying it over at the new place wouldn't hurt, either.

I guess this thing will stay live as long as blogger keeps it up (or gets hacked by some nitwit Russian thug) but for all intents and purposes, it's a ghost blog by sometime next month.

So there you have it. Goodbye. Hope your blogs are better read than this spot on the road and I sincerely hope you'll come visit the missus and me over at our new place, http://jimandmara.com - if you drop by, bring some beer, wouldja'?

whooooooosh!

2008-11-17T09:32:00.002-07:00

As all of you have guessed, I have lost interest in this place and making updates a priority.

My new life and new family have shifted my perceptions so much, this blog seems largely irrelevant.

Which is cool because that's how life SHOULD be, it should not be a static bore. It's just that the journey I'm on now has made my presence here largely unimportant.

My love for my wife grows stronger each day. Her three kids and I are growing closer as I assume the role of "dad" for them. My own three are thriving, loving their life out in the country.

An idea for another blog has been kicking around for some time and I may get around to firing that up. The emphasis would change - this place was started as "A single, full-time dad figures it out" - and my new blog would be about blending a family, a large family, with some bits about small-town life and being a born-again mountain man (not that I'm "born-again" in the religious sense, apatheist me). I've been thinking about using the domain space we used for the wedding and dumping blogger, making it more personal.

I have to investigate some of the technical aspects: coming up with a design, integrating blogging, keeping the spammers to a minimum. If any of you have suggestions, I'd love to hear them. I really would love to start something completely new that reflects my new life. I'd love to see your emails or comments.

If I get the new place launched, I'll let you know here. I'll try and put up some updates until then (working for a small-town weekly doesn't keep me THAT busy) but I think I'm announcing the imminent demise of this place.

So... until then... please give me your input, suggestions, and help me out!

Ta ta for two weeks and tensum

2008-06-09T12:40:00.002-07:00

So long, suckaz
Off to the Emerald Isle and won't be back until June 25. Which means, no posts (are you nuckinfutz?). Not that it matters much - posts here have been scanty at best, boring at worst of late - but don't expect anything until after I get back. While I'm gone you should go pop in at Soiled Dove Inn and give her grief about not posting more.

Also, because I insist on moderating comments (due to puerile asshats in the past who felt a brilliant strategy of getting at me was posting their stupidity here), your fine comments won't see the light of day until I return. By all means, comment away, just don't expect anything to post in the near future.

All of that is not why I'm posting, though. There is something important I want to say before I'm Dublin-bound...

MBS (heretofore, my darling and beautiful Mara) had a fight the other night, something I believe couples do from time to time. As we reached resolution, Mara told me how much she appreciated how deeply I believe in our relationship, how hard I work on it. I didn't tell her (but I will now) is how much I appreciate how hard she has worked on this relationship: if it wasn't for her doing pretty much everything, we wouldn't be going to Ireland and our wedding would still be a distant (if pleasant) dream. Her hard work made all of this happen, I was just the guy she bounced her brilliant ideas off of because I was the guy lucky enough to be the one she wanted to share her dreams and adventures. Lucky enough to walk down the aisle with, dance with, toast some mead with, and now, jet off to Ireland for the time of our lives.

So please don't think I am fortunate for getting to go to Ireland. I am fortunate because I ended up finding my true soulmate, my partner in crime, my co-parent, my best friend, the best (by far) thing that has ever happened to me.

Ah, the luck of the Irish. Even if I am a bit of a prick.

The brew to do

2008-06-07T22:07:00.003-07:00

The egg on our faces is from another scientist's head exploding
The "Honeymoon Brew" is racked and ready to bottle; we'll put on the caps tomorrow.

Also tomorrow: gerieatric rocking out, chicken killing, and New Mexican adventures. Stay tuned.

Anyway, we started this first brew about 10 days ago with almost two cans of light malt extract, Irish Ale yeast, Cascade hops to start and Centennial hops to finish (the entire boil went an hour with the finishing hops in the last fifteen minutes). We're calling this our "Honeymoon Brew" because we're bustin' the caps on it after we return from Ireland. Toasting us and Obama.

Not talking about the weather but actually doing something about it

2008-06-05T20:38:00.003-07:00

How soft your fields so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are your overlords.
Look around you, outside, what do you see? Skimpy outfits on the swine waiting in line to see Sex & the City? Quarts of sweat dripping off the fat guy's moobs, collecting like strings of pearls on the short curly ones rimming his aureaolae? Kids running and jumping through the sprinkler on your lawn, screaming with the sting of rock salt from your 20 guage?

June 5th and it was freakin' snowing here, I even had a fire going, this morning. It's a good thing we're heading to Santa Fe, to the land of the tiny-feathered silver earring on the blue-bobbed saggy tit. Sssshhhh.... she's wetting her bill with a bit of mohito and seeking to mate with the broad-shouldered personal trainer (after having passed on the talentless artist).

We're going to see X at the brewery and then coming back here to embark on our journey to the emerald city... or isle... I can't remember which.

While we're in Santa Fe, your invitation is here:

Goin' to the north, north, north shore

2008-06-04T19:29:00.002-07:00

Yes, THAT kind of surfing...
Despite reports to the contrary (on E! and those phony-ass cable "news" networks), the wedding went off without a hitch and, in fact, not nearly as many people were arrested as was reported. The whole KIA thing is total bullshit and we're not taking any responsibility for the MIA folks - they'll show their faces when they're ready, we reckon.

And no, I didn't spike the punch but with our crowd, who knows who the culprit might have been? I suspect some old hippie from the bride's side.

Now we're off to Ireland for two weeks. It's a backwards country dontchaknow, what with their sod huts and religious wars and lack of potable water. We're taking the exotic route, I know, but what with the dollar's value everywhere else, we're taking the bargain. Point is, don't expect any posts from hereabouts considering they probably don't have internet over there - hell, they don't even have a written language. They're ignorant but they sure make a mean whus-kee.

We're taking lots of beads to trade and a camera in order to take pictures of the poor, dumb savages so that we can steal their souls and then sell the souls back to them at an inflated rate. Again, the rate of the dollar probably puts us at a disadvantage in that endeavor.

I'll report on the wedding when I get back. Hopefully, arraignments will give me a better idea of who is where and the what-diddy-what.

While you're there, I'm here

2008-05-24T12:00:00.002-07:00

At the beer garden, exchanging vows. Obviously, no posting today, this done via blogger's nifty scheduled posting mechanism.

We're having the time of our lives. We hope you all are, too. Mazal tov.

My crappy little homemade card (with macaroni glued on it) to all you moms

2008-05-11T09:00:00.005-07:00

I'm up early with the flower arrangements and getting the kids to help out with the Mother's Day breakfast (Lox & Bagels, mimosas), placing the cards and presents, doing what I can to give MBS her due on this, her day.

The moms-in-law-to-be, her boyfriend, bro-in-law and his family, the brood times two, MBS and I will be heading to Williams Creek Resevoir for a picnic. If there's time, I'll prowl along the irrigation ditches on the land and clear out some of the brush (I'll post some more on THAT task later in the week).

Moms: I hope you're having a wonderful day and are reading this a day or two later. A belated happy Mother's Day to you all. Or, if you're taking it easy and using your down time to surf the net, I hope your day is a splash.

Now, answer me this, please - the kids "got" MBS cards and a retro-ish vase (that I picked up from a consignment store - we need the vase, btw), I got flowers to put in the vase; I also gave her a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. Did I do well?

Trying my best...

Bomb the moms!

2008-05-10T13:57:00.004-07:00

Didn't Jenna get married today?

Wasn't it just a couple years ago that these mouthbreathers were high-fiving each other over the notion of a "permanent majority"?

On Wednesday afternoon, the House had just voted, 412 to 0, to pass H. Res. 1113, "Celebrating the role of mothers in the United States and supporting the goals and ideals of Mother's Day," when Rep. Todd Tiahrt (R-Kan.), rose in protest.

"Mr. Speaker, I move to reconsider the vote," he announced.

Rep. Kathy Castor (D-Fla.), who has two young daughters, moved to table Tiahrt's request, setting up a revote. This time, 178 Republicans cast their votes against mothers.

It has long been the custom to compare a popular piece of legislation to motherhood and apple pie. Evidently, that is no longer the standard. Worse, Republicans are now confronted with a John Kerry-esque predicament: They actually voted for motherhood before they voted against it.

Republicans, unhappy with the Democratic majority, have been using such procedural tactics as this all week to bring the House to a standstill, but the assault on mothers may have gone too far. House Minority Leader John Boehner, asked yesterday to explain why he and 177 of his colleagues switched their votes, answered: "Oh, we just wanted to make sure that everyone was on record in support of Mother's Day."

By voting against it?

The whole story is here.

Am I alone in thinking that these folks keep sticking their tongues in light sockets to see what electricity tastes like?

Anyway, have a happy Mother's Day, willya'?

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #8

2008-05-03T14:20:00.003-07:00

Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go

She loves most of the same music I love.

Gawdahmighty I was trying the daily post thing in earnest but between the unreasonable demands of my pesky editor at the paper (who knew the whole "deadline" thing was so serious-like? sheesh), cuddles on the couch with MBS to watch The Third Man, and oh, you know, taking care of the brood times two, well, ain't it funny not how time slips away but blogging takes a backseat to having a life?

Maybe I need a little more time to figure this all out. Posting daily, that is.

Sunday found me on rafting our little class-2 river. Not so much a thrill-ride as a drink some PBR and talk politics ride. A beautiful day that made me crave a little more whitewater. However, no craving to jump on here and write about the excursion. The rest of the week... bad habit, this not writing.

And all you get today is Reason #8, timely in that we're going to see these guys at The Santa Fe Brewing Company June 6:

Really, how can life get any better with MBS at my side, slam-dancing to X We're too old to "mosh"), and getting cooled by the local brew. Better yet, these cats are opening:

I stumbled on The Detroit Cobras a little while ago and put one of their songs on a mix I made for MBS while we wuz a-courtin'. After she got the mix she had to know what band it was (I never label my song lists) and ended up downloading a bunch of their stuff.

MBS is off to Durango with her girlfriends for a bachelorette's night on the town. I'm making tacos for the brood times two, cleaning the garage while a fight over the video choice rages upstairs. An example of life being somewhat fair, I think.

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #16

2008-04-26T14:29:00.007-07:00

Tis' better to trip than fall
She says she can dress me up and take me out.

A night on the town for MBS and I, at her suggestion, a date night that we take some R&R; going to see celtic guitarist Jerry Barlow perform, have a little dinner, and a nightcap.

Stuck here at the agency. A group earlier and now just doing the drug-testing thing. Ugh.

I should be using this downtime to crank out some quick articles for my newspaper (my editor wants them in first thing Monday for a supplement which is, in his words, "a big money-maker for the paper"). Maybe ol' Lefty has the answer to how I'll get it done:

HT to skippy

Throw in a few fingers of Cutty Sark and it's a done deal.

A two-fisted drinker in a two-job economy

2008-04-25T12:08:00.003-07:00

Dammit, I need a bottle...
To clarify a bit of Wednesday's post (which I didn't get around to posting until today - oddly playing with the timeline...), I in fact continue to work in the mental health field. Yes, I'm working two jobs. Writing for a small town paper, covering town politics and business is where my heart is at, obviously. But as I said in that post, it's not yet a full-time gig and working as a lowly stringer doesn't feed the bulldog (or anyone else, for that matter).

Whatever time I have left after hunting down and writing stories, doing far less than my share of raising six kids, planning a wedding, and this blog thing (ok, knock off the giggling), I spend running groups for DUI offenders and monitoring drug testing (i.e. watching guys piss into a cup). The more the newspaper job demands, the less I want to be at the D&A agency. There's no dilemma - I want to write. It's just that the part-time / piecemeal aspect of my writing job makes it impossible to break from being a DUI counselor.

OK, enough bitching and whining... time for some fun:

Reasons why I am head over heels in love with her, #239

2008-04-24T08:22:00.002-07:00

She buys me energy drinks, even though she's totally opposed to them (she's such a health nut). And, she rarely gives me shit about drinking them.

With that, here's some Sony Rollins to smooth out your day:

Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, you won't know how my feet smell

2008-04-23T13:57:00.003-07:00

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?
Ah, the glory of being a city-desk reporter. Or editor. Or something. Hell, I'm just a stringer. And it's not so much a "city-desk" as a "small town-desk".

I mean, the town is small, not the desk. There isn't even a desk, really, just a cell phone that my editor calls on to tell me what to cover, write about.

Again, not entirely true. Doing the wildcat thing makes it incumbent that I chase down the stray story, since I'm getting paid by the piece. The light posting here the past few days has been a reflection of that. Attending meetings, making calls, dropping in on town officials, stirring things up to see what rises from within the mire, all in the service of a few column inches; this past week has been balls to the wall. And if the gods are with me (my editor seems to be), I'll have five articles to my name in this latest edition.

Working hard for a pittance, yes - but having the time of my life. And sometimes, compensation is not measured by the size of paycheck, at least not for me. One of the reasons I stayed in the mental health field for so long was decidedly not because I thought I'd get rich; with the exception of a driven few or the therapists on the tee vee, people in the mental health field are not motivated by wealth. The more I work at this journalsim gig, the more the same seems to be true of my colleagues, that money is not the motivation.

Posting everyday (as I've been attempting to do the past week or so) isn't as easy as it sounds... WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

My write-in vote for precedent

2008-04-22T20:50:00.003-07:00

We're all Bozos on this bus
Deadline's tomorrow and although I've cranked out 5 lengthy articles for this next edition (we won't mention the quality, mmm-kay?), I still have some writing to do.

So, hopefully, after the deadline has past, you'll get another dollop of my meandering drivel.

If you take the dollop I've given you and throw it at HRC, I'll give you five bucks. Scout's honor.

Hey, get a clue

2008-04-21T23:15:00.003-07:00

My son has REALLY had it with you people...

Small town news has me preoccupied, yo...

Nothing to see here, move along....

2008-04-21T18:13:00.002-07:00

With, oh, 6 or so articles needing to go live by Wednesday and very little to show that they're even close to being finished, posting will be light for the next 36 hours or so. As if if you're surprised.

And while you're wondering whatever happened to me, I wonder what happened to these guys - gals - um, penguines or something.

Confession time, episode # 337

2008-04-20T20:32:00.002-07:00

...and my life has never been the same.

So now you know... there's a reason why blog posts have been scant the past few months.

Falling in love again, never wanted to; what am I to do? Can't help it...

2008-04-20T17:20:00.004-07:00

Be good and you will be lonely

Not going to linger here, much, but only to say I am enamored... and humbled.

I've been enthralled by the meandering and brilliant short stories of Alice Munro this past week, kind of feeling like I should get back to bed and start my entire life over. When I regard someone writing circles around me, well, I am thrilled and a little bit shamed.

I wish I had more to say but I have 5 articles to complete this week and this here is a break from my writing and reading.

Carry on....

It's not so much all the blood and such but the screaming - that's what gets to you, eventually

2008-04-19T20:35:00.004-07:00

“If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr. Brave man, I guess I'm a coward.”
My eldest stepdaughter, R, officially entered into that phase of life that we all dread to deal with as outsiders, yet endured ourselves with such relish (and spastic angst).

This has been an auspicious year for R. Aside from turning 13 today, the remodel of this house to accomodate my brood included adding a room downstairs, effectively moving R away from the great unwashed upstairs (i.e. the rest of us), creating a sanctuary for her, alone, segregated from parents and little kids alike. And what else could a teenager ask for? Hell, it's like a whole other universe or something, the teen-o-sphere.

The festivities today included having two of her friends stay for a sleepover, the teen club downstairs while the rest of us hunkered down above, watching "Raiders of the Lost Ark," perhaps as some kind of training film (I have no idea what I'm talking about, BTW).

Actually, R is an awesome kid - er, "young lady" now - smart as a whip and handling the addition of three new siblings with exceptional grace. Despite my sorry ass stabs at snark (jokes at the expense of teens is a bit like screaming "toss the bum out!" at one of Z's T-ball games), I have to admit that she impresses me; I'm lucky to have her leading this mixed brood. Also, I enjoy her company: she's funny and engaging and sweet in a non-sentimental way.

Oh, but gods help us, she now has a cell phone. She can now text her friends that I have indeed indulged in far too many cracks at teenagers and that I'm lame and my music sucks and whatnot. That and my haircut is ugly.

Sweet day at the park for the "Say Hey Kid"

2008-04-19T13:44:00.005-07:00

So say hey Willie, tell Ty Cobb and Joe DiMaggio;
Don’t say "it ain’t so", you know the time is now.
Spring has sauntered in here at the Crown of Valhala. Snow some days, accumulations that melt almost as soon as it's gathered, but otherwise our shoulders are warmed with a soft blanket of afternoon sun. Prairie dogs stand timorously at their doors, elk herds stand in the road with noble indifference and there's bluebirds a-plenty. The river rises as the peaks shed their white shrouds, announcing the end of winter with a mighty roar.

And then there's the call of "Play ball!"

Z started T-ball earlier this week and his love of the game has daddy all misty with pride and nostalgia. Spring is, by far, my favorite time of the year, and if there's anything that signals the end of cold, dark days it's the smell of fresh-cut grass and a groomed infield. Although my days of aspiring to the big leagues are long past, his days of dreaming have just opened up, a field of possibilities stretching past the horizon, "farther than those hills,
farther than the seas,
close to the stars,"
- beyond the crimson kiss of the setting sun. There is nothing that tomorrow can't offer him, he reckons.

At his first practice, Z took a nasty spill and his little face bears the raspberry badges that bubble up from the heart, scabs on his nose and cheeks and lips that attest to his dedication and spirit. Because, he indeed plays with all his heart. He's by no means the best player out there but oh, he fields a heart larger and more insurmountable than the Green Monster. At yesterday's practice, the coach told everyone that they were welcome to go ("I know some of you are tired") or they could stay and practice more fielding. Z ran full force to me, asking me if he could stay, beaming sunstrong and soul-deep as he turned to run just as fast back to the field.

Another dad at practice today, his son chided and cajoled and criticized, how to stand, how to place his glove, the poor kid not allowed to have fun and be five years old. No time to dream, not allowed to just breathe in the sweet aroma of the grass. Somewhere it was lost that we're supposed to "play" the game not "work" the game. Time enough to work, one day, everyday, and that day will come too soon.

For me, watching Z run after the ball he missed then pick it up, throw it towards first base and then do a little dance as the ball actually made it there - that was enough. No time to chide or demand perfection, no inclination to do anything but just bask in the warmth of the moment, Z's heart-so-big that there's no escaping the enthusiasm and love, presence and intention, the embrace of my own memories.

"Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today!
We’re born again, there’s new grass on the field."

Some of this, some of that, some of youse dis an dat

2008-04-09T01:12:00.002-07:00

I'm waiting for my nomination as "Worst blogger of the year". Not so much with blogging, eh, maybe once a month nor not reading anyone else's blog or commenting (though, in defense of myself, not commenting doesn't mean I'm not reading your blog) but mostly, egad, I don't really write much worth reading.

Such is this metablogging puissant; writing about you not reading. Or caring.

Thing is, I need to work on my chops and this seems to be the place to work em'. The few of you who remain following me (and all of this) might be interested to know that I'm writing for the local paper, covering town government. Or maybe not, who knows. At least the local paper pays for me to write.

Nonetheless, I figure my chops need to be honed and those of you who remain within this tiny sphere will get my castoffs, I guess.

So... I just got back from New Mexico, Santa Fe and thereabouts. Stayed with cool people and figured things out. Goddamn, this would be so much more interesting if I wasn't playing catch-up. Shee-it.

To the chops, man.

This whole blog jinx thing has me jittery

2008-03-27T00:57:00.003-07:00

You must remember this...

Well, if any of you had showed up here back in January we'd be pulling you out of the ice melt, like some frozen Wooly Mammoth or something. There's a reason for everything, I'm told (though not by anyone I respect) and given the complications that scotched our wedding plans, I'm apt to agree. Afterall, we're now getting married during decent weather and at a damned decent place.

Check out the website if you don't believe me:

http://www.jimandmara.com/

That's all I'll say for the moment. Hopefully, there's more to be revealed.

Getting rid of my Mickey Mouse job to take a Minnie Mouse one

2008-02-13T00:59:00.004-07:00

...and if the kids aren't happy, then what's the use?

For the last month I've been toiling as a baker for a chain grocery outlet during the graveyard shift. Not the worst job I've ever had (working on an road crew laying asphalt in the Alabama backwater during mid-summer was much worse) but I'm sick of making donuts, "fresh" bread, and lifting heavy pans until daybreak. More than that, the hours have taken a heavy toll. The day sleeping does nothing for my relationship with MBS or seeing to the care and butt-kicking of our 6-kid crew. It hasn't been a happy time here where one drowns in snow.

My brood has done fairly well adapting to the change of clime and addition of 3 siblings. One of these days I need to indulge in several posts describing the full cast of characters but until then, I'll leave it to you dear readers to let your imaginations flit about and make things up. That aside, I've been pleasantly surprised at how well all kids involved have transitioned, especially MBS's girls (they've been marvelous taking my kids under their wing). Unfortunately (as you saw in my last post), we've had to endure the worst winter in 30 years and that has led to a bit of cabin fever. Frustrations run high at times and nerves fray.

Taking a graveyard shift was one of the worst decisions I've ever made. It put a nasty chock under the tire of a new relationship as well as making me a nasty ass (I have been surly, to say the least). MBS has had to take the lion's share of caring for all the kids, a burden she shouldn't have to shoulder. A few more days of this (hopefully) and I'll be moved to days, manning a cash register.

Spring can't arrive soon enough. The forecast is calling for a winter storm warning and although the accumulations forecast measures in inches instead of feet, I think we're all done being buried by this brutal winter. As you can see from the last post, there's nowhere else to put the load. The load is on us and the rafters are creaking.

If there's a crocus emerging anwhere, it has about 5 feet of snow to push through - a record-setting flower, obviously. Enough records have been broken; it's time to mend.

The other day I saw tracks heading up to the mother-in-law's house, prints that probably belonged to a mountain lion. The winter has been hard on the critters around here. A couple days later, a black spot in the snow about 50 feet from the house marked where something had taken one of the turkeys that waddle down our roads. MBS put on her snowshoes today to take a walk around the land and surveyed the carnage and reports it was apparently a lion that killed the big bird. Later, she saw the puma in the distance, it's back arched as it leapt through the deep snow, it's graceful cat moves reduced to awkward lurches. It watched MBS as she watched it and I'm sure the psychic exchange was not one of fear but of quiet resignation, "Yeah, me too."

Up to my neck in snow & kids, thus the pain there with

2008-02-06T21:34:00.000-07:00

No children were hurt during the taking of this photograph

MBS has been wicked ill the past couple of days, my trail by fire especially since the Gods dropped another 3 feet of snow on us. The lead-off pic is no photoshop trick, it's the kids standing in the walkway to our front door (the door you would have come thru had the wedding taken place three weeks ago), sure a bit topped off with shoveling (oy) but for the most part, representative of what's hit us. To give you, the reader (I dare not use a plural there) some perspective, those cross marks in the snow is where I shoveled in - AGAIN - to prevent minor avalanches. The oldest and biggest in the pic is about 4'11" so yeah, that's about 6' of snow, much of that packed down from previous storms. And yeah, if you look in the background, you see that the snow is up to the eaves. Our first floor is under water, so to speak.

We've been waiting 3 days to get dug out; I had carte blanche on a tractor but apparently I did something that put it tits up and now that's a nonstarter. This 30-year snow has kept us close to the ranch, the kids pretty much stuck in front of the tube and me sore with moving what I can move (per the pic above, someone had to move that snow off the walk). 6 kids indoors was not as bad as you might imagine, they were actually great considering that MBS was down the past couple of days and I was mostly outside moving snow.

They stand with me in the movement to eliminate snow where snow should not be. Kind of a negative of the Republican platform.

Considering the 50-or-so dead in the South from freak storms, there's nadda to complain about here and indeed, we've held our own with aplomb, our thoughts and prayers go out to those who were hit with worse weather than this.

Still, MBS and I stepped into an agreement that included 100% more children and we've managed not to toss bodies into the snow stands for at least a huzzah. Buy us a drink or something.

Or something - sheesh.
Guy's out plowing us out near midnight, I think it's my duty to offer him some coffee. If you have pics of bigger snow, pony up or STFU, it's time for coffee and to riff a little more on what it's like to do the dad thing with six instead of three.

Even with help of all the people hanging around, we'd never have gotten that ship out of there

2008-01-20T03:11:00.000-07:00

Doh! Goddamn lazy kids, Americans, jackass tourists, titheads, what is this world coming to?

While I’m trying to figure out what needs to be said, I’ll do one of those “random 10” things, or at least random things, while we git this dun, heeyup, MBS bought me a Classic IPod for Christmas and I can finally play that game; if the list is heavy on the Nick Cave or Nellie McKay or shoe-gazing shit or what have you, forgive me, it’s a new iPod and I’m still tweaking the technology.

I’m Not – Panda Bear

I think the only problem westwards was Zeke walking in on nekkid girls, in Kingman, AZ, decent Murkun technology to help me, my last cigarette the day we left.

All 6, all on their way to the coast

Harmony in My Head - Buzzcocks

For those of you who've never smoked and imagine this as some small victory, fuck off, I'd have had your head as well

Darktown Strutter's Ball - Ella Fitzgerald

Perfect Kiss - New Order

"Where's my Perfect Kiss?" she asks

moments before being tossed onto the

Wichita Cathedral - Butthole Surfers

a City of Refuge - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Obviously, not more than child's play, hey,

heh, hrrrrrrr, hmmmmmm,

Ring Them Bells - Sufjan Stevens

or that freakin 3-dollar cotten-candy and faces hidden within....

Bodhi Sappy Weekend - Broken Social Scene
Those of us who waited decided that, afterwards, the ride wasn't nearly as good as the photo and all that...

Run Run Run - The Velvet Underground

Stop the World (And Let Me Off) - Patsy Cline

Bat You'll Fly - Animal Collective

It was fun and a long time ago, dumbo

So long, I can't remember why

It was not just the whiteness of the whale's skin but what was written on it

2008-01-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

My ass would say hello as well but it's waiting for the next frickin' foot of snow.

The cabin fever has almost passed; not completely – there are shards of me still grinning maniacally and reflecting moonlight – but the worst is over. Tomorrow promises more sun and no snow, the wee ones a full day in school, my love and I a day in Durango. Just in time, is all I have to say, the three-some feet of snow we had (and the resulting 20-hour power outage), the four days stranded inside and the eight of us wondering when the Donner Party would commence was enough to send even the most stable of us careering downhill aimed quite deliberately at the sturdiest pine. The White Noise was consuming bone and nail and thank the Gods for small favors that we’re not eating our shoes, or something.

Scarlett waves beneath her blanket because she's Image 0420, a ha, ha ha, ha ha, ah hell, hmmmm, whatever...

So yeah, I’m back here and all that, you know - THAT. Except I have 4 other people to write about now and the whole "Patriside" joke seems, well, a bit stale. The times they are indeed a'changin' or at least a wap-bap-a-loop-bap-a damn sight different. If anyone has an idea for a new blog title, by all means, give it up, I could use something besides a good smoke, don't ya' know.

And like any good smoke, save a ton for later.

So, aside from computer problems and, mainly, the logitics of moving myself and my kids here, the sky had to dump itself all over the place, massively, just to mess up my thing, this thing, why you're here reading and all that.

A whole heap o' reasons

It's all good?

Yes, all good...

To the ends of the Earth,

Through the labyrinth.

Some time later...

2007-11-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

Tough week....

X and I went to court Thursday for what we thought was the final step in our divorce. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, the state of Colorado's benefit-the-attorneys divorce system stated that we need to have an additional hearing AFTER our mandatory 90-day waiting period is up. Which means, yes, MBS and I have to postpone the wedding. Though I should have been a little more thorough in my investigation of Colorado divorce law, it just sucks that this state makes people jump through hoops in order to end a marriage. I shudder to think what the victim of abuse has to go through...

So, stay by me (and this blog) for updates.

In the meantime, we're going to Disneyland! :-D

Crashed hard, landed well, everything wonderful

2007-11-08T19:39:00.000-07:00

So much for the posting every day.

My computer is (as far as I can tell) a cold heap of silicon. At first I thought it was just the keyboard curling its little toes; certain letters weren't working. Another keyboard, however, did nothing to solve the problem and I ended my night by slamming another beer, hoping the FUBAR might be ameliorated by a sprinkling of sparkling smegma from the Fuckup Fairy.

He/She didn't visit or the smegma was on opposite mode because absolutely nothing but the power was working the next day. I tried my HP recovery disk (like patriotism, the last refuge) but it couldn't get past the "Are you sure you want to proceed?" screen. Thus, my online blackout began and it's been that way for a week.

Oh, I had limited access at work - yesterday was my last day - but most things of any interest (including Blogger and Gmail) get blocked for peurile and largely illogical reasons. As someone who has spent almost every day for the last 9 years connected in some way, the past week has been a bit disconcerting, and I found myself turning to my computer much in the same way an ex-smoker reaches for a phantom cigarette, a habit with the dint of a bad penny.

Not in Manitou Springs, obviously; tonight is really my first night of my new life. We're heading back tomorrow to fill a U-Haul (and put Scarlett up on a trailer) but for all intents and purposes, that part of my life is behind me. So indeed, landed well, where the love is abundant and dreams come true. Even if the old comp winds up in the recycle bin, it contains nothing that outshines a moment of sun here. Maybe it was time for it to die (if you believe in those kinds of karmic bookmarks), a page closed with no regrets.

Nine pee em

2007-10-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

…and eight days left (at work), another two after that and Manitou Springs is just a memory. In the meantime, trying to get everything packed or segregated for the garage sale, building a web site (soon!), taking care of kids and going to work… yes, a stressful time but a joyful one as well. Tonight calls for a few beers, some sweet nothings with MBS on the phone (soon we won’t need THAT connection) and then attempt to get the bulk of the web site completed.

MBS is my savior. This area has become (it seems) a vortex of nothingness, a black hole, and she has pulled me up into the light, given me love, given me hope, given me everything I’ve desired in life – and more.

The time to snap the bonds here is close. Although I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop (as if some malevolent force incarcerates me here), I believe the universe is finally turning in my favor and the time to manumit me has arrived. With my savior taking me by the hand, I gather up my children and journey to the Promised Land.

Just sayin’

2007-10-29T21:40:00.000-07:00

Oh, I was up way too late last night/this morning working on the wedding web site. Not tonight, my friends – and no writing tonight.

I’m that tired, heh.

Randomly generated random blahging

2007-10-28T22:05:00.000-07:00

Don’t know if you caught this last week, WH Press Secretary Dana Perino let some greenhouse gases escape from her little blonde head to bloviate about the supposed health benefits of global warming:

Sure. In some cases, there are -- look, this is an issue where I'm sure lots of people would love to ridicule me when I say this, but it is true that many people die from cold-related deaths every winter. And there are studies that say that climate change in certain areas of the world would help those individuals. There are also concerns that it would increase tropical diseases and that's -- again, I'm not an expert in that, I'm going to let Julie Gerberding testify in regards to that, but there are many studies about this that you can look into.

Um, “love to ridicule” seems a bit much; the airhead invites ridicule. If she was my daughter I’d be heartbroken with embarrassment.

As chunks of ice the size of the state of Florida, break off from the Arctic ice-sheet, the rightard’s gainsaying of Global Warming sounds more and more like the Chewbacca Defense. Speaking of which, I was more inclined to go out and chase fairies and unicorns than believe the Rockies would be anything more than soundly swept by the Sox.

It's almost time to harvest fallen leaves to feed the dump, orange and black bags piled high in a stinking maw.

And so, brothers and sisters, we, you, I (and hopefully, them), breathe, breathe, think and invite the faeries and unicorns sit in and chant an excerpt of a Samhain ritual, Invocation to the Guardian of the Gate and Sage:

You are the echo we hear at the forest deep,
And the warmth of the sun upon our face.
You are the ageless sound of the oceans roar
And the power that is felt in the wild place.
You are the wheat that rustles low on the breeze
And the spark that ignites the hearth fire.
You are the passion and the power and the ecstasy
That is reached at the end of desire.
You are the squirrel who plays games in the treetops
And the young stag who runs wild and free.
You are the clatter of hooves on the old gravel road
And the strength of the old oak tree.
You are the wrinkles of the old crippled man
and in the child, young and strong.
You are in the joy of union of love
In the passionate kiss, slow and long.
You are the lover, my father, and the Ancient One.
Take my hand and teach me the dance,
Of the change of the seasons and the eye of the storm
of fertility, of death, love and romance,
We remember always as your children to be merry
To hear the music, both dark and light
We hold sacred your realm and all it contains
As we dance to your tune in the night.

...and there's always next season, it's a young team; expect us at Coors Field when the warm comes back.

Until then, there's Wolf Creek a mere half hour away, where next season always means "just more fun".

So, I said I was perfect?

2007-10-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

A little misstep – sorry. Thursday night my internet went down and last night I was busy boxing things up and talking to MBS until 2 AM. The boxes are piling up and I’m doing with less and less. Actually, I’m pretty pleased at how well it’s been going and I don’t feel too badly about multi-tasking within the midst of this to design the wedding web site.

Naturally, no time to write.

I suggest you go here and read this NYT Magazine piece on evangelicals starting to actually act like Christians and rejecting the Falwell/Robertson/Dobson swine that have given Christianity a very bad name.

Today the president’s support among evangelicals, still among his most loyal constituents, has crumbled. Once close to 90 percent, the president’s approval rating among white evangelicals has fallen to a recent low below 45 percent, according to polls by the Pew Research Center. White evangelicals under 30 — the future of the church — were once Bush’s biggest fans; now they are less supportive than their elders. And the dissatisfaction extends beyond Bush. For the first time in many years, white evangelical identification with the Republican Party has dipped below 50 percent, with the sharpest falloff again among the young, according to John C. Green, a senior fellow at Pew and an expert on religion and politics. (The defectors by and large say they’ve become independents, not Democrats, according to the polls.)

Some claim the falloff in support for Bush reflects the unrealistic expectations pumped up by conservative Christian leaders. But no one denies the war is a factor. Christianity Today, the evangelical journal, has even posed the question of whether evangelicals should "repent" for their swift support of invading Iraq.

"Even in evangelical circles, we are tired of the war, tired of the body bags," the Rev. David Welsh, who took over late last year as senior pastor of Wichita’s large Central Christian Church, told me. "I think it is to the point where they are saying: ‘O.K., we have done as much good as we can. Now let’s just get out of there.’ "

An encouraging article.

Ho-hum, if said by enough people over and over again, might sound like ‘om’

2007-10-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

I’m tired and I miss MBS. The Sox embarrassed the Rox in Game 1 of the world series. And there’s lots of boxes to be packed. I’m certain you can do the math.

Saying something

2007-10-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

It seems pretty damned nuts that although we’re still a little over a year away from a presidential election, the campaigns have been dragging on since last January. Small wonder our system of government and politics is so screwed up. Almost two years of this crap infuriates even the most dedicated political junkie, yours truly included. Polls and palaver and dimwitted punditry non-stop - that the general electorate is exasperated by the endless circus shouldn’t arch an eyebrow.

In the interest of saving billions of dollars, the relative sanity of most Americans, and the ozone, elections need to be restricted to six weeks. If a candidate announces prior to the agreed upon start date, they’re disqualified; any money raised prior to that date will be considered illegal. Any candidate who can’t build support or a decent platform in six weeks doesn’t deserve be in office. Indeed, restricting the election cycle to six weeks would eliminate a lot of the pandering and triangulation that pollutes the whole process.

The tragedy is, the dog and pony show distracts from the very real fact that this country is in crisis. The thugs and thieves who have looted our public trust (and coffers) the past seven years need to be stood in front of a firing squad, not just tossed out of power. The sad-ass state of the nation, the suffering of its children, the shattered promise of the country I grew up with... I'm sick of the whole damn process but it's all we have (short of revolution).

So return to my previous post, please. Keep hope alive.

Time to deliver

2007-10-22T22:11:00.000-07:00

I thought this was cool, social scientists say just 11% of us make a difference:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stacey-lawson/are-you-part-of-the-11_b_69285.html

Read it and ask yourself if you are one of the 11%...

Sunday/snow day nothing-to-say edition

2007-10-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

Snow today, the first of the season, about 5 inches of it. There really hasn’t been much of a fall – I mean the leaves have turned and everything but the weather has been decidedly summer-ish – and so the cold and snow came somewhat as a relief. Until a couple weeks ago there was no snow on Pikes Peak, by far the latest in the year that the Peak has gone without snow in all the time I have lived here. Needless to say, the extended summer temperatures and no apparent autumn had been disconcerting.

Not nearly as disconcerting, apparently, as the news that Albus Dumbledore is gay.

If you were wondering how the hayseeds were handling this news, you need to read this for a good laugh (while you’re there, poke around a bit for their hilarious take on the fishist attack on Banned Books Week).

*sigh* Ah well. At least there’s a purpose in the universe (per mathematical equation). To which I say:

Blahg-ing

2007-10-20T21:35:00.000-07:00

Bleah.

Back in Manitou Springs for my final bid of loneliness and to put in the last stretch at work. Boxing things up and getting ready to sell the farm before I leave for Pagosa Springs three weeks from now. And as I said in my last post, this situation hardly makes me feel happy about posting every day but there you have it.

I left Pagosa a little after 8 this morning and drove straight for the 4 ½ hours it takes to get here. Took in my mail, unloaded my car and went straight to work. In a few hours I’ll be on the phone with MBS, transported by her sweet voice, missing her terribly. Needless to say, I’ll be too preoccupied – and too exhausted – to spend any time here.

Yes, we’re too adorable… and so is this:

Down the road a bit.. no a bit more... um, just a little more... almost there...

2007-10-19T21:18:00.000-07:00

Out at a gathering hosted by MBS' friends, the couples and almost everyone's kids, which wasn't nearly as dreadful as it sounds. MBS has some very cool friends. We gathered to eat, play, jam, drink, laugh - all accomplished beyond expectations. Children with penny-whistles, beating on drums, belting it out on the couch, marshmallows melted on sticks fired in a wood-burning stove. Ladies gossiping and laughing in a tight huddle while the boys toasted a bowl in the laundry room.

NOT standard suburban fare, thank god.

Though gods were there.

Tomorrow I have to return north and finish up that chapter of my life. I do not want to go. My home is here and what I have there feels like the tail-end of a flop, where I surf a couch, waiting for the inevitable ascent to tomorrow. With the exception of my kids, everything is here and soon, even they will be here so there will be no reason to ever leave again. A night like tonight reminds me where my heart is, where my home is, where I'm meant to be. Tomorrow I'll be at my not-home, working at my soon to be not-job, not happy, not with MBS.

Fortunately, it's not long in all that but until then, prepare for rather testy posts. The next three weeks will be busy and bitchy.

Making out with Mara, drunk on wine

2007-10-18T18:11:00.000-07:00

All your pumpkins are belong to us and by the way, they beep when the best of everything bursts through the center

So this whole posting every day thing isn't supposed to start until November but I figured I'd flex my limbs, curl my toes, chop all the hair out of my nose in order to get ready for the... whatever it is that posting once a day gets me. A nifty
thing on my blog roll and two or three people who never read me and - after reading me - realize there's better ways to kill a minute... sweet.

I rise to the challenge, even if I'm a wet willow branch that bends in the wind

2007-10-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

I could have taken the day off but then how would it have finished?

Contrary to all rumors (that I started), I am in fact now posting every day until the first of December. The persistent yet otherwise magnificent MizMlle challenged me to NaBloPoMo (illegal in 6 other states, still) and I accept, the taste of a nation (or the tastes of a weird few) be damned.

So you might get a lot of this:

or this and that.

With one small rock in place, we are a step closer to a new adventure

2007-10-16T14:21:00.000-07:00

So yeah, I was fooling around with this woman's finger last Friday night...

Since nobody noticed that I failed to post a Random Friday thingy (in fact, no has has seemed to notice that I haven't posted anything at all in the past week and a half), I'll just kind of skip over the not posting part and pretend I'm my usual chatty self. Or not.

I've had bigger fish to fry (and more on that in a bit) than updating here. MBS arrived with her sparkling trio of daughters on Friday for a big weekend in my neck of the woods. My mother graciously hosted a slumber party with combined broods while MBS and I stepped out for dinner at one of Manitou Springs' nicer restaurants for an evening of romance and big deals. See, although MBS and I had pretty much decided that we would be married January 5, 2008 and agreed that together forever was where our hearts resided, I hadn't gotten around to "the official asking" task. So it was a dinner with a mission.

We chose the "Old World" appetizer and the Seafood entree' platter, electing to go with their 3-wine matches for the various courses (with my nerves a little frazzled, I had to opt for another glass). Everything was superb, delicious although the quality of the food, wine, or service was a distant third to what was truly on my mind: the marvelous company I had for dinner (my best friend ever, my soulmate, the most beautiful woman in the world) and of course, the task at hand (pun indeed intended, mea culpa).

Right before the chocolate fondue and the tawny port, I palmed the ring, got up from my seat and moved to MBS, reeling with anxiety. Yeah, I knew she'd say "yes" but still, it was a huge deal, a lifetime-defining moment. Before her, I knelt on one knee and took her hand in mine and said, "Um... I have the wrong hand, don't I?"

MBS giggled, I think she thought my nervousness was kind of cute, and offered me the correct hand. Slipping the ring on her finger, I asked if she would do me the honor of being my wife and live with me forever. I hope it goes without saying that she responded positively especially considering the post from a weeks back.

I'm in Pagosa Springs now, having followed MBS and her fabulous girls home after the elation of that evening out. I want to thank everyone for their suggestions on the color scheme for our wedding website (I'll post the URL as soon as I get it done), we decided to go with white, red, and black (something to do with Celtic tradition). In the flurry that is moving a family and planning a wedding, I hope I can find time to post here every few days or so but I think you all will understand if I don't get it done.Anyway, I don't have Photoshop here to clean up the two dark pics our waitress took with my phone at the end of our dinner...

You'll have to help me decide which pic is better.

However, I think you all can decide that she is, in fact, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Friday random yadda yadda

2007-10-05T19:20:00.000-07:00

There's a ga-jillion reasons I'm looking forward to moving to Pagosa Springs but I must confess that a small guilty pleasure is the existance of a dishwasher. As I type this, a sink full of dirty dishes moans my name like some dope-fiend distant relation and I'm doing all I can to ignore the imprecations of the stack teetering at sinks edge. We wash by hand here in Manitou Springs, a hard scrabble life. This second glass of Shiraz is helping me tune out the din of dishes tired of posing as seventh-grade biology projects.

The midget mafia is in the other room, squeeling like nitrous fiends, batting an inflatable skeleton around (that they've named, for no good reason, "Bobby"), pretending the puffy bit of kitsch possesses some potential for terror. The mafia browbeat me into putting up Halloween decorations with a threat somewhere between "we'll put them up ourselves" and "pity if something should happen to your fingers sometime during the night". So, there's glowing plastic pumpkins in the windows and orange icicle lights hanging from the eaves although I'm not certain what orange-colored faux icicles have to do with Halloween. When the Boss tells you what you gotta do, you don't ask which windows get the goofy bat stick-ons.

It's not bad enough that I'm getting my balls busted by festivity infested firkins and fuzzy flatware but I also need to get a wedding web site together, whatever colors we need eludes me at the moment. Once upon a time, before the Dot Bomb, I worked as a web designer and was damn good at it. And I guess I could do that but I'm still wondering if I do this well in the least, this with 'the blogging'. All that's out there - what color does that get? These aren't questions that should be asked when one's balls are smashed, but here they are, nonetheless.

What colors would you go with?

I'm not too proud, see.

When other bloggers talk about their random 10 or whatever, they're talking about their iPod shuffle. Hey, if you're going to sit there watching Murder, She Wrote, you need to know how this all goes down.

I'm too poor to own an iPod. Nothing's random but this, here.

Another Hell in the Here & Now

2007-10-04T18:57:00.000-07:00

Boycott Chevron & Total filling stations until their companies quit doing business with the brutal regime in Burma

Hopefully I got your attention with that, the extent of anything a worthless blogger like me can do for the people of Burma.

I've been staring at that last sentence for a half hour and now that I'm typing again (in this weirdly meta-meta-way), it occurs to me that the problem is not having anything to say but wanting to say too much, all at once, frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, veins bulging in my neck and forehead. There are times I want to be Superman and use those powers to make a difference, fly to Burma and slap the crap out of the soldiers until they see that firing on their own people is wrong, criminal, a one-way ticket to hell; I want to round up the junta and toss them far out into the sea; I want to have the CEO of Chevron quivering and crying on the ground in front of me, kicking him in the nuts until his ears bleed.

For those of you who were just rescued from a collapsed mine, Vicki fills you in, classier and with more restraint, natch. So does Amanda:

Our hearts are with those who struggle in Burma because they must, because you will never be wholly owned as long as you continue to struggle. It’s easy for me to say that, though, isn’t it? Which is why writing this is hard; my awe of those who put their lives on the line is humbling. May we all have the courage of our convictions as those who struggle against the military dictatorship do.

Read them and then see what kind of brutality they're talking about.

It's really hard to type with clenched fists. I just want to kick in a door and smash the little painted clay statue of capitalism lit with candles, glittering with the chipped pittances of the poor, shining on an altar in every glass monstrosity casting its long shadow. Every one of us here immersed in the glow of these photons spun to us through a few holes in the wall seem to owe our alliance to Chevron and/or Time/Warner and/or Disney/ABC/CapCities and/or/and/or/and the transfat empire but I can assure you, we can shake off our chains (um, except, I suspect that if you're reading me, shaking off chains isn't usually your motivation).

Don't buy anything from Chevron or Total, that's all I'm saying. So glad I live in a society where I can say what I want, a society of laws and compassion.

Camomile Tea

2007-10-01T00:08:00.000-07:00

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.

~ Katherine Mansfield

The leaves are turning and mornings bite, a nip sharp enough to make me take a breath of it inside and convince me that a coat has a place in my future. Every year I wish summer would endure and every year those wishes get whooshed away with the dervishes of dust and leaves that spin eastward down my street. The windows get closed at night and there’s pumpkins to be carved.

This year is different, though: it’s my first samhain, be gentle with me.

Prime me with camomile tea.

Finish me with mulled wine.

Never pass by

2007-09-27T21:54:00.000-07:00

About a block away from where my children used to have day care is a post that flashes a crossing warning for school kids. It’s not normally something that would capture my attention but I noticed it the first time when I dropped my kids off at daycare. The post was covered with plastic flowers, ribbons, photos, small toys and teddy bears piled up at its base. About four feet up was a piece of cardboard about 2 foot square with a picture of a young girl, dark hair with a slight wave and black eyes shining with the glee of being, her broad grin both loving and mischievous, a missing tooth telling the world she was probably in first or second grade.

Scrawled around her photo in a deliberate, pained script were phrases of love and sorrow, beliefs of a better world and the certainty of an ache that would never go away. One cold morning, the horizon tinged with scattered hues of autumn, I stood reading those words, tracing the outline of her face with my fingertip as I gently wiped the grime of traffic from her photo. I could not touch her, my fingers merely moving across the projection of what she had been and what her family wanted me to know of her, a stranger passing by and taking the time to hear their lament. The story was clear and sad in that rarified fall air. I could not touch her but she and her family had touched me.

Months later, the post was clear, everything stripped away so that only cold steel reflected the colors of passing cars rushing into lives indifferent to what had been there before. City workers, I thought, ordered by some mindless bureaucrat to “beautify” an otherwise ugly strip of pavement where drivers blazed by with single-minded intention and kids crossed in peril. My sadness grew; not just that the memorial had been taken down (and for no good reason, I thought) but with the thought that she was now forgotten as life marched relentlessly, heartlessly along.

Today I was supposed to go visit the grave of my son who passed ten years ago but unfortunately, my head was down and I was swimming upstream, fighting mindless bureaucracies, driving with single-minded intention, heedless of love or lament or plastic flowers laid out to remind me of my own ache. It’s not that I had forgotten (not a day goes by when I don’t think of him) but I was too busy rushing headlong into every challenge that presented itself. Every time I hit the canvas, I got up for more, bloodied but resolute, angrier and more determined. The fire in my gut told me that I would end up victorious and in some ways, I had. Unfortunately, that fire took what I needed to sustain in my heart. Fighting made me as ugly as the boulevard that cannot sustain the memory of a life cut too short or families who bother to build a monument to love.

Rekindling the spark in my heart, I’m reminded that my own memorial does not reside on (or in) a post, or in a graveyard. Three beautiful children I’ve raised, the love that I offer to MBS and her three beautiful children, his spirit, love; his spirit thrives. Indeed, it's that energy that commands me to share the abundance, his legacy, not the stone in the ground, the bit of cardboard that says nothing and everything.

That and then sharing even more with MBS and her three beautiful children is as good as any pyramid or a cathedral. Noble taught me many things, the most important being that I need to stop and read at those places where teddy bears have been piled up and plastic flowers have been sewn lovingly into the fabric of a painful memory, that there are many more important things than to answer each petty battle with a flint face. He taught me that the fire in my gut diminishes the light in my heart and for that, he will always be loved; he will always give me pause and require me to stop and stand on the side of a road to weep.

About a week ago, I noticed that the pole had been done up again. Fortunately, for the same girl. The fire in my heart blazed as I considered how a family had taken their own fire and turned the decree of one more heartless bureaucrat into fuel for their hearts. Good for them, I thought, and my mind turned from where I was going to where I had been. I was no longer driving by with my own mindless, heartless direction but set on a path that did not ask me to fight or react out of anger but just do what needed to be done, accumulate teddy bears and plastic flowers and place them all where all could see that my love would overcome the need to fight. I miss my Noble so much (and such an aptly named child!) and tomorrow, 10 years and a day after I last held him in my arms, I will stop on the side of the road and weep.

The Times They are A-Changing

2007-09-24T23:09:00.000-07:00

Yes, it’s been over a month since I threw up my last post (yes, the allusion to vomit was intentional) but I’m not back because I believe I owe an apology. My life has been full and happy and exciting and for that, I refuse to offer amends. What I will offer is an explanation for why Patriside has been and the promise that this little space won’t be as bone dry like it’s been the past few months.

Some of you (the three or four of you with the questionable taste for reading me) have no doubt noticed mention of MBS, My Binary Star, the love of my life. Despite my innate skepticism and atheism, I’ve tossed the term “soulmate” around without irony or sarcasm. From the first moment I chatted with MBS (a giddy and delirious conversation that stretched into the wee hours and was reluctantly terminated in deference to the need for sleep) I knew she was special in a way that rocked my world, opened my heart and mind, special in a way that far exceeded anyone I had ever met before.

When we finally met a few weeks later, all my hopes and dreams were confirmed. MBS came to Manitou Springs (a 4 ½ drive from her place) to meet me at the legendary Loop Mexican restaurant. I got a small table near the window to watch for her and as long as I live, I’ll always remember the vision of her crossing the street to meet me. My first reaction was total awe, her beauty was stunning. Almost immediately after that I was hit with doubt and fear: how could a woman this gorgeous have any attraction for me? Then, sadness as I worried that our weeks of connection on the phone, text messages and emails would be washed away into a bad memory hole as she got a good look at me and said, “You’re a nice guy Jim but not really my type…”

Fortunately that was not the case (and other than finding me attractive MBS has exquisite taste) and the rest is, as they say, history. The moment I met MBS that night online, my life changed, for the better. My lifelong dream of an eternal passion with an intelligent, beautiful, sexy and loving woman looked like a possibility. Our first weekend together made it abundantly clear to me that not only was my dream within my grasp but that woman I’d always dreamed of would also be my best friend. The entire weekend felt as though I’d spent glorious hours reconnecting with a long-lost kindred spirit, it felt as though we’d known each other our entire lives.

Every time we get together it just gets better and better. Since late February we’ve been together over a dozen times (I just returned from 4 days with her and her children) and the more we’re together, the more our passion grows – and the more the longing aches as we pine for one another, crave to be together.

So it should come as no surprise to ya’ll that we’re going to be married. January 5, 2008 at our house in Pagosa Springs. Yes, I’m leaving my cool little town of Manitou Springs and realizing another long time dream of mine, moving farther into the mountains. I’ll be moving there in mid-November and will bringing the kids down in late-December to start school there in early January (the week MBS and I will be married!). We’re blending our family: MBS has 3 girls of her own (ages 12, 9, and 4) so it’s kind of a Brady Bunch situation. This blog started off with the subtitle “A single full-time dad figures it out” and that was changed after X and I went back to shared custody because I felt dishonest referring to myself as “full-time dad” (even though it can feel full-time). Still, when I’ve bothered to write, the emphasis of this blog has been, by-and-large, my life as a single dad. Obviously, that’s about to change and MBS has suggested that my writing will soon reflect the trials and tribulations of a newlywed husband and father of a blended family. One assumes that hilarity will ensue.

My reluctance to write about MBS had to do with a silly superstition that writing about relationships automatically jinxed the works. With a wedding date set and absolute certainty that MBS will be the last happy thought I have as I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’s clear I’m far beyond the influence of a jinx and my superstition was, yes, silly.

The view from our deck in Pagosa Springs

Time to change this blog. I am head over heels in love and about to be married for the final time, forever, for good and all. Hopefully I’ll be writing more about this new love and new life, my new family, my new locale, my new lease on life. There’s a lot to say and I’m glad to be over my irrational fear (and I firmly believe that fear is the opposite of love). For those intrepid few who have stayed with me, these upcoming months should provide a lot of material for me to gab about here.

And to my newest reader, MBS, these next few months will express some small measure of my love for you. The times, they are indeed a-changin’ and baby, so much for the better. The change here will (I hope) document our journey together towards a magnificent forever.

People with incredible intelligence and motivation and a lot more time on their hands

2007-08-12T02:21:00.000-07:00

oh, they Blog here:

Hope Blogging

Go there and thank me lately.

That is all.

Didn't go, didn't get the goddamn shirt

2007-07-30T00:39:00.000-07:00

Goddamnit, I was supposed to be at BlogHer but circumstance confounded me (Grace losing her dad, for one) and I wasn't able to finally meet the true owner of my heart (though, I understand she hooked up HUGE). It's not like they needed me there, running around in my speed-o and spilling rum and cokes over everyone but still, it would have been fun to piss on the baby leopard at the chicago zoo and pound on Amy Sullivan's door at 4 AM screaming about her aborting our baby, especially after all the acid we'd done together. The bitch was insatiablee on acid, would go all night, wake the goddamn neighbors. C'mon Amy, PLEEEEEEZE.

Oops - Amy Sedaris. Shit. That's uncool. Too many rum and cokes - sorry. After security would escort me outside (and what an idiotic mistake - Sedaris being so much finer than Sullivan), I'd have stumbled back to the zoo to piss on the baby leopard - again, mama leopard be damned.

Cuz I roll like that, yo. Mamacat awed by my huge schwang waving around, pissing on her babies, wide-eyed and afraid, wondering if I'd hit her over the head with that monster and dead to the ankles afraid I'd poke her. Hard. Pissing on kittens and unafraid of getting clawed and bit. Especially by Amy Sullivan, not Amy Sedaris.

Another reason they kept me away from coming to BlogHer

David Brooks, are you Harvard educated kids in Iraq?

2007-07-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

Well, Scarlett wasn't ready and we never made our visit to the MBS villa. On Tuesday night (on my way to gather my brood), the alternator belt snapped; after I replaced the belt on Yuesday, the fuel pump went yesterday. I must have some kind of karma because when I intended to visit MBS before, my Audi decided to start overheating and once it was in the shop, I learned the timing housing was about to go. As much as I want to (and need to) get to where MBS lives, the universe has been clear about what I needed to do to prevent being stranded on some desert stretch of road. Still, that hasn't prevented me from feeling worthless for not being able to get to MBS, and my karmic coincidence hasn't come without a psychic cost. We can equivocate about how well it worked out that my cars have taken a dump the day before I was about to hit the road (so didn't die somewhere miles from nowhere) but I nonetheless can't avoid the thought that something is holding me back.

Maybe it's just poverty; that certainly makes sense. Despite what the useful idiot David Brooks says, this isn't a smashing, rockin' economy. Those of us who are struggling to just get by (or know those who are), we're not interested in knowing that the top 1% are living fat. If everything's so fanfuckingtastic, where's ours?

Bug-B-Gon No Mo!

2007-07-21T00:21:00.000-07:00

In the continuing saga of this marvelously charmed summer, my long-time toy has come home to me.

She (“Scarlett”) and I have been together for 19 years and have traveled all over, often on bailing wire and snot, duct tape and spare rubber, mostly with me chanting, "go Scarlett, go," a mantra that works, sometimes, but usually it involving me and my scraped up knuckles rammmed against hot metal, me growling against her and her pissing brake fluid and attitude, rattling ass in that proprietary Veedub chitter that announces a bug like a cicada. In the bonnet (not trying to be some pretentious anglophile prick but I can't think of a better term for it) is still a bedroll, tarp, cooking & fishing gear, sundry survival items (i.e. pipe fittings and faucet screens), and a WWII surplus camouflage net: I can pull over almost anywhere (and I did, many times), throw the net over her and shove in some branches, find some solitude, get a huge buzz on, or just create a quiet place to rest my head. Before the kids, it was more often than not that I'd let her spontaneously take me somewhere into the mountains where I'd never been, a couple days and nights free, me free, everything free but gas and beer and a package of hotdogs. With the engine in the rear and the incredible amount of torque that goes with that, she took me places no regular car (or even trucks) could go. We've made it up many jeep-trails and never once was I scared we'd get stuck.

Today, as we drove north, Lilly asked if Scarlett talks to me. Feeling the vibration of the steering wheel, the torque flexing as I shifted, I had to say "yes," she does, she's happy, tickled that the children who played in her while she stood idle and broken are now enjoying the wind rushing through her windows. I talk to her, she talks to me and I think, for most things, we understand each other.

A couple years ago, I dated a goth girl for about five minutes. She needed a car and I foolishly lent Scarlett to her, believing her when she said she knew how to use a shifter. Some small part of me believes Scarlett was miffed at my promiscuous palming her off but whatever the reason, she refused to move, her clutch flacid and worthless. Two years of slave-wages had her silent and still in my driveway, weeds growing around her tires and through her bumper, sad and forsaken, a plaything for my kids but not for me.

And now she's back, purring perfectly. We're taking her south this week to see MBS and her girls, a 4 hour drive through desert and mountains. I'll pack a lot Capris Sun, coloring books, and soft toys. We'll leave early to get through the desert while the day is cool, hit the mountains by late-morning. No DVD, no A/C, just us and some road songs and long looks out the window where imaginations run free. I'll post some pics later in the week.

I am a happy man.

Out of the Burbs and into the pit 7/8/07

2007-07-10T12:32:00.000-07:00

...and you will know us by the mud on our Chucks

The universe was shining brightly Sunday as my Binary Star and I blazed to Denver for the Warped Tour. Almost sixty bands on five stages, none of them on the bill to induce a meditative mood. Considering the skull-smashing hangovers we were both nursing (resulting from the too-much-fun we'd shared on Saturday night), meditation was about as welcome as menudo (both the soup AND the band).

A perfect punk vibe, all DYI and seat of our pants: the tix hadn't arrived in MBS's mailbox by Saturday (we had to arrange for alternates at Will Call), we woke up late (see above, RE: near-fatal hangover), when we arrived at the hotel the room wasn't ready, it took FOREVER to get a cab and MBS missed one of the "must sees" on her list, Tiger Army (I took a punch in the shoulder for that one). Intrepid orbs us, we plunged headlong into the crowds and had one of the best times of my life, ever.

The first stop was the beer tent (overpriced watery crap) to take the edge off our hangovers. Since necessity breeds desperation, we drained a couple of plastic cups without complaint - hell, it was with a sigh of relief. Got a couple more cupfuls and headed off to see the tail end of Big D and the Kid's Table set, a ska/punk outfit. Wandering some more, we finally made it to The Line-Up Board
where we were finally able to get oriented as to who was where, when and all that (though I admit I was pretty much disoriented all day). You can probably blow the pic up and see most of the band names; short of that, I can tell you our next band was Pennywise which, two songs into the, the producers shut down due to the impending thunderstorm.

The skies opened up and really dumped. Naturally, we grabbed a couple of beers and took refuge from the pouring rain under a Miller

You can't see it in the pic but rain was streaming down the bill of my cap and watering down my already watery beer (note to Warped Tour people: get us some microbrew!). The storm lasted about an hour and people huddled where they could

although I'm not sure a tree is the place I'd want to stand during a thunderstorm, even if there wasn't much lightning. Needless to say, we weren't rained out and Pennywise took the stage again - probably my favorite band of the day.

Yeah, blurry (a phone pic ferchrisesake) but you can see I was right up on the pit and was getting jostled a lot. And yeah, this old man did go into the pit (during Bad Religion) and I have a scab on my elbow from getting knocked to the pavement. Two guys were right there to lift me up and throw me back into the eddy which was totally cool slam-dance etiquette and warmed my heart considerably. I didn't crowd surf, though; hell, I'm OLD!!!

The next few bands didn't do much for us so we spent some time walking around, checking out booths, drinking more beer. The place was a maze - and amazing - we

eventually ended up at the Pepper table where I got a shirt and CD signed for MBS. Their set was fun, punk-reggae from Hawaii.

More fun :-D MBS and me...

Finally, the headliners Bad Religion... again, too fuzzy but I think you get a sense of how much energy - LOVING ENERGY - was there for all to share.

And as the sun set on Invesco

we bid goodbye to one of the most excellent days ever...

....oh, but what a night!!!

"I am IRONY man...."

2007-07-07T04:53:00.000-07:00

Doooo Doooooooooooooooooooo.....

Duh duh dadadada DUH dadada DUH da DUH DUH

Just wondering when children of privilege feel the least bit icky when they post Mission of Burma up on their site and not recall that the barb was meant for them.

Wot? Hello...

G Is for Not Just One George

Gilbert and his brother, plus the monkey,
Plus the Boy, plus the place to touch,
Plus the force in a high-speed plane at upper altitude.
Then there is the grape we learned to drink

And the gas we loved to guzzle and the nightmare
Of a president we suffered to the world
When he looked into the gorge between true and facile
And said, Bring them on. Sad, sad,

Sad going world nowhere.
"They" say curiosity is what keeps us going.
(The girl who only repeats what she hears
On the NPR smacks her gum

And fingers her Hop-along gun in its holster;
She purchased it in August on eBay.
Graphic novels are all she'll read, she says,
But she's lying. At night she reads Goethe

And studies the German way
Of saying her gutturals.
Get your hands out of the gutter, Girlie.
She doesn't dare look his way but only spits

Out her gum into a tissue. She has "issues"—
Obviously.) And Gandhi, who can forget him?
Although clearly some have. And an earlier war's grudge.
Does anyone's mind go there anymore? The jungle

Heat, the endless night cicada cacophony.
The sick whir of the rotors, men clinging
To landing skids, sweat drizzling down
Along every subtle pattern a spine can possibly make,

The hovercraft adrift, pirouetting above
The American Embassy. Yes, Virginia, it is Saigon
I'm speaking of. And, yes, you're so right.
After a while, the mind goes silent.

Even though there's always a bid in, and the crying
Of another proffered lot. Another other voice echoing itself
As the gong of the inevitable "Going, going, gone"
While someone crumples over somewhere and—

We gasp, as if we didn't comprehend it would end
This way nor what Dylan meant years ago
When he played guitar
And said we wouldn't need a weatherman.

Get it going on for our friends and family who never served, say you? I have plenty friends and family serving who hate this war (and our retard president) who are kind of sick of them, separated by degrees, yet not doing one goddamn thing to get them that sacrifice out of the sandbox.

Wave that flag, wave it wide and high

2007-07-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

One of the bursts from Red Mountain

Picking myself up from yesterday's full-on psychotic ramble, we strolled down to the park for barbecued buffalo flesh, balloon animals, and a park full of over-priced crap. It was a perfect 4th of July, probably the best Independence Day I've ever spent; music and love and children running wild for whatever moments they have left as innocents in their here and now, all that which we'd sell our souls for, just to possess a fraction. We danced, we dipped our toes in the stream,

climbed to new heights,

and danced together as local bands played folky/swing stuff in the midst of a hail storm.

I hope your fourth was as full of love, fun, and free of the shit that Bush/Cheney have sunk our country under, participles dangling withstanding and Constitution compromised.

Oh yeah - here's me:

(via http://www.simpsonsmovie.com/main.html)

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow

2007-07-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

Happy time, yes, as I said yesterday, summertime and the livin’ is easy, everything sweet as pink lemonade. Tomorrow will be a blast (of course, please excuse the pun) and our hoard will be terrorizing my tiny town, making the sidewalks sticky with spilled soda and tufts of cotton candy. Manitou Springs sponsors a big buffalo barbecue in the park and we’ll be there, enjoying the day, waiting for the fireworks, celebrating another year of our great country.

Happy time, yes, and yet I am furious, enraged by the lawlessness of Bush and enraged by the Eloi stupidity of our Washington elites and bovine press corpse. Patting themselves on the back for looking out for themselves, their well-connected pals, and how that's been achieved on the backs - and the blood - of honest Americans.

A little over 13 years ago I made a stupid mistake, I was busted for possession of a small amount of meth. For that I received a felony that has haunted me ever since. Fortunately, my current employer only asks about crimes from the past 7 years so it was overlooked (aside from speeding tickets, my record is spotless the past 13 years). I didn't lie to a grand jury, I didn't out an undercover CIA operative, I did my time like a man and put my past behind me. Fuckwit Bush did not commute my sentence.

Before I collapse into a shrill and incoherent rant, I'll let what Keith Olbermann said tonight speak for me:

And now, when just one cooked book gets corrected by an honest auditor…

When just one trampling of the inherent and inviolable “fairness” of government is rejected by an impartial judge…

When just one wild-eyed partisan is stopped by the figure of blind justice…

This President decides that he, and not the law, must prevail.

I accuse you, Mr. Bush, of lying this country into war.

I accuse you of fabricating in the minds of your own people, a false implied link between Saddam Hussein and 9/11.

I accuse you of firing the generals who told you that the plans for Iraq were disastrously insufficient.

I accuse you of causing in Iraq the needless deaths of 3,586 of our brothers and sons, and sisters and daughters, and friends and neighbors.

I accuse you of subverting the Constitution, not in some misguided but sincerely-motivated struggle to combat terrorists, but instead to stifle dissent.

I accuse you of fomenting fear among your own people, of creating the very terror you claim to have fought.

I accuse you of exploiting that unreasoning fear, the natural fear of your own people who just want to live their lives in peace, as a political tool to slander your critics and libel your opponents.

I accuse you of handing part of this republic over to a Vice President who is without conscience, and letting him run roughshod over it.

And I accuse you now, Mr. Bush, of giving, through that Vice President, carte blanche to Mr. Libby, to help defame Ambassador Joseph Wilson by any means necessary, to lie to Grand Juries and Special Counsel and before a court, in order to protect the mechanisms and particulars of that defamation, with your guarantee that Libby would never see prison, and, in so doing, as Ambassador Wilson himself phrased it here last night, of you becoming an accessory to the obstruction of justice.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the ideal of what my country promises and try to forget what it has become under the corrupt leadership of George W. Bush. I wish you all a joyous Fourth and may God have mercy on our president.

No cure for the summertime blues

2007-07-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

This has been a long time between posts and I wonder if there’s really any reason to post. Over the past few weeks, I’ve wondered if I should continue this – I’ve felt like I have nothing to say, that there’s no real reason for this blog. It’s not that I’m miserable or anything, Quite the contrary, I am happier than I have been in years, perhaps ever. The job I have now (although not in my field) pays very well, is employee-focused, and doesn’t send me home limp and emotionally shattered. I’ve been dating someone who meets and exceeds every quality I’d associate with the concept of “soulmate” (it doesn’t hurt that I also find her stunning, a goddess). So much of this blog has shown me whining about how dismal my life has been and I was all too ready to spill that out here on your screens. Now that things are one big ice-cream sundae, I have been tight-lipped, as it were.

Part of that is superstition. Funny how an atheist like myself will give credence to silly beliefs but honestly, I am afraid that I write about the good things, I’ll somehow jinx that by merely making it real here in the blogosphere. Maybe that’s from a deeper belief that what’s good in my life is merely a dream and that by writing about it will shatter the illusion but I’m circumspect about going into detail about those aspects of my life.

I’m also trying to write a novel and that seems to be drawing energy off of what I’d normally expend here at this little dive. As notes and sketches come together, I’ll give the three or four of you who read me a little preview.

And finally – is there a mixmania! Going on? I have to check my archives, I’m pretty sure we had a cool theme this time but I’ve spaced stuff out here (for reasons I mentioned above).

Hey, it’s summer – too nice to be inside on the web or composing blog posts. Enjoy the weather.

Milestones and millstones

2007-06-04T23:58:00.001-07:00

At the end of the summer, Zeke starts kindergarten.

Damn, when I started this, he was still making massive messes in diapers (which I avoided mentioning, thankyouverymuch) and now we're here, with him starting school. What a long, strange trip it's been.

I don't have much to say, really - finishing my parent's yard (I swear, pics in July), working loads of OT - my life is going swimmingly. As I told the binary star in my newly sweet system, I think I've swept all the karmic junk into the gutter, the past is dribbling into the sewer hole where the kids catch air on their skateboards.

To KC - the birds are at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. To everyone else - enjoy your summer, I know I will. Peace.

Of melodies pure and true

2007-05-25T22:09:00.000-07:00

Fuzzy birds - no camera but my phone:

Our local zoo tries, tries hard. Regretably, there's not much you can do at this altitude and zone but they've really done much to move beyond the conrete slab/metal cage presentation of animals and although the selection is not that diverse, at least it's not a circus.

The newest display involves free-flying birds, parrots and parakeets and all those kinds of animals (as you saw in the first pic) that may or may not be eager to eat you shit-on-a-stick. Zeke lucked out (as usual), some large tufted bird landed on his head then crawled down his arm to eventually sit on his finger. I wish I had pics of all that but I was busy assuring him that the bird wouldn't peck his brains out, showing him how to put his finger out as a perch, watching the light in his eyes flash as he held the bird on his finger

The girls weren't as lucky, no birds landing on them much less looking for a seed stick. Nonetheless, they found some willing beaks:

And at the end of it, I took three very tired children home to reflect on what they'd experienced, where they'd been and of course, they just wanted to eat and go to bed. However, the proof is in the eternity because, at the end of this day, they're still talking about their experience whereas I'm wondering how I'm going to get my struts replaced.

Kids - heh.

We Eights it, it burns us….

2007-05-18T22:03:00.000-07:00

Kim – thinking person’s blog; a couple of months ago but it’s been clear that the last couple of months have been blogging desert for me.

The first rule of the game is to post the rules of the game. Here they are:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
As the world’s worst blogger, I shouldn’t have to explain one damn thing but I will because, hey, I’m the world’s worst blogger and the half-assed excuses for my half-assed life make for some compelling reading. That is, if you’re here because you’re done reading the back of the soup can.

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing much (aside from not having much other than, “Got up and after I discovered I had to pee, realized I hate to iron!”) is that it’s Spring and the Garden and the lawn calls. Flowers and vegetables to be planted, plots to be rearranged, rocks to be hauled and holes to be dug. Once the hint that Winter was edging towards the past tense, I’ve been ripping out the old and deciding how the new should be arranged, accepting that a hard freeze is part of a Rocky Mountain Spring.

This is all done at my parent’s house, BTW. My own place is owned by tweakers, my yard full of boxes of dead printer parts and bricks.
Tomorrow I’ll give you (both of you) a pictorial tour of the work or work-in-progress – I wish I’d had the foresight to do before/after but thank God I didn’t – and you can see my hand hasn’t been idle, in service of the devil, and far too dirty to, well, you know.

Until then, I need to acknowledge those who have acknowledged me. The first be the Fabulous Kim (and this is WAY overdue – I’m such a schmuck) for nominating me and writing REALLY nice things about me for a Thinking Blogger award. She said:

Nino the Mindboggler at Patriside. If only everyone could write like this man... It's impossible not to mull over his thoughts, go ahead, go see for yourself.

Which is a bit like Carson McCullers throwing a bone to a drooling undergrad. I appreciate the award and the kudos. I'll eventfully put that button up when the Zero Boss awards me the $50 Amazon certificate I was supposed to get back in March (what a good month for me!). Kind of cynical on buttons, I guess.

And on top of that, I need to acknowledge the magnificent MizMell and the hurt she just put on me for this meme thing. Less a meme and more a game, so let's play...

The first rule of the game is to post the rules of the game. Here they are:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

Here’s mine:

Obviously, I love to garden/do yardwork; there's something about a lush, green lawn that gets me going;
I'm not one of those PC "freethinker" athiests: my kids believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, and watch "Veggie Tales" - they'll figure it out at the end of the day;
When we go camping, my children know Orion, Scorpio, Leo, et al, because, at the end of the night, what else are you gonna’ do?
Ego narro latin volubiliter; just kidding, I know enough to translate most romance languages, v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y;
I have tried to read Ulysses four times and have always been stalled just after the funeral scene;
I read Atrios, then DKos every day; Tbogg and Sadly, No! every day because, if you're going to watch the feathers plucked out of a turd chucked under a chin, you might as well do it from a distance, eh;
I hate blogs that whine about being tagged but more than that, I hate blogs that just ignore the tag and shift their superior nose to the air to sniff where no one cares whatnot and such.

Ka-faw, ka-faw, ka-faw... here's your eight:
Mamacita, Vicki, Landismom, Sarah, Trusty,
Anne,
Lauren, and the afformentioned Zero Boss

I'll email all these folks but I expect a 25% return rate so I leave it to you to wonder WTF happened... cheers!

Mixmania! - Your life story

2007-05-15T02:05:00.000-07:00

To all you mothers – I hope your day was full of laughter and burnt French Toast and May flowers. I would have written my own tribute to you mothers but I had my own mothers to contend with, tributes and tribulations.

There’s been a lot distracting me lately, the least of which is my parent’s yard and my urge to make it pretty. Pics to be provided this weekend. There’s a lot more to say but I dunna’ wanna’ jinx it, y’know. I’m a bit superstitious with that and for good reason.

Until then, it’s Saturday as far as I’m concerned; I’ll take players until June 15, disks to arrive by June 27 and then, by July 1 – post your life story.

Have fun - I am... :-D

Another Mixmania! …and another explanation from me (Ho Hum, hmmmm…)

2007-05-08T21:11:00.000-07:00

Starting with the next theme (with a nod to the fab-a-lust ~D), I’m asking “What is your life story?”

I know that several of you will be inclined to make multiple disks (the always stellar Mamacita made SIX DISKS last mix!) but I’m putting a two-disk moratorium on this one: narrow down what you want to say about your life into two disks – then WRITE about what sits within the segues, describe the rocks in your streams, each and every rock’s tint, no matter what the stream said then and what it says now.

The stream has been muddy and swift lately; my babies punch me in the stomach like little ninjas in Pooh pajamas. Whenever we go to the park, they’re down at the stream and I’m there behind them, watching, reminding them that whatever goes into the creek changes it forever. Hoping none of them will go into the creek for their, mine, or the water’s life story.

We don’t have tornadoes here but that doesn’t mean random death doesn’t spin this way and that those of us tucked within tall rocks aren’t stuffed safely between the mounds of infinite bosom; remember Columbine.

Whatever dropped into the stream will be fine; rocks, sticks, bodies, dredge whatever’s there and paint it onto 48 songs or so. Something, anything – tell us who you are.

Time, time away and time to write about time

2007-04-27T16:54:00.000-07:00

Little Man shows us all that there are far better thing to do than writing a damn blog

Yes, the theme is ‘Time’ and now’s the time for all bad bloggers (specifically, yours truly) to come to the aid of those who received a little brown envelope full of something ear-splittingly toxic this past week. Just after the FBI’s kicked in your door and started tearing up the carpet but just prior to the timorous tapping of hazmat-suited CDC dweebs at your door, I give you the links of potential victims and the recipe for my aural anthrax.

Smed
Got Cow Now?
Daily Bitch
Sterfish
Fantastic Sam
Mamacita... bow down, ya'll
Crazy Math Lady
Alala
Punchbuggy Blues
The Awesome ~d

Thems the responsible Ahmerkuns, God bless em' one and all. None of em' dropped a bomb nowhere that I know of nor ended ended a sentence

Now, for the poison I sent out with no fear of being eventually strapped to a water board...

Cornershop - 6 A.M. Juliander Shere
The call to prayer, wake up, time to shake your head and recognize the big world outside your bedroom window is waiting to toss you into rotating blades and turn you into mulch.

Ministry - Jesus Built My Hotrod
"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son,[a] that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life," and left some fucking incredible tires.

Fugazi - No Exit
Gotta' figure Satre had his pistons oiled well enough by Jesus at one time or another which led, eventually, to Fugazi telling us about how it felt... MMMmmmm....

Stereolab - Analogue Rock
You gotta' tick? Let me burn it off... Tock? No thanks, you bore the shit out of me, frankly.

Brian Wilson - (Suite) Wonderful/Song For Children/Child is Father of the Man/Surf's Up
The only song(s) on this disk that really represented this theme as it was (I think) meant to be heard. I mean, we're all getting older and we're all going to die but whatever it was that we once held onto as cool and righteous will eventually find itself laid out like bits of kelp and bone-white sand dollars, abandoned, forgotten, picked up or kicked aside but otherwise nothing more than the detritus of the last wave that will, inevitably, drop more dead things on the beach. Walk on, enjoy the spray, take a tumble in the breakers - you have this, now, and the rest matters with those who walk down the beach after you. They won't remember your obituary.

Massive Attack - Inertia Creeps
So... take a walk on the beach, your time is limited. Really, less time than a Victoria's Secret fantasy, I assure you (despite what you might think, otherwise)...

Patrick Ascione - Lune Noire (excerpt)
Rzzzzz.... zick, fnkkkkk.... what'd I tell you?!?

The Posies - Coming Right Along
See? Doesn't that feel good? I mean, you're gonna' die anyway...

Les McCann & Eddie Harris - Compared to What
That's what I'm asking.

Don McClean - American Pie
He kinda' says it's the "day the music died" but then he leaves it open for you to decide if you really hate this song or if you secretly love it.

Gov't Mule - 30 Days in the Hole
Unless you've done it, you won't understand how well the Dude does this song.

Thee Headcoatees - Ca Plane Pour Moi
Fucking French faggots.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Our Time to Be Hated
Fucking French faggots R Us. Or US. Something since six years ago, I think.

Pink Floyd - Eclipse
My Eclipse died six miles outside of Sacramento and this is all I've got...

Until noon I'm slapping the back of your head yelling, Morning!"

Note to all you Mixmania! players (update)

2007-04-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been a deadhead with this but there's too much on my plate at the moment to make this work the way I intended (and posted about). We, myself and the wee ones, have been stranded at my parent's house due to the weather and I'm away from my computer where all the information is regarding the various participants for the Time mix.

When I do get back to my computer, I'll probably take a kind friend's offer and have her mix and email all of you; probably won't be until Monday at the earliest. So please, hang in there and I apologize for dropping the ball.

In this decayed hole among the mountains, in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

2007-04-12T18:41:00.000-07:00

No more chocolate bunnies and what Easter grass remains are the stray tufts shoved between the cushions of the couch. Sunday's celebration, whatever it meant (secularly or sacerdotally) has gone the way of my petunias and crocuses.

As you can see, the midget mafia had much less enthusiasm for heading off to mass with my parents than they had for consuming peeps. Dressed nice for the occasion, though.

The bonnets were cute but unnecessary - there was nary a ray of sunshine on Sunday and we were bundling more so than bunting. The girls were not long for the dresses, either; not on a day where you could see your breath and your footsteps.

Last year at Easter, we were dealing with bees and spilled kool-aid. So much for warm-weather nostalgia.

Small wonder I'm suffering a bit of amnesia regarding the season this year: like so much of the country, it's not much of a spring. This evening looked like this:

Tomorrow's forecast calls for more of that; I'd prefer to remember Easter, not Christmas.

Close the damn door, it's freezing...

So it goes.

2007-04-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

I just read that Kurt Vonnegut died at the age of 84.

Again, I'm too spent to do my usual ten-page rap and it would require at least that to explain what Vonnegut meant to me, especially during my exceptionally twisted adolescence. That influence extends into the present and much of what you read here is the result of what I learned from him; my sense of humor, my sense of outrage.

Life is too complicated to go into it at the moment. Hopefully, I will soon have the time and energy to articulate what's going on (and state my farewell to Kurt Vonnegut) by this weekend. Until then, I leave you with a favorite passage of mine, from “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater,” a summation of his philosophy - and what he taught me:

“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’ ”

God Bless you, Mr. Vonnegut.

Tard

2007-04-09T22:00:00.000-07:00

A-hyep, thass me, tard.

Spent my morning on the job track (the job I mentioned a week or so back fell through, yet more evidence for my theory of "blog jinx") and a lovely afternoon doing yard work for the Rents. Then more job stuff. My necktie (*gasp!*) is still on, too tired to take it off.

So... you mixmania! fiends will have to wait another day or so before I match everyone and mail them out. There's an ever ripening pineapple in the kitchen that I'm too tired to slice and eat, much less toss out with the trash.

ZZZZzzzzzzzz...

Blog Against Theocracy

2007-04-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

“When fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” —Sinclair Lewis

As much as I'd love to bloviate on this subject - a much, much larger threat to our country than terrorism, the bursting housing bubble, or global warming - I need to get shaking. The wee one's are getting ready to head over to the Rent's with me where we'll spend the rest of our weekend. Chocolate bunnies, hidden eggs, and Easter mass for them, chocolate bunny ears and Joseph Heller for me.

Instead of my blather, you're better off taking action at http://www.firstfreedomfirst.org/, reading about Blogging Against Theocracy and checking out Tristero's essential posts at Hullabaloo (spelling out how determined - and dangerous - the Fishists really are), Part I, Part II, and Part III - really, you need to click those links to get perspective on why blogging against theocracy is not just necessary but important.

I may get back here if I have time this evening but in the meantime, I'd be interested to read any posts YOU have put up in response to this call. Alert me with a link (and whatever else you'd like to add) in the comments and I promise to give you mention here, later.

Off to chocolate bunnyland.

No blinky tonight

2007-04-03T22:12:00.000-07:00

New modem…. MMMMmmm. One steady light to guide me.

And so, as I threatened, I’m back to spank conservative asses with a wicked stick. Just as the Zen Master would smack a pupil upside the head to ameliorate enlightenment, I thump a conservative where his thoughts reside.

Applying for child care assistance and Medicaid is not a choice, it’s a necessity. As I wrote in my last post, those applications were conveniently “lost” and the entire process required filing everything again. Not a simple process of just resubmitting the paperwork but having to sit and wait and sit and wait, taking another day off from work to rectify the fuck up of a fuck up. The genius of welfare reform is that if anyone needs assistance they’d better bygod have a job. Then in order to get assistance, you don’t much go to that job because you have to sit and wait and sit and wait – all fucking day – in order to get that request processed. Several days, in fact, because even if a single T was not crossed, it all goes back to zilch. Same thing if something was “lost”. “We screwed up but it’s as if you screwed up, so….”

Some of you conservatives (still stupid enough to keep reading me) would say, “Find a better job”. That’s brilliant. Let’s make that part of the GOP’s new economic plan. Yes, let’s all be CEO’s - you morons.

I get to spend my tomorrow dealing with fuckups, feeling like Harry Reid or Nancy Pelosi; those of you who voted for the biggest fuckup in American history, I hope you feel sufficiently spanked but if you’re reading this, you get a bit extra.

Holy Freakin’ Christ with a chocolate dick

2007-04-03T00:36:00.000-07:00

It’s touch and go whether or not I can post. This is the first time in 14 hours that I’ve had a steady light on my modem and I’m praying to the Virgin, the Elephant, and all the Monkeys that I’ll get to throw this up before my modem light goes all blinky. Blinky’s been my life for the last three weeks, a goddamn Pac-Man game I cannot win.

Lots of games I cannot win it seems, not unless I’m making a hundred grand a year or so. Last week X told me I needed to submit an application for our childcare assistance (which I did with a quickness) and this week tells me that both my application and her own application for Medicaid was “lost’.

These are two people whose combined income is less than $45K a year. Two people who struggle to just pay bills much less have anything left over to buy new shoes or jaunts at Chuck E Cheese. It’s touch and go whether or not I can post. This is the first time in 14 hours that I’ve had a steady light on my modem and I’m praying to the Virgin, the Elephant, and all the Monkeys that I’ll get to throw this up before my modem light goes all blinky. Blinky’s been my life for the last three weeks, a goddamn Pac-Man game I cannot win.

God knows we needed to keep corporations healthy.

Let’s keep the arctic ice melting, you dumbfucks, everything is working out so well. Let’s take a stroll in a Baghdad neighborhood and ignore the bodies, let’s tell gay brothers and sisters they’re subhuman, let’s let NOLA rot in shit that’s a metaphor for the rest of our country.

Comcast is supposed to be here in the morning to fix my connectivity issues; we’ll see. If they work it out, I swear, you’re going to hear a lot more about my son and how I can’t afford his medication and how easy it is for the government to “lose” paperwork when they’re ordered to lose paperwork.

If you like George Bush or the Republican party, you ought to stay away – dipshits. Your philosophy is about to get slammed hard once Comcast fixes my shit. Which seems a contradiction but no, that’s because the conservative mind is linear…

Spring break, broke, broker, brokest

2007-03-29T02:58:00.000-07:00

I start a new job Friday. Told the old job I had places to go but they couldn't follow me there. Then I told them where they could go.

Having achieved A and giving a big finger to B, I've had a week to give to the kids which was serendipitously, their Spring Break. Odd what the universe will do when you're not killing people or stealing gas.

Mostly, I've spent time working on my parent's yard (having no real yard of my own) while the Midget Mafia runs rough-shod on my psyche. Really, I need one of those guns the guy had on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. A little ka-chunk and a needle in the ass, then wrap them in a blanket and put them away while smiling at the camera.

Marni said I needed to stay away from the worms she pulled out of the garden and that indeed, I needed to "pre-tect them against thunder and lightning". That and not use them for fishing.

That I fish merely to read and smoke a good cigar is of little consequence: I must pre-tect the worms.

A small glimmer to light up a life

2007-03-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

I arrived on time.

I'd been told the program would start at 5:30 and I managed to slide in on the money. Had there not been a stalled semi on the interstate, I may have been there five minutes earlier but it didn't matter as the lights didn't dim until ten-to-six.

The gymnasium was full by the time I got there and I just managed to find a seat in the fifth row. In that crowd, I was worried that Lilly wouldn't be able to see me. After all, I wasn't there so much to see the program as I was to see her. It was her first real "school program" and really, her seeing me out in the audience was all that really mattered.

The students filed in and took their places on the risers. Lilly appeared diffident, out of place and it made me wonder if she really wanted to be there, singing and going through the motions. As far back as I was, I had to try - I waved.

It was if she had daddy radar, she recognized me immediately, aglow, lighting up the room with her smile. She waved back and shifted her mood, confident and happy to be there. During the program, she kept looking my way to see she had my undivided attention.

When it was over, I picked her up and carried her outside. She's four feet tall and almost 50 pounds but I could have sworn she was just a baby. My days of carrying her are numbered but she will always have my undivided attention.

Move along, please, there's nothing to see here

2007-03-19T22:18:00.000-07:00

We had a little gathering for Marni, Saturday; Blues Clues cake, napkins, cups and cards, kids who cared nothing for Blue's Clues but punted to a minor celebration and handed presents, and there'd be cake and ice cream and something else to do other than sit in front of the television all day or kick around a ball in the back yard. And so it went well despite children injected with massive amounts of sugar. It was a beautiful day.

Guess I didn't expect May weather in March either. Buds on lilacs already, people parking in front of my car, me setting fires on my deck and setting off firecrackers.

Marni’s birthday but this is the spring when Lilly gets to explore, she gets her wings, she gets to go where she wants. Thank God for cell phones and GPS.

Yes, thank God. The world’s not getting warmer, dinosaurs rode on the ark and thank God for cell phones and GPS. A cell phone or a GPS unit is much less complex than a rhinoceros or even a rhinovirus, after all, a mere flick of the wrist in God terms.

God’s just been biding his time, I guess.

Time is time is time is time is... time for another mixmania!

2007-03-13T18:50:00.000-07:00

We're still dealing with dark too early, light too late; I think I have all my clocks re-set but I'm probably wrong.

Time. What does it matter? Did Sunday jam you up? Want to bitch about it?

This mixmania! is from the fab-ooh Sarah and the theme is TIME - tick tick tick and like that.

You have until April Fool's day; until Tax Day to get it mixed; May Day is when we'll put it all out there. Until then, if you have questions, you can email me or search around and figure it out.

And until then, have fun.

It was two years ago today...

2007-03-08T09:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a bad dad, no time nor inclination here on my middle one's birthday - so you'll get to read what I've already written:

It was an April day yesterday, a February day today and that's how March is. Something one day and then something else the next, seeming never quite itself and yet, something more. A month of paradox and complexity, the hint of potential hidden beneath an inch of snow, the silent struggle for survival within a dying season's slipping grasp on a present that's snatched away by the inevitability of another beginning.

I kissed her cheek and told her. "Happy Birthday, Pixie! You're four-years old today!"

"I'm Four, today," she replied, brightly, taking a moment from the cereal bowl in front of her, happy more for the kiss than for the news.

Marni went back to her breakfast, distracted, as if conjuring some distant memory, what it was like being two, what it was like being born, what it was like being four the time before. Half-happy, knowing, bittersweet greeting to another baby step towards the world of us, we, fretters, toilers - the serious. An old soul, she realizes her days of fantasy and imaginary friends are numbered, like a March snowflake, wet and falling fast with its own weight, a tiny light crystalized to be carried on the wind and then, silently disappear. Too soon checking sums on hours worked and what’s left over after the bills are paid but there’s now, she knows, four no longer three and a thousand other things to see today, a thousand things to be.

She stirred her Honey Nut Cheerios humming softly, sometimes sticking the hooves of a toy Pegasus into the Oh's, oblivious to the snow outside and her daddy watching her. Both lost in our focus, our commitment to that instant, that then, that there; all of those and nothing else. She’s thinking of being in the milk, beneath the floating Oh’s, Piscean, swimming in her Marni perfection, dark blue and briny deep, inscrutable, silent, beyond Gollum’s grasping fingers and singing the almost imperceptible tune hummed while her spoon swirls around her bowl.

Across from her, Zeke’s head is down; he’s scooping heaping spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, trying to ignore that it’s his sister’s birthday. He wants it to be his birthday but if he asked and had something decent to trade, she’d give up her day, she’s just not too concerned about the whole thing. Presents, sure, cool, give me those and let me have your stuffed alligator and the rest of it is yours. Let me swim in my milk, let me see with new eyes somewhere where I have not been, show me something new or let me stir this spoon through my universe.

Breakfast ends and I clear the table, rinse bowls and spoons, put them in the dishpan. Marni and Zeke go into the living room to watch “Blue’s Clues” and this day, the first day of Marni’s fourth year, unfolds like almost every day before it, unremarkable, hackneyed even, kids in front of the TV, dad at the sink doing dishes, the kiss and remark about turning four already a dim memory. Four years ago, this day was monumental, my life changing with another life beginning and every moment of that day is chiseled into my mind like the carefully hewn hieroglyphs on the walls of an ancient tomb. That day I looked out the window from my wife’s room into an unremarkable early March sky, thinking how I would remember that day forever, promising that I would not take that moment for granted.

Lifting my gaze from the suds in the dishpan, I looked out the window to see that it stopped snowing, the sun struggling through the cloud cover to cast light on the thin coating of snow covering the lawn. Time for change, the caprice of March, renewal lunges onward as winter slips once again into the past. Time for a new promise, to not take another moment for granted, not just marking new growth up on the wall but scrawling it indelibly in my mind, Marni is four and it will not pass unnoticed.

My mix posted - at last

2007-03-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

Not posting gladly, I tell ya' but it has to be done, I suppose. Actually, it should have done four days ago but sometimes a fuller life pulls me away from this.

So I'm waiting here, carless, wondering when the shop where my ride resides will call and deliver the final damage (financially). When I left yesterday (in the passenger seat of fellow Manitoid's good graces), the tab had come somewhere around the neighborhood of $900 for a cracked fluid reservoir and bad brake lines. A Monday evening steaming in rush hour traffic had led me there and I'm leaving much, much poorer. However, at least I can drive the damn thing around to look for a better job than the bullshit job-between-jobs I'm working now.

I spent seven hours hanging out at that shop, yesterday. Staring at the building next door, a kidney dialysis center, something to cause me to pause and think, "Yes, things could be worse."

In the midst of that, X called to inform me she had just come from the allergist and the prognosis for Zeke is that he probably has asthma. The doc is putting him on children’s singulaire to see if his sniffles and cough clears up after a month or so, just in case.

So if you think your issue of not getting my bullshit little list is a big damn deal, be glad your day didn't go like my yesterday.

Wagner - Tristan und Isolde (Overture)
Master Musicians of Jajoukacians - Searching for Passion
Liz Phair - Flower
Yo La Tengo - Center of Gravity
The Replacements - I Will Dare
Oasis - Let There Be Love
T. Rex - Ballrooms of Mars
The Cars - Let the Good Times Roll
Badly Drawn Boy - One Plus One
Sufjan Stevens - Seven Swans
Doves - Sea Song
Primal Scream - Movin' on Up
Rod Stewart & Faces - Every Picture Tells a Story
Solomon Burke - Home in Your Heart
The Moonie Suzuki - Singin' a Song About Today
The Dirtbombs - Chains of Love
Thee Headcoatees - Billy B. Childish
Beck - Where It's At

Yes, I half-assed that. It's a mystery anyone enjoyed it.

Another mixmania! to be announced when I'm in a much better mood.