Come and knock on our door...

Something strikes me as odd about the whole Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill/Virginia Thomas thing that blew up last week...

Why in the hell does Virginia Thomas have Anita Hill's phone number? 

Somebody I mentioned this to said that she probably kept it because she never got over her hurt feelings around the relationship between her husband and Ms. Hill when those two were introduced as America's Sweethearts 19 years ago. Well, maybe. But I believe that 19 years is exactly the maximum amount of time that someone should be allowed to be pissed off about something before getting over it. Think about it: when you were 19, were you still upset about whatever it is that bothered you when you were an infant? You probably didn't even remember being upset. You were though. Ask your mom. She has pictures (and they're adorable). Yes, 19 years should be the statute of limitations for getting over stuff because if you can't resolve hurt feelings in the time that passes between conceiving a child and the day that child is old enough to serve in the armed forces, there's something wrong with you beyond whatever hurt your feelings (exceptions to this statute would be slavery, the Holocaust and having European settlers steal your continent, because they're kinda culturally grandfathered in at this point).
Besides, I'm less concerned with why she has the phone number now than I am about why she had it in the first place. All I can picture is an awkward conversation while waiting for an elevator at the Supreme Court hearings:
"Well, that was...weird."
"Yeah."
"Listen, uh, I..."
"What?"
"Nothing! I didn't do a thing! Look, I'm way over here! Geez! What?"
"Oh, sorry...I just thought you were going to say something..."
"No! Well, nothing...important, or anything. No big deal."
"What is it?"
"I was just thinking...you know, if you want...we could, you know, keep in touch or something."
"..."
"I mean, we have a crazy history, you and me. Shared experiences and stuff..."
"..."
"I don't know. No big deal. Forget it."
"Clarence, what would your wife think about that?"
"Ginny? She's down! In fact, it was her idea!"
"Seriously?"
"Oh yeah! Totally!"
"Well, I guess that's not strange or anything then. Sure, here's my private phone number."
"Sweet!" 

Another self-imposed hiatus. Sorry.

Right now, I am part of a group of people I despise: pet owners who can't honor their commitment (SPOILER ALERT: If you're somebody who has never loved a pet, you're not going to be able to relate to anything that follows so just stop reading now and spare me any "they're just animals" sentiment, okay? Thanks.). The kind of people who get a dog or a cat because they looked cute and then once they find out there's work involved, they give up and abandon the animal. I'm one of those people now.
The reason why is stupid and complicated and not important to the story, but I have to give away my pet cats. Soon. By the end of the month. I found out just under a week ago and since then I've been negotiating, begging and trying to come up with options and I have failed. And that's the bottom line: I've failed. I've had these cats for a very long time, their entire lives basically. Over that time, I committed to their care and keeping and now I'm just abandoning them. What kind of person does that?
I'm sick over the whole thing right now, on a lot of different levels (rest assured, I am thoroughly hating myself, so that's covered). Mostly I'm anxious over finding a place for them to live. There are horriffic stories about things that happen to domesticated animals, particularly cats, particularly around here, these days. How can I possibly make sure no harm comes to them? I can't. That, aside from sadness and loneliness I'm already feeling even though they're still here, is the most difficult
Anyway, this issue currently dominates my mind and is inhibiting, among other things, my ability to share the kind of stuff I normally share here so I'm going to need to take a break from posting here until it's resolved, whatever that eventually entails. Like I said, if you've never loved a pet, you won't be able to relate, but I hope you at least understand. Thanks.

The The

Does the message on this billboard appeal to you? Does it make you want to listen to that particular radio station? If so, that's fine, but just be advised that it might mean you are an elderly person. "Why?", you ask. "Because I don't like rap or hip-hop or whatever it's called? Well, excuse me but I like real music. That doesn't make me old or elderly or whatever you said. The only thing it means is that I have taste.So why don't you just stick it up..."

Hey, relax!! That's not why I'm saying it (even though your reaction was exactly the kind that an elderly person would have). It's not the word "rap", it's the word "the". Elderly people have a habit of assigning an unnecessary "the" to things that are foreign to them that they don't care for or understand. Examples of things the elderly have feared/disliked/mistrusted where they've used the superfluous "the" to establish a distance from that which makes them uncomfortable and express a reluctance to establish familiarity:

• "The rock and roll" (as opposed to "rock and roll")
• "The crippled" (disabled people)
• "The Twitter" (Twitter)

And so you don't want to listen to the rap? Suit yourself. Don't listen to the rap, old timer.

I hope Tampa is part of America in December

Only Prince can announce a concert tour and not tell anybody where and when.

Boo! (I mean that in a good way)



Get it? Scary + carrots? Haw haw!

 I have long been an advocate of handing out vegetables on Halloween. There is nothing like the look on a young trick-or-treater's face when you drop a bag of frozen peas or a can of stewed tomatoes into their sack of Fun-sized Butterfingers and Milky Ways...except for maybe their parents. I've been doing it for years and will keep on doing it because it will always be funny.
It's nice to see that some of the produce people have a sense of humor about their product as well:

A Bunch of Carrot Farmers and Bolthouse Farms, the people behind this summer's $25 million "Eat 'em like junk food" campaign from Crispin Porter + Bogusky, are launching Scarrots, a bag of 25 single-serve 1.7-ounce bags of baby carrots that are intended for distribution to trick-or-treaters -- Brandfreak.com

Hilarious!


I saw some of the "Eat 'em like junk food" ads, like this one, this summer:

Also hilarious, right? But are baby carrots really a suitable substitute for traditional junk food snacks? Well, I went out and bought some (point, marketing campaign) and ate them while doing some writing and I have to say...yes, yes they are. You can mindlessly stuff them into your mouth one after another and they're crunchy, they're sweet and, an added bonus, not even a little bit messy. I hate a disgusting, greasy, salt-crumb-covered keyboard, so as far as I'm concerned, they're actually better than amy kind of chips or popcorn or especially Cheetos. And that's not even factoring in the nutritional factors.
So anyway, yeah, I'm a big fan of baby carrots now (another point, marketing campaign) and in two weeks, the kids in my neghborhood will be too, like it or not.

Abandon all hope, and don't forget to punch out for lunch

If you're a manager, it's very important that you're capable of effectively communicating information to your staff. This can be accomplished in a number of ways. Email? Sure. Very modern! Memos? Absolutely. Proven effective! Face-to-face conversation? Hmmm, I'm not sure about that. How about the next best thing: a good old fashioned, hand-written message on a dry erase board displayed in the employee break area!

• Well, of course you want the staff to know that you're concerned about their problems.
• Well, of course you want them to address the situation promptly, utilizing the internal chain of command.
• Well, of course you want them to become utterly dependent on you and establish the company as their sole benefactor by removing all hope that anyone outside of the company could or would ever advocate on their behalf or provide any assistance whatsoever.

Wait a minute, what now?

Oh okay. Just checking. Carry on.

Retro Comedy Reboot!

Classic is classic.

That's why things that are called classic are called classic; because they are!

You simply can not improve upon a classic.

But you can make it better!

That's what's behind the whole reboot craze in Hollywood; taking something that's already a classic and making it better by making brand new money off of it. That's why you have reboots of Robin Hood, The Pink Panther, A Nightmare On Elm Street, Star Trek, The Karate Kid, The Incredible Hulk, The Incredible Hulk and The Incredible Hulk. A reboot is different from a remake in that you're not really making anything at all, you're just updating something that already exists and infusing it with more style. And style = excitement.

Reboots take old stories...excuse me, classic tales...and update them to fit and appeal to a more modern sensibility. Because while the classics may be great for what they were (and they are!) this generation is far more hip, savvy and sophisticated and demands more "edge" from their entertainment.

Now, you might be asking are old movies and folk tales the only things that can be rebooted? Of course not! Anything can be rebooted; songs, movies, books (probably not books) and films too! What about old jokes? Yes! You betcha those old-timey chestnuts can be dusted off, buffed to a high shine, dressed in a leather diaper and sent out into the world to amuse the world all over again. See for yourself... 

ME: Why did the little boy throw his alarm clock out of the window?

YOU: I don't know. Why?

ME: Because he has severe emotional problems and is a borderline sociopath who should never, ever, under any circumstances, be left alone with people, animals or time-keeping devices. Where is he?

YOU: I-I don't know. I think he's upstairs, playing in his room.

ME: Oh God, you're home alone with him right now? Listen to me; get out of there. Now. Just leave. Don't take anything. Go to a neighhbor's house, lock the doors and stay away from the windows. And clocks. Go! Now! Call me once you're safe there.

YOU: ...

ME: Hello? Hello?? Are you there? Hello?!?

LITTLE BOY: I'm here, Clark...

ME: Gyaaaahh!

LITTLE BOY: Tick-tock, tick-tock...

Loathe in an elevator

I like riding in elevators.
For one thing, an elevator is not stairs. Stairs are work. An elevator is a ride. It goes up and it goes down, slowly, and that's all. Like the low-stressingest thrill ride on the whole midway. Well, unless something goes wrong, in which case it becomes a hurtling steel box of death. Other than that, I mean. Or maybe it's more like a bus (also a hurtling steel box of death). The kind of bus driven by an invisible computer where everybody stands (that seems fair!) and there is music.
For another thing, I'm pretty good at it. When I'm in one by myself, going up, I like to stand right in the middle, my feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms akimbo with my hands balled into fists. Going down, my feet are together, knees locked, my arms are straight at my side, palms facing downward. I do this because when I'm in an elevator by myself, I like to pretend I'm wearing rocket boots and I'm actually flying (in slow motion) up or down in the building.
Again, that's when I'm by myself.
When there are other people present, etiquette demands different behavior.

1. Act very shy and demure. When greeting fellow passengers, make slight eye contact with one or two other passengers but then IMMEDIATELY avert your gaze elsewhere. Maybe mumble "g'morning" if you're feeling particularly flamboyant but that's it. Model your behavior after that of an Amish debutante and you'll be fine. EXCEPTION: If you came running across the lobby and caught the elevator at the last possible second, you're allowed to seem harried but get it together quick. Apologize and say thank you for making everyone wait an extra half second and be embarrassed about what you've done until you get to your floor.
2. Push the button for the floor you want to visit so the invisible computer knows where to go. If someone pushes the button for your floor before you do, don't just stand there. That's going to make the other person think you're either some freak who just rides around aimlessly on elevators or stalking them. I'm not sure which is worse. Both are bad. Instead, lean in as if you were going to push it...BUT DON'T! The message you want to convey is, "Ah. I need to go to the 7th floor, but if the fact that the button is now illuminated when it previously was not means anything, and I think it does, it appears that you do as well and have already pushed the button for BOTH of our sakes. I didn't notice that you did that, but since you did, well done!" Otherwise, you're telling that person that you lack faith in their ability to push a button. You think they're an idiot? You think you can push a button better than them, hot shot? Look, it's already lit up and everything. Why don't you just settle down. It's a call button, not an accelerator pedal. Relax. You'll get to the 7th floor just fine.
3. For chrissakes, don't push all the buttons. What are you, 12? 
4. Unless you're reasonably sure you can get out of there without anybody knowing you did it, in which case, rock on, because that is classic and hilarious.
5. Once on, and all the appropriate buttons have been pushed, assume the rider position: turned around facing the doors, because even though you're going to be in there for a while and bells and lights will alert you when it's time to get off, it's important for some reason to be ready to leap right out in case the doors open with no warning at all. Also, be standing up (no leaning!), with your eyes fixed on the numbers as they light up. Look! There's 7. I'll bet 8 is next...DING! Yep! Just like I thought. And here comes...DING! 9! I knew it! I swear, I was going to say 9!
6. If you feel you absolutely have to improvise and do something different than everybody else, Robin Williams, go ahead and study the certificate posted above the button panel. Lots of good info there. What kind of elevator is it anyway? Traction passenger? Okay then.  Who's the Secretary of Elevator Safety? Charlie Liem. All right. What's the approved weight limit? 3500 lbs. Hmm, we're probably okay. Hey, no smoking! There's no smoking in here! Anybody smoking? No? Good. WARNING: You're basically assuming the role of Safety Officer if something goes wrong. Sure you can handle that responsibility, Rip Taylor?
7. Whatever you do, don't talk. No talking! Everybody has a lot on their mind. Plus, they're afraid of you. Who starts a conversation on an elevator? Perverts, that's who. And rapists.
8. Do I even have to mention farting?

Klassic Kartoon Time!

This is great but may not be around long once the Kopyright Kops find out. So enjoy while you can!

First there was Relay, then there was The Race

I participated in the the Susan G Komen Florida Suncoast Race for the Cure Saturday morning. The weather was beautiful, Vinoy Park was packed and it was a great time. Our team came up just a wee bit short of hitting our goal but you can still contribute if you like, just click the link above. In the meantime, here are a few photos...

 You gotta start somewhere.

 This is our team, the LoveBees Lovers. There are a few holdovers from Team Daddy-O Alley Katz, but for the most part, this is a new band, playing new songs.

 And we're off! As in front...

 ...so behind

 Part of this event involves decorating porta-potties. This one is ours. Let me tell you, there are better ways to make a good first impression on people then saying hello to them with a camera in your hand as they exit a portable toilet bright and early on a Saturday morning.

Orange slices: the perfect post-race breakfast treat.

Clark Brooks, Cancer Hater

Hi, I’m Clark Brooks. You may know me from such anti-cancer events as “Temple Terrace Relay For Life 2008” and “Temple Terrace Relay For Life 2009: Electric Boogaloo”. I’m here today to tell you about my involvement with a new anti-cancer event, the Susan G Komen Florida Suncoast Race for the Cure. Well, it’s not a new event but my involvement with it is. I’m in as a member of LoveBees Lovers, in honor of my dear friend Donna who Loves Bees (hey, don’t ask me; I don’t cast judgment on whatever freaky stuff you people are into…although that sounds like something of a contradiction, in which case, Wow, look how complex I am!). A bunch of likeminded fools and me are heading to Vinoy Park in St. Pete this Saturday at 7:30 a.m. to Race for the Cure, as opposed to what I would normally do on a Saturday morning, which is Race for a Breakfast Burrito (actually, I’m going to do both…shh, don’t tell).

You, on the other hand, got it made. You get to stay in bed under the cozy covers. Seems almost unfair, doesn’t it? Man! You’re right, it is grossly unjust! What can we do about it? Oh wait, I know! Tell you what, you chip in a buck or two for the cause and I’ll just look the other way. I’ll even bring you a breakfast burrito if there are any left over (note: I really doubt that’s gonna happen so don’t hold your breath)

Think about it; I get up early and do the race while you sleep in with a (nearly non-existent) chance of having a delicious breakfast burrito served to you in bed, all in the name of fighting breast cancer. I challenge you to find a sweeter deal (but if you do, please keep it to yourself so you don’t screw up what I’ve got going over here).

The Poetry Meeting

I was at one of my favorite local establishments the other day, just killing some time and talking to the manager who is a dear and relentlessly patient and tolerant friend when the staff started re-arranging the furniture. "What's going on?", I asked. My friend answered, "They're setting up for the poetry meeting tonight." "A poetry meeting? What the hell is that?" "Just what it sounds like. They're a group of local poets and they get together sometimes and talk about poetry." At this point I began to laugh. Hard. And obnoxiously loud. Howling might be a better description. "A meeting about poetry? You've got to be kidding me!" "Hey, be nice. You're a writer. You should be more supportive." Of course, she's right. But I'm also a jerk. "Please, Poetry is for songwriters who can't play guitar. The only thing I can think of that's more useless than a bunch of poets hanging around and reciting poetry is a bunch of poets hanging around not even reciting poetry." Of course, I didn't stick around to see if it was interesting or entertaining or of any artistic merit whatsoever (what fun would that be?) but that doesn't stop me from visualizing how it went down...

THE POETRY MEETING

"Okay everyone. Let's be seated. Welcome! It's great to see all of you again, and I notice we have some newcomers as well. Welcome to you folks also! Let's get started. Does anyone have any new business? Yes, Amber?"
"Yes. I would like to spend the entire meeting staring at this dead flower and weeping softly."
"Well, I was looking for new business and that's pretty standard..."
"I'm going to do it anyway."
"Okay, well, then I don't think we need a vote. Let's move on. Anybody else? Yes, Edna?"
"I'd like it on the record that sarcasm and juvenile humor in a critique is not helpful. As you all know, my poetry is inspired by the beauty of nature, specifically birds and flowers and fauna. I take a great deal of pride in my work and to read a critique that sounds like something scrawled in a public restroom is hurtful to me."
"Yes Edna, that is..."
"And I'd like to say that parody is a valid form of criticism and an art form in it's own rite and if somebody is too thin-skinned for poetry, maybe they should take up cross-stitching."
"Hold on, Stan..."
"Scribbling 'How much wood could a woodcock block if a woodcock could block cock' on a napkin and stapling to my poem is not a form of parody!"
"All right, Edna and Stan, I'm just going to recommend that you not read or critique each other's work, and maybe you shouldn't really even interact with one another..."
"But she's my ride here!"
"I'm your wife, you ass!"
"Excuse me. Excuse me please."
"Ah yes, one of the new people! Welcome! What's your name, fellow creative spirit?"
"Um, my name is Darnell and I'm an up-and-coming hip-hop artist."
"That's fantastic! See everyone? Hip-hop is the language of today's streets. It's poetry presented in a dynamic, vibrant form, speaking directly to young people. It's raw and passionate and exciting. And most importantly, it's living, breathing proof that the art of poetry is continuing to evolve! What's on your mind, Darnell?"
"I have completely run out of words that rhyme with 'bitch' and was hoping somebody here might have some suggestions."
"..."
"I've got a few for you, son!"
"Oh, shut up, Stan."

Outlaws, my eye

Last night at "work", I found myself listening to some soft rock music piped in for atmosphere and the song "Ride Like The Wind" by Christopher Cross came on. It's been a long time since I heard it so I paid attention to the lyrics. And after carefully considering them, all I can say is: Bullshit.
For starters, this is a picture of Christopher Cross:

Try to ignore that he looks like your Aunt Shelly who lives in Boca Raton with her "best friend" Susan (or don't) but do try to focus on him being the guy behind these lyrics:

It is the night. My body's weak.
I'm on the run. No time to sleep.
I've got to ride.

Ride like the wind to be free again.
And I got such a long way to go.
To make it to the border of Mexico.
So I'll ride like the wind.

I was born the son of a lawless man.
Always spoke my mind with a gun in my hand.
Lived nine lives
gunned down ten.
Gonna ride like the wind.

(chorus)

Accused and tried and told to hang
I was no where in sight
when the church bells rang.
Never was the kind to do as I was told.
Gonna ride like the wind before I get old.

That's not Lil' Wayne or TI, that's the guy picture above, the one who looks like he's waiting for his longtime companion to fetch another round of mimosas. The song doesn't mention what the unspeakable crime was (it's that unspeakable!) but I can't even imagine the authorities being that worried about nailing Christopher Cross before he escapes across the border. "Attention all units: Keep an eye out for a doughy white guy...wait, what? He might be with Michael McDonald? This changes everything; TWO doughy white guys, fugitives, believed to be heading for Mexico. Apprehend on sight...but don't, like, put yourself out or anything. Maybe just beef up patrols around the breakfast bar at the Chula Vista Shoney's. That should be fine."

I don't mean to pick on Christopher Cross. Because it seems to me that by and large, rock and roll stars do a pretty shitty job of portraying bad asses and outlaws. Oh sure, there are some legitimate bad asses out there. But for every band that comes across more like a street gang than a rock band, you get four or five skeevy, Kid Rock-like posers. Or worse, for every Toby Keith you get a Toby Keith. That's right, this guy...

Really doesn't want you to know about this guy...

Hey, I don't remember Toby Keith being in DeBarge! Say meow, kitty.

But where the illusion really falls down is in the songs. Here are some truly laughable attempts by some well-known artists to spin tales of rock 'n roll desperado derring-do...

PAUL MCCARTNEY & WINGS: BAND ON THE RUN

Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun
And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun
Band On The Run, Band On The Run.
And the jailer man and Sailor Sam were searching everyone
For the band on the run
Band on the run
Band on the run
Band on the run
And the jailer man and Sailor Sam were searching every one

So Paul and his mates have escaped from jail into the desert where he swears they'll never be found, presumably free to live out their days performing concerts for local indigents and smoking whatever vegetation they come across (which I'm pretty sure would be Paul McCartney's dream come true). This in spite of the local authorities enlisting the help of some naval personnel to apprehend them. Normally, you'd think this kind of thing would fall out of their jurisdiction but if you're stationed at a naval base in the middle of some damn desert, what else do you have to do?

THE STEVE MILLER BAND: TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN

This heres a story about Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue
Two young lovers with nothin better to do
Than sit around the house, get high, and watch the tube
And here is what happened when they decided to cut loose

They headed down to, ooh, old El Paso
That's where they ran into a great big hassle
Billy Joe shot a man while robbing his castle
Bobbie Sue took the money and run

Go on take the money and run
Go on take the money and run
Go on take the money and run
Go on take the money and run

Billy Mack is a detective down in Texas
You know he knows just exactly what the facts is
He aint gonna let those two escape justice
He makes his livin off of the peoples taxes

Bobbie Sue, whoa, whoa, she slipped away
Billy Joe caught up to her the very next day
They got the money, hey
You know they got away
They headed down south and they're still running today
Singin go on take the money and run
Go on take the money and run

Well, now we're getting somewhere! Steve Miller isn't singing about himself or his band as fugitives on the run. Instead, he casts a couple of TV-addled burnouts in those roles. Okay, so it's not the legend of Butch and Sundance but at least it's believable for a change. I can even believe they got away (in spite of the honorable public servant Mack's dedication to his job, if they got across the border, there's nothing he can do about it) and are still running today...but possibly not together. Bobbie Sue tried to ditch Billy Joe once. It's impossible to believe she wouldn't try it again. Theirs is not a relationship built on trust.

BON JOVI: WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE and BLAZE OF GLORY

It's all the same, only the names will change
Everyday it seems we're wasting away
Another place where the faces are so cold
I'd drive all night just to get back home

I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I'm wanted dead or alive
Wanted dead or alive

Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it's not for days
And the people I meet always go their separate ways
Sometimes you tell the day
By the bottle that you drink
And times when you're alone all you do is think

I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back
I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I'm standing tall
I've seen a million faces an I've rocked them all

I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I'm wanted dead or alive
I'm a cowboy, I got the night on my side
I'm wanted dead or alive
And I ride, dead or alive
I still drive, dead or alive
Dead or alive

I wake up in the morning
And I raise my weary head
I've got an old coat for a pillow
And the earth was last night's bed
I don't know where I'm going
Only God knows where I've been
I'm a devil on the run
A six gun lover
A candle in the wind, yeah

When you're brought into this world
They say you're born in sin
Well at least they gave me something
I didn't have to steal or have to win
Well, they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah, I'm a wanted man
I'm a colt through your stable
I'm what Cain was to Abel
Mister catch me if you can

I'm going down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going out (out) in a blaze of glory
And Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood
I'm no one's son, call me young gun

You ask about my conscience
And I offer you my soul
You ask if I'll grow to be a wise man
Well I ask if I'll grow old
You ask me if I've known love
And what it's like to sing songs in the rain
Well I've seen love come, I've seen it shot down
I've seen it die in vain

Shot down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
'Cause I'm going down (down) in a blaze of glory
Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood
I'm the devil's son, call me young gun, na... yeah

Each night I go to bed
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
No I ain't looking for forgiveness
But before I'm six foot deep
Lord, I gotta ask a favor
And I hope you'll understand
'Cause I've lived life to the fullest
Let this boy die like a man
Staring down a bullet
Let me make my final stand

Shot down (down) in a blaze of glory
Take me now but know the truth
I'm going out (out) in a blaze of glory
Lord, I never drew first but I drew first blood
I'm no one's son, call me young gun
I'm a young gun, yeah
Young gun, yeah..., Young gun

One time I went to a hockey game with a friend. An advertisement for an upcoming Bon Jovi concert came on the jumbotron and he just started laughing hysterically. I didn't really get that at the time but upon listening to songs like this/these, I do now. I entered this as one entry because I wasn't sure it was two songs. And reading it like this, I'm still not sure. It's like The Godfather and The Godfather II of cheesy, Aquanet-drenched, nihilistic rock 'n roll acid-washed denim outlaw cowboy fantasies and now I don't know how more people don't just burst into hysterics upon hearing the first chords, knowing the full-of-shitness that follows. Unlike the other examples posted above, Bon Jovi doesn't escape and doesn't even seem to want to, I guess because some people still think a doomed anti-hero is somehow cooler than somebody who actually has their shit together enough to get themselves out of their own predicament. But the boasting here doesn't sound cool or particularly tough, at least not consistently; one minute he's a devil on the run, the next he's a candle in the wind? Is he Marilyn Manson or Marilyn Monroe? And he's wanted for what, rocking faces? I guess a million of them is a lot, but exactly how many faces are you allowed to rock before it's a felony, punishable by death?

This is what I imagine it sounds like when some dumbass, lily-white, punk-ass teenager from a gated suburb community gets locked up in the county jail for a couple of hours because he thought it would be funny to throw his soft drink at the clerk in a fast food drive thru and got caught so he feels the need to invent a tough backstory to try to impress the actual thugs he finds himself in there with in the hopes that it keeps them from ripping off the tightey-whiteys his mom just washed for him that day and turning him into some guy named Big Rob's girlfriend.

What a punk-ass. By comparison, Christopher Cross comes across like Scarface Capone.

Interview: Alex On The Edge

I love weird people. I'm being completely sincere. In my humble opinion, no form of entertainment on earth even comes close to simply observing/listening to/interacting with people who are a bit...off-center. These days, those people are harder to find. Either they're wrapped up in the conformity-via-individuality myth ("I want to stand out from the crowd just like everybody else!") being perpetrated by various imagemakers and trendsetters or they're so friggin' off the wall that they're actually dangerous ("Guns! Bibles! Certain parts of the Constitution! Down with everything else!") that the good ol' fashioned All-American Weirdo has become an endangered species. But luckily, there are still a few out there. Recently, I found one and I'd like to share her with you.

Her name is Alex Edgerton. She has a blog and she posts on Twitter. Here are some highlights:

"The girl I'm stalking is awesome! She's so cute when she acts like she doesn't love me :) "

"My therapist says to stay away from negative people. So I've been trying to avoid myself as much as possible." 

"I'm gonna buy low & trade high. Or buy low & lose money. One of those 2."

"People make me so mad. Well not ALL people. Just my mother."

"Why is Bristol Palin on 'Dancing w/ The Stars'? What makes her a star? It's not 'Dancing w/ Teen Moms'"

She's also a poet:

If you don't water the tree,
it won't grow and give you fruit.
And one day you're gonna be hungry, bitch.

And a philosopher:

"The luckiest people in the world are the ones who are too stupid to care."

Isn't she great? I should ask her to marry me! Oh wait, I already did...  

HER: "Lets DO! Although we might fuckin kill each other cuz we're both moody people" 

ME: "Well, I don't think there's any way we could actually live with each other. But I think we'd have fun at social gatherings!"

HER: "LOL! Yeah social gatherings would be a blast. Specially since we're both such cheerful socialites!"

I think she's perfect! Sure, she's a lesbian with a completely dysfunctional family but every relationship takes some work I've dealt with tougher circumstances. Still, I thought it would be a good idea to get to know her better, so I asked her some interview questions, which I will share with you all now...

Sometimes people think that those who speak their mind are crazy. Do you think that's a sign of being crazy?

"I think it's a sign of being confident & not giving a damn what people think."

Do you think you're crazy?

"Yes. We all are. I'm crazy in a good way. My crazy is better than everyone else's crazy. I'm blessed."

Are you aware of how funny you are?

"Absolutely. I am god damn hilarious. I make MYSELF laugh sometimes."

Is everything you say straight up, raw truth or do you sometimes say things for effect?

"I sometimes exaggerate for the entertainment value. But for the most part, it's right on the money."

Even the stuff about your mom and dad, aunts and uncles, etc.?

"You can't make this shit up. Swear to god the family stuff is for real."

What's something that has always annoyed you?

"My mother".

What's something new that's annoying you?

"The wasp nest outside my house."

When I suggested we get married, you said it was a good idea except we might kill each other. If you were going to kill me, as your husband, how would you do it?

"I'd have to make it look like an accident because when I kill, I do it well. I'd probably go with the idea from Eminem's latest song; tie you to the bed post & set the house on fire. Mind you, this would appear to be an accidental fire. Oh I'd also have a big fuckin' life insurance policy on you. How would you kill ME? We need to sort this out before we get married."

I'd do something classy. Shakespeare used poison to kill a lot of his characters. And daggers. But daggers seem like a lot of work and kind of messy. I think a nice poison would work best for me.

What are your plans for the upcoming holidays? 

"Are holidays upcoming? Ok um... Halloween is the soonest so I plan to rob a few kids for their candy. I really like candy." 

For even more awesomeness, visit Alex On The Edge.

Definitely a bad news/good news situation

THE BAD NEWS:

LONDON (Reuters) – The Titanic hit an iceberg in 1912 because of a basic steering error, and only sank as fast as it did because an official persuaded the captain to continue sailing, an author said in an interview published on Wednesday.

Louise Patten, a writer and granddaughter of Titanic second officer Charles Lightoller, said the truth about what happened nearly 100 years ago had been hidden for fear of tarnishing the reputation of her grandfather, who later became a war hero.

Lightoller, the most senior officer to have survived the disaster, covered up the error in two inquiries on both sides of the Atlantic because he was worried it would bankrupt the ill-fated liner's owners and put his colleagues out of a job.

"They could easily have avoided the iceberg if it wasn't for the blunder," Patten told the Daily Telegraph.

"Instead of steering Titanic safely round to the left of the iceberg, once it had been spotted dead ahead, the steersman, Robert Hitchins, had panicked and turned it the wrong way."

Patten, who made the revelations to coincide with the publication of her new novel "Good as Gold" into which her account of events are woven, said that the conversion from sail ships to steam meant there were two different steering systems.

Crucially, one system meant turning the wheel one way and the other in completely the opposite direction.

Once the mistake had been made, Patten added, "they only had four minutes to change course and by the time (first officer William) Murdoch spotted Hitchins' mistake and then tried to rectify it, it was too late."

Patten's grandfather was not on watch at the time of the collision, but he was present at a final meeting of the ship's officers before the Titanic went down.

There he heard not only about the fatal mistake but also the fact that J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of Titanic's owner the White Star Line persuaded the captain to continue sailing, sinking the ship hours faster than would otherwise have happened.

"If Titanic had stood still, she would have survived at least until the rescue ship came and no one need have died," Patten said.

The RMS Titanic was the world's biggest passenger liner when it left Southampton, England, for New York on its maiden voyage on April 10, 1912. Four days into the trip, the ship hit an iceberg and sank, taking more than 1,500 passengers with it.

(Reporting by Mike Collett-White, editing by Paul Casciato)

THE GOOD NEWS:

A century later, we get to have this...

In which case: WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

A short conversation about gazing at the moon

"Hey, did you check out International Observe the Moon Night this weekend?"

"Of course not. Why would I waste my time doing that?"

"I don't know. It's the moon. It's pretty cool if you think about it."

"It's not cool at all. It's completely useless. Astronauts went there years ago and all they found was rocks, water and air. The only cool things up there are things we left; some golf balls and a couple of used-up robots. Stuff like that. Who needs it?"

"Actually, there's no air on the moon..."

"Even more useless than I thought."

2010 Best Of The Bay Awards: "How'd you do, Clark?"

How do you think I did, motherf...?

Yep, shut out again. This time in two categories. I was utterly devastated. However, being the emotional (and intellectual) equivalent of an 8-year-old Little Leaguer who struck out with the bases loaded does occasionally have an upside...

...I heal quickly and easily.

Seriously, I look forward to this every year now because win or lose (well, lose...because I never win), it gives me the chance to "give props" and say sincere Thank Yous.

In no particular order:

• Thanks as always to Creative Loafing for throwing a great party. I would have liked to have mingled more and met some of the cool people in attendance but it was such a great party that so many cool people showed up that I freaked out, got claustrophobic and had to spend most of the night downstairs, holding court with some really cool people at The Spaghetti Warehouse. This also allowed me to catch most of the Rays righteous win over the Yankees (cripes Jeter, are you friggin' kidding me? That was some A-Rod B.S. there, pal. You're supposed to be the classy Yankee) which didn't stink.
• Catherine Durkin Robinson won the award for best blogger and I've relentlessly "attacked" her during this whole award voting process because...well, it's fun...and I kind of had a feeling she'd win this thing. That's because she is a fantastic writer who deserves an award. You really should check out her site.
• I honestly don't know who won Best Twitter Or Whatever It's Called which is sloppiness on my part. Sorry. But whomever it is, yeah, definitely follow them because they're a genius. Let's say it's Miss Destructo. It may very well be her and she actually is a genius so let's go with that. In the event it's not her, we'll try to correct that at a later date (suuuure we will).
• Huge thanks as always to my sisters K & R whose unwavering love and support for me and my goofy-ass antics can never be shown adequate appreciation.
• Biggest thanks of all to each and every person who wastes precious time and brain cells reading this site. I am awestruck and flattered beyond words that you enjoy my self-indulgent twaddle enough to come here at all, let alone return. If I knew all of your names, I'd list them here and then immediately regret doing so because it would expose you to spammers, scammers and stalkers (and worse!) which would pretty much be the exact opposite of the gesture of appreciation I intended.

And until next year, once again the pressure is off; no awards means no unrealistic expectations of award wining content.

I love all y'all!

One job I couldn't do at the ol' ballpark

I went to a baseball game last night and paid attention to the vendors roaming the stands. Most of them have a standard line of patter they use when hawking their wares. Something along the lines of "HEY, COLD BEE-AH HEE-AH! GETCHA ICE COLD BEE-AH OVAH HEE-AH!" I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.
I don't think I could do that job. Not because of the heavy lifting and all the stair-climbing, although I'm not going to dismiss that because it's obviously a physically demanding job. No, it's because I think I'd lose focus and would just kind of launch into stream-of-consciousness yelling. I blame this on my inability to focus as well as this being the age of Twitter, Facebook and just plain oversharing in general. Sure, I'd start out with "HEY, COLD BEE-AH HEE-AH! GETCHA ICE COLD BEE-AH OVAH HEE-AH!" but by the fourth inning I'd be slipping in "HEY, THIS THING IS HEAVY OVAH HEE-AH!" and "GOOD GAWD, IT'S IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO BE SWEATIER THAN I AM RIGHT THIS MINUTE!" and "HEY, WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS IT TO CONSTRUCT AN ENTIRE BUILDING OUT OF STAIRS ANYWAY? AM I RIGHT? THIS IS MADNESS!". By the end of the game, it would be like "SO I JUST GOT MY PHONE BILL. MAN, AM I GLAD I SIGNED THAT NEW CONTRACT OVAH HEE-AH!" and "I'M HUNGRY. I HOPE SUBWAY IS STILL OPEN AFTER THE GAME. OR I COULD GET ONE OF THOSE $2 COMBOS AT TACO BELL. THAT'S A PRETTY GOOD DEAL. YOU SHOULD CHECK IT OUT!"

Where do we go now?

No seriously, where do we, you know, "go"?

Todd Barry is annoyed and so am I

Todd Barry is a very funny stand-up comedian. He recently played a gig in St. Paul, Minnesota, a show that was reviewed
on a web site called City Pages, which appears to me to be the Minneapolis/St. Paul equivalent of Tampa Bay's Creative Loafing. This review, in particular the writer's acknowledged failure to list or even remember the opening comedian's name, caused Barry to ask via Twitter if this was a standard or even acceptable practice:

"Question for writers: if you're reviewing show + don't remember opening act's name, is this the way you handle it?"

My answer, as a writer (for what it's worth); absolutely not. This is sloppy, lazy writing that shouldn't be tolerated under any circumstances. The fact that it's so disrespectful to a professional entertainer (whose name is Tim Harmston, by the way) adds insult to the mix. If the writer thought Harmston sucked, there's no excuse for at least show a basic level of respect of using the guy's name. Beyond that, what the hell is the point of this post anyway? It's not really a review; he doesn't even mention whether Barry was funny or not. The only thing you take away from it is that the writer attended the show but didn't think it was important to mention anything other than that, padded by some "clever" phraseology (I picture the writer sitting back in his chair, very pleased with himself after concocting the stream of nonsensical gibberish that closes the piece).

This is what can happen when publications dabble in blogs. Many seem to believe there's journalism and then there's blogs, and that they don't owe their readers their best effort when they publish things in blog form. If you want their 'A' game, read the magazine. I don't use my blog for news or journalism, but a lot of people do. Those people work hard to check facts, write well and give their readers quality, pertinent content, all of which is missing from whatever this is supposed to be.

My point here is that all readers should demand and expect a certain standard of effort, if not quality, from the writers you read, be they bloggers or "real" journalists. Your time and attention is valuable. Don't waste it on those who don't respect you enough to give you (and/or their subjects) their best.

Misery loves company

"No one in history has been through anything like this. Jesus had just one part of the world down on him. We've got the whole world." -- Wayne Sapp, on criticism his organization, the Dove World Outreach Center, has faced for their plan to burn copies of the Koran at a rally on Saturday, September 11th.

"Uh, hello?" -- Adolph Hitler, fancy book burning aficionado

Take Clark to school!

Now that your precious wee ones are back in school, don't you think it's about time the little yard apes actually learned somethin'?

Me too.

That's why I am availing my services, my experience, my very own self to participate in YOUR ankle biter's Great American Teach In Day!

The Great American Teach In (also known as "Educator For A Day"), in case you don't know, is scheduled for November 18th, 2010, and is like a national show-and-tell day only with real humans instead of grasshoppers imprisoned in Mason jars or some stupid doll collection. People from all walks of life come to school and talk to kids about what it is they do for a living. As a professional sportswriter and possibly an award winner of some sort (depending on what happens at The Loafies), I would be a fascinating guest at your adorable curtain climber's school, guaranteed to inspire and be far more entertaining than just about anybody else that would be participating*.

This, like my ongoing quest to commit an actual, real, legally binding wedding as an ordained minister is completely sincere. If you're interested, please contact me via comments here or drop me a note at Facebook, Twitter or any other means of communication at your disposal.

Now, there are some provisos. While this would be completely free, no charge to you or the learning institution(s), I do have some terms that must be met before we can reach an agreement.

First, this offer is limited to schools in Hillsborough and Pinellas counties (Florida) only, unless you're willing to provide airfare reimbursement or suitably comparable travel arrangements. I do enjoy hovercrafts.

Second, I am willing to visit multiple schools if the demand dictates, but wherever I am at lunchtime, I'm gonna need a meal. And not just some crap either. As a professional sportswriter, bon vivant and raconteur, I require nourishment that pleases my delicate and discerning palate. This is utterly non-negotiable due to my refined tastes and the high standards of epicurean excellence I demand at all times.

Thirdly, and possibly most importantly, it would be a good idea if the teacher "gets" me. While my presentation will be geared towards the maturity level of the audience with particular attention paid to the sensitivity of the rug rats in attendance, my views on any number of topics that may be addressed could be construed as..."non-traditional". I will not be offensive or ribald, and I won't proselytize any political, religious or social agendas but some of what I say may slightly contradict what is usually taught in that particular classroom. Basically, I believe I'm doing the youth of America a disservice if I don't point out that just because so-called grown-up experts say that dinosaurs no longer roam the earth, it's still not a good idea to leave things a Tyrannosaurus Rex finds delicious under their beds. That's all. So it's kinda important that the teacher knows where I'm coming from. Ideally, somebody open-minded with a healthy sense of humor who sees the value in imagination and creativity.

Anyway, that's it. I'm ready to impart wisdom and drop life lessons. I think you'll find that at my omelet station, the only eggs I crack are eggs of knowledge and the only cheese I sprinkle in is cheese of wonder, with fresh diced tomatoes of experience and a side order of laughter bacon, served with either hashbrowns of integrity, home fries of courtesy or a fruit cup of respect. First come, first served!

* Guarantee does not include helicopter pilots, people who work with animals or any profession where vehicles with sirens and flashing lights are involved.

All I need is a miracle

When it comes to incredible things, I don't think I ask for much. All I want is for a bolt of lightning to hit this guy...
...and these guys...

...so they come to life and wage an epic battle right in the middle of the street between these two stores. That's all. If one of them were to pick up a steakhouse and throw it at one of the others, that would be a bonus. I'm not greedy.

We're on a road to nowhere

Of all the positions on a NASCAR pit crew, "Navigator" is probably the least essential.

My nosey neighbor

Hey, Gladys Kravitz, do you mind?!?