Gonna go make some banana bread. Try not to marvel at my rock-n-roll lifestyle (after all, jealousy is not becoming).
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Poseurs, eyeglasses, and Tarantino
I realize this is a blog, and I should probably be posting things
from time to time. However, I have been working on a song, and I've been
frustratingly "blocked", and cannot seem to get anywhere with
it...but I've been obsessively plodding away with it anyways...and getting
nowhere. So, I'm going to step away, and waste a little time here.
Let's talk about eye glasses, shall we? In order to illustrate a
point, here's a picture of me from last night out at the movies (saw
Django...here's worlds shortest review: good film. About 30 minutes too
long, though. Christoph Waltz, once again just like Inglorious Basterds,
steals every scene he is in. Not a DiCaprio fan, but he did a nice job
here. If you like QT, go see it):
Ok. So, glasses (heretofore referred to as "eye glasses"). As you can see above, I wear them. Want to know why I wear them? Because I cannot read ANYTHING without them...especially itty, bitty, teeny, weeny, Lilliputian sized texts (i.e. the way I do 99% of my non-physical presence communicating). Let me be clear: glasses suck. You lose them, break them (for reasons I cannot comprehend, they are hellaciously expensive. Apparently mine are made of an unusual form of rarium, hardtofindum, and unobtanium laminated with platinum. At least, based on the price. It would certainly seem as if they've been made with something other than plastic), leave them somewhere around the house and are constantly having to find them in order to read a text, magazine, subtitles in a movie, etc. They can give you sinus pressure, headaches, and despite what popular culture seems to hint at, not really all that sexy. "Ooooh...know what turns me on? Poor eyesight!!!" I can honestly say I've never heard those words. But, because I like to be able to see clearly, I reluctantly wear them. What I DO NOT understand, is the sudden explosion of younger college aged people sporting glasses. The numbers are waaaaaaay too skewed to be an actual representation of the population of people with eyesight issues. This leads us to only two conclusions: 1) not only is the sedentary, high calorie American lifestyle causing obesity and Type II diabetes, it's also, inexplicably, destroying our eyesight. Apparently, there's something in the special sauce on a Big Mac that causes macular degeneration. I think a government study is needed, or 2) there's a TON of 20-somethings who, for reasons that completely escape me, have decided wearing glasses is, ahem, "cool", and are needlessly running around with unnecessary headgear. My thought on the matter? Why stop there? If physical imperfections are so awesome, why not fake a club foot and wear orthopedic shoes, or a hook for a hand, or utilize one of those Stephen Hawking voice synthesizers (ok, that WOULD be kinda cool...)? My point? My point is this: I really don't get why anybody, who DIDN'T HAVE TO , would wear a physically corrective device. Trust me, anybody who HAS TO to wear glasses wishes they DIDN'T HAVE TO (scary eye surgery or even bigger pain in the ass contacts aside), and CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY anybody who DID NOT HAVE TO...WOULD...JUST FOR FUN. It seems...well, STUPID.
Ok. So, glasses (heretofore referred to as "eye glasses"). As you can see above, I wear them. Want to know why I wear them? Because I cannot read ANYTHING without them...especially itty, bitty, teeny, weeny, Lilliputian sized texts (i.e. the way I do 99% of my non-physical presence communicating). Let me be clear: glasses suck. You lose them, break them (for reasons I cannot comprehend, they are hellaciously expensive. Apparently mine are made of an unusual form of rarium, hardtofindum, and unobtanium laminated with platinum. At least, based on the price. It would certainly seem as if they've been made with something other than plastic), leave them somewhere around the house and are constantly having to find them in order to read a text, magazine, subtitles in a movie, etc. They can give you sinus pressure, headaches, and despite what popular culture seems to hint at, not really all that sexy. "Ooooh...know what turns me on? Poor eyesight!!!" I can honestly say I've never heard those words. But, because I like to be able to see clearly, I reluctantly wear them. What I DO NOT understand, is the sudden explosion of younger college aged people sporting glasses. The numbers are waaaaaaay too skewed to be an actual representation of the population of people with eyesight issues. This leads us to only two conclusions: 1) not only is the sedentary, high calorie American lifestyle causing obesity and Type II diabetes, it's also, inexplicably, destroying our eyesight. Apparently, there's something in the special sauce on a Big Mac that causes macular degeneration. I think a government study is needed, or 2) there's a TON of 20-somethings who, for reasons that completely escape me, have decided wearing glasses is, ahem, "cool", and are needlessly running around with unnecessary headgear. My thought on the matter? Why stop there? If physical imperfections are so awesome, why not fake a club foot and wear orthopedic shoes, or a hook for a hand, or utilize one of those Stephen Hawking voice synthesizers (ok, that WOULD be kinda cool...)? My point? My point is this: I really don't get why anybody, who DIDN'T HAVE TO , would wear a physically corrective device. Trust me, anybody who HAS TO to wear glasses wishes they DIDN'T HAVE TO (scary eye surgery or even bigger pain in the ass contacts aside), and CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY anybody who DID NOT HAVE TO...WOULD...JUST FOR FUN. It seems...well, STUPID.
Ok. Rant over. Thanks for indulging me.
Back to the song.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Perfect Male-Female Communication
Perfect Male-Female Communication:
Man: “Let me be Frank.”
Woman: “…and I will be Claire.”
Friday, November 23, 2012
Holiday Tolerance Juice
I've always enjoyed a little Black Bush this time of year.*
*It's Irish whiskey...now get your mind out of the gutter (although I like how you think).
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Beginnings, endings, and other "ings"
Beginnings:
I was a groomsman at a wedding two weeks ago, and a couple (whom I introduced to each other, oddly enough) began their lives together. It was a lovely ceremony, and everything went smoothly. I think. I say "I think", because we (me and the other groomsmen) showed up three hours before the (afternoon) wedding for pictures, etc., and me and my fellow groomsmen immediately started drinking. A lot. Like....A LOT (what can I say? We're a festive and merry bunch). Needless to say, by the time the ceremony rolled around, me and my fellow groomsmen were absolutely piss drunk. The boys and myself all wore our sunglasses during the ceremony because we thought that was funny...and, more importantly, we didn't want the folks to know how shit-faced we were. Funny thing is, I'm sure the fact we were all wearing our sunglasses kind of gave that away (our shit-facedness that is), which completely defeated the purpose. Also, apparently I made a speech during the dinner, and in retrospect, I have no idea what I said. I was told it was heartfelt, tender, genuine and appropriate, you know, me being me, so that's about all you can hope for in situation like that, and I (as far as anybody will tell me) avoided the pitfalls of inappropriate jokes, mentions of groom's ex-girlfriends, and unsolicited opinions on the sanctity of marriage from the perspective of a divorced guy. Furthermore, as the night wore on, nobody slapped me that I can remember, so I'm guessing my behavior wasn't all that scandalous in the end, so for that, let us give thanks. I did get left without a ride home at the end of the evening, which basically meant I kept drinking with the help long after everybody left. Yes, I did finally manage to finagle a ride home, and the evening finally ended without major incident. HOWEVER...
...I woke up with a world class hangover, and all of my text message history had been erased. I have no idea what that means. So, if any of you know me, and you received some truly bizarre early morning text that night, well, apologies, as I have no idea what happened text-wise for about an eight hour period. Upon reflection, I AM beginning to think it is probably a good idea that if you plan on having a cocktail or two or fifteen, it's a good idea to hand over your phone to a sober driver (phoner?), just in case. Nobody needs to drunk text for any reason, no matter how great an idea it might seem at the (chemically impaired) time. Trust me on this one. Also, when I woke up later that morning, it looked like a Smurf puked in my sink, and this caused me some concern. After pondering this mystery for a few seconds, I realized there were blue cupcakes served at the reception the evening prior, and that cleared things up nicely, as the correlation suddenly became obvious, Sherlock that I am.
Me and the boys getting the afternoon started properly:
Endings:
Single again. What can I say? I have about as much success in relationships as an alcoholic does in guarding a liquor cabinet. And, let's be honest, in a situation like that, you really cannot blame the liquor cabinet can you? That's the best analogy I can come up with at the moment, but it seems oddly appropriate, and it is safe to say I may want to take a little time out and reflect on a few things...and cease blaming the liquor cabinet.
"ings":
As in freez-ing. Went to Reno, Nevada, to see my Fresno State Bulldogs take on the University of Nevada-Reno in a football game with conference championship implications. I also took my two daughters with me. We had a nice time, and took the scenic route back to California to see Lake Tahoe. A good time was had by all. However, as exciting as the game was (Fresno State won), we froze our (collective) asses off during the game. Here's the temp towards the end of the game:
And although we were appropriately attired...:
...it was still DAMN COLD. Like, I lost the feeling in my toes, and my nose ran like the French from the Germans (ha! Sorry Francophiles...but that was too easy). Oddly enough, a strange thing happened though...my girls, who are always complaining about being cold, actually enjoyed themselves and had fun. Yes, actual fun, and are coming with me to the regular season ending game two weeks from now. You just never know how something is going to go over with a couple of women, and sometimes they leave you pleasantly surprised (I am also guessing the fact that they got to stay in a fancy casino hotel and were taken out to breakfast/lunch/dinner all weekend also helped their disposition...but still, props to the kiddos).
Alrighty, not the best blog I've ever written, and I'm not going to edit it for quality of content, syntax, spelling, etc., because I am sleepy and really kind of don't care (to be honest), but it is a little something to tide me over until I can get sufficiently irate enough about something to want to purge it here via the written word, or, if I ever finish my latest song idea and ever get it recorded so I can share it, um, here. In the meantime, I bid you known and unknown strangers alike...adieu.
I was a groomsman at a wedding two weeks ago, and a couple (whom I introduced to each other, oddly enough) began their lives together. It was a lovely ceremony, and everything went smoothly. I think. I say "I think", because we (me and the other groomsmen) showed up three hours before the (afternoon) wedding for pictures, etc., and me and my fellow groomsmen immediately started drinking. A lot. Like....A LOT (what can I say? We're a festive and merry bunch). Needless to say, by the time the ceremony rolled around, me and my fellow groomsmen were absolutely piss drunk. The boys and myself all wore our sunglasses during the ceremony because we thought that was funny...and, more importantly, we didn't want the folks to know how shit-faced we were. Funny thing is, I'm sure the fact we were all wearing our sunglasses kind of gave that away (our shit-facedness that is), which completely defeated the purpose. Also, apparently I made a speech during the dinner, and in retrospect, I have no idea what I said. I was told it was heartfelt, tender, genuine and appropriate, you know, me being me, so that's about all you can hope for in situation like that, and I (as far as anybody will tell me) avoided the pitfalls of inappropriate jokes, mentions of groom's ex-girlfriends, and unsolicited opinions on the sanctity of marriage from the perspective of a divorced guy. Furthermore, as the night wore on, nobody slapped me that I can remember, so I'm guessing my behavior wasn't all that scandalous in the end, so for that, let us give thanks. I did get left without a ride home at the end of the evening, which basically meant I kept drinking with the help long after everybody left. Yes, I did finally manage to finagle a ride home, and the evening finally ended without major incident. HOWEVER...
...I woke up with a world class hangover, and all of my text message history had been erased. I have no idea what that means. So, if any of you know me, and you received some truly bizarre early morning text that night, well, apologies, as I have no idea what happened text-wise for about an eight hour period. Upon reflection, I AM beginning to think it is probably a good idea that if you plan on having a cocktail or two or fifteen, it's a good idea to hand over your phone to a sober driver (phoner?), just in case. Nobody needs to drunk text for any reason, no matter how great an idea it might seem at the (chemically impaired) time. Trust me on this one. Also, when I woke up later that morning, it looked like a Smurf puked in my sink, and this caused me some concern. After pondering this mystery for a few seconds, I realized there were blue cupcakes served at the reception the evening prior, and that cleared things up nicely, as the correlation suddenly became obvious, Sherlock that I am.
Me and the boys getting the afternoon started properly:
Endings:
Single again. What can I say? I have about as much success in relationships as an alcoholic does in guarding a liquor cabinet. And, let's be honest, in a situation like that, you really cannot blame the liquor cabinet can you? That's the best analogy I can come up with at the moment, but it seems oddly appropriate, and it is safe to say I may want to take a little time out and reflect on a few things...and cease blaming the liquor cabinet.
"ings":
As in freez-ing. Went to Reno, Nevada, to see my Fresno State Bulldogs take on the University of Nevada-Reno in a football game with conference championship implications. I also took my two daughters with me. We had a nice time, and took the scenic route back to California to see Lake Tahoe. A good time was had by all. However, as exciting as the game was (Fresno State won), we froze our (collective) asses off during the game. Here's the temp towards the end of the game:
And although we were appropriately attired...:
...it was still DAMN COLD. Like, I lost the feeling in my toes, and my nose ran like the French from the Germans (ha! Sorry Francophiles...but that was too easy). Oddly enough, a strange thing happened though...my girls, who are always complaining about being cold, actually enjoyed themselves and had fun. Yes, actual fun, and are coming with me to the regular season ending game two weeks from now. You just never know how something is going to go over with a couple of women, and sometimes they leave you pleasantly surprised (I am also guessing the fact that they got to stay in a fancy casino hotel and were taken out to breakfast/lunch/dinner all weekend also helped their disposition...but still, props to the kiddos).Alrighty, not the best blog I've ever written, and I'm not going to edit it for quality of content, syntax, spelling, etc., because I am sleepy and really kind of don't care (to be honest), but it is a little something to tide me over until I can get sufficiently irate enough about something to want to purge it here via the written word, or, if I ever finish my latest song idea and ever get it recorded so I can share it, um, here. In the meantime, I bid you known and unknown strangers alike...adieu.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
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Starbucks, Bruno, Rush, and Teenaged Daughters
So, I have bitched plenty about Starbucks over the years and, thusly, I figyre (yes, I know it's "figure", but it was originally a typo, and I liked how it looked, kind of "Ye olde merry Englishe" style...so I left it. As you can see, I am an iconoclast of the keyboard) "why stop now?" So here goes:
The Starbucks drive through (or is that "thru"...at least according to the signs. I'd like to believe the signs are misspelled for brevity's sake...or at least to save on the expenditure for additional plastic. However, I have a gnawing suspicion that it was a corporate decision to appeal to the average American who has the reading comprehension of a 7yr old. Actually, that's probably not fair...to 7yr olds). The drive through (or "drive thru" as it shall henceforth be known) is intended for quick service, i.e. (or is that e.g.?), get your coffee and go. It's a great idea...in concept. If you're like me, and want actual coffee, it would work flawlessly. Place your order at the sign advertising their wares, and drive up to the window. In the time it takes you to drive to the window and proffer up your payment, they have poured your coffee and added cream/sugar (if that's your particular predilection). Again, this concept works great....in theory only. Here's why: the coffee. If you, like me, order actual fucking coffee, the drive thru works seamlessly...its perfection of movement so precise it would make a Swiss watch maker come in his pants (too much? Eh...point was made regardless). But, again, that's if you oder COFFEE. Apparently, when the average American thinks "coffee", they don't think of a hot liquid beverage with a roasted bean base, they think of a thick, viscous, sugary, gooey, carmel, fudge, mocha, whip cream, and cinnamon chip filled liquid dessert that takes fifteen fucking minutes to concoct (funny word concoct. Say it with me: "concoct". Yep...I just chuckled). When THIS sugar infused gut bomb is ordered, it mires the drive thru queue and defeats its purpose. If you're the sort of person who likes dessert for breakfast and enjoys starting their day with a 700 calorie thirst quencher that you know takes a team of twelve to assemble (no doubt you need the caloric intake because you're on your way to your job of plowing a 700 acre field all by yourself, or, you are preparing to row across the Atlantic like some Thor Heyerdahl wanna be), you obviously have a few minutes on your hands. So, if that's the case, why in the hell are you in the drive thru? Go inside and order your drink and leave the drive thru to those of us who need a caffeinated adrenal infusion and are actually in a goddamn hurry. Since you're a trans-Atlantic rower, you should have plenty of bounce in your step to park and exit your car and make that arduous trek across the parking lot and walk into the Starbucks to grab your team crafted insulin buster. The rest of us would really appreciate it as we quickly grab our hot, liquid- bean, pulse amplifier and get on with our lives. So, in conclusion, I propose Starbucks has TWO drive thru's: one that says coffee only, and another that says "non-coffee drinking coffee drinkers here...and Thor Heyerdahl too". Think about it Starbucks.
-I was watching Saturday Night Live this weekend, and was left with one question: who, in the hell, is Bruno Mars?
-While watching I Love You Man a while back, I was struck with a truism that was a crucial element in the movie: all men, no mater what their musical tastes, have a soft spot in their heart for Rush. We may be fans of alt, indie, country, metal, R&B, hip hop, jazz, classical, progressive, etc., as our first and foremost musical choice. But, put Tom Sawyer on the stereo, and well, we'll be grooving right along with it. There's something in the male DNA, a Rush chromosome if you like, that compels to have varying levels of affinity for this band. I have the greatest hits album to prove it. Whether it's the drumming pyrotechnics of Neil Peart, the bass shredding of Geddy Lee, or guitar textures of Alex Lifeson, we will uncontrollably air-guitar/drum the minute a Rush song is played. We cannot help it. In fact, if a Dr. Evil type was ever looking into turning the human male population into an army of controllable automatons, he'd figyre* out what it is in Rush's musical vibrations that is hard wired into the XY brain, and use it for nefarious purposes. Maybe they could simply play a Rush song on a world wide public broadcast and formulate a plan for billions men simultaneously air drumming to be used as a weapon of mass destruction. So there you go madmen of the world, your blueprint for world domination. "A modern day warrior, mean mean stride, today's Tom Sawyer, mean mean pride..." Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! (or whatever evil laughter looks like in print)
-Yes, I have 17yr and 15yr old daughters. So, you may or may not be asking yourself (or "yourselves", should you be reading this is some sort of weird group setting. Hey, I don't judge...I'm just saying...), what's it like being the father of teen daughters? Well, it's like this: this photo (warning: it's not for the faint of heart) is the singular most succinct image I can think of to fully explain sharing a home with teenaged, female offspring:
What you are looking at is not, in fact, a partially decomposed marmot I found behind some shrubs in my back yard, but a rather foul plug of hair I had to remove from the drain in the sink located in my daughters bathroom. I can understand a bunch of hair being in the SHOWER drain (of which I have removed many a time), but this was in THEIR SINK. Unless they shaved their heads in the sink (and, judging by the hair currently on their heads, I am guessing they have not), I cannot imagine how this much hair got in there. When I asked, they both sort of looked at me with a blank stare, before my oldest said her younger sister "sheds a lot." To which her younger sister said, "Yeah. I kinda do." So, apparently, one of my daughters is (as I remarked to another a while back) part alpaca. Needless to say, I had no idea she had genetically mutated on me. Perhaps she can be a source of family income going forward if I can knit the occasional scarf from her (apparently) abundant coat. That's me, always thinking outside the box....
*Yeah, I used it again...Anglophile that I am.
The Starbucks drive through (or is that "thru"...at least according to the signs. I'd like to believe the signs are misspelled for brevity's sake...or at least to save on the expenditure for additional plastic. However, I have a gnawing suspicion that it was a corporate decision to appeal to the average American who has the reading comprehension of a 7yr old. Actually, that's probably not fair...to 7yr olds). The drive through (or "drive thru" as it shall henceforth be known) is intended for quick service, i.e. (or is that e.g.?), get your coffee and go. It's a great idea...in concept. If you're like me, and want actual coffee, it would work flawlessly. Place your order at the sign advertising their wares, and drive up to the window. In the time it takes you to drive to the window and proffer up your payment, they have poured your coffee and added cream/sugar (if that's your particular predilection). Again, this concept works great....in theory only. Here's why: the coffee. If you, like me, order actual fucking coffee, the drive thru works seamlessly...its perfection of movement so precise it would make a Swiss watch maker come in his pants (too much? Eh...point was made regardless). But, again, that's if you oder COFFEE. Apparently, when the average American thinks "coffee", they don't think of a hot liquid beverage with a roasted bean base, they think of a thick, viscous, sugary, gooey, carmel, fudge, mocha, whip cream, and cinnamon chip filled liquid dessert that takes fifteen fucking minutes to concoct (funny word concoct. Say it with me: "concoct". Yep...I just chuckled). When THIS sugar infused gut bomb is ordered, it mires the drive thru queue and defeats its purpose. If you're the sort of person who likes dessert for breakfast and enjoys starting their day with a 700 calorie thirst quencher that you know takes a team of twelve to assemble (no doubt you need the caloric intake because you're on your way to your job of plowing a 700 acre field all by yourself, or, you are preparing to row across the Atlantic like some Thor Heyerdahl wanna be), you obviously have a few minutes on your hands. So, if that's the case, why in the hell are you in the drive thru? Go inside and order your drink and leave the drive thru to those of us who need a caffeinated adrenal infusion and are actually in a goddamn hurry. Since you're a trans-Atlantic rower, you should have plenty of bounce in your step to park and exit your car and make that arduous trek across the parking lot and walk into the Starbucks to grab your team crafted insulin buster. The rest of us would really appreciate it as we quickly grab our hot, liquid- bean, pulse amplifier and get on with our lives. So, in conclusion, I propose Starbucks has TWO drive thru's: one that says coffee only, and another that says "non-coffee drinking coffee drinkers here...and Thor Heyerdahl too". Think about it Starbucks.
-I was watching Saturday Night Live this weekend, and was left with one question: who, in the hell, is Bruno Mars?
-While watching I Love You Man a while back, I was struck with a truism that was a crucial element in the movie: all men, no mater what their musical tastes, have a soft spot in their heart for Rush. We may be fans of alt, indie, country, metal, R&B, hip hop, jazz, classical, progressive, etc., as our first and foremost musical choice. But, put Tom Sawyer on the stereo, and well, we'll be grooving right along with it. There's something in the male DNA, a Rush chromosome if you like, that compels to have varying levels of affinity for this band. I have the greatest hits album to prove it. Whether it's the drumming pyrotechnics of Neil Peart, the bass shredding of Geddy Lee, or guitar textures of Alex Lifeson, we will uncontrollably air-guitar/drum the minute a Rush song is played. We cannot help it. In fact, if a Dr. Evil type was ever looking into turning the human male population into an army of controllable automatons, he'd figyre* out what it is in Rush's musical vibrations that is hard wired into the XY brain, and use it for nefarious purposes. Maybe they could simply play a Rush song on a world wide public broadcast and formulate a plan for billions men simultaneously air drumming to be used as a weapon of mass destruction. So there you go madmen of the world, your blueprint for world domination. "A modern day warrior, mean mean stride, today's Tom Sawyer, mean mean pride..." Muh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! (or whatever evil laughter looks like in print)
-Yes, I have 17yr and 15yr old daughters. So, you may or may not be asking yourself (or "yourselves", should you be reading this is some sort of weird group setting. Hey, I don't judge...I'm just saying...), what's it like being the father of teen daughters? Well, it's like this: this photo (warning: it's not for the faint of heart) is the singular most succinct image I can think of to fully explain sharing a home with teenaged, female offspring:
What you are looking at is not, in fact, a partially decomposed marmot I found behind some shrubs in my back yard, but a rather foul plug of hair I had to remove from the drain in the sink located in my daughters bathroom. I can understand a bunch of hair being in the SHOWER drain (of which I have removed many a time), but this was in THEIR SINK. Unless they shaved their heads in the sink (and, judging by the hair currently on their heads, I am guessing they have not), I cannot imagine how this much hair got in there. When I asked, they both sort of looked at me with a blank stare, before my oldest said her younger sister "sheds a lot." To which her younger sister said, "Yeah. I kinda do." So, apparently, one of my daughters is (as I remarked to another a while back) part alpaca. Needless to say, I had no idea she had genetically mutated on me. Perhaps she can be a source of family income going forward if I can knit the occasional scarf from her (apparently) abundant coat. That's me, always thinking outside the box....
*Yeah, I used it again...Anglophile that I am.
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