Marta Consuela Guadalupe Santiago lost her right eye at the age of five when her older brother Oscar snagged it while casting a fishing line from the pier at the edge of their village in Cuba. The local doctor, a rumpled and flirtatious octogenarian named Hector Domingo replaced it with a lump of smooth black glass.
When she was 15, Marta's family crossed over to Miami. Like her brothers Oscar and Angel, Marta enrolled in Little Havana's Blessed Sister of the Guadalupe High School on forged documents. Thus, Marta Consuela Guadalupe Santiago became Maria Lopez.
And it was under that name that, caving to her mother's constant pressure, she joined the convent that was connected to her high school after graduation.
She stayed with the convent until she was 28.
While traveling with some of the other sisters in the Midwest, Maria went to a carnival where she saw a wrestling match featuring former Catholic priest Seamus O'Shaughnessy, aka Furious Father Seamus, the Catholic Catastrophe. The raw physicality of the match lit a fire in Maria that had never been sparked by the church. Shortly after returning to Miami, she told her mother that she had decided to leave the convent to become a boxer, and she fought professionally for more than 15 years.
Feared by all contenders in the Southeast States Women's Boxing Commission for her deadly right hook and ominous black glass eye, Maria won the women's middleweight belt four times.
Although she finished her career with an impressive 57 wins (32 by knockout) and 21 losses, Maria is best remembered as having more nicknames than any other woman in professional boxing history:
The Eye of the Hurricane.
The Cuban Boxing Crisis.
Senora Ciclope.
The Eye of the Tigress.
The Twisted Sister.
The Right Hook from the Good Book.
Right Eye Lopez.
Miami Spice.
The Eyeatollah of Espanola.
The Brown Widow.
The Sister of No Mercy.
The Eye of God with the Right Hook from Hell.
The Havana Nightmare.
And the one that stuck, Sister Maria Lopez of the Unholy Ass Whooping.
Upon retiring from boxing in 2007, she returned to Blessed Sister of the Guadalupe to teach PE and coach the girls' boxing program.
State Champs three years running.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
November 29 - Revisiting the Rules
When you become a parent, it puts a different perspective on, well, everything, including your own childhood.
Looking back on some of the things my parents didn't allow me to do, the restrictions they put on me, and the strict, seemingly arbitrary rules they imposed: at the time I thought they were excessive. But now that I'm a dad, they make a lot more sense.
For instance:
Don't run with scissors.
Homework: Do it. Turn off the TV and do it.
Be nice to your sister.
Stop bringing animals home.
Don't smoke.
Wear your underwear on the inside of your clothes.
Seriously, don't smoke.
OK, if you really have to smoke, stick with the low-tar ones. But don't inhale. And not in bed.
No motorcycles.
And no hanging out in biker bars either.
Leave mom's cigarettes alone.
Hold the nail gun with both hands. And don't let me catch you using it in the dining room again!
I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Point is, all that crap I used to say when I was a kid about how someday when I have kids, I'm gonna let them do whatever they want? Once you get your own kid you realize how ridiculous that was.
But at least I can try to set the karmic scales in my and my wife's favor by telling my folks that I now completely understand why all that crap was off the table. They were right, I was wrong.
And also any tips they have for helping us get our daughter to see things that way would be appreciated.
Looking back on some of the things my parents didn't allow me to do, the restrictions they put on me, and the strict, seemingly arbitrary rules they imposed: at the time I thought they were excessive. But now that I'm a dad, they make a lot more sense.
For instance:
Don't run with scissors.
Homework: Do it. Turn off the TV and do it.
Be nice to your sister.
Stop bringing animals home.
Don't smoke.
Wear your underwear on the inside of your clothes.
Seriously, don't smoke.
OK, if you really have to smoke, stick with the low-tar ones. But don't inhale. And not in bed.
No motorcycles.
And no hanging out in biker bars either.
Leave mom's cigarettes alone.
Hold the nail gun with both hands. And don't let me catch you using it in the dining room again!
I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea. Point is, all that crap I used to say when I was a kid about how someday when I have kids, I'm gonna let them do whatever they want? Once you get your own kid you realize how ridiculous that was.
But at least I can try to set the karmic scales in my and my wife's favor by telling my folks that I now completely understand why all that crap was off the table. They were right, I was wrong.
And also any tips they have for helping us get our daughter to see things that way would be appreciated.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
November 28 - Origin Story
If I hadn't thumbed through the mid-April 2007 issue of Metropolis magazine and read an article about a band called Shibusashirazu Orchestra, I never would have known about them.
And if I hadn't had my curiosity piqued by the article, I certainly never would have gone to see them live and have my world rocked by the experience.
But I did.
And they immediately became my favorite band. And from then on, it was pretty much automatic: If they were playing in Tokyo I was going.
Just like when they were playing at Shinjuku Pit Inn on December 7, 2007.
Nobody else wanted to go with me that night. None of my friends or co-workers were interested, so I went by myself.
Thank God.
When I arrived, the club hadn't opened yet. The fifteen or so people who already had tickets were waiting in the lobby, and that included me.
That also included the Japanese woman I saw crossing the street who got there at pretty much the same exact time I did.
The one who was also standing alone.
And looking good.
So good, in fact, that I did something very out of character for me. I started a conversation with her.
A few sentences in, she discerned that her English was better than my Japanese, so we switched to English and talked a while and it was cool and casual and natural and laid back, and I was enjoying it and I think she was too.
But then a few minutes later when they started seating people according to the number on their ticket, they called my ticket number before hers and I--idiotically--broke away from my conversation with her and went in.
For some reason, once I started walking away I was powerless to stop. And all the while the part of my brain that is supposed to do the thinking was getting berated by the rest of my brain for walking away from this bright, beautiful, witty, elegant woman who was also into Shibusashirazu Orchestra enough to be there by herself too.
I went in and found a seat and sat there hating myself for being such a bonehead. How did I not just wait until her ticket number was called and go in with her?
Moron.
An overweight American guy took what should have been her seat and we started talking and he was nice but boring and in the middle of our conversation she came in and walked over to the other side of the room and that was that.
Great.
And so I talked to the guy a while longer, but I couldn't concentrate on a word he was saying because She was over there and I wasn't and I was an idiot for letting it come to that in the first place, and so for the second time in 15 minutes I did something out of character. I made up an excuse to go over and talk to her again, and we chatted, and I invited myself to join her, and she accepted. And then I went back over to the American guy, grabbed my bag, and told him I was switching seats. And part of me felt rude for leaving him there on his own, but it ended up being the best decision I ever made because that woman became my wife.
Your mother.
And now almost exactly three years later, here you are. Our daughter.
Sometimes we talk about all the things that had to go right for us to meet each other that night. It's incredible, really. Trains in Tokyo come every few minutes. If either one of us got on any of the trains we took that night five minutes earlier or five minutes later, or missed a crosswalk, or spent three minutes more or three minutes less at work or had a friend who joined us that night or we stopped to tie our shoe or did anything else slightly differently, we might not have gotten there at the same time and met.
But we did.
And now here you are.
Incredible.
For Maya
And if I hadn't had my curiosity piqued by the article, I certainly never would have gone to see them live and have my world rocked by the experience.
But I did.
And they immediately became my favorite band. And from then on, it was pretty much automatic: If they were playing in Tokyo I was going.
Just like when they were playing at Shinjuku Pit Inn on December 7, 2007.
Nobody else wanted to go with me that night. None of my friends or co-workers were interested, so I went by myself.
Thank God.
When I arrived, the club hadn't opened yet. The fifteen or so people who already had tickets were waiting in the lobby, and that included me.
That also included the Japanese woman I saw crossing the street who got there at pretty much the same exact time I did.
The one who was also standing alone.
And looking good.
So good, in fact, that I did something very out of character for me. I started a conversation with her.
A few sentences in, she discerned that her English was better than my Japanese, so we switched to English and talked a while and it was cool and casual and natural and laid back, and I was enjoying it and I think she was too.
But then a few minutes later when they started seating people according to the number on their ticket, they called my ticket number before hers and I--idiotically--broke away from my conversation with her and went in.
For some reason, once I started walking away I was powerless to stop. And all the while the part of my brain that is supposed to do the thinking was getting berated by the rest of my brain for walking away from this bright, beautiful, witty, elegant woman who was also into Shibusashirazu Orchestra enough to be there by herself too.
I went in and found a seat and sat there hating myself for being such a bonehead. How did I not just wait until her ticket number was called and go in with her?
Moron.
An overweight American guy took what should have been her seat and we started talking and he was nice but boring and in the middle of our conversation she came in and walked over to the other side of the room and that was that.
Great.
And so I talked to the guy a while longer, but I couldn't concentrate on a word he was saying because She was over there and I wasn't and I was an idiot for letting it come to that in the first place, and so for the second time in 15 minutes I did something out of character. I made up an excuse to go over and talk to her again, and we chatted, and I invited myself to join her, and she accepted. And then I went back over to the American guy, grabbed my bag, and told him I was switching seats. And part of me felt rude for leaving him there on his own, but it ended up being the best decision I ever made because that woman became my wife.
Your mother.
And now almost exactly three years later, here you are. Our daughter.
Sometimes we talk about all the things that had to go right for us to meet each other that night. It's incredible, really. Trains in Tokyo come every few minutes. If either one of us got on any of the trains we took that night five minutes earlier or five minutes later, or missed a crosswalk, or spent three minutes more or three minutes less at work or had a friend who joined us that night or we stopped to tie our shoe or did anything else slightly differently, we might not have gotten there at the same time and met.
But we did.
And now here you are.
Incredible.
For Maya
Saturday, November 27, 2010
November 27 - November 27
It's two days after Thanksgiving, and the turkey is still in the oven.
The arrival time has come and gone, but the plane is still circling the runway.
The concert was supposed to start hours ago, but the lead singer is nowhere in sight.
The storm clouds should have vanished days ago, but they're still around.
And the cherry blossoms are way behind schedule, and you don't think they're ever going to bloom.
But then suddenly, things are in motion, things are happening.
And it feels all the quicker since up until moments ago it didn't seem like anything was going to happen at all.
But then suddenly everything is happening, everything is changing, everything is moving forward.
And the turkey comes out of the oven and it's perfect.
And the flight lands safely.
And the lead singer shows up and it's the best concert ever.
And the clouds disappear and the sun comes out and the cherry blossoms bloom and they're beautiful.
And all is well.
The arrival time has come and gone, but the plane is still circling the runway.
The concert was supposed to start hours ago, but the lead singer is nowhere in sight.
The storm clouds should have vanished days ago, but they're still around.
And the cherry blossoms are way behind schedule, and you don't think they're ever going to bloom.
But then suddenly, things are in motion, things are happening.
And it feels all the quicker since up until moments ago it didn't seem like anything was going to happen at all.
But then suddenly everything is happening, everything is changing, everything is moving forward.
And the turkey comes out of the oven and it's perfect.
And the flight lands safely.
And the lead singer shows up and it's the best concert ever.
And the clouds disappear and the sun comes out and the cherry blossoms bloom and they're beautiful.
And all is well.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
November 26 - Out of Office
This is an automated response. Do not reply.
Thank you for visiting fictionyear. Andy Hockersmith is away from his computer today, and thus will not be posting a story for his daily ultra short fiction "blog." He will be returning to his regular schedule of daily fiction postings tomorrow.
If this is an emergency and you absolutely must have a fix of fiction (fixtion?) that you can read in the amount of time it takes you to have (make?) a bowel movement, try this: Search the archives of this "blog" for the story that was posted on your date of birth (or the date of birth of your significant other if we haven't gotten to your birthday yet).
Now, read it again, but this time imagine yourself as the main character only, get this, you're not wearing any pants!
There.
It's like a whole new story, isn't it?
Thank you for visiting fictionyear. Andy Hockersmith is away from his computer today, and thus will not be posting a story for his daily ultra short fiction "blog." He will be returning to his regular schedule of daily fiction postings tomorrow.
If this is an emergency and you absolutely must have a fix of fiction (fixtion?) that you can read in the amount of time it takes you to have (make?) a bowel movement, try this: Search the archives of this "blog" for the story that was posted on your date of birth (or the date of birth of your significant other if we haven't gotten to your birthday yet).
Now, read it again, but this time imagine yourself as the main character only, get this, you're not wearing any pants!
There.
It's like a whole new story, isn't it?
November 25 - Inbox
You have seven new voice messages in your mail box.
First message; voice message of today, 2:31 pm - Hey guys, it's me. I'm at work right now. Just got a call from May, and, um, we've got ourselves a contraction. So yeah, I'm heading home now to see what the deal is, and I'll call you again when I get there.
Second message; voice message of today, 2:33 pm - Hi. Me again. May had called while I was on the phone with you guys, and she thinks her water may have "fractured." Not broken, fractured. Her words, by the way. Anyway, she's on her way to the hospital as we speak, and I'm going to be meeting her there. Um, wow. More later.
Third message; voice message of today, 2:42 pm - Hey there. Me again. Just got off the phone with May. The fracture has been upgraded to a break. So, um, yeah . . . OK . . . Um, talk to you later.
Fourth message; voice message of today, 5:27 pm - Quick message here. Finally got to the hospital. Traffic was ridiculous, but everything is fine here. They've got her on the monitoring thing and everything looks good. May's fine, baby's fine. Just, um, kind of waiting to see what's next. Nothing new to report. Just listening to the really weird sci-fi baby heartbeat monitor thing and, um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.
Fifth message; voice message of today, 6:32 pm - In case you were interested, yes, hospital food still sucks.
Sixth message; voice message of today, 7:04 pm - Nothing new here, unless you're related to May's roommate here in the hospital. Based on the volume of her breathing and the groans she's letting out, I'm guessing she's about to give birth to a small bear. Sheesh. Let's just say she's a little bit further along in this whole process than May is. Anyway, they moved her to the delivery room, and why am I telling you this? I have no idea. Anyway, May is still fine. Um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.
Seventh message; voice message of today, 8:43 pm - Hi, me again. Kind of hope you can just skip ahead to this message, but whatever. Anyway, the doctor says May probably won't be going into labor until tomorrow. And unless she's in labor, normal visiting hours apply, so, incredibly, I have to take off. Completely lame, but I'm going to go home and try unsuccessfully to sleep. More updates tomorrow. Love you.
First message; voice message of today, 2:31 pm - Hey guys, it's me. I'm at work right now. Just got a call from May, and, um, we've got ourselves a contraction. So yeah, I'm heading home now to see what the deal is, and I'll call you again when I get there.
Second message; voice message of today, 2:33 pm - Hi. Me again. May had called while I was on the phone with you guys, and she thinks her water may have "fractured." Not broken, fractured. Her words, by the way. Anyway, she's on her way to the hospital as we speak, and I'm going to be meeting her there. Um, wow. More later.
Third message; voice message of today, 2:42 pm - Hey there. Me again. Just got off the phone with May. The fracture has been upgraded to a break. So, um, yeah . . . OK . . . Um, talk to you later.
Fourth message; voice message of today, 5:27 pm - Quick message here. Finally got to the hospital. Traffic was ridiculous, but everything is fine here. They've got her on the monitoring thing and everything looks good. May's fine, baby's fine. Just, um, kind of waiting to see what's next. Nothing new to report. Just listening to the really weird sci-fi baby heartbeat monitor thing and, um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.
Fifth message; voice message of today, 6:32 pm - In case you were interested, yes, hospital food still sucks.
Sixth message; voice message of today, 7:04 pm - Nothing new here, unless you're related to May's roommate here in the hospital. Based on the volume of her breathing and the groans she's letting out, I'm guessing she's about to give birth to a small bear. Sheesh. Let's just say she's a little bit further along in this whole process than May is. Anyway, they moved her to the delivery room, and why am I telling you this? I have no idea. Anyway, May is still fine. Um, yeah. Talk to you again soon.
Seventh message; voice message of today, 8:43 pm - Hi, me again. Kind of hope you can just skip ahead to this message, but whatever. Anyway, the doctor says May probably won't be going into labor until tomorrow. And unless she's in labor, normal visiting hours apply, so, incredibly, I have to take off. Completely lame, but I'm going to go home and try unsuccessfully to sleep. More updates tomorrow. Love you.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
November 24 - Plane and Automobile (Cliche Busters Volume 3)
Roger Forester was the nation's foremost expert on fatherhood, having authored seven best-selling books on the subject, including Who's Your Daddy: Navigating the Turbulent Waters of Paternity Disputes; My Son is Queer, and That's (G)A(Y) OK!; and Father Hood: Taking Care of the Household While You're in the Big House.
Because of his expertise, Roger was a frequent guest on nationally syndicated talk shows. He also had a regular column on parenthood.com, and was always being consulted in all media for his expert opinion.
Ironically, Roger himself wasn't exactly the best father in the world, or even the best father on his block. He was always out on book tours to promote his latest best-seller while his loving wife Sarah stayed home and took care of their three adorable children.
It wasn't that he didn't love them. He did. It was just that he was so wrapped up in his work that he never took the time to appreciate the things that were really important in life.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Roger was in Chicago doing an interview for NPR. Afterwards, he had exactly 45 minutes to make it across town to the airport so he could catch his flight back to New York.
It was going to be close, but he had to make it. Not only was the next day Thanksgiving, but it was also the day that his five-year-old son's kindergarten would be putting on their Thanksgiving pageant, and he had to be there. He had no choice. Roger had been such an absentee father these last few months. Every time he got home from work the kids were already asleep. There were so many missed soccer games, so many blown opportunities to help them with their homework or play with them; hell, to watch them grow up. It was all going by so fast. The Thanksgiving pageant was his last shot at redemption.
And as Roger left the NPR studios, the streets of Chicago were a disaster: Wet snow. Miserable traffic. Everyone on the roads. Gridlock as far as the eye could see. Not an empty cab in sight. He would never make it.
And yet somehow he did! He managed to find a cab that managed to squeeze its way behind an ambulance that was flying through traffic, and he made it to the airport with time to spare--only to learn that all outbound flights had been cancelled due to the snowstorm.
Amazing.
Stuck in Chicago.
Now he would never get back to New York for his son's Thanksgiving pageant.
Then, just as he was about to call Sarah to break the news, he was approached by a morbidly obese man in what had to be the world's largest down jacket. Recognizing Roger from the jacket of the Roger Forester book he was reading (Father Christmas: A Father's Guide to Surviving the Holidays), the boisterous and phlegmatic man introduced himself as Stanley Cogburn, Roger's biggest fan.
Knowing that Roger hailed from New York, would probably be wanting to return there for Thanksgiving, and was now snowed in in Chicago, Stanley offered him shotgun in the SUV he had just reserved online and was going to drive back to New York that night.
Roger was dubious.
It was a generous offer, but he could imagine how the episode would go. He'd met people like Stanley before. It would start out OK, but Stanley would gradually get on Roger's nerves, and Roger would quickly come across as condescending and uptight to the more sloppy and unkempt Stanley.
Things would go wrong.
They would get lost, wreck the car, and end up having to awkwardly share a hotel room in the middle of nowhere. They would lose all their money somehow, get mistaken for runaway bank robbers, and have about a million other things blow up in their faces.
And yet through the trials and tribulations of their road trip, they would come to appreciate one another's quirks. They would bond and learn to laugh again, and by the end of the trip, as they showed up on the doorstep of Roger's New York City townhouse and a picture perfect Thanksgiving dinner, they would realize that they had become friends.
Moreover, the whole experience would give Roger an opportunity to reexamine his life and realize what was really important to him--family. He would come away from the road trip a wiser, more patient man. But more importantly, he would finally learn to be the right kind of father for his children--maybe not a world renowned expert on fatherhood. Just an expert on being their dad. And what could be more important than that?
Roger accepted Stanley's offer.
And surprisingly, it was a really smooth trip. Once they got out of Chicago, the storm let up, and the driving was a piece of cake.
What's more, Stanley turned out to be a really bright and witty guy, and he and Roger clicked on every conversation topic: sports, politics, movies, everything. The miles flew by.
After driving through the night, Stanley dropped Roger off early Thanksgiving morning and wished him a Happy Turkey Day. As he tiptoed into his quiet home, Roger couldn't remember ever having had such a pleasant road trip.
He had made it back with plenty of time to see his son's Thanksgiving pageant. And the best part was that he was able to get a spot all by himself in the back of the auditorium so he could check email while Sarah videotaped it. He felt kind of guilty about it, but he knew his son would never know the difference.
All in all, Roger had a pretty good Thanksgiving. He had a few pleasant moments with his family, but mostly it was a great chance to catch up on work and sleep.
Plus, while he didn't end up learning any important lessons about love, life, and/or family, the turkey was amazing. Much juicier than last year's.
Because of his expertise, Roger was a frequent guest on nationally syndicated talk shows. He also had a regular column on parenthood.com, and was always being consulted in all media for his expert opinion.
Ironically, Roger himself wasn't exactly the best father in the world, or even the best father on his block. He was always out on book tours to promote his latest best-seller while his loving wife Sarah stayed home and took care of their three adorable children.
It wasn't that he didn't love them. He did. It was just that he was so wrapped up in his work that he never took the time to appreciate the things that were really important in life.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Roger was in Chicago doing an interview for NPR. Afterwards, he had exactly 45 minutes to make it across town to the airport so he could catch his flight back to New York.
It was going to be close, but he had to make it. Not only was the next day Thanksgiving, but it was also the day that his five-year-old son's kindergarten would be putting on their Thanksgiving pageant, and he had to be there. He had no choice. Roger had been such an absentee father these last few months. Every time he got home from work the kids were already asleep. There were so many missed soccer games, so many blown opportunities to help them with their homework or play with them; hell, to watch them grow up. It was all going by so fast. The Thanksgiving pageant was his last shot at redemption.
And as Roger left the NPR studios, the streets of Chicago were a disaster: Wet snow. Miserable traffic. Everyone on the roads. Gridlock as far as the eye could see. Not an empty cab in sight. He would never make it.
And yet somehow he did! He managed to find a cab that managed to squeeze its way behind an ambulance that was flying through traffic, and he made it to the airport with time to spare--only to learn that all outbound flights had been cancelled due to the snowstorm.
Amazing.
Stuck in Chicago.
Now he would never get back to New York for his son's Thanksgiving pageant.
Then, just as he was about to call Sarah to break the news, he was approached by a morbidly obese man in what had to be the world's largest down jacket. Recognizing Roger from the jacket of the Roger Forester book he was reading (Father Christmas: A Father's Guide to Surviving the Holidays), the boisterous and phlegmatic man introduced himself as Stanley Cogburn, Roger's biggest fan.
Knowing that Roger hailed from New York, would probably be wanting to return there for Thanksgiving, and was now snowed in in Chicago, Stanley offered him shotgun in the SUV he had just reserved online and was going to drive back to New York that night.
Roger was dubious.
It was a generous offer, but he could imagine how the episode would go. He'd met people like Stanley before. It would start out OK, but Stanley would gradually get on Roger's nerves, and Roger would quickly come across as condescending and uptight to the more sloppy and unkempt Stanley.
Things would go wrong.
They would get lost, wreck the car, and end up having to awkwardly share a hotel room in the middle of nowhere. They would lose all their money somehow, get mistaken for runaway bank robbers, and have about a million other things blow up in their faces.
And yet through the trials and tribulations of their road trip, they would come to appreciate one another's quirks. They would bond and learn to laugh again, and by the end of the trip, as they showed up on the doorstep of Roger's New York City townhouse and a picture perfect Thanksgiving dinner, they would realize that they had become friends.
Moreover, the whole experience would give Roger an opportunity to reexamine his life and realize what was really important to him--family. He would come away from the road trip a wiser, more patient man. But more importantly, he would finally learn to be the right kind of father for his children--maybe not a world renowned expert on fatherhood. Just an expert on being their dad. And what could be more important than that?
Roger accepted Stanley's offer.
And surprisingly, it was a really smooth trip. Once they got out of Chicago, the storm let up, and the driving was a piece of cake.
What's more, Stanley turned out to be a really bright and witty guy, and he and Roger clicked on every conversation topic: sports, politics, movies, everything. The miles flew by.
After driving through the night, Stanley dropped Roger off early Thanksgiving morning and wished him a Happy Turkey Day. As he tiptoed into his quiet home, Roger couldn't remember ever having had such a pleasant road trip.
He had made it back with plenty of time to see his son's Thanksgiving pageant. And the best part was that he was able to get a spot all by himself in the back of the auditorium so he could check email while Sarah videotaped it. He felt kind of guilty about it, but he knew his son would never know the difference.
All in all, Roger had a pretty good Thanksgiving. He had a few pleasant moments with his family, but mostly it was a great chance to catch up on work and sleep.
Plus, while he didn't end up learning any important lessons about love, life, and/or family, the turkey was amazing. Much juicier than last year's.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
November 23 - Stuffing
Hey there, I got your invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. So, you're serving a turducken, huh? That's what, a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey?
Hmm.
Wow.
Yeah, sorry I haven't gotten back to you until now. See, I've been too busy not giving a shit about your lame ass turducken.
Seriously, three birds in one? That's all you've got for me? Who the fuck cares? What do you say you take your piece of shit turducken and go sit at the kiddies' table?
Turducken.
Yeah, I'll be duckin' that turd for sure.
Three animals? All in the same family?
Pilgrim, please.
Check out what I've got going on in my place this year:
I start out with a hummingbird, which is stuffed up the ass of a crow, which is then crammed up the rump of a rooster, which in turn is jammed into the belly of a goose.
There. The score is now 4 - 3. Ready to concede defeat yet?
Well, not so fast, Miles Standish; this gobblepalooza is just getting started.
Because next we shove the goose into the abdomen of a cleanly shaven wild boar, and the boar is then rammed into the belly of a reindeer.
Oh yeah.
You read that right. Reindeer. Tell Santa he's got an opening to fill, because Donner's going to be a my place for dinner this week.
But don't worry about your kids getting scarred by the sight of a smouldering reindeer carcass, because they won't see him: Old Donner's going to be stowed in the stomach of a one and a half ton American bison.
Anybody else getting hungry yet? Well then hold on to your blunderbuss, limp dick. Because the piece de resistance is almost here. And in case you're not in the mood to decipher French on an American holiday, let me break it down for you in the queen's:
What I mean is, here comes the money shot.
The bison is stuffed inside a five ton Asian elephant.
There.
There, bitch.
The humcrowstergooboareinbisephant.
Dinner is served.
Pass the yams, motherfucker.
Hmm.
Wow.
Yeah, sorry I haven't gotten back to you until now. See, I've been too busy not giving a shit about your lame ass turducken.
Seriously, three birds in one? That's all you've got for me? Who the fuck cares? What do you say you take your piece of shit turducken and go sit at the kiddies' table?
Turducken.
Yeah, I'll be duckin' that turd for sure.
Three animals? All in the same family?
Pilgrim, please.
Check out what I've got going on in my place this year:
I start out with a hummingbird, which is stuffed up the ass of a crow, which is then crammed up the rump of a rooster, which in turn is jammed into the belly of a goose.
There. The score is now 4 - 3. Ready to concede defeat yet?
Well, not so fast, Miles Standish; this gobblepalooza is just getting started.
Because next we shove the goose into the abdomen of a cleanly shaven wild boar, and the boar is then rammed into the belly of a reindeer.
Oh yeah.
You read that right. Reindeer. Tell Santa he's got an opening to fill, because Donner's going to be a my place for dinner this week.
But don't worry about your kids getting scarred by the sight of a smouldering reindeer carcass, because they won't see him: Old Donner's going to be stowed in the stomach of a one and a half ton American bison.
Anybody else getting hungry yet? Well then hold on to your blunderbuss, limp dick. Because the piece de resistance is almost here. And in case you're not in the mood to decipher French on an American holiday, let me break it down for you in the queen's:
What I mean is, here comes the money shot.
The bison is stuffed inside a five ton Asian elephant.
There.
There, bitch.
The humcrowstergooboareinbisephant.
Dinner is served.
Pass the yams, motherfucker.
Monday, November 22, 2010
November 22 - Distressed
"These are the only Wailers I don't have a problem with."
June, the newest and youngest addition to The Friendship giggled at Tre's whalers/Wailers pun, and Oleg rolled his eyes as they sipped herbal tea and checked navigation charts. Rastaman Vibration played on Tre's iPod stereo.
"But we're getting close to where we can sometimes hear the whales' songs, so . . " He turned the music down, and the quiet of the middle of the Pacific struck June as it always did. The hull of The Friendship groaned as it rocked gently in the late night waves. Occasionally they heard the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat or their flag flapping in the wind. Other than that, it was quiet.
Outside the navigation room, a crescent moon was hidden by clouds, the ocean was black, and the night was still. They listened for the whales' song.
More specifically, they listened for the whales' distress song; they were in an area well known to be frequented by whalers.
The Friendship's reason for being in that area was twofold: to prevent the slaughter of blue whales, and to study them. They did the latter both in the field and in a marine biology research center off the coast of Monterrey.
It was during a similar voyage several months ago that they had rescued a pregnant blue whale from whalers who had grazed her with a harpoon. The Friendship had intervened, taken her under their wing, and all but dragged her back to Monterrey.
There, she slowly recovered while they performed research on her. Through this research, they were able to identify and speculate on the meanings of several different commonly heard whale songs: distress, gratitude, mating, impending labor, and others. Indeed, Rita, as they took to calling her, birthed a healthy calf while under their watch, a first for their research center.
"Everybody knows about the whales' songs," Tre whispered to June as The Friendship rocked quietly. "But few people appreciate just how meaningful they are."
Oleg kept a casual hand on the ship's controls and listened as Tre tried to romance yet another impressionable young idealist through his descriptions of the whales' songs as haunting, otherworldly, and soulful, which, Oleg had to admit, they were.
But to Oleg, ultimately, the songs were really just communication. And to be so dazzled by the fact that another species of mammal was capable of something so basic as communication belittled them. Of course they could communicate. They were a highly evolved, intelligent, sentient species. Why wouldn't they be able to communicate meaningfully?
But the fact that they were learning to understand the whales' songs--with the hopes of one day communicating with them directly--was something that interested Oleg greatly. There was so much about the songs' pitch, tone, length, and volume that they had yet to understand. It was all endlessly fascinating, and--yes, Tre--hauntingly beautiful.
And then there it was, the whales' song.
Distress.
They got a lock on the song's source and set course for it, rightfully thinking they would see the whaling ship that was hunting the whale before they saw the whale itself.
Within minutes, they were alongside a whaling vessel that was bearing down on a blue whale that breached nearby. Even in the darkness of night, the whale could be seen. It was so close to the whaling ship it seemed to be attempting to engage them.
Oleg and Tre could see the whale's wake right near the whaler's main harpoon gun, which was probably where the whaling ship had mounted a device that drew herds of whales to the ship by mimicking whale mating songs.
It seemed to be working with this one. A solo whale was practically presenting himself to the whaling ship. Given its point blank proximity to the whaler, it would take a miracle to prevent him from being shot.
Oleg bleated The Friendship's horn and desperately tried to maneuver The Friendship between the whale and the whaling ship while June, Tre, and other volunteers shone lights on the scene and videotaped it.
There was a stand off, and a lot of yelling and taunting, but ultimately the whaling ship relented, likely out of the fear of CNN, YouTube, and every other website in cyberspace getting their hands on a clip of a big, mean, evil whaling ship attacking an innocent whale and/or peace loving environmental activists/scientists. It backed away and set course for other waters.
Oleg, Tre, June, and the rest of The Friendship's crew rejoiced. They'd saved another whale.
After high fives and celebrations on deck, they quickly quieted down to listen for the gratitude song from the whale, but it never came, nor did any other song. Not from that whale.
In fact, they had misunderstood the whale's song that had drawn them to where the whaling ship was. It was not a song of distress, but of depression.
Unbeknownst to them, the whale they had seen that night was actually the mate of Rita, the pregnant female they had rescued and taken back to Monterrey all those months ago. After she was taken out of their area, he had searched and searched for her in vain, and over the months that followed he had gone into a deep depression over the absence of his mate and their calf.
Having given up hope in ever seeing them again, he had gone to that area, knowing full well that it was frequented by whalers. He was hoping they would help him end his misery.
But the crew of The Friendship had mistaken his despondent song as a cry for help. And because of their actions, he survived the night.
Eventually, Tre, June, and Oleg gave up on hearing the whale's gratitude song. They went back inside and charted a course for Monterrey.
As they left the area, the solitary blue whale they'd saved from the whalers circled the area a couple of times and then swam silently into the night.
June, the newest and youngest addition to The Friendship giggled at Tre's whalers/Wailers pun, and Oleg rolled his eyes as they sipped herbal tea and checked navigation charts. Rastaman Vibration played on Tre's iPod stereo.
"But we're getting close to where we can sometimes hear the whales' songs, so . . " He turned the music down, and the quiet of the middle of the Pacific struck June as it always did. The hull of The Friendship groaned as it rocked gently in the late night waves. Occasionally they heard the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat or their flag flapping in the wind. Other than that, it was quiet.
Outside the navigation room, a crescent moon was hidden by clouds, the ocean was black, and the night was still. They listened for the whales' song.
More specifically, they listened for the whales' distress song; they were in an area well known to be frequented by whalers.
The Friendship's reason for being in that area was twofold: to prevent the slaughter of blue whales, and to study them. They did the latter both in the field and in a marine biology research center off the coast of Monterrey.
It was during a similar voyage several months ago that they had rescued a pregnant blue whale from whalers who had grazed her with a harpoon. The Friendship had intervened, taken her under their wing, and all but dragged her back to Monterrey.
There, she slowly recovered while they performed research on her. Through this research, they were able to identify and speculate on the meanings of several different commonly heard whale songs: distress, gratitude, mating, impending labor, and others. Indeed, Rita, as they took to calling her, birthed a healthy calf while under their watch, a first for their research center.
"Everybody knows about the whales' songs," Tre whispered to June as The Friendship rocked quietly. "But few people appreciate just how meaningful they are."
Oleg kept a casual hand on the ship's controls and listened as Tre tried to romance yet another impressionable young idealist through his descriptions of the whales' songs as haunting, otherworldly, and soulful, which, Oleg had to admit, they were.
But to Oleg, ultimately, the songs were really just communication. And to be so dazzled by the fact that another species of mammal was capable of something so basic as communication belittled them. Of course they could communicate. They were a highly evolved, intelligent, sentient species. Why wouldn't they be able to communicate meaningfully?
But the fact that they were learning to understand the whales' songs--with the hopes of one day communicating with them directly--was something that interested Oleg greatly. There was so much about the songs' pitch, tone, length, and volume that they had yet to understand. It was all endlessly fascinating, and--yes, Tre--hauntingly beautiful.
And then there it was, the whales' song.
Distress.
They got a lock on the song's source and set course for it, rightfully thinking they would see the whaling ship that was hunting the whale before they saw the whale itself.
Within minutes, they were alongside a whaling vessel that was bearing down on a blue whale that breached nearby. Even in the darkness of night, the whale could be seen. It was so close to the whaling ship it seemed to be attempting to engage them.
Oleg and Tre could see the whale's wake right near the whaler's main harpoon gun, which was probably where the whaling ship had mounted a device that drew herds of whales to the ship by mimicking whale mating songs.
It seemed to be working with this one. A solo whale was practically presenting himself to the whaling ship. Given its point blank proximity to the whaler, it would take a miracle to prevent him from being shot.
Oleg bleated The Friendship's horn and desperately tried to maneuver The Friendship between the whale and the whaling ship while June, Tre, and other volunteers shone lights on the scene and videotaped it.
There was a stand off, and a lot of yelling and taunting, but ultimately the whaling ship relented, likely out of the fear of CNN, YouTube, and every other website in cyberspace getting their hands on a clip of a big, mean, evil whaling ship attacking an innocent whale and/or peace loving environmental activists/scientists. It backed away and set course for other waters.
Oleg, Tre, June, and the rest of The Friendship's crew rejoiced. They'd saved another whale.
After high fives and celebrations on deck, they quickly quieted down to listen for the gratitude song from the whale, but it never came, nor did any other song. Not from that whale.
In fact, they had misunderstood the whale's song that had drawn them to where the whaling ship was. It was not a song of distress, but of depression.
Unbeknownst to them, the whale they had seen that night was actually the mate of Rita, the pregnant female they had rescued and taken back to Monterrey all those months ago. After she was taken out of their area, he had searched and searched for her in vain, and over the months that followed he had gone into a deep depression over the absence of his mate and their calf.
Having given up hope in ever seeing them again, he had gone to that area, knowing full well that it was frequented by whalers. He was hoping they would help him end his misery.
But the crew of The Friendship had mistaken his despondent song as a cry for help. And because of their actions, he survived the night.
Eventually, Tre, June, and Oleg gave up on hearing the whale's gratitude song. They went back inside and charted a course for Monterrey.
As they left the area, the solitary blue whale they'd saved from the whalers circled the area a couple of times and then swam silently into the night.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
November 21 - Stacy the Lesbian Vampire Killer
Stacy the lesbian vampire killer was constantly having to explain himself to people who called the phone number on his business flyers.
No, he himself was not a lesbian.
Nor was he a vampire.
He was a person who hired himself out to kill vampires who were lesbians; thus his job title, Stacy the Lesbian Vampire Killer.
And considering how many lesbian vampires there were in his area, he was providing a valuable service--not that anyone ever gave him credit. People always focused on the fact that he only killed lesbian vampires, and was, therefore, obviously homophobic and/or sexist. Never mind the fact that for whatever reason (something to do with a curse) the only vampires in the area were lesbians. Never mind that they were a menace to everyone out there. The important point to most people was that he called himself a lesbian vampire killer; as such, he was clearly a bigot.
The fact that he was also openly homicidal usually came up much later, if at all. Being a killer, it seemed, was fine. But being a homophobic killer was not.
He insisted to everyone who would listen that he wasn't homophobic. If there had been heterosexual female vampires (or male vampires of any persuasion), he would have gladly dispensed with them, too.
"I'm not killing them because they're lesbians," he would say. "I'm killing them because they're vampires."
"OK," went the typical response. "So how many straight vampires have you killed?"
"It's not like that. If there were any, I'd kill them too, but they're all lesbians."
"That's convenient."
"Look, it's not my fault they're lesbians."
"Oh, so being a lesbian is somebody's fault?"
"That's not what I meant. Look, I don't have anything against lesbians per se."
"That's a relief. So you just kill them because it's fun?"
"I kill them because they're vampires. Look, I'm fine with lesbians. I have friends who are lesbians. And I think they should be allowed to marry, join the military, have kids, whatever. I have no problem at all with lesbians as long as they're not vampires."
"So, it's vampires you have a problem with."
"Yes!"
"So then why do you have to say lesbian vampires?"
"Because that's what they are!"
And on and on and on, and eventually Stacy got tired enough of having that conversation that he changed the name of his business to Stacy the Vampire Killer. This seemed to please everyone, including Stacy. He liked the sound of Stacy the Vampire Killer.
At least at first.
The Vampire Killer part was undeniably badass.
But Stacy? That was a girl's name.
How he'd managed to ignore that fact for so long was a mystery to him, but ignoring it was something he could no longer do.
He started thinking about changing it, but he wanted to get other people's input before he did anything too rash.
And so mere days after he'd won over everyone in the area by dropping 'lesbian' from the name of his business, he destroyed all the good will he'd generated by asking them if they thought Stacy sounded gay.
No, he himself was not a lesbian.
Nor was he a vampire.
He was a person who hired himself out to kill vampires who were lesbians; thus his job title, Stacy the Lesbian Vampire Killer.
And considering how many lesbian vampires there were in his area, he was providing a valuable service--not that anyone ever gave him credit. People always focused on the fact that he only killed lesbian vampires, and was, therefore, obviously homophobic and/or sexist. Never mind the fact that for whatever reason (something to do with a curse) the only vampires in the area were lesbians. Never mind that they were a menace to everyone out there. The important point to most people was that he called himself a lesbian vampire killer; as such, he was clearly a bigot.
The fact that he was also openly homicidal usually came up much later, if at all. Being a killer, it seemed, was fine. But being a homophobic killer was not.
He insisted to everyone who would listen that he wasn't homophobic. If there had been heterosexual female vampires (or male vampires of any persuasion), he would have gladly dispensed with them, too.
"I'm not killing them because they're lesbians," he would say. "I'm killing them because they're vampires."
"OK," went the typical response. "So how many straight vampires have you killed?"
"It's not like that. If there were any, I'd kill them too, but they're all lesbians."
"That's convenient."
"Look, it's not my fault they're lesbians."
"Oh, so being a lesbian is somebody's fault?"
"That's not what I meant. Look, I don't have anything against lesbians per se."
"That's a relief. So you just kill them because it's fun?"
"I kill them because they're vampires. Look, I'm fine with lesbians. I have friends who are lesbians. And I think they should be allowed to marry, join the military, have kids, whatever. I have no problem at all with lesbians as long as they're not vampires."
"So, it's vampires you have a problem with."
"Yes!"
"So then why do you have to say lesbian vampires?"
"Because that's what they are!"
And on and on and on, and eventually Stacy got tired enough of having that conversation that he changed the name of his business to Stacy the Vampire Killer. This seemed to please everyone, including Stacy. He liked the sound of Stacy the Vampire Killer.
At least at first.
The Vampire Killer part was undeniably badass.
But Stacy? That was a girl's name.
How he'd managed to ignore that fact for so long was a mystery to him, but ignoring it was something he could no longer do.
He started thinking about changing it, but he wanted to get other people's input before he did anything too rash.
And so mere days after he'd won over everyone in the area by dropping 'lesbian' from the name of his business, he destroyed all the good will he'd generated by asking them if they thought Stacy sounded gay.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
November 19 - Turkey Trot
All right. Listen up, turkeys.
We're getting down to decision time.
Every day, every hour we spend on this lot gets us closer to getting stuffed.
Our vacation is over, and it's time to check out of this hotel. And if we're gonna do this, it's gotta be tonight.
Look, I know it seems like we've got it good here.
We've got a warm place to sleep, plenty to eat, and the company of all our friends.
Life is good here.
But it's a little bit too good, wouldn't you say?
Lately things just haven't been adding up for me.
Haven't you noticed the increase in our food allotments these last few weeks? Haven't you noticed that we're all putting on a lot of weight?
Something's up.
Don't tell me you're not at least a little bit suspicious.
I can't be the only one who remembers the same thing happening last year. Right around when the leaves changed and it started getting colder: more food. A lot more food. And then suddenly they whisked all the bigger, older guys through that big door and they were all excited because they thought they were going on a field trip.
Only they never came back.
Are you guys seriously telling me you didn't notice that they never came back? I know we all kind of look alike, but come on.
But listen: They didn't get transferred, they didn't get furloughed, they didn't get moved to a place in the country.
And no, they didn't get presidential pardons.
Besides, have you ever talked to Dolly? She was the one who got "pardoned" by the president last year. It was on TV and everything. Don't you remember? In the news they were saying how she would be going to some petting zoo in Bethesda, and everyone laughed and took pictures, and they put her in a pick-up truck to head off to her new home in the Bethesda Petting Zoo.
Yeah.
Right.
There are no "petting zoos" in Bethesda, you turkeys.
No "family farms" either.
They staged that fake pardon photo op in the rose garden to put a happy face on what goes on here every year. And then they turned around and brought Dolly right back here.
You getting the picture?
Is this all starting to sink in?
Is this starting to make sense, you turkeys?
Our days are numbered here.
Every day we stay here brings us closer to that door.
So I say we get out while we still can.
My plan?
Well, it's not much. It definitely ain't no Chicken Run.
Basically, my plan consists of us gobbling our asses off and running in the opposite direction of the door.
Yes, I know it needs work, but what do you want from me? They keep this place on lock down. What do you want me to say? I'll seduce one of the guards? Slip the keys out of his pocket while he's sleeping? Crash a truck through the door? Create a diversion that will allow the rest of you to run gobbling into the night?
Come on. I'm a turkey, for crying out loud.
The only plan I can give you is we run. When they open that big door, we turn around, start gobbling like there's no tomorrow, and run.
It's either that or hope for a presidential pardon.
We're screwed, aren't we?
We're getting down to decision time.
Every day, every hour we spend on this lot gets us closer to getting stuffed.
Our vacation is over, and it's time to check out of this hotel. And if we're gonna do this, it's gotta be tonight.
Look, I know it seems like we've got it good here.
We've got a warm place to sleep, plenty to eat, and the company of all our friends.
Life is good here.
But it's a little bit too good, wouldn't you say?
Lately things just haven't been adding up for me.
Haven't you noticed the increase in our food allotments these last few weeks? Haven't you noticed that we're all putting on a lot of weight?
Something's up.
Don't tell me you're not at least a little bit suspicious.
I can't be the only one who remembers the same thing happening last year. Right around when the leaves changed and it started getting colder: more food. A lot more food. And then suddenly they whisked all the bigger, older guys through that big door and they were all excited because they thought they were going on a field trip.
Only they never came back.
Are you guys seriously telling me you didn't notice that they never came back? I know we all kind of look alike, but come on.
But listen: They didn't get transferred, they didn't get furloughed, they didn't get moved to a place in the country.
And no, they didn't get presidential pardons.
Besides, have you ever talked to Dolly? She was the one who got "pardoned" by the president last year. It was on TV and everything. Don't you remember? In the news they were saying how she would be going to some petting zoo in Bethesda, and everyone laughed and took pictures, and they put her in a pick-up truck to head off to her new home in the Bethesda Petting Zoo.
Yeah.
Right.
There are no "petting zoos" in Bethesda, you turkeys.
No "family farms" either.
They staged that fake pardon photo op in the rose garden to put a happy face on what goes on here every year. And then they turned around and brought Dolly right back here.
You getting the picture?
Is this all starting to sink in?
Is this starting to make sense, you turkeys?
Our days are numbered here.
Every day we stay here brings us closer to that door.
So I say we get out while we still can.
My plan?
Well, it's not much. It definitely ain't no Chicken Run.
Basically, my plan consists of us gobbling our asses off and running in the opposite direction of the door.
Yes, I know it needs work, but what do you want from me? They keep this place on lock down. What do you want me to say? I'll seduce one of the guards? Slip the keys out of his pocket while he's sleeping? Crash a truck through the door? Create a diversion that will allow the rest of you to run gobbling into the night?
Come on. I'm a turkey, for crying out loud.
The only plan I can give you is we run. When they open that big door, we turn around, start gobbling like there's no tomorrow, and run.
It's either that or hope for a presidential pardon.
We're screwed, aren't we?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
November 18 - An Open Letter to Steve Jobs Regarding the Recent Beginning of Sales of Beatles Music on iTunes
Dear Steve,
I read the news today, oh boy.
All I can say is congratulations.
It's another historical coup for Apple and iTunes.
People finally have the opportunity to purchase the entire Beatles catalog yet again.
Whoopity fucking do.
Here comes the fucking sun.
Yay, iTunes.
For the first time ever, people the world over can pay to download a bunch of shit they probably already have.
The Beatles + iTunes.
The two most overexposed commercial entities in history.
Together at last.
Twist and shout for the overhyped, overrated synergasm of a lifetime.
Tell me, Steve: Shall I suck your dick now, or shall I pay to have Sgt. Pepper in yet another fucking format first?
God, I can't wait to see the inevitable self-congratulatory TV ads showing all those iconic Beatles pictures and playing snippets from all those iconic Beatles songs so we can all feel so fucking good about ourselves for being lucky enough to be alive during The Time of The Beatles and iTunes.
Yippee.
More of the Fab Four.
Just when I thought the world had finally gotten over the Beatles and gotten on with their lives, it turns out I'm wrong again because now iTunes is going to cram it all down our throats yet again.
OK.
We get it.
The Beatles were big. They changed everything. They had a bunch of hits and a bunch of classic albums.
But it all went down about 40 years ago.
Let's move the fuck on.
Can we? Can we please move the fuck on?
Because let me let you in on a little secret. You ready?
They weren't that good.
I'm sorry, but they just weren't.
I am the Eggman? I am the Walrus? Really? Hell, my two-year-old could write better lyrics than that. And I don't even have a two-year-old.
All You Need is Love? Actually, no it isn't. You need money. And food. And a bunch of other shit.
Love, Love Me Do? How about suck, suck me dick?
We All Live in a Yellow Submarine? We do? Really? Fuck you.
Strawberry Fields Forever? Horrible.
And on and on and on.
And they weren't even that cool as people. Them with their mop tops and their dorky ass clothes.
John? Smugger than hell.
Paul? Actually not that cute.
George? Mystical? Not really. Just quiet and mopey, and that's not the same thing.
And Ringo? Don't get me started on that big-eared twat. What would I do if you sang out of tune--would I stand up and walk out on you? Yes. Fuck yes. Every goddamn time.
Man, I hate that guy. I mean, I hate them all, but especially him.
And yet, here we are nursing hard ons because their music is finally available for download on iTunes.
Great.
Super.
Lucky us.
OK yeah, fine, I admit it. They had a good run. The 60s were good to them, and they did quite well. But it couldn't have lasted forever. They broke up too early. They broke up before they had a chance to jump the shark. Honestly, if you think about it, the best thing that ever happened to those guys?
Yoko Ono.
Seriously, Yoko Ono.
Check it out.
If Yoko doesn't come along and split those guys up, they stay together past their prime, slip into mediocrity, release some crap albums, and taint their legacy.
But no.
She broke them up at the exact right time. They went out on top. And thus, legacy intact.
Dammit.
And then 40 years later, in you came to make your precious little company seem that much cooler and with it and hip for being able to sell a bunch of songs that everybody already has. Good for you, Mr. Jobs. You did it again! Congratulations on setting yourself up to make a shit ton of money while perpetuating the myth of the most bloated and overrated band in the history of the world.
Yay, Apple!
Yay, Beatles!
Kiss my ass. There's your goddamn revolution.
Sincerely,
Pete Best
I read the news today, oh boy.
All I can say is congratulations.
It's another historical coup for Apple and iTunes.
People finally have the opportunity to purchase the entire Beatles catalog yet again.
Whoopity fucking do.
Here comes the fucking sun.
Yay, iTunes.
For the first time ever, people the world over can pay to download a bunch of shit they probably already have.
The Beatles + iTunes.
The two most overexposed commercial entities in history.
Together at last.
Twist and shout for the overhyped, overrated synergasm of a lifetime.
Tell me, Steve: Shall I suck your dick now, or shall I pay to have Sgt. Pepper in yet another fucking format first?
God, I can't wait to see the inevitable self-congratulatory TV ads showing all those iconic Beatles pictures and playing snippets from all those iconic Beatles songs so we can all feel so fucking good about ourselves for being lucky enough to be alive during The Time of The Beatles and iTunes.
Yippee.
More of the Fab Four.
Just when I thought the world had finally gotten over the Beatles and gotten on with their lives, it turns out I'm wrong again because now iTunes is going to cram it all down our throats yet again.
OK.
We get it.
The Beatles were big. They changed everything. They had a bunch of hits and a bunch of classic albums.
But it all went down about 40 years ago.
Let's move the fuck on.
Can we? Can we please move the fuck on?
Because let me let you in on a little secret. You ready?
They weren't that good.
I'm sorry, but they just weren't.
I am the Eggman? I am the Walrus? Really? Hell, my two-year-old could write better lyrics than that. And I don't even have a two-year-old.
All You Need is Love? Actually, no it isn't. You need money. And food. And a bunch of other shit.
Love, Love Me Do? How about suck, suck me dick?
We All Live in a Yellow Submarine? We do? Really? Fuck you.
Strawberry Fields Forever? Horrible.
And on and on and on.
And they weren't even that cool as people. Them with their mop tops and their dorky ass clothes.
John? Smugger than hell.
Paul? Actually not that cute.
George? Mystical? Not really. Just quiet and mopey, and that's not the same thing.
And Ringo? Don't get me started on that big-eared twat. What would I do if you sang out of tune--would I stand up and walk out on you? Yes. Fuck yes. Every goddamn time.
Man, I hate that guy. I mean, I hate them all, but especially him.
And yet, here we are nursing hard ons because their music is finally available for download on iTunes.
Great.
Super.
Lucky us.
OK yeah, fine, I admit it. They had a good run. The 60s were good to them, and they did quite well. But it couldn't have lasted forever. They broke up too early. They broke up before they had a chance to jump the shark. Honestly, if you think about it, the best thing that ever happened to those guys?
Yoko Ono.
Seriously, Yoko Ono.
Check it out.
If Yoko doesn't come along and split those guys up, they stay together past their prime, slip into mediocrity, release some crap albums, and taint their legacy.
But no.
She broke them up at the exact right time. They went out on top. And thus, legacy intact.
Dammit.
And then 40 years later, in you came to make your precious little company seem that much cooler and with it and hip for being able to sell a bunch of songs that everybody already has. Good for you, Mr. Jobs. You did it again! Congratulations on setting yourself up to make a shit ton of money while perpetuating the myth of the most bloated and overrated band in the history of the world.
Yay, Apple!
Yay, Beatles!
Kiss my ass. There's your goddamn revolution.
Sincerely,
Pete Best
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
November 17 - 817 Miles to Albuquerque
She gazes distantly out the window at the landscape speeding by: paths she'll never walk, trees she'll never sit beneath, gas stations she'll never stop at for fuel and/or a snack.
Her smooth, beefy hand reaches up and touches the necklace that rests enviously just above where her unapologetically heaving bosom begins, and I briefly consider switching to Buddhism in the hopes that I will be reincarnated as that gloriously blessed piece of jewelry.
Her sumptuous mouth opens and takes in the final swallow of Mountain Dew Code Red.
Then, sated and caffeinated, she wipes the remnants of the Dew from her wispy moustache.
Slowly.
Oh so achingly slowly.
The playful minx.
And then she checks both ways, leans forward, and tosses the 32 ounce plastic bottle under the seat in front of her.
And it is that moment that freezes in eternity.
The planets align, her blouse hangs low, and I'm blessed with an unfettered vision of Paradise.
Her cleavage.
It is a wonder filled confluence of lust and treachery, an R-rated Disney World, a dying wish, a flesh spelunker's Shangri La.
I have died and gone to heaven.
But not literally.
What I mean is I'm still here, still alive.
And I'm still gazing at her heaving sweater gifts.
And then suddenly, her eyes are upon me. Twin pools of mystery, delight, summers on the farm.
"You looking at something?"
Her voice.
Oh God, her voice.
She's a smoker by the sound of it, and oh, to be one of her cigarettes! Held delicately but firmly (chewed?) between her luscious and only slightly chapped lips. Burned alive, my essence breathed into her lungs to give her a moment's pleasure. A suicide mission for which I would readily volunteer.
"Well?"
And now she's staring at me.
Patiently isn't the word that comes to mind.
I am transfixed, stunned into silence.
"Perv," she says.
Perv.
What is this strange and wonderful word? What could it mean? Sit with me? Pleasure me? I am tempted to ask the other Greyhound passengers, but that would spoil the fun.
Besides, ours is an exchange that is only big enough for two. She is the enchantress, I am the enchanter.
No. Wait. I'm not the enchanter. What am I?
Never mind that now! She's turning away. The challenge has been laid down. I must win back her attention!
Say something, dammit!
"I like your tattoo," I say. Boldly, full of confidence.
She feigns bewilderment, for that is her way, the elusive vixen.
"This?" she says at last. "This is a scar, you asshole."
And it is, of course it is. After all, who would choose to put a six-inch tattoo on the top of her scalp? Not her, not my buzzcut beauty.
"Just leave me alone, creep."
A piercing barb.
Her words sting like stingers, like hornet or wasp stingers. No, wait. Her words are like a honeybee that stings you just when you are about to taste that sweetest of honeys.
But doesn't she realize that when the honeybee stings, she seals her fate?
I am about to ask her this when she beats me to the punch.
"And for God's sake, pull up your trousers."
Perhaps she is not concerned about her fate.
"I said, pull up your Goddamn trousers."
And with reluctance, that is exactly what I do. As always.
And having accepted my conciliatory gesture, she turns her attention back to the latest issue of Guns & Ammo, triumphant--for now.
But it is a long ride to Albuquerque. She may have won this opening battle, but my war for affections has only just begun.
Her smooth, beefy hand reaches up and touches the necklace that rests enviously just above where her unapologetically heaving bosom begins, and I briefly consider switching to Buddhism in the hopes that I will be reincarnated as that gloriously blessed piece of jewelry.
Her sumptuous mouth opens and takes in the final swallow of Mountain Dew Code Red.
Then, sated and caffeinated, she wipes the remnants of the Dew from her wispy moustache.
Slowly.
Oh so achingly slowly.
The playful minx.
And then she checks both ways, leans forward, and tosses the 32 ounce plastic bottle under the seat in front of her.
And it is that moment that freezes in eternity.
The planets align, her blouse hangs low, and I'm blessed with an unfettered vision of Paradise.
Her cleavage.
It is a wonder filled confluence of lust and treachery, an R-rated Disney World, a dying wish, a flesh spelunker's Shangri La.
I have died and gone to heaven.
But not literally.
What I mean is I'm still here, still alive.
And I'm still gazing at her heaving sweater gifts.
And then suddenly, her eyes are upon me. Twin pools of mystery, delight, summers on the farm.
"You looking at something?"
Her voice.
Oh God, her voice.
She's a smoker by the sound of it, and oh, to be one of her cigarettes! Held delicately but firmly (chewed?) between her luscious and only slightly chapped lips. Burned alive, my essence breathed into her lungs to give her a moment's pleasure. A suicide mission for which I would readily volunteer.
"Well?"
And now she's staring at me.
Patiently isn't the word that comes to mind.
I am transfixed, stunned into silence.
"Perv," she says.
Perv.
What is this strange and wonderful word? What could it mean? Sit with me? Pleasure me? I am tempted to ask the other Greyhound passengers, but that would spoil the fun.
Besides, ours is an exchange that is only big enough for two. She is the enchantress, I am the enchanter.
No. Wait. I'm not the enchanter. What am I?
Never mind that now! She's turning away. The challenge has been laid down. I must win back her attention!
Say something, dammit!
"I like your tattoo," I say. Boldly, full of confidence.
She feigns bewilderment, for that is her way, the elusive vixen.
"This?" she says at last. "This is a scar, you asshole."
And it is, of course it is. After all, who would choose to put a six-inch tattoo on the top of her scalp? Not her, not my buzzcut beauty.
"Just leave me alone, creep."
A piercing barb.
Her words sting like stingers, like hornet or wasp stingers. No, wait. Her words are like a honeybee that stings you just when you are about to taste that sweetest of honeys.
But doesn't she realize that when the honeybee stings, she seals her fate?
I am about to ask her this when she beats me to the punch.
"And for God's sake, pull up your trousers."
Perhaps she is not concerned about her fate.
"I said, pull up your Goddamn trousers."
And with reluctance, that is exactly what I do. As always.
And having accepted my conciliatory gesture, she turns her attention back to the latest issue of Guns & Ammo, triumphant--for now.
But it is a long ride to Albuquerque. She may have won this opening battle, but my war for affections has only just begun.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
November 16 - A Word of Warning to the Generation of Males Who Are Currently Being Born at About the Same Time as My Daughter
I know most of you are way too young to be able to understand language, much less read.
I know a lot of you haven't even been born yet.
But this is a message for you anyway, and I hope someday when the time comes that you can understand it, you will save us both a lot of trouble and listen to what I have to say.
Ready?
Here it goes.
Stay.
The fuck.
Away from my daughter.
There.
Consider yourselves warned.
No touches, no gropes, no buying of drinks, no bullshit, no flirting, no looks.
Not with my daughter.
Don't even think about it.
You might think I'm an overprotective father?
I might think I don't a fuck what you think.
You and your douchebag styles, your Justin Timberlake hat, your soft ass earrings, and your dorky ass man purses?
Listen.
If I see you with those accessories around my daughter, I'll take them away from you, make a weapon with them, and beat your ass with it until you cry for your mommy and daddy.
And then when they come, so help me, I will beat your daddy the same way.
But not your mom.
No, not your mom, for I--unlike you, you fuck--am a gentleman. And even though your mom clearly did a shite ass job of raising you--this much is clear to me from the fact that you're even thinking about going after my daughter--she's still a woman and thus deserving of my respect.
But you? You presumptuous, cocky, disrespectful piece of shit? If you so much as think about thinking about putting the moves on my daughter in some bar, some hot, crowded place where there's alcohol, smoke, loud music, dim lighting, people who think they're cool, and what you delude yourself into hoping will be loose morals, know this, fuckwad: I will track you down and punish you for even thinking of my daughter in that way.
Understand this:
You're not cool.
You're not funny.
You're not smart.
You're not handsome.
You're not original.
You can't dance.
Your jokes suck.
You dress like an absolute asshole.
Your hair is a joke.
Everything about you radiates incompetence, idiocy, and unworthiness, and my daughter would never in a million years go for an asshole like you, so save us all the trouble and keep the fuck walking.
But if the doctor is wrong, and my wife and I are actually having a son instead of a daughter, you guys should totally hang out sometime.
I know a lot of you haven't even been born yet.
But this is a message for you anyway, and I hope someday when the time comes that you can understand it, you will save us both a lot of trouble and listen to what I have to say.
Ready?
Here it goes.
Stay.
The fuck.
Away from my daughter.
There.
Consider yourselves warned.
No touches, no gropes, no buying of drinks, no bullshit, no flirting, no looks.
Not with my daughter.
Don't even think about it.
You might think I'm an overprotective father?
I might think I don't a fuck what you think.
You and your douchebag styles, your Justin Timberlake hat, your soft ass earrings, and your dorky ass man purses?
Listen.
If I see you with those accessories around my daughter, I'll take them away from you, make a weapon with them, and beat your ass with it until you cry for your mommy and daddy.
And then when they come, so help me, I will beat your daddy the same way.
But not your mom.
No, not your mom, for I--unlike you, you fuck--am a gentleman. And even though your mom clearly did a shite ass job of raising you--this much is clear to me from the fact that you're even thinking about going after my daughter--she's still a woman and thus deserving of my respect.
But you? You presumptuous, cocky, disrespectful piece of shit? If you so much as think about thinking about putting the moves on my daughter in some bar, some hot, crowded place where there's alcohol, smoke, loud music, dim lighting, people who think they're cool, and what you delude yourself into hoping will be loose morals, know this, fuckwad: I will track you down and punish you for even thinking of my daughter in that way.
Understand this:
You're not cool.
You're not funny.
You're not smart.
You're not handsome.
You're not original.
You can't dance.
Your jokes suck.
You dress like an absolute asshole.
Your hair is a joke.
Everything about you radiates incompetence, idiocy, and unworthiness, and my daughter would never in a million years go for an asshole like you, so save us all the trouble and keep the fuck walking.
But if the doctor is wrong, and my wife and I are actually having a son instead of a daughter, you guys should totally hang out sometime.
Monday, November 15, 2010
November 15 - Operation Moo Juice
Of all the so called "Frankenstein Foods" out there, none sparked more controversy than Patty the Veggie Cow.
Conceived by biogeneticist Dr. Ronald McDonald, Patty was a beef cow made entirely of vegetables.
And she was alive. Alive!
Or so his colleagues would have joked, implying as they always did that Dr. McDonald was a mad doctor. But he wasn't mad. Maybe a little angry sometimes, but not straight up mad. A couple of his colleagues even referred to him as a testy doctor, but it sounded too much like testes doctor. Because of this, one of them stopped, and the other one did it more.
Yes, yes, but was he crazy?
No.
Unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center?
Yes.
But not crazy.
For if he had been crazy, he wouldn't have been able to produce Patty.
And yet produce her he did--to spite his wife Glenda, a devout and often very preachy vegetarian.
Dr. McDonald was always making arguments against vegetarianism and in favor of omnivorism, but his wife ignored them all.
"Find me a cow that's made of vegetables," she would tell him. "And I'll eat that. Until then, thanks but no thanks."
Thanks, but no thanks.
Her attitude was frustrating for Dr. McDonald. He loved beef. The fact that his name was Ronald McDonald--and he was a red head, no less--didn't make things any easier. Every night he would grill up a steak or burger to perfection. But the sight of his wife happily chomping away at a healthy mixed green salad always tainted his meal, if only a little.
And so one night, after losing yet another battle to the Famous Grouse, he came up with the plan to get back at his wife by bioengineering a veggie cow.
"I'll show her," he said out loud, causing him to feel a little self consciously like a mad doctor. But not enough to stop him from following through on his plan.
In fact, he decided his plan was so good that it wouldn't wait until the morning. He grabbed a second bottle of the Grouse, went to his basement lab, and worked and drank his way through the night.
And the rest of the weekend.
And the next several weekends.
As unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center doctors are wont to do, Dr. McDonald went overboard on this project.
But after two months of solid, if not obsessive work, he had produced Patty, the world's first veggie cow.
She had tomato eyes, a pumpkin udder, and massive zucchini horns. The rest of her was an enormous assemblage of broccoli, cucumbers, turnips, eggplants, spinach, carrots, and every other vegetable Dr. McDonald could get his hands on.
But Patty wasn't just a bunch of vegetables that were stuck together so they looked like a cow.
No.
Patty was alive.
She walked, breathed, mooed, ate grass, pooped (compost) and did everything else a regular cow did. The only difference was she was 100% vegetable.
After Glenda recovered from the shock of meeting Patty, she knew she was in a pickle. After all, she had told her husband she would eat a veggie cow if he ever found one. And now here was Patty.
What could she do?
She had to admit that Patty was a miracle--but also an abomination. Not that Glenda was religious in any way. But still, the best way she could articulate her misgivings about its--her--existence was that it was pretty messed up.
And when Glenda asked her husband how it was possible that Patty was actually alive, the only answer he gave her was, "Science."
Ultimately, Glenda decided she would eat her words, but not Patty. She was too scientifically important to just eat. Glenda apologized profusely to her husband for welshing, and he accepted.
And together they took care of Patty, who was calm and pleasant, though a bit melancholy. After a few weeks, in an effort to improve her morale, Dr. McDonald bioengineered a veggie bull and named him Durham.
And then Durham and Patty did what any healthy set of veggie bovines would do.
They mated.
And a few months later, Patty gave birth to a veggie calf they named Cassandra.
And over the next several years, Dr. McDonald continued to bioengineer and breed veggie cattle at an incredibly prolific rate. Perhaps the veggie cow was the key to combating famine. The veggie cow breeding project charged ahead.
Soon Dr. McDonald and his wife had to move to a farm where they would have enough land to take care of their herd.
When they went public with their creation, vegetarians around the world were at an ethical crossroads: Was it OK to eat a veggie cow?
Most of them steered clear. Yes, they were vegetables, but they were conscious, sentient. It just seemed wrong, especially when you factored in the fact that biogenetics were involved.
Plus, they looked really weird.
Thanks, but no thanks.
All the Hindus in India stayed away, too.
And the world's meat eaters weren't interested at all.
And so before long, having no natural predators and breeding like crazy, the veggie cows became overpopulated. All they did was eat grass, produce compost, and make little veggie cows. All of which created a huge strain on the nation's agricultural resources. It quickly became an ecological crisis. Something had to be done.
In the end, it was decided that the veggie cows would be juiced--literally. The veggie cows would be converted to vegetable juice.
There was a massive outcry.
There were protests at every turn.
And it went ahead anyway.
In the largest civil works project undertaken since the Great Depression, massive juicers were built and distributed throughout the Midwest and the veggie cows were fed into them one by one.
Even though nobody wanted the juice, it seemed like such a waste to just toss it out, so it was flash frozen and put in gigantic storage containers "just in case."
Operation Moo Juice, as it was called, was a success.
In time, Dr. McDonald and his wife went back to their regular house, and Dr. McDonald went back to his old job.
And in a conciliatory gesture toward her husband, Glenda began joining her husband for an occasional hamburger.
Conceived by biogeneticist Dr. Ronald McDonald, Patty was a beef cow made entirely of vegetables.
And she was alive. Alive!
Or so his colleagues would have joked, implying as they always did that Dr. McDonald was a mad doctor. But he wasn't mad. Maybe a little angry sometimes, but not straight up mad. A couple of his colleagues even referred to him as a testy doctor, but it sounded too much like testes doctor. Because of this, one of them stopped, and the other one did it more.
Yes, yes, but was he crazy?
No.
Unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center?
Yes.
But not crazy.
For if he had been crazy, he wouldn't have been able to produce Patty.
And yet produce her he did--to spite his wife Glenda, a devout and often very preachy vegetarian.
Dr. McDonald was always making arguments against vegetarianism and in favor of omnivorism, but his wife ignored them all.
"Find me a cow that's made of vegetables," she would tell him. "And I'll eat that. Until then, thanks but no thanks."
Thanks, but no thanks.
Her attitude was frustrating for Dr. McDonald. He loved beef. The fact that his name was Ronald McDonald--and he was a red head, no less--didn't make things any easier. Every night he would grill up a steak or burger to perfection. But the sight of his wife happily chomping away at a healthy mixed green salad always tainted his meal, if only a little.
And so one night, after losing yet another battle to the Famous Grouse, he came up with the plan to get back at his wife by bioengineering a veggie cow.
"I'll show her," he said out loud, causing him to feel a little self consciously like a mad doctor. But not enough to stop him from following through on his plan.
In fact, he decided his plan was so good that it wouldn't wait until the morning. He grabbed a second bottle of the Grouse, went to his basement lab, and worked and drank his way through the night.
And the rest of the weekend.
And the next several weekends.
As unconventional, irrational, unorthodox, antisocial, unbalanced, and way, way, way off center doctors are wont to do, Dr. McDonald went overboard on this project.
But after two months of solid, if not obsessive work, he had produced Patty, the world's first veggie cow.
She had tomato eyes, a pumpkin udder, and massive zucchini horns. The rest of her was an enormous assemblage of broccoli, cucumbers, turnips, eggplants, spinach, carrots, and every other vegetable Dr. McDonald could get his hands on.
But Patty wasn't just a bunch of vegetables that were stuck together so they looked like a cow.
No.
Patty was alive.
She walked, breathed, mooed, ate grass, pooped (compost) and did everything else a regular cow did. The only difference was she was 100% vegetable.
After Glenda recovered from the shock of meeting Patty, she knew she was in a pickle. After all, she had told her husband she would eat a veggie cow if he ever found one. And now here was Patty.
What could she do?
She had to admit that Patty was a miracle--but also an abomination. Not that Glenda was religious in any way. But still, the best way she could articulate her misgivings about its--her--existence was that it was pretty messed up.
And when Glenda asked her husband how it was possible that Patty was actually alive, the only answer he gave her was, "Science."
Ultimately, Glenda decided she would eat her words, but not Patty. She was too scientifically important to just eat. Glenda apologized profusely to her husband for welshing, and he accepted.
And together they took care of Patty, who was calm and pleasant, though a bit melancholy. After a few weeks, in an effort to improve her morale, Dr. McDonald bioengineered a veggie bull and named him Durham.
And then Durham and Patty did what any healthy set of veggie bovines would do.
They mated.
And a few months later, Patty gave birth to a veggie calf they named Cassandra.
And over the next several years, Dr. McDonald continued to bioengineer and breed veggie cattle at an incredibly prolific rate. Perhaps the veggie cow was the key to combating famine. The veggie cow breeding project charged ahead.
Soon Dr. McDonald and his wife had to move to a farm where they would have enough land to take care of their herd.
When they went public with their creation, vegetarians around the world were at an ethical crossroads: Was it OK to eat a veggie cow?
Most of them steered clear. Yes, they were vegetables, but they were conscious, sentient. It just seemed wrong, especially when you factored in the fact that biogenetics were involved.
Plus, they looked really weird.
Thanks, but no thanks.
All the Hindus in India stayed away, too.
And the world's meat eaters weren't interested at all.
And so before long, having no natural predators and breeding like crazy, the veggie cows became overpopulated. All they did was eat grass, produce compost, and make little veggie cows. All of which created a huge strain on the nation's agricultural resources. It quickly became an ecological crisis. Something had to be done.
In the end, it was decided that the veggie cows would be juiced--literally. The veggie cows would be converted to vegetable juice.
There was a massive outcry.
There were protests at every turn.
And it went ahead anyway.
In the largest civil works project undertaken since the Great Depression, massive juicers were built and distributed throughout the Midwest and the veggie cows were fed into them one by one.
Even though nobody wanted the juice, it seemed like such a waste to just toss it out, so it was flash frozen and put in gigantic storage containers "just in case."
Operation Moo Juice, as it was called, was a success.
In time, Dr. McDonald and his wife went back to their regular house, and Dr. McDonald went back to his old job.
And in a conciliatory gesture toward her husband, Glenda began joining her husband for an occasional hamburger.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
November 14 - Lady
The Lady is free.
Her latest term of house arrest has come to an end.
This is good news, but unfortunately I don't think it's that much to get excited about.
The election is already over, the bad guys won, and in any event her party--which had won in the last election which was held 20 years ago but was never given power--had chosen to sit this election out because it (correctly) claimed that the election would be unfair and illegitimate.
Sorry if I'm being vague.
The election I'm referring to took place in Burma (also known as Myanmar), and the Lady is Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi, the leader of Burma's main opposition party, the National League for Democracy.
Aung San Suu Kyi has spent most the past 20 years under house arrest, having been placed there by the military junta that controls Burma--the same junta that controlled every aspect of the recent sham election that it predictably won.
But this is all stuff you can find out anywhere, so I won't go into details now.
Instead I'll just say that I'm glad the world's eyes are on Burma now, and I hope they stay that way for a long time, but I know they won't.
I'll also say that I'm glad that Aung San Suu Kyi exists and that she is free. She is the face of Burmese resistance, a living icon, and a symbol of hope, and her freedom is cause for celebration. But she's not the only story in Burma.
Tens of thousands of Burmese live in refugee camps on the border of Thailand and Burma. Hundreds of thousands more live in Thailand as illegal immigrants. And hundreds of thousands more are internally displaced persons living in Burma.
This situation has been going on for decades, as has the civil war that is central to this humanitarian crisis.
I don't think it is a situation that is likely to change any time soon, even though the Lady--as her vast number of supporters call her--is free.
However, it is a situation that many are working to improve. And I would like to give one such organization a plug.
They're called Room to Grow, and their mission is to support children, many of them orphans, who live in school dormitories in the refugee camps on the Thai/Burmese borders. And when I say dormitories, I'm talking very rustic quarters: bamboo floors, thatched roofs, and extremely limited resources.
Room to Grow helps provide the children who live in these dormitories with blankets, food, fuel, mosquito nets, and other necessary items that they wouldn't otherwise get.
I have worked with the women who founded Room to Grow, and I can assure you that the work they do is good and worthwhile. A little goes a long way, and any donations you can give them will be put to very good use.
For more information, please visit http://www.roomtogrowfoundation.org/
Thank you for reading this. And may there be peace in Burma in our lifetime.
Her latest term of house arrest has come to an end.
This is good news, but unfortunately I don't think it's that much to get excited about.
The election is already over, the bad guys won, and in any event her party--which had won in the last election which was held 20 years ago but was never given power--had chosen to sit this election out because it (correctly) claimed that the election would be unfair and illegitimate.
Sorry if I'm being vague.
The election I'm referring to took place in Burma (also known as Myanmar), and the Lady is Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi, the leader of Burma's main opposition party, the National League for Democracy.
Aung San Suu Kyi has spent most the past 20 years under house arrest, having been placed there by the military junta that controls Burma--the same junta that controlled every aspect of the recent sham election that it predictably won.
But this is all stuff you can find out anywhere, so I won't go into details now.
Instead I'll just say that I'm glad the world's eyes are on Burma now, and I hope they stay that way for a long time, but I know they won't.
I'll also say that I'm glad that Aung San Suu Kyi exists and that she is free. She is the face of Burmese resistance, a living icon, and a symbol of hope, and her freedom is cause for celebration. But she's not the only story in Burma.
Tens of thousands of Burmese live in refugee camps on the border of Thailand and Burma. Hundreds of thousands more live in Thailand as illegal immigrants. And hundreds of thousands more are internally displaced persons living in Burma.
This situation has been going on for decades, as has the civil war that is central to this humanitarian crisis.
I don't think it is a situation that is likely to change any time soon, even though the Lady--as her vast number of supporters call her--is free.
However, it is a situation that many are working to improve. And I would like to give one such organization a plug.
They're called Room to Grow, and their mission is to support children, many of them orphans, who live in school dormitories in the refugee camps on the Thai/Burmese borders. And when I say dormitories, I'm talking very rustic quarters: bamboo floors, thatched roofs, and extremely limited resources.
Room to Grow helps provide the children who live in these dormitories with blankets, food, fuel, mosquito nets, and other necessary items that they wouldn't otherwise get.
I have worked with the women who founded Room to Grow, and I can assure you that the work they do is good and worthwhile. A little goes a long way, and any donations you can give them will be put to very good use.
For more information, please visit http://www.roomtogrowfoundation.org/
Thank you for reading this. And may there be peace in Burma in our lifetime.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
November 13 - Use Another Semicolon; We've Got Plenty
Of all the punctuation marks out there, I think it's safe to say that semicolons get the worst rap.
Periods put an end to whatever thought you're entertaining.
And exclamation points drive your point home!
Question marks kind of leave you up in the air, don't they?
As for colons: They're OK.
But semicolons? They get no respect. Think about it. They're less than colons. They're semicolons.
A common joke among the punctuation world:
Q: What's the only thing worse than being a colon?
A: Being a semicolon; they're such douches.
Enough.
I say we bring the semicolon back; it's long overdue. See, there's one right there. They're not that hard to use. You just tack a related idea on to the coattails of the sentence that precedes it; in doing so, you save a period. With the dollar as weak as it is these days, we could all stand to be a bit more judicious with our use of periods.
Not so with semicolons; they're so abundant. Years and years of underuse has resulted in the nation's semicolon reserves virtually bursting at the seams; it's time we put them to use.
So go on, use a semicolon. And save that period for a time when you really need it; for example, at the end of a story.
Periods put an end to whatever thought you're entertaining.
And exclamation points drive your point home!
Question marks kind of leave you up in the air, don't they?
As for colons: They're OK.
But semicolons? They get no respect. Think about it. They're less than colons. They're semicolons.
A common joke among the punctuation world:
Q: What's the only thing worse than being a colon?
A: Being a semicolon; they're such douches.
Enough.
I say we bring the semicolon back; it's long overdue. See, there's one right there. They're not that hard to use. You just tack a related idea on to the coattails of the sentence that precedes it; in doing so, you save a period. With the dollar as weak as it is these days, we could all stand to be a bit more judicious with our use of periods.
Not so with semicolons; they're so abundant. Years and years of underuse has resulted in the nation's semicolon reserves virtually bursting at the seams; it's time we put them to use.
So go on, use a semicolon. And save that period for a time when you really need it; for example, at the end of a story.
Friday, November 12, 2010
November 12 - Mimi the Clam
Mimi the clam lived at the bottom of the sea with her friends Connie the crab, Ebeneezer the shrimp (or just Ebi), and Carlos the squid. Nobody called him Carlos, though. They all called him Guess So on account of his answering every question with a shrug of his tentacles and a noncommittal "Guess so."
Every day after clam school Mimi would meet up with Connie, Ebi, and Guess So to go swimming and have a picnic. Everybody in the gang always brought enough of their favorite food to share with the rest of the gang. Everybody, that is, except for Mimi who only brought enough of her beloved seaweed cakes for herself.
Although Ebi and Guess So were cool with it, sometimes Mimi's unwillingness to share ticked Connie off, but Ebi and Guess So didn't pay her any mind. After all, Connie was almost always cranky about something. Besides, Ebi and Guess So were always pretty generous with their food and there was always plenty for everyone.
And so it went.
But one day Connie couldn't take it anymore. She wanted to know what Mimi's deal was. Why didn't she ever share her snacks with anyone? Why did she only ever seem to think about herself? In short, why was Mimi such a selfish shellfish?
It took some prodding to get Mimi to open her mouth, but at last she told them why she was so hesitant to share.
The reason was that she was afraid that if she shared something small like food, it might lead to bigger and bigger things and someone might eventually abscond with her pearl. And she couldn't risk that. And so that's why she never shared. It was just safer that way.
"But Mimi," Ebi said. "Clams don't have pearls. Oysters do."
She didn't believe Ebi at first, but then they got on Wiklampedia and confirmed that it was in fact oysters that had pearls, not clams.
Mimi was pretty crestfallen.
The rest of the gang tried to cheer her up, even Connie, who in an uncharacteristically kind and magnanimous move told Mimi that even though she didn't have a pearl inside her, she was still a real gem to them."
"You really think so?" asked Mimi.
"Yes," said Connie.
"Of course," said Ebi.
"Guess so," shrugged Guess So.
"Well, shucks," said Mimi. "You guys are the best."
And from then on, Mimi was giving and open and kind to the rest of the gang, and this new found openness filled her with joy. For the first time since she could remember, she was truly happy--as happy as a clam.
Every day after clam school Mimi would meet up with Connie, Ebi, and Guess So to go swimming and have a picnic. Everybody in the gang always brought enough of their favorite food to share with the rest of the gang. Everybody, that is, except for Mimi who only brought enough of her beloved seaweed cakes for herself.
Although Ebi and Guess So were cool with it, sometimes Mimi's unwillingness to share ticked Connie off, but Ebi and Guess So didn't pay her any mind. After all, Connie was almost always cranky about something. Besides, Ebi and Guess So were always pretty generous with their food and there was always plenty for everyone.
And so it went.
But one day Connie couldn't take it anymore. She wanted to know what Mimi's deal was. Why didn't she ever share her snacks with anyone? Why did she only ever seem to think about herself? In short, why was Mimi such a selfish shellfish?
It took some prodding to get Mimi to open her mouth, but at last she told them why she was so hesitant to share.
The reason was that she was afraid that if she shared something small like food, it might lead to bigger and bigger things and someone might eventually abscond with her pearl. And she couldn't risk that. And so that's why she never shared. It was just safer that way.
"But Mimi," Ebi said. "Clams don't have pearls. Oysters do."
She didn't believe Ebi at first, but then they got on Wiklampedia and confirmed that it was in fact oysters that had pearls, not clams.
Mimi was pretty crestfallen.
The rest of the gang tried to cheer her up, even Connie, who in an uncharacteristically kind and magnanimous move told Mimi that even though she didn't have a pearl inside her, she was still a real gem to them."
"You really think so?" asked Mimi.
"Yes," said Connie.
"Of course," said Ebi.
"Guess so," shrugged Guess So.
"Well, shucks," said Mimi. "You guys are the best."
And from then on, Mimi was giving and open and kind to the rest of the gang, and this new found openness filled her with joy. For the first time since she could remember, she was truly happy--as happy as a clam.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
November 11 - Harvesters of Redemption
Up before the dawn. Out in the fields until after dark, then go inside, say your prayers, and get to sleep so you can wake up the next morning, and do it again.
That was the life of the Amish: a never ending cycle of work, prayer, and sleep.
Except for Saturday nights.
Saturday nights were for music: Barn-busting gospel. House-rocking hymns. The Good News cranked out with the intensity of a mid-summer thunder storm, courtesy of Eli Stutzman, Samuel Plank, Daniel Stoltzfus, Abraham Slagel, and Amos Ramseyer, aka the Harvesters of Redemption--the baddest, hardest, and most righteous purveyors of unplugged church music this side of the Erie Canal.
Forget Tesla. The Harvesters were the REAL five man acoustical jam--as in jam the Good News down your throat until it commands you to get up and testify.
And that's what the good, God fearing Amish people of Lancaster County lived for every Saturday night: a good old fashioned Barn Romp featuring the Harvesters of Redemption. Eli on guitar, Samuel on washboard, clogs, and other tools of percussion, Daniel on a milk bottle xylophone, Abraham on fiddle, and Amos on a bass fashioned out of an old plow and the braided tail hair of Deuteronomy, the finest steed in the area.
Musicologists called their firebrand evangelical stomps "farmer core" because the lyrics centered around cultivation--of crops and spirituality. Farmer core combined the rage and intensity of metal, the virtuosity of bluegrass, and the passionate fervor of gospel into one truly feverish, uplifting, and at times terrifying musical idiom.
And make no mistake about it--when the Harvesters played, it was scary. They absolutely punished their instruments while shouting out lyrics about hellfire and brimstone so vivid and extreme they made Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God seem like a Hallmark card.
And then there was their appearance.
The Harvesters dressed in black from head to toe, and wore white face make up with black eyeliner and eye shadow. The white symbolized the goodness that predominated in man, and the black symbolized the darkness that could sometimes cloud man's vision. Put together, it made for a jarring sight, especially along with the furiously intense music they played. Anyone who had seen them knew the Harvesters were all about raising Hell--just so they could beat it back down and remind it who the real boss was.
Jesus Christ.
Their music was loud, rowdy, rough, and hard, but their message was every bit as steeped in gospel as the infinitely more sedate church services that followed on Sunday mornings.
This was by design.
Saturday nights were all about exorcising the demons of the work week so the parishioners could go to church the next morning pure of heart, mind, body, and soul.
To bring about this effect, the Harvesters played their instruments and sang like their very salvation was at stake, like it was their personal duty to protect the souls of every man, woman, and child to set foot inside the rotating circuit of barns where they delivered their fiery musical sermons. They played until they were soaked in sweat, until the women fainted, and until all the men were hollering Hallelujah. They played until everyone leapt and stomped and shook and raised their hands to the heavens and praised Jesus.
And then they played some more.
That was the Harvesters of Redemption.
There may have been other bands in the Pennsylvania Dutch Farmer Core scene--Stigmata; Plow for Now, Salvation Forever; 40 Acres and My Lord--but the Harvesters of Redemption were the cream of the crop. The hardest, loudest, most relentlessly earth rattling Bible thumpers in Lancaster County.
That was the life of the Amish: a never ending cycle of work, prayer, and sleep.
Except for Saturday nights.
Saturday nights were for music: Barn-busting gospel. House-rocking hymns. The Good News cranked out with the intensity of a mid-summer thunder storm, courtesy of Eli Stutzman, Samuel Plank, Daniel Stoltzfus, Abraham Slagel, and Amos Ramseyer, aka the Harvesters of Redemption--the baddest, hardest, and most righteous purveyors of unplugged church music this side of the Erie Canal.
Forget Tesla. The Harvesters were the REAL five man acoustical jam--as in jam the Good News down your throat until it commands you to get up and testify.
And that's what the good, God fearing Amish people of Lancaster County lived for every Saturday night: a good old fashioned Barn Romp featuring the Harvesters of Redemption. Eli on guitar, Samuel on washboard, clogs, and other tools of percussion, Daniel on a milk bottle xylophone, Abraham on fiddle, and Amos on a bass fashioned out of an old plow and the braided tail hair of Deuteronomy, the finest steed in the area.
Musicologists called their firebrand evangelical stomps "farmer core" because the lyrics centered around cultivation--of crops and spirituality. Farmer core combined the rage and intensity of metal, the virtuosity of bluegrass, and the passionate fervor of gospel into one truly feverish, uplifting, and at times terrifying musical idiom.
And make no mistake about it--when the Harvesters played, it was scary. They absolutely punished their instruments while shouting out lyrics about hellfire and brimstone so vivid and extreme they made Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God seem like a Hallmark card.
And then there was their appearance.
The Harvesters dressed in black from head to toe, and wore white face make up with black eyeliner and eye shadow. The white symbolized the goodness that predominated in man, and the black symbolized the darkness that could sometimes cloud man's vision. Put together, it made for a jarring sight, especially along with the furiously intense music they played. Anyone who had seen them knew the Harvesters were all about raising Hell--just so they could beat it back down and remind it who the real boss was.
Jesus Christ.
Their music was loud, rowdy, rough, and hard, but their message was every bit as steeped in gospel as the infinitely more sedate church services that followed on Sunday mornings.
This was by design.
Saturday nights were all about exorcising the demons of the work week so the parishioners could go to church the next morning pure of heart, mind, body, and soul.
To bring about this effect, the Harvesters played their instruments and sang like their very salvation was at stake, like it was their personal duty to protect the souls of every man, woman, and child to set foot inside the rotating circuit of barns where they delivered their fiery musical sermons. They played until they were soaked in sweat, until the women fainted, and until all the men were hollering Hallelujah. They played until everyone leapt and stomped and shook and raised their hands to the heavens and praised Jesus.
And then they played some more.
That was the Harvesters of Redemption.
There may have been other bands in the Pennsylvania Dutch Farmer Core scene--Stigmata; Plow for Now, Salvation Forever; 40 Acres and My Lord--but the Harvesters of Redemption were the cream of the crop. The hardest, loudest, most relentlessly earth rattling Bible thumpers in Lancaster County.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
November 10 - A Father To Be Wonders What the Deal is With the World's Most Enduring Lullaby
Rock-a-bye baby
On the tree top
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall
And down will come baby
Cradle and all
Really?
That's what we're supposed to be singing to our little treasures at night to help them sleep? Hey there, love of my life, here's a little ditty about some fucking insanely negligent parents you should consider yourself lucky not to have.
I apologize if I'm covering ground that's already been covered by other people, but now that I'm about to have a kid of my own, I realize there's a lot about this lullaby that doesn't add up for me.
Starting with this: Basically, who the fuck is putting their child in a cradle on the top of a tree? And why? If you're unconcerned about your kid's safety, just put the cradle on the ground. It's so much easier. Without even getting into the issue of how unbelievably dangerous it is, it's a tremendous pain in the ass to put a cradle up on a tree top. You have to go through all the trouble of getting a ladder and climbing it with one arm because you're balancing the cradle with the other one. Plus, there's the matter of deflecting all the unwanted attention you're going to attract from your neighbor. Oh, this? Yeah, don't worry. It's not as sketchy as it looks. As long as the wind doesn't blow, she'll be great. Besides, I'm thinking this bough's got at least another week or so before it gives out. Relax, ya fuckin' wet blanket.
Honestly, why go through the trouble? If you have to put your child at risk (and maybe sometimes you do; I don't know, I'm not a dad yet), just put the damn thing outside and be done with it. But putting a cradle on the top of a tree? It's such a hassle.
Then there's the line, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.
When the bough breaks.
Not if.
When.
So basically, the deranged bastard in question fucking knows the bough is going to break. It's going to happen. It's just a question of when. And even then it's not like, When the bough breaks I'll make a highlight reel diving catch to save your diaper clad ass.
No.
It's just, When the bough breaks? I don't know, the cradle will fall. Duh. And then my baby will plummet to the earth. In her cradle.
And that's the end of the song.
Good night. Sleep tight, my little angel.
It's a fucking ridiculous song. How it has endured all these years is beyond me.
Maybe it's meant to encourage parents. To let them know that no matter how bad they drop the ball in the coming days, weeks, months, and years, there's somebody out there worse than them. So keep your chin up!
Or maybe it works as a cautionary tale to children--something to give them a little perspective when things don't always go their way on the parental front. Something parents can sing to their kids at bedtime and then be all, Just remember that one, OK kiddo? Remember that one sometime years from now when we're at the Wal-Mart's and you're throwing a fit and screaming about how much you hate me for not buying you the latest Miley Cyrus piece of shit to replace the one I just got you yesterday and you're already sick of. When that time comes around, I want you to remember this song.
And also, remember that no matter how many times I'm sure to fail you and let you down as a parent in the coming years, and no matter how much you're sure to hate me for God only knows what transgressions I'm going to be guilty of between now and your high school graduation and beyond, just remember that at the very least, even if I got everything else wrong, I still managed to avoid putting you and your cradle on the top of a tree that I knew was structurally unsound. At least I pulled that one off.
So maybe I'm not a total failure as a father and a human being, OK?
OK?!
Good.
Now kiss your daddy good night.
On the tree top
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall
And down will come baby
Cradle and all
Really?
That's what we're supposed to be singing to our little treasures at night to help them sleep? Hey there, love of my life, here's a little ditty about some fucking insanely negligent parents you should consider yourself lucky not to have.
I apologize if I'm covering ground that's already been covered by other people, but now that I'm about to have a kid of my own, I realize there's a lot about this lullaby that doesn't add up for me.
Starting with this: Basically, who the fuck is putting their child in a cradle on the top of a tree? And why? If you're unconcerned about your kid's safety, just put the cradle on the ground. It's so much easier. Without even getting into the issue of how unbelievably dangerous it is, it's a tremendous pain in the ass to put a cradle up on a tree top. You have to go through all the trouble of getting a ladder and climbing it with one arm because you're balancing the cradle with the other one. Plus, there's the matter of deflecting all the unwanted attention you're going to attract from your neighbor. Oh, this? Yeah, don't worry. It's not as sketchy as it looks. As long as the wind doesn't blow, she'll be great. Besides, I'm thinking this bough's got at least another week or so before it gives out. Relax, ya fuckin' wet blanket.
Honestly, why go through the trouble? If you have to put your child at risk (and maybe sometimes you do; I don't know, I'm not a dad yet), just put the damn thing outside and be done with it. But putting a cradle on the top of a tree? It's such a hassle.
Then there's the line, When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.
When the bough breaks.
Not if.
When.
So basically, the deranged bastard in question fucking knows the bough is going to break. It's going to happen. It's just a question of when. And even then it's not like, When the bough breaks I'll make a highlight reel diving catch to save your diaper clad ass.
No.
It's just, When the bough breaks? I don't know, the cradle will fall. Duh. And then my baby will plummet to the earth. In her cradle.
And that's the end of the song.
Good night. Sleep tight, my little angel.
It's a fucking ridiculous song. How it has endured all these years is beyond me.
Maybe it's meant to encourage parents. To let them know that no matter how bad they drop the ball in the coming days, weeks, months, and years, there's somebody out there worse than them. So keep your chin up!
Or maybe it works as a cautionary tale to children--something to give them a little perspective when things don't always go their way on the parental front. Something parents can sing to their kids at bedtime and then be all, Just remember that one, OK kiddo? Remember that one sometime years from now when we're at the Wal-Mart's and you're throwing a fit and screaming about how much you hate me for not buying you the latest Miley Cyrus piece of shit to replace the one I just got you yesterday and you're already sick of. When that time comes around, I want you to remember this song.
And also, remember that no matter how many times I'm sure to fail you and let you down as a parent in the coming years, and no matter how much you're sure to hate me for God only knows what transgressions I'm going to be guilty of between now and your high school graduation and beyond, just remember that at the very least, even if I got everything else wrong, I still managed to avoid putting you and your cradle on the top of a tree that I knew was structurally unsound. At least I pulled that one off.
So maybe I'm not a total failure as a father and a human being, OK?
OK?!
Good.
Now kiss your daddy good night.
Monday, November 8, 2010
November 9 - The Lead Singer/Guitarist of a Rush Cover Band in Duluth, Minnesota Charts a New Direction for His Band
I decided to call this band meeting because I could no longer ignore the nagging feeling that we're spinning our wheels here. We've been at this for close to a year and we're getting nowhere. It's time to face the facts, gentlemen: Duluth, Minnesota does not need a Rush cover band. It just doesn't. There isn't an audience for 2112 here, no matter how good we are.
And we're not that good.
And even if we were we'd still be in a no win situation, and here's why: Anyone who comes to a 2112 gig is coming because they like Rush. And people who are into Rush are really into Rush, so if we just play shit like Tom Sawyer and Limelight they get pissed off.
But if we don't play the radio shit, if we don't play the hits, the odd chick who might be there, like, on accident will get bored and never come back again.
But then again, most chicks don't even know Rush's biggest songs because holy shit are chicks not into Rush.
Basically, the only audience we could ever hope to have are guys who dig Rush and tend to be completely snobby Rush dicks about digging Rush. Seriously, at any one of our shows, it's like seven or eight Rush fan equivalents of the "Worst. Episode. Ever" guy from The Simpsons yammering on about how I don't come close to having anything resembling Alex's licks (especially on anything pre-Permanent Waves) and how Kent couldn't even shine Neil's shoes. And that's it. And it's lamer than shit.
We've been together for 11 months. Not one of us has gotten laid yet. Hell, Kent actually went from getting laid to not getting laid while working in this band. He's getting negative ass because of this gig. Not that that's why any of us is in this band, but, come on, it kind of is. You don't join a band without that thought at least crossing your head every once in a while. But a Rush cover band? In Duluth? Holy Christ are we not getting laid. Hell, I'll bet the real Rush doesn't get fucking laid. Forgot about us.
Anyway, you get where I'm going with this, right? Am I making our situation clear? Does anyone else feel like this is kind of not working out for us?
Good.
OK, then.
So from here on out, can we all agree that 2112 is hereby officially finished playing Rush in front of an audience?
Good.
So we can all also agree that it's time for a radical new direction for us, and after much deliberation and soul searching I think I've got it.
You dickheads ready for this?
Here it is.
We come up with a sports anthem.
Plain and simple.
We write a sports anthem--some stupid, catchy piece of shit song that gets played at every major sporting event in North America, like what's that one, Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh; Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh, or Everybody Dance Now, or YMCA, or Whoomp, There it is or Celebration or everything the Black Eyed Peas has recorded since 2003. You know what I'm talking about. They play the same shitty ass songs at every sports event in the country. Why not ours? All we have to do is come up with something dumb but catchy, get it into rotation, negotiate a sweet royalties deal, and then count our money/ass.
It's so fucking simple. I don't know why we never thought of this before.
Check it out: Barry's dad knows a guy who works for--what's that semi-pro hockey team?--the Ice Hawks. Kent's brother works concessions for the Rockies' double A farm team. We've got the connections. We get those guys a copy of our song and get it played during their games, and once it catches on there, it's just going to spread. All we need now is the tune, and the crazy part is I think I think I've got it.
You ready?
You sitting down, motherfuckers?
Check it out.
Who Farted?
No. Like, that's the name of the song: Who Farted?
Seriously.
What's more universal than farts? What do the kids like more than farts? What's funnier than farts? It's the same answer for all three questions, limp dicks: Nothing.
Not really sure how the tune will go, but one thing I was thinking was we could just rework U Can't Touch This. Like Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Throw some verses together. Get some beats. Boom. Done. Pay me, bitch.
Seriously, how does that not take off? How does Who Farted not get our shit paid and laid? It doesn't. Like, not. It doesn't not do that.
Wait. Is that what I want to say? Yeah, it doesn't not do that. Which means it does do that. Because of the double negative. Right? I think. Anyway, my point is, it works, doesn't it?
Yes.
Yes, it does.
So then it's decided? Fantastic.
Now, what do you say we celebrate with a few cupcakes?
Cupcakes!
And we're not that good.
And even if we were we'd still be in a no win situation, and here's why: Anyone who comes to a 2112 gig is coming because they like Rush. And people who are into Rush are really into Rush, so if we just play shit like Tom Sawyer and Limelight they get pissed off.
But if we don't play the radio shit, if we don't play the hits, the odd chick who might be there, like, on accident will get bored and never come back again.
But then again, most chicks don't even know Rush's biggest songs because holy shit are chicks not into Rush.
Basically, the only audience we could ever hope to have are guys who dig Rush and tend to be completely snobby Rush dicks about digging Rush. Seriously, at any one of our shows, it's like seven or eight Rush fan equivalents of the "Worst. Episode. Ever" guy from The Simpsons yammering on about how I don't come close to having anything resembling Alex's licks (especially on anything pre-Permanent Waves) and how Kent couldn't even shine Neil's shoes. And that's it. And it's lamer than shit.
We've been together for 11 months. Not one of us has gotten laid yet. Hell, Kent actually went from getting laid to not getting laid while working in this band. He's getting negative ass because of this gig. Not that that's why any of us is in this band, but, come on, it kind of is. You don't join a band without that thought at least crossing your head every once in a while. But a Rush cover band? In Duluth? Holy Christ are we not getting laid. Hell, I'll bet the real Rush doesn't get fucking laid. Forgot about us.
Anyway, you get where I'm going with this, right? Am I making our situation clear? Does anyone else feel like this is kind of not working out for us?
Good.
OK, then.
So from here on out, can we all agree that 2112 is hereby officially finished playing Rush in front of an audience?
Good.
So we can all also agree that it's time for a radical new direction for us, and after much deliberation and soul searching I think I've got it.
You dickheads ready for this?
Here it is.
We come up with a sports anthem.
Plain and simple.
We write a sports anthem--some stupid, catchy piece of shit song that gets played at every major sporting event in North America, like what's that one, Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh; Dunh duh duuuh duh (HEY!) dunh duh duh, or Everybody Dance Now, or YMCA, or Whoomp, There it is or Celebration or everything the Black Eyed Peas has recorded since 2003. You know what I'm talking about. They play the same shitty ass songs at every sports event in the country. Why not ours? All we have to do is come up with something dumb but catchy, get it into rotation, negotiate a sweet royalties deal, and then count our money/ass.
It's so fucking simple. I don't know why we never thought of this before.
Check it out: Barry's dad knows a guy who works for--what's that semi-pro hockey team?--the Ice Hawks. Kent's brother works concessions for the Rockies' double A farm team. We've got the connections. We get those guys a copy of our song and get it played during their games, and once it catches on there, it's just going to spread. All we need now is the tune, and the crazy part is I think I think I've got it.
You ready?
You sitting down, motherfuckers?
Check it out.
Who Farted?
No. Like, that's the name of the song: Who Farted?
Seriously.
What's more universal than farts? What do the kids like more than farts? What's funnier than farts? It's the same answer for all three questions, limp dicks: Nothing.
Not really sure how the tune will go, but one thing I was thinking was we could just rework U Can't Touch This. Like Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Da da da da, da-da, da-da--Who farted? Throw some verses together. Get some beats. Boom. Done. Pay me, bitch.
Seriously, how does that not take off? How does Who Farted not get our shit paid and laid? It doesn't. Like, not. It doesn't not do that.
Wait. Is that what I want to say? Yeah, it doesn't not do that. Which means it does do that. Because of the double negative. Right? I think. Anyway, my point is, it works, doesn't it?
Yes.
Yes, it does.
So then it's decided? Fantastic.
Now, what do you say we celebrate with a few cupcakes?
Cupcakes!
November 8 - Poke Them in the Cho Po
The best is when you're pretty sure you see your friend walking up ahead of you, so you walk faster to catch up and you're calling their name, but they can't hear you because they're listening to their iPod.
So you start walking really fast, like Terminator fast, and you start feeling like a stalker (creepy but fun) or a detective (fun and badass).
Anyway, eventually you get right up behind them, and it's like OK, great. What now? Say hey and then have a conversation?
Hell no.
This is a brilliant opportunity because they can't hear you and you can totally mess with them. Make faces, flip them off, mime masturbation, whatever, have a ball, and milk the shit out of it for blocks because why the hell not? Live a little. That's all I ask.
And when you finally let your presence be known, do us both a favor and scare the ever loving doo doo out of them.
Plenty of different ways you can do this, but simply tapping them on the shoulder is the lamest, so you should skip that shit. Instead, lick their ear, or reach between their legs and give their peter (or jo jo) a little slap, or poke them in the cho po. (By the way, cho po = chocolate pocket; and chocolate pocket = asshole.)
Anyway, you usually opt for reaching around them from behind (with both hands!), grabbing their belly, and giving it a nice jolly jiggle while gently cooing "Is Santa getting weady for Chwistmas?" in their ear. Never fails to get a "What the--?" reaction.
Yes, but here's where it gets dicey. Your "friend" turns around, and--surprise, surprise--it's not your friend. You've gotten it all wrong. Again! How you mistook a police officer, or a biker, or (gasp!) a nun for your friend is something you always have a hard time explaining, especially since you don't really speak the local language that well (read: at all).
So you try to communicate any way you can, but, dude, nothing works.
Hand gestures? They just muddy the waters.
Apologetic shrugs? Nobody's buying what you're selling.
Giggling? It just adds fuel to the fire.
Eventually, whoever it is gets so sick of trying to figure out wtf that they storm off, leaving you there to ask yourself, "Was it worth it?"
Well? Was it?
Maybe.
But probably not.
So next time, I recommend you avoid getting into that embarrassing situation simply by remembering this: the person you see up ahead of you?
Not your friend.
Want to know how I know?
Because you don't have any friends, jackass.
So you start walking really fast, like Terminator fast, and you start feeling like a stalker (creepy but fun) or a detective (fun and badass).
Anyway, eventually you get right up behind them, and it's like OK, great. What now? Say hey and then have a conversation?
Hell no.
This is a brilliant opportunity because they can't hear you and you can totally mess with them. Make faces, flip them off, mime masturbation, whatever, have a ball, and milk the shit out of it for blocks because why the hell not? Live a little. That's all I ask.
And when you finally let your presence be known, do us both a favor and scare the ever loving doo doo out of them.
Plenty of different ways you can do this, but simply tapping them on the shoulder is the lamest, so you should skip that shit. Instead, lick their ear, or reach between their legs and give their peter (or jo jo) a little slap, or poke them in the cho po. (By the way, cho po = chocolate pocket; and chocolate pocket = asshole.)
Anyway, you usually opt for reaching around them from behind (with both hands!), grabbing their belly, and giving it a nice jolly jiggle while gently cooing "Is Santa getting weady for Chwistmas?" in their ear. Never fails to get a "What the--?" reaction.
Yes, but here's where it gets dicey. Your "friend" turns around, and--surprise, surprise--it's not your friend. You've gotten it all wrong. Again! How you mistook a police officer, or a biker, or (gasp!) a nun for your friend is something you always have a hard time explaining, especially since you don't really speak the local language that well (read: at all).
So you try to communicate any way you can, but, dude, nothing works.
Hand gestures? They just muddy the waters.
Apologetic shrugs? Nobody's buying what you're selling.
Giggling? It just adds fuel to the fire.
Eventually, whoever it is gets so sick of trying to figure out wtf that they storm off, leaving you there to ask yourself, "Was it worth it?"
Well? Was it?
Maybe.
But probably not.
So next time, I recommend you avoid getting into that embarrassing situation simply by remembering this: the person you see up ahead of you?
Not your friend.
Want to know how I know?
Because you don't have any friends, jackass.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
November 7 - The Insufferable Bastard, part VIII
Marge: How's that new co-worker of yours working out?
Ralph: Don't get me started on that butthole.
Marge: What?
Ralph: Well, I would never confront her about it, but she's always talking shit behind people's backs.
Ralph: Don't get me started on that butthole.
Marge: What?
Ralph: Well, I would never confront her about it, but she's always talking shit behind people's backs.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
November 6 - The 80s Wonder Cruise
I'm a one hit wonder, and I've made a career out of my song. There, I said it. I feel like I'm in One Hit Wonders Anonymous or something.
Yes, I'm a one hit wonder, and I've been riding my song's three minutes and 23 seconds for--no lie--25 years. The other day, my manager and I were trying to calculate how many times I've performed my hit, and we couldn't. Easily more than a thousand, though.
And that of course includes this gig, The 80s Wonder Cruise. It's a seven day cruise in the Bahamas with live music every night. They got me, a-ha, Animotion, Scritti Politti, Tommy Tutone, and Thomas Dolby. We play 30 minute sets every night and then hang out with the passengers during the day. And get paid. It's actually pretty cool, and it's all because of my song.
I always end my sets with it. Of course. What else am I going to do, play it and then follow it up with something new that, like, nobody knows? It'd be like a-ha not finishing their set with Take on Me, or Animotion not ending their set with Obsession. We're not stupid. We know that's what people are here to see.
It's kind of funny, but a lot of people just assume I hate it, you know, the song. But I don't. Yeah, it's an albatross, and yeah, it's my legacy, such as it is. It's very 80s, kind of synthy, kind of bouncy, kind of cheesy. OK, it's very cheesy, but whatever. It's also well-written and well-crafted. The critics all called it a throwaway hit, but screw them. It's still around. And like I said, it will be what people remember me for. Any obituary they do about me will definitely end with that song fading out and then freezing on a photo of me from '85 that fades into black and gets replaced with my name and 1961 - whenever I end up dying.
That song.
But here's the thing: It always gets me. I still feel it every time I sing it. Even to this day, 25 years after it came out, it still moves me and touches me and does all those other things that sound stupid when you say them out loud but when you're in the moment you know they're real.
And I get to feel that way every night on this cruise and it always takes me back: The tour with Howard Jones, my video on heavy rotation on MTV (back when they actually played videos), getting recognized on the streets, my mom getting interviewed for our hometown newspaper, the record company and my management and me choosing what the follow-up single was going to be.
And then all of a sudden, it was over.
The song peaked at #7, the follow up failed to chart, a few months later the label dropped me, and that was it.
And yeah, it was a let down. It was a blast while it was happening, and I wished it had lasted longer, but it didn't, and I was mostly OK with it. There were no Behind the Music meltdowns. I never got into drugs, never got carried away, didn't make an ass out of myself trying to stay in the spotlight. The moment just faded and that was that.
I kept doing music, though. People are always shocked when they find out I've released nine albums since then. And even though they get mostly positive reviews (when they get reviewed at all), if you add their sales together, it's nowhere near the numbers for that song. I'm like an unsuccessful Aimee Mann. (Apparently, there can only be one respected, semi-successful former 80s one hit wonder keeping it going on the adult alt. rock/folk scene. Oh well.)
But I'll tell you this much: I do not have a problem with 80s nostalgia. At all. All the people who were young when my song came out are in their 30s and 40s now, and they're the ones who come on these cruises. And it's totally cool meeting them and hearing their stories. They're always surprised when me and the other bands want to hang out with them, but it's like, sure, why the hell not. I mean, we get paid a little bit to come on these cruises, but we mostly do them as our vacations too. Not like we're super famous or anything. Not like we have entourages. We're just people.
A lot of folks who don't know better have hinted that it's pathetic I'm still milking that song after all these years. Whatever. They call it milking. I call it doing something I like and making people happy along the way. Screw them if you think it's pathetic.
Yes, I'm a one hit wonder, and I've been riding my song's three minutes and 23 seconds for--no lie--25 years. The other day, my manager and I were trying to calculate how many times I've performed my hit, and we couldn't. Easily more than a thousand, though.
And that of course includes this gig, The 80s Wonder Cruise. It's a seven day cruise in the Bahamas with live music every night. They got me, a-ha, Animotion, Scritti Politti, Tommy Tutone, and Thomas Dolby. We play 30 minute sets every night and then hang out with the passengers during the day. And get paid. It's actually pretty cool, and it's all because of my song.
I always end my sets with it. Of course. What else am I going to do, play it and then follow it up with something new that, like, nobody knows? It'd be like a-ha not finishing their set with Take on Me, or Animotion not ending their set with Obsession. We're not stupid. We know that's what people are here to see.
It's kind of funny, but a lot of people just assume I hate it, you know, the song. But I don't. Yeah, it's an albatross, and yeah, it's my legacy, such as it is. It's very 80s, kind of synthy, kind of bouncy, kind of cheesy. OK, it's very cheesy, but whatever. It's also well-written and well-crafted. The critics all called it a throwaway hit, but screw them. It's still around. And like I said, it will be what people remember me for. Any obituary they do about me will definitely end with that song fading out and then freezing on a photo of me from '85 that fades into black and gets replaced with my name and 1961 - whenever I end up dying.
That song.
But here's the thing: It always gets me. I still feel it every time I sing it. Even to this day, 25 years after it came out, it still moves me and touches me and does all those other things that sound stupid when you say them out loud but when you're in the moment you know they're real.
And I get to feel that way every night on this cruise and it always takes me back: The tour with Howard Jones, my video on heavy rotation on MTV (back when they actually played videos), getting recognized on the streets, my mom getting interviewed for our hometown newspaper, the record company and my management and me choosing what the follow-up single was going to be.
And then all of a sudden, it was over.
The song peaked at #7, the follow up failed to chart, a few months later the label dropped me, and that was it.
And yeah, it was a let down. It was a blast while it was happening, and I wished it had lasted longer, but it didn't, and I was mostly OK with it. There were no Behind the Music meltdowns. I never got into drugs, never got carried away, didn't make an ass out of myself trying to stay in the spotlight. The moment just faded and that was that.
I kept doing music, though. People are always shocked when they find out I've released nine albums since then. And even though they get mostly positive reviews (when they get reviewed at all), if you add their sales together, it's nowhere near the numbers for that song. I'm like an unsuccessful Aimee Mann. (Apparently, there can only be one respected, semi-successful former 80s one hit wonder keeping it going on the adult alt. rock/folk scene. Oh well.)
But I'll tell you this much: I do not have a problem with 80s nostalgia. At all. All the people who were young when my song came out are in their 30s and 40s now, and they're the ones who come on these cruises. And it's totally cool meeting them and hearing their stories. They're always surprised when me and the other bands want to hang out with them, but it's like, sure, why the hell not. I mean, we get paid a little bit to come on these cruises, but we mostly do them as our vacations too. Not like we're super famous or anything. Not like we have entourages. We're just people.
A lot of folks who don't know better have hinted that it's pathetic I'm still milking that song after all these years. Whatever. They call it milking. I call it doing something I like and making people happy along the way. Screw them if you think it's pathetic.
Friday, November 5, 2010
November 5 - The Karaoke King
We all called him the Karaoke King, first behind his back, and then later on to his face--after we'd had enough to drink that we would deign to talk to him, and by that time, he'd drunk so much that he took it as a compliment, and maybe by then that was how we meant it.
The Karaoke King.
His look? Acid washed jeans with the knees torn out and a matching acid washed jeans jacket. Red bandana worn as a headband, Born in the USA style, fingerless gloves, Cinderella t-shirt, mirrored sunglasses (at night, indoors).
His MO? Three words: Belt. Shit. Out. Dude fucking brought it every Sunday night when Ralph's Tavern had Karaoke Night. The Karaoke King rocked out with his cock out, like it was his last chance to rock and roll before he got shipped off to Iraq or Afghanistan or the 'nam or wherever, only it didn't matter where he was going.
Only that night mattered.
Only that night and his one last chance to set the record straight about who was the true Karaoke King.
His set list? You Give Love a Bad Name, Wild Side, Kick Start My Heart, 18 and Life, Paradise City. Think: late 80s, early 90s. Hard rock, hair metal, but no grunge. None of that mopey, angsty Seattle shit. Just loud, hard, good time rock and roll.
And he was serious about having a good time. Fist to the sky, clapping above his head, screaming and shouting, wailing on air guitar, kicking, yelling shit like, "Rock and roll!" and "Come on, Jefferson City! Lemme hear ya!" and ending every song with a "Whoo!"
When it wasn't him singing, he was sitting on a table, swinging his legs, cheering everybody on, drinking straight from the pitcher he'd ordered for himself. Pumped. Oblivious to the fact that people were cheering along with him ironically.
He was ridiculous.
We laughed at him, even when we were cheering him on.
Looking back on it now, we were such dicks. What did we care if he was acting like a jackass? There was no reason to mock him with our ironic high fives and cheering.
But the thing is, he either didn't realize we were mocking him or he didn't care. He just kept right on doing his thing, and we kept right on cheering him on, and by the end of the night he'd pretty much won us over. By the end of the night, our cheering was kind of genuine. Granted, we were piss drunk by then, but the dude was rocking and rolling and bringing us all along for the ride. His lust for karaoke was infectious. By last call, we'd all be up there with him, drunker than hell, singing Living on a Prayer with everything we had because by then it truly didn't make a difference if we made it or not. We had each other and that was a lot. For love, we gave it a shot.
Man, it was the best. Shit was just so much better when the Karaoke King was around.
Last I heard, he was doing 5 - 10 for dealing meth.
The Karaoke King.
His look? Acid washed jeans with the knees torn out and a matching acid washed jeans jacket. Red bandana worn as a headband, Born in the USA style, fingerless gloves, Cinderella t-shirt, mirrored sunglasses (at night, indoors).
His MO? Three words: Belt. Shit. Out. Dude fucking brought it every Sunday night when Ralph's Tavern had Karaoke Night. The Karaoke King rocked out with his cock out, like it was his last chance to rock and roll before he got shipped off to Iraq or Afghanistan or the 'nam or wherever, only it didn't matter where he was going.
Only that night mattered.
Only that night and his one last chance to set the record straight about who was the true Karaoke King.
His set list? You Give Love a Bad Name, Wild Side, Kick Start My Heart, 18 and Life, Paradise City. Think: late 80s, early 90s. Hard rock, hair metal, but no grunge. None of that mopey, angsty Seattle shit. Just loud, hard, good time rock and roll.
And he was serious about having a good time. Fist to the sky, clapping above his head, screaming and shouting, wailing on air guitar, kicking, yelling shit like, "Rock and roll!" and "Come on, Jefferson City! Lemme hear ya!" and ending every song with a "Whoo!"
When it wasn't him singing, he was sitting on a table, swinging his legs, cheering everybody on, drinking straight from the pitcher he'd ordered for himself. Pumped. Oblivious to the fact that people were cheering along with him ironically.
He was ridiculous.
We laughed at him, even when we were cheering him on.
Looking back on it now, we were such dicks. What did we care if he was acting like a jackass? There was no reason to mock him with our ironic high fives and cheering.
But the thing is, he either didn't realize we were mocking him or he didn't care. He just kept right on doing his thing, and we kept right on cheering him on, and by the end of the night he'd pretty much won us over. By the end of the night, our cheering was kind of genuine. Granted, we were piss drunk by then, but the dude was rocking and rolling and bringing us all along for the ride. His lust for karaoke was infectious. By last call, we'd all be up there with him, drunker than hell, singing Living on a Prayer with everything we had because by then it truly didn't make a difference if we made it or not. We had each other and that was a lot. For love, we gave it a shot.
Man, it was the best. Shit was just so much better when the Karaoke King was around.
Last I heard, he was doing 5 - 10 for dealing meth.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
November 4 - Back to Work, Back to Life
"So, what have we got today?"
"Strawberry farm."
"Again?"
"Yeah, no shit. Eh, what do you want? It's the season."
"Yeah, but still. Strawberry farms are boring me to death."
"Nice one."
"Wh--? Oh, yeah."
The two men rode in silence for a few minutes.
"I just don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"I guess, like, what's the temptation? OK, let me take that back. I know what the temptation is. Cheap labor."
"Free labor."
"Free labor. OK, fine. But not really free. Not when you factor in the risks."
"What risks?"
"Well--"
"Save that thought. We're here."
As the Labor Department vehicle pulled into the gravel driveway, the two officers looked out the windows. There wasn't a person in sight. Just rows and rows of strawberry plants.
This wasn't unusual.
They relied on tip offs for labor violations, and the tip off door swung both ways. If their office had been told there were illegals working somewhere, chances were a snitch in their office had told the farm in question that there'd been a tip off.
And so they'd get there and find a sprawling strawberry farm in the middle of picking season with not one body in the fields. Nobody to bust. Nothing tangible to base anything on. Just the satisfaction of knowing the day's operations at that particular farm had been interrupted--an inconvenience that would no doubt be reflected in the next day's strawberry prices.
The men stepped out of their car and walked up to the mobile home office on the edge of the gravel lot. Martinez rapped on the screen door.
"It's open!" called a voice from inside.
"Ma'am, we're here from the Labor Department. Is the owner here? We need to ask a few questions."
"I said it's open."
The men stood still.
"Come in. Jesus."
They did, and the woman behind the desk didn't get up or offer the officers a seat.
"Madeline Chen?"
"Yes."
"I'm officer Luis Martinez, and this is my partner, officer Nick Maddox. We'll come straight to the point. We've received reports that you're using illegals as part of your seasonal labor force. Could you please show us your payroll records?"
"Sure." She got up, squeezed by the men, and opened a filing cabinet. "Oh, wait. Maybe you could show me a warrant first?"
Nick looked at his partner. "It was worth a shot."
"Is that all?"
The men didn't say anything.
"Is there anything else? Because I'm really busy here."
"You must be with all those strawberries out there and nobody to pick them."
"You should have been here earlier. All my crews finished up a couple hours ago."
"It's 8 am."
Madeline shrugged.
"Look," started Martinez. "Let's cut the bullshit, OK? We know you're using walkers. All the farms around here are."
Madeline started to speak.
"Save it. We're not going to bust you today. You got tipped off. Good for you. But you know we're just going to keep coming back. You can't keep your crews under wraps for the whole season."
"OK, listen," Madeline said. "I'm not going to tell you if you're right or wrong, but if all the farms around here are using walkers--like you said--why haven't there been any problems?"
"Come on, don't get started on that. That's not the point."
"No, seriously. OK, I'll agree with you. Yes, it's common knowledge that all strawberry farmers use walkers--except me." She winked at them. "And it's not just the strawberry farmers. It's all of Big Agriculture. And it's been that way ever since Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. And you know how many Z outbreaks there have been since then?"
Martinez knew the answer, but he waited for her to make her point.
"Zip. Zero. Zilch," said Madeline.
Martinez knew that. Of course he did. He knew the whole history of Back to Work, Back to Life, the post-reanimation containment legislation that sought to harness the nation's reanimated as a pool of free labor: factory workers, farm workers, semi-skilled and unskilled laborers, etc.
The Great Zombie Outbreak had been contained and the country was left with all those . . . bodies. Back to Work, Back to Life was just a way to make lemonade with a big old heaping mess of lemons--at least that's how the senior Texas senator who sponsored Back to Work, Back to Life put it when he introduced the legislation.
Enjoying considerable biliteral support, it passed comfortably.
And it worked--too well. Every chance they got, businesses used reanimated labor instead of the kind you had to pay. With the money they saved in payroll, it was a no-brainer.
Unfortunately, everyone who had been working those kinds of jobs found themselves out on the street with the bonus stigma of knowing that given the choice between them and a reanimated corpse, their former employers had gone with the corpse.
As a result, there was a strong and well-financed push for the repeal of Back to Work, Back to Life by labor unions, social conservatives, Bible belters, anti-immigration advocates (who feared employment would be a first step toward citizenship), and any other of a number of special interest groups that were vocal in their opposition.
Less than two years after its passage, Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. The reason given was a fear of outbreaks, and it was a fairly easy sell, even though the vaccination had been proven effective by then. They were all over talk radio and the Internet: If just one new case of the plague comes from this, it will be too many. That kind of thing. It was repealed by a wide margin in both houses.
But by then, the use of walkers (as they were called) had become institutionalized. They were everywhere. And even though there were containment facilities in every state, there were also way more walkers than could be accommodated. They had to go somewhere.
Everybody knew farming concerns (and factories and research facilities and plenty of other places) were using zombie labor, and they knew it was illegal, and they knew they should be against it, but as long as produce (and other) prices were as cheap as they were, most of the country went about their lives. There were plenty of other things to worry about.
And yet, Martinez and Maddox had a job to do (or pretend to do) with a limited budget, tiny staff, and woefully inadequate resources. The enforcement of anti-walker labor laws had no teeth. It was like trying to build a sandcastle in the middle of a hurricane.
They both knew they wouldn't really be getting anything done that day or the next. And even if they did, even if they caught a farm red-handed (or dead-handed, as they called it) big deal. For every farm they put out of operation for a day, for a week, there were a hundred more just like it in their jurisdiction where it was business as usual.
They could have harassed Madeline Chen and written her up for a few nickel and dime infractions, but they didn't feel like giving her the satisfaction.
Instead they thanked her for her time, left her trailer, and started driving to the next farm on their daily tip off list.
"Strawberry farm."
"Again?"
"Yeah, no shit. Eh, what do you want? It's the season."
"Yeah, but still. Strawberry farms are boring me to death."
"Nice one."
"Wh--? Oh, yeah."
The two men rode in silence for a few minutes.
"I just don't get it."
"What don't you get?"
"I guess, like, what's the temptation? OK, let me take that back. I know what the temptation is. Cheap labor."
"Free labor."
"Free labor. OK, fine. But not really free. Not when you factor in the risks."
"What risks?"
"Well--"
"Save that thought. We're here."
As the Labor Department vehicle pulled into the gravel driveway, the two officers looked out the windows. There wasn't a person in sight. Just rows and rows of strawberry plants.
This wasn't unusual.
They relied on tip offs for labor violations, and the tip off door swung both ways. If their office had been told there were illegals working somewhere, chances were a snitch in their office had told the farm in question that there'd been a tip off.
And so they'd get there and find a sprawling strawberry farm in the middle of picking season with not one body in the fields. Nobody to bust. Nothing tangible to base anything on. Just the satisfaction of knowing the day's operations at that particular farm had been interrupted--an inconvenience that would no doubt be reflected in the next day's strawberry prices.
The men stepped out of their car and walked up to the mobile home office on the edge of the gravel lot. Martinez rapped on the screen door.
"It's open!" called a voice from inside.
"Ma'am, we're here from the Labor Department. Is the owner here? We need to ask a few questions."
"I said it's open."
The men stood still.
"Come in. Jesus."
They did, and the woman behind the desk didn't get up or offer the officers a seat.
"Madeline Chen?"
"Yes."
"I'm officer Luis Martinez, and this is my partner, officer Nick Maddox. We'll come straight to the point. We've received reports that you're using illegals as part of your seasonal labor force. Could you please show us your payroll records?"
"Sure." She got up, squeezed by the men, and opened a filing cabinet. "Oh, wait. Maybe you could show me a warrant first?"
Nick looked at his partner. "It was worth a shot."
"Is that all?"
The men didn't say anything.
"Is there anything else? Because I'm really busy here."
"You must be with all those strawberries out there and nobody to pick them."
"You should have been here earlier. All my crews finished up a couple hours ago."
"It's 8 am."
Madeline shrugged.
"Look," started Martinez. "Let's cut the bullshit, OK? We know you're using walkers. All the farms around here are."
Madeline started to speak.
"Save it. We're not going to bust you today. You got tipped off. Good for you. But you know we're just going to keep coming back. You can't keep your crews under wraps for the whole season."
"OK, listen," Madeline said. "I'm not going to tell you if you're right or wrong, but if all the farms around here are using walkers--like you said--why haven't there been any problems?"
"Come on, don't get started on that. That's not the point."
"No, seriously. OK, I'll agree with you. Yes, it's common knowledge that all strawberry farmers use walkers--except me." She winked at them. "And it's not just the strawberry farmers. It's all of Big Agriculture. And it's been that way ever since Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. And you know how many Z outbreaks there have been since then?"
Martinez knew the answer, but he waited for her to make her point.
"Zip. Zero. Zilch," said Madeline.
Martinez knew that. Of course he did. He knew the whole history of Back to Work, Back to Life, the post-reanimation containment legislation that sought to harness the nation's reanimated as a pool of free labor: factory workers, farm workers, semi-skilled and unskilled laborers, etc.
The Great Zombie Outbreak had been contained and the country was left with all those . . . bodies. Back to Work, Back to Life was just a way to make lemonade with a big old heaping mess of lemons--at least that's how the senior Texas senator who sponsored Back to Work, Back to Life put it when he introduced the legislation.
Enjoying considerable biliteral support, it passed comfortably.
And it worked--too well. Every chance they got, businesses used reanimated labor instead of the kind you had to pay. With the money they saved in payroll, it was a no-brainer.
Unfortunately, everyone who had been working those kinds of jobs found themselves out on the street with the bonus stigma of knowing that given the choice between them and a reanimated corpse, their former employers had gone with the corpse.
As a result, there was a strong and well-financed push for the repeal of Back to Work, Back to Life by labor unions, social conservatives, Bible belters, anti-immigration advocates (who feared employment would be a first step toward citizenship), and any other of a number of special interest groups that were vocal in their opposition.
Less than two years after its passage, Back to Work, Back to Life was repealed. The reason given was a fear of outbreaks, and it was a fairly easy sell, even though the vaccination had been proven effective by then. They were all over talk radio and the Internet: If just one new case of the plague comes from this, it will be too many. That kind of thing. It was repealed by a wide margin in both houses.
But by then, the use of walkers (as they were called) had become institutionalized. They were everywhere. And even though there were containment facilities in every state, there were also way more walkers than could be accommodated. They had to go somewhere.
Everybody knew farming concerns (and factories and research facilities and plenty of other places) were using zombie labor, and they knew it was illegal, and they knew they should be against it, but as long as produce (and other) prices were as cheap as they were, most of the country went about their lives. There were plenty of other things to worry about.
And yet, Martinez and Maddox had a job to do (or pretend to do) with a limited budget, tiny staff, and woefully inadequate resources. The enforcement of anti-walker labor laws had no teeth. It was like trying to build a sandcastle in the middle of a hurricane.
They both knew they wouldn't really be getting anything done that day or the next. And even if they did, even if they caught a farm red-handed (or dead-handed, as they called it) big deal. For every farm they put out of operation for a day, for a week, there were a hundred more just like it in their jurisdiction where it was business as usual.
They could have harassed Madeline Chen and written her up for a few nickel and dime infractions, but they didn't feel like giving her the satisfaction.
Instead they thanked her for her time, left her trailer, and started driving to the next farm on their daily tip off list.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
November 3 - The Fish 'n' Chips Jackass
It's five minutes before closing time in the kitchen of the bar where you work.
The orders have been trickling to a halt, allowing you to get a jump on cleaning the place up, and you're just about there. You've got the perishables back in the walk-in, the line's been wiped clean, the floor's been swept, and the place is as tidied up as you can get it before the kitchen is officially closed at 11pm and you stop taking food orders. Once that time comes, you can finish up all the rest of the cleaning, get the hell out of there, and get to your girlfriend's show--the one you really kind of need to see if you're ever going to get back on her good side, the one you couldn't go to until after your shift was over because none of the worthless bastards you work with would cover for you, the one that's been going on since 20 minutes ago.
That show. That's the show you have to get to.
But you'll be leaving soon, in just another 15 minutes--that's five minutes until the kitchen closes and ten more to finish the cleaning. Just 15 more minutes and you'll be on your way, and you should get there in plenty of time.
And that's when an order comes in: fish 'n' chips.
Fish 'n' fucking chips.
Fuck your ass.
This is the biggest, most labor intensive pain in the ass on the menu.
So many steps, so many things that need to get messy. The fish has to come back from the walk-in, you have to make a new batch of batter, you have to clean off some lettuce for the side salad, and chop another potato for the fries, and on and on and on, all so this miserable fuck can have his precious fish 'n' chips.
He's pulled this shit in your bar before. And that's what it is, a bar. Not a restaurant, a bar. And yet this fuck, this worthless bastard, has to decided yet again that five minutes before the kitchen closes on an otherwise deader than fuck night that he's going to treat your place of work like it's a place where somebody would actually order food.
It's him.
It's the fish 'n' chips jackass.
Fucker just knows when you're in a hurry and you need to get going. Fucker just knows the right thing to order to fuck your night in the ass.
The fish 'n' chips jackass is here again.
That motherfucker.
So you make his dinner.
And inevitably, this prompts a late night rush.
Oh, the kitchen's still open?
What's that, fish 'n' chips?
Oh, that looks good. I'd better get me an order of that too, not because I'm hungry, but because I'm a syphilitic asshole of the highest magnitude. In fact, fuck it. Make mine a double.
And so you get on it.
You make their food, you make all of their late night burgers, nachos, potato skins, and, yes, fish 'n' chips. And it's all because of him, the fish 'n' chips jackass. He started the late night feeding frenzy. It's because of him that instead of getting out of there ten minutes after the kitchen closed you're getting out of there 45 minutes after the kitchen closed.
The fish 'n' chips jackass.
That fucking cocksucker.
But you get it done. You bust shit out like it's E.R. meets The Iron Chef. Like you're John Elway on the two-minute kitchen drill. You expedite like a motherfucker and crank your way through the shit because you are Superfly Jimmy Snooka.
There.
Done.
And yet, not done. Not yet. The place is a disaster. Pots and pans everywhere. Shit dripping from the ceiling.
And it's not a self-cleaning work space, so you rush through your cleaning like your parents are going to be home in five minutes, you mop the floor like it's an athletic event and you're going for the Olympic speed record.
You wheel the garbage through the thickening crowd and out to the street.
You lock the storeroom door.
Turn the lights off in the kitchen.
Smack the sassy cocktail waitress's backside.
Shoot laser eyes at all the possible fish 'n' chip jackass suspects in the joint.
And then leave.
Fucking fly down the street on your bike like it's the second event in a new Food Service Industry Olympic Biathlon (the first being the floor mop, which you already crushed).
And you're halfway there when you realize you've got the only set of keys to the storeroom in your pocket. You'd put them there when you locked the door after taking out the garbage, and you forgot to put them back behind the bar.
FUCK.
Beyond FUCK.
They're fucked without those keys. You have to go back.
And so you do and it's extra hard because the adrenalin is fading and you're going uphill.
But you get back and you leave your bike unlocked on the street because you're only going to be inside for less than a minute.
And you get in and the bar is crowded. And it's clear, it's painfully obvious, that after you left everyone got together and made an agreement that if you came back they would work together to stand in your way and do everything in their power to prevent you from getting to the bar. And it's wonderful and magical that everyone has finally found a way to come together despite their differences, and on another level you're getting choked up over the beauty of it all, but on the much more pressing level of here and now, you need to get to the fucking bar, so would you please, kindly, for the love of God and all that is holy, step the motherfuck out of my way?
They do.
You finally prevail. You get through the crowd to the bar, throw the keys to Karen the bartender, exchange a salute, and go back out on the street.
And your bike is still there.
It's a miracle.
Emboldened, you get back on and slalom your way through the traffic. Red lights, green lights: all the same. Weaving through the drunk pedestrians, the clueless morons, the homeless, and the people who are all three. Near misses. Narrowly averted catastrophes. More close calls than you don't even know what. You don't have time to come up with something clever because you're there. You're at the club.
You throw some money at the door guy and he has the common Goddamn decency to be quick with the change, but it's not quick enough because you get inside and there she is.
There she is unplugging her bass and helping her group get their equipment off the stage so the headliners can start their set.
She looks up at exactly the right/wrong time to see you come in. There's no hiding it. You missed her set.
There will be words later. An extended stay in the doghouse.
That's if you're lucky.
You may not even get to pay the price. This might be the last straw.
She looks at you. Shakes her head. And not in a good way.
And you know you should go backstage and apologize. And you know you should explain what happened. And you know you should try to give your version of the evening's events, and about how you truly did do everything in your power to make it there, but it just didn't work out.
You know all that, but you also know she needs some time.
So you go to the bar and get a PBR and pay for it. And then you ask if the kitchen is still open and when the bartender says it is but you'd better hurry because it's closing in five more minutes, you decide that your first move toward setting the karmic balance back in your favor is to tell the bartender that you're OK, that you don't need anything to eat.
The orders have been trickling to a halt, allowing you to get a jump on cleaning the place up, and you're just about there. You've got the perishables back in the walk-in, the line's been wiped clean, the floor's been swept, and the place is as tidied up as you can get it before the kitchen is officially closed at 11pm and you stop taking food orders. Once that time comes, you can finish up all the rest of the cleaning, get the hell out of there, and get to your girlfriend's show--the one you really kind of need to see if you're ever going to get back on her good side, the one you couldn't go to until after your shift was over because none of the worthless bastards you work with would cover for you, the one that's been going on since 20 minutes ago.
That show. That's the show you have to get to.
But you'll be leaving soon, in just another 15 minutes--that's five minutes until the kitchen closes and ten more to finish the cleaning. Just 15 more minutes and you'll be on your way, and you should get there in plenty of time.
And that's when an order comes in: fish 'n' chips.
Fish 'n' fucking chips.
Fuck your ass.
This is the biggest, most labor intensive pain in the ass on the menu.
So many steps, so many things that need to get messy. The fish has to come back from the walk-in, you have to make a new batch of batter, you have to clean off some lettuce for the side salad, and chop another potato for the fries, and on and on and on, all so this miserable fuck can have his precious fish 'n' chips.
He's pulled this shit in your bar before. And that's what it is, a bar. Not a restaurant, a bar. And yet this fuck, this worthless bastard, has to decided yet again that five minutes before the kitchen closes on an otherwise deader than fuck night that he's going to treat your place of work like it's a place where somebody would actually order food.
It's him.
It's the fish 'n' chips jackass.
Fucker just knows when you're in a hurry and you need to get going. Fucker just knows the right thing to order to fuck your night in the ass.
The fish 'n' chips jackass is here again.
That motherfucker.
So you make his dinner.
And inevitably, this prompts a late night rush.
Oh, the kitchen's still open?
What's that, fish 'n' chips?
Oh, that looks good. I'd better get me an order of that too, not because I'm hungry, but because I'm a syphilitic asshole of the highest magnitude. In fact, fuck it. Make mine a double.
And so you get on it.
You make their food, you make all of their late night burgers, nachos, potato skins, and, yes, fish 'n' chips. And it's all because of him, the fish 'n' chips jackass. He started the late night feeding frenzy. It's because of him that instead of getting out of there ten minutes after the kitchen closed you're getting out of there 45 minutes after the kitchen closed.
The fish 'n' chips jackass.
That fucking cocksucker.
But you get it done. You bust shit out like it's E.R. meets The Iron Chef. Like you're John Elway on the two-minute kitchen drill. You expedite like a motherfucker and crank your way through the shit because you are Superfly Jimmy Snooka.
There.
Done.
And yet, not done. Not yet. The place is a disaster. Pots and pans everywhere. Shit dripping from the ceiling.
And it's not a self-cleaning work space, so you rush through your cleaning like your parents are going to be home in five minutes, you mop the floor like it's an athletic event and you're going for the Olympic speed record.
You wheel the garbage through the thickening crowd and out to the street.
You lock the storeroom door.
Turn the lights off in the kitchen.
Smack the sassy cocktail waitress's backside.
Shoot laser eyes at all the possible fish 'n' chip jackass suspects in the joint.
And then leave.
Fucking fly down the street on your bike like it's the second event in a new Food Service Industry Olympic Biathlon (the first being the floor mop, which you already crushed).
And you're halfway there when you realize you've got the only set of keys to the storeroom in your pocket. You'd put them there when you locked the door after taking out the garbage, and you forgot to put them back behind the bar.
FUCK.
Beyond FUCK.
They're fucked without those keys. You have to go back.
And so you do and it's extra hard because the adrenalin is fading and you're going uphill.
But you get back and you leave your bike unlocked on the street because you're only going to be inside for less than a minute.
And you get in and the bar is crowded. And it's clear, it's painfully obvious, that after you left everyone got together and made an agreement that if you came back they would work together to stand in your way and do everything in their power to prevent you from getting to the bar. And it's wonderful and magical that everyone has finally found a way to come together despite their differences, and on another level you're getting choked up over the beauty of it all, but on the much more pressing level of here and now, you need to get to the fucking bar, so would you please, kindly, for the love of God and all that is holy, step the motherfuck out of my way?
They do.
You finally prevail. You get through the crowd to the bar, throw the keys to Karen the bartender, exchange a salute, and go back out on the street.
And your bike is still there.
It's a miracle.
Emboldened, you get back on and slalom your way through the traffic. Red lights, green lights: all the same. Weaving through the drunk pedestrians, the clueless morons, the homeless, and the people who are all three. Near misses. Narrowly averted catastrophes. More close calls than you don't even know what. You don't have time to come up with something clever because you're there. You're at the club.
You throw some money at the door guy and he has the common Goddamn decency to be quick with the change, but it's not quick enough because you get inside and there she is.
There she is unplugging her bass and helping her group get their equipment off the stage so the headliners can start their set.
She looks up at exactly the right/wrong time to see you come in. There's no hiding it. You missed her set.
There will be words later. An extended stay in the doghouse.
That's if you're lucky.
You may not even get to pay the price. This might be the last straw.
She looks at you. Shakes her head. And not in a good way.
And you know you should go backstage and apologize. And you know you should explain what happened. And you know you should try to give your version of the evening's events, and about how you truly did do everything in your power to make it there, but it just didn't work out.
You know all that, but you also know she needs some time.
So you go to the bar and get a PBR and pay for it. And then you ask if the kitchen is still open and when the bartender says it is but you'd better hurry because it's closing in five more minutes, you decide that your first move toward setting the karmic balance back in your favor is to tell the bartender that you're OK, that you don't need anything to eat.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
November 2 - The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
There's a tiny window in late October, early November right when the NBA season starts and right before the end of MLB that's the best time of the year for sports. You've got pro football, college football, pro basketball, and pro baseball (with college hoops right around the corner). And if you're the kind of superstitious sports fan who thinks that little things he does can affect a game's outcome, this is a hectic time for you because there is an insane amount of rituals, habits, routines, things to say, things to avoid saying, clothes, foods, and other minutia you have to keep straight.
Take me.
I can't wear anything with Virginia Tech on it the night before a Hokies football game, but I can't wear anything but my maroon hoodie on the night of a game. (For Tech hoops, I do things a little differently: I wear maroon the night before the game and keep it on until after the game--unless we lose. Then I switch to black after the game.)
If the Phillies are on a streak, I can't shave or clip my nails, and I always step into intersections, buildings, rooms, elevators, and everything else with my left foot first. I do this up until the first pitch, and then I switch to my right foot from then on.
Breakfast on Eagles' game day: bagel, cream cheese (Philly. Duh.), scrapple. And I always wear my green boxers. Same pair every time. If we lose, they get washed. If not, they don't.
If the Blazers are on the road, I wear my watch on my left wrist. If we're at home, it's on the right.
The night before Northwest Division games, I wear my headband to bed.
And if I'm watching the game at home or in a bar, I drink PBR. If I have seats at the Rose Garden, I drink Weinhard's.
No shaving during the playoffs in any of my pro sports.
Same goes for the NCAA tourney and bowl season, which for me begins a week before Tech's bowl game and continues through the National Championship game. Someday, the cosmos will align, and Tech's bowl game and the National Championship game will be the same game.
Until then, it's a shot of Wild Hokie on every game day--unless we lose. Then it's no more until next season.
For lunch on football game day it's always a sandwich: turkey and Swiss on rye for Virginia Tech. Roast chicken and sharp cheddar (also on rye) for the Eagles. In both cases, the sandwich must be eaten in exactly six bites.
Things get complicated when there are Hokies playing for the Eagles, Blazers, or Phillies because in those instances I double up on my rituals, doing all my Virginia Tech stuff and all the stuff I do for that particular pro team. For instance, Michael Vick is playing for the Eagles now. And even though he's a convicted felon, he still played for Tech. Therefore, whenever the Eagles are playing I do everything I would do for a Virginia Tech game as well what I would do for an Eagles game. If these conflict with each other, Virginia Tech takes precedence.
If all of that's not enough, I do courtesy superstition rituals for the alma maters of my wife, parents, and sister--all of whom went to different schools, so there's a lot of cross referencing stuff I have to keep track of. I've got flowcharts and spreadsheets that help me keep it all straight. I'm not kidding.
Does following all these superstitions make a difference? Do you really think I'm going to take a chance and find out?
Obviously I don't get a haircut unless the Eagles, the Phillies, and the Hokies have all lost their most recent game.
On football game day, I back into the driveway. On basketball game day, I pull in front first. If they're both on the same day, I park on the street. If somehow the Phils are playing as well, I bike.
My keys stay in my left pocket at all times except during the game. Then they're in my right pocket.
When and if any of my teams have a winning streak that extends beyond seven games, I eat squid for lunch on every game day. And for each successive victory, I add 100 grams to my order. This past season the Phils had an 11-game winning streak. That's a lot of squid.
In any sport on any level, if the other team scores first I light a cigarette, take a drag, and put it out on my tongue. If we score first, I kiss my right fist and raise it to the skies.
And on and on.
But at least the Fall Classic is over. Thank God. Just in time for college hoops to start up. It never ends, especially around this time of the year. Don't get me wrong. There's nothing I love more than watching sports. But I swear to God, it can be hard work sometimes.
Take me.
I can't wear anything with Virginia Tech on it the night before a Hokies football game, but I can't wear anything but my maroon hoodie on the night of a game. (For Tech hoops, I do things a little differently: I wear maroon the night before the game and keep it on until after the game--unless we lose. Then I switch to black after the game.)
If the Phillies are on a streak, I can't shave or clip my nails, and I always step into intersections, buildings, rooms, elevators, and everything else with my left foot first. I do this up until the first pitch, and then I switch to my right foot from then on.
Breakfast on Eagles' game day: bagel, cream cheese (Philly. Duh.), scrapple. And I always wear my green boxers. Same pair every time. If we lose, they get washed. If not, they don't.
If the Blazers are on the road, I wear my watch on my left wrist. If we're at home, it's on the right.
The night before Northwest Division games, I wear my headband to bed.
And if I'm watching the game at home or in a bar, I drink PBR. If I have seats at the Rose Garden, I drink Weinhard's.
No shaving during the playoffs in any of my pro sports.
Same goes for the NCAA tourney and bowl season, which for me begins a week before Tech's bowl game and continues through the National Championship game. Someday, the cosmos will align, and Tech's bowl game and the National Championship game will be the same game.
Until then, it's a shot of Wild Hokie on every game day--unless we lose. Then it's no more until next season.
For lunch on football game day it's always a sandwich: turkey and Swiss on rye for Virginia Tech. Roast chicken and sharp cheddar (also on rye) for the Eagles. In both cases, the sandwich must be eaten in exactly six bites.
Things get complicated when there are Hokies playing for the Eagles, Blazers, or Phillies because in those instances I double up on my rituals, doing all my Virginia Tech stuff and all the stuff I do for that particular pro team. For instance, Michael Vick is playing for the Eagles now. And even though he's a convicted felon, he still played for Tech. Therefore, whenever the Eagles are playing I do everything I would do for a Virginia Tech game as well what I would do for an Eagles game. If these conflict with each other, Virginia Tech takes precedence.
If all of that's not enough, I do courtesy superstition rituals for the alma maters of my wife, parents, and sister--all of whom went to different schools, so there's a lot of cross referencing stuff I have to keep track of. I've got flowcharts and spreadsheets that help me keep it all straight. I'm not kidding.
Does following all these superstitions make a difference? Do you really think I'm going to take a chance and find out?
Obviously I don't get a haircut unless the Eagles, the Phillies, and the Hokies have all lost their most recent game.
On football game day, I back into the driveway. On basketball game day, I pull in front first. If they're both on the same day, I park on the street. If somehow the Phils are playing as well, I bike.
My keys stay in my left pocket at all times except during the game. Then they're in my right pocket.
When and if any of my teams have a winning streak that extends beyond seven games, I eat squid for lunch on every game day. And for each successive victory, I add 100 grams to my order. This past season the Phils had an 11-game winning streak. That's a lot of squid.
In any sport on any level, if the other team scores first I light a cigarette, take a drag, and put it out on my tongue. If we score first, I kiss my right fist and raise it to the skies.
And on and on.
But at least the Fall Classic is over. Thank God. Just in time for college hoops to start up. It never ends, especially around this time of the year. Don't get me wrong. There's nothing I love more than watching sports. But I swear to God, it can be hard work sometimes.
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