Raising Jacobzona

In which I find a new career

2009-05-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

Or at least, a new way to zone out while also making the house look better. My next-door neighbor offered the use of his father-in-law's pressure washer, and I've been slaying concrete-dwelling algae by the trillions. I'm not sure I'd want to make an actual career of doing that, since you do have to wrestle that hose around, and get splattered with detritus, but the chance to improve the looks of the house via an 11-horsepower Honda motor and a water spray strong enough to chip concrete makes me giggle.

The cleaning was done in preparation for Operation Childfest 2009, also known as Jacob's first birthday party, which takes place this Saturday. Friends and family are of course on their way, Mama Dunn has baked a cake, Publix has been commissioned to make a cake (for their first birthday, they throw in a free "smash cake" for the young'un to mutilate), and then I've laid in a 50-pound bag of sugar, just to make sure we maximize our glycemic potential.

I had to run to the Food Frolic yesterday to get the makings for Mama Dunn's cake, but before I did, I went to the ATM to get some cash, and to make sure something nefarious hadn't happened to my account. Lately, I'd had my debit card declined at a couple of places, when I knew I had enough money to cover the charge. But, just to be sure some Romanian kid hadn't hacked into my bank's computer, Hoovered up my money, and then went on a World of Warcraft spending spree, I pulled up to the drive-in ATM and got some cash ("Think in multiples of $20," the screen advises me, as if visualizing twenties is what they expect; my ATM is a New-Age spiritualist), as well as a balance. Yep, plenty enough money in there to cover the charges I'd been turned down for. Something had gone wrong in Skynet, and my card had been flagged as being plastica non grata. Oh well, at least I hadn't been cleaned out. I just needed to either get the card unflagged, or to get a new card. On to the Food Frolic.

I only needed a couple of things for the cake, plus some white seedless grapes for me (freeze them; they're the perfect healthy summer refresher), so I was at the checkout in short order. I refuse to be one of those people who waits until the cashier gives the total before getting payment in order--checks should just be outlawed, unless you're paying a bill by mail--so while the lady in front was finishing up, I loaded my stash on the conveyor belt and pulled out my wallet. My wallet that no longer held my debit card.

Slight pause while I gulped my heart back down my throat.

Okay, everybody stay frosty. I can handle this. I'll be out of the checkout line shortly, and the ATM is pretty much in the Food Frolic's parking lot. I'll see if I left the card in the car, then make the short drive to the bank and see if maybe I left the card in the slot. It might still be there, hanging out, waiting for me to return it to its rightful home in my wallet.

Nope. Gone. I don't know if the machine eats your card after it's in the slot for X amount of time, or if somebody else came through and got it, but my little buddy that had been swiped in a zillion scanners was no more.

But for once, I was prepared for just such an emergency. I grabbed my BlackBerry, scrolled down to where I had the toll-free number from the back of the card stored in the memory, and I had the card canceled and a new one ordered before I was out of the parking lot. So the moral of the story is to go, right now, and enter the numbers for all your cards in your phone. Wait. I guess the real moral would be to not be a doofus with your card. Yeah, start with that. Don't be a doofus with your credit or debit cards, and THEN go put those toll-free numbers in your cell phone.

Assuming we all survive (I'm fully prepared for Jacob to get overwhelmed and start crying well before the party even gets going), I'll give a recap of the festivities Monday. Also, hummingbird pictures!

Happy Wednesday!

2009-05-26T08:24:00.001-07:00

What's that you say? Today is Thursday, not Wednesday? That can't possibly be right. If today's Thursday, that means I didn't post anything on Wednesday. So adjust your calendars accordingly.

Since this is Wednesday, the day after Jacob's first birthday, I thought I'd post an addendum to something I wrote a while back. They're a few advice tidbits, most of which I've learned the old-fashioned way: I've dumbed them into existence. For instance, I've got a scar on my right arm from a Kaiser blade, some folks calls it a slang blade, that took a neat slice out of my skin because, in technical terms, I was "being an idiot." That earned me a trip to the ER, seven stitches, and a scar that's only growing less visible because I'm freckle-farming it over. So right there's a lesson I can pass on to my son: Don't be an idiot with deadly tools. Feel free to apply that to your own lives, royalty-free.

As I noted in that initial post, there's a much better collection of advice available. These are just my feeble attempts at putting wisdom in my own words.

If you have a conflict with someone, and you two just can't seem to get along, ask him for help.
I read this in Bear Bryant's autobiography way back in the seventies, and it's never left me. Bryant was coaching at Kentucky at the same time as basketball demigod Adolph Rupp. The campus hasn't been built that could handle both those personalities and egos, and they inevitably clashed. Bryant ended up leaving, but he remarked in his book that he should have asked Rupp for a favor. That would have helped break the ice, would have let Rupp know that Bryant respected him, would have expressed Bryant's humility, and generally defused an explosive situation. (Thankfully for Alabama fans, Bryant's realization didn't come until it was too late for UK, which could have owned both the basketball and football worlds.) When you come to someone for help, you're letting them know that you've disarmed. It'll either work out some of the tension, or it'll drive them crazy. Either way, you're a winner.

Don't top everyone.
Everybody likes being the center of attention, and everybody has what he thinks is the all-time, gut-bustingest, jaw-droppingest, all-around phenomenalest story. When somebody has just delivered his such story, joke, anecdote, or pithy saying, let him win. Don't try to top it with, "That reminds me of..." or "You should have seen the..." Let the other person have his or her moment in the sun. Yours will come later.

The getting is always better than the having.
At least, it'll seem that way. You'll find that sometimes, when you finally get the very thing you've desired--new car, new job, girlfriend, electronics equipment, fabled hamburger--you'll be thrilled up to your uvula. Then, you'll find the strangest occurrence. What you thought was the thing you desired will leave you a little less than happy. A little empty, actually. You might even think you've made a mistake. And that's possible. We do sometimes devote far too much time and money towards something we'd be better off consigning to the "Eh, not so much" category. But most likely, you're just experiencing a feeling common to all of us. As C.S. Lewis (whom you'll love reading, if you're a son of mine) put it in Mere Christianity,

In this department of life, as in every other, thrills come at the beginning and do not last. The sort of thrill a boy has at the first idea of flying will not go on when he has joined the R.A.F. and is really learning to fly. The thrill you feel on first seeing some delightful place dies away when you really go to live there. Does this mean it would be better not to learn to fly and not live in the beautiful place? By no means. In both cases, if you go through with it, the dying away of the first thrill will be compensated for by a quieter and more lasting kind of interest. What is more (and I can hardly find the words to tell you how important I think this), it is just the people who are ready to submit to the loss of the thrill and settle down to the sober interest who are then most likely to meet new thrills in some quite different direction. The man who has learned to fly and become a good pilot will suddenly discover music; the man who has settled down to live in the beauty spot will discover gardening.

So don't be disappointed when the initial buzz wears off. Keep pushing on, and it'll get better.

Even a dead fish can swim downstream.
If everybody is doing it, maybe it's because it's a good thing. Most likely, however, everybody is doing what everybody always does, which is obey a herd mentality. Take it from a daddy who spent time working with cattle, a herd mentality isn't any mentality at all. Cows are dumber than a sack of toenail clippings, and so are people who go along with the prevailing wisdom. Never be afraid to say "No."

Hopefully, Jacob will do a better job of adhering to these things than his pater did.

In which the progeny reaches the big 1

2009-05-23T17:54:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, the Bat Signal went up: Baby on the way. This is not a drill. This is when heroes are made, people! Move it, move it, move it! We'd had one false alarm before this day, but when The Lovely Missus came down the stairs with that look on her face, I knew, or at least strongly believed, that we'd reached DefCon 1.

I can be on the hyper side at times, so I had figured I'd go into full-bore panic when the time came. I had visions of my turning into Ricky Ricardo, although I pray that I have never been, and never will be, as irritating as that character. Failing that, I figured I'd at least need a hardbitten, WWII Sarge type to give me a speech like, "Scared? Of course you're scared. Childbirth...it does something to a man. I've seen men--strong men, men who'd charge Hell with a cap pistol and a paper hat if I told them to--reduced to a whimpering mess just by the sight of a mucus plug. (Dramatic drag off a hand-rolled cigarette.) But real men, they tough it out. They swallow the bile in their throat, steel their innards, resist the urge to leave the delivery room for the waiting room, even if the waiting room has one of those new flat-screen TVs with ESPN on, and the Coke machine dispenses really cold Cokes, and they face that baby! Now get in there and do your duty, Soldier!"

But it's a funny thing about stressful situations. When you, or at least I, have some control over a situation, I can have more facial tics than a Baghdad Airport baggage checker. But when the situation is completely out of my hands (and I don't have any obstetrical skills), I can throttle back and have a little faith. Such was the case when the Bat Signal was displayed. I got a little antsy, but on the way to the hospital, I didn't take any corners on two wheels, or force a busload of orphans into the ditch. That was a good thing, because not only did no one lose his life before the baby started his post-womb life, but it turned out we were settling in for a while. He was definitely about to start his one-man show, but not until later that afternoon. At one point--and I swear I'm not lying--I actually dozed off on the couch in the delivery room.

We thought for a while that TLM would be able to deliver naturally, but the poor young'un was cursed with a noggin like his daddy's ("I'm not kidding, it's like an orange on a toothpick"),so that was not to be. A C-section was called for, and preparations were made.

The only time I really got scared was when I got to go in the OR with The Lovely Missus, and she began having tremors ("birthquakes," I believed they're called) that were pretty serious. I couldn't see the festivities taking place on the other side of the curtain, so I wasn't worried about the baby, but I was holding TLM's hand, and it was like she was sitting on an industrial clothes dryer with an unbalanced load. That began to scare me after a while.

The whole "Open womb and remove baby" step probably didn't take five or ten minutes, but in my mind, it lasted longer than a Super Bowl pregame. Eventually, however, at 4:02 p.m., Memorial Day, 2008, the nurses handed me a wriggling, red, irritated, squinty-eyed bundle that was my son. Jacob Hayes Dunn had entered the world the rest of us inhabit.

Here's one thing I've learned on my first anniversary of being a dad. I'd always thought that having a child was a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain. You're talking to, er, reading the words of a man who didn't get married until two weeks shy of his fortieth birthday, so I was pretty used to living a relatively carefree, and 100% diaper-free, sick-baby-free, and middle-of-the-night-crying-free life. But, despite all my preconceived notions, having a child turned out to be...a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain.

Hang on. I'm not saying something that I never want Jacob to read, nor am I admitting that I'm a regular W.C. Fields when it comes to hating babies. I love my son. I'd kill for him. I'd die for him. When he's sick, I'd most gladly take his affliction in his stead. We've had a couple of Children's Hospital E.R. runs, and nothing will put your heart in your throat faster than pulling into that parking lot.

But make no mistake about it: Babies are tremendous burdens. And make no mistake about this: Tremendous burdens are not always bad things. We live in a push-button, customized world, where microwaving a Hot Pocket for 2.5 minutes takes FOREVER in our minds. If the A/C goes out, it's time to call out the National Guard to deliver emergency cooling, NOW! There are interstate highways full of people who have no clue how to change gears on a manual transmission, have never manually cranked down a car window. We've not only pursued the trouble-free life, we've dang near perfected it.

There's nothing wrong with pushing buttons or otherwise using modern conveniences, of course. But sometimes, we need some inconvenience to remind us it's not always about us. Not that I recommend getting much of your philosophy or theology from rock singers, but it's hard to put it more eloquently than Mick Jagger did: You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.

And I needed Jacob Hayes Dunn. Happy first birthday, son.

In which I decide to open a Chick-fil-A

2009-05-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

Not really, since I might have the teensiest bit of trouble scrounging up the investment necessary to begin such an endeavor. Then there's the whole "Work all the time (except for Sundays)" part, too. But if I could overcome both those obstacles, I'd open a Chick-fil-A. Because if the one Jacob, Mama Dunn, and I visited today is indicative of the earnings potential, every franchise owner in the country can look the specter of recession square in the eye, pop the band on another stack of hundreds, and order up some more Bentley wax. Place was hopping like a hyperactive kangaroo treatment facility when we were there.

That's especially noteworthy, considering that the -A's offerings are mostly priced on the pricey side of the fast food spectrum. There's no dollar menu to be found. What you will find is, infallibly, a chipper, helpful staff and some fine chicken and waffle fries. (For any readers not living near an -A, my condolences. Please make arrangements to move, immediately. A year or so ago, when I read that James Lileks had just then had the chance to try a slice of poultry heaven on a buttery bun, I wept. The government really should do something about the gulf between the Chick-fil-A haves and havenots. You cannot consume an original grilled sandwich from there and remain an atheist.)

As I said, the place was packed, and Jacob loves him some people-watching. We fed him some chicken and fries, but that really wasn't necessary. He'd have been just as happy sitting in that high chair, taking in the excitement. His head was on a swivel, and his grin couldn't have been wider if we'd have installed a mouth-stretcher. And this is while he's too young to experience the playground. He'll be an addict once he reaches legal ball crawl age.

On the way there, we passed the median where the city of Pelham puts crosses and flags every Memorial Day. Try as I might, I can't think of anything to say about that that doesn't sound forced and trite. It's just extremely touching to be whizzing along in your car, relatively free from concern, breathing air-conditioned air, listening to an MP3 player playing over the car stereo, BlackBerry on your hip, and look over and see names of men and women who won't ever get the chance to do any of that. God bless the departed.

This weekend, it's a racing bacchanalia for the gearheads among us. Sunday morning, it's the Grand Prix of Monaco, which is pretty much the only F1 race I'll watch. (More passing, please.) Then there's the Indianapolis 500, which is pretty much the only IndyCar race I'll watch. (More, um, something, please. I'll have to get back with you with some specificity later.) I'm old enough to remember when the 500 was shown on ABC on a tape delay Sunday night, so you had to stay away from TV and radio if you didn't want to know the outcome. That was back in the Dark Ages, before the Intarwebtubules.

And then there's the Coca-Cola 600, which is the glute-numbingest sports event imaginable. I know there are 24-hour races, but nobody really watches all 24 hours. Right? If you do, my apologies.

Here's an interesting fact to keep in mind while watching the 600. A few years ago, I interviewed Jimmy Kitchens, who's from the Birmingham suburb of Hueytown. He was serving as Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s spotter, which meant that he watched races with 42 other spotters from high above the asphalt, on the roof of the pressbox or other structure. Spotters are most necessary when there's a wreck or when their driver is making a move in traffic (with the helmets and restraints NASCAR requires, it's darn hard to see out of a stocker, hence the added eyes), but they're also used during caution laps. They count down the driver as he nears his pits, they advise the driver and crew if there's any damage on the car, or they can go huddle with another spotter or two for some dealing as far as restarts or drafting or some such. So there's not really a slack time for spotters. And, since roofs aren't known for bathroom facilities, there's no chance to avail yourself of facilities. Just to be sure, I asked Jimmy if the spotters all stayed up there, all race, without taking a pit stop of their own. He assured me they did.

So, if you're looking for something different to do this weekend, watch the 600 from your couch without getting up and breaking the seal on your bladder.

I'm taking Monday off, so until Tuesday, y'all be safe, and remember why it's called Memorial Day.

These baby feet were made for walking

2009-05-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

Jacob is getting closer and closer to being a full-fledged walker, although I really don't know why. The boy can crawl faster than I can run. I'm not kidding, I need to take him to a track and put a clock on him through the 100 meters. That's the same reason I'm not sweating him turning into a walker, even though everybody says that's when the trouble starts. Until he's old enough to lace on a pair of running shoes, he's pretty much gotten to his top speed already.

The inaugural birthday celebration draws nearer and nearer. He'll hit the big 1.0 Tuesday, but we're celebrating the following Saturday. (Don't tell him. We're keeping the calendars covered up so he won't notice.)

It's funny to watch him with the dogs. You can tell they know he's not actively trying to hurt him, but they also know that he has yet to learn the difference between "pet" and "grab," which is not a good thing for the hairy among us. A Pekingese is just a four-footed handhold to him, so they've gotten really adept about sidestepping his advances. It only took a few handfuls of hair for them to learn. Bonus cuteness: When he has torn some hair out, he turns to one of us as if to say, "I did good, didn't I?" That's a good thing, because it gives the canines time to bolt for sanctuary underneath the kitchen table.

Following up on the "The Big Bang Theory" post from yesterday, I've just gotten around to watching the final episode of "King of the Hill," which ran Sunday night. I love, love, love that show. Or, more accurately, loved, loved, loved that show. It's been running a few cylinders short the last few years. I figure the ratio of good shows to bad has been 1/5 for the last few seasons. Even the final show was kinda "meh." I didn't get that whole Canadian house-swapping deal.

That's not surprising, though. It's hard to come up with a suitable closer. Really, the only great season finale I can remember was the one the geniuses at "Newhart" came up with. Absolute perfection.

I'll miss KOTH, though. (Warning: Pop culture sacrilege imminent!) I've never been a "Simpsons" fan. Sorry, but it just never did it for me. I know that pop culturists love to talk about how there's real family love beneath all the Simpsonness, but I think they're projecting and rationalizing, and a few other pop psychology terms I can't remember right now. "Family Guy" can be hilarious, but I stopped watching when I saw the neighborhood pedophile appear. I'll watch some out-there humor, perhaps more than I should. But making jokes about sexual predators of children just takes it too far. And "American Dad," of course, is completely unwatchable.

Bring back "The Brak Show," is what I say. (Also, pummel the web dweeb who came up with that eye-scorching background.) "Open up your headhole, Slappy, and listen while I testify" has earned a permanent spot in my cortex.

But I digress. KOTH was a great show because you know that this family did love each other. Sure, Peggy was a little on the prickly side, and Hank had problems exhibiting his love ("Bobby, if you weren't my son, I'd hug you"), but they stuck together, I'll tell you what. You always knew that, no matter how tragic Bill got, no matter how clueless Dale got, or how rapaciously Boomhauer got, Hank was always going to bail them out. It didn't matter if he wanted to bail them out, he had to bail them out. It was just the right thing to do, even if your dad was a shinless misanthrope who'd killed fitty men.

There was so much else to like about KOTH. The repeated Chuck Mangione references and appearances. Khan Souphanousinphone, Sr., the jerky neighbor with the heart of, well, not gold, exactly, but not bile, either. Joe Jack's referring to everyone, regardless of gender, as "Honey." The guest stars like Brad Pitt (who was an excellent Patch Boomhauer) and Matthew McConaughey as Rad Thibodeaux (pronounced "thib-uh-do-axxxx").

There were some classic lines, too. In the interest of fairness, I've limited myself to only lines I can recall, verbatim, without googling. I've already mentioned the "if you weren't my son" quote. Here are a few of my other favorites.

"Son, you're teasing the gorilla in the monkey house."
"Are you gonna leave quietly, or am I gonna have to carry you out baby-tantrum-style?"
"Just when I think you've said the stupidest thing ever, you keep talking!"
"Soccer was invented by European women so they'd have something to do while their husbands cooked dinner."
(Hank, while preparing to pray) "Lord, Hank Hill here, Methodist."
(Hank, commenting on Bobby's love for Christian rock) "You're not making rock and roll better, you're making Christianity worse."

If I had to pick my favorite five episodes, I'd go with these:

5. "Propane Boom"/"Death of a Propane Salesman." (A two-parter.) Competition from the Mega-Lo Mart costs Hank his job, and he's forced to take a position at the Mart. When Boomhauer attempts to comfort Hank over the propane explosion that killed Luanne's boyfriend Buckley ("Hey"), he gives a long, mumbling, Boomhauerian soliloquy that's of course indecipherable. Hank replies, "That's what we tell ourselves, isn't it, Boomhauer?" Slays me every time.

4. "A Fire-fighting We Will Go." Hank and the boys become volunteer firemen, then burn their own firehouse down. During the investigation (conducted by a fire chief played by Barry Corbin), the boys all give their version of what caused the fire. When Boomhauer tells his version, all the other characters speak Boomhauer. This episode also has the last TV appearance of Buddy Ebsen, who voiced Chet Elderson.

3. "Return to La Grunta." Luanne purchases a "dolphin encounter" for Hank at the posh La Grunta country club. While encountering the cetacean, named Duke, Hank is, well, um, he's the victim of unwanted physical advances. When Hank finally breaks down and tells Peggy about it, Peggy wants to know if the dolphin, you know, has regular equipment and all. Hank replies, "It's a mammal, Peggy."

2. "A Beer Can Named Desire." Hank gets an opportunity to throw a football through an opening in a giant Alamo Beer can at the Superdome for $1 million, or for $100,000 if he lets Dallas Cowboys legend Don Meredith throw the ball. On the way, the crew drops Bill off at his family plantation in Louisiana. There's a matriarch there (played by Meryl Streep) and three widowed Southern belles (played by the Dixie Chicks), and Bill's fey cousin Gilbert ("ghille-bear"). When Gilbert says, "I've always been a creepuh. Violetta says I creep like the kudzu that's slowly but surely strangling our Dixie," I convulse. Every time.

1. "Aisle 8A." Hands-down the funniest episode of all time. Khan has to go to Hawaii for a conference, leaving his daughter Khan Jr. with the Hills. Khan Jr. "becomes a woman" while her parents are away, and Hank is forced to take her to the hospital, and then to the Mega-Lo Mart for supplies. While he's at the hospital, he hints that the hospital should give her the supplies. "If she had a cut, you'd give her a Band-Aid, wouldn't you?" Then, once at the Mart, Khan Jr. goes down the feminine supplies aisle and breaks down, forcing Hank to go down the aisle, too. Classic, killer funny.

There are other great episodes, like "The Redneck on Rainey Street," where Khan (who forgets to put a cover sheet on his TPS report) stops being an office drone and becomes a redneck. That episode includes a version of Tom Petty's "Rednecks" performed by the Drive-by Truckers.

And there's "It Ain't Over 'Til the Fat Neighbor Sings," where Bill joins the Harmoniholics, an all-male singing group. In that one, Dale, attempting to shame Bill into leaving the group, says, "This chorus is the feces produced when shame eats too much stupidity!"

But there's no use crying over spilt animation. The show was past its prime, and Mike Judge has moved on to "The Goode Family," which looks like it has promise. I love the fact that the do-gooding Goode family wanted to adopt an African baby, and ended up with a white South African named Ubuntu. Plus, there's reruns, and my collection of DVDs. In my heart and mind, Hank is still in his prime, out in the alley, and he always will be. Yup.

Blogging will happen today

2009-05-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

Just had a few things come up this morning that have me running behind. Check back later for your usual dose of life-changing greatness from me.

There I go again, pulling my facetious muscle.

Whatever happened to the Bermuda Triangle?

2009-05-20T10:15:00.000-07:00

No real reason for titling this post the way I did, other than the fact I'm watching "Airport '77," and the 747 the bad guys are hijacking was just referred to as entering the Triangle. Back in the seventies, you couldn't pick up a reputable newspaper (Enquirer, Star, etc.) without a reference to the Triangle. It was a big supernatural vortex where boats and planes disappeared quicker than free Foghat tickets. Then one day, I guess Erich von Daniken lost interest, and the Triangle was phenomenon non grata.

I'm saving the "Airport" movies for another post, though. Today, it's all about my favorite new show, "The Big Bang Theory." How exactly has this excellent comedy escaped my attention until a couple of weeks ago? I'm putting each and every one of you on report for not alerting me, and I'm noting in your permanent record that I was very, very disappointed in you. For shame.

I will share a tad of the blame, although in my defense, a healthy dose of cynicism at Hollywood's ability to turn out a decent comedy nowadays is a supremely defensible position. "Gary Unmarried," "The New Adventures of Old Christine"--well, I think I've made my point. I'll stipulate that "The Office" has generated chuckles at times, but I just can't get into it. I think it's the fact that it's taped without a live audience, and part of comedy is the danger of performing before a few hundred disapproving sets of eyes. (I know that comedies filmed before live audiences are edited, but that doesn't completely do away with the pressure of nailing a line. It's not like the actors can do take after take, like they can without an audience. Sooner or later, the folks from Iowa and Minnesota will grow weary of the continued re-takes.)

But "The BigBang Theory," which will henceforth be referred to as TBBT, has it all. Filmed in front of a live audience. References to things like Munchhausen's Trilemma.

Leonard: What do you mean, you're moving out? Why?

Sheldon: There doesn't have to be a reason.

Leonard: Yeah, there kinda does.

Sheldon: Not necessarily. This is a classic example of Münchhausen's Trilemma. Either the reason is predicated on a series of sub-reasons leading to an infinite regression, or it tracks back to arbitrary axiomatic statements, or it's ultimately circular, i.e. I'm moving out because I'm moving out.

Leonard: I'm still confused.

Sheldon: Leonard, I don't see how I could have made it any simpler.

Plus, there's the absolute persnickety genius perfection of Jim Parsons' Sheldon. When it comes to a person fitting the role, I have to go back to Don Knotts' Barney Fife to find a more perfect fit. He's preening and self-important, but he's also likable. Try pulling that off the next time you think your thespian chops are stout.

I despised "Roseanne" (the show, not the pers--never mind), so I only became aware of Johnny Galecki when I saw the criminally underappreciated "Suicide Kings." (Rent it. You'll love it.) He's perfect as the love-bumbling, brainy-but-approachable Leonard. He's like a younger George Costanza, if Costanza had had a heart. And a brain.

I'm less enamored of Simon Helberg's Howard Wolowitz or Kunal Nayyar's Rajesh Koothrappali, although both of them have their moments. And I'd prefer they ditch Sara Gilbert's Leslie Winkle completely. She seems completely out of her element in a brainy sitcom. (I know she graduated from Yale with honors, but those honors were in art. Not impressed.)

But the show truly won my heart when I heard things like Sheldon's statement that, "Like a modern-day Napoleon, I've been exiled to the Elba of the stairwell." Or Sheldon's correction of Penny's statement that he and Leonard had "a little misunderstanding" by saying, "No, Galileo and the Pope had 'a little misunderstanding.'" Who's writing these most excellent references, Dennis Miller? In a sea of sophomoric "humor" on television, it's beyond refreshing to see such genius.

Especially since that genius is swaddled in some weapons-grade stupidity on CBS' part. For one, they have just announced that they're moving the show from 7 p.m. central time on Mondays to 8:30 p.m. Way to hide the show, CBS. It's always great to slot a great show in the slot normally occupied by "Rules of Engagement."

Secondly, CBS has decided that a show geared toward geekery won't have full-length episodes posted online, only clips. Because there's no way that geeks in 2009 could ever find an alternative way to get those episodes. So instead of sitting down in front of a computer monitor and watching ads, those geeks will be torrenting episodes completely free of ads. Or so I hear. I personally have no idea how such things take place. Nope, not me.

Not gonna happen

2009-05-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

Sorry, folks, but I quite simply don't have anything to say today. I could vomit up some words if I absolutely had to, but I'm running on fumes, and I'd rather pass on posting than waste your time. Hopefully, things will be better tomorrow. (Not that they're all that bad now. I'm just wasted, mentally.)

Let's hear it for my good friend, J.T.

2009-05-18T08:45:00.001-07:00

That's my friend and fellow Samsonian, James "J.T. " Thomas, who laid a country-boy stomping on the "Survivor" field to win the $1,000,000 prize for being the sole survivor, as well as the $100,000 prize for being so doggone lovable. Man, when I think back on all the good times J.T. and I have had, fishing and hunting and just sitting around the campfire swapping stories, I can't help but mist up. I get especially misty when I remember how, when I'd advise J.T. to go on a reality show and win a million dollars with his charm and smarts, he'd say, "One of these days, Jim, I'm going to do that. I'm going to win a million dollars, and when I do, I'm going to share it with you, 50-50, because of your inspiration. You are the wind beneath my wings, Jim, and you know that. Shoot, I only go by J.T. because it sounds like J.D., in honor of you."

Okay, okay, that never happened. Truth be told, although I'm from the same area as J.T., and keep in mind that Samson only has about 2000 residents, I've never met him or heard of him until a cousin told me that a Samsonian was going to be on the show. (Reminds me of the joke I heard a long-forgotten comedian tell back in the eighties. He was from Canada, and whenever he'd tell anybody that, they'd go, "You're from Canada? Do you know Bob?")

But I figure my story is about as believable, and as grounded in truth, as plenty of the stories being told about J.T. now. The young man was already as likeable as Mike Rowe, and that was before he snagged $1.1 million, minus the inevitable monstrous whack the IRS will take out of those winnings. It's like the few zillion people who clearly remembered being present at Madison Square Garden when Wilt Chamberlain scored an NBA record 100 points, even if that game was actually played in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Prepare for a huge influx of new close friends, J.T.

Other than his winning the million plus, the best thing about last night's show was when Jeff Probst asked J.T. what he was going to do with the money, and he replied, "Hopefully, use it to make more money." This is one 24-year-old with his mind on the big picture. I hope I never read a report about how he's become the darling of the NYC club scene, or has begun dating a Kardashian. (I actually hope to never read a report of anybody dating a Kardashian.)

Throughout this season, I watched J.T. act more smoothly than iced Teflon. He buddied up to the right people, kept his mouth shut better than any contestant ever, and, no doubt, conned a few people with that good ol' boy persona. I don't mean that he's actually not nice. From what I've heard, he's supremely likable in real life. What I mean is that there were most likely some people who heard J.T. open his mouth, heard that slow-issuing Southern drawl, and figured there was a slow wit pushing out those syllables. During the final Tribal Council (and yes, I do feel pretty stupid typing that phrase), J.T. couldn't have been more down-home, "Aw, shucks" in his manner, while second-place Stephen Fishbach came off as a slick, fast-talking New Yorker. No wonder J.T. stomped a mudhole in Stephen, vote-wise, winning all the jury's votes (feel stupid typing that, too) in a 7-0 blowout. According to his bio, Fishbach is a corporate consultant, and he's only 29. I'm not saying that maybe he's gotten through a lot with some bovine feces skills, but...wait. That's exactly what I'm saying. And I think when the pressure's on, that bovine feces was exposed for what they are. It's like being friends with a car salesman. He might be a nice guy, but you still know that when the going gets tough, he's gonna make with the weasel words.

So now, I have no reality show vice. (Or reality show vise, either, ever since I broke my "The Amazing Race" bench vise cranking on that wagon wheel I never finished.) At least, I don't have a vice until the fall, when "Survivor: Samoa" premieres. With that title, I assume at least a few of the challenges will involve eating those killer Girl Scout cookies (if so, I would CRUSH my fellow competitors), or maybe pronouncing some of the vowel-heavy native names. I'll be counting the days.

All I need now is Ethel and Fred

2009-05-15T08:42:00.000-07:00

Give me those two, and the "I Love Lucy" episode that has been my life the past few hours would be complete. Let me explain. Sorry, I mean, "'splain."

The Bat Signal goes out late yesterday afternoon that my superpower, reviewing music, is needed at WorkPlay. Jars of Clay are playing there, and unless I don my secret identity and review them, Gotham City South will remain ignorant of that performance's merits, or lack thereof. I assure Commissioner Gordon that I'm on the case, and head out to WorkPlay later that evening.

Just as I'm getting into downtown Birmingham, I notice that the temp gauge on the Batmobile is reading a little high. Almost a lot high, actually. But I don't have a whole lot of time before the concert starts, so I park the Batmobile and go inside.

After the very good concert is over (full review to follow once it's published), I dash to the Batmobile, jump in, start it up, and head back to the Batcave. I know that turning the heater on takes heat off the engine, so I roll down the windows and crank the heater to the "Sun's Core" setting. The whole way home, I'm checking the temp gauge like it's a threat radar in an F-16, praying that I'm not forced to call The Lovely Missus--did I mention she was in bed with a migraine? 'Cause she was--to come get me. Within a mile of my house, I was convinced I wouldn't make it, but the needle dipped a skosh and I was able to pull into the driveway.

Flash-forward to this morning, skipping over a rather restless night for Jacob, which of course means a rather restless night for Daddy. Mama Dunn and Jacob are up, and I realize that the dumpster hasn't become sentient and walked itself to the curb, meaning that I'll have to do it. And, although I know, I know, I KNOW that it's critical to always close the gate to the backyard, I leave it open. Then I go inside, tell MD that I'm going to work on the car in the driveway, and commence to do just that.

If this were a TV movie, maybe titled "Not Without My Pekingeses," the camera would slowly zoom in on that gate, maybe show it slowly creaking in the breeze, then blare a dramatic, "Dum, dum, DUM!" musical sting. Because you know what happened next. The dogs, led by Penelope, who always signals it's elimination time by going to the hearth, spinning, and barking, have to go out. MD, who doesn't know I've stupidly left the gate open, lets them out. And, because dogs are like kids and can sense an opportunity to get into trouble from several miles away, Penelope, Brutus, and Humphrey all three bolt through the gate.

Did I mention that at the bottom of our hill is a major four-lane highway? And that our dogs are all brown, short, easy-to-miss-and-run-over dogs?

Thankfully, they had instead gone up the street. I found this out when our next-door neighbors, who will hereafter be referred to as "The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR!" and who had begun searching for The Fugitive Three when they saw me running around, heard the news from another wonderful neighbor. So I fire up the Batmobile, drive up the street where the fugitives were last seen, and see them. Brutus, who's the definition of a scaredy-dog and whom I can't believe left in the first place, comes to me right away. I stuff him in the car.

Humphrey, who's not afraid of anything, decides to make the old man run around for a little, but finally hunkers down and lets me grab him. In he goes, right next to Brutus. But devious little Penelope knows what's coming, so she goes back down the street, in the eventual direction of the four-lane. Thankfully, the female half of The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR! helped herd her into the backyard.

Of course, we've got company coming tomorrow, so their little excursion in the dewy grass means that all three of the little hairballs will have to be washed tonight, which is always a joy, since they all put out several Chewbaccafuls of hair. Pekes are double-coated dogs, so it's a chore just to get all that hair wet, much less clean.

Here's the real kicker, though. When they're finally back inside, they all give me that look that only big-eyed Pekes can give. The one that says, "Can you possibly stay mad at these faces?"

So, how was your morning?

Absolutely, 100% true update that just happened: Just because this morning has started off so well, Humphrey just decided to make it better by piddling on the newspaper Jacob had been playing with in the floor.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this

2009-05-14T05:01:00.000-07:00

I can blog and work via the laptop, not my office PC, while Mama Dunn is incapable of picking up The Progeny because of her cataract surgery. I will not freak out when The Progeny is bawling because Mama Dunn has suddenly turned cold, in his estimation. Because I'm good enough...no, that's not it. Because I have to. And you do what you have to. Should make for some interesting blogging stories, if nothing else. Just this morning, I've tried to cook eggs while the dogs agitated to go outside and Jacob turned over a full water bowl. And while I don't like to brag, I'm confident in saying that my blood pressure can't be over, oh, 240/160.

That's probably an exaggeration. The blood pressure part, not the dog bowl and chaos stuff, which really happened. I actually handled it pretty well, all things considered. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ready for Mama Dunn to get the all-clear to resume nanny duties.

Speaking of Mama Dunn, her post-cataract-removal checkup came out okay. She still has to wear the welding goggle sunglasses when she goes outside, but she can already see an improvement in her vision in that eye.

Preparations continue for Operation Baby Birthday Uno. I'm hoping that by the time it does roll around, the weather is somewhat less Seattle-like. I really don't want my yard to become a full-blown moor.

It's predicted to rain this weekend, which will mess up the Regions Charity Classic golf tournament here. I hope that doesn't happen, even though I loathe golf. It's too slow. Its ratio of talk to action is even greater than competitive domino stacking. I don't understand how a major-league baseball player can decide in four-tenths of a second whether or not to hit a ball coming at him at 90+ mph in front of thousands of screaming fans, but it takes Tiger Woods five minutes to line up a five-foot putt, in complete silence. To quote Tim Wilson again, if you can't get your nose broken doing it, it's not a sport, it's a game. Ben Roethlisberger can throw a 45-yard touchdown strike with a linebacker homing in on his ribcage at warp speed, but heaven forbid somebody sneeze during Phil Mickelson's backswing.

And I know that golf is supremely difficult. I know that what top golfers can do with a club is tantamount to sorcery. But there are lots of things that are very difficult to do. Free-diving, for example, is not only difficult, but deadly. Yet I have no interest in watching free-divers, no matter how hazardous their sport. Cliff diving is hard, and deadly, but aside from some old "Wide World of Sports" episodes, I don't want to devote my life to watching it. (And I have to insert Norm McDonald's quote about cliff diving. "There are two kinds of cliff divers. There's world champions, and stuff on a rock.")

In addition to my usual distaste for golf, the Regions tournament is part of the Champions Tour, which used to be the Seniors Tour. So it's not only a slow, boring sport, but a slow, boring sport played by old people. Now that's excitement! Am I right, people?

Still, lots of people love the Classic, so I don't want it to rain. Plus, there's Do Dah Day, and nobody wants wet puppies.

And if it does rain, again, I've got "Airport," "Airport 1975" and "Airport '77" stored on the DVR. Might was well watch some disaster movies while your weather is a disaster.

It's quiet...too quiet

2009-05-13T07:47:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of postage yesterday, but while Mama Dunn's cataract surgery went perfectly, according to the doctor, there was much confusing, crying, and temper-tantrum-throwing afterward. Plus, Jacob got ill, too.

Here's what happened. I loaded up MD and The Progeny in the car, drive just a few minutes down the road to the hospital, and check in at the surgery center. I'll admit to being suspect of a little prejudice in typing this, but The Progeny was pretty doggone well-behaved for at least an hour. But there's only so much waiting a soon-to-be-one-year-old can do, and Jacob he ventually hit his limit. I left MD, left my cell phone number with the receptionist, and took Jacob for a ride.

Before too long, it was time for some food consumption, so I drove back home and dispensed some food. Don't ask me what it was, because it all looks the same when it's been pureed into oblivion. Jacob was happy, but he was also sleepy by now, so it was upstairs to the Childhood Bedding Unit, where he was soon blissfully out.

Of course, you know what came next. He'd just gotten good and asleep when the clinic called for me to come get Mama Dunn. So, as much as I hated to do it, I had no choice but to go roust Jacob from his sleep, then make another run south to the surgery center. And, as incredulous as you may be (and you've always been an incredulous lot), he was actually very nice through the whole ordeal, if you discount the usual few minutes of "Why'd you do that?" grumpiness that usually accompanies one of his wakenings.

But the weed of crankiness sometimes grows slowly, as I was soon to find out. All the shuffling had completely hosed Jacob's sleeping schedule, as well as his eating schedule, playing schedule, etc., and he was not all that disposed to resuming his regularly scheduled programming any time soon. Plus, Mama Dunn's surgery requires her to not bend below the waist or do any heavy lifting for two weeks, which means no picking up Jacob. And that's not good. Daddy arms are okay for comforting, Mother arms are better, but nothing's as good as Grandma's. Jacob went to sleep with his best girl still in love with him, and woke up dumped like yesterday's coffee grounds.

Thankfully, The Lovely Missus had already planned a short excursion to her sister's house, so we received a short reprieve from the fussing, which I'm sure will resume with full force this afternoon. Oh well. I've been considering shaving off all my hair (that's a bit of fanciful language there, my saying "all my hair," as if there's a lot; I'm like that long-forgotten comedian who said that he didn't have hair, he had hairs). I guess it'll be just as effective to pull it out as to shave it.

I'll have to write either at night, while Jacob is asleep, or while TLM is home for the foreseeable future, so you're liable to get updates at 1:30 a.m. or not at all at times. Please try to go on with your lives, nonetheless.

You can also check out my other blog, follow my Tweets if you'd like, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all four.

Blogging forecast

2009-05-12T05:08:00.000-07:00

Late to nonexistent, with a chance of tomorrowness. Mother is having cataract surgery, so how that goes will determine if/when I get to blog today.

Koogle, we hardly knew ye

2009-05-11T04:26:00.001-07:00

The late Mitch Hedberg said, "Sometimes in the middle of the night, I think of something that's funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen's too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain't funny."

Such is my life, kinda. I had no sooner turned off the BlackBerry last night when several items that would fit in a post I'd planned began coming to mind. I couldn't convince myself that what I'd thought of wasn't funny, or interesting, although something being unfunny or uninteresting has certainly never stopped me from blogging on it before. (Like I need to tell you people that.) So I fired the BB up again, and commenced thumbing up some notes. I use the 'Berry and not pen and paper because I've been known to scribble notes that were incomprehensible while fully awake, much less groggy-headed. Didn't want my own Flaming Globes of Sigmund episode.

What I'd been planning on blogging on for a while was the products, things, or concepts I've used at some point that are no longer extant. At least, they're no longer extant if you go by my memory and a cursory googling. If I'm wrong, email me and I'll make the corrections, and in many cases will also try to track down some of these products and order up a passle.

Let's start with the eponymous product, Koogle. According to the Wikipedia article (and I think it's high-larious that this article doesn't meet Wikipedia's "standards"), Kraft manufactured the flavored peanut butter from 1971 until discontinuing it later in the seventies. I'm sure the flexible nature of memory has inflated the actual taste of the stuff from good to incredible in my mind, but I do remember it as being quite tasty. I don't think I ever tried the cinnamon or vanilla flavors, but I have happy childhood memories of the banana and chocolate flavors. Kraft people, let's make with the retro foodstuffs, okay?

I was prepared to mention Pearl Drops toothpaste, but the aforementioned cursory googling turned up a website for the stuff. It doesn't look the way I remember it, so it's possible it's a reincarnated product, like Pop Rocks.

Other than recipes for a DIY version, there were no results for Oatmeal Jumbles, which was a product by Kraft or General Foods, or at least one of the major conglomerates, that allowed you to bake a mixture of oatmeal cookies with brownies into a gooey mixture that would send your taste buds into spasms of ecstasy. I remember eating them in the early eighties, but I also remember them disappearing a short while later, and I think I know why. I know it's folly to base your research on one statistical sample, but in this case, I'll make an exception. Because, according to my tests, not only did the stuff send your taste buds into spasms of ecstasy, but it also sent your GI tract into spasms of a food-ridding frenzy. I think the combination of fat and fiber was the culprit. Whatever the reason, it resembled the effects of the weapons-grade laxative they give you when you're scheduled for a colonoscopy. I ate some and then went in for my shift at the Piggly-Wiggly, and got into trouble for disappearing into the bathroom for long periods. I assure you I'm not making up that anecdote.

Next on our tour of the product graveyard is the headstone for Chipos. The link goes to the only result I could find, a mere Flickr image of a coupon for the product, which came in a box like a cereal box. As you can see in the image, they were a "new fashioned" product, "fashioned from dried potato granules." I can't see how that kind of marketing failed, but I guess it did. To me, nothing says "tasty" like "potato granules." (They were actually pretty tasty.)

While I appear to be somewhat of a loner in my recollection of the preceding products, there are evidently hordes of people who fondly recall Funny Face drink mixes. I'm not going to recap it here, because that'd be repetitive. Just make with the clickies.

Freakies cereal is also fondly remembered by a lot of people. I think one of my relatives still has a Freakies magnet on her refrigerator, now that I mention it. Extensive love posted at the link.

I don't actually remember the taste of Sour Bites candy, but I sure remember that striped lion mascot. (Hit the link and scroll down a little for the image.)

I have no personal recollection of using Underalls, but I do remember that they once sponsored a racecar in NASCAR. How'd you like to finally earn a ride in NASCAR's top division, only to be told that your sponsor would be something called Underalls? And, since the teams coach drivers to mention the sponsors as much as possible (there's even a company, Joyce Julius and Associates, that tallies each "impression" of a brand during a race), some poor guy had to get out of his car and tell a reporter, "Well, the Underalls Chevy run good today." I imagine he prayed that Massengill or Kotex would sponsor a car, just so he'd have somebody to laugh at. Too bad the Boudreaux's Butt Paste car was still years from sponsorship.

Underalls disappeared for a while, perhaps because they were rumored to be yeast-infection factories, but they've been brought back by a Canadian company. (Warning: PDF link.) Maybe there have been great strides in yeast-infection-prevention technology in the intervening years.

Quite a few products I'd thought long gone are actually still being manufactured. Take Frostie Root Beer, for example. The grape-flavored drink Grapico is not only still being manufactured, but is owned by Birmingham's own Buffalo Rock company. That most stereotypical of Southern drinks, RC Cola is still alive and well, or at least alive. Fruit Stripes gum, too, as well as L'eggs pantyhose. (The last without the distinctive egg-shaped packaging. What's the point?)

Retsyn, which is evidently a yummy mixture of copper gluconate and partially hydrogenated cottonseed oil, is still being piped into Certs products, althought the Certs people don't tout the fact like they used to. Time was, Retsyn was hyped like a miracle drug. It has Retsyn! Nobody really knew what it was, or what it did, but we bought the stuff, anyway. We were stupid like that.

Now, for some things that aren't products, but which seem to have disappeared. Howzabout "W" as a vowel? Back when I was a child, i.e., on the eighth day after creation, I was taught that the vowels were your basic five, "and sometimes y AND W." (My teachers spoke that last line in capitals, just like that. Always scared me.) Now, however, people will look at you like you've sprouted poison ivy from your eyebrows if you mention W as being a vowel.

But my memory hasn't gone soft. W really can be a vowel. How? Well, in the word "how," for one example. So there. Nyah, nyah, nyah, he typed, most adultly.

A few years ago, someone sent me the link to this video, which I still think is cute, although I'm sure the young lady in it regrets the day video cameras were invented.

It was then that I found out that, at least in some circles, kids no longer go to the prom, but to prom. Why is that? Is your iPod-laden, tons of text-messaging schedule too busy to pronounce a perfectly good article that has served the English language for eons? Or is this like the rassinfrassin' Flickr phenomenon, in which we just drop letters for no reason other than to appear cool? Do these kids wonder why Ralph Kramden didn't say, "To moon, Alice!"?

Also, do schools still teach the Schwa sound? And does it still frustrate kids like it did me? I was always bumfuzzled to the nth degree by that, because I never knew where their example came from. It would be like teaching the long E sound by saying, "It's the 'Flema' sound." What the heck's a flema?

But the one thing that really twists my knickers is the death, ongoing, of Haagen-Dazs Triple Brownie Overload ice cream. It was chocolate ice cream, with chocolate brownies, AND chocolate chunks in it. When I discovered it at the Winn-Dixie in Tuscaloosa, I also noticed that whenever it appeared in the freezer section, it also disappeared quicker than a federal budget surplus. According to this Newsweek article, the introduction of the company's "Extraas" line increased their market share by one-third, so the only logical thing for them to do was, of course, to kill that line.

Speak not to me of high-fat alternatives to TBO. A pox on your Ben & Jerry's. Ben & Jerry's is tofu, carob, asphalt, and gravel compared to TBO. (Plus, I prefer my ice cream to be less preachy than B&J.) TBO was, quite simply and without argument, the greatest ice cream ever to grace the appreciative tongue of man.

A few years ago, I contacted the Haagen-Dazs people about resurrecting the flavor, but they just patted me on the head like a youngster asking Santa for an Uzi, and sent me some coupons for some of their regular brands, which of course can't hold a candle to TBO.

What tepid offerings does the company have now? Well, yummy stuff like Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle! Yum! Sesame, so you get all the flavor of a Big Mac bun. Wait, there's also Caramelized Hazelnut Gianduja, which sounds like an affliction, not a confection.

Here's a suggestion, Haagen-Dazs people: Realize that your market is people who are more than happy to pay premium prices for premium fat content, stop imitating The Granola Barn when it comes to new flavors, and bring back Triple Brownie Overload!

Sorry for the rant, but when you're refusing to bring back dairy perfection, you're walking on the fighting side of me.

If you have any products, concepts, entities, etc. that you remember but which has departed this mortal coil, drop me a line and I'll post a follow-up.

Update: The folks over at Homestarrunner.com still use "the" before "prom."

Surviving "Survivor"

2009-05-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

Go ahead and prepare your hissing, because I'm admitting once again that I love "Survivor." (I also loved Survivor, back in the 80s, but only for that one song.) It's my one reality-show vice, if you don't count "Dirty Jobs" and "Mythbusters" as reality shows. The former I'll watch over and over, because it's awesome, and because Mike Rowe just may be the most self-effacing, likable guy to ever appear on television. He makes Mr. Rogers seem like Mr. T. The latter I'm slowly falling out of love with, because it seems to me that they've been slacking off a little on their myth selection lately. ("I'll slack you off, you fuzzy little foreigner," he thought, in a superfluous and silly "Caddyshack" moment.) Plus, sometimes Jamie and Adam don't so much bust a myth as they do bend it, or maybe bruise it a little.

So if you stay in the reality-game-show vein, "Survivor" is the only one I watch with any regularity. "Hell's Kitchen" had its moments--you donkey!--but Gordon Ramsay is the definition of a one-trick pony, and I'm tired of risotto and beef Wellingtons. "Top Chef" has always been too pretentious for me to watch with any regularity, ever since I saw Marcel or Maurice or whatever his name was allow that he trafficked in "cutting-edge molecular gastronomy." Really? Howzabout cooking something, Chester? Because, for all the "foodie" phenomenon, what you're doing boils down to taking some food and applying spices and heat. You're not splitting the atom. And I say this as a man who's made barbecued marshmallows, for crying out loud. (They're a lot of work, but they're delicious. And you're guaranteed to be the talk of the church social with a plate of them.)

"Last Comic Standing" had its moments, too, but there's only so much of comedians' private lives you can watch without needing extensive counseling. Most of them are such swirling vortexes of need that you actually start wishing for them to stop being themselves and just let loose with a string of airline and "Men and women sure are different" jokes.

Other than those two, and maybe one or two episodes of "Big Brother," which I thought was as exciting as sitting in a dentist's office, I don't think I've watched any reality shows. I'm gonna dance with the one what brung me, and I've watched every episode of every "Survivor" season but the first. Curiously, I had no interest whatsoever in that first season.

The bad thing about "Survivor" is that, as you near the finish line (we're down to five contestants now), there aren't as many conspiracies and conflicts floating around the camps, so the interest level goes down a commensurate level. We don't watch this show for the fire-making skills.

Begin admitted digression, because this always drive me crazy: If any of you ever get on "Survivor," please note that the firestarter they supply you is like this one. And the way you make fire with the thing is to shave off some material from the BACK SIDE FIRST, then flip it around and generate a spark with a machete strike against the flint. Instead of using that weeeeeee spark to ignite coconut husks or whatever, you're using it to ignite magnesium, which will always light, even when wet. I've never seen anyone do this on the show, even though you'd think that contestants would research this a little, considering it's for a million rassinfrassin' dollars.

End admitted digression.

Not only does the decreased number of contestants lower the conflict levels, but it also gives plenty of time for the contestants to make inane comments like, "Earl Bob is really playing this game to win." Naw! Get out! You're making this up. Surely everybody is a regular humanitarian role model like you.

My other favorite thing to gripe about is when the contestants get sent to "Exile Island" (which this season isn't so much an island as it is a...spot), and they talk about how they would have died if they hadn't been able to start a fire. Yes, because the film crew, medical personnel, medevac chopper, and legal advisors just offscreen would have just sat there and watched you die. It'd be boffo ratings!

But nothing beats the family reunion shows for "This is sickening" moments. All the contestants get to reunite with their wife, or son, or assistant soccer coach, and they go on and on about how horrible it's been without them, and it's been the longest 30+ days of their life, etc. And I'm sure that the film crew is jerking their chains a little to get the best responses, too.

Here's what really bugs me about the "I've been away from my Binky for so long" moments. Number one, you volunteered for the show, and you knew full well that, if you had any shot at the money, you'd have to be away from your family for X amount of days. And even if you got voted off at the first tribal council, you still couldn't just go home to the family, because then all the spoiler sites would broadcast to the world who was booted in what order. So don't act as if Jeff Propst shanghaied you to Brazil at machete-point. You had to audition, pass tests, and sign reams of legal forms to make it on this show.

Secondly, you've been away from your family for a little over a month, and that month was spent knowing that, if something bad were to happen, you'd be helicoptered out in a heartbeat. There are men and women in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world that are away from their families for much longer than that, as well as being in situations where there are people actively trying to literally kill them, not TV kill them. And there's not even a remote chance of there being a million-dollar prize to the people completing those tours.

Don't get me wrong. If I ever made it on the show (and I never will, because I'm what you call a wimp), and I made it to the family reunion show, I'd squawl like a new puppy when my wife or whoever came out from the bushes. And I'd miss my wife and family and friends immensely while I was out there. But I like to think that I'd also be able to keep things in perspective and realize that I'm playing a game, not making a major sacrifice.

Oh, and fellow Samsonian J.T. still rocks. He's the biggest threat to win the thing, but he's so likable that the other contestants don't even recognize that. Why, he's a regular Southern-fried Mike Rowe.

The laaady with the Flehmen and the stuff and the...

2009-05-07T08:34:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry, but I can't quit saying "Flehmen response," after seeing it on Ugly Overload this morning. It sounds like something Jerry Lewis would do, but it's a real phenomenon in the animal kingdom.

Now, the neventy-flavin response, that's pure Lewis.

I'm kinda sheepish about admitting this, but I used to be a huge Lewis fan. Now, before you cross me off the cool list forever, let me explain that "used to be" refers to when I was barely in the double-digit category, age-wise. I'm talking about the era when I'd run to the TV every afternoon to catch "Gilligan's Island," people, so cut me some slack. To a young feller such as myself, Lewis was the pinnacle of funniness.

So, besotted as I was with Lewis, I was pretty much enraptured to see Jerry Lewis' name on a jukebox at a restaurant in Florala, Alabama. (It's right on the Florida-Alabama line, see, so it's Flor-Ala, which I'll admit rolls off the tongue easier than Alaflor, which sounds like a prescription antihistamine.) I can't remember what the restaurant was named, since it's gone through several incarnations over the years, most of them with Dairy in the name, like Dairy-Viscount, Day-Ree-Dreem, etc. It's still there, right near that corner. You know, that corner where that one street intersects that other street. See? Now you remember it.

Anyway, back then, my rule was "When you see Jerry's name, you don't think, you just act." And act I did, somehow begging a dime or nickel (told you it was a while back) from some adult to punch B17, then wait a few seconds while Jerry was cued up. And that's the day I figured out that Jerry Lewis and Jerry Lee Lewis were two completely different people. The world is a cruel place. You want comedy, you get rockabilly.

That shock was almost as bad as when I found the hidden Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle and Van, and figured out that Santa Claus...well, you know. I still don't like to talk about it.

Moving on, the weather service has cancelled the Arkwatch for today, so perhaps we'll have some sun in the sunny South. I know Jacob would appreciate being able to cavort on the back patio/slab.

The little goob pulled off a heck of a trick yesterday afternoon. Mama Dunn was cooking supper, and I was walking through the kitchen when I noticed that he had crawled out of his diaper, while somehow remaining fully snapped into his onesie. As I Tweeted yesterday, that's a cooler trick than a woman taking off her bra without taking her top off, if you ask me. The boy's not yet one year old, and he's already a better magician than David Copperfield, not to mention looking a lot less like Robby Benson, which you can't stress enough, if you ask me.

What's that you say? I haven't posted a weird MP3 in a few days, and the world economy may shut down as a result? How about a selection by another beloved funnyman from my youth, Roger Miller? Here's a sub-two-minute slice of silliness titled "My Uncle Used to Love Me, But She Died."

Once again reporting from Seattle

2009-05-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

That's not accurate, of course. Seattle doesn't get tornadoes like Alabama does. We are getting Seattle-level rainfall, though, with a likelihood of some heap bad weather this afternoon. Other areas of the state have already gotten it. What's that you say? Hurricane season starts June 1? Yay. I think we need to move.

I'm joking, of course. Every spot on Earth has its positives and negatives. If it's not rain and tornadoes, it's ginormous moths.

I'm not particularly an insectophobe, but I'll admit that such a creature alighting on my shoulder would probably make me spasm like a particularly girly five-year-old girl.

One insect thing that does always get me is walking into a spider web. It doesn't matter how much of my brain knows that there's a zillionth of a percent chance of such an encounter resulting in a serious spider bite, there are still a few neurons that didn't get the "Don't panic!" memo. Then, the rest of my brain gives in to peer pressure (evidently, the scared neurons are the cool kids, and the rest just want to be like them; if they jumped off a bridge...), and it's instant DefCon 1. Stand Operating Procedure for DefCon 1 is flailing around like a nuclear-powered gyroscope in an always futile attempt to free myself from the web strands. Such episodes don't last long, but they're still supremely embarrassing.

Moving on, here's what I heard in the thrift store last night from a young girl and her mother on the other side of a shelf from me.

"Those are albums."
"What are albums?"
"They're the way we used to listen to music."

And I aged a few more decades.

Technically, the woman should have explained that music is still packaged in albums, since an album is a collection of music. It's LPs that died, except for audiophiles who recognize that they're still the best option for rich, full sound. At least, that's what they've read in Condescending Music Geek Monthly. Personally, I think that the number of ear pairs capable of discerning a farthing's worth of difference between a CD and an LP is the same as the number of tongues capable of discerning the difference between a decent grocery store blend coffee and Sumatran-Algonquin Morning Glory coffee. But that's just me.

I will lament the demise of really good LP cover art, though. It's just not the same when you buy a CD or MP3. You need all those square inches to get the full effect of, say, ELO's "Out of the Blue." Why'd I ever throw away that LP? (Side note/warning: Disparage ELO within earshot of me at your peril. The later stuff reeked, but in their prime, they were excellent.)

Moving on, Jacob is this close to walking. He's at the jump door, and he's been prepped how to react once he's in the airstream, he just can't bring himself to leave the airplane. But he'll make the jump one day. In preparation of that day, he's fortifying himself with hearty meals and fruits, which he absorbs by osmosis after they're smeared all over his face and hair. We're raising an amoeba.

The amoeba is almost one year old. May 26, he'll clock the big 1. I understand it's customary to jump-start the national economy by inviting several thousand people (a good rule of thumb is everybody in every state that abuts your home state, plus Texas) to a birthday party that'll overwhelm him so much that he's crankier than Andy Rooney before the first slice of cake is passed around, but we're such iconoclasts that we're keeping the party list down in the single digits. I'm looking forward to spoiling the little good later, when he can understand what's going on, but when he's perfectly content to pass time by gnawing on his toes or planting his face in the bathwater, I see no reason to take out a second mortgage to fund the frolic.

I'm also looking forward to taking him fishing. I don't know why that activity, of all the ones he'll get to do, has me salivating, but the thought of snagging a bluegill or catfish with him has me all agog with anticipation. A few more birthdays, and I'll get to do it. Yay for me.

Live, from Scufflegrit Road

2009-05-05T07:04:00.000-07:00

Not really, although I did pass under Scufflegrit Road while we were coming back from Arkansas. Took a short trip to visit the Natural State family members. Here's an interesting fact: Arkansas is actually located in Seattle. At least, that's what it seemed like, since it rained from the time we got there to the time we left. We got there Friday afternoon, and by Sunday afternoon, Jacob was in full-blown cabin fever mode. He REALLY likes his neighborhood perambulations, and when he doesn't get them, well, he lets you know it. Luckily, there was a honkin' big Wal-Mart near the father-in-law's place, so he got to do some inside perambulation, if there is such a thing.

Scufflegrit Road passes over Highway 78, which will one day be I-22 but for now is just one majorly awesome stretch of four-lane without the eleventy-billion signs that populate all the other interstates. I'm a committed capitalist, so I appreciate business and all that, but I could do with a little more scenery in my scenery.

Father-in-law lives in Batesville, Arkansas, and our route there takes us through rice-growing country, which fascinates me. Where I grew up, in south Alabama, peanuts, soybeans, cotton, corn, and a few other crops are commonplace. But all those grow in dirt, whereas rice grows in water, or at least flooded dirt. And my brain can't reconcile what is essentially farming a lake. U.S. 64 through Marion, Wynne, McCrory, and Augusta is surrounded by serpentine berms and acres of flat land, some of it already flooded. Monstrous four-wheel-drive tractors with multiple tires on each axle sit idle, ready to somehow plant, cultivate, and eventually harvest rice. I had enough trouble farming dirt, where you can see what you're doing. I shudder to think of the agricultural devastation I'd cause trying to farm water.

Also, Arkansas has "Highway Police" cars. I've never seen that term before. I know that's completely superfluous knowledge, but when you're the only conscious person in a car speeding toward Bald Knob, Ar., you tend to notice things like that.

I want to work there, just so I can answer the phone. (Sorry for the lack of quality, but such is life when it's Seattle weather and you're shooting subjects with a BlackBerry camera.)

Also saw this on the way up to Batesville.

Got to be secure in your manhood to pull into that lane.

Not a lot else to say, other than to point out that, if you're looking for something to do this weekend, Allendale County, SC has a big festival weekend.

Did you hear about....

2009-05-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

the man who had a wild pig burst through his kitchen door, run into his fireplace, and start trying to climb up the chimney?
He had swine flue.

Did you hear about the gal who laid out in the sun until she looked like a well-fried piece of bacon?
She had swine hue.

Did you hear about the church that was built by a famous sausagemaker, who specified that some of the benches had to be in the shape of a pig?
It had swine pews.

Sorry, folks, that's about all I have today, so I'm both late and lame. But you buys your ticket and you takes your chances, and that's what came up today. I might try to atone for the slowness and slackness by posting tomorrow, but I can't say that for sure. Job requirements (the paying kind) are rudely intruding once more, so I could be otherwise detained. If that doesn't work out, I'll see you Monday.

Last post before my swiney death

2009-04-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

I know that my time is short. Any second now, I'll succumb, in grisly fashion, to the swine flu virus that has killed millions of people already. (Researches for a second.)

Okay, has killed hundreds. (Researches further.)

Okay, has killed ones of people already. We're still all going to die, I tells you, because this strain of flu is too virulent to exist outside of a George Romero movie. You so much as mention the words "swine flu," and you're dead before you hit the floor. Plus, your intestines squirt out your eyes, AND your brain bursts into flames! It's virulent! It's new and improved virulent, and deadly! (Does a little bit more research.)

As the World Health Organization raised its infectious disease alert level Wednesday and health officials confirmed the first death linked to swine flu inside U.S. borders, scientists studying the virus are coming to the consensus that this hybrid strain of influenza -- at least in its current form -- isn't shaping up to be as fatal as the strains that caused some previous pandemics.

In fact, the current outbreak of the H1N1 virus, which emerged in San Diego and southern Mexico late last month, may not even do as much damage as the run-of-the-mill flu outbreaks that occur each winter without much fanfare.

What a gyp. So now we're NOT all going to die a grisly death, flopping around like spastic, beached flounders, with our intestines bursting out our eyes? I would have appreciated being told this BEFORE I went and loaded up every credit card I could get my hands on in a pre-apocalyptic bacchanalia of spending.

Please explain to me how, in an age where we're swimming (not "literally swimming," because that would imply we were doing the Australian Crawl atop data) in data, so many people can be so ridiculously uninformed. We don't have to wait for the morning or evening paper, or the top-of-the-hour newscast. We don't even have to be hooked into the grid. You can wirelessly surf via laptop or BlackBerry and avail yourself of more breaking news than every newspaper editor in the history of the world had at his disposal. But we still run around peeing on ourselves, when it'd actually be safer to emulate Shaun and his friends in "Shaun of the Dead" and be ignorant of the zombies around you than panic over an imminent death from nonexistent zombies. ("Don't forget to kill Phillip!")

If this were a "Twilight Zone" episode, this would be the point when I notice a sniffle, and then turn on the television to find that swine flu has indeed mutated into full-blown Guacamole Fever, and all of humanity is doomed. But Rod Serling is long dead, and my theology really doesn't accommodate a God who's so into plot twists that he kills you for mania skepticism. And if I'm wrong, and I do die because of this post, well, at least I won't have to pay off those Visa bills.

Here today, gone two days later

2009-04-29T06:10:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned, one of my duties working the pressbox at Talladega was helping sportswriters in the 'box ask questions of the drivers in the infield media center. Sportswriter Bob raises his hand, I run, wireless mike in hand, and give Bob the mike so that can make with the queries. You really have to be qualified to handle such an assignment, too. The guy who had the job before me, Mr. Snickers, has been called one of the most intelligent chimps ever (non-cigar-smoking division).

Sunday, one of the writers I had to give the mike to was David Poole, aka the Grantland Rice of NASCAR reporting. There are a bunch of great writers like Mike Mulhern, Monte Dutton, Jenna Fryer, Nate Ryan, and others, but David was generally regarded as the best. Was regarded, because he's dead now.

Over thousands of backstretches and hundreds of checkered flags, David Poole made himself into more than one of the nation's leading authorities on NASCAR. He became a part of the sport he loved.
“David Poole was as much a fixture in this sport as the actual cars themselves,” driver Dale Earnhardt Jr. said Tuesday. “He was a one-of-a-kind individual and an extremely talented writer.”
Poole, who covered racing for the Observer, died of a heart attack Tuesday at his Stanly County home. He was 50.

A native of Gastonia, N.C., Poole became the Observer's NASCAR writer in 1997. He built a national following through ThatsRacin.com and a daily program he hosted on Sirius NASCAR Radio.
The National Motorsports Press Association four times named him its writer of the year. He wrote about the sport with the enthusiasm of a fan and the critical eye of a journalist.
“He could be controversial from time to time but he always wrote and spoke what he believed,” said Richard Childress, president and CEO Richard Childress Racing. “He didn't pull any punches with anybody and that's what people respected about him. He was good for the sport.”

I don't mean to act as if David and I were close personal friends or anything like that. I knew him, had interviewed him, and as I mentioned, handed him a mike Sunday. But I doubt he knew my name or face. So I'm not being dramatic or going for a cheap emotional punch by writing this. It's just weird that Sunday, when he walked into the pressbox, he was winded and a little flushed. I thought, "That walk up the steps almost killed him." And two days later, his heart gave out.

One of my long-time jokes is that one day, I'm going to unleash a new diet on America, called the Sportswriters' Diet. All it will consist of is pictures of fat sportswriters, which is almost a redundant term. Seeing what a lack of exercise and eating road food will do to the human body will cause millions of Americans to put down the spoon and go for a walk, and I'll be rich. And I'm including myself in that group of chubby writers, since it's not like I'll ever be mistaken for Kate Moss.

David was also a member of that group. He had a weight problem, and had for as long as I'd known him. He was 50, and my own father (who wasn't fat but who smoked and had a family with a history of heart disease) died when he was 44 from a heart attack, so David was definitely in the risk zone for having a heart attack. If I had to bet, I'd say that he was going to try to eat better and lose weight "one of these days," and just never got around to it.

I think I'm going to get around to it. I hope some of the folks in the media center and pressbox do, too.

Now, where was I?

2009-04-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

I'm still marveling at the Carl Edwards crash, as well as Edwards' ability to get out of a freshly destroyed car/plane and pull off a Ricky Bobby imitation with that jog to the finish line. And I'm almost caught up on sleep, although I will ask that you omit any incoherence (beyond that normal level of incoherence which you have come to expect from me, I mean). I will caution you that there's going to be a rambling quality to today's post, too, so you can change the channel if you can't stomach that kind of thing. Can't say that I blame you, really.

Aside: Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes put out some killer soul music back in the seventies, as my computer just proved with a serving of "Bad Luck." Just saying.

The familial unit is now back together, after my Talladega stint and a simultaneous old home place visit by The Lovely Missus, The Jakester, and Mama Dunn. I'm told the highlight of the visit for Jacob was seeing the goats and guard donkey at his Aunt Hazel and Uncle Wedsel's. ("Guard Donkey" would be a good name for a rock band, as Dave Barry would say.) Pics of said visit will appear here tomorrow.

TLM did say that it was hard to contemplate that quiet little Samson, Alabama was the scene of mass murder a few short weeks ago. Most everybody in that area knows everybody else, and is related to more than a few, so it's like somebody set off a grenade at a family reunion. (I'm not trying to make Samson into Mayberry. The town has its problems, as do all towns, and they're not solvable in 22-minute installments. I just figure that most readers grew up in towns with a population larger than roughly 2000, and might not understand the impact of the killings.) I've heard a rumor about an all-class reunion for Samson High grads this October, and I would imagine that if that does take place, it'll be an emotional one.

Moving on, I went back and did some totaling, and while I'm sure it's not a completely accurate count, I believe I've reviewed 162 acts for The Birmingham News. Considering how much of a music geek I am, I'm pretty thankful for those opportunities. I may have to recap a few of the best in that string, although I know that the most jaw-dropping performance I witnessed was the 2006 Drive-by Truckers/North Mississippi Allstars concert at the beautiful Alabama Theatre. When the Truckers' Jason Isbell (now a former Trucker), Patterson Hood, and Mike Cooley were joined by the Allstars' Luther Dickinson for an encore, I thought my face would melt from the guitar-shredding.

The strangest performance was The Lemonheads' appearance at Zydeco, when leader Evan Dando appeared to be as happy to be there as a pig at a barbecue, tried to walk off before his contractual obligation, came back for a few more listless songs, then did walk off. Won lots of fans' undying devotion that night, I'm sure.

The longest night (I think in some dimension, it's still going on) was the Bela Fleck and the Flecktones/Keller Williams/Yonder Mountain String Band performance at Oak Mountain Amphitheatre. (Technically, it's the Verizon Wireless Music Center Birmingham, but Verizon hasn't paid ME any money to refer to them in the venue's name.) All of them are outstanding musicians, but jam bands aren't my personal fave, and when I looked around at the paying public and saw more than a few sleepy looks, I knew it was a long night.

I think the only five-star ratings I've given were for one Truckers' concert (I've reviewed three or four), Alison Krauss and Union Station, Toby Keith (the man knows how to put on a show), and The Chieftains. There might be a few more, but not many. I figure that to earn a five-star rating, there can't be one weak spot in the whole night, and there's usually at least one in even great concerts. Sometimes, though, everything just comes together, and you get the feeling the singers and musicians couldn't blunder if you rubbed bacon on their guitar strings and slipped green persimmon juice in their throat spray.

Individually, I think the most virtuoso performance was by Robert Randolph, who can flat-out abuse a steel guitar, who also took turns on pretty much every instrument on stage and, I think, simultaneously ran one of the the tower spotlights and sold frozen lemonade in the cheap seats. The man's versatile.

There were some guilty pleasures, too. I'll admit grinning like a dead pig in the sunshine during the Poison/Cinderella concert at Oak Mountain. The lyrics are pretty puerile, but they're still goofy fun.

More on the music reviewing side tomorrow. If you're good, I may even tell you about my first-ever concert, way back about the time Adam and Eve got their eviction notice. I'll tease it with just two words: Pablo Cruise.

As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.

From high above Talladega Superspeedway

2009-04-26T16:40:00.000-07:00

That's right, children, your Uncle Jim is advance-blogging Monday's post from the pressbox at Talladega Superspeedway. Why? Because I love you big galoots, of course! It has nothing to do with the fact I've spent three long (but fun) days at the track, and will probably sleep late tomorrow. Nosirree, that's not it.

I had not planned on being here, since the Birmingham News, like every other paper and magazine, has cut way back on freelancing. Up until last spring's race, I hadn't missed a Talladega race for five or six years. Then I took a sabbatical with the impending birth of the Jakester, taking myself out of the rotation. I figured it would be a one-race suspension, if you will, but that fall, the axe came down. No dogs allowed, so to speak, and my 'Dega days were over.

Until this week, when the fine folks at the track's PR department gave me a call and asked if I'd help run the pressbox. I didn't want to appear too eager, so I gave them the cold shoulder for at least two picoseconds before giving them what was no doubt an ear-shattering yes. What started out as just an assignment to help the sportswriters with releases and questions turned into a spell in the very minor spotlight when I was asked to lend my mellifluous voice to the pressbox communications. Here's how that works. When a NASCAR race is over, they bring the top three finishers, the top-finishing rookie, and maybe a couple other people into the infield media center, which is where most sportswriters watch the race. In a time of multiple television screens and broadband connections (a few things that weren't present only a few years ago), it's not really necessary to watch the race from the pressbox, although a few beat writers (not beat writers, Daddy-O) still do. Questions are asked of the drivers and others from the majority of writers, situated in the media center.

Then Kerry Tharp, the illustrious potentate of NASCAR communications (a thin, tanned, nice guy you can see in a minor role in "Talladega Nights") will say, "Now we'll go upstairs to the pressbox." At that point, yours truly, who's standing on a mid-pressbox platform, looks expectantly at the raft of sportswriters sitting above him, most of whom are steadfastly not paying attention to him, because they're on deadline and have already gotten the information they want from the already-asked questions. But if a writer raises his or her hand (there are more than a few female beat writers; Jenna Fryer is the main AP beat writer), I sprint toward him or her with a wireless mike that I thrust, Jerry Springer-like, into his or her face. I then retreat to my podium to once again cast puppy-dog eyes on the assembled personages. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Hopefully interesting aside: The vast majority of the writers covering the event watch the vast majority of the race on TV screens. You can't see but about five seconds' worth of action from the media center, and even if you're in the pressbox, it's just easier to follow on television.

That's what I was prepared to do. But I was also asked to take the role of pressbox announcer, which is a cat of a different color, as a friend of mine used to say. To fulfill that role, I sit next to two NASCAR stat/PR people. Periodically, they look at me and say something like, "The No. 7 was sent to the rear of the field for an engine change," or, "The No. 82 received a pass-through penalty for doing work before the green flag." I grab a CB-looking mike, key it, and relay that info to the pressbox and media center. Once the race starts, I also say things like, "The caution was for an accident in turn two. Involved were the 12, 17, 24, and 31. Caution laps were 12-14."

Granted, that's not exactly Don LaFontaine-level voice work, but it is fun. And there's an element of stress, too, since sportswriters can be pretty belligerent when something is omitted or ambiguous. But the weekend went pretty well, except for a few miscues. Saturday, I gave some information while a driver was being interviewed on television, which is bad mojo, but didn't cost me my assignment.

Sunday, I made a verbal faux pas that didn't so much get me in trouble as it did earn me some horse laughs. (See aforementioned belligerence.) I was told to give the names of drivers involved in a crash, and to say that they had been evaluated and released from the infield CARE center. That's what I was supposed to say. But what I said was that they had been evaluated and released from the infield MEDIA center. And sportswriters are rarely, if ever, also doctors. So the guffawing commenced immediately, which in turn made me momentarily stumble over some other announcements. But hey, it ain't like I ever claimed to be a professional. And in my defense, the NASCAR PR folk did say that it was a pleasure working with me, and wanted me to keep doing it. So maybe my puppy-dog eyes overcame my ineptitude.

And my announcing wasn't the only first for me. I've seen something around 15 or so Winston/Nextel/Sprint Cup races here, and I'd never before seen a wreck with my own eyes. Until today, when I saw part of the big wreck, although it was a pretty good piece from me. And then I saw the ending wreck, which was about 50 yards away from me, and which I'm not ashamed to say gave me the heebiest of jeebies, to quote Peggy Hill. I was never in danger, but seeing a 3400-pound car get airborne at 190+ MPH and then head toward a grandstands will make the iciest of ventricles flutter, I promise. Especially if said ventricle belongs to someone who remembers Bobby Allison's wreck, in about the same location on the track.

Carl Edwards, the driver who got some hospital air during the crash, was fine. He even got out of the wreckage and jogged across the finish line, like Ricky Bobby did in "Talladega Nights." But eight people in the stands were not so lucky. Six were evaluated and released in the infield CARE center, and two were airlifted to Birmingham with non-life-threatening injuries.

It's a bone of contention amongst sports fans as to whether or not racing is really a sport. I submit any activity that pits knowhow and physical performance against the immutable laws of mass, friction, heat, and gravity, is either a sport or something that is far and above what are called sports. If Tiger Woods hitting a golf ball amid zillion-dollar homes and rigidly enforced silence is a sport, racing is darn sure a sport.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank the boys back in the shop for making the Summer's Eve/Count Chocula Pontiac run real good.

NO BLOGGING TODAY STOP

2009-04-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

UNABLE TO BLOG STOP. AM UPDATING BY TELEGRAPH STOP. WILL BLOG NORMAL WAY AGAIN MONDAY STOP. HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND THAT DOESN'T STOP STOP.

"The Corpse Wore Seersucker": A Tank Ironspleen Mystery

2009-04-23T08:23:00.000-07:00

It was one of those mornings when you didn't trust yourself with a razor. The house was shaking, and I thought it was last night's 10 sloe gin fizzes pounding out an "Anvil Chorus" revenge on my cerebellum until I remembered I don't drink, and that the contractors were finishing up the remodeling by reattaching the shutters. I made a mental note not to be so mental.

Stumbling down the stairs, I hit the button on the coffeemaker to start the Ethiopian/Sumatran Blossom roast to percolating, wondering why mornings had to hit so early in the morning. I'm Tank "Clutch" Ironspleen, private blogger--PB, the hep cats call it--and while I'm tougher than doing Chinese arithmetic on a Tilt-A-Whirl, I also enjoy a high-quality cup of joe, java, varnish remover, battery acid. "There's no reason you can't be tough and cultured," my old mentor and barista, Slats McGonigle, used to tell me. I miss that man. When death dealt him a losing hand in the form of a terminally blocked salivary duct that not even around-the-clock Sour Patch Kids could cure, the world lost a great one. That's the way the world is, though. It's got Bette Davis eyes, and a Joan Crawford heart. Maybe a Barbara Stanwyck clavicle, and a Veronica Lake philtrum, I think.

But there's no room for sentimentality in the PB biz. There are two types of PBs: the tough, and the even tougher. I've been a member of that second group ever since my boss at the salt mines ripped me from the corporate teat with a kick in the kidneys, also known as a layoff notice. "Too many mixed metaphors," he told me. I popped back that he'd regret breaking the camel's back with loose lips on a rainy day, then spun on my heels and walked out. I reached for a cigarette, a coffin nail, a gasper, for some pre-packaged nicotine to choke some alveoli and numb the pain, patting my vest pocket in a vain search for some smoky, slow death. "Figures," I thought to myself, since that's the only way you can think. "Worst day in six years, and I don't even have any cigs on me." Then I remembered that I don't smoke, and never have, so I let it slide. There's no room for false addictions in the PB biz, either.

From then on, I've been a hired gun. "Have keyboard, will travel," it says on my business cards, although I don't travel all that much. Travel requires money, and around my house, money's gotten scarcer than a kid at the mall with pants that fit. So I look at the world through a monitor, passing the days one wasted pixel at a time.

It's tough out here in the killing fields of the 'burbs. Just when you're almost through cringing from a Tweet hit, somebody pokes you on Facebook. You never see the Tweet with your name on it, either. Sometimes, the screaming gets louder than a Jerry Springer audience and I can't even focus enough to type. "Another one dead," I think, shaking my head at the senseless loss of life, until I remember that Tank "Clutch" Junior has started teething, and that's probably just him screaming. When the advance forces of the dental army start lobbing mortars to soften up the gumline defenses, quiet is the first casualty.

It could be worse. I could be one of those PBs who start a themed blog post, but then can't figure out a way to wrap it up, bring it home, nail it shut, pronounce it dead, give a pithy eulogy. But I'm not that way. I just refer my readers to a repository of "Pat Novak, For Hire" MP3s that inspired this weak imitation, complete with a stolen opening line. That's right, the bit about the razor wasn't even mine. You got a problem with that, you take it up with my lawyers, Mssrs. Smith & Wesson, Esq. They have an office in my desk drawer, and they're prone to firing off lead legal notices at 800 feet per second.

Now to see if that coffee is ready, finished, perked, done, in order, in the saddle, on tap, potable. This blog ain't gonna write itself, so I'm gonna need the caffeine, the buzz, the juice. Gotta stay sharp, or you'll stay dead. It's the PB way.

Something dental this way comes

2009-04-22T08:18:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's a tooth all right. Just shy of his turning 11 months old, Jacob has his first tooth waiting in the gummy wings, about to burst out and begin its limited-time engagement in the spotlight. He's normally super-happy (not just our opinion), but he's been a bit mercurial lately, and I don't mean that he's been a room-temperature-liquid metal. (Here's how much things have changed, EPA-wise: When I was in high school, our physics teacher had mercury that he let us play with. It was supervised play, but still. Such an event today would generate a full-scale EPA lockdown of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse, and doghouse in that area.) So we're about to enter a world of hurt, restfully speaking.

And speaking of rest, yep, the dreams continue. My brain weirdness, let me show you it.

I do have a new suggestion for the teething part: frozen waffles. The cold numbs the pain, the texture helps stimulate the gums, and by the time he's worried off a chunk, it's small enough for him to eat. Genius. Thanks, Cheryl!

Want voice search on Google Mobile for BlackBerry? Sure, we all do. And now we (at least, I) have it. Has it. Whatever, I installed the update to Google Mobile and there it was. Started the app, spoke "pizza" into it, and the cute leetle feller just served up a bunch of pizza places near me. I loves me some technology, I tell you what.

In other dental news, the accident on the Salivary Gland Freeway is almost cleared, and the slobber is expected to be flowing freely again very soon. I administered a miracle drug in the form of some Sour Patch Kids last night, and I swear I could tell a difference in no time. If the doctor prescribed lemonade because it's tart, then wouldn't concentrated tartness be even better, he reasoned, correctly, as it turned out. Of course, the fact that I've always been a sucker for tart candy had nothing to do with my reasoning. Whatever the rationale, the result was good. I can still feel a little bump, but not much. If only I'd have had some sea otter booger candy, I'd have been cured even quicker.

It's Earth Day, of course. Isn't it? I'll admit that I haven't had the date circled in any time-measuring device. It's not that I'm anti-earth (I do live here, after all). I am, however, anti-agenda in 99% of the cases, and it's hard to get all het up over the environment when the people getting all het up over the environment don't live like they're really all that het up over the environment. Here's how the late Richard Jeni put it.

Also, I was raised in a green household, although we never knew it was such. I knew my mother didn't want to put money in the coffers of the electric cooperative, so we were--loudly, and often--to shut the door, put on a sweater, etc. And rightly so, I see now that I'm paying my own bills. Plus, long before living green was called living green, it was called being responsible. You don't throw stuff on the side of the road because it's just wrong, not because Earth (or a fake Indian) will cry over it. Do unto others, I seem to remember some book saying.

"Dirty Jobs" host Mike Rowe appears to agree with me, and to have been raised in a like manner.

However, as a "movement," there is much that gives me pause about being green. As a rule, I am suspicious of any campaign that uses guilt and fear as primary motivators. I don't like the political overtones, the righteous indignation (on both sides,) and the vast sums of money that seem to be flying around the issue. I don't like the "fashionable" elements of going green. And while I am a big fan of our planet, and enjoy its many splendors thoroughly, I don't believe it's wise to anthropomorphize Mother Earth. The green movement relies to much on the "pain" we might cause the planet. There's something arrogant about that, in my opinion - about the notion that we might somehow do more harm to Earth than it has done to itself. (Or that "she" has done to us.) I do not fear for the planet, but do worry about the people on it, and wonder sometimes if those most vocally concerned with global warming for instance, feel the same way. In the end, no matter how prudent we become, the planet will almost certainly outlast us.

Growing up, if I walked out the door without closing it behind me, a swift violence would surely follow. Usually it was a smack on the butt, followed by a "What's wrong with you, do you live in a barn!" Likewise, leaving a room without turning out the light was unpardonable. Whatever I elected to put on my plate, I had to eat. No debate, no exceptions. "Take all you want, eat all you take." Wastefulness was simply not tolerated. My father used to wring out the paper towels, and use them again, and sometimes again. I'm not even kidding. I could go on.

My Dad wasn't green. He just enjoyed getting by with less. And that attitude mentality translated into an overall sensibility of conservation. Today, I am conservative in most things. I believe it's better to make more than you spend, and save more than you think you'll need. I don't care for conspicuous consumption, and believe the biggest problem facing this country is our endless sense of expectation and entitlement and personal debt. [Ed. Note: This was written on June 17, 2008, shortly before those financial chickens came home to roost.]

Most of my friends are over extended, and most always have been. The average household has more debt than they can service. As a country, we are trillions of dollars in debt. We do not have a conservative outlook. In my opinion, our pollution problems are just another symptom of that behavior.

There are lots of things we can do together that might make a difference. But untimately, a change in behavior without fundamental change in attitude, will not fix the problem. Frankly, I don't even know if global warming can be fixed. Seems like we should give it a try, but regardless, how can we expect a country that can't pay its bills, to have the discipline to shut the door and turn off the lights?

It's my contention that it's impossible to dislike Rowe. You might not like him as much as I do, which is "a ridiculous amount," but it's impossible to dislike him. Same goes for Michael J. Nelson, of MST3K and Rifftrax fame. Maybe it's something about the name "Mike" that does it. And, when it comes to having a view of Earth Day, I think Mr. Rowe is pretty doggone on-target.

In which Jim becomes James Bond in his dreams

2009-04-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

If it's called Windows Media Player, why doesn't it play media? And speak not to me of iTunes. I'm sure it's the perfectest of programs on a Mac, but on any PC I've ever used it on, it's a resource hog that hangs up like a scrat-scrat-scrat-scrat-scrat-scratchy 45. And hangs up the rest of the computer with it. And speak not to me of buying a Mac, either. I'm not a Windows apologist by any means, but I'm on a budget, and I have a functioning PC, so there's no need to make the switch. (And Macs, despite their fanboys' cultlike fervor, are not in fact immune to problems. Seen it too many times with my own eyes to believe in their perfection.)

No reason for that rant, really. Call it blogger's Tourette's.

I don't know what's become of my brain (he wrote, joining a club that the rest of humanity has been a member of for decades). I can't seem to dream anything that doesn't end with me waking up panting, heart pounding, as if I were Luke Skywalker and I'd just swung my sister across that conveniently located break in the Death Star's crosswalk. (Yes, I'm rewatching the movie. First time in years.Unfortunately, the Tivo'ed copy is the enhanced version, and even though I'm not a fanboy, the sight of the new stuff ruins the vibe of the original.) And here's the kicker: Sometimes, it's some weird, "don't mess up or you'll die" episode, and other times it's a fight at Wal-Mart over a bicycle they said I bought as-is, and I said I bought still under warranty. Oh, how I wish I were making that last part up.

All of that makes for some un-restful nights, and I'm not the most restful of sleepers in the first place. Makes for some grainy-nerved mornings, too. And I can't blame George Lucas for the dreams, either. It started before I began my rewatching.

The wrapup on the comedy pieces--which I'm going to finish, I promise--is going to have to wait until my brain ceases running the equivalent of foreign, un-subtitled, horror flicks.

Moving on, I'm still scanning old pictures, and I'm still being amazed by what people pick out of those old pics. For one, it doesn't matter if there's only an elbow visible, somebody will recognize it, just as we used to do with annuals in high school. (You may have called them yearbooks. In Samson, Alabama, back in the Mesozoic Era, they were annuals.) "That's Uncle Gene's elbow!" "I see Aunt Myrtice's earlobe! I'll always remember it, because it looked like a drawing of Idaho, only slightly out of proportion."

Secondly, you never know what will engender the memories in a picture. The picture might be of a preadolescent band of young'uns, something just tailor-made to stir memories of the time you all went roller-skating at Bobby's birthday party and Regina fell and broke her during the girls' skate. But instead of broken limbs, all anybody can talk about is the old Volkswagen station wagon that the young'uns are leaning against.

Moving on, given the name of this blog, you'll understand why this news story reminds me of Nicolas Cage telling a convenience-store clerk, "Wake up, Son" and "I'll be taking these Huggies, and whatever cash you got."

Authorities in Washington state say a couple were so determined to make off with merchandise without paying that a security guard who tried to stop them got punched.
The loot that was so important to the couple was a package of disposable diapers — $18 worth of diapers.
Spokane County Sheriff's Sgt. Dave Reagan says a security guard tried to stop the pair as they walked out of a Safeway on Saturday with the diapers in their cart.
Reagan says the man yelled "sorry" and then punched the guard in the face.

I think the robber who said he was sorry may have been in Dutch with the wife.

Not that I condone robbery, of course, but I can commiserate when it comes to the high cost of diapers. Jacob has started sleeping in overnight-style diapers, a sentence I guess Strunk & White would tell me to rewrite to, "The Lovely Missus has started putting Jacob in overnight-style diapers." But I never read Strunk & White, and now it turns out that might be a good thing. And I'm always amazed at the amount of weight those overnighters can absorb in fluids. I pick Jacob up in the morning, and it's like his center of gravity has shifted lower than a Weeble's.

Other duties intrude, so I'll cease rambling. Sorry for the incoherence. I blame it on that mean Wal-Mart clerk. Because I'm telling you, I wouldn't have bought the bike without a warranty!

"'Lemonade,' He Prescribed": A Drama for Our Times

2009-04-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

Location: The cluttered (but getting neater) home office of a freelance writer/stay-at-home dad.

Scene 1: Opens on a ~~bleary-eyed~~ bleary-faced daddy stumbling to the computer desk on a spring Saturday morning. Begins checking Google Reader feed, Facebook page, etc. Absentmindedly-scratches his stubbly face. Notices lump underneath left jowl that wasn't previously present. Checks right jowl for corresponding bi-lateral lump, which would assuage his feelings that such a lump is bad news. Finds no such lump. Doesn't panic, surprisingly, although that's probably due more to fatigue than aplomb. Fade out.

Scene 2: Bleary-faced daddy asks wife and mother about lump, figuring it's an inflamed lymph node. Mentally pats himself on the back for knowing it's not a "limp node," although there are pills advertised during football games for that. Wife and mother concur. Decides he'll wait until tomorrow. If lymph node isn't better then, he'll see the doctor. Withstands withering glances from his two medical consultants. Begins taking shower in preparation for visit to medical clinic.

Scene 3: Opens on a clinic office. Protagonist is pleased to see that a new, high-def television has been installed in clinic waiting room. Protagonist is less pleased when he realizes that said television is showing golf. And not even real golf, but pro-am golf. Protagonist makes mental note to outlaw golf as his first act when he is inevitably made emperor of the universe. Also wonders when Bill Murray was last funny, although he knows the answer. (Production note: Omit any references to waiting rooms, shots, rudeness, etc. It's been done. And done. AND DONE. Let's not be afraid to break new ground here, people.)

Scene 4: Opens on an examination room. Our hero, having been told by doctor that he probably does have an inflamed lymph node (backstory shown in quick jump cuts), is preparing to have some blood drawn. "It's going to be a big stick," the nurse tells hero. "That's not a big stick," hero replies. "I've had blood gases drawn. THAT's a big stick." (Note: Screenwriter has personal experience of this. Having a needle plunged into the underside of your wrist is indeed excruciating. No need for med adviser to advise.) Nurse agrees. Nurse also does a quick mouth swab to check for mononucleosis. Hero makes self-deprecating aside that he hasn't been doing enough kissing to get kissing disease, har har.

Scene 5: Doctor re-enters exam room. Dramatic John Williams/Danny Elfman/Boots Randolph-ish music plays as all the various scenarios are run through hero's head. What vile disease has penetrated his body's defenses? What cutting-edge treatments will be necessary to cure it? What will be the co-pay for those cutting-edge treatments? Will Brad Pitt be available to play him in the film version of this real-life medical drama?

Doctor: "We have the results."
Hero: "Gulp."
Doctor: "It's not mononucleosis."
Hero: "Re-gulp."
Doctor: "It's not strep."
Hero: "Big Gulp." (Research possible marketing tie-in with 7-11 Corp.) Scene swirls, music builds to dramatic crescendo.
Doctor: "You have...a blocked salivary gland."
Hero: "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Based on a true story.

All of the aforemention happened to yours truly. I sit here today, a sub-mandibular lump still palpable, and still painful in an irritating way, hoping my blocked salivary gland will open up. In case you ever have such a thing, I'll help you get a jump on treatment. The doctor will want to prescribe an antibiotic, which you can't acquire on your own, but he'll also prescribe lemonade, which is still widely available over-the-counter in many drugstores. (Check local laws before procuring lemonade. Lemonade responsibly.) No kidding. Tart stuff makes you slobber more ("salivate more" is the correct medical term, but I'm from south Alabama), and slobbering (ibid) is supposed to help with clearing the salivary gland. On the plus side, it's pretty spiffy to munch on Sour Patch Kids and the like under medical orders.

What with all the commotion, and a (much-welcomed) visit by Jacob's Aunt Ginger, I haven't finished the final segment on comedy, mainly because I haven't begun the final segment on comedy. So this spec script will have to do for now. Oh, if y'all are gonna look at me with those Basset Hound eyes, I'll throw in the world's first rock and roll record, "Rocket 88," ostensibly recorded by Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats. Of course, there's a lot of debate about the firstness of this first record, but I'll leave that debate to others. Here's the song.

Happy Monday.

As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.

My spring fever. Let me show you it

2009-04-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

Don't know what happened to flick the mental switch, but I am battling a vicious case of fever, spring variety. I think it's the fact that it's recently gotten warm enough that I can go to sleep with a fan blowing on me. I don't care if I had Bill Gates' money, I would still opt to sleep with a fan on in the warm months. (Of course, if I had Gates' money, I could sleep with a fan trained on me in the winter months, too. Just thump the wall dial up to 85 or so, and have my own little endless summer. Hey, if Al Gore can't be bothered with Earth Hour, then my hypothetical billionaire self can indulge in a few wasteful kilowatts.)

So, gripped by fever, fever when you hold me tight...Jonny Quest looked more like Race...the hedges really should be pulled up...look! A chipmunk!

I'm having trouble focusing, is what I'm saying. And, since I'm actually wanting to put a little thought into the final installment on comedy, I'm postponing it until later. I think it'll be worth the wait.

With the appropriate weaselly excuses dispensed, let's move on to the glued-down channel clicker that is currently resident in my head. (Those of you who are fans of coherent thought might just want to leave now. I'm telling you, this is gonna be random enough to pass Pearson's chi-square test. See, Dr. Byrd at Enterprise State Junior College? I did in fact learn something from that calculus class.)

The Wild West had hanging judges. Alabama has the Paddling Judge.

Another man told investigators that when he was 26 and on probation, Thomas told him to prepare to get paddled. The man responded that he was "a grown man and that was a betrayal of his manhood" and walked away. He said he saw Thomas some time later, and the judge asked him "why he didn't come visit him anymore?"

These ungrateful kids of today. They take your paddling, sure, but do they reciprocate the good wishes by visiting you later? Nooooooooooo.

On "Survivor" last night, fellow Samson native J.T. expressed his disbelief in Coach's wild story of being held captive by pygmies by saying that if that had really happened, "I'd have wanted to reckon with those [people]." Not that I needed a reason to root for a fellow Samsonian, but when he used "reckon" proudly, I all but got a tear of pride in my eye. Now if I can get The Lovely Missus to acknowledge that "tote" is a perfectly good word.

Ate at Cracker Barrel yesterday, because it's a fairly kid-friendly place. Jacob was fascinated, pointing in all directions and saying, "Ga." (For him, "Ga" is an all-purpose word. Kinda like "Aloha" for Hawaiians.) But he eventually tired of sitting in the high chair, so I took him to the store part of the CB and strolled around. They have Bottle Caps! They appear to be of a smaller diameter than the ones I remember, but still, they're authentic Bottle Caps. Suddenly, I'm 10 years old again.

The Oprah has decided to explore the Twitter phenomenon. As if she weren't already beaming thought-control rays directly into the minds of her acolytes. Honestly, people, all the woman lacks are virgin sacrifices to complete the transformation from former weatherwoman into deity.

You also have to wonder if this is the death knell for Twitter, geekerati-wise. When your uber-cool tech tool is discovered by people as un-geeky as The Oprah, it's time to move on to something less accessible.

If you don't have a scanner, go buy one. You can get a fairly good one from Amazon for roughly $100, or off eBay or some such for even less. Scan some of your old family pictures, and start emailing or printing out and mailing them to family members. Now, before you lose any more. It'll be the best investment in family togetherness you'll ever make. And when birthdays or Christmas come around, check out eBay or a postcard show for old postcards of the old hometown. They're absolutely the cheapest, most impactful (is that a word?) gifts you can buy.

That's it, peoples. I can't type any more. The fever, it has me, and I can't fight it any more. See you Monday.

Now, where was I?

2009-04-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah. Now I remember. I was in front of the computer, trying to be coherent. It's not a full-blown tooth-launching adventure we're on, but it's close. Jacob is starting to gnaw on things like his toes (I'm dead serious), and he's started drooling like I do when there are peach gummy slices in the house. Plus, he's getting irritable at odd occasions, and this is usually a supremely happy boy. So nights might be getting long for us again.

But teething doesn't preclude him from going out on the back slab and reveling in the outsideness. That boy loves him some fresh air and sunshine.

Onward.

Getting back to yesterday's post about comedians, commenter Apollo pointed out in the comments that my issue with female comedians might just be a function of there not being as many females in the funny bidness, and I think he's right. (Strange. You wouldn't think somebody involved in putting rockets in space would be smarter than a blogger like I are.) I don't like male comics whose only hook is vulgarity, either. The next point in my scintillating series is

4. We all know that black folks and white folks are different. We know that women are different from men. Really. We know that. Completely. We've been told that, given examples of that, even laughed at those facts in the past, but we're over it now. Come up with something new.

5. Imitations have their place in comedy, but Arnold Schwarzenegger imitations don't. Ever. He's the easiest person to imitate in the history of the world. My grandmother can imitate him, and she's been dead for more than 20 years.

6. No airline jokes. They've been done. Every single one of them has been done. I don't care if you board a plane tomorrow and find Judge Crater conversing with Amy Winehouse, that joke has already been told, and better, than you can do it.

7. You're not Jerry Seinfeld, so stop imitating him. (Unless you're literally imitating him, in which case I, as Illustrious Comedy Potentate, will evaluate each instance as the need arises.) What is the deal with comics who sound like Seinfeld? I mean, it's not like you can't observe people without sounding like Jerry. He didn't invent observational humor. Pretty much all humor has an element of observation in it, so people have been doing it for years. Seinfeld just came up with his own style. You do the same.

8. In a sitcom, the less jokes, the better. Lemme explain. Most modern sitcoms have a rhythm. It's line, line, punchline. Lather, rinse, repeat for 22 minutes. And that's okay, but it's not the best approach. I remember reading that Andy Griffith told the writers for "The Andy Griffith Show" that he didn't want them to write a single joke. He wanted the humor to arise from the situation. Go back through those old TAGS episodes (only the black-and-white ones; I consider the color episodes apostate, and not worthy of inclusion in the canon. Seriously, Warren and Emmitt?) and notice how there's precious little, if any, straightforward, punchline humor. Yet they made Barney's delivery of lines like, "Boy, giraffes are selfish" one of the funniest things I've ever heard.

I'm not trying to make TAGS out to be Shakespeare. It had its moments of easy humor, such as Barney's mugging and hair-mussing while he tried to remember the preamble to the Constitution. (He didn't have the benefit of "Schoolhouse Rock" to etch it in his mind musically.) And there was the (expertly) over-the-top presence of Howard Morris as Ernest T. Bass, as well as Hal Smith's "lovable alcoholic" portrayal of Otis. The latter is the only part of that show that hasn't aged well for me. But for the most part, the show is a model of comedy-writing.

Tomorrow, the final installment of my comedy blogging. Honestly, I didn't start out to post series of posts on one subject, but I goes where the feeling takes me, I reckon. See you Friday.

As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.

I was supposed to panic yesterday

2009-04-16T09:13:00.000-07:00

Not today. But, while I'm not actually panicking, I am running late. (I'm beginning to see that only a hopeless optimist tries to stick to a truly regular schedule with a 10-month-old in the house.) I'll post this afternoon. Sorry for the delay. To make up for the slowness, I'll share $10 million each with the first 10 people to complain. All you need to do is send me your bank account information, and I'll split all the money I'm going to get from a new friend I just met online from Nigeria.

Happy Gouging Day!

2009-04-15T11:41:00.000-07:00

And I do mean "Happy," because, for the first time in a long spell of years, The Lovely Missus and I will be receiving a decent-sized refund. Why didn't I file sooner? Because for years, my freelance income, minuscule though it may be, pushed me into the "Pay up, sucker!" zone. Nothing was deducted from most of that money, so I always ended up owing instead of being owed. (Yes, I know that a smart person would have withheld his own taxes, put them in the bank, etc. If I see a smart person around here, I'll tell him.)

Now, however, with my wonderful little tax deduction crawling around, and with the loss of revenue TLM's pregnancy and Jacob's birth caused last year, things are good around the Dunn household on an April 15th for a change. (Yes, I know that a smart person would have already filed...) Man, they tell you fatherhood is wonderful, but you really have to experience it for yourself to get the full impact.

But that's not why you called. You've all--I'm sure of this--been waiting with bated breath for my promised take on comedy from yesterday. Now that happy days are here again, tax-wise, I'll dispense it.

First, while I'm not a music snob, I am a proud comedy snob. Unabashedly so. Not that I only appreciate high-brow humor. Far from it. If the situation calls for it, I can be so lowbrow as to actually be countersunkbrow. Concavebrow. Subterranean brow. You get the picture. I'm not limited to New Yorker cartoons, is what I'm saying.

But while I can be as juvenile as the next guy, unless the next guy is Jim Carrey (in a nutshell: not a fan), I do have certain requirements in a comedian, and in a comedy. To wit, beginning with comedians.

1. Limit your use of the word "like." If I want to hear, "He was like" and "I was like" and "I'll be all like," I'll hang around with teenage girls. Every time I hear a comedian use "like," it's a sign that he or she is too lazy to craft a really funny line. It's not, "So when I saw the painter's bill, I was flabbergasted, because I had asked for oil-based paint, not gold-based paint. Was it personally brushed on by George Clooney, using only his left eyebrow?" (Which is not that funny, I know. Just take the gist, okay?)

Instead of those ostensibly funny lines, we get, "So he hands me the bill, and I'm like, 'Man, you're crazy.' And he's like, 'Yeah, but I'm rich.'" Har. Har.

2. Dispense with the contrived setups. Don't tell me about how you drove to the post office, and as you were getting out of your car, you saw a fat man climbing out of a small car, and he was mailing a package to his mother, blah blah blah. As comedian Daniel Tosh says, "No you weren't. Do your joke."

3. (Here's where I lose half my readership. Both of them, in other words.) Remember when Jerry Lewis said that he didn't like women comedians? I agreed with him. Still do. Let's stay frosty while I explain.

I didn't, and don't, agree with his view that women are baby-producing machines. And I don't, and never have, believed that women can't be funny. Every iota of humor I ever produced came to me through my mother, who at almost 78 can still kill me with how easily she brings the funny. I've seen her eviscerate people with an exquisitely timed remark, I've heard her tell jokes like a pro, and thanks to her, I see the necessity of laughing at life to keep from losing your sanity.

The Lovely Missus can slay me, too. Once, I was riding in the car with her and her mother. We came up on one of those portable radar units that shows your speed so that you'll slow down. TLM's mother said, "Is that one of those things that tells you how fast you're going?"

Without a nanosecond's hesitation, TLM stung. "No, Mother, that tells us how much we weigh. We weigh 43 pounds." That's killer stuff.

Some of the funniest commenters at Retrosnark are women. I've had to threaten some of them with banning, so badly have they embarrassed my attempts at humor.

To this day, the funniest line I've ever heard came from my cousin Ginger. It's a complete location joke, and y'all weren't there, but the punchline was, "And the Mazda goes 'MMMMMM.'" That was more than 30 years ago, and I still haven't heard a line that can top it.

And there are women comedians I love. Rita Rudner owned me, back when she was a regular guest on comedy shows like "Evening at the Improv." Maria Bamford is a scream. Laura Kightlinger had her moments. Margaret Cho used to crack me up, before she turned into a shrieking harpy with a thousand axes to grind. Janeane Garofalo was hilarious before she became so uber-political. Wendy Leibman's act was great until she ran the non-sequitur bit into the ground. Amy Sedaris is a comedic gem. I only wish she'd take over Dave Letterman's desk instead of being such a regular guest. (Speaking as someone who was a Letterman fan back when he was on DAYTIME television, the man has lost it. Jay Leno is funnier, Dave. Time to call in the dogs and pee on the fire.)

So I'm not anti-woman, and I'm not even anti-woman comedian. But for the most part, female comedians leave me laughless, and here's why. At its core, comedy is a humbling, a self-abasement. I don't care if you're pulling in Seinfeld money, you're still just a class clown done good, hoping people like you. And the male form, lacking as it is in refinement and beauty, just handles that abasement better than the sculptured beauty of the female form.

Look back at the women comedians I've listed, and for the most part, (at least when I thought they were funny) they all were funny without being vulgar or coarse. They weren't distaff versions of Sam Kinison. They were women, and while they weren't quite debutantes at a cotillion, they weren't longshoremen, either. Today, you have female comedians like Lisa Lampinelli, who I've laughed at quite a lot, mainly because I don't see her as a woman. She reminds me of the countless roughnecks I've worked with over the years, ripping off one dirty joke after another. As a female comedian, she's horrible. As Bubba the survey monkey, she's great.

I didn't intend for this to post to be a two-parter, but that's what it's become. Tune in tomorrow for the rest.

Goodbye forever, satellite radio

2009-04-14T08:55:00.000-07:00

Nope, not going to start another week of music blogging, especially since I didn't use XM (now SiriusXM) for much music listening in the first place. This is about how I've grown progressively displeased with XM since they merged with Sirius, and will most likely lead to some comedy-blogging tomorrow, since that's a subject near and dear to my heart, and rare in today's comedy environment. (And don't write off tomorrow's rant as just an old codger longing for the days of "Fibber McGee and Molly." There's lots of old, "classic" comedy that I don't find all that classic.)

I got XM radio two Christmases ago. I'm a male, ergo I'm a gadget freak, and I may have a more serious case of that affliction than most males. If I had the bucks, my entire house would be a series of switches, relays, displays, receivers, etc. This is how badly I'm afflicted: I get a warm feeling when I look at the big external hard drives sitting on my computer desk. And that warm feeling continues when I look at the other, unattached hard drives that back up the attached hard drives. Help. Please?

But I digress. As if that surprises anyone.

I loved XM from the start. I loathe 99% of what is played on "terrestrial" radio. I'm not a music snob, either. Okay, I'm not a complete music snob. The popularity of a group doesn't turn me off. I don't lose interest in a group as soon as they're discovered by the general public. I'm on record as defending both Hootie and Blowfish and the Gin Blossoms, for crying out loud. I just don't like what I hear from commercial, "American Idol"-influenced music.

Other than music, I'll listen to a little sports talk during college football season, but for the rest of the year, it's dead to me. Don't care much for political talk, either, since I get a full dose from the blogs in my Google Reader.

So satellite radio was a wonder from the start. I could tune in rebroadcasts of Casey Kasem/Shaggy doing his Top 40 thing from the seventies. I could actually hear country artists like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash, as well as Webb Wilder and Southern Culture on the Skids. I could experiment with other, newer stuff, although I rarely did.

Strangely, where I spent the majority of my time was on the comedy and old radio channels. I've been a comedy fan since I was a wee future blogger listening to my parents' Jerry Clower and Brother Dave Gardner LPs. I still consider a truly great comedy performance to be the purest art imaginable. (More on that tomorrow.)

Although, as I expected, most of the comedy wasn't all that great, there were some gems. Old Stan Freberg and Bob and Ray routines, Demetri Martin (hey, some of this you can Google for yourself), Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright, and George Carlin before he turned into the cranky old guy. (More on that tomorrow, too.)

Over on the classic radio channel, I discovered Frank Sinatra as "Rocky Fortune" and Jack Webb as "Pat Novak, For Hire." If you don't like lines like, "Some mornings you can't trust yourself with a razor," and "She sauntered in, moving slowly from side to side like 118 pounds of warm smoke," then you're no child of mine.

But that was then, this is now. When the merger hit, my music channels received an overabundance of disk jockeyness. I don't know what's hard to understand about not paying $12.95 a month to NOT hear DJs talk over the intro or outro of a song I like, but evidently, the folks at SiriusXM still don't get it. And I'm talking about DJs like Alan Hunter and Nina Blackwood, people I love for the warm, golden-era MTV memories they inspire in me. But even they shouldn't talk over the beginning to "Electric Avenue." I'm not paying to hear SOME Eddy Grant, I'm paying to hear ALL the Eddy Grant.

Not only that, but the stupid practice of giving the time as "4 east, 1 west" continued. Because the coolness is all about the abbreviationness, I guess.

Over on the comedy channels, they transmogrified everything, and all for the worse. Now, I get "Blue Collar Comedy," which is about 95% Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy. I was a Foxworthy fan before it was cool to be one, and, while he still has his moments, he's mostly played out, in my estimation. White has his moments, too, but I don't think he's going to prove to be a comedy mother lode, and appears to be a tad on the jerkish side. (Side note: White was the grand marshal for what was then a Busch race at Talladega Superspeedway a few years ago. He came into the media center at the track and stood in the doorway, as if to say, "I'm here. Let the worship commence." The only problem was, he came in a few minutes after Will Ferrell, who was there promoting "Talladega Nights," had come in and held a press conference. Nobody, and I mean not one soul in a media center full of writers with gobs of column inches to fill, said anything to White.)

Engvall's okay, but not great, and Larry, well, I like to keep this a mostly upbeat blog, so let's just not go there. The rest of that channel is mostly forgettable second-raters.

I also get "Raw Dog" comedy, which--brace yourself--plays cuts with cuss words in them. And that's about all you can say about it, because there's precious little in the way of good comedy bits to be heard there.

Look, I can listen to rough language and laugh. Maybe even more than I should. When I was but a teen, I bought Richard Pryor's double LP, and flat wore the grooves off that thing. (And if my mother had only known what I was listening to...) I've since outgrown a fascination with cuss words, but I can listen to some rough language without getting the vapors, is what I'm saying.

But Raw Dog, or maybe Rawdog, since I don't know and don't care which, just glories in cuss words like an intergalactic Beavis and Butthead. Their promos don't feature quick, funny clips, just people cussing or being mocking. And that's nothing. Anybody can cuss, and anyone can be a smart-aleck. You have to produce the funny to get my admiration, and Raw Dog doesn't do much of that.

The old radio show channel stayed pretty much the same, but I can download literally hundreds of hours of that programming for free at Archive.org and other sites, then put it on an MP3 player or MP3 disc, either of which could keep me entertained from Canada to Tierra del Fuego, and with none of the shows I don't like. Sorry, classic fans, but I don't think much of quite a bit of those "classic" shows, especially the comedy ones. I know that as a rule, humor doesn't age all that well, but even grading things like "The Great Gildersleeve" on a curve doesn't produce a passing grade, in my estimation.

Of course, I can also fill up an MP3 player or CD with hundreds of hours of what I have stored on all my hard drives (my lovely, wonderful hard drives), so the upshot is that, between what I've got and what satellite radio doesn't provide, there's absolutely no reason for me to pay $12.95 a month to mine an occasional gem from mountains of garbage. See you, satellite radio. It was good while it lasted, but it's gone.

Update: The promised Dexateens review will be posted this afternoon. Stay tuned.
Update to the Update: No, it won't. Instead, my review will be published in next Friday's City Scene section of the Birmingham News. Which is way better than being published here. So stay tuned, just stay tuned at a different station, as it were.

Jacob's first Easter

2009-04-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday weather was amazingly nice here in Jacobzona. (Not so much for The Lovely Missus, who had to work, unfortunately.) Mama Dunn and I took him on the back porch, which is actually a back slab, but "porch" sounds so much better and more Southern. I might start calling it a back veranda before too long. And on the back slab, he played in the sun, watched the dogs chase each other around the yard, and generally experienced new experiences like only a 10-month-old can.

The absolute pinnacle came when the wind kicked up and blew his hair backwards like he was sticking his head out of a car window. He turned into the wind, put both hands up, palms out (the "Stick 'em up"pose, I mean), and grinned like a mule eating briars, as we say in South Alabama. That, friends and neighbors, is happiness.

Of course, I had neither the still nor the video camera to capture that happiness, but it probably wouldn't have mattered if I did. He's not old enough to understand what exactly a camera is, but he's plenty old enough, and male enough, to instinctively know that buttons and electronics = fun. So I have to sneak around like a KGB dad to get any spontaneous pictures.

He's not only experiencing new things, but he's getting bigger, too. Why, he already weighs
0.2090909090909 Jennifer Anistons. Or, if you prefer a more traditional measurement, 368 human eyeballs, which I don't have to tell you is 1.630107374464 spider monkeys.

Yep, I've been playing around with Weirdconverter.com. My undying admiration to whomever works one of their conversions into a board meeting. "Simpson, you're proposing we produce a flange grommet that's 0.1111111111111 Weinermobiles long? That's insane! The minimum flange grommet length in the company handbook is 1.028571428571 giraffe's necks, you madman!"

Returning to Jacob, which would make a great novel title that would surely be an Oprah pick, he no longer naps in the swing. (Unnecessary aside that will be explored later: Why the Oprah worship? Honestly, doesn't that scare somebody besides me?) He's graduated to the crib, which I'd estimate is about 0.127000012065 T-Rexes long. The bad thing about that is the necessity of walking out of the room while he cries (doesn't like sleep, that boy), even though he usually only cries a few minutes before conking out. And I can't fathom that fighting of sleep. My grown-up, quasi-insomniac self just can't process being an organism that not only is allowed to sleep whenever the mood strikes, but the sleeping experience is also accentuated in every way possible. Would you like some plinky music? Or maybe crickets chirping, and a slightly creepy female voice saying, "It's nap time." (Seriously. He has such a device.) And here's your blankie, your hugging doggy, and an assortment of pacifiers. Look, the nap-enhancement device also projects a nighttime scene of floating teddy bears on the ceiling or wall. The wall that's been painted in kiddy colors, so that your sleeping experience is conducted in a coccoon of nurturing.

And still he fights it. Go figure young'uns, huh?

Before I leave, an apology. I had promised a review of The Dexateen's new CD "Singlewide," but other plans interfered. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have it up. As a peace offering, I offer you the seventies greatness of Telly Savalas singing "Who Loves Ya Baby?" complete with soul sister backing vocals and lyrics like, "Just know I don't care if there's gray in your hair. If there's hair at all, I think that's just great." Enjoy.

As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.

As we left the music blogging that day...

2009-04-10T07:47:00.000-07:00

Day five of our music blogathon (I trust you've all made your pledges by now) brings to a close our weeklong spree of music posts. And, since I spent yesterday's post talking about bad lyrics, I thought it only fair that I spend today's talking about great ones.

A few words of caution are in order. These are lyrics that I, Jim Dunn, selfmade music putz, find memorable. That doesn't mean time, all of music criticdom, or you personally will find them quite so memorable, and that's fine. Just as I don't find Hemingway all that great (and I'm not trying to be "that guy"), it's quite all right for you to read what lyrics have made a permanent home in my head and scoff, audibly and forcefully, at my choices. I likes what I likes, and you likes what you likes, and the world will keep on spinning either way.

Also, stay tuned to this blog for a review of Tuscaloosa's The Dexateens' forthcoming CD "Singlewide." I got a promo copy of it yesterday, and I'll be slinging up a review of it Monday.

Now, onward to the first type of memorable lyric, which I'm calling...

1. The Creative Writing Harrumph. This is a turn of phrase that expresses, through symbolism, pithiness, or just crystallized genius, what would otherwise be well nigh inexpressible. It's the kind of thing that would earn you a "Harrumph" from a creative writing class, if most members of a creative writing class weren't swirling pools of need that refuse to belch forth much in the form of compliments.

Here's an example of a CWH. In the Drive-by Truckers' song "The Day John Henry Died," Jason Isbell sings of John Henry, "He knew the perfect way to hold a hammer was the way the railroad baron held the deed." That's artistry, is what that is. You get the imagery of both the fabled steel-driving man holding a sledge and the tight-fisted ways of the railroad barons he worked for in one tightly crafted line. Harrumphs all around.

The Gin Blossoms (who, he asserted in an aside, were one of the nineties' most underrated bands) had a few CWHs. In their "Mrs. Rita," Robin Wilson sings, "There's no swimming in the bottle, it's just someplace we all drown." Twelve words that express a lifetime of watching, and participating in, dissipation by alcohol, without either romanticizing alcoholism or being heavyhanded in their criticism. Harrumph.

James McMurtry deserves a Gold Harrumph Award for the opening lines to "Levelland." "Flatter than a tabletop, makes you wonder why they stopped here. Wagon must have lost a wheel or they lacked ambition one." In two lines, you're transported to a place with a lot of history, and not much else. Harrumph.

Moving on, we come to the second type of great lyric, which I'm calling

2. The Nifty Turn of Phrase. NTPs don't necessarily transport you mentally as much as CWHs. They're memorable just for the interplay between the words, or the rhyme scheme, or some other such facet that lodges them in your cortex. For instance, the Gin Blossoms' (told you they were underrated) "Lost Horizons" contains the lines, "She had nothing left to say, so she said she loved me. I stood there grateful for the lie." See? Nothing there that'll change the world or make a great t-shirt, but doggone it, that's good writing. And you do get the sad sack feeling of the protagonist, don't you?

Alliteration, assonance, and rhyme can help in the crafting of an NTP. For an example, let's go to an unlikely source: Jim Stafford. Yep, Mr. Yuk It Up in Branson Himself. I give credit where it's due, and his "Swamp Witch" is just studded with NTPs. (His "Cow Pattie," not so much.)

"Blackwater Hattie lived back in the swamp, where strange green reptiles crawl.
Snakes hang thick from the cypress trees, like sausage on a smokehouse wall.
Where the swamp is alive with a thousand eyes, an' all of them watching you.
Stay off the track to Hattie's shack in the back of the Black Bayou."

Didn't think the old boy had it in him, did you? Granted, "Swamp Witch" is an anomaly in the Stafford catalog, but give him credit for the good he did. Besides, he married super-sultry Bobbie Gentry, so he'll always have my admiration for that fact alone. (If you want to hear it for yourself, here it be.)

And, even though I mentioned these yesterday, I have to re-point out two gems from Warren Zevon. To wit, the alliteration of "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London," and the sheer pithy genius of "Send lawyers, guns, and money."

This brings us to my third category, which I'm calling

3. The Universal Truth. UTs (not to be confused with UTIs, which are much less welcome) are those shining life lessons-in-a-second that just slap you across the face with their undying wisdom. The best example? In my smarmy opinion, it's the Rolling Stones' "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need." Can anyone argue with that? Nope. Didn't think so. Not that I advocate going to Keef and Mick for your philosophy or theology, but that's pretty airtight, if you ask me.

You can find UTs in the most unlikely of places. For instance, in "Let Her Cry," by Hootie and the Blowfish. (Stop groaning. HATB made great pop songs, and you know it. It's just become fashionable to slag on them. Pbbbtttttt, I say to that.) You're familiar with the setup, since that song got just a wee bit overplayed in the nineties. The protagonist is enduring a blues festival's worth of problems with his woman. But amidst the problems comes a ray of hope when he sings, "Let her go, let her walk right out on me. And if the sun comes up tomorrow, let her be."

It's that last sentence that makes this a UT. The protagonist has just straightened up, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and resolved to tough this situation out. Might as well, because the world will keep on spinning, and the sun will come out anyway.

Full disclosure: My appreciation for this lyric might have been influenced a tad by the fact that I got a mental tow out of the self-pity ditch from it years ago. That was a pretty tough breakup. For me, at least. She skipped merrily out the door.

Want another unlikely source for a UT? How about those noted philosophers The Offspring? (Relax, Dexter fans. I like them, and have several CDs, but you've got to admit they're not exactly breaking much new ground, lyrically.) Remember the moment the loser protagonist in "Self Esteem" began to get a clue that maybe he was being used? "The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care. Right?" There's hope for this young man, because when he said that aloud, he began to realize how much of a schmuck he'd been.

I could go on with more examples, and probably come up with a few more categories, but I see by the clock on the wall that my time is almost up. Please post your categories and examples in the comments. I'm always interested in what others think about things like this.

And, as we close out the first annual music-blogging week, I'll leave you with some lines that exemplify CWHs, NTPs, and UTs, transcending time with the sheer lyrical genius that you and I will forever be richer for the hearing thereof.

"Everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, everybody cut, footloose!"

Day four of the first Annual Music-Blogging Week

2009-04-09T08:11:00.001-07:00

As I retroactively announced yesterday, this is Music-Blogging Week (and you didn't even think to buy your celebratory tortilla shell, did you?), so here's the fourth installment. It's a topic that has already been covered, and excellently, by Dave Barry, but I think I've stayed away from all his examples. Herewith begins our exposition of a subject near and dear to my heart: dumb rock lyrics.

Now, although I love popular music, I have no delusions about the majority of the songs being anything but confections, and I don't have a problem with that. Break most popular songs, even classic, venerated songs, into their component parts, and you'll usually get to a pretty simplistic, borderline stupid core. Let's take the Beatles' "Strawberry Fields Forever," which contains lines like, "No one, I think, is in my tree. I mean, it must be high or low." Or what about Bob Dylan's "Absolutely Sweet Marie," with its "Well, I got the fever down in my pockets." Dude, I had pocket fever once, and I thought I was going to die. Then I just took off my pants, and everything got better.

It's not just rock, of course. John Lee Hooker's "Boom Boom" includes these lines:

"Boom, boom, boom, boom
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh, oh, oh, oh
How, how, how, how
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Now, now, now, now."

If you've ever heard the song, you know it's impossible to remain seated, or at least remain seated and still, when you hear it. Man gets right down to your spine with the beat and that voice. It's a great song, but that's not exactly Shakespeare. So there's some stupidity, weirdness, artiness, what have you, in plenty of songs that are otherwise great. I'm not talking about them.

I'm also not going to get into the "There's a bathroom on the right," school of misheard lyrics, although there's a rich vein there, too. I'm talking about moments where either the songwriters just had a weak moment that exposed their not-smartiness, or just didn't care enough to work harder.

For instance, there's the Marshall Tucker Band's "Fire on the Mountain." Great song. It was an AM radio staple in the seventies, and I still listen regularly to it now. But this part has always bugged the incipient grammar Nazi in me.

"Shot down in cold blood by a gun that carried fame
All for a useless and no-good, worthless claim."

Hate to break it to the boys from South Carolina, but useless, no-good, and worthless are all synonyms. It's redundant, repetitive, supernumerary. Whoa. I just became Jackie Chiles for a second. Work hard, boys, is what I'm saying.

Back in the seventies, as a trombone-playing member of the Samson High School Band (*cough* first chair *cough*), I loved Earth, Wind & Fire. Danceable songs with a horn section? I'm there, dude. At least, I was. But even back then, when I wasn't quite a full-blown grammar Nazi, one of their songs always bugged me. Specifically, "After the Love Is Gone," and not just because it was a slow love song. What bothered me was the line, "Never knew that what was wrong, oh baby, wasn't right." Really? Then you probably need to be told that what's hot isn't cold, what's young isn't old, and what's dead isn't alive. Should have paid better attention in English, my friend.

Bad Company thought enough of the song "Bad Company" to name their band after it, or vice versa. I don't really know which. Either way, if a song is also your band's name, you need to stomp a mudhole in it, brand-wise. Big Country, for instance, made what I consider to be the quintessential almost-bagpipe-containing song by a Scottish band of the eighties with "In a Big Country." But in their eponymous song, Bad Company wrote, "I was born, sixgun in my hand."

I understand hyperbole, symbolism, creative license, all that. But this isn't a case of Robert Earl Keen singing, "This old porch is a steamin' greasy plate of enchiladas, with lots of cheese and onions and a guacamole salad." This is a man claiming to have been the world's most difficult delivery as a child. "Mrs. Junkins, the good news is that you're fully dilated, and the baby is in perfect position. The bad news is, the ultrasound shows that he's packing heat."

Moving on, I must point out a shortcoming of one of my favorite songwriters ever. I recently named Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" as one of the five albums that defined me on Facebook. I still remember putting that LP on my cheap Panasonic stereo (that also recorded 8-tracks!), reading the lyrics sheet, and being mesmerized by Zevon's weirdness and ability. I still maintain that "Lawyers, Guns and Money" is the best, pithiest, song title in history, and that, "Little old lady got mutilated late last night" from "Werewolves of London" is the best alliteration ever in a rock song.

But Warren, bless him, wasn't infallible. In the song "Jungle Work," which I love, Zevon wrote, "We parachute in, we parachute out." I get the parachuting in part, but how exactly do you parachute out of a place, WZ? Is that a secret, Rusty Shackelfordesque technique known only by the NSA?

More than likely, all of these examples came about from a songwriter being pressed for time, or just worn out from trying to come up with good lyrics. That's why I've always appreciated Alice Cooper's honesty in "School's Out."

"Well we got no class
And we got no principles [or principals, depending on whom you cite].
We ain't got no intelligence.
We can't even think of a word that rhymes."

But my award for the all-time, gold-medal, world-class example for not-even-trying lyrics has to go to Oliver's "Good Morning, Starshine."

"Good morning starshine
The earth says hello
You twinkle above us
We twinkle below."

So far, so bad. It's insipid, but not epic stupid just yet. Yet.

"Good morning starshine
You lead us along
My love and me as we sing
Our early-morning singing song."

You know, most songs are singing songs, Frances.

But while the verses are insipid, the chorus is pure lyrical drivel.

"Gliddy glub gloopy
Nibby nabby noopy
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba nabba
Le le lo lo
Tooby ooby walla
Nooby abba naba
Early morning singing song."

I've rented a couple of "WKRP in Cincinnati" DVDs, and the commentary to them includes the fact that the ending theme (the part that sounds like it begins, "Hand to 'em bartender, what tonight I hit the hair") is just gibberish. The producers needed an end theme, and they told a band to just get in there and crank out something. The end product sounded like it was being sung by Boomhauer's musical cousin. (That's two "King of the Hill" references in one post. I am on fire, I'll tell you what.)

But I'm willing to bet that James Rado and Gerome Ragni, the writers of "Starshine" according to Wikipedia, actually meant to craft that "Tooby ooby walla" garbage. I have no problem seeing them hammering out lyrics.

"What about 'Sooby dooby dalla'?"
"No, no, man! This is supposed to be an anti-establishment song. You're talking pure corporationspeak. It should be 'Tooby ooby walla.' Now THAT's a lyric they'll be singing when the revolution comes."
"I'm hip, man."

The outro is not quite as Seussian, since they actually use real words, but then they string them together so it sounds like Nell singing Gershwin.

"Singing a song
Humming a song
Singing a song
Loving a song
Laughing a song
Singing a song
Sing the song
Song song song sing
Sing sing sing sing song."

It's good, but could you work a few more "sings" and "songs"? That'd make it really good.

I could go on ("MacArthur Park" and "Muskrat Love" spring to mind, although I think Dave mentioned them in his book), but I don't want this post to reach Michener length. Feel free to submit your own suggestions in the comments section. I'll post a follow-up if I get enough responses.

And now, I have to tooby ooby walla on outta here. Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the starshine. Ooby.

Smart writers write around the problem

2009-04-07T15:04:00.000-07:00

Let me explain. You really don't have anything good to say, and you're dying to use a cliche. Which you can't do, because it's lame and weak and you're tired, and you're tired of your editor yelling at you. So you use the cliche, but then you tack on "to coin a phrase." That way, you get to use the trite saying, but you're letting the reader know that you're all about the irony, and instead of them recognizing you for the hack you are, you come off as Mr. Smart Writer.

I'm about to write around a problem.

By that, I mean that I said I wasn't going to turn this into a music blog, and I'm not, but I do have a couple more music-related subjects I want to cover, so instead of flip-flopping like a gigged flounder, I'm going to retroactively proclaim this Music Theme Week. Yep, five full days of blogging on music, especially for you, my (approximately) millions of fans. That's the kind of too-sweet guy I am. Now, for the third of five installments of Music Theme Week.

Jacob has been blessed with some amazing hand-me-down toys, most of which have computer chips and a speaker installed. He has a stuffed dog that is absolutely studded with sensors that generate a chipper voice counting from one to ten in a sing-songy voice, or a cute "ahhhhh-CHOOO!" when you pinch its nose.

Then there's the table full of buttons and dials and levers that plays a plethora of sounds. It knows pretty much every American folk song, from "She'll Be Comin' 'Round the Mountain" to "Jimmy Crack Corn" to "The Yellow Rose of Texas." (I smell the influence of Austin in that last selection. Which is okay, since Austin is a great city.)

Flip a page on a book mounted in the center of the table, and the musical table switches from sounds to educational sounds. Push up the slide mounted in a Day-Glo cello, and a perky woman's voice sings, "High!" Push it the other way, and it sings, "Low!" Flip a switch on the table, and it'll do the same thing, only in Spanish. Yes, in fact I am jealous. We darn sure never had anything like that when I was growing up. The only sounds my toys generated were "OW!" and "MAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I specifically remember a Tonka steam shovel that pinched so many fingers so many times it's a wonder I'm not nicknamed Stubby, and a helicopter that spun its rotors when you pushed it on the ground via its short tail section, thereby ensuring that you'd get "Thwacked!" on the wrist a few thousand times every play session.

But at 10 months and one week, you can already see Jacob liking some sounds more than others, and that got me to wondering what kind of music he'll like, and what kind of concertgoer he'll turn out to be. (That's assuming he does become a concertgoer. If he takes after his mother, he won't be one at all. Not long after we got married, The Lovely Missus accompanied me when I reviewed a Michael W. Smith and MercyMe concert. Those are Christian artists, and they're not Christian metal artists, either. Nobody will ever mistake either act for Metallica. Plus, the concert was outside at Oak Mount--I mean, Verizon Wireless Music Center. About halfway through the concert, TLM looked at me and said, "It's so loud!" I replied that she could never, ever, ever go with me to a real rock concert.)

I've reviewed something close to 150 acts, and seen a bunch more, and I've noticed a few types of concertgoers over the years. Here's a rough list of them. The cynical among you will say that this is just a rehash of yesterday's post. To you, I say a hearty "Nuh-uh." If you'll notice, yesterday's list was numbered. Today's uses letters. I believe the correct phrase to use now is "Neener-neener-neener." Once again, I have written around the problem.

A, The Average Fan. Just likes the music, likes the prospect of seeing his or her favorite act live and interacting with other fans, since shared experiences are often better than private ones. Doesn't bother anybody, just sits there and listens, claps, and sings. A little. (See point 4 in yesterday's post.) Years ago, this type fan was the majority. Now, sadly, they're as rare as a three-minute song at a Widespread Panic concert.

B, The Music Snob. Knows every song the band ever did, and everything about every song the band ever did, including things like chord progressions and guitar amp settings, even though he doesn't play himself. (The Music Snob category is overwhelmingly male. You can make up your own "compensating" joke as a reason for that gender disparity.) Talks as much about who produced a song as he does who sings it. Refers to the band as "his boys," even though he's never gotten closer to any of the members than his seventh-row seat that time they played Chastain Amphitheater in 2007. (See point five from yesterday's post.) Talks from the time he sits down in his seat until the headliner plays, straight through the opener, and resumes talking as soon as the concert's over. Would hate to be dragged to a concert by a "lame" band on a date, but that's not a problem, as he goes on a date as often as Bob Dylan enunciates.

C, The Creepy Old Guy. (I'll give credit for this nomenclature to comedian Greg Behrendt.) Beer gut. Balding head or, worse yet, a gray ponytail. (Often accompanied by Creepy Old Gal, who has...a beer gut, balding head or gray ponytail.) Is bound and determined not to become the Uncool Dad, thereby ensuring that he's not only the Uncool Dad, he's also the Supremely Embarrassing Dad. Like the Music Snob, considers any form of music but vinyl to be apostate. Shakes when he rocks like a bowl full of jelly. Has a VW microbus he calls Woodstock because "Me and it was there when it happened," although he's only 47.

D, The Longsuffering Mom. Would sooner have a gynecological exam by Dr. Freddy Krueger than be there, but promised Candace she could go, and take Tiffany, Tiffni, and Tiff'naye, if she got all A's on her report card. Wears wadded-up Kleenex in her ears to mute the sound a little. Can't wait to get home, climb into a bathtub full of lavender-chamomile bath salts, crank up the Kenny G. and bliss out.

E, The Suffering Dad. Would sooner have a prostate exam by Dr. Freddy Krueger than be there, but wife promised Candace she could go, and take Tiffany, Tiffni, and Tiff'naye, if she got all A's on her report card, then got a convenient headache and forced him to take the girls. Seriously considering Googling "burst eardrum" on his BlackBerry to see if doing so would provide temporary relief but not permanent deafness. Checks his watch every 30 seconds, mentally calculating how far along that Steelers game is that he's missing. Every screech from the crowd of girls around him pushes him a little bit farther into full-blown Red Formanhood.

F, Teenage Gland Boy. Is borderline psychotic from the combination of testosterone created by that many guitars and posturing concentrated in one spot, and the complete lack of attention he's getting from the assembled teenage girl population. Combs his Bama Bangs incessantly. Mentally calculates how much cooler he'd be if HE were the lead singer, instead of that goob who's leading the band now. Moron doesn't even know have a Flying V guitar.

G, The Concert Reviewer. Takes notes incessantly, even though he knows he'll only end up using one or two of them in a 200-word review. Keeps set list, even though he knows he won't get to list more than three or four songs in a 200-word review. If he doesn't know the band's songs that well, he'll consult the list of songs he printed out that afternoon, or jot down all the lyrics he can so he can Google them later that night. Feels a bit guilty at times when he realizes he's getting paid to listen to music and then give his opinion on it, especially when he's done that all his life for free. Feels less guilty when reviewing jam band concerts, because there's only so much endless noodling a man can take before he busts a spring. Has seen some sad things, like Vern Gosdin drunk, turning his back on the crowd for large portions of the concert. Has seen some jaw-droppingly cool things, like Luther Dickinson of the North Mississippi All-Stars coming out to jam with the Jason Isbell-era Drive-by Truckers, when he thought his face would melt from the concentrated guitar crunching. Once almost cried when the Truckers' Patterson Hood prefaced "Let There Be Rock" by saying that music got him through high school, because music did the same for him, even though he played trombone, which isn't nearly the chick magnet an electric guitar is.

Keeps a count of the number of songs, and knows that when a band hits 13 or 14 songs, they're usually getting ready to wrap up their first set, which will then be followed by a two- or three-song encore. Also knows that the lead singer who says, "Birmingham is the best!" said the same thing last night in Biloxi, and the night before in Sioux Falls, and had to be reminded which city he was playing in just before they took the stage. Once texted "Less cowbell, more glockenspiel" at Verizon in Pelham, and it got posted on the screens between acts. Doesn't have much use for the rent-a-cops who have attitude, but can't thank the good rent-a-cops enough for keeping things running smoothly. Tries to be knowledgeable without sounding like a Music Snob. Tries to be honest in his critique without being so removed that he forgets some people put their hearts into the concert he just watched. Knows that Tom Hanks' parody of guitar techs/roadies was too, too spot-on.

Thus concludes today's music-themed post. Now for your Non Sequitur MP3 of the Day, which I've about decided to make a regular part of the blog. Here's "Like a Rolling Stone," by Sebastian "Mr. French" Cabot.

I'm nothing if not wishy-washy. I am, aren't I?

2009-04-05T13:57:00.001-07:00

I said yesterday that I wasn't going to turn this into a music blog, and I'm not. But that doesn't mean I can't blog about music two days in a row, does it? I'm researching the Big Book O' Blogging Rules to make sure, but in the meantime, I'm going to go with that truism that it's always easier to get permission than forgiveness, and press on.

Don't worry, though. I'm not going to continue my rant about how country music isn't country. Nope. Not gonna go on and on about how soulless and corporate and empty big-time country is, and how it's such a ridiculous travesty that artists who still craft music with heart are forced to travel in--

I just administered myself a Pattonesque face slap. I should be okay.

Despite the ridiculously cold weather here in Alabama (honestly, people, it snowed in North Alabama yesterday), I know that the spring/summer concert season is coming up soon, and I've been mentally kicking around a list of concert rules for quite a while. So, I figured this was as good a time as any to post it. Here goes.

1. Lynyrd Skynyrd was a great band. (I'm talking pre-plane crash Skynyrd, not the pseudo-Skynyrd that's been impersonating the band for years. Skynyrd died with Ronnie van Zant. ) And, before it was made into a rock and roll cliche, "Free Bird" was a great song. Still is, if you listen sans irony. Put on a pair of headphones and listen. The bass work in that song alone is epic.

So, now that I've established that, let me say: Don't ever, ever, ever yell, "Free Bird!" at a concert. It was at one time funny, and that one time was July 17, 1985, at an REO Speedwagon concert in Downers Grove, Illinois. Seconds later, it ran out of funny. Stop doing it.

2. Most acts have what is called a "set list." That means that they've actually put thought into what songs they're going to play, and when. They really don't need your yelling out song titles. With a lot of modern acts, changing the order of songs would require a complete reprogramming of the lip-syncing tracks and pyrotechnics, and they're not going to do that just because you don't think faux-Styx should play "Miss America" more often.

3. Despite what the inebriated woman next to me at the Poison/Cinderella concert a few years ago yelled, the band you don't like most likely doesn't, in fact, "suck." And if they do, they're not going to suddenly improve because you pointed out their shortcomings. (Although I do like to think that the horrible band I saw years ago in St. Louis called--no kidding--Beyond Repair did some soulsearching when, after they'd only played one song, somebody yelled out, "Take a break!") Allow me my musical tastes, and I'll reciprocate.

4. If the band asks you to sing along, or maybe even holds the microphone toward the crowd when they get to the chorus, feel free to sing along. Otherwise, you're allowed to sing the hook, and maybe a couple of the other words, and that's all. To once again reference faux-Styx, I don't mind you singing "Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto." I do mind you caterwauling, "I am the modren man." I minded Dennis DeYoung singing that.

5. I don't care how much you like a band, they are not "your boys." If they were really "your boys," you'd be backstage, not sitting next to me, trying to see over that tall guy with the ironic cowboy hat. So if you refer to the lead singer, call him by his first AND last name, or alternatively, just his last name. He's not Mick, he's Mick Jagger, or maybe just Jagger. (It is all right to refer to U2's lead singer as "boh-no," however, because I like doing it that way.)

6. Ditch the cigarette lighter. It's 2009, people. You hold up your cell phone when you want to encourage an encore now.

7. That cell phone camera of yours isn't going to take a decent picture from 30 rows back, in the dark, with the lead singer jumping around. Give it up. It won't record decent video or sound, either. I don't know what Rerun was thinking when he took that cassette recorder to that Doobie Brothers concert.

8. That being said, artists, people like taking pictures of you. When they've taken them, they spread those pictures all over the Interwebs, and that generates what is called "positive publicity," which is a good thing. Let people take pictures. You might even encourage that kind of behavior.

9. Artists, we know you're tired of singing your hits. Do it anyway. The guy working at the Express Lube is tired of pulling oil drain plugs and skinning his knuckles getting to those oil filters, but he does it anyway, because it's his job. And he does it for a lot less than you're getting. So man or woman up, and perform it, even if it makes your hair hurt. And no medleys of your hits, either. Sing the whole thing.

10. Fans, if the act leaves and they don't turn on the house lights, they're coming back. (See the set list item, above.) They're only walking offstage for effect so that you'll clap and scream and maybe reach a good-enough fervor to buy an extra t-shirt or two. So don't start to leave unless you're really going to head to the car, because when you start to leave, then turn around when the band starts their inevitable encore, it just gums up the aisles for everybody.

11. We know you like the band you've come to see. There's no need to wear a t-shirt with their name on it to their concert, even if it's the one you bought in '82 and have worn every time you've seen the band.

12. You're never too old to rock. However, you dang sure can get too old to be overly demonstrative. If you're over 40, you can't play air guitar, actually headbang, or scream "ROCK AND ROLL!!!!!!!!" Sorry, but those are the rules. They hurt me, too.

13. If any members of the band you're seeing is wearing a t-shirt with their own band name on it, you must get up and leave immediately. That's pure toolish behavior, and we have to stamp it out.

Come on, UPS

2009-04-05T06:20:00.000-07:00

I need those new Dr. Seuss books to get here yesterday. My son loves him some Seuss, to the point that even at 10 months old, he's already decided that Green Eggs and Ham is much better than Hop on Pop. And I've never stopped loving the Doc, so I love reading those books to him. But I made a mistake and only bought those two plus Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? Which is not enough Seuss to keep the parents and Mama Dunn from burning out reading the books we have. So I hit up Amazon.com for Fox in Socks, Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now! and The Cat in the Hat. I'm fully prepared for his turning up his nose at all three, but a daddy's got to try.

Yesterday, company called, and he got played with the company until he got tired and grumpy. Off to the swing for a long nap he went. He usually wakes up the AntiDaddy--happy, smiling, a regular earth-bound cherub. (I'm not what you'd call a real morning person, and I don't suffer morning people very well. Neither did Solomon.) But this nap evidently ended right when he was dreaming he was about to pop the top on a jar of peaches and other assorted fruit, because when he opened his eyes, he went straight to caterwauling. Being the hip dad I am, I picked him up and pointed him at the television, where the NASCAR Texas race was on. (Sporting events are about the only thing you can watch with the sound off while baby sleeps.) Within seconds, he had stopped crying and was pointing at the screen, saying, "Cah, cah." Plus, I think I heard him say "Took the air off his spoiler" and "Needs some wedge to keep from gittin' squirrelly in turn two," but I'm not sure.

This weekend, I reviewed the Neko Case concert, which took place at WorkPlay, a supremely nice venue here in Birmingham. One of the brains behind WorkPlay is original MTV VJ and Birmingham native Alan Hunter, and every time I think of him, I remember when knowing that the Buggles' "Video Killed the Radio Star" was the first video played on MTV meant you were a real trivia connoisseur. Nowadays, any young whippersnapper can Google up a world of facts in a nanosecond, all while using their Facespace and Mybook and Twister or whatever you call all that newfangled stuff.

Case, as I said in my review, sings a kind of "country noir," which makes as much sense as any of the other tags, like "alt.country" or "Americana." The turnout was good, but the total gate from the night is probably less than Carrie Underwood spends per day on eyeliner. Rascall Flatts getts morre monney (honestly, the two T's in their name makes me yurp on my keyboard) in spiked-hair royalties than Case will make all year.

That's been on my mind because I made the mistake of watching a little bit of the Academy of Country Music Awards last night. I've been listening to country since my mother played eight-tracks of George Jones and Johnny Cash while driving me to my grandmother's for daycare. I know that country, like all popular music, is always evolving. The overly produced "Nashville Sound" of Jim Reeves and Eddie Albert didn't have much in common with Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell. But long about the eighties, country began rocketing off on a non-country tangent that only seems to get more severe every year. I caught Sugarland's performance of some song (don't know, don't care, ain't gonna Google), and it sounded like the second coming of Taylor Dayne. It was as country as Tommy Tune. For the longest time, country was pop with a twang, but now it seems that the biggest stars have even dispensed with that pretense and gone twang-free. Not only did Carrie Underwood look like a crimson Jabba the Hutt in that dress, but her song belonged back on "American Idol," not a country music award show.

Not only has country lost its twang, but it's lost its heart. If the mantra in creative writing is "show, don't tell," the mantra of modern country is "tell, don't show." According to Billboard, the number one country song is Darius Rucker's "It Won't Be Like This For Long." Here's a link to the lyrics. There's a story there, of course, but it's related in a linear fashion. You feel sad, you say "I'm sad."

The number two country song is Taylor Swift's "White Horse," which starts out thusly:

Say you're sorry
That face of an angel comes out
Just when you need it to
As I pace back and forth all this time
'Cause I honestly believed in you

That's not a country song, it's a 13-year-old girl's Facebook post. I spontaneously sprouted unicorns and rainbows just reading it.

Contrast those songs with, say, Hank Williams' "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry."

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,
He sounds too blue to fly.

Boom! You're depressed. You feel this guy's pain. You know how he feels, and you're ready to commiserate with him, because that imagery puts you in his place, and we've all been in that place.

Here's George Jones' "She Thinks I Still Care."

Just because I asked a friend about her
Just because I spoke her name somewhere
Just because I rang her number by mistake today
She thinks I still care.

Do you get the feeling he's missing his woman? Do you not identify with lost love, pain, and denial? In four lines, he's made you ready to take off work to keep the poor guy company.

Just one more. Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried."

The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,
And a young'un's dream of growing up to ride.

You'd never ridden a freight train before, had you?

On a freight train leaving town,
Not knowing where I'm bound,
No one could change my mind but Mama tried.

And now you're not only on a freight train, but you're traveling with a man who's down because he's done some wrong, even though he was raised right by his poor, long-suffering mother. (NB: If you can listen to "Mama Tried" without crying, you are dead. Please report to the nearest cemetery for interment.)

I'm picking and choosing my examples, of course, and generalizing to boot. But I do think it's safe to say that the songs being lauded today lack the lyrical oomph they used to have.

Now, the rescue: There's good country out there, and I can guide you to it, if you're interested. In no particular order, I'm high on Wrinkle Neck Mules, Reckless Kelly, Robert Earl Keen, Backsliders and Star Room Boys (both now defunct, sadly), Chris Knight (not the one who played Peter Brady), Dwight Yoakam, Webb Wilder (the last of the full-grown men, and he's got a new album coming out!), Southern Culture on the Skids, and Dan Baird (more rock than country, but everything's twang-tinged, and songs like "Julie and Lucky," "Hit Me Like a Train," "Dixie Beauxderaunt," and of course "Keep Your Hands to Yourself" throb with a country heart. Plus, his "Cumberland River" is a slap in Nashville's face). That's just a start. There's plenty more out there. You just won't find much of it touring in a 12-semi entourage, or winning many industry awards. As Webb himself put it, "There's always an Econoline rollin' toward a gig somewhere."

Not that I want to turn this into a music blog, but here's Baird's "Cumberland River" to close out this music rant. Happy Mondays to you.

First Blood

2009-04-03T04:50:00.000-07:00

Not the movie, the real thing. This morning, Jacob hurt himself badly enough to bleed, for the first time. I knew it was coming, and it really wasn't much at all, but it'll still send a shot of adrenaline through you to see blood on a pacifier. Wasn't that a Lifetime movie? "Blood on a Pacifier," starring Judith Light and Ralph Macchio. I think it came on right after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?" (On a side note, why is there so much hate for Tori Spelling? Because she used her father's connections to get a movie career? As if that never happens in Hollywood, or the real world, for that matter.)
(On a side note to the side note, the best blog name ever was inspired by that movie: "Mother, May I Sleep with Treacher?")

Here's what transpired. Jacob has a small (a square about 18 inches per side) blanket made by Mama Dunn, aka my mother. Linus had only a passing attraction to his blanket compared to the love Jacob has for his. When we put him in his go-to-sleep swing--and God bless the people who invented that--he can't nod off without it. He starts reaching for it with twitching hands like the Skipper used to have when he'd get mad at Gilligan. And now that he's ambulatory, or at least crawlatory, he's taken to carrying it with him when he scoots across the floor.

This morning, I was in the kitchen whomping up some breakfast when Jacob decided to leave the den and join me. There's a child/dog gate between the den and the kitchen, with a brace that runs across the threshold. Since he started crawling, Jacob has never had any problem getting over it. Well, that's overstating it. He's had some problems, but they were more of the temporary slowdown variety. Nothing too serious. But today, the combination of blanket and gate brace was too much, and he did what the X-Games types call a face plant on the hardwood.

"Waaaah," went my son. "You ain't hurt," went the daddy who had seen this happen before and assumed he was more torqued off than hurt. Plus, Daddy has worked in a church nursery, and knows that most of the time, there's an inverse ratio between amount of noise emitted and actual damage done. So I headed toward him so I could comfort him a second and then send him scuttling on his way, when I saw it. (Dramatic musical sting goes here.) BLOOD ON THE PACIFIER!

I don't know exactly what happened, but I think he had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood. And that's no mean feat, because, although he's 10 months old, my boy still doesn't have any teeth. So he hadn't so much bitten his tongue as he had gummed it a really stout whack. It didn't cause big gouts of blood, just a slight tint to his saliva, but you try telling that to the Daddy part of your brain. I'm a lifelong collector of inadvertent cuts and scrapes, and I've been stuck with several porcupines' worth of needles (including having blood gases drawn; when the male nurse got ready to plunge the needle into the underside of my wrist, he laid a deathgrip on it, then looked me in the eye and said, "Hoss, this is gonna hurt." He was right.) so the sight of my own blood barely causes me to pause long enough to apply a medicinal Kleenex. But the sight of my son's blood, well, that's a hemoglobin of a different color.

Luckily for me, my son is a pretty tough hombre. A few seconds of caterwauling and big tears later, he had already noticed the dogwood blooms on the counter, and everything was fine. I know that was just the first of many, many blood-letting encounters, and The Lovely Missus and I aren't overprotective parents, but still, I'd just as soon not repeat that episode any time soon.

Now, here's a real musical non-sequitur: Loverboy's "Working for the Weekend." Hit me with that cowbell, you Canadian rockers you. See you Monday.

Frustrations? Yeah, I got 'em

2009-04-02T04:07:00.000-07:00

As opposed to everybody else, whose lives are nothing but one series of unencumbered splendiferous moments after another. But this is all about meeeeeeeeeeee!

It's not all that bad a situation, and, if you apply Dunn's Third World Rule to it, isn't even worthy of noticing. But I've always been more of a preacher than a practicer when it comes to advice, and I'm not correctly applying DTWR. So sue me.

What it is is that I'm having trouble with some domain mapping over at The Other Blog. Since that's where I bring up retro things to snark on them, I used my incredible grasp of the obvious and bought the domain name retrosnark.com a while back. Yesterday, I decided to take the plunge and make that name redirect to TOB. TypePad, which hosts TOB, has an exhaustive set of how-to pages, even if they're not written all that clearly. But I soldiered on, making sure the Buckley eigenvalues were properly calibrated to the molecular rhombus, applied L'Hopital's Rule to the repeating squidget denominator, and of course deleted the Krelmer flange remainder. (That last part goes without saying.)

And lo and behold, everything worked! If you typed dowhatnow.typepad.com in your browser, you got my site. (If you typed it in your coffee, however, no such luck. ) If you typed in www.retrosnark.com, it worked. If you were less industrious and left off the www part, and just typed retrosnark.com, it worked. Blow the gardenias and sound the crumpets! All is well in the cyber portion of Dunnville.

So I dashed off a Tweet to tell everyone that happy days were here again, that we all now had renewed reason to jump out of bed in the morning, and that, no doubt, the economy would soon be thrumming on the head of those demons Recession and Layoff.

At which point, as you've probably already inferred, everything went to a bad place. The old URL led you to a page that didn't display properly, and the new URLs just led you to cyberlimbo. I believe that the Firefox error message said that the problem "would never resolve."

So, it's off to TypePad tech support. A scant SIX HOURS after firing off an email, I got a speedy reply. Using the tips the helpful (she really was) tech sent me, I was able to get the old URL to display properly. While the new ones still don't work, they at least just give you a blank page, instead of the "You are totally hosed, dude" error message they were generating. "Hopefully, that will be resolved today," he typed, gritting his teeth and willing himself not to pound the keys hard enough to melt them. Have I mentioned that TypePad is a paid blog host, not a free one? Because that's kinda relevant.

On a happier note, Jacob has now received his trial by fire, canine-wise, and passed with flying colors. Two trials, actually. Tuesday night, I was taking him for his afternoon perambulation (I love that word) when we approached the yard of a neighbor down the street. Said neighbor, Tim, had his Boston Terrier, Otis, out in the yard. Otis was indulging in his own afternoon perambulation, so to speak, and as soon as he had finished perambulating on the yard, he lit out for Jacob, as fast as his little legs would propel him.

Now, I'm familiar with Bostons, since I used to work with a woman who was as crazy about them as I am about Pekingeses. I know that most of them are friendly, but I also know that they're prone to getting a wee bit too excited at times, and even a 10-month-old raised with 12 paws around him at all times can get intimidated by that much snuffling canine attention, especially when that attention is coming at him at Mach 1. But Jacob didn't so much as flinch. In fact, he leaned forward in the stroller to get a better look at Otis. He's daddy's little canine-loving boy

While this was going on, Tim was of course sprinting after Otis, who only wanted to lick Jacob, not gnaw on him, and caught up with him shortly thereafter, apologizing unnecessarily and profusely. (Personal note to Tim: Hope everything goes well today with the birth of Lydia Grace.)

Yesterday, same afternoon perambulation (I love...), different dogs. Hoover and Gustav, two Basset Hounds we're familiar with, were out and snuffling around their yard. Neither dog is what you call a rocket, motivation-wise (Hoover's pulse rate is measured in presidential terms, so laidback is he), but they're both good-sized Bassets, and they both had to check out Jacob in his stroller. Again, no problem whatsoever. I love this boy. We're gonna have fun.

This is not good

2009-04-01T04:56:00.000-07:00

BlackBerry has launched their App Store. That's bad, bad news for people who are easily distracted by shiny things, and I'm positively feline when it comes to things like that. I bat them with my paws, bite them then turn them aloose quickly, and stare at them, unblinking, for hours. I fear for my productivity, and my wallet.

I know that all the cool kids have iPhones, but I like the feel of those little Chiclet keys when I'm typing out--well, thumbing out, actually--an email or some such. Plus, whipping out a BlackBerry instantly gives you much more business cred than an iPhone. It might be false cred, since you can waste just as much time on a BlackBerry as you can on an iPhone, but it's still cred, and I'll take all I can get.

I'm just not an Apple fan. It's blasphemy, I know, to suggest that Apple has ever made a mistake, or produced anything but the Best. Products. EVER! But I wonder how much bigger a market share Apple would have if its adherents weren't so...how can I put this...zealous? I'd sooner walk into a mosque and start handing out bacon yarmulkes than I would suggest to an Appleonian that Steve Jobs is anything less than deity incarnate. Lighten up a little on the Apple worship, and you might win over even more people to your side.

And, lest ye think I'm a Bill Gates apologist, rest assured that no one has raged against Windows' numerous shortcomings more than I. I calls 'em like I sees 'em, is all I'm saying.

Now, on to other issues. There will be no April Fool's jokery here, or in the Dunn household, because I'm not much of a practical joker. I can enjoy stupid humor with the best of them, and I'm not saying that my inner idiot doesn't surface every now and then and force me to pull a practical joke, but for the most part, I lost interest in them a long time ago. I don't find them funny for the same reason I don't find prank phone calls funny. The whole premise is based on making people uncomfortable, and there's no real humor in that. (To me. Your mileage may vary, as they say.)

To me, real humor consists of pointing out the absurdity of a situation, and making that absurdity accessible to everyone, so that everyone can benefit from its lampooning. Real humor hits a common nerve of recognition in everyone. It gives voice to something that everyone has felt, even if they haven't voiced that feeling, or even known that they were feeling it. Practical joke humor, on the other hand, just hits the common nerve of "I'm glad that's not me."

Yeah, that's a little more pedantic than my usual stuff, but sometimes, I've just got to throw in a changeup. Don't want y'all figuring out my pitches and smacking one of them downtown. I'll be back to the usual pointless drivel tomorrow. Please check out my other blog, follow my Tweets if you'd like, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar on the other blog. I'd appreciate all three.

Of Tom Petty, Thomas Dolby, and Tommy Shaw

2009-03-30T18:26:00.000-07:00

What is it about certain events that so lodge in your mind that you can instantly recall everything about that moment for decades later? Not the traumatic events, like losing a loved one, or the spectacular events, like watching your college team win a national championship. I mean otherwise completely forgettable events that your brain decides to indelibly etch on your cortex?

I've always been a music nut, so I've heard approximately eleventy-brazilian songs in my life. (Estimate obtained by painstaking guesswork; margin of error = plus/minus .5 eleventy.) Why, back in the eighties, I must have logged 100,000 listens of Foreigner's "Juke Box Hero" alone, thanks to the people who WOULD. NOT. QUIT. PLAYING. IT. in the Enterprise State Junior College student center juke box. To this day, when I heard that opening guitar riff, my left eye starts twitching.

And the vast majority of those song listenings has been as forgotten as "Pink Lady and Jeff" or Coy and Vance, the scab Dukes on "Dukes of Hazzard." But last night, while working on scanning up some retro badness for TOB (The Other Blog), my computer served up the MP3 of Tom Petty's "Refugee" in my wireless headphones. Instantly, I was reminded of the Thursday night I stayed home from band practice (whether it was during Mr. Pinyan's or Mr. Bolich's reign as band director at Samson High School, I can't rightly recall). No excuses, just flat-out played band hooky, which was odd, considering how much I loved band, but sometimes, you've just got to be a rebel, I reckon. I watched "Buck Rogers" on NBC--oh, what Erin Gray did to my flaming adolescent hormones, then went outside to...I don't know, really. It's not like there was a lot to do on the family farm in Hacoda, Alabama, on a Thursday night, or any other time, for that matter.

But for some reason, I ended up outside, rocking the $20 speakers and FM converter in my '74 LTD to Petty's "Refugee." And that's an event that my brain decided needed to be filed between "tying your shoelaces" and "not biting your tongue when you eat." I suspect that when I'm old and gray (yesterday, in other words), I'll still be able to recall that night.

The PC jukebox also served up "Blue Collar Man," by Styx. (That's where the Tommy Shaw part of the post title comes in, in case you didn't know. The news that Styx is playing Birmingham's City Stages music festival, without a single original member, is particularly disgusting for me, a longtime Styxphile.) Even though "Pieces of Eight," the LP that contained "Blue Collar Man," wasn't that great an album, I vividly remember buying the LP in the record shop (my son, in a few years: "What's a 'record shop,' Daddy?") located in the underground section of Northside Mall in Dothan, then staring at that album for what seemed like hours while my mother shopped. And the woman on the album was middle-aged, so it's not like I was ogling Erin Gray.

Also, if I never again hear "Renegade," from that album, I'll die a happier man.

Finally, I'll never hear Thomas Dolby's "She Blinded Me with Science" without thinking of the time I helped (kinda; Robin was a technical genius on such matters, so I pretty much just stood around) my friend Robin Powell install some new, supremely bad Bose speakers in his classic Camaro, then shook the south Alabama ground with "Science," from the cassette "The Golden Age of Wireless." I recently linked up with Robin on Facebook after too many years of non-contact, and he tells me that he remembers that day, too. He also says that his daughters looked at him like he was growing an antler out of his forehead when he told them what a cool song that was. Is. Cool song that is, dangit.

Jacob's only 10 months old, so I doubt he's formed any kind of musical memories like that, but I'm sure they'll come. You can already tell that he likes some Dr. Seuss books better than others, however. "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" is good, but "Green Eggs and Ham" and "Hop On Pop" really tickle his innards. "Ham" is even better when Daddy gets to emote to the heavens while reading it, and also reads certain sections like John Moschitta. (In case you missed it, I coined a new word yesterday: Seussphonia. The inability to speak in anything but rhymes after prolonged periods of reading Dr. Seuss aloud.)

So he's already formed some opinions, and his tastes are being shaped. I just hope when he's my age and reminiscing on his blog, he doesn't post, "I remember the first time I heard 'Poker Face' and 'Right Round.'"

Forgot to add this: Here's "Refugee," in memory of that long-ago Thursday night.

Grits pie: Don't knock it 'till you've tried it

2009-03-30T04:54:00.000-07:00

I know it sounds bad, even to my Southern ears, but lemme tell you. Grits pie is really good, especially if you take a blowtorch and melt a layer of sugar on top, like the fancy cooks do with creme brulees. Which is what I did last night. "Any time you can combine cooking with the use of a miniature flamethrower, take it" has always been one of my guiding principles of life. Recipe for the grits pie, which is like an egg custard but with a little more body, courtesy of Paula "More butter on that butter, please" Deen, bless her heart. You'll have to purchase a blowtorch and experiment with melting the sugar on top of it, if you want to "Dunnify" it.

I actually purchased the blowtorch to insta-roast some barbecued marshmallows, which is something else you shouldn't knock until you've tried. The sugar coating on the pie was just gravy. So to speak.

Moving on.

For quite a while, The Lovely Missus and Mama Dunn have been saying that Jacob is growing up so fast you can see it. But I couldn't see it. If I looked at older pictures of him, ("People say, 'This is a picture of me when I was younger.' Every picture is a picture of you when you were younger." The late, great Mitch Hedberg), I could see that he'd grown in girth and length, and that his head is in better proportion to his body now, but I didn't get that, "Holy Moses, what happened overnight?!" feeling. Until this weekend. TLM took Jacob to visit her folks and some friends Friday night, then returned yesterday afternoon. This morning, I got him out of bed, and I started to check for birthmarks to make sure he was mine. Whence comest this gargantuan baby, who's aged from 10-month-old to post-adolescent in a weekend's span?

Honestly, he acts suddenly and disproportionatly older, and looks suddenly and disproportionately older. I'm accustomed to looking in the mirror and shrieking because my visage has been surreptitiously replaced by that of a much older, much less hirsute, much wrinklier man. I'm not accustomed to my infant boy looking like he's about to say, "So, what about that stimulus package, Father? Is it a crucial boost to the economy, or just FDR-esque floundering that will only worsen and already untenable situation, vis-a-vis the dollar?"

Did he enjoy the weekend?

Yeah. A little.

It's Friday somewhere

2009-03-26T21:23:00.000-07:00

No, no. Not gonna turn this into a "Weeee-hooooo, it's party time post." I'm just saying that, owing to the vicissitudes of time zone distribution, it's already Friday not more than an hour or so east of me. Ergo, I'm posting some stuff for Friday.

As noted in Thursday's post, I have the bad teeth in the marriage, a fact that I consider so very much unfair. The Lovely Missus has white, sparkling teeth. Mine are tetracycline-stained, and make me look, shall we say, exotic. The kind of exotic where people have gray teeth, if there is such a place. Of course, The Lovely Missus never gets cavities.

Furthermore, The Lovely Missus has great gums, even though she wields her toothbrush with a pulsing vengeance while I caress my gums with the loving touch of a Swiss watchmaker. She has excellent gums, and of course mine are racing my hairline to see who dies first.

Life ain't fair, I reckon.

Where do you look, when you're being "spreeeeeeeeeened" and "graunnnnnnnnnnched" and "slurrrrrrrrrrrrrppppppppppppppped" in the dentail chair? If you do as I do, and pick a point in the room that prevents you from having to look the dentist and hygienist in the eye, then you get a lot of, "You doing okay?", as if they're worried you're catatonic with pain. And if Ilook them in the eye, I get the feeling that I'm disconcerting them, perhaps to the point of anger and dentyn destruction.

I had a root canal about a year ago, and those people knew who to throw a dental pulp throwdown, lemme tell you. I sat back in the chair, settled in, and what to my painful eyes should appear but a television in the ceiling! Hallelujah! While the endodontist did his palliatory work, I sat back and watched some Discovery show on sharks. Happy? I could have died.

Side note to those who hear "root canal" and feel its worse than death: I've had two, and neither of them was hard at all. Plus, they give you that sweet, sweet release from the pain. Pain caused, by the way, by the necrotic tissue in your tooth releasing gasses, which push against the nerve tissue. Now, run along and eat your cream of wheat.

Getting back to the dental work I had done, it was on the bottom front teeth, which mean that my bottom lip wouldn't have passed a blood-alcohol test in Moscow. I could barely keep from drooling on myself, and I couldn't say some words very well. Take a look.

Jacob is dealing better with the fact that I sometimes come and go with, to his thinking, no rhyme or reason. Of course, I still have to stop and pick him up sometimes, even if it's just for a minute or two. And, once things are slowed down for the evening, I get in the floor with him and my three four-legged children for a free-for-all. Jacob mostly sits back, watches the fur fly, and squeals with glee. More and more personality emerging, too, like the sly smile he knows can get him out of anything. Here's the bad news--I think he's gonna be like his dad and be a few bubbles off plumb when it comes to humor. Pray for my wife.

Finally, Friday ain't Friday without some weirdness, so here are Karen and Richard Carpenter attempting to communicate with aliens. Seriously. It's "Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft," also known as "The Recognized Anthem of World Contact Day." (Had you deduced that this was from the seventies?) You can read about it here, and listen to it here.

Multitasking

2009-03-26T04:28:00.000-07:00

Speak not to me of multitasking if you're just running spreadsheet calculations, a browser, Twittering up a storm, poking somebody on Facebook, and stirring your coffee with an earlobe. Multitasking is blogging at 6:30 a.m. with a 10-month-old (exactly, today) climbing up your leg trying to get to the laptop. Especially when that 10-month-old is alternating screeching at me with bouncing his face on the couch cushion while going "da-da-da-da-da-da-da." That, my friends, is multitasking.

Dentist appointment this morning to fill some cavities, which is so wrong. I floss like I'm getting paid for it. The Lovely Missus flosses when she thinks about it. I brush my teeth with the delicate precision of a stagecoach mohel. The Lovely Missus brushes like she's removing grout. So who has the cavities and receding gumline? Me, of course.

The appointment is messing up my blogging schedule, so I might do a real post this afternoon. Have a good Thursday, Sam-I-Am. (Yes, he's in the Seuss Zone. Even the dogs have taken to barking in rhyme.)

My eyes are all red (ba dah duh dum DOMP)

2009-03-25T05:49:00.000-07:00

My nerves are all jumpy (ba dah duh dum DOMP)
I didn't get no rest (ba dah duh dum DOMP)
Today's gonna be bumpy (ba dah duh dum DOMP)
I got dem lowdown, throwdown, slowdown, blowed-down, baby wouldn't sleep last night blues.

Thankyew. Thank yewverrrrmuch. Y'all can come see me in Clarksdale, Mississippi, all week.

I had trouble getting to sleep, while the progeny had trouble staying asleep, so I'm typing behind eyes that feel grainier than a 110-film picture. I still have some of those old pictures, and one of these days, when Jacob is complaining that his satellite-TV-equipped, nuclear-powered BlackBerry just hosed one of the pictures he shot with its badillion-pixel camera, I'm going to show those pictures to him. Then I'm going to tell him how we used to think it was downright spiffy that you took pictures from a fixed-focus camera with less resolution than the Middle East, illuminated by a flash cube that usually operated correctly about as often as Washington does, then you sent off your pictures somewhere, and waited a few days for them to get back. Then he'll just laugh and say he doesn't care, and he'll just shake his head and go back to looking at nursing home brochures.

An aside to Pres. Obama, who I'm sure reads this blog every morning: Seriously, I counted 336 "uh"s in last night's press conference. Work on that.

I emailed a friend of mine that maybe you could compare the Facebook/MySpace/Twitter craze to the CB radio craze of the seventies, good buddy. He 10-4'ed me, then said he'd catch me on the flip side, to keep the peanut butter out of my ears and watch out for Smokey, come back. Which is to say that you have to wonder if all this isn't going to flame out at some point. Or at least suffer some burnback to where we're not all online, all the time.

That conversation reminded me of this picture. Let me hasten to add that I'm one of those being mocked in this photo, so it's not a case of me jesting at scars when I've never felt a wound (he typed, in his first and most likely last Shakesperean reference). I just think it's hilarious. And I have no idea where it came from, so if I'm trifling with somebody's reproduction rights, let me know and I'll take it down like a yokozuna sumo wrestler on Emo Phillips.

Speaking of sumo, anybody who wants to buy me this table will earn a friend for life.
I should caution, however, that in addition to my becoming your friend for life, you'll also become the target of a designing vendetta from The Lovely Missus, who will track you down and garrote you in your sleep, so weigh both effects before adding that thing to your shopping cart.

Since I thought about the CB radio days, here's the trucker's national anthem. It's Bill Fries, bka C.W. McCall, (kinda) singing "Convoy."

Please check out my other blog, follow my Tweets if you'd like, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar on the other blog. I'd appreciate all three.

Yep, I'm late

2009-03-24T08:43:00.001-07:00

I've been running in molasses all morning. Metaphorical, mental molasses, I mean, not literal molasses, since that stuff can kill you under the right circumstances. (In Mississippi and in Boston. Goodness knows I'm not making fun of the fact that people died from molasses, but you've got to admit that it's comical to contemplate people refusing syrup the rest of their lives because "That's made of the stuff that killed Daddy.")

Just can't get going, is what I'm saying.

But I press on, nonetheless. Never have I let the lack of mental acuity or capability prevent me from broadcasting my fevered thoughts, so I'm not going to start now.

The labors of the 21st-century home office organizer: Rip all your unripped CDs so you can never be more than a few mouse clicks from mountains of music gigabytes, then try to decide which books you can donate to charity, which ones you can try to sell on Amazon or eBay, and which ones you just can't part with. I'm not overly romantic about books, but I will admit to having trouble parting with any I've accumulated, even if I've never read more than a few pages. I doubt I'll ever again be faced with a test from Geology 101, but can I take the chance and dispense with that textbook?

And what about that box of cables that continues to breed and expand? Every time I buy a new electronic doohickey, it comes with cables both proprietary and universal, and I'm paralyzed by the thought of throwing any of them away, lest I one day find that I can't use my USB-powered coffee stirrer to its full potential. (I'm kidding with that coffee-stirrer remark, of course. My coffee-stirrer runs off the 220 outlet I had specially wired into my computer desk.)

It's interesting to watch the two views of housekeeping The Lovely Missus and I have. I've almost never met an artifact I didn't think I'd need to keep, sometimes to the detriment of living space and to the benefit of dust collection. The Lovely Missus, on the other hand, never met an artifact she didn't approach with the same disregard "Star Trek" directors had for red-shirted crewmembers. They know they're gonna get whacked. It's just a matter of time.

Luckily, each of us has grown to moderate the other's excesses. I still glom onto and hoard things longer than I should, and she still goes "Take no prisoners, give no quarter" on things we end up needing later, but the end result is shaping up to be a rather healthy, middle-of-the-road approach to housekeeping. Except for the t-shirts. Nobody touches the t-shirts. You wouldn't like me when you touch the t-shirts.

As my longsuffering wife will tell you, I'm kind of obsessive about my t-shirts, even though I'm now old enough that there are a few I'll only wear around the house. Sometimes, you just age out of the t-shirt demographic, and I don't want to be "that guy."

Jacob is almost walking now, two days shy of his turning 10 months old. He has a plastic lawnmower that he inherited from his cousin Victoria, and if he holds onto it, he can walk a few steps. I've yet to shoot video, but of course you know that it's coming. Oh, and I'm pretty sure he's already figured out he can get away with epic levels of murder as long as he flashes that smile. We're in for a long childhood.

Please check out my other blog, follow my Tweets if you'd like, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar on the other blog. I'd appreciate all three.

Sunday night Monday blogging

2009-03-22T21:02:00.000-07:00

Got a passel of deadlines that are all hitting tomorrow, and an interview that I'm actually conducting in person (really looking forward to that; the interviewee is great), so Monday morning isn't going to be very conducive to blogging. Hence the late hour, which I hope doesn't interfere with the usual stellar, life-changing quality 30-of my posts. (Snort.)

Last week, over on TOB (The Other Blog), I mentioned Jack Palance, who before he was Jack was Walter Palance. A loyal reader pointed out that originally, he was Volodymyr Palahniuk, which, if Americans could pronounce, would be an even better tough guy name. But Jack/Walter/Volodymyr had another, more introspective, musical side, a side that you can hear here, ya' hear? If the thought of Jack Palance singing, kinda, "The Green, Green Grass of Home" and "My Elusive Dreams" doesn't make you click, you have no soul.

In other news, I Twittered that my Facebook was now blogging emails to my Myspace, then taking pictures and posting it to Flickr, and I think I broke the Internets. Sorry.

Had an ox in the ditch today, biblically speaking, so I spent darn near all the day in front of this keyboard. Finished one article, after much mailing and mashing of teeth. (It's no typo. I send a lot of emails and I take my thumb and push on my upper incisors when I'm nervous.) The only problem is that the article dealt with Carolina cuisine, and now I'm craving she-crab soup and a dessert from Kaminsky's in Charleston. Or a red velvet cake with cream cheese icing from Kudzu Bakery in Georgetown.

New favorite activity: Not shaving for a day or two, and then tickling Jacob's feet with my whiskers. He wails with glee. He's also figured out that he can grab hold of the dogs' hair if he pretends to not be interested, then fires out his hand like a cobra. A little, cute, smooth-skinned cobra, but a cobra, nonetheless. It's like he's the snake, and he's surrounded by three mongooses. Mongeese. However you say it. Do I look like a mongooseologist?

Still working on branding myself. I'm gonna make this thing work, I tells you. What I don't tells you is that sometimes, it's hard to keep this branding thing from looking as ill-advised an adventure as a Jonas Brothers klezmer album. But I'm still in there plugging, picking up the lunchbox of hope and clocking in at the foundry of the future to stamp out the galvanized sloth of ennui. Or something. It's late.

As always, you can follow me on Twitter, and check out my other blog, where you can even drop a tuppence or farthing or drachma in the tip jar. I'll appreciate all three.

Bleary-eyed Friday Posting

2009-03-19T08:02:00.001-07:00

My brain hates my body. My brain continually slaps my body around, asking it, "Who's your cortex?! Who's your CORTEX?!" and putting cigarettes out on my body's forehead. The worst bullying comes at night, when, for no reason at all, my bullying brain decides that two or three hours of sleep is plenty for him, and if it's good enough for him, why should he have to sit in the dark while that goldbricking body attempts to recharge? So at 1:30 a.m. or so, my brain becomes the Sergeant Carter to my body's Gomer Pyle. "Up and at 'em, ladies! Moveitmoveitmoveit! We're burning darkness!"

If my body asks for mercy, this is how my brain responds.

Lying in bed trying to go back to sleep doesn't help. That just makes my brain madder and jumpier. So I'm on Facebook at 1 a.m. this morning taking tests to see what "Andy Griffith Show" character I am (Andy), what kind of performer I am in bed (fabulous), and what my IQ is (over 140, if you believe an online test with typographical errors. The same kind of test that calculated what 80s band I was, and concluded that I was the soft rock Beach Boys. Because the Beach Boys were really the quintessential 80s band, and because the neverending stream of Drive-by Truckers, Wrinkle Neck Mules, Webb Wilder, Dan Baird, etc. is a sure sign of a soft rock addict).

I said all that to say that I'm still groggy, and this post will most likely set new records for lameness. I'm fully prepared to refund the full admission price, if you'll just send me a copy of your ticket.

Gonna set new records for randomness, too, because I'm going from my insomnia to an inverted swastika on an old comic book. (No, I don't have a segue, either.) I've been following Golden Age Comic Book Stories in my Google Reader for the last couple of months, and I love it more than peas, to steal a line from a friend of mine. Lots and lots of creepy, interesting, lurid comic book covers, and sometimes whole comic books, as well as other goodness. And while it's never a dull scan, this picture from yesterday made mandible meet hardwood when I saw it.

Not the picture itself, which is retro-cool but not shocking. Check out the insignia just below the title. Yep, that's a swastika, aka, "The Symbol of Good Magazine Reading."

Now, I'm aware that Hitler didn't invent the swastika, and I'm also aware that the swastika on this comic is laid out differently than the Nazi's swastika was. But I never knew that a swastika was a symbol of good magazine reading. Anybody out there have any insight into this?

Until Monday, here's hoping your life is just one long Saturday night, as BR5-49 put it.

Remember that time he was funny? Me neither

2009-03-19T07:05:00.000-07:00

Evidently, Sacha Baron Cohen/Borat/Bruno has returned to my home state to film more of his hilarious antics. You know, those gut-busting creative works of delicate genius where he takes advantage of the kindness of strangers by making them as uncomfortable as possible and filming it? And everybody laughs and says that if you don't laugh, then it means that you don't have a sense of humor, when in fact it's precisely a sense of humor that prevents your laughing, because this is nothing resembling humor?

Look, I'm a big boy. I can take hits on Alabama. That's both the state and the state university, which I attended. Want to make fun of our football obsession? Bring it on. We're psycho for it. Slag on us for our rural areas? Wait for me, and I'll take you coon-hunting. Think it's hilarious that the Crimson Tide could be in trouble with the NCAA AGAIN? Hit me. I'm braced.

But what Cohen does isn't making fun of Alabama, it's making fun of innocent people. And not ripe targets for satire, either, even though the state doesn't lack for targets. Birmingham's mayor wants to build a ginormous sports dome, an aquarium that's as big as the world's biggest in Atlanta, and bring the Olympics to the city in 2020, all while the county is circling the drain in terms of bankruptcy and he's under indictment for alleged corruption. That's a whole Michael Moore pseodu-documentary right there, and I'll volunteer to pull cables while somebody films it.

Of course, really good satire requires a deft touch and intelligence, and Cohen--why do I need to know this clown's middle name?--has exhibited neither. His "humor" consists of pretending to be a homosexual, or a foreigner, or a foreign homosexual, then going to functions and being foreign or homosexual. In other words, he makes a "Gilligan's Island" script look as original as a previously undiscovered Mark Twain novel.

And he's hung around with Will Ferrell too long, too, because he's even recycling title themes. He's following up his "Borat: Cultural Leanings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan" with "Bruno: Delicious Journeys Through America for the Purpose of Making Heterosexual Males Visibly Uncomfortable in the Presence of a Gay Foreigner in a Mesh T-Shirt." Actually, that's not fair to Will Ferrell, who at least pretends to be playing a different overgrown kid character in his movies. Adam Sandler even tried to do drama, for crying out loud. (Completely true fact: Just as I typed that, Dan Baird and the Yayhoos' "For Cryin' Out Loud" began playing on my computer. Coincidence? Yeah, pretty much, but it's still interesting. To me, at least.) And Johnny Knoxville has the common decency to literally smash his or his minions' gonads, not figuratively do it to strangers. That's right, people, I just made a comparison between Johnny Knoxville and Cohen, and Cohen lost.

Of course, the movie will make multiple millions, and the cognoscenti will say he's a genius, and I'll shake my head a few more times in disgust. Then I'll pull out some of my "Andy Griffith Show" DVDs so I can show Jacob that it is possible to write humor, not just mine fake humor out of others' misfortunes.

On a lighter note, Clarence "Frogman" Henry turns 72 today. Here's his "Ain't Got No Home," which I can never hear often enough. And yes, I'm aware that you'll be singing "Woo, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh" all day. Yer welcome.

Wombats! In my town!

2009-03-17T19:28:00.000-07:00

And not just any old, run-of-the-mill wombat. Nosirree, these are hairy-nosed wombats, which, as any wombatologist will tell you, are the best kind.I assure you that picture is completely Photoshop-free. They really look like that. Also, I think that any job that allows you to cuddle wombats pretty much stomps a mudhole in any other job. Unless another job lets you cuddle binturongs. Binturongs are deadly cute, and they smell like popcorn. Why hasn't there been more research into domesticating these animals? Can't Pres. Obama take some of that free time he's using to go on Leno and fill out an NCAA bracket and call for more wombat and binturong domesticating?

Jacob hasn't been to the Birmingham Zoo, because, you know, he can't quite drive and we haven't taken him. But it's close enough to Spring that I'm calling it that (I got the morning paper this morning in shorts!), so we may rectify that shortcoming this weekend. I doubt he'll understand all that much about the zoo, but I want to indoctrinate him into a love for animals at an early age. He's well on his way when it comes to dogs, although our three hairy Pekingeses would appreciate it if he'd hurry up and learn the difference between "pet" and "grab." They're learned to skirt around him when he's sitting on the floor, lest they lose a tiny handful of fur when he latches on like a human cocklebur.

If we do make the zoo trip, you can bet there will be a blizzard of pictures. Digital cameras for the win, as they say. And digital memory, too. If I can shoot roughly 1,000 pictures on a 2-gig memory card, and you can snag a one-TERABYTE hard drive for roughly $125, then you might as well glue the shutter button down and shoot from daylight to dark. It's not like I have to take film down to the processor and pay for each picture.

Getting the morning paper and taking film to the processor. Two things that my son will look on the same way I looked on keying Morse into a telegraph. "People really used to do that?" The digital storm takes no prisoners.

Non sequitur thought of the morning: I use wireless headphones when I have to write and need a little help blocking out background noise. When I do that, I'm always amazed at the little auditory frills, fills, furbelows, and such that I pick up with headphones (real headphones, not earbuds), even on songs that I've heard twelveteen-zillion times. And I'm a music nerd, so I listen to songs really closely. (The Lovely Missus gets justifiably frustrated when I rewind a section of a song and ask, "Do you hear that Hammond organ?") So I pay much closer attention than the average bear. And if I'm just now hearing those things for the first time, it's fair to think that the average listener never notices them. Yet the musicians and producers work hard putting them onto a record--I mean, into a digital file; there's another technology Jacob will never become familiar with. So here's to you, Mr. Work Hard to Get that Pedal Steel Flourish Just Right, Even Though It's Only a Second Long and Most People Will Never Notice It Guy!

Doesn't feel much like an Irish morning

2009-03-17T05:23:00.001-07:00

Jacob slept until 7:25 this morning, which both comforted me and had me on edge. He's usually up by 5, or at most 5:30, and he went to bed at the usual time last night, so that was quite a departure for him. I know he was okay, because I'd gone in and checked on him, plus we've got the video baby monitor, even though I consider the use of it a form of wiretapping. (Joke shamelessly stolen from Steven Wright.) So, while I enjoyed the extra quiet time, I was also jumpier than Sylvester in "Scaredy Cat," wondering if every coo or grunt was indicative of impending consciousness.

I'm not one that gets all het up over St. Patrick's Day, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to combine my progeny with a plastic, green derby.

Which brings me to today's post, which I've recycled and reworked a couple of times. If you've already read it, I apologize for the repetition, and I'll also point out that I've added a few things, so maybe it'll be worth your time. Years ago, for some completely unknown but in retrospect prescient reason, I attempted to set down on paper, or at least pixels, the wisdom I’ve accumulated in my years on Earth. Don’t laugh. I haven't made it this many years without learning a few things. Not many, I’ll grant you that. But some odds and sods have managed to cling to my neurons and synapses, although they had quite a battle, what with having to fight off all those idiotic bits of useless arcana like the words to “The Andy Griffith Show” theme song, verbatim Dennis Miller quips, and the “Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start” Nintendo cheat code. (That's the old Nintendo, not this newfangled Wii thing. In my day, we had blocky graphics and clunky controllers and limited action and when you changed the view in your golf game it took an hour to re-render the scene and we loved it! We couldn't get enough of it!)

One quick caveat: These are just some tidbits that have the teensiest scintilla of value. It’s not like I make decisions solely on them. Other people, much smarter than I, have already written down my real playbook. Now, onward, in no particular order.

Hollywood isn’t real. Whatever you see, hear, or read about that comes from Hollywood, you should view it as coming from a mental institution, and I say that meaning no disrespect to mental institutions, which actually serve a purpose. Sure, there will be a few tidbits worth paying attention to, but for the most part, you should just watch from a distance and be glad you’re not in there.

Anybody who’ll gossip around you will gossip about you.

Look over your shoulder. There’s nobody watching, so it’s okay to fail.

Nobody has to like you. Do what's right and they will like you, but that's an offshoot, not the goal.

In the same vein, happiness isn't the goal of life, it's a byproduct.

Crunchy, not creamy, peanut butter. Coke, not Pepsi. And “unsweet tea” is an oxymoron.

Baser things are no more “real” than higher things. Violence and foul language might be applauded as being “real,” but that’s because it’s easier to write them into a script or song than love or loyalty.

Dogs soften life. Keep them around you. Pet them often.

Things are rarely as bad, or as good, as they seem. So patience is precious to have, painstaking to learn, indispensable in maintaining your sanity, and goes hand-in-hand with perspective.

Never go to a movie labeled “critically acclaimed.” What this means is that some self-important pseudo-intellectuals got together and decided that we peons would have our lives brightened by seeing something that’s not funny, not moving, not understandable, and not interesting. If we could go back in time and whomp the guy who first called abstract art “critically acclaimed,” we’d still have paintings that actually looked like something.

For all intents and purposes, Honda cars last forever. Change the oil and rotate the tires semi-regularly, and they’ll never desert you. (Not really that literary, I know, but it’s the truth.)

Any time you hear the phrase, “It’s not the money, it’s the principle,” it’s the money.

Anything or anyone described in ads as “wacky” or “zany” isn’t either. Certain qualities should just stand out. For instance, we don’t have to say “Crazy” Charles Manson.

The Beatles broke more ground, The Rolling Stones were a better band, but Lynyrd Skynyrd could blow both them off the stage.

An actor/singer usually isn't much of either.

Every single generation believes that their music is better than the next generation’s. Unfortunately, around 1990 or so, this belief became real. Sorry, but except for some standouts that you won’t find on regular radio, good music went underground about then. You’re gonna need to dig to find the good stuff. I’ll help.

Creative types (and your male parental unit is one of them) are vociferous in their defense of their work because they don’t want to work a real job. They may talk about the sanctity of their art, their poetry or prose, or-—this is the worst-—their “craft,” but what they’re really saying is, “Keep believing this fiction. I really don’t want to go back to working at Wal-Mart.”

There’s nothing wrong with working at Wal-Mart.

Practice makes perfect, like it or not. In other words, what you do over and over will become easier and easier, whether that thing is good or bad.

We’re all one stupid mistake from ruining our lives. Don’t let that scare you, because you’re going to mess up, and you’ll learn from those mistakes. Just know that nobody who ever lost a job, or a marriage, or anything else good, started out with the intention of suffering that loss. Nobody ever thinks, “Hey, I know. I’ll linger too long on Youtube and get fired over it.”

If your self-esteem is elevated or lowered one iota because of a sporting event, you’re doing it wrong. As Jerry Seinfeld once said, when fans leaving a game say, “We won!” what they really mean is, “They won!” All the fans did was watch. If you are too high or low after a game, find the nearest children’s hospital and visit it. Five minutes of introspection in those halls and you won’t be able to remember the score of the game, much less the quarterback’s game-losing fumble.

The last item shouldn’t dissuade you from enjoying sports. Just keep them in perspective. And while you’re keeping them in perspective, remember that college football is the only important sport. Everything else is just a game. Especially golf.

If you’re back is hairy enough to poke out over your t-shirt collar, you can never go shirtless.

Don’t ever look down on anybody’s accent, including your own. A Southern accent is no more indicative of a low intellect than a Brooklyn one, and Southern colloquialisms are just as valid as Northern ones. Say “y’all” with pride. As Jason Isbell put it, "Don't worry about losing your accent. A Southern man tells better jokes."

That being said, there is no R in “Washington.”

When you're tempted to lose your cool over something, apply Dunn's Third-World Rule, which states: "You're not allowed to get torqued about a situation unless a third-world resident would." Here are some examples of DTWR in use:

Your Internet connection just winked out in the middle of your posting something to Facebook. You're mad enough to stomp bunnies, but if the same thing happened to Djibouti's version of Joe Citizen, he'd be deliriously happy that he had a computer, electricity, literacy, non-leprous fingers to type, and a lack of dysentery that allowed him to sit in one place and opine on how much he loved crispy-edged pancakes. Ergo, you must remain cool.

On the other hand, if your child is sick, or you see grave injustice being perpetrated, Djibouti's Joe Citizen would be upset right along with you, and upset clearance has been granted.

And finally, everybody you meet on the highway is an idiot.

In which Jim freaks out over deadlines and such

2009-03-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

My brain is a dichotomy right now. Part of it is Kevin Bacon's Chip Diller character in "Animal House," saying, "Remain calm. All is well." The other part of it is the crowd that Diller is saying his own little serenity prayer to, which is having a mass screaming hissy.

I've got a deadline this afternoon, I'm trying to pick up another assignment that if I do manage to snag will have an extremely short deadline, I had a dentist's appointment this morning, and my office still resembles a flea market after an F5 tornado strike. And I'm working on just a few hours of sleep, since once again, my brain decided to show my body who's boss and refuse to shut down last night.

So pray please forgive me the late post, and the brevity, inanity, and randomness of this post. Worse, it's gonna be one of those lame Larry King-esque "three-dotter" ripoffs. Here's what I mean.

When it comes to screaming female rock lead singers, Linda Perry of 4 Non Blondes was the tops in my book...Why didn't Led Zeppelin ever get around to correcting the misspelled word in their name? I have the same question for the Beatles...I don't know who the fellow was who first picked, dried, steeped, and drank tea was, but he's a stand-up guy, if you ask me...Curly got all the acclaim, but nothing would have worked with Larry's understated eloquence...Why are there no successful British food franchises? Somebody smart could corner the spotted dick and toad-in-the-hole market...People say this Internet thing is here to stay, but it'll get my business when you can take it with you to the bathroom in the morning. Am I right, people?...Dexter's in Phoenix has the best fried spam. Ask to have it "knurled and throttled." Horace will know what you mean...I don't care what everybody else says, I'll never refer to a remote control as a "clicker." That cheapens the majesty of the thing...More tiki, less crime. I'm just saying...Nothing braces me like a mid-morning Listerine gargle...People say that NASCAR drivers only turn left, but I could say the same thing about baseball players. Think about it...All I need to know I learned from "Schoolhouse Rock" and that Timer character...Black coffee? Might as well call it "naked coffee," as far as I'm concerned. I have to have powdered creamer and two of those pink sweetener packets...I changed horses once in the middle of a stream. Don't see what the big deal is..."Mission: Impossible" was the last great television show to have a colon in the title.

Told you it was lame. Until tomorrow.

I love that new Kremlin Regiment album!

2009-03-14T14:03:00.000-07:00

Dude, you are soooooo a loser if you haven't already bought Kremlin Regiment's "Make Them Happy, Not Gold." Here's the cover.

Only there's no such band as Kremlin Regiment. What you're looking at is "my" album cover, generated via the latest Internet meme I'm aware of. Here's whatcha do.

1 - Go to Wikipedia. Hit “random” or click http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to “Random quotations” or click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to Flickr and click on “explore the last seven days” or click http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use GIMP, Photoshop or similar to put it all together.

And there you have it. I'll admit that it's not easy to read, but Kremlin Regiment have always been about the music, man. Don't you see? Reading is a manmade invention, dude, but music is universal and eternal, and other adjectives that might get me a girl.

It's a departure for this blog, but I'm gonna do it anyway: anybody who makes an album cover and sends it to me gets it posted here. That way, literally ones of people can see it, worldwide.

Make yours today!

And so it begins

2009-03-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Jacob is about 9.5 months old, and except for family and the occasional short visit, we really haven't entertained anybody since he was born. Actually, now that I think about it, that entertainment embargo began a couple of months before he was born, since The Lovely Missus wasn't in the best of health in the latter stages of her pregnancy. But we're biting the bullet and having some ridiculously friendly and nice neighbors over tonight. I've fully warned them that Jacob is actually a tiny superhero, and can turn from babbling, diabetic-coma-causing cutesy baby into The Vomit Volcano in a nanosecond. (The backstory is that his home planet, Pukeulus, was in danger of collapsing in on itself and becoming a black hole because of the accumulated mass of vomit, so his real parents put him on a teeny rocket that landed outside the IHOP near our house. I'd just finished off a Rooty Tooty, Fresh & Fruity breakfast and was waddling to the car, so I brought him home, unaware of the clothes destruction he was capable of causing. I'm the Mindy to his Mork. On the plus side, our three dogs always follow him around, hoping they'll have something interesting to eat off the floor. A paper towel can't hold a candle to three Pekingese tongues when it comes to cleaning regurgitated gack out of a hardwood floor slat.)

Not only are the neighbors ridiculously friendly and nice, but they're also the owners of a French Bulldog that'll make you want to reach through your monitor and pinch him.

Look at that nose, people. Seriously, shouldn't it be illegal for anything on this earth to be that cute? Shouldn't he have to wear a mask, so that you could be warned that the face you're about to see could kill you dead of cuteness? And he's as lovable as he is cute, too.

So tonight, we're going to have friends over for the first time since a few months BB (before baby), and we're going to have Bogey, Penelope, Brutus, and Humphrey all together in the same house. Go big or go home, I always say. Rip that Band-Aid off. Jump in the icy river. Overuse weak metaphors.

I'm cooking gumbo, since the only recipe I have makes enough for a lumberjack convention, and I hate halving recipes to make just enough for the familial unit. I'm pretty much a slapdash kind of dude (our family crest says "Ut Bonus Satis," Latin for "Eh, that's good enough") except for a few things, and recipes are one of them. I loves me some Paula Deen, mainly because she believes a pound of butter needs more butter, but she makes my facial tic act up when she says to "add a little flour" or "stir in just enough cinnamon" or some such. And, while the wannabe-engineer in me says that halving or quartering a recipe is perfectly acceptable, I still have trouble doing it.

The gumbo recipe is pretty killer stuff, if I do say so myself. Plus, I get to use a honkin' big, heavy, cast-iron Dutch oven, which I love. Makes me feel like a rugged outdoorsman, although real rugged outdoorsmen don't get all squicky when their Internet connection winks out, and I'm fairly sure they eschew microwave caramel popcorn, too.

Don't forget that you can follow all my madcap escapades on Twitter now. And a special thanks to the two new followers! Yee-haw!

Until Monday, this is Les Nesman saying good day, and may the good news be yours.

Yes, you do in fact alter quotes

2009-03-12T05:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a confession you won't hear many writers/reporters make: We alter quotes all the time. All the time. And any writer/reporter who denies that is either a liar or has a terrible memory.

Don't get me wrong. I've never knowingly misrepresented anything anyone said at any time, and I never will. (I've also never been accused of doing so.) I've never convoluted a source's words to mean something he didn't, never cast a quote as leaning toward the opposite pole of what the speaker originally said. But I've spoken with captains of industry, academic minds of towering stature, political and civic leaders, public figures accustomed to speaking to reporters, and sources of every other stripe, and I've probably altered quotes from every one of them. I've taken out "er" and "um" and "uh, uh, uh, you know, uh" and every other kind of verbal hitch. I've corrected subject-verb agreements, run-on sentences, unclear antecedents, slang, everything. And I've done this for people from every walk of life, of every intelligence and academic level.

Everybody makes mistakes while speaking. Everybody. Everybody. Unless it's truly pertinent to the situation (you're writing a scathing column about how the local teacher's union president doesn't speak proper English, for example), you clean up those missteps. I used to cover high school sports. Why should I directly quote a 16-year-old football player's hyperanimated remarks made in the glow of a state championship win, and embarrass him and his family? And believe me, I've heard plenty of cringe-inducing statements in that kind of environment. I've also heard off-the-cuff remarks that could have ended more than one career if they had been published, and that I was not told to keep off the record, that I just let slide by my typing fingers. If I'd been writing absolutely verbatim quotes, I'd have included them.

So there's no need for Mobile Press-Register reporter Robert McClendon to write that one of the witnesses to the mass killings in my hometown said, "He wasn't in no hurry." I've seen other direct quotes from Samson residents that had similar grammar. I don't doubt that those are direct quotes. I just think that, considering how a witness to mass murder is telling how he somehow escaped being another victim to that murder, maybe you cut the guy a little slack. Maybe change "no" to "any," just because he'd literally stared down the barrel of a gun, and he'd seen his daughter rush to pick up a four-month-old covered in her mother's and sister's blood, a four-month-old who'd also been shot, and it's just possible that's the kind of thing you don't get over by drinking a cold Coke and resting on the couch for a few minutes. Maybe.

Of all the sad news coming out of Samson, I think what chilled me the most was the quote from Geneva County Sheriff's Deputy Josh Myers, who had been involved in the effort to stop the maniac and only found out later that his wife and 18-month-old daughter were killed, and his four-month-old injured. Myers said, "I feel like I should be able to walk in the house and my wife would be there, my baby girl climbing on me." The night I first read that comment, I went around hugging everybody in my family who wasn't already in bed, and that includes my three dogs.

On a lighter note, my mother took Jacob out for a stroll yesterday. Just like his daddy, he never goes perambulating without his shades.

Mass murders in your hometown

2009-03-11T08:53:00.000-07:00

My hometown is Samson, Alabama, a small city in the southeast part of the state known as the Wiregrass (pronounced "Wargrass" if you're a native), just a few miles from the Florida line. I actually grew up on a family farm about 10 miles from that, but went to school in Samson, and we did most of our business in the town. The population is roughly 2,000, give or take a few. It used to have three red lights, but a few years ago, the central red light was made a caution light. It's a Mayberry of a town. Not that it's perfect, like the fictional home of Andy Taylor, but everybody knows everybody else, everybody is related to everybody else, and nothing much happens other than raising kids, farming, going to football games, and church. Put it this way: Samson is located in Geneva County, which is still dry. If you want to buy alcohol, you go south to cross the Florida line.

I never thought my hometown would make international news, unless some real-life Jed Clampett struck oil or something, and I was fine with that. I now live just south of Jefferson County, Alabama, which has about 1.5 million residents in the metro Birmingham area, and which was in line to become the largest civic bankruptcy in U.S. history until bankruptcies became the hot new fad. The mayor has been justifiably lampooned for acts I'd call buffoonish if that weren't so unfair to perfectly reasonable buffoons everywhere. So international recognition isn't always a good thing.

But my hometown is all over the news for the events of the past afternoon. A 28-year-old resident of the town began a killing rampage in neighboring Kinston (which, at roughly 600 residents, is even tinier than Samson), where he killed his mother, his girlfriend, and his mother's four dogs for good measure, then set fire to the house. Then he drove to Samson, where he killed nine more. Four members of his family were his first targets, then others became targets of opportunity. One woman, whom I marched with in the Samson Tiger Band many years ago, was shot dead when she stepped out of a convenience store there. (Update: Evidently, this isn't the case. The victim had the same name as the woman I knew, but was not the woman I knew.)

(Update: Evidently the news that the victim was too young to be the woman I knew was incorrect. She was in fact the woman I knew. Sorry for the confusion, but as you can imagine, information is still being solidified, so corrections are inevitable.)

The maniac then left Samson and continued on Highway 52 to Geneva, the county seat. According to reports, he was sufficiently armed to kill many more at Reliable Metal Products, a company he had once worked for, but law enforcement officials intervened, and the maniac took his own life without killing anyone else.

One of the law enforcement officials involved in stopping the maniac found out later that his wife and 18-month-old daughter were killed by the maniac, and that his four-month-old had been shot but is expected to live. You can read one of hundreds of full writeups here.

I'm not trying to make dramatic hay out of this tragedy. It's not like I lost close family members or lifelong friends or anything like that. But 11 people murdered in two towns with a total population of 2,600 is just unfathomable. Highway 52 is also Samson's Main Street, and it was shut down yesterday for all the crime scenes. How do the residents deal with that? I once had a car wreck at an intersection near my house, and from that time until the time I moved away, I couldn't drive through that intersection without flinching. How can Samson residents drive down Main Street without remembering what happened there? I graduated with the mayor of the town, who I'm sure never dreamed he'd have to handle a situation like this when he ran for office.

So there's no pithy closer, no flippant remark, no "the rest of the story" to today's blogging. Just pray for the people of Geneva County.

I have a follower!

2009-03-10T07:54:00.001-07:00

Does this mean I can start a cult now? Although, on second thought, maybe the cult angle isn't the way to go. As comedian Tim Wilson says, one of the hazards of being a cult leader is that every time you get a good crop of followers, the government comes along and wants to kill them. So forget that.

But I--more accurately, this blog--haz a follower. I don't know if you're supposed to keep the identity of such things secret or not, so I'll just say that AL is the first follower, which I appreciate. As I've said, I'm trying to leverage this whole Internet thing into relevance, career-wise, so every click, follow, or RSS subscription helps. Thanks muchly, AL.

You know what's stupid to do, when you've already got twelveteen dozen unfinished projects? Starting another project that will take hours and hours and hours to complete. So of course that's exactly what I did. I've begun scanning all the pictures I and The Lovely Missus have accumulated over the years so that a) we can share them with friends much more efficiently than driving to each friend's house like we had to do previously; b) so that I can burn a DVD or 50 of them, then store those DVDs in a fireproof box for posterity (because succeeding generations need to see pictures of that one time it snowed in March in Alabama, not to mention that party we had in college where everybody pigged out on Bama-Bino Pizza, may it rest in peace); and c) so that I can upload those pictures to my online file backup site. Why yes, I am kinda mental about that kind of thing. Thanks for noticing.

On the plus side, I've got a decently fast scanner, and I'm already learning how to hack it as far as going ahead and stuffing the next picture in while it's still processing. (By the way, that impatient gene has evidently been passed down to my progeny. If things he's interested in don't progress quickly enough for his liking, Jacob starts fidgeting his hands and feet like the Skipper used to when he got frustrated at Gilligan.) So I should be able to finish this by the time I'm 90.

On the negative side, by looking at these pictures, I'm reminded of a hazy yesteryear, where a much more hirsute, much less bloaty Jim roamed the earth, which is funny-sad. And I've found forgotten pictures of people who have died, which is sad-sad. (And now I'm singing the Drive-by Truckers' version of Jim Carroll's "People Who Died." Great. I just earwigged myself.)

Changes a-coming to this blog. Instead of just one epic, life-changing post a day (snort), I'm going to post a few more times a day. Nothing that huge or anything, just the standard-issue Internet detritus. Some of that will include scanned representations of my old incarnation, so if nothing else, it'll give y'all something laugh about.

Forecast high for World Blogging HQ today: 82. Yee-haw!

I've blogged on clouds from both sides now

2009-03-09T08:26:00.000-07:00

Friday night was a first. I've reviewed some 150+ acts for The Birmingham News over the last few years, in every genre from rock to rap to uilleann pipes and bodhran-playing Irish legends the Chieftains. (The Chieftains, by the way, received just the fourth five-star rating I've ever given. The others were Alison Krauss and Union Station, one particularly excellent Drive-by Truckers concert, and Toby Keith. Yep, I said Toby Keith. I'm not going to run out and buy his collected works, but there wasn't a weak spot in the whole night. The man puts on a show.) The reason upper-class stuff hasn't been my bailiwick is that the News' fine arts critic Michael Huebner is the Tiger Woods of upper-class music, and I'm the Carl Spackler of same.

But for whatever reasons, I was asked to review Judy Collins' performance with the Alabama Symphony. While I don't think my review will go down in history as the "Pet Sounds" or "Citizen Kane" of reviewdom, I don't think I completely whiffed. Here's a link, if you're interested.

Collins isn't my cup of musical tea, especially "The Blizzard (The Colorado Song)," which isn't a song as much as it is a free-verse, rambling assemblage of words with some really pretty music playing around it. She could just as easily have made it "The Thesaurus (The Bunch of Words Song)." But I do have some history with her music. In the seventies, when I played trombone for the Samson High School Tiger Band, we played a version of Collins' "Send in the Clowns." (I know it was written by Sondheim, but here I'm giving credit to the person who made it famous, not the composer.) I'd never heard the lyrics, but the darn thing was pretty moving, and Mr. Bolich, the band director, had come up with an excellent arrangement of the song.

I'm deathly allergic to show tunes, so, except for an occasional brush with "Clowns" on a soft rock station (which somebody else was listening to!) or some such, I'd pretty much forgotten it until Friday night when Collins sang it. And boy, am I glad that I never learned the lyrics back when I was a grinning Beavis. For one thing, I think that even back then, I'd have viewed the lyrics as a little pretentious. I mean, it's not like it was "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" or "Chevy Van," or even the greatest song written for a Beach Boy's dead Irish Setter but thought by everybody to be about a girl, "Shannon" by Henry Gross.

But the main reason I'm glad I remained blissfully ignorant of the "Clowns" lyric is the line "Don't you love farce?" Not for one pico-second would that last word have remained "farce" in my juvenile brain. I know that, because not for one pico-second did it remain "farce" in my way-past-juvenile brain Friday night. "Farce" is just too close to "farts." It's comedy gold, and I'm sure that back in my teen years, "Don't you love farts?" would have become an enduring catchphrase. It might still become one. The chance to use "farts" would even have completely obliterated another rich vein of juvenile humor, the "Isn't it queer?" line.

Jacob went to Memphis this weekend to visit his Grandpa Hayes, so there's not a lot to tell on the critter front. However, I do have a picture of him that is the epitome of "Life is good"ness.

My kingdom to live 10 minutes that satisfied with life.

'Til Tuesday.

Of car seats, "Mission: Impossible," and pediatricians

2009-03-06T10:02:00.000-08:00

Judy Collins is almost 70. Who knew? She's performing in Birmingham tonight with the Alabama Symphony. "Alabama Symphony? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" See what I did there? I pre-emptively defused any gratuitous slams on my home state. It's blogging judo, is what it is. Besides, the Alabama Symphony is a fine organization. Its banjo section has been honored at Merlefest, and the washtub basses will send chills up your spine.

Yes! That is twice I've verbally zigged after setting you up for a zagging. My misdirection skills. Let me show you them.

The Jakester's last pediatrician appointment was a week ago, so we took him to see the baby doctor (who looked so precious in his "Chicks dig me" onesie [rimshot]). Pediatricians in general deserve instant sainthood status, but our doc is beyond perfect. But let me just complain about one thing. Baby Doc (not that Baby Doc) has a brand-new office. There's a spacious main waiting room, complete with saltwater fish tank so all the kids can play "Spot the Nemo." There's also a couple of tables with the built-in game things so that kids can amuse themselves without running away with the toys. In the main waiting room, there are two flat-screen TVs playing kiddie fare all day, and there's another in the well waiting room. It's all just wonderfully comforting. And that's what has me torqued.

When I was growing up, long about the Martin van Buren administration, folks didn't take their kids to the pediatrician, they took them to the doctor. That's what he was, "the doctor," and he treated everything from colic to freak barnyard amputations. The nurses wore white hose, nurses shoes, and those beyond-useless pillbox hats. The doctor's office smelled like the Lucky Strikes that were still smoldering in one of the ashtrays and alcohol. It was as sterile and discomforting as a DMV office, and we loved it! We couldn't get enough of it!

But I digress. The pediatrician told us that we needed to bump Jacob up to the next size of car seat, since he had gotten big enough for it. We still needed to keep him rear-facing, though, which was okay with me. I want my son to experience that "Rear-facing seat of the Country Squire station wagon, looking at the back side of road signs" feeling I had growing up. Modern cars have this LATCH system, which makes it tres easy to install a car seat. A couple of clicks, and the child is set for transport. Unfortunately, Cosco, the manufacturer of the car seat we had bought for Jacob, decided to

a) make the instructions--which I was reading!--as obtuse as possible
b) make the illustrations--which I was consulting!--as obtuse as the instructions
c) make the prescribed way of threading the LATCH system as difficult as humanly possible. If the instructions difficulty was X, and the illustrations difficulty Y, then the threading difficulty was XY to the power of infinity.

And it's not like you can take any shortcuts. This is not new sheetrock for the garage, it's the system for securing your offspring in the event of a crash. So I persevered to the end. As a payoff, the seat puts Jacob higher up than the previous one, so he has a Louis XIV, "King of all I survey" viewpoint now, which he likes.

I still couldn't get the cupholder to stay on, though.

Your Friday weirdness comes from Dr. Forrest's Cheeze Factory. It's "Mission: Impossible"'s Barney Collier, Greg Morris, singing numbers like "For Once in My Life," "The Twelfth of Never," and "The Look of Love." Bonus cool points for the cover photo of Greg exhaling Pall Mall smoke through his nostrils. Extra-bonus cool points for faithful readers if they knew that Greg is the father of Phil Morris, aka Jackie Chiles on "Seinfeld." If you didn't know that, it's egregious, outrageous, irresponsible.

See you Monday.

Update: Until just a minute ago, I had no idea that "Pall Mall" was pronounced "Pell Mell." At least it was according to this ad, which you've got to see, if for no other reason that the over-the-top expression of the woman who puffs on a Pall Mall at the end.

Post the first

2009-03-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

Been meaning to start this thing since Jacob was born. He's only nine months old now, so this is actually ahead of my usual procrastination-laden speed. But that's not why you called. Let's commence blogging.

First, an explanation. While, as the title of the blog would indicate, a lot of this will revolve around the raising of my son, Jacob, it's not a baby blog. It's more of a general, life-observing, hopefully interesting blog. Think maybe Charles Kuralt, only not as alcoholic-y and definitely without a second wife.

To catch you up to speed, I'm a new dad who's also an old dad. Which is to say, my aforementioned son is indeed just nine months old, but I passed that mark 44 years and three months ago. I was born the day John F. Kennedy was shot, meaning that two tragic events took place that day. (Actually, three. C.S. Lewis died, too. Aldous Huxley, too, but I don't consider that a tragedy, since I've never spent hours poring over anything Huxley wrote, while Clive Staples has occupied and edified me for years.) Jacob is my first (and unless the urologist had unsteady hands, my only) child. I write for a living, so I figured I'd go ahead and start a blog about my life as a work-from-home, new/old dad.

Here's the toddler. He's the most handsome child ever. I have papers.

My wife, aka The Lovely Missus, helps a little with his raising, as does Grandma Dunn, who lives with us.

He's had a run of ear infections, so we had tubes put in his ears a few weeks ago. If you've ever seen them, "tubes" is a bit of a stretch, since they're minuscule little things, like grommets for a lilliputian tarp. (In the spirit of Dave Barry, I have to point out that "Lilliputian Tarp" would be a good name for a rock band.)

On the way home from the tube inspection, we got some good news of a more rodential nature. A few years ago, we started noticing that a (or some; it's not like they're easy to differentiate) groundhog/s was/were living near the road to our house. Groundhogs, at least in my experience, aren't that common in Alabama, and I loves me some animals, so I was tickled to see the little varmint. While The Lovely Missus was great with child, I resolved to snap some pictures of the 'hog so that my son could peruse them when he was older. I jump in my car, head to Groundhog Hollow, and just as I top the hill, I see a dark mass in the road. Yep, it was a deceased groundhog. All I could do was go back home, grab my shovel, then bury his still-warm body. It's not exaggeration to say that my heart sank. Jacob wouldn't get to see him now, and he wouldn't be brightening up our commutes, either.

Then, last fall, I spied the deceased groundhog's descendant, or maybe a cousin or friend of the family. Whatever he was, he was in the same spot where the dear departed used to roam. You'd have thought I'd seen Bigfoot, so fast did I grab my phone to call The Lovely Missus. Groundhog Hollow had been saved! Quick, get the Pixar people on the phone. I have an idea for a killer story.

But that was the last sighting of any 'hogs. Until today. Jacob was grumbling so he didn't notice, but the 'hog was there on the side of the road, as clear a harbinger of spring as any drab old robin. I'm seriously tempted to put up a "Slow! Groundhog Crossing" sign now.

So there's my initial post on Raising Jacobzona. Welcome. Stop by any time.