Friday, April 24, 2009
NO BLOGGING TODAY STOP
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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
"The Corpse Wore Seersucker": A Tank Ironspleen Mystery
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Something dental this way comes
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.
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.
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.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?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
In which Jim becomes James Bond in his dreams
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."
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!
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.I think the robber who said he was sorry may have been in Dutch with the wife.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.
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!
Monday, April 20, 2009
"'Lemonade,' He Prescribed": A Drama for Our Times
Location: The cluttered (but getting neater) home office of a freelance writer/stay-at-home dad.
Scene 1: Opens on ableary-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.
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Scene 1: Opens on a
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
My spring fever. Let me show you it
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Now, where was I?
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.
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.
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