I Am Confident In The American Media!

This morning, driving to work, I tuned into KNX 1070 AM to see what the deal with the traffic was. Soon, the traffic report, which, as usual, didn't say anything at all about my commute, was over and a special report by Charles Feldman began.
The topic was "A New Kind of Terrorist Threat." Admittedly, I wasn't all that excited about listening to this, but then sound bytes, seemingly from an action movie, began to play. I was intrigued. Charles began to tell us that terrorists may now be using computers to cause major societal dysfunction and melt down "as the new Die Hard movie illustrates."

!!


But, don't get worried that this report was made up of questionable information. Oh no. Rest assured that Mr. Feldman had some very reliable sources. For instance a man who calls himself Security Monkey.

Yes, a nation-wide technological meltdown scares me. But I do feel much safer with Charles Feldman and his pal Security Monkey on the case.

A Rockie Mountain Lactose Adventure

"I can't have cheese of any kind," says a jarringly nasal voice coming from somewhere behind me. It is Breakfast Time in Car 3 of the Rockie Mountaineer's Calgary to Vancouver train, and Evan, our charming yet tragically corny host/guide/whatever has just asked if anyone on board has any special dietary needs. Somehow, perhaps because I am tired and the hotel shampoo has left my hair limp and clinging to my head, this man's request annoys me.
"No cheese. Alright, sir. I believe I've got something for you," says Evan. He helpfully trots to the end of the car, and then back again, with some cereal and a small carton of milk for the man.

At lunchtime (which is later, but not much later, because the Rockie Mountaineer seems to believe that passengers not chewing something will riot) Evan offers us all a choice between "chilled" beef (Alberta beef; this is important) and potato salad OR salmon (cold) on a bed of lettuce with some couscous. (Each meal, it turns out, also comes with a square of chocolate roughly the size of a postcard stamp and a piece of cake with a half inch of frosting flavored with dentist's toothpaste.) When Evan arrives at the Nasally Man's seat, he says, "Sir, they've made up a special vegetarian meal for you, so-"
"Well, I'm not a vegetarian. I just can't have cheese of any kind."
My brother turns to me and says, "How dare he talk to Evan like that." We both laugh. Because, come on guy, he's just trying to help. Plus we already know you can't have cheese, so just pipe down and eat your veggies.
Evan sighs and then says, "Of course, sir. I just wanted to make sure you knew-"
"The beef sounds excellent. Is there any cheese in it?" Rude and annoying.
"I'll check for you sir." He picks up his walkie-talkie and radios the train manager. "Evan to Sharla."
"Go for Sharla," says a woman's voice from the walkie-talkie.
"I have a passenger here who cannot eat cheese. He wants the beef. Is there any cheese in that meal anywhere?"
A pause.
"What happens when he eats cheese?" Sharla asks. The walkie-talkie is at full volume and everyone in the car is now silent, eager to hear about the Nasally Man's ailment. It's like trashy daytime TV on a train.
"I get very sick. Very very sick." He speaks quickly, and I can tell the man does not want to discuss his troubles in front of a live audience. I swivel around to have a look. The man is in his early 70s, and slight. He sort of looks like a mudskipper wearing giant Martin Scorsese glasses. This touches me, and I am no longer annoyed with him, but angry with Sharla.
"What kind of sick?" she now needs to know. Sharla. That prying bitch.
So what if he can't eat cheese? All you need to know is he can't eat it. What do you care what happens to him? Just get out your little train book and scan the ingredients of today's meal selection.
"Sir, what kind of sick?" Evan asks, as though the entire cabin hasn't already heard Sharla's question.
"Well..." More awkward pausing as the Mudskipper tries to avoid the question.
"Is it a lactose thing or anaphylactic shock or what?" Sharla demands. Evan apologetically repeats the question.
"I just don't... I don't feel well. I could faint. I get very sick. Very very sick." The poor Mudskipper.
"He could faint, he gets sick," explains Evan.
"But what kind of sick? Diarrhea?"
Sweet Baby Jesus, Sharla. You and Evan are not passing notes in Health Class. You are on a walkie-talkie, which not only is being broadcast in Car 3, but in all the other cars as well. So 650 passengers have all stopped, forkfuls of cold Alberta! Beef just inches from their mouths, to listen to the exciting conclusion of Detective Sharla and the Case of the Mysterious Cheese Allergy.

I feel for the Mudskipper. He is, after all, just a delicate septuagenarian with a severe allergy to one of the world's best-loved foods. My wish is that, one day, Sharla will develop an embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction to mayonnaise and will have to spend twenty minutes being grilled by her future in-laws about why she's not eating any of Aunt Jenny's Famous Potato Salad. Then she will understand.

BabelFish is my Anti-Drug

Everyone loves to be able to say things in foreign languages. They especially love to be able to say amusing things in foreign languages. Often, these practically useless, yet funny (if only because they are so useless) phrases or words are the only bits of the language these people know.
Which is why the only phrase I can say in French is Je suis une lesbienne. Meaning, of course, "I am a lesbian." Not really very useful, unless of course you're being followed by a horde of sex-crazed rugby players. And even then I'm not sure it's much of a deterrent.
In any case, I mentioned that this was the phrase I knew in French to my friend Christy, who happened to be working very late. I then asked "Why are you still at work?" Her reply was "Parce que je suis une lesbienne." ("Because I am a lesbian.")
"That's an interesting reason to be at work," I replied. "Êtes-vous des filles ayant une réunion? (Are you ladies having a meeting?)"
Her next missive thrilled me. It said: "J'apprécie la stimulation des femmes au travail. La nuit. D'habitude l'équipage de nettoyage de nuit. Derniérment nous avons expérimenté avec les balais éponge.
La soude de chaux de citron."

I think you can all guess what I did next.

That's right. I went directly to BabelFish and plugged that sucker in. Here is what the helpful translator gave me:
"I appreciate the stimulation of the women to work. The night. Usually the crew of cleaning of night. Lately we tested with the sponge mops.
The lemon lime soda."

Zut alors!

I wasn't quite sure what was happening, but it made me laugh. The passage was a little bit Allen Ginsberg, a little bit Bill Cosby. And I think there's some confused Slavic tourist in there, too.

All of this reminded me how much I love BabelFish.

With BabelFish (or any other internet language translator, really) you can create strings of words so incorrect you'll probably burn off that muffin laughing. Allow me to illustrate:

I will type in the phrase "Would you like to go to museum on Thursday?"
Now I will translate it, using BabelFish, into Spanish. It now says, "¿Usted tiene gusto de ir al museo el jueves?"
I will now translate that back into English: "You have taste to go to the museum Thursday?"

Delightful! Let's keep going!

And that's just the beginning. The more times you translate, the better it gets! For example, I will take the new, screwy phrase and translate it into French, then into Dutch, then back to English. Then to Italian, to French, to Portuguese and then finally back to English for the final time. It nows says this: "They must proves to the gone museum thursday?"

Tremendous! I could do this all night.

And on several occasions, I have.

The other thing to do is visit the German Amazon.com. If you can figure it out, type in the name of a movie that is available on DVD or VHS. I will choose "When Harry Met Sally." Scroll down to what looks like the synopsis, copy, paste into BabelFish, translate from German to English and enjoy:
"There are certain films, which one must have seen, no matter whether they please one or not. Harry and Sally ... are one of these films. Over 12 years the history of the two New Yorker ones is told, which in the course of the years always again more or less coincidentally over the way run themselves. ... Although the film was produced by Rob of pure (Conditions by Me, Misery), it is nevertheless the product of the film script authoress and the rain eating urine Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle, Email for You). In the center are located two humans, who are for each other certain. ... If one watches the film however a second or third time, one notices fast that that is to be looked at everything very nicely and amusingly. More however actually not."

I know it's long. But did you read the part about Nora Ephron? Apparently she's not very well-liked in Germany. I've never actually heard of anyone being called "a urine." Her presence seems to negate anything good that Rob Of Pure brought to the film.

I encourage all of you to take a trip to BabelFish. If you need me, that's where I'll be.

This is NOT "OK".

In order to say what I want to say today, I am going to have to make a confession.

I do, occasionally, read the tabloids.

Yes. I know. But sometimes, they're just there and you've got nothing else to read and you're bored because the doctor's office told you "2:00" but it's looking more like it'll be "4:00" because you have an HMO and you're not bleeding from more than one hole. ... So you've got to pass the time with something.

In any case, yes, I read the June 11th, 2007 issue of OK! Magazine. And, aside from the seemingly 3 billion-page spread on American Idol, it seemed like a relatively harmless publication.

And then I got to the picture of Jessica Simpson.

And then I read the caption underneath her picture.

Here is what it said: "On her fan site SweetKisses.net, Jess recently mused that she read a book about Renaissance artist Michelangelo ... Though born centuries apart, the two artists are alike: Michelangelo was a poet, and Jess is planning to publish a volume of her poems!"

...

For those of you just joining us, OK! Magazine has just compared Jessica Simpson (you may remember her from the MTV show "Newlyweds," and from her boobs) to one of the most important artists of the 16th century (you may remember him from, oh, I don't know... a little thing called the Pietá? Or perhaps the freaking ceiling in the Sistine Chapel?). And they used an exclamation point.

Fun Fact: Someone who writes a blog on a site called SweetANYTHING.net is not going to be an intellectual wonder.

Discussion Question: How does such a person receive a book deal in the first place? How do they write a collection of poems? Order their own take-out? Discuss.

R.I.P. Kurt Vonnegut

This is such sad news. The man is a genius. Brilliant, eloquent, funny. He will be missed.

If you've never read his collection of short stories, Welcome to the Monkey House, I truly recommend it.

Check This Sh*t Out!

Hey! Lookit. Larry n' I made this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51bsCRv6kI0

It helps if you like Thelonius Monk.

Feel free to comment, and rate!

I Happened To Really Like Chris Brown & His Wee Dance Companions

Aside from the fact that Larry Goldings and Trio Beyond didn't win for best jazz album, the Grammys were pretty good. (Corinne Bailey Rae, anyone?) But, it wouldn't be the Grammys without some puzzling items. First of all, how do you not give Prince a grammy? HOW? Look at the man. He's like 3 feet tall, wearing a freaking leisure suit and sunglasses INDOORS. Plus he's funky as hell.

That being said, I have a couple of other questions.

*Did anyone else find it odd that there was an Audience Mote at the ceremony? Were those people trapped? What would happen in a fire? Would they just burn there? Or is there some sort of trap door?

*Also, who was that unreasonably hairy fellow on stage with the Dixie Chicks? According to the Short Dixie Chick, he's one of the guys who "works the magic behind the console." Now, either Apey McFurry and his pal The Squatty Dude weren't supposed to be on stage, or The D. Chicks don't actually know what these fellows do. Either way, dude, get a haircut.




*Did anyone else notice Samuel L. Jackson's shirt? Is it one of those Magic Eye puzzles, where, if you stare at it long enough, you see a lion? Or a soccer player?

*Please: Could someone get Christina Aguilera a Xanax and some whiskey?

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* Alright. I know [jazz legend] Ornette Coleman isn't exactly well-known to the general public, but, please, sir, could you at least pretend you know who he is? You're on camera for pete's sake. "Ornette WHO??" Sir, you are a massive tool.

*Does Gnarls Barkley realize that his pianist (copilot?), DJ Danger Mouse, died an eighth of the way through their performance? Honestly, Cap'n Gnarls just kept on belting while poor Danger just slumped over the key board.

*Why Smokey? WHY?! That was my number one concern of the evening. As Smokey sang, "Take a look at my face," I could help but wonder why he felt he had to request that. I, for one, couldn't take my eyes off his face. His eyes! OH GOD, HIS EYES! Poor guy. After 18 chemical peels he looks like, in the words of Jonathan Feldman, "a scared cat."


(Thanks to Feldman for the HD screen captures!)

A Short Rant About A Long Show

Well, it's Grammy day, and the powers that be have shrewdly chosen to hold the ceremony at that Pillar of Sonic Perfection: The Staples Center.

Really? Really?

You're going to hold an event dedicated to the appreciation of music (however you choose to define it this year) in a sports arena!??! Excellent.

I have been to two musical events at Staples Center. Each one was different, each one was terrible. The first was for the First Annual Latin Grammys. I was in the "300" seats (read: The Nosebleed Section) where the sound ricocheted off of everything. Because the walls are made of concrete. The second was for a Dave Matthews Band concert. I was in the second row, where the sound still ricocheted off of the concrete walls, only was much worse because the echos had time to mix with other echos. In both situations, I couldn't make out a damn thing. And it didn't help matters that 50% of my experiences with music at the Staples Center were in Spanish.

Why would they decide to do that? I mean, I suppose these sports arenas can hold lots of people, but aren't these events meant to be exclusive anyway? It seems it would be more appropriate to have the Golden Globes at the Staples Center, since there aren't any musical numbers. But the Grammys? There's a performance every ten seconds. That's what it's about.

I could go on and on about what bothers me about the Grammys (why aren't all types of music included in the telecast? Who keeps letting those crazed rap artists up on stage?) but I won't, because they're going to be on pretty soon and I don't want to miss a minute.

Some Google Image Search FunFacts:

- As of 5:30 pm, January 25, 2007, there are over 21,000 pictures of fruit salad.

- When you search "Jorfe" you get this fellow: He wants to hold you. Be not afraid.

- Surprisingly, the term "Ghetto Walnut" only yields 8 photos. None of them are of actual walnuts.

- Something that also yields 8 photos? "Goat Lolly."

- Searching the term "Help Help" yields a still from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail

- I googled the name "Bart Scholtens" thinking I would find nothing. Turns out, Bart Scholtens plays the saxaphone and appears to be popular in Germany.

- Ladies, may I present to you, the very eligible Bill Kunkel:

- For a good time, google "Lamprey."

-"Yuyuyu" yields over 1,000 images.

- If you type in "Sooksin Mit" it yields nothing, and helpfully asks if you meant "Sooksan Mit."

- If you search for "Sooksan Mit," it once again yields nothing.

Thank you.

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP!

MY BROTHER DESERVES FAME.

Please visit these links. Enjoy the videos. Then, click on the heart in the lower lefthand corner of the screen. You'll have to register your email address, but it's so worth it! If Louie, David and Chris win- they get a ton of money, AND their commercial is shown at the Super Bowl! INSTANT FAME. Please help my multi-talented brother get famous!!!


http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=A6F8B542776E11DB8B9DA6B200DB926D&type==

http://www.jumpcut.com/view?id=8895BE54776B11DB8D18A6B200DB926D&type==

Webster's Dictionary of Hollywood B.S.

Until recently, I had been working in the entertainment industry, a setting that seems to breed egocentric blow-hards. I thought I'd be avoiding those kinds of people by leaving show biz, but, alas!, I live in Los Angeles, so there's no avoiding those obnoxious writer types, those wannabe actors, or those self-appointed auteurs. Here are some phrases these folks often spout that annoy me:

"Oh! I heard the script was good." (Variations: "The script was supposed to be good."; "My friend read the script, said it was good.")-- This is often used by Production Assistants who have no real pull in the world of Hollywood, but would like to think they do. They're longing to be "insiders," and they're not, and likely will never be. Being a PA is not a surefire way to success and fortune. I know a guy who used to be a PA, got promoted to coordinator, and now sells cars.

"It's really high concept."-- This is primarily used by douchebags. It is used to describe a screenplay, often when they do not want to elaborate. (They say it's because they don't want their idea stolen. I say it's because either a) there is no screenplay at all or b) there is a screenplay, but it's pathetic and/or they don't know how to verbalize what it is about.) For instance, a couple of years ago I was standing around with my little goofy headset being a Television Slave, and I decided to make conversation with the fellow next to me. "So you're a writer? What're you working on right now?" "Just finished a screenplay, actually." "Ooh! Cool! What's it about?" "Well, it's very high concept, actually, soooo..." It was awkward.

"Big Picture"-- This phrase seems to peppered into disappointed conversations (i.e. "He's not seeing the big picture" or "Let's think big picture here for a sec, mkay?") as a Space Filler. Similar to "like" or "ummmmm," "Big Picture" is devoid of any real meaning. It's a way for the speaker to maintain control of the floor while they collect their thoughts (if they have any).

"Surreal"--This word can be perfectly acceptable, provided it is used in the right context. However, people often use it when they name drop. "Yeah, I was this party over the weekend. Do you even know how surreal it is to see Chuck Woolery play charades?" First of all, settle the hell down. When you're playing charades with Woody Allen, then you've got something to be excited about. Second, I don't think it's surreal so much as it is entertaining and bizarre. When I think "surreal" I think Salvador Dali, not George Hamilton trying to act out "Breakfast at Tiffany's."

And we all know how much I love hot cats

Recently, my friend Devin and I went to a jazz club (which will remain nameless) where we saw a certain host/singer (who will also remain nameless). This fellow is the kind of guy who would sing to his bride at their wedding. Before the food is served to guests. And it wouldn't be one song. It would be ten.

This particular act is a Tuesday night fixture at this establishment. How this man is the permanent host is beyond me. The only thing I could figure was that at some drunken point, a friend told him he sounded like Tony Bennett, which sparked his need to become a jazz singer. I hope whoever told him that realized that he's ruined Tuesdays for everyone.

And his intonation wasn't the only trouble. It was the way he was imitating every lounge singer he'd ever seen. In fact, he seemed to be imitating parodies of lounge singers. Large sweeping hand motions, one leg bouncing, body tilted back a little. The seediness was nearly overpowering. At one point, I asked Devin if he thought, given the way this fellow was behaving, that the audience could file a class action suit against him for sexual harassment. He said yes.

Singers like this aren't the only type of male that make me uncomfortable. Radio DJs who talk in that übersuave manner, too. You know what I mean: Their voices are low, their vowels are extended to comical lengths ("Smoooooooooth jaaaaaazz" or "Heeeeeeeeeey ladies.") and their preferred subject matter is, well, yucky. For example, I had my car radio automatically scanning through channels in a desperate attempt to find something, anything to listen to. The radio landed on 92.3 ("hot 92 jamz") only to hear the DJ saying, "And ladies, if you're sexy enough, you can park wherever you want to."

Eew. What does that mean, even? Before I had time to truly grasp what this fellow meant, my car radio had scanned away from the station. When I returned to the station moments later, he was saying, "36-24-36? More like 36-24-40! Ladies, bring those sexy hips on down and I'll--" I turned the radio off.

Who are these people? Who do they think their target audience is? It certainly isn't "the ladies" because I don't think I know a single woman who would respond positively to this kind of smarminess. The jazz singer, at one point, motioned to the band behind him and said, "You gotta love my tasty band, because, these cats are hot!" And then he chuckled to himself.

Yuck.

ATTENTION TELEVISION PRODUCERS

HOOKERS ARE NOT ATTRACTIVE.

Heidi's Girls, alright. Call girls, sometimes.

But honest-to-goodness streetwalkers? They are NOT PRETTY. Just ask anyone who knows about the PCH Prostitute in Malibu.

Thank you.

(And I know hookers!)

A Word of Advice For Sales Persons

Soundtrack of the Day: "Everything Happens to Me" by Bill Evans, from his record The Solo Sessions. (Incidentally, I advise everyone to hip themselves to Bill. The PIANIST. NOT the SAX player. That's key.)

I should probably never go shopping alone. It allows my mind to wander, and I come up with elaborate and unrealistic situations in my head, usually in response to something someone says. For example, when the fellow at Macy's returned with the pair of Rockport boots I had requested, he said, "These are a very nice boot. You'll look great in them. My name's Victor. Just shout if you need anything!" I thought to myself, What if I actually did shout for Victor? Imagine this if you will:

I would be attempting to squeeze into too-small boots, an impossible battle that would cause my face to redden and my forehead to perspire ever so slightly. Eventually I'd just stop trying and get up. Scanning the room, and not seeing Victor in my immediate vision, my eyes would start to get a little wild. I would then remember that Victor, the only salesman that truly understood my footwear needs, had told me to shout if I needed anything.

"Victor!? ... VICTOR!?! ... VIIICTOOORRRR!!!??!!" I'd screech, one boot in hand, as I gesticulated wildly. The other would be halfway on my left foot, bent so it looked like I had one creepy ankle. And my hair would be falling out of my ponytail, and I would start to cry. A nice young woman would say, "May I help you with something ma'am?" and I'd strike her with a nearby suede Steven Madden mule, and scream, "I! want! VICTOR!! I nee-eee-eeed him!"

As I stood there, chest heaving, Victor would return from the back room and say, "Did you need a different size?"

"Yes Victor. Please. These are far too small," I'd reply wiping drool from my face.

These sales persons should not instruct their customers to "shout" for them.

A Tale of Woe

Today, a man who had just climbed out of a septic tank used my pen.


That is all.

Tunes, Boobs, and Faulty Kugel

Soundtrack of the day: Elis and Tom, by Elis Regina and Tom Jobim

Saturday night, I, along with my brother Louis, several of his USC friends, my father, my friend Jared, and Mr. Bixler (formerly my high school music teacher), played at the Dolphin Ball in Malibu, an annual benefit for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We were the entertainment from 6 until 730 on the tennis courts at a mansion, which I like to refer to as The House That Crack Built. This house is neither "huge," "large," nor "enormous." It is disgusting. It took me like 29 minutes to get from the tennis courts (One of two!) to the "green room" (actually the lobby of their home-theater). Granted, I was wearing heels, but still. Anyway, this house could not have been designed by anyone with pure intentions. Drugs, violence, human trafficking, something, funded this compound. Allowing a charitable organization to use the property is surely just one notch in what promises to be a very tall tree of karmic redemption.

But I digress.

What is really important here is the band. Louie's friends are unbelievable players. Distractingly so. On "Man From Tanganyika," I was so thoroughly enjoying Sam's solo that I completely forgot to come back in with background figures. And getting to sing with these guys? It's a rush. First of all, my dad's arrangements are tremendous, and really fun to sing. Add to that the quintet of USC virtuosos, Bixler, and Jared, and, frankly, I could do this every night for the rest of my life. Really! I am so lucky to have experienced this, even once, I can hardly describe it.

Okay, I admit it. If the band were the only important thing to discuss, I probably wouldn't be writing this. I've already mentioned the insane size of the house. Now I'd like to move on to the insane size of the guests' various body parts. Namely: pecs, breasts, lips, and egos. Malibu is not known for it's modest, down-home vibe. The evening was a parade of trophy wives (Girlfriends? Secretaries?) and men with troubling hair-dos. Alright. Boob jobs- fine. Overly inflated pectoral muscles- okay. But the face-lifts have got to stop. STOP, I SAY. As Mr. Bixler so eloquently put it, "Lotta faces here look like they're goin' 90 miles an hour."* I don't think I've ever heard it stated so well. These women (and, sadly, some men) have been so inflated and sculpted and pulled, that they are hardly recognizable as human beings.

Sure, 90 mph describes the speed of their faces, but it certainly doesn't describe the speed of their minds. They all walked around with big, round eyes, starting blankly at auction items, and occasionally tossing a glance in the band's direction. I'm quite sure a number of them don't actually know what Cystic Fibrosis is. If anything, they saw the invitation and said, "An excuse to wear my life-threateningly high pumps?! Thanks, Cystic Fibrosis!" At least they were there, spending their money, and ignoring the band. Of course, a few people nodded appreciatively, but I'm pretty sure they were all catering staff**.

It was nice, though, to be able to play, and to have a band that sounded so incredible. I didn't need money, or applause. We were having a great time. And we were contributing to an important cause.

And what did we get for our contribution?

Well, we'd been informed that we'd be getting dinner. Which was great news. Because, catered affairs for wealthy people offer choices of vegetarian, meat, or fish plates! And there's salad, and dessert! I figured we'd be getting one of these plates back in the "green room." (God forbid we should eat with the Real People.) After the trek to the "green room," however, we were welcomed by a gaming table covered in old deli platters. The cold cuts were gone, the only thing remaining being the decorative lettuce leaves. One loaf of rye bread sat underneath plastic lids, old napkins and a couple pieces of broccoli. There was a bakery box, which looked promising, but, sadly, only contained one piece of kugel. Why hasn't this kugel been eaten yet? I asked myself. Everything else on this table has been devoured. Clearly this is a faulty kugel. So the kugel remained in its box.

Further along, we came upon three covered foil platters of warm food. We eagerly pulled back their covers to find...

1) Unpleasantly scented rice (also dry)
2) Pulled chicken (too spicy)
3) Pulled beef (marbled and mangled)

Oh. And the beers in the fridge were non-alcoholic.

The only true point of culinary magic was when Doug "Baaaaaaaartz!!!" Mosher put some of the spicy, pulled chicken between two pieces of the Loneliest Rye Bread. Fantastic. So, what do hungry musicians do after such a wholly unsatisfying meal?

We went to Ralph's to get pie. Obviously.



*I wrestled for quite some time with whether or not I should take credit for that brilliant observation. In the end, morals won.
** This does NOT include my mom, Bixler's wife, Avaryl, and her father, Scott. They were actually listening, and enjoying themselves.

Saved!

Soundtrack of the Day: Whatever's on my iPod. (It's on shuffle!)

Today's "Soundtrack of the Day" brought to you by Mr. David Christopher Endicott, who let me borrow his computer speakers and A/C adapter so that I could listen to music in the car even though my stupid radio busted. What would I do without you, Slappy?

Dave probably has no idea what he has prevented.

You see, I wake up at 630 AM each day, which may not sound awful to you, but to me it's nearly impossible. I don't have to be at work until 9, but in order to get there, I have to leave the house at 7. It used to be 715, but it's fall now, and school is back in session so there are 9,000 additional yahoos on the road in the mornings. Anyway, as you can guess, I'm groggy as 5 hells on that morning commute.

When I finally get in the car, I turn on NPR until I get to the 110 freeway. That's a good 25 minutes, so I feel sufficiently educated. THEN it's on to whatever my current musical obsession is. (Before my radio broke, I was about to listen to some serious Charlie Hunter.) I roll the windows down, turn the bass nob all the way to the right and sing like a jerk for the rest of the commute.

This is the only way I can operate in the morning. Otherwise, I might start to zone out and take the wrong exit. For instance, I might start thinking about how much I love Chinese food, and suddenly- oops!- I'm exiting at Hill Street! Or I might decide I miss my parents, and go right on past my exit, all the way to PCH. And those are just the scenarios where nobody gets in an accident.

Once, my old radio blew a fuse on the ride in. I was so desperate that I actually put ONE ear bud in and listened to one channel of my iPod the whole way. I'm pretty sure that's illegal. Immediately after work, I went to the auto supply place across the street and bought fuses. I sat in the parking lot, checking every fuse in my car until found the one that had blown. When I had replaced it, I went on my way, listening happily to The Beatles.

I happened to mention this to the kind people at the Volkswagen dealership. They're very attentive, and so decided to order me a new radio- heck, it's still under warranty! I didn't realize they were doing this until they were halfway through replacing it. I thought, Alright, cool. Free New Radio! If I'd known the thing would crap out on me, I would've refused the replacement. Oh well. It's not their fault.

So now, I'm driving through Los Angeles with Dave's computer speakers in the passenger seat. Thank you Dave, thank you.

Just a Brief Message

Folks, I present to you-

UGLY BEAR

This is probably the worst thing I have ever seen.

What is it?

It came up when I Googled "ugly bear." It appears to be a Sailor Moon doll whose hand has been chewed to a pulp- probably by a dog or a hamster. The head clearly is not the original, as it is humungous and awful. The eyes must have either come from two different dolls, or directly from Hell. Her(?) hair is made up of what looks like Teddy Bear pelts. Perhaps most interesting of all is the way in which her arms are thrown up in exasperation. It's almost as though she's realized that there is nothing she can do about the fact that her nose came from a stuffed bear.

This was up for auction on ebay, apparently, and is no longer available. Which means that SOME ONE ACTUALLY BOUGHT THIS. Maybe there was even a bidding war. Either way, I hope that it is displayed proudly on someone's mantle, right underneath the moose head.

...Help...

Soundtrack of the Day: "So Tinha de Ser Com Voce" by Antonio Carlos Jobim, on the album Fotografia

As my days of housesitting come to a close I find myself feeling itchier and itchier. Not because of the fabric softener used on the sheets, or a new kind of soap.

No, I feel itchy because of the dogs.

And I'm not even allergic.

These dogs are the sweetest, happiest, friendliest beasts you can imagine. But the trouble is, they defecate all over the house. All over the house. At first, I thought it was limited to the sitting room, but then I found piles of feces in the bathroom next to the sitting room. And then the living room. And then, finally, the master bathroom, upstairs. If you've never had the pleasure of rounding a corner only to be confronted with 5 piles of shit, I do not recommend this experience. (Incidentally, if it's something you think you may enjoy, please do call me and I'll give the housesitting gig to you.)

The routine is this: I wake up at 6:30 am, walk downstairs, past the sitting room. I notice several piles of crap. I pick them up. I let the dogs outside, to hopefully evacuate their bladders. While they're outside, lying down, I fix their food. Then I leave for work. When I come home, I let them out again. This time, they stand in the doorway looking at me as if to say, What are you doing? We poop inside, thank you. I then spend the rest of the evening discovering hidden piles of doodie.

I have asked if the pups can spend their days outdoors, but the answer is no. They are "inside dogs." Listen: A dog needs it's freedom! It needs to be able to run, dig, pee and crap where it pleases. Oh, and it needs a patch of grass on which to perform the necessary butt-scoot procedure. Especially if it has long hair, because long hair, as everyone knows, attracts what scientists call "dingleberries." And the only cure for dingleberries is the butt-scoot procedure.

Guess what?! These dogs have long hair. And no grass. And- joy of joys!- they like to climb onto the bed and hang out. You can probably imagine what this means. Yes, that's right. It means I really ought to have set up one of those toddler-proof gates at the entrance to the bedroom. Because, while I have never actually found any evidence of fecal matter on my bed, the thought of it really freaks me out. At night, I go to sleep cringing and wake up in the same position, for fear of rolling over onto a patch of contaminated bedding.

After several days of living in that kind of a situation, your whole body begins to feel as though microbes are crawling on it, and it makes you itchy. So, I'm glad to be going home to my apartment. Where, if I feel itchy, I know it's time to purchase a delousing agent of some kind.

Once there was a bunny...

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this lovely website, containing the work of a class full of children. Apparently, their assignment was to make animals out of leaves and then write stories about them. The stories were intended to teach the children about adjectives and also proper story construction (beginning, middle, end).
Although the stories are short and sweet, they could still use a little work. I am prepared to offer certain members of the class (those individuals who I feel would be most responsive) my suggestions.


One day there was a beautiful frog and the frog hopped away to a pond. The frog was hopping on a lily pad and the frog hopped in the pond and ate some flies. It hopped and hopped and never stopped.
By James

Now, I feel you have done an excellent job of utilizing the repetition device. However, rhymes are a little tired, James, and I think you're better than that.

One day there was a turkey who lived in the forest and she ate some berries. Then she saw a friend and they played together and they ate berries. Now they had to go home, but tomorrow they would still be friends, and they both lived happily ever after.
By Tiana

You're a smart girl, Tiana, but sometimes, you do just enough to get by. If you would push yourself, you could be an outstanding writer. For instance, could this she-turkey find something to do besides eating berries? Let's also be aware of our tenses from now on.

99 years ago an ugly fish swam in a dark, deep ocean. Then he saw a ugly mean octopus and the mean ugly octopus ate the ugly fish. The octopus felt bad, because he threw up.
By Corey

Truly a masterpiece. What a dark, twisted yarn you have spun. Rage, disgust, disease-it's all here. My colleagues feel that your ending could use work, but I say screw 'em! This is a mood piece. Bravo, Corey!

Once upon a time my peacock ate some grass in the wild. A kid tried to pull a feather off the peacock, but he didn't. The peacock lived happily ever after.
By Jophiel

Jophiel, I feel sorry for you. You're obviously foreign, and don't understand how English literature works. What I'm looking for is some more about the battle between Kid and Peacock. How did the peacock thwart the child's attempt? Were you the child? Give it some thought.

500,000 years ago there was an octopus that lived in a place called Cakeland. An octopus joined him at the delicious, icing ocean. They went out with a cup and scooped up a cup of frosting.
By Morgan

Now, when I first read this story I thought it was a blatent case of trying to one-up Corey. I soon realized how wrong I was. You have your own brand of genius, Morgan. You challenge Darwin's theory of evolution by suggesting that Octopi could exist a half a million years ago! And Cakeland? Truly inspired. Professors Ciniglio and Devine and I would very much like to hear more about this Cakeland.

Once on a dark night a bear went in a castle. He finds a treasure box. He took it to his house. He was so happy. They lived happy every after.
By Jesus

I... I can't... how?... *sigh* I guess I just expected more out of JESUS, for Pete's sake. Clearly our Savior has a little trouble with tenses, and with keeping track of HOW MANY BEARS ARE IN THE STORY.

Once upon a time there was a stinky mouse. My mouse ate the garbage in the can. Finally the mouse threw up.
By Fadumo

Really? Really? You're going to plagerize Corey? Vomit was his finale. If this were a university, you'd be out on your ass, Fadumo.

A long, long time ago Jesus was born and a jaguar was so bad. It scratched meat. It was a rabbit that it killed. He gave the rabbit to Jesus.
By Landon

Excellent use of Biblical symbolism. Too bad the jaguar didn't give Jesus some writing talent!

85 years ago a king cobra lived in a dangerous, tropical jungle. After a while the king cobra hunted for lots and lots of meat. The king cobra ate meat for the rest of his life.
By Ryan D.

What a sad, sad tale. Oh, Ryan! The lonely king cobra and his meat pile! It kept me up all last night- what a haunting image. You have a gift, my friend.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful butterfly that lived in a backyard. When my butterfly was in the backyard she saw ten beautiful flowers and then she flew and drinked nectar. When the butterfly was drinking nectar a person came out. When Betty saw the butterfly she took a net to catch the butterfly for a pet.
By Kim

Holy crap, Kim, what is going on here? Do you want to talk about it?

A long time ago a disgusting fox lived in the forest. The fox tried to eat Corey'’s fish, but the fish swam away. The fox was sad.
By Jason

What I am seeing here is a little boy with self esteem issues. Perhaps you should contact Corey and talk to him about why you feel so inferior to him, and why you feel his writing is so much better than yours.

Those are only some of the works from this class. You may subject yourself to further stories, or view the LeafArt here: http://www.moreland.k12.ca.us/Baker/class/pavlos/leaf/leaf.html