Iceman is over, and the bikes are going in for an end-of-season tuneup (which is sorely needed for TFN's Hi-Fi!), so let's take a walk, shall we? It shall be long and convoluted, and may or may not pay off. Let's see what it's like when we get there, as this one is more about the trip than the destination.
This is Mika. Thanks to TFN, he is my current secret guilty pleasure. I don't mind sharing him, though. Go ahead and listen while we walk.
Iceman weekend started unrealistically well. We took Friday off, and I did some homewise projects, like putting patio furniture away, while TFN worked from home for a bit. We left for TC at noon, which was later than we planned but earlier than we hoped for, if you know what I mean (the time you plan to leave is always much earlier than the actual departure).
We made amazing time up to TC (I don't want to brag, but rumors that we made it from 16 mile in Troy to downtown TC in 3 and a half hours are apparently true), and got there in enough time to go to L Mawby (our favorite winery up there) for a tasting and several bottles to go. L Mawby isn't open on Sundays in the off season, so this was an imperative.
Wine in hand, or actually in the back seat, we checked into our hotel, and made our way over to the Grand Traverse Resort to register for the race, where we met up with ST and KayBee, who were just getting up to the TC as well. We were slowly assembling the group... Picking up one more (Mookie), we went to Minerva's for dinner, ran into some friends, and made our way back to the hotel for a beer and a mild case of food poisoning - which is sad, because I love Minerva's but I don't think I can go there anymore.
Iceman morning was cold but sunny, and we assembled at the gates with plenty of time to prepare, have that last ill-advised smoke of the morning under the baleful glares of healthier riders, and get ready to make a go at this thing called Iceman.
We all blasted out of the gates at a great pace, I know TFN and I were poised to blow our previous times out of the water - or the sand in this case. The temperature was perfect, and the sand was wet and packed.
At Williamsburg Road (the 17 mile checkpoint), I stopped to have a bananananana and talk to KayBee, our support person, for a second. As I did, ST caught up with me. He informed me that TFN, who was right behind me, had gotten a stick sucked up into her deraileur, and she couldn't hold any gears on the climbs.
I waited for her to get to Williamsberg. She was frustrated and angry. After I looked at her bike, I could see that something was out of whack back there, but it was beyond my limited mechanical intellect to make any repairs in a timely fashion. So I told her that she could bail there, or if she wanted to limp it out, I'd stick with her. She decided she wanted to finsh.
So we took off from there, hammering as fast as her bike would permit on the flats, charging up all the hills until the point where her bike went Kachunka-chunka-chunka! and her chain started bouncing up and down the cassette, without settling into a gear. Then we'd get off and walk.
For the most part, I provided pep talks as she forced her bike to limp as well as it would.
We finished last in our classes, but we had a great time, and we crossed the finish line smiling side by side. I'm buying that picture!
It was all about helping out a teammate and riding our bikes on a gorgeous day. I think it's something I'd do for any fellow Angry Monkey (you don't leave a man behind!), but with it being TFN, we actually had a lot of fun doing what the Hi-Fi would do.
Good times.
And there was a cooler full of Fat Tire waiting at the finish.
I want to thank my Fellow Angry Monkeys who raced with us that day. I want to thank the Angry Monkey Support Crew who drove our cars to the finish, cheered for us at the checkpoint, and had cold beer ready when we got to the finish. I guess I also want to thank my teammates once again for not drinking all of the Fat Tire before we finished. And I want to thank TFN for sticking it out, and deciding that she was going to be the toughest member of our team that day.
The official after party had a change of venue this year. The K&A faction had rented a suite, but when they arrived they found out the place had messed up and lost their room, so they instead opted to put them up in a 2,000 square foot condo. K made tacos for everyone, and we hung out there. It was a lot better than a bar.
The bummer was that Z was putting out fires at home, and couldn't make it out to party with the primates, but at least we'll be in Florence at the same time as her and the Mr. Z, duly note that your prescence is required at least once to have a drink or 20 with TFN and I!
Sunday was set aside for a BIG breakfast, several visits to wineries (L Mawby was open again on Sunday due to an event. Yayyy!), and the drive home. We stopped in Frankenmuth for a big dinner and our second mild case of food-related illness for the weekend (I blame this one on gorging myself, though). I do think that, in retrospect, Frankenmuth is a scary town and hopefully it falls into the ocean with rest of California (however improbable this may be, it could happen, God willing.
Now for an interlude, here's more Mika:
Are we ready to convolute? Good. If not, I'll wait. OK, are you ready? Let's go.
This should really go into another post, but I'm on a roll, so we'll just keep going.
Quicken Loans just announced today that they are moving downtown and bringing 4,000 jobs with them. This is amazing news for my Detroit, and if it's not entirely indicative of a turnaround yet, it's definitely pulling a nail out of the coffin. I would love to see this place keep it up, but I think it will still be a little stalled until Kwame gets out of office.
If things get better, I can see myself moving into the city. A few weeks ago, we went to Indian Village, and discovered that it's entirely realistic to buy a 6,000 square foot house in the city. We're not wealthy, property is simply that inexpensive there. Unfortunately, the taxes are crippling and include zero in the way of city services right now.
If Detroit doesn't get better, the next few years may see me... we'll just say elsewhere for now. That's all I have to say about Detroit for now, though. We'll hope it continues to improve.
Hmmmm... this was a pretty failed convolution as I am out of stuff to blather about.
OK, more later, and I also have some Halloween and Iceman photos to share at some point.
I'll be back soon.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
I need beer. STAT.
This. Is. Simply. Awesome.
I know we've all had moments like this before, when the beer runs out. What is the guts vs. lack of brains ratio required to get call 911 to declare it an emergency?
Wow.
Fortunately, we are already collecting provisions for Iceman this weekend, so we will not be presented with such an emergency.
HEBRON, CT (NBC) -- It may have seemed like an emergency at the time, but a Connecticut man is now regretting his call to 911.
35-year-old Brian Poulin of Hebron was arrested Sunday after police said he called 911 several times and asked them to bring him beer.
Hebron was charged with disorderly conduct.
Police said he called 911 numerous times and told the dispatcher he was out of beer and asked them to pick up more for him.
Poulin was transported to Windham Community Memorial Hospital after officers arrested him at his home.
Police did not say what he was treated for.
He is scheduled to appear in Superior Court in Rockville on Nov. 20.
I know we've all had moments like this before, when the beer runs out. What is the guts vs. lack of brains ratio required to get call 911 to declare it an emergency?
Wow.
Fortunately, we are already collecting provisions for Iceman this weekend, so we will not be presented with such an emergency.
For The Love Of Trash
TFN's first date was to see John Water's Hairspray. That sparked an obsession that hasn't let up.
John Waters is an interesting cat. In the length of his film career, he has made movies like Hairspray, Pecker, Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble, and Crybaby. Through them all, he has created this perfect way of glamorizing seediness. He makes trashiness OK in a strange way. TFN got me hooked on his films, and we always thought he'd be cool to meet.
Now we're going to find out.
Next month, he's coming to the Crofoot to give a monologue. Not only did we pick up tickets for that, we got tickets for the meet and greet. I probably won't have much more time than to say "Thank You", shake his hand, and (hopefully) get TFN's picture taken with him, but it will be enough. It will totally be a real brush with greatness.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Today Forecast - Little Whirlwinds
I am a big fan of the time shift this time of year, just for the feeling that I have somehow managed to sneakily steal away both an extra hour of staying up and an extra hour of sleeping in.
Normally, that extra hour of delicious sleep on the first Monday back is also an extra-special joy. Not this year, however.
This year, I had to get up at 4 (but at least it was really 5 if you want to play the time change card in the opposite direction), to take TFN to the airport.
She’s in Bosstown for the next few days. The only funny thing about this early morning excursion to Detroit Metro was that the Dropkick Murphys’ song “Shipping Up To Boston” came on the radio just after I left her at the curb outside the departures entrance.
If you’re unfamiliar with the Murphys, they’re one of Boston’s finest bands, a blend of working class irish music and blue-collar punk. I’ve been a big fan of these guys for years, but they really got their big break being featured in last year’s best picture, “The Departed”
But anyhoo…
TFN is gone until Wednesday, and bachelor time is usually pretty laid back around here, focusing heavily on loud records, microwave meals and tackling a few household projects. This one is somewhat the exception.
First off, we have come to the sudden realization that this past weekend was our last at home until December. Next weekend, we’re staging a two-wheeled attack on Zillaland, as the masses descend for yet another physical torture/drunken debacle of the type known as the Iceman Cometh Mountain Bike Race. So tonight, one of my projects will be to ensure that every bit of cold-weather gear for a wide range of possible weather conditions has been assembled.
On top of that, this trip marks thhe first time that Shane has gone to stay at the dog hotel. He’s an old-timer, and my kid, so I wouldn’t dare “kennel” him. This place is a full-blown dog hotel, where he’ll have a bed in his little room, with music piped in, and the hotel features a range of play areas, divided by dogs’ interests and activity levels. I signed Shane up for the “I like other dogs provided they are mellow like me. Playtime = laying down together on one giant dog bed.” He’s laid back like that.
Because of this, tonight we’re off to the vet for a Bordetella shot. This is apparently a vaccination that isn’t typically given to a dog, unless he goes and stays at a kennel, or a hotel in this case. Apparently, it’s also shot up the nose. Shane hasn’t heard about any of this.
After Iceman, it’s just a few days before we head back to Europe. Going back to Paris and Florence creates a vastly different feeling. The first time, not knowing if you’ll ever return, one is overwhelmed by this need to see everything and do it all. The second time, armed with the knowledge that we’ve seen the things we needed to see for the sake of seeing them, and equipped with the idea that some places are obtainable enough that one can seen them more than once, we want to experience the places, rather than simply see them.
I want to spend a full day on Mont Martre, not just a few hours. I want to smirk at the lines to certain museums, knowing that they needed to be seen once, but also that once is enough to, again, experience them. I want to… hell, I just want to take it at my own pace, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but not at the whirlwind pace of the traveler on the mission of sucking all the marrow out of an entire culture in four days (speaking of marrow… must find some oxtail as well… mmmmmm).
That is the extent of the leading edge of my upcoming whirlwind. I’ll leave you with a bit of trivia about Pablo Picasso (who had a little house on Mont Martre). His given name was Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Clito Ruiz y Picasso. How could he not have been destined for greatness?
Normally, that extra hour of delicious sleep on the first Monday back is also an extra-special joy. Not this year, however.
This year, I had to get up at 4 (but at least it was really 5 if you want to play the time change card in the opposite direction), to take TFN to the airport.
She’s in Bosstown for the next few days. The only funny thing about this early morning excursion to Detroit Metro was that the Dropkick Murphys’ song “Shipping Up To Boston” came on the radio just after I left her at the curb outside the departures entrance.
If you’re unfamiliar with the Murphys, they’re one of Boston’s finest bands, a blend of working class irish music and blue-collar punk. I’ve been a big fan of these guys for years, but they really got their big break being featured in last year’s best picture, “The Departed”
But anyhoo…
TFN is gone until Wednesday, and bachelor time is usually pretty laid back around here, focusing heavily on loud records, microwave meals and tackling a few household projects. This one is somewhat the exception.
First off, we have come to the sudden realization that this past weekend was our last at home until December. Next weekend, we’re staging a two-wheeled attack on Zillaland, as the masses descend for yet another physical torture/drunken debacle of the type known as the Iceman Cometh Mountain Bike Race. So tonight, one of my projects will be to ensure that every bit of cold-weather gear for a wide range of possible weather conditions has been assembled.
On top of that, this trip marks thhe first time that Shane has gone to stay at the dog hotel. He’s an old-timer, and my kid, so I wouldn’t dare “kennel” him. This place is a full-blown dog hotel, where he’ll have a bed in his little room, with music piped in, and the hotel features a range of play areas, divided by dogs’ interests and activity levels. I signed Shane up for the “I like other dogs provided they are mellow like me. Playtime = laying down together on one giant dog bed.” He’s laid back like that.
Because of this, tonight we’re off to the vet for a Bordetella shot. This is apparently a vaccination that isn’t typically given to a dog, unless he goes and stays at a kennel, or a hotel in this case. Apparently, it’s also shot up the nose. Shane hasn’t heard about any of this.
After Iceman, it’s just a few days before we head back to Europe. Going back to Paris and Florence creates a vastly different feeling. The first time, not knowing if you’ll ever return, one is overwhelmed by this need to see everything and do it all. The second time, armed with the knowledge that we’ve seen the things we needed to see for the sake of seeing them, and equipped with the idea that some places are obtainable enough that one can seen them more than once, we want to experience the places, rather than simply see them.
I want to spend a full day on Mont Martre, not just a few hours. I want to smirk at the lines to certain museums, knowing that they needed to be seen once, but also that once is enough to, again, experience them. I want to… hell, I just want to take it at my own pace, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but not at the whirlwind pace of the traveler on the mission of sucking all the marrow out of an entire culture in four days (speaking of marrow… must find some oxtail as well… mmmmmm).
That is the extent of the leading edge of my upcoming whirlwind. I’ll leave you with a bit of trivia about Pablo Picasso (who had a little house on Mont Martre). His given name was Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Clito Ruiz y Picasso. How could he not have been destined for greatness?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Happy Anniversary
I know this is the wedding picture I pull out most often, but it's a fun reminder of the time that 65 clowns crashed our wedding reception - as if one needs to be reminded that something like that happened!
Fact is, a few years ago (eight to be exact), TFN and I were married.
Happy anniversary, baby! Thanks for putting up with me for yet another year.
Fact is, a few years ago (eight to be exact), TFN and I were married.
Happy anniversary, baby! Thanks for putting up with me for yet another year.
Friday, October 26, 2007
This is my day job...
For any of you who've wondered, this is a description of my 9-5.
I had no idea that Jack and I shared life in the trenches so closely.
I had no idea that Jack and I shared life in the trenches so closely.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Paul Raven
For people who haven’t been keeping up since the beginning, the world of industrial music is a convoluted, incestuous mess. If you were to look at a list of the lineups of any 10 industrial bands, you’d see that they shared all the same members in some shape or form.
The biggest part of industrial music was spawned out of Chicago, surround Wax Trax and Invisible records. These guys are bunch of like-minded people, all who have become underappreciated music legends.
One of those legends was Paul Raven.
Raven has played in sooooo many of the industrial heavy-hitters, it gets hard to keep track. His big start was with Killing Joke, but he also had a hand in Prong, Ministry, Godflesh, Murder Inc., Pigface… the list goes on.
To be sure, my first exposure to Raven was with Killing Joke's “Money is Not Our God”, which came out when I was in high school.
I got to interview Raven for my Web site a few weeks ago . It was an amazing phone call, we just chatted forever, about all the old great names in industrial music, who was what, etc. He even gave me his cell phone with a promise to connect when he was in Detroit with Ministry next year.
I think you see where this is going.
Shortly after I put the interview up on my site (two days later), I got an email from his PR Agent. Raven died of a heart attack in Geneva, where he was working on recording a project with Mob Research.
It was kind of stupefying news.
I was reminded of one thing we’d talked about in the interview. We had talked about William Tucker. Tucker was another one of the incestuous network of industrial musicians. We saw him in Grand Rapids playing an acoustic show with Chris Connelly, and TFN had hung out with him at Pigface shows. He was a stellar guy, who committed suicide shortly after the Reptile House.
When Tucker died, he and Raven had been working on a project together called Sons of Domination. According to Raven, a few of those songs were completed. I hope they get released someday.
Here’s one with William Tucker (and yes, that’s the same drummer in the striped shirt as was in the first video with Raven – this is the incestuous network I’m talking about).
During the interview, Raven said this about Tucker: “God bless that fucker. That’s all.”
I think that could apply to both of them.
Rest in peace, man. It’s a shame I never got to have that drink with you, but I hope you know I thought you were awesome.
If you’re in the mood, here’s one more with Raven. It’s Murder Inc., which features Chris Connelly, who was the person playing with William Tucker when I saw him, and Martin Atkins, the drummer from both of the previous videos in this post. Small world, made just a little bit smaller...
The biggest part of industrial music was spawned out of Chicago, surround Wax Trax and Invisible records. These guys are bunch of like-minded people, all who have become underappreciated music legends.
One of those legends was Paul Raven.
Raven has played in sooooo many of the industrial heavy-hitters, it gets hard to keep track. His big start was with Killing Joke, but he also had a hand in Prong, Ministry, Godflesh, Murder Inc., Pigface… the list goes on.
To be sure, my first exposure to Raven was with Killing Joke's “Money is Not Our God”, which came out when I was in high school.
I got to interview Raven for my Web site a few weeks ago . It was an amazing phone call, we just chatted forever, about all the old great names in industrial music, who was what, etc. He even gave me his cell phone with a promise to connect when he was in Detroit with Ministry next year.
I think you see where this is going.
Shortly after I put the interview up on my site (two days later), I got an email from his PR Agent. Raven died of a heart attack in Geneva, where he was working on recording a project with Mob Research.
It was kind of stupefying news.
I was reminded of one thing we’d talked about in the interview. We had talked about William Tucker. Tucker was another one of the incestuous network of industrial musicians. We saw him in Grand Rapids playing an acoustic show with Chris Connelly, and TFN had hung out with him at Pigface shows. He was a stellar guy, who committed suicide shortly after the Reptile House.
When Tucker died, he and Raven had been working on a project together called Sons of Domination. According to Raven, a few of those songs were completed. I hope they get released someday.
Here’s one with William Tucker (and yes, that’s the same drummer in the striped shirt as was in the first video with Raven – this is the incestuous network I’m talking about).
During the interview, Raven said this about Tucker: “God bless that fucker. That’s all.”
I think that could apply to both of them.
Rest in peace, man. It’s a shame I never got to have that drink with you, but I hope you know I thought you were awesome.
If you’re in the mood, here’s one more with Raven. It’s Murder Inc., which features Chris Connelly, who was the person playing with William Tucker when I saw him, and Martin Atkins, the drummer from both of the previous videos in this post. Small world, made just a little bit smaller...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
It's All Horribly Wrong! (but not in a horrible way)
I have to say, I had a great past few days. It was a positively stellar weekend, made best by everything that didn’t work out.
Friday
As referenced before, we were headed downtown so that TFN could spend some quality time with her boyfriend. With that in mind, we settled in at the Loco Bar for some good food and beer with good friends.
The tickets stated: Doors at seven. Show at eight. Based on my mathematical skills, this meant that, if we head to the club at nine, we’d catch part or all of the Street Dogs (the second band), and then see Tiger Army.
So why was it, at nine, when we walked into St. Andrew’s Hall, Tiger Army was on stage? Not only were they already playing, but they were in their encore?
Apparently, the opener didn’t show up, so they rushed the Street Dogs right on stage.
The next fiasco, despite our being on the guest list and having a photo pass, the bouncer wanted to confiscate TFN’s camera – simply for the sake of getting into a pissing match.
While TFN fought with the bouncer, I managed to call up the tour manager, who came out into the lobby, told the doorstaff to cut the crap (thanks Cash!), and then took TFN down in front and put her behind the barricade to shoot the band.
So, even though she only got 15 minutes of show, she got to spend it five feet from Nick 13. She was happy.
And also, later we both confessed to each other and to the friends we were with that the most fun of the entire night was getting into a screaming match with the bouncer… and winning. We’re horrible like that.
Saturday
Saturday started with a 17-mile bike ride (those miles fell away so easily, too. I really think I am getting to be ready for Iceman!). Then, plotting our next move, it was decided that TFN, ST and Abi (all recurring characters) as well as KayBee (a new character) would go to a haunted house.
Going to a haunted house is a big production for us. It requires a series of preparations. It requires going home, reading reviews of all the houses, making fun of the bad ones before finally choosing the one we’d like to go. Then we have to go to the 7-11 for large coffees. Then we have to go to the liquor store for a bottle of Bailey’s.
Our designated haunted house was in Pontiac. It was one of those expensive ones ($19 to get in), but supposedly one of the best in the state. It was in a crappy neighborhood, but really, all of Pontiac is a crappy neighborhood.
We got there, and we got in line. This was the line to buy a ticket. After standing in line for 30 minutes, polling people who came out of the place (“It was OK” being the most common report), we ran out of coffee and reached to ticket booth.
Were we to but the tickets, we were looking at a two or three hour wait. Unless we bought the $27 ticket, which would put us in the 15-minute line, away from the plebian unwashed. That’s right kids, for a mere $8 more, you too can become a member of bourgeoisie! We’re against that kind of classicism, so we made the proper choice.
Neither.
We left.
What happens next is a true Halloween moment. Much of Pontiac consists of one-way streets. Making our way to the expressway proved difficult. Despite the fact that we were heading toward the expressway, following signs that said “To I-75”, we managed to drive around in a circle. A big circle. A circle that it took an hour to make. Eventually, we ended up in Troy.
Oh, also, this whole hour circular drive included having all the windows down singing along to the radio at top volume. All the hits. George Harrison, Prince, Rick James… man, when five people who can’t sing are piled into a Scion, singing together at the top of there lungs – screaming actually – it doesn’t sound as bad as you’d think. It sounds bad, yes, but not that bad. Bad in a fun kind of way.
Also apparently bad enough to ward off any carjackers while we ghetto cruised Pontiac.
We ended the evening in the bowling alley across the street from the liquor store and 7-11 where we started. And it was a perfect night.
Also, I bowled better than ST, but in his defense, he left his balls at home that night.
Sunday
So once you’ve done nothing at all productive all weekend, Sunday is the day to catch up. Run errands, clean house, do laundry, right? That was totally the plan anyway.
At some point after haircuts, the call came in, pointing out that this was quite possibly the last nice day of the year, and if we didn’t end up on the porch at the K&A Faction House, we would be making a dire mistake. One can’t argue logic like that.
It was a perfectly unexpectedly lazy way to end a weekend where nothing had gone as planned…
Friday
As referenced before, we were headed downtown so that TFN could spend some quality time with her boyfriend. With that in mind, we settled in at the Loco Bar for some good food and beer with good friends.
The tickets stated: Doors at seven. Show at eight. Based on my mathematical skills, this meant that, if we head to the club at nine, we’d catch part or all of the Street Dogs (the second band), and then see Tiger Army.
So why was it, at nine, when we walked into St. Andrew’s Hall, Tiger Army was on stage? Not only were they already playing, but they were in their encore?
Apparently, the opener didn’t show up, so they rushed the Street Dogs right on stage.
The next fiasco, despite our being on the guest list and having a photo pass, the bouncer wanted to confiscate TFN’s camera – simply for the sake of getting into a pissing match.
While TFN fought with the bouncer, I managed to call up the tour manager, who came out into the lobby, told the doorstaff to cut the crap (thanks Cash!), and then took TFN down in front and put her behind the barricade to shoot the band.
So, even though she only got 15 minutes of show, she got to spend it five feet from Nick 13. She was happy.
And also, later we both confessed to each other and to the friends we were with that the most fun of the entire night was getting into a screaming match with the bouncer… and winning. We’re horrible like that.
Saturday
Saturday started with a 17-mile bike ride (those miles fell away so easily, too. I really think I am getting to be ready for Iceman!). Then, plotting our next move, it was decided that TFN, ST and Abi (all recurring characters) as well as KayBee (a new character) would go to a haunted house.
Going to a haunted house is a big production for us. It requires a series of preparations. It requires going home, reading reviews of all the houses, making fun of the bad ones before finally choosing the one we’d like to go. Then we have to go to the 7-11 for large coffees. Then we have to go to the liquor store for a bottle of Bailey’s.
Our designated haunted house was in Pontiac. It was one of those expensive ones ($19 to get in), but supposedly one of the best in the state. It was in a crappy neighborhood, but really, all of Pontiac is a crappy neighborhood.
We got there, and we got in line. This was the line to buy a ticket. After standing in line for 30 minutes, polling people who came out of the place (“It was OK” being the most common report), we ran out of coffee and reached to ticket booth.
Were we to but the tickets, we were looking at a two or three hour wait. Unless we bought the $27 ticket, which would put us in the 15-minute line, away from the plebian unwashed. That’s right kids, for a mere $8 more, you too can become a member of bourgeoisie! We’re against that kind of classicism, so we made the proper choice.
Neither.
We left.
What happens next is a true Halloween moment. Much of Pontiac consists of one-way streets. Making our way to the expressway proved difficult. Despite the fact that we were heading toward the expressway, following signs that said “To I-75”, we managed to drive around in a circle. A big circle. A circle that it took an hour to make. Eventually, we ended up in Troy.
Oh, also, this whole hour circular drive included having all the windows down singing along to the radio at top volume. All the hits. George Harrison, Prince, Rick James… man, when five people who can’t sing are piled into a Scion, singing together at the top of there lungs – screaming actually – it doesn’t sound as bad as you’d think. It sounds bad, yes, but not that bad. Bad in a fun kind of way.
Also apparently bad enough to ward off any carjackers while we ghetto cruised Pontiac.
We ended the evening in the bowling alley across the street from the liquor store and 7-11 where we started. And it was a perfect night.
Also, I bowled better than ST, but in his defense, he left his balls at home that night.
Sunday
So once you’ve done nothing at all productive all weekend, Sunday is the day to catch up. Run errands, clean house, do laundry, right? That was totally the plan anyway.
At some point after haircuts, the call came in, pointing out that this was quite possibly the last nice day of the year, and if we didn’t end up on the porch at the K&A Faction House, we would be making a dire mistake. One can’t argue logic like that.
It was a perfectly unexpectedly lazy way to end a weekend where nothing had gone as planned…
Friday, October 19, 2007
A boyfriend and some girlfriends...
Let me introduce you to TFN's boyfriend.
This is Nick 13. He's the guitarist and lead singer for Tiger Army.
We're going to see them tonight.
I am pretty stoked, even if TFN has a crush on him.
That's not really fair to do, though, so in the interest of equal time and humiliation, I will present you with some musicians who have, at various times, been my girlfriend.
Amanda "Punk Cabaret Is Freedom" Palmer (Dresden Dolls)
Next up, we have Kathleen "The truth ain't pretty like a pretty little girl like me" Hannah (Bikini Kill, Le Tigre), and Kim "We can still be friends" Gordon (Sonic Youth, Free Kitten). This video is actually Sonic Youth (there's a shortage of quality Bikini Kill videos from that era), and Kathleen is the girl with dark hair and pigtails bouncing around (That's right - we got two for one with this video).
There are a few more, but I made you look at enough video for one day.
Ah well, this was supposed to be a deep and poignant post on the nature of having crushes on celebrities, but I instead spent a lot of time watching videos with these ladies in them...
Who have been your celebrity crushes?
Also, if you are at home tonight, and you're into reality shows (two strikes against me), check out that American Band show. Local band the Muggs is one of the contestants. Very talented musicians, very cool guys.
This is Nick 13. He's the guitarist and lead singer for Tiger Army.
We're going to see them tonight.
I am pretty stoked, even if TFN has a crush on him.
That's not really fair to do, though, so in the interest of equal time and humiliation, I will present you with some musicians who have, at various times, been my girlfriend.
Amanda "Punk Cabaret Is Freedom" Palmer (Dresden Dolls)
Next up, we have Kathleen "The truth ain't pretty like a pretty little girl like me" Hannah (Bikini Kill, Le Tigre), and Kim "We can still be friends" Gordon (Sonic Youth, Free Kitten). This video is actually Sonic Youth (there's a shortage of quality Bikini Kill videos from that era), and Kathleen is the girl with dark hair and pigtails bouncing around (That's right - we got two for one with this video).
There are a few more, but I made you look at enough video for one day.
Ah well, this was supposed to be a deep and poignant post on the nature of having crushes on celebrities, but I instead spent a lot of time watching videos with these ladies in them...
Who have been your celebrity crushes?
Also, if you are at home tonight, and you're into reality shows (two strikes against me), check out that American Band show. Local band the Muggs is one of the contestants. Very talented musicians, very cool guys.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
An Open Letter To The Guy At Holiday Market Last Night
Dear Guy,
Last night at Holiday Market, I saw that you brought in your own canvas tote bag to purchase groceries. On behalf of Mother Nature, I'd like to say thanks! Bringing your own bag to the store helps offset the footprint you're making on the world. You are really pointing out that the best possible choice in the "paper or plastic" debate is "neither".
Plastic grocery bags, when they become litter, can take hundreds of years to break down in the environment. As they do, they leave little bits of toxic remnants in the soil and water.
Additionally, plastic bags drift far out into the ocean, where they strangle and poison wildlife. Seabirds and turtles mistake them for jellyfish and eat them, which can kill them in a variety of ways, none of them pleasant.
There is also the fact they are created from petroleum, a resource we are steadily depleting.
Although it's easy to villify plastic bags, we can't let paper get off scott-free. Paper bags are created from a renewable resource, but are not necessarily "greener". The production of paper bags creates more pollution than plastic. It also requires more energy and water, and takes up a lot more space in a landfill (although it will break down quicker).
So, grocery guy, by bringing your own bag to the store, you're doing a small part to reduce environmental stress, and it's something we can learn from. Every little bit helps, and if we all do this, things would be in a much cleaner state. I thank you for pointing this out, and the turtles thank you as well.
HOWEVER...
The fact that you are enacting and spreading this small bit of environmental awareness does nothing at all to offset the fact that you drove to the grocery store in a 10-mpg Hummer.
Go to hell, you self-righteous yuppie asshole. I hope you break an ankle hopping down from your high horse. People like you are the reason my generation has such a beef with the baby boomers.
Thanks again.
Last night at Holiday Market, I saw that you brought in your own canvas tote bag to purchase groceries. On behalf of Mother Nature, I'd like to say thanks! Bringing your own bag to the store helps offset the footprint you're making on the world. You are really pointing out that the best possible choice in the "paper or plastic" debate is "neither".
Plastic grocery bags, when they become litter, can take hundreds of years to break down in the environment. As they do, they leave little bits of toxic remnants in the soil and water.
Additionally, plastic bags drift far out into the ocean, where they strangle and poison wildlife. Seabirds and turtles mistake them for jellyfish and eat them, which can kill them in a variety of ways, none of them pleasant.
There is also the fact they are created from petroleum, a resource we are steadily depleting.
Although it's easy to villify plastic bags, we can't let paper get off scott-free. Paper bags are created from a renewable resource, but are not necessarily "greener". The production of paper bags creates more pollution than plastic. It also requires more energy and water, and takes up a lot more space in a landfill (although it will break down quicker).
So, grocery guy, by bringing your own bag to the store, you're doing a small part to reduce environmental stress, and it's something we can learn from. Every little bit helps, and if we all do this, things would be in a much cleaner state. I thank you for pointing this out, and the turtles thank you as well.
HOWEVER...
The fact that you are enacting and spreading this small bit of environmental awareness does nothing at all to offset the fact that you drove to the grocery store in a 10-mpg Hummer.
Go to hell, you self-righteous yuppie asshole. I hope you break an ankle hopping down from your high horse. People like you are the reason my generation has such a beef with the baby boomers.
Thanks again.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Good News: Michigan is open again. Bad News: Hookers cost more.
So, after a few hours of being closed, the state opened back up. I didn’t notice, although I did stock up on smokes just in case. Really, not many people noticed, aside from the campers thrown out of the state parks on Sunday.
Now, with the new budget plan, we’re dealing with some new taxes. Income tax is going up, and service taxes are being levied on a few things that weren’t taxed before.
Some of the new things make no sense, like vending machines and payphones. First of all, I haven’t used payphones in forever, but I wonder if they are going to have to modify them to accept pennies. “Please insert 38 cents for the next three minutes…”
Fortune telling and astrology services are being taxed now, too. I wonder if they saw that one coming.
The one thing that surprised me the most, however, was hookers. Right there in the list of things Michigan is levying service taxes on… escort services. They are taxing the hookers now!
I wonder how many of these escorts are going to see themselves brought up on tax evasion charges, or on prostitution charges should they honestly report their income? It’s the Al Capone thing all over again. They can’t bust them for what they want, so they get them on tax evasion.
You can see a full list of the new taxed services here. (Apparently somebody still offers baby shoe bronzing, and it’s a big enough industry that the state sees a benefit in taxing it. Who knew?)
Now, with the new budget plan, we’re dealing with some new taxes. Income tax is going up, and service taxes are being levied on a few things that weren’t taxed before.
Some of the new things make no sense, like vending machines and payphones. First of all, I haven’t used payphones in forever, but I wonder if they are going to have to modify them to accept pennies. “Please insert 38 cents for the next three minutes…”
Fortune telling and astrology services are being taxed now, too. I wonder if they saw that one coming.
The one thing that surprised me the most, however, was hookers. Right there in the list of things Michigan is levying service taxes on… escort services. They are taxing the hookers now!
I wonder how many of these escorts are going to see themselves brought up on tax evasion charges, or on prostitution charges should they honestly report their income? It’s the Al Capone thing all over again. They can’t bust them for what they want, so they get them on tax evasion.
You can see a full list of the new taxed services here. (Apparently somebody still offers baby shoe bronzing, and it’s a big enough industry that the state sees a benefit in taxing it. Who knew?)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sorry, Michigan is closed for business
So, unless the people in Lansing reach an agreement by Monday, Michigan is gonna close. Well the government will, anyway.
What’s that mean?
No state parks. No mountain biking for Angry Monkeys. That’s the one I care about the most. That, and no booze.
There’s a ton of other stuff, too. No Secretary of State Offices, no Lotto, no casinos. Some schools will even have to shut down, because they won’t be getting state aid.
I sent a letter to my local representation. I got a form letter back that didn’t even address that they had read my letter far enough to find the proper form letter to send back. I’m not even sure what issue this form letter was meant to soothe me over, but it had nothing to do with my desire to keep the state parks open (or stay stocked up on booze – although I didn’t mention that in the letter).
Really, it’s embarrassing. When I was in college, we got the phone turned off at our apartment. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of our psychotic roommate who took the phone money and did hell knows what with it. But the fact is, the phone was turned off and it was embarrassing to admit I was living in a place where the phone had been disconnected for failure to pay the bill.
That’s exactly how I’ll feel about being a Michigan resident if this shutdown happens.
On a positive note, November’s vacation has been booked. We decided to revisit our favorites. We’re flying into Paris, spending a few days there, then taking an overnight train to Florence. After a night in Florence, we’re going to Siena for a night, then back to Florence for a few more days.
Maybe by the time we get back, the state will be open again. If it’s closed, we might end up having to sit outside until we can get in and get our stuff.
Michigan is hurting economically, and all this partisan posturing just makes things worse. We need to attract new businesses and money as the auto industry is failing us, and yet the gov’ment doesn’t seem to really be into helping us out.
All I know is that the only thing that is halting the mass exodus of Michigan residents right now is the fact that we can’t sell our houses. Given the choice, I’d be heading to Chicago, Austin or Seattle right away.
What’s that mean?
No state parks. No mountain biking for Angry Monkeys. That’s the one I care about the most. That, and no booze.
There’s a ton of other stuff, too. No Secretary of State Offices, no Lotto, no casinos. Some schools will even have to shut down, because they won’t be getting state aid.
I sent a letter to my local representation. I got a form letter back that didn’t even address that they had read my letter far enough to find the proper form letter to send back. I’m not even sure what issue this form letter was meant to soothe me over, but it had nothing to do with my desire to keep the state parks open (or stay stocked up on booze – although I didn’t mention that in the letter).
Really, it’s embarrassing. When I was in college, we got the phone turned off at our apartment. It wasn’t my fault; it was the fault of our psychotic roommate who took the phone money and did hell knows what with it. But the fact is, the phone was turned off and it was embarrassing to admit I was living in a place where the phone had been disconnected for failure to pay the bill.
That’s exactly how I’ll feel about being a Michigan resident if this shutdown happens.
On a positive note, November’s vacation has been booked. We decided to revisit our favorites. We’re flying into Paris, spending a few days there, then taking an overnight train to Florence. After a night in Florence, we’re going to Siena for a night, then back to Florence for a few more days.
Maybe by the time we get back, the state will be open again. If it’s closed, we might end up having to sit outside until we can get in and get our stuff.
Michigan is hurting economically, and all this partisan posturing just makes things worse. We need to attract new businesses and money as the auto industry is failing us, and yet the gov’ment doesn’t seem to really be into helping us out.
All I know is that the only thing that is halting the mass exodus of Michigan residents right now is the fact that we can’t sell our houses. Given the choice, I’d be heading to Chicago, Austin or Seattle right away.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Bachelor's Weekend
TFN is off to Chicago for the weekend, leaving me to a weekend of crazy bachelor antics.
Yep, beer, records and hanging out with the cat. I'm a wild man.
Gotta go, my food is about to come out of the microwave!
Yep, beer, records and hanging out with the cat. I'm a wild man.
Gotta go, my food is about to come out of the microwave!
This one's for Moose...
Moose asked Z, "Why don't people ride zebras?"
Why indeed?
Tell me that riding a zebra wouldn't look wicked-ass cool, especially if one were dressed right. I am thinking that one should either be decked out in a pin-striped zoot suit with two-toned patent leather shoes. I think one could also get away in a totally glam-trash getup consisting of other animal prints, like a leopard-print trench coat, or some other distinctive real (or imaginary) animal print. Plaids would be acceptable as well, as long as they were obnoxious enough. A distinctive wide-brimmed hat would be necessary as well.
That's right, in order to properly ride a zebra, one needs to either be dressed like a pimp or a glam rocker.
Unfortunately, even with the proper wardrobe, pimps and rockers do not ride zebras. Why is that? Surely, given the option, Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie would have made more than a few appearances perched upon a striped steed.
So I consulted the Interwebs. Apparently there are two reasons.
One is that zebras have weaker backs than horses. They have the ability to carry a person, but it has to be a lighter person and it can't do so for an extended period. This still would have allowed for Ziggy Stardust to make brief trips to the pub on his zebra though, were it not for the other reason people don't ride them.
Quoting an expert, one George Hinkey of Nature Australia Magazine:
Generally, zebras are too cantankerous to ride. They are vicious and unpredictable and it takes a lot of effort to train them to a stage where you can saddle or harness them. That is why they have never been domesticated. Lord Lionel Walter Rothschild, however, managed to harness a team of four zebras to pull his carriage, which he rode from his zoological museum in Tring, in the English county of Hertfordshire, to Buckingham Palace.
I don't know why an Australian should be accepted as a zebra expert (they have kangaroos there, not zebras, and kangaroos really can't be ridden, even if they are nicer), but I am willing to accept that he knows what he's talking about. Perhaps he has tried to ride a zebra and saw firsthand how mean they are, or maybe he once attended a Shakespeare in the Park performance of Macbeth and sat next to a zebra who talked throughout the performance, and crinkled a candy wrapper during quieter moments of the production, and he made an educated guess that, given the zebra's rude behavior, it probably wouldn't like to be ridden.
And that's a fair assumption. I once went to a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar and at a climactic moment, when Jesus was dying on the cross and the entire theater was silent, a large woman about four rows back was tearing into a package of Reese's Pieces. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Based on that, I assume her to be rude, unaware of public decorum and probably rather opposed to being saddled and ridden to the grocery store.
That's how logic works. Even in Australia.
So, Moose, that's why people don't ride zebras. It's because they are not nice, have no manners, and say mean things about one of America's founding fathers, Teddy Roosevelt. I'm not sure what their problem with Roosevelt is, or even if they all have a problem with him, but I think there was at least one I heard say something about his moustache. That particular zebra also made fun of Gandi's bald head, so he may have simply been especially cantankerous.
I also have a cat that is stubborn and angry, and to this day has resisted any attempt to teach her to make a pot pie. So that would be an answer to the appropriate followup question: Has anyone taught a cat to make a pot pie?
No. No they haven't.
Next question?
Why indeed?
Tell me that riding a zebra wouldn't look wicked-ass cool, especially if one were dressed right. I am thinking that one should either be decked out in a pin-striped zoot suit with two-toned patent leather shoes. I think one could also get away in a totally glam-trash getup consisting of other animal prints, like a leopard-print trench coat, or some other distinctive real (or imaginary) animal print. Plaids would be acceptable as well, as long as they were obnoxious enough. A distinctive wide-brimmed hat would be necessary as well.
That's right, in order to properly ride a zebra, one needs to either be dressed like a pimp or a glam rocker.
Unfortunately, even with the proper wardrobe, pimps and rockers do not ride zebras. Why is that? Surely, given the option, Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie would have made more than a few appearances perched upon a striped steed.
So I consulted the Interwebs. Apparently there are two reasons.
One is that zebras have weaker backs than horses. They have the ability to carry a person, but it has to be a lighter person and it can't do so for an extended period. This still would have allowed for Ziggy Stardust to make brief trips to the pub on his zebra though, were it not for the other reason people don't ride them.
Quoting an expert, one George Hinkey of Nature Australia Magazine:
Generally, zebras are too cantankerous to ride. They are vicious and unpredictable and it takes a lot of effort to train them to a stage where you can saddle or harness them. That is why they have never been domesticated. Lord Lionel Walter Rothschild, however, managed to harness a team of four zebras to pull his carriage, which he rode from his zoological museum in Tring, in the English county of Hertfordshire, to Buckingham Palace.
I don't know why an Australian should be accepted as a zebra expert (they have kangaroos there, not zebras, and kangaroos really can't be ridden, even if they are nicer), but I am willing to accept that he knows what he's talking about. Perhaps he has tried to ride a zebra and saw firsthand how mean they are, or maybe he once attended a Shakespeare in the Park performance of Macbeth and sat next to a zebra who talked throughout the performance, and crinkled a candy wrapper during quieter moments of the production, and he made an educated guess that, given the zebra's rude behavior, it probably wouldn't like to be ridden.
And that's a fair assumption. I once went to a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar and at a climactic moment, when Jesus was dying on the cross and the entire theater was silent, a large woman about four rows back was tearing into a package of Reese's Pieces. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Based on that, I assume her to be rude, unaware of public decorum and probably rather opposed to being saddled and ridden to the grocery store.
That's how logic works. Even in Australia.
So, Moose, that's why people don't ride zebras. It's because they are not nice, have no manners, and say mean things about one of America's founding fathers, Teddy Roosevelt. I'm not sure what their problem with Roosevelt is, or even if they all have a problem with him, but I think there was at least one I heard say something about his moustache. That particular zebra also made fun of Gandi's bald head, so he may have simply been especially cantankerous.
I also have a cat that is stubborn and angry, and to this day has resisted any attempt to teach her to make a pot pie. So that would be an answer to the appropriate followup question: Has anyone taught a cat to make a pot pie?
No. No they haven't.
Next question?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Back in the Saddle
Believe it or now, there is for once a decent reason for my extended absence lately. I have been in the saddle. A lot. Somewhere between 120 and 140 miles last week.
There have actually been quite a few road rides. On evenings after work, we've been getting on our bikes and taking off, not returning until after midnight. It feels good to just be out there pedaling, putting mile after mile behind you.
Saturday, we did the Tour De Troit. 40 miles through the city. It was a really cool experience, with hundreds of riders...
A police escort....
And a beer by the abandoned train station when all was said and done.
So that's where I've been, and where I'll be until after Iceman.
I am getting stoked about Iceman, we have our hotel (with hot tub!), and are getting in prime shape for it.
I have a lot of things to be stoked about, actually. In November, we're going back to Italy. We're setting the itinerary for that now.
And I just found out that we've been approved to go to SXSW in March of next year! The cool thing about that is that we were able to get a hotel room downtown, by the festival, and we don't need to do what we did last year, which was stay at a hotel by the Interstate, rent a car, and drive into the city each day, spending a nightmare hour getting parking, then back to the hotel at 2 am, repeat each day. The hotel was expensive, but cheaper than a dumpy hotel and a rental car.
Also, we took the Bean to the vet Monday. Despite the fact that she went for the vet's face (yeah, she does that), he said her diabetes is improving, and switched her to one shot a day. Which means that she's easier to treat, and that, when we need to hire a catsitter when we go out of town, we only need to pay them for one visit/day.
Now, I just need to find a dogsitter... anyone want to watch a lazy, mellow husky while we're in Traverse City, Italy and Austin?
There have actually been quite a few road rides. On evenings after work, we've been getting on our bikes and taking off, not returning until after midnight. It feels good to just be out there pedaling, putting mile after mile behind you.
Saturday, we did the Tour De Troit. 40 miles through the city. It was a really cool experience, with hundreds of riders...
A police escort....
And a beer by the abandoned train station when all was said and done.
So that's where I've been, and where I'll be until after Iceman.
I am getting stoked about Iceman, we have our hotel (with hot tub!), and are getting in prime shape for it.
I have a lot of things to be stoked about, actually. In November, we're going back to Italy. We're setting the itinerary for that now.
And I just found out that we've been approved to go to SXSW in March of next year! The cool thing about that is that we were able to get a hotel room downtown, by the festival, and we don't need to do what we did last year, which was stay at a hotel by the Interstate, rent a car, and drive into the city each day, spending a nightmare hour getting parking, then back to the hotel at 2 am, repeat each day. The hotel was expensive, but cheaper than a dumpy hotel and a rental car.
Also, we took the Bean to the vet Monday. Despite the fact that she went for the vet's face (yeah, she does that), he said her diabetes is improving, and switched her to one shot a day. Which means that she's easier to treat, and that, when we need to hire a catsitter when we go out of town, we only need to pay them for one visit/day.
Now, I just need to find a dogsitter... anyone want to watch a lazy, mellow husky while we're in Traverse City, Italy and Austin?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
No Ponies Here
Unlike some other people, my newest acquisition is not two ponies, or even one pony, or even really a zebra.
I got a new camera.
My little point-and-shoot digital camera that had been given to me by MM, and had done so well for a couple of years, has finally decided to opt for retirement. It's been heading that way for a while, requiring a thwap on the lens cap to get it to open and such. While that was cool and impressive in a "Fonzie bangs on the jukebox" kind of way, it was getting annoying, too.
So I went to the local Schmest Schmuy and bought another little point-and-shoot from a salesman who bore the distinction of being incredibly uninformed about any of the cameras available, but was, however, more than willing to attempt to talk me into a more expensive model that he knew as little about as any of the lesser expensive ones.
I like the new camera; it's compact, and as I discovered when we took it to the Detroit Zoo to play with it, it takes nice pictures, especially when TFN plays with it, as in with the little photo of Shane.
Sha also got something that she's pretty excited about this weekend. The Silver Spoon is a highly respected Italian cookbook - in Italy, which says a lot. It was first published there in 1950, and wash just recently published in English. It's like an Italian version of The Joy Of Cooking, and it demystifies a lot of Italian dishes.
If you're looking for something that explains the history of Italian dishes, or the regions the dishes come from, this is not the right cookbook for that. It was simply translated into English - not Americanized. As long as you're aware of that, it's an incredible compendium of recipes (there are somewhere around 400 billion recipes in here I think, give or take 400 billion), and based on making one recipe - gnocchi - it's going to be a lot of fun.
I got a new camera.
My little point-and-shoot digital camera that had been given to me by MM, and had done so well for a couple of years, has finally decided to opt for retirement. It's been heading that way for a while, requiring a thwap on the lens cap to get it to open and such. While that was cool and impressive in a "Fonzie bangs on the jukebox" kind of way, it was getting annoying, too.
So I went to the local Schmest Schmuy and bought another little point-and-shoot from a salesman who bore the distinction of being incredibly uninformed about any of the cameras available, but was, however, more than willing to attempt to talk me into a more expensive model that he knew as little about as any of the lesser expensive ones.
I like the new camera; it's compact, and as I discovered when we took it to the Detroit Zoo to play with it, it takes nice pictures, especially when TFN plays with it, as in with the little photo of Shane.
Sha also got something that she's pretty excited about this weekend. The Silver Spoon is a highly respected Italian cookbook - in Italy, which says a lot. It was first published there in 1950, and wash just recently published in English. It's like an Italian version of The Joy Of Cooking, and it demystifies a lot of Italian dishes.
If you're looking for something that explains the history of Italian dishes, or the regions the dishes come from, this is not the right cookbook for that. It was simply translated into English - not Americanized. As long as you're aware of that, it's an incredible compendium of recipes (there are somewhere around 400 billion recipes in here I think, give or take 400 billion), and based on making one recipe - gnocchi - it's going to be a lot of fun.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Look at that S-Car-Go!
If you read this site with any regularity, you're aware of my love for shellfish. Generally, this comes in the form of oysters, clams and mussels, which can all be purchased live and on ice at one of the various fishmongers in the area (they're not exclusively fishmongers, but I like that word).
This love of shellfish also includes snails, which don't live in the water and probably aren't shellfish at all, but they have shells, and I'm not sure how else to classify them.
I've had escargot at a few places, but always at restaurants. The best escargot I ever had was in Paris (go figure!), but I've had it in restaurants stateside as well, and it was always quite good.
A week or so ago, we decided to get frozen escargot from a local gourmet shop as an appetizer to a big Italian Sunday dinner of spaghetti and clams in white whine and garlic. (I know, you're either thinking "more shellfish" or "escargot is French! Why have it before Italian food?" Either response is fine, but it was our dinner so we're allowed to mix things up.)
I'd never had frozen escargot before (although I'm sure most restaurants in the U.S. probably use it, I'd never made it at home). It was quite easy; simply throw it in the oven until it bubbled, then serve it up.
Wow.
I don't know if you've ever eaten a petting zoo, but while I haven't either, I can only imagine that this is what it would taste like. It tasted like a bunch of dirty little goats running around, knocking children over, chewing on whatever they could get their mouths on and doing their business wherever they pleased.
That's not a good flavor. We pitched the snails without even making it through one.
Fortunately, the rest of the meal was exquisite.
I think we've decided that we will never again prepare snails in our house.
This love of shellfish also includes snails, which don't live in the water and probably aren't shellfish at all, but they have shells, and I'm not sure how else to classify them.
I've had escargot at a few places, but always at restaurants. The best escargot I ever had was in Paris (go figure!), but I've had it in restaurants stateside as well, and it was always quite good.
A week or so ago, we decided to get frozen escargot from a local gourmet shop as an appetizer to a big Italian Sunday dinner of spaghetti and clams in white whine and garlic. (I know, you're either thinking "more shellfish" or "escargot is French! Why have it before Italian food?" Either response is fine, but it was our dinner so we're allowed to mix things up.)
I'd never had frozen escargot before (although I'm sure most restaurants in the U.S. probably use it, I'd never made it at home). It was quite easy; simply throw it in the oven until it bubbled, then serve it up.
Wow.
I don't know if you've ever eaten a petting zoo, but while I haven't either, I can only imagine that this is what it would taste like. It tasted like a bunch of dirty little goats running around, knocking children over, chewing on whatever they could get their mouths on and doing their business wherever they pleased.
That's not a good flavor. We pitched the snails without even making it through one.
Fortunately, the rest of the meal was exquisite.
I think we've decided that we will never again prepare snails in our house.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
How Green Can You Be?
It all depends on how far you want to go.
I eat healthy. I try to go to the Eastern Market for my produce as often as possible. Most of it’s locally grown by small farmers. Much of it’s organic. I’ve tried to grow my own produce, but I don’t have the skills to do it with any efficiency.
I couldn’t do the 100-mile diet (for those of you too new to remember Z writing about it, it simply means not eating anything produced more than 100 miles away - more info is here). I mean I could - I just don’t want to. I don’t want to give up coffee. Or oysters. Or olives. Or French or Italian wines, or California wines for that matter. There are too many things that I’m simply not willing to give up.
I’m not a vegetarian. I probably could be a vegetarian, I eat vegetarian quite often, and I can cook vegetarian food, I just don’t want to be a vegetarian. I like the occasional bloody rare steak. I like pulled pork, sausage and bacon. I like to occasionally splurge on duck. It wouldn’t take much to become a vegetarian; I just don’t really want to do it.
Also, being strict about being vegetarian would be a royal PITA. Vegetarians have to worry about stuff like, “Is there fish oil in this salad dressing? Is there lard in these beans? Is there beef gelatin in this glass of wine?” (Yep, even that last one is true.) Look, unless it’s going to kill me immediately, I don’t want to have to stress about what I’m eating. And I don’t want to face a day where the fact that beer and wine are made with animal products will force me to give them up.
Sorry, If I’ve opened up a horrible revelation to any vegetarians reading this, but yes, many beers and wines are made with various animal products in them.
On this token, I could also really never become vegan. Even if most vegetarians are not overly concerned with minute traces of animal byproducts in their beer, vegans are. Vegans also don’t eat cheese, which I think is against the Bible. I know there was a thou shalt or something about how fresh mozzarella is really good and how Jesus wanted us to have it with tomatoes, basil and balsamic.
So, when it comes to eating, I guess I’m a moderate. I like to eat healthy. I go out of my way to get local produce and to eat organically. I eat more fish than I do red meat, and have no problem going a few days without any meat. I’m OK with this. I could probably leave a smaller footprint on the Earth, and while I do think of that occasionally, right now I’m comfortable with myself.
And I think that’s the important part. But, I will probably frown at everyone who is less committed to healthy and environmentally sound eating habits than I, and pity those who are stricter. It’s the old “anyone driving slower than me is an idiot – and everyone driving faster is a maniac” phenomena. Something in our psychological being forces us to look at everything relative to ourselves. Einstein said something about relativity, but it was only kind of the same thing.
Now that we’ve set the stage, I would like to introduce you to another dietary/lifestyle group – the freegans. In their own words, ”Freegans are people who employ alternative strategies for living based on limited participation in the conventional economy and minimal consumption of resources.”
What does that mean? Freegans adopt a vegan lifestyle, but only eat things they don’t have to pay for. I’m not talking about homegrown self-sufficiency either. They dumpster dive for food.
These are the same people who are ”are outraged that people literally freeze to death on the streets while landlords and cities keep buildings boarded up and vacant because they can’t turn a profit on making them available as housing.” OK, we all may be outraged at this, but they take a logic leap and decide that this belief means that they should be squatting rent free in these abandoned buildings.
Am I wrong in thinking that this is simply a way to adopt a political lifestyle to cover up the fact that they’re gross and just a bit underemployed?
I guess I never realized what a capitalist pig I was until now. I like owning property that won’t be taken away (as long as I’m working and paying bills anyway). In fact, I don’t mind working when it allows me to splurge on things like a decent bottle of wine or a plate of raw oysters now and then. And while I guess that may be selfish, I’m not ready to start eating garbage in order to feel better about my impact on the world.
If you want to learn more about Freeganism and becoming agross person Freegan, they have a Web site. They must use the computer at the library, because, last I checked, most vacant buildings don’t have access to the Interwebs.
I eat healthy. I try to go to the Eastern Market for my produce as often as possible. Most of it’s locally grown by small farmers. Much of it’s organic. I’ve tried to grow my own produce, but I don’t have the skills to do it with any efficiency.
I couldn’t do the 100-mile diet (for those of you too new to remember Z writing about it, it simply means not eating anything produced more than 100 miles away - more info is here). I mean I could - I just don’t want to. I don’t want to give up coffee. Or oysters. Or olives. Or French or Italian wines, or California wines for that matter. There are too many things that I’m simply not willing to give up.
I’m not a vegetarian. I probably could be a vegetarian, I eat vegetarian quite often, and I can cook vegetarian food, I just don’t want to be a vegetarian. I like the occasional bloody rare steak. I like pulled pork, sausage and bacon. I like to occasionally splurge on duck. It wouldn’t take much to become a vegetarian; I just don’t really want to do it.
Also, being strict about being vegetarian would be a royal PITA. Vegetarians have to worry about stuff like, “Is there fish oil in this salad dressing? Is there lard in these beans? Is there beef gelatin in this glass of wine?” (Yep, even that last one is true.) Look, unless it’s going to kill me immediately, I don’t want to have to stress about what I’m eating. And I don’t want to face a day where the fact that beer and wine are made with animal products will force me to give them up.
Sorry, If I’ve opened up a horrible revelation to any vegetarians reading this, but yes, many beers and wines are made with various animal products in them.
On this token, I could also really never become vegan. Even if most vegetarians are not overly concerned with minute traces of animal byproducts in their beer, vegans are. Vegans also don’t eat cheese, which I think is against the Bible. I know there was a thou shalt or something about how fresh mozzarella is really good and how Jesus wanted us to have it with tomatoes, basil and balsamic.
So, when it comes to eating, I guess I’m a moderate. I like to eat healthy. I go out of my way to get local produce and to eat organically. I eat more fish than I do red meat, and have no problem going a few days without any meat. I’m OK with this. I could probably leave a smaller footprint on the Earth, and while I do think of that occasionally, right now I’m comfortable with myself.
And I think that’s the important part. But, I will probably frown at everyone who is less committed to healthy and environmentally sound eating habits than I, and pity those who are stricter. It’s the old “anyone driving slower than me is an idiot – and everyone driving faster is a maniac” phenomena. Something in our psychological being forces us to look at everything relative to ourselves. Einstein said something about relativity, but it was only kind of the same thing.
Now that we’ve set the stage, I would like to introduce you to another dietary/lifestyle group – the freegans. In their own words, ”Freegans are people who employ alternative strategies for living based on limited participation in the conventional economy and minimal consumption of resources.”
What does that mean? Freegans adopt a vegan lifestyle, but only eat things they don’t have to pay for. I’m not talking about homegrown self-sufficiency either. They dumpster dive for food.
These are the same people who are ”are outraged that people literally freeze to death on the streets while landlords and cities keep buildings boarded up and vacant because they can’t turn a profit on making them available as housing.” OK, we all may be outraged at this, but they take a logic leap and decide that this belief means that they should be squatting rent free in these abandoned buildings.
Am I wrong in thinking that this is simply a way to adopt a political lifestyle to cover up the fact that they’re gross and just a bit underemployed?
I guess I never realized what a capitalist pig I was until now. I like owning property that won’t be taken away (as long as I’m working and paying bills anyway). In fact, I don’t mind working when it allows me to splurge on things like a decent bottle of wine or a plate of raw oysters now and then. And while I guess that may be selfish, I’m not ready to start eating garbage in order to feel better about my impact on the world.
If you want to learn more about Freeganism and becoming a
Monday, August 27, 2007
Drying Out
Despite tornadoes and high winds in the area, we got through the storm pretty well. Better than others, anyway. A few blocks away, trees were ripped out of the ground, and not much further, people lost power for three days. TFN's sister ended up with four feet of water in her basement, as well as a host of fish and frogs who traveled with it.
Apparently, due to the storm coverage, they also bumped the broadcast of the Miss Teen USA pageant. That's a shame, because around here everyone missed seeing this firsthand:
I neither know nor care who won the pageant, but I am extremely grateful that Miss Teen South Carolina was able to confirm my suspicions about beauty queens.
Apparently, due to the storm coverage, they also bumped the broadcast of the Miss Teen USA pageant. That's a shame, because around here everyone missed seeing this firsthand:
I neither know nor care who won the pageant, but I am extremely grateful that Miss Teen South Carolina was able to confirm my suspicions about beauty queens.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Weathering the storm
As I'm writing this, I have taken refuge. There is a wicked thunderstorm going overhead right now, and tornadoes have been sighted in the area. I'm hiding out in the basement with a cat and a very nervous dog glued to my hip.
Storms don't bother him, but he's used to lying in the dog bed while they pass. Picking him up and carrying him down the stairs (he didn't want to go) has him feeling like things aren't right.
It's amazing that, in this day and age, we can still be humbled by something like the weather. I'm hiding out in my basement while thunder crackles outside, and TFN's sister, who lives on a river bank, has water inches from her back door and they're waiting to see if the water will still rise.
Now the nervous dog has just thrown up on the tile. Nice. I think it's partly out of nervousness, and partly that he's not used to being carried, especially right after he's eaten. Ah well, off to get some paper towel, hope the house doesn't collapse while I'm upstairs...
Ok, we're back safe and sound and the tile is clean again. Where was I?
Ah yes, we get so cocky about our mastery of the world, it just takes something like the psychotic weather of the past week to humble us up a bit.
If the power goes out, A. I won't be able to access the Interwebs, and therfore this post goes bu-bye, but B. the big thing is that we'll lose the sump pump. Withouht the sump pump, the basement will take on water, especially with all of the rain we've had. Sister in law who lives on the river has FIVE! sump pumps, all laboring to keep the house safe. Power goes out, they're fucked.
It's 2007, we have electricity and the Interwebs and cable TV and Fruit Rollups, yet when a tornado is sighted, I may as well be a Neanderthal hiding in a cave, waiting out the rain. Then again, Neanderthals didn't have Youtube, and they couldn't watch things like this to weather out the storm...
What'd I tell ya? Cat-blogging! All cats all the time!
See you when the storm blows over.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
It's my party and I'll blog if I want to.
I just realized that a few days ago signaled another year of this little site. Actually, it was Saturday which signaled the day that I inauspiciously started one of the blog things on the internets two years ago with this little blurb. At that moment, Kit Burns was framed! was born. In just two years, it has become a multi-million dollar juggernaut of the the literary world, and there's nowhere to go from here but up!
Blogging has been a lot of fun. I've met some great peeps on the internets, and read some great writing. While my interest has ebbed and flowed in doing it, it has never gone away completely, and it probably won't do so anytime soon.
I do want to thank the investors who've made this possible, those who took the risk of laying out the venture capital in the early days, and I am happy to know that I've made you more money with this project than you could have possibly imagined. Between merchandising, action figures and the film rights to Kit Burns was framed! The Movie, we could all retire tomorrow. But then, the boredom would kill us, wouldn't it? So lets just get back on the bus and take this one as far as it will go.
There are also a few others who've I relied upon for influence and connections, without which we never would have been able to manage the information acquisition we had, or the legal wrangling that has at various times kept most of the staff here at Kit Burns was framed! out of prison (and to Jordan, who took one for the team, we're still appealing!). You all know who you are, and while I respect your desire to remain nameless, I did want to thank you.
And, since I don't know what else to say, let me just share a few photos that I took Saturday, the second anniversary of our inception.
This is how we do fountains in Detroit.
Cats and a giraffe.
Ciao! Thank you, and don't forget to tip your waitress.
Blogging has been a lot of fun. I've met some great peeps on the internets, and read some great writing. While my interest has ebbed and flowed in doing it, it has never gone away completely, and it probably won't do so anytime soon.
I do want to thank the investors who've made this possible, those who took the risk of laying out the venture capital in the early days, and I am happy to know that I've made you more money with this project than you could have possibly imagined. Between merchandising, action figures and the film rights to Kit Burns was framed! The Movie, we could all retire tomorrow. But then, the boredom would kill us, wouldn't it? So lets just get back on the bus and take this one as far as it will go.
There are also a few others who've I relied upon for influence and connections, without which we never would have been able to manage the information acquisition we had, or the legal wrangling that has at various times kept most of the staff here at Kit Burns was framed! out of prison (and to Jordan, who took one for the team, we're still appealing!). You all know who you are, and while I respect your desire to remain nameless, I did want to thank you.
And, since I don't know what else to say, let me just share a few photos that I took Saturday, the second anniversary of our inception.
This is how we do fountains in Detroit.
Cats and a giraffe.
Ciao! Thank you, and don't forget to tip your waitress.
The newest addition to our family
I'd like to welcome this lovely young lady to our family. She's TFN's new ride, and don't let her good looks fool you - she's tough.
You'll notice she looks a little uncomfortable in the photo. That's because she's sitting in the living room. She's claustrophobic and hyperactive. She hates sitting still and really hates being inside. Unfortunately, the weather has been less than cooperative.
Rather than criticize her claustrophobia or hyperactivity as flaws though, we choose to celebrate them. As soon as the weather breaks, we'll take her to environs more comfortable for her. I'll be sure to get a photo of her in a more natural state then.
You'll notice she looks a little uncomfortable in the photo. That's because she's sitting in the living room. She's claustrophobic and hyperactive. She hates sitting still and really hates being inside. Unfortunately, the weather has been less than cooperative.
Rather than criticize her claustrophobia or hyperactivity as flaws though, we choose to celebrate them. As soon as the weather breaks, we'll take her to environs more comfortable for her. I'll be sure to get a photo of her in a more natural state then.
Monday, August 20, 2007
For Jamie
While I put a lot of stuff on my blog, I also am pretty secretive. I talk about a lot of fun stuff, but really, I keep my personal details to a minimum.
Sometimes, though, it feels good to write something down, even if I don't feel like sharing it with the world.
So I've decided to write about Jamie. Jamie was a rockstar of the highest order. Jamie could drink you under the table without a second thought, but he would never hold it against you.
I first met Jamie when he played keyboards in the Lust. They stayed with us the weekend that they came into town. I was blown away by his charisma, his friendliness, his lack of attitude and his infectious smile.
During the weekend they stayed with us, we talked about a ton of stuff. Jamie was eloquent and intelligent, and not at all wrapped up in being a rock star. On the first night he stayed with us, we walked through my yard in the dark, drinking beer and talking about everything from religion, to history, to food and the state of my struggling (now failed) attempts at a vegetable and herb garden.
We pulled out a whiskey bottle and passed it back and forth, drinking and laughing.
I slept on the lawn that night.
Jamie didn't get riled up about anything. When The Lust played at the Old Miami that weekend, the soundman at the bar was abysmal, yet he was unphased no matter how angry his bandmates were. And when his bandmates stood on the curb, heatedly arguing about how to load their gear, he stood off to the side with Nicole and I, smirking with that twinkle in his eye.
For as enamored as I sound of Jamie, it doesn't touch the connection that he and Nicole made. That weekend in our little house, the two of them sat at the kitchen table for hours, well past the time the sun came up that morning, talking about a wider and deeper range of topics than you could imagine. They forged a friendship that night.
When the Lust left, Jamie told us to come visit him at the Double Door whenever we were in Chicago and we would never pay for drinks. He was right, and it was detrimental to me on more than one occasion, but as always, he and Nicole would sit and chat well past close. She loved that kid.
Friday night, Jamie took his own life. We found out Saturday afternoon on our way to a party. Nicole broke down in tears on the street. She didn't want to go to the party crying, but I dragged her in, feeling it was better that we were among friends at the moment than in the alley behind the house. We tucked away for a bit, and then proceeded to try and enjoy the night.
It wasn't until we got home that night that I really broke down, full of sadness, frustration and anger about it all. For a few minutes, I think I grieved deeper than I ever have, until I went to bed out of exhaustion more than anything else.
It's strangely appropriate that it started raining here on Saturday, and hasn't stopped yet.
The hardest thing to deal with is the anger. When Maria passed away earlier this year, I was able to be angry at the cancer that took her away from us, her husband and her daughter. With this, I can only be angry with Jamie. I miss him so much, but I'm angry with him, too.
He was an amazingly special person, one that I feel fortunate to have considered a friend despite the fact that we only spent a limited amount of times together. I'm sure we're not alone in this regard; I'm sure he touched a lot of people that way.
I can only hope that he's found peace, and escaped what he was running from. He will always be missed, and fondly remembered.
(Edit - I removed Jamie's last name as this post was generating a lot of traffic, and I don't want to cause pain to anyone; if you know me and you know Jamie, you know where to find it, but I know Jamie had eight bazillion friends I didn't know, and the rambling of someone they don't know probably may not be the most cathartic for them.)
Sometimes, though, it feels good to write something down, even if I don't feel like sharing it with the world.
So I've decided to write about Jamie. Jamie was a rockstar of the highest order. Jamie could drink you under the table without a second thought, but he would never hold it against you.
I first met Jamie when he played keyboards in the Lust. They stayed with us the weekend that they came into town. I was blown away by his charisma, his friendliness, his lack of attitude and his infectious smile.
During the weekend they stayed with us, we talked about a ton of stuff. Jamie was eloquent and intelligent, and not at all wrapped up in being a rock star. On the first night he stayed with us, we walked through my yard in the dark, drinking beer and talking about everything from religion, to history, to food and the state of my struggling (now failed) attempts at a vegetable and herb garden.
We pulled out a whiskey bottle and passed it back and forth, drinking and laughing.
I slept on the lawn that night.
Jamie didn't get riled up about anything. When The Lust played at the Old Miami that weekend, the soundman at the bar was abysmal, yet he was unphased no matter how angry his bandmates were. And when his bandmates stood on the curb, heatedly arguing about how to load their gear, he stood off to the side with Nicole and I, smirking with that twinkle in his eye.
For as enamored as I sound of Jamie, it doesn't touch the connection that he and Nicole made. That weekend in our little house, the two of them sat at the kitchen table for hours, well past the time the sun came up that morning, talking about a wider and deeper range of topics than you could imagine. They forged a friendship that night.
When the Lust left, Jamie told us to come visit him at the Double Door whenever we were in Chicago and we would never pay for drinks. He was right, and it was detrimental to me on more than one occasion, but as always, he and Nicole would sit and chat well past close. She loved that kid.
Friday night, Jamie took his own life. We found out Saturday afternoon on our way to a party. Nicole broke down in tears on the street. She didn't want to go to the party crying, but I dragged her in, feeling it was better that we were among friends at the moment than in the alley behind the house. We tucked away for a bit, and then proceeded to try and enjoy the night.
It wasn't until we got home that night that I really broke down, full of sadness, frustration and anger about it all. For a few minutes, I think I grieved deeper than I ever have, until I went to bed out of exhaustion more than anything else.
It's strangely appropriate that it started raining here on Saturday, and hasn't stopped yet.
The hardest thing to deal with is the anger. When Maria passed away earlier this year, I was able to be angry at the cancer that took her away from us, her husband and her daughter. With this, I can only be angry with Jamie. I miss him so much, but I'm angry with him, too.
He was an amazingly special person, one that I feel fortunate to have considered a friend despite the fact that we only spent a limited amount of times together. I'm sure we're not alone in this regard; I'm sure he touched a lot of people that way.
I can only hope that he's found peace, and escaped what he was running from. He will always be missed, and fondly remembered.
(Edit - I removed Jamie's last name as this post was generating a lot of traffic, and I don't want to cause pain to anyone; if you know me and you know Jamie, you know where to find it, but I know Jamie had eight bazillion friends I didn't know, and the rambling of someone they don't know probably may not be the most cathartic for them.)
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Cat-blogging! All cats, all the time!
So, I was at the site for Mental Floss magazine, today (it’s one of those sites that’s part of my daily rotation), and I stumbled on a post about bloggers, and this thing they do called blogging.
Paraphrasing a bit, they searched around the Interwebs to find what various authorities and sources were saying about “the average blogger.”
They turned up some quotes, and I was looking at them, as well as at the stories, to try and figure out how “average” I am.
"The average blogger is a 14-year-old girl writing about her cat." - Alexander Halavais, assistant professor of interactive communications at Quinnipiac University in Connecticut
Ok, while I beat that age demographic, I have blogged about Miss Mina on more than one occasion. What’s wrong with that? Anyway, cat blogs are very popular with some folks, especially crazy cat ladies.
Another study they pointed out said that “most blogs are abandoned soon after creation (with 60% to 80% abandoned within one month, depending on whose figures you choose to believe) and that few are regularly updated. The 'average blog' thus has the lifespan of a fruitfly”
OK, while I haven’t been ultraregular on my updates, and while I blame it on my “job blog”, I do try to update at least once a week. Granted, there were times, in my bloggish youth, where I could update three times a day, every day. But age catches up with us. Occasionally I’ll get those bouts of energy, but right now, it’s not so often.
The biggest one that makes me wonder was a statement by the CEO of Google, who said that the “average blog” is read by one person. That makes me wonder how average I am. I think I get two or three readers, but I’m not exactly sure.
What if no readers came to this site, would it change anything? Sadly, I think it would. Part of this whole blog thing, for me at least, involves the exchange of ideas, thoughts, revelations and inspirations. If nobody visits a blog, does it make a sound?
Anyway, for better or for worse, the post is here. Do me a favor though. Before you go, drop a short roll call comment at the bottom of the post, to alleviate the idea that I may simply be average.
Paraphrasing a bit, they searched around the Interwebs to find what various authorities and sources were saying about “the average blogger.”
They turned up some quotes, and I was looking at them, as well as at the stories, to try and figure out how “average” I am.
"The average blogger is a 14-year-old girl writing about her cat." - Alexander Halavais, assistant professor of interactive communications at Quinnipiac University in Connecticut
Ok, while I beat that age demographic, I have blogged about Miss Mina on more than one occasion. What’s wrong with that? Anyway, cat blogs are very popular with some folks, especially crazy cat ladies.
Another study they pointed out said that “most blogs are abandoned soon after creation (with 60% to 80% abandoned within one month, depending on whose figures you choose to believe) and that few are regularly updated. The 'average blog' thus has the lifespan of a fruitfly”
OK, while I haven’t been ultraregular on my updates, and while I blame it on my “job blog”, I do try to update at least once a week. Granted, there were times, in my bloggish youth, where I could update three times a day, every day. But age catches up with us. Occasionally I’ll get those bouts of energy, but right now, it’s not so often.
The biggest one that makes me wonder was a statement by the CEO of Google, who said that the “average blog” is read by one person. That makes me wonder how average I am. I think I get two or three readers, but I’m not exactly sure.
What if no readers came to this site, would it change anything? Sadly, I think it would. Part of this whole blog thing, for me at least, involves the exchange of ideas, thoughts, revelations and inspirations. If nobody visits a blog, does it make a sound?
Anyway, for better or for worse, the post is here. Do me a favor though. Before you go, drop a short roll call comment at the bottom of the post, to alleviate the idea that I may simply be average.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Hi, my name is Ryan and I’m esoteric…
Il calore e insopportabile.
The heat is unbearable.
That seems to be the trend as of late. The heat has been stifling lately, creating the type of temperatures that force one inside to hide in the dark, next to the window air conditioner (or in my white trash neighbor’s case, has them sitting in lawn chairs shaded from the sun – by their van).
I read a news article that said we can plan on the next 10 years or so being cyclically warmer, too. That is, whether or not you believe is global warming, the next 10 summers are going to be hot simply because they will be. If that’s true, I’m heading up to Alaska for a few, because I like to breathe air, not wade through it.
Now, then, global warming - is it real? Apparently that depends on who you ask. There are people who say it’s coming, and we’re accelerating it – unfortunately, I am told that those people are being paranoid and melodramatic, simply because they love grant money and hate America. Those that say that global warming isn’t happening are, I am told, simply government shills on the take from big businesses with bigger check books (but at least they don’t hate America).
I guess it’s up to you where you want to side, but there are some indisputable facts. One, it’s damn hot. Two, polar bears are drowning. The fact that polar bears are drowning probably should be telling us we need to fix something. But it won’t. Not until there are people in the right places who are more concerned about sound environmental policy than about pushing some caribou out of the way so they can drill for oil.
My biggest/best global warming argument is this: whether or not you believe global warming is happening, or if it’s cyclical or man-enhanced, what’s wrong with being green? I like mountain biking. I like getting out in the woods. I like nature. Don’t most of us like nature? Then why not simply agree we all need to be nicer to the outside simply because it’s the right thing to do?
Believe it or not, I didn’t intend this post to be about this. My Italian phrase a day calendar just set me off.
What did I want to talk about? Well, I think it’s going to be a long and winding road getting there, so I hope you packed a lunch, because I’ll be taking the scenic route.
Will Smith don’t gotta cuss in his raps to sell records.
Well I do. So fuck him and fuck you, too. –Eminem
I don’t bring it up often, but Eminem is incredibly talented. His rhymes are tight, and his lyrics are great. It’s not something that gets mentioned often though, because allying one with Marshall aligns you with his fans, and… well I told you about my neighbors sitting in the shade of their van.
Plus, he doesn’t dis Detroit, like a certain punkass who’ll remain nameless in this context.
For those of you who think I may be slipping a bit, this is Barb Object (the band is I Object!). She’s very punk rock.
And for those of you who may think I went way to far and too easy with that one. This is Towers Of London. They’re pretty punk rock, too.
And, just for one more, we’ll let the Towers slow it down with an acoustic number. Also pretty punk rock.
So what is punk rock? Somebody has the answer…
I just got a screener copy of a new film, called Punk’s Not Dead. It was really great, and if/when you get the chance, see it. It’s a documentary, but not a solid historical documentary. Basically, the filmmaker interviewed punk musicians, both old school and new school, and talked to them about what punk means. The ideal. It’s pretty entertaining, and pretty eye opening, as the basic message is that about the only thing you have no right to do is to tell someone else that their idea of punk rock isn’t.
To sum up, Eminem is pretty punk rock. And he’s from Detroit. And another guy is also from Detroit and is not as punk rock as Eminem. I Object! Is punk rock, and so are the Towers Of London, and so is everyone who wants to be punk rock (except the aforementioned unnamed guy from Detroit). And Punk’s Not Dead is a good movie, and if you want to read my full review (blatant self-promotion), you can read it here.
Oh, speaking of blatant self-promotion, the film also talked about the classic “punk episode” of Quincy M.E., and I wrote a post about it here, with links to clippy goodness.
Getting back on the road that has nothing to do with Eminem or global warming, it’s been a great biking season, if a little accident prone. Case in point: due to unrelated spills, TFN and I ran in the Tree Farm Relay a few weeks ago sporting a matching pair of broken ribs. Broken ribs hurt. The only known treatment for a broken rib is beer. That’s a little known fact, but try it if you’re ever in the situation.
Another thing I wanted to point out the importance of the brain bucket. Long story short, TFN took a huge drop in the bottom of a pit, hitting the ground at about 15-20 MPH. She hit the ground hard and slid a few feet. She walked away with the aforementioned broken rib and a bit lighter after leaving the proverbial pound of flesh peeled away on the ground. Oh, and she had a cracked helmet.
It’s not the first time I’ve watched people (including the best rider I know, my personal bike guru) take some sick spills with little or no consequence that would have been much worse had their brain not been in a bucket. I will never ride a trail without a helmet, I will not ride with anyone who isn’t wearing a helmet and although we never did when we were kids, I wear a helmet on the road, and my kids will bike in helmets too. Man, it only takes one small lapse of judgment, one second where you’re not paying attention, to launch you over the handlebars. If you’ve got a brain bucket on, it’ll probably be more painful, because your friends will never let you live it down but it’s rude to make fun of people in a persistive vegetative state from a head injury.
As it was, we both ended up banged up but still able to race. So, to reiterate, put your brain in a bucket, OK?
Oh, and for those of you who’ve been keeping track at home, Team Angry Monkey gained a few new members, but I really wanted to introduce this one . We’ll be starting her training very soon. It’s how Yoda recommends these things be done.
Taking the scenic route once more, we got hooked up with a group called Beat The Train. Beat The Train meets at 6:30 in the AM on Saturday at Historic Fort Wayne in an area of Detroit that one doesn’t usually even drive in. From there, we ride out bikes across the city, through Mexican Village, Wayne State, Greektown, Mt. Elliot cemetery, the Heidelberg Project, Bell Isle, Downtown, The River Walk… 33 miles later, we’re back in Mexicantown for breakfast.
It’s an amazing way to see the city; first of all, we rode through neighborhoods I don’t even like to drive through, but there is the whole safety in numbers thing, and 20 cyclists had no problem.
Also, as we went through downtown, there were a ton of business owners, opening up shops and restaurants for the day, who said hello and actually thanked us for coming into the city. It’s the kind of thing that continues to make me want to have faith in Detroit.
Ok… I think I’ve run out of thoughts for the moment… if anyone can tell me what this post is about, you know where the comment area is. There may even be a secret message in here, but if so, I didn’t put it there…
The heat is unbearable.
That seems to be the trend as of late. The heat has been stifling lately, creating the type of temperatures that force one inside to hide in the dark, next to the window air conditioner (or in my white trash neighbor’s case, has them sitting in lawn chairs shaded from the sun – by their van).
I read a news article that said we can plan on the next 10 years or so being cyclically warmer, too. That is, whether or not you believe is global warming, the next 10 summers are going to be hot simply because they will be. If that’s true, I’m heading up to Alaska for a few, because I like to breathe air, not wade through it.
Now, then, global warming - is it real? Apparently that depends on who you ask. There are people who say it’s coming, and we’re accelerating it – unfortunately, I am told that those people are being paranoid and melodramatic, simply because they love grant money and hate America. Those that say that global warming isn’t happening are, I am told, simply government shills on the take from big businesses with bigger check books (but at least they don’t hate America).
I guess it’s up to you where you want to side, but there are some indisputable facts. One, it’s damn hot. Two, polar bears are drowning. The fact that polar bears are drowning probably should be telling us we need to fix something. But it won’t. Not until there are people in the right places who are more concerned about sound environmental policy than about pushing some caribou out of the way so they can drill for oil.
My biggest/best global warming argument is this: whether or not you believe global warming is happening, or if it’s cyclical or man-enhanced, what’s wrong with being green? I like mountain biking. I like getting out in the woods. I like nature. Don’t most of us like nature? Then why not simply agree we all need to be nicer to the outside simply because it’s the right thing to do?
Believe it or not, I didn’t intend this post to be about this. My Italian phrase a day calendar just set me off.
What did I want to talk about? Well, I think it’s going to be a long and winding road getting there, so I hope you packed a lunch, because I’ll be taking the scenic route.
Will Smith don’t gotta cuss in his raps to sell records.
Well I do. So fuck him and fuck you, too. –Eminem
I don’t bring it up often, but Eminem is incredibly talented. His rhymes are tight, and his lyrics are great. It’s not something that gets mentioned often though, because allying one with Marshall aligns you with his fans, and… well I told you about my neighbors sitting in the shade of their van.
Plus, he doesn’t dis Detroit, like a certain punkass who’ll remain nameless in this context.
For those of you who think I may be slipping a bit, this is Barb Object (the band is I Object!). She’s very punk rock.
And for those of you who may think I went way to far and too easy with that one. This is Towers Of London. They’re pretty punk rock, too.
And, just for one more, we’ll let the Towers slow it down with an acoustic number. Also pretty punk rock.
So what is punk rock? Somebody has the answer…
I just got a screener copy of a new film, called Punk’s Not Dead. It was really great, and if/when you get the chance, see it. It’s a documentary, but not a solid historical documentary. Basically, the filmmaker interviewed punk musicians, both old school and new school, and talked to them about what punk means. The ideal. It’s pretty entertaining, and pretty eye opening, as the basic message is that about the only thing you have no right to do is to tell someone else that their idea of punk rock isn’t.
To sum up, Eminem is pretty punk rock. And he’s from Detroit. And another guy is also from Detroit and is not as punk rock as Eminem. I Object! Is punk rock, and so are the Towers Of London, and so is everyone who wants to be punk rock (except the aforementioned unnamed guy from Detroit). And Punk’s Not Dead is a good movie, and if you want to read my full review (blatant self-promotion), you can read it here.
Oh, speaking of blatant self-promotion, the film also talked about the classic “punk episode” of Quincy M.E., and I wrote a post about it here, with links to clippy goodness.
Getting back on the road that has nothing to do with Eminem or global warming, it’s been a great biking season, if a little accident prone. Case in point: due to unrelated spills, TFN and I ran in the Tree Farm Relay a few weeks ago sporting a matching pair of broken ribs. Broken ribs hurt. The only known treatment for a broken rib is beer. That’s a little known fact, but try it if you’re ever in the situation.
Another thing I wanted to point out the importance of the brain bucket. Long story short, TFN took a huge drop in the bottom of a pit, hitting the ground at about 15-20 MPH. She hit the ground hard and slid a few feet. She walked away with the aforementioned broken rib and a bit lighter after leaving the proverbial pound of flesh peeled away on the ground. Oh, and she had a cracked helmet.
It’s not the first time I’ve watched people (including the best rider I know, my personal bike guru) take some sick spills with little or no consequence that would have been much worse had their brain not been in a bucket. I will never ride a trail without a helmet, I will not ride with anyone who isn’t wearing a helmet and although we never did when we were kids, I wear a helmet on the road, and my kids will bike in helmets too. Man, it only takes one small lapse of judgment, one second where you’re not paying attention, to launch you over the handlebars. If you’ve got a brain bucket on, it’ll probably be more painful, because your friends will never let you live it down but it’s rude to make fun of people in a persistive vegetative state from a head injury.
As it was, we both ended up banged up but still able to race. So, to reiterate, put your brain in a bucket, OK?
Oh, and for those of you who’ve been keeping track at home, Team Angry Monkey gained a few new members, but I really wanted to introduce this one . We’ll be starting her training very soon. It’s how Yoda recommends these things be done.
Taking the scenic route once more, we got hooked up with a group called Beat The Train. Beat The Train meets at 6:30 in the AM on Saturday at Historic Fort Wayne in an area of Detroit that one doesn’t usually even drive in. From there, we ride out bikes across the city, through Mexican Village, Wayne State, Greektown, Mt. Elliot cemetery, the Heidelberg Project, Bell Isle, Downtown, The River Walk… 33 miles later, we’re back in Mexicantown for breakfast.
It’s an amazing way to see the city; first of all, we rode through neighborhoods I don’t even like to drive through, but there is the whole safety in numbers thing, and 20 cyclists had no problem.
Also, as we went through downtown, there were a ton of business owners, opening up shops and restaurants for the day, who said hello and actually thanked us for coming into the city. It’s the kind of thing that continues to make me want to have faith in Detroit.
Ok… I think I’ve run out of thoughts for the moment… if anyone can tell me what this post is about, you know where the comment area is. There may even be a secret message in here, but if so, I didn’t put it there…
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Wild in The Streets of Windsor
TFN went to Toronto on business this week, and I took her to the train station in Windsor. First we went to a great little Irish pub for some fish and chips and steak and Guinness pie. As we sat in the front of the bar, things started to get a little crazy in the street out front, as people streamed by in cars and vans, yelling, cheering… and waving the Iraqi flag.
Unfortunately, due to current circumstances, I got very worried that this may have something to do with events in Iraq or in the U.S. We are, I don’t need to tell any of you, at war with Iraq. Whether or not you agree with it (I don’t, but that’s not the point of this), I was faced with the image of Iraqis celebrating in the street while I was in another country. The implications are thus: if this street celebration were due to war-related events, there was a good chance that the border, located about a mile away from where we were at, would close. I would end up stranded in another country for a bit (a big bit, depending on the nature of the event). I like international travel, but I wasn’t in the mood for that.
In the end, the celebrations had nothing to do with the war. The Iraqis celebrating in the street were celebrating a victory, but one from the soccer field. Iraq beat the Saudis in their first ever Asia Cup.
It’s nice to see this kind of celebration and nationalism related to events that happen on the football field. It’s sad that circumstances forced me to think the worst at first.
Why can't we fight wars on the soccer field instead of on the battlefield? Perhaps we're heading that way. Did it ever occur to you that there may be an ulterior motive for our buying Beckham into the U.S.? Other than that he comes with a Spice Girl I mean? Maybe we're working toward building a soccer team to end war with.
I doubt it though. Even if that were the plan, with Iraq's victory, we're a long ways out from having a team to send out to win. Years probably. (Hmmm... then again, that sounds like the way things are anyway.)
That's a dilemma. Ask yourself this: if we could send a soccer team to Iraq tomorrow, to play and loe to Iraq, with the end result being everyone shaking hands and saying amicably, "You win, Iraq. You're clearly the better in this competition. We're going to pack up and head home." Wouldn't that be preferable than the loss of many more lives, both American and Iraqi, as this war trudges on. What if we could end the war that way, sans soccer team? Simply say, "you win," and go home.
Of course that won't work, though. Even if we could walk away now, we're obligated to help clean up the mess we made. When you were a kid, if you went over to someone's house to play, made a mess, and left without helping to clean up, you didn't get invited back. America doesn't want to be that kid. We're already the bully, among a bunch of other things.
Sorry, I didn't mean to get so political, so I'm going to end the post and regroup before I start talking about one of my favorite things - bikes and bike-related things.
Also, unrelated to this event, it took five minutes to get across the border into Canada, and close to an hour to get back in the U.S. That’s just the state of things right now.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Khan was a good dog
Z just blogged that she no longer calls pit bulls by that name due to negative connotations (she calls them brindle bull terriers). It got me thinking about Khan, and how I wanted to mention him here briefly.
Khan was a friend's dog. He was a pit, or a brindle, or whichever you'd like to call him. Regardless of the name of his breed he was a big sweetheart.
He had some weird personality quirks. For example, in this photo, he was sitting in his owner's truck in the driveway during a barbecue. Why? He liked it. He loved to sit in the car. He sat there for an hour or so, watching the festivities go by, occasionally honking the horn and getting everbody's attention.
He was also the strongest dog I've ever known. He would routinely "play" with dumbbells that were so heavy that, as he ran around with them in his mouth he would be tilted forward, running only on his front legs, his back legs off the ground.
He also would let you pick him up like this:
So, yeah, this dog was all muscle, and intimidating because of it. He was also well-trained and very gentle with people and children. I could shove him out of the way on the couch, and know the only retaliation I'd get was him planting his butt down and going dead weight so I couldn't move him.
Khan was a good dog.
He passed away quietly in his sleep a few weeks ago. He was old; it was just time.
I'll miss him at the Dream Cruise Barbecue this year.
Khan was a friend's dog. He was a pit, or a brindle, or whichever you'd like to call him. Regardless of the name of his breed he was a big sweetheart.
He had some weird personality quirks. For example, in this photo, he was sitting in his owner's truck in the driveway during a barbecue. Why? He liked it. He loved to sit in the car. He sat there for an hour or so, watching the festivities go by, occasionally honking the horn and getting everbody's attention.
He was also the strongest dog I've ever known. He would routinely "play" with dumbbells that were so heavy that, as he ran around with them in his mouth he would be tilted forward, running only on his front legs, his back legs off the ground.
He also would let you pick him up like this:
So, yeah, this dog was all muscle, and intimidating because of it. He was also well-trained and very gentle with people and children. I could shove him out of the way on the couch, and know the only retaliation I'd get was him planting his butt down and going dead weight so I couldn't move him.
Khan was a good dog.
He passed away quietly in his sleep a few weeks ago. He was old; it was just time.
I'll miss him at the Dream Cruise Barbecue this year.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Breast Fest Goes Good!
I know it's weeks after the fact, but Breast Fest made over $2,000. Dana from 60 Second Crush even played without her shirt in honor of the event (although as shown, electrical tape kept everything nice and legal...).
If you want to hear the way these guys tear it open, check out their Myspace page. I highly recommend the song "Murder In Ohio".
Edit: If you want to see video of them, here's their Electronic Press Kit video. It's not "Murder in Ohio", but it still rocks.
If you want to hear the way these guys tear it open, check out their Myspace page. I highly recommend the song "Murder In Ohio".
Edit: If you want to see video of them, here's their Electronic Press Kit video. It's not "Murder in Ohio", but it still rocks.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
To serve and protect... those who can afford it.
There was a story in the newspaper yesterday that seems a little bit disturbing to me.Essentially, the story is this: The City of Detroit wants to make its police officers available for rental. If you are a bar or club owner, or are promoting an event, you can hire police officers to come provide security.
What does this imply? If you own a club or bar, you are currently not offered police protection should you need it? Sure, your tax money pays for the police, but unless you actually hire them (which would mean that you’re now paying twice for police services), they don’t need to come if you call?
And here’s a scenario: What if you have an emergency and you call 911, and the nearest police officer is three doors down from your emergency, but can’t provide aid because he has been hired by a strip club for the evening, and is essentially owned by them? I would imagine you could always offer to pay him more than the bar is, but the negotiations might take even longer than the time it takes to find an officer who hasn’t been rented for the evening.
In certain areas of the world, places are run by people known as warlords. Many of these warlords are able to do so because of their wealth, which allows them to hire personal armies and police forces to maintain order in the way that best interests the warlord. How is this different? Isn’t the city offering its officers out as mercenaries?
By hiring a police officer, wouldn’t your business be protected in a way that meets its interest best? Wouldn’t an officer be more likely to accept your side of the story? Say, for example, one of your employees gets in a fight with one of your patrons. Sometimes (albeit rarely) the patron is not at fault in this situation. Perhaps the employee had taken a liking to the patron’s date, and decided that creating an altercation to get the patron removed would allow him to approach her. Perhaps the employee is simply a psychopath who wants to assault the patron.
If you’re a police officer called to the scene, it’s your responsibility to get both sides of the story and make a decision.
If you’re a police officer hired by the club, why wouldn’t it be in your best interest to simply side with the business? Especially if they’re paying well?
And what about wealthy private citizens? Are they going to be allowed to hire personal police escorts? That seems like it would definitely work to their favor in any situation.
To me, it’s one more facet of the crooked nature and financial desperation of the City of Detroit. If you don’t agree, you can get your own personal police mercenaries for $24-$34 an hour, depending on their rank. It’s an additional $50 hour if you want to police car, too. Hell, I bet if it’s your dime, they’ll even run the siren for you.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Two great features of Detroit
There have been tons of good times as of late. Not just the events of birthday week, which I will getting around to posting pictures of some day, there have been other random fun things.
Last night we went down to the Belmont to pick up some art pieces left over from the benefit. Ultimately, the pieces ended up being locked up somewhere, so we didn't get them, but we did drink a few (dozen) $.75 PBR drafts, and we got to eat dinner at Polish Village.
Polish Village is a very old-school type of place. It's a tiny little basement restaurant in Hamtramck and it's very cheap.
We got in there, and waited a few minutes for a table. The place is so tiny, that if the bar is full and you need to wait for a table, your only option is to mill about in the center of the dining room. Stuff like this just adds to the charm.
That, and the fact that they don't take debit cards. We had this exchange with the waitress:
Me: Do you take cards?
Waitress: No, cash only.
Me (toward TFN): Do you have any cash? I only have $20.
Waitress: That's probably enough. It's cheap here.
Me: Yes, but I want to have drinks, and I want to be able to tip you.
Waitress: We also take checks.
Who still takes checks? It just so happened that we had our checkbook, and were thus able to order whatever we wanted without looking at prices. We drank giant mugs of beer, and ate massive amounts of Polish home cooking, including cucumber salad, sausage, pierogi, saurkraut, mashed potatoes, stuffed cabbage and potato pancakes. The bill, before tip, was $20.72.
That's why I love the place.
Today at lunch, I wandered over to John K. King Books. That's another amazing place, and it's just a block from my office. The largest used bookstore in Michigan, the building is four stories, piled floor to ceiling with used books. One could spend many lunch hours there and not see it all. And that's just the stuff they have on the floor. Rumors of what's contained in their off-limits areas are also amazing, as this list indicates.
The store's occult books section conjurs up images of the library at Hogwart's, too.
Two little blurbs about two places that deserve much more notice, but that's all I'm feeling right now.
Last night we went down to the Belmont to pick up some art pieces left over from the benefit. Ultimately, the pieces ended up being locked up somewhere, so we didn't get them, but we did drink a few (dozen) $.75 PBR drafts, and we got to eat dinner at Polish Village.
Polish Village is a very old-school type of place. It's a tiny little basement restaurant in Hamtramck and it's very cheap.
We got in there, and waited a few minutes for a table. The place is so tiny, that if the bar is full and you need to wait for a table, your only option is to mill about in the center of the dining room. Stuff like this just adds to the charm.
That, and the fact that they don't take debit cards. We had this exchange with the waitress:
Me: Do you take cards?
Waitress: No, cash only.
Me (toward TFN): Do you have any cash? I only have $20.
Waitress: That's probably enough. It's cheap here.
Me: Yes, but I want to have drinks, and I want to be able to tip you.
Waitress: We also take checks.
Who still takes checks? It just so happened that we had our checkbook, and were thus able to order whatever we wanted without looking at prices. We drank giant mugs of beer, and ate massive amounts of Polish home cooking, including cucumber salad, sausage, pierogi, saurkraut, mashed potatoes, stuffed cabbage and potato pancakes. The bill, before tip, was $20.72.
That's why I love the place.
Today at lunch, I wandered over to John K. King Books. That's another amazing place, and it's just a block from my office. The largest used bookstore in Michigan, the building is four stories, piled floor to ceiling with used books. One could spend many lunch hours there and not see it all. And that's just the stuff they have on the floor. Rumors of what's contained in their off-limits areas are also amazing, as this list indicates.
The store's occult books section conjurs up images of the library at Hogwart's, too.
Two little blurbs about two places that deserve much more notice, but that's all I'm feeling right now.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
You're all kitten haters...
I know that I am a bit outdoorsy. I like to get out, ride in the woods, have bonfires, etc., and I do worry about the environment. I watched "An Inconvenient Truth" and did find it disturbing, but recent facts have come to light that have forced me to question that global warming could be good... or at least cute.
You see, Global Warming = Kittens. And we all like kittens.
Apparently, according to this story, the rise in temperatures equals longer breeding seasons for cats, which equals more kittens. So, if we were to fight global warming, it would equal less kittens, and that's bad by basic logic.
I mean, any little girl could figure it out. Just ask her (Let's use Pickles for example), "Pickles, what's better? More kittens or less kittens?" She's definitely going to answer "more kittens, please." (She's so polite!)
And she'd be right.
I can see the anti-environmental folks using this as an argument: "What, you're against global warming? What's the matter with you? Do you hate kittens? If you hate kittens, you must also love terrorists and hate America, too!"
Who can argue with that?
So, as a result of all this, I can only urge everyone to use their A/C and their heat at the same time, wage war between your humidifiers and your dehumidifiers, and drive bigger cars. I thank you, and the kittens thank you.
Then again, global warming could lead to our eventual demise, as we're smothered by a giant mass of kittens. What the hell, at least it would be a cute way to go.
The Apocalypse is coming... and it's fuzzy.
You see, Global Warming = Kittens. And we all like kittens.Apparently, according to this story, the rise in temperatures equals longer breeding seasons for cats, which equals more kittens. So, if we were to fight global warming, it would equal less kittens, and that's bad by basic logic.
I mean, any little girl could figure it out. Just ask her (Let's use Pickles for example), "Pickles, what's better? More kittens or less kittens?" She's definitely going to answer "more kittens, please." (She's so polite!)
And she'd be right.
I can see the anti-environmental folks using this as an argument: "What, you're against global warming? What's the matter with you? Do you hate kittens? If you hate kittens, you must also love terrorists and hate America, too!"
Who can argue with that?
So, as a result of all this, I can only urge everyone to use their A/C and their heat at the same time, wage war between your humidifiers and your dehumidifiers, and drive bigger cars. I thank you, and the kittens thank you.
Then again, global warming could lead to our eventual demise, as we're smothered by a giant mass of kittens. What the hell, at least it would be a cute way to go.
The Apocalypse is coming... and it's fuzzy.
Give this guy an Oscar!
This is, without a doubt, the best five seconds of dramatic footage available anywhere on the Interwebs. This guy will be snubbed if he's not nominated for an Oscar. Or at least named Oscar. Oscar is a good name.
Click on it to watch. It's only 5 seconds long (but you'll be watching it repeatedly...)
For those of you who've asked, the benefit went very well, as did my birthday week. (Yes, it turned into a week-long celebration!) I do have photos from the benefit, as well as some birthday week photos, that I will post as soon as I can.
But tonight is the summer solstice, so that means loading the car up, heading north, letting the dog run on the beach, and celebrating the shortest night of the year by a fire. That's how we do it in these parts.
Click on it to watch. It's only 5 seconds long (but you'll be watching it repeatedly...)
For those of you who've asked, the benefit went very well, as did my birthday week. (Yes, it turned into a week-long celebration!) I do have photos from the benefit, as well as some birthday week photos, that I will post as soon as I can.
But tonight is the summer solstice, so that means loading the car up, heading north, letting the dog run on the beach, and celebrating the shortest night of the year by a fire. That's how we do it in these parts.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Tired... AKA Rachael Ray is The Bomb
There has been considerable hemorrhaging of money out of our bank accounts as of late; in addition to all of the recent expenses, like the new furniture (which is arguably not a necessity, but you should see the state of the old furniture), we have purchased 12 tires in the past month. Each of the cars needed a full new set, as did both of our mountain bikes. Again the bikes may not seem like a necessity, but we put so many miles on them on such adverse terrain and they were wearing smooth and slipping and were no longer safe. Besides, four mountain bike tires at the deal I got do not add up to the price of one automotive tire, so even as a luxury, it was minor one.
You expect so much more out of a big purchase than you get with a new set of tires on your vehicle. It seems anticlimactic. Granted, the cars are no longer hydroplaning on the flooded sections of road that are all too common right now due to excessive rain and sub par road construction, but it just feels like they should be doing something… more.
Additionally, the television died this morning. There is sound but no picture. It’s a 10-year-old set, and is due for replacement, as were the tires. But combine that with the fact that my car started making funny noises, we need a new roof this year, and also really need new siding and windows, and it looks like the flood of money outward won’t be ceasing in the immediate future.
Where am I going with this? I don’t know. Partly it’s a rant about the fact that everything seems to go at once. Partly it’s an observation that there is good reason that we’ll be staying in a lot in the foreseeable future (both to curtail spending and to enjoy recent home improvements). And partly it’s an opportunity to express my love of Rachel Ray.
(Bear with me, this goes somewhere)
I love Rachael Ray. I love her shows and her personality. She seems like the type of person that would be really fun to hang out with, and even more fun to cook with. It’s not a simple crush, mind you (which is why I avoided using one of her pinup shots from FHM with this, but they are readily available on the Interwebs if you are so inclined to find them), so much as a feeling that I think she’s incredibly awesome. Over the past few years, she has turned us onto such great dishes as her 30-minute Salisbury steak, herJambasta and just the other night, her Root Beer Bomb.The Root Beer Bomb is essentially a root beer float with the addition of spiced rum. She calls for butter pecan ice cream, but we’ve been doing it with vanilla. I had never before considered the addition of rum to a root beer float, but it adds a little special something that makes staying at home on a hot summer night just a bit more bearable; it’s a decadent treat that is perfectly suited for sitting at home, watching TV (which I need to replace).
Drained
I was just reading a news story from Wisconsin that skeeved me out. Apparently a guy dropped his cell phone down the grate of a storm drain. He then lifted off the grate, and reached in to retrieve it. He pitched face first into the drain, where he became stuck, with his head and shoulders underwater, and drowned.That's it in a nutshell (but you can read the story here, if you're so inclined), but you may not realize yet the part of the story that I found so disturbing. Sure, this was just a guy that I'll never know who did something stupid. These things happen, but if you do anything more than muster up a simple "Awwww..." everytime you read about the untimely demise of someone you don't know, you will be debilitatingly depressed all of the time. But in this case, the story had an element that I am upset by.
The storm drain.
I have this fear, well it's not so much a full-blown fear as it is a phobia, that I will accidentally drop my keys down a storm grate. When I am walking somewhere, and I have to step over a storm grate, my hand is in my pocket, maintaining a death grip on my keys. This way the keys are protected by both my grip and the pocket, and there is no way that storm drain will get the keys.
And it's that bad too, where I envision that not only is there a remote possibility that my keys could drop into the drain, but that the grate has somehow latched onto some basic primal sentience, that knows not good nor evil, but simply exists to hunger for my keys, and that it will do whatever it can to sway the fates in such a way as to get them, just as I take extra precaution to prevent it.
I don't know where I developed this fear. I don't know anyone who has ever dropped their keys in the drain. It just appeared one day. But, in the scheme of things, although it's odd, it's rather minor and doesn't maintain my focus for longer than the instant that I am stepping over the grate (or in this case, when I read about a guy who fell prey to the bloodlust of a storm drain), and I think I can deal with it sans therapy.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I Can See A Little Light
Life has been running rampant again, but at least it seems like it’s going somewhere for a while.
The benefit is this Saturday, and I am stoked about the quality of bands that are going to be playing. It’s going to be mad fun. The guys from Piel Plastica will be coming in from Chicago, and we’re putting them up. In honor of that event, we got new furniture.
OK, it wasn’t exactly in honor of that; our couch and loveseat have gotten a lot of mileage over the past ten years. The cushions had been flipped to hide threadbare spots long ago, and they were nearing the flipping point on the top layer as well. Countless people have surfed those couches, and the summer that TFN had a broken ankle we lived on them – her on the couch, me on the loveseat, feet draped over the arm. It was time to bring in furniture reinforcements.
We went to Ikea for the new pieces, and ended up with a red corduroy couch and loveseat. We were a little nervous that, when placed on our yellow walls, our living room would look even more like Romper Room, but the effect is actually very soothing and warm. After making two trips home from Ikea – they wanted $100 for delivery – with furniture hanging out the back of the wagon in a torrential downpour (they were wrapped in plastic and weathered the trip well), they have taken up residence. They have made it through the first night of vegging in front of the television – for the season premiere of Hell’s Kitchen, no less.
I am soooo glad that show is back on the air, even if it looks like this season’s cast is all really young. They don’t play well together, but it’s nice to see Chef Ramsay busting their heads. He made some people cry, which led me to use a literal “If you can’t take the heat” reference, but actually had Chef Ramsay tell the guy (who, at 48, is actually the veteran in the cast of kitchen folks who are mostly in their 20’s) to “Stop fucking crying!” Late he told the same guy, "Sir, do you mind just wiping the snot off your fucking face before we serve chicken and snot?" He’s eloquent. And a ball breaker. He rules.
I don’t like much Reality TV (although I am an enabler, having been an avid fan of the first two seasons of Survivor), but I am a sucker for the cooking ones.
But that’s enough about reality TV - back to reality.
Some other home improvements have been happening. The bathroom floor is tiled and the basement is tiled (moving me toward that ultimate dream of the basement bar), and furnished in perfect basement style with the beat up couch and loveseat that once populated our living room.
We’ve also been to a lot of shows as of late. Some have been awesome, some have been not so much. Some of the standouts that I have seen and you should check out, though, are Aqueduct, The Nekromantix, The Heart Attacks and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
That’s a fun part of working on my other site, but it can also be a pain. I know I’ve got no right to complain about all the shows I see for free, but I do like to have some evenings free, and when I go to these shows, I have a notebook in hand, where I frantically scribble notes, set lists, impressions and quotes. Sometimes I leave feeling like I missed some of the show.
TFN has it even worse, shooting some of the shows, wading into the crowds at the front of the stage, elbowing drunk punks out of the way to get shots, getting shoved around because she’s affording more protection to her camera than her physical self. It can be rough, but she’s damn good at it.
Sometimes, though, it’s nice to go to a show to see it, and not to cover it. Which is the case with Bob Mould.
Bob Mould is legendary. At one time he was the frontman for the West Coast hardcore band Husker Du (who are incidentally booming through my earbuds right now) and then he went solo. His songs are sweet and heartfelt. When we saw him at SXSW, which is where TFN’s photo is from, she actually had tears in her eyes. He’s an amazing performer.
When we found out he’s putting in an appearance at The Henry Ford, we made a decision. Rather than going to cover and shoot the show, we bought tickets and are going as fans. We’re going on a date, and we’re going to watch and stomp and cheer and sing along.
He’s amazing, check out this song:
Even with the physical rigors of shooting a show, it’s a tough decision for TFN to make. Some bands we choose to cover because she likes the opportunity and challenge of shooting them. Some bands, like one of my current favorites Valient Thorr are so energetic on stage that they afford an amazing opportunity for photos every time, like at SXSW when Wayne Kramer of the MC5 got on stage with them (that’s also a show that TFN hadn’t planned on shooting, but had her camera just in case). We ended up being the only publication with photos of the event, and the band has a video of it, which actually has TFN in the front, hoisting her camera.
Video evidence (That's her, front and center, camera in the air, 1:56 into the video, or at 1:02 on the countdown, depending on how it displays):
And here's one of the resulting photos:
Ciao!
The benefit is this Saturday, and I am stoked about the quality of bands that are going to be playing. It’s going to be mad fun. The guys from Piel Plastica will be coming in from Chicago, and we’re putting them up. In honor of that event, we got new furniture.
OK, it wasn’t exactly in honor of that; our couch and loveseat have gotten a lot of mileage over the past ten years. The cushions had been flipped to hide threadbare spots long ago, and they were nearing the flipping point on the top layer as well. Countless people have surfed those couches, and the summer that TFN had a broken ankle we lived on them – her on the couch, me on the loveseat, feet draped over the arm. It was time to bring in furniture reinforcements.
We went to Ikea for the new pieces, and ended up with a red corduroy couch and loveseat. We were a little nervous that, when placed on our yellow walls, our living room would look even more like Romper Room, but the effect is actually very soothing and warm. After making two trips home from Ikea – they wanted $100 for delivery – with furniture hanging out the back of the wagon in a torrential downpour (they were wrapped in plastic and weathered the trip well), they have taken up residence. They have made it through the first night of vegging in front of the television – for the season premiere of Hell’s Kitchen, no less.
I am soooo glad that show is back on the air, even if it looks like this season’s cast is all really young. They don’t play well together, but it’s nice to see Chef Ramsay busting their heads. He made some people cry, which led me to use a literal “If you can’t take the heat” reference, but actually had Chef Ramsay tell the guy (who, at 48, is actually the veteran in the cast of kitchen folks who are mostly in their 20’s) to “Stop fucking crying!” Late he told the same guy, "Sir, do you mind just wiping the snot off your fucking face before we serve chicken and snot?" He’s eloquent. And a ball breaker. He rules.
I don’t like much Reality TV (although I am an enabler, having been an avid fan of the first two seasons of Survivor), but I am a sucker for the cooking ones.
But that’s enough about reality TV - back to reality.
Some other home improvements have been happening. The bathroom floor is tiled and the basement is tiled (moving me toward that ultimate dream of the basement bar), and furnished in perfect basement style with the beat up couch and loveseat that once populated our living room.
We’ve also been to a lot of shows as of late. Some have been awesome, some have been not so much. Some of the standouts that I have seen and you should check out, though, are Aqueduct, The Nekromantix, The Heart Attacks and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
That’s a fun part of working on my other site, but it can also be a pain. I know I’ve got no right to complain about all the shows I see for free, but I do like to have some evenings free, and when I go to these shows, I have a notebook in hand, where I frantically scribble notes, set lists, impressions and quotes. Sometimes I leave feeling like I missed some of the show.
TFN has it even worse, shooting some of the shows, wading into the crowds at the front of the stage, elbowing drunk punks out of the way to get shots, getting shoved around because she’s affording more protection to her camera than her physical self. It can be rough, but she’s damn good at it.
Sometimes, though, it’s nice to go to a show to see it, and not to cover it. Which is the case with Bob Mould.
Bob Mould is legendary. At one time he was the frontman for the West Coast hardcore band Husker Du (who are incidentally booming through my earbuds right now) and then he went solo. His songs are sweet and heartfelt. When we saw him at SXSW, which is where TFN’s photo is from, she actually had tears in her eyes. He’s an amazing performer.
When we found out he’s putting in an appearance at The Henry Ford, we made a decision. Rather than going to cover and shoot the show, we bought tickets and are going as fans. We’re going on a date, and we’re going to watch and stomp and cheer and sing along.
He’s amazing, check out this song:
Even with the physical rigors of shooting a show, it’s a tough decision for TFN to make. Some bands we choose to cover because she likes the opportunity and challenge of shooting them. Some bands, like one of my current favorites Valient Thorr are so energetic on stage that they afford an amazing opportunity for photos every time, like at SXSW when Wayne Kramer of the MC5 got on stage with them (that’s also a show that TFN hadn’t planned on shooting, but had her camera just in case). We ended up being the only publication with photos of the event, and the band has a video of it, which actually has TFN in the front, hoisting her camera.
Video evidence (That's her, front and center, camera in the air, 1:56 into the video, or at 1:02 on the countdown, depending on how it displays):
And here's one of the resulting photos:
Ciao!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)