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Verizon has changed their mobile browser interface a bit, and the tiny headlines are now sometimes truncated when you view them. At first I was afraid that would stop the funny juxtapositions, but today proved me wrong:
Bush dismisses gas
Two arrested in deaths
Sophomoric, yes. But at least I'm not talking about the heat.
I thought I was pretty down with British slang, but as I watched the BBC news this morning, I saw this crawl across the bottom of the screen:
Tiger Woods in determined mood as he looks to break his major duck this season at the USPGA chamionships
You never know what's going to be lost in translation. Reminds me of a guy I used to work with who grew up in North Carolina and hadn't traveled much until he went to England on a business trip. His hosts asked him what he did for fun, and he said he liked to dance. They asked what his favorite was, and as a good North Carolina boy who grew up going to the beach and dancing a particular homegrown R&B dance, he responded, "I like to shag." You can imagine their reaction.
A sign at our local Barnes & Noble.
I have Google Alerts set up for keywords and phrases related to my new company, since it's part of my job, as The Tick would put it, to monitor the culture. I just came across a web site that I cannot figure out. It appears to have been translated from English to another language and then back again. Here's a choice passage:
Do they make bold to state "impeach"? One someone's airtight legal lawsuit is another's "remain out the Bushes."Saturday 28 July 2007 @ 09:22:35 pmYOU'LL NEVER DISCOVERY anyone as impartial, disinterested, judicious, and concerned only with the eudaemonia of the American people as a party chop laying into a politician from a challenger party. Thus the suit for the impeachment of President George W. Bush has turned organically from the very textile of the world. It's not that Democrats are moved by defeat with Bush and his party's electoral profit run--snake pit, the Dems profoundly rue that they've been took to this! It's that Bush's prevarications and offenses of the Fundamental law are so egregious, so without case in point in American history, that we must trigger the gravest of constitutional chemical mechanisms.
I'm now carrying two mobile phones around with me; one from work and my own. Those of you who know about my obsession with phones and other shiny objects might think I'd enjoy this, but it's actually kind of annoying, and might just push me over the man bag threshold.
One of them is on Verizon, which has a news section in its mobile web browser. To fit in the limited real estate of the mobile screen they have even fewer words to play with than a newspaper editor, so the headlines are terse, often to the point of incomprehensibility. And they can only fit two on the screen at a time. Here are my favorite recent juxtapositions:
Congress Returns Space Shuttle Leaves Dock Heatwave Continues
Mice Overrun Lake Area
Taliban Occupies Area
Pre-teen Sisters Accused
Abe and Kathleen got married Saturday night in a lovely ceremony that included the best first dance I've ever seen. It was a full-on hip hop extravaganza complete with rump shaking, set to a tune that everyone younger than me no doubt has playing on their iPhone at this very moment. We asked Abe how much time they had worked on it. "Not much," he replied. "We worked with a choreographer and rehearsed three or four times for a couple of hours and then practiced about ten hours at home." Now that's a dedication to the audience that you don't often see at a wedding. So step up, people. From now on I don't just want to be fed and boozed, I want a floor show.
Oh, and another thing. Abe and Kathleen had a tomato bar, with fresh local tomatoes, cucumber salad, pesto, olives and fresh mozzarella. I would also like this to be mandatory at all summer events, not just weddings. Why isn't there a tomato bar on every corner instead of a Starbucks?
Ouch.
Last week we had a company outing to see the Durham Bulls play Klinger’s favorite team, the Toledo Mud Hens. It was a perfect night for a ball game, and I like the new ballpark, although it does lack the considerable character of the old Durham Athletic Park (the “DAP”), and by character I mean smelly toilets.
I’ve never been a huge baseball fan, but I did have a Baseball Week sometime in the early ‘90s. I left my office in Durham one summer evening and for some reason decided to drive to the DAP. It was a weeknight and I got a seat right behind the plate, had a hot dog and a beer or three and had a perfectly pleasant time. The next night as I was leaving work I couldn’t think of a single reason not to do it again. Of course, after the second night that meant I had to be there for every night of the home stand against Kinston, and I was. I think the Bulls won, or possibly lost.
Oh, hey. When did Wool E. Bull start tear-assing around the diamond in a little car? Between that and shooting rolled-up t-shirts into the crowd with a cannon in the shape of a hot dog, that looks like a pretty cool job. Except for having to wear the costume, which probably gets pretty hot. Hmm. I guess without the costume, you’d get in a lot of trouble driving around on the field and shooting things at people.
Special thanks and a tip of the Plooble hat to Jerry who discovered that the “E” in Wool E. Bull officially stands for “education.” That would have been my second guess, after “Ewww, does anybody smell wet mascot?” I’m sure thousands of kids over the years have been encouraged to stay in school knowing that the middle name of the giant frightening thing that forcibly hugged them at the ball game is “education.” Just like A.B. Cardinal has no doubt kept scores of kids off the booze.
It was kind of a slow game, and around the seventh inning our attention waned considerably. We noticed when the players at bat step out to the plate, the sound system plays a little snippet of a song, presumably chosen by the player. (The only one anyone in my group can remember is “Crazy Train.”) This naturally led me, Jean and Jerry to discuss what our at-bat theme song would be. Jerry chose “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” and Jean wants “Loser.” I think I’d pick “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.” You?
I’m definitely off my blogging stride. Here are some of the lame-ass topics I’ve recently considered:
a) Pistachios are good.
b) People should say what they mean.
c) I hate it when people drive slow.
d) Computers can be annoying.
And the winner is… D! Enjoy.
As a confirmed technophile, I'm a little reluctant to admit that I'm peeved with technology at the moment. Hey, don't get me wrong, I love a good computer as much as the next person, but when they go wrong on me, I tend to take it personally. I actually found myself complaining to Jean last week, "Why do these things always happen to me?" as though perhaps there was some overarching technology intelligence that had decided I needed bringing down a few pegs (or that I’m the only person who has ever had a problem with Windows). I'm sure this is a symptom of some kind of advancing mental illness.
Currently, my laptop is pissing me off. I won’t go into all the details, but I have decided that I no longer want any wireless devices in my life. In order to solve my current problem, I either need to call Linksys, HP, EarthLink or Time Warner. And as you know, whoever I call is going to say I need to call the other three.
Then I get an email announcing a new comment on the post called Ol' Buttermilk Pie, which you might remember had some more of the Finger Pointing Thing. Messygirl20 posted to ask, "Anybody have any further information?" Further information on what? Buttermilk pie? The Finger Pointing Thing? Turns out that Messygirl20 is just spam; click on her link and you go to some site or other that I decided not to gratify by entering.
Even though I am now getting close to 200 spams a day (I love the Earthlink commercial where the guy says, "I use EarthLink because they hate spam as much as I do") some of them are still fun. Recent correspondents have included Balloon H. Hindquarters, Spacy H. Pothole and Drunks R. Fatherly. Shelley T. Jacobs sent me an email with the subject tline, “poliomyelitis sweatshirt.” Hey, Shelley, make mine an extra large!
I suppose the sheer volume of spam I receive makes this inevitable, but I’ve gotten some lately that I was sure must be real emails, based on the subject line. Not too long ago I got one with “Reykjavik” as the subject. Yes, I opened it and no, it wasn’t real.
Still, I continue to be amazed that spammers think I’m going to see beyond the gibberish in their emails to the no-doubt sensible financial or medical advice inside. Yakut E. Amiable sent a message with the subject line, “Geronimo!” He opens his pitch by announcing, “Jesus was a brilliant Jewish stand-up comedian, a phenomenal improviser. His parables are great one-liners.” Okay, Yakut! You can refill my prescription!
Several others have taken an even more unusual approach, following the “build sales by insulting your customer” maxim. Luisa wrote to wish me “Good morning, good morning, idiot dbt.” Veronica Goff’s subject line read, “Please don't be dumb.” Kevin says, “Don't be such a little fruit cake” and Gonzalez says, “I've had enough of your bullshit.” Sorry, Gonzalez. I promise I won’t… um… do whatever it is I’ve been doing to annoy you.
The one that has stuck in my mind the most, especially considering the ongoing economic situation, is the mortgage offer I got from Elsa Blue. Her subject line read, “The easiest way to refinance – incinerate.”
After I brought Plooblewagon home in October, Adda and I had a good time riffing on the various admonitions, threats and warnings in the owner’s manual. (Mazda does a pretty good job of inspiring paranoia, but Volvo takes the prize for excess caution; their TV commercials generally feature cars being driven sensibly in a straight line at reasonable speeds on public roads with a superimposed “professional driver on closed course.”)
One of my favorite recent examples of namby-pamby intrusive mommyism was brought to my attention by my dad, who several of you have pointed out is Way Funnier Than Me, and who it doesn’t take a clinical behaviorist to figure out is the person I got most of this from. On Saturday he handed me a copy of the Raleigh Yellow Pages, and I was momentarily perplexed until I saw the warning notice printed prominently on the cover. Maybe the small size of the new phone book would lead certain common sense-impaired morons to think it was designed for use in the car. Who knows. Maybe it does need an explicit warning to the contrary. But why should you stop at that?
If you’re in Chicago and you want to visit the home of the poetry slam, be sure to visit the Green Mill. But don’t bring your Visa, Mastercard, Discover, Diners Club, debit card or personal check, because the Green Mill takes anyone who wants to read their poetry, and they only take American Express.
Who the hell only takes American Express? The Green Mill, that’s who. The upshot of this situation was that I found myself about to face an open mike poetry reading only able to fortify myself with whatever five American dollars could provide. (Of all the things you can say to impress a cocktail waitress, “What’s the cheapest beer you have?” is pretty low on the list.) This did not bode well.
I went to a lot of poetry readings in my younger years, back when I thought a beret was perfectly acceptable headgear for someone not either a British soldier or a Frenchman. I used to go to a weekly reading in Raleigh in the ‘80s that started at the Berkeley Café downtown and soon moved to a store called The Paper Plant, owned by a poet and papermaker named John Dancy-Jones. It was a great scene and always interesting, especially when people like Bob Rogers and Ralph Dunn, the Cabdriver Poet, would read. Everyone was very supportive, and it gave me a weekly impetus to come up with something new to read to the group. But you know, poetry readings. You can never tell. I’ve heard my share of doggerel, not to mention the over-earnest style of highly affected angry poetry read in a shouted, hey-look-at-me cadence. And we also got a weekly dose of teenage girl angst. (We dubbed that category “Black Tears Dripping.”)
Despite the lack of a proper defense fund, the reading at the Green Mill turned out to be very cool. It’s run by Marc Smith, who in addition to being a hell of a poet himself, is also a perfect master of ceremonies, alternating between heckler and coach, with a big dose of stand-up comedian. We heard a lot of good stuff, some read by people who were practiced and comfortable, and a few by “virgin virgins” (people who had never read at the Green Mill or anywhere else), including a novice poet who had traveled all the way from Scotland specifically to make his (highly successful) public debut at the Green Mill, and one skinny young man in thick glasses whose hand shook violently throughout.
Unfortunately, the poet that stands out the most vividly was a guy in his late forties who looked like the kind of high school guidance counselor who truly believes the kids think he’s cool, and is horribly wrong. He pony-tailed his way onto the stage almost meekly, but when he got the mike in hand he turned into some sort of caricature white rapper, complete with excruciating hand gestures. He quickly invoked the name of Tupac, and declared that he was in actual fact not only black but a Rastafarian, which he supposed gave him the right to use The Word That Black People Can Use But White People Can Never, Ever. He also entreated us to “smoke the word and read the herb,” which made me want to climb the stage and kick the ass.
The crowd was more than a little shocked, but once they recovered their composure, they expressed their displeasure in the approved Green Mill fashion, by snapping their fingers in ironic parody of a beat coffeehouse audience. MC White Liberal Guilt left the bar as soon as his set ended, which was probably about 20 minutes later than he should have.
It was a great night, though. Because we were sitting right up front (I mean, right up front – I wished I had brought a raincoat to shield myself from the plosives), Jean got picked to be one of the judges for the poetry slam. During her introduction, Marc had the band join him as he created her impromptu theme song, “Jean, the Sexy Librarian.” Once the judging began, she proved that she is not to be trifled with, poetry-wise. Let’s just say she has high standards. At one point I was afraid we’d have to spirit her out through a side door with a coat over her head.
Do any of you know someone from say, San Diego who has moved to North Carolina? Does the weather make them completely nuts? I’ve heard people from less capricious climes say things like, “It’s nice to have four distinct seasons.” Yeah, but three in one week?
Chapel Hill is once again in Severe Winter Weather Frenzy. The DJ on WXYC, the UNC campus station, has been reading a forecast that calls for snow, sleet, and six to 12 inches of accumulation through Friday (but his forecast calls for highs in the 70s on Saturday). Once again the grocery stores are full of bundled-up soccer moms preparing for the siege of Stalingrad.
It’s weather like this (or at least the threat of weather like this) that makes SUV drivers feel superior and justified, but I saw something stuck under the wiper of an Expedition or Excursion or Canyonero in the parking lot of Weaver Street Market that might bring the driver down a peg or two. It’s from an organization called Earth on Empty.
Every now and then I pick up “Homes & Land” magazine, which lists properties for sale in the area. In addition to some terrifying and/or laughable portraits of real estate agents (one guy included a photo of himself doing a split on railroad tracks, because as we all know thigh strength directly correlates to house hunting acumen), I often find my teeth set on edge by the street names chosen by developers. I saw a listing for a condo in Durham on Candytuff Lane. I don’t care if it’s 3000 square feet with solid gold toilets and a restaurant kitchen and costs $25,000, I could not tell people I lived on Candytuff Lane. There’s also a Buggaboo Trail out in Orange County somewhere, and a street in Chapel Hill called Tinkerbell. Nope, sorry. Can’t do it. And we have a new apartment complex in the area called The Verge. The verge of what? Insanity? As far as I can tell, the only thing it’s on the verge of is a high-traffic road.
Raleigh has its fair share as well, including an apartment complex called The Landings at Mallard Pond. Every time I pass it I think, “No landings, no mallards, no pond.” Not far away is a street called Havershire, which amuses me to no end, since “haver” is Scottish dialect for “talk total nonsense.” Britain is lousy with shires. Why make one up?
My parents live a few miles from Mine Shaft Road, which isn’t too bad, but sounds like it should be the title of Hitler’s unexpurgated biography. (Give it a minute.)
Continue a few miles from Mine Shaft and you will come to a development called Maisons en Mer. I drove by there last week with Joe, whose French is much better than mine. He confirmed that rather than the obviously intended translation “houses by the sea” (which is stupid enough because they’re in North Raleigh), it’s more like “houses in the sea.” We also determined that ten seconds with a can of spray paint could easily change it to mean either “houses in hell” or “houses in shit.” Check the police blotter for reports of my vandalism arrest.
Of course, most developments are named for whatever was destroyed to put them there. After clear cutting several acres of pines in Raleigh, the developer put up a sign reading, “Coming soon – Bent Tree Plaza.” Someone quickly changed it to “Dead Tree Plaza.” The Independent once ran a three-column housing development name generator which allowed you to pick from the standard offerings and create your own combination. My favorite was Deer Run Down.
One of my fondest fantasies is to become an upscale property developer and build a neighborhood of attractively-priced McMansions for the nouveau riche, and give the streets names like Slug Trail, Phlegm Road, Poop Chute, Two Guys Named Ted Avenue and Marx-Lenin-Engels Boulevard.
photo yoinked from Pete's Peanut Butter & Jelly Page
Before we go any further with this whole thing, are we all familiar with Peanut Butter Jelly Time?
Let me know when we're on the same page, Peanut Butter Jelly Time-wise, and we'll continue.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the car, driving hither and yon to offer my services voluntarily to organizations which I hope will one day be able to pay for them. Whiling away the hours on I-40, I’ve been listening to talk radio (the NPR kind, not the Limbaugh kind), which I've never really done before. At first it made me feel a bit virtuous. “I will gain new insights into important topics,” I thought, “and become a better informed American, conversant in the issues of the day.” I was disabused of that notion within a few hours.
On Thursday I listened to a show discussing the controversy over prescribing antidepressants to teenagers. One guest was a clinical psychiatrist who led us to believe that merely showing a depressed teen the letters “SSRI” on a piece of paper will immediately cause him or her to leap in front of a bus. The other was a psychiatrist and mouthpiece for the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (which depending on who you believe is either a stalking horse for the pharmaceutical industry, or isn’t). She gave the impression that the only way to prevent America's teens from topping themselves en masse is to put Prozac in the water supply, like fluoride. So now I know that if I ever have a depressed child, I will… um… give him some candy.
The greatest danger of listening to talk radio is that one day you might be in traffic and not be able to take your hands off the wheel quickly enough to change the station, and you might have to listen to one eighth of a second of “The People’s Pharmacy.” I recently heard a promo for an upcoming show in which Joe and Terry will address the question, "What drives teens to have sex?" Be sure to call in with your theories.
yeah, well you try finding a photo for this post
Even before I was “rightsized,” I was never a fan of doublespeak. Sure, euphemisms have their place, especially if the intent is to keep from degrading someone. But what about referring to death as “negative patient care outcome” or the especially mealy-mouthed and hateful “collateral damage"? (Now that “wardrobe malfunction” has entered the lexicon, I look forward to using it the next time someone informs me that my pants are riding dangerously low, as they are wont to do.)
As I’ve mentioned before, airlines are a top source of obfuscation. (I once heard a flight attendant say, “We will now begin serving nutrition,” which told me she felt dishonest calling it food.) When I was a lad, we had airsickness bags. Now they are apparently called “motion discomfort bags,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if they soon become “wellness restoration receptacles.”
I discovered a new one today that is very subtle, and as someone who has occasionally been employed to make bad stuff sound good, I had to admire it. I booked a flight this morning and asked for aisle seats on every leg. I got them on all but one (the longest, naturally) and was informed that I was in the “center” seat for that portion of the journey. Ooh! The center! I’m not in the middle, I’m in the center! Everything will revolve around me!
What’s your favorite euphemism?
When people click on the Yahoo slideshow for Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl stunt, do you really think this is the photo they’re hoping to see? (Reuters – Kevin Lamarque-Files)
Regardless of how you feel about Janet Jackson’s semi-naked hooter on national television, I know where I draw the line. When you’re having lunch with relatives and somebody says the phrase “Justin Timberlake dry humping Janet Jackson,” things have gone too far. (I also believe the term “nipple decoration” may have been uttered. The complete phrase, as you all know by now, is “sun-shaped metal nipple decoration.”)
Buried deep in the Yahoo News story was the sentence, “The show also featured P. Diddy, Nelly and Kid Rock.” Who now wish they had stripped naked and dry humped one another.
I do have one comment for FCC Chairman Michael Powell (pictured above): The halftime show was “classless, crass and deplorable” long before Janet’s “wardrobe malfunction.”
Of course, the biggest outrage is that the commercials sucked.
White tigers have been in the news a lot lately, and not just because one of them tried to make a sequined canapé out of either Siegfried or Roy. (Like I care which one.) An Argentinean tiger recently gave birth to sextuplets in the Buenos Aires zoo, for instance. There’s so much tiger talk that Yahoo news has a white tiger slide show, where I found two pictures. The first one reminds me of one of W. Eugene Smith’s famous photos, which depending on which Google search you believe is either called The Walk to Paradise Garden, A Walk to Paradise Garden, A Walk in Paradise Garden, Walk Into Paradise Garden or Those Damn Kids Are in the Garden Again.
Now here's another white tiger cub photo. Could it be any more different? It almost seems as though this tiger has a publicist telling him, “Don’t work the cute angle. The cute angle is overplayed. Go with funny. Gimme some yucks. When I get done with you, kiddo, they’ll be saying Kangaroo Jack who?”
original photo Luke Frazza/AFP
When Time Warner Cable announced they would be adding BBC America, I could hardly contain my excitement. I’ve been a huge Anglophile since I was ten years old, and my favorite shows have almost always been British – especially British mysteries. My cat, for instance, is named for Hercule Poirot’s sidekick. He will answer to Hastings but prefers Captain Hastings. (That sounds a whole lot dorkier written down than when I say it.)
Watching BBC America makes it obvious that there are dozens of people in Hollywood and New York who are making a tidy living by copying British shows for American TV. It’s not a new phenomenon, as you may know: Sanford and Son was a remake of Steptoe and Son, Three’s Company came from a show called Man About the House, and the US Congress show on C-Span is a shameless ripoff of Fawlty Towers. Even the apex (or nadir) of American television, the reality show, originated in the UK with a show called Castaway, which dumped a bunch of whiny jerks on a Scottish island and forced them to learn how to make bread and husband sheep. I noticed tonight that Airport, which follows people around Heathrow airport, has been copied for A&E. I turned it off after three minutes when the first situation involved a Southwest employee dealing with a man who had soiled his trousers. That kind of reality I don’t need to see.
My favorite British reality show is called Faking It, in which they give someone one month to learn enough about a particular topic to try to fool a panel of judges into thinking they are experts. One show took a classical cellist and turned her into a club DJ. Another featured a country vicar trying to convince people that he was an Essex used car salesman. In most of the shows, the fakers form a strong bond with their mentors, and often succeed in fooling the judges. This week’s show, however, took a professional video game tester and tried to turn him into a race car driver. He failed horribly, not only in his task, but also in endearing himself to his mentors. At the end of the show, one called him “an arrogant twat,” and the other said he hoped never to see him again.
I’m wondering how long the show can last before they run out of plausible subjects for fakery and start reaching too far. “This week on Faking It, we’ll watch as Trevor, a butcher’s apprentice from North London, tries to fool a panel of doctors into believing he’s a brain surgeon.”
I’m fascinated by the idea that someone with a month of intensive training can pass as an authority in almost any given field. It’s fun to watch on TV. It’s less enjoyable when your boss seems to have followed the same route.
If you could spend a month learning how to fake something, what would you choose?
Mark holding court in Hell - photo by Primo
I’m sure you’re all readers of Maxim magazine, if not subscribers, so you already know that my favorite bar, Hell, was awarded “Bar o’ the Month” in the January issue. Since I love the bar and all who sail within in her, I will pretend that recognition from Maxim is a good thing.
(My favorite piece in the current issue is called “How to Spot a Bunny Boiler.” It advises me that if a woman cleans her bathroom weekly and always has plenty of toilet paper on hand, she has obsessive compulsive disorder and I should “keep a shrink on speed dial.” I would be worried if I thought anyone actually read this magazine as opposed to just looking at the cheesecake pictures of C-list, D-cup pseudo-celebrities.)
The first time I went to Hell I hated it and swore I would never go back. It was hot and dirty and the pool tables sucked. Then, like many people, I was drawn in by the charms of owner Mark Dorosin, everybody’s favorite attorney/professor/elected official/playwright/bartender. Mark used to drive by my friends’ house during Saturday afternoon yard parties and yell, “Hey you kids, go to Hell!” This was before he knew them. I’ve already chronicled Mark’s vision for the bar and the result in a piece I wrote for the Independent Weekly celebrating Hell’s fourth anniversary, so here I’ll just say that I’ve never been to a bar that inspired so much loyalty other than the now-legendary Hardback Café.
I don’t go there as often as I used to (and it would be physically impossible to go there more often than I used to - Ryan and I once figured out roughly how much money we had spent in Hell and it was more than I put down on my house). But I was there last week for Trivia Night when two young women came down the stairs and stood looking about tentatively. If they had come on Maxim’s recommendation, they were probably a bit disappointed to find a room full of people trying to remember who fought the Crimean War and the name of the transsexual tennis-playing eye doctor from the 1970s.
I haven’t made a New Year’s resolution in probably five years, ever since the best one I’ve ever made: I resolved to be more superficial. I think most people assumed I was joking when I said it, but not entirely. It’s so easy to become righteously indignant about so much of modern American society, but you know what? It’s also very tiring. In its most noble interpretation my resolution meant I intended to save my indignation for topics that truly deserved it. But it really meant I was giving myself permission to watch reality TV.
I reaffirmed that resolution Monday night when I found myself unable to look away from Average Joe: Hawaii on NBC. It was touch and go for a while (and who knows, I could still escalate to Indignant Level Orange) but I finally decided not to get all bent out of shape about a show that is forcing a beauty queen to spend several weeks in a Hawaiian mansion keeping a smile glued to her face while surrounded by men who up to this point would have been invisible to her. I’m not going to bother finding all their names, but the group includes The Fat Guy, The Fatter Guy, The Even Fatter Guy and The Really Fat Guy, as well as The Guy Who Makes Carrot Top Look Like Cary Grant and The Guy with No Sweat Glands. (After watching the show for 20 minutes I realized I’d rather talk to any of them - even The Dull Guy with the Cold Sore - than the beauty queen.)
I’m once again ready to embrace my superficiality. I have set my Tivo-like device to record the entire series. It should put me in the right frame of mind for some of the other upcoming absurd reality show elimination contests, like Fear Factor, The Apprentice, and The 2004 Election.
For Christmas, Jean gave me The Big Book of Being Rude, and to quote Bart when Homer gave him the machine that says “Go to hell” at the push of a button, I promise you I will never get tired of this. It offers 7000 slang insults, and that should be just about enough to get me through a new year of job hunting and serving on my homeowners association board.
For instance, I recently found myself drawn into a heated email correspondence among my fellow board members which included the question, “How do we verify the number of squirrels to know if we are being fairly charged for this service?” Rather than joining the debate on rodent enumeration technologies, I could have picked a rejoinder from the book and told them all to go and piss up a shutter, which the book indicates is an English expression from the 1910s. Of course, I would probably need to have that one approved by the architectural committee.
The book offers many opportunities to be rude in a modern context (it is not for the PC – no insulting term is left out), but also gives us the chance to bring some historical insults back into use. Maybe the next time I get four steps into the interview process only to be told that the job is not going to be filled after all, I can seek my retaliatory inspiration from the 16th century and call the HR person a bel-shangle, clumperton, doddypoll or ninnyhammer. And why tell somebody merely to go to hell when you can tell him to go to hell and help his mother make bitch pies? (English, mid-18C – late 19C).
(A former colleague of mine had a psychotherapist mother-in-law who was apparently far too nice a lady to swear effectively. After being cut off in traffic, she rolled down her window and screamed, “You can wipe your ass on my coat!” After Ian and his wife stopped laughing, they explained to her that, not only would no one ever say that, it would in fact be far worse for her than for the other driver.)
The book takes a scholarly tone, giving time periods and etymologies for the words, but some of them seem a bit spurious. Are there really 23 euphemisms for crackhead? “Hubba pigeon,” for instance? And how long did “Kuwaiti tanker” survive as rhyming slang for “wanker”? I for one was on US campuses for far too long in the 1980s and never heard anyone refer to an idiot as a “McFly” (“a character in the Back to the Future films”) or “dorkmunder” (“dork + poss. Dortmunder Union Pils”). Right. So often our insults came from the names of obscure German beers.
Maybe I’ve got a kangaroo loose in the top paddock, but I think some of the insults are just plain dumb. I find it hard to believe that Australians in the 1930s couldn’t come up with anything cleverer than “as silly as a bag.” Luckily, they put their best minds to work and a decade later issued the new, improved “silly as a hatful of arseholes.”
While amusing, many are not very useful for the average 21st century American. However, should you find the need to insult someone from New South Wales, you might try “cornstalk” or “crow-eater.” (North Carolinians, by the way, are goober-grubbers.)
Yesterday I saw a green pickup truck that looked like it belonged to the North Carolina forest service. It had a bumper sticker that read “Real Trees Make Scents,” with a little picture of a pine tree. Is there an aggressive, in-your-face marketing campaign for pine trees? And not to get all Andy Rooney again, but am I paying for it? What is the issue here? Did some bureaucrat in Raleigh decide that our state tree’s Q rating was too low?
“This month's numbers are in. We’re getting our asses kicked by oaks and maples, and don't even get me started on the frigging beeches. We’ve got to do something or we’re all going to be begging for jobs with the Cattleman’s Association. With that in mind, I’ve brought somebody new on board. She’s from California, and I’m sure you’re all familiar with the work she did for the redwoods.”
When I worked for Big Telecommunications Company Who Sucks and Laid Me Off, I went into the cafeteria one day and saw a poster proclaiming September National Rice Month. This was too much to resist, and inspired by Don Novello’s Lazlo Toth letters, I wrote to the USA Rice Federation. (You may remember their breakthrough campaign, “It’s Not Just for Commies Anymore.”)
Hello!I just saw a very handsome poster in our company cafeteria advertising “National Rice Month.” First of all, congratulations on getting your own month! Well done! I love rice and eat it at almost every meal (even breakfast - I love Rice Krispies!). What would it take for me to get a copy? (The poster says “September – National Rice Month” and has a very nice image of rice waving majestically in the field, or paddy, I guess. [I don't know as much about rice production as I should!] It would look great in my kitchen! I'd be sure to tell my guests where I got it, and to eat more rice!) If it's possible to get one (or even two - I have a friend who loves rice almost as much as I do!), I sure would appreciate it (and I'd eat even more rice!).
They fell for it. I suppose I should put the poster up. But I’m saddened to report that www.nationalricemonth.com is no longer there: no doubt another tragic casualty of the economic downturn.
Addendum: The “Real Trees Make Scents” campaign is apparently the work of AgriBusiness Communications Group, right here in the Greater Chapel Hill-Carrboro metroplex. They’re the folks who also brought us “Catch the Sweet Potato Wave.” (Someone needs to tell them that no amount of fancy photography can make a sweet potato look pretty.)
I wonder if they’re hiring.
I used to write a lot of poetry in my early 20s, and when I was doing that, phrases seemed to come to me in poetic terms. When I was taking a lot of pictures, I saw things in photographic ways. Now the world appears before me in blog post kernels. I don’t even have to look for random absurdity anymore; it calls me on the phone. Saturday I looked at my caller ID and saw I had received a call from Presbyterian Ho. I can only assume this has something to do with Fistful of Plooble being the number one Google hit for Hot Pilgrim Chicks.
There’s a Presbyterian ho joke somewhere, but I haven’t quite gotten to it yet: maybe something along the lines of “twenty bucks extra with lemon squares.” Feel free to help out with this one.
Friday night I saw “Master and Commander” with The Man of Many Nicknames, Lumpy J. Pauly Monaco Onion The Crusher. This is a movie made for a big screen, so we went to the googleplex in the tritondous Buy Yourself a Lifestyle Mall. Before the film we had dinner at Chammps or Champps or ChAmPPs or what the hell ever. We decided it hardly mattered where we ate, since there is probably one subterranean kitchen serving all the mall restaurants. (There must be an abandoned missile silo down there full of garlic mashed potatoes.)
We were led to our table by a 16-year old belly button merchant who asked if this was our first visit, like we were touring the goddamn Louvre or something. Our waitress asked us too, but I cut her off in mid-spiel to ask a question. Uncle Lumpy and I had been looking around the crowded bar area since we arrived, and we were both wondering the same thing: Who the hell are these people? They didn’t look like they were there to shop. Many of them seemed to know each other. Is it possible there is a Mall Scene? Our waitress confirmed that they do in fact have regulars. She said she had tended bar in other places (“Real places?” I asked, and she knew what I meant) and was as surprised as we were. Some of the regulars are people who work in the mall, but others are people who just come to the mall to hang out at night.
Did you get that? They just come to the mall to hang out at night. At first I was flabbergasted. We live in an area that has three more-or-less vital downtowns, with bars and restaurants and coffee shops and music clubs and galleries and people out strolling and eating ice cream and doing all that other stuff the various downtown commissions want you to believe goes on. But then I realized a couple of things. I love hotels. I love airports. I love the feeling of being anonymous in an anonymous place. And dammit, I love buying stuff. Maybe I really want to hang out at the mall, too. Maybe I’m finally reacting against 20-plus years of feeling I had to be different – not listen to the same radio stations or wear the same clothes or live in cookie-cutter suburbia. I'm no longer a squirrely 19-year old in a thrift store overcoat. Most of my clothes come from Eddie Bauer or Old Navy as it is, and the color of my living room is straight out of a Pottery Barn catalog. Maybe this is what I’m secretly longing to do: stop fighting it and immerse myself fully and completely in the American shopper’s paradise. Embrace it. Pull it around me like a fake Navajo blanket. Become a born-again Consumerist.
It would be so easy. I could sell my house in Chapel Hill and buy one of the new condos near the mall. I could get a job at Brookstone. I could date women from the makeup counter at Nordstrom. I could have lunch at Bear Rock Café and dinner at California Pizza Kitchen (or Big Bowl for birthdays and anniversaries). One day I would be manager, and Brittany and I could finally afford to marry (we’ll register at Restoration Hardware) and have kids, and let them run and play in the piazza in front of Organized Living, and watch them grow from Baby Gap to Gap Kids to Gap. It would be so simple, and once I’d cut myself off completely from my old life and my old friends, so comfortable.
But then we saw the movie and now I want to be an 18th-century sea captain.
Rebecky's new car
I’m a big fan of cars and over-the-top design, so when Jon sent me a photo of the new Bugatti Veyron, I was properly impressed. Bugatti is one of the most celebrated names – possibly the most celebrated – in all of motoring. In its heyday before the Second World War, they made some of the most magnificent cars ever to turn a wheel, including the Type 57SC Atlantic (above), which may be the most beautiful car ever built.
In the peculiar world of modern corporate relationships, the Bugatti name is now owned by Volkswagen, which seems a bit off, frankly. But I doubt that will deter the world’s oil sheiks and rock stars from plunking down the cash for a Veyron. It features a W-16 engine, whatever the hell that is. (I suppose it’s two V-8s side-by-side.) It is rated at 1001 horsepower. That’s one thousand and one. For comparison, Plooblewagon has 130. The price tag? Something over a million dollars. The advertising slogan should be “A thousand horsepower. A million bucks. Fuck you.”
As far as my taste in design goes, I do have a limit, and I think I found it today at, of all places, Wal-Mart, while shopping for a new toothbrush. (Yes, shopping. The offerings are many and varied and not a little bewildering. I almost felt like I should check Consumer Reports before making an investment.) My old toothbrush, probably a giveaway from my dentist, is just a nice, plain old, comforting arrangement of bristles on a stick. Here’s my new toothbrush, the Oral B CrossAction Vitalizer. Those green prongy bits are “gum stimulators.” I am literally afraid of it. Frankly, the only reason I bought it was because I began composing this post the moment I saw it. I have no idea what it will do to my questionable timeworn dentition. If the next time you see me my mouth is packed with gauze, you’ll know why.
Microsoft vice president of automotive technology Dick Brass
I was talking to someone the other day about how much we both love technology. I may not always be the earliest adopter, but I’m an enthusiastic user. For instance, I have a wireless network at home that allows me to surf the web from my laptop computer while sitting 30 feet away from my desktop computer. If you’re wondering why this is necessary, then you are not One of Us.
Still, two things happened today that make me want to live in a mud hut and make my own clothes. First, I got a phone call from Midvale, Utah. I picked up the phone and heard a recorded voice:
“Please hold for an important announcement.” (10 second pause)
“Please hold for an important announcement.” (10 second pause)
“Please hold for an important announcement.” (10 second pause)
“We apologize for this inconvenience. Goodbye.”
If I thought there was a guerilla/Dadaist/Luddite movement out there performing acts of technological annoyance so outrageous as to provoke widespread uprisings, I would attribute it to them. Sadly, the culprit is more likely just Some Jerk in Utah.
Second, I read this report from Reuters:
Microsoft Aims for Software in Every CarFirst Microsoft set out to put a computer in every home. Now the software giant hopes to put one in every vehicle, too.
“We’d like to have one of our operating systems in every car on Earth,” said Dick Brass, vice-president of Microsoft’s automotive business unit. “It’s a lofty goal.”
Cars with the Microsoft software will speak up when it's time for an oil change. They'll warn drivers about wrecks on the road ahead and scout alternative routes. They'll pay freeway tolls automatically. The software running their brakes will upgrade itself wirelessly.
Perhaps that sent a cold chill through you the way it did me.
You have chosen to end the unresponsive program BRAKES. Would you like to report this, or are you dead?
This reminds me of a joke:
Three engineers are riding in a car that suddenly stops for no apparent reason.
The mechanical engineer says, “We should check the fuel system.”
The electrical engineer says, “We should check the charging system.”
The Microsoft engineer says, “We should make an inferior product and use monopolistic and predatory business practices to force its use and drive cheaper, better products out of the market.”
I think that’s how it goes.
Headline in Yahoo news Wednesday:
Experts predict busy Thanksgiving travel
Thanks, Experts!
A few years ago I saw a report on the local TV news about oil companies reducing gas prices just in time for the holidays. (They pull this PR stunt every year and the news falls for it every year.) They interviewed a woman filling up her minivan who said she and her family had cancelled their trip to visit grandma in Ohio because of gas prices, but now they were going after all. Let’s see. Prices went down six cents a gallon. Your minivan probably gets 20 miles per gallon. Your trip is maybe 1000 miles round trip. So, you’re going to save three bucks.
Next year you need a better excuse for not driving to Ohio.
Anyway, I hope everyone has a happy Thanksgiving, and if there is Tofurky involved in yours in any way, I don’t want to hear about it.
REUTERS/David Bebber
From Reuters:
British performance artist Mark McGowan performs his artwork entitled 'Sausage, Chips and Beans' at the House Gallery, London in this photo taken November 14, 2003. McGowan intends to spend 100 hours sitting in the bath of baked beans with sausages strapped to his head and two chips stuck up his nose in support of the traditional fried breakfast which he views as an important part of British culture.
Do you think the NEA would give me some money to sit in a bathtub with Egg McMuffins strapped to my head? I mean, I do it anyway. I might as well get paid for it.
Speaking of traditional English breakfasts, I've had a nice hearty serving of spam lately. I've received emails from Headache G. Ethelred, Dramatist G. Brawlers, Stuffing F. Extinction and Clergywoman V. Sucrose. And my new mortgage broker, who is so fab that he just goes by "Juan," thought it would make me feel better about trusting my financial future to him if he included this information:
I had to contemplate the math about eating dogs for a long time. Interest rates are lower than they have been in 40 years.
I appreciate that kind of outside-the-box thinking. You're not going to get a cost/benefit analysis of dog eating from Merrill Lynch, are you?
I'm not even going to talk about GW's visit to the UK, since Adda has already nailed it.
At her urging, I turned on CNN to try to see the footage of him doing his high school graduation walk. Now I remember why I don't watch the news anymore. While I was waiting for the top stories, I saw the "CNN International Minute." A whole minute for the Rest of the World? How do they manage to find enough material every day? And apparently Michael Jackson has a new album coming out or something.
"CNN Poll: The rap - will MJ 'beat it'? Vote now."
We've already figured out the chronology:
flight to avoid prosecution
negotiated surrender
celebrities band together in his defense
suicide watch
year-long televised trial
one year in Club Fed
tearful breakdown on Barbara Walters as he discusses his childhood
first album out of prison goes platinumYou heard it here first.
researchers at the candle factory
I’ve spent the last couple of hours watching the Rally of France and the Rally of Spain. I love rally racing. (Of course I do – it’s foreign and hard to find.) You get to see little tiny cars going very fast sideways on logging roads, public roads, and through ancient villages where the cars are literally driving over people's doorsteps (and nearly their toes). In the Rally of Sweden this year, one driver raced a moose for about a hundred feet. Plus you get to see cars do this. (I nearly bought a Ford Focus because of its success in the World Rally Championship, until I realized that the one I could buy at University Ford would not have a quarter of a million dollars worth of racing parts in it.)
Compared to American sports figures, the drivers are incredibly modest. They say things like, “I’m really slow today. My opponents are driving very well and there’s just no way I’m going to catch them. And I got really scared on that last stage.” It took me a while to get used to it. When you hear them swearing via the in-car camera it’s in a foreign language, so it sounds cute. They say things like “Oyo!” when they’re about to drive off a cliff. I hope it’ll catch on here, but I kind of doubt the average NASCAR fan is going to get excited about watching Citroëns and Peugeots compete in a sport traditionally dominated by Finns.
Now that I’ve talked about that, I feel I can safely mention that Primo and I went candle shopping Tuesday. We went to the tritondous Buy Yourself a Lifestyle Mall and examined the waxy offerings of Expensive Barn, Expensive Hardware and Eddie Bauer Home-My-God That’s Expensive. Then we found the candle store. I think it’s called The Great American Candle Company, or possibly T.G.I. Candles.
We discovered that candles are divided into four categories: candles you want to eat, candles that are okay to smell, candles that are not okay to smell, and candles that smell like total ass. (Primo looked at the Seaside candle and said, “What does that smell like? Pine trees and low tide?”) I rejected New Car Smell, Litter Box, and Feet, and chose Nantucket (which does not smell like whaling) because I liked the chalky blue color, and Sage, because it was one of the few that fell into Category Two. In retrospect, Nantucket was not a good choice. They’ve been sitting in my living room since I brought them home, and now my house smells like cheap aftershave. (I suppose it would be Old Spice.) Every time I walk in there I expect to see a guy named Vic sitting on my couch in a Member’s Only jacket.
now THAT'S a banknote
I decided when I started this blog that I didn’t want it to turn into some kind of low-rent Andy Rooney-style whinge-athon, nor did I ever want to sound like a lame stand-up comedian. If I couldn’t think of anything more interesting to say than “What is the deal with…” or “Who’s the genius who greenlighted…” then I wouldn't say anything at all.
Still, what is the deal with the new $20 bill? Who’s the genius who greenlighted that? It looks like an old twenty that’s been doodled on by an obsessive compulsive and then had a peach Snapple spilled on it. Why must we have the ugliest money on earth? Isn’t it bad enough that we flood the world with our worst TV shows, movies, music, beer and fast food? (Not to mention our foreign policy.)
The coolest money I’ve ever seen was in The Netherlands (also in the running for the coolest country I’ve ever seen), back before they were forced to adopt the Euro (which could be worse I suppose, but it ain’t no sunflower). The fifty guilder note pictured above is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, money or not. I wish I had kept one, but I visited when I was 17 and 50 guilders was an expensive souvenir back then.
There are a few web sites dedicated to the glory of the old Dutch money. Here's a good one.
Why can’t we have money like that? Hell, I bet I could design a better bill than the stupid new twenty. Hang on.
There. What do you think?
I cannot in good conscience condone this type of behavior. Really. I can't.
On my way to some nebulous nether region between Hillsborough and Durham Tuesday night (on a map it says “here be monsters”), I passed a church that proclaimed “Wal-Mart is not the only saving place.” I can't even begin to express all the reasons why that wigs me out, and if you're the type of person who reads this blog, I probably don't have to.
I've often wondered if there was a web site where pastors could find snappy new slogans to entice passing motorists, and lo and behold, there are dozens. (I'm not going to link to them, and I'm trying to be careful not to write too many words that might lead one of those pastors or members of their flock to this site, because the last thing I need is a bunch of Hallmarky Christophiles trying to redeem my soul. If you really want to find them, do a search using the word commonly used to describe the house of worship of the dominant religious affiliation in the Southern U.S. - rhymes with "lurch" - and the word for a thingy with words written on it.)
Most of the ones cataloged on those sites are pretty lame, but some are more than a little scary. How about “Jesus is returning - resistance is futile”? Or “Firefighters rescue - only Jesus saves.” Yeah, take that you prideful firefighters! Or “Going to church does not make you a Christian anymore than going to McDonalds makes you a hamburger.” (Best not to think through the logic of that one too carefully.) “As sure as God puts his children in the furnace, He will be in the furnace with them.” Thanks, God, but how about we just not get in the furnace? “May your teenage head banger meet The Ageless Heart Knocker!” (I’m not sure, but I think they mean Elvis.)
One church even saw fit to quote that famous model of piety and chastity, Lord Byron: “Profanity is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate.” Fuck, I wish I’d said that. Still, the one that takes the biscuit for sheer Jesus-meets-Madison-Avenue icky crossover hatefulness is the one I saw a few years ago in front of a church near Pittsboro: “For all you do, His blood’s for you.”
The reason I was thrashing Plooblewagon about in BFNC is because I was trying to find Greta's parents’ Colonial manse for her birthday dinner, at which a good time was had by all. Her father the doctor led us in all kinds of Fun With Your Brain activities. For instance, I learned that because I have to visualize the route before I can give someone driving directions, that means I am parietal-lobe dominant. So all of you parietal-lobe submissives, drop me a line.
He also taught us something else that led to Ingrid doing this, but it's funnier if I don’t explain it. But it’s not just Ingrid: all the cool, hip kids are doing it.
And finally, in case you were wondering, this is what I will look like when I’m 72. Not too shabby, huh?
even my car can't stop mentioning Iceland
Say hello to Plooblewagon, brought home Saturday after many hours of half truths, little white lies and outright, barefaced lies from a salesman who was actually wearing a black cowboy hat. In case you care, it’s a 2003 Mazda Protegé5 (with a 5-speed, natch). And no, it’s not a station wagon. It’s a lifestyle vehicle.
I love owner’s manuals. They assume you are from Uzbekistan and have never operated anything more complicated than a plow. For instance, there are 33 pages of instructions on how to use the seats.
The manual includes these instructions, in the hundred or so pages they expect you to read before attempting the highly dangerous and slightly suspect activity of driving the car.
Before Starting the Engine: After Getting InAre all doors closed and locked?
Is the seat adjusted properly?
Are the inside and outside mirrors adjusted?
Is everyone’s seat belt fastened?
Has everyone been to the bathroom?
Are you, like, high?
Can’t you get those goddamn kids to shut up?
I know we live in a litigious society, but I think some of the warnings are a bit extreme.
Your Mazda Protegé5 is intended for outdoor use only.Driving is an inherently dangerous activity. Doing so can be hazardous and result in accident, injury or death and may void your warranty. Mazda does not recommend driving your Protegé5.
Your Mazda Protegé5 is designed to provide years of trouble-free motoring, but it is not designed to drive underwater, through solid objects or in a zero-gravity environment. The Mazda Protegé5 is not a flotation device.
If you must operate your Mazda Protegé5 in traffic, please ensure at least one occupant of the vehicle is in the driver's seat at all times.
Do not operate your Mazda Protegé5 while under the influence of alcohol or prescription medications, when drowsy, after strenuous physical activity or while dead. Allow one hour after eating to avoid cramping.
Mazda is confident your driving experience will be enjoyable, however should you experience itching or burning, please discontinue use.
The cruise control feature is intended to maintain a steady speed while driving in light traffic conditions. It is not intended to allow you to move freely about the cabin.
Tobacco products are hazardous to your health. Use of the cigarette lighter may void your warranty. Check applicable laws in your area.
While Mazda's engineers have employed the latest emissions control technologies to make your new vehicle as environmentally safe as possible, it is not recommended to run a length of flexible tubing from the exhaust pipe into the passenger compartment while the engine is running in a garage or other enclosed space.
Mazda recommends keeping both hands on the wheel while operating your vehicle, so don't go vogueing like that annoying chick in the Mitsubishi commercial.
(Adda gets a co-writer credit for this post)
Bellafea at Kings
As much as I love writing and music, I hate writing about music. I’ve made a few attempts, including one published in The Independent Weekly, but I just never feel comfortable doing it. I read far too many impenetrable wankfests disguised as music journalism in the NME in the ‘80s, and that probably instilled my antipathy for much of the genre. The worst music reviews seem to be about anything but the music, and mostly about the reviewer. All I ever want to say anymore is “I like them – they sound like Sonic Youth” or “I don’t like them – they sound like a trap case full of symbols falling down the stairs.” Besides, in Chapel Hill everybody is a music critic, and a casually tossed-off comment like “this reminds me of Beulah’s first album” can get you into a tedious ten-minute argument.
So don’t take it as dismissive that I’m not going to say a lot about Bellafea’s set last night at Kings in Raleigh other than this: it was great. I first heard about Bellafea through Myküll, who is friends with Heather, who is half the band (with Nathan on drums). She sent me CDs to give to my friends who work for labels or otherwise help to influence the direction of Chapel Hill music, and everybody enjoyed them. I really like their sound. It’s unusual without being unapproachable, and I love the way they play with the mood of the song, going from quiet and introspective to loud and frenetic and then back again (of course, this leads to embarrassing moments of clapping-before-the-song-is-over, which I did last night). Heather is a lot of fun to watch onstage, jumping around like Laura Ballance and contorting her face as she sings from the depths of her tiny body. Bellafea recently relocated to Chapel Hill from Wilmington, and they’re going to be a valuable addition to The Scene. I think they’d be perfect in a lineup between Work Clothes and Lud, if that means anything to you.
Okay, I guess I did say a lot about the show. And one other thing: I think it’s great that The Rosebuds used their CD release party as an opportunity to give exposure to their friends, but six bands are too much. I know this will further brand me as an old fart, but I’ve only got about 90 minutes of rock appreciation in me anymore. And turn it down, you kids.
Kings is only a 30-minute drive from the Cat’s Cradle, but Raleigh feels like another country sometimes, even though I grew up there. There is some Chapel Hill-Raleigh scenester cross-pollination, but mostly they seem like two different species. For instance, in Raleigh some of the women actually dress up. I saw one woman last night who looked like an escort, and quite a few more who were seriously working the rock ‘n’ roller thing. One emaciated blonde sported the classic drugged-out vacant stare along with a shoulder-baring Motörhead t-shirt that relegated the sleeves to the role of bicep warmers. She looked like she should have been hanging out in a dressing room waiting for Lemmy with a towel and a bottle of Jack. Contrast this with Chapel Hill, where the typical female hipster looks like she got up at 3:00 p.m. and put on the clothes her drummer boyfriend dropped on the floor the night before. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that look. As long as it’s not smelly.
I realize now I might have illustrated my point with photos, since I had my new digital camera with me, but I’m not sure how I would have gone about explaining myself. “Hey, do you mind if I take your picture to illustrate a blog entry about Raleigh women dressing like slutty heavy metal groupies?”
That reminds me: I still haven’t written about ANUSTART. Oh, well. No time now. I’ve got to wipe down my leather pants and head back to Raleigh.
This photo is only marginally related to this post, but I still like it.
I've been using the word "crap" a lot. I blame Strong Bad.
So, REM is in town, and apparently they were hanging out last night at Orange County Social Club. Sure, it would have been fun to see them drinking in one of my locals, but you can see plenty of great musicians getting shitfaced there on any given Tuesday. However, today Ryan tells me this:
When they left the Social Club, Mike Mills, Peter Buck and Scott McCaughey went to The Cave, and played an impromptu set with Jon Wurster on drums. Ken Stringfellow and Pete Yorn also sat in. The set list (god, I love the Internet) included The Ballad of John and Yoko, Hang On Sloopy, and a medley of Bang a Gong, Mr. Soul and Sweet Jane.
At The Cave. (It's slightly larger than my kitchen, only with a lower ceiling. It's cleaner, too.) The first time I saw REM was in 1983 at the Concert for African Relief at Meredith College in Raleigh. It was a smallish show, and I met Peter Buck and Mike Mills afterwards. The next time I saw them was at the Dean Dome on the UNC campus six years later, when they had Gone Major, and it was nowhere near as much fun.
I know I live in Chapel Hill and we're supposed to be blasé about rock stars and stuff, and I've missed plenty of "must see" shows. (When people ask me if I was at "that Archers show" or "that Superchunk show," I usually just say yes. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. I'm sure this statement will brand me as a philistine for many, but unless somebody spontaneously combusted onstage, only a handful of shows stand out after five years.) But damn. I wish I had been there last night.
Tonight I am going to Raleigh to see Bellefea, The Rosebuds, et al. I'm sure that while I'm gone, REM will come to my house and make pancakes.
Is there any point in adding my voice to the chorus of praise for “Lost in Translation”? No? Whose blog is this, anyway? I loved that movie for so many reasons, but it was especially poignant for me having lived in Tokyo, oh god, 17 years ago. I was a DJ and program director for an English-language cable radio station called FM Banana, naturally (our weak FM signal was on 87.7, which can be pronounced in Japanese, in a kind of cutesy-poo way they use for this kind of thing, as “ba-na-na”). I also hosted a very small TV show on a very large cable network, Tokyu (sic) Cable Television, which was in its infancy. (They considered putting my face on a t-shirt to give to subscribers, but that idea died a quick death.)
Watching Bill Murray trying to work with a director who speaks no English cracked me up, because I did that. Our director, Menju-san, began his career working as a ticket collector for the massive Tokyu zaibatsu (they own a subway line and an entire suburb, among many other things), but they made him a TV director because he had a master’s degree in urban planning. Of course. He didn’t speak much English, but he always knew when I had screwed up and would politely ask for another take. It was one of the strangest and most enjoyable times of my life, despite the fact that I was forced into a Santa Claus suit on three (3) separate occasions – once to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” with a grammar school choir backing me up. Menju-san told me I would be doing that about ten minutes before we started shooting. I have it on tape, and if you’re nice to me, I won’t make you watch it.
Considering the size of Tokyo, I was amazed at how much I recognized in the movie. When Charlotte makes her first foray out of the hotel, she gets off the train at Omotesando, which was my stop for work. When she and Bob have their awkward lunch, it’s supposedly in Daikanyama, the neighborhood where I lived with my parents. But for me, the most evocative moments of the film are the insomnia sequences, with both characters lying awake in that peculiarly-Tokyo pre-dawn light, a siren wailing in the distance. I remember that so well, and it reminds me of walking out of a basement nightclub I frequented called Cleo Palazzi, leaving at 6:00 a.m. once the trains had started running again. I don't think I’ve ever felt more dissolute.
I know that the phenomenon of Engrish (we called it Janglish) is pretty well covered on the web, but here are my favorites. Somewhere in the house I have containers of all of these products:
a sports drink called Pocari Sweat
a non-dairy creamer called Creap, for “creamy powder”
a beer called Penguin’s Bar
a yogurt drink called Pokka White Sour, with the legend “Its sweet taste of sour yogurt will extend on your tongue softly, and be a sweetheart"
I also have an ashtray from a gift shop near Mt. Fuji that features two penguins on water skis. It says, “Let’s Attack Water Skiing!”
There is a pro baseball team called the Nippon Ham Fighters.
My train ride to see my now ex-wife, The Mighty Frith, passed an apartment building with a sign reading “My City Home.” That’s not funny until you know that the Japanese have a hard time with “ci” and pronounce it as “shi.” Hearing someone talk about a Honda City was always fun, too. (And the photo above might be a little more amusing now.) Nissan had a domestic model called the Langley (named after CIA headquarters?) and another called the Laurel (which came out “ro-re-ru”) and I wondered why they inflicted that on themselves.
It got to the point where the Janglish had to be really good to even warrant a mention. As a newcomer I roared at a t-shirt that said, “Let’s Jogging With Me,” and the line of Basic James Rabbit consumer goods (featuring a bunny in a waistcoat looking at his pocket watch and saying, “She should be along here now”), but after a few months those barely elicited a snicker. For one thing, it was a constant bombardment. My father’s morning walk used to take him past the Aoyama Health Club, which had a plaque out front proclaiming, “Where Young Men and Women Meet to Exchange Sweat – Since 1983.”
Dang. Now I miss Tokyo. And being 20. I don’t miss Pokka White Sour, though.
(That joke is totally swiped from Rebecky.)
Say hello to Knightsfollie Ladiesman, known to his bitches as Mr. Jeffries. Mr. Jeffries is the dog with the longest ears in the world, according to Guinness. Coincidentally, he is the grandson of Biggles, the spokesdog for Hush Puppies. His ears are insured for £30,000. (No word if that’s each, or the pair.) In addition to holding the record, poll results released today show Mr. Jeffries has pulled ahead of Lt. Gov. Cruz Bustamante in the California recall election.
While we're on the subject of ears, allow me to plug my newest link, www.epitonic.com. In addition to a lot of cool information about bands and music, the site features free mp3 downloads, all with the artists’ permission. And they have extensive “if you like this, you’ll also like this” links on each artist's page, which I totally dig. I visit there a couple of times a month and get enough new songs to make a nice mix disk. Then sometimes I go out and buy one of the bands’ CDs. Hey, the system works!
Knowing as many people as I do who make a living, or attempt to make a living, from music, I never really felt comfortable using the free, unauthorized file-sharing programs. And once I heard the RIAA was targeting people with more than 1,000 shared files (I had 2,400) that added some poignancy to my dilemma. (Nothing like the threat of personal jeopardy to resolve an abstract moral issue.) But I did always maintain one scruple: if I ripped somebody’s album from Grokster and then saw them live, I would buy another CD from them at the show. Hey, I sleep at night.
Okay, anyone who knows me will confirm that I'm a massive dweeb when it comes to gadgetry. I'm also a big fan of Nokia, who provided me with my current mobile phone, which I'm very happy with despite the silly gold faceplate that quickly earned it the nickname the Mr. T Phone. Regardless, I have to draw the line at Nokia's latest product, the Medallion I. Nokia calls it "a daring choker - designed for dramatic personalities with a hidden side." Well, maybe there's a reason to keep that side hidden, dingus.
The idea is that you can upload photos to this device from your mobile phone or your computer, and then wear them around your neck. According to the Nokia site, it has a 15 hour operating time. Which means you have to recharge your necklace every night. No word yet on pricing, but if it's more than 20 bucks, I swear if I ever see anybody wearing one I'm going to demand that person makes my next mortgage payment.
This has got to be the dumbest thing I've seen since a hat in the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog with a little LCD screen you could program to display a short line of text. What would you want your hat to say to the world? How about DIPSHIT? I considered getting one and setting it to read HAT.
Those of you with Nokia stock, this might be a good time to reevaluate your portfolio.
I love all the ways spammers use to get around spam filters. (Well, actually, I hate them, but you know what I mean.) I got one yesterday with the subject line, “Mën, Nö Sidë effects.” I guess the umlauts have some sneaky effect, but it made me think the email had been written by someone from an ‘80s hair band. Maybe Mötley Crüe’s former publicist is working for a spammer now. “Oh, yeah, if you need umlauting, he’s your man. He’s definitely the go-to guy for umlauts.”
While I write this entry I am attempting to use EarthLink’s live chat support to ask how to get www.plooble.com (don’t bother going there) to point to this blog. The support page promises you’ll “get an answer in moments.” If a moment is, say, ten minutes, then yeah, I got an answer in moments. Three of them. Anyway. My interlocutor appears to be Indian. His name is “AnilG.” Kind of sounds like someone L’il Kim might hang around with, doesn’t it? I recognize that I am not fluent in any other language, and I hate to make fun of the way foreigners speak English (well, actually, I love it, but you know what I mean), but I couldn’t help but laugh when his response to my question came back as “Okay. Kindly be on hold for a moment.” And it was one moment. One EarthLink moment, a.k.a. ten minutes.
Chatting with my Anil buddy reminds me of the time I lived in London and got a really nasty reaction to an infected ear piercing, which I won’t describe in detail because what I just said is nasty enough. I went to the hospital and was attended to by an extremely charming and reassuring doctor from Pakistan. When I asked him what I could do to make the skin less rough, he replied, “Once the wound has healed, you may apply some Nivea cream, and your skin will become smooth and supple again.” If there is a more elegant way of putting that, I can’t imagine what it would be.
Whoops. AnilG is back. “I see that your domain is not Hosted with the EarthLink.” Oh, yes it is, ass-name. Kindly don’t make me come to Bangalore and slap you with a chapatti.
And now he’s gone again. “Kindly be on hold for a moment.” It’s not so cute this time. Why do I get the feeling that AnilProbe is sitting somewhere in India surfing the same useless EarthLink support pages I was surfing before I resorted to this particular farcical time sink? And he’s probably on dial-up.
Oh, super. He’s just come back and told me to do something that didn’t work an hour ago. He asked me for my password, and I gave it to him. Why is the phrase “EarthLink will never ask you for your password” throbbing in the back of my mind? Oh, no. I see it all now. AnilG has been attacked by thugs who have taken over this chat session. Now they have my password and can get into my domain hosting, my blog, just about anyth
Hello! This are your friend Mr. David of America, and there is nothing strange going on here. Please my Friends, I need the Monies very importantly for the urgent Surgery of the Head. Please fill the large Envelope with American Dollars and send them with all haste to my good Friend Mr. C. Mukherjee, care of General Delivery, Mumbai, India. Thank you very much, and have the Nice Day. When I return from the Head Diseases Hospital I will see you at the restaurant of McDonald’s on Main Street in our Town of America, and we will enjoy the fried Potato while listening to the music of Madonna and Michael Jackson together. Now I must go to my bed as my Head is very, very pain. Please to hurry!
