Sweedish chefs, suede futons. Thanks for the ride, IKEA

First time visiting IKEA ... it's like a maze. I half expected ABBA to pop out of one of the demos and ask me to take a chance on some sleekly designed chair, or couch. This is the kind of place that could induce one hell of a panic attack in a person, only to drive you forward, deeper into the labrynth and make you strain every muscle in your body lifting heavy objects from the self-serve furniture warehouse. Because that's what happened to me. Minus the panic attack.

I did get a pretty sweet bed and dresser in the process. Hopefully all of the pieces are there and nothings broken. More on that in a few days when I get around to actually putting this all together.

For my next trick ...

I stumbled upon what could be the most amazing site on the internet a few minutes ago:

http://www.themagicclassifieds.com/

Go ahead, click the link. It's worth it.

That's right, magic classified ads. Need a new apprentice? Got 'em. Did your rabbit scamper away causing awkward silence at your last birthday party booking? We can get you a gently used rodent for less. Harry Potter feeling lonely on another holiday break from Hogwarts? Check out our enchanting missed connections. Well ... there are no missed connections on that page, but I'm guessing a missed connection for a magical type would be more like putting a pretty lady in the box and having her actually disappear, not just fake disappear:

m4w

Magic show last night. I was performing and put you in a box. Was going to fake-saw you in half, but you were already gone. Would love to charm you by pulling many scarves from my left sleeve. Let's meet up.

Anyway ... imagine my disappointment when I discovered that there is nothing on this page for sale. And not 'nothing' in a way that there's nothing cool. There is quite literally nothing there. The one link to a book that is supposedly for sale doesn't even work.

I was pretty dejected until a friend pointed out that the operator of this magic website had, in a fantastic feat of sorcery, probably just made it all disappear.

Impending doom: record labels and music vendors aren't on your side

I have been using Lala.com for almost a year now. Its clean interface and offering of millions of songs for streaming and purchasing make it, to me, the only music site or application worth using. No iTunes for me.

Well, not any more. According to TechCrunch, Apple has acquired Lala.com. So, what does this mean? Well, since Lala's *stream anything once for free* model doesn't really jive with iTunes much more pitiful 30 second clip method of letting you preview a song, I'm sure that'll be gone. Albums for $7.49? See ya later ... Buying online-only versions of songs that you kind of like, but aren't ready to commit to? No way.

I really hope Apple takes a lesson from the guys at Lala and keeps some of this functionality in tact. In my opinion, forward-thinking ideas for how music is disseminated are the only thing that will turn the industry around. We've already seen studies that show that illegal downloaders are more interested and more active purchasers than those who play by the rules. This should tell the labels something ... but has it?

Voicing my opinions on the music industry as a whole is something for another day, but I can assure you, the loss of a service like Lala.com is not a good sign of the times.

Losing my edge

The Fall - Norah Jones

I'm not sure if I'm going soft in my late twenties, but I actually really liked Norah Jones' new album. Its dark tones and introspective lyrics caught my attention -- elements I would expect from Norah Jones and her roots in jazz. What I didn't really expect is all of the guitar.

I can't say I've followed Norah's career or anything, but I really enjoyed the more guitar-centric approach. Add in her smooth, smokey-lounge-inspired vocals, and you have my undivided attention.

Check out the album at lala.com.

The lost art of divination

My dog did something interesting this morning. Now you all know I have so much going on that I just can't think straight. Cover blown ... another pet-related dog. As if my previous blog didn't outline this fact well enough, animals (and specifically my dog) are gross. They do things that are literally unfathomable in the normally-operating human mind.

For instance, this morning's walk started like all other dog walks. Bailey, nose planted into the ground pulling the very essence of every solid, liquid or gas from it. Me, tugging on the leash to remind her that something much larger and smarter than her was in control and desperately trying to avoid another chicken bone incident. It was cold and running shorts were probably not the best choice, but they were the first thing I pulled out of the dryer and I was told (erroneously) by a voice on the radio -- oh, someone remind me to rant about how annoying radio voices are --that it was 50 degrees outside.

Now, it's not rare for a dog to sniff where other dogs have *left their mark*. We almost expect it. In fact, we almost overlook it, scarcely giving more than a pull on the leash or a strongly spoken *no*. But this is disgusting! Your precious little dog is sticking his or her nose in urine, and they're going to want to shove that nose into your pant leg -- or worse face -- at some point. No, thank you. Question why your dog's nose is wet next time. Anyway, pee is one thing ... but what about that other stuff? That's right ... poop (incidentally one of the most inappropriately hilarious words in any language).

This particular morning, Bailey decided she was an Oracle, and her means of divining the future were the leavings of some other, obviously smaller, dog ... or cat? Either way, here was my dog (who I was not coaxing onward because I wanted to leave something of her own ...), pawing at this previously neatly piled mess; moving a piece to one side, then the other; staring intently at the progress of her activity as if it were going to tell her where some hidden treasure of rotten food might be.

Obviously, I was disgusted upon learning what my dog was doing while my eyes wandered up and down the block. This is one of the things that I thought separated dogs from cats. Cats are always walking around in their own ... whatever ... but not dogs ... not dogs. Even if she had somehow spoken at that moment and given me some glimpse into my own future, as represented by this now-disheveled pile of crap, it would not have softened the blow. She was going to lick that poop off of her feet at some point, and she was going to want to lick me at some point, and her shitty feet were going to want to be on my furniture at some point. This. This is the real future laid out before her. And it's absolutely gross.

Blue Balls ...

Not that kind. This kind. Be careful though, or this might happen. Just in case you need the guided tour, you can go here. All courtesy of YTMND. If you weren't annoyed with the first three links (whatever, the third one cracks me up), you can always go to where it all began.

Leavin' on a jet plane ...

A few thoughts as I wait for my flight to Philadelphia to depart:

(1) I saw Eddie George, a former Tennessee Titan, walking down the terminal towards me just a few minutes ago.

(2) I like the way Kelly Pickler says Nashville.

Also, I would like to thank Noshville for a relatively tasteless, but filling, egg and cheese bagel and for my accidental invitation to the Convention of Old Jews which occurred in the take-out order line. Key note speaker? How about a middle aged woman teeing off on them for not providing milk for her coffee. Oh, also ....

(3) Speaking of the line at Noshville ... it's probably not your best bet to ask the woman who operates the cash register at a restaurant in the airport about boarding procedures for your flight. Yes, I understand that she does work *in* the airport ... but not *for*. The sad reality is that there is almost no way she can afford to fly and, if you extrapolate and apply the reasons for her current circumstances to her earlier life, she has most likely never been on a plane at all.

One bad mother ...

shut yo' mouth!

Ron 'Typewriter' Mingo. There's really no reason for you to know this name, so let me introduce you ...



Now, I don't really care about how fast he types. What you need to see starts at the two minute mark -- his catchy tune all about success "Hard Work" -- because it's great. Who has this kind of swagger about their typing skills? Only Mingo, man. Only Mingo. His mannerisms and speech pattern reminds me of something from Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job ...



Try not singing that all day ... Doo da doo doo!

The most I've ever spent on dinner for a girl

$135.84

That is the most I've ever spent on dinner for a girl. It was chicken ... I think. The good part of this would be that she came back to my place. The bad news is that (1) she's a dog, literally; (2) she vomited and pooped everywhere, too literally.

Now, when I said that I'm not sure whether it was chicken or not, that's because it was refuse from someone's front yard which, at a glance in the dimly lit dusk sky, strongly resembled a chicken leg bone. I tried to remove it from her mouth. I pinned her down, grabbed her muzzle and tried to pry the foreign object from her mouth, but with no success. She swallowed the anomaly whole. She then had the audacity to whine at me pitifully as if she'd done nothing wrong. This was Thursday night. This same thing had happened before a few weeks prior, so I eventually stopped thinking about it.

Friday night called and music was in the air. I went to see a few friends' bands around town and had a good time. What I came home to was an atrocity. The dog, whose stomach was obviously in full revolt against all things not poo-covered (which I assure you was everything in my apartment prior to 9 pm that night), had unleashed one of the most vile messes I've ever experienced in my apartment. I immediately put the dog outside and sulked back to the defiled room.

I cleaned and cleaned and seemed to do some good, but I knew it wasn't enough. I had to get the big guns in the morning. Rug Doctor to the rescue. For now though, I had to minimize the fallout. So, I blocked my dog ... wait. It seems like I've missed a key point here. Here's a picture of the perpetrator, Bailey:

Okay, back to the story ... I blocked her in the kitchen. She whined a lot. At first, I thought it was because she really didn't like being shut in there. At 5 a.m., I learned that it was really because she had to go again and didn't want to do this inside. You know how I know this? She'd done it again. This time, it was more manageable, both in consistency and location. Poor, poor dog.

This same scenario occurred at 7:30 a.m. when I went to take her on a walk and check on her. This told me that I was dealing with serious business, so I took her to the vet. This was the bulk of the meal cost at about $95. I was actually surprised at how good she did initially, but this didn't last long. She made noises that I've never heard form any animal the moment she realized the doctor's sole interest was not petting her ... But, she survived.

I was worn out, but this wasn't over. I picked up the Rug Doctor and got to work. This part was surprisingly easy. Also easy - whatever the vet gave my dog totally worked and she was feeling better. I left the house for a while, just to get away and hang with a few friends, completely convinced that I was coming home to another awful event of Bailey's bodily fluid Olympics, but I was wrong. Another few hours removed from the nightmare of Friday night.

Sunday passed with more of the same, so I'm happy to report Bailey is back to normal, mostly, and that I seem to have survived what I can only hope is the worst thing I can expect as a dog owner.

Please, God, let this be the worst thing this dog ever does. Or, at least the grossest.

"No, you can not borrow my t-shirt...

How about instead of standing there looking shocked, you do your fucking laundry?"

-twitter//shitmydadsays

The subject line and first line of the body of this email are from what is possibly the best, if not only, reason to know what Twitter even is.

It's been a while since I posted anything (not that anyone's been clamoring for them ...), so I'm going to start slow with this one.

Respect

People always talk about earning things. Money, fame, power, respect. All of these things are earned, not given. Saying something like this seems to also say that you believe that it is only through your efforts to prove yourself worthy of some thing or accolade that anything is ever achieved.

There is so much negativity attached to being given anything.

Even so, I wonder if it wouldn't be more accurate, and quite honestly beneficial to humankind on the whole, to say that everything is given and that it's in how we exercise our choice to accept or deny what's given that shows the true nature of the exchange. You can accept something with grace and humility, or you can accept something with hubris and self-entitlement. You can deny that same thing in similar fashions.

For instance, I would say that love, whether accepted or denied with grace and humility, engenders respect and creates a bond. That same feeling denied out of pride or to serve some selfish interest creates turmoil and plants a seed of distrust.

On the other side of this is the giving. We are all constantly giving to each other, intentionally or not, and this very premise - giving of yourself - is what makes you most likely to graciously accept or deny what the world offers you.

This is what I think about while I'm driving home after having a beer and watching a few bands play ...

On point

There's no reason struggle with why The Daily Show always seems so poignant in its remarks about politics and the world. It happens because they don't pull punches. They don't bother with appeasement of any party. They do this because, as many of us know and even some of the greatest philosophers have written - humor is often where you find the truth.


In the clip below, John Oliver and Jon Stewart have one of the more expository conversations about the war in Afghanistan ever produced for television ...

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
The Unwinnable War in Afghanistan
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Healthcare Protests

Life and trials

"I have always sought to be understood and, while I was taken to task by critics or colleagues, I thought they were right, assuming I had not been clear enough to be understood. This assumption allowed me to work my whole life without hatred and even without bitterness toward criticism, regardless of its source. I counted solely on the clarity of expression of my work to gain my ends. Hatred, rancor, and the spirit of vengeance are useless baggage to the artist. His road is difficult enough for him to cleanse his soul of everything which could make it more so." -Henri Matisse

I try to use that quote every day as a guide, but sometimes I question whether it is possible for the intentions behind our actions to speak louder than the voice of *public opinion*. Obviously this question doesn't really matter to Matisse where it concerns his work, but how far does that go when applied to life? Can you simply ignore the input of critics and colleagues at every turn, hoping at some point to be clear enough to convince them all of your worth?

The clearest example of this question that I can give here, and this is only because it's the one I used the last time I talked about this with anyone, is one of a Playboy model ... hear me out.

There's a stereotype at work here - the one of the woman who agrees to have herself photographed in seductive poses, with not so much as a thread keeping ones imagination at bay, because she feels that it will empower women, that it somehow proves some sort of dominion the female form has over a man's brain. Maybe that's true. Maybe.

Something tells me that an overwhelming percentage of the men who look at the pictures when they're published simply won't care. They will objectify her and they will assign her value based on their imaginary ideals for her. Her opinion as to what the photos represent never even enters their minds. So, at this point, have her intentions been trumped by public opinion, or do they matter so long as she chooses to apply worth to them?

It's not her fault. Maybe pornography is just not the best place for a woman to assert herself and attempt to prove, well, anything. Or, maybe, by the standards of Henry Matisse, she should just keep trying, becoming more and more focused on the clarity of her statement with each pass. Of course, in my example, this puts her out of a job thereby eliminating her ability to continue to make an impact ... kind of like the snake that's eating itself ... Ouroboros.

Well, I'm not sure any of this makes sense, but I gave it a shot. It's a little late to get in to edits at this point.

Not a true story ...

I have a journal ... one with a leather cover and real paper inside. It's different than my blog because it doesn't contain anything silly. Mostly, it's fictional stories I make up that in some way express something that's going on in my life. Currently, there are a few things going on that aren't that great. Overall, things are pretty good, but these two things in particular pretty much suck and there's nothing I can do about either, as far as I can tell. Anyway, I wouldn't normally post this kind of thing on here, but I was looking through things I've written and it's pretty much all I've got going on that's worth writing about. This, just to wrap up the opening here, is a bit of fiction I wrote a few months ago ...

Two questions come to mind as I stare at the concrete walls of this basement:

1) How did I get here?
2) Did I mean 'here' the basement, or 'here' the father of two with number three on the way?

I left college ten years ago ready to take on the Scylla and Charybdis themselves if they stood in my way. Now, there were car payments, billable hours and a sea of commitment splayed about me leaving no sight of the modern hero's conquests.

I could leave today. Sure, I could. The wife, kids, cars - eventually they would all be okay without me and I would be off. Things would be exactly the way my twenty-one year old imagination had prepared for. Alas, even that 30 year old scotch waiting for me at home couldn't convince me that this was actually true. It's not that I don't love my wife and my children - I do, really.

You know what I fucking hate? (aside from the fact that I'm not allowed to say fuck out loud anymore) My Toyota Camry ... fucking hate that thing. Don't get me wrong, it's a solid car, but that's just it. Where's my rusty old Ford Bronco? Sold it to a kid on his way to college to help pay for the first house, that's where. It's worn seats, rumbling engine emitting ozone chocking black smoke with every rev ... no airbags, no seat belts, nothing to keep you safe from the trials of the world around you ... This was all now in the hands of some kid who probably didn't get it; he probably never will.

I got it, once. Now look at me. Staring at a concrete wall in what is (potentially) house number two. Its rough, pocked, gray face reflecting back at me blankly as though it were trying to say, "You think you've got it bad. I could've been a sidewalk. You know, where children laugh and play? They write on you with chalk and skid their bike tires across you, leaving impermanent reminders of the happiness of a carefree life. Impermanent, but more meaningful than what I have." And now I'm personifying walls to express my deepest thoughts ... real nice.

This wall, in its longer-than-necessary eulogy for its lost purpose in life, brought forth one key point: despite my lament for my burdens in life, it's not as if I'm trapped under a house. I've made neither enough mistakes, nor enough promises to prevent myself from breaking these shackles.

As I walked up the stairs to the house's main floor, I decided two things:

1) I still hate my car, and
2) There's no way in hell we're getting a house with a basement.

Losing your top ...

I'm not sure who, if anyone remembers the story of Tiffany Shepherd, a Florida schoolteacher who lost her job for posing in a bikini while on a fishing trip. I know I didn't until I read the most recent news: she's given up her search for another teaching job in favor of a career as a movie star. Oh, well, they're really just porno's. Go you, Tiffany!

I'm not opposed to people working in pornography, if they choose to do so. I wouldn't support the decision either, but it's just not my place to pontificate on the subject. However, in reading the article I noticed that it was the captain of the fishing boat involved in the scandal, Gil Coombes, who first suggested that being in porn was a good move, letting Tiffany know in his expert opinion that "she'd never get a teaching job again." Let's write out a time line:

1. Tiffany is a teacher.
2. Tiffany goes on a boat in a bikini.
3. Tiffany poses for pictures (probably taken by Gil or at least by his suggestion) in said bikini.
4. Tiffany loses job.
5. Tiffany fails to secure another teaching job, even at prisons.
6. Tiffany is told by Gil that no one would hire her again and that porn would pay the bills.

It's frightening how easy it is to frame this story as one of an evil man systematically taking away the hope of this woman and replacing it with exploitation. This seems even more true when you see quotes from Tiffany like this:

I'm not particularly proud of it. To be honest, I hate it. I'm an educated woman, but I never thought it would come to this. No one gets brought up thinking they'll be a floozy.

Well, Tiffany, at least you're famous now ... right?

Continuing the trend ...

It seems like I've been writing a lot of posts centered around me watching the last thirty minutes of a movie and making blind assumptions about what's really going on in that time. This will be another one of those.

I got back from washing my car, at some lunch and, lucky me, Planet of the Apes - the one with Mark Wahlberg - was on FX. I've seen this movie before, so I can't go totally crazy here, but poor Marky Mark ... He helps human and ape live together in harmony, only to travel through time and space to a point where the evil general Thade is an emancipator, taking the place of Abe Lincoln at everyone's favorite monument dedicated to some dude sitting down. (More on that later, maybe)

He gave up an incredibly hot chick and very high status in the new culture between ape and humans. He also, if you really want to go there, gave up getting down with an intelligent, English-speaking ape. Jungle fever seems like an understatement.

All of this, he lost for nothing, and those ape cops weren't exactly giving him those *good vibrations* he seems to like so much. He probably got killed right after the movie fades into the credits for saying 'say hi to your mother for me' as they threw him in the paddy wagon.

Okay, I've used and abused my Mark Wahlberg joke privileges and abilities.

Real quick , before I forget ...

Let me first say that I really don't like CSI. I guess I'm not into cop dramas in general, which is unfortunate because they represent a large percentage of what's on television these days. I'm currently watching a montage of science on CSI: NY. What happened just ten minutes before that is what really struck me because it happens so often in movies and on television.

Two cops are investigating the crime scene. One, collecting evidence. The other, with an impossibly deep stare set upon a piece of seemingly meaningless debris (in this case, broken glass).

Cop one: Hey. What are you doing over there?

Cop two: Oh, nothing.

Cop one: Well, you've been staring at that same piece of glass for five minutes. What's up? Do you want me to put that in an evidence bag?

Cop two: No, but I have an idea.

Cop one: Oh, yeah? What's that?

This is when cop two storms off in some sort of determined fashion without even acknowledging the questions. What drama! It really builds the suspense of what's coming.

The thing is, this never happens in real life. You tell someone you have an idea; they ask what it is; you tell them your idea. Pretty standard, really. If you told me you had an idea, then i asked you what it was and you just stormed off, I'd throw a shoe at you. A dirty one that wear when I mow the lawn.

This just outlines exactly why these shows suck. They're so unrealistic they border on ridiculous.

Okay. I feel like writing these blogs makes me sound like someone who sits on their couch all evening staring at the television. It's not true! I just end up watching these odd bits and pieces of things while I'm checking email ... and this is what happens.

Movie thought No. 2 for Saturday

I'm channel flipping here, so bear with me.

The movie - Beverly Hills Cop II

At the end, Axel says something like "You guys are becoming more and more like me. One day you might even have an afro."

Umm, hate to break it to you Axel, but Judge Reinhold already has one ...

Conan the Horse Puncher

Just one thought for the day ...

About five minutes in to Conan the Destroyer, Conan (played by Arnold Schwarzenegger) punches a horse. He balls up his fist, rears back, and then punches the horse in the mouth.

Also, I just watched the first half of a marathon of manliness that is both Conan movies in a row, and I must say that the gap between Arnolds front two teeth is much less pronounced in the second installation. It's as if every step he takes away from his barbaric heritage is a step towards better dental work.

Also, also - I spelled Schwarzenegger right on the first try. Nice.

The Notebook: why would you watch this movie?

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Before you ladies get all crazy ... wait. Nevermind. I don't think there are more than a handful of you reading this, anyway. Let me get back on task ...

I cannot believe anyone would voluntarily put themselves through this movie more than once. In my earlier days, I held this position simply because it's a *chick flick* in every way a movie could possibly be one. In my new, more knowledgeable and open mind, I think this purely based on the fact that I just watched the last thirty-or-so minutes of this movie on television. My more knowledgeable and open mind tells me this is far and away the most depressing movie in existence and that I would rather be subjected to a variety of antiquated tortures and ritualistic procedures than ever watch this again, or in totality.

Cute old people sharing stories about love. Lost, sometimes unrequited love at that. Rachel McAdams being all hot and stuff. Then, you find out that this old dude is actually telling his wife the story of their own love, but she has Alzheimer's and can't remember it for more than five minutes, so he comes to visit and tells the story to her every day, even though she won't remember it by the time he leaves.

Wow. Pass the popcorn, please. Instead of extra butter, maybe they could sprinkle it with some Prozac, just to take the edge off.

You know what else strikes me about this movie? James Marsden. In what movie that he's been in, that is also what any sane person would call a good one, does he not get the shaft from the woman he loves? He has to compete with the most bad ass of bad asses, Wolverine, for the affections of Jean Grey ... and kind of loses (she freakin' kills him). He has to compete with an indestructible, leaping-shit-in-a-single-bound, greatest-super-hero-of-all-time man in Superman ... no way he can work that out. Now, in The Notebook, he's dealing with a dude with some serious game. Game serious enough to score him Rachel McAdams not only when she has to do it for the script, but in real life too. Did I already mention how hot she is?

My point is that James Marsden needs a new agent. Following his cinematic love life is the equivalent of being a Boston Red Sox fan pre-2004. So close, yet so disappointing.

Oh yeah, and The Notebook is depressing.

Breaking news

It's taken years - Longer than anyone really thought, really, but we've finally done it. We have officially broken the news. Shambles sounds like a nice way of describing the state of the central mode of communicating information in our world today.

Some might say "but wait ... there's still the BBC, the Guardian UK."

Well, that simply doesn't cut it. It's not enough, and one of them is partisan press by design. You can't just get your news from one angle. And yet, despite it being specifically against our rights as people in and of this nation, the United States of America, we are pretty much forced into a very partisan, guarded and false relationship with the people whose life's mission is to inform us.

It's pretty sad - and also quite entertaining - that the most honest, respectable and quite frankly non-partisan news-giver in the media is Jon Stewart. He has an amazing wit and ability to bring us information, frequently by exposing the 'lies' of people who lean at varying degrees to the right. He does this not by forcing his obvious liberal tendencies on the person, but by simply outlining the counter point to their obviously skewed perceptions of our political system. In this way, he exposes the very important point in the middle - the point that is kept out of so much of the news reporting we are exposed to in our lives.

In short, our entire system of enlightenment on political talking points is ludicrous at best and, more pragmatically, totally f*cked. Making a case for socialism ... if you take monetary gains out of the equation where public works (like being a newsman/woman) are concerned, you get a lot more truth. Luckily for us, this is America and we do things the right way ... right?

The dangers of a religious life

Is it just me, or is the 'Church' of Scientology really, really scary? When can we put a stop to this?

Best music video ever.

A friend of mine posted this video today and basically blew my mind. This was nominated for a Grammy?



First of all, who would pick a T-Rex as their drummer? That dude's stubby arms would make it almost impossible to play any cool fills or even do that fist-in-the-air back beat style that Tommy Lee and so many other drummers of the 80s perfected. Second of all, he ditches his all-dinosaur band at the end of the video to play with a bunch of dudes with perms and jean jackets. You would never do this. Nothing would sell tickets like an all-dino band. If you did manage to make this mistake, it'd be your last one because they'd be pissed and likely eat you.

Learn from this video. Never turn your back on a dinosaur to whom you just gave bad news. You won't be running off with your friends to play that gig you were all so excited about. The cop won't confide in you that he too once dream of rock-n-roll shows. You will be eaten.

Jellico, TN ... what else can I really say.

Long, long ago, I was in a band called Ray and the Examples. We were an original band by trade (and you can look him up on myspace, still) but we paid the bills by playing cover gigs in remote lands filled with rednecks and things rednecks would like to live around.

A friend of the band's lead singer, Ryan, who primarily booked male revues decided to try and give us a hand with booking shows and got us a gig at a place called 'The Rooster Scratch' in Jellico, TN. So, we got our directions and headed out there on a Saturday afternoon. What we knew was that Jellico was likely a small town without much going on - we understood this as a requirement for any place that would hire a band that played nothing but bar songs. Tom Petty, Hank Williams, Zeppelin and the Stones were all prerequisites. What we didn't know is that our friend the booking agent had absolutely no idea where he was sending us, nor did he bother to invest even 5 minutes of his time to research the matter.

Jellico is about an hour or so north of Knoxville up I-75 and is situated in the Appalachian foothills just before you get into Kentucky. We had a good four hour drive from Murfreesboro to think a little about how we had gotten the gig and pretty much unanimously decided that the worst it could be was a hole in the wall pseudo-strip club and that everything would be fine.

Upon reaching the interstate exit for Jellico, we made our first mistake. We took a right off the exit instead of a left but, to our credit, we were in the middle of nowhere, we were confused and we were just a bit frightened about how far into the back country we were traveling. As we drove east from the interstate, we could tell relatively quickly that we were going in the wrong direction and decided it would be best if we turned around. Shortly after this realization, we noticed a gravel pull-around driveway in which we could make our course correction. Just passed the edge of the drive was a small trailer, which was obscured behind a mass of rusted, engineless and totally useless old cars. This, we would find, was mistake number two.

As we pulled around in our van, Ryan decided to stop and look at the map to see where we had gone wrong. I protested the idea of sitting in this strange driveway, in a strange town, in the middle of nowhere, that most likely belonged to a strange man, as much as I could, but Ryan was not interested. Just as Ryan was pulling out his map, out came the strange man in ownership of the previously mentioned driveway from behind one of the dilapidated vehicles. Overalls? Check. White shirt, a short haircut and, most notably, ears torn in a pattern that was once a series of piercings completed his look.

Upon seeing him ambling up in the side view mirror, I immediately asked Ryan to hit the gas and get out of there. Ryan, however, thought that it would be a great idea to ask this guy where 'The Rooster Scratch' was. So there we sat as the owner of the spot we were sitting on approached. He slammed his fist on the side door of the van twice as he walked up to my window. I rolled my window down, though I didn't want to, and the man said, "Ya'll need to get off of ma' yard. You can't turn around here." Ryan agreed to this request, but then proceeded to explain our predicament and asked whether he knew where 'The Rooster Scratch' was.

"I haven't been there since I was fifteen," said the man. Now there was some good news. "Seems like you'd be goin' the wrong way though. It's on the other side of the highway, in Jellico." Progress, at last. At least the man was much more friendly than appearances would lead you to believe. How do we get there? We all wondered. And he answered, "Hmmm ... How to explain this to foreigners ..." Yes, he said foreigners. The majority of the above exchange is less quotes and more 'the general idea'. That last bit is verbatim.

This kind gentleman eventually described to us, in detail, how to get to the Rooster Scratch. We were on our way.

There's really not much to tell of our journey for at least a little while. We went up a hill, and back down, and what we found was indeed a small bar called The Rooster Scratch.

All outward appearances were of a down-to-earth country bar where the good ol' boys and gals passed the time after a hard day of work. People were laughing and talking about gossip, of which we knew nothing. It was comforting to be somewhere normal as a change from the last hour of our lives which had seemed so bizarre.

We set up our gear. We ate. We drank a few beers with the bar owner, his wife and some of his friends. When we started playing, all seemed right at The Rooster Scratch. The people loved the music; they were even dancing, laughing and still probably gossiping about their neighbors (though in much louder tones due to the sweet sounds of CCR, Tom Petty, etc.).

The first set went off without a hitch and we took a short break and went into the other side of the bar where some people were staying to watch college football. The Vols were playing. This was a period during which they weren't doing so well and they were losing. Being in east Tennessee, I thought that this surely meant a rough night was ahead of us. People can get a little rowdy when their team is down, and UT fans are no exception with a few beers in them (or not). But wouldn't you know it, everyone there was a Kentucky fan. I thought to myself: surely this is a sign that the trouble is over and I have nothing more to worry about...

After the second set, we took a break outside. It was getting really cold, but it was good to get out of the bar and away from some of the other local characters, which included: a trucker telling us how to get to Pine Knot and how that would be faster than getting back to I-75, a drunken gay guy who was taking my picture every few minutes, and a man who insisted that he was cool and not backwards like the rest of Jellico whose only proof of this was that he knew who Green Day and Nickelback were. As we stood outside, we joked about how weird the gig had been and even ended up singing a few t-shirts and hats with The Rooster Scratch logo on them. We returned to the bar for what was to be our third and final set.

As we finished this set, the bartender walked up to us. He was of average height, well above average weight, and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a thick grey beard, thick grey hair, and a truckers hat on. Tucked into his shirt, it's tiny and whiskered head poking out, was some sort of toy terrier dog with fur to match the bar owners. He offered us another $150 to play for another hour (it was already midnight) and we agreed.

This is where it got crazy. First, there was a minor scuffle towards the back of the bar because one man felt his wife was being eyed a little too much by another patron. The man with eyes for a married woman was taken care of quickly and thrown outside. I'm not sure that he liked this very much because he came back in and picked a fight with a certain large gentleman who had escorted him out by sucker punching him in the jaw. This is something the bar owner simply could not tolerate. So he took out his pistol, pointed it at the man, and calmly asked him to leave his bar. There wasn't much protest in the eyes of the man on the other side of the gun.

This is something I'd never seen before. A gun in a bar is not necessarily a legal thing ... let alone a smart thing. I should say that during this astonishing turn of events we did not stop playing. Why? Because the man with the gun told us not to.

Minutes later, for no reason that I can tell you, my attention was turned away from my drumming as I watched the bar owner take out the pistol once more and chase a woman out of the bar with it. This warranted stopping. We soon heard a car door shut, followed by two gun shots. The bartender had shot the windows out of the womans car as she tried to leave the bar to drive drunk. The bartender's wife walked up to us quickly and told us we'd better start playing again. We managed through a few more songs, but it was already 1:30 a.m. and well past our time to leave.

The stop in the music must have been just one more thing the bar owner couldn't take. He strode up, pistol in hand, and said "You boys ain't done yet." Ryan explained that we had fulfilled our obligation and we had a long drive that we needed to get going on. The pistol quickly found its way straight into Ryan's chest and the owner reiterated, "You boys ain't done yet. I've got paying customers and they need music." Who could argue.

So there we were for another hour and a half. Held at gun point playing "Mary Jane's Last Dance" for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It was 3 a.m. and I physically couldn't play anymore. Six hours of music sitting in front of an open and unfinished fireplace that had been pushing the ice cold mountain air into me for about half that time. I started packing up my stuff. Ryan and the bass player, Steve, were so terrified by this that they went into an acoustic set of songs in hopes of distracting the bar owner from my decision. Soon though, all three of us had stopped and the bar owner approached once more. He informed us that he was pleased with our music, but that we could not leave the bar, nor could anyone else.

The police had blockaded the top of the hill after the gunshots were heard by a neighbor. There was no leaving. So there we were talking to a man holding a loaded pistol that had once been pointed into Ryans chest. Discussing his tours in Vietnam, looking at the degrees he had obtained from the University of Kentucky (he had a few), and looking at his certification as Justice of the Peace. As he saw it he was the law in 'The Hollow' no matter who thought differently. Finally, at some unknown hour of the morning, the bar owner disappeared into the bathroom. We quickly grabbed our money and headed for the van.

There was no wasting time. We could see blue flashing lights at the top of the hill and so we followed the old trucker's advice from earlier and headed down the hill to Pine Knot. We raced down the dirt road and followed the trucker's directions as fast as we could away from Jellico.

I'm sure I've forgotten a few things here and there. But you can probably see why my memory of Jellico isn't all that fond.

Hollywood Movie Magic

Just a few thoughts for the day, all of which pertain to movies:

1) They should have just called Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen should've just been called 'Transformers 2: Remember How Hot Megan Fox Is?'. It's not that she's even really such a huge part of the movie; it's just that her looks are pretty much the best part of that movie.

2) The Goonies. I just don't really get into this movie. You know, if these stupid f'ing kids would just talk a little more quietly and not let Data use his gadgets, they totally would've gotten away from the Fratelli's who pretty much consisted of a fat old lady and two middle-aged idiots. Criminal masterminds, they were not. Keep in mind they were outwitted and defeated by their own retarded cohort. Seriously.

Also, the guy that played Data had one other notable role - he was in Encino Man with Pauly Shore and ... Sean Astin. Clearly Sean owed him a favor at the time. Too bad they didn't need an Asian hobbit.

UPDATE: Apparently he was also Shortround in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. That's pretty bad ass, but the above statement still applies.

Mythical creatures, redux

It's not necessarily laziness that's prompting me to bring back old blog posts. You see, many of these are stuck on MySpace. You know: the place for friends? Well, it was the place for friends until Facebook took over. Anyway, I think I've gotten better at writing, but I don't see any reason to edit my stupid ranting. Okay. Here goes nothing.

[Jan. 7, 2008]

I was driving back from playing a show in Knoxville on I-40 this weekend and I noticed a strange sign for a state park. I can't remember the name, but it's not really important. The sign had all of your standard icons for a state park. Fishing - check. Camping -check. Picnic Tables - check. But it did have one thing that was just slightly strange to me. One of the icons displayed was a question mark, and, though I'm sure they didn't mean anything by it, it got me thinking about what a question mark could really mean.

There's no real reason to put it there just to indicate that not all parts of the park have been fully explored. That is kind of understandable given the amount of land that is in a decent sized park. There's not really any rational explanation for the icon.

An irrational explanation for the question mark would be that there is a dragon there, and here's why:

1) Given that they are mythical in origin, dragons really shouldn't exist. It'd be a befuddling find to say the least. Certainly warranting a WTF question mark.

2) If you did find a dragon there and weren't befuddled completely, it would be in the best interest of the park not to put a dragon icon on the sign. No one in their right mind would go to a park with a live dragon running around. The park would be closed, and most likely would burn down anyways (you know, due to fire breathing). In this case the question mark is an omission of information AND a warning. You're not saying there's a dragon, but you're certainly not saying there couldn't be one hanging around toasting gigantic marshmallows.

These two arguments could be used for Sasquatch as well. Reason number three for him is that you wouldn't want a bunch of stupid people trying to trap him, so it'd be best not to clue the world into his existence with a sign on the interstate. Be courteous, he could be on vacation at the time share and all of the sudden he's gotta worry about being in the Enquirer again ... or worse yet trapped and put on display. Try telling your wife you're late because some idiot tranq'ed you and put you in a zoo and see if she believes it. Didn't think so.

Peas in a pod

Some things just go well together. Peanut butter and jelly, movies and popcorn ... well, I can't think of other things right now, but they're out there. Some of these things that I can't currently think of are stereotypes. Oh! Like politicians and lying. Stereotypical pair, they are, and some times pairs such as these are proven to go beyond the stereotype and in to real life. This exact thing happened today when ESPN ran this story about a NASCAR driver getting busted for being a meth-head. NASCAR and rednecks go together better than just about anything, and you know rednecks love meth. After all, that's why every time I get a cold and can't breathe I have to show my ID and get put in the 'system'.

To anyone who might be a redneck or might be a fan of NASCAR (sorry for the redundancy there, but you never know), I do not apologize. You can't make this kind of thing up - it's just too good!

Finding a balance ...

The hype machine in our culture could most adequately be compared to a military tank. It mows over anything in the way of its own agenda, making sure that, whether you ever believe it, you will at least get the message.

I say this because I just watched the movie Equilibrium and it summarily beats any of the three Matrix movies, and the more current Wanted, in every way possible. Somehow, though, this is more of a cult film than it is a mainstream success. It is, in fact, about as far from a success as any movie in history. We're talking box office of just over $1 million. The end credits of this movie cost that, not to mention the stunning gun fight scenes and the fees for getting Christian Bale to be in your movie. Even in 2002 that guy had to have been pulling a good bit of money for roles.

The three Matrix crapfests all easily cleared the $100 million mark, and yet these are bad, maybe even terrible movies. Wanted is certainly not a terrible movie, but it's also by no means special. James McAvoy isn't that interesting of an actor, Angelina Jolie is great eye candy but I've seen Tomb Raider and her character's not that much different in this one and Morgan Freeman is ... well, he's the same dude in almost every movie he's ever taken.

I know I'm late to the game watching Equilibrium, but I'm blown away by the disparity between the movie's quality and its success in the mainstream (or lack of it, rather).

It's that and the fact that I really felt that I needed to post something this week since I've been slacking off of late.

Revolutionary Times

This weekend has been filled with camping, cycling and, of course, fireworks. It is the Fourth of July, after all. So here's the tally:

35 miles of trail ridden
17 mosquito bites (and I used repellent)
12 assorted cuts and bruises
50 dollars worth of fireworks
3 black bears

Three black bears in one day, actually. The first one was down in a ravine and safely away from those of us who were on the trail. The second was a very large animal that ran across the trail in front of us about one mile from camp. This large animal stopped us in our tracks and had our adrenaline pumping, for sure. The third was smaller, maybe a/the cub of the larger bear and was sitting behind a tree watching us talk about the aforementioned second bear.

Naturally, as soon as we said bear number three, we started booking it down the trail - an epic downhill called Thunder Rock - and away from potential danger. The whole way down, all I could think is that we were at some bizarro Showbiz Pizza and the Rock-afire Explosion band had just taken one too many hits of acid and gone completely crazy. You remember those guys, right? I just wish our bears could get together and play this tune.

By the way ... is that drummer a dog, or a bear? I really can't tell what they were going for there).

Transformers: Part Deux

I don't usually read Roger Ebert's reviews ... or any movie reviews, for that matter .. but I heard his review of the upcoming Michael Bay 'film' Transformers: REvenge of the Fallen was particularly scathing, so I had to check it out. Wow, did he ever deliver. It's rare for me to let a movie review stop me from seeing a movie, but I don't think there's any way whatsoever I could spend any money on this inevitable crap-fest.

Something old (99 problems) and something new

First the new:

I'm watching National Treasure on television while waiting for a few friends to arrive in Nashville. Early on in the movie, it's established that they're somewhere north of the Arctic circle. You know, a mostly-barren wasteland of ice and ice. Eventually, things get a little crazy and explosions happen, causing a fire on a big wooden boat they've found. Our genius antagonist then says "let's get out of here before someone sees the smoke." Well, good news Rutger Hauer, or whoever you are ... no one's going to see the smoke because you're in the Arctic circle where no one in their right mind lives. Oh, wait. Nicholas Cage says there's an Inuit village nearby. Well ... shit.

So, that old thing I was telling you about ... yeah. I wrote this on July 10th of 2004 and thought I might as well recycle it somewhere it might be viewed. Its previous hiding place was on Myspace, no longer a place for friends by most accounts. Okay - and, go.

99 problems and a bitch ain't one ... let's discuss shall we?

first the evidence:
If you're havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
[Verse One]
I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol
Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed
Rap critics that say he's "Money Cash Hoes"
I'm from the hood stupid what type of facts are those
If you grew up with holes in your zapitos
You'd celebrate the minute you was havin doe
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole
If you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward
Got beef with radio if i don't play they show
They don't play my hits well i don't give a shit SO
Rap mags try and use my black ass
So advertisers can give em more cash for ads...fuckers
I don't know what you take me as or understand the intellegence that Jay-Z has
I'm from rags to ritches nigga I ain't dumb
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me
[Chorus]
99 Problems but a bitch ain't one
If you havin girl problems i feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Hit me

So, if you have 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one - let's do some math:
First of all ... a bitch is not equal to 1 ... lets get this out of the way. Also problems will be represented by (x)

scenario one:
You could get a bitch, giving you 100 problems. Except if, for instance, problem 46 was indeed not having a bitch, which would make you have 99 problems again. If a bitch is not equal to (1), then [99 + (a bitch) = x ] From this we conclude that jay z's problems - or (x) - cannot equal 100. Through modern linguistics, it is also possible to rule out that 'a bitch' = 0, as 'a' clearly states there is one of something. Also there can't be a negative quantity of bitches, as that would be stephen hawking style science we don't understand.

So here's where we are ... (a bitch) > 1. From this, we can now establish some key facts:

1) Jay Z has no fewer than 101 problems ( because 99 + (x) > 100 )
2) there are no fewer than 2 bitches in the world ( x > 1 as shown in the examples above)
3) Jay Z clearly paid no attention in science or math ... specifically algebra

Okay, so I had to do some editing to make this fit my more modern writing style. I guess it's to be expected on a blog that is almost five years old. Wow. That puts nothing in perspective at all.

A barrel of ... terror?

I was perusing a certain website which compiles mostly-time-wasting-but-potentially-funny websites, photos and videos when I found this link to one of the most awesome examples of vandalism/street art I've ever seen. While this 'barrel monster' may not be the physical expression of your worst childhood nightmare waiting in your closet or under your bed as you sleep, it's still pretty impressive.

Unfortunately for the creator, Joseph Carnevale, city police in Raleigh, NC didn't see things as I do, so they put him in jail for vandalism. What's up with that? I understand that this could have cost the city some money because those barrels probably aren't free. However, under normal circumstances those barrels are ultimately unimportant, but this guy turned them in to something really special. This monster probably created moments in many peoples' lives that changed that whole day.

This is the stuff of life. It goes beyond the vandalism and becomes expression. Should he have to repay the city for the barrel's? Sure. But have him go talk to art students, young children even, and have him share his creativity and give back to the community in a valuable way. Actually, instead of dismantling the monster, they should have auctioned it off for a charity. Am I the only one who thinks like this? Or is it just people who get sucked in to bureaucracy and government that miss such common-sense solutions? The company who actually owned the barrels doesn't even want to press charges, so why would the city go through with a hearing/court date ... seems like a giant waste of time and resources, if you ask me.

My cellphone service, in a nutshell ...

"Help, help! I'm in a nutshell! Oh wait, I'm AT&T cellphone coverage and I don't work anywhere. No one can hear me."

Thanks, Austin Powers. You made this blog a lot easier to write.

You missed out, Nashville

While most of you were at Bonaroo, standing in mud and being pelted by rain as if some innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a battle between earth and sky, some of us were lucky enough to see St. Vincent perform in the warm (too warm - damn you Mercy Lounge turn on the AC), dry confines of one of Nashville's finer music venues, Mercy Lounge.

Before this starts reading like some review of the show/St. Vincent's (Annie Clark, formerly of The Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Steven's backing band) music, let me just say this: It is not. This band is great. Unequivocally, undoubtedly, un-some-other-word-that-I-won't-take-time-to conjure-up-in-this-sentence.

This band grooves like Spoon and then throws a film scores-worth of string arrangements and woodwinds at you and expects you not to blink. The funny thing is that the songs are so well written and are so cohesive that you actually don't. Annie Clark has a smooth voice that makes you think she learned to sing walking the yellow brick road with Judy Garland (okay, so the only reason I make this reference is because it gives me an excuse to show you this interview - I'm not really that smart, but the interview is a good one) and her skills on guitar are certainly not lacking. Just as you get used to the aforementioned beautiful string lines and solid indie pop structures, the band could just as easily melt down into noise and bedlam, frequently ending songs with turgid guitar feedback obscuring the once-beautiful melody.

So many bands try to take pop sensibility and turn it on its head. Usually, this ends up in some pretentious, hard-to-grasp concept album that sounds like an equation for a unique sound more than the actual product. This is where St. Vincent excells, and the fact that they pull it off in the live show is something to behold. But you probably didn't.

Don't consider this a review. Consider it me telling you about how you missed out, think about what I've said and, next time, be there when St. Vincent comes around.

For shame ...

I can't seem to find the time to blog lately. Luckily, I'm not exactly leaving the world hanging not doing so. It's not even that I'm so busy that I can't get on here - this is purely laziness on my part.

I've been listening to a ton of really good new music, so maybe I'll just give you a rundown of that, for now:

Sam Roberts, Love at the End of the World - Check out the song "Them Kids" for some good rock 'n roll, but "Lions of the Kalahari" is equally compelling.

Dredg, The Pariah, The Parrot, The Delusion - Dredge doesn't really ever disappoint. There's not just one song to listen to; just start on one and get your money's worth all the way to track 18 (still only an hour of music).

Ash, Meltdown - The perfect blend of pop and hardrock. Probably the most fun album on this list.

Neko Case, Middle Cyclone - It's Neko Case. She's good. I'd recommend "The Pharoahs".

That's all I'm going to put down for now, but consider it your homework to check out those bands. You can always do it for free at lala.com.

Google, at it again ...

Check out Mashable's guide to this Wave thing. Looks pretty cool ...

Drums in the distance

So, I've been hard at work on this 1968 Ludwig kit. I thought, in the absence of any meaningful posts, that I might put some pics up showing the rack and floor toms. Anyway, here you go ... I'm off to North Carolina to mountain bike for the weekend, so I'll be back next week, hopefully with a completed kit. Wish me luck.

12" rack tom and 16" floor tom
16" floor tom

The finish is Psychedelic Red, if you're wondering. Pretty cool stuff.

A threshold for Justice ...

Apparently, justice does know some bounds. Last month I got a ticket that I think was unwarranted. I went to the courthouse today to turn in my notice of my plea (not guilty) and saw the line for the actual court I would eventually have to go to should I turn in this plea and immediately decided to ask the clerk just how much I would have to pay if my plea was guilty. Sixty-six dollars? No, I think I'll go ahead and take my court date. Thanks. That being said, if she had said forty dollars, I probably would have paid and gotten the hell out of there.

It's funny that there's about a twenty-six dollar difference between my wanting what I feel is justice and me not wanting to deal with a bloated system that will, probably in the near future, destroy a whole day of my life as I stand in line with a bunch of strangers who were also stupid enough to plead not guilty or to have done something that didn't give them the option to bribe their way out of this mess.

What have I done ...

Classic Cool

So, I've not been posting as much as I would like. Even though the blog challenge that sparked my flurry of activity is over, I was still hoping it'd be an every-other-day type thing.

It's not going to get any easier now that I have a pretty sweet vintage Ludwig drumset to fix up. The original hardware has some pitting in the chrome and, ideally, I would replace it all. However, I wonder if it wouldn't give the drums a little character to leave the original stuff on there and just clean it up as much as possible. New heads, tension rods and a few missing pieces later, I might just have a drumset resembling these:

Needless to say, I'm a little exicted about how they'll look. I'll post pics of the drums once I have the finished product assembled.

Glory Road, and every other sports movie for that matter

Sports movies are ridiculous. I'm about to go to sleep, but the movie Glory Road is on TNT right now. I'm sure this is a very touching story and it is based on a true one, so maybe the argument that I'm about to put forth is completely out of line, but here goes.

It's absolutely ridiculous to me what just happened on my television screen. They're playing basketball and ... oh wait ... so this movie is about the first NCAA team with an all-black lineup to win the national title. Anyway, they're out there playing #4 Iowa and getting blown out. All of the sudden they start playing *their* game. Now, I know what this really means, but in the movie it meant actually making the layups they tried instead of getting blocked, getting a few steals and, in general doing things that are everyone's game. It's ridiculous to exemplify some *different* style of basketball with what is essentially basketball. Making your shots and playing defense isn't some special brand of the sport that no one saw before 1966. It's just basketball.

All sports movies are like this. They're all absolutely ridiculous and all follow somewhat of the same story line. This is my judgement of this movie after watching all of five minutes of it. I'm sure it's spot on. I'm not being sarcastic.

I'm a little sarcastic.

Credit: Because it's so damn current-eventsy right now

Or ... honesty as a best policy or the only term or condition.

Okay, admittedly some portion of my credit debt is due to my own overspending. Youth is not without its pitfalls. Most of it is due to the fact that I only made 16k a year for a while when I was trying to sneak my way in to the music industry. So be it. Let me tell you a quick story ...

One day, about five years ago, I got a credit card from Suntrust Bank through FIA. It was an 8.99% fixed rate Visa - a good card to start on, for sure. During this five-year span, I paid this credit card on time on all but four occasions with no penalty assessed for my lateness (it was usually only by a day anyway) until the very last time, this past January, when they saw fit to triple my APR. It's in my terms of service. It's in all of our terms of service.

Apparently, they don't really care to get their money back. You could carry a balance your whole life and never get it paid off. You would then, in death, drop that debt on your survivors who could then drop that in to another card and never pay that off either. It's meaningless to the banks to a large extent and certainly less meaningful to them than it is to you. You get penalized for doing the wrong thing. They, on the other hand make all the rules and penalties and are never taken to task for all of the rotten, evil things they do.

The fact of the matter is that now I'm in a better financial position and I don't need their card. I can also afford to pay my bills to them and know that one day I will be paid out of their scheme. There are millions of people in this world who don't have that option. They're stuck with this system unless someone changes it. Unless someone makes them, the credit card companies and all those other financial institutions complicit in this oppression of consumers, play nice.

Forever ... old?

Star Trek: The Next Generation reruns are all over television lately. I'm pretty sure I've seen every episode of this show, and I was always a big fan of Captain Picard ... well, who wasn't. What strikes me at this hour of the night is that Patrick Stewart, who portrays the captain, has looked just about the same for the last 25 years or so. Check it out ...

1984

early 1990s

2009

I swear I can't tell the difference. There may have been a time that people thought he looked a little old beyond his years, but those years have caught up to him. The man is almost 70 and looks like he did in his forties ... oh, and he dates women less than half his age. What else can I really say ...

160 txt characters, ftw

If you've ever wondered why there's a limit on the length of your text messages and where that magic number of *160* originated, just read this article from the LA Times.

More assumptions from the food services industry...

I've already touched on some of the assumptions the good people at your local purveyors of average food make about you. Here's another one:

If you ask for water, they will give you the smallest cup ever because they assume that you like to exercise and, as an extension of this, like to get up every three minutes to refill your glass of water.

Seriously. I know this is some half-ass attempt to make sure I don't steal soda from you, but can I please just get a normal cup? I promise not to steal your Mountain Dew and, if I do happen to steal a tasty beverage from you, it'll only cost you about nineteen cents.

Robot Roll Call

I sincerely believe that Mystery Science Theater 3000 was one of the funniest shows on television during its run. Amazing stuff. And the best part? The killer theme song, a prerequisite for any good television show.

Oh, and if you ever wondered what happened to the original host, Joel Hodgson, he went back to doing this.

So elfin' true ...

Those sly foxes over at Keebler know how to get my attention. What's next - an attitude overhaul for Ernie?

It's subtle work, photoshopping. Very subtle.

A rediscovered Youth

As a kid, I was always encouraged musically. I started playing piano when I was five. I started learning percussion when I was eleven because I had trouble reading rhythms in my piano studies. I battled with practicing these two instruments until I was twenty years old. Drums won.

Despite all of this musical activity and encouragement, I totally missed out on a lot of music growing up. I really didn't start listening to the music of my generation until it was tailing off, and even then, I just wasn't in to a lot of it. Nirvana didn't hold a lot for me. I did love Soundgarden's Superunknown and Stone Temple Pilot's Purple.

Now, in my adult life, I'm rediscovering all sorts of good music I missed out on back then. One of the biggest revelations to me has been Sonic Youth. I have an excuse for not having listened to Daydream Nation - I was only seven when it was released - but this band was a major piece of the musical puzzle when I was in my formative music-listening years.

The crazy thing is that this band, formed in 1981, is still creating music. They recently left Geffen Records and signed with Matador Records who plans to release the band's latest effort on June 9th.

I think that, if for no other reason than the repose of my teenage soul, I may just check this one out.

Can you spare some change?

We've all been approached with this phrase at least once in our adult lives. It's usually accompanied by a wave of mixed feelings and followed by a dismissive nod or muttered 'no' on our part.

Playing for Change is an organization that seeks to bring people around the world together through music. Their first project: start with a base track of a street musician in Santa Monica performing Stand By Me and then take it around the world to let others add their own voices and instrumentation.

I'm a little behind the curve in putting this out there, so maybe you've already seen this, but it's a worthwhile cause and an interesting take on a classic tune.

Also ... I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not that this was the first thing I thought after watching the above video, but if you're in the mood for comedy about change, just click here.

Rosebud ...

Dead or alive ... it could probably turn out to be a very simple thing.

I've never seen Citizen Kane and, as of this moment, I'm only 15 minutes in. I have to say, the look of black and white film seems to fit movies like this in a way that color doesn't. It's as if, by removing the objects, places and people's colors, you gain an extra degree of leverage through which you can mold them in a way that dialogue can't.

I suppose lighting is about 95 percent of this effect and I'm not going to ramble on and pretend I know anything at all about the techniques in play here. I'll stop short of that and just say that I like it.

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of adequate storage space

I think we can all agree that the future of the Antarctic Ice Shelf is something we all consider important to all of mankind. And the future of continental shelves everywhere are a constant source of concern for people called marine biologists, whom I can only assume felt the Peace Corps was a bit too patsy and the Coast Guard was too much effort. In general, shelves are fairly important to us, but nowhere is our struggle with their future more apparent to the common man than with those shelves of the laminate wood variety.

Those of us in landlocked states can ignore the continental shelf, as we are not generally concerned with things that are underwater and meant to be that way in the first place. The Antarctic Ice Shelf is a little different because it's on the news a lot and seems to be connected with Al Gore in some way, but still, there seems to be a lot of ice around and we seem to have the hang of making more if we need it.

In stark contrast to these shelf's extraneous relationship to us, the store-bought wood shelf makes an impact on us all at least once, if not more often than that, depending on how well read you are or your attitude towards a carrying a library card and re-learning the Dewey Decimal System. These shelves can turn an otherwise calm day or evening into an exercise of human wit and will against mounting stress and Murphy's Law.

Where's that other piece? Did they even give it to me? Why the hell won't this fit where it's supposed to?

I won't even attempt to answer these questions. Mostly because I don't like the look of that last one.

These shelf projects always start - and end - the same way. You take out all of the pieces. Maybe you arrange them neatly, depending on your proclivities (nice way of saying depending on whether you're OCD or not). Then, it begins.

Things aren't quite fitting together. That one little piece isn't there, so you either leave it out or find some discarded 'extra piece' from a previous project. God forbid you have to call the manufacturer of the shelf to ask them to send you a screw, pin or one of those crazy round things that you quarter turn clockwise to hold this unstable wreck of a furniture piece together.

So, maybe by now you've finished putting the shelf together and you're ready to start putting your first editions up there. Wait ... what happened there? Oh. shit. There's one piece on backwards so that the natural wood veneer that you so painstakingly chose is giving way to plain, disgusting, flaky wood laminate. You can't just take that one piece out, flip it over and be done with it. This thing is together now, and it was a pretty big pain in the ass.

How could this happen? You followed the instructions, so what gives? The answer to this one is surprisingly simple. Shit happens.

No matter how clear the directions are, and they're not always so, you will make at least one mistake putting one of these things together. Maybe you can live with it, or maybe you can't and you have to start over, though I would say that almost no mistake you could make in your right mind in this activity would be worth restarting this process.

This is all starting to sound like some allegory of life, but all I'm trying to say is that, until the majority of us stop fucking up when we try to build modular furniture from IKEA and Target, there is no way in hell we're not gonna fuck up something else too.

Sign of the times ...

I saw a building with two signs on it today - Boxing and Triple Boxing. I don't know about you, but I've seen people box before and I'm pretty sure they got the amount of punches to the face right the first time.

The Constitution as a selfish document

There's not much you can write to back up the statement this bog displays as its title. Our Constitution is a document that binds us all together through common aims, goals and a common belief in the community's ability to transcend what one man can accomplish, and if anything, this document has been made less selfish over time by the addition of key amendments.

If there was, however, a breeding ground for selfish attitudes embedded in to this document, it would be in the Second Amendment - the right to bear arms. Here's what it says:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

I'm going to immediately throw away any notion of the founding fathers not realizing how truly massive our country and its governing infrastructure would become in the coming decades and centuries. That might be true and it might not be, but what I do know is that it's not relevant to what I want to talk about.

The Tennessee state legislature is currently mulling over an amendment to the state's gun laws which would allow guns to be carried in establishments that serve alcohol and state parks and recreation areas. I don't know the details of this document, but you could glean some info from this article from the Commercial Appeal in Memphis - a city that knows guns and gun violence better than most in Tennessee.

This desire to carry a gun wherever and whenever you please is exactly where selfishness invades our discussion about constitutional rights. Let me reiterate that the Second Amendment guarantees that 'A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms' will not be infringed. Notice that it's not 'a well regulated Militia' and ' the right of the people to keep and bear Arms.' These two things, as they relate to the language of the amendment are actually one and the same. The militia is the expression of this right to bear arms and the militia is what is protected by the Constitution, not the gun strapped underneath your jacket or tucked away in your boot.

'But, I want to carry a gun because what if [insert pseudo-heroic anecdote here]?'

Guess what. I don't care what you want and neither does the Constitution. If you want to be an active participant in the protected activities of the Second Amendment than be a policeman. Join the military. Join the National Guard, which seems to be the true embodiment of the militia in our times. But, whatever you do, don't come crying to me about wanting to carry a gun everywhere.

What if, in your heroic display of marksmanship that will no doubt ensue if some criminal does terrorize your local watering hole, you miss the bad guy and hit someone innocent? I'd ask if you can take the ramifications of this, but that's not the point. The point is that they are not your responsibility now, and they should never be. This is the responsibility of the police and those who make it their life's work to protect and serve. They're trained to do these things and they're educated about the consequences.

I'm not against people owning guns, or even carrying them in some situations (though I would bet that instances where carrying a firearm worked out the way the carrier wanted them to are few and far between). However, I do not think that the individual right to bear arms is in any way protected and I'm not sure that it should be.

Bamboo Bicycle: It's not just about alliteration

Bamboo is an amazing plant. It has been a staple of life in Asian countries for hundreds of years. They use it in architecture, medicine, food and even in art. After atomic bombs were dropped on the country of Japan, bamboo in the area was said to have received [marginal] damage and was one of the first plants to reclaim its place in the landscape. (http://ezinearticles.com/?Green-Bamboo:-Strength-in-Flexibility&id=18657)

Well, this ecological stalwart has been making a big push in parts of the world west of the lands of Columbus' expectations as a super-cool garden decoration and as flooring for your brand new, trendy condo. However, none of this is as impressive as the idea of building bikes from bamboo.

I was first introduced to these bikes by a friend who found Calfee Design's website. Check out this mountain bike


That's right. The entire frame is made of bamboo and hemp fiber. I think this is quite possibly the coolest thing I've ever heard of in the realm of cycling. Some novelties, particularly where sports equipment is concerned, just don't work. Bamboo is actually in some ways superior to other frame materials (steel, aluminum, titanium, carbon fiber, et al) and provides a very environmentally sustainable alternative to processed, man-made materials.

So, it's certainly one thing for there to be a boutique bicycle maker here in the U.S. offering up $3,000 (frame only) bikes. It's a completely different story when this innovation leads to something that can help people in less affluent, less developed countries improve their quality of life. Check out the Bamboo Bike Project.

Bamboo is a prominent figure not only in Asia's landscape, but also in Africa's. The abundance of this raw material means that, when properly trained, the people of Ghana and other African nations are empowered to make their own bamboo cargo bikes, creating a whole new industry and with it, a new means of sustaining life itself. Maybe that's overstating things a bit, but it's worth a shot, right? This is something that they can truly own, instead of something that we just hand to them and hope it takes root (because that's going well with that whole AIDS education thing, right?).

So much of their traditional way of life has been eroded away. Some might say that this is progress, that they have to move towards industry or be doomed to fall further behind. But what if these bikes, or more broadly but accurately bamboo itself, represent the beginning of fitting industry into their culture instead of changing the culture to accommodate industry? Is that not a better pursuit?

Clearly I'm out of my jurisdiction talking about political, cultural and economic rammifications of wester societies' involvement in Africa's development. I didn't exactly do my research on this. I sure don't sit around watching programs on Npt about Africa. I am interested in the subject and hope that enough smart people are out there working on this kind of stuff in my mental absence.