If you have kids, you're probably already sick to death of Halloween. I don't know precisely when it happened, but it has morphed from one day of silliness to an entire Mardi Gras of events. And with this year's All Hallow's Eve on a Saturday night, we're all screwed. So in the spirit of somewhat saying screw this holiday's conventional expansion, I've decided to add something of my own to this year's festivities. I will not dress up. I will dress down. In so doing, I'm going to shave off my goatee.
Some of you are probably saying, what's the big deal - it's not like you're Chuck Todd and your entire personality now seems rooted in that annoying little patch of hair on your chin. Well, in some ways you're right. But I'm also of that category of American adult white males for which the goatee is the last, sad remaining vestige of grunge in our collective wardrobe. The time has come to lose it and discontinue partying like it's 1999. Or, more accurately in my case, 1992. Back then I shifted to the goat from the full beard. Since then, I've let it go from biker gang long to trimmed within a shadow of its life. But tomorrow, before I let my 4-year-old hit the ground running wild in the neighborhood, I'm shaving. With that, I hope to renew my embrace of all things Halloweenie-ish. Expect some pics.
Hope your own facial hair configuration scares the crap out of the neighborhood kids tomorrow. Rock on.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Yo La Tengo can still safely say "I've got it!"
Yo La Tengo is that rare band that's still touring today with 25 years of shared inventiveness under their belts. Music geeks love them inordinately, even if they tend to parse every little thing Yo La Tengo does down to the sub-atomic level. I'm not going play that game by trying to put on a dork clinic about the history of Yo La Tengo (fun fact - the band's name is a Spanish colloquialism for "I've got it!"). They're just plain ol' one of my faves. The sort of band that I will always see. And even when the evening contains a bundle of less than stellar elements, I'm always glad that I did so.
My wife and I saw Yo La Tengo perform last Thursday night at one of Seattle's least likable venues - the Showbox SODO. This newer Showbox is a warehouse space with a concrete floor, horrible acoustics and an otherwise likable staff that seems equally amazed that anyone comes there for shows. With the lights up, it looks like the a cleaned-up, empty tire dealership. Seeing small groupings of hipsters standing around drinking PBR tallboys in this space is so dull, so repetitious, so un-buzz-worthy. Before the opener broke the static, it looked like a photocopied venue teleported from a very long, rather uninteresting list of mid-sized Midwestern towns - let's say Eau Claire or Kalamazoo or Topeka - where everyone affects a pose like they'd prefer to be somewhere else. Maybe that sounds judgmental and pretentious. Sue me. But I'm just saying that it didn't feel like the epicenter of articulate, classic cred. Yet amidst the sea of earth-toned hoodies and ironic t-shirts was Ira Kaplan (lead guitar and vocals, one of the two original members with his wife, Georgia Hubley). Sitting behind a tour merch table - signing CDs and taking pics with fans. When Ira, Georgia and James McNew eventually took the stage, they were filled with good-humor. If they are filled with cynicism or angst about still doing what they do so well, you won't see it in the club. Or at least not on this particular night.
Their opener was Jackie-O Motherfucker, an absurd, freeform psychedelic, post-rock quartet of meat from Portland that jammed like the revolving door, acid-dropping band of goofballs they've been for years and years. We tolerated them the way older music geeks do when they're just happy to be out, without wanting to fully attribute it to having a trustworthy babysitter home with your kid so that you can act nearly half your age.
As the music got ready to roll, a trio of insanely drunk misfits forced their way into our space. By the time Yo La Tengo started playing, the sole dude - a fat little drunk choad in one of those ugly, ubiquitous army green British Invasion caps - passed out cold on the floor. His female "friends" took pictures of him and texted with their cell phones until some of us stepped in to make sure that he was OK. He wasn't - security had to carry him out. Then his friends were extra drunk and annoying for another hour before the surrounding group disdain eventually got them to leave. Even Georgia rolled her eyes at how they were carrying on and interrupting the quieter songs. It just solidified my one and only rule of seeing live music - don't be annoying. Of course that rule has 127 subsets of definitions, but we all know what I'm saying.
In the end, Yo La Tengo played a great show. Jackie-O Motherfucker and Yo La Tengo made a big deal out of a "special guest" on the way. I'm sure everyone else had the same degree of nerdy fun debating who that might be. Then Howard Kaylan from "The Turtles" showed up. I know - who? He was totally adorable, not entirely wasted, and about as much fun as having a beer with your uncle after church. Then Yo La Tengo came back out for two encores. By the time they left, everyone felt great about it all. Real pros played a really decent show. And it wasn't until a few days later that I could take a few minutes to reflect upon just how rare that is. As it always was, and surely will be.
My wife and I saw Yo La Tengo perform last Thursday night at one of Seattle's least likable venues - the Showbox SODO. This newer Showbox is a warehouse space with a concrete floor, horrible acoustics and an otherwise likable staff that seems equally amazed that anyone comes there for shows. With the lights up, it looks like the a cleaned-up, empty tire dealership. Seeing small groupings of hipsters standing around drinking PBR tallboys in this space is so dull, so repetitious, so un-buzz-worthy. Before the opener broke the static, it looked like a photocopied venue teleported from a very long, rather uninteresting list of mid-sized Midwestern towns - let's say Eau Claire or Kalamazoo or Topeka - where everyone affects a pose like they'd prefer to be somewhere else. Maybe that sounds judgmental and pretentious. Sue me. But I'm just saying that it didn't feel like the epicenter of articulate, classic cred. Yet amidst the sea of earth-toned hoodies and ironic t-shirts was Ira Kaplan (lead guitar and vocals, one of the two original members with his wife, Georgia Hubley). Sitting behind a tour merch table - signing CDs and taking pics with fans. When Ira, Georgia and James McNew eventually took the stage, they were filled with good-humor. If they are filled with cynicism or angst about still doing what they do so well, you won't see it in the club. Or at least not on this particular night.
Their opener was Jackie-O Motherfucker, an absurd, freeform psychedelic, post-rock quartet of meat from Portland that jammed like the revolving door, acid-dropping band of goofballs they've been for years and years. We tolerated them the way older music geeks do when they're just happy to be out, without wanting to fully attribute it to having a trustworthy babysitter home with your kid so that you can act nearly half your age.
As the music got ready to roll, a trio of insanely drunk misfits forced their way into our space. By the time Yo La Tengo started playing, the sole dude - a fat little drunk choad in one of those ugly, ubiquitous army green British Invasion caps - passed out cold on the floor. His female "friends" took pictures of him and texted with their cell phones until some of us stepped in to make sure that he was OK. He wasn't - security had to carry him out. Then his friends were extra drunk and annoying for another hour before the surrounding group disdain eventually got them to leave. Even Georgia rolled her eyes at how they were carrying on and interrupting the quieter songs. It just solidified my one and only rule of seeing live music - don't be annoying. Of course that rule has 127 subsets of definitions, but we all know what I'm saying.
In the end, Yo La Tengo played a great show. Jackie-O Motherfucker and Yo La Tengo made a big deal out of a "special guest" on the way. I'm sure everyone else had the same degree of nerdy fun debating who that might be. Then Howard Kaylan from "The Turtles" showed up. I know - who? He was totally adorable, not entirely wasted, and about as much fun as having a beer with your uncle after church. Then Yo La Tengo came back out for two encores. By the time they left, everyone felt great about it all. Real pros played a really decent show. And it wasn't until a few days later that I could take a few minutes to reflect upon just how rare that is. As it always was, and surely will be.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Looking for meanings, missing by miles...
I couldn't resist the temptation any longer - I caught "Where the Wild Things Are" a few nights ago. As has been somewhat overstated, this movie is the embodiment of "love it or hate it" reviewing. And I'll admit that I'm as guilty of the crime of movie reviewing as the next meta-critic. That, however, is what I took from this movie first and foremost. It is meta, to the max. Only because everyone seems to project onto what happens on the screen their own silly or, quite certainly, not-so-silly lists of issues that they had only partly buried going in. My rating of the actual movie? A flat B. Max Records is great as Max - his hair alone is the best screen debut in years. Catherine Keener is stunning in the teeny role she has - the sun, moon and stars revolve around her indie cred which is only bolstered herein. And the Jim Henson Company's Creature Shop-created Wild Things are worth the price of admission alone. Unless you make the stupid mistake that I did by catching it on an IMAX screen. Fifteen bucks is a crime that we all should be marching in the streets against. But that's a different matter entirely. Beyond the actual movie, most people seem bent out of shape regarding the weirdly childish issues that result between Max and the Wild Things after he arrives on their far away island home. When someone starts pulling out the pop psychology and offers up explanations of what the REAL story is in this extended body connecting the lean, smart head and feet of the movie...tune that crap out. The conceit is that all the problems come from the imagination of a child. One that we are allowed to see has overblown the issues in his home life. Like a totally normal child does every day everywhere in every way. In the end, this is just a movie. One that is clever, inventive, infuriating and still just a nice, solid B-rating. In my opinion.
Hope your own childhood allows you to enjoy a movie this weekend for what it is, not what you wish it could have been had you gotten that hug from your father or something. Rock on.
Hope your own childhood allows you to enjoy a movie this weekend for what it is, not what you wish it could have been had you gotten that hug from your father or something. Rock on.
Monday, October 19, 2009
One More Monster Takes a Swipe at the Rest of Us
A good friend of mine owns a small green-business in Vermont. Born and raised there, he's as much a true blue-State American dude as they come. He passed along a story about another Vermont business being unduly attacked by a big bad West Coast energy drink corporation. The story just reeks, no matter your political orientation or general choice of beverage.
Energy drinks occupy a market that didn’t really exist even just a decade ago. The visionaries who now profit off those over-caffeinated high-fructose-corn-syrup elixirs probably would have sold Doc Martens-themed cologne or Donna Karan-designed flannel shirts if you flipped them back a generation in a time machine. Or to use an older cliché, energy drinks are the pet rocks of this decade. All style, zero substance.
Admittedly I’ve fallen prey to the advertised advantages of these products, drinking a few Red Bulls for a long drive for example. But in the past, I’ve shown about as much interest in energy drinks as I have in the upcoming "Twilight" movie and soundtrack, or in debating whether Arena Football is poised to have its breakthrough season anytime within the next decade.
Until now, that is. Now energy drinks – or rather one particular energy drink company – have me ready to go to the ramparts.
Monster Energy Drinks describes itself as “A Lifestyle in a Can.” Yeah, well, the same can be said of SPAM or Sterno or Fancy Feast cat food. Who gives a rip, right? That is, until Monster went after a tiny, utterly delicious micro-brewery in Vermont named Rock Art Brewery. When I lived in Vermont a handful of years back, growlers (those adorable jug-band-ready half-gallon containers) of Rock Art’s Ridge Runner were my favorite beer. Rock Art exemplifies my idea of a cool American small business – people who live what they love and work damn hard at making it the best they can.
After ten years in the business, the founder of Rock Art made a celebratory beer – the Vermonster Ale. Then, somehow, California-based Monster Energy Drinks caught wind of it. Last week they had their lawyers threaten to bleed Rock Art dry if they don’t cease and desist making their beer because of a trademark infringement allegation. When Rock Art is bottling, their brewery has the capacity to fill 80 bottles per minute. Last year, Monster Energy Drinks had over a billion dollars in revenue. My research team has shown that exactly ZERO people have ever confused the two companies.
I understand the value of trademark protection. After all, Paris Hilton tried to trademark her catchphrase “that’s hot” a few years back, and we all know how valuable that turned out to be. Typically, I’m not a libertarian crusader. I accept that we live in a litigious country with all sorts of competing agendas, the majority of which I couldn’t care less about. But when I saw the YouTube clip of the Rock Art founder (Matt Nadeau) laying out his situation, I went out to the shed looking for a pitchfork.
In reality, I’m fearful this story will end as most of these stories tend to, with the big bad cheeseball corporation squeezing the hearty little feller off his small, hard-earned platform. But in the world that I want to live in, Monster Cable would catch wind of this and sue the snot out of Monster Energy Drinks. After which, they’d both go out to sea and fight a Godzilla versus Gamera trademark battle that the rest of us can incredulously watch from a distance – hopefully nursing a cold Vermonster after a hard day’s work saving a little piece of the world from itself.
Energy drinks occupy a market that didn’t really exist even just a decade ago. The visionaries who now profit off those over-caffeinated high-fructose-corn-syrup elixirs probably would have sold Doc Martens-themed cologne or Donna Karan-designed flannel shirts if you flipped them back a generation in a time machine. Or to use an older cliché, energy drinks are the pet rocks of this decade. All style, zero substance.
Admittedly I’ve fallen prey to the advertised advantages of these products, drinking a few Red Bulls for a long drive for example. But in the past, I’ve shown about as much interest in energy drinks as I have in the upcoming "Twilight" movie and soundtrack, or in debating whether Arena Football is poised to have its breakthrough season anytime within the next decade.
Until now, that is. Now energy drinks – or rather one particular energy drink company – have me ready to go to the ramparts.
Monster Energy Drinks describes itself as “A Lifestyle in a Can.” Yeah, well, the same can be said of SPAM or Sterno or Fancy Feast cat food. Who gives a rip, right? That is, until Monster went after a tiny, utterly delicious micro-brewery in Vermont named Rock Art Brewery. When I lived in Vermont a handful of years back, growlers (those adorable jug-band-ready half-gallon containers) of Rock Art’s Ridge Runner were my favorite beer. Rock Art exemplifies my idea of a cool American small business – people who live what they love and work damn hard at making it the best they can.
After ten years in the business, the founder of Rock Art made a celebratory beer – the Vermonster Ale. Then, somehow, California-based Monster Energy Drinks caught wind of it. Last week they had their lawyers threaten to bleed Rock Art dry if they don’t cease and desist making their beer because of a trademark infringement allegation. When Rock Art is bottling, their brewery has the capacity to fill 80 bottles per minute. Last year, Monster Energy Drinks had over a billion dollars in revenue. My research team has shown that exactly ZERO people have ever confused the two companies.
I understand the value of trademark protection. After all, Paris Hilton tried to trademark her catchphrase “that’s hot” a few years back, and we all know how valuable that turned out to be. Typically, I’m not a libertarian crusader. I accept that we live in a litigious country with all sorts of competing agendas, the majority of which I couldn’t care less about. But when I saw the YouTube clip of the Rock Art founder (Matt Nadeau) laying out his situation, I went out to the shed looking for a pitchfork.
In reality, I’m fearful this story will end as most of these stories tend to, with the big bad cheeseball corporation squeezing the hearty little feller off his small, hard-earned platform. But in the world that I want to live in, Monster Cable would catch wind of this and sue the snot out of Monster Energy Drinks. After which, they’d both go out to sea and fight a Godzilla versus Gamera trademark battle that the rest of us can incredulously watch from a distance – hopefully nursing a cold Vermonster after a hard day’s work saving a little piece of the world from itself.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Rush Gets Smeared, NFL-style
The standard shtick for quite some time has been that no one will ever be able to stop Rush Limbaugh from being Rush Limbaugh. Every time Keith Olbermann or his compatriots at MSNBC rants about what Rush's recently dumped onto the airwaves, I imagine that somewhere a very fat man's laugh is echoing off the dimly lit black velvet paintings in a dungeon-like Florida neuvo-castle surrounded by the ill-gotten gains of illegal, clandestine hunting trips across the globe. The popular myth was that even MSNBC can't slow Rush's mouth down. So it is quite surprising that Wednesday one organization that's not exactly known for its progressive political agenda managed to do so utterly and completely.
Rush got run over by the NFL, Joe-Theismann-snapped-like-a-twig-by-LT style. And in so doing, the rest of us should take away the knowledge that Rush has strayed even farther out onto the fringe that he'd always been teetering on.
Few people recognize just how extensively Rush has been connected with the business of professional sports, and especially the NFL, for years. Rush started his career working a low-level promotions gig for the Kansas City Royals. And I'd bet a full bottle of Oxycontin that I got off a new prescription for my housekeeper that Rush keeps a well-hidden hard-on for the Chiefs on the down low. The most spectacular flame-out in Rush's NFL flirtation was his failed time as a commentator for Sunday NFL Countdown, where he uttered his famously ignorant Donovan McNabb riff. The fact that he got the chance to hoist himself on that quasi-elite patard to begin with was surprising. But Rush certainly recognized from his earliest days that if you could have a hand in the call of the game, it was the next best thing to owning a part of the action. Bringing Rush's personality on board was a big risk that the NFL of earlier this decade was willing to take. But ABC then and ESPN now have taken plenty of stupid risks on announcers that have left a collective bad taste in the mouths of most fans. I'm mean c'mon — Dennis Miller AND Fred "The Hammer" Williamson, just to name two of MNF's esteemed graduates? 'Nuff said.
The fact is that Rush wants in, and the NFL just said flatly that, in effect, his kind is not welcome. Rush is no longer a risk the League is willing to take. Roger Goddell is now the sheriff in town and, well, Rush not only would need to leave his gun belt outside of Goddell's jurisdiction. He would need to give them up altogether to keep the peace. That's why it was surprising that as late in the pre-negotiations as Wednesday morning, Rush was sticking to those guns by saying that no one was going to force him out of the deal. Until, of course, someone forced him out of the deal.
The NFL is full of clowns in the owners' suites. Al Davis is assuredly insane and decades past his prime, Jerry Jones did so much cocaine off of nameless, tasteless hookers back in the 90s that he's a walking vegetable, and (my personal favorite) former Rams owner Georgia Frontiere was a stripper that got the team willed to her for what we all must assume was more than a lap dance. I'm just saying. But they all were Esteemed Past Presidents of the PTA compared to ol' Rush.
For that reason alone we should all take heed that Rush's comments in the past have weakened his brand in the present. Once that reality sets in for more people, I predict that he'll be much more vulnerable. Take away something he wants and you've got a way to get at how he thinks.
Now, are you ACTUALLY ready for some football this weekend, America? You bet your ass we are. Hope your own bids are all honored this weekend. Rock on.
Rush got run over by the NFL, Joe-Theismann-snapped-like-a-twig-by-LT style. And in so doing, the rest of us should take away the knowledge that Rush has strayed even farther out onto the fringe that he'd always been teetering on.
Few people recognize just how extensively Rush has been connected with the business of professional sports, and especially the NFL, for years. Rush started his career working a low-level promotions gig for the Kansas City Royals. And I'd bet a full bottle of Oxycontin that I got off a new prescription for my housekeeper that Rush keeps a well-hidden hard-on for the Chiefs on the down low. The most spectacular flame-out in Rush's NFL flirtation was his failed time as a commentator for Sunday NFL Countdown, where he uttered his famously ignorant Donovan McNabb riff. The fact that he got the chance to hoist himself on that quasi-elite patard to begin with was surprising. But Rush certainly recognized from his earliest days that if you could have a hand in the call of the game, it was the next best thing to owning a part of the action. Bringing Rush's personality on board was a big risk that the NFL of earlier this decade was willing to take. But ABC then and ESPN now have taken plenty of stupid risks on announcers that have left a collective bad taste in the mouths of most fans. I'm mean c'mon — Dennis Miller AND Fred "The Hammer" Williamson, just to name two of MNF's esteemed graduates? 'Nuff said.
The fact is that Rush wants in, and the NFL just said flatly that, in effect, his kind is not welcome. Rush is no longer a risk the League is willing to take. Roger Goddell is now the sheriff in town and, well, Rush not only would need to leave his gun belt outside of Goddell's jurisdiction. He would need to give them up altogether to keep the peace. That's why it was surprising that as late in the pre-negotiations as Wednesday morning, Rush was sticking to those guns by saying that no one was going to force him out of the deal. Until, of course, someone forced him out of the deal.
The NFL is full of clowns in the owners' suites. Al Davis is assuredly insane and decades past his prime, Jerry Jones did so much cocaine off of nameless, tasteless hookers back in the 90s that he's a walking vegetable, and (my personal favorite) former Rams owner Georgia Frontiere was a stripper that got the team willed to her for what we all must assume was more than a lap dance. I'm just saying. But they all were Esteemed Past Presidents of the PTA compared to ol' Rush.
For that reason alone we should all take heed that Rush's comments in the past have weakened his brand in the present. Once that reality sets in for more people, I predict that he'll be much more vulnerable. Take away something he wants and you've got a way to get at how he thinks.
Now, are you ACTUALLY ready for some football this weekend, America? You bet your ass we are. Hope your own bids are all honored this weekend. Rock on.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Getting inspired by the Rat City Roller Girls
Maya and I had yesterday to ourselves. Sarah was on call at the hospital and the Green Bay Packers had their bye Week for the Season. With Fall in full swing - the weather in Seattle has been straight off a dorky postcard for the last month or so - we hit some of the normalish highlights for a lazy Sunday. Hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream at the Herk in the U-District. Plenty of time in the park - Ravenna Park, for the first time on my part, which is a great park if you ignore the homeless campers stopping in to bathe in the public restroom's sink just off the playground. But the real highlight of the day was a first for both of us. Roller Derby. Not amateurish, hipster silliness. No, I'm talking professionalish, hipster seriousness. Namely, Seattle's own Rat City Rollergirls had an all-star bout since their 5th Season ended recently with a loss at Regionals. There endeth all I knew about the Rollergirls before we went to the bout. But given how much Maya loved it, I expect that we'll be back more than once in Season 6.
For those that think they might have misread the above paragraph, yes, I am talking about old school roller derby where tough chicks skate on 4-wheeled skates around in a circle. Drew Barrymore's movie "Whip It" (which I've not yet seen) features the sort of league that the Rat City Rollergirls compete in. I won't even try to sum up the rules and the importance of the scoring. That would be like me trying to call a soccer match with no goals scored. I appreciate what they do, but I ain't no expert. For me, seeing Maya get all amped up cheering for these empowered grrrls was the draw. We even got to know one of the stars (Sarah who skates as Wile E. Peyote). We met her at her insanely hip skate shop in Wallingford earlier in the day. We had to go there to get tix. And, boy, is Maya glad we did. Wile E. was dominant in the bout, and Maya insisted we go talk to her in between periods. I told her that Maya was cheering specifically for her and Wile E. responded that "you gave me courage." Now THAT's how you get a girl fired up about sports. Maya wanted to go get skates as soon as the match was done last night at 7pm. They're expensive, but we'll figure something out because I don't want her to forget the excitement of seeing grown up grrrls playing hard and having fun. We should all be so lucky as the Rollergirls.
One quickie review - the new album on constant repeat for me this past week is the eponymous album from a British band named "The xx". Or the XX. Their music is as stripped down as their name. Their sound has a taste of P.J. Harvey mixed with a ton of other indie references that might not apply all covered with a drum kit and echo effects. Sound silly? Not at all. They're unique. And sexy. My rating - a solid B. Well worth a looksie.
Hope your own jammer is getting by those blockers with ease today. Rock on.
For those that think they might have misread the above paragraph, yes, I am talking about old school roller derby where tough chicks skate on 4-wheeled skates around in a circle. Drew Barrymore's movie "Whip It" (which I've not yet seen) features the sort of league that the Rat City Rollergirls compete in. I won't even try to sum up the rules and the importance of the scoring. That would be like me trying to call a soccer match with no goals scored. I appreciate what they do, but I ain't no expert. For me, seeing Maya get all amped up cheering for these empowered grrrls was the draw. We even got to know one of the stars (Sarah who skates as Wile E. Peyote). We met her at her insanely hip skate shop in Wallingford earlier in the day. We had to go there to get tix. And, boy, is Maya glad we did. Wile E. was dominant in the bout, and Maya insisted we go talk to her in between periods. I told her that Maya was cheering specifically for her and Wile E. responded that "you gave me courage." Now THAT's how you get a girl fired up about sports. Maya wanted to go get skates as soon as the match was done last night at 7pm. They're expensive, but we'll figure something out because I don't want her to forget the excitement of seeing grown up grrrls playing hard and having fun. We should all be so lucky as the Rollergirls.
One quickie review - the new album on constant repeat for me this past week is the eponymous album from a British band named "The xx". Or the XX. Their music is as stripped down as their name. Their sound has a taste of P.J. Harvey mixed with a ton of other indie references that might not apply all covered with a drum kit and echo effects. Sound silly? Not at all. They're unique. And sexy. My rating - a solid B. Well worth a looksie.
Hope your own jammer is getting by those blockers with ease today. Rock on.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
When you go to a nursery that has a special for all the pumpkins you can stack in a red wagon, you only cheat yourself if you don't try to push the limits.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Juxtaposing the Nobel Peace Prize and amateur porn? Piece of cake...
Everyone's shocked that Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. I'm still digesting, but here's what I find interesting. This is all about aspirational voting. Rather like how some people vote for Republicans because they want lower taxes on the wealthy, in case they someday join their ranks. Or moreso that the Nobel voters want to believe that Obama will someday achieve the things that he's being criticized by the haters for not yet doing even though the disagree with his approach to their very core. My feeling is that this is exactly what Obama needs right about now, even if his advisers privately feel like it's a distraction. Keep Barack looking out at the much broader horizon, which is what he does so well. Have the world focus on what a break from the recent past of U.S. policy he represents. All the while slogging through the nuts and bolts of governing. Aside from all that, I was struck by the passing reference to how he's the "third sitting U.S. President" to win a Peace Prize. The other two? Woodrow Wilson in 1919 for founding the League of Nations, and Teddy Roosevelt in 1906 for negotiating a peace treaty between Russia and Japan. In my mind those Prizes were for very different criteria. But this is a very different world, so I say debate amongst yourselves.
To shift gears mightily, I'm going to see some porn at noon today. In a theatre. Hump! is the 5th annual amateur porn contest sponsored by The Stranger (Seattle's only real newspaper) that inspired the storyline for the movie "Humpday". Speaking of which, I saw "Humpday" in Milwaukee recently as a part of the Milwaukee Film Festival because, well...I was in Milwaukee and I'd missed it on its art house release schedule this summer (it's out on DVD in November). "Humpday" was a sweet, perfect little movie. Well, almost perfect. My rating - B-plus. But Hump! is the real deal. Amateur porn shorts, shot by real local people and screened only today and tomorrow before the entries are burned or sent to Tony Perkins at the Family Research Council in a brown paper wrapper or sent to NASA to be included in the next Moon bombing. Am I a fan of porn? Um, define fan. But then again, who isn't? And I'd rather see a hilarious compilation of local perversion surrounded by hipsters than Marlon Brando getting his butthole buttered up in "Last Tango in Paris" with a bunch of film snobs that might endeavor to call that humorless crap art. Check back for a rating. Sometime after I pick up Maya from daycare, one should expect.
Hope your own definition of modern parenting adds a slightly revised definition today. Rock on.
To shift gears mightily, I'm going to see some porn at noon today. In a theatre. Hump! is the 5th annual amateur porn contest sponsored by The Stranger (Seattle's only real newspaper) that inspired the storyline for the movie "Humpday". Speaking of which, I saw "Humpday" in Milwaukee recently as a part of the Milwaukee Film Festival because, well...I was in Milwaukee and I'd missed it on its art house release schedule this summer (it's out on DVD in November). "Humpday" was a sweet, perfect little movie. Well, almost perfect. My rating - B-plus. But Hump! is the real deal. Amateur porn shorts, shot by real local people and screened only today and tomorrow before the entries are burned or sent to Tony Perkins at the Family Research Council in a brown paper wrapper or sent to NASA to be included in the next Moon bombing. Am I a fan of porn? Um, define fan. But then again, who isn't? And I'd rather see a hilarious compilation of local perversion surrounded by hipsters than Marlon Brando getting his butthole buttered up in "Last Tango in Paris" with a bunch of film snobs that might endeavor to call that humorless crap art. Check back for a rating. Sometime after I pick up Maya from daycare, one should expect.
Hope your own definition of modern parenting adds a slightly revised definition today. Rock on.
Monday, October 05, 2009
The strangely legendary Brat Stop off the interstate outside Kenosha.
The strangely legendary Brat Stop off the interstate outside Kenosha.
Originally uploaded by emaggie
Inside Miller Park, the Wisconsin Natives list of those who've played in MLB includes one Magnuson. Lifetime MLB record - 2-7 over 3 seasons with the White Sox and Yanks.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Time for Letterman to take his show on the road, preferably not to Chicago
Today's news shockers are the sort of hot-burning wood for a hearty autumnal fire that so seldom comes out of the pile. Chicago got faced on its Olympics bid. Everyone will make this into a personal defeat for Obama after he wrongly came to make his own case. Obviously, there was nothing he could do. This was a snub directed at the United States. No offense meant to Rio - I would love to go then or, hopefully, sooner to Brazil. But it calls into question our image abroad. I honestly don't think Chicago deserved it, even though I've heard reported that its bid was the best ever mounted by the U.S. and it would have surely put on one helluva show. The fault lies with our Nation's past bids and the arrogance that accompanies the expectation that we deserve another so soon. 2002, 1996, 1984, 1980, 1960. We've had the Games 5 times in the last 50 years. During the same period, Japan had them 3 times, Canada will have had it 3 times with Vancouver in 2010, and two other nations have had them twice (France and Italy). A South American country has never hosted the Games. Neither has an African nation or Antarctica. But let's be fair. Spread it around a little and quit making this about selling Coke and Nike and Visa cards. Sorry, Barack. But you overreached on this one.
Secondly, David Letterman's intensely weird admission of an affair is one thing. Extortion sucks. But the fact that the affair was with that strange, gawkey young assistant, Stephanie Birkitt, who often accompanied him during ask the audience segments and otherwise...well, that's just toxic. And the fact that the "48 Hours" producer that was extorting money from him was Stephanie's boyfriend. Yuck. The manure sundae comes after the ratings news of Letterman kicking the pants of Conan O'Brien's show last week by his widest margin in 15 years. Ratings will go up for the time being for Dave. But then he'll take a serious hit, I would imagine, especially when Sarah Palin gets a chance to start the swings being directed his way. This is just plain sad. I like Dave. He's going to get covered in mud on this one, though.
Seattle is surely back to the Fall thing. It feels good, for now. Hope your own forecast gives you something to look forward to other than just the Packers-Vikings game on Monday Night. Rock on.
Secondly, David Letterman's intensely weird admission of an affair is one thing. Extortion sucks. But the fact that the affair was with that strange, gawkey young assistant, Stephanie Birkitt, who often accompanied him during ask the audience segments and otherwise...well, that's just toxic. And the fact that the "48 Hours" producer that was extorting money from him was Stephanie's boyfriend. Yuck. The manure sundae comes after the ratings news of Letterman kicking the pants of Conan O'Brien's show last week by his widest margin in 15 years. Ratings will go up for the time being for Dave. But then he'll take a serious hit, I would imagine, especially when Sarah Palin gets a chance to start the swings being directed his way. This is just plain sad. I like Dave. He's going to get covered in mud on this one, though.
Seattle is surely back to the Fall thing. It feels good, for now. Hope your own forecast gives you something to look forward to other than just the Packers-Vikings game on Monday Night. Rock on.
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