After a few days of settling into life here in Cuernavaca, we've accomplished a few things worth noting:
1. We have a part-time nanny. Actually, two working in tandem, as we've found via a colleague of Sarah's living here. Even though they speak about as much English as I speak Spanish (translation: zilch), we communicate via the tabula rosa of Maya's mucho cute-o-ish-nesso. We're very psyched.
2. My grasp of the current Mexican political cycle (culminating in the national election on July 2nd) has become a bit more firm. Basically, the PAN (Vicente Fox's Party) has a center-right el Presidente candidate, Felipe Calderon, who's made astonishing gains on the center-left's candidate, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador. Lopez Obrador was expected to win in a cakewalk, but has been "Swift Boated" into a deep dip in his support. I'm still a total neophyte when it comes to Mexico's current political debate. But the more I see of it, the more I think we're all more alike than we are different. Which ain't necessarily a good thing.
And most importantly - 3. We had a baptismal moment of insight into the biological realities of life here last night. The owner of our villa, Bob (or most would say, Roberto), repeatedly warned us that when the rains come, the insects try their darnedest to get indoors. Including (ahem!) the scorpions. We took it all in stride, especially since we'd seen not even a drop of rain since arriving. After watching a movie ("Match Point" - my rating, a semi-squishy C-plus given that Woody Allen did much better with his two primary conceits herein in both "Crimes and Misdemeanors" and "Hannah and Her Sisters" - better than anything he's done in years, nonetheless), we retired to our bedroom. Sarah quickly noticed none other than a frickin' scorpion (!) on the wall. I offered a few flailing attempts, but eventually managed to dispatch the beast (all inch and a half of the frisky bugger). And we both then uneasily tried to go to sleep. To add cinematic heft to our distress, in no time a crackin' good thunderstorm began. With each clap of thunder we both convulsed uneasily with thoughts of the scorpion army surely marching upon our poorly defended rented fortress. Maya stirred a handful of times when the really serious lightning strikes hit. Yet she slipped back into blissful sleep almost as quickly as she stirred. Sarah and I, however, we not so easily swayed back into slumber. When we finally slunk out of bed this morning, unrested and unsettled, and began the sweep of our villa, we came up bupkis on the bugs. In short, all bark from this brand of beast. Hopefully, we'll be able to shake it off tonight and thereafter. Admittedly, I'd never seen a single scorpion prior to last night. Not even when the stinkified hit by the (German hard rockin') Scorpions, "Rock You Like a Hurricane", topped the charts in the late 80s. And if I never see one of either version of Escorpions again, it won't be a disappointment. But we'll keep you posted.
The one major English-language network we get on our extensive cable system here is BBC World. I used it last evening to watch Tony Blair and Dubya stink their way through their shared press conference. Dubya's shtick of trying to joke around with everyone is so painful. But Blair looked utterly horrible. When they both were asked about what "mistakes" they'd made, Dubya actually responded with an answer (translation: talking like a complete dumbass). On the other hand, Blair's response was so unintelligible to me that I thought he might be that lisping retard ordering food ahead of me at a local taco stand. Wait a moment - that's totally unfair to retards. Anyhoo, hope y'all didn't waste time trying to parse that idiocy. Roca sobre.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Cuernavaca Daze - some initial thoughts
We've been in Mexico for less than 48 hours. Loads of good things to report on our setting - we're in a lovely villa in Cuernavaca, Maya's doing her best to counteract the recent anti-Mexican sentiments offered by certain GOP dooshbags by being as charming as a suitcase full of stowaway kittens, the weather's hot but nowhere near Dallas in the Summer hot, none of us has gotten the runs...yet. Most importanly, everyone we've dealt with thus far has been mucho coolo. For those of you keeping score at home, the following are just a few of our experiences thus far.
Since we're going to be here for only a month, we thought it best to pack up most of our life's possessions in 3 suitcases and an array of carry-ons to bring with us. According to the baggage check-in scales, that meant around 250 pounds. Plus our gate-checked jogging stroller. And Maya. Fortunately, we had a driver meet us at the airport in Mexico City. I can't speak Spanish. But when I saw his reaction to our luggage, I could translate immediately what he'd said ("holy crapola!"). He'd shown up in a teeny VW hatchback that weighed about as much as us and our luggage. But we spoke the shared language of "let's do this". So we strapped that puppy down, tied Maya to the roof and hit the highway. Or rather, the choking, polluted, very-LA-ish traffic gridlock of Mexico City. We made it to Cuernavaca in about 2 hours, just about the time Maya began to melt down like an infant Three Mile Island. She then hit the ground running in our villa. And hasn't really stopped since.
On our first full day (yesterday), we went up to Tepotzlan with some people Sarah will be both directly and indirectly working with. Tepotzlan - a smallish town close-by with ancient roots and a top-notch open air market - is what cultural elitists might call "authentically Mexican". In the best way. Great food vendors offer an array of craziness that would probably make a pasty Scandanavian like me crap Technicolor for a week, amazing artisan offerings are everywhere, and wholly cool people watching dominates every frame. Whether it's a good thing or not, Maya's pretty much fearless in crowds and wanted to walk on her own as much as possible. We didn't make the trek up to the famous mountaintop temple visible from town. From a distance, it looks like one of the World War II-era coastal bunkers you can see on Martha's Vineyard or along the California coastline. Not exactly big or regal. Important, nonetheless, apparently. We plan to head back for the whole Tepotzlan enchilada, so to speak, sometime this month.
Maybe more than most people, I'm paralyzed by being unable to speak the language here. If you're unacquainted with my shtick, I'm someone who's largely verbal (about 71%), and being unable to communicate makes me just a tad shy of an angry mute. But that in no way means that I'm avoiding getting out in the mix, for better or worse. Such as this morning when Sarah went in to her gig at the Institute and I threw Maya in the jogging stroller for an hour-and-a-half bouncing along the narrow, broken cobblestone pseudo-sidewalks that line the majorish drag nearby. We headed toward downtown. People looked incredulously at our beloved BOB stroller like I was driving around a chair made of human heads. To her infinite credit, Maya went with the flow while I sweated and struggled over the often foot-deep breaks in the walkway. Somehow amidst all the diesel exhaust and magnitude 7.0+ jostling, she fell asleep. As far as kids go, she's top shelf.
Since we've got a full kitchen and the time to be somewhat normalish about what we're cooking here (we've even got a Weber kettle grill for beer-can chickens and their ilk), we've stocked our kitchen already. Our source? Mudder-effin WALMART. It's the closest supermarket with by far the widest array of offerings. I'm totally planning to find a bilingual beef tongue and entrails supplier working out of a 1984 Ford Aerostar very soon. But for the time being, most of our Mexican expenditures appear to be headed back to Arkansas. Go figure.
We got Maya into the pool for the first time earlier this afternoon during Sarah's unexpected siesta from work. Currently, Maya's stomping on ants and doing laps around our veranda. Or patio. Or brick-lined bug traffic grid. Whatever they call it here. Regardless, kids adjust so well I don't know why we haven't enlisted a bunch of them to add some real operational balls to Dubya's "Mission to Mars" plan. Maya's not ready to be an astronaut right now. Or at least we're not ready for her to be. But she sure is an explorer.
Just a note for readers that may be looking for more "newsy" debates over the next month - consider me offline. Not in the "out of the loop" sense, given our internet connectivity here and my obsessive desire to see what's being reported back in the States. But with all the exploring I hope to get in and all the writing I need to focus on, please expect that and the Family Buick will be a Maya and travelogue zone solely for the next month. Plus expect loads of pics from our new camera - the THIRD in less than three years. Dont' get me started on that frustratingly repeated expenditure. But I think this Nikon's a winner. Hope your own missions are clearly focused today. Rock on.
Since we're going to be here for only a month, we thought it best to pack up most of our life's possessions in 3 suitcases and an array of carry-ons to bring with us. According to the baggage check-in scales, that meant around 250 pounds. Plus our gate-checked jogging stroller. And Maya. Fortunately, we had a driver meet us at the airport in Mexico City. I can't speak Spanish. But when I saw his reaction to our luggage, I could translate immediately what he'd said ("holy crapola!"). He'd shown up in a teeny VW hatchback that weighed about as much as us and our luggage. But we spoke the shared language of "let's do this". So we strapped that puppy down, tied Maya to the roof and hit the highway. Or rather, the choking, polluted, very-LA-ish traffic gridlock of Mexico City. We made it to Cuernavaca in about 2 hours, just about the time Maya began to melt down like an infant Three Mile Island. She then hit the ground running in our villa. And hasn't really stopped since.
On our first full day (yesterday), we went up to Tepotzlan with some people Sarah will be both directly and indirectly working with. Tepotzlan - a smallish town close-by with ancient roots and a top-notch open air market - is what cultural elitists might call "authentically Mexican". In the best way. Great food vendors offer an array of craziness that would probably make a pasty Scandanavian like me crap Technicolor for a week, amazing artisan offerings are everywhere, and wholly cool people watching dominates every frame. Whether it's a good thing or not, Maya's pretty much fearless in crowds and wanted to walk on her own as much as possible. We didn't make the trek up to the famous mountaintop temple visible from town. From a distance, it looks like one of the World War II-era coastal bunkers you can see on Martha's Vineyard or along the California coastline. Not exactly big or regal. Important, nonetheless, apparently. We plan to head back for the whole Tepotzlan enchilada, so to speak, sometime this month.
Maybe more than most people, I'm paralyzed by being unable to speak the language here. If you're unacquainted with my shtick, I'm someone who's largely verbal (about 71%), and being unable to communicate makes me just a tad shy of an angry mute. But that in no way means that I'm avoiding getting out in the mix, for better or worse. Such as this morning when Sarah went in to her gig at the Institute and I threw Maya in the jogging stroller for an hour-and-a-half bouncing along the narrow, broken cobblestone pseudo-sidewalks that line the majorish drag nearby. We headed toward downtown. People looked incredulously at our beloved BOB stroller like I was driving around a chair made of human heads. To her infinite credit, Maya went with the flow while I sweated and struggled over the often foot-deep breaks in the walkway. Somehow amidst all the diesel exhaust and magnitude 7.0+ jostling, she fell asleep. As far as kids go, she's top shelf.
Since we've got a full kitchen and the time to be somewhat normalish about what we're cooking here (we've even got a Weber kettle grill for beer-can chickens and their ilk), we've stocked our kitchen already. Our source? Mudder-effin WALMART. It's the closest supermarket with by far the widest array of offerings. I'm totally planning to find a bilingual beef tongue and entrails supplier working out of a 1984 Ford Aerostar very soon. But for the time being, most of our Mexican expenditures appear to be headed back to Arkansas. Go figure.
We got Maya into the pool for the first time earlier this afternoon during Sarah's unexpected siesta from work. Currently, Maya's stomping on ants and doing laps around our veranda. Or patio. Or brick-lined bug traffic grid. Whatever they call it here. Regardless, kids adjust so well I don't know why we haven't enlisted a bunch of them to add some real operational balls to Dubya's "Mission to Mars" plan. Maya's not ready to be an astronaut right now. Or at least we're not ready for her to be. But she sure is an explorer.
Just a note for readers that may be looking for more "newsy" debates over the next month - consider me offline. Not in the "out of the loop" sense, given our internet connectivity here and my obsessive desire to see what's being reported back in the States. But with all the exploring I hope to get in and all the writing I need to focus on, please expect that and the Family Buick will be a Maya and travelogue zone solely for the next month. Plus expect loads of pics from our new camera - the THIRD in less than three years. Dont' get me started on that frustratingly repeated expenditure. But I think this Nikon's a winner. Hope your own missions are clearly focused today. Rock on.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
A quick 'adios'
Our "to do" lists are largely "done, too" and we're just about ready to put Maya into her kennel for our trip. Fly to Mexico City. Then drive south to Cuernavaca. Maya's in good spirits, with a full tank of sleep girding her against whatever's coming today. Hopefully. We're excited, stressed, and better packed than the 10th Mountain Division. Please check back for our travelogue. Hope you own travels today are equally new and adventurous. Rock on.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Maybe try a bit more toward the shoulder
Today offers too much fatty political food. I'm talking raw bacon with the pan all heated and ready. Tony Snow's first week on the job ain't even over and he already stuck the landing yesterday by using the term "tar baby" and by getting choked up on his cancer survival story. In. The. Same. Briefing. People. I'd like to offer my nomination for the Worst First Week on the Job EVER. Snow Job - you're a keeper.
And in a photo-op that a political absurdist could never get away with staging, Dubya signed the 70 Buh-ill-ee-yon Dollar capital gains tax reduction extension. Apparently, we all doing great. And the Bushies tagged this giveaway via their recently under-contracted jingoistic banner-and-backdrops lackeys "Tax Relief For All Americans". So are you feeling it, America? The relief? No, no...wait for it. It's right there...yea, that's it. Ah, relief.
Hope your own mental exercises are more tangible today. Rock on.
And in a photo-op that a political absurdist could never get away with staging, Dubya signed the 70 Buh-ill-ee-yon Dollar capital gains tax reduction extension. Apparently, we all doing great. And the Bushies tagged this giveaway via their recently under-contracted jingoistic banner-and-backdrops lackeys "Tax Relief For All Americans". So are you feeling it, America? The relief? No, no...wait for it. It's right there...yea, that's it. Ah, relief.
Hope your own mental exercises are more tangible today. Rock on.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
The Bushies try to change the subject...and we're back.
GOOD GAWD was Dubya's speech on immigration a stinker. The best part was the mistakenly broadcast rehearsal on CNN. 6,000 troops sent to the Mexican border for at least one year. This first year, it will cost $1.9 Billion. I'd bet that it goes up thereafter. All the rest - guest worker program, yada yada yada - Dead On Arrival. Why are the Bushies so desperately trying to change the subject? I'd bet that the violence in Iraq has oodles to do with it. If you've got an iron stomach, read the field reporting from the last few days of battles featuring a two-staged attack today on a Baghdad parking garage that left at least 19 dead. The reports of the latest American "victory" in killing 25 "insurgents" hit like a punch in the gut. Now THAT's reporting.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Bordering inanity, yet again
Of all the things Dubya could be saying to the Nation this Monday evening smack dab in the middle of Sweeps Month, he's carting out a plan to fight a war along the Mexican border. If I were a conspiracist, I'd think that he was doing this just to spite me as we prepare to head South of said border next weekend for a month. But do I really think he's merely trying to turn even more of the World against us? Nah, Dubya's just trying to pull some of his base back on board his sinking Preziduncy. And, yes, he would indeed harm us abroad even moreso. This one will get sunk by the public. Kinda like saying that we're going to put a man on Mars. Dumb ideas. I can't imagine that many Americans are going to agree that we need to send thousands of National Guard troops to southernmost Texas, Arizona, New Mexico and California just as the summer heat begins to truly kick in. Not to mention our horribly overburdered National Guard in so many States given their extended overseas work in Iraq. The real issues will remain regardless after this charade is long forgotten. And if ABC and CBS decide today to not even carry the speech, Dubya's stumble up to the bully pulpit with this stinker of a plan just might sink support for him further into the muck. I'll be watching so you don't have to.
Lots going on for us recently and in the upcoming days. We had a fair and balanced family trip to DC last week. It was Maya's 10th trip in little more than a year of traveling. Her new faves are the moving walkways and escalators in the airports, in addition to the constantly repeated reading of her favorite books all along the way. We stayed just on the West End side of Georgetown, which allowed me to troll along M Street with Maya and get a better feel for DC life. Living in that part of DC is, I'm assuming, similar to living in LA and spotting actors here there and everywhere. I saw George Stephanopolus walking down the street and gave him a hearty, "hey, George" - his response was lively and friendly, to his credit. I saw a sweaty Joe Lockhart finishing up a run and grabbing a latte at Dean and Deluca, looking like a high school P.E. teacher with a bad haircut. We had dinner at the home of friends who live across the street from John Negroponte. You couldn't swing a dead cat for more than a few cycles without clipping an overly cosmetic and pill-popping spouse of a Congressperson. Before DC gets downright intolerably hot and steamy it's a heckuva good place to visit.
For those of you that track such changes, life here at and the Family Buick is going to shift to more of a travelogue in the days and weeks ahead. We're going to be in Mexico for a month beginning this Saturday. Not really sure what all I'll get in while we're there. Plenty of pics, at the very least. So please check back. Hope your own plans in the near future take you to new and intriguing locales. Rock on.
Lots going on for us recently and in the upcoming days. We had a fair and balanced family trip to DC last week. It was Maya's 10th trip in little more than a year of traveling. Her new faves are the moving walkways and escalators in the airports, in addition to the constantly repeated reading of her favorite books all along the way. We stayed just on the West End side of Georgetown, which allowed me to troll along M Street with Maya and get a better feel for DC life. Living in that part of DC is, I'm assuming, similar to living in LA and spotting actors here there and everywhere. I saw George Stephanopolus walking down the street and gave him a hearty, "hey, George" - his response was lively and friendly, to his credit. I saw a sweaty Joe Lockhart finishing up a run and grabbing a latte at Dean and Deluca, looking like a high school P.E. teacher with a bad haircut. We had dinner at the home of friends who live across the street from John Negroponte. You couldn't swing a dead cat for more than a few cycles without clipping an overly cosmetic and pill-popping spouse of a Congressperson. Before DC gets downright intolerably hot and steamy it's a heckuva good place to visit.
For those of you that track such changes, life here at and the Family Buick is going to shift to more of a travelogue in the days and weeks ahead. We're going to be in Mexico for a month beginning this Saturday. Not really sure what all I'll get in while we're there. Plenty of pics, at the very least. So please check back. Hope your own plans in the near future take you to new and intriguing locales. Rock on.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
What a difference 3 years and well over 2000 dead American soldiers make
It's been 3 years to the day since Dubya swooped on an aircraft carrier purposely turned away from the nearby San Diego coastline so as to better showcase the "Mission Accomplished" banner that I, personally, hope gets permanently plastered outside Karl Rove's prison cell. 3 years, people. Worst. Ignorant. Overstatement. Ever. How frickin' ironic is it that on this inauspicious occasion Dubya came out onto the grassy expanse outside the White House for a photo op that far too prominently featured claims of great success in Iraq. I've said it before and I fear needing to say it repeatedly again - we've lost Iraq. No WMDs, a bastion of terror training, a money pit that is bottomless, no chance of expanding this crusade to a single other country in the Middle East, civil and ethnic strife that we cannot ever stifle. Much of the American populus has already moved on to heatedly discuss $3/gallon gas as if that's a massive insult to our manifest destiny. Meanwhile, over 2400 American men and women have been killed in this pre-emptive action. It's just too heartwrenching to discuss any further. That's why I want to offer a few drive-by thoughts before getting down to work.
The Brewers end April with a record of 14-11. Some tough losses but overall a seriously lovable team with a decent start. The best young infield in baseball. Ned "I've got a" Yost "Infection!" is a sportswriter's dream quote machine as their skipper. Pay attention, America. This team will rock you like Charlie Sheen's divorce filings.
Stephen Colbert went harshly off the comedic reservation on Saturday at the "White House Correspondents Dinner" where his closing shtick apparently pissed off the Decider big-time. I've watched much of what Colbert offered. You should, as well. Dubya may be entirely happy to joke about his own malapropisms and generally ignorant style of discourse. But to see someone cleverly hit him as hard as Colbert did from such close range...well, I was just astonished by Colbert's balls. I'm not a huge fan of "The Colbert Report`". I watch much of it and I still get the joke, but I think on occasion it's a horrible tightrope walk that ventures into the realm of self-parody meta-bunk at almost the turn of every phrase. If something seriously goes askew in this country (another terrorist hit, a real crisis surrounding energy, a scandal that makes Abu Gharib look like a bad summer camp), Colbert's walk will be immediately untalkable. Yet he got more shots in at Dubya than Kerry did in '04 and looked poised throughout. If this isn't a tipping point, it's at least a tipping drill that everyone should pay attention to.
The NBA Playoffs are underway. Check back in 6 weeks for the result.
Rush Limbaugh's fat again. For those of you that declined to pay attention, he lost a bunch of weight by getting horribly addicted to narcotics. Now that he's facing conviction-mandated drug testing and cannot own the firearms he allegedly covets...well, the guy's apparently drowning his sorrow in pork ribs. According to his lawyer, Roy "My Heart is Indellibly" Black, Rush has made an "exceptionally strong recovery." Goes well with the exceptionally strong drinks he now relies upon, I'm sure.
In less than 3 weeks, we're headed to Mexico for a month. Work stuff for Sarah, fun stuff for all three of us. Maya's Spanish is only slightly worse than mine, but we're working on it. Expect loads of travelogue stuff from the end of May through the majority of June. And some visual/navigational changes before then. Thanks for reading. Hope your own forecasts are sunny and long-ranging. Rock on.
The Brewers end April with a record of 14-11. Some tough losses but overall a seriously lovable team with a decent start. The best young infield in baseball. Ned "I've got a" Yost "Infection!" is a sportswriter's dream quote machine as their skipper. Pay attention, America. This team will rock you like Charlie Sheen's divorce filings.
Stephen Colbert went harshly off the comedic reservation on Saturday at the "White House Correspondents Dinner" where his closing shtick apparently pissed off the Decider big-time. I've watched much of what Colbert offered. You should, as well. Dubya may be entirely happy to joke about his own malapropisms and generally ignorant style of discourse. But to see someone cleverly hit him as hard as Colbert did from such close range...well, I was just astonished by Colbert's balls. I'm not a huge fan of "The Colbert Report`". I watch much of it and I still get the joke, but I think on occasion it's a horrible tightrope walk that ventures into the realm of self-parody meta-bunk at almost the turn of every phrase. If something seriously goes askew in this country (another terrorist hit, a real crisis surrounding energy, a scandal that makes Abu Gharib look like a bad summer camp), Colbert's walk will be immediately untalkable. Yet he got more shots in at Dubya than Kerry did in '04 and looked poised throughout. If this isn't a tipping point, it's at least a tipping drill that everyone should pay attention to.
The NBA Playoffs are underway. Check back in 6 weeks for the result.
Rush Limbaugh's fat again. For those of you that declined to pay attention, he lost a bunch of weight by getting horribly addicted to narcotics. Now that he's facing conviction-mandated drug testing and cannot own the firearms he allegedly covets...well, the guy's apparently drowning his sorrow in pork ribs. According to his lawyer, Roy "My Heart is Indellibly" Black, Rush has made an "exceptionally strong recovery." Goes well with the exceptionally strong drinks he now relies upon, I'm sure.
In less than 3 weeks, we're headed to Mexico for a month. Work stuff for Sarah, fun stuff for all three of us. Maya's Spanish is only slightly worse than mine, but we're working on it. Expect loads of travelogue stuff from the end of May through the majority of June. And some visual/navigational changes before then. Thanks for reading. Hope your own forecasts are sunny and long-ranging. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Cheney position on diplomatic efforts
There's one photo the World should see this morning - Dick Cheney napping during the Oval Office portion of Chinese President Hu's visit yesterday. The NYPost is the only U.S. paper to run the photo and their permissions policy is preventing me from copying it currently. But I expect we'll see a lot more of it. More important than this insult, the "official" visit with the Chinese was a series of gaffes that will I'm sure piss them off disproportionately while the Bushies remain clueless. Everyone's fixating on the Falun Gong protester getting in her rant to the lowkey consternation of the Chinese. Dana Milbank's piece in this morning's WashingtonPost, however, lists a litany of protocol screw-ups well beyond the high visibility outburst on the lawn. I expect that Cheney would say that nothing went wrong. It appears that his eyes were only a bit more closed than the rest of the Bushies diplomatic corps.
Maya's walkin', poopin' and whoopin' it up like a pro lately. Our nanny, Megan, took her to the zoo yesterday and apparently Maya woke up from her morning nap long enough to take a hearty stab at the petting zoo. No tigers were involved, as far as I know. Hope your own outreach efforts are met with tactile pleasure today. Rock on.
Maya's walkin', poopin' and whoopin' it up like a pro lately. Our nanny, Megan, took her to the zoo yesterday and apparently Maya woke up from her morning nap long enough to take a hearty stab at the petting zoo. No tigers were involved, as far as I know. Hope your own outreach efforts are met with tactile pleasure today. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
San Francisco quakes, Gavin rocks
Today's post is the story of my insanely early morning trip to downtown San Francisco in honor of the 100-year Anniversary of the massive San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Hope y'all can live a vicarious moment or two in the retelling.
Like thousands of other Bay Area residents and those visiting from their own tectonic neighborhoods, I knew I couldn't let this occasion pass me by without checking out the festivities. Every year since 1919, people have been gathering downtown on April 18 around Lotta's Fountain at the intersection of Market, Geary and Kearny streets to lay a wreath in honor of the over 3,000 people killed and the bazillions of dollars that it cost to rebuild the jewel that is this City. This was my first visit to not only the anniversary but also to the centerpiece of this event, which I've passed on many walks and bike rides down Market Street since we arrived here less than 2 years ago.
The Quake in 1906 occurred at 5:12am. To get there for this Centenuary celebration, I left our apartment at 4am. We live approximately 30 yards from a Muni stop and I looked at the schedule last night. As I approached our stop, I looked West up Judah Avenue and saw my free ride (all day!) descending. Munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to wash down the espresso I'd finished in our apartment, I strode to the stop as an older, puffy-but-sporty woman approached me with the introductory statement that, "you must have checked the schedule 'cause you're right on time." Self-satisfaction firmly established, I assumed the benevolent fellow-traveller position as we chatted briefly before the bus (the off-hours replacement of the typical train) pulled up. She lives "just up the hill - since 1962". And she was not the type to be "on the Street at this hour". So I mugged her. Kidding. As we boarded the bus, a young-enough-to-know-what's-what fellow sitting in one of the front seats offered up his spot for my shared-stop pal. "I guess that's one benefit of being old," she said as the former owner of her seat stood and I scooted ahead of him in the cramped aisle being increasingly squeezed toward the back. Yes, that and free refills at Denny's.
Our downtown bus was full already as we headed through the Sunset toward Cole Valley and beyond. As we approached downtown, it got more crammed full than James Gandolfini's colon. But all around were friendly San Francisco folks. I listened somewhat distractedly to a hippie couple (bad, graying ponytails on both the Mom and Dad) giggle at the description of mosh pit ettiquette offered by their pimply late-teensy son. I was surrounded by folks in fleece with travel mugs in hand, probably full of herbal tea or tasty variations on that theme. During regular service hours, the train heads into a downtown tunnel system slightly less appealing than James Gandolfini's colon (sorry - some jokes just need to be repeated). But this night owl route instead delightfully took us past the homeless doorway squatters on Haight Street before winding onto Market, where we all turned politely away from the more criminal types lining that San Francisco artery.
After getting off a few stops early and walking the remaining blocks down Market, I reached the locale for the ceremony. Lotta's Fountain. A gaudy monstrosity that is beloved nonetheless. Thousands had already gathered. I entered the din. And then reconsidered by view. Eventually, I chose the absolute wrong end of the crowd to join. The North end of Market. Surrounded by high school kids forced out of bed well before dawn by their insistent parents, touristy folks with no perceived balance and their entire lifeswork in their bloated backpacks, 7-foot-tall laggards and the occasional gin-soaked homeless person, I did my best to settle in. And then the speeches began. If I never say this again it will nonetheless forever be true - politicians suck. Even if they're the City's Emergency Planning Agency director who's great-grand-something died in the 1906 tragedy...spilling those details through the conduit of a poorly-crafted, "Webster's Dictionary defines 'tragedy' as" yada yada yada speech makes you sound like a tone-deaf bore. The sole exception on this particular occassion being San Francisco's dreamboat Mayor, Gavin Newsome. This guy's slicker than goose poop. In a good way.
Gavin finally connected with the crowd when he began to interview the "survivors" who were approximately 80% fabulous. Everyone loves someone who's passed the Century Mark. Their self-decrecation alone endears them to youngins like me and, well, everyone younger than them. But the dozen or so creaksters herein were often hilarious, even if the sound system in my smelly seats section often required translation even for the most obvious recollections.
As with so many of these "managed events" you can expect only so much spontaneity. Not much occurred during the actual ceremony, which dragged on from the intended 4:30 to 5:30 timeline until nearly 6:30. If you check my accompanying photos closely, you'll see a shot of the "countdown clock" used to spur the crowd's excitement that they finally stopped spinning just before 6:30. But when things died down and everybody on stage got their chance to uncork their tired shtick, the real fun began.
This is San Francisco, after all. Goofballs are everywhere. One of my favorites - the obscure "12 Galaxies" guy was nearby throughout. As was the Ganga Chieftain freak. I soaked up plenty and decided to head down toward the Ferry Building to catch the sun rising over the Berkeley Hills. This morning like so few others recently was crystal clear. There was a man smoking a stinky cigar beneath the Gandhi statue. The Bay couldn't have been more glassy and reflective. But - and please excuse my scatological referencing - I soon realized that I needed to meet with my cabinet. To align my chi. To take a dump. Thankfully, the Ferry Building has a wondrous handicapped stall and no waiting list, so to speak. My bidness done, my glow restored, I waited at the crosswalk outfront, distracted by two Financial District athleto-leano-fascisto types with their Peet's Coffee Venti low-fat latte cups when one said, "there's The Man Himself". I turned to see none other than Gavin Newsome striding confidantly from his Lincoln Towncar. He bounded up the exterior stairs to the banquet-level floor of the Ferry Building before I could even give him advice about his political future. The band inside began playing before the door "swooshed" shut behind him. I asked one of the then breathless 20-ish interns checking off names on a clipboard what event was occurring. It was the "1906 Commemaritive Sponsor Breakfast", she cheerfully responded. I should have had a joke ready. But I didn't. This City suffered enough a Century ago.
So I rode the free Muni back from downtown after returning to Lotta's Fountain to see just how surreal the dismantling of such a spectacle can become. I stepped up to the podium (moved aside and now facing the Fountain) and gave my best Nixon salute. I watched huddled crowds of TV production techs chain-smoking and obviously lamenting that it was barely 7am. Random folks in period dress meandered away from this prior center of activity. 100 years ago this City was beat around like rented Yugo before being thrown into the chasm of reconstruction. Today...well, today's just another beautiful, surprisingly poetic moment in the Life of an astonishing City. I will leave this place in a matter of months. But I feel as though I have seen enough to always draw my heart back. Today will always be a special moment in that reflection.
I'll throw up a pile of pics later. Hope your own day began with a surge and continues on 'til the wee hours. Rock on.
Like thousands of other Bay Area residents and those visiting from their own tectonic neighborhoods, I knew I couldn't let this occasion pass me by without checking out the festivities. Every year since 1919, people have been gathering downtown on April 18 around Lotta's Fountain at the intersection of Market, Geary and Kearny streets to lay a wreath in honor of the over 3,000 people killed and the bazillions of dollars that it cost to rebuild the jewel that is this City. This was my first visit to not only the anniversary but also to the centerpiece of this event, which I've passed on many walks and bike rides down Market Street since we arrived here less than 2 years ago.
The Quake in 1906 occurred at 5:12am. To get there for this Centenuary celebration, I left our apartment at 4am. We live approximately 30 yards from a Muni stop and I looked at the schedule last night. As I approached our stop, I looked West up Judah Avenue and saw my free ride (all day!) descending. Munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to wash down the espresso I'd finished in our apartment, I strode to the stop as an older, puffy-but-sporty woman approached me with the introductory statement that, "you must have checked the schedule 'cause you're right on time." Self-satisfaction firmly established, I assumed the benevolent fellow-traveller position as we chatted briefly before the bus (the off-hours replacement of the typical train) pulled up. She lives "just up the hill - since 1962". And she was not the type to be "on the Street at this hour". So I mugged her. Kidding. As we boarded the bus, a young-enough-to-know-what's-what fellow sitting in one of the front seats offered up his spot for my shared-stop pal. "I guess that's one benefit of being old," she said as the former owner of her seat stood and I scooted ahead of him in the cramped aisle being increasingly squeezed toward the back. Yes, that and free refills at Denny's.
Our downtown bus was full already as we headed through the Sunset toward Cole Valley and beyond. As we approached downtown, it got more crammed full than James Gandolfini's colon. But all around were friendly San Francisco folks. I listened somewhat distractedly to a hippie couple (bad, graying ponytails on both the Mom and Dad) giggle at the description of mosh pit ettiquette offered by their pimply late-teensy son. I was surrounded by folks in fleece with travel mugs in hand, probably full of herbal tea or tasty variations on that theme. During regular service hours, the train heads into a downtown tunnel system slightly less appealing than James Gandolfini's colon (sorry - some jokes just need to be repeated). But this night owl route instead delightfully took us past the homeless doorway squatters on Haight Street before winding onto Market, where we all turned politely away from the more criminal types lining that San Francisco artery.
After getting off a few stops early and walking the remaining blocks down Market, I reached the locale for the ceremony. Lotta's Fountain. A gaudy monstrosity that is beloved nonetheless. Thousands had already gathered. I entered the din. And then reconsidered by view. Eventually, I chose the absolute wrong end of the crowd to join. The North end of Market. Surrounded by high school kids forced out of bed well before dawn by their insistent parents, touristy folks with no perceived balance and their entire lifeswork in their bloated backpacks, 7-foot-tall laggards and the occasional gin-soaked homeless person, I did my best to settle in. And then the speeches began. If I never say this again it will nonetheless forever be true - politicians suck. Even if they're the City's Emergency Planning Agency director who's great-grand-something died in the 1906 tragedy...spilling those details through the conduit of a poorly-crafted, "Webster's Dictionary defines 'tragedy' as" yada yada yada speech makes you sound like a tone-deaf bore. The sole exception on this particular occassion being San Francisco's dreamboat Mayor, Gavin Newsome. This guy's slicker than goose poop. In a good way.
Gavin finally connected with the crowd when he began to interview the "survivors" who were approximately 80% fabulous. Everyone loves someone who's passed the Century Mark. Their self-decrecation alone endears them to youngins like me and, well, everyone younger than them. But the dozen or so creaksters herein were often hilarious, even if the sound system in my smelly seats section often required translation even for the most obvious recollections.
As with so many of these "managed events" you can expect only so much spontaneity. Not much occurred during the actual ceremony, which dragged on from the intended 4:30 to 5:30 timeline until nearly 6:30. If you check my accompanying photos closely, you'll see a shot of the "countdown clock" used to spur the crowd's excitement that they finally stopped spinning just before 6:30. But when things died down and everybody on stage got their chance to uncork their tired shtick, the real fun began.
This is San Francisco, after all. Goofballs are everywhere. One of my favorites - the obscure "12 Galaxies" guy was nearby throughout. As was the Ganga Chieftain freak. I soaked up plenty and decided to head down toward the Ferry Building to catch the sun rising over the Berkeley Hills. This morning like so few others recently was crystal clear. There was a man smoking a stinky cigar beneath the Gandhi statue. The Bay couldn't have been more glassy and reflective. But - and please excuse my scatological referencing - I soon realized that I needed to meet with my cabinet. To align my chi. To take a dump. Thankfully, the Ferry Building has a wondrous handicapped stall and no waiting list, so to speak. My bidness done, my glow restored, I waited at the crosswalk outfront, distracted by two Financial District athleto-leano-fascisto types with their Peet's Coffee Venti low-fat latte cups when one said, "there's The Man Himself". I turned to see none other than Gavin Newsome striding confidantly from his Lincoln Towncar. He bounded up the exterior stairs to the banquet-level floor of the Ferry Building before I could even give him advice about his political future. The band inside began playing before the door "swooshed" shut behind him. I asked one of the then breathless 20-ish interns checking off names on a clipboard what event was occurring. It was the "1906 Commemaritive Sponsor Breakfast", she cheerfully responded. I should have had a joke ready. But I didn't. This City suffered enough a Century ago.
So I rode the free Muni back from downtown after returning to Lotta's Fountain to see just how surreal the dismantling of such a spectacle can become. I stepped up to the podium (moved aside and now facing the Fountain) and gave my best Nixon salute. I watched huddled crowds of TV production techs chain-smoking and obviously lamenting that it was barely 7am. Random folks in period dress meandered away from this prior center of activity. 100 years ago this City was beat around like rented Yugo before being thrown into the chasm of reconstruction. Today...well, today's just another beautiful, surprisingly poetic moment in the Life of an astonishing City. I will leave this place in a matter of months. But I feel as though I have seen enough to always draw my heart back. Today will always be a special moment in that reflection.
I'll throw up a pile of pics later. Hope your own day began with a surge and continues on 'til the wee hours. Rock on.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
Forever Young...'cause someone has to be
Expect the trashing of the incomparable legend that is, remains, will always be Neil Young to begin almost immediately. He's got a new protest album coming out. Doesn't exactly sound like he wrote and re-wrote and re-re-wrote the songs over the last 5 years given that he recorded it over three days. But the song "Impeach the President" is getting wacko press all over the spectrum this morning. Pre-ordering doesn't yet appear available. But stayed tuned and add this to your well-worn library of his past masterworks. Your kids will thank you. Eventually.
I'm having serious troubles with a part of urban life that I've always loved. Coffeehouses. I dig the din of activity and have spent mornings these past few months in yet another in a LONG series of places where I can get my double-espresso and just get weird, on my own. I always present an aloof appearance in a good cafe. Above all else, I prefer to let the action swirl around me and use it as background for other pursuits. But I always walk a fine line that dimishes over time since gregarious people in such places always eventually approach the silent stranger. For those of you without such habits, think of a bathhouse without all the nudity and imagine the vulnerability of being secretly friendly. Alas, herein - @ Java Beach in the farthest Outer Sunset right off Ocean Beach surrounded by locals, surfers, homeless people and the occasional hipster that appreciates astonishingly good service and damn good people watching - I've been officially outed. Too many people now know my gig and I got approached with friendly intent by 3 people this morning. So I must move on. Sadly. But if you're looking for one of my Top 10 All-Time Coolest Coffeehouses, head way out to this version of yonder. As of next week, you'll need to track me down elsewhere.
Hope your own pickin' leaves you constantly a grinnin' through SneakyBunny Weekend. Rock on.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Generally clapping my hands and enthusiastically saying "Yeah!"
I'm overdue on a few entertainment reviews. I restarted Netflix even though I love our local vid store (Le Video in the Inner Sunset). And I've been working their warehouse system to a comfortable max. If you don't use Netflix, try them out. No advertisement - just a general appreciation. When we lived in Vermont, it didn't have the repeat volume efficacy of our current connection with their system here in San Francisco. But it still presents an amazingly efficient way of getting vids that you request. A few days of lag time ain't a bad thing if you only watch a few movies a week.
"Junebug" surprised the crap out of me. Some folks don't care so much for the quirky North Carolina dysfunctional family seen up-close-and-personal in this true indie. And Amy Adams got all the positive press even though the entire cast acted their asses off. My rating - a sentimental B. During dinner last night, I gave it a B-plus. That prior upgrade - while entirely defensible on the film's merits - was the wine talking. Still, a frickin' strong B.
"Good Night and Good Luck" was one of those movies that we all need to see. Even Bill O'Reilly. I rate it a B-plus. Most freaky liberal types will decry my assessment not being in the A-range. David Straithairn was phenomenal. Aside from all the range and eloquence of his protrayal, he made the chain-smoking Edward R. Murrow look cooler than a battalion of Joe Camels (too bad Murrow died of lung cancer). And George Clooney has every right to be "smug" as the "South Park" guys opined recently on a generally stupid episode. McCarthy once again saddens me with the realization that he once was the Junior Senator from Wisconsin, even if the actual news footage of his horridness is astonishing real and masterfully edited. But I saw a few problems. Namely, the payoff is slight. For a period of history so abhorent, it just missed that massive pay-off. Maybe that's what made this film so real - no need to have the symphonic denunication of an infamous era. Still - my standards require that I respect the rating system that I've miraculously pulled fully formed from my butt.
"Paradise Now" - not worth the hype. C-plus.
Music-wise - my new absolute-favorite song - "Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. A delightful reincarnation of The Talking Heads at their most relevantly beautiful and aware stage. This band was supposed to be a massively-overloved "It Band of the Week" before I read that they beat the bloody cynicism out of the crowd in Austin at this year's SXSW festival. Listen to these people. They's smart.
Hope your Maundy Thursdays are anything but mundane. Rock on.
"Junebug" surprised the crap out of me. Some folks don't care so much for the quirky North Carolina dysfunctional family seen up-close-and-personal in this true indie. And Amy Adams got all the positive press even though the entire cast acted their asses off. My rating - a sentimental B. During dinner last night, I gave it a B-plus. That prior upgrade - while entirely defensible on the film's merits - was the wine talking. Still, a frickin' strong B.
"Good Night and Good Luck" was one of those movies that we all need to see. Even Bill O'Reilly. I rate it a B-plus. Most freaky liberal types will decry my assessment not being in the A-range. David Straithairn was phenomenal. Aside from all the range and eloquence of his protrayal, he made the chain-smoking Edward R. Murrow look cooler than a battalion of Joe Camels (too bad Murrow died of lung cancer). And George Clooney has every right to be "smug" as the "South Park" guys opined recently on a generally stupid episode. McCarthy once again saddens me with the realization that he once was the Junior Senator from Wisconsin, even if the actual news footage of his horridness is astonishing real and masterfully edited. But I saw a few problems. Namely, the payoff is slight. For a period of history so abhorent, it just missed that massive pay-off. Maybe that's what made this film so real - no need to have the symphonic denunication of an infamous era. Still - my standards require that I respect the rating system that I've miraculously pulled fully formed from my butt.
"Paradise Now" - not worth the hype. C-plus.
Music-wise - my new absolute-favorite song - "Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. A delightful reincarnation of The Talking Heads at their most relevantly beautiful and aware stage. This band was supposed to be a massively-overloved "It Band of the Week" before I read that they beat the bloody cynicism out of the crowd in Austin at this year's SXSW festival. Listen to these people. They's smart.
Hope your Maundy Thursdays are anything but mundane. Rock on.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Dubya on Passover - I suggest giving him an extra large heap of bitter herbs.
Just a few thoughts to offer this morning before actually getting segwaying into fiction. This morning's discussion by Terry Gross from NPR's "Fresh Air" with Seymour Hersh regarding his latest "New Yorker" stunner was chilling. And fascinating. If you've not read that piece about Dubya's moronically-approved-and-scandalously-motivated plans for targeted strikes in Iran...just cut the crap and read it. Seriously. If we allow this Adminstration to follow through on their disasterous "operational" thinking, we are all collectively guilty. And screwed. If you have half an hour, listen to Sy plainly state in full why we're all so seriously in danger thanks to this Adminstration.
Big feastin' planned on our Coast this evening - besides being the first night of Passover, it's also Sarah' Birthday. So I put a SERIOUS hunk of brisket into the CrockPot this morning and intend to doctor-up a matzo ball soup this afternoon. Hope your own menus today are equally succulent. Rock on.
Big feastin' planned on our Coast this evening - besides being the first night of Passover, it's also Sarah' Birthday. So I put a SERIOUS hunk of brisket into the CrockPot this morning and intend to doctor-up a matzo ball soup this afternoon. Hope your own menus today are equally succulent. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A Nation of Immigrants must also be a Nation of Historians
Like much of the nation, I'm flummoxed by the whole debate over immigration that's now flooding the nation's airwaves and spilled over into massive, organized protests. But like all of those without Native American blood, I'm a descendant of immigrants - largely from Scandinavia in the 19th Century. If my father's family hadn't been able to assume the right to 160 acres in Northernmost Wisconsin thanks to Lincoln's Homestead Act of 1862 which they had to settle and improve for 5 years before having to "prove up" their claim to that property...I'd probably be typing this entry from a internet cafe in Lillehammer sitting on a crappy IKEA couch instead of the plush leather number I'm fully sunk into just a block off the beach in beautiful Cullyfoneeya. So the claim that immigrants who live and work here shouldn't be able to "prove up" their desire to become citizens of a different generation strikes me as utter zenophobia. This, however, is not my area of even casual debate. I'm just stunned by the organization we're all seeing that's already gone into this on-the-fly movement in reaction to typically horrid legislation from the GOP attack monkey-led House.
The Brewers lost a tough one last night in St. Louis, 6-4. They've got the day off today. I suggest they rent some DVDs, order in BBQ, and get some rest. No hookers or 'roids in the butt, boys - we're in the Race for real this year! After all, they won't have another day off until April 27th. Gotta love the ironman aspect of MLB. Hope your own schedules today also allow you time for reflection. Rock on.
The Brewers lost a tough one last night in St. Louis, 6-4. They've got the day off today. I suggest they rent some DVDs, order in BBQ, and get some rest. No hookers or 'roids in the butt, boys - we're in the Race for real this year! After all, they won't have another day off until April 27th. Gotta love the ironman aspect of MLB. Hope your own schedules today also allow you time for reflection. Rock on.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Boys vs. Girls vs. Other Girls vs. Hemaphrodites vs. Barry Bonds's 'roid-headed kids - we still like Maya's chances
Dubya gave a speech at Johns Hopkins foreign service school this morning. I just saw some choice bits in which he reluctantly took some overly bookish questions. In typical grad student fashion, the money shot question he was asked (dealing with the Valerie Plame "declassification" disclosure from last week) gave the Wiggler in Chief way too much room in response. But Dubya still managed to muck it up. Saying that his aim was to give us all a chance to "see the truth" (a phrase he repeated like a picked-on autistic kid with a stutter), Dubya continued to wear away the beach beneath his feet as he almost simultaneously managed to say that he couldn't comment on an ongoing investigation. And the curtain is pulled back just a bit more...
After starting 5-0, the New Brew Crew got shut out by the Diamondbacks yesterday. 5-1 is an tasty start, even if the teams they upended at home were far less than the class of the League. So now Milwaukee leaves the well-protected confines of Beer City and heads to St. Louis, home of Budweiser, the tough tough tough Cards, and, um...19th Century dreams of national importance. I couldn't be happier with the way the Brewers have entered the Season. I'm sure y'all feel the same way.
Megan watched Maya last evening so that we could go out to dinner at the Slanted Door with family. Maya's doing great - increasingly vocal and confident in her walking. But we're trying hard not to compare Maya's physical and mental development with that of her contemporaries. Because, let's face it, all new 'rents are horrendously biased. For example, one of the two Birthday parties we brought Maya to on Saturday was for her friend, Aidan, who's approximately 6-weeks younger yet climbs over obstacles like Robert Conrad on his best day in the "Battle of the Network Stars" back in the late 70s. Did we mind that Maya's more timid and less boisterous than Aidan? Not at all. Maya's more of a delicate flower and not a prick like...well, let's just stop the comparison right there. After all, girls are different than boys. Better. But different, too.
Hope your own comparisons are equally impartial today. Rock on.
After starting 5-0, the New Brew Crew got shut out by the Diamondbacks yesterday. 5-1 is an tasty start, even if the teams they upended at home were far less than the class of the League. So now Milwaukee leaves the well-protected confines of Beer City and heads to St. Louis, home of Budweiser, the tough tough tough Cards, and, um...19th Century dreams of national importance. I couldn't be happier with the way the Brewers have entered the Season. I'm sure y'all feel the same way.
Megan watched Maya last evening so that we could go out to dinner at the Slanted Door with family. Maya's doing great - increasingly vocal and confident in her walking. But we're trying hard not to compare Maya's physical and mental development with that of her contemporaries. Because, let's face it, all new 'rents are horrendously biased. For example, one of the two Birthday parties we brought Maya to on Saturday was for her friend, Aidan, who's approximately 6-weeks younger yet climbs over obstacles like Robert Conrad on his best day in the "Battle of the Network Stars" back in the late 70s. Did we mind that Maya's more timid and less boisterous than Aidan? Not at all. Maya's more of a delicate flower and not a prick like...well, let's just stop the comparison right there. After all, girls are different than boys. Better. But different, too.
Hope your own comparisons are equally impartial today. Rock on.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Boil it down to JUST THIS ONE question, America
So...there now appears to one and ONLY ONE question that someone, ANYONE PLEASE, must ask Dubya at the first opportunity. And here it is:
"Mr. Prezidunt, did you authorize anyone to release the identity of Joseph Wilson's wife?"
Until someone asks that, no other story holds the trump card. Aside from the Milwaukee Brewers. Rock on.
"Mr. Prezidunt, did you authorize anyone to release the identity of Joseph Wilson's wife?"
Until someone asks that, no other story holds the trump card. Aside from the Milwaukee Brewers. Rock on.
If Rove is such a history buff, where was "Dubya will do, and Cheney, too!" in '04?
Today for me represents one of those beautiful nuggets of American history that's hopelessly forgotten. Our 10th President, John Tyler, was sworn into office on this date 165 years ago, marking the first time a Vice President ascended given a President's death (or disgraceful resignation in the case of Nixon). Tyler and William Henry Harrison ("Dubya Double H" to all his homies) ran in 1840 using little other than the most famous campaign slogan of all time - "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!" Apologies to all of those that believe "I Like Ike" is the best example of such shorthanded shtick ever - you're just wrong. Tyler also had the ignominious honor of being the only President to ever leave office without a Party affiliation (he tossed the Whigs aside). And his entire Cabinet minus Sec. o' State Daniel Webster resigned in protest because of, um, the quality of horse meat in the White House kitchen or something equally ancient in principle. Here endeth today's history lessoneth. But I hope we all take a moment and silently cherish the idea of our 19th Century Presidents. They were largely a bunch of weak, compromised, utterly-corrupt children of privilege. Nothing at all like our modern moment of reference.
I'm not sure if y'all are struggling to adjust to Daylight Savings Time. We're all such thoroughly modern creatures, so I assume the added length of the evening daylight is making many of us truly feel that Spring is here or at least just around the corner. But for Maya, this whole shift hasn't really taken hold. She's now going to bed later, getting up later, and making no excuses for her lack of familial schedule adherence. Sleeping through the night - whenever that may be - is still reason enough to give her all the slack in the world. Still, I'd love to reset her clock and get this baby on the Spring Thing! Hope your own schedules leave ample time to appreciate that the Brewers swept their first series of the Season against the Pirates! Rock on.
I'm not sure if y'all are struggling to adjust to Daylight Savings Time. We're all such thoroughly modern creatures, so I assume the added length of the evening daylight is making many of us truly feel that Spring is here or at least just around the corner. But for Maya, this whole shift hasn't really taken hold. She's now going to bed later, getting up later, and making no excuses for her lack of familial schedule adherence. Sleeping through the night - whenever that may be - is still reason enough to give her all the slack in the world. Still, I'd love to reset her clock and get this baby on the Spring Thing! Hope your own schedules leave ample time to appreciate that the Brewers swept their first series of the Season against the Pirates! Rock on.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Barry Bonds clumsily tries to convince the World he's only occasionally the biggest jerk anyone's ever met.
Partly due to the Milwaukee Brewers frenzy soon-to-be engulfing the nation after their second win in as many tries to open the Season, I got into an exchange yesterday defending the honor of our closer, Derrick Turnbow. The fray was contained on a San Francisco collectively-published blog (SFist.com) that I have had great synergistic connections with in the past. But their Giants guy was WAY outta line when he tried to tag Turnbow as a 'roid-head somehow on par with the mutated-humanoid that currently calls itself Barry Bonds. Turnbow tested positive for an "andro" derivative back in '03 while auditioning for the '04 U.S. Olympic baseball team. For those of you that remember, androstenedione is the stuff that supafreak Mark "I'm not here to talk about the past" McGuire tested positive for taking. It's illegal for international competitors. As it should be. Turnbow took his suspension like a man (2 years of ineligibility for international competition). Bonds, meanwhile, was rubbing the "cream" and the "clear" all over his 'nads while doing all manner of unmentionable crap to his horribly-disfigured body. But the point I hope to make here is simple - San Francisco is the only place in the world that retains defenders of Barry Bonds, often while pointing fingers everywhere else. If it came out tomorrow that Brett Favre drank bull adrenillin and rubbed pixie dust on his balls, I'd be the first to go against my genetic make-up and criticize this legendary Packer. Will Giants fans actually do the same, albeit not in hypothetical terms? I'm not so sure. Regardless, the ESPN reality show "Bonds on Bonds" is TV crack - the money goes to the worst people, any alleged payoff evaporates in a wispy moment, you'll hate yourself immediately thereafter. My TiVo almost walked out on me after being asked to record last night's premeire. But I'm watching this train wreck, through and through.
Hope your own buzz today is legal, yet boffo. Rock on.
Hope your own buzz today is legal, yet boffo. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The latest DeLay delay of his Ken Lay-like downfall - don't believe it for a second.
Tom DeLay's out. "Retiring" to the lobbying and the speechifying circuit. In pre-disgrace. And his home District is still in play. Wowza. My take on all of this is simple, contrary to what many newzers are saying - DeLay's facing a probable Federal indictment based on the actions of his Office securing votes for bribes. This step was an anxious sidestep, entirely intended to surprise the chattering class and hopefully undersell the problem. But I'd bet my third nipple that The Hammer's got that much more to fear than just the possibility of losing re-election for his seat in the House. I think he's looking at the prospects of a seat in the Big House. I'm reminded of my favorite "why DeLay is gonna eat it Big Time!" story from a few years ago. After drunkenly trying to light up cigars (I'd bet they were Cubans) in a DC Ruth's Chris Steak House housed in a Federal Building where smoking is not allowed, DeLay protested that "I AM the Federal Government." Or rather, you "WERE". I look forward to "The Hammer" being listed just after MC Hammer in history's tabulation of those fallen from the loftiest of heights sometime very, very soon.
Baseball season started yesterday. The New Brew Crew won a great home opener against the Pittsburg Pirates, 5-2, after some smart moves by the Brewers' increasingly smart Manager, Ned Yost, and a welcomed returning player, Jeff Cirillo. The SF Unnaturally Large and Increasingly Awkward Giants lost in front of unusually caustic crowd in San Diego (a fan threw a plastic syringe at Barry Bonds in the most clever display of inappropriate fan protest in years). Beats getting hit with a snowball packed around a D-cell battery. But not by much.
We're back from Seattle, feeling damn good about the sort of places we started seeing to move into upon our return. No slam dunk yet. Not even a lay-up yet. More of a good dribbling drill. One assessment I can offer, though - the suggestion that the demise of realtors is imminent is premature. Over the past few months, we've religiously used Redfin.com and Zillow.com to search for homes. They're great search tools, to be sure. But not exactly ready for prime time. Still, we met two really nice agents, one of which we're going to utilize and one who we feel somewhat guilty about cutting out of any prospective deal. And we met one DEEEECK of an agent who tried to play us a tune on a kiddie piano (so to speak) that sounded shallow and utterly ridiculous. Case in point - if your real estate agent gets lost on numerous occasions "leading" you around the neighborhoods you're interested in, he might be a redneck (apologies to all of humanity for the Jeff Foxworthy reference). Or at least a cheeseball. Regardless, we feel damn good about what we might find, even if the market there won't deflate anytime soon given the influx of new folks and re-strengthening of the local economy. Compared to San Francisco, Seattle's Boise. Stay tuned for more of our stories of real-ity estate travails.
Hope your own searches bring well-targeted results today. Rock on.
Baseball season started yesterday. The New Brew Crew won a great home opener against the Pittsburg Pirates, 5-2, after some smart moves by the Brewers' increasingly smart Manager, Ned Yost, and a welcomed returning player, Jeff Cirillo. The SF Unnaturally Large and Increasingly Awkward Giants lost in front of unusually caustic crowd in San Diego (a fan threw a plastic syringe at Barry Bonds in the most clever display of inappropriate fan protest in years). Beats getting hit with a snowball packed around a D-cell battery. But not by much.
We're back from Seattle, feeling damn good about the sort of places we started seeing to move into upon our return. No slam dunk yet. Not even a lay-up yet. More of a good dribbling drill. One assessment I can offer, though - the suggestion that the demise of realtors is imminent is premature. Over the past few months, we've religiously used Redfin.com and Zillow.com to search for homes. They're great search tools, to be sure. But not exactly ready for prime time. Still, we met two really nice agents, one of which we're going to utilize and one who we feel somewhat guilty about cutting out of any prospective deal. And we met one DEEEECK of an agent who tried to play us a tune on a kiddie piano (so to speak) that sounded shallow and utterly ridiculous. Case in point - if your real estate agent gets lost on numerous occasions "leading" you around the neighborhoods you're interested in, he might be a redneck (apologies to all of humanity for the Jeff Foxworthy reference). Or at least a cheeseball. Regardless, we feel damn good about what we might find, even if the market there won't deflate anytime soon given the influx of new folks and re-strengthening of the local economy. Compared to San Francisco, Seattle's Boise. Stay tuned for more of our stories of real-ity estate travails.
Hope your own searches bring well-targeted results today. Rock on.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Cleaning the Grunge off
For those of you keeping track of our travels (I'm talking to you, Mr. Best Damn Parole Officer in the World - I'll touch base next week), we're up in Seattle. The Emerald City. The Queen City. Formerly GrungeCity. The City just to the West of Microsoftalvania. Our soon-to-be again-and-new City. Being back in this context is a treat we've waited a number of years to be able to boldly embrace. So we're looking for new homes, and seeing old haunts. On a concentrated realtor tour today, we hit a number of highlights - Capitol Hill, Madison Park, Green Lake, Wallingford. More of the same and otherwise to come. And even though our "guy" today started off with the rather cheesy veneer of someone who wanted to up-sell or sideways-sell or dork-sell us on the claims that "everything's just dandy in the market" and "demand is still soooo darn high" and (essentially) "you're sweet people but you've got soooo much to learn"...we had a good day. And I've not even touched on the silly anecdotes we feel are worth noting thus far. Such as the woman sitting in the row ahead of us on our flight up getting called up for an early exit after landing to be arrested for "failure to appear" at a court date regarding a prostitution charge. Or Maya commandeeering a cellphone (her new favorite toy, to our dismay) and ACTUALLY dialing Aunt Katie somehow for a short and silly conversation. Or Maya figuring out how to unscrew the top off a half-full water bottle and showering herself with it without us even noticing while walking through U-Dub's glorious campus yesterday afternoon. Or my conversation with a 'Sconi guy yesterday who'd noticed my ubiquitous Milwaukee Brewers cap - he came up with THE tagline for this year that I'd not yet heard. Every 25 years, Milwaukee baseball makes an impact - 1957 (Braves beat the Spankees), 1982 (Brewers made their only World Series), 2007 (Brewers...?). Stay tuned.
However you slice it, an eventful trip thus far. More later. Rock on.
However you slice it, an eventful trip thus far. More later. Rock on.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
"Crash" - as believable as Sandra Bullock actually hugging her maid
I watched "Crash" last night, mainly out of guilt. I was one of the most vocal fans of "Brokeback Mountain" and like much of the movie-going blogosphere I was flabbergasted by the Best Picture nod going to Paul Haggis's directing debut. And after watching "Crash" I must admit that I'm even more stunned. I wouldn't even put it in my Top 10 of last year. This is moviemaking by committee, as best evidenced by the fight over Producing credits that have landed the funding folks behind the movie in court. There are bright moments - Terrence Howard is singularly powerful, Ryan Philippee (that guy needs to lose a vowel or two) is surprisingly strong and Ludacris is purposely yet truly enigmatic. But there's way WAY too much lumped into this turd. Actually, it's not a turd. It's a B Minus. Matt Dillon didn't deserve even a nod from Johnny Drama (his brother's impressively fake character on "Entourage") for his turn as a racist cop with a heart. Contrived in the most extreme sense. Still, I suggest that everyone should check it out. But don't believe the hype. This movie was a safe choice for an industry scared straight away from embracing the much better "Brokeback Mountain" out of fear that the so-called "culture war" initiated by FOX (faux)News and its ilk might spill over into the mainstream.
Heading up to Seattle tonight for a concerted handful of house-hunting daze in preparation for our impending move this summer. Expect some upcoming pics most likely featuring some of our old haunts - Maya in thriftstore flannel, Maya sitting on Eddie Vedder's lap at the Croc, Maya passing the ball to Shawn Kemp at Key Arena, Maya buying beans at Espresso Vivace, Maya walking around Queen Anne. Hope your own trips down memory lane today focus on the good and look forward to the future. Rock on.
Heading up to Seattle tonight for a concerted handful of house-hunting daze in preparation for our impending move this summer. Expect some upcoming pics most likely featuring some of our old haunts - Maya in thriftstore flannel, Maya sitting on Eddie Vedder's lap at the Croc, Maya passing the ball to Shawn Kemp at Key Arena, Maya buying beans at Espresso Vivace, Maya walking around Queen Anne. Hope your own trips down memory lane today focus on the good and look forward to the future. Rock on.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Bushies' latest sleight of hand - Flip Card
Andrew Card fell on his incredibly dull sword this morning. The Bushies are obviously listening to all the carping about how tired and full of loyalist crap Dubya's inner circle has become. So what do they do? Appoint Josh Bolten, moronically dubbed "Yosh" by Dubya, the Dubber in Chief. Yosh was Card's Deputy Chief from '01 to '03. He's leaving his most recent post as Budget Director where the "heckuva job" he's been doing makes Michael Brown's tenure at FEMA look like Churchill in WW2 by comparison. The "rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic" cliches are flowing. As they should. Yosh is a Harley-riding lapdog. Hopelessly tied to making Dubya happy above all else. But this is most assuredly Dubya's call so the rest of us can only comment after the fact. That fact? That the entire Bushie cabal is circling the wagons to little effect.
Speaking of former Budget directors that got all bonkers spending on the military and led the Nation down a dangerous path, Caspar "formerly Cap the Knife" Weinberger died today. He was 88. Adjusted for inflation thanks to the National debt he helped create, he was 179. I'm sure I won't be the first to remind readers of Bush the Elder's pardon of Cap on Jesusmas Eve in '92, just days before his trial was to begin for lying to the Independent Counsel investigating the Iran Contra debacle. Weinberger promoted a trillion dollars of new defense spending while Reagan's Budget guy. Bolten's overseen the largest deficits in history, a bloated chunk of which has gone to military expenditures. Notice any serendipity in the "This Day in Bush History" connection? I sure as shineola do.
Hope your own promotions today are more based on the ability to get the job done. Rock on.
Speaking of former Budget directors that got all bonkers spending on the military and led the Nation down a dangerous path, Caspar "formerly Cap the Knife" Weinberger died today. He was 88. Adjusted for inflation thanks to the National debt he helped create, he was 179. I'm sure I won't be the first to remind readers of Bush the Elder's pardon of Cap on Jesusmas Eve in '92, just days before his trial was to begin for lying to the Independent Counsel investigating the Iran Contra debacle. Weinberger promoted a trillion dollars of new defense spending while Reagan's Budget guy. Bolten's overseen the largest deficits in history, a bloated chunk of which has gone to military expenditures. Notice any serendipity in the "This Day in Bush History" connection? I sure as shineola do.
Hope your own promotions today are more based on the ability to get the job done. Rock on.
Monday, March 27, 2006
"Walker, Maya Ranger" premieres - Chuck Norris conditionally commits to an upcoming episode
Time for some fessing up. To those of you that feel I've been slighting the Maya coverage in lieu of all that is so galling newz-wise as of late - my apologies. I offer this blog as a free public service meant largely to serve the Maya-loving public...at least until my team (accountant/web designer/goatee wrangler) finds a way to squeeze some extra pennies from your beloved readership. After which I go "Big Time!" - solid platinum Hummer3, free-range cashmere track suits, Evian enemas, rainforest-wood-fueled BBQ smoker lit 24/7 for beercan bald eagle cookouts. Most days I can't help but comment upon horrible stories such as the U.S. Military in Iraq getting roped into a raid on Moktada al-Sadr's multi-purposed torture-chamber/mosque. Or Idaho's Gov. "Dick" Kempthorne arranging for his fake-wife to be appointed Lt. Gov. of "I-da-ho" when he moves to DC to cover up things in the Interior for the Bushies. But today I'm putting all that and other juiciness aside. After two brief updates...
Tom here in SF (a friend dating back prior to this blog, via college chumminess with Sarah) passed along a follow-up to the Issac Hayes story regarding quitting "South Park" over Scientology. Basically, Chef may have been framed as an unfortunate pawn. Tom Cruise isn't mentioned, but should be. The only point necessary to be drawn - Scientology is the bitchiest, most-clueless cult this side of Amway. Or Oprah's Book Club.
Also, the previously mentioned "Dove Foundation" that I'd wanted to split open like a well-dried gourd. Well, I lost interest the more I researched them. Essentially, they're Mormons with a crazy hard-on for attacking "Hollywood" on behalf of those that believe in "family values" and the need for the curbing of free expression. To give them more ink would be to give them more time than they deserve. As I believe Jesus would say, "those freaks is CRAZY".
So for the Maya-ness some of y'all crave, I've got good news. She's walking. Not to the store, not even downstairs to pick up my morning newspaper - although I've asked in both cases. But walking consistently and true. A weekend in Santa Barbara with the encouragement of Nanna, Poppy, Aunties Becca and Katie, and a number of beloved random visitors got her engine for such activity fully primed. The steps came in bunches. And now that we've back home, she's striding like an Olympic hurdler full of the requisite horse steroids. Given that it's her 13-month Birthday, I suppose that such a signpost is appropriately noted. When she takes her first serious digger, I'll be sure to pass it along. Regardless, she looks happy and hearty in her new mobility. Bicuspids are in, so to speak. Molars on their way. Or at least that's what I saw this morning at breakfast. Hope your own dentistry is formatively focused today. Rock on.
Tom here in SF (a friend dating back prior to this blog, via college chumminess with Sarah) passed along a follow-up to the Issac Hayes story regarding quitting "South Park" over Scientology. Basically, Chef may have been framed as an unfortunate pawn. Tom Cruise isn't mentioned, but should be. The only point necessary to be drawn - Scientology is the bitchiest, most-clueless cult this side of Amway. Or Oprah's Book Club.
Also, the previously mentioned "Dove Foundation" that I'd wanted to split open like a well-dried gourd. Well, I lost interest the more I researched them. Essentially, they're Mormons with a crazy hard-on for attacking "Hollywood" on behalf of those that believe in "family values" and the need for the curbing of free expression. To give them more ink would be to give them more time than they deserve. As I believe Jesus would say, "those freaks is CRAZY".
So for the Maya-ness some of y'all crave, I've got good news. She's walking. Not to the store, not even downstairs to pick up my morning newspaper - although I've asked in both cases. But walking consistently and true. A weekend in Santa Barbara with the encouragement of Nanna, Poppy, Aunties Becca and Katie, and a number of beloved random visitors got her engine for such activity fully primed. The steps came in bunches. And now that we've back home, she's striding like an Olympic hurdler full of the requisite horse steroids. Given that it's her 13-month Birthday, I suppose that such a signpost is appropriately noted. When she takes her first serious digger, I'll be sure to pass it along. Regardless, she looks happy and hearty in her new mobility. Bicuspids are in, so to speak. Molars on their way. Or at least that's what I saw this morning at breakfast. Hope your own dentistry is formatively focused today. Rock on.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
And "pulling a Munson" gets renamed, "pulling a Morrison". (apologies to the Farrelly Brothers)
Sucks to be anyone who wasted cash buying sporty gear over the last few years for the NCAA Men's Tourney darling - Gonzaga. They lost a heartbreaker last night. And BOY do I mean lost it. The last 11 points of the game were scored by UCLA. The 'Zags were up by 5 points with 40 seconds to go. They lost by 2. And then their strangely talented and just plain strange star (Adam Morrison) had a hissy fit and dissembled onto the floor, weeping face down while his teammates tried to congratulate the exultant UCLA players. Insanely exciting and deranged ending. Exactly why the Tourney is the best sporting event of the year, hands down.
Heading outta town for a quickie weekend down in Santa Barbara. Hoping to get Maya in the pool and on the beach. Pics should be expected herein thereafter. Hope your own Friday getaways last through the weekend and beyond. Rock on.
Heading outta town for a quickie weekend down in Santa Barbara. Hoping to get Maya in the pool and on the beach. Pics should be expected herein thereafter. Hope your own Friday getaways last through the weekend and beyond. Rock on.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Today's Chef Special - L. Ron Hubbard Lawyer on a Shtick
With all that's wrong in the World today (Google: "the Bush Administration) "South Park" offered a distraction last night in its Season Premiere. Crappy episode, written out of obvious spite and surprisingly devoid of truly obscene insult to the Age We Unfortunately Live In. But frickin' HILL-AIR-E-OUS! Issac Hayes got scewered like the only sea urchin at a vegan beachside BBQ. Comedy Central bowed to the lititgious pressure from Tom Cruise and his Mothership by not airing an episode concerning Scientology. Issac Hayes even quit to add heft to the Scientology pressure. No word yet on the previously sexy Anne Archer's reaction to the shtick - I always held a candle for her lingering hotness until I saw her ingratiating mug on a poster in the storefront window of the Scientology "Reading Room" in Santa Barbara. Nonetheless, everyone got their lawyers all up in a bunch and made it seem like Trey Parker and Matt Stone were offering up the cultural equivalent of calling Jesus a fag (remember - you heard it here first...but not really). So Parker and Stone puked out an episode that was equal parts personal and awkwardly funny. Kinda like my prom date. Who wins in all this? Who cares. But I'm sure a lot fewer 18-year-olds will make the horrible wrong turn into a Scientology-sponsored seminar in the years ahead. For that, I nominate "South Park" for the Nobel Piece of Mind Prize.
Hope your own adventurist departures today don't leave you on a valley floor, partially devoured by mountain lions and/or grizzly bears. Rock on.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Insert your own Katherine Harris boob joke here
Dubya screwed himself yesterday. As Cheney famously said, "Big Time!" Every press organization this side of Anarctica focused on the gooey chewy nugget of "future Prezidunts" will decide when we leave Iraq. I expect this faux pas will make the Dubai ports deal look like an overcharge at your local 7-Eleven. I could add my caustic yet entirely original logs to the pyre being constructed. But I've been there and done that. I'll let the cliched forces for Good vs. Evil punch this one out. I'm more taken with something about Katherine Harris's run for Senate. No, not her vote-gathering, gravity-defying breasts and horrible tendency toward clownish make-up. I'm talking about her latest attempt to draw in the support of religious conservatives with biblical allusions that stumped the burning bush out of me until I did the requisite Googling. Basically Harris claims she will sell all her wealth for this campaign's expected demands. The mention of selling "a widow's mite" was my favorite bobble being vaguely cited. So if you are likewise interested and can't imagine taking the time to search for the sub-references I'll boil it down a bit - Katherine Harris is trying to run as a religious candidate. No word yet on whether her family's monopolistic background in the Florida citrus business (if you've heard of Sunkist, that's them) and her affair with Jeb make her viable from the point of view of the Robertsons and Falwells of the GOP religious attack monkey wing. There are other races in '06 that will astonish. But I salivate while predicting that none will be more salacious than hers. I'm all in on this one, baby. Stay tuned.
Hope your own tight-fitting sweaters highlight your qualifications today. Rock on.
Hope your own tight-fitting sweaters highlight your qualifications today. Rock on.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
"I wanted to take U Conn. But Turd Blossom reminded me they're from a Blue State. And weak on Defense."
Dubya gave a freaked-out unannounced presser this morning from the White House Press Room. As usual, he was equal parts optimistic, flailingly unprofessional and petulent. The exchange with Helen Thomas is the only thing you need to read or listen to unless you've got, like, no life. As one of the few thousand Americans who was able to watch it while I gave an uncomfortably-teething, seething-with-a-lowgrade-cold, yet entirely submissive Maya her morning bottle, I'm still stunned by the display. For those of you that think I'm always just spouting liberal shtick, I challenge you - watch this guy, YOUR GUY, painfully try to joke around with a roomful of reporters and tell me why I shouldn't make fun of him. Dubya knows he's on camera. Hell, any dork knows how a camcorder works. That's why so many people freeze up and get all bizarro when they see the red light at weddings or family reunions. Yet this is actually important. Still, Dubya feels as though the Prezidunt should make fun of reporters in between questions while the World shakes its collective head at the disrespect. It's so painfully obvious the disdain Dubya and his tired staff of cronies have for the media. On that fact, tons of Americans are with them. That's why the Bushies do it - discredit the critics, play lowball, say the media distorts everything, yada yada yada. Part of the modern American Preziduncy, many would defend them by saying. But their flippance far too often recently (including this past weekend's WashingtonPost Op/Ed ghost-written for Rummy) condescends even further to the claim that "history will decide" and that journalism is all crap. I suggest that this is merely a tactic to buy time. But many more news conferences like this one and, well - history can't wait forever.
Hope your own news conferences today include at least one question about how your NCAA Tourney brackets are looking. Rock on.
Hope your own news conferences today include at least one question about how your NCAA Tourney brackets are looking. Rock on.
Monday, March 20, 2006
"Progress" redefined - as in, "why must 'forward' always be so uni-directional?"
NEWSFLASH: Dubya STILL claims we're "makin' progress" in Iraq! Or, in other words, his speechwriters have absolutely nothing else to say to counter the multitudes of facts smacking the Bushies in the face like junebugs astride a Harley cruising at top-speed on an open country highway. Regardless, this whole PR spin class from the Bushies allows me to look toward those things that instead might inspire. Namely, Maya. And my own childhood back in Wisconsin. Because, after all, both will have about as much impact as Dubya's latest speechifying on our country's security. Or the price of beets in Belarus, for that matter.
Maya's got molars coming in. So she's a total bitch. In the sense of "bitch" being a totally understandable, generally uncomfortable, utterly unpredictable, yet largely encrypted entity for whom a hug seems to break the code of discontent. If she were a TV show, she'd be something like "The Soup" on E! - well-produced and often focused on the trivial. But oh-so-watchable.
Then there's the whole "not-yet-walking-but-thanks-for-asking" aspect of her mobility. Her balance is better than mine. She spills over obstacles like Steve McQueen with a headful of meth. But she's still relying on "the cruiser crawl" thing whenever the gap between handholds is more than a few steps. We need an epiphany to transition her into a full Walker, California Ranger. Regardless, expect the updates herein as soon as it legitimately happens.
To flesh out the mention of my 'Sconi childhood - I got a call from a high school friend yesterday who lives in Neenah, WI (a Chicago compared to the Peoria of our shared youth, so to speak). Haven't spoken to him in what I'm reluctant to admit is honestly 15 years. But my 'rents still live where I grew up and have had contact with his family much more recently. We'd sent out Maya's birth announcements recently (only a year-ish late for those keeping score at home) and I'd included this friend (Donnie) in the bundling. So he called to catch up. And suddenly it was like it was the late 80s again. We were laughing about our shared anarchic small-town experiences. Not that it matters to anyone aside from me. Yet we graduated amidst a class of 40 and this was akin to finding a long-lost sibling. He's a teacher, cool dad, ex-college-football player and current coach. So if he's reading, I just want him to know...you hit like my one-legged sister. If she wasn't even trying.
Hope your own friendly taunts are equally productive today. Rock on.
Maya's got molars coming in. So she's a total bitch. In the sense of "bitch" being a totally understandable, generally uncomfortable, utterly unpredictable, yet largely encrypted entity for whom a hug seems to break the code of discontent. If she were a TV show, she'd be something like "The Soup" on E! - well-produced and often focused on the trivial. But oh-so-watchable.
Then there's the whole "not-yet-walking-but-thanks-for-asking" aspect of her mobility. Her balance is better than mine. She spills over obstacles like Steve McQueen with a headful of meth. But she's still relying on "the cruiser crawl" thing whenever the gap between handholds is more than a few steps. We need an epiphany to transition her into a full Walker, California Ranger. Regardless, expect the updates herein as soon as it legitimately happens.
To flesh out the mention of my 'Sconi childhood - I got a call from a high school friend yesterday who lives in Neenah, WI (a Chicago compared to the Peoria of our shared youth, so to speak). Haven't spoken to him in what I'm reluctant to admit is honestly 15 years. But my 'rents still live where I grew up and have had contact with his family much more recently. We'd sent out Maya's birth announcements recently (only a year-ish late for those keeping score at home) and I'd included this friend (Donnie) in the bundling. So he called to catch up. And suddenly it was like it was the late 80s again. We were laughing about our shared anarchic small-town experiences. Not that it matters to anyone aside from me. Yet we graduated amidst a class of 40 and this was akin to finding a long-lost sibling. He's a teacher, cool dad, ex-college-football player and current coach. So if he's reading, I just want him to know...you hit like my one-legged sister. If she wasn't even trying.
Hope your own friendly taunts are equally productive today. Rock on.
Friday, March 17, 2006
"South Park" hits a ligitious nerve - alert all the John Smiths in Hollywood (watch the credits to get the joke)
Wow. If you have 21 minutes and 40 astonished seconds to blow and care to watch the origins of a total legal shitestorm, you NEED to watch the "South Park" Scientology episode that was pulled from Comedy Central in response to legal threats from Tom Cruise and L. Ron Hubbard's "Church" lawyers. Just for added flavor, Issac Hayes (the voice of Chef over 9 seasons, yet sadly another brainwash victim) quit over this episode claiming that he couldn't tolerate the criticism of religion (translation - "my" religion). If you could hear me now, you'd hear me still laughing from the aggregation of this absurdity. The episode is great. Not as great as the dissection of the Mormons from a few seasons ago. But bloody well brilliant, nonetheless. The internet is seemingly now best used to view just this sort of viral controversy. The poster on YouTube claims to have "found" the video in a rental shop. Whatever you believe, enjoy.
A Nation drowns an awkward Anniversary with gallons of Green Busch Lite
Dubya's "Bring 'em On" War in Iraq began three years ago today. For the most part, the media is skidding across the surface of this story. The USA Today offered up a poll that's worth a looksie - obviously more Americans have been hurt by this folly than we'd previously been led to believe. But most of the other assessment angles read like shallow, obligatory crap. Especially with St. Patty's Day falling on a Friday and thereby forcing the 12% of American citizens of actual Irish ancestry into a boozy struggle for a barstool with 73% of the Nation's goofballs dressed in puke-green plastic hats. No offense to the Irish, but Dubya's forever peed indelible green all over your BoozeFest. In the spirit of poorly-prepared rationales, here's my contribution to the non-Irish part of today's discussion.
3 Years after the start date of some of our Nation's Most Referenced Prior Wars...
War of 1812 - it was over. But surprisingly, it lasted until 1815.
Civil War - the most brutal war in American history was less than one year from over.
World War I (from the point of the U.S. entering the Fight) - it had been over for like 18 months.
World War II (ditto on our entry date) - it would be over in 8 months.
Korean War - over. The TV series "M*A*S*H*", unfortunately, would last for another 8 years.
Vietnam - we were 7-12 years away from the shame of evacuating the Embassy in the fall of Saigon, depending on your agreed upon start date.
So, I speculate. One of those Wars is most like this bugger. Which is these Wars do you think it is?
Hope your own historical comparisons feature equally cute "Sesame Street" sing-alongs today. Rock on.
3 Years after the start date of some of our Nation's Most Referenced Prior Wars...
War of 1812 - it was over. But surprisingly, it lasted until 1815.
Civil War - the most brutal war in American history was less than one year from over.
World War I (from the point of the U.S. entering the Fight) - it had been over for like 18 months.
World War II (ditto on our entry date) - it would be over in 8 months.
Korean War - over. The TV series "M*A*S*H*", unfortunately, would last for another 8 years.
Vietnam - we were 7-12 years away from the shame of evacuating the Embassy in the fall of Saigon, depending on your agreed upon start date.
So, I speculate. One of those Wars is most like this bugger. Which is these Wars do you think it is?
Hope your own historical comparisons feature equally cute "Sesame Street" sing-alongs today. Rock on.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Daisy Duke stands up to Boss Hogg, at long last.
We all know Jessica Simpson. Hotter-than-hot dumb-ass blonde. Painfully over-exposed by our celebrity-obsessed media. Lived in my garage for a few weeks while dealing with her painful separtion from Nick Lachey. Eats nothing but Oreos, Kettle Chips and Sominex. Full of silicone. Dumb as a post. Y'know - normal American twentyish divorcee. But then I saw this morning how even JESSICA SIMPSON is running away from any association with Dubya. Apparently, J-Dumbo doesn't want to adversely affect her plastic surgery charity (in all seriousness, it's called Operation Smile) by attending a GOP fundraiser tangentially with Dubya. On a morning when the Bushies are trying to emphasize their right to pre-emptively attack Iran and the GOP attack monkeys are trying to rally behind a banner meant to tag the nation's ballsiest living Senator (Feingold, ascending to Wellstone's tragically-vacated position) as a traitor, I doubt that any story will have more impact than this cheesy tartlet's defection. No word yet on what Jessica's believe-it-or-not less-talented sister, um, Stinkifer, has to say about the Bushie agenda.
Hope your own siblings totally, like, sign off on your agenda, like, today. Rock on.
Hope your own siblings totally, like, sign off on your agenda, like, today. Rock on.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Sidekickin' it with Mz. Johnny Rotten
I'm offering entirely low-impact bloggin' this mornin' - hope all of those that wanted Maya pics appreciate what I threw up herein last nite. I'm trying to get some work done around taking time out to meet a fellow "new Dad" friend for coffee at a favorite cafe in Cole Valley. But I simply must attempt to defame a cheeseball who just came into my frame of reference. If you've ever believed me about anything, believe me about this. Imagine a punk rocker chick. Cute, but not too much so. No offense. Your standard studded belt. Bandanas tied around her lower calf (hey, Axel - your future wife appears to have raided your closet last nite). Platform chunky shoes. Black clothing, shoulders to toes. Poorly-dyed red hair. As she sits down at the table next to me she pulls from her army green sling bag (!) the recent punk rock non-fiction history titled "Please Kill Me" (haven't read it myself, but I've heard good things). All of this sounds in character for a generally-attractive, entirely-standoff-ish punk, I'm sure you'll agree. But then she pulls out her Sidekick and makes a big deal of flipping it open to check her messages - for those of you unaware or uninterested, Motorola's Sidekick is the under-30 Blackberry with a pricetag that is wholly unjustified. And then I noticed that she'd brought in a Venti Starbucks cup. Please excuse the shouting but THIS IS AN INDEPENDENT COFFEESHOP! Unless that's 20 ounces of gin, you're a fraud. I haven't seen this much cheesiness since the Cheddar Carving Contest at the Wisconsin State Fair back in '81. If I was two decades younger, I'd stand up and throw a green tea with just a touch of lemon in her face...
Wait. She left for the bathroom and hasn't returned for more than 10 minutes. I'm going way out on a limb here, but I think she's shooting up in there. Yup - haven't seen her for WAY too long. She's a mess. Gawd Shave the Queen. Whatever you take that to mean.
Regardless, hope your own radicalism has unimpeachable street cred today. Rock on.
Wait. She left for the bathroom and hasn't returned for more than 10 minutes. I'm going way out on a limb here, but I think she's shooting up in there. Yup - haven't seen her for WAY too long. She's a mess. Gawd Shave the Queen. Whatever you take that to mean.
Regardless, hope your own radicalism has unimpeachable street cred today. Rock on.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
And Number 5, Texas outlaws the use of the word "Allah" unless used in conjunction with the words "have an order of ribs".
Even if you live in the freakishly warm N'East or the broad swath of the country either recovering from tornadoes or fighting wildfires (is this really only March? and does anyone still dispute that our climate is changing like crazy?), there's a terrible chill in the air this morning. Specifically, I'm talking about a story in the NYTimes this morning about how college scholarships created for women and minorities are being flooded by applications from white men. Frat guys, largely. Well, I don't know that for sure, but I bet they've all been on the business end of a beer bong in the recent past and have at least one dog named "Dubya". Regardless, I'm sure anyone with a brain would ask "why?" and "can they do that?" and maybe even "what about gay white men?" Basically, the Bushies are pushing through their grassroots a further dissembling of anything that hints at affirmative action. And just like the utterly illegal abortion ban South Dakota recently decided to have tattooed on its ignorant ass, this movement is more about arrogant over-reaching given the new members of the Supreme Court than anything else, say, rational. Or legal. So I'm going out on a limb here to predict some new "Test the New Supreme Court" initiatives. Admittedly, they're about as likely to move on as my NCAA Women's Basketball bracket's Champion. In that one, I picked the Duke men's team to win. Because if you're going to break down barriers...
- Maryland's GOP finally gathers the balls necessary to call for a renaming of the State. Their proposal - Herbland. The cross-pollenization from the NORML crowd brings those extremes together for the first (and last) time.
- Pat Robertson announces plans for a pro-Israel, anti-Jew theme park. He dubs it "Christalvania".
- David Duke and Ralph Reed begin construction with the money they've illegally raised to construct a wall around the former-City of New Orleans, specifically designed to keep out black and Hispanic people. The Department of Homeland Security re-appropriates their levee construction money to the project, which is being handled by Halliburton's chicken-wire and mesh subcontractor.
- The College Republicans begin a drive to eliminate sororities for illegal housing restrictions on campuses. They pair with the producers of the "Girls Gone Wild" video series to begin building a vast array of "clothing-not-EVEN-optional" condos/shower-rooms/pillow-fight-dens on the smoking remains of those former houses. The Department of Education moves considerable funding to the new project, quickly dubbed "No Worthwhile Rack Left Behind".
Monday, March 13, 2006
I'm back. On second thought, not really...
Rumors of my blogging demise have been greatly exaggerated. I just needed to step away for a few days to focus my energy on other pursuits and wait for the news to catch up with me. Sadly, it seems as though we're in a time-warp yet again this Monday. Dubya's prepping a PR cycle to explain just how darn much we're winning in Iraq. Wake me up when he says anything about our "progress" other than "we're makin' good". And with much of the nation gripped by pre-March Madness madness, I'm feeling lukeish. Not Skywalker, just sort of tepid. Barry Bonds is still a ludicrously large-'roid-headed jerk, this weekend's GOP attack monkey straw poll for their fave '08 Candidate generated as much heat as the anticipation of NBC's '06 Winter Olympics highlight DVDs hitting the market, Ex-Bushie Claude Aikens (not the 70s TV star, but the Top Policy Adviser in the White House) is outed for a lame Target scheme that every desperate frat guy in the nation has contemplated at some point, Kirby Puckett is still dead, Edgerin James is headed to Phoenix, and we're all being lulled once again into silence. There's not enough caffeine in the world to make this morning's papers interesting.
On second thought, I'll be better off putting up some Maya pics later today and putting aside the news. Hope you're able to prioritize equally well today. Rock on.
On second thought, I'll be better off putting up some Maya pics later today and putting aside the news. Hope you're able to prioritize equally well today. Rock on.
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