Saturday, August 31, 2002

CD: Stevie Wonder, "Talking Book"

At my school, the age of the average student is 26, meaning that in most cases they have better things to do than sit around in a classroom. They usually want to retrain or get some sort of certification or are there for the fun of it, which I have seen but still don't believe. The school attempts to accomodate all of these things, but for anyone trying to get an education straight through will find a crooked path. In one of my classes, "Mentoring Seminar," the idea is that each student already has a job in our career and is working with someone with experience at the workplace to be their "mentor." This is true of 5 out of 12 students in the class, meaning the other 7, and the teacher, have no idea what to do next. And, of course, this prerequisite wasn't mentioned to anyone beforehand. If she drops the students (like myself) that don't meet the supposed "prerequisites," she has to cancel the class, which she can't do. And I need my gull durned credits! This will be an interesting month.

Friday, August 30, 2002

CD: Stevie Wonder, "Music of My Mind"

After haggling with a workable student schedule, and then submitting FIVE different versions of it to the Registrar's Office, then petitioning a professor to add me to her class, only to fail to fail in that attempt, I will be taking nine credit hours this semester. Luckily, I took a class in the summer, keeping me on track with a full-time courseload. One class I was especially happy to get into was abbreviated in the class listing as "CRIT ISS MUS STU". "Cool," I thought, "Critical Issues in Muslim Studies! This is perfect considering the state of the world. I could really get into this one." While buying the books I noticed they seemed to discuss art and other strange topics not directly involving politics. "Cool," I thought, "They're going to look at this from a completely different angle: a cultural standpoint and our interpretations of that standpoint." Then I get into class, and ignore what was written on the board until one minute before class starts: "Critical Issues in Museum Studies". Doh! Well, it meets my requirement so I'm staying. Jiminy.

Thursday, August 29, 2002

CD: Soundgarden, "Flower" EP

I got an E-mail forwarded to me that was supposed to be some sort of "Proud to be an American" statement but instead ended up being a rant in the vein of nativist jingoism. It starts by saying the author was upset a Florida judge allowed a Moslem woman to get her driver's license photo taken with only her eyes showing. Poor us, this is competely against our American ideals! Why, if this woman wants to be in OUR country, that's fine, but she should conform to OUR moral values and OUR way of life. This person, who may have left her country of origin to escape religious persecution, should assimilate with the culture she moved to, not impose her exclusive culture on those she meets here! That's just plain un-American! So have you ever been so infuriated by someone's comments you didn't know what to say first? I deleted the E-mail.

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

CD: Weezer, "Maladroit"

This fall I will either sleep until noon every day and do homework out of sheer boredom, or I will get up at 5 every morning and fall asleep at the wheel driving back from college late some night. I have signed up to be a substitute teacher in three different schools, and if they call me I become a rich but very busy man. One thing I didn't know about substitute teaching is that in some schools, you don't even need a bachelor's degree--or have taken education courses in college, for that matter--to work. Fifty bucks for six hours of work is not really much to scoff at, considering you could be cleaning toilets for about as much instead. But that's with a union toilet-scrubbing job. Then again it would be cheaper to scrub the toilets and not have to pay for decent dress clothes and ties you'd have to wear every day of the week. Of course, you go to work simply to afford things like decent dress clothes and ties. Well maybe not ties; I was never a big fan of them. I have gotten used to them, however, which is good, and nowadays I don't have to go online and ask Jeeves "How do you tie a tie?" anymore. I keep the link in my Favorites menu anyway, just for sentimental value, I guess. In fact, when was the last time I cleaned out my Favorites? November 9, 2001. Now I know. Knowing is half the battle. Knowledge is power. The power is in your hands. You're in good hands with AllState. Quaker State motor oil gives your engine protection beyond 3000 miles. I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more. More selection means better savings. Wider is better. You should know better. Knowing is half the battle...

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

CD: Vertical Horizon, "Everything You Want"

Recently I've become addicted to a television show, which is horrible because 1) I really don't have the time and 2) the show is ninety minutes long. It's called The Screen Savers and is on the TechTV channel, oh, about five times a day. The premise is simple: a bunch of people talking about a new computer gadgets, taking help calls from viewers, and interviewing other people who apparently know what they're talking about when it comes to computers. It fascinates me because I'm interested in the half of the show I understand and I wish I could understand the other half of the show I don't. The best part is when something called "The Screen Savers Effect" happens on the show, which is when someone tries to demonstrate a new application or website and the thing just refuses to work. Dude, that totally like happens to ME all the time! So now I have to learn how to read textbooks and newspapers and watch television at the same time. At least the show is educational in that regard...

Monday, August 26, 2002

CD: Bikini Kill, "Pussywhipped"

This summer my subconcious has almost taken over. It's fascinating and scary at the same time. I think it started during my many ours alone in the car, singing to myself and cursing me out whenever I'm just about to merge into heavy traffic. Recently, these verbalizations have found me on the sidewalk, at work, or while watching television. Usually they consist of only one or two words--if that--but they can border on Tourette's every once in the while. This only happens when I am alone in a place, so it is nothing like the truly crazy people you see talking to themselves along a New York City street. But why am I doing them? Why were I not prior? Will it make me "CRAAAAAYZEEEE?" It's like mumbling incoherent things in your sleep, but instead I'm awake at the same time. I hope it's not chronic schizophrenia; that would be a demon hell ride, making me laugh like a crazy clown in the Bozo circus . . . .

Sunday, August 25, 2002

CD: Memphis Minnie, "Queen of the Blues"

In a recent post I mentioned my cat, Billy, and his addiction to marijuana. Which brings me back to the post I wrote the other night, about going to the Tool concert. The opening band was Tomahawk, some sort of new collaboration with a member from Faith No More, another guy from Jesus Lizard, etc. And I'm sure they sounded great. This would have been a verifiable statement, had not my brother and sister (A family outing!) gone with me to make it by the 7:30 start time, instead of leaving the house at 8:00. Why so late? The two music lovers wanted to Smoke Up before they left.

Which brings me back to my cat, Billy, and his addiction to marijuana. About 4 years ago I came home and found an open box marked "Cat High" in large, cursive marker. "What's this?" I asked my brother, inquisitively.

"Heh heh hehhhhhhhh . . . .

I assumed the label on the box was literal, and later found out I was right. During parties with friends, sometimes my brother would light up a bowl of weed, put a box over it, and put the cat in the box for a few minutes. I hear that during one hilarious episode the cat started walking all crooked (they don't always land on their feet!), leaning against the wall, and then ralphed in a corner. This would explain why the cat meows after it's let out, not before, why its skinny and and always has the munchies, and why its eyes are, well, glassy. Like a smoked glass? Anyway the statute of limitations is probably already out for giving hash to the cat, and since there's no moral/happy ending to the story . . . uh, I forgot.

Saturday, August 24, 2002

CD: "The Langley Schools Music Project"

Overheard tonight at the Tool concert, from one man to another in the public bathroom:

"Dude, you know Rob, right? My cousin Rob? We were down in Orlando last spring . . . . Anyway we all got salmonella and Rob got it BAD. Like he was shakin' and stuff, and shitting blood and everything, right? So one night we're getting back real late to the motel and Rob like can't make it . . . . And he just gets down and takes a SHIT, right there on the boardwalk! It was the fuckin' funniest thing I've ever seen! Hah ha ha . . . !

I don't have anything to add to this, except: if your cousin is so sick he has to deficate blood on the street, is it really funny? Oh well. But I feel bad for the people making out under the boardwalk . . .

Wednesday, August 21, 2002

CD: Pearl Jam, "Binaural"

At one point at work last week I was looking for a cardboard box full of paper bags. I never found it. I looked in the storage room, but to no avail. After asking a manager where they were, he said "try the next room, where they keep the stuff for the gift shop." If there is an overflow of stock, as there usually is during the peak summer months, my work is able to use the other store's storage space. To make a short story shorter, I did not know what the box of bags actually looked like, so I had to pry open a few of the packages. After about 10 minutes of searching a cramped little storage room--one you can't walk in and should be able to find things without actually looking--I got frustrated, tore a slit in the top of an unmarked box and stuck my hand in. What was inside shocked me. It sure wasn't paper bags, but soft. And furry. And at the same time, a co-worker unknowingly from behind their sneakers squeaking.

Fur + Squeak
= Alive!

I pulled my hand back and went "AAAAAAHH!"

"What's wrong?" the co-worker asked.
"I thought it was alive! And I got scared! Geez!" I tried to breathe.
She looked at the plain cardboard box, then me. "Oh Kayyy..." and resumed walking.

I wish the gift shop would label their crates of stuffed animals, but I'm in no position to dictate.

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

CD: Medeski Martin & Wood, "Uninvisible"

There are primal instincts that all mankind must succumb to at one time or another. Perhaps it is the drive to perpetuate the species, or increase heartrate when threatened. Today, without thinking, I tried to protect my nads from getting stepped on by my cat. For whatever reason, I have a cat that loves stepping on my nads. I could be reading the newspaper, or sitting and eating, or lying down asleep. This cat (whose name is Billy, after Billy Corgan [not my decision] by the way) will somehow find an excuse to jump up to my lap area and then wander around. This results in a repeated number of passes over my reproductive organs whilst walking very, very deliberately. Then, after about the third pass, the cat starts pawing at the rocky "ground" as if attempting to achieve better footing. This will involve claws, but they are not very sharp or heavily utilized. I still fail to understand why the cat will walk on my nads but not my legs, shoulders, or torso when they are available to him. Always--without fail--straight for the nads.

Today I was lying down, and on my side. Therefore, there was no logically feasible way the cat COULD step on my nads, even if it WANTED to. But when the cat jumped on to the sofa, and near my waist, I instantly hinged my body so my knees ended up almost against my chest. I was awed by my sense of reflex, and then by my stupidity. More about Billy the Cat later, as he is the only cat I know of who is a recovering marijuana addict; like it sounds, it's a long story.

Monday, August 19, 2002

CD: moe., "dither"

Once again, I have missed the Fair. The Erie County Fair ("second largest county fair in America!" the brochure exclaims) was held from August 8 to August 18, and guess what day it is. I have only been to the Fair one time, and that's when I was about 8 years old. There was a really big sandcastle, and a bunch of tractors, and ice cream, and funhouse mirrors and it smelled like poo and feed! We had a really fun time. Ever since then I've wanted to go back but NO, I've been out of town or working or couldn't find anyone to go with me or it was raining or some other silly reason. Alas, one more year of waiting before I see a demolition derby, or get reminded as to what all the H's stand for in 4H, or walk by a cheap excuse for a Ferris Wheel and think "I don't wanna waste my tickets on that, either." Phooey!

Saturday, August 17, 2002

CD: Blue Oyster Cult, "Secret Treaties"

George W. Bush is an excellent puppet president. Thirty years from now, or however long it is supposed to take, I'm sure the documents will be released to show that Cheney, Powell, Rumsfeld and the like were running the whole show. But is that a bad thing? I mean really. In a time where we have to deal with Middle East peace problems and threats of oil embargos, broken agreements between Israel and Palestine, and the Saudi Arabian question, who else is better equipped to lead than people who not only have experience in the area, but have actually fought a war there and won? So we know that something will get done. What we don't know is how many people will get killed, civilian or otherwise, in the Arabian subcontinent as a result of some old American codgers wishing they had done it right the first time and gone General Sherman on Saddam's regime. And thirty years from now, to look back and say this country was so powerful it would pick fights with any poor, dysfunctional kid on the playground isn't going to get us anything but dirty looks at the P.T.A. meetings. I do not fear any problems with the U.S.'s economy, infrastructure, or public security under the Second Bush Administration, but I do believe America is trying to clean the loaded gun we leave around the house. Think about the children!

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

CD: various, "Hopeless Records Winter/Spring 2002 Sampler"

The public library down the street is where I should be spending more of my time. Why I am not probably includes Television in its equation, something that says a lot about my recent bouts with sloth in these summer months. The new library has free, high-speed internet access. My house will not let me get past 33.6. The new library has air conditioning. My house has ten fans that can't get the temperature under 80. The new library gets Rolling Stone and has comfortable chairs. My house? The UAW newsletter and a couch with my father in his underwear. The new library is a two minute walk from Chinese take-out dishes. My house is a Petri dish for flies to feast on. I hope someday to become such an influential citizen of a town that they name a room of their local library in my honor, which I can move into permanently. Until then, I'll have to remember due dates and sweat in my spare time.

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

CD: MP3 CD, cont'd (current track: Sex Pistols, "Anarchy in the U.K.")

Today I planned on going to Lackawanna for an optional job interview, optional because it was for an entry level job, nobody called me, and the only notice I had for it said anyone "interested" in the job "may" come by. It was supposed to be from 9 AM to noon.

What follows is the remarkable story of one person's ineptitude, ignorance, and bad luck. Firstly, I got 2 1/2 hours of sleep the night before. That is bad for an interview. It is also bad for anyone that has to wake up early, because it disables the Willingness to Wake part of the brain at seven in the morning. So after being late leaving town, It was time to find this Oz, this Mecca, this District Administration Building. 30 Johnson Street. And for the first time in my history of using Yahoo! maps (why the exclamation?) it was completely and utterly and unknowingly incorrect. Not only did it take me to James Street, not Johnson Street, but James Street is about 50 yards long with no buildings, at least none that weren't empty. I found out quickly that Lackawanna has three types of homes: housing projects, housing projects that try to look like real houses, and real houses that look like housing projects trying to look like real houses. Driving around in a tie, listening to Natalie Imbruglia, was like Mr. Dreysdale coming to visit. Luckily I had several sets of maps with me because I have a history of getting lost even a mile from my home. Also, it's not that I don't want to ask for directions, it's that I hate people. Anyway, after driving past it twice I did find 30 Johnson Street, and after two more passes I found the parking lot. The building was grey like the rest of the town, but it was also very dark inside. Too many thoughts passed through my conscience. It took me an hour to get here even without getting lost, would I want to drive an hour to work every day? I'm too tired for a good interview. I don't need an interview anyway; they've already sent me the tax forms. I'm half an hour late and it would be an embarassment to everyone involved. I don't WANT to go in. Is anyone even here? Eventually I reached the conclusion that the job was worth trying for, but it wasn't worth going in for the interview.

For the life of me I will never, ever understand why that last sentence makes sense to me. I never got out of the car. I drove off to do other errands instead. Quickly I found that I was five blocks from my friend Dave's house in Blasdell, eight blocks from where I was caught running a red light last month, and ten blocks from where I paid $120 in parking tickets as a plea bargain for that red light just one week ago. Ineptitude, ignorance, and bad luck. Today all of these things came full circle.

Monday, August 12, 2002

CD: MP3s CD (current track: Blues Brothers, "Soul Man")

The other weekend I was at home at night with my parents. But let's not dwell on that. Anyway, at 11:30 my mother says "Hey, isn't Saturday Night Live on?"

She really wanted to watch it! As if she was always watching it. I thought she hadn't seen the show since John Belushi was alive. When was Mom interested in pop culture? Now I find out that she's a big Chris Farley fan, as well as Will Farrell. These were the same people and skits that were a "bad influence" on me years ago, and "Why are you staying up so late when church is tomorrow?" Now it's because my parents wanted to stay up late and not let us know they were laughing at it. To the casual observer, someone would think I am exposing my past ignorance by saying this. Instead, it only proves one of my earliest hypotheses: they are NOT having sex behind closed doors. EVER.

Sunday, August 11, 2002

CD: my CD of MP3s (current song: Ani DiFranco "In or Out (live)"

Why Fred? I still don't understand why my parents thought it was the 1979 thing to do to name me Fred, not Jimmy or Ayatollah or Fonz or whatever name was actually popular back then. Fred is a family name from my mother's side; I have a deceased great-grandfather and an uncle with that name. Nevertheless, it would be nice to know other Fred People. I meet maybe one every other year, not that I'm looking hard. Usually they're wearing nametags, like mechanics or delivery men. I'm not so good with my hands, but I play some piano. Hmm, Frederic Chopin played piano. But still! I would have never met him. And my parents, who listen to things like Ringo Starr's solo work and that "Courtesy of the Red White and Blue" song weren't exactly thinking along the lines of anything French. Ugh, the French.

I'm not staying on point. The point is--and I do have one--Fred is a horrible name for the new millenium. It has actually became more popular in the last decade, up to about 400th on the Most Popular Boys' Names list. 400th! My brother's name, Tim, is in the 20s, while my sister, Hannah, is nearing the top 10. To use webspeak, WTF? I was gipped. I could have been a Carl or a Tom or William, or something whacked-out-but-cool like Dakota, Dolemite or Velvet, but NO. Name me after some average Canadian guy from 1868. I'm going to go cry myself to sleep now.

No I won't. Freds don't cry. Unless they drop a hammer on their foot.

Saturday, August 10, 2002

CD: CMJ New Music Monthly, Vol. 88, December 2000

My CD collection is Important Business. Not that the CDs are very good, or that I've spent a great deal on them. But I listen to a lot of music, and when it comes to recordkeeping I'm Rain Man. My 753 CDs are now enjoying their new home in a plastic shelving system recently bought from OfficeMax. (Except the 200 that wouldn't fit.)

Some foreign coworkers have asked me to put together an MP3 CD for them, and being the great American Music Lover I am, I've decided to go all out. Two hundred songs from 200 artists. Looking through my collection, I'm finding stuff that I completely forgot about. Like my Snoopy's Christmas With The Royal Guardsmen album. Or the fact that I put Carl Douglas' "Kung Fu Fighting" and Wild Cherry's "Play That Funky Music" at the end of Jane's Addiction's "Ritual De Lo Habitual." Or that I can listen to Kermit the Frog sing "(It's Not Easy) Bein' Green ANYTIME I WANT. Or that I got a copy of "Bachelor Pad Royale Vol. 4" from none other than my hyper-conservative former roommate Micah. Or that I own four times more Smashing Pumpkins songs than the Smashing Pumpkins released. Or that I have at least 5 CDs that I actually sing on. (There's one I've never told anyone about, called "Green Pancakes and Soup" that no one must EVER hear.) Or that I did have the cultural aptitude to purchase the complete Beethoven symphonies. Or that some of these Nirvana recordings are going for $60 on EBay. Or that the first CD I ever bought was "Chant" by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos. I could go on, but the CD I'm listening to has 30 seconds left. Goodnight, and listen to more Ozomatli.

Friday, August 09, 2002

CD: various, "What's Up Matador disc 1: Favorite Tracks"

A couple of entries ago I mentioned Dave, a friend of mine from Blasdell, New York. After I called him from the village courthouse there (it took a couple tries, the phone is primitive) Dave invited me to come over for a couple of hours, which, just like Dave, is very nice of him to do. Anyway, Dave's family has two dogs that I can recall: a larger black one that ARF BARK ARR!s and a more lilliputian one that YIP AYE AR!s At a previous visit to Dave's residence the larger dog was not happy to see me. It was late at night, the lights were on, and s/he probably thought I was going to rob Dave's Mom's Precious Moments figurines. Even worse, for some reason dogs stick their noses very close to my testicles. An angry dog, then, is cause for concern. This time, things seemed to be going well.

Until I opened the door a little too long. "Who let the dog out?" asked Dave, without intentionally referencing popular culture. "Oh, sorry. Um, sorry." I'm not much help. Dave disappeared in the kitchen. I was halfway to telling him he was going in the wrong direction when he reappeared with an individually wrapped slice of cheese. Dave and his younger brother Nathaniel went walking down the street, both with half a slice of cheese in one hand. "C'mon!" they would beckon. "Cheese! Cheese!" It took three minutes tops to get that dog back from the neighborhood. But afterwards, that dog treated me like the local butcher, polite forevermore because I gave him Freedom for a brief shining moment. I wonder, is this how they enforced the Fugitive Slave Act?

Thursday, August 08, 2002

CD: various, "You Are Here Magazine Number 9"

Three day's ago a woman came into my work with her four-year-old son. Give or take a year. By far he is the most charming person I had ever met there. We had a short but very pleasant conversation before her mother shuffled him along.

Boy: Hi, what's your name?
F: I'm Fred.
Boy: Your name is Fred?
F: Yep. What's your name?
Boy: I'm Kevin.
F: Hi Kevin!
K: Do you have any pets?
F: I have some cats.
K: I have a fish. He's all mine and he's nobody else's.
F: Do you play with him?
K: And my sister has a hamster.
F: Do the hamster and the fish ever play together?
K: No, they're not near each other.
F: Oh, I see.
K: You have pet cats.
F: Does your fish have a name?
K: Yes.
F: ...
K: Do you know what kind of hamster she has?
F: No, what kind?
K: It's a GERBIL.
F: Ooh, neat!
Mother: Okay, Kevin, follow Mommy...

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

CD: Nine Inch Nails, "The Fragile"

I live in a small hick village with lots of average white people. My house lies inbetween two trailer parks and is surrounded by a power station, a hardware store, a funeral parlor, an abandoned railroad track turned bike path, and a couple empty plots of land. None of this, however, compares to the even smaller hick village of Blasdell, New York, home of my good friend Dave and also a very polite man named Officer McCormick. It was the latter that caught me running a red light and gave me the opportunity to revisit what looks like Colonial Williamsburg, had Colonial Williamsburg been set in 1983.

There were two things I especially noticed during my court appearance. One was the Seal of the Village of Blasdell that hangs ominously over the presiding judge. What looks like an X intersection separates the seal into four unequal sections, which I pointed out to Dave after I gave his town $120. He had never noticed his village's seal before.

"See, on the top section there's the date the village was founded. Then there's a red house, and then a tree. Pretty good, because no other towns have founding dates, houses, or trees."

Dave: "I never noticed that!"

"But the best part is the left-hand side, where they drew a big metal bucket spilling out a bunch of molten steel."

Dave: "Yep, that's Blasdell!"

The other thing one notices in the village court/police dept./fire dept./meeting hall/teen center is the rotary pay phone at the front door. After several attempts to operate the phone using a calling card, the computerized operator said (this, unlike Dave's mutterings above, are a direct quote):

"Let's try this another way. Why don't you SPEAK your card number into the phone instead."

"I still don't understand you. Please speak your card number into the phone, sounding out each number separately."

Boss Hogg and Roscoe P. Coltrane would have been very comfortable here. I felt somewhat embarrassed that I dressed up and wore khakis to the hearing.

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

CD: Beck, untitled unreleased upcoming album (

Tonight I went to Sam's Club with my father, Jerry, who is now asleep in his underwear on the couch. Every time I go to BJ's Wholesale with Jerry (this is our first time together at Sam's) he gives me the option of driving the shopping cart. I recall that before puberty the notion of getting behind the shopping cart was privilege enough to make me and my siblings fight over the honor, usually running the bottom of the cart into my mother's ankles several times in the process. But after age 12 or so, I would usually find myself at another section of the store, looking for a sale on Parental Avoidance. Since 16, the honor of driving the cart has been paltry compared to driving the motorized cart that got us to the store. Now, years later, I question why my father acts like the mall Santa handing out lollipops when he asks if I want to "take the wheels."

The shopping carts at Sam's are the biggest I've seen outside of Home Depot. However, it is not the size of the carts that I wonder about, but how we use them. At one point my father leaned over to me and said, almost pretending that we were halfway into a conversation, that "all that iced tea is finally making its way so I'm going to find the men's room." In his absence I was to "watch the cart and make sure nothing happens to it." And for the first time I thought to myself, what would happen to it? Would something get stolen? What if something did? It wouldn't matter! It's not like we owned anything in the cart. It's not like we couldn't replace anything if it were taken from the cart. And it's especially not like someone would walk past and think to themselves "Hey, how convenient for me, bwah ha ha! Ten pounds of presently unrefridgerated Sam's Club ground chuck for me to purchase just as if I were in the next aisle where they are currently located! This is my lucky day! " Nevertheless, I could envision my father coming back from a satisfying journey to The Other Sam's Club, realizing our cart was molested, and yelling, "Noooooooooooo!" In a year's time the Lifetime Movie Network would be rebroadcasting "Where's the Beef: Tragedy at Sam's Club" once every other week.

Sunday, August 04, 2002

CD: Drain STH, "Horror Wrestling"

The other day I saw the movie "Requiem for a Dream," which got me to thinking. That's a good thing! The movie was quality stuff, for one, but the fact that I am able to persue other intellectual pursuits this summer that don't involve schoolwork has really turned on the abstract contemplation juices. I'm even taking time to write a weblog, for gosh sakes! Not that I'm actually smarter, or that this blog is worth reading. But I used to go to a movie theater with friends at the end of a week full of writing and correcting papers, and pretty much just wait until it was over to go home and pee. I can hold it in better now, and I'm talking about the symbolism in the film!

Looking back at the previous paragraph shows that maybe I'm not as intelligent as I think I am this late at night. Anyway, back to movies. Though everyone has their (incorrect) favorites, the greatest movie of all time has to be--you guessed it--Frank Stallone. No, I mean it's "Pee Wee's Big Adventure." I must have seen it 30 times. Think of all the great adventures! The dinosaur! The Alamo! The singing hobo! Mr. T Cereal! Morgan Fairchild! And my favorite part, which I can re-enact for the amusement of my friends:

"On this very night, 10 years ago, along the same stretch of a dense fog...just. like. this...I saw the worst accident I ever seen...There was this sound, like a garbage truck, dropped off the empire state building! And when they finally pulled the driver's body from the twisted, burning, looked like...
Hooo hooo hooo hooo hooo haaaah!
Yes sir....That was the worst accident...I ever seen."

Even scarier, watch this scene frame by frame to see the extended tongue and the eyes pulled out of their sockets. Sleep tight everybody!

Saturday, August 03, 2002

CD: "Ken Burns' The Civil War: Original Soundtrack Recording"

Mom's birthday last night. After deciding to order Chinese and sit around at home, we all took our time looking at the take out menu we had posted on the fridge and, for once, were able to organize and plan. I was picked to make the call, menu in hand, and--who woulda thunk--no one answered the phone. Tried again. Jiminy. So we settled for Denny's. My parents aren't ones to go to a place with, say, $10/plate dinners. The truck stop and the local diner do it for them. Denny's is a little bit up the snooty list, so going there became a family event. They're alright people, once you get used to them. But my father and I have to stop getting the same things from the menu; this is the third time this has happened in about a week, and I'm starting to think I got a lopsided share of the genes. Anyway, you could tell it was someone's birthday in the family because we went to Denny's and everybody got to have dessert. Fine eatin'. And raspberry iced tea to boot!