West Lawn Park

downwind

2012-01-22T22:45:00.004-06:00

Let me see if I have this straight:

Mitt Romney is "bad" because he worked for a company called Bain and fired people who had superfluous and/or inefficient jobs. He saved his company a ton of money.

But the Republicans are the fiscally conservative party that are going to slash government spending, close inefficient government agencies and do this without putting anyone out of work?

--

Newt Gingrich, the guy who turned a B.J. into a witch hunt and almost into a Constitutional crisis, is "unfairly" being asked about the first two wives whom he abandoned amidst severe illness and infidelity.

But the Republicans are the party that will restore America and family values?

--

I know, I know, I know. I'm like 4 days behind the front page. But I'm slow about these things and want to make sure I'm up to date.

I guess I shouldn't fret too much though. The biggest decision I have to make this year is whether I'm voting for President Obama or Voltron: Defender of the Universe.

status report

2012-01-19T19:33:00.004-06:00

With the retirement of my favorite band, I'm in a period of transition. Relying on old rock-steady albums is fine. Yet at the age of 32, I'm still pining for something new. And for the first time since I achieved pop culture sentience, I have no hope for anything new from my favorite band. So I'm trying things out.

Many thoughts pass through my frontal lobe during this transition in music appreciation.

-I shouldn't be so reliant on the Western culture. I should branch out. Maybe so. But it's the dead of winter, I'm lazy and being the father of a one year old, the number one song in my rotation is Sandra Boynton's "Ba-dooba-doink-doink-snuffle-dee-dah". Not much chance for a musical renaissance in the near future.

-I shouldn't be so reliant on the remnants of the music industry. I should dig deeper into indie. 88.9 Radio Milwaukee is actually a phenomenal resource for this. It's like XRT 20 years ago and minus the annoying Cold Play addiction. Okay, that's a possibility. But still not fulfillment.

-Paling in comparison to the ol' musical archive, my connection to anything remotely recent is tenuously hanging on via a heavy diet of Arcade Fire and the Decemberists. They'll do in a pinch. But neither band is a thirst quencher for me.

-Every time I listen to Wilco, I get three more gray hairs.

-What the world needs now is a reunion of the Smiths. Yes, definitely yes.

el fin

2012-01-08T16:57:00.002-06:00

The destruction of the sacred 2008 Fantasy Baseball Trophy marks the end of the Year of Shaft & Son.

you're living in a time machine

2012-01-08T10:42:00.004-06:00

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Supposedly it is a post-modern novel devoid of connection to external reality. Purportedly, the very title of the book is a mystery wrapped in a riddle on the top of Damon Lindelof's desk. I don't know about all that.

What I do know is that I really liked this novel! I enjoyed being transported to a week's time in the year 1327. I liked the eerie feel of Benedictine Monastery. I relished the characters -- flawed, creepy, focused and in many ways uncomplicated. And I really, really took pleasure from the simple who-dun-it format!

to the captain

2012-01-01T21:59:00.006-06:00

In many ways, Brian Urlacher has been a Chicago sports anti-hero. He's unpolished, somewhat crude and often very distant from the Bears fans who directly and indirectly pay his salary. 54 if no 56.

Today the Bears ended an excruciatingly bad season. Marred by injury and incompetence, no one can be certain of the vector for this team headed into next year. Never my favorite player, it still really pissed me off when Urlacher said, dejected after the Bears' Christmas night loss, "Only one more game this season, so that's good." Dick! No doubt that was frustration talking, but to manifest itself as apathy! Salt in the wound.

Today in a meaningless game, Urlacher collided with a teammate with his body landing in a very unnatural position. For as much as I've disliked Urlacher over the years, I have to say my attention quickly piqued as I saw his legs separate like a wishbone. I thought to myself, "That's it for his career. What a shame!" And as 54 lay in the end zone for 5 minutes for diagnostic purposes and receiving treatment, a notable thing occurred. Julius Peppers, Lance Briggs, Peanut Tillman and the rest of the defense surrounded the Captain and took a knee.

As a long-time football fan, I've seen this tradition before. But never with such a look of urgency, despair and fear. Never with a palpable need to protect and shield the injured player. Never with the ENTIRE defense kneeling around the hurt player. After all the anger, rage and frustration this season, yet this remained a truly poignant moment. The leader was down. The followers attended.

Word out of Halas Hall is that the linebacker suffered a relatively minor MCL sprain. I've been a Bears fan long enough to know that you can't believe a damn thing out of Halas Hall. I really, really hope Urlacher's legs will be okay. Hero or villain, he shouldn't go out this way.

Maybe Urlacher's right. We the fans don't put our bodies on the line. We don't know about all the hard work that goes into preparation. We blame scapegoats and ignore anything good in an otherwise bad season. Some of us (not me), just get drunk and yell ignorant profanities. It makes it hard for the players to actually care what we think. The truth of the relationship between fans and players lies somewhere in the middle, I'm sure.

So dear Bears, go home and lick your wounds. Your New Years resolution should be trying not to suck any more. And, oh yeah, draft somebody good this time!

a defense of doing nothing on new year's eve

2011-12-31T12:08:00.004-06:00

Back in the day, my wife and I used to have a really good time on New Year's Eve. We were never drunken-hedonism-types per se. Rather, NYE was a yearly tradition of great people, great food and the best alcohol that two professional students could afford. Well, like I said, the people and the food were good. For one three year stretch in the mid-2000s, our New Year's theme was "Let's Fix Rose Up with One of Our Male Heterosexual Friends." That didn't work out as planned, but it was a great time anyway. And in the end, SKS came through for Rose, too.

Things have been different over the last few years. My wife and I haven't even made it to midnight since New Year's 2007. Overworked and underpaid had a lot to do with that. But it's not as bad as it sounds. A pizza, beer and watching a movie with the woman I love was more than enough. In my case, domesticity has been a great thing.

This year, we have plenty of options to go out and celebrate -- our choice of big parties and low-key get-togethers. Yet we will likely stay indoors, watch a movie and fall asleep not long after the Son of Shaft retires for the evening (around 9 PM or so). I just don't have a lot of energy today. The reason: 2011 has been so good to me, it's been an overwhelming shock to the system. Nice problem to have.

So I'm going to steal Wendy Rice's idea and acknowledge the turning of the calendar with this song:

And for all you who will be out there living it up, just keep it down enough so I can sleep. Very contentedly.

have mercer

2011-12-30T16:01:00.003-06:00

One of the most existential moments in my life: walking the shoreline in Split while watching two people I'd never met before, but who looked exactly like my Uncle Tony and my cousin Ellie, screaming at each other in Croatian and on the verge of choking each other. All the while, "Phantom Limb" playing in the background from the Croatian version of an Orange Julius stand.

New Shins album in March. My 20's live on. Woo-hoo!

spirit policy

2011-12-28T20:07:00.004-06:00

My good friend Tom Gunn came for a visit yesterday. He seems to be doing better than fairly well. He lives in Indianapolis these days and is gainfully employed as a monorail engineer, driving Indianapolites between their cornfields and the perpetual novenas for Peyton Manning's vertebrae.

After much intrigue and mental warfare (we will both admit that I've always been slightly smarter than Tom Gunn), I've discovered that the reason for Ubersnake's abrupt and prolonged discontinuation. The beloved Ubersnake has been moth-balled in anticipation of a much more ambitious and all-encompassing project. I'm not allowed to say much, but I'll leave it at this: both Billy Dee Williams fans and Space Hog detractors will be happy.

In other news, Tom Gunn has lost a tremendous amount of weight. He currently looks like this:

Which is good because his weight was getting out of control for a while. The last time I saw him, he looked like this:

So overall, TG is doing really, really well.

To celebrate our continued blessings in life, Tom and I did a ceremonial "we should go do this thing that we wouldn't do otherwise because both our wives think we are full of bad ideas" excursion. Thus, we went to the local omniplex to view Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol.

Going in, I wasn't looking for much from the film. Some fake violence, unbelievable apocalyptic plots against humanity and the weirdness of Tom Cruise were simply opportunities to break up the wholesome monotony of winter in Wisconsin. Two and a half hours later, however, I was surprised at how much I liked this movie. Highlights included Paula Patton's acting and a nauseating yet gripping scene in which Ethan Hunt (Cruise) perilously scales a Dubai skyscraper one-hundred-and-some stories above the desert bedrock. Also, Jeremy Renner's mysterious Agent Brant was a nice change of pace from Simon Pegg's annoying nerd-in-a-spy-movie tropes.

The most annoying part of MI4 was the writers' insistence on including a backstory for Hunt's character. I'm not an MI guy to begin with. I skipped 3 and barely remember the original and sequel. So I didn't care for the boring attempts at plot connections to previous films through vague allusions to Hunt's missing wife. I kept thinking to myself -- this is not the Hunt Identity. Nobody cares. Now go blow something up!

Overall, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol pretty good. It's definitely better than, Magnolia, the worst Tom Cruise vehicle I ever saw.* MI4 gets a rating of 3 Julianne Moores.

*NB: I viewed Magnolia with my good friend Kid Shay in a cold water flat in Aberdeen, Scotland. The P.T. Anderson movie was so horrible that it nearly led us to form a suicide pact. Julianne Moore + raining frogs = loss of will to live. The only thing that prevented Shay and me from ending it all was the fact that I was banging all the hot women in Scotland at the time (all three of them), and Shay had made plans to see a production of The HMS Pinafore with Gunn later that week. I, of course, skipped the Gilbert & Sullivan show to drink more beer and have more sex with hot chicks.

a positive spin

2011-12-23T08:13:00.002-06:00

As Kenny Williams said, in his own cryptic way, we have not been here in over a decade. The White Sox at a crossroads.

56 has headed south. We trade our youngish closer for an unproven commodity. Paulie ages but shows no rust. A.J. just ages. Alexei Ramirez flourishes in quiet, non-systemic ways. Morel, Beckham, Flowers, de Aza a mix of unproven and disproven. Dunn, Rios and Peavy simply steal their salaries.

The Sox are in transition, with an unknown destination. I look into my team's future, and I see the team of my childhood: Harold Baines's aching knees, Carlton Fisk's aching everything. Melido Perez, Jerry Reuss, Eric King, Ricky Horton and an endless supply of nothing arms. Ozzie and Thiggy all alone in the night.

Are we scattered, divided, leaderless? Apparently we place our trust in this guy to see us through to the other side.

September 30, 2008. I was there at the blackout. I witnessed Danks leave everything on the mound to will a crippled team to the playoffs. So I say, good choice!

reverse axis

2011-12-20T22:59:00.004-06:00

Today's daylight quantity is the nadir for the year. After that we have the comfort of knowing that the sun will inch ever so slightly higher in the sky each day. Somehow the darkness of December 21st is more promising than the bountiful light of June 21st.

As the poster child for seasonal affect disorder, I can attest to the pitfalls of letting one's guard down about winter depression -- especially once the festive holidays clear out and listless January sets in. I've previously written jesting accounts of my battle for internal light. And humor most certainly is emphasized in the struggle to stay sane and relatively happy. But beyond the staples of exercise, stress-reduction, actively seeking fun and supplementing vitamin D, I know of little else that alleviates the quiet burden of January and February.

At the same time, I will say that my struggle with the winter blues has been less arduous over the last two winters. Certainly a bright young son and much better working conditions have helped this cause. No doubt. Though additionally, I think I was greatly helped when somewhere along the line a both realized and accepted a truism of daily life -- the fact that every single day has the potential to be awesome in its reward of self and others. It's not enough to secure the hatches and dig in for a long two months of self-improvement via exercise and scholarship in anticipation of better days in the spring and summer. Rather, there is an inherent goodness to each and every day whether it's January 3rd or July 23rd; whether it's 3 degrees outside or warm, windy and comfortable. Whatever you are doing on a daily basis to get through the hardship of a dark and cold winter, seek the best parts of life on each individual day. It can be as simple as kissing your spouse or as ornate as tickets to a concert or basketball game. Episodes of the new "Beavis & Butthead" are good too. But stay away from the Bears though -- tragic and depressing.

i'm really good at classical music

2011-12-19T21:11:00.003-06:00

Not a Jimmy Fallon fan. Not much for SNL these days. But this was really funny.

Triangle Sally and "that's Mozart, you son of a bitch!" Solid gold.

right this very minute

2011-12-18T16:01:00.003-06:00

A public service announcement on holiday music from West Lawn Park.

A perennial favorite: WXRT Holiday Music Channel
-a blues, rock and alternative take on Christmas and Hanukkah
three to listen for:
-Buddy Guy's "Merry Christmas, Terri"
-Carlene Davis's "Santa Claus Do You Ever Come to the Ghetto?"
-Sting's version of "Gabriel's Message"

A recent discovery: King FM (Seattle) Classical Christmas Channel
-this station, more than other classical music stations I'm familiar with, takes the appreciation of Christmas music back as far as the Western musical heritage can remember. Rather than simply focusing on that Christmas slut himself, G.F. Handel (a.k.a. "Baroque Burl Ives"), there's a great mix of late medieval Nativity Vespers as well as traditional French, English and German carols.

new adventures in hi-fi

2011-12-16T07:00:00.003-06:00

King Arthur's Excalibur
Beethoven's Missa Solemnis
Queequeg's tattoos
Sauron's ring
Linus van Pelt's blue blanket
Flava Flav's clock
Dominic Cobb's totem
The Son of Shaft's stuffed monster

Some men have a tendency to encapsulate themselves in a symbol, an object or a work of art. A trinket or painting takes on his persona and evokes his presence even as he is corporeally far away. A piece of music kindles the idea or emotion of a man long dead. And amongst the living, certain objects become the vessel for the man's power; he is a shadow of himself without it. As best I can recall, there's not too many examples of women doing this. I guess dudes are just more neurotic -- or narcissistic.

I'm not going to go that far as to encapsulate myself within the music and lyrics of New Adventure's in Hi-Fi. I couldn't, if for no other reason than it's not mine. I didn't write or perform the songs. Other than a copy bought on my seventeenth birthday, I have no proprietary rights over the album. It's my favorite, but it's not mine.

Without trying to add any unnecessary existential or spiritual bullshit, I can say that New Adventures in Hi-Fi represents the core of me as a person more than any other object in this world. More than my childhood Teddy Bear. More than my 56 World Series jersey. More than my favorite painting, Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. Hi-Fi engenders a host of memories, emotions and ideas that are inherent to me. It's weird, I know! This connection is not as trite as an overwhelming appreciation of the music. On my most scattered, disembodied day, I can sit down and listen to that album and remember who I am. It's my anchor.

I could get specific about each song's meaning to me, but I won't. It'd probably be a mix of boring and creepy to you, dear reader. Cue Timmy the Tim to say "That's what your whole damn blog is!" as he continues to read it on a daily basis.

Okay, that's all I wanted to say.

automatic for the people

2011-12-15T07:00:00.004-06:00

I grew up as a certified city kid. The front yard was the football field. The alley was the basketball court. The back yard wasn't good for much of anything except chores. The big event in the life of my 8 year old self was walking two blocks and crossing the 63rd, "the busy street", to buy Lemonheads and Boston Bake Beans at the drug store. At 10, I was taking my bike to blow paper route money at the baseball card shop. In my early teens (before my exburban exile), the thing to do was get dropped off at the movie theater to see the latest Pauly Shore vehicle. If you notice one thing about this series of recollections, all my major excursions were to artificial structures where I could exchange currency for objects that can only be meaningful to a juvenile mind.

I never swam in a creek. I never spontaneously explored an old woods. I never fell asleep reading under a willow tree. My father didn't fish off a pier. My mother didn't drag me to Baptist revivals on humid Sunday afternoons. My brother, as far as I know, didn't make it with a girl in a hay loft. The movie Stand by Me is a one hundred and eighty degree vector in the opposite direction from my childhood.

So you'll have to forgive me if I idealize all things pastoral. I'll pick a county fair over an amusement park every day of the week. I'll tolerate an extra hour of driving if I can reach my destination via country road rather than interstate. Based upon a cumulative 42 hours spent in the state, I'm ready to move to Socorro, New Mexico and herd unspecified animals as soon as my wife gives me the go-ahead.

I like quiet. I like slow. I like romanticism.

Please note: this concept blah-g is submitted in lieu of any of the first 50 ideas that came into my head, all of which surrounded a reflection on death and dying, my realization that I will never have as much human credibility as my grandparents or how lucky a rock band is to get away with writing a song about the Cat in the Hat and still be millionaires.

reckoning

2011-12-14T07:00:00.002-06:00

I had a daily ritual on my way to work. Climb into my 5-speed Plymouth Neon, load Reckoning into the player and loop “(Don’t Go Back to) Rockville” for the 40 minute drive down to my job. This was the spring of 2007, freshly graduated from medical school and just weeks before I’d be moving to Milwaukee and starting my internship. With the windows up, I’d belt out the lyrics over and over again through the mean streets of Summit, Illinois--it’s worth knowing that I can’t sing worth a damn. In this manner, I was able to calm my nerves enough to function. I soothed myself enough to beat back the horrible thoughts running through my head -- that I’d fall flat on my face as a new doctor; that I’d kill every patient I treated; that I’d leave my wife a destitute widow on the barren plains of Wisconsin. Ludicrous thoughts. True fear.

--

Winter 2010: in the darkest, most defeated days of residency, the mental exercise of interpreting “Harborcoat” kept the creative portion of my brain from dying. A cold walk to the hospital. On a good morning, grey sky. On a bad morning, thick soup masking stars. Over and over again I’d listen, freeze out the weather and try to put together some sort of meaning to this most perplexing song. That thought process, and a wicked guitar riff, got me as far as the front door for two straight months.

--

On the top floor of George Davis Hall, Knox College, Galesburg, IL exists 1,000 watts of intoxicated goodness. Over the years, I cracked every single compact disc jewelry case I owned climbing those endless fucking stairs to the radio station. I'm not sure my listeners appreciated my suffering for the sake of their listening enjoyment. For me, 90.7 Radio Free Galesburg provided a medium for the least inhibited moments of my life. Today those same sketchy kids who don’t know Up from “Down in the Flood” probably think of WVKC as an opportunity to share their Ipod shuffles with everyone in a thirteen mile radius.

In the spring of 1984, when my sister was a freshman at Knox, a 12 inch vinyl recording of Reckoning was delivered to the WVKC studio. I have every reason to believe it was played in consistent rotation for a few years. Then as technology and tastes changed, I imagine the record was forgotten and misplaced in the station archive. I surmise this because I found the record (still in its sleeve) in the stacks during the winter of 1999. It clearly hadn’t been pulled and played in years based on how tightly the sleeve was stuck to the albums it was smashed between. On further examination, the vinyl had been horribly scratched. The disc would never play again. Irritated and sad, I couldn’t just put it back on the shelf. So I stole it. I’m not much for theft, but this was a mercy crime. The record was too good to be discarded like some ill-fated Roxy Music LP. Besides, my pretentious contemporaries who dominated VKC at the time of my discovery weren't going to miss this old record. With so much Yo La Tengo to play, who'd even notice?

--

Never justify your tastes in music, art or literature to anyone. Like what you like. Don’t apologize. So much of preference is tied into emotion and memory that it’s pointless to argue over rank or stature of individual works. And if you come across someone who demands a comprehensive list of your favorites with attached thesis statements on their merit, then one of three things is likely happening:

-s/he works for Rolling Stone
-s/he works for Pitchfork and secretly covets a job at Rolling Stone
-s/he is a douche

murmur

2011-12-13T07:00:00.000-06:00

I left the light on in the foyer. Adjacent to this dim living room lit only by the Christmas tree, the light clinging to the door and hardwood floor appears weak. Almost sickly. How do I describe it so you see what I am seeing? How do I describe it so that you feel slightly menaced by it the way I do? I can’t. That’s my problem.

I’m fairly sure that each individual mind absorbs and emits at its own speed. My friend and I sit and watch a baseball game. For those hours we are in bartered parallel attention. But then he goes off to climb a mountain. I retreat here and study an empty room. Both fulfilled. Each working at his intended speed.

How I wish my era was one of warm coats, soft chairs and dewy mountain mornings. The smell of aged paperbacks and the sound of Tuesday afternoon. But I live in a time of gaudy sunglasses, fluorescent sleevelessness and tachycardic text speech. I’m alone here.

Nobody thinks you’re weird in the company of an empty room.

up

2011-12-12T07:00:00.001-06:00

The kids these days! Ya can’t reason with ‘em. Hell, three-quarters of the time you can’t even talk to ‘em. Too damn busy talking on their phones or dicking around on facebook or whatever. And if both of those fail, then they just pop in their earbuds and tune me out.

What the hell do they even need earbuds for? To appreciate the subtle harmonies of LMFAO? To tease out the complexity of Disturbed’s chord changes? Fuuuuuccckkk!!!!

There used to be a time when you’d sit on the floor in your dorm room with headphones (two stereo speakers stuck to your ears by a big cumbersome connector piece). Kick back with a can of beer and just listen: Zeppelin IV, Wish You Were Here, Black Celebration, Superunknown, Kid A. Listen for footsteps in the studio. Listen for ice clanking in a glass or an exasperated sigh on the 37th take of the day. Appreciate a background piano or third guitar. Figure out what that extra buzz or bing or zap was about. Track down a barely audible harmony.

Not these days though. No, today the earbuds exist to shut folks out rather than to let the music in.

green

2011-12-11T07:00:00.002-06:00

I don’t covet other people’s money. I couldn’t care less about how my house stacks up against those of friends and colleagues. My wife easily keeps my eyes and my imagination occupied. I’m sure this reeks of pretense, but I rarely feel jealousy for material things.

The things I am jealous of are more intangible. I crave natural ability. I’m irritated when a trait or skill comes easily to someone else while being difficult, if not impossible, for me.

I feel inadequate when I watch Julius Peppers pursue a quarterback. I wonder why I can’t run that fast. Why I can’t be that strong.

I envy Cormac McCarthy’s writing. I wish I could put little words together and make them say big ideas.

I listen to Sam Cooke’s voice and instantly imagine the thrill I’d feel if I could sing like that.

I’m jealous of my brother’s independence, my aunt’s compassion and my good friend’s permanently easy-going manner. How pathological is that?

Though I consider myself the exact opposite of a perfectionist, is it possible that I quietly obsess over personal perfection? It would seem that way based on what I have written here, but in my mind I think this jealousy stems from something a little different than that. As with so many ideas in this forum, what I think in my brain does not translate all that well to paper or screen. Let me try to explain it this way.

John Hughes’ masterpiece is The Breakfast Club, with Pretty in Pink and Sixteen Candles very close in scope of accomplishment. Though less heralded and regarded, Hughes later stepped outside of the brat pack genre to make a hilarious movie called Planes, Trains and Automobiles. If Hughes had not lifted another finger after The Breakfast Club, both his finances and legacy would have been secure. But he did go on to write and direct P,T&A (among other films), simply because he could. His abilities allowed him to consistently and effectively transfer a unique and subtle sense of humor onto film. Even when Hughes wasn’t at his very best, his movies were really damn good. And through his innate talents, Hughes built a legacy consisting not just of a single masterpiece but a healthy catalog of works to be appreciated.

I consider my son to be the greatest accomplishment of my life. My wife and I waited a long time for him and stuck together despite some trying times and situations. Through his mother’s efforts and God’s favor, he is a perfect boy and the great joy of my life. Now that I have my son, I will never again feel that my life is lacking in any way. Any more children that come along will be welcomed with the same pride and relish. My hope is that for as long as I inhabit this earth, I continue to develop my own natural abilities so that I can be subtly, but haughtily proud of some of my lesser accomplishments as well.

document

2011-12-10T07:00:00.003-06:00

And yet there comes a time when sniping games must be set aside. Self-soothing ends and a person makes a choice. How is this going to go? Am I going to stand-up and speak out?

No more confusion. No more myth propagation.

Combine confidence with focus and purpose and the result is a powerful force. Primitive and wild. A terrible riff and a voice screaming “Listen to me!”. Kind of like John the Baptist, except not religious at all. And wearing ironic clothing instead of camel’s hair.

accelerate

2011-12-09T07:00:00.005-06:00

I don’t mess with Texas. Honest! My reason: I don’t mess with anyone. Live and let live. That’s just the way I roll.

But at the same time, let me be clear in saying that I’ve never not messed with Texas simply because of any warnings I’ve received. “Don’t mess with Texas.” “Texas justice.” “Everything’s bigger in Texas.” Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I’m not trying to pick a fight here. But I don’t like being intimidated either. Especially intimidation via mindless, droning, meaningless rhetoric from con men in cowboy costumes.

Rick Perry, GWB, Jerry Jones. A collection of grade-A knobs to be sure! Each his own encapsulation of the things I loathe about stereotypical Texas. It’s just too easy to throw darts.

Put simply, I hate balls-out, self-deluding, self-serving, knuckle-dragging political obstructionism. I hate big mouths that decry government spending out of one side and shovel pork in the other. More than any other human being, the person that I associate with this “Boss Hogg politics” is Senator Phil Gramm (R-TX - retired). At this point, you might be expecting a substantive argument about my political disagreements with Senator Gramm. Perhaps an evisceration of the Gramm-Leech-Bliley Act that arguably cleared the way for our current economic crisis. Or maybe you’re looking for a stinging generalized chastisement of free market economic principles. But I’m not going to give either of those to you.

No, I’m simply going to say that when I think about Phil Gramm, I actually giggle a little. The creepy aviator glasses. The big fat face with little beaty snake eyes. The inane drawl that betrays a probably much brighter person than I give him credit for. Phil Gramm is my perpetual candidate for Worst Person in the World.

This guy occupies my thoughts a little too often, it seems.

Petty? Counterproductive? Inflammatory? Yes, very much so. Guilty on all counts. I’ll own up to it. On occasion, though I hate to say it, petulance doubles as therapy. The fact of the matter is that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, so it’s not really an option for people like me to pass hateful, callous economic policy out of spite. It’s not tenable to spew vitriolic nonsense in stereo (the failure of Air America comes to mind). Liberals like me are certainly smug, self-righteous and deluded in our own special, annoying and unique ways. But liberals like me are also not typically good at out-stupiding stupid. No matter how hard we try, liberals are unable to separate their minds from their mouths. We have the incredibily unfortunate Achilles’ heel of needing to actually believe in the ideas we are espousing.

In the end, I think guilty pleasures like demeaning of larger-than-life Texas caricatures such as Phil Gramm are side effects of this noble and ultimately tragic liberal addiction to logic. Tell me what other outlets I have for my stress? I’m not going to grab my gun or my guns or my guns’ guns and shoot Phil Gramm. I’m not going to take the time to jerrymander and disenfranchise Phil Gramm. I’m not going to excommunicate Phil Gramm. Nope, I’m just going to imagine how funny it would be to have a Phil Gramm boppo toy that I could punch in the face whenever I wanted.

Note: if this entry has you fired up and offended, I’m truly sorry. But imagine how I feel every time I watch a Republican presidential debate or the nightly news.

chronic town

2011-12-08T07:00:00.004-06:00

Current state (the year I was born):

Music is composed with feeling. Lyrics written with meaning. These are merged and recorded. Then sold for a sum of money and performed live for separate sums of money.

Repeat.

They’ll never make it.

collapse into now

2011-12-07T07:00:00.003-06:00

Listen to Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition some time. Take 40 minutes in a secluded place and put it over a loud, booming speaker. It is a singularly effective suite of music. Walk the promenades. Here the gnome. There the Great Gate of Kiev. You hear it and you are there. Not some magnanimous place. Not in a violently proud moment of human life. You are taken to a quiet, peaceful art gallery. And as you stop, pondering each picture’s worth based on the memory it summons or the feeling it instills, you are taken further within yourself. A thought inside a dream.

out of time

2011-12-06T07:00:00.005-06:00

Everyday I walk my dogs along the exact same route. When we lived in Chicago, this involved a rhomboid wandering through the University of Illinois campus and Little Italy. Since moving to Wisconsin, it’s been a course through our nearby high-end neighborhood, past the old junior high building now converted to a senior living center, through a park along the Little Menomenee River, by the big old brick abodes of K--------- Street and finally back to our quaint little arts and crafts Wisconsin home. The jaunt takes about 45 minutes rain or shine. It’s quiet. It’s overflowing with trees, grass and running water. It’s a beautiful path. On many a walk, I will go upward of a half an hour without a good or bad thought running through my head. I love it.

My wife, on the other hand, can’t stand the uniformity. She gently chastises me -- “Come on girls (to the dogs), Dad’s here so we’re going on THE walk today.” This is by no means a source of legitimate tension between us. We actually cherish the rare days when our schedules align such that we can walk our dogs together with our son leading the way in his stroller. But if it was up to her, every turn would be a choice. Every path would be a different sidewalk, a different neighborhood and different expenditures of time and energy.

Right or wrong is not the question here. The question is which type of person are you? Are you a creature of habit or an acolyte of chaos? I’ll give you a moment to vote.

Here, look at this photo while you contemplate:

Okay, you’ve decided which camp you’re in? Which of us more accurately represents your habits and preferences? Great!

Now let me fill in several other details. My wife gets anxious and sick to her stomach the night before we travel (especially to a foreign country), whereas I can’t sleep because I’m so excited to have a grand adventure. My wife can’t stand that I hang my coat on the back of a chair. Yet she puts away silverware haphazardly with no care to separate out the forks, spoons and knives, which engenders a tinge of rage deep inside me. I have a collection of favorite movies that I watch every year or so, but usually by myself because my wife almost never cares to rewatch a film that she has already seen. My wife has read Pride and Prejudice, her favorite book, over twenty times. I’ve read Moby Dick twice and that’s probably enough for my lifetime. I like to write my own blog (or “blah-g” as my friend Rose would say), whereas my wife prefers to mostly consume others’ fan fiction. My wife is a gifted musician who rarely listens to radio, while I obsessively follow multiple musical genres but could not play the kazoo if my life depended on it.

Yes, yes, we all know what a wonderful world this is because of all our differences. And many of us are aware that a successful relationship is complementary rather than concomitant. But seriously, we Midwesterners are so quick to judge and label! Both at work and in everyday life, I see and hear people being pigeon-holed into categories. Job applicants spend hours on portfolios and personal statements, only to be relegated to the recycling bin by test scores and school names on diplomas. Too many people for too few positions. Assessment in the modern era is quick and dirty -- people are defined by their numbers. And even in the social arena, judgements are quick and permanent. “He’s anal retentive.” “She’s confrontational.” “They’re liberal.” “We’re good Christians.” As much as Myers-Briggs personality testing grates on me, it’s useful if only because it reminds us that we all belong to several discrete groups instead of one overriding category. Someone can be feeling and sensory, thinking and intuitive, or combinations thereof. Again, I distrust even these subcategories. There’s more to each of us than whether we like to plan or be spontaneous. More to us than whether we anguish about every little comment someone makes or blows them off at once.

What type of band was R.E.M.? Post-punk, alternative, contemporary, electronic, rock and roll? Pop culture? Anti-heroes? Did you like it when they played mandolin? Did you hate it when they went synthesizer heavy? Is a fast-paced guitar record a return to form? Was it better when they were ripping off the Velvet Underground or paying homage to the Beach Boys? Was Peter Buck terminally contrarian with each new album release when he’d bemoan the record company choosing songs that had that “typical R.E.M. sound” rather than showcasing the new and experimental stuff? Is R.E.M. with and without Billy Berry the same band or two different bands?

Each question is a choice. Each person gives a different combination of answers. Yet there was only one R.E.M. from start to finish. A lot of people who are paid to write their opinions on music seem to look at the band in terms of eras, sounds or landmarks. They judge the later stuff by the earlier stuff. A narrative is constructed, borrowed from each other, built upon and cemented by people who were not there when the music was being composed and recorded. A narrative of inception, growth, peak and decline. We all have our own perceptions. I wasn’t there either. But I don’t dwell on a constructed history. R.E.M. is four men making choices musically, lyrically. Some I liked. Some I didn’t. But these choices weren't sea changes of a loss of talent or portents of a slow dissent into soul-crushing fame. For Christ's sake, Michael Stipe never sinned as badly as Ray Davies, writing rock operas and showing up to live performances in costume. The band's career arc remained just a series of decisions made by a group of dudes.

life's rich pageant

2011-12-05T07:00:00.003-06:00

Confidence is speaking to be heard with precise timing.

Confidence is not authority. Nor is it power. “Mission accomplished” was hubris.

Confidence is not inflammatory, controversial or confrontational. Love each other. Don’t judge. Don’t kill.

Confidence is not a quality of voice. Cobain covered Lead Belly with unparalleled confidence despite a coarse screech and a failing heart.

Confidence is not angst. What’s the point of being heard if the listener’s spirit is smashed to apathy?

Our human community suffers from a critical lack of confidence.

Penn State : a child is abused and no one speaks up.
Wall Street : we whine about tough times and criticize kids sleeping in tents, but Henry Paulson and Larry Summers retain their influence.
The Middle East : everyone is wrong, but no one who matters will say it.

War, poverty and injustice are routinely attributed to an abstract concept of evil. Evil or not, each of them can also be attributed to a bunch of people (or all of us) looking the other way.

reveal

2011-12-04T07:00:00.003-06:00

If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
--William Wordsworth

One can’t very effectively chide a concept album in the forum of a concept blog (or “blah-g” as my friend Rose would say).
--Slider K. Shaftacular

monster

2011-12-03T07:00:00.004-06:00

I don't connect intellectually or emotionally with overtly sexual art. Never have been able to. La petite mort, D.H. Lawrence, Max Ernst, Allen Ginsberg, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, John Waters, Lil Kim. None of it speaks to me and some of it repulses me. The first ten minutes of Clerks makes me gag (but then again, so do the last 90 minutes). If I was convicted of a crime and sentenced to some sort of bad-Kubrick-film torture apparatus, and death was not an option, I’d choose to have my eyes clamped open and watch AI: Artificial Intelligence over Eyes Wide Shut. On and on. I don’t dismiss the genre of sexualized art. But it’s not for me.

The answer to why I am turned off by graphic, explicit, illicit art is not easily answered. Depending on one’s baseline viewpoint, two questions are equally likely to be asked. Am I opting out of a natural human curiosity? Or, taking the opposite perspective, are these artists opting in to a subculture? Maybe it’s both. It’s a line I do not personally cross, but not one that I am opposed to. And please don’t misconstrue my line of thinking: I’ll be the first to defend the rights of artists to create whatever art they choose provided it’s done with discretion and doesn’t hurt children. Nor am I some prude who would argue that Rocky Horror has its genesis in a diseased mind. For purposes of artistic critique, I believe that mental dysfunction and moral objection are the arguments of the weak-minded.

But I still haven’t answered the question of why I am the way I am. Why does raw, virile poetry give me the sweats? I’ve been soul-searching for a couple of days, and still I have no answers. However, in the course of my meditation, I keep going back to this one random event from high school. . .Don’t be afraid. Follow me.

In the fall of 1996, I embarked on my junior year. Having been transplanted from Chicago to its farthest southern suburb (there were more cows than people) just before the start of high school, my first two years could be encapsulated as the deepest darkest nothing since the Neverending Story. Variably no friends and consistently no girlfriend. Seven hundred and thirty days of house arrest was finally lifted by obtaining a driver’s license, but lack of money and distrustful parents kept me in the fold. Thankfully, after two years of nauseous boredom, junior year was starting out fairly well. Dan Mesa’s influence on me was increasing. I had a job and a little bit of discretionary cash. Having lost 30 pounds of baby fat and replacing it with a growth spurt, even girls were starting to talk to me. Things were getting better.

One late fall morning, Jenny Dvorak, a senior whom I’d talked to off and on since I’d moved to my new town, came up to me after gym class. She asked me if I “wanted to hang out some time.” She had a fun group of friends, and I had a car, so I said “sure”. She said “Great, pick me up at 6:30!” Some time had instantaneously morphed into tonight, but I didn’t think much of it.

The rest of the day I didn’t donate a single moment of thought to my evening appointment. When Jenny asked me to hang out, I thought we would be meeting up with other people. I assumed we would grab coffee, go bowling or maybe play Trivial Pursuit (I was a fucking dork). Fifteen years on, I can’t be sure what I was thinking of, but I definitely had zero suspicion of our hanging out to be anything romantic. Jenny was what any 16 year old guy would call nice. From what I’ve been told by my wife and my friend Rose, no 17 year old girl wants to be known as nice.

At 6:30 on the dot, I picked Jenny up. She gave me a big smile as she hopped into my Oldsmobile Delta 88. “Where are we going?” I asked. Hiding a brief look of disappointment, Jenny reformulated her smile and said, “Wherever you take me, I guess.” Looking back on it now, I think I probably should have become wide-eyed, red in the face and developed sweaty palms. But that’s with a lot of hindsight. Without another thought, I just put the car in gear and said what no other teenage dude in my situation would ever say: “That new Greg Kinnear movie Dear God looks kind of funny. Want to go see that?” Jenny looked away, but said “Okay.”

Don’t remember the movie Dear God? Yeah, I barely do myself. Here’s a movie poster to jog your memory.

I only remember a few key points from this film:

1. A mailman tries to grant wishes to disadvantaged people
2. It’s a horrible movie.
3. A sixteen year old junior in high school should not be taking a seventeen year old senior on a first date there.

Again, all this sophisticated self-awareness is a decade and a half too late. Did I realize at the time that I’d screwed up. No. To my credit, I did take Jenny out for pizza afterward. I think we had a great conversation.

The big pay-off! We drove back to Jenny’s house and pulled up to her driveway. She thanked me for a fun evening. I think she even feigned that she liked the movie. So there we were sitting in my car. I wondered if she’d ever going to get out because, after all, I was pretty tired. All of a sudden, our eyes met, and she reached across the bench seat and kissed me (disclaimer: NOT my first kiss). At that very instant, the sky opened and ageless knowledge dropped upon me: “Hey, wait a minute, this girl thinks we are on a date!” Reflexively, I kissed her back for an appropriate period of time. And then Jenny smiled at me, giggled “good night” and ran for her front door.

Afterward, I went home and slept. The rest of the weekend, I felt the fool for having been oblivious of a full-fledged date for the first 210 minutes of it (disclaimer: NOT my first date). Again, Jenny was very nice. Whether it was my own lethargy, a lack of desire or a combination of all of the two, I realized that I didn’t want to pursue anything. So on Monday morning after gym class I walked right up to Jenny and made it clear that I thought she was an awesome person but that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. In the fog of memory, I fear that I might have even said something to the effect of “My Mom doesn’t want me dating girls” (which was true on a philosophical level but not practically speaking). Okay, I’m fairly sure I did invoke my mother as an excuse not to go out on a date with someone. Uhh, romantic suicide! It’s remarkable that I ever recovered enough to get other girls to go out with me for the rest of my high school career! Jenny handled it well, at least to my face. Of course, we didn’t talk as much after that.

Why do I tell you this story? To make a point. But before I make that point, there are a few other brief details to address:
1) Contrary to my actions in this anecdote, I do not have Asperger Syndrome.
2) Contrary to my actions in this anecdote, I was a garden variety horny teenage girl-crazed guy.
3) Contrary to my actions in this anecdote, I have documented evidence that I can woo a female human being. Just ask my wife or Jessica Biel.

Reviewing this bizarre event, my conclusion is that I did not realize that my outing with Jenny was a potential opportunity for romance because my sex hormones and my neural synapses are pathologically disconnected. Despite being lonely, horny and newly liberated with a really big backseat in my Olds Delta 88, I at no time saw Jenny Dvorak, an apparently willing older woman, as a resource for long-sought supreme happiness. You might be reading this and thinking, what a loser! I won’t disagree, but I’ll offer a two-tiered explanation for my lack of prowess. Superficially, I was a fucking dork! On a deeper level, my intellect and my libido are completely distinct aspects of my consciousness that don’t often talk to each other. And extrapolating further, since my brain and my balls don’t communicate, I will never have any sort of intellectual or emotional connection to the Marquis de Sade or Ziggy Stardust.

So there you have it. Jenny Dvorak and a bad Greg Kinnear movie are my most promising leads in solving the mystery of why I don’t like overtly sexual art.

fables of the reconstruction

2011-12-02T07:00:00.003-06:00

It’s been many months since I’ve set my eyes upon you. I can’t imagine you look any better. I fear the consequences if you’re worse.

I think of you now and and I am dark, fearful and tormented. I failed you, betrayed you, abandoned you. Killed you? Then I wake up and remember you’ve never listened to another goddamn human being in your whole life. Yet, this is my fault. I am sure of it.

My thoughts turn from how you are to what you are doing. Not in that way -- too scared to count pints and hits. Instead I wonder if you mock me -- easier to pretend that I’m petulant because I can’t make you live as I would. Is it that simple? Do you curse me?

Let me be clear: you are one dark shit spot on an otherwise rosy panoramic view. The longer you are gone, the bigger it gets.

I am not a guide. It’s up to you to reach me.

around the sun

2011-12-01T19:05:00.003-06:00

Almost a decade ago I wrote what I like to call a novel. Looking back, it was not actually a novel, but more like 12 short stories loosely strung (maybe smashed) together with an attempt at an artsy lead-in. I’m not sure I was conscious of this inadequacy at the time. I don’t remember any more. But I am sure it was the best I could muster.

At that point in my life, my only obligation was to a 40-hour per week job. This differed from every other millisecond of my cultural sentience. Both before and since this short period, the norm for me has always been working and going to school simultaneously. Thus, I felt that age 22 must be the time to sit down and write a novel if I was ever going to do it at all. Practice, patience and experience were expendable. I just needed to accomplish the task. The Bucket List hadn’t been released yet, but as colloquialisms go, there you have it.

So, one night I came home to my bachelor pad, sat down at the Hewlett-Packard and typed away. Many Rolling Rocks and countless compact discs later, I had written a novel. Let me be clear this wasn’t a constant thing. There was no two-weeks of Kerouacian mania. Hardly a magnificent obsession. It was a couple months worth of Friday nights (as evidenced by the Rolling Rock, I was dirt poor back then, so I didn’t have anything better to do).

The response was minimal. Just a few friends read it. One liked it. One didn’t say anything. One I’m pretty sure didn’t read it. In a demonstration of brotherly love, one friend built me up about it way more than he probably should have.

And one person who wasn’t supposed to read it got his hands on a copy and has punished me ever since. But I deserve that for two reasons. First, because the writing was atrocious. Secondly, because I’ve punished him just as much (he once dated a girl who was a dead-ringer for Andrew Bird).

Five paragraphs in, and I’ve yet to say what the novel was about. That’s a difficult question. Maybe a life well-lived. Perhaps a thinly-veiled attempt to capture bygone eras, long-gone places and previous mindsets on paper. Again, what the novel was about paled in comparison to the purpose of the novel -- just to say I’d written it.

How do I feel about my opus now? Simply put, I’m glad someone won’t have to trump up sexual harassment charges against me if I ever run for President. My political enemies will just parade around with the novel attacking me for my lack foresight, structure and discipline. And they’ll also deduce that I’m way too morose and melodramatic to be responsible for launching the Bomb.

My novel. My mess. My albatross. But you know what? It’s mine. I did it.

and everyone has their part

2011-11-30T22:30:00.003-06:00

Six central banks, including the Fed and its counterparts in Switzerland, Japan, Canada, England and the EU, take dramatic, heroic and lightning quick action, slashing borrowing costs. The decision was made literally overnight. It is being billed as a plan to "bolster financial markets as the European crisis grinds on." Buried deep in the subtext is the fact that Bank of America and JPMorgan were within hours of complete collapse. No one talks about that though. No liberal outlets. No conservative outlets. Not even the Guardian! What does this prove? Just that all the world's a stage. No one benefits from a panic. And that realization is more important than the truth.

Turn the page: in more important news, Miss America has the backing of the gay porn industry.

dear caleb hanie

2011-11-27T23:20:00.004-06:00

Dear Caleb Hanie,

I'm really trying to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, you are a good quarterback. Notice that I did not say a good NFL quarterback. That's the distinction. You probably have a decent arm, fair knowledge of the game, above average athletic ability and some semblance of strategy. You were probably an awesome high school quarterback and a very good college quarterback. Why the hell else would you be the back-up quarterback for the Chicago Bears? Just because you are bad on the NFL playing field, it does not make you empirically bad.

So really, truly, Caleb I try not to listen when all the mouth-breathers call in to the Score and say how "terrible" you are. I know deep down that you are note terrible or all of the above reasons.

But at the same time, why couldn't you have thrown those balls away instead of into the cradled arms of Raiders defenders? I mean seriously, just throw it out of bounds, man! Take the sack. Tell Mike Martz to go f#$& himself, anything but just don't throw those picks.

Let me put it to you this way. Again, not saying you are a bad quarterback on a day-to-day basis. And not saying I could do your job better than you, but. . .

I'm a doctor. I like to think I'm a good doctor. If I did the doctor equivalent of what you did today, Caleb, that would mean I tried to give pelvic exams to dudes.

If I was a baker, I'd want to be a good baker. If I did the baker equivalent of what you did today, Caleb, that would mean I tried to substitute dirt for brown sugar.

If I was a cable guy, I'd want to be a good cable guy. If I did the cable guy equivalent of what you did today, Caleb, that would mean I hooked up E! to the local orphanage instead of Disney Channel.

I'm not a member of the X-Men, but if I was, I'd want to be a good member of the X-Men. If I did the X-Men equivalent of what you did today, Caleb, that would mean I just had consensual sex with Apocalypse while texting Magneto the access codes to Charles Xavier's school.

Tomorrow's another day, Caleb. The Chiefs are here next Sunday. Just throw it away, man! Just throw it away!

Sincerely,

Slider K. Shaftacular

curiosity

2011-11-26T16:24:00.005-06:00

Much like a certain diabetic quarterback, I now have a hand injury that will prevent me from participating in the World Blogging Championships this year. What a bummer to suffer this injury over Thanksgiving weekend!

And my back-up blogger, Tom Gunn, has been moping on the sidelines now for two years. There's not going to be much of a showing for the southside white men who love Ron Karkovice but hate Paul Thomas Anderson movies at the WBC's this year.

Despite this Thanksgiving weekend trauma, I remain thankful and optimistic. Amongst all my other blessings, I am thankful that there are people still trying their best to make us better.

a break from all your worries

2011-11-23T19:05:00.002-06:00

The night before Thanksgiving is a good time to slow down, step back and look around. If you do, you'll see something that's highly abnormal: people smiling.

On this night:
-no one stays late at work when they don't have to
-no one schedules an extra meeting
-no one shops maniacally
-no one has a test the next day
-no one has homework due the next day

My Thanksgiving Eve typically consists of college basketball live from Hawaii, board games with family and a sci-fi movie to end the evening. Add a bottle of wine and putting my feet up, and it's guaranteed to be one of the best nights of the year.

A moment of silence for the passing of my old Thanksgiving Eve tradition of drinking till I'd had my fill with friends. Just too old.

I hope everyone has a great Thanksgiving Eve. A special thanks to military personnel, medical professionals, public servants and professional football players who don't have the weekend off.

And a special thanks to all the relatives in our lives (in my life wife, Mom, mom-in-law, sisters, brothers-in-law) who make it easy for lazy-ass people like me to still have a good holiday.

royalties

2011-11-20T10:39:00.005-06:00

The son of Shaft is no longer a baby. At ten months of age, he has left behind cooing and smiling to enter his Mothra phase full force.

Don't believe me? Here's pictorial evidence from my living room:

Much like in the wasteland real world of The Matrix, in which the red-pill humans only have the EMP to repel the ever-advancing machines, my wife and I only have a few weapons with which to slow the son of Shaft down.

These weapons include:
1. candy-flavored rice puffs (he's kind of like Bubbles from The Wire when he gets these)
2. our dogs' food and water dishes (the son of Shaft is convinced that there's a portal to the astral plane in the bottom of these)
3. children's books that are full of homonyms, homophones, alliteration and assonance (I'm sure Rick Perry probably thinks homophones and assonance are a LIBERAL plot to brainwash children)

We read A LOT of books these days. Personal favorites include Mr. Brown Can Moo Can You?, Moon Plane, How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night? and Farmer Brown's Happy Farm. The plots are all variations on a theme: happy animals talk, little boys' rooms turn into Pink Floyd's The Wall at night and it'd be really awesome if you'd just go the f$%^ to sleep. They capture the son of Shaft's attention, if only for a few moments, so I don't really mind.

But one thing I'm noticing about all these books is that it takes two creative forces to produce them. Interestingly, the author is always named first and the illustrator's name is secondary. I'm puzzled by this. In every single one of these books, the art work springs to life with vibrant color and bold design. And the words on every page are variations of the following: "I love you a lot", "it feels great to go potty", "be nice to your Mom" or "I just made up some words because nothing starts with X or Z". The bottom line for me is that the writing is far from Nabokov. Hell, it's not even close to Dan Brown. Okay, that's a lie. It is pretty close to Dan Brown, but DB doesn't do illustrated books. My question: how the hell are the "authors" getting first-billing and half the royalties?

Artists of the world, hear me! Leave your literary friends at the Barnes & Noble cafe where they work and write your own stuff! Don't believe me that you can do this? My friend Kid Shay begs to differ. So does my friend Tom Gunn. You can do this! You can write simple sentences in which many of the words start with the same letter.

For those pictorial artists who are timid or dense, I've composed Slider K. Shaftacular's Guide for Writing Children's Books. Here's the first lesson for free:

Lesson 1: write books about bears that don't eat people or shit in public.

I'll send you the other lessons if you mail me twenty bucks. Cash only.

cages under cage

2011-11-19T11:56:00.003-06:00

I know I'm aging because the stakes keep getting higher. At age ten, I was told to follow my dreams. At twenty two, get a job and follow my dreams. At thirty one, get a job, follow my dreams but don't flaunt my aspirations lest they be squashed.

I'm not so banal as to decry social control. But come on! Can't someone simply be left alone to try and do a little bit of good in this world?

the hap happiest bullet of all

2011-11-17T20:44:00.005-06:00

It is done. The pop station here in Milwaukee has switched to all Christmas all the time. Even I'm a bit skeptical. More so of the content (Josh Groban, Michael Buble, minimal Burl Ives) than of the concept.

I got to thinking about the critics' key arguments:
-too early
-too often
-corporate
-etc., etc.

And I see your points. I really do.

Tell you what, though. I'll listen to my Christmas music station for 24 hours. You listen to ANY contemporary rock station in the country. I'll tally up all the times my station plays Andy Williams' "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." You tally up how many times your station plays Foster the People's "Pumped Up Kicks."

If I have more tallies, I'll turn over all my Christmas music to my wife until December 21st. If you have more tallies, then dial 1-900-HO-HO-HO-BITCH!

dumb cookie

2011-11-12T18:46:00.002-06:00

Rick Perry took a big hit this week when he couldn't remember the third governmental department that absolutely positively needs to be shut down. Apparently he's not qualified to be President because of this very public display of ineptitude and lack of poise.

Okay. Not complaining. Not one bit.

But at the same time, I'm a little shocked by all the post-mortems and eulogies of the Perry campaign. The too-numerous-to-count confident declarations that ol' Rick is showing his un-Presidentialness.

My question: where the hell were all these people in 1999, 2000 and 2004?

is this really what you want

2011-11-08T19:40:00.004-06:00

Here in Wauwatosa, the leaves are finally starting to fall. The wind has started to cut through me on even the shortest of walks. The rain waters nothing yet makes everything wet. It's about the time of year is when I'll hear from a friend, colleague or co-worker: "You know, this is why Wisconsin is no man's paradise." Being a transplant myself, I don't take offense. But it does not change my mind that Wisconsin is where I want to live and be. This is because the summers are phenomenally comforting, the beer is local and my son was born here; these just three amongst a million other reasons. Wisconsin's no man's paradise, but it's my home.

I kind of wish all my countrymen would take the same outlook. Do I really need to read an article like this to know that things are changing? Do I need to believe that the U.S.A. is the greatest place ever to be happy here? No and no. Unless Jessica Biel, the White Sox franchise or the world's supply of Dr. Pepper is getting a fresh start in Beijing, I've got no reason to move to China.

So I'll teach my son something important. Not that the United States is the best country ever. Just that it's his home. That he should treat it nicely and with respect.

thoughts upon emptiness

2011-11-04T21:41:00.008-05:00

I'm simultaneously reading three books right now.

The first is a very traditional (for me) history book called Death of an Empire by Robert Booth. It details the intentional decline of Salem, Massachusetts.

This book satisfies my endless curiosity and love of history.

The second book I'm currently reading is Crucial Conversations: Tools for Talking When Stakes are High, by Patterson, et. al. This book came to me via my boss. She passively suggested I peruse this book given my new role as a supervisor.

This is a book I would have abhorred having within ten feet of me (let alone reading) just a few years ago. In fact, my nineteen year old self would lose all respect for my thirty one year old self if he knew I was reading this book. Still, I'm learning a thing or two as I read it. Or more correctly, I'm learning how to better process and articulate life lessons of communication that I learned the hard way over the past 3 decades.

The third book I'm reading is How to Meditate: A Practical Guide by Kathleen McDonald.

This book serves several purposes. First, it's an opportunity to learn about another culture and religion. Secondly (but my initial reason for grabbing this book off the library shelf), I hope to learn techniques to assist in my quest for a better and more consistent night's sleep. Thirdly, I desperately want to learn how to move physical objects with my mind. Hopefully this is a first step.

Three disparate books. One typical, one completely out of character and one not completely unexpected. Whatever path I am following, I've been very comfortable for a long time with the concept that I am a twig in the river -- going wherever the river goes. And things can't be going that badly if I have the time to read three different books!

the elect few

2011-11-03T19:44:00.003-05:00

I've never given much thought to Hobbes' famous line about the lives of men as being "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short." I thought about it a lot today as I interviewed a very confused young woman for a job where I work. Why was this woman so confused? Well, I guess it's more that she was confusing me. See, she was clearly too good to do any of the following: talk nicely to any of us, use words like "thank you", show any actual interest in the things I was saying, make conversation like a normal human being, put up the pretense of thinking we were equals (she was clearly better than me) or even try to manifest any other facial expression than EXTREME CONSTIPATION MEETS EXTREME BOREDOM.

In retrospect, I guess I wasn't really reflecting on the Hobbesian state of being. Rather, I was just focusing on the fact that this beeyatch was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.

Hmm.

put out the oars

2011-10-31T19:58:00.003-05:00

The Great Pumpkin is our common tradition, but the Garfield's Halloween Adventure is the spooky television special that kindles many childhood memories in me. Year after year, from my earliest memories through probably third grade, I'd specifically tune in for this special. I remember being so scared when Orangebeard's rowboat is steered to a haunted island by a phantom current. Vividly I can still hear the crackle of the hearth fire and gnarled face of the barotone-voiced old man -- the last survivor of a damned pirate ship! And then, of course, the chilling whiteness of the pirate ghosts chasing Garfield and Odie off a pier! Amidst the generation of Saw MXII and Final Destination 18, a couple of 80s cartoon characters taught me how to be truly scared.

If you haven't seen this, take 25 minutes and enjoy!

by your command

2011-10-19T11:29:00.005-05:00

I drink Dr. Pepper (in lieu of Diet DP), even though it makes me fat, because my friend Tom Gunn and I are both pretty sure that aspartame is a horrible poison that will kill all who fall prey to it. We have absolutely no scientific evidence to back this up. Sometimes, even a doctor, or in TG's case an artiste, has to go with his gut.

Along similar lines, I've been a quiet conspiracy theorist about the association between cellular phones and brain cancer. Again, I have no hard evidence. But it makes sense given that no one would put their brain in the microwave for seconds to minutes several times a day (except for maybe Randy Marsh from South Park). My interest in the etiology of brain cancer was piqued this weekend by my idiot brother's text message.

Anyway, the Atlantic has a really good summary of all the contradictory evidence about the possible association between cell phones and malignancy. It's quite the crap shoot, but an interesting read. In all seriousness, as a medical professional, it frustrates me to no end that we don't have better data about this. Until we have better evidence, I will routinely use the ear buds or the speakerphone option as much as possible. My idiot brother will continue to put his head in the microwave while talking on his cell phone. Choose your side.

Beyond malignancy though, I'm worried about the social control aspects of my iPhone. It knows when I'm sad, and plays appropriate songs. It senses when I'm lost and gives me directions. It does not like it when I take my dogs for a long walk -- I think it senses I am paying attention to the beautiful Wisconsin landscape. It talks to me. It buzzes. Let's me know that I've got an email. And gets angry and buzzes again if I don't check a text message within five minutes. The iPhone wants to be first in my heart.

And as far as social control goes, if my idiot brother ever joins the book of face, kiss your ass goodbye. The Apocalypse will be upon us.

with excuses

2011-10-18T12:42:00.003-05:00

Basement whiffle ball
Such a good time
Even after we chucked the window
Nothing a bear in a bag can't cover up

Later life wasn't so facile
Hard swallow: anarchy peppered on obedience
These days are rare
Didn't think I had them in me
They show up only when I forget
I'm not as advertised

A whole stanza about me
Worse than I thought

Climb, climb until you see
CDF's masterpiece
Eternal admiration
He only got there at the end
Of a long, dirty, imperfect road

incomprehensible rage

2011-10-17T19:21:00.008-05:00

So my big idiot brother doesn't have brain cancer. He's not getting divorced. Nor is he losing the home that he, his wife, four children, two dogs and collection of 1,245 empty Big Gulp cups live in. And given all this good fortune, I couldn't be more pissed off.

Confused? Not as much as I was this weekend. Let me back up.

Just after landing in Boston for an exciting weekend wedding/reunion with far-flung friends on beautiful Cape Cod, I receive the following text message:

"Everyone is getting a letter today. I don't want to talk to anyone."

Given that this dour, jaded text message was from my big idiot brother, a man whose emotional spectrum ranges from this guy

to this guy

I quickly became overwrought with worry.

My brother's not what you'd call a communicator. The last time he told me he loved me was never (though I know he does). My brother's method of asking me to stand up in his wedding: "Hey, Mom's taking you to the tuxedo shop to get measured. Grab me a Big Gulp on your way back." On the birth of his first child: "Can you record Seinfeld for me?" My brother doesn't write letters. I'm not even sure he knows how to write. What news could be so dire that he'd actually send a message via postage to "everyone", which I took to be my parents and siblings?

I narrowed the list of horrible possibilities quickly:
-terminal cancer
-infidelity/divorce/my nieces and nephew will be orphans
-financial hardship
-the obese golden retriever drowned in the pool

Unable to bear this on my own, but not wanting to activate every single Croatian Crisis Specialist (we specialize in having crises, not diffusing them), I chose to limit my range of contact to my youngest sister. Her response to the siutation: "He's sending us all letters? Oh f%&^!" Our list of possible catastrophes were similar, with her only significan addition being that last week was "National Coming Out Week". Nothing against gay people on our parts, but my idiot brother being gay would really be unexpected -- his wardrobe consists of jean shorts, T-shirts bought at Costco and baseball caps. And aside from the inconsistency of my brother being homosexual, revealing one's alternative lifestyle to Big Mother in late October pretty much equates to knifing Santa Claus right between the shoulder blades. There'd be no Christmas for the Shaftaculars this year. Powerless and anxious, my sister and I agreed to sweat this one out and react once the letter reached us.

So rather than having an outstanding New England getaway weekend, I ruminated on these horrible possibilities. Scared, saddened, sick to my stomach the whole time. Drank too much at the wedding drowning my sorrows, and spent the next day regretting my intoxication and anticipating the dreaded letter to come.

What's that you ask? Why didn't I just CALL my idiot brother and find out the truth rather than waiting to find out via postage? Well, I don't have a good answer for that, other than I'd rather do almost anything that be caught on the phone with my idiot brother talking about serious life issues.

Things I'd rather do include:
-have my wisdom teeth removed with only local anesthetic
-counseling my friend Rose on menstrual issues
-Julianne Moore movie marathon

After an agonizing plane ride home, not even a trouncing Bears victory could cheer me. I identified much more with the hapless Brewers, feeling that everything was coming to an end.

This morning I stalked the mailperson. When would the letter arrive? When would I know the truth? At noon, my mailbox was full of advertisements, bills and a wedding invitation. But no letter from my idiot brother! How could this be? Three days and still nothing.

I lost it. Eleven digits later, "Listen asshole, I know you don't want to talk, but I can't take this anymore. Just tell me what's going on? Are you getting a divorce? Are you sick? What's wrong? Are you going to make me tell Mom and Dad?"

With the vocal intonations of Spiccoli from Fast Times at Ridgement High, my idiot brother says "What are you talking about, dude?"

"The text you sent me! The letter! What's this huge, horrible news?!!!!"

My brother remained perplexed. He knew nothing of a letter. He swore he had no horrible news. He barely even remembered the text. Only after I forwarded the original inciting text:

"Everyone is getting a letter today. I don't want to talk to anyone."

did he recall his ill-advised words. Apparently the "everyone" he was talking about were his clients at work. The letter they were getting was about a slight decrease in work benefits. And the reason he didn't want to talk to "anyone" was because they were annoying him with complaints about the change in policy.

RAGE! Anger! RAGE! My sister's response when I informed her of my idiot brother's true meaning: "Jeebus Christ!"

What's that you ask? Did my brother realize in hindsight that his word choice was poor, his timing awful and his utilization of technology abysmal? Did he acknowledge that he'd ruined both my sister's and my weekends?

I don't know, what do you think of this response: "Too much caffeine, Dude! Relax!!!!!"

So, yeah. My idiot brother doesn't have brain cancer. His wife still loves him. His children still have a roof over their heads. His obese golden retriever continues to breathe and slobber. He's not gay.

F*%$&#@ asshole!

in a dream my memory has stored

2011-10-13T20:29:00.003-05:00

Maybe it's just 300 photos stuck together. Even so, it's a testament to our exploration of Mars.

It gives me chills.

attack of the clones

2011-10-13T18:03:00.006-05:00

I was reading a local rag this week. In an advertisement for the Pabst Theater I saw this:

And beneath this picture for the "Smashing Pumpkins" (quotations intentional) 2011 tour was written in huge lettering:

SHOW NOT SOLD OUT!

And I thought to myself -- yep.

clarification

2011-10-06T22:36:00.006-05:00

As I am somebody who is 100% "pro-America", "pro-freedom" and "pro-Gunn (Tom Gunn)", it's pretty reasonable for me to believe that Hank Williams, Jr. religiously follows my blog (or "blah-g", as my friend Rose would say).

Thus, I feel somehow responsible for the fact that "All My Rowdy Friends" will not precede this up-coming Monday's domination of the Detroit Lions at the hands of the might Chicago Bears. Based on timing and the similarity of situations, I think Hank read my entry from last week that decried the modern American's inability to take feedback and extrapolated a bit too LIBERALLY.

So Hank, let me clarify the difference between feedback and insane ranting.

Feedback: "Rose, 25-year old dudes don't want to date chicks who cut their hair above their ears and dye it three different colors of orange. I'm just sayin'. . ."

Insane ranting: "Barack Obama is indistinguishable from Adolf Hitler, the mass-murderer of millions of innocent human beings."

In my entry, I also went a little too far in intimating that I somehow "understood" Darth Vader's desire to rule the galaxy with a gloved robotic fist. I just want to be clear: I do genuinely become frustrated at times when smart people do stupid things, and maybe even wish I could control them so that they'd stop doing stupid things. But at no time do I have a desire to cut off my son's hand with a sword, cut off Samuel L. Jackson's hand with a sword, fight my former best friend on a lava planet, throw my boss into a reactor core or impregnate Natalie Portman.

Hank, feel free to leave a comment if you still have questions.

the other 23

2011-10-06T19:07:00.003-05:00

When it comes to the White Sox here in October 2011, there's only one relevant question:

Why the hell not?

dark energy

2011-10-04T22:52:00.002-05:00

Pretty cool discovery. Pretty big award. The metaphor for our society is obvious. Still, I'll never miss a chance to acknowledge human beings who are using intellect and energy to satisfy curiosity.

and the trees are stripped bare

2011-10-02T23:06:00.007-05:00

October is the best month.

Autumn beauty enlivens me. Autumn chill brings me comfort. Here in Wisconsin, the angle of the sun is no longer imposing while not yet neglectful. I don't purport to be in commune with nature. But if I could put my ear to the ground and listen long enough, I feel as if some natural entity might say, "It's been a good year and now it's time to rest."

Conversely, October is the month when the arts are in full flourish. A new good film is a weekly ritual, and the days of Piranha-3D are forgotten. Albums are released, concert dates are set. The rust of opening night is shed and the symphony heads in to a productive full season. The performing arts ramp up along all lines. Just as photosynthesis powers down, humanistic creation ebbs up to fill the void of impending winter nights.

In other avenues of humanity: baseball's only just starting to reach its potential, students are hard at work but not yet jaded by final exams, and farmers prepare to gather crops, but aren't yet exhausted or disappointed by the yield. People are busy, but they aren't frazzled. October's a time when very little is decided (except the World Series), but folks set out hopefully in many directions yet don't seem bothered by the unknown of their ultimate destination.

In summation, I like October because it's a time of mellow transition. Unlike summer daze and holiday madness, this month people are generally calmer, more optimistic, less bitter and even the harshest, most cynical, hyperactive facebook-posting moneygrabber can't help but stop, if just for a moment, to appreciate the orange skin of a pumpkin, the murky red of a fallen leaf or the serenity of the late afternoon sun on a brick wall.

Or maybe it's just me. Probably is. Either way, I like October. Stay as long as you like.

(This stream of consciousness is dedicated to my friend Timmy the Tim. He doesn't get stuff like this, but he continues to surround himself with people who do. For whatever it's worth.)

dissonance, defiance and plush

2011-09-29T20:38:00.010-05:00

The Boston Red Sox website now states (in ominous blood red script):

WE WON'T REST UNTIL ORDER HAS BEEN RESTORED.

I'd like to ask Theo Epstein what that order might be:
-World Series championships laden with pill-popping prima donnas?*
-unbalanced market sharing that leaves the Kansas City Royals as the equivalent of a developing nation?
-Jonathan Papelbon as Douchebag-in-chief rather than Pouty McPouterson?

I could watch the highlights of the lowly Baltimore Orioles wildly celebrating their game 162 victory over and over again. You'd think they were going to the playoffs. But no, nothing close to that -- they simply kicked the arrogant Homecoming King square in the nuts.

For just a moment, another pair of Sox looked even more pathetic than my own.

There's only one thing left to say:

COME ON CREW!

*The 2005 White Sox ruled the world on Juan Uribe's fat ass, Roberto Jenks' man-boobs and A.J. Pierzynski's complete lack of morals, but no steroids were utilized.

verdad?

2011-09-27T17:16:00.007-05:00

There's two ways to go with Ozzie Guillen release from the White Sox.

Option 1: Thank you, free spirit and World Champion.

Option 2: F&%@ you, frequent self-promoter and world champion bullshitter.

Either way, the person who's really living off the fumes of 2005 isn't Guillen or Chairman Jerry Reinsdorf. It's Kenny Williams, who needs to atone for his four horsemen: Dunn, Peavy, Rios and Vasquez.

Sigh.

If you're keeping score of my pop culture life: in the last 3 months I've lost my band, my favorite baseball player and now my World Series winning manager (and childhood hero). All of it withers in comparison to the true losses of my grandmother and a great friendship.

How do I put all this together? I don't. I know the first three losses are nothing compared to the latter two, but at some point I just got tired of reconciling good people/times/things/memories making for the exits.

So as far as Ozzie goes, I'm leaning toward Option 1 but keeping my clutches on Option 2 (especially for preempting 56's last White Sox start). Rather than collect my thoughts, I offer the following diversion: an imagined conversation between Michael Stipe and Ozzie Guillen.

Stipe: Hello.

Ozzie: Yo, meh.

Stipe: My first name's John, but I prefer to be called Michael. Don't call me Mike. It's Michael.

Ozzie: My name Ozzie. From Venezuela. Where you from, meh?

Stipe: I'm from nowhere. And everywhere. I once wrote a song called "Flowers of Guatemala", though. I haven't sung it in years. I was someone else when I wrote that song. I recently wrote a song called "Mine Smell Like Honey". That's who I am now. Before you ask, it's not about flatulence and anybody who says otherwise is practicing lazy journalism.

Ozzie: What you say about Oney? You talk about my son, Oney? That's my blood meh. I will (bleep)'n cut you, meh. You can kiss my ass, you bald freako. How you even know Oney, meh? You follow him on Twitter?

Stipe: Twitter is an abortion. I hate technology. Except for the iPhone. I now only watch films recorded on iPhones.

Ozzie: That's messed up.

Stipe: Yeah.

Ozzie: Listen, little buddy, I gotta run. You wanna get on this plane wit me? We going to SOUTH BEACH. Me, Oney and Ozzie, Jr., we going clubbing! Gonna meet some ladies!

Stipe: You drink and pick-up women with your sons? Um, okay. No, I have to catch a plane myself. I've rented a sculpting studio in Cologne. My latest project consists of a bunch of old parking meters melted down and welded into a minotaur.

Ozzie: That's crazy, meh? What you call it?

Stipe: "William Carlos Williams Buys a Tootsie Pop"

Ozzie: Uhhhhh, alright, meh. I'm outie to MIAMI.

Stipe: Okay.

sitar wars

2011-09-24T13:41:00.006-05:00

I'm in the final push of my second set of medical board certifications. Most physicians only take one set. The fact that I'm taking two sets in a matter of months is a unique aspect of my specialty. It's also a pain in the ass.

So today I'm upstairs cranking through board review questions and poring over review books. "Today" was really an irrelevant word because it's the same damn thing I did yesterday and the day before; ditto on tomorrow and the next day. My wife is single-handedly keeping me, the house, the son of Shaft, the cocker spaniel and the schnauzer afloat. Thank God for her.

Just ten minutes ago, my wife left on a shopping trip that doubles as a psychological break. She only did this after putting the son of Shaft down for a nap. See I'm "watching him", but really I just have a baby monitor next to me. She even said to me, "Text me if he wakes up early, and I'll come home." Bleh. It's getting a little pathetic here in West Lawn Park.

Anyway, as fate would have it, just after my wife left (not shitting you), Pandora pops up with this song:

Have you ever listened to this song? I mean really listened to it! All these years, I thought Harry Chapin just liked nursery rhymes and sitars. Turns out, this song is about the second worst kind of father -- one that doesn't have time for his son.

Well, I could get into a melodramatic self-evaluation about this whole thing. Or I could stop blogging (or "blah-g"ing as my friend Rose would say), get my shit done and spend some time with my kid tonight.

But just for good measure: F%*@ you, Pandora! XRT, here I come. And if XRT starts playing Everclear songs (probability: very low), I'm just unilaterally switching over to Christmas music right now.

Anyway, here's two sitar-anchored songs that are much more pleasant and inspirational:

R.E.M. "Animal"

Maybe tonight I'll teach my son the life lesson of using the sitar for good and not evil.

a zero-legged dog

2011-09-21T20:29:00.008-05:00

A lot of my predictions don't come true:

When Bill Clinton gave the commencement address at my alma mater in June 2007, based on how he looked, I said he'd be dead in 3 years. Gladly wrong.

When the White Sox traded Nick Swisher to the Yankees for minor leaguer Jeff Marquez, I said that the young pitching prospect would be a superstar. Sadly wrong.

Sometimes I'm right though:

Rose meet Timmy the Tim. Timmy the Tim meet Rose. You'd make a great couple. Gladly right.

The first time I heard Collapse into Now, I knew it would be the last R.E.M. album. Sadly right.

So to the several family and friends who texted, called or emailed today to see if I was "alright", the answer is yes. I feel a bit the freak that several people who know me really well think the retirement of R.E.M. could bring the sky down upon me on an otherwise beautiful day. Embarrassing only because it's theoretically true -- that's how much the band means to me. In actuality, having been prepared for it, I feel fine.

Feelings include contentedness now that it's official. Relief that I didn't have to witness R.E.M. whoring for a new recording contract. Sadness that there's not going to be any more new tunes. Mostly abundant gratitude though.

Since my powers of prognostication are sharp on this subject, I'll make a few more predictions.

-this is truly it. The R in R.E.M. doesn't stand for Rolling Stones. There won't be a reunion tour or any more albums, though I'm quite sure the band will play together numerous times at Athens, GA social events

-Michael Stipe will be heard from somewhat frequently as a guest vocalist on other artists' tracks and completely immerse in the affluent art scene of New York and metropolitan Europe.

-Peter Buck will continue in his 50 side projects and become the indie-music shaman of Portland, Oregon.

-Toughest to say what Mike Mills will do. He's the member most likely to form another band and tour. Wouldn't it be great if he and Bill Berry just dicked around on the farm and posted the recordings on the internet?

Wishful thinking from the retired fan of a retired band. For a brief moment today I had the thought that I had to pick a new favorite band. But that's impossible. Active or not, I have a favorite band.

R.E.M. has spanned my entire life until this day. Formed the year I was born. Disbanded the year my son was born. In between, R.E.M.'s music carried me through a rough, unwanted move from big city to furthest outer-ring suburbs at the tender age of 14. The band's most musically-productive era was the background to my transition from boy to man. They co-anchored the playlist of my college radio show for four years ("90.7 WVKC, Radio Free Galesburg!") R.E.M. composed the song that my wife and I danced to on our wedding day. And for eight long years, the R.E.M. catalog dragged me through many late nights in medical school and completely sleepless nights in the hospital.

So many thanks to Berry, Buck, Mills and Stipe. Good luck. Enjoy everything that is to come.

But make me this one deal: if say in 10 or 15 years, I do something really really good in this world; I'm thinking on the order of actualizing peace or saving lives or sheltering the weak and vulnerable. If I work hard and do something that is judged to be this good for mankind, then maybe you guys will get back together for one night in my neighborhood. And I get to pick the set list.

Do we have a deal?

feedback on feedback of the feedback

2011-09-20T21:30:00.005-05:00

A big part of my job this year is to give feedback to people. I tell them what I think about how they did in completing a particular task or project. It's not easy. Most people don't take it well. And being the good listener that I am, I often learn through feedback on the feedback that I am actually the problem and not the other person.

If I could give my own feedback on feedback in general, it's that the term should really be spoon-feeding. Because people are not equipped to take constructive criticism these days. Defer, deny and de-identify are the themes amongst folks these days. Why does it have to be anybody's fault?

All I can say is:

Brother, I'm starting to see your vision.

to 2017 and beyond

2011-09-14T19:05:00.003-05:00

NASA put its foot forward today, announcing the development of the Space Launch System (SLS) -- the next generation of American space flight. The only specifics that I (an asshole with an asshole blog and absolutely no aeronautics training) could glean from this announcement:

-liquid hydrogen-fueled rocket
-it will be unique as a true heavy lifter, with a goal to launch 70 metric tons into space (a lot more than any current or former systems)
-the first test launch is slated for 2017
-the Orion capsule will be the manned space vehicle

While this announcement is exciting, it's actually a lot more confusing. Two questions:
-what happened to the privatization of space flight?
-isn't the SLS identical to the Constellation program, which was canned two years ago (Orion, Saturn V-ish rocket, destination asteroid and then Mars)?

I'd hate to think this is a jobs ploy for Florida, the ultimate swing state. I probably hate to think that because that's probably what it is.

Overall, I think this is a carrot hanging just a little too far in front of my nose. Just like when GWB announced the development of the nuclear-powered Prometheus vessel in the early 2000s, it's a lot easier to create a computer graphic than a spacecraft. NASA's either lacked a strong translational program or a resilient political leadership structure since the early 80s. Eventually we have to stop dreaming, start engineering and ultimately fly somewhere.

But I'll take it. At least NASA has a faint pulse again.

be a good boy, friend-o

2011-09-13T21:36:00.004-05:00

Parenting advice:

When you're watching No Country for Old Men with Diamond Dave in your man room, and your wife walks in and drops an eight month old baby in your lap and says "I'll be back in 10 minutes", turn the baby's back to the television so he doesn't see Javier Bardem cow-gunning people.

i'll have a harps

2011-09-12T18:39:00.001-05:00

The HARPS telescope: who says real estate is dead?

dear media

2011-09-11T19:15:00.003-05:00

Dear Media,

To follow-up on my thoughts from yesterday: 77 American troops were injured today (thankfully none seriously) in a truck bomb blast in Afghanistan.

Even on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, if you were serious about reporting the news rather than being whores for whatever sells, the injured troops would be your top story. Not a small byline three quarters of the way down the page.

Sincerely,

SKS

a cool cool reign

2011-09-10T14:54:00.005-05:00

Anywhere I surf this weekend, it's 9/11 - Ten Years On coverage. American, foreign, amateur, professional -- any type of electronic media, doesn't matter. Every angle - that horrible day's effect on politics, culture, art, society. It's all examined and articulated this weekend on the web.

Life's carried on these past 10 years. I can instantaneously rattle off the three greatest things that have happened to me since those days: got married, White Sox won the World Series, became a father. The only thing that diminishes any of these events is that other men and women my exact age were fighting and dying very far from home this whole time. I feel very bad about that. But at least these personal events possessed some significance. I wasn't obsessing about American Idol or Glee while the wars dragged on. For whatever that's worth.

Should there be a West Lawn Park commentary on this anniversary? I don't know. Maybe. Probably, given that I can't say I'm completely immune to sentiment, memory and reflection on this weekend. But I have the overwhelming feeling that for people like me on the sideline (not the mourner of a victim or the relative of a soldier), it's all been said.

better days

2011-09-06T17:36:00.002-05:00

I wish my son was old enough to appreciate this. I'll make sure he does when he is. Or maybe time will be better then, and we'll be on the roadmap to history.

no, it's wisconsin

2011-09-04T19:25:00.007-05:00

Every year when the White Sox finally have the sentinel event that removes them from playoff contention, I queue up The Band's version of "I Shall Be Released". I know this is dramatic, but it's also perfect. After so much wishing, hoping and rationalizing for agonizing months on end, I can finally sit back and say to myself: "not this year."

Last night, the White Sox lost the second of a do-or-die 3-game series to the first place Detroit Tigers. Mathematically, my team is still in it. But after the crushing psychological defeat of losing 9-8 after being up 6-1, capped off by the very solid Sergio Santos teeing up two home runs in the bottom of the 9th, it's over. This is the 2011 sentinel event. We're done.

When this happens, there's immediate frustration followed by surprisingly quick acceptance. Then I move right to denial and pretend that the Bears have something good planned for the autumn. I try to catch a game or two on TV before the end of the seasom, but I watch it just for the pure joy of baseball. Then I forget about the Sox till around Thanksgiving when GM Kenny Williams inevitably adds some member of the 1995 Indians to our roster. Such is the circle of my life.

This year though, I'm a little sadder. My favorite player, Mark Buehrle (reverently known in West Lawn Park as 56), is in the final year of his contract. At 32 years old, and with an ERA less than 4.00, 56 has a lot left in the tank. But most likely his twilight years won't be with us. The payroll is bloated, the younger Jon Danks (mini-56) needs to get paid and future star Chris Sale needs a rotation spot. And 56, a native of St. Charles MO, has talked for years about ending his career with the Cardinals. All signs point to an end of Mark Buehrle's decade as White Sox ace (wasn't Jake Peavy supposed to end that?).

Wouldn't you know it, the night after such a devastating loss, White Sox-Tigers is the game of the week on ESPN. And 56 is starting. There's talk of a final rally and playoff push, and a very small piece of me wants to believe it. But I really don't. I don't have super-fantastic cable here in Wauwatosa, so I try to catch the White Sox on television whenever I can. This might be my last chance to watch 56 in a White Sox uniform.

So I'm going to sit back, relax and strap it down in my Man Room (dedicated to the 2005 World Champion White Sox). And just appreciate this favorite player of mine.

Oh yeah, and I've got a buddy whose favorite player is 56 as well.

Life is good.

theoden king stands alone

2011-09-03T16:07:00.004-05:00

I'm as disappointed as anyone about President Obama's decision to defer stricter federal air quality regulations. And I agree that it's a purely political move designed to bolster Obama's image as a "jobs" President. It's a really shitty time to have a non-economic agenda.

But I've now read articles in The Atlantic Monthly, NYTimes, WSJ and Politico, all of which detail environmentalists' musings on their next moves. They plot and ponder - "how are we going to make the President pay for his duplicity?" They variously say they are "not sure if they can campaign as hard for Obama in 2012 as the did in 2008".

Excuse me? Anybody remember four years ago? Eight years ago? The 1980s through early 90s?

Oh yeah, I forgot the difference between liberals and conservatives. Liberals are issue-driven. Conservatives are power-consolidators. Thus one side has the moral victory, and the other side has the seats in the Halls of Power. You know another term for moral victory? -- courtesy flush.

Absolutely, I agree with these issue-mongers. Their issues are my issues. And philosophically, I wish there'd come a time that I could vote for Herman Cain because I think he's a good person rather than a good politician. Or that I could consider a vote for Paul Ryan, who's a total politician but a pretty good bean-counter as well. But we don't live in those times. Liberals and conservatives are two gangs, slugging it out and the balance between the two keeps this country functioning on some level. I may be fiscally conservative and socially liberal, but there's no place for me. Thus my sympathies lay with the tree huggers.

So to the pissed-off environmentalists, I say this: you sure as hell will stomp the pavement for President Obama next year. You will do everything you can to help him and hope that he pays his political debt in the second term. Because Bachmann, Perry and Romney "don't believe" in smog. Do you really want that?

Let me put it another way. Remember in Lord of the Rings how Theoden, King of Rohan, fell on hard times? Enchanted by an evil wizard and kept on a metaphorical leash by a creepy pervert, poor Theoden had few options but to stand by and watch his country rot. The King was so messed up that he did not even recognize his loyal nephew, Eomer, whom he banished from the domain.

After the spell was broken, Theoden went immediately to work putting his country back together. Where'd that get him? Surrounded by orcs inside the breached walls of of Helm's Deep.

In Theoden's time of need, did Eomer stand at the top of the ridge and contemplate righteous indifference?

Did Eomer say, "Gee, Gandalf, I used to really like Theoden. But he's had a very anti-equestrian policy for some time now. I think I'll sit this one out." No! He rode into hell and wrecked some shit.

Forth Eorlingas! And quit your bitching!

i am not with you in rockland

2011-08-27T22:12:00.009-05:00

Howl, the 2010 film by Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman, is the best film I've seen in well over a year. Detailing Ginsberg's creative process and the subsequent 1957 obscenity trial over the four-part poem, the film has too many merits for me to detail here. A few brief thoughts:

I rented this film from the library only out of cynical curiosity. How could the handsome, charismatic James Franco pull off a believable portrayal of the sullen, frumpy, frail young Allen Ginsberg? Whether or not Franco conjured an authentic Ginsberg, I have no idea. For as much as I keyed on Kerouac, Carr and Burroughs as a teenager, my familiarity with Ginsberg is nil. But Franco's performance was certainly powerful. Franco's screen presence held a highly experimental film together.

While Franco's performance anchors Howl, Eric Drooker's artwork punctuated the meaning of the poem itself and gave a great counterbalance to the heavy reality of the obscenity trial.

But the best aspect of the film for me personally was finally exploring a poem that I have never completely read or connected with despite multiple attempts. No doubt because of my familiarity Kerouac (a safer, less overtly sexual writer), I mentally rebelled against Howl each time I tried to read it. My thought being: why waste time on this shit? A cop-out to be sure.* But the film Howl makes the poem less exhausting by breaking it up in to focused sections. At the same time, the writers showed enough restraint to avoid unnecessarily dissecting the poem -- slow it down, take it in pieces and let the viewer/listener figure it out. Most importantly, hearing Howl is eminently less taxing than reading it. I'm fairly sure that's by design.

Howl's the type of film that preys on introspective types like myself. The film triggers personal memories. However cliche it is to read the Beats at age 17, I don't shy away from the generation's meaning to me. Those feelings connect to other memories of late night discussions with world-champion bullshitters, other authors and books I've read, under-aged/overthought drinking and my best friend's relentlessness in stating "you will know Bob Dylan".

And all that leads to split-second judgment of my life today. The last book I read was If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. I hardly ever watch thought-provoking films. Work always comes home with me. I stay connected to a very dear friend via imitation Scrabble on my Iphone. Concerns about global warming have given way to worries about whether the furnace will make it through on more winter. I'm not a philosophe. I'm a consumer. I'm not a Beatnik. I'm a tax-payer.

And it's all good, because I've got a wife and a son who are way better than any of the other stuff. Boring, fat and happy are just fine with me.

Do I secretly desire the Beatnik life of reckless parties, philosophic discussions and nihilistic daily existence? No. Definitely not. I say that as I'm currently witnessing the self-inflicted disintegration of the most unique spirit I've ever encountered. I'm powerless to do anything but record a complete catastrophe of alcoholism and mental illness.

I'm told there's a lot of pressure in loving people and keeping promises. I'm told some people aren't cut out for domesticity. And then there's the romantic concept of a tragic hero who's destined to fail. Adventurous Jack Kerouac drank until he exsanguinated out his mouth and died alone. This is the part of Beat life that doesn't make it into the primary works, but only as a post-script in biographies. Runty Allen Ginsberg, on the other hand, smoked some (haha) weed and lived a long and happy life shared with a loved one. Individuals, even the really smart people with quirks and problems, have to make choices.

End soliloquy.

After all that, for formality's sake, Howl is enshrined in the Richard Roundtree Circle.

*NB: I have a history of not being able to tolerate any poem longer than the Rime of the Ancient Mariner -- I find The Wasteland to be uncomfortably frightening and Leaves of Grass to be folksy.

booby blah-g

2011-08-26T20:39:00.002-05:00

My son is on a nursing strike. He has summarily rejected the breast. I'm looking into DNA testing.

a steal by bird

2011-08-21T09:19:00.004-05:00

I have very little interest in birds. I'm okay with birds in nature, but I find them to be disgusting in captivity. I avoid the bird room at the zoo. As a kid, I always pushed for the friends with pet birds to come over to my house to play. In Lord of the Rings, I kind of cringe when Gandalf is constantly riding on the back of an eagle -- I secretly wonder if he keeps hand sanitizer in his wizard hat. I don't know, I just think birds are gross.

But yesterday, while sitting on my deck minding my own business, something started knock-knock-knocking on Slider's door (actually, his lilac tree). With the help of my Iphone, I captured the image of this cool woodpecker:

The bird's plume was a mixture of black and white. As birds go, he/she looked very clean and appeared to have American values. Not sure what his goal was in pecking away at my lilac tree, but more power to him. He should feel free to come back any time.

NB: In my very superstitious Irish-Croatian family (the upright Scots and calm Swedes are on the other side), this would clearly be seen as a "sign" that my recently deceased grandmother is alive and well. Others would actually argue that the woodpecker was Mimi reincarnated. We won't talk about the fact that both birth control and reincarnation are "against the Church", but in my family one is seen as a serious sin whereas the other is just "the coolest idea." In this instance, I don't think the woodpecker was either a sign or the reincarnation of my grandomther. One: I don't need any reassurance that my grandmother is doing very well these days. And two: if Mimi were to be reincarnated, I'm quite sure she'd come back as either an extremely pampered Irish terrier or as a ferocious hawk regulating the skies and taking out bad-acting rodents.

800 pages of summer

2011-08-20T23:42:00.007-05:00

Tonight I finished reading Anna Karenina. The project started 4 months ago and proceeded in fits and starts. Undertaken with the thought that the Year of Shaft & Son was good for all aspects of SKS except his intellect, I do believe reading this book stimulated an otherwise dormant cluster of synapses.

Many thoughts flood to my brain. Giving them some structure:

Much like running 5 miles or drinking 6 beers, I am shocked at how much more energy, focus and stamina is required for me to read a Russian novel at the age of 31 than at age 17.

Being my first Tolstoy novel, I am disappointed that I obsessed over Dostoyevsky and Gogol for so long. Leo's the Gene Hackman of Russian literature -- freely alternating between effective comedy and heart-wrenching drama. Fyodr, my old friend, you are much too much Russian literature's Paul Giamatti, everyday discovering a new uncomfortable circle of despair and ugliness.

I shouldn't still be learning this lesson at my age, but shockingly Anna Karenina is not the best character in Anna Karenina. That distinction goes Constantine Dmitrich Levin. My memory may be foggy, but I'm pretty sure that Levin, an everyman whose skepticism of society and religion does not preclude his ability to be socially conscious and spiritual, is the cut-out pattern for F. Scott Fitzgerald's character Amory Blaine from This Side of Paradise. It's almost like Levin is ripped from one set of pages and plopped right down into East Coast high society of the 1920s. I'd ask Fitzgerald about this, but he's dead. And even if he wasn't dead, he'd be too drunk to remember or answer.

Add this novel's opening to my personal all-time favorites:

"All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

I apologize for the rambling, random thoughts. I've recently lost track of the person who was my traditional soundboard for all my boring musings on Russian literature and other topics that no one else cares about. So many great afternoons over Dr. Pepper and Subway. And that many more well-spent midnights over clam chowder and bad coffee. I miss those days, but I miss the person infinitely more.

curdos

2011-08-16T22:47:00.003-05:00

I feel a little bad about the rage from yesterday's post. Deep down, I understand that people who don't believe what I believe and don't talk like I talk are not actually imbeciles. I understand, with a few exceptions, that they are good people trying to do right in the world. And I understand that the world would be really boring if we all thought and talked alike.

To repent for the bad mojo I spewed yesterday, let me tell you about a few really nice things that happened to me today.

Determined to show my in-laws a good time, I decided at the last minute to take them to the first-place Brewers game tonight. We walk up to Miller Park with some Brewers gift certificates in hand. The ticket booth is swamped, absolutely surrounded, by baseball-crazy fanatics wanting a piece of the winning team. I queue and wait my turn. As I'm standing there, a nice older couple turns around and says, "Would you like some 2-for-1 coupons? We already have our tickets so we don't need them." Caught off guard and touched by the generosity, I initially just blurt out "sure". But collecting my thoughts, I ultimately say "Thank you, sir."

When I finally make it to the booth, the man behind the plexiglass is clearly a little frazzled. And just to make his day better, I'm not the guy who's going to say, "Two tickets in the bleachers, please" and pay in cash. No, I say, "I have $100 in gift certificates, and I'd like four seats together that are the best seats possible that don't actually cost more than $100. Oh and by the way, I just got these 2-for-1 coupons, so could you factor that into finding me the best seats, please?" I fully acknowledge the pest I was being, but after the week I've had, I was just looking for the best possible night out. Despite my multi-vectored complications of the simple process of buying baseball tickets, the ticket man was extremely patient with me. He diligently searched and offered me several options throughout the park. He even talked me out of more expensive seats because he said the view would be better in a less expensive section.

He was right. Great game. 2-1 final with a walk-off bases loaded single!

Oh, and did I mention that I get to park for free at all Brewers games because I work at the VA which is right next door?

So, tallying it up:
1. Thank you kind strangers for the coupons.
2. Thank you ticket man for being courteous and patient (had you worked for my beloved Chicago White Sox, you would have just told me to %#$* off and step out of the line).
3. Thank you Brewers for a great game.
4. And thank you, veterans, for all your service and for letting me park for free.

articles of rageration

2011-08-15T23:14:00.004-05:00

The thing about a blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose would say) is that it's personal, it's inconsequential and it's ready-accessed.

As such, I'd like to be honest about three things I don't like about a country that I otherwise love:

I dislike that Iowa determines the fate of all us. Not because I think Iowa is backward, simple or down-home. I hate it because there's no difference between Iowa and Wyoming, but as far as any politician goes, Wyoming can eat shit and die.

I dislike that someone can say "Hey, I'm the Governor of Texas. You don't know anything about me, but I'd like you to seriously consider me for leader of the free world", but someone cannot say, "Hey, I'm a generic human being. You don't know anything about me, but what I do in my personal life is my own business. So I'd like you to seriously consider leaving me the fuck alone."

That's it for now.

someone call shatner

2011-08-12T21:59:00.003-05:00

Among other things, the 2011 season will be known as the year the White Sox lost to Bruce %$*#!%^ Chen four times. Four times!

Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnn!
Cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnn!

slider k spectacleacular

2011-08-05T21:56:00.005-05:00

I have achieved the life-long dream of needing glasses. Right now they're just for reading, but who knows what the future will bring.

Perhaps I will be inspired by my new eye-wear to become an engineer, like this guy.

Or maybe I need to revisit my basketball career (bad timing, I know!).

Or maybe my waning eyesight is only symptomatic of my body shunting all its resources to more profound powers, like this guy. (Note: this possibility is supported by the fact that my wife is hot and thinks she can read my mind).

I'll tell you one thing. My glasses won't make me into some kind of nerd, like this marooned sap.

All I know is that these glasses are changing my life. Before glasses, this is what I looked like.

And this is what I look like now.

And the ladies just won't stop calling! Holler!

mimi

2011-07-31T09:54:00.004-05:00

Maybe I'm hardened by so many death pronouncements.
Maybe it's easier for me not to be sad.
But based on my beliefs, which you gave to me
I'm happy that the pain is gone and there's a new life for you.

damn you

2011-07-27T20:52:00.004-05:00

Damn you both.
Damn your baseball smarts.
Damn your calmness in the midst of infinite sucking.
Damn your obsession with social media.
And damn you for making slick trades in the face of me quitting on you.

You two are like a bad Morrissey song:

"Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said
I'd like to smash every tooth in your head."

I hate you, hate you, hate you.

skidders!

2011-07-25T17:48:00.003-05:00

After the conclusion of Battlestar Galactica and the horrid disappointment of The Event, I feared that I would have to wait a very long time before I'd have a TV show to call mine.

The wait is over, though! Almost by accident I discovered the little-hyped Falling Skies, a first-run summer drama appearing on the TNT network. This is not a good sci-fi show. It's just a good show.

The premise (in brief): an alien race has conquered earth, and 80% of humanity has been wiped out. The aliens, known as "Skidders" because they never bothered to communicate their name or agenda, waged a surgical war in which all human technology was rendered useless and the world's armies and major cities have been destroyed. The show follows the 2nd Massachusetts, a resistance cell that is loosely organized with other guerrillas. The fighters are mostly younger men and women whose only qualifications are the ability to fire guns, as most of the professional soldiers are already dead. In tow with the 2nd Mass is a group of civilians who struggle to maintain something of a civilization, including schools for children. And oh yeah, the kids! The Skidders don't seem to be after natural resources or infrastructure. But they're particularly fond of human children, placing alien "harnesses" that seem to drug and enslave kids.

So that was a lot, and a lot of it seemed pornographic in its overt sci-fi characteristics. But, the center of the show is the Mason family: Tom (played by Noah Wyle) and his three sons. Tom Mason was a historian teaching at Harvard until 6 months ago, when the world changed after the aliens stole one of his kids, and he became a default resistance fighter. This is where the show's writers get creative, because Tom is always making connections between the strategies of the Skidders and past tactics of human warfare. Take a look in the mirror.

A reviewer called Falling Skies a cross between the new V and Friday Night Lights. I think it's a little more Earth: Final Conflict than V, but the comparison holds. What I absolutely love about the show is that much in the vein of Battlestar Galactica, Falling Skies is more about what hidden terror than what is seen on screen. There's no epic alien battles, there's no 24 karat alien space ship. The aliens are mostly seen from afar and the alien war machine is so powerful in this fictional universe that the humans never see much other than an explosions and human corpses. Okay, that might be budget considerations, but maybe it's also a little magic of the theater.

The hardest part about getting into Falling Skies is the brief 10-episode summer seasons. But less can be more. And the show's been renewed for next year, so there's a guarantee of some revelation. If you'd like to catch up, you can watch all the episodes online here.

sunday robot

2011-07-24T13:58:00.002-05:00

In my personal life, I'm reminded on a daily basis that humans can do good things. Then I read the news -- that is, the leading events of the human race -- and I get pretty depressed. To counter the doldrums of gun violence and budget bickering (rather than problem-solving), I offer this article about the new Mars rover Curiosity.

Apparently we can put our heads together and do great things.

not cool

2011-07-21T22:13:00.004-05:00

I'd like to thank my beloved White Sox for scoring three runs in the last 20 innings and blowing an absolute gem of a pitching performance from John Danks. Against the lowly Royals, no less!

Seems kind of strange to thank your team for losing in embarrassing fashion?

I say that this is a normal part of the grieving process and that gratitude is appropriate. The second greatest gift that a baseball team can give its great fans (after winning the World Series) is proving as early as possible in the season that the team will not contend for the playoffs at all. It eliminates the gut-wrenching stamina required to maintain hope in the face of bad baseball IQ and piss poor effort. Now I know for sure that my team sucks. I'm sure Alex Rios and Adam Dunn are headcases. And I'm sad that 56 will be gone next year.

All this sad emotion! It's better than the alternative -- believing in the impossible

to leave and find my way

2011-07-16T20:27:00.007-05:00

A year and a half ago, I wrote about the intersection of awesomeness that occurred when astronaut John Young, while walking on the surface of the moon, learned via radio transmission that Congress had approved funding for a new reusable space vehicle that would ultimately become the space shuttle. The intersection was rather awesome because Young would command the first shuttle mission some years later.

Fast-forward to Wednesday, in the midst of the final shuttle mission, another quite different intersection of awesomeness occurred.

Several thoughts enter my mind at this intersection of awesomeness:

1. OMG WTF, R.E.M. talking to astronauts.
2. OMG WTF, do I have to be an astronaut to talk to R.E.M.?
3. OMG WTF, could I hang out with astronauts if I was a member of R.E.M.?
4. Hey, didn't Stipe sing the lyric "I'm ready to close the book on NASA and outer space" in the little known I Took Your Name?!
5. Stipe 1, Bono nil.

But more so, I'm just happy and sad all at the same time. Happy that I have good enough taste to have two of my passions in life intersect. Sad that they might both be going out to pasture.

But in honor of the second ever known intersection of awesomeness, I again hypothesize about other potential intersections of awesomeness:

Hope Solo is the cousin of Han Solo, thus taking Han Solo out of the pool of men that Hope Solo would probably rather make out with than me. INTERSECTION OF AWESOMENESS!

The Son of Shaft is drafted by the White Sox. INTERSECTION OF AWESOMENESS!

Billy Corgan loses the ability to speak and this "tragedy" moves the Smiths to reunite and tour. INTERSECTION OF AWESOMENESS!

Michael Bay dies and Paramount Pictures is forced to turn over a huge budget to Christopher Nolan to make a live-action Voltron movie. INTERSECTION OF AWESOMENESS!

People realize that higher education is an earned privilege and not an inheritance, thus encouraging entrepreneurship and alternative thinking that solves all the world's problems, while at the same time freeing up space and money for true students of the LIBERAL arts to go to college and reclaim the LIBERAL arts. INTERSECTION OF AWESOMENESS!

But as we all know, intersections of awesomeness are preciously rare. We just have to be thankful for the ones we have witnessed.

blood, diamond dave and me

2011-07-16T17:08:00.003-05:00

Stressful life with board exams, baby and bills on my mind. The walls are closing in. Slider K. Shaftacular just doesn't know what he's gonna do.

Or does he?

The plan for Sunday: Rendezvous with Diamond Dave at noon and watch first Transformers movie. Skip Transformers 2 (lobotomies were debunked many years ago), watch Braveheart instead. Then go see Transformer 3 at night. Mix in some Cool Ranch Doritos, tater tots, Spotted Cow and pray for rain.

Kid Shay, forgive me! But I'm in such a state that giant robots beating the shit out of each other just seems right. Desperate times. . .

Oh, and before you judge me, Shay: I noted something new and quite hipsterish about you lately.

You get those glasses working at Barnes & Noble or did Rivers Cuomo have a garage sale?

how does it feel?

2011-07-14T20:05:00.003-05:00

What did I learn about myself this week?

There's an expiration date on the need for revenge. So strong when first lusted after, so empty when fulfilled. And I chalk it up to self-preservation and a need for sanity.

A focus on another's demise (even if just wishing rather than acting) is time not spent in the betterment of self.

Enough of Slider-Tzu. Now back to the blood-thirsty world. . .

a matter of time

2011-07-09T23:07:00.002-05:00

"You see this giraffe? This giraffe brought shame on the family. You know what I do to giraffes that bring shame on the family?"

you forgot poland

2011-07-04T20:45:00.004-05:00

Let me tell you a few things about my friend Dick:

-he states his name is "Rich", but we all know the truth.

-he is from the same South Side neighborhood as me.

-he is the godfather of the son of Shaft

-he is VERY, VERY, VERY Polish (myself being Irish, and the both of us being South Siders, this has tremendous ramifications on our friendship)

What do I mean by Dick being VERY, VERY, VERY Polish? This has nothing to do with light bulbs or desert islands or any of the other zillion Polish jokes out there. Being Polish, especially South Side Polish, is a cultural experience. Let me describe it in great detail:

Dick dresses like Euro-trash.
Example: If I go to the gym, I wear an old T-shirt, a pair of shorts, two socks and old shoes. If Dick goes to the gym, he wears a long-sleeved mesh shirt with the Nike swoosh in the upper left chest, noisy windpants, $150 gym shoes, gels his hair and rocks the gold chain on the outside of the shirt.

Very Polish.

Dick speaks in black and white terms.
Example: If Dick was drinking a tasteless Slurpee, he would declare that ALL Slurpees taste bad. Not just the current rancid Slurpee in his hand. Regardless of a million prior good experiences with very tasty Slurpees, Dick would not back down from the unambiguous declaration of the inherent badness of ALL Slurpees. The more someone (like me) argued with Dick about the faultiness of his Slurpee logic, the more stubbornly he would hold on to his belief. This statement, however, would not prevent Dick from buying another Slurpee at the same 7-11 on 64th & Kildare the very next day.

Very Polish.

Dick is not good with directions.
Example: We were once driving through Brooklyn after a long cross-country journey, trying to find a neighborhood brownstone where we'd be staying for the night. I was behind the wheel and hoping for some help from my navigator. Dick had the map open to the state of Pennsylvania.

Very Polish.

Dick talks the talk, but does not walk the walk.
Example: Dick constantly talks about all the hot chicks (at work, at the gym, in the grocery store) who "want" him. In reality, Dick lives at the pleasure of his wonderful wife. As a consequence of this fact, Dick has seen the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie Love Comes Softly (not porn, I promise) six times.

Very Polish.

Dick plays hockey.
Example: Dick sucks at basketball, the sport of choice for most of my generation and my neighborhood. When someone (like me) points out that he sucks at basketball, Dick will make some sort of statement to the effect of "Bet you can't stop a puck coming at you at 90 miles an hour."

Very Polish.

Dick is aloof.
Example: Dick says to me tonight at my Independence Day picnic "Dan Mesa just told me you had a blog." I say, "Dick, I've had this blog (or 'blah-g' as my friend Rose would say) for four years. I've talked to you about it before. I've written about you in it before. You are a tool. How do you survive in this world?" To which Dick replies, "Your mom."

Very Polish.

not the same boy you used to be

2011-07-02T11:12:00.004-05:00

I'm listening to the radio this morning, and "I'm a Man" by the Spencer Davis Group is played. What a pace! Tremendous song!

Then I start thinking to myself: how could this be the same Steve Winwood who brought us "Bring Me a Higher Love", "Back in the High Life" and "Valerie", three of the worst perversions of all that was innocent and good about 80s music?

Steve Winwood, you are a bastard!

eject dammit eject

2011-06-27T21:39:00.003-05:00

I do a lot of driving. Milwaukee to Cleveland. Milwaukee to Blue Eye, MO. Milwaukee to whatever baseball park I haven't been to before.

One thing I've noticed on these excursions is that in the middle of America (the real America), there's invariably a radio station that's going to play Billy Joel's "My Life" and Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" back-to-back. Doesn't matter if I'm in Iowa or Ohio, I'll come across this station with the scan button on my car stereo. Usually the station will be in the 91.1-92.3 frequency modulation. Most of the time, I'm pretty sure the disc jockey playing these songs is actually scratching vinyl on a turntable.

I think I'd like to work at one of those radio stations. Not because I particularly like "My Life" and "Tiny Dancer". It's just that I live in a world full of chippy people. And extrapolating on my thoughts about this fictional universal radio station, how chippy can anyone be if they work at 91.1 Muskego, "The River", playing Billy Joel's "My Life" 24-7 with traffic reports on the 10s?

Am I right? I bet they even have a soft serve ice cream machine at that radio station. The kind where you can get chocolate or vanilla or chocolate-vanilla swirl.

mind frak

2011-06-21T12:23:00.004-05:00

Roger Ebert's facebook page was shut down for a few hours after commenting on Jackass star Ryan Dunn's death via a motor vehicle accident. Dunn had tweeted a picture of himself a few hours before the accident drinking with friends. In the facebook update, Ebert stated that "friends don't let jackasses drive drunk". Several facebook users complained to the website that Ebert's comments were insensitive. Bam Magera and Perez Hilton think Ebert is insensitive.

Where does the pain in this scenario start for you?

-a distinguished professional being criticized for stating the importance of not drinking alcohol while driving a car

-at least hundreds of individuals banding together in agreement that it's inappropriate to chastise the practice of drinking and driving in proximity to someone they "love/respect" dying in a horrible car crash after consuming

-the consequence for this horrible faux pas being the discontinuation of a personal social networking mechanism

-Perez Hilton calling someone else insensitive

Or option E: The pain begins with social networking itself.

"Society, you're a crazy breed. Hope you're not lonely without me." -- Eddie Vedder

clarence

2011-06-19T08:03:00.005-05:00

1942 - 2011

It is with a heavy heart and severe regret that I realize I've lost the chance to see Clarence Clemons perform in person. That's what I get for putting things off for another day. God bless Clarence and his family!

I'll be listening to "Spirit in the Night" quite a few times today.

tubbage versus boobage?

2011-06-18T09:27:00.001-05:00

Hotel Confidential - Newsweek

Above is a very disturbing article about a sub-culture of businessmen having "business time" while on the road. The most revolting part of the article details how the high-end hotel industry is complicit in this process that degrades and violates female employees. If you can't tell, I am very, very appalled by this whole thing.

But after getting over my disgust, I move on to self-doubt. I mean, when I go to a hotel, I'm really hoping for a hot tub and an indoor pool (same for my best friend Dan Mesa). So does that mean I have the mind of a child or something?

saucy jack

2011-06-17T17:08:00.002-05:00

It's hard to blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose would say) when you're focused on so many other projects. New job, new iPhone, new dad, movie producer.

I'm so important, it hurts.

you have the right not to social network

2011-06-12T07:55:00.004-05:00

As any dedicated reader of West Lawn Park knows, my friend Rose is obsessed with the fact that I am not on facebook. Readers will also know that I hate facebook vehemently and consider it to be the harbinger of the last days of mankind.

The main thrust of Rose's argument that I should be on the social network. is "everybody is on facebook!" Whatever that means.

Well, now I have legal precedent for why I will NEVER, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeVER join facebook. As you listen, please substitute "Rose" for "Will" and "Slider K. Shaftacular" for "Adam" (though I don't know anything about Swedish massage).

Not since Miranda v. Arizona has a court case so completely defined the rights of the individual against the throngs of society. Now I think we can put all this nonsense to rest.

excellent parenting

2011-06-02T21:29:00.011-05:00

Diamond Dave and I took the bird in hand this evening. In contrast to the questionable parenting from earlier this week, the Son of Shaft got a lesson in real American manhood tonight. There was grilling of brats and tater tots, beer consumed from an aluminum can and Always Sunny in Philadelphia on the television.

Professor Diamond Dave instructs the Son of Shaft in the survival skill of turning a slice of bread into a bratwurst bun.

The Son of Shaft covers his mouth to burp after a King's Feast of tater tots and boob juice. He's also looking for the remote because he wants to watch Tosh.0*

My son, whom I consider my student on the path of righteousness, got a textbook lesson in the good life. We didn't listen to Lee Greenwood, but the Son of Shaft is proud to be an American and a Wisconsin son.

*Clarification: the Miller Lite in the foreground of the photo belongs to Shaft and not the Son of Shaft.

reverie

2011-05-31T23:28:00.005-05:00

Recently, I came across a new classical music station that's to my liking. Out of Austin, KMFA 89.5 beefs up on musical content and is very skimpy on familiar classical music station diversions -- hourly news, commentary, etc.

The best part about this station is the nightly show, Reverie, from 10 PM until midnight CST. During this two hour block, the station focuses on extremely tranquil classical music. No Prokofiev, no Mussgorsky, no Holst. But it's not so snobby as to be a bunch of Bizet or Debussey cuts. The host, Lauren Rico, might select a Chopin concerto, then follow it up from a extract of a recent motion picture soundtrack (Batman Begins just a couple nights ago!) and then move on to an East Asian or South American modern composition.

I've never found a programming format quite like Reverie. It's become my nightly study date.

Caveat: if Lauren Rico ever declares "Don't mess with Texas!" in the stereotypical classical music host monotone, I'm bailing.

questionable parenting

2011-05-30T22:49:00.005-05:00

I can't be with my child 24 hours per day. I want to be, but my job, despite getting much easier, won't allow for it. I have to trust many others to help with the moral up-bringing of the Son of Shaft (wife, mother-in-law, Diamond Dave, Matilda T. Zombiequeen, cocker spaniel, etc., etc.)

Well, my trust is a little shaken these days. WARNING, if small children are in the room, you may want to distract them with candy or television violence for a few moments. This is going to be bad:

The Son of Shaft lunges to break free from the clutches of a vile, unnamed Irishman.

West Lawn Park intelligence unit obtained this photo of the Son of Shaft earlier this afternoon. An investigation is still on-going. The identification of the man in the picture is incomplete. What intelligence has learned so far suggests that 1) he is NOT Slider K. Shaftacular, 2) he forced the Son of Shaft to wear the Brewers outfit*, 3) he likely has a drinking problem based upon all the alcohol-related paraphernalia/malnourished body habitus/characteristic Irish features and 4) he probably has no values.

Not to be alarmist, the important thing is that the Son of Shaft is safe. He's no longer wearing FOREIGN baseball wear. The Son of Shaft understands that he is a White Sox fan and that his team is going through a hard time right now and really needs the support of all of White Sox nation. SKS has personally contacted 56 to set up a counseling session for Shaft & Son.

The root cause analysis continues, but the heart of the matter is HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? Wife is the main suspect. At this time we are unsure if this was negligence or frugality--wife has been known to deem anything that she didn't have to pay for as empirically good (a.k.a., the "if it's free it must be" Doctrine). There are rumors that this may have been the first step by wife on a "reeducation program" that ultimately leads to the Son of Shaft becoming an Indians fan. We hope this isn't true.**

Hug your children. Hold them close. Go White Sox!

*West Lawn Park would like to stress that we are not philosophically anti-Brewers. We find Miller Park to be highly amenable to baseball, think the team is pretty good and relish their persistent pounding of the Cubs. It's simply that the Brewers are not, and will never be the White Sox, and thus will never be the team of Shaft or his son. (It'd be like having Optimus Prime and Bumble Bee wear Thundercats' logos. Nothing against the Thundercats, but they're Transformers, damn it!)

**In case it is true that wife is plotting to turn the Son of Shaft into an Indians fan, Slider K. Shaftacular has retained the services of Peter Francis Geraci (and his famous infotapes) to pursue "alternative vocational status"

47/48

2011-05-27T17:23:00.002-05:00

For all intents and purposes, my four-year residency ended about an hour ago. The last intense month has melted away. For the next month, I still carry the title of resident. But my hours will be short, my waking times will be late and my stress will be minimal. And more than anything else, I'll spend the next month transitioning into my new job. Very exciting!

In this first hour of my new life, I'm reluctant to let a flood of memories shoot through my brain. Salty food, sleepless nights and a new conflagration just a beeper page away. Recollections good and bad will seep through for years to come. Not today though.

In the meantime, there's much to do. Paperwork to fill out, housework to be done, board exams to study for. But not tonight.

In my future are the following:
-an evening with my wife and my son
-red wine
-brats on the barbecue
-Anna Karenina
-White Sox baseball
-Office Space

It's not flashy. It's not outlandish. But it's all I want right now. I rarely say this or think this, but congratulations to me!

the future is bright

2011-05-26T22:30:00.006-05:00

The Eastern Conference Finals are disappointing for the Bulls and all their fans. But make no mistake that the Bulls are not a disappointment. This team achieved not beyond my expectations, but to the limit of my expectations. Best record in the NBA. A reigning MVP. And hell, the Heat have the best 3 players in the NBA, but the Bulls have the best team. And that counts for something.

A breakdown:

Derrick Rose - a monster season for a limitless talent. He does nothing but battle. Humbler than he should be. He will go home tonight and for the rest of the summer, he will blame himself for the Bulls losing this game and this series. That's why he's beloved by Chicago. (Cutler - take notes).

Luol Deng - a monster season from someone who'd previously not tapped his potential. Probably my favorite Bull. I imagine he played more minutes than anyone else in the NBA this year. Thank you for reaffirming that I know something about basketball.

Joakim Noah - nobody thought he'd be as good as he is. The scary part is that he could get better. Every year he harnesses his emotion toward energy. And he needs to continue that.

Carlos Boozer - dude, you are officially Albert Belle on the White Sox. Enjoy your money. Acknowledge that you don't play defense. If nothing else, he takes a little pressure off Rose during the regular season which I suppose saves him for the playoffs. I'd talk trade, but it just isn't going to happen.

Keith Bogans - crunk-ass defender. He belongs on this team, but should be part of the second unit. Not tall enough. Not reliable enough as a shooter.

Kyle Korver - lots of bad press in this series. Probably not worth quite as much money as he's made. But he is a pure shooter and every team needs one of those. One more year on the contract, and no need to move him.

Ronnie Brewer - crunker-ass defender. He can guard LeBron, which makes him our Bruce Bowen. Should just keep doing what he's doing, and practice a lot of jumpers this summer.

C.J. Watson - keep doing what he's doing. Really keeps up the energy while Rose rests. One of the key weaknesses of the Bulls is that they don't have a C. J. Watson for Luol Deng.

Omer Asik - this summer's Luol. One of the biggest reasons I am eager for next year is to see the strides he makes. Needs to develop his game for putting the ball back up on the glass after the offensive rebounds. If he makes the key breakthroughs mentally, it's just another piece for next year's war.

Taj Gibson - I'm not as in love with him as some, but that's only because I think he's playing at the limits of his talent. And that's no slight. Tall, energetic and smart. The biggest problem I saw in the Heat series is that he fed into Chris Bosh's emotional play, which is not who Taj is (at least as far as I can see from watching on television).

Kurt Thomas - one more year, big man. Hold on for one more year. Busted his ass and played well whenever he was asked to.

Rasual Butler - would have liked to have seen more. Not sure I would have seen much though.

Brian Scalabrine - hair is pornographic. Good teammate. Would like to use his spot to develop a 6' 7" guard with very raw talent.

Tom Thibodeau - I'm a believer. The defense is spectacular. Sometimes out-thinks himself. Needs to realize that his job is to remind Derrick Rose that he's not invincible. Needs to be able to better recognize when Rose and Deng are tired and needs a rest. Play Taj and Boozer together more next year, rather than alternating each.

John Paxson and Gar Forman - we need a 6'7" guard who can generate a shot. Danny Granger or Rudy Gay would be ideal. O.J. Mayo would be tolerable if Thibs can keep him in line. A flyer on Brandon Roy's knees? I don't know. Get it done. Don't break this team up. But reshuffle the deck a little bit. Get Deng a back-up too (or maybe you already have it in Butler, who just needs to play more).

It hurts to lose. It hurts to lose to the Heat. Don't have it in me to say "Go Dallas!", but I'm kind of thinking it. Most importantly though, lots of young Bulls learned how to play in a big game this year. An invaluable experience.

But the future is bright. Next winter into spring's going to be a lot of fun with the Bulls and Blackhawks reloading. Now all you guys, sit on your asses and rest up.

Someone get me Adam Dunn's phone number!

orbit huggers

2011-05-25T17:39:00.001-05:00

At What Price the Moon? - The Atlantic

The above is a very interesting article arguing that we sacrificed day-to-day space-faring vessels in the grand pursuit of the moon. I disagree with the author's thesis. I believe that the obvious flaws of the space shuttle are a testament to how difficult it is to achieve orbital altitude from the surface of the earth, let alone more daunting excursions.

Interesting article all the same.

variations on a theme

2011-05-25T16:51:00.003-05:00

Today is the shared birthday of my brother and my friend Rose. Two people who could not be more different, but affect my life greatly. Seriously, these two pillars of my life are very, very diverse.

For example, regarding spilled milk:
-Rose's response is judgment and blame assessment
-My brother's response is avoidance.

Regarding family dynamics:
-Rose's response is judgment and personal impact assessment
-My brother's response is avoidance.

Regarding others' sex lives:
-Rose's response is judgment and moral assessment.
-My brother's response is avoidance.

Regarding Slider K. Shaftacular:
-Rose's response is judgment and judgment.
-My brother's response is to slap me on the skull and yell "little dork" frequently

They walk different walks. They talk different talks. But they're both very important to me. Happy birthday to both.

megapoweroutage

2011-05-20T22:24:00.005-05:00

I'm really bummed about the death of the Macho Man.

Before I get too far, let me be clear that I am talking about one of the greatest professional wrestlers of all time.

the Macho Man Randy Savage

I'm most definitely not speaking of the pec flexing overrated douche from Mike Tyson's Punch-out, who was just a rip-off of the Soda Popinski graphic platform and way, way easier to beat than the Sandman.

nothing Super about this Macho Man

But back to the main point that Randy Poffo died today. I don't know much about Mr. Poffo's life outside of wrestling. I just know what a humongous level of respect I have for him as a wrestling fan.

Along with Hulk Hogan, the Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase and Jake the Snake Roberts, the Macho Man Randy Savage anchored the World Wrestling Federation in the late 1980s. Unlike those other three giants of wrestling, the Macho Man was the complete package. He had comparable skills on the microphone to the Million Dollar Man, a physique to rival Hogan's and a presence about him that went toe-to-toe with Jake the Snake. On top of that, Randy Savage was by far the most athletic of the four giants. The flying elbow is still amongst my favorite finishers of all time -- I remember being amazed at how Savage could lung off the top rope across 3/4 of the ring and still nail his opponent.

Beyond his wrestling abilities, the Macho Man is one of the most unique wrestling characters of all time. The strained face, the "ooooohhhh yeahhhhhhhh", the yellow and pink spandex. A lesser actor and athlete would just look like a flake. But Randy Savage was amongst the most beloved, when necessary reviled, and to this day one of the most revered wrestlers of all time. His storylines, from his relationship with Miss Elizabeth to the MegaPowers saga and into the Macho King era showed a range that no other wrestler has ever matched.

He wasn't a good guy or a bad guy. He was the Macho Man. And people who watch wrestling know what that means.

sino

2011-05-16T17:26:00.004-05:00

Once in a while, I'll read a book where the story isn't that good, but the subject matter is really interesting and the writing style is compatible with my reading pleasure. The works of John Le Carre come to mind.

Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans meets this criteria as well. Three hundred pages into this 330 page book, I still wasn't sure why I cared about the life of protagonist Detective Christopher Banks. Wasn't sure what the unrequited love story was about. Couldn't quite figure out where Ishiguro was going with the backdrop of the early twentieth century Opium Trade, Shanghai and the kidnapping of the protagonist's parents (which dominates the novel). Then, in the last 30 pages, everything came together beautifully with a stinging, subtle plot twist that was vital to the story as a whole.

I'd recommend this book to someone looking for the suspense of a Bourne novel combined with the writing quality of E.L. Doctorow.

primavera bovinus

2011-05-12T10:52:00.000-05:00

Finally, spring has come to Wisconsin! I've discovered that my son likes sitting on my porch and listening to XRT with me. No word yet on how he feels about Cool Ranch Doritos or Spotted Cow.

I'll keep you posted in about 18 years. Or sooner if the prudish pediatricians ever relax their maniacal "babies shouldn't drink beer" guideline.

you're going to roll right over this one

2011-05-11T22:13:00.000-05:00

I've seen a sunset crash into a mountain. And star-filled sky evaporate into dawn. A patient refuses to take life-saving medication. And nations turn away from peace. We move from choice to choice. Decision to decision. Simple for me is difficult for another. Until the details morph but the story's the same. Luck or prayer. I don't know.

if i only had a heart

2011-05-03T19:42:00.005-05:00

Timmy the Tim turns 31 today. I don't have time for the entire traditional West Lawn Park biographical birthday salute just now (saving lives and all). But I do have time to list the top 31 things that Timmy the Tim is most notable for.

31. Has neither hugged nor been hugged. Closest thing to a hug he's ever had is an aluminum can holder with the words "Beer Hugger" written in Trebuchet font. Even then he was bitching about having to drink beer out of a can.

30. Voted most likely to nail Kimmy Gibbler by his 4th grade class.

29. Considers Bjork posters to be appropriate decorative motif for a bathroom.

28. Favorite Barber is Ronde.

27. Spent junior year of high school attempting to convince people that the band White Town was the next big thing. Played the song "Your Woman" constantly on a boombox. Did not obtain a date for junior prom.

26. Ran the bases at Milwaukee County Stadium at the age of 6, then was thrown out for patting Brewer's pitcher Teddy Higuera on the ass.

25. His archetype: Dick Stockton

24. Too good to go to the college where his old man taught.

23. His only friends are alumni of the college where his old man taught.

22. Photograph on his first driver's license:

21. Buys, prepares and eats pre-packaged spaghetti.

20. If he had a choice between hanging out with Ariel Sharon or Ariel, the Little Mermaid, he'd choose Sharon.

19. Didn't talk for three months after Parker Lewis Can't Lose was canceled.

18. His formula for wooing the opposite sex: 99 parts vicious humor, 1 part engagement ring.

17. Favorite character from Golden Girls: Dorothy's ex-husband Stanley.

16. Has a point mutation on his 17th chromosome that inactivates the compassion gene.

15. Considers Dave Mustaine to be his moral compass

14. His pen name: Nicholas Sparks.

13. Had no friends as a child because his family drank Ovaltine rather than Nestle Kwik.

12. Dated a girl who looked like this for about 6 months:

11. He is the single reason most under 8 year old Little Leagues now use a pitching machine.

10. Got so drunk at his own wedding that he pointed an accusatory finger at his mom and shouted, "YOU'RE NOT THE MOTHER OF THE BRIDE!"

9. His worst nightmare: Slider K. Shaftacular, Rosie Perez and Joe Orsulak eating popcorn and trail mix in the back of his Toyota Camry.

8. Keeps an active account on friendster.

7. Thinks the 28th Amendment should be the right to kick ass and take names.

6. Once told Slider K. Shaftacular that Adam son of Darren's father's name was Darren. Then denied it. Now Adam son of Darren's father, whose name is most definitely not Darren, hates Slider K. Shaftacular.

5. Keeps magazine pictures of Supreme Court Justice Elena Kagan in his sock drawer.

4. Favorite baseball player:

3. Thinks Ed Farmer has a point.

2. Birth name is Timmy Gillis. Met a fat girl named Meg the Tim, married her and took her last name. Later formed a band with Meg called "the Tims". Divorced Meg, then when "the Tims" became popular, invented a story about he and Meg being siblings. Had a fling with Renee Zellweger (the poor man's Julianne Moore). Then married Rose.

1. Hates breakfast.

Happy birthday, Timmy the Tim! 31 years of hating and going strong.

i could turn you inside out

2011-05-02T08:04:00.004-05:00

I have not thought much at all about Osama bin Laden over the past ten years. That just means I was fortunate enough not to lose someone close to me in all his carnage. But when my wife, who'd just woken up for a 4 AM feeding with my son, came back to bed and whispered to me that bin Laden was captured, I rolled over, caught myself for a moment, whispered "Thank God" and went back to sleep surprisingly comfortably.

Then this morning when I opened my lap-top to read about the events, I quickly developed a big smile in learning that he was actually dead. Watching the President's speech and seeing the midnight crowds in New York and Washington, my eyes started to well up a little bit (no actual crying, though, as I was holding my son and have a reputation to keep). I laughed when I read that President Obama had phoned Clinton and Bush prior to making the announcement. I could only imagine what a great feeling those three dudes must be sharing.

All this emotion and elation over someone's death. Especially someone I thought so little about. In this blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose would say), I've spleen vented a lot more about Scott Walker, GWB, Julianne Moore, Timmy the Tim (who may well have been a part of the planning of this tremendous operation) and Roberto Jenks than I ever did about old Osama. Whether real vitriol (Walker/Bush/Moore/the Tim) or playful banter (Jenks), my rage against these folks stems from moral disagreements. On my worst day, I'd like to slap them across the face then hold their heads in my hands and ask, "Didn't your Mama teach you to think?"

As little as I ever gave thought to him, today is a great day because Osama bin Laden, the mass murderer, prophet of evil, and perverter of peaceful religion is dead at the hands of my countrymen. I'm not typically a fan of flag-waving in the context of death and a fire fight. I've seen it too often in my life. But today's the day to rejoice and wave the flag. I'm always thankful for the armed forces, and today I'm pleased to see their bravery and skill utilized to rid the world of a specific evil individual.

My friend NWB wrote a very touching personal remembrance of 9/11 and his feelings on bin Laden's death. To quote NWB, who put it so well for me, "I'm glad you're gone, motherfucker."

I was a bright-eyed 18 year old a month away from leaving for Knox College when the embassies in Nairobi and Dar-es-Salam were incinerated. I was a hopeful exchange student in Aberdeen, Scotland when the U.S.S. Cole was broad-sided. I was a terrified college senior when I watched horrible events on television and Air Force One jet alone across the Galesburg skyline. I've been a crotchety-ass medical student and resident as this costly, divisive, trudging War on Terror has been prosecuted.

This morning, I'm a pretty happy guy ending up his residency, sitting with his 3 month old son on his lap as I read about Osama bin Laden's death. I'm glad for my son's sake that you're gone, motherfucker.

Is today the end of evil? We can always pretend that evil is an external force independent of each of us. It's easy to do when you have the day off on a sunny day in Wisconsin.