Fellowship

http://www.thepbf.com/

http://www.thepbf.com/

http://www.thepbf.com/

http://www.thepbf.com/

Vantastic

Can you imagine being Eddie Van Halen? Well, from the late seventies to mid eighties (before the ongoing Roth versus Hagar debate), about eleven billion fifteen-year-old boys could, that’s for sure. Back in 1978, those who didn’t live in California heard Van Halen for the first time via the airwaves (I unfortunately missed their debut). Most likely it was “Runnin’ With the Devil” that they heard, and it must have been somethin’. I mean, who starts a song with a couple car horns? It’s genius! Then the listener gets bowled over by the undefinable sound of David Lee Roth, a man who had no vocal equal up to that point.

All in all, a riveting song--then Eddie’s solo kicks in.

I will now attempt to explain why this man is so important, and I will try to do so in a manner that will not bore the reader who isn’t a total guitar nerd.

I will grant you that there were a multitude of guitar-oriented bands that preceded Van Halen: Blue Oyster Cult, Allman Brothers/Lynyrd Skynyrd, Humble Pie, etc., but none of those bands had the bite or size of Eddie’s sound.

“But dude, what about Buck Dharma’s tone on “Harvester of Eyes” off of Secret Treaties?!?!?”

I’m sure it’s just lovely, but BOC bore me. There. I said it.

Eddie had a fire in his playing that was simply unmatched. He would seamlessly jump from rhythm to lead and back again, and sometimes you didn’t even realize it was happening. Some of his rhythm even sounded like lead. He was doing stuff on guitar that bordered on the ridiculous, using methods that he may or may not have invented (the whole two-hand tapping origin is still as hotly debated as the chicken and the egg), but he was the first to make it accessible to the listening public. When players heard “Eruption”, they either locked themselves in their room for a year trying to figure out how to play it, or they just gave up guitar altogether. Now I realize there are probably a plenitude of guys out there we’ve never heard of who were on par with Eddie (insert obligatory Angry Dude Who Knew a Guy In High School comment). I’m talking about someone who’s actually on the map.

The bands I listed all had guitarists who played great, but Eddie was a simply a great player. They had a minimum of two guitarists (I think Skynyrd had something like twenty-seven), but Eddie was all on his own, making it sound like there were at least two. Somehow, a player with that profound a technical prowess still understood taste and when and when not to play; his solos were always short and had something to say. They come in, make you smile for eight bars, and wonder aloud “What was THAT?” Never were there five minutes of incessant, meandering noodling as with the other bands (Note: I still maintain that a twelve-minute jam is boring unless you’re playing in it or completely stoned).

Eddie was consistently pounding out incredible rock and roll that was sometimes intertwined with different styles like with jazz (“Big Bad Bill”), bluegrass (“Could This Be Magic?”), a lot of blues (“Ice Cream Man/Full Bug”), flamenco (“Spanish Fly), classical (“Cathedral”) to flat-out experimental (“Sunday Afternoon in the Park/Intruder/1984”). In short, you can just hear the joy in his playing. I’m in the David Lee Roth-Era Van Halen camp. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not, but when Dave left, it seems like the fire left with him.

Whatever the case, Eddie’s not in an enviable position. There are legions of people just like me who miss the fire. The photo you see is presumably from the mid seventies. He probably had no idea at the time the impact he’d make on music fans across the globe and what joy his guitar would bring them. Come back, Eddie.


Photo obtained from http://www.coutant.org/

Alexander the Pretty Good

Yes, I know that last post was craptacular, and I apologize unreservedly for its utter lack of originality. I’d like to say it’s merely a case of writer’s block, but that’d be too easy. No, the cause goes a little deeper than that.

A couple weeks ago a friend of mine mentioned that my writing style smacks of a style similar to that of a guy named Chuck Klosterman. I have read some of Klosterman’s stuff, most notably in Esquire and the occasional Spin article. I’ve never really dissected his style and prose before, but since the comparison, I figured I should. So, I decided to read a couple of his books. I just finished Killing Yourself to Live; I’m in the middle of Fargo Rock City, and next I’ll be reading Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs.

I’ll be damned.

‘Twould seem that every thought, theory, and revelation I have ever had, Chuck Klosterman also had at least three years earlier, and SO much better articulated. So you see, your host has paranoia of sounding like a low-rent Chuck Klosterman. There are some things that I had planned to post sometime in the near future, but since I’ve been on this Klosterman Kick, it’s as if I am reading edited, more concise, funnier, and more coherent versions of my future posts that I had already drafted in my mind prior to reading his stuff.

The dilemma is that now I’m second-guessing everything I’m about to pen, as if it’s going to be some unintentionally retarded clone of someone else’s work. But I’m not proud. I still have the need to shoot my mouth off, and I will continue to do so soon, quality/originality be damned.

P.S. P-Rock, it ain’t your fault, comrade.

Laziest Post EVER.

A dear friend of mine emailed me a survey this morning. Ordinarily, I froth at the mouth with rage when I get these things because they’re right up there with chain letters and poorly formatted MySpace sites (why would anyone EVER use hot pink fonts over a yellow background? Come on now!).

Anyway, for reasons unknown to even me, I was compelled to actually fill this one out. Because I am completely devoid of imagination today, I’ve opted to post it. I offer plenty of facts about myself on the ol’ web log, but there are a couple things I’d never think to offer unless asked. No one will benefit from this information and it’s pretty self-serving, but eighty-two posts in this web log have already proven my stance of the self-serving bit.

Hopefully this will be the equivalent of fowarding it to ten thousand of my friends and loved ones, thereby enabling Little Kid With Cancer to finally adopt a pet unicorn and ride onstage with Gwen Stefani, or whatever the urban legend du jour is (it will have the word “luck” in it, I'm sure).

1. LIVING ARRANGEMENT?
A wee condo.

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING?
Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman.

3. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
An optical mouse deems such things unnecessary.

4. WHAT'S YOUR FAVOURITE BOARD GAME?
Scrabble.

5. FAVOURITE MAGAZINE?
The Weekly Dig.

6. BABIES?
Mm, no.

7. FAVOURITE SOUNDS?
Laughter, rivers, brewing coffee, ocean, purring.

8. WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD?
Death and infidelity are tied.

9. FIRST THING YOU THINK OF IN THE MORNING?
There has GOT to be a better way.

10. HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE?
All I have is a cell phone and I rarely answer it at all because I know the signal will SUCK.

11. FUTURE Child's NAME:
See #6.

13. WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN LIFE?
Love and respect for one another. Burritos are up there, too.

14. FAVOURITE FOODS
Mexican, Italian, Trader Joe's Ginger Joe Joes.

15. CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA?
Vanilla.

16. DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST?
Oh my yes.

17. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL?
Well, Pinky IS a rather corpulent cat....

18. STORMS - COOL OR SCARY?
Cooler'n hell.

19. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR?
A 1976 Chevette that didn't run. I restored it and it became the stuff of legends.

21. FAVOURITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK?
Peroni.

22. WHAT IS YOUR ZODIAC SIGN?
Virgo and something that doesn't involve Uranus rising.

23. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI?
I do.

24. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB YOU WANTED WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Studio musician or food tester for an oppressive dictator. The latter pays much better.

25. IF YOU COULD DYE YOUR HAIR ANY COLOUR WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Platinum blond.

26. EVER BEEN IN LOVE?
As we speak.

27. IS THE GLASS HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL?
What if it's full of Metamucil and you don't want it to be in there at all? Then what? It's better that it's half empty then, isn't it? I've never understood that question. I'll go so far as to call it asinine.

28. FAVOURITE MOVIE?
Singles.

29. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT KEYS?
Left keys only.

30. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?
Monsters, of course.

31. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE NUMBER?
Seven.

32. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SPORT TO WATCH?
Anything with engines in it other than NASCAR.

33. SAY AT LEAST ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU:
I've known Kendra longer than anyone since I've moved here, and my life is richer for having known her.

34. PERSON YOU SENT THIS TO WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
I have no idea.

35. PERSON YOU SENT THIS TO WHO IS LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Everyone.

36. BEACH, MOUNTAINS OR CITY
Beach.

37. TECHNOLOGY OR ART
Art.

39. COMEDY OR HORROR
Comedy.

40. FAVOURITE TIME OF DAY
Anytime.


Riveting, wasn't it? I think we all learned a little something today.

Sing It, Henry.

Contrary to outward appearances or things I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m really not as misanthropic as I seem. Though I question humanity a great deal and I often get bummed by what a disappointment the human race can be, I generally think that people are good; even if it’s unfortunately the bad ones that you remember most easily. I am but a millionth of a speck on this planet, and even that one millionth of a speck knows a huge amount of great, kind-hearted people. So I know they’re out there.

Some days, though…

As a kid, I used to fantasize about having the planet to myself. I would just have my family and a group of carefully-chosen friends to inhabit the globe with me, and that’d be it. Forget everybody else. Not being especially well-equipped with foresight at the time, I saw absolutely no problems, shortcomings, or cons of any sort with this idea. The entire earth was going to be my playground and there would be nobody to get in my way. I wouldn’t have to wait for the corpulent kid with the dripping ice cream cone to finally get his large butt and melted ice cream streaks off the stupid slide already. It would no longer be necessary to line up my quarters on an arcade game to signify to everyone around me that yes, I do in fact have dibs on this machine for the next seven games--why don’t you go play that knackered pinball machine from the 1950s that’s always available over there in the corner instead? And, best of all, no more having to wait out yet another confounded adult swim.

I never took into account the things I use on a daily basis that would eventually spoil or have its supply exhausted. Who will run the power plant? Who will grow and harvest the bananas that I’m absolutely mad for? Who will make sure that when I call from a pay phone in San Francisco to my parents in Pennsylvania that I actually connect? What if my flying car breaks down in Bismarck and there aren’t any pay phones?

Who will (GASP) make marshmallows?

I never gave it a second thought. Hell, even a first thought. Then one day I saw an episode of the Twilight Zone. This was the original version from the 1960s, not that Forest Whitaker dreck that’s on now. That episode changed my attitude forever. Well, for a long time, anyway. It goes like this:

Henry Bemis (Burgess Meredith) is a bookish little man who can never find the time to read. He can't read at home or at work because both his wife and boss think reading is a waste of time. Henry takes his lunch breaks in the vault at the bank where he works. During one of these lunch breaks, a super hydrogen bomb is tested, ending mankind. Henry is the only one left. He loses hope and is about to commit suicide when he finds the public library. All the books he could ever hope for are his for the taking. He finally has all the time in the world to read. Unfortunately, as he is about to pick up a book, his reading glasses fall off and shatter.

Now, I obviously had never seen that episode before, and when Henry finds the library, he is now in Utopia. I immediately identified with it and got all excited because I was seeing on television the exact feeling I anticipated that I would have if the world were completely mine. The he breaks his glasses. He’s pretty much completely blind without them, so now what is he going to do? There’s no one to find him, let alone set him up with another pair of glasses. He’s alone; completely, entirely alone. I was saddled with that weight for a week.

In too many ways, I continue to be nine years old. I'm still cranky before my oatmeal.

Spring Hopes Eternal

Merry first day of spring to you all. Outside the luxurious ScreamingPepper Studios, it’s a fun-loving twenty-expletive-seven degrees. We needn’t worry though; it’s supposed to zoom up to a fun-loving thirty-expletive-seven degrees by noon.

All winter long you’ll hear people (from this area, at least) say “God, I can’t wait until spring”. Well, I think what they actually mean is that they can’t wait until summer. Spring in New England is actually just winter with a different, more hopeful name. Things don’t really start happening around here temperature-wise until the end of May at best. Sure, the odd crocus may pop out here and there, but if you listen closely, you can hear them scream in pain, “Huh? What is this insanity? It’s late April and I can’t feel my petals! So cold! So…cold…” Even the flowers can’t handle it. That’s pretty hardcore.

But, I’m sure way back when the pioneers simply delighted in the fact that it was thirty-seven degrees out rather than minus eighteen. Now they could get back to the business of swimming, tilling the fields, put up a barn or two, accidentally make eye contact with a member of the opposite sex and be branded a harlot, mend the fence, slop the hogs in nothing but union suit cutoffs (the pioneers, not the hogs), play that uproarious game of Roll the Barrel Hoop with a Stick, etc.

See, they could deal with temperatures that weren’t perfectly controlled. They didn’t go from a climate-controlled house to a climate-controlled car to a climate-controlled office. Instead, they went from a freezing straw bed to the freezing river to get freezing water to take their presumably tepid monthly bath. Then they went to work outdoors until the sun went down. Actually, they probably didn’t have sun, either. Tough people, those pioneers.

Now?

“Tsk…who changed the thermostat from seventy-two to seventy? My half-caf decaf frappulatte’s getting all cold!”

Hardiness is for suckers.

Don't Touch That Dial

When I had a TV, there was a syndrome that occurred when the couch would emit a tractor beam and suck me right into it. This would only happen when one of four movies came on:

1. Groundhog Day
2. Half Baked
3. Sixteen Candles
4. So I Married an Axe Murderer

It didn’t matter at what point in the movie I came in; I had to watch it to the end. Just started, halfway through, three minutes left; it didn’t matter. I was in it to win it. Matter of fact, it was one of the few things in my life that I actually followed through on.

Now those are some fiiiine priorities.

I knew how each movie ended, and yet, I insisted on watching them. I’ve seen each dozens of times and I never seem to get sick of them. I shudder to think of the total hours I’ve wasted just sitting there, predicting or even saying every line aloud**. I’ve also spent a decent amount of time analyzing just why in the hell I would do that.

In the case of Half Baked and Axe Murderer, it’s because they’re just funny movies with great quotes I could use virtually daily to the point of Monty Python or Trekkie-caliber annoying.

As for Groundhog Day and Sixteen Candles, it’s about hope. You’re guaranteed a happy ending every time. In Sixteen Candles, you get the added bonus or being reminded of how excruciating adolescence and high school were and that you actually made it through. A total geek wins the heart of the prom queen; highly improbable but a notion many have played out in their heads since the inception of man and woman. Such a premise is predictable and so much insipid pablum to an adult, but when you’re a teenager and you see that kind of movie, it’s pure cinematic gold and that feeling can last a lifetime.

Groundhog Day is simply about the opportunity to start over again. And again. And again. And again. Who hasn’t wondered what they would do if they could start all over from scratch ? I submit no one.

There are songs that I also have to follow to the end regardless of where I came in:

1. Baker Street - Gerry Rafferty
2. I’m Not in Love – 10cc
3. Dream Weaver – Gary Wright
4. Final Countdown – Europe

The first three have warm childhood memories associated with them. But the last one? I don’t know. I just don’t know. All I know is that excitement from out of nowhere wells up inside me when I hear it, and I feel like I’m standing at the chalkboard wearing only underwear when somebody catches me listening to it.

** When we first got cable back in 1982, I watched Poltergeist 26 times. I don’t apologize.

Everything New is Old Again

I am forever perusing want ads for things I clearly don’t need (guitars, cars, motorcycles, Flowbee, etc.). I look out of curiosity and pure fantasy most times. Read them long enough, and no matter what item, you just pick up on certain terms. For example:

OEM – Original Equipment Manufacturer. Component made by the manufacturer for a specific machine.

NOS - New Old Stock. Never mind that that it’s an oxymoronic mess of a term. It simply means that it’s an OEM part that hasn’t been used yet. It’s an old component that’s just taking up shelf space, like a valve cover for an old motorcycle. More often that not, they command a high price.

The market, no matter what the commodity, has become absolutely obsessed with age. Whether it’s cars, guitars, toys, motorcycles, games, clothing, or bicycles; anything that’s over a certain number of years old has its desirability suddenly octupled. Why? Because it’s old?

Oh, but it isn’t old--it’s vintage. Merriam-Webster, if you’d be so kind:

Pronunciation: 'vin-tij
Function: noun1 a (1) : a season's yield of grapes or wine from a vineyard (2) : wine; especially : a usually superior wine all or most of which comes from a single year b : a collection of contemporaneous and similar persons or things
3 a : a period of origin or manufacture b : length of existence

A Gibson SG from 1986 is not a must-have just because it’s twenty years old. There was nothing special about it then, and there sure as hell isn’t anything special about it now. I often see ads touting these as vintage instruments and there’s typically a ludicrous price attached to it. Fender actually produces a custom bass guitar that has been “relic’d” or “distressed”. That is, they take a brand-new instrument and make it look old. A new, relic’d Jaco Pastorius model Fender Jazz bass is at least two grand. An original 60s model can fetch anywhere from two to as high as fifteen grand. Because it’s old. The latter one is cool because it has real history and patina, but at the end of the day, it’s still just wires and wood. I’ll grant you that an instrument that has been knocked around and used as a workhorse for years is a beautiful sight. But how do you put a price on that? Besides, wouldn’t you want to put that wear on from your own use?

It’s not enough to wear something out naturally. It now has to be done in a factory. Shirts, jeans, instruments…they get the “vintique” treatment.

My ’76 Chevette, ’78 Nova, ’80 Impala wagon, and ’82 CJ7 had some otherworldly patina to them. What greater patina is there than rust and faded paint? Surely those cars would be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars now. I knew I should’ve hung onto them. My Toughskins from 1977 would surely be a cash cow.

Why aren’t we this jazzed about the elderly? Because we can’t sell them?

Ode to a Clown Car

About 3 ½ years ago, I decided to get a second car. More accurately, I decided to get a second car and persuaded LF that it’d be a good idea. I knew that once I showed her the one we should get, no more convincing would be required because the future vehicle was almost unreasonably cute.

What I was mostly interested in was a secondary car that was cheap to run, cheap to fix, didn’t make too big an impact on the environment via emissions or footprint, and something that could hold a good amount of cargo--we always seem to be hauling SOMEthing.

Enter the 1992 Geo Metro. I had been eyeballing these cars since 1989 and couldn’t get over how something so small could be legal in the United States. Surely the DOT wouldn’t permit such a thing. Of course I was immediately intrigued by the little wonder. I’m notorious for my love of weird machines, and this car was weird in all the right ways.

It has a 1.0 liter, three-cylinder engine that produces forty-nine horsepower. I’ll let that sink in for a second. Forty-nine. A standard motorcycle today has more power than that. It also had a three speed automatic transmission. For a car that’s small enough to “get stuck on gum”, this thing actually has a fair amount of poop. Getting on the highway was never really a problem as it’s pretty ingeniously geared. It even had air conditioning, but I never used it because 1) the car would probably pull over to the side of the road and punch me in the mouth for even trying, and 2) it didn’t work anyway.

Another funny little feature is that it has 12” wheels. By way of comparison, the wheels, tires included, could fit within a standard rim of a Cadillac Escalade (the Complete Antithesis Vehicle).

I found a used ’92 with 128k miles on it, and that was fine because I didn’t intend to use it for any hardcore driving. At the dealership the salesman indicated that state law dictated that he had to come with LF and I on the test drive. Eesh. Three full-size adults in a 1/3 scale automobile. It was a funny drive because I just couldn’t get over the fact that there’s a tiny little mill rivaled only by a hamster wheel moving this car. I knew right off that we’d buy it. I was half ecstatic because we were going to have a gas-sipping, practical car, and half elated because I felt like I was driving what so few had: something akin to a peculiar, tiny post-war Czech car (I guess). We brought her home and dubbed her Baby Girl. And, she became the primary vehicle much more often than we had ever intended.

Almost immediately I had to start replacing stuff. I knew I would because it was a 10-year-old car. First an alternator, then rotors, then suspension bits, then…but again, I didn’t mind. The parts were relatively cheap and it kept my mechanic chops up. I was seemingly replacing something every weekend. Never could figure out how to fix that damned driver’s side window, however.

I have often referred to the car as the Sugarcube. That’s how quickly it dissolves. No matter. As long as it was mechanically sound, I didn’t worry about it. Amazingly, it kept passing inspection despite its obvious leprosy.

We loved the car because it was so funky and could hold ludicrous amounts of stuff; even a kayak slid in through the hatch and kept me company in the passenger’s seat. It was also great because you could park it anywhere and never had to worry about things like theft, people hitting it with their doors, or bumping into it. The situation was always win-win because it just didn’t matter if it took on another blemish. We had nothing to lose.

But now the engine is producing an ugly sound that I no longer have the time or energy to investigate or fix. I live in a condo and automotive work of any type is prohibited. The past two years have been like trying to keep a three-legged, blind, asthmatic, diabetic dog alive. Without fail I would mutter that this was the last time. It was out of principle more than anything, but it’s become a battle I can no longer fight and it’s unfortunately time to put her down. We had a good run, but it’s now time to bid her adieu. Farewell, Baby Girl.

Don Juan was a Chump.

I've come to the unfortunate realization that there is essentially nowhere I can go on the internet without it looking to a bystander like I'm trolling for a date, exploring methods to enhance (sorry, enn!hanss) my anatomy in a variety of ways, or just surfing for porn in general.

Every site I hit inevitably has a banner that taunts me to meet sexxxy singles in my area(!), and there's the obligatory picture of Dirty Girl Next Door You Don't Have A Prayer Of Landing. What's amazing is that there are so many sex-starved, just one of the guys, lonely and oh-so-willing pretty college girls who want me--ME--because they're "tired of the games and just wanna have some fun." Lo and behold, "a friend of theirs got a hold of my profile, and although they don't ordinarily do this, they figured what the hell and would get in touch with me."

Wow. I could have really used this kind of directness and ease in high school! As a kid my mom always told me how good-looking and charming I was, and apparently word has gotten out! Now I have the sincere adulation of complete strangers to fortify my virility and overall irresistibility. As an added bonus, apparently all lonely, supermodel-calibre women wear thongs and tank tops and nothing else! Who knew? And did I mention that they want me? ME!

Let's see...candi286 or kinkygolfchk79...hmm...what to do, what to do. I had a feeling this trial size can of Tag body spray would pay off, but I had no idea it would be like this! I guess Santa finally opened my letter I sent him back in '85.

Anyway.

Remember when cell phones were prohibitively expensive and you could get fake ones? I presume people bought one to impress those out of earshot, but they'd be pretty screwed in an emergency. How about that the fake red LED keypad you can stick on your dashboard to give the failed impression that your car has an alarm in it? Do you find body art a little too...permanent? Then Santa got your letter too.**

**Not particularly suitable for work

Acetaminophen and I'll Raise You Twenty, or Mirror x 2

I’m writing this through a haze of congestion and overall spaciness, so I hope it translates coherently.

Vanity. We’re all guilty of it on some level despite how many protest that they’re not. It’s all a matter of degree, from what would be considered plain all the way to downright glamourous. We like to look good, and yes it’s true, if you look good, you tend to feel good as well. Sometimes it gets a little out of hand, however.

1. Toupees. I’ve been seeing an inordinate amount of toupees lately. The only people that are fooled by them are the people who wear them. Whenever I see a guy wearing one--and it is obvious--I’m telekinetically yelling to him “Dude! Why? WHY?”

Baldness is a most unwelcome milestone for most guys, but here’s the deal: if you’ve been out in the public eye consistently for at least five years, people are pretty hip to your hair’s recession. If you suddenly appear one day with a full head of hair that looks like it was just kind of placed on your head like a tea cozy, people will notice and they will make jokes at your expense. Period. And comb-overs? Crikey. I've seen some pretty artful attempts, but none of them convincing. With a good breeze they'll look like Bill Murray's in Kingpin. Be honest with yourselves.

2. Cosmetics. I’ve noticed that the amount of makeup used seems to be directly proportionate to one’s self-esteem. Eyeliner’s a big one here. It's been my experience that the heavier the eyeliner, the more the wearer is trying to hide. Eye shadow, pancake, and all the rest; it just isn’t necessary. My observation is that the more a woman wears, the more she tends to look like a man in drag. Men in drag have to wear that much makeup. Why? Because they’re MEN. It takes 18 ounces of foundation to hide stubble.

In conclusion, to whomever reads this who hasn’t already received the dubious honor of my preaching, please: You’re beautiful just as you are. It’s 2006 and I don’t think you need to prove your fertility to the opposite sex by smearing on greasy lip paint anymore. It makes stealing a smooch from the one you love a rather unpleasant petroleum-based exchange.

An Uncommon Solution to a Common Problem

My lady fair and I went to the grocery store a couple weeks ago, and she ran in while I stayed in the car. I had the perfect vantage point to witness a good amount of automotive buffoonery (that’s where the partcipants graduate, The Buffoonery) in regards to parking.

In actuality, any space in a parking lot is a perfect vantage point because the offenders don’t discriminate when it comes to laying down the dumb. I saw a couple SUV’s (yeah, an obvious one, but they’re such easy targets, and um, guilty) pull in, and they did that I’m Within the Lines So What’s the Problem bit. Well the problem is that you’re at an angle. That means whoever pulls in next to you has it within their right to smash their door into yours if they’re to have any chance of getting out of their car.

As I sat there watching teeny drivers spring out of this leviathans, it got me to pondering how to make these people aware of their unwitting idiocy in which they navigate and park their cars. God knows I’ve gotten cheated out of more than one space in a parking garage because some dope at the beginning of the row of spaces parked like it was a getaway car. The longer the row, the more the space deficit multiplies. Merely approaching the guilty wouldn’t do it. They’re apparently in such a big damned hurry to get in and out of there, they would probably just blow you off or even take a swing at you.

So I came up with what you see to the left. Feel free to print it off, fold it in half, and administer accordingly.

Passive-Aggression: It's not just for breakfast anymore.

Miyagi'd

It appears that the MBTA has decided to grow yet another pimple on the Ass of Progress.

I’m all for change if it’s for the sake of streamlining or efficiency. If the reason is due to abuse of something that ultimately affects their revenue in one way or another, then I can certainly understand the necessity for a change. As much as I loathe the MBTA and my opinions of them notwithstanding, at the end of the day they are a business and do deserve to remain in the black.

There has been construction at the Braintree T station, and I wasn’t really sure what the nature of it was. It looks like Who Did It and Ran, but naturally the by-product of construction is mess. Fine. The lines to get out of the station were especially long and I couldn’t figure out why until I finally made it to the turnstiles. Evidently they’ve done away with standard turnstiles and have replaced them with some crazy-looking stainless steel contraption with glass doors. I can only speculate why they’re going with these, and all I can think of is that they’re trying to prevent people from jumping the turnstiles and not paying. Okay, I can live with that. Watching people get a free ride while I pay $181 per month to use the train does get my blood up a bit.

I assume these turnstiles are all part of the T’s new “Charlie Ticket” program (am I the only one to do a double-take when I see that?), and you feed your pass in. The pass gets sucked in, takes a tour through Graceland, the CIA, Social Security Office, Amazon.com, Google, and the FBI, and then pops out the top. Once you get clearance, the doors open up. The Charlie Ticket thing has replaced the usual MBTA passes that were color-coded by month. I imagine bus drivers and train conductors must be completely overjoyed that they can no longer take a quick glance looking for the appropriate month color and move on. No, they now have to scrutinize each and every one instead. Progress.

The lunacy surrounding the construction, stepping backwards, and overall confusion, I can pretty much live with. Here’s where the real head-scratching begins:

The turnstiles now have tinted Plexiglas doors and at first blush you expect them to open like saloon doors. Nope. They do this wackass wax on, wax off motion. Whereas the typical turnstile spindle just spins, these new ones do this crazy little dance before you can walk through. We’ve all seen the damage that happens to the original, simple design of the turnstile spindle. Even something that just simply spins wears out because of the sheer volume of people that pass through it. These new, soon-to-be obstacles are now installed at South Station.

Mark my words: these turnstiles are going to break down and break down often, and when they do, I predict that more than a few of the doors will get kicked in by patrons whose patience has been tested time and time again. It’s an unnecessary design and it will do nothing to get more people on trains, or get them on the trains faster. Think of MBTA escalator reliability and multiply it times eight.

Cerebral Flotsam

1. When I get off the subway in the morning, I hear birds happily chirping. What I find most astonishing is that it could be -18 degrees but they’ll still be chirping like it’s 78 degrees.

Now THAT is a morning, er, person.

Animals’ evolution over the (millions) of years fascinates me because it seems that the better-equipped they become, humans seem less so. For example, I drive past a lake every morning, and there’s the obligatory flock of snoozing geese, heads buried under their wings. The funny thing is they’re snoozing in water that is half a degree away from being frozen. That just blows my mind. Yes, I know their feathers are specially designed to hold in their body heat and shed water. But c’mon, their feathers aren’t that thick. Plus, they stick their heads underwater looking for food. My skull aches just thinking about it, but the geese are accustomed to it. What have we done to adapt? Heated car seats.

2. LF and I got to spend the weekend with Jefelau, and as a rare treat, we had a celebratory dinner at a place called Ardeo. Man, it was extraordinary. Great food, a great vibe, a cool Bulgarain waitress, and we didn’t have to wait three hours for a table for our first choice, a Brazilian joint. I’ve been to a good number of restaurants on Cape Cod, and to date only the Brazilian one has impressed me. That’s the funny thing about Cape Cod: just because it’s a high-falutin’ vacation/tourist town, a lot of restaurants seem to be under the impression that they can serve sub-par stuff at exorbitant prices, no questions asked. But no more; Ardeo rocks.

3. I still can't get into the Three Stooges, and not for lack of trying.

My Own Space

This’ll be a manly post for sure.

When I was five or six, I got a Weeble treehouse for either my birthday or Christmas. My brother had the Fisher Price castle, and though pretty cool with its trap doors and secret place behind a flight of stairs, it just wasn’t for me. It had a creepy vibe.

All I know is that I had wished I could shrink myself down to the appropriate scale to live in that little paradise of a treehouse. I’d just sit up there, whittle, read comic books, cogitate on why that girl Desiree finished my popsicle stick trivet project for me in art class even though I never asked her to (turns out it was uspoken love), eat myself sick from Hostess anything, and construct my plan for Weeble World domination. I’d probably take a nap before the domination planning, however.

I threw practicality to the wind, never taking into consideration such things as complete lack of privacy, utter uselessness for protection against the elements, or how I’d prevent getting mauled by anything that could easily shimmy up a tree.

No, I never considered any of those things. Why? Because I was SIX. I didn’t care. Just living in a hip little botanical pad was enough for me. Attempting to climb a two-dimensional ladder would pose a problem, though. I knew that even then.

Thinking back on it, I find it interesting that I was already thinking about living on my own. I had no real reason to even entertain the idea. I had all the love and attention any little kid could hope to have, but I guess it doesn’t matter how old you are----everyone just needs their own space.

Speaking of your own space and how we fight for it on a daily basis, I offer Insincere Apology Example #42:

“Hi, um, sorry…I don’t mean to bother you during lunch, but…”


Mm hm. And yet here you are, doing just that.



Treehouse picture taken from timewarptoys.com

Hear No Evil

If I had written either “Some Kind of Wonderful”, Born to be Wild”, “Roadhouse Blues”, “Sweet Emotion”, or “Saturday Night’s All Right for Fighting”, I’d probably want to hear them played constantly.

But I didn’t.

So I don’t.

ScreamingPepper's Grammar Corner

Gather ‘round kids, for I have a spelling lesson for you. I saw this today for eight billionth time, and I feel it is my duty as your host to educate. This egregious spelling error shows up practically everywhere this word is used. The offending word?

definate

You’ve all heard it and seen it, but you won’t find it in any dictionary. Why? It simply doesn’t exist.

There is no “a” in definite. Courtesy of my good friend Mr. Webster:

"Main Entry: def·i·nite
Pronunciation: 'de-f&-nit, 'def-n&t
Function: adjective
Etymology: Latin definitus, past participle of definire
1 : having distinct or certain limits
2 : free of all ambiguity, uncertainty, or obscurity
b : - def·i·nite·ly adverb"

When I see that error, I typically go full-blown bat shit crazy. But you know what? I can completely understand why people would put an “a” there instead of the correct “i”. I did too once upon a time. How do I remember to not use an “a”?

The root word is finite. You’d never spell or say it “finATE”, would you? Of course you wouldn't.

However, this is 2006. We live in an age where if a word gets misused or misspelled often enough, it’ll eventually wind up in the dictionary as a perfectly acceptable alternative. It may happen with this word eventually, but if we all join together, we can beat it.

*in my best after-school special voice*

“To learn more about how to spell and pronounce words you’re not sure about, skip your spell checker crutch and pick up a damned dictionary already. Thank you”.

Hugs & kisses,

Your Host

Greek to Me

I’ll lay off the diatribes for today.

Instead, I offer a thought-provoking quote. I will often harp on people’s obsession with the past---the Good Old Days, yesteryear, bygone eras, etc. In truth, I’m one of the worst offenders, as I am the great Italian philosopher Hipocrites.

Sure sounds Greek, doesn’t it? Anyway.

I stumbled on this quote by Robertson Davies and it struck a chord in me:

“The world is full of people whose notion of a satisfactory future is, in fact, a return to the idealized past.”