Wednesday
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5/9/05
'Nuff Said.
"Should any political party attempt to abolish social security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again... There is a tiny splinter group, of course, that believes you can do these things. Among them are H.L. Hunt...a few other Texas oil millionaires, and an occasional politician or businessman from other areas. Their number is negligible and they are stupid."
--Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nov 8th, 1954.*
Well, half of the last sentence is still true.
* Doh! Thanks for the right date, Chip!
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5/9/05
'Nuff Said.
"Should any political party attempt to abolish social security, unemployment insurance, and eliminate labor laws and farm programs, you would not hear of that party again... There is a tiny splinter group, of course, that believes you can do these things. Among them are H.L. Hunt...a few other Texas oil millionaires, and an occasional politician or businessman from other areas. Their number is negligible and they are stupid."
--Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nov 8th, 1954.*
Well, half of the last sentence is still true.
* Doh! Thanks for the right date, Chip!
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5/5/05
None Of My Damn Business
Picture, if you will, a balmy summer evening during which you sit impatiently on a bench roughly half way between the bandstand and the gazebo that dominate the center of your small town square. You have an appropriate amount of Dippity-do controlling that stubborn cowlick of yours, and in your left hand you grasp a small bunch of daisies as an offering for the sweetheart for whom you so impatiently wait.
A few moments later she arrives in a flurry of pigtails and saddle shoes, and before you know it the two of you have crossed the street towards the Grand Bijou Theatre, which has, incidentally, recently declared itself to be "Air Conditioned." It is, after all, 1951, and the movie showing this week is a prescient little Kirk Douglas picture called "Ace In The Hole," about a reporter who will stop at nothing to whip up a feeding frenzy of excitement over the plight of a miner caught in a cave-in.
Roughly two hours later you both stumble from the Bijou with a mild stomachache that, in retrospect, was probably caused by a combination of stale Juju-Bees and the film's disturbingly cynical portrayal of the ravenous beast that are the media and their cold, soulless "reporters" who are willing to exploit any tragedy, no matter how awful, for personal gain. Sound familiar?
Fast forward roughly fifty years and here we are, living in a nation that is now dominated by the ravenous beast that is the 24 hour news cycle and its "reporters" who are willing to... oh, you know the drill. So what's a guy to do? Well, for the last few years I've been shielding myself from most of the nonsense the media fixates on by simply ignoring it.
In short, until yesterday I really couldn't have told you much about psychopath Scott Peterson, wackaloon Michael Jackson, hapless Teri Schiavo or the proverbial Little Girl Who Fell Down A Well. But it was in fact yesterday that the beast that is the 24 hour cycle broke me and I was helpless before the media and the saga of their latest playthings: lunatic Jennifer "cold feet" Wilbanks and proudly chaste fiance John Mason.
And just how did I get sucked in? Well, I simply began to realize that the whole affair just keeps getting deliciously weirder by the day. To wit: the father of husband-to-be and world-class-sap John Mason had this to say to CNN: "As it stands now, he thinks there will be a wedding."
"He thinks?" Ok. Then sap-to-be himself says to Sean Hannity of all people: "Ain't we all messed up? Mean, haven't we all made mistakes?" Sure, John, it was just a mistake. Keep telling yourself that.
Then, just for good measure, Mason continues: "My commitment before God to her was the day I bought that ring and put it on her finger, and I'm not backing down from that." Ok. So he thinks he's already married. Sort of.
But then came a gift from Fox news as if from on high. Mason continues: "Our relationship from that standpoint [moving in together] is still very pure. We have not broken the sanctity of marriage yet, if that's the right way of putting it. In God's eyes, our relationship is still very pure."
Well hot damn if that doesn't go a long way to explaining a lot. Not only does Jennifer have the pressure of performing for six hundred guests, a bridal party of no fewer than twenty eight people and, get this: six, that's six separate bridal showers, but to top it all off Mason is telling us they're virgins?? In their thirties? How's that for pressure?
Or, even worse, suppose she's not "pure." Good for her, but then how are you supposed to react to a guy who gives you a ring of commitment right in front of God and doesn't want to sleep with you? It's not like you're a teenager, for heaven's sake.
Oh good Lord. Eew. Ick. None of this is any of my business, and now I feel all dirty. I knew I should have stayed strong and minded my own business. Now I have to go cleanse myself by taking a shower in the bastion of journalistic integrity that is the BBC. Or maybe the Guardian. Or NPR. Ahhhh, I feel better already.
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5/5/05
None Of My Damn Business
"Ain't we all messed up?"
-- Chaste fiance and sap
John Mason
-- Chaste fiance and sap
John Mason
Picture, if you will, a balmy summer evening during which you sit impatiently on a bench roughly half way between the bandstand and the gazebo that dominate the center of your small town square. You have an appropriate amount of Dippity-do controlling that stubborn cowlick of yours, and in your left hand you grasp a small bunch of daisies as an offering for the sweetheart for whom you so impatiently wait.
A few moments later she arrives in a flurry of pigtails and saddle shoes, and before you know it the two of you have crossed the street towards the Grand Bijou Theatre, which has, incidentally, recently declared itself to be "Air Conditioned." It is, after all, 1951, and the movie showing this week is a prescient little Kirk Douglas picture called "Ace In The Hole," about a reporter who will stop at nothing to whip up a feeding frenzy of excitement over the plight of a miner caught in a cave-in.
Roughly two hours later you both stumble from the Bijou with a mild stomachache that, in retrospect, was probably caused by a combination of stale Juju-Bees and the film's disturbingly cynical portrayal of the ravenous beast that are the media and their cold, soulless "reporters" who are willing to exploit any tragedy, no matter how awful, for personal gain. Sound familiar?
~ ~ ~
Fast forward roughly fifty years and here we are, living in a nation that is now dominated by the ravenous beast that is the 24 hour news cycle and its "reporters" who are willing to... oh, you know the drill. So what's a guy to do? Well, for the last few years I've been shielding myself from most of the nonsense the media fixates on by simply ignoring it.
In short, until yesterday I really couldn't have told you much about psychopath Scott Peterson, wackaloon Michael Jackson, hapless Teri Schiavo or the proverbial Little Girl Who Fell Down A Well. But it was in fact yesterday that the beast that is the 24 hour cycle broke me and I was helpless before the media and the saga of their latest playthings: lunatic Jennifer "cold feet" Wilbanks and proudly chaste fiance John Mason.
And just how did I get sucked in? Well, I simply began to realize that the whole affair just keeps getting deliciously weirder by the day. To wit: the father of husband-to-be and world-class-sap John Mason had this to say to CNN: "As it stands now, he thinks there will be a wedding."
"He thinks?" Ok. Then sap-to-be himself says to Sean Hannity of all people: "Ain't we all messed up? Mean, haven't we all made mistakes?" Sure, John, it was just a mistake. Keep telling yourself that.
Then, just for good measure, Mason continues: "My commitment before God to her was the day I bought that ring and put it on her finger, and I'm not backing down from that." Ok. So he thinks he's already married. Sort of.
But then came a gift from Fox news as if from on high. Mason continues: "Our relationship from that standpoint [moving in together] is still very pure. We have not broken the sanctity of marriage yet, if that's the right way of putting it. In God's eyes, our relationship is still very pure."
Well hot damn if that doesn't go a long way to explaining a lot. Not only does Jennifer have the pressure of performing for six hundred guests, a bridal party of no fewer than twenty eight people and, get this: six, that's six separate bridal showers, but to top it all off Mason is telling us they're virgins?? In their thirties? How's that for pressure?
Or, even worse, suppose she's not "pure." Good for her, but then how are you supposed to react to a guy who gives you a ring of commitment right in front of God and doesn't want to sleep with you? It's not like you're a teenager, for heaven's sake.
Oh good Lord. Eew. Ick. None of this is any of my business, and now I feel all dirty. I knew I should have stayed strong and minded my own business. Now I have to go cleanse myself by taking a shower in the bastion of journalistic integrity that is the BBC. Or maybe the Guardian. Or NPR. Ahhhh, I feel better already.
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4/28/05
More Notes On Movies That I Really Shouldn't Be
Watching In The Middle Of The Night: Barton Fink
Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap!
Man, I've got to get more sleep.
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4/28/05
More Notes On Movies That I Really Shouldn't Be
Watching In The Middle Of The Night: Barton Fink
Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap! Whaaa? Holy crap!
Man, I've got to get more sleep.
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4/26/05
Crash And Burn Style Whimsy.
Although it seems lifetimes ago, it was only just this last Sunday when I came-to in our local Fox Sports Grill with a cool poultice applied to my forehead that did little to extinguish the visions of the Hindenburg's final stop at Lakehurst that were dancing in my head. How did such a strange occurrence come to pass? Well, snuggle a little deeper under the covers kiddies, and Uncle Evan will tell you a cautionary tale about insight and whimsy. And poor judgment. You get the idea. Enjoy.
It occurs to me every now and then that there are countless ways in which life is not only interesting, but keeps you on your toes as well. One of my favorite examples of this is that we are, on occasion, struck by an insight or realization about some mundane aspect of life that catches us completely off guard.
An insight like finally realizing that there's no need to remove the Christmas lights that I had so painstakingly hung in the tree in our front yard the previous December. Now, when the tree leafs out in spring the lights simply disappear into the foliage, as does the two hour chore of putting them up and taking them down every time.
And then there are, of course, many different sorts of realizations, some being long term or mass/societal insights. The sort of communal insight, for instance, that Americans seem to have made after the first half of the twentieth century, which is that drunks aren't funny. Which, incidentally, renders entirely inexplicable the relative success enjoyed by Foster Brooks well into the nineteen seventies and eighties. But then again W.C. Fields really was very funny indeed. Oh hell, I don't know.
Anyway, it was just this last weekend that I found myself in the afore-mentioned Fox Sports Grill making the rounds as host at our younger lad's First Communion party. All was going well, which was no great surprise as the guest list was composed of the usual suspects of friends and family. So, after making a short detour past a plate of bruschetta, I found my way to a small group that included my Lovely Bride as well as gentleman known for maintaining a certain twinkle in the eye.
In a trice I had formulated a brilliant opening gambit as I neared the group. I would, I thought to myself, combine my fondness of those serendipitous flashes of insight with a bit of whimsy. I put my arm around my Lovely Bride and gave her an innocent peck on the cheek, followed by a hearty "Hey there, Dan, glad you could make it."
Sure that my hastily planned conceit was worthy of even the most rarified of salons, I continued: "So I had this really strange realization this morning" For effect I paused and glanced around at the First Holy Communion decorations that filled the room.
"Apparently," I continued, "my kid is Catholic. Who knew?"
The purity and sincerity of the ensuing silence was truly something to behold. After a few beats an eyebrow was raised here and a head was slightly cocked there. The room was, in fact, so profoundly silent that I could actually hear my own synapses atrophying; all while doing my best to avoid making eye contact with my Lovely Bride.
Finally though, the owner of the twinkle did his best to throw me a lifeline. "Yeah, you probably should have noticed back when he was in the church getting baptized."
Probably indeed. When I did finally glance at my Lovely Bride, she was, with her brow furrowed in that way I know so well, looking at me as if she were weighing which was the more inexplicable: Foster Brooks' career or her continued matrimonial union with me. Then, thankfully, I went into a swoon and all went dark.
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4/26/05
Crash And Burn Style Whimsy.
Although it seems lifetimes ago, it was only just this last Sunday when I came-to in our local Fox Sports Grill with a cool poultice applied to my forehead that did little to extinguish the visions of the Hindenburg's final stop at Lakehurst that were dancing in my head. How did such a strange occurrence come to pass? Well, snuggle a little deeper under the covers kiddies, and Uncle Evan will tell you a cautionary tale about insight and whimsy. And poor judgment. You get the idea. Enjoy.
~ ~ ~
It occurs to me every now and then that there are countless ways in which life is not only interesting, but keeps you on your toes as well. One of my favorite examples of this is that we are, on occasion, struck by an insight or realization about some mundane aspect of life that catches us completely off guard.
An insight like finally realizing that there's no need to remove the Christmas lights that I had so painstakingly hung in the tree in our front yard the previous December. Now, when the tree leafs out in spring the lights simply disappear into the foliage, as does the two hour chore of putting them up and taking them down every time.
And then there are, of course, many different sorts of realizations, some being long term or mass/societal insights. The sort of communal insight, for instance, that Americans seem to have made after the first half of the twentieth century, which is that drunks aren't funny. Which, incidentally, renders entirely inexplicable the relative success enjoyed by Foster Brooks well into the nineteen seventies and eighties. But then again W.C. Fields really was very funny indeed. Oh hell, I don't know.
Anyway, it was just this last weekend that I found myself in the afore-mentioned Fox Sports Grill making the rounds as host at our younger lad's First Communion party. All was going well, which was no great surprise as the guest list was composed of the usual suspects of friends and family. So, after making a short detour past a plate of bruschetta, I found my way to a small group that included my Lovely Bride as well as gentleman known for maintaining a certain twinkle in the eye.
In a trice I had formulated a brilliant opening gambit as I neared the group. I would, I thought to myself, combine my fondness of those serendipitous flashes of insight with a bit of whimsy. I put my arm around my Lovely Bride and gave her an innocent peck on the cheek, followed by a hearty "Hey there, Dan, glad you could make it."
Sure that my hastily planned conceit was worthy of even the most rarified of salons, I continued: "So I had this really strange realization this morning" For effect I paused and glanced around at the First Holy Communion decorations that filled the room.
"Apparently," I continued, "my kid is Catholic. Who knew?"
The purity and sincerity of the ensuing silence was truly something to behold. After a few beats an eyebrow was raised here and a head was slightly cocked there. The room was, in fact, so profoundly silent that I could actually hear my own synapses atrophying; all while doing my best to avoid making eye contact with my Lovely Bride.
Finally though, the owner of the twinkle did his best to throw me a lifeline. "Yeah, you probably should have noticed back when he was in the church getting baptized."
Probably indeed. When I did finally glance at my Lovely Bride, she was, with her brow furrowed in that way I know so well, looking at me as if she were weighing which was the more inexplicable: Foster Brooks' career or her continued matrimonial union with me. Then, thankfully, I went into a swoon and all went dark.
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4/16/05
The Boys Of Spring
Ah, Spring. The traditional season of growth and renewal. The daffodils are blooming and the magic of Daylight Savings Time assures us an extra hour of life-affirming sunlight at the end of each day. And as that weren't enough, spring also brings a cornucopia of other treasures as well: Easter, a spate of Christenings and first Communion celebrations, Passover gatherings and even the occasional bris. Mazel tov.
Moreover, it has been said by some more wise than I that spring is when a young man's thoughts turn to love. While that may be true, as I recall my youth seemed to revolve around "love" to the exclusion of nearly everything else. Indeed, the time of year seemed to have to do very little do with it. But yet again, I digress.
In any case, these usual harbingers of spring also keep company with a few less savory seasonal events which include, but are not limited to, my personal albatross: Little League. Thats right, I don't like Little League. There, I said it.
"What?" the faithful cry in unison, "How is it possible that you don't enjoy, nay, wallow in the magic broth of Americana that is mom, apple pie and baseball? What sort of cultural Grinch are you that you can resist the charms of a fourth grader standing around in the outfield waiting for something to happen? You social anarchist you, next you'll probably try to overthrow the judiciary in the name of constitutional restoration..." Oops, sorry, thats a blog for a different day. Ahem.
Ok, I realize that my dislike of Little League puts me just outside the norm, but jeez, how many hours can you sit there and watch your progeny wiff the ball? How many times can you applaud someone elses kid for making it to first without falling down? And then there's the physical discomfort; by the end of the season you're baking under the sun on the same aluminum bleacher on which you froze your buns at the beginning of the season.
So, where does this all leave me? Well, despite this latest failure to conform I do still believe that I'm a good father, and yes, a good American. I play basketball in the driveway with my boys. We throw a football at each other in the back yard. I drive them to religion and karate. In the summer I cook slabs of corn-fed beef on my grill and offer the neighbors a cold one to go with it.
So, yeah, that's me: all round regular guy and good dad. And yeah, I hate Little League. Going to make something of it? No, I didn't think so. Huzzah!
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4/16/05
The Boys Of Spring
Ah, Spring. The traditional season of growth and renewal. The daffodils are blooming and the magic of Daylight Savings Time assures us an extra hour of life-affirming sunlight at the end of each day. And as that weren't enough, spring also brings a cornucopia of other treasures as well: Easter, a spate of Christenings and first Communion celebrations, Passover gatherings and even the occasional bris. Mazel tov.
Moreover, it has been said by some more wise than I that spring is when a young man's thoughts turn to love. While that may be true, as I recall my youth seemed to revolve around "love" to the exclusion of nearly everything else. Indeed, the time of year seemed to have to do very little do with it. But yet again, I digress.
In any case, these usual harbingers of spring also keep company with a few less savory seasonal events which include, but are not limited to, my personal albatross: Little League. Thats right, I don't like Little League. There, I said it.
"What?" the faithful cry in unison, "How is it possible that you don't enjoy, nay, wallow in the magic broth of Americana that is mom, apple pie and baseball? What sort of cultural Grinch are you that you can resist the charms of a fourth grader standing around in the outfield waiting for something to happen? You social anarchist you, next you'll probably try to overthrow the judiciary in the name of constitutional restoration..." Oops, sorry, thats a blog for a different day. Ahem.
Ok, I realize that my dislike of Little League puts me just outside the norm, but jeez, how many hours can you sit there and watch your progeny wiff the ball? How many times can you applaud someone elses kid for making it to first without falling down? And then there's the physical discomfort; by the end of the season you're baking under the sun on the same aluminum bleacher on which you froze your buns at the beginning of the season.
So, where does this all leave me? Well, despite this latest failure to conform I do still believe that I'm a good father, and yes, a good American. I play basketball in the driveway with my boys. We throw a football at each other in the back yard. I drive them to religion and karate. In the summer I cook slabs of corn-fed beef on my grill and offer the neighbors a cold one to go with it.
So, yeah, that's me: all round regular guy and good dad. And yeah, I hate Little League. Going to make something of it? No, I didn't think so. Huzzah!
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