Friday
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1/19/06
An Open Letter to All Those Who Have Made a
New Year’s Resolution to Get Healthy:
Hi. How are you? Good. So, it’s nice and all that you’ve decided that this is the year that you’re going to lose weight and get healthy. Yes yes, I know, you all want to look better and feel fit. I understand. But here’s the thing… why did you have to join my gym?
I mean heck, not only are your extra cars making parking a real problem, but now there are hardly any elliptical machines in front of the good TVs. How, I ask you, am I supposed to do three miles without the History Channel? No no, I can’t just “move to the treadmills,” because “over there” is the television-land ghetto in which the only choices are perpetual reruns of Becker on TBS and Fox News. Uh uh (with a snap).
So, yes, you stood there on New Year’s Eve with a flute full of champagne and a forebrain full of good intentions, but now it’s time to let it go. You know you want to. It’s hard to stay motivated to get to the gym all the time. And it is, after all, time consuming, a lot of work and kind of boring. Well, more so if you have to watch Becker, but you know what I mean.
Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I want you to be unhealthy, per se, it’s just that I think you need to decide if my gym is really right for you. You could, after all, just stop being a tightwad like me and join the New York Sports Club right across the street. I’ll bet they have fancier bottled water. And their scale probably works too. Just a friendly suggestion.
Oh what the hell... go for it, I guess. If you really are ready, then more power to you. I suppose it won’t kill me to make an extra circle or two around the lot looking for a parking space. Just don’t let the rest of us down!
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1/19/06
An Open Letter to All Those Who Have Made a
New Year’s Resolution to Get Healthy:
Hi. How are you? Good. So, it’s nice and all that you’ve decided that this is the year that you’re going to lose weight and get healthy. Yes yes, I know, you all want to look better and feel fit. I understand. But here’s the thing… why did you have to join my gym?
I mean heck, not only are your extra cars making parking a real problem, but now there are hardly any elliptical machines in front of the good TVs. How, I ask you, am I supposed to do three miles without the History Channel? No no, I can’t just “move to the treadmills,” because “over there” is the television-land ghetto in which the only choices are perpetual reruns of Becker on TBS and Fox News. Uh uh (with a snap).
So, yes, you stood there on New Year’s Eve with a flute full of champagne and a forebrain full of good intentions, but now it’s time to let it go. You know you want to. It’s hard to stay motivated to get to the gym all the time. And it is, after all, time consuming, a lot of work and kind of boring. Well, more so if you have to watch Becker, but you know what I mean.
Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I want you to be unhealthy, per se, it’s just that I think you need to decide if my gym is really right for you. You could, after all, just stop being a tightwad like me and join the New York Sports Club right across the street. I’ll bet they have fancier bottled water. And their scale probably works too. Just a friendly suggestion.
Oh what the hell... go for it, I guess. If you really are ready, then more power to you. I suppose it won’t kill me to make an extra circle or two around the lot looking for a parking space. Just don’t let the rest of us down!
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A painting in a museum hears more ridiculous opinions
than anything else in the world.
-Edmond de Goncourt
As I'm sure I've noted before, the Big Apple, as nobody really calls it, is truly the best place imaginable to take advantage of all the world's finest art, music, theatre and toasters. Well, I suppose the toaster thing only really applies if you include the MoMA, but that, just by chance is exactly where my Lovely Bride and I took the boys this week. It turns out that they're doing a 20 year retrospective exhibit of Pixar's work, and we thought that would be just the thing to fight off the post-Christmas/mid-winter ennui that seems to be creeping about.
And so it was on Saturday afternoon that we endured a nasty but not unexpected bout of traffic at the G.W. after which we managed to skirt the more egregious tourist-trap parking lots along the West side, finally arriving at the MoMA in high anticipation of all things CGI. There was, as promised, a broad collection of artifacts and memorabilia; Pixar's John Lassiter had the foresight to save everything. Indeed, there are more sketches, paintings, story boards and plastic character sculptures than you can shake a Woody at.
In the end though, as enjoyable as it was to experience these things first hand, it didn't take long before character sketch fatigue set in. There are, after all, only so many conceptual drawings of Buzz Lightyear you can consider before your eyes glass over and your mind wanders to other, more compelling matters, like whether or not they still have the Van Goghs upstairs.
Well, I'm pleased to report that they do, as well as their quirky collection of uncomfortable looking Swedish furniture, motorcycles and pre-retro household appliances that includes that toaster. Now granted, it's a very slick looking Braun toaster from 1961, but is it, to ask the age old question, Art? Sure, why not.
In any case, we continued the day in fine form; we hooked up with a friend we hadn't seen in a while and cabbed it downtown to Peanut Butter & Co. for some old fashioned comfort food. It was, needless to say, yet another hit with the boys, and I must admit that my peanut butter BLT was extremely yummy. Even better, we finished up the day with a glass of wine at OTTO. Yummy again.
So, to briefly recap, Pixar collection: so-so, although the zoetrope is cool in the extreme, and boys liked it all just fine. Van Gogh: still compelling in a psychedelic sort of way. And, I found that there were only two things that popped into my head when I ran across Uma Thurman on the fourth floor. 1: Not just tall, but surprisingly tall. And 2: She was in serious need of a good night's sleep and a dash of makeup. Well then again, that really applies to most of us, doesn't it?
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1/12/06
Toasters, Buzz, and Uma
Toasters, Buzz, and Uma
A painting in a museum hears more ridiculous opinions
than anything else in the world.
-Edmond de Goncourt
And so it was on Saturday afternoon that we endured a nasty but not unexpected bout of traffic at the G.W. after which we managed to skirt the more egregious tourist-trap parking lots along the West side, finally arriving at the MoMA in high anticipation of all things CGI. There was, as promised, a broad collection of artifacts and memorabilia; Pixar's John Lassiter had the foresight to save everything. Indeed, there are more sketches, paintings, story boards and plastic character sculptures than you can shake a Woody at.
In the end though, as enjoyable as it was to experience these things first hand, it didn't take long before character sketch fatigue set in. There are, after all, only so many conceptual drawings of Buzz Lightyear you can consider before your eyes glass over and your mind wanders to other, more compelling matters, like whether or not they still have the Van Goghs upstairs.
Well, I'm pleased to report that they do, as well as their quirky collection of uncomfortable looking Swedish furniture, motorcycles and pre-retro household appliances that includes that toaster. Now granted, it's a very slick looking Braun toaster from 1961, but is it, to ask the age old question, Art? Sure, why not.
In any case, we continued the day in fine form; we hooked up with a friend we hadn't seen in a while and cabbed it downtown to Peanut Butter & Co. for some old fashioned comfort food. It was, needless to say, yet another hit with the boys, and I must admit that my peanut butter BLT was extremely yummy. Even better, we finished up the day with a glass of wine at OTTO. Yummy again.
So, to briefly recap, Pixar collection: so-so, although the zoetrope is cool in the extreme, and boys liked it all just fine. Van Gogh: still compelling in a psychedelic sort of way. And, I found that there were only two things that popped into my head when I ran across Uma Thurman on the fourth floor. 1: Not just tall, but surprisingly tall. And 2: She was in serious need of a good night's sleep and a dash of makeup. Well then again, that really applies to most of us, doesn't it?
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1/04/03
2006. Finally.
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
-Groucho Marx
Sure, Christmas is always a great time, but it is of course also a season absolutely saturated with friends, family, entertaining, and being entertained. And with food. Lots and lots of food. I don't think I want to talk about all the food. In any case, this year there were casual cocktail evenings with friends, the usual enormous Christmas Eve production with my Lovely Bride's family, and the all-day Christmas marathon at our house. Then, even before we made it to Dick Clark's Trademarked Eve (all rights reserved), I took the boys skiing with friends for a few days just for good measure. Phew.
Anyway, I am, as usual, a little behind in getting things done, so here is a simplified, pared down list of my thoughts and ruminations on the calamitous year that was 2005:
1: Just for starters, a reminder that as always, regardless of how adorable your kids may have been this holiday season, just remember that my two boys were the absolute cutest. So there.
2: Bill, Melinda Gates, and Bono are Time's "Persons of the Year?" Huh?
3: In rather the same way that one can't look away from a car wreck, one of my favorite images of the year remains the positively reptilian mug shot of Tom Delay. Ick.
4: Iraq is now controlled by theocratic Shi'a Muslims instead of secular Suni Muslims. Great. Way to go. Whoopee.
5: Hurricanes are bad. Especially if you have made the unwise choice to be "so poor and so black." Then again, tsunamis are worse.
6: Sometimes late at night when all is quiet I find myself wondering where Michael Brown is right now. Is good old Brownie still a "fashion god?" I wonder too if he is still having trouble getting reservations at the right restaurants. Darn Hurricanes.
7: Old Pope: Charismatic, visionary leader who's view of the church and geopolitics were forged while fighting the oppressive yoke of hard-line communism. New Pope: ex-Hitler youth. I dunno, none of my business really. Just saying.
8: Dick Clark, back in Times Square after his stroke. Sure, it was a little unsettling for the first ten seconds, but I say Kudos to Dick, the man's got stones. And to all of those out there on the web with no shortage of rude things to say about his performance: grow up, you cretins. (And as long as we're at it, the polar opposite of Dick Clark: Mariah Carey. Was it just my imagination or did her Times Square thing come across as just kind of drunk and weird and a little bit sad? And what's up with the two bulbous space aliens that have attached themselves to her chest? She should really have that looked at.)
9: And finally, bird flu? No problem, I'll just be locking myself in the basement with the Xbox 360 and a case of scotch now. See you all in 2007!
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1/04/03
2006. Finally.
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
-Groucho Marx
Good heavens, is it 2006 already? Well, I suppose that explains the Douglas fir in my living room and all the empty champagne bottles under my Dick Clark shrine. Yes, the holidays seem to have come and gone, although not a moment too soon, if you ask me.
Sure, Christmas is always a great time, but it is of course also a season absolutely saturated with friends, family, entertaining, and being entertained. And with food. Lots and lots of food. I don't think I want to talk about all the food. In any case, this year there were casual cocktail evenings with friends, the usual enormous Christmas Eve production with my Lovely Bride's family, and the all-day Christmas marathon at our house. Then, even before we made it to Dick Clark's Trademarked Eve (all rights reserved), I took the boys skiing with friends for a few days just for good measure. Phew.
Anyway, I am, as usual, a little behind in getting things done, so here is a simplified, pared down list of my thoughts and ruminations on the calamitous year that was 2005:
1: Just for starters, a reminder that as always, regardless of how adorable your kids may have been this holiday season, just remember that my two boys were the absolute cutest. So there.
2: Bill, Melinda Gates, and Bono are Time's "Persons of the Year?" Huh?
3: In rather the same way that one can't look away from a car wreck, one of my favorite images of the year remains the positively reptilian mug shot of Tom Delay. Ick.
4: Iraq is now controlled by theocratic Shi'a Muslims instead of secular Suni Muslims. Great. Way to go. Whoopee.
5: Hurricanes are bad. Especially if you have made the unwise choice to be "so poor and so black." Then again, tsunamis are worse.
6: Sometimes late at night when all is quiet I find myself wondering where Michael Brown is right now. Is good old Brownie still a "fashion god?" I wonder too if he is still having trouble getting reservations at the right restaurants. Darn Hurricanes.
7: Old Pope: Charismatic, visionary leader who's view of the church and geopolitics were forged while fighting the oppressive yoke of hard-line communism. New Pope: ex-Hitler youth. I dunno, none of my business really. Just saying.
8: Dick Clark, back in Times Square after his stroke. Sure, it was a little unsettling for the first ten seconds, but I say Kudos to Dick, the man's got stones. And to all of those out there on the web with no shortage of rude things to say about his performance: grow up, you cretins. (And as long as we're at it, the polar opposite of Dick Clark: Mariah Carey. Was it just my imagination or did her Times Square thing come across as just kind of drunk and weird and a little bit sad? And what's up with the two bulbous space aliens that have attached themselves to her chest? She should really have that looked at.)
9: And finally, bird flu? No problem, I'll just be locking myself in the basement with the Xbox 360 and a case of scotch now. See you all in 2007!
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12/21/06
Ho, ho... ho?
The holidays are a time of year that evoke so many very different things for people. Some, mostly children and the young at heart, see the holidays as a time of magic and wonderment. Others, curmudgeons and cranks alike, may have a slightly less sanguine view of the season. (Bah!)
I enjoy the holidays as much as the next parent, of course, and it really is especially fulfilling to do the whole Christmas production for my boys who are now old enough to appreciate the event for what it is, and yet are just young enough to still believe in the magic... at least a little bit. That said, however, as an adult it is also my responsibility to acknowledge and guard against the darker, seamier side of the yuletide season; namely that of Santa's dark side.
It is of course accepted scientific fact that some of our most "beloved" cultural icons are not at all what they seem. It is widely known, for instance, that clowns, with or without seltzer and custard pies, are far from being the purveyors of whimsy that they would have you believe. Indeed, stealing your eternal soul is, after all, the clown-beast army's true goal. So make eye contact with this clown at your peril, because if you do he will steal your soul in a heartbeat. Which he'll probably keep in that baby carriage. Yikes. And as long as we're at it, who in their right mind thinks that there's anything fanciful about marionettes? Especially creepy-organ-grinder-monkey-marionettes. Even more, what's up with Gene Wilder in a top hat surrounded by these disturbing little cretins? Oompa Loompas? More like manic little inhabitants of some Faustian nightmare if you ask me.
But anyhoo, back to Santa. I was saddened to discover this last week that old Saint Nick, who I had assumed was still a source of the true magic and wonder that is the Christmas season, is in reality no more pure of heart than an Oompa-sized marionette-clown wearing a snarling Dick Cheney mask. Yes, it was while I was perusing my favorite source for information, the InterWeb, that I came across an image of Father Christmas so unsettling that I had no other choice but repost it as a warning to all fans of big red bows and boxes wrapped in shiny paper everywhere. This Santa is, in a word (or, well, I guess its going to be three words, but you get the idea), Creepy Wraith Santa. Yikes again! Heck, I'm all grown up and even I'd have to change my pants if that Santa grabbed me.
Anyway, gotta go. I've got presents to wrap and some eggs to nog, and I still have to find a baseball bat to keep next to the bed just in case.
(And of course a Merry Christmas, Chanukah, Bodhi, Solstice, and belated Ramadan and Duhsehra from ours to yours!)
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12/21/06
Ho, ho... ho?
The holidays are a time of year that evoke so many very different things for people. Some, mostly children and the young at heart, see the holidays as a time of magic and wonderment. Others, curmudgeons and cranks alike, may have a slightly less sanguine view of the season. (Bah!)
I enjoy the holidays as much as the next parent, of course, and it really is especially fulfilling to do the whole Christmas production for my boys who are now old enough to appreciate the event for what it is, and yet are just young enough to still believe in the magic... at least a little bit. That said, however, as an adult it is also my responsibility to acknowledge and guard against the darker, seamier side of the yuletide season; namely that of Santa's dark side.
It is of course accepted scientific fact that some of our most "beloved" cultural icons are not at all what they seem. It is widely known, for instance, that clowns, with or without seltzer and custard pies, are far from being the purveyors of whimsy that they would have you believe. Indeed, stealing your eternal soul is, after all, the clown-beast army's true goal. So make eye contact with this clown at your peril, because if you do he will steal your soul in a heartbeat. Which he'll probably keep in that baby carriage. Yikes. And as long as we're at it, who in their right mind thinks that there's anything fanciful about marionettes? Especially creepy-organ-grinder-monkey-marionettes. Even more, what's up with Gene Wilder in a top hat surrounded by these disturbing little cretins? Oompa Loompas? More like manic little inhabitants of some Faustian nightmare if you ask me.
But anyhoo, back to Santa. I was saddened to discover this last week that old Saint Nick, who I had assumed was still a source of the true magic and wonder that is the Christmas season, is in reality no more pure of heart than an Oompa-sized marionette-clown wearing a snarling Dick Cheney mask. Yes, it was while I was perusing my favorite source for information, the InterWeb, that I came across an image of Father Christmas so unsettling that I had no other choice but repost it as a warning to all fans of big red bows and boxes wrapped in shiny paper everywhere. This Santa is, in a word (or, well, I guess its going to be three words, but you get the idea), Creepy Wraith Santa. Yikes again! Heck, I'm all grown up and even I'd have to change my pants if that Santa grabbed me.
Anyway, gotta go. I've got presents to wrap and some eggs to nog, and I still have to find a baseball bat to keep next to the bed just in case.
(And of course a Merry Christmas, Chanukah, Bodhi, Solstice, and belated Ramadan and Duhsehra from ours to yours!)
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12/09/06
Rapture Watch
The End-Times are nigh, nay-sayers. That's right, as any fan of Air America's own Cardinal Milfington can tell you, the Rapture is upon us. How do I know this, you ask? The End-Time indicators are as clear as they are ominous. And no, I'm not talking about any namby-pamby wars or social unrest. Nor do I mean any famines, flu pandemics or the seemingly endless reign of Satan's minions in our current administration. No, in fact it was just this morning that an even more sinister indicator was visited upon us: Snow.
That's right, fluffy puffy, sparkly snow. Snow as pure as the driven... well you get the idea. But really, no kidding, what the heck is up with all the early snow? I mean sure, the Midwest has gotten pounded with snowstorms this week and out west got hit hard early last month, but now the stuff is all over me. Not only did we get a couple of inches last weekend here in my little hamlet just northwest of NYC, but now we have the better part of a foot of the stuff, and it's only December ninth, for heaven's sake.
Now don't get me wrong, all you rosy-cheeked, Christmas-caroling imbibers of hot chocolate drinks, I like snow just as much as the next elf. I like sledding and snowball fights with my boys and building forts and all, I'm just saying it's weird. We rarely, after all, even see a white Christmas around here, let alone have enough of the stuff to ski on in the first week of December.
Ahem... so anyway, I'm sure that the secular humanist/heathens among you may see this meteorological oddity as an example of "global climate change," but I know better. That's right, the adorable, frosty snowman that now stands proudly in my front yard is made from the snow of a vengeful God. So knock back the rest of your cocoa and get your mukluks out of Satan's hall closet, sinners, 'cause the End-Times are a comin'... and we'll leave the light on for you... in Hell!
(Oh yeah, and if you're not already a fan of Jim Earl's various Air America Milfington bits, do yourself a favor and indulge in a little bit of Rapture Watch, War on Brains and Morning Remembrance. They're all archived here for your convenience. Have a nice day!)
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12/09/06
Rapture Watch
The End-Times are nigh, nay-sayers. That's right, as any fan of Air America's own Cardinal Milfington can tell you, the Rapture is upon us. How do I know this, you ask? The End-Time indicators are as clear as they are ominous. And no, I'm not talking about any namby-pamby wars or social unrest. Nor do I mean any famines, flu pandemics or the seemingly endless reign of Satan's minions in our current administration. No, in fact it was just this morning that an even more sinister indicator was visited upon us: Snow.
That's right, fluffy puffy, sparkly snow. Snow as pure as the driven... well you get the idea. But really, no kidding, what the heck is up with all the early snow? I mean sure, the Midwest has gotten pounded with snowstorms this week and out west got hit hard early last month, but now the stuff is all over me. Not only did we get a couple of inches last weekend here in my little hamlet just northwest of NYC, but now we have the better part of a foot of the stuff, and it's only December ninth, for heaven's sake.
Now don't get me wrong, all you rosy-cheeked, Christmas-caroling imbibers of hot chocolate drinks, I like snow just as much as the next elf. I like sledding and snowball fights with my boys and building forts and all, I'm just saying it's weird. We rarely, after all, even see a white Christmas around here, let alone have enough of the stuff to ski on in the first week of December.
Ahem... so anyway, I'm sure that the secular humanist/heathens among you may see this meteorological oddity as an example of "global climate change," but I know better. That's right, the adorable, frosty snowman that now stands proudly in my front yard is made from the snow of a vengeful God. So knock back the rest of your cocoa and get your mukluks out of Satan's hall closet, sinners, 'cause the End-Times are a comin'... and we'll leave the light on for you... in Hell!
(Oh yeah, and if you're not already a fan of Jim Earl's various Air America Milfington bits, do yourself a favor and indulge in a little bit of Rapture Watch, War on Brains and Morning Remembrance. They're all archived here for your convenience. Have a nice day!)
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