Rapture-Fest 2011

To celebrate our last day on earth before the Coming of Christ and Doomsday tomorrow, I'm throwing a Rapture Festival. We've rented out the auditorium on Main Street, which is only available until midnight, when it will presumably be engulfed in flames.

Party highlights:

--we'll snag some of the locusts that will infest the world and use them to chase tequila shots
--a "Best Jesus Disguise" contest. Winners might get a chance to sneak aboard the Holy Spaceship; runners up get to take the leftover snacks to hell afterwards
--Rapture-Twister. What pose will you be holding when you vanish? We'll save a picture for you just in case.
--a piñata

Thoughts that ran through my head in haiku upon regarding a telephone mounted on the wall next to a toilet

Wow. That is something
I have never seen before.
I think I'll call Tso.

My Tech Assistance Phone Call

Setting: My living room, where my Airport Utility modem has quit working. After drinking two beers, I look up the number for the tech support line and dial it. Then, realizing I have to pee, I hang up, visit the bathroom, and redial. Then I remember I have to wash my hands, but decide not to and continue with phone call.

ME: (humming tune to "Facts of Life") Got to get this thing fixed. That porn's not going to download itself.

AUTOMATED VOICE: Welcome to the Airport Utility tech support hotline. Your call may be monitored for quality assurance. Please state the first name of the owner of the Airport Utility device you are calling about.
ME: Gregg.
AV: Did you say Egg?
ME: No, Gregg.
AV: Did you say leg?
ME: Why would I say leg? Christ.
AV: Did you say Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior?
ME: (pause) No.
AV: It looks like you're having trouble speaking English. Would you like to switch to Spanish?
ME: No!
AV: Please use the Spanish for "no" if you do not wish to use Spanish.
ME: Non!
AV: That's French. Si a usted le gustaría ser frotado en bruto, por favor, pulse tres.
ME: Stop! Arretez!
AV: All right. It looks like you're a complete imbecile. Would you like to switch from voice commands to the numerical keypad on your phone?
ME: (sobbing) Yes!

AV: Please press one if you wish to use the numeric keypad.
ME: (presses 1)
AV: You have just pressed one. If you meant to press two, please do so now.
ME: What?
AV: Did you just say "shut"?
ME: No!
AV: You have selected the numeric keypad options. Please do not speak any more.

ME: ...wait...
AV: To get a technician to your house to fix your Airport, please press one. To get a technician to your house to listen to your problems with your job, please press two. To get two mechanics over to your house to make out with each other, press three. To get a technician to your house to beat you to a pulp, please press four.
ME: (after some consideration, presses one)
AV: You have selected four.
ME: What? I did not! I pressed thr--I mean, one!
AV: Chuck will be by in five minutes. If you want him to limit himself to physical violence, please press one. If--
ME: (frantically pressing zero for operator) The box makes your product look so sleek and user-friendly! Where did this horrible nightmare come from?

AV: (pause) You have pressed O for "Okay, everything's good." We're glad we could help.
ME: You cold blooded bastards!

AV: To end this call, please hang up.
ME: (does nothing)
AV: I said hang up!
ME: (scared, meekly) All right...
AV: Punk.
ME: (hangs up, trudges to call therapist, drink more beer)

"Hey guys! This one's actually dialing three!"

Idioms I Hate #217: "Rearranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic"

In a Tea Party rally this past weekend, Palin, using her tried and true playbook, railed against President Obama for spending the country into a future fiscal Armageddon, and the GOP for not cutting taxes on all poor people, rather than just most.

Such stories are entertaining for me these days, as opposed to frightening, when I believed she would seek, and get, the Republican primary nomination. The only reason the story stuck in my head this time was one of her idioms:

“Yeah, I’ll take on the GOP establishment. What more can they say about us, you know?” she said. “We didn’t elect you just to rearrange the deck chairs on a sinking Titanic. We didn’t elect you to just stand back and watch Obama redistribute those deck chairs. What we need is for you to stand up, GOP, and fight.” via today's Chicago Tribune

I've always liked that metaphor. Even if it's a bad one.

Not that that's Ms. Palin's fault. It's just that, if you put it in context, rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic is a lot like playing music on the Titanic, or serving drinks on the Titanic. It's a lot better than some of the things people did in an effort to save the Titanic. Or themselves, for that matter.

To the best of my knowledge, the saying was cooked up sometime in the 1970s, when some politician was talking about his campaign. I don't know that anyone was rearranging chairs anywhere on the Titanic, but if we're going to keep using the ocean liner as a metaphor for anything doomed regardless of our efforts, then deck chair arranging doesn't actually sound so stupid.

Some other stuff people did on the Titanic, as per my exhaustive research (that is, my fuzzy memories on James Cameron's Titanic:

Fought over life boats
Fought over life jackets
Shot each other
Yelled at each other
Fell overboard and died
Drew each other in the nude
Fell in love and had sex in the storage space

Rearranging chairs in the midst of all this seems like a desperate attempt to retain one's sanity and sense of order in the face of impending madness, death, mob rule and rampant rich-person adultery. And if our current economy really is doomed to die a watery death and plummet to the depths of the ocean, then whoever's holding the chair-arranging seminar, sign me up. I need to blow off some steam.

Intercepted letter to Bullets in Madison from band manager Joel Pendelton

Following correspondence to Chicago band Bullets in Madison from their manager intercepted via FOIA filed this morning.

Guys:

Okay, I know you "fired" me after I booked you to that kid's bat mitzvah in Boise, and I know you think I spend too much time at my car dealership and not enough time cold calling concert venues. But I've got some advice that can't possibly miss this time. I just saw the Clinch Mountain Boys and Cherryholmes concert at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra last night, and I've got to tell you, they packed quite a crowd. I took some notes of what they did, and I think that, if you take a few pages from the Gospel of Bluegrass, your indy rock thing might just hit Zinc on the Billboard.

Songs
I listen to your music and I love it. I also want to kill myself. But I listen to bluegrass, and I want to go to church. And marry my cousin. Now don't church and weddings naturally lend themselves to more people? Which would mean more fans? Just seems like a no-brainer to me, is all.




Musicians
Okay, how can I put this? You're an all-male band, and you know I'm totally liberal and open-minded about that sort of thing. But there were quite a few females on stage at this concert, and I think that it would help gain an audience if the audience got the idea you liked girls too. You know, sexually. You guys do know women, right? Mothers, girlfriends, wives, illegitimate daughters, whatever. Just shove a banjo in their hands, they'll blend right in.

Attire
Somber colors, t-shirts, wool caps. Great. I like it. But the fedoras, sequin gowns, button-down shitkicker suits and ten-gallon-hats these guys were wearing could work too. No, don't say anything. Just picture it. You want to set an upbeat ambience, right? Actually, I guess Losch's flannel shirt would still work. Which brings me to...

Atmosphere
The bands last night called out for people to clap their hands in sync with the music. And cheer. And whistle and stomp and square dance. How about square dancing? The opening riffs of "Joel Found His Angel Cowering" would be perfect for a hootenanny! And Losch wouldn't even have to change his shirt!



Trust me on these, guys. Meet me at the thrift shop for some wardrobe shopping and we'll ring in a summer tour that the Oakridge Boys couldn't possibly compete with. Oh, but we'll have to do it around eight. The lot opens at ten.

Yours most sincerely,

Joel Pendelton
Professional Indie Rock Band Manager
c/o Pendleton Used Cars
Berwyn, IL

Comics today suck

I'm thinking of boycotting the funny pages. I just can't take it. Maybe this isn't an overall, nationwide thing; maybe it's only a Midwestern thing. But seriously, are we really that boring that the only way to tickle our funnybones these days, the only way to access shared experiences and philosophies, is to comment on the pieces of suburban existence?

Humor should reflect the person, right? So what do today's comics reflect about me?


Let's talk about the weather.


Teens text a lot.


My kids are so cute!


Getting old sucks. Let's talk about the weather.

Admittedly, there are comics that go beyond the pedestrian. Doonesbury. Mallard Fillmore. On a good day, Get Fuzzy. It's just that the Chicago Tribune nixed most of these over a year ago. The readers have spoken: when we need to be entertained, we don't want to think. Which is why I read so much about cute, texting kids out playing in the weather.

Another Pathetic Moment of Triumph for my Pathetic Scrapbook (for my Pathetic Old Age)

Had to hear some complaints about the testing director from some of my classes today. "Oh man, she's so mean." "God, do you know, like, if you don't have the test number for the quiz you're supposed to take, she, like, yells at you? She can't just turn around and look it up?" "Yeah, she's a total Nazi."

If I were Jon Stewart, I could do a whole bit on bad Nazi analogies. But I did have one card to play.

"Remember that one time we were reading the Declaration of Independence?" I asked them. "And we got to the word 'inalienable'?" And you didn't know what it meant?"

Nods. General agreement. Some of the sharper ones are already starting to look abashed.

"And I told you to reach under your desks and grab that thing called a dictionary, and look it up?" Pause for drama. "And you said it was too much work?"

Pause. Beat.

"So I'll see you one Nazi testing director," I said carefully, "and raise you twenty-five honors seniors."

Nobody took the bet. But when we got to "interposition" in Martin Luther King, Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech, they did take their dictionaries.

When I Get Passionate (I Also Get Stupid)--Published: 2001, Park Lake, Inc.

George Edison walked into his swank Upper West Side apartment just after six p.m. He slung his jacket in a corner and turned on the television real loud. He made himself a bourbon and water, slamming ice cubes into the glass with maximum force and noise, and made sure to belch loudly several times before shouting, "Jessica! Where's my dinner?"

He heard nothing. Glancing about the apartment, he saw his wife's coat and floral-print purse lying on the sofa, next to a suit coat, pair of pants and silk underwear he didn't remember leaving there. Shrugging, he finished his drink and walked towards the bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar. He went to push it open, then paused.

"Is your husband home?" he heard a male voice asking. "I don't want him to catch us together, making love."

"No, lover," his wife's voice, unusually husky and labored, responded. "Don't worry. I locked the door hours ago, and he'll be at work until six."

"Then there's plenty of time for us to finish making love."

"Yes, lover. Plenty of time. For lovemaking."

George frowned again. Something seemed suspicious. He burst into the room and found his wife of six months in bed, the covers up to her shoulders. Next to her sat a balding, near-naked man with a thin mustache, in the midst of kicking his shoes and socks off.

“Jessica?” George intoned quizzically. “Didn’t you hear me come in?”

“Oh, hi honey!” she chirped, making shooing motions to the man next to her. “I was in the shower. Doing my hair. And making a plate of brownies. How was your day?”

“Jessica, I think…I think we need to talk.”

“All right, darling,” she said, making a warning gesture to the mustached man, who promptly dove into a closet two steps away from where George stood, shaking and scratching his head slowly. “But can we make this quick? The plumber is coming over to take a look at my pipes.” Jessica giggled obnoxiously at her witty double entendre, and then, remembering she was supposed to be playing it cool, tapered down to a series of annoying horselaughs.

“Jessica, I don’t know why, but I think…I think you’ve got something going on behind my back.”

“Goodness!” She looked as though he’d accused her of stealing the rags off a homeless orphan’s back, and George felt immediately guilty for making such a beautiful, faithful woman look so upset. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean, I work all day, and when I call you’re never here. I come home and you’re always in the shower, or in bed, or in bed with another man. I just don’t know what to believe any more.”

“It’s all in your head, darling.” Jessica, waiting for George to turn and look out the window, made seductive noises towards the man in the closet, who was hanging out the door, grinning widely and giving her the thumbs up. “You’ve been working too hard. You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, dear, you are. Where did you get the idea I would ever be unfaithful to you?”

“I don’t know…” George shook his head moodily. “I wish I could believe you.”

“You can believe her, pal,” said the man in the closet. “She’s as faithful as I am to my wife.”

“Maybe…” George shook his head some more. “Maybe…”

“Maybe nothing. Oh pooh!” Jessica kicked her negligee under the bed and wrapped a robe around her as she got out of bed. “This is all so incredibly silly. Just look at the facts. I say I’m faithful to you. Benny says I’m faithful to you.”

“Benny? Who’s Benny?”

“Exactly!” she shrieked, hooking an arm around Bennie’s neck briefly to give him a long, lingering soul kiss. “Who is this Benny person you’re always going on about? You’re pulling it all out of thin air, dear! You need to relax.”

“Maybe you’re right,” George said, accepting a handkerchief from Benny so he could wipe his eyes, which were tearing up at the thought of the shame he’d just brought on the most wonderful woman in the world. He was beginning to feel ridiculous. “I’m sorry, darling. How could I be so insensitive?”

“It’s all right, darling,” Jessica cooed, patting him on the shoulder and leering seductively at Benny. “Why don’t you take a walk to clear your head? It might make you feel better.”

“Good idea, darling.” George went to go get his coat. “Will you start dinner while I’m out?”

“Um, probably not. Maybe you should eat out.”

“Another good idea. It’ll clear my head.”

“And dear? Make sure you’re not back until after nine? And knock first, so you don’t surprise me. Or Benny.”

“I will, dear.” George’s eyes were moist again, but this time with unbounded love for his radiant, slightly-perspiring bride. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Jessica, batting her lashes at Benny and shuttling him back into bed. “Now don’t make me put the chain on the door—nine p.m. Not a minute earlier. Larry the carpenter is coming over later to…”

“To check our your drawers?” Benny suggested?

George laughed out loud. That Benny. What a card…

An excerpt from my mystery-noir novel, So Young, So Tardy, So Dead: A Trip Duncan High School Mystery

The hallway outside Room 167 was dark and dank. The air was fetid. I lit a cigarette against the chill and slouched against the wall, pulling my slouch hat low over my face and balling my hands into fists. Two days’ worth of beard stubble rasped against my coat collar. My eyes were blue steel. My eyes bored holes into the mug in front of me. My eyes could beat the snot out of him if I so desired. And as it happened, I did so desire.

“You’re going to talk, punk,” I rasped. “We can make this easy, like a day at the beach, or we can make this hard, like breaking rocks with the heel of your palm. Your choice.”

“I just…I just need to go to the bathroom,” he said uneasily, producing a hall pass. I smirked, grabbed it from his hand and lit it on fire with my cigarette. Then I dropped my cigarette, so I had to use his hall pass to light my next one. Then I burned my hand on the hall pass. I cursed as I flapped my hand to put the fire out, hopping around in what I hoped was still a threatening, no-horse-manure-allowed manner. At first I was worried I might have lost some ground, but he still seemed suitably scared by my blue steel eyes and slouch hat, so I figured I wouldn’t have any trouble with him after all. Provided he started talking before I got tired of waiting and started using his head for a punching bag.

“I know you know what went down last night, when the dame got herself iced,” I rasped. “You know I know you know. So let’s cut the square dancing and get right to the second course. Empty your pockets and I won’t have to empty your skull.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Spill it, punk. What happened to the broad?”

“Who?”

“The broad, the dame, the femme fatale, the vixen who can make the earth move. Stop playing dumb, punk, or I’ll make sure you never think straight again after I pound your head into last night’s leftovers.”

He blinked some more. “I…uh, I don’t know to whom you’re referring.”

I lit a cigarette. “I think you do. And in a minute, I’m going to lose my temper. Only when I’m angry, my minutes seem a lot more like seconds.”

“So…you’ve already lost your temper? I’m confused.”

I smirked and lit a cigarette. “Keep talking dumb, punk. It’s better than a Bach concert.”

“You know…you, uh, already have a couple of cigarettes going.”

I looked down at myself. Sure enough, the punk was right. One in the lower lip, one in the left hand, one tucked behind my ear. No wonder my hair was on fire. I sucked deep on the cigarette in my mouth and coughed wildly, smacking my hair and putting the fire out. Sooner or later, I’d have to start smoking these things for real.

Never mind. He’d never notice. It was time to break out the big guns. I grabbed him by the shirt and thumped him against the lockers behind him.
“Start squealing, little piggy, or you’re never going to the market again.”

“Hey!” he yelped. “I have a hall pass!”

“Nuts to your hall pass, maggot. Tell me about the girl or your eyes will be playing tennis with your tonsils!”

“I don’t know what you mean!” The punk started sobbing hysterically. “You keep mixing your metaphors, your pronoun referents are ambiguous, and you use dime store clichés with which I’m not familiar! For God’s sake, talk to me like I’m a product of the 21st century!”

My eyes narrowed. So: he was an AP English student. I’d have to change my tactics.

“All right, dummy,” I rasped, lighting a cigarette (and then remembering my other one, and swearing, and hiding it behind my back). “Your main idea is what happened to that young woman Nancy Caskin. Now for your evidence, you’re going to tell me where you were last night.”

“And…and my link?” He looked up, starting to appear hopeful.

“It’s going to link where you were to where she was.”

“Okay.” He breathed more calmly. “Okay.”

Now it was only a matter of time. And a graphic organizer…

Next week: Opening STACS of Death!

Push, by Sapphire: A Review

Push is the stream-of-consciousness novel by Sapphire, poet and performer, that created such a ruckus when first published over a decade ago and which was turned into an acclaimed film, Precious, in 2009. It's the story of a young woman who...holy fuck, this book is disturbing.

Ok, let me start over:

Push tells the story of 16-year-old Clareece "Precious" Jones, who, at the novel's beginning, is pregnant with her father's child. She...I mean, seriously, her father's kid? That's messed up. Plus, get this--it's her father's second child by her. The first one? She had it at the age of twelve! And it's got Down's Syndrome. That is too much.

Okay, where was I? Precious lives with her abusive mother who...oh Christ, I forgot, the mom abuses her too! Sexually, physically, psychologically, you name it. It is totally off-putting. One minute the mom is all, "Make me some dinner!" and then she's clocking her in the head with a frying pan. God.

Right, right, the novel. Well, it's written in the form of Precious' thoughts, stream-of-consciousness, like I said, plus journal entries she writes for class. In these entries, she finds a new voice and a new freedom of being able to love herself and not see herself with the eyes of others...

Her parents? Good God, both of them? Plus she winds up getting AIDS from her father! Like Sapphire decided, "You know what, I don't think this kid is sympathetic enough for an emotive character. What else can I give her?" I'm surprised she didn't pop her into a time machine and dump her on the deck of the Titanic or something.

There are truly moving scenes in this novel, though. Like the extended hands of fellowship Precious finds in an alternative school. Kind of hard to keep those scenes in mind, though, when you remember Precious' account of her father climbing on top of her. Hoo. Man. I mean...boy. Did anyone see the movie? How'd they pull that one off?

Okay, so in closing, Push is an emotive, poetic dagger through the heart of the discerning reader. Precious becomes a Job for the twenty-first century, and as we see her spirit begin to take wings, we are reminded of the transience of life and love, and that both truly are precious for all the right reasons...gah, I can't get those abuse scenes out of my head. Messed. Up.

Fuck me, anybody got any weed? Need to shake this book off.

Ways to Pass the Time at a Job Fair

I'm a professional. It's a tough job market out there. You want to give job candidates a fair chance. But if I weren't a professional, this is probably what I'd be up to...

Greet candidates with a pleasant "Good morning!" and then say nothing. How much can you get out of them with nods, throat-clearings and the occasional raised eyebrow?

Start out by telling them, "The jury found Mr. Aaronson guilty, so, we've got an opening after all." Time them for a response.

Begin by staring fixedly at the left hand. Respond to inquiries with, "I'll tell you what I'm not doing--looking for a wedding ring."

Ask interviewee to define professional philosophy without using any verbs. Turn to colleague next to you and yell, "This one's actually trying it!"

Squirm uncontrollably in your seat; cross and uncross legs constantly; exhale violently. Respond to concerned inquiries with, "No no, I'm fine, I'll just sweat it out."

Ask about affiliations with the Communist Party. When they say they're not a communist, shrug disappointingly, hand them a tract and send them to the District 211 table.

Tune out to their answers to your question and think about something sex-related. Then tune back in. Can you salvage any of the interview? Avoid exposure? Rate yourself.

Mention to colleague next to you, "I'm getting so sick of these fucking losers, I think I'm going to puke." Then turn to next candidate, smile hypocritically, and say, "Well it's nice to meet you."

Concentrate hard. Really hard. Stare at them and squint ferociously. Can you set them on fire? With your mind? Because that would be so cool to have that power...

My Somewhat Ecclectic and Scattered "Best Of" List of 2010

Harlan Ellison once said any book you haven't read is a new book. I like that. I take comfort in that. It reminds me we're never really finished with the arts, since they can hardly finish with us. Hell, last month I leafed through an old Balzac novel I thought I'd absorbed a decade ago, only to discover I didn't remember two-thirds of it. Right now, I'm reading Robert Harris' novel The Ghost, which is what Roman Polanski filmed as The Ghost Writer, which I saw seven months ago, and I'm still turning pages like crazy since I can't remember the details of how it comes out. By this rationale, just think of how many books I have yet to really read. It's like being a kid all over again.

So, I'm in no position to rate "Best of" anything in 2010. I don't get out to the movies that often, I don't go to many concerts, and I'm too busy trying to ball through Balzac to try much contemporary fiction. I do have my moments, though. So, in no particular order, with the proper bibliobiographical notes following, I give you:

Music I Discovered/Rediscovered in 2010

The Cold War Kids. A friend loaned me their CD. I went to their concert. Got a free concert download. And I was hooked. An original sound altogether.

The XX. Again, same friend let me download their stuff, which led me to go out and buy it anyway. Oddly compelling rhythm; lyrics are bordering on poetic. I like it.

Arcade Fire's Suburbia. Caught my attention, maybe because of all the media hype I stumbled across.

Ed Harcourt's Lustre. Half the songs interbreed pop and soulful moodiness too much for my taste, but the other half really get in my brain and bounce around pleasantly. Saw him when he opened for James; his bassist totally eyed me up at the bar.

School of Fish's self-titled debut album of 1991 or 1992. Caught between the no man's land of eighties rock and the grunge movement, it blends pathos and detachment very well for my indifferent generation.

Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. How did I miss "Visions of Joanna" all these years? How can you not get hooked on a song that captures in seven minutes ten years of feeling?

Pretty much anything by The Velvet Underground. How did I miss "What Goes On" all these years? How can you not get hooked on a song that captures in five minutes half an hour's worth of pensive thinking?

We Became Your Family When You Died, Bullets in Madison. How did they not put this out sooner? How can you not get hooked on an album that captures in ten songs...ah screw it, I've got nothing.

The Cult's "Embers." Now this is the Cult I remember.

Stuff I Read/Discovered in 2010

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell. The Times did a big piece on him over the summer and the description of this novel caught my eye: four or five separates stories spanning the South Seas in the seventeenth century, to near-contemporary Britain, to a Korean dystopia, to a postapocalyptic Hawaii, and then back again, right to the beginning. All stories are separate, but interconnected. Utterly spellbinding.

King Lear. This time, when I read it, I accompanied it with Ian McKellan's RSC performance on DVD. I can't get him out of my head any more when I read of Lear raging against the storm.

Last Poems, A.E. Housman. For whatever reason, his verses exploring the profound in the commonplace really resonated with me last winter. I think everyone should memorize the following:

We for a certainty are not the first

Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled

Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed

Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

Ballistics, Billy Collins. I'd picked this book up five times since it came out in 2008, but when I finally finished it, I have to admire how he managed to make poetry so accessible, and still so worthy of reflection. He makes you want to see the world all over again.

Letters from Iceland, W.H. Auden. I was led to this book by one of his poems that appears in it; now I want to go visit Iceland. More to the point, I want to go visit the Iceland in the early twentieth century that Auden got to visit--I think I heard that now the country is broke or something?

Lamb and Fool by Christopher Moore. Drop-dead hysterical, especially Fool. It's like the novel Benny Hill and Kurt Vonnegut would have fathered together. Okay, not really, but pretty close.

The Death and Life of the Great American School System, Diane Ravitch. Required reading for anyone who wants an opinion on why American schools suck. Short on solutions, but long on data and analysis. Might correct some of the commonplace assumptions kicked about in Washington and Springfield these days.

Movies I Saw in 2010 Worth Mention

The Six Wives of Henry VIII, a miniseries produced by the BBC. Keith Mitchell starts as Henry Tudor did: young and lithe, full of energy and innocence. By the end he's morbidly obese, still great yet corrupt, enthralling yet repulsive. He pulls the act off like no one else I've seen (Jonathan Rhys Meyers is supposed to be in his forties? Please).

Henry IV Parts I and II, from Shakespeare's An Age of Kings (first aired back in the 50's on television). Sean Connery as Hotspur is enough in itself; the Falstaff/Hal interplay is probably the best-achieved chemistry I've ever seen on film.

I Am Love, starring Tilda Swinton. Not that I could tell by watching this, but she had to pull off Italian dialogue with a Russian accent. Story of a woman who either dives into or is thrust into an illicit affair with her son's best friend, only so much more than that.

Winter's Bone. A young woman living in the Appalachians and trying to hold on to her house and family plays detective to find out what happened to her crystal meth-dealing father. She has to go through a backwoods drug empire that would give Vito Corleone pause.

Inception. Not quite a movie I could go right back into and see all over again. But pretty close.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire. Of course, the books are worth mention too, but the films did a superb job capturing the story, character and pacing of the Millenium Trilogy. Which begs the question as to why Hollywood feels we need an American version. Perhaps Americans are illiterate and can't be bothered with subtitles. Which brings me to...

Idiocracy. Not Mike Judge's greatest, but amusing. And I'd say a fairly accurate painting of where we're headed: once mediocrity becomes the norm, we tend to equate knowledge of civics with brilliance, or being able to tie one's own shoes with homespun wisdom and savvy. We might have a former president who's pretty good proof of this, but I'm not sure.

The King's Speech. If Colin Firth doesn't get an Oscar for his portrayal of George VI, struggling in equal measures with his duties as king and his speech impediment, I can't imagine who will get it instead. Helena Bonham Carter and Geoffrey Rush are equally impressive.

True Grit and Black Swan I have not seen yet, but I suspect I'm going to really like. Haven't seen Waiting for Superman, but I'm sure I'd have a reaction to that as well. And fan of Aaron Sorkin that I am, I thought The Social Network was a bit overblown.

Okay, that's enough for this year. Bring on the next 365 days, and let's knock it off with the vampire stuff already, mkay?

Poetry Written Upon Seeing a Disabled Toilet at the Pub Down the Street

"The sign tells me it
doesn't work. No big deal:
There's still a hole there."

"What disappears when
I pull the handle above
my mess on the floor?"

"It became clear after my colonoscopy that I had to kill her..."

No jury in the world will convict me of murdering the Woman I Love. Why, you ask? Simplicity itself.

Under doctor's orders, I had to go and get one of these damnable procedures last week. Nothing earth-shattering as far as why, I assure you, although the fact that I'd rather get medical instruments shoved in me than go to work for the day speaks volumes about the power of the mind over its environment. Still, I'd be a liar if I didn't confess to a selfish motive for going: A really good quip.

I'd practiced it all day and all night long the twenty-four hours preceding. I would awaken from the anesthesia and sit up in bed, sharp and alert. The doctor would come by, clipboard in hand, a carefully-arranged concerned look on his face, and ask me how I was doing.

And I would reply, oh-so-wittily, "Well, doc, hope it was as good for you as it was for me."

And the entire operating room would erupt in laughter, cancel my bill and send me home with a cigar and a clean bill of help. Nothing could be simpler.

But oh no. Leave it to Kim to screw it all up.

I did, in fact, awaken blearily, in a room I didn't recognize. There were, in fact, people in there. The doctor did come by, and I think he was carrying a clipboard. "Well now, how are we doing?" he asked me cheerfully.

"Ug," I rasped. "Ug uh ug."

"Yeah, you'll be a little tongue-tied for a bit," he said, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry. You'll come around."

The Woman of My Life chose then to show up. "Oh, he's awake," she said flatly. "What a relief."

"Yeah, you'll probably have to cook him something tonight," the doctor said to her. "Maybe keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't try anything too strenuous."

"Fat chance," she muttered, watching me try to sit up. "That there is more than he's moved all month."

"So, you feeling any better?" the doctor asked me immediately afterwards, hoping to get the niceties out of the way."

"Well...doc..." I started, laboring mightily to form syllables with a tongue and mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. "Well...well doc..."

"Good, good," he said, glancing at his clipboard. "Okay, let's see, you need to eat something soon, then take a nap. Get dressed, and, as long as your insurance payment processes okay in the next twenty minutes, we'll let you go home."

"Was it...was...was it..." I breathed out, grasping mightily at the few remaining seconds before the joke went flat.

"It went fine," he reassured me. "You're as healthy as a horse. And almost as intelligent."

The room erupted in laughter. I cast them all a withering stare. My joke was better. As long as I could get it out in time.

"Was it--" I began, increasing in strength and confidence.

"It didn't show anything to worry about," he said, glancing at his watch. "Now, I've got to run. Those nine holes aren't going to play themselves."

"Thanks, doctor," Kim said to him, grasping his arm in a neighborly fashion. "I'm sure it was as good for him as it was for you."

Ten times the previous laughter filled the room. Nurses came over and squeezed her hand. The male attendant came over and nudged me. "You got a keeper here, pal," he said, yanking my IV out of my arm with all the sympathy of a pile of rocks. "Hold on to her."

Oh I will. You have no idea...

"Okay, honey. You just rest easy. But are you
sure I have to be standing on a ladder
in a puddle of water to do this?"

My Web-based Sexual Harassment Tutorial Crib Notes

Fig 1. Potential lawsuit.

Look at Fig. 1 closely. Can you spot the potential lawsuit?

If you can't, then you're clearly in need of sexual harassment training. If you can, well, guess what? You're getting training anyway.

Clearly, sexually inappropriate behavior in the workplace is a serious offense. That's why my employer gives us this halfassed webinar every year, with the exact same brick-stupid questions and scenarios outlining the facets of sexual harassment, the vagaries, the mise en scène, and all the other crap we have to deal with now that we live in a world where a man can't spank his secretary's ass without her yelling about respect as a woman, blah blah blah, go bake me a pie, will you?

So I'm glad I kept my notes and screenshots this time around. That way, I can halve the time I normally spend on this drivel, just clicking the appropriate answers to the quiz questions they give while reading Big'Uns instead of actually reading them. That makes it much easier.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Introductory Lesson: Sexual harassment is when one person makes a move upon another person in the workplace. This move is unwelcome if unwarranted, or unsolicited, or made by someone not good-looking enough. Hence this will never be an issue for me.

Fig 2: When to complain...

Fig 3: When to not complain...

Okay, training is over. Time for the exam.

Quiz Question #1: Which of the following constitutes sexual harassment?

Answer: Scenario A. Here, the employer is being insensitive and chauvinistic. In Scenario B, he has a sailboat, so that's totally different.

Quiz Question #2: Which of the following constitutes sexual harassment?

Answer: Scenario C. In Scenario D, the man is showing the woman the Swingers Classified section of the daily paper, completely innocently. In Scenario C, it's Mr. Sandberg, so what else could it be but an invitation to something filthy and depraved? Friggin' pervert.

Quiz Question #3: The man has just propositioned the woman. What is the proper response if she wishes to refuse his advances and let him know they are no longer welcome?

a) "No thank you, I'm busy tonight. Perhaps another time?"
b) "I don't know. Maybe you could show it to me first?"
c) "It's nothing personal. I just don't date people of my own ethnicity."
d) "Up it another five dollars and we have a deal."

Answer: None of the above. Because, seriously, most people think the man was the one on the right. And it's not. She's actually the one on the right, and she's trying to accept the offer. Did I just totally rock your world or what? It just goes to show you: trying to train us about suppressing our primal urges is completely, utterly futile. Let's go hit the Admiral. I'm buying first round.

Local goes to Florida, Gets Married

A beach- and downtown-Key West wedding review

What I remember was totally awesome. But the stuff I wish I could remember, I'm sure, was even more awesome.

Congrats to Tso and his blushing bride. Now: you guys are doing the holiday cooking this year, right?

New rock band Bullets in Madison on fire with new single; lead singer on fire with fire

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue

Originally published August, 2003, in Spun Magazine; reprinted here in light of rerelease of Panic in Amber Blue


The singer steps up to the microphone, wind machine ruffling his clothes and carefully-disheveled hair artfully. The band behind him strikes chords and poses with thoughtful, somber moodiness.


"Crosswords..." keyboardist and vocalist John Morton intones soulfully.


I'm on the set of the Bullets in Madison video shoot for their hit single, "Crossroads," off their new album Panic in Amber Blue. Surrounding me are all the makings of a killer video: chained, caged strippers, a neon band insignia highlighting the stage, a prowling leopard in the rafters and a rotating drum set.


Director McG, whose Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle recently took in $52,000 at the box office, is at my side, coaching the merry montage of musicians along what will undoubtedly be their chart-busting hit single. The band is sluggish and slow-moving, which, for them, translates into ecstatic. McG is polysyllabic in his directions to the band, which, for him, translates into intellectual. I want a drink, which, for me, translates into business as usual.


"Crosswords..." Morton croons again, the band soulfully striking up the tune once more while McG makes frantic get-on-with-it gestures with his spindly arms. The music plods on, then stops as Morton trails off into silence.


"I forgot the rest of the song," he admits soulfully, hanging his head in shame.


"It's okay," McG assures him gently, shooting a quick glance at his budget director who is currently preparing to hang herself with a length of power cord. "We're going to overdub your singing in postproduction anyway."


"It's weird," Morton continues, gazing at his keyboard mournfully. "I have that first word down, but when it comes to the words that come after it, all I can think of are the words 'drive-by.'"


"That's the next song," guitarist Michael Stautmeister tells him thoughtfully. "The one we play after this one." Nearby, the trumpeteer is getting stalked by the leopard.


"Oh yeah." Morton adjusts his shirt collar artfully. "That's weird."


McG, clearly wishing he could get back to more cerebral projects like looking up Lucy Liu's skirt in her next film, hooks an elbow around Morton's neck. "We're going to get through this, guy. You and me. And the rest of the band. Sky's the limit. No holds barred. We'll show the rest of the clowns you play music with you're the glue that holds this miserable act together. You just wait."


"We can still hear you," guitarist Aaron Sandberg drones somberly. As he looks after Morton and his director, he runs a hand through his full head of hair soulfully...and winds up with a fistful of his remaining hair. His bald spot glares triumphantly. Upon seeing it, he screams mournfully.


McG is not unaware that the band is aging somberly, soulfully and mournfully ten years for every minute this farce drags its nuts. But clearly he's got ideas cooking on how to get the show more dynamic. More engaging. More today.


"Cue the flame thrower guy," he tells the head grip. "And get the kerosene ready. We're torching Morton first."


-----


Bullets in Madison is an up-and-coming band whose debut album is just as new as they are to the Chicago indie rock scene. For some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of these guys are going to wind up teaching in the public school system. Some of them might even wind up where I work, sneaking into my room, swiping my lesson plans, stealing my medicinal whiskey (kept safely on the bookshelves, where students will never find it) and locking me inside the building when I'm not out the door at 3:05 like them. I have no idea why I suspect all this. But I'm rarely wrong.


That's the future, though. Years away. In the meantime, the band is putting together its first music video.


The "Crosswords" shoot has been going on for months, as Morton struggles to remember his lyrics and his partner in crime Sandberg watches the last remains of hair fall out. I've spent the majority of my time here exploring the band's origins and musical influences, only to discover that, much to my dismay, Morton and Sandberg are the most boring people on the face of the earth. Stautmeister was, for a time, a better bet at entertainment, but he stopped talking to me when he caught me going through his wallet looking for naked roadie pictures.


Sandberg, on the other hand, won't shut up about what inspires him as a musician and motivates him as a performer. Our most recent interview took place backstage, while McG layered Morton in petroleum for the big fire scene, which, according to McG, "really captures the song's anti-Iraq war message." Morton had tried to explain to him that the song actually came from a frenzied effort at free verse over the Sunday papers comics section, McG insisted that he had the better interpretation, and Morton's objections were effectively overruled. As the grip splashed Morton's mostly-hairless chest with a paintbrush dunked in Vaseline and Stautmeister, for some reason, rapidly took pictures, hooting and whistling all the while Sandberg droned on and on concerning the dangers of artistic influences.


"Many writers will stop reading any books by other authors while they are working on their own novel because they’re afraid that another style will seep into their own," he said. "Yet at the same time, they’re in a bind because they might happen to like that particular style, and wouldn’t mind if the influence rubbed off, so long as it didn’t suffocate the work."


Bored out of my mind, I tried desperately at this point to steer the conversation to oral sex. But no dice. Man. Musicians.


"The problem compounds when you’re in touch with many influences," Sandberg continued.


"Speaking of touching," I tried again, simultaneously gesturing towards the nearest cage-dancing stripper and my crotch. But he didn't take the bait. He only averted his eyes from my groin and went on with the interview. Fucking musicians...


"Again, two things can happen. There's a constant conflict between original vision and influence which the careful artist addresses."


"Hey, Professor, want to put it in language we can all understand?"


"Well, the resulting work, whether novel or album, can become an ugly pastiche of all styles, or, the result can be a beautiful and diverse, woven piece of work."


"That's the biggest load of bullshit I ever heard," I jeered.


Sandberg fixed me with a level gaze, and another clump of his hair fell to the floor. "You don't even know what pastiche means, do you?"


"No. No, I don't. Do you?"


"Well...no."


"Okay then. So, getting back to getting your knob polished..."


Here, our interview was interrupted: the pyro guy had ignited the flamethrower, turning Morton into a flaming ball of smoke and heat.


"Crosswords! Crosswords!" Morton shrieked, running around the stage, slapping at the flames with his hands. "Agh!"


Sandberg took this opportunity to make some lame excuses to go and comfort his friend. However, Morton, engulfed in fire and screaming in blinding pain, decided that company with Sandberg was infinitely worse, and came back over by me for his interview.


"And yes, while some say it is impossible not to be influenced," Morton said, leaning in close to my tape recorder, "I say it is possible to use the influence to eventually transcend the influence. That is the ultimate goal."


"Did you used to have chest hair there?" I said, gesturing towards his smoldering torso. "Because you don't any more."


With one thing and another, Morton getting carted off to the emergency burn ward, Stautmeister running off to post the entire thing on the Internet and Sandberg finally taking a hint and hitting up the cage dancers for some back room action, I finally got some peace and quiet in which I could actually listen to the album. So here's my review:


It's good. Overpriced, but good. I recommend it.


Maybe in the future we won't have to buy music any more. Maybe some day we'll be able to get it for free off the Internet. Not Napster, obviously, but something else. Something...torrential. That would be sweet. In the meantime, if you want it, you'll have to buy the album off their website, or your local Tower Records outlet.


Hmph. Musicians. Always in it for the money. And a first aid kit.

Website addresses I'm either sure exist or think should exist

Iron Sheik on Youtube. http://ironsheikyoutubereview.blogspot.com/. A blog exclusively about the WWF star Iron Sheik's meltdowns and conniption fits on Youtube.

Professor Blago. http://blagojevichyoutubereview.blogspot.com. A blog exclusively focused to former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich's spouting of my favorite poetry in front of news cameras as he gets indicted, trying to weasel his way out of corruption charges by invoking Tennyson, who, ironically enough, did plenty of tirades against the corruption of humanity. Not that the former governor need bother with such trifles.

The Real World: Chile (2,000 feet below). http://therealmine.blogspot.com. A blog detailing what happens when 33 miners have to stop living in the real world, with easy access to water, insulin and wives, and start getting...real.

What am I, one right out of three? Not bad. Not bad.

Tso is Tso damn gullible...

Me (via text message): Just got tickets to Charlotte for your stinking wedding.

Tso: Why Charlotte? Wedding is in Key West.

Me: Whoops.

Tso: 15 hour drive. Are you nuts?

Me: Nuts like a fox! Don't worry. I'll be there on the 29th.

Tso: Wedding is on the 18th.

Me: Whoops.

Tso: WTF moment?

Me: WTF like a fox!

-------------—---------------

I could play this guy like a violin. What a maroon.

Now...Key West is in Massachusetts. Right?

Just kidding.

From NPR's Contest Story Site: Three-Minute Fiction is back, and it's time for Round Five!

Our contest has a simple premise: Listeners send in original short stories that can be read in three minutes or less. We're looking for original work no longer than 600 words.

Each round, our judges throw out a challenge. This time, your story must begin with the line, "Some people swore that the house was haunted." It must end with, "Nothing was ever the same again after that."

Those lines were written by the judge for this round, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Cunningham....because he's a huge fan of ghost stories.

“Those Deadbeat Dead”

A short story

Some people swore the house was haunted. Most just swore.

It wasn’t so much the two-story brownstone’s foreboding façade, or its squeaky hinges or vampire, cannibal rats. It wasn’t even that it was built on top of an ancient Native American sacrificial site, and it wasn’t the regular parade of headless apparitions that got people boiling mad.

No, the deal-breaker for everyone, and what got Neighborhood Watch Patrolmen Rory and Buck knocking on doors up and down the block to raise awareness, was whether or not the ghosts were legal.

“Because we’re not just taking this country back for America,” Rory would tell people up and down Pleasant Street. “We’re taking it back from the undocumented undead too.”

Buck honestly didn’t give a shit whether the house had one ghost or two hundred, or whether the ghosts had all just taken the night shift at the local Wal Mart. He was only following Rory because he really wanted to get into Rory’s sister’s pants, and the afternoon before, he and Rory’s sister, a fox of an activist named Jessica, had gotten plastered on a cheap bottle of wine, during the course of which he’d been granted immediate access to her boobs while she’d speculated about what might be in the house, “people all dead and on welfare? That would leave this nation vulnerable!” Yet now, at three in the afternoon, with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, he was wondering if maybe he hadn’t overestimated the allure his investigations would have in Jessica’s mind when he returned to her later that afternoon.

Rory, however, was a man on a mission, unlikely to back down.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he told Buck for the twentieth time. “The Constitution doesn’t say anything about whether or not the occupants have to be alive.”

“Activist judges, man,” said Buck, wishing Rory would shut up so he could go back to daydreaming about his pleasant afternoon with Jessica.

“Just wait until some activist judge manages to tack a bunch of bloodsucking, brain-eating, chain rattling Mexicans into the Fourteenth Amendment. Then what? They’re in our schools, our factories, our abandoned asylums...”

“Exactly,” said Buck. “Illegal. Also breasts.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Buck said. He ignored his friend’s stare and squinted up at the house. They were in front of it, and he could faintly hear the sound of the walls moaning and bleeding.

“Let me handle this,” Rory said, pushing past him and rapping against the dark mahogany in front of him. “Damned illegals. Probably socialist ghosts, too.”

Buck scowled, and thought of breasts some more.

The two waited a minute. Eventually, a transparent, cadaverous white man appeared with a blood-smeared mouth and sharp fangs, dressed in black, sporting a cape. “Visitors,” he intoned in a smooth, Eastern European accent. “Welcome to my home. I bid you enter! Mwa-hah-hah!”

“Good evening, sir,” Rory began in his best official voice. “My name is Rory Calhoun, and this is my friend Buck Mulligan. We’re canvassing the neighborhood, and we’re wondering if we could inquire as to the residency status of this house, specifically pertaining to number of people, both alive and dead, currently living in this fine establishment.”

“What?” The apparition, startled, drew back from the door. “Uh, sorry, no habla espanol. I, er, love Americanos. Go local sports team!” The door slammed in their faces.

Rory beamed triumphantly at Buck. “What did I tell you? That guy’s never seen the inside of INS, I tell you.”

“Oh yeah?” Buck retorted. “Well I’m seeing the inside of your sister tonight.”

Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Finis