As of now, "The Ignoble Experiment" is the official forum of my more focused writings (I use the term "focused" loosely). Consequently, the present blog is now reserved for my more impulsive, haphazard gibberish.
Also: because I'm illogically fond of some of the past year's musings, I've swapped them over to this space. Hence the "originally posted" note in the entries' titles.
So, venture below at your own risk...
-ML
Sunday, May 31, 2009
(Orig. posted 5/28/09) An eloquent argument for deism, aka the Aristotlian "Prime Mover" train of thought.
"Nature is what we know. We do not know the gods of religions. And nature is not kind, or merciful, or loving.
If god made me--the fabled god of the three qualities of which I spoke: kindness, mercy, love--he also made the fish I catch and eat. And where do his love, kindness and mercy for these fish come in?
No, nature made us. Nature did it all. Not the gods of the religions." -Thomas Alba Edison
Well said, sir. In my book, more than your innovations with electric light qualify you for being remembered as "Wizard of Menlo Park."
If god made me--the fabled god of the three qualities of which I spoke: kindness, mercy, love--he also made the fish I catch and eat. And where do his love, kindness and mercy for these fish come in?
No, nature made us. Nature did it all. Not the gods of the religions." -Thomas Alba Edison
Well said, sir. In my book, more than your innovations with electric light qualify you for being remembered as "Wizard of Menlo Park."
(Orig. posted 4/7/09) I have made a pact. Nothing will prevent me from being back in Chapel Hill the next time we reach the title game.
But in the meantime - Rah rah Carolina-lina.
Go to hell dook.
Go to hell dook.
(Orig. posted 3/26/09) Anyone who thinks the "No Child Left Behind" initiative improves eduation needs to watch season 4 of The Wire.
You need to watch The Wire, anyway. It's arguably the best recurring series in the history of TV.
But what's so great about The Wire is how it depicts the inner city and "war on drugs" more realistically and accurately than any show, ever. It takes place from the perspective of the Baltimore police AND those involved in Baltimore's drug trade. As the show progresses, it expands to the justice system, to city-wide politics & how much they interfere with the police dept.'s effectiveness.
And in the fourth season, the Baltimore public school system comes into play.
Seriously, watch the show. It shows what happens when NCLB is forced into practice among the students it's ostensibly supposed to benefit the most.
But what's so great about The Wire is how it depicts the inner city and "war on drugs" more realistically and accurately than any show, ever. It takes place from the perspective of the Baltimore police AND those involved in Baltimore's drug trade. As the show progresses, it expands to the justice system, to city-wide politics & how much they interfere with the police dept.'s effectiveness.
And in the fourth season, the Baltimore public school system comes into play.
Seriously, watch the show. It shows what happens when NCLB is forced into practice among the students it's ostensibly supposed to benefit the most.
(Orig. posted 2/22/09 and edited 5/28/09) I will thoroughly enjoy watching Greivis Vasquez pop his jersey and gesticulate to the crowd - in the NIT.
That is, when I'm not preoccupied watching Carolina play as a high-seeded team in the NCAA's.
**Edit, 5/28: While Greivis did manage to appear in the NCAA's, I don't think he popped his jersey as UM was unceremoniously bounced in the preliminary rounds.
I also don't think he'll be popping anything when he's picked in the second round of the NBA draft, and is subsequently cut from the roster of whatever team picks him.
**Edit, 5/28: While Greivis did manage to appear in the NCAA's, I don't think he popped his jersey as UM was unceremoniously bounced in the preliminary rounds.
I also don't think he'll be popping anything when he's picked in the second round of the NBA draft, and is subsequently cut from the roster of whatever team picks him.
(Orig. posted 1/22/09) I've been saying it for 1.5 years now, and I feel compelled to say it again: Era Vulgaris is the best Rock album to come out in
(DISCLAIMER: you can argue Radiohead's In Rainbows is a better record. And I'd concede I can't logically refute you. I'm a Radiohead guy & I like that album a lot.)
I tend to talk a lot of fecal matter about today's "heavy" bands. And as long as groups in the Disturbed--Avenged Sevenfold--System of a Down mold continue to serve as paradigms of said music, I will continue to verbally defecate on them. With "diarrhea-ic" gusto.
Unless someone can point out anyone else worth mentioning (and listening to), I'll keep arguing Queens of the Stone Age is the lone exception to the rule.
Seriously, Era Vulgaris is fucking brilliant. Josh Homme's lyrics on nearly every song are absurdly incisive. So sharp, in fact, that they could sever that Disturbed lead singer's vocal chords.* Josh H. and Jack White are my super-subjective picks for best Rock songwriters out there today.
(*The world would be a more pleasant, tolerable place if that happened.)
They're not necessarily my favorite songs on the whole record. But on lyrics alone, these two EV album tracks are stand-outs. Enjoy:
"Turnin' on the Screw" (track 1):
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/queensofthestoneage/turninonthescrew.html
"I'm Designer" (track 3):
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/queensofthestoneage/imdesigner.html
I tend to talk a lot of fecal matter about today's "heavy" bands. And as long as groups in the Disturbed--Avenged Sevenfold--System of a Down mold continue to serve as paradigms of said music, I will continue to verbally defecate on them. With "diarrhea-ic" gusto.
Unless someone can point out anyone else worth mentioning (and listening to), I'll keep arguing Queens of the Stone Age is the lone exception to the rule.
Seriously, Era Vulgaris is fucking brilliant. Josh Homme's lyrics on nearly every song are absurdly incisive. So sharp, in fact, that they could sever that Disturbed lead singer's vocal chords.* Josh H. and Jack White are my super-subjective picks for best Rock songwriters out there today.
(*The world would be a more pleasant, tolerable place if that happened.)
They're not necessarily my favorite songs on the whole record. But on lyrics alone, these two EV album tracks are stand-outs. Enjoy:
"Turnin' on the Screw" (track 1):
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/queensofthestoneage/turninonthescrew.html
"I'm Designer" (track 3):
http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/queensofthestoneage/imdesigner.html
(Orig. posted 12/10/08) There Will Be Ads: A Preview
The following is what would have taken place if Daniel Plainview had been in the ad biz, and he'd have been pitching his services to a non-progressive potential client...
OPEN on a board room.
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
Ladies and gentlemen. I’ve traveled over half our country to be here tonight. I couldn’t get away sooner because my new client was coming in at noon and I had to see about it.
That account is now buying space in six publications, and is paying me billings of five thousand dollars a week. I have two others buying and I have six producing spots in Los Angeles.
So, ladies and gentlemen, if I say I’m an ad man, you will agree…
(BEAT)
You have a great chance here. But bear in mind: you can lose it all if you’re not careful.
Out of all men that beg for a chance to make your ads, maybe one in twenty will be ad men. The rest will be hacks – that’s men trying to get between you and the ad men – to get some of the money that ought by rights come to you.
Even if you find one that has talent, and means to concept, he’ll maybe know nothing about interactive, and he’ll have to hire the job out on contract. And then you’re depending on a web production house that will rush the job through, so they can get another job just as quick as they can. This is the way that this works.
(AN OFF-CAMERA VOICE INTERRUPTS, LOUDLY; El Presidente holds his composure)
OC VOICE
What is your offer? We’re wasting time!
OC VOICE
Please! Shhh!
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I do my own advertising. And the men who work for me, work for me. They are men I know. I make it my business to be there and see to their work.
I don’t lose my scripts in the system and spend days looking for them. I don’t botch post-production and let editors take over and ruin the whole spot.
I am a family man. I run a family business. This is my bro and my ECD, El Vice Presidente. We offer you the bond of an independent shop that very few ad men can understand.
I’m fixed like no other agency in this field, and that’s because my insurance account has just come in. I have a string of Creatives all ready to put to work. I can comp up some storyboards and have them here in a week. I have business connections, so I can get the photographer for the shoots – such things go by friendship in a rush like this.
And this is why I can guarantee to start concepting and put up the campaigns to back my word. I assure you ladies and gentlemen, no matter what the others promise to do, when it comes to the pitch, they won’t be there.
REVERSE, THE ROOM, THAT MOMENT.
About TEN CLIENTS have packed themselves into a very small CONFERENCE ROOM. They are a hungry group, smarting from the recent economic downturn.
MAN
That’s fine. That’s just fine. But how do you propose to charge time billable?
WOMAN
What are you saying, Mr. Ad Man?
MAN
We don’t have time for this if you can’t tell us how you plan to bill each and every person in this room!
ANOTHER MAN
Let him finish! Let him finish!
WOMAN
Infringing on our brand and taking our money!
HOLD ONTO THE ROOM. The room erupts as each client screams and yells and unleashes their wrath at each other about how their billing should be divided, and dimensions of “four color bleeds” and “magazine spreads.” One client yells “We should just start our own in-house agency, it’d be much easier!” Another client counters with “Bull!”
We witness human dignity go out the window.
El Presidente stands, slowly turns and walks out the door, without being noticed. El Vice President walks out behind El Presidente.
Outside the conference room, a Mr. Random follows them out and pleads his case.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
No, please, Mr. Ad Guy, where are you going?
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I don’t need the account, thank you.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
But we need you! We’d need you to begin—
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
There’s too much confusion. Thank you for your time.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
No, no, no, there’s no confusion, please come back and we can all settle this—
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I wouldn’t take the account if you gave it to me as a gift.
El Presidente and Vice Presidente continue walking. They pass the receptionist without acknowledging her and march to the elevator, which closes behind them.
OPEN on a board room.
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
Ladies and gentlemen. I’ve traveled over half our country to be here tonight. I couldn’t get away sooner because my new client was coming in at noon and I had to see about it.
That account is now buying space in six publications, and is paying me billings of five thousand dollars a week. I have two others buying and I have six producing spots in Los Angeles.
So, ladies and gentlemen, if I say I’m an ad man, you will agree…
(BEAT)
You have a great chance here. But bear in mind: you can lose it all if you’re not careful.
Out of all men that beg for a chance to make your ads, maybe one in twenty will be ad men. The rest will be hacks – that’s men trying to get between you and the ad men – to get some of the money that ought by rights come to you.
Even if you find one that has talent, and means to concept, he’ll maybe know nothing about interactive, and he’ll have to hire the job out on contract. And then you’re depending on a web production house that will rush the job through, so they can get another job just as quick as they can. This is the way that this works.
(AN OFF-CAMERA VOICE INTERRUPTS, LOUDLY; El Presidente holds his composure)
OC VOICE
What is your offer? We’re wasting time!
OC VOICE
Please! Shhh!
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I do my own advertising. And the men who work for me, work for me. They are men I know. I make it my business to be there and see to their work.
I don’t lose my scripts in the system and spend days looking for them. I don’t botch post-production and let editors take over and ruin the whole spot.
I am a family man. I run a family business. This is my bro and my ECD, El Vice Presidente. We offer you the bond of an independent shop that very few ad men can understand.
I’m fixed like no other agency in this field, and that’s because my insurance account has just come in. I have a string of Creatives all ready to put to work. I can comp up some storyboards and have them here in a week. I have business connections, so I can get the photographer for the shoots – such things go by friendship in a rush like this.
And this is why I can guarantee to start concepting and put up the campaigns to back my word. I assure you ladies and gentlemen, no matter what the others promise to do, when it comes to the pitch, they won’t be there.
REVERSE, THE ROOM, THAT MOMENT.
About TEN CLIENTS have packed themselves into a very small CONFERENCE ROOM. They are a hungry group, smarting from the recent economic downturn.
MAN
That’s fine. That’s just fine. But how do you propose to charge time billable?
WOMAN
What are you saying, Mr. Ad Man?
MAN
We don’t have time for this if you can’t tell us how you plan to bill each and every person in this room!
ANOTHER MAN
Let him finish! Let him finish!
WOMAN
Infringing on our brand and taking our money!
HOLD ONTO THE ROOM. The room erupts as each client screams and yells and unleashes their wrath at each other about how their billing should be divided, and dimensions of “four color bleeds” and “magazine spreads.” One client yells “We should just start our own in-house agency, it’d be much easier!” Another client counters with “Bull!”
We witness human dignity go out the window.
El Presidente stands, slowly turns and walks out the door, without being noticed. El Vice President walks out behind El Presidente.
Outside the conference room, a Mr. Random follows them out and pleads his case.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
No, please, Mr. Ad Guy, where are you going?
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I don’t need the account, thank you.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
But we need you! We’d need you to begin—
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
There’s too much confusion. Thank you for your time.
MR. RANDOM TOADY
No, no, no, there’s no confusion, please come back and we can all settle this—
EL PRESIDENTE DEL AGENCY
I wouldn’t take the account if you gave it to me as a gift.
El Presidente and Vice Presidente continue walking. They pass the receptionist without acknowledging her and march to the elevator, which closes behind them.
(Orig. posted 12/9/08) After much thought, I've formulated a way to determine if a band is taking their music (and themselves) far too seriously.
I call it The Histrionic Paradigm. It's very simple.
When listening to a band's music, imagine whether or not it would seem natural for the singer to sing the song on bended knee, with one hand on his/her heart, and with the other hand extended to the heavens. (OR grasping forward, presumably at the audience.)
**IMPORTANT CAVEAT: The band/singer is NOT trying to be deliberately ironic.**
The original perpetrator of the Histrionic Paradigm: Bruce Springsteen.
(Not even close. Just watch The Boss's face when he performs. That is, if you can bear it.)
Notable offenders between Springsteen and the present era:
- Journey (Steve Perry era)
- Eddie Money
- Bryan Adams
- Michael Bolton
- Sting (post-Police)
- Pearl Jam (specifically their "And Now You Know" songs, such as "Jeremy," "Black" and "Dissident." However, "Daughter" is a big exception; it's great without trying too hard.)
Recent bands that immediately spring to mind:
- Muse
- Nickelback
- The Killers
- Linkin Park
- Bloc Party (more so in their early work, they've loosened up over time)
- Fall Out Boy
- AFI
- Panic! at the Disco
- Disturbed (just listen to "Stricken")
Is a trend emerging? I think so.
Further suggestions are more than welcome.
When listening to a band's music, imagine whether or not it would seem natural for the singer to sing the song on bended knee, with one hand on his/her heart, and with the other hand extended to the heavens. (OR grasping forward, presumably at the audience.)
**IMPORTANT CAVEAT: The band/singer is NOT trying to be deliberately ironic.**
The original perpetrator of the Histrionic Paradigm: Bruce Springsteen.
(Not even close. Just watch The Boss's face when he performs. That is, if you can bear it.)
Notable offenders between Springsteen and the present era:
- Journey (Steve Perry era)
- Eddie Money
- Bryan Adams
- Michael Bolton
- Sting (post-Police)
- Pearl Jam (specifically their "And Now You Know" songs, such as "Jeremy," "Black" and "Dissident." However, "Daughter" is a big exception; it's great without trying too hard.)
Recent bands that immediately spring to mind:
- Muse
- Nickelback
- The Killers
- Linkin Park
- Bloc Party (more so in their early work, they've loosened up over time)
- Fall Out Boy
- AFI
- Panic! at the Disco
- Disturbed (just listen to "Stricken")
Is a trend emerging? I think so.
Further suggestions are more than welcome.
(Orig. posted 11/24/08) It is an absolute travesty that you can't buy alcohol on Sundays in certain states.
Oh, you can still order it in restaurants. Yet you can't buy in in grocery stores.
Impeccable logic by the finest outmoded legislative powers in America.
The funniest part is, I guarantee a particular group of people would balk at rescinding this law. I can hear them now, in their strident drawls:
("The lawrd don't whant us ta draynk on Sundays. Iyt's the ho-lee day of reyst!")
True.
Instead, we can dedicate the day to outlawing groups of people to marry, despite having no constitutional right to do so. (But it's OK, because that's what our merciful god would want.)
Or maybe teach our kids that dinosaurs and humans lived shoulder-to-shoulder. After all, evolution is nothing more than a vast conspiracy started by a cabal of pagan intellectuals, right? Carbon dating? Pluh-eeze. Don't believe the hype.
And most crucial of all, emphasize that anyone who doesn't believe any of these things is going to hell. Because America - land of the free - is a "Christian nation."
(Never mind that most of our founding fathers despised organized religion. And went to great lengths to ensure the separation of church and state in America.)
Tell you what. Keep being holier than me. Just let me buy my 12-pack we'll call it even. Better yet, a bottle of red. Because Jesus did turn water into wine, right?
Impeccable logic by the finest outmoded legislative powers in America.
The funniest part is, I guarantee a particular group of people would balk at rescinding this law. I can hear them now, in their strident drawls:
("The lawrd don't whant us ta draynk on Sundays. Iyt's the ho-lee day of reyst!")
True.
Instead, we can dedicate the day to outlawing groups of people to marry, despite having no constitutional right to do so. (But it's OK, because that's what our merciful god would want.)
Or maybe teach our kids that dinosaurs and humans lived shoulder-to-shoulder. After all, evolution is nothing more than a vast conspiracy started by a cabal of pagan intellectuals, right? Carbon dating? Pluh-eeze. Don't believe the hype.
And most crucial of all, emphasize that anyone who doesn't believe any of these things is going to hell. Because America - land of the free - is a "Christian nation."
(Never mind that most of our founding fathers despised organized religion. And went to great lengths to ensure the separation of church and state in America.)
Tell you what. Keep being holier than me. Just let me buy my 12-pack we'll call it even. Better yet, a bottle of red. Because Jesus did turn water into wine, right?
(Orig. posted 10/22/08) I'm sorry. But There Will Be Blood is a hilarious movie.
Granted, it helps to have an, ah, "unconventional" sense of humor.
But come on. Homicide via bowling pin? ("Mr. Daniel?" "I'm finished!")
...Preceded by a diatribe about "DRAINAGE" and straws "reaching acrrrrooooooss the room," starting to DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE?"
...A forced baptism - where a ravenous oilman makes a "BL-BL-BL-BL-BL-BLA" sound as he shakes water off of his apoplectic face?
Ladies and gentlemen, when I say 'Who needs sitcoms," you will agree, "Who needs sitcoms?"
Especially when you've got Plainview, Eli and H.W.
But come on. Homicide via bowling pin? ("Mr. Daniel?" "I'm finished!")
...Preceded by a diatribe about "DRAINAGE" and straws "reaching acrrrrooooooss the room," starting to DRINK YOUR MILKSHAKE?"
...A forced baptism - where a ravenous oilman makes a "BL-BL-BL-BL-BL-BLA" sound as he shakes water off of his apoplectic face?
Ladies and gentlemen, when I say 'Who needs sitcoms," you will agree, "Who needs sitcoms?"
Especially when you've got Plainview, Eli and H.W.
(Orig. posted 10/15/08) The greatest rant about flatulance I've ever heard on film.
(Al Swearengen, pimp/murderer/darkly hilarious owner of the Gem Saloon in HBO's series Deadwood, exhales in dusgust from behind his desk.)
SWEARENGEN: And I wanna know who cut the cheese.
(His assembled henchmen each give hangdog, paranoid glances. But no one claims to have broken wind.)
SWEARENGEN: I'll tell you this for openers. We are going to set off an area on the balcony. And god help whoever doesn't use it. Because the next stink I have to smell in this office - whoever doesn't admit to it is going out the window, into the muck, onto their fucking heads - and we'll see how they like fartin' from that position. Okay?!
SWEARENGEN: And I wanna know who cut the cheese.
(His assembled henchmen each give hangdog, paranoid glances. But no one claims to have broken wind.)
SWEARENGEN: I'll tell you this for openers. We are going to set off an area on the balcony. And god help whoever doesn't use it. Because the next stink I have to smell in this office - whoever doesn't admit to it is going out the window, into the muck, onto their fucking heads - and we'll see how they like fartin' from that position. Okay?!
(Orig. posted 8/30/08) A new Tarheel football season begins today.
Every fall, they begin anew.
Every fall - at least, since I was a junior in high school - they break my heart.
But count me in as having a ton of faith in Butch. If he can get us bowling again this season (even if it's so much as one of the nuvo Toilet Bowls), I'll be thrilled.
Every fall - at least, since I was a junior in high school - they break my heart.
But count me in as having a ton of faith in Butch. If he can get us bowling again this season (even if it's so much as one of the nuvo Toilet Bowls), I'll be thrilled.
(Orig. posted 8/20/08) I finally have a job offer.
If you'd have told me when I started ad school that my first job would be in Birmingham, Alabama, I'd have said "bullshit."
Well, two years and a even more recession-addled job market later, here I am.
And a forewarning: I will be remaining neutral on the Bama-Auburn rivalry. Honestly, I don't like either. At all.
Well, two years and a even more recession-addled job market later, here I am.
And a forewarning: I will be remaining neutral on the Bama-Auburn rivalry. Honestly, I don't like either. At all.
(Orig. posted 7/28/08) Beck's new album is different. And awesome.
I'm not as big a fan of The Black Keys' new album, Attack and Release, which Danger Mouse produced. Especially compared to their previous two albums ("Rubber Factory" and "Magic Potion")
But Danger Mouse and Beck hit "Modern Guilt" out of the park. Wow.
Every time Beck's released an album, it's taken me a while to get warm up to it. (That is, all except "Guero," which was essentially Odelay 2.0. Same Dust Brothers production, same glut of junk culture references, same sonic media collages, etc.) "Modern Guilt" is different. But I took to it immediately. "Gamma Ray" and "Chemtrails" are my favorites.
Perhaps it's because the songs are, overall, far more concise than your typical Beck forays. And there's only ten tracks on the whole album.
Congrats, Mr. Hanson. I'm glad Scientology hasn't affected your ability to keep it interesting and fresh. I now have even more impetus to check out this year's ACL Festival.
But Danger Mouse and Beck hit "Modern Guilt" out of the park. Wow.
Every time Beck's released an album, it's taken me a while to get warm up to it. (That is, all except "Guero," which was essentially Odelay 2.0. Same Dust Brothers production, same glut of junk culture references, same sonic media collages, etc.) "Modern Guilt" is different. But I took to it immediately. "Gamma Ray" and "Chemtrails" are my favorites.
Perhaps it's because the songs are, overall, far more concise than your typical Beck forays. And there's only ten tracks on the whole album.
Congrats, Mr. Hanson. I'm glad Scientology hasn't affected your ability to keep it interesting and fresh. I now have even more impetus to check out this year's ACL Festival.
(Orig. posted 7/23/08) Piedmont Triad Intl. Airport threatened to "destroy" my luggage.
True story.
I arrived at PTI on Tuesday exactly 28 minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart. Cutting it close? Indeed. There was a traffic jam at the Forsyth/Guilford county line on 40. But because of lower traveler volume, the security at PTI is quick.
However, the Delta rep refused to check my bags. Why? After 30 minutes before departure, no more checking bags.
Even after I pleaded it was my best friend's wedding, even after pleading I'd only missed the departure window by 2 minutes, no dice on the luggage.
So I then did what any quick-thinking best man-to-be would do.
I crammed as many clothes as I could into my bookbag and left my suitcase
(and toiletry items)
(and golf clubs)
underneath a waiting area bench.
After clearing security, I called my mom and 1) sheepishly explained what had just happened; and 2) beseeched her to come pick up my bags. Bless her, she agreed. I'm 27 and she's still willing to bail me out of jams. Gotta love her.
During my layover in Atlanta, my phone rang.
"Hey mom. Any problems getting my bags?"
Her response: "Listen. You're in big trouble."
Half-expecting to get charged with violating some esoteric Patriot Act provision, I breathlessly asked what was wrong.
"The Greensboro airport is going to destroy your bags."
Surely you jest. Sadly, no levity intended.
"It's official policy for bags left unattended. They have to by law."
I was, honestly, too perplexed to be angry.
"Is there anything we can do?" I asked.
And indeed there was. By 4:30 that afternoon (which really meant by 2:25, when my flight to Ft. Myers departed) I had to fax PTI a letter that indicated I legally released my bags to my mother.
But not just any letter. A NOTARIZED letter.
Two blessings then occurred. One, I discovered there was indeed a notary at Hartfield-Jackson airport. Whodathunkit? I had to exit the gates and go beyond security, but one was there. Second: my flight got delayed to 2:55.
Never have I been so relieved to have a flight delayed.
Several mad scrambles and dashes later, laptop and now-ponderous carry-on in tow, I found the notary. Scribbled the release. Got him to sign and stamp it. And fax it to the sympathetic folks in Greensboro.
In the end, the gave Mom my bags. I made it to Ft. Myers and witnessed Carter and Kristen get married. At the dinner reception they showed a picture of me with my mushroom hairdo, from the 1994 AAU Nationals.
Thanks, Debbie. I needed the laugh.
Thanks, Mom. For helping bail me out of my ineptitude.
Thanks, Carter. For 21 years of tolerating me as a friend.
Thanks, TSA and PTI airport. For being a royal, inconveniencing pains in the ass.
I arrived at PTI on Tuesday exactly 28 minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart. Cutting it close? Indeed. There was a traffic jam at the Forsyth/Guilford county line on 40. But because of lower traveler volume, the security at PTI is quick.
However, the Delta rep refused to check my bags. Why? After 30 minutes before departure, no more checking bags.
Even after I pleaded it was my best friend's wedding, even after pleading I'd only missed the departure window by 2 minutes, no dice on the luggage.
So I then did what any quick-thinking best man-to-be would do.
I crammed as many clothes as I could into my bookbag and left my suitcase
(and toiletry items)
(and golf clubs)
underneath a waiting area bench.
After clearing security, I called my mom and 1) sheepishly explained what had just happened; and 2) beseeched her to come pick up my bags. Bless her, she agreed. I'm 27 and she's still willing to bail me out of jams. Gotta love her.
During my layover in Atlanta, my phone rang.
"Hey mom. Any problems getting my bags?"
Her response: "Listen. You're in big trouble."
Half-expecting to get charged with violating some esoteric Patriot Act provision, I breathlessly asked what was wrong.
"The Greensboro airport is going to destroy your bags."
Surely you jest. Sadly, no levity intended.
"It's official policy for bags left unattended. They have to by law."
I was, honestly, too perplexed to be angry.
"Is there anything we can do?" I asked.
And indeed there was. By 4:30 that afternoon (which really meant by 2:25, when my flight to Ft. Myers departed) I had to fax PTI a letter that indicated I legally released my bags to my mother.
But not just any letter. A NOTARIZED letter.
Two blessings then occurred. One, I discovered there was indeed a notary at Hartfield-Jackson airport. Whodathunkit? I had to exit the gates and go beyond security, but one was there. Second: my flight got delayed to 2:55.
Never have I been so relieved to have a flight delayed.
Several mad scrambles and dashes later, laptop and now-ponderous carry-on in tow, I found the notary. Scribbled the release. Got him to sign and stamp it. And fax it to the sympathetic folks in Greensboro.
In the end, the gave Mom my bags. I made it to Ft. Myers and witnessed Carter and Kristen get married. At the dinner reception they showed a picture of me with my mushroom hairdo, from the 1994 AAU Nationals.
Thanks, Debbie. I needed the laugh.
Thanks, Mom. For helping bail me out of my ineptitude.
Thanks, Carter. For 21 years of tolerating me as a friend.
Thanks, TSA and PTI airport. For being a royal, inconveniencing pains in the ass.
(Orig. posted 7/18/08) Today the Dark Knight will begin ravaging the box office like an overzealous convict.
And I will not contribute to it. Take that, establishment!
Of course, it's only because I'm waiting until Monday to see it in IMAX.
--
Side note: Will Christian Bale keep his absurd in-costume voice? I'm betting he will.
(WHERE ARE THE MISSING DRUGS?!?!)
(DO I LOOK LIKE A COP?!?!)
(SWEAR TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Of course, it's only because I'm waiting until Monday to see it in IMAX.
--
Side note: Will Christian Bale keep his absurd in-costume voice? I'm betting he will.
(WHERE ARE THE MISSING DRUGS?!?!)
(DO I LOOK LIKE A COP?!?!)
(SWEAR TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
(Orig. posted 7/17/08) My best friend since we were 7 is getting married next Wednesday.
And I'm the best man.
While this would be an ideal segue to voicing my skepticism of marriage, I'll refrain. It'd be too easy to excoriate the "most sacred" institution of the "sacred" American family. (Are you and your long-time mistress listening to my sarcasm, Newt?)
ANYWAY...I'm supposed to be giving a toast to the new lawfully wedded couple.
But given that both families are fairly conservative, I'm going to have to keep my juvenile tongue in check. Which means no stories involving Dirty Rice, Rodeos or anything else (remotely) incriminating.
Heaven forbid, I may have to write something sweet.
Something in verse might be fitting. I'm thinking either: 1) traditional iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets, or 2) Verse ala Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee."
More as it develops...
While this would be an ideal segue to voicing my skepticism of marriage, I'll refrain. It'd be too easy to excoriate the "most sacred" institution of the "sacred" American family. (Are you and your long-time mistress listening to my sarcasm, Newt?)
ANYWAY...I'm supposed to be giving a toast to the new lawfully wedded couple.
But given that both families are fairly conservative, I'm going to have to keep my juvenile tongue in check. Which means no stories involving Dirty Rice, Rodeos or anything else (remotely) incriminating.
Heaven forbid, I may have to write something sweet.
Something in verse might be fitting. I'm thinking either: 1) traditional iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets, or 2) Verse ala Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee."
More as it develops...
(Orig. posted 7/14/08) As of today, CBS college b-ball broadcasts will no longer come with Fudge.
I couldn't be happier. The Fudge in question was far too bitter for my taste.
And, as his "It's over" comment proved, a tad too nutty. (42-18 became 54-50, didn't it, Fudge?)
But I'm not surprised. Being prepared at Wake Forest University is usually a recipe for disaster.
And, as his "It's over" comment proved, a tad too nutty. (42-18 became 54-50, didn't it, Fudge?)
But I'm not surprised. Being prepared at Wake Forest University is usually a recipe for disaster.
(Orig. posted 7/12/08) Whenever I take a nap, I wake up feeling even more tired than before.
Seriously, it's as if a gossamer mist has enveloped my brain. Everything is just a bit hazy.
Not literally, like I'm walking through a perpetual fog. It's not visual.
It's just my brain interprets sensory info as if it's had a few Absolut and sodas, sans oral ingestion.
That might not have made any sense.
Then again, I'm still under the aforementioned sensation. I'll get back to you after a real night's sleep, and see if I can be more lucid.
Not literally, like I'm walking through a perpetual fog. It's not visual.
It's just my brain interprets sensory info as if it's had a few Absolut and sodas, sans oral ingestion.
That might not have made any sense.
Then again, I'm still under the aforementioned sensation. I'll get back to you after a real night's sleep, and see if I can be more lucid.
(Orig. posted 7/11/08) Of the top 50 cities/areas for single adults in the USA, my hometown was ranked 49th.
Apparently Winston-Salem/Greensboro/High Point edged Pittsburgh.
I've always had a love/hate relationship with my hometown. Ever since we were old enough to go out in high school, Winston's dullness was always a favorite topic of conversation.
Okay, so the bar scene...wait, what bar scene?
However, this social vacuum has a windfall: when you're ready to come back and decompress after a long quarter of ad school, nothing beats it. Few things recharge your mental facilities more efficiently than an utter lack of distractions.
Here's to your nightlife, Winston. Or the absence thereof.
I've always had a love/hate relationship with my hometown. Ever since we were old enough to go out in high school, Winston's dullness was always a favorite topic of conversation.
Okay, so the bar scene...wait, what bar scene?
However, this social vacuum has a windfall: when you're ready to come back and decompress after a long quarter of ad school, nothing beats it. Few things recharge your mental facilities more efficiently than an utter lack of distractions.
Here's to your nightlife, Winston. Or the absence thereof.
(Orig. posted 7/10/08) There’s only one thing worse than running 11 miles on a YMCA treadmill:
Running 11 miles outdoors in 100% humidity.
Summer heat isn’t pleasant. But when accompanied by a morass of stickiness, it’s downright unbearable.
So when you live in the Southeast – and you have any design on staying in shape – you take the lesser of two evils. In this case, it’s jogging on a conveyor belt for an hour and twenty minutes.
With two elderly women on either side of you, both of whom mistook their Eau de Toilette for bathwater. Before exercising.
While The View plays on the TV ten feet in front of you. And Oprah on the one next to it.
Air conditioning is a luxury. Earn it, dear boy.
Summer heat isn’t pleasant. But when accompanied by a morass of stickiness, it’s downright unbearable.
So when you live in the Southeast – and you have any design on staying in shape – you take the lesser of two evils. In this case, it’s jogging on a conveyor belt for an hour and twenty minutes.
With two elderly women on either side of you, both of whom mistook their Eau de Toilette for bathwater. Before exercising.
While The View plays on the TV ten feet in front of you. And Oprah on the one next to it.
Air conditioning is a luxury. Earn it, dear boy.
(Orig. posted 7/8/08) Melissa, my Lab Retriever, is having ACL surgery tomorrow.
She tore it when Angus, one of my mom’s Labs, slammed into her while sprinting toward the garage door. They’ve been playing canine kamikaze like that for years. This time she was just unlucky. I’d blame Dingus, as I call him, if he wasn’t the Forrest Gump of labra-dogs. Sort of. I doubt he’ll stumble into becoming a shrimp magnate.
Earlier this year Melissa had a laser procedure. A benign growth had formed just above her butt-hole, and was growing bigger.
(Sadly, I couldn't think of a euphemism for "butt-hole.")
(And at first, Mom and I thought it was a massive doggie hemorrhoid. This is why I’m not a vet).
Barring this year’s bad luck, I’ve never had to send Melissa to the vet for anything but check-ups. She’s lived with me since March 2004.
Excluding what she went through before I got her, she’s one of the healthiest dogs I’ve ever seen.
—
When Mom and I found Melissa back in ‘03, she was chained to a doghouse in my cousin’s next-door-neighbor’s backyard. She was so emaciated, a nearsighted person could’ve counted her ribs from far away. Despite that, her mammaries were bloated; she’d just given birth to a litter of eight puppies. And, after taking her and her pups off the congenial “owners,” the vet discovered she was heartworm positive.
(If you think all that was tough to read, I wish you could’ve witnessed it in person.)
But fear not. There’s a happy ending to this story.
We helped wean Melissa’s puppies and adopted them off to people we trusted. They’re all doing well. Meanwhile, Melissa did great with her heartworm treatment. By March of ’04 she had a clean bill of health. So far she’s lived in Austin, Winston-Salem, Chapel Hill and Atlanta. Quite a worldly pup. Well, at least regional-ly.
—
So does telling this story have a point? Indeed. Actually, there’s several:
1) My dog rules.
2) Rescue dogs are the way to go. Especially rescue Labs, since they are so many out there. I can’t explain it, but these dogs are fully aware of how lucky they are. And it shows. Plus, odds are you won’t have to deal with all the more harrowing aspects of raising a puppy (as in, Melissa practically housebroke herself).
3) My lack of respect for little dogs that yip-yip and act pissy for no reason is justified.
4) I have a perfectly justified reason for thinking Michael Vick is an asshole. After Leavenworth, Msr. “Bad Newz Kennelz” should spend at least a year cleaning shit out of Atlanta Humane Society cages.
Earlier this year Melissa had a laser procedure. A benign growth had formed just above her butt-hole, and was growing bigger.
(Sadly, I couldn't think of a euphemism for "butt-hole.")
(And at first, Mom and I thought it was a massive doggie hemorrhoid. This is why I’m not a vet).
Barring this year’s bad luck, I’ve never had to send Melissa to the vet for anything but check-ups. She’s lived with me since March 2004.
Excluding what she went through before I got her, she’s one of the healthiest dogs I’ve ever seen.
—
When Mom and I found Melissa back in ‘03, she was chained to a doghouse in my cousin’s next-door-neighbor’s backyard. She was so emaciated, a nearsighted person could’ve counted her ribs from far away. Despite that, her mammaries were bloated; she’d just given birth to a litter of eight puppies. And, after taking her and her pups off the congenial “owners,” the vet discovered she was heartworm positive.
(If you think all that was tough to read, I wish you could’ve witnessed it in person.)
But fear not. There’s a happy ending to this story.
We helped wean Melissa’s puppies and adopted them off to people we trusted. They’re all doing well. Meanwhile, Melissa did great with her heartworm treatment. By March of ’04 she had a clean bill of health. So far she’s lived in Austin, Winston-Salem, Chapel Hill and Atlanta. Quite a worldly pup. Well, at least regional-ly.
—
So does telling this story have a point? Indeed. Actually, there’s several:
1) My dog rules.
2) Rescue dogs are the way to go. Especially rescue Labs, since they are so many out there. I can’t explain it, but these dogs are fully aware of how lucky they are. And it shows. Plus, odds are you won’t have to deal with all the more harrowing aspects of raising a puppy (as in, Melissa practically housebroke herself).
3) My lack of respect for little dogs that yip-yip and act pissy for no reason is justified.
4) I have a perfectly justified reason for thinking Michael Vick is an asshole. After Leavenworth, Msr. “Bad Newz Kennelz” should spend at least a year cleaning shit out of Atlanta Humane Society cages.
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