Archive for February, 2009

Thursday Night Mental Chex Mix

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on February 27, 2009 by tom
  • I know animals use their "displays" of plumage and colors and whatnot to attract mates, but I wonder if their appreciation goes beyond that
  • I wonder if ducks ever think, "Damn, Frank.  That was a helluva graceful landing," or if gaggles of peahens cluck cattily to each other, "Did you see those dilapidated tail feathers on Mike? As IF I'd let his cloaca near my eggs!"
  • It's been proven that various foods cause our urine to smell odd (asparagus, eg). 
  • Dogs communicate through smell.
  • Thus, if we switch our dogs' food, could that screw up their communication? "No, Fifi! I DO love you! It's just that my human started feeding me Beneful, and the shit has asparagus in it! No, FIFI! COME BACK!"
  • Also, do whipoorwills ever listen and think, "Wow.  Earline over in the mangrove stand has a killer set of pipes?"
  • What about mockingbirds mocking each other: "Good Lord, Herb.  You're FLAT! Always flat! You sound like that human, Bob Dylan."
  • After mating, does a female duck still look at male ducks and think, "You know? Before I squeezed out three clutches of eggs, I could've had a guy with neck plumage like that."
  • Does her husband look at younger female ducks, and lament the stretched out cloaca on his mate?
  • Eagles mate for life.  Do they ever hire Peregrine Falcons to kack their mates? "Just another week, Bill.  I had my brother talk to some friends of his, and they'll get rid of Irving soon.  Then we'll be together forever."
  • If I were a vulture, but then again no.  Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show.
  • Sorry.  I get up to fetch a glass of water, and Elton John takes over my keyboard.
  • Seriously, if I were a vulture, I'd mess with people.  I'd circle overhead at their picnics and such.  Or sit on the fence and stare at their elderly folks and little kids.  Just to creep them out.
  • I wonder if vultures know how much they creep people out.
  • I have no doubt kittens know they're cute.  They use their cuteness.  If they didn't, they'd have been eliminated long ago.
  • Brussels Sprouts not only look like tiny cabbages, they have all of the vitamins and flatulence-producing power of cabbages, only in a tiny package.
  • This "fun size mini-cabbage" would be great, except that people typically eat more than just one Brussels Sprout at a time. 
  • When I was, um, "on vacation" a few years ago, they made the most delicious Brussels Sprouts I've ever encountered.  The meds I was on made it seem like a good plan to eat a large plateful of these oven-roasted, tender, slightly sweet delights.
  • A couple hours later, I was napping in my room, when I heard a loud trumpet sound, and an Apocalyptic demon flew out of my ass, picked me up, and tossed me across the room.  It then went all Buffy the Vampire Slayer on me.
  • The demon kicked me in the stomach, then ran out the door.  A fire alarm went off, and haz-mat teams rushed in wearing full protective white suits.  I was thrown down on the floor, and firefighters sprayed foam all over my smoldering ass.  Police riot squads evacuated a half-mile radius from my room, and the President was scrambled  aboard Air Force One as a protective measure.  The bomb squad gingerly carried me out into their bomb-truck, and I was carefully transported to an abandoned airstrip outside town.  The Army Corps of Engineers put up a protective shield for the munitions crew to hide behind, and a man in full armor wheeled me about 300 yards down the empty runway.  He trailed wire behind him.  I didn't know why.  When he got back behind the protective shield, a loud horn sounded, then I heard a spark from behind me.  All at once, a hundred foot high jet of blue fire shot out of my ass, followed by a giant cloud of noxious green smoke.  For two hours, this smoke billowed, before it gradually abated.  When the smoke was mostly gone, a fire crew rushed up and doused me with water.  An ambulance transported me back to my room.  During that afternoon's thermogenic nightmare, most of my cellular fluids had evaporated, thus leaving me dessicated and rattly like a dried seed pod.  When I was carried back to my room–they used a pair of barbecue tongs, since I only weighed 8 oz, and nobody wanted to touch me–a nurse gently placed an IV into my charred shell of an arm.  They ran about 200 gallons of fluids back into me, and when I woke up, I was back to normal. 
  • Well, the Brussels Sprouts did give me a bunch of gas, but I'm skeptical the previous paragraph actually occurred.
  • I think that instead of being selected as a Saint, God allows certain people to forego the whole celestial prefect thing, and instead allows people to create a plant or animal of their choosing. 
  • This would explain the Venus Flytrap and Duck-Billed Platypus.

"No, Boss.  Instead of being a Saint, I'd like to design a mammal that lays eggs."
"Check."
"And it has a bill like a duck."
"Um, okay."
"And a giant poisonous spur."
"Done."
"And it can fly."
"Don't get carried away there, Chucky."

  • I think I'd blow-off Sainthood and design a Cheetos tree.  Those who harvested them would have perpetually orange fingers, and probably get some sort of cheesy tumor from inhaling Cheetos dust all day.
  • Actually, my ideal afterlife would be a giganto resort.  If you were selfless in your life–like Mother Teresa–you'd get a kick-ass suite, tickets for all the best shows, and an American Express Black Card.  If you were mostly a bastard, you'd get a crappy room next to the ice machine, and you'd be on waitlists for even lousy tickets.  And food? Hah.  An afterlifetime of vending machine snacks.  If you really sucked during your life, you'd end up working at the resort doing landscaping or busing tables, or you'd be a barback in the tiki lounge.  You'd have to wear a uniform, and you wouldn't make enough to stay at the resort.  You'd have to live in some dive-ass apartment nearby, probably with a roommate who smoked generic cigarettes.
  •  And if you were truly evil, that roommate would eat nothing but Brussels Sprouts.
  • Happy Friday.

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Oscar Night 2009 (once AGAIN, I’m not nominated)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 23, 2009 by tom

One of the funniest things I've read about tonight's impending Oscars comes from Bruce Villanch, the man who has written the past 20 Academy Awards shows.  An interviewer asked what constraints he had, and he lamented that he had to contend with TV censorship rules:  "I mean, you can't come out and say, `Now, the award for best new tits.'"

In Hollywood, that would be a competitive category. 

Herewith, my predictions for the major categories, and my reasoning behind them.

BEST PICTURE:
Slumdog Millionaire.  Why? Simply because it's won just about every other possible award.  It's an uplifting story, and none of the other nominees made as much of a splash.(I was pulling for this one, and I thought it was awesome they got all those cast members up onstage.) 

DIRECTOR:
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire.  Big movie, small budget, plus the Best Picture winner usually also wins Best Director.  Frost/Nixon was supposed to be pretty good, but Ron Howard already has a directing Oscar.  The dark horse is Gus van Zant for Milk.  I doubt it though. (I loved his speech, how he'd promised his kids he'd accept as Tigger, and then bounced up and down a few times.  Clearly, this film was a labor of love)

ACTOR:
Tough one.  I think it will be Mickey Rourke, who was amazing in The Wrestler.  Sean Penn won the SAG award for Milk, so I wouldn't be stunned if he won, but he won recently for Mystic River.  The only other possibility I can imagine would be Frank Langella for Frost/Nixon.  His performance was well-received, and it would fit with Oscar's love of voting an Oscar for career achievement over the virtuosity of one performance (Paul Newman's Oscar for "The Color of Money," eg).  Still, Hollywood loves a comeback, and thus I think Mickey Rourke will win. (note: best-friend John (as big an Oscars geek as I am) says that Penn will win, because "He's up against the only person in Hollywood who's pissed-off more people than he has." Fair point, lanky teacher man.  We'll see.) (Score one for best-friend John! I was glad he won, despite having just gotten an Oscar a few years ago.  You can see the documentary "The Times of Harvey Milk" on hulu.com, and it's eerie how much Sean Penn and nominee Josh Brolin look and sound like Harvey Milk and Dan White.)

ACTRESS:
Kate Winslett for The Reader.  She is long-overdue for an Oscar, and she was (by all accounts) tremendous in this one.  The dark horse would be Meryl Streep for Doubt.  She's one of the all-time greatest, and who knows how many more Oscar worthy roles she'll get.  Oscar thinks this way (see Paul Newman for The Color of Money again), but I think it will be Kate. (About damn time.  I wanted her to win even more after watching her tear up during her tribute thing from Marion Cotillard) 

SUPPORTING ACTOR:
Michael Shannon for Revolutionary Road
I kid, I kid.  The seeming lock is Heath Ledger for The Dark Knight, and he was awesome.  The dark horse in this race is Robert Downey, Jr, for Tropic Thunder.  Not only has Downey mounted a lovely Hollywood comeback from drugs and other misbehavior, he gave two excellent performances in very successful films this year (Iron Man and TT).   I wouldn't be surprised if he won (I'd be ecstatic, quite honestly).  I also wouldn't bet against the Joker.(I thought the acceptance speech by his family was nicely done in a situation that had to be intimidating and uncomfortable.  Kevin Kline did a lovely job with his brief tribute.  To me, Christopher Walken should win this award every year, just because he's badass that way) 

SUPPORTING ACTRESS:
I'm going to say Amy Adams for Doubt.  She's an excellent young actress, and Oscar frequently uses this like an ingenue award.  Penelope Cruz could sneak in for the "career recognition" win, but I'm thinking Amy. (note: Again, John dissents, saying that Viola Davis will win for Doubt.) Okay, so Penelope Cruz did win.  I give myself partial credit for saying she was my dark horse.  I liked her speech, too. Great actress, nice speech.  Seeing the five assembled previous winners, I was struck by two things.  First off, Eva Marie Saint looks amazing for being almost 85.  Second, holy CRAP! Goldie freakin' Hawn has an Oscar? Yikes.

SCREENPLAY (Original):
Dustin Lance Black for Milk.  Hollywood loves Harvey Milk, the heroic, assassinated San Francisco politician who was the first openly gay man elected to a major office.  "The Times of Harvey Milk" (a documentary on his life) won the best doc Oscar in 1984, and this film is supposed to be splendid.  Also, most of the other Original Screenplay noms were non-starters, except for Wall-E, which I can't imagine winning.(I loved his speech.  "Thank you, God, for Harvey Milk." Very gracious.)

SCREENPLAY (Adapted):
Peter Morgan, Frost/Nixon.  This film is entirely about dialogue, and it's adapted from an award-winning play.  Slumdog Millionaire might win (if it's a landslide), but I wouldn't be surprised to see Frost/Nixon take the statuette. (note: John says it will be a "Slumslide," and that this category will be no exception)(John was right; it could just be a Slumslide.)

DOCUMENTARY (feature):
Man on Wire.  I'm saying this, because it's the only time I've actually seen a documentary nominated in this category before the award show.  (Michael Moore is such an officious prick that he submitted Fahrenheit 9/11 for Best Picture consideration, instead of taking the lock for Best Doc)  Wire tells the amazing story of how Phillipe Petit set out to walk a high-wire between the Twin Towers.  The little Frenchman has gigantic brass balls, not only for walking the wire, but for all the subterfuge and planning that went into his stunt.  (I reckon his big brass ones help him  balance as well)  I know nothing about any of the other Documentary nominees.  I'm picking this one because I saw it, and it did get some general release. (Oh, hell yes! Phillipe Petit was there, and balanced the Oscar on his chin.  That's entertainment.)

FOREIGN LANGUAGE FILM:
Waltz With Bashir.  It's the only one I've heard of, and it sounds like something that would win–Middle East-themed films do well in this category.  Also, Israel has been nominated seven times without winning, and by Yaweh they're due.(I'm a little surprised, but nothing in this category is too shocking, considering you have to attend a special screening to vote)

MAKEUP:
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.  It must have been tough to make Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett un-hot.  This is the one I'd bet on, but I wouldn't rule out The Dark Knight. (Makes sense.)

ORIGINAL SCORE:
A.R. Rahman for Slumdog Millionaire.  Hooray for Bollywood.  I haven't seen any of the films, but I always like the music in Indian films, and I think this will be part of a Slumdog mini-landslide. (I loved this guy's attitude and energy, and I'm glad he won)

SONG:
"Down to Earth," from Wall-E.  Two words: Peter freakin' Gabriel.  Also, the other two nominees are both from Slumdog Millionaire, and I think they'll split.  Typically, this is the category where Hollywood gets to kiss the ass of a rock star, thus giving Oscars to Springsteen, Phil Collins, Prince, et al. (Yeah, I said Peter Gabriel would win, but I was pulling for A.R. Rahman from "Slumdog." Those songs rocked, and I wanted to see him win another award.) 

EDITING:
I think "The Dark Knight" will win this one.  Amazing editing, lots of effects, good stuff.  Slumdog could win if it's a landslide, but I think TDK will get this one. (The Slumslide continues)

ART DIRECTION:
The Dark Knight.  Lots of well directed art.  Also, in addition to being a really good film, TDK just went over the one BILLION dollar mark worldwide.  That's more than ten times the combined budgets and box office of the other four nominees in this category.  I think that will count for something.(And it didn't count for shit.  Another for Benjamin Button)

CINEMATOGRAPHY:
Slumdog Millionaire.  From what I've seen, this is a beautiful film to watch, vibrant and alive.  The Dark Knight would be my dark bat, er horse in this race, but I'd bet on Slumdog. (I'd have won.  I liked the British guy who won.  Also, the bit with Ben Stiller aping Joaquin Phoenix's space cadet appearance on Letterman was priceless)

ANIMATED FEATURE:
Wall-E.  It was nominated for other things, so it should at least win this one. (I liked the guy's speech when he won, how he thanked his high school drama teacher for casting him in"Hello, Dolly.") 

COSTUME DESIGN:
Australia.  God forbid Milk wins for resurrecting the polyester nightmare that was 1970's clothing.  Australia was a non-stodgy period piece, and I think it will win. (The Duchess? Okay.  All I could think of was the Duchess in Tom Robbins' "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues")

SHORT FILM (Animated):
Presto.  It has a bunny in it (FIX! THE BUNNY WAS ROBBED!)

SHORT FILM (Live):
Spielzeugland.  Just because I want to see the presenter have to say "Spielzeugland." (SHPEELT-soy-glahnd) (I admit, I was a little worried when Seth Rogan said it correctly while announcing the nominees, but James Franco hooked me by butchering the name when it won.  Liked the guy's speech, too, about how he grew up in East Germany, and how West Germany seemed far away, then Hollywood reeeeally far away, and how winning the Oscar was amazing)

That's about it.  It should be a long, tedious show.  I may live-blog it.  We'll see if I can stay awake.

(Well, another year's Oscars is in the books.  I thought the show was pretty good, although I could've done without the big musical number.  Also, I've never liked Jerry Lewis' films, so I cleaned the litter box while they ran his tribute.  Finally, I thought they absolutely butchered the "In Memoriam" part.  Queen Latifah's singing was fine, but having a vocal there was superfluous, and the camera work was horrible.  They should have focused on the screen and let us read the people's names.  Good Lord, some of these people worked in films their whole lives, and this would be their only scrap of glory, a chance for a polite smattering of golf-clapping during the Oscars.  Instead, they get shunted to the background of Queen Latifah.

All I can say is, Hey Brown Suga': when you win one in a few years, you'd better remember to thank me.  😉

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Slices of Life (or whatever this is)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 22, 2009 by tom

I frequent three places fairly regularly.  First is, natch, work.  Second is my neighborhood 7-Eleven.  I understand that there are few items in the 7-Eleven formulary that aren't ridiculously overpriced and nutritionally bankrupt, but it's always open, and I work till 0100.  (Plus, dammit, their Sun Chips and cheese dip are the same as the regular store, and I don't have to deal with the hassle)  The third place is my local Winn-Dixie supermarket.  They have everything I could need, and it's the least painful grocery store I've found. 

Herewith, three vignettes from my three places.

WORK:
(I'm talking with two coworkers about the rash of lunch thefts in our break room)
Sarah: I can't believe somebody messed with K's lunch.  I mean, she had two bottles of breast milk she'd pumped, and she had to throw them away.
tom:  That's terrible when a girl can't express herself without being hassled.
S: What?
R: Dude, that's funny.
S: What's funny?
R: "Express herself?"
S: Yeah? I don't get it.
(Later, R explained the pun to S)
S: OH! "Express herself." That really IS funny.

7-Eleven:
(There's a lovely Mexican girl who works at my 7-Eleven, and we always seem to end up flirting a bit.  Her name is Marielena.  Today, when I stopped in to refill my giganto insulated Ultimate Gulp mug, she was sitting outside, smoking a cigarette)

Marielena: Don’t you ever sleep?

T: I go home; I sleep; I go back to work.

M: I just live right there (gestures).  I get off.  I walk home.  Then I come back here.

T: When we get married, we’ll do it here.

M: I’m having all my kids here.

T: GAH! You know they sell condoms here.

M: Who do you think stocks them? (wink)

T: (quietly goes to work)

Winn-Dixie:

(Barbara the cashier has been working at the Winn-DIxie as long as I've been going there, well over a decade.  One day recently, she was irritated about some new security battery they were implementing, while I was purchasing dinner)

B: (to bagging person) I can't believe they're making me do this. (she swipes my dinner parts)

B: (to me) Seriously, have you ever had to take a damn lie detector test?

tom: Not to buy pork chops.

I don't know why, but these exchanges stuck with me and amused me.  Maybe it's my insanity, or maybe I'm just easily entertained.  Probably, it has to do with the green comet speeding the wrong way through the solar system.

An article on The Hindu News Service website explains, "Comet Lulin (is) also known as the "Green Comet" because of the green tint due the chemicals in its head." 

Green chemicals in its head?? And I spent a few days last week guzzling NyQuil?

Perhaps this explains why certain things amuse me. 

Happy Sunday.

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Reason #23 Why Computer Operations Can be Tricky

Posted in Uncategorized on February 16, 2009 by tom

The Power Book G4's "Tuxedo Cat iHead" is just not ergonomically situated.

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“Another night–It’s Gonna Be a Long One”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on February 15, 2009 by tom

This could be the first time I've quoted an Eagles song for a title.  I apologize. Also, I should post the appropriate warning for tonight's discourse:

Since I was in college, when I have long, tickle-cough nights with fitful or no sleep, I've played what was the A-Side of Marillion's "Brief Encounter" EP. 

(An EP is a "phonograph record" that has more songs than a "single," but fewer songs than a "Long Playing" phonograph record, or LP (I include that for the youngsters (or those of us who owned phonograph records, but have destroyed sufficient brain tissue as not to remember them clearly (that crackle and hiss could get loud sometimes, and it might do some sort of high-frequency damage cd's wouldn't do (plus, there's always the horror of a scratch or skip (oh, God, a skipping record is part of every DJ's worst nightmare (DJ stands for "disc jockey" (DJ's used to "spin" records on the radio (of course this was back when radio stations had real people, not automated computer systems (if a computer has to take a dump, it would just hold it till its shift is over, I guess (silly computers–you could just put on "American Pie," by Don McLean (Eight minutes, twenty-nine seconds of crapping freedom), as long as it didn't skip (OH, and records always skip when you most desperately need them not to skip (like when you're in the bathroom or running up Meridian St to buy munchies)))))))))))))

Cut two is called "Freaks," and the chorus goes, "All the best freaks are here; all the best freaks are here, PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME." It's an odd song, a little paranoid, a little haunted, a little haunting, a little perfect for a long night of coughing,   Hell, listen to it yourself, if you want.  Anyway, for those long, tortured nights, it's perfect mood music.

02 Freaks
Marillion


Anyway, what I was thinking, somewhere around my 30th time trying to get to sleep Friday night and Saturday morning, is that when I'm in that state–that hypnogogia twixt cold-miserable reality and phantasmagoric sick dreaming–when I'm in that state, I'm no longer here.

By here, I mean in this bed in this apartment in this city in this state on this day.  Somehow, I'm wandering the same purgatorial wasteland I was wandering back in college, the same one from my early days at 102.5 (when I nailed that Joe Cocker song), the same one I'll be in when I'm a year from my deathbed. 

In college, one night, I found myself in a dumpster full of cardboard pieces–disassembled boxes, I think.  Somewhere in the cardboard, a baby was crying.  I tried to get to the baby, and I couldn't.  It always seemed to be behind the next piece of cardboard, but it wasn't.  It never was.  Last night, I couldn't find my truck.  I'd parked it somewhere, and I couldn't find it.  It was near this campground I stayed at once, off of River Road.  There was all sorts of new construction.  Nice buildings–model homes, a country club, and the like–but my car was hidden behind one of the new buildings.  I got back to the hotel where the band was staying, and I went up to the seventh floor.  I saw the film crew, and then I saw the undercover cops.  I slipped down the stairway with my ice-bucket.  It's okay; they'd known the bust was coming, so nobody got arrested.  We met on Airside G at TIA, and sang our song one last time before we flew away, each to our destinations.  When I was walking back to the radio station, that Little League pitcher–the famous one all the pro teams and colleges were scouting, even though he's only 12–he was coming out the door.  The sports guy introduced me.  Nice kid.  He's going to make a shitload of money someday.  I see my truck, but it's gotten a few model years older since last I drove it.

All the best freaks are here, please stop staring at me.

In a sense, when we're sick, we're taken out of our typical mindsets, our current defaults so to speak.  We're just sick.  We're in that dark, foggy night on the moors, with odd unseen creatures scurrying in the vague distance.  All we know is that we feel like shit, and we want to feel better.  We know the cold will pass.  Our ears will pop soon, and the cough will quiet.  Gradually, our noses unclog, and we can taste food again.  We return whole-cloth to our regular lives, leaving behind this bruised world.

Our sick nights–the sweaty sheets, shivers, and red noses.  Those are the nodes that link us to all stages of our lives. 

"So, how does it feel to be 64?"
"I feel like shit, thanks.  How do you feel at 19?"
"Like a sack of smashed assholes in snot aspic, ya grumpy old bastard."
"Sic transit gloria mundi."
"Yeah, gum me, gramps."
"Good luck finding that baby.  And if you ever get out of the dumpster, stay the HELL OFF MY LAWN!"

Last night, during one interminable sleepless period, I put on "Comfortably Numb," as rendered by Roger Waters and the divine Van Morrison.

"When I was a child I had a fever.
My hands felt just like two balloons."  Oh, sure.  Then, later:

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what youre sayin.
When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.

Comfortably numb? If only.  I've drunk a bottle of Robitussin, and I just went to Gooogle the "Comfortably Numb" lyrics, then clicked links till I ended up reading about Georgie Fame's wife jumping off the Clifton Suspension Bridge.  (Shirley Bassey's second daughter jumped to her death as well (Samantha–not Sharon, the elder.  (Just so you're clear))

What a damn bridge! It was built back in the 1800's, and it still there, spanning (and providing people a convenient platform from which to plunge into) Avon Gorge. 

Georgie Fame is not the man's real name, btw.  It's Ronald F. McDonald. 

It's actually Clive Powell. 

I don't care if his real name is Janet Planet or  Bing Hitler, the guy can flat-out play the Hammond B-3 organ. 

(ed. note: "Bing Hitler" was the stage name of excellent author and CBS talk show host Craig Ferguson, this back when he played drums in a punk band (no, I'm not making that up (if I were, I'd have used "Elvis Hitler," which is the greatest band name I've ever heard (they were a regional hardcore band back in the 20th Century (the selfsame Century that began with a slithering colony of nested parentheticals (that's what these are (and God help us all as we attempt the dismount))))))  ta-dah!!!

Slow motion: 
)      )       )          )             )                    )   taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah'  .   '   .  '   .

You have witnessed the first slow-motion exclamation marks, actually breaking them down into the up and down part and the dot.  Together, we have crossed way over the line of inanity  made punctuation history.

Janet Planet is the former wife of the divine Van Morrison, father (with Ms Planet) of Shana Morrison, who is a singer in her own right, but who has also toured with her father's band, which features a B-3 player named Georgie Fame, whose wife jumped to her death from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. 

QED

To paraphrase Tom Robbins, a tale that begins with nested parentheses ends with the devil.

Please stop staring at me.

Happy Sunday.

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NyQuil Infused Mental Chex Mix for a Friday Night

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on February 14, 2009 by tom

First off, I want to post this image, which I've used before, but which sums up rather nicely what's going on in my snot-packed brain right now:

My brain is a chew-toy for toxic green death elixir, and that's fine with me, just as long as I stop coughing every 3 seconds.

  • I've just come from the store wherefrom I purchased a metaphorical assload of cold preparations.  Using my "Smart Shopper" card, I saved $2 on my NyQuil, and my various soups were a quarter off.  Since I was being so thrifty, I bought a $5 scratch-off lottery ticket. 
  • As I've pointed out repeatedly, I am a nerd.  This ticket was one where you scratch off your four numbers, then scratch off the twelve "winning" numbers.  If any of your numbers match, you win the prize shown.  Woo-hoo! I scratched off my four numbers, and this is how my brain registered them: 23, 11, 15, 19.  Hmm.  Four odds which are all prime.
  • Then we moved on to the "WIN UP TO TWELVE TIMES" fun part, and my brain activity went like this: 22, shit, 28, shit, 14, shit, 17, shit, 10, shit–OH, FUCK ME! Fifteen isn't a prime!!–4, shit," and so on. 
  • The tickets should more correctly be labeled, "You can't possibly LOSE more than 12 times!" 
  • Fair disclosure: I'm actually ahead playing Lottery tickets.  I have found, however, that my likelihood to purchase tickets decreases commensurate with my blood alcohol level. 

A Few Comments Directed to People in this Evening's Grocery Store Sojourn:

  1. To my new neighbor, "I'm really glad that you didn't take me up on my offer to help you carry your new mattress and box spring upstairs.  This is because I did NOT offer to help you.  I'm glad you're here, I guess, and yippie for you getting a new bed and all.  However, my comment was, 'NOW comes the fun part,' meaning `HAHAHAHA! Good luck, Bucky! It sucks to be you!' I'm glad that you mistook my gentle mockery as friendliness.  I hope you bent your knees, for it would suck to pop a nut the night before Valentine's Day. Welcome to the 'hood.  Let me know if you need anything.  Sincerely, Mort in #884."
  2. To "Corky," my checkout person: "Corkala.  I don't know your real name, but you kind of remind me of Corky from "Life Goes On."  I'm okay with the fact that you ascertained I am sick–NyQuil, Delsym, Cold-EZ, soup=a good guess for you–and okay that you told me Cold-EZ work for you. That's basic connection making, and it's good customer service.  However, you lost me when you wished me a happy Valentine's Day.  I understood when you wished the tarty girl ahead of me a Happy Valentine's Day.  With me…nah.  Anyway, I hope you have a great night, and enjoy the $20-bill-borne spattergroit you'll be getting soon."
  3. Finally, "Dear Low-Sodium Organic `Lite' lady powerwalking from between two parked cars.  I know you have the right of way.  You also weigh 97 lbs.  My truck is 6000 lbs not even counting my fat Cracker ass.  Maybe turn down the Maroon 5 on your iPod, and live to see another day, ya twatwaffle."

Great quotes from "Hamlet 2":

  •  "It's a slippery slope.  Beer, wine, liquor, dope, coke, meth, chicks with dicks, and jail.
  • "Good morning class.  I'd like to start by saying two things.  First, acid is a very strong drug.  And B, where are my pants and underwear?"
  • "We're putting this play on, and if you don't like it? Well tough titties…you ass turd monkey-fucker!"


A Great Event in Tom vs. Colds/Bronchitis History
:
Many moons ago, I had a truly vile case of bronchitis, with lots of tickle-coughing and sleeplessness.  This is pretty much the way it goes: tickle-cough for two nights, then I'll finally get something adequate to knock it back long enough so I can sleep.  In this historical cold, it was an artificially flavored cherry elixir called "hycodan." Hycodan, of course, rhymes with Vicodin (sorta), which is appropriate because it uses dihydrocodeinone as its active ingredient.  (note: I spelled dihydrocodeinone correctly the first time, but it took me three tries to get "its" nailed down)  Anyway, I was feeling better, but my throat was trashed.  I was going through a bad period of heartache at the time.  In my T-Bird, I had a mix tape of raw screaming heartache songs.  ("I've Still Got the Blues Over You," "I Feel Like Breakin' Up Somebody's Home," "I'm So Tired of Being Alone," and the muthah of them all, "When the Night Comes.")  So anyway, I was driving to North Tampa to get a saxophone appraised, and as I hit the Howard Frankland Bridge, the Cocker song came on.  

Joe Cocker could sing "Happy Birthday to You" and make it sound sad.  And when he sing this one…damn.

I've always been able to impersonate people's voices pretty well.  I've always been able to add enough rasp and slur and roar to my voice so that I could approximate Joe Cocker, but that's not the same as singing it for real.  Same with Al Green: it's not the same to mimic him singing "I'm So Tired of Being Alone."  That's just a karaoke trick. 

SO ANYWAY, I was accelerating up to speed, heading across the brdge when Joe Cocker started.  It got to the verse, and I tried to do my Joe Cocker voice.

Nothing worked.

Then I just opened my mouth and sang full natural voice, and it was PERFECT! The whole thing–the nuances, the gargling-with-shrapnel rasp, the pitch–it was all there.  The money note in the song comes after the guitar solo, before the chorus repeats and fades.  The line is something like, "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Perfect! When I finally got across the bridge, I turned the tape off.  Whatever I'd had for voice was shot for the day, and I knew it.  Also, I had to clean all manner of lung butter and throat pieces-parts off my windshield.  It wasn't pretty, but by damn, it was real.  And now, all these years later, that memory makes that cold and misery worth it.  (The real JC sings it here)

More fun Hamlet 2 lines:
Cricket Feldstein:  "The Justice Department and the so-called Supreme Court? They can suck my balls."
Dana Marschz: "What do they have to do with it?"
Cricket Feldstein: "My balls?"

Dana Marschz: "My life is a parody of a tragedy."

This is the perfect movie for a crappy night, and I challenge anyone to watch the musical number "Rock Me Sexy Jesus" and not have it dance through your head for days.  Then, after the bouncy part, the play within the movie shifts tone, and–to the sounds of "The Gay Men's Chorus of Tucson" singing "Someone Saved My Life Tonight"–Hamlet goes back in time and stops Gertude from drinking the poison, and he arrives in time to give Ophelia mouth-to-mouth and CPR, and saves her too.  It's ridiculous, of course, but strangely moving.

At least in my condition.  My cranial pressure is at about 90 atmospheres, my nose won't stop running, and I think I just coughed up my left fibula.   It's time to load up on the green stuff, drink some water, and try to sleep.  Happy Valentine's Day (snot, hork, spew, gag, snot, cough, braaaaaaaaap, brrrrrrrrrrrrrtt, rumble, (uh-oh) BOOOMALACKALACKA, BORGHEEEEEEESE).

C'mon, Nyquil!

(Here to present an editorial about NyQuil, the tom zone correspondent, Denis Leary):

Denis Leary "NyQuil"

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Valentine’s Day Wishes

Posted in Uncategorized on February 13, 2009 by tom

(predendum: I see that my beloved neighbor, IG, has set up a Vox hunt for such Valentine's cards as these.  She also chose some from the below-praised site.  Do check out her selections if you like.)

The mad, cynical people at someecards.com have made the following cards, which by their very nature seem to mock Valentine's Day.  I'm shocked.  Shocked, I tell you.  And appalled.  Just see how mean they're being to Valentine's Day:

Or the funniest most horrible of all:

These people are cynical geniuses who have tapped into the way I feel about the whole absurd, saccharine holiday, even when I am in a pleasant relationship just not very nice! These cards are freakin' hilarious to me, especially the last one offensive.  I ask that you visit their site at the link above and send cards that show how you really feel about Valentine's Day, how annoying it is to apply unnecessary added pressure in an already stressed world boycott these people.  I mean, what kind of motto is "When you care enough to hit send"? Brilliiant, that's what. It's just cynical. Pussy. Heathen.

(This message brought to you by NyQuil.)

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