Going up to the Twin Cities this weekend for a well-earned break and a meal at J.D. Hoyt's and some good ole' fashioned Midwestern hospitality.
And steaks the size of Toronto.
So begins my Season of The Wedding. 4 weddings in six weeks, 3 in consecutive weeks. Brutal. Stephen and Picot. My old old girlfriend Heather. Joey. Eric. It's crazy. I'll be broke and so sick of taffeta. But, such is the issue with having friends. Sometimes you have to stand by and watch them wreck their lives ;-)
Interesting article on how the average German supported Hitler prior and during WWII. The author clearly is not a fan of the current Administration in the US, and makes several points - a couple admittedly valid - on the parallels between fear, lies and propaganda.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Finally Figured Out The Decemberists...
...the modern day version of Prefab Sprout. Songs full of drama and importance and amazing musicianship, but I'll take Paddy McAloons' silver voice over the incessant quavering of Colin Meloy's anyday.
Took me a while to figure it out.
I'll give The Decemberists another listen, past Meloy's voice and see if I can find something new.
Took me a while to figure it out.
I'll give The Decemberists another listen, past Meloy's voice and see if I can find something new.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Final Chapter of the Last Harry Potter Book Leaked!
BET you're wondering where I got THIS lil' gem? Seems plausible...
***********************************************************************
Harry wakes up surpised, not to be at Hogwarts, but in a British mental institution. His wizard cape has been replaced with a straitjacket; his wand no longer in his hand, only the cold steel chain of a handcuff. After being pumped full of an ungodly amount of L-dopamine, young adult Harold Potter looks up at Dr. Dreyfus Umbledor, an older Ugandan-English psychologist at the facility who smiled as the young man's eyes widen. "Hello Harold, how are you?" he asked our hero.
"Where am I? Where's my wand? I thought you were dead!" screamed Potter.
"I am very much alive, Harold, though I had to take a leave of absence since my divorce. It seems once again you're alive as well. You've been in a catatonic state for years. It's good to see you, to meet you face to face."
"Why am I bound? What happened to Snape? Where are my friends Ron and Hermione? What has He Who Must Not Be Named done to Hogwart's?" asked Potter.
Dr. Umbledor tossled the thick black hair of his young charge. "Harold, I've watched over you for nearly a decade, wondering what was going on in your beautiful mind. Despite our wonderful advances in mental health since the 1990s, we are unable to truly read minds. We could tell through brain wave monitors that your alpha waves and receptors were constantly firing. Your eye movements have been unlike anything we've ever seen in similar REM moments. It's almost as though you were alive while being completely asleep."
"Why am I bound, Dumbledore? I need to be released! I must fight..." exclaimed Potter.
"You were restrained to keep you from hurting yourself." Dr. Umbledor explained. He reached over to pick up a small hand mirror, and showed Potter the scar. "You gave yourself quite the nasty gash one day many years ago in one of your states. We bound you to protect you from yourself."
"But my friends Ron and Hermione!? Where are they? I must see them!" cried the exasperated youngster.
Dr. Umbledor looked quizzically at him. "Who are Ron and Hermonie?" he asked.
"You don't know Ron and Hermione? My Lord, Voldemort has gotten to you, too! You don't remember your three finest students at Hogwart's?" answered Potter by way of questions. He was convinced more than ever in the evil of Valdemort.
Dr Umbledor chuckled softly in acknowledgement. "Oh, Harold...I apologize. I had no idea that while you were in your state that you could synthesize exterior stimuli and incorporate them into your dreams. Ah, the power of the mind is so amazing! Harold, I'm afraid your friend Ron is nothing more than Ron, one of the janitors here at Azakbhan's Mental Health Facility..."
"Wait," interupted Harry. "you mean Azkaban?"
"Oh my. It appears you picked up on my pitiful trait of mixing up consonants. English is such a hard language to learn. I tried to learn it through music, and for years, I thought Mott the Hoople was Hott the Muggle. I still get them confused" said Umbledor.
"What's a Muggle, Professor?"
"I don't know, but I used to say it all the time. And Harold, I gave up teaching years ago. Hardly a Professor; simply a doctor now. Anyway, as I was saying, Ronald is a custodian here at Mopple's, and he hangs out at the Hero Mine, a comic book store in town. We believed that you could someday hear us, so all of us on staff would tell you stories from our day-to-day lives. Perhaps Ron told you about the store."
"But Hermione was my true friend. She is so lovely, the way she's grown. Her hair so lively, her eyes so brown, perhaps my great love!" extolled Potter.
"Either you read some Greek Mythology before you came here or you're thinking of Ron's tale. It's very much a comic book store, Harold. Full of many boys and men about your age. None of them have ever seen, let alone actually touch, a girl, and certainly none as lovely as you describe."
A wave of realization crashed into the storm breakers on Potter's face. He was wondering if he was under some sort of spell, but he felt a pain in his left shoulder far too acutely to be under one of Voldemort's sinister plans.
"Doctor Umbledor, why does my shoulder hurt so?"
The doctor looked at the young man's shoulder. "While you were sleeping, you were bitten by an exotic spider. Before you were bound, you would constantly itching it. We kept telling you to stop itching it, but you obviously didn't listen. Ron, the Janitor, took special attention to your area, always making sure your room was spotless. He'd tell you in that rough cockney drawl of his 'qwit itchin! Qwit itch!"
The doctor loosened the shackles on Potter's arms. "Here you go, young friend. You don't need these now."
Potter snapped up in bed, and snapped the pencil out from Dr. Umbledor's coat. He started to cast the Spell of Reality he learned while at Hogwart's, but something caught his eye - a pimple-and-pock-covered pig had walked into the room.
"Snape!" snapped Potter. "It must be you!"
"Oh, dear Harold!" exclaimed Dr. Umbeldor. "That's our pet hog, Viktor. He's a bit old, but he provides company to the patients while they sleep."
Potter looked at the walking pork chop. "He's covered in marks..."
"Yes" said Dr. Umbledor. "Warts from when he was a piglet. We couldn't send him to butcher, so we kept him on as a pet."
"Hog - warts..." said Potter slowly. "Quit Itch....Quidditch...Viktor..."
"Yes, Harold?" inquired Dr. Umbledor.
"I'm still a great wizard, right?" asked Potter."
"Wizard? Oh my boy, the only Wizards I know of play basketball back in America, and you're far too young, short and pale to be effective in their game."
"But I'm a champion...Quidditch player..."
"In your dreams, Harold. In your dreams you were legend, I'm sure. This, however" as he gestured around the sterile hospital room, "is reality. It's 2007; we haven't seen a wizard in England since the 1500s, at least."
"My Lord, Doctor...could it all have been a dream?"
"Perhaps," said Dr. Umbledor "it all was what you wanted it to be."
The young man sat back down in his bed. He had just been given news that would shake any lesser man to his knees - that his whole basis of reality was a lie. A figment of his imagination.
"Doctor...thank you" offered Potter, softly.
"You have no need to thank me. You will prove to be a fascinating case. What did you think you were?"
"Well," began Potter, "I was a boy wizard, taught at Hogwart's School...a place for those talented in magic. I was friends with Ron and Hermione and we laughed and we fought evil and you were there as a Professor, but you were white, and you fought with Snape and we were warned of the evil Voldemort..."
Dr. Umbledor roared with laughter. "The evil Voldemort?! That's priceless, Harold!"
The young man looked quizzically at the older gent.
"Voldemort," explained Umbledor, "was the name of my ex-wife's divorce attorney! He tried to take everything I ever owned! You got that evil part spot-on!"
Potter excused himself from laughing, though he wasn't mad that Umbledor was still cackling like an old hen. He realized that his dream world was so much better than the real world.
"My young man," said Umbledor to Potter, with his hand placed on his shoulder "these dreams of yours would make a wonderful story. 'Harry Potter the Prisoner of Azkaban!' has a ring to it..."
FINIS
***********************************************************************
Harry wakes up surpised, not to be at Hogwarts, but in a British mental institution. His wizard cape has been replaced with a straitjacket; his wand no longer in his hand, only the cold steel chain of a handcuff. After being pumped full of an ungodly amount of L-dopamine, young adult Harold Potter looks up at Dr. Dreyfus Umbledor, an older Ugandan-English psychologist at the facility who smiled as the young man's eyes widen. "Hello Harold, how are you?" he asked our hero.
"Where am I? Where's my wand? I thought you were dead!" screamed Potter.
"I am very much alive, Harold, though I had to take a leave of absence since my divorce. It seems once again you're alive as well. You've been in a catatonic state for years. It's good to see you, to meet you face to face."
"Why am I bound? What happened to Snape? Where are my friends Ron and Hermione? What has He Who Must Not Be Named done to Hogwart's?" asked Potter.
Dr. Umbledor tossled the thick black hair of his young charge. "Harold, I've watched over you for nearly a decade, wondering what was going on in your beautiful mind. Despite our wonderful advances in mental health since the 1990s, we are unable to truly read minds. We could tell through brain wave monitors that your alpha waves and receptors were constantly firing. Your eye movements have been unlike anything we've ever seen in similar REM moments. It's almost as though you were alive while being completely asleep."
"Why am I bound, Dumbledore? I need to be released! I must fight..." exclaimed Potter.
"You were restrained to keep you from hurting yourself." Dr. Umbledor explained. He reached over to pick up a small hand mirror, and showed Potter the scar. "You gave yourself quite the nasty gash one day many years ago in one of your states. We bound you to protect you from yourself."
"But my friends Ron and Hermione!? Where are they? I must see them!" cried the exasperated youngster.
Dr. Umbledor looked quizzically at him. "Who are Ron and Hermonie?" he asked.
"You don't know Ron and Hermione? My Lord, Voldemort has gotten to you, too! You don't remember your three finest students at Hogwart's?" answered Potter by way of questions. He was convinced more than ever in the evil of Valdemort.
Dr Umbledor chuckled softly in acknowledgement. "Oh, Harold...I apologize. I had no idea that while you were in your state that you could synthesize exterior stimuli and incorporate them into your dreams. Ah, the power of the mind is so amazing! Harold, I'm afraid your friend Ron is nothing more than Ron, one of the janitors here at Azakbhan's Mental Health Facility..."
"Wait," interupted Harry. "you mean Azkaban?"
"Oh my. It appears you picked up on my pitiful trait of mixing up consonants. English is such a hard language to learn. I tried to learn it through music, and for years, I thought Mott the Hoople was Hott the Muggle. I still get them confused" said Umbledor.
"What's a Muggle, Professor?"
"I don't know, but I used to say it all the time. And Harold, I gave up teaching years ago. Hardly a Professor; simply a doctor now. Anyway, as I was saying, Ronald is a custodian here at Mopple's, and he hangs out at the Hero Mine, a comic book store in town. We believed that you could someday hear us, so all of us on staff would tell you stories from our day-to-day lives. Perhaps Ron told you about the store."
"But Hermione was my true friend. She is so lovely, the way she's grown. Her hair so lively, her eyes so brown, perhaps my great love!" extolled Potter.
"Either you read some Greek Mythology before you came here or you're thinking of Ron's tale. It's very much a comic book store, Harold. Full of many boys and men about your age. None of them have ever seen, let alone actually touch, a girl, and certainly none as lovely as you describe."
A wave of realization crashed into the storm breakers on Potter's face. He was wondering if he was under some sort of spell, but he felt a pain in his left shoulder far too acutely to be under one of Voldemort's sinister plans.
"Doctor Umbledor, why does my shoulder hurt so?"
The doctor looked at the young man's shoulder. "While you were sleeping, you were bitten by an exotic spider. Before you were bound, you would constantly itching it. We kept telling you to stop itching it, but you obviously didn't listen. Ron, the Janitor, took special attention to your area, always making sure your room was spotless. He'd tell you in that rough cockney drawl of his 'qwit itchin! Qwit itch!"
The doctor loosened the shackles on Potter's arms. "Here you go, young friend. You don't need these now."
Potter snapped up in bed, and snapped the pencil out from Dr. Umbledor's coat. He started to cast the Spell of Reality he learned while at Hogwart's, but something caught his eye - a pimple-and-pock-covered pig had walked into the room.
"Snape!" snapped Potter. "It must be you!"
"Oh, dear Harold!" exclaimed Dr. Umbeldor. "That's our pet hog, Viktor. He's a bit old, but he provides company to the patients while they sleep."
Potter looked at the walking pork chop. "He's covered in marks..."
"Yes" said Dr. Umbledor. "Warts from when he was a piglet. We couldn't send him to butcher, so we kept him on as a pet."
"Hog - warts..." said Potter slowly. "Quit Itch....Quidditch...Viktor..."
"Yes, Harold?" inquired Dr. Umbledor.
"I'm still a great wizard, right?" asked Potter."
"Wizard? Oh my boy, the only Wizards I know of play basketball back in America, and you're far too young, short and pale to be effective in their game."
"But I'm a champion...Quidditch player..."
"In your dreams, Harold. In your dreams you were legend, I'm sure. This, however" as he gestured around the sterile hospital room, "is reality. It's 2007; we haven't seen a wizard in England since the 1500s, at least."
"My Lord, Doctor...could it all have been a dream?"
"Perhaps," said Dr. Umbledor "it all was what you wanted it to be."
The young man sat back down in his bed. He had just been given news that would shake any lesser man to his knees - that his whole basis of reality was a lie. A figment of his imagination.
"Doctor...thank you" offered Potter, softly.
"You have no need to thank me. You will prove to be a fascinating case. What did you think you were?"
"Well," began Potter, "I was a boy wizard, taught at Hogwart's School...a place for those talented in magic. I was friends with Ron and Hermione and we laughed and we fought evil and you were there as a Professor, but you were white, and you fought with Snape and we were warned of the evil Voldemort..."
Dr. Umbledor roared with laughter. "The evil Voldemort?! That's priceless, Harold!"
The young man looked quizzically at the older gent.
"Voldemort," explained Umbledor, "was the name of my ex-wife's divorce attorney! He tried to take everything I ever owned! You got that evil part spot-on!"
Potter excused himself from laughing, though he wasn't mad that Umbledor was still cackling like an old hen. He realized that his dream world was so much better than the real world.
"My young man," said Umbledor to Potter, with his hand placed on his shoulder "these dreams of yours would make a wonderful story. 'Harry Potter the Prisoner of Azkaban!' has a ring to it..."
FINIS
Sunday, July 15, 2007
A new device and Decemberists in July
Picked up a new laptop to replace the long-dead but not-forgotten Device Mk. I, the Toshiba Satellite laptop that died back in `06. Best Buy had a pretty good sale on HP laptops, so I purchased one with 2 gigs of RAM, AMD Turion X2, integrated webcam, LightScribe SVS/CD burner and...Windows Vista.
So far...other than being slightly annoying, Vista has worked fairly well so far. The "cancel or allow" thing is pissy, but at the end of the day, it's still Windows. Take it or leave it.
Went to the Decemberists' show last night with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra at Merriweather Post Pavillion. They were all fine and dandy...and boy was I neither over or underwhelmed. I think I was simply whelmed.
They're not a bad band, but boy are they a lot to swallow more than a random mp3. Their lyrics range from preposterous to pompous. They remind me a bit of Crash Test Dummies - the words *SEEMED* important and meaningful until you gave the lyrics and actual read and/or listen. Then, it hit ya like a sledgehammer to the forehead "Hey, this is crap!"
Still, they put on a nice show, and seem like charming folk. The music just ain't my bag, baby. That's what I get for buying a ticket to a show of a band I barely know.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
One of those nights...
1) Rumors in NW DC needs help. The A-Hole to Normal Evolved Human Ratio is SO out of whack there. The place has always been cheesy, but cheesy AND full of pricks...can't handle that.
2) Why do women insist on flirting with the friends of the guy they just broke up with? Honey, I heard the stories. I know why you're done as a couple, mostly because you're probably a dirty, dirty girl who cheated on my boy. So why do you think I'd give you the time of day?
3) MeetinDC - can the obsession with my ass PLEASE stop? I'm done with it. I'm about ready to drop the group completely. Knock it the hell off. Seriously. Next person who grabs my ass is going to get their ears boxed, or a kick in the shin. I'm sick of my ass being grabbed more than antacid at a Mexican food festival. If I wave it at you, then you may proceed. Otherwise....NO!! Bad MiDC person! Bad!
2) Why do women insist on flirting with the friends of the guy they just broke up with? Honey, I heard the stories. I know why you're done as a couple, mostly because you're probably a dirty, dirty girl who cheated on my boy. So why do you think I'd give you the time of day?
3) MeetinDC - can the obsession with my ass PLEASE stop? I'm done with it. I'm about ready to drop the group completely. Knock it the hell off. Seriously. Next person who grabs my ass is going to get their ears boxed, or a kick in the shin. I'm sick of my ass being grabbed more than antacid at a Mexican food festival. If I wave it at you, then you may proceed. Otherwise....NO!! Bad MiDC person! Bad!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
oh my DAMN!!! Transformers frickin' rocks!
Finally, a movie Michael Bay didn't screw up!
Shia LaBeouf rocks! Megan Fox lives up to her name! John Turturro is hilarious! Optimus mother-f*ckin' Prime!
Perfect summer movie! The Five Paragraph Bitter Film Critic is harder than a virgin at a gang bang!
I'm writing in exclamation points!
You will love this movie...unless you're a tool. You're not a tool, are you?
*******************************************************************
Transformers gets 8 Whammies! for the eight different Transformer toys I had as a kid. It could have had nine if I hadn't have lost Starscream in the move to Glenarm Road.
*******************************************************************
My only complaint...
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Strange...Never a Huge Fan Before...
...but suddenly, I'm digging Alyssa Milano. This picture helps.
Plus, this quote from ESPN.com:
Just say no to Pink.
Plus, this quote from ESPN.com:
ALYSSA MILANO: [Laughs] There's absolutely no pink. Pink offends me. It's the man's misguided answer: "If you make it pink, women will buy it." I'm a traditionalist.
Just say no to Pink.
Dear Bad Driver...
Hi. You may not remember me from our little near-collision in Arlington this morning. Actually, I'm quite sure you don't know who I am because I know you didn't see my car. Well, I shouldn't say I know you didn't see me, but I do know you didn't see the big red STOP sign that you so blythely ran, sending you scant inches away from my bumper. I'm not sure if you heard my tires squeal and my horn blare, but the people around our potential auto rendezvous did. Your mid-2000s tan SUV almost made more of an impression on me than hearing my parents have sex in their bedroom one sleepless night when I was a kid, and trust me, pal, that scarred the shit outta me.
Sounded like my mom was getting stabbed with an ice pick, and my dad was moving around a sleeper sofa. Not cool, bro.
When I spotted you again on Columbia Pike, you were laughing, though nobody else was in your vehicle. Though your rear window is far-too-heavily tinted to see through, your side window showed quite plainly that you're an officer in the United States' Army, and your Pentagon parking hang tag (which, BTW, you're not supposed to drive around with dangling from your rear view mirror. Safety violation and whatnot...) indicates that we must work in the same building.
So, you're in the Army. With all the acronyms thrown at our soldiers, I'm sure you got confused, and thought STOP meant Speeding To Obliterate Pontiacs. It actually means "stop."
Being in the Army makes you some sort of instant hero nowadays. What, with 9/11 and fighting our godless enemies and making sure we have a secure oil stream to ensure you can drive your SUV. Within the Pentagon, rank has privilege, and military law backs that up. However, on the streets, the laws of the military do not circumvent the laws of physics and traffic court. If I wasn't such a careful driver with a trigger finger for a braking foot, you'd have taken out my front end, damaged your precious SUV, and been woefully late for work.
So, please, Mr. Soldier or Army of One or Warfighter or what ever term you prefer - hit the fucking brakes and come to a complete stop.
Do it for the troops.
Sounded like my mom was getting stabbed with an ice pick, and my dad was moving around a sleeper sofa. Not cool, bro.
When I spotted you again on Columbia Pike, you were laughing, though nobody else was in your vehicle. Though your rear window is far-too-heavily tinted to see through, your side window showed quite plainly that you're an officer in the United States' Army, and your Pentagon parking hang tag (which, BTW, you're not supposed to drive around with dangling from your rear view mirror. Safety violation and whatnot...) indicates that we must work in the same building.
So, you're in the Army. With all the acronyms thrown at our soldiers, I'm sure you got confused, and thought STOP meant Speeding To Obliterate Pontiacs. It actually means "stop."
Being in the Army makes you some sort of instant hero nowadays. What, with 9/11 and fighting our godless enemies and making sure we have a secure oil stream to ensure you can drive your SUV. Within the Pentagon, rank has privilege, and military law backs that up. However, on the streets, the laws of the military do not circumvent the laws of physics and traffic court. If I wasn't such a careful driver with a trigger finger for a braking foot, you'd have taken out my front end, damaged your precious SUV, and been woefully late for work.
So, please, Mr. Soldier or Army of One or Warfighter or what ever term you prefer - hit the fucking brakes and come to a complete stop.
Do it for the troops.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Don't Even ^&$%@~! Think About Speeding in Ole' Virginny
From this weekend's WaPost...
Yee-ouch!
I'm all for improving the quality of life on the highways, but, DAMN!
The article points out several drawbacks to this plan, such as the dramatic burden to the local court system as now EVERY traffic offense would be fought in court, just to avoid these fines. So, on paper, it looks like a potential windfall for the state, but it could end up costing more than it makes.
Also, if I was an attorney specializing in traffic law, I would move to Virginia and set up shop quicker than a jackrabbit on a date. Student loans? Bah! Paid off in a New York Minute! $500,000 condo? Hell, paid off by March `09...
What I see as an unintended consequence, though - how many folks will be unwilling to "move" to Virginia? Live in the Commonwealth but maintain their permanent addresses in other states. Decreased tax revenue from a potential citizen at the expense of a traffic violation. If you're going to have legislation that allows for non-residents to skirt by such fees, while sticking it to your own citizens, that hardly seems fair. Not to mention...a pretty good way to ensure your dumb ass will be voted out of office.
If Virginia is so intent on cleaning up the highways and increasing revenue, here are a few options from yer friendly Telecomedian:
1) Sliding scale of vehicle registration fees. Sort of a combo SUV tax and a way to promote better MPG. Right now, most cars cost 30 to 35 bucks to register in VA, and trucks are $40. I was pretty surprised to see such low fees, especially in a state that usually can't wait to tax the HELL out of its citizens. Offer free registration for purchasers of a gas-sipping vehicle (like a hybrid, turbodiesel, or car with a average MPG over 35 on the highway). Triple or even quadruple the fees for registering non-work trucks or SUVs, and gas-guzzling muscle cars. You figure a good suburban cul-de-sac would bring in a couple thousand dollars in registration fees, as they are people unlikely to be driving without a license or on suspended plates.
2) Motorcycles that weave in and out of traffic like they're reinacting the trench scene in Star Wars can be hit with scalding hot coffee. I hate these guys driving souped-up crotch rockets threading through traffic at ungodly speeds, coming inches away from getting into wrecks with every turn. This behavior caused a fatal accident on the Maryland side of 495 last week...while the motorcyclist got away scot-free.
If a biker is following the rules of the road, great. But this Speedy Gonzalesesque crap has got to stop. Don't want to be hit with scalding hot coffee? Don't drive like an idiot.
As an added bonus, think of the extra sales' tax gained from coffee shops as some people will want to have a piping hot cup of joe at the ready, just waiting for the next prick to zoom by at 100 miles an hour on 95 on a Ninja.
3) Just a thought - make everybody take a new driving test instead of automatically renewing their license. See how it goes. Try it out. You might like it.
4) Lower the Speed Limit During Rush Hours. I can hear y'all scratching your heads, but read this carefully: Traffic is caused my multiple factors: weather, accidents, volume, construction and capacity being among them. We can't change the weather. Accidents tend to happen to even the safest, most careful drivers. Construction delays are often part and parcel of living in a growing area. But volume and capacity CAN be controlled, or at least predicted.
Rush hour in the evening starts pretty much between 3 and 3:30. Part of the initial crush of cars is the high volume of people hitting low-capacity feeder roads to beat the rest of the rush hour that begins in earnest at 4. So, they want to hightail it out of work so they can get to the high capacity interstates and highways before they clog, the idea being that driving at 70 for a couple of miles makes up for driving at 30 for a dozen more.
How many times have you been cruising on 66 or 495 to see a sudden sea of brakelights around the next hill? Part of that problem is the differential in speed. Brakes are vital to avoid accidents and to make sudden turns, but they are often used to modulate speed. This indicates to me that the road is not being used efficiently. Large gaps between cars are neccessary at high speeds to allow safe following distance, and that gaps becomes decidedly smaller at slower speeds. What can set off a chain reaction of braking is somebody driving dangerously down the highway, or a lone police officer on the side of the road. But what really sets them off more often than that? Somebody in the left hand lane needing to get over to the right hand lane for an exit a 1/4 of a mile away. Somebody needing to merge to avoid a lane that ends. When somebody needs to make one of these such maneuvers, they usually make an unsafe lane change. The drivers closest to the incident hit the brakes to avoid an accident. This makes everybody around them panic break in a pack mentality.
Wouldn't it be a much better allocation of vital resources for the Commonwealth to force the major roads like 395, 66, 495 to go to a slower, more reasonable speed limit like 45, and thus giving drivers more room for merging, lane changes and closing lanes? The regulation of traffic speeds allows for smoother commuting and higher road capacity without building another highway.
It's simple physics...and if entire roads can be made for HOV lanes, the speed limits on other roads can be modified too.
Say you are driving 78 mph on the Capital Beltway and a state trooper tickets you for "reckless driving -- speeding 20 mph over." You will probably be fined $200 by the judge. But then you will receive a new, additional $1,050 fine from the Old Dominion, payable in three convenient installments. So convenient that you must pay the first one immediately, at the courthouse.
First-time drunk driver? A $300 fine from the judge and a $2,250 fee from the commonwealth.
Driving without a license? Maybe a $75 fine. Definitely a $900 fee from Virginia.
Yee-ouch!
I'm all for improving the quality of life on the highways, but, DAMN!
The article points out several drawbacks to this plan, such as the dramatic burden to the local court system as now EVERY traffic offense would be fought in court, just to avoid these fines. So, on paper, it looks like a potential windfall for the state, but it could end up costing more than it makes.
Also, if I was an attorney specializing in traffic law, I would move to Virginia and set up shop quicker than a jackrabbit on a date. Student loans? Bah! Paid off in a New York Minute! $500,000 condo? Hell, paid off by March `09...
What I see as an unintended consequence, though - how many folks will be unwilling to "move" to Virginia? Live in the Commonwealth but maintain their permanent addresses in other states. Decreased tax revenue from a potential citizen at the expense of a traffic violation. If you're going to have legislation that allows for non-residents to skirt by such fees, while sticking it to your own citizens, that hardly seems fair. Not to mention...a pretty good way to ensure your dumb ass will be voted out of office.
If Virginia is so intent on cleaning up the highways and increasing revenue, here are a few options from yer friendly Telecomedian:
1) Sliding scale of vehicle registration fees. Sort of a combo SUV tax and a way to promote better MPG. Right now, most cars cost 30 to 35 bucks to register in VA, and trucks are $40. I was pretty surprised to see such low fees, especially in a state that usually can't wait to tax the HELL out of its citizens. Offer free registration for purchasers of a gas-sipping vehicle (like a hybrid, turbodiesel, or car with a average MPG over 35 on the highway). Triple or even quadruple the fees for registering non-work trucks or SUVs, and gas-guzzling muscle cars. You figure a good suburban cul-de-sac would bring in a couple thousand dollars in registration fees, as they are people unlikely to be driving without a license or on suspended plates.
2) Motorcycles that weave in and out of traffic like they're reinacting the trench scene in Star Wars can be hit with scalding hot coffee. I hate these guys driving souped-up crotch rockets threading through traffic at ungodly speeds, coming inches away from getting into wrecks with every turn. This behavior caused a fatal accident on the Maryland side of 495 last week...while the motorcyclist got away scot-free.
If a biker is following the rules of the road, great. But this Speedy Gonzalesesque crap has got to stop. Don't want to be hit with scalding hot coffee? Don't drive like an idiot.
As an added bonus, think of the extra sales' tax gained from coffee shops as some people will want to have a piping hot cup of joe at the ready, just waiting for the next prick to zoom by at 100 miles an hour on 95 on a Ninja.
3) Just a thought - make everybody take a new driving test instead of automatically renewing their license. See how it goes. Try it out. You might like it.
4) Lower the Speed Limit During Rush Hours. I can hear y'all scratching your heads, but read this carefully: Traffic is caused my multiple factors: weather, accidents, volume, construction and capacity being among them. We can't change the weather. Accidents tend to happen to even the safest, most careful drivers. Construction delays are often part and parcel of living in a growing area. But volume and capacity CAN be controlled, or at least predicted.
Rush hour in the evening starts pretty much between 3 and 3:30. Part of the initial crush of cars is the high volume of people hitting low-capacity feeder roads to beat the rest of the rush hour that begins in earnest at 4. So, they want to hightail it out of work so they can get to the high capacity interstates and highways before they clog, the idea being that driving at 70 for a couple of miles makes up for driving at 30 for a dozen more.
How many times have you been cruising on 66 or 495 to see a sudden sea of brakelights around the next hill? Part of that problem is the differential in speed. Brakes are vital to avoid accidents and to make sudden turns, but they are often used to modulate speed. This indicates to me that the road is not being used efficiently. Large gaps between cars are neccessary at high speeds to allow safe following distance, and that gaps becomes decidedly smaller at slower speeds. What can set off a chain reaction of braking is somebody driving dangerously down the highway, or a lone police officer on the side of the road. But what really sets them off more often than that? Somebody in the left hand lane needing to get over to the right hand lane for an exit a 1/4 of a mile away. Somebody needing to merge to avoid a lane that ends. When somebody needs to make one of these such maneuvers, they usually make an unsafe lane change. The drivers closest to the incident hit the brakes to avoid an accident. This makes everybody around them panic break in a pack mentality.
Wouldn't it be a much better allocation of vital resources for the Commonwealth to force the major roads like 395, 66, 495 to go to a slower, more reasonable speed limit like 45, and thus giving drivers more room for merging, lane changes and closing lanes? The regulation of traffic speeds allows for smoother commuting and higher road capacity without building another highway.
It's simple physics...and if entire roads can be made for HOV lanes, the speed limits on other roads can be modified too.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
For the Six of Us Who Still Care...
The Caps are unveiling their new jerseys tomorrow for the draft party.
HOWEVER - Caps Nut got them earlier this week, and, uh...
Well, look for your own damned selves.
and
Dear God.
This looks like the jersey that would come from one of those historic teams form a Canadian industrial town that relocates somewhere in America's Sun Belt. You know, a team that wants its new fan base to forget any ill will from the team's move.
What, pray tell, was wrong with this:
MEMO TO TED: There are approximately 9,000 fans dressed up as empty seats at every home game. Please don't make the remaining 6,000 look at these retreads from the WAC or Arena League.
UPDATE:
Anyway, upon giving the unis a third look, I figured out what the design theme was:
GREAT JOB!!! "Ladies and Gentlemen, come on down to the Verizon Center for our Dogfights and Fistfights Promotion. Every time a Cap gets into a scrap, we'll unleash two rabid pit bulls on the opponent! The first 5,000 fans bringing in a Rott, Chow, Shepard or wolf-mix get free admission. That's Dogfights and Fistfights, brought to you by Aquafina. When you need to stash your pot before an international flight, think Aquafina!"
The Caps is idiots.
HOWEVER - Caps Nut got them earlier this week, and, uh...
Well, look for your own damned selves.
and
Dear God.
This looks like the jersey that would come from one of those historic teams form a Canadian industrial town that relocates somewhere in America's Sun Belt. You know, a team that wants its new fan base to forget any ill will from the team's move.
What, pray tell, was wrong with this:
MEMO TO TED: There are approximately 9,000 fans dressed up as empty seats at every home game. Please don't make the remaining 6,000 look at these retreads from the WAC or Arena League.
UPDATE:
Anyway, upon giving the unis a third look, I figured out what the design theme was:
GREAT JOB!!! "Ladies and Gentlemen, come on down to the Verizon Center for our Dogfights and Fistfights Promotion. Every time a Cap gets into a scrap, we'll unleash two rabid pit bulls on the opponent! The first 5,000 fans bringing in a Rott, Chow, Shepard or wolf-mix get free admission. That's Dogfights and Fistfights, brought to you by Aquafina. When you need to stash your pot before an international flight, think Aquafina!"
The Caps is idiots.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Five Paragraph Bitter Food Critic Vs. The World
I never thought I had much in common with Lindsay Lohan.
She's a young Hollywood starlet and pop star, better known for her hard-partying, relapses into rehab, ever-changing breast size, spectacular rise and fall, and for showing her birth canal to pretty much every actor, athlete and paprazzi in California. I'm more of a brokedown former disc jockey and comedian who couldn't wait to sell out to Corporate America for a stable paycheck. As far as I know, she's done more drugs than a Rick James' groupie, and the hardest thing I've smoked is turkey. But her song "Me vs. The World" from the Freaky Friday soundtrack speaks to me. Well, it doesn't technically speak because I've never heard it, and couldn't pick it out in a police lineup. I just found the lyrics online, and thought "I had no idea I could relate to young Lindsay's plight."
See, "The World" in my case is Reese's. The loveable brand from our friendly neighbors to the North, Hershey (if not the best corporate citizens), has finally released a limited edition Elvis tribute Reese's Cup - Peanut Butter and Banana Creme. One of his favorite treats was fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. As I have resolved to eat healthier and exercise more, and been doing a fine job of it, these little chocolatey bastards could be my undoing. As a kid, my mom preferred that I ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches, getting at least some vitamins and potassium from the banana slices, benefits absent in most jellies. When mom found these new Elvis cups, she thought it would be nice reminder of my childhood. They're not bad, either, as I was afraid the banana would be too artificial, too overpowering. But the banana flavor is just enough to complement the traditional chocolate/peanut butter balance of a Reese's. One of the few "Limited Editions" that I like.
Plus, this has a picture of Elvis on the package. And it's not like that cop-out Young Elvis versus Old Elvis stamp debacle, either. You can find these with Young Athletic Elvis, Hawaiian Shirt Elvis, and, my favorite, Old Elvis. It's clearly Fat Elvis in all his early 1970s Vegas coked-out jumpsuit glory, maybe not quite as bloated and rambling, but it's clear he's baked... much like Mlle. Lohan.
This limited edition run is hitting stores throughout the region now. Dollar General Stores seem to be a reliable place to find them, though they seem to be allergic to putting a store within the Beltway. If you see them, please share in the comments. Let others find their inner Elvis. Hopefully, Mojo Nixon's vision of Elvis being everywhere can be realized.
************************************************************************************
Elvis Reese's Cups get 18 Whammies!, one for each of The King's U.S. number one hits on the pop singles chart.
Thanks to The Junk Food Blog and Candyblog.
*************************************************************************************
Monday, June 18, 2007
What if Somebody Else Wrote About Dave?
This posting is the result of a night of much drink and revelry on Friday. My exercise is to write the lede of Dave Connolly's lambasting in the WaPo's Weekend section. So, we threw around a couple of ideas, figuring that if the Post is one of the few "standard-carrier" papers around, and this article flat-out sucks, how hard could it be if other papers took a crack at it?
And, as I do voices for fun and profit, surely I could write voices, if such a thing were possible. Right?
Here, again, is the real lede:
Dave Connolly needed friends.
Which is a tricky predicament. Tricky and kind of banal. And -- let's be honest -- a little sad.
By the time you're out there in the world, haven't there been enough opportunities -- in the sandbox and eighth-grade math class and the varsity tennis team and between dorm rooms and cubicle clusters -- to pick up a few good friends?
Obviously.
Unless, you know, there weren't. Or there were. There were all those opportunities, and buddies were met and made and then, somehow, lost. Binding ties came unbound.
Maybe there was a marriage. A baby. A transfer, a taxing project, an illness, a changing lifestyle, diverging hobbies, a new neighborhood, a gradual maturing, a big dramatic fight over a guy you were both interested in. Maybe your new medical sales job has you sleeping in Reston and creeping along Interstate 66, shaking hands with lots of doctors and nurses and not really getting to know anyone.
Maybe you're Dave Connolly, 29, athletic and outgoing and fun and successful, and everything was great and your social calendar was booming until one day it just wasn't.
Banal. A little sad. And common enough for this town to support a whole host of organizations designed to help people reach out and meet someone. Probably lots of someones. Probably in similar predicaments.
-----------------------------------
Number 1, The Washington Times.
David Connolly, Democrat, has no friends.
He is typical of the young, unwashed liberals that flock to DC every year. Some of these man-children are naive enough to think that working for some non-profit organization has merit. That they can change the world.
Others come here because they want to attend one of the area's renowed liberal universities, like Georgetown or American or Catholic.
And still others, like Connolly, come here because they figured out a way to make money from their liberal viewpoints. Connolly, 29, is an environmental consultant who makes sure that the neighborhoods around Andrews Air Force Base in suburban Maryland don't suffer from such minor nuicances like noise, light and fuel runoff.
But Prince George's County, home to Andrews, is full of liberal Democrats and they demand such Welfare.
-----------------------------------
Baltimore Sun
14 people were killed in various gun battles thoughout the city this weekend as drug violence once again reared its ugly head. The Orioles were swept at home by the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ravens' training camp starts in just a few weeks, and all we can gather is that Dave Connolly needed friends. Whether he made any new ones is debateable, but one thing is clear - this town makes THE BOMB crabcakes! Who needs friends when you can eat seafood on a sandwich, hon?
All Dave needs is some crabcakes, and to drink real beer. Like Natty Boh. Not that crappy Belgian crap, or those stupid microbrews. Once he learns to drop his expectations like the rest of us in Charm City, he'll be fine.
------------------------------------
USAToday
Dave Connolly has no friends. Then he made some. What did Paris Hilton do now?
-----------------------------------
The Onion
"Local Man Has No Friends"
Transplanted New Englander Dave Connolly stated today that he "has no friends other than empty beer bottles" and feels no compulsion to make any relationships that don't end in a drunken stupor.
"I love beer," exclaimed Connolly to nobody in particular on Friday night. "It makes me a jolly good fellow."
"Though," he admitted, "sometimes I cry and it makes me pee yellow."
Connolly moved to the DC area a few years ago to pursue a career in giving oral sex to lonely Capitol Hill staffers, but decided the pressure to be the male Jessica Cutler was just too much to bear.
"Frankly, I don't have the lips for it" Connolly mentioned. "My mom...very thin-lipped woman, and I favor her."
"Now my dad," said Connolly with pride, "that's a big-lipped SOB. He's the Angelina Jolie of all the guys at the docks back in Portsmouth, New Hampshire."
"And, semen tastes NOTHING like Leffe Blonde," one of Connolly's favorite brews.
When asked why he eschews dating for drinking, Dave explained it simply "Women suck. Beer doesn't."
But how does that preclude you from having friendships with men, Dave?
"Easy," offered Connolly. "Dude's try to drink me beers. Fuck that."
-----------------------------------
Wonkette.com
Local tree-hugger has no friends, less dating options. Good abs, though (OBPOPCULTREF)
------------------------------------
NY Post
A-ROD IS DAVE'S ONLY FRIEND!
-------------------------------------
Variety
Dave Shaves Slaves to Fave Paves Maves, Flaves
-------------------------------------
MeetinDC
So what if Dave got disrespected in the Post? We got 150 new members! Yay! See you at an event! You wanna host or should I?
-------------------------------------
O Noes! Sammy Perlozzo Fired
The picture of Sam is from happier days, when he was announced as the new manager of the O's. His dream job.
And, like many dreams, you wake up to reality before the dream is over.
ESPN.com, The Baltimore Sun - they're all saying the O's just fired manager Sam Perlozzo. Andy MacPhail is coming in to oversee baseball operations, and will persue former Marlins' manager Joe Girardi to replace Perlozzo. The Two Headed GM of Jim Beattie and Mike Flanagan of previous years, and now Flanagan and Jim Duquette, probably won't be around much longer.
On one hand, this is a very good thing. Perlozzo's almost automaton-like devotion to bullpen roles cost them nearly a dozen games, as Danys Baez and Chris Ray have proven to be unable to reliably close out games. You don't earn a nickname like Per-LOSE-o by punching all the right buttons.
And Beat-agan was far too fascinated by slow 1B/OF types (Jeff Conine, BJ Surhoff, Kevin Millar, Jay Gibbons) instead of getting a true 1B with a real, working bat. So, Duquette-agan got Aubrey Huff. *sigh*
At least he has a third-baseman's glove, too.
However, I'm not sure if this is such a great move. I was in Baltimore Saturday night, hanging out in Federal Hill after the loss against the D-Backs. The town has gotten so bloody depressed over the team that they have a fatalistic sense of dread, kinda like a Cubs fan. Ravens' training camp can not start soon enough.
Personally, I think the whole team and city needs an enema.
To the average fan, there's nothing positive going on with the team, and these losses from the bullpen are just crushing the whole organizations' morale. They've had leads in 21 of the past 22 games - partly the starters give up the lead immediately but so much of it has been a crappy bullpen...and a fan base ready to commit hari kari over yet another blown save.
Perlozzo gets canned, but pitching coach Leo Mazzone has not done the job expected of him. Can anybody say "overrated?" He can't reach Cabrera, can't cure Ray, and kicked Baez' dog or something.
Terry Crowley has been awful, at best. This team seems unable to take a walk or work a pitch count. The O's seem to lead the league in first pitch outs.
And, Beat-agan counted on Corey Patterson to build on last seasons' success. Corey Patterson crushed the Cubs with his on-again, off-again talent. The guy can play...just, not reliably. Corey Patterson is this season's Gary Matthews, Jr., who's career is very up-and-down as well. Sometimes brilliant; often maddening. You guys might remember Patterson and Matthews when they played under the monikers of "Mike Devereaux," "Ken Gerhart," "Chito Martinez" and "Pete Stanicek." What must they think in the Warehouse? "Oh, they had one good season after a career of nothing spectacular? Chalk them up for a big year next season!"
Meanwhile, former O Jack Cust is tearing up the league, with 31 hits, 20 RBI, 9 home runs in 113 at bats. So...yeah. He's hitting better than any other OF the O's have. Great judge of talent there. Other than Nick Markakis, the O's outfield is yet-again a joke.
It's an organizational issue. I think Flanagan and Beattie were doing well as far as rebuilding the talent base in the minors, and the draft picks of the past couple of seasons seem solid so far. But the major league team has too many 1B/OF types and can't keep pitchers healthy. Bad, bad combo.
It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at Jaret Wright and his balky arm. It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at Danys Baez and his flaky psyche. It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at notoriously slow starting Aubrey Huff. It's not Perlozzo's fault that Chris Ray loves giving up game-losing grand slams.
However, Perlozzo lost Patterson. Lost Gibbons. And when you can't keep Kevin Millar happy, something's up.
Best of luck to ya, Perlozzo. Shame you had to manage Team Dysfunction.
And, like many dreams, you wake up to reality before the dream is over.
ESPN.com, The Baltimore Sun - they're all saying the O's just fired manager Sam Perlozzo. Andy MacPhail is coming in to oversee baseball operations, and will persue former Marlins' manager Joe Girardi to replace Perlozzo. The Two Headed GM of Jim Beattie and Mike Flanagan of previous years, and now Flanagan and Jim Duquette, probably won't be around much longer.
On one hand, this is a very good thing. Perlozzo's almost automaton-like devotion to bullpen roles cost them nearly a dozen games, as Danys Baez and Chris Ray have proven to be unable to reliably close out games. You don't earn a nickname like Per-LOSE-o by punching all the right buttons.
And Beat-agan was far too fascinated by slow 1B/OF types (Jeff Conine, BJ Surhoff, Kevin Millar, Jay Gibbons) instead of getting a true 1B with a real, working bat. So, Duquette-agan got Aubrey Huff. *sigh*
At least he has a third-baseman's glove, too.
However, I'm not sure if this is such a great move. I was in Baltimore Saturday night, hanging out in Federal Hill after the loss against the D-Backs. The town has gotten so bloody depressed over the team that they have a fatalistic sense of dread, kinda like a Cubs fan. Ravens' training camp can not start soon enough.
Personally, I think the whole team and city needs an enema.
To the average fan, there's nothing positive going on with the team, and these losses from the bullpen are just crushing the whole organizations' morale. They've had leads in 21 of the past 22 games - partly the starters give up the lead immediately but so much of it has been a crappy bullpen...and a fan base ready to commit hari kari over yet another blown save.
Perlozzo gets canned, but pitching coach Leo Mazzone has not done the job expected of him. Can anybody say "overrated?" He can't reach Cabrera, can't cure Ray, and kicked Baez' dog or something.
Terry Crowley has been awful, at best. This team seems unable to take a walk or work a pitch count. The O's seem to lead the league in first pitch outs.
And, Beat-agan counted on Corey Patterson to build on last seasons' success. Corey Patterson crushed the Cubs with his on-again, off-again talent. The guy can play...just, not reliably. Corey Patterson is this season's Gary Matthews, Jr., who's career is very up-and-down as well. Sometimes brilliant; often maddening. You guys might remember Patterson and Matthews when they played under the monikers of "Mike Devereaux," "Ken Gerhart," "Chito Martinez" and "Pete Stanicek." What must they think in the Warehouse? "Oh, they had one good season after a career of nothing spectacular? Chalk them up for a big year next season!"
Meanwhile, former O Jack Cust is tearing up the league, with 31 hits, 20 RBI, 9 home runs in 113 at bats. So...yeah. He's hitting better than any other OF the O's have. Great judge of talent there. Other than Nick Markakis, the O's outfield is yet-again a joke.
It's an organizational issue. I think Flanagan and Beattie were doing well as far as rebuilding the talent base in the minors, and the draft picks of the past couple of seasons seem solid so far. But the major league team has too many 1B/OF types and can't keep pitchers healthy. Bad, bad combo.
It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at Jaret Wright and his balky arm. It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at Danys Baez and his flaky psyche. It's not Perlozzo's fault the O's chucked cash at notoriously slow starting Aubrey Huff. It's not Perlozzo's fault that Chris Ray loves giving up game-losing grand slams.
However, Perlozzo lost Patterson. Lost Gibbons. And when you can't keep Kevin Millar happy, something's up.
Best of luck to ya, Perlozzo. Shame you had to manage Team Dysfunction.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Don't F*** with the Mamma Bear
My good friend Dave Connolly is the subject of an article in the Washington Post about online social networking sites, like MeetinDC. In fact, Dave and I met and became friends through Meetin. Dave is one of the more interesting cats I know - knows more about the outdoors than L.L.Bean if he worked at REI; brews his own beer; works out like a demon, and provides environmental controls with the military, trying to keep pollution from a base from getting into the surrounding neighborhoods.
He's from New England, lived in a tent in Colorado, and has been on top of more mountains than anything other than snow.
Put simply, he's one of those fellows who has done what he wanted to do, and enjoyed the path. A perfect subject for a newspaper article, right?
However, the article starts off:
Wow. Banal? A little sad? Ouch...it continues:
Whoa! Judge much?
Yeah, I got a 1300 on my SATs back when that still meant something, and I know what banal means. I had to look it up in case there was a little-known definition that few people would recognize, or some slang term that changes its meaning. Nope. According to Dictionary.com, banal is :
Great. Hackneyed and trite. The writer just made Dave sound like Dane Cook.
The article goes on to describe how a group like Meetin can help people make new friends in an area, and does eventually give Dave a good quote:
Thanks for the plug, dude.
Still...small consequence after having the words "banal" and "a little sad" tied to every Google EgoSearch you do for the rest of your life.
The writer could have easily done the lede as the following:
Feel free to cut-n-paste, future journalists. Now, I know that *I* don't write for the Post, so, what do I know about writing, right? Well, I know this:
1) Mike's last name is H-E-A-R-D.
2) You don't write about private citizens with the same degree of detached cynicism that you hold towards athletes, politicians and celebrities.
Now, I know I only MAJORED in journalism at Virginia Wesleyan; TV and Radio Production at Towson; and only was a gawd-durned voice on the ray-dee-oh. The only news I wrote only ended up over-the-air, either on the radio or the evening news. I certainly could fact-check and research at CNN for Larry King Live while not actually being as vital to the show as Larry. And, I know my feature writing experience was pretty much regulated to bungee jumping in Ocean City and the morning show at 99.1 back in the mid-90s. I also wasn't one of the writers on the old weekend roundup on Digital City, DC. I didn't get a fancy piece of paper from Northwestern or Syracuse or that Sally Struther's piece of crap, so, maybe I'm just not qualified to accurately judge this work.
But I certainly remember walking down Locust Avenue in Des Moines about 9 years ago, meeting Rob Borsellino. You might be asking "who the hell is Rob Borsellino?" As well you should. See, when I first moved to Des Moines, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I was thin, didn't wear Dockers, and looked at the complete and utter lack of people in Downtown Des Moines with a sense of shock and awe. Here's this clean, safe, fairly bland city, presumably with enough culture and entertainment to prove its worth, and a population that beelined for the suburbs at 4:45pm, CST, every working day. My first couple of months in Des Moines were rough. I missed my friends. I missed my family. I missed minorities. I missed homeless people. I missed urine on the sidewalks. I missed crime. I missed the excitement of living in the DC/Baltimore region, where every day could be your last. I walked down Locust Street, looking for a lively lunch spot on a glorious spring afternoon, wondering why the Iowan chose to walk in the climate controlled Skywalk instead of the fresh air.
Rob Borsellino was a firebrand columnist for the Des Moines Register. He was a champion of the little guy; pointing out social injustices, and skilled at showing the fallacies, fallibilities and contradictions in us all. He took a magnifying glass to those he felt needed to be exposed, and a mirror to those who needed to see their true reflection.
He also was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans on a 80 degree day. I recognized him immediately from his thumbnail in the Register, his black and grey hair and eyebrows working like trademarks. He'd have fit in perfectly in Jersey, and his slightly-aging hipster demeanor made me look like an Iowan lifer.
He saw me looking around, and since tourists in Iowa are as rare as Republicans at a Pride Rally, he asked if he could help me find something. I said that I was new in town and was looking for something that would remind me of home. To this day, I'm not sure why, but I told him that I had no idea I would be so homesick.
He asked where I was from, and why I moved to Des Moines. Next thing you know, we talked for 30 minutes, and shared our lives' stories. He was a New Yorker (I was close on my initial guess) and said that he stayed in Des Moines because it was full of real people - you just have to find them. The Iowan - even those absorbed in their career, trying to get ahead in any of the big firms in DM, like Principal Finacial, the publishing houses, the law firms, even the Register itself - was a sincere American who cared; they just didn't always know who to care for or about. But they felt the need to care, to give a rat's ass outside of the rat race.
Something about the simple elegance of that philosophy let him stay in Iowa, despite countless and repeated opportunities for him to flee to the hipper, happening coasts, no doubt for better exposure and bigger paychecks.
I never missed a Borsellino column after that, and was saddened to learn of his passing in 2006, like a true Yankee fan, from Lou Gehrig's Disease.
One thing I learned from reading his columns - he could be painfully liberal, sometimes to the point of madness, but he cared. He gave a crap about who he wrote about, and why.
He was gentle towards those who needed coddling, and vicious to those who needed scolding. And he'd NEVER make somebody out to be banal or a little sad if they truly weren't.
He was, for a New Yorker, a great Iowan.
He'd never throw somebody under a bus for a poorly-written lede, allowing snark to get in the way of a proper description.
Funny...he taught me how to be a better writer, and his tuition cost me 25 cents a day.
May all feature writers learn this lesson.
For now, Dave and I will knock back a couple of dark, unpronouncable beers, and ponder subscriptions to the Times (in jest, of course). Maybe we'll start a club for those who have been embarassed in the Post. Dave, me, and Marion Berry.
Sweet. At least we'll get the good drugs.
He's from New England, lived in a tent in Colorado, and has been on top of more mountains than anything other than snow.
Put simply, he's one of those fellows who has done what he wanted to do, and enjoyed the path. A perfect subject for a newspaper article, right?
However, the article starts off:
Dave Connolly needed friends.
Which is a tricky predicament. Tricky and kind of banal. And -- let's be honest -- a little sad.
Wow. Banal? A little sad? Ouch...it continues:
By the time you're out there in the world, haven't there been enough opportunities -- in the sandbox and eighth-grade math class and the varsity tennis team and between dorm rooms and cubicle clusters -- to pick up a few good friends?
Obviously.
Whoa! Judge much?
Unless, you know, there weren't. Or there were. There were all those opportunities, and buddies were met and made and then, somehow, lost. Binding ties came unbound.
Maybe there was a marriage. A baby. A transfer, a taxing project, an illness, a changing lifestyle, diverging hobbies, a new neighborhood, a gradual maturing, a big dramatic fight over a guy you were both interested in. Maybe your new medical sales job has you sleeping in Reston and creeping along Interstate 66, shaking hands with lots of doctors and nurses and not really getting to know anyone.
Maybe you're Dave Connolly, 29, athletic and outgoing and fun and successful, and everything was great and your social calendar was booming until one day it just wasn't.
Banal. A little sad. And common enough for this town to support a whole host of organizations designed to help people reach out and meet someone. Probably lots of someones. Probably in similar predicaments.
Yeah, I got a 1300 on my SATs back when that still meant something, and I know what banal means. I had to look it up in case there was a little-known definition that few people would recognize, or some slang term that changes its meaning. Nope. According to Dictionary.com, banal is :
ba·nal /bəˈnæl, -ˈnÉ‘l, ˈbeɪnl/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[buh-nal, -nahl, beyn-l] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–adjective devoid of freshness or originality; hackneyed; trite: a banal and sophomoric treatment of courage on the frontier.
Great. Hackneyed and trite. The writer just made Dave sound like Dane Cook.
The article goes on to describe how a group like Meetin can help people make new friends in an area, and does eventually give Dave a good quote:
Maybe even finding, like Connolly did, "the best sphere of friends I've ever had in my life."
Thanks for the plug, dude.
Still...small consequence after having the words "banal" and "a little sad" tied to every Google EgoSearch you do for the rest of your life.
The writer could have easily done the lede as the following:
Dave Connolly had moved to the DC area after years of living in Colorado, New
England, and other parts of the US. The outdoor enthusiast had friends
all over the country, but none in his new home.
Feel free to cut-n-paste, future journalists. Now, I know that *I* don't write for the Post, so, what do I know about writing, right? Well, I know this:
1) Mike's last name is H-E-A-R-D.
2) You don't write about private citizens with the same degree of detached cynicism that you hold towards athletes, politicians and celebrities.
Now, I know I only MAJORED in journalism at Virginia Wesleyan; TV and Radio Production at Towson; and only was a gawd-durned voice on the ray-dee-oh. The only news I wrote only ended up over-the-air, either on the radio or the evening news. I certainly could fact-check and research at CNN for Larry King Live while not actually being as vital to the show as Larry. And, I know my feature writing experience was pretty much regulated to bungee jumping in Ocean City and the morning show at 99.1 back in the mid-90s. I also wasn't one of the writers on the old weekend roundup on Digital City, DC. I didn't get a fancy piece of paper from Northwestern or Syracuse or that Sally Struther's piece of crap, so, maybe I'm just not qualified to accurately judge this work.
But I certainly remember walking down Locust Avenue in Des Moines about 9 years ago, meeting Rob Borsellino. You might be asking "who the hell is Rob Borsellino?" As well you should. See, when I first moved to Des Moines, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I was thin, didn't wear Dockers, and looked at the complete and utter lack of people in Downtown Des Moines with a sense of shock and awe. Here's this clean, safe, fairly bland city, presumably with enough culture and entertainment to prove its worth, and a population that beelined for the suburbs at 4:45pm, CST, every working day. My first couple of months in Des Moines were rough. I missed my friends. I missed my family. I missed minorities. I missed homeless people. I missed urine on the sidewalks. I missed crime. I missed the excitement of living in the DC/Baltimore region, where every day could be your last. I walked down Locust Street, looking for a lively lunch spot on a glorious spring afternoon, wondering why the Iowan chose to walk in the climate controlled Skywalk instead of the fresh air.
Rob Borsellino was a firebrand columnist for the Des Moines Register. He was a champion of the little guy; pointing out social injustices, and skilled at showing the fallacies, fallibilities and contradictions in us all. He took a magnifying glass to those he felt needed to be exposed, and a mirror to those who needed to see their true reflection.
He also was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans on a 80 degree day. I recognized him immediately from his thumbnail in the Register, his black and grey hair and eyebrows working like trademarks. He'd have fit in perfectly in Jersey, and his slightly-aging hipster demeanor made me look like an Iowan lifer.
He saw me looking around, and since tourists in Iowa are as rare as Republicans at a Pride Rally, he asked if he could help me find something. I said that I was new in town and was looking for something that would remind me of home. To this day, I'm not sure why, but I told him that I had no idea I would be so homesick.
He asked where I was from, and why I moved to Des Moines. Next thing you know, we talked for 30 minutes, and shared our lives' stories. He was a New Yorker (I was close on my initial guess) and said that he stayed in Des Moines because it was full of real people - you just have to find them. The Iowan - even those absorbed in their career, trying to get ahead in any of the big firms in DM, like Principal Finacial, the publishing houses, the law firms, even the Register itself - was a sincere American who cared; they just didn't always know who to care for or about. But they felt the need to care, to give a rat's ass outside of the rat race.
Something about the simple elegance of that philosophy let him stay in Iowa, despite countless and repeated opportunities for him to flee to the hipper, happening coasts, no doubt for better exposure and bigger paychecks.
I never missed a Borsellino column after that, and was saddened to learn of his passing in 2006, like a true Yankee fan, from Lou Gehrig's Disease.
One thing I learned from reading his columns - he could be painfully liberal, sometimes to the point of madness, but he cared. He gave a crap about who he wrote about, and why.
He was gentle towards those who needed coddling, and vicious to those who needed scolding. And he'd NEVER make somebody out to be banal or a little sad if they truly weren't.
He was, for a New Yorker, a great Iowan.
He'd never throw somebody under a bus for a poorly-written lede, allowing snark to get in the way of a proper description.
Funny...he taught me how to be a better writer, and his tuition cost me 25 cents a day.
May all feature writers learn this lesson.
For now, Dave and I will knock back a couple of dark, unpronouncable beers, and ponder subscriptions to the Times (in jest, of course). Maybe we'll start a club for those who have been embarassed in the Post. Dave, me, and Marion Berry.
Sweet. At least we'll get the good drugs.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
This guy...wow
I seldom embed YouTube videos in my blogs, but this guy deserves it.
I don't love opera as much as I love Opera, but, damn.
DAMN!
This fellow studied to be an opera singer, but life, like it does so often, got in the way. He sells mobile phones - and then makes Simon Cowell stunned.
The opera purists may complain that he has some resonance issues, and some sibilance most likely due to his lack of high-quality British dental work, but damn. That's nitpicky as hell. That'd be like a dude who loves gay disco only listening to Erasure because Andy Bell's voice is better than Neil Tennant's from the Pet Shop Boys. This guy is real, and he loves what he does. There is a joy to that singing that is so evident, so passionate, so accessible.
I don't like opera as a rule, but I will gladly purchase his CDs. Congratulations are in order to this man, and I hope he does well in this competition.
Who'd a thought, that with the NBA Finals, the series ending of The Sopranos, and the never-ending media storm around Paris Hilton, that a chubby, unassuming Welsh opera singer would be the best thing on TV?
I don't love opera as much as I love Opera, but, damn.
DAMN!
This fellow studied to be an opera singer, but life, like it does so often, got in the way. He sells mobile phones - and then makes Simon Cowell stunned.
The opera purists may complain that he has some resonance issues, and some sibilance most likely due to his lack of high-quality British dental work, but damn. That's nitpicky as hell. That'd be like a dude who loves gay disco only listening to Erasure because Andy Bell's voice is better than Neil Tennant's from the Pet Shop Boys. This guy is real, and he loves what he does. There is a joy to that singing that is so evident, so passionate, so accessible.
I don't like opera as a rule, but I will gladly purchase his CDs. Congratulations are in order to this man, and I hope he does well in this competition.
Who'd a thought, that with the NBA Finals, the series ending of The Sopranos, and the never-ending media storm around Paris Hilton, that a chubby, unassuming Welsh opera singer would be the best thing on TV?
Monday, June 11, 2007
My Life in Cotton/Lyrca Blend
As though the Nick Hornby book/John Cusack movie "High Fidelity" didn't sum up my ever-so-slightly elitist appeal to obscure indie rock bands quite enough, this t-shirt by cartoonist Richard Stevens nails it.
How was your weekend, dear readers? Mine was booze-filled, with sangria on Friday, margaritas on Saturday, and a Sopranos' Sunday filled with chai liqueur, wine and far too much sugar. Even though I drank a lot, I didn't fall asleep until 5:30am.
Was I wired from the sweets? From the knowledge that Tony Soprano survives?
Perhaps I was just suffering from the shakes.
In any event, this week shall be known "System Clean." Water. Basic foods. Nothing fancy. I feel toxic. Not priddy. And I need my priddyness.
Might paint a picture this week. Not sure what yet. But I found the oils and canvas, and they need to be used.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Wheelchair Macros
He went bye-byes in his wheelchair.
Part of me thinks this kid did this on purpose. It could have been a Jackass-style stunt, or a suicide attempt gone (hilariously) wrong.
I'm also not above thinking this is a publicity stunt for the Transformers' movie. Optimus Prime, how could you?
Sunday, May 27, 2007
My Datelab is up
Read it here
Fairly accurate, but, wow...she thought I had a bit of a pudge? Good thing she didn't see me in February, when I weighed 220. I was 200 on the day of the date. Only because she's damned near anorexic. Seriously...Ms. Duffy was really trim. Athletic, so she was still healthy, but she was quite small.
Anyway, I like how she says I didn't listen. Honey, I listened - you went off on a half-dozen Republican National Committee talking points throughout the date. You flat-out said you were a Republican twice, if not three times. I can't get over what a little fibber she is! She held up the bag, and when I said "Oh, you're a Republican?" she did a 3/4 wink at me indicating that I got it. She proceeded to ask a few questions about the war in Iraq, and my stance on it. She clearly supports a continuation of the war, whereas I'm of the opinion that we needed to get out of there shortly after we entered.
Was I not listening, or did I just tune out? She was incredibly interesting when she wasn't doing her best Tony Snow impersonation.
The rub is that she's an incredibly interesting person otherwise. If she'd left the politics at home for one night, it might have gone better. How emotionally and developmentally-stunted is this area that so many people not even in the political arena feel the need to cram it down a first date's throat?
By way of admission: yours truly was a registered Republican in the state of Maryland and Iowa. However, I never voted a straight GOP ticket, and actually voted Libertarian in the last election. However, I supported former Maryland governor Bob Ehrlich completely. Why? Because as Maryland has been ruled by a near 40 year reign of Democrats, a sense of entitlement has grown in the Democratic Party in the Old Line State. Abuses of power, from zoning violations to tax laws to environmental controls to school districting, has done nothing but create a Tammany Hall in Annapolis, and a Republican vote in Maryland is actually a vote for responsibility. The same was true in Iowa, but with the Party's reversed. Tom Vilsack, the Democrat who beat long-time Republican leader Terry Branstad ended a nearly 40-year cycle of Republican tax increases and failing infrastructure. Iowa is in better shape now, and I was sad to see Republicans become so entrenched and abusive in Des Moines. That experience led me to look long and hard at the Whig Party. Pro-industrialism, anti-Andrew Jackson. I take a stand.
I did not tell Anne that I was actually a Republican as her conversation was too political as it was.
She DEFINITELY said the urban legend story was about her aunt and uncle. Way to lie in an INTERNATIONAL NEWSPAPER!! Now, I'll kindly note that I also let Ms. Duffy off the hook, letting her screed about how black people play the victim card at the Brickskellar go unmentioned to the Post. We'd had a couple of beers at that point, but my state of "pudgy" allows me to drink a lot more than she can. A simple mention of O.J. Simpson on the bar's television caused her to go off on "the victim card" and "playing race again." I attributed it to diarrhea of the mouth, but I wonder if there's not something nastier lurking inside her cranium?
Otherwise, great date... at the time. The aftermath clearly indicates the beer and marscapone influenced the date far more than I ever expected.
Please read what I wrote to Post writer Gene Weingarten about the date. This is what happens when you look for the good in people, and ignore the 800 pound gorilla.
---30---
Fairly accurate, but, wow...she thought I had a bit of a pudge? Good thing she didn't see me in February, when I weighed 220. I was 200 on the day of the date. Only because she's damned near anorexic. Seriously...Ms. Duffy was really trim. Athletic, so she was still healthy, but she was quite small.
Anyway, I like how she says I didn't listen. Honey, I listened - you went off on a half-dozen Republican National Committee talking points throughout the date. You flat-out said you were a Republican twice, if not three times. I can't get over what a little fibber she is! She held up the bag, and when I said "Oh, you're a Republican?" she did a 3/4 wink at me indicating that I got it. She proceeded to ask a few questions about the war in Iraq, and my stance on it. She clearly supports a continuation of the war, whereas I'm of the opinion that we needed to get out of there shortly after we entered.
Was I not listening, or did I just tune out? She was incredibly interesting when she wasn't doing her best Tony Snow impersonation.
The rub is that she's an incredibly interesting person otherwise. If she'd left the politics at home for one night, it might have gone better. How emotionally and developmentally-stunted is this area that so many people not even in the political arena feel the need to cram it down a first date's throat?
By way of admission: yours truly was a registered Republican in the state of Maryland and Iowa. However, I never voted a straight GOP ticket, and actually voted Libertarian in the last election. However, I supported former Maryland governor Bob Ehrlich completely. Why? Because as Maryland has been ruled by a near 40 year reign of Democrats, a sense of entitlement has grown in the Democratic Party in the Old Line State. Abuses of power, from zoning violations to tax laws to environmental controls to school districting, has done nothing but create a Tammany Hall in Annapolis, and a Republican vote in Maryland is actually a vote for responsibility. The same was true in Iowa, but with the Party's reversed. Tom Vilsack, the Democrat who beat long-time Republican leader Terry Branstad ended a nearly 40-year cycle of Republican tax increases and failing infrastructure. Iowa is in better shape now, and I was sad to see Republicans become so entrenched and abusive in Des Moines. That experience led me to look long and hard at the Whig Party. Pro-industrialism, anti-Andrew Jackson. I take a stand.
I did not tell Anne that I was actually a Republican as her conversation was too political as it was.
She DEFINITELY said the urban legend story was about her aunt and uncle. Way to lie in an INTERNATIONAL NEWSPAPER!! Now, I'll kindly note that I also let Ms. Duffy off the hook, letting her screed about how black people play the victim card at the Brickskellar go unmentioned to the Post. We'd had a couple of beers at that point, but my state of "pudgy" allows me to drink a lot more than she can. A simple mention of O.J. Simpson on the bar's television caused her to go off on "the victim card" and "playing race again." I attributed it to diarrhea of the mouth, but I wonder if there's not something nastier lurking inside her cranium?
Otherwise, great date... at the time. The aftermath clearly indicates the beer and marscapone influenced the date far more than I ever expected.
Please read what I wrote to Post writer Gene Weingarten about the date. This is what happens when you look for the good in people, and ignore the 800 pound gorilla.
---30---
Thursday, May 24, 2007
I can't believe what I just saw
So, it's pretty obvious from my Myspace page that I am a fan of Lost. I was a little concerned as the first few episodes from this season were fairly mediocre. However...after tonight's season finale, the writers could devote an episode to reading telephone books in Esperanto. This was, simply, television at its finest.
More twists and turns than L'alpe D' Huez (Tour De France thing, Google it you lazy bastards. I don't have time to explain all of my witty references.)
I won't give anything away as a courtesy to those who haven't seen it, or are waiting for the Season 3 DVDs to come out, to get caught up. I will say this - The Sopranos *was* the best-written show on TV.
"Lost" used this episode to say "uh, not so fast, HBO."
In other news...The Milltown Brothers and Power of Dreams have Myspace pages. Two of my favorite Britpop bands from college...wounded, but not forgotten. PoD has disbanded, but Milltown's still kickin', and I downloaded their newest album from iTunes. I'll give it a listen, but I have to use this to point out the absurdity of the label system. Both of these bands had college rock/alt rock hits here in America. Both bands got caught up in label issues, and were regulated to smaller status in the U.K. 15 years later, I can listen to them online, see where and when they're performing and buy their newest music without one hint of label interference.
Not to get all Agent Smith on your ass, but that ticking you hear in the background, RIAA and your kin spread throughout the planet, is the sound of your impending doom. Record sales in `07 are off 20% from last year's dismal sales figures.
Evolve into promotion, not distribution companies, if you want to live.
(Heh, that was kinda Terminator 2-ish there...had to spell out that witty pop culture reference.)
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Thanks Gene!
Gene Weingarten knew what I meant, what I was trying to say. He gets me. He's my dream woman (just fuzzier, too old, and frankly, a dude). The Datelab isn't a matchmaking service; it's a lab.
From today's WaPost.com chat with Gene...
More on Date Lab: I remembered the comment in last week's updates when I read Date Lab this past weekend. Not only did this couple seem to hit it off, they were practically having sex on the dessert plates by the time the date was over. And then...nothing. What is up with these people? Is it pressure to have a cute story to report the next day, or relief that the other person isn't a freak, or what?
Gene Weingarten: The poster from last week kind of nailed this. You're trying to adapt to an experiment; it's a lab. You're trying too hard to make it seem to work, but by week two you're focused on all the things that WEREN'T quite right.
_______________________
From today's WaPost.com chat with Gene...
More on Date Lab: I remembered the comment in last week's updates when I read Date Lab this past weekend. Not only did this couple seem to hit it off, they were practically having sex on the dessert plates by the time the date was over. And then...nothing. What is up with these people? Is it pressure to have a cute story to report the next day, or relief that the other person isn't a freak, or what?
Gene Weingarten: The poster from last week kind of nailed this. You're trying to adapt to an experiment; it's a lab. You're trying too hard to make it seem to work, but by week two you're focused on all the things that WEREN'T quite right.
_______________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)