Brief Randandom

This is just plain ooky. No wonder I hate clowns.

So protective is McDonald's of the character's mystique that men who play Ronald are never to admit that they do. Ronalds in costume aren't to say who they are in civilian life. That rather annoyed Craig A. Oatten, a police chief in Michigan, when a Ronald, in full red-and-yellow regalia, got into a fender bender near Saginaw a few years ago. Asked several times, the Ronald steadfastly refused to give his name for the police report.

Great. Even the sacred halls of my local could be infiltrated by clowns - and I would never know. Brrrrrrrrr.

The Unbearable Lightness of Van Halen

I came across this interview with David Lee Roth in today's Washington Post. Which sparked a number of meandering thoughts about Van Halen, Nirvana and music in general that frankly you're just going to have to deal with today.

First of all, I've never liked David Lee Roth. His big fat ego and desire for a solo career ruined Van Halen, the uber-group of my boyhood - a tragedy we'll touch on momentarily. But as much as I loathe him, the fact is Van Halen was never the same without him. I'm sorry Mr. Hagar, that's just truth to power. Hell, as far as I'm concerned the band ceased to exist sometime in the mid 80's; you could no more Van Halen (good) without David Lee Roth (bad) than you could have pea soup (good) without peas (bad).

Damn, that's a weird analogy. Perhaps I'll submit it to whatever evil crowd of faceless shakedown devils creates and distributes the SATs. Pea soup is to Van Halen as peas are to _________ .

Anyway, seeing that article reminded me of how sad I was when I heard the band was breaking up (this was before I know there would be - ugh - replacement singers). They were my favorite band, and I was crushed to think that there be no more Van Halen albums coming out. No more flashy videos. No more slashing guitar work. No more background harmonies. (A brief note: those harmonies, for me, are the distinguishing marks of the real Van Halen. Cue up Dance the Night Away or Jamie's Crying or Running With the Devil. Listen. Compare to post-Roth Van Halen tracks. Hear the difference? Hear what's missing? Damn right you do.)

Not really a big deal in retrospect, certainly nothing approaching the level of tragedy or epiphany. But for some reason, as I was recalling that time and those feelings, I thought to myself 'damn, I wasn't nearly as upset when Kurt Cobain died.' And really, I wasn't - just didn't have the impact. Because leaving the sadness of Cobain's self-destruction aside, the prospect of there being no more Van Halen songs simply upset me more than the prospect of there being no more Nirvana songs. Why?

Because Van Halen - the original Van Halen - was a better band than Nirvana. There ya go - it's on the record. And I'm sure there are many folks - music critics (self-styled or otherwise), alterna-rockers, hipsters etc - who think the above statement is gibberish. You know the kind of folks I'm referring to - basically people who don't like bands that are perceived as popular, as being for the masses, as having 'sold out.' The kind of folks who like claiming allegiance to obscure bands - not because they like the music the bands create, but because advocating for said band sets them apart, makes them different (and therefore 'cooler') than the rest of us. Well I have news for you people: Van Halen has aged far better than Nevermind. I'll generally surf past Smells Like Teen Spirit on the radio - but I never pass up Ain't Talking 'Bout Love. Throw in albums like Van Halen II and Women and Children First and Fair Warning and...see what I'm getting at?

Or maybe you don't. Maybe you've bought into the Nirvana mythos, digested too much ink devoted to proclaiming Nirvana as an 'important' or 'revolutionary' band. (No, they weren't. They were talented certainly. And lucky. But they didn't do anything that others - Husker Du, The Ramones, X, The Replacements - hadn't already done.) Maybe you can't admit that a band with someone as tacky as David Lee Roth in it could be better than a band with the iconic Cobain.

But they were. Really.


P.S. I never surf past MMMbop either. Truly a great pop song. And I mean that.

Karma Chameleon

So much for my brief happy-dance yesterday. Last night the Yankees spanked the Sox 11 to 3, cutting their leaad to one and half games and ending No-mah Gah-see-ah-para's hitting streak at 26 games. Blech.

Oh well. As "Catfish" Hunter once said after a loss: "The sun don't shine on the same dog's ass all the time."

Indeed, it does not sir, it most certainly does not.

Delendam Esse New York Yankees

So the weekend was wet and gloomy and generally exhibited a high degree of suckiness. But the following can't help but make me smile a little.

The Yankees are in second place, two and a half games behind Boston. Will the Sox stay on top the through September? I have no idea - but it's cool it was cool to see them there this morning - kind of an extra pick-me-up along with my coffe.

And the fact the Roger 'Nickelhead' Clemens was denied his 300th win yesterday just sweetens the pot. For two good pieces on the evil that is Clemens, go here and here.

Sweethearts

For my belated Memorial Day post, I give you The Most Famous Pinups of World War II. (link via The Morning News.)

On a more martial note, check out Bombergirl.com for a growing collection of vintage nose art.

As you were.

Return of the King: Counting Down the Days

Get a glimpse of the upcoming Return of the King movie, scheduled for release on December 17th. (link via Dark Horizons.)

Yes, the shots sure are pretty - and they also give us an idea of which parts of Tolkien's book made it from printed page to the screen. Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas ride the Paths of the Dead; Sam and Frodo have an unfortunate encounter with Shelob; Merry rides with the Rohirrim and Pippin defends Minas Tirith. Good stuff - here's to hoping the plot in Return of the King won't stray as far from the book as The Two Towers did.

Many Thanks...

...to all of you who called or emailed yesterday to offer condolences and support.

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But . . . you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve.
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

-The Power of the Dog by Rudyard Kipling.

For more Kipling on dogs see:

'Thy Servant a Dog'
The Great Play Hunt
Toby Dog

Requiescat in Pace: Molly

Molly the Wonder Beagle died this morning. It was very hard, but I stayed with her until the end. I could not let her die with strangers. She was my friend, and a damn fine and loyal one too.

Aaah God, my heart is sair.

Question du Jour

What, pray tell, is a family-style laundromat? I saw one advertised as such during my wanderings this weekend and I'm wondering: what is offered at such a place that makes it family-style? Extra seating? Picnic tables and a seesaw in the back? Bulk discounts on laundry?

This also begs the question of, what is the 'style' of the laundromat I currently patronize? Delirium tremens-style? Junkie style? Talkative-and-over-friendly-street-person-style laundromat?

Requiescat in Pace: June Carter Cash

Here's some sad news for a cold and windy Friday:

NASHVILLE -- June Carter Cash, the Grammy-winning member of one of country music's pioneering families and the wife of country giant Johnny Cash, died May 15 in a Nashville hospital of complications of heart surgery. She was 73.

I'm a big fan of Johnny Cash, both the man and the his music. But without June, there simply would not be a Johnny Cash, at least not the Johnny Cash I came to appreciate in the later years of his career. In his autobiography John wrote of the woman who was his partner and strength:

"What June did for me was post signs along the way, lift me when I was weak, encourage me when I was discouraged, and love me when I was alone and felt unlovable. She is the greatest woman I have ever known. Nobody else, except my mother, comes close. "

In an interview Cash elaborated about the importance of June in his life:

We have a sharing marriage, and we share the road, we share the bedroom, we share the backstage, onstage, we share the music, the feeling, and the emotion, and the joy of it, you know. And the pain and the sadness in it. We share the love of our children. It would be terribly lonely not to have someone to share those things with me.

And she's not only a lady who I share my life with, but she may have been the person responsible for my still being alive. She and God. Because she came along at a time in my life that I was on self-destruct, and she saw what I was doing to myself and she helped bring me back up out of it. And we've fought and worked hard to keep our feet on the ground since then. But like I say, today is a good day.

Let it be noted that June Carter Cash was far more than just the wife of Johnny Cash, she was a formidable talent in her own right. Born into the famous Carter family, she began performing at an early age, first with the original Carter Family group, then with her sisters and mother as Mother Maybelle and the Carter Sisters. By the time she met Johnny Cash, June had already rubbed elbows with Hank Williams, Patsy Cline and James Dean; studied acting with Elia Kazan; and toured with Elvis. She acted in both television and movies, and could play guitar, banjo and autoharp.

But I have a hard time thinking of June and Johnny Cash seperately. In an age of disposable celebrity marriages and public figures who beat their wives or are unfaithful to their spouses, the story of their meeting, falling and staying in love is, to me, very moving. (Yeah I'm a closet romantic who likes mushy love romantic stories. So sue me.) Plus this meeting resulted in one of my favorite songs.

June first heard of Johnny Cash from Elvis, who told her of Cash's commanding voice and stage presence. They met in person backstage at the Grand Ole Opry in 1956. They were instantly drawn to one another. June later wrote describing Cash's eyes and their effect on her:

"Those black eyes that shone like agates. I only glanced into them because I believed that I would be drawn into his soul and I would never have been able to walk away."

But both June and John resisted that initial attraction. They were both married at the time, and Cash was in the grips of what would become a life-threatening addiction to amphetamines and barbituates. From that tension and conflict - her love of Cash and fear of being in love with such a man, came the song that Cash would make famous - Ring Of Fire. June explained why she wrote it:

"It was about the way I felt about John. That song just was a part of me. It was fire and there was such a joy to it. Such a fire that I couldn't get out of. It just, sometimes went down so low that I thought I would die and lifted me up so many times that I thought the fire would never go out. Until that point in time, I'd never said it out loud. I kept it to myself. And at that time, it just needed saying."

Needless to say, June and Johnny Cash went on to have a long and happy marriage. Cash's mariachi-flavored version of Ring of Fire became a big hit. But the version I like - and the one I'll be listening to later - is on June's excellent solo album Press On. If you don't have it - and you like traditional non-Garth Brooks country music - go out and buy it. Now.

Ring of Fire

Love is a burning thing,
and it makes a fiery ring.
Bound by a wild desire,
I fell into a ring of fire.

I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down, down, down,
and the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns...
The ring of fire,
The ring of fire.

The taste of love is sweet,
when hearts like ours meet.
I fell for you like a child,
Oh, but the fire went wild.

I fell into a burning ring of fire.
I went down, down, down,
and the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns...
The ring of fire,
The ring of fire.

Voices in the Wilderness

A little while ago I made some snarky comments on the sheer awfulness that can be found in this electronic wilderness. And I stand by that assertion - that the while the internet (and easily used publishing tools like Blogger) gives everyone a voice, not all those voices have something worthwhile to say. Hell, I don't even know if I have anything 'worthwhile' to say - I do this for my own twisted amusement, and those of my friends and family who share some or all of my warped sensibilities - not because I think anyone particularly gives a shite.

The point is, there are some worthwhile voices out there. If you venture out past the Forest of Slow-Loading Sites, across the Plateau of Poorly Punctuated Prose, and over the Sea of Banal Commentary, you can find folks who can flat out write. You can find writing that will make you laugh, make you think, make you angry. Here are some examples of what I mean.

This guy is one those afore-mentioned folks who can flat out write. He recently posted the following on his friend's site.

Tom Petty said the waiting's the hardest part. And that's true, but it's also rich. I'm just now beginning to realize this fact. I've always rushed things along, feeling like I needed all of her affection right away. There's no way in hell I could call her tomorrow. I had to call her today, yesterday, 5 minutes ago, right now. I had this distorted notion that a friendship with a girl was the annoying pre-cursor to the real relationship, the romantic relationship--the kissing and holding and late-night whispering of words. Secret words. But I was wrong. The friendship is everything.

This is the relationship, the so-how-was-work, the what-did-he-say-when-you, the I-had-a-shitty-day-thanks-for-calling. These are the little scraps of her life that she's letting you be a part of. And you have some of your own. The path into someone's life is always uphill, never down. There's the work, the active pursuit of who she is. But you're not trying to figure her out like a song on the guitar because part of what you love is her complexity, the endless maze which you never seem to tire of, regardless of how many walls you slam into. This is work, but it's enjoyable work. If you can get it.

So you find someone that you enjoy. You find someone that helps you laugh at yourself. You find someone whose beauty has you stealing glances, taking risks. You find someone with whom you wouldn't mind being cooped up in a house for 40 or 50 years. You find someone who can at least tolerate the fact that you occasionally clip your fingernails in public because you're compulsive about that sort of thing. You find someone you respect, who makes you realize that you have a long way to go, someone who doesn't mind listening to obscenely loud music on the way. You find someone who, by the grace of God, enjoys your company, the sound of your voice, the feel of your hand in hers (and hopefully dark beer).

And then you uncurl your fingers because she'll never belong to you, not really, even if one of those fingers is wrapped in a gold band.

That, my loyal half dozen, is some good shite. The man can throw down. In my internet wanderings I have come across entire sites devoted to chronicling the author's thoughts about the trials and tribulations of love and such. And none of them contain as much truth as the elegant starshell of prose quoted above.

Changing gears, if you don't already read Mimi Spartypants on a regular basis... what's wrong with you? This is funny stuff people, funnier that much of what passes for comedic writing in the New Yorker. Dig this off-hand riff about the guy who amputated his own arm in the wilderness:

To me, this story illustrates several things that I have been saying for years. (1) Never, ever, go out into Nature. What does Mother Nature want from us? The answer is obvious: She Wants Our Limbs. For instance: Frostbite. Giant crushing boulders. Wolverines that can rip off an arm with one clamp of their wolverine jaws. Muskrats that first incapacitate you with a tendon-severing ankle bite, then nibble and nibble until your leg is entirely gone. Go ahead, scream your lungs out during your Nibbling Ordeal, do you think Mother Nature cares? She is all like, Listen motherfucker, what exact part of "red in tooth and claw" don't you understand? Don't come to me singing your sad limb-losing song. You were warned.

Mimi Smartypants on music:

Slicked-back hair, mirrored sunglasses, suit and tie, this jag-off in a Jaguar is speeding through a yellow light in River North, and---for real---he is blasting the Phil Collins song "Sussudio" on what is no doubt a very expensive car stereo. I was like: Wait, was that Patrick Bateman? Please tell me that was some sort of prank, like the guy is participating in a rousing game of Rich Person's Truth Or Dare, because why, why, why would you listen to "Sussudio" in the car, where other people can hear you? I mean, maybe you are allowed to keep the Phil Collins CD in a dark closet and throw on "Sussudio" when you are cleaning the house or something, but even that is skating on some very, VERY thin musical-taste ice, mister. The only possible use I can see for that song is maybe using it to clear the last few cokeheads out of your house when dawn is breaking and you need the party to be OVER, NOW. (Somebody call Sartre, quick: I am having a new vision of existentialist hell where it is always five in the morning and everyone is doing coke and there is always Phil Collins on the stereo. Oh my god I have to go lie down.)

Mimi Smartypants on Sesame Street:

THE MAJOR SESAME STREET ARCANA AND A CONSIDERATION OF WHETHER OR NOT I WOULD HANG OUT WITH EACH (IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER)

1. Bert. Undecided. He seems a bit rigid to really be good friends with, but I can see hanging with Bert and playing Scrabble on a rainy day. Verdict: Maybe.

2. Big Bird. Is a painfully immature dork. You can't just ride on being seven feet tall, you have to develop some sort of personality. Dig? Verdict: No.

3. Cookie Monster. I am a little scared of this guy. He is pure id. He is crazy. You never know what he is going to do next. I mean, check out his wildly rolling pupils, his tendency to devour both food and non-food items, his inability to use the "I" pronoun. Cookie Monster is the guy that you can't not invite to the party, because he is such a long-time part of your scene, but you assign one of your friends to kind of keep an eye on him. Verdict: A qualified yes.

4. The Count. Although the constantly-counting thing would get old fast, part of it appeals to the OCD freak in me, plus: he's a vampire! What self-respecting former goth wouldn't hang out with The Count? I can even see myself dating The Count, if only briefly. It's the cape. And the sash with the mysterious vaguely Eastern European medallion on it. And the fact that his head is a lovely shade of lilac. Verdict: Yes.

5. Elmo. Elmo ruined Sesame Street. Who cares about Elmo's World? He has the baby helium voice and seemingly no interests. Elmo is whiny, demanding, and his need to be the center of attention would drive me bonkers. Get him away from me. Verdict: No.

6. Ernie. I don't like Ernie. Verdict: No.

7. Grover. Best Friends Forever! Grover is my favorite. First, Grover is the only Muppet with a job. He is a waiter, and maybe he is not a very good waiter (certainly that blue guy with the mouth that opens like a drawbridge does not think so), but it is probably just a day job and Grover goes home and paints or plays drums in a noise band. Grover is more or less slender with just that hint of a belly---the body type of a monster who enjoys his beer and one that is kind of sexy (in the manner of Madonna in the "Lucky Star" video being way sexier than her later six-pack worked-out incarnations). Grover has a flair for the dramatic (Super-Grover, the near and far thing, the blues songs). Verdict: Yes yes yes.

8. Kermit. No doubt about it, this is one Renaissance frog. He rides a bike, he plays a banjo, he is a reporter for Muppet News Network, he runs the show, he looks good doing it, and he is humble and friendly and even gets depressed sometimes (eg, "Not Easy Being Green"), and anyone who doesn't like Kermit is just a hater and obviously envious of his amphibious green cool. Verdict: Yes.

9. Oscar the Grouch. Now we're talking. Me and Oscar, getting all kinds of punk rock fucked-up on amphetamines and malt liquor. We would watch skateboard videos on TV and then we'd get bored and kick in the TV screen and roll around in the shards a la Iggy Pop. It matters not because Oscar's got a whole closet full of motherfucking TVs. And a whole closet full of firearms. And a whole closet full of malt liquor. Later we have a Silly String fight, go for a ride on his elephant, generally trash his place. ROCK! Verdict: Yes.

Quite simply, if you want to laugh - if you want giggle to yourself while co-workers wonder what's wrong with you -visit Mimi.

Those are only two sites worth your time. I could literally create pages filled with entertaining, funny, thought-provoking quotes from other folks. Instead, I'll list a few more 'voices' I think are worth your while, places I visit (or try to) on a daily basis.

Silflay Hraka

The American Undershirt

Utter Wonder

bears cave

Eject!Eject!Eject!

Last Call

I promise - no more after these. But you kind ejoy them too, don't you? It's ok...

You are Count Chocula! Hannibal Lechter turned into a Muppet, but with only one tooth. Take the Which Breakfast Cereal Character Are You? quiz. Published by JC.

(link via Altered Blog)


You oughta check out "Victorian England."
You dress sharp, you speak sharper, and you
read a lot.


Where in History do You Belong?
brought to you by Quizilla

(link via nonchalantdotnu)

Monkey On My Back

Allright I admit, I can't stop it with the online quizzes. Yes, I know they're so very uncool, but they're fun. And I like the shiny pictures that come with them. So here we go...

A little Charles Shulz action.





Which Peanuts Character Are You Quiz


And a nod to George Lucas.


:: how jedi are you? ::

Randandom's Return: The Day of Quizness

Ever felt like gettin' popey with it? Check this out.


You are Pope John Paul I. You're charming, but you
don't always give people a chance to get to
know you.


Which Twentieth Century Pope Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla



Wonder if you're going to Hell? Go and find out...

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Moderate
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Low
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Moderate

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test



I assume you, my loyal half dozen, enjoy the finer things in life, such as poetry...

I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled; Not prone to overstated gushing praise Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled With overstretched opinions to rephrase; But on the other hand, not fond of fools, And thus, not fond of people, on the whole; And holding to the sound and useful rules, Not those that seek unjustified control. I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least, I think I am, and usually I'm right); And when more ostentatious types have ceased, I'm still around, and doing, still, alright. In short, I'm calm and rational and stable - Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. What Poetry Form Are You?

This one is cool, because Edward Gorey rocks...


Dancing Cats and Neglected Murderesses - You are a
bit bitter in some ways about how life has
treated you, but you will do anything to change
it around...anything!


Which Edward Gorey Book Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla



..and this one just because.


Super Sarcasmo! You're the one with all the witty
wisecracks. We bow before you. Really, we do.


What Weird Quote Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla



And finally, get your cards read.

Quiz
created by Polly Snodgrass.

FIRE OF AIR. Serious and intellectual, you live in the world of thoughts and ideas. You grasp things quicker than most and are a master debater. Your verbal skills are unparalleled; your conversations are stimulating. You are concerned with issues of justice. Your standards are high, so there is danger of becoming too moralistic. While truth is generally an honorable thing, chew on this: "Why Yes Herr Strudel, my neighbor IS hiding Jews in his basement!" You're Christopher Walken in Suicide Kings.

-All links via S.F.A.D.

Evil Ways

Interview with author Ray Bradbury from the Wall Street Journal.

I've read Fahrenheit 451, but precious little of his other works. I do fondly remember my seventh-grade English teacher reading a story from Dandelion Wine out loud to the class. I don't recall the name of the story, but it was very creepy - about a serial killer called 'The Lonely One' terrorizing a small town.

This was well before serial-killers-as-literary-villains were in vogue, but to be honest I've never found Hannibal Lector or any of his killing cousins to be as frightening as 'The Lonely One'. I think it was because while Lector is presented as a super intelligent, alomost superhuman madman, The Lonely One was a very ordinary guy-next-door type. The kind of guy who might have a beer and a bit of chat about the Red Sox with you down at the local - before he want off to strangle some women. Evil disguised as banality is much more frightening than evil presented as an arcehtype - and much more plausible.

The--Beagle--Came--Home

The Beagle--came--home!
There was panic in the parlours and bowling in the halls,
There was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls,
When the Beagle--came--home!

When the Beagle--came--home!
There was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,
There was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,
When the Beagle--came--home!

Bang! go the drums!
The trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting,
And the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting,
As the--Beagle--comes!

Shout--Hoo-ray!
And let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud,
In honour of an animal of whom you're justly proud,
For it's the Beagle's--great--day!

-'borrowed' from Kenneth Grahame's classic The Wind in the Willows

Stumbly McDrooly the post-surgical Beagle has returned. She has a definite list to starboard, kind of like me on a late Saturday night.

But for the moment, she is well.

Dog Day Afternoon

Molly the Wonder Beagle is in the hospital today, possibly overnight. So I'm feeling kind of lowly and not very creative. But I don't want you, my loyal half-dozen, to feel neglected. So I give you this Tribute To A Dog, from (the late) Senator Graham Vest:

"Gentlemen of the jury: the best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his worst enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to their faith. The money that man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it the most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.

The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him and the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous... is his dog.

Gentlemen of the Jury: a man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death."

You can learn more about this famous court case here.

Discover Your Animal Personality

You can take the test here.


What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hmm, sounds about right.

From the Bad Books Desk

Famous British people tell us which books they hate. Link via Bookslut.

I absolutely loathed Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Despite several attempts, I've never been able to make it past the first chapter of War and Peace. Anna Karenina - which I was forced to endure in college - left me quite cold as well. I recall feeling rather pleased when the heroine threw herself under the train. No, I just don't like Russian literature at all. Or John Irvings' book either. I won't mention any by name; just understand I hated each and everyone I ever picked up.

So what books do you loathe? What is your all-time worst read? Which left you quivering with disgust or shaking with rage because you wasted your precious time?

Animals Strike Curious Poses

I don't think Prince intended it that way, but When Doves Cry is a hilarious song. Just thinking about it makes me smirk and giggle. Part of this, I think, is due to the classic Simpson's moment when Milhouse embraces his double and tearfully says "So this is what it sounds like when doves cry." Cracks me up every time.

The rest of it is just the silly lyrics, which beg to be used as ironic catchphrases: Dig if you will...Touch if you will...Animals strike curious poses... just what the hell is a curious animal pose?

So here's my new, updated list of catchphrases, which I'll flash out given half a chance:
Can you dig it?
Have fun storming the castle!
I'm just as God made me.
I've got a bad feeling about this.
Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.
I don't want this; I want large bread.
Our chief weapons are...
Really Belgium.
Dig if you will..

Enough. I'm sure there are more - I'm a walking repository of obscure pop culture references - but I'm tired of thinking. Here's your homework:
1. Define the term curious animal pose.
2. Identify the origins of the phrases above.
3. Tell me about a song you think is funny. (Note: this song can't be intended to be funny, it must be unintentionally funny).

Now go forth and sin no more.

But come back with your answers.

Don't make me chase you. Even doves have pride.

The World's A Mess, It's In My Kiss

I hate television news. I hate it because the news on television is not intended to inform you, oh no no, it's intended to scare the fuck out of you and warn you of impending doom. So that you'll tune in to that particular channel's newscast, thereby increasing ratings and advertising revenue. But information ain't in it. Think I'm exaggerating? Well then, consider the fear-mongering that goes on around here (here being New England) everytime there's a hurricane or a winter storm in the neighborhood: televised images of titanic waves and ten-foot snow drifts with ominous voiceovers, which invariably produces hordes of people at the supermarket, stocking up on essentials like they're going to be trapped in some bizarre-Jack London-survival of the fittest scenario.

The latest example of this is a radio spot I heard for a 'special report' on bank robberies. The details are unimportant, save to mention that the ominous voiceover states that the robbers 'leave with your money.' Imagine that: you go to make withdrawal and the teller or the ATM says sorry, but an evil crook took your money and now you're broke, o woe is you. Foolishness.

Ok, so that was kinda weak, but I got nothing today.

Given my current mood, this would be a most soothing place to be. Eight miles of books? Yes please.

Ramble-amble-ding-dong

Last night as I slept, I dreamed I met with Behan.
I shook him by the hand and we passed the time of day.
When questioned on his views on the crux of life's philosophies,
He had but these few clear and simple words to say:

I am going, I am going,
Any which way the wind may be blowing.
I am going, I am going,
Where streams of whiskey are flowing.

I have cursed, bled and sworn, jumped bail and landed up in jail;
Life has often tried to stretch me, but the rope always went slack.
And now that I've a pile, I'll go down to the Chelsea.
I'll walk in on my feet but I'll leave there on my back.
Because:

I am going, I am going,
Any which way the wind may be blowing.
I am going, I am going,
Where streams of whiskey are flowing.

Oh the words that he spoke seemed the wisest of philosophies.
There's nothing ever gained by a wet thing called a tear.
When the world is too dark and I need the light inside of me.
I'll go into a bar and drink fifteen pints of beer.

I am going, I am going,
Any which way the wind may be blowing.
I am going, I am going,
Where streams of whiskey are flowing.

That song, my loyal half-dozen, is Streams of Whiskey by Shane MacGowan, and it's relevant to today's disjointed post for any number of reasons....

Firstly, there are indeed streams of whiskey in my immediate future. Oh yes yes y'all; post-work, post-hitting people I'll be bringing myself The Whiskey. Bringing you The Sexy is not all glamor and accolades and guest spots on Hollywood Squares. Sometimes it's heartache and conflict and overdue library books.

Secondly, the song references Brendan Behan, who said wonderful things like...
"The most important things to do in the world are to get something to eat, something to drink and somebody to love you."
"It's a queer world, God knows, but the best we have to be going on with"
...which always make any list of quotes I compile or contribute to. So go and read Borstal Boy already.

Thirdly, the song is stuck in my head, on endless rotation. This is because I heard it before I was properly caffeinated, when my brain was all soft and mushy, instead of the fierce feral thinking engine it turns into with a little coffee. And because my brain was soft and mushy, and because I heard Streams of Whiskey in that vulnerable state, the song was burned into my brain for all of today.

Which kind of makes me like a Manchurian Candidate, except I live Quincy. So I'm the Quincy Candidate. Or the Quinchurian Candidate. Whatever. But the point remains if you can get to me before I've caffeinated, you can program all sorts of things into my brain: song lyrics, knock knock jokes, movie quotes - the possibilities are endless. Heck, maybe you could program me to do things like a real Manchurian Candidate could be programmed.(But not evil things, because my powers must only be used for good.) So maybe half-way through the day I'd be stricken with an inexplicable urge to lambada about the cafeteria, or stand up on my desk and strip while singing I'm A Little Teapot.

But probably not. Because I'm aware of this possibility and I'm watching you, and taking precautions. I won't do the lambada and I won't be taken alive.

And that's one to grow on.

Son of Randandom

More miscellaneous bits and pieces....

Cold Fury has an entry about the author's visit to an airshow, featuring vintage aircraft such as the Grumman Hellcat and P-51 Mustang. This reminded me of my own childhood fascination with warbirds of the 1930s and 1940s. In the bottom shelf of the bookcase in my old room at home there's a bound black sketchbook, filled with carefully rendered (in colored pencil no less) drawings of planes like the Supermarine Spitfire, the Republic P-47 Thunderbolt, and the Messerschmitt BF-109. Not only did I draw the planes, I eagerly devoured the stories of the men who flew them: Douglas Bader, the legless (yes really!) British ace; Erich Hartmann, the top-scoring ace of all time with 352 confirmed kills; and Robert S. Johnson, the second highest-scoring American ace in the ETO. I must have read Johnson's autiobiography Thunderbolt! at least a dozen times - I'd love to get my hands on a copy again.

The Defective Yeti is a very funny guy. Plus, I think maybe we're related:
I'm not exactly what you would call a "handy," unless by "handy" you mean "someone who enjoys drinking beer," in which case I'm a freakin' Bob Villa.
I can relate bro. Totally.

Presenting: the Science Fiction Book Club's Most Significant SF & Fantasy Books of the Last 50 Years. I've read 20 of 'em, which I suppose is a decent geek credential.

And courtesy of Heather at Shards: I give you - the T'inator! Hours of fun! What else could make this page even better? (Helpful hint: click on the links for fun sound files.)

Closed Today...

...on account of the veterinarian telling me that the Wonder Beagle's kidneys are failing and that this is irreversible.

Perhaps I will write more about this. Maybe I won't.

Play nicely amongst yourselves until I return.

From the Old Neighborhood

I came across this tidbit in today's Baltimore Sun.

On a recent visit to the Royal Farm at Boston and Fleet, my children witnessed a couple of things that left lasting impressions. First, out on the street, there was a guy with a wild beard, dressed in a black leather jacket and pajama bottoms, talking to a manhole cover. Inside the store, at the front counter, we stood behind an expressionless young man who bought a Tastykake, unwrapped it very, very slowly, then handed the cellophane to the cashier, who waited patiently for it and accepted it dutifully, as if this sort of thing happened every day, and we suspect it does.

I can personally vouch that it does happen every day. And that particular Royal Farms was nothing in comparison to the Hardees that formerly occupied the lot a block up the street. I didn't go there very much, but my friend Derek seemed to venture there quite often. He had special names for various patrons and would regale us with updates about the ongoing weirdness in Hardees, news items like 'I haven't seen Ronald Reagan in a couple of days' or 'Disco Stu was arguing with his hamburger again.'

It seems stranger now than it did at the time, but then again my stay at that particular address was shot through with mayhem and chaos. The funky patrons of Hardees fit nicely in an atmosphere that gave rise to such events as The Night We Pushed Dog Down The Stairs or That Time I Menaced Stork With A Claw Hammer or The Party Where We Stole All The Booze From That Annoying Chick and many other happy fun times.

N.B. We didn't push a dog down the stairs, we pushed a guy named Dog down the stairs. For some very good reasons.

Randandom

1. I broke my toe sparring on Tuesday night.
2. While not painful, this does impede my movement somewhat.
3. So I will probably not be getting my dance on at Sean's wedding Saturday night.
4. Which is probably best for all concerned.
5. But I do need to pick up some Jameson's to put in my flask.
6. Because it is my job to bring The Whiskey and The Sexy.

Kirk out.

My Love Don't Cost a Thing

Almost daily I venture into the howling wilderness of the internet to bring you linky love. Like a modern-day prospector I pan through countless sites, millions of ones and zeros passing before my eyes, to bring back to you my half-dozen readers, nuggets of electronic gold.

It's not easy being a prospector of this sort. No, indeed it is not. The internet has given a voice to countless thousands of people - and coming across some of them is as painful as having your nether regions shaved with a rusty butter knife. For every delight that I uncover for you, I endure untold sites about Wiccan chicks and their cats, tributes to TV shows best forgotten, shrill political diatribes from both right and left (all devoid of humor or perspective) - things so hideous to behold that my eyeballs bleed after viewing them.

But now and again I come across something worth sharing with you, my peeps, cousins, and other folks unfortunate enough to fallen into my (bad company). Today's gem (link via The American Undershirt)....Movie Criticism for the Retarded: a unique look at the world of motion pictures through the eyes of former video store clearks. If you like movies and off-kilter writing you'll spend mucho time here. Some highlights include:

-Justifying the Work of Patrick Swayze
He's really not so bad. And Point Break was a good movie dammit!

-I {Heart} Corey Feldman
This piece speaks for itself. Corey vanished so completely I forgot how underfoot he was in the 80s.

-Deconstructing the Tarantino Myth
A much more detailed look at the point I made earlier, namely that Tarantino's orginality was obscured by wave of imitators.

-Be Somebody... Or Be Somebody's Fool
Mr. T suffers the little children to come unto him. Hilarity ensues.

-The Guide to Inconsequential Star Wars Characters
If the names Lobot or Porkins ring a bell, you're a big enough Star Wars geek to enjoy this bit.

-Red Dawn
Explains why this classic film has such a strong appeal to teenage boys.

Now leave me some comments dammit.