So I was at the bar and this girl was there with her husband, I’ve talked to her before, she leans over and whispers, “You got any power?” Our lights came on Tuesday so I temporarily didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, so I quickly improvised myself a power. I said, “Yes I do.” I looked into her eyes and said, “You are getting sleepy, your eyelids… are getting heavy. Soon, you will drift into a deep, deep sleep. When you awaken, you will remember nothing of what has taken place. When I snap my fingers, you will take on all the characteristics of a small dog. You will look like a dog, act like a dog, think like a dog. You will feel refreshed, alert, and wanting to take a ride in the car with your nose out the window.” I snapped my fingers, and she barked, “Get outta here- that didn’t work!” Although I did see her later lapping an apple-tini out of a bowl, could be coincidence.
Man, that storm was a confluence of nasty winds and heavy snow and just went on forever. I was supposed to go to my 35th High School reunion the night of the storm. They actually held it, and of course the power went out. Leading me to believe that the only people motivated to show up were the ones who are REALLY REALLY successful or those who have done literally nothing in 35 years, leaving a huge “normalcy gap.” I was focused on simply trying to get back to my house- the snow was falling hard, and the trees were falling harder. Remember the ending scene of Hooper? Where Burt Reynolds is driving the rocket car through the chaos and mayhem, snapping his gum and grinning at Jan Michael-Vincent, who is whooping and holding on for dear life, as smokestacks are falling down all over the place just missing the car… That’s what it was like, only I didn’t even have any gum.
There are people in Connecticut who still don’t have electricity from a storm two years ago- the power company is predicting that all their customers will have full power in fourteen months. Connecticut has become the leading importer of fleece. And there is price-gouging going on, so make up your own joke and let me know what it is.
“Isn’t this romantic?” I asked my wife…. Snuggling in a blanket, sitting by the cozy fire, the candles, the radio playing softly, Monday Night Football…. She agreed that it was, and if it was more than 48 degrees in the house she would be willing to part with one and only one layer of clothing. The fire seems so hot when I am adjusting the logs and one goes POP and an ember lands on my foot and I dance like Chaz Bono only more femininely. But boy I get more than five inches away from that thing and icicles start forming inside my nose. I always figure that the fireplace’s poor efficiency is the result of bad Fire Administration. I ask my wife, “Did you screw around with this thing?” I stick the poker in there and adjust the logs, increasing the maximum oxygen flow based on a scientific algorithm that resides only in my head.
Everyone is planning to buy a generator. “When you get, hook it into your buss bar!” My neighbor, Paul explained. “You have a bar in your buss? Why don’t we just live in there for a couple days?” I asked. I talked to a guy who just bought a 20 kilowatt generator. “20 kilowatts!” I sneered, “That’s not even going to run a battery-operated flashlight! I am throwing FOUR THOUSAND WATTS of power at this problem, and I am running every goddamn thing in my house,” I testified. “I am running my HAIR DRYER! You are going to see me using a CUISINART and I will have FLUFFY HAIR! My house is going to be lit up like a Christmas tree, and so is our Christmas tree!” I have never used the Cuisinart, but I picture an increased need for it when the power is down.
There are going to be arguments about what our priorities are as a people. You only have so few watts to work with, and so many appliances vying for attention. I was going a little stir-crazy in the dark after my wife went to bed. The blender whispered to me, “Psst: margarita. 400 watts, out the door and it’s yours.” I started to walk toward it when I heard, “Incandescent lighting. Look at that pathetic candescent lighting over there- you make the call… 100 watts and you can screw the bulb, too.” “Hey hey hey! Cable box! The power is out at Cablevision but start rebooting now you know how long it takes!” “Ring Ring Ring! Sound familiar? Don’t forget you still have to go to work tomorrow! You will need 60 watts worth of alarm clock. Look at your wife sleeping like a baby. Her job is not NEARLY as important as yours…. People will be depending on you!”
Apparently, we are the only cheapskates on our street that don’t own a generator. It’s embarrassing, and my wife looks at me with a hybrid look combining pity and disdain. So I got up off my ass and did something about it. I purchased a battery-operated stereo system, set it up outside, and it plays a deafening tape loop that sounds like a generator running. It is very convincing.
Incidentally, I wanted to explain the difference between watts, amps and volts, but in researching it, the definitions involved a quantity of even more abstruse words, such as coulombs and joules. These words are barely even useful in Scrabble. For the purposes of my explanation we will use the analogy of a garden hose. Voltage describes the potential difference in the electricity of a circuit; the force that drives the electricity through the circuit. Consider voltage to be like the water pressure in the hose. Amperes, or amps, represent the amount of current in the circuit, like the amount of water in the hose. A watt is a measure of consumption of power: one watt is equal to one volt multiplied by one amp. So the watt is like the amount of water that comes out of the hose. The force that drives a person to turn on the garden hose in the corner of the garage near the circuit breaker in order to understand how electricity works is called stupidity.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
TWIB VIDEO BLOG- POPULAR UPRISINGS
TWIB VIDEO BLOG- POPULAR UPRISINGS
Laurie and I produced a video blog from one of my formerly timely blogs… I hope you enjoy it!
Thanks to the New Castle Community Media Center~
http://www.ncctv.org/index.php?option=com_jvideo&view=watch&id=466&Itemid=2#.TrQ9lfp2IaA.aolmail
Laurie and I produced a video blog from one of my formerly timely blogs… I hope you enjoy it!
Thanks to the New Castle Community Media Center~
http://www.ncctv.org/index.php?option=com_jvideo&view=watch&id=466&Itemid=2#.TrQ9lfp2IaA.aolmail
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
ALCOHOL, TOBACCO AND FIREARMS
I went to my very first skeet shooting and wine tasting party at Julie’s farm last week. You never know when your first skeet shooting and wine tasting party is also going to be your last. I wasn’t listening that closely when I was invited and heard something about shot this or shot that, and I thought it involved Alabama slammers, kamikazes, or maybe, sex-on-the-beach with an orgasm chaser. But this thing actually involved a fairly large arsenal of handguns, shotguns, rifles and of course a pink BB gun. It seemed like everybody in the place was packing. Mike had a .357, a police special .38 and what looked like a Kevlar vest just in case someone else had outgunned him. I thought I saw him pull a taser when I was reaching for the last chicken skewer.
I brought an appetizer, my shotgun and a couple of bandolero bullet belts. I was wearing a duster to affect a slightly menacing look, and also in case the place was dusty. It looked like we had barged in on a gun amnesty program. I thought I saw a hand grenade on the buffet table but it turned out to be a pineapple.
Lew and Rob ran the target shooting areas with safety in mind, and no one was killed or seriously hurt. Or even humorously hurt. I shouldn’t say no one, since I tripped up the stairs twice at the barn. Everyone had earplugs to use against the noise, and I noticed several people even wore them later on as I was talking to them, I’m not sure why.
Many guests had never fired a live weapon, and seeing so many women with guns was both exciting and unnerving. I myself had never shot a handgun, so I stepped up to the target area. I waved off the instruction, since I had watched the beginning of every James Bond movie at least 50 times. The target said to me, “So, Mr. Bond, we meet again- and this time, the cards are in MY favor. HA HA HA HA HA!” I wryly responded, “You had better check your hand once more, my friend… perhaps you hadn’t counted on THIS!” I spread my feet, lifted my sidearm using both hands, and emptied the clip. The target did not go down, so I threw the gun at it, momentarily confusing James Bond with Superman. Lew pried the gun out of my hand, saying something about having to re-sod the lawn now.
I fared a little better with the shotgun, since I have shot skeet before. Luckily, most of the clay pigeons broke coming out of the thrower, and if I shot quickly and winked I could create the illusion of success. Most of the birds fell harmlessly into the lake, and when I say harmlessly, I’m not counting all the fish who were beaned in the head. I asked Julie if she could put some of the fish into a barrel so we could shoot them and see if it was as easy as people say.
The estate was spectacular and beautiful. The grounds so big they could only be navigated by Segways with knobby tires. If you have never ridden a Segway, it’s quite a treat: you simply get on, and after you chase it about 20 feet trying to get on, you just lean in one direction or the other to turn or go forward or backward. The property slopes to the west, so several Republicans fell off the thing trying to turn left.
The wine tasting was also lovely, except for a tense moment when somebody popped a champagne cork and everybody hit the deck, still a little gun-shy. The venison was quite tasty, and it turned out that the boys had killed it themselves. No one would actually admit that they ran into it with their car, but I did see an antler-sized dent in the fender. There was a beautiful duck on the table that the menfolk had shot and stuffed. They said it was a hooded merganser, but I couldn’t tell one way or the other with the hood on.
Everyone brought an appetizer, and my wife made a delicious chicken and ginger offering. I kind of wished we had shot the chicken ourselves, but it was already dead so it seemed pointless. I did however empty some lead into the ginger.
I hope Julie doesn’t mind, but on my way to the party I took the liberty of stopping by the neighbor’s house to feign asking directions, and I let them know our two families were having a nasty blood feud and we were still pretty pissed off that the North won the war. When the gunfire started I pictured them shivering under the bed pretending to be dead.
Incidentally, the Puckle gun was unveiled in 1718 by James Puckle. Some say that “necessity is the mother of invention,” but it’s possible that having a name like Puckle is, instead. It fired square bullets, an upgrade over his previous design, which fired bullets in the shape of a parallelogram. Samuel Colt was the first to apply modern machining and mass production to the manufacture of firearms, his patent for the Colt revolver issued in 1836. Muzzle-loaders went out with the Crimean War in 1856, with the exception of my dog.
I brought an appetizer, my shotgun and a couple of bandolero bullet belts. I was wearing a duster to affect a slightly menacing look, and also in case the place was dusty. It looked like we had barged in on a gun amnesty program. I thought I saw a hand grenade on the buffet table but it turned out to be a pineapple.
Lew and Rob ran the target shooting areas with safety in mind, and no one was killed or seriously hurt. Or even humorously hurt. I shouldn’t say no one, since I tripped up the stairs twice at the barn. Everyone had earplugs to use against the noise, and I noticed several people even wore them later on as I was talking to them, I’m not sure why.
Many guests had never fired a live weapon, and seeing so many women with guns was both exciting and unnerving. I myself had never shot a handgun, so I stepped up to the target area. I waved off the instruction, since I had watched the beginning of every James Bond movie at least 50 times. The target said to me, “So, Mr. Bond, we meet again- and this time, the cards are in MY favor. HA HA HA HA HA!” I wryly responded, “You had better check your hand once more, my friend… perhaps you hadn’t counted on THIS!” I spread my feet, lifted my sidearm using both hands, and emptied the clip. The target did not go down, so I threw the gun at it, momentarily confusing James Bond with Superman. Lew pried the gun out of my hand, saying something about having to re-sod the lawn now.
I fared a little better with the shotgun, since I have shot skeet before. Luckily, most of the clay pigeons broke coming out of the thrower, and if I shot quickly and winked I could create the illusion of success. Most of the birds fell harmlessly into the lake, and when I say harmlessly, I’m not counting all the fish who were beaned in the head. I asked Julie if she could put some of the fish into a barrel so we could shoot them and see if it was as easy as people say.
The estate was spectacular and beautiful. The grounds so big they could only be navigated by Segways with knobby tires. If you have never ridden a Segway, it’s quite a treat: you simply get on, and after you chase it about 20 feet trying to get on, you just lean in one direction or the other to turn or go forward or backward. The property slopes to the west, so several Republicans fell off the thing trying to turn left.
The wine tasting was also lovely, except for a tense moment when somebody popped a champagne cork and everybody hit the deck, still a little gun-shy. The venison was quite tasty, and it turned out that the boys had killed it themselves. No one would actually admit that they ran into it with their car, but I did see an antler-sized dent in the fender. There was a beautiful duck on the table that the menfolk had shot and stuffed. They said it was a hooded merganser, but I couldn’t tell one way or the other with the hood on.
Everyone brought an appetizer, and my wife made a delicious chicken and ginger offering. I kind of wished we had shot the chicken ourselves, but it was already dead so it seemed pointless. I did however empty some lead into the ginger.
I hope Julie doesn’t mind, but on my way to the party I took the liberty of stopping by the neighbor’s house to feign asking directions, and I let them know our two families were having a nasty blood feud and we were still pretty pissed off that the North won the war. When the gunfire started I pictured them shivering under the bed pretending to be dead.
Incidentally, the Puckle gun was unveiled in 1718 by James Puckle. Some say that “necessity is the mother of invention,” but it’s possible that having a name like Puckle is, instead. It fired square bullets, an upgrade over his previous design, which fired bullets in the shape of a parallelogram. Samuel Colt was the first to apply modern machining and mass production to the manufacture of firearms, his patent for the Colt revolver issued in 1836. Muzzle-loaders went out with the Crimean War in 1856, with the exception of my dog.
Friday, October 14, 2011
OCCUPYING WALL STREET
OCCUPYING WALL STREET
Have you ever been to Wall Street? It is impossibly small and difficult to navigate as it is.
A few weeks ago a small throng of protesters assembled there to rail against greed, avarice and people with high salaries. They intend to stay there until their demands are met. What are their demands, exactly? Well, they don’t actually have demands. They just don’t like the people who were already occupying Wall Street, the ones with occupations. Let me say straight away that I don’t like stockbrokers any better than they do, because even when I buy high and sell low, they STILL make money, and that pisses me off. I don’t know what a hedge fund manager is, but if they are the ones with those long spines and beady little eyes, I don’t like them any better. I don’t like the fact that people can buy on margin, using some poor sap’s money (mine) to make a losing investment.
There is a certain type of people that is attracted magnetically to a protest that doesn't actually have a goal. You know who I'm talking about: People with a lot of earrings through their nose, mouth, eyebrows (although not ears). If they drink a glass of milk next to you stand two feet away so you don't get soaked when it leaks through all the frigging holes.
The vegetarian type who would eat rhubarb or cauliflower just because they are supposedly edible. By the way, can a vegetarian eat horse radish??
The ones who express themselves through "body art." I like to ask people with a lot of ink, "What is your absolute WORST tattoo?" And see if I can get them to admit that they might have evolved since they let a fat guy with a beard etch a picture of Pebbles Flintstone onto their ass.
People who were a little too weird to get into PETA.
These are the type of people who go around chaining themselves to things. I chained up my bicycle in Atlantic City and it was gone in two seconds, but you could chain up these people with a feeling of complete safety, even at Oriental Avenue, where you cannot extract a penny of Monopoly rent money.
Crowd control is difficult now because you have to be pleasant and not hurt anybody’s feelings or else it's bad PR for the Mayor. They don't use water cannons anymore, even though I bet they would be quite effective- chicks HATE getting their hair wet. I was at a pool party where the kids had super-soaker squirt guns, and I dispersed after the very first salvo was fired. Then again, if you turn the entire demonstration into a wet T-shirt contest, would anyone leave? I say let the cops cuff everyone together by their nipple rings.
They call themselves the 99 percent, referring to the idea that one percent of billionaires in this country (actually about 380K per year qualifies you) control about 50 percent of the wealth (actually about 35 percent). I first thought this somehow had to do with one percent milk. I do not qualify to be in lofty financial elite, but we do live fairly comfortably, because we can afford pillows in every room. Also we do not need to use crude oil like the poor people do, and we use only refined sugar. I stick my pinkie finger out when I drink tea, but only because my fingers don’t fit inside the handle.
Leave it to Americans to organize a huge action to protest something that every single one of them would secretly like to be a part of. It’s like me organizing a protest against Dana Delaney. If she happens to come to my sit-in and crook her finger at me, I may have to leave in a hurry and turn my bullhorn and clipboard over to you. But that’s a big “if.”
Occupy Wall Street? How about occupying your time more constructively? They don’t really seem to want to have a purpose. But I'll give them one anyway:* How about we save the American Political System with just one rule: a campaign budget limit of two million dollars (or whatever you like that's not more than the GNP of small countries), the same for all candidates. Spend it on TV, tours, whatever you like. That would level the playing field, although you would need a slight slope for drainage, hobble the big business contributions and get rid of the two-party model. A two-model party is a different story. Let voting blocs form as they will, and align differently on different issues. Spend all those wasted campaign billions on something useful like luxury resorts in the Mediterranean and first-class airfare. And let's not invite ANYONE who eats kale!
I don’t know what this Twitter revolt will ultimately accomplish. But I do know that there seem to be WAY too many people with too much time on their hands. I have a funny feeling that the unemployment rate will soon be approximately 99%. I also know that those in the top 2 and 3% are not pulling their weight at the protest. Further, I know with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY that this will all result in me NEVER again finding a parking space downtown.
Incidentally, in 1685, New Amsterdam Director-General Peter Stuyvesant oversaw the building of the wall for which Wall Street is named. It was built to keep out the Indians, which is ironic since now you can’t find a cab without them. He also presided over laying out Broadway, but if it was supposed to keep out the broads it didn’t work. Stuyvesant was known as “Old Peg Leg” after he lost part of his right leg to a cannonball during an attack on Saint Martin in 1644. We were in Saint Martin four years ago, but we didn’t find anything.
*I don’t do a lot of politics; there are people even more annoying than me for that.
Have you ever been to Wall Street? It is impossibly small and difficult to navigate as it is.
A few weeks ago a small throng of protesters assembled there to rail against greed, avarice and people with high salaries. They intend to stay there until their demands are met. What are their demands, exactly? Well, they don’t actually have demands. They just don’t like the people who were already occupying Wall Street, the ones with occupations. Let me say straight away that I don’t like stockbrokers any better than they do, because even when I buy high and sell low, they STILL make money, and that pisses me off. I don’t know what a hedge fund manager is, but if they are the ones with those long spines and beady little eyes, I don’t like them any better. I don’t like the fact that people can buy on margin, using some poor sap’s money (mine) to make a losing investment.
There is a certain type of people that is attracted magnetically to a protest that doesn't actually have a goal. You know who I'm talking about: People with a lot of earrings through their nose, mouth, eyebrows (although not ears). If they drink a glass of milk next to you stand two feet away so you don't get soaked when it leaks through all the frigging holes.
The vegetarian type who would eat rhubarb or cauliflower just because they are supposedly edible. By the way, can a vegetarian eat horse radish??
The ones who express themselves through "body art." I like to ask people with a lot of ink, "What is your absolute WORST tattoo?" And see if I can get them to admit that they might have evolved since they let a fat guy with a beard etch a picture of Pebbles Flintstone onto their ass.
People who were a little too weird to get into PETA.
These are the type of people who go around chaining themselves to things. I chained up my bicycle in Atlantic City and it was gone in two seconds, but you could chain up these people with a feeling of complete safety, even at Oriental Avenue, where you cannot extract a penny of Monopoly rent money.
Crowd control is difficult now because you have to be pleasant and not hurt anybody’s feelings or else it's bad PR for the Mayor. They don't use water cannons anymore, even though I bet they would be quite effective- chicks HATE getting their hair wet. I was at a pool party where the kids had super-soaker squirt guns, and I dispersed after the very first salvo was fired. Then again, if you turn the entire demonstration into a wet T-shirt contest, would anyone leave? I say let the cops cuff everyone together by their nipple rings.
They call themselves the 99 percent, referring to the idea that one percent of billionaires in this country (actually about 380K per year qualifies you) control about 50 percent of the wealth (actually about 35 percent). I first thought this somehow had to do with one percent milk. I do not qualify to be in lofty financial elite, but we do live fairly comfortably, because we can afford pillows in every room. Also we do not need to use crude oil like the poor people do, and we use only refined sugar. I stick my pinkie finger out when I drink tea, but only because my fingers don’t fit inside the handle.
Leave it to Americans to organize a huge action to protest something that every single one of them would secretly like to be a part of. It’s like me organizing a protest against Dana Delaney. If she happens to come to my sit-in and crook her finger at me, I may have to leave in a hurry and turn my bullhorn and clipboard over to you. But that’s a big “if.”
Occupy Wall Street? How about occupying your time more constructively? They don’t really seem to want to have a purpose. But I'll give them one anyway:* How about we save the American Political System with just one rule: a campaign budget limit of two million dollars (or whatever you like that's not more than the GNP of small countries), the same for all candidates. Spend it on TV, tours, whatever you like. That would level the playing field, although you would need a slight slope for drainage, hobble the big business contributions and get rid of the two-party model. A two-model party is a different story. Let voting blocs form as they will, and align differently on different issues. Spend all those wasted campaign billions on something useful like luxury resorts in the Mediterranean and first-class airfare. And let's not invite ANYONE who eats kale!
I don’t know what this Twitter revolt will ultimately accomplish. But I do know that there seem to be WAY too many people with too much time on their hands. I have a funny feeling that the unemployment rate will soon be approximately 99%. I also know that those in the top 2 and 3% are not pulling their weight at the protest. Further, I know with ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY that this will all result in me NEVER again finding a parking space downtown.
Incidentally, in 1685, New Amsterdam Director-General Peter Stuyvesant oversaw the building of the wall for which Wall Street is named. It was built to keep out the Indians, which is ironic since now you can’t find a cab without them. He also presided over laying out Broadway, but if it was supposed to keep out the broads it didn’t work. Stuyvesant was known as “Old Peg Leg” after he lost part of his right leg to a cannonball during an attack on Saint Martin in 1644. We were in Saint Martin four years ago, but we didn’t find anything.
*I don’t do a lot of politics; there are people even more annoying than me for that.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
WHAT'S IN A NAME
WHAT'S IN A NAME
I am headed to my high school reunion in a few weeks, and I wonder if anyone will recognize me. Not because I have changed that much, but because I was hardly ever there. At the time I considered myself home-schooled. Now you may say that I was probably involved in “extra-curricular activities,” but if you only knew what was in my curriculum you would have to admit I stuck to it pretty faithfully. Anyway, it's possible that someone at the reunion might remember my name, if it was the same, but it isn't. I'm sorry, parents, but I never thought of myself as a "Dave." These days everyone calls me Rick, even though that's not my name either, legally. I had my middle name officially changed to my first name, and as a result, most officials call me Eric. Those at work figure Rick is somehow short for Eric, even though they are both four letters. Sometimes they address an email to "Ric," thinking that I am just too lazy to make the effort for the extra syllable. But Rick is an assumed name. I assumed it in college, at the risk of making an ASS out of U and ME (mostly U).
The process parents use when they choose a name for their baby is both inscrutable and scary. Howard Stern is always complaining about his name: What parent looks at a little baby and thinks it looks like a "Howard?" I wonder if the baby actually looked like a Howard to them, or if they were thinking ahead to some day when it might. Black moms favor a name that is 1.) three syllables, 2.) seems unpronounceable just by looking at it, and 3.) ends in an "a." This is no joke: once on Judge Judy a mom introduced her daughter as Latrina. That one was clearly not thought through. They also like something with some punctuation in it. Another true story: my sister's friend is a teacher, and when she saw the name "La-a" on her roll call she was stumped. "Is your name pronounced 'La-uh?'" She asked. "No!" the girl replied, "It's La DASH uh! The DASH is NOT silent!" I was channel surfing and came across a movie starring someone named “N’Bushe Wright.” What is supposed to go between the “N” and the “Bushe?” I can think of a lot of different things to put in there. YOU think of some and let me know.
Celebrities are no better, possibly worse. Gwyneth Paltrow named her kid Apple. I guess to instill core values? It’s almost worth having another kid and naming it Orange, then compare the two. Angelina and Brad named their kid Maddox. Is Brad is a big Atlanta Braves fan or something? Let’s see just HOW big if he names one Smoltz. Frank Zappa, I guess trying to be funny, names his kid Dweezil. This name is easy enough to understand when you realize that he combined three of his favorite things to form the name: dwarfs, weasels and tweezers.
Parents: think ahead to the torture your kid will go through. My grandmothers' and great aunt's names were: Gladys, Mildred and Blanche. Is that sexy or what? How did grandchildren ever get born back then?
I think the Indians had a better idea on how to name a baby, basing it on how the baby’s physical qualities might be represented in nature. If it catches on, expect more names like: “Rains from Wrong End,” or “Gurgles like Aunt Mary’s Stomach” or “Shrieks like Faulty Car Alarm.”
Now that soap operas are being cancelled right and left, who is going to provide America’s children with popular names? Dylan, Chase, Lance…. Connor, Shane, thank god Ridge never caught on… I know if I had a kid I would name it Victor Newman, even if it was a girl, just so I would have an excuse to do my world-famous imitation.
Also, Mom & Dad, consider all the angles. These days celebrities take the first initial from the first name and the first syllable from the last name, and combine them: A-Rod, J-Lo, YOU try it! So Mom, if your last name is Nussbaum, don’t name the kid Anthony. If your last name is Bagnotti, Duane is out….
Grownups don’t fare any better with their own names. Prince, whose name really is Prince, decided he didn’t like that name, and changed it to some goofy symbol. What was that thing? A theta? A beta? A Catherine Zeta? No one knew what the hell that thing was so they just called him “the artist formerly known as Prince.” Then he didn’t like the theta thing so he changed it back to Prince, and was called “the artist formerly known as that squiggly thing.” He hasn’t had a hit song for awhile, and now he is simply called “the artist formerly known.”
Getting married and taking your husbands name presents all kinds of other issues. I told my wife when we got married I didn’t mind if she wanted to keep her maiden name, since so many of the other maidens were doing it. But PLEASE no hyphenates. Jesus- who can fit it on a check? And what if you have children, and your hyphenate kid marries another hyphenate? Your name starts to look like the Morse code and before you know it somebody is rescuing you for no reason.
Incidentally, they keep a list of the most popular name combinations for twins. Number four on the girls’ list is Faith and Hope. Clearly Mom is looking for some guidance. Number 18 is Heaven and Nevaeh, and I am not kidding: 16 dingbat moms and dads named their poor girls that. Dumb and rebmud. London and Paris clocked in at number 21. I don’t know where Cleveland and Omaha check in, but they have to be right up there. Mia and Mya, at number 23, is cute, but what about triplets: Mia, Myselfa, and Eya....
I am headed to my high school reunion in a few weeks, and I wonder if anyone will recognize me. Not because I have changed that much, but because I was hardly ever there. At the time I considered myself home-schooled. Now you may say that I was probably involved in “extra-curricular activities,” but if you only knew what was in my curriculum you would have to admit I stuck to it pretty faithfully. Anyway, it's possible that someone at the reunion might remember my name, if it was the same, but it isn't. I'm sorry, parents, but I never thought of myself as a "Dave." These days everyone calls me Rick, even though that's not my name either, legally. I had my middle name officially changed to my first name, and as a result, most officials call me Eric. Those at work figure Rick is somehow short for Eric, even though they are both four letters. Sometimes they address an email to "Ric," thinking that I am just too lazy to make the effort for the extra syllable. But Rick is an assumed name. I assumed it in college, at the risk of making an ASS out of U and ME (mostly U).
The process parents use when they choose a name for their baby is both inscrutable and scary. Howard Stern is always complaining about his name: What parent looks at a little baby and thinks it looks like a "Howard?" I wonder if the baby actually looked like a Howard to them, or if they were thinking ahead to some day when it might. Black moms favor a name that is 1.) three syllables, 2.) seems unpronounceable just by looking at it, and 3.) ends in an "a." This is no joke: once on Judge Judy a mom introduced her daughter as Latrina. That one was clearly not thought through. They also like something with some punctuation in it. Another true story: my sister's friend is a teacher, and when she saw the name "La-a" on her roll call she was stumped. "Is your name pronounced 'La-uh?'" She asked. "No!" the girl replied, "It's La DASH uh! The DASH is NOT silent!" I was channel surfing and came across a movie starring someone named “N’Bushe Wright.” What is supposed to go between the “N” and the “Bushe?” I can think of a lot of different things to put in there. YOU think of some and let me know.
Celebrities are no better, possibly worse. Gwyneth Paltrow named her kid Apple. I guess to instill core values? It’s almost worth having another kid and naming it Orange, then compare the two. Angelina and Brad named their kid Maddox. Is Brad is a big Atlanta Braves fan or something? Let’s see just HOW big if he names one Smoltz. Frank Zappa, I guess trying to be funny, names his kid Dweezil. This name is easy enough to understand when you realize that he combined three of his favorite things to form the name: dwarfs, weasels and tweezers.
Parents: think ahead to the torture your kid will go through. My grandmothers' and great aunt's names were: Gladys, Mildred and Blanche. Is that sexy or what? How did grandchildren ever get born back then?
I think the Indians had a better idea on how to name a baby, basing it on how the baby’s physical qualities might be represented in nature. If it catches on, expect more names like: “Rains from Wrong End,” or “Gurgles like Aunt Mary’s Stomach” or “Shrieks like Faulty Car Alarm.”
Now that soap operas are being cancelled right and left, who is going to provide America’s children with popular names? Dylan, Chase, Lance…. Connor, Shane, thank god Ridge never caught on… I know if I had a kid I would name it Victor Newman, even if it was a girl, just so I would have an excuse to do my world-famous imitation.
Also, Mom & Dad, consider all the angles. These days celebrities take the first initial from the first name and the first syllable from the last name, and combine them: A-Rod, J-Lo, YOU try it! So Mom, if your last name is Nussbaum, don’t name the kid Anthony. If your last name is Bagnotti, Duane is out….
Grownups don’t fare any better with their own names. Prince, whose name really is Prince, decided he didn’t like that name, and changed it to some goofy symbol. What was that thing? A theta? A beta? A Catherine Zeta? No one knew what the hell that thing was so they just called him “the artist formerly known as Prince.” Then he didn’t like the theta thing so he changed it back to Prince, and was called “the artist formerly known as that squiggly thing.” He hasn’t had a hit song for awhile, and now he is simply called “the artist formerly known.”
Getting married and taking your husbands name presents all kinds of other issues. I told my wife when we got married I didn’t mind if she wanted to keep her maiden name, since so many of the other maidens were doing it. But PLEASE no hyphenates. Jesus- who can fit it on a check? And what if you have children, and your hyphenate kid marries another hyphenate? Your name starts to look like the Morse code and before you know it somebody is rescuing you for no reason.
Incidentally, they keep a list of the most popular name combinations for twins. Number four on the girls’ list is Faith and Hope. Clearly Mom is looking for some guidance. Number 18 is Heaven and Nevaeh, and I am not kidding: 16 dingbat moms and dads named their poor girls that. Dumb and rebmud. London and Paris clocked in at number 21. I don’t know where Cleveland and Omaha check in, but they have to be right up there. Mia and Mya, at number 23, is cute, but what about triplets: Mia, Myselfa, and Eya....
Thursday, September 8, 2011
HURRICANE IRENE
HURRICANE IRENE
Rarely does a major hurricane venture up this way. The big storms fancy the Caribbean, where the weather is nice and the water is warm. Who can blame them? But every once in a while we get slammed, and scientists get together with meteorologists and ask themselves: “Why the hell would anyone live so goddamn close to the Passaic River?” Then the meteorologists ask themselves: “Why are we wasting so much time studying meteors when there are friggin’ hurricanes out there?”
MUCH more fascinating than the weather event itself is the television coverage leading up to it. Of course there is the obligatory interminable Bloomberg press conference, where the mayor asks himself questions and then correctly answers them. Would it be much more interesting if he used “true/ false” questions? True. Does he often ask/ answer the same question more than once? Yes and yes. Does he have a very nasal twang as if a moth flew up his nose? Doh questiod aboud id. Would the moth make a more interesting press conference subject? Uh-huh. Does New York City have the finest policemen/ firemen/ sanitation workers/ street sweepers/ hot dog cart guys in the world? Of course.
Ever since that one snowstorm where Bloomberg refused to come out and plow everyone’s driveway the human suffering and loss of life just from the press conference is immeasurable. In Ocean City, Maryland, they stopped selling alcohol, hoping people would leave, and I am not making that up. By contrast Governor Christie came out and DEMANDED that no one leave their homes. He implied that he would be waiting outside if you did, and that he would kick your ass. It is more than a week later, and I never actually heard him say that you were allowed out of the house yet.
Back at the weather center, the local TV news girls are looking grim. The storm is 72 hours away and the stage manager is making the hand signal for “Fill! Fill! Fill!!” Luckily there is a correspondent occupying every square cubit of the Earth, waiting to interview someone who is in a hurry. They chased one guy all the way to the hardware store, where he finally lost them by hiding under a storm door.
At the Doppler Rader terminal, everyone is putting together the weather models, and that glue is making them a little goofy. They are carefully tracking the movements of the storm, as it collects off shore. It hurtles towards the Outer Banks, throws a couple jukes to try and lose the trackers, does a spin move and careens toward North Carolina, where it spins its wheels over a McDonalds to gather strength, sucking up all the Big Macs and Apple Pies before heading to a local stripper club.
The coverage dragged on into the small hours as we all waited for the damn thing to get here. The weather girls had to make their splash now, because by the time we actually needed to hear what they had to say, there would be no power to about a fifth of the country. The sideways reporters stood by the beach and derided the irresponsible surfers. Brian Williams showed up, and he seemed drunk. Sue Simmons looked stoned. The experts were making up phrases like "cone of uncertainty." They had greatest hits from past hurricanes, which all look pretty much alike.
At our house we heeded the warnings: we filled our tub with Hawaiian Punch in case the stores were sold out of it. We stocked up on batteries, lest we need to remove them from small appliances that will remain nameless. We put together an emergency kit that included a radio (the Yankees are only a game out of first place), Scrabble (plus the dictionary, since no one ever believes me that “qat” is a real word), a candle (not for light so much, more to annoy my wife by singing the chorus of “Candle In the Wind” to it, with much emotion) and a bic lighter (if Bloomberg comes on one more time I can light myself on fire).
We lost power, and could not find it again for two-and-a-half days. During that time we did a crossword puzzle or two, went for a walk with our dog, played some crazy windblown post-hurricane tennis, held a cook-out at home…. Monday, with no way to get to work, we went for a motorcycle ride into the calm August sun to visit the churning, debris-laden Hudson River. It hearkened back to a time as a college grad when my Mom and I would hop in the car with no particular destination, point ourselves in a direction and enjoy the ride and each others’ company. Monday night was so quiet that all you could hear on our street was the low hum of gas-powered generators and the sounds of people hearkening. They hearkened with their children, they hearkened with their friends, they hearkened with their wives. We hearkened with our neighbors, who never seem to tire of saving our ass in one way or another. The next day the power returned, the TV returned, the IPads returned and our camping trip to nowhere was over. It served as a reminder of how nice nostalgia used to be.
Incidentally, an average of six storms escalate to hurricane status each year. Two of these will hit the U.S. coastline, and four will result in gnarly waves. A weather event added to a tropical environment with warm water and light winds for an extended period of time can result in a hurricane. It is a form of cyclone and in the Northern Hemisphere results in a storm system that turns in a counter-clockwise direction. This means that if the winds blow fast enough, they can turn back time to a much more innocent period when generators were still available at Home Depot.
Rarely does a major hurricane venture up this way. The big storms fancy the Caribbean, where the weather is nice and the water is warm. Who can blame them? But every once in a while we get slammed, and scientists get together with meteorologists and ask themselves: “Why the hell would anyone live so goddamn close to the Passaic River?” Then the meteorologists ask themselves: “Why are we wasting so much time studying meteors when there are friggin’ hurricanes out there?”
MUCH more fascinating than the weather event itself is the television coverage leading up to it. Of course there is the obligatory interminable Bloomberg press conference, where the mayor asks himself questions and then correctly answers them. Would it be much more interesting if he used “true/ false” questions? True. Does he often ask/ answer the same question more than once? Yes and yes. Does he have a very nasal twang as if a moth flew up his nose? Doh questiod aboud id. Would the moth make a more interesting press conference subject? Uh-huh. Does New York City have the finest policemen/ firemen/ sanitation workers/ street sweepers/ hot dog cart guys in the world? Of course.
Ever since that one snowstorm where Bloomberg refused to come out and plow everyone’s driveway the human suffering and loss of life just from the press conference is immeasurable. In Ocean City, Maryland, they stopped selling alcohol, hoping people would leave, and I am not making that up. By contrast Governor Christie came out and DEMANDED that no one leave their homes. He implied that he would be waiting outside if you did, and that he would kick your ass. It is more than a week later, and I never actually heard him say that you were allowed out of the house yet.
Back at the weather center, the local TV news girls are looking grim. The storm is 72 hours away and the stage manager is making the hand signal for “Fill! Fill! Fill!!” Luckily there is a correspondent occupying every square cubit of the Earth, waiting to interview someone who is in a hurry. They chased one guy all the way to the hardware store, where he finally lost them by hiding under a storm door.
At the Doppler Rader terminal, everyone is putting together the weather models, and that glue is making them a little goofy. They are carefully tracking the movements of the storm, as it collects off shore. It hurtles towards the Outer Banks, throws a couple jukes to try and lose the trackers, does a spin move and careens toward North Carolina, where it spins its wheels over a McDonalds to gather strength, sucking up all the Big Macs and Apple Pies before heading to a local stripper club.
The coverage dragged on into the small hours as we all waited for the damn thing to get here. The weather girls had to make their splash now, because by the time we actually needed to hear what they had to say, there would be no power to about a fifth of the country. The sideways reporters stood by the beach and derided the irresponsible surfers. Brian Williams showed up, and he seemed drunk. Sue Simmons looked stoned. The experts were making up phrases like "cone of uncertainty." They had greatest hits from past hurricanes, which all look pretty much alike.
At our house we heeded the warnings: we filled our tub with Hawaiian Punch in case the stores were sold out of it. We stocked up on batteries, lest we need to remove them from small appliances that will remain nameless. We put together an emergency kit that included a radio (the Yankees are only a game out of first place), Scrabble (plus the dictionary, since no one ever believes me that “qat” is a real word), a candle (not for light so much, more to annoy my wife by singing the chorus of “Candle In the Wind” to it, with much emotion) and a bic lighter (if Bloomberg comes on one more time I can light myself on fire).
We lost power, and could not find it again for two-and-a-half days. During that time we did a crossword puzzle or two, went for a walk with our dog, played some crazy windblown post-hurricane tennis, held a cook-out at home…. Monday, with no way to get to work, we went for a motorcycle ride into the calm August sun to visit the churning, debris-laden Hudson River. It hearkened back to a time as a college grad when my Mom and I would hop in the car with no particular destination, point ourselves in a direction and enjoy the ride and each others’ company. Monday night was so quiet that all you could hear on our street was the low hum of gas-powered generators and the sounds of people hearkening. They hearkened with their children, they hearkened with their friends, they hearkened with their wives. We hearkened with our neighbors, who never seem to tire of saving our ass in one way or another. The next day the power returned, the TV returned, the IPads returned and our camping trip to nowhere was over. It served as a reminder of how nice nostalgia used to be.
Incidentally, an average of six storms escalate to hurricane status each year. Two of these will hit the U.S. coastline, and four will result in gnarly waves. A weather event added to a tropical environment with warm water and light winds for an extended period of time can result in a hurricane. It is a form of cyclone and in the Northern Hemisphere results in a storm system that turns in a counter-clockwise direction. This means that if the winds blow fast enough, they can turn back time to a much more innocent period when generators were still available at Home Depot.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
SECOND CAREER
SECOND CAREER
I don't know much about rap music, other than that I never hear the term anymore except when uttered by people who don't know much about rap music. It seems to be called "hip-hop" now, which could give a person the serious misconception that it is written and performed by bunnies. The lyrics don't bear this out, since they deal in very un-bunny-like themes, such as self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. It's all part of "hip-hop culture," and how those two words found themselves in the same sentence is one of the great mysteries of the world.
Live performances of these artists rarely result in actual music being played by actual people. Luckily, there is singing. Well, not exactly singing, but there is lip-syncing during the parts where a tune is in danger of forming. It's as if the artist considers himself extremely fortunate to have hit the correct notes one magical time when they were recording the song, and doesn't want to press his luck at the concert. If the singer is feeling brave enough to attempt to actually sing, the microphone he uses is always a "pitch-correcting" device that figures out the closest note to the one he is trying to hit and nails it! A less gifted singer myself, I tried a pitch-correcting mike, and when it actually shrugged its shoulders I got the hint.
You don't need to know how to play instruments, as long as you know how to play records. The "DJ" can usually be seen wearing a pair of headphones on one ear only. If you talk to an off-duty DJ, make sure you stand on the non-deaf side. The DJ is the one who makes those god-awful scratching sounds incessantly during a perfectly good song. Another piece of advice, don't lend him any of your records.
If the group does not have a DJ, odds are that it will instead employ an "MC," or Master of Ceremonies. Most of the ceremonies include self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. The foremost MC that I can think of was MC Hammer. The ceremony that he is most famous for mastering was the pilferage of Rick James' "Super Freak," which he took credit for writing, since he yells out "U can't touch this!" (he wrote that!), smack in the middle of the chorus.
Rap music has spawned an entire industry on the creation of beats. You can now buy a beat, if you don't have any of your own. When I found that out my heart skipped a beat, and I had to buy it back. The service comes in handy if you use the "rhythm method" of birth control. You can now even lease a beat, provided you return it in good condition. Back in the olden days there was a device called a drummer that provided much the same service, but it was unreliable and was expensive to lubricate.
If there are no instruments or live singing, you are probably wondering what all those people are doing onstage. Those are professional gyrators. If the rap artist is a male, there are at least five female gyrators with large rear-ends, and if the artist is female there are a minimum of five male gyrators, hoping to at least pass for bisexual.
And it works: all the dancing is infectious, and without an antibiotic it is impossible not to dance to some of these tunes. One time I busted a move out on the dance floor, and since no one could fix it I was forced to return to my seat.
There are certain bands that perform a mixture of rock and hip-hop, like Linkin Park, for instance. These hybrid bands are intriguing in the way they cross over socio-artistic boundaries, and also because they save on gas.
I didn't know who Usher was when he first burst on the scene, but I knew he was much more talented than those others who didn't make it: Valet, Gas Station Attendant, Electronic Integrated Systems Mechanic, none of them had what it takes.
But I think I do. In every rap song, during the un-rapped parts, there is always a guy going "UH-UH-UH" in the background, as if someone was repeatedly dropping a D-cell battery on their foot. Sometimes he repeats what the rapper says, in case you didn't realize how important it was. I am mastering the art of ceremonies, including the posturing. I made the mistake of practicing those rap hand gestures outdoors, and a plane landed right next to me.
I will need a name. "Lil'" this or that is popular, "Lil'" being short for "Litl'." I am not small enough for that: "Me'm" would be better. Anything with a "Q," "J" or other high-scoring Scrabble letter is good. If your name sounds goofy, change it: Puff Daddy thought his rap name sounded foolish, so he adopted the much more intelligent-sounding "P-Diddy." Work the word "ice" into it if possible, to symbolize street toughness. You never know when you might encounter death on my street, since deer are not as swift as one would think. Use "z" at the end of anything plural and "K" to replace anything that starts with a "C." So call me "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez," especially if you are the I.R.S....
Incidentally, some historians believe that rap music came to the U.S. from Africa, and others contend that it arrived from the Caribbean. Either way, it's doubtful that it had a valid passport. The "hip-hop lifestyle" is said to include four elements: rap, graffiti art, break dancing and DJ-ing. For me, any type of dancing is considered break dancing, and my orthopedist will back me up. So if you ever hear that "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez is in da house," den itz time to change da lockz.
I don't know much about rap music, other than that I never hear the term anymore except when uttered by people who don't know much about rap music. It seems to be called "hip-hop" now, which could give a person the serious misconception that it is written and performed by bunnies. The lyrics don't bear this out, since they deal in very un-bunny-like themes, such as self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. It's all part of "hip-hop culture," and how those two words found themselves in the same sentence is one of the great mysteries of the world.
Live performances of these artists rarely result in actual music being played by actual people. Luckily, there is singing. Well, not exactly singing, but there is lip-syncing during the parts where a tune is in danger of forming. It's as if the artist considers himself extremely fortunate to have hit the correct notes one magical time when they were recording the song, and doesn't want to press his luck at the concert. If the singer is feeling brave enough to attempt to actually sing, the microphone he uses is always a "pitch-correcting" device that figures out the closest note to the one he is trying to hit and nails it! A less gifted singer myself, I tried a pitch-correcting mike, and when it actually shrugged its shoulders I got the hint.
You don't need to know how to play instruments, as long as you know how to play records. The "DJ" can usually be seen wearing a pair of headphones on one ear only. If you talk to an off-duty DJ, make sure you stand on the non-deaf side. The DJ is the one who makes those god-awful scratching sounds incessantly during a perfectly good song. Another piece of advice, don't lend him any of your records.
If the group does not have a DJ, odds are that it will instead employ an "MC," or Master of Ceremonies. Most of the ceremonies include self-glorification, cop-killing, drugs and fornication with large rear-ended women. The foremost MC that I can think of was MC Hammer. The ceremony that he is most famous for mastering was the pilferage of Rick James' "Super Freak," which he took credit for writing, since he yells out "U can't touch this!" (he wrote that!), smack in the middle of the chorus.
Rap music has spawned an entire industry on the creation of beats. You can now buy a beat, if you don't have any of your own. When I found that out my heart skipped a beat, and I had to buy it back. The service comes in handy if you use the "rhythm method" of birth control. You can now even lease a beat, provided you return it in good condition. Back in the olden days there was a device called a drummer that provided much the same service, but it was unreliable and was expensive to lubricate.
If there are no instruments or live singing, you are probably wondering what all those people are doing onstage. Those are professional gyrators. If the rap artist is a male, there are at least five female gyrators with large rear-ends, and if the artist is female there are a minimum of five male gyrators, hoping to at least pass for bisexual.
And it works: all the dancing is infectious, and without an antibiotic it is impossible not to dance to some of these tunes. One time I busted a move out on the dance floor, and since no one could fix it I was forced to return to my seat.
There are certain bands that perform a mixture of rock and hip-hop, like Linkin Park, for instance. These hybrid bands are intriguing in the way they cross over socio-artistic boundaries, and also because they save on gas.
I didn't know who Usher was when he first burst on the scene, but I knew he was much more talented than those others who didn't make it: Valet, Gas Station Attendant, Electronic Integrated Systems Mechanic, none of them had what it takes.
But I think I do. In every rap song, during the un-rapped parts, there is always a guy going "UH-UH-UH" in the background, as if someone was repeatedly dropping a D-cell battery on their foot. Sometimes he repeats what the rapper says, in case you didn't realize how important it was. I am mastering the art of ceremonies, including the posturing. I made the mistake of practicing those rap hand gestures outdoors, and a plane landed right next to me.
I will need a name. "Lil'" this or that is popular, "Lil'" being short for "Litl'." I am not small enough for that: "Me'm" would be better. Anything with a "Q," "J" or other high-scoring Scrabble letter is good. If your name sounds goofy, change it: Puff Daddy thought his rap name sounded foolish, so he adopted the much more intelligent-sounding "P-Diddy." Work the word "ice" into it if possible, to symbolize street toughness. You never know when you might encounter death on my street, since deer are not as swift as one would think. Use "z" at the end of anything plural and "K" to replace anything that starts with a "C." So call me "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez," especially if you are the I.R.S....
Incidentally, some historians believe that rap music came to the U.S. from Africa, and others contend that it arrived from the Caribbean. Either way, it's doubtful that it had a valid passport. The "hip-hop lifestyle" is said to include four elements: rap, graffiti art, break dancing and DJ-ing. For me, any type of dancing is considered break dancing, and my orthopedist will back me up. So if you ever hear that "MC DJ Kool Ice Q-bez is in da house," den itz time to change da lockz.
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