In the interest of fairness I should probably point out right at the beginning I have no clear proof a Rosemount-area skateboarder is responsible for what happened to my pants.
Here's what I know for certain: when I put this particular pair of pants on last Wednesday morning they were, so far as I noticed, free of any major blemishes. I also know that not long after I left a day camp held at Rosemount's skateboard park it was pointed out to me that the back left pocket of my pants looked like someone had used it as an impromptu canvas for some form of really simplistic abstract art. I don't mean a few stray marks. I mean all my backside needed was some PVC tubing and a black turtleneck and it could have jammed Blue Man Group.
Video evidence from the skate camp clips we recorded for our web page suggests the marks were not there when I showed up at the camp. Looking-at-my-butt evidence makes it pretty clear they were there a short time later.
The only one with a reasonable chance to scribble all over my rear between the time I left the camp and the time the marks were discovered is the band director at Rosemount High School. I do not suspect him.
Anyway, if anyone feels unfairly accused by this column I apologize. But a pre-teen skater with a hyperactive pen hand seems like the most logical explanation for this unexpected colorization of my kiester. In my mind it narrowly edges out other potential explanations, which range from an unseen pen hanging from the camera bag I was carrying to Gremlins.
None of which should suggest that a scribble-happy skater is an entirely satisfying explanation for the graffiti-fying of my sensible workday trousers. For one thing, the amount of drawing that was done would have taken some time. These were some serious pen marks. Put a white hat on it and my pocket would have looked right at home in the Smurf village. Just call me Vandalized Smurf.
I'd like to think I would have noticed someone putting in that kind of effort on my derriere, but it's possible I could have missed it. I had a calendar in that particular pocket, so it's certainly possible I wouldn't have felt the point of the pen as it sketched a work of modern art behind my back.
But it seems unlikely any young skateboarder would have wanted to devote that kind of attention to my pants when there were other skaters performing tricks with names like "Fakey Rock-it" or "Corkscrew Whackadoodle" or "Hey, I Didn't Fall Down This Time." Even if all the tricks looked, to me, like someone rolling up a ramp, stopping and rolling back down.
I don't get skateboarding.
With all that going on is it really reasonable to think someone would bother to take the time to attack my rear end with a pen?
To tell the truth, I'm not even that upset about the whole thing. All I lost was a pair of pants. And it gave me an opportunity to talk about my fanny in polite company. That can't be all bad, right?
I'm just confused. Outside of abduction by alien art students or marking by some trouser-related secret society I've yet to learn about I just can't figure out how this happened.
Those skateboarders seem like the most likely culprits (everyone knows kids these days are all up to no good, right?) but it's hardly an open-and-shut case. If the pen don't scribble you must not quibble, or something.
Maybe I'm just not meant to know. Maybe some mysteries are beyond the grasp of human understanding.
First Stonehenge, then crop circles and now my pants.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
Skaters, you're off the hook.
----------------
Now playing: The Hold Steady - Lord, I'm Discouraged
via FoxyTunes
Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
What's the cause?
I'm starting to think we've run out of really good causes for people to champion.
Voting rights for women? Done. World peace probably isn't going away anytime soon, but jumping on that bandwagon's hardly original. Equal rights aren't exactly sorted out, but the effort's there. Even the whole Save the Whales things seems a little played out.
These days, it seems like anyone who wants to champion a new cause left with previously unattractive options like laziness or eating other people's garbage, both of which are actual movements with actual names and actual media coverage.
CNN reported this week on something called the Slow Movement, an organized — if presumably lethargic — effort to get people to relax a little bit. Edgar Cahn, a 73-year-old lawyer identified by CNN as one of the movement's leaders (which I assume in this case means "guy with a web page") says people cause themselves stress by trying to cram more and more activity into their lives.
In response, Cahn has started something called TimeBanks, a nonprofit group through which members trade blocks of time with each other. So, for example, you could offer to go to the grocery store for some person you've never met (get them lots of Nutter Butters) in exchange for having some other perfect stranger come mow your lawn or walk your dog or clean your toilet. I don't understand this concept. Easing busy schedules by trading chores with some random person a little bit like easing the economic crisis by trading some dude on the street a $20 for two $10s.
Then again, Edgar Cahn is getting interviewed by CNN while I'm typing a column at home by myself at 10:30 p.m., so maybe he's onto something.
Getting together to discuss having too much on our schedules seems counterintuitive to me, but Cahn is apparently not the only one to have the idea. According to CNN, a group called Take Back Your Time has launched a campaign to address what it calls "time famine" with conferences and "teach-ins" to help people learn they don't need to be busy all the time. Here's my advice: try avoiding anything called a "teach-in." That should free up a few hours right there.
In San Francisco, a group called The Long Now formed to "provide an alternative to a 'faster/cheaper' mind set and promote 'slower/better' thinking. I have no idea what that means, but I imagine their meetings last forever.
Still, as silly as it sounds to organize entire groups around a messages as simple as, "Chill out, dude!" at least the time management people don't dig through your trash looking for a snack. That's a whole other movement. Something called Freeganism which, as far as I can tell, is based entirely on the idea that paying for anything — from furniture to clothing to salad fixin's — is for chumps.
Several years ago I had a roommate who announced proudly one night that he'd just had his first dumpster diving experience. I wasn't sure if congratulating him was the right response, but I made sure to have him point out exactly which bag of chips was his.
Look, I really don't care if you get all giddy about finding a slightly bruised eggplant in a grocery store dumpster. I don't want you to ever invite me over for dinner, but you do what works for you. I just don't think it deserves a whole movement. Freegans seem to believe what they're doing is some kind of statement against consumer culture or something. Mostly, though, I think it's a statement that they're less afraid than most sensible people of getting a stomach parasite.
Maybe it's not their fault. Maybe if these people had been born a few decades earlier they would have been marching to end segregation or trying to ban the bomb or staging sit-ins against New Coke.
Then again, maybe they've just got too much time on their hands.
----------------
Now playing: Massive Attack - Five Man Army
via FoxyTunes
Voting rights for women? Done. World peace probably isn't going away anytime soon, but jumping on that bandwagon's hardly original. Equal rights aren't exactly sorted out, but the effort's there. Even the whole Save the Whales things seems a little played out.
These days, it seems like anyone who wants to champion a new cause left with previously unattractive options like laziness or eating other people's garbage, both of which are actual movements with actual names and actual media coverage.
CNN reported this week on something called the Slow Movement, an organized — if presumably lethargic — effort to get people to relax a little bit. Edgar Cahn, a 73-year-old lawyer identified by CNN as one of the movement's leaders (which I assume in this case means "guy with a web page") says people cause themselves stress by trying to cram more and more activity into their lives.
In response, Cahn has started something called TimeBanks, a nonprofit group through which members trade blocks of time with each other. So, for example, you could offer to go to the grocery store for some person you've never met (get them lots of Nutter Butters) in exchange for having some other perfect stranger come mow your lawn or walk your dog or clean your toilet. I don't understand this concept. Easing busy schedules by trading chores with some random person a little bit like easing the economic crisis by trading some dude on the street a $20 for two $10s.
Then again, Edgar Cahn is getting interviewed by CNN while I'm typing a column at home by myself at 10:30 p.m., so maybe he's onto something.
Getting together to discuss having too much on our schedules seems counterintuitive to me, but Cahn is apparently not the only one to have the idea. According to CNN, a group called Take Back Your Time has launched a campaign to address what it calls "time famine" with conferences and "teach-ins" to help people learn they don't need to be busy all the time. Here's my advice: try avoiding anything called a "teach-in." That should free up a few hours right there.
In San Francisco, a group called The Long Now formed to "provide an alternative to a 'faster/cheaper' mind set and promote 'slower/better' thinking. I have no idea what that means, but I imagine their meetings last forever.
Still, as silly as it sounds to organize entire groups around a messages as simple as, "Chill out, dude!" at least the time management people don't dig through your trash looking for a snack. That's a whole other movement. Something called Freeganism which, as far as I can tell, is based entirely on the idea that paying for anything — from furniture to clothing to salad fixin's — is for chumps.
Several years ago I had a roommate who announced proudly one night that he'd just had his first dumpster diving experience. I wasn't sure if congratulating him was the right response, but I made sure to have him point out exactly which bag of chips was his.
Look, I really don't care if you get all giddy about finding a slightly bruised eggplant in a grocery store dumpster. I don't want you to ever invite me over for dinner, but you do what works for you. I just don't think it deserves a whole movement. Freegans seem to believe what they're doing is some kind of statement against consumer culture or something. Mostly, though, I think it's a statement that they're less afraid than most sensible people of getting a stomach parasite.
Maybe it's not their fault. Maybe if these people had been born a few decades earlier they would have been marching to end segregation or trying to ban the bomb or staging sit-ins against New Coke.
Then again, maybe they've just got too much time on their hands.
----------------
Now playing: Massive Attack - Five Man Army
via FoxyTunes
Friday, June 06, 2008
Words of wisdom
It's become something of a tradition, this column addressing another class of fresh-faced high school graduates. This annual attempt to impart some final words of wisdom to another class of students as they prepare to dress themselves in uncomfortable gowns, perch funny-looking cardboard caps on their heads and sit in the sun for a few hours in a bizarre ceremony designed to provide some kind of closure to more than a decade of learning, growth and Guitar Hero. As I write this I like to picture you graduates, swathed in polyester and sitting in folding chairs. In my mind's eye, you look like a box of black crayons. Very distinguished. There are reasons these columns pop up year after year, of course. Writing this, I have learned, is the closest I will ever get to actually addressing a graduating class in person. Because while I make my case year after year I have yet to be asked to give a commencement address. Honest-ly, I believe I could bring some real star power to a commencement exercise. I'm known nearly citywide. Columns like this are also easy. They're what idea-starved columnists like to refer to as a gimme. Who, after all, can't come up with a few words of advice for a group of people so unworldly they still believe tapping out misspelled messages on a cell phone keypad is an effective means of communication? Sharing the hard-earned wisdom we've accumulated in the years since we were in your gowns. Most of which consists of repeating the same things someone told us back then. Work hard. Have fun. These are the best years of your life. Small-town journalists get all the women. Granted, some pieces of advice are better than others. High school seniors are conditioned to accept advice this time of year. Studies have shown that high school students who do not receive a consistent supply of advice from parents, family friends or complete strangers on the street frequently develop unsettling symptoms that include an inability to dance like no one is watching. The advice is not all cliché, of course. The people who give it have all been where you will soon be. We've worn the flimsy robes and the dinner-plate hats and we've all asked the question you're bound to ask yourselves as you consider all you've done to this point and all that lies ahead of you: Now what? The prospect of leaving behind the safe halls of Rosemount High School to explore something unfamiliar can be frightening. Remember, though, this is the least frightening graduation you will ever go through. Most of you will go on to college next year. And for all the new experiences it offers college is not the real world. College is the real world with training wheels. You will make decisions there that will affect the rest of your life, but mostly you'll just make decisions that will affect whether you try to scrounge up quarters to do laundry or plan a trip home. Ridiculous outfits and diplomas aside, this isn't the end of the journey. It's just a stop along the way. So pick up your diplomas this week. Listen politely to all the people who want to give you advice. Then go figure it all out for yourself.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Slow ride
A lot of people took advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend to relax. To welcome summer by getting together with family and friends. To eat large slabs of meat cooked over an open flame, drink cold beverages and think patriotic thoughts.
Not me.
By 8:30 a.m. last Friday I had embarked along with my father and brother on a leg-deadening, butt-numbing and ultimately frustrating attempt to ride a bicycle from St. Paul to Chicago.
That's 450 miles. In three days. I never said it was a good plan.
The trip started well enough. Aside from a steady east-southeast wind blowing in our faces the weather was about perfect as we set off down Summit Avenue with a mixture of enthusiasm and confusion about how, exactly, we had talked ourselves into this.
Day One was unremarkable. There were a few healthy-sized hills early on but the bulk of the riding was on relatively flat roads along the Mississippi River. If not for the 150-mile distance it was the kind of pleasant, scenic ride a sane person might take.
Day Two was another story altogether. At 130 miles it was shorter than the trip's first day. But it also took us through south central Wisconsin, a region with topography clearly designed by someone who enjoys pastoral scenery but hates bicycles and everything associated with them. We climbed more big hills than Sir Edmund Hillary. We were up and down more than John Travolta's career.
Put it this way, when something called Wildcat Mountain isn't even one of the day's five biggest hills it says something about the route. And not something encouraging.
Through it all the wind kept blowing in our face. It was like pedaling a stationary bike in a wind tunnel, but more painful.
In the end, the wind and the hills were too much. At least with the prospect of a 170-mile ride looming on the third day. Eighty miles in, demonstrating for the first time in the weekend something resembling common sense, my brother and I called for a ride. Our father continued on. He might say he was more determined than we were. I can think of some other words that work better.
I was disappointed with my decision almost immediately, even though I knew saving energy for the third day's ride made sense. And that's what I told myself right up until the time we decided a third day of riding unreasonable distances into yet another stiff east wind was more trouble than it was worth.
It seems like we could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and figured that out at the beginning. Better late than never, I guess.
The trip ended with a Sunday morning car ride from Madison to Chicago. We ate lunch at a restaurant rather than standing outside a convenience store. We sat on seats designed for comfort rather than weight savings. It was an imminently more sensible way to travel.
There were bumps the rest of the way. The hotel didn't have our rooms ready when it was supposed to. The bar wasn't open when it was supposed to be. But at least we could sit without pain.
Despite the hard work, it wasn't a bad way to spend the long weekend. We didn't get to grill or sit in a lawn chair, but we accomplished something, even if it wasn't exactly what we set out to do.
And we woke up Monday morning to a strong west wind.
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - Aeroplane Blues
via FoxyTunes
Not me.
By 8:30 a.m. last Friday I had embarked along with my father and brother on a leg-deadening, butt-numbing and ultimately frustrating attempt to ride a bicycle from St. Paul to Chicago.
That's 450 miles. In three days. I never said it was a good plan.
The trip started well enough. Aside from a steady east-southeast wind blowing in our faces the weather was about perfect as we set off down Summit Avenue with a mixture of enthusiasm and confusion about how, exactly, we had talked ourselves into this.
Day One was unremarkable. There were a few healthy-sized hills early on but the bulk of the riding was on relatively flat roads along the Mississippi River. If not for the 150-mile distance it was the kind of pleasant, scenic ride a sane person might take.
Day Two was another story altogether. At 130 miles it was shorter than the trip's first day. But it also took us through south central Wisconsin, a region with topography clearly designed by someone who enjoys pastoral scenery but hates bicycles and everything associated with them. We climbed more big hills than Sir Edmund Hillary. We were up and down more than John Travolta's career.
Put it this way, when something called Wildcat Mountain isn't even one of the day's five biggest hills it says something about the route. And not something encouraging.
Through it all the wind kept blowing in our face. It was like pedaling a stationary bike in a wind tunnel, but more painful.
In the end, the wind and the hills were too much. At least with the prospect of a 170-mile ride looming on the third day. Eighty miles in, demonstrating for the first time in the weekend something resembling common sense, my brother and I called for a ride. Our father continued on. He might say he was more determined than we were. I can think of some other words that work better.
I was disappointed with my decision almost immediately, even though I knew saving energy for the third day's ride made sense. And that's what I told myself right up until the time we decided a third day of riding unreasonable distances into yet another stiff east wind was more trouble than it was worth.
It seems like we could have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and figured that out at the beginning. Better late than never, I guess.
The trip ended with a Sunday morning car ride from Madison to Chicago. We ate lunch at a restaurant rather than standing outside a convenience store. We sat on seats designed for comfort rather than weight savings. It was an imminently more sensible way to travel.
There were bumps the rest of the way. The hotel didn't have our rooms ready when it was supposed to. The bar wasn't open when it was supposed to be. But at least we could sit without pain.
Despite the hard work, it wasn't a bad way to spend the long weekend. We didn't get to grill or sit in a lawn chair, but we accomplished something, even if it wasn't exactly what we set out to do.
And we woke up Monday morning to a strong west wind.
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - Aeroplane Blues
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Spend for America!
My economic stimulus check has so far been less than stimulating.
I was as excited as anyone when I found out a few months ago that $600 would soon show up in my bank account. Who wouldn't be? Someone wanted to give me money not because I contributed anything of value to society but simply because I exist. It's like any given day in the life of Paris Hilton.
At the time, I had visions of making calls on a shiny new iPhone, finally framing some of the posters I have stashed in the closet of my home office or undergoing unnecessary surgical procedures, all in the name of shoring up the strength of the dollar. Who needs a spleen when the American economy is hurting?
But a funny thing happened between the day the free money was promised and the day it actually appeared in my bank account. I paid bills. Lots of them. And with each mortgage payment and natural gas bill and insurance premium I watched my bank balance fall lower than the Timber-wolves chances of getting a decent player in the upcoming NBA draft.
I wasn't having MC Hammer-level problems or anything, but all of a sudden I didn't feel like I was in the kind of position where frivolous spending seemed like a good idea. Not even in the name of spreading truth, justice and the conspicuous consumption way.
So, ever since that money showed up in my checking account it's done nothing but sit there. It has not brought me high-end consumer electronics products. My walls are still largely bare. And I haven't had so much as a mole removed.
I bring this up now because I feel like I owe America an apology. I was not given this money to selfishly save for my own future. It did not appear as if by magic in my bank account so I could buy boring things like food or gas or beef jerky. When my bank accepted that electronic transfer on my behalf it came with an unspoken demand: in the name of all that's mass produced and disposable, spend like a drunken socialite. And in that I have failed miserably.
I want to make up for my shortcomings, America.
Well, one of my shortcomings. We really don't have time to go into everything else right now.
America, I will shop like I've never shopped before. I'll buy things I never imagined I needed, like a pet urn with a built-in digital photo frame. I haven't had a pet in years, but if I get a dog someday and it dies tragically in an incident involving a clown, a pony and an ill-timed game of fetch (Or something. I don't know.) then what better way to pay tribute than a $250 wood box with a built-in screen that displays low-resolution photos.
I will spend $300 on ESPN's so-called ultimate remote control, because I've lived far too long without a device capable of simultaneously changing the channel to SportsCenter and sending angry e-mails to Kevin McHale.
I will buy things I don't need. Things I don't want. I will buy things nobody could ever possibly use. Why just get an iPhone when for just a few thousand dollars more you can get one encased in gold or caked with crystals? Horribly ugly, sure, but think of all the economic good you'll be doing.
I might even buy a copy of Windows Vista.
We're all in this together America. Now, what do you say we all go out for ice cream. I'm buying.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
I was as excited as anyone when I found out a few months ago that $600 would soon show up in my bank account. Who wouldn't be? Someone wanted to give me money not because I contributed anything of value to society but simply because I exist. It's like any given day in the life of Paris Hilton.
At the time, I had visions of making calls on a shiny new iPhone, finally framing some of the posters I have stashed in the closet of my home office or undergoing unnecessary surgical procedures, all in the name of shoring up the strength of the dollar. Who needs a spleen when the American economy is hurting?
But a funny thing happened between the day the free money was promised and the day it actually appeared in my bank account. I paid bills. Lots of them. And with each mortgage payment and natural gas bill and insurance premium I watched my bank balance fall lower than the Timber-wolves chances of getting a decent player in the upcoming NBA draft.
I wasn't having MC Hammer-level problems or anything, but all of a sudden I didn't feel like I was in the kind of position where frivolous spending seemed like a good idea. Not even in the name of spreading truth, justice and the conspicuous consumption way.
So, ever since that money showed up in my checking account it's done nothing but sit there. It has not brought me high-end consumer electronics products. My walls are still largely bare. And I haven't had so much as a mole removed.
I bring this up now because I feel like I owe America an apology. I was not given this money to selfishly save for my own future. It did not appear as if by magic in my bank account so I could buy boring things like food or gas or beef jerky. When my bank accepted that electronic transfer on my behalf it came with an unspoken demand: in the name of all that's mass produced and disposable, spend like a drunken socialite. And in that I have failed miserably.
I want to make up for my shortcomings, America.
Well, one of my shortcomings. We really don't have time to go into everything else right now.
America, I will shop like I've never shopped before. I'll buy things I never imagined I needed, like a pet urn with a built-in digital photo frame. I haven't had a pet in years, but if I get a dog someday and it dies tragically in an incident involving a clown, a pony and an ill-timed game of fetch (Or something. I don't know.) then what better way to pay tribute than a $250 wood box with a built-in screen that displays low-resolution photos.
I will spend $300 on ESPN's so-called ultimate remote control, because I've lived far too long without a device capable of simultaneously changing the channel to SportsCenter and sending angry e-mails to Kevin McHale.
I will buy things I don't need. Things I don't want. I will buy things nobody could ever possibly use. Why just get an iPhone when for just a few thousand dollars more you can get one encased in gold or caked with crystals? Horribly ugly, sure, but think of all the economic good you'll be doing.
I might even buy a copy of Windows Vista.
We're all in this together America. Now, what do you say we all go out for ice cream. I'm buying.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Name that tune?
I feel like I used to know more about music.
It's not that I was ever any kind of expert. I could never have told you who else was on the bill when Dylan went electric, or what the Kingsmen are singing in Louie Louie or what, exactly, living la vida loca entails (presumably a lot of ointment). But I used to at least know the names of the songs I was listening to.
Set the bar low. That's what I always say.
These days, though, I struggle to maintain even that much knowledge. I've bought three CDs in the last month or so and listened to each of them multiple times. I've enjoyed each of them, some a lot. And yet, off the top of my head I can come up with the titles for maybe four songs. And to be fair, that's largely because in three of them the song's title is featured in the song to an almost ridiculous degrees. For example, here's the chorus to the Black Keys song Lies: "Lies, lies, lies, oh lies." Taking credit for getting that one right feels a little like taking credit for predictions like, "I bet we'll have a new President in January" or "I bet some celebrity will get a lot of publicity for doing something embarrassing this week." It just feels hollow.
There are songs I like a lot on each of those three CDs but I'll be damned if I could name them for you.
By contrast, with roughly the same amount of thought I was able to come up with five song titles from REM's 1992 classic Automatic for the People even though I haven't listened to that CD in at least a year.
I'm not sure what this says about me as a music listener. I still believe music is important, and I still enjoy discovering new artists. But the way I listen to music is different than it used to be.
Back in my younger days I'd get a new CD or, let's face it, cassette — but only rarely an eight-track — and pop it into the player. I'd sit and listen to it while scanning through the liner notes to see if they'd included lyrics or photos or free gum or anything.
These days the liner notes don't always even make it out of the case. That is, if I have them at all.
Technology has changed things. With more and more people buying their music online, physical packaging is becoming less common. Those last three CDs I bought all involved me going to the store and bringing a CD home, but the purchased music file in my iTunes player has more than 250 songs. And even when I buy an actual CD the second thing I do usually involves transferring the music to my computer.
The first thing I do is listen to the CD in my car on the way home, but that's a process that doesn't much lend itself to in-depth reading.
The third thing I usually do is dance around in my underpants like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, but that's really neither here nor there.
One by one, it seems, song titles are being moved out of my brain and into my iPod playlist. They're still there, but I'm usually devoting my attention to something else, anyway.
I suppose this isn't all bad. Eliminating the song title section of my brain frees up more space to remember things like credit card numbers or recipes for mixed drinks.
And sure, it can get a little challenging when you want to tell someone about a song you like and can only describe it as, "You know, that one with the guitar?" But honestly, which would you rather have: A song title or a well-made mojito?
That's what I thought.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - Everywhere You Turn
via FoxyTunes
It's not that I was ever any kind of expert. I could never have told you who else was on the bill when Dylan went electric, or what the Kingsmen are singing in Louie Louie or what, exactly, living la vida loca entails (presumably a lot of ointment). But I used to at least know the names of the songs I was listening to.
Set the bar low. That's what I always say.
These days, though, I struggle to maintain even that much knowledge. I've bought three CDs in the last month or so and listened to each of them multiple times. I've enjoyed each of them, some a lot. And yet, off the top of my head I can come up with the titles for maybe four songs. And to be fair, that's largely because in three of them the song's title is featured in the song to an almost ridiculous degrees. For example, here's the chorus to the Black Keys song Lies: "Lies, lies, lies, oh lies." Taking credit for getting that one right feels a little like taking credit for predictions like, "I bet we'll have a new President in January" or "I bet some celebrity will get a lot of publicity for doing something embarrassing this week." It just feels hollow.
There are songs I like a lot on each of those three CDs but I'll be damned if I could name them for you.
By contrast, with roughly the same amount of thought I was able to come up with five song titles from REM's 1992 classic Automatic for the People even though I haven't listened to that CD in at least a year.
I'm not sure what this says about me as a music listener. I still believe music is important, and I still enjoy discovering new artists. But the way I listen to music is different than it used to be.
Back in my younger days I'd get a new CD or, let's face it, cassette — but only rarely an eight-track — and pop it into the player. I'd sit and listen to it while scanning through the liner notes to see if they'd included lyrics or photos or free gum or anything.
These days the liner notes don't always even make it out of the case. That is, if I have them at all.
Technology has changed things. With more and more people buying their music online, physical packaging is becoming less common. Those last three CDs I bought all involved me going to the store and bringing a CD home, but the purchased music file in my iTunes player has more than 250 songs. And even when I buy an actual CD the second thing I do usually involves transferring the music to my computer.
The first thing I do is listen to the CD in my car on the way home, but that's a process that doesn't much lend itself to in-depth reading.
The third thing I usually do is dance around in my underpants like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, but that's really neither here nor there.
One by one, it seems, song titles are being moved out of my brain and into my iPod playlist. They're still there, but I'm usually devoting my attention to something else, anyway.
I suppose this isn't all bad. Eliminating the song title section of my brain frees up more space to remember things like credit card numbers or recipes for mixed drinks.
And sure, it can get a little challenging when you want to tell someone about a song you like and can only describe it as, "You know, that one with the guitar?" But honestly, which would you rather have: A song title or a well-made mojito?
That's what I thought.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - Everywhere You Turn
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, May 01, 2008
One big biking family (jerks and all)
There are a lot of things I like about biking. I like that it keeps me in shape, that it allows me to go fast and that it provides an excuse to wear stretchy shorts in public.
I'm not crazy about being honked at or run off the road by drivers with more pent-up anger than common sense, but sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.
I also like the fact just about anyone can do it. Outside of foot power, a bicycle is just about the most universal mode of transportation around.
I was reminded of this last Sunday morning as I shook off the effects of a Saturday night dinner that prominently featured Belgian beer to ride in the Minnesota Ironman, the popular bike ride that begins each April at Lakeville High School.
Pedaling the 100 or so miles of my particular route provided a pretty fair overview of the bicycle community. As I rode I passed entire families on bicycles, mothers and fathers pedaling full-size bicycles while children pedaled furiously to keep up on their BMX bikes. I passed fit men and women wearing high-tech bike gear and pedaling bikes that cost as much as a decent used car and others who appeared to be making an effort to get into better shape, toiling on bikes that hadn't left the garage in months. Some of the latter reminded of that song about the ant and the rubber-tree plant. I'm not sure if they had high hopes of finishing or of just avoiding the emergency room. For a few, either one might have been an accomplishment.
I passed more than one person making the ride in jeans, which brought to mind horrifying visions of the chafing that no doubt awaited them.
About the only thing missing was a senior citizen on one of those gigantic tricycle deals with the basket on front.
We were like one big family out there. Together we braved wind and cold and red, stinging thighs. I'm sure we didn't all finish, but we all tried. And that's worth something.
Bikers get a bad rap sometimes. As I write this, KSTP TV is preparing to air an investigative report it has titled, "Bicyclists breaking the law." In it, the station's hard-hitting investigators point a long, shaming finger at cyclists who don't come to a complete stop at intersections.
Fair enough. I'll admit I haven't stopped at every single stop sign I've seen — momentum is a beautiful thing. But I also know as a driver I've never once been inconvenienced by a biker breaking the rules of the road. I have, however, been riding my bike legally only to have an angry motorist flash me an obscene gesture and threaten to run me off the road. I've had a driver yell at me for running a stop light while I was stopped at a light. And my brother once smashed his bike into a car when it made a last-second right turn from the left lane in front of him.
There are bikers who are jerks just like there are drivers who are too aggressive. Maybe this isn't as obvious as I think it should be, but the average bicyclist has no interest in being hit by a car. The odds just aren't in our favor. We just want to ride.
Well, ride and wear stretchy shorts.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely
via FoxyTunes
I'm not crazy about being honked at or run off the road by drivers with more pent-up anger than common sense, but sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.
I also like the fact just about anyone can do it. Outside of foot power, a bicycle is just about the most universal mode of transportation around.
I was reminded of this last Sunday morning as I shook off the effects of a Saturday night dinner that prominently featured Belgian beer to ride in the Minnesota Ironman, the popular bike ride that begins each April at Lakeville High School.
Pedaling the 100 or so miles of my particular route provided a pretty fair overview of the bicycle community. As I rode I passed entire families on bicycles, mothers and fathers pedaling full-size bicycles while children pedaled furiously to keep up on their BMX bikes. I passed fit men and women wearing high-tech bike gear and pedaling bikes that cost as much as a decent used car and others who appeared to be making an effort to get into better shape, toiling on bikes that hadn't left the garage in months. Some of the latter reminded of that song about the ant and the rubber-tree plant. I'm not sure if they had high hopes of finishing or of just avoiding the emergency room. For a few, either one might have been an accomplishment.
I passed more than one person making the ride in jeans, which brought to mind horrifying visions of the chafing that no doubt awaited them.
About the only thing missing was a senior citizen on one of those gigantic tricycle deals with the basket on front.
We were like one big family out there. Together we braved wind and cold and red, stinging thighs. I'm sure we didn't all finish, but we all tried. And that's worth something.
Bikers get a bad rap sometimes. As I write this, KSTP TV is preparing to air an investigative report it has titled, "Bicyclists breaking the law." In it, the station's hard-hitting investigators point a long, shaming finger at cyclists who don't come to a complete stop at intersections.
Fair enough. I'll admit I haven't stopped at every single stop sign I've seen — momentum is a beautiful thing. But I also know as a driver I've never once been inconvenienced by a biker breaking the rules of the road. I have, however, been riding my bike legally only to have an angry motorist flash me an obscene gesture and threaten to run me off the road. I've had a driver yell at me for running a stop light while I was stopped at a light. And my brother once smashed his bike into a car when it made a last-second right turn from the left lane in front of him.
There are bikers who are jerks just like there are drivers who are too aggressive. Maybe this isn't as obvious as I think it should be, but the average bicyclist has no interest in being hit by a car. The odds just aren't in our favor. We just want to ride.
Well, ride and wear stretchy shorts.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - How To Disappear Completely
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The myth of a job well done
Somewhere along the line, and I can't say exactly when, I convinced myself that if only I owned my home the chores that might otherwise seem tedious and unpleasant would be magically transformed. Somehow, I reasoned, otherwise unappealing jobs like mowing the lawn, raking leaves and making mortgage payments would be rewarding when I was performing them in the interest of my own home. I believed the sense of satisfaction that comes with a job well done would outweigh the drudgery involved in getting the job done.
I am quickly coming to realize that this line of thinking is what the great philosophers refer to as "total bunk."
I moved into my house in November and, honestly, winter wasn't too bad. I don't have a lot of sidewalk to clear, and it seemed like half the time one of my neighbors would use his snowblower to clear most of it before I got home. Apparently when you have a home with 20 feet of sidewalk frontage you need to do something to justify owning a gas-guzzling snow throwing machine. Whatever his reason, I was fully in favor of the results.
Spring has been a different matter. I haven't had to mow the lawn yet — we'll talk more about that in a bit — but I've spent a fair amount of time already raking. It's a job made more challenging by the fact I have several large trees in my back yard. And by the fact the home's previous owner didn't bother to do any raking of his own last fall. My yards, front and back, were covered with a thick coat of leaves that had spent months under a blanket of snow. The leaves seemed perfectly happy to stay where they were.
I made a first pass at the back yard a few weeks ago, but that was more out of curiosity than any interest in actually getting the job done then. Once the snow had melted I started to notice there was a decided lack of grass in the yard. Turns out, the grass in my back yard is thinner than Nicole Ritchie on a diet. By the time I was finished the tips of my rake tines were encased in fair-sized balls of mud and my shoes were caked with enough gunk to make me a couple of inches taller.
I made another attempt at the job on Sunday. The front yard was easier. There are fewer trees there, and there was at least a respectable lawn underneath the leaves. In two-some hours of work I filled 10 bags — all I had — with leaves. I'd also developed a sore back, a twinge in my right shoulder and a healthy skepticism about the true value of pride in a job well done.
I can take pride in painting a room or building something. Those jobs take at least a little skill. Even if its your own yard you're cleaning up, raking is just dragging around a fancy stick. There's no pride to be found there. A moderately intelligent monkey could do it.
In fact, if you know any particularly sharp monkeys I've got more leaves to clear. I'd be happy to provide the bananas.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Morning Bell
via FoxyTunes
I am quickly coming to realize that this line of thinking is what the great philosophers refer to as "total bunk."
I moved into my house in November and, honestly, winter wasn't too bad. I don't have a lot of sidewalk to clear, and it seemed like half the time one of my neighbors would use his snowblower to clear most of it before I got home. Apparently when you have a home with 20 feet of sidewalk frontage you need to do something to justify owning a gas-guzzling snow throwing machine. Whatever his reason, I was fully in favor of the results.
Spring has been a different matter. I haven't had to mow the lawn yet — we'll talk more about that in a bit — but I've spent a fair amount of time already raking. It's a job made more challenging by the fact I have several large trees in my back yard. And by the fact the home's previous owner didn't bother to do any raking of his own last fall. My yards, front and back, were covered with a thick coat of leaves that had spent months under a blanket of snow. The leaves seemed perfectly happy to stay where they were.
I made a first pass at the back yard a few weeks ago, but that was more out of curiosity than any interest in actually getting the job done then. Once the snow had melted I started to notice there was a decided lack of grass in the yard. Turns out, the grass in my back yard is thinner than Nicole Ritchie on a diet. By the time I was finished the tips of my rake tines were encased in fair-sized balls of mud and my shoes were caked with enough gunk to make me a couple of inches taller.
I made another attempt at the job on Sunday. The front yard was easier. There are fewer trees there, and there was at least a respectable lawn underneath the leaves. In two-some hours of work I filled 10 bags — all I had — with leaves. I'd also developed a sore back, a twinge in my right shoulder and a healthy skepticism about the true value of pride in a job well done.
I can take pride in painting a room or building something. Those jobs take at least a little skill. Even if its your own yard you're cleaning up, raking is just dragging around a fancy stick. There's no pride to be found there. A moderately intelligent monkey could do it.
In fact, if you know any particularly sharp monkeys I've got more leaves to clear. I'd be happy to provide the bananas.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Morning Bell
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Do you have the status of the daylight?
It's hardly my place to tell other people how to spend their money. If you want to fill your home with expensive art and take luxurious vacations, more power to you. If you want to pamper yourself with lavish meals, well, I'm sure that steak was totally worth $150. And if you want to spend your hard-earned cash putting spinning rims on an otherwise stock Toyota Camry, well, go find your inner Sprewell, baby.
There comes a time, though, when you start to feel like the super-rich are just messing with the rest of us. A time, for example when you see something like Swiss watchmaker Romain Jerome's Day&Night watch.
Now, I can appreciate a nice watch. I could have spent $5 at a drugstore when I bought my last watch but I didn't. I wanted something nicer. I didn't get anything extravagant. It looks nice, but when you get down to it it's just a way to tell time, something I figure is an important feature of any watch.
The folks at Romain Jerome appear to disagree. Their new showpiece, which at $300,000 costs as much as a pretty decent house in this market, will not tell you whether you're running late for your dentist's appointment or your tee time at the club. It doesn't have a calculator or a Dick Tracy-style radio or even anything to show you the date. It just tells you whether the sun is up.
And according to Reuters, the time — er, daypiece? — sold out within 48 hours of its launch.
It's an admittedly striking watch, presuming you like the "left to rust for three years in the bottom of a rain barrel look. But is a pitted, grimy-looking exterior really enough to explain why people are dropping the equivalent of a nice split-level on a piece of jewelry that tells them something they should be able to figure out simply by opening their eyes.
I can see how the Day&Night watch might be useful for a race of well-to-do mole people, but is this really a reasonable purchase for any of us who lives in the surface world?
To be fair, the watch apparently uses something called Tourbillon movement, a complicated mechanical something-or-other designed to counteract the effect of Earth's gravity on the watch's accuracy. Which means it can tell you with astounding precision whether there's enough light out for you to see your wrist in front of your face.
What is the justification for this extravagance? Romain Jerome chief executive Yvan Arpa told Reuters it's because people want a trophy. And what better way to tell everyone around you you have more money than you could possibly spend than spending more than a decade's worth of minimum wage salary on the equivalent of a window?
I'll tell you what, ridiculously rich people of the world — if you really want to show off, you can hire me. I'll give you my cell phone number and guarantee I'll pick it up any time, day or night. If you're ever uncertain whether the sun is up, you call me and I, using a series of complex mathematical computations — or maybe Google Maps — will tell you whether you should be eating breakfast or dinner. And I'll do it all for the bargain price of $250,000.
How can you beat that?
There comes a time, though, when you start to feel like the super-rich are just messing with the rest of us. A time, for example when you see something like Swiss watchmaker Romain Jerome's Day&Night watch.
Now, I can appreciate a nice watch. I could have spent $5 at a drugstore when I bought my last watch but I didn't. I wanted something nicer. I didn't get anything extravagant. It looks nice, but when you get down to it it's just a way to tell time, something I figure is an important feature of any watch.
The folks at Romain Jerome appear to disagree. Their new showpiece, which at $300,000 costs as much as a pretty decent house in this market, will not tell you whether you're running late for your dentist's appointment or your tee time at the club. It doesn't have a calculator or a Dick Tracy-style radio or even anything to show you the date. It just tells you whether the sun is up.
And according to Reuters, the time — er, daypiece? — sold out within 48 hours of its launch.
It's an admittedly striking watch, presuming you like the "left to rust for three years in the bottom of a rain barrel look. But is a pitted, grimy-looking exterior really enough to explain why people are dropping the equivalent of a nice split-level on a piece of jewelry that tells them something they should be able to figure out simply by opening their eyes.
I can see how the Day&Night watch might be useful for a race of well-to-do mole people, but is this really a reasonable purchase for any of us who lives in the surface world?
To be fair, the watch apparently uses something called Tourbillon movement, a complicated mechanical something-or-other designed to counteract the effect of Earth's gravity on the watch's accuracy. Which means it can tell you with astounding precision whether there's enough light out for you to see your wrist in front of your face.
What is the justification for this extravagance? Romain Jerome chief executive Yvan Arpa told Reuters it's because people want a trophy. And what better way to tell everyone around you you have more money than you could possibly spend than spending more than a decade's worth of minimum wage salary on the equivalent of a window?
I'll tell you what, ridiculously rich people of the world — if you really want to show off, you can hire me. I'll give you my cell phone number and guarantee I'll pick it up any time, day or night. If you're ever uncertain whether the sun is up, you call me and I, using a series of complex mathematical computations — or maybe Google Maps — will tell you whether you should be eating breakfast or dinner. And I'll do it all for the bargain price of $250,000.
How can you beat that?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Ah, the spring bike ride
Early season bike rides are always tricky business. The weather's unpredictable. The equipment is usually in need of a tuneup and the physical fitness of the previous summer has gone the way of the dodo and Britney Spears' dignity.
Take Sunday. It was 40-odd degrees and rainy when my father, my brother and I set out from our respective homes. Each of us knew the experience would be unpleasant, but nobody wanted to be the one to actually call it off. I suspect this is how Two and a Half Men stays on the air, give or take a detail or two.
Anyway, there we were. We were all soaked within minutes. We were cold. And our faces were steadily being caked with mud kicked up by the person riding in front of us. It was the kind of ride where you start anticipating a hot shower roughly 15 minutes after you start.
Then things started to get bad.
The first flat tire happened about 10 miles into the ride. We were headed south on Highway 13 when my dad announced his rear wheel had sprung a leak. We stopped under the overhang in front of a Mexican restaurant to repair it and, having given our bodies an opportunity to vent any spare warmth they'd built up to that point, set out again into the mist.
Here's the other thing about early-season rides in the rain. Rain, it turns out, fills up the multitude of potholes that develop on Minnesota roads over the winter. This makes the potholes difficult to see, which in turn leads to an uncomfortable number of jolts as you ride into holes large enough to swallow mid-sized dogs.
I don't know if those bumps were the cause of the next flat, but for one reason or another my front tire started leaking air a few miles after our first stop. Air was jetting out of the tire fast enough to make bubbles in the puddles on the road. That leak blew harder than Memphis' free throw shooting Monday night.
At this point, we started to worry. Each of us carried one spare tube. My brother's was the only one left. And considering we had something like 30 miles to go, that suddenly didn't seem like good odds.
We didn't beat the odds. Just over 30 miles into the ride, my back tire suddenly went softer than the Twins' bats this season. My brother grudgingly gave up his spare. I put it on the rim and started to pump it up. I got it about half full before all the air rushed back out, leaving us spare-less on Old Shakopee Road in Bloomington. When a self-adhesive patch I carried with me failed completely to adhere, my ride was officially over.
I spent the next hour and a half waiting in an Oasis Market in Bloomington while my dad finished his ride. My face was caked with mud from forehead to chin. I looked like a Navy Seal getting ready for a night mission. A scrawny, ineffective Navy Seal.
I was wearing spandex shorts, bike shoes and a close-fitting rain jacket. I felt, I have to say, a little out of place among the people stopping in to buy cigarettes. Or the college-age clerk who spent the entire time listening to Beatles music who said at one point he would have been taller but all the drugs he'd done stunted his growth.
My dad finally made it back to get me, but not before getting one last flat half a mile from home forced him to call for a ride of his own. By the time I got home it was nearly 5 p.m., roughly five hours after I'd rolled away from my front door. I was wet and cold and tired and generally uncomfortable.
But, hey, at least it's supposed to snow this weekend.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medalist
via FoxyTunes
Take Sunday. It was 40-odd degrees and rainy when my father, my brother and I set out from our respective homes. Each of us knew the experience would be unpleasant, but nobody wanted to be the one to actually call it off. I suspect this is how Two and a Half Men stays on the air, give or take a detail or two.
Anyway, there we were. We were all soaked within minutes. We were cold. And our faces were steadily being caked with mud kicked up by the person riding in front of us. It was the kind of ride where you start anticipating a hot shower roughly 15 minutes after you start.
Then things started to get bad.
The first flat tire happened about 10 miles into the ride. We were headed south on Highway 13 when my dad announced his rear wheel had sprung a leak. We stopped under the overhang in front of a Mexican restaurant to repair it and, having given our bodies an opportunity to vent any spare warmth they'd built up to that point, set out again into the mist.
Here's the other thing about early-season rides in the rain. Rain, it turns out, fills up the multitude of potholes that develop on Minnesota roads over the winter. This makes the potholes difficult to see, which in turn leads to an uncomfortable number of jolts as you ride into holes large enough to swallow mid-sized dogs.
I don't know if those bumps were the cause of the next flat, but for one reason or another my front tire started leaking air a few miles after our first stop. Air was jetting out of the tire fast enough to make bubbles in the puddles on the road. That leak blew harder than Memphis' free throw shooting Monday night.
At this point, we started to worry. Each of us carried one spare tube. My brother's was the only one left. And considering we had something like 30 miles to go, that suddenly didn't seem like good odds.
We didn't beat the odds. Just over 30 miles into the ride, my back tire suddenly went softer than the Twins' bats this season. My brother grudgingly gave up his spare. I put it on the rim and started to pump it up. I got it about half full before all the air rushed back out, leaving us spare-less on Old Shakopee Road in Bloomington. When a self-adhesive patch I carried with me failed completely to adhere, my ride was officially over.
I spent the next hour and a half waiting in an Oasis Market in Bloomington while my dad finished his ride. My face was caked with mud from forehead to chin. I looked like a Navy Seal getting ready for a night mission. A scrawny, ineffective Navy Seal.
I was wearing spandex shorts, bike shoes and a close-fitting rain jacket. I felt, I have to say, a little out of place among the people stopping in to buy cigarettes. Or the college-age clerk who spent the entire time listening to Beatles music who said at one point he would have been taller but all the drugs he'd done stunted his growth.
My dad finally made it back to get me, but not before getting one last flat half a mile from home forced him to call for a ride of his own. By the time I got home it was nearly 5 p.m., roughly five hours after I'd rolled away from my front door. I was wet and cold and tired and generally uncomfortable.
But, hey, at least it's supposed to snow this weekend.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medalist
via FoxyTunes
Friday, April 04, 2008
Seasons change; people change
Dear Winter,
We need to talk.
I know what you're thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You're worried this is one of "those" talks. And, well, it is. Because as important as you are to me, I think it's time I moved on.
I'd like to start seeing other seasons.
Hey. No. Don't do that. Come on. Dumping six inches of snow on everyone isn't going to change things. You can't hide the distance that's grown between us. You can't bury feelings under ice crystals. Things between us have grown cold, and I need something warmer. Something greener. Something that doesn't cause me to injure my back heaving wet snow off my sidewalk.
We had some good times, Winter. Remember a few months ago when I slipped on some ice and got bruises all up and down the side of my body? That was a hoot. I ached for days.
But, Winter, I need to move on. I'm a different person now than I was five months ago. I'm in a different place. I've put away my shovel. I've stored my bag of sidewalk salt. I bought a garden hose. I bought a lawn mower. That means I need a lawn, Winter. And I'm never going to have one if you don't stop dumping snow all over my yard. Given my past demonstrations of gardening skills I might not have one anyway, but you've got to let me at least try to grow.
I've got my bike out, Winter. You know what that means? It means slushy streets and sub-freezing temperatures are not cool. Spandex and sleet do not mix, Winter. I need you to understand that, because the way I've been eating these last few months — it's because I'm uncomfortable around you, I think — I need to get out there and get some exercise.
It's not just me, Winter. You've worn out your welcome here and people are starting to get uncomfortable. They're too polite to say anything, but there are a lot of people who are ready to trade in their boots and snow pants for flip-flops and cargo shorts. You've got to let them go.
If it helps, I have a feeling this isn't the end for us, Winter. People change, you know? Sunny skies and warm weather might seem good now, but who knows if it will last. We might feel very different in a few months. We'll have tired of swimming and walking in the park and long for an opportunity to ski or snowshoe.
We've been through this before, Winter, and somehow we always end up back together. Pretty soon we'll realize life in Minnesota just isn't the same without you. Let's face it, you're as iconic in this state as lutefisk and underachieving football teams.
For now, though, you need to go. Take your things with you. Yes, the toothbrush, too.
It's been fun, Winter. But you've got to go.
Love, Nathan
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - I Got Mine
via FoxyTunes
We need to talk.
I know what you're thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You're worried this is one of "those" talks. And, well, it is. Because as important as you are to me, I think it's time I moved on.
I'd like to start seeing other seasons.
Hey. No. Don't do that. Come on. Dumping six inches of snow on everyone isn't going to change things. You can't hide the distance that's grown between us. You can't bury feelings under ice crystals. Things between us have grown cold, and I need something warmer. Something greener. Something that doesn't cause me to injure my back heaving wet snow off my sidewalk.
We had some good times, Winter. Remember a few months ago when I slipped on some ice and got bruises all up and down the side of my body? That was a hoot. I ached for days.
But, Winter, I need to move on. I'm a different person now than I was five months ago. I'm in a different place. I've put away my shovel. I've stored my bag of sidewalk salt. I bought a garden hose. I bought a lawn mower. That means I need a lawn, Winter. And I'm never going to have one if you don't stop dumping snow all over my yard. Given my past demonstrations of gardening skills I might not have one anyway, but you've got to let me at least try to grow.
I've got my bike out, Winter. You know what that means? It means slushy streets and sub-freezing temperatures are not cool. Spandex and sleet do not mix, Winter. I need you to understand that, because the way I've been eating these last few months — it's because I'm uncomfortable around you, I think — I need to get out there and get some exercise.
It's not just me, Winter. You've worn out your welcome here and people are starting to get uncomfortable. They're too polite to say anything, but there are a lot of people who are ready to trade in their boots and snow pants for flip-flops and cargo shorts. You've got to let them go.
If it helps, I have a feeling this isn't the end for us, Winter. People change, you know? Sunny skies and warm weather might seem good now, but who knows if it will last. We might feel very different in a few months. We'll have tired of swimming and walking in the park and long for an opportunity to ski or snowshoe.
We've been through this before, Winter, and somehow we always end up back together. Pretty soon we'll realize life in Minnesota just isn't the same without you. Let's face it, you're as iconic in this state as lutefisk and underachieving football teams.
For now, though, you need to go. Take your things with you. Yes, the toothbrush, too.
It's been fun, Winter. But you've got to go.
Love, Nathan
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - I Got Mine
via FoxyTunes
Friday, March 28, 2008
A lovely shade of Social Butterfly
I feel like I've spent a lot of time since I bought my first house last November about my ineptitude when it comes to doing household projects while simultaneously describing my successful home repair projects. Frankly, it's starting to seem a little disingenuous. I feel like I need to set the record straight.
Yes, I can use a circular saw without bashing my thumbnail, and I can swing a hammer without cutting off any limbs. Given enough instruction and enough help I can build a sofa table that is functional, if not necessarily a work of furniture art. And I was able to figure out why I had water in my basement and fix the problem by caulking a window in my shower.
I'm not exactly Bob Vila — or even Bob the Builder — but I know which way to point the sharp end of a drill.
None of which made me particularly confident when I set out to paint my living room last weekend.
Painting is intimidating. I lived for three years in an apartment with awful floral wallpaper on one of the living room walls because I couldn't bring myself to face the possibility of painting.
It's never been the work itself I've objected to. I actually kind of like that part, at least on a small scale. And while I'd never painted an entire room on my own before I was pretty sure I understood the underlying concepts. Where I really got lost was the color selection. Not the number. The names. I didn't realize until a few weeks ago just how far out of control the paint color namers have gotten.
With my new house I knew early on I wanted to paint my living room a kind of dark yellow. No problem there. But then I had to find a name I could live with. I don't care how much I liked the color, I don't think I could ever tell my friends I'd painted my walls First Light. Or Uplifting. Or Champagne Sparkle. I definitely couldn't go with Newborn. Way too creepy.
What if I'd chosen something browner? Could I live with myself knowing I was surrounded every day by shades of Cotton Field? Or Cozy Melon? I really don't think so.
Ultimately I settled on a dark yellow called Sunflower. If you ask me, though, it's more of a cheddar cheese color than anything flowery. It's definitely cheesier than the sample I've got of Sharp Cheddar. Explain that one.
Some names are definitely better than others. I can live with the Smoldering Red I got for another room in my house, but I'm not going anywhere near Shy Cherry. I grudgingly settled on an orangey brown called Tangerine Dream for my bedroom, although based on name alone I was tempted to go with something called Butterscotch Tempest. I'm still holding out hope I can find some Chocolate Thunderstorm or Tapioca Hurricane for the dining room.
The painting itself was uneventful if not exactly flawless. By the time I was done there was paint on my hands, on my clothes and on the bottoms of my shoes. There was paint on the baseboards and on the ceilings, although I think I've mostly gotten that off. I think the room looks good. But let's just call it yellow.
----------------
Now playing: Jurassic 5 - In The House
via FoxyTunes
Yes, I can use a circular saw without bashing my thumbnail, and I can swing a hammer without cutting off any limbs. Given enough instruction and enough help I can build a sofa table that is functional, if not necessarily a work of furniture art. And I was able to figure out why I had water in my basement and fix the problem by caulking a window in my shower.
I'm not exactly Bob Vila — or even Bob the Builder — but I know which way to point the sharp end of a drill.
None of which made me particularly confident when I set out to paint my living room last weekend.
Painting is intimidating. I lived for three years in an apartment with awful floral wallpaper on one of the living room walls because I couldn't bring myself to face the possibility of painting.
It's never been the work itself I've objected to. I actually kind of like that part, at least on a small scale. And while I'd never painted an entire room on my own before I was pretty sure I understood the underlying concepts. Where I really got lost was the color selection. Not the number. The names. I didn't realize until a few weeks ago just how far out of control the paint color namers have gotten.
With my new house I knew early on I wanted to paint my living room a kind of dark yellow. No problem there. But then I had to find a name I could live with. I don't care how much I liked the color, I don't think I could ever tell my friends I'd painted my walls First Light. Or Uplifting. Or Champagne Sparkle. I definitely couldn't go with Newborn. Way too creepy.
What if I'd chosen something browner? Could I live with myself knowing I was surrounded every day by shades of Cotton Field? Or Cozy Melon? I really don't think so.
Ultimately I settled on a dark yellow called Sunflower. If you ask me, though, it's more of a cheddar cheese color than anything flowery. It's definitely cheesier than the sample I've got of Sharp Cheddar. Explain that one.
Some names are definitely better than others. I can live with the Smoldering Red I got for another room in my house, but I'm not going anywhere near Shy Cherry. I grudgingly settled on an orangey brown called Tangerine Dream for my bedroom, although based on name alone I was tempted to go with something called Butterscotch Tempest. I'm still holding out hope I can find some Chocolate Thunderstorm or Tapioca Hurricane for the dining room.
The painting itself was uneventful if not exactly flawless. By the time I was done there was paint on my hands, on my clothes and on the bottoms of my shoes. There was paint on the baseboards and on the ceilings, although I think I've mostly gotten that off. I think the room looks good. But let's just call it yellow.
----------------
Now playing: Jurassic 5 - In The House
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Life story? Say it in six
Rumor has it someone once challenged Ernest Hemingway to write a story using just six words. The result, or so the story goes, was this: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
It's all a lie
Daylight Savings Time started Sunday morning, which means roughly one-third of Americans showed up for their first activity Sunday morning and wondered where the heck everyone else was.
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Check out the spokes on that one!
Plenty of guys get excited this time of year for the arrival of Sports Illustrated's annual swimsuit issue. I can appreciate that. When I was younger I spent plenty of time paging through the annual collection of superfit models in superskimpy outfits, just knowing somewhere in there a well-placed splash would have turned some woman's bikini top just translucent enough to reveal ... well, you know. Naughty stuff.
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I just don't get it
I never claimed to be any kind of genius, but I don't think I'm a dummy, either. I got good grades in school. I read books with big words. And I'm pretty sure I understood the deeper meaning of last summer's Transformers movie. The heroic Autobots represented Man's quest for understanding and peace among all people, right? And the evil Decepticons represented big freaking robots?
See? I've got a couple of brain cells to rub together. But there are still some things I just don't understand.
I don't understand tattoos, for example. I get that body art has special meaning for some people, and that's fine. It just seems to me there are better forms of self-expression than having someone permanently etch a strand of barbed wire around your bicep or Tweety Bird on your fanny.
Still, a lower back tattoo of a butterfly is downright ordinary compared to what a Canadian tattoo artist did to himself recently. According to the Edmonton Sun, 30-year-old Lane Jensen wanted to add a little something to the tattoo of the buxom cowgirl on his calf. So, last December he gave her breast implants. Like, actual bags of silicone implanted in his calf. How he ever intended to make his socks fit right again I have no idea.
Perhaps not surprisingly, things did not go well for old Lane. His tiny fake calf-breasts got infected and by Christmas eve the sutures had split and, according to the Sun, drained a liter of lymphatic fluid. For those unfamiliar, a liter is metric-speak for "a whole lot of gross leg-goo."
In other words, ick.
I don't understand people who are way too into their pets, either. It's great if you love your cats and dogs and treat them well. But when you find yourself shopping on a site like kittywigs.com it might be time to take a closer look at your life. Kittywigs, as the name suggests, produces wigs for your feline friends. You know, in case you ever feel the need to make kitty look more like a shorter, hairier Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. The wigs come in four models, each certain to induce weeks of nightmares involving former first ladies hacking up hairballs.
When it comes to producing feelings of unease, though, even cat wigs have nothing on dog armor. I have no earthly idea why, outside of severe mental instability, a person would want to dress his dog like a character from an awful fantasy novel. If you do, though, the people at organicarmor.com can take care of you. Even better: You can get you and your dog matching suits. Probably a good idea to be well protected when your dog, sick of parading around in his jeweled helmet, tries to chew your throat open while you sleep.
I'm sure I'll never understand fashion.
I'm not talking about that Haute Coture stuff. Those aren't really clothes. I'm pretty sure they're an elaborate method devised for communicating with alien beings who secretly visit Earth to find great bargains at our outlet malls. I'm talking about everyday stuff. Stuff like Reebok's recently released line of Kool Ade scented shoes. You know, for those times you find yourself saying, "Gosh, I wish my shoes smelled more like I'd just spilled a pitcher of fruit punch on them."
The shoes, available in grape, strawberry and cherry, went on sale at the beginning of the month.
I just don't get it.
----------------
Now playing: Tim Fite - Over The Counter Culture
via FoxyTunes
See? I've got a couple of brain cells to rub together. But there are still some things I just don't understand.
I don't understand tattoos, for example. I get that body art has special meaning for some people, and that's fine. It just seems to me there are better forms of self-expression than having someone permanently etch a strand of barbed wire around your bicep or Tweety Bird on your fanny.
Still, a lower back tattoo of a butterfly is downright ordinary compared to what a Canadian tattoo artist did to himself recently. According to the Edmonton Sun, 30-year-old Lane Jensen wanted to add a little something to the tattoo of the buxom cowgirl on his calf. So, last December he gave her breast implants. Like, actual bags of silicone implanted in his calf. How he ever intended to make his socks fit right again I have no idea.
Perhaps not surprisingly, things did not go well for old Lane. His tiny fake calf-breasts got infected and by Christmas eve the sutures had split and, according to the Sun, drained a liter of lymphatic fluid. For those unfamiliar, a liter is metric-speak for "a whole lot of gross leg-goo."
In other words, ick.
I don't understand people who are way too into their pets, either. It's great if you love your cats and dogs and treat them well. But when you find yourself shopping on a site like kittywigs.com it might be time to take a closer look at your life. Kittywigs, as the name suggests, produces wigs for your feline friends. You know, in case you ever feel the need to make kitty look more like a shorter, hairier Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. The wigs come in four models, each certain to induce weeks of nightmares involving former first ladies hacking up hairballs.
When it comes to producing feelings of unease, though, even cat wigs have nothing on dog armor. I have no earthly idea why, outside of severe mental instability, a person would want to dress his dog like a character from an awful fantasy novel. If you do, though, the people at organicarmor.com can take care of you. Even better: You can get you and your dog matching suits. Probably a good idea to be well protected when your dog, sick of parading around in his jeweled helmet, tries to chew your throat open while you sleep.
I'm sure I'll never understand fashion.
I'm not talking about that Haute Coture stuff. Those aren't really clothes. I'm pretty sure they're an elaborate method devised for communicating with alien beings who secretly visit Earth to find great bargains at our outlet malls. I'm talking about everyday stuff. Stuff like Reebok's recently released line of Kool Ade scented shoes. You know, for those times you find yourself saying, "Gosh, I wish my shoes smelled more like I'd just spilled a pitcher of fruit punch on them."
The shoes, available in grape, strawberry and cherry, went on sale at the beginning of the month.
I just don't get it.
----------------
Now playing: Tim Fite - Over The Counter Culture
via FoxyTunes
Friday, February 15, 2008
Coming soon to prime time?
There is good news and bad news to be found in the end this week of the three month-plus strike by the Writer's Guild of America. Certainly, the deal is good news for television fans. With professional writers back on the job we will once again have quality, first-run entertainment flowing to our living rooms each night. It hurts me to think fans of According to Jim have been left with unresolved storylines although not as much as it hurts to realize there are actually fans of According to Jim. The deal is also good news for writers, who will now reportedly get paid more for DVD and online reproduction of their work. This is entirely reasonable. These people are professionals and deserve to be compensated as such. You certainly can't trust amateurs with important things like plots involving oafish husbands, their disproportionately attractive wives and their sassy children and/or wacky neighbors. It would be chaos. Most of the jokes involved in these shows have been around since Jackie Gleason and The Honeymooners and they've grown brittle over the years. Handling them now takes a delicate touch. The news isn't as good for television studios, which will have to pay more to a class of employees that, given the success of high-quality reality fare like that show where they hook people to polygraphs and ask them whether they've ever cheated on their taxes or been physically attracted to livestock, has started to seem less and less necessary. So much for next season's Thursday night lineup of Playing Shuffleboard with the Stars, Hey, Dummy, this Preschooler is Smarter than You and Fornication Beach. The WGA deal is also bad news for me. Sure, I'm as happy as anyone to have a fresh stream of new CSI: Without a Special Victims Cold Case episodes on the way, but with professional writers returning to work there's almost no chance the networks are going to want the scripts I've been working up to help fill the gaps. These scripts still needed a little polishing, but since they'll probably never see the light of a cathode ray tube I figured I'd share a few of them here.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation: The scene opens at a party. Attractive women in short skirts are laughing and having a good time with square-jawed men. Suddenly, there's a scream. Someone has been impaled on an ice sculpture. There is no evidence. But wait! Here come the CSI guys! They look at the crime scene and smirk knowingly. (Insert 40-minute special effects sequence of CSI investigators collecting evidence and suggesting theories) The investigators wrap up the case with an improbable explanation of what happened and more special effects. They high-five.
CSI: Miami: See above, but replace impaled by an ice sculpture with swarmed by rabid bats. Also, instead of high-fiving the CSI investigators dance the twist. Also, intercut special effects sequences with shots of David Caruso looking impossibly smug.
Law and Order: The one With the Crazy Guy: Vincent D'Onofrio acts like a lunatic for an hour.
Medium: Patricia Arquette sees spooky things, gets spooked, never seems to get used to the idea that she's seeing spooky things even though it's been, like, three seasons now. Cold
Case: Detectives look into a case from several years ago. First suspect tells them he didn't do it, but sends them to someone else. Period-appropriate music plays. Detectives accuse second suspect, who blames someone else. (Music) Detectives accuse third suspect, who puts the blame back on first suspect, who the detectives then arrest. More music. Viewers try to figure out what the heck just happened.
According to Jim: Jim does something exasperating, acts goofy. Jim's wife gets exasperated. Jim bickers with his sister-in-law or whoever that woman is. Jim redeems himself. Viewers continue to watch for some reason.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation: The scene opens at a party. Attractive women in short skirts are laughing and having a good time with square-jawed men. Suddenly, there's a scream. Someone has been impaled on an ice sculpture. There is no evidence. But wait! Here come the CSI guys! They look at the crime scene and smirk knowingly. (Insert 40-minute special effects sequence of CSI investigators collecting evidence and suggesting theories) The investigators wrap up the case with an improbable explanation of what happened and more special effects. They high-five.
CSI: Miami: See above, but replace impaled by an ice sculpture with swarmed by rabid bats. Also, instead of high-fiving the CSI investigators dance the twist. Also, intercut special effects sequences with shots of David Caruso looking impossibly smug.
Law and Order: The one With the Crazy Guy: Vincent D'Onofrio acts like a lunatic for an hour.
Medium: Patricia Arquette sees spooky things, gets spooked, never seems to get used to the idea that she's seeing spooky things even though it's been, like, three seasons now. Cold
Case: Detectives look into a case from several years ago. First suspect tells them he didn't do it, but sends them to someone else. Period-appropriate music plays. Detectives accuse second suspect, who blames someone else. (Music) Detectives accuse third suspect, who puts the blame back on first suspect, who the detectives then arrest. More music. Viewers try to figure out what the heck just happened.
According to Jim: Jim does something exasperating, acts goofy. Jim's wife gets exasperated. Jim bickers with his sister-in-law or whoever that woman is. Jim redeems himself. Viewers continue to watch for some reason.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Minnesota's official state column?
So, I'm driving to work the other day and I'm listening to NPR and they're airing a story about somebody trying to get something or other named the official state whatsit of Maryland.
I'll admit I really wasn't paying close attention. And even though later review has revealed it was walking Marylanders were trying to have enshrined as the state's official exercise I still can't say I care too much.
What caught my attention, though, came at the end of the story. That's when the reporter revealed some in the state opposed granting walking state symbol status because they feel Maryland has too many such symbols, including blue crabs (official state crustacean), the shell of an extinct snail (official state fossil shell) and jousting (official state sport).
This revelation raised two interesting points. One, the fossil shell of the cucuella ginanta really got a raw deal. And, two, apparently the sporting scene in Maryland has yet to advance past the middle ages. Which, I guess, explains University of Maryland basketball.
It got me thinking, though. I know the ladyslipper is Minnesota's state flower, wild rice is the state grain and the loon is the state bird (unless you believe the novelty t-shirts, in which case it's the comically oversized mosquito). But are there other symbols I should know about? Was I somehow living in ignorance of the fact my home state for some reason identifies its sporting scene with jai alai?
Apparently I wasn't. Minnesota's list of state symbols is almost disappointingly short and predictable. The state fish is the walleye. The state gem is the Lake Superior Agate. The state tree is the Norway pine.
Yawn. There wasn't an archaic sporting practice or a long-dead mollusk anywhere to be found. California has a state fife and drum band, Michigan has a state reptile and all we've got is a state drink.
It's milk, which, I suppose, goes really well with our state muffin (blueberry). If only we could get our legislators to designate Nesquick mix our state powder I could have myself an official Minnesota chocolate milk.
It's not until you get to the list of our rejected state symbols that things start to get interesting. I'm not sure whether the fact we have on multiple occasions rejected efforts to name the leopard frog our state amphibian means we have better things to do than other states or if it just means our legislators really can't get anything done.
It turns out there's a long list of rejected state symbols. Most recently, there was legislation introduced in 2007 that would have made the tilt-a-whirl our state ride. A companion bill that would have made queasiness our official state of being didn't go anywhere.
The competition for state mammal status has been heated over the years. There have been eight failed attempts to give that status to the white tailed deer and six attempts to give it to the eastern timber wolf. You have to figure the performance of our state's NBA franchise isn't helping that animal's chances.
There were competing bills in 1987 to designate a state beer. I cannot confirm that supporters of either Schell's Deer Brand beer or Cold Spring beer missed the votes in question because they were too hung over to get out of bed that day.
There has been legislation to name an official state fossil (the giant beaver), state folk dance (square dance) and state mineral (iron ore). HF970 tried to introduce a state soup in 1998 (wild rice) and in both 1998 and 1999 there were attempts to name a state reptile (the blandings turtle).
Maybe most unsettling, though, is HF970, which Senator Jack Davies introduced in 1977 in an attempt to have the leech named Minnesota's state parasite.
I mean, everyone knows that should be the lawyer.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
I'll admit I really wasn't paying close attention. And even though later review has revealed it was walking Marylanders were trying to have enshrined as the state's official exercise I still can't say I care too much.
What caught my attention, though, came at the end of the story. That's when the reporter revealed some in the state opposed granting walking state symbol status because they feel Maryland has too many such symbols, including blue crabs (official state crustacean), the shell of an extinct snail (official state fossil shell) and jousting (official state sport).
This revelation raised two interesting points. One, the fossil shell of the cucuella ginanta really got a raw deal. And, two, apparently the sporting scene in Maryland has yet to advance past the middle ages. Which, I guess, explains University of Maryland basketball.
It got me thinking, though. I know the ladyslipper is Minnesota's state flower, wild rice is the state grain and the loon is the state bird (unless you believe the novelty t-shirts, in which case it's the comically oversized mosquito). But are there other symbols I should know about? Was I somehow living in ignorance of the fact my home state for some reason identifies its sporting scene with jai alai?
Apparently I wasn't. Minnesota's list of state symbols is almost disappointingly short and predictable. The state fish is the walleye. The state gem is the Lake Superior Agate. The state tree is the Norway pine.
Yawn. There wasn't an archaic sporting practice or a long-dead mollusk anywhere to be found. California has a state fife and drum band, Michigan has a state reptile and all we've got is a state drink.
It's milk, which, I suppose, goes really well with our state muffin (blueberry). If only we could get our legislators to designate Nesquick mix our state powder I could have myself an official Minnesota chocolate milk.
It's not until you get to the list of our rejected state symbols that things start to get interesting. I'm not sure whether the fact we have on multiple occasions rejected efforts to name the leopard frog our state amphibian means we have better things to do than other states or if it just means our legislators really can't get anything done.
It turns out there's a long list of rejected state symbols. Most recently, there was legislation introduced in 2007 that would have made the tilt-a-whirl our state ride. A companion bill that would have made queasiness our official state of being didn't go anywhere.
The competition for state mammal status has been heated over the years. There have been eight failed attempts to give that status to the white tailed deer and six attempts to give it to the eastern timber wolf. You have to figure the performance of our state's NBA franchise isn't helping that animal's chances.
There were competing bills in 1987 to designate a state beer. I cannot confirm that supporters of either Schell's Deer Brand beer or Cold Spring beer missed the votes in question because they were too hung over to get out of bed that day.
There has been legislation to name an official state fossil (the giant beaver), state folk dance (square dance) and state mineral (iron ore). HF970 tried to introduce a state soup in 1998 (wild rice) and in both 1998 and 1999 there were attempts to name a state reptile (the blandings turtle).
Maybe most unsettling, though, is HF970, which Senator Jack Davies introduced in 1977 in an attempt to have the leech named Minnesota's state parasite.
I mean, everyone knows that should be the lawyer.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
Friday, February 01, 2008
What's next? Smurfs: the Movie?
Little by little, Hollywood is destroying my childhood.
Not all of it, obviously. So far as I know no producer has proposed a sitcom exploring my brief careers in 4-H or Cub Scouts. And there will probably never be an inspirational sports movie about the time my indoor soccer team won its league championship (Although there totally should be; we were awesome!).
No, mostly our nation’s entertainment industry has limited itself to producing mildly soul-killing updates on the television shows and movies that brought me so much joy when I was younger.
This isn't a new trend, I realize, but it seems to be picking up speed. Writers and producers don't have time to wait for their audience to actually become nostalgic about something. They have to create the nostalgia out of bailing wire, papier mache and the tears of tiny infants.
It was just a few years ago, remember, that the viewing public was subjected to remakes of before-my-time material like The Mod Squad, The Avengers and Bewitched. And while I'm not sure it's fair to say anyone was truly nostalgic for a show about the hilarious consequences of a human marrying a witch, at least enough time had passed that it was possible.
Now, the window between original and remake keeps shrinking. The past 12 months alone has brought newfangled versions of at least four television programs I enjoyed in my youth which, I swear, wasn’t all that long ago.
The adaptations met with varying levels of success. Transformers, which took its inspiration from a series of half-hour commercials for a line of toy robots, was big and stupid but ultimately kind of fun. I could have done without the scene where a robot relieved itself, but I’m willing to let it go.
I didn’t see either Underdog, about a super-powered canine, or The Chipmunks, but I saw trailers for both and feel confident when I say the would have made me weep for the lost innocence of youth and the death of creativity. Or maybe they just would have made me nauseous.
The movies share some characteristics. Both bring live action into what was once entirely a cartoon world, and both feature Jason Lee, who seemed pretty cool back when he was making movies like Mallrats and Chasing Amy but who now apparently sees nothing wrong with scenes in which he eats chipmunk poop.
I don’t know what the deal is with remakes and bodily function-related humor, but it makes me really nervous about any potential MacGuyver remakes.
Just a few weeks ago, NBC relaunched American Gladiators, the long lost and little mourned competition in which ordinary folks went up against steroid-crazed “Gladiators” with names like Thunder and Tower and Bulkyguy in events that involved whacking each other with padded sticks and rolling around in oversized metal balls. Watching the remake, which somehow managed to bump the crazy level of the gladiators up about three notches and which features Hulk Hogan and Mohammed Ali’s daughter as hosts, I had a hard time remembering what I ever found appealing about the original.
There are more remakes coming, too. A live-action version of G.I. Joe, perhaps the finest cartoon of my childhood, is due soon. So is a remake of Knight Rider, which promises to be awful, but in a completely different way than the David Hasselhoff-filled original.
I imagine the trend will only pick up steam. The window between original and remake will only get shorter.
I, for one, can’t wait for the theatrical release of Saved by the Bell: The Movie.
Not all of it, obviously. So far as I know no producer has proposed a sitcom exploring my brief careers in 4-H or Cub Scouts. And there will probably never be an inspirational sports movie about the time my indoor soccer team won its league championship (Although there totally should be; we were awesome!).
No, mostly our nation’s entertainment industry has limited itself to producing mildly soul-killing updates on the television shows and movies that brought me so much joy when I was younger.
This isn't a new trend, I realize, but it seems to be picking up speed. Writers and producers don't have time to wait for their audience to actually become nostalgic about something. They have to create the nostalgia out of bailing wire, papier mache and the tears of tiny infants.
It was just a few years ago, remember, that the viewing public was subjected to remakes of before-my-time material like The Mod Squad, The Avengers and Bewitched. And while I'm not sure it's fair to say anyone was truly nostalgic for a show about the hilarious consequences of a human marrying a witch, at least enough time had passed that it was possible.
Now, the window between original and remake keeps shrinking. The past 12 months alone has brought newfangled versions of at least four television programs I enjoyed in my youth which, I swear, wasn’t all that long ago.
The adaptations met with varying levels of success. Transformers, which took its inspiration from a series of half-hour commercials for a line of toy robots, was big and stupid but ultimately kind of fun. I could have done without the scene where a robot relieved itself, but I’m willing to let it go.
I didn’t see either Underdog, about a super-powered canine, or The Chipmunks, but I saw trailers for both and feel confident when I say the would have made me weep for the lost innocence of youth and the death of creativity. Or maybe they just would have made me nauseous.
The movies share some characteristics. Both bring live action into what was once entirely a cartoon world, and both feature Jason Lee, who seemed pretty cool back when he was making movies like Mallrats and Chasing Amy but who now apparently sees nothing wrong with scenes in which he eats chipmunk poop.
I don’t know what the deal is with remakes and bodily function-related humor, but it makes me really nervous about any potential MacGuyver remakes.
Just a few weeks ago, NBC relaunched American Gladiators, the long lost and little mourned competition in which ordinary folks went up against steroid-crazed “Gladiators” with names like Thunder and Tower and Bulkyguy in events that involved whacking each other with padded sticks and rolling around in oversized metal balls. Watching the remake, which somehow managed to bump the crazy level of the gladiators up about three notches and which features Hulk Hogan and Mohammed Ali’s daughter as hosts, I had a hard time remembering what I ever found appealing about the original.
There are more remakes coming, too. A live-action version of G.I. Joe, perhaps the finest cartoon of my childhood, is due soon. So is a remake of Knight Rider, which promises to be awful, but in a completely different way than the David Hasselhoff-filled original.
I imagine the trend will only pick up steam. The window between original and remake will only get shorter.
I, for one, can’t wait for the theatrical release of Saved by the Bell: The Movie.
Sorry, Swedes
I don't have anything in particular against the Swedes. I spent 10 months living among them during my junior year of high school. I studied their culture, a surprising amount of which revolved around pickled herring and cheese sandwiches. They are a fine, sturdy people who possess many admirable qualities, not least the ability to live in a country that is dark for a good seven-ninths of the day during the winter. Trust me, Sweden is a good place to own a franchise on a flashlight shop.
Sweden has also produced many things that are of great benefit to the world as a whole. I am a big fan of their meatballs, their red gummy candies and their bikini teams.
So please, believe me when I say I have no quarrel with the Nordic peoples as a whole. But I worry that if I have to shop at their furniture store one more time I'm liable to punch someone in the head.
Fortunately, given my marked lack of upper body strength, that is unlikely to do any significant damage. It sure would make me feel better, though.
IKEA, that massive marketer of hex wrench-assembled furniture, caused a big stir when it opened several years ago in Bloomington, it's gigantic blue-and-yellow building proclaiming its overwhelming Swedishness to anyone driving by. People lined up for days for the chance to be the first to buy attractively priced knickknacks with whimsical, pseudo-Swedish names.
I have been to IKEA precisely three times since that day, and I believe a little piece of my soul died each time.
The crowds are part of what drive me crazy about IKEA. For someone whose job involves talking to other people I have remarkably little patience for humanity as a whole.
Actually, I'm generally OK with individuals. It's when you gather a bunch of people as a group, cram them into a confined space and wave bargain-priced glassware in their faces my eyelid really starts to twitch. This is why my rare trips to the Mall of America are typically followed by me locking myself in a dark room for about a week.
It's the design of the store that bugs me most, though. If you've never been, basically you enter through one door, go up an elevator and, with the exception of a few shortcuts, are forced to wander through acre after acre of competitively priced sofas and bed frames. There's only one way in. There's only one way out.
Walking through the store I imagine I understand how cattle feel as they're herded down a long chute toward the slaughterhouse. Only instead of a guy with a hacksaw there's a cash register and a plastic bucket of ginger cookies waiting for me at the end of the line. I think I'm getting a better deal than the cows, but not by much.
I imagine it didn't help that the first time I visited IKEA, ignorant of the unidirectional traffic pattern, I circled the store in reverse, like a salmon swimming upstream. By the time I'd made it halfway I was hoping a bear would come along and put me out of my misery.
Still, when a store's got what you need it's got what you need. And since I needed more cabinet and counter space in my new kitchen I girded my loins, put in my favorite ABBA CD and made the short drive to Bloomington. I got my counter. Now I just need to put it together.
Is anyone good with pictographs?
Sweden has also produced many things that are of great benefit to the world as a whole. I am a big fan of their meatballs, their red gummy candies and their bikini teams.
So please, believe me when I say I have no quarrel with the Nordic peoples as a whole. But I worry that if I have to shop at their furniture store one more time I'm liable to punch someone in the head.
Fortunately, given my marked lack of upper body strength, that is unlikely to do any significant damage. It sure would make me feel better, though.
IKEA, that massive marketer of hex wrench-assembled furniture, caused a big stir when it opened several years ago in Bloomington, it's gigantic blue-and-yellow building proclaiming its overwhelming Swedishness to anyone driving by. People lined up for days for the chance to be the first to buy attractively priced knickknacks with whimsical, pseudo-Swedish names.
I have been to IKEA precisely three times since that day, and I believe a little piece of my soul died each time.
The crowds are part of what drive me crazy about IKEA. For someone whose job involves talking to other people I have remarkably little patience for humanity as a whole.
Actually, I'm generally OK with individuals. It's when you gather a bunch of people as a group, cram them into a confined space and wave bargain-priced glassware in their faces my eyelid really starts to twitch. This is why my rare trips to the Mall of America are typically followed by me locking myself in a dark room for about a week.
It's the design of the store that bugs me most, though. If you've never been, basically you enter through one door, go up an elevator and, with the exception of a few shortcuts, are forced to wander through acre after acre of competitively priced sofas and bed frames. There's only one way in. There's only one way out.
Walking through the store I imagine I understand how cattle feel as they're herded down a long chute toward the slaughterhouse. Only instead of a guy with a hacksaw there's a cash register and a plastic bucket of ginger cookies waiting for me at the end of the line. I think I'm getting a better deal than the cows, but not by much.
I imagine it didn't help that the first time I visited IKEA, ignorant of the unidirectional traffic pattern, I circled the store in reverse, like a salmon swimming upstream. By the time I'd made it halfway I was hoping a bear would come along and put me out of my misery.
Still, when a store's got what you need it's got what you need. And since I needed more cabinet and counter space in my new kitchen I girded my loins, put in my favorite ABBA CD and made the short drive to Bloomington. I got my counter. Now I just need to put it together.
Is anyone good with pictographs?
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