Monday, August 08, 2016

News

1. I cleaned up. There was stuff in the links that was old, moribund, dramatically changed, and in one sad case, deceased. Thanks to BFF for the inspiration to get around to doing something that's needed doing for a very long time.

2. I am unemployed. Low-effort Kickstarter ideas welcome (turns out "Bologna sandwich" was already taken).

3. Yes. Jill Stein is a fucking dipshit who has no business running for office. I don't care whether she's pandering to anti-vaxxers or actually is one. And yes, it is, in fact, one or the other. Don't fucking embarrass yourself by arguing otherwise--you got nothing. No one is putting words in her mouth or on her Twitter feed (or deleting them from her Twitter feed) for her.

4. Databoy makes his way to the University of Turtles very, very soon. I won't claim success yet, because the scoreboard's not showing zeroes. But it's close.

5. I forget what eight was for.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Happy Fucking Birthday To Me

Thanks, as always, to my lifelong friend and foil and intellectual trampoline and I don't know whatthefuck else.

This is a weird one, to be sure, with Databoy turning 18 today as well, and off to college (the right college, thankyouverymuch) in six weeks, and my own unemployment looming. It has been one seriously fucked up year:

-The famous dead (Bowie, Rickman, Prince).
-The infamous dead; Sasha's wretched death is sometimes just not there, and sometimes, when I reach for the phone to tell her a story made just for her, when I watch a beloved sportsball team faceplant endearingly, when the cluster that just won't stop clusters fuckingly--it was second nature to share the contents of my brain with her, to earn that guffaw, to process the undigestable.
-The loss of a thing I loved beyond measure (my work family), and of a job I sucked myself dry to earn (when we calculated the risk of my professional move back in December, we ignored extremes of probability in our analysis: probability rewarded us with a set of extremes that we could not have imagined) .
-The turmoil of externality, the march of shit changing just because shit changes.

And it's only July. There are touchstone years in our lives, years we look back on and say, "Good riddance to that fucking turd of a year." This is one of mine, and it's not over.

But I'm out on the stroll, and a john will pull up soon. Bam endures, now enduring at 6'2" tall and 190 pounds of giggle and flap. Ilse rocks. Databoy will get the fuck out of my house, and he won't have to live in an appliance box. It's not all hopeless bleak despair, and it's important to say that, to stare down the void and flip it off before walking away, to click my heels and will it gone, not caring that I'm a big doofus in red slippers.

Thanks and love to you all.


Monday, May 09, 2016

More Death

BFF mentioned this in passing a few days ago, and I guess it's time for me to get around to telling it, as much as I intend to tell. Unfortunately, my dear friend Sasha passed away on April 15 after a couple of months of chronic illness that I will not further describe.

Sasha, known in some circles as TechNoir, was a complicated person, and the most private person I have ever known. She would hate even the fact that I linked those two names in print, as much as I would hate it if someone linked my serial killer Internet name with my actual name. So I'm not going to tell you much about Sasha. She was older, she was a woman, she had a job that was Washington-appropriate, she had a couple or three careers in her long life, she liked some stuff--I'm willing, at this juncture, to admit that she liked politics, the Internet, gaming, and various sports teams that are better than your sports teams, unless your sports teams are the same as hers, which are mostly the same as mine. She liked pushing Whispers' buttons even more than Ilse or I do, and Whispers his own self will tell you that this is quite some mathematical accomplishment, being that Ilse and I enjoy pushing his buttons far, far more than is healthy or kind. She liked pushing a lot of buttons--while I was a target-rich button environment for 20 years in my own right, she also enjoyed hanging around Databoy, a kid laden with buttons. She was, in fact, the original Ant Queen, the creature for which I had to create (and quickly retire) my nonexistent alter ego Insuffricubus, to the delight of some, the bewilderment of many, and the apathy of most. She made many of us better. There is no need to discuss the rest of the math.

I miss Sasha terribly. I'm lucky to have been in a position where I could.

Monday, March 21, 2016

That Snuck Up On Me

Happy birthday, kid. Looking forward to your approaching return to the right state.

It is traditional to remind that this child grew up to tell me that "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes."
What the fuck, 22, 23, 24, 48? I lost track. Happy birthday and all the love in the world.

Tuesday, February 09, 2016

Irony Is the Sound of Freedom, Part Infinity

"Give me my privacy!" they Tweeted. When that didn't work they Facebooked it. Then they went to Snapchat and Instagram to post pics of them demanding their privacy. They were appalled when we paid attention.

Oh, wait; no, they weren't.

"Politicians are tools for the wealthy!" they cried, "Rock the don'tvote!" They made no exception for an aging hippie who's been an attention whore completely dissociated from functional political reality since sometime after the Civil Rights movement's greatest hits, a senile jackass who's completely morally bankrupt on key issues of concern to his base.

Oh, wait; yes, they did.

"You get the fuck off my lawn!" he shouted at himself. He did.

Oh, wait; no, he didn't.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

God DAMMIT

Stop it. Just fucking stop.

Alan Rickman, dead at 69.


Of course, only Harry Potter nerds think that the totality of Alan Rickman was Severus Snape. Not that there was ever a better choice for the role.

Fuck your fucking calendar, you fucking fuck.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Touchstones

David Bowie, dead at 69. Fuck your calendar.



I wanted to add a vid of "Cat People," another incredibly powerful Bowiething, but everything on YT is fanboy bullshit or is restricted from embed. Best one I could find is linked here; it's the version from Inglourious Basterds, set mostly to the footage it overplays in the movie. I think Melanie Laurent is a pretty fucking good tribute.

BFF is letting this fuck up his day, too, which is meet and right, of course.

But really, just fuck your fucking calendar. No, really, just get the biggest dick you can and jam it right up that calendar's most painful orifice and make it fucking scream.

Fuck.

Saturday, January 09, 2016

Honing Fierce Children

Time flies when you're not blogging very much. Bam-Bam was introduced to these pages over 10 years ago as an adorable 5-year-old terrorist who, with a single two-Couric turd, made me stop laughing (temporarily) at my own farts. Today, my little Bam-Bam is 15 years old, stands a damn good three inches taller than me, and is an actual high-school ath-uh-lete.

Bam started high school last September, after an extra year in the safety of middle school, and he attends a very fine program at a school that, while as generically fabulous as any other school in my local locality, didn't exist when I was a lad (like many other schools in my local locality, including the one at which Ilse teaches), Therefore, ath-uh-letically, it don't so much exist now, in my feverbrain. But now I don the colors (we are Red, which is fine in any other contexts, and we are, as it happens, Cougars, and y'all can have a good chuckle at Ilse for that...go on, I don't mind, cradle robbery don't seem quite so cradle-robbing after enough years have passed).

I'm further annoyed at Bam's high school because we live about 500 yards away from it; the football field is behind my across-the-street neighbors' back yards. I know far too much about Cougarville. I know the score of the football, field hockey, lacrosse, or soccer game. I know what this week's halftime show will be (sidebar: what passes for award-winning marching bands* these days is appalling). I know what the poms will dance to. I call the cops when they decide to broadcast the homecoming dance sound barrage over the stadium's PA system (this was actually the work of AV pranksters, not the school).

And still, I don the Red and cheer, because Bam is now an ath-uh-lete. Cougarville (a pretty jocky school, overall) has a faboo Allied Sports Program, which is mainstream kids and special kids playing together in sports that are reasonably manageable for kids with issues. It's supposed to be fun, although some schools (not ours) take it a little too seriously. The fall sport was supposed to be handball, and most parents agreed with Coach's assessment that handball is a bit risky for kids with motor issues. Spring will be softball, which will be an interesting test of concept-getting for Bam, to which we look forward with glee, because we're assholes. But winter...winter is bocce, played with heavy rubber balls on a gym floor. This is an actual interscholastic competitive sportsball thing, with uniforms, a referee, a scoreboard, the National Anthem, and--we are told--for one home game a season, cheerleaders. That home game is coming up this week, and we're freaking giddy about it.

Bocce is curling with balls. Sort of. A player throws a smaller ball, called a jack or a pallino, which in our world is yellow and a little bigger than a golf ball. That's the target. The object is to get one of your (red or green) rubber balls--larger and heavier, about the size of a softball, and a little heavier--closest to the pallino. You score a number of points equal to the number of your balls closest to the pallino after each team has thrown four balls. It's all pretty sedate, and very sportsmanlike--there are some times when it's okay for everyone to get a trophy, and this is one of them.

Bam doesn't give a shit about where the ball goes, although he is often the pallino-chucker (who also throws the first ball). Oddly, he is among the team's leading scorers. This is fucking hilarious, because he usually walks up, chucks a ball, and walks away before it's stopped rolling.

What Bam does like is that every time he throws a ball--regular or pallino--the bleachers erupt in applause and cheering, some of it calling his name. He is then surrounded by his teammates--a substantial number of them cute little high school girls--who high- and low-five him and tell him he's awesome. There are something like eight mainstream kids on this team, and seven of them are girls. And every one of them is a sweet kid who's in this partly because it's an easy sport and partly because being nice to special-needs kids looks good on a college app and, I imagine, partly because some or all of them are just actually nice. He's got a lot to like.

He's number 26, by the way, a number that carries some pretty major weight in this house.

Bam is not the only kid in the house to proudly represent. Databoy goes to a different school because he managed to convince someone in authority that he's a fucking genius (he sort of is, for some limited applications of geniosity), and he's in a magnet program and an engineering program. In this, his senior year, he has joined the academic team, also known as the quiz bowl team, or hereabouts, the It's Academic team (for the TV show of the same name, although the relationship between this league and the TV show is tenuous at best). Turns out that the team's coach/sponsor is way laid back. She's a perfectly good and entertaining person and a generally good teacher, but she's a little too busy to take care of the team, especially in the form of showing up for road meets (which most are--a meet consists of four schools, of which only one can be home; Databoy's school had only one home meet this year). So it's a really good thing that, in the team's stable of parents, is one dedicated idiot who's willing to show up at road meets and be the only grownup representative of their farm-town school, a school half the size of any other in the county, a school smack at the outer edge of the county, a school that back in our day, had as many head of livestock as students, but has now emerged, thanks to high-quality magnet programs, with a reputation as one of the best schools in the state.

I'm sorry, did I actually have to tell you who that dedicated idiot is?

This academic team thing is a lot of fun for a pompous git like me; I often get to be the reader/moderator, which is howlingly funny because I am, as you know, proudly illiterate and profoundly undereducated, and as you probably don't know, prone to getting a little tongue-tied when I'm speaking. Reading out loud is an adventure. I also get to riff on the questions after they're answered, dropping random contextually related tidbits of history and literature and pop culture and inside baseball on the poor little bastards. They appreciate this every bit as much as they do any bit of twaddle emitted by their own parents, bless their little hearts. But fuck 'em, I'm doing them a favor and they're better people for having spent 35 minutes with me.

And they're awesome and funny kids. There was a countywide meet the other day, the last round of competition before the playoffs--each team plays the two teams above and below it in the standings in a giant round-robin deal. Some schools are so into this that they have two or three teams and not enough adults to manage; as a result, I ended up reading/moderating a match between two schools' B teams, two schools that I was raised to congenitally despise****. Yes, I told them so, and proceeded to tell them that they were free to call me out when I made mistakes (one of the reader's duties is to press a button after buzzer questions, to clear the system, and I'm often so excited about the next question, or the last question, or the arithmetic of scorekeeping, or my own farts, that I forget to press the button), by either calling me "Sir" or clapping like seals.

It took only three questions for the rich kids to find an opportunity to clap and "Orp!" like seals and chant, "Buzzers please Sir." Magnificent. Most relaxed match I've ever read, since I was a true neutral and didn't have to coach my team (mostly with snarling and glares, since etiquette demands non-involvement during a match, whether or not I'm reading/moderating/scorekeeping) and moderate simultaneously.

Databoy's team entered the day in twelfth place (top 16 out of 30 or so teams make the playoffs). They won all four matches despite my presence--totally unprecedented for them--and moved up to eighth place, giving themselves a nice playoff position for the first round of the playoff tournament. And a dreadful one for subsequent rounds, potentially, because we're not sure whether they reseed after each round--so they may face the one seed in the second round, if they get past the dreaded eight-nine matchup--against a team****** that beat them by 5 points--about a third of the value of the average question--in their first game of the season. The glaringly decisive question they missed, lo those months ago, involved sportsball. Databoy was benched for that match--there are more kids than spots, so they take turns sitting out--and he's the only kid on the team with a chance of answering most sportsball questions. So he's in the game a lot more now.

And he hasn't gotten a single sportsball question right in a competitive situation all season. Go Databoy. Go Bam.

* Aren't the overalls spiffy? Holy crap, if we'd dressed like that back in the days of onions on our belts, they'd have laughed us out of the county**. Oh, wait. They did that anyway. The song, by the way, is a dispirited and lackluster rendition of the West Virginia University fight song, which is, to my eternal shame, also my high school's fight song. Had we played it like this funeral dirge, our director, who doubled as a professional roller-skater***, would've tasered us and laughed while we jerked and danced. If tasers had been invented yet, but that would've been hard, since electricity, yea, and even dirt, had yet to be invented.

** Their formal uni is worse, worn with a USC-style Trojan helmet. Thank you once again, Jeebus, for not inflicting that torment upon us.

*** I am super-seriously not kidding here. Professional. Roller. Skater. The seventies, friends. We lived them at full speed.

**** More sidebars: First*****, as a lad, I was raised to find every other high school in the county despicable or irrelevant. Both of these schools were despicable from our perspective, although I dated girls from the wealthier of the two schools, being a particularly skeevy and opportunistic little fucking creep when I was an adolescent.

***** Second, I missed Databoy's match during that sub-round, which was just as well, because they were playing against the aforementioned alma mater. I walked into the room, shouted "Go Trojans!" (not Databoy's school mascot), gathered my seething oh-my-God-parents-are-the-fucking-worst proteges in a huddle, quietly and cheerfully exhorted them to win the fucking match, and went off to do my duty for county and school system by moderating a match between a school that mostly bested us in brawls and a school that disappointed us out of three consecutive state football titles, but whose girls were primo for a gawky little shit like me, back in the day.

****** A team representing a school at which Ilse used to teach, pretty much her favorite of her former schools, and another school with a very fine tradition of wiseassery. Synchronicity abounds.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

All Aflutter

I am in a high frenzy, a state of damn near TerpRiot. It is true that it has been difficult for me, lo these many years since the departure of Our Lord and Savior Gary Williams and His Prophet Juan Dixon, to get excited about Maryland hoops, at least the testosterone version (I still adore the women, though I'm a tad heartbroke about Miss Lexie Brown's deeply personal decision to transfer, and a tad furious about the part of it where she felt she had to transfer to Those People, but it's her fucking business, and Brenda Frese will win more NCAA titles during the remainder of Miss Brown's NCAA eligibility than Lexie will, so WTFever, kid). The move to the Big Can't Count Conference didn't help my ennui over the Williams-less, post-Dixon, post-The-Alien-Steve-Blake guy Terps.

But thanks in part to the outstanding work of YFWP's Sports department, I am pumped. Fuck Georgetown in the eye. This is fucking awesome, the first time Maryland has played Georgetown in the regular season in 42 fucking years, which brings us to why I'm in a fiercely tribal state:

Hyper UMd Marketers Recreate a Period Photo

Our cheerleaders and theirs, courtesy of the ever-sedate local Fox outlet

Elmore and Mcmillen in groovy pants
Mister Elmore (from his personal files, apparently)



Foldout poster of Mister Lucas from the 1973 program
Thanks to Steinberg and to YFWP for excavating this awesome stuff. Go Terps.

Reminder to you young persons: We lived this. Sure, we had an onion on our belts because that was the style, and chickies didn't have the right to vote or drink unless they put out for it, and bellbottoms were the law. But it was what it was, and we were better people for it. Fuck Georgetown in the eye. Go Terps.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Not 56 Songs. But Enough.

I don't usually do a post for Ilse's birthday, but I'm fucking the rest of it up pretty roundly, so at least she gets this part on time.

Databoy was a little startled to find out over the weekend that his parents have some fondness for this little ditty:



He always thought that this was our song (and, in truth, it is):



On the other hand, we'll always have this:



Jeebus, that's filthy. You prolly shouldn't watch it at work. And really, don't touch it. You know where it's been.

Yeah, okay, I'm fuckin' around. Here's the real deal, honey. Happy Birthday, throw your panties at Bobby. Not that you were old enough to do that when this video was cut.


By the way, there are a shitload of really bad versions of Sugar Magnolia on YouTube. I found out so you don't have to. This one is really weird (New Year's Eve in San Francisco). But it's at least it's not in the Zombie Jerry phase. It does, however, appear to be in the Someone Spiked the Punch Again phase.

I digress. Happy Birthday, Ilse.

Friday, August 28, 2015

56 Songs

If you don't know why, you don't care anyway.

Let me say this at the outset: I know that this is a long post with a shitload of video. Tough shit. I haven't spent near enough time with him and his over the last few years, mostly because of me and mine. So here's some time, and some thought, and let's lead with the most important one of all:



Him and His. But mostly Him.





(I saw Neil Young along about that time, and I thought he looked like shit then, too).













Fucking duh:



Actually, Neil didn't look so great here either. But check out Stills in the groovy hat and suit. He's ready for Festival.






No, he really was. I mean, it was a long time ago. But yeah, he really was.A goo goo muck, I mean. And a teenage tiger. Also: Holy fuck, we've lived in interesting times.

I've always thought that Bob's got a real Porky Pig vibe going in live versions of this one, although the 80s stylings also bestow a bit of a heretofore unseen televangelist vibe :



I was a very good and obedient child before I became friends with BFF:







Lest someone think I'm calling BFF fat, this next selection is not about him.











He's Person Man, by the way. There are so many awesome versions of "Particle Man" extant that I had a lot of trouble picking one.

Here's some abject perfection to close this bunch:



Gawds, that's a beautiful piece of music. I am confident that, at the very least, BFF believes that it's better than fucking Mozart.

Us, and things that have happened to and around us in...wait for it...45 motherfucking years.









Absolutely terrible sync job with a 70s Midnight Special episode:





Okay, now this is some damned handsome Neil Young, here.











Random crap spanning the culture of our formative years.



I never really realized what an awesome resource the Midnight Special was. For instance, this video is clear evidence that brass rules, reeds blow, and disco did not, in fact, necessarily suck:











That's right. Suck on the 1980s, bitchez. In fact, here, suck on them some more. We sure did.





I watched a number of videos from that performance on M+M's YT channel. If they don't stop your heart, you weren't there, and get off my fucking lawn.

Jeebus, that little detour into M+M almost knocked the whole fucking thing off the rails. Okay, back to work:



Yeah, I don't know why this is turning into A Neil Young Birthday, either, but that's it, I swear, I can stop any time I like.

Some songs just are, okay?

















And of course, there are traditions to uphold.


(That video, by the way, is the "Shoes" of this blog, its most posted video, by far.)



Y'know, I've never watched that video all that closely. I count at least six costume changes by Neal Innes. Well done, that.



Fucking oboe players.

I think I got this one for my fiftieth or something.



Fuck me, I actually lost one

No, seriously. I had 56 songs on the fucking list, grouped into the nonsensical fucking categories you see above, with the previously selected "best for last" number at the bottom. At this moment, there are 55 songs in this post, and no more list. What a fucking ding-dong. There's only one place to turn:



Yeah, that'll do.

I saved the best for last, dint I just?



Happy Birthday to BFF and love to Earthgirl and the incomparably awesome Planet, still the Best Kid Evar at the ripe old age of 22.

Monday, July 13, 2015

Yeah, That

Thanks to BFF for the shout and the tunes.

Every day is a holiday at Minions, because, y'know, fuck you it's all about you. And you deserve a break today.

This year: Nimoy dead. Pratchett dead. Planet graduated. Databoy seventeen, Bam-Bam fifteen. Purple all growed up and become an engineer. Wait, did I say Planet fucking graduated?

Jeebus. Probably a good day to get hammered and eat a shitload of red meat, since Zombie's leaving his alone. Sadly, my corporate overlords--myself included, since I'm one of them--demand more today, so we'll just get to a very mild buzz sometime much later on in the day.

But oh yes. There will be a shitload of red meat.

Thanks again to BFF for the birthday love. See y'all around August 28 or so, unless something pops up that's so compelling that I have to be a jackass about it. Love, with peace out.


Thursday, July 09, 2015

GAHHHHH!!!! BELATED!!!!!!

Okay, before I go look at BFF's site (he has a FitBit that tracks his Web stats and tells him the IP address and favorite tribal affiliation of every single person who looks at his site, so he'll vouch), I post now what I meant,  before I got tangled up in Shit You Really Don't Want To Know About, No, Really, to have scheduled to post at midnight last night:

Happy 27th Anniversary to BDR and EG, best beloveds, progenitors of bester beloved Planet, my lifelong true beloveds.

I always fucking forget to take care of this, one of the three most important posting days of any year. I, of course, was there, and you were not, unless you're Seatsix (I have trouble convincing myself that he was born by 1989, but really, he was) or Elric. It was one of the happiest days of my life too, excepting that my date was the one known to our history as the Sinister Bitch of Doom. If I'm not mistaken, I was standing next to the groom, but I'm pretty sure I hadn't stopped smoking giant busloads of dope by then, so mistaken is possible.

I no longer confused about BFF's birthday, and I nail it with some consistency. Considering the proximity of this anniversary to my own birthday, I should not be confused and incompetent about timely wishing my beloveds happy anniversary things, which I suspect will involve some fucking horrible ethnic food bereft of animal products.

Love transcends Indian food, though, and Happiest of days to my best beloveds.

Monday, May 11, 2015

But Wait, There's More!

OMFG, are you serious? Look, beloved Whispers is a little bit of a partisan, maybe, but he's not wrong here. There's seriously zero evidence that Brady did anything, and punishing him for telling the NFL to stick it up its witch-hunting ass is bullshit. But as any number of disciplinary cases have shown, the NFL is completely full of shit when it comes to policing those who suck at its teat. It's a private club and it does what it wants.

And really, if you think that the air pressure in the footballs had anything to do with the Indianapolis Colts choking on their own vomit to the tune of 38 points...Jesus, just give me all your fucking money, because you're that fucking stupid.

And now? I've completely blown my lifetime budget for energy spent defending the Patriots, ever.

Thursday, May 07, 2015

How To Embed A Tweet

BFF, he means well. There is no malice in him. Unless you're a Republican. Or a Democrat. Or a voter. But these are small matters. Today's lesson in How To Work The Internet was inspired by BFF, who launched a bunch of assrockets--as is his wont and right--about a topic on which he possesses limited knowledge (as he bloody well can, because it's his fucking blog).

By the way, assrockets are the best sort of rockets to launch, in case  you see all this as unkind or something.

Anyway, the topic was Tom Brady, aka Dreamboat, and I pitched a low-grade, non-foul hiss because BFF failed to pay sufficient attention to his Twitter feed to see that I had tweeted a joke that should go viral and make me a famous buttclown.

And then it occurred to me; BFF doesn't know how to embed a tweet. And so:

1. Find Tweet.

2. Click the three dots in the tweet. "Embed" will be one of the options. Choose it.

3. Copy the highlighted text--just like you would when you embed a video from YouTube.

4. Paste the copied text into your post (in HTML)

5. Eat violas:
Yes. Yes, I did just throw BFF under the bus for the sole purpose of repromoting my shitty Tweet. That. Just. Happened.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Bizarro Night

Thrilled beyond measure for my Washington Capitals, who are a quarter of the way to a Stanley Cup that they won't win.

Crying for Baltimore. How completely fucking awful. Cops' Tweets (60 percent of them include the words "violent criminals") not helping. People burning down new affordable housing constructed by a church not helping. Governor insulting Mayor not helping. What a horrible fucking night for Baltimore and for my state.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Who's Running For President?

I don't give a flying fuck. All of the Republicans are demonstrably batshit crazy, in a willfully evil way. All of the Democrat have a vanishingly tiny chance of affecting my life in anything but the most infinitesimal way. And are not meaningfully less willfully evil, if that. The amount of noise generated by this would drive me bugfuck, if I allowed it to. Some beloveds have already allowed they to become bugfuck. This is a sad. They should take drugs for it. I should take drugs because they're big grownup beloveds and I have no control over what they do, or any ensuing sad.

Will I vote for Her? Not in the winnowing, no. In the Big One? I don't give a flying fuck. You, personally, I give a flying fuck, beloved. All the beloveds, even the ones who can't read. They don't give a flying fuck either.

By the way, they're not typos. And that was a pome, maybe. Shorts. Yum. Landru out.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Reaffirming Life To The Tune Of The High Knez' Daughter

I have posted nine times since Planet's last birthday. Three posts concerned progressively more sad milestone deaths. One was about Planet's daddy. One was about another birthday. Three were about sports. And one was my annual post about Bam-Bam and the autism spectrum.

Damn, my range and mindedness have gotten narrow.

Planet is twenty-two years old today. She is, as you know, the official Best Kid Evar of this here blog (though that designation must someday soon, by definition, come to an end as her eligibility expires), and I cannot recall a time when she has seriously asked me for anything of consequence, let alone more or less insisted (and lest I overstate, I must define "insisted" here as "Will you please?"). That has changed, and I was gratified when this beautiful child, this stunningly creative and brilliant young woman, asked me, back before the academic year started, to take a little trip for her at the end of the year.

And so, in fifty-five days I will fly to Ohio, and drive to the campus of a college I attended briefly until the pressure of having to consume alcohol and other drugs forced me to get the fuck out of there and back to familiar surroundings, and I will watch Planet graduate from that little school on a central Ohio hill upon which a drunk old bishop named Philander Chase collapsed back in 1824. leading him to found an institution in a spot where students would not be tempted by drinking and dancing and fucking.

By the way, that last part, about the drinking and dancing and fucking? Total fail. Embarrassing, really.

But not the point. The point is Happy Birthday, Planet, and congratulations on wrapping up an outstanding undergraduate career, and go forth and become the Best Millennial Evar, and enjoy the privilege of being the only fucking young person in the world who doesn't have to get the fuck off of my fucking lawn.

This child grew up to tell me "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." Life doesn't get any more fucking awesome than that, bitchez.


Thursday, March 12, 2015

Mortality Is Making Me Very Tired

I mourn deeply today's news that Sir Terry Pratchett has died.

My sister-in-law, who has never been portrayed kindly in this blog, actually did me one of the greatest solids of my life when she introduced me to Sir Terry's writing many Hogswatches ago. Permanently redeemed herself, actually. Unconditionally.

And I can't really write any more about this right now.




Friday, February 27, 2015

Well...FUCK




Alsotoo, he was not Herbert.

(Update: Dr. Death weighs in.)
And in conclusion, well, FUCK.

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Speaking For Those Who Cannot Speak

Let me be absolutely clear about this: I do not much care for the New England Patriots. There are 6-8 NFL teams I dislike far more, but it is not a common thing for me to prefer that the Patriots win a given game.

I say this to establish my bonafides. Beloved friends Whispers and Jolene are stomp-down sluts for the Patriots, and anything they would say in public on this issue would be perceived as partisan whining. I cannot allow them to remain unspoken for, and so I say this:

Oh, shut the fuck up. Seriously? Underinflated balls? Fuck me in the ear, it was a cold-weather game in which the officials fondled the balls before every fucking play. Are you fucking shitting me? Do you really need Patriots Derangement Syndrome to be as pervasive and as batshit fucking crazy as Obama Derangement Syndrome? Because that's where you are, America. Well, you know, that and utterly fucking addled about a fucking jingo movie about a lying, homicidal, psychopath war hero. But I'm gonna assert that the football is more important.

That is all.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Two Days In A Row

I know, right? Just a tiny bit of awesomeness (hat tip to The Bog) preceding the upcoming Winter Classic. Reebok has chosen Joel Ward as one of its faces, to wit:

Wardo always bathes this way.

Your sister asked for some firewood.

You can cut a throat with one of those things.
Click to embiggen, of course.

Quick reminder: Ilse claims Chicagoan heritage and is overjoyed that Jay Cutler will return to the Bears' helm this weekend. Let's Go Caps.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Joe Cocker

Well, fuck.



Same film:



And of course, the best tribute of all:


John Belushi cantando With A Little Help From My Friends from James Lester Wright Gajete on Vimeo.

Well, fuck.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Making Time For Important Things

I often don't do it. Sometimes I forget things are important. Often, other things are more important in the moment. So we'll just call this a small victory, the more so because it ends that short time of the year when we're the same age. And even more because BFF crosses the Rubicon of age 55 today, the gnarly old fuck. Amazing that he and his can stand to be around him, really. Although he's probably less grizzled than I am, because I am given to understand that vegetarian feeding makes the long pig more tender. But I digress.

You can say that he's a dupe, he's a rube, he's a grifter (for attention, not for money, which makes it perfectly okay and then some, and you and I are, after all, the ones clicking the mice). I've said all of those things about him and to him at times or others through the stations of life, and other things far less kind, some on point and some not so. But he's my dupe/rube/grifter, I've been there for every black helicopter and startled epiphany and morbid fuck-me jig and for things incalculably more important than those bits of inexplicably MoCo lives. And while I remind you here and now, explicitly, as I do every year, that this makes me better than you, it has also made me better than me.

Expressing myself once a year about my nearly lifelong friend (John the Daftist, the She-Nurse of the SS, and 32-Ounce are the only humans with longer tenure, and theirs is biologically asserted) is a little maudlin, but it's easy. This part is hard:



Okay, that one's not hard, I do it every year. Ritual is important. Just ask Bam-Bam. Let's do a couple more reruns:





Damn, when I'm tired of that, I'll be dead. Makes me want more.



It's never as fast as I remember it being.

Thoughtfully not rerun? Naked Bong Girl (nsfw). Not appearing in this film? The worst Kate Bush song ever, in the face of stiff competition (though I'll admit that she was quite attractive when we were young--and she's only a tiny bit older than us).

And finally, because a birthday should involve an actual present:



So, y'know, happies and suchlike.

Friday, May 02, 2014

So There Was This Guy

There still is, actually. And he's old. Today. It is the day when he is older. He used to not be older. We used to be young. And skinny.

The first time I saw him, he was the very last guy on the Ricky Monkey basketball team's bench. We mocked him. He got into the game. He took a set shot. I don't remember if he made it, but I like to think so. I had no idea on that day that he would become the Hamster. Our Hamster.

See BFF. I can't top that. However, I did get candids.

You might think he's not really that scary. I am here to tell you that he is. Oh, yes. He is.
You don't want to know what those little paws just touched. Oh no you don't.

Not much is known of Our Hamster's leisure activities. So, we speculate:

That's right. Cosplay. We went there. That just happened.
You might confuse hamsters with other small furry creatures. This may be helpful:

Sensory whiskers. Chix dig it.
Our Hamster? Has a very long tail. Oh yes he does. If you knowhumsayin', and I'm pretty sure you do.

Happy birthday, Hamster.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Whack This Mole

Olsen on Boswell: "He could talk a dog off a meat truck, that guy."

I have to admit that's quite excellent. Fire Saint Benny anyway.

In other news, why the fucking fuck haven't I read yet that Adam Oates is fired? I mean, seriously, why didn't I read this two days ago? What the fucking fuck, Leonsis? I mean, based on what amounts to gossip*, I've mutated to the point where I won't mind if I read that you fired George McPhee, but I'm counting, Teddy Internet, and the number of days between last Sunday and the day you fire Adam Fucking Oates is no less than one half the number of days between the next time your team is playing hockey and the time I give you a fucking dime, you lying sack of dissembling horseshit.

*It is said that the Caps are on many players' "Please Massa don't trade me there" lists based on GMGM's allegedly draconian policies toward players and their agents. I have no idea whether it's really true, but based on some stuff I read and Leonis' recent publicizing of the Caps' policy on player-agent contacts after games, the story has the sweet stench of a relationship with reality. Given that GMGM has spent years walking a fine line because those years embodied his wandering horseshit on the player acquisition front (this year was the potentially saving exception, imhoe), he is no longer endearing. But Oates first, last, and always, though it pains me to say that of a guy who brought RPI a national title, even though he has no personality and no passion, and very clearly dyes his hair.**

**You may or may not recall, because you were or were not in the room***, that the first words out of my mouth after the horn for the first intermission of Adam Oates' tenure were, "Fire Oates."

***Or on the phone.

UPDATE: United news, while I'm here today (courtesy of Goff):

-Chris Pontius and the Hamstring of Doomitosis:
In his absence, United (2-2-1) has utilized Nick DeLeonDavy ArnaudLewis Neal and Chris Rolfe on the flanks and relied on secondary forward Fabian Espindola to influence the attack. 
Fucking shoot me. Pontius, on whom the club has staked the future for I've lost count of how many fucking seasons now, is going to be playing in a fucking wheelchair soon.

-Bill Hamid's big toe, Chris Korb's knee injury (who the fuck cares, other than Korb and his girlfriend?), Luis Silva's giant Latin tonker (or maybe his ankle).

-Fucking shoot me some more:
With a victory Saturday, United would equal last season’s win total. Last year the club needed 22 games to achieve that — and then didn’t win again. Success in Columbus, though, does not come often: four consecutive defeats. A victory, combined with other results around the league, could also thrust United into a first-place tie in the Eastern Conference.
For 10 minutes. Fucking shoot me, again and again and again. People ask me why I gave up my season tickets. Check the last four bolded names in the Pontius blockquote. There's your fucking answer. Goddam team full of number twelves (which was once a badge of honor, but no more--in fact, the last honorable true Twelve went off to coach the fucking enemy). Am I fucking shot yet?

Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Autism Awareness Day

Yup. You aware? Good. Vaccinate your children. If you think that's a bad idea, then shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. If you're not willing to shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children, shut the fuck up and vaccinate your children. Then shut the fuck up some more and vaccinate your children.

That's about all I have time for this year. Last year. 2012. 2009, and 2008. The boy? He's awesome, and I love him more than breath its own self. Yeah, he's still autistic. Whatever. Love to Kimmah and Sam and Swami and Max and to you, whoever you are.

In news of very nearly equal importance, the Maryland women are returning to the Final Four. I would say this at any time of any day of any year, but more pointedly this week, at every moment of every day: Fuck Notre Dame. Fuck UConn. Fuck Stanford (special for His Wiseness: I actually rooted for you last night).

Peace. Unless you're Notre Dame, UConn, or Stanford, of course.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

Hey You

Because you're not 21 until I say you're 21, kid:

 

 Because I think it's awesome:

 

 Because not everything can be They Might Be Giants:



Because you know why:



Because this is what happens when you do too many fucking drugs and make sillyass Star Trek allusions:



Yeah, take that, Planet's Daddy.

Okay, fine, go be 21 now. Happies, with all the love ever.

 Uncle Weird

This child grew up to tell me "Baby needs a new pair of fucking shoes." Life doesn't get any more fucking awesome than that, bitchez.


Tuesday, February 18, 2014

By Jingo

I have a hard time with the Olympics. Some of it is just fucken cool. But it's painfully obvious that, while most of the athletes are there for the best of reasons sincere (if nationalistic), the thing is a boondoggle that's not of any real value to improving the world condition.

Unfortunately, so's the World Cup. So suck it. Bring on my bread and circuses.

There are some things that are self-evident. One is that my local nation is better than yours. It just is. Especially, in this season, if you're my friend from Canada, for whom I shall not make up a name, so that when Purple sends him this post through the Faceybookz in an obvious effort to discredit me and Obamacare, I can pretend that I have lots of friends from Canada and it's not actually about him.

Another piece of self-evidentia is that even though my local nation is better than yours, especially if yours is Canada, other nations are not to be disrespected (unless they're Canada). For example, the skip of the British womens' curling team is pretty hot, as are a number of Russian women hockey players, some Italian skater chick I happened to notice because Ilse is obsessed with figure skating in all its forms (a million deaths are not enough for Porcelain Face) in addition to unicorns and the Olympics in general, and, also according to Ilse, Henrik Lundqvist and some guy on the Norwegian mens' curling team. Note the absence of anything Canadian on my Hot List. And hers. I said note it, bitchez.

By the way, if you're concerned that I'm not getting to the point, don't be. There isn't one.

Specifically not to be disrespected: the Russians. You wouldn't know it from watching the endless American rainbow fairy tale that is NBC's coverage of these Olympics (and every Olympics), which spent the entire opening ceremonies telling us how Russia equals Soviets equals bad and brutal and horrible and Stalin, and did we by the way mention Stalin? Of course, they did a really shitty job of reconciling that to guys in spiked coal-scuttle helmets who torment Russians, as well as reconciling math concerning a certain major conflict between said guys and Russians. Nor would you know it from the world journo community, which appears to be convinced that Russians are shitting in its water and feeding it cockroach borscht.

I thought the Russians did a really cool pageant about their history and culture. Was it an obscene waste of money? Of course it was. See Rule One. But their pageant was every bit as awesome as every other country's Olympic opening pageant, and a damn sight better and more entertaining than the pasty white (and Anglo) pageants thrown by the last two pasty white (and Anglo, despite the vague mists of froggification and First Nationsization that Vancouver 2012 tried to pimp, and you are totally not getting a break from me at all in this post, you fucking Canadian fucks) nations to throw such galas.

Full disclosure: Tschaikovsky innately trumps anything Anglo. Suck it, we lose.

I've been fascinated by the Winter Olympics since I was a kid. Especially the hockey, which was my first true sports love. So I have this jingoism problem. You see, in a hockey sense, I really, really hate some other countries that, on the face of it, probably don't deserve it. I'm looking at you, Sweden. And you, Finland. The very notion of disliking Sweden or Finland for any reasons beyond spoiled fish in skunk mustard sauce or their craven national behaviors in the aforementioned major conflict should be a pretty serious clue that I have a serious need for antipsychotics here (and in case you don't know: Sweden was a neutral that profited from sales of war materiel to both sides, while Finland sided with the Germans, because they were terrified of the Soviets, until the Soviets kicked their asses and made them change sides).

Subsequent Olympics have only exacerbated the problem. When Vladislav Tretiak was revealed as one of the torch-lighters in Sochi, I recognized him and almost involuntarily hissed, to Ilse's great puzzlement (fucking GenXers, and fuck also my generation's upbringing with hammers and sickles populating our duck-and-cover dreams). I cursed vividly when I saw today that the Czechs (minus the Slovaks) will be the United States' opponent in the quarters. And you will have no trouble guessing who I detest first and best among hockey nations.

This is difficult, because who I detest second and second-best among mens' hockey nations this time around is us. There are maybe 6 guys on the US Olympic hockey team who don't make me want to slit my own throat in disgust. But my country's laundry is what it is. Contrast Sweden, whose hockey team I've hated since I was about 7; it includes three of my favorite Olympians (Backstrom, Marcus Johansson, and the aforementioned suave, debonair, and blindingly awesome King Henrik Lundqvist, if you're curious).

It gets worse. Of course I despise the Canadian mens' team. But I reserve the most spittle for their womens' team, who fundamentally cheated to beat the US women in group play (which doesn't matter--the final will be US-Canada). It appears I have a bit of a problem with Canadian women playing goal-scoring sports. But I'll just try to stick to nationalism here without hauling out the misogynist artillery.

Friend Jim has done his best to provide fine and healthy counsel on my larger sports hate problem (but ask him about Duke). My jingoism transcends even my routine homerism. Therein, of course, lies the rub when I try to make sense of the Olympics. Best for me to just eat the bread and roll with the circus, I think. And to play Civ V or FM when my television is showing Ilse her tiny ice ballerinas.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Another Bad Day In Paradise


 Pete Seeger, dead at 94.

This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender
I cannot describe how saddened I am by this. Not even bunnies can fix it.



Not. Even. Bunnies.