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July 28, 2005

spork & beans

so this past weekend i had occasion to
attend that dreaded event formidably known as the family
reunion replete with all the eye-rolling - green bean casserole -
and warmed over deviled eggs that we have all come to expect over the
years...and somewhere between the slip 'n slide and the family sing it
donned on me that i might be a member of the strangest collection of
relatives known to man. and i say that with the full realization that
most folks feel much the same about certain relatives that
always turn up at family functions even though you're pretty sure that
they weren't invited. and even though they somehow got the
memo detailing the date, time, and location of the gathering they seem
to have missed the part that encouraged the bringing of food & or
beverages - so they conveniently have just enough tallboys to tide
them over for the aftenoon but that cooler lid stays locked up tight
anytime you happen to walk by.

and so by the time the dinner bell rings a distant cousin has to drag
you kicking and screaming from your prone position in the kiddie pool
where you were only trying to put yourself out of your misery because
a: it's unbearably hot & b: your hot aunt just reminded you
of the time you accidentally saw her naked because she had the
audacity to use the very same restroom that housed the linen closet
that you chose as your hiding spot....and also, you're drunckle keeps
getting emotional because he's half lit & really can't believe how
much you've grown and wasn't it just yesterday that he was baiting
your hooks and teaching you how to throw a football...and really it's
amazing that he could remember any of that because he was constantly
stealing pieces of your home chemistry set for reasons you still
haven't been able to ascertain.

but just as you're recovering childhood memories probably better left
alone - you are saved by the family photo because it's
important to gather everyone together and preserve this moment in
history because really, how often do we do this? and that's
probably why no one seems to mind that random kids from the
neighborhood somehow make it into the shot - because when will you
have the chance to see those little brats again...and also, it would
take a great amount of time and effort to chase them away and the sun
is going down and the mosquitos are buzzing because your fat relatives
reek of pure unadulterated sugar & sugar bi-products...and you wonder
how none of them are diabetic, but this thought is quickly chased away
by the rage that wells up within you when you realize that there are
at least 5 more cameras left and at least three of those will have
features so complicated that the owner of said camera (after 15
minutes of shouting out instructions) will have to go up to the front
and demonstrate how the blessed thing works which means they'll have
to repose themselves...and really it makes no sense in this modern age
of technological whatnot that so many pictures should need to be
taken...

i mean couldn't we just take one picture and send it out in a lovely
e-mail? better yet, give me the memory card, i'll print up the photo
onto a t-shirt and send it out to everyone complete with a clever
reunion themed top ten list on the back...that, dear friends
would be the bomb.com

i might even photoshop our heads atop the bodies of penguins posing on
a glacier for my cousin who is obsessed with penguins. seriously, it's
pretty much the only thing he talks about...he is well past the age
where his hormones should have borne forth in him an interest in
the ladies, but really...all he cares about are
penguins....which, i know that penguins are strange and mysterious in
that sort of austere, flightless way...but come on when you are a
student living in a dorm at a major university you might want to dial
back the wierdness a notch. or two...and i wonder how that happens. i
mean how do you become interested in something like penguins?

i will openly admit to being interested in many diverse things - if by
diverse you mean action figures with hinged knees and real
hair...and maybe that is strange...maybe, many of my relatives stand
and wonder heads agog and mouths agape about my strange obsession with
action star hair when i should really be thinking about
settling down and starting a family...and of course i don't even want
to think about that because i am currently in the throes of one of the
worst breakups i have ever had to endure - and it's a miracle that i
even make it out of bed most mornings...and i don't know if it makes
it better or worse that i never even spoke to this woman - because for
all the fuss that gets made, i often find that communication can be so
over rated. i mean seriously, how many times have you liked an
attractive stranger less after you had a conversation with them? it
happens to me alot. still - the no talking thing? sort of makes it
difficult to acheive closure or to find out where things went
wrong...so the best that you can hope for is that your real
hair will be in perfect order in anticipation of a chance
encounter because it's hard to be taken seriously as a super
action star/former lover if you have fake hair. seriously. just
ask ben affleck.

Posted by young_christopher at 9:04 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

July 18, 2005

That Most Sacred Tradition

After two years of getting sucked into
the great frenzy that is "Red Sox Nation," I finally went to a game a
few weeks ago. I believe we were playing Toronto, but honestly the
memories that really impacted me have nothing to do with baseball. The
pitching was exceptional, and that made for a quick and boring game
for which I was grateful since a.) baseball is boring anyway and b.)
it was pretty hot outside. The weather was actually picture perfect
for America's pastime. The Boston haze had burned away, and the colors
of the grass, sky, green monster, and uniforms were vibrant and
delightful. Near the end of the game, things picked up because it
seemed the Sox might be making a comeback, so that was actually really
fun and intense. Everyone standing and screaming...and we lost. But
here's what really stayed with me:

1. The man next to me with a gigantic bag of peanuts, resulting in a
gigantic pile of shells... and how on earth is he comfortable in
these chairs, he's gigantic!

2. Two rows up, there's a very tan, tooley guy (probably very early
twenties) and 3 high school girls who fawn on his every word and
laugh excessively at his jokes. He has a bleached teeth laugh. I
don't know how else to say it. Somehow they get beer (fakes id's
must be damn good), and it all gets louder and dumber. I'm sickened
and fascinated at this display. He's a collar popper.

3. The baseball I almost caught/got knocked out by. The outfielders
were loping in and Johnny Damon flicked the ball into the crowd; it
bounced off something and came careening toward me. Sans glove, I
ducked. Two rows back caught it. Lesson learned: bring a glove. Do
I even still have one?

4. We never once got to scream "CHARGE."

5. But I did sing "Take me out to the ball game" with gusto.

6. A lopsided sunburn. I spent a good amount of time trying to shift
so it wouldn't be quite so extreme, but... the old left shoulder
took the brunt.

7. Frozen hot dog? Awesome. Cake, ice cream, whipped cream and
chocolate syrup. No napkin, but not a single wayward, oozing drop.
Shaped like a hot dog.

8. Possibly the greatest part ever? "Sweet Caroline." Yes, I
do mean the Neil Diamond song, as a matter of fact. It was played
during an inning switch (gracious, what the hell is the proper
lingo?), and we all start singing along, with everyone
screaming it out by the time we get to "TOUCHING
YOOOUUU!!!!! SWEET CAROLINE!" music cuts out and the crowd goes
"WHOA WHOA WHOOOOAAA" and it comes back on and cuts out again for
"SO GOOD SO GOOD!" The players take the field right at the end of
the second verse, and even though the music has stopped and the
game is going, everyone keeps singing. It was amazing. It
was beautiful. I'll never forget the thrill, and the wonder at how
everyone in America knows the words to Neil Diamond songs, even if
said songs are passionately hated.

I did inquire about this "Sweet Caroline" phenomenon the next week at
work. Does this always happen? Everyone seemed ready for it so surely
it couldn't have been a one time thing. And in fact? It's played at
the same time at every single game. Why "Sweet Caroline"? Why not,
like, "America?" Why Neil Diamond? How did it start? Is there an
entertaining history? Or is it just really freaking fun to sing along
to, with thousands of other maniacs? Because if it is the
latter reason, that totally makes sense to me. Turn's out, yeah, it's
just a fun song.
I can't wait to get to another game. I can't wait to be in the crowd
with a plastic cup of beer, peanuts crunching underfoot, ponytail
looped through the Sox cap, the only time I wear shorts, eating hot
dogs, screaming, high-fiving, and a stranger's sweaty arms touching
me. . . "TOUCHING YOOOOOUU!!! SWEET CAROLINE! DUN DUN DUUUUN! GOOD
TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!"

Posted by heidi at 7:37 AM | TrackBack

July 12, 2005

elvis frappuccino

so you're inxs and you find
yourself lost in the ipod shuffle of yesteryear desperately wondering
how you can make your own particular brand of music relevant again -
no small task for any band whose best years are clearly behind them
(yes i'm talking about you u2) but then you factor in the fact that
your charismatic lead singer with the golden vocal chords and latent
sex appeal happens to be dead - well you're sort of screwed...

unless of course you have the good fortune to cash in on the reality
television juggernaut that is sometimes referred to as the reality
television juggernaut which, not only gets your band back into
the public eye - it also happens to generate tons of free publicity
for this upcoming album that will be released with the singer
who prevails in this televised audition of e.p.i.c.
proportions...it should also be noted here that any opportunity
to appear on television with the stunning brooke burke (not
to be confused with brooke burns of north shore/dog eat
dog infamy whose porcelain veneers haunt me. and i don not lie.)
is never a bad idea...in fact, i auditioned for the show (the show
being rockstar inxs) and did fairly well for myself all the
way through regional finals where i performed every day i write
the book. only, instead of saying book - i substituted the word
brooke. and even though she found this adorable (my
word not hers) the producers found it cloying (which...is
that even a word?) and i got the boot - but brooke and i are pan
pals (seriously. we trade bread recipes) and it's great.

- thus i can comfortably proclaim that even though i am not going to
be the new lead singer for inxs the forthcoming record will
most likely do bang up business - i'm predicting at least 500,000
sold domestically (probably 7 or 8 billion sold in australia) -
which is still a gold record, and a measure of moderate success -
even though said record probably won't be very good...and let's be
realistic, it won't - the career of inxs was in the tank
long before michael hutchence checked out - the same michael
hutchence who once publicly complained that u2 had co-opted the
inxs sound on achtung baby (which, yeah i guess i
can sort of see that on a song like mysterious ways) and
this - and this alone was the reason that record sales had begun to
flag...but come on mike, people didn't stop buying radiohead records
just because those asshats that call themselves coldplay
co-opted their sound. but we'll forgive michael for this
oversight because i think the real trouble with him was that he
never really got over ubermodel helena christiansen - most
famous for her romp on the beach with elvis frapuccino aka
chris isaak in his wicked game video - and i could see how
michael might have trouble getting over a girl like that - she's
gloriously beautiful with the kind of eyes that one could really get
lost in...seriously. just ask debbie gibson.

where was i? oh yes. don't get me wrong i don't begrudge inxs
any (inx)success that might come from this latest
venture - i mean seriously, they could have tapped david lee roth to
front the band - or that dude from extreme that totally
(& ultimately) ruined van halen once for all (and thank
holy heaven for that). and this is really a pretty clever marketing
ploy on their part and they will no doubt line their pockets with
large sweaty wads of cash - and also? how can you be angry with the
band that gave us never tear us apart hands down one of the
greatest songs of my lifetime - and i'm not just saying that because
of its recent inclusion on the donnie darko directors
cut...because any of us who have seen the classic donkeyman
video recognize immediately that donnie darko is nothing
short of plagiarism and poor man's tobey macguire can just kiss it

- also, i'm not just singing the praises of never tear us
apart because of the phenomenal sexophone solo that
features prominently - even though it does totally rock - it's
simply a perfectly crafted/and executed pop song with the strings
and the sax and that nifty guitar break between the chorus
and the verse - that song seriously fights for my allegiance with
the promise by when in rome as the greatest song of the
almost 1990's and thank you napolean dynamite for bringing
it back.

Posted by young_christopher at 9:00 PM | TrackBack

I Do What I Likes & I Likes What I Do

I was in Las Vegas recently. While it would be much
more glamorous to tell you I was there to compete in one of those
poker tournaments that ESPN televises (for reasons I'll never know),
or that Brooke Burke and Jenny McCarthy had called me up and, in
unison, shouted "Go west, young man!" such was not the case. Not that
the poker jackpot wouldn't have been nice (sadly, the only poker rules
I know involve the removal of clothing), or that a scripted party at
the Palms wouldn't have been side-splittingly funny...it's just that
it wouldn't be true. Rather than bore all of us with the mundane
details of tradeshows, exhibits and other industry nonsense, I'm more
inclined to tell you about some of the people I encountered.

A lot of folks play the slot machines, but apparently only dunces play
in the daytime. One such dunce was an elderly woman and her (I assume)
husband. They both appeared to be in their early eighties (this might
not seem so old if you're reading this and are 95, in which case I'd
like you to know that I'm proud of you and your internet savvy self,
so keep up the good work). Anyway, this woman would press the "spin"
button then feverishly rub the screen with a small circular piece of
cloth. In fact, she would keep rubbing until the machine stopped
rotating. I watched for awhile, then asked her what she was doing with
the cloth (as a sidenote, I asked politely, because that whole cynical
jackass thing often falls flat with our senior demographic...trust
me). She claimed, as the husband took another hit off the oxygen tank,
that her cloth had been blessed. I smiled knowingly (knowing that to
continue in this conversation would be a one-way ticket to Crazyville)
and walked away. I could have understood (and maybe even acknowledged)
a lucky cloth, but a blessed one? Who blessed it? I've got a sinking
feeling it was this guy, although I guess it could have been this guy, or even her, but most definitely not him because we are talking about gambling here people.

If you've ever heard the rumor about there being a lot of prostitutes
in Las Vegas, then allow me to confirm it. It wasn't unusual to
encounter four or five on the brief walk from Bally's over to the
Bellagio. How do I know they were prostitutes? Well, that's a good
question (albeit one I'm asking myself). I don't have a special radar
that sounds an alarm when I'm within a certain proximity to venereal
disease, nor do I boldly approach people and inquire about their
livelihoods, so let me break it to you this way: Nice girls will not
walk up to you and start conversations, at least not in Vegas. If you
are approached it's probably not with the intention of sitting down
for a few hands of Old Maid while you each enjoy an ice cold Coca~Cola
Classic, followed by a few rounds of "Father, I Adore You." If you're
in Las Vegas and a girl smiles at you, ten bucks says she's a hooker
(and, to be fair, that ten bucks won't go far). If said girl invites
you to join her and her friend Natasha (my apologies to all women
named Natasha who are not prostitutes) for a few drinks, they're both
hookers, and you're automatically out-numbered. Finally, if either of
these girls suggests "negotiating" (which is synonymous with
"dickering," although I was afraid using that term might confuse a few
of you for obvious reasons) the price once inside your room, then you
should be aware that these girls are not selling Amway. I'll never admit to agreeing with Sting on anything else, but you really shouldn't feel
obligated to either 1) put on the red light, or 2) sell your body to
the night. If, like me, you've never had to pay for sex before,
there's no reason to start just because you're in Nevada. On the other
hand, if you've made a habit of soliciting the services of a
prostitute, look out...one of these days she's going to be a cop, or a
man, so go ahead and take your chances every chance you get.

I would have been glad to only spend one day in Si(lico)n(e) City, but
instead it was five. I flew the red-eye back into Atlanta early (like
12:35am early) Thursday morning, and ended up sitting next to a Mormon
couple in their early twenties. I was against the window, having taken
my seat first, and Kayla and Jeff shortly joined me. Jeff took the
aisle seat and promptly went to sleep, and Kayla (who was traveling
back to South Carolina to visit her family) took her place like most
people who get stuck in the middle seat do...slowly and with regret.
Obviously I didn't know that either of them were Mormons at first
(neither was wearing a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a black
necktie, and neither straddled a bicycle), but when they mentioned
they were from Utah I all but knew. I wanted to ask Jeff where his
other wives were, but thought that might be a bit forward. Kayla and I
ended up chatting for the majority of the flight. As it turned out,
she had gone to high school with a fraternity brother of mine, proving
that, like that damn song says, it is a small world after all. We
talked about God, about Mormonism, about being married in Heaven,
about Monks stealing parts of the Bible and hiding it in caves, about
family and death, the realities of being newly married and paying
things like car insurance, about politics and cigarettes, and of
course we talked about music (a direction that I will always steer the
conversation to eventually). One thing impressed me more than anything
during the time we talked, and that was the degree with which she
embraced her beliefs. I asked a lot of questions about her faith, and
honestly, she believed some pretty wild things (come on...the whole
golden tablets stuff is out there), but she didn't question it. Sure,
we can argue all day long that such firm conviction is the product of
indoctrination, never knowing anything different, or even
brainwashing. But I don't think I can explain away her passion that
easily. I can do what I do best though (because I do what I likes
& I likes what I do), and leave you with a bit of music...

Are you, are you ready for that great atomic power / will you rise
to meet your savior in the air / will you shout or will you cry / when
the fire rains from on high / are you ready for that great atomic
power

Posted by micah at 5:46 AM | TrackBack