Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Wonder If He’ll Refund Any of That Cash

Again, I just can’t help myself and I wade forth into Presidential Primary Politics.

According to published reports, Rudy Giuliani spent about $30 million dollars in his abortive presidential run after raising $47 million.

After about six years of campaigning for the 2008 nomination, a few thousand speeches about 9/11 and how 9/11 is this and 9/11 is that and that all things flow freely from the 9/11 treasure trove of dogma, ignoring Iowa and New Hampshire (to his political peril, duh) and spending more time in Florida than a 1980s-era coke dealer; poor Rudy-G got ONE delegate. (Technically, he’s gotten two, but that second is an undeclared mucky-muck, so let’s not count that one, it’s more fun that way). Plus, that one delegate he won is in Nevada of all places. Whatever.

$30 ho-jillion clams for ONE scrawny delegate.

Ouch. Not a great Return on Investment there, Rudy.

My thought: Rudy’s going to use that one delegate to break a dead-heat tie between McCain and Romney and become the “king-maker” at the brokered convention. “Mitt, John, I release my lone delegate to whichever of you makes me a Supreme Court nominee if elected. And whichever of you can get me a pony. With sparkles. Fetch me a sparkle pony! Now!”

And he’ll use that clout to muscle his way into a prime time speech a the Republican convention where he will talk about how he saved the planet on 9/11 and made the world safe for ponies everywhere.

I’m just guessing, though.

Except about the sparkle pony, Rudy loves him some glitter-y equine.

Jon scribbled this mess on 01/30/08 at 12:02 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Monday, January 28, 2008

Kidding, but Only Barely

I am sitting at the bar in the kitchen, eating a lovely and well deserved turkey and swiss sandwich.

Ellis: Daddy, make me a sandwich.

Me: Um, I don’t really respond that well to being ordered around, Ellis. You need to ask nicely.

Ellis, looking STRAIGHT into my face: You are dumb.

Me: Pretty sure if I’m dumb, then I’m too dumb to make you a sandwich.

Ellis: Oh! You aren’t that dumb. You know how to make me a sandwich!

You will please excuse me now, I’m off to create an eBay account to sell this kid off:

Small, cute caucasian 4 year old. One owner. Low miles. Potty trained. Knows how to count to 100, though she’s a little “iffy” in the 60s. Can read very short sentences. Mouthy in the extreme, buyer beware.

NO RESERVE!!!!

Jon scribbled this mess on 01/28/08 at 10:27 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Friday, January 25, 2008

I Know It’s 4:20 Somewhere, but Dude, Come On!

Jonah (9) is taking after school snowboarding lessons every Friday. Which means that every Thursday evening at 8:47 PM either Reha or I suddenly remember, “Holy Pineapple and Pork Chops! We have to go pick up his equipment!” and dash off to the snowboard shop and rent his gear before the joint closes at 9. We play Death Match Rock Paper Scissors to see which of us will drag ourselves out into the freezing weather to pick his gunk up.

Even if I win the Death Match, I usually end up going, I just like the thrill of the sport. You haven’t lived until you have played one of mine and Re’s vicious “games” of Rock Paper Scissors. Last time the Deputies came; it was cool.

Couple things about this story: 1) Totally true. 2) Except the parts where I fibbed. 3) Really. Very, very true. You can’t make this stuff up.

I walk into the shop and right off the bat I knew things would go badly. There is a guy (let’s call him Dude Numero Uno) sitting at counter set up next to the door, cutting stickers out of a large sheet of stickers. In a Wal-Mart or Best Buy, he’d be the “Loss Prevention Specialist,” the person who examines your bag against the receipt to make sure you aren’t getting the old “five finger discount.” Last night he was the guy who looked up from his scissoring duties and said, “Dude! Welcome! What’s up, man?”

Hand to heaven, that’s what he said. Remember, I’m an old balding pudgy man. I’m forty, for Preperation H’s sake, OK? People only call me “dude” when they are trying to be ironic or when they can’t get their email. Pretty sure Dude Numero Uno thinks irony is what you do when your shirt is wrinkled.

“Hello. Need to pick up some rental equipment for my son.”

“Cool,” and he goes right back to his prized stickers since I am obviously no longer his main focus. He is “Front Door Dude” not “Rental Dude.”

I meander back to the rental area, but no one is there. So I wander around the store, looking for someone to help me, wherein I discover the main problem with trying to find an employee. Namely, that it is exceedingly difficult to differentiate between employees of the store and customers; they both have the same uniform. Tee-shirt that says, “Volcom,” “Burton,” or some obscure band their buds are in; stocking cap pulled down all the way to their eyelids; baggy pants and a slack jawed expression that might lead a casual observer to believe that they are in a perpetual state of either slumber or surprise.

“Hi, do you work here?”

“Aw, no, dude, I don’t. I wish, that would be rad. Get free shit all the time, man. That would rock, dude. I think that guy does,” and he points at his near twin over by the skateboards.

“Hi, I need to pick up some rental equipment for my son.”

“Oh, yeah. Cool,” and now we have met Dude Numero Dos.

“Can you help me with that, please?”

“Absolutely. Over here, dude.”

I follow, trying to keep my eyes from rolling around in my head until we get to the rental area.

“OK. So we need to measure your kid. Where is he?”

“We rented here last week. You have his info on file.” Note: It took me two rentals before I could convince them to keep his “stuff” on file. They kept throwing his file away after we’d return the board.

“Excellent.”

“Yep.”

He rummages around behind the counter and finds the ratty expandable file folder where they keep the files.

“So he’s rented here before?”

“Yeah, he has.”

“Oh man, I’m not seeing him in here.”

“Um, his name is probably under Deal.”

“Oh, yeah… I do need the name, huh? Heh.” Insert a classic stoner laugh here as your imagination sees fit.

“Yep.”

Dude Numero Tre wanders over and sits down behind the counter, “Hey man, what’s up?”

“Nothing man. I can’t find this kid’s file.”

“What name is it under?”

“‘Meal.’ Umm, what your son’s first name?”

“Jonah, but his last name is ‘Deal.’ As in ‘Let’s make a Deal.’ ‘Big Fat Hairy Deal,’” I go on for a while, naming all the clichés I’ve ever heard in relation to having a Real Word as a last name.

“Oh. I was looking in the wrong place.”

Dude Numero Tre chimes in helpfully, “Dude, it’s going to be under ‘D.’”

“Yeah. Right. Totally.”

Moments pass as I resist the urge to leap over the counter and find the slip of paper myself.

“What’s his first name?”

“Jonah,” I say as patiently as the Buddha contemplating a lotus flower.

“And he’s rented here before?”

“Yes. I asked them to keep his stuff on file, because we come here every week. He has a class.”

“Oh. That’s in the other file.”

I’m mentally pounding my head against a display case of goggles, but instead I smile, “Great. It’s under Jonah Deal,” I add, just to be on the safe side. Can’t hurt at this point.

“Cool.”

He finds the paper we’ve filled out a bunch of times and he says, “We need to have a deposit on this, man.”

“Yes. I know. Isn’t that the deposit slip credit card thing stapled to the paper right there?”

“Oh! Yeah, so it is! Excellent,” and with that he starts to gather the equipment.

Rustling in the back room and then Dude Nemero Dos (DND) rambles out, “Does he wear a size 2 in boots?”

“Um, I have no idea. I think he still wears whatever is written on the sheet.”

“Oh. Right. Cool.”

Dude Numero Tre (DNT) is being helpful at this point as well and has the board and a pair of bindings. “Do these look right, man?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Are they the right size? What’s on the paper?”

“Um, I think these are right.”

Assembly of the board commences.

I need to point out that Jonah is a left-y so he rides “goofy-footed.” This is plainly marked on the sheet.

“So he’s goofy-foot?”

“Yeah, don’t they have that on the sheet?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. Just making sure he’s still goofy-footed.”

“Yeah, he’s hasn’t switched to being a right-y since last time,” I’m not trying to be a smart-ass, but I kind of couldn’t help it.

Another Dude ambles over and points out to me, “Dude, that board is way too small for you, man.”

“...”

“Like, you’d have to be a midget or something to ride that, man.”

I felt morally obligated at this point to stoner-out completely, so I say, “Heh. Dude. I know. I’d have to be wicked small to ride that.”

By this time DND and DNT have finished putting the bindings on the board and I’m nominally ready to go.

“OK, man, you are all set.”

“Great.”

“We just need to run a credit card for the deposit.”

“...”

“Dude, we have his deposit, right there on the form.”

Stoner chuckle again, “Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot. Cool.”

I carry the board over to the register, where, after some tense negotiations between DND and the cash register, I pay. I’m as serious as a heart attack here when I say this: it took DND five tries to swipe my credit card. Yes, I counted. He kept swiping the thing backwards, looking up at the screen in consternation, spinning the card around a full 360° instead of half that amount and getting the same result, i.e., no real swipe of the card. “Dude, I think it doesn’t like your credit card.”

Dude Numero Uno looks up from his scissors and stickers and chimes in from his post at the front door, “Dude! Try rubbing the side against your pants! It’ll re-magnetize it. Or something.”

“Can you just input the number manually?” then I immediately thought better of that, surmising that a long string of numbers wouldn’t go down so well with my man DND, “Maybe try it one more time.”

DND looks over at DNU and then rubs my AmEx on the back of his thigh. Excellent. But that must been the problem be cause now we have liftoff! Success! I have paid my $16.49 for the rental.

“Cool! Man, that machine is harsh.”

“Tell me about it.”

I get my card back, shove my receipt in my pocket and snag the board and boots and head out.

But before I can cross the front door threshold DNU cuts me off “Hold on, man. I need to see your receipt.”

“Um. sure, but you just saw me pay for the rental.”

“Shop policy, man. Sorry.”

I dig the receipt out of my pocket and accidentally drop the boots and snowboard in the process. They make a pretty loud clang, even over the death nü-metäl they have playing in the store.

“Oh man, I hope we got a deposit on that, bro. You can’t drop those things, dude.”

“Sorry. And I’m pretty sure you have a deposit.”

I went home and decided right then that I’ll never need to test randomly any of the kids for drugs. I now know all the overt signs of habitual use.

I should point out that at no time did I lose my temper or utter any unkind word to these fellows. I was far more bemused than annoyed or angry. Yes, it took about a half hour to get the equipment, about three times longer than absolutely necessary, but it was pretty entertaining, really.

Plus, I wouldn’t have wanted to be a buzz-kill, you know.

That would have been harsh, man.

Jon scribbled this mess on 01/25/08 at 12:04 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Your Tastes Are Completely Subjective. Or Not.

A few years ago Reha and I were driving around doing errands (code word for trying to find a buyer for a surly two year old) and listening to something off my iPod.

Reha: I think I’ve figured out why you like these guys.

Me: Why I like The Smiths, you mean?

Reha: Yeah, I know why.

Me: I’ll bite, why?

Reha: Because they can’t sing either.

Oh, snap!

And I got to thinking, a significant amount of the music I like is well within the specs of my own vocal talents. i.e., not a huge range of notes and tonal quality is a gratuitous afterthought at best. Let’s take a quick tour of my iTunes Library, shall we?

The Smiths: It’s all about the whine, baby. And the Girlfriend in a Coma, of course. Can’t forget her.

Rush: Too dorky for comment, really. But obviously Geddy Lee is not known for a purty, sonorous voice. But you can use the “Fly by Night” album as paint remover in a pinch if you don’t want to scoot down to the local Home Depot. Simply set up a stereo in a room, crank the volume to 11 when “Anthem” comes on and presto! no more paint on the walls. (Though surprisingly, you can’t use the “Presto” album for this purpose).

Ben Folds: He’s kind of borderline, frankly. Though I think he sings pretty well, I don’t think anyone would put him on a “Best Crooner” list. But his stuff is full of Awesome and Win and Loverly-ness, so he gets a pass.

Echo and the Bunnymen: Again, whiny. And the vocal range seems to be limited to 12 notes.

The Kinks: Ray Davies may be many things, but excellent vocalist is not one of them.

Dire Straights/Mark Knopfler: Nasally voice. Plus, it’s all about the guitar with Mark, I think.

Radiohead: Fine, I have finally succumbed to massive peer pressure and I like Radiohead now. But it sho’ nuff ain’t about Thom Yorke’s voice. Unless you consider his thin, reedy mewl the height of artistic valuation, you simply must agree that he has a pretty awful singing voice. “OK, Computer” may be a masterpiece and I finally enjoy it, but I just want to give him a hug and giant bag of Reese’s Pieces, poor thing.

Steely Dan/Donald Fagen: His voice is also useful as a pest repellant. Put on Steely Dan’s “A Decade of Steely Dan,” wait 45 minutes, then head outside to watch hundreds of mice and other vermin scurrying out of your house, suitcases in hand. Yes, in my world, all mice have tiny valises.

Morphine: Man, I L-O-V-E Mark Sandman and Morphine. But if I had to dig down deep, a significant part of my affection lies within his gravelly, low and essentially monotone thrum of a voice. Bonus! When you have a head cold, you can sing Morphine songs even better.

Led Zeppelin: Can’t even understand stand half of what Robert Plant is singing. Some consider this a good thing.

I could go on like this for a while. Even the few female singers I like aren’t all that great, frankly. I have a huge crush on Liz Phair, but it’s not for her voice, trust me.

I’m usually not one to criticize anyone’s musical tastes, since they are completely subjective and utterly personal, but I hadn’t really ever noticed that I seem particularly drawn to vocal pip-squeaks. So I’m grateful to my Celine Dion loving wife to have helped me in my journey.

Ohh! That reminds me: Journey! Though I never like Journey all that much, Steve Perry wasn’t that great a singer either, was he? More of a screamer as I recall. Perhaps I should re-visit their back catalog.

Jon scribbled this mess on 01/22/08 at 11:53 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Monday, January 21, 2008

Thanks for Bringing That to My Attention

“My coat is too small. It bugs me. I DON’T LIKE IT!”

“I know, Lucas. Your good coat is in a box somewhere. We can’t find it right now. Complaining about it isn’t really helping.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m just talking about and pointing out the things I’m unhappy about.”

Jon scribbled this mess on 01/21/08 at 12:02 AM, best we can tell it fits in the category of Regular Post. This many folks had something to say about that, The permanent home of this entry is here: Link

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Wonder If He’ll Refund Any of That Cash

Monday, January 28, 2008

Kidding, but Only Barely

Friday, January 25, 2008

I Know It’s 4:20 Somewhere, but Dude, Come On!

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Your Tastes Are Completely Subjective. Or Not.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Thanks for Bringing That to My Attention

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