I think it's time for me to start wearing a cowboy hat.
I also think it's time for me to tell you that you should wear one too.
Just, please, don't get one like me.
I don't want people thinking that we are doing it to start some sort of trend.
It just so happens that you and I are both at a point in our lives when it has become time for us to wear cowboy hats.
It is kinda weird that we have arrived at this juncture at the same time, but hey, you know when its time to don a hat, that is just the way it goes. If your buddy happens to be sporting a hat too, well that is that. deal with it.
I do have an idea though, I think that maybe we should get different kinds of cowboy hats, just to give ourselves some separation, or at the very least so our friends can find us easier in crowds.
How about this? You get one of those old western hats like Clint Eastwood would wear, with the straight brim, and I will get one with all the feathers on it like Richard Petty would wear. They would be different enough and we will still be able to quench our need to wear cowboy hats. what do you think?
I also think it is time for me to have a fast and easy sexual realationship with a woman named Phyliss. Do you know anyone named Phyliss?
Also, do you know wear we could get these cowboy hats?
7.31.2007
Where East meets West.
I've been there. Once. They dress like fancy airline pilots and serve booze in a glass. Piano reigns supreme. Where East meets West.
7.24.2007
Bow Wow
Inspired by my young daughters I got my first pair of Flip Flops.
Huh? What? Do I live in a ditch?
These are likely the questions you are hurling at your computer screen. Indeed. I have never, prior to this moment in time, owned a set of Flip Flops. I realize now the error of my ways.
There was a time when the thought of wedging a strap of cloth, let alone anything, between Big Toe and Little Piggy Stayed Home would have caused me to throw up in my mouth, but like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches you don't know what you're missing until you try it.
As I sit here now smiling, my feet practically nude, I revel in the thought that if my dogs were to bark there is nothing to prevent them from being heard clear across the room.
Huh? What? Do I live in a ditch?
These are likely the questions you are hurling at your computer screen. Indeed. I have never, prior to this moment in time, owned a set of Flip Flops. I realize now the error of my ways.
There was a time when the thought of wedging a strap of cloth, let alone anything, between Big Toe and Little Piggy Stayed Home would have caused me to throw up in my mouth, but like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches you don't know what you're missing until you try it.
As I sit here now smiling, my feet practically nude, I revel in the thought that if my dogs were to bark there is nothing to prevent them from being heard clear across the room.
7.18.2007
are we still on for dinner?
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No strings attached.
Order the halibut – I hear it’s a coldwater delight. And at $8.50, it’s a bargain, to boot.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No, I won’t try to railroad you into 5 minutes in the men’s room. Please. A little credit?
Oh, and look there. Under vegetarian delights…cucumber and port wine stirfry. It sounds terribly tempting, doesn’t it? Yes, and frugally priced. You could order two servings and still be able to the feed the meter afterwards.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No. Not the lobster. At $19.95 a tail, I’m afraid it’s a little too rich for our blood. And pre-emptively, I’ll point out that it’s probably safe to assume that “market price” for the king crab is out of our league as well.
Yes - our league…it’s out of it.
No.
No.
I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You’ve got a ten dollar dinner coming your way. What part of ten dollars are you failing to grasp? Shall I write it down for you? Perhaps we could call the young man over and ask him to point out each menu item that is priced to our means?
No?
Very well then.
Where was I then?
Oh yes.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No strings attached.
Order the halibut – I hear it’s a coldwater delight. And at $8.50, it’s a bargain, to boot.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No, I won’t try to railroad you into 5 minutes in the men’s room. Please. A little credit?
Oh, and look there. Under vegetarian delights…cucumber and port wine stirfry. It sounds terribly tempting, doesn’t it? Yes, and frugally priced. You could order two servings and still be able to the feed the meter afterwards.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No. Not the lobster. At $19.95 a tail, I’m afraid it’s a little too rich for our blood. And pre-emptively, I’ll point out that it’s probably safe to assume that “market price” for the king crab is out of our league as well.
Yes - our league…it’s out of it.
No.
No.
I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You’ve got a ten dollar dinner coming your way. What part of ten dollars are you failing to grasp? Shall I write it down for you? Perhaps we could call the young man over and ask him to point out each menu item that is priced to our means?
No?
Very well then.
Where was I then?
Oh yes.
I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
7.17.2007
A little off the top
I've just started shaping my mustache. Nothing crazy. It's not like I sculpt it or anything. Just begun to clean up the top edges.
Since doing this though I've noticed that the sky is bluer, the bird's song more true, and the fish styx more crisp. What a change it has made. I suggest you too examine your body-hair and look for a crop that could use a trim. You'll thank me.
Since doing this though I've noticed that the sky is bluer, the bird's song more true, and the fish styx more crisp. What a change it has made. I suggest you too examine your body-hair and look for a crop that could use a trim. You'll thank me.
7.09.2007
the day the earth stood still:MGD renounces meat
There is a quiet little porch attached to a quiet little house, on a quiet little street corner in Ferndale, Michigan. And on this quiet little porch sits a black charcoal grill, lovingly manufactured by the fine Weber folks in Palatine and Huntley, Illinois. Much like the porch, the house, and the street corner, this little black beauty is also quiet. Its dark porcelain bowl radiates no warmth. Its ash can is empty, with only traces of expired charcoal from days gone by. The small circular top vents have ceased to emanate their beguiling aroma – an aroma that called to the belly, that beckoned the nostrils, and that harkened back to a time when primitive peoples broiled their meat long and loudly through fire-lit nights. No longer, though. Not on this porch. Not on this street corner.
But it was not always this way. Time was, this porcelain chamber burned hot to the touch. Time was, this culinary furnace belched forth heat and steam so succulent, it could only be the result of briquette-inspired fire playfully and eagerly massaging a choice cut of beef. A stampede of cattle-inspired products paraded their way across its iron grilling surface on a nightly basis: ribeye, brautwurst, T-bone, ground round, sirloin, and chuck. Porterhouse, sausage, ribs, filet, and of course the New York strip. And MGD presided over this procession as its master of ceremonies.
Like the surgeon who carefully wields a scalpel, MGD was equally adept with grill tongs, meat forks, and basting brushes. Like the mother who gently and lovingly cares for and watches over her children, MGD stood at a constant attention, a watchful eye trained on his sizzling packets of animal flesh. And like the mighty Vulcan, MGD lorded over his fire pit as master and commander of all he surveyed.
But, I digress. That was then.
The utensils of his craft have now been relegated to some interior room of that quiet little house. Meat no longer makes the journey from cold carcass to hot delicious dinner on that porch. And much like Prometheus who snatched fire from the gods, so too has fate snatched the burning coals from this quiet Ferndale street corner.
Now then…think back if you would. Think back to a few weeks ago. Think back to what you were doing when you had that feeling of uneasiness. That feeling where it seemed that for a moment, just that one brief moment, that the world had come to a halt. Not a screeching halt; not a blatantly obvious, life-changing, mind-jarring halt. Rather, just that feeling that everything had slowed to an imperceptible pace. That feeling of living someone else’s life, when you’re quietly aware of how freaking strange anyone’s life can be. And then just as quickly as it came, that feeling is gone. I shared that moment with all of you. When you were watching the faucet pour water, or talking to your sister, or walking up your basement steps, I was watching waves of High Life slowly roll back and forth between my lips and the bottom of a glass bottle. In that moment we shared, I ceased to be able to swallow. A rolling wave of High Life stopped midway in its trans-container journey. Right around where the girl’s boot-clad leg hangs down over the edge of the moon. It was in that instant that MGD turned our worlds into chaotic mind-fuckery for the briefest of moments.
“I’m not really eating meat anymore” he says.
“I haven’t eaten any meat in a couple months actually” he says.
You notice a single solitary drop of water among the deluge. Your conversation becomes so quiet, it’s deafening. You almost lose your balance on the basement stairs because of that feeling. The sloshing inertia of my High Life quietly acquiesces to Newton’s First Law.
But it was not always this way. Time was, this porcelain chamber burned hot to the touch. Time was, this culinary furnace belched forth heat and steam so succulent, it could only be the result of briquette-inspired fire playfully and eagerly massaging a choice cut of beef. A stampede of cattle-inspired products paraded their way across its iron grilling surface on a nightly basis: ribeye, brautwurst, T-bone, ground round, sirloin, and chuck. Porterhouse, sausage, ribs, filet, and of course the New York strip. And MGD presided over this procession as its master of ceremonies.
Like the surgeon who carefully wields a scalpel, MGD was equally adept with grill tongs, meat forks, and basting brushes. Like the mother who gently and lovingly cares for and watches over her children, MGD stood at a constant attention, a watchful eye trained on his sizzling packets of animal flesh. And like the mighty Vulcan, MGD lorded over his fire pit as master and commander of all he surveyed.
But, I digress. That was then.
The utensils of his craft have now been relegated to some interior room of that quiet little house. Meat no longer makes the journey from cold carcass to hot delicious dinner on that porch. And much like Prometheus who snatched fire from the gods, so too has fate snatched the burning coals from this quiet Ferndale street corner.
Now then…think back if you would. Think back to a few weeks ago. Think back to what you were doing when you had that feeling of uneasiness. That feeling where it seemed that for a moment, just that one brief moment, that the world had come to a halt. Not a screeching halt; not a blatantly obvious, life-changing, mind-jarring halt. Rather, just that feeling that everything had slowed to an imperceptible pace. That feeling of living someone else’s life, when you’re quietly aware of how freaking strange anyone’s life can be. And then just as quickly as it came, that feeling is gone. I shared that moment with all of you. When you were watching the faucet pour water, or talking to your sister, or walking up your basement steps, I was watching waves of High Life slowly roll back and forth between my lips and the bottom of a glass bottle. In that moment we shared, I ceased to be able to swallow. A rolling wave of High Life stopped midway in its trans-container journey. Right around where the girl’s boot-clad leg hangs down over the edge of the moon. It was in that instant that MGD turned our worlds into chaotic mind-fuckery for the briefest of moments.
“I’m not really eating meat anymore” he says.
“I haven’t eaten any meat in a couple months actually” he says.
You notice a single solitary drop of water among the deluge. Your conversation becomes so quiet, it’s deafening. You almost lose your balance on the basement stairs because of that feeling. The sloshing inertia of my High Life quietly acquiesces to Newton’s First Law.
cats
As I was driving down the highway last night, my mind drifted to the subject of cats. I am not really sure why but this is some stuff that I thought about while zooming...
...They say curiosity killed the cat. It is kind of amazing to me that you don't see more dead cats on the side of the expressway. I mean, the expressway is a pretty curious thing to me... and I understand what it is all about. I can only imagine what it must seem to be to a cat... and it just seems to me that curiosity would get the better of them and they would want a closer look... that is all I am saying.
also, with this whole "curiosity killed the cat" thing...
It is said that cats have 9 lives. If you subscribe to this theory then I wish to argue the fact that "curiosity killed the cat" and present the possibility that "stupidity" killed the cat.
My thinking is this:
I will admit that cats are indeed curious creatures, no one is disputing this. However there is a fine line between curious and stupid. Let's use a frayed electrical chord as an example. The cat, we will call him Sammy Sosa, with all his innate feline exploration tendencies really must check this out, and subsequently will receive a mild to moderate shock. Depending on how curious Sammy Sosa is about this particular wire he may "use up one of his 9 lives"... this is where the thin line between curiosity and stupidity comes in. Perhaps I can help you here. If Sammy Sosa keeps going back to the wire, it is no longer curiosity, it is stupidity. Curiosity ends after lets say the third time, when Sammy Sosa should have said, "damn, I hate that wire"... any more wire messin' crosses the line into stupidville. Keep messing with the wire, you will die. And when you die, I will be sure that people know that stupidity killed the cat, not curiosity.
...They say curiosity killed the cat. It is kind of amazing to me that you don't see more dead cats on the side of the expressway. I mean, the expressway is a pretty curious thing to me... and I understand what it is all about. I can only imagine what it must seem to be to a cat... and it just seems to me that curiosity would get the better of them and they would want a closer look... that is all I am saying.
also, with this whole "curiosity killed the cat" thing...
It is said that cats have 9 lives. If you subscribe to this theory then I wish to argue the fact that "curiosity killed the cat" and present the possibility that "stupidity" killed the cat.
My thinking is this:
I will admit that cats are indeed curious creatures, no one is disputing this. However there is a fine line between curious and stupid. Let's use a frayed electrical chord as an example. The cat, we will call him Sammy Sosa, with all his innate feline exploration tendencies really must check this out, and subsequently will receive a mild to moderate shock. Depending on how curious Sammy Sosa is about this particular wire he may "use up one of his 9 lives"... this is where the thin line between curiosity and stupidity comes in. Perhaps I can help you here. If Sammy Sosa keeps going back to the wire, it is no longer curiosity, it is stupidity. Curiosity ends after lets say the third time, when Sammy Sosa should have said, "damn, I hate that wire"... any more wire messin' crosses the line into stupidville. Keep messing with the wire, you will die. And when you die, I will be sure that people know that stupidity killed the cat, not curiosity.
7.04.2007
independent from suction
Today all the suction cups in my home failed. I thought that odd.
Then I realized that it must not only be independence day in America, but in the Suctionville too.
To celebrate I shot off a roman candle in my bathtub and gave the suction cups the day off.
I thought that having a holiday in the middle of the week was going to suck, turns out just the opposite.
Then I realized that it must not only be independence day in America, but in the Suctionville too.
To celebrate I shot off a roman candle in my bathtub and gave the suction cups the day off.
I thought that having a holiday in the middle of the week was going to suck, turns out just the opposite.
7.03.2007
The homeless man
The homeless man walked into the bar
with no intentions of making a purchase.
He was looking for a shower in the bathroom
as the soap doubled as body wash.
He also requested a sandwich, a cup of water,
and some change.
He was politely asked to leave
once and then again.
As he was walking towards the door
he said, "hey, do me a favor."
"Kiss my ass."
Society had taken many things from this man,
his wit was not one of them.
So it goes.
with no intentions of making a purchase.
He was looking for a shower in the bathroom
as the soap doubled as body wash.
He also requested a sandwich, a cup of water,
and some change.
He was politely asked to leave
once and then again.
As he was walking towards the door
he said, "hey, do me a favor."
"Kiss my ass."
Society had taken many things from this man,
his wit was not one of them.
So it goes.
7.02.2007
vroom
I don't care how old you are...hanging your arm out the window of a moving car on a warm summer day like an airplane wing is one of the best things ever.
6.26.2007
Months Make Marks
Four months can climb faster than three, by sheer number
And numb a tongue to quit talking
Four months can form factions of real dicks
That flick you with no ending
Four and more confidently rule
Like the swing set over the pool
And they leave with all debts pending
6.20.2007
Diary: June 20, 2007
A fucking coyote...with mange? Please! I don't look anything like a fucking coyote with fucking mange. I've been around...Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Argentina, Bolivia, Colombia, Honduras, El Salvador, Panama, Peru, Brazil, Mexico, and yes, even the fucking United States. I'm one bad mother fucker. From Texas to Maine...a fucking coyote with mange....my ass! Is it my fault that I like to attack livestock and suck the blood and occasionally and organ or two right out of them? Nope! So what, I have a fucking weakness for goat blood, big fucking deal! I've heard rumors of you humans describing me as lizard like with scaly greenish-grey skin. I've also heard that you think I have sharp spines running down my back...now your getting somewhere. I do what I do, get used to it. And by the way...Mother Russia...you aint so bad. I've killed there too!
Chupacabra
Chupacabra
6.14.2007
flag day
The Flag of the United States of America was born almost a year after the Declaration of Independence. The Stars and Stripes to which we pledge allegiance was authorized on June 14, 1777. Just as we celebrate the birth of independence on July 4th each year, the people of our Nation celebrate the birth of our Flag every year on June 14th. in 1916, President Woodrow Wilson (pictured above) issued a Presidential proclamation making June 14th a day of honoring our flag and celebrating its birth. However it wasn't until 1949 that the United States Congress took formal action on the matter of Flag Day. On August 3, 1949 President Harry S Truman signed their resolution "That the 14th day of June in each year is hereby designated as Flag Day." Today it is the right of every American to proudly display the flag that speaks of our freedom. But with every RIGHT comes some RESPONSIBILITY as well...including the responsibility to display the flag properly and with respect. So fly that flag proud today and while you are at it pour out some of your 40 for old Woody Wilson, because he invented this fine holiday. A holiday that has been overlooked for far too long. Why is it we go to our cabins and get drunk in the woods in the name of freedom on Memorial Day, 4th of July and Labor day but hardly life a High Life tall boy on flag day? This is a true injustice. We don't care about our banner of liberty? Year after year we continue to neglect the wonderful stitchwork of Betsy Ross. The very stitching that has held this wonderful country together for over 50 years. As we continue to branch out and shove liberty and freedom down the throats of the nations of lesser intelligence I implore you to stop and take a moment out of your fossil fueled day and think about our old star spangled banner and all those bombs bursting in air. May they continue to give proof through the night and may our flag always be there!
Below you will find the guidelines to flying your banner of liberty. Read them all... unless you hate freedom.
175. Position and manner of display
The flag, when carried in a procession with another flag or flags, should be either on the marching right; that is, the flag's own right, or, if there is a line of other flags, in front of the center of that line.
(a) The flag should not be displayed on a float in a parade except from a staff, or as provided in subsection (i) of this section.
(b) The flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle or of a railroad train or a boat. When the flag is displayed on a motorcar, the staff shall be fixed firmly to the chassis or clamped to the right fender.
(c) No other flag or pennant should be placed above or, if on the same level, to the right of the flag of the United States of America, except during church services conducted by naval chaplains at sea, when the church pennant may be flown above the flag during church services for the personnel of the Navy. No person shall display the flag of the United Nations or any other national or international flag equal, above, or in a position of superior prominence or honor to, or in place of, the flag of the United States at any place within the United States or any Territory or possession thereof: Provided, That nothing in this section shall make unlawful the continuance of the practice heretofore followed of displaying the flag of the United Nations in a position of superior prominence or honor, and other national flags in positions of equal prominence or honor, with that of the flag of the United States at the headquarters of the United Nations.
(d) The flag of the United States of America, when it is displayed with another flag against a wall from crossed staffs, should be on the right, the flag's own right, and its staff should be in front of the staff of the other flag.
(e) The flag of the United States of America should be at the center and at the highest point of the group when a number of flags of States or localities or pennants of societies are grouped and displayed from staffs.
(f) When flags of States, cities, or localities, or pennants of societies are flown on the same halyard with the flag of the United States, the latter should always be at the peak. When the flags are flown from adjacent staffs, the flag of the United States should be hoisted first and lowered last. No such flag or pennant may be placed above the flag of the United States or to the United States flag's right.
(g) When flags of two or more nations are displayed, they are to be flown from separate staffs of the same height. The flags should be of approximately equal size. International usage forbids the display of the flag of one nation above that of another nation in time of peace.
(h) When the flag of the United States is displayed from a staff projecting horizontally or at an angle from the window sill, balcony, or front of a building, the union of the flag should be placed at the peak of the staff unless the flag is at half staff. When the flag is suspended over a sidewalk from a rope extending from a house to a pole at the edge of the sidewalk, the flag should be hoisted out, union first, from the building.
(i) When displayed either horizontally or vertically against a wall, the union should be uppermost and to the flag's own right, that is, to the observer's left. When displayed in a window, the flag should be displayed in the same way, with the union or blue field to the left of the observer in the street.
(j) When the flag is displayed over the middle of the street, it should be suspended vertically with the union to the north in an east and west street or to the east in a north and south street.
(k) When used on a speaker's platform, the flag, if displayed flat, should be displayed above and behind the speaker. When displayed from a staff in a church or public auditorium, the flag of the United States of America should hold the position of superior prominence, in advance of the audience, and in the position of honor at the clergyman's or speaker's right as he faces the audience. Any other flag so displayed should be placed on the left of the clergyman or speaker or to the right of the audience.
(l) The flag should form a distinctive feature of the ceremony of unveiling a statue or monument, but it should never be used as the covering for the statue or monument.
(m) The flag, when flown at half-staff, should be first hoisted to the peak for an instant and then lowered to the half-staff position. The flag should be again raised to the peak before it is lowered for the day. On Memorial Day the flag should be displayed at half-staff until noon only, then raised to the top of the staff. By order of the President, the flag shall be flown at half-staff upon the death of principal figures of the United States Government and the Governor of a State, territory, or possession, as a mark of respect to their memory. In the event of the death of other officials or foreign dignitaries, the flag is to be displayed at half-staff according to Presidential instructions or orders, or in accordance with recognized customs or practices not inconsistent with law. In the event of the death of a present or former official of the government of any State, territory, or possession of the United States, the Governor of that State, territory, or possession may proclaim that the National flag shall be flown at half-staff.
• The flag shall be flown at half-staff thirty days from the death of the President or a former President;
• ten days from the day of death of the Vice President, the Chief Justice or a retired Chief Justice of the United States, or the Speaker of the House of Representatives;
• from the day of death until interment of an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, a Secretary of an executive or military department, a former Vice President, or the Governor of a State, territory, or possession;
• and on the day of death and the following day for a Member of Congress.
The flag shall be flown at halfstaff on Peace Officers Memorial Day, unless that day is also Armed Forces Day. As used in this subsection-
1. the term ''half-staff'' means the position of the flag when it is one-half the distance between the top and bottom of the staff;
2. the term ''executive or military department'' means any agency listed under sections 101 and 102 of title 5; and
3. the term ''Member of Congress'' means a Senator, a Representative, a Delegate, or the Resident Commissioner from Puerto Rico.
(n) When the flag is used to cover a casket, it should be so placed that the union is at the head and over the left shoulder. The flag should not be lowered into the grave or allowed to touch the ground.
(o) When the flag is suspended across a corridor or lobby in a building with only one main entrance, it should be suspended vertically with the union of the flag to the observer's left upon entering. If the building has more than one main entrance, the flag should be suspended vertically near the center of the corridor or lobby with the union to the north, when entrances are to the east and west or to the east when entrances are to the north and south. If there are entrances in more than two directions, the union should be to the east.
SOURCE (June 22, 1942, ch. 435, Sec. 3, 56 Stat. 378; Dec. 22, 1942, ch. 806, Sec. 3, 56 Stat. 1075; July 9, 1953, ch. 183, 67 Stat. 142; July 7, 1976, Pub. L. 94-344, Sec. 1(6)-(11), 90 Stat. 810, 811; Sept. 13, 1994, Pub. L. 103-322, title XXXII, Sec. 320922(b), 108 Stat. 2131.
6.11.2007
!
Carbonated dialogue swimming the air-ocean between us. Effervescent talk bubbles pop against my cheeks and ears. Each one a windy burst of summer shimmer.
6.07.2007
I had no idea: Ahmad Rashad
I have been thinking a lot recently about Ahmad Rashad. Don't ask me why because I won't tell you. I was very skeptical about how he got to where he was. "What the hell did Ahmad Rashad ever do to get that cushy gig" is what I would say... finally I shut up and did what has become a synonym with research in these future times we live in.
The thing that I was most surprised to learn is that he and Ms. Phylicia Rashad are no longer married... this immediately rekindled a rather large fantasy that a younger version of me had with Mrs. Clare Huxtable. So I got that going for me.
I apologize Mr. Rashad, it seems that you have done something to earn your suit and microphone, what that is I am not exactly sure... But it is something none the less.
Good day, and keep the Stuff Inside.
6.06.2007
In the Tines
Little girl, little girl, what have I done
To make you treat me so
You've caused me to starve, you've caused me to decline
You've caused me to leave my forks at home
In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows
The longest meal I ever ate
Went down that Buffet Line
The Mostacholi emptied at six o'clock
The Swedish meatballs gone by nine
In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows
I asked my waiter for the soup of day
He said he throwed the utensils away
In the tines, in the tines, where the sun never shines
And your silver points all lined in rows
Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo
6.05.2007
Fork In The Road
After work this afternoon, while in a partially spaced out state of consciousness, somewhere between sleep and wake I overheard the television make a statement that jolted my subconscious and subsequently the rest of me. The man on TV (and they never lie) said studies have proven…are you ready for this…that exercise is good for you! Now generally I’d let something like this go with a simple “no shit Sherlock” or similar retort, but the TV man went on to claim that beyond the obvious physical benefits, the effects of regular exercise on a person’s mental well-being are similar to drugs or psychotherapy. My initial reaction (being lazy enough that I’m about two steps from buying my clothes at a big and tall and special ordering my underwear) was, what a cruel world this is where exercise is “good” for you, but things like fast food, lawn forking and sex with random strangers in a bathroom stall in Shreveport are “bad”. But after giving it some more thought it occurred to me, who said lawn forking was bad anyway?
6.04.2007
why 101.9, why?
As like-minded individuals know, National Public Radio’s affiliate in Detroit, Michigan broadcasts on 101.9 FM, WDET, from the campus of Wayne State University. Over the last 1 – 2 years the station has gone through some fairly major changes, specifically in programming, and to a lesser degree, in on-air talent. This changing of the guard has brought with it the baggage of the “2 camp segregation” that accompanies any change of pace: you’ve got one group thrilled with the change, and one group crying out for the way things were. [Granted, there technically is a third group that consists of the Unawares and the I-don’t-cares, but they have no bearing in this discussion.]
Now, these adjustments – both to programming and talent – have aroused the ire of the local NPR listener community. From my limited viewpoint, programming, by far, has taken the brunt of this backlash. The on-air talent has been lamented to a much lesser degree.
Having said that, I can somewhat understand adjustments to programming. The program directors claim their market research shows people want more news, more talk, more Detroit (read: urban/social issues around the city’s plight) –centric discussions, etc. And if you’re going to increase talk shows, that airtime must come at the expense of radio's other offerings: music and entertainment.
I understand that these program directors are going to do whatever they can to cater to their perceived demographic > increase their aggregate of listeners > increase potential donations > keep the station profitable > keep their jobs. I’m not so disillusioned by idealism that I think the people calling the shots at WDET are above self-preservation and would stick to the heritage, to the pedigree, of the station (even though I secretly want them to be above it, and to stick to it). Hell, I even genuinely like some of the morning and afternoon-commute programming they get from NPR and PRI. But it is lamentable that an uber-rich tradition of music (a tradition that you’re not going to find anywhere else, mind you) of world music, of Detroit music, of all kinds of music, is no longer available, cut down in its prime, like a young River Phoenix going lifeless in a Hollywood gutter. God bless you Mr. Bandyke. Blue shadows on the trail Ralph Valdez. Coo-coo coo-choo Ms. Copeland. Hello, amputated Ed Love, stunted Michael Julien. Larry McDaniel, when’d you get out of the hoosegow? I thought they’d sent you packin’ for good this time. Well, never you mind. Welcome back fella. You just make yourself comfortable. Grab a seat right there. Yes, right there. Right by 5 hours of BBC World Service and just to the left of an hour of our new News & Notes (read: “talk from an urban/social issues perspective”, to put it mildly) with Farai Chideya. Yes, Larry I agree with you. News & Notes is terribly misleading for programming that pats itself on its back as it “kicks off a month-long series on hip-hop with…free-wheeling and at times combative interview(s).”
Whatever. It’s just a shame. But so is most progress.
At any rate, most people who fall into the “way things were” camp bemoan the change in programming – but what really puts the proverbial bustle in my hedgerow is the on-air talent that WDET has forced upon the common man. Now, I know I just went off on the programming decisions, but let’s face it: I’ve got CDs, I’ve got the internet, I’ve got an iPod, I’ve got friends and associates with desirable music. The well of new/fresh/cutting edge/just-plain-great-music didn’t dry up for me when WDET’s program directors thought they were starring in a bad 80’s slasher flick down at the Bijou, cut the heart out of the station, and then proceeded to go off the reservation. I can live with it. What I can’t live with is Amy Miller. Billed as “a Detroit native, experienced reporter and news host”, Amy Miller crawled her way out of the Missouri backwoods to return to our fair City of Dreams. Once here she played charmer to Joan Silvi’s (WDET News Director) snake and landed the coveted "host of Morning Edition" gig. This is prime time for this genre of radio station. The morning commute. You need to be on top of your game. A game that consists of introducing segments, reading local news, traffic, and weather, and handing it off to local WDET talent. If you’re incapable of doing that, take off the cans, and get off the mic. If you can’t read your updates without massacring the English language, give it up. If you are prone to stumble when speaking, try being an assistant to someone who knows what they’re doing. If you can’t adapt – if you can’t generate a smooth transition when the occasional technological flaw heats up, get out of the kitchen. And when you’re voice drives me up the freakin’ wall as it drips with the smug overtones of “I’m really good at my important job” as you drop the ball again and again, then pack it up, go home, and stick your head in the oven.
See you in the unemployment line Amy Miller. I'll be the guy flashing daggers at you.
Now, these adjustments – both to programming and talent – have aroused the ire of the local NPR listener community. From my limited viewpoint, programming, by far, has taken the brunt of this backlash. The on-air talent has been lamented to a much lesser degree.
Having said that, I can somewhat understand adjustments to programming. The program directors claim their market research shows people want more news, more talk, more Detroit (read: urban/social issues around the city’s plight) –centric discussions, etc. And if you’re going to increase talk shows, that airtime must come at the expense of radio's other offerings: music and entertainment.
I understand that these program directors are going to do whatever they can to cater to their perceived demographic > increase their aggregate of listeners > increase potential donations > keep the station profitable > keep their jobs. I’m not so disillusioned by idealism that I think the people calling the shots at WDET are above self-preservation and would stick to the heritage, to the pedigree, of the station (even though I secretly want them to be above it, and to stick to it). Hell, I even genuinely like some of the morning and afternoon-commute programming they get from NPR and PRI. But it is lamentable that an uber-rich tradition of music (a tradition that you’re not going to find anywhere else, mind you) of world music, of Detroit music, of all kinds of music, is no longer available, cut down in its prime, like a young River Phoenix going lifeless in a Hollywood gutter. God bless you Mr. Bandyke. Blue shadows on the trail Ralph Valdez. Coo-coo coo-choo Ms. Copeland. Hello, amputated Ed Love, stunted Michael Julien. Larry McDaniel, when’d you get out of the hoosegow? I thought they’d sent you packin’ for good this time. Well, never you mind. Welcome back fella. You just make yourself comfortable. Grab a seat right there. Yes, right there. Right by 5 hours of BBC World Service and just to the left of an hour of our new News & Notes (read: “talk from an urban/social issues perspective”, to put it mildly) with Farai Chideya. Yes, Larry I agree with you. News & Notes is terribly misleading for programming that pats itself on its back as it “kicks off a month-long series on hip-hop with…free-wheeling and at times combative interview(s).”
Whatever. It’s just a shame. But so is most progress.
At any rate, most people who fall into the “way things were” camp bemoan the change in programming – but what really puts the proverbial bustle in my hedgerow is the on-air talent that WDET has forced upon the common man. Now, I know I just went off on the programming decisions, but let’s face it: I’ve got CDs, I’ve got the internet, I’ve got an iPod, I’ve got friends and associates with desirable music. The well of new/fresh/cutting edge/just-plain-great-music didn’t dry up for me when WDET’s program directors thought they were starring in a bad 80’s slasher flick down at the Bijou, cut the heart out of the station, and then proceeded to go off the reservation. I can live with it. What I can’t live with is Amy Miller. Billed as “a Detroit native, experienced reporter and news host”, Amy Miller crawled her way out of the Missouri backwoods to return to our fair City of Dreams. Once here she played charmer to Joan Silvi’s (WDET News Director) snake and landed the coveted "host of Morning Edition" gig. This is prime time for this genre of radio station. The morning commute. You need to be on top of your game. A game that consists of introducing segments, reading local news, traffic, and weather, and handing it off to local WDET talent. If you’re incapable of doing that, take off the cans, and get off the mic. If you can’t read your updates without massacring the English language, give it up. If you are prone to stumble when speaking, try being an assistant to someone who knows what they’re doing. If you can’t adapt – if you can’t generate a smooth transition when the occasional technological flaw heats up, get out of the kitchen. And when you’re voice drives me up the freakin’ wall as it drips with the smug overtones of “I’m really good at my important job” as you drop the ball again and again, then pack it up, go home, and stick your head in the oven.
See you in the unemployment line Amy Miller. I'll be the guy flashing daggers at you.
6.01.2007
when you slap me, it makes me happy
Did you ever tell Daddy that? I bet you did. And while that was going on, where was Ed McMahon? Nuzzling up to Johnny’s teat he was. Talk about absentee parenting…
I ask the reader (not just manus manus pinguis): consider another figure of male role-model-ship, won’t you? Consider the man in the Hathaway shirt.
That’s right, the Hathaway Man. He’s one helluva fella, and one look gives you the impression that he could most certainly sire a large litter if he so desires. Now, I hear your collective “A-ha!” rising like an Indonesian Boxing Day wave. “Laying pipe alone doesn’t make a great male role model!” you cry. Agreed, agreed… But I ask you to hold judgment for the moment. Allow me to introduce you to the Hathaway man…
I’d like you to close your eyes. But I need you to read this, so just pretend to close your eyes. Now think about strength. Try to picture integrity. What do you see? You see the goddamn Hathaway man, that’s what! You see a mustachioed gentlemen in a starched white shirt. With his fist on one hip, he commands action. With another man’s hand on his other hip he demonstrates comfort in his sexuality.
He is a Man of Leisure, and like all great Men of Leisure, he enjoys the finer things in life: conducting the New York Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall, playing the oboe, copying a Goya at the Metropolitan Museum, driving a tractor, fencing, sailing, buying a Renoir, and so forth. Who else but such a man possesses the credentials to be the face of 170 years of shirt-making expertise? That’s right. No one.
And lest you think him unapproachable and intense, think again: He is a balanced man, as all role models should be. Consider his diminutive tie. It is the perfect counterweight to the hyper-masculinity of his eye patch.
The next time daddy’s in the garage drinking, look for integrity. Look for impeccably pressed linen that frames a cycloptic stare. Look for the Hathaway man.
I ask the reader (not just manus manus pinguis): consider another figure of male role-model-ship, won’t you? Consider the man in the Hathaway shirt.
That’s right, the Hathaway Man. He’s one helluva fella, and one look gives you the impression that he could most certainly sire a large litter if he so desires. Now, I hear your collective “A-ha!” rising like an Indonesian Boxing Day wave. “Laying pipe alone doesn’t make a great male role model!” you cry. Agreed, agreed… But I ask you to hold judgment for the moment. Allow me to introduce you to the Hathaway man…
I’d like you to close your eyes. But I need you to read this, so just pretend to close your eyes. Now think about strength. Try to picture integrity. What do you see? You see the goddamn Hathaway man, that’s what! You see a mustachioed gentlemen in a starched white shirt. With his fist on one hip, he commands action. With another man’s hand on his other hip he demonstrates comfort in his sexuality.
He is a Man of Leisure, and like all great Men of Leisure, he enjoys the finer things in life: conducting the New York Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall, playing the oboe, copying a Goya at the Metropolitan Museum, driving a tractor, fencing, sailing, buying a Renoir, and so forth. Who else but such a man possesses the credentials to be the face of 170 years of shirt-making expertise? That’s right. No one.
And lest you think him unapproachable and intense, think again: He is a balanced man, as all role models should be. Consider his diminutive tie. It is the perfect counterweight to the hyper-masculinity of his eye patch.
The next time daddy’s in the garage drinking, look for integrity. Look for impeccably pressed linen that frames a cycloptic stare. Look for the Hathaway man.
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