I used to think the Yahoo! premium music service was cool. It SUCKS. It requires a client download and costs munny. Pandora is free, though you can subscribe to git rid of the ads, and it requires no download. You can establish a free account to keep track of your stations and other preferences, and it’s really nifty. Yeah. I said “nifty.”
It’ll never stop sounding weird, when I see or hear or read somebody say “Happy Memorial Day!” It’s a bit like saying “Happy Yom Kippur,” isn’t it? I mean, I know that to most Americans, it’s just a barbecue day, and I’m not saying I did anything special in honor of the fallen or anything, unless you consider running scandisk and defrag on the spare computer in the laundry room and bagging up a mess of old magazines for the bin a solemn ritual. It just seems that, while it is true that most Americans use Memorial Day as a day to put meat to fire, well, it just seems like the least we can do is pretend it means something.
You know. Like Christmas.
I for one had a fine Memorial Day weekend. Dad and Little Brother were here. They wore me out. First they dragged me to the new Air and Space deal at Dulles. Then there was dinner at Ruffino’s Pasghetti House, the charm of which unfortunately is starting to wear thin. The food was not the fine spastic comfort food it was, and the fellow who served us just didn’t seem that interested. He was efficient and all, but there was no passion in his work, as if all the magic had just been sucked out of it, as if you could hear him under his breath complain that he had been led to believe this path would be more glamorous somehow. Anyway. The next day, we visited the Spy Museum, which is fun to do but generally requires more time than the 35 minutes a boundless 10-year-old is willing to offer it. Back across the river, and then we indeed put meat to flame, yummy pork tenderloin with yams and corn. My lunch today will consist of those leftovers.
As I noted, yesterday was spent sprucing up a couple of CPUs and doing a bit of redding. It was too hot to do anything outside.
There’s a guy in my office lobby who is probably not aware that there is a muskrat on his head. I do not know why men insist on wearing imitation hair to attempt to hide the fact that, for some reason, the creator cursed many of us with the tendency to loose our natural head covering. When I was 22 or so, I wrote a song with the curious line, “when I get older, someday, man, I hope I lose my hair/at least then, when I look in the mirror, I’ll know I’m there.” I think it’s true. Besides, I get to wear hats, and I don’t have to force other people to pretend like they can’t tell. Nobody ever squints suspiciously at a guy in a fedora and says “are you wearing a hat?”
The fact of the matter is that Monty Python movies suck. In fact, it is a truth that only about 12 percent of the things Monty Python ever did were actually very funny, and that approximately 38 percent of what they did was actually just downright annoying, and that if someone insists to you that everything Monty Python ever did was funny, you should hand him two Zyprexa and have him call you in the morning.
See, Jessica and I are excellent exchangers of pop culture. She has excellent taste in music and turns me on to some good things. Iâm a bit older than she and so I feel obligated to share my obvious and overflowing wisdom with her. So when she said sheâd wanted to watch some Monty Python films, I was more than happy to line up the NQ. Weâve watched âThe Meaning of Lifeâ and âLife of Brian.â Oy.
I was watching a âFlying Circusâ last night, the one with the Upper Class Twits thing. It was all right, I guess, nothing funnier than the fellow what ran himself over with his own car. Itâs just not the brilliant genius funny to me that I think itâs cracked up to be. âYeah, but you listen to Howard Stern, and you think the funniest movie of all time is âJackass: The Movie.â What do you know?â