Hot Rats

Wow. I am finding it difficult to believe that I have never before listened to Zappa’s Hot Rats. It is, truly, the necessary companion piece to Burnt Weenie Sandwich, while somehow simultaneously both bridge and precursor to later works like Jazz From Hell. Hot Rats is like the missing link.

And it’s awesome. I find myself hearing some gorgeous melody in it and wondering if this grouchy, practical man actually had that voice somewhere, or if he was merely exploiting music theory, and if Willie the Pimp is meant to tip the scales on that question.

Anyway, I’m amazed that I’m a Zappa nut at my age who’s never heard this one. That’s the lovely thing about Frank. He did so much that you can always learn something new.

(By the way, did I mention that eMusic carries a whole lotta Zappa?)

You Better Get Right…

Whilst in sunny Illinois: I couldn’t help but read the bumpersticker out loud in the back of the cab. I wish I hadn’t. But it made use of an ol’ Southernbaptisism that I only know because it’s a Jennyanykind song. It was sort of in rhebus form somehow, and it said, “you better get right with God,” and so I read it out loud and went “hmmmmph.”

The coworker next to me said, “That’s right.” Then said, “What, are you not a true believer, Aaron?”

Now, my religious beliefs cannot actually be written on a notecard. I tend to follow the thinking of many of our Founding Fathers, most of whom were Deists. However, I also tend to believe in some form of reincarnation. But I do not tend to accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. Call me a skeptic, or call me a person who was not * raised * with any particular faith. More certainly, call me someone who has noticed that belief in Jesus Christ has been one of the most politically misppropriated forces of the universe, evar, and that this trend has been on a spectacular rise as of late. You may also call me somebody who has found more universal truths in Frank Zappa’s Only In It For The Money than from any book in the Bible. Finally, call me someone who thinks a tale that spans from virgin birth to resurrection is only slightly less goofy than the one about the winged horse flying thousands and thousands of miles in an evening or the fella what found holy documents based on the advice of an Indian ghost. But how do you explain this to the Suthun belle sitting next to you in the cab after the wine and the prawns and in a still semi-work environment yet?

So I mumbled something like, no, but I appreciate folks who do have faith. Which I do. As my answer trailed off, she chimed in with a “Veddy intedesting.” Which I thought was weird. Her editorial comment was as if to say, how very strange it is that you say you don’t believe in the Christ. Wow. You really are a weirdo. And I find it sad as a progressive that this country hasn’t gotten further than this, that in fact the government has been infiltrated by the Lubavitch of Christianity, and that just admitting that you believe differently than a Christ-worshipper grants you an eyeroll.

I once, seriously, had a fella tell me that the Constitution guarantees us freedom of religion, not freedom from religion. Seriously. So, by this guy’s mandate, I’d be game to be locked up in the stocks because I tend to believe that some fortuitous spark, not an ethereal being who watches over us like Santy Claus and requires us to kiss his ass every Sunday, is what led to all of this?

Anyway, I know I’m probably overreacting. I often do. Still, I sort of wish I hadn’t read that stupid bumper sticker out loud.

Play Spy at the Airport

I have just got back from the Chicago trip. It was a good meeting, and I’m glad I went. I schmoozed with members of the trade association I work for as best I can and schmoozed with a few coworkers as well. Six of us took a train into the city and ate Chinese last night at a trendy little joint called “Opera.” I had the prawns.

I left the hotel right after the noon meeting. I didn’t need to, as it turns out. One of my colleagues at the D.C. office had overnighted me the replacement driver’s license I’d ordered after I lost my wallet, so the full cavity search I received at Dulles (okay, so it wasn’t that severe) was not a concern. And, as it turns out, my plane was delayed. But I got to snoop around at O’Hare. Ate lunch at the Chili’s, which seems to be the only reasonable place at O’Hair where a man can get a beer and lunch and sit down and enjoy it. Then I wandered around to the usual suspects, book stores, gadget stores. Picked up a Rolling Stone and a Computer Shopper. There’s some good stuff in RS about the atmospheric C02 that’s ravaging the planet and such.

I flew one of them new-fangled big-ass planes. That was nice. Each seat had a little screen in front of it, and you could call up a map to show you where your plane was and how long it was before you’d get there and such. Very good for the little kid inside of you going, “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

So I’m home and I’m glad and I haven’t yet seen my cat, who I assume is upstairs snoogling with the housemate who’s been taking care of her. Time to catch up on e-mail and Tivo. Good to be home.

At least he didn't eat the sofa…

My girl, her housemate and I returned to her house Saturday night apprehensive. Said housemate has a big floppy mutt (previously pictured here, but he’s a lot bigger now) that she figures has some Great Dane in him, and, well, as they say in the South, bless his heart.

They were apprehensive because he tends to eat furniture. They walked in and were very happy to find that he had not eaten any furniture. Then they explored the rest of the house.

He had eaten a copy of the housemate’s dissertation and had laid a turd in the middle of the kitchen.

I wish I could say I had come up with something as witty on the spot as to lean down to the beast, pet him on the head, and to say, “Not so crazy about the dissertation, eh, buddy?” No, I just thought of that this morning. Damnit. Instead, all I could think to point out was how glad these two were that the dog hadn’t eaten any furniture. But. But. But. But.

But he SHIT in your KITCHEN! That’s like the worst thing a dog can do! I don’t think they quite grasped that. I think perhaps the neo-medieval code of “you don’t shit where you eat” is something that only rings genuinely true if you’re a fella. And I can’t tell you how this real-life representation of this metaphor tickled me.

Over and Over

Attention, practitioners of the American English language: Can we please stop using the word “over,” which most directly is meant to explain a specific spatial relationship, when you mean to say “more than,” which is meant to explain a specific relationship regarding amount?

No, goddamnit, Takeru Kobayashi did not eat “over” 40 hot dogs in 12 minutes to win the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest this year. He ate “more than” 40 hot dogs. When you say that Kobayashi ate “over” 40 hot dogs, I imagine 40 hot dogs on the floor and Kobayashi hovering over (you see?) them while eating a TV dinner.

“More than.” Say it with me. “Mooooooore thaaaaaaan.” Very good.

Because you’re on TV, dummy. I watched Network again last night. That is such an incredible movie. The folks who made it told the future, didn’t they? You have to keep slapping yourself on the back of the head to remind yourself that this movie was made WELL BEFORE television ever had anything like The Howard Biehl Show on the air. Don’t even get me started about the movie’s commentary about Saudi ownership of the U.S. of A.

TSOP

Note to self: Please stop hearing “Ain’t No Stopping Us Now” on the radio and insisting that it is sung by a band called “TSOP.” That is incorrect. This song is performed by McFadden and Whitehead. “TSOP” was a song, the theme to “Soul Train,” in fact. Silly.

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…or whatever it’s called…

Dear Dr./Gov. Dean,

I am a proud Democrat but I cannot help but laugh nonstop regarding your use of a certain colloquialism on “Hardball” last evening. I wanted to help you with the following advice.

First off, I imagine that Mrs./Dr. Dean is getting pretty darned tired of you grabbing her by the elbow and saying, hey, baby, let’s you and me go and exercise our executive privilege, and then making that wink-wink noise. No, Doc, that’s not what the kids are calling it these days. So stop it. Just stop it.

Further bits of advice for you, with all due respect:

  • You probably should not refer to President Bush’s plan to overhaul Social Security with private investment accounts as the “horizontal rumba.”
  • Please stop referring to the 2000 presidential primary as a “Mongolian clusterfuck.” While this phrase is a completely accurate characterization of that primary, it is entirely inappropriate to say it in front of cameras.
  • Calling the Bush administration’s domestic policy a “Cleveland steamer” is perfectly acceptable, anytime, anywhere.
  • Under no circumstances, I repeat, under no circumstances, should you refer to the Title IX Education Amendments of 1972 as “reverse cowgirl.”

I hope you have found this information helpful.

There’s An Hour I’ll Never Get Back

What a disaster.

“Commander in Chief,” the new television show with Gina Davis as the first lady president, is a phone-it-in, predictible mess whose largest problem is that NBC’s “The West Wing” is still on the air. It’s like trying to market your own lumpy sugar turd water drink against Coca-Cola.

“The West Wing” is subtle, light, and expert at exposition. The first episode of “Commander in Chief” was obvious, heavy, and all about it. First this happened. Then this. Then this. From start to finish, you could almost see the actors ponder the blocking. Finally, it might help to create situations that are actually politically plausible. A conservative presidential candidate drafts a near socialist to the ticket? The Vice President redirects the entire U.S. Navy to save a single woman? The Vice President’s husband is also her Chief of Staff?

Predictible, predictible. The prompter snaps off and the mean, evil Speaker expects her to be flummoxed, but the amazing new President pulls a Bill Clinton and gives a flawless speech anyway! FU, man! I’m the PRESIDENT!

Save your Tivo time. The show to watch is called “The West Wing,” and it is on Sunday nights at 8 p.m. If you need to get caught up, this show in reruns is half the programming on Bravo network.