Yearly Archives: 2005

…and then there’s Maude…

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I just got done watching the Pamela Anderson Roast on Comedy Central. And, I think, this is what happens when you take a comics’ tradition and set it loose on the general public.

If you are on the dais of a comedy roast, you are not supposed to heckle. You don’t flip the roaster off, you don’t make the “FU” gesture by placing your fist at your elbow and pumping, you don’t roll your eyes and call the roaster a “bitch”, and you don’t attempt to yell him down. You’re supposed to clap and laugh because you’re on the dais, which is an honor.

The greatest performance of the evening was Bea Arthur. All she did was read from one of Pamela Anderson’s novels. The excerpts she read should have graced the Bulwer-Lytton Awards. It was ballbusting, and funny, and smart all at the same time.

Don’t Screw With Marc Cohn

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I’ve been asking for quite some time now what the hell Huey Lewis had against double-reeded woodwinds.

It turns out that I am the victim of a misheard lyric.

For years, I thought he was saying, “now the oboe may be barely breathing,” and I wondered what his first lyrics looked like: “Now, the bassoon is just a motherfucker…and don’t get me started on the didgeridoo…”

It turns out that it’s not “oboe,” it’s “ol’ boy,” though I think the third interpretation listed at amiright.com is even better: “Now the elbow may be bad at breathing…” Either way, not a great song to have tootling away in the old psychic jukebox.

Speaking of horrible music, did anyone see that Marc Cohn got shot in the head, and the bullet didn’t even touch his skull? Jesus, carjacker guy, I hated Walking in Memphis as much as the next guy, but I think spraying his van with bullets is a tad much. Watch out, Michael Bolton. Seriously, though, Marc, you’re a Michael McDonald wannabe who wrote and performed one of the worst songs ever, but many happy returns anyways, big guy.

It’s Going To Be A Hell Of A Day

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You walk into your uncle’s cat-doored house where you’re popping in from time to time to look after his cats while he’s out of town for the weekend, and you find the dry cat food container overturned and empty, and the food dish empty, and the water dish empty, and dog biscuits on the floor, and water everywhere, and parts of a bird who appears to be pining for the Fjords. Lovely. The cats probably encountered a raccoon during the night and opted to go all lord-of-the-flies about it. What a mess.

I had nice weekend, nothing new to report. I cooked a lot for my date. The news is that I still can’t cook a meatloaf. This one was better for consistency but was not cooked when I pulled it out. Blush. I did better with dessert, the gingerbread with peaches and blueberries, and much better with breakfast, scrambled eggicles with hash browns and a croissant. Still working to get her caught up on Los Sopranos.

Sigh.

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Is it worth explaining to my coworkers that asking me to put up a “hotlink” is not the same thing as asking me to put up a “hyperlink,” and that, actually, a “hotlink” is a bad thing?

But I Don't Live In Richmond

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Question: Why is every news story about the Susan Torres delivery datelined “Richmond” when she and her new baby are at Virginia Hospital Center, not four blocks from my house? Even the Post datelined it that way but said in the story it was “100 miles north” of Richmond. Weird.

I Sure Do Like That Potted Meat

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What is it about gloved portions of pigmeat boiled in beer and seared over a grill that makes it so fucking good?

I don’t know why I got the gumption to cook such a thing while in the supermarket. Mmm. Brats in beer and grilled. Dad’s relish. Red beans and rice. I think I have some canned French cut beans at home. That would go well with this Four Brothers wine.

Either it’s because I was fucking starving by the time I got home or because it was just that fucking good. Oh, my, god. My buddy Justin taught me how to boil brats in beer and then sear. That’s one of at least four reasons he’s still one of my four best buddies in the world. He taught me how to boil meat in beer.

I talked to another on that short list tonight. The doc is good. He is a dad. That’s weird. This fella I met in about what, 1984? And we palled up based on an equally perverse sense of humor and an equally odd taste in music and an equal sense of desperation and wonder when it came to wimmen. And we’re still pals and he’s a married dad, and that’s weird. Awesome, but weird. Either way, look for me to fly south next month sometime to finally meet his little girl.

My vacation was excellent. The time off gave me the solar plexus soul injection that I needed. As a result, I’m eating better and sleeping better and hoping to cook more and live more and make merry fun on the stage. I can’t explain it better than that except to say that if you feel like you need a vacation, you probably do. I needed this one for years.

Life is an abstract. My natural inclination is to try to create it as a matrix. But while I’m diligently setting up the rows and columns, life itself is throwing paint and clay and poop and vegetables at me and at my perfect table.

My biggest challenge is to conduct the negotiations.

I Think It’s Your Mind

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One of my big vacation projects has been to at last deal with the creepy-crawlie CD collection. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I own entirely too many compact discs. Well. I don’t think it’s too many. The problem, though, is that I own too many crappy compact discs and own and display too many that are mediocre. So, I’ve been spending some time on each day of my vacation sorting through my CDs. Sad, right?

Well, we’ll see. I just traded a big stack of ’em at Orpheus. The man gave me $30 store credit, and I blew nearly all of it on one LP. It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the store, and I nearly dropped to the floor when I saw it.

Frank Zappa’s Only In It For The Money. He wanted $25 for it, and it’s worth every dime. This is an album that must be heard on vinyl. And this one is MINT. Unfortunately for my housemates, I can’t listen to this record without singing along. Wah wah wah wah.

Other titles collected via my remaining $5 from the $1 vinyl bin:

  • Sesame Street, Original Cast Record
  • The Best of Bill Cosby
  • The Best of Bob Newhart
  • The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart

As per my bargain with myself before I left this afternoon, whatever Mr. Orpheus didn’t take would go straight to Goodwill. And, they did. Reading out, baby!

So today was a good day. I got my hair cut. I tracked down three new excellent recipes at the libary that I intend to try. I wandered around aimlessly through Barnes and Noble. I wandered aimlessly through the Container Store and purchased something that I think will help me create an excellent hPDA. Then I had the tomato salad and a pupusa at Mexicali Blues. Then, I went up the street to make my trade.

There will even come a time when you can take your clothes off when you dance.