June 30, 2005
Cell Phones: the New Cigarettes?
For reasons I sometimes have difficulty remembering, I decided to go back to school a couple years ago, to start whittling away at a master's degree. As a result, much of what used to be my free time is now spent in classrooms listening to professors lecture me about concepts I hope never to actually use (since my blog will no doubt carry me on a meteoric path to riches and fame). During this latest stint in the academic trenches, I've noticed some strange new trends among my fellow students.
For one thing, they're mostly younger than me. For another, when I am around them, I seem to have perfected the cloaking technology so often touted on Star Trek: particularly among the younger, more attractive female students, I am apparently completely invisible. But that's okay with me, being as I am happily betrothed to a beautiful woman smart enough (or sympathetic enough) to laugh at the majority of my jokes.
But the oddest thing I've observed is the role that the cell phone seems to play in all my classmates' lives. It seems to fall somewhere between a cigarette and a scuba tank. Or maybe an IV. Whatever flows from these phones is apparently every bit as essential to these students as air, nicotine, or morphine ever were to a human, smoker, or addict, respectively.
Night classes tend to be long: two or three hours, usually. So most professors are merciful enough to allow a brief break at approximately the midpoint in the evening. The very moment the professor does so, everybody frantically flips their phones open, desperate to reconnect with the outside world after having spent an entire hour or two deprived of such essential telephonic contact. Most have their phones to their ears and are engaged in conversation before they even make it out of the classroom. This phenomena reminds me of when I was in college the first time around, when each of the smokers in the class would have an unlit cigarette dangling from his or her lips during the last 30 seconds of the lecture, and would take off like an Olympic sprinter leaving the starting blocks the second the professor gave the word, eagerly fumbling for a lighter as they hurried off towards carcinogenic bliss.
I don't know - I'm just not a phone guy. I get on the phone with one goal only: to get off the phone. These people are my polar opposites, struggling and straining against the few times in their daily lives when the rules of polite society prevent their ears from being umbilically attached to their Nokias.
And what the hell do they talk about? What the hell is so urgent? I'm no eavesdropper, but sometimes I can't help overhearing some truly scintillating snippets. The following is a pretty good representation of a typical conversation. Of course, I'm only hearing one side of it. I've got to assume things are pretty freaking exciting on the other end of the line.
Yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want to miss out on something like ... like whatever the hell that was. And thank God for call waiting - otherwise they might miss out on, you know, like, whatever.
A lifeline or a leash.
For me a cell phone became a necessary evil. Although this may be hard for most of my readers to believe, my blog has yet to make me as rich or as famous as one might assume. Hence, I have historically owned and driven automobiles that are, shall we say, somewhat past their prime. Oh hell, not to put too fine a point on things, but I've been towed so many times I get Christmas cards from the AAA tow truck dispatchers I've befriended over the years. One of my cars was even immortalized by friends who repeatedly dragged it to one mechanic or another as the "Dodge on a rope" (a reference that will only resonate with those of the appropriate vintage to remember the famous "soap on a rope" that hung in the showers of suburban bathrooms across the land in the 70's or 80's). But I digress.
What I'm getting at is that for me, driving has historically been a game of automotive Russian Roulette. So, particularly given the steady decline in the number of working payphones that can be found in this great country, a cell phone became essential. I am not kidding when I tell you that my car actually broke down just hours after I purchased my first cell phone, an event that instead of angering me, actually vindicated me, making me feel much better about having invested so much money into a communication device for which I felt so little interest or enthusiasm. I bought a cell phone in case my car broke down. My car swiftly proved this to be a prudent purchase. Thank you, Lee Iacocca.
As my income slowly rose, and my daughter grew into something that was either puberty or demonic possession, my view of this reviled device began to shift. While my conversations with AAA dispatchers dwindled, I found a whole new application for cell phones: as a leash. It was worth every penny it cost to equip my daughter with one of these machines, rendering it far more difficult for her to drop off my radar. While she still seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in areas that had "bad cell coverage" (her explanation for calls from me that went unanswered), it still made it a hell of a lot easier to keep tabs on her during the somewhat less than angelic phase she went through before turning into the college brainiac she's now showing herself to be.
But despite the fact that she has successfully evolved beyond the sullen teen stage, I fear she still has more in common with my fellow classmates than she does with me. Many times when she's visiting me, her cell phone will ring, and I'll find our visit interrupted by some conversational déjà vu:
In Other News
A really good argument for having an "Undo" key
A typo by a stock trader in Taiwan resulted in her mistakenly purchasing $251 million in stock from Merrill Lynch.
No refund was offered. The stock trader was fired. Word has it, Merrill Lynch threw "one helluva party."
This, my friends, is free trade at its best. Caveat emptor, baby. Caveat emptor.
The Daily Haiku
Today's poem focuses on the device most likely to become a surgical implant in the not-so-distant future: the cell phone.
Nicely Put:
The October sky was as blue as sky gets in New Jersey, and the air felt crisp and lacking hydrocarbons. It was nice for a change, but it kind of took all the sport out of breathing.
- Janet Evanovich: High Five
For one thing, they're mostly younger than me. For another, when I am around them, I seem to have perfected the cloaking technology so often touted on Star Trek: particularly among the younger, more attractive female students, I am apparently completely invisible. But that's okay with me, being as I am happily betrothed to a beautiful woman smart enough (or sympathetic enough) to laugh at the majority of my jokes.
But the oddest thing I've observed is the role that the cell phone seems to play in all my classmates' lives. It seems to fall somewhere between a cigarette and a scuba tank. Or maybe an IV. Whatever flows from these phones is apparently every bit as essential to these students as air, nicotine, or morphine ever were to a human, smoker, or addict, respectively.
Night classes tend to be long: two or three hours, usually. So most professors are merciful enough to allow a brief break at approximately the midpoint in the evening. The very moment the professor does so, everybody frantically flips their phones open, desperate to reconnect with the outside world after having spent an entire hour or two deprived of such essential telephonic contact. Most have their phones to their ears and are engaged in conversation before they even make it out of the classroom. This phenomena reminds me of when I was in college the first time around, when each of the smokers in the class would have an unlit cigarette dangling from his or her lips during the last 30 seconds of the lecture, and would take off like an Olympic sprinter leaving the starting blocks the second the professor gave the word, eagerly fumbling for a lighter as they hurried off towards carcinogenic bliss.
I don't know - I'm just not a phone guy. I get on the phone with one goal only: to get off the phone. These people are my polar opposites, struggling and straining against the few times in their daily lives when the rules of polite society prevent their ears from being umbilically attached to their Nokias.
And what the hell do they talk about? What the hell is so urgent? I'm no eavesdropper, but sometimes I can't help overhearing some truly scintillating snippets. The following is a pretty good representation of a typical conversation. Of course, I'm only hearing one side of it. I've got to assume things are pretty freaking exciting on the other end of the line.
Hey.
Nothing.
I don't know. What are you doing?
You know, nothing. Just, you know, in class.
I don't know. Nothing, I guess.
I don't care.
I guess.
Nothing.
Cool.
Nothing.
Yeah, right.
Cool.
Nothing.
You know, like, whatever.
Hold on - I've got another call.
Hey.
Nothing.
I don't know. What are you doing?
You know, nothing. Just, you know, in class.
I don't know. Nothing, I guess.
I don't care.
I guess.
Nothing.
Yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want to miss out on something like ... like whatever the hell that was. And thank God for call waiting - otherwise they might miss out on, you know, like, whatever.
A lifeline or a leash.
For me a cell phone became a necessary evil. Although this may be hard for most of my readers to believe, my blog has yet to make me as rich or as famous as one might assume. Hence, I have historically owned and driven automobiles that are, shall we say, somewhat past their prime. Oh hell, not to put too fine a point on things, but I've been towed so many times I get Christmas cards from the AAA tow truck dispatchers I've befriended over the years. One of my cars was even immortalized by friends who repeatedly dragged it to one mechanic or another as the "Dodge on a rope" (a reference that will only resonate with those of the appropriate vintage to remember the famous "soap on a rope" that hung in the showers of suburban bathrooms across the land in the 70's or 80's). But I digress.
What I'm getting at is that for me, driving has historically been a game of automotive Russian Roulette. So, particularly given the steady decline in the number of working payphones that can be found in this great country, a cell phone became essential. I am not kidding when I tell you that my car actually broke down just hours after I purchased my first cell phone, an event that instead of angering me, actually vindicated me, making me feel much better about having invested so much money into a communication device for which I felt so little interest or enthusiasm. I bought a cell phone in case my car broke down. My car swiftly proved this to be a prudent purchase. Thank you, Lee Iacocca.
As my income slowly rose, and my daughter grew into something that was either puberty or demonic possession, my view of this reviled device began to shift. While my conversations with AAA dispatchers dwindled, I found a whole new application for cell phones: as a leash. It was worth every penny it cost to equip my daughter with one of these machines, rendering it far more difficult for her to drop off my radar. While she still seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in areas that had "bad cell coverage" (her explanation for calls from me that went unanswered), it still made it a hell of a lot easier to keep tabs on her during the somewhat less than angelic phase she went through before turning into the college brainiac she's now showing herself to be.
But despite the fact that she has successfully evolved beyond the sullen teen stage, I fear she still has more in common with my fellow classmates than she does with me. Many times when she's visiting me, her cell phone will ring, and I'll find our visit interrupted by some conversational déjà vu:
Hey.
Nothing.
I don't know. What are you doing?
You know, nothing. Just, you know, at my dad's.
I don't know. Nothing, I guess.
I don't care.
I guess.
Nothing.
Hold on - I've got another call.
In Other News
A really good argument for having an "Undo" key
A typo by a stock trader in Taiwan resulted in her mistakenly purchasing $251 million in stock from Merrill Lynch.
No refund was offered. The stock trader was fired. Word has it, Merrill Lynch threw "one helluva party."
This, my friends, is free trade at its best. Caveat emptor, baby. Caveat emptor.
The Daily Haiku
Today's poem focuses on the device most likely to become a surgical implant in the not-so-distant future: the cell phone.
Anytime Minutes
Want to piss me off?
Call me on my cell and ask,
"Can you hear me now?"
Nicely Put:
The October sky was as blue as sky gets in New Jersey, and the air felt crisp and lacking hydrocarbons. It was nice for a change, but it kind of took all the sport out of breathing.
- Janet Evanovich: High Five
June 28, 2005
Opening Up a Rose-Colored Can of Whup-Ass
All is right in the world. At least, in the world of M.J. Rose. Once again, her blog, Buzz, Balls & Hype, is back to ruling the roost as the highest rated blog at Publishers Marketplace, after decisively bitch-slapping upstart blog Hell Toupee back down the charts. Since Ms. Rose's return to the throne last Sunday, the highest rank Hell Toupee has been able to reach is a paltry number three.
No sooner had PM's blog rankings returned to their natural state than the phone began to ring at the lushly appointed Hell Toupee compound. When my assistant picked up - okay, actually I picked up, but that was because I didn't want to seem ostentatious - I was unaware that on the other end of the line was none other than M.J. Rose herself, calling to offer her condolences for the tragic end of my short-lived reign of literary terror. Our conversation went something like this:
I Just Called to Say I Crushed You
Author's note: At this point in the conversation, I feel compelled to share something with you. Something so shocking, so earthshaking, so like something that Johnny Cochrane could probably come up with a really cool rhyming slogan for, you know, if he weren't dead and all... aw, hell. I lost my train of thought.
Anyway, let's call this Exhibit A.
All will become clear momentarily. Now, back to the conversation.
In Other News
It's coming.
Hell Toupee waits with bated breath (which is not, it turns out, breath that smells like worms, or shiners, or any other form of fish bait, something that would have been REALLY nice to know before I bet that guy in the bar fifty bucks that it was - but I digress...) for The Ultimate News Event.
I'm talking about the coup de grâce (or maybe coupe de ville - I never was real clear on the distinction) of what will become known as the Summer of the Shallow.
What could that be? It's simple: a single news story on CNN that involves all of the following:
• Tom Cruise
• Paris Hilton
• The runaway bride
• A severed finger served in a meal at a restaurant
That would do it. That would be the Grand Slam of the Insipid.
Throw in a Pamela Anderson or an Anna Nicole Smith, and we'd be caught up in a mental and moral vacuum, a whirling vortex of people and events so trivial, so mind-numbing, so completely without any substance whatsoever, that I suspect the United States would simply implode; sucked into a cultural black hole generated by the complete absence of anything that mattered. Talk about your weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately, I'm not cynical or anything.
The Daily Haiku
A poem commemorating the meteoric rise and apocalyptic fall of The Blog That Would (Not) Be King:
Nicely Put:
Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn't; what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.
- Stephen King: On Writing
No sooner had PM's blog rankings returned to their natural state than the phone began to ring at the lushly appointed Hell Toupee compound. When my assistant picked up - okay, actually I picked up, but that was because I didn't want to seem ostentatious - I was unaware that on the other end of the line was none other than M.J. Rose herself, calling to offer her condolences for the tragic end of my short-lived reign of literary terror. Our conversation went something like this:
I Just Called to Say I Crushed You
KC: Hello?
MJR: Hello, may I speak with Keith?
KC: It depends. What are you wearing?
MJR: I beg your pardon!
KC: Wait a minute - who is this?
MJR: Ahem. It's M.J. Rose. I was just calling to--
KC: Oh! M.J.! (again raising the issue of whether both an exclamation point AND a period would be necessary after the J, but that's just something I observed while typing this. At the time, I was too flummoxed over the mistaken assumption I'd made about my caller's identity. But back to the call...) Oh! Hello! I was just - uh - kidding around, you know? With the whole what are you wearing thing. Totally kidding. I'm a big kidder. Yup, that's me. Major kidder. If I were a woman, I'd be Margot Kidder.
MJR: I see.
KC: No, really. All the time with the kidding. Seriously. I kid you not. I mean, no kidding. I mean - aw, hell - you know what I mean.
MJR: It frightens me to say that I think I actually do know what you mean, just this once. Anyway, the reason I was calling--
KC: Listen, is this about that whole spam thing?
MJR: What whole spam thing?
KC: I don't know. Have you maybe been getting, say, a little more e-mail than usual?
MJR: Well, actually, since Sunday I have been getting more junk mail, and some of it is rather disturbing. But how would you know about that?
KC: Well, there might be a chance that maybe I was sort of - I don't know - cranky that your blog went back to being more popular than mine...
MJR: And...?
KC: So maybe there's this slight chance that I might have logged on to a few, er, unusual web sites. And, you know, maybe signed you up to be on their mailing lists.
MJR: A few sites?
KC: No more than twenty or thirty. I mean, I've got dialup, and some of those sites have a ton of graphics, so they take forever to load. So I didn't really have time to hit too many of them.
MJR: And just how ... unusual were these sites?
KC: Well, I think that all depends on your definition of usual and unusual, doesn't it?
MJR: Would any of those sites perhaps focus on - and I quote - tattooed lesbian biker nuns on crack?
KC: Dude! Does that site kick ass, or what?
MJR: *Clears throat* I'd be more comfortable if you did not refer to me as dude. And FAR more comfortable if you'd refrain from any further childish pranks.
KC: Well, hold on just a sec, Miss High and Mighty. Seems like that's the pot calling the kettle an awfully dark shade of gray, know what I mean, Vern?
MJR: Vern?
KC: Man, haven't you watched ANY television?
MJR: Never mind that. What on earth are you talking about?
KC: Childish pranks. You're saying I'm the only one who stoops to that kind of thing? That you've never dabbled in anything like that?
MJR: Anything like what?
KC: Come on, M.J. - you're trying to snatch the pebble from the Master, but you haven't even done the thing where you lift the boiling pot with your wrists and carry it around a while before dropping down in the snow.
MJR: Pebble? Boiling pot? Snow? Be honest, Keith. You're on drugs. You are, aren't you? It's okay. We can get you help. But first you need to admit you have a problem.
KC: Holy crap - you haven't even watched Kung Fu? Were you raised in a ... a... library or something?
MJR: Could you PLEASE get to the point?
KC: The point is, I caught you. Red-handed. With the old etter-lay ode-cay.
MJR: Utterly okay?
KC: Etter-lay ode-cay. Jeez, don't you even speak Pig Latin? The letter code for God's sake!
MJR: (palpable silence)
KC: I mean, did you really think I wouldn't notice?
MJR: (crickets are overheard chirping)
KC: I mean, seriously. I'm the one who taught you this trick. No way I'd miss something so blatant.
MJR: I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.
Author's note: At this point in the conversation, I feel compelled to share something with you. Something so shocking, so earthshaking, so like something that Johnny Cochrane could probably come up with a really cool rhyming slogan for, you know, if he weren't dead and all... aw, hell. I lost my train of thought.
Anyway, let's call this Exhibit A.
All will become clear momentarily. Now, back to the conversation.
KC: M.J. - it's painfully obvious to me - to any person of intellect and sensitivity, really - that you coded a secret message into the text of your last blog.
MJR: (crickets are overheard presumably engaging in the sort of activities that make little crickets)
KC: I just can't believe you felt it necessary to do that. To use the letter code that I taught you, to send a message like that to me. To send me a message that said ... ahem ... Who's your daddy?
MJR: Well?
KC: Well what?
MJR: Well, aren't you going to answer? Come on, Keith. Say it. Who's your daddy?
KC: Oh. Ahem. You are.
MJR: Say it again.
KC: You are.
MJR: Louder, please. Oh, and in case you've forgotten the question, what I asked was: who's your daddy?
KC: YOU ARE.
MJR: That's right. And don't you forget it. *click*
In Other News
It's coming.
Hell Toupee waits with bated breath (which is not, it turns out, breath that smells like worms, or shiners, or any other form of fish bait, something that would have been REALLY nice to know before I bet that guy in the bar fifty bucks that it was - but I digress...) for The Ultimate News Event.
I'm talking about the coup de grâce (or maybe coupe de ville - I never was real clear on the distinction) of what will become known as the Summer of the Shallow.
What could that be? It's simple: a single news story on CNN that involves all of the following:
• Tom Cruise
• Paris Hilton
• The runaway bride
• A severed finger served in a meal at a restaurant
That would do it. That would be the Grand Slam of the Insipid.
Throw in a Pamela Anderson or an Anna Nicole Smith, and we'd be caught up in a mental and moral vacuum, a whirling vortex of people and events so trivial, so mind-numbing, so completely without any substance whatsoever, that I suspect the United States would simply implode; sucked into a cultural black hole generated by the complete absence of anything that mattered. Talk about your weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately, I'm not cynical or anything.
The Daily Haiku
A poem commemorating the meteoric rise and apocalyptic fall of The Blog That Would (Not) Be King:
Fun While it Lasted
Though I briefly ruled,
I am man enough to say
M.J. kicked my ass.
Nicely Put:
Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn't; what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.
- Stephen King: On Writing
June 26, 2005
Clash of the Titans
The literary world was rocked last week, when the new-kid-on-the-blog Hell Toupee briefly unseated perennial favorite Buzz, Balls & Hype as the top-rated blog at Publishers Marketplace. Does this unprecedented event mark the end of a literary era, or is it merely a blip on the radar screen; a bug squashed on the windshield of the relentlessly forward-moving literary freight train that IS the Buzz, Balls & Hype blog? And can anybody diagram that previous sentence?
Always one to keep her finger on the pulse of all things literary, M.J. Rose (esteemed author of Buzz, Balls & Hype) leapt into action. Who is this guy? she wondered. And does he ever floss? For these and the answers to more hard questions, she knew there was only one thing to do. She needed to go straight to the source. To get the real skinny. To get the straight dope. To get the info straight from the horse's mouth. To walk a mile in another man's toupee, if you will.
Yes, it was time for M.J. Rose to go to hell. Toupee, that is.
Following is a partial transcript of a telephone interview conducted between the lovely and talented M.J. Rose and the bearded and none-too-svelte Keith Cronin, author of Hell Toupee.
At this point in the conversation, the interview was interrupted by the phone connection being lost. Probably M.J. went into a tunnel or something.
But she called right back. She's a tenacious one, that M.J. But I'll post more of our conversation in a subsequent blog.
In Other News
Hell Toupee is offering a substantial reward for anybody who can provide the identity of the absolute freaking JACKASS who long ago determined that a work week should be five days long, while a weekend should be only two days in length. Bring this person to me, and I promise I will get medieval on him. Bigtime.
The Daily Haiku
A poem that captures the utter angst and despair of an artist facing an impending Monday:
Recommended Reading
Riding Lessons - Sara Gruen
Not just a "chick" book, by an author to watch out for.
The Fine Print
Always one to keep her finger on the pulse of all things literary, M.J. Rose (esteemed author of Buzz, Balls & Hype) leapt into action. Who is this guy? she wondered. And does he ever floss? For these and the answers to more hard questions, she knew there was only one thing to do. She needed to go straight to the source. To get the real skinny. To get the straight dope. To get the info straight from the horse's mouth. To walk a mile in another man's toupee, if you will.
Yes, it was time for M.J. Rose to go to hell. Toupee, that is.
Following is a partial transcript of a telephone interview conducted between the lovely and talented M.J. Rose and the bearded and none-too-svelte Keith Cronin, author of Hell Toupee.
MJR: I think I speak for a lot of us when I ask, just who are you, anyway?
KC: Well, I was born in a log cabin, and when I was just a boy, I--
MJR: Yes, well, I'm sure that's all very interesting, but more to the point: how the hell did you beat my blog last week?.
KC: (in a voice disturbingly similar to Beavis, or maybe Butthead) Huh-huh-huh! You said beat my blog. Huh-huh-huh!
MJR: *Sighs audibly*
KC: Okay, I'm sorry. I'll try to be serious. M.J. - uh, can I call you M.J.? And if I ask you that, do I have to put a period AND a question mark after the J, or is just a question mark okay?
MJR: I'm not really sure. But that's not important. What's important is--
KC: I know. You want to know how my blog...
MJR: ...beat my blog.
KC: Huh-huh-huh! You said beat my blog again. Huh-huh-huh!
MJR: *Sighs more audibly*
KC: Sorry. I'll be cool. I promise. Anyway, I think the reason my blog did so well was - to toot my own horn for a moment - the fact that my blog really speaks to the important issues.
MJR: *Makes choking sound*
KC: Are you all right? Do you need some water or something?
MJR: No, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure I understood what you're saying. So you think your blog - and I'm quoting now - "really speaks to the important issues?"
KC: Exactly. That's what I'm saying.
MJR: I'm sorry, but in the last week or so, your blog has addressed ... issues like Tom Cruise, movies that rock stars have watched, and - wait for it - Brussels sprouts.
KC: Exactly. The important stuff. You know, what we journalists call "hard news."
MJR: We journalists?
KC: Oh, well I can see how maybe you don't really think of yourself as a journalist, since you just write about books and stuff, but I want you to know: I still respect you.
MJR: You cannot imagine my gratification to learn this.
KC: Yeah, well, I figured somebody like you probably places a lot of value on the respect of your peers.
MJR: So you and I - we're peers?
KC: Oh, absolutely. Even if you just write about books. Definitely. I mean, books are pretty cool, right?
MJR: Yes, I think books are - as you so succinctly put it - pretty cool.
KC: Cool.
MJR: All right, let's move on. I wanted to bring up a rather troubling allegation that's been brought to my attention.
KC: Um, do you mean troubling in a bad way?
MJR: Do you know a good kind of troubling?
KC: Toupee.
MJR: I think you mean touché.
KC: Yeah, whatever. I was never very good at Spanish.
MJR: Back to this allegation. I've heard from more than one source that--
KC: Look - I know there are rumors. That thing about me having hired a sweatshop in China, where hundreds of workers toil away in virtual slavery, spending twelve hours a day logged into Publishers Marketplace, clicking on my blog over and over to generate more hits than your blog. It's completely untrue. Completely.
MJR: Oh, my - I hadn't heard that.
KC: I mean, I don't know anybody in China. Nobody. Sure, I've got some - er - business acquaintances in Thailand, but that's a whole different country, am I right?
MJR: I believe you are right in asserting that China and Thailand are, indeed, different countries.
KC: Then this is about the whole mind-control thing, isn't it?
MJR: I'm sorry - did you say mind control?
KC: I knew it! I can't believe the way these rumors just snowball. I admit, I might have messed around - just a little, I hasten to add - with some, you know, subliminal messages...
MJR: You're saying your blog sends subliminal messages to your readers?
KC: *Clears throat* It was just something I messed around with a little. It's nothing really. I pulled the plug on that whole thing.
MJR: So you're not currently sending subliminal messages to your readers?
KC: Not as far as you know.
MJR: I'm sorry - what was that?
KC: Uh, no - of course not.
MJR: Well, that's a relief.
KC: Yeah, I mean, come on - it's not like I'm some kind of psycho or anything.
MJR: Then you deny having sent any negative messages to me?
KC: I don't know what you're talking about.
MJR: You never sent any e-mail comments to my blog, telling me - and again, I'm quoting - You're [sic] blog sux [sic] - my blog roolz [sic]?
KC: I - uh - wouldn't know anything about that.
MJR: It came from your e-mail address.
KC: Yeah, well, you know, today, what with all the hackers and everything...
MJR: Uh huh. Riiiiight.
KC: Yeah, well, I'm glad we cleared that up.
MJR: Well actually, none of those were the allegations to which I was referring.
KC: No? Oh - wait a minute. Now I know what this is about. I mean, just 'cause I might have experimented with some letter coding, doesn't mean I'm, like, out to get you or anything.
MJR: Letter coding?
KC: Well, that may not be the technical term. But it works like this: you choose a specific letter in a specific part of a sentence or paragraph, and you put in a hidden message. Like code, you know?
MJR: I'm not sure I follow.
KC: Well, for example, if you re-read one of my old blogs, you'd see that the second letter in the third word of the fourth sentence in each paragraph spells out something like - I don't know - maybe something like "M.J. is a poopyhead." You know - something like that.
MJR: You wrote "M.J. is a poopyhead" in one of your blogs? In ... code?
KC: You didn't notice anything like that, did you?
MJR: No, but I wasn't looking for it, so--
KC: Well, you understand, I was speaking strictly hypothetically.
MJR: So you didn't actually DO that?
KC: Not as far as you know.
MJR: What was that?
KC: Say, are you calling from a cellphone or something? You're breaking up.
At this point in the conversation, the interview was interrupted by the phone connection being lost. Probably M.J. went into a tunnel or something.
But she called right back. She's a tenacious one, that M.J. But I'll post more of our conversation in a subsequent blog.
In Other News
Hell Toupee is offering a substantial reward for anybody who can provide the identity of the absolute freaking JACKASS who long ago determined that a work week should be five days long, while a weekend should be only two days in length. Bring this person to me, and I promise I will get medieval on him. Bigtime.
The Daily Haiku
A poem that captures the utter angst and despair of an artist facing an impending Monday:
In Praise of More Holiday Weekends
Wish that I could spend
only four days - or just three -
working for the Man.
Recommended Reading
Riding Lessons - Sara Gruen
Not just a "chick" book, by an author to watch out for.
The Fine Print
June 23, 2005
Tom's Guilty Secret
Tom Cruise is in love. Tom Cruise is really REALLY in love. We're talking big freaking love, here. Capital L-O-V-E. Really.
By now anybody who owns a TV, radio, or computer is no doubt aware that Tom Cruise has been essentially shouting from the highest rooftops about his newfound love for young actress Katie Holmes. He's literally taken his love story on the talk show circuit, making headlines for his unabashed proclamations of the L word on both Oprah and Leno, often while bouncing around on the furniture like Tigger on crack. Clearly, Tom wants us to know - to really freaking KNOW - that he is IN LOVE.
Does this smell funny to anybody? I'm not talking about the assumption many are making: that this is all to help hype his movie. No, to me - being, after all, a guy - this seems like something else entirely.
To me, this seems like the World's Biggest Apology.
Think about it. If you're a guy, at some point in your life, you've screwed things up in your love life. Probably more than once. And when you do, not only do you have to apologize - you have to do something to make up for whatever you did wrong. The more this act of contrition A) costs you (either emotionally or monetarily), and B) glorifies her, the more quickly you'll be forgiven.
When you mess up, you gotta 'fess up.
This is simply how it is in relationships. We may have different methods, but the end result is the same. After screwing up, acts of public contrition are required.
For example, in my household, on the extremely rare instances when I screw up, it is not uncommon for the following exchange to take place.
At this point The Betrothed smiles smugly. Variations on this theme occur based on the proportionate level of rightness and wrongness; for a particularly grievous offense, it is not uncommon for me to be compelled to open the front door, step out on the porch, and bellow I WAS WRONG to all within earshot. For some reason I don't get invited to many barbecues on our block...
Ah, but I see that the Digression Meter is glowing red, so let's get back to Tom.
The upshot is, I'm betting that Our Pal Tom screwed up bigtime with young Ms. Holmes - SO bigtime that he had to issue the Mother Of All Public Apologies, through an act of contrition so public, so extreme, so over-the-top that it makes the old "What would you do for a Klondike Bar?" campaign seem like child's play.
Life in the million-dollar doghouse
But that stands to reason; this is, after all, Tom Cruise. While a schlub like you or me might get by with some roses or chocolate, or perhaps a day of shoe shopping, with a guy of Tom's level of hugeness, the stakes are significantly higher. Roses from Tom are meaningless - the guy could buy a freaking florist's shop with what he earned in interest while you were reading this. No, a guy like Tom has to aim higher. A guy like Tom has to go on Oprah. A guy like Tom has to go on Leno.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying that Tom doesn't love Katie. Hell, he must love her, or he wouldn't be willing to endure such public moments of romantic geekiness. I'm just saying that he did something that got Ms. Holmes royally pissed off.
Hard to picture, isn't it? I mean, she's a young twenty-something who's living the life of a princess, marrying one of the richest, most famous, most successful (and, from what I've heard, not entirely hard on the eyes) cultural icons the US has ever produced. She should be thanking her lucky stars, right? What on earth could Tom have done that was so wrong? That, as some famous poet guy said, is the question.
But Hell Toupee's crack team of statistical analysts have put their bulging foreheads together, and have reported back with their findings. They have come up with a list of offenses so heinous, so unspeakable, that the only obvious way to express sufficient remorse would be to get all smarmy on national TV while treating a talk show host's sofa like a trampoline. Submitted for your approval...
...the TOP TEN WAYS TOM MIGHT HAVE PISSED OFF KATIE
In Other News
If my blog stops abruptly, it's because I will have clawed my eyes out after having read one too many stories about the runaway freaking bride. No más! No más!
The Daily Haiku
A poem that assumes nothing about the reader's cultural awareness:
Nicely Put:
The younger, fatter [man] made a noise that sounded like a donkey trying to pass a kidney stone
Harry Hunsicker: Still River
By now anybody who owns a TV, radio, or computer is no doubt aware that Tom Cruise has been essentially shouting from the highest rooftops about his newfound love for young actress Katie Holmes. He's literally taken his love story on the talk show circuit, making headlines for his unabashed proclamations of the L word on both Oprah and Leno, often while bouncing around on the furniture like Tigger on crack. Clearly, Tom wants us to know - to really freaking KNOW - that he is IN LOVE.
Does this smell funny to anybody? I'm not talking about the assumption many are making: that this is all to help hype his movie. No, to me - being, after all, a guy - this seems like something else entirely.
To me, this seems like the World's Biggest Apology.
Think about it. If you're a guy, at some point in your life, you've screwed things up in your love life. Probably more than once. And when you do, not only do you have to apologize - you have to do something to make up for whatever you did wrong. The more this act of contrition A) costs you (either emotionally or monetarily), and B) glorifies her, the more quickly you'll be forgiven.
When you mess up, you gotta 'fess up.
This is simply how it is in relationships. We may have different methods, but the end result is the same. After screwing up, acts of public contrition are required.
For example, in my household, on the extremely rare instances when I screw up, it is not uncommon for the following exchange to take place.
Yours truly: You were right.
The Betrothed: What was that?
Yours truly: Ahem. I said, you were right
The Betrothed: And you were...?
Yours truly: I was wrong.
The Betrothed: I'm sorry - I think I missed that. So what you're saying is that I was...
Yours truly: RIIIIIGHT.
The Betrothed: Which of course means that you were...
Yours truly: WRONNNNNG.
At this point The Betrothed smiles smugly. Variations on this theme occur based on the proportionate level of rightness and wrongness; for a particularly grievous offense, it is not uncommon for me to be compelled to open the front door, step out on the porch, and bellow I WAS WRONG to all within earshot. For some reason I don't get invited to many barbecues on our block...
Ah, but I see that the Digression Meter is glowing red, so let's get back to Tom.
The upshot is, I'm betting that Our Pal Tom screwed up bigtime with young Ms. Holmes - SO bigtime that he had to issue the Mother Of All Public Apologies, through an act of contrition so public, so extreme, so over-the-top that it makes the old "What would you do for a Klondike Bar?" campaign seem like child's play.
Life in the million-dollar doghouse
But that stands to reason; this is, after all, Tom Cruise. While a schlub like you or me might get by with some roses or chocolate, or perhaps a day of shoe shopping, with a guy of Tom's level of hugeness, the stakes are significantly higher. Roses from Tom are meaningless - the guy could buy a freaking florist's shop with what he earned in interest while you were reading this. No, a guy like Tom has to aim higher. A guy like Tom has to go on Oprah. A guy like Tom has to go on Leno.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying that Tom doesn't love Katie. Hell, he must love her, or he wouldn't be willing to endure such public moments of romantic geekiness. I'm just saying that he did something that got Ms. Holmes royally pissed off.
Hard to picture, isn't it? I mean, she's a young twenty-something who's living the life of a princess, marrying one of the richest, most famous, most successful (and, from what I've heard, not entirely hard on the eyes) cultural icons the US has ever produced. She should be thanking her lucky stars, right? What on earth could Tom have done that was so wrong? That, as some famous poet guy said, is the question.
But Hell Toupee's crack team of statistical analysts have put their bulging foreheads together, and have reported back with their findings. They have come up with a list of offenses so heinous, so unspeakable, that the only obvious way to express sufficient remorse would be to get all smarmy on national TV while treating a talk show host's sofa like a trampoline. Submitted for your approval...
...the TOP TEN WAYS TOM MIGHT HAVE PISSED OFF KATIE
10. Inadvertently calling her Nicole while in the throes of passion.
9. Popping a copy of "Eyes Wide Closed" into the DVD player when Katie suggests they just stay home and watch a romantic movie.
8. Making her convert to Scientology.
7. Inadvertently calling her Penelope while in the throes of passion.
6. Leaving a tape in the VCR that has footage from an ancient Entertainment Tonight interview, in which Tom proclaims that all primetime TV is "utter crap," and that the "godawful teen drama" Dawson's Creek is an example of "unbelievably horrible writing and even worse acting."
5. Spontaneously doing the Risky Business dance, clad only in sunglasses and boxer shorts - at a funeral for one of Katie's relatives.
4. Inadvertently calling her Tom while in the throes of passion.
3. Berating her for not being able to quote freely from movies he starred in back when she was still in diapers.
2. Elaborating in his Entertainment Tonight interview that "at least that chick who plays Jen on Dawson's Creek* is pretty hot." Tom unknowingly compounds this offense by following this remark with animal growls, leering at the camera while pawing at the air like a randy jungle cat.
* (the sultry bad-girl blonde who posed serious romantic competition for Katie's wholesome character)
1. Inadvertently calling her Jen while in the throes of passion.
In Other News
If my blog stops abruptly, it's because I will have clawed my eyes out after having read one too many stories about the runaway freaking bride. No más! No más!
The Daily Haiku
A poem that assumes nothing about the reader's cultural awareness:
Closed Captioned for the Hearing Impaired
Tom Cruise is in love.
Love love love love LOVE LOVE LOVE.
TOM CRUISE IS IN LOVE.
Nicely Put:
The younger, fatter [man] made a noise that sounded like a donkey trying to pass a kidney stone
Harry Hunsicker: Still River
June 21, 2005
Father's Day-ja Vu
Late Sunday afternoon, after lounging around the house in my boxers and bunny slippers for most of the day, I finally decided to venture out of the house to do a few errands. This in itself was a major feat - after years on the road, I've become a major homebody, often making it through the entire weekend without leaving the abode at all. Life in the fast lane, indeed.
At any rate, I was in excellent spirits as I got in my car and turned on my cell phone. Unlike most people, my cell phone is NOT umbilically attached to me at all times - it lives in my car, and I only turn it on when I'm out and about in the sleek and powerful Hell Toupeemobile. But back to the story. Shortly after I pulled out of my driveway, my phone began to make obnoxious chirping noises that I've learned indicate that it wants to tell me something. Apparently I had a voicemail waiting for me.
I pressed the requisite buttons, and soon was listening to the voice of my ex, aka The Mother Of My Child. She and I are great friends, having long ago realized that although we sucked as a couple, we're a decent pair of parents. So we've kept the family together, agreeing to both reside in the same town until our daughter was 18, sharing the ups and downs of raising her on an equal basis. It's a system that has worked well for us.
Anyway, I listened as the voice of my ex said, "Hi Keith - I just called to wish you a happy Father's Day. You're a great dad, and--"
Happy Father's Day?!? Suddenly my heart sunk. Or sank - I've never fully grasped the conjugative subtleties of that verb. In short, my good mood evaporated. I felt an imminent funk on the horizon.
It was Father's Day. It was late in the day on Father's Day. And my daughter hadn't so much as called me.
My daughter had forgotten me on Father's Day.
Ouch.
She had NEVER done that before. Not even during the rocky years of her early teens, when she barely tolerated my existence. Even then I could count on a new shirt, a necktie, or something.
Not this time. This time, nada. Zilch. To throw salt in the wound, I realized that I had spoken to her on the phone earlier in the morning, chatting casually about college registration and such. Not a word about Father's Day. Double ouch.
I felt like virus-laden poo. Quickly I examined the situation, looking for loopholes. Looking for mistakes. Looking for anything that wouldn't make me feel so patently crappy.
First of all, was it really Father's Day? I guess it had to be. I'm not much for reading newspapers or watching the news, so frankly I had no clue. This started to make me feel better. I mean, hell, if *I* didn't know it was Father's Day, how could I get upset with my daughter about not knowing, either? Then I started rationalizing. After all, I'd had a pleasant evening with her just the night before, taking her to see some friends of mine performing in a jazz trio. We'd had a delightful time - why not just call that our Father's Day celebration? And she'd been doing so well in school, and had been so caught up in the college application process - with so much on her mind, surely she could be forgiven for forgetting the holiday.
Over the course of the next couple of hours, I completed my errands, going through an entire emotional cycle: first devastated, then bummed, then rationalizing, then finally okay with the whole thing, and actually feeling bad in advance for how mortified my daughter would be when she became aware of her gaffe. I didn't want to rub it in, and started trying to come up with strategies for softening the blow.
Who wanted another lousy necktie, anyway?
By the time I got home, I had resigned myself to this Father's Day being a write-off. I greeted my betrothed, and told her she should call her dad to wish him happy Father's Day, having presumed correctly that she too had been unaware of the date.
But wait a minute. Not only was she unaware of it, she was pretty sure it wasn't Fathers' Day. No, she was pretty sure Fathers' Day was next week.
Up to the highly sophisticated Hell Toupee Computer Lab we raced, where we Googled and Yahooed and Outlooked, and - lo and behold - it wasn't Father's Day after all. (I neglected to mention at the beginning of this post that the Sunday afternoon in question was that of June 12, which - even by Rocky Mountain Standard Time - was nowhere near Father's Day.)
My well-meaning ex had just put me through an intense emotional rollercoaster ride, all for naught. And not even intentionally. Not even in a War of the Roses way from which she could draw some perverse satisfaction - we're really not like that, much to the consternation of most of our divorced friends. We genuinely like each other - perhaps partially due to the lack of calendar awareness we apparently both have in common.
As for my daughter, she thought the whole thing was hilarious, and orchestrated a marvelous - and chronologically accurate - Father's Day celebration a week later.
And yesterday morning on my way to work (again after a homebound weekend), my cell phone began chirping. Sure enough, it was my ex. She had called on Sunday to wish me a happy Father's Day - once again, with feeling.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Redux
More first lines of unwritten novels from the mind no literary agent has yet dared to embrace:
In Other News
Keep an eye out for the next Sharper Image catalog. Now that scientists have determined that a device called a brain scanner can determine whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm, I suspect that soon every self-respecting bachelor living in a black-leather-and chrome-appointed swinging bachelor apartment will own one of these devices, making the brain scanner an appliance every bit as crucial to the bachelor lifestyle as the all-important stereo system or plasma TV. Remember, you heard it here first.
The Daily Haiku
A poem about self-imposed ignorance:
Recommended Reading
The Moment She Was Gone - Evan Hunter
A chilling account of mental illness, showing a depth and a darkness you may not expect from this author. This ain't the 87th Precinct. But it's a great read.
At any rate, I was in excellent spirits as I got in my car and turned on my cell phone. Unlike most people, my cell phone is NOT umbilically attached to me at all times - it lives in my car, and I only turn it on when I'm out and about in the sleek and powerful Hell Toupeemobile. But back to the story. Shortly after I pulled out of my driveway, my phone began to make obnoxious chirping noises that I've learned indicate that it wants to tell me something. Apparently I had a voicemail waiting for me.
I pressed the requisite buttons, and soon was listening to the voice of my ex, aka The Mother Of My Child. She and I are great friends, having long ago realized that although we sucked as a couple, we're a decent pair of parents. So we've kept the family together, agreeing to both reside in the same town until our daughter was 18, sharing the ups and downs of raising her on an equal basis. It's a system that has worked well for us.
Anyway, I listened as the voice of my ex said, "Hi Keith - I just called to wish you a happy Father's Day. You're a great dad, and--"
Happy Father's Day?!? Suddenly my heart sunk. Or sank - I've never fully grasped the conjugative subtleties of that verb. In short, my good mood evaporated. I felt an imminent funk on the horizon.
It was Father's Day. It was late in the day on Father's Day. And my daughter hadn't so much as called me.
My daughter had forgotten me on Father's Day.
Ouch.
She had NEVER done that before. Not even during the rocky years of her early teens, when she barely tolerated my existence. Even then I could count on a new shirt, a necktie, or something.
Not this time. This time, nada. Zilch. To throw salt in the wound, I realized that I had spoken to her on the phone earlier in the morning, chatting casually about college registration and such. Not a word about Father's Day. Double ouch.
I felt like virus-laden poo. Quickly I examined the situation, looking for loopholes. Looking for mistakes. Looking for anything that wouldn't make me feel so patently crappy.
First of all, was it really Father's Day? I guess it had to be. I'm not much for reading newspapers or watching the news, so frankly I had no clue. This started to make me feel better. I mean, hell, if *I* didn't know it was Father's Day, how could I get upset with my daughter about not knowing, either? Then I started rationalizing. After all, I'd had a pleasant evening with her just the night before, taking her to see some friends of mine performing in a jazz trio. We'd had a delightful time - why not just call that our Father's Day celebration? And she'd been doing so well in school, and had been so caught up in the college application process - with so much on her mind, surely she could be forgiven for forgetting the holiday.
Over the course of the next couple of hours, I completed my errands, going through an entire emotional cycle: first devastated, then bummed, then rationalizing, then finally okay with the whole thing, and actually feeling bad in advance for how mortified my daughter would be when she became aware of her gaffe. I didn't want to rub it in, and started trying to come up with strategies for softening the blow.
Who wanted another lousy necktie, anyway?
By the time I got home, I had resigned myself to this Father's Day being a write-off. I greeted my betrothed, and told her she should call her dad to wish him happy Father's Day, having presumed correctly that she too had been unaware of the date.
But wait a minute. Not only was she unaware of it, she was pretty sure it wasn't Fathers' Day. No, she was pretty sure Fathers' Day was next week.
Up to the highly sophisticated Hell Toupee Computer Lab we raced, where we Googled and Yahooed and Outlooked, and - lo and behold - it wasn't Father's Day after all. (I neglected to mention at the beginning of this post that the Sunday afternoon in question was that of June 12, which - even by Rocky Mountain Standard Time - was nowhere near Father's Day.)
My well-meaning ex had just put me through an intense emotional rollercoaster ride, all for naught. And not even intentionally. Not even in a War of the Roses way from which she could draw some perverse satisfaction - we're really not like that, much to the consternation of most of our divorced friends. We genuinely like each other - perhaps partially due to the lack of calendar awareness we apparently both have in common.
As for my daughter, she thought the whole thing was hilarious, and orchestrated a marvelous - and chronologically accurate - Father's Day celebration a week later.
And yesterday morning on my way to work (again after a homebound weekend), my cell phone began chirping. Sure enough, it was my ex. She had called on Sunday to wish me a happy Father's Day - once again, with feeling.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Redux
More first lines of unwritten novels from the mind no literary agent has yet dared to embrace:
After one too many tacos, Major Jackson was surprised to learn that projectile vomiting could be used as a form of propulsion in the zero-gravity environment of the space station.
* * *
I remember it like it was yesterday, although I was drunk most of the day yesterday, so I don't really remember much about that day other than at one point I threw up on the patio - which was gross, but at least it was outdoors - but anyway, this thing I remember so well doesn't involve any vomiting, and is vivid enough in my mind that it's safe to say I remember it like it was, say, the day before yesterday, the greater portion of which I remained sober, so I remember it pretty well.
* * *
As Lyle stood up to greet the IRS auditor, he watched as her eyes drifted downwards, and cursed himself again for getting his Viagra and his allergy medicine mixed up.
* * *
After a quick glance at the dead literary agent's body, the detective skimmed the letter he had found, and said to his partner, "Apparently the last thing this guy saw before he killed himself was this letter that's addressed to him, from some guy who wants him to read his fiction novel."
In Other News
Keep an eye out for the next Sharper Image catalog. Now that scientists have determined that a device called a brain scanner can determine whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm, I suspect that soon every self-respecting bachelor living in a black-leather-and chrome-appointed swinging bachelor apartment will own one of these devices, making the brain scanner an appliance every bit as crucial to the bachelor lifestyle as the all-important stereo system or plasma TV. Remember, you heard it here first.
The Daily Haiku
A poem about self-imposed ignorance:
On Why I Don't Watch the News
Suicide bombers.
Paris Hilton. Oh, and now
Tom Cruise is in love.
Recommended Reading
The Moment She Was Gone - Evan Hunter
A chilling account of mental illness, showing a depth and a darkness you may not expect from this author. This ain't the 87th Precinct. But it's a great read.
June 19, 2005
So You Want To Be (able to talk to) a Rock n’ Roll Star
Oh. My. God.
Mötley Hairsnake is in town for their Aqua Net-sponsored reunion tour, and you were the fourteenth caller to correctly identify the title of their third album - you know, the "concept" album where they took off their makeup and really "got real" with us. You took a shot on your cell phone on the way to work, listening as you always do to Yank and Crank In The Morning®, and holy crap, YOU WON.
The prize? Backstage passes for two to actually meet the band after the show. Backstage freaking passes! Oh. My. God.
But what do you say to these people? How do you talk to these icons whose faces you've only seen hanging on your wall, or pouting out at you from your TV screen? You've waited all these years, and now you're going to be face to face with these artists - nay, these gods. How do you avoid saying something stupid? Something insipid that they've heard from a million other fans, none of whom really cared about them the way YOU do? What if you're completely tongue-tied, and can't say anything at all?
Oh. My. God. Now you're cursing yourself for ever getting into this mess. Cursing your cell phone. Cursing Yank and Crank In The Morning®.
Cursing Yank and Crank In The Morning®? Now, hold on a minute - that's just going too far. Relax, and let the experts here at Hell Toupee coach you through this.
In my other life, I ricochet around the globe as a drummer in a rock band. And I've been doing it for a long time. So I know how to apply eyeliner without tearing up. I know which brand of Aqua Net really holds the best (it's the pink can, or nothing at all). I don't mean to boast, but I felt it necessary to establish my credentials so you could trust my advice. I've hung out with rock stars. I know how to talk to them. And now I'm going to teach you.
Rock Star 101
Let's get started. There are three basic ways to be able to communicate effectively with a rock star. To wit:
On the off chance that you are a member of the scant minority of my readers who is not an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll, I am going to explore option #3.
The Secret Language of Rock Stars
Throughout my career, I've continually been put in situations where I meet and ultimately perform with complete strangers. It's not as difficult as that may sound, in that we share not one, but two languages.
First, the language of music. It really is universal. And very exclusive. In fact, I can't tell you anything more about it, or I'd have to kill you.
But there's a second language we musicians speak: the language of the cinema.
Some history: Since the life-saving advent of the VCR - and, in later years - the DVD player, professional musicians everywhere have whiled away the hours between shows on lushly appointed tour buses stocked with prodigious supplies of beer, deli trays, and - most important of all - movies. While a not insignificant percentage of these movies fall under the category of pornography, it's the other movies I want to address with you. The single binding truth I've found in my travels is that we've all seen the same movies. And because we've been cooped up on these buses for weeks and months at a time, we've seen them all a thousand freaking times.
The result: we can quote freely, fluently, and frequently from these movies.
In fact, at a recent gig I did in Baltimore, I sustained a ten-minute conversation with a musician I had just met, consisting entirely of movie quotes. For now, let's ignore any implications generated by the fact that a person who considers himself both an "artist" and "creative" has little or nothing original to say to somebody else - let's leave that discussion for another day. Suffice to say, this common knowledge of the same movies provides a communications platform - a lingua franca, if you will - for musicians around the world to connect effortlessly with each other at a social level.
IMPORTANT: Do not, under any circumstances, actually use the term lingua franca when talking to rock stars. They will assume it is an exotic oral sex technique developed in France, and will demand that you teach it to them, so that they can later use it on an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll.
Okay, by now you're chomping at the cinematic bit. What are these movies? you ask. Spill it, already!
Relax. I was just getting to that. While there are certainly more than the ten I'm about to list, and adjustments must be made for the age of the rock stars in question, I think you'll find that you can acquire all the lingua franca you need by watching the following movies a few dozen times:
For future reference - or for those already confident in francosity of their linguas, here's a quick test.
So, how did you do?
When you're done, you can check your answers by turning your monitor upside down and reading the blue Answer Key provided below. But first look at our scoring system, which scientifically determines just how well you can expect to do when you get backstage.
In Other News
(or, Sometimes This Blog Writes Itself)
Who knew that in addition to freezing temperatures, harsh weather, and the constant threat of falling to one's grisly death, the biggest challenge facing a serious mountain climber is what Reuters has oh-so-scientifically labeled virus-laden poo?
Apparently the main thing that awaits you at the top of any famous mountain is a big pile of crap. Talk about anticlimax - you finally get up there, master of all you survey, and you gotta try to not step on any frozen turds.
Man, any urge I ever had to be a Great Adventurer has just been quelled; excreted, if you will, from this man's dreams of greatness. Sigh.
On the other hand, I think we've just found another great candidate for a band name:
Hello Cleveland! We are Virus-Laden Poo, and we're here to rock your world!
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem whose topic is ripped from today's headlines like a crumpled sheet of toilet paper.
Nicely Put:
As far as rearing children goes, the basic idea I try to keep in mind is that a child is a person. Just because they happen to be a little shorter than you doesn't mean they are dumber than you. A lot of people make that mistake, and forget how much value there is in raw intuition - and there's plenty of that in every child.
Frank Zappa: The Real Frank Zappa Book
Mötley Hairsnake is in town for their Aqua Net-sponsored reunion tour, and you were the fourteenth caller to correctly identify the title of their third album - you know, the "concept" album where they took off their makeup and really "got real" with us. You took a shot on your cell phone on the way to work, listening as you always do to Yank and Crank In The Morning®, and holy crap, YOU WON.
The prize? Backstage passes for two to actually meet the band after the show. Backstage freaking passes! Oh. My. God.
But what do you say to these people? How do you talk to these icons whose faces you've only seen hanging on your wall, or pouting out at you from your TV screen? You've waited all these years, and now you're going to be face to face with these artists - nay, these gods. How do you avoid saying something stupid? Something insipid that they've heard from a million other fans, none of whom really cared about them the way YOU do? What if you're completely tongue-tied, and can't say anything at all?
Oh. My. God. Now you're cursing yourself for ever getting into this mess. Cursing your cell phone. Cursing Yank and Crank In The Morning®.
Cursing Yank and Crank In The Morning®? Now, hold on a minute - that's just going too far. Relax, and let the experts here at Hell Toupee coach you through this.
In my other life, I ricochet around the globe as a drummer in a rock band. And I've been doing it for a long time. So I know how to apply eyeliner without tearing up. I know which brand of Aqua Net really holds the best (it's the pink can, or nothing at all). I don't mean to boast, but I felt it necessary to establish my credentials so you could trust my advice. I've hung out with rock stars. I know how to talk to them. And now I'm going to teach you.
Rock Star 101
Let's get started. There are three basic ways to be able to communicate effectively with a rock star. To wit:
1. Be an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll.
2. Have a friend with you who is an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll. Stay close to this friend at all times, and resist the efforts of black-T-shirted roadies who will try to separate you from your friend.
3. Speak the language.
On the off chance that you are a member of the scant minority of my readers who is not an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll, I am going to explore option #3.
The Secret Language of Rock Stars
Throughout my career, I've continually been put in situations where I meet and ultimately perform with complete strangers. It's not as difficult as that may sound, in that we share not one, but two languages.
First, the language of music. It really is universal. And very exclusive. In fact, I can't tell you anything more about it, or I'd have to kill you.
But there's a second language we musicians speak: the language of the cinema.
Some history: Since the life-saving advent of the VCR - and, in later years - the DVD player, professional musicians everywhere have whiled away the hours between shows on lushly appointed tour buses stocked with prodigious supplies of beer, deli trays, and - most important of all - movies. While a not insignificant percentage of these movies fall under the category of pornography, it's the other movies I want to address with you. The single binding truth I've found in my travels is that we've all seen the same movies. And because we've been cooped up on these buses for weeks and months at a time, we've seen them all a thousand freaking times.
The result: we can quote freely, fluently, and frequently from these movies.
In fact, at a recent gig I did in Baltimore, I sustained a ten-minute conversation with a musician I had just met, consisting entirely of movie quotes. For now, let's ignore any implications generated by the fact that a person who considers himself both an "artist" and "creative" has little or nothing original to say to somebody else - let's leave that discussion for another day. Suffice to say, this common knowledge of the same movies provides a communications platform - a lingua franca, if you will - for musicians around the world to connect effortlessly with each other at a social level.
IMPORTANT: Do not, under any circumstances, actually use the term lingua franca when talking to rock stars. They will assume it is an exotic oral sex technique developed in France, and will demand that you teach it to them, so that they can later use it on an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll.
Okay, by now you're chomping at the cinematic bit. What are these movies? you ask. Spill it, already!
Relax. I was just getting to that. While there are certainly more than the ten I'm about to list, and adjustments must be made for the age of the rock stars in question, I think you'll find that you can acquire all the lingua franca you need by watching the following movies a few dozen times:
Airplane
Animal House
Blazing Saddles
The Blues Brothers
Mel Brooks' History of the World
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Office Space
Pulp Fiction
Stripes
This is Spinal Tap
For future reference - or for those already confident in francosity of their linguas, here's a quick test.
The Rock Star Movie Commonality Test
Name the movies from which these immortal quotes were extracted.
1. Bring out the Gimp.
2. Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear, and when I do, it's usually something unusual.
3. Do you mind if we dance with your dates?
4. These go to eleven.
5. I'll be honest with you, I love his music. I do - I'm a Michael Bolton fan. For my money, it doesn't get any better than when he sings "When a Man Loves a Woman."
6. It's good to be the king.
7. Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.
8. Oh we got both kinds (of music). We got country AND western.
9. I fart in your general direction.
10. If you shoot him, you'll just make him mad.
So, how did you do?
When you're done, you can check your answers by turning your monitor upside down and reading the blue Answer Key provided below. But first look at our scoring system, which scientifically determines just how well you can expect to do when you get backstage.
All 10 correct: Dude, your score roolz like Ozzy. You'll have no problem hanging with the band. With skills like that, you might even end up meeting an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll (the only problem is that such women have usually never seen any of those movies, so you may find you have little to talk about).
8 or 9 correct: Wow - that's pretty good! You'll probably get to spend a moment or two in conversation with Mikki or Gash. Somebody might even introduce you to Ian!
5 to 7 correct: A respectable showing. If you're diligent about it, you can probably drop a quote or two, and maybe get invited into one of the typically deep conversations rock stars conduct with each other. Just don't be pushy about it, unless of course you are an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll.
3 to 5 correct: Are you sure you even like rock n' roll? If so, you need to get thee to a Blockbuster, stat. I mean, come on - you gotta do at least a little homework if you want to hang with the elite.
1 or 2 correct: Yikes. Sorry, but it's probably time for you to give up on The Dream. Or at the very least, you should start working harder on acquiring a friend who is an attractive woman with the physique - and, optionally, the IQ - of a Barbie Doll. Failing that, consider radical cosmetic surgery.
In Other News
(or, Sometimes This Blog Writes Itself)
Who knew that in addition to freezing temperatures, harsh weather, and the constant threat of falling to one's grisly death, the biggest challenge facing a serious mountain climber is what Reuters has oh-so-scientifically labeled virus-laden poo?
Apparently the main thing that awaits you at the top of any famous mountain is a big pile of crap. Talk about anticlimax - you finally get up there, master of all you survey, and you gotta try to not step on any frozen turds.
Man, any urge I ever had to be a Great Adventurer has just been quelled; excreted, if you will, from this man's dreams of greatness. Sigh.
On the other hand, I think we've just found another great candidate for a band name:
Hello Cleveland! We are Virus-Laden Poo, and we're here to rock your world!
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem whose topic is ripped from today's headlines like a crumpled sheet of toilet paper.
Climb Ev'ry Mountain
Rodgers, Hammerstein,
why'd you not warn us about
virus-laden poo?
Nicely Put:
As far as rearing children goes, the basic idea I try to keep in mind is that a child is a person. Just because they happen to be a little shorter than you doesn't mean they are dumber than you. A lot of people make that mistake, and forget how much value there is in raw intuition - and there's plenty of that in every child.
Frank Zappa: The Real Frank Zappa Book
June 16, 2005
A Bone to Pick (well, actually a Sprout)
Brussels sprouts are not food. There - I said it. They may be edible. They may not be flat-out poisonous. But I submit that there is a gap - nay, a vast chasm - between that which is merely edible and that which may be considered actual food.
I mean, grass is edible, if the grazing habits of cattle (and sometimes the family dog) are any indication. So is Elmer's Glue - a fact which I proved conclusively in first grade. But do you want any grass on your salad? Any Elmer's in your coffee? I think not. So I have a bone to pick with whatever misguided caveman decided that Brussels Sprouts were food.
As near as my highly trained team of archaeological experts can determine, a big part of a caveman's workaday life was spent determining what you could and could not eat. Those had to be challenging times, wandering around in a loincloth, picking random leaves and berries in a gastronomical game of Russian Roulette. I presume committees were formed, taste-testers were designated, and findings were discussed in weekly staff meetings.
But I suspect whoever was taking notes at the meeting where Brussels Sprouts were introduced either didn't hear the taste-tester correctly (since the poor schlub was probably still gagging from the taste), or simply made a typo with the hammer and chisel (or finger-paints, or whatever it was cavemen used to take the minutes of these meetings - my highly trained team of archaeological experts aren't terribly fussy about trivial details like that).
At any rate, somebody screwed up. But - in behavior that pervades to this day in Corporate America - nobody was willing to own up to the mistake. Nobody wanted to take the blame for calling those little green turds food.
Yes, we are victims of a cover-up so insidiuous, so pervasive, so long-lived that it boggles the mind. But I say, let's move on. Let's forget trying to assign blame. That's not important. The important thing is that it's not too late to put a stop to this lie, this act of culinary fraud that has been perpetrated and perpetuated (and probably some other impressive sounding P-word) for far too long.
It's time to stop the madness. Say NO to Brussels Sprouts. Get back to REAL food.
You know - Cheetos, Pringles, Twinkies. The classics.
And leave those verdant turdlets behind, closing once and for all a shameful chapter in the history of vegetables. Sure, we're scarred. But we can rebuild. And we can prevent mistakes like this from being made in the future, and in doing so, make life better for future generations. It's not too late to make a difference.
By the way, while my highly trained team of archaeological experts was conducting the typically exhaustive level of research that is the hallmark of the writings found at Hell Toupee, they happened across a highly apropos poem by an artist named Grandpa Tucker cleverly entitled No More B.S. (the B.S. referring, of course, to Brussels Sprouts).
Well said, Grandpa. Well said.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway?
(or, When Buller met Lytton)
In addition to my penchant for composing "elevator pitches" for books I've never written (and probably won't), I also have a predilection for bad first lines of imaginary books.
The abominable quality of these sentences - compounded by my apparently God-given ability to conceive them with little effort - may in some way relate to the fact that I have not to date been offered representation by any reputable literary agency. But maybe that's just a coincidence.
Anyway, having already created a sufficient quantity of ado, I submit the following:
In Other News
Offered as my proof that God does exist, Paris Hilton has expressed her plans to retire from public life. However, as proof that God can be cruel, Paris doesn't plan to do this for another two years. Oh, well. It's still a ray of hope for civilization.
The Daily Haiku
Waxing poetic about food today:
Recommended Reading
Millroy the Magician - Paul Theroux
Another out-of-print treasure, well worth tracking down
I mean, grass is edible, if the grazing habits of cattle (and sometimes the family dog) are any indication. So is Elmer's Glue - a fact which I proved conclusively in first grade. But do you want any grass on your salad? Any Elmer's in your coffee? I think not. So I have a bone to pick with whatever misguided caveman decided that Brussels Sprouts were food.
As near as my highly trained team of archaeological experts can determine, a big part of a caveman's workaday life was spent determining what you could and could not eat. Those had to be challenging times, wandering around in a loincloth, picking random leaves and berries in a gastronomical game of Russian Roulette. I presume committees were formed, taste-testers were designated, and findings were discussed in weekly staff meetings.
But I suspect whoever was taking notes at the meeting where Brussels Sprouts were introduced either didn't hear the taste-tester correctly (since the poor schlub was probably still gagging from the taste), or simply made a typo with the hammer and chisel (or finger-paints, or whatever it was cavemen used to take the minutes of these meetings - my highly trained team of archaeological experts aren't terribly fussy about trivial details like that).
At any rate, somebody screwed up. But - in behavior that pervades to this day in Corporate America - nobody was willing to own up to the mistake. Nobody wanted to take the blame for calling those little green turds food.
Yes, we are victims of a cover-up so insidiuous, so pervasive, so long-lived that it boggles the mind. But I say, let's move on. Let's forget trying to assign blame. That's not important. The important thing is that it's not too late to put a stop to this lie, this act of culinary fraud that has been perpetrated and perpetuated (and probably some other impressive sounding P-word) for far too long.
It's time to stop the madness. Say NO to Brussels Sprouts. Get back to REAL food.
You know - Cheetos, Pringles, Twinkies. The classics.
And leave those verdant turdlets behind, closing once and for all a shameful chapter in the history of vegetables. Sure, we're scarred. But we can rebuild. And we can prevent mistakes like this from being made in the future, and in doing so, make life better for future generations. It's not too late to make a difference.
By the way, while my highly trained team of archaeological experts was conducting the typically exhaustive level of research that is the hallmark of the writings found at Hell Toupee, they happened across a highly apropos poem by an artist named Grandpa Tucker cleverly entitled No More B.S. (the B.S. referring, of course, to Brussels Sprouts).
Well said, Grandpa. Well said.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway?
(or, When Buller met Lytton)
In addition to my penchant for composing "elevator pitches" for books I've never written (and probably won't), I also have a predilection for bad first lines of imaginary books.
The abominable quality of these sentences - compounded by my apparently God-given ability to conceive them with little effort - may in some way relate to the fact that I have not to date been offered representation by any reputable literary agency. But maybe that's just a coincidence.
Anyway, having already created a sufficient quantity of ado, I submit the following:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, which basically balanced things out, so that they were just okay times.
* * *
Not content with having invented the device that puts those multi-colored stripes in toothpaste, Lloyd's every waking hour was consumed with trying to create what for those in his line of work was considered the Holy Grail of dental hygiene: plaid toothpaste.
* * *
Myron had always felt that the truest way to express the love he felt for Bernice was by shaving her initials in his back hair.
* * *
Having successfully attached the message to its writhing form, Clyde sent the small animal on its way, musing as he wiped the blood from his hands that perhaps some other animal - pigeons, perhaps? - might make better couriers than porcupines.
In Other News
Offered as my proof that God does exist, Paris Hilton has expressed her plans to retire from public life. However, as proof that God can be cruel, Paris doesn't plan to do this for another two years. Oh, well. It's still a ray of hope for civilization.
The Daily Haiku
Waxing poetic about food today:
Citizens of Brussels, Hear Me!
No one can deny
Belgian waffles are the bomb.
But please, lose the sprouts.
Recommended Reading
Millroy the Magician - Paul Theroux
Another out-of-print treasure, well worth tracking down
June 14, 2005
My Sorry Butt (or, Filling in the Blanks)
A year or so ago, somebody posted a thread at a writer's forum I then frequented, lamenting a rejection that had just been delivered. As every writer knows, ALL rejections suck, but this one was particularly painful in its terseness, its obvious "rubber-stamped" nature, and - most heinously - in the lack of physical skill apparent on the part of the person doing the rubber-stamping. Entire sections of text were missing from the missive, leaving the recipient forced to try to interpret the true nature of the communiqué. Most troubling, really.
Working 'round the clock, Hell Toupee's massive team of forensic Photoshoppers has labored to recreate the following facsimile of the perplexing document.
The 'Sorry but' letter
As you can see, the letter is bathed in ambiguity. And perhaps in an overly liberal dose of Old Spice, but that's just conjecture. At any rate, it leaves some hard questions unanswered.
Is this a rejection?
Is this a request?
Is this a coded message from the pathetic victim of some insidious sex-slavery ring that uses literary agencies as a front?
Okay, so maybe that last one's a long shot. But let's do some extrapolating.
Being a glass-half-full kind of guy, I'm inclined first to treat this as good news. To that end, let's try filling in the blanks, and see what this letter might really say.
But also being a realist, I acknowledge the possibility that this is indeed a rejection letter. So again, I'll make a few attempts at reconstructing this enigmatic document.
Or maybe it said something like:
The most depressing option, of course, would be the following:
I guess his mom never gave him the speech about having something to fall back on
After losing 20 of his best chickens when Tennessee police raided an illegal cockfight, gamecock owner David Webb lamented, "I've been around this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken fight."
In Other News
Hell Toupee was identified as the only blog in the world not running a joke about Michael Jackson.
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem about the literary hand grenades we create only to ultimately hurl at ourselves:
Tuesday's Guilty Pleasure
Watching Fran Drescher on TV.
With the sound turned off.
Working 'round the clock, Hell Toupee's massive team of forensic Photoshoppers has labored to recreate the following facsimile of the perplexing document.
The 'Sorry but' letter
As you can see, the letter is bathed in ambiguity. And perhaps in an overly liberal dose of Old Spice, but that's just conjecture. At any rate, it leaves some hard questions unanswered.
Is this a rejection?
Is this a request?
Is this a coded message from the pathetic victim of some insidious sex-slavery ring that uses literary agencies as a front?
Okay, so maybe that last one's a long shot. But let's do some extrapolating.
Being a glass-half-full kind of guy, I'm inclined first to treat this as good news. To that end, let's try filling in the blanks, and see what this letter might really say.
Sorry butler was late in delivering message. Now
we'll have to fly you on the corporate jet to sign the book deal in time.
Thanks for theatrical rights to your story - we're picturing Keanu Reeves in the lead role. Whoa!
But also being a realist, I acknowledge the possibility that this is indeed a rejection letter. So again, I'll make a few attempts at reconstructing this enigmatic document.
Sorry but we don't usually publish this sort of thing, so I'm afraid
we'll have to return those rather, er, revealing photos you sent.
Thanks for the unsolicited and unexpected glimpse into the world of the double-jointed. We really had no idea.
Or maybe it said something like:
Sorry butter got smeared on this, but the deli was out of napkins, so
we'll have to make do with your manuscript, which came in handy in the bathroom, too. Note to self: Buy more TP. Anyhoo...
Thanks for the submission - glad you didn't send it in on a disc.
The most depressing option, of course, would be the following:
Sorry but we've stolen your idea. So now
we'll have to have you killed.
Thanks for the idea. Sorry about the killing thing.
I guess his mom never gave him the speech about having something to fall back on
After losing 20 of his best chickens when Tennessee police raided an illegal cockfight, gamecock owner David Webb lamented, "I've been around this stuff all my life. Everything I've ever known is a chicken fight."
In Other News
Hell Toupee was identified as the only blog in the world not running a joke about Michael Jackson.
The Daily Haiku
Today's offering is a poem about the literary hand grenades we create only to ultimately hurl at ourselves:
Essay SE
What lurks inside you,
self-addressed stamped envelope?
Blessing, or a curse?
Tuesday's Guilty Pleasure
Watching Fran Drescher on TV.
With the sound turned off.
June 12, 2005
Dan Brown Does It Again!
As if he hadn't already blown us all away with the staggering success of his blockbuster novel, The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown now offers conclusive proof that he is not a one-trick pony.
WARNING: If you are not ready to have your own world-view challenged, to have the beliefs you've clung to your whole life thrown asunder like a pair of dirty tube-socks, READ NO FURTHER. What follows may shock and disturb you.
Where art and metaphysics collide
With The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown rocked our worlds, offering persuasive evidence of a religious conspiracy that spanned centuries and continents (also offering merchandising opportunities unrivaled since the debut of Star Wars), all tied to a famous historical painting.
That was nothing.
It's time to prepare yourself to have your mind blown by . . . The Pollock Prophecy!
Once again, Dan Brown has explored the paintings of one of our historical artistic icons. And in doing so, he has found even more shocking results.
It all began when Dan made a visit to the National Gallery of Art, where he found himself transfixed by a painting by abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock. The painting in question? Pollock's 1950 masterpiece "Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist)," a portion of which is shown below.
While many who view Pollock's work are only able to see splatters and drips of paint, Dan felt his artistic sensibilities being tugged like the pant-leg of a pet lover whose Yorkshire Terrier needs desperately to go outside. What is it, Brown asked himself, that calls me to this painting? What message lurks beneath?
There was only one thing to do. Although the painting was not for sale, Dan Brown has - as we all know - more money than God.
So he bought the painting.
That's when the serious study began. Dan swore he saw a hidden image among the splotches and splatters. In particular, one area of the painting seemed to beckon to him (circled in red, below). What could it be? An image of Jesus? Mary Magdalene? Spartacus, perhaps?
The naked eye yielded no answers. So Dan hired a team of experts (okay, he actually bought them, after being forced to fork over a little something extra to get past the pesky anti-slavery laws that still exist in the US).
Using sophisticated X-ray technology honed in the finest airports in the world, the team Dan was leading began to isolate the image. An eerie pair of oversized eyes began to emerge, over a series of horizontal slashes that seemed to suggest the ribcage of some otherworldly skeletal being.
Using highly technical photo-negative bipolar gravitivity techniques developed in the one-hour booth at Walgreens, Dan's team enhanced the image further, rendering the horizontal slashes and penetrating eyes even clearer. Dan knew he was on the verge of a breakthrough, so he did the only sensible thing.
He phoned his agent.
Fortunately, Dan's agent knew a man known only as "Pixel," who was rumored to be "the bomb with Photoshop." At great expense, Pixel was summoned to the Brown compound, where he was able to complete the job of uncovering the mysterious image.
When Pixel was finished, everyone stood agape. Though nearly never at a loss for words, for once Dan Brown was speechless.
He had found the secret. He had found ... Him.
Finally Pixel broke the silence, in a breathless whisper tinged with Mentos and Red Bull.
"Dude," he said. "So that's where Waldo was."
Coming in 2006 from Random House:
In Other News
Twenty minutes after this blog entry was published, an enormous stretch limousine pulled up in front of the National Gallery of Art. Emerging from the car, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Dan Brown was seen hurrying into the museum, clutching a digital camera and a spiral notebook.
The Daily Haiku
Today's effort pays homage to an actor whose work I admire and whose hairline I share.
Currently Reading
Still River by Harry Hunsicker
Whiskey Sour by JA Konrath
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
WARNING: If you are not ready to have your own world-view challenged, to have the beliefs you've clung to your whole life thrown asunder like a pair of dirty tube-socks, READ NO FURTHER. What follows may shock and disturb you.
Where art and metaphysics collide
With The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown rocked our worlds, offering persuasive evidence of a religious conspiracy that spanned centuries and continents (also offering merchandising opportunities unrivaled since the debut of Star Wars), all tied to a famous historical painting.
That was nothing.
It's time to prepare yourself to have your mind blown by . . . The Pollock Prophecy!
Once again, Dan Brown has explored the paintings of one of our historical artistic icons. And in doing so, he has found even more shocking results.
It all began when Dan made a visit to the National Gallery of Art, where he found himself transfixed by a painting by abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock. The painting in question? Pollock's 1950 masterpiece "Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist)," a portion of which is shown below.
While many who view Pollock's work are only able to see splatters and drips of paint, Dan felt his artistic sensibilities being tugged like the pant-leg of a pet lover whose Yorkshire Terrier needs desperately to go outside. What is it, Brown asked himself, that calls me to this painting? What message lurks beneath?
There was only one thing to do. Although the painting was not for sale, Dan Brown has - as we all know - more money than God.
So he bought the painting.
That's when the serious study began. Dan swore he saw a hidden image among the splotches and splatters. In particular, one area of the painting seemed to beckon to him (circled in red, below). What could it be? An image of Jesus? Mary Magdalene? Spartacus, perhaps?
The naked eye yielded no answers. So Dan hired a team of experts (okay, he actually bought them, after being forced to fork over a little something extra to get past the pesky anti-slavery laws that still exist in the US).
Using sophisticated X-ray technology honed in the finest airports in the world, the team Dan was leading began to isolate the image. An eerie pair of oversized eyes began to emerge, over a series of horizontal slashes that seemed to suggest the ribcage of some otherworldly skeletal being.
Using highly technical photo-negative bipolar gravitivity techniques developed in the one-hour booth at Walgreens, Dan's team enhanced the image further, rendering the horizontal slashes and penetrating eyes even clearer. Dan knew he was on the verge of a breakthrough, so he did the only sensible thing.
He phoned his agent.
Fortunately, Dan's agent knew a man known only as "Pixel," who was rumored to be "the bomb with Photoshop." At great expense, Pixel was summoned to the Brown compound, where he was able to complete the job of uncovering the mysterious image.
When Pixel was finished, everyone stood agape. Though nearly never at a loss for words, for once Dan Brown was speechless.
He had found the secret. He had found ... Him.
Finally Pixel broke the silence, in a breathless whisper tinged with Mentos and Red Bull.
"Dude," he said. "So that's where Waldo was."
Coming in 2006 from Random House:
THE POLLOCK PROPHECY by Dan Brown.
In Other News
Twenty minutes after this blog entry was published, an enormous stretch limousine pulled up in front of the National Gallery of Art. Emerging from the car, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Dan Brown was seen hurrying into the museum, clutching a digital camera and a spiral notebook.
The Daily Haiku
Today's effort pays homage to an actor whose work I admire and whose hairline I share.
Ode to Ed Harris
I would have to say
your Pollock portrayal made
a great splatter film.
Currently Reading
Still River by Harry Hunsicker
Whiskey Sour by JA Konrath
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
June 10, 2005
The Missing Sports Chromosome
I've got a buddy who lives nearby, who calls or e-mails at least once a week, asking if I want to come over to watch "the game." He doesn't even name the sport, nor the teams who are playing - it is assumed that I know. I am, after all, a man. Men intuitively know - at any given point in the calendar - what athletic event is important enough to be identified simply as "the game." And I of course am far too clever to ask him what game he may be referring to. I mean, I'm not stupid. But I am flawed.
Yes, I am incomplete. Some might even call me a mutant. Such a word may sting, but it's not inaccurate.
No, I realized long ago that it's true: I'm genetically deficient. Unlike most straight men I know (not that there's anything wrong with not being a straight man, or not knowing me), I don't care about sports. I just don't. The closest I ever came to getting involved in sports was developing a bad case of athlete's foot. I am apparently missing The Sports Chromosome (below).
"How can you not care about sports?" you ask indignantly, unbelievingly, and in a manner that might even require a third adverb if you're not careful.
"How can you care?" I retort, thrilled to have found occasion to use the word retort as a dialog tag (it's the simple pleasures for me).
Seriously, what's there to care about? What's at stake?
Two teams play each other. One team wins. The other loses.
After the game, the star of the winning team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and celebrates by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
As for the loser? The star of the losing team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and consoles himself by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
So again I ask, what's at stake? Win or lose, we're talking about millionaires having porn-star sex with supermodels. Just how bad can losing be?
That's why I like reality TV. Not all of it, I hasten to add. But some of it. You know, the classics: Survivor. The Apprentice.
Why do I like these? Because something is at stake. It's all or nothing. If you lose, you don't get dick. But if you win, there is a very real possibility of porn-star hot-tub sex in a zillion-dollar mansion. That's what you call incentive. These are games where it really sucks to lose. Games where winning would literally be life-changing. Now that's something I can get interested in.
That's why I'd rather watch an overweight naked gay man eating coconuts on an island while he plots his teammates' demise than watch the finely tuned perfectly honed physiques of awesome physical specimens of humanity in their prime, locked in the heat of battle for the momentary possession of a leather ball. That's why I'd rather watch MBAs with perfect teeth vie for the affection of a real estate mogul whose godawful hairdo may one day end up on the upper left side of this blog than watch a man with ugly shoes hit a tiny white ball into a hole in the ground. Call me kooky. Just don't call me when Survivor is on.
Me, I'll start caring about sports when we start paying teachers, soldiers, or firefighters even one tenth of what we pay professional athletes.
Elevator to Hell
Another "elevator pitch" I came up with (hey, it's easier than actually writing a freakin' book), which I have no doubt would be a huge seller:
In Other News
An unnamed NYT best-seller vehemently denied allegations that his book's characters were, as some sources allege, "cardboard."
The author responds, "I think you'll find they're really more like plywood. But not the thin crap - I'm talking about the thick stuff you nail over your windows during hurricanes."
The Daily Haiku
Celebrating a form of poetry I'd wager most professional athletes have never heard of, today's offering is appropriately entitled:
Nicely Put:
Miss Stern obviously suffered from the democratic delusion that all people are created interesting.
- Trevanian: Shibumi
Yes, I am incomplete. Some might even call me a mutant. Such a word may sting, but it's not inaccurate.
No, I realized long ago that it's true: I'm genetically deficient. Unlike most straight men I know (not that there's anything wrong with not being a straight man, or not knowing me), I don't care about sports. I just don't. The closest I ever came to getting involved in sports was developing a bad case of athlete's foot. I am apparently missing The Sports Chromosome (below).
"How can you not care about sports?" you ask indignantly, unbelievingly, and in a manner that might even require a third adverb if you're not careful.
"How can you care?" I retort, thrilled to have found occasion to use the word retort as a dialog tag (it's the simple pleasures for me).
Seriously, what's there to care about? What's at stake?
Two teams play each other. One team wins. The other loses.
After the game, the star of the winning team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and celebrates by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
As for the loser? The star of the losing team takes a shower, gets dressed, climbs into his limo or sports car, goes home to his zillion-dollar mansion, and consoles himself by having porn-star sex in the hot-tub with his supermodel wife or girlfriend (or both).
So again I ask, what's at stake? Win or lose, we're talking about millionaires having porn-star sex with supermodels. Just how bad can losing be?
That's why I like reality TV. Not all of it, I hasten to add. But some of it. You know, the classics: Survivor. The Apprentice.
Why do I like these? Because something is at stake. It's all or nothing. If you lose, you don't get dick. But if you win, there is a very real possibility of porn-star hot-tub sex in a zillion-dollar mansion. That's what you call incentive. These are games where it really sucks to lose. Games where winning would literally be life-changing. Now that's something I can get interested in.
That's why I'd rather watch an overweight naked gay man eating coconuts on an island while he plots his teammates' demise than watch the finely tuned perfectly honed physiques of awesome physical specimens of humanity in their prime, locked in the heat of battle for the momentary possession of a leather ball. That's why I'd rather watch MBAs with perfect teeth vie for the affection of a real estate mogul whose godawful hairdo may one day end up on the upper left side of this blog than watch a man with ugly shoes hit a tiny white ball into a hole in the ground. Call me kooky. Just don't call me when Survivor is on.
Me, I'll start caring about sports when we start paying teachers, soldiers, or firefighters even one tenth of what we pay professional athletes.
Elevator to Hell
Another "elevator pitch" I came up with (hey, it's easier than actually writing a freakin' book), which I have no doubt would be a huge seller:
GONE WITH THE MOBY
The story of a big white whale who frankly doesn't give a damn. (Initially I was going to call it Gone with the Dick, but I ran into censorship issues.)
In Other News
An unnamed NYT best-seller vehemently denied allegations that his book's characters were, as some sources allege, "cardboard."
The author responds, "I think you'll find they're really more like plywood. But not the thin crap - I'm talking about the thick stuff you nail over your windows during hurricanes."
The Daily Haiku
Celebrating a form of poetry I'd wager most professional athletes have never heard of, today's offering is appropriately entitled:
Balls
Maybe I'd watch sports
if they broadcast cooler ones,
like maybe, dodgeball.
Nicely Put:
Miss Stern obviously suffered from the democratic delusion that all people are created interesting.
- Trevanian: Shibumi
June 9, 2005
Maybe You Suck
Call me Quixotic. Or even Ishmael. Both are cooler names than Keith. But that's not the point.
The point is that I've always been drawn to the impossible dream; the belief that I could create something special that would touch other people. And no, I'm not talking about that kind of touching - jeez, get your mind out of the gutter!
Anyway, both in my music career and in my literary efforts, I've run into a lot of people - kindred dreamers like me - who spend an inordinate amount of time singing variations of the Woe Is Me song. You know the type: perpetually bemoaning the Unfairness Of It All. Cursing the fact that genius is so rarely appreciated in its own lifetime. To them, I offer this cartoon. It's geared for the music biz, but I think it fits the aspiring writer equally well.
For more cartoons by Lennie Peterson, visit this site.
Elevator to Hell
I've had it drilled into my head that it's important to have a good "elevator pitch." For some reason, I'm pretty good at this, as long as I haven't written the actual book to which the pitch refers. Following are a few of my latest efforts:
In Other News
Apparently it is my belief that the last two syllables in the word nuclear should not rhyme with the last two syllables in spectacular that has kept me from becoming the leader of the free world. Bummer.
The Daily Haiku
Screw Cocoa Puffs - I'm cuckoo for haiku. Today's offering:
Hugs, not Rugs
In keeping with the name of this blog, send me your photos of people with bad wigs, and maybe one of them will end up published, up there in the upper left-hand corner of this mighty blog. I'll even list your name if you want - that should make you instantly popular. All part of the service we provide here at Hell Toupee.
Recommended Reading
Peter DeVries - Slouching Towards Kalamazoo
out of print, but well worth looking for
The point is that I've always been drawn to the impossible dream; the belief that I could create something special that would touch other people. And no, I'm not talking about that kind of touching - jeez, get your mind out of the gutter!
Anyway, both in my music career and in my literary efforts, I've run into a lot of people - kindred dreamers like me - who spend an inordinate amount of time singing variations of the Woe Is Me song. You know the type: perpetually bemoaning the Unfairness Of It All. Cursing the fact that genius is so rarely appreciated in its own lifetime. To them, I offer this cartoon. It's geared for the music biz, but I think it fits the aspiring writer equally well.
For more cartoons by Lennie Peterson, visit this site.
Elevator to Hell
I've had it drilled into my head that it's important to have a good "elevator pitch." For some reason, I'm pretty good at this, as long as I haven't written the actual book to which the pitch refers. Following are a few of my latest efforts:
GUMS
A decrepit old toothless shark terrorizes - well, annoys, really - a New England town during the height of tourist season, leaving nasty bruises and a lingering fishy smell on its victims.
A TALE OF TWO SETTEES
A newly married couple spends hours in a Rooms To Go showroom, trying to decide between two loveseats. Will they make a far, far better purchase than they have ever made before?
LET'S GET THE FOUCAULT OF HERE
"Class is responsible for class divisions," says Foucault; however, according to Hanfkopf[4] , it is not so much class that is responsible for class divisions, but rather the paradigm, and some would say the collapse, of class. In a sense, Lacan's analysis of neodeconstructive theory holds that government is part of the genre of art. Marx promotes the use of textual desituationism to challenge the status quo. If one examines nationalism, one is faced with a choice: either accept postsemiotic libertarianism or ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... Sorry - even I couldn't stay awake through that!
And I really didn't write that last one. Instead, I simply used the amazing Postmodern Bullshit Generator - something I wish I'd had access to back in my undergrad days.
In Other News
Apparently it is my belief that the last two syllables in the word nuclear should not rhyme with the last two syllables in spectacular that has kept me from becoming the leader of the free world. Bummer.
The Daily Haiku
Screw Cocoa Puffs - I'm cuckoo for haiku. Today's offering:
He's a Deep One
Okay, I'll admit
I wrote this because I heard
chicks dig guys with blogs.
Hugs, not Rugs
In keeping with the name of this blog, send me your photos of people with bad wigs, and maybe one of them will end up published, up there in the upper left-hand corner of this mighty blog. I'll even list your name if you want - that should make you instantly popular. All part of the service we provide here at Hell Toupee.
Recommended Reading
Peter DeVries - Slouching Towards Kalamazoo
out of print, but well worth looking for
June 8, 2005
But We're Still Frisking Old Ladies at the Airport.
Apparently it's no biggie to cross into the US from a foreign country carrying "a homemade sword, a hatchet, a knife, brass knuckles and a chain saw stained with what appeared to be blood" (based on this news report).
As if that weren't bad enough, apparently you're allowed to enter the country with a really bad haircut, too.
Oh well, at least the border authorities confiscated all those weapons. What does one do with a confiscated chainsaw? I assume it will end up with the deadly toenail clippers and needlenose pliers I had to surrender to the TSA the last time I took a flight out of town.
In Other News
Paris Hilton is still famous. I am still not famous. What's up with that?
The Daily Haiku
Yes, I'm all about the haiku. With enough beer in me, I can even talk in haiku, an ability my fiancée finds far less impressive than I do.
Literary Snapshots
Latest Reading, Rated 1 to 5
Gone Fishin' (Walter Mosely): 4
In the Heart of the Sea (Nathaniel Philbrick): 4.5
Ahab's Wife (Sena Jeter Naslund): 3.5
As if that weren't bad enough, apparently you're allowed to enter the country with a really bad haircut, too.
Oh well, at least the border authorities confiscated all those weapons. What does one do with a confiscated chainsaw? I assume it will end up with the deadly toenail clippers and needlenose pliers I had to surrender to the TSA the last time I took a flight out of town.
In Other News
Paris Hilton is still famous. I am still not famous. What's up with that?
The Daily Haiku
Yes, I'm all about the haiku. With enough beer in me, I can even talk in haiku, an ability my fiancée finds far less impressive than I do.
When in Rome
Great, another blog.
Just what PM really needs.
Now it is complete.
Literary Snapshots
Latest Reading, Rated 1 to 5
Gone Fishin' (Walter Mosely): 4
In the Heart of the Sea (Nathaniel Philbrick): 4.5
Ahab's Wife (Sena Jeter Naslund): 3.5
