Shame. Perfidy. Shonda. Disgrace. Dishonor. Humiliation. Guilt. Sadness. Betrayal. Ignominy. Mortification.
All these things and more will not sufficiently explain my feelings.
I come to you humbly, hat in hand, begging your understanding and your assistance in determining what went wrong.
This is very difficult for me to type, so please allow me some leeway....
[sniff]
My wife...
[sniff]
My wife... has joined Faceyspaces.
There. I said it.
Here I am, Tin Foil Hat to the Stars, Number One Privacy and Security Guru, Winner of the 'I'm Not Paranoid - I'm Acutely Aware' Prize [1998-2014], with a wife on Faceyspaces. Everyone's laughing at me.
Don't believe me?
Approximately sixty seconds after her signup, my own brother send a foe request, asking if I knew.
I'm doomed, like a chiropractor whose wife wears impossibly high heels. Except the chiropractor's wife at least looks good in them. Nothing good can come of Faceyspaces.
I explained that nothing good can come of Faceyspaces. I explained that it's the front page of the NSA. That the NSA either wrote the software or wishes they did. That the mobile app eats data and privacy. That even with the highest privacy settings, it still sucks up all available data. That no one knows what the mobile app eats in terms of permissions because it's installed as junkware by the carrier.
Her argument? She wants to keep in touch with the nieces and nephews.
Do the nieces and nephews not have email? Even though that's also property of the NSA, it's not public.
Will she now be required to post selfies every time she goes to the bathroom? Report on what she ate for lunch? Talk about which tire is leaking this morning? Describe picking up after the dog using Poop Bags<tm>? Purchasing a selfie stick? Beating me about the head and shoulders with it?
Can anybody recommend a twelve-step group or a deprogramming center?
I feel so..... alone.
And it's getting cold.... so cold.
THIS WEEK'S SELECTION
How could I go any further without mentioning another hero of mine: Frank Zappa. Zappa has played the bicycle, gotten arrested for one of his records, run recording studios, made millions laugh, got in trouble for insulting Jewish women then went after Catholic girls, gays, influenced many artists, and knocked the heads off many a guitar player.
This is a love song. A family song. A funny song. A song that you had better not play too loud at work (or home). It's called Crew Slut. It's a love song to the ladies of the road. And here's Frank with a really nice instrumental called Watermelon in Easter Hay.
Sadly, Frank left us in 1993, due to prostate cancer. Get yourself checked, guys.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Grub? No Thanks
It's great having a job. No, really. We get to do stuff that we didn't get to do when I was gainfully unemployed. You know.... stuff like eating at restaurants. Not that we do it a lot - we like about four restaurants and stay home otherwise because we like our own cooking way more than most restaurants.
So out we went on Friday night, as a treat. The wife wanted a burger and I wanted barbecue, so we went for burgers. There is a new Wawa (convenience store, for those of you west of Pennsylvania) in town (no, we didn't eat there) but they're adding restaurants to the Super Wawas. Super Wawa is differentiated from regular Wawa by some feature or other; probably the amount of traffic multiplied by the difficulty of accessing the store, divided by locating parking. And gas (hopefully not the kind you get from food).
But wait!!!! The stupid tire indicator in the car was lit. Until I looked in the manual, I didn't know we had a stupid tire indicator. It was right there, under Stupid Tire Indicator. It turned out to indicate that the stupid tire needed air. Oops, it actually indicated that A stupid tire needed air (but not which stupid tire needed air). Off to the dollar air machine, after which I could not locate my cell phone holster. I just gave up at that point, as that was the kind of day I was having. Normally the holster is secured securely on my pocket... not today. [UPDATE: it was not the stupid tires.. it was the rims - bent by the hellhole that is Philly]
We kept hearing about this place called Grub, which our family and friends really liked, so off we went. The moment we pulled up, I said to my wife, "I do not like this place." I wasn't entirely sure why I did not like the place... perhaps it was the clientele, perhaps it was the uncomfortable-looking stools (instead of chairs), perhaps it was the proximity to the gas tanks, I dunno. But I was willing to give it a chance, which they tell me is the important thing. They are frequently wrong.
We went to the entrance, which bore a sign telling us to go round to the other entrance. Always obedient, my wife immediately opened the door and we went in. BOOM - there was a bar in the middle of the place. Small wonder the nieces and nephews like it there; they can get bombed while burgering.
Before you accuse me of telling those kids to get off my lawn, I have to note that I have never enjoyed dining with LOTS OF NOISE around me. And, strangely enough, there was LOTS OF NOISE around me. The wife noticed this also. Since she has her own internal din, she was not impressed either.
One of the pleasures of dining out is having someone wait on you. Nope. We had to stand in line, order and pay, after which we got this RFID tracking beacon, which meant the NSA already knew what we ordered. Over to a booth, where someone shooed us away, stating that the table was reserved. Oddly enough, there was no sign indicating it was reserved, so we located the single remaining table for two, which had approximately enough room for one.
At this point, a female came over and identified herself as a waitress and informed us there were two - no three people walking around if we needed anything. This was an interesting new model of restauranting and waitressing, we thought. After we had ordered and paid, there didn't seem to be any need for a waitress, but since we didn't own the restaurant, it didn't seem worth discussing further.
I have to say that the staff was unfailingly pleasant and didn't not have a single issue with custom orders. They had sweet potato french fries, which I really like. The second line, after fries, on the menu stated they had rosemary on them. I hate rosemary, with a passion normally reserved for politicans. They were kind enough to kill the rosemary for me, which is good, as I'm not the kind of guy who goes around killing rosemary.
This was the kind of restaurant that gave you cups and you filled them with the soda or drink you wanted. I like this as it (theoretically) removes the chance of getting the wrong drink. And if you DO get the wrong drink, you have bigger problems. And it turned out I did, but not for the reason you think: the Coke was remarkably free of flavor. It was similar to carbonated water with brown coloring. Did I mention it was LOUD in there? LOUD like we had trouble talking to each other? This apparently bothered no one else, as their solution was to simply YELL LOUDER than the competition.
Eventually someone showed up with the burgers and we dug in. It's difficult to spell this but I'll try: pbthlllllt uh. It was the sound of me tasting a burger that had barely been cooked. In fact, it was so undercooked that the meat could not hold itself together as a recognizeable burger (or much of anything else of a meatlike-substance). The wife took a look and confirmed it as medium-rare. I tend to go for something closer to medium-well but no one asked me. I mean that no one, from the register person to the alleged waitress, asked how I wanted my burger. Since my wife likes hers that way, it was not an issue for her.
Since the day was not going well at all, I started competing with my fellow noisemakers, in a less than pleasant tone, about my feelings on the burger. I threw it in its regulation red basket, red Special Sauce leaking all over the place. THIS is why we don't go out to eat much. Visions of barbecue danced in my head, right next to visions of Arnold Schwrzenneger as Terminator, with a double-barreled shotgun, after he had a particularly bad day.
Noting my disgust, the wife suggested she take her burger home and I could microwave it later. I somehow managed to convey that this was not a helpful suggestion.
Seriously - this was supposed to be a treat for us. The thought of having to get up and launch the burger back from whence it came was just too much for me at the moment. Have I mentioned that the sweet potato fries (without rosemary) were pretty good? They were.
At this point, the alleged waitress reappeared, asking how everything was. I looked her straight in the eye and told her 'Horrible'. She smiled, said Great, and walked away, happy as ever. I looked at my wife, dumbfounded, and inquired if we had somehow transported to an alternate dimension. I haven't been in the Twilight Zone<tm> in quite a while and did not wish to return.
It became apparent that immediate action needed to be taken. Although immediate action to me involved making the alleged burger airborn, my wife, who has over twenty years of trying to moderate my behavior, suggested the better option would be to simply have them cook me something edible. We settled on me getting money back and suggesting they keep the burger and do whatever they wanted with it (suggestions joyously provided for the asking).
This, of course was not simple. The transaction required a manager. Cheerful as ever, the manager arrived, having heard there was a small issue. If you call one hundred percent of my meal, drink included, a small issue, then yes, I had a small issue. She cheerfully refunded my money, graciously offering a card entitling me to a free meal upon my next visit. Rather than telling her that my next visit would occur right after all taxes are repealed, I politely refused. She somehow sensed that I would not be returning and re-offered me the card. Rather than telling her that my return would coincide with Bush and Obama dancing cheek-to-cheek, announcing that they both lied for their entire terms in office, I again politely declined. She told me to ask for her personally next time and she'd take care of me. Rather than telling her the next time would be just after this blog gets over ten thousand hits per day (or even a hundred), I thanked her and told her I liked the fries a lot.
As we got in the car, agreeing that this was a bit of a waste of time, I told my wife that I was hungry and coudln't we go somewhere for dinner. Somewhere among the four restaurants we liked. She smiled and proceeded to take us shopping. Right next to the store was a barbecue place, appearing as a bright light piercing the darkness. I went to it, like a starving nerd to a Playboy bunny, just in time to watch the owner locking the front door.
On the way home, I mentioned again that I was hungry and would like some dinner. The wife said she thought I was kidding. I looked at my wife, dumbfounded, and inquired if we had somehow transported to an alternate dimension. Or perhaps there was some Waitress in her heritage.
MUSIC
Today it's my favorite guitarist ever: Jeff Beck.
One of his best tunes is Cause We've Ended As Lovers. To get the real flavor you need to listen to the album version (Blow by Blow) but this is a pretty good representation. The band features the incredible Vinnie Coliauta on drums (Zappa, everyone) and the really surprising Tal Wilkenfeld, the twenty-something, grinning bassist from Down Under. Watch this and be blown away.
Since this will undoubtedly lead to the desire to hear more, watch the complete concert, Live at Ronnie Scott's. This is a very good quality show, released on DVD. One of the greatest moments of the show is looking out in the audience and seeing Robert Plant, looking on, amazed. Another is special guest Jimmy Page but I'm not gonna tell you why or when. Opening the show is Beck's Bolero. Watch and learn.
Jeff Beck is my favorite due to the emotion and the physical way he plays. He only gets better and he's frightening in his seventies. Watch how he plays with the whammy bar, the volume control and the tone control, sometimes together. It's a master class in guitar.
So out we went on Friday night, as a treat. The wife wanted a burger and I wanted barbecue, so we went for burgers. There is a new Wawa (convenience store, for those of you west of Pennsylvania) in town (no, we didn't eat there) but they're adding restaurants to the Super Wawas. Super Wawa is differentiated from regular Wawa by some feature or other; probably the amount of traffic multiplied by the difficulty of accessing the store, divided by locating parking. And gas (hopefully not the kind you get from food).
But wait!!!! The stupid tire indicator in the car was lit. Until I looked in the manual, I didn't know we had a stupid tire indicator. It was right there, under Stupid Tire Indicator. It turned out to indicate that the stupid tire needed air. Oops, it actually indicated that A stupid tire needed air (but not which stupid tire needed air). Off to the dollar air machine, after which I could not locate my cell phone holster. I just gave up at that point, as that was the kind of day I was having. Normally the holster is secured securely on my pocket... not today. [UPDATE: it was not the stupid tires.. it was the rims - bent by the hellhole that is Philly]
We kept hearing about this place called Grub, which our family and friends really liked, so off we went. The moment we pulled up, I said to my wife, "I do not like this place." I wasn't entirely sure why I did not like the place... perhaps it was the clientele, perhaps it was the uncomfortable-looking stools (instead of chairs), perhaps it was the proximity to the gas tanks, I dunno. But I was willing to give it a chance, which they tell me is the important thing. They are frequently wrong.
We went to the entrance, which bore a sign telling us to go round to the other entrance. Always obedient, my wife immediately opened the door and we went in. BOOM - there was a bar in the middle of the place. Small wonder the nieces and nephews like it there; they can get bombed while burgering.
Before you accuse me of telling those kids to get off my lawn, I have to note that I have never enjoyed dining with LOTS OF NOISE around me. And, strangely enough, there was LOTS OF NOISE around me. The wife noticed this also. Since she has her own internal din, she was not impressed either.
One of the pleasures of dining out is having someone wait on you. Nope. We had to stand in line, order and pay, after which we got this RFID tracking beacon, which meant the NSA already knew what we ordered. Over to a booth, where someone shooed us away, stating that the table was reserved. Oddly enough, there was no sign indicating it was reserved, so we located the single remaining table for two, which had approximately enough room for one.
At this point, a female came over and identified herself as a waitress and informed us there were two - no three people walking around if we needed anything. This was an interesting new model of restauranting and waitressing, we thought. After we had ordered and paid, there didn't seem to be any need for a waitress, but since we didn't own the restaurant, it didn't seem worth discussing further.
I have to say that the staff was unfailingly pleasant and didn't not have a single issue with custom orders. They had sweet potato french fries, which I really like. The second line, after fries, on the menu stated they had rosemary on them. I hate rosemary, with a passion normally reserved for politicans. They were kind enough to kill the rosemary for me, which is good, as I'm not the kind of guy who goes around killing rosemary.
This was the kind of restaurant that gave you cups and you filled them with the soda or drink you wanted. I like this as it (theoretically) removes the chance of getting the wrong drink. And if you DO get the wrong drink, you have bigger problems. And it turned out I did, but not for the reason you think: the Coke was remarkably free of flavor. It was similar to carbonated water with brown coloring. Did I mention it was LOUD in there? LOUD like we had trouble talking to each other? This apparently bothered no one else, as their solution was to simply YELL LOUDER than the competition.
Eventually someone showed up with the burgers and we dug in. It's difficult to spell this but I'll try: pbthlllllt uh. It was the sound of me tasting a burger that had barely been cooked. In fact, it was so undercooked that the meat could not hold itself together as a recognizeable burger (or much of anything else of a meatlike-substance). The wife took a look and confirmed it as medium-rare. I tend to go for something closer to medium-well but no one asked me. I mean that no one, from the register person to the alleged waitress, asked how I wanted my burger. Since my wife likes hers that way, it was not an issue for her.
Since the day was not going well at all, I started competing with my fellow noisemakers, in a less than pleasant tone, about my feelings on the burger. I threw it in its regulation red basket, red Special Sauce leaking all over the place. THIS is why we don't go out to eat much. Visions of barbecue danced in my head, right next to visions of Arnold Schwrzenneger as Terminator, with a double-barreled shotgun, after he had a particularly bad day.
Noting my disgust, the wife suggested she take her burger home and I could microwave it later. I somehow managed to convey that this was not a helpful suggestion.
Seriously - this was supposed to be a treat for us. The thought of having to get up and launch the burger back from whence it came was just too much for me at the moment. Have I mentioned that the sweet potato fries (without rosemary) were pretty good? They were.
At this point, the alleged waitress reappeared, asking how everything was. I looked her straight in the eye and told her 'Horrible'. She smiled, said Great, and walked away, happy as ever. I looked at my wife, dumbfounded, and inquired if we had somehow transported to an alternate dimension. I haven't been in the Twilight Zone<tm> in quite a while and did not wish to return.
It became apparent that immediate action needed to be taken. Although immediate action to me involved making the alleged burger airborn, my wife, who has over twenty years of trying to moderate my behavior, suggested the better option would be to simply have them cook me something edible. We settled on me getting money back and suggesting they keep the burger and do whatever they wanted with it (suggestions joyously provided for the asking).
This, of course was not simple. The transaction required a manager. Cheerful as ever, the manager arrived, having heard there was a small issue. If you call one hundred percent of my meal, drink included, a small issue, then yes, I had a small issue. She cheerfully refunded my money, graciously offering a card entitling me to a free meal upon my next visit. Rather than telling her that my next visit would occur right after all taxes are repealed, I politely refused. She somehow sensed that I would not be returning and re-offered me the card. Rather than telling her that my return would coincide with Bush and Obama dancing cheek-to-cheek, announcing that they both lied for their entire terms in office, I again politely declined. She told me to ask for her personally next time and she'd take care of me. Rather than telling her the next time would be just after this blog gets over ten thousand hits per day (or even a hundred), I thanked her and told her I liked the fries a lot.
As we got in the car, agreeing that this was a bit of a waste of time, I told my wife that I was hungry and coudln't we go somewhere for dinner. Somewhere among the four restaurants we liked. She smiled and proceeded to take us shopping. Right next to the store was a barbecue place, appearing as a bright light piercing the darkness. I went to it, like a starving nerd to a Playboy bunny, just in time to watch the owner locking the front door.
On the way home, I mentioned again that I was hungry and would like some dinner. The wife said she thought I was kidding. I looked at my wife, dumbfounded, and inquired if we had somehow transported to an alternate dimension. Or perhaps there was some Waitress in her heritage.
MUSIC
Today it's my favorite guitarist ever: Jeff Beck.
One of his best tunes is Cause We've Ended As Lovers. To get the real flavor you need to listen to the album version (Blow by Blow) but this is a pretty good representation. The band features the incredible Vinnie Coliauta on drums (Zappa, everyone) and the really surprising Tal Wilkenfeld, the twenty-something, grinning bassist from Down Under. Watch this and be blown away.
Since this will undoubtedly lead to the desire to hear more, watch the complete concert, Live at Ronnie Scott's. This is a very good quality show, released on DVD. One of the greatest moments of the show is looking out in the audience and seeing Robert Plant, looking on, amazed. Another is special guest Jimmy Page but I'm not gonna tell you why or when. Opening the show is Beck's Bolero. Watch and learn.
Jeff Beck is my favorite due to the emotion and the physical way he plays. He only gets better and he's frightening in his seventies. Watch how he plays with the whammy bar, the volume control and the tone control, sometimes together. It's a master class in guitar.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Burning Down Your Own Block
Let it be stated for the record that the Baltimore thugs are not animals: to call them animals is a disservice to animals everywhere. Animals don't destroy their own neighborhood.
I watched them set fire to buildings. I watched minivans dropping off looters with large bags. I watched them ruining the livelihoods of their own local merchants. I watched them throw cinderblocks at firemen. I watched them slice a firehose being used to put out a fire they started. I watched them scramble when the police finally got serious.
------------------------
A Texas grand jury has refused to indict a woman for allegedly breaking into her neighbor's house and sexually assaulting him. The gentleman in question awoke to feel someone on top of him and felt the offender place his penis in her mouth.
This is not an assault: it's a waking wet dream.
She broke into her husband's friend's house and forcibly had sex with him. And she's not an unattractive woman. Her husband is now the Most Embarrassed Man in Texas.
No, seriously... why isn't this every bit the assault it would have been, had the roles been reversed? Do the rules state that it's only assault if you're the Input? Remember: a physiological response is not consent. Where are the angry women, screaming RAPE RAPE RAPE?
This brings to mind a few questions:
I watched them set fire to buildings. I watched minivans dropping off looters with large bags. I watched them ruining the livelihoods of their own local merchants. I watched them throw cinderblocks at firemen. I watched them slice a firehose being used to put out a fire they started. I watched them scramble when the police finally got serious.
------------------------
A Texas grand jury has refused to indict a woman for allegedly breaking into her neighbor's house and sexually assaulting him. The gentleman in question awoke to feel someone on top of him and felt the offender place his penis in her mouth.
This is not an assault: it's a waking wet dream.
She broke into her husband's friend's house and forcibly had sex with him. And she's not an unattractive woman. Her husband is now the Most Embarrassed Man in Texas.
No, seriously... why isn't this every bit the assault it would have been, had the roles been reversed? Do the rules state that it's only assault if you're the Input? Remember: a physiological response is not consent. Where are the angry women, screaming RAPE RAPE RAPE?
This brings to mind a few questions:
- What is the street and block number of this house?
- Do you think she'd be amenable to moving north?
- Why aren't there women on the grand jury?
- Why was the grand jury butt-slapping and fist-bumping on the way out of the courtroom?
- Why have housing values gone through the roof in that neighborhood?
- Did the grand jury attend a 'private party' at her house afterwards?
----------------------------
It turns out coffee is nowhere near as bad for you as first thought. In fact, it proves beneficial in some cases. This does not, however, excuse the triple fudge half-caf whipped cream latte.
----------------------------
My wife asked me to do it doggie style.
So I chewed up the tissues and she ate the cat's food.
----------------------------
The differences in countries is sometimes strikingly apparent. Singapore's prime minister just released source code for his hand-coded Sudoko-solver. Barack Obama released a request for fast-track authority for a trade deal that no one is allowed to read.
-----------------------------
If you're from England, this headline proves somewhat important. If you're from anywhere else, it means something else. Labour shake-up: Leslie replaces Balls.
-----------------------------
Most of you know I'm familiar with a large number of interesting psych issues. Here's one we all missed: People who think they're made of glass.
-----------------------------
What do Kennedy, Hoover and Sinatra have in common? Read the twisted tale of Louie Louie.
-----------------------------
President Obama has chosen his hometown of Chicago as the location for his presidential library - the most transparent library in the world. Unfortunately, both books are classified so you can't read them.
-----------------------------
In the wake of the Baltimore lootings, Hillary Clinton has called for body cameras in every police department. Hey Hilly - how about body cameras for politicians?
-----------------------------
The gunman in the Mohammed cartoon attack in Texas was monitored by the FBI for years. See what happens when we give up our freedoms? Nothing. The attack was stopped by law-abiding citizens with guns. Remember this the next time you're taking off your shoes at the airport. Or when Congress is reauthorizing the Patriot Act.
------------------------------
One of my right-wing buddies sent me this. Although I don't always agree with him, it's pretty funny:
----------------------------
My wife asked me to do it doggie style.
So I chewed up the tissues and she ate the cat's food.
----------------------------
The differences in countries is sometimes strikingly apparent. Singapore's prime minister just released source code for his hand-coded Sudoko-solver. Barack Obama released a request for fast-track authority for a trade deal that no one is allowed to read.
-----------------------------
If you're from England, this headline proves somewhat important. If you're from anywhere else, it means something else. Labour shake-up: Leslie replaces Balls.
-----------------------------
Most of you know I'm familiar with a large number of interesting psych issues. Here's one we all missed: People who think they're made of glass.
-----------------------------
What do Kennedy, Hoover and Sinatra have in common? Read the twisted tale of Louie Louie.
-----------------------------
President Obama has chosen his hometown of Chicago as the location for his presidential library - the most transparent library in the world. Unfortunately, both books are classified so you can't read them.
-----------------------------
In the wake of the Baltimore lootings, Hillary Clinton has called for body cameras in every police department. Hey Hilly - how about body cameras for politicians?
-----------------------------
The gunman in the Mohammed cartoon attack in Texas was monitored by the FBI for years. See what happens when we give up our freedoms? Nothing. The attack was stopped by law-abiding citizens with guns. Remember this the next time you're taking off your shoes at the airport. Or when Congress is reauthorizing the Patriot Act.
------------------------------
One of my right-wing buddies sent me this. Although I don't always agree with him, it's pretty funny:
One day a fourth-grade teacher asked the children in her class what their mothers did for a living.
All the usual answers came up -- teacher, nurse, businesswoman, saleswoman, doctor, lawyer, and so forth.
However,
little Danny was being uncharacteristically quiet, so when the teacher
gently prodded him about his mother, He replied, "Well my mother's an
exotic dancer in a club and takes off all her clothes in front of men,
and they put money in her underwear. Sometimes, if the offer is really
good, she will go home with some guy and stay with him all night for
money."
The
teacher, obviously shaken by this bold statement, hurriedly set the
other children to work on some exercises and then took little Danny
aside to quietly ask him, "Is that really true about your mother, dear?"
Nope,"
the boy said, "She works for the Democratic National Committee and is
helping to get Hillary Clinton elected as the next President, ...but I
was just too embarrassed to say that In front of the other kids."
------------------------------
This week's musical selection comes to you courtesy of Led Zeppelin, called The Rain Song. This is a song that comes up in rotation on my phone and computer and never fails to evoke a certain emotional reaction. It starts with a really nice acoustic guitar (left), with an electric coming in on the other side. There's a brief slide there also. Your parents could listen to this too, as the strings come in for the instrumental verse section, which occurs pretty early for a rock tune.
Second verse, same as the first. Then the bridge, where it starts to get heavy. John Paul Jones is the MVP in this song, providing strings, piano and bass. In case you care, I believe the strings were courtesy of the mellotron.*
The end comes as it started, with electric and acoustic guitars only and some great delay for the last chord. Listen to this song and tell me it doesn't affect you.
Upon us all, just a little rain must fall.
*The best way to describe the mellotron is a keyboard instrument that plays a tape for each key/pitch.
This week's musical selection comes to you courtesy of Led Zeppelin, called The Rain Song. This is a song that comes up in rotation on my phone and computer and never fails to evoke a certain emotional reaction. It starts with a really nice acoustic guitar (left), with an electric coming in on the other side. There's a brief slide there also. Your parents could listen to this too, as the strings come in for the instrumental verse section, which occurs pretty early for a rock tune.
Second verse, same as the first. Then the bridge, where it starts to get heavy. John Paul Jones is the MVP in this song, providing strings, piano and bass. In case you care, I believe the strings were courtesy of the mellotron.*
The end comes as it started, with electric and acoustic guitars only and some great delay for the last chord. Listen to this song and tell me it doesn't affect you.
Upon us all, just a little rain must fall.
------------------------------------------------
*The best way to describe the mellotron is a keyboard instrument that plays a tape for each key/pitch.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Chicago, Chicago... it's a Wonderful Band
No matter how I tried, no matter how I used Official Phraseology, no matter how I financially justified, I could not stop my boss from sending me to Chicago.
But I don't like to travel....
But I've already been poorly trained on this...
But the company shoudn't waste their money...
But if I get near the TSA, I'm going to need bail money....
But since the boss asked nicely, I couldn't say no. Well, I could say no, but I like my job.
WHAT DO JEWISH WOMEN MAKE FOR DINNER? RESERVATIONS
I have traveled all over the country in very strange ways but never have I gone through the blood, sweat and tears required to simply make arrangements for a flight and hotel. My colleague had everything done for her via our employer. Because I'm a different class of employee, I had to make my own reservations. And when I say make my own reservations, I mean get all sorts of estimates and submit them, allowing my employer to decide which fit within the financial guidelines. My coworker got to stay in a really nice hotel, to which I was refused admittance, due to rate (although I suspect they didn't like my mustache). I booked a four star hotel via Travelocity, which, strangely enough, managed to look nothing like the rooms on their website. In fact, when I opened the door to my spacious suite, I immediately noticed that my room seemed to be missing half of its promised volume: it was a spacious closet with a king-size bed. And when I say spacious closet, it did not have a spacious closet, instead gracing me with a six-inch deep closet that required me to turn my jacket around so the door would close. But at least they had an iron. I knew I had arrived at my hotel when I noticed that the entrance was completely blocked by construction. This was to be a theme.
The room was on the 20th floor and featured a spectacular view of an alley. I dared not ask whose alley it was. I did get a spacious desk on which to work, featuring a chair that I suspect was older than me.
At the airports, I discovered there was a Qatar Airlines. It turns out they have no set destination: they go wherever they're hijacked to that day.
When friends and relatives ask me how Chicago was, I say "Windy". They're not kidding when they call it the Windy City. Because O'Hare Airport was designed by drunk monkeys, there was no way to get from my terminal to my coworker's terminal, so I had to walk a few city blocks outside. If the direction was away from the wind, I could have let it carry me there, but no, I had to walk Triple Uphill to locate the terminal. The nice policeman I asked looked really confused until his partner told me to go outside and walk a few blocks. This would not have mattered except Work Rules stated only my colleague could rent a car - I couldn't.
Chicago has all the charm of Center City Philadelphia, without the on-street parking. I don't know about the rest of Chicago but our section required a car or public transport to go anywhere, which then required parking. Parking cost a week's salary, but only if you stayed under thirty minutes. Anything over an hour required a title loan, which, oddly enough, one could obtain approximately every two blocks. In fact, you could not swing a dead cat without hitting a title place, a 7-11 or a Starbucks, most of which closed at six or seven, along with the restaurants. Because who wants to eat at a restaurant at six or seven anyway?
Chicago is also inordinately fascinated with the use of car horns. I truly believe that if a Chicago-an's car horn is broken, he can't drive. My colleague is from Texas and never hears car horns. Why? Guns.
If you can't afford parking, there's always the elevated train system, which is organized by colors. My local transport was the Brown Line, so called because riding on it causes you to poop yourself. But I kid... I only had to stand for thirty minutes to get to my destination, accompanied by a very talkative blonde, droning on about marketing to her frustrated coworker, who strained desperately to get a word or grunt in here or there. It was like being forced to listen to your great aunt talking to your grandmother about World War Two housing.
The reason I found myself on the Brown Line (if you didn't watch out, you'd wind up on the Red Line, or, heaven forbid, the Pink Line - with stops at all shoe stores, as well as the theater district), was to visit a guitar institution in Chicago - the Chicago Musical Exchange. After much complaining by the internal voices about not staying in, I found myself at the door. CME was blessed relief after years of shopping in Philly, the black hole of music and musical instruments. There were new guitars, used guitars, vintage guitars, amps and a ton of used and new pedals. There were guitars I had only heard of. It was a blast except for the fact that their lefty section was a bit anemic. It illustrated precisely why the Philly area is such a wasteland. As if that weren't enough, their sales staff knew what they were talking about!
THE TSA
Why haven't I flown since we bombed Iraq? Because of the TSA. There were work polls about whether or not I'd get held for Special Screening. I have to admit that the agents of the TSA were quite nice and practical. When I arrived at the line, they asked whether I would prefer the groping or the full cavity search. I went all-in, so to speak. You don't get that kind of courtesy at the DMV.
You have to take your shoes (sneakers) off, put your bag up and open your laptop. Then you go into the glass whirlwind room, where you stand there with your hands up (because you're being robbed) and some metal thingie moves around you, obviously to graph your tolerance to metal thingies moving around you. When you exit the phone booth, one of the nice, uniformed TSA people watches your image (while several others point and laugh), then it's off to the gate. Except in the case of my laptop, which they needed to sniff very closely, as the excess amount of dog hair obviously set something off. I asked what they were looking for and the fellow said powder. I assured him I couldn't afford that stuff and went about my business, cursing at a volume insufficient to trigger a Terrorist Alert. At no time did I yell 'SECURITY THEATER' or show them the Fourth Amendment I had tattooed upon my nether regions.
FLY BY NIGHT CAR RENTALS
As I mentioned, I wasn't allowed to rent a car, so my coworker and I went off to the rental place. We were greeted by some guy with teeth so white and so large, we were afraid that he would eat his own head at any moment. This does not surprise me, as a certain rental car company that I shall not name (but rhymes with Wenterprise) has the slimiest employees I have ever met. After the obligatory shaking of hands, I had to shower six times, with my clothes on. To be fair, everyone was polite and efficient, although it was amusing to watch two female employees fight over who had all the damn keys (for those of you playing along at home, it was Ashlee).
As we were in a foreign country (Chicago), we thought a GPS would be handy. Wenterprise thought so too, as they charged ten bucks per day to rent one. The GPS on my phone is so locked down I don't think I can ever enable it, so we decided on the rental GPS. That little Garmin did a wonderful job of getting us to the hotel. Unfortunately, it sucked at everything else. Hungry, we asked it what was nearby and selected BBQ. Off we went, to the closest BBQ place, until we discovered the highway was closed. The Garmin wouldn't take no for an answer, so we went to the next closest place. This place literally didn't exist. The third closest place was fifteen minutes down the road and had changed hands to become a greasy chicken joint. It took but a moment to figure out what was up here: there is no BBQ in Chicago - only a series of empty GPS promises to get you to visit non-BBQ restaurants.
After this great realization, we figured there would be more and better near the hotels. Boy were we wrong. We wound up at a burger place on the first floor of a high rise. As it turned out, everything is on the first floor of a high rise in Chicago, with the exception of a very scary round parking garage, in which you back up to the edge, presumably before plummeting twenty stories, ala Fast and Furious 26 and 1/2.
We quickly discovered that the Garmin was a tremendous tool, provided you didn't use it within ten miles of our hotels. We were making a right onto my street while the Garmin was telling us to go up a few blocks and turn on a different street. It would recalculate in the middle of a street. In the end I threatened to drop it from the Sears Tower and Wenterprise was nice enough to not charge us for it.
Speaking of modern appliances, I attempted to use several to locate a restaurant near our hotels, to which we could walk (coworker's hotel required 30 minutes' notice to fetch our car). I asked Yahoo Maps, which provided about 1500 restaurants, each of which were either too fancy, too expensive or too closed. They also had the audacity to refer to McDonalds and Popeyes as restaurants.
I don't travel well (or frequently), although you're probably wondering why. The wife and the dog came to pick me up at the airport, but neither would admit to driving. One of them also sat on my lap and licked my face all the way home but I'm going to let you guess which.
I leave you with this wonderful exchange I had with a stewardess:
HER: Warm nuts?
ME: Why yes, they are.
THIS WEEK'S TUNE
Friday, May 1, 2015
YOU - Get Outta the Box
For the longest time, I've seen online references to unboxing. As best I can tell, it's pictures or video of someone's new toy. Over at Reddit, I've seen a few unboxing pictures of guitar effects boxes and they bother the hell out of me. They're essentially pictures of the effect, sometimes with the box in which it came. And that's it.
I dunno about you but looking at a box then a product doesn't tell me a lot. I'm somewhat more interested in how the unit performs, even a subjective description. When I repond this way, I'm roundly shouted down (because apparently people like to look at boxes and pictures without descriptions).
Spurred on by my wife's recent acquisition of a Samsung G6 phone (don't ask what happened to the old phone), I've been looking into new cell phones. We have different carriers (of course we do - we're married) so the range of available phones is slightly different. My current phone is a Samsung Galaxy III, which is approximately as old as dirt (in cell phone years). This phone has performed admirably across the years but I'd like something a little bigger and with more horsepower under the figurative hood.
After a small amount of research (who the hell wants to do days of intensive research - we want it NOW!), it would appear my choices are the G6 (how cute - matching phones) or the Droid Turbo. The G6 is newer, full of bling and features not-so-hot battery life (barely 24 hours officially, less in real life). Furthermore, it has no additional SD slot or replaceable battery (shades of iDevices). The Turbo is actually a little larger and a bit heavier. This doesn't hold true at home, as someone (who shall remain nameless) purchased a phone cover with platinum-ish stone-looking protrusions on the rear, making it about as heavy as a Ford. The kids, as well as the mother-in-law, love it.
Continuing my reasearch, I located a genuine Droid Turbo Unboxing Video on YouTube. The fellow who was kind enough to share his observations started off by introducing himself, using a really Hip, Today Kinda Name that makes no sense but attempts to make his white self look more black. The screen consisted of two hands, gesticulating wildly. He starts off the 'content' section by picking up the black box containing the phone, commenting on how the box reminds him of older boxes for phones.
Seriously?
Seriously.
After this fascinating and enlightening commentary, Fly Boy actually opens the box. He takes out the phone and puts it aside, while moving on to the more interesting stuff: the charger and booklets. Eventually he gets around to picking the phone up and actually turning it on! And then he does what everybody expects: he ends the video.
That's right, you heard that right, the video is over.
This made me angry enough to kill puppies. I'm a pretty literal guy but an unboxing video is literally commenting on the box and taking out the item? And people watch this stuff! Are we too old to 'get' the internet? Someone please tell me this is a joke. Perhaps the sequel to this video features the host pulling the phone out of boxes made of different materials ("The phone definitely performs better when it comes from a cardboard box, as opposed to a plastic one").
Someone also please tell me if you have any recent experience with these or other cell phones. I hear good things about LG too but I don't think they're current.
--------------------------------------
Michael Moore just tweeted "Disarm the police". This is as brilliant a strategy as bringing order to Baltimore by hiring temporary police from the KKK.
I dunno about you but looking at a box then a product doesn't tell me a lot. I'm somewhat more interested in how the unit performs, even a subjective description. When I repond this way, I'm roundly shouted down (because apparently people like to look at boxes and pictures without descriptions).
Spurred on by my wife's recent acquisition of a Samsung G6 phone (don't ask what happened to the old phone), I've been looking into new cell phones. We have different carriers (of course we do - we're married) so the range of available phones is slightly different. My current phone is a Samsung Galaxy III, which is approximately as old as dirt (in cell phone years). This phone has performed admirably across the years but I'd like something a little bigger and with more horsepower under the figurative hood.
After a small amount of research (who the hell wants to do days of intensive research - we want it NOW!), it would appear my choices are the G6 (how cute - matching phones) or the Droid Turbo. The G6 is newer, full of bling and features not-so-hot battery life (barely 24 hours officially, less in real life). Furthermore, it has no additional SD slot or replaceable battery (shades of iDevices). The Turbo is actually a little larger and a bit heavier. This doesn't hold true at home, as someone (who shall remain nameless) purchased a phone cover with platinum-ish stone-looking protrusions on the rear, making it about as heavy as a Ford. The kids, as well as the mother-in-law, love it.
Continuing my reasearch, I located a genuine Droid Turbo Unboxing Video on YouTube. The fellow who was kind enough to share his observations started off by introducing himself, using a really Hip, Today Kinda Name that makes no sense but attempts to make his white self look more black. The screen consisted of two hands, gesticulating wildly. He starts off the 'content' section by picking up the black box containing the phone, commenting on how the box reminds him of older boxes for phones.
Seriously?
Seriously.
After this fascinating and enlightening commentary, Fly Boy actually opens the box. He takes out the phone and puts it aside, while moving on to the more interesting stuff: the charger and booklets. Eventually he gets around to picking the phone up and actually turning it on! And then he does what everybody expects: he ends the video.
That's right, you heard that right, the video is over.
This made me angry enough to kill puppies. I'm a pretty literal guy but an unboxing video is literally commenting on the box and taking out the item? And people watch this stuff! Are we too old to 'get' the internet? Someone please tell me this is a joke. Perhaps the sequel to this video features the host pulling the phone out of boxes made of different materials ("The phone definitely performs better when it comes from a cardboard box, as opposed to a plastic one").
Someone also please tell me if you have any recent experience with these or other cell phones. I hear good things about LG too but I don't think they're current.
--------------------------------------
Michael Moore just tweeted "Disarm the police". This is as brilliant a strategy as bringing order to Baltimore by hiring temporary police from the KKK.
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