I spring from a weird generation. They call us Gen X. We don't quite fit a mold, and yet, as times inexorably moves along, we are now being primed to take over for our predecessors. We are about to be handed the keys to the car...and our folks are more than a little nervous.
What about Gen X'ers defines us? Where do we largely fall politically? How does our education, socioeconomic stratification and collective "world view" make us ready to get our learner's permit to test drive the planet?
When Roger Daltrey song "My Generation", he was talking about the color-bursting, edge-pressing side of his generation...The Me Generation. The Baby Boomers. The Hippies that turned Yuppies that turned Reagan Republicans that turned into what they are now...very possibly the last recipients for Social Security. They are my parents, and a generation that had it tougher than I did, but not nearly as tough as the one that preceded them. That is, of course, the way it always works. But the Boomers had really big shoes to fill. Impossible, you might say, and perhaps that's why they never felt comfortable in their own skin. For all the growth and wealth and achievement the Boomer's felt, something was always missing.
I was born in the twilight of the Vietnam conflict. My Father served in the military. My uncle served in Vietnam. My maternal and paternal Grandfathers fought in World War II. I pay my deepest thanks and respect to those men and women who have given me the freedom to own a piece of the Internet where I can write nearly anything I choose without fear.
Gen X'ers always have had war, or conflict. So, in a way, did the Boomers. They were largely conceived in the shadows of Armistice Day, but were ushered into their teens in the backdrop of Korea, and bore the brunt of the horrors Vietnam produced. But when I say that my generation has always had conflict, I don't mean we had more wars or skirmishes in our youth to deal with than our parents and grandparents did...I mean that we saw it each and every day with our own eyes. And got kind of sadly used to it.
It strikes me that the two generations of Americans that fought hardest to preserve our freedoms and maintain peace for their own children were the same bright minds that invented all the channels by which war and starvation, slavery and brutality are now shown to us via television, movies and the Internet all 24 hours of any given day. Perhaps it was meant to be, that for future kids to understand the freedoms they take for granted, the spoken or written word was never enough. Filmmakers had to generate hours of footage, re-create those images into the scores of movies, documentaries television mini-series, books and video games that remind the viewer of what happened.
Now, with the Internet, you can watch war any time you like. You can see murder and brutality any time you like. You can witness oppression whenever the mood strikes you. I'm numb. We're numb. My Father had to be told what it was like by his own Father and their friends.
We have Afghanistan. Iraq parts I and II. Homeland terrorism, and hot spots around the globe that flare up all the time. There are certain to be places we are fighting that you and I aren't even supposed to know about. We have the threat of Kim Jong Il. We have the insanity spewing from Ahmadinejad. We have little Hitlers challenging us to an arm wrestling match every morning for breakfast. We're numb. We don't get it.
We don't know how scary it must have felt to get on a ship, and have no idea where in the world we were headed. To never have heard the words Guadalcanal or Okinawa or Hiroshima. The world was massive back when my Grandfathers were handed the keys. It was HUGE.
Now, my kids can watch a border skirmish in Dar fur on a web cam. They can see troops patrolling the dunes in Kabul with a mouse click. Totally numb.
The Boomers are handing us their own modified, souped up version of the keys to the world. It's a lot smaller now, and fits in your hand. It's easy to start, self-navigating and can parallel park itself. So you wouldn't think we'd be able to screw it up...but we might. If we don't hold on to some of the basics and remember from where we came, we might. Happy Memorial Day. Do yourself a favor and call or seek out a vet from WWII today and listen in for a while. I'm lucky enough to be able to call my Grandpa, and I plan to.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
(Not at all) Sad
Forgive my overstating the importance of a stupid concert from last week, but I memorialize May 3rd, 2010 for my own bad memory, the memory of my kid down the line, and my own Dad who wants to know how it went...
The KC Pearl Jam Review Slash-Blog-Slash Best Concert of My Life Blog
I was really nervous, which is saying something because I never get uptight about anything (Insert M*A*S*H* canned laughter) let alone about how this experience would "go" for me and the boy.
Bear in mind that I'd just paid for his first stick of deodorant about 10 days before...at his request.
Bear in mind that I am an idiot compared to other people on this planet that know about cool things, music and fun.
So, I was nervous that I would embarrass the hell out of Sam and push a "great time" on him and force laughter and act way too cool and just blow the whole thing...well, because that's what you do as a Dad.
We both put on concert t-shirts (with long sleeve undershirt). It was instinct. Nobody mentioned it. You don't talk about things like that, you simply let it ride.
We drove to the Sprint Center with my I-Pod on full Pearl Jam mode...him driving (the song selection) and me allowing him to drive. He did a good job. He mixed it up, moving from "Daughter" to "Amongst the Waves" and collapsing with "Red Mosquito" at 20th and Grand.
We argued (philosophically) about the first song we thought they'd play as we sauntered about the spring/city/evening traffic. He voted for "Sad" which he knows is my favorite song they ever wrote, and it hit me then like a frickin Mack truck...This kid was listening to me at some point in his life. We have contentious times. He doesn't always like me, but...he gives a shit about my opinion. He cares about the old man a little bit. We...are...friends?
I played that song for him two years ago. Found it on an AOL sessions website that captured some great studio time on giant Persian rugs with all of the band playing surrounded by about 95 guitars and no audience. It's real and raw and right here if you want to watch it. It remains a favorite place of mine to visit in ye olde cyberspace if I'm searching out a place to feel right.
Anyway, I shared that video with Sam a while ago and he asked me later why it wasn't in my ITunes library.
I had no good answer. After all, it was my "favorite song".
He got an ITunes gift card for his birthday and dropped 99 cents of it on me one night. He burned the single song CD for me. He gives a shit what I say. We're buds.
We parked at the Cashew (you know, for the free parking) and jogged to make the opening act. I think I felt as alive and ready at that moment as I have in a long time when it came to being a Father... simply because I was back in control and not being guided by anything other than a desire to make that moment happen without pretense. It was like his birth. Ironic and contradictory though it sounds.
We fought the dopies and moshers in the halls with joy. Every person we saw was a freak and a brother. They all had the same love for the place they were in as we did. Sam took all of it in stride...the swearing, stammering, crowding, screaming, beer spilling and the grinning. I saw it in his eyes that he got it. He knew that this was an exception to the norm...that this was an adventure to soak in.
This was a pool to not fear swimming in.
These were people that would never laugh at his dance moves.
We tried to buy a $3 poster before the show got underway but missed out. It was ideal (price for me and longingly viewed by him as we passed it on display) for us all, but ultimately, I couldn't pay the drunkest guy on the concourse 10 bucks for the same cardboard tube the vendor sold out of- so we decided that souvenirs were not part of the plan.
Seats...great. View of the stage...great. Opening act (Band of Horses)...great. Anticipation...great. The feeling we shared when the lights dimmed and the bass start to hum was just marvelous.
They played for two and a half hours and honestly never let up from the minute they took the stage except to reload on water or wine or a smoke. They played everything in the arsenal. It was so great. I don't even want to ruin how terrific that show was by trying to over-talk it.
We left with our ears ringing and heads spinning from the dopey behind us with the one-hitter who couldn't stand up. Sam knew what all the chaos was, whether he understood the delivery method or the brazen smokey discord that surrounded him. We took it all in stride and and I kept watching his eyes. They were fixed on the stage. On the way out of the front door I proudly invested in a tour t-shirt for him.
As we got close to the car, he asked me why they didn't play "Sad".
I didn't have an answer for him, but I definitely wasn't sad they hadn't. It was the best concert I ever saw.
The KC Pearl Jam Review Slash-Blog-Slash Best Concert of My Life Blog
I was really nervous, which is saying something because I never get uptight about anything (Insert M*A*S*H* canned laughter) let alone about how this experience would "go" for me and the boy.
Bear in mind that I'd just paid for his first stick of deodorant about 10 days before...at his request.
Bear in mind that I am an idiot compared to other people on this planet that know about cool things, music and fun.
So, I was nervous that I would embarrass the hell out of Sam and push a "great time" on him and force laughter and act way too cool and just blow the whole thing...well, because that's what you do as a Dad.
We both put on concert t-shirts (with long sleeve undershirt). It was instinct. Nobody mentioned it. You don't talk about things like that, you simply let it ride.
We drove to the Sprint Center with my I-Pod on full Pearl Jam mode...him driving (the song selection) and me allowing him to drive. He did a good job. He mixed it up, moving from "Daughter" to "Amongst the Waves" and collapsing with "Red Mosquito" at 20th and Grand.
We argued (philosophically) about the first song we thought they'd play as we sauntered about the spring/city/evening traffic. He voted for "Sad" which he knows is my favorite song they ever wrote, and it hit me then like a frickin Mack truck...This kid was listening to me at some point in his life. We have contentious times. He doesn't always like me, but...he gives a shit about my opinion. He cares about the old man a little bit. We...are...friends?
I played that song for him two years ago. Found it on an AOL sessions website that captured some great studio time on giant Persian rugs with all of the band playing surrounded by about 95 guitars and no audience. It's real and raw and right here if you want to watch it. It remains a favorite place of mine to visit in ye olde cyberspace if I'm searching out a place to feel right.
Anyway, I shared that video with Sam a while ago and he asked me later why it wasn't in my ITunes library.
I had no good answer. After all, it was my "favorite song".
He got an ITunes gift card for his birthday and dropped 99 cents of it on me one night. He burned the single song CD for me. He gives a shit what I say. We're buds.
We parked at the Cashew (you know, for the free parking) and jogged to make the opening act. I think I felt as alive and ready at that moment as I have in a long time when it came to being a Father... simply because I was back in control and not being guided by anything other than a desire to make that moment happen without pretense. It was like his birth. Ironic and contradictory though it sounds.
We fought the dopies and moshers in the halls with joy. Every person we saw was a freak and a brother. They all had the same love for the place they were in as we did. Sam took all of it in stride...the swearing, stammering, crowding, screaming, beer spilling and the grinning. I saw it in his eyes that he got it. He knew that this was an exception to the norm...that this was an adventure to soak in.
This was a pool to not fear swimming in.
These were people that would never laugh at his dance moves.
We tried to buy a $3 poster before the show got underway but missed out. It was ideal (price for me and longingly viewed by him as we passed it on display) for us all, but ultimately, I couldn't pay the drunkest guy on the concourse 10 bucks for the same cardboard tube the vendor sold out of- so we decided that souvenirs were not part of the plan.
Seats...great. View of the stage...great. Opening act (Band of Horses)...great. Anticipation...great. The feeling we shared when the lights dimmed and the bass start to hum was just marvelous.
They played for two and a half hours and honestly never let up from the minute they took the stage except to reload on water or wine or a smoke. They played everything in the arsenal. It was so great. I don't even want to ruin how terrific that show was by trying to over-talk it.
We left with our ears ringing and heads spinning from the dopey behind us with the one-hitter who couldn't stand up. Sam knew what all the chaos was, whether he understood the delivery method or the brazen smokey discord that surrounded him. We took it all in stride and and I kept watching his eyes. They were fixed on the stage. On the way out of the front door I proudly invested in a tour t-shirt for him.
As we got close to the car, he asked me why they didn't play "Sad".
I didn't have an answer for him, but I definitely wasn't sad they hadn't. It was the best concert I ever saw.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I parted, and it was worth it.
So last night, I buzzed on over to the 75th street brewery wearing a blaze orange "golf" shirt I bought at TJ Maxx (where you get the max for the minimum) for about $7 and I sent an email to some person I'd never met and told him/her that I'd be at the bar wearing an orange golf shirt. My phone hummed a couple of times and the email reply came, "See you there."
It could have been that creepy dude from Dateline waltzing in with cameras blazing.
It could have been my next door neighbor.
It could have been some 80 year old feller with metal hips. I didn't know.
Maybe it was gonna be 25 kids with billy clubs come rushing at me to steal the $170 bucks and go wilding.
Maybe...just maybe, it would be Jen Aniston.
But whoever it was that agreed to meet me, sight unseen, in a local brewery to exchange a hundred and seventy smackers for two tickets to see Pearl Jam next week would know my shirt color and name...and I would not know theirs. It dawned on me that I'd tipped my hand. This person could order a beer, spot me from across the room and have a little fun. They could send me another email and watch me open it. It could say, "You said orange. That's not orange. This deal is dead." Then, they could watch me look at my shirt and swear at my phone, and text back, "Ok, burnt TJ Maxx Orange." They could make me wait since they had hand and I had zilch. They were up one with none to play.
But instead, old Joe strode up. He tapped me on the shoulder (see: scared the shit out of me) and called me by name with a hearty handshake. It occurred to me that I could get even with this guy if I just stared at him and said, "No, my name is Stacy," and then went back to staring at the Royals blowout on the flat screen behind the bar (8-1 loss to the less pathetic Jays.)
We exchanged pleasantries, then some Larry David deep-eye stares to affirm trust levels and some careful perusing of the merch. He wanted more than ever in his life to own a counterfeit pen, and I wanted the number to Ticketmaster Fraud department. We settled for the handshake and each other's new found enjoyment of Band of Horses (the opener) to serve as proof that the transaction was cool.
I parted with $170, and it was worth it. I get to take my teetering-on-the-edge-of-puberty first born son to see Pearl Jam in two weeks. I'm horrendously cheap, so this was a big deal for me. I tried winning tickets on 96.5 The Buzz for almost 58 straight hours when they went on sale, but couldn't channel the luck and wisdom of Sgt. Todd B. Hays to assist me in that attempt. I tried throwing the Facebook status post of "Looking for PJ tickets!" in the hope some lovely friend would giggle and retort.."I like this...thumbs up! And, I have two tickets I won't use! Come get them!"
Nothing worked. Eventually I broke down and helped churn the American system of bartering and trading, commodities and exchanges, haves and have not's, and ticket mastering come to full circle. I moved the dial on Wall Street and coughed up real dough for something I didn't need. Write it down. The Recession is over...I used Craigslist.
I love a lot of bands. I really, really love music. I can't honestly go very long without humming or singing something or listening day-long to my Ipod really quiet. I wake up with some song in my head every single morning. When the a.m. shower time rolls 'round, I'm trying hard to sing "Sweet Caroline" out loud just to shake whatever other tune has been crammed in my cranium.
I really love Pearl Jam.
I know they're too commercial for some people. They're too liberal for others. They're over-rated. They're undershaven. They're past their prime. They peaked at Ten. I don't really care about all that.
They lived my life with me. They played for multiple bands in the mid to late 80's and early 90's. They collaborated and sent me Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, Mad Season and ultimately, a refined version of Mookie Blaylock. They matured as I matured. They screamed and leaped and threw shit as I did. They grew hair and wore flannel and lost hair and got glasses when I did. They got married and got smarter and chose a path when I started to reckon.
Luckily for me, both of my boys allow me to over fill them with my love for Pearl Jam. They scream the line "I just want to scream, Hello!" during E.W.B.A.C.I.A.S.T and they savor the simplicity of Vedder's solo pluckings on "Rise" and "Soon Forget" when Eddie has only a ukulele and his heart. You may know the former now if you watch Discovery Channel have seen the promo for the new season of Deadliest Catch.
I simply can't imagine a life where one day I look at my kid and say, "I was going to take you to see Pearl Jam when you were 12. But, it didn't work out. "
You might as well throw in, "So, how's prison?" at the end of that statement as much as I'm sure I'd have failed him as a Dad. See, it wasn't just to churn the Ticketmaster circle of life or to re-awaken Wall Street that I parted with the cash...
It was to keep Sam out of jail. And it was well worth it.
It could have been that creepy dude from Dateline waltzing in with cameras blazing.
It could have been my next door neighbor.
It could have been some 80 year old feller with metal hips. I didn't know.
Maybe it was gonna be 25 kids with billy clubs come rushing at me to steal the $170 bucks and go wilding.
Maybe...just maybe, it would be Jen Aniston.
But whoever it was that agreed to meet me, sight unseen, in a local brewery to exchange a hundred and seventy smackers for two tickets to see Pearl Jam next week would know my shirt color and name...and I would not know theirs. It dawned on me that I'd tipped my hand. This person could order a beer, spot me from across the room and have a little fun. They could send me another email and watch me open it. It could say, "You said orange. That's not orange. This deal is dead." Then, they could watch me look at my shirt and swear at my phone, and text back, "Ok, burnt TJ Maxx Orange." They could make me wait since they had hand and I had zilch. They were up one with none to play.
But instead, old Joe strode up. He tapped me on the shoulder (see: scared the shit out of me) and called me by name with a hearty handshake. It occurred to me that I could get even with this guy if I just stared at him and said, "No, my name is Stacy," and then went back to staring at the Royals blowout on the flat screen behind the bar (8-1 loss to the less pathetic Jays.)
We exchanged pleasantries, then some Larry David deep-eye stares to affirm trust levels and some careful perusing of the merch. He wanted more than ever in his life to own a counterfeit pen, and I wanted the number to Ticketmaster Fraud department. We settled for the handshake and each other's new found enjoyment of Band of Horses (the opener) to serve as proof that the transaction was cool.
I parted with $170, and it was worth it. I get to take my teetering-on-the-edge-of-puberty first born son to see Pearl Jam in two weeks. I'm horrendously cheap, so this was a big deal for me. I tried winning tickets on 96.5 The Buzz for almost 58 straight hours when they went on sale, but couldn't channel the luck and wisdom of Sgt. Todd B. Hays to assist me in that attempt. I tried throwing the Facebook status post of "Looking for PJ tickets!" in the hope some lovely friend would giggle and retort.."I like this...thumbs up! And, I have two tickets I won't use! Come get them!"
Nothing worked. Eventually I broke down and helped churn the American system of bartering and trading, commodities and exchanges, haves and have not's, and ticket mastering come to full circle. I moved the dial on Wall Street and coughed up real dough for something I didn't need. Write it down. The Recession is over...I used Craigslist.
I love a lot of bands. I really, really love music. I can't honestly go very long without humming or singing something or listening day-long to my Ipod really quiet. I wake up with some song in my head every single morning. When the a.m. shower time rolls 'round, I'm trying hard to sing "Sweet Caroline" out loud just to shake whatever other tune has been crammed in my cranium.
I really love Pearl Jam.
I know they're too commercial for some people. They're too liberal for others. They're over-rated. They're undershaven. They're past their prime. They peaked at Ten. I don't really care about all that.
They lived my life with me. They played for multiple bands in the mid to late 80's and early 90's. They collaborated and sent me Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, Mad Season and ultimately, a refined version of Mookie Blaylock. They matured as I matured. They screamed and leaped and threw shit as I did. They grew hair and wore flannel and lost hair and got glasses when I did. They got married and got smarter and chose a path when I started to reckon.
Luckily for me, both of my boys allow me to over fill them with my love for Pearl Jam. They scream the line "I just want to scream, Hello!" during E.W.B.A.C.I.A.S.T and they savor the simplicity of Vedder's solo pluckings on "Rise" and "Soon Forget" when Eddie has only a ukulele and his heart. You may know the former now if you watch Discovery Channel have seen the promo for the new season of Deadliest Catch.
I simply can't imagine a life where one day I look at my kid and say, "I was going to take you to see Pearl Jam when you were 12. But, it didn't work out. "
You might as well throw in, "So, how's prison?" at the end of that statement as much as I'm sure I'd have failed him as a Dad. See, it wasn't just to churn the Ticketmaster circle of life or to re-awaken Wall Street that I parted with the cash...
It was to keep Sam out of jail. And it was well worth it.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Recipe for Happiness
What exactly constitutes a "good day"?
Humans ask each other, "How was your day?" every single day. Not a day goes by that someone doesn't reply..."I had a good day." It's almost as bad as asking, "How are you?" without really wanting an answer...
My favorite answers to the BS version of the question, "How are you?"
-"I'm on the right side of the dirt."
-"If I was any better I'd punch you in the mouth. Lucky for you I'm just OK."
-"I am depressed and angry. Do you have fifteen minutes? It started when I was twelve and I visited my Uncle's farm..."
Sometimes I'd much prefer to reply to "How was your day?" with...
"Rot in hell. Go eat a fern and quit smiling."
"You don't really care at all, I can tell by the way you haven't even looked up from your meatloaf."
"Just give me my groceries, Wanda...Cashier with 3 Years of Service."
"My day was loaded with disappointment and trimmed with chaos. Can I get a family size pepperoni and a side of shut-up-and-make-my-pizza?"
I never do this, partly because its rude to be honest with people. There's also the commonly held notion that a meaningless icebreaker question or interruption of silence between strangers should be dealt with in the most pleasant way. Like pretending to be on your phone in a really important conversation as you pass a panhandler on a crowded street...
Panhandler (spots you from 100 yards and stares, then walks toward you)...
You (Answering a "call" from a dying friend): "Hi Leroy...how the heck are you? I heard you were terribly sick!!" (loud)
Panhandler: "Tryin' to make a down payment on a cheeseburger...can you help me out?"
You: (Pointing to the phone with an expression of, "I would but I'm on a really important phone call with my dying best friend.."): "Sorry friend! God bless!"
Magically, your friend is cured 15 feet later and just in time for you to go shopping for a book at Barnes and Noble. You weren't rude...just not in the mood.
But what happens when you have a truly, authentically, unforeseen and wholly unexpected Good Day? How can you capture this feeling and replay it for someone without being drippy or sounding disingenuous? How often does is even happen??
Ice Cube laid out a good day in song once. It included getting high, not getting shot and hanging out. For Bill Gates or Alan Greenspan, that would not be a good day. But for a kid from Compton...pretty good. If Greenspan even owned an AK, it would not be a very good day. So you see, a good day is clearly in the eye of the beholder.
If Lebron James scores 11 points in front of 10,000 people and gets paid $145,000 for the effort, he would get booed off the court. He would have to answer questions about his mediocre day for hours after the game. He would spend the rest of the evening hearing it from his teammates.
If Fennis Dembo could un-retire and score 11 points in front of 10,000 people and get a check for $145,000...that would be a good day. Ya'll Wyoming folks know what I'm talkin about.
I had a good day today. It wouldn't pass as a good day for Carlos Santana or Martha Stewart, but it was a good day. I wanted to tell you about it because I realized that they just don't happen very often once I gave it some thought. Every day is not a highlight reel for most people. Every day is boring. Sometimes, every day is like Sunday and everything is silent and gray. But once in a while, you simply beg with your eyes for someone to ask how your day was, so that you can explode on them with your joy. It doesn't have to entail a visit from the Publisher's Clearinghouse or Shakira's car breaking down in your driveway, either. Sometimes a good day can spring from simply achieving what you set out to achieve.
When you get up tomorrow and look at your to-do list, go ahead and erase it and put your clothes on backward. Take an alternative route to the office and call your Aunt Judy for no reason. Fix that damn garage door handle and spring for lunch for a total stranger. Make a big deal out of how nice your spouse looks, and hug your kids extra hard. Take your neighbor's newspaper up to their front door and change a light bulb in your basement that you've intended to change since August.
Whatever you do...do it because it makes you feel good and because it needs to get done and it benefits someone else as well. Then, and maybe only then, you can gush about what a great day you had. If that doesn't pan out, just keep faking it with the kid at Papa Murphy's.
Humans ask each other, "How was your day?" every single day. Not a day goes by that someone doesn't reply..."I had a good day." It's almost as bad as asking, "How are you?" without really wanting an answer...
My favorite answers to the BS version of the question, "How are you?"
-"I'm on the right side of the dirt."
-"If I was any better I'd punch you in the mouth. Lucky for you I'm just OK."
-"I am depressed and angry. Do you have fifteen minutes? It started when I was twelve and I visited my Uncle's farm..."
Sometimes I'd much prefer to reply to "How was your day?" with...
"Rot in hell. Go eat a fern and quit smiling."
"You don't really care at all, I can tell by the way you haven't even looked up from your meatloaf."
"Just give me my groceries, Wanda...Cashier with 3 Years of Service."
"My day was loaded with disappointment and trimmed with chaos. Can I get a family size pepperoni and a side of shut-up-and-make-my-pizza?"
I never do this, partly because its rude to be honest with people. There's also the commonly held notion that a meaningless icebreaker question or interruption of silence between strangers should be dealt with in the most pleasant way. Like pretending to be on your phone in a really important conversation as you pass a panhandler on a crowded street...
Panhandler (spots you from 100 yards and stares, then walks toward you)...
You (Answering a "call" from a dying friend): "Hi Leroy...how the heck are you? I heard you were terribly sick!!" (loud)
Panhandler: "Tryin' to make a down payment on a cheeseburger...can you help me out?"
You: (Pointing to the phone with an expression of, "I would but I'm on a really important phone call with my dying best friend.."): "Sorry friend! God bless!"
Magically, your friend is cured 15 feet later and just in time for you to go shopping for a book at Barnes and Noble. You weren't rude...just not in the mood.
But what happens when you have a truly, authentically, unforeseen and wholly unexpected Good Day? How can you capture this feeling and replay it for someone without being drippy or sounding disingenuous? How often does is even happen??
Ice Cube laid out a good day in song once. It included getting high, not getting shot and hanging out. For Bill Gates or Alan Greenspan, that would not be a good day. But for a kid from Compton...pretty good. If Greenspan even owned an AK, it would not be a very good day. So you see, a good day is clearly in the eye of the beholder.
If Lebron James scores 11 points in front of 10,000 people and gets paid $145,000 for the effort, he would get booed off the court. He would have to answer questions about his mediocre day for hours after the game. He would spend the rest of the evening hearing it from his teammates.
If Fennis Dembo could un-retire and score 11 points in front of 10,000 people and get a check for $145,000...that would be a good day. Ya'll Wyoming folks know what I'm talkin about.
I had a good day today. It wouldn't pass as a good day for Carlos Santana or Martha Stewart, but it was a good day. I wanted to tell you about it because I realized that they just don't happen very often once I gave it some thought. Every day is not a highlight reel for most people. Every day is boring. Sometimes, every day is like Sunday and everything is silent and gray. But once in a while, you simply beg with your eyes for someone to ask how your day was, so that you can explode on them with your joy. It doesn't have to entail a visit from the Publisher's Clearinghouse or Shakira's car breaking down in your driveway, either. Sometimes a good day can spring from simply achieving what you set out to achieve.
When you get up tomorrow and look at your to-do list, go ahead and erase it and put your clothes on backward. Take an alternative route to the office and call your Aunt Judy for no reason. Fix that damn garage door handle and spring for lunch for a total stranger. Make a big deal out of how nice your spouse looks, and hug your kids extra hard. Take your neighbor's newspaper up to their front door and change a light bulb in your basement that you've intended to change since August.
Whatever you do...do it because it makes you feel good and because it needs to get done and it benefits someone else as well. Then, and maybe only then, you can gush about what a great day you had. If that doesn't pan out, just keep faking it with the kid at Papa Murphy's.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A Lottery Dreamblog
I need to put this all down before I forget...it's been an absolutely crazy day and if I don't pen the plan, I'm gonna explode. This is a big week, and everything needs to go off right.
Tomorrow is Monday, and I get my big oversized check (I actually got and spent most of the money last week) down at Sprint Center. Tickets to the event went on sale this morning and were gone by noon...even at a hundred bucks a pop. Nobody wants to see me get my check for $113 million (lump sum after taxes) bad enough to pay...but I had the idea to hold a Haiti benefit concert at the same time and U2 were kind enough to headline. I was a little shocked that Pearl Jam agreed to open for them, but it substantiated the ticket price. Their decision to tour the States together this summer was theirs, though I might have suggested it to Bono and Eddie over drinks Saturday at The Well. (Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.) I gladly took them up on the offer to tag along with them, and my kids needed some additional music lessons anyway, so they'll spend the summer with Edge and Mike McCready on the road.
After the show I've got to beat feet for LA to do the Conan O'Brien show's first official FOX taping. He's a good dude, Conan, even letting me bring my co-workers. They're friends of Coco from way back, and it was their writing letter campaign alongside my "donation" to Rupert Murdoch that got the show back on the air. I understand Conan's desire to make a splash with the first show-and believe me, I'm humbled to be considered for a quick spot at all-but I'm afraid it might get dicey having Leno and Letterman on the couch at the same time. I'm just glad the audience will have already enjoyed the the newly reunited Led Zeppelin three song set in case Jay and Dave get cold feet.
Tuesday starts in the air as we leave L.A. and head to Colorado to meet all my western friends and family for a quick house hunting get together. Looking for something spacious in the Denver area...might have to "settle" for Aspen. There should be around 200 of us searching for the Colorado palace and doing lunch somewhere in the mountains until about 2:00. Once I pay for the house, we head to Arizona to get the winter retreat picked out. I talked to United and they agreed to just take all of us on a DC-10 for the week (so if your reading this, pack your bags!) Kind of random that Captain Sullenberger will be our pilot for the week...but hey, life is weird that way.
Tuesday night we've got the Super Bowl at Cardinals Stadium. Well, not the actual Super bowl, but the mother of all Super Bowls. One of my buddies dreamed this up the day my winning numbers got pulled. He suggested that I use some of the cash to entice all my childhood heroes out of retirement to play in one last game...split them into equal teams
and hire John Madden and Erin Andrews to call the thing. Murdoch helped finance, and after my Executive Producer cut, I'll recoup the ten million I invested in the idea and make ten million more off my share of the TV revenues. FOX is having a nice little week, too. Simon Cowell is our sideline reporter and apparently has never seen a football game, so it should be sweet. Elway versus Montana...Deion Sanders matches up against Jerry Rice...you get the picture. They'll all be there. None of them even flinched at the stipulation that they go 100% or get benched. I'm pumped.
Wednesday, the entourage heads to the Keefolympics in Vancouver. We had the IOC leave everything intact following the games. I just figured people would have a good time trying each of the events. I'm looking forward to ski jumping and luge. The Boblsed has a long sign up list...as does curling. Budweiser agreed to cater the whole week as long as they could be the title sponsor for the curling match (we're having it televised since it's Fergie's favorite sport and she's tagging along for the day and then doing a show Wednesday night). I'm not sure if my Laramie/Casper friends are ready for my KC friends or the level of competition the curling match up will provide, but we'll figure it out. We're also going to have a Cornhole/Bags tournament televised around lunch on CBS. Nantz is a huge bag-tosser and graciously accepted the Captain spot for one team since it will pit him against Bobby Knight on the other side. ESPN is pissed they couldn't get a piece of the action. they wanted to call it the "Fergalympics". Lame.
Thursday is a more somber day. We fly to Haiti and work all day...it's not much, but we'll have raised 50 million plus from the concert, legalized book betting on the Super Bowl and Keefolympics action (I negotiated a 20% take from Steve Wynn) and we need to spend it quickly, efficiently and in person. The 150 orphans we've rescued will be flown to their new homes by Captain Sullenberger next week.
Friday we head to Hawaii for some R&R. This time we've opened it up to more friends and family, and United agreed to lend us three jets. We land and hook up with Dog the Bounty Hunter for a quickie demonstration and then reunite with Eddie Vedder for a morning surf. The Radiohead concert is our lunch entertainment (even though Thom Yorke isn't much of a sunbather) set against the fading sun on Waikiki beach. Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews round out the night show. They're touring in celebration of the Marijuana Legalization Act of 2010. I don't smoke it, but I talked to some people on behalf of some friends and, BAM! Next thing you know, the bill becomes a law. I had no idea the power of a little Washington grift. I just got a text from Mathematician Malcolm Gladwell...it says, "Crime dwn 85% after passing the MLA bill. U were rite. Gd jb!"
Saturday it's the big finale...back to the Sprint Center for the celebration of the return of our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. All of downtown KC is being cornered off for the parade from the Wheeler airport to the Sprint Center. The White House will be there, of course, along with anyone wanting to celebrate International Peace Day. I'm still amazed how paying 5 million to Dog the Bounty Hunter yielded such quick results in capturing Bin Laden. It was over in 2 days and worth every penny. Hell, he gave the money to the New Orleans rebuild project anyway, so it was a double win. What a joke of an organization the Al-Queda turned out to be...cut off the head and the rest die like roaches. Mass suicide is never pretty, but at least they didn't take anyone with them. In less than a week, Bagdhad has become the new Prague. Airlines can't spend the tourist-flared dollars fast enough to remove seats and make their planes more comfortable to accommodate the demand for now-safe international travel.
Now that unemployment is less than 1% world wide, Sunday will be a day of total rest in order to get everyone recovered for the return to the workplace Monday. Some attribute the meteoric rise in new industry to the Bin Laden capture. Fear disintegrated, people started looking around and getting off their ass. Travel skyrocketed, the tourism industries of the world swelled and needed workers and the dominoes fell fast. Stocks rose, governments stopped bailing, banks started repaying, taxes decreased, jobs sprung out of the ground. What a great week the economic recovery was. It's nice. People are happy again.
I need stop by Quick Trip on my way to work Monday to get another Powerball ticket since we haven't solved the energy crisis yet. Don't let me forget...I have a busy week.
Tomorrow is Monday, and I get my big oversized check (I actually got and spent most of the money last week) down at Sprint Center. Tickets to the event went on sale this morning and were gone by noon...even at a hundred bucks a pop. Nobody wants to see me get my check for $113 million (lump sum after taxes) bad enough to pay...but I had the idea to hold a Haiti benefit concert at the same time and U2 were kind enough to headline. I was a little shocked that Pearl Jam agreed to open for them, but it substantiated the ticket price. Their decision to tour the States together this summer was theirs, though I might have suggested it to Bono and Eddie over drinks Saturday at The Well. (Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.) I gladly took them up on the offer to tag along with them, and my kids needed some additional music lessons anyway, so they'll spend the summer with Edge and Mike McCready on the road.
After the show I've got to beat feet for LA to do the Conan O'Brien show's first official FOX taping. He's a good dude, Conan, even letting me bring my co-workers. They're friends of Coco from way back, and it was their writing letter campaign alongside my "donation" to Rupert Murdoch that got the show back on the air. I understand Conan's desire to make a splash with the first show-and believe me, I'm humbled to be considered for a quick spot at all-but I'm afraid it might get dicey having Leno and Letterman on the couch at the same time. I'm just glad the audience will have already enjoyed the the newly reunited Led Zeppelin three song set in case Jay and Dave get cold feet.
Tuesday starts in the air as we leave L.A. and head to Colorado to meet all my western friends and family for a quick house hunting get together. Looking for something spacious in the Denver area...might have to "settle" for Aspen. There should be around 200 of us searching for the Colorado palace and doing lunch somewhere in the mountains until about 2:00. Once I pay for the house, we head to Arizona to get the winter retreat picked out. I talked to United and they agreed to just take all of us on a DC-10 for the week (so if your reading this, pack your bags!) Kind of random that Captain Sullenberger will be our pilot for the week...but hey, life is weird that way.
Tuesday night we've got the Super Bowl at Cardinals Stadium. Well, not the actual Super bowl, but the mother of all Super Bowls. One of my buddies dreamed this up the day my winning numbers got pulled. He suggested that I use some of the cash to entice all my childhood heroes out of retirement to play in one last game...split them into equal teams
and hire John Madden and Erin Andrews to call the thing. Murdoch helped finance, and after my Executive Producer cut, I'll recoup the ten million I invested in the idea and make ten million more off my share of the TV revenues. FOX is having a nice little week, too. Simon Cowell is our sideline reporter and apparently has never seen a football game, so it should be sweet. Elway versus Montana...Deion Sanders matches up against Jerry Rice...you get the picture. They'll all be there. None of them even flinched at the stipulation that they go 100% or get benched. I'm pumped.Wednesday, the entourage heads to the Keefolympics in Vancouver. We had the IOC leave everything intact following the games. I just figured people would have a good time trying each of the events. I'm looking forward to ski jumping and luge. The Boblsed has a long sign up list...as does curling. Budweiser agreed to cater the whole week as long as they could be the title sponsor for the curling match (we're having it televised since it's Fergie's favorite sport and she's tagging along for the day and then doing a show Wednesday night). I'm not sure if my Laramie/Casper friends are ready for my KC friends or the level of competition the curling match up will provide, but we'll figure it out. We're also going to have a Cornhole/Bags tournament televised around lunch on CBS. Nantz is a huge bag-tosser and graciously accepted the Captain spot for one team since it will pit him against Bobby Knight on the other side. ESPN is pissed they couldn't get a piece of the action. they wanted to call it the "Fergalympics". Lame.
Thursday is a more somber day. We fly to Haiti and work all day...it's not much, but we'll have raised 50 million plus from the concert, legalized book betting on the Super Bowl and Keefolympics action (I negotiated a 20% take from Steve Wynn) and we need to spend it quickly, efficiently and in person. The 150 orphans we've rescued will be flown to their new homes by Captain Sullenberger next week.
Friday we head to Hawaii for some R&R. This time we've opened it up to more friends and family, and United agreed to lend us three jets. We land and hook up with Dog the Bounty Hunter for a quickie demonstration and then reunite with Eddie Vedder for a morning surf. The Radiohead concert is our lunch entertainment (even though Thom Yorke isn't much of a sunbather) set against the fading sun on Waikiki beach. Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews round out the night show. They're touring in celebration of the Marijuana Legalization Act of 2010. I don't smoke it, but I talked to some people on behalf of some friends and, BAM! Next thing you know, the bill becomes a law. I had no idea the power of a little Washington grift. I just got a text from Mathematician Malcolm Gladwell...it says, "Crime dwn 85% after passing the MLA bill. U were rite. Gd jb!"
Saturday it's the big finale...back to the Sprint Center for the celebration of the return of our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. All of downtown KC is being cornered off for the parade from the Wheeler airport to the Sprint Center. The White House will be there, of course, along with anyone wanting to celebrate International Peace Day. I'm still amazed how paying 5 million to Dog the Bounty Hunter yielded such quick results in capturing Bin Laden. It was over in 2 days and worth every penny. Hell, he gave the money to the New Orleans rebuild project anyway, so it was a double win. What a joke of an organization the Al-Queda turned out to be...cut off the head and the rest die like roaches. Mass suicide is never pretty, but at least they didn't take anyone with them. In less than a week, Bagdhad has become the new Prague. Airlines can't spend the tourist-flared dollars fast enough to remove seats and make their planes more comfortable to accommodate the demand for now-safe international travel.
Now that unemployment is less than 1% world wide, Sunday will be a day of total rest in order to get everyone recovered for the return to the workplace Monday. Some attribute the meteoric rise in new industry to the Bin Laden capture. Fear disintegrated, people started looking around and getting off their ass. Travel skyrocketed, the tourism industries of the world swelled and needed workers and the dominoes fell fast. Stocks rose, governments stopped bailing, banks started repaying, taxes decreased, jobs sprung out of the ground. What a great week the economic recovery was. It's nice. People are happy again.
I need stop by Quick Trip on my way to work Monday to get another Powerball ticket since we haven't solved the energy crisis yet. Don't let me forget...I have a busy week.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I love a good Gold Medal
Confession:
The Olympics are a fantastic and unexpected gift to me, like finding a twenty dollar bill in the Target parking lot or passing a billowing gas monster in a crowded movie theater and convincing your family it was that "disgusting guy in front of you" that did it.
With each, I end up saying, "where the hell did that come from?" and taking it for granted though I may, I usually become obsessed with wanting that same surprise from everything else in my life...only to be left emptily disappointed. Unless it's a long movie and I've recently consumed more than four Cheesy Gorditas from Taco Bell.
The Olympics start (well they never stop for the athletes, but they start for you and I) about two weeks before they start. The host city begins their preparation about 12 years before they're even chosen as the host site. The athletes begin training for them roughly 6 months prior to their own conception.
But all I have to do is watch Bob Costas for thirty minutes each night and I'm caught up on who I should be rooting for and against. Pretty sweet deal for me. For example, I know who Apollo Anton Ono is. I just remember Apollo Creed, the indomitable heavyweight boxer from the late 70's who died in the ring at the hands of that Russian bastard, Ivan Drago. I then imagine Susan Anton in her loveliest pose with feathered hair. Lastly, I imagine John Lennon and his domineering wife lying in bed for three weeks protesting the Vietnam war without bathing or wearing clothes. Mash all those images up in a blender and you have the mnemonic device...Apollo Anton Ono. See? It's easy.
Anyway, I know who he is from the last Olympics and all the cool stuff he did and the sweet facial hair. But he hasn't exactly been in the forefront of the news the way that normal celebrities are. He's been busy training and getting faster at skating and things like that while regular celebrities like Jon and Kate plus Eight have been hogging the spotlight by breathing air and eating food and getting divorced and tending to their weird children. You know...important shit. The newsworthy type of behavior that catches my eye.
So Apollo comes around to my circle of interest twice, maybe three times in his lifetime, and only when there's a gold medal and a tearjerking National Anthem at stake. That's cool, I figure. But can't he and Lindsey Vonn-Jacobellis and Shaun White and Bodi Miller et al. do something for the other 1500 days between Olympics to keep me interested in them? Like, I don't know, something aside from trying to achieve a lifelong goal? Aside from getting up at 4 in the morning every day of the week to run sixty miles to train for the upcoming games four years down the road?
Come on people!? How am I supposed to keep track of your every move if TMZ won't follow you to your three hour workout before church each Sunday? Can't you spice it up a little? Why not attend said session on the bruised heels of a 13 hour bender at the Viper room with enough coke and Red Bull in your system to jump start your car? Why not show up for the free skate with a crowbar and a new tatoo over your face depicting the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Could you at least get divorced or file bankruptcy once between Olympic games?
Of course, all this absence of dirt is why we love the games. I cheered mightily for the Chinese couple to win the pairs figure skating gold. You know, the married couple that came out of retirement in their late 30's to train and live in separate dorms to capture the only honor they've never received. It could have been Betsy Ross and George Washington skating against them and I would have pulled in the direction of the Big Red...not because I'm a Commie, but because I cried during Rudy, Hoosiers,The Blind Side, Lucas, Angels in the Outfield, A League of Their Own, Chariots of Fire, Rocky IV, Victory, Ladybugs, Caddyshack and every other sports movie ever made.
We love winners and losers. We love to exhalt heroics and opine over near misses and lament what might have been. We love to look back in retrospect and adore the greatness of years gone by. We love a video montage that stretches our own shortcomings into someone else's achievements with a song we can beat our chest to. (Note: In my funeral video montage, there will be various pictures fading in and out of me from ages three to whatever age I kick it. Mostly toothy grins and hugs...really sap it up, please. The following songs need to be included: Prospekt's March by Coldplay, A Lack of Color by Death Cab for Cutie and Wherever I May Roam by Metallica. In that order. It'll be nuts in that church by the end.)
I love the Olympics. For a couple of weeks I can stop hearing about Charlie Sheen smacking the old lady around or caring whether or not Brangelina have adopted another child from Madonna's litter. For a couple of weeks, I can drift in and out of Bob Costas telling me who on this planet we should really be rooting for...regardless of country, religion or color. I like that. I also like when Danny Noonan overcomes the smoking Denunzio hollering in his backswing in order to sink that clutch putt to win the Caddy scholarship. Those are the things that really matter in life.
The Olympics are a fantastic and unexpected gift to me, like finding a twenty dollar bill in the Target parking lot or passing a billowing gas monster in a crowded movie theater and convincing your family it was that "disgusting guy in front of you" that did it.
With each, I end up saying, "where the hell did that come from?" and taking it for granted though I may, I usually become obsessed with wanting that same surprise from everything else in my life...only to be left emptily disappointed. Unless it's a long movie and I've recently consumed more than four Cheesy Gorditas from Taco Bell.
The Olympics start (well they never stop for the athletes, but they start for you and I) about two weeks before they start. The host city begins their preparation about 12 years before they're even chosen as the host site. The athletes begin training for them roughly 6 months prior to their own conception.
But all I have to do is watch Bob Costas for thirty minutes each night and I'm caught up on who I should be rooting for and against. Pretty sweet deal for me. For example, I know who Apollo Anton Ono is. I just remember Apollo Creed, the indomitable heavyweight boxer from the late 70's who died in the ring at the hands of that Russian bastard, Ivan Drago. I then imagine Susan Anton in her loveliest pose with feathered hair. Lastly, I imagine John Lennon and his domineering wife lying in bed for three weeks protesting the Vietnam war without bathing or wearing clothes. Mash all those images up in a blender and you have the mnemonic device...Apollo Anton Ono. See? It's easy.
Anyway, I know who he is from the last Olympics and all the cool stuff he did and the sweet facial hair. But he hasn't exactly been in the forefront of the news the way that normal celebrities are. He's been busy training and getting faster at skating and things like that while regular celebrities like Jon and Kate plus Eight have been hogging the spotlight by breathing air and eating food and getting divorced and tending to their weird children. You know...important shit. The newsworthy type of behavior that catches my eye.
So Apollo comes around to my circle of interest twice, maybe three times in his lifetime, and only when there's a gold medal and a tearjerking National Anthem at stake. That's cool, I figure. But can't he and Lindsey Vonn-Jacobellis and Shaun White and Bodi Miller et al. do something for the other 1500 days between Olympics to keep me interested in them? Like, I don't know, something aside from trying to achieve a lifelong goal? Aside from getting up at 4 in the morning every day of the week to run sixty miles to train for the upcoming games four years down the road?
Come on people!? How am I supposed to keep track of your every move if TMZ won't follow you to your three hour workout before church each Sunday? Can't you spice it up a little? Why not attend said session on the bruised heels of a 13 hour bender at the Viper room with enough coke and Red Bull in your system to jump start your car? Why not show up for the free skate with a crowbar and a new tatoo over your face depicting the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? Could you at least get divorced or file bankruptcy once between Olympic games?
Of course, all this absence of dirt is why we love the games. I cheered mightily for the Chinese couple to win the pairs figure skating gold. You know, the married couple that came out of retirement in their late 30's to train and live in separate dorms to capture the only honor they've never received. It could have been Betsy Ross and George Washington skating against them and I would have pulled in the direction of the Big Red...not because I'm a Commie, but because I cried during Rudy, Hoosiers,The Blind Side, Lucas, Angels in the Outfield, A League of Their Own, Chariots of Fire, Rocky IV, Victory, Ladybugs, Caddyshack and every other sports movie ever made.
We love winners and losers. We love to exhalt heroics and opine over near misses and lament what might have been. We love to look back in retrospect and adore the greatness of years gone by. We love a video montage that stretches our own shortcomings into someone else's achievements with a song we can beat our chest to. (Note: In my funeral video montage, there will be various pictures fading in and out of me from ages three to whatever age I kick it. Mostly toothy grins and hugs...really sap it up, please. The following songs need to be included: Prospekt's March by Coldplay, A Lack of Color by Death Cab for Cutie and Wherever I May Roam by Metallica. In that order. It'll be nuts in that church by the end.)
I love the Olympics. For a couple of weeks I can stop hearing about Charlie Sheen smacking the old lady around or caring whether or not Brangelina have adopted another child from Madonna's litter. For a couple of weeks, I can drift in and out of Bob Costas telling me who on this planet we should really be rooting for...regardless of country, religion or color. I like that. I also like when Danny Noonan overcomes the smoking Denunzio hollering in his backswing in order to sink that clutch putt to win the Caddy scholarship. Those are the things that really matter in life.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I'm venting. Deal with it.
This is dedicated to my friend from Chicago (and for the sake of protecting his privacy, we'll simply refer to him as D. Olson). Actually, that might be a little too obvious. How about Don O. instead? No. Let's say his name sounds like Shawn Folson.
He proved to me over beers late the other night that there are pulsed-people reading this stuff and that some of them even pretend to like it. For a hack writer, that's living in Sarah Palin's body the day she was told "you have what it takes to make it as an Analyst on Fox". BAM! Sign there, go get a new wardrobe, announce the new gig, move from Alaska to NY or LA, have an espresso, look at Russia one last time, read some periodicals, BAM! I'm on it like that. Happy style. Ready to Rrrrrock!
Now, the point.
I love a good retrospective list. Here are some of the best I've seen during the Decade switch:
-The Top 101 places to eat in America that will KILL you.
-The Top 11 Thwarted Terror Attacks at the Newark Airport. Yesterday.
-The Top 91,234 Women Who Cut Their Hair Like Kate Gosselin only to have to grow it or buy extensions to feel alive again.
-The Top 1,124 Celebrities that died in November and December
-The Top 6 of 8 Albums of the Decade produced without a "voicebox thingy"
-The Top 43,295 Reality Show stars who double as meathead assholes in "reality".
All loads of fun, there was my favorite, an internet fueled list of words or phrases that needed to be retired from the vernacular immediately because of their overexposure in the recent past. These are the phrases that sound great until they are beaten bloody and senseless by local newscasters, bloggers and your own Grandma. Once Granny starts chirpin' on about OchoCinco's latest Tweet, its time to stop following him. And Tweeting. It may even be time to look for an alternative to cell phone usage. Smokesignals, ya'll?
Words and phrases like, "Too Big to Fail" and "Change" got wiped from the common speech pattern. So did, "Spending Money" and "Put it on the Visa".
Gone are the terms, "Vetting", "Hockey Mom" and "Bailout". Of course, if the McCain camp had done the proper vetting of a certain Hockey Mom it chose to front the campaign for them, they wouldn't have had their ass whipped so badly...bailout and stuff.
Sarcastik!
Anyway, I wanted to dedicate a little cyber-space to retiring some real phrases we tend to use in everyday speech that are starting to make me angry. I want them swept into the past like the words that these net-hipsters destroy every January in order to make room for fresher, more ridiculous words for people to beat to death. These are phrases that have been with us, in some cases, longer than the Moon has, so it may be tough. Bottom line, though folks...you can't say any of these things ever again.
I have that much power.
The Top 5 Things I Have Banished From Common Speech (and why):
5. "Are you Serious?"
As in:
Person One: "Wow. I woke up this morning and my neighbor was being dragged out from his house by a giant vulture. He was screaming and holding a cup of coffee...trying to reach his paper, too...but really freaking out. It was crazy. I'm not sure why he still gets the paper, since he's 27."
Person Two: "Are you serious?"
Either the guy is making all this up while trying to pull your chain and/or make you laugh and/or get you to look away from your muffin long enough to steal it, or he's being serious and a vulture ate his neighbor. Either way, you don't need to ask if he's serious. I've never heard anyone answer the question, "Are you serious?" with..."Ummm. Sort of?" They either are or they aren't. Your ability to discern that fact is paramount to your ability to survive the next cut in the survival of the fittest. Along with this saying goes, "Ohh....you're kidding!"
4. "Have a good one!"
The great George Carlin said it best...when someone said "Have a good one!" to him, he'd say, "I already have a good one...now I just need a longer one!" That was George's way of ridding this world of the weakest attempt at parting shots we have. There's nothing honest about this saying at all...it indicates laziness and inability to keep time.
"Have a good..." (oh shit, is it morning still, or afternoon...hurry! Think! Oh well....)
"One!" (Good! That covers morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night, day, week and life! I'm great at saying goodbye to people!!)
I use and despise this saying. Its so easy and it sounds so familiar that we fall in love with it. But its hollow and lazy. Buy a watch. Anticipate the next time you'll see the person. Have them in the forefront of your mind as you say goodbye. Having a good one will always insinuate possessing a great package as far as I'm concerned. Thanks a lot, Carlin. I miss you.
3. "The Moment We've All Been Waiting For"
Oh, I want to puke when I hear it.
Is there anything worse than trite hyperbole? Its like "The Time of Your Life" or "The Greatest Show On Earth" or "The Coolest Blog Ever Located At www.chriskeefe.blogspot.com EVER!".
Including me in the phrasing is insulting. How do you know that this is the moment that I've been waiting for? MMA guys crushing each other's faces and nuts is cool...but the moment that I, personally, had been waiting for was that Keystone Light commercial where the short slacker dude offers to get the chips for the helpless hottie in the grocery store and he makes her hold his 30 pack of Key Light while he destroys the store with row-dominoes. That was the moment I had been waiting for, so don't assume anything about me.
Wait until the Olympics or the next election...or 2012. That's when this one will get bludgeoned. I want it replaced with:
"And now, the moment that some of you may have been waiting for...."
Accurate and trite, but not hyperbolic anymore.
2. "Oh well. It is what it is..."
Really, Aristotle? So you've solved the meaning of life, the space time continuum theory and explanation for Kim Kardashian's fame with one little convenient phrase? Lazy and underdeveloped.
Whenever you sit around with people you're afraid to challenge or don't know the mental capacity they have you tend to resort to this one...
Person: "Nice to meet ya. I see you drive a Jeep. I reckon you like to hunt and hate the President. Y'ever read the TARP act in full? Whaddya think about Harry Reid or the latest stimulus package? You got theories about the next season of Lost?"
You: "Well............It is what it is."
(Guns go off in the background)
Person: "YES!"
Grow a pair. Like or love something (yes this one hurts me) and choose a side. Don't cop out. To be sure, we can never use the commonplace way of describing a thousand baby seals being slaughtered by encroaching glaciers by writing it off with..."Well, it is what it is" ever again.
1. "When I was a kid....."
I swore as a kid I would never say this. Its just as dumb to equivocate 1976 with 2006 as it is to equivocate an Atari with a Wii...
(in a fat chinned, guttural-yet nasally voice with your lips stuck out like you never left the couch in high school and you're all pissed that you wasted EONS of cool gaming time on Pitfall)
"When I was a kid, we had Pong and Donkey Kong. That's it! And only three levels of DK. We got callouses from that joystick."
(Slobber comes out of your mouth as you remember how awesome Atari was, even though you have to feign hatred for your ungrateful offspring.)
"When, when (slurp) I was a kid we had to eat rocks and ride the Model T to school and there was no moon and toilet paper was made of leaves and there were no words.."
Just give it a rest you old bastard (and I'm self-referencing). Join the crowd. We get born, we get old and we get bitter. We watch technology and snowfall and social mores pass us by and we get angry. That's how it is, and nobody cares what it was like when you were a kid. Not even, in your heart of hearts, you.
So there you have it. Find some thing else to say during your next casual conversation.
Maybe you'll mean it when you say, "See you at another time I can't predict!"
He proved to me over beers late the other night that there are pulsed-people reading this stuff and that some of them even pretend to like it. For a hack writer, that's living in Sarah Palin's body the day she was told "you have what it takes to make it as an Analyst on Fox". BAM! Sign there, go get a new wardrobe, announce the new gig, move from Alaska to NY or LA, have an espresso, look at Russia one last time, read some periodicals, BAM! I'm on it like that. Happy style. Ready to Rrrrrock!
Now, the point.
I love a good retrospective list. Here are some of the best I've seen during the Decade switch:
-The Top 101 places to eat in America that will KILL you.
-The Top 11 Thwarted Terror Attacks at the Newark Airport. Yesterday.
-The Top 91,234 Women Who Cut Their Hair Like Kate Gosselin only to have to grow it or buy extensions to feel alive again.
-The Top 1,124 Celebrities that died in November and December
-The Top 6 of 8 Albums of the Decade produced without a "voicebox thingy"
-The Top 43,295 Reality Show stars who double as meathead assholes in "reality".
All loads of fun, there was my favorite, an internet fueled list of words or phrases that needed to be retired from the vernacular immediately because of their overexposure in the recent past. These are the phrases that sound great until they are beaten bloody and senseless by local newscasters, bloggers and your own Grandma. Once Granny starts chirpin' on about OchoCinco's latest Tweet, its time to stop following him. And Tweeting. It may even be time to look for an alternative to cell phone usage. Smokesignals, ya'll?
Words and phrases like, "Too Big to Fail" and "Change" got wiped from the common speech pattern. So did, "Spending Money" and "Put it on the Visa".
Gone are the terms, "Vetting", "Hockey Mom" and "Bailout". Of course, if the McCain camp had done the proper vetting of a certain Hockey Mom it chose to front the campaign for them, they wouldn't have had their ass whipped so badly...bailout and stuff.
Sarcastik!
Anyway, I wanted to dedicate a little cyber-space to retiring some real phrases we tend to use in everyday speech that are starting to make me angry. I want them swept into the past like the words that these net-hipsters destroy every January in order to make room for fresher, more ridiculous words for people to beat to death. These are phrases that have been with us, in some cases, longer than the Moon has, so it may be tough. Bottom line, though folks...you can't say any of these things ever again.
I have that much power.
The Top 5 Things I Have Banished From Common Speech (and why):
5. "Are you Serious?"
As in:
Person One: "Wow. I woke up this morning and my neighbor was being dragged out from his house by a giant vulture. He was screaming and holding a cup of coffee...trying to reach his paper, too...but really freaking out. It was crazy. I'm not sure why he still gets the paper, since he's 27."
Person Two: "Are you serious?"
Either the guy is making all this up while trying to pull your chain and/or make you laugh and/or get you to look away from your muffin long enough to steal it, or he's being serious and a vulture ate his neighbor. Either way, you don't need to ask if he's serious. I've never heard anyone answer the question, "Are you serious?" with..."Ummm. Sort of?" They either are or they aren't. Your ability to discern that fact is paramount to your ability to survive the next cut in the survival of the fittest. Along with this saying goes, "Ohh....you're kidding!"
4. "Have a good one!"
The great George Carlin said it best...when someone said "Have a good one!" to him, he'd say, "I already have a good one...now I just need a longer one!" That was George's way of ridding this world of the weakest attempt at parting shots we have. There's nothing honest about this saying at all...it indicates laziness and inability to keep time.
"Have a good..." (oh shit, is it morning still, or afternoon...hurry! Think! Oh well....)
"One!" (Good! That covers morning, noon, afternoon, evening, night, day, week and life! I'm great at saying goodbye to people!!)
I use and despise this saying. Its so easy and it sounds so familiar that we fall in love with it. But its hollow and lazy. Buy a watch. Anticipate the next time you'll see the person. Have them in the forefront of your mind as you say goodbye. Having a good one will always insinuate possessing a great package as far as I'm concerned. Thanks a lot, Carlin. I miss you.
3. "The Moment We've All Been Waiting For"
Oh, I want to puke when I hear it.
Is there anything worse than trite hyperbole? Its like "The Time of Your Life" or "The Greatest Show On Earth" or "The Coolest Blog Ever Located At www.chriskeefe.blogspot.com EVER!".
Including me in the phrasing is insulting. How do you know that this is the moment that I've been waiting for? MMA guys crushing each other's faces and nuts is cool...but the moment that I, personally, had been waiting for was that Keystone Light commercial where the short slacker dude offers to get the chips for the helpless hottie in the grocery store and he makes her hold his 30 pack of Key Light while he destroys the store with row-dominoes. That was the moment I had been waiting for, so don't assume anything about me.
Wait until the Olympics or the next election...or 2012. That's when this one will get bludgeoned. I want it replaced with:
"And now, the moment that some of you may have been waiting for...."
Accurate and trite, but not hyperbolic anymore.
2. "Oh well. It is what it is..."
Really, Aristotle? So you've solved the meaning of life, the space time continuum theory and explanation for Kim Kardashian's fame with one little convenient phrase? Lazy and underdeveloped.
Whenever you sit around with people you're afraid to challenge or don't know the mental capacity they have you tend to resort to this one...
Person: "Nice to meet ya. I see you drive a Jeep. I reckon you like to hunt and hate the President. Y'ever read the TARP act in full? Whaddya think about Harry Reid or the latest stimulus package? You got theories about the next season of Lost?"
You: "Well............It is what it is."
(Guns go off in the background)
Person: "YES!"
Grow a pair. Like or love something (yes this one hurts me) and choose a side. Don't cop out. To be sure, we can never use the commonplace way of describing a thousand baby seals being slaughtered by encroaching glaciers by writing it off with..."Well, it is what it is" ever again.
1. "When I was a kid....."
I swore as a kid I would never say this. Its just as dumb to equivocate 1976 with 2006 as it is to equivocate an Atari with a Wii...
(in a fat chinned, guttural-yet nasally voice with your lips stuck out like you never left the couch in high school and you're all pissed that you wasted EONS of cool gaming time on Pitfall)
"When I was a kid, we had Pong and Donkey Kong. That's it! And only three levels of DK. We got callouses from that joystick."
(Slobber comes out of your mouth as you remember how awesome Atari was, even though you have to feign hatred for your ungrateful offspring.)
"When, when (slurp) I was a kid we had to eat rocks and ride the Model T to school and there was no moon and toilet paper was made of leaves and there were no words.."
Just give it a rest you old bastard (and I'm self-referencing). Join the crowd. We get born, we get old and we get bitter. We watch technology and snowfall and social mores pass us by and we get angry. That's how it is, and nobody cares what it was like when you were a kid. Not even, in your heart of hearts, you.
So there you have it. Find some thing else to say during your next casual conversation.
Maybe you'll mean it when you say, "See you at another time I can't predict!"
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