E.C. And D.C. Were Both Here

It was September 23, 2006. I remember it like it was last Thursday. The sun was shining, and I could smell hamburgers sizzling on an open grill somewhere nearby as I drove down Dexter-Pinckney Road that Saturday afternoon, with the sun roof open and the wind blowing in my hair (I had more of it back then) as I sang along to the radio at the top of my lungs, taking my hands off of the wheel on straight stretches of road to play some air guitar. I had recently turned 22. The world was my oyster. A large dragonfly suddenly met its end on my windshield, a windshield that a few short months later would acquire a large crack that remains there to this day, but that's another story. September 23, 2006. I had just been over at my fine girlfriend's house, but had neglected to stay for dinner because I had an appointment to keep. An appointment with destiny, or so I thought. "You've been listening to some great Eric Clapton live cuts," chirped the middle-aged probably-mother-of-three-teenagers classic rock disk jockey. "D*mn straight!" I said, but she continued. "...On what would have been our Eric Clapton pre-concert psych-up for the show at The Palace tonight." Uh oh. Would have been? The smile on my face quickly faded. I looked down at my radio in disgust. What have you done to Eric Clapton? I realize that it's disk jockey lady's job to sound excited all the time, but I really didn't appreciate the tone of her voice as she informed me that the concert I was just on my way to attend was canceled, to be re-scheduled "at some later date." If she worked on the Titanic, she would have been thrown overboard for excitedly announcing that "there just aren't enough life boats for everyone! Oh well!" I called up the friends I was on my way to meet, who had yet to hear the bad news. "Hey John" I said, "remember when we went to see Eric Clapton?" "And he ROCKED OUR FACES OFF? Yeah, that was awesome." "Yeah, but do you remember when we found out the show was canceled at the last minute?" I don't remember exactly what John said at that point, but he was pretty upset, as we all were. We were particularly miffed that Ticketnazi, the world's only ticket vendor for any event anywhere, from the Superbowl to your six-year-old daughter's school play, made no attempt whatsoever to stop us from driving all the way to Auburn Hills to attend the event for which we had bought tickets from them. Thanks for nothing, Ticketbastard. What exactly do you do for that hefty "convenience charge," anyways? Nothing? Right, that's what I thought. It was only sheer chance that I happened to be listening to the right radio station at the right time which saved us two hours' round-trip driving (through metro Detroit's trademark perennial road construction) for a show that did not take place. Brilliant. One of John's co-workers, as it turns out, was not so lucky.

Now, fast forward a little more than five months. My windshield now has a crack in it. A few other things have probably also changed, but I can't think of any of them right now. Maybe some babies were born or something, I don't know. "That time we all went to see Eric Clapton and he ROCKED OUR FACES OFF" has become one of the longest-running inside jokes in the history of inside jokes (other notable entries being the entire careers of musician Bruce Springsteen, and newspaper cartoonist Brad Anderson), as has the exclusive use of various pseudonyms for a certain online ticket sales monopoly, which shall not be named. Now it's April 5th. It's freezing out. There are flurries. I am once again on my way to The Palace to see Eric Clapton, only this time we've checked and double-checked and triple-checked to make sure that the show has not been canceled.

I have to admit that I was worried that E.C. had lost his touch, or that he'd end up playing a set mainly made up of his slower, more pop-oriented songs, the ones women seem to enjoy. I'm ashamed to say it, but a small part of me didn't think he knew how to rock n' roll. This small fear gnawed on me for most of the drive out, and into the well-played set of the opening act, the Robert Cray Band. Then the roadies started to hurriedly set the stage for Clapton's band. They even put out a pretty nice-looking rug in the middle of the stage for E.C. to stand on, then set his mic stand and wah-wah pedal on it. I'm not sure what was the significance of the rug, but it struck me as pretty cool. You might say that it really tied the stage together. Then the house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up, and the band walked out onto the stage: Two female background singers, an organist, a bass player and drummer who both looked like they had walked right out of the 1970s (the drummer even wore a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a large gold chain around his neck), a guitarist, a pale, silver pony-tailed piano player, and...
As Clapton strutted out to the stage he lifted his guitar, blasted out a few bluesy fills, then turned to face the band as they all burst into "Tell The Truth," a pretty rocking song from Clapton's 1970 album with Derek and the Dominoes, Layla And Other Assorted Love Songs, with the other guitarist playing the part of Duane Allman on the slide guitar. I'm probably going to gush a little bit, so if you'd like to stop reading right now, I'll at least give you my three main talking points:

1. Eric Clapton is an amazing musician.
2. Being both an amazing musician and a very successful one, Eric Clapton is able to surround himself with other people who are also amazing musicians, although not quite as awesome as he is.
3. Eric Clapton is an amazing musician.

Got that? Good. Clapton has been around for a while (quite a while indeed), and has been pretty prolific, so his setlist could easily have been made up entirely of songs I didn't know, and I consider myself a fan. Instead, he played this setlist:

1. Tell The Truth
2. Key To The Highway
3. Got to Get Better in A Little While
4. Little Wing
5. Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad
6. Driftin' (Solo, acoustic)
7. Outside Woman Blues (acoustic)
8. Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out (acoustic)
9. Running On Faith (acoustic)
10. Motherless Children
11. Little Queen of Spades
12. Further On Up The Road
13. Wonderful Tonight
14. Layla

The songs I marked in bold are all from the aforementioned album, Layla And Other Assorted Love Songs, which is awesome. The band was great. There's something that's always funny to me about background singers, and these ones did the "background singer" dance for the whole show. All the musicians soloed at some point, and they were all quite good. There was a short acoustic set in the middle of the show, when the lights went out and came back on to reveal Eric seated on a chair alone in the middle of the stage, acoustic guitar in hands, singin' the blues. It was great. The only words he addressed to the audience the whole evening were "thank you," and the names of the band members. The seats in front of us were occupied by four or five 15 and 16-year-old boys, who seemed to be having almost as much fun as we were. In the row in front of them was a group of probably 60-year-old tatooed, bearded (even the women, not kidding), leather-clad biker types, who lit up marijuana during the acoustic set, and nearly started a fight a few songs later. I chuckled that the teenagers behind them were acting more grown-up.

Playing an encore has become pretty cliche, such that everyone just knows that the act in question is going to play one, but we the audience still played along for the sake of tradition, shouting ourselves hoarse for the band to come back to the stage and play another song or two. "PLAY COCAINE!" I shouted, half because I actually like the song (terrible as it is), and half just to be funny. "PLAY COCAINE!" Sure enough, the band returned to the stage, waving and smiling at the audience, and Clapton let fly the opening riff of "Cocaine." I laughed. The show wrapped up with Robert Cray joining Clapton and company on stage for the Robert Johnson classic (and also a big hit for Clapton) "Crossroads."

Well, that's all for now. I'd been meaning to post for a while but hadn't gotten the time, I'll try to post something else soon. I tried to draw a picture for the show, but people and Stratocasters are really hard to draw.

Princess

The other day at work I spoke on the phone with someone whose first name was literally "Princess." I'll bet her sister loves her. I was even dumb enough to ask her to spell it for me, thinking that I had misheard her. "Just like it sounds," she said. "P-R-I-N-C-E-S-S." "Oh, what a nice name" I said. "Thanks" she replied, probably having heard that her whole life. The rest of the conversation went on as it would have had her name been something less unusual (ooh, double negative), except that I kept wondering if her middle name was an ordinary girl's name (thus making her full name something like "Princess Katherine Jones"). The thing is that (for whatever reason) while I'm on the phone for work and the person on the other end gives me their name, I try to use it in the conversation. Maybe it's just to remind myself to be civil, or to just feel like I'm talking like a person and not to some sort of drone with a telephone headset on. I like to think that I'm trying to add a personal touch to the conversation, but the real reason is probably something more selfish. Whatever the reason, when I had gotten the information I needed and the conversation was wrapping up, I said "Thanks so much, Princess" right before hanging up the phone, and I suddenly felt like I'd just said something rather sexist. It was like Philip Marlowe (as portrayed by Humphrey Bogart) in the film The Big Sleep, where he adamantly refuses to call any woman by name, instead always saying something along the lines of "Angel" or "Doll-face," or "Princess."
Of course, in the film, this doesn't bother the dames one bit, because, as a general rule, they want nothing more than to bear Bogey's progeny. Crazy dames. Anyways, guess I don't really have a point here, just that I talked to someone whose name was actually "Princess," and that the encounter was amusing to me. Right. Best of luck to you all in coping with the "wintry mix" that has replaced our sunshine and warmth around here. Ah, spring.

Ah, so that's what it's for.

Well folks, I finally figured out what's different about the "new, improved blogger," other than the fact that I now need to have a longer sign-in name. It allows you to customize the look of your blog to a much greater degree without mucking around in HTML, which I don't know how to do anyways. Sweet. So yeah, here it is. Let me know what you think of the new look if you get the chance and are still reading this rubbish, I'd love a little feedback. More posting soon, have a good Tuesday!

S'il Vous Plaît...

Greetings, reader! Just letting you know that if you read this blog (it has been suggested that I refer to it simply as a "blah," but I shall disregard said suggestion for the time being), and if I am aware that you read this blog (which is to say that you comment on my posts), there is a very good chance that I also read your blog. I like reading your blog, so much so that I am disappointed (sometimes to the point of tears) when I check your site only to find that it has not been updated since the last time I checked it. Recently, however, I've been using Google Reader (which can be found at google.com/reader), one of a number of handy tools available gratis from the bounty of the the inter-nets, which allows me to check any number of blogs for new updates simultaneously. Yes, I know that something like this has been available for quite some time, I'm afraid I'm something of a late adopter of new technologies. However, there are a few blogs which I enjoy which do not allow me to subscribe to their feed (I only vaguely know what that even means), perhaps unbeknownst to their creators. And so, dear reader, my request to you is simple: please allow access to your site feed, so that I may more readily read your written ramblings. I don't know much about this stuff, but I know that in blogger you can do so by selecting your blog's "Settings" tab, then click on "Site Feed," click "Switch to Advanced Mode," and then change all the drawbars to read "Full." You can even write a little footer that will show up in my reader at the bottom of each post, if you so desire.

Also, I'm thinking of updating my links (on the right side of the page) as well as my Google Reader account, so if you have a blog and aren't sure if I read it, either drop me a link in the comments, or more privately by email (dcous at hotmail dot com), and let me know if you'd like me to link to you or not link to you or whatever (I don't think that this blog attracts an unsavory element, if that's your concern, it barely attracts anyone at all). Thanks for blogging, it's good to hear from you in one way or another. If you're reading this and don't know me personally, that's kind of weird. Still, feel free to post a link to your blog, you weirdo you.

Oh yes, one more thing: I'm going to be spending the weekend pretending to be a monk in Kentucky, so if anyone needs to get ahold of me, you're probably out of luck. When I get back I'll probably regale you with tales of my harrowing three-day encounter with prayer and (oh the humanity) celibacy.

"SQUEEZE every last drop out of those insolent, musical peasants."

Bonjour, mes amis! Il y a trop longtemps, non? Bon.
As I was saying, it's been too long. Not to worry though, you haven't missed a thing, because nothing has happened. I need to finally knuckle down and do my taxes, which may be a bit more of a pain than in years past, since I'm no longer a student. I just hope I don't actually owe anything. Reens has graciously agreed to give me a hand with it this evening, which is good, since I've never actually done my own taxes. I don't expect that it'll be that hard, but I've been sort of dreading it because it's harder to read anything issued by the Internal Revenue Service (a pretty euphemistic name for the Department for the External Collection of Internal Funds, if you ask me) than it is to slog through Beowulf in its original Anglo-Saxon (believe me, I've actually tried). Perhaps its because to the layman such as myself, it all seems arbitrarily too complicated. Of course, it's not actually arbitrary, the complexity comes from there being a tax on virtually anything imagineable, and a carefully written (if still practically unintelligible) series of loopholes for each tax. Yay, lobbyists. Here's an actual selection from the instructions to Form W-9, which I had to deal with at work:

Payments that may be subject to backup withholding include interest, dividends, broker and barter exchange transactions, rents, royalties, nonemployee pay, and certain payments from fishing boat operators [emphasis mine].

What's with the specific mention of fishing boat operators? I have no idea. I'm guessing that the only people who actually know the answer to that question are a handful of salty old sea dogs, their attorneys (yes, even salty old sea dogs have lawyers these days), a Bhuddist monk who stumbled accross the meaning of U.S. tax law while in a years-long meditative trance, and the anonymous nihilist poet who actually writes all of this garbage, whose impressive oeuvre includes thousands of pages of nonsense which were either accidentally or maliciously incorporated into tax legislation. A few pages later on the form, you find this:

Other payments [sic]. You must give your correct TIN, but you do not have to sign the certification unless you have been notified that you have previously given an incorrect TIN. “Other payments” include payments made in the course of the requester’s trade or business for rents, royalties, goods (other than bills for merchandise), medical and health care services (including payments to corporations), payments to a nonemployee for services, payments to certain fishing boat crew members and fishermen, and gross proceeds paid to attorneys (including payments to corporations) [emphasis mine].

What? Why are payments involving fishing boats different than other payments to "nonemployees"? IS there even a "why"? Keep in mind that the above excerpts were from the four pages of unintelligible instructions on how to fill out a one-page form, which contained only spaces for your Name, Tax Identification Number (TIN), and "Signature of U.S. Person, including citizens of the U.S. and those with Resident Alien status." There was an entire page of possible but not definite situations where you might not have to provide a signature at the bottom of the form, in the event that you are even required to fill it out at all. Anyways, if you need me I'll be meditating on the fact that because the earth is round, there is actually sky beneath my feet. After meditating on that for a while, I'll use the positive energy from the life-force of the birds which are without doubt flying through the sky beneath me to levitate, while at the same time visualizing in my mind each individual drop of ink on each page of my tax forms, and in that transient state the ink and I shall be as one mind, and shall have at one time all knowledge of one another. The ink shall understand my purpose for being, and I shall understand the ink's purpose for being, and when I awake from that trance I shall know how to prepare my taxes, thus validating the ink's existence. And then, Nirvana.

Mad as a March Hare

It should come as no surprise to you (and therefore it probably won't) that I'm generally and in most cases quite specifically opposed to capital punishment, which I believe is defined as the execution of criminals (or perhaps in some few cases the wrongly accused) by dropping the top portion of a greco-roman style column onto their heads. I have no idea if this particular method was ever common (or even for that matter employed so frequently as to be called "rare"), but I'm against it, and other less dramatic forms of execution as well. But as we (the royal "we") have said, you are doubtless already aware of this, and the purpose of this post is actually to inform you (because I am sure that you desire nothing more than to know) of one particular offence for which I am in fact in favor of capital punishment, even as above defined, and that is the use of the grocery isle marked "12 items or fewer" to purchase any number of items greater than 12.

And you thought I was going to talk about something serious. Silly you.

Anyways, having moved on from the thought of a large stone falling on the head of a woman who for all I know might honestly be unable (poor soul) to count the groceries in her cart, and also having used a paragraph break (which is not my custom), I shall move on. I've had a strange feeling of impending doom over the last day or two, and the reason for it (if indeed there is one) completely escapes me. I rather doubt that it has anything to do with the approaching Ides (I'm not very superstitious, or even well-read), but I suppose that it's not impossible. It's just not probable, that's all. Well, I've rambled enough for now. I apologize for the recent lapse in posts, as well as for the seemingly endless lack of substance in what few posts there are. I'll figure out something interesting to say at some point, I suppose I owe you one for reading this rubbish at all. It's supposed to rain today, so keep your parapluie close at hand.

A Late Submission

Lindsey is clearly showing off with this little chocolatey gem (yuk yuk), complete with a wicked lens flare. Awesome. Too late to win a prize, but it may very well be what I need to get the money rolling in.

Can someone explain this to me?

So the fallout from various NASCAR teams' alleged cheating has been in the news, and not being a follower of the so-called "sport," I'm asking someone out there who knows more about this than I to please answer me these two questions:

1.) Is it "cheating" to try to customize one's car to go faster?

2.) If yes, why does anyone watch this?

I'm sorry, I'll openly admit to my almost complete ignorance on the subject, but this seems ridiculous to me.

I have no clue why I'm blogging about this, so I'll stop now. Have a good weekend, everyone!

Feminine Mind Control Day

Well, I won't lie to you. The First-Ever Random Internet Competition thingy wasn't a great success, as there were only two submittals, which you'll find below. I must admit that some of you (perhaps even most of you) have weakened my faith in humanity in a not-insignificant way, but perhaps I should thank you for reminding me of why I decided to take over the world in the first place. Keep in mind that I never really thought that I'd get as many as five submissions (which Jonathan was unfortunately able to deduce), so for me the optimum number would've been four: the maximum amount before I would have to award some kind of prize. So, perhaps it's for the best. In any case, the winner is David, who not only submitted well before the deadline and in the required file format, but also in color. David loses some minor style points on making his prototype a boot rather than a shoe, and I'm not too fond of the square-cut diamonds myself, but these may turn out to be the best choices in the end. He was also quick to mention to me that for added effect, his boot would be made out of dark chocolate rather than milk chocolate, for maximum effect. I can't argue with this. David also submitted a very avant-garde piece of graphic design to accompany his official submittal. Being untrained in the graphic arts myself I was scarcely able to make out what it was, and I know just enough about art to know that if you don't understand it, it must be brilliant. Fortunately, David refrained from art elitism and was good enough to explain to me in his email that what I was looking at was a necklace that held both a golden shoe (with diamonds on it, of course), and a piece of a four-layer chocolate cake. While I don't personally believe that this device would be anywhere near as effective as plan 50WD, I think it would be foolish to discard the idea entirely, and so you see it here. Brilliant. Honorable Mention goes to the only other submission, which was a far more conventional piece of artwork, although not entirely without merit. The scene presented here shows a mad scientist (presumably in my employ) with the requisite german accent unveiling a set of chocolate, diamond-covered hooker boots the size of large buildings. I can't help but wonder if I wasn't unclear in my instructions about shoes rather than boots, but a submission's a submission in this business, so I'll have to take what I can get. Eric (the artist) loses some points for breaking the spirit (if not the letter) of the contest rules, and submitting to me what was, for all intents and purposes, a hard copy. Were it not for the shortage of submissions, I would have disqualified him altogether, but as is he walks away with a generous second place. That wraps up our Feminine Mind Control Day special festivities, best of luck to all you men out there trying to buy your way out of the doghouse with flowers and chocolate and what-not. It probably won't work, and she probably still won't tell you why she's upset with you, but it's worth a try, man. To the single out there who can't help but be bitter on this cold, February day, I can offer this simple piece of consolation: It's a pretty dumb holiday anyways, and this way you're probably getting out of it on the cheap. You have to blow a wad on a nice dinner and a few dozen flowers today? No? Didn't think so. I didn't either, if you're wondering, my wonderful girlfriend has yet to discover the awesome power of guilt, or is just too cool to use it. Either way, I'm not complaining. Peace and love to all of you, and be careful out there in the snow.

Time is running out...

Ok seriously, today is the last day to submit art for The Republic's First-Ever Random Internet Competition (for details, see my eariler post below), before David wins by virtue of being the only contestant (not that his fine submission wouldn't stand a good chance of winning were there more contestants, but still). Come on, people! I'm talking about a bag of coffee from Beaner's (or suitable substitute for the coffee disinclined) and supreme dictatorship of Canada! I'm going to say that you should submit by midnight tonight in order to be eligible, but really if you send it in before I sign in to blogger during lunch tommorow to post the results, you'll be fine. Send all submissions to dcous at hotmail dot com, with "50WD" in the subject line (as I said before), and remember that nobody can really, like, define art, man. Life is art. Art is life. Balogna (Baloney). I'm just saying that you don't have to fancy yourself an artist (or artiste) in order to submit, you just have to know how to either draw pictures on a computer, or to draw them by hand and use a scanner.

Pardon me a rant

Ok, so I've decided to take the plunge (relax-it's not a very big plunge) and buy health insurance. Since going off of my parents' health insurance I've reasoned that I've never been seriously ill, and if the majority of the insured stood to collect on their health plans, very few people could afford them. Anyways, I listen to NPR a fair amount, although not as much now that my morning commute is approximately 60 seconds from doorstep to office, and if I had to pick their cross-program theme for the year thus far, it would be this: Did you know that some people in this country can't afford health insurance? Of course, this is something they've been telling me for years, but it seems to me that the frequency of on-air reminders has skyrocketed in the past month or so, largely due to an increase in the discussion of such things on Capitol Hill. Yes, as we've all been made aware, all persons are endowed by our creator with the inalienable right to Life, Liberty, and Health Care. You get the picture. Anyways, I was thinking of all this the other day while looking at the stub of my recent paycheck and the price list for insurance which I could get through my employer. The pertinent part of the price list read something like this:

Single employee, health & dental coverage: X dollars

Next, my attention was drawn to the pay stub, the pertinent (for this post) section of which read:

F.I.C.A. : 2.64 times X dollars

Funny. So, you're saying that I, far from the top of the income distribution, could far more easily
afford health insurance (plus a nice steak dinner about once a week) IF I WASN'T ALREADY PAYING FOR SOMEONE ELSE'S HEALTH INSURANCE! Thanks for nothing, Uncle Sam. Burn in hell.

I assume that you already know, but F.I.C.A. stands for "Federal Insurance Contribution Act," which represents one of the most twistedly appropriate uses of the word "contribution" I can think of, in that the law compels you to contribute to something that you have little or no chance of benefiting from, at least if you're my age. Then again, if someone mugs you on the street in order to pay for others' health insurance and retirement plans, I'd guess that you wouldn't call this a "contribution" save perhaps in jest. Speaking of jest, I ran accross this little tidbit in the FAQ section of socialsecurity.gov, under the heading "Why can't I invest my Social Security taxes into an IRA plan?" Good question. The site's authors, probably shaking uncontrollably from laughter, explain that (and I quote) "maybe your investments wouldn't work out." Oh really? My investments might not work out. This is true, they very well might not, but ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? I have a better chance of being hit by a meteorite than on getting one red cent back from so-called Social Security when I reach my golden years, as the system now stands. I have a higher probability of a positive return on my investment if every month until I retire I buy a jar to save my own phlegm in, banking on the value of either jars or phlegm or both going up over the next fifty years.

Phew, ok. I'm done. I'm sorry.

In other news, I had a splendid weekend out in GR visiting the GF and contending with the weather, although at one point I got stranded far from base and had to cut open my tauntaun and climb inside its foul-smelling innards to warm myself. Yes, the blizzard conditions were so bad that Storm Team 13 (or whatever it's called) had to send out one of their junior meteorologists into the cold just to show us all on the teevee (as Lindsey says it) just how bad it is. "Yes Rich, as you can see I'm up to my waist in snow and my face is a ghostly shade of blue. Dear Lord, it's so cold. I sure would like to have your cushy job in the nice warm TV studio pointing at doplar weather maps, instead of standing outside in the freezing cold, waist-deep in snow, going through a very long list of school closings and other information that could easily have been communicated from the warmth of a nearby building, or at least from the back of the Storm Team van. I hate you so much. Back to you, Rich." "Thanks, Nancy. I hope you freeze and die out there. We'll keep you abreast of further developments as they occur, folks."

Anyways, the weekend was an adventure even for those of us who aren't junior meteorologists, and Lindsey was a wonderful hostess as always, as were her friends (and my brother GEC), whose couch I crashed on. The weekend also forced me to realize that I really have been putting off the purchase of new tires for too long, so I'll have to make it down to Discount Tire in the next day or so. That's all the randomness for now, more to come when the time presents itself.

Oh yes, and one more thing: I wasn't kidding in my previous post about the random internet competition. I can't encourage you enough to participate, regardless of what you think of your own artistic abilities. I'm pretty sure I never mentioned strict critera for the judging, and you get a pretty good piece of real estate when I rule the world in exchange for a few minutes of doodling. What could be better?

The Republic's First-Ever Random Internet Competition!

Ok friends, this is it: As I'm sure both of you have noticed, I am not currently in control of the world, or even half of it. I'm sure that this causes you at least as much dismay as it causes me, perhaps even so much that you don't remember my earlier mention of a plan to rectify this situation. The trouble is that notwithstanding the perfection of the plan, things just haven't been working so well in the fundraising department, and I had to have a few fundraising minions thrown into my shark tank just to keep everyone else in the department motivated (yes, people said that springing for the shark tank was a mistake, but with the labor disputes one encounters in this business, those things practically pay for themselves overnight). Anyhoo, it occured to me the other day while I was sitting in my lair petting my cat Bonaparte and chuckling to myself that I might be able to get a few more investors on board with some really schnazzy concept art of Plan 50WD's Primary Mind Control Unit (PMCU), or in layman's terms: "A Pair Diamond-Covered Chocolate Shoes." If a diamond-encrusted shoe made out of chocolate can control minds, I reasoned (and it almost certainly can), certainly a picture of a diamond-encrusted chocolate shoe will have at least some persuasive effect on the rich and unscrupulous, which is where you come in: If you know how to use Photoshop, MS Paint, A Pencil, Paper, and a Scanner, crayons-whatever, I want you to put those skills to work on drawing up some concept art for Plan 50WD. You're allowed to submit up to 2 concepts per person, and if I get at least 5 participants, I'll throw in a prize for the winner (something along the lines of a bag of coffee from Beaner's when the contest ends, and dictatorship of Canada when I rule the world). I'll need any and all submissions to be in .jpeg or perhaps some similar file format, and emailed to dcous at hotmail dot com no later than February 13, 2007, with "50WD" in the subject line. Hand-drawn submissions will be accepted, but must be scanned and emailed. If you try to give me a hard copy, I'll probably lose it. All submissions, and an announcement of the winner will be posted the following day, Feminine Mind Control Day, otherwise known as Singleness Awareness Day, and in some antiquated incarnations of the vernacular, Valentine's Day. Submissions deemed inappropriate will not be posted, and will be immediately disqualified. If I don't know you personally (in which case I have no clue why you're reading this thing), I'll need you to include your mailing address in the email. If you send me a virus, I will find your family and throw them into my shark tank, force you to watch them as they are devoured, and then I'll think of some really painful way to dispose of you, possibly involving unpasteurized dairy products. Now then, stop reading and start cracking on that artwork, Feminine Mind Control Day is right around the corner!

Best Bought Elsewhere

I'll probably get over it at some point, but at the moment I hate Best Buy. You know, the electronics warehouse that cleverly arranges its merchandise so that the only thing you can find without assistance is a television the size of Rhode Island. I was spotted as soon as I went in by the door guy (no, he doesn't open the door or call you a cab, he just stands by the door and makes sure you don't steal anything), who took a second to assess my age and dress before addressing me in the appropriate dialect:
"Hey dude, welcome to Best Buy."
"Thanks man." I replied, wondering if he'd have called my father "dude".
Without any help, and from accross the store, I found the aforementioned television, and wondered for a second how much money I would have to make before I started thinking that such a thing would be a reasonable purchase. Probably at the point where the money isn't even the question on my mind as much as "how am I going to fit that into the Cous-jet, and how would it go with the furniture (Cous-furniture? Cousiture? Cousiniture?) in the Cous-cave?" That line of thought didn't take me anywhere but to a series of bad Batman jokes (Bat-jokes?), so I instead set out in search of the RCA cable for which I had come. I knew it wasn't going to be easy: The place was a labrynth of expensive toys and blue-shirted, khaki-pantsed salesclerks trying to sell them, and it was getting late. They're always hungrier when it gets close to closing time. I headed in the direction I thought most logical, but in the process I had to walk past a video game console. A salesclerk sprang into action! A cold, digital voice chirped at him from the computer implant in his brain:
"Intruder! 22-year-old male in vicinity of Playstation 3, check him for money!"
"Anything I can help you find, bro?" he asked, in a deceptively cheerful voice, beneath the surface of which could be heard the cries of a lifetime of digital torment.
"No thanks, dude." I said, ducking into the nearest aisle and searching frantically for my query. I knew I didn't have much time. The second attack would be swifter and perhaps more powerful than the first. Blast! No RCA cables to be seen in this part of the store, and I was out of time. My eyes darted from side to side, looking for an unsuspecting salesclerk. If I could find one alone in a secluded part of the store, I thought, I could physically overpower them (stop laughing, it could happen) and take their salesclerk uniform, thus allowing me to move about the store with impunity. "Can I help you find something, dude?" Too late! I'd been spotted.
It should be noted that the last time I was in this same store, I actually surrendered to the salesclerks, and let them help me find something. It turns out that the only thing they know how to find is also the television the size of Rhode Island, which they still can't exactly locate, but can get you in the right department before turning you over to Omega 721, the television guy.
I dispatched the second salesclerk as I had the first, but a third followed on his heels, and then a fourth, each as determined as the one before it. I was becoming weary. Too weary, perhaps, to employ my earlier plan to infiltrate their numbers. I needed to find the cable and escape before it was too late. Success! I found it hidden behind the battery kiosk. Another salesclerk was approaching! I ducked behind the kiosk until he passed, then followed closely behind him as he headed for the front of the store, hoping against hope itself that he would not turn to see me there, so close to escaping. The checkout line! I slipped in before anyone else could spot me. I had only to deal with the checkout clerk, then the "dude" at the door, and then sweet, sweet freedom. Arming myself with my trusty debit card, I took a cursory glance at what the guy in front of me was buying. It was an Xbox 360. "The fool," I thought. They got him. His total flashed up on the little green screen: $426.00. I clutched my RCA cable and gritted my teeth as it came to be my turn, and the clerk offered to sign me up for Best Buy line of credit. "Not on your life" I muttered to myself, but was able to make it come out as a friendly "No thanks." I got my receipt and headed for the doors. As they opened in front of me I could feel the cold wind on my face. I nearly wept.
"We'll get you next ti... er, Have a good evening dude." Said the door guy, putting his hand up to his right ear to check his invisible headset.
"Thanks, you too."
A light snow fell as I stepped out to my car, walking past a man with two salesclerks loading a big-screen tv into his Toyota. I smiled.

A Few Poorly-Organized Thoughts At The Start Of A New Year

A few days before Christmas, as I was dropping a few things off at the post office, I held the door open for a woman wheeling in a hand truck full of packages. “Thanks,” she said. “You have a lot of friends” I noted, referring to her load. “Troops” She said, “They’re for the troops. One of them is my son.” I honestly don’t remember what I said to her after that, but I’m sure it was stupid, and in any case it concluded our conversation. We both took our places in line, before the post office clerk said to her “Ma’am, just step right up. You don’t have to wait in line with the second trip.” By that point, the few outgoing packages and bills for work I was there to send seemed to be the most trivial things in the world, which, to be fair, they probably were. That brief exchange has returned to my mind several times as Christmas slipped by and the New Year has already begun to pass by. Perhaps what struck me about it was merely the reminder that our country is at war, and has been in some way or other for more than five years. Perhaps it’s a testament to modern warfare (or perhaps merely to the nature of the conflicts themselves) that the human cost to the U.S. has been sufficiently low that the war hasn’t hit home for (I suspect) the majority of us. Regardless of what you think of the war (and most of us hold at least one strong opinion about it), I have to admit for myself that I don’t think of it often. It’s become that thing which I change the radio station to avoid hearing about, and casually pass over the newspaper headlines that refer to it. Perhaps it isn’t as bad as all that: there’s very little if anything which I can personally do one way or the other about the war, and all that the press dishes out is politicized sound bites and dehumanizing if not misleading statistics. Still, I can’t help but wonder if we’re not all too numb in some way or other about being engaged in something as terrible as war is. I’m not trying to get political here, or make some broad statement regarding what I think everyone else ought to do (a handy working definition of the word politics). I guess I’m just saying that it was helpful to me in some way to be reminded of the soldiers who were not able to come home for Christmas, and those (hopefully few) who never will, and to pray for them and their families. I suppose that’s all I can do. Celebrations of the Incarnation were many and joyful this year (and actually have yet to conclude), and I’m always amazed at the blessing my family and friends are to me, and at the joy I receive through them. Gifts were given and generally well-received, and I believe that I may have survived another Christmas without my lack of gift-giving prowess costing me any relationships, although it may be too early to tell. It seems that every Christmas I suddenly realize that I’ve let Advent pass without taking advantage of this time that the Church gives us to meditate on the coming of Christ and to make way for His coming in our hearts, and I’d be lying if I said this year was much of an exception. It seems that I never cease to disappoint myself, and yet Christ never ceases to be merciful, and for that I can only be thankful. That said, I found myself presented with at least some time just before Christmas where I was compelled by some combination of circumstances to do just what I’d been putting off doing, and felt particularly drawn to the canticles of Zechariah and of Our Lady, rejoicing in God’s faithfulness to His covenant and His people, and in the way in which God makes himself known. I’m as pleased with sweets and Christmas trees and egg nog and hectic reunions with family and out-of-town friends as anyone else, and perhaps more so, but I’m afraid that too often I content myself with the “warm fuzzies” of the Christmas season. Of course we all know that Christmas isn’t really about these things, but I have to admit that a large portion of my enjoyment of the season is wrapped up in them. In any case, there was no light bulb going off over my head, where I suddenly opened the windows to my house and ordered some boy on the street to go buy a huge bird for the Cratchet family, but I was reminded of what Mary and Zechariah were so joyous about, that humanity and the earth were forever changed and glorified by the Incarnation of God as a Man. Christmas isn’t just “not about” desserts and family and presents, its custom-made for the downtrodden, friendless, miserable wretches of the earth, which to some extent we all are. In any case I’m rambling, and I imagine that you’ve better things to do than this, so I’ll bid you a happy New Year, and leave it at that. Thanks for a great year, and hopefully more to come.

Today's Best Headline

Ok, I know I promised to take it easy on the Links, but when one sees the headline "World's Tallest Man Saves Dolphins In China," one simply must share it with the world. Also, the Republic's unofficial photographer and pop culture connoisseur extraordinare linked me to the full-length (six minute) animated short "The Wolfman," directed by Tim Hope. I had only seen a shorter version released some years ago as a hilarious television commercial for the Sony Playstation 2. The longer version is far superior. Happy Thursday!

Nightmares of Yesteryear's Stale Gingerbread...

Hello, friends! I do hope that you've been well, I suppose that I have. I've been meaning to sit down and post a few thoughts on this blog of mine for a good week or two, and now that I sit down in Espresso Royale, cappuccino and laptop in hand, I find that I've really startlingly little to say. I guess that isn't so startling after all, though. Christmas is fast approaching, and although I'm reminded of it every time I use the internet, turn on the radio, or enter the grocery store, I guess I'm still in denial about it. I love Christmas, I actually do. In fact, I love nearly everything about Christmas. I like parties and friends and relatives who I don't see often enough. I even like Christmas music, in moderation. I guess now I'm just getting into my annual gift anxiety stage, where I have yet to complete any fraction of my Christmas shopping. My Christmas shopping ritual tends to be about the same every year, a mind-numbing experience of not knowing what I'm looking for when I leave to go to the store (or stores), and then (predictably) not finding it. The root of the problem might even be something truly depressing. Perhaps I don't know the ones I love well enough to be able to pick out good gifts for them. Anyways, since some of them might (by chance, or perhaps stemming from an overdeveloped sense of loyalty) read this post, and I don't want anyone to think that I'm trying to play the martyr card ("you have no idea how hard it was for me to pick out that gift you don't like"), I'm probably better off apologizing for being overly indecisive. I'm sorry.
Moving along, Reens and I set up the Christmas tree last night, that was fun. It turns out that my Type-A sister has a method for doing just about everything, including wrapping lights around the branches of the Christmas tree just right. Or else. She's funny. I also got to hear various fecetious repetitions of the phrase "It must be nice living with a man," which apparently has been said to her about us living together by various people, much to her amusement. I can't figure out what exactly people mean by saying it, to be honest. I mean, it's me. I'm not exactly Mr. Fix-It. I'm taller than Reens, but I think that's about all I've got on her. She's better at fixing stuff and owns her own tools. Nobody says "must be nice living with women" to me, expecting that they do my laundry and cook for me, although to be fair, my sister sometimes takes pity on me eating my crappy bachelor food and offers me something resembling nourishment. Ok, I've babbled enough for one post. I wish you all well, do take care.

It's the little things we do...

Wow, I suppose that all of the spam comments on my last post are the price I pay for neglecting this thing for so long. I should also say that it might be inappropriate to make fun of Diane Rehm's voice, since it is apparently due to a rather unpleasant condition, and as such I am sorry if I have offended anyone's sensibilities. I still say that the person on the phone sounded just like her, whatever her malady. I'll get back into regular posting soon enough, although I'm afraid that I haven't enough time presently for a full-blown update. I'm afraid that I may have to restrict the comments in some way, shape or form, but in the meantime, I just ask that any of you who post comments (for which I'm quite grateful, it feels good to know someone reads this thing, for whatever reason) refrain from doing so anonymously. I would also like to repeat my policy of not using anyone's full name on the blog (or anywhere else on the internet for that matter) without their consent. Also, while I encourage any and all of you to post links in the comments to whatever you think I'll find interesting, do not click any links that are posted anonymously, or by someone whose screen name you are unfamiliar with. Thanks for checking back, I'll have more posts up soon.

Random

I swear, I just got off the phone with Diane Rehm. You know, NPR's ultra-liberal talk show host, who sounds like a chain smoker who's just been punched in the throat. Ok, I shouldn't be too harsh on her, I believe that she has/had some sort of throat ailment, and for that she has my sympathies. Either way, the woman with whom I was just on the phone sounds exactly like her. She of course claimed to be someone else, and I played along, but I was tempted to interrupt her and say "Is this you, Diane? How'd you get this number? That's the Diane Rehm I know, always a joker." Darn me and my politeness. Now she probably thinks that I had no idea, and she'll be laughing her already strained vocal chords to the point of combustion (can they combust? I'm no doctor). I just hope she doesn't mention in on her show on Friday, then everyone will think I'm a gullible idiot. Maybe they already do.

It starts...

Yep, it's happening. I've probably only been lucky to have escaped it this long, but it's happening. I was walking through the grocery store tonight, and I thought I'd been a good shopper. I didn't even become irate and ask the stock clerk why the bath soap is halfway accross the store from the shampoo, and goodness knows I wanted to. Nothing against the guy, he's working the late shift at Meijer, so it's probably best that I didn't comment on this ridiculous situation for which he was obviously not responsible. I did think about it, though. Maybe the Meijer security people picked that up on their security cameras somehow. Whatever the reason, Meijer decided to subject me and my fellow shoppers (of which there was a surprising number, considering the late hour) to a little aural torture. I was already accross the store and in the correct isle to find the aforementioned soap when it hit. It started out as something sort of like techno, but then over the top of the slow electronic beat came a somewhat deep and gravelly female voice with a slight twang, which sounded roughly like what I imagine llamas sound like when they become constipated and are about to die the most painful bowel-related death imagineable: "Aaah'll have a bluuuuuuuuueeeeee Christmaaaaaaas without yooooooooooouuuu..." Ye gods. It's November. I won't be able to enter another store until perhaps New Years without being subjected to seven different Easy-Listening versions of Bobby Helms' awful "Jingle Bell Rock," perhaps followed by Kenny G laying down an instrumental version of "It's the Most Wonderful Time Of the Year," which will make you believe that you have died and gone to hell, and that the devil plays alto saxophone. It makes me wish I'd bought all the food I'll need for the next month and a half while I was there, curse my lack of foresight! Of course I'll have to buy Christmas gifts or something like that (I'm told that this is done this time of year, usually by advertisements telling me to "give the gift of _____ ," where you fill in the blanks with a product name such as "Cars," "Diamonds," or "Llama Skin Coat"). Maybe I can buy gifts online, I'm in the 21st Century, after all. Either that, or perhaps I'll get disowned by all of my family and friends by the time December 23rd (the day I usually get around to doing my shopping), that's never too remote a possibility. Ok, I'm babbling and I need sleep. In fact, I need to have slept. Whatever. I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, and that this is all I could think of to say for now. I'll try to be better, if only because more time writing on my blog might mean less time spent in stores where they play Christma--er, Holiday carols. Stay warm out there, kids.

Monday

Today was one of the few times when I went home during lunch (it's a very short trip) to put in a load of laundry only to hear the clarion call of the beer in my fridge. Yep, one of those days. For the record, the beer's still in my fridge and I never seriously entertained the idea of consuming it, in case anyone out there thinks of me like that. Instead I consoled myself with thoughts of clean laundry, and in the car I mellowed to Eric Clapton's sweet sweet guitar playing and pining for another man's wife. Ah, the blues. I've been told that I have a few hang-ups, and I'll not argue with the assertion, but I'm still never comfortable with womens' undergarments in the laundry. I have a feeling that this isn't the sort of thing I should be admitting on the internet, but I'll draw some comfort from the fact that I never use my complete real name on this blog (that's right, you have no idea who I am). I also have a feeling somewhere in my gut that a phobia such as this isn't entirely normal, although I could be wrong, and all the same I don't feel that it's half as irrational as it is. Or isn't. Whatever. I don't have any real problem living with women (in some function or other, I've lived with women for most of my life), and the pros outweigh the cons to be sure. I like living with women. I even get free baked goods periodically (heh heh, periodically), and that can't be bad. Still, I can't seem to get past this one. Perhaps it means I'm doomed to eternal bachelorhood, but I rather hope it doesn't--I'm a terrible cook. Stop talking about this Cous, you're digging a hole for yourself that you shall never escape.
Only another 8 days until election day (should that be capitalized? I don't know), and it can't happen soon enough, as far as I'm concerned. It means that I'll stop receiving unsolicited mailings and phone calls and television ads informing me of why this is the most important election in our lifetime, and what those nasty nasty Republicrats and Democrans are doing to our country. My favorite ad so far has been a cartoon of Dick DeVos shipping a crate marked "JOBS" off to China. Silly Dick DeVos, jobs are for unions. The other catchy one is "DeVos is DeCeptive," found on the bumper of many a rusted Volvo around town. A catchy ad to be sure, but I'm not really impressed by the rhetoric. I mean, is Dick DeVos deomonstrably deceptive? I don't doubt the danger, but don't you think the mere accusation is a little... dubious? Ok, I'm reaching for that one. I'm not a D.D.V. fan boy or anthing like that (he's certainly done his share of negative campaigning), but I haven't heard any actual complaints about the man being a pathological liar or antying like that. It might as well say "DeVos stole my baby." Much as I'm sick of politics, there are actually some interesting referendums on the ballot, so be sure to read up on stuff before next Tuesday. Also, if any of the ads on television or in the mail have helped you make up your mind about the issues and candidates, do us all a favor and DON'T VOTE. Ooh, my old professor the constantly entertaining Gary "don't have to live like a refugee" Wolfram has a little editorial out on elections, you should check it out. Hat tip to Jonathan on that one, by the way. Other than that, have a good week and watch out for the mud that's getting slung left and right around here. Oh yeah, and don't drink the yellow milk. Heh heh heh, milk.

Udder Confusion

Hey kids! Sorry about the lack of posting for a while, I guess it's the price I pay for having nothing to say. For those of you who haven't read either my mother's post on the topic or the related Ann Arbor News story, or if you just want a slightly less biased (ha!) opinion on the matter, you've come to the right place. First off, I want to tell you to ignore those two links I gave you up there and listen only to the soothing sound of my typing hands, but I imagine that you've already read the news article and first-hand apology (I mean that in the Socratic sense, she's not sorry), so I'm just going to attempt to editorialize here.
Last Friday morning found my mum and sister-in-law waiting in a back alley in Ann Arbor with a largish crowd of folks with pony tails and Birkenstocks and maybe the occasional "man with no name"-style poncho, who had all driven (or perhaps carpooled to save on greenhouse emissions) there in old Volvos that are now held together only by bumper stickers which read "Free Tibet," "I break for Jake," and perhaps "I'd rather be in Ann Arbor." What, you may ask, could possibly have drawn these people away from their homeopathy boutiques and used record and book stores on this Friday morning? Milk. That's right, just like the stuff the rest of us buy at gas stations and grocery stores at our convenience. Well, almost just like it. What makes this milk so special? It's unpasteurized. Unpasteurized? Isn't pasteurization that process by which the bacteria in milk are killed? Yup, but let’s leave that for later. For now, let’s just content ourselves with the knowledge that two otherwise sane people whom I love very much were standing there on a Friday morning waiting to buy dirty milk out of the back of a truck. In an alley. On purpose. And then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, nothing happened. Seriously. The sketchy milk truck didn’t show. Close to 100 hippies were stuck there in an alley, awaiting the arrival of a truck that simply would not arrive. Awkwardly, they stood around with their hands in their pockets, probably thinking to themselves that it’s getting a wee bit cold to wear Birkenstocks, and perhaps making awkward small talk to one another about how they never forgave their parents for not accepting their lifestyle.
What had become of the truck and its high-bacteria bounty? It had been stopped en route from the organic dairy farm by sheriff’s deputies serving a Michigan Department of Agriculture warrant to seize the sketchy milk and Farmer Rick’s cell phone. They also swiped his computer back at the farm house. Little did Farmer Rick realize that his weekly back-alley drop-offs had been to 99 honest crazies trying to get their bacteria fix, and one undercover agent from the Michigan Department of Agriculture. An undercover agent, baby! Every MDA worker dreams of this kind of assignment. “Son, I need someone to infiltrate an organic dairy co-op, and they tell me you’re the best. Here’s your ‘Jerry Lives’ t-shirt, and the keys to your 1979 Volvo. In the car you’ll find an 8-track tape with further instructions, along with some live bootlegs of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young.” Hahahaha, those jokers at the MDA, what will they come up with next?
According to the news article (which, by the way, more than pushes the limits of impartial journalism), Farmer Rick has done nothing illegal, and has yet to be charged with anything. Apparently there’s a loophole in Michigan law which allows the co-op to buy the milk by leasing part-ownership of the herd, or something like that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually against laws that keep people from buying unpasteurized milk when they do so with full knowledge of what they’re buying. We can still legally buy alcohol and tobacco, can’t we? Sorry, I’m just not looking to the State of Michigan to save me from myself. That said, I personally find the whole ordeal to be about the funniest thing I’ve heard all month. I’m sorry to those of you who’d already heard the whole story, I’ll try to post something else in a timely manner. Until then, I wish you well.

Sunshine on the bottom of my feet means I must be layin' down

Rumor is that they threw out the circus clowns and brought in a bearded lady act instead, though it probably won't make any difference, that is if you're not a circus clown. Not much to report for the week really, different day with the same porridge in your bowl, if you know what I mean. That's not actually bad, mind you, although sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes the days start to feel like the mirrors on your wall looking back at you with the persistent disdain, in spite of all the Sun King's best intentions and your hard-earned respect being wasted at the feet of the lonely. Not much you can do about it really, that's just how the world turns on Tuesdays, or whatever day it is in Singapore. I'll write more when I have more to write about, sorry.

And when the dam bursts we'll all float back to from whence we came.

Ok, I usually avoid the news during election years, but the other day I stumbled across more evidence that New York City and its denizens are not of this earth. Yeah, crazy. I suppose that after you make it illegal to smoke in bars (Earth to New York and its wannabes: they're BARS!), this was the next logical step. The only thing left for them to do is to have social workers sitting in bathrooms to make sure we wipe our arses and wash our hands (Incidentally, this is what my girlfriend does for a living, heh heh). I don't think this will really go through this time around (wait a few years), but all the same I'd check the campaign funds of NYC politicians for money soaked in Canola oil, or whatever is you substitute for hydrogenated oils. On the other hand, I might be too cynical. Maybe they're not actually trying to grease their palms with campaign funds and they're not actually insane. Of course, the only option that leaves is that they're just trying to prepare the way for the mother ship. I'm pretty sure that I don't want some politician on a mission telling me what they think I should be eating. All I have to say is that they can have my fragel... when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers! By the way, it has come to my attention that not everybody knows what a fragel is, or why it is the best thing ever invented by man. All I can say is that if it's been more than a week since you last had a fragel, go get one.
In other news, I'm afraid we have seen the public disgrace of yet another once-beloved hero of our childhood. I'm never surprised to see another very unflattering photo a messy-haired movie star or athelete with a cocaine mustache staring at me from the cover of a tabloid in the supermarket checkout isle with some headline about spousal abuse while driving while under the influence of drugs, but I expected better than this from Paddington. Where did you go so wrong, old friend? Anyways, that's all for now. I don't want to overwhelm you with the lack of paragraph breaks and the overabundance of Links. Ok, I'm sorry about that one. If you don't get that joke, I have more respect for you than I have for myself.

Being For The Benefit of Mr. Cous.

Hello, friend. I don't suppose that you've been pining away for another post on this thing, but since you can't have too much of a good thing, you can probably put up with a pretty hefty amount of a bad thing, too. Am I wrong? I thought I'd take this time to fade out, having nothing really to talk about, but as the post has only just begun and my last post was a long review that you won't want to read, I'd better throw in some filler that you'll read and wish that you hadn't. Yes. On with the filler! I've been following the headlines about the Pope's supposedly "inflamatory" comments, but have been too disgusted to actually read what's going on. I suppose that you might call it irresponsible to not actually follow the details, since you never know when I might have to defend His Holiness or my faith in general against someone who reads the New York Times like most Christians don't read the Bible, but I really don't see this as even being that relevant. The media's jumping on the Pope for saying something politically incorrect. No kidding. Is the Pope Catholic? I'd be more worried if the media actually liked the guy. Honestly, the only thing he could have said that would have pleased the media and political establishment in general is if he said "Um, everyone just do whatever you want and don't worry about the consequences. Jesus was a reallly nice guy and he wouldn't want anyone to make some sort of moral assesment of any actions or ideas or their implications. Also, Islam is peace. While nothing is actually wrong per se, it's very not nice to imply that your religion might be closer to truth than anyone else's." Anyways, as you can see, I'm in no mental state to engage in any kind of intelligent thought right now, and I'm ranting. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what my mental state would have to be in order to make an intelligent post. I've yet to attain it, whatever it is. Sooner or later you have to realize that it's not really going to make a whole lot of difference whether you're hearing that sound from outside your head or if its just some ringing in your ear from too much shouting in the art galleries where Dr. Mournful's finest work is never on display, but where you can find his finer mediocrities without much trouble to the police or anyone else in this town know where I can find a telephone that takes American change? Times change. You can argue that Time is a human construct, but I don't think that it is. Clocks are a human construct, but I'm pretty sure that Time would exist without them, and without calendars on the wall telling you what to do all the time you might actually break down and do what you've wanted to do all along but never had the time because of the worrysome sound of water coming from the ceiling in the room that you'd just repainted-and suddenly we're back to paint and it's time (back to time as well, although we technically can't leave it behind anywhere either way) to wrap this up and wish you a fine evening before it becomes morning and you have to get up and do your chicken dance all day until you can't lay any more eggs and farmer John will come around with his axe a-swingin' and whiskey on his breath. Maybe tommorow won't be the day, though, so maybe we'll have time to have a pint and talk it all over on some evening when we're both free. We'll see.

An Overly Long Review of Bob Dylan's Modern Times

First off, I feel compelled to warn you that this is a Bob Dylan album. If you’ve already given Dylan an honest and open-minded listening and either still can’t get past his oft-maligned voice or simply aren’t fond of his somewhat weird folk rock injected with postmodern imagery, you’re probably not going to like this album. I can’t fault you for having different tastes than my own. That said, I can’t help but think (probably because of the degree to which I personally am fond of Mr. Dylan’s music) that there are some (perhaps many) who haven’t given the guy a chance, and this album is a pretty good opportunity to do that if you’re up to it. The only disclaimer I can offer is that there are at least six or seven (some might put that number closer to 30) versions of Bob Dylan floating around out there on record, and if you’re expecting to hear the guy who sings songs like “Lay Lady, Lay,” “Blowin’ In The Wind,” or “Like A Rolling Stone” the way they sounded in the ‘60s, you’re not going to get it. There, that’s off my chest.

For all the hats he’s worn over the last forty-five years (lately he’s been wearing a Stetson), Dylan’s still at his core a folk singer, and throughout Modern Times he constantly and unabashedly revisits and borrows from the folk and blues canon, seamlessly writing new songs around old lyrics and themes. Backed by the current five-man lineup of his ever-changing touring band, Dylan croaks out blues and croons ballads from behind his guitar and piano, throwing in a few bars of harmonica where needed.
The album starts out with “Thunder on the Mountain,” a nice upbeat blues tune with somewhat typical weird Dylan lyrics that don’t make much sense, but sound cool. With some slick guitar work and a superb rhythm section behind Dylan’s sneering vocals, you’ve got an all-around good album opener.
Next comes “Spirit on the Water,” a somewhat sour love song set to an easy-going jazz standard-sounding piano tune, carried by an upright bass and some airy guitar fills. I guess I’d have to call it a pop song despite its seven-plus-minute length, and also despite the fact that “pop” music like this stopped being mainstream at least forty-five years ago. Not the voice you’d expect to hear crooning out this song, but it works so well you wonder why you didn’t.
“Rollin’ and Tumblin” picks up speed and turns up the guitars again, sounding to me sort of like Dylan's mid-sixties hit “Maggie’s Farm,” if it had been written by John Lee Hooker.
What better way to follow up a heavy blues song than with “When the Deal Goes Down,” a slow waltz that again finds Dylan playing piano, accompanied by a steel guitar and violin.
You could call “Someday Baby” a re-imagining of the blues standard “Worried Life Blues” to some extent, with the rhythm section laying down a nice groove into which Dylan weaves his vocals. One of the highlights of the album to be sure, catch it on the latest iTunes + iPod commercial on telly if you watch that sort of thing.
“Workingman’s Blues #2” is, unless I’m mistaken, Dylan’s most political song in at least the last decade, or at least the first verse is, so I’m actually quite surprised at how much I like it. It might be because after lamenting the fact that “the buying power of the Proletariat’s going down” early on, the tune pretty much turns out to be more of a blue-collar love song. Also, if you’re an absolute geek like me, you might notice how much the instruments here sound like much earlier Dylan. To me it sounds like Dylan in his mid sixties has transported himself back to the mid sixties to sit in on a song recorded one take after “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” but I can tell that I’m losing you. Seems to me that everybody’s got something that they’re a geek about, this is mine. Sorry.
“Beyond The Horizon” is another jazzy love song, or so it seems to be. To me, it seems that perhaps he’s referring to a place/state of life that’s impossible to attain, and singing whistfully about happiness that’s never to be. Give it a listen, either way it sounds pretty nice.
Hmm… I’m not sure what to say about “Nettie Moore.” The lyrics to the verses make less and less sense as the song progresses, but the beautiful chorus and the sadness conveyed throughout make it one of my favorite songs on the album. Good stuff.
Things pick up again with Dylan’s cover/re-write of the old blues song “The Levee’s Gonna Break,” recorded and performed in various different versions over the years, the most famous that I can think of being by Led Zeppelin. Dylan and the band manage to be upbeat yet subdued here, giving the song a much more chilled vibe than its otherwise urgent lyrics suggest.
Ten songs into the album and you’ve reached the closer, “Ain’t Talkin’.” As is not uncommon with Dylan albums, the final track here is slow and acoustic, and it could be one of the eeriest sounding songs in Dylan’s extensive catalog. While most of Dylan’s songs don’t seem to be directly about himself, this tune somewhat suggests that sadly the singer/songwriter is no closer to finding the answers to life’s questions than he ever was. The tune’s final seconds are to me one of the more musically brilliant moments on the whole album, when, after dangling between a few minor chords for the whole song, the band slowly cycles into a major chord so perfectly that you almost forget how gloomy a song it actually was. It’s also got some pretty cool poetic biblical references in there, too.
Anyhoo, it’s a good CD and if you’re up for it I’d highly recommend it. Of course, as I said I’m a huge Dylan fan, so take anything I say about his music with a grain of salt. Also very much worth picking up are the sophomore releases (both from early summer) by Keane and The Zutons. Keane kicks up their weirdness in the production department a notch, and The Zutons Turn up the guitars and kick up the tempo bit, but both albums are carried by strong songwriting and production, and are further evidence that good pop music can only come from England. Sorry for an even-more-self-indulgent-than-usual post, I’ll try to have something more normal up here soon. Have a great week.

"I don't get no respect."

So I was watching the big Notre Dame/U. of M. game on Saturday, which was enjoyable. I'm not the world's biggest sports fan (I don't have time, what with working out the logistics of 50WD and all), but I do like football, and it was more than a little gratifying to see #11 Michigan win their road opener by wiping the floor with an old rival, who happen to also be the no. 2-ranked team in the country. Ah, Autumn. Anyways, watching the game I was struck once again by the striking resemblance that Fighting Irish head coach Charlie Weis bears to the late comic Rodney Dangerfield. Sure, Weis is a little fatter and a little less dead, but I have to think that I'm not the only one who noticed this. I didn't watch the post-game press conference, but I like to imagine that Weis' comments went something like this:

“So I went down to the stadium today, stop me if you’ve heard this one. I was havin’ the time of my life until I realized I was supposed to be coaching a football game, instead of watchin’ the cheahleadahs. This football team I got, they don’t give me no respect. I tell ‘em to run the football, they run 11 yahds in the whole game! I tell ‘em to pass the football, they pass it right to the other team! I shoulda been coaching the cheahleadahs, they were doin’ what I wanted ‘em to do!”

"When you're in your little room..."

Greetings, friend(s). It's been a decent-ish few weeks behind the scenes at the Republic of D.Cous., various things going on.
I spent Labor Day weekend road tripping to and from a wedding in Iowa, which was actually quite fun. I was expecting the trip to be a drag and the wedding to be fun, but they both turned out to be a great time. I rode out with people who I mostly didn't know very well, and we had a great time getting better acquainted and playing mad libs and making more inside jokes about other parts of the trip than any group of people probably should.
Bob Dylan's new album Modern Times came out on August 29. If you're reading this you probably have some idea of how big a Bob Dylan fan I am (much to your chagrin, perhaps), so watch for my review of the disk in a day or two. I won't blame you if you decide to skip it, but I thought I'd try my hand at writing a review, and it's just not finished yet.
Yesterday was my 22nd birthday, which I'm pretty sure makes me officially old. I had a nice dinner celebration with a few friends, and I'm having dinner tomorrow with my family, so I guess I get bonus points for spreading my birthday out accross three days. It's been a good life so far, many thanks to all of you who have helped to make it so (some of you have probably done so completely by accident).
I went to Cedar Point for the first time in at least a decade over the past weekend, thanks to an invitation from friends. There are a fair amount of new rides since I was last there, and at the time I was too scared to enjoy the few rides I did try (I was something of a nervous kid, as I'm sure you can imagine). This time around was much more fun than my few remaining shards of memory from the first trip, but I have to admit that I don't think I'll be going back any time soon. I'm not sorry I went, don't get me wrong. I enjoyed myself, though it's not the sort of thing I would've done of my own volition. The problem really was that I got pretty sick from the roller coasters and didn't end up going on all that many. More evidence that I'm miserably old, I guess.

"Diamonds are forever, Mr. Bond."

So I picked up a Dr. Pepper for the first time in a while yesterday, and discovered that they've once again updated their packaging. The new can advertises that "Dr. Pepper" was established in 1885, when it was most likely peddled by snake oil salesmen as "Doctor Pepper's Marvelous Cure-All Elixir," and could supposedly cure rheumatism, typhoid, influenza, and could even be used for the treatment of various Indian attack-related injuries. I can see the ads now: "Out here on the frontier, I perty much only need three thangs: ma gun, ma Bible, and a six-pack 'a Doctor Pepper's Marvelous Cure-All Elixir!" (notactuallyproventocureanything
sideeffectsincludelossofsleepnauseaandinsomecasestoothdecay). The new can design also advertises that Dr. Pepper is made from "an authentic blend of 23 flavors." Apparently somebody recently told the Dr. Pepper people about the existence of Mr. Pibb, Dr. Thunder, and various other off-brand alternatives, and they're desperately attempting to prove their product's superiority. "Oh, hello Mr. Pibb. I notice that you've been making a pop that's very similar to mine. You probably think you're pretty clever, but what you don't realize is that mine is an authentic blend of 23 flavors! How many flavors are in your little soda? One? Two? Yeah, that's what I thought. Clear out the substitutes, there's a new Sheriff in town. A sheriff with an AUTHENTIC BLEND OF 23 FLAVORS, biatches!" Ok, sorry. I have no idea why I'm writing about this.

Moving along, I'm thinking of putting a link onto the blog that will let you donate money to me, since a lot of other sites seem to do this. Of course, all you get for donating to them is the satisfaction of paying for a site that you'd previously been viewing for free, and maybe sometimes they'll throw in a "bonus membership street team" phrase, where they'll give you a t-shirt (but only if you donate more than $25 or something like that), and you get to feel outright smug about donating to the site. It's like the Good Book says, hombres: "Why waste your money on what is not bread? Your wages on what fails to satisfy?" For donating to The People's Republic of D.Cous., you won't just get a t-shirt and a smug look on your face every time you view my blog. You'll get no t-shirt whatsoever, and the look on your face won't be smug, no. It'll be outright distorted by a twisted maniacal grin, knowing that you have helped me get one step closer to 50% world domination. Total domination might be in the works, we'll see, but first I need some money. My plan is so simple that it's absolutely brilliant, and I'm only telling you about it because I need the money to implement it, and because you read my blog I trust you. I'm going to create a shoe. A pair of shoes, really. I haven't run the computer simulations yet, but it might have to be a very big pair of shoes to get the desired effect. It might even have to be several small pairs of shoes. As I said, due to research funding limitations, this plan for 50% world domination is still very much in the planning phase. Where was I? Oh yes. Shoes. Intrigued yet? Yes, I'm aware of the many questions that must be racing through your capable mind right now. How is D.Cous. going to achieve 50% world domination by making shoes? Does this have anything to do with Dr. Pepper, and if so, what? Is anybody watching me right now, or is it ok to pick my nose? I'll answer those questions in reverse order, for dramatic effect: Thirdly, yes. You're always being watched, and no, you probably shouldn't pick your nose in front of them. It's rude. Secondly, no. The bit about Dr. Pepper was just to get the casual Republic of D.Cous. reader to stop reading. The frontier was settled, the railroads were built, and the Indians were relegated to reservations and casinos by 1885, everyone knows this. No one must know about what I have to say. No one except me, and you, and of course Reginald. I'll be the brains of the operation, obviously, you'll be the financier, and Reginald will (as always) be the silent partner. Now then, to your first question. As I said before, I'm going to make a pair of shoes, or perhaps several. Some field testing and computer modeling will need to be done to determine the size and quantity of the shoes, once the funds start rolling in. Now comes the important part, the part where the shoes give us the power to rule 50% of the world: They will be made out of chocolate. Shoes made out of chocolate, my friend! Half the world is already within our grasp, we just have to get our hands on it before the Wal Mart people do. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and perhaps you're starting to lose interest before I get to the really important part. Combining the powers of shoes and chocolate is still only 2/3 of my plan for 50% world domination (50WD), and 2/3 of 50% is only... let's see... carry the two... anyways, it's less than 50%. Yes friends, there is one more element to 50WD (not to be mistaken for WD40, which was actually a miserable failure as a world-domination plan, but turned out to be a pretty good lubricant), without which the first two elements combined are a mere novelty item: Diamonds. That’s right, diamonds. A lot of diamonds. Enough diamonds, in fact, to coat a pair of chocolate shoes in a sparkly glow of unstoppable power. The power to control any and all women on earth, Mr. Bond. Faced with that “super-cute” pair of diamond-coated chocolate shoes, women’s brains the world over shall be like so much putty in the hands of a capable sculptor (not that I can sculpt per se, it’s just a simile). There may be a few minor brain explosions as some women try to figure out whether to eat or wear the shoes, and if they wear them what outfit will they go with, but I think most women will stop before then, stopped in their tracks by the mere concept of a diamond-coated chocolate shoe. They’ll be so blown away it may even take them a while to notice the second shoe. We’ll have complete control over every woman on earth within minutes, which is, if my math is correct, roughly 50% of the world’s population. Of course, once you control all the women, you’ve pretty much already got control of the other half of the world, but I’m getting ahead of myself again. The key elements here are money, money, and money. “Great,” you’re thinking. “I already KNEW I could win women over with money.” That’s as may be, my friend, but I put it to you that Plan 50WD will win over every woman in the world far cheaper than any alternative heretofore considered.
The bottom line is “give money to the People’s Republic of D.Cous.” You won’t be directly helping refugees or orphans or even starving beat poets (I personally guarantee that no money donated to the Republic shall ever go to starving beat poets). Instead, you’ll be helping me achieve world domination, in exchange for loosely defined “gratitude” at some undetermined future date (and that’s a promise you can take right to the bank), after I’ve established myself as supreme leader of earth, and we’ve blasted at least one other planet out of the solar system just for the heck of it. Come on, you know you want to.

Of Rugged Rocks and Ragged Rascals...

Ah, rainy days. The perfect time for relaxing on the couch with a cup o' tea (or coffee, I'm an equal opportunity enjoyer of hot beverages, except for that no-good hot cider nonsense) and that Jules Verne book I didn't quite finish on vacation (icthiological terms are tricky in french, by the way). That's not actually what I'm doing on this fine rainy day, but it still would've been a good way to spend it, all other things being equal. I also enjoy driving in the rain, something I did actually get to do, running an errand or two. It's funny the things you miss when you don't have them. Last summer I spent a month in France travelling mostly by train and on foot, having a fantastic time, and by the end of the trip I missed driving. I'm quite happy to have finished my studies at Hillsdale, but aside from missing friends and professors and such (which I'd expected), I've begun to miss the odd little things. I miss having free, unlimited access to JSTOR (an online archive of academic journal articles) and the Oxford English Dictionary, and a super-cheap subscription to the Wall Street Journal. Perusing the internet during lunch the other day I stumbled accross a nearly 50-page economics paper, and was sorry not to have the time to read it. A few months ago I would've had the paper in hand with a deadline to write a paper, give a presentation, or take a test on it (none of which I enjoy), fully ready to stay up late into night with a cup of coffee (sorry, no tea for late-night studying) and my trusty notebook and highlighter, listening to Miles Davis on my headphones and doodling in the notebook while my mind tried to wrap itself around the theory. Don't get me wrong. I loved France, and I want to go back some day. I also loved college, I just don't want to go back. I finished. I took my four years of classes, made my mistakes, did a few things right (but not too many, gotta keep expectations low), and graduated. In fact, before my diploma arrived in the mail a few weeks ago I was irrationally paranoid that I would receive a call from the Hillsdale College registrar, telling me that I would have to come back to take one more PE class, or another semester of English. I liked English, but I got slightly disilusioned by my freshman litterature class when it occured to me that at least half of the works we were reading weren't originally written in English. I'm not saying that we shouldn't be reading Virgil, Dante, Cervantes, and Augustine (quite the opposite, really), I'm just saying that putting them in a class called "English" is a bit of a misnomer. Sure, we read some Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Coleridge as well, so there were smatterings of English litterature in the English class, but still. Ok, I don't even know why I'm ranting about that. It's not even something I feel at all strongly about. I'm sorry world. They're called "English" classes because they're taught by members of the English department, or perhaps because they expect your papers to be in something at least recognizeable as the English language (by the way, I don't see myself missing writing typed, double-spaced, one inch-margined expository prose any time soon). Well, there you have it. Another post devoid of paragraph breaks or discernable direction. I'm sorry, but not so sorry that I won't do it again, as I am likely to do. Have a good rainy day if it continues to rain, and a good sunny day if it doesn't.

No alarms and no surprises, please.

Ah, back to the helm of The Republic. I must say, it's been a very dreadfully long time, and I wouldn't blame you at all if you're not reading this, as there's a very good chance that you're not. What have I been doing with myself during my hiatus, you might ask? Well, don't bother, it's not really anything to write home about. I did go on vacation with my family and my girlfriend and her family (for those of you keeping track, that adds up to 1,023 people), up on one of Michigan's six lakes named "Long Lake." 'Twas a wonderfully relaxing time, and quite a bit cooler than this 95-degree madness that I've come back to, and I kept my longstanding vacation tradition of sitting on the beach reading for hours, taking occasional breaks to eat, sleep, and mingle with friends and relatives.

Hey hey, a paragraph break! I haven't been keeping track, but that's probably only the sixth or seventh in The Republic's long and proud history. Anyways, let's have a little talk about Japanese Beetles. Hmm... On second thought, let's not capitalize the name, it's only an insect. What do we know about Japanese beetles? Well, there's the name for starters: Japanese is an adjective, meaning "Of or pertaining to Japan," according to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED for short), so clearly the name indicates that the insect in question is or at some point was beleived to be of Japanese origin. Beetle is of course a noun, for which the OED gives this handy little definition:

"The class name for insects of the coleopterous order, having the upper pair of wings converted into hard sheaths or wing-cases (elytra) that close over the back, and protect the lower or true wings, which most species are able to use in flight."

I'm terribly sorry, but blogger is apparently refusing me the right to indent lengthy quotations, so that's the best I'm going to do. Let the record show, however, that those are not paragraph breaks per se, and should not be counted as such. Anyways, where was I? Beetles. Yes. When you combine the words "Japanese" and "beetle," you get a new definition, one which unfortunately cannot be found on the austere pages of that definitive record of the English Language, but which is nonetheless useful: The Japanese beetle is the most disgusting animal known to man. Anyways, Reens (My sister and landlady) and I returned from our vacation to discover that our neighborhood was infested with the aforementioned green insectoid monstrocities, who were making themselves as comfortable as pigs in the mud devouring my sister's much-cherished garden. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. A small amount of research on Reenie's part revealed that the two main ways to dispose of the little buggers are to either pick them off by hand, or else purchase and trap them with a pheromone trap. Being more than a bit vexed with the beetles, and in no mood to pick them off the bushes like so many blueberries, it was the second option which my sister took, and hence asked me to set up the contraption. It's a simple device, really: You suspend a tablet of synthesized beetle sex attractants mixed with some sort of poison (it probably takes a pretty weird guy with a PhD to think of this) over a plastic bag with a funnel in the top, and within a few seconds the horny little bastards fly to it from all corners of the yard, and fall stunned into the bag, where they writhe around in a pile having some disgusting bug orgy/feeding frenzy until the smell of dead bugs begins to counterract the pheromones and the bag has to be replaced for more bugs to show up. Grossed out? I know I am, dear reader (don't you hate it when people patronize you in print by calling you "dear reader?" I know I do), but I'm afraid we're not yet finished with this gruesome tale. Remember how I said said the bugs are writhing around in a pile in the bottom of the bag? That's right, the majority of them are not yet dead. Just for a second, imagine yourself holding a tied-off plastic bag containing roughly a pound of writhing beatles. If you're starting to get phantom itches from imagining that those bugs are now crawling all over yourself, welcome to my world. Feel free to leave my world any time you like and go back to your happy place, assuming that there are no Japanese beetles there. What are we supposed to do with this 1 pound bag of garden pests? We notice that there are tiny holes in the bag (as if the bugs are supposed to be able to breathe or something, I don't know. Ask the guys who make beetle sex attractants for a living, not me). So, Reens comes up with the idea of drowning the little buggers in soap water, which, she says, is rumored to be lethal to them. Figures that something that disgusting would have a fatal allergy to soap, I guess, but being more than a little tired of the sight of the beetles, I take the idea step further and suggest that we put a little bleach into the solution, just for good measure. So, we fill a bucket with goodly amounts of soap, bleach, and just a touch of water (for flavor), and dip the bag-o-bugs into it. So far so good, but after a few minutes we decided to check up on the bugs, to make sure that they had truly all died (you must understand, a bag of beetles does in fact float, so it was never completely submerged). Reenie grabbed the still-dry top of the bag and slowly lifted it up out of the water a few inches, which is when a dark, rust-colored liquid began pouring out of the aforementioned holes in the bag, and clouding the water in the bucket below. Unbelievably disgusting. Methinks that perhaps the bleach and soap don't just kill the bugs, they sort of chemically break them down to a brown pulp. I didn't think I'd be able to eat for days, but somehow I managed to have some dinner, although I didn't want to go near anything crunchy.

Anyways, that's pretty much all I can stand to write for now, the memory's still too vivid, especially considering that every day since then I've gotten home from work to see a fresh new pound of bugs in the bottom of the bag I put up the previous evening. I don't ever want to go to hell, because it's probably where I sent all those bugs, and they're probably pissed. I mean, here they thought they were gonna get free love like it's 1967 all over again, and instead ended up being disintegrated by bleach. Serves 'em right. More posts to come soonish, although I can never make any guarantees as to the quality.