Big Stupid Tommy |
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An online journal from perhaps the biggest, stupidest Tommy on all the internet. 
Big Stupid Tommy: Jamming French Fries Into Your Mind since 2002 Buy T-Shirts, Mufassa 
Newsreader Feed "Those who shun the whimsy of things will experience rigor mortis before death." --Tom Robbins Tommy's Reading Tommy's Watching The Reads Real People that I've Met Bad Bad Juju Back Home Again Bill's Rant Sheet Blog d'Elisson Boudicca's Voice Closet Extremist Down in Lucky Town Drunken Wisdom Erica's Blog Grouchy Old Cripple Parkway Rest Stop Redneck Ramblings Southern Martyr Straight White Guy Technicalities Thunder and Roses People I can only assume are real 15 Minute Lunch 10,000 Monkeys and a Camera Amish Hockey Movie Angry Pharmacist Bad News Hughes Boing Boing Busy Mom Captain Squirrel Cowboy Blob Dame Online Fat Robot Galactically Stupid Good Ol' J.R. Groanin' Jock GROTA Inn of the Last Home It Comes in Pints? It's All Relative KeesKennis Kung Fu Monkey A Large Regular Laurenn McCubbin Leaning Toward the Dark Side The Madcap Gaffes Mental Multivitamin Missives Anonymous Mushy's Moochings Naked Villainy Newscoma No Silence Here Obscurorant Perfect Blue Buildings Perfectly Cromulent Say Uncle Sheila Variations Smoking Toaster Snotty Dog Stephen Silver Strange Maps Tits List Warren Ellis Write Lightning Writers I Read Harlan Ellison Carl Hiaasen Stephen King Joe R. Lansdale Christopher Moore Cherie Priest Rocky Top Brigade Me and Jerry 
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Saturday, July 19, 2008
Saturday It is noon on Saturday. Why ain't you taken me to see The Dark Knight Yet? That movie's been out for 36 hours now. This transgression will not go unnoticed, when your review comes up. Just sayin'. Friday, July 18, 2008
Watchmen... The trailer for Watchmen is up. Kinda dubious of this one...think it might be hard to mash into 2 or three hours of movie. Add to that, I'd never have thought it possible, but I'm almost on comic book movie overload. Almost. Still...trailer's interesting. Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Quotable... Stealing this one from Gmail: "I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody." ---Bill Cosby. Tuesday, July 15, 2008
No wonder I woke up saying Fahvergnuhgen Chattanooga's getting a Volkswagen plant: Volkswagen AG will build an automobile assembly plant in Chattanooga, officials said today.Yeah. The jobs are great for the area--as much as anybody, I don't want to have to turn cousins in for the prison bounty, yelling that "they got this'cheer depression on--I got to do for me an' mine!" So, jobs for the economy? Fahvergnuhgen. There is one caveat. I do not want talking cars in the area. That car is creepy. Also, it is more charming than I am. The former I can deal with. You should see my family. The latter? That's rough. Sure, I reckon you could say "be more charming." But I think it's simply more pragmatic to outlaw talking, sentient automobiles. Unless, of course, they come from Cybertron. As it is, the overwhelming majority of volkswagens do not come from Cybertron. They come Germany, and here soon, Chattanooga. Not Cybertron. No sentient cars. It's a slippery slope. First, you make talking, thinking cars. Next, this happens: So. No. No talking cars. Unless you want Lion singing the Transformers theme at Riverbend next year.... Earworm If I know what I'm doing (and heaven knows, I don't), this one will be in your head for a little while. Monday, July 14, 2008
Greater Good... Nothing much to say this morning, except that I LOVE the All Star Game, but I really hate the All Star Break. Anyway...I started watching The Incredibles yesterday. Didn't get to this part, which is my favorite. Sunday, July 13, 2008
Today's Funny Compliments of Sheila...this one hit me just right, especially since I'm wandering amongst the upended bodies of my own sacred cows, here lately..... Two Items this Sunday Afternoon.... Hello, and good day. Just wanted to give you fine feathered folks a couple of little notes that I like to call "Heads up, you assholes!" 1. A friend and I wandered to the Community Market down in Delano, where those fine Mennonite people put out fresh produce, preserves and baked goods for the people to buy.... I bought some Tomato Bread, which I haven't had in YEARS. I say without fear of contradiction, that this Tomato Bread may be the best thing every put forth on this planet, second possibly only to an unassisted triple play. Most definitely, it is the finest product ever put forth in the category "Baked Goods, Confections and Television Sitcoms." Seriously, this stuff would be great with with some garlic butter and a nice Veal Parmesan.... 2. I am watching Dario Argento's "Phenomena" this morning, and I have one bone to pick. They've killed the Chimpanzee's owner. The movie is not done, but I really feel that the concept of "Chimpanzee Vengeance" will not be adequately addressed. Like I said, the flick is not done. But I am not optimistic. However, I will one day front a rock band called "Chimpanzee Vengeance." And we will have several dozen copies of our hit song downloaded on the interwebs. Edit: I was wrong. There is indeed Chimpanzee Vengeance. And it is strong, and final. Sunday Morning ReRun I wrote this lie a couple years ago, and I still like it: During last night's All-Star Game, the Buck n' McCarver Show decided to fall over themselves to praise Ichiro Suzuki--his speed, his situational hitting, and most of all his amazing hand-eye coordination. It made me a little angry, and not just in that normal, every day way that Tim McCarver makes me angry. See, these guys haven't seen anything when it comes to Ichiro's hand-eye coordination. Back in the day, I was spending some time in Japan. Japan has many things I enjoy: lots of bright, shining lights; a culture that values being quiet while on public transportation; and the neverending ability to make me the tallest person in the room. I spent several years in Japan. During my time there, I befriended a young street urchin by the name Ichiro Suzuki. I met him when he was trying to boost tires off my crime-fighting van. After a brief scuffle that resulted in a couple of broken thumbs (mine) and an arrest for headbutting a young Ichiro nearly to death, Ichiro and I became fast friends. Ichiro visited me in Japanese Jail every day. Brought me American Fast Food and gave me reason to get through each day. Honestly, if you've never been in Japanese Jail, I don't recommend it. The temptation to punch through the paper walls is too difficult to overcome. I always seemed to forget that there were several tiny men with taser sticks waiting on the other side of the walls, waiting to electrocute the Gaijin Headbutt Machine (their nickname for me) into unconsciousness. I think it was a badge of honor for them. Well, in April of 1993, I was released from Japanese Jail. It was kinda like that scene when Red gets to leave Shawshank Prison, except I was screaming "Don't Electrocute Me Anymore!" as I sprinted from the prison. Who was waiting for me, but Ichiro? Ichiro explained that he was impressed at my ability to headbutt him into oblivion despite his wearing samurai armor. He owed me what I came to understand was something like a Wookiee Life Debt. I was impressed by his dedication to me through my stint in Japanese Jail, and by his ability to turn into a tornado by uttering the words "Koze Neyo Ne Haiku." He taught me the ins and outs of the Japanese Culture. And I introduced him to the magic that is the game of baseball. It was a great feeling to pass along all that I knew about that magical game. I finally knew how it felt to be a father, and to have a son surpass me in my ability and greatness. It didn't lessen the impact of that moment at all to have it come roughly 20 minutes after I'd first said the words "This is how you play baseball." Reports that I also uttered the phrase "you play your stupid fucking game, then" and stormed off into the Nagasaki night are false. Anyway. Hand-Eye coordination. There was one afternoon, when I went to congratulate my friend Ichiro on his acceptance to Japanese Baseball and Samurai University, and we went out for a night on the town in Osaka. We hit every bar in town, and well, you know the saying: You don't buy sake, you just rent it. We found a Wendy's for me to use the can. And let me say this about Japanese Toilets: I prefer America. Seriously. I still don't understand all the hoses and switches. Let's find an importer/exporter to send a few porcelain toilets to the Far East, and civilize that country. I've probably pissed in more corners in Japan than any country north of the equator. Anyway, after ridding myself of excess sake, I decided that while I was in Wendy's, I might as well have a Frosty. Well, after much shouting and screaming at the counter, I came to a realization: I wasn't getting a Frosty. To this day, I don't know if it was because I was so drunk, or becuase the Frosty machine was broken, or they were just out of the wonderful ice cream treat. Mostly because I don't speak that mess they call a language. A young Japanese girl explained it to me. An older Japanese man, her manager, I supposed, explained it to me, and Sumo legend Akebono came out and explained it to me. Which ever way you turned it, I finally decided that I wasn't getting a Frosty. Dammit. Well, Ichiro was there, the whole time. Just over my right shoulder. He always stayed just behind my right shoulder, ready to spring into action. Which sounds cool, but it makes the following situations uncomfortable: 1. Reaching over my right shoulder to buckle my seat belt--I was constantly elbowing Ichiro in the eye But this time, at Wendy's, having Ichiro over my right shoulder came in handy. Like I said, no Frosty for your pal BSTommy. Well, there was a small amount of change on the counter. 3 coins. If you've read this far (God Bless You), you'll remember that three folks were at the counter, shouting in their gibberish Japanese language that I would got no Frosty. It is only in retrospect that I realize that Akebono was speaking English...he was from Hawaii...I think the topknot and 4XL kimono threw me off. However...all were yelling, and finally Ichiro sprang into action. Lightning quick, he lashed out with a stunning heel kick against the counter. The three coins on the counter (worth roughly 42,000 yen) leapt into the air. Ichiro spun in the air, and flicked each coin in succession with his middle finger, and sent it hurtling through space into the foreheads of the two Wendy's employees and the sumo legend, knocking them out. It was right around then that I decided to leave Japan. It was something having to do with that event, and the fact that I could be sure of finding Frosties in America; and also the fact that the Japanese "authorities" were making me leave, saying that my game of "Juggernaut," where I'd run through numerous paper walls, was causing havoc for the Japanese economy. So. Tim McCarver can say all that he wants to about Ichiro's Hand-Eye coordination. He wasn't there at that Wendy's, that night in Osaka. Although, if he was, I'm sure he'd mention it about as much as he mentions the fact that he caught Bob Gibson. Saturday, July 12, 2008
The Last Couple of Days.... I'm just going to call bullshit on the last couple of days. There were screwups. A couple mine. That's the hard part...eating your balls over your own fuckup. Today's a new day. Saturday, or so I'm led to believe. Today, if it messes with me too much, I will give up the ghost, and become a supervillain. Full time. I need an archenemy. My last one lost interest. Never tell your archenemy that you care. It throws a wedge into the relationship that confuses them. But, that's a story from another time and place....Russia, in the 19th century, I do believe. Y'all have a good one. Gonna try to keep the world straight today.... Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Briefly...Before I hit the Hay... When I was quite a bit younger, somewhere in the four to five-year-old range...I was sure that Count Chocula lived in the main bathroom of our house. Now, this isn't an attempt at making some kind of shit joke, where I go in and make a new batch of Count Chocula twice a day, especially after enjoying a hot beverage in the morning... I was sure that Count Chocula, the vampire deemed benevolent enough to grace the box of the breakfast cereal, was a.) hiding a very real, very nasty malevolence behind his sweet, cocoa facade, and b.) used the main bathroom of the house I grew up in as a lair of sorts...at the very least, as a cranny to perch himself while he waited for a young Tommy to pass by. If I was not vigilant in my passings to and fro past the bathroom, I'm fairly sure I'd have been snatched up and taken to who knows where. I'd imagine it'd be whatever awful place that pointy headed, Nosferatu knockoff came from. To do what? Dunno. Perhaps do the bidding of that demon, wiping where pointy fingers should not wipe....or perhaps be little more than a breakfast character's breakfast. There is a circle of life going on there, don't get me wrong. I think I recognized that even at the tender age of five...I eat the breakfast character's cereal, the breakfast character eats me. I didn't think it mattered much that Mom didn't let us by sugar-y cereals (except for Apple Jacks...which I don't understand the logic behind, but again, neither here nor there). And I honestly don't think I'd eaten a spoonful of Count Chocula cereal to that day, nor have I since. Now Boo-Berry? Don't get me started on that...possibly the best cereal ever devised.... But I digress. I've established that I though Count Chocula lived in the toilet, and that I would scurry past that bathroom at any passing. Avoiding it as much as possible. There was a second commode I could do my business in, and being a kid, I avoided baths as a matter of course. I think it's Kid Law. Anyway, I've spent the last week house-sitting for my folks, taking care of their animals while Mom and Dad wandered to the Coast for a respite from their workaday worlds. They have a gray cat. Very nice cat, very pretty cat. Who scurries past doors much the same way I imagine I did, back in the day. Doesn't matter who's letting her in or out, or which door. She scurries past, like she's afraid I'm going to snatch her up and take her down to Tommy Cereal Hell. If there were a Tommy Cereal Hell, I think it would be nothing but Banana Nut Crunch, and possibly grits. Are grits a cereal? I tend to think so. I think my Southern By Grace of God card might get revoked if I said aloud these words: "Grits are for other people. Not me. I care what the food I put in my mouth feels and tastes like." Anyway. Gonna sign off, and turn in for the night. No point to this post. There were words in my head, and I had to get them out. I don't think it really mattered what the words said, or even what order they came out. Just had to get them out before they stampeded out of my nose, ears, or some other unmentionable orifice, like my asshole. Sunday, July 06, 2008
Weekend Minutiae What up, yo? A few notes from the ether.... I saw a coyote on my way to work this morning. Two coyotes, actually. I was on the interstate. They were at the edge of the woods, on the right hand side of the road. My first, split-second reaction, when I saw them out of the corner of my eye was "deer." Took my foot off the gas. A deer will rearrange your fender and your day's itinerary pretty efficiently. I looked as I drove past. Thinking first "dogs," then "Coyotes." Nasty creatures. May have been ten years, may have been more, since I first heard about them being this way. Seen them a couple of times. Heard them a little more, out near my folks' place. Never seen them that close to the civilized world, though. Not much else to say, except that it was something different to see... ---- Wandered out to see Wanted the other night. Kinda wanted to do a post grading out the summer flicks that I've seen. I put this one in the fair to middlin' category, where I enjoyed it, though I don't know that I'll ever need to see it again. I needed an explosion or two, and it had it. I will say there were a couple offputting things about the flick. In the interest of fairness, I say There Might Be Spoilers here: First: I don't know that Morgan Freeman should every say the word "Motherfucker." It bugs me. "Fuck," maybe. Depends on the character. I think he says "Fuck" as Red, a few times in Shawshank Redemption. But as a badass, he doesn't work when he pulls out "motherfucker." But Morgan's maybe carrying a little too much gravitas...I couldn't buy it when his character tells the others to "shoot the motherfucker." Second: It's a guild of assassins a millennium old. Shrouded in secrecy, and all that jazz. I love that this secret society has its own stationary that they use when creating dossiers on their targets. ----- There's an offchance I'll be heading to New York in September. To visit, and such. Never been to the City itself. It's all tentative--my travel plans in 2008, which at various times have included trips to California, Philly, Boston and Orlando (not on the same trips, mind you) have all fallen apart due to various circumstances (work being something of a suspect in most of those instances). Some may happen yet...who knows. But...my sister got ahold of Yankees tickets for a weekend in September. Lord knows there's no love in my heart for the Yankees. But there's a part of me that would be very disappointed not having seen Yankee Stadium. Plans are up in the air, but I'm looking forward to it, right now. --- Saw the Asylum Street Spankers down in Chattanooga the other night. If you ever get the chance, I recommend it. No show is ever the same. Lots of music that's just hard to classify. Lot of fun, though. Plus, they did manage to break out The Beer Song, much to the delight of the crowd. --- At the show, which was a free concert in downtown, I got caught in a stare, as I wandered around the show-site. I had gone up to take a look at the stage, which was set up for the Spankers. I was admiring the strings and the percussion sections. Marvelling at the saw, which would come into play later in the night. I turned to regard the crowd, and a lady was standing nearby. She was wearing a tank top, which enabled any viewer to see an intricately put together tattoo of a dragon, which stretched down her left arm, its tail "wrapping" around her arm down to the wrist. The head of the dragon finished just below her ear. One arm of the dragon went along her back, and held a handful of spears. The left hand of the dragon when along the front of her torso...its hand was obscured by her tank top, leaving to Tommy's overactive imagination what its hand held there. I hadn't meant to stare. And really, I can't say that I was looking for much more than forty-five or fifty seconds. The lady saw me staring though. She waved. I waved back, smiling at having been gawking. ---- C.C. Sabathia to the Brewers? The Brewers are a chickenshit team of little pussywhipped mouth-breathers with Pete Rose haircuts and a tendency to slobber. And it would hurt me to my soul if they were to pick up Sabathia, and actually have more than one formidable pitcher when we play them the 1800 times we play them in a season. I hate Bud Selig. I don't know if that has anything to do with anything, anymore. I just like saying that. ---- While I'm thinking about it...Fuck Tim Russert. Maybe it's a little late, and I don't hold any particular ill will toward the man. But if you were to sit down and analyze cultural impact...I gotta be frank, and tell you that Tim Russert will ultimately rate a 3, maybe a 4 on the Cultural-Impact-O-Meter. I mean, if you asked me to name a Figure in the News Media, I'd name Tim Russert maybe in the top 30, right after Willard Scott but just before Miles "I like the Space Program" O'Brien. But George Carlin? For comedians? Numero Uno. Maybe Pryor comes first. But not much before. Now, I'm not going to tell you that George was the end-all be-all. But in terms of cultural impact? HeeYoooge. So, why the Fuck am I seeing Tim Russert on magazine covers three weeks after he died? Mean while George Carlin gets maybe three inches of text in your paper, and is never mentioned again. Unless somebody should say one of the dreaded seven dirty words. Maybe it's just the way society views comedians. But...that don't make it right. Tell me one phrase Tim Russert entered into the Forever Lexicon... Saturday, July 05, 2008
Copy Editing Fool One of the things I dig about keeping a blog is that I can put whatever I want up, whenever I want, and not have to worry about another editorial voice muddying whatever I put up. The strength of my content is evident by the sevens of readers that come by here on a weekly basis. However, there is something to be said for somebody simply checking my spelling and grammar.... Honestly...I don't even know how you type "Foddy Dew" when you mean to type "Foggy Dew," but by damn I did it. Friday, July 04, 2008
The Fourth... Happy Fourth guys. I work retail, so I'm just calling it Friday. Naw, that's not true. Actually, my company's sponsoring a concert series down in Chattanooga, and tonight's my store's night to work our rep booth. I requested the Fourth because the Asylum Street Spankers are playing, and at least I'll enjoy the show, since I gotta stand out in the 90 degree heat. Anyway, I hope you all have a happy fourth. Go do whatever it is people do when they don't work retail.... Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Meme.... Saw this one over at Steve Silver's.... 1. Take out your iPod (or Zune, I guess...really, who buys a Zune?) 2. Press shuffle songs. 3. Answer the following: a) How many songs before you come to one that would absolutely disqualify you from being President? b) What is that song? 4. Leave your answers. I had to think about this one for a little while. I wasn't going to write anything in relation to it...Steve's answers made me smile, but I didn't much think I had anything to add to the conversation. But out of curiosity, and little more, I picked up my MP3 player, set it at random, and flipped through the first few songs, not thinking I had anything offensive or even particularly out-of-the-ordinary to talk about. Unless bad taste would disqualify me from the Presidency....I mean honestly, why would a grownass man have five different songs from the Transformers: the Movie soundtrack? As my first answer, I'll say #11: The Theme to Transformers as performed by Lion. This is a song that says "Tommy...you are an overgrown child. You shouldn't be allowed to play with sharp things or firearms, let alone the button that would drive civilization headlong into Nuclear Winter...." After that, #13: "Nothing's Gonna Stand In Our Way" by Spectre General, from the same soundtrack. I'm not running for office, so I don't need to explain myself to you fuckers. But I don't really have a leg to stand on, except that when I get out to hike a little, this one helps me keep my concentration. That said, I can't see myself brokering a peace deal with this one on my resume. Still, nothing particularly offensive.... #16: "Joe Bean" by Johnny Cash. This one might lose me my support on the left. Sometimes, the death penalty isn't just necessary...it's also hilarious. #21: "Foggy Dew" by the Chieftains with Sinead O'Connor....does that whole Pope picture thing still hold water with voters in this country? #24: "Tie My Pecker to My Leg" by Mojo Nixon. I think this one would have to be my campaign's theme song. Can't you see me celebrating with my constituents, confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling, after having given my victory speech, with this Great American Classic blaring over the loudspeakers.... Bledsoe Blog Hi. A couple weeks back, my buddy Alex e-mailed me to say that he'd started a blog. Alex, who's as smart as three of me (but not nearly so devilishly handsome), is a swell guy, and a helluva writer. He recently published his first novel, which I recommend very highly..... I also recommend his blog...From Down in Lucky Town...which is in its first days, but is already producing really cool content...makes me wish I had a blog of my very own... Oh...wait. I apologize for my tardiness (re-tardiness?) in posting a link. But I strongly urge you to check his stuff out.... Monday, June 30, 2008
Why does everything look like a nail? Day off. Been opening the store for weeks. Woke on the day off at 5:15...this despite my not turning in until midnight. Got up. Did laundry. Watched a news story on the Today Show while folding, about the dangers of having children near lawnmowers...had to disagree and vocally with the television person, as they said we need to teach kids to fear the lawnmower, when all we need in this country is a dose of common sense and respect for the immutable power that is the lawnmower. Respect. Not fear. The lawnmower can smell your fear. Yeah. You laugh. But how funny is it when the Deere comes up the stairs and down the hallway, and pins you the guest room with its nine-level adjustable deck and its badass zero-radius turning power? Hell, yeah. The lawnmower can smell your fear. The lawnmower can also smell your farts. The lawnmower wonders why you're eating all that broccoli. The lawnmower wonders why the mother who ran her son over with the lawnmower didn't do the common sense thing, and look behind her before backing up. The lawnmower doesn't have mirrors, the lady said. The lawnmower doesn't have mirrors. No mirrors, so there must be nothing to see back there. Seems to me that the threat isn't lawnmowers, it's dumbass lawnmower drivers. Just ask the lawnmower. I did have to agree with one statement made this morning: That parents shouldn't let kids ride in their laps while operating a lawnmower. There was an old metal outbuilding at our house growing up, with a Lowe's mower shaped indention, that is testament to that particular fact. I was in my Dad's lap, and we ran the mower into the building. It was the only time I heard my mother use the phrase "I think I shit in my pants." True story. I've never been so scared that I've shit in my pants. Not nearly. And I'm scared of most things. Bees. Snakes. Commitment. Roller Coasters. And if this weekend didn't give you reason to be afraid of roller coasters...now they're coming after you. Actually, I'm not afraid of roller coasters. I rather enjoy them. But it's been literally years since I've ridden a roller coaster. That's a shame. It was at Six Flags over Georgia, too. Although it was the Georgia Cyclone, and not the Batman Decapitator. I say we elect Sylvester Stallone judge, in Georgia, but only if he's allowed to use his costumes from Judge Dredd. And if he promises to shoot dead any family member of the dumbass who hopped the fence who attempts to sue Six Flags over this stupid shit. We put fences up for a reason. And there are no guarantees in life. Especially if your fate is in the hands of Sylvester Stallone. If you think about it, though, most of our fates truly are in the hands of Sylvester Stallone. Scary Thoughts. Anyway. Re: the title of this post. Work too much. Makes everything start to look like a task. Even the stuff you really enjoy. Had a couple of netflix movies sitting on the TeeVee for weeks--just couldn't find time to watch them...started Glengarry Glen Ross, which I haven't seen since college, only to find myself looking at my watch ten minutes in. Same with keeping the Blahg. One of the few hobbies I've stuck with for more than a few months...and posting started to feel like an obligation...another task. Forgot that this is actually something I enjoy doing...something I feel like I was put here to do. Not blogging, specifically. But, when I write, and it goes well, it feels like I'm somewhere in the neighborhood of what I'm supposed to be doing down here on this blue and green marble. I forget things, sometimes. I also sometimes wear mismatched shoes. They were both white New Balance shoes...just not the same make or level of cleanliness. It is becoming painfully apparent that I am in need of, at best, an executive assistant. At worst, a keeper. Are executive assistants allowed to hurl fish at me, for my eating and entertainment? Curious. Saturday, June 28, 2008
In which Kerry Wood VAULTS himself back to the top of my favorite player list... You had to be quick. Thom Brennaman and Mark "I hate the shit out of you Sammy Sosa" Grace were talking about the Cubs bullpen...specifically Kerry Wood and Carlos Marmol. The camera finds Kerry Wood in the bullpen. Just for a split second. At the most inopportune time. I need a screen cap. Kerry Wood was giving somebody the double bird.... I gotta get a screen cap.... We have nothing to fear... I've had some manner of light cold the last couple of days. I was calling it a sinus infection, but half the people I know have some degree of it, and given my general malaise and fatigue, I'm going to say that it's a cold that's moving its way from sinus cavity to sinus cavity, and flourishing. I spent most of yesterday sleeping. Went to bed Thursday at the unheard of hour of 9:00, and slept until about 5 or so. Got up. Wandered to the Wal Mart for O.J. and sinus medicine. Came home, slept on the couch until just before eleven. At lunch with Shyam, who is suffering from the similar, came home, took another hour and a half nap. All told, in a space of 18 hours or so, I slept 13 of it. I was never all that sick. Just a little puny and overtired, which may have something to do with my rampant working-like-a-botardism. I was feeling mostly better, but I still took another early night...went to bed shortly after 9. Woke up at 12:30, and here I sit, fearful that I'm going to have to wander to work (and the scheduled viewing of Incredible Hulk Saturday night at the Midway Drive-In) and do that whole damn deal having been awake since 12:30. So, what you're reading is a degree of a mental purgative. Ex Lax of the Mind, if you will. Something to see if I can get the thoughts and spin and ricochet against the lining of my skull to come out, so's your old pal Tommy can sleep. If I can put my finger on something I dislike about being sick--aside, of course, from the part where you feel like shit, where everything aches, where you can't breathe--is the whole thing where I'm not falling all the way to sleep, but it doesn't stop whichever mechanisms in my brain that control dreaming. I'll lie there totally conscious, but not quite awake, if that makes sense. I'll know that I'm in bed, feeling like crap, and that I can't sleep. Yet the movie theater of my mind will start showing whatever stupid dream it can come up with on the spot. And if it were something interesting, I don't think it would be a problem. But it's something mundane, like me putting product on a display at work, or having a conversation with my mother about the tires I just bought. I liken to a movie being shown in a theater with the house lights still up, and the sound not turned all the way on. Anyway. Going to wander back to sleep....hope it works out a little better this time.... Friday, June 27, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
George There were a lot of things about George that I dug. But mostly, it was his love of language, and his contempt for its use to mask the unpleasantness of life... I dig his eye for the little absurdities of life, too.... Sunday, June 22, 2008
Muzak... I know every song played on the in-store radio at my job, by heart. Whether I want to know it by heart, or not. Mostly, not. They play little insipid, nonoffensive, poppy things that you are supposed to enjoy while you hear them, but forget instantly. Which is easy to do, when you're just in the store for a few minutes. Problem is, I'm in the store 11 to 12 hours a day, and every now and then, they play something that gets trapped in your head. Christmas is bad for it...Feliz Navidad still ranks #1 for Worst Earworm in history. Close behind it, that "Bad Day" song, that they were playing at the end of American Idol a few years back. Luckily, they don't play that one on ours, anymore. But that one would get stuck in my head, and short of using the jaws of life to crack my head open and fish it out, that booger wasn't coming out for nothing. Recently, it's been "Calling You," by Blue October. Now that I think about it, I haven't noticed that one. Which doesn't mean they haven't played it. It means I've inadvertantly stumbled upon the secret of reversing the Earworm Curse. I wish I could bottle that little bit of lightning. I'd like to be a millionaire. And can I just say that Paul McCartney's "Dance Tonight" dropkicked me all the way into the center of the camp that says The Wrong Two Beatles are Dead. But I digress. Occasionally, I will catch an earworm. And in this case, I kinda dig th song. But, I had no idea of the title, because my particular store has nobody telling you who's singing what. So, I have to scrawl down a bit of lyric to try to find it on the Google. Like I said, I kinda like this one. I think the video's cool, too. I should say that Yes, I realize the song isn't particularly new. It's just that I spend my radio time listening to baseball on the XM, and my CD time on punk bands and Shooter Jennings, nowadays. I have no clue what's going on in the popular music world. And 99.2 percent of the time, that's fine. Unless I get an earworm that I'm afraid is going to send me the way of George Harrison. (Maybe that's how he got cancer, by listening to Paul McCartney so much...) A Plank in my Platform... I'm not sure that I'll ever run for office. For one, I don't like people, and for two, I don't like responsibility. But in the case that I do, I'd like to have a platform to stand on. And herein, I nail the first plank... If elected, I vow to hunt down any and all persons looking to start "The Wave" at a baseball game, and have them dipped in pine tar, rolled in Dippin' Dots Ice Cream, and set before C.C. Sabathia." That last part's not funny. Let me try again....if elected, I will make starting the wave at a baseball game a capital offense, with yours, truly being the sole arbiter of your being right or, most likely, wrong. So, watch the game. Do not stand in front of me while trying to start the Wave. I need powers of vaporization. Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Tuesday Well, because of the rare-ass three day weekend, I ended up wandering around all this Tuesday having to remind myself that it is not Monday. And then having to remind myself that all the days blur together and their names are not important. Why keep insisting to myself that it is "Tuesday," and not say to myself it is "Slamberday?" Or perhaps "Nibelung" or "Quark?" Tuesday is a day made for asswipes. Today, I ate at the new Thai Buffet that opened near work. We'll call that a learning experience. What does it say about a place that I'll consider myself lucky if I come out of it with just a case of the runs, and not a full blown case of wailing, hemorrhagic shigetosis? Luckily for all involved, they had cantaloupe on the salad bar. Lastly? I penned a small piece where I professed my love for all the films of M. Night Shyamalan. Even the Village. Well...I wandered down to The Happening yesterday. Night...if a movie is going to be that bad, could you at least have the decency to be cheesy about it? Damn. That one's preachy even for me.... Monday, June 16, 2008
Hall of Fame Game... Now, keep in mind that my righteous indignation regarding the Hall of Fame game is somewhere around a 2 on a scale of 1 to 10.... But why are we nixing the Hall of Fame game? I keep hearing "scheduling difficulties," though I gotta think it's got more to do with owners not wanting to risk the players' health for an exhibition. I dunno. I like the tradition...for some reason, I like the idea of Major League teams playing in a smaller, community environment. We're playing games in Japan that count. Why can we not play one in Cooperstown each year, and if they're going to bitch about exhibitions...just make the game count in the standings And if there's a team that's griping about losing home revenue for a game...why not make the home team for the Hall of Fame game the team that's hosting the All Star game that year? So, instead of losing a home date to the game in Cooperstown, you get the All Star game, with its jacked up pricing and Home Run Derby and all the hoopla? For example, this year, the Yankees are hosting the All Star Game. As such, let the Yankees and the, I dunno, the Royals. Or the Tigers. Or whomever, play a game at Cooperstown, and have it count in the standings. That way, we have our fun little throwback game, still, and everybody gets the beloved money that they so desperately need.... Eh. Since the car salesman took over, baseball's getting farther and farther away from its community roots. And I think it's to the game's detriment. But, like I said, this one's small potatoes. Don't color me extremely indignant.... Thunderbolt Kid Boy, the lazyass who runs this blog NEVER changes that shit on the sidebar. He's been reading Duma Key and Child of God FERFRIGGINEVER. Well, laziness aside, I took Bill Bryson's The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid with me when I went to get new tires put on the truck this morning. Expecting to find a line, I figured I'd get half the book read before they finished with the Tommymobile. And while I found myself first in line, and there for just an hour, I did read enough of Bryson's piece to find myself laughing out loud a couple of times. Here were a couple of my favorite passages: On following his father to baseball events, and the folks he got to meet: Baseball, like everything else, was part of a simpler world in those days, and I was allowed to go with [my father] into the clubhouse and dugout and onto the field before games. I have had my hair tousled by Stan Musial. I have handed Willie Mays a ball that had skittered past him as he played catch. I have lent my binoculars to Harvey Kuenn (or possibly it was Billy Hoeft) so that he could scope some busty blonde in the upper deck. Once on a hot July afternoon I sat in a nearly airless clubhouse under the left-field grandstand at Wrigley Field beside Ernie Banks, the Cubs' great shortstop, as he autographed boxes of new white baseballs (which are, incidentally, one of the most pleasurably aromatic things on earth, and worth spending time around anyway). Unbidden, I took it upon myself to sit beside him and pass him each new ball. This slowed the process considerably, but he gave a little smile each time and said thank you as if I had done him quite a favor. He was the nicest human being I have ever met. It was like being friends with God. On shoes and weekends: The illimitable nature of weekends was both a good and a necessary thing because you always had such a lot to do in those days. A whole morning could be spent just getting the laces on your sneakers right, since all sneakers in the 1950s had more than seven dozen lace holes and the laces were fourteen feet long. Each morning, you would jump out of bed to find that the laces had somehow become four feet longer on one side of the shoes than the other. Quite how sneakers did this just by being left on the floor overnight was a question that could not be answered--it was one of those things, like nuns and bad weather, that life threw at you from time to time--but it took endless reserves of patience and scientific judgment to get them right, for no matter how painstakingly you shunted the laces around the holes, they always came out at unequal lengths. In fact, the more carefully you shunted, the more unequal they became. When by some miracle you finally got them exactly right, the second lace would always snap, leaving you to sigh and start again. On the red berries of youth: Only slightly less threatening that poison sumac were pulpy red berries that grew in clumps on bushes in almost everybody's backyard...interestingly, the berries weren't poisonous at all. I can say this with some confidence because we made Lanny Kowalski's little brother, Lumpy, eat about four pounds of them to see if they would kill him and they didn't. It was a controlled experiment, I hasten to add. We fed them to him one at a time and waited a decent interval to see if his eyes rolled up into his head or anything before passing him another. But apart from throwing up in the middle tow pounds, he showed no ill effects Digging this one. A Logistical Question about Field of Dreams Okay, so I sat to watch Field of Dreams this weekend, because I apparently needed to cry about a movie, and I got to wondering about something. Say Shoeless Joe launches a shot out of the field, and into the corn. Who gets the ball? Shoeless Joe, Ed Ciccote, Chuck Gandill and friends fade into nothingness whenever they wander too far into the corn, merging back with the ether of the afterlife, one would assume. We know that they can't leave the boundaries of the ballfield, lest they lose the magic of their time on the field. Do the baseballs likewise fade into the ether, thusly making them retrievable by the spirits? Or do one of the living, breathing people have to get up off the bleachers, where they're busy making a three-person wave and choking on hot dogs, traipse across 300 feet of baseball legends and burning hot Iowa sun and find the baseball amongst the corn? I like baseball, too. And seeing Shoeless Joe and Mel Ott and all the legends of yesteryear might be neat. But I walk a lot over the course of a week, and don't want to have to spend my day off wandering the corn to find baseballs. I say all that, because I just don't know if I'd feel comfortable telling Thulsa Doom his own self to get up off his ass to go get baseballs. Just wondering. Sunday, June 15, 2008
Father's Day Do you have one defining image of a person? That when you think of them, the first thing that pops to mind is that defining event? It's an event that can be astounding or mundane...regardless, it strikes a tone so deep in your psyche, it transcends all logical thought, so that all your opinions, beliefs and values regarding that person use that as the starting point? I was nine. It was 1986, and I'd just lost my very last baby tooth. The little bugger had started loosening a few days earlier, and had popped out during a viewing of Head of the Class. I was in a state I could only describe as ebullient...a level of joy I had never reached prior nor have I reached since. I was still reeling from the satisfaction of essentially having a small bone pop out of my head, when I changed the channel to Night Court. My dad taught nights. At least, that's what I believed, and still believe to a point to this day. At the time, he was teaching computer courses at the town just below ours, at the small college one could find there. I know he taught these classes, because I still have people in around my small town coming to me and saying "Your Dad taught me how to use Fortran." To which I reply: "Fortran? Quit making up words, Aunt Charlotte, and make me a sandwich..." Anyway, back to the point. I settled in for a half-hour of sheer hilarity with the comic stylings of Judge Harold T. Stone. It was a fun episode, though I feel like it's important to note that this was while Selma Diamond was still part of the cast, and before John Astin started making his appearances as Buddy. I'll grant you that it was indeed a creative valley in the show's storied run, but I'll submit to you that no better use of a nine-year-old's time could I come up with, even to this day, than to learn about the ins and outs of the legal system in nightfall New York City, and to do so with a laugh. As an aside, I still have a thing for Markie Post. But anyway, the episode was nearing the end of the second act, when a commotion arose in the courtroom. I was watching intently. "This is all quite odd," I said to no one in particular, though my mother was hosting her weekly McMinn County Lady's Mixed Martial Arts Cotillion right behind the sofa. In the courtroom, just after Harry had rendered a verdict (Court costs and time served), a ruckus arose. The camera pans back, a little uncertain, I believe. And a rather large, hairy man starts throwing hookers, extras and bums aside. And by throwing, I mean picking up and heaving like logs of firewood through a pickup truck window. The camera panned back for a second to Dan Fielding, who in a rare display of valour grabbed Christine Sullivan and pulled her off screen to safety. The large man, whose voice became dreadfully clear to me, continued his rampage to the front of the courtroom. The bailiffs came running in, guns drawn. It was the first time I'd ever seen weapons displayed in the courtroom. Shots were fired, and it was at that moment that the beast stopped his rampage long enough for the cameras to get a focus on his face. For reasons known only to himself, my Dad was rampaging through the courtroom on that Sitcom. The bullets didn't stop him. They slowed him down, though. Long enough, I think, to consider just how angry he was going to be. With a sweep of one mighty arm, he smashed Selma Diamond against the defense table. She was on the next week, so he didn't kill her, thankfully. In the next motion, he picked up a nameless bailiff (the one with red hair) and threw him against Judge Stone's bench. He took one step, and found himself face to face with all 6 feet, five inches of Richard Moll's Bull Shannon. The air was electric. These two behemoths, nose to nose. Each bringing hell with them in their hip pockets, each holding the power of Valhalla in their hands. The fight was epic. It lasted seven minutes, and each blow was like an frog punch from God. Lights flickered, streets ruptured, and the Hoover Dam burst (though that was later revealed to be the result of a drunken Buddy Hackett playing with the controls...still, it was coincidental and dramatic). At the end of seven minutes, with dust and smoke filling the courtroom, the broken remains of the prosecution table underneath his dying body, Bull Shannon said to my father "I yield!....I yield sir!...." My father, holding a filing cabinet in one hand, let it drop with a muffled bang. "It is finished. We now know." And he looked at the camera. "We all know." And with nothing more said, he left the courtroom, and Night Court went to commercial. My mother sent me to bed after that. She was too busy applying a triangle choke to have seen what just happened, and she didn't believe me. The next morning, while eating a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, I asked my father "Were you on TV last night, beating up Bull Shannon?" My Dad looked at me as if I had tentacles growing out of my nostrils. "No, I was teaching." "Oh." I wandered to school that day, and indeed many days after that, confused and questioning. I knew what I'd seen. Was it merely a creation of my own mind? Several weeks later, during my Dad's summer break, we were sitting down, watching Night Court. Nothing much was said, until the third act. Harry Stone had just issued some edict or another, too which Bull Shannon replied "ooo...kay." I heard my dad utter a small, gravelly laugh. And I heard him say "pussy." He got up to leave, and he reached into his pocket, and pulled something shiny out of it. He tossed it to me, and went into the kitchen. I still have it to this day. It is a New York Court Officer's badge, with the name Shannon emblazoned across the nameplate.... |