St. Al Bundy Day

What goes better with a couple of green beers at the corner pub on St. Patrick's Day than Al Bundy?
My friend Molly, who is basically a 5'9" blonde Jen, spotted Al in the corner and decided we should get a picture with him. Since I could see he has man boobs from across the bar, I knew he wouldn't be so put out by the foxy blonde asking for his picture that he'd shoo away her pony-tailed friend who was too lazy to shower. So I followed. And on the way, Julie, Molly's cute friend, turned to Molly and me and asked what his real name is. No one knew.

Theme Songs of Life

When Mack and I first started going out, I had to dump him. Because he went a little nuts and forced Shannon to hide the knives. I'd pretty much relegated him to the "missed his chance" pile until Shannon came home bragging about how he was such a beautiful piano player and how his family is so nice and how he is so respectful of his Momma. She even suggested this could be his theme song.

After all that lobbying on his behalf, the door was left cracked and he worked his way back in... with his autograph, a deposit slip and a bouquet of yellow flowers.

It may seem strange to have started a lifelong relationship with someone based on those credentials, but if you take a closer look, you'll see the common thread. Money.

Mack is money hungry. He's actually started to salivate when daydreaming about changing his name to Mack Moneyman. He gets it from his parents, and he is not alone. His brother is money obsessed. Even Laila steals gift cards from the Gap to pretend they are credit cards and has actually said, "Ooh, it smells so good... like money." The whole Thomas clan is driven to have money. Don't believe me? Here's Bubba's Myspace song.

All this obsession with money is why the Thomsascotts fit together so well. I hate money, couldn't care less about it, think it's to blame for all the divorces and wars in the world. The Thomases love it, credit it with health and happiness. And, as much as it sucks, their take on it is a little more right than mine, which is why it's nice for someone who ignores money almost to a fault to have someone who craves it almost to a fault.

I'm getting more used to this money thing as time goes on. I can actually look at budgets at work without feeling inappropriate. It's not as invasive as it used to be when Mack tells his parents how much money I make. I'm learning that money is as acceptable to talk about as sex has become. And, I've discovered that, when there's a lot of it, it really does have an intoxicatingly sweet smell.

*Donations happily accepted.

Maddening March

I'm in California now. No one here has to find stuff to do in the winter because they can do what they do in the summer all year round. Which means no one looks forward to basketball games the way I used to look forward to basketball games. Which means no one here has any idea how to properly succumb to March Madness.

When bracketeering falls on my shoulders, something is amiss.

But I'm stepping up to the plate. In an office on non-believers, I distributed copies of a very official looking bracket and summoned the masses to give me $5 each (I said it would be for the winner). I organized a sports contest.

Here are my picks, because I know everyone needs to know my picks before they can confidently make their own. Because now that I am the bracket master, I will have followers.


(Even though I don't honestly think they will win, I just couldn't not write down the Kentucky Wildcats in the Champion box. Maybe because that night in 1998 at the corner of Woodland and Euclid and the walk home through the celebrating streets of Lexington is worth $5 a year for the rest of my life.)

Neither Hair nor There

So fine, I'm addicted to Season VI American Idol.

(I make it appear smarter by calling it Season "VI"... because everyone knows that adding Roman numerals to something makes it seem a little smarter. And since this post is actually about Sanjaya's hair, I need all the help I can get in the smart appearance department.)

God, I need a life.

Let's start with the prelim, post-you're-going-to-Hollywood Sanjaya. He knows the curls work, but he lacks the product knowledge that let the curls work.
After just one week (and one trixie stylist whose sole purpose is to grow a diverse portfolio), Sanjaya showed up with a refined look that was all his own. Bland, beige button down and bouncy, fresh locks. A breath of fresh air.
But wait. Is Michael Jackson really trying to make a comeback on American Idol? But, he already has Neverland. And two kids with the same name. What else does a fallen pop star need? What does a burgeoning star need? Not to try Michael's predisposition.
Well, when pop star predecessors don't get you any respect, what's left but to try to be smooth. And sleek. And shiny. And channeling a modern day Paula Abdul. Who exactly does this guy want to be?
After wavy, wavy refined, and stick straight, what's shoulder-length hair left to do but kink up in a brillo padesque clump? That Randy suggested his look was reflective of Diana Ross does an injustice to afros. Randy, and Sanjaya, should know better.

Watch and Learn

I like these. And I wanted to share them in case you like them too.

HOT CHIP SINGS OVER AND OVER
(no, I don't just like this because I like hot chips.)


JARVIS COCKER SINGS DON'T LET HIM WASTE YOUR TIME
(no, I don't just like this because I don't like wasting time.)


EXTREME (PHOTOSHOP) MAKEOVER
(no, I don't just like this because I wish I could do it to myself in real life.)


DOVE: EVOLUTION OF A "MODEL"
(no, I don't just like this because Betsy sent it to me and everything she touches is awesome.)


LOST - JOHN LOCKE SPEED PAINTING
(no, I don't just like this because Locke is my favorite character on Lost.)
Also check out the other ones he's done if you really have some time to kill.

The Blind Assassin (a book report)

I just finished the 521st page of Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin. Perhaps if you stared at my nightstand every night you would realize exactly how big of a feat that is, since that book has been perched bedside for TWO ENTIRE YEARS.

The Blind Assassin, which was identified by Time Magazine as a must-read book in its list of Post-1923 Published Must Reads (yes, that was the very official title of the list), was given to me by Shannon when I was visiting her in 2005. I hauled it from jolly ol' England back to Kentucky and cracked it open with the best intentions. Any book more than 300 pages is usually a slow read for me because, well, they're thick and therefore impossible. Plus, David Sedaris will publish something or someone will lend me a skinnier book and then thick-and-impossible gets pushed to the bottom of the stack.

Even as my attention has wandered from this mass of literature, for some reason I never gave up on it. Maybe because Shannon said it was an excellent book, or maybe because Shannon actually read it so I figured I ought to, or maybe because I didn't want to fuss my way out of something hard, I kept coming back to Iris's story of her strange sister Laura, her criminally greedy husband Richard, her simple yet brilliant help Reenie, and the two unnamed lovers from different walks of life who meet in dingy rooms to have sex and imagine a world where children made blind from rug making turned into superhuman assassins. I really like the idea of blind kids becoming assassins for some reason.

It wasn't until after I turned page 521 that I realized how long I'd been living with The Blind Assassin. In the last two years, that paper brick has been to Iran, to Amsterdam, to California, to Ohio, to Tennessee and to Georgia, and somehow it has always ended up staring me in the face every night before bed. It has been a constant reminder of what I should be doing with my spare time. Of adventures that I've had. Of Shannon. Its impossible thickness has become a steady companion, and while I'm thrilled I've finally made it through the whole book after all this time, I'm a little sad to take it from the nightstand and turn it over to the bookshelf.

Mostly because it means Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States has resurfaced.

BAM! Turn it up a notch!

Because Benjamin Ace just wasn't cute enough at Christmas, my dad decided he'd better rub it in even more. I got this chunk of adorable last night. He is growing up so fast... in this video, he swims, eats baby food and gives his first speech. I am so lucky.

All Good in the Hood

We finally went to a party. For the first time since moving to Los Angeles, we actually went to a stranger's house and mingled with others. For the first time, Man vs. Wild and Golden Tee were not the highlights of our Friday night.

The party, which had the most amazing view of any party I've ever been to in my life, was actually in Marina del Rey, which is about 15 minutes from our house. Somehow we managed to swindle our way into being chaufeured there and back, so we were able to thoroughly enjoy ourselves and our 40-ouncers. It was a do-your-own-theme party, so, in an attempt to "represent" our new association with LA culture, we showed up as the Bloods and the Crips.
So we made it to the party, but then people were afraid to talk to us. But we went to a party, dammit!

Who the F@!* Are You?!!

For Mack's Christmas present, I got him two tickets to go see The Who live and in concert -- well, the Whos who are still alive. I'm not really a "fan" of The Who, but since few people our age are, Mack shared the second ticket with me. And sort of because we don't know anyone else really.

I left work at 4:30 on Monday so we could have enough time to make it to Long Beach for the 7:30 concert. Long Beach is 17 miles away. We had to give ourselves three hours to go 17 miles. But I got to leave work early, so it was one of those rare occasions that I was grateful for traffic.

We made it to Long Beach in far less time than we had expected, mostly because we were able to ride in the carpool lane the entire way. Mack found "the perfect parking spot" and we headed off to get dinner and kill an hour before the big show. Things were shaping up nicely when I realized I'd left my debit card and my ID at home. Mack suggested we just scalp the tickets and get our money back, and after I slaughtered him on a public sidewalk for being so flippant about my extremely thoughtful and expensive gift, he came back to life and somehow suckered an ATM into giving him money that didn't exist.

The night had finally given up its attempts to thwart our good time. We took the cards the universe had dealt us and slid into a booth at a Mexican restaurant for tacos and margaritas. With bellies full enough to rock, we walked to the Long Beach Convention Center and took our seats for a three-hour glimpse at middle age.

The Who put on a pretty good show, once Tragically Hip sat the hell down (not a fan). The song that really brought everyone to their feet was "Teenage Wasteland," which Pete Townsend said Americans love more than any other country. His hypothesis was that we can relate to "Out here in the fields, I've worked for my meals" or that we love songs that have absolutely no meaning. Since I don't know a single person who has actually ever worked in a field, I'm going with the meaningless school of thought. Roger Daltrey was a lot less of a personality that I thought he'd be. It seems like the lead singer should be the front man, but in The Who, Pete is the front man and Roger has the best gig in rock n' roll.

While Pete windmilled his guitar to near death and Roger patted away at his sweaty brow, I found a real source of entertainment. Let's call him Tie-Dye Guy.

Tie-Dye Guy caught my eye at first because of his incredible hair. He had the most unique balding pattern I've ever seen. He had a halo of hair along his outter hairline so that he actually had bangs. I'd never seen a bald man with bangs before, but then, I'd never seen so many balding specimens in one place at one time before either.

His outfit, capped by a swirl of purple and green tie-dye, amped up his style even more. He started the evening out in basically blue and green plaid pajama pants, which reminded me of a pair I got my dad for Christmas some year, but after a couple songs and some intense rocking, he had to tight roll those bastards into shorts. T-to-the-A-to-the-S-T-E-Y, boy you tasty.

The thing that made him really fascinating, however, was his dancing. This man moved from waving arms of encouragement (much like they do at Jesus revivals) to playing air guitar to playing air drums without a moment's hesitation. When The Who wailed, "Fall on my knees and pray....," Tie-Die Guy did as he was told. Bald, in his jammies, and with 30 years of rock dust covering his bones, he put those fogies on stage to shame. And when I realized mid-yawn at 10:30 p.m. that he hadn't sat down for a single minute the entire night, he put me to shame.

In short, old people rock, and people in their late 20s need naps.