I know few fans of Dick Cheney, but I can't imagine too many new ones flocking his way after the Washington Post expose running this week.
If you haven't read it, it's Pulitzer-worthy, because it pulls the black curtain off of everything ugly going on in the VP's office. It goes leagues beyond his continual ludicrous assertions about the nonexistent Saddam/9-11 connection and almost makes you wish he's just wounded another hunting buddy.
This guy's attitude toward democracy makes me feel glad he's not able to shoot lightning from his fingertips. If he possessed that ability and a black hood, nothing else would stop his abolition of Congress and creation of a total dictatorship.
Not part of the Executive Branch? By President Cowboy ceding responsibilities to Cheney, this corruption of the system has proliferated to where the office now acts as a Fourth Branch of Government unhindered by any restrictions of thorny old democracy.
I thought this was why they went for ink instead of pencil on the Constitution.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
No blogs on the new job
I enjoy it, but so much knowledge about my new field escapes me that I must reach a comfort level before I even contemplate that. Yet, I survived Texas, am staring down the double barrel of Missouri and Kansas with Colorado at the mountain's base.
It doesn't help that I have a hard time with encouragement when I don't feel I've done all I can and left an inferior stack of writing at my editor's door (well, folder on the server).
I won't get over the "modesty is the best policy" hump. But I might just pick one a healthcare trick or two and along with them, a comfort level with my new writing six months down the road.
As long as they encourage, at least I own the time to bring the words up to par, or surpass it, which is the territory I really want to find.
Writing that Comfest column for SNP/ACN probably delayed the comfort by a few more weeks.
But tradition is a stern, proper lady, and she doesn't take kindly to the new and strange.
It doesn't help that I have a hard time with encouragement when I don't feel I've done all I can and left an inferior stack of writing at my editor's door (well, folder on the server).
I won't get over the "modesty is the best policy" hump. But I might just pick one a healthcare trick or two and along with them, a comfort level with my new writing six months down the road.
As long as they encourage, at least I own the time to bring the words up to par, or surpass it, which is the territory I really want to find.
Writing that Comfest column for SNP/ACN probably delayed the comfort by a few more weeks.
But tradition is a stern, proper lady, and she doesn't take kindly to the new and strange.
So, Nashville, the truth comes out
After a full week spent cursing myself as a bad pet owner, the moment of clarity hit me.
Almost every cat owner I know watched their pet suffer through a bout of fleas.
In the South, those bouts are worse, since fleas and their fellow parasites thrive in the moist heat. My lament at work brought
Nashville has gone several winters without a deep freeze (some precognitive notion tells me my migration south will usher in harsher winters, but enough about me).
The veterinary assistant told me yesterday that three weeks of severe cold usually wipes the upcoming summer's flea harvest. That didn't happen, so if the eggs discover a ripe, short-haired body in which to hide, they'll erupt with a little heat spell.
Percy eagerly devoured the tablet that shed his freeloading friends. The spray given to me by the vet clogged in its pump before I finished the whole apartment, so I have little choice but to run back tomorrow and buy a second bottle to finish the job.
Since Comfest ended every dime I have spent has been on products for the cat: Foggers I have to return, a flea comb, pet lint brushers, littler, sprays, antibiotics and anti-flea topical creams.
When I tried to brush out some of those buggers fleeing the pill tonight, Percy gouged into my arm with a ferocity usually reserved for his occasional frenzies.
Trying to help an ungrateful cat must be its reward.
Almost every cat owner I know watched their pet suffer through a bout of fleas.
In the South, those bouts are worse, since fleas and their fellow parasites thrive in the moist heat. My lament at work brought
Nashville has gone several winters without a deep freeze (some precognitive notion tells me my migration south will usher in harsher winters, but enough about me).
The veterinary assistant told me yesterday that three weeks of severe cold usually wipes the upcoming summer's flea harvest. That didn't happen, so if the eggs discover a ripe, short-haired body in which to hide, they'll erupt with a little heat spell.
Percy eagerly devoured the tablet that shed his freeloading friends. The spray given to me by the vet clogged in its pump before I finished the whole apartment, so I have little choice but to run back tomorrow and buy a second bottle to finish the job.
Since Comfest ended every dime I have spent has been on products for the cat: Foggers I have to return, a flea comb, pet lint brushers, littler, sprays, antibiotics and anti-flea topical creams.
When I tried to brush out some of those buggers fleeing the pill tonight, Percy gouged into my arm with a ferocity usually reserved for his occasional frenzies.
Trying to help an ungrateful cat must be its reward.
The Nashville Rotation
Let me guess - you were expecting "Icky Thump," which admittedly, I love. However, it's too easy a choice - I'll go with "I'm Slowly Turning Into You" just to stay difficult.
Maybe you though I'd go with Amy Winehouse's delightful "Rehab" -- Has any artist in recent memory poured herself into a style so well ignored and come out with something fresh? I like the song, but the scary drunken diva, not so much.
In the iPod age, singles are once again powerful, even if they've shed their B-sides.
Here's a six-pack I can't turn down when the shuffle finds them:
"Impossible Germany" ~ Wilco:
Sorry Jeff Tweedy, but I am listening, because Germany was more than possible just four months ago. And because this is among the best songs Wilco has ever written, a tender mid-tempo rocker that builds to a lost riff from Marquee Moon.
"End of the Line" ~ The Traveling Wilburys
Let those Rolling Stone critics pan it as a cheap excuse to bash a punchline like Jeff Lynne, its producer and the least of the Wilburys (with Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty and Roy Orbison in the fold, what else could he be?). Five rock greats swapping singer duties and and having a good, ego-free time in the process. What;s bad about that? Runner up in "Tweeter and the Monkey Man," a great faux-Springsteen tune penned by his influences. When as balanced a rock legend as George Harrison brings his musical friends together, it's amazing what results.
"Don't Take My Sunshine Away" ~ Sparklehorse
This one-man band bears an off-kilter resemblance to Eliiot Smith and Badly Drawn Boy. But neither could boast Tom Waits as a collaborator, making his pop-noise almagams some of the prettiest raw rock out there. A splash of Beatles, a dash of Husker Du and a guiding voice all his own, Mark Linkous (aka Sparklehorse) blazes his twisted path a decade after narrowly surviving a suicide attempt. Songs like this make me glad for he's lucky.
"Make It Wit 'Chu" ~ Queens of the Stone Age
Only Josh Homme could turn an adolescent little track into a driving piano-dominated ballad unlike anything else in the Queens' repertoire. The whole album is a departure, with the heavier tracks falling behind the more tuneful approach Homme opts for here.Without the four-string insanity of Nick Olivieri, they might never rock as on Songs for the Deaf, but they can still shove a powerful tune or two out of the speakers.
"Song of Love" ~ Manassas:
A supergroup led by Buffalo Springfield alum Stephen Stills, this one-off collection of everything under the sun sounds fresh as much as his best-known supergroup (CSN) can't shift out of the 60's to save their (second) livers. A bluesy number that instantly migrates the listener beyond the expectations of anything from Stills, it give away none of the diversity waiting on later tracks like "Johnny's Garden."
All we are saying ... is give Stills a chance. The man knows rock. He wrote "For What It's Worth," which fortune dropped into the CSN&Y setlist last summer in Columbus.
"I'll Never Give It Up" ~ Richard Thompson:
On his first uptempo album in a decade (Sweet Warrior), Thompson dishes out his unique folk-rock in unapologetically heavy doses. A lot stands out, but the infectious riff and message are inescapable here.
Maybe you though I'd go with Amy Winehouse's delightful "Rehab" -- Has any artist in recent memory poured herself into a style so well ignored and come out with something fresh? I like the song, but the scary drunken diva, not so much.
In the iPod age, singles are once again powerful, even if they've shed their B-sides.
Here's a six-pack I can't turn down when the shuffle finds them:
"Impossible Germany" ~ Wilco:
Sorry Jeff Tweedy, but I am listening, because Germany was more than possible just four months ago. And because this is among the best songs Wilco has ever written, a tender mid-tempo rocker that builds to a lost riff from Marquee Moon.
"End of the Line" ~ The Traveling Wilburys
Let those Rolling Stone critics pan it as a cheap excuse to bash a punchline like Jeff Lynne, its producer and the least of the Wilburys (with Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty and Roy Orbison in the fold, what else could he be?). Five rock greats swapping singer duties and and having a good, ego-free time in the process. What;s bad about that? Runner up in "Tweeter and the Monkey Man," a great faux-Springsteen tune penned by his influences. When as balanced a rock legend as George Harrison brings his musical friends together, it's amazing what results.
"Don't Take My Sunshine Away" ~ Sparklehorse
This one-man band bears an off-kilter resemblance to Eliiot Smith and Badly Drawn Boy. But neither could boast Tom Waits as a collaborator, making his pop-noise almagams some of the prettiest raw rock out there. A splash of Beatles, a dash of Husker Du and a guiding voice all his own, Mark Linkous (aka Sparklehorse) blazes his twisted path a decade after narrowly surviving a suicide attempt. Songs like this make me glad for he's lucky.
"Make It Wit 'Chu" ~ Queens of the Stone Age
Only Josh Homme could turn an adolescent little track into a driving piano-dominated ballad unlike anything else in the Queens' repertoire. The whole album is a departure, with the heavier tracks falling behind the more tuneful approach Homme opts for here.Without the four-string insanity of Nick Olivieri, they might never rock as on Songs for the Deaf, but they can still shove a powerful tune or two out of the speakers.
"Song of Love" ~ Manassas:
A supergroup led by Buffalo Springfield alum Stephen Stills, this one-off collection of everything under the sun sounds fresh as much as his best-known supergroup (CSN) can't shift out of the 60's to save their (second) livers. A bluesy number that instantly migrates the listener beyond the expectations of anything from Stills, it give away none of the diversity waiting on later tracks like "Johnny's Garden."
All we are saying ... is give Stills a chance. The man knows rock. He wrote "For What It's Worth," which fortune dropped into the CSN&Y setlist last summer in Columbus.
"I'll Never Give It Up" ~ Richard Thompson:
On his first uptempo album in a decade (Sweet Warrior), Thompson dishes out his unique folk-rock in unapologetically heavy doses. A lot stands out, but the infectious riff and message are inescapable here.
Ben What?
In college, we followed professional wrestling religiously. From Monday night gatherings where we picked up the plot threads to the pay-per-views that sewed them up into new alliances, adversaries and champions, we watched all we could. It was male bonding par excellence.
Since I left college, it's the obituaries of the former stars that have struck.
I never touch the stuff anymore, but anytime one of the names from the past appears in the headlines, it's a death. Usually, it's a premature one.
These guys pump so many chemicals into their bodies for fleeting glory that they don't survive their forties.
The latest, in which the most modest and ordinary of wrestling stars ended his life on an unimaginably heinous note, struck hardest, because this one wasn't just another steroid casualty.
Ravishing Rick Rude, Curt "Mr. Perfect" Henning, Davey Boy "The British Bullgdog" Smith and Eddie Guerrero - those were steroid-punished bodies that gave out.
Now Chris Benoit, who strangled his wife, then smothered his seven-year-old son before hanging himself from a wire off his weight-lifting equipment ... well, the ugliness of professional wrestling is on display for all.
Everyone who liked Benoit did so because he was unassuming, a man who achieved high ranking in this brand of entertainment (because we all know it's scripted) on his own terms. And a lot of people liked him; he was young talent at a time when Hulk Hogan and older wrestlers were milking the spotlight as their bodies failed them.
When he jumped from the WCW to the WWF (the WWE since it finally lost a copyright lawsuit to the World Wildlife Federation), it was big news among its fans.
With a despicable, dirty conclusion to his life and two others, he managed to wipe it all away.
Blame it on 'roid rage all you want - he killed before looping the coward's line. And that's all he deserves to be remembered for.
Since I left college, it's the obituaries of the former stars that have struck.
I never touch the stuff anymore, but anytime one of the names from the past appears in the headlines, it's a death. Usually, it's a premature one.
These guys pump so many chemicals into their bodies for fleeting glory that they don't survive their forties.
The latest, in which the most modest and ordinary of wrestling stars ended his life on an unimaginably heinous note, struck hardest, because this one wasn't just another steroid casualty.
Ravishing Rick Rude, Curt "Mr. Perfect" Henning, Davey Boy "The British Bullgdog" Smith and Eddie Guerrero - those were steroid-punished bodies that gave out.
Now Chris Benoit, who strangled his wife, then smothered his seven-year-old son before hanging himself from a wire off his weight-lifting equipment ... well, the ugliness of professional wrestling is on display for all.
Everyone who liked Benoit did so because he was unassuming, a man who achieved high ranking in this brand of entertainment (because we all know it's scripted) on his own terms. And a lot of people liked him; he was young talent at a time when Hulk Hogan and older wrestlers were milking the spotlight as their bodies failed them.
When he jumped from the WCW to the WWF (the WWE since it finally lost a copyright lawsuit to the World Wildlife Federation), it was big news among its fans.
With a despicable, dirty conclusion to his life and two others, he managed to wipe it all away.
Blame it on 'roid rage all you want - he killed before looping the coward's line. And that's all he deserves to be remembered for.
Monday, June 25, 2007
I'm not over you, Columbus
Sorry, fair overlooked city, but I haven't been able to get past our history yet.
This thought became official while cruising down High Street on Sunday afternoon, Comfest too soon at my back.
The city felt too comfortable. Why would I drive six hours, when I could just stay in a place where I could walk the streets blindfolded and always end up where I wanted to go?
Damn Comfest and its last full weekend in June scheduling.
I barely lasted a month in Nashville without returning, and I can definitely say I came back too soon. The wounds of uprooting are still a little tender, though I staved off the emotion until Sunday.
In less than 48 hours I smashed in 17 hours of Comfest, two impromptu porch parties, coffee with Katy, breakfast with the Stacey sisters, a last trip through my parents' house before they pack up for Atlanta next month, a brief visit with Jeff and Melissa, a red Gatorade mustache that wouldn't wipe off ... and other embarrassing drunken moments.
Oh, did I mention the dozens of familiar faces in Goodale Park?
Until Sunday, my feeling was, "I like Nashville, but God, it feels right to be back."
After hoisting a few final brews with fellow 3-day survivor Erica Peters, I walked back to the parking lost, leaving just as the crowd became obvious.
I milked every last Columbus moment I could. I took High Street down to Greenlawn Avenue before finding the highway, content with a little people-watching from Nationwide to Merion Village.
The LeVecque Tower-led skyline sank into the horizon at Grove City, then I was down to blasting CD 101's live broadcast from Comfest until leaving its range.
This is actually quite important, because I find Nashville radio quite foul; aside from a few hours a day on a college station, it's classical for me. None of the stations holds an antenna to CD101 and its playlists. In forty minutes I got acoustic Nirvana, some Evil Queens, "Icky Thump" for the umpteenth time.
And just try not to sing along with Amy Winehouse - I dare you.
And of course, the last song I got from Columbus had to be "Everlong" from the Foo Fighters, one of my all-time Top Five. A decade after I first heard it that perfect slab of loud rock, David Grohl's masterpiece overflows with fresh meaning.
This thought became official while cruising down High Street on Sunday afternoon, Comfest too soon at my back.
The city felt too comfortable. Why would I drive six hours, when I could just stay in a place where I could walk the streets blindfolded and always end up where I wanted to go?
Damn Comfest and its last full weekend in June scheduling.
I barely lasted a month in Nashville without returning, and I can definitely say I came back too soon. The wounds of uprooting are still a little tender, though I staved off the emotion until Sunday.
In less than 48 hours I smashed in 17 hours of Comfest, two impromptu porch parties, coffee with Katy, breakfast with the Stacey sisters, a last trip through my parents' house before they pack up for Atlanta next month, a brief visit with Jeff and Melissa, a red Gatorade mustache that wouldn't wipe off ... and other embarrassing drunken moments.
Oh, did I mention the dozens of familiar faces in Goodale Park?
Until Sunday, my feeling was, "I like Nashville, but God, it feels right to be back."
After hoisting a few final brews with fellow 3-day survivor Erica Peters, I walked back to the parking lost, leaving just as the crowd became obvious.
I milked every last Columbus moment I could. I took High Street down to Greenlawn Avenue before finding the highway, content with a little people-watching from Nationwide to Merion Village.
The LeVecque Tower-led skyline sank into the horizon at Grove City, then I was down to blasting CD 101's live broadcast from Comfest until leaving its range.
This is actually quite important, because I find Nashville radio quite foul; aside from a few hours a day on a college station, it's classical for me. None of the stations holds an antenna to CD101 and its playlists. In forty minutes I got acoustic Nirvana, some Evil Queens, "Icky Thump" for the umpteenth time.
And just try not to sing along with Amy Winehouse - I dare you.
And of course, the last song I got from Columbus had to be "Everlong" from the Foo Fighters, one of my all-time Top Five. A decade after I first heard it that perfect slab of loud rock, David Grohl's masterpiece overflows with fresh meaning.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
It should have been posted a month ago
The crew that helped me move will always have a special place; it was an efficient operation, done in about two hours. Hard work made all the goodbyes a little easier.
So Dave, Erin, Sheri, Jeff, Melissa, and Ryan, take a bow. As hard as leaving was, you helped me arrive.
So Dave, Erin, Sheri, Jeff, Melissa, and Ryan, take a bow. As hard as leaving was, you helped me arrive.
The curious Mr. Poole
For the second apartment in a row, I've got a quirky elderly neighbor, though this is decidedly Southern.
That's James Poole, Mr. Poole or just Poole, as my landlord and other neighbors call him.
His house wouldn't be built today; in affluent suburbs, there are garages larger his home (my apartment might actually be larger). That weathered cinder block hut hums from air conditioners at its two windows, and from the rear door a large Christ statue oversees his small kitchen. Humans are no different than other creatures - we adapt to live in the space we have.
Mr. Poole walks everywhere and yet always wears a flannel shirt even as the temperatures regularly crest above 90 and the humidity has moved in. He even wears it when mowing the lawn and tending to the grounds.
I rarely see him, though on a few late-night walks I caught his shadow clouded by smoke from his corncob pipe. With viewing his expression, he looked as if there might be an ancient rifle hidden close to him, loading and ready for anyone willing to disturb his puffing.
Yesterday we finally exchanged more than pleasantries, as I discovered a package from the VA Hospital pharmacy service on my doorstep.
He trudged outside, perking up immediately once he saw what I carried. He stood shorter than I remembered, my memory discolored by the stress of the move and his strangely imposing silence. But he was awfully glad to recover his new supply of medicines that took an inordinate amount of time to arrive from the VA.
Speaking in a rapid old-Nashville accent (Mr. Poole is not a fellow transplant, that's for sure), he gave me a brief synopsis of the neighborhood (he doesn't think it's safe and isn't afraid to involve the Metro police) and the VA's sloth.
In many urban neighborhoods, the older crowd tends to be the ones who hang on, that won't give up as younger people flee to safer, blander suburbs.
If he's calling the police all the time, I'm guessing Mr. Poole doesn't have a shotgun cocked and loaded for intruders.
Still, he's one of those welcome characters I wouldn't find at a sprawling apartment complex.
That's James Poole, Mr. Poole or just Poole, as my landlord and other neighbors call him.
His house wouldn't be built today; in affluent suburbs, there are garages larger his home (my apartment might actually be larger). That weathered cinder block hut hums from air conditioners at its two windows, and from the rear door a large Christ statue oversees his small kitchen. Humans are no different than other creatures - we adapt to live in the space we have.
Mr. Poole walks everywhere and yet always wears a flannel shirt even as the temperatures regularly crest above 90 and the humidity has moved in. He even wears it when mowing the lawn and tending to the grounds.
I rarely see him, though on a few late-night walks I caught his shadow clouded by smoke from his corncob pipe. With viewing his expression, he looked as if there might be an ancient rifle hidden close to him, loading and ready for anyone willing to disturb his puffing.
Yesterday we finally exchanged more than pleasantries, as I discovered a package from the VA Hospital pharmacy service on my doorstep.
He trudged outside, perking up immediately once he saw what I carried. He stood shorter than I remembered, my memory discolored by the stress of the move and his strangely imposing silence. But he was awfully glad to recover his new supply of medicines that took an inordinate amount of time to arrive from the VA.
Speaking in a rapid old-Nashville accent (Mr. Poole is not a fellow transplant, that's for sure), he gave me a brief synopsis of the neighborhood (he doesn't think it's safe and isn't afraid to involve the Metro police) and the VA's sloth.
In many urban neighborhoods, the older crowd tends to be the ones who hang on, that won't give up as younger people flee to safer, blander suburbs.
If he's calling the police all the time, I'm guessing Mr. Poole doesn't have a shotgun cocked and loaded for intruders.
Still, he's one of those welcome characters I wouldn't find at a sprawling apartment complex.
Big Chuck calls it a career
Big Chuck Schodowski is retiring.
If you're not from Cleveland, "who cares" probably sums up your response. However, Northeast Ohioans take that announcement as bittersweet, since the fatal blow for "Big Chuck and Little John" on Channel 8 kills non-news programming in the region.
The show's skits were memorable, though at times groan-inducing, and they resonated with people because you could run into Big Chuck at an Indians game, or catch his partner, Lil' John, at his Solon jewelry store.
Just as it sported a Millionaire's Row a century ago, Cleveland television had a Golden Age dear to those who lived through it. Most major cities did prior to the fall of syndication's hammer.
Big Chuck started as a writer and actor for a more infamous predecessor. Ghoulardi was almost a prototype for Mystery Science Theatre 3000, in which Ernie Anderson dressed up as macabre character and inserted himself into atrociously bad horror films he hosted on the weekends. I mention the name to my dad, and he instantly lights up, recounting his teenage nights with friends watching "Ghoulardi." Drew Carey wore a Ghoulardi T-shirt on his sitcom.
But with him goes one of the last remnants of local programming. It's a opredictable yet sad statement on the corporate packaging of TV that the little shows, often the ones people foster the closest connections with, are no more.
Aside from the typically boorish local news - and public television, which usually brushes its schedule with local flair - it's been extinguished.
Cleveland just got to enjoy it a little longer.
If you're not from Cleveland, "who cares" probably sums up your response. However, Northeast Ohioans take that announcement as bittersweet, since the fatal blow for "Big Chuck and Little John" on Channel 8 kills non-news programming in the region.
The show's skits were memorable, though at times groan-inducing, and they resonated with people because you could run into Big Chuck at an Indians game, or catch his partner, Lil' John, at his Solon jewelry store.
Just as it sported a Millionaire's Row a century ago, Cleveland television had a Golden Age dear to those who lived through it. Most major cities did prior to the fall of syndication's hammer.
Big Chuck started as a writer and actor for a more infamous predecessor. Ghoulardi was almost a prototype for Mystery Science Theatre 3000, in which Ernie Anderson dressed up as macabre character and inserted himself into atrociously bad horror films he hosted on the weekends. I mention the name to my dad, and he instantly lights up, recounting his teenage nights with friends watching "Ghoulardi." Drew Carey wore a Ghoulardi T-shirt on his sitcom.
But with him goes one of the last remnants of local programming. It's a opredictable yet sad statement on the corporate packaging of TV that the little shows, often the ones people foster the closest connections with, are no more.
Aside from the typically boorish local news - and public television, which usually brushes its schedule with local flair - it's been extinguished.
Cleveland just got to enjoy it a little longer.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Only a Celine Dion connection could screw up this parody
The Clinton's wonderful parody of the Sopranos' final scene lands with a thud louder than .... well, the cut to black ending the Sopranos' run.
Why? Because the clip launched her campaign song. A Celine Dion tune. Let me repeat that - a Celine Dion song, if you can actually call them that.
A dead-on spoof of this caliber went to waste.
Oh well, at least the world got to hear Bill say, "My money's on Smash Mouth." That's classic.
Some say she shouldn't have gone with a Canadian-penned song, from a singer with notorious disdain for Americans.
I say the campaign should have told online voters they wouldn't allow unconscionable crap to win.
Why? Because the clip launched her campaign song. A Celine Dion tune. Let me repeat that - a Celine Dion song, if you can actually call them that.
A dead-on spoof of this caliber went to waste.
Oh well, at least the world got to hear Bill say, "My money's on Smash Mouth." That's classic.
Some say she shouldn't have gone with a Canadian-penned song, from a singer with notorious disdain for Americans.
I say the campaign should have told online voters they wouldn't allow unconscionable crap to win.
Monday, June 18, 2007
"Only an overgrown mop-head like you would be stupid enough."
If the flea-bitten furball I share my house with could talk, he'd probably have a barb or two like that for me.
To recap, yesterday I discovered Percy tried to make friends with some fleas, and now they're walking all over him.
Why wasn't he treated? That falls squarely on the foolish first-time cat owner, who acted as if an indoor cat couldn't fall prey to those parasitic beasties. Through the pixels of the window screen, hitchhiking on one of my plants and sneaking through the door behind me ... I don't know how they got in, I only know they're irritating the one creature on this planet that relies on me to look out for it.
He's itching constantly, I'm ripe with sympathy itches (I hope) and I want to burn every shred of fabric in my apartment so these damned things never return to plague my littlest fair-weather friend.
He usually doesn't like me touching his face; he barely resisted as I combed him last night, whether from exhaustion or instinct telling him I was actually helping.
I treated him with this herbal oil mixture that's done little except stink the house with an odium of peppermint and cinnamon. I'm ready to bomb the house if it comes to that. A surgical strike might be the only chance to wipe them out for good.
But considering it touts its ability to repel and kill fleas, and the littlest friend still scratches and gnaws, I think it's healing abilities might be best described as rhyming with "Maloney."
To recap, yesterday I discovered Percy tried to make friends with some fleas, and now they're walking all over him.
Why wasn't he treated? That falls squarely on the foolish first-time cat owner, who acted as if an indoor cat couldn't fall prey to those parasitic beasties. Through the pixels of the window screen, hitchhiking on one of my plants and sneaking through the door behind me ... I don't know how they got in, I only know they're irritating the one creature on this planet that relies on me to look out for it.
He's itching constantly, I'm ripe with sympathy itches (I hope) and I want to burn every shred of fabric in my apartment so these damned things never return to plague my littlest fair-weather friend.
He usually doesn't like me touching his face; he barely resisted as I combed him last night, whether from exhaustion or instinct telling him I was actually helping.
I treated him with this herbal oil mixture that's done little except stink the house with an odium of peppermint and cinnamon. I'm ready to bomb the house if it comes to that. A surgical strike might be the only chance to wipe them out for good.
But considering it touts its ability to repel and kill fleas, and the littlest friend still scratches and gnaws, I think it's healing abilities might be best described as rhyming with "Maloney."
Friday, June 15, 2007
I bet he couldn't wait to tear off that tie
Rick Perry might not have Bob Taft's looks, but he's every bit the awkward politician.
This could almost be a poor Photoshop exercise, given how frumpy Perry appears in that suit.
I'd be frumpy too - he has almost no power. You see, while the Texas governor can brag that they oversee the world's 12th largest economy, they can't take much action with it. And it's Texas, where people don't take kindly to orders from government or any other human being.
Constitutionally, it's toothless, almost a ceremonial job.
You'd think someone would have looked that up back in 1999, before the campaign that led to a certain disastrous presidency stomped on the Straight Talk.
This could almost be a poor Photoshop exercise, given how frumpy Perry appears in that suit.
I'd be frumpy too - he has almost no power. You see, while the Texas governor can brag that they oversee the world's 12th largest economy, they can't take much action with it. And it's Texas, where people don't take kindly to orders from government or any other human being.
Constitutionally, it's toothless, almost a ceremonial job.
You'd think someone would have looked that up back in 1999, before the campaign that led to a certain disastrous presidency stomped on the Straight Talk.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The vampire victim look
While lying on the floor, reading before bed, The Beast decided to pounce, putting a few puncture marks in my neck from those claws he won't let me cut anymore. This came a mere 15 minutes after he received a few treats for good behavior....
... I'm alternating between running and bicycling each day now. There are greenway trails and steep hills everywhere here, so it won't be long before the huffing and coughing dies down to a mild panting.
Except for the I Run for Music City 10K, my inaugural run on Nashville streets, coming up the morning of July 4.
.... I ran to my housesitting duties last night, the round trip a little longer than a 5K. Now I just have to work out a training course of twice that distance. Tonight I'm back on the bike, hoping to conquer the gruesome hills between my house and Best Buy. Vegas oddsmakers are paying out $10 on the dollar if I crest them without stopping. Only the traffic lights will hold me down ... and the whole breathing thing.
... I'm alternating between running and bicycling each day now. There are greenway trails and steep hills everywhere here, so it won't be long before the huffing and coughing dies down to a mild panting.
Except for the I Run for Music City 10K, my inaugural run on Nashville streets, coming up the morning of July 4.
.... I ran to my housesitting duties last night, the round trip a little longer than a 5K. Now I just have to work out a training course of twice that distance. Tonight I'm back on the bike, hoping to conquer the gruesome hills between my house and Best Buy. Vegas oddsmakers are paying out $10 on the dollar if I crest them without stopping. Only the traffic lights will hold me down ... and the whole breathing thing.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A non-column for Father's Day
Maybe this has become a tradition, even if I broke it by taking a new job
by Bill Melville
June 11, 2007
The pre-dawn silence broke open with news that no one is ever really prepared for.
An unfamiliar voice told me my dad died, its rigidly clinical tone striving so hard to sympathy but stepped further away with each stilted response.
With the company close to relocating my parents, all I could see was poor timing on fate’s watch.
Fortunately, I had been duped by an all-too-real waking dream.
If he – or any other friends and loved ones – walk on to their reward, that’s probably how the news will find me. With my parents’ move to Atlanta at the point of no return – 16 months later, the house sold to the first people who looked at it in late 2005 – odds favor us never again living in the same city.
So when he rang me late Monday, I felt relief; at 3 a.m., I was plotting to tell my new superiors about the call and set travel plans before I lurched back to reality.
Family Guy scenes urged him to call and we ran down the usual subjects, the Spurs owning the Cavs, sports “analysts” prattling on about the Yankees when the sounds of their own voices won’t suffice, and finally selling a house he worried might never find a buyer.
He didn’t want my sister and I futilely trying to unload the cursed ranch on Harkers Court “30 years from now, when I’ve been dead 29 years.” He threw some knuckles into my gut on that one, and never even knew. I steered him back to Family Guy.
But it wasn’t always easygoing and friendly like this.
Around this time a decade ago, I was driving the New York Thruway up to Buffalo. My friend Jim’s father returned from his morning jog and by the time Jim’s mother noticed the shower running abnormally long, he was dead on the bedroom floor.
Jim adored his dad at a time when I aimed little but venom at mine (that went both ways).
I made it for the wake, ready to support a friend through some crushing hours.
After the receiving lines finally ended, Jim pulled me aside and asked me to ride home with him. I didn’t hesitate, since I knew the emotions of the day were about to flow.
We talked a lot, much of it too personal to delve into here, but what I took away and will never forget was Jim’s major point wasn’t about his dad’s death, but about me
“Make peace with your dad before it’s too late,” he warned.
Jim knew my recent family history and I promised to try. But my dad and I shuffled through some ugly days then; as Jim spoke, an armistice between these generations sounded laughable.
Eventually my dad and I cultured peace; how else could we just talk about Stewie Griffin for 10 minutes? Quoting TV shows is reserved for friends.
“Always a pleasure, Bill” was how we left off.
Always.
When such a mortal thought burrows its pincers in and won’t relent, “always” is pure comfort.
by Bill Melville
June 11, 2007
The pre-dawn silence broke open with news that no one is ever really prepared for.
An unfamiliar voice told me my dad died, its rigidly clinical tone striving so hard to sympathy but stepped further away with each stilted response.
With the company close to relocating my parents, all I could see was poor timing on fate’s watch.
Fortunately, I had been duped by an all-too-real waking dream.
If he – or any other friends and loved ones – walk on to their reward, that’s probably how the news will find me. With my parents’ move to Atlanta at the point of no return – 16 months later, the house sold to the first people who looked at it in late 2005 – odds favor us never again living in the same city.
So when he rang me late Monday, I felt relief; at 3 a.m., I was plotting to tell my new superiors about the call and set travel plans before I lurched back to reality.
Family Guy scenes urged him to call and we ran down the usual subjects, the Spurs owning the Cavs, sports “analysts” prattling on about the Yankees when the sounds of their own voices won’t suffice, and finally selling a house he worried might never find a buyer.
He didn’t want my sister and I futilely trying to unload the cursed ranch on Harkers Court “30 years from now, when I’ve been dead 29 years.” He threw some knuckles into my gut on that one, and never even knew. I steered him back to Family Guy.
But it wasn’t always easygoing and friendly like this.
Around this time a decade ago, I was driving the New York Thruway up to Buffalo. My friend Jim’s father returned from his morning jog and by the time Jim’s mother noticed the shower running abnormally long, he was dead on the bedroom floor.
Jim adored his dad at a time when I aimed little but venom at mine (that went both ways).
I made it for the wake, ready to support a friend through some crushing hours.
After the receiving lines finally ended, Jim pulled me aside and asked me to ride home with him. I didn’t hesitate, since I knew the emotions of the day were about to flow.
We talked a lot, much of it too personal to delve into here, but what I took away and will never forget was Jim’s major point wasn’t about his dad’s death, but about me
“Make peace with your dad before it’s too late,” he warned.
Jim knew my recent family history and I promised to try. But my dad and I shuffled through some ugly days then; as Jim spoke, an armistice between these generations sounded laughable.
Eventually my dad and I cultured peace; how else could we just talk about Stewie Griffin for 10 minutes? Quoting TV shows is reserved for friends.
“Always a pleasure, Bill” was how we left off.
Always.
When such a mortal thought burrows its pincers in and won’t relent, “always” is pure comfort.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
With visitors like these, who need friends in the new city?
First Crites, now Garth and Jennifer -- rows of boxes linger in my living and bedrooms, but the visitor parade keeps rolling. At least I know enough of the town to take them somewhat interesting places. Still, it is hard to play tour guide when my orientation fails without the Parthenon or the Batman Building within sight.
I never expected Nashville to lie on the way to so many destinations. A look at a map would have told me, but after coming from Columbus, itself a crossroads of major routes where so many familiar faces passed and so few eased off the gas, but it's been a revelation.
That said, the affable word crowd smoothed the transition, even I'm left alone with the heat and The Beast once 5 o'clock arrives. And he's been unusually beastly since Memorial Day -- his love for pawing the VCR slot has stirred my hatred of TV/DVD/VCR combo units, his swipes at the blinds accidentally taught him how to pull the drawstring and if I leave a glass of water six feet or less above kitten eye level, it will moisten the floor.
Not all is lost, so long as there are people.
Saturday, I ended up at a party full of like-aged people; most were sheared from Tennessee cloth, but all welcomed me and my Midwestern accent, the one I claimed not to own when back in Ohio.
I got silent revenge for the night's only gruff encounter, but all the rest turned out as refreshing as the temperate, breezy night. Visitors are nice, but not quite on par with comfort in new surroundings.
I never expected Nashville to lie on the way to so many destinations. A look at a map would have told me, but after coming from Columbus, itself a crossroads of major routes where so many familiar faces passed and so few eased off the gas, but it's been a revelation.
That said, the affable word crowd smoothed the transition, even I'm left alone with the heat and The Beast once 5 o'clock arrives. And he's been unusually beastly since Memorial Day -- his love for pawing the VCR slot has stirred my hatred of TV/DVD/VCR combo units, his swipes at the blinds accidentally taught him how to pull the drawstring and if I leave a glass of water six feet or less above kitten eye level, it will moisten the floor.
Not all is lost, so long as there are people.
Saturday, I ended up at a party full of like-aged people; most were sheared from Tennessee cloth, but all welcomed me and my Midwestern accent, the one I claimed not to own when back in Ohio.
I got silent revenge for the night's only gruff encounter, but all the rest turned out as refreshing as the temperate, breezy night. Visitors are nice, but not quite on par with comfort in new surroundings.
Breaking in the porch (written 06-03-07)
While I dismissed the advice given on my last Columbus night ("Make sure you walk into your new apartment you carry in your guitar on the first trip - it is Nashville"), I couldn't ignore the Music City moment when my first visitor broke out his banjo last weekend.
I grabbed my mandolin, struggled through a few basic chords, figured on the main line from Uncle Tupelo's "Sandusky" and with those notes the porch hosted its inaugural session. No matter the age of its ratty strings, the notes sounded correct.
Old BC, roaring out of Hilton Head took an indirect route back to Columbus and stopped off for a few nights of drunkenness and fear that I might fracture something when swaying disjointedly at porch's edge.
In the hazy afternoon, there were only fears of notes screeching away as my digits fumbled across the mandolin's close-knit frets.
The torrential rain I'd not seen since limping into Nashville to househunt a month ago held enough until we sealed up the instruments, with a few open notes awaiting the buzzing for the next jam.
With apologies to Rod Parsley (read it again, because it's the only time you'll see those words on this patch of Internet), the Nashville motto for my mandolin is "Silent no more."
After a decade of occasional use and a dozen futile searches for an instructor, I'm finally living somewhere that a call for mandolin lessons might turn up a wiling pickers.
Without an amplifier in sight, we ran through a few bars of the public domain, just as people might have done on this porch a century ago.
I don't want it to sound as if I grew into a serviceable player in a few hours on the porch, but the little session was momentous because it brought life to the porch I had used only for a few flower pots and for feeding a certain habit I haven't snuffed yet.
I grabbed my mandolin, struggled through a few basic chords, figured on the main line from Uncle Tupelo's "Sandusky" and with those notes the porch hosted its inaugural session. No matter the age of its ratty strings, the notes sounded correct.
Old BC, roaring out of Hilton Head took an indirect route back to Columbus and stopped off for a few nights of drunkenness and fear that I might fracture something when swaying disjointedly at porch's edge.
In the hazy afternoon, there were only fears of notes screeching away as my digits fumbled across the mandolin's close-knit frets.
The torrential rain I'd not seen since limping into Nashville to househunt a month ago held enough until we sealed up the instruments, with a few open notes awaiting the buzzing for the next jam.
With apologies to Rod Parsley (read it again, because it's the only time you'll see those words on this patch of Internet), the Nashville motto for my mandolin is "Silent no more."
After a decade of occasional use and a dozen futile searches for an instructor, I'm finally living somewhere that a call for mandolin lessons might turn up a wiling pickers.
Without an amplifier in sight, we ran through a few bars of the public domain, just as people might have done on this porch a century ago.
I don't want it to sound as if I grew into a serviceable player in a few hours on the porch, but the little session was momentous because it brought life to the porch I had used only for a few flower pots and for feeding a certain habit I haven't snuffed yet.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Oh Paris, oh humanity!
America's favorite hotel heiress/TV star/whore should take a page from the Martha Stewart Prison Handbook (she doesn't need to it, since she lived it). Shut your mouth, finish your sentence then move on with your life. Everyone else will forget your rap sheet in no time.
Stewart walked into jail and six months later walked right back into the life she left, albeit with a house arrest ankle bracelet for the trouble.
Arguably, Martha's popularity has outpaced its pre-incarceration levels. No one talks about Martha's jail days. Vanity Fair wrote the story up, and now no one cares anymore.
That said, I have to admit the idea of Stewart screaming at the judge as they hauled her away is much more intriguing than the Paris shouting "It's not right!" Martha would've have been tazered or restrained, since she could do some real damage; the cruelty factor goes a long way.
I guess all billionaires are not created equally.
Stewart walked into jail and six months later walked right back into the life she left, albeit with a house arrest ankle bracelet for the trouble.
Arguably, Martha's popularity has outpaced its pre-incarceration levels. No one talks about Martha's jail days. Vanity Fair wrote the story up, and now no one cares anymore.
That said, I have to admit the idea of Stewart screaming at the judge as they hauled her away is much more intriguing than the Paris shouting "It's not right!" Martha would've have been tazered or restrained, since she could do some real damage; the cruelty factor goes a long way.
I guess all billionaires are not created equally.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
That's the sound of a much-less-interesting Indiana Jones 4
Sean Connery just folded.
I was banking on Henry Jones Sr. to come through for this final chapter and round out the series properly. But Connery is retired, he says, even though the part was the one role that severely tempted him to return to acting.
Does the man really want to end his career on the sour note called "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen," the flaccid adaptation of a great comic book?
He doesn't even have to don his most famous accessory (the hairpiece, not the tuxedo, Bond fans).
Ah well, film's worst archaeologist will be forced to trash hidden, priceless relics on his own again. I've got a number of friends in the field; I can't imagine any of them tearing down the Well of Souls to rubble to escape it.
Harrison Ford is close to Social Security age, so gallivanting with his old man might be out of step, unless their brand of archeology had reduced them to scouring countryside antique malls for overlooked relics.
Still, the roughneck Scotsman would have been a treasure in that film.
I was banking on Henry Jones Sr. to come through for this final chapter and round out the series properly. But Connery is retired, he says, even though the part was the one role that severely tempted him to return to acting.
Does the man really want to end his career on the sour note called "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen," the flaccid adaptation of a great comic book?
He doesn't even have to don his most famous accessory (the hairpiece, not the tuxedo, Bond fans).
Ah well, film's worst archaeologist will be forced to trash hidden, priceless relics on his own again. I've got a number of friends in the field; I can't imagine any of them tearing down the Well of Souls to rubble to escape it.
Harrison Ford is close to Social Security age, so gallivanting with his old man might be out of step, unless their brand of archeology had reduced them to scouring countryside antique malls for overlooked relics.
Still, the roughneck Scotsman would have been a treasure in that film.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
What a time to be alive (In case you didn't catch it edition)
I'm loving this detail about the G-8 Summit in Germany:
"The leaders gathered in Heiligendamm, a Baltic Sea town in northern Germany that was circled by seven miles of razor wire-topped fence (Associated Press, June 6)."
Yes, letting protesters chant just outside the windows during high tea would be problematic, but turning a German seaport into Camp X-Ray seems a little excessive.
I wonder if they kicked all the residents out of town during the summit, as Musharraf did in Islamabad when Bush came knocking a few years ago. Admittedly, everyone already hates him there - nor do the Pakistanis possess any electoral votes - but the president travels a bit like someone with total disdain for everyone else.
Last fall in Ohio, he arrived in Columbus for a Mike DeWine fundraiser and when his motorcade proceeded to the New Albany mansion where it was held. All freeways leading there were closed to non-motorcade traffic - during rush hour, forcing about 50,000 commuters onto alternate roads.
DeWine lost handily to Sherrod Brown in November; there's no coincidence yet to be unturned about that.
Toss the prez in a convertible topped in bulletproof plastic, then let that motorcade roll. It works for the pope.
"The leaders gathered in Heiligendamm, a Baltic Sea town in northern Germany that was circled by seven miles of razor wire-topped fence (Associated Press, June 6)."
Yes, letting protesters chant just outside the windows during high tea would be problematic, but turning a German seaport into Camp X-Ray seems a little excessive.
I wonder if they kicked all the residents out of town during the summit, as Musharraf did in Islamabad when Bush came knocking a few years ago. Admittedly, everyone already hates him there - nor do the Pakistanis possess any electoral votes - but the president travels a bit like someone with total disdain for everyone else.
Last fall in Ohio, he arrived in Columbus for a Mike DeWine fundraiser and when his motorcade proceeded to the New Albany mansion where it was held. All freeways leading there were closed to non-motorcade traffic - during rush hour, forcing about 50,000 commuters onto alternate roads.
DeWine lost handily to Sherrod Brown in November; there's no coincidence yet to be unturned about that.
Toss the prez in a convertible topped in bulletproof plastic, then let that motorcade roll. It works for the pope.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Best baseball injury ever
Roger Clemens might be in great shape for a 68-year old (he's up there somewhere), but really, the news reports need to stop calling his injury a "fatigued groin" for way too many obvious reasons.
C'mon, wordsmiths, that dirty little phrase is the best you can offer?
C'mon, wordsmiths, that dirty little phrase is the best you can offer?
You can take the commentary editor out of the newsroom ...
But just try to force him to stop writing columns. For better or worse.
Have film roles prepped Thompson for top job?
(and will his appearance on "Sex and the City" be enough to bring in the Experimental Dater vote?)
Bill Melville
June 1, 2007
A Washington-Dulles Airport official during a terrorist siege. CIA Director. Lt. Colonel. Major General. Rear Admiral. White House Chief of Staff.
That’s some resume for one person, with titles left over for three or four.
In the 2008 presidential race, it might provide the spark to escape the
Fred Dalton Thompson has served in all those posts – though only on screen, of course.
However, that is enough for most Americans, including members of my family.
They almost ignore his eight years representing Tennessee after winning a special election to finish Al Gore’s unexpired term, then a full term of his own two years later.
They don’t know a lick about his career as a U.S. Senator, though it was not distinguishing.
For many, his service as District Attorney Arthur Branch on Law & Order serves as adequate resume material.
However, his presidential turns are a decidedly mixed bunch – the voice of Andrew Jackson Tennessee’s favorite presidential son), chief exec in a giveaway from the Nuclear Threat Initiative called The Last Best Chance (I’d leave that off of my job history too) and then Ulysses S. Grant in the cable film Bury My at Wounded Knee.
Dressing up as Grant might prove perilous in the South.
While the party of Lincoln took hold across the old Confederacy in the past 40 years, Grant is Top Three (preceded only by Honest Abe and William Tecumseh Sherman) among Yankee haters, so don’t expect it anywhere near his stump speech during the Strom Thurmond Memorial Breakfast in a South Carolina hamlet.
The closest Ronald Reagan came to playing a president during his career was the role of Grover Cleveland … Alexander, the Hall of Fame hurler, plus scores of military men, notably George Custer in Santa Fe Trail.
Thompson has some credibility with a younger female crowd hiding in his C.V, with a guest appearance on “Sex and the City” and a spin as Roseanne’s boss in the show’s early years. He could hold his own with the acidic comedienne, so hostile diplomats would prove a simpler task – if bossing around Roseanne weren’t simply reading lines under the hot lights.
The action movie crowd remembers the stern admiral trying to unwind the machinations of a renegade Russian submarine captain in Hunt for Red October. Thompson followed that with Trudeau in Die Hard II, giving one grim proclamation after another to Bruce Willis.
The man can handle crisis – in 24 frames per second, at least.
Now, all candidates have skeletons in their closets, and while some quickly point to Thompson’s very young wife as one, they need to dig a little deeper. What will they find?
Thompson’s filmography includes roles in Curly Sue, Necessary Roughness and Baby’s Day Out (although in the latter, a mid-1990s John Hughes dog, he did play a FBI agent).
Thompson is the only threat from the acting set to land at 1600 Pennsylvania; he’s not leagues beyond Ben Jones or Fred Grandy, former congressmen better known as Cooter from "Dukes of Hazzard" and Gopher on "Love Boat."
And no one gave Warren Beatty serious glances when he started spouted off about running a few terms ago.
Barring a constitutional amendment, we don’t have to worry about Arnold Schwarzenegger going any closer to the White House than a U.S. Senate seat when he makes his inevitable (and only) next step known.
While flexing his conservative stances, I think the Republican fervor behind a Thompson candidacy stems solidly from their reverence of the last actor to inhabit the White House. You’re probably familiar with the former actor and 33rd governor of California.
Eight years leading the nation’s most populous state and eight years as a rank-and-file member in the Senate majority hardly deserve equal billing.
But working as the go-to actor for government roles – and spending years as a tough D.A. on Law & Order – justly or unjustly, win immediate credence in the modern voter’s eyes.
Have film roles prepped Thompson for top job?
(and will his appearance on "Sex and the City" be enough to bring in the Experimental Dater vote?)
Bill Melville
June 1, 2007
A Washington-Dulles Airport official during a terrorist siege. CIA Director. Lt. Colonel. Major General. Rear Admiral. White House Chief of Staff.
That’s some resume for one person, with titles left over for three or four.
In the 2008 presidential race, it might provide the spark to escape the
Fred Dalton Thompson has served in all those posts – though only on screen, of course.
However, that is enough for most Americans, including members of my family.
They almost ignore his eight years representing Tennessee after winning a special election to finish Al Gore’s unexpired term, then a full term of his own two years later.
They don’t know a lick about his career as a U.S. Senator, though it was not distinguishing.
For many, his service as District Attorney Arthur Branch on Law & Order serves as adequate resume material.
However, his presidential turns are a decidedly mixed bunch – the voice of Andrew Jackson Tennessee’s favorite presidential son), chief exec in a giveaway from the Nuclear Threat Initiative called The Last Best Chance (I’d leave that off of my job history too) and then Ulysses S. Grant in the cable film Bury My at Wounded Knee.
Dressing up as Grant might prove perilous in the South.
While the party of Lincoln took hold across the old Confederacy in the past 40 years, Grant is Top Three (preceded only by Honest Abe and William Tecumseh Sherman) among Yankee haters, so don’t expect it anywhere near his stump speech during the Strom Thurmond Memorial Breakfast in a South Carolina hamlet.
The closest Ronald Reagan came to playing a president during his career was the role of Grover Cleveland … Alexander, the Hall of Fame hurler, plus scores of military men, notably George Custer in Santa Fe Trail.
Thompson has some credibility with a younger female crowd hiding in his C.V, with a guest appearance on “Sex and the City” and a spin as Roseanne’s boss in the show’s early years. He could hold his own with the acidic comedienne, so hostile diplomats would prove a simpler task – if bossing around Roseanne weren’t simply reading lines under the hot lights.
The action movie crowd remembers the stern admiral trying to unwind the machinations of a renegade Russian submarine captain in Hunt for Red October. Thompson followed that with Trudeau in Die Hard II, giving one grim proclamation after another to Bruce Willis.
The man can handle crisis – in 24 frames per second, at least.
Now, all candidates have skeletons in their closets, and while some quickly point to Thompson’s very young wife as one, they need to dig a little deeper. What will they find?
Thompson’s filmography includes roles in Curly Sue, Necessary Roughness and Baby’s Day Out (although in the latter, a mid-1990s John Hughes dog, he did play a FBI agent).
Thompson is the only threat from the acting set to land at 1600 Pennsylvania; he’s not leagues beyond Ben Jones or Fred Grandy, former congressmen better known as Cooter from "Dukes of Hazzard" and Gopher on "Love Boat."
And no one gave Warren Beatty serious glances when he started spouted off about running a few terms ago.
Barring a constitutional amendment, we don’t have to worry about Arnold Schwarzenegger going any closer to the White House than a U.S. Senate seat when he makes his inevitable (and only) next step known.
While flexing his conservative stances, I think the Republican fervor behind a Thompson candidacy stems solidly from their reverence of the last actor to inhabit the White House. You’re probably familiar with the former actor and 33rd governor of California.
Eight years leading the nation’s most populous state and eight years as a rank-and-file member in the Senate majority hardly deserve equal billing.
But working as the go-to actor for government roles – and spending years as a tough D.A. on Law & Order – justly or unjustly, win immediate credence in the modern voter’s eyes.
Friday, June 01, 2007
"Thanks, but we'll take our chances in scenic Fallujah."
That's the response I'd expect to news that the U.S. is sending thousands of Iraqi refugees to the Motor City, which apparently beat out Youngstown and Cleveland for the right to house them.
Don't expect the refugees to stay long --- they'll find greener pastures elsewhere in the U.S. (Michigan does have a huge Islamic population) or long for home, no matter how battered it grows as the war goes on.
Don't expect the refugees to stay long --- they'll find greener pastures elsewhere in the U.S. (Michigan does have a huge Islamic population) or long for home, no matter how battered it grows as the war goes on.
It was 40 years ago today...
Yeah, that title will be the overused in every Arts section in Western Civilization this weekend, as Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band hits the big 4-0.
Atop the summit of rock and roll albums - and just about every "Best Albums Ever" list known to humankind - the 37-minute masterpiece brought forward a sonic leap for the Beatles and set a rock and roll standard.
Anyone can have their favorite Beatles record (I wrestle between Rubber Soul and Abbey Road), but Sgt. Pepper is almost a shared cultural experience.
Four decades on, so few albums capture that collection of songs and styles so cohesively.
Look at its odes to heroine and LSD ("Fixing a Hole" and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" - drug songs were rarely presented so transparently. And as the 60 progressed, drugs were a definite catalyst leading to the Fab Four's rampant experimentation.
They mix in the delicate balladry of "She's Leaving Home" against the jarring chords of "Getting Better."
Look at the bizarre moments which catapult it light-years beyond "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" - the circus atmosphere of "Mr. Kite," followed by the overlooked George gem, "Within You Without You," reveal a concept album that quickly broke away from the constraints that often
Then there's "A Day in the Life," a song of competing parts that wills itself to hold together and properly bookend the album.
The album climaxes on the most infamous single note in popular music, one sustained piano chord that brightly caps the orchestral crescendo of "Day."
It rings for some 40 seconds after it first sounds.
You could probably argue it's still ringing.
Atop the summit of rock and roll albums - and just about every "Best Albums Ever" list known to humankind - the 37-minute masterpiece brought forward a sonic leap for the Beatles and set a rock and roll standard.
Anyone can have their favorite Beatles record (I wrestle between Rubber Soul and Abbey Road), but Sgt. Pepper is almost a shared cultural experience.
Four decades on, so few albums capture that collection of songs and styles so cohesively.
Look at its odes to heroine and LSD ("Fixing a Hole" and "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" - drug songs were rarely presented so transparently. And as the 60 progressed, drugs were a definite catalyst leading to the Fab Four's rampant experimentation.
They mix in the delicate balladry of "She's Leaving Home" against the jarring chords of "Getting Better."
Look at the bizarre moments which catapult it light-years beyond "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" - the circus atmosphere of "Mr. Kite," followed by the overlooked George gem, "Within You Without You," reveal a concept album that quickly broke away from the constraints that often
Then there's "A Day in the Life," a song of competing parts that wills itself to hold together and properly bookend the album.
The album climaxes on the most infamous single note in popular music, one sustained piano chord that brightly caps the orchestral crescendo of "Day."
It rings for some 40 seconds after it first sounds.
You could probably argue it's still ringing.
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