NIN

The opening act started off with a gong; it might as well ended with it.  Few opening acts ever really entertain me, maybe one or two more are memorable, and whoever they were last night, well they've been forgotten already.  I must be getting old, as I appreciate shows that start as early as a school talant show (especially if there's less talant) .  Fortunately the opening act started early, and even more fortunately they ended early.

Looking at all the lighting and electronic gear on the stage, things looked like this was going to be as much of a light show as a concert.   After a not too long intermission, NIN hit the stage.  NIN is Trent, plus whoever he drags along with him on that particular tour.  For this tour, Trent employed out of work Cenobites (not cinnabites) as his guitarist and basist.  One sported a boufant/mullet, and the other looked like a long lost member of the Hair Bear Bunch.  Is Trent Pinhead in disguise?

Things really didn't get going until several songs in, and with the overly nice (this is a NIN show--where's the angst) subdued crowd, they never really got to the usual rolling boil.  Before long, the screens decended, the lights got all weird, and the brown note montage began.  Experimental music and crap share a common thread, and there's a fine line betwix the two.  All in all it was kinda cool (thus it's experimental, not crap), but I thing I needed some payote or shrooms to appreciate it fully.  The giant touch screen Ableton setup was real cool however.

Once thing finnaly got rocking, Trent and co decended back to hell.  After the requisite pause, they returned--Hellraiser II!  All in all it was a great show, mostly because I got reunited with my old posse, which was a pleasant surprise.  Getting to see the redneck hobbits, now that was a bonus.

What a bunch of crap

Every day I drive by and hear commercials for Big and Tall stores or departments in stores. Being both big and tall myself, I should be delighted that our crazy world cares so much for me, but no there is no delight here. Why? Well there are no such things as Big and Tall clothes. Like the moon landing and those odd one horned goats that Ringling Brothers tried to pass as unicorns, it's a fraud. What is it . . . really? A front for fat people, plain and simple. 95% of what they sell is designed for enormous sumo wrestling folks who can pull of Jabba the Hut any Halloween they're too lazy to try to dress up like old Marlon Brando. The other 5%, well that's just in case the circus is in town and some skinny stilt walker needs a new pair of pants. I suppose it could be a Big or Tall store.

I'm not alone. I imagine most seventeen year old gals are rather bored by Seventeen Magazine, and I know that the folks I see in Forever 21 aren't, and I also there's nothing innately American about American cheese. Don't even get me started with Waterbeds and Stuff, which should be called Bongs and Stuff, with the stuff being old dusty and moldy tobacco to go in all those water pipes. What happened to the truth? At least The Dollar Tree, still has stuff that costs a dollar (no trees however).

High School was a bunch of crap

Today I couldn't help but think back to a day back in high school. I sat in economics class, hearing some liberal propaganda about how we should be guilt as Americans, as capitalists, for the plight of workers in developing nations who made our shoes, who sew our clothes, who allow us to lead the life of luxury we enjoy. Before long, the bell rang, and I walked to Recreation Class.

Yeah that's right, I took a class in recreation. We "studied" volleyball, badminton, tether ball, and ping pong. Anyway, I suppose I should have felt guilty that as Americans we not only have such luxuries and time to enjoy them, but also that folks in China slave away just to make those toys for us. Whatever, I didn't care, and I enjoyed the fruits of their labor and kicked ass in badminton.

Why do I think about this day back in high school? Well today I saw the Chinese win gold and silver in badminton, watching the winner drop to her knees in tears afterward. Yesterday I saw the Chinese dominate in ping pong, in the only purpose built ping pong stadium. The day before--you guessed it volleyball. Damn! What a load of crap, they're not slaving away. They're just sitting around playing recreation sports. Is Napoleon Dynamite's tether ball prowess all that's left for America to be proud of? Time to get out the croquet set!

Putting the cart before the horse (part 2)

I told you there would be more!

In Doolin we noticed a lot of hokey Irish souvenirs playing up the sheep as an iconic symbol of Ireland. They were cute and all, but gosh, we saw 100x more cows than sheep. Maybe after one too many Guinness the sheep and cows start to blur together.

After the two joyful days in Doolin and the surrounding area, we trekked to Connemara. The region is divided by several mountain ranges (yes Liz they're mountains, not hills :p) and dotted, nee blanketed with sheep. Sheep on either side of the rode and on the rode. Fences seem to be more a suggestion of a boundary than a real indifference, and the sheep's brazen attitude toward oncoming traffic made Canadian Geese look timid. Maybe it's the punk rock inspired spray-painted doos? Regardless, they really are the most striking memory of our journey--well that is if you ignore the bizarre inhospitable manor house we stayed in (imagine the hotel from the Shining with a Frenchmen pretending to be Irish running the show).

The Zetland Country House really was in the country, which we found out when the only available lunch offerings was their own (based on their 60 Euro dinner prices and the readily apparent creepiness, we passed). Our wanderings led us on a 10 kilometer trek to a marginally less isolated place which featured a gift shop/pub/restaurant. Given that was our only option, we begrudgingly took them up on their lackluster dining options and watched an Irish soap featuring chlamydia and statutory rape as the main story line. Sadly the TV show was better than the food.

After this lackluster beginning to our Connemara stay (which we drove forever from Doolin to get to), we saddled up our mighty Getzy and drove on. We barely made it to the gorgeous Kylemore Abbey before closing time, but alas the gardens that interested us more than the abbey were already closed. The abbey itself is now home to an exclusive girls school--you know the type that you see in horror movies. We took pictures (and a passer by was kind enough to take our picture) and moved on (to the gift shop).

We also had to pass on the nearby national park. Irishmen take note: if it's daylight until fucking 10:30pm, don't close your outdoor activities at 6pm--that's lunacy! We enjoyed the the rest of our journey by driving through the countryside, taking in the beautiful vistas, and driving on the stunning Sky Road near Clifden. We finished our day by enjoying a delightful dinner on the patio of a pub.


Even more to come ...

Putting the cart before the horse

Before I start some long rambling blog or series of blogs about our honeymoon, I should write about our beautiful wedding. Well I should, but I won't (not today). Anyway, our honeymoon. I suppose our honeymoon began when we left the reception, but to avoid writing some torrid romance, I'll start with our flight to Ireland. Ireland is surprisingly close to the US, and our flight to New York and our layover there was almost as long as our trip to Ireland. In that layover, Liz and I had the opportunity to see the Ukrainian Special Olympics team. I never met an Olympian, but it likely was best that we didn't ask for autographs or photos. In hindsight, I wish I asked for both. Before long we were on our flight to Shannon, Ireland (no where near Kathy). After a bit of shock at the cost of the more or less required insurance (it will pay off later), we were rewarded when the kind unassuming lady behind the counter blurted out chuckling "drive it like we stole it". If we ever stole a car, it would not be a golden Hyundai Getz.

After whirling through two dozen or so roundabouts (and a few roads not on our Garmin) we arrived weary and jet-lagged in Doolin, a seaside town known for its music scene. A uber power-nap revived us for a trek to the Cliffs of Insanity Moher, which in true Irish fashion was cast in an overcast sky and on-again / off-again drizzle. The cliffs were a sight to behold, and you really need to be there. The fact that they had a suicide hotline # posted was a real clue that nothing good comes from getting too close to the edge. Seeking a better way to get near the salty spray, we went to the docks in Doolin. A quick glance revealed why there were no boats departing, but it sure was a great sight to see, let alone sound to hear. All of this is a whirlwind that was just day one.

I had been not so much persuaded but rather goaded into the Irish Breakfast, which is likely what the wicked witch fed Hansel and Gretal. It's huge, but I suppose you gathered that already, but it's also heart and well ... fatty. Irish folks love bacon (well they call it that, they like our confused friends to the north--and I don't mean Michigan-- call this odd hammy stuff bacon), and they love sausage (bangers in Gaelic) just as much. A few clogged arteries later, and we were off on our journey to the Burren. Ever wonder what the moon would be like with lichen and sheep? Well we were there, and we took pictures. Its really hard to describe, but its really amazing. What's sad is it's really just some giant ad for conservation efforts, as cave men (and cave women--time for you cave gals to stand up and take the blame as well) apparently damned themselves by felling a few too many trees. One thing led to another and everything lighter than boulders blew off into the sunset. Oddly enough conversationalists had to stop yuppies from boosting these rocks for zen gardens.

More to come ...

Life's Great Mystery

Sometimes I'm left with a great question that demands an answer, and now is such a time. Recently we've taken to watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy as an attempt to help us sleep. Watching these movies, in there extended versions can really lead one into a tired stupor and eventually a restful slumber. We also have been listening to the Harry Potter books on our iPods, and I always think about Star Wars. The question, if you were to want one man to have your back in a gang fight, who would it be? Gandolf, Dumbledore, or Yoda?

Yoda is a badass, like no other in that galaxy far far away way back when. He's so full of those MIDI accordions that he could start a techno polka band. When you see past all of that Jedi Jive, it's hard not to see him as the star of Little People Big World Degobah Edition. I could also see him getting tossed around by some drunk wookies in a cantina on Kashyyyk. I suppose that's better than dealing with that whiney farm boy Skywalker.

Dumbledore is pretty tough, the only dude that Vol He Who Must Not Be Named, is afraid of. He can take on loads of aurors without a scratch on his back, and he can have a bit of a smart ass streak to boot. Then again, he is the brother of a guy who does god knows what to goats, plus he puts up with Harry's thick skulled nature far too much.

Now Gandolf, he fought death and won. He can manipulate rulers, use wicked magic, and even whack someone on the head as needed. He is wise beyond anyone's imagination, and he isn't afraid to get down and dirty. Moreover, he also can shave that beard and bust out that groovy purple helmet and bend metal and shit. He could have gotten Luke's X-wing out of the swamp; he could make car's fly; and he could kick some serious ass. Gandolf is who I'd want to have my back.

I'm a dork.

We came, we saw, we took pictures (continued again)

After our in Monterey, we departed on our journey to the southern part of the state, driving near and occasionally on the Pacific coast. Our destination was Valencia, and we were gonna chill with Liz's friend, who had us parading around in a police car in our last encounter. This encounter would lack a police element, but it still was quite entertaining.

The highlight of the stay in SoCal was to be whale watching off of the Channel Islands, but people watching stole the show. While on a late night quest for food, which was rather fruitless in sleepy Valencia, we stopped to fuel up Erika's Saab. Liz and I waited in the car, admiring the Saabyness of Erika's ride while she fueled up. Before long the overhead lights were eclipsed from our view and shadows fell upon us. All we could see out the passenger side was this giant monstrosity of a truck. Someone had put four or five foot tall tires on their shiny new Toyota truck. Growing up in the land of Skynard, I've seen my share of jacked up trucks, but this one may be the only foreign truck I've seen with such, uhhh...redneckenss. The irony is that when the truck opened, out came this midget dude trying to look all hard core and tough. He had this stern and absolutely ridiculous tough guy look on his face as he hopped out. The dude went in to get something (extra small condoms perhaps), and his chick pumped gas. She was no giant either, and she held the gas nozzle over her head to fill the truck with gas. At this point Erika was done fueling, but we all wanted to watch the dude get in, so we pulled out of the station but remained nearby. The dude reached high over his head, opened the door, grasped the door and the seat, and pulled himself up and in like a gymnast. I don't know how his shorty got in, but I'm guessing it wasn't very lady like.

The whale watching was awesome too, but perhaps not as memorable as watching midget dude hop into his truck. We got to see seals, dolphins, and yes whales. Like Gilligan's Island the three hour tour was extended a bit, but fortunately only to four hours. The scenery was awesome too: water, islands, the views of the coast. Oddly enough big lumbering gray whales can be hard to photograph, but we got to see them, which was cool. For me the highlight was the dolphins, as they were so playful and at ease with the boat, often jumping in and out of the wake of the vessel. The numbers were quite impressive too.

We did have some fun people watching on the boat, as there were the usual 'bow dorks' riding up front in the breeze and waves of an impending storm. Each dude had to be as macho as the other and tough it out, despite the fact that the 40 degree weather, high winds, and the vessel going into the wind doubtlessly had their junk freezing to the point of damage. There were also quite a few green faced travelers queasy from the choppy seas. A few people prayed, and the rest just took pills. We were unaffected (no prayers or pills needed), and we went up the coast to Santa Barbara for great seafood and awesome (and highly unusual) sushi.

We came, we saw, we took pictures

In my last post, I wrote about our upcoming trip to California, and what was once the future now is the past. A week of California Dreamin will take much more than a single blog entry--well, I can write and write ... and write, but alas few can read that much, so this likely will have a "to be continued" somewhere before too long.

Fearing the outcome of the Donner Party, we decided to fly to California, and the cheapest airfare led us to fly United. Soon we discovered that United was divided. Like most airlines, there is the fru-fru first class, divided by a curtain to keep the riff raff of coach away from their brie and crumpets, but there was a more sinister division among the ranks of coach. We noticed this when we along with our comrades all filed into the back of coach, with no one sitting towards the front. The imbalance was almost so dramatic that a wheelie wasn't out of the question. Folks crowded well within the realm of one another's personal space sought to stretch out in their own row, but they were thwarted by the forces of evil. You see those empty seats towards the front of coach were in fact Economy Plus, complete with a humane amount of legroom (enough to make an average person feel like a midget). To enjoy such comforts, one had to pay an extra $40. What a shakedown.

Anyway, we managed to make it to Sacramento, and I met Liz's parents. They pretty much were what I expected, and besides being deathly tired, all was well.

To be continued ...

I'm a Horrible Person

Every now and then I head home from work a little earlier than normal (because I went to work early, I'm no slacker ;-). This sometimes leads to an encounter with the ultimate roadblock: the short bus. Yes, I mean THAT short bus. For a variety of reasons, there are so many short bus worthy folks living nearby that you'll see a long 'short' bus. I know that sounds confusing, but bear with me.

Anyway, these buses make frequent stops, and it can take FOREVER. I know I should take the time to be thankful that neither I nor anyone I care about is differently abled, but come on, it takes FOREVER. You see these folks tend to need constant supervision, so someone has to come out from the house to meet the bus. The bus needs to lower its lift, and then the person on the lift needs to slowly descend. This all takes a while, then it repeats, as these homes must be halfway houses for handifolks (or someone didn't realize their genes weren't were the jiz they travel in). Oh, btw, these folks aren't just physically gimpy, they're also 'tards, so it can take a while for them to navigate their chairs on and off the lift.

So I wait 5-10 minutes behind the short bus, sometimes behind short bus A who is stopped waiting for short bus B to unload, which sadly means than once one unloads, I can only proceed a block or two before short bus A begins the process. Fortunately this second trip is a bit shorter, as that bus has biped 'tards. These folks wear helmets, and let me tell you, they need them. I've seen folks just fall flat on their face mask (thus saving their face) for no reason. Note I didn't say they tripped, as any normal person will trip on occasion (I'll do so more often than most)--these people will just fall, like they forgot that they wanted to stay upright. It's sad, but somehow I'm such as ass that I can laugh (hell it's better than crying, though sometimes my laughter brings me to the brink of that).

So in short, I'm a horrible person. I don't appreciate my good fortune; I curse the less fortunate; and I laugh at those whose lives must suck. I'm going to hell; join me if you like.

Sometimes Good Friends can be Rather Shitty

Once upon a time, in a city far far away, I was going with my then girlfriend to see a play at the Hippodrome, which is a quaint old post office that's been converted into an rather intimate theater, where odd, often sexually charged, often rather gay, plays are performed. We decided to bring our naive, homophobic (and here the term applies quite literally), and rather closed minded friend Kevin with us. Now, I'm not trying to paint him as a bad person, rather one who grew up in about as sheltered and closed minded upbringing as possible. Anyway, we were going to see Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Since this was well before the movie hit the silver screen, he likely had no idea what he was in for, but that was kinda the point, as otherwise he wouldn't come with us. Being a very small theater, we were right up at the foot of the stage, and everything was very close to us. Through the course of the play, you could see that poor Kevin was physically uncomfortable, and with no more notice than this, he just got up and left when the titular character gave a lap dance to someone nearby (I almost can picture it happening to him, but I'm pretty sure it was just someone nearby). After the remainder of the show, we left, expecting to see Kevin sitting on the steps in front of the theater, at the nearby coffee shop, or maybe in the lobby. No such luck. He fucking left, and he was our ride! We ended up walking home, which if you've lived in Gainesville, you know that the area near the Hippodrome can become ghetto rather quickly. We made it OK, but it still really sucked. I guess he wasn't ready for something new.

Me and my little firends

It has come to my attention that it appears that I have a fixation with midgets. I've blogged about midgets, gimps, and even Oompa Loompas. Star Wars is my favorite movie franchise (jawas and ewoks), and I watched both Different Strokes and Webster in my formative years. I even met one of the munchkins from the Wizard of Oz and worked in pet shops that sold dwarf hamsters. Heck, I used to eat Dunkin Donuts' Munchkins before I discovered the Timbit. Mini pretzels somehow taste better than the real thing, and I drive a compact car. So what's the deal? Am I some kind of weirdo? Well I must be, and in a quest for self improvement, I've thought quite a bit about the topic, and I've came up with this:

The Day I Wished I Didn't Believe in Santa

Word to the wise, when a museum claims to have the most shocking art in America, it might not be kidding.

A few years back, while I was still cruising the US with my nerd posse (the University of Florida academic team), we made a journey to New York (well Upper Montclair, New Jersey, but no good stories involve Upper Montclair). We had won the Southeast region for like the fifth year in a row or something, further asserting our dominance over the Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, South Carolina region. We basically were assuming victory, so it was good that we won, otherwise Hari Kari would be in order, as it was New York or bust (well New York or our advisor who was counting on a trip to see her friend there would kill us).

All-in-all the journey was relatively uneventful. We only spent one day in Manhattan, going to the Met, the Empire State Building, Grand Central Station, and the New York Public Library. As the day started to close, the haves and have nots split. I'm always looking for good cheap fun, even if I have the cash, so I went with the have nots (Jeckle and Hyde at $100 a pop just didn't do it for me). We had a decent dinner at some hole in the wall in the Greenwich Village and were gonna go to the Whitney Museum, which was free on Thursday nights (I guess someone didn't believe in "Must See TV"). The exhibit of the moment was the most shocking art in America. I can't recall what all was there because the one thing I do remember scarred neighboring synapses beyond repair.

Now for those of you who don't quite know me yet, nothing really is shocking to me. It's not that I don't enjoy seeing new things, but I guess I'm prepared for just about anything. That was until I walked into a room with a large set, surrounded by way too many TVs showing a video that was filmed on that set. I guess it was an odd sort of performance art, well odd if you view Santa getting ass-raped by people in reindeer costumes as odd. If that isn't odd, watching people roll around in shit might push you over the edge, and if watching folks defecate in one-anothers mouth may doesn't the trick, then you are the odd one. The TVs managed to show the whole affair from different angles over and over. It made watching Caligula feel like the Teletubbies. My teammate Alex, he himself hard to shock had to go outside and smoke a cigarette.

Now when I leave cookies and milk out for Santa and carrots out for his reindeer, I leave behind condoms, wet wipes, and some Oust for the smell.

Me and the Midgets

I just got back from Kentucky where I attended the annual Paducah Midget Festival. Now it may seem odd being 6' 7" and going to a midget festival, and that's because it is. I usually pass on these things these days, but as a three time winner of the Clay County Fair midget tossing bonanza, I sometimes want to relive the glory days.

It's all bitter sweet, as I've been retired from the circuit since my partner Oscar died in a tragic midget bowling accident. You form quite a bond as a giant-midget pair, and he really loved to be thrown about--for distance, for height, and he was great at accuracy. I'd toss him up and he'd land like a laser guided bomb. Well, now I needed to find myself a new partner.

I figured I'd start by making a showing at the local Holiday Inn, knowing the bar would be a good place to begin. I walk in there, and it's like a scene out of the Star Wars Cantina, only with midgets doing karaoke--well, I see all that once I look down, as it looked like an empty bar at first. I guess I must have made a grand entrance, as everyone seemed to take notice. The bartender didn't exactly make me welcome by saying we don't serve there kid here, as he pointed at me. Oh well, I guess I didn't need a beer that bad. So I got down on my knees and crawled about, meeting and greeting the little folk.

I soon discovered that no one really wanted to be tossed (apparently dwarf tossing is an extreme sport among little people), and they actually were just there to be around other little folks. Fortunately they saw past my ignorance and enormousness, and we became friends. They shared their beer, and we all toasted Oscar. Stretch even sang Free Falling in his honor. Before long, the proclaimed me an honorary midget--er little person, and when I left, they would take turns crawling on top of the bar to be able to stand on the bar and give me a hug.

I didn't get to toss a midget, but it was a worthwhile trip. I was able to put the passing of Oscar behind me, meet new friends, and I realized that the rednecks back home can be quite cruel. I still don't feel bad, as I knew I helped Oscar live his dream. Oh, and I found out that the annual national midget tossing convention is on the other side of Kentucky, in Buckhorn.