April 18th, 2012

word

gaucho [gou-choh; Sp. gou-chaw] n. a native cowboy of the South American pampas, usually of mixed Spanish and Indian ancestry

birthday

Samuel P. Huntington (1927), James Woods (1947), Rick Moranis (1953), Eric Roberts (1956), Eric McCormack (1963), Conan O’Brien (1963), Maria Bello (1967)

standpoint

I’ve been thinking a lot about this old blog of mine and trying to figure out why I’ve been unmotivated to update as much as I have in the past.

And then I revisited my first blog, the one I used to do on Blogger.com. and it struck me that I actually liked doing that one more in a few ways.

One, there wasn’t a stringent format. It consisted of random posts. When something entered my mind, I wrote about it instead of filing it away for an eventual post on this site.

Two, it was more multimedia friendly. Pictures and videos were much easier to include in posts. And, let’s face it, that’s much more fun anyway.

Third, the analytics were extensive. For those of you who don’t work on the web or blog, that doesn’t mean much of anything but, trust me, it’s important.

So now I’m in the middle of plotting my next move. I’m gonna think on it this week. I’ll let you know what I decide.

Thanks for reading.

quotation

Don’t worry about growing older or pleasing others. Please yourself. ↔ David Brown

tune

I’ve been listening to the latest album from The Shins, Port Of Morrow. So far, I’m digging on “No Way Down.”

gallimaufry

→ I couldn’t be happier about hockey right now. The Flyers are absolutely embarrassing the Pittsburgh Penguins. The only way I could be happier is if I actually got to watch one of these games in person. And that’ll be happening tonight. CAN YOU DIG IT?!?!?!?

→ Speaking of the phrase, “CAN YOU DIG IT?!?!?!?,” those of you who also follow me on Facebook might be wondering why I use it at the end of my status updates regarding the Flyers. Well, it’s an homage to my best friend, the late Harvey Forsyth. So now you know.

→ I saw Moneyball over the weekend and I liked it a lot. You should check it out.

05.27.11 – a friday

word

dilapidate [dih-lap-i-deyt] v. 1. to cause or allow (a building, vehicle, etc.) to fall into a state of disrepair, as by misuse or neglect (often used passively): the house had been dilapidated by neglect 2. Archaic. to squander; waste. 3. to fall into ruin or decay

birthday

Cornelius Vanderbilt (1794), Wild Bill Hickok (1837), Hubert H. Humphrey (1911), Vincent Price (1911), Sam Snead (1912), Henry Kissinger (1923), Louis Gossett, Jr. (1936), Richard Schiff (1955), Siouxsie Sioux (1957), Neil Finn (1958), Adam Carolla (1964), Todd Bridges (1965), Jack McBrayer (1973), André 3000 (1975)

standpoint

Fanboys. Generally harmless, right? Sure, if a fanboy (I’m using the term “fanboy” throughout here with the complete understanding that not all fanboys are, in fact, boys.) is into a sports team or a particular genre of science fiction, I’ve got no beef. Adulate away, fanboy. Go nuts.

But there’s one realm of entertainment in which there needs to be an agreed upon set of rules and regulations in regard to a fanboy code of conduct. That realm is music concerts, specifically those of the indie-rock persuasion.

At this point, I’m going to address all you fanboys out there directly.

Seriously, what are you trying to prove? We’re all here to enjoy the show and you’re completely ruining it for the 20 or so of us unfortunate enough to experience the show with you.

Now, you might be thinking, “Hey, he’s not talking about me,” and it’s altogether possible I’m not so here’s a checklist you can go through to see if, indeed, I am talking about you.

√ You’re wearing the t-shirt, no matter how obscure, of the headliner i.e. wearing a Bon Iver t-shirt to a Bon Iver show. As Jeremy Piven warned, “Don’t be that guy.”

√ You’re wearing a t-shirt that has nothing to do with the headliner i. e. wearing a Bon Jovi t-shirt to a Bon Iver show. We get it. When we try to walk, we’re slipping from all the irony you’re dropping on the floor.

√ During rare moments of silence, you shout out the name of some random song the band almost never plays. Rivers Cuomo won’t play Pinkerton anymore. Get over it. (At least, he didn’t used to. He might have changed his mind since the last time I paid any attention to Weezer.)

√ You sing your goddamn guts out to every friggin’ song. Worse, you harmonize to it. You’re not on stage and no one’s paying money to hear you belt out your favorite lyrics. I hope the clown I sat next to at The Shins‘ show a few years back reads this and finally feels guilty that I still have no idea what James Mercer sounds like live.

√ You exuberantly high-five or fist-bump at any point during the show. I concede this one’s a bit of a gray area. Depends on the show, I guess. But, unless it has something to do with a hockey game, I’m still not on board with public high-fiving, I realize my opinion might be in the minority but it shouldn’t be.

√ You’ve written an ultimate dream set-list, refer to it constantly during the course of the show and whip yourself into a talkative state of frenzy as you come closer to the realization it’s just not gonna happen.

√ You record any part of the show for more than five seconds. If you attempt to record the whole thing, you should go home and reconsider what you’ve become.

Bottom line, fanboys (and fangirls), we’re all just trying to watch the show we ponied up good dough to see. Your enthusiasm is equal parts understandable and unwelcome. We’re all psyched to be at the concert but the difference between you and the rest of us is that we understand we’re out in public while you either seem to be ignoring or unaware of that fact. Whichever reason it happens to be, it does nothing to diminish how much you suck.

quotation

Today is my father’s 70th birthday. So this is a quote, by me, about Daniel Lejeune, my papa.

Of everyone I’ve met and everyone I’ve known, I’ve yet to encounter someone with a father like mine. 

tune

One of the best band names ever is Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. But it’s not a band at all, just the stage name of Sam Duckworth. Haven’t heard much lately from Mr. Duckworth but a few years ago Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. was a huge buzz band. You’ll have to take my word for that as I’ve nothing to back that statement up. But here’s “Once More With Feeling.” Enjoy.

gallimaufry

They should call this the “Here’s How Bad It’s Gotten Tour.” Please, someone stop this bus. I’m not saying blow it up or anything. But maybe throw some tacks down in front of the tires, sugar in the gas tank or something similar.

→ Man, how pissed off is the entire Cleveland area right now? Sometimes, nightmares can come true.

→ While other media outlets are concerned with trivial matters like world affairs and whatnot, TMZ continues to keep America focused on the important shit. Bono and Maria Shriver had lunch? Two douchebags from Jersey Shore involved in fisticuffs? Lindsay Lohan entertains a visit during the first day of house arrest? You betcha. Why would you frequent any other website?

03.24.11 – a thursday

word

unctuous [uhngk-choo-uhs] adj. 1. characterized by excessive piousness or moral fervor, especially in an affected manner; excessively smooth, suave or smug 2. of the nature of or characteristic of an unguent or ointment; oily; greasy 3. having an oily or soapy feel, as certain minerals

birthday

Harry Houdini (1874), Joseph Barbera (1911), Gorgeous George (1915), Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919), Norman Fell (1924), Steve McQueen (1930), Nick Lowe (1949), Tommy Hilfiger (1951), Louie Anderson (1953), Robert Carradine (1954), Kelly LeBrock (1960), Star Jones (1962), Lara Flynn Boyle (1970), Megyn Price (1971), Alyson Hannigan (1974)

standpoint

Today, I’m continuing what I like to call My Favorite Music Of All-Time. That’s right. Even if it doesn’t particularly apply for this post, I have a feeling you’ll look past it and appreciate what’s going on here.

Yesterday, I touched on the fact that I have two iPods. The first one is a gigantic clunky thing, it’s screen illegible since the night the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series a few years back. See, I was in the parking lot of the ballpark the night history was being made.  Philadelphia erupted as Harry Kalas called Brad Lidge’s final stike and mayhem ensued. And, Buckley, my little orange tabby cat was not going to sit still while millions celebrated.

Cats are smarter than most dogs. Also, cats are smarter than most humans. Buckley is the exception. You could teach a kangaroo to do algebra before you could teach Buckley not to not put his nose in the flame from a candle. But one thing the dimwit has is heart, and lots of it. There isn’t a soul alive who, within five minutes of exposure to Buckley, doesn’t want to kidnap the little bastard and take him home.

And I tell you that to explain the following. The Phillies had won it all. Philadelphia was teeming at the edges. It was electric. And Buckley was not immune to the pulse of the celebration. I have no other way to explain why in the world the track shelving in my room would suddenly appear new to him, or why he would jump to the fourth tier of that shelving to attack a plate with a burnt-out candle on it, a plate that he would cause to careen off that fourth shelf and land squarely on my iPod, charging in its dock, resting with a false sense of security, unaware of the bullshit Buckley was up to.

That night, I got home earlier than most in the city, I suppose. I was high-fived out and, despite my many shortcomings, tipping over cars and burglarizing electronic stores just ain’t my thing. So I walked through the front door, trudged up the stairs and stumbled into my bedroom with a smile on my face.

The smile lasted roughly three seconds. There was a broken plate on the ground. Next to it, was an iPod dock in two pieces. And, inches away, almost at the foot of the bed was my iPod, holder of close t0 8,000 songs, face down, silver side up.

Out loud I said, “What the fuck is this?” And then I saw Buckley sitting on the bed. Even though he wasn’t capable of understanding much, the look in his eyes, the tightness in his back, the little fucker knew he did something wrong.

I picked up the iPod. The screen was (and still is) fractured in nine different places. I said a bunch of words I would never say in front of my Mom-Mom. I was furious. My hands were literally shaking. And I turned to Buckley and, even though I never had nor would I ever cause him physical harm, he braced himself for what was coming. The only thing I could think to do was to put him in the closet. So that’s where he went. And before you condemn me for whatever reason, Buckley’s bed was in the closet as were his toys and most of Kate’s makeup brushes. For the next fifteen minutes, I looked at my iPod, pushed all of the buttons and slowly realized it was beyond repair.

But it wasn’t. I hooked it up to the speakers and kept pushing the up button. Music came out. I connected it to my laptop and, lo and behold, there was my entire music library. The damn thing still worked.

I reached into the closet and scooped up Buckley. I held him in front of my face and apologized. He’d all ready moved on.

To this day, I can’t see what’s playing on my iPod and the battery lasts about nine whole minutes but if it’s plugged in it still plays all of those almost 8.000 songs. And yesterday, in keeping with the whole music theme of this week’s posts, I decided to try to listen to as many of them as possible with the intention of finding Six Good Songs In A Row.

Here is how it all shook out.

First

“Birdhouse In Your Soul” – They Might Be Giants

Second

“Sweet Pain” – Blues Traveler

Third

“Everywhere” – Billy Bragg

Fourth

“Nobody Weird Like Me” – Red Hot Chili Peppers

Fifth

“That Says It All” – Duncan Sheik

Sixth

“Turn On Me” – The Shins

quotation

The next person to honk at me THE SECOND the fucking light turns green, is going to win a very special prize. Good luck, everyone! FYI, I was NOT driving while tweeting. I don’t do that. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to hold my crack pipe and fifth of jack. ↔ Kerri Kenney

tune

This was the seventh song. “Satisfied” by Squeeze. Call me all the names you want. I definitely like this song. Sorry.

gallimaufry

No gallimaufry today. Don’t pry. Just accept it.