Now and At The Hour Of Our Death

by Bill

“One last call for alcohol, so finish your whiskey or beer….. Closing time, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”— Semisonic, “Closing Time”

The kitchen closed for good last night– for me it was always the “Tex Mex” breakfast with a Bloody Mary to wash it down. Maybe two Bloodys– it kinda depended on what I had lined up for the rest of the day.  Music and booze will be served tonight and then after the lights come up, they’ll go out for good at the Uptown Bar and Cafe.

This sort of out-of-left-field news that broke in August has stunned and angered the denizens of the Rock ‘n Roll landmark that took the name of the area when it opened in the 1930’s.  Real briefly: the owner of the building and bar is in his 80’s and was looking to sell to leave the windfall behind for his family.  The manager of the bar is working hard to re-open in another spot in Uptown, but faces the daunting task of transferring the liquor license over to the new spot. (New bar/restaurants in the area must sell 60 percent food to 40 percent alcohol to satisfy the liquor license– The Uptown Bar has never come close to that and simply can’t, their old liquor license didn’t have those number requirements.)

It’s not that the bar was failing, it wasn’t– it’s simply that the owner wants to sell and the price tag in the area has risen too high for anyone but the corporate/chain-store world to buy into.  The closing of  the bar could be the last gasp of “Uptown” as those of us born before 1990 knew it.  Chain stores have swallowed up the mom and pop stores of my youth in the area at an alarming rate– and the chain stores have come and gone at an equally alarming rate– the area has become schizophrenic over the last decade.

“Getting on the bus now, throw away your change. Don’t forget your transfer… driver’s acting strange. Bus is really crowded, can’t find a seat, going real fast, gonna crash in the street.”— Husker Du, “MTC”

I was around 10 years old when my friend from down the street and I, along with his older sister would hop on the MTC and take it to 34th and Hennepin Avenue to go bowling at the Uptown Bowling Alley.  Only about a mile and a half around Lake Calhoun from where I grew up, but to the 10-year old me, I might as well have been stepping off the bus into the middle of Times Square (the 70’s Times Square, with murderers, robbers, bums and lots and lots of prostitutes).  I think it was late spring the first time we made this trek and I didn’t like it.  First of all, I sucked at it (show me a 10-year old who’s a good bowler and I’ll show you a kid with some problems) and secondly, it just felt too out of context to my life at the time.  I can remember walking out of the dingy, cigarette smelling bowling alley into a bright sunshine and thinking, “What the hell was that? It’s a beautiful, sunshiny day and I’m coming out of a bowling alley???”  I wanted to be back home playing whiffle ball or swimming.  It wouldn’t be the last time I’d walk out of a dingy, Uptown establishment and be shamed by a late-morning sun.

“Take me to the place where you go….. where nobody knows if it’s night or day. Please don’t put your life in the hands…. of a rock ‘n roll band– who’ll throw it all away.”— Oasis, “Don’t Look Back In Anger”

I’m not going to claim to be an Uptown Bar regular, I wasn’t at all.  I saw between 10-15 rock shows there in mid to late 80’s.  Calhoun Square, like it or loathe it, opened in 1983 and certainly changed the look of the neighborhood.  The Calhoun Square that opened in 1983 was a far different place than it is now– back then it was bustling with independent stores and bookended with places to eat and drink.  Now it’s a skeleton of failed retail chain stores, it almost looks like something you’d see along an interstate somewhere in Nebraska.  My high-school buddies and I would frequent Esteban’s on the South end (free chips and salsa when you’re 19 is HUGE) and The Ediner on the North end, one of us worked there, so cheap malts didn’t hurt.  We didn’t go to the Uptown Bar much, but I liked that it was there.  I liked walking out into the late night and hearing and feeling the rumble from across the street.  I liked watching the rock ‘n rollers and punkers and new wavers wander in and out.

I started college at St. Thomas and I remember bringing some out-state football buddies to see The Replacements. Packed and loud is what I remember.  I’d love to put a shine on it, like it was the night my life changed forever, but it wasn’t.  I loved the ‘Mats, but what I remember of the Uptown Bar was just packed and loud.  Really packed, Really loud. I think my 30-year old self would have absolutely reveled in it. The Replacements! At the Uptown Bar! The truth is my 20-year old self wanted free chips and salsa.

“Woke up this morning hung over again…. And I looked at the cuts on my hands and I wondered where I’d been.  Who all did I offend last night?…. I tell myself for the thousandth time, today I start to live right.”– Gear Daddies, “Strength”

It’s now 1994 and I live in Uptown, I have for a couple of years.  My trips to The Uptown Bar are now for breakfast after nights spent doing what people do in their late 20’s.  This is my favorite version of the place.  By far.

“Hey barroom, hey tavern…. I find hope in all the souls you gather.”— The Hold Steady, “Citrus”

Well isn’t that what it’s all about? Again, I was in no way a regular to the Saturday and Sunday breakfast crowd at The Uptown… We’d go out downtown regularly on weekend nights, but most Saturday and Sunday mornings were spent playing hockey or hoops or running off the previous night around the the lakes… but every once in awhile…

“Achy breaky….. feeling rather shaky, think I’ll stay in bed.”— Likehell, “Doom”

Every once in awhile one of those nights would happen where there would NOT be any early morning hockey being played.  And every once in awhile somebody would get on the phone (and it would only take one guy to get the idea going and everybody else would fall in)– “let’s head up to The Uptown for bloodys.”  Um…. okay.

If you’re a good Catholic boy, there are times when you ask Mother Mary to watch over you, you ask her to put in a good word to her son, our Savior.  If you’re a bad Catholic boy, there are times when you reach out to Bloody Mary and beg her to Save you herself from a previous night of poor decision making.  ”It’s just so good when it hits your lips.”

You walk in and almost get knocked over by the smell of grease (fantastic) and/or the smell of people being hung-over (not so fantastic).  Sheepish grins all around the place.  It’s always nice to know you weren’t the only idiot who tried to drink the City the night before.  Half of your first bloody is down when you’re brought to your booth that’s held together with duct tape and bar rags. A gulp of coffee followed by  two gulps of bloody. Eggs, sausage and  hash browns all smothered in Tobasco and last night’s sins are forgiven– thank you, it’s been 24 hours since my last confession.

“Come as you are…. as you were, as I want you to be. As a friend… as an old enemy.”— Nirvana, “Come As You Are”

Late 90’s, it’s winter.  I have Friday’s off and I’m a regular at the 3pm game at Lake of the Isles.  I usually play for 2-3 hours.  It might be 5 degrees out, but I’m sweating my ass off.  I’m pulling off my skates just past 6pm and one of the fellas says, “Hubbs, stop in at the Uptown for a bump.”  Well, why the hell not?  I walk in on a cold Friday night at 6:15 wearing sweats, choppers and a winter hat.  I belly up to the bar with some of the Isles regulars and am handed a shot of Jag and a beer chaser.   I throw it down and it warms the cockles.  The bar is sprinkled with those just off of the work-week and those just off the hockey rink.  Some of both are drinking, and I don’t mean recreationally. I join in the post-skate banter, but I hit the brakes at one beer….

“I don’t want to be there when you’re coming down…. I don’t want to be there when you hit the ground.”— Oasis, “Don’t Go Away”

I’m back out in the cold winter-night air by 7pm and home for a quick nap before whatever shenanigans that Friday night might have in store.  No, I won’t deny that I might have ordered an appetizer of tator tots with my beer on occasion– c’mon, 3 hours of hockey, I think I earned it.

“The hour glass is draining fast, it knows no future, holds no past… And all this too shall come to pass– never, forever, whenever….”— Soul Asylum, “Sometime To Return”

Sunday, October 4, 2009– I walk into The Uptown Bar for the last time at 11:30am. I’m with my girlfriend and we’re meeting a married couple (who’s got a sitter for the two kids) and another friend of ours.  It’s packed and nostalgia is in the air as the end is near.  We sign the petition hoping to get the liquor license to transfer to a new site.  Why the heck not, whoever is in charge of such things?  We order bloodys and breakfast.  It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been inside, but nothing has changed.  As if a tip-of-the-cap to the old days, a beer is spilled all over our table– but as I look around at those I’m with, we’re undeniably different.  We held it off as long as we could, but we’re…. gulp… grown-ups.  The Twins are winning to tie for the division on the last day of the season and people are cheering… and to me it feels like, at least for a moment, some of the cheers are for the old place itself.

“First the lights, then the collar goes up, and the wind begins to blow
Turn your back on a pay-you-back, last call
First the glass, then the leaves that pass, then comes the snow…”— The Replacements, “Here Comes A Regular”

To all those who played at , worked at, ate and drank at, laughed and told stories at The Uptown Bar and Cafe, thank you, it was fun– I’ve got the beer glasses to prove it.

Gravity Storm

By Wingnut

I”m confused by gravity.

Not the Newtonion physics of it; I get “what goes up must come down” and the whole inertia thing.  I’ve seen Dancing with the Stars, I understand bodies in motion.  And not Einstein’s relativity gig.  E=mc2 is heavy stuff but the idea of large bodies bending space makes sense to me.  I’ve felt the whooosh of a  semi go past on the highway.  Gravity.

No, what I mean is; what the hell’s going on with my face?

Yes, I’m aware that I am firmly ensconsed in middle age.  Heck, in six short years I’ll qualify for the senior disount!  Can’t wait, by the way.  My cheapness far outstrips my vanity.

I really don’t have a huge complaint with my face.  I use sunscreen, I avoid UV rays when ever possible, I moisturize.  I even sleep on my back, as beauty experts advise; sleeping on one’s face causes one’s skin to fall in unbecoming folds.

So why is the Crypt Keeper peering back at me from the bathroom mirror every morning? 

Easy answer; because I’m old.

But it doesn’t last.  By the time I’ve had my fill of the magic elixer known as coffee, the CK is gone.  I look ten years older first thing in the morning than I do for the rest of the day, which doesn’t make sense, seeing as I’m actually younger first thing in the morning than I ever will be again.

Hence my confusion.

Maybe it’s not gravity that confuses me.  Maybe it’s the whole time/space continuum.  Maybe I’m actually older first thing in the morning than I ever will be again.  Like Merlin, maybe I’m aging backwards, but only over the course of each day.

Maybe I just need more coffee.

A New and Fabulous Feature to DAK!

Dear esteemed readers, or in the interest of journalistic integrity and truthfulness, reader, as in singular, as in mom…OK, let’s just make it easier. Dear Mom, and possibly Dad if the weather is bad and you’re not golfing,

One of our contributors came to me the other day and pitched an idea for an advice column here at the DAK. I thought about it for a moment and came to the conclusion that this was a brilliant idea. Actually, my exact words, sprayed through a mouthful of crackers,  were “F*** do I care?”

So, here, without further ado, is it.  Here. Below. We’ll run this whenever. -ed

Muzz’s Answer Emporium

By Muzz

If you are like most people, then you have a tough time taking a step back to look objectively at your own problems. Fear not, I’m full of wisdom when it comes to your stupid crap! Some of it anyway.

Family troubles? Bring it!  Money woes? Uh…I’m probably not the right person to ask, honestly.  Relationship issues? I loooove those. “Career” stuff? Mmm…barking up the wrong tree. Wait…uless you’re buggin’ over a co- worker; then for sure let me help. 

In-laws driving you nutter butters? Boyfriend a control freak? Methinks I’m somewhat of a specialist. I’m not saying everyone will agree with all of my advice, but if you’ve got a problem maybe my point of view can at the very least help you see things a little clearer.

Whether my advice is right on the money or way far off, I’m just trying to help. One way to help me help you is to provide all the details you can regarding your situation. All of them, especially the embarrassing and/or salacious ones. But stay anonymous- it’ll make things easier for everybody. Think of me as a priest, or a doctor. Everything you tell me is private, except that it’ll be all over the internet. Again, no boring problems about work or money. If I wanted to listen to those, I’d marry you.

Long Time Ago When We Was Fab….

by Bill

Famous Author Guy: “You know what tomorrow is don’t ya?”

Me: “Oh yeah, undefeated St. John’s against undefeated St. Thomas… 6th ranked Johnnies vs. 15th ranked Tommies!”

Famous Author Guy: (laughing) “alright, you’re all over it!”

We were roughly 1,000 miles away from Collegeville, MN where the game would be played the following day and we were there for a pretty cool event, but that was the first thing he said to me when he saw me– “You know what tomorrow is, don’t ya?”

Of course I knew.  Famous Author Guy and I had played football together at St. Thomas back in the 80’s and though my interest in Tommie football has waned over the years of mediocrity, my interest has been piqued again by this year’s undefeated squad.  A new coach seems to have St. Thomas back to the winning ways of my era.  The matchups with the Johnnies from my time at St. Thomas were always epic and our coach at the time, Mark Dienhart, had come as close to pulling even with St. John’s legend John Gagliardi as anyone ever had.

My sophomore year we had them seemingly dead to rights,  we had the ball and a 15-13 lead with about a minute to play– some high school friends of mine had actually left the stadium (along with a lot of others), thinking the game was all but over.  Whoops.  Our quarterback went out of bounds when he shouldn’t have, stopping the clock before we had to punt the ball away. Two fast completions later and the Johnnies kicked a winning field goal as time expired. That was my baptism into the famed “Tommie/Johnnie” rivalry.

The following season was my first trip to St. John’s and I was bowled over by the beautiful campus and football stadium.  I was hurt for the season so I was able to take in the rivalry in a way I never could have playing. We entered the game ranked 3rd in the country— but of course the Johnnies were ranked 2nd (always just a little bit better than us).  After two three and outs, our QB fired a 65 yard touchdown bomb and standing on the sidelines I was shocked to hear what I thought was a gun shot.  Then another.  I turned to look into the St. Thomas crowd to see about 20 more bottles of champagne uncorked and sprayed over a delirious crowd.  Six touchdowns later and we had given Gagliardi his worst loss ever at St. John’s, 56-21.

And that’s about it for my pleasant memories from this rivalry.

We’d lost 11 straight going into this year’s game, but at 5-0 I had a good feeling they might pull off the upset.  Seeing a former teammate hold a crowd of about 1,200 in the palm of his hand the night before had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

So I’m at work today–watching college football all day, but of course not the one game I really cared about.  Around 3pm MST time I figure the game in Collegeville has to be over, so I log on to a site that live-streams the scoring for Division III games.  It tells me that the score is 14-7 in favor of the Johnnies, but that St. Thomas has a first and goal at the St. John’s 2 yard line.  We have to punch it in from there and tie it up, right?

I flex an inordinate amount of patience and wait 5 minutes to hit refresh.  I look away for good luck and gird myself before looking back at the screen.

St. Thomas ball on the St. John’s 2 yard line, first and goal.  What the hell! This has to be the longest time-out ever!

My patience is gone, so I hit “refresh” 10 times over the next 10 minutes.  It won’t refresh. Ever.  According to this site, the two teams will be locked at the Johnnie two yard-line for all of eternity.

I calmly bash my computer repeatedly about the head and neck, mumbling, “what the frig happened? what the FRIG HAPPENED? WHAT THE FRIGGEN FRUG HAPPENED?!?!?!

Turns out the teams hadn’t frozen in time, it was just that web-site.  The Tommies had indeed punched it in, but alas, had gone on to lose in overtime, 20-17.  Twelve straight losses to the Johnnies.

But it was fun thinking about it.  It was fun reading that 12,903 people had watched a Division III football game in an absolutely gorgeous stadium that holds 7,482 people.  That’s over 5,000 people strewn about the grassy hills that surround the field.  That’s awesome.

It was really fun to see a former teammate the night before the big game where he was on stage as Famous Author Guy.  His tour has him in another city today and I’m sure at some point he logged on and was just as disappointed in the outcome as I was– you never get so rich and famous that you stop caring about things like that– and if you do, there’s nothing that fame and fortune can do for you, you’re a lost cause.

We’ll get ‘em next year.

Id Gone Wild

By katie

Just got back from Where the Dull, Whiny Bastards Are.

I know what you’re thinking; “But Katie, you have pig-flu! What on Earth are you doing, taking time out of your busy sleep schedule to bring your kids to the movies? You’ve just been short-listed for a Nobel Prize!”

Oh, stop, you sillies…I think we can all agree I’m way over-qualified for that. But my pig-flu seems to have dulled it’s roar somewhat, and anyway, I was excited to see it. I’d heard it was controversial, and there’s nothing I like more than exposing my children to controversy. I mean we all know the best “kids” stories explore sophisticated themes, and so long as they’re wrapped in something entertaining, I’m all for it.

I’ll try and keep this brief. There’s this kid, Max, and he’s a really bratty pain in the ass. He throws fits and scowls and plays games most 11-12 year olds outgrew 2 years ago. This was red flag number one for me…if they’d cast a 7 or 8 year old, Max might have come across as endearing and lost, but the Max in this movie is just plain old enough to know better than to pull some of the stunts he does. Max has a sister, who is a bitch, and a mom who is totally impotent in the parenting department.

One night, mom has a date over and Max dresses up in a wolf costume, stands on the kitchen counter and yells “Feed me woman!” at her. She, instead of doing what any normal mom would do (again, if he’d been 7 or 8, that would be to look at him and say “Get off the counter”. If a 13-year old actually did this in real life, I think most moms in this day and age would draw the logical conclusion that Max was probably just stoned) immediately starts screeching at him and telling him he’s “OUT OF CONTROL!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!” Uh…that’s a pretty short fuse you got there, mom…I wonder why daddy’s off doinking his secretary?

Anyway, Max takes off out of the house, jumps in a boat and sails off to the land of All The Demons Who Reside In His Id. There’s Carroll, a rage-a-holic whose gal left him. There’s the gal, who is mopey because no one understands why she left. There’s goat boy, a suicidal depressive who can’t get anyone to listen to him. There’s a sharp-tongued lady-demon who seems like she might be voiced by Joy Behar, but I wasn’t sure. There’s her mate, who seems depressed because he’s her mate, and there’s a big ox-looking thing with human feet who never talks.

Max and the demons spend the next 5000 hours or so working through their issues of alienation, abandonment and disappointment. I know, it’s sounds super fun, but trust me, it wasn’t. Like I said, the best children’s stories take on deep issues, but they do it in an entertaining way. This movie, on the other hand, was like having front-row seats into some unhappy family’s therapy session. If only Spike Jonz had remembered the wise words of Mary Poppins: “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.” It was so stupefyingly dull, I was begging for someone to come out and shoot Bambi’s mom.

My son leaned over and asked if we could leave after half an hour, my daughter fell asleep with her socks on her hands. We stayed until the bitter end. I don’t know why.

I’m back home, back in my jammies and the boy is burning through the Harry Potter books for the third time in a row. Now that’s a story.

I Was Afraid of Worms Roxanne! Worms!

by Bill

          “Hey soul sister, ain’t that Mister Mister on the radio,  stereo the way you move ain’t fair you know”– Pat Monahan, Train, from “Hey, Soul Sister”

Awesomely horrible or just plain awesome?  I say just plain awesome.  Not everybody can be Bob Dylan and most of those in music who try end up writing bizarre crap that sounds like stoned tenth-graders contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

And does it really matter? Sure the greatest songs tell great stories and provide some sort of insight to the human condition– but there’s also a lot of fantastic songs where the lyrics make about as much sense as putting on meth.  Sometimes the lyrics don’t matter at all– the Black Eyed Peas had two songs that held the number one spot on the charts for almost the entire summer– “Boom Boom Pow” and “I Got A Feeling”.

Boom Boom Pow:

I like that boom boom pow
Them chickens jackin’ my style
They try copy my swagger
I’m on that next shit now

I’m sorry, what? You say there’s a chicken jackin’ your style?  Okay, obviously Will.I.Am is indicating that he’s super fly and that “they” (other sound-out-the-name rappers?) are copying his flyness, but that the joke is on them because he’s already moved on to something way more fly.  Got it? No? Doesn’t matter, just yell “BOOM BOOM POW” at the right times and shake your rump!

How about “I Gotta Feeling”?  Here’s the first two minutes of lyrics from the number one song of the summer of 2009:

I gotta feeling…
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

I gotta feeling…
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

I gotta feeling… (Woohoo)
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

I gotta feeling… (Woohoo)
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good good night

If you’re having trouble deciphering that one, I think he’s indicating that he feels like it’s going to be a good night.  (To me the second “good” in the last line of each stanza is what gives it away.)

Will.I.Am: “I don’t think I’m getting my point across as hard as I want to, whaddya guys think?”

Fergie: “How bout if we put a second “good” in that last line– you know, so it doesn’t just say that it’s going to be a good night…. but a good, GOOD night…. you know?… you see what I’m sayin?”

Will.I.Am: “BINGO! Grammy!”

And of course it doesn’t matter– that song is audio crack.  Helen Keller would start dancing to that song.  She might bump into a few things, but by God, she’d dance.

Those of you old enough to have watched “American Bandstand” can remember that they always had two songs square off against eachother and the kids on site would vote on a winner.  Dick Clark would ask one of the dancing couples what they liked about the winning song and the answer was ALWAYS some version of, “It had a great beat and it was easy to dance to.”

You never heard, “the plight of the characters in that song really moved me” or, “I loved the story arc from the first verse to the end”….. It had a great beat and it was easy to dance to!

Now nobody’s going to listen to “Boom Boom Pow” when they’re trying to sooth a broken heart and nobody’s going to listen to “Lost In Your Eyes” * when they are getting ready for a night on the town (unless, of course, they’re totally cool).

That’s what’s so great about music– it means nothing, it means everything, it means whatever you want it to mean to you.  Some songs are great poetry, some songs are jibberish, some songs make you want to dance and some songs make you want to suck your thumb and take the fetal position. 

* Yeah that’s right, I dropped some Debbie Gibson on you… what, you’re too cool for that? Save it.

“Hey, Soul Sister” is a new song by Train– and it’s a great song– totally bouncy and catchy– but some of the lyrics are beyond brutal.  I happen to love the shout-out to Mister Mister, but trust me, it gets worse. Try this on:

You gave my life direction
A game show love connection, we can’t deny
I’m so obsessed
My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest

Dude, really???? Really???? Never, ever, ever, ever mention your untrimmed chest again and I’ll be good, thank you.

And then:

So gangster, I’m so thug
You’re the only one I’m dreaming of

Just stop it.  Have you seen Pat Monahan? He makes Rob Thomas look like the middle linebacker for the Chicago Bears. He ain’t thug.  And to think this was a guy who music hipsters thought might be one of them when he came out with “Meet Virginia” years back because he talked of her smoking a pack a day, oh wait that’s me, but anyway…

And having said all that, I’m really liking “Hey, Soul Sister” right now.  I’m a sucker for the bounce.

This doesn’t mean I don’t love great lyrics, I do…. but that’s another post for another day.

Well, okay, here’s a couple: from the Gin Blossoms “Lost Horizons”… the guy’s been dating the girl for a bit too long and there’s just no more spark and he’s out with her and he sings, “I’ll drink enough of anything… to make this girl look new again”– ouch!

Or The Replacements song, “Love You Till Friday”…. I mean the title says it all, doesn’t it?… the guy is in a relationship who’s promise can’t hold a candle to the promise offered by a Friday night of hitting the town with his boys.

Anyway, happy weekend to everyone– go get some BOOM BOOM POW!

Is This Stockholm Syndrome?

by Muzz

The other day I was remembering a song that one of my older brothers wrote about me. I smiled to myself, thinking about how fun it was being the youngest in the family. “How sweet,” thought I.  ”I bet not a lot of kids have brothers who would put so much time or effort into making  up a song for their young sibling,  kids who surely look up to their brothers as much as I did mine!”

“Oh  Muzzy, you’re so fat.

Because you ate all the food that you ate”

Takes me back… I honestly can’t remember if it was Billy or Joe.  It does seem more likely- from the level of meanness– that it was Joe,  but I’m really leaning more towards Billy.  Doesn’t matter.  Time flies and memories get fuzzy.

Anyway,  I was thinking of that lovely ditty written for my 10 year old self because in a few months sweet, angelic little Annie will be a big sister. I wonder, will she ever write whimsical songs or play Chinese water torture, or turn off the lights and lock the door of whatever room the new sister is in? Or will she ever stuff a giant wad of steak fat into the water glass of her little brother, and laugh hysterically  while she watches him unknowingly  take a big refreshing gulp?  Maybe she’ll try to teach the newbie how to fist fight when he turns  four, or wake the child from a nap by sticking her smelly butt right up close to it’s  face and letting rip.  Maybe she’ll pull the old  ”C’mere! It’ll  tickle your eyeball if  I squeeze this orange peel into it!”   Will she ever lie on the living room floor- patiently waiting for some younger, weaker kid to walk by-  just so that she can grab on tightly around their ankle, rendering their whole body as useless as if their  foot had been sucked into the house’s very foundation?

I seriously hope so.   When the young child inevitably runs to me for help, I’ll smile, put down my gin and offer the same words of comfort my mother gave to me:  “Oh sweetie, nobody like a tattle”.

On Birthday Parties…

By Katie

…which are  things children think are fun but I do not. 

Yes, I did have fun at my own birthday party last fall, and there is mucho embarrassing photographic evidence out there to prove it. But for the most part, I’ve hit that stage of life where celebrating my imminent death is not something I really enjoy. And those around me seem to enjoy it a little too much, if you ask me.

“Happy Birthday! Soon the world will be free of you,” the message seems to be. And when I grouse about it, some Pollyanna-type invariably says “Well, it beats the alternative.”

Presumably, the Pollyanna means having no birthday to celebrate due to the lack of a pulse.  And I have no argument for that, though I doubt being dead would keep my loved ones from enjoying a chocolate-cherry cake in honor of my day.

“Well, it beats the alternative. But even if it didn’t, we’re making a cake.”

My oldest turned 14 yesterday. I’m currently holed-up in my bedroom writing this, hiding from 6 screaming teenaged girls and a filthy kitchen. Now, I’ve always told my kids they get one giant, invite-your-friends birthday party  whilst on my watch. They can pick the year, but they only get one. Annual intimate family party? Of course. I’m not the devil. But I can’t be thinking about clowns and inflatable jumping devices and gift bags and whatnot every few months, every damn year, people.  

But my daughter kind of stealthily slipped this one past security by informing me a few days ago that she’d invited a group of gals over to hang for the day, go swimming and cook burgers and watch a movie and stuff, oh, and since it just happened to be her birthday they might be bringing a few gifts or whatever but it wasn’t a party per se. 

It certainly sounds like a party. A pretty good one, actually. The truth is I don’t care, they are old enough to basically entertain and clean up after themselves, so no skin off my nose.

I only had one “friend” party myself as a kid, and I thought it was weird. I’ve written before about how we didn’t get presents, but we were fussed over and treated like royalty by the family all day, so it was all good. Better than good, it was great. For some reason, though, when I was in third grade, I asked my mom if I could have an actual, send-out-invitations-type party and she agreed. 

I invited over the eight girls in my class, and we ate lasagna and played “clothespins in a bottle” and they all gave me presents, and the whole time, all I could think was how much I wanted them to leave so I could hang out with my family. They were all nice girls, they were my friends, for Pete’s sake. It was just such a strange shift from the norm, it made me really uncomfortable.  And I remember after it was finally over, I was left staring at my pile of presents and feeling bad that I got presents on my birthday but none of my siblings did. Especially my sister, whose birthday is the day after mine. It was an empty victory. Maybe that’s why my mom let me do it; maybe she wanted me to learn to not ask for extra things when what I had was enough. Maybe that’s a little too profound and I just had such runaway OCD that any deviation from my routine sent me into a funk. 

OCD, you ask? I dunno, let’s see…I had to swish exactly nine times every time I brushed my teeth, I had to put my hands on the exact middle of what looked like a tombstone in the neighbor’s yard on the way to school every day and I had to chant my own version of the Glory Be six times before bed every night, you tell me.  

It seems to be quieting down down there. Happy Birthday, sweetie.

Dead Tired

By Johnnyrottin

Last night an otherwise forgettable comedian on “Conan” opened his set with a decent insight about being 38 years old. “I’m at halftime,” the comic said. “I’m in the locker room. And the worst part about it for me, for all of us, is that we know we’re going to lose. We know how this game ends.”

 I’m paraphrasing–as opposed to parasailing–but that would be the gist. 

Most of us think of our demise less often than, say, Woody Allen thinks of his. But we all have thought about it at least a little, even those annoying brothers in Oasis who wail on about the fact that they’re going to live forever. And I bet when you consider how you’re going to go, you think that you’ll be given at least a few moments to contemplate your expiration date. Enough time to have your, “Oh my God, this is IT” moment and perhaps even update your Facebook page.

Maybe you think you’ll be given a Farrah Fawcett-style extended period, enough time to tape a special with NBC. Or that you’ll go down in a plane and have a few seconds to wonder why you didn’t go the John Madden route, literally. Even a heart attack allows you a few frantic moments to wonder what tie you’ll be buried in (allow me to state here and now that I don’t want to be buried, but if it comes to that I want to be buried shoeless, in cargo shorts and donning a T-shirt that says, “Belinda Carlisle was right”.

Anyway…yesterday I came across a death that was just so bizarre in how sudden it happened. Check out this YouTube clip. It isn’t gruesome or anything, which makes the death that much stranger. Follow the bouncing tire. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTDiYS1NVW4

Of all the luck. Poor Henry Surtees, only 18 years old, could not have timed it any worse. And, he went dark faster than the final episode of The Sopranos (It was the tire that killed him, not the crash into the fence). 

After seeing that, I asked my brother Porge, an insurance exec., how his company would handle that insurance claim. Here’s his reply:

“The 80-pound tire hitting you in the head while you’re doing 130 m.p.h. is covered. However, we would argue that you didn’t exercise your duty to avoid it, thereby reducing our exposure if we also happen to insure the blue car (the one that lost the tire). Now, the second impact with the guardrail is also covered, yet we’ll take a second deductible, and again, as you were already dead by that point, we’re not talking big money. The family typically doesn’t want the car because it reminds them of the accident, but it didn’t look too bad, so we’ll pay them for the repair and then sell it out-right and make more money on the salvage. Lastly, we’ll surcharge the future premiums.”

So there’s that. That’s the kind of cold-blooded assessment that they never tell you about in the Geico ads, you know? 

Moonwalking

By Johnnyrottin

“If you believe, they put a man on the moon…”

Michael Stipe, R.E.M.

Thoughts and observations on this, the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s becoming the first human to walk on the moon.*

1) How do you explain to people who were born after the bicentennial–after you explain what in fact was the bicentennial–that you grew up in an age in which the home’s back-up TV was a black-and-white and that you had to get up off your ass to change the channel and yet we sent men to the moon with the frequency of Davis Cup qualifiers?

2) The asterisk above. Perhaps because of those seemingly technological anachronisms, many people believe that we never in fact landed on the moon. One of those is my good friend Sorp, who wrote the following essay on his own site, happinessmanifesto.com (http://happinessmanifesto.com/lunar_conspiracy_theorists). Before you dismiss Sorp’s argument–or are tempted to call him a, um, lunatic– I should tell you that he is a Stanford-educated attorney who, despite being an English major, has a patent for an electric car (vehicularity.com).

3) Forty years later, another Armstrong is in the news each day attempting to go where no man has ever before gone–an 8th Tour de France victory. Interesting how despite their surname, Neil and Lance will go down in history for their legs’ feats.

4) Displaying an awesome sense of timing, today the Cleveland Cavaliers announced their intention to sign free agent Jamario Moon.

5) Given all the problems it caused him, I would like to have seen Larry Talbot (google alert) be the first man on the moon.

6) A quick lunar lesson: The dark side of the moon is that half of the sphere that is not at the moment directly facing the sun. The far side of the moon is that half of the sphere that is permanently faced away from the earth (because the moon orbits earth in such a way that it only keeps one side facing the earth throughout the orbit). Also, no band, acccording to records of records kept by allmusic.com, has ever released an album entitled “Far Side of the Moon”.

7) Had Neil Armstrong hiked down his space suit to his ankles and bent over with his back toward us, would he have been “earthing” us?

Bill Maher had a pretty decent end-of-show essay on the fact that it’s kind of sad, in the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, that “our peak was the moonwalk that occurred 40 years ago” (as opposed to the one that transpired 27 years ago on the Motown 25th Anniversary Special). If you’re so inclined, YouTube it (“Bill Maher” and “Michael Jackson”) and wade in at about the 2:10 mark).