I hope you weren't expecting daily posts. While you wait for more goodies, enjoy this clip featuring the future of my dear home state:
Don't forget the Asian countries and everywhere like that.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Crisis Level Orange
I’m worried that I’m in trouble.
Is it possible to have a midlife crisis at 31? And if it is possible, does that mean I’ll only live to 62?
The reason why I ask is because the other day I bought a pair of tennis shoes with orange shoelaces. No. The tennis shoes came fully loaded with the orange shoelaces. I did not use orange shoelaces as currency. I bought the shoes and the laces together with money via a debit card. Although if the dollar keeps dropping, you may want to hang on to those old shoelaces, just in case.
So, am I too old for orange shoelaces?
It’s not exactly a convertible or a hairpiece, just a pair of Pelé-endorsed Pumas with some of the brightest darned orange shoelaces you’ve ever seen. So bright, in fact, the other day a truly middle-aged lady at work asked me if they glow in the dark. I asked her if she wanted to come over and find out. I’m not sure what I meant by that, but I’m sure I could have been fired merely for suggesting it.
I’ve always loved odd, old-school sneakers, but my wife says I dress like a teen-ager. I think what she means is that I dress like a lazy, disheveled teen-ager. I almost never tuck in my shirt (it’s a good way to hide your gut), I wear tennis shoes to work most days (now with orange shoelaces), and I rarely wear a belt (who needs them, when you’ve got sweatpants!). And I do all of this while eating candy, listening to hip-hop on my iPod and updating my MySpace page.
Thankfully, rather than serving as an excuse to eat Skittles in sweatpants, I think this midlife crisis has become more of an inspirational wakeup call.
Now that we’re both in our thirties, my best friend Cory and I have this mantra we recite in about the second quarter of every fiscal year that says “if we don’t do it in our thirties, we’ll never do it.” Of course, by “do it” we mean make our wildest dreams come true. Of course, by “make our wildest dreams come true” we mean publish that novel, sign that record deal, direct that film, adopt that Angelina Jolie.
My plan is to tackle three of my life’s goals in one amazingly marketable project: With no musical training or natural ability to carry a tune, I’m going to record an album; then I’m going to write a novel about a 31-year-old man with no musical training or natural ability to carry a tune who records an album. I sell the book and the CD together in a nice boxed set, maybe with a forward by Bob Dylan or a ringing endorsement from John Updike. I’ll even let Oprah put her book club stamp on the front.
Once that project hits it big, you know Hollywood’s going to want a piece of the action. I’ll agree to a deal, but only if they let me direct. It will be a huge summer blockbuster, even bigger than Transformers. Finally, when it’s time to release the DVD, we’ll stuff all three works of art in the skull of a faux-bronze bust of me and sell it as a special collector’s edition holiday gift pack.
And don’t forget, a pair of my fashion line’s Crisis Level Orange Shoelaces would make an excellent stocking stuffer.
Monday, August 6, 2007
They used to call him 'Skipper'
Thanks to my best friend, Cory, for hipping me to this magic, a beautiful little song about sex with a complete stranger.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Was the Revolution Televised Last Night?
I don’t watch television.
That’s my new catchphrase. I say it with an air of snootiness to anyone who references something they saw on TV. It’s especially annoying to my coworkers because they can see the joy in my eyes when I send conversations about last night’s episode of NBC’s breakout summer hit The Singing Bee to a screeching halt.
When I employ my new catchphrase, it’s actually aimed at all of those people who think they’re too good for TV. I’ve always understood why some people avoid it, but there’s nothing more pompous than someone who acts like they’re morally and intellectually superior because they don’t watch television. Get off your high horse and watch some reruns of 90210. It will do you some good. You’re really not that smart if you are totally oblivious to the zeitgeist of the early ’90s. (See, TV Watchers, when you don’t watch TV you learn words like zeitgeist, which comes from German and means “the spirit of the age.”)
My decision to stop watching television was prompted by my wife’s decision to stop paying for television. She’ll be a full-time student this fall, and with a baby in daycare, she said I could either cut out Charter or eat six meals a week.
My breakup call to Charter was difficult. Julian the customer service guy asked me why I was disconnecting from society. I told him that since The Sopranos ended, I was looking to free myself from the chains of his idiot box. He didn’t buy it.
“I’m converting to Amish?” He still didn’t accept.
“My wife said so.”
“OK, Mr. Voody Ventener. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Click.
It was at that moment that I remembered a younger, more cavalier and newly digital Greg tossing his rabbit ears into a dumpster. Why would I, a man of the modern world, ever need analog television again?
John Lennon once sang, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” He was a great man who didn’t spend a lot of time watching TV (Yoko always had the remote). If he had, he would have realized that life is really what happens to you when you’re not watching television.
Watching my 9-month-old maneuver around the living room is a lot more life-affirming and entertaining than a “ripped from the headlines” edition of Law and Order. It’s cute to watch her chew on the impotent remote controls, accidentally turning on the television to channel 91, where a black screen is broadcasted 24/7. Her little fingers escalate the volume up to “Max” and the silence is deafening.
My wife says the great thing about not having television is that we finally have to talk to each other. I told her about a Web site that connects you to satellite television from stations around the world. We spent the rest of the night “talking” about whether we should watch Japanese game shows or Al Jazeera’s line-up of Must-See sitcoms.
By the way, did you know that humans can eat an entire octopus in less than five minutes if sufficiently prodded by a man dressed as a tuna carrying a giant bag of Yen?
See the types of things you can learn when you don’t watch television?
That’s my new catchphrase. I say it with an air of snootiness to anyone who references something they saw on TV. It’s especially annoying to my coworkers because they can see the joy in my eyes when I send conversations about last night’s episode of NBC’s breakout summer hit The Singing Bee to a screeching halt.
When I employ my new catchphrase, it’s actually aimed at all of those people who think they’re too good for TV. I’ve always understood why some people avoid it, but there’s nothing more pompous than someone who acts like they’re morally and intellectually superior because they don’t watch television. Get off your high horse and watch some reruns of 90210. It will do you some good. You’re really not that smart if you are totally oblivious to the zeitgeist of the early ’90s. (See, TV Watchers, when you don’t watch TV you learn words like zeitgeist, which comes from German and means “the spirit of the age.”)
My decision to stop watching television was prompted by my wife’s decision to stop paying for television. She’ll be a full-time student this fall, and with a baby in daycare, she said I could either cut out Charter or eat six meals a week.
My breakup call to Charter was difficult. Julian the customer service guy asked me why I was disconnecting from society. I told him that since The Sopranos ended, I was looking to free myself from the chains of his idiot box. He didn’t buy it.
“I’m converting to Amish?” He still didn’t accept.
“My wife said so.”
“OK, Mr. Voody Ventener. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” Click.
It was at that moment that I remembered a younger, more cavalier and newly digital Greg tossing his rabbit ears into a dumpster. Why would I, a man of the modern world, ever need analog television again?
John Lennon once sang, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.” He was a great man who didn’t spend a lot of time watching TV (Yoko always had the remote). If he had, he would have realized that life is really what happens to you when you’re not watching television.
Watching my 9-month-old maneuver around the living room is a lot more life-affirming and entertaining than a “ripped from the headlines” edition of Law and Order. It’s cute to watch her chew on the impotent remote controls, accidentally turning on the television to channel 91, where a black screen is broadcasted 24/7. Her little fingers escalate the volume up to “Max” and the silence is deafening.
My wife says the great thing about not having television is that we finally have to talk to each other. I told her about a Web site that connects you to satellite television from stations around the world. We spent the rest of the night “talking” about whether we should watch Japanese game shows or Al Jazeera’s line-up of Must-See sitcoms.
By the way, did you know that humans can eat an entire octopus in less than five minutes if sufficiently prodded by a man dressed as a tuna carrying a giant bag of Yen?
See the types of things you can learn when you don’t watch television?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Hurricane Van De Voorde Takes New Orleans
NEW ORLEANS – It’s been almost two years since this beautifully dirty city was dismantled by the worst natural disaster in our country’s history, so I figured it was high time my seven-month-old daughter and I drive down here and investigate the progress of the recovery effort.
Thanks to my wife Carolina and her connections with the National Office for Victims of Crimes, we are able to stay in a plush hotel in the French Quarter that we would have never been able to afford, pre- or post-Katrina. The only catch is Carolina must attend a daily conference, leaving baby Sofia and I to tour the city on our own.
First off, the ride in from the Gulf Coast was eye-opening. From Interstate 10 we saw old apartment buildings with windows shattered, new apartment homes ready for new tenants who hadn’t yet arrived, an abandoned Toys ’R’ Us next to a thriving Home Depot.
While the worst of the damage caused by Hurricane Katrina and the accompanying levee breaches was outside of the world-famous French Quarter, Sofia and I felt the best place to start our on-the-ground investigation would be on Bourbon Street, where we would be able to smell things far worse than Sofia’s diaper and I could show her first-hand the types of businesses in which she would never be allowed to work.
It was a relief to see that gigantic beers can still be bought cheaply alongside foul-mouthed T-shirts, and if one wanted, he or she could quench an afternoon – or even morning – thirst with a selection of swirling daiquiris that would make Baskin-Robbins proud. Much to Mayor Ray Nagin’s chagrin, we’ve found New Orleans to be more of a Praline Pecan City than the Chocolate City the embattled mayor once dreamed of. And in a nice nod to the city’s rich tradition of hospitality and its future reliance on tourism as one of the key rebuilding blocks, the cover charge was waived for Sofia at publisher Larry Flynt’s club.
The first time we personally felt the impact of Katrina’s wrath on the city came on the third night of our stay, when, after suffering through some very delicious and very expensive meals centered around that sweet fruit of the bayou, the crawfish, we sought sustenance in the two-piece and a biscuit combo from one of my old haunts, Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. Imagine the shock and sadness we felt when we arrived after an eight-block walk to a boarded up Popeye’s. Standing there, hungry, with a despondent wife and hungry child in tow, I had to wonder if I had folded up Sofia’s stroller and used it to break through the boarded windows in an attempt to feed my family, would CNN and Fox News label me a looter or a desperate father trying to feed his family?
We eventually were able to eat more crawfish, but there was also more sadness to be seen here. Walking one morning after our morning beignets and café au lait and Café Du Monde, Sofia and I encountered a down-on-his-luck drunk sleeping with his head propped up by the exterior of some 18th- century historic building and legs stretched across the sidewalk directly in the path of Sofia’s stroller. On his lap was a small, but shiny and new transistor radio cranked to “10” as Faith Hill sang, “Caught up in the touch/The slow and steady rush/Baby isn’t that the way that love’s supposed to be?” I wasn’t sure if I should stop and check if I could feel him breathe, so Sofia, the stroller and I crossed on the other side of the street.
The real sad stories, though, came from the people who live in New Orleans. Today, as Sofia and I lounged around the rooftop pool with our liquid peas and peaches, chilling out to the sounds of the Zombies, Otis Redding, and James Brown on the radio we lifted from the drunk guy, we overheard the bartender talking to old friends about the troubles of post-Katrina New Orleans. House prices had dropped, only to make way for the exorbitantly high insurance costs. City services were crippled and unreliable, business was way down, and few of the displaced residents found the desire to return. She blamed the federal, state and local government, along with just plain bad luck.
Somehow, the radio DJ’s promise to rebuild New Orleans “one great oldie at a time,” seemed lacking. It’s going to take a lot more visits from the Van De Voordes and a lot more crawfish dinners to get the city back on its feet. We’re willing to do our part.
Thanks to my wife Carolina and her connections with the National Office for Victims of Crimes, we are able to stay in a plush hotel in the French Quarter that we would have never been able to afford, pre- or post-Katrina. The only catch is Carolina must attend a daily conference, leaving baby Sofia and I to tour the city on our own.
First off, the ride in from the Gulf Coast was eye-opening. From Interstate 10 we saw old apartment buildings with windows shattered, new apartment homes ready for new tenants who hadn’t yet arrived, an abandoned Toys ’R’ Us next to a thriving Home Depot.
While the worst of the damage caused by Hurricane Katrina and the accompanying levee breaches was outside of the world-famous French Quarter, Sofia and I felt the best place to start our on-the-ground investigation would be on Bourbon Street, where we would be able to smell things far worse than Sofia’s diaper and I could show her first-hand the types of businesses in which she would never be allowed to work.
It was a relief to see that gigantic beers can still be bought cheaply alongside foul-mouthed T-shirts, and if one wanted, he or she could quench an afternoon – or even morning – thirst with a selection of swirling daiquiris that would make Baskin-Robbins proud. Much to Mayor Ray Nagin’s chagrin, we’ve found New Orleans to be more of a Praline Pecan City than the Chocolate City the embattled mayor once dreamed of. And in a nice nod to the city’s rich tradition of hospitality and its future reliance on tourism as one of the key rebuilding blocks, the cover charge was waived for Sofia at publisher Larry Flynt’s club.
The first time we personally felt the impact of Katrina’s wrath on the city came on the third night of our stay, when, after suffering through some very delicious and very expensive meals centered around that sweet fruit of the bayou, the crawfish, we sought sustenance in the two-piece and a biscuit combo from one of my old haunts, Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. Imagine the shock and sadness we felt when we arrived after an eight-block walk to a boarded up Popeye’s. Standing there, hungry, with a despondent wife and hungry child in tow, I had to wonder if I had folded up Sofia’s stroller and used it to break through the boarded windows in an attempt to feed my family, would CNN and Fox News label me a looter or a desperate father trying to feed his family?
We eventually were able to eat more crawfish, but there was also more sadness to be seen here. Walking one morning after our morning beignets and café au lait and Café Du Monde, Sofia and I encountered a down-on-his-luck drunk sleeping with his head propped up by the exterior of some 18th- century historic building and legs stretched across the sidewalk directly in the path of Sofia’s stroller. On his lap was a small, but shiny and new transistor radio cranked to “10” as Faith Hill sang, “Caught up in the touch/The slow and steady rush/Baby isn’t that the way that love’s supposed to be?” I wasn’t sure if I should stop and check if I could feel him breathe, so Sofia, the stroller and I crossed on the other side of the street.
The real sad stories, though, came from the people who live in New Orleans. Today, as Sofia and I lounged around the rooftop pool with our liquid peas and peaches, chilling out to the sounds of the Zombies, Otis Redding, and James Brown on the radio we lifted from the drunk guy, we overheard the bartender talking to old friends about the troubles of post-Katrina New Orleans. House prices had dropped, only to make way for the exorbitantly high insurance costs. City services were crippled and unreliable, business was way down, and few of the displaced residents found the desire to return. She blamed the federal, state and local government, along with just plain bad luck.
Somehow, the radio DJ’s promise to rebuild New Orleans “one great oldie at a time,” seemed lacking. It’s going to take a lot more visits from the Van De Voordes and a lot more crawfish dinners to get the city back on its feet. We’re willing to do our part.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Barack in My World
Today, on the 21st of February, 2007, 622 days before the 2008 election, I would like to formally announce my intentions to vote for Senator Barack Obama for President of the United States.
Now, before the distinguished Senator from Illinois and his wranglers get a hold of this week’s Chronicle and plaster this endorsement all over their campaign materials, they may want to take a look at my voting track record.
The first Presidential election I was eligible to vote in was way back in the Golden Age of 1996. I was a junior in college and fairly apathetic about the process. On Election Day, I think I pounded a couple of Icehouses and stumbled to the elementary school a couple of blocks from campus to cast my ballot for incumbent Bill Clinton. It was a great day for democracy.
Four years, a sweet little sex scandal, and a nasty impeachment later, I was living with my 80-year-old aunty Betty in Chicago while trying to make a way for myself in the Windy City. There was just no way the privileged son of a failed president was going to beat the all-powerful and extremely charismatic Al Gore, so I couldn’t be bothered to take the steps to vote absentee back home in Indiana.
I did manage to drive downtown to catch Mr. Gore at a massive rally at Daley Plaza a day or two before the election, but that was because Stevie Wonder and John Cusack were going to be there. After the rally, I had three large cups of coffee and tried to drive back to Aunt Betty’s house in rush hour traffic. It was a bad scene.
By the next election cycle, we were attacked by terrorists and fighting in two wars abroad. It was time to take politics seriously again. I was reporting for this newspaper when I heard retired General Wesley Clark (not to be confused with Laurens County Transportation Committee Chairman Niles Clark, who I would also vote for if given the chance) speak at Presbyterian College. He had not yet entered his name in the ring, but I decided he would be my guy if he ever did. He did, I voted for him in the first-in-the-South Democratic Primary, he lost to John Edwards and John Edwards eventually lost to John Kerry for the Democratic nomination.
A few months later, I voted for Kerry and Edwards in the big dance. I was inspired by neither, but was so passionate about the failures of Bush and Cheney that I felt called to my duty in the voting booth that day. It turned out to be just a prank call, though, because the greater of two evils won again.
After a decade of dispassionate voting, something exciting is happening. I’m enthusiastic about a candidate.
A couple of years ago I read Senator Obama’s book “Dreams of My Father.” It’s an insightful memoir about race, culture and identity. He wrote it long before he was considered a viable candidate for the Illinois state legislature, let alone the White House. He talks about drug use and even today he admits he inhaled. “That was the point,” he has said.
I recently started reading Senator Obama’s latest book, “The Audacity of Hope,” which is much more a carefully orchestrated political manifesto than “Dreams of My Father,” but no less insightful, entertaining or important. Lots of politicians have written or had ghost writers write books where they describe how they feel about the issues of the day. There’s just something different about Obama’s words. I can’t explain it. I actually believe him.
Now, being a good writer doesn’t qualify you to be President, but having a leader who knows how to express himself would be a pleasant change and extremely valuable if we’re going to solve new global issues with diplomacy.
Cynics will say he doesn’t have enough Washington experience for the job. I think that’s an attribute.
Some people will say, in fact have already said, “He’s not black enough” and “he’s too black.” How about that?
Curmudgeons will find any number of reasons to try to rain on Barack-o-Mania. Maybe they’re Republicans, Hillary Clintonites, John Edwardsians or Tom Vilsackiacks. Or maybe they’re just too old and jaded to feel inspired by a politician.
I’m not sure if Obama actually has a chance to win, I’m just happy I haven’t grown too old and cynical to feel inspired and hopeful. It’s a nice change.
Now, before the distinguished Senator from Illinois and his wranglers get a hold of this week’s Chronicle and plaster this endorsement all over their campaign materials, they may want to take a look at my voting track record.
The first Presidential election I was eligible to vote in was way back in the Golden Age of 1996. I was a junior in college and fairly apathetic about the process. On Election Day, I think I pounded a couple of Icehouses and stumbled to the elementary school a couple of blocks from campus to cast my ballot for incumbent Bill Clinton. It was a great day for democracy.
Four years, a sweet little sex scandal, and a nasty impeachment later, I was living with my 80-year-old aunty Betty in Chicago while trying to make a way for myself in the Windy City. There was just no way the privileged son of a failed president was going to beat the all-powerful and extremely charismatic Al Gore, so I couldn’t be bothered to take the steps to vote absentee back home in Indiana.
I did manage to drive downtown to catch Mr. Gore at a massive rally at Daley Plaza a day or two before the election, but that was because Stevie Wonder and John Cusack were going to be there. After the rally, I had three large cups of coffee and tried to drive back to Aunt Betty’s house in rush hour traffic. It was a bad scene.
By the next election cycle, we were attacked by terrorists and fighting in two wars abroad. It was time to take politics seriously again. I was reporting for this newspaper when I heard retired General Wesley Clark (not to be confused with Laurens County Transportation Committee Chairman Niles Clark, who I would also vote for if given the chance) speak at Presbyterian College. He had not yet entered his name in the ring, but I decided he would be my guy if he ever did. He did, I voted for him in the first-in-the-South Democratic Primary, he lost to John Edwards and John Edwards eventually lost to John Kerry for the Democratic nomination.
A few months later, I voted for Kerry and Edwards in the big dance. I was inspired by neither, but was so passionate about the failures of Bush and Cheney that I felt called to my duty in the voting booth that day. It turned out to be just a prank call, though, because the greater of two evils won again.
After a decade of dispassionate voting, something exciting is happening. I’m enthusiastic about a candidate.
A couple of years ago I read Senator Obama’s book “Dreams of My Father.” It’s an insightful memoir about race, culture and identity. He wrote it long before he was considered a viable candidate for the Illinois state legislature, let alone the White House. He talks about drug use and even today he admits he inhaled. “That was the point,” he has said.
I recently started reading Senator Obama’s latest book, “The Audacity of Hope,” which is much more a carefully orchestrated political manifesto than “Dreams of My Father,” but no less insightful, entertaining or important. Lots of politicians have written or had ghost writers write books where they describe how they feel about the issues of the day. There’s just something different about Obama’s words. I can’t explain it. I actually believe him.
Now, being a good writer doesn’t qualify you to be President, but having a leader who knows how to express himself would be a pleasant change and extremely valuable if we’re going to solve new global issues with diplomacy.
Cynics will say he doesn’t have enough Washington experience for the job. I think that’s an attribute.
Some people will say, in fact have already said, “He’s not black enough” and “he’s too black.” How about that?
Curmudgeons will find any number of reasons to try to rain on Barack-o-Mania. Maybe they’re Republicans, Hillary Clintonites, John Edwardsians or Tom Vilsackiacks. Or maybe they’re just too old and jaded to feel inspired by a politician.
I’m not sure if Obama actually has a chance to win, I’m just happy I haven’t grown too old and cynical to feel inspired and hopeful. It’s a nice change.
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