Courage Under Fire: The Hillary Clinton Story
by switters
03/25/2008, 3:40 PM #
It was '93. Or '98. I don't remember. I've blocked it all out.
But it's as if it all happened yesterday.
We were coming in low over Bosnia. Or Serbia. I forget. Corkscrew approach. This is an extremely rare, dangerous and harrowing approach that all pilots do routinely in battle zones on an hourly basis. All of a sudden the skies burst into flames. We were taking everything from flak to cruise missiles to RPGs -- that's "Radio Powered Guns" for those of you who haven't been "in the show" -- to catapulted boulders by a wooden structure with pulleys and levers.
This was a C-130, mind you. Not exactly first class. Lazy-Boys, pepper jack cheese and wine spritzers? It was like being in prison, I'd imagine.
And then, it happened. The left wing blew off (Right wing?). Probably an IED. "Internal Emitting Diode" for those of you who haven't "gone in-country". I don't even remember it because it all happened so fast. But before you could say, "I'm against this war I voted for ," Gunny was on the 50 millimeter and his copilot was curled up in the fetal position babbling about mouthwash. There was only one thing I could do.
I strapped in, grabbed the stick, put on my wireless headphone radio thingie and barrel-rolled the heavy-assed bitch into a tailspin. Problem solved.
"Mayday, mayday. Air Force 4 is going down. I repeat: Air Force 4 is going down. The pilot is AWAL, Number 2 is catatonic, we're listing badly, and I've got no forward thrust. Also, I spilled some chianti on my sans-a-belt slacks. Please advise."
"Uhh... I just got off the radio with Captain Jennifer Harris. She says everything's a-okay. Still, do you have some seltzer?"
"Thanks, Dutch. Via con Deus. We're coming in hot."
"It's Captain Martin, ma'am. Er... Hmm..."
I 720'd that sky beast on the 3rd-world runway, popped the hatch, and before you could say, "That's not what I meant," snipers in the bush lit the place up like dollar slots at The Mirage.
Showing posts with label switters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label switters. Show all posts
25 March 2008
26 September 2007
Lenny
Lenny
by switters
09/26/2007, 7:11 AM #
I must've been 11 or 12, lying in a beanbag chair in the middle of the living room, having attended church with the peeps, then eating our massive Sunday dinner (non-negotiable, more on this later) on a lazy Sabbath afternoon staring at the TV with most of the family nearly passed out, when dad came across West Side Story on a local affiliate station.
"Hey! Let's watch this," dad said. "You'll love it." We all groaned. (Though a couple years earlier my mom had pulled the same stunt with a little something called It's A Wonderful Life, and goddammit if the old bag wasn't exactly right. So I was hesitant to poo-poo the idea altogether.)
If I'm not mistaken (I don't feel like googling -- besides, I'm operating under the assumption that non-googling, like doing crossword puzzles, prevents Alzeimer's disease), Leonard Bernstein, pronounced "Bern-stein", was 26 years old when he got the call that Bruno Walter (I think) was under the weather (Drunk!) and the Harvard whiz kid had to sub with the New York Philharmonic that night. I like to believe Mahler was on the program, which makes it even more dramatic. I hope he was.
The rest isn't just history. It's legendary.
I had the privilege of meeting him only once. It was at a party after a concert of Ned Rorem's liturgical music at an Anglican Church service. My teacher at the time was a familiar acquaintance of his, so I got introduced. Being not even 20 and in awe of his talent and career, my memory of the conversation is fairly hazy. But what I do remember is blathering something about how phenomenal his music was. Obviously he'd heard this 14.7 kajillion times and was visibly annoyed at the platitude. So he smirked, "Really? I'm quite moved. What's your favorite piece?" After thinking hurriedly about an answer that would impress him -- the atonal piano music, that one piece with the flute -- and then seeing him realize all the wind had left my sails, I meekly whispered, "West Side Story."
"The musical or The Symphonic Dances?"
He had me backed into a corner, literally. So I mustered a bit of courage and muttered, "It's not a musical, Maestro. It's an opera. But to be honest, I think I prefer listening to Symphonic Dances because it fascinates me how you re-orchestrated the music without all the singing and it's still abundantly satisfying and complete. Of course, I'm one of the few people who actually prefers the original, very small orchestration of Copeland's Appalachian Spring, where it's just flute, clarinet, bassoon, piano, and a few string players." (If I'm not mistaken [not googling], it's 2 fiddles, a viola, a cello and a double bass. And if it is just 2 fiddles, it's an orchestration conundrum because one of the first things you learn in Orchestration 101 is that you use either 1 fiddle or 3 fiddles -- never just 2 because of intonation problems. I'd go on but I'd need a chart and some masking tape to make it clearer.)
He leaned in slightly, smiling guiltily, and said, "I hate the full orchestration of Appalachian Spring. It's so heavy and overbearing. The original is so immediate, so intimate." I knew excactly what he meant.
I think I must've caught him off guard. Thank god. This was around the time that 2 things had happened: 1.) The Met had staged that heaping pile of dog crap also known as Porgy And Bess; and 2.) PBS had produced a documentary of the making of a new West Side Story recording with the big name opera stars of the day: Kiri Te Kanawa, Josep Carreras, Titiana Troyanas (Barf!) . I felt I had nothing to lose and, therefore, fearless (not really -- I was terrified: This was Lenny), continued on.
"Why on earth would the record producers, even for just an album, cast a kiwi from New Zealand as the latino Maria, and a Spanish tenor with an unmistakably heavy accent as the American Tony?" My teacher inhaled quickly, thinking to himself I can only imagine, "Midwesterners."
Lenny said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Yeah-mmm-eh-oy-fuck."
If you've ever seen the PBS documentary, it's some of the most uncomfortable music-making on film. At one point, tenor Carreras storms off the soundstage during the recording of "Maria", presumably because it's the first time in his life he realizes that, like most singers, he can't fucking count. Lenny wasn't happy.
I have vivid memories of 3 things that happened in that documentary that I've seen only once over 20 years ago (which I watched with my dad! Closure?): The Carreras counting moment, after which Lenny hung his head in his hands; Lenny going off on Stephen Sondheim (I think) about an orchestration change that hadn't been made (Steve was the librettist, so... Hmm); and one of the producers, after they'd just recorded one of the numbers, thinking he'd heard a flashbulb go off, losing it, saying something along the lines of, "Did someone just take a picture while we were rolling? Did I hear a flashbulb!? Anybody who takes a picture while we're rolling is gonna take a bullet." Ouch.
Emboldened, I asked, "Do you think, now that The Met has staged [that heaping pile of dog crap also known as (like I'd actually say that to him)] Porgy And Bess, that they'll finally produce West Side Story?
I swear his eyes twinkled. But then, "No. Not in my lifetime."
Leonard Bernstein doesn't just talk to anyone. But folks reared in the midwest generally have this tactless sense of sincerity that endears us to others, but only when we're not in the midwest, and especially when we're in "the big city". I'd never seen the score to West Side Story, and the icky rose wine I'd had (this was New York in the 80s -- nobody cared; I suspect Dennis Russell Davies was on line 3 in the adjacent bedroom, and he wasn't talking on the phone) gave me a bit of courage.
"How do you get the pit orchestra to swing? Is the syncopation notated rhythmically, or do you just tell them to swing?"
He laughed.
"He [me] comes from a jazz background," my teacher apologized.
Getting classical musicians to swing is like trying to make Baptists dance and drink at the same time while using profanity during sex in any position other than "missionary" more than once a month. I.e., it's a pretty tall order. But with that question -- honest, sincere, pointed, meaningful (i.e., a good question) -- I'd endeared myself to this genius.
"It's notated. Classical musicians can't swing. You have to spell it out for them literally."
True: Classical musicians, minus The Chronos Quartet, are pretty square. But unlike singers, they can fucking count. Those motherfuckers can count like you wouldn't believe. Especially percussionists. They're practically psychic. (Duh.)
West Side Story and, by default, Symphonic Dances From West Side Story, is complicated music, even by 20th standards. It melds jazz, movie music, musical theater music, opera, contemporary concert music, latino dance music and popular music all together seamlessly, effortlessly. Not surprising from someone for whom composing, conducting, piano playing and all-around serious music advocating and educating came so effortlessly and easily.
And the choreography of Jerome Robbins, dancer/producer/communist sympathizer/stool pigeon/fag/self-loathing pseudo-Jew/foot breaker/loving husband, ain't too shabby either. (I don't think anyone associated with the production ever forgave him. They knew why he sang; I mean he practically had to finger his friends, considering the circumstances he was in. But I don't think they could forgive him.)
Bernstein wasn't a national treasure. He was a national gold mine, one that continues to enrich thoughtful listeners with an appreciation for those people like Lenny who not only get to do what they love and get paid for it; folks like Lenny are so demoralizing to the rest of us mediocre doofuses because he was so much better than anyone else at it by margins that approach the unrealistic. A true God amongst us mere mortals, like Roger Federer. (Although I think GerFed was a bit taller. I think.)
Most people who know me are still shocked at how much I love West Side Story because they know I'm the worst sort of musical snob. Since it's Lenny's most commercial endeavor and arguably his most successful project, they immediately discount its artistic merit based solely on those criteria. What they forget in all that messy thinking is that it was a project near and dear to his heart and, therefore, one which he threw himself whole-heartedly into and one in which much of his soul resides even today. So how could I not love it realizing all that?
"Very nice to have met you, young man. Good luck to you."
I think we can all be pretty sure who made out better in the exchange that day. I still think West Side Story is the best thing he ever wrote, on so many levels (musical, sociological, psychological) and for so many reasons (complexity rendered inevitable, beauty as both means and end, music enlisting and emboldening choreography as opposed to choreography having to apologize for music). And you know what? I think Lenny would agree with me on this one.
Happy 50th birthday, West Side Story. You don't look (or sound) and day over 35.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go over to Arts & Life and watch Slate drop yet another ball. Again.
by switters
09/26/2007, 7:11 AM #
I must've been 11 or 12, lying in a beanbag chair in the middle of the living room, having attended church with the peeps, then eating our massive Sunday dinner (non-negotiable, more on this later) on a lazy Sabbath afternoon staring at the TV with most of the family nearly passed out, when dad came across West Side Story on a local affiliate station.
"Hey! Let's watch this," dad said. "You'll love it." We all groaned. (Though a couple years earlier my mom had pulled the same stunt with a little something called It's A Wonderful Life, and goddammit if the old bag wasn't exactly right. So I was hesitant to poo-poo the idea altogether.)
If I'm not mistaken (I don't feel like googling -- besides, I'm operating under the assumption that non-googling, like doing crossword puzzles, prevents Alzeimer's disease), Leonard Bernstein, pronounced "Bern-stein", was 26 years old when he got the call that Bruno Walter (I think) was under the weather (Drunk!) and the Harvard whiz kid had to sub with the New York Philharmonic that night. I like to believe Mahler was on the program, which makes it even more dramatic. I hope he was.
The rest isn't just history. It's legendary.
I had the privilege of meeting him only once. It was at a party after a concert of Ned Rorem's liturgical music at an Anglican Church service. My teacher at the time was a familiar acquaintance of his, so I got introduced. Being not even 20 and in awe of his talent and career, my memory of the conversation is fairly hazy. But what I do remember is blathering something about how phenomenal his music was. Obviously he'd heard this 14.7 kajillion times and was visibly annoyed at the platitude. So he smirked, "Really? I'm quite moved. What's your favorite piece?" After thinking hurriedly about an answer that would impress him -- the atonal piano music, that one piece with the flute -- and then seeing him realize all the wind had left my sails, I meekly whispered, "West Side Story."
"The musical or The Symphonic Dances?"
He had me backed into a corner, literally. So I mustered a bit of courage and muttered, "It's not a musical, Maestro. It's an opera. But to be honest, I think I prefer listening to Symphonic Dances because it fascinates me how you re-orchestrated the music without all the singing and it's still abundantly satisfying and complete. Of course, I'm one of the few people who actually prefers the original, very small orchestration of Copeland's Appalachian Spring, where it's just flute, clarinet, bassoon, piano, and a few string players." (If I'm not mistaken [not googling], it's 2 fiddles, a viola, a cello and a double bass. And if it is just 2 fiddles, it's an orchestration conundrum because one of the first things you learn in Orchestration 101 is that you use either 1 fiddle or 3 fiddles -- never just 2 because of intonation problems. I'd go on but I'd need a chart and some masking tape to make it clearer.)
He leaned in slightly, smiling guiltily, and said, "I hate the full orchestration of Appalachian Spring. It's so heavy and overbearing. The original is so immediate, so intimate." I knew excactly what he meant.
I think I must've caught him off guard. Thank god. This was around the time that 2 things had happened: 1.) The Met had staged that heaping pile of dog crap also known as Porgy And Bess; and 2.) PBS had produced a documentary of the making of a new West Side Story recording with the big name opera stars of the day: Kiri Te Kanawa, Josep Carreras, Titiana Troyanas (Barf!) . I felt I had nothing to lose and, therefore, fearless (not really -- I was terrified: This was Lenny), continued on.
"Why on earth would the record producers, even for just an album, cast a kiwi from New Zealand as the latino Maria, and a Spanish tenor with an unmistakably heavy accent as the American Tony?" My teacher inhaled quickly, thinking to himself I can only imagine, "Midwesterners."
Lenny said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Yeah-mmm-eh-oy-fuck."
If you've ever seen the PBS documentary, it's some of the most uncomfortable music-making on film. At one point, tenor Carreras storms off the soundstage during the recording of "Maria", presumably because it's the first time in his life he realizes that, like most singers, he can't fucking count. Lenny wasn't happy.
I have vivid memories of 3 things that happened in that documentary that I've seen only once over 20 years ago (which I watched with my dad! Closure?): The Carreras counting moment, after which Lenny hung his head in his hands; Lenny going off on Stephen Sondheim (I think) about an orchestration change that hadn't been made (Steve was the librettist, so... Hmm); and one of the producers, after they'd just recorded one of the numbers, thinking he'd heard a flashbulb go off, losing it, saying something along the lines of, "Did someone just take a picture while we were rolling? Did I hear a flashbulb!? Anybody who takes a picture while we're rolling is gonna take a bullet." Ouch.
Emboldened, I asked, "Do you think, now that The Met has staged [that heaping pile of dog crap also known as (like I'd actually say that to him)] Porgy And Bess, that they'll finally produce West Side Story?
I swear his eyes twinkled. But then, "No. Not in my lifetime."
Leonard Bernstein doesn't just talk to anyone. But folks reared in the midwest generally have this tactless sense of sincerity that endears us to others, but only when we're not in the midwest, and especially when we're in "the big city". I'd never seen the score to West Side Story, and the icky rose wine I'd had (this was New York in the 80s -- nobody cared; I suspect Dennis Russell Davies was on line 3 in the adjacent bedroom, and he wasn't talking on the phone) gave me a bit of courage.
"How do you get the pit orchestra to swing? Is the syncopation notated rhythmically, or do you just tell them to swing?"
He laughed.
"He [me] comes from a jazz background," my teacher apologized.
Getting classical musicians to swing is like trying to make Baptists dance and drink at the same time while using profanity during sex in any position other than "missionary" more than once a month. I.e., it's a pretty tall order. But with that question -- honest, sincere, pointed, meaningful (i.e., a good question) -- I'd endeared myself to this genius.
"It's notated. Classical musicians can't swing. You have to spell it out for them literally."
True: Classical musicians, minus The Chronos Quartet, are pretty square. But unlike singers, they can fucking count. Those motherfuckers can count like you wouldn't believe. Especially percussionists. They're practically psychic. (Duh.)
West Side Story and, by default, Symphonic Dances From West Side Story, is complicated music, even by 20th standards. It melds jazz, movie music, musical theater music, opera, contemporary concert music, latino dance music and popular music all together seamlessly, effortlessly. Not surprising from someone for whom composing, conducting, piano playing and all-around serious music advocating and educating came so effortlessly and easily.
And the choreography of Jerome Robbins, dancer/producer/communist sympathizer/stool pigeon/fag/self-loathing pseudo-Jew/foot breaker/loving husband, ain't too shabby either. (I don't think anyone associated with the production ever forgave him. They knew why he sang; I mean he practically had to finger his friends, considering the circumstances he was in. But I don't think they could forgive him.)
Bernstein wasn't a national treasure. He was a national gold mine, one that continues to enrich thoughtful listeners with an appreciation for those people like Lenny who not only get to do what they love and get paid for it; folks like Lenny are so demoralizing to the rest of us mediocre doofuses because he was so much better than anyone else at it by margins that approach the unrealistic. A true God amongst us mere mortals, like Roger Federer. (Although I think GerFed was a bit taller. I think.)
Most people who know me are still shocked at how much I love West Side Story because they know I'm the worst sort of musical snob. Since it's Lenny's most commercial endeavor and arguably his most successful project, they immediately discount its artistic merit based solely on those criteria. What they forget in all that messy thinking is that it was a project near and dear to his heart and, therefore, one which he threw himself whole-heartedly into and one in which much of his soul resides even today. So how could I not love it realizing all that?
"Very nice to have met you, young man. Good luck to you."
I think we can all be pretty sure who made out better in the exchange that day. I still think West Side Story is the best thing he ever wrote, on so many levels (musical, sociological, psychological) and for so many reasons (complexity rendered inevitable, beauty as both means and end, music enlisting and emboldening choreography as opposed to choreography having to apologize for music). And you know what? I think Lenny would agree with me on this one.
Happy 50th birthday, West Side Story. You don't look (or sound) and day over 35.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go over to Arts & Life and watch Slate drop yet another ball. Again.
17 July 2007
Popcorn Night
Popcorn Night
by switters
07/17/2007, 10:05 AM #
When I was growing up, my dad made popcorn for his entire family every Friday and Sunday night, where "his entire family" consisted of anywhere from 7 to 2 to 17 or so (in-laws/grandkids) people at any given time. Popcorn Night wasn't for sitting around visiting with each other. No. That's what the dinner table was for. Popcorn Night was for eating popcorn and watching television as a family.
We moved around a lot because the company dad worked for transferred him on a fairly regular basis. They did this, turns out, because he was very good at what he did. I'm not surprised.
I first remember eating popcorn when I was 7. Dad would come down the stairs into the basement with a giant bowl of popcorn. I'm not exaggerating; that bowl was huge. And old. My mom's mom had used it when she canned tomatoes every Autumn, and it held at least, like, a dozen mason jars. Probaby more. (Both my mom and dad had grown up on small family farms in very rural Iowa.) He'd march over to his favorite chair, which had the best view of the TV, and each of us in turn would scoop out a bowl of popping corn. Limit 2 scoops per child per night.
We'd each have one of those plastic cereal bowls that have come to be such an endearment to me when I think of him. And we were each given a Dixie cup (please tell me you remember those) for our pop (not "soda"), which was Pepsi more times than not. By the time I was 8, we were each getting our own bottle of Pepsi. My brothers and sister still give me no end of grief (you may or may not recall that I'm the youngest of 5) on account of my not having had to endure the anxiety and all-out fear of trying to make a Dixie cup of Pepsi last 3 hours. As they tell it, it might as well have been a post-1938 Jewish ghetto in Poland, trading a kernel here for a splash or 2 there. Deals were being made, fates altered, history revised. It was like an episode of Lost written by Sean O'Casey and directed by Steven Soderbergh.
When I was 10, my dad decided to take me on as an apprentice popcorn maker. Each Friday and Sunday night for several weeks, he showed me how much oil to put in the popper, a vintage Whirley Popper knockoff, meaning it was not as tall but was bigger around. I'd try to compare it to something else, but when he pulled it out from the lower cupboard, it was exactly what it was, namely, what dad used to make popcorn. You gave it no more thought than that.
He taught me when the oil was hot enough to add the corn. He let the corn sit in the hot oil for probably half a minute, then he'd place the lid with the spinning blade over it and start turning the knob, getting a feel for the kernels. He taught me to spin the blade not too fast and not too slow, but to do so with deliberation and confidence. When you could spin it no more on account of all the bursting kernels, he'd lift the whole contraption off the burner, a glorified frying pan whose contents had lifted the lid 3 inches from the pot, hold it for 3 beats, then dump the booty into the awaiting gianormous cauldron of cornness.
The Whirley was placed back on the burner, redhot at high, more oil was added, and then, at the appropriate time, more popcorn. But this time the spinning began almost immediately after the corn was added since the oil got hot much faster than the first time, and the popper got so heated up you had to rest a thumb over a pot holder to protect your spinning hand. Spin. Spin. Spin... Lift, shake dump, shake. Done.
On one of the back burners, a very small sauce pan that held a stick of butter was standing by. After the second popper was safely in the canning vat, the front popping burner was turned off. The butter was melted over the slowly cooling burner, stirred with a knife to prevent burning. At the perfect moment the newly melted stick of butter was drizzled over the popcorn, which was then generously salted, and the butter knife was used to stir up the popcorn. My first day as his apprentice, he gave me the job, since I paid such good attention during my first lesson, of bringing nature's bounty down the stairs for my awaiting (read here: "You'd think these people hadn't eaten in a week") family, who greeted me with, "Hoorays!" and other cheers, some of which might have been actually sincere.
After 3 weeks, he let me do everything, under his watchful eye of course, and he didn't say a word. I got everything right. So after 4 weeks, it was time for my first "solo flight".
Let's just say it went pretty damn well.
And then we moved. Again.
From age 7 to 10, popcorn night saw Dallas, 60 Minutes, The Wonderful World Of Disney, CBS Sunday Night At The Movies, among others. As each year went by there were fewer and fewer folks eating popcorn and watching TV on those Friday and Sunday nights. That whole dating thing and college bullshit. But I was still the Journeyman Popcorn Maker, because dad would always be the Popcorn Master. The shows on popcorn night gradually morphed into Murder She Wrote, Miami Vice, and, because dad would occasionally move a popcorn night from Fridays to Thursdays, in order to accommodate my brothers' rapidly growing social obligations, and drug habits, Hill Street Blues, Cheers, Family Ties and Night Court joined the corn cannon.
Then we moved. Again. My junior year of high school. (Having to move your junior year of high school is a whole 'nother post in and of itself, so I'll spare you the predictable teenage angst until later. You're welcome.)
By the time we moved and I was just about to turn 17, everyone was married and out of the house. And dad had been transferred far enough away from his other kids that visits were less frequent. It was just me and mom and dad. I kept to myself and purposefully didn't make many friends in order to avoid any connections. And I was so pissed at my dad for ripping me away from my friends whom I'd known for almost 6 years. Really pissed. He felt terrible about it. He really did. My mom suggested that I live with a friend back from where we moved to finish school. My dad did indeed consider it, but ultimately he thought it best that we remain together as a family. I was so pissed. He felt so bad. I knew how bad he felt, and it pissed me off even more. And I was a real shit to him.
We were still able to watch obsessively Miami Vice and Crime Story together. And maybe the occasional movie on the newfangled VCR. But none of that meant that I was no longer pissed off at him. And I passive-aggressively made him make the popcorn. Fuck that shit. I don't even want to be here and you expect me to make the popcorn? Jesus cornpopping Christ!
We lived there for just under 2 years and moved, again, after I graduated. Dad had been transferred close enough to his kids that visits were frequent. Then I went off to college.
Summers saw me back home, mostly just the three of us on popcorn night, but occasionally a brother would show up with a kid or 2. I asked dad if I could make the popcorn one Friday night soon after I'd completed my freshmen year, and he said, "Are you sure you remember how?" "Yeah, I think I got it, thanks."
Those few summers witnessed The Simpsons tear TV as we knew it a new one. I stayed in most Sundays but missed most Fridays. But more often than not dad instituted what became known as Popcorn Weekend, i.e., popcorn Friday night through Sunday night. And sometimes even on Thursday night as well! Which meant that Walker, Texas Ranger's smashing Saturday debut as a Popcorn Night staple brought the house down, literally. And don't even get me started on Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.
I guess my offer to make the popcorn on Sundays that summer was some sort of lame-assed apology to my dad for acting like such a dick the years before. I don't know.
And then one day, my mom came home with something called "microwave popcorn". That was the end. Gone were the days of my dad or I marching downstairs or into the living with a massive tub of popcorn, though by this time one popper would usually do. Although on account of the dog, who was quite a genius at catching kernels, a second was often "accidentally" popped. (I swear you could give that idiotic shepherd/husky mix some Roger Clemens-level chin music, and he wouldn't miss a beat. If he'd been a hitter he would've been George Brett.) Gone were the days of carefully drizzling butter atop a white mountain of perfectly crunchy snowpuffs. Gone were the salt shaker, the small sauce pan, the knife. Microwave popcorn was pretty good. But it was immediate, or at least appeared so. In all honesty it wouldn't have taken that much longer to make it by hand. But with this new invention, you could throw it in the microwave, set it to 3:44 during a commercial break, and wait for the ding. But it just wasn't the same. Individual Pepsis in those cool bottles gave way to 2-liter plastic bottles of Dr. Pepper and 7-Up in tall glasses filled with crushed ice. Not a bad trade, really, but you can't tell me those individual bottles didn't taste better. You just can't. Add the fact that we actually started calling it by its proper name, namely, "Dr. Pepper" instead of "pop", and I don't think it's hard for anyone to imagine just how difficult this whole transition bit was going to be on each and every individual involved, popcorn-wise.
The last time I made popcorn for my dad, it was the Summer of 2000, just under 2 years before he died, suddenly and untimely at the age of 63. Orville Redenbacher Butter Flavored. Thinking back upon it, those Friday and Sunday night rituals were a constant in a confusing blur of growth, adaptation and change. A touchstone for me and my family in much the same way as Field Of Dreams suggests baseball was for America. I know, I know: Very cliche-esque, not to mention pendantic. But it was one of the few things that remained the same while all around me people were moving away and my personal scenery changed like a carousel with a thousand mile diameter. Unending auto-evolution, and popcorn. Odd to be grounded by a snack. Unless it becomes so much more meaningful, pertinent, melancholy and beautiful the further I get from it. The care with which dad made popcorn makes me respect him for the father he was to all his kids, and the great though stoic affection he held for each of us as individuals as we matured into young men and women he could truly be proud of, in the strictest and most loving sense, insofar as the kid of a farmer can even show affection. I marvel at his sacrifice, his dedication.
If my dad's life had a thesis statement, it would be this: All my kids will go to college, and they won't have to pay for it, they won't have to have a job until the summers, and their college experience will be a perfect combination of study, athletics, and keggers. (I amended that last part. But I'm pretty sure he'd approve.)
I just wish that the night I'd made him the last popcorn I'd make for him that I would've taken the trouble to dig out that old Whirley knockoff. I take comfort knowing that my dad knew I forgave him; but I get even more solace knowing that he knew I knew there was nothing to forgive him for. As a family of 3 for all intents and purposes for those 2 years as I approached 18, I'd become closer to my parents than ever before. And I wouldn't trade 1 minute of that for an entire year away from them just to be with friends I'd forget about after my first college semester. And, finally, I get no end of maudlin-tinged peace of mind knowing that I told him exactly that while he still breathed.
If only I would've dug out that old popper. Memories aren't perfect. But for me, this one is close enough. It's been over 6 years since he died. But when the long days of summer spawn in me a desire to grow tomatoes and rake the yard, I can't help but think of him with that giant bowl of popcorn on his lap giving his color commentary on whether Walker will be able to save that one lawyer lady from her kidnappers, or something, and stuff just backs up on me a tad. But it does so in the best, healthiest sense, I think. Thanks for listening. (Note to self: Call mom tonight.)
by switters
07/17/2007, 10:05 AM #
When I was growing up, my dad made popcorn for his entire family every Friday and Sunday night, where "his entire family" consisted of anywhere from 7 to 2 to 17 or so (in-laws/grandkids) people at any given time. Popcorn Night wasn't for sitting around visiting with each other. No. That's what the dinner table was for. Popcorn Night was for eating popcorn and watching television as a family.
We moved around a lot because the company dad worked for transferred him on a fairly regular basis. They did this, turns out, because he was very good at what he did. I'm not surprised.
I first remember eating popcorn when I was 7. Dad would come down the stairs into the basement with a giant bowl of popcorn. I'm not exaggerating; that bowl was huge. And old. My mom's mom had used it when she canned tomatoes every Autumn, and it held at least, like, a dozen mason jars. Probaby more. (Both my mom and dad had grown up on small family farms in very rural Iowa.) He'd march over to his favorite chair, which had the best view of the TV, and each of us in turn would scoop out a bowl of popping corn. Limit 2 scoops per child per night.
We'd each have one of those plastic cereal bowls that have come to be such an endearment to me when I think of him. And we were each given a Dixie cup (please tell me you remember those) for our pop (not "soda"), which was Pepsi more times than not. By the time I was 8, we were each getting our own bottle of Pepsi. My brothers and sister still give me no end of grief (you may or may not recall that I'm the youngest of 5) on account of my not having had to endure the anxiety and all-out fear of trying to make a Dixie cup of Pepsi last 3 hours. As they tell it, it might as well have been a post-1938 Jewish ghetto in Poland, trading a kernel here for a splash or 2 there. Deals were being made, fates altered, history revised. It was like an episode of Lost written by Sean O'Casey and directed by Steven Soderbergh.
When I was 10, my dad decided to take me on as an apprentice popcorn maker. Each Friday and Sunday night for several weeks, he showed me how much oil to put in the popper, a vintage Whirley Popper knockoff, meaning it was not as tall but was bigger around. I'd try to compare it to something else, but when he pulled it out from the lower cupboard, it was exactly what it was, namely, what dad used to make popcorn. You gave it no more thought than that.
He taught me when the oil was hot enough to add the corn. He let the corn sit in the hot oil for probably half a minute, then he'd place the lid with the spinning blade over it and start turning the knob, getting a feel for the kernels. He taught me to spin the blade not too fast and not too slow, but to do so with deliberation and confidence. When you could spin it no more on account of all the bursting kernels, he'd lift the whole contraption off the burner, a glorified frying pan whose contents had lifted the lid 3 inches from the pot, hold it for 3 beats, then dump the booty into the awaiting gianormous cauldron of cornness.
The Whirley was placed back on the burner, redhot at high, more oil was added, and then, at the appropriate time, more popcorn. But this time the spinning began almost immediately after the corn was added since the oil got hot much faster than the first time, and the popper got so heated up you had to rest a thumb over a pot holder to protect your spinning hand. Spin. Spin. Spin... Lift, shake dump, shake. Done.
On one of the back burners, a very small sauce pan that held a stick of butter was standing by. After the second popper was safely in the canning vat, the front popping burner was turned off. The butter was melted over the slowly cooling burner, stirred with a knife to prevent burning. At the perfect moment the newly melted stick of butter was drizzled over the popcorn, which was then generously salted, and the butter knife was used to stir up the popcorn. My first day as his apprentice, he gave me the job, since I paid such good attention during my first lesson, of bringing nature's bounty down the stairs for my awaiting (read here: "You'd think these people hadn't eaten in a week") family, who greeted me with, "Hoorays!" and other cheers, some of which might have been actually sincere.
After 3 weeks, he let me do everything, under his watchful eye of course, and he didn't say a word. I got everything right. So after 4 weeks, it was time for my first "solo flight".
Let's just say it went pretty damn well.
And then we moved. Again.
From age 7 to 10, popcorn night saw Dallas, 60 Minutes, The Wonderful World Of Disney, CBS Sunday Night At The Movies, among others. As each year went by there were fewer and fewer folks eating popcorn and watching TV on those Friday and Sunday nights. That whole dating thing and college bullshit. But I was still the Journeyman Popcorn Maker, because dad would always be the Popcorn Master. The shows on popcorn night gradually morphed into Murder She Wrote, Miami Vice, and, because dad would occasionally move a popcorn night from Fridays to Thursdays, in order to accommodate my brothers' rapidly growing social obligations, and drug habits, Hill Street Blues, Cheers, Family Ties and Night Court joined the corn cannon.
Then we moved. Again. My junior year of high school. (Having to move your junior year of high school is a whole 'nother post in and of itself, so I'll spare you the predictable teenage angst until later. You're welcome.)
By the time we moved and I was just about to turn 17, everyone was married and out of the house. And dad had been transferred far enough away from his other kids that visits were less frequent. It was just me and mom and dad. I kept to myself and purposefully didn't make many friends in order to avoid any connections. And I was so pissed at my dad for ripping me away from my friends whom I'd known for almost 6 years. Really pissed. He felt terrible about it. He really did. My mom suggested that I live with a friend back from where we moved to finish school. My dad did indeed consider it, but ultimately he thought it best that we remain together as a family. I was so pissed. He felt so bad. I knew how bad he felt, and it pissed me off even more. And I was a real shit to him.
We were still able to watch obsessively Miami Vice and Crime Story together. And maybe the occasional movie on the newfangled VCR. But none of that meant that I was no longer pissed off at him. And I passive-aggressively made him make the popcorn. Fuck that shit. I don't even want to be here and you expect me to make the popcorn? Jesus cornpopping Christ!
We lived there for just under 2 years and moved, again, after I graduated. Dad had been transferred close enough to his kids that visits were frequent. Then I went off to college.
Summers saw me back home, mostly just the three of us on popcorn night, but occasionally a brother would show up with a kid or 2. I asked dad if I could make the popcorn one Friday night soon after I'd completed my freshmen year, and he said, "Are you sure you remember how?" "Yeah, I think I got it, thanks."
Those few summers witnessed The Simpsons tear TV as we knew it a new one. I stayed in most Sundays but missed most Fridays. But more often than not dad instituted what became known as Popcorn Weekend, i.e., popcorn Friday night through Sunday night. And sometimes even on Thursday night as well! Which meant that Walker, Texas Ranger's smashing Saturday debut as a Popcorn Night staple brought the house down, literally. And don't even get me started on Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.
I guess my offer to make the popcorn on Sundays that summer was some sort of lame-assed apology to my dad for acting like such a dick the years before. I don't know.
And then one day, my mom came home with something called "microwave popcorn". That was the end. Gone were the days of my dad or I marching downstairs or into the living with a massive tub of popcorn, though by this time one popper would usually do. Although on account of the dog, who was quite a genius at catching kernels, a second was often "accidentally" popped. (I swear you could give that idiotic shepherd/husky mix some Roger Clemens-level chin music, and he wouldn't miss a beat. If he'd been a hitter he would've been George Brett.) Gone were the days of carefully drizzling butter atop a white mountain of perfectly crunchy snowpuffs. Gone were the salt shaker, the small sauce pan, the knife. Microwave popcorn was pretty good. But it was immediate, or at least appeared so. In all honesty it wouldn't have taken that much longer to make it by hand. But with this new invention, you could throw it in the microwave, set it to 3:44 during a commercial break, and wait for the ding. But it just wasn't the same. Individual Pepsis in those cool bottles gave way to 2-liter plastic bottles of Dr. Pepper and 7-Up in tall glasses filled with crushed ice. Not a bad trade, really, but you can't tell me those individual bottles didn't taste better. You just can't. Add the fact that we actually started calling it by its proper name, namely, "Dr. Pepper" instead of "pop", and I don't think it's hard for anyone to imagine just how difficult this whole transition bit was going to be on each and every individual involved, popcorn-wise.
The last time I made popcorn for my dad, it was the Summer of 2000, just under 2 years before he died, suddenly and untimely at the age of 63. Orville Redenbacher Butter Flavored. Thinking back upon it, those Friday and Sunday night rituals were a constant in a confusing blur of growth, adaptation and change. A touchstone for me and my family in much the same way as Field Of Dreams suggests baseball was for America. I know, I know: Very cliche-esque, not to mention pendantic. But it was one of the few things that remained the same while all around me people were moving away and my personal scenery changed like a carousel with a thousand mile diameter. Unending auto-evolution, and popcorn. Odd to be grounded by a snack. Unless it becomes so much more meaningful, pertinent, melancholy and beautiful the further I get from it. The care with which dad made popcorn makes me respect him for the father he was to all his kids, and the great though stoic affection he held for each of us as individuals as we matured into young men and women he could truly be proud of, in the strictest and most loving sense, insofar as the kid of a farmer can even show affection. I marvel at his sacrifice, his dedication.
If my dad's life had a thesis statement, it would be this: All my kids will go to college, and they won't have to pay for it, they won't have to have a job until the summers, and their college experience will be a perfect combination of study, athletics, and keggers. (I amended that last part. But I'm pretty sure he'd approve.)
I just wish that the night I'd made him the last popcorn I'd make for him that I would've taken the trouble to dig out that old Whirley knockoff. I take comfort knowing that my dad knew I forgave him; but I get even more solace knowing that he knew I knew there was nothing to forgive him for. As a family of 3 for all intents and purposes for those 2 years as I approached 18, I'd become closer to my parents than ever before. And I wouldn't trade 1 minute of that for an entire year away from them just to be with friends I'd forget about after my first college semester. And, finally, I get no end of maudlin-tinged peace of mind knowing that I told him exactly that while he still breathed.
If only I would've dug out that old popper. Memories aren't perfect. But for me, this one is close enough. It's been over 6 years since he died. But when the long days of summer spawn in me a desire to grow tomatoes and rake the yard, I can't help but think of him with that giant bowl of popcorn on his lap giving his color commentary on whether Walker will be able to save that one lawyer lady from her kidnappers, or something, and stuff just backs up on me a tad. But it does so in the best, healthiest sense, I think. Thanks for listening. (Note to self: Call mom tonight.)
07 June 2007
Ocean 13, A Movie Review
Ocean 13, A Movie Review
by switters
06/07/2007, 3:41 PM #
Packed to the hilt with a cast containing more star power than the very zodiac itself, Ocean 13 begs the question we've been begging since alien space zombies from another planet colonized earth hundreds of years ago, namely, What would happen if a sequel prequeled the future as it pertained to the past, but only insofar as the present presupposed an alternate historical outcome? Answer: Greenhouse gasses. And mistaken identity. Everybody's back for this one, folks. And I do mean everybody. George Cooley (Syriania, Good Germans!, Where's My Brother At?,), Bradly Pit (A Perfect Confession Of Minds, Snatched, Talk About Fight Club), Mark Damien (Syria, The Born Ascendency, Where's Private Ryan At?), Glen Gould (Open The Window, *M*A*S*H*, Variation Goldberg), Allen Patchino (60 Minutes, That Jew In Venice, O Godfather 2, Atticus), Dan Cheedle (Hotel California, Wedding Crash, Traffic Jam), Casey Affleck (The Goodwill Haunting, Super Man, voice of the duck in those insurance commercials that I like so much), Jesus Christ (Tempting Last Passion, God Is My Co Pilate, Hi I'm Jesus), Bernard Mack (Guess Who's At Dinner, Charlie Angel: Full Frontal), Rob Reiner (All Of The Family, Time Cop, Plains Tranes And Auto Mobiles), Julie Robertson (Little Pretty Women, Moaning Lisa's Smile, You're Fired!), Jerry Garcia (Better Off Dead Again), everybody and his brother (Art Of The Cameo), and the kitchen sink (Canonball Runs), all to a man reprising their roles, respectively, as Paul Motian, Rusty, Steve, Dave, Lester, himself, The Baron, Simon, Paul, Arthur, herself, desk clerk, Manny Rivers, Norbert, Hal, 2nd man in bathroom, Jack, Barry, Terrance, somebody's brother, and Riley McSwoon, respectably. But they're not robbing any Las Vegas gambling casino places this go around, folks. Nope. This time our ragged band of lovable thieves are stealing a little something else, namely, the ozone hole. And our hearts, of course! The year: future, population: global heating. Our planet, i.e., earth, has caught on fire again. Let's back up. In the olden days, back before VCRs, indoor toilets and time, God created The Ozone Layer 6,429 years ago, a "layer" that lets in the good light and keeps out the bad, for whatever reason. But before you can watch your presidential legacy slowly "go up in flames" like a dumpster fire at Munchies, the ozone pops, springs a leak, and worldwide panic breaks out like a staff infection at the mall. The world's greatest scientists are befuddled by these staged events and are at a complete and total loss as to its inevitable cause, how to profit from it, and how it could only be accounted for possibly by whale songs. Or perhaps because of people idling in their cars with the engine running, sitting in the parking lot of their gym, waiting for someone to pull out of a parking spot so they can snag one that is approximately 3 meters closer to the front door than that one over there that they could've already been parked in 10 minutes ago, asshat. You're at the fuckin' gym, for goodness sakes. And faster than you can apply some sunscreen, literally, preferably SPF 50 or above, out goes the good light, and in comes the bad. Today everybody's brown. And just like that we're right back where we started from. At. Er... Mr. Gorbachev: Tear up that hole! That's where our randy gang of ne're-do-wells comes in, in a large boat they've rented, to find a way to put out all the fires and whatnot. Of the 12 known oceans on earth, only the 13th one can keep Mount Everest from burning down the whole kip and kaboodle like a broiler at Sizzler's. For, you see, there's magic in that water that the aliens put there so we would devolve slowly back into fish.(It's one of those "master plan" thingies. It's all very esoteric. Just roll with the tide, if you will.) Will they find it in time? Will Steve's Ocean Water Fire Put Outer invention work properly? Will nature find a way to save itself from us? Will that one guy over emote again? Will every single gag in the whole movie be a smirking inside joke amongst the cast and crew so that the audience in its entirety is left feeling like a 3rd wheel on a mini-bike? Probably. But I don't want to give away too many secrets. Bottom line, folks, we don't want movies like Ocean 13. We need movies like Ocean 13, if for no other reason than truth may sometimes be stranger than fiction, but sometimes fiction is almost always preferable, especially when you consider the source of the "truth" in the first place. (They say it's better than Ocean's Twelve. Wow. That's quite the endorsement, seeing as how The Da Vinci Code is better than Ocean's Twelve.)
by switters
06/07/2007, 3:41 PM #
Packed to the hilt with a cast containing more star power than the very zodiac itself, Ocean 13 begs the question we've been begging since alien space zombies from another planet colonized earth hundreds of years ago, namely, What would happen if a sequel prequeled the future as it pertained to the past, but only insofar as the present presupposed an alternate historical outcome? Answer: Greenhouse gasses. And mistaken identity. Everybody's back for this one, folks. And I do mean everybody. George Cooley (Syriania, Good Germans!, Where's My Brother At?,), Bradly Pit (A Perfect Confession Of Minds, Snatched, Talk About Fight Club), Mark Damien (Syria, The Born Ascendency, Where's Private Ryan At?), Glen Gould (Open The Window, *M*A*S*H*, Variation Goldberg), Allen Patchino (60 Minutes, That Jew In Venice, O Godfather 2, Atticus), Dan Cheedle (Hotel California, Wedding Crash, Traffic Jam), Casey Affleck (The Goodwill Haunting, Super Man, voice of the duck in those insurance commercials that I like so much), Jesus Christ (Tempting Last Passion, God Is My Co Pilate, Hi I'm Jesus), Bernard Mack (Guess Who's At Dinner, Charlie Angel: Full Frontal), Rob Reiner (All Of The Family, Time Cop, Plains Tranes And Auto Mobiles), Julie Robertson (Little Pretty Women, Moaning Lisa's Smile, You're Fired!), Jerry Garcia (Better Off Dead Again), everybody and his brother (Art Of The Cameo), and the kitchen sink (Canonball Runs), all to a man reprising their roles, respectively, as Paul Motian, Rusty, Steve, Dave, Lester, himself, The Baron, Simon, Paul, Arthur, herself, desk clerk, Manny Rivers, Norbert, Hal, 2nd man in bathroom, Jack, Barry, Terrance, somebody's brother, and Riley McSwoon, respectably. But they're not robbing any Las Vegas gambling casino places this go around, folks. Nope. This time our ragged band of lovable thieves are stealing a little something else, namely, the ozone hole. And our hearts, of course! The year: future, population: global heating. Our planet, i.e., earth, has caught on fire again. Let's back up. In the olden days, back before VCRs, indoor toilets and time, God created The Ozone Layer 6,429 years ago, a "layer" that lets in the good light and keeps out the bad, for whatever reason. But before you can watch your presidential legacy slowly "go up in flames" like a dumpster fire at Munchies, the ozone pops, springs a leak, and worldwide panic breaks out like a staff infection at the mall. The world's greatest scientists are befuddled by these staged events and are at a complete and total loss as to its inevitable cause, how to profit from it, and how it could only be accounted for possibly by whale songs. Or perhaps because of people idling in their cars with the engine running, sitting in the parking lot of their gym, waiting for someone to pull out of a parking spot so they can snag one that is approximately 3 meters closer to the front door than that one over there that they could've already been parked in 10 minutes ago, asshat. You're at the fuckin' gym, for goodness sakes. And faster than you can apply some sunscreen, literally, preferably SPF 50 or above, out goes the good light, and in comes the bad. Today everybody's brown. And just like that we're right back where we started from. At. Er... Mr. Gorbachev: Tear up that hole! That's where our randy gang of ne're-do-wells comes in, in a large boat they've rented, to find a way to put out all the fires and whatnot. Of the 12 known oceans on earth, only the 13th one can keep Mount Everest from burning down the whole kip and kaboodle like a broiler at Sizzler's. For, you see, there's magic in that water that the aliens put there so we would devolve slowly back into fish.(It's one of those "master plan" thingies. It's all very esoteric. Just roll with the tide, if you will.) Will they find it in time? Will Steve's Ocean Water Fire Put Outer invention work properly? Will nature find a way to save itself from us? Will that one guy over emote again? Will every single gag in the whole movie be a smirking inside joke amongst the cast and crew so that the audience in its entirety is left feeling like a 3rd wheel on a mini-bike? Probably. But I don't want to give away too many secrets. Bottom line, folks, we don't want movies like Ocean 13. We need movies like Ocean 13, if for no other reason than truth may sometimes be stranger than fiction, but sometimes fiction is almost always preferable, especially when you consider the source of the "truth" in the first place. (They say it's better than Ocean's Twelve. Wow. That's quite the endorsement, seeing as how The Da Vinci Code is better than Ocean's Twelve.)
07 February 2006
hey page-pushing, fuckheaded retards
Subject: hey page-pushing, fuckheaded retards (40)
From: switters
Date: Feb 7 2006 5:24PM
Sorry for this unprovoked rant and flamefest 2006, but goddammit, you're talking to/about a fella that cut his teeth with fraycentricity back in the day (8 months ago, idiotic old-schoolers). Which means, really, that every once in awhile its good to go with your best pitch, dance with the girl that brung you – in this case, little Mary Rottencrotch whom you used to finger bang in the back of the family Ford.*
So as much as I hate to interrupt this week's episode of The Special Olympics, I just have a few, a very few nuggets of constructive criticism, 1 or 2 jewels of sugar-coated observations, and a couple of cocaine lines of objective speculation and speculative objections.
Ready? Okay!
Requiem
No, I don't know if you're Denny. At this point it doesn't matter. Just being compared to or called Denny is bad enough. A suggestion: take a not-so-quick look at your MBTU, its breadth, its subject headings, its various and sundry mongoloidisms. That's a lot of posting, dude. A lot. I can recall not too long ago some of the upper-echelon posters (Geoff, chango [not too kindly, though], Gregor, Seasquirt, et al) kindly chiding me for being a bit of a "Chatty Cathy". So, hint: you're not a Chatty Cathy; you're a bona fide case of uncontrollable irritable bowel syndrome of diarrhetic Hershey squirt posting. Consider LowDungeon's couple of Immodium AD caplets and go for a long walk off a short bridge abutment.
ciinc
Okay, okay, we get it. You don't hate jews, per se, but you enjoy baiting holier-than-thou northeast liberal types that bristle at even the mention of "jewing some1 down" at the bank. Consider improving the quality of your baiting, consult your MBTU, take a deep breath, and reread your autographed copy of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. Good stuff in there.
I'm still not sure why you hate smart women, though. But it does lead me to believe that you're either: 1.) very dumb; or 2.) very unattractive. For what it's worth, I don't think you're "very dumb". Good luck with that.
Tempo-the-[insert something really stupid here]
Tempo, Tempo, Tempo. Bless your heart, girl. You're many things. And perceptive just doesn't seem to be 1 of them. I've got some bad news: very, very few people give a flying fuck what you think. But they do exist. They are: 1.) people who care what you think because they're technically retarded (my scale); and 2.) people who pretend to care so that you'll (continue to?) respond to their posts. I mean, Jesus titty-fucking Christ**, woman: if you had any scruples at all in here, you wouldn't have any scruples at all in here. Maybe think about taking your OWN advice, okay?
TRY to post something worthwhile and of sincere interest to all when you do a Top Post, okay?
What?! American G.I.'s are dying in Iraq? Really? Wow. Thank the fucking gods you were here to point that out! Eff! I hear Blorple Falls is nice this time of year, and that the "real estate climate" is a real "buyer's market" right now.
Just a suggestion, and maybe a helping hand, "IMHO, of course."
Hugs,
Tempo-the-[technically retarded]
[You're almost right about 1 thing: BotF has come to resemble Ballot Box a little lately. It's just that, ironically, a lot of that is your fault. Oops!]
Bald_Tony
Just out of curiosity: who are you going to stalk now that locdog may not post here as often as he once did? Oh, never mind: Ender. Carry on.
MichaelRyerson
I hear ya, brah, brah. But going toe-to-toe with Nightengale in a fraycentric related debate strikes me as a little too much like going down on a blow-up doll. I.e., nobody ever really feels gratified in the end (pun intended). It's beneath you, so to speak.
JTF
Don't get me wrong, the tips on how to get chicks in the sack are mucho mucho appreciadisianio, mon ami . Good times. But no1 understands better than I do the impossibility of being universally liked around here. Which is to say: I'd be real careful about who I'd let suck your fraydick. But you, being an old-schooler, already knew that. Sure. Fine. Doesn't mean it's not unseemly to have to watch, at least out of the corner of my eye. See, I'm 1 of those people who doesn't like to watch.
Hauteur
Hey, did you ever see that movie Freaks, with the married German midget who falls for the lovely lady who's actually banging the "strong man"? Remember that movie? "One of us, one of us, one of us…"?
Guess which character you are.
Spandex
Now try not to take this the wrong way, but are you DreamBird? If you're not, please see note above to Requiem. Thx! (;^(o)
Sarvis
Yes, we also get it: far right wing bad, far left wing good, let's give socialism another try, &c., and so forth. But the constant weiner slapping between you and the entire cast of Barney Miller is starting to feel like chewing on tinfoil. So knock it the fuck off. Surf's up.
That's all for now. Should be enough, really. Whatever. It's all good, boo.
OT Ender and Dawn as co-editors, with andkathleen hovering menacingly about, her lovely finger on the flush button, and rundeep with ultimate checkmark authority. Managing editors (in charge of The Column)? bacon/daveto/et al [i.e., the InnerSanctum cats]
==
[NB: Boy it sure is inappropriate for me to comment on others' posts and behavior, seeing as how my own posts and behavior tend to be… well… not that well behaved. Go figure. Something for me to think about, I guess.]
Coming soon: "switters' Top 10 Cartoons of 2005"
*from Full Metal Jacket, though heavily paraphrased
**replaces "fucktard" as profanity of choice
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=16851832
From: switters
Date: Feb 7 2006 5:24PM
Sorry for this unprovoked rant and flamefest 2006, but goddammit, you're talking to/about a fella that cut his teeth with fraycentricity back in the day (8 months ago, idiotic old-schoolers). Which means, really, that every once in awhile its good to go with your best pitch, dance with the girl that brung you – in this case, little Mary Rottencrotch whom you used to finger bang in the back of the family Ford.*
So as much as I hate to interrupt this week's episode of The Special Olympics, I just have a few, a very few nuggets of constructive criticism, 1 or 2 jewels of sugar-coated observations, and a couple of cocaine lines of objective speculation and speculative objections.
Ready? Okay!
Requiem
No, I don't know if you're Denny. At this point it doesn't matter. Just being compared to or called Denny is bad enough. A suggestion: take a not-so-quick look at your MBTU, its breadth, its subject headings, its various and sundry mongoloidisms. That's a lot of posting, dude. A lot. I can recall not too long ago some of the upper-echelon posters (Geoff, chango [not too kindly, though], Gregor, Seasquirt, et al) kindly chiding me for being a bit of a "Chatty Cathy". So, hint: you're not a Chatty Cathy; you're a bona fide case of uncontrollable irritable bowel syndrome of diarrhetic Hershey squirt posting. Consider LowDungeon's couple of Immodium AD caplets and go for a long walk off a short bridge abutment.
ciinc
Okay, okay, we get it. You don't hate jews, per se, but you enjoy baiting holier-than-thou northeast liberal types that bristle at even the mention of "jewing some1 down" at the bank. Consider improving the quality of your baiting, consult your MBTU, take a deep breath, and reread your autographed copy of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. Good stuff in there.
I'm still not sure why you hate smart women, though. But it does lead me to believe that you're either: 1.) very dumb; or 2.) very unattractive. For what it's worth, I don't think you're "very dumb". Good luck with that.
Tempo-the-[insert something really stupid here]
Tempo, Tempo, Tempo. Bless your heart, girl. You're many things. And perceptive just doesn't seem to be 1 of them. I've got some bad news: very, very few people give a flying fuck what you think. But they do exist. They are: 1.) people who care what you think because they're technically retarded (my scale); and 2.) people who pretend to care so that you'll (continue to?) respond to their posts. I mean, Jesus titty-fucking Christ**, woman: if you had any scruples at all in here, you wouldn't have any scruples at all in here. Maybe think about taking your OWN advice, okay?
TRY to post something worthwhile and of sincere interest to all when you do a Top Post, okay?
What?! American G.I.'s are dying in Iraq? Really? Wow. Thank the fucking gods you were here to point that out! Eff! I hear Blorple Falls is nice this time of year, and that the "real estate climate" is a real "buyer's market" right now.
Just a suggestion, and maybe a helping hand, "IMHO, of course."
Hugs,
Tempo-the-[technically retarded]
[You're almost right about 1 thing: BotF has come to resemble Ballot Box a little lately. It's just that, ironically, a lot of that is your fault. Oops!]
Bald_Tony
Just out of curiosity: who are you going to stalk now that locdog may not post here as often as he once did? Oh, never mind: Ender. Carry on.
MichaelRyerson
I hear ya, brah, brah. But going toe-to-toe with Nightengale in a fraycentric related debate strikes me as a little too much like going down on a blow-up doll. I.e., nobody ever really feels gratified in the end (pun intended). It's beneath you, so to speak.
JTF
Don't get me wrong, the tips on how to get chicks in the sack are mucho mucho appreciadisianio, mon ami . Good times. But no1 understands better than I do the impossibility of being universally liked around here. Which is to say: I'd be real careful about who I'd let suck your fraydick. But you, being an old-schooler, already knew that. Sure. Fine. Doesn't mean it's not unseemly to have to watch, at least out of the corner of my eye. See, I'm 1 of those people who doesn't like to watch.
Hauteur
Hey, did you ever see that movie Freaks, with the married German midget who falls for the lovely lady who's actually banging the "strong man"? Remember that movie? "One of us, one of us, one of us…"?
Guess which character you are.
Spandex
Now try not to take this the wrong way, but are you DreamBird? If you're not, please see note above to Requiem. Thx! (;^(o)
Sarvis
Yes, we also get it: far right wing bad, far left wing good, let's give socialism another try, &c., and so forth. But the constant weiner slapping between you and the entire cast of Barney Miller is starting to feel like chewing on tinfoil. So knock it the fuck off. Surf's up.
That's all for now. Should be enough, really. Whatever. It's all good, boo.
OT Ender and Dawn as co-editors, with andkathleen hovering menacingly about, her lovely finger on the flush button, and rundeep with ultimate checkmark authority. Managing editors (in charge of The Column)? bacon/daveto/et al [i.e., the InnerSanctum cats]
==
[NB: Boy it sure is inappropriate for me to comment on others' posts and behavior, seeing as how my own posts and behavior tend to be… well… not that well behaved. Go figure. Something for me to think about, I guess.]
Coming soon: "switters' Top 10 Cartoons of 2005"
*from Full Metal Jacket, though heavily paraphrased
**replaces "fucktard" as profanity of choice
http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=16851832
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
