Same guy.

All Will Be Well With Gabe.

Remember the huge crush I have on Gabe Dixon of the Gabe Dixon Band, and how I hounded him for photos and autographs after his teeny tiny show about 1/2 mile from my front door in the fall? Well our little Gabey is growing up.

NBC's terrible new legal drama, Conviction (yes, that's the title of this presentation), is featuring Gabe's "All Will Be Well" on its promos right now. I don't know if it'll be the theme of the show or now (though I'm so into Gabe that I'm downloading the free pilot episode this very minute on iTunes to find out), but if they'll use Gabe, I'll watch their free episode. Or at least scan it for a couple of minutes. Maybe.

But that's not what this is about. This is about the greatness of Gabe Dixon. And he's getting cash + prizes to have his song on the national television broadcast, and for that I'm happy.

Join him? Where?

If you think for one second that there's some poetic justic in Bode Miller, Mr. Talk Talk Confidence Man, and his lamentable fourth failed race at the Olympics, well, you couldn't be more right. Here's what Mr. Miller had to say after finishing sixth:

"One of the good things about my career is I have such extensive knowledge, so I always go as hard as I can," Miller said. "Some guys can go 70-80% and get results, but I wouldn't do that."



Genius. Go on, Bode.

"If things went well, I could be sitting on four medals, maybe all of them gold."

Of course, this could be said of me as well.

Yup. Here IT is.

It's not a theory; it's a fact.

Good luck convincing me these aren't the same guy. It's as true as sunshine.



For starters, both of their names rhyme with clot.

Hep Cats, Dig!

Last night's rush of emotion (see below) was preceeded by a poetry reading, so maybe that's where I got in touch with myself. I'm part of this kick-ass community where we actually EMBRACE things like art and music and stuff (wha...?), so there was this cool joint last night where a jazz combo played, original artwork was displayed, and about 10 people read poetry. I was one of those people, and here's one thing I read, daddy-o:

I had hoped it would end with everyone loving me
Everyone stopping by to gawk and to see
The Million Dollar Wonder Man
It was a simple plan
I would do something great, or something folks would believe
I would make them awake and then they’d never leave
My warm, fitful side
It’d be one hell of a ride.
I have to figure out first, where do they want it next?
You got to hit some felt need if you’re gonna land on success
I will make them all moan
Like a dog for a bone
And when I know what it is, I will blow them away
With more colors and lights than t.v. can display
Their expectations will soar
Till they can’t stand no more
They’ll beg to eat me all up, like some fat chocolate binge
The pundits will laud me; the critics will cringe
A sensation suplex
It will be bigger than sex

At least, that’s the plan, or I hoped it would be
Trouble is, all I’ve got to work with is me
It’s a simple plan
For another man.



No jiv'in', ya'll. Solid.

My First Ice Skating Post Ever

I am bemused at myself. This happens fairly infrequently, but it happened last night, and the bemusement is still with me. I was watching those darned Olympics (!), and I saw that Russian couple--the ones where the guy dropped the girl like 2 years ago. They showed a little story on how this guy's confidence was GONE for like 18 months, and how the girl would NOT find another skating partner, and how this was supposed to be their swan song. They came out, nailed it, and stood there holding each other's hands in the center of the ice, after which they were awarded the gold medal. Me, I sat there and cried. We humans are so frail and so plucky and so irrepressible. Something about us reminds us of God Himself. I loved it.

Then the Chinese came out, knowing they had little chance of beating this duo. The guy stunned me, he was huge-he looked like a basketball player. Anyhow, on the first jump of their program, the girl came down weird and wrenched her knee; she splayed Bambi-style on the ice and you knew it was over. They took a break to see their trainer, and inexplicably kept acting like they wanted to go on with their program.

Well, they did go on with the program, in spite of this girl's pain. I thought of how her partner must feel: so proud, but maybe with a sense of guilt. "She doesn't have to do this on my behalf. She could permanently screw up her knee, here. She's so brave." And yeah, I cried again. I just loved the partnership and the artistry of the whole thing. How can these skaters, for instance, spin at exactly the same rate over and over and over again, despite their weight differences, etc.? I was amazed. Anyway, the reward for their bravery was a silver medal. Incredible.

What's so amazing about Philip Yancey's hair?

Blackhead.

Sorry gang--this is as good as it gets. This was an especially gooby hairstyle day for me, but you can somewhat see the deep blackness. Let me confess: the black is cool. This won't be my last time.

Also, check out me and Didi with the pals on the bridge in Pittsburgh! Fun weekend away. Why did they have such problems getting over the hump until we came to visit? Coincidence? Probably not.

sheesh.

People. If you are here, you are to be pitied.

I have a hatfull of ideas I think of as "Good Posting Subjects", but dang if I don't have any time for such merriment. I don't call people back, my hotmail box is so full the corners are getting bent on most of the mail in there.

What can I say? I apologize. But I refuse to come here to the Chew out of guilt. I will post when I will. I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry. Some days I just feel behind, and like I'll never get ahead. Like Toby:

Fountain of Youth

Today I wish I had a photograph of a man who was drinking out of a public fountain (not a drinking fountain; one of those beautiful useless pieces of art you find in the city squares and in parks), while urinating into that same fountain. I would call that photograph The Circle of Life. I understand that may be a little base, and slightly crass, but I'm not here to tell you what I SHOULD wish for.

I guess I've been 'Tagged' by ace

But that doesn't make me gay. If you care to hear this stuff, so be it. Or just skip down to the good stuff (read: photo of Patti LaBelle).

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD:
1. Roustabout for National Car Rental (jiff and I once worked at the D/FW airport, eviscerating their defunct property. It was weird. I thought we'd spend the summer driving around fancy new cars. No.)
2. Dish washer in the church kitchen, working for a woman named Othie Hildebrand (true name!) with Harvard. We made $10 a night, for 3-4 hours' work. Were were 15; we didn't care.
3. Mortgage broker. This will last as one of the most comical vocations I ever assumed. My business card (!) said Senior Mortgage Analyst, which killed me.
4. A/R assistant, Warner Reprise Records, Nashville, TN. This means "artist and reportoire", for those of you who aren't 'down' with the record label lingo. This job was at once thrilling (meeting mastering mastermind Hank Williams! Going into Sony Studios for professional recording sessions! Getting pre-released albums!), and woefully disillusioning (hearing the sad sack radio promotions guy pumping up a lame single to some station somewhere; meeting artists and writers I'd hoped to someday meet, and being sad for their melancholy and hum-drumedness; being surrounded by people who wished they were in different jobs [read: on stage reaping applause and endless dollars]).
5. Religious education teacher in a Yorkshire, England high school. Image my secret delight at being asked to present religious views from around the world, then "help the students think critically about them all". Um, yes. I would indeed like to do that...

FOUR MOVIES I WATCH ON REPEAT:
(I'm assuming ace was kidding us all with his inclusion of Mr.&Mrs. Smith.)
1. Quiz Show
2. Bottle Rocket
3. Ghostbusters
4. A Perfect World

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE:
1. Arrested Development
2. Family Ties (or, as I like to call it, the Stephen Keaton show)
3. NBA playoffs
4. Quantum Leap

FOUR VACATION SPOTS I'D LOVE TO FREQUENT:
1. this is not an interesting question

FOUR WEBSITES I VISIT DAILY (read: when I have an hour to kill. read: weekly):
1. hamster
2. ace
3. ronald
4. 3 cow triangle

FOUR FOODS I LUST FOR:
1. mooleneum crunch
2. creamed spinach
3. royal rivera pears
4. guacamoles that feature high onion ratios

FOUR THINGS I CANNOT ACOMMODATE:
1. headspace for numbers: budgets, tax info, retirement funds, phone numbers, et al
2. a movie collection
3. somebody keeping me from rambling
4. forwards/chain letters/'tags'

Faster than lightening.

Friendly tip

Let's say you're an American malcontent (and who of us doesn't fit that bill, am I right? I have yet to get a 52" screen and my TeVo doesn't have as much memory as I need! Hello!) and you have decided that the vainglorious teachings of Mr. Allah are the ones you like the best. And let's say that, out of your enthusiasm for Mr. Allah ruling the world, you decide that you can best show you care by moving to a country where the government espouses Mr. Allah, too, and change your clothing to match and learn a new language (and learn to use a different currency! And how to look for just-ripe sheep brains in the local grocer!) If this is you (and I'm guessing it is), I have a couple of tips for you:


*Don't do it. You will probably be killed or violated or, at the very least, abducted in some way. You don't understand that world over there, no matter how much you've read or how much NPR you've heard. They are going to beat your ass.

*Instead, start a far-right mooslem movement right here in the good 'ol USA! You can have teas, and fund raising car washes, and Mr. Allah studies in your home. You can wear the authentic garb, and you can certainly buy sheep brains in an ethnic grocer somewhere downtown. Pretend to self-emmolate without having to go through with it! Write threatening letters to foreign leaders and mail them to yourself! All this is safe and quite doable here in the USA, where you won't be clamped down upon or even monitored, unless you use weird/angry Mr. Allah language over the telephone lines.

*Don't use weird/angry Mr. Allah language over the telephone lines.

*If you have a good sense of self, and don't really need to "show" anybody how great and true your beliefs are (and this will exclude most of you, I know, but I still have to say it...), then you should definitely try this: believe differently, but don't go around waving your beliefs in front of town hall or under the noses of para-military organizations. Things will just go better for you if you keep these things to yourself... and think of how subversive that will be! Everyone will assume you're a mall-going postmodern post-Christian who doesn't believe in much of anything except your inalienable rights, but YOU REALLY WILL. You'll have beliefs coming out the wazoo! Makes you feel pretty smart, huh? Yeah.

*If you refuse to hear the above tips, and you just HAVE to get over to Allahsgreatistan and be in Muhammad Jr.'s country of origin or whatever, then listen to me: I STRONGLY SUGGEST YOU GO OVER THERE WITH A SIZABLE DOSE OF INFORMATION ABOUT THE U.S. GOVERNMENT, OR NATIONAL SECURITY, OR SOME SUCH. If you don't do this, you will eventually be the target of some far-right mooslem (I know, I know), they will call you a "western dog", and you will be slowly forced through a food processor. You HAVE to make yourself necessary, if you want to go over there, I'm telling you. And DON'T TELL THEM ALL THE INFORMATION right up front. Dangle it, man. String it out. Use it to buy yourself time--the time with which you'll get to know their customs, sheep brains, currency, etc. We've been over this part.

*Happy Ramadan! Say hi to Akeem Olajuwon for me!

Don't Truss It

Remember when Patti LaBelle would amaze and horrify with her wickedly obscene hair which was ironed into all manner of convolutions?

And remember the terrible and frightening Studio line of hair care products, and the feaux-New Wave presentations those goos would conjure?

Well, the terror isn't over. It never could be. I recently saw a woman with the most unnatural red and white striped hair which was plastered into a fixed sheen, as if it'd been glazed next to native American pottery. Her head was a sort of museum installation. And I thought back to the hairdo that was marginally popular only a few years ago, and which still can be seen in some parts of rural Texas: the Headback Explosion. There are many things which I Cannot Believe, and certainly in that category is the thought that a woman would want her head to look as if it'd been shot out of a mortar cannon packed with dippety do. I think a Dixie Chick helped to popularize this look. The unsightly spikes jutting flamboyantly from the back of a head don't look disco, they sure don't look pettable, and they just don't look like she knows what's going on. They say, "I'm going solo today." And that's too bad.

So here's to you, Crazy Hair, both past AND present. (Why not?)

Kaboom!

I revel in Boomhauer, both as a friend to Hank and as a cartoon. He’s good with the ladies, has a commendable work ethic, was a high school football phenom, and gets it said with a mumble and a carefully chosen turn of phrase. Boomhauer—salut!

The human dynamo!

Women are phenomenal. They are the Taiwanese sweatshops of society: they do all the ignominious work that is required by normal human life (yes, they do) yet, because there’s a salaried front man, we have the insane desire to thank Tiger Woods for this shirt really wicking moisture right away! Gee thanks, Tiger Woods!



Imagine having your body inhabited by an additional person (as if you’re a physical schizophrenic; an amenable host to a cognizant parasite) for about a year, then receiving no recompense for that weirdness. Wouldn’t you feel on some level as valued as a used cocoon? Imagine women dressing scandalously or flirting excessively, then secretly hating themselves for playing to the male inclinations they most distrust and despise. Imagine lactating mothers, for crying out loud, inadvertently staining their own shirts at inopportune times. My God, is this any way to live? My sister has told me about these degradations. She is proud to be so necessary and provisional; she is grateful (maybe) to be of service (okay, “in a partnership” if you prefer) toward her husband and family in the care of the hatchlings; but she tires of being a receptacle. And surely she loathes these pestilent men who lust after her at a glance for no other reason than the fact that she is swollen. Imagine the traffic and congestion and emotional constipation produced by all these competing forces. They must feel to be adrift on stormy waters.

Well, God bless the complexity and peace of the Woman. And God bless my sister, while I’m on the subject: she’s just become pregnant with Child Five.

Nip it in the nub

I am in the process of cleaning all the usefulness out of a notebook’s worth of scribbles, so this is in there. I feel I posted this already one time, but I’m not sure, and I’m not about to go back and look. So here it is (again?):


You ever seen these guys who have some amazing physical disability but are seemingly getting along just fine? These people are all acrobatic wonders, to me, like that incredible and macabre woman, Joni, who painted (yet, even now, paints?) with her feet.

I just saw a guy who had maybe 3 inches of flesh past his elbow; this is exactly the situation experienced by my elementary school buddy, Brandon Yavonovic. Sometimes it’s like these people are showing off, or at least eternally auditioning, and want you to know that,
“Hey, I’m coping. I’ve worked it out. I’m getting along.”
“I can certainly see that! Look at all the tricks you’re doing with that nub!”
“I’ve earned my methods with pain.”
“Okay. But geez that bag looks heavy. Are you sure you should lift that with the nub? Doesn’t it hurt?”
“It all hurts, moron.”

I obviously can’t tell them when to stop (I mean, PAINTING!?), but I’m pretty impressed. I sometimes have trouble walking down stairs, and I have, in my lifetime, considered myself an athlete.

Tovaric!

Didi and I have gotten into the 24 BRAND action show, okay? That's just how it is. We're charmed by the well-meaning Jack Bower and his uncanny knack at getting in (and out!) of squeezes. The makers of this show, however, have seen fit to add a NAME to their program (please remember, I'm 3 years behind the culture: we're watching season 1). That name is Dennis Hopper. Good grief.

Please, anybody out there: with Hoosiers on one side (and Giant), please tell me anything PASSABLE this man has ever put on film. Please. I am always bemused when I consider people who've made careers out of being terrible at what they do (Keanu?), and Dennis fits the bill with terrible perfection. I believe the show's producers thought they needed some turtley old grump, but figured they couldn't afford Sean Connery, Anthony Hopkins would terrorize all the women on the set, and Robert Duvall would only do it if it had a strong "Christian" throughline. So we wind up with flipping Shooter. Holy smack, he's just terrible.

It is so on.

Just to make sure: I'm not part of this, am I? Everyone please promise me you'll keep me out of this.