Thursday, March 30, 2006

Dub Me Nervous

So, I didn’t put up the post about the Pogues that I wrote after the show two weeks ago. It topped out at 500 words, but I’ll give you a short summary. It went something like this:



So anyway, it was a fantastic show. Shane introduced every other song as “The Irish Rover,” even after they’d already played it. He also gave a shout out to Martin McDonagh, who is a helluva playwright. And I, apparently, was drunk.

Last weekend I celebrated my birthday up in Boston, along with my friends Janaka and Peter who are both 27 now, I think. Oh, they keep me young. Boston was fun as usual, but nothing terribly blogworthy happened, except that some yahoo stole my makeup bag and one shoe from my backpack while we were drinking whiskey at the Cellar. In place of these items I found a shitty demo cd by some kid from Denver named Travis. Travis, you homo, I’d like my stuff back please. Also, I hope you get pinkeye and athlete's foot.

I do have something exciting to report this week, but I’m trying not to make a big deal out if it, since I don’t want to muck it up and totally humiliate myself. But it looks as though in the next few days I’ll be interviewing a young man whose literary work I’ve been known to admire. My only goal is to not sound like I could be a guest host on the Chris Farley Show. Oh and also to make out with him.

If anyone has any extra Xanax, I will totally pay you for it.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Whiskey and Sunday and Tears on Our Cheeks

Being part Irish (especially the liver part), I feel I may speak frankly about St. Patrick’s Day, and, to be frank, it’s pretty annoying. I take a bit of umbrage at the “everybody’s Irish on Saint Patty’s day” attitude that floats, unchecked, across the nation on March 17. It’s not as if we’re spending today honoring the accomplishments of great Irish Americans like Bill O’Reilly and Donovan McNabb. We are not taking a moment of silence at noon to remember the victims of The Great Famine, or more recently, The Troubles. Instead, we dress ourselves in Kelly Green v-neck sweaters and plastic bowlers, drink beer and pinch people.

Imagine for a moment we had a holiday called Chief Geronimo Day, wherein everyone ran around scalping each other, claiming tribal land for the building of garish casinos and drank cocktails made of methyl alcohol and Ocean Spray cranberry juice.

Being part Native American (especially the liver part), I feel I speak for all of us when I say that actually, that sounds sort of badass. A lot more badass than four leaf clovers and green beer anyway. I guess what I’m getting at is: Why can’t St. Patrick’s Day be cooler? To illustrate my point, I've posted the image above, which is a still from the movie “Leprechaun in the Hood.” Look at how fucking scary that leprechaun is. Plus he’s in the mythical “hood,” birthplace of hip hop, Dolemite and breakdancing. See what I mean? Why can’t actual leprechauns be more like this?

However you decide to spend the holiday—be it drinking beer at a bar with friends, at home with your family, or by yourself in the dark with your phone off because your sponsor won’t stop calling—try to keep your dignity about you. Try to spend it cool.

On a related note: It seems I will be attending the sold-out Pogues show at the Nokia Theater on Sunday. Provided Shane McGowan lives that long. I am beyond excited. Details to follow.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

The Passion of the Alpaca

With Easter just around the corner, I’m gearing up to get my Christ on, and what better way to celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus than to shear the hair off a bunch of South American camel-like ungulates. That’s right: it’s alpaca-shaving time. At least, that’s how my mother is spending her Easter weekend and I long to join her. Let me know if you spot any cheap tickets to Eastern Iowa in the next of couple weeks.

To prepare the alpacas for shearing, true to the holiday, Mom will help lay them out and restrain them on long wooden planks, where they will then be stripped of their wool and dignity. Yet there is nothing Christ-like about the biting and spitting that my mother and her (Roman, Jewish) helpers will have to endure. When threatened, alpacas tend to go Old Testament.

But don’t worry: for every torturous shearing day that may or may not end with my mother losing a finger, there are scores of indulgent beauty pageant days.

You are a beautiful flower. You want to be a veterinarian. You play the euphonium like a dream.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

#1 Pet Peeve

The Unofficial Public Offering has done a great public service by explaining the correct and proper way to use the word "literally" in conversation.

Do yourself a favor and read Tim's latest post ("You make me laugh, Dwight Schrute.") so that you may avoid total public humiliation and a practical demonstration of the difference between "literal" and "figurative" visited by me, upon your ass, as in the following sentence: "I literally want to stab you with a ballpoint pen, or perhaps the sharpest key on my key ring, as we stand here, casually conversing."