James Bailey's Blog, page 7
February 3, 2018
The muddy fence
Every morning during the week, I wait for the school bus with my son out in front of our house. Yesterday morning something looked different. It took my brain half a second or so to process it, because it was so unexpected. An entire panel of my neighbor's fence had been turned from white to black.
Theirs is a corner house, and over the years they've been victims of a number of lawn jobs, which sadly seem to happen on a semi-regular basis here in Suburbia. This time, however, it appears to have been an inside job.
Those tracks in the snow come from the driveway, where I'm guessing someone was blocked in. There are five driver-age occupants there, requiring quite a bit of car shuffling at times. My working hypothesis is someone was parked in, decided it would be quicker to pull across the lawn than get the blocking vehicle moved, got stuck, and spun their tires until the sky rained mud.
I only wish I could have seen it, because it must have been spectacular. I mean, if you look close enough, you can see mud on the fence surrounding their pool in the backyard. How high must have it been arching through the air? I bet it was beautiful. In a dirty, muddy sort of way. And in the way that things like this are always more spectacular when it's not your fence.
Theirs is a corner house, and over the years they've been victims of a number of lawn jobs, which sadly seem to happen on a semi-regular basis here in Suburbia. This time, however, it appears to have been an inside job.Those tracks in the snow come from the driveway, where I'm guessing someone was blocked in. There are five driver-age occupants there, requiring quite a bit of car shuffling at times. My working hypothesis is someone was parked in, decided it would be quicker to pull across the lawn than get the blocking vehicle moved, got stuck, and spun their tires until the sky rained mud.
I only wish I could have seen it, because it must have been spectacular. I mean, if you look close enough, you can see mud on the fence surrounding their pool in the backyard. How high must have it been arching through the air? I bet it was beautiful. In a dirty, muddy sort of way. And in the way that things like this are always more spectacular when it's not your fence.
Every morning during the week, I wait for the school bus ...
Every morning during the week, I wait for the school bus with my son out in front of our house. Yesterday morning something looked different. It took my brain half a second or so to process it, because it was so unexpected. An entire panel of my neighbor's fence had been turned from white to black.
Theirs is a corner house, and over the years they've been victims of a number of lawn jobs, which sadly seem to happen on a semi-regular basis here in Suburbia. This time, however, it appears to have been an inside job.
Those tracks in the snow come from the driveway, where I'm guessing someone was blocked in. There are five driver-age occupants there, requiring quite a bit of car shuffling at times. My working hypothesis is someone was parked in, decided it would be quicker to pull across the lawn than get the blocking vehicle moved, got stuck, and spun their tires until the sky rained mud.
I only wish I could have seen it, because it must have been spectacular. I mean, if you look close enough, you can see mud on the fence surrounding their pool in the backyard. How high must have it been arching through the air? I bet it was beautiful. In a dirty, muddy sort of way. And in the way that things like this are always more spectacular when it's not your fence.
Theirs is a corner house, and over the years they've been victims of a number of lawn jobs, which sadly seem to happen on a semi-regular basis here in Suburbia. This time, however, it appears to have been an inside job.Those tracks in the snow come from the driveway, where I'm guessing someone was blocked in. There are five driver-age occupants there, requiring quite a bit of car shuffling at times. My working hypothesis is someone was parked in, decided it would be quicker to pull across the lawn than get the blocking vehicle moved, got stuck, and spun their tires until the sky rained mud.
I only wish I could have seen it, because it must have been spectacular. I mean, if you look close enough, you can see mud on the fence surrounding their pool in the backyard. How high must have it been arching through the air? I bet it was beautiful. In a dirty, muddy sort of way. And in the way that things like this are always more spectacular when it's not your fence.
December 19, 2017
A little bit of everything on my 2017 reading list
For a few years, earlier this decade, I read baseball books almost exclusively. I reviewed them both for my own blog and for Baseball America. I cranked through baseball biographies, season recaps, offbeat observations, novels, and minor-league-chasing-the-dream tales. Some of them were quite good; most, in the grand scheme of things, were somewhat forgettable. Inevitably, I got burned out on baseball books. In looking back on my reading list for 2017, there's not a single one in the bunch.
There's not really much of a theme to this year's list at all. I had a few re-reads, especially early, a couple of which were prompted by the political dystopia we were plunged into after the catastrophic 2016 election. Others I plucked off the shelf on a whim, some of which had been sitting for years, never read, waiting for the moment I would finally get to them. Here they are, roughly in chronological reading order.
The Ball is Round, by David Goldblatt. This was a Christmas gift from my wife's aunt and uncle. After years of meat thermometers and strap wrenches, I finally didn't have to feign my enthusiasm when thanking them. I am a relative newcomer to soccer (football), having gotten hooked on the Premier League 4-5 seasons ago. The history of the game is a big blind spot for me. This book filled in a lot of it. And will fill in even more when I finish it. I set it aside a couple of times because it was so long and I progressed so slowly through it that other books or tasks took priority. I will get back to it. Someday. It's a good read and deserves to be finished.
All the President's Men, by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. (Re-read) I'd read this one at least twice before, originally back in college for a journalism class. How better to inspire a new generation of reporters? It took on a new relevance with the inauguration of a man who makes Nixon look like a boy scout by comparison. The most striking contrast between then and now is 40 years ago Congress had the balls to stand up for what is right. Eventually. They did drag their heels at first, but nothing like the present-day gang.
1984, by George Orwell. (Re-read) Sadly, this one is much more relevant now than when I originally read it years ago. The CDC's banned-words list is right out of the Big Brother playbook. We have always been at war with Eastasia. Don't let anyone from the liberal #fakenews media tell you otherwise.
The Late George Apley, by John P. Marquand. I mentioned this book in a 2016 post about Pulitzer Prize winners, as one I had never actually read despite purchasing it years earlier. I finally cracked it open and made it all the way to the end, nudging my Pulitzer total up to 5. It wasn't the most action-packed book I've ever read, but it was kind of creatively done as being told in letters that almost lent it a genealogical feel. My ancestors weren't quite as well off as the Apleys, and were hopefully somewhat less snooty as well.
The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad. This was another one that had been languishing unloved on the shelf for years. I may have even bought it the same day as George Apley, for all I remember. I used to spend a lot more time in used book stores in the old days, stashing away titles for some day. This was my first Conrad novel, and it may be some time before I attempt a second. It's dense stuff, and while there was more action than George Apley, that's not saying much. Conrad didn't bother making his protagonist very likable, and I wasn't much broken up when his wife killed him. He had it coming.
Slam, by Nick Hornby. (Re-read.) I'm a big Hornby fan, and this may actually be my favorite. I think I like it more now than when I read it the first time. I still don't really get the whole talking Tony Hawk poster bit, or the time travel part, but it's well told and the bits that are meant to be funny are funny. Sam's a good character with an authentic voice. I'll re-read it yet again someday, no doubt.
The Book of Joe, by Jonathan Tropper. (Re-read.) I think the rule is if you re-read a Hornby you have to re-read a Tropper as well, just to keep things even. This was the first Tropper book I read, probably 12-13 years ago now. It's not my favorite of his, but it's pretty solid. I was amazed how much of the detail I had forgotten. I remembered the basics about the main characters and very little beyond that. It was almost like reading it for the first time.
The Stranger, by Albert Camus. This is another that was collecting dust on the shelf forever before getting read. I blogged about it in September, when I finally finished it, more than 30 years after starting. A protagonist even less likable than Conrad's secret agent, but then again, warm-and-fuzzy wasn't really Camus' thing.
How Not To Be a Boy, by Robert Webb. The only brand new book on the list, I actually preordered this from Amazon.uk. I've been a Webb fan since That Mitchell and Webb Look. He's funny and seems like a good human (at least based off his Twitter feed), so I was intrigued by the concept of a memoir breaking down all the ways we raise boys (and girls) to behave based on gender roles. It was funny in places and sad in others. I enjoyed it overall, but maybe only 4 out of 5 stars worth.
Split Images, by Elmore Leonard. I've seen multiple writers over the years point to Leonard as someone who knows how to omit the boring bits that readers don't want to read anyway. So when I found this at a library sale, I figured it might be informative as well as entertaining. And it was, to a point. Leaving out the boring bits results in a lot of dialogue, which is all well and good, but some of it wasn't ... convincing? The story overall didn't really hook me, either. I mean, it was fast-paced and I did get through it in relatively good time, but something about an arrogant rich guy who murders people to rid the world of scumbags just didn't work for me. I might give Leonard another shot, but I can't see re-reading this one.
Everything (A Book About Manic Street Preachers), by Simon Price. The Manics are the band that I can't quite figure out how I missed when they broke in back in the '90s. I mean, they didn't really break big in the States, so I'll use that as my excuse, but they would have been right in my wheelhouse. I've been making up for lost time the last couple of years, collecting most of their albums and listening frequently and repeatedly. But I didn't know a lot about them. I found a copy of Everything on eBay to fill in the gaps, at least up until the late '90s (first five albums). The cover includes a Guardian quote deeming it the "Rock Book of the Decade." I'll second that, and give it my Best Book of the Year nod. I learned a lot and was sorry to get to the end.
The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Back in high school, my friends and I would rent Humphrey Bogart movies and watch a couple on a Friday or Saturday night (yes, we were living large). I'm sure The Big Sleep was among them. But despite enjoying several Philip Marlowe flicks, I never read any of Chandler's books. This was one of my favorites of the year. Chandler definitely keeps things moving, with plenty of twists so you don't see it all coming in advance. I read all of Marlowe's lines in a Bogart voice (in my head, not out loud), with a lot of black and white scenery unfolding in the background. I actually kind of miss reading it now that I'm done. More Chandler, please.
The Silkworm, by Robert Galbraith (aka J.K. Rowling). I read The Cuckoo's Calling a couple years ago, and while it's very different from the Harry Potter books, Rowling's gift for story telling and characters is present no matter what she writes. I found The Silkworm in the discount book bin at Tops last week and snatched it right up. I'm about halfway through so far and it's as entertaining as I expected it would be, though the description of how Owen Quine's body was found, well, yuck, I could have done without that image. Or most of the recap from the Bombyx Mori (the story within the story). Clearly, Voldemort wasn't the most disturbing creature roaming around Rowling's mind.
There's not really much of a theme to this year's list at all. I had a few re-reads, especially early, a couple of which were prompted by the political dystopia we were plunged into after the catastrophic 2016 election. Others I plucked off the shelf on a whim, some of which had been sitting for years, never read, waiting for the moment I would finally get to them. Here they are, roughly in chronological reading order.
The Ball is Round, by David Goldblatt. This was a Christmas gift from my wife's aunt and uncle. After years of meat thermometers and strap wrenches, I finally didn't have to feign my enthusiasm when thanking them. I am a relative newcomer to soccer (football), having gotten hooked on the Premier League 4-5 seasons ago. The history of the game is a big blind spot for me. This book filled in a lot of it. And will fill in even more when I finish it. I set it aside a couple of times because it was so long and I progressed so slowly through it that other books or tasks took priority. I will get back to it. Someday. It's a good read and deserves to be finished.
All the President's Men, by Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. (Re-read) I'd read this one at least twice before, originally back in college for a journalism class. How better to inspire a new generation of reporters? It took on a new relevance with the inauguration of a man who makes Nixon look like a boy scout by comparison. The most striking contrast between then and now is 40 years ago Congress had the balls to stand up for what is right. Eventually. They did drag their heels at first, but nothing like the present-day gang.
1984, by George Orwell. (Re-read) Sadly, this one is much more relevant now than when I originally read it years ago. The CDC's banned-words list is right out of the Big Brother playbook. We have always been at war with Eastasia. Don't let anyone from the liberal #fakenews media tell you otherwise.
The Late George Apley, by John P. Marquand. I mentioned this book in a 2016 post about Pulitzer Prize winners, as one I had never actually read despite purchasing it years earlier. I finally cracked it open and made it all the way to the end, nudging my Pulitzer total up to 5. It wasn't the most action-packed book I've ever read, but it was kind of creatively done as being told in letters that almost lent it a genealogical feel. My ancestors weren't quite as well off as the Apleys, and were hopefully somewhat less snooty as well.
The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad. This was another one that had been languishing unloved on the shelf for years. I may have even bought it the same day as George Apley, for all I remember. I used to spend a lot more time in used book stores in the old days, stashing away titles for some day. This was my first Conrad novel, and it may be some time before I attempt a second. It's dense stuff, and while there was more action than George Apley, that's not saying much. Conrad didn't bother making his protagonist very likable, and I wasn't much broken up when his wife killed him. He had it coming.
Slam, by Nick Hornby. (Re-read.) I'm a big Hornby fan, and this may actually be my favorite. I think I like it more now than when I read it the first time. I still don't really get the whole talking Tony Hawk poster bit, or the time travel part, but it's well told and the bits that are meant to be funny are funny. Sam's a good character with an authentic voice. I'll re-read it yet again someday, no doubt.
The Book of Joe, by Jonathan Tropper. (Re-read.) I think the rule is if you re-read a Hornby you have to re-read a Tropper as well, just to keep things even. This was the first Tropper book I read, probably 12-13 years ago now. It's not my favorite of his, but it's pretty solid. I was amazed how much of the detail I had forgotten. I remembered the basics about the main characters and very little beyond that. It was almost like reading it for the first time.
The Stranger, by Albert Camus. This is another that was collecting dust on the shelf forever before getting read. I blogged about it in September, when I finally finished it, more than 30 years after starting. A protagonist even less likable than Conrad's secret agent, but then again, warm-and-fuzzy wasn't really Camus' thing.
How Not To Be a Boy, by Robert Webb. The only brand new book on the list, I actually preordered this from Amazon.uk. I've been a Webb fan since That Mitchell and Webb Look. He's funny and seems like a good human (at least based off his Twitter feed), so I was intrigued by the concept of a memoir breaking down all the ways we raise boys (and girls) to behave based on gender roles. It was funny in places and sad in others. I enjoyed it overall, but maybe only 4 out of 5 stars worth.
Split Images, by Elmore Leonard. I've seen multiple writers over the years point to Leonard as someone who knows how to omit the boring bits that readers don't want to read anyway. So when I found this at a library sale, I figured it might be informative as well as entertaining. And it was, to a point. Leaving out the boring bits results in a lot of dialogue, which is all well and good, but some of it wasn't ... convincing? The story overall didn't really hook me, either. I mean, it was fast-paced and I did get through it in relatively good time, but something about an arrogant rich guy who murders people to rid the world of scumbags just didn't work for me. I might give Leonard another shot, but I can't see re-reading this one.
Everything (A Book About Manic Street Preachers), by Simon Price. The Manics are the band that I can't quite figure out how I missed when they broke in back in the '90s. I mean, they didn't really break big in the States, so I'll use that as my excuse, but they would have been right in my wheelhouse. I've been making up for lost time the last couple of years, collecting most of their albums and listening frequently and repeatedly. But I didn't know a lot about them. I found a copy of Everything on eBay to fill in the gaps, at least up until the late '90s (first five albums). The cover includes a Guardian quote deeming it the "Rock Book of the Decade." I'll second that, and give it my Best Book of the Year nod. I learned a lot and was sorry to get to the end.
The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Back in high school, my friends and I would rent Humphrey Bogart movies and watch a couple on a Friday or Saturday night (yes, we were living large). I'm sure The Big Sleep was among them. But despite enjoying several Philip Marlowe flicks, I never read any of Chandler's books. This was one of my favorites of the year. Chandler definitely keeps things moving, with plenty of twists so you don't see it all coming in advance. I read all of Marlowe's lines in a Bogart voice (in my head, not out loud), with a lot of black and white scenery unfolding in the background. I actually kind of miss reading it now that I'm done. More Chandler, please.
The Silkworm, by Robert Galbraith (aka J.K. Rowling). I read The Cuckoo's Calling a couple years ago, and while it's very different from the Harry Potter books, Rowling's gift for story telling and characters is present no matter what she writes. I found The Silkworm in the discount book bin at Tops last week and snatched it right up. I'm about halfway through so far and it's as entertaining as I expected it would be, though the description of how Owen Quine's body was found, well, yuck, I could have done without that image. Or most of the recap from the Bombyx Mori (the story within the story). Clearly, Voldemort wasn't the most disturbing creature roaming around Rowling's mind.
December 2, 2017
Christmas is the time to say Billy Squier rocks
We are now officially into December, which means Christmas music is fair game. Go ahead and tune in that station on your radio that plays Christmas tunes 24/7. We started the Christmas dance party at our house this afternoon. It will continue, Christmas ale willing, for the next 3 1/2 weeks.
And the song we were all jonesing for was ... "Christmas Is the Time To Say I Love You," by Billy Squier. Why? Because it's the best Christmas song. Ever. No debate. Sorry. If you disagree, it's because you're wrong. It rocks, it's sentimental, it's Billy Fucking Squier. Enough. Why are we still talking about this?
And in case you were curious, here are the top 10 Christmas songs, ever.
2. Fairy Tale of New York, The Pogues. I have to confess I quite like the KT Tunstall version, but you have to give credit to the original, and the Pogues are the ones who introduced us to the seamy, underworld side of the holiday. And for that we owe them a huge debt.
3. Do They Know It's Christmas, Bandaid. It was for a great cause, and it's a great song. If your favorite '80s artist was not involved, they were probably not worthy of your admiration. It's catchy, and you love to sing along to it. No, it's not snowing in Africa. It's not going to. That's not the point. But please, don't play me the remake, which is Christmas Shoes bad.
4. Father Christmas, The Kinks. You could make an argument this should be higher on the list. You can't make an argument it should be lower. Father Christmas, give us some money, don't mess around with those silly toys. We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over. Let's not pretend anyone else gets to the heart of the matter more succinctly than the Kinks.
5. Christmas Wrapping, The Waitresses. Technically, they might not be a one-hit wonder, but we'll wait for you to name their other hit. This is the one still paying their mortgages. From the subtle bells to the tell-tale guitar, by the time they crank the bass intro you're already dancing. It's been rocking Christmas for 36 years now and there are no signs of it slowing down any time soon.
6. Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas, John Denver. Confession: I grew up on John Denver, and this song was always a favorite with me and my sisters. No, my dad didn't get dead drunk every Christmas Eve. It wasn't personal. We just loved it. The only reason you don't is you didn't grow up in a John Denver household. Not my fault. Ever heard of YouTube? Get on it.
7. Christmas Ghost, Manic Street Preachers. Christmas is perhaps the most nostalgic time of the year, and this song is pure nostaglia for my generation. It is Christmas in the '70s. And it rocks, because that's what the Manics do.
8. The Twelve Days of Christmas, Bob & Doug McKenzie. Speaking of nostalgia, this song used to be a holiday staple. Now you might hear it once every December. Let's face it, the original Twelve Days of Christmas ... sucks. It deserved to be parodied. And the McKenzie brothers did it up right. Give me a beer in a tree, and you can keep most of the rest.
9. Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Bruce Springsteen. If you listen to any classic rock station anywhere in America, you will hear this repeatedly in December. And that's okay. The Boss got it right.
10. Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer, Elmo & Patsy. It's funny. Laugh. Even if you're a grandma. But maybe keep an eye out walking home. You never know.
And the song we were all jonesing for was ... "Christmas Is the Time To Say I Love You," by Billy Squier. Why? Because it's the best Christmas song. Ever. No debate. Sorry. If you disagree, it's because you're wrong. It rocks, it's sentimental, it's Billy Fucking Squier. Enough. Why are we still talking about this?
And in case you were curious, here are the top 10 Christmas songs, ever.
2. Fairy Tale of New York, The Pogues. I have to confess I quite like the KT Tunstall version, but you have to give credit to the original, and the Pogues are the ones who introduced us to the seamy, underworld side of the holiday. And for that we owe them a huge debt.
3. Do They Know It's Christmas, Bandaid. It was for a great cause, and it's a great song. If your favorite '80s artist was not involved, they were probably not worthy of your admiration. It's catchy, and you love to sing along to it. No, it's not snowing in Africa. It's not going to. That's not the point. But please, don't play me the remake, which is Christmas Shoes bad.
4. Father Christmas, The Kinks. You could make an argument this should be higher on the list. You can't make an argument it should be lower. Father Christmas, give us some money, don't mess around with those silly toys. We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over. Let's not pretend anyone else gets to the heart of the matter more succinctly than the Kinks.
5. Christmas Wrapping, The Waitresses. Technically, they might not be a one-hit wonder, but we'll wait for you to name their other hit. This is the one still paying their mortgages. From the subtle bells to the tell-tale guitar, by the time they crank the bass intro you're already dancing. It's been rocking Christmas for 36 years now and there are no signs of it slowing down any time soon.
6. Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas, John Denver. Confession: I grew up on John Denver, and this song was always a favorite with me and my sisters. No, my dad didn't get dead drunk every Christmas Eve. It wasn't personal. We just loved it. The only reason you don't is you didn't grow up in a John Denver household. Not my fault. Ever heard of YouTube? Get on it.
7. Christmas Ghost, Manic Street Preachers. Christmas is perhaps the most nostalgic time of the year, and this song is pure nostaglia for my generation. It is Christmas in the '70s. And it rocks, because that's what the Manics do.
8. The Twelve Days of Christmas, Bob & Doug McKenzie. Speaking of nostalgia, this song used to be a holiday staple. Now you might hear it once every December. Let's face it, the original Twelve Days of Christmas ... sucks. It deserved to be parodied. And the McKenzie brothers did it up right. Give me a beer in a tree, and you can keep most of the rest.
9. Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Bruce Springsteen. If you listen to any classic rock station anywhere in America, you will hear this repeatedly in December. And that's okay. The Boss got it right.
10. Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer, Elmo & Patsy. It's funny. Laugh. Even if you're a grandma. But maybe keep an eye out walking home. You never know.
November 3, 2017
Why I hate Dude Perfect
Back in the middle ages, when I was in elementary school, word of mouth was how we learned of new TV shows we *had* to watch. Of course, there were only three channels back then, or at least only three with any shows we would have been discussing on the playground. I'm pretty sure we didn't waste much breath on PBS programming. In our house, at least, we were already plenty familiar with the lineup: Sesame Street, Electric Company, Mister Rogers, ZOOM. It was time to move beyond that. I remember feeling particularly rebellious about wanting to watch CHIPS. I had to see what all the talk was about. Who was this Ponch guy, anyway?
My son doesn't come home talking about TV shows. It's YouTube videos these days. I'm not sure which of his pals I can thank for turning him on to Dude Perfect (though I have a guess). If you're so fortunate as to not be on first name terms with Coby, Cody, Cory, Stinky, and Clyde (okay, I can't remember the last two at the moment, but give me a minute and they'll come to me), let me ruin it for you. Dude Perfect isn't one guy, it's five. Five human cartoon characters who spend all day filming trick shots and bottle flips, and screaming like ninnies when they pull one off. Which is every shot in the videos they post, because why bother showing the 999 fuckups that came beforehand?
Apparently, they've been at it for at least four years now. I know this, because when I googled "Is Dude Perfect Fake," the first links that came up were from 2013 and 2014, by which point people were already skeptical. (Interesting aside: I only typed in "Is Dude" when the first option on Google's autofill suggested "Is Dude Perfect Fake," so I'm not the first to have wondered.) In the dudes' defense, the consensus seems to be that most of their stunts are likely legit, though there is the question of how many times they tried something before getting it right. I mean, I could stand on my neighbor's roof and kick a soccer ball at my basketball hoop and if I try it enough times, eventually I'll make it. I might even jump and shout in celebration, too, though hopefully with enough caution I wouldn't fall off the neighbor's roof and break my neck.
It's the jumping and shouting after accomplishing any trick, simple or otherwise, that is now driving me up the wall. My son, of course, spends most of his free time emulating the dudes, and when he perfects a shot, or just gets lucky, or even simply manages to knock a Pringles can over with a tennis ball on the eighth try, he celebrates like he just won the Super Bowl.
And guess what he wants to be when he grows up now? He's calculated that the dudes will all be about my age by the time he's their age (mid-20s is his guess, though the beardy one looks a little older to me), and they might be ready to move on by then, or at least be edged out by a new trick wizard. Which is where he comes in. I'm hoping this dream will soon go the way of his previous career choices: super hero, ninja, and Premier League footballer (which, truth be told, I would love, but since he's "retired" from soccer at the tender age of 7, this will require a comeback). I'm still working on selling scientist as an appealing option, and he's mildly receptive, so there's hope. If I could just nudge him toward some Bill Nye videos, we'd be in business.
My son doesn't come home talking about TV shows. It's YouTube videos these days. I'm not sure which of his pals I can thank for turning him on to Dude Perfect (though I have a guess). If you're so fortunate as to not be on first name terms with Coby, Cody, Cory, Stinky, and Clyde (okay, I can't remember the last two at the moment, but give me a minute and they'll come to me), let me ruin it for you. Dude Perfect isn't one guy, it's five. Five human cartoon characters who spend all day filming trick shots and bottle flips, and screaming like ninnies when they pull one off. Which is every shot in the videos they post, because why bother showing the 999 fuckups that came beforehand?
Apparently, they've been at it for at least four years now. I know this, because when I googled "Is Dude Perfect Fake," the first links that came up were from 2013 and 2014, by which point people were already skeptical. (Interesting aside: I only typed in "Is Dude" when the first option on Google's autofill suggested "Is Dude Perfect Fake," so I'm not the first to have wondered.) In the dudes' defense, the consensus seems to be that most of their stunts are likely legit, though there is the question of how many times they tried something before getting it right. I mean, I could stand on my neighbor's roof and kick a soccer ball at my basketball hoop and if I try it enough times, eventually I'll make it. I might even jump and shout in celebration, too, though hopefully with enough caution I wouldn't fall off the neighbor's roof and break my neck.
It's the jumping and shouting after accomplishing any trick, simple or otherwise, that is now driving me up the wall. My son, of course, spends most of his free time emulating the dudes, and when he perfects a shot, or just gets lucky, or even simply manages to knock a Pringles can over with a tennis ball on the eighth try, he celebrates like he just won the Super Bowl.
And guess what he wants to be when he grows up now? He's calculated that the dudes will all be about my age by the time he's their age (mid-20s is his guess, though the beardy one looks a little older to me), and they might be ready to move on by then, or at least be edged out by a new trick wizard. Which is where he comes in. I'm hoping this dream will soon go the way of his previous career choices: super hero, ninja, and Premier League footballer (which, truth be told, I would love, but since he's "retired" from soccer at the tender age of 7, this will require a comeback). I'm still working on selling scientist as an appealing option, and he's mildly receptive, so there's hope. If I could just nudge him toward some Bill Nye videos, we'd be in business.
October 3, 2017
Heartbroken: A near-miss Tom Petty experience
On any other day, the news about Tom Petty would have hit me like a punch in the gut. By yesterday afternoon, however, I was already doubled over by the Las Vegas shooting. The initial conflicting reports on Petty's status left me more dazed and confused than anything. Sadly, his death was eventually confirmed, sealing Oct. 2 as a day to live in infamy. With so many mass shootings in an America unwilling to do anything to risk irking gun fanatics, the calendar is quickly filling with haunting anniversaries.
Amidst the flurry of Las Vegas tweets, I saw a number from Petty fans, sharing remembrances or links to favorite songs. I have more of a near-miss story to share, about his 40th Anniversary tour this summer. My son, 7, became quite the Tom Petty fan this spring, tapping into my CD collection from Into the Great Wide Open all the way back to Damn the Torpedoes. We listened and listened, in the house and car. And when my wife let slip that Tom Petty was coming to town (or near enough), he went insane. We tried to put him off by telling him the show was sold out (it wasn't), and he melted down. Being suckers, we went online and bought tickets, on the lawn at CMAC in Canandaigua.
And sulk. Which 7-year-olds who can't see the stage do very well. As the minutes went by, it became apparent we were in a no-win situation. We could stay to hear the concert and deal with the tears. Or we could abort the mission, and eat the cost of the tickets (~$300 for 3, including the usual fees and surcharges). As Peter Wolf took his bow, we started the slow march for the exit. By the time Tom Petty took the stage, we were halfway home.
My son blames Tom Petty, who was certainly not responsible for our experience. But because it was "his fault" we suddenly stopped listening to his CDs. No more "You Got Lucky," no more "Refugee," no more "Learning to Fly." Now suddenly I have a reason to listen to them all again. I wish I didn't.
Tom Petty was a constant in a world of variables. I remember hearing his music on the radio when I was not much older than my son, seeing his videos on MTV, back when they played videos. He seemed to get more popular the older he got, absolutely exploding in the '90s. Even when I stopped paying attention, he kept on cranking out hits, there waiting for us to find when we went into pre-concert prep mode. And now he's gone, and we'll never have a chance at a makeup date. All we'll have is our story of the night we almost saw him, and a stack of damn good CDs.
Amidst the flurry of Las Vegas tweets, I saw a number from Petty fans, sharing remembrances or links to favorite songs. I have more of a near-miss story to share, about his 40th Anniversary tour this summer. My son, 7, became quite the Tom Petty fan this spring, tapping into my CD collection from Into the Great Wide Open all the way back to Damn the Torpedoes. We listened and listened, in the house and car. And when my wife let slip that Tom Petty was coming to town (or near enough), he went insane. We tried to put him off by telling him the show was sold out (it wasn't), and he melted down. Being suckers, we went online and bought tickets, on the lawn at CMAC in Canandaigua.
And sulk. Which 7-year-olds who can't see the stage do very well. As the minutes went by, it became apparent we were in a no-win situation. We could stay to hear the concert and deal with the tears. Or we could abort the mission, and eat the cost of the tickets (~$300 for 3, including the usual fees and surcharges). As Peter Wolf took his bow, we started the slow march for the exit. By the time Tom Petty took the stage, we were halfway home.
My son blames Tom Petty, who was certainly not responsible for our experience. But because it was "his fault" we suddenly stopped listening to his CDs. No more "You Got Lucky," no more "Refugee," no more "Learning to Fly." Now suddenly I have a reason to listen to them all again. I wish I didn't.
Tom Petty was a constant in a world of variables. I remember hearing his music on the radio when I was not much older than my son, seeing his videos on MTV, back when they played videos. He seemed to get more popular the older he got, absolutely exploding in the '90s. Even when I stopped paying attention, he kept on cranking out hits, there waiting for us to find when we went into pre-concert prep mode. And now he's gone, and we'll never have a chance at a makeup date. All we'll have is our story of the night we almost saw him, and a stack of damn good CDs.
September 28, 2017
Radio Wales loses a top man, DJ Alan Thompson
In a parallel universe, I live in Wales. I haven't pinned the city down, but it looks a bit like Barry. Which makes sense, given my vision of Wales comes mainly from Gavin & Stacey, and later Stella, which were both filmed in and around Barry. The pace of life suits me, at least as I imagine it. Which again may not match reality. Never been, though we are planning a UK trip for 2019, to include plenty of time in Wales*.
I spend a chunk of most workdays in Wales, via BBC stream. I got into the habit a few years ago of tuning in to BBC Wales every morning as I work. It's not the music so much as the people, which is ironic, because my major beef with U.S. radio is they talk too much and don't play enough music. But there's just something about the discussion on BBC Wales, particularly during Eleri Sion's afternoon show, which is on for me during the morning as we're five hours behind here in Rochester, N.Y. Listening is an escape, which I need more than ever given how awful most of the news is these days. I try my hand at the daily 2:45 Teaser (at 9:45 my time) and listen to Eleri's regular guests provide veterinarian and general practitioner advice, tips on allotment gardening, TV hits and misses on Mondays, and movie reviews on Fridays. And every Wednesday, DJ Alan Thompson stops by to talk music, presenting something new, something old, and something gold. And to wind Eleri up like an older brother might.
I froze. It hit me like the news last Christmas when George Michael died. Only this was more personal. This was a friendly voice every Wednesday morning. A guy only six years older than me. A genuinely lovely man I'd have dug sitting with in a pub and soaking up his stories about meeting Paul McCartney or interviewing Blondie or Paul Weller or any of the other hundreds of people he's talked with over the years. Many of whom he name dropped whenever he could squeeze them in on his Wednesday visits.
One of my favorite names to hear him drop was Rob Brydon, whom I know through Gavin & Stacey, as well as some of his other programs over the years. Rob, like Alan, seems to be a genuinely good guy, so it only made sense they were longtime friends, having worked together years ago on Friday night radio. Rob posted what were probably two of the toughest tweets he's ever typed out today, offering his condolences to Alan's family "and all that loved him."
Something tells me "all that loved him" includes quite a few people who may never have met him face to face, but only via the airwaves (or online stream). He will be missed, even here, thousands of miles and an ocean away.
*Note: I'm not Welsh. My father's ancestors came from England, though they emigrated to America in the 1600s.
I spend a chunk of most workdays in Wales, via BBC stream. I got into the habit a few years ago of tuning in to BBC Wales every morning as I work. It's not the music so much as the people, which is ironic, because my major beef with U.S. radio is they talk too much and don't play enough music. But there's just something about the discussion on BBC Wales, particularly during Eleri Sion's afternoon show, which is on for me during the morning as we're five hours behind here in Rochester, N.Y. Listening is an escape, which I need more than ever given how awful most of the news is these days. I try my hand at the daily 2:45 Teaser (at 9:45 my time) and listen to Eleri's regular guests provide veterinarian and general practitioner advice, tips on allotment gardening, TV hits and misses on Mondays, and movie reviews on Fridays. And every Wednesday, DJ Alan Thompson stops by to talk music, presenting something new, something old, and something gold. And to wind Eleri up like an older brother might.
I froze. It hit me like the news last Christmas when George Michael died. Only this was more personal. This was a friendly voice every Wednesday morning. A guy only six years older than me. A genuinely lovely man I'd have dug sitting with in a pub and soaking up his stories about meeting Paul McCartney or interviewing Blondie or Paul Weller or any of the other hundreds of people he's talked with over the years. Many of whom he name dropped whenever he could squeeze them in on his Wednesday visits.
One of my favorite names to hear him drop was Rob Brydon, whom I know through Gavin & Stacey, as well as some of his other programs over the years. Rob, like Alan, seems to be a genuinely good guy, so it only made sense they were longtime friends, having worked together years ago on Friday night radio. Rob posted what were probably two of the toughest tweets he's ever typed out today, offering his condolences to Alan's family "and all that loved him."
Something tells me "all that loved him" includes quite a few people who may never have met him face to face, but only via the airwaves (or online stream). He will be missed, even here, thousands of miles and an ocean away.
*Note: I'm not Welsh. My father's ancestors came from England, though they emigrated to America in the 1600s.
September 27, 2017
Sleep or die!
I don't get enough sleep. I'm not sure I ever have. I average about 6 hours a night, and it's not uncommon to dip below that for 2-3 nights in a row, which inevitably catches up. It's a combination of trouble falling/staying asleep, and staying up too late because night time is the only time I have to get things done. Like writing, for example. If I didn't stay up after my son goes to bed, I'd never have time to write.
A story in the Guardian this week has me re-examining my routine. Called The shorter your sleep, the shorter your life: the new sleep science, it echoes a number of other studies I've seen over the years (and recognizing I fall into the category they're describing, I generally click through when I see such headlines). In summary, the brain and body need X number of hours of sleep each night to clear out all the crap that accumulates throughout the day. By depriving your brain and body of this opportunity, you massively increase your chances of cancer, dementia (including Alzheimer's), diabetes, obesity-related issues, and on and on. It's not happy stuff to think about.
I was determined Monday (the day I read the Guardian article) to get to bed earlier and get more sleep. My target was to head upstairs by 10:00, ready for bed by 10:15, read for half an hour, lights out by 10:45 (exactly 7 hours before the alarm goes off). I wound up going upstairs at 10:20, ready to read by 10:43, lights out at 11:09. Then I couldn't fall asleep, probably because I couldn't stop thinking about how badly I needed to fall asleep. It was well past 12:30 before I finally stopped tossing and turning and drifted off.
Tuesday night, however, I hit all my marks, and fell asleep quickly, getting nearly the full 7 hours. So, there's 1 night in a row of good (for me, anyway) sleep. It's a start.
A story in the Guardian this week has me re-examining my routine. Called The shorter your sleep, the shorter your life: the new sleep science, it echoes a number of other studies I've seen over the years (and recognizing I fall into the category they're describing, I generally click through when I see such headlines). In summary, the brain and body need X number of hours of sleep each night to clear out all the crap that accumulates throughout the day. By depriving your brain and body of this opportunity, you massively increase your chances of cancer, dementia (including Alzheimer's), diabetes, obesity-related issues, and on and on. It's not happy stuff to think about.
I was determined Monday (the day I read the Guardian article) to get to bed earlier and get more sleep. My target was to head upstairs by 10:00, ready for bed by 10:15, read for half an hour, lights out by 10:45 (exactly 7 hours before the alarm goes off). I wound up going upstairs at 10:20, ready to read by 10:43, lights out at 11:09. Then I couldn't fall asleep, probably because I couldn't stop thinking about how badly I needed to fall asleep. It was well past 12:30 before I finally stopped tossing and turning and drifted off.
Tuesday night, however, I hit all my marks, and fell asleep quickly, getting nearly the full 7 hours. So, there's 1 night in a row of good (for me, anyway) sleep. It's a start.
September 12, 2017
Albert Camus, don't be a stranger
I finally finished The Stranger by Albert Camus last night, a mere 30 years after I started it. At a tidy 154 pages, that works out to an average of just over 5 pages a year. I wasn't working all that hard at it for most of that time.I was in high school when I started it, though technically I was reading L'Etranger back then. Or was supposed to be. It was part of my independent study in French, which I signed up for because I needed an easy elective. Not that French came easy to me. Just that the class was, with the teacher a notable pushover. By that point I had taken two years of high school French (on top of two in junior high), and had dropped it twice. I kept coming back to it, because it was only marginally tougher than a free period as we upper classmen were left alone to do our work (or not) in the back of the class while M. Langley taught the freshmen and sophomores.
At some point I struck upon the genius idea of checking the English version of The Stranger out of the library and "helping" myself through the French with the translation. Which worked fine until M. Langley snuck up on me one day while I had the wrong version open during class. I don't think he bought my explanation that I was just trying to confirm I'd understood what I'd read in the French text. He may have been a pushover, but he hadn't been lobotomized.
Shortly after that I gave up on reading Camus, in French or English. Gauging by how little I recalled of the story when I read it this time around, I'll estimate I made it as far as Chapter 2 the first time around.
But I always meant to finish. Or at least I'd thought about it at some point before now. And thanks to the receipt I found in the paperback copy that was on my bookshelf, I thought about it enough on Nov. 12, 2005, to plunk down 75 cents in a used book store. It was one of seven books I added to my collection that day. I can only guess what the other six were, though odds are pretty good they are all still on my shelf as well. Back in the day I would often spend a half hour or more scanning the shelves of second-hand book shops, looking for titles to stash away for whenever I might need something to read. Twelve years later, I finally got around to Camus.
I'm not sure it was worth the wait, to be honest. It was a quick read, once I got going in earnest, but it's not a book where one identifies much with the main character, which is sort of by design. He's not meant to be very likable, and he's not. It's not that he didn't cry at his mother's funeral or that he doesn't really love his girlfriend and tells her as much or that he lacks the decency to tell his friend Raymond not to treat his own girlfriend like a ragdoll--it's all of these things together. He has no emotional core. Which comes back to bite him in the ass when he's on trial for his life. It's like Seinfeld and friends getting done for lacking the moral fiber to help anyone for all those years. Only not funny. And no one was going to guillotine Jerry when the last episode faded away.
So, while it's good to be done after 30 years and counting, it may well be at least another 30 years before I'm tempted to pick it up again.
July 14, 2017
New writing buddy
Writing can be a pretty solitary pursuit. I traditionally don't even share anything I'm working on until I've finished a full draft and done at least two rounds of revisions. That's a lot of late nights on my own, down in my basement office. I'm about to embark on round 2 of the revision process on books 4 and 5 (which will be released together when done). I still haven't shared them with anyone, but my writing time isn't quite so solo anymore.We got a dachshund puppy 3 weeks ago. Her name is Charcole, and she is such a sweetheart. At just over 5 pounds (and growing), she's a perfect lapdog. And since I'm the last one to bed, I'm usually the one to put her to bed, which means some nights she hangs out with me as I work. She's great company. I'll have to work her into the Acknowledgements when I'm ready to release.
