Letter from St. Nick

A couple of weeks before Christmas, my daughter gave me a letter to mail to Santa Claus. Here is the response she received on Christmas Day.

Friday Dec 12: Divided and Conquered

Friday morning, up at 9:30. Even so, we still didn’t make it to the Tower until 11:30. Our warder, the charmingly named Dickey Dell, relished his job, and especially liked telling the gory details of the hangings and beheadings that took place there. He mentioned the Norman invasion of 1066. He said it’s been hard, but they’re slowly getting over it. The Tower is the number one tourist attraction in London, and it is a great time. The building itself is awesome, and the beefeaters do a great job.

From there we split up; Amy and Ginny headed to the Cabinet War Rooms, Polly and the kids to Hamley’s Toy Store, and me to Banqueting House and possibly the Elgin marbles, if there was time.

Banqueting House is a wonderful place. It’s used for state dinners now, but it used to be part of the palace used by Charles I. It’s basically a large room, hardwood floors and lots of windows. But the ceiling is the great part. Rubens painted it in 1622. It depicts the connection between God and the King. When Cromwell’s Commonwealth briefly replaced the monarchy, the king walked through that room and led out of a window. There, in front of a huge crowd, they beheaded him. Fittingly enough, the restoration of the monarchy took place there also when both houses of Parliament watched the coronation of Charles II.

I passed by the Horse Guards and snapped a few pictures on my way to the British Museum.

As I walked, I realized I had a rock or something in my shoe. It was kind of big. I sat down in the Great Court and reached into my shoe. What a perfect specimen of the obnoxious American I must have been. I pulled the offending object out of my shoe. It was a one-pound coin. I have no idea how it got in there. It had to have been in there all day. I dropped my smelly pound into one of the museum’s donation boxes.

The British Museum is where they keep the Elgin Marbles, fragments of friezes and statues from the Parthenon. They are quite controversial because Lord Elgin went down to Athens and basically stole these pieces. He paid some paltry amount and then they loaded them all up on a ship and brought them to London. They don’t really feel too bad about it, a pamphlet from the museum said, because “experts agree, it would not be possible to reattach them to the original structure.”

They are quite cool. The friezes depict a procession of peasants and civic dignitaries approaching the Gods, who are seated on thrones. Lots of horses and livestock, too. The marbles inspired many British poets, including Keats and Casement, who mentioned the ox lowing to the moon.

I returned to the flat in time to shower and head out with Polly for dinner. We went to a French place called “Le Cercle.” It had no sign except for its name etched on the tiny sliding glass front door. We went down a twisting staircase to the warm dining room. I told Polly each dish was so good it almost made me cry. I had poached cod, beef tartare, and pate. Each course had wine with it; and they were all fantastic.

We stopped off for a pint at the Tea Clipper and called it a night. It was a great day, our last in Jolly Old England.

Thursday Dec. 11: A Matter of Moments

Up at 9:30, I headed out to do a little grocery shopping. I went to Jack O’Shea’s, fine butchers since 1790. I asked for bacon and the fellow behind the counter started grabbing some pork chops. I had to specify the strips of “streaky bacon” as it was labeled. One other crazy difference between them and us? They don’t refrigerate their eggs there. They just have the cardboard containers sitting stacked up on the counter. I fixed breakfast for the kids and we all lived, so maybe they're on to something over there.

After eating we headed out to catch a Big Bus Company hop-on/hop-off bus tour. It took us around town to all of the sites. It was a nice way to see all of the spots we might not have time to visit. A fellow named Ian was the live guide aboard the bus.
We sat up top where part of it was covered and the back half open. Ian was filled with fun facts and a few puns. He kept asking Virginia questions she was too shy to answer. At one point he asked Frank to sing London Bridge for the whole bus. He declined. He had the driver stop at an unscheduled spot so we could see the London Eye framing Big Ben. Despite Ian’s build up, it was slightly underwhelming.

Some people hopped off the bus and Virginia and I got the plum seat, right in the front row. It was a great vantage point from which to see a pedestrian come within one foot of being killed as he stepped right out in front of the bus. “Ah,” Ian said, “we’re just in time to kill this chap!” The guy spotted the big red bus bearing down on him at the last moment, just in time to leap back on the sidewalk. Guess it wasn’t his time to go.

In restrospect, I would have done the bus tour on the first full day we were in town. It is a great way to get your bearings on the first day whilest recovering from jet lag.

After two hours of Ian we arrived at the Tower of London and headed off the bus to go inside. We stopped at a restaurant called EAT. It took us forever to get our food ordered and get it eaten and get out of there. EAT was more like DAWDLE.

When we got to the ticket office, the woman told us that the last warder-led tour had already started out and the place was closing down. We had just missed our chance. So we got on the next bus and headed to Westminster Abbey, which we learned had just closed its doors to new visitors a matter of minutes earlier. Everything conspired against us and our touristy exploits!

We walked along the Thames at dusk, and got to see a nearly full moon emerge from the clouds right behind the London Eye. That was pretty cool.

We went to bed early, knowing we had just one more day to cram in everything else we wanted to do. We didn’t go to the Tea Clipper that night. We didn’t feel like we deserved it.

Wednesday Dec. 10: The French fries taste like blood.

Wednesday morning we got up at 9:45, continuing our trend to adjust to the time change. We had breakfast at the Brompton Quarter Café. I ordered the kids pain au chocolate, and you should have seen their faces when they got to the chocolate center. Frank could not have been happier. Chocolate for breakfast! But the rest proved a little too fancy for the kids. The pancakes were more like crepes, and they put honey on it instead of syrup. The kids did not like these changes to one of their favorite dishes. We grownups loved our food. I had a traditional English breakfast: eggs, sausages, bacon, a baked tomato, and baked beans; quite yummy.

After we left the International House of Eschewed Crepes, we headed back to Hyde Park for more fun at the Winter Wonderland. This time Virginia, Frank, and I did the Ferris wheel. Because the midweek crowds were light, they let us go around three times. It was an amazing view of the park and the London skyline from a different vantage point.

Graham and Frank partook of the bungee jump experience where they each got hooked up in a harness and bounced 15 feet in the air. They loved it. As usual we were running late, so we hopped on the tube and after a couple of train changes we headed to Camden in Regent’s Park. We grabbed some sandwiches at Fresh & Wild, the British incarnation of Whole Foods.

We headed to BADA, where Polly’s niece Ellen has been studying all term in the drama program. Her performance on the next Thursday night would be the culmination of her work, and was the impetus for us to take this trip. We were privileged to see a rehearsal, since the kids weren’t coming to the actual performance. The show was Shakespeare’s King Lear (a “real upper,” as Ellen described it), and they did the final act for us. Ellen’s director instructed my kids: if something’s funny, you can laugh; if something’s sad, you can cry; and if it’s boring, you can leave. It wasn’t boring. You may not have studied King Lear in a while, but it includes the gouging out of eyes, stabbings, and poisonings. This rehearsal included lots of fake blood in small plastic packets. It was really great. Frank watched it all with great interest except for when two of the characters kissed. For that he had to cover his eyes.

We had a look at Piccadilly Circus. The kids liked the lighted signs and all the hustle and bustle. We walked down to the Sherlock Holmes pub near the Embankment tube stop. The kids had sparkling apple juice and a bowl of chips. Graham said he liked the juice, but not the bubbles. Although Frank loves French fries, he didn’t eat the ones at the Sherlock Holmes because he said they tasted like blood, a reference to the ketchup, and King Lear, I assume.

That night we went back to the Tea Clipper, where we met a wonderful bartender who was quite amused to hear our tale of ruining the kettle, and told us where to buy it. But she really liked finding out that her colleague the night before had to clean out three taps. “That’s brilliant!” she kept saying. They let Polly ring the bell for last call at 23:00.

Tuesday: The Day All Three Lines Went Down at Once

I woke up at 10:00 today; my glacial recovery from jet lag continues. We seemed to always have trouble gauging how long it takes to get anyplace in London. It takes an hour to get anywhere. You spend half of your time waiting for a crosswalk signal to turn green.

We went to the Winter Wonderland, an outdoor carnival of sorts, at Hyde Park. It had everything: rides, food, and, as a sign proclaimed, "German's Beer."

Graham wanted to do the Ferris wheel and Virginia did a ride where you sat in a chair suspended by chains as it spun around and around. Frank sat on a small motorcycle on a carousel. Frank and Virginia went into a haunted mansion, inexplicably decorated for Christmas. It was 6 pounds and could not have lasted more than two minutes. We had not left enough time to do any more, but vowed to come back the next day. We did not have time to take the tube so we hailed a classic London taxi and headed to the National Gallery.

From the computer room we plotted a course through the museum where the kids would get to see monsters. But even Perseus turning Phineas to stone was not enough to keep a five and seven year old interested. We caught a few Van Gogh painting, a Seurat and some work by Monet before ducking out. I was sorry to go.

Outside the National Gallery, the boys ran around and took photos of the Christmas Tree. Then we crossed the street to go to St. Martins in the Fields to do a little brass rubbing. The boys loved this. Basically they wrap black paper over a brass etching, and then the boys rubbed a colored crayon sort of thing over it to make an impression of it. We then had dinner in the Crypt Cafe. This is in the basement of St. Martin in the Fields. It was a tad macabre. While we were there some fellow abandoned his tray of food before paying. It was strange. Perhaps he got spooked at the idea of eating soup and drinking a beer on a floor made of the gravestones of church members from the 1800s. Creepily delicious!

After dinner we headed back out to Trafalgar Square where they have caroling under the Norwegian Christmas Tree, given to England every year as thanks for keeping the Royal Family of Norway safe during WWII. The groups that sing are volunteers, mostly raising money for a cause they support.

After the kids went to bed, Polly and I left her sister and mom with the kids while we went to try out the pub around the corner, the Tea Clipper. We walked in and everyone was watching the TV right above the door. We were attracted to the place immediately for its neighborhood feel and friendly staff. It had a real Christmas tree in the corner. nice.

It was filled with men, hitting the pub on their way home from work, it appeared. They came in to watch the soccer game. When it was over, they all bailed out. We chatted up the bartender, who was not in the best spirits, because all three of the ale lines went dry at the same time. Apparently when that happens, you have to pull the tap to fill 15 pitchers with water, 5 pitchers of line cleaning solution, and then 15 pitchers of water. He then had to repeat that process three times. And then the 22:00 rush hit. Eighteen kids showed up at once and all got carded. You can drink beer and cider at 18 here. The bartender hurriedly filled pitchers of water and orders. At one point he exclaimed to his co-worker, "You help these people. My bloody arm's about to fall off."

Polly and I shared a shot of Laphroaig, a delicious single malt scotch. Then we called it a night after I got to try out the tap.

When they rang the bell for last call, I could tell the bartender was relieved, even though he had two more lines to clear.

And then off to bed, closing out our most successful day of touring.

Monday: "I Just Kept Thinking of Falling"

Cheval Place is a very small 2-block street in Knightsbridge. It's cobblestone, and dead ends to the west of our flat. It is home to a couple of Indian restaurants, a few hair salons and two or three dress shops. The dress shops are called dress agencies. Apparently some of the dresses require representation. One of the shops is right across the street from our flat, and we can see it through the window in our kitchen. One of the favorite pastimes of Graham and Frank is to watch the mannequins be dressed in the window. The shop employees must have noticed this, because later in the week they began to pull down a shade as they dressed them. That is British modesty to an extreme.

Monday morning is trash day on Cheval Place. Early in the morning (felt like 3:00 AM to me), several trash dumspters were noisily lifted by a trash truck, violently shaken, and then replaced wherever they are hidden off of the street. I kept thinking it would stop, but it just kept on going on and on. I persevered in my quest for oversleeping, and slept in until 11:00. Better than the day before, but hardly adjusted. Polly's mom says we'll be perfectly attuned to Greenwich time when it is time to go home on Saturday.

Our first full day (sic) of sightseeing began with a tube trip to Westminster. It's a great tube stop because when you emerge you see Parliament, Big Ben (well, the clock that houses Big Ben), and Westminster Abbey. We crossed Westminster bridge on foot to the London Eye. This is a new attraction since I was last in London, and it is great. An incredible view of the city. I could see St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Thames... everything from a wonderfully high vantage point. I asked Virginia if she enjoyed the London Eye, and she said, "Sort of. I just kept thinking of falling."

From here we took the excellent advice of Michael Boxser, a friend of Fowler Jones, and took a Thames Clipper boat ride up the Thames. They have a bar on board and I had a Stella Artois as we cruised up to Greenwich. We didn't make it to the O2, London's new entertainment district and performing arts venue. Instead we ate at a pub.

We drank wine at the flat and turned in, hoping every day wasn't trash day on Cheval Place.

Jet Lag claims three casualties

The first casualty jet lag claimed was the day. We were not up and moving until 14:30. As my friend Fowler said, "In bed at 3:00, up at noon? It's like college!"

Amy, Polly's sister, arrived in the morning and had a little rest. I got up at 12:30 and was the first in the house to rise. Everyone was moving a little slowly.

I was ready to hit the touristy stuff. When I came out of the shower it smelled a little like something was burning. I worried either that someone had placed something on one of the radiators, or that one of the heated towel racks (a mysterious staple in every bathroom) had overheated a towel. When I entered the kitchen, I saw that a thick acrid smoke hung in the air there. That's when I learned my wife had decided to make coffee and had placed the coffee pot on the big burner and cranked it up to high. But it was an electric coffee pot, and the rubber bottom melted completely. Thankfully, it did not catch fire, and we were not forced to use the fire blanket, conveniently hanging on the wall. The coffee pot was the second casualty of the day.

We decided to walk around and get an idea for what the neighborhood was like. We are staying in Knightsbridge, near Harrod's department store. After a short walk I suggested we see what this store was like inside, despite my dislike for shopping.

The place was a complete zoo. Hundreds of people were storming around and all of them wanted to walk wherever I was walking. We placated the kids with the purchase of truffles (I got a salted caramel truffle... yum). Our party became separated and we realized how much we rely on cell phones for simple logistical reasons. That's because we have but one working phone among all of us. Which is a lot like having no working phones among us, because I have no one to call, and no one can call me. They call cell phones carphones here. And they use them on the left side of the head. Crazy.

We went to the toy demonstration area, where they show the hottest toys. Those included a remote controlled UFO, a radio controlled flippin' rat, and make-your-own snow, a mysterious white substance that turned into cool-to-the-touch snow when you added water. Graham was not happy we would not purchase a toy for him. "Why'd you bring me here if you weren't going to buy me anything?" Meet jet-lag's third casualty: my son's pleasant personality.

By the time everyone reconnoitered at the flat, it was time for dinner. I had managed to call Ellen, my niece who is here as part of a drama program run through USC, where she attends college. She's the reason we came to London, as she finishes up her coursework this week in a culminating performance of King Lear later this week. so we met up with her and went to Wagamama.

After a dinner of noodles, edamame, and vanilla ice cream with toffee sauce, we went home and the kids sacked out. Ellen headed back to her flat, and the missus and I went to Bunch of Grapes, a pub in Knightsbridge.

After a couple of ales and lagers, we headed home and in a stupor, cleaned the melted rubber off of the burner in our flat. The evidence gone, we decided we had to find a kettle to replace the one we'd ruined. But now it was time for bed. And we slept blissfully until the garbage trucks came to Cheval Place.

London Travelogue 6 Dec. 2008

Our day of travel began at 3:00 AM, when we woke up to hurriedly get dressed and out the door to the airport for at 6:25 AM flight to Chicago.

We flew American Airlines. The flight from Chicago to London Heathrow aboard a Boeing 777 was practically empty. My guess is that it seated 400 people and there were maybe 60 people on board. We flew coach.

Each seat had its own video screen and remote, something that delighted the kids. Frank was so excited he said, "This is the awesomest day ever." He confirmed his preternatural gift for hyperbole when, as his video screen appeared to malfunction, he said the day had turned to "the worst day ever."

I do the same thing; if something exceeds my expectations, I'm thrilled. When it doesn't deliver, I'm pissed.

I enjoyed watching the flight path channel, an episode of MadMen from season 1, and a little blackjack. My wife played a game called Caveman Crunch, a PacMan knockoff with a man who goes around eating woolly mammoth tusks instead of fruit. She played and played, progressing in the levels of the game, but getting more and frustrated. We've all played games like that, ones you work and work to master and then you suddenly realize they are not even fun.

We made it to the apartment at 23:30 (that's British time).

There was a small electrical issue when my wife's breast pump did not take a liking to the British power grid. It went into overdrive and the power supply started smoking. I think I remember reading they used a version of this souped-up device in Abu Ghraib. Since we arrived late, all of the pubs and convenience stores were closed. Luckily my forward-thinking wife brought us a pint of Glenlivet, which I drank with her and her mother after we put the kids to bed. We sacked out around 3:00 AM.

Do you love wax?

Do you plan to visit Hong Kong, Amsterdam, London, New York, or Las Vegas in the near future? Do you LOVE Nicholas Cage, Bob Marley, Babe Ruth, Lucy, and/or the Dalai Lama?? Then this coupon I found in the DVD for the Mummy Returns that I bought 6 years ago is for you!

Let me know via comment below if you want the full coupon, from which I took the above image. It offers 2 for 1 to any Madame Tussaud's wax museum.

Worst Diet Banner Ever

So I happened across this diet banner while cruising the intertubes superhighway.

A little advice, people: stay away from any diet that reduces the melanin along with the weight.

Is it possible that the person designing this banner included another before picture instead of an after? What other excuse is there for that not-so-FAB picture? Perhaps the designer was fooled by the slimming horizontal stripes.

Least Popular Videogames & Accessories for Christmas 2008

Zither Hero
My Simps
Call of Duty II: Battle for the Sewers of the European Theater
World of Warcraft McCain/Palin Expansion Pack
Ms. Pacman Jones
Grand Theft Auto V: Prop 8 Riot Edition
WiiShit

The Historic Announcement

I was so excited, I could barely stand it. Here I was, on a historical night, watching the coverage to see whether my guy would rise up within his community and be our next leader . Would it be a vote for bold, fresh change? Would it be a clean start? A fresh look through the clear glass of youth?

The answer? YES! That's right, folks. The people have spoken, and Captain Scrubby will now serve as the tourism ambassador of the year.

(Hat tip: Best of the Web)

ChuxxBlog: A Headline Ripped from the Archives of Bobby and the Chuxx

ChuxxBlog: A Headline Ripped from the Archives of Bobby and the Chuxx

Here's a post I made to the blog for Bobby and the Chuxx.

No shrimp were harmed in the posting of this blog post about a post on another blog.

The Age of the Wry Face

In the course of human development, exactly when do you reach the age when you can make wry faces? Here's the face that Henry, who will be 4 in a few days, came up with on his own. He is clearly advanced and gifted.

Cleanse the Oprah Way

In my search for the worst banner ads in the world, I came across this one for Oprahs (sic) Acai Berry Diet. I like the copy at the bottom. Why bother having it make sense when you can just spew words out? And speaking of spewing, I don't want anything to do with a diet that is proud of its ability to "flush pounds." Ew. I've been on that diet and it is not fun. Picked it up from one of the kids who got it at school. The price was right, though.

My friend Jeff asked it there was some apparatus involved. We discussed the idea of "inflow" tube to deliver the acai berry concentrate and an "outflow" tube to be placed in the toilet. He wondered if they had a warning not to confuse the two tubes. I told him that acai berry is an irritant if applied topically. He asked me if that was true and I said, "I don't think so."

A Threatening Note from Virginia

We constantly disagree with our kids over the amount of time we allow them to watch TV or play video games. Most recently, we came up with the rule that they could not watch TV after 7:00 PM. We felt they got churlish right before bed when we let them watch right up until bedtime. That did not sit too well with our 7 year old, Virginia. So she left us this note, signed by her, Graham, and Frank. Henry did not sign because he was already asleep. Russell did not sign because he cannot write.

This is YOU!

When you create an advertisement, perhaps a banner on Facebook, for instance, you have numerous decisions to make. What is your main selling message? How will you best communicate it? Things like that. If you're going to sell an image, you might decide whether you're going to show the image your product or service will create, something perhaps that your audience might aspire to be. This is usually a depiction of how your target audience might like to see themselves.

Or you can show them an obvious message: This is you as you are, and you should gross yourself out.

This image shows you how the latter is done:

Photo of Palin's Email Hacker

I was just cruising around the information superhighway when I hit this speed bump: a picture of who I believe is the young man who hacked Sarah Palin's email account.

It has to be him. Look at him there, trying to hide his identity with that Unabomber hoodie, hunched over the keyboard of his laptop so those around him in that white room won't see all of the illegal things he's doing. He should be ashamed.

Close the books on this one, FBI. I found your man.

This is the NFL

While watching the NFL today, my son Graham said, "The Chiefs are not very good at football."

How true.

If you have never read the Web Scout blog from the L.A. Times, you should. Here's a great post regarding the new season of online-only shows.

Overheard at the RNC

Overheard on the headsets during the broadcast of the Republican National Convention:

Director: Camera two, get me a shot of a minority, one of the delegates.

(Pause)

Director: Are women minorities, Camera two? Last I heard we were about 50/50. Get me a minority.

Director: Hey you there, the guy with the clipboard.

Producer: (indistinguishable)

Director: Yes, I know you have a name, young man. I just don't care enough to remember it. Answer me, haven't we shown that African American guy before, the one in the POW hat?

Producer: (indistinguishable)

Director: I thought so. All right Camera two, the guy in the eye patch will have to do. Listen, Clipboard, in 2012 I want some minorities I can put on the screen. Get me?

The Anthropomorphism of What Ails You

In the past, they used to anthropomorphize drugs. To wit: Speedy the Alka-Seltzer guy. He would come out and sing about how he could settle your stomach.
















Now drug companies have mascots representing the ailment that their drug treats.



As far as I remember, Digger the Dermatophyte was first, in those awfully disturbing ads for Lamisil. Pictured is the worst part of the ad when he lifts up that toenail like a trap door so he could crawl underneath. Look closely at him; it looks like he has some kind of purple fungus on his back. Perhaps he needs to ask his doctor about it. He also has sharp teeth for gnawing on your nails.

Now we have a little glob of mucus named Mr. Mucus. Apparently he's married now. I guess he and Mrs. Mucus met in someone's sinus cavity. That's where I used to go meet girls.








A woman has made a felt stuffie (!?) out of a monster she claims was on a Pepto Bismol commercial. I couldn't find any mention of it any place else on the interwebs, though I did find this tasteless little number.

I am waiting for Senor Herpes, a little hairy man in a sombrero with cold sores. Or perhaps we could someday meet Jacques Itch (oh no I didn't!).

Terms of Art

I was at the dermatologist (I had two moles removed, nosey) earlier this week and I saw a little card pushing some kind of skin treatment for people with red spots on their face. There were the obligatory two photos, one of a woman's cheek with lots of blemishes, the second one 90% cleared up. It said the drug treated "aesthetic suffering." I love that term. It could also apply to ugly people.

"I feel so sorry for him. He's got that aesthetic suffering."

The term reminded me of one I heard on an infomercial for Lasting Kiss lipstick a number of years ago. MASH star and foie gras objector Loretta Switt and Tracey Bregman Recht (who?) hosted it. The whole infomercial was shot with a soft filter on the lens. Anyhoo, this "Lasting Kiss" business was a two step process. First you put on the lipstick, and then you applied a "sealer." There was lots of drinking from white coffee mugs ("See, no smudges!") and talk of their significant others ("My husband kisses me every morning before he goes to work!"). The "expert" character on the infomercial said that the lipstick and the sealer were "cosmetically dependent," and that this dependence is what made Lasting Kiss so terrific.

Cosmetically dependent! Sounds like the spouse of a woman addicted to mascara. I guess that would be a cosmetic co-dependent.

Copywriters are so shameless in the creation of new terms to make the product they're shilling sound more scientific. I should know. I am a copywriter on occasion.

A Terrible Commercial

Have you seen this commercial with the twins having a barbecue in a TV studio? If not, here it is.



Does anyone know why this commercial was created? What is the appeal? What made them decide to air this commercial over, say, dead air for 30 seconds?

Who cares if these two fellows are twins? While we're at it, are they actually twins? I kept wondering, if they're twins, why don't they look more alike? Then I wondered if perhaps they used some tricky digital hooha to make the same guy appear as both brothers. Then I thought, why would you bother with all that when you could actually hire real twins? Lalawood is crawling with "acting" twins. With the money they'd save on the digital effects they could have afforded to shoot outside instead of in front of the cyclorama in front of the cyclorama in the studio of Kansas City's FOX affiliate. And what gives with him calling it "incinerating?" He hasn't lit it yet. What makes pouring lighter fluid on charcoal incinerating? Then I thought, if I'm thinking about all this, I am certainly NOT thinking about Boston Market's barbecue menu.

Doesn anyone have any idea what it all means?

People Get Ready

Hey guys, great news. Everything's going to be okay starting Friday evening!

Thanks for the ice cream!

As much as I love facebook, I get confused by some of the notifications. You know the ones:
"Gary sends you good kharma."

"Mary sent you a Jager Bomb."

"Malcolm has prepared an ice cream sundae for you."

What does it mean? How am I supposed to react? I love ice cream sundaes and Jager bombs (I don't love Jager bombs), but a virtual one doesn't do much for me.

Part of the appeal of a social networking site is that I don't have to buy people drinks as if we were at a bar. And does it really have to cost ten cents to send someone good karma? Capitalizing on karma brings bad karma, I think.

Perhaps we need some negative notifications.

"Eugenia sent you a flaming bag of dog excrement."

"Barry has given you herpes."

"Jeff has sent you his kidney, but he doesn't expect you to reply in kind. That's just the kind of person you are."

There could be lots of money in letting people be virtual bastards, martyrs, or guilt-mongers. Think of it as a chance to make some money doing the things you do in person for free.

The Funny Lawn Care Fellow of facebook

I saw this ad on facebook this morning and it caught my attention so forcefully that I had to copy it and put it here.

First off, could he not really have come up with a more interesting name than "The Lawn Coach?" How about "Snappy the Lawn Jockey" or "The Nut Grass Nut-Job." The name he has might work if he at least looked irreverent or off-kilter. I don't know, perhaps his shirt could say something like, "I whack more than weeds," or (hold on to your boots for this one) instead of an arrow through his head it could look like he has a mower blade wedged in his skull. Something off-kilter like that. Anything would be better than him grimacing in his white crew neck undershirt.

And just exactly how irreverent is this lawn care advice going to be? "Wait 'til you hear his bit on mulching. You're gonna die!"

One more thing, we should all be clear that the irreverent advice offered applies only to home lawns. Don't click the link expecting to see some humorous take on mowing parking lot islands or core aerating football fields.

What's a Nee Nee For?

Saturday night my wife and I were discussing the purchase of a gift for a birthday party happening the next day. I went to the Interwebs and looked up the hours for a local toy store. I told her they were open from noon to four. She asked me to repeat what I said and I did.

From her perspective, I entered the room and said "Nee nee for." The misunderstanding resulted in the following exchange:

Me: "Nee nee for."

Her: "What did you say?"

Me: "Nee nee for."

Her: "What's a nee nee for?"

Me: "I think you know. I mean, you've had five children!"

The Case of the Mysterious White Powder

A small white packet containing a mysterious white powder has appeared in our kitchen. You can see it in the picture there, behind the roll of paper towels.

The packet is an envelope, kind of like the ones you get your cash back in when you go through the bank drive-thru.

For all I know, it's also similar to the packet in which people deliver crystal meth. What about cocaine? Do they deliver it in envelopes or is it so commercialized now that itcomes in a tube like Pixie Sticks?

We have a lot of people through our house. Why, jut in the past 5 days we've had two women who help us with the kids, a plumber (twice), the fellow refinishing part of our basement offices, three missionaries, two gents who helped set up a rented inflatable water slide, three folks who help us keep the place clean, an appliance repair man, a travelling saleman hawking "Tuf Job" cleaner, and a dance instructor. Okay, I made up some of those. You have to guess which ones. The point is, we have a lot of people who come through our house, and any of them could have left it there.

Perhaps it is a plant and some kind of theatrical raid will go down late one night. Perhaps a dirty cop played by Willem Defoe will hold the envelope up in a gloved hand, waving it under my nose. "And what do we have here?" he'll ask.

One of the other dirty cops will grab my arms and hold them behind my back. "I've never seen that before in my life," I'll say.

"We'll see about that down at headquarters," Willem will say. "Yes, Mr. Ruh-va-ray, we'll see about that."

The envelope is a little dirty. I splattered chocolate Silk all over the place in a hilarious hand mixer incident. That's another hilarious (not hilarious) item for some future post. You can see little chocolate droplets on the paper towels and back by the outlet. I discovered the envelope while cleaning up after that mishap. There is a lot of powder in there, like 1/3 of a cup.

Perhaps I should taste it. It is in the kitchen, so chances are it's food. But what if it's some kind of drug? Does acid come in a convenient powder form? I'd take some and smear it on my gums, only to lapse into some kind of permanent hallucinogenic fit, leaving my wife and 5 children behind to feed me malt-o-meal while I rant about "The butterflies, my God, the butterflies."

I guess I'll start asking around tomorrow. Perhaps one of the 40 people parading through my home will have some answers for me. Until then, if you have any tips, please leave them in the comment section.

Disturbing Photo

Check out the disturbing picture I just found on EOntarioNow. It comes alongside an article about how a protstate drug can help prevent bone loss in men. What on earth is that?

It might be a doorbell. I'd love to have one of those right next to the front door. Put on your gloves and ring the bell.

Barack, Our Savior!

Wall-E

I will take the kids to go see Wall-E, as I will any Pixar film.

Here is a well-considered piece of criticism from the Washington Post. Pay attention to the conflicted feelings the reviewer goes through. It'll make you want to give up reading Entertainment Weekly reviews forever.

Some wonderful poetry

From the band Survivor:

HIGH ON YOU

There you stood, that'll teach ya
To look so good and feel so right
Let me tell you 'bout the girl I met last night
It's understood, I had to reach ya

I let the wheel of fortune spin
I touched your hand before the crowd
Started crushin' in
Now I'm higher than a kite
I know I'm gettin' hooked on your love
Talkin' to myself, runnin' in the heat
Beggin' for your touch in the middle
Of the street and I --

*I can't stop thinking 'bout you girl
I must be living in a fantasy world
I've searched the whole world over
To find a heart so true
Such complete intoxication
I'm high on you*

Smart and coy, a little crazy
The kinda face that starts a fight
Let me tell you 'bout the girl I had last night
Piercin' eyes, like a raven

You seemed to share my secret sin
We were high before the night
Started kickin' in
Now I'm screamin' in the night
I know I'm gettin' hooked on your love
Talkin' to myself, runnin' in the heat
Beggin' for your touch in the middle
Of the street and I --
( * Repeat)

Boston Baked Beans

I was just chatting about candy with a friend and she brought up Boston Baked Beans. Who on earth would want a candy modeled after baked beans? Beans are not something kids just automatically enjoy, like, say, grapes.

My friend says she is haunted by Boston Baked Beans (the candy). I recall liking them, and occasionally buying them at the 7-Eleven at 89th and Roe when I would ride my bike up there. I have not tried them in a long time. I wonder if they are any good. I would go over to 89th and Roe right now and buy some, but instead of a 7-Eleven, that retail space is now occupied by the Cremation Society of Kansas City. I'm not sure what that is. Possibly it's some kind of social club. Perhaps they get together for cotillion dances.


My next big idea is to create a candy based on German Potato salad.

Further reading:
Official Ferrara Pan site for Boston Baked Beans

You can see all of Carmen and Elektra here.

My daughter just made my day. It had been a little trying, since I was in charge of all 5 kids for the afternoon by myself. Not that big of a deal. Tonight when I tucked my daughter in she demanded a goodnight hug as I was about to leave her room.

"I will always give you a hug when you ask for one," I said. "Will you always accept a hug when I want to give one?"

"Sure," she said. "Even if my favorite show is coming on, I'll take a hug."

How can you ask for anything more?

Get Your Tickets Now!

I will be performing my one-man show "Can I Take My Margarita and Chips to Heaven?" at The Gold Buffet in Kansas City, Missouri, 5:30 PM nightly through next Thursday.

Admission is $14.99, and includes the show, side salad, dinner roll, open-faced roast beef sandwich*, choice of starch, and chocolate pudding.

Picture: Jeffrey Drake

*Gravy available at an additional charge of $1.99.

Biting One's Tongue

My son Graham bit the hell out of his tongues at breakfast yesterday. He stuck it out and asked if it was bleeding. It was, so he asked for a band-aid. It really affected me. How gross would it be to have a band-aid on your tongue?

Introducing Frank as The Stain

The chiefs have an official rock provider. Isn't that a little strange? I guess perhaps they make the running backs train with rocks in their Under Armor. They stopped letting them say "Official Beer Provider for the NFL." Now they say something completely neutered, like "Official Brewed Beverage Enjoyed During the Games of the NFL."

There's a radio morning show in KC on Mix 93 called Clap Girl and the Bastard. Now that I look at that, I may have the name of the show wrong. Anyway, I heard them say that jewelry for the show was provided by a local jeweler. Jewelry? For a radio show?? "Listen to that tinkling charm bracelet on Clap Girl's wrist. I must go see the selection at Jimmy's Fine Diamond-Teria."

Other options:

• Wardrobe for closed captioning staff provided by Botany 500
• Official Transfat Provider for the U.S. Olympic Swim Team
• Bladder Control Products for Regis Philbin generously provided by Depends in exchange for this promotional announcement
  

Dr. Frank

My son Frank, who is 5, had to get six shots at a checkup earlier this week. Then they poked a hole in his finger and scraped blood into a small vial. Then they needed some more information so he had to go back in yesterday. When we walked in he saw the same nurse who had given him his shots the day before.

"You again?" he asked, to the delight of the rest of the staff.

Then while they were inserting the needle in his vein (on the second try), he said, "I want to hurt people. I'm going to be a doctor."

Like a Blow to the Solar Plexus

I can now add references to the solar plexus as a new cliche to look out for in my writing. Writers commonly refer to the solar plexus when describing a fight or some kind of physical struggle. I always thought is was synonymous with your breast bone or your chest. But it turns out it's a bundle of nerves behind your stomach. Here's a primer with more information, describing its popular use as meaning the "pit of the stomach." I don't like the usage of solar plexus because its unnecessarily long. I defer to George Orwell's excellent essay "Politics and the English Language" when he says, "Never us a long word where a short one will do."

So you can keep up with this topic, Bookgasm records references to the solar plexus in literature on their Solar Plexus Watch.

Four Dead in Violent Pillow Fight

More Raw Milk Stories

Boston Farm illegally sells Raw Milk (The Republican. Boston: Feb 15, 2008.)

Is raw milk right for you? (The Epoch Times. Los Angeles: Feb 8, 2008.)

I was just putting something on for the kids to watch when I caught an ad about 1/3 of the way in. It features two women, aged 50 or so. One of them wears a boa, the other very bright workout clothes. They laugh so hard they can't speak. Then the voiceover says, "Small bladder leaks are a part of life for all of us."

Don't you love it when it's like a commercial speaks directly to you?

People are always asking me, "Steve, tell us what blogs you read?"

Here's a short list. I'll add more later.

• An Aquarium Drunkard - A great music blog on singer/songwriters and alt.country
• Fowler Jones
• Wendy Molyneux
• Jeff Drake
• Alison Rosen (I wish she were a friend, but she's a friend of a friend)

Okay, so no one has ever asked me what blogs I read. But since blogging is an exercise in narccicism for me, I thought I'd go ahead and post this anyway. It's about the other blogs, really.

A couple of my favorite bits from the archives of the Onion:

Well, Well, Well, If It Isn't a Family-Owned Retailer

Clinton Holds Summit with Magic Turtle

My son asked how come we didn't celebrate more on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

He reasoned that it was, after all, a holiday.

"What kind of celebrating did you have in mind?"

"Watch more TV," he said.

My six-year-old son was named Karate "Student of the Year" for his age group in last night. He is very enthusiastic about his Karate practice, and he was able to complete the main objective with ease: kill another student with your bare hands. Congratulations, Graham!

More stories about raw milk...
"I realised something was up when the queues in my local farmers' market - in London's Queen's Park - started bulking up beside the milk van."
Article about the rising popularity of raw milk in London
(London Telegraph, Jan 18, 2008)

"Just two weeks after new restrictions on raw milk took effect, the Assembly Agriculture Committee voted unanimously this week to repeal them."
Article about the California state laws on bacterial content in milk
(Sacramento Bee, Jan 19, 2008)

The Seattle Post reports that a Seattle dairy has recalled a batch of raw milk after 5 people came down sick with campylobacter jejuni.

I had that bug once in college and it was not a pretty sight. Some of you may have heard me tell of the experience in what I call my 'Dark & Foul-Smelling Story.'

Recent dispatches from the front lines of the battle over raw milk and raw milk cheese:

"I know it's illegal, but that doesn't mean it's wrong."
A story on the Illegal milk trade in a Brooklyn neighborhood
(New York Daily News: Jan. 8, 2008.)

"[J]ust a matter of staying ahead of the curve on food safety."
A story on new raw milk standards that recently went into effect in California
(San Francisco Chronicle: Dec 28, 2007)

"The decision to sell raw milk was made, Cindy Westover said, to give her family a greater margin on every gallon sold." A story about a New Hampshire dairy that decided to sell raw milk for better profits. (Brattleboro Reformer: Jan. 11, 2008)

"With the raw stuff, you get all the goodness that is in it."
A story about the popularity of raw milk cheese made by a Wisconsin dairy.
(Green Bay Press-Gazette: Jan. 9, 2008.)