No new blog for today, so if you were hoping I'd make a Halloween-day plea to middle-aged guys to stop dressing up as KISS every Halloween, sorry.
Seriously, guys. For the love of the Phantom of the Park, please stop. Even Gene Simmons can't pull that look off anymore. We yield to your Love Gun, just put some khakis on or something.
As for you ladies, I'd like to also salute you on your choices, since it seems that 90% of the costumes I see are simply slutty versions of regular professions. Slutty nurse, slutty secretary, slutty cop, sluttier hooker, etc. Nicely done.
Anyway, I'm not blogging today because I'm getting ready for November.
In previous years I've joined NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing challenge where you try to write 50,000 words in a month. The last two Novembers, I've written a grand total of 1800 words and that counts two dry runs at a novel, a short story, a grocery list, haiku, get-well card, suicide note, and three Wikipedia entries on my band. I've come to realize that since November falls during my busiest time of the year (football season), I shouldn't get too involved.
This year, I'm doing NaBloPoMo, which is National Blog Posting Month. In November, I will try my best to have a new blog posting here at Reid About It from the first all trhe way through the thirty-eighth, or however many days November has.
So, no new blog today, but tomorrow, we start a new tradition.
This poorly-worded advertisement was on the counter of my local Taco Bell/KFC the other night. My local taco emporium is looking for "Customer Maniacs."
I know they're trying to make the lucrative field of taco preparation seem exciting, but I think they've gone too far. I don't want a "maniac" preparing my food.
Yeah, that's all I need. Some crazed maniac, loose in the Taco Bell with that giant sour cream/caulk gun. I'm not sure I'm going in if there's the slightest chance that someone with some form of dementia working behind the counter, talking to aliens and taking a dump on my chalupa.
I can appreciate them wanting people who are energetic about their jobs, but I think there must be a better word for it. Perhaps "Go-Getter." "Go-Getters" work extra hard to keep the tables wiped down and clean. "Maniacs" kill people, and keep their ears.
And another thing, why do they think I want to buy bad tacos and chicken at the same counter? It unnerves me to see people who don't have the fine art of taco assembly down being entrusted with my chicken preparation. Bad tacos will make you sick, bad chicken can kill you.
The new PopCast is up, dealing with all things Pop Culture. This week features a discussion on why I purposefully bought an album by a band I don't like, and also why I spent an entire summer listening to the worst album ever.
I'll give you a hint, both experiences were for a good cause. Sort of. Give it a listen, comments always welcome.
Man, that sure seems to be one exciting World Series we've got going, eh? I tuned in last night to find Boston had scored 13 runs, 6 goals, 3 touchdowns, and a Yahtzee.
Doesn't exactly seem like an epic struggle, does it? When the biggest threat to a sweep isn't a player, it's snow, it doesn't seem like too much of a nail-biter.
Halloween is coming up, and my mom always makes my daughter's costume. Pup always wants something so specific, it can't possibly be purchased anywhere. In previous years, Pup has gone as Ms. Frizzle from "The Magic School Bus," Dorothy from "The Wizard of Oz," and last year, as a Mexican Free-Tail bat with a costume so scientifically accurate it got her picture published in Bat Conservation Magazine.
This year, Pup is going as a very specific fairy (Prilla, the newest fairy in Pixie Hollow) and my mom not only came through with the costume, but also another one.
Here's my daughter's dog, Hazel, in full Halloween costume as designed by my mom.
In the world of entertainment where no one is what they seem to be, Kid Rock is exactly what he seems. No pseudo-intellectualism, no false airs. You don't see Kid Rock at Disney movie premieres. He doesn't pretend to give to charity, unless you're talking about the United Stripper College Fund. He runs into his slutty ex-wife's ex-husband, and doesn't make nice for the cameras, he tries to kick his ass at the MTV Video Awards.
He finishes a show, and what does he do? Does he get on his tour bus and sip champagne? Have his personal chef prepare his free-range chicken and veggies? Relax with his masseuse?
No, he loads up his entourage of groupies and strippers and goes to the Waffle House, just like every small-time, low-rent band in the world. He probably talks the strippers into paying for his waffles.
This week's edition of the PopCast is up, dealing with all things Pop Culture. This week, we talk about the NBC's Thursday night lineup and why smarter might not be better. Also, with the impending return of Nip/Tuck, it's time to take a look back at the scariest season ever. Nip/Tuck also provides this week's survey question, which I won't give the details of, I'll merely hint that it involves midgets and Rosie O'Donnell. Give it a listen, comments always welcome.
With the whole Ellen Degeneres thing going on, there's suddenly a lot of attention on pets in this country.
Just for the record, I'm in favor of dogs and cats finding homes, period. Ellen gave the dog to a friend of hers with children, which dogs usually get along with. It wasn't she like she got tired of the dog and gave it to Michael Vick.
Any person who claims to own a pet adoption agency who would remove a dog from a loving home should be taken out and shot in the face. They're obviously not aware of the problem. That's like a doctor with a "Save The Cancers" fundraiser.
Anyway, back to the subject.
I grew up with dogs, and consider myself a dog person. I love other animals also, but dogs are special. I love dogs because they love us. When you have a dog, it's a part of the family. People include dogs in their family photos.
Cats, not so much. I like cats, but cats are always the stuffy, uninvited relative in the house. They don't need you, won't come when you call, and aren't interested in what you're doing unless they can screw it up.
Dogs need you. Cats barely tolerate your presence.
You hear a story every few years about some elderly person who died in their home, and when the authorities show up, the dog is still there, moping and upset and staying with their master.
When the same thing happens and there's a cat in the house, the paramedics show up to find the family cat has eaten half of the deceased. The moment kitty realized the human wasn't going to be opening up the "Little Friskies" anymore, the human became just another food source.
I'm just a dog guy. Faithful, goofy, loyal, loving. Both of us, I mean.
In one of the Arthurian legends, Arthur's wizard Merlin lived backwards in time. Regular readers of my blog will know that I have long thought the same affliction affected Brian Setzer.
In the 80's, Setzer was playing 50's rockabilly with the Stray Cats. In the 90's, he was playing big band music from the 30's. Now, in the 00's, or whatever the Hell we decided to call this decade, he's back and playing classical music from the 1700's.
See? The farther we go, the farther back he reaches. I guess on his deathbed, Setzer will release an album of Gregorian chants.
By the way, for those of you who prefer pop culture to literary references, you can use Mork & Mindy's son Mearth for the backwards aging reference.
Something new for Friday, my first PodCast. As always, no useful information, just random pop culture stuff. Today's PopCast looks at the new TV season, what I'm watching, what's interesting, and what I've already given up on. It's about five minutes long, let me know what you think. Have a good weekend, everybody.
I applied for a membership at one of those video stores, and I had to give them all of my personal information.
Well, not all of the personal information. Thank goodness they didn't start asking the really tough questions about sex, or I would have been there a while. And that girl behind the counter would have been quite impressed.
Anyway, the girl takes my information and turns around. A minute later she turns back and says, "I'm sorry, we can't verify your phone number."
Well, obviously not, shithead. If I just handed you my home phone number, and I'm still standing in front of you, I'm not going to be home to answer your call. It's not a matter of bad credit, it's a simple matter of physics. I venture to guess that if you were to knock on my door right now, I probably wouldn't be able to answer you there, either.
If I were filling out your application in my living room, your little phone quandry would be solved in a heartbeat.
As it is now, there's still a few bugs to work out.
So I accused her of not having a car, because she wasn't currently sitting in one, and the evening went downhill from there.
It seems like there's a lot of nostalgia acts touring. When I go see a band from the 70s or 80s, I not only want them to play their hits, I want them to play all the songs I think they played, too. If I go see KC and the Sunshine Band, I full expect them to perform "Play That Funky Music, White Boy." I want Jesus Jones to play that EMF song, and vice versa. And every hair metal band from the 80's should play every hair metal song from the 80's. In fact, they should all have to be in the same band. Call 'em "Warranted Union of the Great White Poison Lion Snake," and let 'em play the hits.
I went out for dinner the other night, and my favorite Chinese place was serving a wedding rehearsal dinner for forty. Unfortunately, the place only seats forty-three.
I saw that due to accrued interest, that rapper is now actually "52 Cents." Good to know.
There's a store in Dallas called "Condoms To Go". Of course they are. You're not going to use them there, are you?
They now sell something called "Black Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke". I can see the soda executives sitting around the table, discussing the new product, and wondering if they could get "just ONE more chemical in there somewhere. Hey, let's make it Diet! And turn it black! And then, we'll have to put a warning label on it that says 'Do not drink if pregnant, may cause mutation.'"
I'm a bit depressed that "ginormous" is now in the dictionary. The whole fun of using that word was it's non-existence. I'm going to have to start using something else, like "funktastic" or "ridonkulous."
I love going to the zoo, because not only is it fun, it's also usually inexpensive which means you'll run into lots of trashy white folks there looking for a low-income outing. Nothing sets the scene for a relaxing day of fun like an 18 year-old Federline-looking baggy-pants punk with his hat on sideways blowing cigarette smoke on a monkey.
I saw a place advertising "Do It Yourself Pest Control". Isn't that just a shoe?
Hulk Hogan has his own energy drink. Apparently, with one can, your body produces facial hair and a mighty tan, and you gain the power to repel attacks from evil-doers from foreign lands such as the Iron Shiek.
When I worked in a college athletics department, I was always amazed that after victories, we would play Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" in celebration over the PA system. That song might be catchy, but it ain't much of a celebratory song. Let's examine the lyrics.
"I had a friend, was a big baseball player / back in high school / He could throw that speedball by you / Make you look like a fool, boy..."
(To begin with, I'm fairly sure Bruce means a "fastball." A fastball is a baseball pitch, a "speedball" is what killed John Belushi.)
"...Saw him the other night at this roadside bar / I was walking in, he was walking out / We went back inside, sat down, had a few drinks / but all he kept talking about was..."
I was walking into this bar, and an old friend was coming out already drunk. He had absolutely nothing else to do, so he went back inside to drink more with me and talk about when he was so cool, he didn't have to drink himself comatose in a bar on the side of the road.
"Glory days well they'll pass you by / Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye / Glory days, glory days"
Good times, such as this victory our team just won, are fleeting and only remembered later through the melancholy use of alcohol.
"Well there's a girl that lives up the block / back in school she could turn all the boy's heads / Sometimes on a Friday, I'll stop by and have a few drinks / after she put her kids to bed / Her and her husband Bobby, well, they split up / I guess it's two years gone by now / We just sit around talking about the old times, she says when she feels like crying / she starts laughing thinking about..."
I know this girl that was hot back in high school, but now she's divorced with kids, and she doesn't even get asked out on dates anymore. Some weekends when I don't have anything to do either, I'll go over to her house after her kids are asleep and we'll sit around and get drunk. She likes to talk about how good things used to be, back when she was the Prom Queen and didn't have to let losers from high school into her house on a Friday night to try and get her drunk in hopes that she'd give them a hand job on the couch after Letterman's over.
Yeah, it really seems like a happy song, doesn't it? The kind of life-affirming anthem that makes you want to kill yourself.
