Curiosity...

I was drifting off to sleep last night and was stirred by the strangest noise. There was thrashing and a weird kind of cellophane crunching. I rolled over just in time to see Alice the Cat struggling and banging against the door. She had come across an empty lunch-sized bag of Lay's potato chips and had decided to try to get herself a taste. The bag got stuck on her head. My girly girl nearly suffocated herself last night. She is not long for this world. Her kidney enzymes and a new, persistent limp suggest cancer. Whatever the malady, I do not have the funds to diagnose and treat her properly. So, I watch every day for signs of discomfort or changes in her spirit. She continues to be interested in snuggling, eating, and purring. The minute that changes, she will be off to the vet for a compassionate end. But that would have been a very stupid way for her to go.

Tilting At The Shack Out Back

When she visits the Big House, Maddy Pryor has an amazingly specific ritual. First, she has to explore the house. She walks into the dining room, the kitchen, then downstairs to my space. Then, I have to encourage her outside for a "strictly business" trip. Then, she's back inside to do a bit more exploring and to collect a biscuit from me. Soon, she gives me that snort that tells me she wants to go outside again. I have come to expect this trip, the one in which she must go tilting. I open the door, and she takes off, direct in her purpose. She runs directly to the white shack in the far back right of the yard and growls and barks ferouciously at it. In a moment, she is apparently satisfied that she has appropriately terrified the building, and she wanders the yard for a bit, sniffing. Then, she returns to me. She only does this once per visit. Dogs are amazing.

Haiku: By Vanilla Ice

Stop. Collaborate And listen. Ice is back on A brand new edition. (Stolen from Fark)

Hey, Gordon...

Aren't you glad now, Gordon? Aren't you glad I dragged your drunken ass out of bed that first night of bachelor party weekend and made you get out on the Quarter with me? You poor bastard, you were bumped into bunking with me. And we started boozing at the airport and had hit the Quarter by 3 p.m., eating and drinking and were all in bed by 8. I woke up a few hours later, pissed that we were wasting precious moonlight. "C'mon, fucker, get up!" me said. "We're in New Orleans! We're in New Orleans!" You'd lived in New Orleans before, so you knew it, knew how it smelled and what a carnival it'd probably be to a kid like me. So we rolled on down and got drinks t'go and spent a little time in a titty bar. Then on to Cafe Du Monde, then wandering back to pass out exhausted in our room. Now that it's drowning, aren't you glad I bought you a few more hours awake and alive in New Orleans? I sure am. I got to go back, you know, this year, on business. Took a whole afternoon and walked around the Quarter and tried to remember where we'd been, you and me and the crew. And that week, I spent a lot of time at the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center, which is funny because that's exactly where all those people are trying to stay safe, and some failing at it. These are sad and weird times; you can't count on a place as beautiful as New Orleans staying alive. You can't count on something as tall as the World Trade Center standing. I am utterly sad because New Orleans will never be the same again, not just for the buildings but for the culture and the food and the magic. Within the next decade, developers will recreate it as a Vegas East, mark my word. That magic is gone, it got done flooded out. It has been regentrified overnight, and I cannot help but wonder if that was part of the plan.

Tailgaiting Sucks

The latest AITWK creation at CafePress: Get your very own "Tailgaiting Sucks" bumpersticker. http://www.cafepress.com/aabp.30150385

When The Levee Breaks

I've spent today thankful to have gotten to visit New Orleans this year, even if I spent most of it holed up in a convention center. I did get to spend an afternoon wandering around the Quarter, so it was useful, especially since some say the place might not be the same after today. I saw a picture of the quarter on the wire today, and it made me a little sad. That's a special place, and I'd hate to see it ruined like that. Anyway. Did anyone else see season finale of The 4400? Oh. Mah. Gah.

---

SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS AHEAD! DON'T READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU TIVO'D IT AND HAVEN'T WATCHED! The doc is shooting himself up some magic powers. Richard, whose only previously discernible 4400 power was "scoring with white chicks," now has the Force, man! Isabelle was all about the instant puberty, and, WAH? Rip Van Winkle? No, it's Jordan Collier, baby! A few questions: Can Kyle actually GO to prison now? Or, can he go, but get time off since his victim was supernaturally revived? And, will the returned Jordan be good or EEEEE-VILL? Hell, I don't know what I'm looking forward to television-wise more, this or Los Sopranos.

---

I like pie.

Look What I Made

http://www.aabp.net/

I. Am. NERD!

Today, I recorded two hours of XM radio at home to MP3 format while I was at work, then had it automatically uploaded to an FTP account so I could download it at work and install it to my iPod just in time for the commute home. Just getting ready for Sept. 1, when XM radio starts broadcasting Randi Rhodes from 3 - 7 p.m. (presently, XM bastardizes her sweet, sweet broadcast in the first two hours with that lunkhead Ed Schultz). I've set this up because I cannot count on the AAR stream to be up and running and therefore can't record it at my desk each and every day. And, because, I'm a nerd who wants Randi on his home commute no matter what.

At Least Their President Is Doing Something Useful

The president of Turkmenistan has outlawed lip synching.

Stupid Random Thought

So does Tom Cruise's dog eat Scientology Diet brand?

...and then, there's Maude...

I just got done watching the Pamela Anderson Roast on Comedy Central. And, I think, this is what happens when you take a comics' tradition and set it loose on the general public. If you are on the dais of a comedy roast, you are not supposed to heckle. You don't flip the roaster off, you don't make the "FU" gesture by placing your fist at your elbow and pumping, you don't roll your eyes and call the roaster a "bitch", and you don't attempt to yell him down. You're supposed to clap and laugh because you're on the dais an honor. The greatest performance of the evening was Bea Arthur. All she did was read from one of Pamela Anderson's novels. The excerpts she read should have graced the Bulwer-Lytton Awards. It was ballbusting, and funny, and smart all at the same time.

I'm Just Sayin'

Don't Screw With Marc Cohn

I've been asking for quite some time now what the hell Huey Lewis had against double-reeded woodwinds. It turns out that I am the victim of a misheard lyric. For years, I thought he was saying, "now the oboe may be barely breathing," and I wondered what his first lyrics looked like: "Now, the bassoon is just a motherfucker...and don't get me started on the didgeridoo..." It turns out that it's not "oboe," it's "ol' boy," though I think the third interpretation listed at amiright.com is even better: "Now the elbow may be bad at breathing..." Either way, not a great song to have tootling away in the old psychic jukebox. Speaking of horrible music, did anyone see that Marc Cohn got shot in the head, and the bullet didn't even touch his skull? Jesus, carjacker guy, I hated Walking in Memphis as much as the next guy, but I think spraying his van with bullets is a tad much. Watch out, Michael Bolton. Seriously, though, Marc, you're a Michael McDonald wannabe who wrote and performed one of the worst songs ever, but many happy returns anyways, big guy.

It's Going To Be A Hell Of A Day

You walk into your uncle's cat-doored house where you're popping in from time to time to look after his cats while he's out of town for the weekend, and you find the dry cat food container overturned and empty, and the food dish empty, and the water dish empty, and dog biscuits on the floor, and water everywhere, and parts of a bird who appears to be pining for the Fjords. Lovely. The cats probably encountered a racoon during the night and opted to go all lord-of-the-flies about it. What a mess. I had nice weekend, nothing new to report. I cooked a lot for my date. The news is that I still can't cook a meatloaf. This one was better for consistency but was not cooked when I pulled it out. Blush. I did better with dessert, the gingerbread with peaches and blueberries, and much better with breakfast, scrambled eggicles with hash browns and a croissant. Still working to get her caught up on Los Sopranos. In other news:

• Mmmmm...sandwiches...
• What was that? (Beatles anomalies)

Sigh.

Is it worth explaining to my coworkers that asking me to put up a "hotlink" is not the same thing as asking me to put up a "hyperlink," and that, actually, a "hotlink" is a bad thing?

Jaw Droppingly Cool

The Mac Mini.

But I Don't Live In Richmond

Question: Why is every news story about the Susan Torres delivery datelined "Richmond" when she and her new baby are at Virginia Hospital Center, not four blocks from my house? Even the Post datelined it that way but said in the story it was "100 miles north" of Richmond. Weird.

I Sure Do Like That Potted Meat

What is it about gloved portions of pigmeat boiled in beer and seared over a grill that makes it so fucking good? I don't know why I got the gumption to cook such a thing while in the supermarket. Mmm. Brats in beer and grilled. Dad's relish. Red beans and rice. I think I have some canned French cut beans at home. That would go well with this Four Brothers wine. Either it's because I was fucking starving by the time I got home or because it was just that fucking good. Oh, my, god. My buddy Justin taught me how to boil brats in beer and then sear. That's one of at least four reasons he's still one of my four best buddies in the world. He taught me how to boil meat in beer. I talked to another on that short list tonight. The doc is good. He is a dad. That's weird. This fella I met in about what, 1984? And we palled up based on an equally perverse sense of humor and an equally odd taste in music and an equal sense of desperation and wonder when it came to wimmen. And we're still pals and he's a married dad, and that's weird. Awesome, but weird. Either way, look for me to fly south next month sometime to finally meet his little girl. My vacation was excellent. The time off gave me the solar plexus soul injection that I needed. As a result, I'm eating better and sleeping better and hoping to cook more and live more and make merry fun on the stage. I can't explain it better than that except to say that if you feel like you need a vacation, you probably do. I needed this one for years. Life is an abstract. My natural inclination is to try to create it as a matrix. But while I'm diligently setting up the rows and columns, life itself is throwing paint and clay and poop and vegetables at me and at my perfect table. My biggest challenge is to conduct the negotiations.

Added to the linkyboard

Leave It To Bush

Quick Tip

The best breakfast cereal in the known universe is: Three Parts Fiber One One Part Peanut Butter Capt'n Crunch Seriously. Try it tomorrow. Yum.

I Think It's Your Mind

One of my big vacation projects has been to at last deal with the creepy-crawlie CD collection. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I own entirely too many compact discs. Well. I don't think it's too many. The problem, though, is that I own too many crappy compact discs and own and display too many that are mediocre. So, I've been spending some time on each day of my vacation sorting through my CDs. Sad, right? Well, we'll see. I just traded a big stack of 'em at Orpheus. The man gave me $30 store credit, and I blew nearly all of it on one LP. It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the store, and I nearly dropped to the floor when I saw it. Frank Zappa's Only In It For The Money. He wanted $25 for it, and it's worth every dime. This is an album that must be heard on vinyl. And this one is MINT. Unfortunately for my housemates, I can't listen to this record without singing along. Wah wah wah wah. Other titles collected via my remaining $5 from the $1 vinyl bin:

• Sesame Street, Original Cast Record
• The Best of Bill Cosby
• The Best of Bob Newhart
• The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart

As per my bargain with myself before I left this afternoon, whatever Mr. Orpheus didn't take would go straight to Goodwill. And, they did. Reading out, baby! So today was a good day. I got my hair cut. I tracked down three new excellent recipes at the libary that I intend to try. I wandered around aimlessly through Barnes and Noble. I wandered aimlessly through the Container Store and purchased something that I think will help me create an excellent hPDA. Then I had the tomato salad and a pupusa at Mexicali Blues. Then, I went up the street to make my trade. There will even come a time when you can take your clothes off when you dance.

Vacation

I'm off this week and among the things I'm reassessing is what the hell to do with my blogs. Blogging seems so stupid when you're pushing 40. By the way. It's not made with prune juice.

"...it's like they're saying, 'Here, you throw this away.'"

Am I overly annoyable through my daily commute, at the tourists who consistently block my passage off of the train, at the escalator leftstanders and the hogs of egress, at the pedestrian meanderers, and, perhaps most troubling, at the leaflet and newspaper distributors? They are mother birds on PCP, more than eager to jam their found pablum into you. Here's a restaurant you should try. Here's some stuff on newsprint you should read. Here, you throw this away (thanks, Mitch). Today there was some falun gong dude handing out pamphlets inside the Metro Center station. Well, it was either falun gong he was selling, or it was miso. I don't know because I have a general policy of neither accepting nor offering anything whilst I'm in transit. I'll pick up an Express from time to time, but that's it. I'm not giving you money or whatever the hell you just mumbled to me about, and I'm not taking your little pieces of paper. I'm thinking of printing up a little sign and wearing it on my hat. The sign would say, "I Accept No Fliers. Thank You." And, if these people keep being pushy about it, on the other side of the sign, it would perhaps say "Piss Off, Already. I Said No."

Identity Crisis

There is a stapler in my office that someone has labeled "Fax Machine Only."

I Just Cleaned My Cat's Litterbox

I got to share the magick of Sage Francis today. My buddy Griffy was saying at a Pool of Car fiesta Friday how much he loves hip-hop, and I knew what he needed for his birthday today. He got the new Sage Francis CD. So Jay marinated and grilled a humongous mess of meat. Did it well, too, damn it was good. I am convinced that there is something orgasmic about a medium rare steak and a good red vino. Mmmmmmm.

iPod Mini Fix?

I don't know if this helps anyone, but I'll share anyway. This morning the iPod mini was doing the weirdest thing. I was trying to listen to the Rachel Maddow Show, and it was stuttering. I tried fast forwarding it, but it only kept stuttering. So, I paused play and THEN fast forwarded while it was paused, then unpaused it. No more stutter. Damn I'm good.

How's It Feel To Want?

So I think the host at Bennigan's was a little retarded. We walked in after having seen Batman Begins. We had eaten only popcorn for dinner. We were hungry and just this close to grumpy. And so we walked in and said two, nonsmoking. And he looked at us and appeared to have some problem understanding that there were two people who wanted to sit in the nonsmoking section, as if he thought there were four of us. Then, he told us to wait a minute because all his servers were on the floor, which was odd because he could walk and there were a lot of empty tables in the restaurant. So then, as he was seating us, he asked us if we wanted a booth. Sure, we said. That would be great. Oh, he said, well, we don't have any booths. Would you like to sit at this table? I think this kid may be in the wrong business.

duhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuhnuh...

Ebert and Roeper nailed it right on the head regarding Batman Begins. This is the one where they finally get it right. I loved Burton's first one with Nicholson as the Joker. I loved it, but I couldn't help but feel that they hadn't quite gotten it right. They tried too hard to walk the line between the two camps of Batman aesthetics, is it the campy campy of Adam West and Burt Ward, or is it the hard gritty "bats-no-shiv" of Frank Miller? The compromise was interesting, and fellow Kent State alum Keaton surprised the heck out of me as an effective Batman/Bruce Wayne. But the first Burton effort and all the subsequent movies insisted on keeping the camp. Batman Begins approaches the myth with the goal of making it as plausible as it possibly can. Sure, you have to suspend disbelief to some extent, but it's not as wide a chasm as has been with the Batman movies of the '90s. This movie more effectively drums up the most obvious theme: He's not imbued with superpowers given to him by a new yellow sun or some horrific freak accident. He's just a man with a lot of resources and a drive to do what's right. This superhero gets his super strength by doing a lot of pushups. Even if you're not a fan of the Batman story, you probably should go see Batman Begins. One advantage of successfully humanizing Batman and Wayne is that it makes this the most accessible of Hollywood's efforts to live-action it. This isn't just a Batman movie. It's a movie, and when you come out of the theater from it, you'll feel like you're supposed to feel when you've seen a movie. You'll feel tired, full of popcorn, sticky-shoed, and a little stupid. And, for at least ten minutes or so, you'll be convinced that you can leap across rooftops and fight injustice in Gotham City. So, um, you might want to have someone watch you for a little while.

Marvin Hamlisch ROCKS!

Just got back from Wolf Trap seeing Marvin Hamlisch direct the National Symphony Orchestra through a ton of Broadway classics. It was fun. That "Morales" song always makes me choke up. We took a bunch of wine and buckets of chicken. Before the show started, Cousin Jane saw the dude tuning the piano onstage and recognized him. She borrowed a cell phone and called him. Yep. Called him while he was onstage tuning the NSO's piano. That was cool. If you saw the piano tuner waving to the crowd before the show, he was waving to us. It wasn't bad either that we got VIP passes because Aunt Kathy knows somebody. I mean, that little ticket gets you a close place to park, a clean, close place to pee, and free wine. Mmmmmm, wine and chicken and Broadway. It's a nonstop week this week, with Grandma Pryor in town. More family doos tomorrow night, then other things. Go, speed racer!

IMHO

I think that impact font should be banninated forever. It is illegible, and you can't read it very well, either.

Lookit the Size of those FEET!

Meet Sherman Petey Wheatstraw.
No, he's not mine. I wish.

The Ocean Breathes, Um, Salty

The strangest thing I've seen in a long time occurred at the Modest Mouse show at DAR's Consitution Hall Thursday: Several songs in, Issac and company launched into "Ocean Breathes Salty," and two of the four or five frat boys who were in front of us high-fived. Something mad wrong with that. Wronger was how a few of these boys hung on each other through the show. I'm guessing there's been at least one drunken unintended blowjob among them. You know. "Oh, man. I was so drunk..." Unless, of course, I misjudged, and these were actually some very, very out gay boys, likely to be heading for Chaos right after the show. Just wasn't the vibe we got. Boys. Admit it. Come on out. Really. Fry-day morning got out of bed and had a nice breakfast with my woman. We then ran home and she watched me pack. Yes, I'm a procrastinator. At least, I would be, but I reckon it can wait until tomorrow. Then I ran her home and zipped up to Seven Springs for the Mitchell Family Reunion. Seven Springs is lovely, people. Just lovely. And, it was both nice AND weird to see all these cousins. 'Specially Ms. Carrie, who was one of my few adopted summer siblings. She is as sweet and nice and incredibly unjaded as she ever was. In fact, I think she was more jaded when we were teens. Does that mean that she went and grew up, while I didn't bother? Probably. I ate a lot and drank a lot of good wine. It was good. I'm trying to whisper family reunion success secrets based on my experience with reunions on the other side of the family. But, there's a basic difference: That family reunion involves Pryors. However, I have got one basic truth forward regarding family reunions. Have them annually only if you want them to fail. Once every two years, baby. That's the trick. Once a year is too much, and besides, it doesn't give people enough time to build up their stories. Well, here's to hoping this is the start of a new, longstanding tradition. Sigh. I have to go to work tomorrow.

Narcolepsy Is Funny. Daschunds Are Funny.

A narcoleptic daschund? That's a HOWL. Speaking of funny, on this board of geeks I'm on (yes, totalfark.com), someone posted the following query: "What is your favorite joke? Difficulty: Must be G-Rated." So, someone posted this excellent joke: Two muffins are in the oven, baking. One muffin turns to the other and says, "Man, it sure is hot in here." The second muffin replies: "HOLY COW! A TALKING MUFFIN!" So soon a bunch of weisenheimers are posting lame evolutions of said joke. So, I couldn't help but pitch in. So, there are these two beef anuses in an oven, that is, two anuses that have been butchered out of two cows, because, you see, in some parts of the world, broiled cow anuses are really where it's at. And so the one beef anus says to the other beef anus, "Man, could life get any worse than this? Not only did our portion of the embryo grow to be the anus of a cow, but then it turns out that some guy comes along and saws us right out of that cow's ass and slaps us onto a cookie sheet and into an oven. Man, I don't know how our lives could be any more disgraceful." "Well," says the second beef anus to the first beef anus. "You could be Colin Powell arguing President Bush's case for war in Iraq before the United Nations." Whereupon, the first beef anus says, "Oh, sweet merciful Jesus, you are correct. There but for the grace of God goeth I, bitch!" Two minutes later, I chimed in with, "Wait. I think I told it wrong."

Movie Pitch

I'd like to see a movie like Freaky Friday, only they're identical twins, so neither one of them learns a damned thing. Update: I reckon this is somewhat a good line. My housemate Karen didn't get it, but it nearly made beer come out of Jessica's nose. It's nice because for some reason I just woke up with it. I woke up and there it was. Unfortunately, you only get one of those every six months, and that ain't enough to let you sit at the wall wit' a notepad. However, if any of you fokkers wanna buy it, drop me a line. Five dollah. LMAO

What Makes Sandy Balls So Special?

See for yourself.

Movin' Fast, Movin' Slow

On a liberal listserv I'm on, someone recently asked, as a general polling question, if we "believe in UFOs." My reply was something like this: Strictly speaking, the question itself is inaccurate. If you see something traveling in the sky but you don't know what it is, it is, by definition, an Unidentified Flying Object. There is, actually, no question that UFOs exist. They do. Technically speaking, the Frisbee® you don't see coming is a UFO until it bonks you in the temple. A question can be raised only if you suspect that the UFO in question might actually be piloted by little green men. The question, "Do you believe in UFOs," and the adoption of the term "UFO" to directly refer to space visitors is a prime example of linguistic evolution through lazy thinking. What folks actually want to ask is "Do you believe that aliens from faraway worlds visit us periodically?" Meanwhile:

• Look! It's a picture of George Foreman playing ping-pong!
• R.I.P., Mrs. Boob
• Necrophelia Today for the low-brow set: Girls and Corpses

Long Live The Dead Guy

I don't know if I was trying too hard yesterday to be the jaded city fella and former newspaper reporter. I think maybe I was trying too hard. Probably. I mean, it's not every day on your walk to the subway that there's a dead guy lying on a bench. I assumed he was dead. That would explain the white sheet the cops had put over him and all the yellow tape. It would also help explain all the people gathered around looking at him. I refuse to rubberneck. No matter what. I don't rubberneck. In my little life I've had an adventure or two that have managed to drive that need right out of me. Nothing major or anything, you know, a loose nutball shooting up my college campus, a sheriff's manhunt, being told on any particular day to run out and photograph a car accident, crazy Elvis impersonator insisting on doing karate for ya, stuff like that. Besides, poor fella. It's bad enough he died like that, he doesn't need a bunch of strangers hanging around gawking. So, I kept walking. What the hell, it's good blogfodder.

Make Up Your Mind Already

I am working on an ideer that might allow me to keep my URI here at adventuresintothewellknown.com. Uh, stay tunered.

Fire Good. Meat Good. Good.

Last night as we did the week before to celebrate the remembering of our warriors, my people and I, we made the fire, and we lay meat on the fire, and we let the meat cook on the fire for awhile, and then we removed the meat from the fire, and we ate the meat. The meat was good. Grunt. (The fact that we had a nice shiraz with the meat, tabouli and slaw from Whole Foods with the meat and creampuffs for dessert kinda takes the caveman right out of it, doesn't it?) After the eating of the meat that had been cooked on the fire (on an official Simpsons Weber grill, no less), we watched Saved. It was the second time I'd watched this fine film. It was nice. Weekend good. Grunt.

Big Bad Bill Is Sweet William Now Even in a place as big as Washington, you tend to run into people. Just yesterday, I ran into my ol' buddy Justin whilst I was gearing toward the subway turnstile. I'm amazed I heard him, I had my Rachel Maddow show playing. "I have news," said Mr. J., who has apparently decided to no longer let the man tell him he can't have his long hair, good for you, brother. "I'm engaged." Well, now I had to have a beer or several with him that night, which I did. Got to meet her, too. She's great. It is, truly, truly, truly amazing how life can get a lot better with a good woman in your life.