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Please direct any inquiries to: expressivecynic [at]yahoo.com |
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A La Carte Jelly-Filled (She’s my wife, k?) Huh? The Blonde Goddess Is Confused West Virginia Political Sweatbox and, of course,
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January 29, 2007: Lydia’s Alphabet With all due respect to Van Halen, I much prefer this music video. (UPDATE: The video should load now. If it doesn’t, feel free to share in the comments. Thanks.)
January 28, 2007: Hey, Mister Flu “It’s time for you to leave.” “Pardon, moi?” “Pack your bags. Get out.” “Sure?” “I’m sure.” “Really sure?” “Yes, you crazy bug, get outta here.” “Hey, fella, there were benefits to my stay here.” “Like the 104 degree fever you gave our son?” “Whoah--I stopped that after you gave him the medicine.” “And the backaches I had?” “Pre-existing.” “The diarrhea?” “Don’t blame me for the diarrhea, dude. That’s Mr. Diet’s bag. You didn’t have to work on Wednesday or Thursday. And you spent more time with your family this week than you will between now and Easter. Or Passover. I wouldn’t know because I never stop. But anyway, where’s my thanks, buddy?” “Oh, thanks. Thank you so much, Mister Flu. Thank you for every minute this week consisting of night sweats, every penetrating cough that rattled my lower spine, and, of course, every moment of worry I spent trying to take care of my family and me.” “Wuss. Ok, pal, I’ll leave, but it’s only because I have an obligation to spread myself around. I’m off to Charleston and the West Virginia Legislature!” KNOCK, KNOCK “Yes?” “Hi, it’s Ms. Carpal Tunnel. Mr. Flu told me I could stay with you for the next several weeks until he gets back from Charleston.”
January 26, 2007: Musings Of The She-Donut My wife’s rejoined the blogosphere. Feel free to stop by and say “Whassup” to her.
January 25, 2007: High School Meme I always dig reading Sharon’s posts, and I’m posting this meme she answered today: Fill this out about your YEARS of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be.
January 23, 2007: The Not-So Hot Zone Our family’s sick. Our son caught it first. My wife followed. Now it’s my turn. (Somehow, our daughter has escaped the contagion relatively unscathed in our not-so-hot zone.) Sickness causes our son to pitch his classic Seth’s Apeshit Tantrum™. You can’t stop him, you can only hope to contain him. And, yes, I filched that last sentence from ESPN. I’m sick, I’m not in a good mood, and we’ve endured several of those Apeshit Tantrums™ today. I think it’s time for some American Idol auditions. If I start feeling better, I may even find time to watch Dubya’s address later. I could use the laughs.
January 22, 2007 Nice.
January 19, 2007: The Big Glasses I wear big glasses. What’s with the glasses? “They’re my nerd glasses,” I tell them. “They’re too big for my face. But I didn’t feel like wearing the contact lenses today.” You look like George in that episode from Seinfeld where he wore the goggles. Yes, that’s absolutely true, I think, but I don’t mention this because it reminds me of the other day this week when my three-and-a-half year old son also told me that I looked like George from Seinfeld--except that my son didn’t reference any specific Seinfeld episode. My son refers to the Big Glasses™ as my “Super Duper Glasses.” “Hey, Daddy,” he squeals when he sees me at 7:20 a.m. in the morning, “You’re wearing your Super Duper glasses!” I really dig that. This isn’t my first pair of big glasses. I bought my first pair of big glasses in 1997. That’s the year that my dad got really sick and when I stopped giving a damn about pretty much anything. My dad was with me when I selected that big pair of glasses. I remember looking at his frail body as he stood next to me in the store. I found the thickest, heaviest, fattest frames on the shelf--they were bigger than Drew Carey’s--and placed them over my nose. They looked absolutely dreadful. But who cares? Dad’s sick. And they cost under forty bucks. That’s a pretty good deal for 20/20 vision. When I wore the big glasses back then, some people had the chutzpah to tell me that I looked good in them. I thought that was pretty funny. But the funniest part was when people from the fourteenth floor would come upstairs to my office, open my door, peer in, and mention some excuse for why they had accidentally entered my office. These days, I would invite them in: Do you want to see my Big Glasses? And they probably would tell me no. But then I would tell them: It’s cool. Really. My contacts are killing me, my eyes need a rest, and these are my nerd glasses. But I didn’t give damn about anything back then. I think it was Miles in Risky Business who suggested that not giving a damn gives you freedom. And he was right. Sometimes, if you want to be free, you have to stop giving a damn. And today I don’t give a damn about how I look.
January 18, 2007: Welcome To Donutbuzz3 It’s been three years since I started this weblog. Since then, I’ve fathered a daughter, switched jobs, and moved from Charleston to Huntington. When I launched this weblog, I had no focus on “what” I would write here. I decided I would write what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted. I’ve written about my favorite snackies, my most disturbing moments of cinema, how much I miss my dad, how much I dislike Governor Manchin’s exorbitant spending on renovating the “people’s mansion,” the Match Game and twenty-four other great game shows, my BTE (bad tuna experience), Mel Gibson’s meltdown, an imaginary sequence involving Dubya, Condoleeza Rice, Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart on The Dating Game, the need for us to get our folks out of Iraq, stories about my horrible blind dates, a seventh-grade teacher with a penchant for upsetting my stomach, my punk rock band in law school, and, of course, the eponymously named chinchilla, Mr. Chinchilla, the voice of dissent. Three years later, I guess I still have no focus.
January 16, 2007: Construction Junction What’s your function? Fixing this weblog and pages and archives.
January 13, 2007: Your Mommy’s Alright, Your Daddy’s Alright, They Just Seem A Little Weird It’s 2 a.m. and my little girl sees a giant chicken in her bedroom. BOCK. BOCK. BOCK. This is the explanation I receive from my spouse yesterday morning when I ask her why our daughter climbed into our bed in the wee hours. I don’t mind the occasional kick in the head when I’m sleeping. It’s my toddler’s sideways positioning above my head that upsets the balance of my slumber. But I’m not offering any complaint. It’s Saturday morning, nobody’s screaming, and my neck’s flexion is nearly 90% at the moment. I often joke about my getting older, but last night’s events confirmed for me that my aging’s no joke--or should I say laughing matter. My wife and I visited the local Funny Bone comedy club after a dinner at the Rio Grande. I dig Rio Grande’s food (I even ate there again on Friday) because it’s tasty, inexpensive and quick. I can’t recall ever having waited more than ten minutes for my food--and this applies to both the Charleston and Huntington locations. I told my wife that we could eat anywhere, but she enjoys the food at Rio Grande even more than I, and, of course, her birthday’s arriving soon. After dinner, we went to the comedy club on her suggestion. Before Thursday night, I had never attended a comedy club. I have no excuse for this, either, because I love stand-up comedy. My favorite comedians, in no particular order, are Dave Chappelle, the pre-1986 George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Steven Wright, Chris Rock, Eddie Murphy, “the stand-up, non-talk show guest version” of Robin Williams, the original arrow-through-the-head, wild and crazy pre-Disney Steve Martin, Margaret Cho, Bill O’Reilly, and, of course, my son Seth and daughter Lydia. I’m so starved for stand-up comedy--how starved am I?--that I made sure that each of our children owns a toy microphone that I encourage them to use to deliver jokes. I’ve also made sure that our children are familiar with Gene Rayburn and the Match Game now that I finally own a copy of that dvd. Watching a three-year-old imitate Gene Rayburn is a great antidote for a rainy day and a flooded basement, plus there’s no cover charge for the entertainment. Stand-up comedy is not easy. Just as I have tried riding a rollercoaster, I have tried stand-up comedy. I believe everyone should ride a rollercoaster at least once. I also believe that everyone should experience performing before an audience at least once. In fact, I believe the appropriate punishment for hecklers should require them to deliver a monologue to the audience who was present for their heckling. Only then would they learn how difficult presenting a stand-up act is. It may look easy to tell jokes to an audience, but then it also looks really simple to ride a rollercoaster. But if you’re not prepared, both will make you lose your lunch (or dinner) after you’ve finished. Another word of warning: Do not sit near the stage of a comedy club if you are timid, embarrass easily, or are unfamiliar with the more colorful versions of the word “frickin.” (By the way, although I do not consider “frickin” an inappropriate word, I will not tolerate my son telling me that I am “just a frickin’ daddy,” and I will send him to his room when he does this. You have to set limits.) When you sit near the stage, you will likely become part of the act, and if you lack a sense of humor or appreciation for sex jokes, you should probably stay at home and shop-vac your basement. We sat five feet from the stage. While this allowed us to enjoy some excellent comedians, it also confirmed for me several things: 1) I do not look like I’m under thirty anymore. One of the comedians pointed to me in the audience and used me as a reference for how much things have changed since my generation. This comic was twenty-eight years old. 2) I am really thin. I knew this. But I’m not sure that I needed confirmation from the comedy dude. 3) Jewish folks are, indeed, in short supply around Appalachia. One of the comedians who was Jewish--a Jewish comedian? Wow, imagine that!--asked us if anybody in the audience were Jewish. I would have answered yes, but I was the only Jew. Thanks for listening to all this. You’ve been great readers. Now I gotta go console my daughter because there’s a giant chicken in her room. BOCK. BOCK. BOCK.
January 9, 2007: You Really Got Me
Celebrate Van Halen’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by watching this.
January 6, 2007: Jiffy Pop Ever made yourself some Jiffy Pop? I haven’t tried it in years. My wife and I received a couple packages as a Christmas gift. We’ve favored the microwave popcorn, but opted for the Jiffy Pop last week. I dig Jiffy Pop. This worries me somewhat because I can’t recall having seen Jiffy Pop in the market. I’m hoping that this is simply a result of poor observation. I prefer Jiffy Pop over microwave popcorn for five reasons: 1. Jiffer Pop is funner. I suppose I should say “Jiffy Pop is ‘more fun.’” But saying that entirely misses the point. 2. Jiffy Pop demands your exertion. You’ll burn more calories making the Jiffy Pop than you will making microwave popcorn. I’ve made a couple batches of Jiffy Pop in the past week, and I can see a definite increase in my right bicep already. 3. Jiffy Pop offers its own self-contained popping pan. No other brand of popcorn offers that. 4. Jiffy Pop is in Real Genius. Combine that with Everybody Wants To Rule The World and you have a winning ticket for ‘08. 5. Jiffy Pop feels better. When you’re home alone, placing that popcorn bag in the microwave accentuates that loneliness. That’s not the case with Jiffy Pop. Jiffy Pop is its own company. It’s always with you even when you’re shaking those kernels over the heated stove by yourself.
January 4, 2007: “Nobody Ever Paid To See The Umpire” Earlier this week, Chief Justice John Roberts issued a report exhorting Congress to raise judicial salaries. Federal judges earn $165,000 a year. An associate justice of the Supreme Court earns $203,000. And what does Chief Justice Roberts earn? Try $212,100. Chief Justice Roberts claims judicial pay has reached “the level of a constitutional crisis.” “Beginning lawyers fresh out of law school in some cities,” his report notes, “will earn more in their first year than the most experienced federal district judges before whom those lawyers hope to practice some day.” (For those interested in his 2006 report, which is in a pdf file, here is the main link). Some of you who recall Chief Justice Roberts’ confirmation hearing may also remember his opening statement where he offered a description of his role as a judge: Judges and justices are servants of the law, not the other way around. Judges are like umpires. Umpires don't make the rules; they apply them. The role of an umpire and a judge is critical. They make sure everybody plays by the rules. But it is a limited role. Nobody ever went to a ball game to see the umpire. I agree. But although the Chief Justice may claim he’s only an umpire, it sure seems like he wants a major leaguer’s earnings.
January 3, 2007: Repeat It Twelve Times I could write about Pat Robertson’s silly remarks. Film Geek’s penned an awesome letter about that. Or I could write about Massachusetts and the proposed amendment there that would ban gay marriage. I could even write about Barry Zito and his rather excessive $126 million, seven-year contract. But right now I have the infectious strains of the “Map Song” from Dora The Explorer endlessly repeating in my brain, and I’m going to relent and post the lyrics here: MAP SONG Yes. He’s the map. And he rocks.
January 2, 2007: Achy Breaky Parts It’s not even forty-eight hours into this new year, and I’ve managed to strain my neck. The pain’s bothering me, and it especially hurts when I turn my head to either side. I first noticed the pain this morning after I awoke. Yeah, that’s right. I hurt my neck while sleeping. SLEEPING. I thought I had hit rock bottom a couple days ago, when as I was sliding the paper from my Wendy’s straw, I rubbed the skin on my finger so hard that it actually felt like I had burned it. After I yelped, I told my wife what had happened, and she had to laugh. I don’t blame her. I would have laughed too, had the pain not distracted me. I am so looking forward to turning forty later this year.
January 1, 2007: The Obligatory Hackneyed New Year’s Resolution Post 1. Drive Faster In the Left Lane. They’re raising the fuel tax another 4 1/2 cents on us effective today. As I figure it, by March my family won’t even notice the extra money I’ve spent on the speeding tickets. 2. Eat More Shrimp. 2006 was a great year for lox consumption, but shrimp, not so much. 3. Develop a Unified Theory On Lost. This one’s going to be tough to keep, and I’m going to need to spend a substantial amount of time reading the message boards and reviewing my collection of Lost dvds. 4. Stop Whining About Governor Manchin’s Mansion. I know you’re tired of reading it because I’m tired of repeating it. 5. Make Lists. I think it’s one of those seven habits of highly effective people. I put that book on my list to read several years ago, but never have had time to read it. 6. Buy Powerball Tickets. You can’t win if you don’t play. All you need is a dollar and a dream. And don’t count on table games coming to Tri-State Greyhound Park after this next legislative session. 7. More Hugs for the Cats.
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My glasses merit their own area code. They’re big. They’re too big for my face. They make me look like a nerd. I know I’m a nerd. But I don’t want the reminder. I want to look less like the nerd I am. That’s why I own a pair of contact lenses. I usually wear these contacts most of the time--but not today. No, today, I opted for the Big Glasses™--the nerd wear.