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A La Carte Huh? The Blonde Goddess Is Confused West Virginia Political Sweatbox
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November 27, 2007: On Cushy Jobs I’ve been thinking about my father-in-law’s comment to me that I hold a “cushy” job. So this morning, I looked up the definition of the word cushy. The Free Dictionary provides us with this entry: cushy - not burdensome or demanding; borne or done easily and without hardship; "what a cushy job!"; "the easygoing life of a parttime consultant"; "a soft job" Ok. Great. That’s exactly how I understood the definition of cushy. Let me address a few matters before I finish this post, though. I’ve felt a little nauseous the past day. (It’s not from my father-in-law’s remarks or the turkey. But it may have resulted from the combination of my pot roast sandwich and the three hours of Yahoo!’s literati I played on Sunday afternoon. Don’t try this at home. Seriously). 1. Is my job “not burdensome or demanding”? No. And I don’t think anyone can assume anyone else’s job is burdensome or not unless someone’s worked the job. I mean, I watch Vanna White touch the letters on “Wheel of Fortune,” and I think “Wow. Now there’s a really great paying gig I’d love to have!” But, truth told, I have no idea what Ms. White does to prepare for the show or the hours she logs on WOF. Sure, her job looks cushy. But appearances are often deceiving. Nobody can really know what another person’s job is like until it’s been tried. 2. Is my job “borne or done easily without hardship”? Again, my answer’s no. I only wish I could touch a file with my right hand and have a judge rule in my client’s favor in response. 3. Is my job “the easygoing life of a parttime consultant”? Obviously not. And although I’m not a “parttime consultant,” if I were, I’d be firing off a letter to The Free Dictionary now objecting to the assumption that being a parttime consultant is easy. I mean, that’s the same as alleging Vanna White has a cushy job, isn’t it? 4. Is my job a “soft job.” Um, no. And I think we’re getting a little redundant. Next time: The definition of “chutzpah”!
November 24, 2007: When You’re A Rock Star, Ya Gotta Wear The Shades
But I dig my father-in-law. He appreciates the finer things in life. Like horses. And good grammar. Oh right, I played my wife Scrabble® this afternoon, and she played three bingos on me. I didn’t throw the board. That’s progress, I guess. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to listen to some more “Billy Bob’s Is Good Place To Sit.”
November 23, 2007: Can You Feel The Love Tonight? (And Arkansas beats LSU in triple overtime?!? Wow. Just wow.)
November 22, 2007: This Meme Is Brought To You By The Number “8” Jedi’s tagged me with the “8 interesting/random things about me” meme. I don’t know what you might consider interesting about me, so I’ll go with the random: 1. I am incredibly shy and often feel awkward in new social situations. 2. My right pupil is smaller than my left. 3. As a lawyer, I’ve worked for--in order--the West Virginia government, a large defense law firm, two small plaintiff firms, and now for a public interest, non-profit law firm. 4. I believe perception is reality. 5. Before I die, I’d like to be a contestant on a game show. 6. I can’t wear a new dress shirt until after it’s been washed several times. 7. I played for my high school tennis team during my sophomore year. 8. I wrote a song called “The Bedtag Patrol” that features the use of a cowbell during its instrumental section. If you have a blog and you’re reading this, feel free to consider yourself tagged for this meme. I’ll be adding more West Virginia bloggers as I have time. Happy Thanksgiving!
November 20, 2007: What Happened? Within the day after Dad died, I received a call from one of his “friends.” He gave his name, then asked: “So what happened?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? My dad dies and the first thing you say to me is to ask “What happened?” “He died,” I said. It was all I could say. “Well, yeah, but what happened?” said the voice on the other end of the phone. I told him that dad got sick and died again and ended the call as quickly as I could. But I’ve never forgotten those words--what happened-- in almost ten years. In our culture, we often reserve our accolades, congratulations and praise for people on their birthdays, retirements or anniversaries. And, of course, when someone dies, everyone marks the person’s passing with nice words. But you know what I think would really rock? I think it would really rock if everyone offered the nice words to others more often--and not simply on their birthdays. It’s too late, after all, to wait until someone’s funeral to tell him how much you appreciated his friendship.
November 19, 2007: My Table Games Dream Last night, I dreamed I won $5,000 playing roulette. When I awoke, I didn’t remember what my bet was. I wish I had dreamed about playing Texas Hold ‘Em. Roulette is so fucking stupid. I would never play it if I were awake.
November 17, 2007: Justice For Fred Redux Click here for a fresh editorial from Huntingtonnews.net on Fred Armstrong’s firing. Click here for a fresh photo of yesterday’s rally to support Armstrong from the Charleston Gazette-Mail. And, of course, click here to let Governor Joe Manchin know that you seek justice for Fred.
November 16, 2007: Justice For Fred I shared my thoughts with you last week about the firing of Fred Armstrong. It’s definitely triggered memories for me and the firing of my Dad--my Fred--over a decade ago. It not only bothers me, but it upsets me beyond the words I’ve written here. A few of you have expressed concern over some of the recent posts and comments I’ve made here, and I appreciate that. And, yes, I have displayed a bitterness and sarcastic side that’s extreme even for me. That’s how Dad’s firing affects me. I don’t need to justify how I feel to anyone. I’m simply telling you how it is. When your father loses the job he held for over twenty-four years, gets ill, and then dies the next year, you never get over that. Never. I’ve often cried about my Dad. I still cry about him. What happened to my Dad affects me so strongly that if someone mentions a certain name of someone involved in his firing that my face turns a dark shade of red. It visibly upsets me that much. I started this blog as a forum for me to express my feelings. In our culture, of course, it’s usually easier for most people to express their feelings under the cloak of anonymity. I’ve decided, however, that I have to write for me. That’s the only way I can really address how I feel. At the same time, I want to let you know that I do appreciate the community of bloggers that’s developed over the last four years. Everyone who reads this site--whether or not they comment, or link to me, or lurk--encourages me to believe that maybe, just maybe, we can in the words of Mahatma Gandhi “become the change we seek in the world.” It’s still not to late to seek justice for Fred Armstrong. Make your voice known. Please. And Mountani Semper Liberi, Dad, wherever you are.
November 14, 2007: 27 Things That Rock Libraries rock. Taking a bubble bath rocks. Baking a cake rocks. John Locke from Lost rocks; John Locke, the 17th-century philosopher, wishes he rocked like John Locke from Lost. Spiking the football after your touchdown will always rock. Calling your own shot rocks ten times as much as spiking the football after your touchdown. Natural, hardwood floors rock. Reading an Archie comic book while taking your dump rocks. Teriyaki-flavored beef jerky rocks. Having Halle Berry at your birthday party rocks. Making friends with your enemies rocks. Tombstone Pizza rocks. It goes without saying that sex rocks. Getting sick and staying at home in bed reading a good book sorta rocks if you’re not experiencing heavy diarrhea. Discovering a twenty-dollar bill in your winter coat rocks. Telling someone “You rock!” rocks. 12 pounds of Play Doh totally rocks, too. Grape, orange and cherry popsicles rock. Saying “porcupines” rocks--but real porcupines don’t rock and never will. Wearing clean underwear rocks better than 61% of everything else that rocks. Knowing you’ve done your best--despite the outcome of what you’ve tried--rocks more than wearing clean underwear. Using the cheat codes to enable that rocket launcher car in Age of Empires really, really rocks. Popping a big, greasy zit that’s been bothering you for days totally rocks. Knitting a sweater rocks, which is a damn shame because I can’t knit a sweater. Silently breaking wind in a crowded elevator must rock because so many people keep doing it. Picking your nose while you’re stuck in a traffic jam not only never gets old, it still rocks. And making sweet love to Betty Rubble rocks if you’re Barney Rubble.
November 13, 2007: Happy Third Birthday To Our Dearest Daughter!
November 12, 2007: You Don’t Need A Weather Man To Know Which Way The Windex Is I took the kids grocery shopping today. My wife’s sick. I don’t mean to imply that I’m a lazy husband who doesn’t share the chores around here. My wife will make that perfectly clear when, and if, that occurs. But I dig going to our local Krogers because it has the best selection of my favorite snackies, and I was happy to oblige my much better half. While I waited patiently in line behind the gentleman wearing a pirate-themed t-shirt, the lady cashier for the “Express-15 items or less” line motioned me over to check out my groceries. I had a full cart (not including the kids riding in the double-kiddie seats), and I had elected not to use the express line because: 1) That’s the kind of fella I am; 2) I really was waiting patiently; and 3) I needed all my concentration to prevent my kids from attacking each other with the boxes of instant rice. As I backed up my cart, I banged into another shopper. Actually, it wasn’t just any shopper--it was a celebrity blogger shopper, Tony Cavalier. I was so astounded that my immediate reaction was to look him in his eyes and proclaim: “Hey, I’ve seen you on the television!” And, amazingly, Tony Cavalier just stood there and said nothing to me. NOTHING. I mean, here I am thinking that he’s going to say “Hey, Whassup, Donutbuzz!” But he didn’t utter a single word and then moved his cart to the next lane. I guess Tony Cavalier didn’t recognize me from this blog. I also guess I should post some more pictures of myself to prevent this from happening again.
November 11, 2007: Meditation When I lived at home, I would often watch television with my folks. We watched everything. Beverly Hills 90210, Twin Peaks, Life Goes On, Jeopardy, The Love Connection, The Simpsons, and re-runs of The Wonder Years. On one fall day in late 1997, Dad was speaking on the phone with one of his friends. He hadn’t talked with this friend for awhile, and he was telling this friend about his firing. His firing had occurred the year prior, and, since then, Dad’s health had deteriorated. On this day, he was lying on his back on the couch near me--which is what he usually did when we watched our television together--while an episode of The Wonder Years played. My Dad’s friend couldn’t understand how my father had lost his job after serving for nearly 25 years in West Virginia’s government. I remember hearing the sorrow in Dad’s voice, too, as he explained how he still didn’t have any answer for what happened, either. After Dad hung up the phone, he went back to sleep on the couch, and I lay down on the one beside him while The Wonder Years’ re-run played. I always loved the use of Joe Cocker’s version of The Beatles’ “With A Little Help From My Friends” as The Wonder Years’ theme: What do I do when my love is away? And I thought over and over to myself that “Dad’s still here, he’s sleeping on the couch next to me” until it became a calming, peaceful, soothing meditation for me, and I fell asleep next to my father. After that Thanksgiving ten years ago, Dad entered the hospital. He never left. I’ve forgotten many things since then, but I still remember that day that we both slept on the couches in my parent’s living room watching The Wonder Years. Now, lately, some of you may be wondering if I’m sad. But, no, I get by with a little help from my friends. Thanks for reading me. I really appreciate it.
November 10, 2007: How To Leave A Comment One of my blog heroes, Tony Pierce, once posted on how to leave a comment. I can’t locate the permalink because his archives have been down for a few weeks. Suffice it to say, however, that if someone’s not teaching a college course on blogging by now, that sooner or later someone will, and the busblog will be required reading on that syllabus. You know, I don’t remember if this is one of Tony’s rules, but it’s always a good practice to credit a fellow blogger that has posted about a specific topic you remember. I know that there aren’t any original ideas left, and that sooner or later bloggers will tread similar territory, but I also believe that some posts leave an indelible mark in the blogosphere, and so it’s best to give credit where credit is due. I also wanted to post about how to leave a comment because some events of late here and on that other-blog-of-mine-that-must-not-be named have tempted me to enable comment moderation. And I really don’t want to do that because: 1) I don’t want to chill any more folks than I have from commenting; 2) I promised myself I would never enable comment moderation; and 3) Enabling comment moderation would only serve to confirm the point of no return. I’m making these up as I go along. It’s for the best. HOW TO LEAVE A COMMENT ON DONUTBUZZ™ Rule #1: Be Nice! You know how when you’re at a cocktail party and everyone’s standing around in a circle making small talk about how much they adore Fred Thompson and you’re standing in the circle forcing a smile while you’re thinking internally “What the hell do I say to these people so that I don’t sound like a total jackass?” Well, if you don’t, then maybe you should, because I know I do, and if I don’t have something nice to say about Fred Thompson, then I keep my damn mouth shut until I can find the two people in the room who wished Russ Feingold were running for POTUS, and I chat with them. I certainly wouldn’t stand around in a circle of folks talking about Fred Thompson and say something to them like this: Ooh, man, that Fred Thompson is such a putz on Law and Order. And I bet he makes the worst farts you can imagine, too! Well, maybe if I were really drunk I might. But then that’s the next rule. . . . Rule #2: Don’t comment when you’re drunk. Rule #3: Stay on target. Otherwise known as the “Star Wars” rule. A non-sequitur is fine in an actual blog post, but it’s incredibly dangerous to use in a comment. Even if you’re making an inside joke, you run the risk of angering and/or alienating others. Stick to the target and save your off-topic comments for your own blog. Rule #4: No ad hominem attacks. Never--NEVER--attack another commenter. Even if the other commenter is your buddy, the Fonz sez that attacking another blogger ain’t cool. If you have to restort to attacking a person rather than his or her argument, then you probably need to evaluate the validity of your position. Or you need to get some more sleep and start your day again. Rule #5: If you’re celebrating Hanukkah this year, then that obligates you to comment. My goal is to set up the very first WVJB--West Virginia Jewish Bloggers--group for the Hanukkah gift exchange this year. Don’t disappoint me! Rule #6: Don’t be shy. This is the toughest rule, and one that I have trouble following. You see, I tend to lurk on most blogs I read. And I figure most folks do the same thing. But together, we can all overcome this, right? I said, RIGHT?!? *Sigh* Rule #7: Comedy is not always pretty. Attempting humor always entails a certain risk. It’s one thing when you embarrass yourself on your own blog (Exhibit A). It’s entirely another when you embarrass yourself on someone else’s blog. So make jokes in the comments at your own risk. Rule #8: You should rarely leave a comment that exceeds the length of the blog post on which you’re commenting. If you have that much to say about something, then why not post your own entry about it, and then link back to the post that inspired it? I did this recently, in fact, when I linked to several posts addressing another ridiculous government firing here in West Virginia. Of course, I didn’t leave comments on those sites because I’m having a difficult time following Rule #6. *Sigh* Rule #9: Trust your gut. If you think that something you’re about to post might not be nice or violate one of these rules, then it’s probably better not to post it. Rule #10: Shameless, self-promotion is good. If you want to stop by and say “Hi, I dig your blog and here’s mine,” I’m totally cool with that. After all, it’s a great way to start leaving comments here, y’know?
November 7, 2007: Meet The New Boss, Same As The Old Boss Well, well, well, well, well. Among West Virginia bloggers, the latest “political controversy” flavor of the week here surrounds the sacking of Fred Armstrong from his 22-year post as director of the West Virginia Archives office. I haven’t weighed in on this issue yet, but believe me, when the matter involves the firing of a long-tenured West Virginia state government employee, I definitely have a story to contribute. In fact, what happened to Fred Armstrong strikes me as remarkably similar to the firing of another Fred over eleven years ago. That was a pretty outrageous firing, too, but you’d never know it if you checked Wikipedia because that Fred doesn’t have an entry and it’s not mentioned anywhere in the bio of the governor who did nothing to prevent his firing. Readers familiar with me and/or this weblog know exactly whom I’m describing in the preceding paragraph. And if you don’t know whom I’m talking about, then that simply lends support for my argument that the outrage over Mr. Armstrong’s firing will, unfortunately, subside as time progresses, and the public, the governor and everyone in West Virginia will continue with business as usual. I realize that my bitter, cynical and jaded opinion will not provide any solace to Mr. Armstrong. Then again, I wouldn’t blame Mr. Armstrong if he were bitter, cynical and/or jaded about his termination, either. But everyone should remember that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Or that history repeats itself. Or that those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. We didn’t have “blogging,” of course, when the WVLC fired my father. We did, however, have the local newspapers, radio and traditional media, and, yes, many fine folks screamed “Outrage!” “How awful!” and “How can something like this happen to someone who has served West Virginia so long?!?” Then I remember someone on local radio--maybe it was Hoppy Kercheval--mentioning how my dad’s firing would become “part of the wallpaper.” And that stung me. That really stung me. You see, I really wanted to believe that everyone’s outrage would translate into “justice for Fred”--my dad. But after awhile, the public’s outrage subsided and everyone proved that talk radio guy right. Our family will never forget. That’s why I feel for Mr. Armstrong. I don’t know him. It’s possible that I’ve met him, but I don’t remember it if I have. I do know, however, that for the rest of his life, he won’t forget the unceremonious, nasty “shove out the door” that he received after serving the State of West Virginia for over two decades. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: We, West Virginians, deserve better. Until we do something about making it better, we will be fooled again. But I’m hoping that you all prove me wrong this time. This is one time that I don’t want to be right.
November 6, 2007: Talkin’ Hava Negilah Blues Once upon a long time ago, somewhere in uptown New Orleans, I was in a rock band.
But I don’t miss the sex (we never had any groupies), the drugs (nobody ever offered them), or the rock ‘n roll (our band was “performance art”). For me, making music has always been more about my personal expression than about the actual sounds I make with the instrument I’m using.
Here’s what a whallop to the side of your head feels like: Imagine someone with a big, plastic shopping bag--like one that you might receive at a JC Penney’s or maybe a Sear’s, you know, the kind with the big, plastic handle. Now imagine this person taking a dozen or so solid wood blocks, filling that JC Penney’s bag with them, then swinging that big, plastic bag with the blocks as hard as s/he can into your head. Got that? Good. That’s what it feels like to get hit in the head by someone’s fist.
Someday, I’ll have to tell my kids about getting whacked upside my head. But for now, I love performing my own special “set list” for them. Tonight, I started out my concert with a little Hava Negilah a la Bob Dylan: Ha. . . . Ha Va. . . Ha Va Nee. . . Ha Va Nee Gee. . . Ha Va Nee Gee La. . . Ha Va Nee Gee La . . . YOOODEELAYEEEOOOOO! But Seth didn’t dig it. “Don’t play the Jewish songs, Daddy,” he tells me. And I really wanted to explain to him that this wasn’t the traditional version, but, instead, the old version that Dylan tells us he “learned in Utah.”
Seth asked me to play “Yellow Robot in the Tub.” I didn’t know the words to this one, so, as usual, I invented them. Robot isn’t an easy word to rhyme, but tub is: Let’s all start to scrub, With Yellow Robot in the tub! I forget the rest of the words because I was too busy watching my kids dance. Then I played Rock ‘N Roll Spelling for them. It’s another tune I created tonight, and was best received by the kids. I would sing each letter and ask Seth to say it, and, incredibly, he did. “Say ‘R’,” I sang. “R!” Seth said. “Say ‘O’,” I sang. “O!” Seth said. This continued for several more letters until I reached “’n.” “Say apostrophe ‘N’,” I sang. “N!” Seth said. But my favorite part was when I reached the double “l’s”: “Give me two l’s,” I sang. “L, L!” said Seth. Someday, I’ll have to let them know about Bob Dylan’s heritage. But they’re still too young.
November 6, 2007: Ya Think? As you see, there's a massive disparity between the haves and have-nots. Well, duh. Now how about giving us some news we can really use?
November 4, 2007: Jump The Blog
November 1, 2007: Variation On My Self-deprecation Shtick or Something Similar Happened To Me Before But It Involved My Recording An Answering Machine Message Me: Hi, is Oliver there? Oliver’s mother: No. He’s not. Me: Does he live there? Oliver’s mother: Sometimes he does. Me: Can you tell him that Hoyt called? Oliver’s mother: What’s your name again? Me: Hoyt. H-O-Y-T. Oliver’s mother: Are you a lady? Me: What do you think? Oliver’s mother: You sound like a lady. Person In the Next Room Who Can Hear Oliver’s Mother On The Speaker Phone I’m Using: [In a nasal voice] You sound like a lady! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Me: [Laughter...the controlled kind] I’m flattered. You’ve made my day! Oliver’s mother: [Somewhat embarrassed] I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Me (to Oliver’s mother, not to the person chortling in the next room): It’s ok. Really. I’m laughing with you, not at you. Oliver’s mother: What’s your number? Me: It’s 552. . . HEE HEE HEE. . . I’m sorry. . . 552-5. . . HEEHEHEHEHEHE HEH. . . um. . . (Person in adjoining room continues the loud guffawing, which grows ever louder with each passing second.) Me: It’s 552-5. . . HEHEHEHEHEHEH EHEHEHEH. . . 552. . . ... HEEHAHHAHHE...............Sorry. . . I’m sorry. . . 552-5. . . HEE HEE HEE HEE . . . HEE HEE. . . Can’t stop. . . sorry. . . . HEE HEE HEEHEHHEHEEHEEHEHEH. . . Oliver’s mother: I can’t understand you. Me: I . . . 552. . . . Hee Hee. . . 5. . . . HEE HEE HEE. . . . ahem. . . HEHHEHEHHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH (Person in adjoining room cackling so loudly that Oliver’s mother can obviously hear her. Must. Stop. My. Laughing.) Me: I’m sor. . . HEHHEHEHEH. . . . HEE. . . .I’m so sor. . . HEHEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH. . . . I can’t stop laughing, ma’am. . . HEHHEH. . . Hee. . .Hee. . . Hee. . . 552-5.. . HEE HEE. . . [This continues for several more seconds until I finally find the strength and courage to provide my full number to Oliver’s mother]. This is exactly why my plan for a radio career ended before it even began. And, oh yeah, Oliver still hasn’t returned my call.
November 1, 2007: A Little Donuts Halloween Here.
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I rarely pick up a guitar these days. It’s a shame, too, because I think I enjoy playing for my children more than I ever did playing for audiences in the clubs at New Orleans. Maybe that’s because when I play for my kids I don’t have to worry about my being mugged on Tchoupitoulas Street. Or maybe it’s because I know that no matter how I perform that my kids will always appreciate my songs.
I don’t want to digress here, but I really need to describe exactly how it feels to be mugged. And by “mugged, ” I mean being blindside d incredibly hard in the side of your head by someone’s fist. After all, you never know when you might find yourself on the other end of a sucker punch, and knowing my audience as well as I do, I think some of you could benefit from this information.
And it hurt. I didn’t cry when it happened , though. I waited until I got back to my apartmen t. The experienc e was similar to what happens to Wile E. Coyote when he runs off the edge of a cliff and hangs in the air for a few seconds before he realizes that he’s going to fall except that I wasn’t chasing a road runner and I had also made the mistake of playing a gig in a really bad section of New Orleans.
After Dylan, I launched into some original songs of mine. I played an extended version of my K Mart Song, which was always a crowd pleaser back in New Orleans. Then Seth and Lydia started making requests.
