My package contains explosive material

No, seriously, I just flew in from Yemen & boy are my arms tired.

Oh, if only there was a lobotomy cure for this phbphblblblblbppppp.*

*my best guess at a lexical representation of fingers flipping flapping lips.

THEKEYS OH THE KEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYS

Gun to temple, probably still my favorite flick.

What, art not a "substantive" enough post in the darkening shadow of The Most Important Election Of Your Lifetime At Least Until The Next One? Fine.

The State as Michael Myers. Discuss. I'm gonna go watch movies.

Halloweenie

Sock it to me?

& you dare stomp on the Ohio matters, dammit! biennial bloom. Such silly seasoning's a small price to pay -- especially since I don't work Sundays & won't have to deal with internal combustion engine slow jams -- yet no matter how much the state & local asses-that-be yearn for

Cleveland is a contender to host the 2012 Democratic National Convention, at which Obama would presumably be renominated. No date for a decision on the convention city has been set.

until the distinct lack of hotel space is rectified -- stop drooling, Comic Sans, you gotta get your casino up & running first --  forget it, Marge. It didn't happen with the goopers last time 'round & it ain't happening now & for that, O indifferent cosmos, Callahoogian sentience extols thee.

In the spirit of the season, imagine the following is spoken by the late, great Vincent Price: The slimy, rotted claws of soulless bureaucrats, hideous cocktail & talking hairpiece cliques unfurl their foulest witchcraft here, this most decayed midwestern tomb of all decayed midwestern tombs, an eldritch gurgling en route to a festspielhaus choked with morbid singalongs, inhuman demagoguery, devilishly choreographed phantasmagoria & booze.

Now that's scary.

Speaking of scary



there's a review 'a-comin', once I get the CD in. Hey, where are you all going?

Dear Cleveland, turn off your teevee

The pied piper's magic flute freebies tune isn't only for the grimy ears of the uncultured masses spending money on discount major label hits at Wal-Mart. But believe you me, after constantly hearing the neo-tongue-in-cheek defiance of some of the ads on WCLV, I'm further convinced that the stereotype of classical being the playground of decrepit oldsters & junior mad king Ludwigs is a badge of honor to select yokels, thus unintentionally comic stuff like

One such effort is already underway. Prior to last Friday's matinee concert, the orchestra sent buses to pick up listeners at Beachwood Place and Crocker Park in Westlake.

Not the the largest hamburger helper, Beachwood & Westlake being mostly composed of upper crust crackerdom. Despite personal disappointment in Blossom instead of Severance initially getting the full 18-and-under-free treatment -- a steady diet of saccharine Sousa pops & firework-saturated 1812 Overtures, Mahler must be rolling over in his grave; alright, I inveigle slightly, but stacks of Marshalls or no, the sound on the lawn still sucks -- we'll see if the following theme

"We want to make sure there's no excuse about money, getting here or the welcome you get once you're here," Binnie said. "We're going to turn our plan on its head and say, 'You know what? Come check us out and then tell us you don't like it.'"

bears long-term fruit. Might want to vary the repertoire too; less Mozart (sorry, Mitsuko), more Martinů & maybe slip a bit o' dissonance in the brew. I hear all the maltshop kids think that Stravinsky's just dreamy, daddy-o. & how about cutting down on the all the goddamn cross-country & international voyaging. New York doesn't have an orchestra or three?

Classical music, like poetry, is always & forever going to be a postmodern niche. All the nephilim striding the earth have gone into hiding or have been slain, only their great works remain, seldom heard outside those lucky to be touched by the immanence of their spirit. Is there a solution? Je ne sais pas. Is this a/the solution? The majestic chords of the allegretto from Beethoven's seventh ring & my blood simmers every time. My kids only grimace.

Economic concerns aside, a wider array of entertainment options exist now than in the heyday of a Karajan or a Masur, let alone past centuries, which surely adds to the amount of patrons disguised as empty seats. The mutability of taste is an easy corollary, perhaps too easy. The institutionalized "speed" of modern life, in which we're purposely drained to the point that our downtime is spent being spent, nudges us away from ever taking a crack at the unfamiliar. Fucking yikes, back to economics, always back to that monster, it seems. 

If the orchestra is to be "worthy of extraordinary philanthropy," Hanson said, "we have to demonstrate that the orchestra is prepared to change."

What a depressing comment on where we permit our priorities to be placed, praying to Cthulhu for a private sector bailout, a cuckoo for cocoa puffs followup whenever we're lucky to receive one. Don't misunderstand, I'm not suggesting we divert all of the Pentagon's budget, on the books or no, to the arts. They can keep a tank or two for parades. I'm a nice guy.

Anyway, classical lacking the ubiquitous nature of rock & pop in the cultural landscape, is it, at the end of the evening, merely a case -- at least for their category of "young adults," for they already have inexpensive programs aimed at cultivating whipper snappers --  of exposure? Which came first, the classical music listener, or the poor kid forced into lessons with an old & cranky, wrinkly fierce Ukrainian babushka who brooked no slack, thereby perpetuating the cycle because said poor kid after having quit in disgust had no other ear candy but scratchy Zeppelin & Sabbath LPs, which hints at yet another possible generalization, briefly inferred earlier: is a dearth of youthful paying customers a matter of a subtle distancing over the decades of emotional identification away from the sensual, often intellectual lines of classical towards the shake n' bake immediacy, hip-twisting sexuality of rock and/or roll?

Classical isn't the province solely of the rich, the old, the white. I'd wager Monopoly money that a sizable number of us devotees on the tubes are proof of that simpleton assumption. Unfortunately, the orchestra's revenues are probably going to continue losing commas like every other sector of the economy outside of corporate & military concerns -- hmm, there's a way to get some government scratch. Stick Welser-Möst in a machine gun turret, stuff the timpani full of grenades, plastique in every Stradivarius & tell the feds they're anti-terrorist measures. Maybe I was too harsh on the 1812 Overture.

After all, who loves explosions more than kids & policymakers?

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated

 






Not me, those guys.

After wrestling -- figuratively 'cause I don't have any ostentatious Mexican threads -- with demons -- literally, they were scaly & red & had nasty pointy bitey teeth -- here's some crap about sports. Next time, whenever that is, politics ha ha I'm kidding fuck that soul-crushing con game Olaf, metal.

Atlantic: Boston may be on Medicare but seniors always get out the vote, the Nets are pieces-parting from the victims of Russian gangsters, New York even especially with Amare (Amar'e, AmarE, Amare III Esq.) will play D as well as X, Y, Z or last year's Knicks, Philly's in the throes of recombobulating and Toronto is in Canada.

Central: Karma, like 99.9% of everything, is a crock, but Traitor Carlos appears to be stricken, thus, vagabond, I nelsonmuntz thee. If the Aussie's elbow is de-lecterized, if Collison's too legit to wear parachute pants, if Detroit time machines Isaiah (the player with the kung-fu grip, not the upper management edition) & that leaves guess who, slowpoke. Woe to you oh Earth and Sea for the Devil sends the beast with wrath because he knows the time is short. Let him who have understanding reckon the number of the beast, for it is a human number, its number is six.

Southeast: Two alpha dogs & a bench so thin not even Jesus would deign to appear on this flatbread. Bonne chance, South Beach. Easier to choose the Mickey Mousers if Dwight the Acolyte decided to play with a Herodian chip. Max to Joe Johnson? America's worst sporting town deserves no less. The second Charlotte traded their mustachioed mascot so long ago, they angered the basketball gods. As for the nation's swamp, at least John Wall will entertain even Marvin Hamlisch with all those no-looks, speedy runs & buckets o' turnovers.

Southwest: Count out Riverwalk, I dare you. Count out Mark Cuban's billion-dollar t-shirts, I double dog dare you. Count out Rudy T's championship heart ripped out of the city's mythic chest, its beautiful gore shown to passers-by, I triple dog dare you. Count on the Hornets to drown under Chris Paul's toxic trade demands. Count on Memphis to be a cheap source of losses & fantasy stats, van, too, tree blocked shots, aha ha ha.

Northwest: Oklahoma City how much swing does your swingin' burg swing to sign long-term? Bill Walton's weed, mellow out, for did not Zydrunas Ilgauskas once upon a time suffer the Big Man's Curse? Magical Underpants Land, will you please trade/release/assassinate Mehmet Okur so Paul Millsap (got him in my keeper league) can stay a 40-minute man for all eighty-two? Denver, will you please trade Carmelo to the Knicks already because I'm sure that poor town is pained from the The Fucking Yankees getting their ass kicked? Minnesota's still in the league?

Pacific: The Fucking Lakers remain the top squadron which makes me want to vomit in terror, the Suns remain powered by the Canuck's Samsonesque moptop, the Clippers remain under The Donald's capitalist black magic, the Kings remain candidates to move & the Warriors remain remains.

Eastern playoff teams: Orlando, Miami, Boston, Chicago, Milwaukee, Atlanta, New York & Your Cleveland Cavaliers.

Western playoff teams: The Fucking Lakers, Oklahoma City, San Antonio, Dallas, Utah, Portland, Phoenix, Houston.

NBA Finals: The Fucking Lakers over Miami. It's a Cavs fan's dream. Add in a case of gangrene & dental surgery sans anesthesia & it's my best day ever.

And you all thought I was joking when I called for an internets-wide celebratory gala of pomp and circumstance, participate or die.

The man, the legend, the swanky threads.

But, I must confess & beg His forgiveness. I have a motive with an ulterior mien.

*gasp!*

*horrors!*

This week with David Brinkley, I considered myself Lou Gehrig to be counted amongst those who received shiny new computing machines at work, complete with a widescreen monitor. Oh, you've never seen internets porn until, anyway, whilst reloading precious, precious files from a vast array of flash drives onto the fresh black box, lo & beholdest, one, one -- that loneliest of numbers -- out of hundreds of thousands, would not load.

Thou corrupt! & now I have to reconstruct a few pieces from their ancient origin deep in the recesses of the infamous 99-cent notebooks & if you've ever seen my handwriting, a blind man skilled only in a Finno-Ugric tongue would have a better chance deciphering a weathered Sanskrit text than I will my own doctorish gobbledygook.

Thus, let us pray.

Amen.

It doesn't get any better than this

No, not that, being away from work. What did you assume I was doing, grooming my porn 'stache & renting a lobster trawler?

Speaking of lobsters, if this was one of my typical (read: unimaginative) stream-of-connection posts, here is where you'd find a video of the B-52s' first big hit, but since I never really listened to them, though I did have a model of a B-52, had the big hair with the kung-fu grip & everything.

Speaking of everything, I assume everything still deserves a good nelsonmuntzing? It does? Whew.

Cult indoctrination

Hier, our youngest had to turn in her social studies essay USA A-OK Cesspool on the Potomac Why I'm Proud To Be An American. After initially chuckling at the very existence of the premise & checking the calendar to make sure it wasn't 1961 & that Alan Shepard wasn't bopping below the constellations take that you filthy reds, I chortled something about the pen being mightier than the sword but I say fuck the pen because you can die by the sword!

When I recognized that she didn't get the live Slayer reference, I cried at my failure as a parent. Sob. Anyway, though not chock full of the polysyllabic words I enjoy tossing out on occasion to strengthen the occasionally-useful illusion that I'm smarter than I actually am (boobies! burgers! Browns bad! bleorg!), my gasted would be flabbered if the teacher didn't call and/or write demanding our presence at one of those conference gigs.

Mellow down easy

Unplug & go stroll through the leaves.

A Vapid Poetics of Votology & Other Stories

Monstrosities like this rear their collective uglies on this campus as well, every two years, like diabolical stop-motion clockwork.
















American foreign policy?

The ballot box crap, not the photo. That ugly gets a pretty smile.

Speaking of pretty, Jennifer Hetrick in an episode of TNG. WMDest MacGuffin ever aside -- that's no Star Destroyer, that's a STAR DESTROYER -- am I, as I seem to be going by conversations over the years, in the minority in digging Captain's Holiday a lot? Man, that was two decades ago. I'm old.















Speaking of old, I feel extra today on the account of Doodily, Unplanned Offspring #1, achieving the age where she is legally permitted to write in Snoopy or Woodstock or Dick Nixon or Dead Gus Hall on said ballot box crap. A cynical chip off the decrepit block. I'm so proud of her, sniff.

Why are you still here? I'm serious, go away, I'm not posting today.

Fooled you, but not exactly. I found a momentary bout of authorial inspiracy* & frankly, that's about 49 quadrillion times more important than you. The result, awfully awful, duh warbles the chorus -- humblest apologies, O muse, though 'tis your fault -- but beats typing about unimportant shit like the Fuckeye Goobernatorial job creating lower taxation tropefit between John Jackson & Jack Johnson televised tonight at 8 or 9 can't remember on a C-Span near you.


*the conspiracy of inspiration, $9.99 per use. Please, no personal checks.

The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be

No, the crooner's not that guy.

















Nor this one.

Me. & you blithely assumed I was referring to the kinder, gentler machine gun party. For shame, gentle hippie.

Anyway, whilst chuckling unuproariously, a clutch of synapses conjured up from my youth a cacophony of covertly carbon copies of Der Pretzeldent. I know I've seen an expectorating image of the above & was damn sure the child peering over a receded hairline's faded table's edge came from a famous television advertisement. Alas, memory was oh so wrong.



But at least we've added one more permutation of the Democrats' rallying cry this silly season: Mikey likes 0.6% fewer FBI raids. Not that catchy, I'll admit, but this is why I'm a civil servant & not a mad man.

Update! Mystery solved!

Thanks to amateur sleuth Ethan, no thanks to my decrepit cranium, here's the even-more-appropriate-than-it-first-appears image:






















Bit too on-the-nose for Famous Ray's, though.

TV party tonight (and every night, for the next month, boob tube boobies)

"Washington Insiders sold You out to Obama and Pelosi!"
"I'll never exploit You because I, unlike my opponent, love You!"
"I'm Tuesday Lobbyist Tryst and I approved this message."

Gasp!

"Republican Policies led to Jobs going overseas!"
"I'll never exploit You because I, unlike my opponent, love You!"
"I'm Goldman Sachs Gangbang Starlet and I approved this message."

Swoon!













Piece of cake with ice cream on the side.



Ah, that's nice.

Fermeture

So many posts were birthed then ritually slain, the ouroboros spit out its own tail and slithered away in disgust. Would've flipped me the bird if it had hands.

I get the hint.

I couldn't sleep at all last night

doo-doo-doodoo-doo, so I spent the hours witching myself, Randal, how should you go about linking the ghost of a legendary Cold War enemy



to today's insomnia afterimage, a complex, tantalizing essay with vital national security concerns &, moving further forward, how will this impact the future of Vladimir Putin, our Chinese overlords & the Bald Bull?

***










Where's the essay, you ask? Above, in invisible ink. It's good, trust me.