All-American

Beat it, Froggy. And take your stinkin' Euro with you.
It's our turn now.

"And zeez Yanks zay wee are zee rude!"














"Uh, you're the president. Sure, it's possible to have a bathroom break, sir."

I don't know what got into that Karl Marx-loving Randal, but we here at Randal's blog would like to apologize to each out-of-touch bourgeois real AMERICAN out there. And what better way to do so than to celebrate one of those most AMERICAN of pastimes, being afraid of actual free speech the smacking of a cowhide sphere with a big wooden stick, then running around on the grass like small children!

I know that in addition to Baseball, I'm supposed to mention


















Mom














and Apple Pie, but in lieu (damn you, French, get out of AMERICAN!) of such clichés, I'd like to talk about something that's even more AMERICAN than those, in fact, more AMERICAN than nearly everything under God's blue sky save our undying love of the Lord and blowing brown people up.

I talk, of course, of second chances.















Last year, as the Indians were cruising to a major league best 96 wins, pitcher Cliff Lee was dealing with injuries, trouble with his teammates, a stint in the minors, and a career-worst 6.29 ERA. It doesn't get much lower than that for someone who was once a 200-inning staple of a starting rotation. Now that he's healthy and has eliminated the flaws in his delivery, he's tied for the AMERICAN League lead in wins with 12, his 2.31 ERA is second, and he'll be starting tonight's All-Star game in Yankee Stadium.














Another man that has taken full advantage of being given a second chance is Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton. Once the first overall pick in the 1999 MLB draft, Mr. Hamilton began to waste his God-given talent by becoming addicted to certain substances. He has since gotten clean, all thanks to, in his own words, Sweet Zombie Jesus and is now in the top ten in the AMERICAN League in batting average, runs, home runs, slugging percentage, OPS and leads all of major league baseball in RBIs with a whopping 95.

What lesson can we learn from second chances?

That even if you can't get the job done, everyone hates you and/or you love the booze and coke, you too can someday grow up and do something memorable with your life.


















"You can even become dictator preznit of AMERICAN! If you got friends in high places, cheat, a pantywaist opponent, a breezy press corps and a, a, a, Unka Dick, what's another word for stoopid?"

















"Grrrr! Cheney want baby flesh!"

Bonne Fête Nationale !

Wow, look at all the dirty Frenchmen and their trollops.

Here are some things we can do today, even if you, comme moi, are neither French nor in France like certain others. But we hide our jealousy well, don't we. Those #%*@^&$! Voyez, cachée. On to the task at hand:














Spoon that sugar,
imbibe la fée verte
then write bare-the-soul verse to your love avant













eating some cheese,
drinking some wine
then kissing them à la mode française before














railing against the government,
grabbing your gun
then storming the local fortress where you'll surely die.

The Ghost and Mrs. McCain

"Did he just call me what I think he did?"

The Science of Lunacy

"I propose a hat-off, winner-take-all. Indy, you game?"

Yesterday, I ogled the naughty naked ladies in the new issue of Hustler read an interview with the great Umberto Eco in the new issue of the Paris Review -- oh my, was that elitist. Quick, pass the latté, I have some trees to hug before engaging in some loveless, non-missionary sex and post-coital potsmoking-- and though the entire piece was interesting, I absolutely loved, probably because I dig the same stuff for the same reason, the last line of the following question and answer:

"Your library here in Milan is a legend in and of itself. What kind of books do you like to collect?"

"I own a total of about fifty thousand books. But as a rare books collector I am fascinated by the human propensity for deviating thought. So I collect books about subjects in which I don't believe, like kabbalah, alchemy, magic, invented languages. Books that lie, albeit unwittingly. I have Ptolemy, not Galileo, because Galileo told the truth. I prefer lunatic science."

Immediately I was struck not by any further unspoken ruminations on those words nor by the fact that I have at least forty-nine thousand less books than that bastard has, but by the notion that so many Republicans also adhere, though on different and very wrong grounds, to that exact phrase. They too, love the lunatic science.

Oh, politics, what must I do to wash your foetid, omnipresent stain from my soul? The bard almost got it right. Just switch that last word with something else. Begins with P.

The Real Big Trollop

"'Cause I'm Big Trollop, yes I'm the real Trollop
All you other Big Trollops are just plaster pinups
So won't the real Big Trollop please stand up,
please stand up, please stand up?"

The Memory Remains

It's Proust's birthday. 'nuff said.

Now, that wasn't very Proustian, was it? No, the sentence length, not the Metallica, though that isn't either. On the other hand, Miss Faithfull probably has a few novelfuls of interesting memories tucked away in that English noggin. Anyway, here are a couple of songs that are Proustian, L'heure exquise and Tyndaris, sung by Ninon Vallin and played by the composer himself, Reynaldo Hahn, a close pal of Marcel. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- they were real close.



If you're one of those weirdos who isn't merely fascinated by memory the way some are fascinated by dinosaurs so they watch stuff on the National Geographic channel, but are obsessed by the idea of it, the inherent power and control it can have over our lives, whether voluntarily submitting to its will or simply being subject, by definition, to its whims that lead us to other, heretofore hidden paths lined by long-limbed boughs of remembrance shadowing our every step, whatever our state of mind at the time, a state that might shift us off those roads and onto yet more occulted ones that seemingly spring fully formed out of the ether, realms concealed from conscious view, then there simply isn't anything better than À la recherche du temps perdu and if you haven't read it yet, what the bloody hell are you waiting for?

I love a run-on sentence, but now I'm tired. Here, look at some purty pictures whipped up by another famous dude who shares the same birthday, Camille Pissarro. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- he was a commie pinko.














Edge of the Woods or Undergrowth in Summer, 1879.















Le Boulevard Montmartre, effet de nuit, 1897.

To close out on a completely unrelated subject, my hometown, save for lazy and supposedly car-less New Orleans, has lost the most folks of any big city this decade (ignore the optimistic crap at the end, it only ruins the theme of this paragraph). Even when we suck we're still not number one. Well played, looters, well played.

On the credit side of the column, as I strolled, smiling as I always do each morning in anticipation of helping my fellow patriots, past an Embassy Suites hotel in beautiful, alluring, yet not overtly swanky in a cheesy Old European way downtown Cleveland (okay, City Hall, where's my fucking check?) I noticed, parked in the loading/unloading zone, a brand spanking new white SUV of US Customs and Border Protection, a subsidiary of the Department of Homeland Security, headed by a man whose gut we all know and love like a brother, Michael Chertoff. This sleek, clean-burning machine of sturdy American craftsmanship even had one of those fancy logos that Barack Hussein X stole for his own nefarious Muslim use. No, wait, that was the Presidential seal. Even more heinous!

My point is thus: we obviously have Al-Qaeda #3 cornered, so it's safe to leave your homes and stimulate the economy. Surely you haven't forgotten that 'the priority mission of the Border Patrol is preventing terrorists and terrorists' weapons, including weapons of mass destruction, from entering the United States.'

Citizen vigilance (one of our strengths here in Northeast Ohio -- ahem, Mr. Mayor) along with the muscle of DHS, has once again thwarted a plot to blow up something red, white and blue. You're welcome.

Postscript: editorialist, you aren't helping with our image:

No matter what this or any other law says, Congress has few practical means to force an end to hostilities. Its most obvious lever -- withholding the money -- is distasteful and could endanger U.S. troops.

Got that kids? Withholding money from bloodthirsty warmongers ranks quite high on the Distaste-O-Meter along with cannibalism and voting Republican. En plus, all those soldiers will chance getting killed as they scramble to find their own way home, constructing rafts out of smouldering wreckage and tightly packed sand that may or may not float on the unpredictable currents of the Gulf of Hormel, the Indian and the Atlantic.

Or, to put it more succinctly, Congress is icky, but doing stuff is ickier.

(Un)Holy fuck!

Opeth going a-viking through the States in the fall with High on Fire opening up the festivities? Why yes, darkest lord of dark naughty evil, I will sacrifice more virgins in praise of this decision for such coast-to-coast diablerie!

Yeah, 99.9% of you don't care, but I don't care that you don't care.
Hell, let the bombing start in five minutes! (after the concert, évidemment)















"I'm going to blow all of you longhaired bastards up."

I'm one happy motherfucker this evening so enjoy some happy music!



Opeth, The Leper Affinity. Bang your head, but progressively.




High on Fire, Devilution. Groove on that schlocky 70s horror vibe!

Empire's State of Building

"Pickles reads newspapers and she told me Iranistan tested missiles in the Gulf of Hormel. I didn't know they owned a body of water. They make some good chili!"














"Yeah, Care Bear called 'em out. Just giving you what you want."














"Blowing up brown people keeps the Coke flowing. And if that doesn't work, there's always smokes! Pass me a napkin, trollop!"
















"I have no time for questions about the Great Satan. Can't you see I'm listening to the new Beatles album? Yes, music is slow to get here. But not bras and bull semen!"

Cleveland Rocks...even with a shiv in its back.

Oh, ye of little faith, drowning in Envy of other great cities of the world, verily shall a Cleveland Sporting Franchise triumphantly march towards a championship!

Be humble and cast away your Lust for victory, good citizenry, and listen to the Word of the Lord! Surely you didn't think it would be this collection of large ruffians, a group that has more than mastered the art of, as they say on the continent, mauvaise chance:















Still your miscast Pride!
Or this association of rim-clangers:













Do not wear the chains of Wrath after yet another loss!
Or these natives, no longer restless but lethargic and duped:














Dost thou not know by now the sense of humor of the Lord? For He has given you a minor batsmen and assorted pieces in return for thy ace! The want of a professional of the majors would only reveal your Greed, a sin so deadly, a sin to lead thou into the Lake of Fire!

Rejoice, Cleveland, Rejoice, for it shall surely not take another two score and four years to win another trophy! Shining and bright like the Word, it can be thine if only thou repent! Repent, for I can smell the stench of Gluttony upon thy body and thy soul, gorging on foolish, earthbound wait-until-next-years!

And if that fails, ingest some of these:

The "spiritual" effects of psilocybin from so-called sacred mushrooms last for more than a year and may offer a way to help patients with fatal diseases or addictions, U.S. researchers reported on Tuesday.

The researchers also said their findings show there are safe ways to test psychoactive drugs on willing volunteers, if guidelines are followed.

In 2006, Roland Griffiths of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland, and colleagues gave psilocybin to 36 volunteers and asked them how it felt. Most reported having a "mystical" or "spiritual" experience and rated it positively.

Put down the Slothful swill of Satan and embrace the spiritual! Amen!

(what's with the extreme righteous holiness you ask? Aside from yours truly being an obvious child of Sweet Zombie Jesus -- oh, Cthulhu, I kid, please don't eat me -- The Flying Nunly has returned!)

A symphony must be like the world. It must contain everything.

Including chimps, apparently. Je vous remercie, cruel internets denizens, for reminding us that The Worst President Ever® was hatched by the vile Babs on yesterday's date hundreds of years ago. Hey, you explain his long-discredited medieval worldview. Anyway, today let us celebrate a birthday worthy of such partying down excellence.



No, that's not Charles Xavier, but Christoph Eschenbach leading the Orchestre de Paris in the first movement of Gustav Mahler's first symphony in D major.



Since Mahler wrote beautifully Cyclopean pieces anywhere from four to eighteen movements totaling seventy-two hours each -- I exaggerate -- slightly -- here's the second part of that movement.

Yes, since it's his birthday, go buy some stuff.

You'll get your money's worth, believe me.

Plus you'll be stimulating the economy, or something.

Little Chimpy From Tokyo

"Look, Hirohito, I think I'm turnin' Japanese, I really think so."

Ugly Betty Beauty

"Brains, get effortizing!"

When one trots out that tried-and-true line of "I've got nothin'," whether with a creative act offline or yet another blogpost for the intertubes -- which, I suppose, is also a creative act, but I digress -- that actually means that someone does in fact have something, just nothing -- ha ha -- that one would deem worthy of sharing with others, or at the very least, touting as something that posterity would either love or enjoy casting aspersions at until we are all vaporized in the inevitable global thermonukyular war. Thus, we cobble together bits and pieces from various mediums, formulating a collage of images and enough windy blather to make it appear that we put forth at least a modicum of effort.

Therefore, I present to you The Ugly, something that you likely already know about, the death of world-class hypocrite and first-rank fucking asshole, Jesse Helms. I wish there was a hell for you to suffer in, you neanderthal fuck.












Yeah, I know all about the 'my mother taught me' shtick. I thought that was pretty goddamn nice considering, don't you?

Ugh. Why should we waste our beautiful minds on something like that any more than we have to? Since I'm currently tweaking -- revamping sounds far too much like a 5-year orange barrel Ohio Department of Transportation project, and I hope it doesn't take that long -- the part of my story that takes place in Argenteuil, here's The Beauty, a painting of that area done many years ago by a famous dude.














Claude Monet, Le petit bras de la Seine à Argenteuil, 1872.

To recap:
1. Scan the news wire for an interesting item.
2. Find related photo, preferably comical.
3. Ramble. Insightful commentary optional, swearing not.
4. Find unrelated item not subject to news requirement.
5. Find related photo, preferably serious.
6. Ramble some more. Swearing optional.
7. Publish.

Et voilà, instant post!

Braining is hard work. They go sleep now.

American Exceptionalism

"Why didn't you come to Vietnam?"

"I looked in the mirror and saw too many things lined up against me, heh heh."

Brainstormcalm

Je suis triste. Because all of my energies, all 0.042 joules of them, are focused on (re)working on that goddamn rambling tale of epically droning proportion -- I find it akin to a giant prog-rock number; cover up the glaring compositional weaknesses with oodles and oodles of noodling -- I can't come up with anything good today.

"How is that different than any other day?"

Go to hell, you bastards. Oh, woe is me, I need some help. Who can I call on in this darkest hour? What judicious wizard, what sartorial sorcerer, what flag-pinned prestidigitator, what sapient practitioner of the blackest arts can lift the ever-present veil of distress and take this deep-seated malady of ennui away from me?

Mukasey the Magician!

















"I can help you, young Randal. Here, lie down on this board and cover your mouth with this wet towel. Oh, fret not, child, I cannot divulge my deepest secrets, but what I can tell you is that this is merely a simple and necessary part of the arcane ritual I must perform in order to locate your posting powers aimlessly lost in the nebulous ether."

Just in case I croak -- you know how these magical deals can end up, not that I don't have the utmost faith in Mukasey the Magician -- here's a perhaps posthumous YouTube for your musical edification. Oh what the hell, find another overused trope, a Simpsons reference, at the end.



See, Flying Nunly, I never forget about The Man.
It's Pastoral, so get with the frolicking, mes amis.













"Oh, Homer J., how do you keep your hair so rich and full?"
"Lather, rinse, and repeat. Always repeat."
"Homer J., will you teach us to make love?"

One bourbon, one scotch, one bomb.

Fuck all of your stupid political and military benchmarks, this is a real sign that things are getting back to normal in Iraq.

Iraqis no longer have to settle just for thick Turkish coffee, cardamom-laced tea, strawberry-flavored milk or bottled water to quench their summertime thirst. Beer and alcoholic beverages are readily available once again.

Bottoms up, Iraqis! And, um, duck.
















"Told ya it was a good idea to invade, heh, heh. Right, Unka Dick?"

But Mr. President,

During the era of the late dictator Saddam Hussein, drinking was common. After the U.S.-led invasion, however, violence and Islamic extremists forced most liquor shops to close for a while.

Oh, nevermind.

Bottom-of-the-bottle update:
Sonics fans, I feel your pain. Believe me, I do. A toast.

Fuck you, owners, the George Bushes of the sporting realm.