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.

Everyone gets a gold star! Except for you, you know who you are.*

The Arte y Pico. Parlez-vous espagnol ?

Sure, it's not the Annual Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence, but it's something.

Something that I received recently from susan and Utah Savage and from Betty C. back in, er, um, May. If Betty were to retract it due to my legendary laziness, she'd be well within her rights. But ahead we must march and dispense of these things to five other people, guilt be damned.

By all means, take your time. I did.

The rules, and no deviation. We don't like deviants.

1) Pick five (5) blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here Arte y Pico.

As usual, pretty much everyone I read on a regular basis -- i.e. the Best Clogs of the Entire Tubes® -- has probably received one of these things by now.

1. DivaJood, because, despite being a Cubs fan -- nearly as insufferable as those goddamn Red Sux fans, oh woe is us, go to hell you bastards -- she's a pretty cool chick and writes on anything and everything. Plus, being heavily involved with the travel industry, I'm sure she can score some cheap (read: free) tickets for yours truly to finally visit France.

2. dcap, for there might not be a more consistent poster of richly informative, yet highly comical stuff on the internets. In addition, he seems, despite his Noo Yawk status, to not be evil, which is a good thing. The world already has enough evil.

3. everyone at Jonestown, for even though the proprietor has delusions of empire, he's assembled, including himself (and the previously awarded dcap) quite the cadre of quality writers on topics various and sundry. And if this is someone's second or third award, don't sweat it since each of you is merely getting a slice, thus no need to buy another shelving unit. What, you thought I'd buy a complete award, with engraved base, for each of you? Bah.

4. the Mighty okjimm, who I know already received one, but I don't care. Think of this as your prize for finally getting a goddamn blog. Betcha you're thrilled your name in comments is no longer a somber grey but a shiny, happy blue! Yes, I'm merely angling for him to buy the next round.

5. Unconventional Conventionist, because the dude plays Chopin -- no, not plays it like I do, via the start button on a CD machine, but with actual human fingers -- hates wingnuts and most importantly, the gooey center! DFHs of the world, unite!


*oh, relax. I'm not talking about you.

Among the Living

Holy hell, someone is no longer a dead, deceased corpse.

In honor of your triumphant return (a few days late, so obviously stop with all this important shit when I'm not stuck in the tubes), a slice of your favoritest music ever, 80s thrash metal!

You're welcome. Now don't ever do that again.

What a revoltin' development!

"Joey, do you like wild-card games about Gladiators?"

What? No one is talking about the exciting, three-point victory by the Cleveland Gladiators in the Arena Football League playoffs last night? Really?

Yeah, I'm not either. Though I just did. I'm sure that would seem extra paradoxical if I was nice and plastered, and after not having turned on the computer yesterday because I was busy pretending to be a writer -- checking fantasy baseball lineups doesn't count -- I wish I was nice and plastered.

And before any proprietors of proper propriety pop up, I'm fully aware that the odds of Wes Clark responding in such a way would be nil or below if he had been the Democratic nominee, offering instead a heaping plate of variations on respecting blah diddy blah, and that all politicians on campaign have to eat up that gooey, nougat center because there's simply no possible way, no how, uh uh, forget it, fucking hell no, at all ever for them to be victorious if they don't choke on that fructose and sucrose product and the only way to foist illusory happiness upon people is to be a winner.














"Oh, look at me! I'm making people happy! I'm the Magical Man from Happy-Land, in a gumdrop house on Lollipop Lane!

Oh, by the way, I was being sarcastic."
"Well, duh!"

As for moron talking hairpieces, I'm not even going there.

America, for all its hot air blathering about how manly and macho and tough we are, is quite the nation of candy asses. And not the hard and resilient kind of sugary treat, like Gobstoppers.

America is like gum. Soft and malleable and sticks to the bottom of your shoe, and don't try scraping it off because you'll only make it worse.

Let us never forget Bartcop's Law #1: don't ever tell the truth in a political campaign. People want to be lied to.

The Omen

Je suis heureux que l'Espagne ait vaincu l'Allemagne. Pourquoi ?
The last major title that Spain won before today was also the European championship.

In 1964.

Someone else last won it all in 1964.

Hey, I'll take whatever I can get.

Land of Sunshine

Does life seem worthwhile to you?

HERE'S HOW TO ORDER!

Yes, hmm hmm, now for the next question --
Does emotional music have quite an effect on you?
Do you feel sometimes like age is against you?
Sing and rejoice and sing and rejoice
Yes, hmm hmm, that's interesting.
But tell me, do you often sing or whistle just for fun?
Do you feel sometimes like age is against you?
I, I can help -- I can help you -- I can help you help yourself!

Does life seem worthwhile to you?

HERE'S HOW TO ORDER!

Varicose
Comatose
Senile

Pot pourri

"Hey, man. What's on the tube?"
"Dude, first things first. I'm hungry. Gimme some links."



















"No fucking way man, that shit's bad for you. Here, eat some asparagus.
But don't bogart my strawbs, man."



















"Dude, are you saying I'm from Mars?"
"No, man. Just fucking relax, okay? Let's check the draft."



















"Dude, that's who we got? Dy-no-mite!"



















"No, man, the other J.J.."



















"Dude, I wish it would've been this dude."
















"No fucking way man, your dealer can't play."

"Dude, I know, but at least he ain't a dick. You know who's a dick?"
"A dick bigger than Lucas, man?"












"Hell yeah dude, this dude. What a dick."
"Holy fuck man, if Al-Qaeda is watching teevee, and we're watching teevee,
that means Osama can see us!"















"Dude, we better get outside!"



















"No fucking way man, they're everywhere!"
"Dude, you're right, wingnut bloggers wouldn't lie."
"No way, man. Unless they were dicks, and what are the odds of that?"

Boy, it sure is drafty in here

Let's clear something up before we go any further: contrary to popular opinion, no, the single suit I own isn't as hideous as this Karl Malone original. I'm a snappy dresser.

Clever post title, huh. For the first time in aeons, we actually have a first round draft pick, the nineteenth. Yes, I'm conveniently ignoring the Shannon Brown bust of 2006.

To give us a rough idea of the quality available near the final third of the first round, here are some worthy -- or at least serviceable -- players chosen at #19 or below during the LBJ era:

2007, no Cavs first round pick: Jared Dudley, Carl Landry, Glen Davis.

2006: Rajon Rondo (how's he doing?), Josh Boone, Kyle Lowry, Jordan Farmar, Sergio Rodriguez, Paul Millsap. The aforementioned Shannon Brown was nabbed at #25. We did find Boobie Gibson in the second round, so it wasn't a complete washout.

2005, no Cavs first round pick: Hakim Warrick, Nate Robinson, Jason Maxiell, Linas Kleiza, David Lee, Brandon Bass, Monta Ellis (ouch), Andray Blatche, Ryan Gomes.

2004, no Cavs first round pick: Jameer Nelson, Delonte West, Kevin Martin (ouch again), Beno Udrih, Anderson Varejao.

2003: Boris Diaw, Travis Outlaw, Kendrick Perkins, Leandro Barbosa. We drafted some dude who moves a lot of sweatshop product.

I have no idea who we'll choose. It's possible that shooting guards Chris Douglas-Roberts of Memphis and Courtney Lee of Western Kentucky will still be on the board. As for point guards, I wouldn't mind us taking Mario Chalmers of Kansas, but the problem with all of these guys is that none are ready to log copious amounts of NBA starter minutes for a team that's honestly only one All-Star calibre player from a championship.


















Or we can draft the guy with the wackiest hair.

Hell, just trade the damn pick, but you won't be getting a top-flight point guard or wing guy in return, even if we spice up the offer with some of our bench dudes. Remember, Isaiah T. Coyote, Super Genius isn't around anymore. I still believe Boobie Gibson can give us quality time at the 2, but a full-fledged point guard has remained absent from the roster since the days of Andre Miller. Who we once traded along with some clown for some other clowns and one über-clown of legendary status, Darius Miles.

Hang on a sec, I have to go throw up.

I'm back. We can play defense with the best of them (just ask the last two NBA champions about that) but we score about as often as a Republican congressman a eunuch I do after pissing off my wife.

Since we still owe Ben Wallace Halliburton-type cash, I wouldn't be surprised if they try and exchange Sideshow Bob (perhaps with the pick) for anything resembling a shooter -- please, take Wally World while you're at it, trading partner to be named later. I'd hate to lose such a valuable role player in Anderson, but GM Danny Ferry knows what he'll never say publicly: the championship window has two years remaining. For you, I, everyone's grandmother, her cat, Uncle Rory, the plumber, the butcher and the baker (but not the candlestick maker, he doesn't follow hoops) recognizes that LeBron is going to exercise his player option, become a free agent, and get out of Northeast Ohio as we then descend into that circle of Hell only spoken about in hushed tones, Perpetual Lottery Land.

Maybe we can kidnap Michael Redd and brainwash him to tear up his contract with the Bucks and sign with us for the midlevel exception.

Hey, it could happen.

Flights of fancy. That's sporting life in Cleveland. We wouldn't have it any other way. It's nice having a built-in excuse for heavy drinking, believe me.

Correction!
I completely -- subconsciously purposely -- forgot all about our 2004 first round pick, Luke "I can't even cut it in Europe" Jackson. My apologies to no one.

Quelques choses qui sucent.

1. The Indians' offense.










"Boy, we sure do suck."
"Yup."
"Yup."

Evidence? Yesterday's 7 for 32 that manufactured two measly runs against Dirty Sanchez and the San Francisco Giants, and being 16th out of 30 teams in runs scored since Opening Day. Not that bad, you say? Well, try singing this next tune.


2. The Indians' bullpen.

















"Their bullpen sure does reek of the sewer."
"Like you."
"Fuck off, it's strong enough for a man."

Evidence? Yesterday's two runs allowed in 2.1 innings, wasting a solid Aaron Laffey performance, and a 4.87 ERA since Opening Day, 29th out of 30 teams. Frightening, no? I've got something even scarier.


3. The Republicans.









"The American people need to understand that turrists want to buy you ballet slippers -- dammit, Unka Dick, don't do that! Why da still have to wear a wire anyway? My speaking English is the goodest!"

Evidence? The last eight years. But wait, we already know that they're evil incarnate, so what could be the one thing that is even more disheartening, more soul-shattering, a far stronger stimulus to heavy drinking?


4. The Democrats.












"C'mon Sid n' Nancy, my strategery is workin'."
"Yes, your kingship."

Evidence? The last eight years. I trusted you man, now I don't believe in nothin' no more! I'm goin' to law school! Where oh where is our last, final, ultimate hope? Who will save us? Can you?


5. The American voter.

















Evidence? The last eight years. And the next few months.


















"Gawrsh, McCain has experience!"




My sentiments exactly, Dr. Smith.

Fetuses and spice, and everything nice, that's what little fruitcakes are made of

If you embiggen, you can almost make out the pieces of Constitution and pureed unborn babies. Yum!

As Barack Obama broadens his outreach to evangelical voters, one of the movement's biggest names, James Dobson, accuses the likely Democratic presidential nominee of distorting the Bible and pushing a "fruitcake interpretation" of the Constitution.

Have you ever tried making fruitcake with the Constitution? I'm certainly in favor of getting my share of roughage -- who doesn't like to be regular? -- but this is ridiculous. The Democratic Senator from Illinois agrees with me, and sent a cuddly warning shot at the fundie loon:

"Folks haven't been reading their Bibles," Obama said.

Oh, if only that were the case, Senator. I pray for the day.

As for Fetish Boy himself, after grumbling some mumbo-jumbo about right and proper interpretation of a bunch of creaky old shit that fuckers hadn't right and properly interpreted when the creaky old shit was creaky new shit:

"Am I required in a democracy to conform my efforts in the political arena to his bloody notion of what is right with regard to the lives of tiny babies?" Dobson said. "What he's trying to say here is unless everybody agrees, we have no right to fight for what we believe."

Bloody 'ell, what a bleedin' ponce. Oh, Super Atheist Candidate, where are you?

Wait. We're not number one anymore? Xenu, baby!

The Waiting

Wow, an actual video the UniversalNoMusicGroupForYou hasn't prevented from being embedded. Guess I'll have to buy the albums now like I have been and plan to. Assholes. Anyway...



-- was indeed the hardest part. But on Sunday evening, Tom Petty, a real rock god -- I've got to stop linking each post to the previous one lest this blogging thing become actual work -- and his band of merry pranksters rocked and/or rolled Northeast Ohio and yours truly, along with my not-always-better-but-always-better-looking-half, was there in addition to other yokels (including a non-blogger! They do exist!) from these parts.

The Good: Opener Steve Winwood was in fine form, belting out classics from his long career, mixed in with tracks off of his new album, Nine Lives. Unsurprisingly, Higher Love and set closer Gimme Some Lovin' received the loudest plaudits from the crowd, but the unquestioned highlight for me was an absolutely molten version of Dear Mr. Fantasy that dripped with bluesy chords and raw guitar power.

The men of the hour charged out with a rollicking You Wreck Me, followed by one masterclass in songwriting after another: the wonderful pop of I Won't Back Down and The Waiting, the turbocharged blues romp of Honey Bee, the jangly Traveling Wilburys' gem End of the Line, the psychedelic Don't Come Around Here No More, whose whimsical menace benefits from a more organic live setting, the anthemic Refugee which, though a classic on record, becomes an unbreakable monster in the flesh. Petty and his band were in top form, shaded by a Zeppelin-esque tight-but-loose vibe that filtered through the Campbell/Petty/Tench (an underrated musician if ever there was one) duels that finished tracks such as Mary Jane's Last Dance, Runnin' Down a Dream and Saving Grace, which morphed from a propulsive, three-minute driving song into a thunderous, six-minute highway jam. This band can flat out fucking rock with the best of them.

One final note on the professionalism of the gig: the show started at 7h30, Winwood played an hour, his gear was cleared out without hassle, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came out shortly after 9h. Given my personal experience at Blossom Music Center of molasses-in-the-dead-of-winter logistics, this was a nice change of pace.

The Bad: Speaking of changes of pace, 30 or 45 minutes tops is what it has taken in the past to exit that directionless, grassy parking lot. Last night, it took around 90 minutes, a good 80% of that consisting of cars not moving in every conceivable direction. Next time, I'll just bring some lawn chairs and grill some burgers after the show. Fucking jokers. And make sure the lawn chairs don't extend past a certain size as the helpful rent-a-cop made sure to let the concertgoers know.

The Ugly: Morons buying a ten dollar can of beer. People, purchase an easily-hid flask -- they only check your bags -- and fill it with some of the good stuff. Ugliest of all -- well that one chick was certainly easy on the eyes -- the obviously ecstasy-laden row of clowns in front of us. I've seen dancing at rock shows before, both joyful and sultry, but I've never seen club-worthy grinding and partner-swapping going on virtually the entire show with the actual music a mere soundtrack afterthought. A beautifully sad yet wistful Learning To Fly gets you all hot and bothered? Or the dark Americana of Mary Jane's Last Dance? Honey Bee, I could understand. It was fucking bizarre, believe me. And short little dude worthy of a spot on Hot Chicks With Douchebags, what was with your histrionic, air traffic controller hand signals at every. single. line. sung by Petty? Oh, well, it wasn't my money.

Overtime: I remember reading on some sports blog back in January a number of complaints about the NFL having chosen Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for the Super Bowl halftime show, most variations on the theme of 'they're too old.' Hey, young people, they are pushing 60, but they'll still rock your millennial punk ass. I witnessed two hours of undeniable proof last night.

The Fuckin' A State

In my last post, I ragged on the dumbassery of my home state, this swingin' pad, hep cats. Wait, that was too McCain-y and I'm not that old. Anyway, not to say we didn't deserve such a blow to our diminishing pride -- we did help deliver Bush -- twice! -- but there have been times in the past when we've risen above such suffering all-too-common within the human condition to be trailblazers in American society.












For example, when the sporting world still thought that no one could top the laughable -- I remember it now! -- play of the 1876 Cincinnati Reds, who, in the National League's inaugural season, won their games at a robust .138 clip, along came Spiders; the 1899 Cleveland Spiders, to be exact, flaunting a record of 20-134. That's .130. One. Three. Zero. Beat that. Even the exploits of legendary outfielder Sport McAllister weren't enough to stem the tide of diamond disaster, and with a nickname like Sport, you just know he tried his gosh darn best.












Cleveland also boasts of the first black mayor of a major American city, Carl Stokes. That's Carl on our left, flanked by Nazi-smashing track legend and Ohio State alumnus, Jesse Owens.



















Along side that accomplishment, Springfield, Ohio claims the first black mayor of any American city in Robert C. Henry. Though Mr. Henry was born on July 16, the previous gentleman made his initial appearance on this day.

Other famous folks hatched on June 21 were witch burning fanatic and Republican Party operative, Increase Mather; a composing son, one of many, of an extra-famous composer dad, Johann Christoph Friedrich Bach; existentialist guru and dirty Frenchman, Jean-Paul Sartre --

"I read one of his books, about strangers!"
"That was Albert Camus, sir."
"That's right, Cam-uss. I knew a guy who used to have a Camaro. It was bitchin'. Like Pickles. Don't run me over, babe, heh, heh."

-- and, most important of all, rock god Kip Winger.

What is the Ohio connection of these final four? Whatever you wish it to be, mes amis. That's the magic of the internets! Write whatever you want, and somewhere, someone will believe it to be true!


















Now if you will all kindly excuse me, I have to go and don the purple, grab my sword, and put down some very naughty insurrectionists. Begone, peasants.

The Fuckeye State

Once again, I must apologize for the stupidity that seems, despite our best efforts, to nest within my home state. Oh, how they make me so cross.

Xander: Spike.
Giles: What are you doing here?
Spike: Me? I'm not the one out of place here.
Xander: For your information, smarty, we've got a rogue Slayer on our hands. Real psycho-killer, too.
Spike: Sounds serious.
Giles: It is. What do you know?
Spike: What do you need?
Xander: Her. Dark hair, yea tall. Name of Faith. Criminally insane.
Giles: Have you seen her?
Spike: Is this bird after you?
Xander: In a bad way. Yeah.
Spike: Tell you what I'll do then. Head out, find this girl, tell her exactly where all of you are, and then watch as she kills you.

Can anyone of your damn little Scooby club at least try to remember that I hate you all? Just because I can't do the damage myself doesn't stop me from aiming a loose cannon your way. And here I thought the evening'd be dull.
Xander: Go ahead! You wouldn't even recognize her!
Spike: Dark hair, this tall, name of Faith. Criminally insane. I like this girl already.











Xander: We're dumb.

The report confirms that Freshwater burned crosses onto students’ arms, using an electrostatic device, in December. Freshwater told investigators the marks were Xs, not crosses. But all of the students interviewed in the investigation reported being branded with crosses. The investigation report includes a photo of one student’s arm with a long vertical line and a short horizontal line running through it.

Embarrassing, no? Though some aren't all hot and bothered.

Neither Freshwater nor his attorney, Roger Weaver, could be reached for comment last night. Freshwater’s friend, Dave Daubenmire, defended him.

“With the exception of the cross-burning episode … I believe John Freshwater is teaching the values of the parents in the Mount Vernon school district,’’ he said.

Other than burning a cross into the flesh of small children -- and who hasn't thought about doing that, the little shits -- I'm sure he is a swell guy.