Category: Uncategorized (Page 25 of 95)

It was quiet. Too quiet. I walked up the green carpeted stairs to a still-lit evil lair with a glowing, squawking box, but the attic level chamber was empty. Walking over to extinguish the cable signal, horror struck at the sight of packing styrofoam debris littering the green. A small fragment of brown packing tape lay like a fallen feather. My eyes shot left to (now obviously) badly hidden shipments of “merch” and I knew a capital Christmas crime had commenced. As with many domestic transgressions, the perpetrators are typically family members and this was no exception… I muzzled the wimpy good cop, stuffed him in a closet, and the bad ass cop bolted down the stairs and into the suspects dwelling with the force of a 2AM drug bust. “WHAT DID YOU OPEN???”

The suspect was a white male, 18-20, and did a terrible impression of slumber. “WHERE ARE THEY?” A quick scan of the room noted one of the hot goods, a “Harry Potter” “prophecy” proudly displayed right out in the open on a bookshelf. “WHAT THE F%$#???! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TAKING THOSE THINGS???” The suspect, now clearly aware the gig was up, lay prone, hoping the bust was all a bad dream. “GET UP! NOW!!!,” I bellowed and the perp slowly drew down a comforter revealing a “Jaws” tee-shirt. Strangely, there was a giant shark head coming out of the floor, but I couldn’t let that oddity distract me from my job: recovering the stolen items and documenting evidence for the “naughty list” hearing scheduled for the next morning. This present poacher was slick. He immediately lawyered up and wouldn’t respond to verbal requests. “WHERE’S THE LOOT?” He didn’t flinch. I amped up the volume like Jack Bauer does to terror suspects on “24” and it worked just like it does for Jack. Shark-guy reached for his jeans. “SLOWLY,” I warned. “That’s right pal. Nice and slow.” Two “Harvey Twoface” replica coins from “The Dark Knight” were retrieved and handed over. One item remained. “OK, WHERE’S THE BOX?” Silence. “UPSTAIRS, NOW!” was belted with more Jack gusto. “WHERE’S THE BOX?” A quick flick up of the head toward an attic door revealed the final, damning evidence. A cardboard shipping container looking like it had been chewed through by insane squirrels lay on the wooden planks. A quick search turned up a third item that the Christmas klepto had missed. I surmise panic must have ensued at some point during the crime, and the heist of the prophecy and cash was deemed sufficient for this nights smash and grab. The perp then ditched the evidence and fled.

The next morning, a contrite suspect awoke around 7AM and immediately showered. That has never happened. Ever. He also dressed in a nice shirt and a tie for an early family visit at “Nana’s…”

The Holiday Hoodlum remains in custody pending a “naughty list” ruling and possible sentencing.

Oh, and check out Jack Bauer interrogating Santa!

Yeah, I go to the lyrics and song titles well often, but fortunately (or not) I’ll dry up before it does. Anyway, who can tell me that song’s writer without a search?

Vacationing today in sunny and brisk (-7^o) Central Massachusetts, my personal orgy of consumerism will wind down with a few “small things” for loved ones. Through this debiting process, there’s been a little internal meter in my head calculating “too much” v. “ain’t enough” for my non-naughty list. Actually, I’m certain my A list will be very appreciative of my efforts. If “the thought” is really what counts, they can be assured I’ve over thought many of these contributions to the EBITA of “stuff” producers.

Chatting with friends, there seems an understanding that the “stuff” isn’t important, yet every year we bury ourselves in it for a fleeting feeling that lingers less than a January 1 hangover.

[I just edited out a passage that got really dark to go in a different direction.]

I’ll put the sources, marketing and profit of the “stuff” aside for now, to focus on the “why we do it.” For many, gifts are simply a tangible expression of the living and loving things we do all year. When we comfort a cry… hold… listen… caress… wipe away tears… understand… laugh… love… those are the soulful human expressions represented in a gift. “Here, I hope you like this Xbox of love.” Well, there’s probably no soul in that re-gifted fruitcake you’re contemplating, but you get the idea…

Oh, I see UPS is here delivering more tangible human expressions…

eMail titles can portend bad things and yesterday I received one titled, “Ray Neades.” I knew the dude was dead. I didn’t know “Tiny” well, he was one of a string of guitar players in the revolving door known as Angry Johnny and the Killbillies. I’m fairly certain I saw him play with the band at Chicago’s old Lounge Ax back in the late 90’s. Oh! Now I’m certain as I recollect a classic picture of Ray as a guest at the Klug’s Rock n’ Roll Hotel in Lombard, IL. (Dave, you got that pic?)

Anyway, I recall him as a big hearted guy and one who could make an electric guitar scream, even if it did look like a tiny mandolin against the mass of Ray. The late 90’s were a tough time, but it seems he emerged… better. Here’s a piece of a myspace post by Ray that brushes up against those long days and nights:

‘”Grudge Fuck” song by The Scud Mt. Boys -Back in the late 90’s I went through some truly dark times. I used to listen to this song over and over. It to this day means a great deal to me. Very beautiful melody combined with a truly desperate lyric that demands attention.’

Yes, it does. Rest in Peace Ray.

PS – In a “circle of life and music” instance, I did a quick update check on Joe Pernice of the Scuds and see he’s playing the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge on January 14th. Seems a good night to hear some great music and raise a glass to Ray.

Update: Jeff has a great story on Ray over at the Robot left out in the rain.

Yeah, my snow thrower sputtered to a stop about 80% through a wet snow laden driveway this week, and yours truly had to figure out why before the next visit from Mr. Snow. Not only did I find the manual to my Ariens 7524, but two spare “shear bolts” needed last year at this time… After replacing last year’s “non-shear” substitute with the real thing, I removed the spark plug for inspection. The center and side electrode were carbon black and while cleaning might be an option, an RN4C with a .30 gap should fire me Ariens up.

A trip to purchase said plug didn’t happen yesterday, nor did any Christmas shopping, as I was the last family member to enjoy a stomach bug (with a heartburn chaser) from Maddy’s day care. I struggled to the grocery store and gobbled Tums before discovering my wallet wasn’t with me… That was special. More Tums and Gatorade helped and I’m feeling almost human again, though my stomach has a ways to go before I’ll trust throwing down a dog at the B’s tonight with Jeffro.

…but don’t call me jolly. Fat guys in red suits after a few thousand hot toddies are jolly. I’ll admit to being merry. Anyway…

• Four hours of sleep just isn’t enough, but it’s better than three.
• Speaking of three, I wonder if the NFL ever considered a three minute warning instead of 2?
• I prefer shopping with my mouse, but Barb reminded me yesterday that some purchases need to be experienced in person. I’ll live a couple of those today…
• …but only after Kyle and his pal Leo see the Harry Potter exhibit at Boston’s Museum of Science; although I’m not sure what the boy wizard has to do with science. Maybe it’s the science of currency.
• I hope our President understands that the early adopters who got him nominated over the very capable Hillary Clinton are not too thrilled with his performance.
• I splurged and got myself OXO “Good Grips” for Christmas…
• This week the news was gently broken to me that I won’t be receiving a 2010 Wilco calendar. They’re not making one. Now I just don’t want anything.
• I’m looking to outsource wrapping.
• I hope the Bruins show up Monday night when Jeff and I do.
• Jamal is getting a “Fisher-Price Rainforest Peek-A-Boo Waterfall Soother” for Christmas…
• I was in a very cool church this week and we both survived.
• A similar survival experience occurred with some mozzarella, but only I lived through that encounter…
• In the new year, I resolve to write less crappy posts.

Gotta go. Maddy wants “eggies.”

One thing I failed to mention in my December 3rd half-holiday recap is that I missed Sloan… Yeah, what a loser. After all, the boys from the Great White North blasted me in the Windy City with one of my best shows evah back in June of 2008 during the SHRM conference and I owe them. Still, I just couldn’t reconcile the 11:30PM gig with a 7AM flight… However, thanks to the magic of digital toys and yourtube, we can all enjoy a very high quality taste of what I missed…

Take It Upon Yourself (from their new ep)

Believe In Me – (from 2008’s Parallel Play)

PS – $18 is a small price to pay for that kind of rock…

Thursday I took a vacation and it was like a lifetime in an afternoon. “It’s December 3rd!” was met with a bright smile and shimmering eyes as we practically skipped like children on the buoyancy of rising mercury in the 60’s. A Christmas tree lighting and some Newbury Street window shopping was on our back of a napkin agenda, and passing the Boston Common ice rink somehow conjured up discussion of how truly lucky we are. After passing Manny’s old pad, we were there, hips and knees still intact after sampling a couple miles of Boston topology. Though considerably younger than me, my date was pretty, but parched, so we settled onto a couple resting stools and sipped liquids from “V” shaped glasses. After eyeing a block of cheddar “the size of a car battery^1.,” Joyce was all smiles as she scarfed (daintily, of course) and made cheese jokes. After the refueling, we searched for sacks in Saks. The sheer volume of shoes and handbags for women approaches incomprehensible, but I hung in and took note of likes and dislikes… I also envisioned Megan’s eyes bugging out if she were witness to this “Sex and the City” display of chick chic. After being pulled back from the ledge of a post “V” shaped drinks impulse buy, I did get a card from one young retailer for future consideration. “Thanks, man. What’s your name?” “Kyle.” Of course it is…

Cabbing over to the North End with my Italian guide, the driver asked where we were from. “Iowa.” I have no idea why I responded with a major corn producer, other than to give context to the “we don’t have stores like that where we come from.” Dinner was unexceptional except for the Hopper-esque ambiance and my wonderful view. After skipping dessert, and having not yet hit our stepping quota, we left and righted, dodged traffic, passed through a blue time tunnel, and finally caught view of the flying saucer that would beam us safely home.

We never did see the tree lighting, but our hearts got lit up pretty good anyway.

1. Shameless “Seinfeld” reference from “The Foundation.”

Why’s it “Black Friday,” anyway? Here’s a good Gizmodo article on how to avoid Black Friday ripoffs.

So, it’s 6:21AM and I feel a gym trip beckoning, but for now I’ll just exercise 2 of my fingers. For the record, that would be the index finger of my left hand and the middle finger of my right. Strange. Considering how much I tap, maybe Mavis can still teach this old dog.

When I was in Vegas earlier this month, gerontologist Ken Dychtwald was our keynote speaker, and a fine headliner to our cool opening video on the changing workforce, but that’s not important right now.

During his presentation on the evolving expectations of generations, Mr. Dychtwald attributed a quote to former “Original 7” astronaut and US Senator John Glenn, who in 1998 became the oldest human to enter space. At the time Glenn was criticized for the trip by some who saw it as a publicity shot for an old politician. True or not, his response got me scribbling in the canyon of a conference center: “Just because I’m about to turn 77 doesn’t mean I don’t still have dreams.” Once I got home, I transcribed those words onto a greeting card featuring a monkey smoking a cigar. I sent that South to another man looking at a 77th birthday, but one who seems to have let go of his dreams. Since the passing of his wife of 30 years in 2007, Dad has confined himself to a solitary life, even though he has many friends and acquaintances in “the Villages.” Most times it seems futile, but I always encourage Dad to “get out there.”

Yesterday as we danced and laughed in the car on our way to “Nana’s” for dinner, Megan, Kyle and I howled while discussing how long it would take Dad to say, “Lee, I gotta go. I gotta pee like a race-hoss.” To our gleeful surprise, Dad didn’t have to pee, but he had to go. “I’m going out for Thanksgiving dinner with Dick and Kay.”

Thanks John Glenn.

February 28, 2005 was Megan’s sweet 16th and the day I wrote my first post here. Now, 700 posts later on Thanksgiving Day, I’m thankful for this digital light casting out of the darkness. Contemplating the use of words takes a working head, but I hope that within the cold code that is HTML, the presence of a beating heart has occasionally nudged an EKG spike upward.

“Vanity vent” is an accurate description for any blog, and ego drives the belief that anyone would actually want to read what appears once the “Publish” button is clicked. I do know of a few faithful readers, and one of them is ego me. Having a near five year journal of life is very handy for someone in the pre-Alzheimer’s boomer set, and sometimes reading old posts is brand new, like reading someone else’s words. Other times, the story is so familiar; I don’t need the written word to recite it. One such post is “Love is Blindness” from Valentine’s Day 2007. It started out as my annual “Valentine’s Day sucks” post, but ended up in a place the Hallmark holiday can’t touch. That story is etched in my heart forever, but one line mystifies me:

“I still want to be a better man…”

I’m not sure why I wrote that, but looking back I know I’ve become… better. Whether “better” means “healed” or “improved” doesn’t matter. I’m both, thank you. Now on to a post I’d forgotten from May, 2005…

Music links many of my life’s pages and “Sweet Illusions” was inspired by a gorgeous Ryan Adams song. The short post was a dream of the future we have no way of knowing. I haven’t made the Napa plans, but the woman, the beauty, the music, the silence, the hands, the leaves, the kids… Illusions no more.

Happy Thanksgiving.

That 700th dinger should be special, but the one before it will be a pre-Thanksgiving cobweb cleaning…

• Tonight was my first night reunited with a gym. It was a great workout and I’m pumped and jacked to be back, but why does it take 30 minutes on an elliptical to burn 300 calories, but less than 30 seconds to consume them?
• Life would be pretty different if the calories consumed versus calories burned quotient was reversed. Not necessarily better, but different.
• Sloan has a new EP out and after one preview I’m not sure how I feel about it. Still, I’ll buy it to support the band and be there for their show a week from Thursday at TT the Bears in Cambridge. Here, see for yourself…

• On to cheaply manufactured music… Hey Adam Lambert, did you hear that sound? Yeah, that was the sound of you blowing your career.
• I never watched Oprah, but I think I’ll miss her.
• I’m looking forward to hearing Clarence say, “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?”
• And of course, “Ralphie!”
• At a recent conference, I noticed them traveling in packs and solo, trudging on, heads down, their imaginary snouts sniffing the blackberries for scraps of data.
• In the first ten days of December I have trips to Atlanta and Manhattan. I’m not even going to try whining about either. I am so fortunate to do what I do. Today I spent an hour basically authoring a comic strip for an internal promotion. That didn’t suck.
• There’s currently no sweeter sound than that of my granddaughter’s voice. Speaking of which, she’s still up and it’s 9:20… Bad Papa!