“Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.” –Joseph Addison, English essayist
TB’s Little Scamp. The apple of my eye, light of my life. Sweeter than Tupelo honey. Pure innocence. She thinks I can do no wrong, can cure any ill, fix any problem, drive a really long ways. Last of the truly politically independent thinkers. Book lover. Pre-materialistic. Green. A sensible eater. Reveler in the smallest of blessings. Hope for the future. Train and ladybug aficionado. Loves her friends unconditionally, as well her Grandparents, cousins, mother and her doting father. Constantly learning new things, words like booger for instance, and that’s hardly all. Wants to be tickled, within reason. I love to catch her as she walks by, unsuspecting as always, and snatch her up in a flourish, finishing with the big wet kiss that always draws a hug and a laugh. And then suddenly, yesterday,
“Why don’t you say something righteous, and hopeful, for a change?” –Oddball
It’s a strange thing. TB hasn’t been in school for almost fifteen years. The Little Scamp won’t start for a few months more. It shouldn’t matter. But it’s in my DNA I guess. School’s out in these parts in about three weeks. Just knowing that somehow makes me happy.
Maybe its because there’s a whole lot of unhappiness shaking up our collective karma these days. In no particular order, we’ve got the oil spill, deadly tornadoes, a world economy still on the (Dear Lord, Please forgive this terrible news junkie pun of which I am about to commit. Amen.) hedge of the cliff, and Rentboy, among others, and when you mix it all together its a foul soup. It can be difficult these days to maintain a positive mental attitude. Something good needs to happen to get those positive waves flowing again.
And so I look to the children. I believe they are our future, by the way. If they are anything like young TB was, the approach of summer vacation will unleash a powerful force of optimism upon a world that needs it. I’m not sure what kids are into for fun these days. But I bet being out of school allows them a lot more time to do it. There are some things, I am confident, that never change.
And if any of you old-timers can recall how sweet it was back in the good ol’ waning school year days when history class meant watching “The Blue and the Gray” all week; when visions of nine o’clock neighborhood spotlight filled your forecast; when the glory of donning your town’s colors under a blistering summer sun dominated your daydreams; when the great summer holiday and midway point of July 4 was too far away to even contemplate; when days filled with crawdad catchin’, golfball huntin’ and whiffle ball tournaments were near enough to plan; when the numbers to your locker combination could be once and for all forgotten (though unbeknownst to you at the time you’d wish one day in your recurrent nightmares they weren’t); when your base burn was in place and your tan was settling in; when boredom and rainy days seemed impossible; when your shoes could be set aside for the duration; when you could envision precisely where to cut out those new paths in your woods; well, if you can recall these things and a hundred other feelings just like them, maybe it’ll help the kids build that wave of positive energy, and maybe that wave will help us get past these hard times that are upon us. Hell, it can’t hurt.
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Me and Oddball hate them negative waves….
And I gotta add the song….this’ll make you smile, at least do a little chair dancin’….go on admit it.
“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Napoleon Bonaparte
TB has diligently research-i-pedia’d the history of Cinco de Mayo today in order to enlighten and entertain myself and hopefully those of you travellin’ through the TBU. It turns out the holiday, widely ignored in Mexico, commemorates the victory of 4000 Mexicans over a superior force of 8000 Frenchmen at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. And I suppose this is precisely the reason Mexicans, with ready access to tequila without need of a special occasion, think little of the day. After all, who hasn’t whipped the French.*
Before I go on, let me make clear one thing. I’m cool with the French. I dig the permissive sexual mores, the rich, languid culture of food, the hidden signs at the Louvre, Hemingway’s years there and Pepe Le Pew, among other notable achievements. In fact, I look forward to visiting the country some day and determining for myself whether a French waiter’s sneer is more offensive than a McDonald’s teenager’s shuffle. And I never uttered the godawful phrase “freedom fries”, even when I was mad at Pierre for opposing the US invasion of Iraq. Oh, and I don’t even know why they call them Froggies, so I don’t.
But let’s face it. The French–the culture that produced the greatest general ever and the baddest ass teenage girl general ever, the nation that brought all of Europe to heel once and whose ancient conquest of England centuries before that changed the world, and whose assistance after 1776 ensured the very existence of America–this great people have been on a losing streak in the game of war. And it all started with the humiliating loss to the Mexicans on cinco de mayo, 1862.
A recap of the French misfortunes of war since that time, again thoroughly research-i-pedia’d by moi:
Franco-Prussian War–1870-1871; Lost. Alsace-Lorraine went to Prussia. Worse still, the German states united.
World War I–1914-1919; technically they won. What did they win? Hmmm. ‘Bout all I can think of is the 42 surviving males under 60 had very little competition for the ladies. Oh wait, I think the doughboys and Hemingway ended up with most all the mademoiselles.
World War II–1939-1945; again they get the win on a technicality. What most people remember about this rousing victory is that they managed to pull it off from beneath a jack boot heel. Oh, and this time the Americans ended up with the Frauleins instead.
Algerian War–1954-1962; technically they lost because Algeria expelled them. Ironically, this can arguably be seen as their greatest triumph of the century.
Indochina Wars–mid 20th Century; lost Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. What’s worse, America was finally unable to overcome its close association with French military disasters and has been on a strategic losing streak ever since. Thanks France.
It ain’t pretty, kind of like an (here it comes) old French whore. (This is where a video of Garth Brooks as “Coco” the Old French Whore would be linked if I could’ve found it.)
With all this in mind as you head off to your local Mexican joint and for a few hours forget how much you hate illegal immigration, consider eschewing the margaritas in honor of America’s original ally. It really is kind of low to be having too much fun on a day that commemorates nothing of import for the winners, but inaugurated an era of infamy for the losers. So please, a little respect for the home of the little general (digression–isn’t it ironic the/their greatest general was ultimately a loser?). Skip the tequila. Order up a pitcher of sangria instead.
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*Though it takes away from the humor I find in the new knowledge that today commemorates a Mexican Army victory over the French, I must note, lest you get into a debate during your third round of sangria this evening, that the French actually recovered from the loss on May 5 and eventually occupied Mexico City. They installed Emperor Maximillian and presumably collected the money they were sent to collect. So they “won.” Then again, they abandoned the country a few years later to the previous Mexican leadership because we “asked” them to. Guess they couldn’t count on us to save ‘em if they got into a war with, um, us.
“Some tortures are physical, and some are mental, But the one that is both, is dental.” –Ogden Nash
I hate those kitten posters tacked by the window or even worse on the ceiling that say things like “Smile”.
I hate the big window. I hate the birds outside it who can fly anywhere they like and will never have to sit in the chair.
I hate the magazines, even the ones I normally like, and especially “Highlights” Magazine, which I never even liked as a kid.
I hate being asked the same inane questions twice a year and being reminded “we haven’t done x-rays in a year” as if I didn’t already know and in a tone that falsely suggests I have some choice in the matter of whether “we” do them today.
I hate the sharp hook and the sound it makes on my teeth and the agony it inflicts on my gums.
I hate the sound of the water swirling around in the miniature sink to my left, the one they quit letting me spit in back in about ’89. I hate the banal, one-sided conversation coming from the cleaning chair next door. I hate the smells, the certificates, the gritty paste.
I love the miniature cold water hose that washes away the gritty paste and that took the place of Dixie Cups and spitting back in about ’89. But I hate the miniature vacuüm they use to suck all that refreshing cool water out before I can get a drink.
I hate being judged on the quality of my gums and the efficiency of my flossing. I am not a monster. You can’t pigeonhole me.
What I hate most of all is that I can never win. Every six months, there I am, sitting in that chair waiting on the verdict. Do I get another six-month reprieve or will I be sent to the drillin’ room? I really hate that if I get the drill I have to fret about it two weeks before getting it over with. I hate that drill. I really, really hate that “it looks like part of a filling has broken off.” I’m glad he “doesn’t see any decay.” I’m glad he thinks we can “push back replacing it for awhile.” I hate the inevitability and the uncertainty that diagnosis conveys. I hate that in 6 months I have to endure all this mental and physical torture again and its as if today’s success was but a mirage.
And the hell of it is I like every dentist I’ve ever known, even Waldo who once laughingly boasted that “pulling a tooth is the most barbaric act in all of medicine.” And one day I guess they’ll want to try that on me. But for the next six months I’m clear. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.
I guess I have to admit one thing. I like that my Mother insisted I live this way. I like that I still have good teeth, for the most part. Because I’m pretty certain I would hate a root canal.
“The secret of genius is to carry the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm.” –Aldous Huxley
Have you heard the news yet? TB turns 40 this year. Surprisingly, I’m not the only one this is happening to this year. Even more surprisingly, hundreds I have heard, if not more, have previously experienced this damn dubious milestone. So why does it feel like this is some cruel joke the universe is only inflicting on me?
Anyway, I’ve been thinking of how to cushion the blow and for me the generic answer is easy–travel somewhere awesome. Ah, but where to go, that’s the rub. I want to wake up that fateful August morning some place beautiful and devoid of traffic. It must be a locale that is both affordable and accessible, but neither cheap nor easy–those were fine when I was but 30. There should be something to do that involves moving my rapidly aging bones before they turn to dust, be it a mountain hike or an ocean swim, or something similar. Strenuous, yet not overly dangerous. It probably needs to be a location I’ve yet to see and definitely north, south or west of Dixie. And if northwest, further north and/or west than the Great Plains, no offense Kansas. If an island my destination be, I’d like to be able to rent a boat and a golf cart for transport. If a mountain, I want waterfalls, off the road, but bear-free and within a mile. Carrying the Little Scamp uphill very far would qualify as overly dangerous for those drying bones of which I spake. I’m tantalized by the idea of a road trip down the Baja peninsula, drinking cerveza in the lonely desert, taking siesta with the old gauchos staring blankly in brotherhood from beneath my new sombrero, moving languidly, symbolically south to Cabo.
But I can’t decide. It must be perfect. Otherwise I am not certain I will survive the transformation. Suggestions? Has this ever happened to anyone else? This is a really big decision for me.
“The only point in making money is you can tell any SOB in the world to go to hell. –Humphrey Bogart
Is it really necessary to have a prestigious accounting firm to tabulate “over 6000 votes?” Honestly, TB will count the votes for half of whatever Price-Waterhouse charges and I’ll look a lot cooler delivering the briefcases than Mssr’s P&W. Saying “count” in place of “tabulate” makes it a lot more cost effective by the way.
You know that joke in the opening when they told that kid with the skinny eyes and the neck goiter from the Vampire movie and the other young dude they would look like Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin in five years? Then they cut to Jeff Bridges? I would’ve said “this is what you will look like in ten years.” That’s Gold, seriously. But overall I enjoyed the hosting and the opening duologue, and I cracked up at the Baldwin-Clooney stare-downs. Props to Doogie Howser for the opening number too. As the night wore on, I decided we could’ve done without Baldwin. Martin could handle the stare-down joke on his own, too.
I’m married. I am at home today. Therefore I watched twenty-six hours of red carpet, the whole show and the post mortem. Hey this is her Super Bowl. With the excuses now behind me…..Sarah Jessica Parker is not the hottest chick in Hollywood by any stretch. But I’m down with the whole dress strap around the neck look. Forget what you think about her guys, we all dig that look, am I wrong?
The greatest movie ever is Casablanca. The Rambler informs me this is the first year since Casablanca swept the night in 1943 that ten movies were nominated for best picture. That’s some solid trivia, make a mental note of it.
See the first four sentences of No. 3. I thought Charlize Theron wore possibly the least sexy dress of all time. The boob circles made her look like a 90 year old body double from the neck to the belly. Or, they looked like vaginas. On the chest. TB ain’t no Picasso fan.
I was glad to see my old XM Cross-Country (The Suck Stopped There) buddy Ryan Bingham win for “Best Song.” Really need to see Crazy Heart. I was pulling for that movie even though I haven’t seen it yet. Illogical yes, you can’t pigeonhole me.
I did see District 9. Yeah, I got that it was social commentary. I even agreed with the commentary. Didn’t like the movie though.
Please Coen Bros. Please Jeff Bridges. Bring back the Dude. But only if Sam Elliot will play God again.
The John Hughes tribute was cool. Molly Ringwald was a fright.
I saw Precious. Yeah, I love my wife, I ain’t scared to say it. That movie’s not my bag, but it deserves the plaudits. A sad, sad, sad story, and convincingly performed with minimal melodrama.
I missed everything from 8:50-9:45 while on Little Scamp bath and bedtime duty.
Review No. 3 again. Kate Winslet looked great and I like the way she talks. So did Clooney. Yeah, I said it. I liked Anna Kendrick too. James Cameron’s ex-wife is totally hotter than his current one, but it looked like they all get along, which is nice. I probably ought to see The Hurt Locker.
Wouldn’t it be cool if they had nominated something like The Hangover for “Best Makeup ” or “Sound Achievement?” or “Best Animated Short” or some other category nobody cares about outside the 90210? If I were voting it would probably be Best Picture but since the Academy eschews comedy, they could at least throw out a bone for a true classic that, unlike most of the 27 nominees for Best Picture, will NOT be forgotten in a year, and on Sunday afternoons for the next twenty-five years, between dubbed versions of Smoky and the Bandit and Breakfast Club we could also see a hilarious-in-its-own-way censor approved version of The Hangover, introduced in the interminable “Yella Wood” commercials, “and now, back to the Academy Award winning, The Hangover.” I tell you one thing…if TB was counting the votes, I could make it happen. And save the Academy a bundle in the process.
When I get old I want to be like Christopher Plummer. Well, that’s assuming I can’t be like Clooney.
Up in the Air was good. They nailed the work-travellin life. Clooney rules. But Oscar? Sorry, no. And Clooney for Best Actor? He plays a good-hearted, charming, roguish, independent, smooth-talking ladies man. This role was not a stretch.
Who thinks Sandra Bullock is hot? I mean by Hollywood standards. She just doesn’t crank my engine. I ain’t just hatin’ just because she played an Ole Miss grad either. Kate Beckinsale is hot. I didn’t see her tonight. Michelle Pfeiffer’s still got it. I’ll say this for Sandra, she seems like a pretty cool chick and gave a good acceptance speech.
Tim Robbins had the line of the night (unless somebody got one off between 8:50-9:45) introducing Morgan Freeman. Paraphrasing here, “Morgan Freeman taught me what it means to be a friend. On the last day of shooting Shawshank, he pulled me aside and said “Friendship is getting the other person a cup of coffee. Could you do that for me, Ted?”
T-Bone Burnett. Good music. Awesome name. Cool shades, at night, indoors. Looks like he works at Price-Waterhouse? Doesn’t add up.
Best visual of the night–Tom Hanks almost forgot to give the statue for Best Picture to the beautiful and talented Catherine Bigelow, director of The Hurt Locker and the night’s big winner.
TB stayed up twenty-three minutes longer than I wanted to so I could bring you these observations and opinions. So you better appreciate it. That and I thought I might get to hear Clooney make an acceptance speech. Yeah, I like him, he’s a beautiful and talented man. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
“With the passage of time, most loathsome events become humorous tales.” –Jimmy Buffett
Have you ever been to Tillatooma, Mississippi? In route to Memphis to catch our flight west, TB found a reason to both be and to chuckle there. Honestly, if you are reading this at work you may think these snapshots are not funny at all. If so, look at this post again the next time you are on vacation. Maybe you have to be in the right frame of mind.
First of all, I haven't seen one of these in years. Secondly, a burly, bearded dude was all up in it with his face when I walked in. Too burly to photograph.
You know there's gotta be some Vanilla Ice in there
We made it to Tahoe and proceeded to gettin acclimated.
All's I'm sayin is that's a big chair Tiny E
And as you can see….
....TB honestly found this humorous
And finally, sadly, there is no photographic evidence of today’s humorous event. However if there were, the photo would be placed into the dictionary next to the word “overconfidence.” Or if that word was already taken it could be considered for “premature jocularity.”
Ol’ TB has been forthright with my fellow denizens of the TBU vis a vis my skiing ability or lack thereof, as the case may be. But I must tell you, I am improving rapidly on this fifth trip to the slopes (counting a few days of hillbilly skiing last year.) I’ve tackled the steepest slopes of my career and handled them without faltering. My skis are beginning to move in unison when they have always previously suffered from multiple personality disorder. I have purposely run through modest tree routes. I’m fast, but in control.
So it came as quite a surprise to me this afternoon when I was suddenly the reluctant host of a yard sale. For those of you back in Mississippi, that’s a big fall, skis, poles and apparel strewn about the mountain. I never saw it coming. It was the end of a long hard run over moguls (bumps, friends) down steeps, through trees and past a bunch of rookies. It was on the green portion of the run (bunny slopes, Mississippians) and I was flying after coming off the steep. I was contemplating how to inject a bit more difficulty into the run a little further down the hill. When I realized there was gonna be a crash landing, but not why–I wondered this in mid-air–I had the presence of mind to aim my derriere at the ground (my ass, Smily). Said derriere connected with its target and after that I was just a hunk of meat and bones along for the ride with my old friend gravity. I know I flipped once and spun once and I know my missing ski was about twenty yards away. And I smashed my thumb. Fortunately that was my only injury as any other fingers would have precluded typing this report. Anyway, I looked around. The only people who might have seen me were a long way off and neither laughing nor concerned. The Rambler was still up hill descending cautiously and only saw the wreckage. Satisfied there was no one else to laugh at what befell me, I decided I better do it myself. It was funny. I wish I had a picture. I’m glad nobody saw it. My thumb hurts.
“If you think you can do a thing or think you can’t do a thing, you’re right. –Henry Ford
TB tuned in to NBC Saturday night just in time to catch the last ten skiers in women’s Moguls and I’m glad I did. Hannah Kearney brought home the first Gold Medal of these Olympics to the USA and her teammate Shannon Bahrke won Bronze. (Before I go any further let me say here that I hope the notoriety of her medal will help Bahrke be able to afford a new vowel or two.) Mogul skiing is a cool event. The competitors speed headlong down a hill full of smaller hills, hitting a pair of mid-size hills along the way that launch them into the sky where they are expected to look cool and do tricks until they hit the ground when they are again faced with speeding over small hills to the bottom of the big hill. Though the color commentator said nothing so descriptive as the foregoing, he did explain in vibrant terms that the goal of speed in this event is best attained by getting as close to completely out of control as possible without turning over. Speaking for terrible skiers everywhere, I can totally relate to that exact moment. These athletes can hold that moment all the way down the hill, whereas the likes of TB only recognize it in the millisecond we realize a face full of snow is imminent. Not only must racers reach the bottom fastest. They are also scored subjectively on the cool airborne tricks. Kearney did a complete backflip on her first jump and a “helicopter” 360 degree spin on her second. Amazing. The best part of her victory was that in Torino four years ago she entered the contest as favorite and stumbled to a 22nd place finish. I can only imagine how hard it has been for her waiting four years for redemption. It was a victory that defines and legitimizes the cliché, “Olympic moment”.
I also cheered America today after assembling the Little Scamp’s new Radio Flyer tricycle. Radio Flyer is an American company based in Illinois that manufactures products in Wisconsin. Beyond the fact that an iconic company still builds things in America, the directions were good and the assembly process as a whole was a breeze. Believe me, I know. I am terrible at putting things together. I get these Chinese-made things and find extra parts, missing steps in the instructions, impossible to interpret diagrams. Not with American-as-apple-pie Radio Flyer! They even had a note that an extra piece was supplied purposely. And I was one proud Dad watching my LS learn to pedal that thing around our neighborhood. Dang right I can do man-stuff like puttin’ things together….oh, the LS did well too.
Back to the Olympics where there was even more American glory on display. Apollo Ohno won a Silver to become the co-all-time American leader in medals won Saturday. On Sunday Johnny Spillane won Silver in men’s Nordic Combined cross-country skiing. Johnny Spillane. Is there a better American name than that? Before Spillane, no American had ever medaled in the sport. He was runner up to Frenchman Jason Chappuis. But get this, Chappuis was born in Montana to a French father and American mother and is therefore an American citizen. So we really should be able to claim half a medal there. Then again, Hannah Kearney it turns out is half Canadian so we’ll call it even.
Better wrap this up and take out the trash…..oh, crap, just looked at the box. The LS’s tricycle it turns out is only half-American too, plastic in America and steel parts in China. <blank stare> Well, that’s better than most anything else we own. I’ll take it. U.S.A.!
“Flowers….are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Father unbuckled his little girl and lifted her from her car seat, stealing a kiss as he eased her out. They walked into the toy store, the epicenter of that which epitomizes joy and hope and confusion with three weeks only until Christmas. His little girl, running out the clock far too rapidly on her second year, grasped his index finger firmly and exhorted him, “let’s go fast!” He lengthened his stride to keep up. Through the dolls they dashed. A wall of Dora, but no dithering. Princess dresses? No dice. “Bicycles Daddy!” The Father smiled with pride, thinking “that’s my girl” as she led him to her aisle of choice.
A tricycle was off the rack and apparently available for trying out. The little girl had never been on a tricycle. Nonetheless, she fearlessly took to the saddle. “She’s a pistol,” thought the Father. Carefully placing her feet on the pedals, the little girl then examined the pink handlebars in her clutch, revving the hand grips until they felt just right. “A natural” thought her Father. Spotting the bell, the little girl gave it a quick twist and laughed in delight at the sound, and her Father thought to himself, “doesn’t miss a thing, that one.” The little girl smiled and the lights above flickered, then suddenly brightened. The Father could never get accustomed to this phenomenon. She looked up at her Father with an unspoken request and as the man leaned in to accommodate her and push the tricycle forward to get her started he thought, “What an adventuresome, curious child. What courage, what joie de vivre! All this and beauty too…” The little girl, still innocent, a beacon of hope in an uncertain world, child of the digital age, abruptly changed her expression and called out harshly to her Father, “NO, NO, don’t push Daddy!” A pause and then a look of confusion, a blank stare, if you will. The little girl seemed put upon at having to amplify her intent. She returned the blank stare with a look of exasperation tinged with pity and calmly instructed him, “Turn it on.”
“I never did like to work and I don’t deny it. I’d rather read, tell stories, crack jokes, talk, laugh–anything but work.” –Abraham Lincoln
TB hears all the time, “TB, I love Third Week. I’m spreading the word and most everyone wants to participate. But how does one celebrate this new holiday? After all, Christmas has the tree, Thanksgiving has the turkey, Festivus has its pole….what the hell does 3W have?” I’m glad you asked.
First, you plan your Third Week Party meal–Third Pound Burger and 3 Bean Chili are the traditional main courses and for desert, Neopolitan ice cream, of course. Then you pretty much lay around on the couch watching movies and DVD’s instead of working–movies like “Return of the Jedi, Godfather 3, and 3 Days of the Condor. It’s also a good time for opening that old 3′s Company box set gathering dust in your attic. You should have the traditional beverages of Third Week available for your meal and sofa time–one bourbon, one Scotch and one beer. After about three servings of that you should be ready to do some Third Week caroling. At some point during 3W you must give someone a blank stare, say something damn dubious, and retell an old story with or about an asshole runnin buddy. Often these can be done at the same time. After all that eating and laying around and drinking and singing and staring it’ll be time for the final stage in 3W festivities. This is when you return to your couch, turn out the lights and put in your DVD of “Saturday Night Live–the forgotten classics you never saw in the first place because they were relegated to airing in the final half-hour.” These are all those skits that started out with a decent idea, but they never really got traction. Really, the funniest part of them was that they just kept going on and on and on….and on…. You will be asleep before long and by the time you wake up it will be Thanksgiving week, the beginning of the holidays for all those beholden to the man. At some point between 3W Monday and Thanksgiving Day, as tradition dictates, MD will officially close the season with a comment broadcast exclusively here to all denizens of the Travellinbaen Universe.
H3W to all and to all, just keep shuffling paper for a few more days.
