The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In The Chicago Cubs
With Trump as president, some folks claim we're living in the darkest timeline. Others claim it's the dumbest timeline. We could probably just go ahead and combine the two and call it the dimmest timeline.
And who do we blame for this dimmest of timelines? Many people say Trump winning knocked us into the dimmest timeline, but my money is on the Chicago Cubs.
Trump was voted into office on 8 November 2016. I hypothesize that Trump winning was just a symptom of the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series for the first time in over a century on 3 November 2016.
Five days earlier, folks.
That's it, really. The entire argument. The Cubs winning the World Series was one of the most improbable events to have happened in recent history, and when it did happen it knocked us right into an alternate timeline where Trump could get elected president. The dimmest timeline.
Let's hope, for all our sakes, the Cubs never win the World Series again, for who knows what timeline we might get dumped into next.
Unless, of course, the Cubs winning the World Series again would knock us back into our proper timeline. Although, come to think of it, that timeline wasn't so great either. We need to think of some other long shots that might catapult us out of our current timeline and into another - better - timeline.
Hmmm...long shots...
Ah, I've got it! Me winning the lottery. It's highly improbable and, with any luck, would propel us into a glorious timeline where all would be right with the world, a great utopia without any suffering, endless kindness and love, and perpetual 2-for-1 deals on Totino's frozen pizzas.
What a glorious time it would be for all.
And if it weren't? Well, at least I'd have millions of dollars to deal with this dimmest of timelines.
It's a chance I'm willing to take for the betterment of all humankind.
You're welcome.
❄
Petunia
Oh great spirits from beyond the pale, I, Mystical Matt, sit here today with Betsy, Eugenia, and Esther Kowalczyk. We wish to contact their dearly departed sister, Petunia, who was taken from this earthly realm far too soon.
Betsy: Ooo, this is so exciting.
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
I'm getting something. The voices from the great beyond are faint and muddled, but...there...they're coming in a little stronger now...yes...I think-
Betsy: Petunia! Over here, Petunia!
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
Spirits! Please! I beseech you to-
Betsy: Petunia! Over here!
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
Spirits! I command you to...wait...it seems...the spirits...I hear them...they're talking about...gardening tools?
Betsy: Petunia! Petuuuuuuuunia!
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
Dear ladies, I'm sorry. It seems as though the spirits are discussing...gardening? They keep mentioning a hoe?
Betsy: Petunia! It really is you!
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
Great spirits! Please-
Betsy: She always was a little tramp!
Eugenia: That's right, dearie, it would be "ho" you're hearing, not "hoe."
Esther: Jezebel!
Well I...I...uhhh-
Betsy: Don't worry, dear. We all knew it. She died one night after sleeping with all three of our husbands.
Eugenia: That's right. All three.
Esther: At the same time.
The spirits seem to be rather upset wi-...oh my! I've never seen the table shake this hard before...and the pictures on the wall...and the silverware...it seems the spirits...they...wait! I think I hear Petunia! Petunia!
Betsy: He sounds just like my George when he calls out her name like that.
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
Petunia, if you can hear me, your sisters greatly desire...yes, there it is...something is coming through...it sounds like...giggling? Petunia! I command you to….it's definitely giggling...and...please, Petunia, your sisters wish...is she saying neener neener neener?
Betsy: Oh, Petunia.
Eugenia: Hush, Betsy!
Esther: Shhh!
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The Poopiest Concert
The poopiest concert I've ever been to was when I saw That 1 Guy perform on the Milwaukee riverfront during one of its summer concert series.
Their are actually a metric tush-ton of outdoor summer concert series in Milwaukee, WI, there's the big gig – Summerfest, the world's largest music festival - Festa Italian, German Fest, Polish Fest, Juneteenth, Greek Fest, Summer Soulstice, Taco Fest, Asia Fest, Croatian Fest, Armenian Fest, Brady Street Festival, Puerto Rican Festival, Center Street Daze, Irish Fest, Indian Fest, Mexican Fiesta, Bay View Bash, Bastille Days, Bike Night Concert Series, Jazz in the Park, Milwaukee Highland Games, Chill on the Hill, PrideFest, Firkin Fest, Locust Street Festival, Washington Park Wednesdays, dozens of weekend church festivals, and River Rhythms (which is where I saw That 1 Guy) which leads us to the avian aerial bombing.
Yes, the poopiest concert I've ever been to involved the fecal droppings of seagulls startled by the magic pipe of a one man band.
It was a wonderful Milwaukee evening: the lake effect kept the east side of the city cool and the park was full of children chasing each other while adults chased beer and brats The music was free and the food was fried. The vibe was fun, the metaphors contrived. As That 1 Guy started tuning up his instrument the scores upon scores upon scores (upon scores) of seagulls who nested in the guano-filled parking lot across the river took flight.
Seagulls are neither the brightest nor the calmest of feathered rodents and when That 1 Guy started his sonic symphony the seagulls did what seagulls do when startled: fly around and poo. Lots of poo. Enormous amount of poo. Ginormous gigantic titanic amounts of poo. All of it moving at 9.8 meters/second/second.
And no one but me and my wife realized it.
The kids? Well, kids are pretty unobservant when they're full of ice cream and ripping around playing eight different games of tag at the same time. The adults? Well, its Wisconsin, and the vast majority of adults – not to mention a fair amount of teens – consider getting as sloshed as possible on two buck Buds at outdoor festivals before driving home to sleep it off Job 1.
So my wife and I beat a hasty retreat 'neath the only tree in the area and watched the seagulls circle round and round over the crowd dropping doodoo bombs for fifteen straight minutes.
No one noticed.
At all.
Even a bit.
Not once.
I mean, I know I said it already, but-
No one noticed.
The defecation display only stopped when the birds, having finally run out of poo for probably the first time in their lives because of the quarter hour display of their machine gun-like stream of feces, flew off to find the nearest fast food restaurant to reload.
The rest of the concert was groovy, and viewed entirely from the safely of the base of our tree. That 1 Guy is a talented and creative musician. I highly recommend seeing him perform live because not only is he a great performer but seeing the way he uses that magic pipe (and boot...and saw) is pretty nifty. Just remember to look up – with your mouth closed, natch – and have a disposable umbrella or two handy should you see him where birds dare soar.
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"Another one?" asked Fred, with a heavy sigh. "How many kids did we have again?"
"Fourteen," replied Martha. "You were Catholic. I was Italian." Martha shrugged, then grinned. "We were doomed from the beginning, Right Said."
Fred lost his grumpy face and smiled. He loved it when she used her nickname for him from their last summer on the earthly plain of existence.
He broke into his 'I'm too sexy' dance. How the kids had cringed when he'd danced in front of their friends to that song. How Martha had rolled her eyes then laughed.
"Who's coming up this time?" said Fred, breathing a bit heavily after his final, fancy-footed flourish.
"According to the postcard we got from on high? Looks like Mary Beth."
"Which one was she again?"
"Loved to play the saxophone. Married Bill Knopski from down the street. She's the one who broke her tailbone during little league practice in fifth grade?"
"Oh yeah! That's right. Poor kid couldn't play outside that whole summer."
"Looks like this one'll only be a near death experience, not the big one."
"Well I suppose that's good," said Fred. "But I hate getting everyone together just for a false alarm."
"Come on," said Martha. "You haven't seen her in almost thirty years, and you know how happy she'll be to see us all again. Now you go round up her favorite aunts and uncles and I'll go get the kids."
An hour later, over a dozen people were standing in a very large room that housed the exits of thousands of long tunnels. At the end of each exit shown a great white light shining down.
"I can never remember," said Fred," are we supposed to be in front of the great white light or behind it?"
"Wouldn't do much good to be behind it," replied Martha. "Poor Mary Beth won't be able to see anything beyond the great white light."
"Right. Right," said Fred, moving from behind the great white light to in front of it.
After a couple of minutes, Fred started making shadow puppets on the sides of the tunnel.
"Behave yourself, Fred! What would Mary Beth think if she saw your T-Rex coming at her like that. Poor thing is going to be confused enough as it is."
"Yes, dear," replied Fred. He glanced around to see who was at the tunnel exits nearest theirs.
"Bob!" exclaimed Fred, to a person at the tunnel next to his. "How's it going. Who's coming up?"
Turning, Bob said with a nervous smile, "Belinda, my second wife."
"Well that's great. Musta been a while since you've seen her."
"And a good thing, too!" yelled a voice from somewhere within the group of thirty or so people huddled around the tunnel's exit. "That little hussy-"
Bob leaned toward Fred and whispered, "My first wife, Karen, isn't too happy about Belinda making it up here. After her death, she thinks Belinda made her move on me a might too soon. Gonna be a bit messy for a while."
"Fred! Pay attention! Here comes Mary Beth!"
"One of the kids. Just an NDE. Good luck, bud," Fred said quickly to Bob before focusing on his own tunnel.
"Alright everybody," said Martha. "Smile and wave."
Everyone started smiling and waving for all they were worth as they saw Mary Beth rise slowly toward them, then, just as slowly, fall away from them.
"We love you, Mary Beth!"
"Good job wearing your seat belt!"
"We miss you!"
"Everything's okay!"
"You still have a lot of life to live."
"Be good!"
"You still owe me five bucks!"
This last earned Jeff, one of Mary Beth's younger brothers, a quick slap to the back of his head from Martha.
"Behave yourself, Jeff!"
"Moooooom-" began Jeff.
Martha was about to say more, but a ruckus broke out at the tunnel with Bob's family.
"One year! You didn't even wait one year. Not one single year!"
"You stole him from me first!"
"I never! You said-"
Bob was trying to hold two women back. He briefly caught Fred's eye, gave him a 'what can you do' look, then returned to the matter at hand.
"Good thing I never married anyone else," said Fred to Martha.
Martha looked up at him. "Who else woulda had ya, Right Said."
"Don't do the dance!" yelled their kids as Fred started dancing with glee.
❄
Cherry Twizzlers Packaging Sucks, A Well Reasoned Argument.
Dear Twizzlers,
You suck.
Your cherry and strawberry Twizzlers packaging being so similar is an affront to the very fabric of this great nation of ours. Forget Trump. Forget Covid-19. It's you who are bringing America down.
You see, Twizzlers, when I'm out grocery shopping these days - trying to dodge moist floaty particulates of Coronavirus death - I don't have time to be a proactive consumer, carefully reading every last little bit of packaging and small print. That jerk over there without a mask? Yeah, she just sneezed all over the Cracker Jack display. No mystery prize for me today. Those kids running the wrong way down the aisle? Yeah, their dad doesn't care that they're pushing and shoving each other while I try to hold my breath as they wrestle on by, all he cares about is getting the right flavor of mayo. Preferably in the squeezable bottle.
I need speed here. Quick like rabbit! I don't have time to examine your diabolically duplicitous packaging! I need to get in and out before the next group of "2Aers" start protesting the grocery store's mask requirement while wearing every single piece of tactical and safety gear available in Tech Bros and Bullets magazine save the cloth mask.
So get your act together, Twizzlers. Do the right thing. Change the packaging and take the financial hit (cuz you know the only people buying cherry Twizzlers are buying them by mistake). Do what's right for your consumers. Do what's right for you company. Do your duty in the fight against Coronavirus. Do what's right for America!
❄
I seem to be in a funky chicken state of mind. Not only was this one of the most delightful things I've seen today, but it was followed by this.
So gloriously 70s! It's a Tom Jones TV show staring, of course, Tom Jones, which is delightful enough on its own, but behold the chicken coop set! Behold the bell bottom chicken outfits with sparkly feathers! Behold the professional chicken choreography performed by professional dancers and Tom Jones for the entire duration of the song! Behold that for almost three entire minutes the funky chicken was performed in front of a live studio audience and aired across the entire United States on prime time TV in 1970!
I mean, with entertainment as serious and absurd as this, is it really any surprise that we won the cold war? We had enough resources, free time, and creativity to do this! You can keep your Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Pushkin, your Nabokov, Turgenev, and Pasternak, for we had Tom Jones doing the funky chicken in prime time. The U.S.S.R. never stood a chance.
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When are they going to make a sequel to Tango and Cash? (Turns out my thought isn't as original as I thought it was.) (That's right, Bing, baby!)
Instead of the two best cops in LA they'd be the two oldest beat cops in LA, having been busted down time after time for all their screwball antics as detectives. They'd write parking tickets, bust Kens and Karens abusing service industry workers, and enforce mask ordinances. One day they'd write a ticket for the wrong car, that of their old nemesis Yves Perret (actually the AI of Perret, who'd survived two shots to the head while stuck inside a blown up building to become an obscenely rich drug dealer - pain killers this time, he'd become the CEO of the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world). Perret transferred his brain into a computer so he could live forever. The character would, of course, be voiced by Jack Palance, his dialogue pieced together from recordings of his various performances over the decades (he'd win an Oscar for this performance, much to Stallone's and Russell's chagrin). Our geriatric heroes would enlist the help of Kiki and the son of Cash and Kiki (divorced, but amicably) named Caki, natch, who dances at a strip club at night while pursuing a JD during the day. They'd also enlist the help of Owen, who'd provide them with the second most powerful computer in the world - which happened to be built into a heavily modified, armored, and beweaponed Tesla Cybertruck - to fight AI Jack Palance. The final showdown would involve Tango and Cash tricking AI Palance into a USB flash drive after defeating him in a game of online chess. When they unplugged the flash drive from the computer and held it up victoriously, Russell would mimic the sound of a 28.8k modem connecting to the internet while Stallone said, "Tweet that." Our heroes would finally retire from the force with full honors, a full pension, and a gold watch to the Caribbean island of Saint Lucia where they'd open a bar called Tango and Cash.
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Black licorice is death! It is the devil's candy. In Christian circles it's even worse than an apple because an apple only gives you knowledge while black licorice gives you DEATH!!! In fact, I believe some biblical scholars suggest that the snake actually represented black licorice, and since the devil knew that black licorice would tempt absolutely nobody he had to offer an apple instead.
The poor guy from the article, who had "no previous history of heart problems," died from, well, it sounds horrible, "multi-organ failure, 'profound metabolic derangements,' dangerously low levels of potassium in his blood, and cardiac arrest associated with ventricular fibrillation, which is when the lower chambers of the heart twitch erratically without pumping blood."
A twitchy heart and multi-organ failure. From licorice.
And just how much black licorice did the poor soul eat? "One to two 'large' bags of black licorice every day for about three weeks before his heart stopped."
The cause? A naturally occurring toxin in black licorice called "glycyrrhizin." And if that doesn't sound like the horrible stuff the baddies put in missiles to destroy a large metropolitan area in a Michael Bay movie, I don't know what does.
I've already discussed the travesty that is packaging in the licorice world, but I never thought the rat bastards were actually trying to kill us.
I now know better.
❄
Snow day! Maybe even a record breaking snow day!
I'm so excited for the Twin Cities right now. Snow! Falling! Beautifully! Seeing a decent snowfall so early in the season is just really nifty.
Unfortunately, where I live right now? Not in the Twin Cities? This is what's considered a major snow event 'round my parts:
Hint: That is not a major snow event.
Whenever I'm talking with someone from around here and I mention that the above is not a major snow event followed quickly by how much I love snow the person will, after giving me a look of utter horror, mention that at least I can "go get snow."
"Go get snow" means that if I get in the car and drive for twenty to thirty minutes I will see snow.
I can never properly explain how just being able to look out your window and see snow gently falling or viciously swirling is beautiful. How quiet it can be when you open your front door and it's snowing outside because the falling snow absorbs so much of the ambient noise. How peaceful it is to see snowflakes falling through the light of a streetlamp and see the soft glow of Christmas lights buried under an inch or two of snow. How it'll be stupid o'clock in the morning and you hear the first of the snowblowers and shovels and know that you better get up and out of bed if you want to get out and into work. How the shared hardship of a snowfall unites the entire commuting community against a common foe. How starkly beautiful the pavement, brick, and metal in a metropolitan area highlighted not by summer green or autumnal color but by the harsh white of snow is.
You can't just "go get snow." You have to live where it is, get pushed around by it, play in it, feel despair because of it, and embrace all of it - everything from the pure white falling from the sky to the crusty gray leftovers of Spring.
So enjoy your snowfall, Twin Cities. I'll try to get peaks of it here and here so I can enjoy it with you.
❄
Record snowfall in the Twin Cities and the second snowiest day in October ever. Losing out, of course, to the great Halloween Blizzard of '91.
'91 was my first year living in the Twin Cities. First year of college. First year living on my own. First year living in a different state. I biked everywhere on a garage sale Trek mountain bike I picked up with some money from a summer gig at the local wastewater treatment plant where I sometimes shoveled actual, well, guess what one might actually shovel at a wastewater treatment plant. I made $4.25/hr (and was happy to have it over the $3.80 it had been mere months before I started) and got to take home all the cherry cherry tomato plants I could stomach.
Anyway, like I said, I biked everywhere. I lived on the St Paul campus and most of my classes were on the Minneapolis campus, so I biked back and forth most every day (there was no transitway to ease the commute that first year).
I had heard about these great Minnesota snowstorms and was eager to see if the rumors were true. The Halloween Blizzard ruined me for life. It had started snowing late afternoon on Thursday and by midnight over eight inches had fallen. By Sunday over twenty eight inches of snow blanketed the city.
Epic snowstorm.
It had been snowing so hard that first day, and I was so excited about it, that I went for a bike ride. It was so beautiful! So much snow! So many people trying to make their way home on the evening commute. There was a frenzied energy that was totally addicting. Everyone everywhere thinking the same thing: snow. There were people shoveling their driveways and sidewalks. People shoveling out their cars from on-street parking spaces. Vehicles sliding through intersections, helpless to the laws of snowy physics. I stopped more times than I could count to help push vehicles out of snow drifts and was cursed more times than I could count for messing up someone's sidewalk as I rode on by.
I eventually made it to Como Park and that's where my bike chain broke. The snow was wet and heavy and I'd been pedaling hard through a couple inches of the stuff for a couple of hours. That old Trek never stood a chance. As I was walking the bike back toward campus a church on Midway Pkwy was finishing up services and a couple of congregants kindly offered me a ride home. I thanked them but was still on my snowstorm high and pushed the bike back home myself.
The next day's classes were canceled so a bunch of us grabbed cafeteria trays from the dorm and went sledding for, basically, the entire weekend.
There was never another snowfall like that for me in Minnesota, or anywhere else for that matter, but I keep hoping for another long weekend where I'll get to experience almost thirty inches of snowfall. I have to get myself one of those old Trek mountain bikes so I'll be prepared.
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Since I haven't been feeling the Halloween horror this year (too much real horror, natch) I decided to do a horror movie marathon this past Sunday to try and set the mood. Beware potential spoilers below.
Needful Things (1993) - Groovy film. Max von Sydow knocks it out of the park as the proprietor, Leland Gaunt. Amanda Plummer as Nettie and Valri Bromfield as Wilma Jerzyck, both bringing the crazy and beating the tar (and life) out of each other while "Ave Maria" plays in the background. The two priests also beating the tar out of each other. J. T. Walsh bringing the amazing crazy as Danforth Keeton III. The large temptations leading to small acts of vandalism leading to the entire town blowing up. The intro music as the car is driving to town. "In The Hall Of The Mountain King" as people are getting their crazy on. What fun.
Possession (2009) - Meh film. Not sure why it didn't work. It has Sarah Michelle Gellar, Lee Pace from the Pushing Daisies and The Fall, and Michael Landes from one of my favorite TV shows, Special Unit 2. Free on IMDb TV, though.
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) - I'd never seen this one before. Had to check it out. Kinda goofy. I can see where it broke ground back in the day given the very human horror vs a supernatural kind of horror. Since I'm from Wisconsin, seeing the whole family get together to do something like that made me feel like I was back home...wait...what?
Dead End (2003) - Ugh...just ugh. Not good. I had high hopes. Classic "woman in white" horror story with Ray Wise who played a great devil in Reaper. Just a clunky movie that didn't work well. It reminded me a bit of those old SyFy original movies back when they were just known as Sci-fi - all the clunkiness and weird pacing without the campiness and fun.
The Prophecy (1995) - Really dig this movie. The concept of angels as warriors instead of chubby little cherubs is spot on given what angels do in the bible. Christopher Walken, Eric Stoltz, and Viggo Mortensen as warrior angels. Amanda Plummer (again!) and Adam Goldberg as whiny, suicidal humans forced to serve. Steve Hytner as the funny and knowledgeable coroner. Much fun.
I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle (1990) - Well...ahhh...ummm...Anthony Daniels of C-3PO fame gets to exorcise the motorcycle demon.
The Grudge (2004) - More Sarah Michelle Gellar. Hadn't seen this movie for a while. The part where the spirit gets the woman who is hiding under her covers - red flag, spirit dude! Covers are boogeyman kryptonite! And the part in the shower where the spirits hand comes out the back of Sarah's head? So scary! That little kid being all freaky scary would get such a spanking! Oh, and I can make that Grudge sound at will to scare The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe, so that's nifty.
Oh! And just what is it with realtors in horror movies. In The Grudge, the realtor is almost killed by the spirit while showing the house and still goes on to sell it. In the 2005 remake of The Amityville Horror the realtor knows the house is possessed but still sells it as well. Are these realtors really meeting their fiduciary responsibility as buyers' agents? Or perhaps they're sellers' agents and they actual are meeting that responsibility? Hmmm.
10 Cloverfield Lane (2016) - Did not enjoy. I so enjoyed the original Cloverfield and dug the Cthulhu angle, but this one? Not so much. Very different movie.
Scream 4 (2011) - The only Scream movie available to me for free. Did not enjoy. I had forgotten how meta and almost fourth wall aware these movies were.
The Exorcist (1973) - I hadn't seen this one before, either. I enjoyed it, thought it was well done. It seemed a bit slow but it just kept rolling on and getting more interesting. I liked that the devil had to play by rules ("That's much too vulgar a display of power, Karras"). More Max von Sydow. The other characters were real and portrayed very well. The slow descent into full possession. The mother's emotional journey. And Linda Blair rocked it.
Hocus Pocus (1993) - Always a delight. Imagine getting to perform with Bette Midler on stage! Oh, and if, while you're hanging them, witches suggest that a virgin lighting the black candle will bring them back? Maybe give up on the puritanical view of sex and make sure there are no virgins around to do it? Or, barring promoting teenage sex, perhaps removing said black candle from the witches' house so people can't light it might be the prudent move? Also, wasn't Doug Jones as Billy Butcherson just really neat? Also also: amok amok amok amok amok.
Unfortunately, while I enjoyed the movie marrathon, I still didn't get scared like I used to when watching horror films. Maybe I need to try another horror movie marathon. At night. In the dark. By myself. With all the blinds and curtains open. While drawing a pentagram and chanting? Hmmm.
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The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe got a text from a friend suggesting we watch a show, What the Constitution Means to Me. As I was asking The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe which streaming service it was on, The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe had already sent a text back asking what station it was on.
Station.
TV station.
I asked The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe if she'd get up and turn the TV to channel four for me.
I asked The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe if she needed the pliers because the channel changer knob had fallen off the TV and long been lost to the horror known as "under couch."
I asked The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe if she knew where the tin foil was so she could add it to the rabbit ears to extend their range.
I asked The Greatest Person In The Entire Universe to not move because the picture was coming in perfect! No! Don't move! Stay right there!
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I was on a Michael Jackson video viewing kick today and YouTube eventually got around to "Thriller". "Thriller" was big. "Thriller" was huge. "Thriller" was a movie and a music video.
It blew my little pre-teen mind.
"Thriller" introduced me to Vincent Price. "Thriller" introduced me to John Landis. "Thriller" probably introduced me to the word "occult," although, to be fair, there was plenty of that kind of stuff going around back then, especially with music: Ozzy was biting the heads off bats in concert (in Des Moines, no less); every record played backwards seemed to have a message from or about satan (try doing that on Spotify, kiddies); and, not music-related, Dungeons & Dragons was topping every red-blooded, middle-class American's list as a purveyor of "demonology, witchcraft, voodoo, murder, rape, blasphemy, suicide, assassination, insanity, sex perversion, homosexuality, prostitution, satanic type rituals, gambling, barbarism, cannibalism, sadism, desecration, demon summoning, necromantics, divination and other teachings."
No wonder D&D books cost so much back in the day. Chock full of information, they were.
But back to "Thriller." Usually when I'm watching a horror movie I end up yelling at the screen telling the soon-to-be-victim to run away, but as I watched the damsel-in-distress stand there watching Zombie Michael and his Recently Dead Dancers do their thing I thought, "yeah, if some zombies were chasing me, I'd run, but if they put on an MJ-based dance routine, heck yeah I'd stop and watch it." I might even go so far as to let myself get bitten - just a little nibbled - so I could do those sweet sweet dance moves.
Until, that is, some wanker with a weapon tried to remove my head or destroy my brain. I'd be all like, "Come on, dude, dance! Look at these sweet moves!" which, granted, would come out as a low moaning groaning kind of sound instead of English, and the "hero" would be all flexing and twirly with his bat, smirking in the face of danger, and I'd be all "Let the world dance!" (moan groan grunt) and he'd swing at my head and destroy the beautifully undead brain that gave me my funky dance moves, and as he pirouetted to the next zombie dancer my final thought would be, "I just wanted to dance!" before I returned to hell that would - somehow? - not be completely full anymore.
Thus proving that jerky jerks are gonna jerk. The big jerks.
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I had to get a shot this morning. It's an allergy thing. Moving to the PNW when you have certain allergies is, frankly, an idiotic thing to do. Not only have the allergies I've had since childhood gotten way worse out here, but I now have new allergies to things I was never allergic to before, as well.
For instance, I went to Paris with The Most Amazing Person In The Entire Universe on our honeymoon. Beautiful place. Highly recommended. When there, I tried a bunch of street food and became very fond of the Nutella Chantilly crepe - just a crepe with nutella and whip cream. Très bon! They fold up the crepe into a weird kind of cone shape and then you walk down the street trying to eat it without dropping any nutella or chantilly. Impossible to do, but a fun - and extremely yummy - way to walk the streets of Paris. However, since moving out here, I've become allergic to, amongst other things, nutella. Friggin' nutella! You know how good nutella is? I'm pretty sure it's the hazelnuts, and now I'm just trying to figure out who to sue for a lifetime of mental anguish over not being able to have another Nutella Chantilly.
Stupid PNW.
Anyway, while me and a couple other folk were just sitting around the waiting room this morning - all socially distanced and wearing masks - a guy walked in. He was maskless, took a look around, then proclaimed, "I'm surprised there aren't Nazis with guns making sure we all have masks in here," before strolling up to the reception desk where he was told he had to put on a mask. After a bit of hemming and hawing and goshdarniting he took the mask from the receptionist and began filling out his paperwork.
I try not to get too political here, because who needs to hear more of that barbaric yawping over the roofs internets of the world, but (the oh so infamous "but") when you're in a medical facility with all kinds of sick people who are likely at higher risk for severe illness due to COVID-19, healthcare professionals who are exposed for hours and hours each day on their shifts, and, at least in Oregon, patients filling up hospital beds to near capacity, well, know your audience, Mr. Persecution Complex.
After, of course, I got my shot and my lollipop (don't judge me!) and went home to listen to the latest Nuzzle House production but I was unable to leave a comment, for some odd reason - My guess? Glen finally got smart and decided he shouldn't listen to me anymore - so here is the comment I was going to leave: "Totally! I think what we learned today is that infinite awesomeness is infinitely wasted on the infinitely stoopid. Yes, they are so stupid they deserve two O's instead of a single U."
It seems there was a lot of stoopid all around this morning, and now that you've read this far into this post, I fear I've exposed you to even more of it, so I shall stop...for now.
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Popup campers are like house origami.
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Fifty years ago, Florence, Oregon had a whale wash up on its beach. Evidently it was a rare occurrence back then (unfortunately, it's less of a rare occurrence these days: 1, 2, 3, 4) and officials were unsure how to handle it. The direction they chose? Disintegration by dynamite (you may want to pay particular attention to the post-1:37 mark - that sound you hear? a rain of whale meat falling amongst the onlookers and their vehicles):
These days, whales that wash up on the beach are buried in the sand (or turned into art installations) but never forget that "go west, young cowpoke" spirit that made people head on out here in the first place to make a new life for themselves, find gold in dem dar hills, and use half a ton of TNT to blow stuff up.
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Wisconsin is an incredible place: beautiful lakes, forested hills, and rolling farmland; wonderful, generous, giving people; home of cheese, beer, brats, and cheesy beer brats. Wisconsin also has an edge: binge drinking, serial killers, and just plain old peculiarity.
And that peculiarity? Not just a general Midwest peculiarity. When searching for the following Midwest states on Netflix and Amazon Prime you get:
When you look up Wisconsin, however, after you get through the sitcoms (That 70s Show, Laverne and Shirley, Happy Days) and documentaries about Badger sports, Ringling Brothers, and Cheeseheads you go straight to documentaries like Making a Murderer, I am a Killer, Killer Legends, Evil Genius, Wisconsin Death Trip, and Dark Tourist and movies like Wisconsin Project X (a group of underdogs have to save their small hometown from humanoid monsters before it is too late), Appleton (a serial killer who returns to town after a long absence), Winter of Frozen Dreams (serial killers who go to school during the day and kill while working in massage parlors at night), and The Lurking (two stoners go deep into the serial-killer infested woods of Wisconsin, meanwhile bodies start to pile up around them).
Yeah.
Here's some of what makes Wisconsin Wisconsin.
More bars than supermarkets: "The more bars, the darker the brown and the more grocery stores, the darker the green. It's kind of what you'd expect, but now you can really see that high bar concentration in Wisconsin, whereas a lot of the country has at least three times more grocery stores."
10 of top 20 drunken cities in America: "The findings show a trend in Wisconsin overall, too. It's the second year the state has beat out all other states for the most spots on the list. Of the 20 drunkest cities in the country, 10 are Wisconsin cities: Green Bay (No. 1), Eau Claire (No. 2), Appleton (No. 3), Madison (No. 4), Oshkosh (No. 6), Wausau (No. 9), La Crosse (No. 10), Fond du Lac (No. 12), Sheboygan (No. 15) and Milwaukee rounding out the top 20."
Kids can drink with their parents at bars: "Persons under age 21 may possess and consume alcohol beverages if they are with their parents, guardians or spouses of legal drinking age; but this is at the discretion of the licensee. The licensed premise may choose to prohibit consumption and possession of alcohol beverages by underage persons."
World champion cheese making: "The Grand Cru Surchoix made by Fitchburg-based Emmi Roth USA beat out 2,955 other cheeses from around the world on Wednesday night in Madison."
Cheese curds: "Once you taste them, it's almost impossible to stop craving their signature squeak."
Wisconsin state statute 97.18(4): The serving of colored oleomargarine or margarine at a public eating place as a substitute for table butter is prohibited unless it is ordered by the customer.
Supper clubs: "That is how a Saturday night gets started at a proper Wisconsin supper club, a curious genre of old-fashioned fine-dining establishment that is particular to the state and had its heyday in the middle decades of the 20th century."
Friday Fish fry: "In Wisconsin, Fridays invariably mean one thing: fish fry. While it's not a steadfast rule, the best fish fries tend to be found at the state's famous supper clubs and taverns. Wisconsin has a rich history when it comes to bars and restaurants, and at no time is it more evident than on a Friday night."
Brandy old-fashioneds: "While the classic cocktail can be found across the country, Wisconsin's has a special twist. Old-Fashioned are commonly made with whiskey or bourbon, but Wisconsinites eschew both in favor of brandy."
Bubblers: Better than a secret handshake, more reliable than SSL encryption, for those of us no longer living in the state, knowledge of the word bubbler seems to be a secret code for, 'Yes, I'm from Wisconsin.'"
Frozen custard: "Wisconsinites brought it north, opening custard stands in the greater Milwaukee area, and eventually making it the unofficial dessert for the dairy state of Wisconsin."
Kringles: "The state of Wisconsin has finally named the kringle the official state pastry. The kringle is popular among the Danish population of Racine, and one Racine legislator put his support behind the decision."
Cranberries: "Wisconsin is the nation's leading producer of cranberries, harvesting more than 60 percent of the country's crop. The little red berry, Wisconsin's official state fruit, is the state's number one fruit crop, both in size and economic value."
Ginseng: "More than 90% of the cultivated ginseng grown in the United States is grown in Wisconsin, and 90 to 95% of Wisconsin-grown ginseng is produced in Marathon County."
Valentin Blatz, Frederick Miller, Frederick Pabst, Joseph Schlitz: Founders of Blatz, Miller, Pabst, and Schlitz beers.
Binge Drinking: "The average largest number of drinks within a short period of time among binge drinkers ranged from 6 drinks in the District of Columbia to 9 drinks in Wisconsin."
Sewer Socialism: "Sewer Socialism was a term, originally pejorative, for the American socialist movement that centered in Milwaukee, Wisconsin from around 1892 to 1960. The term was coined by Morris Hillquit at the 1932 Milwaukee convention of the Socialist Party of America, as a commentary on the Milwaukee socialists and their perpetual boasting about the excellent public sewer system in the city."
Cheesehead: "Cheesehead is a nickname in the United States for a person from Wisconsin or for a fan of the Green Bay Packers NFL football franchise." The power of cheese:
First modern state income tax: "In 1911, Wisconsin became the first state to implement an individual income tax."
First state worker's compensation program: "Wisconsin passed its workers' compensation law in May 1911, becoming the first state to effectuate an ongoing workers' compensation program that survived legal challenges."
First state unemployment insurance plan: "Wisconsin enacted a state unemployment insurance plan in 1932 in response to the Great Depression, when more than 25 percent of the adult workforce was unemployed."
The Wisconsin state dance is the polka (Wisconsin Statute 1.10(2))
Wisconsin Idea - "...education should influence people's lives beyond the boundaries of the classroom."
Wisconsin Highways: First in the World: Route Numbering
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Trumpleby, the Golfer. A Story of the White House.
I am a rather young country, by most standards. The nature of my avocations for the last two hundred odd years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and singular set of people: I mean the political set of the United States. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers histories, at which the voting populace might cringe and rage, and patriotic souls might weep. But I wave the biographies of all other politicians for a few passages in the life of Trumpleby, who was a politician of the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other politicians I might write the complete life, of Trumpleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Trumpleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, not even from the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Trumpleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.
Ere introducing the politician as he first appeared in the Presidency, it is fit I make some very little mention of myself, my populace, my branches, my geography, and my general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented.
Imprimis, I am a country who, from its youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the best way of life is through a more perfect union. Hence, though I belong to a citizenry proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my tranquility. I am one of those ambitious countries who always assumes righteousness without regard for global consensus; but in the cool tranquility of a snug interaction, do a snug business among rich men's bonds, stocks, and monies. All who know me consider me an eminently exasperating country.
I may be young but I am large, with purple mountains, spacious skies, fruited plains, amber waves of grain, and a bunch of shiny seas.
At the period just proceeding the advent of Trumpleby, I had three branches of government. First, Executive; second, Legislative; third, Judicial. Executive considers themselves the Big Dogs; lotta woof, lotta bite. They carry out and enforce laws and are comprised of not only the President, but the VP, the Cabinet, executive departments, independent agencies, and other boards, commissions, and committees. Legislative is a bunch of little, yappy dogs: lotta woof, little bite. They take drafts of proposed laws from lobbyists, make nominations approved by lobbyists, and have the authority to declare war if, the lobbyists want them to. They're how money – also known as bills – become a law. Judicial are the cats of the political world. They interpret the meaning of laws, apply laws to individual cases, and decide if laws violate the Constitution. They basically pad quietly around and, depending on how much they've had to drink that day/how many naps they've had, decide what laws actually mean.
Now my original business was considerably increased by the upcoming election for the President of these United States. There was now great work for my populace to do. In answer to the upcoming election, the two major political parties began primaries to see who would become the principal candidate for the election. During the debates a not-so-young man stood with many others and failed to satisfactorily answer many of the questions asked of him. I can see that figure now – pallidly dumpy, pitiably frumpy, incurably lumpy! It was Trumpleby.
At first Trumpleby did an extraordinary amount of campaigning. As if long famished for fame and adoration, he seemed to gorge himself on the campaign trail. There was no pause for digestion. He ran day and night, speeching by sunlight and moonlight.
It is, of course, an indispensable part of a citizenry's business to have candidate's statements verified for accuracy, word by word, then question the candidate as to its veracity or lack thereof. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be all together intolerable.
It was on the campaign trail when news of a locker room conversation in which Trumpleby stated, "I don't even wait. And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. ... Grab ‘em by the pussy. You can do anything," became public knowledge. It was on the third day, I think, of that particular news story breaking, that a few reporters asked Trumpleby, essentially, "Explain why?" Imagine my surprise when, without batting an eye, Trumpleby waved his hands around and shook his head, then replied, "I would prefer not to."
I sat a while in perfect silence, rallying all my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Trumpleby had entirely missed the question. The American people repeated the request in the clearest tone they could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, with, again, hands waving and head shaking, "I would prefer not to."
"Prefer not to," echoed the country. "What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to explain why you treat women like this."
"I would prefer not to," said he.
The citizenry looked at him steadfastly. His face was meatily composed; his eyes dim. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, shame, or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless the country would have violently dismissed him from the election. I stood gazing at him for awhile as he went on with his campaigning and thought to myself, this is very strange. What had one best do? But the election continued and, in time, Trumpleby was elected President.
A while after the election it seemed as though Trumpleby was using the Office of the Presidency to make money for himself. It became necessary to notify him of The Foreign Emoluments Clause and to ask him to stop profiting off his position.
"I would prefer not to," he said, and gently disappeared back into the White House.
For a few moments the people were turned into a pillar of salt. Recovering themselves, they advanced on Trumpleby and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.
"Why do you refuse?"
Trumpleby waved his hands around, shook his head, then replied, "I would prefer not to."
With any other man, the people should have flown into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from the Presidency. But there was something about Trumpleby that not only strangely disarmed them, but in a horrible manner touched and disconcerted them. People began trying to reason with him.
"These are the country's rules we are trying to enforce. It is a job saving to you, because one count of breaking this law will cause you time in federal prison. Is it not so? Will you not speak? Answer!
"I prefer not to," he replied in a whimsical tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carelessly revolved every statement that I made; dully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did.
It is not seldom the case that when a man is conceited in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to strut in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason may be safely ignored.
"Democrats," said I, "what do you think of this? Am I not right?"
"With submission sir," said the Democrats in their wildest tone, "I think that you are."
"Republicans," said I, "what do you think of it?"
"We think he should stay in office."
Trumpleby vouchsafed no reply. pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble, the country made out to examine the conundrum. Republicans deferentially dropped their opinions that this proceeding was quite common; while Democrats, twitching in their chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between their sets of teeth the occasional hissing maledictions against the stupid oaf in the Oval Office.
Meanwhile Trumpleby sat in the White House, oblivious to every thing but his own peculiar business there.
I regarded Trumpleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he means mischief; it is plain he intends insolence; his aspect sufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. One prime thing was this, - he was always there; - on the television, in online news forums and social media, continually throughout the day and night. I had a singular confidence in his dishonesty. It was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Trumpleby's part under which he remained in Office.
Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing justice, I would conspicuously question Trumpleby, in a short, rapid tone, to stop golfing so often. Of course the usual answer, "I prefer not to," was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness - such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.
Now, one month, early in his penultimate year in Office, I happened to notice that my citizens were getting sick from a new virus. It was a scary, confusing time for all. When asked if he would issue as mask mandate, he replied "I prefer not to."
When asked if he would abide by social distancing rules, he replied, "I prefer not to."
When asked if he would help provide income, assure housing, and allow all Americans the chance to live through the shut downs with dignity; if he would allow his fellow countrymen to receive the same kind of care – on the taxpayer dime - that he received after testing positive, he replied, "I prefer not to."
"But what reasonable objection can you have to following the direction of scientists and healthcare experts? What is your answer Trumpleby?"
"At present I prefer to give no answer," he said, and retired onto his golf course.
It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm disdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the undeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from the taxpayers. On his return from golfing, I said to him, "Say now you will help Americans to-morrow or the next day: in short, say now that in a day or two you will begin to be a little reasonable:—say so, Trumpleby."
"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable," was his mildly cadaverous reply.
As time moved forward, another Presidential Election came and went. Days after the event, it was shown that his challenger had won the presidency. This, it seemed, Trumpleby could not accept.
"It has been shown, Trumpleby, that there was no cheating at the polls," said I. "Please stop claiming election fraud."
"I prefer not to."
"It has been shown in courts of law that their was no impropriety from states in counting their votes, Trumpleby," said I. "Please stop claiming election fraud."
"I prefer not to."
"States have certified their votes, Trumpleby," said I. "Please stop claiming election fraud."
"I prefer not to."
"Will you, or will you not, quit the White house?" I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him.
"I would prefer not to quit the White House," he replied, gently emphasizing the not.
"What earthly right have you to stay here? Did you win the election? Is this White House yours?"
He answered nothing.
He loudly retired to his golf course.
There would seem little need for proceeding further in this history. Social media will readily supply the abundant recital of Trumpleby's following days. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this little narrative has sufficiently interested them, to awaken curiosity as to who Trumpleby was, and what ill manner of life he led, I can only reply, that in such curiosity I fully share, and am wholly able to gratify it. On errands of life, those social media postings speed death.
Ah Trumpleby! Ah humanity!
caveat lector