Sundays with Bad Brains

Today I smiled and maybe a tear.

Stephen Hawking breaks free.

I love this broad, I mean, um, ahh, err, Ms. Wolf.

Fascist America, in 10 easy steps

Baseball, Digital flags and Footlongs

Arriving a bit early to the Red Wings game today, I thought I would take the opportunity to grab a quick bite before the start of the game. Although not a fan of baseball, I do enjoy the atmosphere of the American pastime and the spectacle of people watching.

I cut a path right for the Hebrew National Footlong cart, cause I'm down like that. Within seconds I am eighth in line for the glorious wiener. I wait patiently, cash in hand, a slight turn to the rear establishes my superior proximity to the kosher beef as the line has grown to twenty or so. The clock ticks closer to the first pitch, like I care, but nonetheless the clock is ticking.

What is taking so long? I studied the process of dispensing the meat and quickly became irratated. You see the keepers of my prize would take an order, place the dog on the grill and wait. Wait to cook it and wait to serve it before addressing the next customer. Tick, tick, tick. I have now been standing, waiting, desparately wanting to pace for fourteen minutes. What the fuck is going on? Thinking quickly I yelled to the man who stood before the meat peddlers, "Hey buddy, order me two footlongs and I'll pay for yours." He appeared shocked by my proposition and returned with simply, "No."

Are your fucking kidding me? Idiot. What a deal. A free meal for two extra words. Stupid baseball dick.

Now only one couple, portly and disturbingly dressed alike, are stepping up to the plate, so to speak. "What do you want, honey?", Fucktard One says to Fucktard Two. Time is of the essence, order you dumb fuck, they only sell kosher hot dogs. Your only choice is Über or Econo size. What is there to think about, your Rubenesque figure? Don't play coy and try act as though you really want the footlong but you're watching your weight so maybe I'll get the standard size. ORDER! "Should I get sauerkraut?", Fucktard Two asks Fucktard One. This asshole has been in line just as long as I have yet they have no idea of what they want. I can't imagine how they function on a daily basis.

My turn. No pleasantries. "Two footlongs, pronto. And by the way has it every occured to you to load the grill with hot dogs as that is all your serve?" A vapid blank stare. Could this be a business model they have never investigated? An epiphany of sorts? The more you sell in a given period of time, the more you make. Note: On out latest trip to Manhattan, in front of the Museum of Natural History I ordered two hot dogs, two pretzels and a water and I am not shitting you when I say tell you I walking away with food and change within thirty seconds. Finally I get my prize here at home. The damage was $7.50 and I flip a ten spot in her hand. My change was given back to me and I'm off to Section 202.

A calculator was used to make change.

We are fucked as a nation.

Just in time for my favorite part of the day. The National Anthem. The chorus from my kid's school was performing today. While I scan the crowd I notice that a real flag was flying at half staff in left field. On the Jumbo Patriotron in center field was a slo-mo digital closeup of Old Glory waving in the cyberbreeze. Spectators and players, not all but some, were standing, hats removed, mouthing the words to the Anthem, desensitized while facing the overproduced digital representation of Our flag. The real flag, tiny and insignificant in the LCD shadow of the bigger is better new found Glory, seemed motionless.

Play ball!

Seats on the first base line proved to be a lovely vantage point to observe both the game and fans. Except, the kids in front of me standing the whole time and yelling they are going to shoot each other with their nuclear war guns. Perhaps the effects of the 42 inch flatscreen Patriotron at home. In high definition of course. Or perhaps just an homage to J. Robert Oppenheimer's birthday. Ah, serendipity. The father, sat uninterested, in his white velcroed sneakers and black dress socks. You know the type. What can I do? The wandering security guard is dressed in bright yellow adorned with a mini flashlight and a walkie talkie like my kids use to play Homeland Security Roundup in the backyard. I don't want to bother him while he's making me feel safe. Maybe I'll just eavesdrop a bit.

As the next batter emerges from the dugout, his image in all its postmodern Glory is displayed with the musical accompaniment of the groovy opening of Rage Against the Machine's Testify. The sound ends as he approaches the plate and just before the lyrics were to begin:

The movie ran through me
The glamour subdued me
The tabloid untied me
I'm empty please fill me
Mister anchor assure me
That Baghdad is burning

Seventh inning stretch and time for God Bless America. I'm outta here. I read in the today's paper, the real one that you can burn to provide warmth for your family, that City Mattress is have a SALE!. Or was there a tribute to the victim's of the Virginia Tech slaughter. Surely shopping will make me feel better.

A new mattress should make me sleep in peace, shouldn't it?

Happy Birthday, J. Bob!

"A man whose errors take ten years to correct is quite a man."
~ J. Robert Oppenheimer

Hyperlocalism and Homegrown Wackos

As the trend of hyperlocalism seeths forward, I would be remiss if not to point out some observations given the events and anniversaries of the past week. The Democrat and Chronicle reports today:

" A Brockport man was charged Wednesday with first-degree reckless endangerment and resisting arrest after police discovered several bullet holes in his apartment, including one that penetrated the ceiling of an apartment below his."

An observer of the 2006 Pride Parade, a concerned citizen with bullhorn in tow (note the sticker), bears a striking resemblance to the man arrested in Brockport.

Again from the D&C, "After executing a search warrant, police found two additional handguns, two shotguns, a .22-caliber rifle, more than 1,000 rounds of ammunition and knives."

Praise the Lord and stockpile the ammunition.

I'm baffled as to why the local media hasn't come up with a catchy slogan regarding this arrest given the climate of branding wackos and their acts for mass consumption. Hyperlocalism too close to home? Always an angle to every national tragedy to bring it home to New York, to Rochester, to your neighborhood.

The byline from this D&C article makes reference to The AP and Blacksburg, VA while the story contents reference local towns and counties without identifying the state of origin. Seems odd.

Clarification from a local AP source provides insight into this article. The author is actually Vicki Smith not Vick Smith as printed and the local references had been added here in Rochester as they did not appear in the wire copy. A web search of this story using The Google confirms this article has been editted here and in other publications nationwide, both additions and omissions.

No additional reporting bylines were added to document these changes.

Hyperlocalism in the guise of national reporting. Makes you feel special, huh?

LIVE! from Downtown.

Triple X replaced by Triple O. Out of Order? According to a library employee a physical part of one of the servers which contains the permissions has broken. All City branches are apparently down, however, town branches are said to be unaffected. A 1:00 PM timeline is suggested as when the repairs are to be completed.

Watching..............

How am I blogging live from downtown if the computers are down you ask?

Wireless, baby!

XXXOOO,

sconsetmonkeyboy

Milk Cartons, Puppies and Body Language, and oh yeah, porn.

As I took my seat for the Fairport Edition of the library forum, a man to the left and front of me turned and peered over his glasses with his gaze in my general direction. He approached me as if I knew the secret handshake. Was it my tattoo, a non-Übersoft laptop or my Eurotrash bifocals, pardon me, progressive lenses that gave me away? He looked like one of those ACLU types. You know what I mean, right? His hand outstreched offering me some papers. I feared that he might actually be distributing porn. He wasn't. He was handing me printed relevant information to tonight's topic.

Surrounded by some of the most inane paintings I've seen in quite some time, the fear was splattered about the room like a blender missing its lid. Wait a second, did you just say that my kids may end up on a milk carton if they go to the library? According to this speaker that is a possiblity should the library sickos act upon their impulses.

Or is it possible that they may end up attending a wonderful university because they had been exposed to topics that titillated their creativity and lust for knowledge.

The crowd was split as before with some repeat performances and some debuts. However, not split by the Almighty aisle into The Left and The Right respectively, but mixed together within the Cuisinart of societal discourse while unaware of who was sitting next to you until you heard an Amen, a sigh, a snicker or a chuckle in response to the speaker's comments.


Considering that this was the second of two forums falling within National Library Week, do three no shows by Maggie count as a Cut and Run?

Note: A Doc Martens search test, via The Google and embedded links, was performed this evening at the Fairport Public Library with success in the quest for my favorite alkali resistant footwear. The verification survey continues.

Gates, Bill Gates and The Gates of Hell, and oh yeah, porn.

The range of speakers, at tonights forum regarding the Brooks attack on library funding, spanned the gamut from teenager to octogenarian. Who would have thought that a search at the library would block me from shopping for Doc Martens? Note: My current pair was purchased nearly fifteen years ago. The second in my lifetime. Apparently this is the case according to Thomas Foley who ran an informal test to discover the overblocking tendencies of filtering software. We've all heard the arguments regarding filtered searches for breast cancer and chicken breasts but this one takes the cake. Because you know only pinko commies wear Docs.

Mumblers and the well spoken alike voiced their opinions of the topic at hand. Words such as penis, Lord, pervert and pornography were rather amusing considering the physical proximity of the meeting to The Diocese of Rochester.

Calls to remove all the computers and a poor attempt of sarcasm suggesting cocktails be served in the library were among some of the more predictable rants. I could swear that ACLU local counsel Scott Forsyth must have felt the singed hair from the eyes attempting to burn a hole through the back of his head as he took center stage. The loud clapping Maggie Fan behind me was as quiet as a church mouse as Mr. Forsyth left the podium, then became rather active when the fear slinging speakers took their seats.

We even got to hear a sales pitch for filtering software that is, according to the speaker, well ahead of its technological time and has the interest of Mr. Gates and Übersoft.

Maggie was a no show even during National Library Week.

UPDATE 4.17.07 A Doc Martens search test, via The Google and embedded links, was performed today at the Brighton Memorial Library with success in the quest for my favorite petrol resistant footwear. The verification survey continues.

BREAKING NEWS! This just in.

As shameful as it is, I had to get this critical information to the people. You see, this image of my neighbor's yard was taken just moments ago.
Don't believe the hype.

On your mark, get set, GO!

They who would give up an essential liberty for temporary security, deserve neither liberty or security. ~ Benjamin Franklin

Junkies, Decadence and OCD in Manhattan: Part I

Where else can I walk down the street behind a woman with mesmerizing legs wearing six hundred dollar Manolo Blahniks, surrounded by the smell of piss and listening to my personal soundtrack of the City. Lets be fair here, Jersey is far more offensive to the olfactory system. Hypnotic sounds of Cocteau Twins melting in my ears as I pass the characters in my view.

We reach the concierge desk and are greeted as Marceau is directed to take the bags to the seventh floor. A lovely suite with a view of a wall of windows across 31st Street. With a Euroswank bathroom suitable for a Helmut Newton photo shoot. Below us a fire house. A very busy fire house. Across 7th Avenue sits MSG. To the streets we go.

As we venture up Broadway to Times Square, my oldest son Ethan says without hesitation, "Dad, that guy isn't wearing pants." Not shocked, very matter of fact. I turn to look and confirm that the man was indeed not wearing pants. A blazer with a colorful logo tshirt underneath and naked below. Sensible hard shoes, though.

"Ethan, welcome back to Manhattan."

The boys are very comfortable in large cities. That pleases me greatly as their father.

Amidst the chaos of Times Square a dull hum overcomes me. It is the sound of a living city. I miss that sound sometimes but at the same time cherish I the quiet of my own neighborhood. Simply my presence is a passionate plea to suck me into the hum and feel as though I am giving back and not just taking from this creature. We hit some shops, big brands with great lighting. They don't interest me as much as the small shops elsewhere in the City, but it needed to be done. The boys had been programmed by excessive advertising influences, softly beaten into their unusually large heads.

Slices! We need slices, NOW! I see Ray's a half a block away. We head straight for the counter and order our usual. Times Square Pizza in Penfield is more expensive than this shop that is actually in Times Square. Go figure. I can hardly wait to inhale the goodness of a real slice. It was as it should be, perfect in its proportions and the snap of the crust when folded properly sent me to a happy place.

All that was to change in an instant.

The small shop had five of six tiny tables and a few bar seats at a makeshift counter. The man across from us left a bag hanging on the back of his seat as he left. A fellow customer, shouted clearly, "Sir, your bag!" No response. Again, "Sir, your bag!" No response. I pipe in with a loud "HEY!, You forgot your bag!" The man kept moving to the door. People are getting up myself included and continue yelling with the common courtesy gone. The patrons and staff begin to make a move toward the exit. To this point since the man left his table has lasted about twenty seconds. This is New York, this is Times Square, this man will not respond. The sense that this was unusal was clear to all within the first ten seconds. I did not sense fear amongst the group, only action. Never have I seen a place begin to clear out that quickly.

The man was indeed absent minded when he finally responded to the yelling and recieved some more from the locals for his repeated failures to so much as turn his head. You see, it dawned on me after the fact. The bag was thought to be a bomb.

I thought to myself, "Ethan, welcome to the 21st Century." Next stop the Federal Reserve Bank.

For Mother, April 12, 2005

As I sit down to write, to memorialize our mother, to honor our mother, I can only wonder what I am supposed to say, what I should say and what I want to say about our mother, Cheryl.

Few things are clear to me now that our mother is gone. As I feel empty and alone, I know that I am not, as you are all here to remember our mother as you knew her and as I knew her. She meant different things to different people. One could say that this creates a whole person. A wife, a mother, a grandmother and a dear friend.

I am aware that our mother has become distant from friends in the recent past, however, I know that you were in her thoughts often and she spoke of you fondly.

Our mother has taught us many things through stories so rich in color and cheer that I feel as though I was there even if I wasn't.

Mostly, that life is what you make of it, through the love of friends and family, though the passion of art or the joy of humor.

As I look at my boys, Ethan and Emerson, the jewels of my mother's eyes, I remember when my grandmother passed away. My most vivid and fondest memories seemed to focus on the brownies she sent quite often, even into my adult years.

My pursuit to recreate those wonderful treats has always fallen a bit short. I've even gone so far as to wrap them in wax paper packed in a round tin and sent them to myself via UPS in the hope that the transit would complete the process of the perfect brownie.

I know today, that I will never be able to find the missing piece to the recipe.

Whether those pursuits of memories are that of taste, or of smell, or of sound or touch; they only serve to preserve the feelings of love and nothing else.

Chase the memories of our mother to enrich your lives and those around you.

I will always be a momma's boy.

Click.

SNL's Jason Sudeikis, Brush with Greatness #3.

















A water buffalo.
















A proper Caesar.
















A proper slice.

This ain't Kansas, biyotch.

Stay tuned......Junkies, Decadence and OCD in Manhattan

Bored on Easter Sunday?

38.5% of my life with you.

What a Wonderful World.

The coup de grâce of OCD.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.