Weekend Babe

In response to a request from my friend Rogue, this week’s Weekend Babe is a chickonabike. And allegedly it’s even HER bike! Very nice.

Click here for the pic.

I will note, for the record, that those appear to be aftermarket accessories, but they look very nice.

(Yes, it’s what the kids call Safe For Work. But not by a whole lot.)

Keep the rubber side down.

My good friend Rogue is leaving today for a long motorcycle trip, a whole heaping hunk of which will be solo riding.

I am obscenely jealous.

Rogue’s going through some tough times right now, and as a friend, it’s been hard to watch a lot of it.  But there are also times that it has been inspiring and uplifting to watch as well.

Rogue hopes to accomplish a few things with this trip:

•  Rack up some good two-wheeled miles (always a great goal by itself)
• Visit a place she loves and hasn’t been to in a while
• Have some alone-time to clear her mind of negativity and listen to herself
• Meet some “old online friends” and turn them into “new real friends”
• Get out and have some fun!

I’m a fairly stereotypical nice guy.  When my friends hurt, I hurt right along with them.  I’ve learned through harsh experience, though, that it’s not my responsibility…hell, it’s not even my right to try to fix things for other people.  I can do lots of other things, though.  I can listen, I can empathize and commiserate, I can try to offer advice but couch that advice in terms of thinking of what’s important for my friend and not what’s important to me, or what would be important to me in that situation.

So there have been a lot of messages back and forth between myself and Rogue over the last while.  Some have been painful for both of us, but as time has gone on, most of them have gotten stronger and stronger, especially as they’ve built up to this trip of hers.  And this morning I logged in and got this message:

Ok, so I’m at work, SUPER FUCKING EXCITED! I got all my stuff packed into one bag. I have my camel pak and tank bag. I’m all set!

HURRY UP 2PM AND GET HERE!!!!!!!

To me, that’s what it’s all about.  A feeling of fun, of adventure, of being beholden to nobody but yourself, about being out there and alive.  Just working its way out from the center of your body until you’re positively dancing with expectant energy.  I think that’s where my friend is this morning, and honestly, it’s kind of where I am as well.  It’s been a beautiful morning for me so far, and this just makes it better.

So I wish a great trip for my friend, but more importantly, I want to say thanks for being my friend, and thanks for helping me learn how to be a better friend.

And of course, as always, I give the traditional biker’s benediction:  “Ride safe, and keep the rubber side down!”

Oof.

I just deadlifted yesterday for the first time since April (quit for a while to let a nagging injury heal up).

Oof. I’m sore.

But the bonus is that my prediction was wrong. It didn’t take two weeks for all the newbies to clear out of the gym. About two days seems to have done it. Now it’s the nice, half-empty gym until New Year’s resolutions kick in.

Update:  Never mind how sore I am, I just sprained my ankle.  Not badly, but my guess is that I’m going to be one of those losers who showed up a few times and then disappeared from the gym, too!  But at least I’ll be back.

He’s not a Nice Guy.

I just found out that Oderus Urungus, the demigod-of-doom frontman for Richmond, Virginia band GWAR, has started an advice column. How nice!

Here’s a letter from the first issue of “Ask Oderus:”

Last year one of my best friends and I became a thing, ya know? And it went on half the school year and all summer until he moved away. Well, we fell for each other bigtime. He wants to be with me now, but the problem is.. I have a boyfriend who I’ve been with for almost 4 years off and on. He’s great. He treats me well..and he’s been making plans for marraige and all that. (we’re 16 btw). But this other guy is 19. He’s amazing..I love him so much. He makes me feel so special. And I want to be with him. I need to be with him. But how do I tell my boyfriend? He’s in love with me. I just dont know what to do.

Anonymous

Oderus: Say “I met someone else, he’s way cooler than you, better looking, I don’t like you anymore, this relationship is history”. Then knee him in the groin. He should get the message. Pile it on! If you’re going to hurt his feelings, you might as well hurt him physically as well. It’ll cause less confusion down the line. If you just break up with him, he’s going to think that he’s still got a chance of getting in there at some point. if you actually drive your booted foot into his genitals, he will probably get the idea a little more clearly.

Even though any 19-year-old that’s hitting on a 16-year-old (with a boyfriend) stands a better-than-average chance of being a scumbag, from the boyfriend’s point of view at least I have to admit, he DOES have a point…

PS: If you don’t know who GWAR is already, then you probably shouldn’t click here and actually read the column. But just in case you’re brain dead, Oderus, GWAR, and the column itself are all parodies.

Complete sentences, please.

 My wife and I were watching TV this weekend and a commercial came on for “KY Intimates.”  Yes, the personal lubricant.  It showed a hotel room and a time, 9pm…a hot tub, 11pm…another bed, 3am…and finally the one slogan.  “KY Intimates.  Like there’s no tomorrow.”

I turned to my wife and said, “Is it just me, or is that sentence is missing a word at the beginning?”

Later on Sunday night I was mindlessly watching “Star Trek:  The Next Generation” on cable while decompressing from the weekend.  (It was “The Best of Both Worlds” for you Trekkies out there.)  And after about the third commercial break I couldn’t deny it, they were running an ad for those Enzyte pills (“Natural Male Enhancement”) at least once per break.

I said, “Damn, you think they’re trying to tell us geeks something?”

My wife rolled her eyes and said “Obviously it’s working, otherwise they wouldn’t bother with the commercials.”

“Hell yeah it’s working, I wish I could have bought stock.  Can you think of a more sure-fire moneymaker than penis enlargement drugs?”

“Well, they run them anytime guys are watching.”

“Yeah, but during football games there are the Enzyte and Viagra commercials between beer and steakhouse commercials.  You know, ‘While you’re out drinking and eating and being a manly man, how about a bigger dick?’  Whereas during Star Trek, it’s sandwiched in between ads for Intel and Wii and shady student loans.  As in, ‘Computers, video games, education…that shit’s not getting you laid, how about a big dick?’”

Poker for Dummies and/or Dads

Last night was our scheduled Family Game Night. Except my wife had to run an errand, so it became Dad and Son Game Night.

“What should I play?”
“I don’t know, pick something. See you later! Have fun!”

Well, this isn’t as simple as it sounds. Our son isn’t exactly the adventurous type when it comes to new activities. About the only board games he likes to play are his Simpsons Clue (difficult to play without some help for the 2^nd-grader) and Hi-Ho Cherry-O (difficult to play without strong drink for the adults).

So I said to hell with it. I pulled out the cards.

I’ve briefly done this before with my son, maybe once or twice. Just gave him some cards and encouraged him to notice pairs, straights, etc. and how unusual those were. So I started out with that. First the quiz.

“What’s the best card?”
“Uh….ACE!”
“Right! What’s the worst card?”
“Two!”
“Right on, man!”

I just dealt us each five cards, then said “oh, look, you have a PAIR of THREES! That beats me, I don’t have anything but a Jack.”

Then I took it up a notch. I tried to teach him to draw cards and play 5-card draw.

I ran into a quandary. Uh, what does a good dad do, lie and lose or be honest and try to teach reality and sportsmanship? I, stupidly, tend to fall into the latter category.

“Hey, buddy, a pair of nines! You win!”

“Ooh, you got a pair of sixes, but Dad drew a pair of jacks. I win.”
“Aw, Dad, you always win. I never win.”
“C’mon, son, you just won the last hand! Let’s try again.”

“Oh, you have a pair of kings! Do you want to throw away that seven and five and draw some more cards? Well then put them face down and say ‘I want two please!’ Well, you still have your pair of kings. Dad’s going to take two cards, and…oh. Okay. Uh, hey, look son! You see how Dad has a 9, 10, Jack, Queen, King? That’s called a ‘straight,’ and that’s a very good hand! It beats your pair of kings, so I win.”
“Aw, man.”
“Well, it’s okay, son. Do you want to play one more, or are you done?”
“Let’s play one more.”

This is an occasion for surprise, as my son tends to have a low frustration tolerance. I’m very encouraged.

“Okay, buddy, let’s do one more. Okay, there you have a three, a four, a six, a king, and an ace. What do you want to throw away?”
“The king and the ace.”
“Uh…” I peek at the next card in the deck. It’s a six. “Okay! Here you go, there’s a six, and…a four! You have two pair! That’s a good hand! Now, Dad has a Queen, a Jack, an eight, a nine, and a seven. I’m going to throw away everything but the Queen and the Jack. And so Dad draws a…uh…oh. Oh. Well, son, you see how Dad has two Queens and three Jacks? Do you know what that’s called? That’s called a ‘full house.’ Two pair is good, but my full house is VERY good, so I win. Do you want to play again, or are you done?”
“No, I think I’m done.”
“Okay, son. Tell you what. Let me get you some ice cream.”

So I assuaged my guilt with chocolate ice cream. At least a little bit.

Monday Music

For this week’s Monday Music, I’m going to turn away from the softer stuff I’ve posted for the last few weeks and give you a sample of the stuff I, you know, actually spend a lot of time listening to.

Opeth is my biggest musical fanboy obsession. This group from Stockholm, Sweden has been cranking out albums since 1994 and is still going strong. Guitarist/vocalist, songwriter, and bandleader Mikael Akerfeldt is known for writing long (10+ minutes) songs with a wide dynamic range: the typical Opeth song combines pounding metal elements and growling death-metal vocals with long acoustic interludes and melodic singing. While rooted in Scandinavian black metal, Opeth continues to draw influence from 70s prog-rock, and it shows.

In 2002, Opeth went so far as to release two albums, recorded simultaneously: the Deliverance album was typical of Opeth’s work, but the Damnation album, its fraternal twin, contained none of Opeth’s typical metal elements. There was no double-bass drumming, no distorted guitars. The result is a beautifully melancholic album that was a massive critical success and a crossover hit for Opeth.

In 2003, Opeth recorded a live DVD, “Lamentations – Live at Shepherd’s Bush Empire” which was released in 2004. This concert contained the entire Damnation album plus “Harvest” from Blackwater Park as part of a “light” set, after which the band took an intermission and then came back out with a “heavy” set of material from Deliverance and Blackwater Park. Here is the opening number of the show, “Windowpane” from Damnation, showcasing the band’s mellow side.

And this is the opening number from the heavy set, “Master’s Apprentices” from the Deliverance album. Not their best song by any stretch; I chose this one because it was the best quality video of their heavy work that I could find today. This one is definitely a piledriver.

The last few albums have brought more and more success for Opeth, including a major-label record deal. The added success has brought with it change and stress. Longtime drummer Martin Lopez and even longer-time guitarist Peter Lindgren have departed the group within the past two years to be replaced by former Bloodbath drummer Martin “Axe” Axenrot and former Arch Enemy guitarist Fredrik Akesson, respectively. It remains to be seen what lies in the future for Opeth, but a new live album is due to be released in October, and work continues on the next studio album.

Personally, I can’t wait!

Weekend Babe

For this week’s Weekend Babe, I’m going to go with a genuine geek-crush favorite, the lovely Kari Byron from Mythbusters.

And this is unusual, because I’m not going to link to a photo, but rather post a YouTube vid. Why? Simple. I can’t find a single still photo that does her justice. Again, this lady’s smile is what makes her gaw-juss (you Yankees pronounce it “gorgeous”), and putting it into a still image just doesn’t tell the whole story.

So, here’s a montage from one episode that I found on YouTube. The last five seconds in particular are fantastic.

See what I mean? Of course, my wife has nothing to worry about. Kari’s a vegetarian, and my wife would be the first to say that there’s no damned way I could ever live with a vegetarian.

But you do have to respect a pretty girl who’s artistic, handy, smart, and sharp as the proverbial tack. And especially one who can keep her sense of humor about stuff like this, and especially this.

Edit:  fixed that last link.  Sorry if you missed it…definitely check it out!

It’s hard to be Taoist during your commute.

That title doesn’t sound as good as the quote I’m trying to emulate, which is from the immortal sage Joe Walsh:  “It’s hard to meditate on amphetamines.”

But anyway…

My part of the country-and I know that this doesn’t really narrow it down-is gripped in a heat wave.  And when I say “gripped” I mean it’s got my balls in a hot, clammy vise.  Not even in a good way.  It’s the kind of hot where you really don’t want to do much of jack shit.  And I’m taking two showers a day, whether I’m working out that day or not.

Hell, people, I used to ride my motorcycle to work every day that it was above freezing in the morning…in full gear.  In the summertime I had a two-piece perforated leather suit.  Black leather, head to toe.  Yeah, it used to be hotter than hell to walk across campus in that get-up, and I got a lot of strange looks, but it really wasn’t all that bad as soon as I was on the bike and moving more than 10mph.  The wind blows through the perforations in the leather and you’re a lot cooler than most folks would think…even in the humid, soaked-boxers South with the heat indices over 110.

But lately, man, I’ve been climbing into my car, rolling the windows down, blasting the air conditioner until it’s cold enough to put the windows up again, and riding the 5 miles home…and I’m even more sweaty when I get home than I used to be riding in full leathers.  I think the lack of tinted windows and leather seats on Car 6.1 are partially to blame…I haven’t had non-cloth seats in the summer for quite some time now.  But still, that’s not ALL of it.  Partially, it’s just plain ol’ fugginhawt.  Bleagh.

The daily commute is rarely a great thing.  (Unless you’re on a motorcycle, and even then rush hour traffic can be hairy.  But I digress.  Often.  Can’t you tell?)  Mine used to be 5 miles, 10 minutes or so, bing, there.  Now I’m driving my son across town every morning, and I’ve thrown in a good 30 miles of arterial interstate to my daily routine.  Not a good way to start out the day, clearly, but it is what it is, and it can’t be easily changed, so I roll with it.

A little Allman Brothers on a sunny morning helps.

Oh, as a postscript, I have GOT to share this with anybody who’s listening.  This post (Parents 1, Smartass Teenage Son 0) has got to be one of the funniest goddamn things I’ve read in weeks, on a new blog I just discovered by pure happenstance yesterday.   Go check this blog out, everything I’ve seen so far has been awesome, so I’m adding it to the blogroll!

The Grand Romantic Gesture Considered

So this morning I was perusing ye olde internet and mine own eyes came across the story of a failed marriage proposal. As in, spectacularly failed. To briefly sum up the article in the Houston Chronicle:

• Guy pays $300 for 2 tickets to the Astros game, the scoreboard proposal, and a video thereof
• “Kiss Cam” focuses on guy and his sweetie
• Scoreboard says “Will you marry me?”
• Guy gets on one knee, proffers ring
• Girl dumps popcorn on guy’s head and leaves
• Guy slinks away with tail between legs

Now that, folks, is a Bad Day at the Office of Love.

Don’t get me wrong. I feel sorry for the guy to a point. However, it’s one thing to have a proposal turned down on screen in front of, oh, 30,000 people; it’s another thing to have your would-be One True Love dump a bag of popcorn on your head into the bargain. Methinks when that happens, there has to be SOME reason behind it. Like, “I know I put it in her sister’s butt, but nobody can turn down the JumboTron proposal! This’ll make it all better!”

Apparently not.

Anywho, it got me thinking both seriously and humorously about what my bruddah Rik calls The Grand Romantic Gesture. You know what I’m talking about, people. Once the public Grand Romantic Gesture was the nearly-exclusive domain of men, while the private GRG (the tears-of-blood-soaked love poem, that sort of jazz) was more evenly distributed amongst the sexes. Nowadays even the public gesture playing field is a bit more level, and high school girls send flowers to their high school beaus.

Ok, that’s not true, middle school girls send flowers to their high school beaus. The high school girls are busy banging college guys. We all know this to be true.

But to get back to the point, for example, there used to be this commercial on TV all the damned time for diamonds. See, my wife is already rolling her eyes because she knows what’s coming. Diamond commercials piss me off to begin with. “Two months’ salary!” Yeah. Them’s two months you don’t eat, brother. (Luckily, I have a good woman. Yeah, I bought her diamonds, but she bought me wood: a guitar. A nice one. I still enjoy playing it.) Anyway, this commercial in particular featured a couple that were in their late thirties or early forties, out in some square in a city someplace. New York? Paris? London? Rome? Hell, I don’t know. The guy is giving a romantic speech about when they first met, and then he does the GRG, screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of the crowded square: “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!!!”

Then he hands her a little box with a diamond necklace, or ring, or bracelet, or anklet, or fuckin’ phallus, I don’t remember exactly. And she gives him a warm hug and whispers, “I love this man.”

Whispers it. After being given a $5k diamond.

Now, if life was fair, shouldn’t she turn around and scream out at the top of her lungs, “I LOVE THIS MAN!!!!”

Or, better yet, pay him the ultimate male-equivalent compliment and scream out, “THIS MAN HAS THE HUGEST SCHLONG I’VE EVER SEEN, AND SEX WITH HIM IS SO GOOD THAT IT’S BEYOND BELIEF!!!! IN FACT, I CAN’T STAND IT, I’M GOING TO ROCK HIS WORLD RIGHT NOW!!!!”

If you take a detached look at it, the whole thing is kind of like going fishing. You break out the old tackle box and say to yourself, “Hmm, let’s see, whatta we got here. Ooh, I can play the guitar. Maybe I should play guitar for her! Or lookee here, poetry! I could write her a poem!” You judge your quarry, you judge the prevailing conditions, and you select the lure that you think gives you the best chance of getting a strike.

Then you tie it on (maybe tying one on first, if you know what I mean) and sling it out there. And you teeeeasingly swing it by their nose, saying “come on, come on, look at this, don’t it look good to you? Take a bite, take a bite, aww shit. Let’s try again. Come on come on come on….shit. Well, let’s try the poem instead. Here we go, bite it bite it bite it….YES! Woohoo!”

Or, alternatively, you say “well, they just ain’t bitin’ today” and you go home.

But that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it? It’s not about being yourself, it’s about finding some flashy thing to capture interest. What you’ll do with ‘em once you’ve landed ‘em is not something you’ve got all planned out. Hell, sooner or later you’re going to break down and be yourself, no matter how hard you try to avoid it. Fishing is great, but nobody fishes 24-7-365. Eventually you’ve gotta get beyond the lure.

Or, as so many people do, throw this one back and try to reel in another one before the one you’ve got in the boat now figures you out.

But that analogy only goes so far. The Grand Romantic Gesture involves a lot more than fishing. At least it does when it’s properly done. It involves risk. Ranking on the Romantic Gesture Scale is directly proportional to how many people, preferably who know you well, you are willing to potentially humiliate yourself before in order to win the adulation of Thine Owne True Love.

• Carving her name on your arm with a razor and showing it to her and her two BFF’s earns you a 2.
• Reading him a poem in front of a party of your friends is a 10 – a 17 if he tells his buddies to fuck off when they give him shit for it.
• Singing her a song in front of your entire high school student body is at least a 23.
• A 29 if you can actually sing.
• A 55 if you CAN’T sing a lick but still manage to pull it off convincingly.

That’s why the Grand Romantic Gesture has power. It’s a willingness to sacrifice oneself. And who doesn’t have that little romantic fantasy someplace inside that wants someone to love us so much that they’d risk the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to win our affection?

If you want to read about a perfect example of the Grand Romantic Gesture, I refer you to an old blog post of my buddy Rik, who witnessed one a year or so back and wrote a stunning account of it. Take a moment to read it; I’m sure you’ll find yourself alternately cringing and smiling.

That’s what the Grand Romantic Gesture does. It makes you think, “Damn, what a moron, but I wish I had the guts/I wish somebody would do that for me sometime.”

So go on, be a moron. And maybe somebody’ll be a moron for you.