Where’s the Beef
On the whole, the Super Bowl ads were quite disappointing. They struggled so hard to connect with a certain demographic that it was almost exhausting to watch. These ads desire so to shock, amuse and titillate, but in the end mostly flop into a pathetic spot of lost ad revenue.

I don’t even remember many of the others. Commercial breaks were mostly spent trying to tame the 20 children amassed in the basement of our fine hosts.

"Rizrod 2.7 is out. It should do everything LouLotta does without bogging down the shrink code with R2D4. Huzzah!"

few lay people would read it and think, "What’s this idiot rambling about." Instead, the reaction would more likely be, "Oh, he must be a tech guy. And from the looks of it, a pretty smart one."

Good for them, then. And I agree (how could I not?), MW2 does appear now to have a chance.

I had been looking forward to the American Music Show all year. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this:

• Friday – listen to Honeybees for couple of songs and Bill Kirchen for a few, but kids grow restless so leave in pursuit of ice cream.
• Ditch foursome and go downtown Saturday as a lonesome. Dark clouds hover.
  
• Friendless and alone, seek reading material to wait out rain. Hit Prairie Archives and their honor system sidewalk sale. Pick out 1997 issue of Smithsonian magazine, put quarter in envelope and push through  mail slot.
• Arrive at Brew Haus. Dogfish 60 Minute still available on tap. Things looking up. Settle into booth and began to peruse magazine; realize that I’d read almost entire issue 12 years earlier.
• Finish pint, exit bar. Heavy mist blankets area; stage area still draped with tarps.
• Run into Brad Elvis. Outdoor show canceled. Handcuffs will play Bar None at 10:30, post-pumpkin time for me. Go home to sulk.
• Return home. Rare night out ruined. Freedom, Independence, Meaning of Life – questioned.

What Do You Think We Are, Communists?

As I mentioned, many people celebrate the Fourth at private parties. That’s what I hear. Although I can’t be sure because we never get invited to parties on the Fourth of July. Never, ever.

We’ve attended parties in and around the Fourth, but even those invitations have dried up. My kids think that the holiday entails driving to a church parking lot along Woodside Road, watching some fireworks, and then heading home to bed. They have no idea of the feasting and celebrating that goes on in honor of our country.

So I implore you, even if you think me a fascist, invite my children to a Fourth of July party next year. Let them hear freedom ring, won’t you?

You Ain’t Bad Lookin’ and You Smell Good From Here*

Tuning in to Fast Eddie on WQNA last Wednesday morning, I heard a feller a-singing these words:

You don’t live in a beautiful place.
And you don’t dress with the best of taste.
And nature didn’t give you such a beautiful face.
But baby, ooooooooeeeeeeee,
You’ve got what it takes.

Wow, I thought, I can’t imagine too many girls listening to this 45 on the bedroom floor while imagining they were the subject of the singer’s highly qualified and brutally frank admiration. As for the woman who inspired such tepid passion, she surely must have developed a series of disorders after "her song" hit the airwaves.

A little research turned up that this song was actually written by Anne Murray, she of Snowbird fame. The sentiments expressed in the lyrics do seem less harsh when directed at a good-hearted lug who never fancied himself the Cary Grant type anyway.

B-b-b-baby, I-i-i I Can’t Wait**

I’m of the belief that if you’re not a few minutes early to an appointment, you are late. Promptness isn’t just a courtesy, it’s a social imperative. Chronic tardiness is a sign of extreme selfishness and/or a complete absence of self-discipline. No, nothing happened. Why do you ask?

Oh wait, something did happen.

Last week I had an appointment to have my teeth cleaned and arrived five minutes before I was due. Thirty-five minutes later I left with unpolished teeth. When I broke the news that I could no longer stick around and read Newsweek in their waiting room, the staff apologized and said that the person scheduled before me was 20 minutes late.

I now hate that person, whoever it might. Factoring in commute time to and from my office, my entire lunch hour was wasted. They owe me, don’t you think they owe me?

I May Even Show ‘Em My Handstand***

A recent story, attached to the Michael Jackson coverage, reminded me of something that really bugged me about American Bandstand. When musical guests would "perform" they would fade the song out at the end, resulting in an awkward moment when the band members wouldn’t know when to stop pretending to play. World-class rock and roll bands were reduced to looking as ridiculous as the Partridge Family.

And that. . . . is that.

*Name the song that this lyric was lifted from.

**Do the same for this lyric.

***What famous performer wrote the American Bandstand theme song?

The solution to maritime piracy would seem to be the arming of merchant ships. The method with which pirates board a ship, using hooks and ropes to scale the side, does leave them vulnerable to being picked off or winged. Yet with most solutions that involve fire power, there is a downside, in addition to that of those being shot at.

According to one report I read, some captains are reluctant to have firearms aboard. While acknowledging that they’d come in handy against pirates, they’re concerned about the many days upon a ship when swashbucklers are not a concern.

Life upon a merchant ship can be both stressful and fraught with tedium. Personalities clash and, stuck in close quarters, there’s nowhere to retreat. Apparently, fights between sailors aren’t uncommon and can sometimes get quite violent. As such, access to a gun rack might not be the best idea.

That said, I think there has to be some way to have guns on board for self defense without turning the deck into the OK Corral when some dirty vermin gets caught sneaking an Ace out of his sleeve.

Voguing the Dark Continent

Not that I thought much of Madonna before, but this picture really makes me despise her.

“Hello Edna, darling. I’m going to Africa next week to save a child. No, just one cute one. Listen, since Africa is a continent that is ravaged by wars and genocide, where rogue armies force millions into exile and corrupt generals confiscate foreign aid while their people are besieged by famine, I thought it might be fun to go with a military look. Be a dear and have your people find some designer combat boots and a cute pair of fatigues to go with them. Oh yeah, and see if Giovanni can design me a burkha to wear to my trip to the Middle East next month. Something sheer that shows off my biceps and ass.”

This Should Be Worth Something

I think it’s safe to assume that when someone volunteers to bring the rolls to Easter dinner, their altruism is predicated on the desire not to expend too much culinary capital. In most cases, their efforts will be limited to visiting the bakery of a local grocer, although they might get adventurous and pick up a couple of tubes of crescent rolls and try to figure out how to fire up the Amana.

My wife, on the other hand, takes a rudimentary dinner offering, and, to quote Lugasse, “kicks it up a notch.”

For our Easter feast, Tammy concocted three flavors of homemade rolls: rosemary, flack seed, and garlic with sesame seed. More hearty than flaky, they have a focaccia-like quality that’s quite delectable.  I’m enjoying one right now with my salad, and it occurs to me that they would also make a fine sandwich. That leftover pork waiting at home has just been repurposed.

SHG Expanding Carbon Footprint, Thousands to Be Displaced

News that SHG would be building a new football stadium was met with previously unheard allegations that they recruit football players. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. News that the SHG will be producing a spring musical is also usually met with accusations of football malfeasance.

I’m not naïve to the realities here. There are kids who went through a public elementary school system, sometimes in other towns, who enrolled at SHG primarily to play for a championship-caliber football program. This does present an advantage. But lost in all of cries of woe because public schools can only draw players from within their boundaries is the fact that that isn’t true.

If a former Lanphier basketball star, currently residing in Petersburg, wishes for his son to follow in his footsteps as a Lion, he can arrange that without having to move to Springfield’s northend. The catch is, if I gather correctly, that he’d have to pay out-of-district tuition. Ah, tuition – the same price one must pay to attend SHG.

I realize that not many parents will pay tuition to send their kids to a public school when there’s another they can attend for free (although some will play fast and loose with residency rules to attend a public school of choice.) That some will pay for their kids to attend SHG is a testament to the education that they offer. And at some point, you have to stop punishing a school, through so-called equalizers, for being a good school.

The Shams Rock

I undertook the role of youth soccer coach reluctantly. Victor’s team from last year had disbanded and Tessie expressed an interest in playing as well, so I sent a letter to their classmates’ parents to see if others were interested. In the letter, I volunteered my services to get the team organized and to help where I could, but explained that since my wife works occasionally on Saturdays, I wouldn’t be able to commit to being the coach. I quickly learned that in the realm of youth sports, merely uttering the word coach is akin to signing a binding contract.

Much to my surprise, I’m enjoying myself. Soccer is great because no matter what a kid’s skill level, if they hustle, they can do good things. And while our team, the Shamrocks, is young and inexperienced, they are out there battling hard against teams that look to have forged some birth certificates. It’s quite heartening seeing my young charges giving it their all and I’m sure their efforts are put forth in glory of their beloved coach.

The other two kids are playing this season as well. Maria scored her team’s first goal of the year, the prettiest of her career. Mark played well, but when I suggested that some of the falls he takes are counter-productive and perhaps deliberate, he misinterpreted my concern: “It’s okay. I don’t mind getting dirty.”

Well, it looks as if I didn’t win Best Columnist in the SJ-R’s Reader’s Choice Awards. When my last column inspired one reader to leave an online comment, I thought I might be able to ride that wave of popularity all the way to the award, but apparently I fell a little short. Congratulations to Bernie Schoenburg, Dave Bakke and Jim Ruppert for narrowly edging me out in what had to have been a close vote. Although it’s entirely possible that I didn’t receive a sigle vote, I prefer to preserve my esteem in delusion.

Uncle Raymond Pulls a Fast One

When I see pictures of Roland Burris, I’m not immediately filled with contempt and disgust, as I am when I see Blagojevich’s lipless visage. In fact, I sometimes feel a bit of pity for Burris, who has the look of a kindly gent. Yet it’s clear that he’s just another self-serving politician who slithered and connived his way into a position he did not merit. He should go, but some other folks have some explaining to do.

All of those who said the Senate should never seat a Blago appointee, and then let themselves be played into embracing Burris as a man of honor, should come forth and say how honorable they think he is now. They had it right the first time, the Senate leadership did, but instead of sticking to what they knew was the right thing, they gave into prejudices and political perceptions.

An Idiotic Front is Descending from the North

I’m not sure who such matters could be taken up with, but I want the word "stupid" to be added to weather forecasts, as in, "it will be windy, cold and stupid tomorrow and into the weekend." The term will only be allowed in February and March when the cold weather has gotten really annoying, and, stupid.

*Apropos of Nothing

Name the song that this lyric was taken from. Then name the sisters who play in the band from whence this song originated. To the winner: A free, lifetime pass to BFS, should this ever become a subscription-only site.

A Face for Blogging

Every now and again I’ll do a Google image search to find out what someone looks like. Usually it will be someone in the media, either print or radio, whose name and work I come across regularly, but who I have never seen in person.

Anyway, I’ll type in their name and whatever pictures show up, especially if it’s a headshot, I assume that’s them. But recently, in an act of egoism, I did an image search of my own name. And one of the first results is a head shot of my wife’s friend Tara. So, should anyone, say maybe a reader of this blog, be curious as to what I look like, they very might well get the impression that I try to pass as a woman.

Your Phone’s Off the Hook, But You’re Not

Last week I happened to look in while the kids were watching one of their kids shows. "Wow," I thought to myself, "that Superintendent Spellman character looks a lot like John Nommensen Duchan, whose heart is made of glory and his voice is made of gold."

I knew that Duchan, aka John Doe, had acted in the past. I remembered him from Roadside Prophets, a counter-culture road movie he starred in with Adam Horowitz, whose voice is kind of squeeky and his chains are made of gold. But clearly Doe, one of the coolest guys in rock and roll, wouldn’t be doing a guest spot on the Wizards of Waverly Place, would he?

Well, the closing credits proved me wrong. That was Doe. I suppose there’s no shame in the TV gig, as long as he keeps putting out songs like this:

Although, I’m not smart enough to figure out how to get rid of that giant space between the title and this first blog item. Something to do with code, I suspect, but completely beyond me. (But not Russ. Space gone. Thanks Russ.)

Smoking ban? What’s a smoking ban?

We went out to a nearby hamlet to hear a band Friday night, although a later-than-posted show time forced me to leave before the music played. I did, however, get to visit two establishments for the first time, and both stirred me with a sense of déjà vu.

Sitting in these bars, the stale smell of exhaled tobacco immediately transported back to 2007, when it was legal to smoke indoors. I won’t be a rat fink and name the establishments, but it’s obvious that ownership isn’t worried about anti-compliance fines.

The smoking wasn’t rampant; I’m sure that there were many smokers who were taking it outside, unswayed to join the lawlessness that surrounded them. But the practice was accepted enough that butt-brimmed ashtrays were on full display.

When the ban passed, I suspected that certain smaller establishments would gradually fill back up with smoke. It was a concession I was willing to make in exchange for getting the filthy air out of the places that I like to go. So smoke away, all you residents of tiny villages east of Springfield and south of Spaulding, but alas I shan’t be returning, at least until you stock some decent beer.

Sunday Beer Blogger

Speaking of beer, frequent commenter, Gish, has started a new blog. He cuts through the usual blogger muckety-muck and concentrates on what matters most – fine beer.

Hair-Pulling Political Punditry

If a were a young Armenian graduate student monitoring the media coverage of the current U.S. presidential election, I would probably conclude that for their highest office, the Americans have nominated two of the most unethical, unqualified and insincere individuals in the land. Stupid westerners.

And why would I get this impression? Because so many of the most vocal participants commenting on the election process have dedicated themselves exclusively to trashing the other side, at the expense of touting their own candidate’s merits. It amazes how partisanship can make people both hateful and narrow-minded.

The media, and bloggers are included in this descriptor, seem to have little to recommend their own choice, but boy can they tell you what’s wrong with the evil other candidate. Every word a candidate utters is criticized and every action ridiculed. Great amounts of time and resources are spent digging into the deepest recesses of their life, hoping to find anything that might be a cause of embarrassment or evidence of the dreaded “waffling.”

It’s not yet October, but I’m more than ready for this embarrassing process to be over.

Curious Hair

One of my favorite authors passed on recently, apparently by his own hand. David Foster Wallace was a writer with a rare wit and a great mind.

He taught for a period at ISU, where one local blogger was fortunate enough to have gotten to know him. Another connection to Springfield can be found in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, a collection of short non-fiction narratives. The story “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All” is about a 1993 trip he took to the Illinois State Fair. You can borrow it, if you like.

Although I love his fiction (I’m proud to say that I read his 1,000-page, heavily foot-noted novel, Infinite Jest, although I’m not proud of how long it took me), it was his work for magazines that really showcased his talent. No matter what the subject, from lobster bakes to porn industry award ceremonies, DFW would offer insights and observations that were poignant, unexpected and usually very funny.

I recently purchased, but haven’t yet gotten to, his collection of short stories, A Brief Interview with Hideous Men. It will now be a bittersweet read.

 Blake Baby

On a happier note, my indie rock crush, Juliana Hatfield, has released a memoir, although it’s apparently rather dark at times. I read a couple of reviews and put it in my shopping cart, but more importantly, it prompted me to finally iPod her solo CDs. The heart still flutters when I hear her songs.

Here’s Blake Babies with their ultra-cool cover of the Grassroots’ Temptation Eyes.

“I believed before opening statements and I believe today that (my client) is not guilty.”

Does it mean that the lawyer believes that the prosecution went after the wrong dude? Or that the lawyer believes that the prosecution never had a strong enough case to warrant a conviction?

The quote comes from an article in today’s SJ-R and it struck me because of its equivocalness. The lawyer could have said his client was innocent, if that’s what he really believed. Maybe he’s not sure himself.

The case in question, which you can read about here, concerns Jeff Pelo, a Bloomington police officer recently convicted of raping four women. There was no physical evidence, DNA or hair samples or the like, tying the defendant to the crime scenes or victims. Prosecutors contend that as a 17-year law enforcement veteran, Pelo knew how to scrub a crime scene of evidence. There was, however, eye witness testimony and other circumstantial evidence that was persuasive enough to convince the jury, if not the defense attorney.

I’ve always been curious about the job of criminal defense lawyer. Do they even care if their client did it?

I know that everyone deserves their day in court and a vigorous defense, but it always seems to me that it’s the defense lawyer’s job to just make stuff up. That doesn’t seem to be the best way to arrive at the truth.

If you followed the R. Kelly trial, where he was accused of pedophilia and other sexually deviant acts, you’d have read about how his team of attorneys threw a slew of improbable theories or unlikely defenses against the wall in hopes that one of them would stick. One did. But if Kelly was truly not guilty of the charges brought against him, wouldn’t there have been one angle of defense stronger than the rest – the truth?

After the OJ trial, that proved that sometimes police will frame a guilty man, I started to wonder if in the future, the only way you’d be able to convict a rich man* is by having a video of them committing the crime. Well, they had a video tape of Kelly committing the crime, and he still got away with it.

Given that Kelly had previously reached financial settlements with four other girls or women who accused him of sex crimes, information that was withheld from the jury, I feel pretty confident that he’s a guilty man. But he was acquitted and he’s free to go about making records in which he drops hints about liking young girls.

As for Pelo, he’ll be going away for a long time. And rightly so.

Justice, go figure.

*By rich man, I mean someone who can afford the best that lawyering has to offer.