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.

I was honored to have one of my blog posts linked to the 100 Fun & Informative Blog Posts Every Grammar Geek Should Bookmark list compiled by Online Universities.com. That they saw fit to include it despite the comma splice in the title (why didn’t any of you catch that?) is humbling indeed. I attempted to excuse the error by citing my Eastern European ancestry and the acceptance of comma splices in the Russian language because it sounds better than admitting to be ignorant of that rule in front of a bunch of grammarians.

More trivia to follow. The next round will feature many colorful pictures and no obscure indie rock song lyrics.

*For those who read this story, that young girl who lost her tooth and was presented with a forgery so that her Tooth Fairy wishes could still come true, well, that was my niece. I didn’t realize it until after the article was published and my sister let me know. Pretty small world wouldn’t you say?

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?

Both of these bands play on Saturday night of the extra-large, two-day American Music Show that kicks off on Friday.

Victor may not be ready to appreciate the twang-and-wit of the evening’s headliner, but I sure will be. As I’ve written before, Robbie Fulks put on one of the best performances I’ve ever witnessed and that was just him and his guitar. He’ll have his band with him on Saturday and I’ve heard tale that their good, real good.

The plan was to take the family down to the show on Saturday, while I checked out Friday’s lineup sans ninos. I missed Dave Alvin the last time he swung through town and wouldn’t make that mistake again. But it seems Tammy will be working so either I take the kids along or you come forth with an offer of babysitting. You can’t do it, can you?

Also playing Friday is a band called the Honeybees, not featuring Ginger and Mary Ann. I’ve heard them on the Sangamon Valley Roots Revival Radio Hour and they kind of hit in that sweet spot where the Ditty Bops always get me.

It looks to be a stellar weekend of music despite the reported scheduling of a Jimmy Buffet cover band somewhere else downtown. Well, dorks like music too so live and let live, I always say.

Here’s your American Music Show lineup for 2009:

Friday

The Honeybees 5PM

Bill Kirchen and Too Much Fun 6:30PM

Dave Alvin and the Guilty Women 8:00PM

The Damwell Betters 10:00PM

Saturday

The Gordons/Tom Irwin 3PM

The Cynics 5:30PM

The Handcuffs 7:00PM

Robbie Fulks 8:30PM

Hillbilly Casino 10:00PM

So, what’s not to like.

Trifectas for the Delusional

Have you ever noticed how celebrity deaths always happen in threes . . . and twos and sevens and ones and fours. It’s almost as if they’re random events completely unrelated to each other in any logical respect except in the imaginations of the extremely impressionable. God, it’s so eerie.

Potent Quotable

To mother, on his return from a birthday party at Skateland South:

"I’m really good at skating. I just fall down a lot," V. Naumovich

Baseball: It’s Not That Bad

After the skate party we took in a Slider’s game courtesy of the ole company store. Despite promises of all the free hot dogs and drinks they could stomach, the kids were not excited about this outing. After about a half hour at the park, I didn’t think we’d make it to the ceremonial opening pitches.

Once the game started, however, something strange happened. They settled in and took a genuine rooting interest in the goings-on out diamond’s way. Maria, the most ardent pre-game descenter, was particulary interested in learning the rules and strategies of the game as the action unfolded before her. We made it all the way to the seventh inning before being frightened away by lightning.

I’m on record as not being much of a baseball fan but I’ll admit to enjoying the game as well. It helped that they scored many runs, although we missed the two homers while replenishing with food stuffs. A group of visiting high school students – in town helping with a Habitat house and bunking at Little Flower’s gym – kept things lively with their good-natured antics. The race-confused, alcohol-abusing loud mouths behind us, however, sent us seeking tranquility down the opposing baseline.

Viva Le Futbol

I’d be remiss about saying anything good about baseball without tempering them with a few words about soccer. You’re probably not aware, and clearly do not care, but the U.S. men’s national team’s victory over Spain last week was incredibly momentous. If we were baseball fans, this would have been occasion for tipping automobiles or dragging the sofa from the porch to the street and setting it ablaze. (Yes, I’m aware of the rowdy, oft-times murderous behavior of soccer fans. Indulge me my prejudices.)

Trivia Is Not Trivial

Speaking of the ugly side of competitive endeavors, like many of you Facebookies I’m quite involved with the Know It All trivia series. And perhaps like you, I’ll look and see how I’m doing in the standings against my friendly competitors. I admit that if I’m trying to improve my record against a particular player that I’ll stick to those subjects on which I’m strong. What I won’t do is retake a quiz to improve my score.

I’ve noticed on a couple of occasions that someone who I initially bested on a quiz had somehow, days later, wrestled the victory away from me. The only explanation for this I can think of is that, armed with the correct answers, they retook the quiz. I won’t name names (not you, Johann), but the purveyor of this despicable practice should know that I’m on to his monkeyshines.

Speaking of trivia, response to the latest BFS challenge has been dismal. I usually won’t post results until I get at least ten entries, but we may not reach that level of participation this time. This confirms my suspicion that nobody reads blogs anymore and are instead satisfying their trivia jones on Facebook where they are cheating.

Heard About Your Band

When touring bands stop in Springfield, they normally start their performance at or near the eight o’clock hour. A reasonable time for the concert going crowd.

Local bands start much later. An act headlining a three o’clock bar may not take the stage until well after midnight. This scheduling costs them a segment of the music-loving demographic, most notably, me. But even those with the ability to stay awake past 11:00 might be more amenable to an earlier starting time so that they can enjoy the music and then go out and do whatever it is people who aren’t sleeping do at three in the morning.

Tammy went to see a band, the Graduate, last evening and I would have liked to have heard them as well. But I’m wise enough to my ways to realize that after an entire day shuffling the kids around and then an evening at the ballpark, that slumber could not be denied. It’s sad, really.

Speaking of music, I’ll be back later this week to promote the American Music Show, year after year, the finest lineup of music that Springfield has to offer.

This photograph, by Thomas James Salsman, accompanied a story I wrote on Chris Ward, a local comic book writer. Not really "accompanied," more like "one-upped." It really is quite cool. The comic book seems pretty cool too and it occurs to me that the comic is a medium I should hip the kids too.

If I had purchased tickets for Rod Blagojevich Superstar, I would have been quite miffed at his appearance at last evening’s performance. For, you see, I wouldn’t have been attending to laugh with the disgraced ex-governor, but at him. Letting him play along with the joke makes it seem as if it’s all just a light-hearted ribbing instead of a public belittling of one of the most corrupt politicians and ridiculous people that history has produced.

I can’t believe the Jose Feliciano post didn’t generate more discussion. "Light my fire, light my fire, light my fire."

Rachel Getting Married was an oddly compelling movie. I’d watch it again. And as a pure eye candy, I’ve never been a fan of Ann Hathaway, but I must say that the heroin-chic look works for her. She can act too.

I may or may not have gotten hit on by a woman at the Lincoln Library used book sale on Saturday. Evidence against is that I had all four kids with me, I hadn’t yet showered, and the fact that I never really got hit on much when I was single, childless and presentable. Okay, I guess I didn’t.

I haven’t seen the remake of The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, but I did watch most of the original this evening and absent Walter Mattau, it can’t possibly be as good. Walt is seriously funny.

Well, that’s it. Not much, but nobody reads blogs anymore anyway.

My column last week was my first ever to be syndicated. Although I’m proud of this piece, apologies must be extended to the people of Norwood, Mass, who were assaulted with this.

Were I ambitious, I would take the signature line from this column (Today, I will wear my underpants backwards!) and turn it into a self-empowerment philosophy that would spawn a series of books, a line of merchandise, and a regular spot on Oprah.

I also wrote a feature on some very talented local musicians.

Flying With Pigs

On Wednesday, it seemed conceivable that Tammy and the kids’ trip to Vermont this summer might have to be canceled. Being herded through an airport and then incubated in a plane while deadly viruses abounded seemed a tad risky, given the dire warnings. By Friday, the fear had subsided and I scoffed at the folly of my concern.

The media is partly to blame for fueling my hysteria, but I do think that much of the hubbub was just precaution in the face of the unknown. Had this flu been more plague-like, the quick quarantines and closings may have helped stave of the catastrophic. Of course had news broke last week that the Octamom was again knocked-up, most of us may have never heard of swine flu.

British Fans Would Have Stoned Me By Now

The Shamrocks fell again on Saturday. It’s only matter of time before parents start clamoring for a coaching change. If I’m going to wear the brown hat over our one-and-three record, then I’m going out on my own terms. I may pull a Buttermaker and start bringing a cooler of beer to practice.*

Mark’s game was rained out, denying him the opportunity to flop in the mud and then look around to see if any girls might be impressed by it.

And after a so-so effort during a make-up game on Thursday, Maria turned in a stellar performance on Saturday, scoring a goal and earning an assist in her team’s 3-1 victory. Nothing makes me prouder than to see the look of determination on her face when she goes on the attack.

Smarmy

When those on the left declare that R. Limbaugh is pompous, condescending and a manipulative partisan, I can not argue. But when those same people swear admiration for this smug clown, then their objectivity is clearly suspect. They are, afterall, birds of a feather.

Let’s Kill Saturday Night (after injuring it on Friday)

For you Facebookies, the lineup for the American Music Show is available here. Robbie Fulks and Dave Alvin (formerly of the Blasters and X) headline the two-day weekend affair. I was listening to some tracks by the Cynics and the Handcuffs this afternoon to get a feel for the rest of the lineup. This most definitely will be a kicker of the highest kicking order.

*Name the TV show and the movie referenced in this paragraph.

Qik-n-EZ is advertising a special for lovers of imitation, beer-like beverages. Coors Light is selling 18-packs for $10.99 with, get this, a $7 mail-in rebate offer. Not accounting for the devaluation of the dollar in the time it takes for the rebate check to arrive, that comes to $3.99 per 18-pack or 22 cents per golden bottle. Party on, Rockies fans.

Well, long story short, the drinkers of this particular low-end beer proved to be a particularly thrifty lot and they redeemed their rebates in great numbers, causing great damage to the brewer’s bottom line. But that was a long time ago, so why not try it again during an economic downturn when people are doing everything possible, short of not buying beer, to save money.

The First Church of the Prescription and Over-Prized Sundries

When the Walgreen’s on Monroe relocated across the street to a new building, I felt that their previous home was destined to remain abandoned. The building is too big for a cellular service center or a nail salon. Even most restaurants, of the casual variety, don’t require that much space, except for maybe those buffet operations. A dollar store? Perhaps, but that retail model seems to have grown stagnant.

I suppose that religion, as beer, does fare well in times of economic hardship.

I Called This One

You’ve probably all seen the video of Susan Boyle, the unassuming contestant on Britain’s Got Talent who wowed the audience with a beautiful rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream" from Les Miserables.

I am not an American Idol fan, in fact, I’m a detractor. I’ve seen enough of it to be disgusted with all of the caterwauling, melisma-izing, and general "look-at-me" vocalization that pervades that stage. I’ve said, on more than one occasion, that if a contestant would come out and perform a song from Les Miz – with even half of the grace, beauty and humility with which Frances Ruffelle brought to her singing in the role of Eponine – then that person would shame the competition. She probably wouldn’t win, I conceded, but she would reveal how fraudulent that show is as a showcase of talent.

I simply can’t tolerate the superficiality of it all.

Neither of these women is Susan Boyle.

I Am Un Chien Andalusia

You’re unlikely to find Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV (aka Black Francis, Frank Black) prostituting himself to the American Idol demographic (see: Tarantino, Quentin), but I did find him and the Pixies in the Wii store. Victor and I can now rock to Debaser and Monkey Gone to Heaven on Guitar Hero.

I Was Published in California

Nothing new to plug this week, but my recent story on homebrewers was published in the Ridgecrest, California newspaper. Finally, the people of the Mojave can read my stuff. How fortunate for them.

Four Leaves Win! Four Leaves Win!

The Shamrocks netted their first goals and posted their first victory of the season, despite being without several key players, a feat that can only be attributed to deft coaching. Tessie continues to improve and Victor was a bulldog in pursuit of the ball, especially late in the game when the Shamrocks were protecting a 3 to 2 lead. He was sweating so much that by game’s end he looked as if he’d been doused by a Gator Ade bucket.

Mark may never develop the soccer skills of David Beckham, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see Posh Spice on his arm at kindergarten graduation.

Living to Eat Another Day

After the Shamrock’s big win, a couple of the families retired to D’Arcy’s for post-game sustenance. Maria, Tessie, Victor and I joined them. Of course, you can’t go to the Pint and not order a ’shoe, but for better or worse, it’s gotten to the point where I feel guilty about it. It weighs upon my conscience almost as heavily as the calories weigh upon my gut. I ended up skipping dinner last night as penance, but know that someday, I will sin again.

So why not head on down to Recycled Records where WQNA will be broadcasting live and I believe there’ll also be live music to go along with special releases by some of your favorite artist. I suppose you could mark the occasion by going to Best Buy or logging on to iTunes, but that’s not really keeping with the spirit, now is it?

I plan on taking Victor downtown after our soccer game on Saturday. Although I’ve loaded up his MP3 player with music, I’ve yet to buy him his first, very own rock and roll album. This will be a great opportunity to do just that, and hopefully, when he gets on Facebook in 30 years, he’ll remember the name of that album when he’s taking one of those "get to know me" surveys.

Andy and Francis Corcoran owned the Mecca, a tavern located at 2001 N. 11th Street, just off Peoria Road. Today, the building is home to Dude’s Saloon. I don’t know Dude, nor have I visited his saloon, but I doubt his bartenders wear ties or his waitresses look matronly.

My only memories of the Mecca are of my grandma coming home from waitressing. I also remember that my grandpa drank near beer, a non-alcoholic version of the real thing. I believe his brand was Kingsbury.

This first picture looks like a still shot taken on the set of a Frank Capra movie. Now there’s a guy you could tell your troubles to. My grandpa also used to say things such as, "keep your nose clean, Bub." He’s right out of central casting.