Been feeling like death for a couple days, and when not asleep in bed covered in cats, I've been on the couch covered in cats cursing the limitations of Netflix.
I have, however, found something.
I'm not sure how to describe it. A choreographer, Margo Sappington, set a piece with the Milwaukee Ballet to William Shatner's Has-Been album. I'm not qualified to judge ballet by its own merits, but kind of a neat concept, and not a bad doc.
Also, Has-Been is a pretty decent record. Yeah, it's Shatner being Shatner, but he is aware of his image and willing to fuck with it, always gotta give props for that. Ben Folds, one of my favorite musicians, produces and did a lot of the music, and some guest appearences, Joe Jackson (under-rated), Henry Rollins (minor deity), others.
I have Pandora
on my phone, I need music at all times. And despite the umpteen hours of music
I have on mp3s, I don’t take my iPod to work, don’t want the cords, and really
don’t want to torch the player, I don’t have a heavy duty case for it. For the
phone I have a Honey Badger Box (these are great!!!) and
a bluetooth, keep some music on it, some radio station apps, and Pandora.
Pandora, for those who don’t know, is supposedly part of a Music Genome Project, wherein they are
trying to quantify music by breaking it down to elements, and then registering
your choices, likes and dislikes, to musically ‘profile’ you. The concept is a
complete load of shit, and the algorithm used has a bug or 3…thousand in it,
resulting in the site making some odd choices. Sometimes brilliant things
result, and I’ve been led down some interesting tangents.
Sometimes the site determines, since I like the song ‘In The
Summertime’ by Mungo Jerry, that I must like ‘Summer of ’69 ‘ by Bryan Adams.
(I don’t. Ugh. It’s no ‘We Built This City’ or anything, but it no good.)
And sometimes, Pandora is completely baked.
Let me set this up a touch. I love all sorts of music, but sort of segregate it. I don’t make mixes
with folk with rock with nerd with whatever else, I tend to get wired on a
genre and stay there for a bit. For example, at the moment, I am into
soundtracks, some Broadway-ish, and so on. Little Shop Of Horrors (movie), Dr.
Horrible’s Singalong Blog. You’re A Good Man Charlie Brown. Avenue Q and Rent. The
Jeff Wayne version of War Of The Worlds. (Hey, I’ve already copped to being a
bit off-plumb, I like what I like, when I like it, and don’t judge me, yer the
one reading this nonsense!) Pandora has some glitches as said, so that one
Broadway musical opens the door to other musicals, and I’m not necessarily a
connoisseur. But while in my little soundtrack world, it sprung upon me
That’s Darren McGavin as Teh King.
Carl Kolchak. Ralphie’s dad. The dancing, singing, King of
Siam. Yul Brynner's role.
No. Stop. Don’t ask me the song, I don’t care.
Anyone ever seen ‘Paint Your Wagons’, with the white-boy
soul sensations Eastwood (Clint) and Marvin (Lee)? This. Is. Worse. So much
worse.
Stick with this.
Or this.
But holy dammit, while credit is due to Darren for expanding his horizons (and Kolchak is a deity in my character pantheon, I won't rank on McGavin at all), DUDE CAN'T SING.
My wife made it to Yurp safely and I'll be skyping her in a few minutes, now I just have 10 days for my fingernails to grow back in preparation for her return trip.
Meantime, my bro-in-law and myself are reliving those halcyon days of yesteryear, blackjack, hookers, hamburger and potatoes 4 times a day, baby-sitting one of those dust-collector dogs. As the bodavus gotta work this morning, we sent the hookers home at 5 last night, made dinner, and I gave him the keys to Netflix.
Never again.
Allow me to present to you...
Starring man of a thousand identical faces Ryan Gosling as Driver (get it, Drive, Driver, clever, no? Ummm...), Ron Perlman as Hellboy/Beast/ Biker/same frakkin' character he always plays and is usually pretty cool but not today, Carey Mulligan (who I was genuinely excited to see, Sally Sparrow is one of my favorite Companions) as the generic Distressed Single Mother, and, snark aside, Albert Brooks, doing a genuinely good job as a mobster.
Driver is an expert stunt driver/race car driver-mechanic who moonlights as a getaway driver, and he's Da Best. Generic Distressed Single Mother (this film not only fails The Bechdel Test, but doesn't even have ink in the No. 2 pencil) comes into his life while husband is jailed and Driver becomes a male role model for GDSM's boy. Driver gets involved with newly unjailed Mr. GDSM, to protect the boy, you know, and ends up annoying Teh Wrong People. Curbs get stomped, violence gets stylized, metaphors get beaten with a whisk, and endings get left open to interpretation, and don't come nearly soon enough.
I am cool with violence, and even gore - I prefer it to be a bit more cartoonish, perhaps, Walking Dead as opposed to any of the dumb-ass Saw movies. But even ignoring the gore porn, THIS IS A BORING MOVIE. SO BORING. FUCK, IT'S BORING. Slow, definite meant to be 'art', can't be more than 250 words in the entire script (and mostly said by Albert Brooks, who as I said, does actually a good job, quite surprisingly menacing when needed, he should do a 'heavy' role in a better film and see how it goes), and boring.
Don't see this. See anything else. See a goddamn Meryl Streep movie, even Mamma Mia. See Barney's Wild Adventure (I prefer the un-rated version with the cheerleaders) (Thank, you, brain bleach is on me!). See anything. Watch the Weather Channel. Do not watch this pile of pigeon puke.
Sweetie is about to head overseas to spoil a new nephew. I wish I could go, but can't, so there. Our house is a staging area tonight for a bunch of folks going, with me playing chauffeur to the airport in the morning, so I have some cleaning-readiness type thingies to do.
I really am very excited for her, of course, and really do wish I could go, but it ain't'ent in the cards this time. I'll just have to wait for camping in the fall!
Thought I'd be able to keep up with things and get a posting or two out this week - I got ideas and everything, and they're good, and will be dated by Saturday and so I'll need new ideas! W00t!!1! My wife is headed overseas, so it's not like I'm gonna be a complete wreck or anything until I hear she is in the ground both there and back, but also much stuff needs to be stuff. And such.
So, until then, this is your headquarters for My Little Pony - Friendship Is Magic fanfic.
Ahem.
Sparklepony was on point, her eyes darting back and forth, senses banjo-string tight. It didn't save her.
She whinnied a warning with her last breath, but the other little ponies had seen her drop out of sight and were holding position, looking into the trees...
Mere days after the criminals in the MN Governor's Office, the MN Legislature, and the headquarters of the Minnesota Vikings announce their wonderful deal to give Thug-In-Charge Zygi Wilf $500 million dollars, the MNSCU (Minnesota State Colleges and Universities) is looking at tuition increases, faculty cuts, and facilities and programs cuts. Oh dear, whoever could have seen this coming. Tssk. Tssk.
The supreme irony here. TUITION IS BEING INCREASED FOR KIDS WHO WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE TO SUBSIDIZE PEOPLE WHO NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN COLLEGE.
I love Aaron Rodgers, quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. He brought the Super Bowl Title home, he seems like a good guy, bit of a goofball. But, he did not belong in college. Clay Matthews, LB? Did not belong in college. For the Vikings - Adrien Petersen? Nope. Jared Allen? Could not have gotten into college on his own, no way. The only exception to this rule who springs to mind in Robert Smith, Vikings RB from the 90's-00's, who made a bit of cash as a running back, and then, because he was an academic whiz, retired in his prime with mind and body intact, to study medicine and any other issues that intrigued him. Oh, and Alan Page, former Viking DT and now an associate justice on the MN Supreme Court. There are probably a few others who were able to leave professional athletics and then use their educations to do real good for society, but the percentage is low.
I am not, by any stretch, suggesting these people are stupid. Successful athletes have acquired, or have had innately and then further honed, skill sets not common in the general populace. They have worked very hard, studied very hard, practiced very hard to achieve a goal, and they deserve their accolades. However, the laser-like focus on sports success does not translate well into general academics. Success in academics is only amplified by a sense of curiosity, a willingness to follow a path of inquiry where it leads. Success in athletics is achieved through training the body and mind to respond rapidly, repeatedly, and accurately to a set of stimuli.
People in the rarified world of professional athletes have been told that they were destined for fame and fortune for a very long time. The rules stop applying to them. Especially school rules. Studying the voyages of the Argo takes away valuable time from watching film, training your eyes, arms, and legs to recognize and respond to a stunt blitz. Things slide, sort of, a bit. Well, all of it, really. They get 'help' with homework. The instructor for English 304 stops taking attendance the semester that the starting wide receiver takes the class. The athletes are not in the slightest interested in getting a degree, unless it is in Coaching (a real degree at the school where I went to college - B.S. Athletic Training. Really?!?!) They are wasting space and money, getting scholarships that should go to a poor kid who, after observing the world around him, has a few interesting ideas about civil engineering, but needs further education to develop and apply those thoughts. Or the kid with a love for rocks, or microbiology.
The problem is amplified by the fact that at any given point there are about 1500 professional football players. The high school QB, given a pass in all his classes because he triumphed over the Cross-Town Mouseblowers, didn't make the college team for whatever reason, and as he has never learned how to learn, he can't hack it in college and ends up selling shoes. The star DB on the BCS champion Midwestern University Cowtippers gets burned for two TDs on simple post patterns during the national championship game, does not get drafted, and now, 56 credits shy of his degree in Gymnastics Analysis and out of scholarship money, ends up working for the guy selling shoes.
I am as rabid as anyone in my love for Wisconsin Badgers football. But I am under no illusion that colleges should be wasting money on what is essentially a minor league farm system for the professional leagues. The major sports associations are entertainment, that's all, and produce nothing, nothing, of value to our society. Intra- and inter-mural sports programs have their place, and I am all for those - for exercise, social activities, meetin' chicks. But if the NFL wants a farm system, they can damn well afford it, and let the colleges serve kids who one day will produce value to our country.
And as for the stadium deal? Boy, that started to go stupid even sooner than I would have thought, and I'm a cynical bastard. I need prosecutions. Now.
I've added another blog to the blogroll, All Hands On Deck by The Only Adult In The Room. It is primarily focused on the presidential campaign, and working hard for President Obama.
I need to be very clear here. a.) I am a real liberal. Universal healthcare. Cradle-to-grave education, without fucking intelligent design. Fix the damn roads and pay the damn public employees, who unnoticed, make a great deal of our lives easier (when is the last time you got poop-poisoning from your water tap?). Give people every chance to succeed. b.) I have not been the greatest fan of the President. He has given away much to republican creatures who wish for nothing less than the destruction of the United States as we know it, and want nothing more than to replace it with a feudal theocracy. People who vote republican? Let me be blunt - unless you are one of the 'blessed' few, you are stupid. c.) I nevertheless believe that the President has a good heart, has empathy, and while no longer one of us little people, he has been a regular guy. He has done a number of remarkable things. He has a streak of naivete that concerns me, in that he truly seems to believe that someday republicans will work with him on something, anything. He's wrong. They will burn the country down rather than let a black president succeed, much less succeed at cleaning up the mess left behind by an ignorant, coke-addled frat-boy installed by daddy's friends and kept in his place by a Sith Lord.
As an aside, it says something that the last three Democrats who held the Presidency had been, at one point in their life, regular folk. And all of them quite decent human beings who did good things while in office. I would very happily have a conversation with Pres. Carter, Pres. Clinton, or Pres. Obama. But one of the Bush Crime Family, or Zombie Reagan, or "I've got $10,000 in my pocket, let's bet on it" Mitt $. Rmoney? Why would I want to pollute my life with gibberish, soil my soul with the stench of hate, hate for the poor, hate for women, hate for any person who dares be less than eggshell white? For FSM's sakes, President Jimmy Carter put solar panels on the White House roof, and the ROI was going to be remarkable. The guy who was second billing in a movie with a chimp tore them down as soon as he took office, because the oil company guys didn't like the symbolism.
Romney is a collection of subroutines, a perfectly programmed republican robot, a memorized list of talking points. To steal a phrase, "there is no there, there." He is a windsock, a puppet, wants to be president of the Koch Brothers, by the AIPAC, and for the ALEC. He is completely gutless. For example, he nominated Richard Grenell to be his foreign policy advisor, a man far, far to the neocon right; praised by such human rights luminaries as John Bolton and the Timecube guy; called for war on Iran, Switzerland and North Dakota for the oil reserves. However, Grenell is an openly gay man, and had participated in same-sex-marriage advocacy, and despite his huge, dramatic desire to get blood on his hands, in republican circles he is ravenous animal, dedicated to turning boys to lives of depravity. Sorta like a Catholic priest. The outcry from social right movement leaders such as the Family Research Council, Liberty University, and the Timecube guy led Romney to gag Grenell (and not in the good way), telling him to shut his piehole if any republicans were in on a phone call. This led, not surprisingly, to Grenell's departure before even officially taking the position, with a half-hearted Romney statement to the effect of "Please don't go well if you gotta." Even Bryan Fischer of the American Family Association said, "... if Mitt Romney can be pushed around, intimidated, coerced, coopted by a conservative radio talk show host in Middle America, then how is he going to stand up to the Chinese? How is he going to stand up to Putin? How is he going to stand up to North Korea if he can be pushed around by a yokel like me?"
Please. Yes, I'd love President Bernie Sanders, or President Paul Krugman, but they are not running. Obama has been fine, not thrilling, has a lot to work on, but fine. Romney is NOT an option.
We need to re-elect President Obama.
We need to kick the rotten republicans out of Congress, out of public discourse, and ideally out of the country. Same goes for Blue Dog Democrats and the Democratic Leadership Council/Third Way. Get out, you Koch-sucking bastards! Let's get the United States of America back from the swine.
First off, obligatory but very well meant, happy Mother's Day to all mothers! My mom is a great lady, retired now and active, keeps my dad and her grandchildren more or less in line. She has had a pretty amazing life, including being in Germany through World War II, came to the United States in the 50's, naturalized in the late 70's, leads her hydrorobics class (by virtue of having been there for several years) in her snowbird community. She's a wonderful chica, and I'm damn proud to know her. So to her and all, I hope you've been spoiled today, y'all earned it!
As to my computer virus, an exploration of the problem seems to have revealed no problem, so Imma play it by ear. My dad got pasted by it, though. My question is, given all the ridiculous sites I visit, blackhelicopters.un.paranoia.com, enormouscommie.org, ufosisreal.net, and I seem to ride it out. My dad opens a lolcat and gets creamed. The question being, whatdafudge?
At the end of my vacation. Sweetie is grilling chicken, and I am trying to scrape together a couple uniforms for work. Gotten a lot of work done this week, not nearly the ambitious schedule I had, but we can see flooring in many places we could not before, which has now been covered in kitteh fur anyhow, but ok. I'm beat down, feeling my indeterminate age, which is definitely no longer 21.
The half-empty (my wife says "three-quarters" followed by "holy dammit" and made some other points ranging from nonsensical and illogical to "really?") bottle of Jameson's, the fact that my skin appears to have been in a tragic accident at a sandpaper-and-lemon-juice factory, and the smell of lakewater on more or less everything I took attest to the fact that I had a good fishing opener, not so much fishwise (fishwise? Ummm...) but damned relaxing. Although, I did alright, especially on bass, which happily (for them) are not in season yet and so as a result are very well fed and probably skittish and not being grilled.
The lake at just after sunrise. So amazing peaceful and beautiful.
I was on a mission to replace a supper. On the way up to the lake with my buddy who owns the cabin, we had his dog, and the dog rides in the cab. It was odds-on which of us, the dog or me, sat in the front seat, but as I am a slightly better conversationalist, I won. We stopped for gas and there was a Subway in the service station, so I grabbed a double-tuna sammich, but due to the diabeetus, I could not eat it yet, and set it down. We then had to stop at a Wally-world (I know, I hate them too, but we didn't 'zackly have a choice at that point) so that my friend could get a fishing license. Now it was time to eat for me, so I eagerly headed for the truck, only to find my sammich missing. And the cab smelling like tuna. And a wrapper in the backseat. And then a big, tonguey, dog head flopped up on the center console, panting tuna (for the next two hours. Ugghhh.)
I need a cabin. And retirement. And a boat and...
I was annoyed with the dog, but it was my own damn fault so I couldn't be too torqued off. But my worry was that it was a double-tuna, meaning a pile of salad dressing in it, and I didn't want the dog to be sick, poor thing. But the dog, satisfied with his supper as only dogs can be, didn't miss a beat and spent the rest of the weekend running around like a maniac. Sammich-stealing punk.
In northern MN, fishing opener (and deer opener, duck opener, and such) are the real holidays, and the local radio station was doing fishing news, predictions, conditions, interspersed with a fishing soundtrack.
Seriously, with no snark, I LOVE OPENER!
I'm not a great fisherman, but I'm eager and equipped, and as the saying goes, even a blind squirrel and such... I did alright in the morning, naturally with only one witness who gave me a thumbs up as he passed, so believe me if you will. A mix of stuff all hitting the same wonderful plug - which later disappeared, in the mouth what I can only believe (cause it would be cool) to be a record walleye. I mean, it wasn't, but hey, gimme something here. We spent the remainder of the day, after the necessities of opening a cabin, out on a pontoon, churning up the water with a.)every damn lure invented and b.)a stream of invective as said lures failed to feed us. We survived on pork spare ribs in the smoker, with yukon gold potatoes (also smoked, never tried it before - they were glorious), Jameson's, and cigars; Royales for my buddy, Swisher Sweet Grape for me, but I'm a cheap date. As it got dark and quiet, we were on the porch, bullshitting, seeing satellites, the occasional shooting star, listening to old-time radio programs, Johnny Dollar - Insurance Investigator, the Bickersons, and stuff.
After a little largely luckless turn off the dock this morning (meaning Sweetie is grilling chicken and not impressed by her paleo), we came home.
Lousy picture, but perfect name - the Cease Funeral Home.
I did not need their services, but after getting home, showering, ticking, I had to crash for a bit, well, 3 hours, but felt great!
Could not have been a better vacation. I'm incapable of being fully relaxed, like, ever, but right now I am damn close.
...doing legitimate work.
Posting via phone, as my laptop caught Virtumonde. I ain't'nt got the skills to rip the sumbitch out myself, so no extensive posting for a few days.
Seriously, each and every one of these fuckers could be making Gates money, but they'd rather just be annoying little shits. I want them all deported to teh heart of the nearest star.
Wish me luck fishing...
So, for several years, there have been issues between the Minnesota Vikings, under several ownership groups, and the state of Minnesota, wherein the team wants a taxpayer paid-for Xanadu to play in, with all receipts going to the current bunch of owners thugs. The current owner douchebag desiring the state of Minnesota to fund his retirement is Mafioso-wannabe Zygi "the Mall-Owner" Wilf, billionaire, famous for shaking down northeastern states, New Jersey in particular, for public lands and funding, that he may grant us, teh little people, a site for that up-and-coming chain Hot Topic. Sainthood assured, he turned his attentions to bringing Minnesota a Super Bowl champeenship with the hiring of the hot-handed Leslie Frazier (head coach); the gracing upon running back Adrien Peterson, admittedly one of the most talented players in the ever, a contract rivaling the Pope's, only with more practical shoes and arthroscopic surgeries; and with the courtship of the enigmatic Brett Favre, famous quarterback,and league record holder in many categories including retirements. Now, 3 exciting 2011-12 season wins later, the stadium drama has reached a fever pitch, with a dramatic vote taken last night in the MN on a bonding bill including the stadium.
I allow no rivals in the contempt I hold for Tea Party members whining bitches. In their desire to rein in deficits and clean our fiscal house jail the Kenyan Usurper and regain a white man's civil right to beat women, they, and they alone, are to blame for our extended economic woes. Don't be mistaken - the Dems have been useless, but not particularly harmful. The urge to return to the glorious days of Vichy France is a republican thing. But, I had hope, for once. Although they would be doing it for a stupid reason, to politically hurt Gov. Mark Dayton (who as much as I like him, has made a horrible, horrible decision, pushing for this boondoggle), the Tea-rapists had fought against the public funding aspect of the stadium. And guess what, DFL party, in this case you are being PARTICULARLY harmful. Stop now.
Please understand. As I've said before, Wilf can write a check for the whole damn thing and still afford mac-n-cheese, and if he wants to build the place, more power to him, and he is welcome to all receipts. But putting one taxpayer cent into this, with the enormous problems in Moosesota, is Plain. Flat. Wrong. Dayton will pay a price, and he should.
So. A certain amount of confidence that the Tea-arsonists would end this stupidity. Hell, if they did, I'd probably call them by the first name they chose, out of respect - Teabaggers. Go forth, you uneducable sheep, you hacks, you band of inbreds, and vote!
What the fuck. Ummm, it not only passed, but sailed through? Even with a last minute change in some of the financing, which the Vikings have already quietly declared they would fight, it is still one of the single largest public giveaway to a billionaire in sports?
Dammit! Why can't you yokels have the courage of your poorly reasoned convictions for once. "Well, paleo, a billionaire whistled, and we are just conditioned to turn around and present pucker. Sorry. Just a moment - Yes Mr. Wilf sir?"
I'm taking a cliche this week, a stay-at-home vacation, known by the trendsetters at such hip publications as Time, Newsweek, Bead and Button, and UN Helicopters Weekly as a staycation. Having used the word, dear FSM, may it be scalded, unlike angel hairal dente,out of my brain.
I have a fair list to work on: Clean the garage, mow the lawn, my perpetual motion machine (see my Kickstarter), annoy my wife and spoil my kittehs. Maybe reverse those last two, I'm torn, actually...
Capping things off with a short fishing trip for MN opener, where I intend to slay the mighty bluegill, and leave the stringer tied to the dock for a bit so as the local snapping turtle population does not go hungry.
Eh, maybe I'll skip that step this year.
Imma be up to my sternum in fresh walleye, gnawing on northerns, bass to my ass, covered in sunflower seed shells, reeking of grape cigars, and too sunburned to sit, stand, blink, shower, shave, or sh-never mind. Or I'll be hungover and stop at Cub. Either way, sweetie gets fresh fish Sunday!
I will not be doing what these lunicidal bastards are doing, not from a lack of desire, or ability to create piscine lethalness, but because I can't water ski...
Just taking a snack break, received a fresh shipment of gelignite and about to go into the garage. If I don't come back, tell my mother something cooler than "he was buried under a wave of folding camp chairs. Last we heard, he had found some Diet Dew and a half bottle of Windsor, he's fine, we'll look for him tomorrow."
Scott Walker, college failure and Governor for the Koch Brothers of Wisconsin, raised his head from the pillow, the remnants of freshly molested rodent sliding down his face. It was good to be Da Guv. As long as he did exactly as he was told, he was kept rolling in rat, and as long as he did exactly as he was told his handlers didn't ask too many questions. IOKIYAR, donchaknow. He giggled. An aide knocked on his door, having learned through hard experience never to bother Scottie when the frenzied squeaking could be heard, nor when the smell of celebratory cigar smoke crept under the door. "Governor? Governor Walker? May we talk?" Walker sighed, taking off his souvenir Pepe Le Pew tail from Six Flags Over Illinois, a souvenir of that remarkable night, at 16, when, upon seeing thatRattus norvegicus Berkenhout(he now prided himself on his taxonomical dexterity) behind the elephant ears stand, he realized his destiny, and his need. He put on a sweatsuit and tie - it was important to him that, like his hero Ronald Reagan, he not disrespect his office - and padded to the door. "Yeah, but this better be important. As in Prosser attempting-to-choke-the-shit-out-of-another-judge important." Another giggle slipped out, Scott always felt so high following his afternoon delight. "Sir, the fundraising numbers are in for the first quarter." In trying to maintain his composure, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Thirteen million dollars!" "Yes, goddammit, YES! I knew it! My people love me!" Walker pumped his fist and did a rhythmless dance, as always with the constant refrain of Muskrat Love running through his head. "Governor Walker, over eight million came from out of state, sir." "What, do you think I meant the suckers of this state? I'm talking MY people, stupid! Charles and David, Mr. Adelson, Mr. Friess, and Grover, sweet Grover, such a lovely, ratty neckbeard..." Walker drifted off in reverie. The aide, having payments remaining on his Lexus, edged away, not even daring to touch the door to close it, until out of sight, then broke into a sprint, thinking of baseball.
Via TBogg and Addicting Info comes the story of another dumbass 'Morning Zoo' radio program:
in Cleveland, WMMS FM, 'Teh Buzzard'. You know, Home of the Rockingest Rock That Ever Rocked A Rock.
This jockwannabe's sin against, well, everybody, at least for this day, was:
In response to an email from a father who suspected his daughter was gay after discovering her kissing another girl, DJ Dominic Deiter declared on the air that “You should get one of your friends to screw your daughter straight."
Lemmesee. You gotcher misogyny. Ummm-hmmm. Homophobia. Possible statutory rape, that's a double point square, ooo! Standard paternalistic bullshit, only standard score, fudge. Carry the F-R-A-T....BINGO!
He's a complete fucking douchebag!
Unfortunately, he ain't'ent the only one. Every burg of a certain size in the USA has as least one 'Morning Zoo'. There are two standard types - Home of the RRTERAR ("We have a request for Dethklok, but instead, here's Daughtry!"), or WE PLAY THE EAGLES. LOT'S OF EAGLES. AND BOB SEGER. AND. THE. EAGLES. CAN YOU FEEL THE POWER...
The Twin Cities has a Type 2, the Tom Bernard KQ Morning Show. Wealthy white Limbaugh wannabe broadcasting from his home in Florida, with a local sports reporter, engineer/"prankster", and an unbelievably verbally abused woman. Typical story lead? "A Tsunami killed 150,000 brown people in some country we won't bother to pronounce correctly, and they all had funny names!!! Hahahahaha!! And now, stupid boob-carrier with the weather.""Thanks Tom, sorry I have a vag. Its raining in Andover..." Makes me physically sick to listen to, but wouldn't you know it, most popular show in the Cities, and this rotten goddamn classic rock station is the soundtrack to every jobsite within listening range. Ugh.
Tangentially. Know who else is classic? Zappa. Love. Peter Gabriel-era Genesis. Butterfield Blues Band. Pick one of a thousand bands. Mix it up a little, you ass.
Very often, given my cultural background, I at least try to understand where the sociopathic right is coming from. I thought classic rock was the greatest thing ever, Smoke On The Water, Freedom Rock, Man!, growing up, in a smallish city, with diversity comparable to a cardboard box of Morton's Iodized Salt. But, I finished growing up. I've read, traveled, got my eyes opened to the fact that people are different, and my high-school rivalry with the Cross-Town High Rodent-Molesters don't mean shit. And I pray I've acquired a little empathy, I try to be a decent person, and I sleep okay. As such, this time, I can't understand.
I can't understand the appeal of these shows!
Christ on a crutch, there's a thousand of these bastards, telling the same Obama/commie jokes, telling fathers to arrange their daughter's rape, fellating/crucifying the local sports scene, gleeful pranks such as interviewing homeless people and mercilessly berating them off the mike. What is the draw? Can we please lobotomize the lizard brain? Now?
I don't get it. After DJ Patrick Bateman up there said "get yer daughter raped", how did a mob, lead by the father in question, NOTtear down the station wallsand superglue this jackass to a shipping container bound for the Bermuda Triangle? What is wrong with you listeners? Where's your damn humanity?
