Month: October 2003

I cannot in good conscience condone this type of behavior. Really. I can’t.

On my way to some nebulous nether region between Hillsborough and Durham Tuesday night “on a map it says “here be monsters”, I passed a church that proclaimed “Wal-Mart is not the only saving place” I can’t even begin to express all the reasons why that wigs me out, and if you’re the type of person who reads this blog, I probably don’t have to.

I’ve often wondered if there was a web site where pastors could find snappy new slogans to entice passing motorists, and lo and behold, there are dozens. “I’m not going to link to them, and I’m trying to be careful not to write too many words that might lead one of those pastors or members of their flock to this site, because the last thing I need is a bunch of Hallmarky Christophiles trying to redeem my soul. If you really want to find them, do a search using the word commonly used to describe the house of worship of the dominant religious affiliation in the Southern U.S. – rhymes with “lurch” – and the word for a thingy with words written on it.”

Most of the ones cataloged on those sites are pretty lame, but some are more than a little scary. How about “Jesus is returning – resistance is futile? Or “Firefighters rescue – only Jesus saves” Yeah, take that you prideful firefighters! Or “Going to church does not make you a Christian anymore than going to McDonalds makes you a hamburger” “Best not to think through the logic of that one too carefully.” “As sure as God puts his children in the furnace, He will be in the furnace with them” Thanks, God, but how about we just not get in the furnace? “May your teenage head banger meet The Ageless Heart Knocker! “I’m not sure, but I think they mean Elvis.”

One church even saw fit to quote that famous model of piety and chastity, Lord Byron: “Profanity is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate” Fuck, I wish I’d said that. Still, the one that takes the biscuit for sheer Jesus-meets-Madison-Avenue icky crossover hatefulness is the one I saw a few years ago in front of a church near Pittsboro: “For all you do, His blood’s for you”

The reason I was thrashing Plooblewagon about in BFNC is because I was trying to find Greta’s parents’ Colonial manse for her birthday dinner, at which a good time was had by all. Her father the doctor led us in all kinds of Fun With Your Brain activities. For instance, I learned that because I have to visualize the route before I can give someone driving directions, that means I am parietal-lobe dominant. So all of you parietal-lobe submissives, drop me a line.

He also taught us something else that led to Ingrid doing this, but it’s funnier if I don’t explain it. But it’s not just Ingrid: all the cool, hip kids are doing it.

And finally, in case you were wondering, this is what I will look like when I’m 72. Not too shabby, huh?

even my car can’t stop mentioning Iceland

Say hello to Plooblewagon, brought home Saturday after many hours of half truths, little white lies and outright, barefaced lies from a salesman who was actually wearing a black cowboy hat. In case you care, it’s a 2003 Mazda Protegé5 “with a 5-speed, natch”. And no, it’s not a station wagon. It’s a lifestyle vehicle.

I love owner’s manuals. They assume you are from Uzbekistan and have never operated anything more complicated than a plow. For instance, there are 33 pages of instructions on how to use the seats.

The manual includes these instructions, in the hundred or so pages they expect you to read before attempting the highly dangerous and slightly suspect activity of driving the car.

Before Starting the Engine: After Getting In

Are all doors closed and locked?
Is the seat adjusted properly?
Are the inside and outside mirrors adjusted?
Is everyone’s seat belt fastened?
Has everyone been to the bathroom?
Are you, like, high?
Can’t you get those goddamn kids to shut up?

I know we live in a litigious society, but I think some of the warnings are a bit extreme.

Your Mazda Protegé5 is intended for outdoor use only.

Driving is an inherently dangerous activity. Doing so can be hazardous and result in accident, injury or death and may void your warranty. Mazda does not recommend driving your Protegé5.

Your Mazda Protegé5 is designed to provide years of trouble-free motoring, but it is not designed to drive underwater, through solid objects or in a zero-gravity environment. The Mazda Protegé5 is not a flotation device.

If you must operate your Mazda Protegé5 in traffic, please ensure at least one occupant of the vehicle is in the driver’s seat at all times.

Do not operate your Mazda Protegé5 while under the influence of alcohol or prescription medications, when drowsy, after strenuous physical activity or while dead. Allow one hour after eating to avoid cramping.

Mazda is confident your driving experience will be enjoyable, however should you experience itching or burning, please discontinue use.

The cruise control feature is intended to maintain a steady speed while driving in light traffic conditions. It is not intended to allow you to move freely about the cabin.

Tobacco products are hazardous to your health. Use of the cigarette lighter may void your warranty. Check applicable laws in your area.

While Mazda’s engineers have employed the latest emissions control technologies to make your new vehicle as environmentally safe as possible, it is not recommended to run a length of flexible tubing from the exhaust pipe into the passenger compartment while the engine is running in a garage or other enclosed space.

Mazda recommends keeping both hands on the wheel while operating your vehicle, so don’t go vogueing like that annoying chick in the Mitsubishi commercial.

“Adda gets a co-writer credit for this post”

what is it with me and animal noses?

Hastings has now decided that I feed him every time I stand up. He’s stepped up the “how about a snack?” meow to the “I’m calling the animal protection society, bastard” meow. Every time I put food in his bowl, he spins around and fixes me with this look that I could never figure out. Was he worried that I was going to take it away? Now I realize the look means, “Leave the bag, monkey boy. And it’s only your thumbs that are keeping you alive.”

My friend Bronwyn Merritt has an art show at the Durham Arts Council, and if you can, you should definitely check it out. Primo and I went to the opening, where we ran into Phil Marsupialtuxedo. In between eating all of the little cubes of cheese, we managed to check out the art. Primo bought this piece, which is nice because I’ll get to see it in his house.

Bronwyn’s husband The Chairman was on hand, and I asked him to give me his best Krusty the Clown “Hey hey!” face. I love the old man glasses. He’s the only guy I know who could make them work.

Bronwyn’s youngest fans, Esme and Archer, were there too. In this photo, Archer is reading her name tag. “B – R – O – N – W – Y – N.” “And what does that spell, Archer?” “MOMMY!”

After the opening we went to Bronwyn and Mark’s other major work of art, Hell, for Thursday night bar trivia. Our team, Suck It, Trebek, has been going through a bit of a slump, but I’m happy to report that we triumphed, and won some more giveaway bar crap. This week we had a good run of categories. “Several weeks ago we won the night thanks to our domination of the Beer and Cartoons categories, so Mom and Dad, you’ll be glad to know my degree isn’t going to waste.”

Thursday we got the Russian History category, and Mike totally went to town on it. In the tiebreaker round, he successfully answered questions about director Sergei Eisenstein, the 1812 Overture and its relation to the war between France and Russia, and Molotov and the Russo-German non-aggression pact. Contrast this with my performance in the tiebreaker for the Food and Drink category, where I could not remember how many ounces were in a cup. Good thing to keep in mind the next time I invite you for dinner.

Man. In one week I go from writing about partying with naked Scotsmen to pictures of cats and kids and reporting on a trivia contest. I need to go back to Iceland.

YES! My one-millionth Iceland reference! I fear I am in danger of becoming someone who could be lampooned in an Onion headline reading, “Aging Hipster Manages to Work Iceland Trip into Every Conversation.”

could be worse – he could have gotten a tattoo

I’ve posted a gallery of my Iceland photos. I think there are maybe three that were taken in daylight. <a href=”This one didn’t seem worth preserving for posterity, but I still enjoy it. It says, “Warning: Björk is going through a Sherlock Holmes phase.”

What’s the statute of blog limitations for writing about your trip? I suppose I should go out and do something American so that I can move on. Maybe I’ll go to the mall, or invade somebody.

I’ve been home from Iceland for four hours. I am very, very sleepy. My eyes itch. My upper lip feels funny. I’m having that looming and staring and trying to remember how to type feeling. So why am I up and writing in my blog about Iceland when basically I’ve been writing in a blog about Iceland for the last four days? Because that one was for them. This one is for you. And just like in the daily diary where “we” meant “I,” in this case “you” means “me.”

Plus I’m really digging being back on a keyboard that doesn’t go all umlauty on me when I least expect it.

The trip home was relatively uneventful, despite my many close encounters on the Baltimore-to-Raleigh leg with a pair of fellow passengers from a country where the preferred mode of travel is clinging to the outside of trains. Not only did the man basically sit on me in the departure lounge, but he chose the seat next to me on the plane, thanks to Southwest’s cattle car approach to boarding. Then he placed his left elbow into my right side and held it there until it was necessary to move it to answer his mobile, which rang while we were landing. And he had a dry, hacking cough, which he made full use of throughout the flight from BWI to RDU. Should I succumb to dengue fever or beri beri in the next few days, be sure to send my regards to Passenger X.

Last night was the Airwaves wrap party, but I totally blew it off. After four days averaging three hours of sleep, I moved into a hotel for the final night, for a variety of reasons too mundane to catalog. But it was fantastic, and not just because I saw this from my window this morning. Being in the hotel allowed me plenty of time to re-establish my love for the minibar, which in turn helped me to ponder what the hell this sign hanging on the towels might mean. I also got to do my favorite thing in the world: order from room service, who supplied me with the worst $34 meal in history.

I just didn’t have the rock in me last night. I fell asleep at 8:00 p.m. with every intention of sleeping until about ten minutes before my plane took off, but I sprang fully awake at midnight. Apparently my body thought I was napping in preparation for once again staying up all night. From midnight until 4:00 a.m. I surfed the eight channels available. I especially enjoyed the Germans Doing Really Mundane Things channel, and the Two Guys Talking About Videos in Icelandic channel. There was also a channel with trivia questions in Icelandic. The multiple choice list of potential answers for one question was “Oscar Wilde, Robert Downey Jr., Kofi Annan.” I’m having no more luck coming up with a question for that list of answers than I had in the middle of the night with half a minibar in me.

And I watched “Detroit Rock City.” Perhaps if you’ve ever been in a similar situation you can understand how annoying it was to be wide awake watching “Detroit Rock City” at 4:00 a.m.

This morning I walked into town to buy some CDs by some of the Airwaves bands “Icelandic gangsta rap party at my house!” and availed myself of all that Reykjavík has to offer at 10:00 a.m., which is basically nothing. I suppose I could have gotten something to eat here, but there’s something about a chain of fast food places with a name reminiscent of the physical act of vomiting that I find strangely unappetizing.

I’m fading here, but I do have to share a story that is to date my favorite blog experience. “Warning: if it will lower your opinion of me to find that I am a shameless attention whore, stop reading now.” Before I went over, I wrote here about how excited I was to see the Icelandic band Ske, who I missed last year and whose album I fell in love with after I got home. I saw their show Thursday night, and it was amazing. I wrote about it the next day in the daily diary. Saturday night I was in a club, and an Icelandic guy walked up to me and asked, “Are you Fistful of Ploopie?” “Ploopie, Plooble… who can blame the guy.” It was Hrannar from Ske, who, according to the liner notes, plays rafgítarar, gítarar and forritun. Being a musician, and therefore a bit of a shameless attention whore himself, he had done a web search after their show to see if anybody had written about them yet, found this site and recognized me as the guy who was taking pictures at the show and singing along. We had a brief chat, and he’s a very nice guy, which makes me feel even worse that I invited them to a party after their show with no beer and a naked Scotsman.

Okay, now I’m going to bed. Or maybe I’ll be watching a really bad movie.

I’m a little worried about that molar

Want an update on my week in Iceland? Well, it’s like this. It’s 4:00 a.m. and you’re in a bar and someone asks if he can use your camera and it’s Siggi Baldursson “formerly of the Sugarcubes and now involved in a lot of cool other stuff”, and he takes that self portrait and hands you your camera back. And then someone hits you in the face <a href=”<a href=”http://plooble.typepad.com/bleef/rose in the face.html” onclick=”window.open”‘http://plooble.typepad.com/bleef/rose in the face.html’,’popup’,’width=528,height=396,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0′”; return false”with a rose.

So, it’s like that.