Category: neck deep in the zeitgeist

now THAT’S a banknote

I decided when I started this blog that I didn’t want it to turn into some kind of low-rent Andy Rooney-style whinge-athon, nor did I ever want to sound like a lame stand-up comedian. If I couldn’t think of anything more interesting to say than “What is the deal with… or “Who’s the genius who greenlighted… then I wouldn’t say anything at all.

Still, what is the deal with the new $20 bill? Who’s the genius who greenlighted that? It looks like an old twenty that’s been doodled on by an obsessive compulsive and then had a peach Snapple spilled on it. Why must we have the ugliest money on earth? Isn’t it bad enough that we flood the world with our worst TV shows, movies, music, beer and fast food? “Not to mention our foreign policy.”

The coolest money I’ve ever seen was in The Netherlands “also in the running for the coolest country I’ve ever seen”, back before they were forced to adopt the Euro “which could be worse I suppose, but it ain’t no sunflower”. The fifty guilder note pictured above is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, money or not. I wish I had kept one, but I visited when I was 17 and 50 guilders was an expensive souvenir back then.

There are a few web sites dedicated to the glory of the old Dutch money. Here’s a good one.

Why can’t we have money like that? Hell, I bet I could design a better bill than the stupid new twenty. Hang on.

There. What do you think?

the finger thing continues to sweep the nation

I’m trapped in my study. Four carpenters are here installing my new back door, which is going to be very nice “and for that I sincerely thank you, Mr. Burglar”. Since I can’t leave the house and the TV is in the room with the hammering, I’m stuck in here writing in my blog, IMing and surfing the web. It’s like having a job again.

Even though it’s my living room they’re tool-belting around in, every time I walk in there I feel as though I’ve wandered onto their construction site. They’re making no secret of the fact that, my house or not, they’d prefer it if I just stayed the hell away. Besides, I made the mistake of letting them see my drill, which is red and weak, as opposed to theirs, which are yellow and mighty. I have tool envy. “Knock yourself out, Myküll.”

There’s plenty of groaning and banging and cursing coming from the other room. I’m afraid to look. After every noise I expect to hear, “Mr. Thomas? Turns out the door doesn’t fit but you’ll have to pay for it anyway, and we’re going to leave your back wall open for the next six to eight weeks until the new door comes in, which is gonna be twice what this one was. And we’ve broken everything in your house” Hastings is locked upstairs in his secret hiding room, and he must think the world is coming to an end. His two least favorite things – loud banging noises and vacuuming – have been going on all day. “Adda said he’s sure we’re down here building a cat guillotine.” But he’s going to have hours of high-quality powersniffing tonight.

I had dinner Saturday night with the Blogtown All-Stars, minus Myküll “Rebecky, Jesse and Mr. and Mrs. Pinky”. We ate at Panang, a new Pan-Asian Sino-Thai Confusion restaurant in Chapel Hill, in the building formerly occupied by the much-missed Pyewacket. “There were guys at the bar who used to hang out at Pyewacket, which really confuses me since Pyewacket was cool and welcoming and Panang has an ambience you normally find only at airports and theme parks.”

I have a standard of service inherited from my German-born restaurateur grandfather, and it’s hard to match these days in any place charging less than $150 for a meal. Panang nearly blew my gaskets. It’s only been open for a week or so, but still, you would think they might have mastered the art of the water glass by now. While we were trying to figure out which darting apparition with a notepad was assigned to our table, we watched a conversation between a patron and the hostess. We couldn’t hear what was said, but it was obvious from the body language that the words “ridiculous” “incompetent and “never coming back were used. People at bare tables all around us gazed about helplessly like shipwreck survivors. Several times one of the black-clad underwaiters came up to our table and, very pleasantly, said things like, “You still don’t have your food? and “You still don’t have your check? with a bemused look that indicated he had as little control over the situation as we did. Food did show up randomly throughout the course of the two and a half hours we were there, and often it was what we ordered. Ridiculous. Incompetent. Never coming back.

The evening did have considerable charms, though, thanks to the company. We played one of my favorite restaurant games: everybody picks an item from the menu and uses that name for the rest of the evening. “I did this at Acme once with my friend Bill and his wife Jana. Bill was Sweet Butter Biscuit and I was Lime Rickey. We decided he was a middleweight boxer and I was his manager.” Saturday, Rebecky was Coconut Fried Rice, Jesse was Yam Pot, Mr. Pinky was Curry Mee and I was Volcano Pork Chop. “I always pick mine before I suggest the game.” And Pinky? Pinky was Pi Pa Duck. Of course she was. A Pi Pa Duckier person I’ve never met.

there comes a point in the evening when Carmen Miranda has a mustache

Halloween, Shmalloween.

That might be a little harsh, but Halloween in Chapel Hill can be a real pain in the ass. The town is invaded by thousands of dipshits in the lamest excuse for costumes, turning Franklin Street into a sea of, well, dipshits in lame costumes. I suppose my antipathy for this particular holiday stems from my days as a newspaper photographer, when I was forced to wade in neck deep and try to get a decent picture for the front page. “Whenever anything happened downtown, I had to be there. If it was a protest march, it meant I would basically be running backwards from Chapel Hill to Carrboro.” My search for one good photo became four hours of “hey, nice photographer costume,” interspersed with entreaties from drunken sorority girls in football jerseys to take their picture and mail it to them.

Okay, yeah, sure, it’s fun, but it doesn’t exactly bring out the best in the student population. On my way home tonight, in and around dodging costumed or shirtless inebriates lurching into the street, I saw a kid in a pink rabbit suit run out in front of a police car, apparently to alert the officer to the presence of an overturned shopping cart on the sidewalk. Thanks, Crimestopper Bunny! And it’s 3:30 a.m. and I can still hear the occasional “woohoo!” through my open window, not to mention revving engines and squealing tires. “Ah, that’s probably just Primo.” Oh, hey! I just heard an explosion! Terrific.

I suppose all this is making me sound even more curmudgeonly than usual, but I did have a good time tonight. I made the right decision, and spent the evening in Durham at a Halloween/birthday party for Mae West. I really do have a lot of very clever friends. Check out the costumes in the Halloween photo gallery, located over there. See? There. No, there.

I managed to sneak back into town without running down anybody in a cat suit, and dropped off the Tiki God and Goddess in Carrboro. On the way to my house I stopped at a light and noticed two women on the sidewalk, dressed as a naughty nurse and a naughty schoolgirl. “Okay, maybe Halloween isn’t so bad.” When I looked up again, they were walking toward my car with beseeching looks on their faces. I rolled down my window, with an exchange from “Detroit Rock City” running through my mind. “”This is how horror movies start.” “Yeah, but this is also how porno movies start!”” But since this is my public blog and not my private fantasy journal, they turned out to be two students from Charlotte who had gotten separated from their friends, and all they wanted was a ride to the house where they were staying.

Or was it?

“Gosh, it’s such a nice night,” the nubile nurse said in a husky voice, “and this uniform is awfully warm…”

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.”