Album Review: The Uncle Steves - Plein de Couleurs

The realm of DIY music is usually a murky black hole of time and taste, requiring much more clicking and surfing around the internet, through discographies and track listings, than listening. When something worthwhile is discovered, it becomes this talisman, rabidly protected by obsessive hipsters and pretentious online music critics.

Such is the case for The Uncle Steves, the musical alias for the self-taught, multi-instrumentalist, Chris Picciuolo, of Aurora, Illinois. A prolific artist, he's put out six full-length recordings from 2010 to 2015, with enough music to make the sixth one a "greatest hits" of sorts, adding some new compositions and previously unreleased tracks. It is easy to acknowledge Picciuolo's growth as a musician, as it is clearly heard in his ambition to learn keyboards, guitar, harmonica, bass guitar, and complex production techniques. It is important to note that these last six years have been a process. He has not "mastered" these instruments in the traditional sense, although it is clear that he understands theory,  measure, key, scales, and the more complex aspects of creating a piece of modern music. These albums are snapshots in time of his discovery of what these different sounds add to his music.

Picciuolo is primarily a percussionist and poet. He put in his time on the Chicago club circuit drumming in different bands, as well as hiring out his services to local studios. The Uncle Steves first album, Live from Dan's Basement, is a sparse, earnest exploration of rhythm and melody, recorded on various computer multi-track software, jumping from one 30-day trial to another. The final mix was completed on Audacity, a freeware recording studio. Utilizing a bass guitar, drums, some keyboards, and vocals run through a USB Rock Band video game microphone, the album is raw and self-aware, sometimes venturing into self-deprication. With song titles like "Hot Messopotamia", "Bell Biv Devoted to You", and "Drown & Out", Picciuolo has seemed to work very hard to remind the listener that he is not to be taken seriously, that any perceived pretension is purely tongue-in-cheek. The few music videos he has made, with a rag-tag crew of friends and borrowed equipment from the local community college television station where he was also employed, have featured costumed characters: Santa Claus, a gorilla, Picciuolo himself in an enormous afro wig, frolicking amidst cheap video effects, like the opening scene of a cable-access, furry, porn interpretation of Alice Through the Looking Glass. The music, however, makes a liar out of The Uncle Steves. Referencing structures and atmospheres of traditional genres of American music: blues, jazz, garage rock, psychedelia, this is clearly made by a musicophile and musicologist for other like-minded enthusiasts - Serious music for serious people!

Plein de Couleurs is the most mature recording from The Uncle Steves so far. At approximately 40 minutes, the 12 instrumental tracks meander across genre, stitched together by Picciuolo's impeccable sense of rhythm.

The albums first track, "Dance of the Helios Megistos", begins with heavy, rhythmic power chords that almost crescendo, but instead seem to reluctantly give way to a Beatlesque breakdown, heavy on the trippiness. Picciuolo's head for melody, transition, and timing is clear throughout this track. Punctuated by layered keyboard jamming and stand-out drumming, it seems to push the boundaries of 4/4 time.

There is a noticeable lack of bass in "It's Springtime & The Empire Hasn't Fallen Yet", which is odd for an Uncle Steves song. It is an exercise in production, showcasing droning power chords and layered, tentative acoustic approaches at scale. Listening to this in a set of nice Bose headphones, I smiled when, near the end of the song, a breathy, blues harmonica bounced between speakers and eventually rested in the back, right corner of my head.

The title of the third track, "Comet Surfing", sounds like it could be a forgotten Joe Satriani track. It's boogie-woogie blues that sounds like a restless warm-up session, jumping time signature and threatening to lurch into a minor key before floating into a layered, musical yoga pose. The dubbed acoustic blues solo and background "Ah's" are harmonized like they are surprise guests within the rhythm, tentatively bobbing and weaving until they finally settle and ride out the rest of the tune.

"Shout Across the Asteroid Belt" is a fun blues progression. This is where Picciuolo's talent for melody shines, like everything he's ever absorbed from the Beatles has been synthesized and reinterpreted in one song. Another important note in this track is the fact that he finally sounds like a guitarist. His guitar work on previous albums served as another exploration of melody, feeling its way through the key, scale, and rhythm. This track, "It's Springtime and The Empire Hasn't Fallen Yet", and a few others on Plein de Couleurs are confidently driven by Picciuolo and his guitar.

"Sleepwalking Through the Apocalypse" begins with the only vocals on the album: the deep, "Hey, man. You alright? Don't worry. Here. Just take one of these." It then proceeds to deliver in kind. This track could find a home on any number of albums cut by Woodstock-era artists with its safe layering of acoustic pleasantry and filtered finger-tapped floor tom. Those in search of a mellow LSD trip will definitely see the benefits of this tune.

 

As soon as "Touching The Sky With your Mind" kicks in, I thought, Yassssssssss! There's the bass! Showcasing Picciuolo's love affair with old pianos and juxtaposition of melody disguised as cacophony, this track is very reminiscent of earlier work from The Uncle Steves. It's a plodding, foreboding sonic assault, and it's a welcome surprise amid the simmering chill of the rest of the album.

"Lyra" is the most modern-sounding, "indie" track on the record. The exploration and experimentation with melody and scale hearkens back to Mellow Gold-era Beck or, oddly, even the Beastie Boys on their interesting journey into musicology and instrumental expression, The Mix-Up. "Lyra" is a fun, atmospheric bicycle ride.

The distorted lead guitar layered over the deliberate acoustic rhythm of "Butcher's Blues" is a seemingly undeniable proclamation of Picciuolo's choice to live his life vegan. The basic blues progression is something that everyone can understand, but the raw, searching notes of the solos allude to arguments that cannot be resolved in two minutes and forty-eight seconds.

"Thirst for Change". I. Love. This. Tune! It's a smokey, 2AM, country & western dirge that evokes a last shot of whiskey and dreamless, hotel-room slumber atmosphere. The synthesized strings and subtle electronica transitions give it this current, frenetic feel, while the distorted chord punctuation keeps it rooted in the C&W of Hank Williams and Roger Miller.

The electric & acoustic blues flirtation, "Closed-Eye Hallucination", is an inspired layering that I wish would have been a longer piece. There are quite a few directions Picciulo could have taken it. Another 24 bars and some drums could have made this a more memorable track. They still can, if he decides to go the Kanye route.

The album's final song, "Death Guru", features a public-domain vocal track of some sort of new-age, self-help lecture, with a backing track of canned-sounding drums and Styx-Cornerstone-inspired keyboard noodling. The bassa nova transition at 2:35 seems the perfect, and only, way to play this album out, leaving the listener restless, but satisfied, most likely mouthing, or actually saying, Huh... not as a question, but as a statement.

DELETED TRACK REVIEW: The weakest track on the record is the four-minutes of pre-programmed synthesizer rhythm "Bursting Through The Exosphere". And by weakest, I mean it can be salvaged. Maybe. It needs to be trimmed by at least a minute, as well as another pass through post production to rearrange the track presentation so it doesn't sound so much like he stumbled upon a keyboard setting and just went with it. This recording is passable for the background at a party, but I found my attempt at actively engaging with it infuriating. Even the Styx-inspired keyboard noodling can't save it. 

Mistah Kurtz, AKA Doctah Idges, is a wildly famous music critic and author of the books, The Day Burl Ives and I Spent Reading Italian Poetry in the Hot Tub of a NorCal B&B. He has published academic critiques of Tiny Tim's complete discography, as well as Judy Tenuta's unauthorized biography, There is a Possibility of it Occurring. This review was the result of the author and Mr. Picciuolo imbibing LSD-spiked YooHoo and jumping on a trampoline outside of a cabin in Stoddard, WI for intermittent, seven-hour stretches.

The Uncle Steves Bandcamp page.

The Uncle Steves Facebook page.

The Uncle Steves Soundcloud page.

 

Birth Certificates, Propaganda, Dead Terrorists, and How Facebook Can Ruin a Good Time

Thursday, May 5, 2011 10:56 AM



It's been just over 84 hours since I first heard about Osama Bin Laden's dispatch at the hands of American Navy SEALs in Pakistan. I am embarrassed to admit that I learned about it from FaceBook, while taking the dog out for a walk, after putting the girls to bed. I wasn't watching Celebrity Apprentice to see the news stations break in to announce an important message from the president. I didn't have the opportunity to surmise that he was going to come on to announce an alien attack, or nukes headed our way, or to just gloat at his ability to be able to break into the broadcast of Trump's show. I learned it through reading posts on my news stream from Facebook friends.

The boys were still awake after I got back from my walk, and there was some homework emergency that needed immediate attention. I mentioned to Karen about the news I read, and she looked mildly interested; but, mostly, she looked like she really wanted all of her children to finally be in bed.

It wasn't until late Sunday night that I was able to check the news sites on my computer, and it seemed as if what my Facebook friends were posting was the latest: The President broke into Celebrity Apprentice (and ALL the other television shows on at that time slot) to announce that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by U.S. military forces, and very soon after the announcement was made, people streamed into the streets of New York and other cities chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I fell asleep wrestling with how I felt about that.

That morning, I'd watched footage of Obama roasting Donald Trump at the White House Correspondents' Dinner and guffawed over my Sunday Tribune, opened to Steve Chapman's and Clarence Page's attempts to break down the psychology of The Birthers.

Of the Birther phenomenon, Chapman writes:

Birthers don't dislike Obama because they think he was born abroad. They think he was born abroad because they dislike him. People of this bent don't proceed from facts to a conclusion. They prefer to reach a conclusion and then scrounge for any facts - or "facts" - that support it. For them, being told Obama is a natural-born American is like being told he's a loving father and a loyal friend. They wont' buy it because it doesn't confirm what they want to be true.

The phenomenon, of course, is not limited to conservatives or Republicans. It's endemic to partisans and ideologues of every stripe. In a 1988 survey, Democrats were far more likely than Republicans to believe that inflation and unemployment rose under President Ronald Reagan - though they had actually fallen.

Page postulated on the further attempts Trump will take to besmirch Obama's character, "... saying what many others would like to say if they only had his bully pulpit, even when he uses it for real bullying."

In Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11, he painted a very strong picture of GW Bush and his incompetence, which was strongly defended by many on the left, but parts of Moore's story were proven to be more propaganda and conjecture than originally believed. Moore created his film for a specific audience, who would echo his sentiments back to him and to their friends as well as into arguments and defense of a very particular point of view about 9/11 and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

These two journalists and filmmaker touch on what Carl Rogers wrote about extensively in in 1961 in his book, On Becoming a Person. In the opening of part one, titled "Speaking Personally", Rogers writes "I speak as a person, from a context of personal experience and personal learnings."

I've had a number of conversations, spanning a great spectrum of opinion and experience, on Facebook with friends and relatives over the past three days. I posted the now-famous Situation Room picture, drawing some humorous musings on what the president and his staff could have been watching, and from these guesses, stirred up a scolding from another friend who deemed us in "poor taste". I expressed a negative reaction to someone posting a supposed picture of a dead Osama Bin Laden on her Facebook news stream (a picture that was later revealed to be doctored), stating that it was the first thing in the morning, and that my children are present. I was, again, scolded by someone else on that thread who justified her expertise as claiming herself ex-USMC, stating, "Kids see worse on video games." I was labeled anti-American for expressing concern at the tackiness of the chanting of USA! USA! in the nation's capital and in NY. Some have championed this a huge win for America; others as a huge win for Christianity. A few have come at it oppositely, questioning whether Osama Bin Laden actually had anything to do with the attacks on the WTC and The Pentagon, and the failed attempt on the White House and the Capital on September 11, 2001; questioning if killing this man is just a meaningless action to further a much larger, hidden agenda.

There have been the media attacks from all over the spectrum, too. The sound clips of George Bush, during his second term in office, basically stating that he had given up looking for Osama Bin Laden juxtaposed with Obama stating, during his campaign, that he would find Osama Bin Laden and kill him. There has been the criticism of Obama for going to NY today to lay a wreath at Ground Zero. There has been the ongoing argument of whether past presidents should be allowed to share in the responsibility of helping to take this man down, or whether they should be given sole credit, or none at all.

It went down very much like it was described it would go down by Bush's team, circa 2003. The military would rely on intelligence to find the exact whereabouts of the terrorist leader, a specially-trained, small team would penetrate the armor, go in and capture or dispatch the bad guy. Somehow, that description became blurred in the larger military initiative of moving into Iraq. There was money to be made, according to some detractors of the war in Iraq. What I do know was that this situation quickly became something that could no longer be described by the president or his staff. It seemed to be out of control.

And, then, we got Saddam Hussein - sent in special forces to extract him from his spider hole. Parts of Iraq rejoiced. Other parts vowed revenge. America breathed a collective sigh of relief. Something went our way, for a change. Hussein was tried and executed. We moved forward. Terror threats did not subside. Troops did not come home. Duct tape sales increased.

Personally, I believed at this time that Bush had surrounded himself with enough competent people (Cheney included. I thought that his soullessness might even be an advantage to running an offensive against religious fundamentalist terrorists) that he might be able to pull this thing off - that might be able to isolate the bad guys from the rest of the world's Muslim population - that might be able to achieve some objectives and get our troops home without losing the faith of the American people.

What I did not take into account though, was EVERYONE's context of personal experience, and how the media has played to these different contexts. It seems that, whatever news you might want to hear, there's a channel for it, there is someone speaking directly to you and what you believe, and where you come from. That, for whatever you do not want to believe, there is someone else who has said something to support that somewhere on TV, or the internet, or YouTube. It seems that everything has become the OpEd section of the high school newspaper. Big news networks have started running comments to blog posts as bits of news on the tickers below the broadcasts. Journalism in our nation has become the same pot of coffee run through the same machine five, six, seven times over... And, we're getting ready to pour it through the strainer again. Who's going to drink it, though, now? Nobody wants to. That much is obvious.

There are no photos of Bin Laden's dead body. There are very detailed accounts of what went down. There are contrasting stories as to what Bin Laden did seconds before getting a few bullets pumped into him. There are recycled opinions traveling at confounding speed all over the radio waves and television stations, emails and forum threads as to what should have been done, and what should happen, now that whatever has been done is done.

I do know this. When the troops start coming home, my smile will widen. When the terror threats subside, I will breathe easier.

Right now, I have more important things to worry about, like how to tie a ponytail into the hair of a girl who clearly would rather be riding a stuffed horse, or talking an eleven-year-old through a tough loss in a soccer game that most definitely should have been won, or determining what the best bedding is for the bottom of a gerbil cage.

Celebrity Tragedy & Blackmetal Nonfiction

Wow. What a week.

Bernie Mac passed away in a Chicago hospital from complications due to pneumonia; Isaac Hayes was found dead in his home; and, Morgan Freeman is still in the hospital after a near-fatal traffic accident. My best friend's teenage son, in a somber conversation with his father about these three African American trailblazers, observed, "Someone really should go check on James Earle Jones."

Of course, the response to these events is whirlwind at best for about a day after they happen, then it's back to all-Miley-all-the-time (with a dash of Jonas Brothers for the teenage girls, cougars, and pedophile queens) It seems, according to the media, that celebrity tragedy only exists as justification for our trivial lives, once it gets analyzed and talked to death, with sound bytes, video clips, and lingering, dramatic shots of photographs from these people's lives, placed behind the narration to obviously make the viewer feel the opposite of what is being said about the celebrity.

In the middle of all this, I have unabashedly entered into a full-on obsession with the tragic events surrounding the Norwegian black metal band, Mayhem. According to Wikipedia, the band has existed in one form or another from 1984 until present day, and, almost from the start, the band gained notoriety from the grisly decisions and actions of its band members, the most controversial surrounding the suicide by shotgun of the first lead singer, Per Yngve Ohlin (aka Dead) in 1991. Apparently, the guitarist, Øystein Aarseth (aka Euronymous), found him and, instead of notifying authorities, ran to the nearest drug store, bought a disposable camera, returned to the scene, rearranged the body for a more aesthetic scene, and proceeded to take many pictures. One of these pictures was stolen by someone close to the band and used for the cover of a 1995 bootleg Mayhem recording called Dawn of the Blackhearts (VERY grisly image. Please open at your own discretion!)

It's unfathomable to me, sometimes, how events that define and end other people's lives become simple elements of passing time in the lives of others. I have the program StumbleUpon installed on my browser, and as a reward for finishing work, I will allow myself one, two, maybe three stumbles. I became entrenched in the Mayhem lore from a site that listed the ten sickest blackmetal album covers, and I am no better a person for the knowledge I have acquired today.

Bang Your Head!!!

Metal health will drive you mad!

Hilary 08

I'd vote for her.

Obama: Just click the pics, yo!

"Happy Christmas, yer arse, I thank God it's our last."

So, I've not been writing, here at least, for quite some time. I'd like to change that. I miss writing about bizarre and fun things like George Romero, zombies, 80's porn, punk rock, and my fear and loathing of everything Oprah: things I can't necessarily cover on my family blog because my grandmother reads it.

So, keep checking back, commenting and such, and I will keep coming back and gracing you with my blinding mediocrity.

In the meantime, enjoy one of the best Christmas songs EVER:

The Ongoing Saga of Frankie, the Anarchist, Punk-Rock Cat

We moved back to the Green Trails subdivision of Lisle last August. We had previously lived in a newer, larger house in south Naperville, but we quickly grew homesick for the wooded, small neighborhood charm of the area where we used to live.

The new house is smaller and older, but it is located on a cul-de-sac, so the street gets virtually no traffic. We thought of it as a perfect location because the back yard is large enough and set far enough off the main street that the children can play safely around the house without us having to worry much.

The family across the street has 3 boys ranging from the ages of 7 to 12. There are toddler girls on the block who, we are sure, will be playing with our daughters this summer, and there are high-school students up and down the block who will possibly make good babysitters over the next few years. This is the perfect area for us.

Our next-door neighbors, we'll call them the Rationále's, greeted us warmly the first few times we met them. They told us about the wonderful relationship they had with the family who lived in the house before us, an elderly Chinese couple named John & Cora.

Mother Rationále, we’ll call her Screechy Hag for reasons to be explained later, believes the world revolves around her 16-year-old daughter, who we’ll call Daughter of Screechy Hag. Karen and I sense that there were health difficulties during the pregnancy or during Daughter of Screechy Hag’s infant years that created this obsession in her mother, but a relationship that can be endearing becomes odd and annoying with this family.

Example from a conversation from last August:

Dan: Ah, yes. The weather is gorgeous, isn’t it?

Screechy Hag: Yes. We love to be outside. DoSH (Daughter of Screechy Hag’s nickname) would live outside if we let her.

Dan: Yeah. I notice she’s really into basketball.

Screechy Hag: Oh, yes. She is going to try out for the Naperville North girls team. I think she’ll make it. She can do anything she wants, when she sets her mind to it. She runs five miles a day.

Dan: Reeeaaaallly? Hmmmmm.

(Editor’s note: In the hundreds of times Dan has seen DoSH playing basketball in their driveway, he can count on one hand the number of baskets he has witnessed her actually make. Furthermore, he has never seen her run.)

Screechy Hag: How old are your twins?

Dan: They’re one. They just started to walk.

Screechy Hag: DoSH started walking at 2 months.

Dan: Really! That’s great.

Screechy Hag: I noticed your son plays soccer.

Dan: Oh, yes. We love it. It’s our obsession.

Screechy Hag: DoSH plays lacrosse. It’s a better sport. And she’s the best lacrosse player who has ever lived.

Dan: Wow!

Screechy Hag: Yeah. She’s great at everything she does. If you ever need a babysitter, DoSH would love to do it.

(At this point in the conversation, Dan looks up over Screechy Hag’s shoulder to see DoSH on top of a nine-year-old neighbor pummeling him about the face and shoulders.)

Dan: Wow! Yeah. Thanks for the offer. We’re good for now. Linsay is great with the kids. We’ll keep DoSH in mind, though.

Screechy Hag: Your loss!

Dan: I guess it is.

The Rationále family are dog people. I don’t mean that in a Tank Girl kind of way; however, the way Screechy Hag’s whole world is DoSH, both women’s world is their dog, Franklin. Screechy Hag can often be found having long conversations with Franklin in the front yard. In these conversations, she pauses and nods as if she is listening (during these pauses, Franklin sniffs a flower or licks his privates), and then responds, usually quite loudly, and shrilly, sometimes accompanied by a minor flailing of the limbs. When DoSH and her mother may be arguing about something in the front yard (again, with the loud, and the shrill, and the sometimes flailing of limbs… Times two), DoSH will plead with Franklin to be on her side for just this once.

We have a mangy, ill-tempered cat named Frankie who, since his kitten years has systematically gotten his ass kicked by whichever neighborhood wildlife he has chosen to tangle: other cats, squirrels, rabbits, voles, groundhogs, opossums, toddlers, and the occasional grasshopper. We’ve lived in three houses since he was a kitten, and he has never won a fight. He does, however, possess one talent of which he is immeasurably proud: the ability to drive any dog into a frothing, apoplectic frenzy simply by sitting just out of reach and completely ignoring the writhing beast.

The moment Screechy Hag saw our cat she cautioned me that we should really keep our cat inside because if Franklin got a hold of him, he’d be torn apart, and we just couldn’t hold them responsible for that. I looked at Franklin, a Dauschound about a foot-and-a-half long and not even a foot off the ground, and thanked her for her warning (it was polite enough, I thought. She was concerned about our cat being mauled by her Oscar Meyer wiener, and she didn’t want us to hold it against their family.). I assured her that Frankie is a professional; he’s been an outdoor cat since he was a kitten, and while he has made a habit of losing fights, he’s relatively harmless, and he does come inside most nights. She then told me that Lisle has leash laws and, while she doesn’t care, some people have been known to call Animal Control on roaming animals. I thanked her again for the warning, and assured her that Frankie could take care of himself, to which she replied, “DoSH has been taking care of herself since she was 6 months old.”

OK, then.

I should have known…

Actually, I thought I did know. We decided that, in order to hold the stuff that accumulates with having four children, we would need to purchase a shed to put in our back yard. I paid a visit to the Rationále’s, who have a storage shed in their backyard, hidden behind a fence. I asked them if they would have a problem if we put a shed in our back yard. Father Rationále, we’ll call him PEM for reasons that will become evident later, assured me that, as long as we were not setting it up too close to the path behind the house, they (speaking for the household Rationále) would not have a problem. Screechy Hag cited (wrongly) specific building codes of Lisle and stated that some people in the neighborhood are real sticklers about sheds and stuff, but as long as the shed is on our property, there should be no problem. I remarked that the only way there would be any kind of problem is if someone specifically called the village and asked them to come out measure the placement of the shed, right? They both agreed. Right.

A month after we put up the shed, a village representative showed up on our doorstep responding to a complaint made by “someone in the area”. Our shed is over the line by four feet, not onto our next-door neighbor’s property, but onto the easement area needed for servicing the power box. Our bad. Now, we need to find someone who will help us move this building back onto our property.

I can handle that. We were wrong in our estimation, just like many other residents who could not wade through the legalese in the Lisle Building Codes to determine exactly where to place a shed. The contractors set the foundation down measured it from the path and from the neighbor’s property line. It appeared a safe distance away from annoying anyone: us (by being too close to the house), the neighbors, city workers coming to work on the power box, so we gave them the OK to continue building it. It was out of their hands then.

One day around this same time, Aidan came running into the house in hysterics. He told us that Screechy Hag & Daughter of Screechy Hag told him and Jacob that if they didn’t keep our cat off of their property, they would call the police to come and take the cat away and kill it.

I shot out the door to Karen’s imploring, “Dan! It’s not worth…” PEM answered the door (that Poor Emasculated Man!). He looked tired; he always looks tired. He informed me that Screechy Hag could not come to the door. DoSH, who always seems to be skulking somewhere on the perimeter of whatever drama is taking place, was also nowhere to be found. I asked him if the cat was destroying the plants around his house. No, he wasn’t. I asked him if the cat was trying to get into their house. No. Was the cat attacking them? No. So, the biggest offense was that Frankie occasionally walked on their lawn, and maybe sat on their porch or in their back yard, or maybe taunted Franklin. PEM sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and said, “My wife is the one who has the problem with the cat, not me. What do you want me to do? I have to live with them.” Dejected, I said I understood. I asked him to ask Screechy Hag if, before calling the police, she could come and talk to me directly and not threaten my children.

Two weeks later, Lisle’s finest showed up at our door. “Someone in the area” called to complain about our cat roaming loose around the neighborhood. The officer said that, yes, there is a leash law, but someone has to call and complain for them to actually do anything about it, and even then, unless they come over to the house and actually find the cat on the Rationále’s property, the only thing they can do is issue a statement and report that a complaint has been made.

Fine. OK. Point taken.

We tried the best we could from then on to keep Frankie in the house as much as possible, but the idea of chasing a cat who clearly does not want to be caught through yards and over fences while trying to get two toddlers who clearly do not want to be caught into car seats is beyond absurd. Try doing it once. The absurdity will become abundantly clear. In these situations, the twins’ needs always win, and Frankie is allowed his freedom for a few more hours.

One unseasonably warm day over winter break, it was twilight, the doorbell rang, and rang again. I opened the door at the third ring to Screechy Hag in full glory, all flailing and loud and shrill, going on about what I can only guess was the cat. I caught “can’t get a moment’s peace”, “leash law”, “Franklin is up barking at all hours of the night!”, and that’s about it, the whole time, DoSH peeping over Mom’s shoulder with a look of dumb, defiant pride plastered across her mug.

I replied that, first, Frankie does not go out at night anymore. Ever. So, the problem must be with her wiener. Second, is he on her property right now at this moment? No. He was in the little assembly of trees down the street, and when Screechy Hag took Franklin down there for their nightly talk and poop, the dog freaked out trying to tear Frankie apart and still appears to be in a very delicate state. I informed her that I was home by myself with the kids at that moment, and asked her if she agreed that packing all four kids up to tromp through the brush at the end of the street in search of a wayward cat is a wildly stupid idea. She disagreed vehemently. I closed the door and continued the bedtime routine.

This year, Spring Break fell during the last week of March. I had to work at the school, and I usually bring Aidan with me, but I thought I’d let him have the first day off at home to hang out with Linsay, Jacob, and the twins. He and Jacob were outside playing, and Linsay was inside the front room with the twins, watching them out the window. DoSH came out to shoot baskets and hurl a few insults at Jacob, things got a little out of hand, and Aidan ended up mooning her just as Linsay was racing out the door to pull Aidan and his pants back into the house. She went inside the house, called her mother at work, who then called the police to come to our house to investigate a report of indecent exposure and unsupervised children. More on this story when I get some more time...

I received a call at work from Linsay, who was understandably very upset.

So, nothing really since then, except for minor things. Soccer balls disappear from our yard every so often. Jacob has informed us that DoSH has used the “F” word in his general direction a few times. Both Mom and Daughter have screamed and hollered and indirectly threatened our cat’s health and safety to our children, but when Karen, Linsay, or I are out there, they are silent, smirking stupidly to themselves or to each other. Our mantra is Ignore ‘Em. In our children’s absence, I add, Fuck ‘Em to the mantra. I think it’s the extra two syllables, the hard consonant sound of tongue striking the roof of the mouth, that helps me feel better. I usually repeat that mantra while having a Black & Tan or two, and the repetition of Ignore ‘em, Fuck ‘em eventually softens, blending into a soothing Ignorrem... Fuggem.

I Needn't Say Another Word.

2008 is right around the corner.

THE EXPLORATORY COMMITTEE IS FORMING!

BE A PART OF IT!

So, I was just on the Drudge Report...

And up in the upper left-hand corner is this:

"obama?"

Why must they taunt me so?!?!?!?!?!

Why!?

FINALLY!!!

Courtesy of www.marriedtothesea.com

A Little Lunacy from marriedtothesea.com

Yes. www.marriedtothesea.com It beats a sharp stick in the eye.

Don't mind if you do, Mr. Cheney!

It's been a year?! Damn. It's already been a year.

The other day, while I was taking the boys to school, I switched the radio tuner to the Mancow show. I am not ashamed to admit that I listen to that show, along with whatever strikes me on NPR, Jonathan Brandmeir, and WXRT (if there is a good song on). I am a joy to watch telvision with.

I happened to catch a part of the show where he did a phone interview with Anita Thompson, Hunter's widow. I stopped listening shortly after he said that he wrote his book, Dad, Dames, Demons & a Dwarf, was written in Thompson's style. It was a lackluster interview on the whole, and I couldn't tell if it was Mancow or Anita Thompson who made it so, but I had to get the boy into school, and with the move and all, things just don't seem to interest me as much lately.

I had the revelation described in the title of this post this morning, and thought that I'd post my own tribute to Hunter's style. It's not the first, and it probably won't be the last. Enjoy, please:


I’m careening down Lake Shore Drive at 75 MPH, accompanied by two Puerto Rican hookers, ten cans of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon, and enough ghetto-cut crank to dispatch a South African Cape Buffalo, twice over. It’s a mild April evening, and my trip back from Logan Square is going swimmingly. We’re heading south towards the “S” Curve, and I have no doubt that the archdiocese’s new midnight blue Lincoln Town Car can make the turn at 55, although there is the possibility of some partygoer at the Drake Hotel being at the window just in time to see Archbishop Bryan Roth and his companions jump the guard rail and plow into the first floor of that very building, a landmark of Chicago architecture.

There would be headlines, of course. And Walter Jacobson, that beady-eyed, big-nosed weasel, would probably do an editorial on Fox News about how he knew about me and my predilections all along. That punk’s had my number since he went undercover as a communion wafer to expose the “Silent Seminarian” scandal of 1985.

Whatever. It’s in God’s hands.

Jomayra and Maritza are good stock: thick, sassy bold young things who aren’t afraid of a little chaos. I bailed them out of jail earlier this evening, and now they are feeling very grateful. What is there in this world if there isn’t forgiveness?

They are from hardworking, churchgoing families, and they are discreet, which in my line of work is essential.
Because of this, they have enjoyed experiences their schoolmates could never fathom. They’ve entertained congressmen, visiting dignitaries, and
more than one local children’s television celebrity.

Maritza is snorting a line of crank off of Jomayra’s exposed, ample bosom as I bank the Town Car into the first left-hand turn of the curve. They squeal and wrap their arms around each other, chattering in Spanish something muerte… They’re both 21 and, when naked, could pass for twins.

I churn the wheel to the right, and shout Hot Damn! There’s gonna be some home-fried reckoning tonight, girls! I punch the ceiling of the car and laugh maniacally, my eyes bugging from the crank, my breath sour from beer.

We’re in the straightaway, now; I’ve made it again. Taking a long, deep pull from the beer can, I pray: O my God, at the end of this day I thank you most heartily for all the graces I have received from you. I am sorry that I have not made a better use of them. I am sorry for all the sins I have committed against you. Forgive me, O my God, and graciously protect me this night. Blessed Virgin Mary, my dear heavenly mother, take me under your protection. St. Joseph, my dear guardian angel, and all you saints of God, pray for me. Sweet Jesus, have pity on all poor sinners, and save them from hell. Have mercy on the suffering souls in purgatory.

Illinois Avenue! I pull off at the exit and snake through the side streets, approaching the rectory of Holy Name Cathedral from behind, the way I take Maritza when she is sufficiently wasted and randy. I am 57 years old; she needs a little ramping up for that job. I understand the hazards of her business, and I am willing to help in any way I can.

I pull the car up to the gates, and they open like they always do. Manny, the usual attendant is not there. Instead, there is a small man; his profile distinctive, wait…

Jacobson! You rat-faced swine! I hurl and empty beer can at his head, but I miss. He stands in a false
stoicism, believing that justice is on his side.

Roth, you degenerate chicken-hawk! I’ve got you now! There’s no way you’ll get out of this one. You
thought you had me in ’85. Made me look like a fool, you thought. I’ve caught you, now, you pervert! The uniform he is wearing is too small (Manny is quite small in stature), and he keeps pulling at the bottom of the jacket as if he can make it grow two sizes by sheer will.

First of all, Jacobson, you need to get your facts straight! I have never, nor will I ever, diddle any young boys. Nor old boys, for that matter! I drain my beer and chuck the empty can, this time hitting him directly in the center of his forehead. He doesn’t move.

You can believe what you want, Archbishop! But I was there! There were thirteen naked seminarians wandering the Michigan Dunes, tripping balls on windowpane acid! They all mentioned your name more than once in their insane babble! Explain that one!

His voice is growing shrill, and I realize I will soon need to come up with a plan to calm him down, or three cars full of pissed-off Chicago cops would be arriving at the rectory, and there really would be no way, with such a well-known media icon present, of them overlooking the archbishop of Chicago cavorting with two half-naked Latina prostitutes on a spring evening two weeks from Easter.

Ten of them swore they felt closer to God that night than ever before! I say, opening another can of beer.

Jacobson snorts and pulls at his jacket. Sure! Was that after you had your way with them!?

This time, I throw the full beer at him. It hits him square in the chest, and he flinches slightly as the brew splashes onto his stolen clothes and up onto his face. Let’s get this straight, you treacherous, rotten little sot! You have caught up to me this fine evening escorted by two young, beautiful, Latina women. They have had a rough go of things, and I am comforting them in their hour of need. Hell, in light of the Catholic Church’s recent hits, I should be canonized a saint for my actions! They’re over 18, they’re women, and, good God, they’re talented!

He sneers and finally removes the coat. I can have a news van here in twenty minutes! He shouts, pulling his cellular phone from his pants pocket.

Jacobson! If murder wasn’t a sin, I’d have Maritza’s cousin bash your brains in with a Louisville Slugger, then cut your testicles off and sell them on Ebay!

He closes his phone and leers at Maritza, licking his lips; then, his hands involuntarily come together in a gesture that resembles a fly bathing in its own vomit. Here is my window of opportunity.

Maritza senses my plan and stiffens. It’s true, she may be placing her life into the hands of a psychotic media slut. There’s no telling what this maniac is capable of. But she’s a good girl, and it’s for times like this that her sweet little behind never sits for more than an hour in the holding cell at the Logan Square police department.

Jacobson! Why don’t you and Maritza go up to my room and make yourselves comfortable? I should be up shortly. We can watch CNN, or maybe play a board game.

Maritza kisses me on the cheek, takes the remainder of the crank, and leads Walter Jacobson up to my room by the hand. He follows, muttering incoherently.

The Real Reason Tom Wants Katie Out Of The Spotlight

The group has been a little flighty lately:

I think this about sums up... EVERYTHING.

Back to the desensitization chamber with you, Kat! Another dose of Top Gun will make you a docile little Kitten!

PHOTO CREDITS: DAVID SHRIGLEY, http://www.davidshrigley.com/index.html

Before the Media Beast Known in these Circles as "O" Comes for Me...

I have a confession to make.

In light of recent events, I know that there will be many more checks and balances for this sort of thing. So, I will head off any bad press at the pass:

I published a web log entry on Wednesday, August 3, 2005 regarding a transcript of a fax received from Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Journalism, sent to me from beyond the grave. I did not actually receive the fax, but fabricated its text in its entirety. I do not feel that I have conned anyone, as I stand by the message of perversion and borderline pedophelia one-hundred percent.

I do, however, stand by the authenticity of the fax I received from Charles Bukowski.

I also posted a reply or two on the standby_bert web log, "Chicago's first and foremost source of news, right fucking now (Even sometimes before it happens. Uncanny!)!", in which I referred to Oprah Winfrey as "biggest fake in the history of media".

I regret writing that post, and I have to say now that I am truly sorry.

OK. No I'm not. Fuck Oprah!

Last night, I was finally able to sit down and watch the episode of Oprah mentioned in the standby_bert web log; the one with James Frey; the one that all the news channels are talking about.

If you have no idea what I am talking about, seriously, just Google James Frey or Oprah or A Million Little Pieces, and you'll be up to speed about what I am talking about her. I'm not going at warp speed here. I barely know what I am saying.

So, I watched the show, and as I'd expected, I became infuriated with many, many things. Karen says that it doesn't matter what Oprah says or does, I will be critical. That may be the case. Maybe I sealed my opinion of her a long time ago, but I wonder if I am the only person in America who can see just how much her show revolves around her, and how everything she does, she does to make people talk about her.

This situation with James Frey just pushed me over the edge. Karen actually had to leave the room (O.K., she fell asleep, but she had to "check out" in some way because I was getting ridiculous).

I understand that he fabricated and embellished some of the events and details of his memoir. I agree that he should be called to the carpet for it, and maybe have to answer in front of America. I do agree with that. He wrote an account of his life that he called "truth", and he promoted it as such. He was found to be fraudulent in some of his claims. That's not good.

There are a few things to keep in mind, though. The first is the marketing and promotion. Anyone who is close to the publishing business --not that I am, but I do know a few people who are, and that is how I have fashioned the following opinon-- knows that the memoir is the genre of literature that is being pushed by the publishing companies as of late. Since the mid-nineties, creative non-fiction has been a bigger seller than fiction, when it sells. If memory serves me (and I don't have sources at my fingertips right at this moment), didn't Frey try and publish a similar story to A Million Little Pieces as fiction, but it was turned down? And wasn't it suggested to him that if the same story (because a lot of it was HIS story) was published as a memoir, it would sell a whole hell of a lot more units? This may be me talking out of my ass, but I can swear I read that somewhere. If any one of my four readers knows this not to be true, please let me know. I will edit accordingly.

Oprah Winfrey latched on to this book and added it to her Book Club. She put Frey in the chair opposite her's and interviewed him and talked about how inspiring his story is and everything...

So, this past week, when she had him on and claimed she was "duped" and that she thought all along that the events of this story were just too unbelievable to be true... I wanted to reach into the television and strangle her.

This entry is really about Oprah, I have to admit. All of my issues with her came out in that James Frey interview. It's funny, but I agree that he needs to be grilled, but by Oprah? Oh, man! I am not sure I can condone that. That's just too cruel. That's like having to attend a loyalty workshop run by Judas and Pontius Pilot.

Oprah called into Larry King to defend Frey. I'd love to see how that scene went at the Winfrey/Graham household:

O: Stead! I gotta call in. They're frying my boy!
S: Honey, why don't we see how this plays out. Don't make any rash decisions.
O: Bitch, what I said was rhetorical. If I wanted your opinion, I'd give it to you! (dialing the phone.)
S: Yes, dear.

Then she regretted it, and decided to work that shit out on national TV. She can do that. She owns national TV.

So, she put Frey in the chair opposite her's, and grilled him like a fresh salmon, instead of frying him like Larry King attempted to do, like Mary Karr did (and quite effectively. In fact, it should have been left at that.)

A few years ago, before I purchased an IPass, I was pulling into the line at the Aurora tollbooth after a hard day of dealing with precocious adolescents. I misjudged my brakes and bumped the car in front of me. The guy got out, of course. He asked if I was OK. I told him that I was, and I got out and checked for damage to his car. There was no damage. We were both very nice about the whole thing, at first. It was obviously my fault, and I acknowledged that. It was right then that he changed, and began to shout at me, telling me that next time I'd better pay attention to what I was doing, or there's no telling what might happen to me. I say, "OK, dude. Just get back into your car and go. There won't be a next time."

It's a very strange phenomenom that happens to human beings when they are in control of a situation where one person has made a mistake and they have a choice of whether to exploit that mistake or deal with it and then bury it. In my experience, I have seen that very weak and insecure people make the decision to exploit the mistake. Oprah made this weakness into an artform last week.

Her pursuit of Frey was unconscionable. Shetwisted the knife the Smoking Gun had rightly put into Frey's credibility, and ventured into territory that she had no business going into. Her insistance that the "Lilly" suicide had to be confirmed was terrible. This was obviously something that was close to Frey, and he was very obviously upset about talking about this particular detail in particular, but Oprah had to dig in and get him to give the details of how this woman took her own life.

Again, I completely agree that Frey needs to own up to those details he embellished in his memoir, but I don't agree that he needs to have his personal shit ridiculed on national TV. Her mode of questioning about the death of "Lilly" was unprofessional and just plain rude. Plus, she mocked him by sarcastically stressing "Memoir" at every chance she could. I know that I seem to be pulling at straws, but these are the things that stood out about her attack.

She surrounded herself with sycophants to push the fact that she was embarrased. It's funny that Frey made all the mistakes, but that hour of television was ALL about her. How many times did she mention how embarrassed she was? How he made her look bad... It is true, but when she says it, it somehow becomes cheap and insincere.

Maureen Dowd said that Oprah should "kick Frey's bony... non-fiction ass." What the hell does that exactly mean? I have a translation:

I am just so psyched that Oprah asked me to chime in on James, who? Lipton? Frey? Yes. Frey! Just think of all the reads I will get on Monday! Maybe I can finally finish that memoir! It'll be published for sure! Note to self: hire extra fact checkers!

Same goes for Joel Stein. Same exact fucking thing.

And, I liked their writing before this.

Frey looked genuinely remorseful, and maybe that's his M.O. But this is about Oprah, so it doesn't really matter.

I think if anyone lost credibility in my book, it's her. And I am sure that is going to go a long, long way.

George Fuckin' A. Romero: Part II

As many of you who know me well know, I loves me some zombies.

My obsession started in seventh grade with my best friend, Patrick O'Sullivan, after his older brother Danny caught a late-night broadcast of Night of the Living Dead on PBS (!!!! Right?). Dawn of the Dead came out not long after that, and we talked incessantly about how cool it would be to be zombie hunters.

I posted earlier this year about wanting very badly to see Romero's latest release Land of the Dead, but really being S.O.L. due to the facts that I have two infant daughters, and my wife outgrew her zombie phase many, many years ago (I believe after I insisted we rent Peter Jackson's Dead Alive for a date night). Thanks to Comcast and Karen's full Christmas-shopping-stopping-at-Appleby's-for-strawberry-daquiris schedule, I was able to rent Land of the Dead this past Saturday night.

I loved it, of course. It was classic George Romero with a budget.

If you do not love (or at least appreciate them) Romero's movies, there is nothing I can tell you here that will convince you otherwise. He is a director who knows his place in the world: he makes zombie films the way he wants to make them, with no pretension or compromise. They are entertaining and very darkly hilarious. So, see it! I highly recommend it!

On to my next order of business... In my current obsession with zombie films, I came across this (Just click on "watch" next to When Zombies Attack! It is amazing, seeing that it is on a very small budget, but the dedication of the filmakers is obvious throughout. So, watch, enjoy, and learn.

And, when you are finished with that, the home site has an add-on film that is just as funny as the mockumentary.

OK. This ends my yearly obsession with zombies... I think. I will leave you with this:


and return us to our regularly scheduled programming.

Merry Holidays, America!

So... If Matt Stone and Trey Parker got a hold of you...

This is me, if I lived in South Park, Co. Go here to create what you'd look like.

FYI! I have altered my settings to accept comments from people who do not have a blogspot account.

Post the links to your creations in the comments for this post!

Football Season is NOT Over

Rolling Stone Magazine recently posted excerpts from HS Thompson's final notes in which he writes:

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt.

Well, the best thing to do is keep on keeping on.

Sports Illustated has predicted that the Carolina Panthers will win the Super Bowl, which their 23-20 loss to the Saints on Sunday may hint otherwise. Eh, but it's early - and, you can't really fault New Orleans for pulling out a win for their first game.

What a opening week, though. Surprises everywhere, except, of course, in Chicago, where complete suckiness pretty much reigns year round. Yes. I stopped watching after Bears offense was called on false start three times in a row, then Kyle Orton was sacked once the line regained their senses. Just pitiful.

Monday night started with a fight with fallout that reminded me of a high school playground scuffle. The Falcons Corner Back, Kevin Mathis and the Eagles Middle Line Backer Jeremiah Trotter were ejected because of a pre-game, mid-field fist fight. Later, they were interviewed by ESPN Sports Center, and Trotter said they were just having fun, talking a little smack, but he never threw any punches. Mathis maintains that nobody talks shit about the Falcons in their house. The video showed a fight. Y'all should grow up and start being role models like Mean Joe Green, Walter Payton and O.J... OK... Scratch that last one... of teams past!!! Come on! Kids need integrity more than ever now. Let's give it to them.

Terrell Owens has been griping for more money drawing criticism from Donovan McNabb as well as fans... But he went to Houston last week and devoted time and money to the people affected by Katrina. Rock on!

Anyway, there's my two cents between feedings and fights and other harrowing experiences of raising four kids under the age of seven.

See you next week.