E Pluribus Plumbeus

Western New York's proximity to Canada causes us to end up with an unusually large amount of Canadian currency in our pockets. We joke about how the Canadian dollar is only worth about 80 cents or so. We cross our fingers, hoping the toll-booth taker is too dizzy on carbon monoxide fumes to notice we slipped him a couple Canadian quarters among our $0.95 toll. Of particular amusement, is the "Looney" and the "Tooney," coins of $1 and $2 denominations respectively. Just saying it evokes patronizing giggles as we leave them as tips for your bartenders, or throw them in a sock drawer for our next trip to the "Canadian Ballet."

I will go on record, though, to say that the Canadian $5 dollar bill is the coolest bank note on the planet. Okay, so the face side has the crusty old diplomat of European descent: Wilfrid Laurier, the first French Canadian Prime Minister. The second side, however, has a portrait entitled "Children at Play," featuring a pond-full of kids playing "shinny," or pick-up hockey.


Our bank notes got a face-lift over the past couple of years. Our European forefathers got bigger, greener portraiture while the artwork remained pretty much the same. I wondered what, if anything, they might have put on the back depicting American "Children at Play." I remember as a kid, I couldn't wait to get to the park after school to play baseball, throw my arms up in the air like Carlton Fisk as I sent the tennis ball sailing over the right field wall. Am I harking back to a by-gone era, or do kids actually do that anymore?




On second thought, keep the Lincoln Memorial.

Karma is a Bitch Barista.

A couple of months ago I went on a tirade about coffeehouse customers, and took a couple of shots at baristas. It was all in good fun, but the gods of caffeine have decided to jam their retributory index finger in a rather uncomfortable locale.

As you northerners might know, winter driving is a hairy endeavor that carries with it an entirely different set of rules. We treat our vehicles as bumper cars, and minor bumps occur frequently. Shitful road conditions and poor visibilty make driving a full contact sport, once Old Man Winter has sown his wild oats all over our community. On occasion, one might dink some unfortunate soul's shitwagon and slink off into the wintry landscape without as much as a leaving a note.

Today, I dropped off the O-Dog at school and stopped for a cuppa at Starbucks. I rushed in and out, trying to make it to work on time. I got in my car, put it in reverse and (*fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck) nailed a parked vehicle that somehow appeared in my rear window amid the surfeit of snowflakes. Now there is a fine line between a dink and a bonk. This one felt closer to the latter, but of course, winter rules were in effect. I peeked out the window and didn't see anything dented, hanging off or ablaze. Off I drove, with a sinking feeling of paranoia.

The paranoia turned out to be warranted.

Tonight, the wife, kids and I returned from the hockey rink to find a message on the answering machine. I heard "Subaru," "Starbucks" and "Hit 'n Run."

"What did you do?" my wife asked, with the tone she reserves for the occasional major fuck up.

I explained to her what happened, and called back the owners of the offended vehicle (it turns out it belonged to a barista). They were rather amicable about it, and accepted my apology (and will in all likelihood accept the substantial cheque I have to fork over for my transgression).

Here then, in order to avoid any other castigation levied by karmic law I'd like to hereby apologize to the following:

Baristas- You rule. You beautiful. You are not gay. Nobody pours the faggety Eurocentric coffee beverages as adeptly as you.

Christians - Your religion is the best one. You are infinitely more pious than the Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims. Jeebus? Now that's my nigga.

Cell Phone Users - I do not think you are pathetic, needy creatures. You no longer annoy me more than wedged underwear.

Any Child named Caitlyn, Kali or Madison - You are all unique princesses. Your parents reek of originality, and your names have a certain 'je ne sais quoi.'

Hillary Clinton & Yoko Ono - I love you both. Yoko, I'm going to buy your entire unlistenable back catalogue. Hillary, I may actually vote for you and the cuckold ticket. Maybe I'll go to Florida and squeeze in an extra one just for you, baby. Neither of you are coattail riding opportunists. You are a credit to humanity.

The rest of you: trailer trash, tattooed sluts, Justin Mraz and Celine Dion, Mrs. Aginoth... my deepest and sincere apologies. On second thought, Mrs. Aginoth, not you.

Oh no! The wrath of England! My skin's getting pasty, my teeth are falling out! My humor is getting drier. Aaaaaaaahkkkk! (thud)

Patchouli or Phlegm?

It's official. I'm old.

Last weekend, my friend Doug and I stepped out on the town. Doug managed to procure a pair of tickets for a stinky hippie show at Shea's Theatre. Phil Lesh & Friends dropped by with Chris Robinson, of Black Crowes fame. Now I've never been a fan of the Grateful Dead, but I attribute that fact to the fans more than the music.

I'm all for nostalgia, but personally I prefer to be nostalgic about an era in which I actually lived. I suppose that's why I hold "dead heads" in such disdain. There's such lack of originality in reminiscing and living out an era that died out twenty or so years before you were born. Granted, the 60's counter-culture is a bit more celebrated in the common consciousness we call Americana, but ultimately, what is it besides a bunch of college kids that became socially aware, did drugs and banged every skank from San Fransisco to New York? You could do that today, and you don't have to wear burlap and a tie-dye to do it.

We made our way through the crowd, past all the mesmerized, stoned dancers in the aisle, and found our seats inhabited by a few kids. Apparently they thought that the numbers on the row and seat were mere suggestions. Glossy-eyed, they were gracious enough to step aside. We managed to stay through two songs (granted, those two songs spanned 38 minutes) before Doug decided he'd had enough.

"Aaaaargh, I got patchouli on me. GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" Doug cried as we made our way out the door.

When we were leaving, the security guard told us, "Guys, if you leave, you can't get back in."

Promise?

Before we called it a night, we decided to stop in at the Town Ballroom to visit our friends Donny and Artie who work there.
Artie was in the lobby, so we chatted for a bit and popped our heads in to see the show. It was one of those god-awful new-metal/hardcore bands with one of those cleverly devised sentence fragments for a name. As I Lay Dying.... As you lay dying, WHAT, f*ckhead? Shit. If you even SAW the Grim Reaper coming towards you, I know you'd casually cross the street , pretending you don't see him.

As infinitely stupid as that band's name is, there's MORE. We were handed a flyer for an upcoming Holiday show featuring Every Time I Die, It Dies Today and Dead Hearts. Great timing... just at the height of suicide season.

As for the music, your run of the mill, unintelligible grunting over the dissonant crunch of hessian guitars. Throw in the stereotypical chubby bass player for good measure. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, judging by all the macho posturing in the "pit." Sweaty post-pubescents flailed their arms and pumped their fists wildly in approval. One boy strolled across the chaos and coughed up a visibly large loogie from the back of his throat and propelled it indiscriminately over the crowd. Very classy of you, Phlegmy Kilmister.

'Um, let's get out of here.'

On the way out, we saw one of the denizen of Testosterone Town come out of the bathroom wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a bandana across his face. I peered into his seedy little eyes, wondering if he fancied himself a suburban Zapatista or if he was a bit embarassed by a grill-full of acne.

In any case, I found myself wondering which was the lesser of the two evils: the stinky hippies or the suburban toy soldiers. Personally, I'm thinking the hippies. God. I can't believe I just said that. I think I'm going to ask my wife to grow armpit hairs and stop bathing. Growwwllll.

"Come and dance on our floor..."

The baby boom generation had their Kennedy. My generation had Lennon. I was reading Michele Agnew's site today, and the question was posed:
Do you remember where you were when you heard that he had been shot? Do you consider yourself a John Lennon fan?

I get the feeling I'm the only one that can tell an amusing story to answer this question. I was in seventh grade. I knew about the Beatles, but I didn't know who was who, or anything about them personally, since I grew up in an immigrant household.

When I woke up that morning, my sister had been listening to the radio. "John Ritter died," she announced. "Somebody shot him."

"Man... really?" I replied, wondering why anybody would bust a cap in such a comic genius. I was more bewildered than distraught. 'F*ck. No more Three's Company,' I thought.


We got to school that morning, and my friend Tom Kubiniec had drawn a screw and a baseball on the chalkboard. That's what the media was calling Mark David Chapman. Next to it, he drew a picture of Lennon. Tom explained his drawings to me with the enthusiasm of a 12 year old. The magnitude of the event became increasingly clear as I watched the news later that evening, and I tried to feel the sadness of a true fan, but I just couldn't muster it.

As I grew older, I suppose I felt it more. Enough to pay an annual visit to Strawberry Fields in Central Park every year in my early twenties, and enough to wish I still could.

Ritter, as we know, lived for another twenty-three years.

Freebies...

I'd be the world's biggest hypocrite if I got all "Jesu-fied" this time of year, considering I don't sing his praises January through November. Still, I play the Christmas ball game. As the bible-thumpers like to say, sometimes you've got to break bread.

I've been drawing my own Christmas cards cards for about twelve or so years now. Some have been borderline sacriligious, others just thought provoking. Here's the 2005 version. If you like it, feel free to pull out some card-stock and print it out. Send it to anyone who might appreciate it.



Here's an alternate for the single and childless or for the devout with no sense of humor:



If you'd like a high-resolution copy, I'd be happy to e-mail you one if you request it.
Thanks to Geoff, via Michele's blog for your input.