CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Sure, we had a good run but frankly I expected more than 30.99 years out of you, enlarged Little Fella.
I'm going to need someone to get me through another grueling college football season and I just don't think you're up to par anymore. Especially since the NCAA added a twelfth game this year. While that may not seem like a lot, that nine percent increase and a possible January bowl game will tax you too much I'm afraid.
Plus, there are better floor models out there in the marketplace, Liver. What with Pledge Week already underway there's bound to be a bevy of supple, young organs with half the mileage you've got.
So say goodbye to your friends in the lymphatic system because I'm breaking out the whiskey and acetaminophen shortly. And keep your chin up, too. At least you're going down with a fight so I can spare you the indignity of cirrhosis, replete with its slow erosion and yellowing.
As I see it, I'm doing you a solid.
# # #
Thursday, August 31
Friday, August 18
Email Etiquette Schmetiquette
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Since I was bored at work today, I thought I'd update my email signature. You know, that piece of text of the end of our messages that injects a little of our individual panache into the creative desert that is corporate email.
It's no surprise to longtime readers of my daily drivel, that I like to "sign" my name with not one, not two, not three, not four, but five-count-'em-five periods. My reasoning is that an ellipsis is good and that an ellipsis ending a sentence (with another period) is better. Therefore, five must be even greater, eclipsing all those that came before.
What about six, you say. C'mon, don't be silly and ridiculous... that would be showy and superfluous.
I've signed my name like this for years on every business and personal message that I send. Well, except for one email. I once signed a break-up communiqué to an ex-girlfriend simlpy as "Luke." (For clarification, the one period quoted was in the message as well. Yes, I know that I picked a bad spot to end that sentence at and, thus, undercut my illustrative example.)
Immediately after the "Luke." line (yes, that's better), I jumped into postscript to call my ex-girlfriend's attention to the single period. I went onto say something to the effect of "no extra periods[...] nothing more to come later[...] this is it[...] it's over." We had make-up sex three days later but that's a story for another day.
Where was I? Oh yeah, so I'm updating my signature file and I started reading the legal disclaimer that I'm forced to append to all my work messages. Our confidentiality notice is standard boilerplate legalese that is completely unenforceable. It uses such venomous acronyms as "ASAP" and such incisive invective as "please."
Christ, who's our general counsel, Winnie the Pooh?
And that's just the confidentiality notice. There is another floating around several message threads both personal and otherwise, the infamous I.R.S. Circular 230 concerning tax advice.
Jesus, I wouldn't ask some of these people for dining suggestions let alone fucking tax advice. Furthermore, they don't even engage in tax planning activities. They're goddamn project managers at technology companies!
For them, attaching the 230 to their signature is akin to proudly wearing battle ribbons for a conflict of which they weren't a participant. It smacks of "Look at me!" (Note, I use a blog for this self-gratification.)
And don't even get me started on the self-righteous bastards who deliberately don't change the default: "Sent from my Blackberry Wireless Handheld." Pricks.
Luke.....
# # # (This is called the slug line. Pretty cool, huh?)
It's no surprise to longtime readers of my daily drivel, that I like to "sign" my name with not one, not two, not three, not four, but five-count-'em-five periods. My reasoning is that an ellipsis is good and that an ellipsis ending a sentence (with another period) is better. Therefore, five must be even greater, eclipsing all those that came before.
What about six, you say. C'mon, don't be silly and ridiculous... that would be showy and superfluous.
I've signed my name like this for years on every business and personal message that I send. Well, except for one email. I once signed a break-up communiqué to an ex-girlfriend simlpy as "Luke." (For clarification, the one period quoted was in the message as well. Yes, I know that I picked a bad spot to end that sentence at and, thus, undercut my illustrative example.)
Immediately after the "Luke." line (yes, that's better), I jumped into postscript to call my ex-girlfriend's attention to the single period. I went onto say something to the effect of "no extra periods[...] nothing more to come later[...] this is it[...] it's over." We had make-up sex three days later but that's a story for another day.
Where was I? Oh yeah, so I'm updating my signature file and I started reading the legal disclaimer that I'm forced to append to all my work messages. Our confidentiality notice is standard boilerplate legalese that is completely unenforceable. It uses such venomous acronyms as "ASAP" and such incisive invective as "please."
Christ, who's our general counsel, Winnie the Pooh?
And that's just the confidentiality notice. There is another floating around several message threads both personal and otherwise, the infamous I.R.S. Circular 230 concerning tax advice.
Jesus, I wouldn't ask some of these people for dining suggestions let alone fucking tax advice. Furthermore, they don't even engage in tax planning activities. They're goddamn project managers at technology companies!
For them, attaching the 230 to their signature is akin to proudly wearing battle ribbons for a conflict of which they weren't a participant. It smacks of "Look at me!" (Note, I use a blog for this self-gratification.)
And don't even get me started on the self-righteous bastards who deliberately don't change the default: "Sent from my Blackberry Wireless Handheld." Pricks.
Luke.....
# # # (This is called the slug line. Pretty cool, huh?)
Monday, August 14
Ricky Bobby Beats Teen Pussy
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Worst. Headline. Ever.
By now you know that I'm a Variety devotee, Hollywood hanger-on and that I fancy myself a screenwriter. Albeit, an unsuccessful one at that. To date.
So it was over my morning joe -- late this afternoon -- that I came across a startling fact whilst browsing the actuals over at BoxOfficeMojo.com. No, it wasn't that the Will Ferrell vehicle, "Talladega Nights, The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" held onto the No. 1 spot again that upset me but rather the contrived, derivative, formulaic "Step Up" that bested Oliver Stone's "World Trade Center" for second place.
Let's revisit that: teenie bopper "Step Up", a fucking retread of the baldest of Hollywood tires, outdraws a movie that deals with one of the most visceral and important chapters of our nation's history. Goddammit, America, wake the fuck up!
Does anyone in my demographic still go to the movies anymore? Have we surrendered to the Friday night dinner-at-the-Olive-Garden-Ralph-Lauren-cologne-wearin'-boys- mackin'-on-Victoria-Secret-push-up-bra-not-gonna-put-out-girls date crowd?
Judging by its number, there had to be almost a million couples who did just that before taking in the never-riveting "Step Up" this past weekend. Amazing what guys will do for sex: sit through 98 minutes of drivel and dancing in exchange for three minutes of heavy petting in the Camaro with the windows fogged up.
Oh well, I guess I should be glad, seeing as how no one brought a goddamn laser pointer to my showing of "World Trade Center." Though there was the ever-reliable wailing newborn whose parents are seemingly deaf to his plaintive cries.
# # #
By now you know that I'm a Variety devotee, Hollywood hanger-on and that I fancy myself a screenwriter. Albeit, an unsuccessful one at that. To date.
So it was over my morning joe -- late this afternoon -- that I came across a startling fact whilst browsing the actuals over at BoxOfficeMojo.com. No, it wasn't that the Will Ferrell vehicle, "Talladega Nights, The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" held onto the No. 1 spot again that upset me but rather the contrived, derivative, formulaic "Step Up" that bested Oliver Stone's "World Trade Center" for second place.
Let's revisit that: teenie bopper "Step Up", a fucking retread of the baldest of Hollywood tires, outdraws a movie that deals with one of the most visceral and important chapters of our nation's history. Goddammit, America, wake the fuck up!
Does anyone in my demographic still go to the movies anymore? Have we surrendered to the Friday night dinner-at-the-Olive-Garden-Ralph-Lauren-cologne-wearin'-boys- mackin'-on-Victoria-Secret-push-up-bra-not-gonna-put-out-girls date crowd?
Judging by its number, there had to be almost a million couples who did just that before taking in the never-riveting "Step Up" this past weekend. Amazing what guys will do for sex: sit through 98 minutes of drivel and dancing in exchange for three minutes of heavy petting in the Camaro with the windows fogged up.
Oh well, I guess I should be glad, seeing as how no one brought a goddamn laser pointer to my showing of "World Trade Center." Though there was the ever-reliable wailing newborn whose parents are seemingly deaf to his plaintive cries.
# # #
Monday, August 7
The Final Countdown
CHICAGO (Skeletor) -- I awoke from my dream and looked around the room. It took me five seconds to remember where I was and why I was there. Then it hit me, I was in Chicago and it was the last day of Lollapolooza. Tonight I was going to see one of the greatest rock bands in history, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
We breezed through the morning knowing that we didn't need to arrive at Grant Park until 3:30, when we would see Andrew Bird perform. After a morning filled with videogames and television, we finally decided to face reality and get ready to leave. Another long train ride put us five minutes late for the Andrew Bird concert, not to mention that we missed the song that was the whole reason we were going to see him. Seriously, who leads with "A Nervous Tick Motion of the Head to the Left?"
Nevertheless, Crano and I next split concerts between The Shins and Matisyahu. After both stimulating performances, we headed over to the Playstation 2 tent for more videogames.
We were fortunate enough to try the demo for Guitar Hero 2, this new game features a co-op mode with guitar and bass. Tragically, our ten minute wait proved unpurposeful when we found ourselves failing Rush's "YYZ" mere seconds into the song. Not to mention being at the butt-end of some whispered humor of the other gamers waiting in line. Daunted but still resolute, we set down our guitars and quickly walked out of the tent.
We had a brief run-in with other DeWittians (townspeople of DeWitt, Iowa) before heading to our standard location at the intersection of X, the right end of the stage, and Y, the sound booth. After arriving at the central location we used our patented locating technique of raising an arm extended upward into a fist with your index finger pointing up, a.k.a. "Holding up a One," to find the rest of the Rucki. We enjoyed a exceptional Wilco concert before headed down to the RHCP's stage.
Some may think that arriving 45 minutes early to a concert would be more than enough time to get a good spot. Well if you believed that this was true, then obviously you have never been to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert.
By the time the band took the stage and Frusciante's guitar screamed an intro jam that included the heavy licks of "Warlocks" the crowd had gone wild. Immediately, the body surfing started and everyone was having the time of their life. Even Crano and I had our share of bodysurfing, and I will tell you personally that it is indeed underrated. You let the music take you in, and I couldn't help but play the air guitar to "By The Way" while being passed to the front like beach ball.
After the scheduled time passed, 90 percent of the crowd stayed for a two-song encore that included "Give It Away." It was over before we knew it, but it was extremely awesome.
I now have experiences that I will remember my entire life and have learned many things about bands and life. Bottom line, Lollapolooza kicked ass for three days straight.
# # #
We breezed through the morning knowing that we didn't need to arrive at Grant Park until 3:30, when we would see Andrew Bird perform. After a morning filled with videogames and television, we finally decided to face reality and get ready to leave. Another long train ride put us five minutes late for the Andrew Bird concert, not to mention that we missed the song that was the whole reason we were going to see him. Seriously, who leads with "A Nervous Tick Motion of the Head to the Left?"
Nevertheless, Crano and I next split concerts between The Shins and Matisyahu. After both stimulating performances, we headed over to the Playstation 2 tent for more videogames.
We were fortunate enough to try the demo for Guitar Hero 2, this new game features a co-op mode with guitar and bass. Tragically, our ten minute wait proved unpurposeful when we found ourselves failing Rush's "YYZ" mere seconds into the song. Not to mention being at the butt-end of some whispered humor of the other gamers waiting in line. Daunted but still resolute, we set down our guitars and quickly walked out of the tent.
We had a brief run-in with other DeWittians (townspeople of DeWitt, Iowa) before heading to our standard location at the intersection of X, the right end of the stage, and Y, the sound booth. After arriving at the central location we used our patented locating technique of raising an arm extended upward into a fist with your index finger pointing up, a.k.a. "Holding up a One," to find the rest of the Rucki. We enjoyed a exceptional Wilco concert before headed down to the RHCP's stage.
Some may think that arriving 45 minutes early to a concert would be more than enough time to get a good spot. Well if you believed that this was true, then obviously you have never been to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert.
By the time the band took the stage and Frusciante's guitar screamed an intro jam that included the heavy licks of "Warlocks" the crowd had gone wild. Immediately, the body surfing started and everyone was having the time of their life. Even Crano and I had our share of bodysurfing, and I will tell you personally that it is indeed underrated. You let the music take you in, and I couldn't help but play the air guitar to "By The Way" while being passed to the front like beach ball.
After the scheduled time passed, 90 percent of the crowd stayed for a two-song encore that included "Give It Away." It was over before we knew it, but it was extremely awesome.
I now have experiences that I will remember my entire life and have learned many things about bands and life. Bottom line, Lollapolooza kicked ass for three days straight.
# # #
An End to a Beginning
CHICAGO (CRANO) -- Day 2 and 3: After a late night we slept in for a while. We had a late start not getting out of the house until 1:50pm we wanted to get to Lolla before 2:30 but it didn’t work out. When we finally arrived Coheed and Cambria was already rocking. The show was great, complete with behind the head guitar solos and playing the guitar with the teeth.
We then headed over to Wolfmother who played a great show for Wolfmother. Then our group went right back to Gnarles Barkley who was good. Then we finally got a break and rested our fatigued limbs and got some Chicago cuisine. After a barely adequate break, we headed over to the visually pleasing show from the Flaming Lips.
After the completion of that show the No. 1's fought our way though the massive crowd to get a decent seat for a decent show. Kanye West play an average show but played some songs that weren't his. We then went home got pizza and went to sleep.
The next day we got another late start but finally got over to Grant Park. We listen to some of Andrew Bird who was not that good. We heard other things that will be told by Skeletor.
We then got to the main event: RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS. The show was intense with body surfers everywhere -- even Skeletor and I had to give it a chance. Aaron went first and since he only weighs about 17 pounds he went pretty far up the crowd. In my case it wasn’t so, I weigh a little more than Skeletor (why do you think they call him skeletor he is just a skelton) so I didn't go as far as he did but I was thrown and kicked somebody in the face.
The Peppers really brought it that night; it was very impressive. But they still had songs I wanted to hear but, oh well, it was still awsome. I'm glad I was given the opportunity to got to this extravaent event.
That’s my Lolla adventure so I guess this is goodbye. Crano out.
# # #
We then headed over to Wolfmother who played a great show for Wolfmother. Then our group went right back to Gnarles Barkley who was good. Then we finally got a break and rested our fatigued limbs and got some Chicago cuisine. After a barely adequate break, we headed over to the visually pleasing show from the Flaming Lips.
After the completion of that show the No. 1's fought our way though the massive crowd to get a decent seat for a decent show. Kanye West play an average show but played some songs that weren't his. We then went home got pizza and went to sleep.
The next day we got another late start but finally got over to Grant Park. We listen to some of Andrew Bird who was not that good. We heard other things that will be told by Skeletor.
We then got to the main event: RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS. The show was intense with body surfers everywhere -- even Skeletor and I had to give it a chance. Aaron went first and since he only weighs about 17 pounds he went pretty far up the crowd. In my case it wasn’t so, I weigh a little more than Skeletor (why do you think they call him skeletor he is just a skelton) so I didn't go as far as he did but I was thrown and kicked somebody in the face.
The Peppers really brought it that night; it was very impressive. But they still had songs I wanted to hear but, oh well, it was still awsome. I'm glad I was given the opportunity to got to this extravaent event.
That’s my Lolla adventure so I guess this is goodbye. Crano out.
# # #
Sunday, August 6
Still Alive
CHICAGO (SKELETOR) –Day 2: The second day was approaching and even I was prepared for it. Coheed and Cambria would start it off at 2:30, then we would go to Wolfmother followed by Gnarls Barkley. After a hour break, we would see The Flaming Lips, take another hour break then top the day with Kanye West. It was a flawless plan that couldn't fail; at least on paper.
We left the apartment at 1:50, you would think that would be plenty of leeway time to make it by 2:30. Unfortunately, we once again found ourselves underestimating the almighty El train. It took us less than five minutes to walk down to the station, but it took another twenty-five minutes just for the damn train to arrive, while we were waiting we counted three trains traveling towards O'Hare before just one train going downtown showed up.
After a ten minute train ride and a fifteen minute walk to the stage where Coheed and Cambria were playing, the concert was halfway over; somehow we still got the closest to the stage that we got the entire weekend. During the concert we saw the first bodysurfing of the festival. You could tell that there was a pressure building when the Raconteurs were playing a day earlier, but it was happily released when lead singer and lead guitarist, Claudio Sanchez, proudly raised his guitar up high, pressed back his magnificent afro and played his guitar solo behind his head. At the moment at least 20 bodysurfers started up and were thrown around like a pitbull with a baby.
Following a mind blowing performance by Coheed and Cambria, we saw a show by Wolfmother that can only be described as, wolfmotherish. We then headed over to see Gnarls Barkley. During his show we had a major occurrence of déjà vu, as we saw a man with a crooked mohawk that we had seen the day earlier, exactly in the same place in front of us, and wearing the same Zoo York shirt that he was in yesterday.
An hour of down time felt good on my sore feet after wrongly choosing to wear sandals two days in a row, the open sores burned every time I walked. We ate and drank, and then saw a very visual show by the Flaming Lips, but the music was just okay. Another hour and then Kanye West started with 60,000 people watching. It was a good show, but songs from four different artists were preformed. I mean come on Kanye, get your own material. By ten o'clock at night I had heard Gnarles Barkley's hit song, Crazy, four different times and only one of those was actually performed by Gnarles.
I left Grant Park with sore feet and a tired body, but I knew that it wasn't over yet, I had yet to achieve day three status.
# # #
We left the apartment at 1:50, you would think that would be plenty of leeway time to make it by 2:30. Unfortunately, we once again found ourselves underestimating the almighty El train. It took us less than five minutes to walk down to the station, but it took another twenty-five minutes just for the damn train to arrive, while we were waiting we counted three trains traveling towards O'Hare before just one train going downtown showed up.
After a ten minute train ride and a fifteen minute walk to the stage where Coheed and Cambria were playing, the concert was halfway over; somehow we still got the closest to the stage that we got the entire weekend. During the concert we saw the first bodysurfing of the festival. You could tell that there was a pressure building when the Raconteurs were playing a day earlier, but it was happily released when lead singer and lead guitarist, Claudio Sanchez, proudly raised his guitar up high, pressed back his magnificent afro and played his guitar solo behind his head. At the moment at least 20 bodysurfers started up and were thrown around like a pitbull with a baby.
Following a mind blowing performance by Coheed and Cambria, we saw a show by Wolfmother that can only be described as, wolfmotherish. We then headed over to see Gnarls Barkley. During his show we had a major occurrence of déjà vu, as we saw a man with a crooked mohawk that we had seen the day earlier, exactly in the same place in front of us, and wearing the same Zoo York shirt that he was in yesterday.
An hour of down time felt good on my sore feet after wrongly choosing to wear sandals two days in a row, the open sores burned every time I walked. We ate and drank, and then saw a very visual show by the Flaming Lips, but the music was just okay. Another hour and then Kanye West started with 60,000 people watching. It was a good show, but songs from four different artists were preformed. I mean come on Kanye, get your own material. By ten o'clock at night I had heard Gnarles Barkley's hit song, Crazy, four different times and only one of those was actually performed by Gnarles.
I left Grant Park with sore feet and a tired body, but I knew that it wasn't over yet, I had yet to achieve day three status.
# # #
Saturday, August 5
Tale of One City
CHICAGO (SKELETOR) -- Day 1: As we approached Grant Park we could hear the music playing, but were left unsatisfied when we had to walk another half mile to the entrance. While we all trickled through the gates, I could smell the beer and smoke (of all kinds) in the air. I noticed while heading to the Bud Light stage where the eels were playing, Lollapolooza in Chicago was one of the few places that you could find yourself staring and the most beautiful person and the ugliest creature on earth at the same time; there was not much in between.
We stopped to rest our already blistering feet in the burning sun and watched the wanna be British rock stars, Aqualung for ten minutes. After two Coldplay imitation songs, the cleanly-shaven lead singer, Matt Hales, introduced his band. To the crowd's dismay everyone in the band Aqualung had a beard except for Matt. Even he introduced them as "the bearded" and "with the beard", neglecting his own absence of such manliness.
The eels were entertaining, as long as you forget about the upstaging band member in a security guard t-shirt and his lucrative kung fu moves. All I ever saw him do were some back-up vocals, and he played the maracas once. I can imagine he was a brother of a real member of the band, and after numerous naggings by their mom, the brother was allowed to get a role in the band. I thought that was fine until he started mock-fighting the other band members, kicking and punching air. Next, in an effort to be humorous, the brother sat down cross legged and meditated for a good five minutes. This was the straw that broke my Camelback; I chose to go catch the last few minutes of Panic! At the Disco instead.
After an uncharacteristically average Ryan Adams show, it was off to see The Raconteurs.
Starved, I need sustenance. Naturally, when in Chicago, do as the Chicagoans do. And do we did, as we helped ourselves to six dollar beef and sausage sandwiches while embracing proudly the mantle of Fattest City in America.
When we finally got back to the apartment we couldn't help but sit down after roughly nine hours of standing and walking. We stopped by La Pasadita, for some of Chicago's finest burritos, and what a better place to go for burritos than Chicago. After multiple self-inflicted maulings on my tongue due to the outrageously spicy salsas we decided to leave the packed restaurant. It was already midnight and I guess more than one concertgoer had the munchies. On our way out we couldn't help but notice a Mr. T look-alike, who displayed a feather-like mohawk and beard that seemed to wrap around his head. As you walked by you had the unquenchable urge to grab his hair to see if it was real. On arrival back to the apartment it was time to sleep, and sleep I did.
# # #
We stopped to rest our already blistering feet in the burning sun and watched the wanna be British rock stars, Aqualung for ten minutes. After two Coldplay imitation songs, the cleanly-shaven lead singer, Matt Hales, introduced his band. To the crowd's dismay everyone in the band Aqualung had a beard except for Matt. Even he introduced them as "the bearded" and "with the beard", neglecting his own absence of such manliness.
The eels were entertaining, as long as you forget about the upstaging band member in a security guard t-shirt and his lucrative kung fu moves. All I ever saw him do were some back-up vocals, and he played the maracas once. I can imagine he was a brother of a real member of the band, and after numerous naggings by their mom, the brother was allowed to get a role in the band. I thought that was fine until he started mock-fighting the other band members, kicking and punching air. Next, in an effort to be humorous, the brother sat down cross legged and meditated for a good five minutes. This was the straw that broke my Camelback; I chose to go catch the last few minutes of Panic! At the Disco instead.
After an uncharacteristically average Ryan Adams show, it was off to see The Raconteurs.
Starved, I need sustenance. Naturally, when in Chicago, do as the Chicagoans do. And do we did, as we helped ourselves to six dollar beef and sausage sandwiches while embracing proudly the mantle of Fattest City in America.
When we finally got back to the apartment we couldn't help but sit down after roughly nine hours of standing and walking. We stopped by La Pasadita, for some of Chicago's finest burritos, and what a better place to go for burritos than Chicago. After multiple self-inflicted maulings on my tongue due to the outrageously spicy salsas we decided to leave the packed restaurant. It was already midnight and I guess more than one concertgoer had the munchies. On our way out we couldn't help but notice a Mr. T look-alike, who displayed a feather-like mohawk and beard that seemed to wrap around his head. As you walked by you had the unquenchable urge to grab his hair to see if it was real. On arrival back to the apartment it was time to sleep, and sleep I did.
# # #
Chicago: Crano style
CHICAGO (CRANO) -- Writing a blog in your spare time is no fun. Being forced to write a blog, in a sweat shop is much worse. I've been sitting here for 18 hours and my fingers are bleeding for 7.3148 cents an hour. Yes, as you have probaly guessed there is no point to this paragragh.DAY 1: We were greeted to the "Home of Encased Meats" with a strange handshake. We set out onto the mean streets of inner city Chicago passing many a crack dealer. As Theo points out, "the usual guy must be sold out because he is not in his cove." We went to the El train stepping gingerly over puddles of piss and mangled corpses of hobos and hookers. On the train we tried not to touch any thing for fear of herpes.
We then walked on to Grant Park get in and melt in with the crowd, the ranks of the "No. 1's" swelled as Lukateake met up with his few remaining friends who cling to life after B-Day or Blog Day. The team headed to the eels while catching the tail end of 75% bearded group Aqualung. We listened to the eels who were decent. We chilled for a will glance at Panic! At the Disco and went to see an apathetic Ryan Adams.
The rest of the night is a story for later -- but it would include Mr. T, chicken burritos, Mexicans, gunshot wounds and raccoons. I don't think that you're ready to hear about all that. Yet.
This Kameron C., aka, "Crano" signing out.
# # #
Thursday, August 3
No Free Lunch (You Have to Blog About It)
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- I'd charge my own mother on the tollway. Assuming that I, you know, actually worked for the Illinois Tollway Authority, which I don't, thank you very much open-road tolling and Governor Blagojevich. (Yes, I had to google his name to spell it properly.) What does this have to do free lunches? Nothing really, I just lacked a good opening paragraph.
"Free lunches" in the economic sense of the idiom mean that there is always an opportunity cost to doing something. You could be doing something else instead of dining on that dried out brisket sandwich and laughing at your boss's lame jokes, which is about the only time I ever get a free lunch anymore.
(Jesus, I just got fired. Phil, I like your jokes actually, I was just trying to be funny. Brisket is a lot funnier than sushi so you know that I was going for funny in the preceding paragraph. Damn it! Now I've cut both paragraphs off at the knees. No wait, it's funnier if I say that they've been castrated or rendered otherwise impotent. Fuck, this third paragraph is dying on the vine; time to cut losses.)
But most people don't see "free lunches" in the economic sense; probably because they're not Adam Smith. No, to many a "free lunch" is a consternation producing predicament that implies that there are strings attached to the gift. I want the brisket sandwich but I don't want the ass-kissing, ego-stroking charade.
Well, I'm guilty of employing the free lunch maneuver. I'm offering my nephews three-day passes to Lollapalooza on one condition: they blog here about their experiences. Underhanded, no? No.
I'm doing it for a couple of reasons really. One, because there really aren't any free lunches in the world and they should learn that early in life. But less harsh, I want them to understand the value of work. Life isn't all rock concerts and baseball games. It's not always grilled steak and chocolate-covered strawberries. Hard work makes the trappings of the good life available to those who provide something in return.
Moreover, I think it will be interesting for the Lukateake readership to see the world through someone else's eyes. I'm not maniacal enough to believe that I'm above reproach and have to be the only voice here. Plus, these kids have talent and we should nurture that by thrusting them into the churning waters of a fervent audience. So be frank with them as I will be.
There is no partial credit in life; not everyone takes home a blue ribbon at the end of the day. I'll be helping my nephews to develop their own voices in the coming days and learning to respond to accolades and critiques is one of the finest arts that no one teaches.
Without further delay (and paragraph wasting), I present Aaron and Kameron C., guest posters to Lukateake who will be bringing their take on Lollapalooza (and life!) in a way that only they can.
# # #
P.S. The last reason that I'm doing this is a selfish reason actually. By having "guest posters" on Lukateake, it means that my voice can take the back row in the choir for a few days. Or get drunk with impunity.
"Free lunches" in the economic sense of the idiom mean that there is always an opportunity cost to doing something. You could be doing something else instead of dining on that dried out brisket sandwich and laughing at your boss's lame jokes, which is about the only time I ever get a free lunch anymore.
(Jesus, I just got fired. Phil, I like your jokes actually, I was just trying to be funny. Brisket is a lot funnier than sushi so you know that I was going for funny in the preceding paragraph. Damn it! Now I've cut both paragraphs off at the knees. No wait, it's funnier if I say that they've been castrated or rendered otherwise impotent. Fuck, this third paragraph is dying on the vine; time to cut losses.)
But most people don't see "free lunches" in the economic sense; probably because they're not Adam Smith. No, to many a "free lunch" is a consternation producing predicament that implies that there are strings attached to the gift. I want the brisket sandwich but I don't want the ass-kissing, ego-stroking charade.
Well, I'm guilty of employing the free lunch maneuver. I'm offering my nephews three-day passes to Lollapalooza on one condition: they blog here about their experiences. Underhanded, no? No.
I'm doing it for a couple of reasons really. One, because there really aren't any free lunches in the world and they should learn that early in life. But less harsh, I want them to understand the value of work. Life isn't all rock concerts and baseball games. It's not always grilled steak and chocolate-covered strawberries. Hard work makes the trappings of the good life available to those who provide something in return.
Moreover, I think it will be interesting for the Lukateake readership to see the world through someone else's eyes. I'm not maniacal enough to believe that I'm above reproach and have to be the only voice here. Plus, these kids have talent and we should nurture that by thrusting them into the churning waters of a fervent audience. So be frank with them as I will be.
There is no partial credit in life; not everyone takes home a blue ribbon at the end of the day. I'll be helping my nephews to develop their own voices in the coming days and learning to respond to accolades and critiques is one of the finest arts that no one teaches.
Without further delay (and paragraph wasting), I present Aaron and Kameron C., guest posters to Lukateake who will be bringing their take on Lollapalooza (and life!) in a way that only they can.
# # #
P.S. The last reason that I'm doing this is a selfish reason actually. By having "guest posters" on Lukateake, it means that my voice can take the back row in the choir for a few days. Or get drunk with impunity.
Uncle Frets Candid Conversation With Nephews
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- His nails are bitten down to nothing. His stomach is twisted into knots. And, with apologies to Andrew Bird's excellent "Mysterious Production of Eggs" album, he's developed a "nervous tick motion of the head to the left."
When it comes to conversation, Chicago raconteur Luke Penca, conservatively considers himself a savant; a real natural who lets the conversation just come to him without effort. However, Penca didn't prepare this much for a speech when he met the President (of a local Chamber of Commerce). He didn't prepare this extensively for million-dollar presentations to top Fortune 500 executives.
So just what has got Penca's proverbial pontification panties in a bunch?
"My nephews need to learn about sex and drugs. Thankfully, the rock-and-roll will be handled by Lollapalooza," said a stressed-out Penca.
"Today's teenagers are a tough audience to get through to thanks to their Playstation-induced A.D.D. I know that these conversations are always uncomfortable for the kids but, Jesus, I didn't realize how tough it would be for me personally."
When his sister Katherine first presented the idea, Penca jumped at the opportunity to impart his wisdom on his nephews, Aaron C., 16 and Kameron C., 14.
"She and her husband have already covered the conversation's tenets in detail. So I figured I could just transact on my 'Cool Uncle' currency," he recounted. "In my mind, I planned for them to sit in rapt attention as they listened to my cautionary tale. My words would soundly reinforce messages their parents had already framed in their young, malleable minds.
"But now as the inevitable conversation draws closer to me now, I begin to fully appreciate the situation's gravity. I love these kids, and all of my nieces and nephews for that matter, so much that I don't want them to make the same mistakes that I did."
Friends and family know that Penca will pull it together at the last minute.
"He's profane and profound at the same time," said Lukateake, Penca's alter ego with a dubious track record of disappearing for weeks on end.
"I fully expect him to deliver on the salient points, e.g. engaging in safe sex, abstaining from drinking alcohol and forgoing recreational drug use. Now if only we could get him on-board with those 'clean living' things... on second thought, maybe we shouldn't because I don't know if I would I exist anymore?"
Added a humbled Penca just before going on stage, "Even if I bomb, it's going to be memorable and, perhaps, that act itself will serve as a warning to my nephews."
# # #
When it comes to conversation, Chicago raconteur Luke Penca, conservatively considers himself a savant; a real natural who lets the conversation just come to him without effort. However, Penca didn't prepare this much for a speech when he met the President (of a local Chamber of Commerce). He didn't prepare this extensively for million-dollar presentations to top Fortune 500 executives.
So just what has got Penca's proverbial pontification panties in a bunch?
"My nephews need to learn about sex and drugs. Thankfully, the rock-and-roll will be handled by Lollapalooza," said a stressed-out Penca.
"Today's teenagers are a tough audience to get through to thanks to their Playstation-induced A.D.D. I know that these conversations are always uncomfortable for the kids but, Jesus, I didn't realize how tough it would be for me personally."
When his sister Katherine first presented the idea, Penca jumped at the opportunity to impart his wisdom on his nephews, Aaron C., 16 and Kameron C., 14.
"She and her husband have already covered the conversation's tenets in detail. So I figured I could just transact on my 'Cool Uncle' currency," he recounted. "In my mind, I planned for them to sit in rapt attention as they listened to my cautionary tale. My words would soundly reinforce messages their parents had already framed in their young, malleable minds.
"But now as the inevitable conversation draws closer to me now, I begin to fully appreciate the situation's gravity. I love these kids, and all of my nieces and nephews for that matter, so much that I don't want them to make the same mistakes that I did."
Friends and family know that Penca will pull it together at the last minute.
"He's profane and profound at the same time," said Lukateake, Penca's alter ego with a dubious track record of disappearing for weeks on end.
"I fully expect him to deliver on the salient points, e.g. engaging in safe sex, abstaining from drinking alcohol and forgoing recreational drug use. Now if only we could get him on-board with those 'clean living' things... on second thought, maybe we shouldn't because I don't know if I would I exist anymore?"
Added a humbled Penca just before going on stage, "Even if I bomb, it's going to be memorable and, perhaps, that act itself will serve as a warning to my nephews."
# # #
The Sound of Music
WELTON, Iowa (SNARKY) -- They may not be the Von Trapps but an area family has got the pipes -- and the moxie -- to compete with all would-be karaoke contenders.
After a long hiatus, the "Plucky Pencas," comprised of sisters Katherine and Caroline and brothers Michael and Luke, recently reunited to belt out favorites to a crowd loaded on $2 domestic beers. Their surprise performance at "Buzzy's" was the place to be last Friday night; if for no other reason than the simple fact that the bar is the only venue in town.
"It had been some time since our last show and we were more than a little nervous," said Katherine, the eldest and a founding member of the quartet. "Those [Coors Light] 'Silver Bullets' sure helped take the edge off."
Rather than experimenting with new material, the group launched full force into a retrospective of their catalog. Their opening number was the call-and-answer "Summer Nights" made famous by the Grease film starring Olivia Newton John and John Travolta.
Several of the members were in rare voice following the layoff.
"Sure, we're refreshed but it was hardly perfection," said Michael. "I had to shoulder the male part by myself because Luke seemed more interested in stage histrionics and the groupies than in carrying a tune."
The group also dusted off such classic numbers as "Sylvia's Mother" and "On the Cover of the Rolling Stone" by yacht rock pioneer Dr. Hook. Those catchy songs quickened the crowd's pulse who yearned for more after the quick set was over.
But whether or not the the super karaoke group will ever fully reunite and tour again remains unclear. Creative forces and personalities have doomed more than one group over the years and only time will tell if the Plucky Pencas will be any different.
Andrea G., the group's pugnacious agent, added ominously, "Yeah, they're a draw as all four on the summer festival circuit but let's be clear here: Caroline has been carrying the rest of the group for some time now and is the only one with any real talent."
# # #
After a long hiatus, the "Plucky Pencas," comprised of sisters Katherine and Caroline and brothers Michael and Luke, recently reunited to belt out favorites to a crowd loaded on $2 domestic beers. Their surprise performance at "Buzzy's" was the place to be last Friday night; if for no other reason than the simple fact that the bar is the only venue in town.
"It had been some time since our last show and we were more than a little nervous," said Katherine, the eldest and a founding member of the quartet. "Those [Coors Light] 'Silver Bullets' sure helped take the edge off."
Rather than experimenting with new material, the group launched full force into a retrospective of their catalog. Their opening number was the call-and-answer "Summer Nights" made famous by the Grease film starring Olivia Newton John and John Travolta.
Several of the members were in rare voice following the layoff.
"Sure, we're refreshed but it was hardly perfection," said Michael. "I had to shoulder the male part by myself because Luke seemed more interested in stage histrionics and the groupies than in carrying a tune."
The group also dusted off such classic numbers as "Sylvia's Mother" and "On the Cover of the Rolling Stone" by yacht rock pioneer Dr. Hook. Those catchy songs quickened the crowd's pulse who yearned for more after the quick set was over.
But whether or not the the super karaoke group will ever fully reunite and tour again remains unclear. Creative forces and personalities have doomed more than one group over the years and only time will tell if the Plucky Pencas will be any different.
Andrea G., the group's pugnacious agent, added ominously, "Yeah, they're a draw as all four on the summer festival circuit but let's be clear here: Caroline has been carrying the rest of the group for some time now and is the only one with any real talent."
# # #
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