Not an issue in this campaign

I’m not going to raise the issue about family values in this blog. After all, who am I to judge and besides that, this issue is not likely to change my vote anyway. The issue is, what were they thinking?
I’m talking about the McCain campaign here and one other case where the top leadership made themselves vulnerable for a divisive media firestorm. This other case is how a disgruntled football player is causing strife within the Philadelphia Eagles locker room but I will get to that later.
First, U.S. presidential candidate John McCain selects Governor of Alaska Sarah Palin as his running mate. Then it gets out that Sarah’s 17-year-old, single daughter is five months pregnant, casting doubt about the Republican candidates’ long-held position as the “family values” ticket. Oh, no, they explain, It’s OK because the Palin family is fully supporting their daughter in parenthood, etc. – it’s all over the news and will be debated throughout the rest of the year.

So this controversy immediately draws attention away from Palin’s legitimacy as qualified leader (if there ever was any) and instead focuses the whole campaign on this one issue. What, is this a smokescreen that’s supposed to divert attention away from the real issues and make the voting public think: Hey, compared to this, Republican’s record on Iraq, the economy and human rights is pretty good?

Obviously not. This is McCain deliberately squandering any chance he has at winning the election. Eight years of lunatics running the asylum was far too many, therefore, he wanted to hand over the popular leadership of the country back to the Democrats, who can then go about the business of righting the ship, for which they are overqualified.

Brilliant strategy and then again, there was really no other choice for the doomed McCain campaign. Of course the conspiracy theorist in me says the Republicans could have selected anyone as McCain’s running mate because they will just steal the election like they have the last two times, but I’m glad I don’t listen to that voice in my head anymore.

Then there’s the case of the Philadelphia Eagles who go out of their way to disenfranchise a player who had the audacity to ask for more money. Of course, things are more convoluted than they seem and you might get a handle on it here http://www.philly.com/philly/sports/BROWN_TAKES_AIM_AT_ROSENHAUS.html

The guy’s name is Lito Sheppard and he was put out of his job earlier this year when the team hired a new player to take his spot once it was known he was upset with his contract and wanted to re-negotiate. The Eagles didn’t trade Sheppard away but decided to let him stew in his own juices on the sidelines. So Sheppard goes out and hires Team Public Enemy No. 2 in an agent known as Drew Rosenhaus. Rosenhaus effectively ignites a locker room controversy that will disrupt the team fabric and will have everyone on the Eagles hating each other by the year’s end.

Again, what was coach Andy Reid thinking? Was it that he and the organization expertly diffused the tension in the locker room the last time Rosenhaus represented an unhappy player? Was this a personal vendetta against somebody who thought he was worth more money even though he was injured for most of the last two seasons? Obviously, Reid invited this firestorm on this Eagles just so events like these would transpire exactly the way they are happening now. This way, Eagles team owner can say, “You’ve lost control of the personnel, we only won three games this season, it’s time to part ways.” That will save coach Reid the indignity of having to resign and admit defeat.

I’m so glad that these leaders have learned to manipulate the media so effectively in order to advance their hidden agendas. In nautical terms, this is what's known a "scuppering" a vessel. It basically goes like this: When a huge storm is approaching and you boat is stuck in a harbor - you strip it and sink it before the storm hits. That way that boat rests on the bottom and avoids getting smashed into piers, pilings, other boats, flotsam, jetsam and the like. When the storm is over, you go back and raise the vessel and the damage will be minimal as compared to those that remained on the surface.

McCain and Reid have scuppered their respective causes because they've given up on them. When all logical possibilities have been eliminated, only the illogical remains.

Who Nose?

I've got this thing in my left nostril that's driving my batty. I can't tell what it is although all afternoon I've been trying to "solve" it, by picking, preening, wetting, cutting, shaving and trimming. No avail, obviously, that's why I'm writing this blog.

Did you ever have one of these weird sensations? It usually forms at the base of the opening, right in that little pocket that goes up against the septum. It feels like a dust or pollen ball got caught up in some nose hair and it wiggles every time I exhale. This is kind of like that sensation you get when you pull the couch back from the wall for the first time in a year and the cloud of dust bunnies conspires to perform an upwards funneling tango into your allergy-prone probiscus.

This sensation could almost be like an errant nose hair getting stuck like a blown-down tree and vibrating furiously on a very sensitive part of the skin at every gust of wind. I've tried to ignore - it keeps coming back to cloud my thoughts.

I try to focus on work. I'm sure research on femto cells or electronic dispersion compensation is not exciting but it could be engaging enough to send my thoughts elsewhere - nope.

I've become an expert at plucking nose hairs but this one evades the fingers, the tweezers, the electric trimmer and the roto-Lorax thingy. I think Dr. Seuss' was as obsessed with nose hairs as much as I am today and he's got a whole book dedicated to it although it is cleverly disguised as a parable.

What I'm wondering is how many man hours per year are wasted at work in the pursuit of errant nasal follicles. How much could we as a civilization accomplished had we not been sidetracked by this highly-annoying diversion? Could we have mapped the human genome 20 years ago? Could we have built a bridge to China, solve world hunger and ended univeral suffering? Maybe we could have brought a decent slice of pizza to California - or maybe not.

Why hasn't man kind solved this perplexing vexation? Or perhaps, that's the point - we sit at our desk some days playing this game. We pretend we're working when really we are writhing in mental anguish over these itchy nasal passages. Nothing gets done, no one questions the lack of progess we're not making and we're all in this sorry mess of a world because of it. Or maybe I'm just overthinking things.

You Band Name Here

Amerihippie World-Jazz Funk-Pop Or Euro Trance Jam-Funk?
My band just finished rehearsal and oh-by-gosh, by-golly, is it badass. As soon as it becomes feasible, we will launch our world tour and deliver our sonic assault on the masses.I've already placed the order for my sequinned jumpsuit with extra large lapels.

Yes, I’m excited – or at least I would be if we could all agree on a name. Help me, if you can.
I, for one, am keeping my tenuous hold on my day job just in case this gig falls through. Plus my wife - I love her dearly - told me I had to. But, gee willikers, I sure would like to unshackle the chains to this computer, so to speak. And coming up with a name for the band is all that stands in the way.
All of my previous ideas have fallen through. My first love was “Inbred Mutants” but it was roundly criticized as “too punk” or “so 80s” but I had always wanted to be in a band by that name. One suggested name, “Ass Beard”, was also shot down because it would only apply to middle-aged men of Croatian heritage, of which, there are none in this band.
So how do I come up with a fitting name for such an outfit? Maybe it should reflect one of our illustrious musical arrangements in some way, kind of like the way it does for, say a band like Garaj Mahal. I mean after all, coming up with a name is almost as important as coming up with an original song – maybe even more so.
There are multiple factions within the band which make it difficult to come to a consensus on anything. One faction describes the music we make as Ameriehippie World-Jazz Funk-Pop, which couldn’t be further from the truth but that is just my humble opinion. Still another faction thinks we’ve created the new category of Euro-Trance Jam Funk. There are several more factions that I won’t get to here, which is remarkable since it’s a power trio.
Anyway, the direction I’m going doesn’t lend its self to the name of “AIDS Loogie” which again was deemed to inappropriate. A friend of mine once told me of a band name generator on the Internet. At the time, I was like, “Please, I can think up about five band names when I’m on the toilet every morning.” But now I hope its still in business. But I’m taking suggestions - Travelin’ Band has already been taken, since I was loosely affiliated with that outfit back in the ‘90’s. So anything at all will do.

Compassion

I recently came across this exercise that I'm trying to do and I think you'll find it interesting. It's only something to ponder but it immediately seemed as if it was worthwhile. The exercise is aimed at building a sense of compassion within me. There are times in life when I get fed up at people who wrong me, even if in a greater perspective, these imagined wrongs are minor. The one example that always gets me is a car that cuts me off on the highway. It happens a lot here and I always feel that someone is getting something over on me. It's a feeling of helplessness yet I always know that the potential for it to happen is always there. I get defensive and it always seems throw me into a negative spiral of frustration. So what if, instead of getting mad at that that person, I attempt to understand that person's suffering. Obviously, the self-importance that makes a person cut off another, and even endangers them, has to originate from some internal wound that causes them to suffer. Everyone suffers. So what if I imagine that suffering as a cloud of black smoke eminating from their body. And what if every one on my block had some black smoke eminating from them. And what if every living being had black smoke eminating them. What if I were to inhale this black smoke and take it into the the very depths of my body. And the black smoke somehow lessened my own pride and self-importance, the kind of feelings that make me want to seek revenge on the driver who cut me off. And by diminishing my self-importance or the things that make me feel injured becuase of the suffering of others, I developed a greater capacity for compassion. I understand suddenly why this driver has to cut me off. And it would be better if this person were in the world and began to heal from the suffering. What if that compassion were to manifest itself as the white light and steam that eminated from me when I exhaled? The white light then has the ability to heal that driver and all other living beings who suffer, even to the slightest degree. Doing this exercise may not have a direct impact on this person, but it exercises my compassion muscle and makes it stronger. And after doing this exercise everyday for a little while, it somehow allows me to not feel as wronged as I had in this past when I get cut off by another driver. And I need not take revenge or feel the need to raise the middle fingered salute. I also read an article about a study that showed physiological changes in the brains of monks who practiced this exercise while meditating. They were happier and the proof could be seen with an MRI.
One time I got into mountain biking and I started out as a couch potato and I soon realized that after biking 20-plus miles every weekend, my thighs became as thick as tree trunks. I was always the last person up the hill but I could tell how the little bit of work over a long period paid off.

Opine

The World's Greatest Writer sat down to his keyboard, enthralled with the limitless possibilities that the blog universe held. Overwhelmed by this, he went back to his coffee and decided to call it a day.

On the Cusp of a New Sound

From seemingly out of nowhere, a new sound was about to capture the ears of America and overcome the barriers of a dead radio culture and a deeply fractured Internet music distribution. Emanating from a garage deep in the bowels a forgotten little town, in a humidty-drenched climate, that sound ruminated from a band that was unfortunately named "Inbred Mutants". In disproportionate contradiction to the amount of talent and creativity they exhibited, they were about to change things for ever with a new sonic paradigm for a post-emo world, behind the most unlikely of "hits". The song's title, "Shitty Pity Party" would go on to set wolrd sales records despite a channel that had been rapaciously savaged by file sharing after hears of pent-up frustrations help up artificially by a corrupt organized crime syndicate. But at this moment, the creative spark was just germinating.

Was it Spectrum or rectum?

The two words are so similar that its almost uncanny. I read an article yesterday in the Philadelphia Inquirer how the parent company will tear down the old arena to make way for a new entertainment and retail complex. Good riddance, I say. Yes, some of my favorite concerts of all time were performed there (Grateful Dead, Allman Bros., Jeff Beck) but I'd have to say that with all the wistful memories that are pouring out, one of the single most scary moments of my life took place there.
It was March of 1987 and I'm going to my first GD concert. It's a cold, windy day in March and as is the tradition of going to GD concerts, we arrive early to party in the parking lot. But it's so cold you can barely hold that freshly rolled spliff between your finger tips. Everybody's looking forward to the show but most likely it's so cold that people just want to get indoors. Here's the problem, the geniuses at Spectacor, or whatever company was running that dump at the time, decided they could double book the facility that day with some sort of pro-wrestling show in the afternoon. The transition period of breaking down the wrestling set, and setting up the rock concert equipment is taking way too long. The show is about to start and still the doors are not open (not that the Dead ever started on time). I'm in line outside the arena with my date and suddenly there is a big crowd forming in the cement steps up to the Spectrum gates. Everyone knows there's a bottleneck going into these things, but this time, no one is moving forward. The crowd is packing in and pushing more and more. The forward momentum is in inches and the pressure coming from the back is immense. With my date infront of me, there is a girl in back of me and we're becoming more intimate with each other than either of us had ever expected. I get trapped against a stairway railing and I'm getting pushed up the stairs with no where to go, left or right. Suddenly, there is is big trash can in front of me and I get pushed into it. With my heart racing, I'm pushing to my right to avoid it but there's a solid wall of people against me with no give. I basically have to knock this can over over and straddle it to move forward. I'm hearing other people in the crowd yelling about people falling over and almost getting trampled. There is a palpable feeling of panic in the air.
This is by far the most unnerved I've ever felt in a big crowd, with no exaggeration. Thoughts of a Who concert and people getting trampled in Cincinnati are foremost in my mind (Yes, that's right, I'm the eternal optimist).
So we finally get in relatively unscathed, and the concert is great and everything. Afterwards, we go out to the car where we're supposed to meet the couple who drove us there. The car is gone. Luckily, there are other folks we came up with who can drive us home. As it turns out my friend's wife had passed out in the crowd and hit her head on the cement outside the vaunted Spectrum. She was immediately rushed to the hospital. A great time was not had by all.
Ed Snider, I hope you made a lot of fricking money that day by double booking two major events and almost getting people trampled. There was another time where a friend of mine came into the Spectrum on his own two feet and left in an ambulance stretcher, but that was no fault of the Spectrum's.
On balance, I had many great times there at the Spectrum, far more numerous than the bad times but this one bad time will never be forgotten. And for that one moment, I say Good Bye, you old cruddy building.

All Behold: Monkeytooth Cometh

Are you sick and tired of people who brag about how cute their child/pet is? We'll you're in luck 'cause this is one of those times. We often personify our Pomeranian mongrel by voicing a high-pitched intonation as to what we think she is saying or what she might say if she actually had a voice. We talk at her and she just sits there, sometimes eagerly wagging her tail. The dog hardly barks and while she's intelligent by dog standards, the dialogue that we assign to her is mostly beyond her comprehension, we're thinking - the wife and I. At first, it started out as a bad impression of some foreign national who works behind the counter at a convenience store but now the voice has evolved into a cartoonish character - kind of like Puck in the old Hercules cartoons on TV. It's usually a voice of defiance, as in "Come, Emily, time for your medicine." and she just sits there, on the couch wagging her tail. But this is what we think she is says in a high-pitched voice: "No, I'm not going, bitches. Ha-Ha!" And these go on with elaborations and variations. In fact, the voice is so high-pitched now that only Megan can do the Emily voice and I can only do a pale imitation.

What really gets Emily excited and interactive is that rare occassion when we eat at the dinner table and she parks conveniently underfoot, anxiously awaiting ground scores. One night I'm eating pork chops and it was during hockey season (this become relevant later). I'm chewing at the bone and I'm try to clean the thing of every single molecule of meat because it is so savory. But I just can't get to those spaces. My jaw is to big and my tooth pattern circumference just won't let be get into those nooks and crannies. Just as I'm about to give up when I see a very anxious 12-pound dog who is sitting politely, wagging vigorously and cocking her small head to the side. "Ha, Ha, Monkeytooth," she said in the high-pitched voice. It dawned on me that the dog's snout would be perfect for getting at those molecules of meat that I missed. So, she saw me eating the bone, and not doing a very good job at it because I'm a primate with poorly adapted jaw structure. So not only does the Emily voice have a pitch, it has a cadence. You know that little organ riff they play at hockey games right before the faceoff, you know the one they do to get the home crowd into it "Deh-deh, duh-duh-duh," Now repeat that with the words "Ha, Ha Monkeytooth."