footprintsontheceiling

Archive for February, 2007|Monthly archive page

I’m going to live forever!

In silly on February 25, 2007 at 2:25 pm

Man aged 107 forsakes sex for longevity

Flogging My Molly

In music on February 19, 2007 at 6:45 pm

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Growing up on the mean streets of San Diego, California, I never really had much use for punk music.  Too fast, too mean, not nearly as fun as that “New Wave” that gripped me.   

However, a funny thing is happening to me as I get older.  I’m becoming more and more left wing, which is not the topic of this post, but I’m also becoming more and more enamored with punk rock.  But not your ordinary, run of the mill, “Let’s Lynch The Landlord” punk (although that is a great song); no, my punk has to have roots. 

Let me explain.  For whatever reason, I’m not really a fan of punk for punk’s sake.  Black Flag doesn’t do anything for me; The Sex Pistols aren’t even on my radar.  But add another element of music to it, and I’ll love it.  Social Distortion is punk with a dash of Johnny Cash; X is rockabilly punk; The Clash regularly threw reggae into their music.  And all three bands are regularly near the top of my “recently played” list. 

Which brings me to Flogging Molly.  This band….well, it’s hard to describe.  But it’s not.  Flogging Molly is Celtic Punk; happy little melodies and traditional Irish instruments (mandolin, accordion, and fiddle, among others) sped up to light speed.  I call it “heart attack music” because I often think someone of my age could easily have a heart attack listening to Flogging Molly.  A friend of mine calls it “Riverdance on speed.” 

But that’s far too simple.  It’s more than that.  To whit, Flogging Molly has songs about pirates (“Seven Deadly Sins”), the frustrations of life (“The Worst Day Since Yesterday”), and rebels (“Rebels of the Sacred Heart”).  Songs that sometimes start out at mid-tempo, with a lovely little melody played with a flute, and you find yourself singing along with the fantastic melody but then, all of a sudden, the song takes you and throw you off the precipice into something much more manic and energetic, but you can’t stop singing along because it’s so catchy.  And you’re dancing.  And you’re reaching for a Guinness to toast your friends.  And your good fortune to have found music that touches your soul.   

And touch your soul it does.  This is happy music.  Celebratory music.  Music of life.  That’s the part that gets me.  Witness the following lyric, from “Rebels of the Sacred Heart:” 

“Now bless me father for I have sinned
But it`s the same old story again and again and again
Ah well, such is the bread of an everyday life
From mornin’ to noon to this shadowless night”

Good ol’ everyday living music.  Something we can all relate to.  You screw something up, you sin, you make a stupid mistake?  At some point, you gotta stop yourself and say, “Ah, well, that’s part of life.”  I love that lyric.

Which brings me to Flogging Molly’s best song.  Out of an amazing amount of great music (they have 3 studio CDs and 2 live CDs – all of which are worth picking up), it’s hard to suggest that any song is better than any other, because there really isn’t a bad one in the bunch.  But then there’s “If I Ever Leave This World Alive.”  It’s a slower song (one of a handful in their repertoire) , played with acoustic guitar, and it’s perhaps the most powerful song they have:

“If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll thank for all the things you did in my life
If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll come back down and sit beside your
feet tonight
Wherever I am you’ll always be
More than just a memory
If I ever leave this world alive

If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll take on all the sadness
That I left behind
If I ever leave this world alive
The madness that you feel will soon subside
So in a word don’t shed a tear
I’ll be here when it all gets weird
If I ever leave this world alive

So when in doubt just call my name
Just before you go insane
If I ever leave this world
Hey I may never leave this world
But if I ever leave this world alive”

Somebody please play that song at my funeral. 

Flogging Molly plays next Monday, February 26, at the Boulder Theater.  It’s been sold out for weeks (as all FM shows usually are) and my tix are all spoken for (you KNOW who you are!), but you should beg, borrow or steal to get a ticket to this show.  They are the best live band around.  You’ll spend two hours in a show bouncing around to the fast songs, getting moist in your eyes to the slow songs; you’ll feel like you’ve been hanging out with dear friends who just happen to play a mean fiddle and play Celtic music at 200 bpm; but most of all, you’ll leave the show feeling alive and invigorated.  That’s what Flogging Molly does.

Such is the bread indeed.    

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Cross-posted at Waking Up With Morning Song

 

I am Dannielynn’s father.

In celebrity on February 16, 2007 at 6:11 pm

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Howard K. Stern?  No.  Mr. Zsa Zsa Gabor?  No.  Dustin Diamond?  No.  They might all be telling you they’re Dannielynn’s father – well, except for Dustin Diamond, he hasn’t said anything yet, but I expect he will shortly – but the truth is, and I’m sorry for not coming out with this sooner to clear up the confusion, that I am Dannielynn’s father.

In case you’ve been living under a rock lately – or you’re just intelligent enough to avoid celebrity gossip – celebrity Anna Nicole Smith died recently and all these other guys have been claiming to be the father of her baby, Dannielynn.  Not true.  I mean, sure, I guess she was a celebrity, so that part is true, for some reason.  Anna Nicole was famous for….uh….fake blonde hair and big fake boobs and for wandering around in a stupor on “The Anna Nicole Show” and for marrying a corpse and for, uh, some other stuff, I guess.  But that’s beside the point.  The point is she was famous and now she’s dead – so she’s going to become more famous, as is the American Celebrity Way – and all these guys are claiming to be the father of her now 8 month old baby and I’m here to tell you it’s simply not true.  I am Dannielynn’s father.

Sure, I never met Anna Nicole.  And I’ve never been the Bahamas, where she lived.  Hell, I couldn’t even find the Bahamas on a map.  But she was from Texas and I get the hives whenever I get near Texas so I never saw her there, either.  But we had an affair.  A big giant wonderful sexy fake affair.  That’s what this is all about, right?  Falsehoods?  If Anna Nicole can have big ol’ fake boobs and fake blonde hair and fake love for a 90 year old Sugerdaddy and still be a celebrity then I can have a fake affair with her.  I mean, I saw her on one episode of “The Anna Nicole Show” – the one where she walked around in a stupor – and read about her in the occasional “Entertainment Weekly” column, and I think that certainly qualifies me to be the father of Dannielynn, don’t you?  Wait, she walked around in a stupor in more than one episode of “The Anna Nicole Show?”  Crap!  There goes my alibi.  If I can’t prove which episode I saw, I can’t legally claim paternity, can I?  Ah, hell! 

 Dustin Diamond, she’s all yours. 

Idiots Rule

In idiots rule, Tuesday rants on February 13, 2007 at 8:28 am

Hey you.

Yeah, you. There. In the minivan. Talking on your cellphone. Eating a donut. Or whatever that heart-attack-waiting-to-happen pastry is that’s in your hand and heading towards your mouth.

Yeah, you. At the corner. A block away from my kid’s school.

Have you seen me yet? You haven’t? No, of course you haven’t. Because you’re talking on your phone. You must be having the world’s Most Important Conversation Ever (MICE), because what else would distract you so much that you haven’t noticed that I took one step into the intersection before you even got there. And that I have a 3 year old boy in my left hand and a 6 year old boy in my right hand. And that we were going to cross the street.

Yeah, baby. That’s me. Superdaddy. Spying you coming, talking on your Nokia, gobbling on your Krispy Kreme and your tall non-fat drive-through Starbucks mocha, (hold the whip) about a half a block away. And stopping myself and two little boys from continuing our cross – THAT WE HAD ALREADY STARTED – because you looked like you were having the MICE and that you couldn’t be bothered with the fact that we were crossing the street.

Yeah, that’s you. There, in the minivan. You must have kids of your own, right? Why else would you drive a minivan? Sure, you have kids of your own. Did you drop them off at school? Before you drove through the Starbucks and got that phone call? You did? And they were safe, right?

That’s right, they were safe. Because they didn’t have to cross the street with idiots like you on the road.

 

Oh, wait, now you’re pulling through the intersection. On your way to what must be the world’s Most Important Meeting Ever (MIME), because you STILL HAVEN’T SEEN THE THREE OF US STANDING THERE WAITING TO CROSS THE FREAKING STREET and yet you continue on. To your MIME. Or wherever the hell morons like you go at 9:00 in the morning. You’re pulling through the intersection, and you’re looking left – or so it appears – even though there’s a 42 year old Dad and his 3 and 6 year old sons not 3 feet away from your van ON THE RIGHT. If the 42 year old Dad hadn’t stopped his 3 and 6 year old sons from crossing the street when he spotted your distracted fat ass barreling down ½ block away from him and 1 block away from THE FREAKING ELEMENTARY SCHOOL we’d be sitting here talking about an entirely different situation now, wouldn’t we?

Yes, we would. You’re a moron now; you could easily have been a moron in jail. For a very very long time. With a lot on your mind. Namely, how if maybe you’d been paying attention the morning of February 12th, 2007 and not gabbing to your Bridge Club mate Betty on your cell phone and chowing down on a Winchell’s Bear Claw maybe you would have seen ¾ of my family crossing the street and not run them over.

Then again, I’m giving you too much credit, aren’t I?

Please, pay attention.

Wishful Thinking

In photography on February 11, 2007 at 10:26 am

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La sabiduría de niños (The wisdom of children) – episode 1.

In mijos on February 7, 2007 at 9:51 pm

From my 3 year old son, The G-Man, as we’re driving to preschool this morning:

“Daddy, if you drink too much apple juice, your poop gets interesting.”

C’mon Ted, Just Admit It.

In Tuesday rants on February 6, 2007 at 2:41 pm

Did you see where Pastor Ted Haggard, he of the male-prostitute meth scandal in Colorado Springs last November, has been declared “completely heterosexual” and plans to pursue a masters in psychology using on-line courses?

Right.

Here’s how I see this going down. Pastor Ted is studying late one night, cramming for an on-line exam. Mrs. Pastor Ted has gone to sleep. Pastor Ted realizes that his on-line psychology course includes a chapter on penis envy. I mean, what psychology course doesn’t, right? Pastor Ted feels a strange sensation in his, uh, congregation, as it were. So, for some guidance, he points his browser over to http://www.completelyheterosexual.com, which, by now, has been taken over by gay porn (It’s freaking inevitable). Pastor Ted reverts to his old ways, blahblahblah.

Can it end any other way? I mean, c’mon, Pastor Ted, you’re not being true to yourself. If you like men, why deny it? You’ll live a happier life if you’re true to yourself. There’s a line from an old song that goes, “You better find out, what makes your heart sing.” And men make your heart sing, Pastor Ted. That much is obvious. As heavy as your denial is, it can’t mask the fact that men make your heart sing. And there’s nothing wrong with that. As much as the people who used to listen to you religiously (pun intended) probably don’t think that, most of us out here in Real World America believe very much in following your heart, regardless of whether you like men or women. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re true to yourself.

And “completely heterosexual?” Really? Do people really believe that stereotype? So, what, Pastor Ted, are you going to run out and get some NASCAR gear now? And a rifle? And a Chevy truck? And go kill Bambi? Do you honestly believe that any of us with a brain – or a pea of a brain, even – are going to sit here and go, “Whew. He’s completely heterosexual. Good thing, too. Wouldn’t want him to have an open mind or anything.” We’re all part homosexual, Pastor Ted, somewhere deep down in our hearts. All of us. Some of us are just unable to admit it. I myself would do Cillian Murphy if he showed up at my door and my wife and kids were out of town. Okay, so I’m just making that up. I’d do him even if my wife and kids were in town. But staying at a motel.

Don’t be afraid, Pastor Ted. Don’t be afraid to be who you really are. Sure, you’ll lose a few friends who think that idea that boys kissing boys or girls kissing girls is “icky,” but those aren’t really your friends, anyway. Friends don’t sit in judgment of you based on where your lips or your vagina or, God forbid (pun intended), your penis spend their time. And as for your Lord? I bet when you get to Heaven He’s (I use the masculine because I know you Christians believe in that sort of thing) going to say, “Pastor Ted, were you true to yourself?”

Well, were you?

Where A Mighty Snowbank Once Lived, A River Now Rages

In weather on February 5, 2007 at 9:38 pm

Well, it has finally stopped snowing in Denver. After seven straight weeks of snow and freezing cold temperatures. And now it’s nice outside and everything is melting.

I wonder if we’re going to miss the snow, now that it’s going to be gone. I mean, I’ve never heard so many people say, “I can’t wait for spring” this early in a year. But don’t you think the snow is sort of like an old friend who came to visit and never left and now, 2 months later, he’s packing up his toothbrush and his old roll out foam sleeping mattress and leaving? Which means, if you follow my infallible logic, that we’re going to miss him. Yes, even though he made our lives a living hell for 6 or 7 weeks and he can’t cook and you caught him watching your pay-per-view porn several times (on YOUR credit card!), we’re all going to miss him. One day, and it’ll probably be sometime in May, because that rhymes nicely, Denverites the world over are going to put down their margaritas, stop basking in the sun, turn, and look at each other and say, “Damn. It’s too nice. I wish it were snowing again. Remember how our cars bottomed out on the ice in the alley and then got stuck in front of Bob’s house on a daily basis? And remember how that same creepy guy kept coming by and asking you for $15 to shovel your walk on a daily basis? And remember how the stores didn’t have any groceries because the delivery trucks couldn’t get through all the storms and so we ate Top Ramen for 7 weeks in a row? I miss those times.”

Yeah, we’re going to miss the snow. Not.