April 2004 Archives

Late Night Appearance Affirms Vigoda Aliveness

A recent cameo appearance on "Late Night With Conan O'Brien" by actor Abe Vigoda confirmed that the 82 year old actor has not yet died. The actor, participating in a sketch about Quentin Tarantino, was greeted with warm applause and mutters of, "He's alive?" Vigoda was a good sport, as always, even donning a blond wig in an [unsuccessful] attempt to spark the [unfunny] sketch. Coincidentally, the audience reaction at seeing a living, breathing Vigoda came just as the sketch itself nearly died.

O'Brien's show adopted Vigoda as a recurring cast member and symbol of man's struggle to stave off the Grim Reaper five years ago. Since then, he has made frequent cameos, his distinctive eyebrows and imposing cranial structure reminding fans of "The Godfather", "Barney Miller", and their own mortality.

"We love Abe," said O'Brien. "And as long as he's physically capable of standing upright and reading a single line written extra-big on a cue card, we're going to keep putting him in sketches that people wouldn't normally applaud, but will because he's in them and not dead. Because that's the Conan O'Brien way, and ever since Andy left, we've been a little bit desperate."

Vigoda enjoys his appearances on the show, and plans to continue to make cameo appearances and cheat death for the foreseeable future. The scourge of dead pools everywhere insists he is working and in good health, and promises to one day "dance on all your motherfucking graves."

With all the time I've been devoting to work, growing facial hair, and unsent fan letters to David Foster Wallace, I have had little time for flirting with the ladies. Tonight, I was lucky enough to learn that I still have just as much game as ever.

The scene: On Haight Street with The John Francis, after watching televised baseball at a bar. We stop to pick up ice cream at a convenience store that, for a moderately-sized corner market, has a staggering selection of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. My companion nabs his favorite flavor easily, but I have to lunge to reach the Peanut Butter Cup sitting at the bottom of the freezer bin. Staggering selection requires a staggeringly deep freezer bin, I realize, as I thrust my entire arm, and nearly my head into the freezer in pursuit of dessert.

My struggle does not go unnoticed my the mildly cute alterna-girl brunette behind me in line. The sight of two young men buying pints of ice cream at ten o'clock on a Friday night is a clear signal that a wild night lies ahead for them, after all. Shockingly, she compliments my dairy-grabbing effort, rather than cringing at the gluttony it represents. I spar back, telling her that the Peanut Butter Cup is worth the reach. I can feel my long-dormant game rising to the surface. I sense that "it" might eventually be, dare I say, "on".

I hand my money to the counterman, and the alterna-girl mentions my luck at the ice cream's proximity to the cash register. "In case you were winded from that move," she says, smiling. The John Francis places both ice cream containers in his bag. I freeze, already out of small talk, but manage to mutter something about having just enough energy left to handle scooping the ice cream, provided it was left out to soften.

I receive my change, and notice the John Francis walking out. Clearly, it is time for a memorable exit line. "Well, have a good time tonight with your stuff," I say, and turn to go. Not until the last consonant sounds are leaving my lips do I notice that her "stuff" consists solely of a four-pack of toilet paper. Even Parker Brothers ain't got game like me.

We walk home, together and yet alone. The alterna-girl is gone, but my game remains. The John Francis ends the scene with some much-needed perspective.

"At least she wasn't buying tampons."

There is no state religion in Zembla, as Zembla is a godless and spiritually barren land. Still, Zembla still sympathizes with Catholicism out of family loyalties and nostalgia, plus it's no stupider than any other religion. Much less stupider than a lot of them, in fact. I mean, come on, Wicca? Please, dude.

Anyway, Easter is probably the number one holiday around these parts, combining family togetherness and gluttony with surreal traditions like the dyeing and hunting of eggs. It lacks the commercialism and gift-buying stress of Christmas, the revisionist Pilgrim-Native-American-friendship history of Thanksgiving, the fascist jingoism of Independence Day, the smug botanical arrogance of Arbor Day. The only holiday with a higher percentage of edible celebratory items is Thanksgiving, and Easter has significantly more chocolate, as well as a near-absence of yams.

Several years ago, my family attended a brunch with our relatives to the near south, at a place called the Circus Club, a name that would take on unanticipated significance later. I was nattily dressed in my Easter best, a green plaid shirt, slacks, and my beloved blue Vans when we arrived at my uncle's house, excited at the prospect of family togetherness and all-we-could-eat breakfast fare. Before we could depart for the club, however, my uncle looked at my outfit with dismay.

The Circus Club required young men to wear ties and jackets. I had to find appropriate apparel in my uncle's closet before gaining entry to the Club, and its buffet full of delicious eggs and hash browns. Showing a droll sense of humor I was not yet aware of at the time, my uncle presented me with an over-sized tan jacket, along with a red tie. I put them on, and we headed out to the Club.

When I got out of the minivan, my sisters got their first look at my ill-matched outfit. Green plaid, red tie, blue shoes, ill-fitting, clashing sport coat. Sister Kelly was the first to vocalize what everyone else was thinking.

"You look like a clown."

Immediately, my cheeks went red, adding to my comical appearance. Still, there were brunch waiting inside, and I am always willing to swallow my pride if I can also swallow many platefuls of hash browns. We stepped inside, and many eyes looked amusedly at me. Despite the name, the Circus Club was not actually a big top-themed place, except for a harlequin figure making balloon animals for the kids. Everyone else was in clothing that, while perhaps not Easter Best, was a whole lot Easter Better than my ensemble.

My sisters could not help chuckling when they caught glances at my outfit, or my pained expression. It only got worse when a throng of children approached our table, under the impression that I too would be making balloon animals and performing pratfalls for them. I wanted to run back out to the parking lot, either to our car or even a small Volkswagen Bug impossibly full of young men dressed like me, but instead, I headed for the breakfast meats, ignoring the amused glances and the calliope music.

Back at the table, I accidentally spilled ice water all over the front of my shirt. I also dropped bacon into my lap. My sisters were in near-hysterics. Suddenly, the other patrons stopped staring. This wasn't a clown, they realized. This was a mentally challenged young man, allowed to dress himself for the holiday. Maybe he was going to spill food all over himself, maybe he didn't realize that red and green plaid didn't match, and maybe he was unaware that he was muttering "Hash browns" under his breath like some kind of Zen mantra. But it was Easter, dammit, and though he probably couldn't hunt eggs nor successfully grasp the beautiful mystery of Our Lord's resurrection, he had as much damn right to gorge himself on scrambled eggs, free from curious glances, as the rest of the Circus Club folk.

I lifted my fork awkwardly to my sisters and cried, "Happy Easter, everybody!" Then I went for more potatoes.

Parents of Honor Student Not Especially Proud

Contrary to the sentiment proclaimed by the sticker on the back bumper of their Nissan Pathfinder, parents Eric and Heidi Anderson are not overly proud of their honor student son, Tucker. Tucker, who achieved a 3.57 grade point average in the second quarter, received the bumper sticker along with a congratulatory certificate from the principal last month. The certificate was placed on the refrigerator, mostly obscured by a Pizza Hut delivery menu and an oversized American flag magnet.

"Yeah, he's technically an honor student, but let's be realistic," said Mr. Anderson. "This is seventh grade. We're not exactly talking about the Dean's List here."

Ms. Anderson pointed out the unchallenging nature of many of Tucker's classes. "He got 'A's in Introductory Spanish, PE, and Wood Shop. And judging by the state of that birdhouse in the backyard, his shop teacher is grading on a curve. Let's see how he does next year in Pre-Algebra, or trying to conjugate irregular verbs."

Both parents expressed that, while not disappointed in Tucker's academic performance, they would likely be prouder of athletic or social achievements. "Maybe if he was able to hit the damn ball out of the infield, that'd be something," remarked Mr. Anderson.

"Or maybe if he had a girlfriend," said Ms. Anderson. "Of course with his complexion, that's a pipe dream."

Examining the bumper of his Pathfinder more carefully, Mr. Anderson also admitted that his vehicle was not in fact protected by Smith and Wesson, and that even if schools had all the money they needed, it would be unfeasible for the Air Force to fund purchases of fighter planes by way of bake sales.

USA Finishes Third in BCS Rankings

As critics renew their cries for a world superpower playoff, the United States finished #3 in the final rankings released by the BCS (Battle Championship Series) rankings, behind the People's Republic of China and LSU. China will face off against LSU in the Nokia Sugar Bowl, while the United States will be facing an undetermined opponent from the Middle Eastern Conference in the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl.

The BCS rankings average the results of the UN/ESPN and the Associated Press pundits poll with those of five different computer ranking systems. Though the USA was comfortably ahead in both "human" polls, the computers downgraded them due to their weak strength of schedule. Their military record, while impressive, was amassed against weak opponents like Afghanistan and Serbia. In contrast, LSU played Mississippi on the road, Florida at home, and defeated #11 Georgia twice.

"Obviously, everybody wants to see the top two squads face off," said analyst Kirk Herbstreit. "The fans want it, the Republic of Taiwan wants it, and the defense contractors want it. But the conference presidents and defense secretaries signed off on this deal, and now they're just going to have to live with the consequences."

While military fans around the world have been critical of the BCS rating of the United States military, some have called the United States overrated. The lack of success for recent stars after leaving the military, from Norman Schwartzkopf to Wesley Clark to Gino Torretta, supports this argument. Others say that the US military looks better by "running up the score" on opponents, particularly their tendency to call for "the bomb" even with victory well in hand.

Still, US leaders have refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of the BCS, calling the system's disparate results from the polls an "affront to democracy." When reached for comment, a military spokesman commented, "USA! USA!"

So tonight marks Night 18 in the growth of the Facial Hair of Emotional Recovery, a watershed event unmatched in human history, or at least, my own solipsistic view of human history. It would be the most beard ever grown by a person with my DNA, except that I shaved off some of the extraneous neck hair early this morning. The FHOER doesn't look shaven as much as it looks less dirty, but the general effect at present is that of a man with normal testosterone levels who has opted for a Caesar cut for his beard. Ladies, line up on the left for make-outs . . . if you dare!

It also marks with first time I have communicated with Sean's Former Girlfriend since the breakup. Appropriately for a nerd such as I, the communication occurred through e-mail, my preferred medium for dispassionate conversation and Nigerian investment opportunities. The subject concerned the ability of men and women to remain friends outside the context of a romantic/quasi-sexual relationship. It was a lot like When Harry Met Sally . . . only without the humor and fake orgasms. Dispassionately, I wrote back. Indiscriminately, I scattered puns and bon mots. And yet, my hand trembled as I finished composing my reply, and clicked the "Log Out" link. I initially shook it off, insistent on continuing my tabbed web browsing experience, headphones on my ears and determination in my eyes.

Minutes later, I was reading an interview with Paul Simon's old A&R man, who was dogging the one trick pony by attributing his success to Art Garfunkel and the nation of South Africa. As I browsed, Winamp delivered me another random MP3 from my gargantuan playlist, this one "November Rain", by Guns & Roses. The record executive was telling a story about Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell", and calling himself a consigliere, but I found myself distracted by Axl's music. "It is hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain", I thought, or imagined, as if it rained more than nine or ten days per year in San Francisco.

I hardly cared about the executive musing about his decades of sexual harassment and cocaine abuse, focusing instead on Axl and Slash and Duff and Axl's beautiful words. "November Rain" ended, and I sighed audibly, only to be confronted with "Don't Cry (original version)" next. Winamp was set to "shuffle", but honestly, I've seen better shuffling from my seven year-old cousin Ryan when he's trying to do a card trick. Come on, Ryan, use your fucking thumbs! It's not that difficult!

And then, listening intently to the music, my game of Free Cell temporarily forgotten, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Yes, so fragile was my emotional state that Axl Rose reduced me to tears, though to be fair, the underrated harmony vocals from the late Shannon Hoon played a small but significant role in my maudlin reaction. Still, even though Axl assured me that, though I had to make it my own way, I'd be all right now, sugar, I did cry, just a little bit, contrary to the demands of the song's chorus.

I think it's out of my system now, though it was touch and go for a little while there. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow, in the morning light. Still, gentle readers might wonder, it's been nearly three weeks. Aren't you ever going to get over it, Blogger Sean? For answers, I can only look to my new muse, W. Axl, and say, "Maybe, baby, someday."