Muffin Man and Grumpy Girl

I didn't mention, last Saturday I went to see Zappa Plays Zappa at the Congress Theater. This is the 4th time I've seen a ZPZ show and I was set to be disappointed compared to the previous shows. Not at all, it was great.

I love Scheila Gonzalez: in addition to all her instrument playing, she also did lead vocals for Valley Girl. I'm still working through my feelings about Ben Thomas' vocals though. Sure he has tough shoes to fill, but I don't think that was it for me. It was more about my already strained relationship with the "guy humor" lyrics in some Zappa songs.

I worry about my "strained relationship" to a lot of humor. I don't think I have a bad sense of humor but I do admit that I find most comedy movies stupid (I did not laugh once during the Borat movie.) Gene Ween goofy voice songs grate on my nerves. I saw a few episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force and never need to see another one again. I've never even liked Mad Magazine! While I've gone this far in explaining my lack of humor, I'll go all the way and admit I don't understand why men find such great joy in repeating (line for line) entire scenes from Monty Python, The Simpson's, Family Guy. (I can say, at least, that those shows have made me laugh!)

I've strayed far from Frank Zappa.

Anyway, there is some footage out there from the Congress theater show but I'm going to go original instead and with a performance that is more instrumental.

Scepticism and Restraint

I must have known this at some time but today I discovered that I have an archaic and wonky way of spelling sceptical. Usually I realize that there are alternatives to my oddball tendencies. Sometimes I first learned a word while reading British books, and sometimes my spellings might have been more common 35 years ago when I learned the word, and somethings must just be weird affectations I picked up along the way.

For example, I write grey instead of gray and blonde instead of blond. (I think that last one comes from Bob Dylan)
My heart is with cataloguing instead of cataloging even though I have to be modern and up-to-date in my work writing to avoid being pretentious.
I cross my sevens and Z's (my 7th grade teacher did that), but I don't call Z's zeds.
I say soda more often than pop even though I grew up in Detroit.

But this sceptical thing threw me for a loop. I was writing a comment to a friend's blog post and the spelling corrector underlined my word in red. I knew it must want me to write skeptical but when I typed it out, while it didn't look wrong (I must see this word all the time!) it didn't exactly look right. So I Googled and read some stuff, apparently sceptical is more British/Australian and archaic.

In other news, I have shown GREAT RESTRAINT in my past two posts by not making musical connections to my thoughts. No one wanted to think about or hear any of the songs related to peanuts or circus and, while I am fascinated to confirm that skeptical really doesn't turn up in The Logical Song, I'm pretty sure I'm doing everyone a favor by not playing Supertramp*. Wait, Supertramp are Brits, they would have used sceptical!

For anyone curious:
wonderful
miracle
beautiful
magical
sensible
logical
responsible
practical
dependable
clinical
intellectual
cynical
radical
liberal
fanatical
criminal
acceptable
respecable
presentable
vegetable

*I say this solely on the basis of having it stuck in your head for days on end. This is in no way, shape or form a knock to Supertramp. Don't make me start arguing for an appreciation of Prog Rock and liberal use of Wurlitzer electric pianos!

Circus Peanuts....

are the worst candy ever.

Green

My bus goes past Cabrini Green every day. Last week I talked to a woman about how we had been seeing the same Pepto pink, wrecking ball exposed room for a month or so. Work seemed to have stopped on demolishing the final tower. Just tonight, I talked to a friend about the documentary Hoop Dreams and how I get on my bus at the now abandoned Pizza Hut you see in the movie and ride past the housing stack.



For the past 5+ years, the road in front of Cabrini Green has had the worst pot holes I have ever bounced over. I'm pretty sure L1-L4 of my spinal column has been jostled out of place by bad CTA bus shocks and potholes as deep as China. And then, magically, in the past month as the last residents were shipped out, the pot holes were finally filled.

December 8

Hey Hey Momma: Black Dog, White Shoes

Last night I was reading an online blurb where Robert Plant responded to Led Zeppelin reunion rumors saying:

“It’s almost as if people can’t see that I have other projects. It’s like a woman with white heels and a pencil skirt passing by will attract my eyes, but most will miss it completely.

What?

Do other people fail to see the woman in white heels or does Robert Plant fail to notice people other than women in pencil skirts? Does Robert Plant hate the bubble skirt trend as much as I did? I think the woman is Berber music and other people don't see her because they are distracted by Led Zeppelin. Maybe?

That's okay Robert, sometimes similes just don't work out the way we want them to.

*I think everyone knows how desperately I wish that outfit of Jimmy Page's was a white jumpsuit rather than (one of the most awesome ever) pants/jacket combos.

Because you're mine

Last week, one of my friends sent me a message asking why I was not posting to my blog. I've been too busy at work and too tired at home to think about anything for months now. I've been relaxing with rock star biographies and pop culture podcasts that allow me to believe that watching hours of TV on Netflix is actually an intellectual exercise. My weekends have been filled with multiple seasons of In Treatment, Lie to Me, 30 Rock, and a couple British mystery/cop shows I can't even remember the names of.

Last night, after a weekend spent in fuzzy sweatpants with at least 7 hours of TV, I decided I had to wash my hair, put some makeup on and leave the house in search of human contact. Or at least in search of beer and pizza at my favorite local beer and pizza spot -- Piece. On the way home, filled to the brim with Camel Toe (a beer that has apparently never won an award but I know for a fact has caused at least 3 people who are not lightweights to leave the bar feeling mildly crazy)I decided to stop at the used book store around the corner. I was hoping they also stocked new books because the last time I went into Borders I could not find a copy of Keith Richard's Life: I think I got there a day or two too early. No luck on my Rolling Stones fix but I did go through a pile and came across this gem.



On its own, this is nothing special, although I have been wanting to read it. What really sold me was the inscription. I love used books with inscriptions and love to think about what happened between the gift giving and the recipient giving it away. My favorite up until last night was in my Collected Works of John Cheever:
Dear Mom, Happy Birthday, Love Ace.

My new favorite:



The inscription is date 10/27/2004 but it looks like Connie required more than just walking the line or maybe Rich? (Ron?) started to swerve. Or maybe they are still going strong and Connie just didn't like the book.