I grew up with comedy albums. I can still do Bill Cosby’s Hofstra from memory, and my brother only has to start singing “Soap, soap, soap” to crack me up. Dr. Demento only opened more doors.
And of course George Carlin was in there. The classic gold albums (FM & AM, Occupation: Foole and Class Clown) are still my favorites, though it’s his routine “Death and Dying” from On the Road that epitomizes what I loved about Carlin: the voices, the microphone mastery, the playful love of words and language how they shape our thinking about Big Heavy Shit.
I didn’t like much of his standup after Parental Advisory because it sounded like he’d stopped going for the funny and gone after the applause. It’s easy to make a friendly crowd hoot and cheer, but making them laugh? That’s hard, man. And to make adults laugh over wordplay and absurdity all while dealing with Big Heavy Shit, that’s really hard. All of the albums that were based on misanthropy sounded like a man who’d just said, “It’s too hard. Fuck it.”
So, I don’t mourn George Carlin, because the teacher I listened to hasn’t gone away and will never go away. Light up some Toledo Windowbox tonight for him.
I can’t remember the last time I saw something this gloriously, rockingly silly. Supergrass, I am now going to buy your entire back catalog in pounds sterling. Because I want you to spend it all on puppets.
Hi, there. May I call you Nathan? I’d call you “Captain,” but I’m sure you get enough of that, especially from the Internet.
Here’s the thing, Nathan: I had a hell of a tough weekend. 22 miles on foot on Saturday, then 1.5 hours in the Pacific (water temps somewhere in the high 50s), then 8 hours in the saddle. I was supposed to bring in 115 miles, and the weather was beautiful, just the kind you’d want on a big ride. Problem was, see, I still can’t do the hills on PCH, so I had to go south along the bike path. And if I thought it was a good day for cycling, so did half the city. The other half decided it was perfect for walking and rollerblading, and that the bike path would be the perfect spot to get their mobile on.
So, it was a long day of slowing down, dodging pedestrians, helping people out with flats because I wasn’t going fast enough to escape their pleas for help, everything. And the sun was going down, and I still hadn’t found the last 17 miles and…
Nathan, I had to pack it in. I probably could’ve grabbed my windbreaker and lights, slugged down one more Powerbar and done a fast Marina loop, but I was done. No more dodging cars, no more looking out for taxis fighting for fares, no more swerving around jaywalking Venice hipster wanktards. Finito. Finished. Done.
I felt like an utter failure, that I was going to travel to Taupo only to get pulled from the bike course because I couldn’t finish the bike course in time. It’s been a long nine months, man, and I’m sure you could imagine how frustrating that would be. I flopped on the floor, without even the energy to stretch, and I flipped on the tube, hoping to have myself a good manly cry.
And there you were. TNT was playing “Saving Private Ryan,” right at your scene.
I don’t know if your turn as James Frederick Ryan, Minnesota, is one you recall with fondness (though, dude, getting a speaking part like that in a Spielberg movie had to mean a pretty good paycheck), but it has now earned a special place in my heart because, just at that moment when I lay on the floor, completely out of gas, and you started bawling. And I mean bawling, just sobbing your guts out like the entire world had come to an end and there was nothing else to do.
And I realized: I don’t need to cry, because you did it for me.
After watching that bit a few times (thanks, Tivo!), I felt better. Granted, the hot shower, banana and resting in my wife’s lap helped, but I will always know that it was you, Nathan Fillion, who pulled me out of that funk. And for that, sir, I thank you.
One word: precipitation. Los Angeles, like any desert city, is absolutely gorgeous after a rain storm. The guck is gone from the air, the streets are cleaned, and, if things are really wet and cold, the local mountains gets snow. Yes, the traffic is a nightmare, and the ocean is a sewage buffet for a few days, but I think the few days of immaculate air are worth it.
On the flip side, the sun going down at 4 o’clock is bloody awful. It’s been extra tough with training, because I’ll have days where I get to work in the dark, crunch all day, then come home in the same dark. Argh.
So, John Scalzi used to do this thing on his AOL blog called Weekend Assignments: he’d post a topic, people would write about it, and then everyone would share linky goodness. Karen Funk Blocher is picking up the torch, and I’m jumping in. Anything to get me writing, right?
Right.
Weekend Assignment #196: Now that the WGA strike has had lots of time to affect the prime time television schedules, how is it affecting you as a viewer? What show do you miss most, aside from reruns? Do you miss your weekly appointment with that ill-behaved doctor, or your visits to Wisteria Lane? Does it bother you not to laugh at fresh jokes on your favorite sitcom? Or are you just as happy watching reality shows, or new episodes of shows that have been held back until now? We want to know!
It’s embarrassing how much tv we watch, probably three hours a day, starting with BBC news in the morning and ending with something frothy at night. The only thing that’s kept me from turning into a total vegetable has been Ironman training. By the time I get home from either the gym or a run, I only have enough time to watch one show while I eat and ice down. Anne’s been very cool about coming to bed when I usually do, rather than stay up and watch the shows she likes more than I do (like CSI or Bionic Woman).
What’s funny is that we ran out of Tivoed backlog just as Life On Mars started up, and The Daily Show’s coming back next week (albeit without their staff), so that means just enough tv to wind down from training as I come into the home stretch for Ironman.
Extra Credit: how are you spending the time instead?
Training. It’s probably a good thing that we’re home from yoga and pilates so late, because it minimizes our eat/rest/shower window. When Ironman’s done, I will write. Dammit, yes, I will.
So, back when Scott and I started Ironman training in earnest, we joked about how cool it would be to race in costume (and by “cool,” I mean “maximally dorktastic”). Jedi outfits were out because those guys are genetically pre-ordained, which is antithetical to the idea of us training for this race. Also, the Jedi are great big losers.
Historical costumes were a bad idea, too, because no other era than ours has been built around comfortable clothes. Powdered wigs on the bike? Helmets won’t fit. Greek robes in the water? Too draggy. Mongolian armor on the run? Clanky.
That left the superhero category, which is convenient since every superhero’s outfit is made of body-hugging material, with the exceptions of Swamp Thing and Flannel Shirt Man. Superman would be the obvious choice, since he’s the Man of Steel. John Dunbar already did that gig in 1979, however, and it would be inviting all sorts of unwise comparisons. So, we settled for our favorites: Spiderman and the Flash.
I didn’t think anything would come of this until Scott brought over a Voler fit kit and plans for how to make this spandex dream happen. He was going to make these damn things come hell or high waists, and who was I to poo-poo my teammate? I made with the fitting, Scott made with the iron-on decals, and this is the result.
(Scott’s jersey, which you’ll see on Flickr eventually, came from eBay. UPDATE: here’s Scott.)
We’re not going to wear these on race day, but we’re certainly going to ride around Taupo in them beforehand. God help us.
