This, friends, is the definition of what is colloquially known as “some bullshit.”
It won’t last. Doesn’t matter. Last night I took Kate to a concert, a freakin’ long one, and we drove home under a bright full moon. Eighteen hours of high, freezing winds had finally abated, and I thought, OK, that’s over. Evidently, it’s not over. This is what the winds were bringing us. Should have known.
The concert was Anarbor, the same band we saw last November. Actually, it was five bands, with Anarbor in the middle, although we had to stay until nearly the bitter end. This week is spring break, so getting home at a decent hour wasn’t a big concern, but the headliners played for a Springsteen-like interval and they were getting on my nerves. So I discovered one use for text messaging, i.e., contacting your daughter on the other side of the club:
Let’s go. This band sux.
We’re waiting for Mike.
Mike being the Anarbor guitarist. All the other members had been out to pose for photos and sign merch, but Mike was the last holdout. I guess you have to stagger these things to maximize merch purchases, an important revenue stream for a young touring band. On the other hand, one more song by A Rocket to the Moon seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. So I walked up to the secured lounge area where I’d seen some of the other acts coming and going, and caught one going.
“Mike in there?”
“Send him out.”
Let me tell you, folks, one of the very few advantages to being an old bag is, if you look like someone’s mother, a well-raised young man will frequently obey a direct order. Thirty seconds later: Mike.
“Hey, Mike, thanks for coming out. My daughter wants to get her poster signed. Hang on while I text her.”
“That’s great you’re down with the texting, got the iPhone and everything. I wish my mom was.”
Text: I’ve got Mike at the top of the stairs. On the double.
So Mike and I chatted about this and that, the weather and Phoenix (where they live) and Po, Kate’s band. The look on Kate’s face when she rounded the corner on the staircase with her friends and saw her mother having a conversation with her guitar hero was something to see. Mike signed the poster: “Rock and roll, Mike” and posed for pictures.
Mike is a very nice guy. I only wish he would cool it with the marijuana boosterism.
Mike is 21 years old. In some parts of Detroit, I’m old enough to be his grandmother.
It’s spring break, but I’m still working. So let’s get Monday under way.
(As) much fun as it is to slag rotten movies, it is much better to be surprised by a good one, especially when you’ve reached the stage in life where two hours in front of a stinker sets you dreaming of the warm couch and leftover sesame chicken that you left back home. But it is my great regret to inform you that Atlas Shrugged: Part I is neither good nor good-bad, but bad-bad-bad-bad. I dreamed, not of sesame chicken, but of my own swift and merciful death, and that of the director, not necessarily in that order. It is not a pleasurable surprise, not a hoot, nor an outrage; it is Rand’s granite crushed, reconstituted, and spread across the screen with steamrollers.
You’ll hear a certain amount of handwringing over this story — computer out-writes human sports reporter — but I honestly believe it has more to do with sportswriting than journalism in general. Still, amusing, as well as proof that if we could harness the power of pissed-off readers, we could light Los Angeles for a month. (This whole project was touched off by a college-age reporter whose story of a perfect game neglected to mention that little detail until the penultimate graf. Kirk, stop pounding your forehead on the desk. You’ll leave a mark.)
You’ve probably seen this, but let’s give it a little more exposure: Racist Orange County Republicans keep outdoing themselves. Amazing. No, not amazing.
OK, up and at ’em. Let’s hope for a swift melt.