I Heart Jon Stewart

As always, Jon Stewart expresses my point of view better than I do.

From last Thursday's interview with Christopher Hitchens: "[Bush] refuses to answer questions from adults as though we were adults, and falls back on platitudes and phrases and talking points, [which] does a disservice to the goals that he himself shares with the very people he needs to convince."

Things I Just Don’t Get: VMA’s Edition

1. Why in the world Diddy is famous. For his dancing? His singing? His bling? Perhaps his massive ego simply demands fame and fame, having been subdued by the Hilton clan, hasn’t the energy to protest.

2. What is up with “Making the Band 3: Season 2.” Why both the “3” and the “2”?

3. When our nation suddenly became obsessed with dance. I sat quietly through that Dancing with the Stars nonsense. And I did no more than eye-roll at the success of So You Think You Can Dance (or is it So U Think U Can Dance). But why the clown bit at the VMA’s? And why a dance-off between Diddy and that Omarion/Oramion/Whatever person? And why, oh why, did they unearth Hammer of all people?

4. Why I watched the VMA’s. Although I was doing other things while it was on. And really I only watched to see Kelly Clarkson perform. Although that doesn’t make it much better, I suppose. Fine – I have no defense.

Vintage Ole: Gorham Apartment

In light of my recent complaints of fruity smells and quiet neighbors, b-lish asked me to recount the experiences of my first apartment in Madison. Such memories do indeed help put my current problems into perspective.

The Gorham apartment was, after all, a complete pit.

We’ll start with Mother Nature’s Revenge. The series of infestations began with the spiders. What happened is that all of the upstairs residents would sweep these enormous black spiders off their mini-balconies until all of the spiders eventually collected into my basement hole of an apartment. I rather vividly recall killing 25 of them in one afternoon.

After the spiders, came the ladybugs. I know, I know – “Ladybugs are so cute!” Not when they come by the thousands, though. The killing of these ladybugs truly could not be counted as I VACUUMED them off the walls TWICE a day during the infestation period, and I am still able to tell when a ladybug is near by smell alone. Yes, I can now identify the scent of the ladybug. And it sends shivers of terror down my spine every time.

There were also less interesting infestations of ants and roaches, but the least pleasant of the bunch were certainly the mice. During that period, mice would frequently scurry about my apartment, and I would have to decide daily between dealing with them and finishing my final papers. Sadly, the papers often won that calculation.

The worst moment of the mice infestation, however, was when I came home to the sounds of tiny squeaks and discovered a sticky trap full of baby mice with not-quite-open eyes. That alone was, of course, intensely troubling. But I added on the ridiculous strategery of letting them squeak all day in hopes of eventually luring Mama Mouse out of her hole.

Mice, though, know no maternal instinct, and after six hours I just couldn’t take the squeaking anymore and ended up double-bagging the baby mice and throwing them into a garbage can two blocks away. No PETA award for me this or any year, I’m afraid.

Let’s see, what else to tell? There was the time my crappy front door blew open during a blizzard – the result of which was a snowdrift in my kitchen and an ice block in my sink. Oh, and there was the frequent masturbator.

Yes, my upstairs neighbor was VERY into frequent and scary self-pleasure. The heavy metal music would go on and soon the angry, rhythmic screaming would begin. It would go on for at least an hour. Every day. And I could hear it all clearly in my kitchen. And I guarantee you that a second person never entered that apartment.

Bleh. OK – no more complaining about my current apartment. Not even about the fact that the elevator is a little dirty. Or that the water could be just a little bit warmer sometimes. No. Now I have perspective. I will never complain again. I promise.

Public Service Announcement OR How to Avoid Porn-less Porn

It is not that often that one has a chance to do something for the greater good of humanity.

This, though, is one of my times to shine.

It has come to my attention that some of you have been receiving letters from a company called Television Preview. The letter offers YOU the exciting opportunity to preview upcoming fall TV shows and offer YOUR feedback. And YOU might win prizes.

Sounds great! The Midwest finally has a voice! But… it’s a scam. And a hilarious scam at that.

So the point of the whole thing is advertising testing. They have you fill out this “questionnaire” [NOTE: Get used to many quotation marks in this post – everything about Television Preview is faux.] about your favorite brands of hemorrhoid cream and the like so that they “know what to send you” if you should win the “door prize.”

The whole thing is “hosted,” by the way, by the schmarmiest piece of schmarm that you’ve ever seen. Dude puts John Travolta at his greasiest to shame.

Anyway, then the “show” starts. And it is clear from the beginning that something is amiss. From the get-go, you can tell that the production values are sub-UPN. In fact, they are barely super-Public Access.

Airy music is playing. Fuzzy lighting is everywhere. And we meet our heroine, a psychic wearing librarian glasses and her hair in a tight bun. Then enters her first client of the day, some tall/dark/handsome dude. They have a tense conversation. Her arms remain folded across her chest.

Cut scene. Commercials. About hemorrhoid cream.

New scene. Psychic and client are smoking a cigarette on her balcony. Her hair is no longer in a tight bun but is flowing in the wind. His shirt is partly unbuttoned. They are now apparently in love and will immediately begin exploring his past lives together. The airy music continues.

You get the idea. The whole thing makes no sense. And research on the internets later revealed that it was indeed a porn-less porn: a porn from which all of the actual porn had been cut out. And Television Preview was showing the thing to a roomful of 80-year-olds who really appeared to be none-the-wiser.

My friend and I did not stay any longer, but I imagine that the evening would have concluded with some sort of follow-up questionnaire.

So... stay away! Warn your friends (and grandparents)! Send the tickets to your enemies!

UPDATE: More Snakes on a Plane

Hee. I happened upon a blog entry by one of the Snakes on a Plane screenwriters. It's funny. And it contains the line, "As the great Sam Jackson would say: There are motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane." The whole thing is really worth a read.

And this is my very first posted link as a blogger. Try not to weep.

Films of Tomorrow

I bring you tidings of two upcoming movies.

The first stars Sam Jackson and, hilariously, is called Snakes on a Plane. Here is the synopsis:

“Snakes on a Plane centers on a ruthless assassin who unleashes a crate full of lethal snakes aboard a packed passenger jet over the Pacific Ocean in order to eliminate a witness in protective custody. The rookie pilot and frightened passengers must band together to survive.”

If only all movie titles were so helpfully literal. Then Cinderella Man could have just been called Renee Zellweger Twitches A Lot and The Interpreter would be Boring (Yet Still Confusing) Stuff Happens at the U.N.

The second is much more promising. It is called something or other that I don’t care about. But it is another Christopher Guest movie (!) set at an awards show (!). The plot is about an indie movie (!) that out of nowhere generates massive awards buzz (!). And all of the regulars that you’ve grown to love (Fred Willard, Catherine O’Hara, Harry Shearer, etc.) are back (!).

Could it get any better?

Oh yes, it could. There is one major addition to the cast: Ricky Gervais (of Office fame) as the head of the studio’s specialty division. Giddy.

On My Limitless Capacity for Complaining

So I love my new apartment. I love that it takes but five minutes to walk to the gym, to the library, and to any number of establishments on State Street. I love that it has a ginormous jacuzzi bathtub and that it has chosen to bless me with free cable. And I love that all of my furniture seems to fit so well into it.

Right now, only two things really bother me.

The first is that the larger apartment building seems to be solely inhabited by ghosts. For despite the fact that there are at least 35 units in the building, I have yet to actually lay eyes on another resident since the day I moved in. I heard water running across the hall yesterday afternoon, and I’m fairly sure that someone dropped something above me early this morning, but that’s it. It’s a little creepy, actually. I’ve taken to peering out of my eyehole now and then just in case I can catch someone wandering the hallways. Not a good sign.

The second issue is the smell. My apartment doesn’t smell bad by any means. But it doesn’t yet smell like I expect my place to smell -- not that I have any idea what exactly that means. It smells flowery. And foreign. And I’m not really sure what to do about this. Will this flowery smell go away as I come to inhabit the place more fully? Or does the apartment just have its own particular smell that I will have to get used to (much as I got used to the smell of Malt-o-Meal that pervaded the St. Olaf campus)?

Actually, I guess things could be worse than having ghost neighbors and a flowery smelling apartment. I shouldn’t complain. But I will anyway.

Negronis and Pimms and Moscow Mules, Oh My!

A hearty thanks to all who attended my housewarming/cocktail event last evening. I had a blast. And it certainly makes one’s apartment feel more like home when friends and family have gathered there.

A few random notes:

The gimlet is now my official favorite drink. This position was cemented when M-Bro made a disapproving face after trying her gimlet. I asked to taste it to make sure I had made it properly, and I immediately countered her “eh” with a hearty “yum!” It may not be for everyone, but I like it.

Special props should be given to J-Bro who, I believe, made it through my entire menu of drinks! And special apologies to whomever it was that I first described the negroni as “subtle.” This is incorrect, as proven by the gagging motions made by more than one attendee.

Despite having gone through a fair number of libations, I still have startling amount of vodka left and may thus have to throw another cocktail party in the near future. Start resting your livers now.

Do I Do Anything Fun?

I consider myself a somewhat social person, but certain very standard cocktail party-ish questions still throw me completely for a loop. Not long ago, I discussed the unanswerability of “So, what kind of music do you like?” Last night, though, I encountered the even trickier “So, what do you do for fun?”

The first trick with this question is that it implies that everything you have discussed to that point, from music to politics to whatever, falls into the category of “not fun.” This alone, of course, makes me uneasy and uncertain how to proceed.

The bigger trick, however, is actually answering without sounding either lame or pretentious. After all, most of my day-to-day fun things (obsessing about my iPod and Netflix queue, playing racquetball with P-Cot, running really far, engaging in strange projects involving drinks and vegetables, imbibing beer at the Terrace…) aren’t interesting enough to really count as the “thing I do for fun.”

On the other hand, the guy next to me last night made the mistake of going with “scuba diving in Indonesia.” Which he had done once. This is perfectly fun and interesting, of course, but it isn’t regular enough to be the “thing he does for fun” (especially since he lives in Madison) and he got called on it.

So what does one do? Pick something obscure to sound unique and interesting or pick something quite regular (like “hanging out with friends”) to sound like just a regular guy? Usually, I just end up muttering and rambling on about something. Not the best choice.

Freaky Friday... er, Wednesday

While finishing up the unpacking and deciding where exactly it would be best to store my Tupperware containers and fondue pot, I watched an old episode of Buffy. It was one of those episodes where one character inhabits another character and everything goes really weird and nobody can figure out what in the world is going on. Blah, blah, blah.

It made me realize, though, that the same body-switching thing may have happened to me in the past few days.

As evidence, note that I rented a U-haul truck on Monday. I planned excessively. I worried. I showed up 15 minutes prior to my 7:00 a.m. “appointment.” I knew that the success of my move depended entirely on the non-ineptitude of the U-haul corporation and its employees.

And how did the story end? With me being told that I would have to go pick up my rental truck in Bismark, North Dakota? No. With me having to store my stuff in a tent on the sidewalk for two days? No. The U-Haul place was open early. I was helped immediately. And I actually got out of there AHEAD of schedule. Clearly, the only explanation for this strange scenario is that I have switched bodies with someone far more fortunate.

As further evidence, note that I schemed a plan yesterday. I bought new bookshelves while my family was in town, and instead of just throwing out my old white bookshelves, I decided to carpenter them into an under-the-counter shelving unit. I bought a hacksaw. I bought wood. And I prepared to whack off a portion of the shelves and re-format them into entirely new shelves.

Yes, yes. I can hear you-all giggling already. Surely OleNelson hacked off at least one finger (or perhaps a toe) and/or accidentally sawed a hole in the floor. And surely these new bookshelves collapsed under the weight of a single can of tomato soup and hurt OleNelson’s foot. No, his other foot – the one that wasn’t injured by the cell phone.

But amazingly enough, that’s not what happened. The sawing went smoothly. The bookshelves look great. My microwave has a new home.

I don’t quite understand what’s going on, but I am curious as to which lucky soul it is that has taken over my body. Obviously, I am fearful that is may be an Affleck (those lucky bastards). Please watch me carefully over the next several weeks for any warning signs.

Welcome Home, OleNelson

YEAH! One corner of my new apartment looks fantastic. The books are in place. There are things on the wall. The lighting is great. I feel at home.

Of course, the rest of the place is still a complete disaster zone.

Assuming, though, that I can eventually conquer the towering pile of old boxes and duct tape growing in the kitchen, I think I will love the place. I mean, thanks to my mom, even the bottom of the refrigerator is now sparkling clean, and I continue to be amazed that the sinks actually drain and that I no longer have to find something else to do for ten minutes while I wait for the water to warm up. In fact, it might all be a little too nice, in that I feel an increasingly intense desire to throw out my stuff and buy all new things to better fit the niceness of my surroundings.

On an unrelated note, I have a completely and utterly hypothetical question. Let’s say some random person moves to a new place, plugs in the television on a whim (having not yet started cable service), and discovers an inordinate number of channels appearing on said television. Furthermore, let’s pretend that this person has an in-home appointment with the cable company in two weeks to set up a very sad ten-channel basic cable. How does this hypothetical person proceed?

Perhaps I Should Move to China

It's almost moving day, and I'm too busy scrubbing the tops of cabinets and trying to choke down the last cheap beer (La Crosse Lager) left at one of our parties many moons ago to come up with my own post ideas. Thus, I'm reprinting a comment left by MKM Mover (Hi, MKM Mover!) on one of my previous posts. She added it a bit late, so those of you who are not diligent blog readers may have missed it.

I, by the way, could really use a neighborhood auntie right about now.

***************************
I highly recommend moving in China, for those of you faint of heart movers... Here's the beauty of moving in the Red East:

1) No preparation necessary. The day you move, go down to the street, say aloud you are moving and need grunts, and within 5 minutes, an army of disheveled, obnoxiously smelly men will be lined up, fighting over who gets to haul your belongings down 8 flights of stairs in 110 degree heat.

2) Moving truck. Follow procedure outlined in #1... take cheapest bidder.

3) When done, no need to clean old apartment! Left behind junk is considered standard.

4) When grunts leave your new apartment after hauling crap up 10 flights of stairs in 110 degree heat and being paid about 5 dollars total (for the group)... find a neighborhood aunty to clean new apartment and get rid of grunt smell for about 2 dollars.

5) Voila!!. No U-haul idiots or angry landlords to deal with!! This coming from a girl who once moved 4 times in one year...

Mad-Town, USA

Madison is so weird sometimes. Especially during moving weekend.

A moment ago, I watched a man in a wheelchair poke his casted leg into my accumulated trash heap rooting for junk to take home. He rolled away with a g-nasty old frying pan and the batteries from my rejected remote control. Another guy loaded his car with six bags of my roommate’s APSRs.

I actually got somewhat offended when an entirely different derelict took a can of baked beans from my neighbor’s trash can but then picked up and rejected a perfectly good ceramic bowl out of my pile.

The low point, though, was probably when one looter took a trash bag (full of rotten vegetables from my fridge) out of my hands as I was bringing it outside. I didn’t have the heart to say anything to him.

Grrrrrr....

I’ve just been listening to NPR while trying to decide how many coffee mugs one person really needs and whether it’s finally time to throw away those T-shirts I wore in high school. It was all rather pleasant. I even had coffee. Then this smug bastard comes on the radio as a guest of the NPR program and starts spouting out all of those all-too-typical conservative arguments that drive me crazy.

“[Insert critic of the war] is degrading troop morale and giving a boost to the terrorists.” It’s interesting that I have yet to hear from these people how it might be possible to criticize the war without sending all of our fragile Marines into a faint.

“Liberals rejoiced on September 11 and care far more for one dead terrorist than for 3,000 dead Americans.” ARRGGGHHHH! Everyone I know was shaken to the core on September 11. This argument offends me.

“We can’t really say yet whether Saddam Hussein was directly involved in the 9/11 attacks.” Well… no. Not for sure, I guess. We also can’t say for sure that there isn’t a jolly red-suited, elf-owning man residing at the North Pole. But it seems unlikely.

Oh, this stuff makes me mad.

Yes, I Yelled at Three People Yesterday

Short version: I had to deal with both U-Haul employees and cable TV folk. Enough said.

Long version: After a frustrating morning during which I was promised four phone calls from U-Haul and received zero phone calls from U-Haul, I finally got to pick up my truck (to move a friend to Chicago). The following conversation took place with the rotating circus of 19-year-olds employed by the U-Haul location.

“So, waninsurwithat?

“What?”

“Do you want insurance with that?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

“The insurance covers any damage to the truck or any injury to you.”

“What about liability insurance?”

“What?”

“What about insurance for if I get in an accident and hit someone else?”

“Oh. We don’t have that.”

“Huh?”

“We don’t have that.”

“Huh? What if I get in an accident?”

“You call the police and fill out an accident report.”

“No. After that.”

“Oh. They sue you. I wouldn’t worry, though. People hardly ever get into accidents.”

“Huh?”

“Listen. I’ve worked here for one year. We. Don’t. Have. Liability. Insurance.”

“But I don’t have insurance of my own, and I am NOT going to drive a truck to Chicago without any liability insurance.”

“You don’t have your own insurance?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m not even sure we can rent to you then.”

“WHAT???”

At this point, he calls his corporate office to get a second opinion. The conversation then continues.

“OK. We can rent to you, and if you get in an accident, you’ll just work something out with corporate where you pay part and they pay part.”

“WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON??? THIS IS NOT RIGHT. I’M GOING TO CALL ‘CORPORATE’ MYSELF!!!”

I then call the national office on my cell phone. The lady who answers tells me, “Duh. Of course we have liability insurance. It comes automatically. It’s the law. You’re covered.” I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and just get the keys from the 19-year-old.

Are there any employees of any organization ever who are more consistently incompetent than U-Haul employees? I think not.

Obsession De Jour

One of the things I most like about this blog thing is the opportunity to encourage whoever happens by to try whatever song/movie/book/recipe I’m particularly enamored with in any particular week. For instance, I will use this space in the future to convince even the most ardent skeptic to netflix (using the word as a verb a la “google”) Buffy the Vampire Slayer or to roast some fresh beets (yum!).

Today, though, it is Sufjan Stevens’ new Illinois album. I’ve been obsessed with quite a lot of music in the last few months. Kanye West has been listened to an embarrassing number of times on my iPod, and if you ever see me dancing ever-so-slightly while walking down State Street, it’s probably because I’m completely transfixed by a new Scissor Sisters song.

Sujfan Stevens is just as worthy of obsession. I actually welled up while listening to “Chicago” a moment ago (the “It was for freedom/From myself and from the land” bit). It really spoke to me. And I love the fact that he has songs entitled “A Short Reprise for Mary Todd, Who Went Insane, But for Very Good Reasons” and “They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh!” Hee.

It might be a little bit twee for some people’s taste, but if you can handle some folk-ness and some yearning in your music, I would give it a go.

All That’s Missing are a Couple Swans A-Swimming

I finally finished cleaning out the deep recesses of my soon-to-be-abandoned kitchen. Among the items left by my roommates or forgotten by me have been 5 coffeemakers (8 if you include the not-plugged-in variety), 1 box of chocolates manufactured in 2001, 6 bottles of oregano, 1 basket of plastic flowers, and a mind-boggling 75 forks.

Sadly, I did not discover a single spork.

On Why Moving Sucks

Yes, yes, I know. You're all "Tell me something I don't know, Mr. Guy-Who-Did-This-For-A-Whole-Summer-As-A-Job."

Here, though, is the morning's schedule for my move in but a week's time -- no element of which is negotiable in any way that would be of any assistance at all.

8:00 -- Pick up rental truck in Sun Prairie

9:00 -- Check out of current apartment in Madison

10:00 -- Check into new apartment in Madison

12:00 -- Return rental truck to Sun Prairie

Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

Observations on a Dog

I'm in the midst of another dog-sitting stint -- a task which I actually enjoy. Dogs, like children, are great and are especially great when one's responsibility for them ends with the weekend. This dog, Dog, is particularly pleasant, and a day of interaction has led me to the following observations.

Dog is absolutely petrified of manhole covers or other metallic walking surfaces. This made for some moments of balance-related comedic gold as we walked down State Street this afternoon. I feel I can relate, though, as I also have some irrational fears. For instance, I have a strong phobia of ingrown toenails even though I've never had nor known anyone who has had an actual ingrown toenail. I don't even know exactly what they are.

Dog likes to lick. I love dogs, but this is one element of dog-ness that I could do without. I think it's the butt-licking that immediately precedes the OleNelson's face-licking that I have a problem with.

Dog needs to work on her enunciation. Right now, I am having difficulty distinguishing the "I want to play" whine from the "I need to go outside right this minute" whine. Obviously, these are two whines one would like to distinguish with some degree of accuracy.

Dog is mild-mannered. That is, mild-mannered until another dog appears on the television screen. Then there is growling and pacing and general disgruntlement. The same thing happens to me whenever I see a Baldwin.

Blog-istential Crisis

Every time I have to explain to a newbie what a “blog” is, the conversation goes something like this:

“Well, you see, it’s sort of like a diary. But on the internet!”

“Huh? Why in the world would you want everyone you know to read your diary?”

“Well, maybe diary’s the wrong word. It doesn’t have to be a diary. But it can be a diary. Maybe it’s more like a column. With ideas. And musings. On the internet.”

“A… column?”

“Well, no. Maybe that’s the wrong word too. You see, it’s less formal than a column. Although it can be equally as formal as a column. Blogs should be taken seriously. But you’re not bound by the rules of a column. Blog posts can be long or short.”

“Ooo…kay.”

“And it’s on the internet. And then other people can comment. And you can link to things…”

At this point I get the dreaded Nod & Smile.

In case you’re not familiar, the Nod & Smile indicates that the listener has given up all interest in listening. She is now thinking about what bills she has to pay that evening. And she now considers anything remotely related to what you were just talking about both lame and boring beyond belief. I utilize the Nod & Smile regularly whenever someone starts talking about baseball.

So I guess I’m kinda, sorta a blogger. But I don’t really have any clear idea what exactly a blog is. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a Scientologist.

Blegh...ewwww…ahhhh!

I have never been afraid of spiders, but this was simply beyond the pale.

The Cav told me his car was infested. I didn’t believe him. He told me that it had been parked for several weeks under some sort of spider nesting ground, yet still I scoffed.

Oh. My. God.

Everywhere I looked, there was another spider lurking in the corner. I would kill one, getting spider juice all over myself, and then there would be another of the monsters creeping toward me, apparently attracted by the scent of its fallen brethren.

At one point The Cav told me that he thought he had gotten most of the egg sacks out of the back seat.

I need to go lie down.

On Grenadian Grenades?

I came across this tidbit regarding the 1983 American intervention into tiny Grenada and thought it might be of interest to a wider audience. “Although much was made of the weaponry and the contents of 25,000 documents captured by the CIA in the aftermath of the invasion, the former were qualitatively unimpressive and the latter provided sparse evidence of a Soviet-Cuban plot, as insisted by Reagan and other administration officials.” Replace “Reagan” with “Bush II” and “Soviet-Cuban” with “Iraqi-Al Queda” and things begin to sound eerily familiar.

On Tawdry Women and Buxome Maides

A special thanks to the estimable Lamp-Daddy-J for passing along via e-mail a rather hilarious New Yorker article on the topic of drink in seventeenth-century Britain.

My favorite bit was probably the description of the period’s anti-coffee sentiment -- “there being scarce a Coffee-Hut but affords a Tawdry Woman, a wonton Daughter, or a Buxome Maide, to accommodate Customers.”

And the article even had an apparent shout-out to the equally estimable (and water/bread-hating) B-Lish. “But water isn’t a drink that you toast with; it doesn’t make the heart glad; and it doesn’t inspire. As Horace said, ‘No verse can give pleasure for long, nor last, that is written by water-drinkers.’”

I would provide a link, but (a) I don’t know how and (b) I’d rather play internet backgammon at the moment.

The Lyrics Strike Back

Egads. I’m starting to wonder whether I have some sort of weird subconscious death-wish thing going on.

After the whole necrophilia debacle, I decided to exercise a bit more care with the lyrical content on my current mix CD. The first song I checked was “Miracle Drug,” a catchy little ditty by A.C. Newman. I anticipated some sort of “Two Thumbs Up For Marijuana” message, but… I don’t think so.

Here are the lyrics:

“He was tied to the bed with a miracle drug in one hand,
In the other, a great lost novel that, I understand, was returned with a stamp
That said ‘thank you for your interest, young man.’

While preparing his soul for a perilous slide into crime,
He had decided that he would err on this side of divine,
Being told this was wise, that there’d be payback with interest in due time
So why all the history now?

He was tied to a job selling miracle drugs from his home,
At his door every morning a trophy arrived with the dawn,
With the following inscribed:
‘we’ve followed you with interest for some time.’
So why all the history now?
He was tied to a bed with a miracle drug in one hand.”

I know that as a political scientist I’m a bit dense with any sort of interpretation not involving statistical analysis, but is this about suicide? Some sort of death? I don’t quite understand it, but I certainly get the sense that this may be another song not appropriate for the Huffalump set.

All I know is that I’m now even more afraid to figure out the actual message of Citizen Cope’s “Bullet and a Target.” Wacky hijinks on the professional skeet shooting circuit, perhaps?

P.S. For those who are interested, I went [successfully] with the trendy tennis shoe this weekend, although the rest of my party had footwear with substantially more shine. And the negroni continued its streak of nauseating all who I foisted it upon.