Why is this man *not* smiling

I love watching politicians making fools of themselves.

Senator Joe Biden today showed why he is more renown for stealing others’ words than for the quality of his own because of comments he made to the New York Observer, in which he said Barack Obama: "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man."

And this, on the day he announces his candidacy for president! Brilliant!

His spin jockey isn’t much smarter. "Clean is a synonym for fresh and new," Biden campaign spokesman said. "And if you look at the context of the quote it's obvious that's what he meant. And certainly anybody who knows Sen. Biden wouldn't question that."

Uh, no, Rasky. “Clean” doesn’t mean “new” or “fresh.” It would have been far easier to say "Obama is clean in the sense that he is -- to this point -- unbesmirched by scandal."

I’m not saying Joe Biden is racist. I’m saying he’s a stupid politician. Which is to say -- he’s a politician.

Hee hee.

The Good Son

Tonight, I am going to see this person in concert.



The reason for this is that my mother, whose birthday is in 13 days, is a huge fan of the aforementioned comic (in fact, I believe he is her favorite comedian), and I wanted to give her something nice for her birthday. So we will be dining and seeing the show together.

When you consider that my favorite comedian is this gentleman, my level of personal sacrifice becomes a bit clearer.


Of course, now that I’ve become a regular watcher of American Idol, I no longer have any justification in taking the cultural high ground. So tonight, we GIT-R-DONE.

*sigh*

My new crush

It's been awhile since I was this excited over a musical discovery. Ladies and gentlemen, Imogen Heap.



She's nominated for Best New Artist this year (though she hasn't a chance at winning, sadly). And she brings to the table a lot of my favorite musical elements (vocal harmony, synthesizer, thoughtful, lyrics, etc.)

I highly recommend checking out some of her work.

Who's a fat panda?

Ok, I promise you, dear readers that this is not turning into an all-pandas, all-the-time blog. But I had to chuckle at and share this item from MSNBC.com bemoaning the fate of poor Chuang Chuang.

It seems this male resident of Chiang Mai Zoo in northern Thailand has become, well, too fat to, well ... you know. Amusing alliteration aside, this has to be a demoralizing wake-up call to male pandas everywhere. No longer can you skate merely by being adorable; there comes a point at which your obesity kills your sex life, no matter how damn cute you are.

Chuang Chuang is going on a diet to remedy the problem. Let's hope other would-be panda playas out there take the hint. I'd hate to see this condition turn into a ... wait for it ... pandemic.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!

Oh. My. God.

'24.'

Oh. My. God.

See link at right, fans. All others ... you can cope.

Panda-ering to my readers

This literally got me through the day. Enjoy.

… as in olden days

Mrs. Z and I (well, Mrs. Z mostly) put up our Christmas tree Sunday night. I’ll give those of you who know us fairly well a moment to recover.

You see, we haven’t always been the most festive observers of the Yuletide season. It probably started 12 years ago, when my father passed away suddenly a month before Christmas. The next two years, I was saddled with major illnesses around the holidays. After that … well, we were out of practice.

Now don’t get me wrong, we always celebrate Christmas and are happy to do so. It’s just that we don’t generally have a month-long run-up of THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT. Last year, that started to change when Mrs. Z and I started a new Christmas Eve tradition, the Downtown Dash. (You can read all about that here.)

But this year, we both got a full dose of THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT – and early. A large amount of the credit has to go to this lovely lady, who not only shared with us her exuberance for the holidays, but was a real inspiration for our renovating "The Pit." With a clean and organized apartment, we were able to purchase a new Christmas tree and give it a wonderful home where the coffee table normally sits.

By the time it was set up – with its white lights, silver-bell garland, red ribbons, silver ball ornaments, candy canes and a few-sizes-too-large, tree-topping star, I could only stare at it slack-jawed and murmur “It’s beautiful” repeatedly. It really is. And it was in that moment that I realized THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT had just swept over me like a wave in which I didn’t mind drowning.

While this glorious tree has had a lot to do with it, my joy this Christmastime has as much to do with being surrounded by and closer to those I love — perhaps more than ever before. This year has brought a lot of turmoil, but overcoming such strife has left me with a feeling of gratitude I could never have had if the 2006 had gone smoothly.

As I sit bathed in the surprisingly bright glow of the Christmas tree, I can feel its white light pouring into my heart. And it seems to be offering itself as a candle I can hold out before me to light the way in the coming year. I reach out to take the hands of those who love me and invite them to walk with me.

This glow, this light, this SPIRIT … I offer it to you, dear readers. Take some of it to light your way. Let’s walk together, if only for a little while.

Merry Christmas.

I dare you not to smile

Just when you think it can't get any better, the counter hits 1:09.

A bit of music fanboyishness

I just sent this off to Lindsey Buckingham.

Lindsey:

I hardly ever write fan mail, but I just wanted to drop you a note and thank you for your music. I had been aware of your music (and that of Fleetwood Mac) for many, many years, but I only really started to listen to it in the last five years. During that time, my admiration for your songwriting, instrumental craftsmanship and passionate singing has grown exponentially.

Then, last night, I watched your CMT "Crossroads" special with Little Big Town and was reminded anew how you pour yourself into your music more than any other artist I know. And I thought about one of my biggest regrets: how I wish I could have become a devoted fan of yours while my father was still alive (he passed away in 1994). Dad was a great guitarist and soaked up the work of other fantastic guitar players, and I am convinced he would have been as big a Lindsey Buckingham fanatic as I have become. Indeed, I think of my father often when I listen to your music. And that's just another reason to love your work.

So that's why I'm writing: to tell you how much your music has touched me and to thank you for it. I'm glad your latest work is getting good recognition, and I wish you the best as your career continues.

Stephen Sykes
Springfield, IL

If you want some prime examples of why I'm gushing, check out "Under the Skin" or "Out of the Cradle."

Extra crispy legislation: government moves to save us from ourselves

It was barely more than a “News of the Weird” item when word began circulating that New York City was considering outlawing the use of trans fats in its restaurants. How would the archetypical NYC cop survive without donuts, one of the most egregious trans-fat transgressors? And we chuckled.

Today, the trans-fat ruling is the lead item on many online news services.

‘The Board of Health voted Tuesday to make New York the nation’s first city to ban artery-clogging artificial trans fats at restaurants — from the corner pizzeria to high-end bakeries,” states MSNBC.com. “Restaurants will be barred from using most frying oils containing artificial trans fats by July and will have to eliminate the artificial trans fats from all of their foods by July 2008.”

The ban is not New York’s first foray into aggressive health promotion. The city was one of the first to enact a comprehensive public smoking ban — a legislative trend which only recently reached my hometown of “Springpatch,” Ill. So within three years, NYC has moved to clear its residents’ lungs and its arteries.

Here’s the $64,000 question. Many of us are, at best, offended, and at worst, frightened, when a government tries to tell us what is immoral or obscene (see gay marriage or Nipplegate). But what will the volume of the outcry be as government begins to legislate health more and more? Readers?

Slingin' and swingin'

You Are Spider-Man

Quick and agile, you have killer instincts (literally). And that kind of makes up for the whole creepy spider thing.

What Superhero Are You?

Eat your heart out, Jack London

Mrs. Z is home. My office is closing at 3 p.m. because of the encroaching wintry mess. Life is good.

In praise of Douglas

"Asking people about their opinions is a very good way of making friends. Telling them about your own opinions can also work, but not always quite as well."

The preceding quote is from my favorite writer of all time, England's Douglas Adams. He is one of the most brilliant humorists and least obnoxious activists ever to walk this Earth. Adams is best known for having written “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and its four sequels.

A note, here. If you find me funny personally, or if you like my writing, please, please, PLEASE find and read a copy of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” It was the single most influential work as far as both my sense of humor and my writing style are concerned. And don’t try to watch the movie first. It will most likely leave you feeling lost and disillusioned. (Now there are many Adams fans who have read the book many time, yet still claim to have felt lost and disillusioned after watching the movie. That is entirely their problem.)

The reason I bring Douglas Adams up is that one of the things I’ve done to pass the time while Mrs. Z’s been away this week is read a wonderful compilation of Adams’s writings called “The Salmon of Doubt.” The book contains the highlights of what was on his Macintosh at the time of his tragically early death – including an unfinished novel. I have particularly enjoyed the essays included in the book, which cover everything from The Beatles to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in a rhino suit. And scattered amongst these writings are nuggets of wisdom like the one I opened this post with – which, incidentally, is from an essay entitled “For Children Only.”

Brilliant stuff, and it got me thinking. If you had access to the personal writings of anyone you chose, who would it be and why? Write a blog entry about it if you like, or merely use this blog’s comment space.

And for goodness’s sake, please read some Douglas Adams. It will make you smile.

What's been going on ...

Well, kids, as you can surmise from the time gap between my previous entry and this one, plenty has been going on in Zoomland – only a fraction of which shall be discussed in this post. That restrictive disclaimer aside, there is still quite a bit to get to, so let’s get to it.

I should first mention Mrs. Z. is, due to a series of extraordinary kindnesses, in the midst of a week’s sabbatical visiting a dear friend in Minnesota. She’s having a great trip, which is not to say she needed some time away from me; rather, she needed some time to and for herself. And that is something she’s had precious little of in the nearly 15 years we’ve been married. It already seems to be agreeing with her, based on this photo I received from her.

Part of the upshot of all this is my spending more time with my mother, or “Z-Mom,“ as I have just now decided to refer to her. While it has been at times maddening spending so much time with someone who admits to still seeing me as 10 years old half the time, it has been, for the most part, a pleasant if somewhat poignant experience. You see, as much as she still sees me as 10, I still see her as 50ish. And to see her age – particularly during the weekend together – has been difficult.

On the plus side, we’ve seen some pretty awesome movies.

First and foremost, I must add my voice to the universal choir singing the praises of “Casino Royale.” Daniel Craig is the best Bond since Sean Connery, and the movie does a great job of recapturing the original essence of 007. This isn’t to say the rest of the Bond films are crap, but they’d become such self-caricatures that they were in danger of becoming irrelevant. Not anymore!

We also saw the latest Denzel Washington/Tony Scott film, “Déjà Vu.” I do recommend it for its sheer entertainment value, but I have a hard time giving it an unqualified “thumbs up.” Because I don’t want to give away any of the movie (and discovery is a big draw to this film), I will just say that “Déjà Vu” deftly switches genres about a third of the way through, then causes fans of that genre to roll their eyes with what I consider a copout ending. That said, it’s very much worth seeing, and in the theater at that.

Then there’s “The Fountain.”


Z-Mom and I saw the Hugh Jackman-Rachel Weisz film on Saturday. No less than six people walked out during the movie, and one young lady who managed to stick through it was heard to mutter, “I have no idea what that was fucking about.” We tended to agree, though Z-Mom would be loath to use such language in public. I know for a fact, however, that she was thinking “What the fuck?” throughout. And I’m sure she still is.

However, the more that I think about it, the more this initially incomprehensible opus is growing on me in precisely the way “Magnolia” didn’t. Its visuals are breathtaking, its acting sincere and its score singularly beautiful. I’m still saying “What the fuck?” but I think I actually like it now. And if I see it again, I’m pretty sure I’ll love it.

Coming soon: more on my week of bachelorhood, including how I quit smoking. (GASP! Literally!)

17 days (cough, cough)

So many cool things happening in my life. So little time to talk about them. So instead, I'll just draw your attention to the fact my Amazon wish list is back up and running, because October really is the coolest month. Just type in "Steve Sykes" to see what I wants.

Ciaaaoooo ...

Tickle me emo

Within the past week, I found out that I had inadvertently hurt the feelings of a couple of very dear friends. I’m happy to report those fences have been mended; otherwise, I’d still be in the pasture swinging a hammer rather than putzing around Blogger. But while I was still in damage control mode, I searched for a cute little animated smiley that would allow me to apologize with irresistible charm and cuteness. So I did some trolling through Photobucket using the keyword, “Sorry.”

The search results confirmed what I had long suspected: the Internet has been overrun by intelligent-yet-pretentious, angst-ridden emoteens.

For those who want a full refresher course in this pop culture phenomenon, check Wikipedia’s entry on Emo. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version: think Goth without the cool fashion sense or the good music.

My “Sorry” search started out innocently enough: there was this little message that was merely a little pouty.


Then the angst began to truly flow.


I found several different variations on this little ditty, which stopped me dead (pardon my pun) in my tracks.


The combination of this item’s morbidity and its ubiquity kind of lends it a unintended humor. I mean, the Photobucket search results suggest it’s downright trndy to express your regret through stylishly suicidal art. Yikes!

Well, once I started chuckling at the artistic angst of others, I couldn’t stop.


And I’m sorry I keep forgetting to turn off the hall light. But know that it’s ripping my soul out!



The lyrics are just about incomprehensible, but it’s the photo that’s genius here. The poor gent seems to be saying “How did I let my girlfriend convince me to buy this couch instead of the futon I wanted. My friends are going to think I am totally whipped!”

And then, there was the image that needed no additional commentary.


Indeed.

Conclusions? It’s no longer hard to say you’re sorry – especially if you’re willing to tear out your spleen for the one you love.

Banksy shots

This is going to be one of those copout posts. You've been warned. Sorry, but for someone not doing much, I've had a lot going on.

Nevertheless, this is a value-added entry. I'd like to show you some of the most provocative modern art I've ever seen. It gives me a bit of an idea why Andy Warhol was apparently so important.

The artist's name is Banksy, and those of you who follow pop culture may know him as the artist-prankster who secretly replaced hundreds of Paris Hilton CD's with his own bootlegs, complete with scandalously titilating Photoshopped variations on the original jacket art.

But there's a serious mind buried within this jester. And some incredible talent as well. Here's one of my favorite pieces from his latest exhibition:


For more, follow the link in this post's title.

Remembering

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, the first thing I noticed was that WMAY, our principal AM news station, was hosting a live remote from the Mel-O-Cream doughnut shop at the Sixth Street end of our alley. (It’s now a Jimmy John’s.) I grabbed a free doughnut and headed to work. It was about 7:50 a.m. When I got to work, several things happened simultaneously: I heard some sort of accident had happened at the World Trade Center, I got a call from my wife saying a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers, and I noticed I couldn’t reach any of the news Web sites I had bookmarked on my computer.

We didn’t have a TV in the building, but my wife had one in her office, so she fed me regular updates. The second plane hit the WTC at about the same time we were able to set up a radio to hear the news from New York. My wife, who had had a bad feeling with the first plane strike, now was convinced we were under attack.

Of course, it was hard for me to form any opinions, as I couldn’t see what was going on. The Web was still log-jammed from billions of hits from people like me, who were wondering what the hell was going on. Then, I got the call from my wife saying the Pentagon had been hit. That’s when I really started to panic.

But there was no time for panic, as one of my work colleagues who had planned to get married in the county courthouse two blocks away had decided that she was going through with the wedding. I joined the procession of work friends who made the quiet walk to the courthouse. I remember looking out the window of the fifth floor wondering if a county courthouse in a capital city was a viable target. As it turned out, the wedding went off without a hitch. In retrospect, it was a bold statement that life could go on in the midst of such barbarism.

But life would never be the same. And I guess that’s what I carry with me five years later: an anger that 19 fanatics could rob a country of its innocence and joy – a robbery from which I would argue we still haven’t recovered. Nor may we ever. That there has to be a post-9/11 world still fills me with bitterness if I think about it too long. But today is a day for remembering. And despite the bitterness remembrance brings, I owe it to those who died that day to remember.

As do we all.

Whither Pluto?

It’s not every day your solar system gets remapped. And yet, today, a group of Really Important Men in Really Impressive White Coats have decided that Pluto shall no longer be named a planet. Instead, it will be henceforth named a “dwarf.”

Why don’t they just call it “Billy Barty”?

Trying to make Pluto supporters feel better, Irish astronomer Jocelyn Bell Burnell said, ”It could be argued that we are creating an umbrella called ‘planet’ under which the dwarf planets exist.”

Sure, Jocelyn … why don’t you just tell Pluto you still wanna be friends?

Did I mention ole Joss was waving a stuffed Pluto doll under an umbrella when she tried to make us all feel better? Oh, that makes all the planetary pain go away. Bitch.

***

In happier news, my blood sugar seems to be stabilizing in the high 90s, which takes me out of the diabetes danger zone. (Cue the Kenny Loggins music.) And my dietician has taken me off the Atkinsy-type diet I was on and put me on a more tradition, 1800-calorie, 300 carb-a-day diet. And, at the cost of stabbing my finger most every day for a week, I have learned how much I can “get away with” and maintain a healthy blood sugar level.

All in all, life is settling way down, which means you may see more of these witty slices of life, dear readers. “About time,” you say? I agree.

How I learned to stop missing muffins

In the past three weeks:

• I have served a half-day of jury duty.
• I have lost my Uncle Fred.
• I have completed work on one of the most emotionally taxing work projects ever.
• I have started seven more.
• I have had one cheat night out of two-and-a-hald weeks on a low-carb diet.
• I have lost somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 pounds. (Weighing someone in a wheelchair is an imprecise science, unless you happen to have easy access to a loading dock cargo scale.)
• I have endured 12 hours of thinking I had lost one of my best friends (though not in the way I lost my Uncle Fred, thank God).
• I have started exercising.
• I have purchased three really cheap video games.

And those are just the highlights. Until I have time to dwell on one or more of these subjects, I give you a silly and, at times, disturbing video that has curbed my craving for blueberry muffins.