I’ll admit that I am not the brightest guy in the world, especially when it comes to politics and whatnot, but…um…why does this scare the shit out of me? I went onto YouTube a few minutes ago to try and find a clip of Groucho Marx rubbing his hands together conspiratorially as I imagine this is what the Saudis must be doing right now. However, I can’t recall exactly which movie that clip is from and it is too late for me to go on an exhaustive search.
I’ll just say that this seems pretty dumb to me. I mean, I understand we want to keep Iran under wraps, right? But I feel an overwhelming sense of deja vu right now. I don’t really know why. It just seems like America has done this before. When was it? When was it? Well, I’m sure it will come to me sooner or later. Wait! I remember now.
Does this look familiar?
Twenty-five years later and we’re right back at it. Israel’s shaking in their boots right now too. So…we’re gonna give them a little help to assuage their fears as well. More weapons for the Saudis. More military might for Israel. Ahh (hands behind our heads), what could possibly go wrong? Better watch out Iran. We’ve got your number!
Since I couldn’t find the Marx Brothers clip I was searching for, I included the one below. Actually, it is appropriate as well, as I feel that maybe the first tune sung is the tune we should be singing to the Middle East right about now.
Why this whole Barry Bonds issue haunts me, I can’t explain. There’s something so disingenuous about it. Some people feel that this wasn’t cheating because there were no rules against it. But if men played a game the same way for over a hundred years — and when I say the same way, I mean, games were won and lost based on skill, strategy, and god-given talent — then, suddenly, a liquid in a syringe gives some of these men superhuman strength, whether there are laws written against it or not, it’s cheating. If you have to hide these needles in your locker and buy this crap on the sly, then you know what you’re doing is wrong.
I promise that I will eventually tire of this subject, but segments like the one below and the fact that a fraud is about the become a king keep me chomping at the bit, hoping that justice will eventually become the victor.
This is my one hundredth ramble. I wish I had something pithy to say but unfortunately I’m in a bit of a funk tonight, so nothing spectacular comes to mind right now. I talked to my mother a few hours ago for quite a long time. If you have a mother like mine, she loves you and she wants you to be happy and if she thinks you are happy, she won’t say directly what she is thinking. However, she will hint like hell. So my mom drops plenty of hints tonight and in the back of my head I know she is probably right. She always is.
Mom thinks I want to be liked — who doesn’t? And because of this, I sometimes let people walk over me. I can’t argue with that. I do. Not as much as I used to. You know those people who wipe out an entire family then all the comments you hear are, “He seemed like a nice guy. He was quiet, kept to himself.” Those guys wanted to be liked. See what happened?
Now, I’m not a “wipe an entire family out” kind of guy. I’m not that brazen or mentally f’ed up. I’m not even sure being liked is at the top of my wish list anymore. I just want to be happy. Like an unsullied kind of happiness. The kind where you wake up in the morning, take a deep breath and start singing zip-bee-dee-doo-daa and shit. The last time I did that, I was probably ten. Then puberty kicked my ass, followed by an acne-riddled adolescence, then an adulthood rank with disappointment and complete amazement. If it weren’t for jazz and movies, I’m not sure where I’d be.
I realized something these last few days. Catty women are not attractive. Even less attractive? Catty men. I’ve come to realize that in showing my distaste for certain individuals of the same gender, I was really just putting all of my insecurities on display. Not cute. And women. When they spend so much time verbally expectorating on other women *shudder*. Not a pretty sight.
Let’s see…what else? Hmm…hate Barry Bonds — already ran that into the ground. Although, I read that his ex is going to be in the October edition of Playboy. Seriously, do we really need to see that. Yes! Actually, when people used to say that they read Playboy for the articles, I thought that they were full of shit. But seriously, would you really get a subscription these days to Playboy just for the photos? The internet is rife with photos and much, much more. Fact is, Playboy is a great read. Plus, Hef is a jazz fan, so there’s that.
This is a true rambling post. Ramble…ramble…free association….by the time Lindsay Lohan is thirty, most people will probably look at her and say, “Lindsay Oh Damn!” She’s headed down that road.
Why did they post that video of Beyonce I don’t know why people hate her. She seems genuine to me. But maybe I’m blinded by her obscene hotness.
I’ve been receiving emails recently asking for tee shirts or coffee mugs with the Evening Melancholy label on them. I thought of doing this when the station first started but the idea kind of fell by the wayside. If you guys are really interested, drop me a line and maybe we can get something going.
I used to goof on Mel Tormé. I believe I did this for two reasons. Well…three really. The most obvious reason was ignorance. I knew the name and perhaps caught a wisp of his singing, but that was about it. But I was an avid Night Court viewer in my youth and when Tormé visited the character of Judge Harry Stone, a Tormé fanatic, on the show, all I saw was this old dude who looked a little droopy eyed and sang in this kind of lazy, somnambulist way. He wore old-dude clothes and looked like he could keel over at any minute. Some second-rate lounge singer was my guess. The Velvet Fog. What a weird name. And funny. The guy made me smile but not once did I take his talent seriously.
Then there was this scene from SCTV.
The first time I saw this, I thought it was one of the funniest things I had ever seen, and I had no idea who Mel Tormé was. I was probably eleven or twelve at the time. I just thought it was a hilarious skit. This was, of course, probably the first time my mind had been tainted against Mel Tormé. Who knew it would take almost twenty years for me to truly appreciate not only the musician and vocalist, but also one of the most strident patrons of jazz. He was a drummer, could scat with the best of them (something often attempted but rarely done skillfully) and he penned quite a number of songs. Of course, his name is attached to one of the most cherished and lovely holiday songs. The fact that the phrase “Chesnuts roasting on an open fire” can coax so many pleasant and well-treasured memories is a great testament to Tormé who co-wrote the tune.
I have a great amount of respect for Mel Tormé. I came to his music later in life and now must mock my own ignorance. I should be so lucky to live a life like his. Unlike an early morning mist that oft-times disappears with heat of the rising sun, I believe that the music and legacy of Mel Tormé will continue live on for years. Jazz was lucky to have such a faithful friend.
This clip takes a few moments to get to the vocals, but it’s worth the wait.