January 31, 2005
Right behind
I read somewhere that stress and anxiety are the leading mental debilitations on the American mind today. Now, I can't do much about stress, but I do have an elixir for your anxiety. Worried about the impending rapture and tribulation period? Well, aside from Tim LaHaye's cell number, I've got the next best thing...
Now, we can all keep tabs on when to look for Nicolae Carpathia taking over the UN and those pesky horsemen emerging from the sky.
Posted by houch at 07:38 PM | Comments (1)
January 30, 2005
I will follow
Another tale from the annals of Palmer Houchins' multimedia overlooks. Evidently, U2 gave quite a rousing performance on Saturday Night Live back in November (which I never heard about, nor watched). After performing two songs from their latest album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb Bono and crew broke into an encore performance of "I Will Follow" during the credits.
After the second verse, Bono hops off the stage, floats around the cameras, epically sweeps into the crowd where he pretty much gives some lady a lap dance. By my meager standards, it's an amazing performance of an amazing song.
As if that weren't enough, here's a fantastic column inspired by the performance...
Posted by houch at 08:40 PM | Comments (0)
Romulus
Perhaps I just missed this, but I don't think I did.
(NOTE: the link is working now...)
So, it's probably just funny more than anything. Speaking of, I saw the Radiohead "Anyone Can Play Guitar" on VH2 (yes, UK has the deuce) last night at a pub. Has anyone reading seen that video? I can't believe that band went on to become the greatest band in the world. Honestly, it's hilarious. I scoured the web for it. But I think Thom Yorke has personally ended its existence out of embarassment.
Posted by houch at 01:31 AM | Comments (1)
January 29, 2005
The News from Lake Wobegon
Now, this isn't a political post, you see. It's just that I've long-loved Garrison Keillor, if only for long, rambunctious usage of the English language, like this. It just so happens that it's about Republicans.
The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk.
I'd just like to point out two things: 1) I don't believe we actually landed on the moon. 2) "Nihilists in Golf Pants" is probably the best band name ever.
Posted by houch at 06:50 PM | Comments (2)
January 24, 2005
Which NY Times Op-Ed Columnist Are You?
I'm pretty sure this is one of those entries that is only interesting to me. But blogging only exists as a delusion of our own narcissism. Right?
Anyway, I really, really wanted to be Nicholas Kristof, or at least David Brooks. I got Bob Herbert. I don't even read his columns.
I'm in a foreign country, and this is what I do. Bitch about being Bob Herbert. Paging...
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You are Bob Herbert! You're not the most sparkling writer, but one of the most solid and selfless on the Op-Ed staff. You focus on New York politics, the poor, race issues, and civil liberties. You like to quote others, and rarely place yourself in your columns. You keep it real. Seriously.
Which New York Times Op-Ed Columnist Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Posted by houch at 11:37 PM | Comments (7)
January 22, 2005
MIND THE GAP
Let me be straight with you for a moment. Perhaps there is no bigger enthusiast (in my mind) of the New York City subway than myself. Part of my soul lives on the 2/3 line through Manhattan. When faced with developing an idea for an upstart magazine launch, I wanted to create one solely dedicated to the ethos of public transportation, with the debut issue commemorating the NYC subway. In Harper's a few weeks back, I read a Jonathan Lethem essay about growing up on the subway. I say that only to usher you towards a fine piece of writing about mass transportation living in order to assuage my desire to share the feeling, but rid myself of any opportunity to write more of my sentimental crap.
Nevertheless, my passion for the New York City subway runs deep. But, both literally and figuratively, the London Underground runs deeper. In a sense, this feels like the junction to insert some metaphor about how this admission is much like telling your girlfriend you are in love with another girl. But that's not right for me. I can hardly get a girlfriend, much less get more than one girl to like me.
The Underground was love at first sight, breath, and overarching lack of smell. It's eerily clean, considering that over 5 million people ride it each day. Clean is an ambiguous word, though. Some people probably assume there exists a general lack of bodily wastes and animal carcasses that somehow constitute the Underground as "clean." No, it's clean to the point that I'm tempted to lick the wall tiles just to be certain they aren't prototypes of Wonka's fruit-flavored wallpapering. The Underground tracks themselves are as spotlessly clean as the platforms. And, true, there is a lack of BAD smells. But it's not just the nonexistence of unfriendly aromas that is so remarkable, it's the bountiful existence of pleasant aromas. The Underground actually smells good. (In my mind, there exists some hidden duct in an air supply corridor, with thousands upon thousands of Glade plug-ins.) Then, of course, there's the nickname: The Tube. What does New York offer as a counterpart? Nothing. Not only does London have a subway nickname that is totally badass, but the nickname is actually true. All of subway tunnels are elongated cylinders. (Elongated cylinders is a phrase I've been waiting to relevantly express since 8th grade geometry.) In other words, they are indeed TUBES.
Of course, this isn't to knock the New York City subway. Oh, how I love you so dearly, sweet ground runner. But I can recall a specific afternoon this summer when I got on the 6th Avenue stop near Washington Square. The moment I descended the stairs onto the platform, my olfactory senses were treated to the most vile stench ever. I heard some stream of liquid, pouring onto the tracks, trailing the length of the platform in pools. Shortly, I realized what was happening. The liquid was actually raw sewage - human waste - pouring from a busted line onto the tracks. I'm pretty sure in that moment I was constitutionally violated. It's hard to imagine life and liberty, much less the pursuit of happiness of in that moment. (I realize that was actually the Declaration, but for the moment, we'll let it be. I'm unqualified to write, much less present cogent sources.) As the brown gook rolled down the miniature canal beneath the tracks, I noticed a rat scampering over it. I'm not entirely sure how those connect, but I'm going to chance it. You see, in America life goes on. We just board a train, covering the shit below us. It's hidden, just not well. Here in Britain, the shit's here. I'm sure of it. They just hide it better.
Finally, the ultimate litmus test in any subway hierarchy involves the electronic voices, one's perpetual transit companion. In New York, a computerized, near-robotic - think R2D2 with inflection, male voice announces, "Stand clear of the closing doors." Whereas on the Tube, a petite British female - think a perkier Minnie driver, urges riders to "Mind the gap between the train and the platform." Deconstructing those statements, New York urgers passengers to grab a seat and watch life's proverbial doors shut. However, the Underground urges passengers to take root in courage, to be mindful of the danger but only while overcoming it. After that, who would want to travel in a vessel of nihilism?
I'm sure if I was entirely serious with that last paragraph.
Posted by houch at 03:59 PM | Comments (8)