Is This Funny?

Because I did a spit-take all over my monitor when I saw it.

Discuss.

Mr. Hoover

A good friend of mine, Stefano VanHoover, recently saw the He-Man post Dylan made a few months ago. It has caused tremendous marital difficulties, as Stefano will be the first to admit. He has slept on the couch since last Thursday. I feel bad that we have caused such a stir at the VanHoover compound.

Stefano recently forwarded this link to me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPbzrhfjlmk

He said it has helped him get through his difficult nights alone. In honour of Stefano, please watch the video.

Look! It's Mr. Noodle's brother, Mr. Noodle!

Dylan, was that a true story, or did you make it up? I seriously cannot tell. I hope it was true, because as far as my memory can tell, we started this blog because we wanted to write nothing but serious, hard-hitting news articles.

I'm going to press on, believing that the noodle story is 100% accurate.

In other news, PBS&J, the company I work for, just hired a new employee. His name is Bat Boy, and he is an assistant public information officer. He will be helping me build Web sites, edit newsletters, and answer hot lines for various construction and environmental planning projects.

I like Bat Boy. He seems friendly. I really think he's going to make a name for himself in the world of public involvement.

And now for a fun game.

In less than 100 words, you have to tell me your first memory of a particular item. I'll go first. Guns N' Roses' The Spaghetti Incident?.

I brought it to guitar class. We had no CD player in guitar class. I'm not sure why I brought it to guitar class. Mr. Nagasaki was in his office with the technician. They were discussing something important, I'm sure. Anyway, Dylan saw the album and scoffed at it. Dylan has terrible taste in music. There was some kid playing the solo to"Patience" on his guitar, only it sounded nothing like the solo from "Patience."

Dylan, where were you when you got your first copy of Chaos?

The Shadow Of the Noodle

Once upon a time there was a guy who had a dream. That dream was to make a gigantic noodle. He had drafted plans of his noodle, which was to be roughly the circumference of a school bus and as long as three-and-a half football fields. He made t-shirts, hats, buttons, commemorative plates and belt buckles that all featured his amazing noodle. He even secured the rights to www.giganticnoodleguy.com as well as www.giganticnoodleguy.org, www.giganticnoodleguy.edu and, for some reason www.stinkyfeet.com.

The short-term plan was to build the noodle. After that was complete, he would air-drop marinara sauce and three boulder-sized meatballs and have it photographed from space and maybe put the picture on a postage stamp or a flag or t-shirts or something. Oh how he dreamt of that fine day. He could almost taste it, all garlicy and noodley.

He told everybody he could about his noodle plan. All day, every day it was "noodle" this and "noodle" that, "noodle noodle noodle." People thought he was a little weird, but hey, who isn't, am I right? So he liked noodles. So what? At least he wasn't robbing liquor stores or running for State Comptroller. At least he wasn't eating kittens or painting pictures of Mike Ditka oil wrestling Refrigerator Perry while cats played poker in the background. At least he didn't go around quoting Friends while wearing a Speedo driving all over town on a bobsled pulled by babies. At least it wasn't anything weird, y'know?

Then one day, he realized that this was a stupid idea, the noodle idea, and instead just invented the George Foreman grill. He lives on a beach somewhere where he just sits around with his pet spider monkey Chip and a bodyguard who is half robot and counts his money and occasionally buys small European countries and renames them for the fun of it. Have you heard of the nation of Yourbootiestan? He owns it. Poopoostia? That one too. Crappersburg? Hobotopia? Smellyelbow? All him. He also hired George Lucas to remake the Star Wars prequels so they aren't so, you know, not that good, really, no matter how much you try to tell yourself otherwise.

But still, there is a hole in his heart roughly the circumference of a school bus and three-and-a-half football fields long. A hole that can't be filled with money or go-go dancing ladies or 152 pairs of Chuck Norris Action Jeans or Fabergé eggs or solid gold Air Jordan's or 13 autographed pictures of Danny Aiello or the enchanted head of Engelbert Humperdink that sings and tells the future.

Sometimes he cries at night, wiping his eyes with hundred dollar bills, thinking of the noodle that could have been but never was.

So what's the point of all this? I guess the moral of this story is simply this: Never let go of your noodle. Hold on to it and never let go.

Why are you laughing? What?

Oh. I see. You're gross. Seriously.

Miami, Virginia, Hotlanta, Chi-town or CR?

Thanks, various animated anti- and super-heroes, for the encouraging words. I have been giving a lot of thought to getting back into advertising. I don't love working in public involvement. I do love advertising. Always have. So I've been looking at various ad schools. I'm having a hard time deciding what to do, so I'm opening this blog up to suggestions.

Here's my options:

Miami Ad School: One of the two best ad schools out there. They have locations in Miami, Minneapolis, San Fran, and overseas.
Pros: Amazing education, fantastic intern program with the hottest shops in the world.
Cons: Expensive (having quadruplets without insurance would be cheaper), intern program would have me away from home three separate times in a two year period.

UVC AdCenter: The other of the two best ad schools out there. Located in Richmond, VA.
Pros: Unbelievable faculty, outstanding curriculum, top-notch reputation.
Cons: Expensive (see quad statement above, add a heart transplant when including housing), time commitment (2 full, intense years).

Creative Circus: Located in Atlanta, this school is held in high regard by pros in the biz. Boyz in da hood also think it is a fine institute of higher learning.
Pros: Great curriculum, operates in quarters so I can start in Oct or Jan.
Cons: Never been to Atlanta for more than a layover, no connections whatsoever.

Chicago Portfolio School: One year program in the Windy City, one of the 2-3 best cities in America.
Pros: Relatively cheap, near family in Rockford, only one year, student sample work is pretty nice.
Cons: Near family in Rockford, only one year.

Castle Rock: Stay where I'm at.
Pros: Wonderful schools, weather and friends, steady-paying job, security.
Cons: Always wondering if I would have had what it would have taken to make it in the ad world.

Please forward a link to this blog to friends, relatives, enemies, cats, used car salesmen, and anyone else that would be able to add their two cents. I need help soon...it's time to jump or stay in the plane.

"Thinking Of Moving To the Big 'A,' eh?"

This Is EXCELLENT news!

Also excellent: I have tiny little wings on my feet. Pretty cool, huh?

"Ryan Might Be Going To Ad School In Atlantis?"

Freaking Radness!

"Ryan! You Might Move To Atatis!?"

AWESOME!

Remember what that chick from Poltergeist kept saying?

My dear, dear friend. You succeeded in posting the most amazing post of all time. Is it any wonder it took me nine years to reply? How can I follow that? Now I know how the headliner felt after warm-up act Allen Stewart Königsberg left the stage.

I concur with everything you said. Tabo is one mysterious punk. But to paraphrase our main man Neil Young, "I believe in (him)."

You know what would be whack? If he went to my ward and was married to a woman named Kristen and had a baby named after a Jane Austin novel and had a rabid pet badger with a scimitar tied to its tail, which I would love to be attacked by.

Sorry non-Vegas natives, if any truly exist, but I have to make a Fashion Show Mall reference. D-Love, remember the Centaur Gallery? I remember cruising by that crazy place on my way to "don't bother looking for anything not written by Tom Clancy or Danielle Steele" Waldenbooks (the pond would have a fit if it knew its name was used in vain), after having consumed a heart attack on a stick and having drank an orange julius irving, and just getting the creeps. There was always a painting of a buff blond dude standing beside various unicorn-like creatures in a universe that was not warmed by the sun, rather, it was warmed by a blue light. I often wondered who the heck bought that crazy art.

And then I met Chanel. She's got a storage unit full of those paintings.

Anyway, scimitar made me think of Centaur.

And I would much rather be attacked by a badger than a human, because badgers can't sue.

Here's a question for you, my friend. Who would be a better fit for lieutenant governor of the land of Centaur, Julio the Gardener or the Bird? It's a tough (and stupid) question, so I will allow you 24 hours to respond. Starting. Right. Now.

Postscript - I'm sorry about your boys going down in 4. LeBron truly fascinates me. Maybe next year.

Excerpt Taken From Volume 12 In the Time-Life Mysteries Series, Entitled "The Elusive Tabo" (or) Yeah, So I Have a Sasquatch Fetish. Deal With It.

Ryan, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad they passed that legislation that stated that all licensed Las Vegas poets needed to learn CPR as well as be able to spontaneously teach water aerobics if called upon by everyone's favorite elected nutjob: Lonnie Hammargren.

R-diggity, you are an astute questioner. Have you thought about a career as a question-asking person? Like the kind that could be employed by a magazine or newspaper to ask really good questions to people who would then answer said astute questionings and then have those questions printed in aforementioned newspaper/magazine? Someone who reported the answers of these questions to the populace at large? That would be a good job. Someone should make that job up. You could call it something like Astute Inquisitor. Or Imminent Answer Ascriber. Or Reporter, but that sounds kind of boring. Where did my pants go?

Anyway, this question, the one concerning the true identity of the mysterious Tabo, is one that has haunted me like, well, like the actual ghost of Abraham Lincoln that really does haunt me fortnightly (now you know why I always smell like garlic... keeps the Abe away). See, I am a truth-seeker. And a creative thinker. Where most people get truth from books or this cool little site I just discovered - Wikipedia, I think it's called - I... well, I make it up. So, brace yourself, dear internet, for the truly true and altogether honest and veritable story of... the origin of the tale of the mystery of the shadow-shrouded enigma known only as... TABO!

The legend starts off in Tibet, where all legends begin. It's said that the Tabo was a traveller who had angered a monk (something over who was a better Enterprise captain: Picard or Kirk... the tabo said Picard... whatever) and was cursed to roam the earth for millennia. Or three years. The translations are a bit muddied. In any case, the Tabo was cursed and began its wanderings as an outcast and a vagabond, popping up in legends in places as diverse as Thailand and the indigenous peoples of New Guinea.

While the substance of these legends vary, one thing is constant, the Tabo is always portrayed as a blurry, watercolored being with a taste for corn chips and a pretty decent bowling score. The Native American peoples refer to the Tabo as "Dances With Sasquatch," mainly because, well, the Tabo was spotted numerous times dancing with a She-Squatch. Apparently the Tabo is well-versed in ballroom, jazz, tap and "krunking." Here's a picture of the Tabo loping slowly through the Northwestern wilderness with its buddy, Chewbacca:

See him there, in the upper right-hand corner? If you relax your eyes you kind of can make him out. There's also a Magic Eye-style picture of a sailboat in there somewhere, too. And Waldo's been spotted by some especially sharp-eyed folks.

The Tabo isn't just a figure of ancient legend either, with over four international organizations leading the charge to further study this legendary beast in more detail. The foremost of these, T.U.!.R.,.K.!.E.Y.!. (Tabo Uncovered! Really, Kids! Everyone Yell!), holds an annual overnight camp out in hopes to spot the elusive beast. So far, nothing. Nothing except well... this:

Anyway, so there's the truth about the Tabo. Myth? Monster? Why not both? I mean, if a myth and a monster got together, put on some Al Green and, let nature take its course, why not? It's easier to swallow that that Loch Ness garbage (Seriously, a dinosaur?! IN SCOTLAND?! As my main man Gob would say, "Come ON!") or that business with Joan Osborne being Ozzy's daughter.

Either that, or he's one of the three people who regularly read this blog. There's only one way to be sure... "Read the Book!"

So, now, Ryan, Ry, Rrr, R. Methinks mayhaps I have a query to put to you, good sir. Which would you rather be attacked by: a rabid badger with a scimitar tied to its tail, or an irate hobo with hooks for hands? Please state your answer in 500 words or more. Preferably more. Until then, Make Mine Bigfoot.

Life or Deaf

Ah. CCR. One of my favorite nighttime addictions. Kids in the Hall, singles hotline infomercials, and CCR ruled the Vegas airwaves after-hours. And I miss them all.

Nice blog, RDT. I didn't realize you like pork so much. Do you like pork rinds? How about pet projects that senators get funded for their rich friends back home? Just curious.

There is only one thing I can't live without. And that thing is seaweed. I once went a whole week without eating seaweed. No seaweed and tomato sandwiches. No seaweed espressos. And no seaweed-flavored chewing gum. And at the end of that week, I died. Just keeled over and perished. Right in front of about one hundred people. Why was I in front of 100 people? I was about to give my acceptance speech at the Poets of Vegas Academy Awards and Bake Sale. I won "best poem by an albino" for my beautiful sonnet "Yes, I Admit It." Everyone was there. Harry Bush. That math teacher from Woodbury's son. Sylvester Stallone's brother Frank. Sam Donaldson. And of course, my parents' attorney.

Anyway, there was I was, under the bright neon of the Boardwalk, an anxious crowd eagerly awaiting to be enlightened by the speech I plagiarized from an old episode of It's a Living, when all of a sudden, BAM! I'm on the floor, in the process of falling crushing to death that monkey that collected quarters. My pulse was 0. My heart stopped beating. My fingernails continued to grow. In other words, I was toast.

Thank goodness all the poets in Vegas know CPR. 42 of the finest rhymers in SoNev brought me back to life, not with life-saving CPR maneuvers, but with their collective body odor, which would resuscitate the deadest of dead people.

So yes, I literally can't live without seaweed.

I suppose it's my turn to ask you a question. Here it is: Who is Tabo? He randomly comments on our blog, and quite frankly he's starting to scare me. Is he a friend of yours? Is he really a watercolor? Does he eat seaweed?

Getting High Off the Hog

Ryan, you are crazy. You're like that Emeril guy, only with some strange mental condition or something. Lemon juice and eggs? 1/3 cup milk instead of 1/2 cup? Ryan - you so crazy. I mean, sausage jello, that sounds... well, kind of good.

See, something strange about me is as follows: I love pork products. Bacon, sausage, ham, Canadian bacon, pork chops; if it had a snout, a curly little tail and oinked, I am totally down with it. We took Sadie to see Charlotte's Web yesterday and I kept getting a little mad at that uppity, yet adorable, little pig. I mean, somebody's got to be bacon! Who cares if you're nice to spiders? What makes Wilbur so special that I can't put a couple of slices of him on my turkey sandwich? Seriously. That movie made no sense.

I often imagine what my life would be like if I had to keep Kosher. Had I been there when Moses was talking to the Flaming Shrubbery and it was telling him that there would be no more ham sandwiches, no more bacon for breakfast, no more [gasp!] sausage dip (mmmmm... sausage dip... oh man, sausage dip!) I would have probably asked for a plague of locusts or something, anything else. Maybe an outbreak of hemorrhoids? A flood? Whatever it takes, just pleasepleaseplease don't take my bacon away. I mean, have you had pulled-pork tacos? They're amazing. "I promise," I would have begged, "We'll be good. No more wandering in the wilderness or golden cows or anything. We'll even cut out the murmuring. Please?" Then I'd try pouting. If that didn't work: tantrum.

Wait. Is this sacrilegious? And if so, how sacrilegious? Am I going to go to the hot place for this? Because I burn really easy. Seriously, you put me in direct contact with the sun and I burst into flames. I am a white person, people. Like, white white. Oh man, I hope I don't go to the hot place.

Anyway, this whole pork issue is most likely why I wasn't born a Hebrew in the time of the Exodus. I probably would have said, "What? No pork in the Promised Land? Naw, you guys go on ahead. I guess I'll stay here. I mean, these pyramids aren't going to finish themselves, right? Right?"

So, anyway, I guess that... doesn't answer your question at all, does it? Hmmm. Do I do anything sneaky? I can't think of anything off of the top of my head. Well, except for the shoplifting that I do like, all of the time. And the income tax evasion. And the stealing of Girl Scout cookies. And that time I rigged the Superbowl. And that whole Lee Harvey Oswald thing. Or the time I hit a Sasquatch and just left it there on the side of the road and drove like heck. I am not going to jail over no Sasquatch.

So, Ryan, my question for you is this: what do you love so much that you just can't live without it? And no mushy stuff like love or air or anything like that. It has to be something sort of stupid. Like pork. Or that blanket you carry everywhere. Or existential dread. Or that autographed picture of Count Cool Rider you have hidden in your closet behind all your clothes that you wink at every now and then.

Anyway, I look forward to your response. Also, this:

"Ryan, It was great being in Geometry class with you. Pythagoras rules! Stay cool. Have a great summer. K.I.T. B.F.F. Your pal - C.C.R."

secret ingredient

Thanks, man. For the history lesson (I googled Shakespeare and learned he was madly in love with Gwenyth Paltrow), for the warning about the oompa-loompa sounding dudes (too lazy to bring the blog back up and reference the correct name), and most of all, for the chicken pox vaccination. Though, you didn't mention that gingivitis is a side-effect.

Hey, I loved that post. It was excellent. As always, you love to play anti-limbo with me.

I thought of something funny I do, and I wonder if you or our legion of fans do the same. Whenever I make a meal for the family and its bodyguards, I always mess up the recipe. On purpose. Like, if I'm making eggs, I'll throw in some lemon juice or something equally crazy. Who knows? What if I invent the next great American meal by experimenting?

That in and of itself is not the funny thing. The funny thing is how I hide my experiments. If I decide to use 1/3 cup of milk instead of 1/2 cup, I quickly dispose of the measuring cup so as to not bring attention to my experiment. If I decide to add soy sauce to the brownie mix, I put the bottle back so fast it would make your bobble head spin. And bobble.

So, do you ever do something sneaky and cover up your tracks? That's what I want to know.

Now if you'll excuse me, my sausage jello smells like it's burning.

Easing the Swelling in the Brainal Canal

Ryan, you should really have a doctor look at that blockage. It ain't healthy. I'm sure there's a creme or ointment that you can rub on your brainal canal to help ease the swelling and help that flowage get back to normal. Have you tried Funnymucil™? It tastes like chalky black licorice pork rind pickle juice hash browns old rubber bands elmer's glue, but I've heard from some pretty reliable sources (among them a certain former writer on Saved By the Bell, no less. A certain Gregory Miller. Yeah, I name-drop. So what?) that it will keep the funny a-flowin'. And that guy should know. He wrote that episode where Zack, trying to make money for the dance, sells Screech's zit creme but it really makes everybody's faces turn red - just before the dance! Ha! Man, how do they come up with that stuff?! Oh man, I am so laughing! If only there was an internet shorthand for this, like Laughs-Out-Loud (LOL? That looks retarded. Who would type that?) or something, then I wouldn't have to explain in such detail the nature of my laughing over how funny that episode of Saved By the Bell is/was! Ho ho! Hee Hee! I just peed a little!

Personally, I think writer's block is a myth, not unlike the Loch Ness monster (not, I repeat not Bigfoot - dude is for reals!) or the rumor that Paul from the Wonder Years was really Marilyn Manson (geez, where'd that guy disappear to? Marilyn Manson, that is. Did the Dumb Police finally track him down? Let's hope so. If not, why are we paying taxes? I mean, besides to pay for that giant super-laser-firing satellite to stop the Martians when they finally get up the stones to attack. Do you hear me, Martians?! We're ready for you and your hordes! Bring it, my red friends! Bring it! Let us bathe the stars in blood!).

I mean, do you think George Washington got writer's block before he wrote the "Gettysburg Address"? No. Did Angus Young, Malcolm Young or Brian Johnson (Seriously, it took three people to write that song? Hmmmm.) get writer's block before writing "Back In Black"? Aw, hecks naw. Did Shakespeare get writer's block before he wrote the script for Bio-Dome starring Pauley Shore and the blond Baldwin? No. He sat down at his time-travel typewriter and wrote it, knowing that the finished product would arrive safely in the year 1996 and be made into a movie with immense social and comedic impact. I mean, that's some Sword of Damocles to have hanging over your head, there, but did Billy Shakespizzy shirk? No. He wrote the heck out of that movie.

So there you have it... errr, types something inspirational. THE END. Cue the credits, turn up the house lights, get the kid in the vest in here to sweep up all this popcorn. I've got some Valentines candy to steal from my daughter. Peace in the Middle you-know-where.

P.S.: Ryan, your basement is cold. Watch out for Wampas. They will smack you across the head and fasten you to the ceiling for eating laters. You'll have to summon the power of the Force to get your lightsaber out of the snow and then chop its arm the heck off and then run like the dickens only to hallucinate, pass out and then get shoved into a tauntaun carcass to be kept warm. I'm just sayin': be careful. Those tauntauns are some smelly beasts. I've been told they smell worse on the inside than they do on the outside.

Still blocked

I still have writer's block. I don't think it's anything serious. Instead of writing funny stuff, I'll write what's on my mind right this instant:

- I have to pack for my little trip to Las Vegas. I have to include my basketball so I can get a pick-up game going with my brothers and Jamie "Mad Dog" Mattern.

- I have to go to the Rockies box office on Saturday. I have two gift certificates for tickets that can only be redeemed at the box office, and Saturday is the day the Yankees tickets go on sale. You know those are going to go faster than my finger upon the remote when I hear the opening theme song to American Idol.

- Julia just climbed out of her bed. She sleeps in a top bunk.

- My basement is cold.

Well, I guess that's all. Sorry about the serious tone. But sometimes a brother's gotta recharge his funny batteries.

Ryan, It's a Deal...

The following is a chat from this last week. As Ryan is suffering from some blockage of the writing, I will post this instead. Enjoy.

Dylan: whazzzzzzzzzapppp!
hello?

Ryan: Are you there?

D: yes. yes, i am. i am
....
RIGHT BEHIND YOU!!!

R: I thought that was a cat!!

D: what are you up to?

R: Responding to my website client. Her budget has been slashed by 50%. Flash is definitely out. I'm trying to figure out how to handle her.

D: mmmmm
by the way, i'm loving mostly funny. how about you?

R: Yes. I'm reading your post right now...

D: i like the picture
lee majors kicks majors

R: I'm reading the e-mail version. I'll have to go to Mostly Funny in a sec.

D: the e-mial version is pre-lots-of-revisions
for some reason, I can't really edit until i see it published
then i edit the heck out of it
repeatedly

R: I like to edit-edit.

D: i don't know what that means... but i like it
do you think stephen hawking will get mad at me when he finds out i referred to him as "the guy in the wheelchair with the 'johnny five is alive' voice box thing?"
i kind of hope he does.
i would love to be cursed out by stephen hawking

R: Isn't that the name of his autobiography?

D: actually yes.
the sequel is "i am so dang smart your head would explode like a dropped cantelop
e if you knew half of what i know."

R: No, that's Gallagher's autobiography title.

D: i thought it was "please kill me because i suck."

R: No, that's Man E. Faces's autobiography.

D: i'm totally posting this chat on the blog.
anytime you can go from gallagher to man e. faces is a good time

R: I agree, growled Beastor romantically.

D: i was going to "go there," with a teela crack, but decided against it
i'm glad you went for it

R: So am I, whispered Battle Ram.
What an unoriginal name for a character, by the way. That was his name, right?

D: "ram man"
close.
geez, i'm a nerd.

R: Yes, you are, cried Prince Adam.

D: he was my favorite he-man figure
well, him and the asian guy with the golden hand that chopped stuff
jitsu?
don't even get me started on g.i. joe

R: Why? After all, knowing IS half the battle.

D: g.i. joe was my religion. well, that and an utter devotion to the
force.

R: Hey, I have to go to sleep now. Someone is singing a musical song.

D: goodnight, sweet prince adams

R: Goodnight, Orco.

Sorry, I'm flaming...I'm out.

Great question, Dylan (if that is your real name). I have never had an experience quite like the one you had in NYC. I am currently suffering from writer's block. I have absolutely nothing to add to this blog. Would you mind posting on my behalf? Write something hilarious and attribute it to me. Then, later on in our blog romance, I will return the favor. Deal, or no deal?

The Time He Yelled "Colt Seaver!"

Ryan, again you're cognitive powers astound me. Yeah, the Fall Guy was pretty boss, I will admit to that. Not as boss as Knight Rider or the Greatest American Hero, but some solid preteen action fantasy entertainment. Also it has the second best theme song on TV (the undisputed best being the theme from the inadvertently funniest show of all time: Walker: Texas Ranger, written and performed by the Man Himself, Chuck "I Got My Chest Hair Ripped Out By Bruce Lee, Yes That Bruce Lee, So Don't Give Me Any Lip About How Tight I Wear My Jeans, Okay, Punk?" Norris).

The mention of the Fall Guy reminds me of an amusing anecdote from my days as an LDS missionary in New York City. I was serving in Washington Heights (where my cousin Jesse now lives - REPRESENT!). At the time, my companion was a small Ghanian guy named Adjei Yeboah who was a really nice guy, but... a little weird. He liked pregnant ladies. Like a lot. He would ask them if he could touch their bellies as we walked around the heavily-Dominican neighborhood, me tall and white and him, short and brown. Both of us as skinny as could be in our white shirts and ties, slacks and shiny black shoes. Anyway... where was I? Oh yeah. Yeboah was weird.

Luckily there was another companionship that lived above us in the two (three?) story apartment we lived in. Consequently, I spent a lot of time with our upstairs neighbors, Elder Hipps and Elder Higley. Hipps was from Mesa, AZ and Higley from Syracuse, UT. They were like Abbot and Costello: Hipps tall and skinny, Higley, short and stocky. (Higley, I will also add in here, was the most naive, simple man on the planet. He was as nice as could be, but... simple.)

Anyway so one night we were talking about this and that and somehow, the conversation turned to the Fall Guy. Hipps was talking and all of the sudden couldn't remember the name of Lee Majors' character. You know, the Fall Guy. The main guy. What was his name?

Well, this little episode of pop culture amnesia bugged Elder Hipps to no end. Time and time again, as the conversation moved onto other points of interest, Hipps would be heard to say, "What was his name?" Eventually, I went back downstairs for the night. The next morning I saw Hipps on his way out. "Colt Seaver!" he blurted. "I was laying in bed last night and started to go to sleep when all of the sudden it hit me, his name is 'Colt Seaver.'" Apparently he had yelled it out fairly loudly when it hit him in a bit of a "Eureka!" moment.

Now, whenever I hear any mention of the Fall Guy, which of course is like all of the time, I think of that moment or epiphany, that "Colt Seaver!" moment. In fact, I'm trying to get a law passed that will require people to yell out "Colt Seaver!" instead of the played-out "Eureka!" What does that mean anyway? It's probably Latin for "poo eater," or "Simon & Simon." I don't know. I have more important things to do. Like eat cookies. Or read comics. About people eating cookies.

Anyway, have you ever had a "Colt Seaver!" moment: a blinding moment of realization that laid bare the truths of the universe and rocked your world and also rolled you in the hay... hey hey?

Just wondering.

Deep, Deep, Deep Thoughts

Dearest brother,

I want to begin by thanking you for your most excellent, non-bogus post regarding Pet Sounds. I agree with everything you wrote, and ponder how a man so white that his fake tan cream is White-Out can continually emit such brilliance from his type pad. You rule, sir Todd.

You pose a very interesting question. I'm going to have to say of the three, Knight Rider was the best. How many road trips did we take with our families back in the day, and after passing every big rig ask ourselves, "Is KIT all up in there?" Plus, any man that would name his car "Keep In Touch" deserves the title "King of TV Stars that Perform on Shows that will be Aired on Saturdays for Eternity."

However, special accolades are due to The A-Team. No matter how devastating the explosion, car crash or fall from 100+ feet, dudes never died. A van carrying 10 bad guys could flip over 20 times, catch on fire, explode, and then crash into a boulder, but all 10 dudes would crawl out of the mauled piece of melted steel, rubbing their heads and promising that they'd get that Murdock next time, by gosh. Next time.

But Master, haven't you overlooked a show worthy of utterance in the same breath as the others?

"Well I'm not the kind to kiss and tell, but I've taught ladies plenty..."

Do you know what I'm referring to? Do you remember the guy who wound up in the hay, a hay hay? Tell me you do.

Ponderings On Ponderous Subjects

Ryan - I was just sitting here and wondering to myself things of the utmost importance. Philosophizing about the nature of the universe and whatnot. Really heavy stuff that would give most people - you know, the "normal people," like that Einstein character or that guy in the wheelchair with the little Johnny Five Is Alive voice box thing - an aneurysm just because they thought about it. Things that people like us think about when the rest of the world is too tired to think because that's what people like us do: we think. Like, a lot. About tons of important stuff and importanter stuff and other stuff and whatnot.

So I was sitting here thinking: What was better: the A-Team, Dukes of Hazzard or Knight Rider? I'm inclined to go with Knight Rider because: a) it's Hasslehoff in a leather jacket and a shirt that guarantees a peek at that luxurious chest hair, b) he's in a talking car, 3) the talking car has jet rocket things that make it jump really far and go really fast and finally, d) the car talks. But, see, Dukes of Hazzard, that was some rough stuff, what with the good old boys never meaning no harm and the jumping cars all of the time and things of that nature, and the A-Team had Mr. T and a buttload of explosions on a weekly basis. And don't even start to think about how difficult this ponderous pondering gets once you add Airwolf to the mix.*

So, you can plainly see, I'm in a bit of a bind. I need someone whose brain can handle questions of this magnitude without collapsing in on themselves and creating a black hole in the space-time continuum or something like that. Someone who can think beyond the thinking of mortal thinkers and think the thinking that needs to be thunked. Someone incredibly white. Someone named... you. Help a brother out.

*I left the Greatest American Hero out because everybody with half a brain knows that show was the bizz-omb on toast for shizzle.

On the Subject of Geniuses

Ryan, great post. I sort of had this conversation on my blog a few weeks back. Basically, I called out anybody willing to call Pet Sounds anything less than a... lemme find the quote here: "a work of staggering genius."

My cousin Jesse, who's a cool cat, asked me where Pet Sounds stood in comparison to Revolver or Sgt. Pepper's which is some heavy questioning. Seriously, how do you answer that without hurting your brain or at least losing cool points with the hipster set?

My initial response to this was as follows:

While it makes no sense, I love Pet Sounds more than either of them. There's such an amazing feeling of melancholy, even in the upbeat songs. Plus, it's sooo layered. I was listening to the sessions and it blew my mind how intricate everything is, despite feeling, at first blush, to be simple little, "teenage symphonies to God," as Brian Wilson once described them as.

Revolver is great pop music, amazing pop music (maybe my favorite Beatles album) and Sgt. Pepper's is a masterpiece, but, for my money, it's all about Pet Sounds.

Mainly because as brilliant as Sgt. Pepper's is, it feels a bit... academic at times. It's a little too self-aware, whereas Pet Sounds is effortlessly itself. Sgt. Pepper's is, to my ears, a little removed from human feeling. Revolver has some vitality to it, but in my mind, Pet Sounds is pure, unfiltered feeling. I don't know if that makes sense, but... there it is.

I think that this is as good of a beginning as any.

See, what makes Pet Sounds so special to me is something you touched on in your post, and that's the fact that Brian Wilson was, for all intents and purposes, blazing a new trail into the woods of art pop, a woods that, within the next decade, he would become irretrievably lost in for the next few decades. Let's be honest here, the Beatles weren't really laying anything on the line when they recorded Rubber Soul. Sure, it expanded the boundaries of pop music in the late-60's, but it's not too far off from the trail they'd blazed in previous albums. It's the natural conclusion to what they'd been doing (I think For Sale is the anomaly of the early catalog - a hiccup on the way to enlightenment... though it's a fun album of covers and the like, it's not really a progression at all). Take the opening riff to "Daytripper," which is fairly indicative of where they were headed on their next album, 1965's Rubber Soul.

Revolver, I think, pushes the envelope a bit. It starts to get a little more esoteric ("Tomorrow Never Knows," "Love To You") but it's still pretty much pop dressed up in a Magritte bowler hat for a little psychedelic flavoring. It stretches the sound, but not to any point where they may be doing something overly personal or adventurous. They're just doing what they do best: making the catchiest, rockingest pop music ever recorded. They're doing it on drugs, but they're not doing anything too far off from what they've been doing. At no time do they, to paraphrase the Jason Lee character in Almost Famous, "F with the formula."

Which brings us to Pet Sounds. If the Beatles were just expanding their palette, Brian Wilson was redefining his, if not discarding it completely. The Beach Boys were, and still are, known for their early surfing and hot-rod songs. They are tied, for better or worse, to the innocence of being a teenager in the early 60's America eternally and for good reason. The songs are fun, energetic and symphonic all at once. They're overblown and understated. They're a distillation of America as we'd like to be: optimistic, young, daring, enlightened and energetic. And while those songs are great examples of Brian's skill as a pop producer - a 20-something shaggy-haired and bespectacled Phil Spector acolyte who grew up with the ocean constantly ringing in his one good ear - they're just that: examples of his production talent. To use an awkward analogy, Brian's early work was putting a tuxedo on a cactus: it looks fun, but you wouldn't want to dance with it all night long. If the early songs defined so precisely what it means to be a teenager in America, what happens when those teenagers grow up? What then?

While you can hear echoes of it in the two albums preceding it ("In the Back of My Mind," from the Beach Boys Today, "You're So Good To Me," from Summer Days (& Summer Nights!)), it wasn't until Pet Sounds that Brian managed to find the balance between the maturity he and his band mates were facing and the lush symphonies in his head. Which is why, to me, it's so much more revolutionary than any of the Beatles late-60's output, which, while staggering, lacks the depth that Pet Sounds has, both sonically and emotionally.

Pet Sounds was an artistic gamble. Brian decided that he'd marry the complex, mature themes of the life he was going through to the baroque pop he'd been hearing in his skull. For a young man whose entire career was based on fun songs about girls, cars and surfing, it was not only unprecedented, but slightly self-destructive to release an album of grown-up "symphonies," especially when all the record company wanted was an album of fun songs to get the kids' cash. It's like a butcher all of the sudden deciding he's going to start selling cupcakes. It doesn't bode well for his business. And for Brian and the Beach Boys, it didn't. He had gambled and he had lost.

Pet Sounds was, for all intents and purposes, a commercial flop in the United States. It gained popularity in Britain, but the Beach Boys are America's band. For Brian, who didn't tour, didn't leave Southern California, this probably didn't matter. He'd opened himself up, in an unbelievably intimate way, to the world, and America - his world - had completely ignored him.

This explains why his next project, the beleaguered Smile saw him retreating further into the hipster posturing that the Beatles would perfect on Sgt. Pepper's. Imagine the feeling when the family and friends who comprised the Beach Boys, and whose careers rested on Brian's ability to write them profitable pop songs, returned from tour to hear the psychedelic Gothic road-trip that was Smile. Imagine the rejection when those closest to you tell you that your masterpieces just aren't that important to them. It's like Woody Allen's character in Stardust Memories: "I liked you earlier surfing songs better."

I think that the best example of the difference between Pet Sounds and Sgt. Pepper's can be surmised by a look at the album covers. On one hand you have the Beatles all dolled up in their psychedelic band-leader outfits, surrounded by counterculture icons from throughout time. They want you to know that not only are they totally "now," but they're "then." They're Poe, they're Dylan, they're Marilyn Monroe and W.C. Fields and Walt Whitman and James Dean. They're artists. They're poets. They're icons dammit! And they're clever icons! If there's anything that separates me from the genius of Sgt. Pepper's, (and it is a genius album, don't misinterpret my critique for dislike... it's mind-blowing, but distant) it's the sneaky feeling that "these guys really want to let me know how clever they are."

Contrast that with the cover of Pet Sounds: five guys at a petting zoo, not altogether comfortable with having baby goats jump all over them. There's no elaborate scenery, no hip culture references, no Pendelton shirts or surfboards, just the Beach Boys, now a little bit older, a little bit cooler. The Beach Young Men. Just the Beach Boys trying their damnedest to hold on to the last fleeting moments of youth before the totality of grown-up life and all the madness it entails comes crashing down on them. And if that's not art you can identify with, then I don't know what is.

Basically, Sgt. Pepper's is the cool kid you'd want to be seen hanging out with; Pet Sounds is the kind of guy you'd sit up all night talking to about whatever young people talk about anymore.

Anyway, so yes, I agree with you. In my usual long-winded, comma-heavy, rambling way. I'm sure there are holes all through my argument, but it's after 1 a.m. and I'm sleepy. And also, yeah, I'll go on Antiques Roadshow with you if you go on America's Next Top Model with me. Remember to shave your legs. Peace out.

Who is this Beetles you refer to?

OMG (G standing for goodness, of course). This will probably be the only time I ever publicly put down the Beatles, or at least not treat them as though it were their heads on Mount Rushmore.
Rubber Soul is better than Party!, or for that matter any Beach Boys album pre-Pet Sounds. However, Rubber Soul was the blood in the water the great white shark needed.

"In December 1966, I heard the album RUBBER SOUL by the Beatles. It was definitely a challenge for me. I saw that every cut was very artistically interesting and stimulating. I immediately went to work on the songs for PET SOUNDS."

That's a Brian Wilson quote as found in the liner notes for the CD version of Pet Sounds. With Rubber Soul, Brian realized that albums didn't have to have throw-away songs, realized that the bar had been risen, realized that it was ok to be an artist instead of a pop star. And he was more than up to the challenge.

The reason the album is called Pet Sounds is because that's what he heard in his mind: pet sounds that he wanted to share with the world. Until Rubber Soul, musicians focused on producing 2-3 great songs, and then mailed the rest in to the labels. The Beatles gave him permission to explore the pet sounds and attempt to press them to vinyl.

Pet Sounds is all Brian. The other Boys and a bunch of studio musicians helped him produce the sounds, but they were all sounds that he heard in his head long before they were uttered into microphones and blown into trombones. This is the main difference between Sgt. Peppers and Pet Sounds. Pet Sounds could have been done with an entirely different set of musicians (this is proven with the recently released Smile). It was Brian that orchestrated the album. Sgt. Peppers, on the other hand, was more of a collection of requests to George Martin.

It's rumored that during the recording of Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite! John kept telling Martin that he wanted to "smell the sawdust." Take after take John said "I don't smell the sawdust," until Martin did something right, and John was satisfied.

Brian knew what he wanted. The Beatles knew they wanted cool sounds, but they didn't know what sounds they wanted, or for that matter how to create them. Pet Sounds is a deliberate execution of an idea; Sgt. Peppers is an attempt to create the same magic that's found in Pet Sounds. It doesn't reach the same level because its foundation is not based on an idea, it's based on the desire to have an idea.

There would be no Sgt. Peppers without Pet Sounds. There may not be a Pet Sounds without Rubber Soul, either. And there definitely isn't The Wiz without The Wizard of Oz.

Seriously, I challenge any of you to listen to Don't Talk (Put Your Head on my Shoulders) with headphones without crying. Personally, I cry for several reasons, but mainly because it is so beautiful and perfect and somehow makes me feel happy and inadequate at the same time.

Here's a quick quiz: on page 4 of the CD version of Pet Sounds, is the dude standing behind Brian:
a) a bus driver
b) a line cook at a hamburger joint Brian frequented before Radiant Radish
c) Tattoo's father

The answer, of course, is potato.

Dylan, do you agree with my post? Also, would you be willing to go to Antiques Road Show with me and bring something heavy that takes both of us to carry but is worth nothing, like a table from Target? I would love to go on that show, yo.

Ryan, Your Diary Is MINE!

First off, you already know the answer to this question: I'm a Mario man all the way. I absolutely suck at Halo. Within five minutes I'm running in circles and shooting at the ceiling. It's pathetic. It's like watching a deformed octupus trying, unsuccessfully, to solve a Rubick's cube. It's just... really awkward.

Oh, and just a little clarification: Optimus Prime is not dead. He's just taking some time off as a semi-truck. Travelling, clearing his head. Taking some "me time." Trying to "find himself." He looks good. He's lost some weight, seems a lot more tan and content. He said to tell you "Hi," and to ask you if you have that 20 bucks you owe him. I dunno.

Here is my question to you, Mister "I'm sooo tired" Ryan: Who would win in an alleyway knife fight: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band or Pet Sounds? Brass knuckles allowed. Puerto Rican cockfight rules: no biting or hair-pulling or "yo momma jokes."

Discuss.

More than meets the...White album clues

Have you been reading my journal? I knew that lock wouldn't keep prying eyes out!

Here's my answer:

Optimus Prime
Paul McCartney
Bruce Lee

If it weren't so late I'd write more. But I will end with a question: Super Mario Brothers or Halo?

Ryan, Another Great Question

Scooters are great and all, but I was wondering, can you saddle a tiger? A green tiger with yellow stripes? Because maybe I watched a little too much He-Man growing up, but that'd be an awesome way to get around when I'm old. It's guaranteed to keep you safe and will come in handy in bank and post office lines, the two natural enemies of old people in the wild.

Now I have a question for you: if you could brinng three people back from the dead for use in a no-holds-barred cage match against Gehghis Khan, Mussolini, Ronald Reagan and Skeletor, who would you choose and why? Clock's ticking...

Scoot your Boot

I agree, that was a dumb question to ask you, given the fact that both of us despise music and all. What's next, rank Woody Allen movies or Salinger novels? Let's talk motorized scooters.

When I get old and cannot drive, I am going to purchase a motorized scooter. And a helmet. And a scarf. But not at the same time.

What form of transportation will you use when you can no longer navigate your automobile?

My Three Songs

Ryan, this is a great question. First off, I'd start off with something that would get people going. Something that would help that morning frappucino do its job. I'd probably start off with, I dunno, "Danger, High Voltage," by Electric Six. This would possibly make people crash their cars if they were listening on the commute, or maybe start a fistfight with their cubicle neighbor if they were at work.

Next up would be "Panda," by Swedish psychedelic rockers Dungen. This would make everybody who hears it start burning stuff: buildings, kittens, clouds. Anything and everything, really.

Then I'd slow it down a little with some Rage Against the Machine, doing their anthem, "Wake Up" which would send the listeners into a violent spasm of destruction that would end with the entire world becoming a smoking crater. It would not be pretty.

Either that or a three song Huey Lewis & the News set that would have roughly the same after-effects.

And that's why I can never submit my three-song set to any radio station. Ever.

Start

So this is the inaugural entry for our new blog. We'll share thoughts, jokes, and Vienna sausages in this forum.

Here's a good one. The Boulder radio station KBCO is playing song sets. Listeners send in three songs, and the station plays them. Today someone chose "God Only Knows" and "Good Morning Good Morning" by the Beatles. I didn't recognize the third song. What would your 3-set be? Here's mine:

"Jealous Guy"
"Pride (in the name of love)"
"Power of Love" -Chicago

I'm anxious to read your next entry, Dylan.