Steelers Defeat Satan, Save Humanity, Tonight at 11.

Posted on 09/14/2009 by J. Endress

My apologies to anyone who’s visited in the past week or so, for both the lack in new and exciting things and the overall glitchiness of the site. My baby, it seems, had been accosted by some unsavory internet demons, which I have since excorcised (hopefully).

Since I have little of note to report (until after the Autolux show on Wednesday!), I’ll share with you the opening of football season for yours truly, beyond the dubious 13-10 OT win over the Titans. To keep this in context, I am originally from Cleveland and my immediate family all reside there, sisters in college notwithstanding.

A Thursday night facebook status of “Go Steelers!” yielded, in the following order:

My friend B. liked it. My Irish friend K. commented on the fact that Chairman Rooney is Ambassador to her country. My baby sister said, with all the eloquence one expects from my breed, “Fuck you.” My Cleveland friend A. said, “Go to Hell, Steelers.”

The end to this shower of love from Cleveland was my second youngest sister lamenting at what a disapointment I was to my father, a grizzled Browns fan.

To which I replied:

B- hooray! though i am still pissed the officiating in the first quarter was mostly bullshit.

K- yes! that was largely a result of stalwart republican chairman rooney breaking ranks and supporting the big O. even gave him an 08 steelers jersey. obama loves the 412.

My baby sister- yr mother know you talk like that?

A-scientists, running future scenarios on super computers, have determined that the steelers are humanity’s last, best hope during the hypothetical end of days. once a method for proving existence of, then transporting to hell is developed, the steelers will be sent to hell to beat the demons and circumvent the apocalypse. most experts believe the steelers will win. handily.

Sister 2-unless i’m mistaken, dad came home [from a camping trip] to the realization that he’s going to be forced to watch another season of browns football. that eclipses any feelings he has as far as me, i’m sure. that disapointment is older than all of his children combined.

In other news, this season I decided to try my hand at caring what happens in the NFL beyond my division, and have a fantasy football team. So far, I am intimidated, confused, irritated, and excited at the entire process. Sort of like when I moved here four years ago and didn’t give a damn about football, let alone know anything more than it made my father (again, a Browns fan) very grouchy and loud on Sundays. Then I suddenly found myself watching games with rapt attention, all the way to the Super Bowl, which I was more or less conscious for.

Also, I am all around stoked that I drafted Drew Brees.

The Decemberists: Live! The Other Night! Sold Out!

Posted on 08/17/2009 by J. Endress

It finally happened. I finally made it to a show. I haven’t been to one since, unless I am mistaken, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! What did I miss in the meantime? The Dears. And, oh, just Autolux. Just the Fiery Furnaces. Haven’t seen a local show since the Jenn Gooch CD release, unless you count bartending for the Beagle Brothers CD release show in June. Which I do. Not. As much as I love that album.

I’ve been a bit jaded about music as a whole, at least until a few weeks ago, when I discovered the Army behind Black Mountain. Ironically enough, I’d been pretty jaded about everything lately. I was about a fingernail clipping away from not giving a damn about a ticket I got in April. I mean, I was just hoping for a couple of my favorite songs from a band that put out one of the worst EPs I had ever heard. I hadn’t even bothered with the Hazards of Love, which kind of sounds like something the Arcade Fire would come up with.

I couldn’t think of a more perect mindset to go into a show with. My mind was blasted, blown and undone, as only the head of an apathetic can be.

First of, Heartless Bastards opened, and I was delighted to discover that they could be secret members of the Black Mountain Army, if their sound is any indication. It was a happy coincidence, and I was invested as soon as Erika Wennerstrom let those PJ Harvey-esque pipes soar. My favorite music will and always be the stuff you can let slip like the dogs of war in a bar that seems a little too sleepy for your tastes, and my fellow Ohians are now a part of that repetoire.

So that brings us back to the Decemberists. I had been content to give them The Crane Wife for a shark jump, especially after hearing “Valerie Plame” too many damn times. It took about ten minutes into their set, but then I figured it out- they were playing Hazards of Love in its entirety, which accounted for the two additional players upon the stage. So I settled in, and let the epic take me. I’m only just now taking my first real lesson to the album itself, nothing will ever compare to seeing and feeling it live.

While Wife had its threads and themes, the Decemberists had not really visited the realm of heavy consistent concept, at least in terms of making one long opera (Yes, I know they put The Tain (that is on The Tain) to music, but did you?).

The reviews are already out on the album, I know. It’s nothing like any other Decemberist album; comparing it as such is an insult to its sheer audacity and derring-do. It’s a landscape with oases and deserts, Cliffs of Insanity and blissful plains of purple buffalo, cracked crystals and hideous Nothings. It gallops, it stomps, it throws fits, its bones rattle to sublime dust. It’s a leprous healer with an axe to grind, because that chapel ain’t gonna build itself.

It’s an A.

Some bands manage to get to the part in the story where they can throw together a decent set, communicate on that higher level, and give the audience the best night they’ll ever have until they have it again. Other bands get past that part, where they so fully understand what the music is, and that they have less and less to do with the music the higher the audience is lifted; they simply let what they have crafted work for them. The Decemberists made it look easier than a dream.

As if that weren’t enough, they had a second set, something more along the lines of that former band, the one that does what they do with enthusiasm, but might never stride through the cloud deck like the giants do.

So we heard “July, July!”, my all-time favorite song of theirs, which was my only hope for the concert. You can see why I was floored by the experience. They also played “Shankill Butchers”, my second favorite song. I had heard in an interview that Meloy was a drama student, and that it came out in thier shows, so I was waiting a little on that, too. They re-enacted the Battle of Fort Pitt amidst the audience with a less than scrupulous or sensical account of history, halfway through “A Cautionary Tale”. Then got right back onto the stage for the second half with nary a beat missed.

With the song’s final admonition, they left the stage. I expected an encore, given the band’s flair for the dramatic, but was shocked and rocked by what they delivered:

Sadly, that’s the best of the videos. But you get the point.

I would be lying if I said the show didn’t provide an incredibly beautiful counterpoint to what my life is doing down here on the ground. As it goes with all inspiration, it tends to find you, slap you silly and get you imagining the day your head reaches above the clouds. Working towards it is another matter, but then that’s why we have heroes who risk, well, the hazards of love.

Grade:

The Decemberists at the Byham Theater, August 14, 2009: A+

The Decemberists: The Hazards of Love: A

(It’s a difference of seeing a play and reading it)

How to Build a Shed.

Posted on 07/13/2009 by J. Endress

EDIT: It has come to the author’s intention that he’s a bit dim sometimes. And that yes, he likely became lost about three times because he doesn’t even know the name of the reservoir he was at. Please continue for a lovely account of a trip to the Allegheny Reservoir.

As much as I love the 412, I tend to get a little stir crazy. As hectic as my life can appear on the surface, it ends up being pretty routine. So any chance to break the cycle and get outside my head is a wonderful gift. The last week had been all kinds of what-am-I-doing-with-my-life and I was asking myself, “How do I win more efficiently?”

Let’s be clear, I know what I’m doing with my little l life. I have a five-year plan, I’ve got projects and goals. Hell, I even quit that stupid call center to make way for the trip account you’re about to read. I was concerned with the big L, and this last weekend was the capstone to answer my questions, if only for the fact that I was out of Pittsburgh. It gave me the perfect vantage point to strategize.

My buddy Hot Shot’s family has had a tiny cabin (more of a shack) a mile down the road from the Allegheny Reservoir for decades, and it’s become a large part of my orbit, sort of like I’m a comet that swings into view every year. A core group of five Eagle Scouts (Hot Shot, Sugar Ray, Flex, Shirtless J and yours truly), count ‘em, have been going up there at least once a year for the last 9 years to get silly, build fires and play cards. Before that, we went as part of Boy Scouts. It was a happy day when we managed to pull the beer and driver’s licences together for that first unsupervised trip at age 17.

We try and supplement our group with new faces; this time my good friend and roomate TCKTOCK came, and was gracious enough to not make me walk. He even let me pay for half the gas. He is a swell dude. The last few new guests never really stuck, but TCKTOCK took to it like a fish to water, and we’re all pretty stoked about the upcoming winter trip.

To paraphrase TCKTOCK, the cabin is refreshing because it’s just dudes hanging out. The standing rule is no women, only because the cabin is the only dependable time of the year when the five of us are together. And also because girls have cooties. We don’t need to muck up a good thing, so we don’t. Our phones also don’t work out there, unless your wife has you so whipped you stay on the phone with her so she can tell you about the shoes she bought. Suck it, Flex. I love your wife, but three calls a day is ridiculous.

We don’t worry about anything, we all chip in, we all take care of chores and projects with joy and vigor. Each of us values the chance to get the hell out of the day-to-day; ask me to dig up my back weedpatch and I’ll probably tell you to go screw. Take me to the cabin and tell me we need to level out a 14×10 patch of ground for a shack, and I will revel in how sore my muscles are, even as I type this.

Hot Shot relayed a pretty funny story to me when we arrived. He and Shirtless J played Disc Golf courses on the drive up. Hot Shot was pitching to a hole right near a stream, but it wasn’t a tough throw by any stretch. Just as he was releasing, a voice in his head half sung, “Don’t throw it too ha-ard,” and the disc ended up in the stream. That phrase became the slogan of the trip and it was applied to everything, from the shed to the fire to the cooking to making Euchre calls. By the end of the trip we had all learned the importance of moderation yet again, but more importantly that sometimes it’s worth your while to throw too hard and lose some time making up for your mistakes.

In recent visits, we’ve been working to improve the cabin. It started with some hardcore cleanup. Then we got a new awning to replace the busted-up aluminum one that kept you from opening the door all the way. Then we built an awning over the propane tank. Then we built two new sawhorses. This time, we built a shed for the new rider mower (the plot of land is about an acre) and got a composter-toilet to replace the filled-to-the-brim outhouse. Next time, we have to replace the roof.

My favorite job was the propane awning, because before that, every winter we had to heat up water on the pot-belly wood stove (which took like an hour) to melt the ice on the propane line outside. Every morning. Now we don’t even have to think about leaving the cabin until we’ve had breakfast.

Building the shed was a really cool excercise in problem solving and general gusto. Everyone fell into a role, and we all worked together pretty well. After we had hucked about forty cinder blocks into place and put the plywood decking in place, we were forced to confront the fact that we only sorta leveled the frame. Our solution? Shims, drill new holes in the frame and muscle the panels into place. It worked. For a modular sheet metal shed, I was surprised how often we had to muscle panels into place (even after we finally leveled it), and I am also surprised I only have one (superficial) cut on my hand. I am also surprised that Flex, an engineer, went to school for five years and still managed to put in the roof beams upside down.

I got to play with power tools, including a reciprocating saw. I had another opportunity to play Cups, and I also got a couple games of Cornhole in. On the first night, we stayed up all night drinking, drove down the road to the reservoir and swam around in the dawn and took a bath. We listened to Girl Talk’s “Feed the Animals” about a dozen times (Sweet Jones!). We took about eighty trips to Lowe’s. I made delicious chicken with a 160z can of Stroh’s, honey, pepper and garlic. Six guys hung out and threw their problems on the fire. As always, we all came out slightly better people. We’re almost tolerable humans now.

Remember, when you’re digging your own grave, don’t dig too dee-eep.

Independence Day in Three Rounds

Posted on 07/07/2009 by J. Endress

Despite the face that I’m generally envious of those who live at a slow plod (if only for the fact that it’s altogether more stable), I am wholly unable to function at anything other than sporadic bursts of living.

Sorry Ma, I’m totally excusing my penchant for alcohol and adventure.

This last weekend was no exception; my best friend M and I have since decided that our weeks would be better addressed compartmentalized into themes. Last week was her Slutty Week, she batted 3 for 7, as if that’s any of your damn business. In any case, we both go down together, and as such, PARTY was the party line. I can only imagine what would have happened to the both of us had I not been bartending for the first five days of the week.

Thursday, I was free for the first time since I accidentally took three weeks off, but this time I had money. It was time for Eighties Night at Belvedere’s, and it was one of the most packed I had ever seen. I learned two things interesting things that night. One was that that bar serves the most PBR in the tri-state region. The other was that they ran out of PBR well before midnight. Beyond the oppressive rush of hip kids, I really dug the new layout: the ability to play pool without asking someone to move six times during each shot is always a plus. The roving PBR girl is a definite improvement, too. What I really like about Belvedere’s is that it’s quintessential Pittsburgh. Sure, we’ve got clubs (I guess), but when it comes down to it, the action isn’t at a ritzy IDM club or a Manhattan-style joint, it’s in grimy old dude’s lounge type places like the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern for Drum and Bass night, or yeah, Belv’s for 80s.

The place was wall to wall- leaving meant you were never getting back in, stamp or no. As such, my face was only partially danced off. After the dancing was done, helped arrange a trip to the local after-hours, where I hung out with a some long lost friends and helped an ex by walking her home and cockblocking the dude that came after me at her request. I barely made it home, soaked in spirits as I was. I topped off the evening by talking ugly to M, who had decided to go to Shadyside, rather than accompany me. Anyone who reads this blog knows how I feel about that shithole, and I had no sympathy for her.

I spent Friday reconstructing the night before, and coaxing M and I both back into fighting shape. We rolled up to Qdoba in Oakland for something called Fishbowl Fridays, about a dozen deep. Imagine blue Long Islands, served in a beer pitcher with a straw. We reconvened at the Garage Door where M’s frisbee team, looking foxy/suave as hell, owned the dartboard. If you ever have the chance, hang out with some frisbee people. They’re some of the best. And they don’t even care if you play frisbee, they like just about any game.

The main cause for that celebration was a roomate and friend leaving on Sunday. We gave him a hell of a fun time, complete with a being pulled over by the cops for expired tags (mind you, they expired June 30. Do the math), and getting a warning, because Q does not ever drink when he drives. That’s only one of the thousand reasons I miss that ginger fucker.

Home meant pass out and prep for the real meat and taters, the fourth. M’s team had a shindig going on that I wasn’t going to pass up. There was Cups, my favorite outdoor game. There was also Mingle, and I shit you not, Duck Duck Goose. You have never seen people play that game harder. I am still a bit sore from laying out, sprinting and hucking people around.

M and I crashed out because we started arguing, about what we’re not sure. We have since threatened each other with never spooning the other again whenever an argument arises, which is pretty often. In the morning, we went to the Quiet Storm for some farewell Q breakfast, and thus ended a damn good weekend.

Relevent? Maybe. But the next weeks are Resuscitate J’s Libido Week, Hair Metal Week and Dyke Week. I’ll make sure to keep the progress on all that updated frequently.

Hope your Independance Day clebration was equally draining; it only happens once a year for a reason. If you’re gonna be a bear, be a Grizzly.

Summertime.

Posted on 07/06/2009 by J. Endress

It’s been far too long, and I’m pretty sure that i’ve managed to lose whatever meager crowd I had been generating. I quit my job in March, prepared to enter the world of I’m never working in a bar’s kitchen for disloyal employers ever again. Or any employer. Never again will I work in a kitchen. That period in my life is dead. I’ll never miss another Steelers touchdown because I was busy with someone’s shitty food. I have since moved to the top of a very small hill; Bartending.

The job change and easing into period took out my savings and nearly devoured my landlord’s patience. Thankfully, after working my ass off for the last two months, I caught up on rent.

If there’s any advice I have for someone who wants to get a new job, it’s do it. You’ll be happier. Just get something lined up, and don’t be afraid of the telephone or pushing yourself to wake up at a decent hour to pound some pavement. This from the mouth of a dude who took a three week vacation because he was too lazy to showup at the office for trianing day.

That’s right, bartending, while generally lucrative, wasn’t enough to maintain my jet-setter lifstyle. The spending structure is pretty much this: Cigarettes, Alcohol, and Foodis OK Sometimes I Guess.

I work as a telefundraiser, calling on behalf of the World Wildlife Fund, Amnesty International, Public Television. Really the most exciting thing about it is that the staff are all interesting, mostly in my age bracket, and tend to visit the bar when I need money. And also concieving this tattoo idea:

Sarah Palin, buck-ass naked, riding a polar bear, toting a flame thrower and scorchin’ herself some wolves. Because she has it out for them, and my fellow caller and I were fed up of people telling us to go pound sand when all we wanted was thier money to save them. Sheeit.

I’ve let this thing languish for while, and I’m still proud of it. I am sort of a badass writer, and I need to create and maintain a viable portfolio and keep my skills sharp. So, uh, hi imaginary reader? I missed you, and will likely not leave home for so long ever again. Mommy and Daddy made up. Maybe Mommy will stop illuminating Daddy’s cultural insignificance, but Daddy’s totally not quitting the sauce.

That metaphor really bothers me, but I’m not sure if it’s because it’s silly and irritating, or somewhat true.

I’m not dead…

Posted on 03/12/2009 by J. Endress

…just resting.

Like so many people I know, I got smacked hard with one of the nasty bugs goin’ round. My head still feels like an overinflated balloon, but the whole waking up four times a night phase is thankfully over. Between that, a bit of the seasonal slows, a dead internet for the last couple of days, you’ve got me, not posting. My apologies gentle reader, for I have many a sundry tale for you.

Within the next couple of days. I mean, you don’t want me to burn myself out, do you?

A Dose of Snobbery

Posted on 02/26/2009 by J. Endress

Perusing Google Reader today led to this little gem from Magnet, my snobby-indie-as-fuck-asshole’s magazine of choice. Dude, they are so hip that they only publish three times a year. Take that, Pitchfork, you ‘print is dead’ dilettantes.

The article is Corey duBrowa’s take on the five most overrated and five most underrated Radiohead songs of all time! He’s known for, I guess, a 1,700 word review of Hail to The Thief, which is about 1,700 more words than I need to read about that self-indulgent ode to Hunter S. Thompson’s Kingdom of Fear.

To be fair, he and I agree, with the strange exception of “I Will”, that the album is better left to listening to everything they did before instead.

Which brings us to his list of the overblown. Again, I agree. Almost completely. Name any “hit” Radiohead song, and I’ll probably tell you it’s a gust of hot alternarock air. But while “Electioneering” is a bit of an anachronism within Ok Computer, it presages the full brunt of Bush-era insecurities several years beforehand. So, given the fact that that album is so “ahead of its time”, let’s put it into a total context and agree that “Electioneering” is a badass rock song which also happens to epitomize the callow irony that so many intellectuals hide behind in the face of Politics as Usual.

Okay, onto the most underrated. I’ll get to the My Iron Lung EP slections later.

I guess I can hang with “Blow Out”, but I’m tempted to say it’s a contrarian sort of logic that points one to find one of the only redeemable tracks on Pablo Honey, an otherwise forgettable album, especially in light of the rest of the catalogue.

Kid A? Seriously? Two of the tracks made it onto the “Vanilla Sky” soundtrack. That album, by all accounts, should have never sold so well, not because it isn’t genius, but because (especially at that time) it’s fairly unlistenable for the unwashed masses. Because we all know not enough people have proclaimed “genius!” enough times.

We get it, and it’s not underrated. It might well be overrated and I never want to see Tom Cruise paired with a Radiohead song ever again.

The rest of his list seems purposefully obscure. That’s right, kiddies. Big brother is gonna tell you where it’s at with tracks you’ve never heard, but should.

Except that, yeah, you should hear them, if only to realize there are reasons they’re obscure. And if you want obscure Radiohead cuts, there’s better songs.

I’ll see “Meeting In the Aisles” with “Maquiladora”, because I’d rather rock with the “beautiful kids and their beautiful troubles” than stand around looking thoughtful, deal with the love of the My Iron Lung EP with a “Bwuh?” and politely suggest “Cuttooth”, “Trans-Atlantic Drawl”, and above all else, “A Reminder“.

Dot Condoms

Posted on 02/23/2009 by J. Endress

It's how vikings would do it. If they used condoms.

Specifically, polka-dot condoms. Although, I can’t imagine why I or anyone else would feel impelled to do anything resembling a polka dance merely because they had a snug little polka-dotted raincoat on.

In any case, yes, I mentioned polka-dotted condoms in the first real post here, a lovely little story about precisely how stupid the people I associate with can be. And yes, if you’ve read it, you are well aware that my idiot friend was thrilled to death about the prospect of polka dot condoms. And that he gave me one.

Grade: F-

I think we can all be understanding and adult enough to appreciate that ribbing anything for her pleasure is a grave misnomer and that dotted condoms are the twisted little cousins of those particularly misguided attempts at female pleasuring.

After letting the thoughts of several awkward moments seep in, accented with an, “Ow, uh, no. No, I’m done.” I was reminded of two funny monologues from two separate people. The first is one of Dane Cook’s funnier bits, where he explains that in the throes of ecstasy, he said, “My dick feels like corn.”

The second was a story from a girl I met in a bar about a year ago, and she told me the tragic tale of how she had met a wonderful guy just that last week, but upon discovering that he had the herpes, she wanted nothing to do with a “dick that looks like a corn-cob.”

The conclusion here is inescapable. A polkdotted condom gives you prosthetic genital warts, and no one should ever use them. My friend is a jackass for supplying me with one, even after he figured out they were no good. Thanks, pal.

Yinzer Diaspora: Portland

Posted on 02/16/2009 by J. Endress

EDIT: The phrase “Yinzer Diaspora”, as far as my inspiration emanates, comes from this friend’s blog: virulent.nu

While Beaver County is the place 24-year-old Val McNeil calls home on technicality, Pittsburgh is home for her. After completing her Criminal Forensics Degree at Mercyhurst College, she eventually moved the the city itself, where she stayed for a little over a year before moving the Portland, Oregon- a popular destination for wayward 20-something members of the 412. After four months, she found herself back in the Steel City, extolling the virtues of living in Bloomfield once again.

Why did you leave? Is Pittsburgh really Shitsburgh?

Pittsburgh isn’t bad, I just wanted to leave, because I’ve been here my whole life. I essentially hadn’t left the same 50-mile radius with the exception of going to college in Erie. I was just ready for something new away from everything and everyone I ever knew. Plus, it’s good to know I can do that sort of thing.

Why Portland?

I chose a few really unimportant things- vegetarian friendly, good public transportation. Cities like Boston were too expensive. I had $2000 saved up. I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere near Florida or California. [Portland] sounded fun. I also didn’t want anyone to hop in a car and come bother me.

How long did you plan on staying?

Not forever. Until I got sick of it.

Now that you’re back, why did you get sick of it?

I didn’t get sick of it, I had shit to do back here.

What shit?

Shit like my little sister getting married. It’s tough enough communicating with my family when I live here, let alone the other side of the country. It ended up not really making a difference anyway.

So you regret coming back?

I used to think that coming back was the first thing I regret, ever, but I live in Bloomfield now, so life is getting better. I don’t even have the funds to get back there if I wanted to, so it’s not worth worrying about it.

What did you do for fun in Portland?

I worked a lot. The one thing I did do was go to the hotel next door to my work with my co-worker. They had a swanky bar there, we’d get sushi, go back to my place, bake, get wasted. That’s one thing that doesn’t change. The people do.

What was your living situation like?

It was a strange experience living with strangers. One roommate was sad all the time, blahblahblah. I went through craigslist. I paid $500/month, utilities included. It was a three-bedroom house.

What do you miss most?

I was sad that I left prematurely. I didn’t get to know my friends completely. I wouldn’t move back, because I’ve been there. I went and visited Seattle while I was there. If I was going to live somewhere on the West Coast, it’d probably be there and not Portland. The rest of the West Coast consists of California, and I have no desire to live in California.

What’s your beef with Cali?

The whole idea, whether it’s Hollywood or LA, I just don’t want to be associated with it. [For the record, she does not give a shit about San Diego, Sacramento, San Jose, or San Francisco, either.]

What was one thing you missed about Pittsburgh?

I missed the actual city. Whenever I think of a city, you know the city is coming. When you think of a city, you can see the buildings. Portland has a small downtown and one building. It just felt like a big area for hipsters and hippies. There were city people, but no city feel.

In Case You Were Wondering…

Posted on 02/12/2009 by J. Endress

My strung out cigarette break and ensuing tweet all revolve around childhood memories of this:

Your source for dancing leprechauns.

Yes, Darby O’Gill. The reason why I am still up at this ungodly hour is because if I fall asleep, the Banshee will get me. Or the horse-coach of death. Or some other misappropriated Irish folk-myth will. Or maybe a singing Sean Connery will snuff me out, that’s how I’d like to go.

Still not clear on what I’m talking about? Because I’m not either. But here’s the Banshee, just promise me you’ll watch it at five in the morning while the wind is telling you very scary stories at thirty miles an hour and it just ate your neighbor’s drainpipe.

Les Jeunes Perdu

Posted on 02/11/2009 by J. Endress

In my junior history class, we were given the option of doing a film for the final project. Being that we were a bunch of screwups and had no intention of doing some bogus presentation, we opted to have fun. My buddy posted it up a week ago, and I feel it incumbent upon my bad self to share it.

Here’s your invitation to the best war movie barely made: Les Jeunes Perdu.

What you are about to see may shock you, or worse yet, bore you. I get a kick out of it, almost ten years later. Maybe you will too. The last half is the outtake reel, and yes, we made the class watch that.

Grade: A+ (Seriously. We got an A+)

Welcome to Obamalot, pt. II

Posted on 02/02/2009 by J. Endress

We’ve reached the part of winter where time creeps along like the mercury on a thermometer. It’s only been about two weeks since I had the privilege to witness history in our nation’s capitol, but it seems like it was months ago. I was in Cleveland a little over a month ago, but that seems so distant that all I can immediately recall is that the inflatable mattress died halfway through my visit with family and holiday cheer. Let’s just call this perception of snail’s pace timeflow the theory of winter’s relativity (TOWR); 24 hours is roughly equivalent to one week, especially if you’re soaking in ennui and waching your fish tank in the hopes that your albino frog will don a top hat and chase your existential blues away with a song and dance.

There is an upside to this interminable progression of time. To quote the famed philosopher Calvin, “The days are just packed!” That is to say, the whole TOWR brings into focus exactly how much does happen in a week. America has cut off the global gag and we will once again support and found sensible and pragmatic birth control and parenthood policies internationally. America no longer speaks from both sides of the mouth on the subject of torture: We don’t do it, period. We are ending the shame of the prison installation at Guantanamo Bay. The stimulus is on the way, and House Republicans have signed their own death warrants. As for myself, I’m still waiting on my promised health care. As much as I detested her campaign and the prospect of a Hilary Clinton presidency, she was definitely right about one thing- There’s no angelic choir, the skies have not opened. It’s winter in Pittsburgh. Our skies don’t do that, except for yesterday, but that was a sign that the Steelers were going to win Super Bowl 43. I wasn’t worried, like, at all.

But that in itself is not the problem. I know Obama isn’t a savior, he’s just the President, and he’s only been in office for two weeks. The rub is that there’s nothing worse than having your reasonably low expectations met. I mean, who wouldn’t want sunlight to issue forth and send the Wall Street scumbags back into the deepest, darkest shadows of Hell where they belong? Who wouldn’t want tragedies like this one to stop?

I’m not always the most patient of people, as I have noted before. But I think I’m in the same boat as most every other American. There seems to be so much pressure, it needs to be released in a brilliant blast of change, not the slow trickle that marks the realities of society.

I still have small bits of memorabilia from Inauguration Day; a metro ticket with Obama’s face, a Biden pin and a few other things. I’m putting them away tonight so I can decide when to have myself a bittersweet moment and not just whenever I scan my room. For that one day, everything was alright. Then the reality set in, the hangover.

Nothing is alright, and even if it were, we should never be satisfied with ‘alright’. That’s what life comes down to. You work to find that point that marks ‘OK’. And you keep working to maintain it, to improve it. We can all have that feeling shared by millions of cold Americans on the National Mall on January 20th. We just have to work our asses off and exhibit a little patience.

Condumbnation

Posted on 01/15/2009 by J. Endress

A buddy of mine laid this story out on me the other day. He even foolishly told me to blog about it. It is a cautionary tale; hopefully you, the reader will pick the moral up on your radar.

A few weeks ago, my friend had the dubious company of one of his exes. For reasons I doubt I will get my head around, he had her over at his place. Breath was held on both ends, because they hadn’t seen each other for a while, and their last encounter went down like an episode of Disasterpiece Theater, with cellphones bouncing off walls, the destruction of some flatware and finally a neighbor threatening to call in a Domestic.

Given that context, I’m still not sure why either would even bother, but my buddy is keen on good terms, to a fault. He is also keen on women, to a fault. In any case, they were both pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t nearly as hard to be civil, nice even, to each other as they were expecting. Drinks were had, tongues were loosened.

Towards the end of the night, proceeding more boldly than Star Trek, his ex announced that she would not be sleeping on the couch. My buddy resisted the urge to tell her she could have the dog bed because, as he explained to me, the dog usually just sleeps on his bed and the dog’s breath isn’t nearly as bad as her morning breath.

Instead, he sighed inwardly and followed her swaying ass into the bedroom.

At this point in my friend’s story, I stopped him with a look of horror and uttered those famous last words of Mistah Kurtz. My friend didn’t find that very funny and immediately countered that he knew exactly what I would do in the same situation.

Right he may be, he’s still a dumb motherfucker.

I’m sure what followed was a foreplay session filled in equal parts with the obvious lust, shame and the sort of slow nostalgia you feel when some good soul hits up the jukebox for your favorite Pavement song. But mostly unwashed shame. We’ve all been there. It is, after all, a little weird to turn back the old timepiece.

Our intrepid time travelers were in such a shameful rush to hit 88MPH that they neglected to weigh their decisions properly. “I prefer it without a condom. You should know that,” he said she said. I don’t buy it, but the fact remains our man braved the furies of a Fury furiously nekkid.

What followed in his story was prefaced by a gesture of contrition, a lowered voice and a scarlet flush of embarrassment. The dude blew early, which never makes anyone’s day. And here’s the part where I started laughing harder:

“What’s wrong? You what? You were supposed to pull out! Oh fuck. Fuck. I don’t care if I’m on the pill, you asshole, jesus. You are buying me a morning-after pill.”

Health class lessons aren’t just something we apparently forget, they’re also something we become. Proceed with caution, because that’s fifty bucks you don’t have to lose.

His story ended on a note of the awkward, not because of the look he said the pharmacist shot them, because she was probably just jealous anyway. No, the awkward came when they parted ways, without so much as a hug, both off to their respective places of employ.

While I’ve never fully understood my friend, I understand him with this girl even less. Once he finished telling me his tale, his eyes lit up and with all the disembodied glee of a preschooler, he said:

“Dude, she’s coming to my place this Saturday and bringing over polka-dot rubbers. I’ve never even seen those. I’ll save you one.”

How To Turn a Corner

Posted on 01/12/2009 by J. Endress

It only took me about five years to put together an attack plan for total (literary) world domination, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t put together a swell one.

For those of you who stumble onto this before there’s any real content, my bad. I promise this will be a regular supply of excellent and maybe even some excellence.

So have patience, tune in in a couple of days, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

la pomme du ciel

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