We are the neighbors, the nosy neighbors, we think just like you would, we think just like you should.

Here is my gauge to which all good days are measured:

When your MP3 player, on shuffle, kicks up your three favorite Eno songs back-to-back-to-back, you know it's gonna be a good day.

In this case, "The True Wheel," "China My China" and "King's Lead Hat."

Yeah. A good day, it will be.

(Who am I kidding? It's all downhill from here.)

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

A forgotten postscript to the Transformers post below (but not about Transformers):

You know what I *did* love about the 80s?

Reagan. Fucking Reagan, man.

And that's *it*.

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Dragged kicking and screaming into a 25-year-old fad

I don't really remember what I liked 25 years ago. That would have put me squarely at 9 years old, and my only vivid memories of that time involve my parents divorcing.

I do know this, though. I was vehemently against the popular kids' toys/merchandising vehicles at the time. Masters of the Universe, GI Joe and Transformers never floated my boat the way they did other little boys my age. I wonder if it had anything to do with being poor and feeling left behind whenever other kids brought toys of that ilk to school. I don't know.

Anyway, I didn't have the "wet dream come true" feeling a couple years ago when the live action Transformers film was released. I can't pinpoint why, but it's probably for the same reason I never got on board with MTV's "I Love the 80s" series. I mean, really, what's the point, other than to point and laugh and say, "HA HA HA IT WAS THE 80S WE WERE SO STUPID AS A CONSUMERIST SOCIETY HAHAHAHAHA LOOK AT THE BIG HAIR AND PASTELS AND MUSTACHES HAHAHAHA" ....

(Believe me, this phenomenon isn't limited to "I Love the 80s." I also could not give less of a shit about "I Love the 70s" or "I Love the 90s." I say this as a man who loves his nostalgia, probably a bit too much. I just can't get behind anything that gives Mo Rocca continued employment. Now there's someone who inspires in me feelings of humorless revulsion. Talk about not remotely funny. If Mo Rocca were a cable channel, he'd be Not TBS, and his tagline would be "Not Funny.")

Where was I? Oh, right. Transformers.

Anyway. Wife loved Transformers, and borrowed the live-action flick from her sister. I put it in the DVD player with the indifference I normally reserve for those ASPCA commercials with Sarah MacLachlan's "Angel" playing and settled in.

And, really, it wasn't the soulsucking piece of shit I'd expected it to be. Maybe it was because I'd already damned it with low expectations and therefore could not be disappointed. (For the record, my wife gushed over it. Naturally, this past Saturday, we ended up purchasing our own copy of it, for reasons that will become apparent in the next handful of paragraphs.

("My God! A point is forthcoming!" you say. "Shut up," I say.)

You know who else loved the Transformers movie? My son. He's taken to it as if it were the newest Pixar film.

So now everything in our house is "Optimus Prime" this and "Bumblebee" that. Which is OK, I guess. As long as he's not beating prostitutes or raising my taxes or getting sucked into "Grand Theft Auto." (And I am in no way granting those things any sort of moral equivalence.)

On our shopping trip on Saturday, we also ended up purchasing the first season of the original Transformers cartoon. This is a perfect example of the maxim "having more money than sense."

I was certain that Son would be grandly disappointed in the cartoon, but this doesn't appear to be the case. I believe he's finally made the transition from Thomas the Pain Train to something else, and to an extent, it's kind of sad. He's growing up, which is as joyous and sad as you could expect.

As far as the cartoon goes, I didn't miss out on anything when I was a kid. I can't get past the high cheese content. But as long as it keeps Son off drugs, that's fine with me.

Three postscripts.

1. We're going to see the new Transformers movie this weekend. It's the least I can do, seeing as how she sat through more Will Ferrell movies than she cares to count, and by the way, wasn't Land of the Lost just a turgid piece of shit (to dust off a 15-year-old phrase coined by The Captain)?

2. When she borrowed the first Transformers movie from her sister, Wife also borrowed Marley and Me. I only point this out because I cried during the last 20 minutes of it, and so I called my mom, who has no comparison when it comes to being an animal lover, to ask if she'd seen it. She picked up the phone and, instead of "hello," said, "Did you know Billy Mays died?" I was floored, and everything in my life can now be placed neatly into "pre-" and "post-Billy Mays."

3. No truth to the rumor that if *I* were a cable channel, my tagline would be "I Hate Everything."
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

This is my Belle.

Gorgeous. I could become a car guy.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

When Abe Lincoln wrote the Declaration of Independence, it probably sounded like this.

Another holiday weekend into dust.

Here at summer's apex, it surely hasn't felt like summer since the seasons changed a couple of weeks ago. Yesterday was miserable, the first time I haven't swam on the 4th in God knows how many years. In fact, the wind picked up sometime in the late afternoon and I had to put on some long sleeves. Which went well with the swim trunks.

My grandma brought a copy of the Declaration of Independence to my dad's party. She said, "I thought I could read it while I was here." Dad says, "I hope not to us!"

And then, ultimately, I got drafted into reading it. I did well, but I need to learn it a little better so I can do a dramatic reading next year. If we do it next year.

I wouldn't have gotten pulled into reading it if we weren't sitting around trying to recite the Gettysburg Address. But there was a point where everyone got stuck, and I whipped out my crackberry (or, as my uncle called it, my "huckleberry," which is almost as funny as when Doom called it a "blueberry") to find its text. Lo and behold, I found it, and read the remainder of it. I did learn that when my dad (and his mom) were in school, they had to memorize it. That requirement went by the wayside by the time I was in school, which seemed to shock them to no end. They know that our public schools have turned into a morass of self-esteem management at the expense of, you know, things like learning the Gettysburg Address, but I think there was an assumption that memorizing such things was still being done when I was in school (seeing as how I'm in my mid-30s now).

So I read the Gettysburg Address, and then was handed the Declaration to read. This was six beers into my day (in other words, *real* early on). I hate being read to, and I hate reading to people, but it seemed like it could be the start of a quaint tradition, and I'm glad to be a part of it.

Five weeks till we send Son off to school, speaking of "public school morass". Five weeks till we stop spending hundreds of dollars a month on daycare, probably to be replaced by the hundreds of dollars in gas money I will spend going to the school to have chats with his principal or teacher. The worst trouble I ever got into in school was the very first week, when on the playground, I thought it would be a grand idea to throw sand into the air. So the bar is set pretty high as far as expectations about his behavior. Let's just say that I have some reservations, accented by trepidation. I fear that I've done a horrible job of parenting, and I'm afraid this is going to come to light in the coming weeks. Doesn't help that I believe that doing anything less than a perfect job equates failure in my book, and this view tempers all I do (my job, my home life, my parenting). I hope to God I am wrong.

Today on Oprah: Selfish bastards who love their jobs when there's so much pain and suffering and unemployment in the world

Past performance does not guarantee future results, but still, I should be past that halfway point in my current job where I start looking forward to my next position. It's happened with every job I've had in the past: I'm good for a job for about 3 years before my attention span gets short and I get claustrophobic and restless and decide that it's time to try something new, and I make it happen posthaste.

Over 22 months into this job, though, and I really can't complain. Maybe I've found what I've been missing all along. I've worked for psychopaths and transgendered slavedrivers in the past, I've worked nights in a convenience store and one shift as a telemarketer and one weekend in pizza delivery, and I've worked many, many jobs where I was at the bottom of the barrel and had no hope of advancing any higher, and I have to say that this job is the antithesis of all those things.

Here's the most important thing, though.

While I have only a couple of what I would consider "close" friends at my job, the little group that I'm a part of has almost a family feel to it. It sounds corny and cliched, I'm certain, but it really feels true. There's no "us vs. them" undercurrent in the office that I had at my previous job - we're all on the same team, which is really nice.

And yeah, the money's better than I could have ever imagined I'd be making at this point in my life. Sure, there are bad days, and there are gonna be no matter where you work, but those are few and far between.

Knowing the way I am, The Captain sent me an e-card when I moved into this job: "Congratulations on your new job that you probably won't like any better." I think he finally might have gotten one wrong, which is fine; he gets one a year.

The only drawback is that, because everyone in my circle is reasonably sane and has at least a modicum of common sense, it really is hard to surreptitiously write about their foibles and quirks. About all I can really say is that Nemesis is a slow eater, and The Pregnant One runs her heater anytime the temperature dips below 85. And neither of those scenarios makes for really good ammo for 600 words - I bet I'd fall asleep writing about it before you fell asleep reading about it. And neither of us needs that.

----------------
Now playing: Belle & Sebastian - Seeing Other People
via FoxyTunes

In Memorandum: Good night, obnoxious, congenial salesman.

Eagle-eyed readers (yeah, like any of those exist) will note that, in 2007, I did indeed tell Billy Mays to stop shouting at me. And I stand by that assessment, but his Discovery show "PitchMen" was a revelation. It showed a side of him that was warm, congenial and almost gentle - yet when the camera lights turned on, he transformed into an old-timey carnival barker from another time who was as obnoxious as he was quaint. The dichotomy was amusing to observe.

And I grew to respect him the more I learned about him - a man who wasn't just a shill, but someone who honestly believed in what he was selling, which is really the first lesson in any sales job. I ragged on OxiClean in the post linked above, but hell, the guy kept the stuff in his home and used it religiously, as he did all the products he spoke for, so there's a disconnect somewhere. I must have been doing it wrong (my God, surely not!), or maybe our water's too hard. I don't know.

I think it would be entirely appropriate for Billy's eulogy to be shouted. With the hand motions and everything. "BILLY WAS A GOOD MAN (waving hands) WHO LOVED HIS FAMILY AND (extending arms out in front) BELIEVED IN WHAT HE SOLD (pulling arms back)." And it would be tasteful and respectful and everyone would say, "Yeah. That was Billy." And there'd be smiles and tears.

----------------
Now playing: Belle & Sebastian - There's Too Much Love
via FoxyTunes

This week in "Procrastinator's Weekly" ...

... and it was delicious, if I do say so myself.

In Memorandum: Very Special "Jacko On His Backo" Edition

What, did someone die?

Guess I would be remiss if I didn't put down at least a couple of words marking the passing of the King of Weird. (No truth to the rumors that since he was 90% plastic, he'd be melted down and turned into Lego blocks so little kids could play with *him* for once.)

Full disclosure: When I was 10, I had Thriller on cassette. I also had a sparkly glove (a gray glove covered in glitter). These things rendered me a fag among my schoolmates, so they were boxed up or trashed, never to be seen again.

Truthfully, his expected/unexpected* passing elicited little more than a shrug from these quarters, equal parts apathy and more apathy.

(* - unexpected because while I think we all figured he wasn't going to live to see 80, I think we also had money on 50 being the "under"; expected because we didn't think he was strong enough to bear the stresses he endured, both self-inflicted and otherwise)

I have said it here before, and I will say it again: if a person is a piece of shit during his lifetime - and let's be frank: there is just too much evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, to suggest he was anything but - it's INCREDIBLY disingenuous to mark the person's passing with showers of kind words praising him and expressing how much he'll be missed. Especially if you were part of the chorus of "yeah, the guy is a piece of shit" when he was still alive.

Not to defend him in the least, because even a hint of child molestation allegations forever tarnishes (or, in my view, destroys) whatever "legacy" he has as an entertainer (and leads me to my "piece of shit" assessment), but it doesn't help that the things he did - alleged skin bleaching! 500 plastic surgeries! dangling children off balconies! - were just batshit crazy. Maybe these things were "normal" in whatever universe he inhabited after Thriller - I reckon that if your every move were under the 50,000X power microscope that Michael Jackson's was, we'd all think you were weird, too.

And, really, I reckon that was Michael Jackson's biggest venial sin. Intentional or unintentional, his rise coincided with the transition from "entertainment news as 60 seconds on your local news broadcast's showbiz beat" to "entertainment news as hard news." Many pop culture names who came since him, from Paris Hilton to Jon and Kate to any number of reality stars (i.e., people who offer nothing of substance and are only "famous for being famous") owe him a great debt for indirectly helping to perpetuate their 15 minutes, and we as a society are all lesser for it. There was a day when the fact that North Korea is threatening to vaporize us would have led the nightly news, but we've gotten bored with hard news, and news organizations recognize this.

Anyway, yes, he is dead, and please get him off my TV now.

This sucks ass

in my upstairs sanctuary a few moments ago, this was the temperature

but it's a dry heat

whatever the fuck that means
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

When we last left Our Hero, he was burned out on putting words to blog. It was taking everything he had to share with You, Fair Reader, the inanities and stupidities and joys of his life. So he went away.

In the interim........he fell in love. Her name is Belle. When he is inside her, he is happy. She is strong and sleek and gorgeous and he feels ALIVE when she is near. He looks at all the other girls and says, "I have the most beautiful."

Our hero loves his Belle.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

I am taking an indefinite hiatus from Bramble Tamble. Not that this place has been a hive of activity as of late.

Don't fret. I know that I've put thousands of words toward this endeavor the last couple of years, so to up and walk away from it (though it's obvious that my passion for BT has ebbed considerably in the last year) might raise some eyebrows and cause some worries among what few friends who might visit. There are no serious underlying reasons why I'm stepping away (i.e., health issues, etc.) - just a complete lack of interest, time and ambition on my part.

My [pending] deletion of my MySpace and Twitter accounts can also be attributed to this. I've burned myself out on blogging and twittering every last inanity of my life, to the point where it bores even me shitless.

I've also realized as of late that "internet stuff" is taking up way too much of my time, time that I've already devoted to my family as well as my job, the latter of which is taking ever-increasing chunks of my mental energy.

Lastly, and almost as importantly, It doesn't help that I feel like I've run out of things to say at this time. Case in point: I'd hoped to have at least 10,000 words posted since the election on why I fear that the majority of the electorate checked its wisdom at the door on Election Day, and I can't even muster anything beyond the first part of this sentence. For someone who's as politically minded as I am, the lack of righteous indignation from these quarters is inexcusable - another impetus for dropping the charade that BT still exists and holds some level of importance for me.

So, for the forseeable future, I will be nothing more than a disconnected, passive observer. Maybe the time away will reignite whatever passion has disappeared. Who knows.

I don't have anything further to add other than that the archives are over to the right. All the best to everyone, and thanks for your time..

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

I just bought a studfinder. I will refrain from making the obligatory joke.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Lies in children's advertising, pt I

"Bratz Girls really rock."

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

So, you've lost the election. Now what?

Yeah, I've been laying low for the last couple of weeks. I did offer my sincerest congratulations to my one friend who is an Obama supporter, but beyond that, I still haven't gotten my head around what happened last Tuesday.

You won't find any Obama Derangement Syndrome in these quarters in the coming years. I'd like to think that whatever criticisms I offer up here will be constructive, and I'd like to think that, years from now, you can compare what you read here about our President-to-be with what you've read about President Bush on various lefty blogs the last 8 years and say, "Yeah - he took the high road."

Still, I can't help but think that last Tuesday's result is a direct repudiation of my values, not to mention the values that I thought (erroneously) a majority of the Republic held dear. Optimistic as I try to be that things won't be so bad the next 4 (or - gasp! - more) years, my cheer is dampened by a feeling of dread.

I'll expand on these thoughts later, but I'll leave you with something to chew on:

If the Reagan Revolution isn't dead, our party's leadership has done its damnedest to kill it.


Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T