The Sleeping Bear

The 2008 Summer Olympic Games kickoff in a couple days. Sweet. Because there’s nothing I like more than hearing about how so-and-so overcame the odds of a deformed claw hand to become an Olympic hero or how  such-and-such an equestrian  fell off her horse, broke a nail, yet still got back on to finish the course, showing true Olympic spirit. It’s that overhyped “overcoming the odds to be an Olympic athlete” storyline that sucks me in every time. Well, that and then watching these greatest of all athletes get caught cheating, relishing the national outrage and getting the chance mock them as they quickly fall from grace. 

So anyway, I decided to do some Olympic prep so I could figure out who would be my pick for  hero turned villain this year. I fired up my naked lady machine, headed over to Wikipedia and studied the events on tap for this year. 

And you know what I learned? Badminton (rhymes with sad kitten) is an official Olympic sport. Badminton? Isn’t that the thing that’s kind of like tennis with a net and some rackets, except they use something that looks like a cross between a bird and a superball? If we want to go all LSAT on it, it’s to tennis like whiffleball is to baseball. 

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m sure all 6 people over the age of 12 that play badminton are excellent athletes. After a breakfasts of raw eggs (including the shells), badminton athletes probably get in a quick triathlon before heading over to the badminton court for a rousing match of “hit the fake birdie”. 

So I fired up Google to see who the best badminton player in the world was, knowing he surely had to be some hulking Brock Lesnar wannabe. What’s that, you say? Top men’s seed Lin Dan is 5’10”, 160? Hmmm…maybe my first impressions about what I’m now calling “The Mint” are wrong. Maybe these dudes are a little less athletic than I thought. Ah ha! But wait! What’s his nickname? Powerful Dan! It says it right there on Wikipedia. He must be one of those wiry strong Olympic athletes.

Heck, like the Beckhams, Lin (or do I call him Dan? These Chinese names confuse me), has a tumultuous relationship heating up the Chinese dailies with fellow badmintoner Xie Xingfang (yeah, she likes his shuttlecock, if you know what I mean). Plus, Dan is known for his fiery temper, something rare in a Chinese state where obedience is the norm. 

But Lin’s all about Lin. He wears T-shirts with his own picture on them. He attacks opposing coaches with his racket. He yells at referees with zeal. He’s a bad boy. Heck, why shouldn’t he be, he’s the best badminton player in the world. If you were the best tiddlywinks player in the world, it’d go to your head, too. I mean, this is badminton, baby. You know the old saying – “Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to be badminton players.” Cause they’re hell on wheels. 

That’s why I say Lin’s earned the right to be the ultimate badass. Hell, he’s been smacking that s-cock down opponents’ throats for nearly four years, being ranked number one in the world longer than most Hollywood marriages stay together.  Damn it, he’s won back-to-back world championships. Think about it. Back-to-back badminton world titles. Facing the best of the best, he beat them all. The girls swoon at the mere sight of his wiry frame, no doubt.

And that’s why I’ve added badminton to my Olympic Tivoing. Wait, I don’t have a Tivo. But if badminton and Lin hit my screen, I may just watch it for like 4 seconds until turning the channel to a real sport like the fourth quarter of a preseason NFL game. Here’s to you, Lin, you put the “Bad” in badminton.

I’ve come to the conclusion that rabbits are the dumbest animals on the planet. Move over single-celled amoebas, cause the rabbits are hot on your pseudopod. Heck, lemmings look like geniuses when compared to rabbits – sure, they follow the crowd to their death over a big cliff, but at least they care for their young before they do that, thus perpetuating the species.

My neighborhood is full of rabbits – big dumb rabbits. My first encounter with the voracious stupidity of rabbits occurred shortly after we moved into our house. We immediately got ourselves three dogs (because I love the smell of dog piss in the morning). And the rabbits immediately reproduced and bore their young as close to my dogs as possible.

And by no means are my dogs geniuses. One is an inveterate poop-eating circler (she walks in circles for hours on end, wearing a path in the yard). The other is deaf and blind. The third has a rock fetish and likes to hump inanimate objects. But they are smart enough to smell young rabbits and pick them up, inadvertently killing them in the process.

Which is exactly what they did the first time they encountered baby rabbits. And it wasn’t hard for them to encounter them, since the idiot crack-whore of a rabbit mother had laid them down in a den against the house. Needless to say, three burial mounds later, the baby rabbit mortality rate was 100%.

Ok, so surely the rabbits, trying to keep their species alive, decided to not give birth in my dog-infested yard. Ummm, think again. The next year, my dogs encountered a baby rabbit near the chain link fence separating my yard from the neighbors. Seeing the dogs and being a rabbit, he took one hop – headfirst into the middle of the metal chain-link fence post. When he keeled over and the blood started running from his nose, I knew it was time to dig another mound.

But the stupidity continued. A couple years ago, I noticed my garage was pretty rank. Like ranker than normal. Like Jeffrey Dahmer’s fridge rank. So I searched around and lo and behold, there was a baby rabbit. In an advanced state of decomposure. Didn’t need to dig much of a hole for that bad boy.

This past spring, the rabbits decided to tempt fate again, this time, dropping their younguns in the middle of one of our flower gardens. Well, the dogs had no problem sniffing them out, and by the time we noticed our deaf, blind dog happily playing with a dead rabbit, the body count was up to 7.

So I’m thinking surely they can smell the dog shit and urine all over the yard and will cease planting their offspring in harm’s way. Yeah right. On Saturday as I watered my garden, I noticed the ground start to move. Had Satan finally escaped the clutches of hell? Were some Hollywood mega-worms springing from the depths to eat me? Nope, just some baby rabbits whose mother was too busy whoring it up to give them a chance at survival. To date I don’t think the dogs have discovered them, but it’s only a matter of time until the neighbors see me digging in my backyard again. No wonder they think I’m creepy.

To put this in perspective: Humans have very few predators. But if my wife repeatedly had her young in the tiger cage over at the Como Zoo and then ran off to fornicate with the next dude that walked by, folks might not think too highly of her. But from my experience, that’s the rabbit way.

There’s a reason god gave rabbits a short gestation period, copulation-induced ovulation and post-partum estrus. They’re dumb as a box of rocks. Want proof? They eat their own shit. Seriously. Sick f’n bastards.

I’ve turned into a grassman. No, I’m not one of those Bob Marley wannabes with bugs in my hair who hates deodorant but loves kicking the hacky sack. I’m the kind of grassman who likes to mow the lawn, kill weeds, fertilize and water.

It’s not surprising. I come from a long line of grassmen, sired by some of the greatest grassmen this side of Augusta. Both of my grandparents were grassmen. Grandpa Bob was notorious for his immaculate lawns. They were so green and weed-free that you’d think you’d died and gone to heaven. But not the Muslim heaven, because there weren’t any virgins around. Though he had the money for it, Grandpa Bob didn’t need migrant Mexican labor for his lawn – he did it all himself with a mix of cancer-causing pesticides regular mowings and lots of water.

Grandpa Arnold was also an avid grassman. His ideal day consisted of catching a Twins game on TV and then going outside to his riding lawnmower to whip his lawn into shape. By the time he got to his late 80s, he could barely walk, but he always managed to walk out to the garage, get that lawnmower and shave that fast-growing grass.

And then there’s my dad. He may tell you that he hates mowing the lawn, but just one look at the two-acre parcel he slices and dices and you know he’s lying. No one would create a yard of that size without being an honest-to-goodness grass-aholic.

An anecdotal aside: We were recently enjoying the dad’s immaculately mowed parcel when the following conversation occurred:

Relative: It must take you forever to mow the lawn.

Pops: About 4 hours.

Relative: At least you’ve got kids to do it.

Pops: Too bad they never did.

I of course protested. I remember killing many a young tree, scraping the bark off of apple trees and running over garden hoses while tooling around on the Snapper. But the truth was, I didn’t mow the lawn much. Why? Because dad’s a grassman through and through and didn’t trust us to mow as precisely as him. Bottom line: We weren’t grassmen.

But now, I’m sad to admit, I am. I bought a house 5 years ago (and didn’t own a lawnmower for my first three months in the new abode). I didn’t care about my lawn, mainly because with three shitty, pissy dogs, it’s very hard to keep the lawn in order.

And what damage those shit-pissers did. Yellow spots, dead spots, spots where no living thing, not even a cockroach, could survive. And the retreating grass was quickly taken over by dandelions and Creeping Charlie. And not the Vietnam-era Creeping Charlies. This one is harder to kill.

My conversion to grass-aholic started almost two years ago. Over Labor Day weekend the little lady and I (mostly the little lady since I just want to veg on the couch) decided to dig up the most disgusting part of our yard and re-sod it. Three days of back-breaking labor and many swear-words later, and we had ourselves a green lawn.

But it didn’t last. We made the mistake of letting the dogs on it this past winter. When the snow and ice (which was mostly dog piss and shit) melted, we were staring at half of our new sod dead and gone.

And that’s when I knew I was a grass junkie. Because I dug up half the new sod, laid down some even newer sod and sprinkled in some grass seed for good measure. Then we laid down a killing field that consisted of both fertilizer and weed killer. And we watered like hell. And to top it off, we put up a green chicken fence that isolated said pissers/shitters to the deadest part of the lawn. No more free range pissing/shitting at SCL’s house.

Obviously, that didn’t kill the Creeping Charlie (because he’s damn near impossible to kill), but I solidified my grass habit by raking up what I could (since Chuck’s essentially a ground vine, it worked better than expected) and then got down on my heretofore pristine hands and knees to pick out the creepers. Yeah, you heard me, nearly 15,000 square feet of lawn full of creeping grass death and I’m systematically de-creeping it inch by inch.

That’s commitment. And that’s why I have now been indoctrinated into the Grassman faith.

It’s time I come clean. I’m addicted. Addicted to H. What can I say? It is more addictive that crack, meth or ganja. No, I’m not talking heroin, I’m talking Local H, the Chicago area post-grunge rock machine that keeps on ticking while others in the genre fade away.

Last night I got a chance to see the two-piece live in person at the Rock in my hometown, Maplewood, MN. The wife and I arrived at 9, just in time to see the second half of a set by Apple Valley act The Soviet Machines. A high school punk band slightly reminiscent of Green Day, they were surprisingly good, surprisingly entertaining and as my wife pointed out, really small and wearing really tight pants. “Oh, they’re so small I could put them in my pocket.”

After that another Minnesota band, Santiago’s own Seazon of the Fly, took the stage. They reminded me of a cross between Alice and Chains and the Melvins. I like those two bands, but for some reason I wasn’t captivated by the fly. But you gotta give a band from the small oasis in the bowels of Sherburne County credit for being original - they had some solid guitar work layered in their songs. Plus, as a marketing guy, I was impressed by their post-show marketing efforts - they had folks wandering through the crowd trying to sign up for their mailing list and gave away their CD after the show. Heck, they probably have a more polished web site than Local H.

But enough about the opening acts. I was there for the H. I needed the H. I hadn’t seen the H live this millennium, so I had high expectations.

And the H didn’t disappoint. The frontman (literally, guitar, bass and vocal pretty much makes you the frontman) with two first names, Scott Lucas, and the patron saint of drummers (and birds), Brian St. Clair, started the show off with a bang, pounding out The One With ‘Kid’ and Michelle in quick succession. Touring behind their exceptional new album, 12 Angry Months, the band played with ferocity. Closing in on two decades of music-making, Lucas showed why Local H is considered one of the best live bands in the business by ripping up aggressive Local H staples like Fritz’s Corner and Bound for the Floor (with a brief segue to Britney Spears’ Toxic), slowing down for songs like 12 AMs Simple Pleas, and going tripping on Buffalo Trace from 2004’s Whatever Happened to PJ Soles.

But Lucas wasn’t the only star of this show. St. Clair is a maniac behind the kit, as close to Animal as you’ll find. He’s a mesh of long, stringy, sweaty hair, flailing limbs and hard-hitting menace. His drums take a pounding night in and night out, as he mashes drumsticks into toothpicks. How he managed to survive the week-long residency at Chicago’s Beat Kitchen that coincided with the release of 12AM I’ll never know, but I’m glad he did because his all-out drum assault is a sight to behold. To call Scott lucky to have found someone capable of filling Joe Daniels’ shoes is an understatement.

After ripping through nearly 90 minutes of their own material, including nearly half of 12AM (Taxi-Cabs may be my new favorite live H song) they closed with a roaring cover of TV on the Radio’s Wolf Like Me, including an incredible closing drum flourish by Brian St. Clair. The complete setlist:

The One With Kid
Michelle
Lovey Dovey
California Songs
White Belt Boys
Simple Pleas
Hands on the Bible
Buffalo Trace
Taxi-Cabs
Half-Life
Cooler Heads
24 Hour Breakup Session
How’s the Weather Down There?
All the Kids are Right
Fritz’s Corner

Encore:
No Problem
Bound for the Floor (with Toxic in the middle)
Wolf Like Me

After the set, Lucas exited stage right and walked through the crowd to the merchandise booth to chat with his adoring fans. Which leads me to my soapbox: If the music industry wants a shining example of a band that gets it right, they should look to Local H. They’ve built up one of the most loyal (and possibly dysfunctional, but that’s for another soapbox) fan bases in the industry because they make music by themselves, for themselves and their fans. Name me another band that would (or even could) play their entire catalogue live in a 7 day span - and do it for $10 a show. They aren’t in it for the money, or the women or the booze (well, the money, women and booze are nice perks), but the music. It’s the old-fashioned rock ethic of hard work, long bus rides, small bars and loud music. It’s uncommonly good music for the common person. And it’s why I have the utmost respect for them - music is about the live experience and Local H does it better than most.

That’s my review. The best part of the concert experience: watching the crowd. Random concert anecdotes:

Elaine - Seriously, I had a Seinfeld flashback watching this chick strut her stuff on the dance floor. For her sake, I hope she was tripping on something, because she was quite possibly the worst dancer I’ve ever seen live and in person. If she wasn’t high, she must suffer from a the worst case of the white person’s lack of rhythm disease ever diagnosed. She’d move fast during the slow parts, slow during the fast parts and accent during the unaccented parts.

Mohawk - My wife was enthralled with the mohawk next to us. “He had the most perfect mohawk I’ve ever seen. It was perfect.” I think she spent more time watching the mohawk to see if it would fall (it didn’t) than watching the concert. I gotta admit, mohawk man, it was pretty impressive. Nice work.

Tall, older guy who randomly wandered into the mosh pit at the end of the set - So Local H is pounding through Wolf Like Me, the 10 person mosh pit is going strong and suddenly, out of nowhere, some tall guy in his 30s wanders into the pit, as if in a daze. Just sort of saunters on in with a “This is pretty neat. I have the munchies” look on his face. He’s not bouncing up and down or flailing his limbs like the regulars, just going for a leisurely stroll through the pit. Guys hit him and he bounces softly for 1 or 2 beats and then continues on at a leisurely pace, oblivious to the craziness around him.

The Barber - The dude next to me shouting “I love your haircut, Scott” repeatedly. Sure, that’s an odd thing to say once. But when you say it 60 times in rapid succession, sometimes saying “Fucking love it!” while shaking your head in wonderment, it gets a little creepy. Maybe it was some kind of inside joke that I don’t get, but it was odd to say the least.

A great show by a great band ended with my wife and I in complete agreement. “I’d like to just follow them across the country and watch all their shows.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I recently attended a Sales training session. No, I’m not in Sales. I don’t ever want to be in Sales. But that doesn’t mean I can’t sell – I could sell a sex tape to a nun, if I wanted to. And I’d throw in a free dildo emblazoned with “I’ll make you see God” along its length just for the fun of it.

Anyway, back to our Sales meeting. I’m obligated to attend the Sales meeting and put a spin on all the cool stuff I’m doing. So yea, my speech took 30 seconds.

So I roll into some posh country club on the other side of the city for day one of four days of training. And our Sales reps are there in all their “Voted Most Likely to Talk Forever Without Really Having a Clue About What They Are Talking About” glory. There’s the bitch from Milwaukee. The bimbo from Texas. The doofus from Chicago. And the Stan’s mom wannabe from Boston. It’s an eclectic group of me-first corporate transients. The only people in the company who require a commission on top of their exorbitant salary and all-expenses-paid traveling excursions in order to do their job.

I love sales folks.

So I roll in 10 minutes in advance and pick a chair in the far back corner. First up is our EVP of Sales. The head honcho. The kingpin. He comes flying in, full of energy and pizzazz and pops up a few slides showing recent sales and generating applause. That’s all well and good and I’m thinking “Hey, this isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe I won’t be subjected to lots of suits, shiny shoes and cheesy songs, long the staple of sales meetings past.”

No sooner had that thought exited stage right than our Sales leader asks his admin assistant to cue up the music. Judging from his manic attitude and expanding waistline, I’m hopeful that in addition to cheeseburgers, pizza and blow, the big cheese’s past may have been filled with some bearable classic rock.

Think again Commish, here comes the Michael Scott moment. It’s time for the banjos, violins and steel guitars of your favorite country music stars! And it wasn’t even a recognizable country song by Travis Tritt or Johnny Cash or Rascal Flatts (who says I don’t know my country superstars?) nor any song that could be associated with some sort of poorly choreographed barnyard line dance. Nope, this was some obscure cult classic country hit by a bronc-riding cowboy.

And Commish is thinking “Wow. Fucking blowing my mind here.”

Even the hardcore country music fans in the audience were taking off their straw hats and scratching their unwashed heads wondering who the hell was singing this twangy song. And wondering why the heck the sales leader of one of the fastest-growing companies in the US was having a hoedown and clapping along to it.

Next up: Our Sales Consultant. Next cliché please. Yup, you guessed it, slide 1 of her presentation included a definition of the word optimize. She even went so far as to include a picture of the Merriam-Webster logo. Because that’s where she got the definition from, of course. Solid use of the visual aid.

Let me crack my knuckles before this next typed rant.

If you’re a Sales Consultant the last thing you should be doing is starting a presentation with a definition of a word. Seriously. That’s the lamest thing this side men wearing assless chaps. It may have worked in 8^th grade speech. But this isn’t 8^th grade speech. Sure, it’s the path of least resistance. But so is driving your car straight off a cliff. Would you do that? Please?

So I’m over in the corner, banging my head against the table for the rest of the presentation. And then comes the big finish: You guessed it, another fucking song! I think it was Journey or some other dishearteningly dated act. By this point I had tied my tie to the ceiling fan and was looking forward to greeting my dead pets.

And our company relies on these yahoos to sell our product? They can’t come up with a better idea for a presentation than a definition and a song?

How about I define a word for you?

Imbecile: You, you fucking moron.

Maestro, cue up Slayer’s cover of the Verbal Abuse song “I Hate You.”