Give thanks for the bland

This return to Funegro is prompted by the realization Thanksgiving is but 10 days away.

And with that realization comes a true sense of thanksgiving for family -- and for sterile, soulless church multi-purpose rooms where we can gather with those whom we are barely linked through some sketchy bloodline and share in the tepid bounty of the season heaped upon overmatched flimsy paper plates while sitting in cold metal folding chairs making small talk and confirming, once again, there are a finite number of topics in this world.

Still, it is good to gather, even under such circumstances. The richness comes with human interaction. The experience makes us better and, according to Nietchze, it makes us stronger (as long as, you know, the flourescent lights and warmed over green bean casserole doesn’t kill us).

And so we shall gain strength next Thursday as we grudgingly swing open the cheap metal industrial doors and stride down the threadbare builder’s grade carpet and dank, dark halls to meet the vaguely familiar pear-shaped distant relatives waiting in garish novelty seasonal sweaters. Strength and honor, indeed.

Yet as I reflect on this tribute to family and tradition, I recognize how sad it'd be if we missed the gathering. I'd go to any length to make this occasion. Rearrange schedules, make special arrangements . . . why, to enjoy such glorious fellowship, I'd travel far beyond the mid-cities.

Maybe even as far as Tennessee.

Best X Band

To celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary, Mary and I enjoyed a quiet, romantic evening at the Gypsy Tea Room, with musical accompaniment provided by Henry Rollins and his band -- and the Best Band That Starts With The Letter X:

X.

Never have I been more sure of a Rockology selection than I was last nite as the original X foursome raced through an energetic set of LA punk classics like Los Angeles, The World's A Mess, and Johnny Hit and Run Paulene. And it was a particularly tender moment when I held my bride close during Nausea, to keep her from being impaled by the frenetic mohawked dancer in our midst.

The band and their blistering anthems have aged exceptionally well.

To all Funegrans, I highly recommend this X-ploration.

CRACKED Magazine Re-Launches

I used to read CRACKED as a kid. Always seemed like a less-sophisticated MAD.

Seeing Monkeys

Caught the much-hyped Arctic Monkeys Tuesday nite during their brief stop in Dallas.

A few observations.

First, these kids rock. And they are kids. Still in their teens. But the four of ‘em unleashed a sonic ferocity I haven’t seen in years. They raced through their modest catalog of songs at an astonishing velocity. The guitar assault was Ramones-esque; the volume was Spinal Tap-ish. Songs are well crafted with smart, funny lyrics. The live versions of them were, to a fault, faithful to the studio versions.

Which brings me to my second point: They don’t yet have the live personality that matches the hype. And the hype is considerable. This is a band whose debut album was called one of the five best in British rock history. Hype, indeed. Yes, their talent is quite evident. Yet they lack a presence -- that certain savoir faire, that fleur de lis, that E Pluribus Unum. (Insert pretentious foreign phrase here.)

OK. Now for the action away from the stage. I was taken aback by the number of my middle-aged peers at the show. Maybe we’re the type who are buying into the buzz. Eager to see The Next Big Thing. Some of my fellow patrons were, apparently, just wanting to drink and dance. The Granada must’ve been pouring stiff drinks, because few inhibitions were on display. They certainly weren't anywhere near the guy across the aisle who was snapping his balding head as he loosely managed his sweaty “dance” convulsions. I’m convinced that during these ill-advised gyrations, this guy’s teenaged children – wherever they might’ve been – got a really bad vibe from the universe.

Also on display was the predictable, yet somehow still surprising, machismo and posing and territorialism that comes with a standing audience. To wit: the 30-something guy in front of me preening, bowing up, and punching the air with extended forefinger and pinky with bravado while inching back towards me in search of more real estate for him to impress the nearby 20-something chick (who appeared to be with his buddy). It played out like a National Geographic documentary. (“The male genus, fueled with loud music and elixir, does all he can to exhibit his dominance to attract the female.”)

To summarize: Cool show. Great energy. Excellent band. Funny spectators.

let's see . . . grace, salvation, hopping

this came from chloe's sunday school class today. across the bottom is her response to the practical application of the passage.

I think it was an SEL500

An observation from the morning commute.

As I was inching along in I-635 traffic, a large black Mercedes clumsily eased in front of me. Its Texas license plate read SEL 500.

This license plate was located only inches below the emblem on the trunk, which read SEL 500.

"MY BENZ" and "THISISACAR" must've been taken.

The photo session

Consider the church directory photo session.

My family experienced this forced march last night. The slow, painful process began by soberly gathering the children, fixing hair, teeth, and sundry items of clothing to look just so, all the while explaining again to them why exactly we were getting all dressed up on a Wednesday night. Then piling into the car and racing to meet at the appointed time, we purposefully ignored the scores of bikers, joggers, couples and puppies not on their way to a church photo session and actually enjoying the glorious spring evening.

After arriving and enduring a 30 minute delay, we were escorted into the Sunday school classroom-turned-photo studio where we met Kyle, our affable, overworked, and perspiring photographer.

Pity the church directory photographer on a 12 hour shift.

After the usual poses and recitations of “Fuzzy Pickle!” to futilely coerce a smile from our two now tired and unamused children, we were done and escorted into the Sunday school classroom-turned-sales office. It was there we met the sales guy – Kyle the photographer.

Thoughts of Glengarry Glen Ross ran through my mind as he vigorously tried to sell us packages of his work. Our constant refusals to buy brought increasingly pronounced expressions of disbelief across his sad face and, remarkably, his thin, paisley tie. All we wanted was to participate in the pictorial directory. Instead, we felt like we were at once rejecting the work of an artiste and refusing to help someone in need. Ugh.

The whole process was rather distasteful – and seems rather out of step with advanced technology that could allow a much quicker and painless process. (Not unlike the archaic way we continue to count parishioners at worship.)

For example, why couldn’t the family gather in front of a webcam to capture a quality image.

Like this one.




Bring on your photo directory solutions.

A chance meeting

My trip to Seattle last week prompts this first post of 2006.

Was staying at the Hyatt Bellevue. And during my continental breakfast in the 23rd floor club, I sat facing another fellow traveler. We exchanged polite glances, but didn't interact more than the manly nod and pleasant, yet toothless grin. (The subtleties of how many teeth to display in greeting a stranger shouldn't be lost here.)

With only a few minutes before I was to meet my colleagues downstairs, I stepped onto the outdoor deck to enjoy a brief bit of solitude and scenery with my coffee and cream cheese-d bagel. What I encountered on this cool, cloudless Seattle morning was a jaw-dropping view of downtown Seattle – framed in the foreground by a evergreen-rimmed lake; the snow-capped Cascades served as the stunning backdrop. As I was soaking in this glory, I turned 90 degrees to my left to discover an exhilarating view of Mount Rainier, looming larger than life.

When I turned back to my right, there stood that guy I saw at breakfast.

He, too, was taking in the views. As we again made visual contact, I imagine he could see the wonder in my eyes. Probably saw the look of a visitor from a flat, featureless place scorched by springtime triple-digit temperatures.

"I'm trying to figure out why I don't live here," I muttered.

Immediately, he responded by pointing to the deck we were standing on, saying, "It's because you don't live here."

Touche.

A perfect and incisive remark to suppress my growing discontentment, which was based on a construct of unreality that comes with being catered to at a Hyatt on a dry day in Seattle.

And I left that chance meeting with a new appreciation of the impact we have on those with whom we speak – no matter how brief the encounter. To that guy, it was a throwaway line. To me, it was nothing short of profound. Exactly what I needed to hear.

Which led Mary to wonder, when I shared this exchange with her, if, maybe, that wasn't an angel I encountered on the 23rd floor.

Mind blowing. Could it . . . nahhh . . . he was a software salesman from Scottsdale.

I think.


Long live funegro.