Blogeur. Rhetorician. Writer. Cook. Long-distance driver. Ph.D. Candidate. Dissertator.
Bio & Site Info
Waterlogged
WikiBiblio
The Final Rhino
Jaiku
Twitter
Monday / Thursday
Current banner art by Billie Hara at PartsnPieces
Bunny TBOR
DAR
Diesel Sweeties
Dinosaur Comics
Doonesbury
Exploding Dog
Goats
Little Dee
Opus
Patches
Pearls Before Swine
Piled Higher and Deeper
Snoopy
xkcd
When in doubt, get the blowtorch.
(Mister Husband said, "Hey, we should do a Flaming Pitchfork Southern Gothic!" but it ended up being just me. I wired up the pitchfork with sparklers, Dad lit them all with the blowtorch, and mom clicked the camera. The power of collaboration, people.)
While we were at home, I conned everyone into coming outside for firework photography. Or more like, Mister Husband and Dad watched me dart around with sparklers while Mom stood behind the tripod.
Some rather surprising John Wayne propaganda that I think Fresca might be particularly interested in. Wayne shirtless, with airbrushed nipples. Wayne shirtless, wrestling with another man on a rope ladder. Wayne with what looks like quite a lot of blush on his manly cheekbones. Wayne physically disciplining women while maintaining a charming countenance. Sort of like Kirk, only totally not.
You’ll see what I mean when you watch Fresca’s inaugural video masterpiece. One day, she’s gonna write this book and I’m going to enjoy every second of reading it.
From the JM Davis Museum. Rhetorically fascinating. One day, I'll team-teach a grad seminar with Mr. Husband on propaganda. He'll handle the visual rhet angles and I'll handle the media distribution angles and we'll both talk about the rhetoric of it all.
From the beer stein collection at the JM Davis Arms and Historical Museum in Claremore, OK. Not normally our cup of tea, but we were driving down the street, the Supreme Court decision on the right to bear arms was announced, and the museum appeared in front of us. So of course we had to go and consider the matter.
Tom Waits is indeed a blind carny.
Tom Waits is also, in actual fact, a street preacher with sandwich boards and a megaphone.
Tom Waits is that uncle you heard all those stories about.
Tom Waits plays a solid two hours.
Tom Waits is shockingly human.
Tom Waits stands on a two-foot platform rimmed in blinky lights.
Tom Waits understands that not all of those lights should work at one time.
Tom Waits yells about the monitors until they’re right, but the yelling happens via maniacal gestures to stage right.
Tom Waits does more with dust, glitter, and a low-slung klieg light than most performers do with lasers and an inflatable penis.
Tom Waits is a master of minimalist gesture.
Tom Waits directs his band with almost Zappa-like precision, albeit with very Waits-ian maneuvers.
Tom Waits is the most physical performer who never really moves from the spot he’s standing in.
Tom Waits tells clueless crowds that clearly they’ve never worked together before.
Tom Waits responds to shouted requests with a growly "yeah yeah yeah" and then plays whatever he planned on playing.
Tom Waits puts together absolutely impeccable set lists.
Tom Waits is his own backup singer.
Tom Waits does surprisingly controlled falsetto.
Tom Waits forgets his lyrics and fills in with “blah blah blah” and it’s just as magical, maybe more so.
Tom Waits works a mirror-ball hat like nobody’s business.
Put another way:
I listened to The Mule Variations incessantly during the late nights of my Master’s degree, back when I was still working until 1 or 2 in the morning. For that reason, it was a good time to discover Get Behind the Mule* — and because I was dating Mister Husband and thrown up against my many intimacy issues, it was also an excellent time to have Come On Up To The House engraved on my soul. I didn’t expect him to play either one, what with that record being nearly 10 years old now. And he played both: a surprisingly subtle version of the first one and a slightly raucus version of the last one.
*Dissertating ain’t a bad time for a song that contains I'm diggin all the way to China / With a silver spoon / While the hangman fumbles with the noose, boys. I should pull this one out of the stacks.
Put yet another way:
In the same way that I want to write an essay like the first 14 minutes of Once Upon a Time in the West, one day I also hope to accomplish so much with just a pocket full of glitter and my own strange voice. But while the first might happen, I don’t think the second will.
And also, for Sal, who I think will want to know:
The band was very, very tight. Set list is here. The Brady Theater is a nice enough venue: 2,800 seats (extended via folding chairs last night), dusty, historical-ish. Our seats were okay (good enough for bad photos) and I considered them good seats because they were located on the inside of the building.
All from the Karl and Beverly White Fishing Tackle Museum at the Oklahoma Aquarium. Art is often where you weren’t looking for it. (50 or so more here.)
because it appears that someone on the other side of my apartment complex has purchased the car I traded in a few months ago. Same make/model, same dings on the door, same rust on the spare tire bar. Gotta take a closer look, but I'm 94% sure it’s the same Kia Sportage.