Dear Friends,
There is a grand tradition of Jewish people writing Christmas music. The best-selling single of all time, White Christmas, was composed by Irving Berlin, whose real name was Israel Isidor Beilin. The list goes on. Winter Wonderland, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, Let it Snow, Santa Baby, You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch, and Silver Bells were all written by Jews. José Feliciano, the author of Feliz Navidad, was actually born Mordecai Simchah Gefilte Fishman ben Moishe Saul Cohen-Lowenstein Rabinowitz. True story.
This month, I grapevine in the footsteps of my ancestors with this medley of short Christmas songs. I hope you find them to be the perfect musical milieu for screaming at mall clerks who politely ask to see a receipt for the thing you're trying to return.
My senior year in college was probably the last time I knowingly disseminated Christmas cheer. My five housemates and I held occasional meetings to accuse each other of leaving unwashed dishes in the sink or to complain about the 50 pound bag of rice that was purchased without unanimous consent. That December, we held a house meeting to vote on whether to sublet our extra bedroom to an enigmatic Asian fiddle player. We agreed to do so if two conditions were met: 100% of his rent money would go towards Christmas lighting, and the display would be so garish that it could be seen from space. The electrical nightmare we created stretched well past the point of vulgarity, but unfortunately, there was no easy way to verify that it was visible to astronauts.
At this point, I wiggle my fingers and say, “DOO-da-la-doot, DOO-da-la-doot,” to indicate that we are traveling forwards in time to the present day. This year, overweight rich people will finally be able to journey to edge of the cosmos and look down on earth. 2014 is here, and this will be the year that commercial space travel takes off.
I predict that the industry will be referred to as "Rocketourism" by those who enjoy buzzwordplay, and that you will have heard both of those words here first.
How should you prepare for your first space tour? According to the Virgin Galactic website, you will leave from a spaceport in the New Mexico desert. Please plan to arrive at least 90 minutes in advance for sub-orbital flights, and 2 hours in advance for orbital flights. Bring copies of your passport, and pack light, because it takes 200 pounds of solid fuel to lift that 3 ounce tube of hand cream into space.
Following lift-off, the commercial spacecraft will reach a cruising altitude of 62 miles. Here, you will be treated to the ultimate sightseeing experience. Of course, you have seen the moon before, but few humans have seen it like this! Specifically, it will appear a bit smaller, because you will be a little farther away from it than usual.
While my old house in Providence is no longer visible from space, some claim that The Great Wall of China is. At its thickest point, the Great Wall is only about 30 feet across, the same width as a beach volleyball court. This is probably why the U.S. diverted so much money to the space program during the Cold War... most of the early manned missions were devoted to counting Soviet volleyball courts.
Anyway, a Virgin Galactic ticket includes a 30 minute space flight, unlimited Wi-Fi access and a complimentary copy of their inflight magazine, Thermospheres. This will run you just over $200,000 including bag fees, so keep an eye out for a Groupon offer.
As you glide back to earth, the cars on the interstate will look like tiny little ants scurrying in a line. As you draw closer, they will look more and more like giant, freakish ants. Holy crap… how long were you gone? Come closer still, and you will see that they're just cars. Phew.
Now let's talk about the elephant in the room... SAFETY. (And I'm not referring to Safety the Elephant from that fire department coloring book.) I understand your propensity to perseverate on the Challenger and Columbia disasters. Let's try to keep this in perspective, though. For every space shuttle that exploded, there were 2 space shuttles that didn't explode whatsoever. That already-favorable ratio is even more impressive when you consider NASA's practice of subcontracting all 20,000 spaceship parts to the lowest bidder. Virgin Galactic has much better quality control, because Sir Richard Branson personally inspects all defective O-rings. More importantly, all components are manufactured at a single location by employees of Virgin Industries. As you would imagine, most of them are kraut-rock singers who didn’t read the fine print in their record contracts.
One last piece of advice: Don't waste your time visiting the international space station. That place is a rocketourist trap.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Ranking the Armstrongs
Dear Friends,
Here's something unusual. I'm going explain what this month's Hard Taco song is about.
In 1997, I decided to write a rock opera about George Armstrong Custer, the storied U.S. cavalry commander who died alongside all his men at the 1876 Battle of Little Bighorn. The ethically murky American Indian Wars seemed like a good backdrop for a musical, and General Custer made for a great lead character because he was brash and grandiose and tragic. As I read more about Custer's life, however, I was much more fascinated by his second-in-command, Major Marcus Reno. While Custer was charging into battle at Little Bighorn, Reno was leading a disorganized retreat from a skirmish a few miles away. Afterwards, he was a convenient scapegoat for a public that adored Custer and could not believe the U.S. Army had lost a major battle to the native tribes. Custer's widow, Libbie, and his biographer, Frederick Whittaker, made careers out of aggrandizing Custer's memory, and they were among the loudest voices decrying Reno as a coward.
Three years after the Battle of Little Bighorn, Major Reno requested a court of inquiry into his own conduct during the battle, hoping to clear his name of these allegations. Although he was not officially found guilty of dereliction of duty, he was never acquitted in the public eye, and died penniless a few years later.
This month's Hard Taco song, "Where Were You," tells a fictionalized account of the aforementioned trial, in which Libbie Custer and Frederick Whittaker stand as Reno's accusers. After this song languished on the most distant of back burners for 16 years, recording it is a major accomplishment for me. Even though I never got around to writing any other Custer songs, I think this one makes for a pretty good stand-alone mini-rock opera. Let me know what you think.
In the meantime, enjoy this Celebrity Surname Smackdown, in which I rank famous people based on how true they are to their surnames (or in Custer's case, their middle names.)
Rank by arm strength:
Billy Joe Armstrong - Impressive. Sometimes, he stands perfectly still and only moves his arms.
Lance Armstrong - Plenty of leg strength, but I'm sure the systemic effects of the erythropoietin benefit his upper limbs, too.
Louis Armstrong - Spent 24 hours a day holding either a trumpet or a very large joint.
George Armstrong Custer - Had enlisted men trim his glorious moustache for him.
Neil Armstrong - A flag that weighs 5 pounds on earth only weighs 0.8 pounds on the moon. Loser.
Rank by youth:
Angus Young - Age 58.
Neil Young - Age 67.
Henny Youngman - Age 107.
Cy Young - Age 146.
Brigham Young - Age 212.
Rank by baldness:
William Baldwin - No baldness.
Alec Baldwin - No baldness whatsoever.
Stephen Baldwin - Zero baldness. Seriously, these guys all have great hair.
Tammy Baldwin - None, unless you count her fists, which are balled in the war against sexual assault in the military!
Rank by wealth:
Eddie Money - Shouldn't have bought that second ticket to paradise.
Rank by smallness:
Stuart Little - 0'2" tall.
Martin Short - 5'7" tall.
Tiny Tim - 6'1" tall.
Here's something unusual. I'm going explain what this month's Hard Taco song is about.
In 1997, I decided to write a rock opera about George Armstrong Custer, the storied U.S. cavalry commander who died alongside all his men at the 1876 Battle of Little Bighorn. The ethically murky American Indian Wars seemed like a good backdrop for a musical, and General Custer made for a great lead character because he was brash and grandiose and tragic. As I read more about Custer's life, however, I was much more fascinated by his second-in-command, Major Marcus Reno. While Custer was charging into battle at Little Bighorn, Reno was leading a disorganized retreat from a skirmish a few miles away. Afterwards, he was a convenient scapegoat for a public that adored Custer and could not believe the U.S. Army had lost a major battle to the native tribes. Custer's widow, Libbie, and his biographer, Frederick Whittaker, made careers out of aggrandizing Custer's memory, and they were among the loudest voices decrying Reno as a coward.
Three years after the Battle of Little Bighorn, Major Reno requested a court of inquiry into his own conduct during the battle, hoping to clear his name of these allegations. Although he was not officially found guilty of dereliction of duty, he was never acquitted in the public eye, and died penniless a few years later.
This month's Hard Taco song, "Where Were You," tells a fictionalized account of the aforementioned trial, in which Libbie Custer and Frederick Whittaker stand as Reno's accusers. After this song languished on the most distant of back burners for 16 years, recording it is a major accomplishment for me. Even though I never got around to writing any other Custer songs, I think this one makes for a pretty good stand-alone mini-rock opera. Let me know what you think.
In the meantime, enjoy this Celebrity Surname Smackdown, in which I rank famous people based on how true they are to their surnames (or in Custer's case, their middle names.)
Rank by arm strength:
Billy Joe Armstrong - Impressive. Sometimes, he stands perfectly still and only moves his arms.
Lance Armstrong - Plenty of leg strength, but I'm sure the systemic effects of the erythropoietin benefit his upper limbs, too.
Louis Armstrong - Spent 24 hours a day holding either a trumpet or a very large joint.
George Armstrong Custer - Had enlisted men trim his glorious moustache for him.
Neil Armstrong - A flag that weighs 5 pounds on earth only weighs 0.8 pounds on the moon. Loser.
Rank by youth:
Angus Young - Age 58.
Neil Young - Age 67.
Henny Youngman - Age 107.
Cy Young - Age 146.
Brigham Young - Age 212.
Rank by baldness:
William Baldwin - No baldness.
Alec Baldwin - No baldness whatsoever.
Stephen Baldwin - Zero baldness. Seriously, these guys all have great hair.
Tammy Baldwin - None, unless you count her fists, which are balled in the war against sexual assault in the military!
Rank by wealth:
50 Cent - Got rich. Did not die tryin'.
Tyra Banks - Gets a nickel every time someone buys a copy of the 1996 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.
George Banks - Thanks to Mary Poppins, he got his old job back with a promotion!
Elizabeth Banks - So far she's doing okay, but the star of "Zach and Miri Make a Porno" and "The Hunger Games" will eventually be forced to decide between those two fates.
Lionel Richie - No hits since 1986 + two divorces + inconveniently extravagant daughter.
Joe Buck - Rumor has it that he's just living play-to-play.
Guy Ritchie - During one particularly doomed relationship, he donated his savings to the Kabbalah Centre in Los Angeles.
Elizabeth Banks - So far she's doing okay, but the star of "Zach and Miri Make a Porno" and "The Hunger Games" will eventually be forced to decide between those two fates.
Lionel Richie - No hits since 1986 + two divorces + inconveniently extravagant daughter.
Joe Buck - Rumor has it that he's just living play-to-play.
Guy Ritchie - During one particularly doomed relationship, he donated his savings to the Kabbalah Centre in Los Angeles.
Rank by smallness:
Stuart Little - 0'2" tall.
Martin Short - 5'7" tall.
Tiny Tim - 6'1" tall.
Rank by who is from the furthest West:
Adam West - Born in Walla Walla. Very west.
Kanye West - Born in Atlanta. Not very west.
Kanye West - Born in Atlanta. Not very west.
Mae West - Born in Brooklyn. Only considered the west if you live in Queens.
Oliver North - Born in San Antonio. Even if his last name was West, it would still be wrong.
Rank by who knows how to party hardy:
Laura Ingalls Wilder - Threw the best little house party on the prairie.
Gene Wilder - Two words: tunnel scene. And that's right after sniffing a poppy and singing the line, "Anything you want, do it."
Oscar Wilde - When I heard he spent time in jail for "gross indecency," I thought this guy was an animal! But then I learned the sad truth about his conviction... he was not actually in jail, but in gaol.
Rank by who is stiller?
Rank by who knows how to party hardy:
Laura Ingalls Wilder - Threw the best little house party on the prairie.
Gene Wilder - Two words: tunnel scene. And that's right after sniffing a poppy and singing the line, "Anything you want, do it."
Oscar Wilde - When I heard he spent time in jail for "gross indecency," I thought this guy was an animal! But then I learned the sad truth about his conviction... he was not actually in jail, but in gaol.
Rank by who is stiller?
Ben Stiller - Not at all still. Constantly moving, actually.
Jerry Stiller - As of press time, still not still. I'll keep you posted.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Friday, November 1, 2013
The Warring Factions Mostly Fight Each Other, but Occasional Tourist Deaths are Inevitable: A Travel Guide to Dakar, Senegal
Dear Friends,
People of Ann Arbor, you've had over a year to make nice with our Japanese Sister City. Are you ready to bond with our newest metro-sibling, Dakar?
When the West African city became our Li'l Sis in 1997, the hose of cultural dialogue between Ann Arbor and Dakar gushed freely. Regrettably, that stream has slowed to a awkward trickle. Today, let's put our big American thumbs over the mouth of that hose and squirt some high-pressure blasts of intercontinental intercourse at each other!
People of Dakar, I offer you this month's Hard Taco song, “Baobab Weep,” in honor of the mighty baobab trees that you probably had to cut down to make room for your own Sister Cities sign. I'd also like to take this opportunity to share with my readers what I've learned about your enchanting little whistle-stop.
Dakar is a multicultural, diverse city full of vibrant arts and traditions! From the bustling markets of Marche Sandaga to the bustling thieves' dens of the Ouakam district, the people of Dakar know their way around a good bustle. The vast Atlantic coastline offers a pristine haven to watch seabirds and hear a local storyteller make boring-ass allegories about them.
Dakar, Senegal - Quick Facts/Theories
Population: 2,476,400
Languages: Wolof, but they talk to tourists in French
Emblem: A beggar being pickpocketed by a benevolent tsetse fly
Flower: The Phallic Mangrove
Nickname: Dakar Noir, the classic fragrance by Guy LaRoche
Motto: “The police force are useless for your safety, but if you speak French, they are good for asking directions.”
Exports: Empty mosquito repellent bottles, gum arabic, Manchester United shirts, conflict diamonds, biodiversity, leprosy clinical trial volunteers
Municipal anthem: “Pluck all your koras (eyebrow hairs), strike all your balafons (sexy poses)"
Politics: Dakar is the capital of Senegal and the home of both the president and prime minister. For decades, both positions have been held by members of the Lâcheté (Cowardice) Party, one of the many holdovers from the French Occupation.
Food and Drink:
Malnourishment is rare, but hunger is common, owing to Dakar's position as the westernmost city in Africa. An easterly wind occasionally carries the distant smells of Chik-fil-A up from the Atlantic. Predictably, this leads to devastating city-wide epidemics of mouth-watering.
Malnourishment is rare, but hunger is common, owing to Dakar's position as the westernmost city in Africa. An easterly wind occasionally carries the distant smells of Chik-fil-A up from the Atlantic. Predictably, this leads to devastating city-wide epidemics of mouth-watering.
Tourists should avoid drinking tap water, except on a dare. While it is unlikely to contain virulent microorganisms, the Dakar water supply is often contaminated with dauntingly large macroorganisms. It is not uncommon to lift a full glass to the lips only to discover that its entire contents are two massive amoebas clanging together.
Culture:
Soccer, which they call "foot-ballsport," is the national pastime. They take it so seriously that most Senegalese foosball tables have a line of three plastic men faking knee injuries.
Nightlife:
Dakar is home to the world-famous Steam Bar. The room is kept at just over 100 degrees Celsius. The bar, table, stools, chairs and glasses are all made of steam, and the drinks are pre-boiled. This is fortunate, because most mixed drinks contain at least one shot-glass of giant amoeba.
Useful phrases for Americans in Dakar:
Bonjour, je représente une organisation appelée "Dickheads sans frontières."
Hello, I represent an organization called "Dickheads Without Borders."
Ça vous dérange si mon mari pose pour une photo à côté de votre disparité socio-économique?
Do you mind if my husband poses for a picture next to your socioeconomic disparity?
Votre hospitalité est renommée. Oui, j'aimerais un repas traditionnel des boulettes de poisson et de riz à la pointe du fusil.
Your hospitality is renowned. Yes, I would love a traditional meal of fish balls and rice at gunpoint.
Vos lamas vont mourir, mais vous devez envoyer Heifer International une note de remerciement.
I realize that llamas can’t survive in this climate, but it wouldn’t kill you to send Heifer International a thank you note.
Vous avez raison de dire que ce sont drones américains tête. Essayez de regarder occupé.
You are correct that those are U.S. drones overhead. Try to look busy.
Je suis désolé d'apprendre que la paix dernier Corp bénévole juste assis autour et fumé toute votre marijuana.
Nous allons essayer de faire mieux.
I am sorry to hear that the last Peace Corp Volunteer just sat around and smoked all your weed. We will try to do better.
Pouvez-vous croire que les filles équipe de plongée de Pioneer a gagné de nouveau en 2006?
Can you believe the Pioneer Girls Swim and Dive team won nationals again in 2006?
Plus, a few time-tested pickup lines:
Vous ne serez pas attraper scrumpox parce que j'ai des herbes dans mon pantalon.
You will probably not catch scrumpox from me, for I just applied an herbal remedy in the bathroom.
Vos yeux énormes me font penser à un bébé occupé suscité.
Your enormous eyes remind me of a bushbaby in heat.
Aucun de nous comme parler de navires négriers.
I couldn't help but notice that you seem very uncomfortable discussing the history of the slave trade here.
That makes two of us!
Puis-je vous acheter une amibe taille de balles de golf et tonique?
Can I buy you a golf-ball sized amoeba and tonic?
Non, Cal Tech a été mon école de sauvegarde.
No, Cal Tech was my safety school.
With warmest regards,
Zach
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
What's in YOUR Bucket?
Dear Friends,
The Hard Taco song for October is called, "The Balloonman." I know of no nobler profession than the dauntless balloon driver of yesteryear, or even the somewhat less purposeful balloon driver of yesterweek. You, Balloonman, are the very image of strength, your lusty arm guiding our nation to prosperity with a firm tug on that cord... the one that adds more hot to the hot air.
Riding a hot air balloon is actually the entirety of my bucket list. To clarify, I'm using the original definition of a bucket list, which is a slate of activities one hopes to pursue while standing in a bucket. My list used to include, "do an impression of the Nefarious Man-Mop," but I got to cross that one off last Halloween.
The more familiar kind of bucket list, of course, is inclusive of both intrabucket and extrabucket activities. When you finish everything on this bucket list, it's time for you to die. As of this morning, hot air ballooning was the only thing I had on that list, too. This is cause for concern, since I hope to go on a balloon ride in the near future, and I'm hardly ready to be dead.
This led me to www.bucketlist.org, where you can write personal goals or steal them from other people, and then check them off as you accomplish them. Everything on my list is a genuine ambition of mine. Maybe some of them are no great shakes; I could probably bang out half of these in a weekend. Others, however, are implausible enough to keep me alive for quite a while.
So what's on your list? If all you want to do before you die is fake a realistic seizure, I can definitely help you with that!
With warmest regards,
Zach
The Hard Taco song for October is called, "The Balloonman." I know of no nobler profession than the dauntless balloon driver of yesteryear, or even the somewhat less purposeful balloon driver of yesterweek. You, Balloonman, are the very image of strength, your lusty arm guiding our nation to prosperity with a firm tug on that cord... the one that adds more hot to the hot air.
Riding a hot air balloon is actually the entirety of my bucket list. To clarify, I'm using the original definition of a bucket list, which is a slate of activities one hopes to pursue while standing in a bucket. My list used to include, "do an impression of the Nefarious Man-Mop," but I got to cross that one off last Halloween.
The more familiar kind of bucket list, of course, is inclusive of both intrabucket and extrabucket activities. When you finish everything on this bucket list, it's time for you to die. As of this morning, hot air ballooning was the only thing I had on that list, too. This is cause for concern, since I hope to go on a balloon ride in the near future, and I'm hardly ready to be dead.
This led me to www.bucketlist.org, where you can write personal goals or steal them from other people, and then check them off as you accomplish them. Everything on my list is a genuine ambition of mine. Maybe some of them are no great shakes; I could probably bang out half of these in a weekend. Others, however, are implausible enough to keep me alive for quite a while.
- Ride in a hot air balloon.
- Pinch a celebrity's cheeks.
- Serve my family a spaghetti dinner with no plates and no silverware. Just our hands and a tabletop covered with spaghetti, sauce, and Parmesan cheese.
- Go airport bar-hopping. (Fly from airport to airport and have a drink at each one.)
- Get a hollow body guitar.
- Run across a rope bridge in the Andes.
- Set fire to a pile of money.
- Write thank you notes to a few of my favorite teachers.
- Go on a vacation, but don't pick the destination until getting to the airport.
- Have an actual live Hard Taco show.
- Have an injury that requires stitches.
- Shoot a dingo who has wronged me.
- Write a strongly-worded letter to a corrupt official.
- Fill out a Mad Lib narrative without any potty words, and have it still be funny.
- Find the wristwatch my dad lost in the Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes in the 50's.
- Ride an octopus.
- Go Skijoring (Cross country skiing, pulled by a horse.)
- Design a corn maze in the shape of a bank logo.
- Go to Oktoberfest, Carnival, Day of the Dead, The Running of the Bulls, and Mardi Gras with Ricky Gervais.
- Let a goat walk around my house unsupervised.
- Join the "Furlong High Club" (A furlong is 1/8 of a mile, so this goal can only be achieved during take-off or landing.)
- Fall in love all over again in a Native American Sweat Lodge.
- Adopt a three legged animal or child.
- Throw a dart at a map and travel to wherever it lands.
- Throw a dart at the blueprints of my house and go into whichever room it lands.
- Pick someone's pocket.
- Learn to ride a unicycle.
- Return a stolen wallet while riding a unicycle.
- Own a four poster canopy bed with translucent sheets for walls and ceiling.
- Go swimming with a camel.
- Win more than $10 on a scratch off lottery game.
- Give a TED Talk or a celebrity roast.
- Eat illegal meat.
- Get into a fistfight.
- Ride a snowmobile out of a helicopter into a seaplane.
- Pay a surprise visit to an old friend who lives in another part of the world.
- Fall off a dogsled (I did this one already.)
- Ride a mattress down a staircase without spilling the goldfish.
- Help someone else accomplish something on his or her bucket list.
So what's on your list? If all you want to do before you die is fake a realistic seizure, I can definitely help you with that!
With warmest regards,
Zach
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Render Unto Roger Goodell...
Dear Friends,
J.S. Bach famously claimed that the sole purpose of harmony was for the glory of God, and that all other use is but the idle jinglings of Satan. So true! I would amend this slightly, though, to assert that harmony also should be employed to further the glory of the Green Bay Packers. I consecrate unto them the new Hard Taco song, "One Nation Under Cheese."
The game of football has changed. It's no longer sufficient for athletes to excel at their sport. They now have to develop and protect their brand. Every word that athletes say is subject to intense media scrutiny, so they must have a clear strategy before they step in front of a camera. Here's an example of a savvy young superjock delivering a flawless sports interview.
My suggestion for the greenhorns out there is that if the journalist ever ambushes you with a gotcha question, just answer in Latin. No one has ever lost face speaking in Latin.
Interviewer: Let's talk about their interception at the end of the first half? How did you let that happen?
Athlete: Emeritus salutem captus Ave Maria! (The veteran safety caught the Hail Mary!)
Interviewer: I'm sorry? What?
Interviewer: Okay, then. Any last thoughts?
Athlete: et... Ursus... sugatis!!!!!
J.S. Bach famously claimed that the sole purpose of harmony was for the glory of God, and that all other use is but the idle jinglings of Satan. So true! I would amend this slightly, though, to assert that harmony also should be employed to further the glory of the Green Bay Packers. I consecrate unto them the new Hard Taco song, "One Nation Under Cheese."
The game of football has changed. It's no longer sufficient for athletes to excel at their sport. They now have to develop and protect their brand. Every word that athletes say is subject to intense media scrutiny, so they must have a clear strategy before they step in front of a camera. Here's an example of a savvy young superjock delivering a flawless sports interview.
This kid just oozes confidence, team pride, and leadership. He's a champion's champion. You can tell he's the first one to practice in the morning and the last one leaving the film room at night (even when they're not having an Ingmar Bergman marathon.) That kind of presence takes hours of preparation. Let's take a look at the same athlete before he underwent media training.
Careful, rookie! Contracts and endorsements have been blown by a few ill-chosen words or an errant tweet!
My suggestion for the greenhorns out there is that if the journalist ever ambushes you with a gotcha question, just answer in Latin. No one has ever lost face speaking in Latin.
Interviewer: Let's talk about their interception at the end of the first half? How did you let that happen?
Athlete: Emeritus salutem captus Ave Maria! (The veteran safety caught the Hail Mary!)
Interviewer: I'm sorry? What?
Athlete: Manus habet molli. (He has soft hands.)
Interviewer: Um. Okay. The Giants blocked what would have been a game-tying field goal. What went wrong?
Athlete: Nanos gigantum humeris insidentes. (Their short guys stood on their shoulders. The shoulders of Giants.)
Interviewer: Moving on. How will this affect your division race?
Athlete: Leonum nonquam vincere NFC borealis. (The Lions will never ever win the NFC North.)
Interviewer: Um. Okay. The Giants blocked what would have been a game-tying field goal. What went wrong?
Athlete: Nanos gigantum humeris insidentes. (Their short guys stood on their shoulders. The shoulders of Giants.)
Interviewer: Moving on. How will this affect your division race?
Athlete: Leonum nonquam vincere NFC borealis. (The Lions will never ever win the NFC North.)
Interviewer: Okay, then. Any last thoughts?
Athlete: et... Ursus... sugatis!!!!!
With warmest regards,
Zach
Zach
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Postcards From Panama, pt. 5
Dear Friends,
The Hard Taco song for August is called, "The C Word." It's gentle and wistful, like the ghost of a beloved grandmother smiling at you from her perch in the haunted cupboard.
Here is the annual installment of "Postcards from Panama." You should be able to jump right in, but if you want a refresher on how we got here, click here.
Postcards From Panama, Part 5
8/2/2013
Dear Karen,
Have I told you about my neighbor, Dignidad? He believes in all kinds of mythological organisms. He is afraid of chupacabras, and every time he sees a dead goat with all of its blood sucked out, he thinks it is proof that chupacabras are real. He also believes in beavers. As if the only explanation for a dam in the river is a mysterious flat-tailed beast with giant teeth and a superhuman work ethic! Why has no one ever seen one, Dignidad? Why?
He says it's because they are nocturnal. (How convenient...)
But Karen, if you believe in mythological organisms, I won’t think you are naïve like my neighbor. When we are married, you and I will stay up late discussing our beliefs about chupacabras and beavers, and quickly learn to respect each other’s viewpoints. We can also discuss politics, religious texts, and whether or not you believe in imps. (I do not.) Just let me know when you would like to begin this process.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/8/2013 Dear Karen,
I have a new goal. By the end of the month I’m going to SLEEP ON A BED OF NAILS. I will keep you updated on the latest developments.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/8/2013Dear Karen,
I’m getting closer to my goal of sleeping on a bed of nails. In the twenty minutes since I wrote you the last postcard, I’ve moved from the visioning stage to the needs assessment stage.
Karen, I know you are a modern independent woman who is not easily impressed by displays of machismo. That is why, when I am done sleeping on this incredibly dangerous bed, I will complain about how uncomfortable it was. I know we haven't talked in person since 1992, but I am certain you would like that. A modern independent woman prefers a lover who is capable of very macho deeds, but is emotionally present enough to whine about them like a whiny little girl.
To be fully honest with myself at this time, I have another reason for wanting to sleep on the bed of nails. As of yesterday, I still have issues with bed-wetting. The bed of nails will have excellent drainage, especially if I tilt the head of the bed up a few degrees.
Still, the bed-wetting might not be a dire issue for much longer, because I am up to 62% dry nights (+/- 2 standard deviations.) I don't think you can appreciate the significance of this accomplishment until you have the raw data in your hands, so I will mail you my dryness diary.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/18/2013 Dear Karen,
Once we are married, we will probably want to move out of my apartment and into an executive yurt. To ensure that we choose the best executive yurt, I’ve been bookmarking the realty listings in a local free periodical called Panama Vida. Unfortunately, these listings are often on the back cover, which is very hard to bookmark. How do other yurt enthusiasts deal with this problem? Am I supposed to paperclip the bookmark to the back cover? Maybe I should just rip an unwanted page out of the middle of periodical, affix it to the back cover along one edge, and slide the bookmark between them.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/21/2013
Dear Karen,
I took the commuter bus downtown today, hoping to find a licensed fakir who could sell me a bed of nails. I did not find a fakir who was willing to display his licensure, but I met a panhandler named Miguel Animosidad Del Pueblo ("Michael, Animosity of the People.") I am certain he was a panhandler, because he was actually handling a pan when I approached him.
Mr. Animosidad Del Pueblo astutely suggested that I make a D.I.Y. bed of nails, rather than purchasing one. I hadn’t thought of that! He also recommended that if I need a large volume of nails, I purchase them at a wholesale store.
This fake fakir is ugly on the outside, but it is possible that he is beautiful on the inside. I do not know him well enough to comment. Nevertheless, he has my confidence, because our first names are the same in Spanish.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/22/2013
Dear Karen,
I should not have trusted that panhandler. His advice about going to a wholesale store was disingenuous. I guess I was beguiled by the way he manipulated that pan with his fingers. Now I know that he is ugly through and through.
The wholesale store was a great place to buy chicken thighs and pita bread in bulk (which I did) but the hardware section was disappointing. Long story short, Karen, they had no nails whatsoever. Nonetheless, the clerk in the hardware section was so helpful in telling me this, I felt obligated to buy something from her, so I purchased a crate of wing nuts.
I guess I'll just use those.
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/24/2013 Dear Karen,
Yesterday, Dignidad helped me screw all of the wing nuts into a piece of particle board. It took us all afternoon. (We ate a whole bag of pita bread while we were working on it, so I have only nine bags left.) I was so exhausted by the end that I rolled right onto it and went to sleep immediately.
If I had to pick just a three adjectives to describe my experience of sleeping on a bed of wing nuts, I would say: humbling, emotionally present, and macho. I am feeling very refreshed and humbled today.
Did you know that REM stands for Rapid Eye Motions? It is one of the five stages of normal sleep. Last night, while lying on my treacherous bed of wing nuts, I counted my sleep stages, and there were at least six! I wonder if this has ever been reported in the scientific journals?
With warmest regards,
Michael
-------------------------------------------------
8/24/2013Dear Karen,
I'm afraid I have to ask you to mail my dryness diary back to me. Without it, I don’t have a good sense of how I am doing (+/- 2 standard deviations.)
One thing is clear, though: The drainage on a wing nut bed is not ideal. Do you think I should switch to hex nuts? Please write back if it isn't a bother.
With warmest regards,
Michael
Monday, July 1, 2013
El Lobo Grande y Mal
Dear Friends,
If it's that good old time religion that you seek, look no further than the gospel according to Hard Taco and our newest song, "Put My Hand on Heaven's Plow."
I could probably use a little divine aid in the coming days. Later this month, I'm going to be performing in a stage play for the first time in 20 years. I am proud to report that the Penny Seats theater company has invited me to join the cast of "Little Me."
I will be playing the role of B.A. Baracus.
When this opportunity fell in my lap, my first instinct was to stand up and wipe it off as quickly as possible. But my wife persuaded me to defer judgment and let it mellow in my lap for a few days, maybe let it seep into my pants a little. And boy, did it seep. Now, I couldn't be more excited about it!
Unfortunately, my character's name is not actually B.A. Baracus, but I swear on a pile of free religious pamphlets that you won't know the difference when you see the show. Before each rehearsal, while the rest of the cast sings, "Druggie baby fuzzy bunkers" in all major keys, I glower at the mirror in the changing room and repeat the phrase, "I ain't gettin' on no plane, Hannibal!" This week, I must have made some progress, because I sort of scared myself. Holy Snakes! That guy in the mirror will never consent to riding on an airplane, especially not with that crazy Murdock at the controls.
I am the least experienced actor in the troupe, and oh yes, it is obvious. I don't instinctively know, for instance, where the hell to put my hands. Should I just scratch my face a lot? Constant up and down face-scratching with both hands seems like a natural thing that real people might do. Or do tough guys scratch their faces horizontally? When I walk, should I lead with my chest or with my groin? When other characters are talking, should I stare at their lips and nod or scrunch my eyes closed and hum until they shut up?
I was in a handful of high school plays, but I can't really build on those experiences, because I never got any tough guy roles. As a sophomore with an angelically high voice, I was cast in a Molière play as an androgynous cook with a bowl cut wig. My character was in two scenes, both of which ended with me squealing while the master of house beat me with a riding crop. It must have been very funny for the 17th century French nobility in the audience, but it was a very confusing time in my life.
So to channel my inner Mr. T, I have to go back even further, to my very first public performance. My mom recently reminded me that I had played the Big Bad Wolf in a 7th grade Spanish class production of Carperucita Roja. I still remember every line of the scene (although it may not make sense because my browser doesn't support upside down exclamation points.)
Lobo: Ja! Ja! Ja! Buenos tardes, Abuela!
(Ha! Ha! Ha! Good afternoon, grandma!)
Abuela: Ai! Un lobo grande! y también mal!
(Hey there! A big and also bad lobo!)
Lobo: Gua gua gua!
(Nom nom nom!)
Roja: O Abuela! Hola! Tengo comida en mi cesta! Chili con queso!
(Oh Grandma! Hello! I have food in my basket! Chili with queso!)
Lobo: Salsa fresca?
Roja: Salsa verde!
Lobo: Pollo asado?
(Acid chicken?)
Roja: Huevos rancheros!
(Raunchy eggs!)
Lobo: Carne asado!
(Barbecued carnies!)
Roja: Dulce de leche
(Candy de milk!)
Lobo: Gua gua gua!
(Verde sauce!)
Anyway, if I can pull off el lobo mal y también grande, I should be able play a hard-bitten military man who scratches his face horizontally. I just feel bad because I will have to miss two performances of "Little Me" for a work thing. The understudy is a very good actor, but I am openly worried about what is going to happen while I am gone. What if the fools go unpitied?
With warmest regards,
Zach
If it's that good old time religion that you seek, look no further than the gospel according to Hard Taco and our newest song, "Put My Hand on Heaven's Plow."
I could probably use a little divine aid in the coming days. Later this month, I'm going to be performing in a stage play for the first time in 20 years. I am proud to report that the Penny Seats theater company has invited me to join the cast of "Little Me."
I will be playing the role of B.A. Baracus.
When this opportunity fell in my lap, my first instinct was to stand up and wipe it off as quickly as possible. But my wife persuaded me to defer judgment and let it mellow in my lap for a few days, maybe let it seep into my pants a little. And boy, did it seep. Now, I couldn't be more excited about it!
Unfortunately, my character's name is not actually B.A. Baracus, but I swear on a pile of free religious pamphlets that you won't know the difference when you see the show. Before each rehearsal, while the rest of the cast sings, "Druggie baby fuzzy bunkers" in all major keys, I glower at the mirror in the changing room and repeat the phrase, "I ain't gettin' on no plane, Hannibal!" This week, I must have made some progress, because I sort of scared myself. Holy Snakes! That guy in the mirror will never consent to riding on an airplane, especially not with that crazy Murdock at the controls.
I am the least experienced actor in the troupe, and oh yes, it is obvious. I don't instinctively know, for instance, where the hell to put my hands. Should I just scratch my face a lot? Constant up and down face-scratching with both hands seems like a natural thing that real people might do. Or do tough guys scratch their faces horizontally? When I walk, should I lead with my chest or with my groin? When other characters are talking, should I stare at their lips and nod or scrunch my eyes closed and hum until they shut up?
I was in a handful of high school plays, but I can't really build on those experiences, because I never got any tough guy roles. As a sophomore with an angelically high voice, I was cast in a Molière play as an androgynous cook with a bowl cut wig. My character was in two scenes, both of which ended with me squealing while the master of house beat me with a riding crop. It must have been very funny for the 17th century French nobility in the audience, but it was a very confusing time in my life.
So to channel my inner Mr. T, I have to go back even further, to my very first public performance. My mom recently reminded me that I had played the Big Bad Wolf in a 7th grade Spanish class production of Carperucita Roja. I still remember every line of the scene (although it may not make sense because my browser doesn't support upside down exclamation points.)
Lobo: Ja! Ja! Ja! Buenos tardes, Abuela!
(Ha! Ha! Ha! Good afternoon, grandma!)
Abuela: Ai! Un lobo grande! y también mal!
(Hey there! A big and also bad lobo!)
Lobo: Gua gua gua!
(Nom nom nom!)
Roja: O Abuela! Hola! Tengo comida en mi cesta! Chili con queso!
(Oh Grandma! Hello! I have food in my basket! Chili with queso!)
Lobo: Salsa fresca?
(Fresh salsa?)
Roja: Salsa verde!
(Verde sauce!)
(Acid chicken?)
Roja: Huevos rancheros!
(Raunchy eggs!)
Lobo: Carne asado!
(Barbecued carnies!)
Roja: Dulce de leche
(Candy de milk!)
Lobo: Gua gua gua!
(Verde sauce!)
Anyway, if I can pull off el lobo mal y también grande, I should be able play a hard-bitten military man who scratches his face horizontally. I just feel bad because I will have to miss two performances of "Little Me" for a work thing. The understudy is a very good actor, but I am openly worried about what is going to happen while I am gone. What if the fools go unpitied?
With warmest regards,
Zach
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)