Carhop

Brought to you by a summer job I once had. The one I have now is much better.

The summer following my sophomore year of high school, I worked at a drive-in restaurant called the Penguin — the Grease Garden to those in the know. My best friend Lisa, who worked as a fry cook, got me the job. I was a carhop, taking and delivering orders. I wore a red polo shirt, a visor, and a little changemaker on a belt. No roller skates for us; the lot was gravel.

We Penguinites had a rivalry of sorts with the town's other drive-in, the Tastee Freeze, perched up on the hill. We called it the Tastee Sleaze because the girls who worked there spent too much time giving "treats" to the guys who worked at the gas station across the street. Or so we alleged. I don't remember what they called us. "Penguin" just doesn't lend itself well to innuendo.

The job stank bigtime for many reasons, not least of which was the pay. I made $1.25 an hour in wages and usually about double that in tips. Also, being somewhat prim and shy back in those days — no, seriously! — I hated dealing with the public. I especially hated older redneck guys who thought it great sport to tease younger girls almost to the point of tears, then fishtail away in their rusty pickups without leaving a tip. In case you're wondering, getting sprayed with gravel from the back tires of a four-wheel drive does indeed hurt, and dust makes a lousy topping for ice cream. But the customer, of course, is always right.

The Penguin was owned by a husband-wife team. The wife did most of the managing, if you could call it that, since the husband always managed to be elsewhere. I could see why he wanted to spend time away from his wife, who would have had to take several steps toward "nice" to be considered merely a vituperous shrew. I remember one time she scheduled me to carhop alone during the Sunday dinner rush, always the busiest time of the week, instead of scheduling the usual three girls. (Always girls. No male employees, ever.) She then chewed me out, publicly and with fervor, for serving too slowly. When I remarked that things went much better when there were the usual three of us working, hint hint, she gave me a five-minute lecture about my bad attitude while customers honked and hollered for their food, and in many cases drove away. But the boss, of coruse, is always right.

The Penguin was situated near a small creek that ran through town, so we never had any shortage of mosquitoes. Since there were always bits of food in the gravel and between the cracks in the picnic table tops, we had no shortage of flies, either. I usually went home at night smelling of grease, bug repellent, sunscreen, and sweat. My feet hurt from wearing lousy shoes — but not from hopping amongst the cars, which I never did even once. With visor-mashed hair and a stained shirt, I was hardly the picture of glamour. Nothing pleased me more than saying, "No thanks" when Mrs. Grease called to invite me back the following summer. And I have never failed to tip since then except in cases of extreme disservice.

There was precisely one good thing about the Grease Garden gig. During slow moments, the kitchen staff got creative. I don't remember much of what they came up with, but one concoction of Lisa's that sticks in my mind was adding strawberry shake flavoring to Mountain Dew. Tasted like a red jellybean. I can't stomach Dew any more, but sometimes I wonder if that's what the Code Red Dew tastes like. If so, those weasels at Pepsi stole her idea. Curse them!

Today around the world: May 31 is World No-Tobacco Day. Every day should be such a day.

Just wanted to report that I have seen the latest Star Wars, and it is good. Good story, good explosions, good light saber duels, and deliciously good bad comic book-style dialogue. Many reviewers have panned the dialogue and the acting that delivers it, but I'll argue that both are exactly what they should be: grand, epic representations of archetypes, not regular people talking the way regular people talk. Two thumbs up. A fine matinee.

Parting shots:

• Yoda is The Man!
• Obi-Wan is a close second.
• The love that dare not be named: I kind of have a crush on R2D2. Why must I always fall for the funny guy?
• I don't do Windus.

Now log off and go outside!

Today around the world: Today is Memorial Day. A moment of silence, please, for all who have gone before us and left a better world behind them.

Vegemite Rules

Brought to you by, coincidentally enough,vegemiterules, author of the Australian blog a day in the life of vegemite in a jar. (Vegemite, in case you're wondering, is a by-product of brewing that's a great source of B vitamins. It's a dark brown, salty paste used mainly as a spread on sandwiches and toast, its strong flavo(u)r sometimes mitigated with cheese. Tough to find outside Australia and New Zealand.)
Replying, on behalf of Down Under's dominant condiment, to my recent remarks concerning peanut butter, Veg writes:

G'day from the landownunda!

Now I have to take you to task here (wink wink wink), Peanut Butter, yes is my 1st cousin, smooth or crunchy, whatever way you like it, I prefer smooth and about an inch thick on fresh bread, Nutella, well, what can I say, sorry YUK, I do not include that in my family.

I am a very famous spread in Australia, actually I am an Icon, every Aussie, no matter where they are, always takes a jar of Vegemite with them, no matter what.

I guarantee you that there are no other blogs in the world of blogging that have devoted their entire being to a spread like me.

No-one would dare make a vegemite and jelly sandwich, what is with peanut butter having to have a partner to make a sandwich that everyone enjoys, I am capable of standing on my own, I share my sandwich with NO-one, or I might on the occasion share it with cheese, a good cheese and vegemite sandwich is delicious.

Spreads come and go, but "vegemite" always "rules."

Have enjoyed my visit, I was just passing and saw your comment about my cousin Peanut Butter, could not stop myself, had to say something.

Thanks, Veg! This is BND's first official correspondence with a foodstuff. Which of course raises this question: If you were a food, what would you be?

Today around the world: May 26 is Prince Fredrik's birthday in Denmark. If you were Prince Fredrik's birthday cake . . .

Today is a working day for BND. (Translation: The Media Sensation should be working, not blogging.) Upcoming topics:

• What is wealth?
• What is vegemite?
• Are the two related in any way?
• I was a teenage carhop
• inland luaus
• double dutch courage

. . . and various other persiflage. I've been known to take requests, suggestions, and even dares, so gimme a buzz. Keep 'em PG-13, OK?

Today around the world: It's Africa Day in, um, Africa. And it's National Missing Children's Day in the U.S. Help if you can.

Peanut Butter Pastimes

Brought to you by fellow blogger Bluegrass Mama, whose post today got me thinking about peanut butter.

What does everyone else do when they open a new jar of peanut butter? At Bluegrass Mama's house, whoever opens it gets to carve his or her initials in the top before anyone digs in. In my family, we pass the jar around so everyone can get a whiff.

Also, what do people eat peanut butter with? I put it on pancakes and waffles. I also like:

• PB & bacon and PB & banana sandwiches (which are really good grilled like a cheese sandwich; thank you, Elvis)
  
• PB & graham crackers dunked in milk
  
• PB & dill pickle — surprisingly, not bad
  
• Melted PB drizzled over popcorn is terrific, but keep plenty of napkins handy. Sprinkle a little Parmesan cheese over top if you dare.
  
• PB & celery isn't bad, either, but I don't like it so much when people put raisins on top and call it Ants on a Log.
  
• PB & honey is too sweet for me, as is PB & brown sugar.
  
• Sister-san likes PB & marshmallow fluff. Isn't that a fluffernutter?
  
• PB fudge is a Christmas favorite.
  
• Mother Media desecrates PB with mayo. YAK!

Incidentally, PB is the best home remedy for getting bubblegum out of hair. Take it from Mother Media, who got plenty of practice on my childhood friends and me: little girls with big gum and long hair in a windy climate. Sorry, Mom.

BTW, there's a restaurant at the Darth Mall (the Mall of America to those of you who don't live in its insidious shadow) that specializes in PB & J sandwiches and variations thereon. Talk about your niche marketing!

And if you're looking for specialty PB, check out Peanut Butter & Co.. Cinnamon raisin swirl PB? Yeah. Okay. Their PB/chocolate mixtures don't look too bad, either.

This reminds me of Nutella, the hazelnut chocolate spread popular in Europe. It's not quite PB, but close. My friend the late Lisa-la got addicted to the stuff when she spent a college year in Germany. When she later joined the Peace Corps and got stationed in Papua New Guinea, she begged us to send her Nutella. We did, always buying an extra jar for ourselves.

Also not quite PB, but close: A few years ago, I discovered the joys of spicy Thai peanut sauce, and now I use that all the time, too. It's great for dipping sandwiches or meat skewers (or plain old grilled chicken breast) in, of course. I also like to use it as a pasta sauce, again with Parmesan on top, or as a salad dressing. Now that I think about it, I suppose spicy peanut sauce would make a pretty fine popcorn topping, too, and you wouldn't even have to melt it. Hmm!

Anyone else?

Today around the world: May 24 is Buddha's birthday. Party on, Bu!

Bugs!

Brought to you, since it's the beginning of insect season, by things that bug me.

bugs me: auto-flush toilets that don't auto-flush as I exit because I'm still blocking the sensor
bugs me more: auto-flush toilets that go off while I'm still seated if I lean too far forward

bugs me: chipping a nail
bugs me more: forgetting to trim it until it snags my last good pair of nylons

bugs me: hearing trash talk about a friend
bugs me more: agreeing with some of it

bugs me: shopping for shoes
bugs me more: finally finding not one but two pairs at the end of the day and having to decide between them

bugs me: spending a sunny Sunday afternoon at the Darth Mall
bugs me more: forgetting to go to a movie there once my shopping is done

bugs me: dusting
bugs me more: dust

bugs me: smelly people on the train
bugs me more: smelly people on the bus

bugs me: cat waking me at 4:30 a.m.
bugs me more: alarm doing it again two hours later

bugs me: paying high prices for gas
bugs me more: running out of gas

bugs me: mayonnaise
bugs me more: mistaking mayonnaise for cream cheese or sour cream and taking a big ol' bite

bugs me: Rodney Dangerfield
bugs me more: Gilbert Gottfried

bugs me: people who call when I don't want the phone to ring
bugs me more: they don't leave a message

bugs me: people who drop hints
bugs me more: people who can't take a hint

bugs me: tasteless media stories
bugs me more: other media covering tasteless media

bugs me: bad pizza
bugs me more: no pizza

Today around the world: May 23 is Victoria Day in Canada and Vesak Day for Buddhists.

All wannabe voyeurs should proceed immediately to PostSecret, a site where anonymous strangers send in postcards bearing their deepest, darkest secrets for all the world to see. The postcards are great art and the tales they tell . . . Well, at first I thought it would be titillating to read people's secrets, but when I did, it only made me sad.

Spuds & Duds

Brought to you by an anonymous source. Here's the story:

Ole and Sven are holidaying on the beach in Australia while on vacation, and Sven couldn't seem to make it with any of the girls. So he asks the local lifeguard for some advice.

"Mate, it's obvious," says the lifeguard. "You're wearing them old baggy Minnesota-style swimming trunks that make ya look like an old geezer. They're years outta style. Your best bet is to grab yourself a pair of Speedos — about two sizes too small — and drop a fist-sized potato down inside 'em. I'm tellin' ya, man, you'll have all the babes ya want!"

The following day, Sven hits the beach with his spanking new tight Speedos and his fist-sized potato. Everybody on the beach is disgusted as he walks by, covering their faces, turning away, laughing, looking sick!

So Ole goes back to the lifeguard again and asks him, "Vat's wrong now? Sven still isn't picking up babes."

"JAHEESUS!" says the lifeguard, "Mate. The potato goes in front!"

Oh, like you could do better?

Today around the world: May 20 is NASCAR Day in the U.S. Yee-ha!

Rich Enough

Brought to you by my Dad and Lao Tzu.

He who has enough is rich.

Or

Who is contented has wealth.

So go two ways of translating a line from verse 33 of the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu's primer on Taoist philosophy.

Dad summed things up thus: If you have TP in the bathroom and ice cream in the freezer, you're okay. Necessities and at least one luxury covered? Good to go.

I'm rich. I'm beyond rich. I have TP and ice cream and good health and friends to share them with.

Your assignment: Report back to me with three signs of your wealth.

Today around the world: May 19 is Malcolm X Day in the U.S., Youth & Sports Day in Turkey, and Holiday of Poetry Day in Turkmenistan. Does that last one mean a holiday full of poetry or a holiday from poetry?

Banjo Sexy II: Electric Boogaloo

Brought to you by my fervent desire to say, or at least write, "electric boogaloo" one more time before I die.

For those who missed the excitement, the early 80s saw the release of a breakdancing-themed movie titled Breakin'. It was successful enough to spawn a sequel, the unforgettably named Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. I've never seen either film, but a phrase like "electric boogaloo" should not be allowed to languish unappreciated.

In the spirit of sequels everywhere, I put almost no thought or effort into today's BND. Thanks to Sister-san and the General for suggesting these additional inductees to the Banjo Sexy Hall of Fame:

• Chevy Chase and Dan Ackroyd. Tall, dorky-funny and, in the case of Chase's talk show, tragic. Both were cast members on SNL, and I distinctly recall seeing Chase appear as Spock in a classic Star Trek skit. Chase, along with the original banjo sexy man himself, Steve Martin, often played an uber-dorky wild and crazy guy in tight plaid polyester slacks — and almost made them look good.

  
  

• Ed Begley, Jr. Tall, dorky, smart, funny. From his St. Elsewhere days (where he attempted to appear tragic) to his sensitive portrayal of a Norwegian Jew in A Mighty Wind to guest spots on Arrested Development as a man with Post-it eyebrows, Mr. Environment just keeps that banjo a-strummin'. Appeared on Star Trek: Voyager (a series some Trekkies view as tragic) and on SNL.

  
  

• David Arquette. Tall and funny, almost too handsome to be banjo sexy, but gets super dork points for having appeared as a doofy deputy in Scream 1, 2, and 3, composing a song for the 3 soundtrack, and several Muppet-related incidents.

  
  

• Peter Tork. Smart, funny, dorky. One of the original Monkees. Spent a tragic few years in the bottle but emerged dry and dry-witted. DVDs of the Monkees TV series can be purchased at an online venue called the Tribble Store — and tribbles, as you know, are very Trekkie. BONUS: actually plays the banjo!

  
  

• Livingston Taylor. I had to look this guy up, and I'm glad I did. Tallish, smart, dorky. Was hospitalized for a tragic bout with depression, where his therapy involved singing and playing the guitar. This lead to further music performances, and he's been at it ever since. Trekkie status: undetermined. BONUS: actually plays the banjo!

Today around the world: May 18 is International Museum Day.

Banjo Sexy

Brought to you by Steve Martin.

Steve Martin is so talented and so gosh-darned cool he can make even a bucktoothed instrument like the banjo sexy — and he does, if you've ever heard him play, or even just watched him standing there holding it. Dorky good times.

What makes a man banjo sexy? He should be some combination of smart, tall, funny, dorky, Trekkie, tragic, a cappella and kung fu, adding up to unexpected sex appeal.

Other men who are banjo sexy:

• Jackie Chan, Jet Li, and Chow Yun Fat. Kung fu is ever so sexy. They're all smart and funny, although not necessarily at the same time. Jackie sings, too, so he gets extra a cappella points. Tragically, none of them is tall.

  
  

• Spock and Data. Tall, smart, and Trekkie. Spock is tragic because he died (he's over it now), and Data is inadvertently funny.

  
  

• Sherlock Holmes. Tall, smart, and tragic. Trekkie tidbit: Holmes was portrayed on stage by Leonard Nimoy, the actor who played Spock, and on the Enterprise's holodeck by Data, a character who played at being an actor.

  
  

• Stephen Hawking. Smart and tragic, and it doesn't hurt that he's funny as heck. Trekkie tidbit: Hawking appeared as himself in an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation; he was on the holodeck playing poker with Data and some other famous scientists.

  
  

• Dan Bob Schumacher. Tall, smart, dorky, funny, and a cappella. The Bobs are not sexy as a group, but Dan Bob himself is. And you know he's gotta be a Trekkie.

  
  

• Ernie Haase and Signature Sound Quartet. Southern Gospel singers are not usually sexy, but somehow these boys manage (even though they're not a cappella). First of all, the guy's name is Ernie. Dude! Second, they usually talk about the five members of the quartet, because they include their pianist. Dorks. The boys and their gelled-for-Jesus hair are pretty funny, too. But my money is on pocket basso Tim Duncan. Body like Yoda, voice like Darth Vader. Not Trekkie, but I wouldn't mind a close encounter.

  
  

• Phil Hartman. Smart, funny, and tragically dead. Unlike Spock, Hartman has not gotten over it. He impersonated Isaac Asimov on Saturday Night Live, which while not Trekkie is still pretty dang sci-fi.

  
  

• The Kevins: Kline, Nealon, Spacey, Wright — tall-smart-funny, tall-dorky-funny, smart-funny-tragic, and dorky-a cappella, respectively. Nealon impersonated Kline on Saturday Night Live once, and I swear I've seen him in Spock ears at least once. He's now shilling for celebrity poker, which is tragic. Kline has hosted SNL twice.

  
  

• David Duchovny. Agent Mulder! Tall, smart, funny, dorky, Trekkie, tragic. His attempts at kung fu are both funny and tragic. He has hosted SNL twice. During the second appearance, he impersonated Jeff Goldblum.

  
  

• Jeff Goldblum. Tall, funny, dorky He has also hosted SNL twice.

  
  

• Ladysmith Black Mambazo. A cappella. Some of this multi-man ensemble are tall. On a tragic note, LMB lead singer Joseph Shabalala's brother Headman was assassinated, a casualty of apartheid-related violence. LMB have appeared on SNL twice. No word on whether they were funny.

  
  

• John Lithgow. Tall, smart, funny, dorky, and probably Trekkie — he starred as an alien in Third Rock from the Sun, a very funny sci-fi show. He has hosted SNL thrice.

  
  

• The Smothers Brothers, Tom and Dick. Smart, funny, occasionally a cappella. The duo has hosted SNL twice. On the first of those appearances, Tom impersonated Johnny Carson.*

  
  

• John Cleese. John Cleese is everything — except an SNL host — plus he's British.
  

Who am I forgetting?

---

*Johnny Carson, while smart, funny, and occasionally dorky, was not banjo sexy, he was regular sexy. It's the eyes.

Samurai Stomp

Brought to you by Zatoichi, a movie I watched over the weekend. (Thanks to the Kerner for this great gift!)

Zatoichi, released in 2003, takes place in 19th-century Japan. The title character, Zatoichi, is a blind wanderer who makes his living as a masseur and a gambler. But behind his humble façade, he is a master swordsman gifted with a lightning-fast draw, remarkably precise strokes, and nearly supernatural powers of perception. He gets involved in ridding a mountain village of a few gangs of old-school yakuza, a project that also includes a revenge plot (warning: geishas are not what they seem!) and a lovelorn ronin, or rogue samurai.

I loved this movie. It's beautifully filmed and interesting to watch (even if I did lose track of some of the bad-guy gangs for a while). The simple splashes of color really stand out against the more muted backgrounds, starting with the opening credits and carrying right on through, pointing out the bold strokes someone exceptional can paint on life as well as the importance of a calm backdrop on which to paint. The swordplay was excellent, too: quick and decisive like it ought to be, free from the 20-minute-long clashes you see in other martial arts films or swashbucklers.

I especially enjoyed the finale. In the final scenes, a montage of stick clacking and clog dancing appears almost out of nowhere — certainly not what you're expecting after 90+ minutes of slicing and dicing. If you've ever seen the English percussion revue STOMP, which revolves around the rhythms produced by a variety of props like push brooms and garbage can lids, you have some idea what I'm talking about. (If not, visit www.stomponline.com and check out their clips.) I've seen STOMP several times, and a couple of their routines match some of the Zatoichi numbers almost exactly, especially the one where they bang a tall staff on the floor and hit it with a smaller stick. It looks like somebody borrowed from somebody, but I couldn't tell you who, or even if, for sure.

The finale didn't seem out of place to me, as it does to friends of mine, for several reasons. One, there had been other places in the movie where the movements of the actors matched up with the musical score, i.e. four workers hoeing on the downbeat in a big empty field. Two, toward the end, someone mentions that a festival starts soon, so it's no surprise that there's singing and dancing at this community celebration. And three, I see the big dance number as symbolic of the rhythms of life, especially with the switching between the children and the adult geishas they became. So yeah, it was a bit much, but no more so than the gratuitous gore or the blind master's fantastic abilities. And all those bright kimonos in one place were gorgeous.

So if anyone ever asks you what 19th-century Japanese gangsters and 21st-century English street theater have in common, you'll have your answer ready: Zatoichi Two thumbs up.

Today around the world: May 16 is National Bike to Work Day in the U.S. Did you?

Going Jesus

Brought to you by www.goingjesus.com.

Going Jesus is a blog by a wiseass woman about my age who works as a church secretary and is presently studying to become a deacon. Her blog, a sassy commentary on faith and modern life, is both hilarious and thought-provoking. Blah blah blah.

What you really need to do, and I mean right now, is go immediately to the sidebar on the left and click the links for Cavalcade of Bad Nativities and Passion of the Tchotchke. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll convert. And you'll definitely say, "Oh my god!"

Just Two

Two words. Just two. Any sentence. Every sentence. Two words. No more. No less. Just two. Try it. Dare ya.

My Shoes Are On Top of the World

Brought to you by a cappella innovators the Bobs.

The Bobs recorded their first (eponymous) album in 1984, and I've been an on-again/off-again fan since 1987 — half my lifetime, for those keeping track at home. So you'd think they'd be better performers by now. I don't mean to imply that the Bobs suck, because they don't. The singing is swell. I enjoyed the show. But in my own personal ideal world, they'd do a few things differently.

For instance:

1. Use their space. I'd like to see them move about the stage more. The Bobs just stand there for the most part. The Flying Karamazov Brothers, their co-entertainers for the evening, had outlined an octagon about 10 feet across on the stage floor to mark places for their set, and the Bobs stayed inside it. Four static, dark-clothed people on a mostly bare black stage: not exciting.

I think I remember reading somewhere that they usually camp it up in lounge lizard-wear for their live shows, so maybe they were sartorially low-key that night to match the FKB, who had a legitimate reason for their all-black attire (contrast with their white juggling clubs). Amy Bob donned a champagne-colored gown during intermission, so at least she was more visible during Act II.

2. Notice us. The Bobs sometimes seem to forget that there are other people present. They spend plenty of time amusing themselves and each other while the audience waits for them the shut up and sing, but if you're not already in on the joke, it's time to break out your knitting. And this is a band that recorded an entire album titled Shut Up and Sing (1993), anchored by a song detailing this very complaint.

3. Dumb it down a bit. Never thought you'd hear me say that, did you? The Bobs expect you to keep up with their murmured cleverness, and to be as impressed with it as they are themselves. They're those nerdy kids from high school who sneered over their hornrims at you for not knowing the latest SCTV catchphrase. They seem to have missed the part about brevity being the soul of wit and carry jokes far past their funniness thresholds. (See also: Da Vinci's Notebook.)

Now, the Bobs are wicked smart; you can't observe their teleprompter-assisted opera medley or the contrapuntal Bach motet without noticing that they've got some serious music chops. As a huge nerd myself, I admire the Bobs for embracing their nerdity and displaying it proudly. But excessive cleverness is not always excessively entertaining; just ask Dennis Miller, if you can find him.

4. Throw me a musical bone. The Bobs don't always sound pretty. Nor are they obliged to; we've got a thousand other a cappella groups to turn to for pretty. They're less interested in the blend than in the creative arranging of the music. Their four disparate voices, three men and a woman, are easy to differentiate pretty much all the time, even when they're making chords. (Amy Bob and Matthew Bob are sometimes too willing to rely on screeching to achieve interesting high-end effects.)

Again, I applaud their willingness to be experimental. I wouldn't want the only New Wave a cappella band, as they bill themselves, to drop that part of their persona. But I would appreciate something a little easier to listen to sometimes. I'm not implying that the world needs yet another arrangement of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" — please, let that cat rest in peace! — I just have a soft spot for traditional four-part harmony. That's a "me" problem, not a "them" problem.

5. Introduce themselves. I appreciate that little bit of connection that comes with the sharing of names and wish the Bobs would take a moment to tell us who they are. Not their lives' stories, just a quick who's who. I only know their names because they're all called Bob. Oh, and I've read their web site (www.bobs.com), where Amy Bob brings a great deal of personality to the scene with her Bob Tales travelogues.

All right, enough kvetching. It probably sounds like I'm sorry I went to the show, and I'm not. They did several things I quite enjoyed. The first was to sing one of my all-time favorites, "My, I'm Large" (from the 1987 album of the same name, which also includes the song titled "My Shoes," from which comes today's band name). It's about the weird tricks the mind plays just as you're about to fall asleep. It's not clever, just interesting. And a little creepy.

A truly cool thing they did was to have Dan Bob, the newest, tallest, and most interesting member of the group, sample and loop a four-track vocal percussion part right there on stage. They then sang along to it with Dan Bob freed up for the low tenor/baritone part. Nice use of technology, and they only did it once. Plus Dan Bob is lanky and cute and has cotton candy hair, so I like him.

Overall grade: B for the Bobs

Today around the world: May 12 is International Nurses Day and International Midwives Day.

Juggle Til You Drop

Brought to you by the Flying Karamazov Brothers, whom I saw in concert with the Bobs on Sunday night. (I may blog the Bobs' portion of the concert tomorrow. No promises.)

This is essentially a Valentine to some of the best jugglers around. Getting the complaints out of the way first:

1. No introductions. (Their stage names are Dmitri, Ivan, Alexei, and Pavel, in case you're wondering, and they're neither really Karamazovs nor brothers, though Dmitri and Ivan are brothers-in-law.) The programs were no help, either, containing only general information about the FKB and the Bobs, and zilch about why the two foursomes were collaborating.

Ivan touched briefly on the reason in what passed for an introduction to the show: Music is a series of events (notes) arranged over time. Juggling is also a series of events (throws and catches) arranged over time. Things that are equal to the same thing are equal to each other. Therefore, juggling = music. Therefore, jugglers + singers. I was all excited about this notion, but neither side referred to it again, so we ended up with a show without a through-line.

2. The FKBs' energy seemed to be flagging. Or maybe it was the half-full house or the lack of audience response. I tried to help with that. When you see four guys juggling a dozen clubs in perfect rhythm while dancing a complicated do-si-do pattern and cracking jokes that are actually funny, you applaud, dammit! Just because they make it look easy doesn't mean it is. I don't think most of the audience realized what they were seeing, which had to be frustrating for the performers.

3. There was one completely gratuitous song and dance number that involved Ivan, Pavel, and Amy Bob in drag, and some jokes about incestuous hillbillies, but no discernable juggling. Huh?

And now for the good stuff.

The FKB do, and always have done, fascinating things with rhythm. Rather than ignoring the soft thack thack thack of club handles hitting palms, they emphasize the sound. Then the rhythm is audible as well as visible, which makes it music on acid. Not that I'd know anything about that, of course.

So Ivan comes out and pulls on little white gloves with something solid sewn into the palms. Each catch, amplified by impact with the gloves and by his throat mike, is distinctly audible. He juggles three clubs in metronomic rhythm, one-two-three-one-two-three. Got it? OK. Then he starts varying the height of his throws, which means a longer time before the catch, which means a longer space between notes. Realize that in order to create a lag on beat 3, for instance, he has to remember to throw higher to create hang tiem on beat 2, so his mind has to be a least one step ahead of what his hands are doing. That's impressive right there. Applaud.

Then the other three guys come out one by one, gloved, and start juggling. They're not in unison with Ivan, though. Each has a separate part, deepening and complicating the percussion, and suddenly it's not just a juggling show, it's a drum line. Applaud!

Then they switch to 5/4 time. All you musicians know how challenging 5/4 time is, right? Think about four guys controlling three clubs each in 5/4 time. Applaud, but briefly, lest you throw them off, until they end the piece. Then applaud applaud.

[Interlude: a juggleless percussion piece featuring cardboard boxes in place of Taiko drums. To get the joke, you have to know what Taiko drumming is. Alas, most people don't, so it just looks like four guys beating the crap out of some boxes. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Applaud, bemusedly.]

Next they add hitting to the mix. Alexei and Pavel stand in front of wooden flats. Each flat has four targets on it, one above each shoulder and one beside each thigh of the guy standing before it. Each target is a drumhead. Maintaining standard three-club patterns, they bang out a percussion duet. Applaud!

The flats go away. Alexei keeps his clubs; Ivan and Pavel each hold a drumhead. They move these targets into the various four positions behind Alexei for him to strike while he juggles, and sometimes they toss the drums to one another as well. Then Ivan bails and Pavel works up a sweat handling both drumheads and all four target positions by himself. Applaud!

But that's not all! Now it's time to add melody to the percussion. Ivan and Dmitri wheel out a marimba. Instead of standard juggling clubs, each man has three mallets with which to strike the marimba bars on the downbeat. Juggling throws go upward, mallet strikes go downward, so they're thinking in two directions at once. Dmitri gets the traditional position with the low notes to his left, high notes to his right. Ivan, facing him from the other side of the instrument, has to play in reverse. They tap out a nice little Bach piece, working in a few two-handed trills while the third mallet spins overhead. If you don't applaud that, I'll rough you up in the parking lot after the show.

So far, no one has dropped either a club or a beat.

[Interlude: a number that involves each guy holding a musical instrument but strumming or fingering that of the guy to his right, with the two end guys juggling three balls between them. Hmm. Applaud? Sure.]

Finally (and I'm sure I'm leaving out a few things) it's time for the jazz concert. Juggling jazz is a lot like musical jazz: some of it is improvised and you can't always tell what's going on. Juggling jazz requires at least two players who start off by passing clubs (or whatever) back and forth in the usual manner but soon begin to embellish their throws — without, they hope, breaking the pattern.

All four Ks participate in the jazz number. Dmitri takes the feed position, standing alone facing the other three. He exchanges clubs with, or feeds, each of his comrades in turn. He's very busy, executing a pass and a catch on every beat. He has to be an exceptional catcher with a cool head, because the other guys are going to be screwing around. The feeder is like the drummer in a musical combo.

The other guys, being less busy, are free to improvise in any way that doesn't mess up the group pattern. They might throw under their legs or behind their backs, add spins and flashes and flourishes, throw extra high within their self-patterns, or throw extra high passes to Dmitri, which requires planning ahead so the pass arrives at the right time. In other words, they're going to show off as much as possible. They're the guitar and horn players.

Juggling jazz allows for mistakes, because with all those clubs in the air, a few drops are inevitable. The goal is to maintain the rhythm while the drops are recovered and the pattern's harmony is restored. Mistake recoveries, which are an art form in themselves, are an expected part of the piece; you just don't know when they're going to occur. (Most troupes, before attempting jazz, will explain this so the audience doesn't get snooty about the drops.) Applaud at will during jazz, any time you see something cool. This will be often.

There were plenty of ooh! moments during Sunday's jazz, including some ultra-high passes disappearing momentarily into the flies, and a few incidents of there being more clubs on the ground than in the air. But the rhythm stayed steady and they all ended together, which means it was great. Applaud whistle *make rock 'n roll devil horns with fingers* applaud.

I can't describe the final number without a PowerPoint presentation and an undergraduate degree in physics (Pavel has one), so I won't try. Let's just say it involves marching band precision footwork and probably looks even cooler from the top of the house than from row F. Applaud woo! applaud!

Then the Bobs join them onstage and there's singing (both groups) and juggling (FKB only, although I would pay extra to see the Bobs juggle) in 5/4 time. Applaud whistle stamp applaud applaud . . . applaud . . . clap . . .OK, I guess they're done.

No encore, only a curtain call. Bummer. But wow!

Overall grade: A-/B+. Needed a narrative. And sorry, but that hillbilly number? I repeat, huh?

Things I wish they'd done because they're my personal favorites but that simply weren't part of this show:

• throwing fire — because fire in a theater is always good, right?

  
  

• numbers tricks (juggling large numbers of things; these are guys who can handle 7, 8, maybe even 9 clubs apiece, but they stuck to 3 each)

  
  

• nonstandard props

  
  

• the restaurant finale, which involves both fire and nonstandard props

  
  

• the two-man roundabout that incorporates dialogue from Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead

  
  

• the famous Challenge, wherein Ivan accepts ridiculous items from the audience to juggle for 10 rounds. If he succeeds, he gets a standing ovation; if he drops, he gets a pie in the face. I once saw him do a potted plant, a sticky glue ball, and a deceptively weighted Bart Simpson doll. It was fantastic. Ovation!

  
  

• bounce juggling. You know those giant keyboard pads you can lay on the floor and play by hopping from key to key? (Think Tom Hanks in Big.) I once saw one of the guys, I forget which, use five silicone balls to bounce-juggle a piece of classical music several minutes long on one of those things. Unbelievable. I've also seen video clips of them throwing silicone balls that bounce up under a table, then back out into their hands, in four-part rhythm — and, naturally, the tabletop has a tonal quality like a tympani drum. AND I've seen contact juggler Michael Moschen do a routine like this by himself with five balls. It's enough to make a girl wet herself. Juggling is too damn cool.

Don't ask for much, do I? I'll just have to see them again.

Today around the world: May 11 is National School Nurse Day.

Sunshine State of Mind

Brought to you by a glorious long weekend.

I'm back from fun in the Arizona sun, coming down from the high of a long weekend and a good trip. I don't know whether I've mentioned it here, but my niece Jocelyn is thecutest child ever. That's not just a doting aunt talking, either; I have photographic proof. She really is more adorable than any other child on the planet. Smarter, too — she has already developed a fine appreciation for her favorite aunt's undervalued ability to make strange faces and funny noises. Her giggle could conquer the world.

So there I was, basking in temps in the upper 70s, talking to Mother Media on Mother's Day morning. She was seeing snow.Snow! On May 8. That's just not right. Being the kind and caring eldest daughter that I am, I made sure to point out to her that I was barefoot on the patio while she was wondering whether her sidewalk was slippery. Love ya, Mom! ;-)

Anyway. Here's how I spent my spring vacation.

When I arrived Friday, Chef Jeff picked me up and took me back to the campus where he and Sister-san both work. I loitered around their offices until quitting time. We picked up little J-Bird from the babysitter and went home for a dinner of grilled meats. Chef Jeff takes the charring of meat, and also Spam, very seriously, and he's very good at it. I ate too much. The Cutest Niece Ever shamed us all by finishing her veggies and asking for more. Then it was bath time, duckie splashy time, and then bedtime. Thanks to an early morning and the time difference, I was first to crash.

On Saturday, we chicks with the wee chick ran some errands and then went to help Jeff with the theatre set he was building. I haven't done set work in 14 years, but my mad painting skillz came back to me like wrecking a bike. I turned a decent pair of jeans into work pants in short order, and I still have some blue and green paint under my fingernails. Probably in my hair, too. I spent at least 45 minutes hanging shower curtains, too (part of the décor). I hate the plastic reek of shower curtains. But I love my brother-in-law.

We cleaned up, then went for a drive into the Superstition Mountains. Breathtaking desert scenery. Many blooming cacti. Many potholes in the steep and twisting road. Many photo ops. We stopped for prickly pear cactus ice cream at the tiny storefront village of Tortilla Flats. I ate too much and bought some extra-tacky souvenirs. We picked up authentic Mexican takeout on the way home, and I ate too much of that as well.

On Sunday, Jeff had more work to do at the theater and departed early. Sister-san and I meant to spend the better part of the day shopping but had to wait until a certain baby, tired from her travels the day before, finished her morning nap. But eventually we got going. Our first stop was at the food court. When I was finished eating (too much), I took CNE onto my lap and obliged her desire to crinkle the wrapper of my sandwich. But baby's hand is quicker than auntie's eye, and she gave the paper a yank that sent leftover gyro flying. D'OH! It must have looked pretty in the air, because at least one of us laughed.

Since it was Mother's Day, I spent some time showing CNE the mirrors in the stores and prying tasty-looking price tags out of her mouth while Sister-san got a chance to try on some clothes. I also snared a striped blouse that would be perfect to wear with my black skirt to the show that night. After stopping to pick up an ice cream cake at Cold Stone Creamery, we made it home just in time to change for the evening.

It was then that I discovered the good news: my black skirt had not gotten wrinkled in my suitcase. The bad news: it hadn't gotten into my suitcase at all. Again, D'OH! With my one pair of jeans all painty and only pajama pants as an alternative, I was high and dry, wardrobe-wise. Fortunately, Sister-san had a skirt with an elastic waistband that I could fit into, so I didn't look too bad at the performance.

What IS it with me and packing lately? When I went to La Crosse a couple weeks ago, I forgot half of what I meant to take, including a bra. This time I had two bras but no skirt. Dad is laughing at me from Heaven right now. He was famous for undertaking a journey armed with nothing but a pair of clean socks — and by "nothing" I mean not even his wallet — more than once. Clearly that gene didn't skip a generation.

Anyway. The grown-ups saw a combined performance by a cappella jesters the Bobs and juggling virtuosi the Flying Karamazov Brothers. The show was good but not great; more on that tomorrow. Then it was back to the sitter's place to pick up J-Bird and back home for Oreo ice cream cake, of which, as you may have guessed, I ate too much.

Monday morning, up and at 'em, on the plane back home. It was hard to say good-bye.

I ended up taking the evening off from classes to catch up on some important stuff — only to get a phone call at 10:00 p.m. from partner-san checking up on me. Yet another D'OH! I had meant to let him know I'd miss our Monday practice but did not do it. Shame on me! Bad partner! Seriously, I did indeed feel bad about leaving him hanging. Worse because he wanted to make sure I was still planning to show up for the after-class May birthday outing tonight. (Since I'm among the honorees, it might be nice if I'd attend.) I will eat too much and laugh too loud and stay out too late rejoicing in the wealth that is my friends.

Today around the world: May 10 is National Receptionist Day in the U.S, Mother's Day in Mexico, Constitution Day in Micronesia, and Senor de la Asuncion in Peru.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!!

I'm in AZ with CNE & family digging being Super Auntie. Who knew my ability to make funny noises would prove so valuable?

Does She Eat Peas?

Brought to you by the late, great Granny W.

Granny W was famous for talking about people who were present as if they either weren't there or weren't competent to answer for themselves. Wondering about my preferences during dinner preparation one night, she turned to my mother and asked, "Does she eat peas?" I was about 18 years old and standing three feet away at the time. "Yes, she does," I replied. But Granny continued addressing her questions about me to my mother regardless of who supplied the answer, and we all got a kick out of it. "Does she eat peas?" has become a family code phrase for the conversational bypass.

And now we're peasing the next generation, namely CNE, the Cutest Niece Ever. At nearly eight months old, she's not quite able to speak for herself yet — but, to her parents' surprise, she does eat peas. They've decided the veggie gene must have skipped a generation, because neither Sister-san nor Chef Jeff eats anything green that doesn't have M&M stamped on it.

I'll have a chance to set a good nutritional example, or at least read some amusing bedtime stories, when I head to CNE's house this weekend. I'll also get to hear that marvelous giggle and watch Princess Chews Nearly Everything pull her knees up into precrawling position. With my handy new camera phone on the scene, I might even remember to take pictures this time. On Sunday night, the grown-ups have tickets to a show that combines a cappella music with juggling (three guesses who chose that one). I'll be there for Sister-san's first Mother's Day as a mom and for my own birthday, so we will definitely encounter some cake and ice cream. If anybody else has half as much fun as I'm going to, they'll be grinning until the Fourth of July.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that BND will be on hiatus until the 10th. To keep busy in my absence, call all your favorite mothers and tell them you love them.

Editor's note: Visitors to the BND home page will notice that I've finally started a blogroll (Recommended Reading: left sidebar; scroll down down down). Recommendations welcome!

Today around the world: May 5 is Ascension Thursday and Cinco de Mayo. Up, up, and ole!

Good Words

Brought to you by idle minds.

Yesterday, I carried on a bit about annoying made-up words. Today, in the interest of equal time, I give you a list of made-up words I like.

• Confidiocy: confederacy of idiots. This term was accidentally coined by a friend of mine who flubbed a reference to Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy O'Toole.
  
• Elewobble: the unsettled sensation of still being on an elevator even after you’ve disembarked; see also wimbly.
  
• Excessful: excessively successful; conspicuously consumptive.
  
• Fattitude: either a big fat attitude or an attitude about being fat.
  
• Fiberglasted: flabbergasted by something made of fiberglass.
  
• Florble: to flap and wobble, as fat tissue in motion; to shake like a bowl full of jelly.
  
• Prostidude: a male prostitute. Dude!
  
• Velosophy: velocity + philosophy: thinking faster than you can speak.
  
• Wimbly: a melding of weak, dizzy, and trembly; see also elewobble.
  

Got more? Please share.

Today around the world: May 4 is Casinga Day in Namibia.

Bad Words

Brought to you by all sorts of people.

Some things are better left unspoken. At the moment I'm thinking specifically of made-up words that really should have been left unmade-up, the kind that make you cringe when they pop up in conversation or print. Such as:

• Cabulance: a cab/ambulance. Please pick one.
  
• Feminazi: a woman who's so overzealous about feminism as to appear Nazi-like. Come on, that's just offensive.
  
• Femtor: A female mentor, with fem in place of men because some feminazi wants to make sure you know she achieved her wisdom without any pollution from icky men, thank you very much.
  
• Freemium: a free premium or gift with purchase. A premium is by definition a gift with purchase — which means it's not free, because you had to buy something to get it.
  
• Guesstimate: a guessed estimate. An estimate is a guess; otherwise it would be called a fact. (Thanks to AnnaK for hawking this one up.)
  
• Seancert: a concert by powerpop underdog Sean Altman. Love the singer, hate the word.
  
• Showmercial/infomercial: a commercial that looks like an entertainment program or documentary. A commercial is a commercial no matter what face you put on it, but these kinds are especially annoying because you might get tricked into watching them thinking they're some weird new show. (Salute to the well informed General for these.)
  
• Spanglish/Franglais: mixtures of Spanish or French with English. We already have words for that, like pidgin and patois. (Gracias beau coup, AnnaK.)
  
• Theirself: used in an attempt to write non-gender-biased prose. As in, "Each employee should make theirself familiar with the handbook." I'm willing to take the clunkiness of "himself or herself" over the downright wrongness of "theirself" — but what I'd really like to see is, "All employees should make themselves familiar with the handbook." Or better yet, "Read the employee handbook."
  
• Threepeat: used in sports (and probably elsewhere) to indicate repeating something that's already been done twice, like earning a third championship in a row. This one wouldn't bug me so much if I hadn't started hearing "fourpeat" soon after it emerged. That's just wrong.
  
• Webinar: a web-based seminar. One of the worst corporate jargon offenders ever!

Send me more! Send me some Good Words for tomorrow's counterpart to today's list, too, words like prostidude and confidiocy.

Today around the world: May 3 is National Teacher Day in the U.S. and World Press Freedom Day internationally — two of the most important things we can appreciate and honor, if you ask me.

don't call us, we'll call you

Does everybody know about the national Do Not Call registry? Call (888) 382-1222 to put your phone number — home phone, cell phone, whatever — on a list of numbers telemarketers cannot call. Call from the number you want blocked. Or go to www.donotcall.gov to register online.

Sock Salad

Brought to you by Mother Media.

Mother Media went shopping the other day and came home with salad ingredients and athletic socks in the same bag. What's wrong with this picture? Nothing, I suppose, provided she remembered to put the socks away before making the salad.

Mother Media had been to the Super Wal-Mart that was recently built near her hometown. There had been a regular Wal-Mart there for several years. The area's residents, while paying lip service to the "independently owned stores are better" party line, thronged to the place. Sure, ideally they would have preferred to get their goods from their friends and neighbors on Main Street, but when you're in a hurry — and who isn't? — it really is easier to make just one stop at Wal-Mart.

But dominating all retail markets in a 30-mile radius wasn't enough for Wal-Mart, so the regular store was recently torn down and a new Super Wal-Mart instead. The Super store retains all the departments of a regular Wal-Mart, plus a bank, a grocery, and an optometrist, among other things. "Great, now our local grocers will go out of business, too! Why'd they have to be so greedy?" said the residents as they stampeded through the doors.

Business ethics and civic pride aside, we're talking about a town that was a key feature of the Old West. Cowboys, Indians, prospectors, ranchers, stagecoaches, bandits, sheriffs, madams, the whole bit. This town is not above romanticizing its historic roots to attract tourists.

Now think back to those old days, or at least to what you read about them in the Little House on the Prairie books. What was the social centerpiece of frontier life? Wasn't it the general store? The place where the gals could stock up on flour, sugar, coffee, fabric, and gossip at one counter while the menfolk picked up seed, feed, harness, and news at the other? Huh? Wasn't it?

And isn't Wal-Mart just a larger, better-lit version of the same thing? Come on, you know it is. Super Wal-Mart is the general store of the 21st century. This small-town residents should be delighted that history has come full circle, shouldn't they?

Well, yes and no. As I was growing up in that area, my parents ran a small store in a small town and depended on their neighbors' patronage for their daily bread. They walked the talk, shopping at their customers' businesses in return, and taught their children to do the same. That sounds very noble until you realize they had no choice. Their friends' stores and offices were often the only ones within 10 (or 20 or 60) miles, so you either shopped close to home or not at all.

Now small-towners have a choice, and they're excited. Shopping someplace new, even at the expense of the old, is a guilty pleasure. And when you weigh that philosophical/social expense against the monetary savings that can come with shopping at a major national chain store . . . well, suddenly the idea that charity begins at home localizes to one's own home.

We've all complained that our small towns are losing their character, and we've all shopped at the big chains rather than supporting the little guy. It's a dilemma: convictions vs. convenience. I don't have a solution. I'm not delighted with sock salad, but I will admit to being glad it's on the menu.

Today around the world: May 2 is the King's Birthday in Lesotho, Easter Monday in the Julian calendar and — get this — Dos de Mayo in Spain.