The Bitter Buffalo

Purdygirl decided to tell me last night she's skipping out on Coachella this year (I think she knew this long before last night, but elected to wait until THREE NIGHTS BEFORE OUR FLIGHT to tell me...), which means I have a useless plane ticket from RDU to LAX (I'm hoping the airline will at least let me use the empty seat, since I did pay for it and all) and a couple of passes to Coachella 2005 that are, in fact, far from useless. I'm offering those tix to the first reader of this blog who can get to Indio, CA at noon on Saturday. We've (we, meaning me and Bill Cross) got a place for you to sleep and a car to get back and forth between the polo grounds, the condo, and the airport. You need only to bring money for water and food. Best part -- the temperature is predicted to be a good twenty degrees cooler than it was last year (I wish I could say the same about the lineup, but it's still pretty cool in its own way).

Send me an email if you're interested. Here's a link to the lineup: Coachella 2005.

If I don't find a buddy who can be there, I'll try to hawk the stupid things on eBay. Blah.

So, as the result of a certain set of circumstances, Bill and I ended up watching American Idol the last couple of nights. I had forgotten, in my total avoidance of reality tv, how atrocious this show is. Now granted, I did my best to keep my nose in my book, but the irritating flash and noise from the show drew my attention inevitably. I so don't care. These folks are terrible singers, choosing awful songs. Simon's cracks are as canned as I've ever heard lines, and he sits there and waits patiently for the first guy's middle-of the-road-trying-to-be-constructive comments to end, then Paula Abdul's overly cheerful, cheerleader-y (think too much pep from HS) unfailingly positive comments to end, so he can use the line he's pulled off his cuff for this performer. I mean literally off his cuff, or the leg of his jeans, where he's written them. These shows are, to me, the tangible results of the dumbing down of America. Congratulatons.

So a couple weekends ago we were working on cleaning out our basement/family room. As part of this process I opened up a trunk in which was a big teddy bear I had as a kid. There he was, Big Charlie, just where I put him years ago. I hadn't really seen him in a long time. Hadn't missed him. Hadn't wondered where he was. I figured that since I obviously didn't miss him while he was packed away I ought to pack him in with all the other things we were taking to the Goodwill. After more packing, culling of stuff and loading the junk in the car off we went.

I put Big Charlie in the donation bin along with several sweaters, books long ago read and never to be read again, and a bunch of other stuff. After dropping the stuff off we went into the store to poke around and see what was to be seen. We picked up a couple childrens books for the kids and a recent best seller for myself. As we were walking out of the store I caught Big Charlie staring back at me from the donation bin. Suddenly I felt awful. It was as if I had written off part of my childhood. Betrayed my friendship with Big Charlie. Almost as if I was abandoning him. But, I willed myself to listen to my rational side not my emotional side. I hadn't missed him all the years he was packed away. I never once wondered where he was or longed to play with him. I was doing the smart thing, I was clearing out space. I was getting rid of the old and making room for the new. I did run over to him, gave him a final squeeze and followed my wife and kids to the car.

For much of the remaining day I wondered if I did the right thing. Should I have kept Big Charlie? Was I being overly sentimental? Did I betray part of my childhood? I was really amazed that I felt as conflicted and sorrowful over this as I did. I thougth about driving back and "rescuing" him.

In the end I didn't go back. I didn't retrieve Big Charlie. I don't feel so bad about it anymore but I suppose that the next time we go to that thrift store I'll avoid the toy aisle. Partly because I'd be sad if he wasn't there because some kid brought him home. Partly because if I did see him it would mean that nobody wanted him, this part of my childhood. Funny, I never expected to feel this way.

This list was so good, it got me a t-shirt -- the first time I've ever been paid for my writing (also, Cross was disqualified since he already won once)! Here it is, in all its uncensored glory...

Top 11 things you can spell with the letters in "Gerard Patrick Angello"
11. A repackaged ring troll
10. A droll pancake trigger
9. Greet a lord, Carpal King
8. Erik A. Grog, Placental Dr.
7. Torn griller package ad
6. A killer gardner got a PC
5. "Kelp," a retard conga girl
4. Prenatal lick rag, gored
3. Gargle a rectal porn kid
2. Rig gold tar, anal pecker
1. Large dick raptor angel

Happy birthday, Patrick!

Please, please, please....if anyone who works for NPR reads this...

DO NOT TALK TO ANY MORE PILGRIMS IN ROME. I have no issues with covering the demise of the Pontiff (although it is admittedly a bit much), but then, I'm not in the car that long and am easily distracted trying to dodge bad drivers in POS pick-up trucks with tons of junk precariously balanced in the bed. And yes...there is a particular type of driver that does this.

Does this irritate anyone else? Listening to Manuel from Spain: "We stood in line for 16 hours. It was a hard night for us."

Listening to Pavel from Poland: "We stood in line waiting to see the Papa for 13 hours. It was very difficult for us, but we're glad we're here."

Ugh. Every day for a week now.....have they buried this issue yet?