A few weeks ago, I received a review copy of Mama Said Nog You Out, the new holiday album from our friends The Jimmies. It is an absolute kick, one of those perfect "kids' albums" that works just fine for us grownups, thank you very much. Lucas and Zoe have made the band's version of "I'm Gettin' Nothin' For Christmas" their official, unironic, yet highly appropriate theme song. You can and should it download it over at iTunes, or you can run out to Barnes and Noble if you prefer packaging and actually discs. In the meantime, here's a sample, featuring my kids. Lucas has been listening to a lot of Jay-Z lately, it seems.
Let's cut to the chase: 'twas the night before The Night Before Christmas, and you totally borked on getting the dad(s) in your life a present. Not to worry: we got your back. Here's a few last minute gift ideas for you from us.
Jason: I love getting books for Christmas; getting someone a great book is about as thoughtful as you can get, IMHO. Here's a few suggestions.
Susan Russo's The Encyclopedia of Sandwiches and Recipes Every Man Should Know. Susan Russo is a great food writer (check out her blog here), and these two books compliment each other well. Perfect for the foodie dad, or the wanna-be foodie dad, both are chock full of great recipes and helpful suggestions.
Neal Pollack's Jewball. Our old friend Neal Pollack boldly decided to self-publish this novel; yes, we're helping a brotha out by promoting his book, but I'd do so regardless, because this tale of Jewish basketball players in the years leading up to World War II is a blast.
Brian K. Vaughan and Tony Harris' Ex Machina. This celebrated comic book series is available in trade paperback; I downloaded issue #1 for free over at Comixology and was hooked. The story of an average guy who becomes super-powered (in this case, given the ability to communicate with control any type of machinery with his mind) has been done before, but Vaughn puts a whole new twist on the genre when his protagonist becomes the mayor of New York.
TwoBusy: The single best thing I read this year: Alden Bell's The Reapers Are The Angels, a stunningly beautiful zombie novel. Yes, you read that correctly: beautiful. Think of it as Cormac McCarthy's The Road meets World War Z, filtered through the voice of Flannery O'Connor. The imagery, the lyricism, the characters... plus, y'know, zombies. I read several remarkable novels this year - including John Hart's The Last Childand Emma Donoghue's Room, which were both outstanding - but The Reapers completely blew my socks off. Absolutely worth seeking out.
The single best thing I heard this year: the self-titled debut by Winged Victory for The Sullen, in a narrow win over the veryveryvery different The Big Roar by The Joy Formidable. Winged Victory is the kind of thing I simply don't have the musical vocabulary to adequately describe: it's a series of neo-classical collaborations between composer Dustin O'Halloran and Stars of the Lids' Adam Wiltzie that manage to be so wordlessly powerful and deeply emotional that it's almost impossible to listen to the album without feeling like the world around you has slowed and changed into the saddest, most haunting film you've ever seen. A truly gorgeous piece of work.
The Holmes: Does Dad love beer? Does he have a bit of the DIY spirit about him? Perhaps he'd like to try his hand at brewing up his own beer. Get him stared with The Complete Joy of Homebrewing. Or maybe Dad likes shiny things that go zoom through the air. RC helicopters are crazy-cheap these days. Or does Dad get bored sitting in a cube all day? Bring a little excitement to his workday with some weapons of siege warfare.
Kevin: Combine Dad's love of Star Wars and cocktails with theHan Solo in Carbonite Silicon Ice Tray. It's perfect for sucking back icy whiskeys while watching the 47th re-re-remastering of The Saga and bitching about how George Lucas has yet again played you for a sucker.
FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm totally lagging on reviewing the following four flicks that were sent to me for such purposes by powerful people who expect that they'll receive timely coverage in return. However, since three of the four movies were already in theaters, I don't feel too bad.
Hey! Tomorrow's Friday! Weekend! Whoop! And since many of you will apparently be housebound with your kids, here are three recent Blu-ray releases and one new theatrical release that may or may not be worth your or your kids' precious time.
Two of this summer's big kiddie flicks, Cars 2 and Winnie The Pooh, are now out on glorious Blu-ray. I managed to miss both when they were in the theaters, and for my sins I'm sure the kids will force me to watch them until my eyes burn out. Both are surprising, in opposite ways. Winnie The Pooh is simply lovely, a true movie for children: coming in at about 60 minutes, it's the perfect length, the hand-drawn animation is warm and comforting, and the way the A.A. Milne story literally comes to life on the screen, with words serving as part of the background, is clever and endearing. Disney proves that there is still a place for traditional animation, and Winnie The Pooh is a classic that can stand proudly next to the studio's most famous offerings.
This has been going on for weeks: "Dad, can I go as Killer Croc?" "No." "Why?" "Because no one knows who Killer Croc is." "Oh. Then can I go as Cad Bane?" "No." "Why?" "Because no one knows who Cad Bane is." "Oh. How about Nick Fury?" "Do you want to shave your head?" "No, I mean THE ORIGINAL Nick Fury."
Sigh. At least he's considering costumes that a few of his second grade classmates might get. And regardless of what he ends up wearing, we draw the line at letting him dress up like The Situation. Unlike these kids' parents.
As I'm wont to do when I have a ton of stuff on my plate, I turned over the job of reviewing the new Blu-ray release of The Lion King (disclosure: review copy provided by the good folks at Disney) over to my kids; this was done in one take, in compliance with Federal and state child labor laws. Regarding technical quality: the picture is, of course, fantastic, and I highly recommend cranking your 7.1 channel surround system to window-shaking levels for the opening "Circle of Life" sunrise sequence. Hakuna matata.
There's a fucking heat wave, in case you haven't noticed.
And there's only so much time you can spend in the pool before your hands and feet start to prune.
Which, in and of itself, is one of the major conundrums of human biology.
But that's another story. This one involves some "What's your Transformers name?" questionnaire they stumbled upon on the computer which had the question: "Where do you feel most at home?"
Of the four multiple choice answers, I chose that I feel "most at home in the mosh pit."
This astounded my boys. Why they thought I wouldn't know what a mosh pit is or that I would feel home in one confused me. It was yet another moment of self-discovery between a father and his sons.
Of course, like this post from Jason, a dialogue between us ensued. I discussed the finer points of the pit and explained that it was called slam dancing back in my day. Moshing wouldn't enter the musical vernacular until sometime in the early '90s.
Anyway, I told them there was a technique and etiquette to it in the beginning before it turned into some thug headed act of violence. I told them the pit is a young man's game but that I still occasionally enjoy a trip into it from time to time...
Take the pop hits of the day. Sift the bump-and-grind rhythms through a Size 45 Lawrence Welk cone filter. Scrub in some Ajax to remove any hint of naughtiness from the lyrics ("brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack" in Tik Tok by skank dance queen Ke$ha becomes "brush my teeth and then I go and pack" ... yet it still leaves a scummy film on my skin after listening.) Finally, let a Holiday Inn warbler share the lead vocals with some truly average sounding children who fill in the chorus and harmonies with their screeches.
Bland as instant oatmeal but, geez, it beats that Satanic turdgrinder Raffi. His music has been known to wake coma patients just long enough so they can unplug themselves.
Now, the whole Hair Metal scene back in the '80s -- that I never understood. Guys in Tammy Faye Baker makeup, teased tresses and Spandex print pants tight enough so the high notes flowed like Jesus juice at a sleepover at Michael Jackson's house. I can vaguely understand how some teenybopper girls confused about their sexuality might have longed for those dudes from Ratt, but pubescent hormones are the Devil's Good 'n' Plenty .
Therefore, I have been totally mystified by the entire industry of Bret Michaels, headbanded ex-honcho of Poison.
Since his re-emergence in the Rock of Love reality series in 2007, his status as a "rock legend" has grown and I can't understand why other than the fact I'm not regularly sedated. The adulation the man receives with every appearance on the latest cheesy reality show, overblown award show and supermarket opening is truly mind boggling.
Yeah, he's a diabetic but so was my Polish great aunt and she could rock a polka on the accordian 50 times as hard as "Talk Dirty to Me." Oh, yes, he has a hole in heart, too -- probably stemming from the saccharin buildup that finally leaked out into his "greatest" hit, the nadir of suburban white boy power ballads "Every Rose Has a Thorn."
But unleashing his lameness on the children of America -- nay, the children of THE WORLD -- that is something we must stop.
http://youtu.be/-k2D7IfcO0w
Please contact Razor & Tie, a once respectable indie label, and beg them to stop the madness.
Or at least beg them to send you a copy of any Laurie Berkner CD they stock. Now, there's someone who can rock my cradle of love any day.
I play the lottery - Powerball - a few times a month.
I've been to Atlantic City about a dozens times but stuck strictly to the slot machines.
Never been to Vegas.
Not that I don't take risks, I'm just not that into gambling.
I have friends who play poker religiously and have had co-workers who make annual trips to Las Vegas, but for me the appeal has never sucked me in quite the same way as it does other folks.
But I do like a good bet.
I make bets often with my boys.
This soccer season, while his older brother was practicing, me and my youngest son Cole would throw rocks and sticks into the pond by the fields. A few months back we noticed a bobber hanging from a tree branch.
We made a bet and the bet was that you had to make a direct hit on it with either a rock or stick. It was about twenty feet out and twenty feet up. Whoever got a direct hit would net $20.
"What happens if you hit it Dad?" He asked.
"Well then somebody is going to owe me $20," I said.
After a few weeks of attempts, he gave up and he'd do homework, read a book or kick the soccer ball around.
"I wonder if the bobber's still there, Dad?" he asked last week.
We walked over behind the gravel parking lot to the tree-lined pond and found that not only was the bobber still there but two others had join him.
He picked up a half a dozen sticks and fired away.
The last stick hit the bobber dead on.
"You owe me money!" he hollered.
He put out the palm of his hand and said, "Pay up."
I didn't have any money on me so we drove to an ATM machine.
I didn't want to welch on my bet - I withdrew a crisp twenty dollar bill and handed it to him.
He took the bill, drew it under his nose, and inhaled.
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