2020 . . . Spooky Stuff (The Safety Dance vs. The Chinese Curse)

Yesterday afternoon, the EB English Department held our 9th Annual Scary Story Contest. We write scary stories on a theme, throw in twenty bucks, read them anonymously, and then vote and award prizes. 

The theme was "It's Perfectly Safe" and I had no desire to write anything, let alone a fully developed short story. I was sick of screen time because of the technological soul-sucking abyss of hybrid school. Stacey and I usually collaborate, but we couldn't find time to flesh out her idea. 

So instead of a story, I wrote a scary poem. I framed it as a Facebook post, ostensibly written by a woman who thought she might have some magical powers and wanted to use them to change the course of this fucked up year. Over the course of the post, she descends into madness.

It was fun to write, but, I didn't realize how hard it would be to read. The poor lady who got my piece (Cunningham) nearly descended into madness trying to perform it. I snagged third place, which was an accomplishment-- the stories were really good this year.

Here's my scary poem-- which is both appropriate for Halloween and the looming thing which may not be spoken of. If you like it, post it on Facebook . . . maybe it will work.

                                                 The Chinese Curse

What’s on your mind, Blair?

video photo feeling

What’s on my mind? Do you really want to know, Face-suck? 

Or do you just want to mine my data? 

What’s on my mind?

The Chinese Curse, that’s what. May you live in interesting times. 

October 31st, 2020. Interesting times. Four more days until the election. Two more months left in this mess of a year.

Interesting times suck. I can't get them off of my mind. Or out of my mind.

But maybe, I can change things. Have some control. Do some lexical magic. 

At least over you, my so-called Facebook friends . . . in my so-called life during this so-called pandemic. Maybe you’ll pass my incantation along and this year will turn itself inside out.

What if I could cast a spell?

Dissipate this weary hell?

I should at least give it a try. My mom used to do tarot readings. I might have some kind of gift.

Hocus-pocus, maybe I can learn to focus?

Zuckerberg’s clairvoyant vision

Find this with your algorithm:

Make my post go super-viral

Pull us from this deadly spiral.

It was the year of twenty-twenty,

It is the year of twenty-twenty . . .

Twenty-twenty, twenty-twenty

Why do you rub me

in this way?

Why can’t you love me?

You push and shove me

Day by fretful day by day.

Boil and bubble, Trump is trouble, 

O Lord don't let him win the double

Yes! Let my soul turn to lead 

and sink to hell if he were dead.

If he were dead, if he were dead.

Banish these thoughts from my head!

My busy brain should not be fed

By such bitter vengeful bread.

Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies 

covid covid we all fall down . . .

Safety, safety, safety first

Safety dance, the Chinese curse

Living safely is the worst

But is it better than the hearse?

Lady liberty not Trump tower

Used to give our country power.

Hippies filled their hair with flowers.

Now . . .

abortion makes Coney Barrett sour.

Blues and reds, they all glower--

Children at the border cower.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword.

But what if the Populus is polarized and bored?

Pandemic, plan-demic

A fiction Democratic.

You have my word 

November third

It disappears like magic.

Meatpackers work, shoulder to shoulder

The policy gets colder and colder.

Carcass, virus, 

virus, carcass . . .  

Cut that meat or they will fire us.

Covid covid, we all fall down.

Black lives matter, blue lives matter,

George Floyd’s ashes we must scatter.

Pitter-patter pitter-patter

The blood of Rayshard Brooks did spatter--

Tasers, guns I’ll take the latter.

Breonna Taylor’s door got battered.

Some say the world will end in fire,

But for migrant workers, 

ICE will suffice.

That’s great, it starts with an earthquake,

Birds and snakes and aeroplanes,

Dave Chapelle is not afraid

Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn

While the outback burns and burns.

It’s the end of the world as we know it,

Grandma don’t feel fine at all.

Covid covid, we all fall 

down.

Fly of Pence, tongue of Stone,

Bannon’s nose hair

Kushner’s throne

Ivanka’s fabric

Mnuchin’s money

Tongue of Miller

Pompeo’s arm

Mix these for a deadly charm.

Yes! Let my soul turn to lead 

and sink to hell if he were dead.

I make this bargain readily,

Like Faustus with Mephistopheles . . .

I wear my mask and then I sneeze

Don’t stare at me, pretty please.

Here we are now, entertain us.

TV shows to make us famous,

Social feeds will try to change us

We bare our souls, can you blame us?

Bail out the airlines and the banks,

To Donald Trump we give our thanks.

The rest of us must share the wealth--

And hope he subsidizes health.

Plumes of smoke, tear-gas, fire

Men in armor, guns for hire

We're all so very very tired

But am I preaching to the choir?

Twenty-twenty when you end

Will our fractured country mend?

Or have we gone around the bend?

I see two paths, both portend.

Yes, two roads diverged in yellow wood . . . 

One repulsive, one not so good

Three roads, four roads, five roads, six,

There will be no easy fix

Epstein’s minors turn their tricks.

Safety dance, safety first

Safety is the Chinese curse

Will November make it worse?

What rough beast slouches towards Washington to be reborn?

Once I pondered weak and weary, on a scientific theory

Then I learned of QAnon and thought: “Fuck yeah! IT IS ON!”

Now I fight the pedophiles,

Me and Trump, we do battle

The rest of you are sheep and cattle

Do your research on Seattle

Protesters, they mass and gather

Law or chaos, would you rather?

Widening on the turning gyre, 

the center cannot hold

Things fall apart, it’s getting cold

The virus once again grows bold

Airborne particles

Fake news articles,

Winter is coming, enjoy the carnival.

My thoughts grow wild, I can’t control them, 

I wish that I could turn them off,

I wish I were allowed to cough 

I wish that I could turn them off 

I wish I were allowed to cough 

until my lungs come out my ears and throat

The devil is inside a goat

Bubble, bubble Trump is trouble

Will he be elected double?

Twenty-twenty, a dozen more?

Will he change the terms to four?

Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan

Let’s enact a travel ban!

Illhan Omar and AOC

Want us all to work for free.

Socialism . . . not for me . . .

We mourn the mighty RBG.

Twenty-twenty, you have offended,

But in a year, will all be mended?

Perhaps we have just slumbered here

While these visions did appear?

No . . . this is no idle theme--

It’s not a dream, it’s not a dream

I give you full consent to scream.

Stop these thoughts, away begone!

Yet they continue on and on . . .

What’s on my mind, Facebook feed?

I can’t choose which way to proceed.

I cannot do a single deed.

I’m paralyzed and by booze and weed

Safety safety, safety first

The safety dance, the Chinese curse

Living safely is the worst

My brain won’t stop until it bursts.

I poke and scroll on my phone

There’s no such thing as home alone.

O lord I feel so weak and weary, fatigued and futile, eyes so bleary,

My mask lies soiled and forgotten, dirty, dusty smelling rotten

Fallen from the special spot on my car mirror to the floor--

Now I need it, I must retrieve it, I’m on an errand to the store.

But can I enter? Dare I enter? I do not want to touch the door--

The doorway entrance, a deadly sentence, full of germs I can’t ignore.

What’s on my mind?

Only this and nothing more.

Facebook-- make this post go super-viral,

Release me from this deadly spiral,

I’m feeling mad, my mind is wild,

Like a surly red-faced child--

I want to stomp and throw a tantrum--

Redrum, redrum! REDRUM!

Murder mayhem bloody-mary

Twenty-twenty, you shock and scare me

Like some spider black and hairy.

I can’t sleep my way through this disaster

Twenty-twenty: you are the master

Of my whirling anxious brain--

Release me from this grisly reign.

Dash these thoughts against the stones,

Let them live among your phones,

Free me from these dreadful times

Cast this spell, release these rhymes.

What’s on my mind, what’s on my mind?

It was the year of twenty-twenty,

It IS the year of twenty-twenty.

Only this and nothing more.

Post                                 

Winning

My 19 year-old daughter wears her heart on her sleeve. I never wonder how she feels about things, because she tells me, in full (and sometimes graphic) detail. I've learned, for example, way too much about how much she's enjoying college. To the point where I told her last weekend that it wasn't necessary to try to live the entire undergrad experience in one semester.

Her 16 year-old sister is another animal altogether. Most of our conversations consist of me asking questions and getting a grunt or an eyeroll in return. I piece together things about her life from her friends and their parents. For example, I learned recently that she's aggressively woke online, a raging lefty who takes no shit. Had no idea. Good parenting. Some of our best interactions, though, involve music. She loves Harry Styles, and so she likes telling me about his stuff (and the other One Direction fellas). I take what I can get.

So imagine my delight (and emotions) when my older daughter texted me a Spotify link to a playlist called 'cool dad', made by my little one. It's a mix of stuff that's in her wheelhouse (Louis Tomlinson from the aforementioned One Direction, for instance) and stuff that I've turned her onto that I had no idea had penetrated her awareness (The Connells! Wilco! The Clash! Son Volt! The Housemartins! The Avett Brothers!)

It was a good day, y'all. Enjoy cool dad, courtesy of my grumpy youngun.

De La Soul is not Dead

 De La Soul is not dead.  In fact, they have a new song featuring Pharoahe Monch, Talib Kweli, Styles P and Chuck D.  Enjoy.

BREAKING NEWS: It's Alright...

...because we're (about to be) Saved by the Bell.

On November 25, NBC's streaming service, Peacock, launches the next generation of television that's so bad it's good. Friends, I give you the trailer for Saved by the Bell 2020.

Zack Morris is now the Governor of California (and married to Kellie Kapowski), and he's implemented a new education reform program that brings underprivileged kids into overprivileged schools to create new opportunities. A.C. Slater returns as a Bayside physical education teacher (the first words of the trailer? His "Hey, Mama" to Elizabeth Berkley's Jesse Spano). Belding is gone, but in his place, the genius comedic stylings of John Michael Higgins, slumming it far from his superb work partnering with Christopher Guest, et al. 

Alas, Dustin Diamond didn't make the cut. I expect him to crash the party at The Max at some point.

I'll be live-tweeting right along with you guys over the Thanksgiving Break.

Vehicular Update

At this very moment, an employee of the valet service that lost my keys at The Graduate hotel in Richmond is driving my pristine 2013 Honda Pilot northward to my residence. I assume it looks something like this:

I'll keep you posted in the comments section.

Caption This

I was driving down the Main Street of my town this week. I found myself behind this vehicle and its interesting cargo. If the bear was in any other position, I may not have paid it much mind. But it was in a seated position, with its head sagged down, amid a rubbish-filled bed of an industrial truck. 

Who's got the best caption? Winner gets a home-cooked Hungarian Beef Goulash dinner from Zman. 

I'll start with two: 

"Now that's a damn shame, when folks be throwing away a perfectly good teddy bear." 

"I had no idea Ted 3 was filming in our town." 

Freak Power Friday

"The only way to cope with the power is not to ignore it, but to get it." 

Afternoon, ladies and gents. Today is Friday October 23rd. It means that today is the day that a New Hunter S. Thompson documentary is being released. This documentary is called Freak Power: The Ballot or the Bomb. It covers Thompson's attempt to run for sheriff of Aspen, CO in 1970. The parallels of the chaos in America at that time, versus the chaos in today's America, are noteworthy, especially when seen through the lens of HST and his movement, whose logo is a two-thumbed hand holding a peyote button. 

There is a good Instagram account to follow (@freak_power) that has put out a steady diet of content over the last few months that draws the parallels. I was debating putting together a lengthy post on this, but didn't because lazy. But the crux of Thompson's legitimate campaign was on police reform, changing drug laws and land development/the environment. Sound like prescient themes to anybody today? 

The trailer for the documentary is below. It is available on Amazon and Apple. 

Whitneypedia: My Name Is Michael Caine

Resting in Peace, a couple of rockers from yesteryear.

Spencer Davis, whose namesake band released the all-timer "Gimme Some Lovin'" in 1966, when singer Steve (then called Stevie) Winwood was just 18. The song went to #7 on the Billboard US Hot 100. Also covered by The Blues Brothers for their film, that version went to #18. Mr. Davis was 81.



Tony Lewis, bassist and vocalist for the band The Outfield, known almost exclusively for their massive 1986 hit "Your Love." Josie's on a vacation far away and all that. It went to #6 on the US Hot 100, one better than GSL. Mr. Lewis was 62 and British, which you cannot tell from his singing. He claimed his friends said he spoke like Michael Caine, and that wouldn't do well in a rock song.



Unless you're Madness and you have a pop song with Michael Caine saying "My name... is Michael Caine" in the middle of the song! The song is called... wait for it... "Michael Caine."

And if you like how Michael Caine speaks and/or silliness, check out this scene from The Trip.

Until the next time... Gimme Some of Your Love, Michael Caine.

Words Have Meaning

Chimichanga. Bad hair day. Erectile dysfunction. Kwanzaa. Punk rock.

Contrary to appearances, this is not Whitney's Google search history spelled out for all the world to see.

But there is a connection to many of us here in the Gheorghieverse.

Teppanyaki. Shambolic. Labradoodle. Guilt trip. Gigabit.

Any ideas yet? Maybe these will help:

Agent Orange. China Syndrome. Cut fastball. 'Fro. Strong safety.

Not exactly man, woman, person, camera, television is it? 

All of this fun comes to us courtesy of the fine people at Merriam Webster. The words and phrases in italics above all appeared in print for the first time in 1970, the year you were born, if you're cool. Follow the link to find your own birthyear firsts. (They may not have computers old enough to capture words for Fairbank and Mr. KQ.)

If you're postvasectomy, the Merriam Webster Time Traveler project will at least give you something to do to kill time.

Lego My Ego

Today is the day. Now is the time to take that inner creative streak and create something that wasn't there before.

A blog post.
An essay.
A painting, like our fratre Doug Malone does.
A misanthrope haiku, like our fratre Doug Malone did and does.

Or a song, like a few of us attempt.  You should try it. And if you do, here's a starter kit for you... 

Jeff Tweedy, singer in one of my favorite bands, Wilco, has written another book.  Several years ago he penned a book called Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc. Rootsy bought it and lent it to me a couple of Fishing Trips ago. I have read 80% or so, I just remembered. (Rootsy, I'll finish it up and return it -- thank you, sir, and sorry for the delay!)

That one was an interesting chronicle of his story, his struggles, his successes, and a bit of his thoughts. This one is different.

It's called How to Write One Song: Loving the Things We Create and How They Love Us Back. According to reviewers, it's a demystification of songwriting and an encouraging push for creativity. I'm all for that, and it's on my to-get list.

If we all had more time and inclination, we could start a songwriting contest here at Gheorghe: The Blog. And that Dave or I would have to record every submission in some format.  Gheorghe: The Album would come from it. Perhaps Rob's ode from Cape Cod could be the lead single.

Anyway, short of that, check out someone else's creativity.

Who doesn't love Lego? Other than people who step on a brick with bare feet.

20 Album Covers Recreated in LEGO

From The Toy Zone, someone has . . . done what the title says. Here are a few:

Now get out there and make something. With Legos or otherwise.

On Intercollegiate Sports

Measured and thoughtful, not generally our stock in trade - so we asked our man in the OBX to weigh in on the burgeoning crisis in intercollegiate athletics. A reckoning is upon us, it seems, and while I think the most likely next phase is a substantial reordering of conference affiliation, there are other alternatives worth considering. To wit:

More than 250 athletic teams have been cut at dozens of colleges since last spring, including a handful at a school with which most of the audience is marginally familiar. It’s a development brought on by increasing costs and worsened by a pandemic that’s further stressed the system.

One man wonders if the reductions, painful as they are for the principals and their communities, are all bad. Tom Farrey is a journalist and executive director of the Aspen Institute’s Sports and Society Program, the think tank’s division devoted to games and those who play, coach and administer them. He penned a recent essay in the New York Times that led with the athletic kerfuffle at William and Mary and floated the idea that fewer varsity sports could actually be good for schools, for athletic departments and for students and athletes themselves.

The present Division I college athletic model is unsustainable, Farrey argued, particularly for schools

outside the Power 5 conferences that don’t have access to the revenue streams provided by network TV deals, in-house league TV networks, ticketing, marketing, licensing, etc. For example, the Big Ten distributed $55.6 million per school in fiscal year 2020, according to USA Today. That’s in addition to the revenue that each school generates. The Southeastern Conference paid out $45.3 million per school, according to its most recent filing. The ACC paid between $27.6-$34 million to its member schools. By comparison, William and Mary’s entire athletic budget is approximately $30 million, with almost negligible revenue from its league, the Colonial Athletic Association.

Farrey said that fewer varsity sports can open the door for increased levels of club and intramural sports. In addition to the cost savings for scholarships and coaches and staff, athletic departments and athletes would not be bound by the NCAA’s voluminous rule book. Nor would club-level athletes feel as if their entire college existence were tied to competition, often the case when scholarship aid is part of the equation. They would be responsible for their own coaching, practice and competitive schedules – valuable qualities easily applied later in life.

Farrey wrote that reducing the number of varsity sports means less money pursuing and recruiting athletes and creates the potential for athletic departments to reallocate money for more robust club and intramural programs. I’m skeptical of this argument, since many athletic departments will take any savings and either give it to the remaining sports or perhaps apply it to the bottom line. Athletic departments tend to spend every dime available. And as difficult as it is to manage an intercollegiate athletic program, I don’t see departments setting up club sports administrative structures.

Farrey pointed out another potential benefit: cost savings to students. Student fees at many schools provide a sizeable chunk of the athletic department budget, particularly at non-Power 5 schools. Student fees are tacked onto their bills, in addition to tuition and room and board, regardless of whether they’re sports fans or attend games. NBC News did a piece last spring examining student fees and found that many schools were less than forthcoming about that particular line item. At William and Mary, students pay more than $1,900 annually, which totals $14.5 million for athletics, almost half of its athletic budget, according to the report. At James Madison, students pay $2,340 per year in fees, providing $38.9 million for the athletic department.

It’s easy to foresee a revolt. Students may justifiably demand access to athletic facilities and resources, since they’re helping to pay for them. With student debt increasingly burdensome, fees can tack on $5,000-$10,000 to student loans and further extend payback plans. Any reduction in debt is helpful.

William and Mary likes to think of itself as unique, and it may be. It’s part of the school’s DNA that athletes are integrated into the college community and not separated by virtue of their ability. The school does not have “eligibility” majors or academic tracks. Athletes and coaches often make do with less than their peers, yet routinely challenge for conference championships and postseason berths. The W&M community takes pride in that.

Which speaks to why the school now has an interim athletic director and a loosely organized aim to re-examine its decision to cut sports. Former AD Samantha Huge badly mis-read the room, and her ham-handed efforts were her undoing. To hear some of her detractors and those affected by the decision, she was not only callous but disingenuous (Honestly, the breadth of groups she antagonized and alienated within the college community is impressive).

Huge believes that William and Mary’s present model is unsustainable. She may be correct. A more polished and engaging athletic director might have reached the same conclusion and might have been able to sell the decision, painful as it is. The teams targeted for extinction, and many within the athletic and school community, ask for the opportunity to do it the way they’ve always done it and to remain true to the school’s mission. Whether that’s possible amid the realities of 2020 college athletic economics and a global pandemic whose effects will be felt for years to come is an extraordinarily tough call.

Wire to Wire: You Best Not Miss the Opportunity

As I have mentioned in this space, I underwent surgery last Monday to repair an inguinal hernia. It's been hell, not helped by the fact that I am a baby when it comes to pain and suffering of any kind. The surgery was laparoscopic, so the scarring should be minimal, but there were three incisions and some mesh implanted and major swelling and the drainage, oh, the drainage of blood into the southernmost parts of the region. Stephen King-type effects. No bueno.

Fortunately my one daughter who is still at home and my girlfriend have pampered me with meals and meds and let me be, bed-bound and healing. I'm seriously grateful.

The first couple of days of recovery, I pretty much slept. It's always good to catch up on z's. (It's also always good to catch up with Z, but we only exchanged a couple of texts about music and cars and played the NYT mini crossword puzzle, thrashing Dave daily.) After that, the telly came on. Wow, what a wasteland. I probably need to cut the cord soon.

Somewhere in a haze of oxycodone, ginger ale, Bugles, Advil, and documentaries about cyber conflict, I had a thought. I'm telling you, in that state, that was an accomplishment.

I never saw a single episode of The Wire in real time. We didn't have HBO then; on a budget and living a free-wheelin' life of thirtysomethings, I guess. In March 2008, the series concluded, and Gheorghe: The Bloggers were all agoggers about it. A recent search or two led me to several posts whose comments were dominated by analysis and speculation leading up to the final episode. And there I was, barking at the fact that I wasn't a viewer and wasn't understanding any of the commentary. What a whiny wiener I was. (No need for the follow-up joke.)

When I first got separated in early 2009, I intended to rectify that matter. It was the era of Netflix DVD's, so I had the first two discs sent to my apartment and set about enjoying the fruits of David Simon's labor.  I remember being super excited as I popped in Disc 1 and clicked Play.

It didn't take.

Similar to Dave's sons' reactions, my general feeling was simply that it didn't grab me like I was told it would. The first episode didn't blow me away with gripping drama. I sat through the second. And then I took a pause. Those DVD's sat on my entertainment center (remember those?) shelf for a month. And then I mailed them back, opting in favor of The Dark Knight or Inglorious Basterds or something else more immediately gratifying. Well, as immediate as the United State Postal Service can be.

Fast-forward to 2014 or so. Married again and in a place where I found myself up late at night alone with my thoughts and my television. We had an AppleTV and HBO, so we had HBOGo, an early iteration of streaming the old shows. By then, the fanfare for The Wire had not waned but had rather elevated its stature into all-time status.  Its icon eyeballed me every time I scrolled down to the bottom of the offerings, taunting and tempting me. Watch me. You know you want to. Don't be afraid. I'll be good this time.

I dug in. Nothing better to do.

By episode 6 or 7 of the first season, I was getting hooked. By the end of Season 1, it was on. The Wire was my smack, and I was Bubbles, without all the bad effects.  Season 2 was markedly different... and fantastic. I loved the storyline down on the docks. Season 3... Hamsterdam? Are you kidding me? Just brilliant. I was gobbling up episodes two a night, maybe more. Bunk. Stringer. Avon. Bunny. Ziggy. Lester. And Omar. Just good shit.

Somewhere in Season 4, though, it unraveled, and I could not recall why. It was probably more the plotline of my life showing holes than that of the show. I just stopped watching about midway through.

And this was the bewildering thought that hit me several days ago. Why again did I not finish The Wire??

So, 6 years later, I turned it back on. I re-watched the last couple of episodes of Season 3 to tune me up. I then launched into #4, undeterred. That season, focused on the failings of the school system, is still my least favorite of the five, but (a) it's still damn good, and (b) it absolutely sets the stage for the final chapter. It's the Empire to Season 5's Jedi, and I've always been more of a Jedi guy, despite the conventional wisdom of the sci-fi literati. 

Season 5 had its detractors, but I loved the intensifying desperation and way that some crazy shit shook out. It was a true culmination of a story in one rather terminal conclusion that neither all-too-neatly met everyone's desires / predictions / deserved ends nor left the viewer with a pronounced sense of what could and should have been. It worked.

And the scenes with the staff of the Baltimore Sun fell right in line with everything OBX Dave has published here.

Speaking of everyone's predictions, I found this amusing. The last episode of The Wire fell on March 9, 2008. As I said, tons of gheorghie chatter leading up to it. Prognostications, reflections, criticisms. Even a two-part CAA tournament preview as coupled with characters from the show. As I sifted through these comments after having completed the journey yesterday, I was actually really looking forward to what Team GTB said about the finale. 

What a bust that hope was. 

You see, the College of William & Mary men's basketball team advanced to the tournament finals that same day, and 100% of the Gheorghe focus was, appropriately, on our clear path to a date with destiny. We got stood up on that date, as it turned out, but there was plenty of cause for blog comments on Tribe hoops and not a one for Jimmy McNulty's swan song.

Anyway, in what began as a way to kill time, my return to the gritty streets of the Charm City has made an otherwise painful and miserable stretch of bed-bound days far more enjoyable. For those who haven't seen the show, it's worth the 60-episode commitment -- and do see it through if the jump out the gate isn't a whirlwind sprint. For those who watched it first-run 12-18 years ago, I'd posit that it's worth a trip back to check in on the unit, so to speak. With any episode of The Wire just a quick stream away, it's easy to go back and recall what was so terrific about this show. 

Say hey to Bubbles for me. Always liked that guy.

Thank Gheorghe It's Filler

 It's Friday filler time, and we're mashing things up here at GTB.  Here's a new one...

 

Here's one I hadn't seen...

 

And my all-time favorite, still making me happy.   

 

-------------------------------------------------

AND THEN THERE'S THIS

   

Elon Really Wants Us to Buy a Tesla

I am not a Tesla guy. They look cool. They sound cool. Some models have a legit "ludicrous speed" function. Two neighbors of mine have them. They like them. I like the idea of EVs displacing ICEs (internal combustion engines, for you laymen and laywomen). And I like the idea of getting the far left's collective panties in a bunch by reminding them that cheap, abundant natural gas produced from hydraulic fracturing is the likely source fuel powering their car. But I don't have one. My primary car is a leased 2018 Jeep Cherokee. The lease is cheap (sub-$400/month), the technology is decent, and my primary need with that vehicle is to lug kids, sports gear, shrubs for the town mulch area and other detritus around my town. So I drive that. My wife drives the "nice" vehicle in my family. She keeps the inside in a shabby condition, which drives me nuts, but perhaps that is a post for another day. 

One day, I would like to have a toy vehicle. Maybe a three-wheeled motorcycle or one of those fun looking dunebuggy-type vehicles you can take on the road. 

But maybe a Tesla would work too. And Elon Musk sure knows how to whet my appetite. Tesla announced on Tuesday that it was lowering the price of its Model S "Long Range" sedan to $71,990. But Mr. Musk announced another cut last night (a mere one day later!), bringing the price below $70,000. 

The exact price, you may ask? $69,420. Those numeric strings sound familiar to anybody around here? Elon Musk and his "I'm worth $90B, people love my car and I have no fucks to give" attitude are on full display here. 

If you buy your car and then want to show your Tesla pride, feel free to buy some red satin shorts with a Tesla logo. They're nice for the ladies in your life. The shorts sell for...wait for it...$69.420. Honest to God. Take a look here if you want. 

Worlds Colliding

My friend Lew is one interesting cat. He grew up in Northern Virginia, attended Mary Washington College (now the U of MW), and landed here in Norfolk after marrying one of the best friends of one of my wives. (Still not one of my favorite expressions.) The dude's occupation, if you had to nail it down... inventor.

He's worked for tech companies and done lots of jobs. He's got patents on various devices, including a cool man-overboard device from a decade or so ago. In his spare time he distills whiskey, enjoys papal ballots and the Ip Man film series, goes to shows of various kinds (he loves GWAR and Phish), and generally is one of the more interesting people with whom I can hang out around this town.

I used to hang out with Lew more, but busy schedules and divorces often get in the way. His in-laws are super-Greek and own one of the best sports bars/Athenian restaurants in town, and I used to spend Greek Easter at their place enjoying lamb, Ouzo, lamb, Mythos, and lamb. Seriously... out back of the house they have an attached brick rotisserie where the lamb was on a spit, and for an appetizer we had lamb chops. Opa!

We do still get to hang out on occasion and get after it... it's been long enough since D2 that his wife and I are friendly again and he and I can be idiots shotgunning beers on the beach or enjoying gelatinous party favors whilst manning the fire pit in out buddy's back yard.

I used to go to concerts with Lew a bunch as well. Back when people did such things. We would see Pink Talking Fish, Umphrey's McGee, The Cult, or whoever was playing at either the Norva or the Portsmouth amphitheater. 

What was most fun was when he would drive his spare vehicle to the shows. I remember a Phish show and a few others where he would dust off his baby: a 1965 Land Rover 109 Series IIA Dormobile. Awesome, bumpy, open air fun.

I titled this post what I did because I just saw a social media post of his that says: "I'm going to miss having a vehicle with a hand crank, but hopefully another family can have just as much fun as we did with the Dormobile." 

And now it's up at Bring a Trailer.

No Reserve: 1965 Land Rover 109 Series IIA Dormobile

I can drive it to you if you buy it! (I think.)