Category: Family

HEY BALLERS. There will exist, this week, an unprecedented Wednesday Night Basketball because that’s when Ian will be here. There will be games and pizza. There will be shouting. Tuesday Night Basketball will not happen, because we will need the evening to fortify the apartment against you barbarians, but if Scott and Yale and Kilz0r are available we should try to do the thing with the stuff, that night. Right?

PS If you have pledged money toward the Bring Ian Home Fund and want to give it to us so you get to sign the card, the next few days would be ideal for that–we’ll be handing it over Wednesday night. (If you have already paid but can’t be there, we will forge your signature.) Thanks very, very much to everyone who has helped with this!

I associate exclusively with overachievers

  • As my mother reports, my sister will be interviewed for an appointment to continue studying at Oxford. My predictions are on target so far! Yay Caitlan!
  • I have been thinking lately of what a little expletive I was from, oh, about ages nine through nineteen; my hyper, piping self-absorption stands in sharp contrast to Sumana’s high school martyr complex, but I still identify strongly with the behavior she describes. I wish my motivation had been as progressive as hers, and I wish I regularly could come up with the kind of beautiful phrasing she uses at the end of the column. (But read the whole thing first, dammit.)

My cousin Bruce came home Friday, for the first time since his kidney failed and he suffered acute pancreatitis. The survival rate for the severity of his illness is, they say, almost as bad as it gets. Bruce is a statistic (the only good kind).

I am ashamed to admit that while I wrote to Bruce, I never made time to visit him in the hospital in Indianapolis. My life experience has taught me to dislike and fear hospitals; I know that’s nothing next to what Bruce must feel now. I’m just glad he’s home.

Maria and I are bringing Ian home from LA for Thanksgiving, so he can eat food that is not peanut butter or jelly. It turns out that plane tickets around that time cost some money! We have the flight already reserved; he’ll leave early Wednesday morning, the 23rd, and return Sunday.

If you would like to help make Ian come home for Thanksgiving, we would really like it if you’d give us some ten or twenty bucks. Cash or checks are fine, and I can give you my mailing address if you have to mail a check. We’ll have a card for him that you can sign and I will even make you out a receipt.

He won’t be around for Tuesday Night Basketball, so maybe we can have a special-occasion Basketball on a different night instead. I think that would be fun. Imagine that it is like a charity benefit party, and you can deduct its cost from your taxes! Except you can’t, but come on, like you pay taxes anyway.

My family is a shotgun shell

My sister has landed by now, I think. Mom and Kyle and I saw her off at the airport yesterday evening, carrying her life in four bags bigger than herself. Caitlan is a packrat. She is also a genius. She’s going to have a degree from Oxford and I could not be more jealous or more proud.

Today is my brother’s birthday, and he is alone in Los Angeles, sans roommate, sans internets. Happy birthday, Ian. I’ll call you later and tell you that you should go to a bar and let drop that you’re alone on your birthday on your first week in California. If you can’t wring some makeouts out of that, you’re just not trying.

I saw the Neo-Futurists doing their show Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind last Saturday night, courtesy of Unstoppable David Clark. I am going to see them again next weekend, at the 2:30 matinee on either Saturday or Sunday. Tickets are $25-$28 and you, you personally, had damn well better come with me. We can get a 10% discount if we scrape together ten people.

The Neo-Futurists are fucking amazing.

You can find all this out by going to their website, but because other humans are apparently lazy about clicking, here’s what happens: there are five performers and thirty (original) plays. They do, or try to do, all thirty plays in sixty minutes. They’re microplays. You understand why I am smitten.

The thirty plays may happen in any order, because they’re numbered and the troupe will do whatever number they hear the audience yell out as soon as the previous play is over. They also swap out 1d6 plays every night and replace them from a larger pool, so by this Saturday it might be a completely different show from what I saw.

As if this wasn’t enough, there is a seven-item checklist that I personally keep for determining whether or not any given show qualifies as performance art. The list is as follows:

  • A person under a black cloth hood doing something ridiculous
  • Giant diapers
  • Performers dancing in the aisles and trying to get audience members to dance too
  • Large pictures of female genitalia
  • People eating money
  • A man rubbing his nipples with an expression of fiendish glee
  • The throwing of raw meat

And I shit you not, the version of the show I saw included six of those seven items. And it worked, because they were completely self-aware and loved it and laughed at themselves. They made metahumor work on stage. This is a feat akin to picking up litter with the pointy part of the Chrysler Building, and I’d only previously seen it done by the pre-Intel Blue Man Group.

I am completely serious about you coming with me to the show this weekend. Call or email me if you want me to add you to the possible-group roster, and I’ll tell you by Wednesday whether we have enough people. If the show sells out they’ll buy us pizza. I’m serious about that too.

Ian, I wish you could have been there. David Flora, the Neo-Futurists are from Chicago and they do this every week up there, you bastard, why haven’t you seen it yet?

I made myself wait two days to write this up because I didn’t want to rave and gibber and then be embarrassed when the high wore off. I’m raving and gibbering anyway. If you’re in Louisville, you need to come see the show.

I saw my paternal grandmother again today.

Mam-Maw: When are you going to quit growing?

Me: (totally inured to this question from grandparents) Oh, gosh, I think I’m done growing now–

Mam-Maw: No, I mean fatter.

What the hell, B button.

Everyone’s a-tizzy about the controller for Nintendo’s next console. By “everyone” I mean “all my friends are nerds.” In case the article I linked is still down, allow me to summarize for you:

  • it’s a TV remote
  • with a thingy that goes in it

The general reaction is positive. It’s new and different! It’s not the ten thousandth attempt to recreate the Dual Shock! You move the whole controller to move things on screen! (Yes, lovely, and check out the front end. That’s an IR panel. Want to know what happens when you point it straight down?)

My reaction is not positive, and this morning I remembered why: I am one of a rarefied set of humans who have actually played a video game with a remote before. That’s right. There was, for some time, in my living room, a Philips CD-i. I tried to swing a katana with it. I directed a claymation man through an Egyptian sewer. And, though I’m not ungrateful to Bruce for letting us play his video games, the fact of the matter is that its user experience

STOP READING HERE, MOM

sucked a dog’s penis.

Metaphorically.

You didn’t stop reading, did you, Mom? Sorry.