The days following the passing of Christmas are always a bummer. The decorations are still up, the department stores still play Christmas carols, but ya know, it’s all empty.
It’s like being at a funeral for a really popular friend. Or a parent.
Yeah, a parent.
Daddy New Year is still there for you, but he kind of drinks a lot, and his liver ain’t too good.
Oh, well. At least in heaven, it’s Christmas every day. Being dead must rock.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
Rock the vote!
Here's a little experiment... I want each and every one of you to go to the Statesboro Herald on-line poll and vote.
Trust me, there's a right answer. This is shamelessly lifted from Dailykos, but:
Sen. John Cornyn: "None of your civil liberties matter much after you're dead."
Sen. Russ Feingold's retort: "Give me liberty or give me death."
Also, this'll help a bit towards seeing how popular the ol' Stouthouse is, and just how many people it would take to convince the Herald's publisher that the town is a bastion of good ol' Southern liberalism.
Trust me, there's a right answer. This is shamelessly lifted from Dailykos, but:
Sen. John Cornyn: "None of your civil liberties matter much after you're dead."
Sen. Russ Feingold's retort: "Give me liberty or give me death."
Also, this'll help a bit towards seeing how popular the ol' Stouthouse is, and just how many people it would take to convince the Herald's publisher that the town is a bastion of good ol' Southern liberalism.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Jeez...
So in doing research for yet another look at the alcohol ordinances in Statesboro, I join facebook.com.
I thought it was only for current students, not dried-up ones like me. Turns out I was wrong. Alumni can join.
I found this picture going through groups dedicated to my illustrious Georgia Southern University.
I may just have to change my position on the alcohol ordinances...
I thought it was only for current students, not dried-up ones like me. Turns out I was wrong. Alumni can join.
I found this picture going through groups dedicated to my illustrious Georgia Southern University.
I may just have to change my position on the alcohol ordinances...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Fiberglass?
I got an e-mail yesterday from an ex-girlfriend. We're still on good terms, and she recently had her first child.
Stop thinking that. Not that ex-girlfriend.
Anyway, she sent the following picture, captioned as "Jack's first 'big boy' pictures." She also included the admonition "and Jake - no Photoshop shenanigans!"
The gauntlet had been thrown down.
This:
Plus this:
Equals this:
She wasn't offended. In fact, she seems to have loved the work.
Stop thinking that. Not that ex-girlfriend.
Anyway, she sent the following picture, captioned as "Jack's first 'big boy' pictures." She also included the admonition "and Jake - no Photoshop shenanigans!"
The gauntlet had been thrown down.
This:
Plus this:
Equals this:
She wasn't offended. In fact, she seems to have loved the work.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Sociopath?
Found this picture going through my hard drive. I'm pretty sure it has some psychological significance, but I'm not sure what...
Yes, that's me... and, uhm... me. At roughly 13-14ish and 24-25ish, respectively.
Yes, that's me... and, uhm... me. At roughly 13-14ish and 24-25ish, respectively.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Woo Hoo!
Today, America celebrates the execution of the 1,000th person since the death penalty was reinstated back in the 70s. When the guy was strapped down to get poked with the needle of death, I wonder if alarms went off, accompanied by balloons and confetti streaming down from the ceiling. Or at least a couple of clowns. That would have been cool. Bet the guy would have felt better, too.
Proponents say that beyond needing to stick to the old “eye for an eye” rule, executions are necessary because of prison over crowding.
That’s not really a valid argument considering that 1,000 people executed since 1977 averages out to about thirty people killed a year.
Yeah, that’s really helping to keep the population in check. Thousands going in every year, but don’t worry, we got thirty extra spaces last year.
Just come out and say it: Americans think it's kind of fun to kill people.
Proponents say that beyond needing to stick to the old “eye for an eye” rule, executions are necessary because of prison over crowding.
That’s not really a valid argument considering that 1,000 people executed since 1977 averages out to about thirty people killed a year.
Yeah, that’s really helping to keep the population in check. Thousands going in every year, but don’t worry, we got thirty extra spaces last year.
Just come out and say it: Americans think it's kind of fun to kill people.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Hidden gold.
Remember that swing band I used to play in?
Don't make fun of us too much (4.6mb MP3).
Found some other old recordings of mine, too. I'll be cleaning 'em up and throwing them on the Web soon.
Don't make fun of us too much (4.6mb MP3).
Found some other old recordings of mine, too. I'll be cleaning 'em up and throwing them on the Web soon.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
I'm a player?
Today, I found out that I have arrived (92k .mp3).
Rep. Barrow's press secretary didn't know how he knew today was my birthday. Freaky.
Rep. Barrow's press secretary didn't know how he knew today was my birthday. Freaky.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Haiku
The wind must die down.
The ice becomes the water.
All must be fluid.
........................................
I showed the cops where
Dad touched me using their dolls.
Those were the good days.
........................................
Come down later and
Set hobos on fire with me.
We can watch them burn.
........................................
Children are afraid
Of the dark and often cry.
That’s when to touch them.
........................................
The old Indian
Sang a song of creation.
I gave him smallpox.
........................................
I had a hammer.
I hammered in the morning.
My sister is dead.
........................................
If cancer is nice
And AIDS a gift from above,
Then my life is great.
The ice becomes the water.
All must be fluid.
........................................
I showed the cops where
Dad touched me using their dolls.
Those were the good days.
........................................
Come down later and
Set hobos on fire with me.
We can watch them burn.
........................................
Children are afraid
Of the dark and often cry.
That’s when to touch them.
........................................
The old Indian
Sang a song of creation.
I gave him smallpox.
........................................
I had a hammer.
I hammered in the morning.
My sister is dead.
........................................
If cancer is nice
And AIDS a gift from above,
Then my life is great.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Two things...
Sorry about the long time since a Jake post here. Life's been real busy, what with editing Connect Statesboro (don't judge me by the site, I have almost nothing to do with it) and playing in County Line.
Here's what's up in my life.
1) Got a haircut.
2) I apologize, since I try to refrain from such language on-line nowadays, but this is fucking brilliant. It's by far the best album I've heard this year. Give it a shot.
Here's what's up in my life.
1) Got a haircut.
2) I apologize, since I try to refrain from such language on-line nowadays, but this is fucking brilliant. It's by far the best album I've heard this year. Give it a shot.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The future looks bright?
The older I get, I find myself with things on my mind that I never would have conceived of ten years ago. True, I’m not old enough to have problems that are too big. My friends haven’t started to die off, and barring any kind of accident or act of violence, won’t for a couple more decades. But there are still things that get me a little worried, things that remind me that I too am getting older, and as my age progresses, that my body, society and nature will only let me down.
Like the cyst on my tailbone that fills with blood and puss every so often and swells to such painful proportions that I’ve had to get it lanced twice at the emergency room. When I first got it towards the end of college, I was concerned. I thought maybe I was getting cancer or maybe that I had developed some rare bone disease that was manifesting itself just inches above my ass. It turned out to be neither neither, just a cyst that’s not really rare because it plagues a lot of men, but not enough men to be common knowledge. After all, my dad did a pretty good job of letting me know what the future of being a man held, and what it meant in particular for man with the Brennaman name, and cyst above my ass was not one of them. But I deal with it.
However, what replaced the fear of the cyst being cancer or a bone disease was a constant fear of the cyst not draining on its own. Being lanced twice now, the cyst has proven to be more resilient than I first thought. There was a year long interval between the lances and after each one, the cyst slowly filled back up. The cyst hurts. When it fills, it hurts to sit, to walk, to lie on my back, to make any sudden movements or to even sneeze. Most of the time when the cyst fills, it’s been self draining. Nasty to be sure, but rarely is a trip to the hospital required.
But after two lancings I’m in a constant state of semi-fear that every time I feel a little swelling on the back side that this will be the time that I’ll have to go back to the hospital. I’m 26-years-old, and like an old man doing a mental check list every time a new ache shows up, I too wonder if this will be the day that I’m back at the hospital, ass in the air, waiting for a doctor to plunge a knife into my tailbone, only to refill it with several inches worth of gauze that I will have to pull out in a week’s time.
I’m also at that age where the future matters more than ever. It’s the number 30 that’s to blame. It’s a scary number that makes it official that, by all rights, you are no longer a child. In your 20s, you can still get away with being childish, indecisive and immature. In your 30s, the rules change and society says it’s time to get your shit together. A career needs to be settled on, or at least be in the process of beginning and people don’t really appreciate a 30-year-old man child. Or, at least, so I’m told.
30 is a scary age in that life, as society presents it, should be the time we’re finally settling down. Dreams and goals should be reevaluated, the dead weight cast aside in favor of a mortgage payment, children and well manicured front lawns.
I don’t want that, and so 30 can get lost. Yet, like a crazy mother-in-law, it refuses to. Like the cyst on my tailbone, that magic number creeps into my consciousness every now and again, letting me know that every day, it’s closer and closer. I try to laugh at 30. I tell it that I’m still more than three years away, to which 30 snickers while pointing to the last decade of my life and how that has sped by and at warp 9.9, that the times I thought would never end not only ended, but are rotting away in the grave yard of my memory.
And the big bang of life keeps everything expanding ever farther out. Friends that were a tight, luminous cluster are now speeding away from each other faster every year. People that were always going to be by your side call less and less, if at all, and you know, deep down, that that last time you were all together three years ago was the last time all of you will be in the same room ever again.
I’m like everyone else, though. I do my best not to think about things like that too often and go to my job, sit at my desk and make nice with the co-workers. I pretend that a few of them are my pals, but co-workers can never really be your friend, not like your old ones at least. How can they be? They never “knew you when,” and in the end, everyone that shares the carpet with you in your office is looking out for number one. Sure, you all complain about management at lunch, and promises are made about united fronts and “if you go I go,” but when the shit goes down, and it always does, those pacts all fall a part.
Change really is constant. Life is never the same and friends and family all go away.
But my cyst won’t. My cyst, like a bad marriage, will hold. No matter what happens in my life, my cyst will still be there, steadily filling with blood and puss, showing up when I least expect it. I could have it removed, but all the doctors have said chances are it’ll just come right back. So I’ve come to quietly appreciate it as my one constant. When everyone else is long gone, and I’m alone, sitting on the porch of the retirement home, it’ll be just me and the cyst, looking back at what life once was.
Like the cyst on my tailbone that fills with blood and puss every so often and swells to such painful proportions that I’ve had to get it lanced twice at the emergency room. When I first got it towards the end of college, I was concerned. I thought maybe I was getting cancer or maybe that I had developed some rare bone disease that was manifesting itself just inches above my ass. It turned out to be neither neither, just a cyst that’s not really rare because it plagues a lot of men, but not enough men to be common knowledge. After all, my dad did a pretty good job of letting me know what the future of being a man held, and what it meant in particular for man with the Brennaman name, and cyst above my ass was not one of them. But I deal with it.
However, what replaced the fear of the cyst being cancer or a bone disease was a constant fear of the cyst not draining on its own. Being lanced twice now, the cyst has proven to be more resilient than I first thought. There was a year long interval between the lances and after each one, the cyst slowly filled back up. The cyst hurts. When it fills, it hurts to sit, to walk, to lie on my back, to make any sudden movements or to even sneeze. Most of the time when the cyst fills, it’s been self draining. Nasty to be sure, but rarely is a trip to the hospital required.
But after two lancings I’m in a constant state of semi-fear that every time I feel a little swelling on the back side that this will be the time that I’ll have to go back to the hospital. I’m 26-years-old, and like an old man doing a mental check list every time a new ache shows up, I too wonder if this will be the day that I’m back at the hospital, ass in the air, waiting for a doctor to plunge a knife into my tailbone, only to refill it with several inches worth of gauze that I will have to pull out in a week’s time.
I’m also at that age where the future matters more than ever. It’s the number 30 that’s to blame. It’s a scary number that makes it official that, by all rights, you are no longer a child. In your 20s, you can still get away with being childish, indecisive and immature. In your 30s, the rules change and society says it’s time to get your shit together. A career needs to be settled on, or at least be in the process of beginning and people don’t really appreciate a 30-year-old man child. Or, at least, so I’m told.
30 is a scary age in that life, as society presents it, should be the time we’re finally settling down. Dreams and goals should be reevaluated, the dead weight cast aside in favor of a mortgage payment, children and well manicured front lawns.
I don’t want that, and so 30 can get lost. Yet, like a crazy mother-in-law, it refuses to. Like the cyst on my tailbone, that magic number creeps into my consciousness every now and again, letting me know that every day, it’s closer and closer. I try to laugh at 30. I tell it that I’m still more than three years away, to which 30 snickers while pointing to the last decade of my life and how that has sped by and at warp 9.9, that the times I thought would never end not only ended, but are rotting away in the grave yard of my memory.
And the big bang of life keeps everything expanding ever farther out. Friends that were a tight, luminous cluster are now speeding away from each other faster every year. People that were always going to be by your side call less and less, if at all, and you know, deep down, that that last time you were all together three years ago was the last time all of you will be in the same room ever again.
I’m like everyone else, though. I do my best not to think about things like that too often and go to my job, sit at my desk and make nice with the co-workers. I pretend that a few of them are my pals, but co-workers can never really be your friend, not like your old ones at least. How can they be? They never “knew you when,” and in the end, everyone that shares the carpet with you in your office is looking out for number one. Sure, you all complain about management at lunch, and promises are made about united fronts and “if you go I go,” but when the shit goes down, and it always does, those pacts all fall a part.
Change really is constant. Life is never the same and friends and family all go away.
But my cyst won’t. My cyst, like a bad marriage, will hold. No matter what happens in my life, my cyst will still be there, steadily filling with blood and puss, showing up when I least expect it. I could have it removed, but all the doctors have said chances are it’ll just come right back. So I’ve come to quietly appreciate it as my one constant. When everyone else is long gone, and I’m alone, sitting on the porch of the retirement home, it’ll be just me and the cyst, looking back at what life once was.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Better than you?
In the time that I've been blogging, I’ve noticed that, like every other geekly pursuit (and yes it is a geekly pursuit no matter how you try and dress it up) lines have been drawn in the digital sand as to what constitutes good blogs.
Simple fact #1: Not everyone enjoys what I write about or how I do it. Doesn't hurt my feelings. I've been a real writer for sometime now and the first lesson you learn is that no matter how good you think your stuff is, someone out there is going to think an autistic kid with a pack of crayons could have done better.
So, I think it would only be fair to talk about those blogs that just escape me. The blogs that I read and say "you gotta be kidding me." Keep in mind I'm not so pretentious as to think that they're style is the wrong way, just that I feel like making fun of someone this morning and they drew the short straw. These people are funny in how serious they take blogging
I call these jaspers "I really want to work for Newsweek" bloggers, and I blame them on Wolf Blitzer. For the past few years, the mainstream media has been giving a ridiculous amount of attention to the these people, and that attention only serves as validation to the these kids. The wannabe Newsweek writers seem to have come under the assumption that they're real reporters, or worse, columnists. Writing about you particular political viewpoints is one thing, but actually believing that you are Spider Jerusalem is just delusional. What's worse about these kids is that they think that their particular style of blogging is the only relevant and meaningful way to blog. They criticize others whose blogs they find to be too much like "diaries," as if ranting about state politics is any different.
Not every person who writes about politics falls under this category though. Just the ones who honestly believe that they are on par with Maureen Dowd, Cal Thomas, and hundred other blowhards. Commenting on politics is fun for the whole family and I enjoy a good political rant. But the ones that think that their readership numbers in the millions are just annoying. While there are exceptions (there always are) most political bloggers are just like the rest of us: The only people reading what they have to say are their friends and the occasional troll that stumbles across their work.
These are an arrogant bunch not because of the content of their blogs, but because of how they look down their noses at people who use FREE blogs to write about the goings on in their lives or whatever bloggers decide to use the FREE blogs to write about.
Of course there are subsets of folks like this. There's the "I wanna be a columnist for Sports Illustrated," the "I think I'm Peter Travers" and the "Can I be the next Pat Robertson" folks.
I like my blogs to be like my friends: Unique with an independent voice. If someone wants to write about their new job, that's fine. If all they want to do is make inside jokes to their friends, great. I don't have to read it, but there is something fun about getting to peak into a total strangers life and what they're doing day to day.
But pretentious bullshit? That I can do without.
Simple fact #1: Not everyone enjoys what I write about or how I do it. Doesn't hurt my feelings. I've been a real writer for sometime now and the first lesson you learn is that no matter how good you think your stuff is, someone out there is going to think an autistic kid with a pack of crayons could have done better.
So, I think it would only be fair to talk about those blogs that just escape me. The blogs that I read and say "you gotta be kidding me." Keep in mind I'm not so pretentious as to think that they're style is the wrong way, just that I feel like making fun of someone this morning and they drew the short straw. These people are funny in how serious they take blogging
I call these jaspers "I really want to work for Newsweek" bloggers, and I blame them on Wolf Blitzer. For the past few years, the mainstream media has been giving a ridiculous amount of attention to the these people, and that attention only serves as validation to the these kids. The wannabe Newsweek writers seem to have come under the assumption that they're real reporters, or worse, columnists. Writing about you particular political viewpoints is one thing, but actually believing that you are Spider Jerusalem is just delusional. What's worse about these kids is that they think that their particular style of blogging is the only relevant and meaningful way to blog. They criticize others whose blogs they find to be too much like "diaries," as if ranting about state politics is any different.
Not every person who writes about politics falls under this category though. Just the ones who honestly believe that they are on par with Maureen Dowd, Cal Thomas, and hundred other blowhards. Commenting on politics is fun for the whole family and I enjoy a good political rant. But the ones that think that their readership numbers in the millions are just annoying. While there are exceptions (there always are) most political bloggers are just like the rest of us: The only people reading what they have to say are their friends and the occasional troll that stumbles across their work.
These are an arrogant bunch not because of the content of their blogs, but because of how they look down their noses at people who use FREE blogs to write about the goings on in their lives or whatever bloggers decide to use the FREE blogs to write about.
Of course there are subsets of folks like this. There's the "I wanna be a columnist for Sports Illustrated," the "I think I'm Peter Travers" and the "Can I be the next Pat Robertson" folks.
I like my blogs to be like my friends: Unique with an independent voice. If someone wants to write about their new job, that's fine. If all they want to do is make inside jokes to their friends, great. I don't have to read it, but there is something fun about getting to peak into a total strangers life and what they're doing day to day.
But pretentious bullshit? That I can do without.
Monday, November 07, 2005
And now a Joe Ben Deal update...
Yes, our old friend, Joe Ben is still living it up in New York and look, is that Kathy Lee Gifford on his arm? Why yes, yes it is.
We all knew that Joe Ben would fall into bad things, what with him being so nice and all, but this is just horrible...
Monday, October 31, 2005
Is that your baby?
No one wants to admit that they may have an ugly baby. Why would they? To do so would be an open admission that their genes are shit or their partner is some kind of latent mutant, covertly spreading their vile DNA using you as an accomplice.
Either way, you end looking bad. Bad genes or mutant wife? Which one is it? It's gotta be one of the other.
But sometimes people try and work around having an ugly baby, and Halloween is the perfect time of year to try and pull this off.
364 days out of the year, there's no way to draw attention away from your ugly baby. You can put an ugly little girl in a cute little dress or an ugly baby boy in an adorable baseball jersey featuring the Cookie Monster at home plate, but all people are gonna see are nice clothes going to waste on a lumpy turd that can gurgle, wave it's misbegotten hands about and spoil a perfectly good diaper.
But at Halloween? Why, that's the night that ugly babies get a free pass. On Halloween, people's hearts soften to the plight of the ugly baby. Maybe because they're accustomed to seeing ghouls, zombies and hobgoblins, or maybe it's because the ugly baby compliments the unholy day so well.
Halloween is the one day a year that the parents of ugly babies can breathe a sigh of relief, sit back and pretend that their child isn't a morlock that would be better served by being raised by mole people in the sewers beneath the cities of man. They can take their misfits and parade them around the normal looking children without fear of persecution or ridicule (because that's what they deserve). Halloween is the one day that ugly babies, and even ugly children, can walk in the light with pride...
Unless they're ugly AND retarded. Then keep them locked in the basement where they belong.
Either way, you end looking bad. Bad genes or mutant wife? Which one is it? It's gotta be one of the other.
But sometimes people try and work around having an ugly baby, and Halloween is the perfect time of year to try and pull this off.
364 days out of the year, there's no way to draw attention away from your ugly baby. You can put an ugly little girl in a cute little dress or an ugly baby boy in an adorable baseball jersey featuring the Cookie Monster at home plate, but all people are gonna see are nice clothes going to waste on a lumpy turd that can gurgle, wave it's misbegotten hands about and spoil a perfectly good diaper.
But at Halloween? Why, that's the night that ugly babies get a free pass. On Halloween, people's hearts soften to the plight of the ugly baby. Maybe because they're accustomed to seeing ghouls, zombies and hobgoblins, or maybe it's because the ugly baby compliments the unholy day so well.
Halloween is the one day a year that the parents of ugly babies can breathe a sigh of relief, sit back and pretend that their child isn't a morlock that would be better served by being raised by mole people in the sewers beneath the cities of man. They can take their misfits and parade them around the normal looking children without fear of persecution or ridicule (because that's what they deserve). Halloween is the one day that ugly babies, and even ugly children, can walk in the light with pride...
Unless they're ugly AND retarded. Then keep them locked in the basement where they belong.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Truly, this is the son of God
I'm a fan of Jesus.
I like what he preached, like his lessons on life, and like how he did business. And while I'm not one hundred percent convinced that he was actually God in human form, there’s no denying that he was a great human being (one of the best), and one that should be followed. As far as historical figures go, he's at the top of the list of the ones that I respect...
Which is why I'm dressing up as the Lord for Halloween.
It's not the first time I've gone as Jesus for Halloween, but when you have hair that's getting as long as mine is, it's pretty fun to be able to dress as the Messiah.
However, some people don't take too kindly to people dressing up as their God. For some reason, they get agitated and feel like they should pick a fight with whoever the jerk dressed like Jesus is. Last time I dressed as Jesus, it was only because of my dear friend Logan Thomas and his massive build that kept a small group of frat boys from taking out their drunken, right wing, Christian Coalition aggression out on me. When you have a guy that looks like he could give Superman a run for his money at your side, you can get away with practically anything.
But this time, I hope things are different. I hope some drunk redneck comes up to me while I’m out at a party and starts to lay into my face with his fist. I'm not a fan of pain, far from it actually. I find that it hurts very much. That said, though, I just think it would be funny for other people to see some asshole beating up the son of God, making his face a bloody mess and rendering him unconscious. And believe me when I say, I would refuse to throw any punches of my own in self defense. Why? WWJD of course. Turn the other cheek. People see a scene like this, why, that's something they'll take with them their entire lives. Until the day they die, they’ll remember the time that Carl beat the shit out of Jesus Christ.
And like the real Jesus, I’ll leave one Hell of a legacy.
I like what he preached, like his lessons on life, and like how he did business. And while I'm not one hundred percent convinced that he was actually God in human form, there’s no denying that he was a great human being (one of the best), and one that should be followed. As far as historical figures go, he's at the top of the list of the ones that I respect...
Which is why I'm dressing up as the Lord for Halloween.
It's not the first time I've gone as Jesus for Halloween, but when you have hair that's getting as long as mine is, it's pretty fun to be able to dress as the Messiah.
However, some people don't take too kindly to people dressing up as their God. For some reason, they get agitated and feel like they should pick a fight with whoever the jerk dressed like Jesus is. Last time I dressed as Jesus, it was only because of my dear friend Logan Thomas and his massive build that kept a small group of frat boys from taking out their drunken, right wing, Christian Coalition aggression out on me. When you have a guy that looks like he could give Superman a run for his money at your side, you can get away with practically anything.
But this time, I hope things are different. I hope some drunk redneck comes up to me while I’m out at a party and starts to lay into my face with his fist. I'm not a fan of pain, far from it actually. I find that it hurts very much. That said, though, I just think it would be funny for other people to see some asshole beating up the son of God, making his face a bloody mess and rendering him unconscious. And believe me when I say, I would refuse to throw any punches of my own in self defense. Why? WWJD of course. Turn the other cheek. People see a scene like this, why, that's something they'll take with them their entire lives. Until the day they die, they’ll remember the time that Carl beat the shit out of Jesus Christ.
And like the real Jesus, I’ll leave one Hell of a legacy.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Update on the fair!
UPDATE: Remember the piece I wrote about the fair, and Mrs. Oxy? It seems that the next day at the fair, they had a problem with her shorting people on change.
Go frickin' figure.
Word is she's now looking for a new job. I hope to God the carnies didn't drop her off near my neighborhood.
Go frickin' figure.
Word is she's now looking for a new job. I hope to God the carnies didn't drop her off near my neighborhood.
Oddness.
Quick post, but I think this is possibly the weirdest picture I've ever taken. It was at the Portal Turpentine Festival last year.
I don't even remember the context.
I don't even remember the context.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Hyuuuurk...
I like the fair. I like the exhibits, I like the art shows, I like some of the bands, I like the nice Kiwanis guys here in Statesboro.
The rides aren't so bad, either. Some of them, anyway.
The traffic and the crowds can suck it, though. I had no idea there were so many young rednecklings zipping about.
The guys between 14 and 18 are the worst, but I won't get into that.
The fair's also a great place to spot fashion trends. Last year I learned that John Deere apparel was getting big with the black kids. Now it seems the Eazy E look is coming back.
A couple of guys had masks on - one had a hockey mask, another one had the guy from Scream. I wasn't impressed, but they were taller than me, so I didn't make fun of them too loudly. I commend them on their brave fashion choices, however.
I should've brought my camera. But then I couldn't have gotten on the rides, since I don't exactly trust carnies with expensive electronic equipment.
Tonight was "wrist stamp night," or more accurately, "indelible flourescent paint on the back of your hand night." I approached the ticket booth quickly.
Inside was a skanky looking older blonde woman, her eyes heavy lidded. She pointed her head at me, without actually opening her eyes.
Okay, they fluttered a little bit.
"I need two hand stamps," I said.
Nothing.
Dead silence.
Silence that stretched.
It got uncomfortable.
Finally, she half-opened her eyes. "I'm waitin' for you to say something. Whaddaya want?"
Oh, shit. She was slurring, and speaking more slowly than John Wayne after a five-week bender with Lee Marvin.
"I want two handstamps." I said it a little harsh. I wasn't in the mood to deal with whatever her particular dysfunction (two links!) was, seeing as I had just fought through traffic and parking, and was surrounded by lots of people.
I don't like being surrounded by lots of people.
I handed her two twenties, and she veeeerrrrrryyyy slowwwwllllyyy put them in the cash box that was six inches away from her hands.
It took her roughly 30 seconds.
She wasn't reaching for my change, either.
At this point, the midget sitting in the other ticket window looks over at me, disappointment in his eyes.
"What do you want?" he mouthed.
"Two handstamps," I said. I honestly thought that Ms. Oxycontin had passed out. Her eyes were closed again, and she had stopped moving, her hands in the cash box.
She snapped to unlife, her eyes half-opening again. "I heard you when you said it the first time," she said.
Midget sighed and returned his attention to his window after telling Ms. Oxy to hand me my change.
She did, and handed me one ticket for a handstamp with a speed normally reserved for three-toed sloths, Christmas and load times for Windows 98.
This was not right. I needed two tickets, and she seemed to have retreated back within the ever-smooth folds of her wee carnie brain.
"I need two of these," I said.
Midget sighed a little louder. Ms. Oxy opened up, ripped a ticket and handed to me. As I reached to get it, her eyes opened all the way.
She looked at me with a burning stare. Our eyes locked.
"You know, I really hate this job," she said.
"I understand completely," I replied, walking off.
Immediately after, I noted that I had to tell some of the nice Kiwanis guys about this. After all, if she hates her job so damned much, I'm sure she won't mind losing it.
Anyway, I figured that'd be about it for my fair blogging experience. 'Twas not to be.
I was convinced to go on more rides than I normally do. Bumper cars, fine. Tilt-a-Whirl, fine.
Heck, I even planned to go on the bobsled ride, but the lines were frickin' ridiculous.
Rides that sling me in the air? No way. Rides that send me upside down? No fucking way.
Going to the fair last year and watching carnies set up eqiupment hasn't helped my anxiety. Here's a picture:
What it comes down to is that, at least as far as my personal safety is concerned, I'm a total pussy.
Anyway, I was convinced to try the swings. I lived.
So far, so good. Feeling brave, I hit "The Orbiter," basically a scrambler that kicks you up in the air (but not upside down).
I started feeling a little queasy the first go-round. Then, the prerecorded voice-over blasting over the speakers on the ride said "Do you want to go again?"
"YEEEEESSSS!" screamed the two girls sitting with Crystal and I in the ride, oblivious to the fact that it was the exact same "Do you want to go again?" we'd heard twice already while in the line.
Slappy the Carnie operating the ride didn't even have a microphone.
The ride sped up again, slinging us around for another couple of minutes. That's when I noticed the guy one set of seats over.
He was a big ol' corn-fed redneck boy, John Deere cap and all. He wasn't looking too good. In fact, he yelled out "Nooooo!" in answer to the phantom's question, and looked pleadingly at the ride's operator.
The operator gave a devilish grin, and kept us going.
The ride slowed down again, and again came the voice-over. "One more time?"
At that point, the queasy redneck proceeded to wave his hands at the ride's operator. I saw him making the tell-tale "hyuuurk" noises, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
I thought he was going to pop. To his credit, he held it in. But, while the ride was starting to speed up again, he pushed up the metal bar holding him into the ride.
Oooooh, man. If the operator was a real bastard, this was going to get interesting.
He wasn't. It didn't. The ride slowed to a stop, and Queasy was the first person off, hanging his head over the railing.
"Awwww," Crystal said. "I guess we aren't going again."
"There's a bright side," I told her.
"What?"
"At least we know I'm not the biggest pussy at the fair."
The rides aren't so bad, either. Some of them, anyway.
The traffic and the crowds can suck it, though. I had no idea there were so many young rednecklings zipping about.
The guys between 14 and 18 are the worst, but I won't get into that.
The fair's also a great place to spot fashion trends. Last year I learned that John Deere apparel was getting big with the black kids. Now it seems the Eazy E look is coming back.
A couple of guys had masks on - one had a hockey mask, another one had the guy from Scream. I wasn't impressed, but they were taller than me, so I didn't make fun of them too loudly. I commend them on their brave fashion choices, however.
I should've brought my camera. But then I couldn't have gotten on the rides, since I don't exactly trust carnies with expensive electronic equipment.
Tonight was "wrist stamp night," or more accurately, "indelible flourescent paint on the back of your hand night." I approached the ticket booth quickly.
Inside was a skanky looking older blonde woman, her eyes heavy lidded. She pointed her head at me, without actually opening her eyes.
Okay, they fluttered a little bit.
"I need two hand stamps," I said.
Nothing.
Dead silence.
Silence that stretched.
It got uncomfortable.
Finally, she half-opened her eyes. "I'm waitin' for you to say something. Whaddaya want?"
Oh, shit. She was slurring, and speaking more slowly than John Wayne after a five-week bender with Lee Marvin.
"I want two handstamps." I said it a little harsh. I wasn't in the mood to deal with whatever her particular dysfunction (two links!) was, seeing as I had just fought through traffic and parking, and was surrounded by lots of people.
I don't like being surrounded by lots of people.
I handed her two twenties, and she veeeerrrrrryyyy slowwwwllllyyy put them in the cash box that was six inches away from her hands.
It took her roughly 30 seconds.
She wasn't reaching for my change, either.
At this point, the midget sitting in the other ticket window looks over at me, disappointment in his eyes.
"What do you want?" he mouthed.
"Two handstamps," I said. I honestly thought that Ms. Oxycontin had passed out. Her eyes were closed again, and she had stopped moving, her hands in the cash box.
She snapped to unlife, her eyes half-opening again. "I heard you when you said it the first time," she said.
Midget sighed and returned his attention to his window after telling Ms. Oxy to hand me my change.
She did, and handed me one ticket for a handstamp with a speed normally reserved for three-toed sloths, Christmas and load times for Windows 98.
This was not right. I needed two tickets, and she seemed to have retreated back within the ever-smooth folds of her wee carnie brain.
"I need two of these," I said.
Midget sighed a little louder. Ms. Oxy opened up, ripped a ticket and handed to me. As I reached to get it, her eyes opened all the way.
She looked at me with a burning stare. Our eyes locked.
"You know, I really hate this job," she said.
"I understand completely," I replied, walking off.
Immediately after, I noted that I had to tell some of the nice Kiwanis guys about this. After all, if she hates her job so damned much, I'm sure she won't mind losing it.
Anyway, I figured that'd be about it for my fair blogging experience. 'Twas not to be.
I was convinced to go on more rides than I normally do. Bumper cars, fine. Tilt-a-Whirl, fine.
Heck, I even planned to go on the bobsled ride, but the lines were frickin' ridiculous.
Rides that sling me in the air? No way. Rides that send me upside down? No fucking way.
Going to the fair last year and watching carnies set up eqiupment hasn't helped my anxiety. Here's a picture:
What it comes down to is that, at least as far as my personal safety is concerned, I'm a total pussy.
Anyway, I was convinced to try the swings. I lived.
So far, so good. Feeling brave, I hit "The Orbiter," basically a scrambler that kicks you up in the air (but not upside down).
I started feeling a little queasy the first go-round. Then, the prerecorded voice-over blasting over the speakers on the ride said "Do you want to go again?"
"YEEEEESSSS!" screamed the two girls sitting with Crystal and I in the ride, oblivious to the fact that it was the exact same "Do you want to go again?" we'd heard twice already while in the line.
Slappy the Carnie operating the ride didn't even have a microphone.
The ride sped up again, slinging us around for another couple of minutes. That's when I noticed the guy one set of seats over.
He was a big ol' corn-fed redneck boy, John Deere cap and all. He wasn't looking too good. In fact, he yelled out "Nooooo!" in answer to the phantom's question, and looked pleadingly at the ride's operator.
The operator gave a devilish grin, and kept us going.
The ride slowed down again, and again came the voice-over. "One more time?"
At that point, the queasy redneck proceeded to wave his hands at the ride's operator. I saw him making the tell-tale "hyuuurk" noises, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
I thought he was going to pop. To his credit, he held it in. But, while the ride was starting to speed up again, he pushed up the metal bar holding him into the ride.
Oooooh, man. If the operator was a real bastard, this was going to get interesting.
He wasn't. It didn't. The ride slowed to a stop, and Queasy was the first person off, hanging his head over the railing.
"Awwww," Crystal said. "I guess we aren't going again."
"There's a bright side," I told her.
"What?"
"At least we know I'm not the biggest pussy at the fair."
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Word
Hi, my name is Chris Brennaman. If you're like me, you want to find that higher calling. You want to work for something greater than yourself and have that feeling of a job well done.
There's good news. I'm now taking applications for the Cult of Brennaman, and I would love to hear from each and everyone of you. I can give you that sense of purpose that's been missing in your life. Why? Because I'm the messiah, that's why.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "Chris Brennaman, I've heard this tired song before." True enough, there have been false prophets proclaiming themselves to be a conduit to God, and no one wants another one. That's why in Chris Brennaman's cult, you have the Chris Brennaman seal of approval that I am indeed the real deal. God speaks to me, and I speak to you. It's that simple!
Sign up in the next 30 minutes, and you'll immediatly be given a title like "Grand Warlock" or "Speaker of the Word." Send a check for $100, and you'll get your choice of red, blue or green robes, while everyone else will be wearing the standard white. You'll be the envy of your fellow apostles!
Don't hesitate. Join me today and together we will march forward into the promised land, bringing the wrath of God down on all those who would stand against us. I look forward to working with each and everyone one of you, and know that you feel the same way.
Bye-Bye now,
Chris Brennaman
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Meanwhile, on Earth-2
I am Uatu, the Watcher! While it is my lot to watch this Earth from my lonely citadel on the moon, it is well within my power to peak into the multiverse at events that could have been. Look with me now, as we see just what may have transpired in the lives of everyone you know and love!
Jake Hallman: The youngest ever Chairman of the Republican National Committee, Jake Hallman pushes for every right wing issue that comes to his attention. For him, the liberal conspiracy is not only real, but is ever present and threatens the moral fiber of the nation. Devoutly religious, he is a former Baptist minister. Hallman believes that the teaching of evolution is a threat to Christianity, that homosexuality is a perverse sin and that women have no place beyond the home. He is considered to be a front runner for Republican nomination for president in 2012.
Tiffany Brennaman: Two years into her academic career at Macon College, during one of her rifle classes, Tiffany Domingos found that she was quite the marksman. So did the CIA. Recruited to be a spy, Tiffany spends her time cheating death on a daily basis. To her peers, she is patriot. To those in the know, she is an international terrorist, selling arms and information to the highest bidder. She makes a fool of the CIA on a daily basis, yet no one is the wiser.
Crystal Delaurentis: Raised in an Amish community in Pennsylvania, Crystal is married to her childhood beau Ezekiel. Every morning, she rises at dawn to set about doing her chores. She is the proud mother of five sons and three daughters.
Derek Stoddard: In a single wide trailer in Statesboro Georgia, Derek passes the time by watching his four illegitimate sons play in the front yard. Married and divorced three times now, Derek has a Zen-like peace with his lot in life. Nothing bothers him. He didn’t fret when the bank took his truck. He didn’t lose sleep when he got laid off from the mill. He didn’t flinch when he was diagnosed with syphilis. Ever since he gave up drinking, life has been good for him.
Logan Thomas: Four years ago, Logan Thomas disappeared into the wilds of Montana, never to be heard from again. Rumors say he has taken to the mountains, living a rugged life that would kill most people. But those are just rumors.
David Brennaman: By the time he was in the eighth grade, David knew that he was meant for something bigger than himself. Shortly after college, he entered into the seminary. As a Catholic priest, David served God as faithfully as any servant ever has. When scandal broke out in the church, though, David was quick to condemn these actions openly. Chastised by the bishop, David was defrocked. He now witnesses on street corners and holds mass every night in the cemetery to a congregation of bums and hobos.
Chris Brennaman: Died in utero.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Superman
For most people Superman is and will always be Christopher Reeve. That's the way it is for me at least. There was just something about the way he wore the "S" that made him the man of steel.
But...
Superman was around a LONG time before Reeve put on the cape and boots, and I have to admit, he ain't as noble as Richard Donner made him out to be.
Sunday evening, I bought, for $10, Showcase Presents: Superman, a collection of some of the best Superman comics from the late 1950s and early 1960s in all their glory.
In those days, Superman was still as heroic as they came. He saved Lois from giant robots, and aliens. He made sure Jimmy Olson didn't screw up too much, and he was very adept at saving the world. In fact, such a good hero was he, that in one issue, men from the 50th century come back just to tell him how cool he was.
However, Superman back in the day had the disposition of a vindictive 12-year-old.
Don't believe me? Ask Toto.
Toto was a chimpanzee. Not just any chimpanzee, no Toto could do all kinds of great things like count and manage money. Superman first met Toto at a charity event.
The event was set up like a talent show, with Superman on stage wowing the crowd with the way he could make diamonds out of coal just by squeezing them. The crowd is pretty wowed, but still, this is Superman. They kind of expect this kind of shit from him.
But a chimpanzee that can do mathematics? That's a show. Toto gets on stage and quickly becomes the star of the event. Superman gets a little jealous.
Well, maybe more than a little jealous. In fact, he recommends to the owner of Toto that he let the Army shoot the little ape into space. In front of an army general.
Of course, the general thinks this is a grand idea, and sure enough, THE VERY NEXT MORNING, Toto is strapped into a rocket. But there's hope for Toto. As the countdown comes to zero, the mission control gang realizes that there's been a malfunction. The rocket will not take off. Toto is spared being rocketed into space.
Until Superman shows up and basically says "bullshit" and manually hurls to rocket into outer space, malfunctioning engines be damned.
The story goes on a little ways from there. Toto comes back all irradiated, and now a giant. Which works out for Superman, because now he can actually lay hands on the chimp and not catch Hell for it.
There are more stories like this, and even one where Superman is the butt of a practical joke performed by none other than Batman. Superman doesn't really take it well, and ends up actually pulling off his own practical joke, one where he convinces Batman that they're both going to die (part of Superman’s joke was causing a cave-in at the Fortress of Solitude that “traps” him and Batman in a confined space with large chunk of, unbeknownst to Batman, fake kryptonite). Batman makes right with God, resigns himself to his fate and tells Superman what an honor it was knowing him and fighting crime beside him. Superman can't take it anymore, has a good laugh and makes fun of Batman for actually believing him.
Think about that. Superman gives Batman shit for trusting him. Superman. If there is one person on the planet you should be able to trust, Superman should be number one on that list. That's like your parents telling you that you're adopted, only to berate you after you've had a good cry for not being able to take a joke.
There are all kinds of other stuff like this, but you don't need to spend $10 to see it. Look for yourself at superdickery.com.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Well damn: Part II
Well, we just got back from lunch and the city is crazy looking. Nothing too bad but there's A LOT of water, and a good many roads are closed (they ran out of "Road Closed" signs). Schools were let out and most people are being smart and staying off the roads...
But not me and my minions. I gathered a small group who were planning on eating food that was going to be brought into the office. I told them that their lunch plans had changed, that we were going to hit the road and see what had become of Brunswick.
That, and I wanted Arby’s for lunch and didn’t want to risk my car in the deep waters covering Glynn County’s roads.
Things looks odd on the way to Arby’s. Parking lots were filled like small lakes, with sitting in water up past the doors. Strange things floated among the water. Beer boxes, plastic bags, and even plastic lawn furniture were gingerly making their way down these new water ways.
Arby’s was in rough shape, I might add. Seems that a lot of the water gathering in the parking lot had made it’s way into the restaurant. When we got there, it had receded, but the carpets sloshed as we stepped onto it and there was a smell wet dog, not the odor of choice for an eatery.
The sun has come out, though there are conflicting reports as to how long it’s t last. Glynn County EMA says it’s hear to stay, that the worst is over. But the National Weather Service says that we got this morning was just one wave in what is to be a long succession of them.
I’ll be glad when it’s over, but part of me wants a little bit more. The building here at working isn’t faring well at all. The leaks are worse than they were this morning and there are now no more working bathrooms. If it all comes crashing down, I may just get a day off.
But not me and my minions. I gathered a small group who were planning on eating food that was going to be brought into the office. I told them that their lunch plans had changed, that we were going to hit the road and see what had become of Brunswick.
That, and I wanted Arby’s for lunch and didn’t want to risk my car in the deep waters covering Glynn County’s roads.
Things looks odd on the way to Arby’s. Parking lots were filled like small lakes, with sitting in water up past the doors. Strange things floated among the water. Beer boxes, plastic bags, and even plastic lawn furniture were gingerly making their way down these new water ways.
Arby’s was in rough shape, I might add. Seems that a lot of the water gathering in the parking lot had made it’s way into the restaurant. When we got there, it had receded, but the carpets sloshed as we stepped onto it and there was a smell wet dog, not the odor of choice for an eatery.
The sun has come out, though there are conflicting reports as to how long it’s t last. Glynn County EMA says it’s hear to stay, that the worst is over. But the National Weather Service says that we got this morning was just one wave in what is to be a long succession of them.
I’ll be glad when it’s over, but part of me wants a little bit more. The building here at working isn’t faring well at all. The leaks are worse than they were this morning and there are now no more working bathrooms. If it all comes crashing down, I may just get a day off.
Well, damn...
Brunswick is flooding
And yet, here I am, still sitting in the newsroom.
Everything is going crazy here. On the police scanner there’re plans being made to go into certain neighborhoods if things get any worse rescue people. Schools are about to make parents come get their kids. The police have requested boats from the DNR. High tide is set to hit at about 11:30, and access to St. Simons Island may be cut off, and more water may pour from the marshes and into the city.
The parking lot here at work has flooded, except for one tiny strip on the far end of the building.
Water is getting into the building. The women’s rest room is out of commission for the foreseeable future and newspapers have been placed on the floor all over the building to try and absorb the water.
Ceiling tiles are turning brown from holding so much water. We expect them to start bursting before noon. Beneath my desk, water is welling up.
Roads all over town are closing and most of us don’t know if we’ll be able to get home. We may well be spending the night in the newsroom.
Sigh.
This morning, before all this started, I had to make a choice. Use less milk with my cereal to conserve enough to use for Saturday morning, or use what I normally use and hit the grocery store after work before going home.
Guess which one I ended up doing.
Updates to come.
And yet, here I am, still sitting in the newsroom.
Everything is going crazy here. On the police scanner there’re plans being made to go into certain neighborhoods if things get any worse rescue people. Schools are about to make parents come get their kids. The police have requested boats from the DNR. High tide is set to hit at about 11:30, and access to St. Simons Island may be cut off, and more water may pour from the marshes and into the city.
The parking lot here at work has flooded, except for one tiny strip on the far end of the building.
Water is getting into the building. The women’s rest room is out of commission for the foreseeable future and newspapers have been placed on the floor all over the building to try and absorb the water.
Ceiling tiles are turning brown from holding so much water. We expect them to start bursting before noon. Beneath my desk, water is welling up.
Roads all over town are closing and most of us don’t know if we’ll be able to get home. We may well be spending the night in the newsroom.
Sigh.
This morning, before all this started, I had to make a choice. Use less milk with my cereal to conserve enough to use for Saturday morning, or use what I normally use and hit the grocery store after work before going home.
Guess which one I ended up doing.
Updates to come.
SON OF A...
This whole Googlebombing thing is getting out of hand.
For instance, I was quite happy when a Google blogsearch pointed to this very blog as its number one result..
However, thanks to the efforts of Derek, it now points to his blog.
Way to go.
Hmmmm... Ah, hell, here goes nothin'.
The googlebomb ninja who will one day get his.
Take THAT!
Edit: Dangit, that was supposed to point to Derek's blog.
For instance, I was quite happy when a Google blogsearch pointed to this very blog as its number one result..
However, thanks to the efforts of Derek, it now points to his blog.
Way to go.
Hmmmm... Ah, hell, here goes nothin'.
The googlebomb ninja who will one day get his.
Take THAT!
Edit: Dangit, that was supposed to point to Derek's blog.
The original...
I've got a weekly column in Connect Statesboro (no link yet, the Web guys are working on the site). Last week, I was sure I had a winner - I think I've mentioned Steve Davenport before.
Steve bothered me a good bit a while back, wanting the Herald to buy a copy of his CD for a review. After checking out his on-line sample songs and putting up with multiple phone calls, I finally ended up telling him that I wouldn't have a review on our entertainment page since there was nothing positive I could say about it.
I thought the matter was settled. Lo and behold, a CD comes in the mail last week addressed to "Carla Connect." Strictly speaking, Carla, our advice columnist, doesn't really exist.
So we opened it. It was Steve's CD, with a hand-scrawled note on really nice cotton paper telling Carla that the CD was available on CDBaby.com.
Not a bad site. It's where Vanilla Ice hawks his new disc.
After listening to the disc, I hit upon a column idea, and found out a bit more about Steve when some of us in the office gave it a listen.
Steve used to work at the Herald, as it turns out. He's living out in Oklahoma now, but some of his former coworkers (he was before my time) recalled him as being a bit odd.
Quite odd, as a matter of fact. The word "unstable" was used.
Eddie, God bless 'im, listened to the CD and gave me some sage advice in an e-mail. Hope you don't mind me quoting you, dude:
But heck, Chris has been writing a lot, and I know that all of you are clamoring for the unedited Jake.
Here's the original version of the column.
Technology is wonderful. Just a few years ago, the notion of putting out your own CD and having it distributed to the world at large seemed ludicrous. On top of the sheer logistics of letting the world at large know that you had an album out, there was the cost of studios, reproducing CDs and hiring a public relations firm.
The world of music is much more democratic now. Thanks to advances in digital recording technology, anyone can market an album.
And I mean anyone. Take Steve Davenport, for example.
Steve's a former Statesboro resident, now in Oklahoma, who's been after me for a while to do a review of his CD "Electric Rodeo."
I told him I wouldn't, simply because there's not much positive I could say about the record. Hence, no review.
The CD's bad. Really bad. "Oh my Lord" bad. Though I don't doubt that Steve was painfully earnest in putting it together, the "painfully" part far outshines all else.
That's kind of the point, though. The music is awful, and Steve's songwriting skills leave a lot to be desired. There's not a record company, independent or otherwise, that would touch him with a 10 foot pole.
But he's got an album out, slickly packaged. And those CDs invariably can be purchased on-line.
That's where the revolution is coming from, but also the problems. CD replication services like Disc Makers will take anybody's home-produced material and put it on professional-looking discs with custom-designed sleeves and inserts. Even if the music inside is, well, crap, it will be very beautiful crap.
That kind of thing kind fool you, like the time I bought that Christina Aguilera CD.
On the distribution end, online services like CDbaby.com will sell artists' CDs over the Web, take a relatively miniscule cut of the money (especially compared to the usurious rates charged by record companies), and handle all of the paperwork.
Ten years ago, you'd either have to pay out of the keister to go to a recording studio for your album, or spend a load of cash to have a decently-equipped home studio. Now, for a couple grand you can have a computer, software, and all the accessories you need to make home recordings that don't sound a bit like they were made on the cheap.
CD replication services have been around for a long time, but the problem always was how to sell them if you don't have any kind of distribution channels. There were always live gigs, cause if you were independent that was the most likely way people would get to hear your stuff.
Now anybody can slap up a Web site that'll let the entire world hear their tunes. In fact, that was how I had advance warning of one of the CDs we received recently at Connect. Promotion is as simple as spending a few hours at a computer hyping your music on message boards.
The problem becomes how to separate the wheat from the chaff. With so much music out there, it's possible to find some real diamonds in the rough, but there's tons more dirt to sort through. Steve's on CDBaby, but so is Vanilla Ice's new disc.
My advice? Listen to word of mouth, but also click randomly every once in a while and don't get discouraged. There's good stuff out there, from people who are doing it for the love of playing - not because they have to pay back a $5 million advance from a record company.
If you hear something you like, drop us a line! We'd love to find out what you want to hear and read about.
Steve bothered me a good bit a while back, wanting the Herald to buy a copy of his CD for a review. After checking out his on-line sample songs and putting up with multiple phone calls, I finally ended up telling him that I wouldn't have a review on our entertainment page since there was nothing positive I could say about it.
I thought the matter was settled. Lo and behold, a CD comes in the mail last week addressed to "Carla Connect." Strictly speaking, Carla, our advice columnist, doesn't really exist.
So we opened it. It was Steve's CD, with a hand-scrawled note on really nice cotton paper telling Carla that the CD was available on CDBaby.com.
Not a bad site. It's where Vanilla Ice hawks his new disc.
After listening to the disc, I hit upon a column idea, and found out a bit more about Steve when some of us in the office gave it a listen.
Steve used to work at the Herald, as it turns out. He's living out in Oklahoma now, but some of his former coworkers (he was before my time) recalled him as being a bit odd.
Quite odd, as a matter of fact. The word "unstable" was used.
Eddie, God bless 'im, listened to the CD and gave me some sage advice in an e-mail. Hope you don't mind me quoting you, dude:
This is my personal opinion and advice: Do NOT write a column about this guy's CD. Don't even ever mention him anywhere in any publication. Not because the CD is so far beyond horrible that it's not even a real CD, but after listening to it, I honestly believe the guy may be dangerous.
I'm not trying to be funny; I'm dead serious. We know the guy has mental issues, but he's also obviously VERY delusional, and that makes for a bad combination. This guy is DISTURBED!
Now I'm gonna go listen to six hours of Britney Spears just to cleanse my palate.
When Eddie talks, I listen (hey, he's one of those wise men we all have in our lives). I retooled my column, taking out everything but an oblique reference to Steve.I know you're an intelligent young man, but I'm an intelligent OLD man, and I've seen a hell of a lot more than you, and I think this guy is on a downward spiral in a very bad direction.
Just my opinion.
But heck, Chris has been writing a lot, and I know that all of you are clamoring for the unedited Jake.
Here's the original version of the column.
Technology is wonderful. Just a few years ago, the notion of putting out your own CD and having it distributed to the world at large seemed ludicrous. On top of the sheer logistics of letting the world at large know that you had an album out, there was the cost of studios, reproducing CDs and hiring a public relations firm.
The world of music is much more democratic now. Thanks to advances in digital recording technology, anyone can market an album.
And I mean anyone. Take Steve Davenport, for example.
Steve's a former Statesboro resident, now in Oklahoma, who's been after me for a while to do a review of his CD "Electric Rodeo."
I told him I wouldn't, simply because there's not much positive I could say about the record. Hence, no review.
The CD's bad. Really bad. "Oh my Lord" bad. Though I don't doubt that Steve was painfully earnest in putting it together, the "painfully" part far outshines all else.
That's kind of the point, though. The music is awful, and Steve's songwriting skills leave a lot to be desired. There's not a record company, independent or otherwise, that would touch him with a 10 foot pole.
But he's got an album out, slickly packaged. And those CDs invariably can be purchased on-line.
That's where the revolution is coming from, but also the problems. CD replication services like Disc Makers will take anybody's home-produced material and put it on professional-looking discs with custom-designed sleeves and inserts. Even if the music inside is, well, crap, it will be very beautiful crap.
That kind of thing kind fool you, like the time I bought that Christina Aguilera CD.
On the distribution end, online services like CDbaby.com will sell artists' CDs over the Web, take a relatively miniscule cut of the money (especially compared to the usurious rates charged by record companies), and handle all of the paperwork.
Ten years ago, you'd either have to pay out of the keister to go to a recording studio for your album, or spend a load of cash to have a decently-equipped home studio. Now, for a couple grand you can have a computer, software, and all the accessories you need to make home recordings that don't sound a bit like they were made on the cheap.
CD replication services have been around for a long time, but the problem always was how to sell them if you don't have any kind of distribution channels. There were always live gigs, cause if you were independent that was the most likely way people would get to hear your stuff.
Now anybody can slap up a Web site that'll let the entire world hear their tunes. In fact, that was how I had advance warning of one of the CDs we received recently at Connect. Promotion is as simple as spending a few hours at a computer hyping your music on message boards.
The problem becomes how to separate the wheat from the chaff. With so much music out there, it's possible to find some real diamonds in the rough, but there's tons more dirt to sort through. Steve's on CDBaby, but so is Vanilla Ice's new disc.
My advice? Listen to word of mouth, but also click randomly every once in a while and don't get discouraged. There's good stuff out there, from people who are doing it for the love of playing - not because they have to pay back a $5 million advance from a record company.
If you hear something you like, drop us a line! We'd love to find out what you want to hear and read about.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Live long in infamy!
Everyone fantasizes about saving the world. Doesn’t matter who you are, male or female, black or white at some point, be it actively while slaving away in front of the computer at work or right before you drift off to sleep.
Everyone wants to save the world.
People want that Superman moment. That moment right before everything goes to Hell, and you know it’s all down to you.
Then you do it. The moment arrived, and you stepped up. Humanity marches into the future because of you.
But I have a different fantasy.
I want to be the guy who spoils everything. Oh, not that I’m wishing extinction on the human race. Far from it. After all, if humanity completely died out, who would talk about that guy Chris Brennaman who ruined things for everyone way back when?
And I’m not talking about having the opportunity to save the world and boffing it. No, I want my direct actions to cause a cataclysmic event. Nothing like a super villain, but like, when it’s over, I’m left saying “well it seemed like a good idea...”
Science experiment gone wrong. Social programs collapsing in on themselves. Something big that would have been a good thing had it worked out.
My birth would be used to mark a new calendar, so great would my catastrophe be. Before Brennaman, and After Brennaman. That is how much damage I want to inadvertently do the world.
Everyone wants to save the world. I wouldn’t mind ending it. Just for a little while at least.
Everyone wants to save the world.
People want that Superman moment. That moment right before everything goes to Hell, and you know it’s all down to you.
Then you do it. The moment arrived, and you stepped up. Humanity marches into the future because of you.
But I have a different fantasy.
I want to be the guy who spoils everything. Oh, not that I’m wishing extinction on the human race. Far from it. After all, if humanity completely died out, who would talk about that guy Chris Brennaman who ruined things for everyone way back when?
And I’m not talking about having the opportunity to save the world and boffing it. No, I want my direct actions to cause a cataclysmic event. Nothing like a super villain, but like, when it’s over, I’m left saying “well it seemed like a good idea...”
Science experiment gone wrong. Social programs collapsing in on themselves. Something big that would have been a good thing had it worked out.
My birth would be used to mark a new calendar, so great would my catastrophe be. Before Brennaman, and After Brennaman. That is how much damage I want to inadvertently do the world.
Everyone wants to save the world. I wouldn’t mind ending it. Just for a little while at least.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
The long road back to Brunswick
The trip to Valdosta is over and no one is dead. At least from my party.
It was a long trip in a tiny car with two people who don't seem to have any real interest in extended conversation and one person who talks so much that there were three distinct moments where I thought about plunging my pen into my ears just to get some sweet release and maybe some silence. I don't mind talking. In fact, I do quite a bit of it myself with some degree of success. But there comes a point where a person's brain has to be telling them that what is coming out of their mouth isn't witty, funny, clever or profound. Ever. Thank God that on most trips my brain shuts down fifteen minutes in and I sleep most of the way.
Two hours to Valdosta. Three hours at convention. One hour at lunch. Two and a half hours on the road back due to bad weather.
It was a long trip in a tiny car with two people who don't seem to have any real interest in extended conversation and one person who talks so much that there were three distinct moments where I thought about plunging my pen into my ears just to get some sweet release and maybe some silence. I don't mind talking. In fact, I do quite a bit of it myself with some degree of success. But there comes a point where a person's brain has to be telling them that what is coming out of their mouth isn't witty, funny, clever or profound. Ever. Thank God that on most trips my brain shuts down fifteen minutes in and I sleep most of the way.
Two hours to Valdosta. Three hours at convention. One hour at lunch. Two and a half hours on the road back due to bad weather.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Icon... on the road
At 6 a.m., before any of you are up I'm sure (if there are "any of you") I will be four people deep in a two door coup on my way to Valdosta via the backroads of south Georgia.
I won't be at work, true enough, but I'll be headed for a newspaper writing conference, and I am dreading every moment of it.
Back in the day, I would have loved this sort of thing. Going to a conference meant cutting information sessions to get drunk or hit strip clubs or wander the city in a rented limo and watching people trying to get laid.
This time, though, things are different. I'm not traveling with friends and I think attending a session drunk is a big no-no when in the professional world.
So if anyone is reading this, say a little prayer, sacrifice whatever you want to your god of choice and pray that I don't murder anyone.
Pray very, very hard.
I won't be at work, true enough, but I'll be headed for a newspaper writing conference, and I am dreading every moment of it.
Back in the day, I would have loved this sort of thing. Going to a conference meant cutting information sessions to get drunk or hit strip clubs or wander the city in a rented limo and watching people trying to get laid.
This time, though, things are different. I'm not traveling with friends and I think attending a session drunk is a big no-no when in the professional world.
So if anyone is reading this, say a little prayer, sacrifice whatever you want to your god of choice and pray that I don't murder anyone.
Pray very, very hard.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Fall of the Icon
Jesus Christ, when did autumn get here?
Seriously, like, just yesterday it felt like high noon on Arrakis, now we have leaves changing colors. Not that I mind, but a little warning would be nice. You hear me mother nature? Yeah, I'm talking to you, you old ninny. It's called manners, okay? Learn'em. Love'em. Use'em.
Speaking of manners, doesn't Harriet Miers' face look like a sun beaten turd that's learned to smile? Or is that just me?
It is just me?
Okay.
Seriously, like, just yesterday it felt like high noon on Arrakis, now we have leaves changing colors. Not that I mind, but a little warning would be nice. You hear me mother nature? Yeah, I'm talking to you, you old ninny. It's called manners, okay? Learn'em. Love'em. Use'em.
Speaking of manners, doesn't Harriet Miers' face look like a sun beaten turd that's learned to smile? Or is that just me?
It is just me?
Okay.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Serenity now!
If you are reading this between September 30th and October 2nd, STOP!
Go to a theater right now and see "Serenity."
When you've done that, then come back and we'll talk.
UPDATED!!!!
What. An Incredible. Film.
Seriously, if you haven't seen this movie yet, you're only doing yourself a disservice. And no, you don't need to have ever watched "Firefly" to appreciate "Serenity."
Fine acting. Incredible action. The total package. It's funny, witty, tense, sad and about everything else tucked neatly into two hours. Wow. Joss Whedon's greatest work to date.
Here's hoping it tears up the box office.
Go to a theater right now and see "Serenity."
When you've done that, then come back and we'll talk.
UPDATED!!!!
What. An Incredible. Film.
Seriously, if you haven't seen this movie yet, you're only doing yourself a disservice. And no, you don't need to have ever watched "Firefly" to appreciate "Serenity."
Fine acting. Incredible action. The total package. It's funny, witty, tense, sad and about everything else tucked neatly into two hours. Wow. Joss Whedon's greatest work to date.
Here's hoping it tears up the box office.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
"Chris Brennaman"
If I type “Chris Brennaman” will my name come up on Google’s blog search engine like Jake? Not that I mind typing “Chris Brennaman” but I just wondered if there were other ways to get “Chris Brennaman” to pop up.
I don’t know if I feel up to typing “Chris Brennaman” over and over again. “Chris Brennaman” is a bit cumbersome, and if I made the decision to type “Chris Brennaman” just for the sake of typing “Chris Brennaman” I think that may diminish the power of the name “Chris Brennaman” a little too much. After all, “Chris Brennaman” means something to a lot of people and I would hate for “Chris Brennaman” to become just another name.
Enough about typing “Chris Brennaman” for now. I’ll be back later.
“Chris Brennaman”
I don’t know if I feel up to typing “Chris Brennaman” over and over again. “Chris Brennaman” is a bit cumbersome, and if I made the decision to type “Chris Brennaman” just for the sake of typing “Chris Brennaman” I think that may diminish the power of the name “Chris Brennaman” a little too much. After all, “Chris Brennaman” means something to a lot of people and I would hate for “Chris Brennaman” to become just another name.
Enough about typing “Chris Brennaman” for now. I’ll be back later.
“Chris Brennaman”
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Joy... rapture...
Two things:
1) Chris, tell 'em about the space elevator.
2) As of today, I'm number one (and like numbers two through eight) when you use Google Blogsearch to search for "Jake Hallman."
Of course, her life is way more interesting than mine. Oh well, I guess we know who the interesting one is.
Oh, and I bought a new keyboard rig.
1) Chris, tell 'em about the space elevator.
2) As of today, I'm number one (and like numbers two through eight) when you use Google Blogsearch to search for "Jake Hallman."
Of course, her life is way more interesting than mine. Oh well, I guess we know who the interesting one is.
Oh, and I bought a new keyboard rig.
Chris in Space
I talked to Jake about this last night, but it’s still bugging me.
NASA announced their plans for how they’re going to get a man back on the moon. Keep in mind, it has been more than 30 years since the last Apollo mission, and by the time we actually go back, well, tack two more decades to that number.
My point is, NASA is planning on going back to what worked and strapping a pod to a rocket and aiming it towards the moon then lighting it up. The same thing they started doing back in the 60s.
Now, Jake says this is still the best way to get a guy to the moon, but I don’t think I agree with him. Yes, I know that Jake is an infinite well of trivial knowledge, and can prove me wrong on just about anything in less than two Google searches, but I’m going to go out on a limb and formally disagree with him.
So take that, Reverend.
We are human beings. We are the creatures that harnessed the power of the sun. We can adapt to any environment on Earth. We can record ourselves having sex and post it on the internet. There is nothing more powerful than the human imagination.
And the best we can do is strapping a dude to a rocket and aiming it at the sky?
What happened to us? Are we so creatively bankrupt that we’re content on relying on the old way of doing things just because it’s easier than coming up with something new? If we put our minds to it, I know we can come up with something much better than a rocket.
Do you know who I blame? Bruce Willis, that’s who.
Ever since “Die Hard” came out, every big studio action movie has been a just a shallow remake. Oh, they may look different on the surface, but they’re all “Die Hard.” No one wants to find new ways to blow things up. That, my friends, has translated into other facets of American life, and obviously NASA isn’t immune.
Damn you Bruce Willis. Damn you to Hell.
NASA announced their plans for how they’re going to get a man back on the moon. Keep in mind, it has been more than 30 years since the last Apollo mission, and by the time we actually go back, well, tack two more decades to that number.
My point is, NASA is planning on going back to what worked and strapping a pod to a rocket and aiming it towards the moon then lighting it up. The same thing they started doing back in the 60s.
Now, Jake says this is still the best way to get a guy to the moon, but I don’t think I agree with him. Yes, I know that Jake is an infinite well of trivial knowledge, and can prove me wrong on just about anything in less than two Google searches, but I’m going to go out on a limb and formally disagree with him.
So take that, Reverend.
We are human beings. We are the creatures that harnessed the power of the sun. We can adapt to any environment on Earth. We can record ourselves having sex and post it on the internet. There is nothing more powerful than the human imagination.
And the best we can do is strapping a dude to a rocket and aiming it at the sky?
What happened to us? Are we so creatively bankrupt that we’re content on relying on the old way of doing things just because it’s easier than coming up with something new? If we put our minds to it, I know we can come up with something much better than a rocket.
Do you know who I blame? Bruce Willis, that’s who.
Ever since “Die Hard” came out, every big studio action movie has been a just a shallow remake. Oh, they may look different on the surface, but they’re all “Die Hard.” No one wants to find new ways to blow things up. That, my friends, has translated into other facets of American life, and obviously NASA isn’t immune.
Damn you Bruce Willis. Damn you to Hell.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Chris and TV
So far, there are only two TV shows that have me really excited this season. Which isn't bad, I guess, as I won't be glued to the TV as much this season. I can do things like write and have sex.
"Lost" rocks, no two ways about it. And what's even better is that a lot of the guys that work on it are either hard core comic book fans or they're former Joss Whedon alumni and it shows in every episode. I was worrind that it wouldn't be as good as it was last season, and it still could suck, but one episode is down and it looks as good as ever.
Then other show I'm digging is "My Name is Earl." I don't know if the shows is great or not, but anything that has Brody in it can't be that bad in my book. Anyway, it actually is pretty funny and makes trashy people even funnier, which is a feat, because trashy people are always funny.
However, I am worried about "Alias." True, it hasn't aired yet, but any time a real life pregnancy is worked into a TV show, bad things happen. See "Angel" when they knocked Cordelia up. Besides, the teasers for the new season are lame at best, with Jennifer Garner making obnoxious comments about her hormones. Wow. How original. A moody pregnant lady.
You know what would be original? An episode where Sidney gets kicked in the stomach too hard by Sark or maybe even Sloan, resulting in the baby spilling out right there on screen. I wonder how much spying and butt kicking you can do when there's a fetus on the ground with an umbilical cord disappearing up your skirt. Seriously, I do.
"Lost" rocks, no two ways about it. And what's even better is that a lot of the guys that work on it are either hard core comic book fans or they're former Joss Whedon alumni and it shows in every episode. I was worrind that it wouldn't be as good as it was last season, and it still could suck, but one episode is down and it looks as good as ever.
Then other show I'm digging is "My Name is Earl." I don't know if the shows is great or not, but anything that has Brody in it can't be that bad in my book. Anyway, it actually is pretty funny and makes trashy people even funnier, which is a feat, because trashy people are always funny.
However, I am worried about "Alias." True, it hasn't aired yet, but any time a real life pregnancy is worked into a TV show, bad things happen. See "Angel" when they knocked Cordelia up. Besides, the teasers for the new season are lame at best, with Jennifer Garner making obnoxious comments about her hormones. Wow. How original. A moody pregnant lady.
You know what would be original? An episode where Sidney gets kicked in the stomach too hard by Sark or maybe even Sloan, resulting in the baby spilling out right there on screen. I wonder how much spying and butt kicking you can do when there's a fetus on the ground with an umbilical cord disappearing up your skirt. Seriously, I do.
From the Chris Files
Some labels seem to follow you around no matter where you go or how old you get.
Take "smart ass" for example.
A few of us at work got bored and started up that classic of conversations, about how work is like a high school, and if that's the case, who would everyone be.
For example, Leigh-Anne, it was decided by general consensus, would be that bad girl who does all the bad things but still is friendly enough to hang out with and be seen in public with. You like her because she's tough yet sensitive and knows where to find the good pot at the last minute.
And so everyone is newsroom was assigned an identity. We had the home coming queen, the nerd, the jock, the jock wanna-be and the fat chick. Everything was scary accurate.
Then they got to me. I know myself pretty well, but I like to think that after 26 years on this planet, that I've changed a little bit, that the character that is me has made some kind of forward movement, personality wise at least, in the epic that I call my life. I asked what role I played in our little Brunswick News high school drama, eagerly awaiting what it would be.
Everyone looked at me as if a joke were told whose punch line I didn't get.
"Dude, you're the smart ass."
I suppose there are worse things to be known for. In fact, I know there are. I could be they guy with oddly colored penis, or the short hairy fella. In the long term, smart ass ain't so bad. Whether they admit it or not, people like having a smart ass around. We keep it real while everyone is else trying hard to fit their role, whether it's in high school, college, the newsroom or prison.
So yeah, I was a little dismayed about being the smart ass again. I guess I was hoping for something that sounded cooler or had more hip overtones about it.
But at least I wasn't dubbed the frustrated closeted homosexual who we all know will come out in college. I really feel bad for that guy.
Take "smart ass" for example.
A few of us at work got bored and started up that classic of conversations, about how work is like a high school, and if that's the case, who would everyone be.
For example, Leigh-Anne, it was decided by general consensus, would be that bad girl who does all the bad things but still is friendly enough to hang out with and be seen in public with. You like her because she's tough yet sensitive and knows where to find the good pot at the last minute.
And so everyone is newsroom was assigned an identity. We had the home coming queen, the nerd, the jock, the jock wanna-be and the fat chick. Everything was scary accurate.
Then they got to me. I know myself pretty well, but I like to think that after 26 years on this planet, that I've changed a little bit, that the character that is me has made some kind of forward movement, personality wise at least, in the epic that I call my life. I asked what role I played in our little Brunswick News high school drama, eagerly awaiting what it would be.
Everyone looked at me as if a joke were told whose punch line I didn't get.
"Dude, you're the smart ass."
I suppose there are worse things to be known for. In fact, I know there are. I could be they guy with oddly colored penis, or the short hairy fella. In the long term, smart ass ain't so bad. Whether they admit it or not, people like having a smart ass around. We keep it real while everyone is else trying hard to fit their role, whether it's in high school, college, the newsroom or prison.
So yeah, I was a little dismayed about being the smart ass again. I guess I was hoping for something that sounded cooler or had more hip overtones about it.
But at least I wasn't dubbed the frustrated closeted homosexual who we all know will come out in college. I really feel bad for that guy.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Over the line?
Chris, God bless 'im, helped me keep my sanity today. Thank the Lord for telephones.
As many of you probably know (since apparently only co-workers and heterosexual life partners read this), I'm now editor of Connect Statesboro, a weekly arts and entertainment publication put out by the Herald.
On October 1 I go to doing just that, but right now I'm running myself ragged splitting my time between straight journalism and getting Connect out the door every week.
Our first issue came out Thursday before last. I should have figured it would draw a response from The E11eventh Hour, the "other" arts and entertainment tabloid in town.
They're bi-weekly, we're weekly. They also focus on news, we have a daily newspaper for that. They have a staff of non-professional journalists, we have... uhm, pretty much me, one columnist, and my executive editor at the Herald helping out (as well as the occasional reporter I can rope in).
Brad Evans, publisher of The E11eventh Hour, called us out in their edition this week. He accused the Herald of ignoring the entertainment scene for years, seeing an opportunity to cash in, and doing the big, bad corporation thing.
He also drew parallels to the Macon Telegraph's attempt to compete with the Macon edition of his publication.
What was over the top (to me, anyway), though, was the cartoon they put on page 9 of their illustrious (and suddenly re-designed, hmm....) rag. It featured a caricature of the typical corporate "fat cat," with copies of the Herald and Connect Statesboro on his desk, surrounded by piles of money and smoking a cigar whilst reading The E11eventh Hour.
Didn't even look like our publisher, except for the piles of cash.
After grabbing a delicious chicken sandwich loaded with fast-acting triglyceride sedatives, I gave ol' Brad a call.
I pointed out to him that yes, we're in it to make money, just like he is. I told him that I saw advertisements in his publication, too.
I also told him that we'd had a weekly entertainment page for two years, so we were hardly ignoring that aspect of Statesboro life. Hell, I'm part of the Statesboro scene. How many local gigs has he played?
He didn't seem too interested. In fact, he kept saying that since we put our publication out right by his, we had to expect them to make fun of us.
He even said we try to look like him. No, I told him, we try to look like our well-established sister pub, Connect Savannah. He said that Connect Savannah looks like The E11eventh Hour. We're all printed in tabloid format, but Connect Savannah's been around far longer than his rag.
Here comes the stuff I didn't get to tell him, since he writes a good game but talks a very scared one:
Yeah, Brad, I kind of expected it from the maturity you guys have shown through your three years. In a meeting over a month ago, I brought up the question of whether we should acknowledge The E11eventh Hour's existence in our pub.
We decided not to. We took the high road. We're going to continue to take the high road. Every time you mention us, it just means one or two more people who wonder "what is this 'Connect' that has them so freaked out?"
So keep on attacking us. Your hasty redesign this week shows that you know we look better than you do.
I hope both publications can survive. You're right, the competition will make us both better. But if you go down, I won't shed a tear. Heck, I might have an opening or two.
And this isn't Macon, Brad. If you want to beat us, you'd better give your kids some lessons in basic journalism and layout. Maybe it wasn't that you beat the Telegraph, but they decided you weren't worth their time.
Y'know, you've convinced me to work that much harder to make sure we beat you to the punch on the big stories every single time.
As many of you probably know (since apparently only co-workers and heterosexual life partners read this), I'm now editor of Connect Statesboro, a weekly arts and entertainment publication put out by the Herald.
On October 1 I go to doing just that, but right now I'm running myself ragged splitting my time between straight journalism and getting Connect out the door every week.
Our first issue came out Thursday before last. I should have figured it would draw a response from The E11eventh Hour, the "other" arts and entertainment tabloid in town.
They're bi-weekly, we're weekly. They also focus on news, we have a daily newspaper for that. They have a staff of non-professional journalists, we have... uhm, pretty much me, one columnist, and my executive editor at the Herald helping out (as well as the occasional reporter I can rope in).
Brad Evans, publisher of The E11eventh Hour, called us out in their edition this week. He accused the Herald of ignoring the entertainment scene for years, seeing an opportunity to cash in, and doing the big, bad corporation thing.
He also drew parallels to the Macon Telegraph's attempt to compete with the Macon edition of his publication.
What was over the top (to me, anyway), though, was the cartoon they put on page 9 of their illustrious (and suddenly re-designed, hmm....) rag. It featured a caricature of the typical corporate "fat cat," with copies of the Herald and Connect Statesboro on his desk, surrounded by piles of money and smoking a cigar whilst reading The E11eventh Hour.
Didn't even look like our publisher, except for the piles of cash.
After grabbing a delicious chicken sandwich loaded with fast-acting triglyceride sedatives, I gave ol' Brad a call.
I pointed out to him that yes, we're in it to make money, just like he is. I told him that I saw advertisements in his publication, too.
I also told him that we'd had a weekly entertainment page for two years, so we were hardly ignoring that aspect of Statesboro life. Hell, I'm part of the Statesboro scene. How many local gigs has he played?
He didn't seem too interested. In fact, he kept saying that since we put our publication out right by his, we had to expect them to make fun of us.
He even said we try to look like him. No, I told him, we try to look like our well-established sister pub, Connect Savannah. He said that Connect Savannah looks like The E11eventh Hour. We're all printed in tabloid format, but Connect Savannah's been around far longer than his rag.
Here comes the stuff I didn't get to tell him, since he writes a good game but talks a very scared one:
Yeah, Brad, I kind of expected it from the maturity you guys have shown through your three years. In a meeting over a month ago, I brought up the question of whether we should acknowledge The E11eventh Hour's existence in our pub.
We decided not to. We took the high road. We're going to continue to take the high road. Every time you mention us, it just means one or two more people who wonder "what is this 'Connect' that has them so freaked out?"
So keep on attacking us. Your hasty redesign this week shows that you know we look better than you do.
I hope both publications can survive. You're right, the competition will make us both better. But if you go down, I won't shed a tear. Heck, I might have an opening or two.
And this isn't Macon, Brad. If you want to beat us, you'd better give your kids some lessons in basic journalism and layout. Maybe it wasn't that you beat the Telegraph, but they decided you weren't worth their time.
Y'know, you've convinced me to work that much harder to make sure we beat you to the punch on the big stories every single time.
Monday, September 19, 2005
The Chris Files- Take 3
So if this works, it will be third time in one day that I have posted the same entry.
Here goes nothing.
Been bad about keeping up with the blogging. Maybe it's because I get lazy about it, maybe it's because the word "blog" sounds like what I do in the Brunswick News men's room round about 8:30 every morning. Whatever. No more excuses. I owe it to you all seeing as how most of you I haven't seen in years. Keeping it real for the fans and all that.
Everything stays the same. Still married, still a reporter, still searching for the anti-life equation.
Here goes nothing.
Been bad about keeping up with the blogging. Maybe it's because I get lazy about it, maybe it's because the word "blog" sounds like what I do in the Brunswick News men's room round about 8:30 every morning. Whatever. No more excuses. I owe it to you all seeing as how most of you I haven't seen in years. Keeping it real for the fans and all that.
Everything stays the same. Still married, still a reporter, still searching for the anti-life equation.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Salvaging a softball game.
I thought that I hadn't gotten any good shots at the Statesboro High - Southeast Bulloch softball game Thursday, Sept. 15.
Shows what I know.
I rock.
Hard.
Keep your eye on the ball.
You, too.
Shows what I know.
I rock.
Hard.
Keep your eye on the ball.
You, too.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Google vexes me.
Google has introduced their new "blogsearch."
Once again, I'm not the top search result when you search for "Jake Hallman."
Sigh.
Once again, I'm not the top search result when you search for "Jake Hallman."
Sigh.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
On traveling...
As most of you know, I'm playing in a touring country band now. We had the chance, thanks to a friend of a friend, to stay in a five-star hotel in Atlanta for a couple of days last week.
First of all, imagine these guys (yes, I'm in the photo) walking into a five-star midtown Atlanta hotel, complete with doormen and snooty foreign desk clerks.
Clerk: "Are you sure you have the right hotel?"
Jake and Kyle: "Here's the confirmation number."
Turns out we didn't have the right hotel (long story), but because Eric (far right) is a smooth-talkin' guy, we still got to stay there at a severely discounted rate. For two nights.
On day two in the hotel:
Well-dressed guy in elevator (to Corey, center): So you're doing some construction work here in the hotel?
Corey: Hell, no! We're stayin' here!
The weird part about the trip was the growing sense of disconnect I had. Working at the Herald, I'm used to being immersed in current events.
Spending Tuesday through Saturday on the road, we got all of our New Orleans news through the Fox News Channel (the guys in the band's favorite).
Even though I really, really dislike Bill O'Reilly, I actually found myself agreeing with him a couple of times as he jumped on various federal officials over their response to the disaster.
It was a little funny to see ol' Bill trying to direct relief efforts from his New York desk, though. "You hear that? We need security at the hospital at XXX street!"
Yeah, right, General O'Reilly.
Driving between Atlanta and Auburn twice, we had the chance to see several convoys headed to Mississippi and Louisiana with storm aid, including one near-endless line of electrical repair trucks with New Jersey plates.
Those guys rock. I tried to do my part Tuesday morning by donating blood before we left for the Auburn gig.
Note to self: never donate blood before a show. I almost died at the end of the show. Guys from the bar were putting orange juice and water in me - they said I looked pretty bad.
Anyway, after two nights at the Georgian Terrace, we were back to the Plaza Motel in Auburn, a distinctly .5-star experience.
It's alternately called either "The Crack Shack" or "The Haji Hilton" by the gentlemen in County Line. Haji's a nice dude - he owns the Plaza, and always tries to hook us up in his special broken-English way.
The Plaza is one of those hotels where you occasionally get offered very special "room service" by freelance contractors roaming the grounds.
I joked Friday night that the next time we stay there (that'll be this Saturday night) I'm bringing a black light to go over the room for... stuff, C.S.I. style.
It was universally agreed that a black light would be a singularly bad idea. We don't want to know what's happened in those rooms.
Coming later this week: the Plaza Motel's welcome/check-in sheet - a foray into Engrish.
First of all, imagine these guys (yes, I'm in the photo) walking into a five-star midtown Atlanta hotel, complete with doormen and snooty foreign desk clerks.
Clerk: "Are you sure you have the right hotel?"Jake and Kyle: "Here's the confirmation number."
Turns out we didn't have the right hotel (long story), but because Eric (far right) is a smooth-talkin' guy, we still got to stay there at a severely discounted rate. For two nights.
On day two in the hotel:
Well-dressed guy in elevator (to Corey, center): So you're doing some construction work here in the hotel?
Corey: Hell, no! We're stayin' here!
The weird part about the trip was the growing sense of disconnect I had. Working at the Herald, I'm used to being immersed in current events.
Spending Tuesday through Saturday on the road, we got all of our New Orleans news through the Fox News Channel (the guys in the band's favorite).
Even though I really, really dislike Bill O'Reilly, I actually found myself agreeing with him a couple of times as he jumped on various federal officials over their response to the disaster.
It was a little funny to see ol' Bill trying to direct relief efforts from his New York desk, though. "You hear that? We need security at the hospital at XXX street!"
Yeah, right, General O'Reilly.
Driving between Atlanta and Auburn twice, we had the chance to see several convoys headed to Mississippi and Louisiana with storm aid, including one near-endless line of electrical repair trucks with New Jersey plates.
Those guys rock. I tried to do my part Tuesday morning by donating blood before we left for the Auburn gig.
Note to self: never donate blood before a show. I almost died at the end of the show. Guys from the bar were putting orange juice and water in me - they said I looked pretty bad.Anyway, after two nights at the Georgian Terrace, we were back to the Plaza Motel in Auburn, a distinctly .5-star experience.
It's alternately called either "The Crack Shack" or "The Haji Hilton" by the gentlemen in County Line. Haji's a nice dude - he owns the Plaza, and always tries to hook us up in his special broken-English way.
The Plaza is one of those hotels where you occasionally get offered very special "room service" by freelance contractors roaming the grounds.
I joked Friday night that the next time we stay there (that'll be this Saturday night) I'm bringing a black light to go over the room for... stuff, C.S.I. style.
It was universally agreed that a black light would be a singularly bad idea. We don't want to know what's happened in those rooms.
Coming later this week: the Plaza Motel's welcome/check-in sheet - a foray into Engrish.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Flashing lights! Flashing lights!
EDIT: Sorry, just realized that I'd disabled comments in the picture gallery. They're working now, I think. Test 'em out.
All you blog readers get it first, before it's linked from jakehallman.com - the brand-new photo gallery.
Right now it's shots from Eric Lee Beddingfield and County Line (hey, wait, I'm not in that picture!) shows, but there's going to be some other... interesting... stuff added later.
All you blog readers get it first, before it's linked from jakehallman.com - the brand-new photo gallery.
Right now it's shots from Eric Lee Beddingfield and County Line (hey, wait, I'm not in that picture!) shows, but there's going to be some other... interesting... stuff added later.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Music and such.
Don't know how many of you check out jakehallman.com, but I tossed up a whole bunch of music that I've done in the past few years up there.
I'll even spare you all of the pretty pictures - here's a direct link to the page.
Also, would any of you mind if I stopped hosting the site here and just had the whole darned shootin' match at stouthouse.org? You'd have to change some links, but that's not too much to ask, is it?
Oh, and keep the Jake Hallman links coming! I'm moving up in the rankings.
I'll even spare you all of the pretty pictures - here's a direct link to the page.
Also, would any of you mind if I stopped hosting the site here and just had the whole darned shootin' match at stouthouse.org? You'd have to change some links, but that's not too much to ask, is it?
Oh, and keep the Jake Hallman links coming! I'm moving up in the rankings.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
I laughed my butt (ass) off.
Memorable quotes from my interview with comedienne Etta May that will never, ever see the light of day at the newspaper where I work:
"With some comics, 'fuck' is the punchline. If that happens, you're screwed. Did you see Robin Williams? If he wasn't grabbin' his dick, he was saying 'fuck.'"
"You'd have thought I kicked their dog and shit on their floor."
"I feel like I'm the smart one, because all this reality TV bullshit has come in. Actors are a real pain in the ass."
"Twenty years from now, I'll probably have to grab my dick and say 'fuck,' and people will still think I'm brilliant because I'm Robin Williams."
"With some comics, 'fuck' is the punchline. If that happens, you're screwed. Did you see Robin Williams? If he wasn't grabbin' his dick, he was saying 'fuck.'"
"You'd have thought I kicked their dog and shit on their floor."
"I feel like I'm the smart one, because all this reality TV bullshit has come in. Actors are a real pain in the ass."
"Twenty years from now, I'll probably have to grab my dick and say 'fuck,' and people will still think I'm brilliant because I'm Robin Williams."
Saturday, August 06, 2005
More like a Google pinata, really.
Everyone, I need your help. If you haven't heard of the phenomenon of "Google bombing," you may want to familiarize yourself by following the link.
I find myself in a difficult position. If you google the phrase "Jake Hallman," the number one search result isn't JakeHallman.com. It's a news story about a Jake Hallman who's an English major in college in Boston.
I've spoken to her. She's very nice.
That's sick. Stop thinking that.
Anyway, nice though she is, she shall not have my rightful number one search ranking. Here's what I need all of you with Web sites and blogs to do: throw a link somewhere that links the phrase "Jake Hallman" to jakehallman.com.
Like this: "Jake Hallman asked me to help him googlebomb himself."
For bonus points, you can link other words to it, too: "It shows that he's rather neurotic and insecure."
I don't care about the other words - just get "Jake Hallman" linked to jakehallman.com and make me a Google superstar!
I find myself in a difficult position. If you google the phrase "Jake Hallman," the number one search result isn't JakeHallman.com. It's a news story about a Jake Hallman who's an English major in college in Boston.
I've spoken to her. She's very nice.
That's sick. Stop thinking that.
Anyway, nice though she is, she shall not have my rightful number one search ranking. Here's what I need all of you with Web sites and blogs to do: throw a link somewhere that links the phrase "Jake Hallman" to jakehallman.com.
Like this: "Jake Hallman asked me to help him googlebomb himself."
For bonus points, you can link other words to it, too: "It shows that he's rather neurotic and insecure."
I don't care about the other words - just get "Jake Hallman" linked to jakehallman.com and make me a Google superstar!
Friday, August 05, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Wow... just... wow.
First of all, "Over There" is some gut-wrenching television. No matter how you feel about the war in Iraq, it'll open your eyes.
It's on Wednesday nights on FX.
On a lighter note, my new XM radio for my car came in today. It rocks.
And it was $38 shipped. Ain't technology wonderful?
It just about took longer for me to rip the package open (that's what they should make black boxes out of) than it did to install it. Within 10 minutes, I had it mounted in the car and had set up the external antenna (including running a cable underneath weatherstripping).
Now I've just got to order a wireless remote for the darned thing, otherwise I'm gonna become a highway statistic. And yes, I always use a hands-free device with my cellphone in my car.
It's on Wednesday nights on FX.
On a lighter note, my new XM radio for my car came in today. It rocks.
And it was $38 shipped. Ain't technology wonderful?
It just about took longer for me to rip the package open (that's what they should make black boxes out of) than it did to install it. Within 10 minutes, I had it mounted in the car and had set up the external antenna (including running a cable underneath weatherstripping).
Now I've just got to order a wireless remote for the darned thing, otherwise I'm gonna become a highway statistic. And yes, I always use a hands-free device with my cellphone in my car.
Monday, August 01, 2005
On making enemies.
First, jakehallman.com is up and running. Let me know what you think of the design. Chris, if you'd like something similar, I can have it up and running for you in a day.
Sometimes, it's just the principle of the damned thing.
We played Gadsden, Alabama on Saturday night, at a club called "Chestnut Station."
Yes, I know. Not a gay bar, I promise.
Anyway, we killed 'em. One of the best shows we've done in at least a week and a half. They were diggin' us hard, and late in the show a young lady in the front decided to try and flag me down mid-song.
We made eye contact, and she mouthed to me that she wanted to wear my hat, in that particular over-enunciated help-me-the-frat-boy-standing-behind-me-is-molesting-me-and-I-like-it-and-can't-feel-it-'cause-I'm-drunk-as-hell kind of way.
Y'see, when I play with the County Line boys, I wear this $5 beat-up straw cowboy hat I picked up from Fred's here in town. I'm on my third or fourth one - they don't last long, but at $5 they're almost disposable.
Almost.
I offered to let her wear my sunglasses. At $4 a pair from Big Lots, they're more disposable.
I'm on pair number three of this particular sunglass brand, too. Hey, I lose things.
She wanted none of the sunglasses action (though later I was asked by another young lady at the club if I was blind). She wanted to wear the hat.
So I relented. "One song," I told her, as Eric kicked off what was truly a stellar, balls-to-the-wall four or five song close to the set.
I never really got back around to the hat, but on our last song I noticed that the young lady, named Kelly as I later discovered, was nowhere to be found.
"That chick ran off with my got-damned hat," I said, a little too close to the open mike.
After a little bit of asking around, I located the friends she'd drove to the club with, and was duly informed that since she could still walk she'd decided to go to the club next door.
I headed out the door, and nearly ran into her, sucking face in that help-me-I-don't-know-if-I-like-this-and-I-can't-feel-my-lips kind of way with some random dude on the sidewalk.
And she didn't have my got-damned hat on.
For the record, I was perfectly willing to let her do whatever carnal things she wanted with whomever she wanted...
... I just wanted my got-damned hat back.
So, taking no mind to Chet, the son of an orthodontist who was conveniently attached to her face, I politely asked Kelly where my hat was.
She opened her eyes from the kiss, looked at me, and kept on checking Chet's adenoids for lumps.
"I'll be back," I said, and headed back into Chestnut Station. I met up with her friends, let her know that she was plying her trade outside, and followed them next door.
Ran into Kelly again on the sidewalk, this time hanging on to a different guy... Todd, the likely son of an investment banker.
Kelly explained to me that she'd left my hat in the womens' restroom of Chestnut Station.
"Thanks so very much. Have a nice night," I told her.
By this time, I was slightly pissed off. It's the principle of the thing, y'know? Besides, I was the only stone-cold sober person within at least six blocks.
After knocking, I barged into the womens' restroom without knocking. It was deserted, and there was no hat to be found.
To paraphrase Ron White, I spun into a whole new dimension of "pissed off."
The doorman at Peabody's (the club next door) took a look at me, checked my ID, and let me in without paying the cover.
I must look kind of scary without a hat and with unkempt hair.
I located Kelly and her friends on the dance floor after a couple of laps around the club and nearly being stepped on by a gentleman in a pink polo shirt who said "Excuse me, hippie."
Since I didn't want to get my ass kicked then, I'll take the liberty of saying it now:
"Fuck you, you pink shirt wearing frat boy fuck. Go date rape someone before I make you look bad in front of all your pretty friends you paid for."
Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and I'm not nearly as brave as normal when I have no one to back me up.
Kelly didn't want to speak to me. Hell, she seemed shocked to see me. Her friends, though, tolerated me, and even put a guilt trip on Kelly to get her to go to her frickin' car and get my got-damned hat.
She came back in (this time with the hat on), and immediately was suckered in by a group of military-looking gentlemen who immediately took to manhandling her.
"Great," I thought. "Someone's going to have to die for his country just so I can get my got-damned hat back."
Kelly's friend Kate pre-empted me, though, exhibiting a level of cock-blockery that I've never, ever seen practiced before. She successfully fended off six soldiers trying to paw both Kelly and she, got my hat off of Kelly's head and gave the Army a look that if Saddam Hussein had mastered would have resulted in a radically different geopolitical situation in the Middle East.
Kelly wasn't happy to see my hat back on my got-damned head.
"It looks like ten times better on me," she said.
"Yes, it does. However, it's my got-damned hat," I replied.
"But it looks so much better on me!"
"I don't care. It's my hat. I'll bring you one next time we play here."
"But I want your hat!" she whined - but whined with an edge. Her friends took a step back.
"You can't have it." I said.
"You're a selfish asshole," she screeched (just as the music stopped, no less).
"No, I'm a selfish prick," I replied as she gave me two fingers. "But I'm a selfish prick who got his hat back. Y'all have a good night."
Sometimes, it's just the principle of the damned thing.
We played Gadsden, Alabama on Saturday night, at a club called "Chestnut Station."
Yes, I know. Not a gay bar, I promise.
Anyway, we killed 'em. One of the best shows we've done in at least a week and a half. They were diggin' us hard, and late in the show a young lady in the front decided to try and flag me down mid-song.
We made eye contact, and she mouthed to me that she wanted to wear my hat, in that particular over-enunciated help-me-the-frat-boy-standing-behind-me-is-molesting-me-and-I-like-it-and-can't-feel-it-'cause-I'm-drunk-as-hell kind of way.
Y'see, when I play with the County Line boys, I wear this $5 beat-up straw cowboy hat I picked up from Fred's here in town. I'm on my third or fourth one - they don't last long, but at $5 they're almost disposable.
Almost.
I offered to let her wear my sunglasses. At $4 a pair from Big Lots, they're more disposable.
I'm on pair number three of this particular sunglass brand, too. Hey, I lose things.
She wanted none of the sunglasses action (though later I was asked by another young lady at the club if I was blind). She wanted to wear the hat.
So I relented. "One song," I told her, as Eric kicked off what was truly a stellar, balls-to-the-wall four or five song close to the set.
I never really got back around to the hat, but on our last song I noticed that the young lady, named Kelly as I later discovered, was nowhere to be found.
"That chick ran off with my got-damned hat," I said, a little too close to the open mike.
After a little bit of asking around, I located the friends she'd drove to the club with, and was duly informed that since she could still walk she'd decided to go to the club next door.
I headed out the door, and nearly ran into her, sucking face in that help-me-I-don't-know-if-I-like-this-and-I-can't-feel-my-lips kind of way with some random dude on the sidewalk.
And she didn't have my got-damned hat on.
For the record, I was perfectly willing to let her do whatever carnal things she wanted with whomever she wanted...
... I just wanted my got-damned hat back.
So, taking no mind to Chet, the son of an orthodontist who was conveniently attached to her face, I politely asked Kelly where my hat was.
She opened her eyes from the kiss, looked at me, and kept on checking Chet's adenoids for lumps.
"I'll be back," I said, and headed back into Chestnut Station. I met up with her friends, let her know that she was plying her trade outside, and followed them next door.
Ran into Kelly again on the sidewalk, this time hanging on to a different guy... Todd, the likely son of an investment banker.
Kelly explained to me that she'd left my hat in the womens' restroom of Chestnut Station.
"Thanks so very much. Have a nice night," I told her.
By this time, I was slightly pissed off. It's the principle of the thing, y'know? Besides, I was the only stone-cold sober person within at least six blocks.
After knocking, I barged into the womens' restroom without knocking. It was deserted, and there was no hat to be found.
To paraphrase Ron White, I spun into a whole new dimension of "pissed off."
The doorman at Peabody's (the club next door) took a look at me, checked my ID, and let me in without paying the cover.
I must look kind of scary without a hat and with unkempt hair.
I located Kelly and her friends on the dance floor after a couple of laps around the club and nearly being stepped on by a gentleman in a pink polo shirt who said "Excuse me, hippie."
Since I didn't want to get my ass kicked then, I'll take the liberty of saying it now:
"Fuck you, you pink shirt wearing frat boy fuck. Go date rape someone before I make you look bad in front of all your pretty friends you paid for."
Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter, and I'm not nearly as brave as normal when I have no one to back me up.
Kelly didn't want to speak to me. Hell, she seemed shocked to see me. Her friends, though, tolerated me, and even put a guilt trip on Kelly to get her to go to her frickin' car and get my got-damned hat.
She came back in (this time with the hat on), and immediately was suckered in by a group of military-looking gentlemen who immediately took to manhandling her.
"Great," I thought. "Someone's going to have to die for his country just so I can get my got-damned hat back."
Kelly's friend Kate pre-empted me, though, exhibiting a level of cock-blockery that I've never, ever seen practiced before. She successfully fended off six soldiers trying to paw both Kelly and she, got my hat off of Kelly's head and gave the Army a look that if Saddam Hussein had mastered would have resulted in a radically different geopolitical situation in the Middle East.
Kelly wasn't happy to see my hat back on my got-damned head.
"It looks like ten times better on me," she said.
"Yes, it does. However, it's my got-damned hat," I replied.
"But it looks so much better on me!"
"I don't care. It's my hat. I'll bring you one next time we play here."
"But I want your hat!" she whined - but whined with an edge. Her friends took a step back.
"You can't have it." I said.
"You're a selfish asshole," she screeched (just as the music stopped, no less).
"No, I'm a selfish prick," I replied as she gave me two fingers. "But I'm a selfish prick who got his hat back. Y'all have a good night."
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Vanity, thy name is...
I'll hand it to the guys on the other side of my duplex. They've calmed down a lot. After I had the talk about the rebel flag they were flying on the front porch and after about the fifth or tenth time walking over there at 3 a.m. to explain to them their parties were getting loud, they've been pretty calm.
They fixed the truck, too.
All the same, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of happiness when I saw a big ol' moving truck backed up to the front door this afternoon.
The landlord says two girls are moving in on the other side. Girls are good. They don't have loud parties. Sometimes they bake cookies and share. They don't make weird smells that waft through the shared wall.
And just so you know, the site isn't abandoned.
However, I may be regaining Stouthouse.com back in mid-August, and if that happens, this site will be moving there - be prepared to update your bookmarks and links accordingly should that happen.
Yeah, like anyone links to this.
See, I used to have both Stouthouse.com and Stouthouse.org. I was a little lax in renewing the .com domain back in 2003, and some speculator got it out from under me. Never even put a site there, the punk. It expires Aug. 20, and I've got it backordered.
I've also launched JakeHallman.com, for more professional pursuits (y'know, "hire me to play piano or take pictures!"). If you have enough slavish devotion to me to want an @jakehallman.com e-mail addy, just let me know.
Anybody know a good place where I can get dark blue business cards with dark blue writing? I like the idea of having solid-colored cards that, when held just right in the light, read "jake@jakehallman.com."
Jeez... I shouldn't have written the e-mail addy. My first message received is going to be spam.
They fixed the truck, too.
All the same, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of happiness when I saw a big ol' moving truck backed up to the front door this afternoon.
The landlord says two girls are moving in on the other side. Girls are good. They don't have loud parties. Sometimes they bake cookies and share. They don't make weird smells that waft through the shared wall.
And just so you know, the site isn't abandoned.
However, I may be regaining Stouthouse.com back in mid-August, and if that happens, this site will be moving there - be prepared to update your bookmarks and links accordingly should that happen.
Yeah, like anyone links to this.
See, I used to have both Stouthouse.com and Stouthouse.org. I was a little lax in renewing the .com domain back in 2003, and some speculator got it out from under me. Never even put a site there, the punk. It expires Aug. 20, and I've got it backordered.
I've also launched JakeHallman.com, for more professional pursuits (y'know, "hire me to play piano or take pictures!"). If you have enough slavish devotion to me to want an @jakehallman.com e-mail addy, just let me know.
Anybody know a good place where I can get dark blue business cards with dark blue writing? I like the idea of having solid-colored cards that, when held just right in the light, read "jake@jakehallman.com."
Jeez... I shouldn't have written the e-mail addy. My first message received is going to be spam.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
WVGS redux.
I've finally hosted some pictures from WVGS' last night in student hands here.
Yeah, captions probably would have been nice, but I was in a hurry.
If you're wondering what the big deal's about, someone covered it much more eloquently than I. Also, Scott's written a fond remembrance of those heady (and for me, personally embarassing) WVGS days.
Yeah, captions probably would have been nice, but I was in a hurry.
If you're wondering what the big deal's about, someone covered it much more eloquently than I. Also, Scott's written a fond remembrance of those heady (and for me, personally embarassing) WVGS days.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Some days I freakin' love this job.
Anatomy of a great Friday:
That's 1,400 pounds of illegal fireworks confiscated from stores selling them in Southeast Georgia. If it shoots sparks, it's cool. If it blows up or shoots into the air, it's not.
Plus:
John Oxendine, our state insurance and fire commissioner. "Look at this! 'Blond Joke.' This is aimed at children!"
He didn't seem impressed when I mentioned the multiple violations of intellectual property rights stemming from the photos on the box.
That's two things China's doing really well these days (besides driving up the cost of steel): makin' pretty gunpowder and bootlegging copyrighted American stuff. God bless 'em.
Plus:
That's a five foot (roughly) trench, lined with diesel-soaked cardboard. They carefully hurled the fireworks into said trench, taking care to make sure most of them weren't aimed upwards. Then the 1,400 pounds of sparkly fire goodness was covered with a few wooden pallets.
Plus:
FIRE!
Equals:
That's 1,400 pounds of illegal fireworks confiscated from stores selling them in Southeast Georgia. If it shoots sparks, it's cool. If it blows up or shoots into the air, it's not.Plus:
John Oxendine, our state insurance and fire commissioner. "Look at this! 'Blond Joke.' This is aimed at children!"
He didn't seem impressed when I mentioned the multiple violations of intellectual property rights stemming from the photos on the box.
That's two things China's doing really well these days (besides driving up the cost of steel): makin' pretty gunpowder and bootlegging copyrighted American stuff. God bless 'em.
Plus:
That's a five foot (roughly) trench, lined with diesel-soaked cardboard. They carefully hurled the fireworks into said trench, taking care to make sure most of them weren't aimed upwards. Then the 1,400 pounds of sparkly fire goodness was covered with a few wooden pallets.Plus:
FIRE!
Equals:
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
What an odd thing to find in the Herald parking lot today. It would seem that my suspicions are correct, and in fact the advertising sales force has turned to Santeria to get their numbers up.
Copyright Jake Hallman/all rights reserved
Friday, July 01, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Holy mackerel, this is cool!
Coolest thing I've seen all week: Google Earth.
3d maps of the planet (unfortunately, not in very high resolution for my house, but your results may vary).
Download it and play with it. It rocks.
3d maps of the planet (unfortunately, not in very high resolution for my house, but your results may vary).
Download it and play with it. It rocks.
Mo' music.
Quick one: here's the opening three minutes of music I did for a stop-motion version of Beowulf (4.2mb .mp3).
A bit rough, but I kind of like it. Wish I could afford a real orchestra.
Are any of you out there actually listening to these things I put up?
A bit rough, but I kind of like it. Wish I could afford a real orchestra.
Are any of you out there actually listening to these things I put up?
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Okay, so I think it's working...
Made the site (http://stouthouse.blogspot.com and http://www.stouthouse.org) true mirrors of each other... I think.
Let me know if there are any problems.
Edit: Didn't quite work, but at least the sites are somewhat synchronized now.
Let me know if there are any problems.
Edit: Didn't quite work, but at least the sites are somewhat synchronized now.
Hi, Joe!
Ever since my buddy Joe went to Las Vegas for a summer internship, I've been sending him pictures periodically of random people holding up signs that say "Hi, Joe!" because I'm weird like that.
And to show him that, despite his recent run of insanely good luck in life and love, he's still everybody's favorite guy.
Frickin' lucky bastid. Who says nice guys finish last?
Anyway, I'd like to encourage everyone to do the same. Shoot him your "random people holding 'Hi, Joe!' signs" pictures at joe.goble@gmail.com.
Yeah, I hooked him up with a gmail addy back in the day. What of it?
And to show him that, despite his recent run of insanely good luck in life and love, he's still everybody's favorite guy.
Frickin' lucky bastid. Who says nice guys finish last?
Anyway, I'd like to encourage everyone to do the same. Shoot him your "random people holding 'Hi, Joe!' signs" pictures at joe.goble@gmail.com.
Yeah, I hooked him up with a gmail addy back in the day. What of it?
Friday, June 24, 2005
Live music!
Oldies but goodies, from the hard drive at home:
We Never Know (2.1mb mp3)
Except the Smaller Size (1.3mb mp3)
A Night (2.8mb mp3)
These are live performances from my graduation recital back in 1998. Yes, I wrote 'em. Played piano, too. That's a slightly nervous Amanda Horton singing the soprano parts (don't blame her, I'd be nervous too if I had myself as an accompanist).
I've got this weird thing about setting Emily Dickinson poems to music... I was once called "Georgia Southern's leading feminist art song composer." Kinda ironic, really, given my history.
"A Night" is my favorite - it's Jake doing Sondheim.
We Never Know (2.1mb mp3)
Except the Smaller Size (1.3mb mp3)
A Night (2.8mb mp3)
These are live performances from my graduation recital back in 1998. Yes, I wrote 'em. Played piano, too. That's a slightly nervous Amanda Horton singing the soprano parts (don't blame her, I'd be nervous too if I had myself as an accompanist).
I've got this weird thing about setting Emily Dickinson poems to music... I was once called "Georgia Southern's leading feminist art song composer." Kinda ironic, really, given my history.
"A Night" is my favorite - it's Jake doing Sondheim.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Will I have to grow a moustache?
That's my little brother Ben on the right, wishing my dad a happy Father's Day in his own special way. If women are supposed to look like their mothers when they get older, does it work the same way for men?
If that's the case, am I screwed? Readers, comment on this - I know dad's one cool mofo, but I honestly have no frame of reference as to whether he's a good-looking guy or not.
Copyright Jake Hallman/all rights reserved
A wee Healy steals the show.
Fun moments as a photographer: watching the intern (pretty talented young writer, no joke), covering a drama camp at Georgia Southern University, start interviewing a youngster who just walks up and starts talking to her.
Intern: What's your name?
Kid: William.
Intern: Do you like playing a "swamp thing" in the play?
Kid: Yeah. It's fun.
Intern: Have you ever been in the newspaper before?
Kid: Not here.
Intern: What's your last name?
Kid: Healy.
Jake (elbowing Intern as recognition dawns in her eyes): That's the editor's middle son.
Copyright Jake Hallman/all rights reserved
Rabbits
More music: I got bored over Easter weekend. It's short - loop it loud.
In other news, Elohsa has linked my remix of their song "Overflowing" on their site.
In other news, Elohsa has linked my remix of their song "Overflowing" on their site.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Here's something I find useful.
Been to ourmedia.org? Free hosting forever for your multimedia files - that's your multimedia files, not your illicit .mp3 collection or... er... interesting movies.
I've got a ton of unfinished, close-to-finished and abandoned work on the hard drive at home. In addition to being a nifty offsite backup, I think I'll start making them accessible to all of yas.
To start with, here's the (unfinished) 'Boro theme (1 meg or so .mp3) - the inimitable Brady was going to create either a TV show, short film, feature movie, music video, graphic novel, screenplay, weekly entertainment newspaper, radio drama or improvisational theater piece, depending on when and where you spoke with him about a year ago.
Seems like nothing panned out for him, but somewhere in the process I did a little music at his request. It's rough, but kind of catchy, with a serious Ren and Stimpy influence.
Oh, and lest I forget - here's some of my old stuff. Ignore the picture of me in vinyl pants.
I've got a ton of unfinished, close-to-finished and abandoned work on the hard drive at home. In addition to being a nifty offsite backup, I think I'll start making them accessible to all of yas.
To start with, here's the (unfinished) 'Boro theme (1 meg or so .mp3) - the inimitable Brady was going to create either a TV show, short film, feature movie, music video, graphic novel, screenplay, weekly entertainment newspaper, radio drama or improvisational theater piece, depending on when and where you spoke with him about a year ago.
Seems like nothing panned out for him, but somewhere in the process I did a little music at his request. It's rough, but kind of catchy, with a serious Ren and Stimpy influence.
Oh, and lest I forget - here's some of my old stuff. Ignore the picture of me in vinyl pants.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
I'm an old, average gamer, it seems.
(yet another column)
I looked forward to interviewing Matthew Gibson of Portal. You can read the big story here, but, at the tender age of 18 he was one of 13 finalists who beat out more than 36,000 competitors to compete for the title of...
Wait for it...
Wait...
"Pokemon Emerald Ultimate Frontier Battle Brain."
No kidding. Thing is, Matthew's living proof of a way the entertainment world is changing. Chances are that if you're over 30 you picture video games as "kid stuff."
You're wrong. I used to think that at 28 I was a relative oddity - sitting at home I have, almost in order, an Atari 2600, Nintendo Entertainment System, Super Nintendo, N64, Dreamcast, GameCube and Playstation 2.
The Genesis died long ago, and I won't have any more Microsoft in the house than is necessary.
The thing is, all my friends also have PS2s, Xboxes or Gamecubes at their houses. And they're getting ancient like me. I grew up making the transition from Atari's Pac-Man, Pitfall and (may God have mercy on my soul) E.T. to the NES' Legend of Zelda and Super Mario Brothers 2 in middle school.
High school brought the Sega cocktail of Sonic the Hedgehog, Starflight and Street Fighter II. My college years were consumed by a heady mix of Final Fantasy VII on Playstation and Goldeneye (and later Perfect Dark) on N64.
Now it's Mortal Kombat: Deception and GTA: San Andreas on the PS2 and my long-running and continuing addiction to Counter-Strike and Star Wars Galaxies on my home PC.
What's the point of the list? I actually remember each of these titles vividly, down to the most minute detail. I can recall the thrill of lasting for the entire 20 minutes on Pitfall. I can play the final music from SMB2 on piano.
I nearly cried when Aerith kicked the bucket in Final Fantasy, and some of the best times of my college career were spent at Bermuda Run's apartment L2 having the Brennaman boyz hand me my tail in Goldeneye.
They were defining moments for me, like when Grandma saw "Gone with the Wind" or when my father caught Three Dog Night at the Flame. Lots of my brain's "happy place" is filled with video games.
I'm not alone, either, though I thought I was for the longest time. Turns out that average age of video game players is 29, and the average buyer is 36 according to a study put out last year.
I'm not going to fight it any more. Video games are perfectly cool - and the gaming population is only going to get older with me.
When somebody asks me if I watched "Survivor," I'm going to tell them the truth. No, I wasn't watching the History Channel, I was working out the intricacies of Nightwolf's second style-branching combo to whoop up on people in Kombat.
I looked forward to interviewing Matthew Gibson of Portal. You can read the big story here, but, at the tender age of 18 he was one of 13 finalists who beat out more than 36,000 competitors to compete for the title of...
Wait for it...
Wait...
"Pokemon Emerald Ultimate Frontier Battle Brain."
No kidding. Thing is, Matthew's living proof of a way the entertainment world is changing. Chances are that if you're over 30 you picture video games as "kid stuff."
You're wrong. I used to think that at 28 I was a relative oddity - sitting at home I have, almost in order, an Atari 2600, Nintendo Entertainment System, Super Nintendo, N64, Dreamcast, GameCube and Playstation 2.
The Genesis died long ago, and I won't have any more Microsoft in the house than is necessary.
The thing is, all my friends also have PS2s, Xboxes or Gamecubes at their houses. And they're getting ancient like me. I grew up making the transition from Atari's Pac-Man, Pitfall and (may God have mercy on my soul) E.T. to the NES' Legend of Zelda and Super Mario Brothers 2 in middle school.
High school brought the Sega cocktail of Sonic the Hedgehog, Starflight and Street Fighter II. My college years were consumed by a heady mix of Final Fantasy VII on Playstation and Goldeneye (and later Perfect Dark) on N64.
Now it's Mortal Kombat: Deception and GTA: San Andreas on the PS2 and my long-running and continuing addiction to Counter-Strike and Star Wars Galaxies on my home PC.
What's the point of the list? I actually remember each of these titles vividly, down to the most minute detail. I can recall the thrill of lasting for the entire 20 minutes on Pitfall. I can play the final music from SMB2 on piano.
I nearly cried when Aerith kicked the bucket in Final Fantasy, and some of the best times of my college career were spent at Bermuda Run's apartment L2 having the Brennaman boyz hand me my tail in Goldeneye.
They were defining moments for me, like when Grandma saw "Gone with the Wind" or when my father caught Three Dog Night at the Flame. Lots of my brain's "happy place" is filled with video games.
I'm not alone, either, though I thought I was for the longest time. Turns out that average age of video game players is 29, and the average buyer is 36 according to a study put out last year.
I'm not going to fight it any more. Video games are perfectly cool - and the gaming population is only going to get older with me.
When somebody asks me if I watched "Survivor," I'm going to tell them the truth. No, I wasn't watching the History Channel, I was working out the intricacies of Nightwolf's second style-branching combo to whoop up on people in Kombat.
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