January 2005 Archives

Twenty years ago, radio stations across America banded together and played "We Are The World" at 12 noon. Twenty gosh damn years. Good lord. I know this not because I'm that smart, but because the DJ on the XM 80's channel told me so this morning during my morning commute. This was of course followed by them playing the song.

Now, normally I sing along with the radio. Its like my personal concert hall. If I'm feeling particularly ornery, I'll even mimic the original singer. Due to my double feature movie night last night, where I made a meat & cheese tray for myself to consume while I watched "Dodgeball" and "A Mighty Wind", I was feeling extradinarily ornery. So in the span of 4 minutes, I sang poorly in a vain attempt to mimic no less than 25 performers.

Here's my tips on how to do a bad but funny singing impersonation of the USA For Africa performers, based on 20 years of butchering, hemming and hawing:

A friend of mine sent me a newspaper clipping from the Houston Press, an entertainment newspaper in Houston this week. Its dated September 23, 2004, so its a couple months old, but its not really time-sensitive material, so its still relevant to argue with.

(Sorry, a quick Google for the article online turned up nothing, so I can't link to it.)

The title of the article: Introducing the most hated men in rock (besides Sting)

Right off the bat, I have a problem. What, only men in rock can be hated? No women? OK, not sure how I feel about that, but I'm willing to hear you out.

OK, on with the arguments. The article is written by one Mike Seely. His criteria are, in his own words, "Have talent, use it well for a substantial period of time, then squander it for commercial riches, fame or forced mass appeal." So that makes them hated? Really? So he equates making cash and being popular as bad. Nice.

I had no idea that so many people knew the words to "These Dreams" by Heart. I mean, its quite possibly the worst of their mid-80s sellout pop hits from their eponymous album. Recall, Heart is the band that wrote "Barracuda" and then sold their soul for pop success in 1985. Of the half-dozen songs that you couldn't escape from on the radio and MTV, "These Dreams" is the worst. So how shocking was it to be at The Homy Inn on Saturday night and have that song come on the jukebox, and the entire place break out in song during the chorus? That ain't right.

Understand, it was NOT me who played this musical horror on the jukebox. Oh, my table had been trying to get me to program a few bucks worth of Tom-approved songs. But I was either too timid or too lazy to do so. As long as there was beer in my bottle, I wasn't getting up for anything. Now, if someone had played Gerardo ("Rico Suave"), that would be enough to get me up. Outside of that, no chance.

My buddy's quasi-girlfriend was really trying to get me to play Wilson Philips. This prompted my brother and I to bust out laughing, before doing the Chris Farley impersonation of Carnie Wilson ("Lay off me I'm starving!"). I'm telling you right this instant, I'll eat a steaming pile of lizard poop before I play Wilson Philips on a jukebox. Good lord. Why would you do that?

Based on the young arts crowd that generally gathers at the Homy, I'm thinking a playlist of early 90s one hit wonders would be enough to be a jukebox star. My buddy David always plays Television's "Marquee Moon", which while it is a great song, is not the proper selection for a bar jukebox. First of all, its 12 minutes long. Second, no one knows the freaking words to that song. Fine, Tom, so what would you play, you say? Well, I'd play songs everyone knows and can mutually enjoy, without the residual feeling of remorse that might come from playing Wilson Philips.

Spin Doctors ("Two Princes"). Ace of Base ("The Sign" or "Don't Turn Around", your pick). Neneh Cherry ("Buffalo Stance"). Mr. Big ("To Be With You"). Us3 ("Cantaloop: Flip Fantasia"). 4 Non Blondes ("What's Up?"). Blind Melon ("No Rain"). Snow ("Informer"). Divinyls ("I Touch Myself"). You can't go wrong with any of these selections. For people in their mid-twenties, these are songs from our middle school and high school days. We all know the words. Play the songs, sing along, be a fucking star. Do it.

Alas, I elected to play the ass song and sit still while somebody played Heart. What was I thinking?

Mile 1985: first trip to the bar for Pint Nite. The "Holiday Cheer from Samuel Adams" glasses are fantastic. The beer was too. Girls shooting me with rubber bands in the ass, not to much. So long as they're cute and single and its not my buddy's girlfriend pulling the trigger, go for it, ladies.

The irony is not lost on me that on mile 1985, we're listening to Neneh Cherry's "Buffalo Stance" (one of the greatest old school songs ever, by the way), and we're on the way to a college bar for pint night, and its very time-machine-esque. The Colorado is way cooler than that stupid DeLorean though. I don't think that piecer had XM Satellite Radio. Come to think of it, I don't think it had any radio. Doc had to take it out to make room for the time machine control panel. So while you could go back to 1955, you couldn't listen to Neneh Cherry while you did it. Not very astute thinking there, Doc.

Last night was Season Ticket Holder Appreciation night at the Qwest Center, meaning Creighton gave me 4 free reserved tickets to disperse as I so desired. Added to the 2 seats I own, that meant I could take 5 other people with me to the game. Believe me, I had no trouble finding takers for the free ducats. Those lucky enough to be there saw quite a game. It was like the good old days again. Creighton scrapping, playing good defense, shooting well, being aggressive on the boards, and blowing out the opponent. And Nate Funk channeled the spirit of Kyle Korver and hung 26 points on Drake, 20 in the first half when the game was still in doubt. Nicely done, Jays!

--

Quick reflexes honed on the basketball court saved my new truck this morning. Yes, The Colorado almost was wrecked. I'm rolling slowly to a stop at a light on 108th near L street in the far lane, and this old fossil pulls out of a parking lot slowly, across one empty lane and into mine. With me coming up on him. His turn was SO wide, at first I thought he was turning left and into traffic the opposite direction. The fossil stayed perpendicular to me for the longest time. I swerved and drove INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC for a block or so. Any other time, any other day, there would have been too many cars in the other lanes on 108th for me to do that, and I would have been T-boned. And The Colorado would be wrecked, smashed by some old man who can't see well enough to drive anymore. But someone was looking out for me today, and the other lanes were EMPTY. Maybe not proof of a higher power, but if you've got a bridge to sell me, I might buy it -- my faith is that strong at the moment.

Old fossil. I rather like that term. That's from something. Can't think of what movie. Damn. It'll come to me. Don't you worry.

No post yesterday, because I was busy. So you get a ridiculously LONG post today. Don't say I never did anything for my peoples.

Few people know that Continental Frutiger, Cliff Glypha, Dick Herculanum and myself are members of a rock band named Cobra Kai. Even fewer people know that we've never even recorded an album or played a gig. But that doesn't stop us from being rock stars.

"On Lead Bass, El Presidente de grande cabeza, Continental Frutiger!"

(Bitchin' bass solo)

"In center field, On Lead Drums, Dick Herculanum!"

(Plays opening drumline to Van Halen's "Jamie's Cryin", later ripped off by Tone Loc for the opening to "Wild Thing")

"Bustin' boards and cement blocks for the ladies, on Lead Guitar, its Clifford Glypha!"

(Plays keyboard opening of "The Final Countdown" on his guitar, because he's just that good)

"And me, I'm Maximus Univers, and we are the Cobra Kai, masters of karate rock. Welcome to our party dojo!"

--

As I said, I was home over the weekend. My grandparents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. That's a long damn time. I'll be lucky to be alive 50 years, much less be married to the same woman for that long.

I was still fighting the cold that night, so it wasn't near the good time it should have been. It was bad enough to be the only person at the party not drinking booze. But the damn restaurant didn't even have The Official Non-Caffeinated Beverage of Polyfro, Sprite -- "For Those Times When You're Being a Deuche". So I'm stuck drinking Sierra Mist. Why don't you just bring me a Zima NA and we'll get the deuche-ification over with.

At dinner, I almost had a Seinfeld moment. With my head so plugged I could barely breathe, my grandpa's sister sits next to me wearing like half a bottle of perfume. This of course is like turning the nasal faucet on another turn. I almost asked her to move. That would be the ultimate Costanza moment, wouldn't it? "I'm sorry, can you sit somewhere else? Your perfume is making me sneeze." Couldn't bring myself to do it. A classic "Better to be thought an idiot than to open your mouth and remove all doubt" moment.

Sierra Mist or no, we all had a great time. Happy 50th, Grandma and Grampa!

The cold bug finally got me. All these bastards that come into the office hacking and sneezing their germs, why don't you stay home when you're sick? Good lord. I fought it off for the better part of two months, but it finally caught up to me. So what did I do?

Got some to-go from Chili's and watched Live Aid. All ten hours, broken up over two nights.

Wow, I had forgotten how alternatively hilarious/awesome that was. For instance, U2 kicks ass. As does Queen. Watching Freddie Mercury work that crowd, there's no one like him.

The funniest moment -- and you have to watch close or you'll miss it -- Elton John introduces George Michael before their duet, and the other guy from Wham! runs out with him, only to be shunned by Sir Elton. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce a man who I respect greatly for his musical ability, George Michael! (pause, Elton looks surprised as OGFW runs on about 5 seconds later and by himself) and Andrew Ridgley."

If you're looking for some of the best unintentional comedy on a daily basis, I highly recommend picking up the 2005 Care Bears calendar. Seriously.

I purchased this quality item for my friend Drew, largely on the basis of an inside joke we won't let go -- one time last summer, he RSVP'd "no" to a party, and signed his name Sad Bear. Since then, the Care Bears thing with Sad Bear has been a big joke. So when I saw the Care Bears calendar for $3, in which Sad Bear is Mr. May (or is it Ms. May? What gender are the Care Bears? Are they hermaphrodites? I need to know these things.) -- well, I just had to buy it.

If I had any idea of the comedy that lay inside, I would have bought six of them.

Last August, I was pegged to plan and orchestrate the annual Members Party for our local AIGA chapter here in Nebraska. I serve as the Membership Chair for The American Institute of Graphic Arts chapter here, so it was a natural.

The only thing I was worried about was designing the promotional materials. Graphic Design for a target market of professional designers is trouble. I would be exposed as a fraud!

I'm humble enough to admit what I'm not as strong at, and get someone else to do that. I can write, and I can brainstorm crazy ideas. So my plan was to get someone to design what I told them to. One of my good friends, Hillary, agreed to take on the task of designing my ideas.

I was just walking through the office, and somebody asked me a question about Muppet Babies. Like I would know. I'm only partially omniscient. (Meaning I'm only partially all-knowing, for you geniuses)

And it got me to thinking, what exactly was the deal with Muppet Babies? I mean, that chick that supervised them, they called her "Nanny" right? Meaning they were at daycare. But do they ever go home? Not that I remember.

So that means the nanny works at their house. Meaning they are all siblings.

Good lord. What two creatures got it on to create "Muppet Babies"? Is that even possible? Why do I have these thoughts?

Still, it could be worse. Dave got drunk one night and ended up with three talking chipmunks.

I just got an email from my old college roommate, who was doing some housecleaning and found a remix song I created back in the day. The song is unimportant really. Taking someone else's work and remixing it into something cooler, like P. Diddy back when he was still called Puff Daddy.

No, what really intrigued me was the label I "released" it on. Ground Cow Records.

That was the original name of my media empire. Brings back good memories.

As I recall it, the name came from an old closed down restaurant we drove by out on Fort Street, across from the Wal-Mart. It was named the "Ground Cow". Clearly they were talking about a hamburger, but I'd never thought about it in such descriptive terms. That IS what beef is, right? Ground up bits of cow. Ground Cow. Funny stuff.

I stole the name and started using it on all my collegiate multimedia endeavours. Even had a logo of a cow with a meat cleaver attacking it.

Somewhere along the line I decided that probably wasn't the best name. All kinds of offending connotations there. So I let it go. Actually I hadn't thought about it for years, until my memory was jogged tonight. Wow. Ground Cow. You bet.

The Vikings. What can I say. I gave up on this team a while back. Seriously, is there any team in professional sports that has violated their fans more than the Vikings? Good lord. When the ship started going south this year, after 26 years, I jumped.

I still watch the games with a kind of morbid fascination. But I was long gone before I could see Randy Moss walk off the field before the game was over in their choke job last week in Washington.

Moss is a punk. Even in the days when I was a die-hard Vikings fan, I always kind of stayed away from being a huge fan of Moss. My friend John put it like this: "I don't know if you still attempt to follow that mess in MN but I know you are not a Moss apoligist and would take the shoe to him if you had a chance."

Randy Moss pretends to pull his pants down to "moon" the crowd in Green Bay after a touchdown.

Another mystery package awaits me in the office. The majestic orange "You Have A Pkg. Waiting For You in the Apt. Office" sign was in my mailbox last night. I'm going there at lunch because the tension is maddening. Snow covered streets be damned, I got 4 wheel drive. I'm like a kid at christmas. What is this package? Maybe its more pencils and coffee mugs like last time!! Oooh!! I can hardly contain my excitement!!

After the jump...we'll open the package!

Last night was the Fourth Annual Tom Nemitz Bargain Calendar Hunt. This is essentially where I go shopping for me new calendar.

The key is to wait until after the first of the year, so that the calendars are discounted at least 50%. The selection is not near as robust, but its all about bargains people, hence the name.

Three years ago, I scored when Barnes & Noble still had a Far Side calendar after the new year. Even better, a woman in my office had missed out on getting one -- and offered me $25 for mine. I, of course, accepted. By that time, it was nearly February, and all I could get was a stupid patriotic flag calendar. Post 9/11 photos of flag waving patriots. Unequivocally the worst calendar ever. But I made $20 on the transaction, which I used on something good. Can't remember what, but I'm sure it was cool.

The Electric Garage Door Opener is a Godsend. Most of the time. In the summertime, the click of a button on a remote clipped to your sun visor shuts the door, keeping you from getting out and getting wet. In the winter, the click of said button keeps you freezing your bits off.

But note I qualified this statement of praise with "most of the time".

Garage Door Openers also have something called "Door Position Sensors". These ingenious devices, located near the garage floor on either side of the doorway, sense when there is something in the path of the door, and prevent it from closing. My guess is that these devices are now included after too many stupid little kids sat under the door and got hit. I suppose some people old enough to know better were also victims. And of course, if you were dumb enough to park too close, and had the door slam on their car bumper, you'd be upset. In any event, people complained, and these sensors were invented.

I've had minor scuffles with them in the past. The switch to shut the door is just inside the garage, and if my foot and/or leg is just not quite out yet, the door will stop. This wastes like 10 seconds while I hit the switch a second time to reset it, and then a third time to send it down. Annoying, but nothing bad enough to write about.

Omaha is in the midst of an epic snowstorm. We're talking 12 to 15 inches here people. That's a lot of white powder. Seems to me the more effecient manner of snow removal would be to pretend its 1985, and invite Crockett & Tubbs to come to town. I think they'd come. We'll put "Livin' The Book Of My Life" (Philip Michael Thomas' album from the mid-80s) and "Heartbeat" (Don Johnson's album) in the CD changer, and hot damn, Ricardo Tubbs and Sonny Crockett will be there. The pastel of their clothes will melt the snow away. Of course the gel from their hair will pollute our ground water and poison our children, but I never said there wouldn't be side effects.

Now starring in the Las Vegas celebrity impersonation show as Smokey Robinson, its Tubbs!

The 4x4 got me into the office by 7:15 this morning, no problem. I always get a kick out of people driving in the snow. It seems to me there are four distinct types of snow drivers. I will present them now in something I like to call The Pyramid Of Snow Drivers:

Level One: The sane driver, letting conditions and traffic dictate speed and pace

You either get it or you don't: driving in the winter is not hard. You just have to go a little slower, and respect the road and everything on it, and you'll arrive OK. Winter does not stop these people from living their lives. This is where most of the driving public falls. Their interaction with the next three groups is where trouble comes in.

For some strange reason, our office is piping in Classical instrumental music through the speaker system. And its really irritating me.

I don't like Classical music. Never have. It makes me violent, homicidal, and irrational. I get agitated, I get the jimmy legs, and my back goes into spasms. If it continues, the skin on my face splits, until there's nothing there except the skull. Fire shoots from my eye sockets.

Let me tell you, the plastic surgery bill to fix me up after one of those episodes is outragious. A few years back, it happened three times in a short period of time. My conniption insurance was going to drop me for "unnecessary and avoidable abuse" of the policy. I had to switch carriers.

And now, in my work environment, classicial music. Good lord. Some days I wonder why I even bother styling my hair.

--

OK, the football pool is down to the last day. Auburn held on and won 16-13 last night, pulling me to within 15 points of third place. I think. I don't do math real well, as you know. But I backloaded my picks, placing the most points on my last two picks -- so that if I need points at the end, I can pick them up. Now, traditional thinking says you place the most points on your surest picks, regardless of where they are. But I don't think traditionally, and my thought is, if they're your picks, shouldn't you be sure of all of them? You bet! So I had 15 points on Auburn last night, and a full 16 on USC tonight. If my Iowa High School math is correct, and I'm 15 points out of third place, a USC win tonight gets me third place, and $49.50.

Tonight's pick (favorite in CAPS)

USC over Oklahoma

Go Trojans. Win me $50 and everyone I know in Omaha gets a free beer.

The football pool here has gone sour, like milk in a disheveled man's beard on a hot summer day.

My picks so far, and the actual result:

Fresno State over Virginia (You bet)
Iowa State over Miami Ohio (You bet)
Oregon State over Notre Dame (You bet)
Colorado over UTEP (You bet)
Oklahoma State over Ohio State (Whoops)
Cal over Texas Tech (Whoops)
Louisville over Boise State (You bet)
Florida over Miami (Whoops)
Wisconsin over Georgia (Whoops)
Tennessee over Texas A&M (You bet)
Florida State over West Virginia (You bet)
Iowa over LSU (You bet)
Michigan over Texas (Whoops)
Utah over Pitt (You bet)

So for the record, I'm 9-5. And in the middle of the pack. At least if I was dead last I could get my money back. As an also-ran, I get jack squat. I do have this pick for tonight's Sugar Bowl (favorite in CAPS):

AUBURN over Virginia Tech

Lets go Tigers!

on New Years Eve, I made my way to my buddy Drew's for his annual Cocktail Potluck. To use his description: "Like a church potluck, but instead of bringing a covered dish to share, you bring booze to share." Last year, I brought a case of nasty ass beer -- Colt 45, perhaps -- and then refused to drink it. I drank everyone else's stuff. So this year, he not so subtly suggested this as the way to go, mostly for comedic effect, but partially to kick me in the ribs.

"Can be Bud Light, Strawberry Soda, Cabana Boy Coconut Flavored Rum, or Cristal for all I care. You don't even have to like it, because you can come and drink something that someone else brought, while they drink your Cristal."

What is Cristal? I honestly don't know. I kept asking this last week, and my inquiries were met with snickers, giggles, rolled eyes, and subject-changing. Gratuitously. Must be some inside joke I'm not in on.

I played it straight-up this year, and brought a case of Bud Light. Unforunately, everyone else brought nasty ass beer. So they all drank my Bud Light, leaving me scrambling at 11:30 for something else.

The Bud Light was good while it lasted.

Now, I'll try anything when it comes to non-alcoholic stuff. But I don't mess around with the alcoholic beverages. I know what my body likes, and I like to be around to finish the night. My body likes good old domestic light beers. Miller Lite, Coors Lite, even Michelob Light. But preferably Bud Light. Occasionally, I'll mix it up and drink a Corona. That's as brave as I get. Deviation from these fine products causes trouble. And sickness.

I've watched one hell of a lot of sporting events in my life. Unless its your team, you watch because its live, its unscripted, and you never know when something unbelievable will happen. You want to be watching when that happens. You want to be able to share the experience later. If one of those plays happens for your team, the confluance of events is sometimes overwhelming.

One such play happened on Saturday.

Iowa won on the craziest hail mary pass in a bowl game I can remember. I recall Kordell Stewart's bomb against Michigan, and Doug Flutie's bomb against Miami. But this was in a bowl game, and it was a straight-up pass, not a heave into the end zone in desperation. Basically, here's what happened: LSU scores with 52 seconds left to go ahead. Iowa gets the ball back with 39 seconds and 2 timeouts. After two passes to get them to midfield, they spike the ball to stop the clock. But the line isn't set, and they get flagged for false start.

With the penalty, the clock winds. But the players don't all know that. In the resulting confusion, LSU blows the coverage and leaves one of Iowa's wideouts open. Their QB, Drew Tate, hits him in midstride 40 yards downfield, and he scampers into the end zone as time expires.

People have asked me since what my reaction was. Well, you've seen the Pepsi commercial where the guy, celebrating a play on TV, jumps up and his arms go through the ceiling. After the call is reversed, the guy on the floor below jumps up and HIS arms go through the ceiling. Well, that was pretty much me. Only my ceilings are 12 foot, and I can't jump that high. Thank God.

One of the two or three greatest plays I've ever witnessed. And as far as teams I root for, it ranks up there with Kirby Puckett's Game Six walk off homer. Wow.