Tucker Blogs...

It's called "Work."

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 16:38:00 -0800

I’m working at the Staples Center this weekend as a part of some sort of silly trophy ceremony and the party that follows. Today while riding down a long escalator and staring down the obscenely long hallway it lead to, I overheard a conversation between two people from a different company and division.

(Not the actual escalator.)

The first person asked the second person, “Do you think Sunday will be a long night?” The response explained everything you need to know by it’s tone. “Yee-ah…!”

Since tone doesn’t translate in text, I’ll explain for you. Sunday is the trophy show, followed by the party. There are 4 bands performing at the party, one after the other. 10,000 people are expected. After the party, someone’s going to have to clean up. That would be all of us.

The first person tried to play it off as just a business exchange, but what had really been said was felt. Both people were immediately regretting getting involved with the other.

This is going to be a fun weekend, but not for that guy.

Smiling Outlawed At LA Beaches!

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 21:17:00 -0800

Today on Twitter, Facebook, and the rest of the digital outlets, the world went completely bonkers over a new law:

Los Angeles County has outlawed frisbees and footballs on their beaches.

People, calm yourselves. Also, read the entire ordinance. This law covers frisbees and balls that are not inflatable, including baseballs, soccerballs, rugby balls, and shot put. You can bring your bloody beach balls, Dodger fans. It also covers the time from Memorial Day to Labor Day, when LA beaches look like this:

Yeah, probably not a good idea to allow 35 separate amateur games of two hand touch to break out. Los Angeles has no football team, so there are no strong role models to teach Los Angeles youth how to throw a ball. I’ve been to the beach in this time period. These people couldn’t hit the ocean on a fly even if they were ankle deep in the Pacific during the snap.

Los Angelenos are welcome to continue playing frisbee and football in the 150+ parks on the West Side alone. Besides, this leaves time to enjoy the preferred activity while visiting a Los Angeles beach: constantly scanning the sand for broken syringes and used condoms.

Like any of you go to the beach, anyway.

UPDATE: It looks like it’s bullshit. How will I ever trust you again, Internet?

The Pipes, The Pipes Are Calling.

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 09:07:44 -0800

It’s back! Kinda.

The South Side Irish Parade will once again take place in Chicago. This drastically throws my plans for March into disarray.

How long would it take me to get Fyona a fake ID? It’s been ages since I’ve had to worry about that, and the DMV keeps pictures on file now. She can’t just go and have a license made with someone else’s birth certificate like… some guy I know did.

Eh, doesn’t matter. I’m probably cousins with the bouncer. We’ll sneak her in.

I love SCTV. mightyflynn: “DiMaggio’s on the Wharf”...

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 05:47:22 -0800

I love SCTV.

mightyflynn:

“DiMaggio’s on the Wharf” (SCTV, 1982)

Bill Murray, Eugene Levy, Martin Short

Fyona-FM: No Static At All

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 14:49:00 -0800

My daughter digs the old school rap.

We’ve been told to play music for her which in this house, believe me, is not a problem. Her mother is practically a walking Disney album and may actually be the real Little Mermaid. I cannot sing, but I’m a federally licensed commercial broadcaster, which means I feel entitled to steal music off the internet.

Anyway, we’ve been through a wide assortment of genres and nothing moves her like old school beats. She likes Eric B and Rakim, she grooves on some Doug E. Fresh, and sheds a tear for ‘Pac. Sinatra, Zeppelin, Elvis… they matter not. This kid likes beats and drooling. Nothing more. She even tends to favor West Coast over East Coast, which blows my mind. I can barely tell the difference, and I speak roughly the same language the rappers do. How the hell is she figuring it out?

It’s more clear to me now than ever that she is a Native Californian, and there’s nothing I can do about it. While I will always be a South Sider, she will always be a California Girl. Lately, the Redhead and I have been talking of moving, because fuck Hollywood. Seriously, this place sucks. Choppers and drag races all night long… it’s madness, I tellz ya. But move where? I hate the 818. That’s where people go to have kids and picket fences and shit. You know: Squaresville. Do we willingly make our daughter a (gasp!) Valley Girl?

Yeah, probably.

Staying up all night is a little different now.

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 08:55:00 -0800

When I was 10, a few friends and I took it upon ourselves to break the sleep barrier by staying up all night. Like Chris Columbus and everybody in The Right Stuff, we would step boldly into the unknown for the sake of exploration and the betterment of mankind (But if you ask Howard Zinn, Columbus was just in it for the bucks). Armed with Pixy Stix and Jolt Cola, we fought our way towards dawn, losing only one man in the journey.

Staying up all night when you’re young is exciting and dangerous. When you’re under 13, it’s all sugar and giggles. When you’re in high school it may be alcohol related, but no less thrilling and taboo. When you get to college it can become a semi regular occurrence, be it cramming for a test or finishing a keg. It loses a little luster when the fear of a parent discovering you diminishes, but is no less satisfying. I used to LOVE all nighters in all shapes and forms.

Well guess fucking what, Internet? I’m a parent now, and this shit sucks.

For the past 3 nights I have been up all night, and it’s gone down the same way. Around 11 PM or so the Redhead goes to bed, and I stay up with Fyona. Since we currently have a one bedroom apartment (We’re moving soon, either to my 3rd apartment in the same building or buying a house), it helps for one of us to stay up with the baby to try and quench the cries before they get bad. Usually, Fyona won’t make a sound until the second I lay my head on the couch, without fail. She’ll be passed out and snoozing, but as soon as I decide to let my eyes close, she’s up. Really up. 2 nights ago she was up for 4 hours straight starting at 3 AM, requiring constant movement. It’s one thing to play cards and drink all night followed by 30 chicken nuggets and a video game, and it’s another thing entirely to be falling asleep, then be required to due 180 straight minutes of hardcore cardio while being kicked, scratched, and puked on.

(Although Rhonda probably knows what I’m talking about.)

And while I love her, she can test the boundaries of that love. Babies can scream, there’s no argument there. They can fight and squirm and make even the simplest task nearly impossible. But where do they get the commitment? No matter how fired up I am about something, it’s going to level off a bit after a few hours. Not so with Fyona. This kid will go go go, stopping only when the assumed (and incorrect) solution is provided. If I want her to sleep for 15 minutes, I heat a bottle of milk. She’ll pass out right when it’s ready. If I want her to wake up screaming, I merely let the milk cool on the counter. By the time that bottle reaches a non-drinkable temperature, she’ll be up and needing it instantly. During the day this is amusing, but at night it’s more anger inducing than talking politics with my in-laws. At night I need her to be quiet. Any slight utterance wakes up the mom, and no matter how much I complain, she’s getting much less sleep than me.

So it’s 9 AM the next morning, and I’ve been up all night. I have some acid reflux. I feel like I could sleep for days or rip the walls down. I have to go to the bathroom. I need to shower. I need FOOD. Oh, wait. Scratch all that bullshit; she’s up. Fyona wants to be bounced. If I stop for the time it takes to itch my nose, she screams like a banshee on the moors. I can’t even finish thoughts, because she requires so much god damn attent…

Whoa whoa WHOA! This clip goes with this entry, but I found it a...

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 14:22:19 -0800

Whoa whoa WHOA! This clip goes with this entry, but I found it a little late and it totally warrants its own space.

I love you, Internet.

"What the hell was THAT?!"

Sat, 04 Feb 2012 12:28:00 -0800

The sounds my 6 week old daughter Fyona has made over the past few days have been described thusly:

A red colobus monkey.
The Vulture in Clash Of The Titans calling for Andromeda. (The original one. The REAL one.)
The Velociraptor in Jurassic Park calling for his buddy in the kitchen while hunting children.
Wayne Knight in Jurassic Park seeing the incubator/shaving cream can for the first time.
C-3PO doing Darth Vader’s breathing sound for the Ewoks.
Did anybody ever see the The Ewok Adventure? You know the little pixie that shows up before they go to the big cave? Skywalker Sound used a similar sound for Cherlindrea, the fairy queen of the forest in Willow, but there’s a subtle difference. Anyway, just like that.
Gollum.
Quint’s nails on the Amity City Hall chalkboard in Jaws.
Goofy’s holler.
Navi from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, but mainly just the hey!

It’s starting to get noisy up in this mug.

Trying to look manly in a Moby… this is what I do on...

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 23:22:27 -0800

Trying to look manly in a Moby… this is what I do on Friday nights now.

Baby Bottle Redemption.

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 13:59:00 -0800

After a rather long stint playing Red Dead Redemption last night while on baby duty, then hearing Bad Company’s “Bad Company” from Bad Company (the debut album) on the radio, it’s safe to say I was in a cowboy mood today. I busted into the local trophy store like a rustler. I was a little too in the mood.

So when the engraver told me that my baby bottle wasn’t ready, I got a little too tough.

“Whaddya mean, son? We had a contract for you to engrave this bottle by Jan-yoo-ary Three-One. You mean to tell me yer spittin’ on our bargain?”

Okay, I didn’t really talk like that. What am I, delusional? Let’s pretend I did, though:

“Sorry, Mister. I’ve looked everywhere’s and it just seems like the bottle ain’t finished. Reckon it’s in the engraver’s room, and he’s out for a noon picnic. Y’all can check back in an hour.” The boy was trembling. He was young, perhaps too young to be working the front counter in a dusty town like this. He stole a glance at Ol’ Betsy, snugly holstered at my side. I slowly caressed her ivory pommel and stared him down.

“You listen here, boy. I’ll be riding this way aginn on the ‘morrow. You tell yer pappy, the proprieter of this jip joint, that I expect to receive either my engraved baby bottle… or the 27 dollars I paid fer it!” And with that, I spat on the floor and turned to leave.

“He ain’t my pappy, sir.”

“You lippin’ me, boy?!” I quickly turned in my boots. Ol’ Betsy was in my hands before I knew what was a-what. She yearned to sing her song, but I wouldn’t let her curtain rise. Not yet. The boy held his ground even with Betsy smiling in his face, but I could see the sweat on his brow. This one will grow strong some day. He’ll come looking for me, no doubt. Best take care of him now. No…

“Alright, Boy. Then you tell yer Uncle or yer Cousin or whatever kin you please that tomorrow at high sun I’ma be comin’ ‘round. And you’d better have my bottle— or my 27 dollars!” With that I turned again, Ol’ Betsy performed a flurry of spins on my finger before diving effortlessly back into her bed on my hip. As I kicked through the doors and back to the street, I could hear the boy release a sigh of relief. He would remember me. I had made an adversary today.

I climbed up on Nissan, the name I’d given my black horse. She was older, with over 100,000 miles and worn brake pads. I had to kick her a few times to get her to start up the trail, but once she was awake she moved with a noisy confidence. I should also have her muffler looked at. Or it could be a fan belt. Maybe an oat change.

I cried a “Yee hah!” as Nissan approached nearly 30 miles an hour, which is pretty good for a horse. The boy had ran out into the street to watch me ride away. I glanced over my shoulder quickly enough to see him kick at the dirt where I had stood before he and the trophy store disappeared behind a Pilates classroom. No, kid. Save your strength. You never know what may happen tomorrow.

Seriously, how long does it take to engrave a name on a glass bottle? It’s been over a week!

officialbeastieboys: Don Cornelius… R.I.P.

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:21:14 -0800

officialbeastieboys:

Don Cornelius… R.I.P.

I almost died like, 9 TIMES on a drive to the bank.

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 18:40:00 -0800

While it’s true that whenever possible I avoid leaving the house, I’m still very acclimated to the world at large. I am NOT a shut in. I can use the excuse that I’ve got a baby, but let’s be honest: that’s just recently good press tossed on a scenario that is far, far older. Still, it’s amazing that even short journeys can be fraught with peril.

(Deathville, USA.)

My mission was to go to the bank and deposit a check. Nice and Easy. On a Monday morning, it appeared to be the simplest of tasks and a lovely little drive in the warm California Sun. It missed being a bloodbath by inches as every other driver was either blind or oblivious to me and the world at large. As is par for the course in Los Angeles, they all thought it was my fault.

Okay, it was really only 3 times, but still.

The first time my life was threatened today was when I pulled out of my driveway. A car was parked in front of my building, just to the left. The driver was bent down, digging through something in the passenger seat. As the light turned red at the corner, I began my right turn into the right lane. That’s when the parked car bolted. He honked, then braked. It was more important for him to complain rather than prevent an accident. I stopped. He yelled something indiscernible at his rolled up windows and proceeded past me, nearly weaving into oncoming traffic. As I pulled out behind him the true nature of his jackassery became clear. He drove 5 miles an hour, and pulled over into a different parking space 100 feet down. As a Los Angeles driver, he needed to be in front of me because he thinks he’s awesome. It didn’t matter that he was only going a few feet for some stupid reason. All others must be required to wait. This will be a theme throughout the rest of the 3 mile round trip that nearly killed me.

(They will be measured via vicious dogs.)

The second time occurred when I crossed Beverly on to Larchmont. A girl with Olsen Twin sunglasses on and talking on her phone (a violation of California V C Section 23123 prohibiting hand held cellular phone use while driving, I might add) in a black Escalade completely blew through her red light and turned right, right in front of me. We missed each other by inches. Of course upon seeing me, she gave me the finger and shouted “Right turn on red! Watch out Asshole!” Yes, silly me. I should have ignored my green light (and the pedestrians on her cross walk) and allowed her the God Given Right to turning right through a red light with absolutely zero caution or pause. She wasn’t older than 16 or 17, so clearly she has been privy to new driving laws in the 16 years I myself have been a licensed driver. Now I was behind her, which I thought was ultimately safer, until she got a look at Larchmont Blvd. Not liking the possibility of having to wait for a car backing out of an angled spot, she immediately threw her car in reverse, again almost hitting me. I reversed too, just in time. She pulled a U turn and whipped around to go back the way she came, stopping only to again berate me for apparently not reversing fast enough. “What the fuck is your problem?! Why didn’t you back up?!” she screamed as she veered around another car pulling out of a spot. She never once lowered the phone, leaving me to wonder if the person on the other end agreed that I had a problem or was making a mental note to never get into a car she was driving. Luckily, I was at the bank and almost finished.

As I pulled out of the bank (and after the guy taking my space inched up so close on me I couldn’t back out), I cancelled all other errands and bee lined for headquarters. This place was crazy, and I was too underslept, underfed, and underpaid to deal with it. As I crossed one of the last stretches, an oldie but a goldie when it comes to LA traffic nearly cost me my front bumper. It was the old, “He thinks I have a stop sign like him but I don’t oh God he’s just going HOLY SHIT!” This time it was a pick up truck. It had truck balls. Obviously from Orange County, or possibly Canoga Park, this guy was unfamiliar with the area. Luckily, he spoke the local dialect.

“Stop sign, Asshole!” I agreed. Stop sign, Asshole. Even from the way he rolled through his stop sign, if this were a 4 way intersection he would have gone first. Guys with truck balls believe the roadways are ruled by the bold and the mighty, with Limp Bizkit as the soundtrack. Their life is a 24 kegger and tattoo shop, why should anybody who thinks differently even be allowed to exist, let alone operate a non-tricked out Nissan?

(Truck balls mean no real balls.)

I had a conversation a while back with parties who shall remain nameless, and we concluded that the best way to look at Los Angeles is to pretend that 75% of the drivers are stoned. If they aren’t actually high at that moment, they’re extra angry because the traffic is stopping them from getting to their dealer. It’s really the only way to explain the unpredictable nature of the LA roads. Hey, I’m from Chicago, but at least there people all knew the same rule: faster, or get the fuck out of the way. In Los Angeles, it’s fast, slow, medium, stop altogether, or drag race, and often on the same block. Sometimes not even on the right side of the street. When you take drivers from large urban areas across the world and add people from vast rural areas across the Great Plains States, you get a volatile bouillabaisse of shitheads, assholes and morons. And they’re all high.

I won’t be leaving the house for awhile unless I have to. Even then, maybe I’ll go on bike. If every car driver in LA is stoned, then every cyclist is on meth. At least they get the hell out of the way.

Let's Make a Person! vol. v

Sat, 28 Jan 2012 14:36:00 -0800

If you ask me, this parenting stuff is pretty easy so far. Sure, it’s messy (and smelly and exhausting and scratchy and wet and INSANE), but in the first month all a baby really does is sleep, eat, poop, and occasionally grumble. It’s kind of like having a pug.

But there are many things to do while the kid is too little to crawl away. Shots, vaccinations, and the ultimate preventative measure: Baptism.

Look, I’m not against it. That’s not what I’m trying to convey here, but that is what is being concluded back in the real world. The Redhead, Fyona and I live in Los Angeles. We have precisely zero relatives in the area. My family lives in Chicago and her’s is scattered throughout the Midwest and Eastern Seaboard. There are some in Minnesconsin, some in GOP-rida, and even some in Indiana. To undertake the planning of a Christening and gather all of these people together in one place is one hell of a headache. Plus they’re all kind of locked into their locations. My dad is in the middle of a political campaign and Red’s dad is in the middle of big time medical treatment. Neither one can leave their region.

(My Dad’s gotta give Jim W. Gettys a run for his money.)

According to some, we’re already too late. A very vocal faction is saying that not only does this need to be done now, but that it should have been done weeks ago. Every day my daughter lives as a heathen pushes her closer to Satan, and if it ain’t Catholic, it ain’t for realsies. I hesitate to tell them that I myself was Baptised at 8 years old. Well, the official time I was Baptised. A rumor has lived for years that my Dad’s parents, both extreme Catholics, stole me away in the night and had me Baptised as an infant. My mother is a Protestant and her uncle is a Minister, but that wasn’t good enough. As any Catholic will tell you, particularly the ones I’m related to, Protestantism is nothing more than a vile cult, and my uncle’s credentials hold no water and deserve to be dismissed outright as blasphemy. My father also Baptised me himself in Lake Geneva, having a Roots type moment that I bet was very sweet and touching. I have also performed a similar ceremony with my daughter in my pool, in her bath, and in the kitchen sink. I plan to do it in Lake Geneva when I get there this summer. Hey, I’m an Internet Reverend!

(My ceremony was also very sweet and touching.)

Ultimately, I will lose this battle. My child will probably be Baptised Catholic. Actually, it’s not even a battle. What does it matter? If the purpose of a Baptism is the cleansing of sin, the clothing of one’s self in Jesus Christ and the dedication to a good life in the Christian faith, why can’t it be done anywhere? And If I could get a little Protestanty for a moment, isn’t that a call Fyona should make? I guess that’s considered a “Confirmation.” The Baptism can be held wherever the family wants it. It’s to put their minds at ease, anyway. May as well let them witness it.

To tell you the truth, I probably could have used a little more Churching up as a kid. It’s one thing to be a hotshot punk in his 20’s who has Religious debates in bars and misquotes Existential critiques he sort of remembers from college, and it’s a completely different thing to be a father explaining to his daughter why the sky is blue and why life exists by quoting Nietzsche or Camus. I haven’t been to Church in a long time. Even then, the Church I went to was all encompassing Protestant and attended by the McDonalds Heiress, Mrs. Kroc. I was partly in it for the sound system and pool tables in the Teen Lounge bought with her huge donations. While I wouldn’t call myself Agnostic or Atheist, I am most certainly not a practicing Christian. Enter the baby. Things are different now.

The more I become a parent, the more I shudder at the Conservative thoughts I get. Sure, I want to help the poor, but not before my own family. They’re first priority now. Sure, I want to promote religious tolerance and open minded thought, but a baby don’t know, yo. Just like “Santa Claus,” sometimes simple explanations work better than, “We all worked our asses off to buy you a ton of useless junk that you’ll probably break in a week. When you’re older, you’ll understand that Christmas is a time of giving and love, of family and reflection, but for now let’s just say a fat guy dropped it all down the chimney. Go play with your dolls and be innocent, little precious.” Kids have questions, and the questions I’m best prepared to answer are of the Christian Faith. It’s also what I believe. When she’s older she can learn deep thoughts about all religions sharing the Golden Rule and possibly being interpretations of one ultimate, great truth, but for now she’s going to be raised Christian. 3 white Christians, that’s us. I should just move to Arizona and get it over with.

Nah, I’m not going that Conservative. Even if through some Earth shakable circumstance a Republican gets elected to the White House next year, I am NEVER MOVING OUT OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. Long live America’s bottom corner, where Manifest Destiny has dumped our country’s weird sludge and rejected wackos! 200 years of people moving West because they got too freaky for the locals can’t be wrong! Is that a Scientology Library / Oxygen bar? I love this place!

I may be Christian, but I ain’t stupid.

This is why you look BOTH ways before crossing the street.

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 13:52:43 -0800

This is why you look BOTH ways before crossing the street.

This location is also right in front of a magical place called...

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 11:11:00 -0800

This location is also right in front of a magical place called the South Loop Club, where The Joe Moran and I would always go after class for a libation. Sometimes we’d even go before class, or when we found that we were lacking class entirely. They had the strangest rule: you couldn’t have 2 glasses in front of you. If you ordered another beer but had a splash left in your current one, the bartender would make you finish it before placing the new one down. Odd, but effective. I always left the SLC having had more than I should have, but with a sense of completion. No halfsies.

This was back in the 20th Century. A totally different time.

chicagoscreenshots:

Running Scared, 1986

(This location was also used in the 2008 film Traitor, though by then it looked a little different.)

Other Changes to the Google Privacy Policy...

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 22:17:00 -0800

I assume we all got the email today. Just figured I’d pass along these unpublished changes to Google’s policies:

Google will no longer save camera footage of users typing emails.
Google will remove users’ information from company toilet paper.
Residents of Xxyzz, California will be returned their American citizenship status.
Google Search will no longer deduct 5 cents from the Social Security account of user conducting search.
Google will now require passwords to include at least one umlaut or circumflex per 3 characters.
Google Water will no longer contain Trimethylamine N-oxide.
A mortgage foreclosure by any user with a Google email address is no longer required to forfeit the property to Google.
Google will return all missing pets previously held as “collateral.”
Google Death will be terminated.
Google users will cease and desist all contact and correspondence with users of Yahoo!.

Keep your stick on the ice.

These are very similar outfits to what the Redhead and I wear at...

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 19:59:23 -0800

These are very similar outfits to what the Redhead and I wear at home.

theavc:

If someone wants to grant the wish of commenter Delvis Crasho, they can go ahead and make a GIF of Ron Swanson as Jesus.

Admit it. You were thinking it. We all were thinking it. We all...

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 19:26:14 -0800

Admit it. You were thinking it. We all were thinking it. We all collectively thought of this at the same time.

But somebody else made it. Now we all get to enjoy it.

This is what Obama was talking about tonight in the State of the Union when he said “This nation is great because we get each other’s backs.”

God Bless America.

Not too shabby.

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 18:53:45 -0800

Not too shabby.

An Ode to Craft Service...

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 18:08:40 -0800

When I’m at home, I rarely eat. Food preparation involves all sorts of thinking, standing, monitoring… it’s exhausting just thinking about it, and I reject it outright. I’ll order delivery or graze endlessly until I’ve had my fill, which is usually when my stomach stops hurting. The point is, eating is often seen as an annoyance to me.

But when I’m on set, it’s a whole new ballgame. Yesterday I ate 4 different kinds of animals. I had a bacon and egg croissant sandwich for breakfast, a leg of lamb and fried chicken for lunch, and some ground beef sloppy joes around dinner. In between there was leek potato and corn chowder with homemade oyster crackers, strawberry and chocolate crepes made to order, and stacks of chips, dips, pretzels, and twists. They also had Red Vines.

Major movies cost 100 Million dollars or more to make. This is a reason. A delicious, delicious reason. As a member of the Entertainment Industry, allow me to apologize for rising ticket prices at the Box Office and the outrageous cost of Junior Mints at the concession stand.

If it’s any consolation, I heard we’re having Crab Legs tomorrow.