Here are some first looks at the new DW12 IndyCar, as well as Tony Kanaan’s 2012 livery (and note he’s #11 again!). These were taken during testing at Texas Motor Speedway yesterday.
At the recommendation and invitation of two other Rocket City Bloggers (thanks, Carol and Heather!), I have recently begun blogging at Tennessee Valley Moms Network as part of the Anonymous Dads series. (Well, in my case, not so anonymous, obviously.) I’ll be writing about parenthood periodically, probably somewhere between two and four times a month. My first post is You Don’t Always Get to Pick When You Parent, and I’d love for you to go read it. Thank you!
Mr. and Mrs. BamaDan and Mr. and Mrs. Bo asked grandparents to keep children today, so we could make an afternoon and evening of Rock of Ages and Connors. This was an idea BamaDan had month before last.
It was a good one.
Set in 1987, the musical is built around three dozen or so arena and/or hair-metal rock songs from my formative years (with an occasional slight reach back or forward). The plot is rudimentary and trivial in this show, serving mostly as scaffolding for the music. It’s a witty script, demonstrating knowledge of and affection for the period. That’s a high bar to get over with me. There are ample jokes, including several that break the fourth wall, and there are a few obscurities to reward the savants in the audience. (I dug the female lead getting into a bit of Judas Priest’s “Eat Me Alive.”)
And the music does work. The live band is of varying importance in the plot, but they’re always visible. Most of the selections are in the correct key. A few are substantially remade, but many of them respect the details of the originals. There are a few song combinations that aren’t quite mash-ups, but more tandem back-and-forths. Most of them work, but squishing Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” and Asia’s “Heat of the Moment” together sounded a little forced.
Perhaps it was characteristic of our attendance at a Sunday afternoon matinee in Huntsville, Alabama, but I was surprised by the crowd demographics. I expected to be surrounded by fellow GenXers, and instead only about a third of the crowd fit that description. (Among that third, however, was a fondly-remembered lady from two decades ago! Great to see you, Graciela.) The rest were not quite my dad’s age, but close. What’s up with that? I wonder how the dick jokes and the thigh-high vinyl boots went over for them? Was this show mis-marketed?
The show’s run just ended here, so this isn’t much good to the locals, but to anyone Googling and looking for opinions: go see it. It’s a blast.
Don’t stop believin’.
So when I was in to surrender my semiannual tube of blood last week, I told my doctor I was ready to get aggressive on my weight. “Good for you!” she said. “What are we thinking about? Lap band? Prescription?”
I said “no, I want to try just setting regular goals with you first.” So then she jumped out there, smiling her big smile, and said “all right, there is absolutely no reason you can’t lose ten pounds your first month.”
(Yipes. I thought she’d say five.)
She spent ten minutes with me at my lab follow-up this morning giving me guidelines for good nutrition, and outlined an exercise program for me. I appreciated that, but of course, my problem’s never been that I just don’t know what to do. I don’t need more knowledge. I need discipline. I need to step on her scary-ass scale once a month. See, when the interval is just thirty days, there’s never any “oh, I’ve got plenty of time” mentality. I’m always just about to go back to the doctor.
I think I resisted asking for this because there’s something about it that feels phony to me. I need to get back to a healthy weight for me, not for my doctor. Now my thinking is “dude, you’re quite literally dying here. Whatever works.” I’ve recently demonstrated that I can lose 32 pounds on my own, but I’ve also recently demonstrated that I can give almost half of it right back. Let’s see what I can do with three or four monthly physician visits as Part One, and we’ll figure out Part Two on the other side of them.
- Rock of Ages this weekend. Looking forward to it.
- I hope that when Tim Tebow has a special friend he keeps it to himself, and I hope when the press hounds him about it he tells them to mind their own business.
- I’m escalating the attack on my weight again. I’m still 17 pounds of my high, but I was 32 off. Details to follow. Hate this shit. Wish me luck.
- The Anheuser-Busch rep was at Publix last weekend, so I made buddies and asked him about the recent absence of Budweiser American Ale. They weren’t moving enough of it, so they don’t get it anymore. That’s too bad; it’s actually quite a nice beer. He talked me into buying a sixer of Bud Light Platinum, which unfortunately might be the most disgusting beer I’ve ever tasted. It’s cloying, with a huge off-aftertaste. After I had two—the second to confirm my initial opinion, though much colder—I gave two of the remainders to my dad (who had it watching the Super Bowl and actually liked it) and the other two to a colleague (who teased me about it). Avoid.
- You know those computer-generated images that just look like a bunch of nothing, but then you can look at them in a certain way and three-dimensional images begin popping out of them? I’ve never once been able to see one of those.
- Lots of people who should know better are fawning over the “new” “Van Halen” record. This is a bad case of the emperor’s new clothes, folks.
- Nathan is beginning to get the whole “brevity is the soul of wit” thing; that if one time is funny, then four times is not necessarily hilarious. In addition to his father’s counsel, I credit his fanhood of Seinfeld and The Three Stooges.