Crabwalk

FYI, that This American Life episode I wrote about earlier is now online in RealAudio. (The first 10 minutes aren’t as good as the remainder, so hang in there.) Also online (and referenced during the show) is Lee Sandlin’s 1997 piece on the psychology of life in war time, from the always logorrheic (but usually worth it) Chicago Reader. (I like parentheses a lot.)

Calling all deprogrammers: I just spent eight hours in a white-walled room where, under the guise of a “time management seminar,” I was indoctrinated into the cult of Franklin Covey.
Shortly after being handed a copy of the cult’s holiest scripture — the “What Matters Most”(TM) Starter Kit Franklin Planner — I was told I needed to forget everything about my existence before today. “Use only one personal management system!” I was told. (Thou shalt not worship false gods!) “Carry The Planner with you at all times!”
There was talk of The Wall of Total Control and its demonic, Satan-like doppelganger, The Wall of No Control. There were videos asking us eternal questions (“What makes life worth living? Where is your fire within?”) and telling us the answers can only be found in The Planner. There was the promise that “appropriate event control leads to inner peace.” There was a demand that we all “commit to teach today’s key concepts to someone else within 48 hours.” There were lots of pictures of calm rivers and peaceful sunsets, each presumably achieved through proper use of the ABC Prioritized Daily Task List, the Daily Record of Events, and (most ominously) the Values Clarification Worksheet.
This isn’t an organizational tool — this is a cult. A way of life. An icky mix of the Tony Robbins school of self-actualization and the Frederick Winslow Taylor school of corporate efficiency.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy some black Nikes.

Speaking of bursitis: When I was 12 or 13, I bought a second-hand copy of Woody Allen’s “Without Feathers,” one of his compilations of New Yorker pieces [along with “Getting Even” and “Side Effects”]. My favorite highlight was “God (A Play),” a sort of po-mo/Borscht Belt parody of Greek theater. The characters include Bursitis, Diabetes, Hepatitis, and Trichinosis. To a young, impressionable mind, its mix of deontological philosophy and slapstick (sample joke: “Did you hear about Cyclops? He got a middle eye infection”) was life-changing.

I know I’m getting older and all, but is it honestly asking too much to have a band go on before 12:45 a.m. on a Sunday night?
Went to see Built to Spill last night, under the mistaken impression that I might get to see them before men walk on Mars. The opening band was Polyphonic Spree, those 22-piece local heroes, who were bedecked in choir robes and had that sort of Burt-Bacharach-conducting-a-band-of-Hare-Krishnas-singing-outtakes-from-Magical-Mystery-Tour thing going on. I had thought they were the second of three bands to go on and would be followed by Idaho’s finest, but alas, they were followed by the execrable Brett Netson, who had the sort of bar-band self-indulgence that makes me ill. No, really, we all want to hear your atonal, “bluesy” yelping over your sloppy, uninteresting guitar work! And, if possible, could you please make all your songs 15 minutes long? Thanks, man! (He also looked like he last bathed on the same day he had an original musical thought, which was likely around 1972.)
When he finally shut up, on came another unexpected band, which initially caused more anger, but The Delusions were actually fine. Unremarkable, and their drummer winced in pain every time he used his left arm (bursitis?), but fine.
Built to Spill finally came on shortly before 1 a.m. and were quite good; the sound mix was a little uneven at first, but that evened out as the show went on. A couple members of the Spree went up to sing backup on a few songs, and it was clear it was the highlight of their young lives. It was the last show of their tour, so they broke out a few odd covers (Ben Folds Five, a great version of George Harrison’s “What Is Life,” and an oddly deferential version of “Free Bird”). They made the best of what had been an otherwise frustrating night.
I was supposed to meet Matt and Amanda for drinks afterward, but we were all up way past our bed times, so it was just a quick hello. Hopefully I’ll see them again on some occasion when sleep is less of a priority.

Intriguing referrer of the day: are you searching for information about live bootlegs of Osama Bin Laden’s famed “Boat Song”? If so, you’re at the right place, at least according to Google. This site comes up #1 on a search for “bin laden boat song live.”
To answer your next question: yes, I have some great Bin Laden bootlegs, including the ultrarare 1985 Madison Square Garden show and the 1977 gig opening for Cat Stevens at CBGB. I’m willing to trade for any rare Idi Amin solo stuff or early Pol Pot singles.

Fifteen seconds after the Saints lose a heartbreaker, I walk upstairs and look in my closet. What do I see on the floor, lonely and scared? My Saints jersey, which is normally on my back at times like this.
It all makes sense now: I cost my team the game by not wearing the colors proudly. Sorry, Saints.

For those who didn’t check out the fainting goat link below, there’s a Quicktime movie of, well, a fainting goat. I highly recommend it. Should you not want the 1.3MB download, a summary:

(Note: I just looked at that on a PC for the first time — sorry it’s terribly dark. Looks fine on my Mac.)
Went out for a birthday party last night — tapas at Cafe Madrid, drinks at the Meridian Room, booty shaking at Seven. And after watching the Saints whoop up on the Giants and Bonds hit No. 70 this afternoon, it’s Polyphonic Spree and Built to Spill tonight, with Matt and Amanda. Could life get any better?

Argh…I feel all woozy. I’ve been taking malaria pills for the last 10 weeks (I went to a malarial part of China on vacation a couple of months ago, and you have to keep taking the drugs long after you get back). Larium, the drug, has one nasty side effect: extreme sun sensitivity. So playing football this morning out in the sun for three hours made me feel like I’d been out baking for a whole day.
(The only plus: I got an actual tan in China, for the first time in my life.)
The worse thing: I took a shower after football, then hopped in bed for a nap, which has made my hair look as Flock-of-Seagulls-esque as the bassist for The Faint (see below). We’ll see if that can be contained before tonight’s festivities.
(By the way, while searching for a photo of The Faint’s bassist in full Seagulls regalia, I found this exciting piece of news: Goats Faint When Frightened. “According to the American Tennessee Fainting Goat Association [real link, really], the goats were orginally used to protect sheep. If the sheep was threatened, the goat would fall over providing the predator with a meal as a distraction.” For too long, the story of the Tennessee Fainting Goat has gone untold in our culture.)

I regret to inform you that this week’s Saturday football game did not turn out as well as last week’s — one lonely catch, no TDs. The fix was in, I tell you.

Anyone in the Dallas area should catch the 7 p.m. rebroadcast tonight of This American Life on KERA. It’s a great episode on life in wartime: excerpts from letters sent home to girlfriends from the front lines of World War II, some very touching interviews with Native Americans about the Current Situation, and other great stuff. They do amazing work there — I’d thought I was done crying for a while, but they ripped a few more tears out of me. (It’ll also be available for listening on TAL’s web site early next week.)