Dear My Children:
I’m sorry, but you’re not going to wear me down on this one. Sometimes Daddy has to be a dick. This is one of those times.
Why, yes, children, of course we can get a dog … and by “yes” I mean “fuck no.”
Listen, I don’t mean to brag about how close I was to the stage at that Van Halen show the other night, but I’m pretty sure I’m in the band now
I knew going into last Thursday night’s Van Halen concert that, based solely on the size of the venue, I’d be fairly close to the stage … but I didn’t know I’d be THIS close:
No, seriously:
(I also didn’t know that the band was picking up everyone’s bar tab … which is a shame, because, had I found that out prior to the end of the show, I’m certain I could have done a hell of a lot more damage than a mere three bottles of Sam Adams. Just sayin’.)
Live Review: Van Halen at Cafe Wha? in New York City
Photo by Jon Zal
Originally published on Jan. 6, 2012 at SoundSpike.com
Halfway through Van Halen’s blistering Thursday night (1/5) set at New York City’s Cafe Wha?, reinstated frontman David Lee Roth posed a question to the crowd: “Have you noticed that Van Halen fans have decided they’ve had a great time [at the show], like, three weeks in advance?”
A letter to my children from The Elf on the Shelf
Dear Jon’s Children,
I’ve tried, children. I’ve tried to be nice. For days now, I’ve sat quietly on a shelf, or hung from the Christmas tree, or peered down upon you from atop the mantle or the cabinets or the china cupboard or whatever other wacky spot it was into which I’d been wedged. And I’ve tried.
I’ve tried, by virtue of my silent presence, to gently coax you into compliance with your parents’ wishes. And I had hoped that my mere presence alone would be enough to keep you in line … but, after the display the two of you put on this morning, it has become clear to me that my pixie-ish grin and my kind, blue eyes aren’t getting the message across … so here’s how it’s gonna be:
Zombie Dinner Party … with your chef, Dr. Hannibal Lector
“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to my wife after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.
“What?”
“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”
Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my mouth.
Hat Trick (or, How I Ruined The Postseason For Three Major League Baseball Teams)
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Dear Boston, Philadelphia and Phoenix:
I’m sorry. I was only trying to help. I had no idea that
Mother Nature is a heartless wench who will turn your own children against you
When I was a little boy, and thunder rumbled in the distance, my mother would react as though the approaching storm was an Afghani mortar attack instead of a minor weather event. Because of this, I spent much of my childhood reacting to thunderstorms in a similarly panicked fashion.
When my mother was a little girl, and thunder rumbled in the distance, her parents presumably reacted calmly … until that one time when the electricity went out during a storm, and they sent her to get from her upstairs bedroom something to play with, and she opened the door at the bottom of the staircase, and looked up to see that the second floor was engulfed in flames … because lightning had struck the house.
So she gets a pass.
Take Me Out to the Ball Game Insane Asylum
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There are many things I must do in order to influence the outcome of the game. Things like