Imagine a tart-tongued gay icon flashing rock&roll devil horns, and you’ll get the basic flavor of this Paul Lynde Halloween Special clip from 1976. Strange bedfellows, indeed, but it works in a ghoulish halloweeny kinda way:

This one’s for Coozledad’s mom, a Lynde-loving lady, and for my Uncle John, proud member of the Kiss Army (you’re in for life, right??), who came down from Omaha in full regalia to see them play at Pershing Auditorium when I was a young’un. Of course, I never did get the Kiss thing—I like my camp less straight-up, if you know what I mean (and I know that you do).

But then, I once worked with a man who had a tattoo of Gene Simmons’s autograph on his NECK, as well as a full-color band portrait stretching shoulder-to-shoulder across his back and the Kiss logo, similarly sized, on his chest. So what do I know? I’m basically a Quaker when it comes to the Kiss Army. Except, of course, for the song “Beth”; who doesn’t love a heart-yanking power ballad sung—or lipsynced—by a man in “sexy kitty” face makeup? This nudges long-unexplored synaptic pathways, so perhaps it was my vector exposure to the tune:

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Happy Halloween, everyone. I have acres of respect for those who pull together clever costumes, but that just ain’t me. I’m not even gonna try for sexy kitty this year. Dress-up FAIL.

Thanks, Swiss Miss for the yip yip tip.

A hockey mama for Obama channels Eva Peron:

I can see my parents doing something like this: mom can sing and dad would happily rock the moose antlers. He and I were at a garage sale last year, picking up a table, and the man whose house it was took a shine to dad and gave him some handtools and a witch’s hat, which he wore for the rest of the afternoon.

Gotta love the diverse coalition Obama (and 8 years of living under the bootheel of the bankrupt BushRovians) has managed to pull together.

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“Once a muslim, always a muslim,” one of my uncles told me when we discussing Obama over coffeecake in my parents’ kitchen. He said it with a smile; he knew it would get a rise out of me, and we both knew the other was intractable, unpersuadable, so why not have a little fun with it?

Another uncle sent word to dad that he has voted according to his yard sign, which you can enjoy right here:

Of course, I’ve already voted according to my yard sign, too, although I did not get nearly as creative as he did. Which means we’re both flying our freak flags this election season, and also that we’re among the early-voting anal. Perhaps he’s planning to spend election day getting out the vote, as well? (Although he’s in Utah, and that state makes Nebraska look as swingy as they come. Of course, you can’t get much more crimson than either state.)

I think McCain’s appealing to many of my relatives in a once-a-hero, always-a-hero warm bath of republican bromides sort of way. After all, he’d been saying all the right words to trigger happythoughts (and lizardfears) in the redstate crowd. But really, it’s all about La Palin, Alaska Diva and Jesusy WannaVeep extraordinaire. And even if it all goes south for the top of the ticket next Tuesday, she will still be in the running towards becoming American’s Next GOP Candidate in 2012.

As for me, I have only this to say to the Chilla from Wasilla: See You Next Tuesday, biatch! And best of luck with your new Fox show.

I spent last weekend hanging out with old friends. Pete was in town, and we gathered to celebrate his return, and to remember the whelp years of college and beyond, back before we had houses and kids and retirement accounts. He asked me to make him a mix, which will be getting underway as soon as my external hard drive starts playing well with iTunes. (I haven’t downloaded the very latest, and I suspect Apple purpose-builds little spit-the-dummy episodes into the software when they want you upgrade). His only request was that I include the track “Marquee Moon” by Television.

And, in the wheels-within-wheels way of the web, what should come across my eyeballs this morning, but a Marquee Moon video? So here you go, Pete—it’s the first installment of your mix:

(more…)

That’s what she said…

It was an early morning for me up at the Sarpy County Courthouse—it’s like the DMV with security screening!—dealing with a fix-it ticket issue. (I am a car registration outlaw.* Either that, or a forgetful dope. Who is now $94 poorer.)

More Obama Hallelujahs-n-chihuahua valentines tomorrow.

* In my defense, I learned this at my daddy’s knee. Well, from the back seat of his unregistered car, actually, watching as the cop gave him another in a long line of fix-it tickets. I blame him for this failure, and my mom for my insomnia, my facial veins, and my ridiculously flimsy ligaments. Neither parent claims ownership of my terrible gums.

Detention slip from some forgotten outpost of cool in my reader. Sorry!

Follow 5th grader Damon Weaver as he interviews VP candidate Joe Biden. It’s all pretty damn cute, but my favorite moment is an aside that comes at around 3:50. “Thanks for choosing me,” Damon says.

Biden’s a charming, garrulous dude; the kind of genial elder who highjacks Thanksgiving; great stories, rarely dull, but your ears might fall off. He’s a funny mix of bred-in-bone feminism and a-heartbeat-away from goofy paternalism. At one point, he speaks of talking with the “guys and women” of congress—hey, he’s trying! He doesn’t mean to get it wrong, things just get a little tangled on the way from brain to tongue.

I’m not quick to worry about men of my father’s generation who make little sexist slips, as long as their hearts are in the right region. (The same is not true for men my age or younger. I give no quarter to the Free To Be You & Me generation.) And VAWA buys Biden whole truckloads of “my beautiful wife”s.

Three great talents that groove great together: get down to Lee Dorsey’s can’t-deny-the-funk cover of Allen Toussaint’s classic “Yes We Can” with some aural sweeteners courtesy of the almighty Obama. Play it loud here.

Yes. We. Can.

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I actually watched this straight through at full attention; no sideways glancing, no google readering, no endlessly split focus. They’ll probably autopsy the brains of “knowledge workers” and Internetters someday, and find strange new structures that allow much to pass through and very little to stick. Sort of a synaptic superhighway, where you might stop for some fast food or pricey gas along the way, but mostly you’re just speeding by.

But pull over and spend a few minutes at this YouTube interpretive center: you’ll learn about how globes are made. I know every job gets boring, but right now I’m fantasizing about watching a world of globes slide by above my head all day.

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