I’ll be shutting down the operations for the next week or so while I revamp and relocate this site to greener pastures.  I’ve always had a specific vision in my head for what I wanted the blog to look like, and as much as I love WordPress, the free-hosted WordPress.com just wasn’t powerful enough for me.  Luckily, I found a killer deal on some hosting and I’m moving up to WordPress.org.  What’s great is it allows me to use more sleek and professional looking themes, and the huge amount of plug-in customization means I can finally implement many of the things I want to do.

The site will end up being broken into small pieces, hopefully with the blog itself separated from the photo galleries, but all accessible through a sidebar portal that looks very sexy, if I don’t say so myself.  I’m still working on it, but I expect to have it up and running by Sunday…not finished, mind you, because I’m a perfectionist and it’s going to take weeks for me to get it exactly how I want it.

There will also be a brand new address, but the current web address will work.  The old “pure ridiculousness” address will be out of commission in a few weeks though.

I’m really interested in social networking integration.  Look for a new Twitter feed and a Facebook page all wrapped nicely into the Ridiculosity shell.  It’s going to be quite the experience.

See you in a week.

My birthday was pretty awesome.  Sarah threw me a surprise party (and bought me some Jameson).  My parents gave me a Nook, which is one of the coolest things since the iPod.  I started reading Stephen King’s “Under the Dome.”  They also gave me some beer, which was a nice added bonus (Philadelphia Brewing Walt Wit and Williamsburg Alewerks Coffeehouse Stout).  Then there were some much-needed clothes and some much appreciated birthday-spending-fodder.  And some Simpsons DVDs.

The Super Bowl Commercials were pretty enjoyable overall.  I don’t know who won the Super Bowl, even though I was at a party where the game was on.  We ended up having to leave a little early though as the little one crashed and couldn’t hang anymore.  I’m still a little haunted by the Doritos commercial with the guy licking the other guy’s fingers.  Transformers 3 made me drool.

On a business note, there may be some changes coming around here in the form of either A) new, small features and tweaks, B) a brand new website or C) some combination of the two.  I’m currently readying Facebook integration.  The site seems to have modestly “taken off” recently and I want to see where I can take it.  If you have suggestions of what you’d like to see here, drop me a note, or a smoke signal or some sort of telepathic message.  Thanks.

Ok, you’ve been punished enough.

You’re forgiven if that doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, considering that Jack White’s name hasn’t been used in conjunction with ex-wife Meg in at least a couple of years.  Between producing records and playing in about 37 other bands, collaborating with Alicia Keys and appearing in guitar documentaries (watch It Might Get Loud, it’s superb), Jack White has been everything but The White Stripes.  And for the most part, that was ok.  The Raconteurs and The Dead Weather are both fantastic blues-infused bands, but with the exception of “Level” by the Raconteurs, these bands haven’t exactly reached the heights that The White Stripes conquered in the early 2000s.  White Blood Cells and Elephant were mammoth albums that brought garage rock and blues to the masses.  Not since the early days of the Stones has blues music been at the forefront of rock.

It’s comforting to think about the recent commercial successes of The Black Keys, possibly The White Family’s closest musical brethren.  Can they carry the blues flag?  One could argue that without The White Stripes, we wouldn’t be hearing Black Keys songs on the radio or television commercials.  They were, and still are, pioneers and architects of the dirty, low-fi garage blues duos that play direct homage to classic Chicago blues, and they will be missed.

For sure, their departure leaves a huge, regrettable hole in the blues’ modern identity that will be tough to fill.

For posterity, here they are covering Son House’s “Death Letter.”  It’s my favorite modern re-interpretation of a blues song.

“Deliveries”

“What took you so long?”

The sound of the gruff voice behind Allen’s shoulder was grating and familiar. He did not turn around to face it.

“What are you talking about?” Allen said. “I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the voice replied. It seemed to be coming from the bench about five feet behind him. They always met near a bench.

The voice continued.

“There’s a package taped underneath a 1997 Chevy Suburban. It’s dark blue, with Texas plates D46-FGT. It’s under the rear passenger side door. The car is in a parking garage ten blocks from here at the corner of 3^rd and Market. DO NOT open the package under any circumstances. I know I shouldn’t have to tell you that, but some of my associates have gotten a little lazy recently. Some of them were better than you, if you can believe it.

“So if you are dumb enough to open it and I find out, you will never work for me or anyone else again. If the guy you’re taking it to knows you opened it, he’ll probably kill you. He’s far less forgiving than I am. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Allen replied. It was a bit testy.

“Good. On the bench is an envelope with half of your pay. You’re meeting a man named Hogan. He will give you the other half when you give him the package. You can find him in Apartment 7F at the Regal Condominiums downtown. He doesn’t live there, it’s just his office. He’s dangerous, so get in and get the hell out. When you’re done, call the usual number and say ‘Glinda’s had her kittens.’ You got that?”

“Sure, boss.”

“Don’t call me Boss. Now get out of here.”

Allen waited a moment and turned around. The bench was empty except for a plain white envelope, bulged slightly in the middle. He casually picked it up and slid it into his inner jacket pocket.

The garage was easy enough for Allen to find. Once inside, however, it became tedious. He drove slowly up and down every aisle, peering out of his nondescript brown sedan. He spotted a few Suburbans on the third level, but none had Texas plates.

He was two floors from the top when he saw the ugly Texan behemoth, sitting innocently among the other cars. This far up, the garage was more or less empty and Allen was able to park a few spots away. He walked quickly between the Suburban and a neighboring Ford F-150 and dropped his keys to the cold concrete. He knelt down and, reaching under the big car, pulled out a thick manilla envelope wrapped heavily in clear packing tape. It was surprisingly heavy. Allen placed it under his arm and walked back to his car.

The door at 7F was battered and old. Dents covered the metal. Each had a little chip in the middle the steel crater. Allen shuddered to imagine what could cause such damage to a steel door. He knocked three times, quickly, while his other hand gripped the sealed package. His hands were gloved in thin leather, as they always were when he handled deliveries.

He waited outside the apartment, patiently. He often had to wait.

Dim echoes of heavy footsteps approached from the inner recesses of the apartment. They stopped immediately behind the dented door. Allen imagined a huge pink eye regarding him through the peephole.

After a few moments, the door opened, just slightly ajar. A huge red-rimmed eye peeked out of a sliver of rough, stubbled face.

“Are you Hogan?”

“What do you care?”

The voice on the other side of the chained door was rough, smoky and smelled of single malt whiskey.

“I have a package for you. From a mutual friend. He says he’s sorry he forgot your birthday.”

The door closed, hard, and from behind it came a jangle of the chain being removed from the door.

It opened again and Allen was let in by a huge man in old pants and a stained white t-shirt. It was tight against his torso, revealing the softness of age with an underlying muscle that would never go away.

‘”I’m Hogan,” he growled, “make it quick.”

Hogan’s office smelled of old tobacco. Sunlight filtered in through the shades, highlighting the swirls of dust. Allen coughed.

“The old bastard says you’re one of his best,” Hogan said. He didn’t sound too impressed.

“I’m not here to talk,” Allen replied. He was always professional and efficient. He placed the package on a dirty, scarred table and stepped back.

“Yeah,” Hogan snorted, “he said you were a hard ass too.”

Hogan looked over at the table and its waiting package.

“On the table over there,” he said, “right next to the lamp.”

Without turning his back to Hogan, Allen moved back to retrieve his envelope. He pocketed it without looking inside and started for the door.

“Have a good day,” he said, and reached for the knob.

“Wait a second,” Hogan barked. He looked over at Allen; his eyes were wide. Allen sensed something was wrong and tried to open the door quickly. Hogan advanced; he was quick for a man of his size.

“You opened it, you little shit!” he yelled. He swung his heavy ham hock fist at Allen. Allen ducked it and swung away, back into the apartment.

“You opened it! I’m gonna kill you, and then I’m gonna kill that beady eyed old shit you work for!”

Hogan reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a snub-nosed, nickel plated gun. Allen backed into the wall. His eyes bolted to the door, still slightly ajar, and back to Hogan. He knew that with Hogan’s speed, he wouldn’t be able to make it.

Hogan had the pistol pointed at Allen’s head. The barrel never wavered, and Allen saw in the old man’s eyes pure anger and death.

“No one disrespects me,” Hogan said. He pulled the trigger and Allen cringed back against the wall as the hammer fell, offering nothing more than a cold click.

“What the…” Hogan stammered.

Allen took advantage of the surprise and lunged. He knocked the gun away, and, with the same smooth motion, planted his knee firmly in Hogan’s crotch. Hogan howled and fell to his knees.

With wide eyes, Allen reached into his jacket again and this time pulled out his own pistol. Hogan got up, but before his lethal hands could reach, Allen fired a single round, and Hogan fell. It was the first time Allen had ever fired his weapon, aside from a firing range. He looked down at Hogan’s crumpled mass for a moment before he fled.

He never looked back at 7F.

Allen drove calmly to a convenience store pay phone at the other end of the city. His hands trembled slightly as they gripped the wheel. He looked tired.

He dialed the usual number and waited six rings for it to be picked up.

“Zimmerman Associates, this is Erin, how may I direct your call?”

“Glinda’s had her kittens.”

“Congratulations!” the perky voice replied. “Your uncle can’t wait to see them. He hopes you’ll bring them to the park on Thursday, at the bench east of the lake.”

“Ok.”

He hung up and left.

From where Allen stood, leaning against a retro-styled park lamppost, he could see out over the lake. Along the shores, old men and little children fed the ducks and laughed and watched the water ripple softly. Allen could see the bench where he stood last week to receive his orders. It was on the far bank, across the lake from where he now stood.

“Good to see you’re on time for once,” the gruff voice said from over his left shoulder.

“I’m never late, boss” was Allen’s cool response.

“Hey, you don’t have to blow my head off. Is that what Hogan did to you? Accuse you of being late? Is that why you blew his head off? And I thought I told you never to call me Boss.”

Allen’s head and shoulders slumped.

“Ah, you thought I didn’t know about that, did you? It doesn’t matter. Hogan was unstable and going stir-crazy in that shit-box apartment of his. You did me a favor. I would have done it eventually anyway.”

“He shot me, you know. In the head. His gun was empty or else I’d be dead.”

“Let me guess, he thought you opened the package.”

“Yeah.”

“He got real paranoid a few weeks ago. Thought the cops were bugging his place. Bullshit, basically. That’s why I had that envelope sealed up real good. I hoped it would help, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“Listen, everyone’s gotta do it eventually, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I have a client who lives on the east side. He has some documents that I need. He’s already been paid by one of my operatives, but I want my best man to go get the actual papers for me. I need you to go to his house at…”

“No.”

“What?! No? Did you just say no?”

“Yeah. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You’re my best! You took down the biggest bad-ass I deal with! You could be a goddamn assassin if you wanted to.”

Silence.

“I’ll pay you double.”

“I can’t.”

“Listen, you can’t quit just because you had to shoot someone. That shit happens. You’re good at what you do. Who am I gonna get to take your place?”

“You’ll deal with it.”

Both men sat silently for a few moments.

“Fine. I can’t reason with you. You change your mind, you know the number. Think about it.”

Allen leaned on the post for a few more moments then, with a smile, he walked down to the lake and fed the ducks.

“Don’t Carry It All”…performed live on NPR by The Decemberists.

Question:  what exactly is that huge, long-scaled mandolin lookin’ thing in the back there?  I thought it was an octave mandolin but I think the neck is too long for it to be one of those.  My other guess is a bouzouki.  Thoughts?

Also, Colin Meloy makes funny faces that rival John Mayer’s.

A few days ago I went out to my shed to put some stuff away.  I turned around and saw the building’s electric meters just covered in this melange of massive icicles and sheaths of thick ice.  Naturally, I grabbed the camera and decided to have a little fun.  I snapped off a bunch of shots and kept going until I got too cold.

I’m going to have some fun with these and do some weird processing and such.  I was originally planning to post the good ones in one big group, but I think I’m going to experiment with different looks so I’ll post them individually, as they’ll each probably be immensely different.

Here’s my first offering…two for the price of one!

Even though I’ve lost 3 pounds in each of the past two weeks, I’m still setting my sights at a 2-pound loss for next week, which makes my next target 198.  It would mark my first time getting under 200 pounds in like, a really long time.

Programmer’s Note:  Due to the multiple festivities of the coming weekend, I will A) not be on any degree of a diet program and B) not checking in next week.  Let’s call it a birthday gift to myself.  So tune in two weeks from today for the Week 6 weigh-in.

Gotta love the English-folky-Dave Matthews-soundin’ mash of goodness that is “Little Lion Man” by Mumford and Sons.

I feel like I’ve been rediscovering my love of folk music in the past few weeks.  You know it’s serious when I find myself browsing the “Folk Instruments” section of musiciansfriend and staring longingly at banjos, mandolins and lap steels instead of Les Pauls and Telecasters.  I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself writing some stupid blog post about a new banjo at some point in the future…

And now, I must go listen to Pete Seeger songs and try to remember where my box of harmonicas is.

P.S. – I’ve watched a few live performances of that song (and listened to the album a bunch of times) and I’m really impressed that that guy’s voice sounds so good and uniform each time.  That’s talent, man.

Lens:  John S

Film:  Pistil

Flash:  Off