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- posted by Hal Miller @ 8:47 PM |

 
My Obama Dream
Thursday, April 17, 2008


I had a strange dream about Democratic Presidential Candidate Barack Obama last night, and thought I'd share it with you. I submitted it to the "I Dream of Barack" blog:

http://idreamofbarack.blogspot.com/

----------
Hearing some rustling from outside, I went over to the glass sliding door that looks out into the yard. A young, backpack-wearing Barack Obama was attempting to peep into the house through the slightly open curtains. Annoyed, I asked him what he wanted.

"Hi! I'm looking for Homer Simpson!" he replied eagerly.

I informed the young man that Homer Simpson was not around.

"Would ya - would ya mind if I took a look around ... inside?"

He spent about an hour nervously poking around the house. My irritation grew, and when he finally emerged from the laundry room, I left my wife's side to attack him with a wooden baseball bat. He easily sidestepped my strike, and then I felt guilty about attacking him. He was very sincere and polite, but just too invasive.

Persuaded by my anger and his fruitless search, the young man left.

The next day, I looked outside and saw a dozen college students with backpacks and metal detectors snooping around the back yard. When I asked them what they were looking for, they cheerfully replied, "Homer Simpson!" At a loss, I simply closed the sliding door. I told my dad that a guy named Bill (ironically enough), who looked to be about 23 years old, was out in the yard with his disciples, desperately searching for something that they will never find.

Later, Bill/Obama returned alone, and gently knocked on the window.

"Hi! I'm looking for Homer Simpson!" he called out on the other side of the glass.

"Homer Simpson," I explained, "DOES NOT EXIST!! GO ... AWAY!!"

I closed the curtain.
- posted by Hal Miller @ 2:45 PM |

 
Milestones
January 2008

Ever since I popped the question to my lovely lady Yael, random memories and images from my formative years have emerged frequently. These anecdotes seem to be the doing of my inner consciousness, as it takes stock of my pre-married life. A bit of "This was your life, Hal Miller," perhaps? Well, I'm certainly glad it WAS my life. I was a little, um, uptight, back then; my outward behavior did in no way reflect my budding, inner yearning for female acquaintanceship. Here is the first of the many ridiculous and telling moments from my adolescence.

The story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Being 13 or 14 years old was confusing and really unfun (that's a Jawbreaker reference, not a typo). I remember feeling so awkward about expressing my thoughts and feelings that I simply maintained silence most of the time.

So here I am in Eighth grade Spanish class. I'm so painfully shy that I avoid eye contact with classmates and even more so, the teacher, in order to shun class participation. I know every graffiti scratch of misspelled profanity and witty hieroglyphic on my desk. Intimately.

Shoshana Liebowitz, the cute, friendly girl sitting next to me, often tries to make conversation, and I usually respond to her quietly and briefly, studying my scribbled-on notebook on my desk. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this girl at all, but I simply didn't know what to say or how to act around her. Over the weeks, I sensed a growing dissatisfaction emanating from her. "Why does it always have to happen this way?" I wondered to myself. Hey! Classmate! Leave this kid alone!

My neighbor must have felt insulted at my unfriendly ways, because, one day, as everyone was settling in right before class began, she stood up and shook her hot pink, Guess brand (this was the 80s, after all) sweatpants-clad bee-hind right by the side of my blushing face. I felt the swishing air as the sweatpants pushed it at me like an electric curtain. Feeling hot and shameful, I pretended to not notice as she turned to the girl behind her and shrugged.

"See?" She explained, pointing to me, the frozen young mensche. "No reaction!"

And I'm still not sure exactly how she expected me to react to her little dance. Should I have asked her out? Commented on the hidden shape of her derriere within the baggy sweatpants? My face featured varying shades of red throughout the rest of the class period, and, in my mind, broadcast my humiliation to the kids sitting around us. The cold sweat didn't begin to evaporate to a flat stickiness until the bell rang.

"What's wrong with him?!" they must have thought. "Any normal boy would have grabbed or spanked that ass!" And my croaked reBUTTal would have sounded something like, "... my mom taught me to respect women!"

I was pretty grateful that we sat in the back of the room where such teenage antics could take place without the entire class noticing. Had I known then what I know now, I would most likely been the one inciting the silliness. I still manage to place myself in awkward situations, but I'd like to believe that I handle such scenarios with a sense of humor.

Over the years, I have recalled this incident a handful of times, and felt pretty embar-ass-ed about it. And now?

It's just another brick in my wall.
- posted by Hal Miller @ 2:43 PM |

 
Emo Philips
Monday, January 21, 2008

This past Saturday night 1/19/08 at NYC's Comix club, we witnessed oddball comedian Emo Philips in top form; he mixed the classic 80s nuggets with more recent observations. And, of course, his trademark wide-eyed but misdirected innocence and floppy arm gesturing commanded the attention of the entire room for every second he stood on stage.



Emo with Phil Collins on an episode of Miami Vice

"Sometimes I miss NY so much, I'll fill my humidifier with urine."
"One time I surprised my parents during sex. They said, 'where'd you learn to do that?'"

Go check him out, the face muscle exhaustion from nonstop laughter is more than worth your time. After the show, we talked with him for a minute and he signed one of our tickets. We weren't sure what he would be like off stage, but Emo was amazingly receptive and friendly to his fans. We asked him to return to NYC as soon as possible.

My face still hurts.
- posted by Hal Miller @ 2:37 PM |

 
CHARLIE


Walking home in the freezing cold around midnight on January 27th, I heard a pitiful cry to my right. About three blocks from my apartment, I looked down to see a beautiful tuxedo kitten craning his neck up at me and crying. Kneeling down by the gate where the little guy crouched next to a garbage can in the bitter air, I extended my hand. "What are you doing out here in the cold?" I asked the abandoned creature as he rubbed his face on the back of my hand.

Reaching through the metal gate, I gently wrapped my hands around my new friend and pulled him to my chest. He began purring immediately and seemed relieved and happy in my grasp. I thought it was strange and amazing that this stray cat called out to me instead of running away like most street felines do. I wondered if this little one, who looked to be about 8 pounds and maybe ten months old, belonged to someone. Anyone who would abandon an animal in the freezing cold doesn't deserve to have one. It was time to mete out some street justice and take in this sweet little guy.

The next thing I remember, I was cleaning up my furry friend in my kitchen while he plowed through half a can of Fancy Feast. While I scooped out the rest of the can onto his cleaned-off plate, my guest hopped around and begged for more.

The name "Charlie" came to mind in the wee hours of the morning. An old book of mine, which featured a story about a tuxedo cat with that namesake, provided the inspiration to honor little Charlie with his moniker.

The next morning, I left a pile of paper towels near my door for Charlie to do his business on. I arrived home from work to find a terrible stench accompanied by a big ol' crusty log on my Converse. I ran to the deli to pick up a cheap tray, a bag of kitty litter and some Woolite to clean up the scene.

In the bathroom, I sat Charlie in the makeshift litter box a few times, but he didn't seem to get it. He obviously wasn't used to such a convenience. Back in my room several minutes later, I felt a horrible smell smack me across the face. I turned around to see Charlie squatting, like a homeless guy, in the corner of my room near the door and the litter box.

After he did his business, I sprinkled some litter on it and placed it in the litter box. After watching me scrape litter over the evidence, Charlie seemed to understand; he began imitating my motions as both of us scraped in the litter. He had either never used a litter box or had simply been long out of practice. The next time nature called, Charlie ran to his new bathroom location. I was so proud of my boy; he had passed the test.

Unfortunately, curiosity got the better of my friend, when my roomate left the door open for a minute at one point that night. Charlie ran downstairs to explore while I was on a phone call. Of course he headed straight for my landlord's door, effectively ending our fun and re-instating the building's no-animals policy.

After a week of bonding with Charlie and gladly suffering allergic reaction at the hands of his dander, I took my furry friend to North Jersey animal rescuer Nancy Maynard. Spending much of her time rescuing cats, dogs and other lovable critters from the difficult conditions of our merciless world, Nancy works with Critter Cab and Jersey City's Liberty Animal Shelter to ensure that abandoned animals find homes.

Charlie let out one squeaky meow, but remained quiet throughout the ride to the shelter. I wondered how much he understood as we rode further and further away from his adopted home. Upon arriving at the shelter, I noticed that while many of the dogs that occupied the ground floor of the shelter barked in their cages, the cats upstairs enjoyed a noticeably less stressful lifestyle. The cat room on the second floor was a lounge/hang out pad for about thirty felines, all overseen by the loving staff.

Cages containing blankets, food and litter boxes lined the walls. Two portly sleepyheads, one tabby and one tortoiseshell, dozed on separate cliffs of the plush tower at the center of the room. Nancy introduced me to "The Mayor," a rotund, puffy tabby who spent her time visiting every cat and checking up on all goings-on. Overcome by what I call a "cute attack," I intercepted The Mayor for a moment to pet her before stepping aside to allow her to return to her duties.

Although it broke my heart to part ways with Charlie, I knew that I had left him in good hands. Charlie had clearly enjoyed his stay with me, his foster dad, and seemed sad and confused at the shelter. His reaction was not surprising, though. Charlie went from freezing on the street to rolling around a big, warm apartment, before traveling by train and car in a carrier bag straight to a cage; a comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. The fluffy varmint in the cage next to Charlie's meowed a hello as the other felines bathed, slept and roamed about the room. A few weeks later, I learned from Nancy that Charlie had been adopted into a loving home.

"If you love someone, you must set them free."

I've always hated that saying.

Safe and secure

Under the bed

What? Trying to sleep over here.

Playful at night.

Let the games begin!

Enjoying a moment of tranquility before the sneezing storm commences.

- posted by Hal Miller @ 1:47 AM |

 
DIMEBAG DARRELL

Dimebag performing w/Pantera @ Ozzfest 2000. Photo: S. Cabral.

Thousands of people die every day. But what eludes me is how so many people who have contributed significantly to our culture have been silenced in such a violent and untimely way. I'm sad to report that guitarist Dimebag Darrell, founder of Pantera and more recently Damageplan, is the latest on that tragic list.

This past Wednesday, Dec. 8, on the eve of the anniversary of the John Lennon shooting, psychotic fan Nathan Gale brutally murdered "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott at Columbus, Ohio nightclub Alrosa Villa. According to reports, the disturbed 25-year-old Gale was not only obsessed with Dime's former band Pantera, but also held a severe grudge toward the guitarist for breaking up the Texas quartet (and, apparently, for forming new band Damageplan). Gale jumped onstage as Damageplan began their set last Wednesday, taking out several people and wounding drummer Vinnie Paul. Gale shot Dime five times in the head, point-blank, before a cop ended the rampage with a bullet. Nice work, you stupid bastard, now there definitely won't be a reunion.

I'm glad to say that I experienced Pantera live on several occasions. The two most memorable times being September 10, 1997 at Roseland, NYC and February 5, 1999 with Black Sabbath at NJ's Meadowlands. At Roseland, the band held the room by its collective cajones; as the energy overflowed out of the venue, Pantera's formidable presence was felt all around. Dime rocked a confederate flag guitar and singer Phil Anselmo referred to his "Italian ass." These guys didn't give two shits about political correctness, and you just had to respect that no matter what.

In true metal form, Dime tossed cups of beer at the V.I.P. section where music industry people sat. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. It was a humorous, ballsy move, and made the show that much better.

We got our asses kicked to the back of the arena when Black Sabbath, Pantera and The Deftones came to destroy NJ. It was loud, evil-sounding and intense; the perfect metal show. The bill was almost too good to be true, and all three bands proved themselves to be masters of heavy music. The image of Dime on stage, a true guitar hero with hair in face and back to a wall of Marshall stacks, is forever burned into my brain.

After two decades of making metal mayhem together, members of Pantera began pursuing other projects several years ago, with singer Philip Anselmo joining Superjoint Ritual and Down. Dime and brother Vinnie formed Damageplan in 2003, and toured to support their debut, New Found Power.

Dime was known not only for embodying the looks, the lifestyle and the fuck-you attitude of metal, but also for being a helluva nice guy. Although I was barely out of diapers when John Lennon's murder turned the planet on its ear, I do recall the feeling of sorrow accompanied by collective dread. Although I love the Beatles, I have probably listened to Pantera much more over the past ten years. There are very few things in life more satisfying than blasting Dime's raw, dirty guitar riffs through the ol' headphones.

Dime's untimely fate is a horrible tragedy, met by metal fans mourning around the world. At only 38 years old, the guitarist had so much more ahead of him; at least he lasted long enough to shape heavy metal with amazing performances and ear-shattering recordings with Pantera, Damageplan and others. Dimebag Darrell may be gone, but the noise he made will ring in our ears forever.

R.I.P., brother. You will be sorely missed.

--> Damageplan

--> Pantera

- posted by Hal Miller @ 2:37 PM |

 
JUMPING SOMEONE ELSE'S TRAIN

All aboard, bitches: actual train ridden not pictured.

I was running late as usual. Every time I have to catch a train, I set my alarm for a time too early, doze off and wake up in a panic. I showered anyway, finished packing my bags, and ran the hell out of my apartment. I would have to catch the L train here in Brooklyn and then transfer to the N or R train at Union Square in Manhattan to get to Penn Station. That is, if I wanted to make it to Baltimore to see my family on Thanksgiving.

Flying out of the 34th street station R train like a bat outta hell, I readied my quiver of curt excuse me’s. Everyone in my path had a bull’s eye, including Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade a block away. A straight shot down 32nd Street (between 6th and 7th Ave.) and five minutes to catch the 12:02 train en route to Wash., DC lay before me. I don’t remember if anyone slowed me down, but whoever may have gotten in my way probably got flattened. Most of the time, I complain about other people being inconsiderate, but, in this case, I was the asshole.

Strings attached: he must have done something awful to suffer such indignation.

I expected the parade to somehow delay my date with Amtrak, but, ironically enough, it helped me get there faster. The street was sectioned off and filled with onlookers. With no traffic to impede my way, I shot across the street, briefly looking up at the looming parade floats without discerning which copyrighted characters hovered overhead and between buildings. In retrospect, I probably should have taken a better look at the televised spectacle that brings people from all over the world to NYC. Seeing a Disney character may have given me an instant of comfort, but I probably would have been let down with SpongeBob SquarePants, or some other pathetic icon that passes for pre-adolescent entertainment these days.

Once I printed out my ticket from the machine, I barreled down the steps, sweat spraying from my whipping hair. My suitcase dangling mid-air, I skidded up to a Yoda-sized female conductor. “Is this the 12:02 train?” I blurted down at her breathlessly. Her mumbled response channeled the neurotic demon inside of me and I repeated, “IS THIS THE 12:02 TRAIN?” I knew it was indeed my train, but I had to make sure. “Y-yes, yes!” Yoda-woman confirmed. “Thanks,” I croaked, and hopped on board.

I roamed the aisle until I found an empty seat with a non-smelly, tolerable looking prospective neighbor. “Excuse me,” I asked a gray-haired, middle-aged lady occupying an aisle seat. “Is anyone sitting here?” No one was. Cold rivers of sweat flowed down my temples and back as my body attempted to cool itself down and the dust settled behind me.

The lady, who I'll call Lucy, held an authoritative air about her. She even suggested I stow my suitcase up top, across the aisle. “Sorry,” I said with a self-deprecating chuckle as I stepped over her to my waiting window seat. “Running late?” she asked. “Yeah,” I laughed.

“I can see the signs,” Lucy remarked, and returned to her book.

Repeated announcements stating that the café car was closed provided little hope for relief as I sat dehydrating in my own juices. Obviously, I hadn't given myself enough time to pick up any snacks or water. My self-hatred magnified every time I squeezed by my neighbor to get up. On my maiden voyage, I locked myself in the bathroom to cool off with cold, wet paper towels, the supply of which I nearly depleted in my effort to dry off.

Returning to my seat, I expressed my pardons without looking down. Lunging forward, I knocked the book out of Lucy’s hands and woke her up. Ruminating over the embarrassment, I plopped back down, and felt my throat closing up. I braved the asthma and claustrophobia as long as I could, while I focused on relaxing and breathing. After making little progress, I grabbed my inhaler from my suitcase, nearly dropping the bursting bag into the aisle.

Safely locked in the bathroom again, I pushed down on the yellow plastic inhaler, sucked in, and held my breath for a moment. Repeat. My obstructed airflow restored, I floated back to my seat, relieved.

An attractive, dark-haired, twenty-something girl and her mother sat across the aisle from Lucy and me. I decided that Lucy must have been the girl’s aunt or her mom’s friend. With her flattering striped frock, chin-length mop of curls and attempts at affecting a cultured inflection, the young girl was vaguely styled like a roarin’ twenties party girl. Think a toned-down “Thoroughly Modern Millie.” But, like a lot of people, her good looks masked her annoying personality until she opened her mouth.

Thoroughly annoying: Millie's song & dance.

Predictably, Millie asked Lucy about the book she was reading. Impressed, Millie breathlessly exclaimed that “no one I’ve met has heard of that author, and these are people living on the Upper West Side!” Lucy shrugged. Although I was not involved in the conversation, I had to roll my eyes anyway, just on principle.

“I see you’re wearing the necklace and the bracelet,” Millie said to Lucy. “You’re wearing two presents that I gave you, that makes me feel so good.” Millie’s ass-kissing sentiment brought me very close to vomiting. Pointing out the fact that Lucy was sporting the accessories that Millie gave her would have been totally natural. Telling Lucy that it makes her feel “so good” was laying it on a little thick. All the brown-nosing led me to suspect that Lucy was Millie’s professor, or someone with some kind of authority over Millie.

My neighbors’ conversation began to slip into the awkward realm of the vain and self-conscious with Lucy’s remark about gaining weight when she was recently sick. Millie, in a backhanded way, attempted to rationalize Lucy’s dilemma with her own history of the battle of the bulge. We learned that Millie’s weight problem, which began in high school and extended into her college years, provided the side effect of sizable breasts. Upon hearing this expertly delivered buffalo chip of conversation, I turned to size Millie up. I concluded that her story was entirely unbelievable, given her long, naturally slim body. Also, Millie couldn’t have been older than 23, yet she strived to close the age gap between her and Lucy. Sure, she just graduated, but it must seem like, soooooo long ago.

The conductor announced that the café car was open. I jumped up again and stumbled back to the small concession area at the front of the train. A fifty-something man in a suit with no tie and his jacket sleeves rolled up stood in the lengthening line behind me. Every time the people in front of me moved up, I felt him brush up against me before I could step forward. When he stepped on my shoe with his Doc Marten boot, I turned around to give him a dirty look. Very few things in life annoy me as much as queue-crowders. He apologized but repeated the same behavior twice more. He seemed slightly drunk or very self-conscious in his attempts to look hip, kind of like a record exec who partied hard in the ‘80s.

Virgin territory: becoming part of the complete collection.

My tumultuous trip to Penn Station had left me physically and mentally flustered. My mood shifted from irritated to irrational to angry to relieved. This Richard Branson wannabe lit my shortened fuse and I was about to kick him in the crotch. However, I drew unexpected consolation from another stranger whom I had encountered on this trip; my friend Lucy, back at the seats. There was something comforting about Lucy. She didn’t seem too worried about anything. Being a woman of few, yet very effective words, she held an air of authority and security. She also seemed thoughtful, yet at the same time very practical, to the point of alarming. Lucy was not someone to be messed with, as I would soon find out.

While waiting in line and getting bumped by Branson (wait, the real Branson wouldn't be caught dead riding a humble, earthbound locomotive!), I tried to imagine serving food on a train. The work certainly didn’t look very difficult. A microwave was present for any food that needed to be heated up and most of the items were packaged. Probably the most difficult task was pouring coffee or any other liquid into a cup without spilling. I ordered a chocolate chip cookie and apple juice and returned to my seat.

The presence of food in her vicinity seemed to prompt hunger in Professor Lucy. A plastic Tupperware container appeared with cold chicken and roasted potatoes. This was the kind of woman who is always prepared and doesn’t rely on public transportation for her nourishment. Like a bear going in for the honey, Lucy slowly and deliberately pulled off the lid of the container and reached in for a meaty morsel. Although I had my cookie and juice to distract me, I braced myself for the imminent olfactory assault of cold poultry, unavoidable in such close quarters.

Raw like sushi: snack time.

Devouring the first bit with moist crunching, Lucy turned her working jaws in my direction, perhaps in an attempt to escape from Millie’s incessant gabbing. It took less than a second for the smell of the food to travel from Lucy’s mouth to my nose. Feeling grossed out, I wondered if I smelled the chicken itself or the chemical results of my neighbor’s saliva and breath mixing with, and breaking down, the salty victuals. Turning my head toward the window and away from the impromptu snacking, I prayed Lucy would turn on Millie with her volcanic mouth.

After consuming one greasy chunk of chicken and a cold, boiled potato, Lucy sealed and retired the Tupperware. She returned to her book and Millie and Mom switched seats to huddle in whisper. After a few minutes, the mother and daughter socialite team invited Lucy for a bite to eat at the next stop, which would be Philadelphia. Apparently, the ladies had blocked out enough time to dine in between hunting down Gloria Steinem books and getting tipsy at wine tastings.

We arrived in Philly, and the estrogen posse left me surrounded by empty seats. There I was, alone, with my own thoughts for an hour or so. Now, I could only complain about myself, to myself.

- posted by Hal Miller @ 1:08 AM |

 
POSTCARD FROM THE EDGE

A couple of months ago, our roommate left the comfy, hipster environs of Brooklyn for the friendly sands of Iraq. Although an avid gamer and champion of violent, anti-terrorist games, his move to the Middle East was not spurred on by political motivations or nationalistic pride, but rather an opportunity to gather once-in-a-lifetime experiences and stories. And, of course, there was the financial reward involved in this gold rush state of affairs. His plan, as it stands, is to return after about a year, with a hefty bank account and more than enough inspiration for another independent film. Either way, the spoils of war were there for the taking, all graciously sponsored by Halliburton.

The virtual land mine explosions and simulated gunshots shaking our roommate’s brain - and the wall between our respective rooms - will now be replaced by nothing less than the real thing. After blowing up “Tangos,” i.e., terrorists, like anti-terrorist hero Jack Bauer does on 24, our strategically minded friend is now looking over his shoulder instead of squinting at the pixilated screen. Although his adventures occur within the framework of reconstructing Iraq, he is like any soldier serving in the military in a war-torn, third world country, risking his life just by being there. His brother, currently serving over there, can certainly vouch for the risk.

Yes, we all doubted his sanity for jumping into one of the most dangerous situations in the world. He bought a one-way ticket to the land where suicide bombing is the preferred pastime. Is he brave? Insane? Greedy? Read these passages from this postcard he sent us, and judge for yourself.

* * *

“Did someone say Tangos[?] I just bought a [Playstation 2] today. Everything here has been quiet last few days. It’s like a film set out here, with no cameras. Some people are working, some don’t do shit, but there are a few assholes to ruin your whole day.

I was changing a few lightbulbs and smashing them, and yelling “Mazeltof.” [sic] Iraqis don’t like that too much. The 20 Iraqis I work with, I have been teaching them how to sing “She Blinded Me With Science,” “Do Run Run” and Nelly “It’s Getting Hot In Here.” You would shit your pants if you heard it.

I see you all voted for George Bush, good work.

There is tons of chaos and bullshit, and loud noise, so I’m having fun, and pushing myself to the limit. Tomorrow they are going to turn Fallujah into a cement rubble meat grinder. Hold the mayo! Payback is a bitch.

I’m chillin,’ and miss your insults and late payment notices. Tell the new guy some old stories over beers.

Peace.”

- posted by Hal Miller @ 9:30 PM |

 
NYC MARATHON 2004

NYC Marathon, Nov. 7, 2004. Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, NY.
















Elvis: "... we're gonna win this race...!"















"I'll cross that finish line no matter how long it takes me .. in these jeans!"


Photos by Hal
- posted by Hal Miller @ 1:53 PM |