Sunday, March 29, 2009

The Cult of the Snuggie

Is it me or is this sort of creepy (see above)?

Announcer's voice bursts in) "It's not creepy! It's the Snuggie! The blanket with sleeves!..."

If you're anything like me (& I hope to God you're not), one-part insomniac/one-part hard-core night person, you probably often find yourself wandering this earth or puttering around your dwelling in the wee hours when more sensible folks are dead to the world. Subconsciously I think I probably feel sleep is over-rated and a waste of precious free time; Time better spent creating music, reading or watching crap TV.

If you're one of my late-night, channel-surfing brethren you've probably come across this rhymin' Snuggie commercial. For the uninitiated, the Snuggie is this kind of blanket with sleeves that you can put your arms through so you can continue to use your appendages as they stay snug as a bug in a...well, Snuggie. Sounds good in theory (although I think they already invented this a thousand years ago, it's called a sweater) and it probably indeed works in practice but the downside, as you've undoubtedly seen from the video, is the aesthetic of the Snuggie; It's, well, just plain F'in kooky at best. Chances are unless you're some kind of medieval monk or "of one with the body of Landru" (a totally nerdy Star Trek reference) then you're gonna look pretty insane wearing a Snuggie. I love the pitch in the commercial - Read a book, use your laptop, enjoy a snack, worship false Gods! But wait, there's more! Comes in not one but 3 totally strange choices of color! Great for drafty dorm rooms, great for the outdoors, great for burning people at the stake, machine washable! Check out the old dude in the Snuggie spot who looks like Paulie Walnuts sitting in his recliner eating popcorn. Pure awesome Snuggie-ness.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any freakier, it seems the good folks at Snuggie have outdone themselves - Introducing the
Snugglette! It's the mini-Snuggie for kids! Wow...I kind of don't know what to say. Even I'm a little weirded out at this point. What's next? Jim Jones flavored Kool-Aid?

Supposedly they've sold millions of Snuggies (including designer versions) and even
Oprah wears one (so you know it must be good). Apparently people go on organized pub-crawls wearing Snuggies these days. Who knew? And really who am I to scoff at progress or the seemingly unbridled insanity of the 21st century? Rave on Snuggie children, I'm with ya.

I do look pretty cool in burgundy.

Of one with the Snuggie,

Editor's Note - I just heard the ShamWow guy got busted for beating down a hooker. Wow, what a sham(e).

Sunday, March 22, 2009

I Like Wearing Clothes

Mark Bacino - "I Like Wearing Clothes"

After completing my new album, feeling fairly burnt out and feeling as though there was nothing left to squeeze from the creative ether, surprisingly new tunes began to appear.

There must be 5 million songs in the history of pop music that encourage people to take their clothes off. For some reason I thought it was time to write one about keeping them on. See above lo-fi, web-cam jam; lyrics below if you'd like to follow the bouncing Blog and sing along.

Sorry for the substandard audio, apparently my laptop mic came with a sweet, built-in phaser effect.
I like to pretend it's 1976, Phil Ramone's producing and after a bottle of red and a few bottles of white we've decided to throw a Small Stone across the whole mix.

Guess I am still crazy after all these years.

Don't go changin',


I Like Wearing Clothes

Ever since I was a little lad,

I hated strippin' down it made me sad
Bath time terrors, watch the teardrops flow

I'm sorry Momma, I like wearing clothes.

Now I'm grown, I'm not that little man

And my baby she just cant understand

Why she's never ever seen my toes

I'm sorry baby, I like wearing clothes

Don't take me for a seaside holiday

Shorts and sandals, ah keep them away

No, skinny-dippins' never in my plans

Cause I only burn, I never tan...

Not comfortable inside my birthday suit

Rather have a jacket and a nice pair of boots

Now I'm no crazy semi-kind of prude

It's just a lifestyle not an attitude

Styles may come and styles may go

Muffin tops and bellies hanging low

Not everybody's body's built for show

I'm sorry people, I like wearing clothes

I'm sorry Momma, I like wearing clothes

I'm sorry baby, I like wearing clothes

Copyright MB 2009/BMI

Friday, March 13, 2009

Neither Rain, Nor Sleet, Nor Gas Leak...

When the Greek historian Herodotus first committed this famous phrase to paper (parchment?) 2500 years ago, words now commonly attributed to the work ethic of our fine US postal service, I guess he didn't take into account a strong postal workers union or NYC's crumbling infrastructure. Back then I suspect a gas leak meant nothing more than the result of one's late-night Hummus binge.

Anyway, the other day I look at the clock, damn it's 2:30, I want to get to the post office; I have a half hour. Now normally I avoid the post office as much as humanly possible but not unlike a post-Hummus Herodotus, sometimes you just have to go. The mundane occasion? Having just finished my taxes, my accountant suggests I mail the paperwork off to the various governmental PO Boxes via Certified Mail to prove to Uncle Sam I actually submitted my tax forms in the event Uncle Sam looses my tax forms en route to Recessionville, USA. Sounds reasonable. I suppose I'd rather visit the post office now than the IRS later. With that thought in mind, I grab the forms and the 3 year old and we're off.

Five minutes later the boy and I score a cherry parking spot in front of the place. With the kid in one arm, the forms in the other and 3 quarters in the meter, we weave through the traffic as we cross the street and land at the door. Looking up we're greeted with a very official looking sign (
pic above) written in gov. issued Sharpie. Gas leak?! In a post office?! Did the postal union lobby for gas powered stamp machines? Were gas fueled, Rumsfeld issued, Anthrax eradicators installed? And don't you just love the use of the word, "possible"? So committal these government types. Like there may or may not be a gas leak but either way Uncle Sam's not sticking around to find out. Mail? What mail? Herodotus who? You're out of luck, Jack; go to the main branch if you have any quarters left. Right away I'm pissed; this is exactly why I hate going to the post office - the almost inevitable clusterfu*k; the very embodiment of the term "going postal". C'mon, I just want to mail my F'in taxes but once again the fear of the unknown, the fear of the "possible" has hindered the progress of this great nation. Back in the car I wonder if there's a color-code for "possible gas leak" over at the Dept. of Homeland Insecurity.

With the clock hands dangerously close to the 3pm hour, we arrive at post office #2 the next neighborhood over. No gas leak here (although it smells as if someone might have taken a leak). We fill out the little green forms, hand over the envelopes, pay the Sam...mission accomplished.

On the way home I reward my son's postal patience with a doughnut from Dunkin' Ds. Now there's an organization with a solid work ethic. I guaranty if they ever had a "possible" gas leak or the roof had blown off that mo' fo' you'd still be able to get a cup of coffee and a plain stick.

Winding the car back home I feel mildly triumphant but the smell of victory is quickly snuffed with an all too familiar fragrance wafting from the 21st century,
back-seat historian with half-eaten doughnut in hand and that relieved look on his face.

Possible gas leak indeed.

Rock Show

It's a way off but just wanted to let everyone know that the band and I will be playing Wednesday, May 13th, 7pm at The Living Room in NYC. Should be fun; we'll be playing the new record in its entirety (with a horn section), in running order and we'll probably kick out some old school jams as well, time permitting. Of course I'll harp on this again as the date gets closer but just figured I'd throw it out there now so you can mark your calendars, reschedule your vacations, weddings, etc.