The Legend of G'nay

In the Idiosyncratic Ways of the Family Shep Department:

Dadoo Shep is the king of the verbal tic. He has a habit of latching on to a nonsequitur and repeating it ad nauseum until it becomes white noise to us. Which is confusing to new visitors to the Shep Chateau, but we'd like to think of it as part of the screening process (see also: enthusiasm for backyard songbirds, punctuality at cocktail hour, tolerance of pets that hump things in mixed company). Previous Dadooisms have included "Har" (like a pirate) and "Goddamn right!"

[editor's note: I don't usually edit after the fact, but if I left out "Ah yes, the munchy nuggets!" and "Right you are, Ken," I'd never forgive myself.]

Dadoo was in 'Nam, by the way. I'm just throwing that out there. He can kick your ass.

Anyway, his latest favorite, new for 2010, is "G'nay."

Rhymes with the Australian greeting "g'day." Only not. It's meaning is a bit profane. Suffice to say it's an abbreviation of a two-word phrase consisting of a verb and a vowel, especially popular in the northeastern U.S., especially in Eagles bars. I looked it up on the Internet, and can't find many documented uses of it. Which makes it fairly special.

And have I stopped saying it in the month since Christmas? No, no I have not. I also find it makes a wonderful Twitter hashtag. #gnay

When to apply it? Whenever you damn well please. To whit:

"Can you hand me the fish sauce?" "G'nay!"
"I think I have a polyp." "G'nay, dude."
"I'm pregnant." "G'nay?"

See? It's so versatile! Try it! You'll love it! Guh. Nay.

Conan and the Revenge of the Nerds

Let's be clear. I know there are more important things going on. I have friends helping out on the ground in Haiti. I'm up to my elbows in Gitmo at work. I've made my donations, am doing my part, and am something of a connoisseur of all things Terrible, Awful, and Serious.

That being said, let's discuss Conan for a just a minute.

In my teenage years, my heroes weren't rock stars or politicians. They were odd, brainy, bizarre comedians. Chief among those were the geniuses behind Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Conan O'Brien. I would tape his shows every night and watch them every day before doing my homework. I saw him live seven times. While other girls read Seventeen and obsessed over Dawson's Creek, I devoured Entertainment Weekly and New York magazine articles on Conan's improbable rise to fame. There was just something about the story of a bookish redheaded misfit done good that spoke to me. Go figure.

So even though I'm a grown-up now, and I haven't been watching quite as regularly, I've been a wee bit emotionally invested in the late night debacle at NBC. I'm of the opinion that Conan got screwed, and while I know this is not life-and-death stuff, it kinda shatters the fable of my youth. Be smart, work hard, do good...get hurt anyway. Not gonna lie, people, I took it an eensy bit personally.

But Conan's farewell speech was a master stroke. Classy, sincere, emotional and optimistic. It's worth five minutes of your time, so I'll post it below. I was particularly struck by his line, "If you work really hard, and you're kind, amazing things will happen." Hey, it's not Shakespeare. It ain't even Oprah. But it was simple and true, and a lovely example of grace under fire. Well-played, Conan. Hope to see you soon.

And well done on that $45 million payout, playa. NERDS!! NERDS!! NERDS!!

NYC: Toldyaso

"It is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal. Its politics are used to frighten children. Its traffic is madness. Its competition is murderous. But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no other place is good enough." -- John Steinbeck

I KNOW, RIGHT?

DC: Toldyaso

"It was a 'wild' town, as are all American towns, with the possible exception of Washington, D.C., which is neither wild nor domesticated, but is dying of boredom and captivity in the cage of radiating avenues in which L'Enfant enclosed it." -- Claude Levi-Strauss

I know, right?

Christmas With The Sheps

Yuletide at the Shepherd household is very special indeed. Not just because we do the Christmas/Chanukah thing, because that's becoming progressively less weird as time goes on, but because I'd like to think we put our own little stamp on things. We run a bit of an open house during the afternoon, so if you're in the 18954 zip code, you're cordially invited to stop by. If, however, you can't manage it, here's a little guide to how we do here:

1. Music: The Shepherd family has a limited number of Christmas albums, but we are fiercely loyal to the ones we play the most. Elvis sees a lot of rotation, as does the jazzy Ramsey Lewis Trio. But, as mentioned previously, the paramount Shepherd Christmas Album is John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together. Yes, I know it sounds awful, but please revisit last year's blog to hear the full treatise on the subject. It's an emotional issue.

2. Menu and activities: Pancakes must make an appearance prior to attending to the stockings, accompanied by the first of several Scarlet O'Haras of the day (SoCo, cranberry and lime). This is the only day of the year on which it is acceptable to consume this particular beverage. You may start when trimming the tree on Christmas Eve, but by the 26th, it's back to Manhattans, gin martinis, and bourbon and diet starting at 4pm -- per usual. Also unique to the holiday is the annual Christmas Spamburger at lunch, prepared after the presents under the tree are opened, although consumption by all family members is not required. Trivial Pursuit takes up the better part of the afternoon, until dinner of prime rib and potatoes, in memory of Grampy Shep and his preternatural love of red meat. If Christmas and Chanukah coincide, the Menorah is lit and latkes are served as necessary. Dreidel is considered being played for about three minutes, until we all admit we really don't know the rules, or how to make the damn thing spin correctly, and just play Scrabble instead.

3. Decorations: The Shepherd Family Christmas Tree is the kind of tree that would make Martha Stewart weep. By that I mean that there is no theme, no color coordination, and the ornaments have been randomly accumulated over the years, and, in truth, are mostly pretty fugly. But, and this is very important, NO ORNAMENT MUST BE DISCARDED NO MATTER HOW HIDEOUS UNTIL IT IS BROKEN BEYOND ALL HOPE OF RECOVERY. If it's kinda broken, it is valid. This is how we wind up with family favorites like Barfight Santa, who got too close to a red candle one year and looks like he's been punched in the mouth. Or Vietnam Goofy, who has been missing a foot as long as I can remember, and the suggestion that he lost it in 'Nam seemed as good a backstory as anything else. Or the Magical Christmas Toilet Paper Roll, dating back to kindergarten. Or the McDonald's Happy Meal toys that by rights should have been thrown out 20 years ago, but still make it on to the tree every year. Or Sergeant Fire Hazard, who is made out of yarn, and one day will be ignited by a Christmas light, and likely kill us all. These are not pieces of shit. They are HEIRLOOMS, and being the one to hang any of them on the tree is a unique and treasured honor. Fights have broken out over who gets to place Barfight Santa.

So that's kinda how we roll here. There are some pictures to be found here. Do drop by when you have a chance!

Snowmegeddon 2009

By now you probably heard that the northeast had a bit o' weather this weekend. It must be annoying if you're in say, Fargo or North Platte or somewhere like that to watch the media lose it's mind over a piddly foot of snow in Manhattan. I sympathize. We are a bunch of effete city folk, and we ought to just own that.

That said, holy crap, it snowed this weekend!

Blizzard conditions came to Manhattan late in the afternoon, and the TV advised us all to stay in and hunker down. So of course the whole city came out to play instead. I myself hit up three separate shows in the Village and did some ill-fated Christmas shopping, which resulted in me slipping on the sidewalk and shattering a highly-sought after bottle of bacon-flavored vodka. (Cut to scene of me screaming on sidewalk, and people asking if I'm okay, and all I can do is shout "The vodka! THE VODKA!" I was fine. A week without Robyn falling down is like a night without stars).

But I still managed to shake it off and get my rock and roll on. My pals the Ramblers played a benefit concert that mustered over 100 people in a small W. Village club, and afterward we all ran through the snow so half of the Ramblers could take the stage again at Scott Stein's show at the Bitter End, which was packed. I was fetchingly dressed in a flattering, form-fitting royal blue Express sweater...which spent most of the night hidden under layers of the Chastity Parka's Gore-Tex. Shmeh. I'll get the bombshell thing down better in 2010. Pinkie swear.

So New York can still rock it in the snow. My pals were actually still ready to rock at a house party in Brooklyn, and I had to call it a night because I was too pooped. I ended the evening by joining three strangers in pushing a motorist out of the snow. It was a nice moment, and we all waved goodbye to the car as it sped off to the FDR highway, like a condor being released into the wild. Ahn. That kind of stuff happened everywhere. Although some folks, like this poor bastard, weren't so lucky:



Here's some more video of the Village mid-blizzard, and the Ramblers rocking out at a venue with more machine-generated fog that I ever seen at any gig, ever.

Where the #@%$ are the other cats?

Tippy doesn't appreciate the confusing musical stylings of the Jingle Cats.