The PC Brigade Can Lick My Balls

Once in class I got into a huge fight about political correctness. I mean it didn’t come to blows or anything, but the TA did have to throw his water in my face to calm me down. I hate the political correctness movement. I think that political correctness is the most insidious form of mind control possible. By attempting to change the way we talk, changing the very way we communicate… it’s fascism ladies and gentleman.

And yeah I get the point, but attempting to eradicate hateful language does not make hateful feelings go away. In my opinion, by hiding these words under a veneer of forced respectability we just make them that much more powerful and dangerous when misused by some loathsome fucker.

What I’m doing here good people, is doing my best to keep it a little dirty, just a little bit raunchy.

Slow Rotting Easter Bunny

Gerald, the slow-rotting Easter bunny, crawled from beneath a clump of juniper bushes and looked around. It was dead this morning. Daytonville was supposed to be party central, but apparently all the kids got a little freaked when Gerald took off his overalls and started setting fire to things.

The morning was particularly warm for May and this didn’t bode well for the brewing hangover. Gerald rubbed his face and hobbled towards the charred remains of the Highland Park gazebo. He saw the crumpled form of the effigy he and some guy named Pete had tried to build out of a Styrofoam cooler, a vodka injected watermelon and bright orange traffic cones lying just outside the zone of destruction. He vaguely remembered battering the effigy in its fake face with his ball of a tail when it refused to catch a fire.

Stretched and stained overalls hung from a tetherball rope twenty yards away. Gerald slowly hopped in that direction, absently scratching the fur of his belly. He noticed that the hair was a little more matted then normal. He looked down to examine the markings on his abdomen.

“God damn,” he muttered.

Apparently some kid had spray-painted “I’M EVIL” onto his chest and stomach. It was true, but still… Uncool.

Central Valley Pirate Radio

Damon and I were driving to Chico; I was moving, he was attempting escape. Around 3am, somewhere along the Central Valley section of I5, where there’s a lot of dirt and remote sparkles of scary little cities, we were searching through the radio stations trying to find something. Down by the low end numbers this robotic voice came through the speakers. It said:

“The Tellon Corporation is working towards destroying the world with nuclear balloons. The world will be destroyed in T-minus 348 hours, 16 minutes and 30 seconds”

This message would repeat over and over again, ticking off another 30 seconds with every repetition. It was sort of funny in that hallucinatory, we’ve been driving a long time and smoking too many cigarettes on this empty road kind of way. However, after about 20 minutes, not so much. Surrounded by empty highway and dry fields in the middle of the night, this turned into some spooky shit.

Billytown, Billyvannia

The fact that nearly everything in the south is named after Robert E. Lee, a general for the confederate army who has achieved god-like status to a gaggle of drooling freak show escapees, is just another reason why it’s embarrassing for me to be part of a country that has the south as part of the country. Oh, and if you’re from the south? Fuck off, I don’t care.

However, all of that being said, I’m heavy into the idea of EVERYTHING in some section of the world being named after ME. I would like to become so popular that cities, neighborhoods and stores are named after me. Places like Billysburg, or Billys Hope, or Billy Falls, or San Billy. Restaurants named Billy’s Grilly, a street through Billy Park called Billy Way, a religion called Billianity.

I’d even just take a freeway overpass named after me, the Billy 4th Avenue Viaduct…

You Send Me...

Apparently it’s not such a great idea to walk through a major downtown area singing Flesh For Lulu at the top of your lungs. Loud and off-key Postcards From Paradise (and I’m assuming anything else off of the Long Live The New Flesh album) is action guaranteed to bring angry, baleful stares and threats. All right, I wasn’t necessarily threatened, but a random collection of businessmen in suits and ties, swinging chains and tossing paper clips like they were Chinese throwing stars isn’t cool.

This shit may fly in Toledo, but apparently Seattle is more of a Gene Loves Jezebel kind of town.

Marlin Perkins Rides Again

This morning I was tagged for a “dangerous mission”. Apparently there was a seagull trapped in a stairwell between the banister and the glass which I’m assuming keeps stair-climbers from being pelted by rain. Dave saw him when coming in from the parking lot, said his wing was messed up and the poor guy was freaked out. The bird was freaked out, not Dave. Well, actually Dave was a little shaken up as well.

Sure enough, said gull was spazzing out trying to figure out why he couldn’t get out of this space and got more agitated the closer we got to him. I wrapped a sweater around my hand so as not to get Tippi Hedren’d and tried to push him out over the banister. Not digging that action, the bird (who I’ll call Jamie) moved away from me and closer to a place where we could reach over him. Dave tossed the sweater down over him (which immediately calmed his happy ass down, again the bird, not Dave. But actually Dave seemed a little more sedate then too.) and I wrapped Jamie up in it and pulled him out. We took him quickly to the roof of the parking lot and set him free.

We watched as Jamie flew away towards the rising sun. Dave cried a little bit and we walked hand in hand back to the office knowing we’d done our part for the greater good.

Just Like Natchitoches

Kyle from the band Little Wings had written a song about Sand Canyon down in Orange County. It's a beautiful song. He said he wrote it because he saw the name on a highway sign and thought it sounded so nice. He asked if anyone had actually been there and I had to be the one to break it to him in the middle of this nice and intimate show that Sand Canyon actually sort of blows.

This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I fall in love with cities because of their names, and then find that the locations just don't quite live up. Like El Cajon! I love the name, I am seriously jazzed over that name right now. El Cajon!

I've never been there, but I'm sure it sucks.

We Are What We Hate

There is this guy who starts bitching about old people on the phone who ramble and talk slowly. I mean loudly and dramatically bitching about it. He pushes the mute button and says charming things like “why don’t you put your head in a fucking oven”.

The irony in this is that said guy rambles and pontificates loudly on any fan boy subject that enters his trying-too-hard-to-be-twenty-five-again head. I know, I mean I know that he’ll be that old guy who calls 1-800 customer service lines just to have somebody to talk to.

Everything's Gone Green

I’m going to get all smoochy and gross about Seattle here for a minute, so I apologize in advance. The greens up here are blowing my friggin mind! There are so many different trees around the city and their newly shot leaves are so vibrant that it just slaps my soul around something fierce. And the flowers! Did I mention the flowers? All of these exhibitionistic little fuckers everywhere! Even the weeds are dancing in vivid purples and blues.

The last couple of days it has been clear and sunny (I’m sure the rain will come again any minute), and seeing the mountains in silhouette in front of the setting sun and the Sound bouncing back that luminous blue of twilight sky… Well, I’m pretty sure that people seeing me walk around with this blissed-out grin must think I’m stoned to the gills.

Oh and holy shit, wait! Biff and I hiked up this damp and muddy trail in the middle of this park, and it was just like tramping around in Muir Woods. In the middle of the city!

Okay, sorry. I’ll get back to sarcastic and bitchy non-sequiters…

The The

The song "Love Is Stronger Than Death" by The The, it haunts me. It gets me choked up every time. It hurts me a little bit. It makes me hope that it's true.

Could Be, You Don't Know

I just looked down at my hand and saw that there was bird poop on my palm. I started kind of freaking out, thinking where the hell did I put my hand between taking a shower this morning and walking to work that I would have gotten crap on it.

I began to imagine that maybe I was blacking out and living some super secret squirrel life that I was completely unaware of. Maybe in an aviary, smuggling drugs and weapons that are held under seagull nests. Maybe just plucking feathers for my super happy fun fun bird suit; the one with the red piping and the Ralph Lauren designed shoulder brocades.

Sometimes It's Just Too Early On A Saturday

I'm a mover, I'm a shaker, I'm a flippin' dream maker and I'm feeling the power of yellow!

Who else?! Give it to me!!!! God damn it!!

People at work this morning? Not feeling it.

Straight From McSpiclish

I saw a guy in a utilikilt here at work. I think I'm inching closer and closer to getting one.

http://www.utilikilts.com/

It's like a macho skirt. A big, tough, macho skirt. And I get to show off my legs (which look great in heels by the way).

All Things Dougie

Ok, it's sort of like the universe speaking firmly to me here. This voice popped into my head this morning saying:

"Today, I love everybody named Doug. This includes Doug Martsch from Built to Spill of course, but also my lovely Dougie P. if he's out there reading."

This is normally how I post to this thing, a voice sort of comes and says stuff. I didn't post this though, not really sure why. I just kind of went on with working.

About a half an hour later Dougie P. emails me with info on a Built to Spill show going on in Seattle this summer. It just feels like another example of creating my own reality...

Brody Loves Me

Woke up around 2 AM to find the younger, not so bright cat licking the back of my head. I sort of let it go for awhile cause I thought it was sweet that he was grooming me. In my groggy, waking state I figured I could go to work without showering as I had been cleaned the night before.

Big mistake...

My Morning Thus Far

Was running too late this morning to eat my toast and almond butter, so I put it in a baggy to eat at work later. Usually toast sort of softens up after a few hours, but this stuff is like wood, like birch. People five rows away are turning to look when I take a bite. It's chipping my teeth and cutting my gums.

Also, I'm pregnant with Britney's baby and Michael Jackson molested me. That's why I was running late.

High Price of Hygene

I was at the store the other night, bitching about the price of razor blades. I mean I hate shaving anyway and having to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the privilege just rubs sand into that particular crotch abrasion. While I bitched about it, Biffy told me to shut up. Had I checked out the prices of tampons lately? No, I had not.

I started thinking about ways to avoid spending money on razor blades, aside from stealing them and not shaving. The good kitchen knives seemed really manly and the lids of opened tin cans seemed ghetto and slightly tetanus worthy.

I'm also working on that tampon thing with #2 pencils and pop up sponges.

Sizing 'em Up

There is this guy who walks by my cubicle row a lot. I don't know his name and I've never met him, but I can tell who it is before he gets here just by the way he walks. I see him out of the corner of my eye with his earring and soul patch. I can't explain why, but I get an annoying sort of vibe off of him.

I'm pretty sure that I can break him.

Gother Than Thou

During some random internet cruising I came across a review of a Bauhaus album written as a poem.

Can't you just hear the dark velvet crinkling?

Self Control?

I feel like this shouldn't have to be said, but...

Seriously, if you are so large that you need some sort of implement to assist you in walking, stay away from the fucking chocolate, chocolate chip muffins.

Dude!

Deadeye Billy Strikes Again

I found out this morning that I will be inheriting my grandfather's B.B. gun. Not exactly the financial windfall that would help me against the ever increasing mountain of debt, but pretty cool nonetheless.

I have fond memories of grandpa taking me and my brother out to the porch and having him show us how to use the sighting thingies and then knocking holes in the plastic milk jugs and empty Rainier cans he'd set up on the fence post. For such a non-demonstrative sort of man, he sure got jazzed when one of us would hit a bullseye.

There are not a lot of places in an urban setting to set up a B.B. target range unfortunately. So if you start to hear stories of the Seattle B.B. Sniper... you never read this posting.

Seriously.

First and Seneca

I was walking to work this morning, Treepeople doing "Bigmouth Strikes Again" on my headphones, when the beautifully skronky sound of alto sax burst in from outside. Those metallic notes somehow fit right in with Doug Martsch doing Morissey, and it sort of spun my head around. I saw the guy on the corner, older and black, sax case opened to catch change, just getting into it. His body swayed like he was dancing those notes out of himself and I smiled so damned hard.

How many John Coltrane's are playing on city corners? How many Van Gogh's using spray cans? How many DeNiro's are pacing in their kitchens, doing monologues to their appliances? How many Henry Miller's writing letters that never get sent?

South of Downtown

There's something about spending a gray, weekend day down in the industrial wasteland part of town that just does something for me. The puddles in graveled indentations, the rusty train cars, the near-empty warehouses and factories... I don't know, it's like the pretty and shiny veneer of urban life has been stripped away, or the application was never even bothered with. I feel like a character in a brand new movie where anything can happen, and my character should be wandering around in a heavy coat and smoking.

Fred, the Cleric-Elf

I don't want to get all braggety mcbraggerson on your asses, but I have 368 experience points. And today, I am Chaotic Good.