I’m that sort of tired right now where I’m just barely running above basic motor functions. The brain doesn’t want to hold onto any thought for longer than a couple of seconds. My brain apparently gets as surly as I do when it’s tired, a thought will fly its way and the ol’ brainy brain says, “Screw off loser, I’m beat”.
I wonder if the brain has a favorite pair of sweats that it throws on when it’s tired; old ones that don’t really fit anymore but have been so tied up with comfy moments that they now hold the title of comfy defined.
Speaking of sweats… A conversation was struck up with me the other day at the thrift store while I was waiting to get into one of those really comfortable fitting rooms. The guy was a junky, I could tell by the jaundiced and glassy eyes. I could also tell by the nodding of his head to some slow and isolated rhythm that only he could hear. The fact that his thin and haggard looking lady friend didn’t wait for a room and was trying on clothes in the corner didn’t do much to dissuade this idea either. Anyway, the guy started talking to me about sweat suits. I’m not sure what the point was ‘cause the guy kept sort of trailing off in a mumble, but they are apparently expensive at your normal stores.
I wonder if the brain has a favorite movie to sleep through when it lays on the couch to take a nap. I wonder if my brain snores if it sleeps on its back.
Seriously though, does anyone wear those old gray sweat suits anymore for anything other than leisurewear. I know Rocky Balboa ran all over fucking Philadelphia in one, but exercise clothes seem to have come a long ways further than Stallone’s career. No, I think they’re just reserved now for folks who have given up all pretenses at trying to look presentable outside their houses.
Oh, and seriously, part two: If I hear another person say, “I wish I knew how to quit you!” as if it were cleverest thing said in weeks, I’m going to show them some cowboy tricks the movie didn’t quite get into.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Sometimes A Great Reminder
There was this girl at my junior high, Sandy. Sandy was probably the most popular girl at the school. She was not someone that I went to grade school with, so I did not know the vast mysteries that had placed her in the realm of most popular. She was beautiful though. She had that sort of sunny disposition and natural good looks that even the toughest of pubescent times was not going to mar.
Because she was at the head of the food chain, because she had that sort of beauty that made you shyly look away when she approached, I was fairly certain that she would have nothing to do with me. I was a mess. We had a couple of friends in common, but that was going to be as close as I would get to the heady, airy realms that Sandy occupied.
Was there a jealousy there? Sure. Did I assume that she would be a stuck up bitch because of the position she held in the hearts of our school mates? You bet.
One day, while I was having lunch with some friends, she came and sat next to Kelly - one of those friends we shared. Sandy looked at me, she talked directly to me, she gave me a piece of orange because she was concerned that all I was having for lunch was a Coke. I was not a big fan of oranges at the time, but ate it of course, every little bit.
Sandy, it turned out, was not only beautiful and popular, but one of the nicest and funniest people I had met. After that strange distance was broken by a simple conversation, she always greeted me warmly when we passed and always laughed when I attempted to make her. She turned out to become a pretty good friend of my mine. When I moved to California I still remember her getting a little teary eyed when we said goodbye.
Yeah, I don't know, there seems to be this impossible distance between people that we manufacture for ourselves. It was a junior high for fuck’s sake, not Manhattan. Even if she didn't know me directly she knew who I was, we saw each other every day. I know for me that distance was made out of fear of rejection. This is still something I could use a little work on today. It's also a good reminder that my first assumptions about a person might be completely fucking wrong.
I hope you're good out there Sandy...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: A Stone by Okkervil River
Because she was at the head of the food chain, because she had that sort of beauty that made you shyly look away when she approached, I was fairly certain that she would have nothing to do with me. I was a mess. We had a couple of friends in common, but that was going to be as close as I would get to the heady, airy realms that Sandy occupied.
Was there a jealousy there? Sure. Did I assume that she would be a stuck up bitch because of the position she held in the hearts of our school mates? You bet.
One day, while I was having lunch with some friends, she came and sat next to Kelly - one of those friends we shared. Sandy looked at me, she talked directly to me, she gave me a piece of orange because she was concerned that all I was having for lunch was a Coke. I was not a big fan of oranges at the time, but ate it of course, every little bit.
Sandy, it turned out, was not only beautiful and popular, but one of the nicest and funniest people I had met. After that strange distance was broken by a simple conversation, she always greeted me warmly when we passed and always laughed when I attempted to make her. She turned out to become a pretty good friend of my mine. When I moved to California I still remember her getting a little teary eyed when we said goodbye.
Yeah, I don't know, there seems to be this impossible distance between people that we manufacture for ourselves. It was a junior high for fuck’s sake, not Manhattan. Even if she didn't know me directly she knew who I was, we saw each other every day. I know for me that distance was made out of fear of rejection. This is still something I could use a little work on today. It's also a good reminder that my first assumptions about a person might be completely fucking wrong.
I hope you're good out there Sandy...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: A Stone by Okkervil River
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
A Comfortable Green One
I got a couple of thrift store shirts the other day. I got to thinking about how a lot of clothes that wind up at the Goodwill, at the Salvation Army, at the Value Villages were probably emptied out of houses where someone passed away.
I woke up around 3 AM this morning with the thought clearly and heavily on my mind of how the guy died whose shirt I would soon be wearing. Did he die of a heart attack? Was his family distraught? Or maybe it was a long illness and they were finally relieved when he lost the fight. Maybe this guy had no family, no real friends.
Maybe the guy was married to a voluptuous beauty. He was a software engineer that had struck it remarkably rich, she was shifty and lazy and was seeing her stock car racing, high school sweetheart on the side. Over the last year and a half she had been adding a small amount of poison to her husband’s daily latte knowing that it would eventually weaken his heart, making his death look quite natural and allowing her to collect all of his money.
What was this guy blind? I mean she was always going out to “classes” and coming home smelling of cheap liquor and cheaper cologne. He would constantly overhear hushed telephone conversations where words like ‘sex swing’ and ‘rim job’ were thrown around willy-nilly. He had even come across an email draft of hers which noted in detail a sexual encounter in a stable complete with graphic descriptions of grooming brushes and riding crops being used as toys; she played it off that it was a piece for her Intro to Erotic Literature class. Seriously, was he self delusional? Did he love her that much?
I then began to think about english muffin pizzas and fell back into a deep, warm sleep.
I woke up around 3 AM this morning with the thought clearly and heavily on my mind of how the guy died whose shirt I would soon be wearing. Did he die of a heart attack? Was his family distraught? Or maybe it was a long illness and they were finally relieved when he lost the fight. Maybe this guy had no family, no real friends.
Maybe the guy was married to a voluptuous beauty. He was a software engineer that had struck it remarkably rich, she was shifty and lazy and was seeing her stock car racing, high school sweetheart on the side. Over the last year and a half she had been adding a small amount of poison to her husband’s daily latte knowing that it would eventually weaken his heart, making his death look quite natural and allowing her to collect all of his money.
What was this guy blind? I mean she was always going out to “classes” and coming home smelling of cheap liquor and cheaper cologne. He would constantly overhear hushed telephone conversations where words like ‘sex swing’ and ‘rim job’ were thrown around willy-nilly. He had even come across an email draft of hers which noted in detail a sexual encounter in a stable complete with graphic descriptions of grooming brushes and riding crops being used as toys; she played it off that it was a piece for her Intro to Erotic Literature class. Seriously, was he self delusional? Did he love her that much?
I then began to think about english muffin pizzas and fell back into a deep, warm sleep.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The Proverbial Burrito
A watched pot never boils? Alright, it’s clever (sort of) and easily digested, but it’s also a blatant fucking lie. It’s certainly not one of the worst lies that society tosses out there, like Santa Claus or the idea that everyone has the right to the pursuit of happiness, but it’s aggravating to me. Every time impatience rears its fuzzy head, some well meaning walking dictionary of clichés will throw it out there.
How do I know it’s a lie? I’ve put it to the test.
I have put a pot of water on the stove and watched it go from tepid all the way to a rolling boil. The thing that I learned, other than how inane some proverbs are, is that I sort of enjoy watching a pot boil. Yes, it takes patience, and yes, I do have plenty of better things to do, but there is some crazy shit going on down in there.
It starts calm, then little bubbles form like a film over everything. Those bubbles slowly get bigger, shaking with intensity until the water is violently heaving with the escape of all of this manufactured air.
Whatever dude, I still find this more fascinating than 95% of what’s on television…
I have also taken to microwave entertainment. As a kid, I used to enjoy watching cheese melt and eggs expand in what seemed like a crazy facsimile of time lapse photography. The best thing ever though, was when Rob Nixon put a CD in a microwave. That shit was better than Laser Floyd.
Nicholas has this idea of calling me on his cell phone and then putting it into the microwave and cooking it until it is destroyed, thus getting to watch it and hear it from the inside.
This morning, as I was cooking my breakfast burrito in the company microwave (egg, potato and cheese, since you asked), something pretty cool happened. The burrito expanded as if all of those microwaves were having a dance party inside that flour tortilla. Then, just as the digital timer was about to hit end, the plastic wrap came undone and this puff of steam - this moist, burrito fart - blew out of the wrapper and fogged up the viewing window. Crazy, breakfast action, I’m telling you!
Yeah, I need to get a life.
How do I know it’s a lie? I’ve put it to the test.
I have put a pot of water on the stove and watched it go from tepid all the way to a rolling boil. The thing that I learned, other than how inane some proverbs are, is that I sort of enjoy watching a pot boil. Yes, it takes patience, and yes, I do have plenty of better things to do, but there is some crazy shit going on down in there.
It starts calm, then little bubbles form like a film over everything. Those bubbles slowly get bigger, shaking with intensity until the water is violently heaving with the escape of all of this manufactured air.
Whatever dude, I still find this more fascinating than 95% of what’s on television…
I have also taken to microwave entertainment. As a kid, I used to enjoy watching cheese melt and eggs expand in what seemed like a crazy facsimile of time lapse photography. The best thing ever though, was when Rob Nixon put a CD in a microwave. That shit was better than Laser Floyd.
Nicholas has this idea of calling me on his cell phone and then putting it into the microwave and cooking it until it is destroyed, thus getting to watch it and hear it from the inside.
This morning, as I was cooking my breakfast burrito in the company microwave (egg, potato and cheese, since you asked), something pretty cool happened. The burrito expanded as if all of those microwaves were having a dance party inside that flour tortilla. Then, just as the digital timer was about to hit end, the plastic wrap came undone and this puff of steam - this moist, burrito fart - blew out of the wrapper and fogged up the viewing window. Crazy, breakfast action, I’m telling you!
Yeah, I need to get a life.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
File Under Oudated Machinery
I’m not sure what the hell brought this to mind, but at one of my prior jobs I was often tapped to use the decollator. The what, you ask? This is a decollater:
The decollator is a machine that is used to quickly and efficiently separate multi-part paper. You put your pile in the middle of the machine, begin the separation yourself by putting half of the pile on one arm of the machine, the other on the other, turn on the machine and you my friend are decollating. It is a machine that was hot shit in offices round about ’73.
Now, I can imagine the bliss that those poor, overworked secretaries back in the day felt when printers and copiers were finally programmed to collate pages. I had never imagined however that there would be a need for the pensive yin of decollating to collation’s festive yang.
There is really very little use for this machine anymore as most companies no longer rely on hard copy reports printed on 6 part paper; most companies that don’t fear the new that is.
While this machine is somewhat like the human appendix (fairly useless and liable to blow if you don’t look out), and was a terrible pain in the ass quite often, I had sweet moments of zen-like clarity using it. I would get the machine humming at a good rhythm and watch that paper rise from the middle and fall in new colors to each side, waving like water breaking over the bow of a boat.
And, I always thought that Decollator would be a great name for a band.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Troubled Soul by Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter
The decollator is a machine that is used to quickly and efficiently separate multi-part paper. You put your pile in the middle of the machine, begin the separation yourself by putting half of the pile on one arm of the machine, the other on the other, turn on the machine and you my friend are decollating. It is a machine that was hot shit in offices round about ’73.
Now, I can imagine the bliss that those poor, overworked secretaries back in the day felt when printers and copiers were finally programmed to collate pages. I had never imagined however that there would be a need for the pensive yin of decollating to collation’s festive yang.
There is really very little use for this machine anymore as most companies no longer rely on hard copy reports printed on 6 part paper; most companies that don’t fear the new that is.
While this machine is somewhat like the human appendix (fairly useless and liable to blow if you don’t look out), and was a terrible pain in the ass quite often, I had sweet moments of zen-like clarity using it. I would get the machine humming at a good rhythm and watch that paper rise from the middle and fall in new colors to each side, waving like water breaking over the bow of a boat.
And, I always thought that Decollator would be a great name for a band.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Troubled Soul by Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter
Friday, March 24, 2006
A Night At The Opera
Darren was the type of guy who typically ignored those sad guys who stood on street corners and blandly passed out flyers. He did so with a look on his face that suggested that if he were to touch this paper, he would contract a crushing blow to his lifestyle. One afternoon, when he saw an adorable young woman slow dancing at the corner, languidly passing out florescent green slips of paper, his arm shot out to grab one almost on instinct. He glanced at the flyer and was taken immediately by the title of the show on display, Little Metal Doggy. It was apparently an opera of some sort and it was playing that evening at a downtown venue. The flyer was good for one admission.
Now, Darren liked to consider himself a fairly cultured man. He dressed in a dark suit and got himself a cab down to the rundown theater that had once been a jewel among show palaces some decades ago. He handed his gaudy flyer to a tall, thin usher, who apparently bathed in pancake makeup, and was led to a less than comfortable seat.
Little Metal Doggy began, and Darren quickly realized that this was an opera performed in the Czech language. Darren had learned quite a bit of Czech back in his college days when he had been wooing a pretty young thing from Bohemia. He also quickly realized that this opera was about the game Monopoly. The tenor had just managed to purchase St. James Place and was so excited, he was singing with an impossible number of Z's. Although the music was performed by a standard orchestra, it was becoming readily apparent that it was based on the works of Ted Nugent. After three hours, large set pieces of green houses were being turned over to large set pieces of red hotels. There was finally an intermission. Darren was pretty sure that the fat lady was going to take the cake, after all she had Boardwalk, Park Place and all the greens, so he decided to go ahead and leave.
As he was reaching for the door that led out, he was grabbed by the usher and another pale and thin man and then quickly led away. Before he could either protest with a yell or a swing of his arms, he was pushed through a door he hadn't noticed before. He found himself in a white, brightly lit room where there stood a man in surgical dress holding a long, skewer like instrument.
"What the..." Darren began.
"See sir, here's the thing," began the second thin man who had grabbed Darren. "We need so many things to survive as a troup, but mostly, we need an audience."
A rag was slipped over his mouth from behind him and he could feel himself fading fast. Just before that impenetrable blackness overtook him, he heard a soft voice:
"Lobotomy for this one. And don't forget to give him a pile of the 'Citizen Kane! A Musical' flyers."
Now, Darren liked to consider himself a fairly cultured man. He dressed in a dark suit and got himself a cab down to the rundown theater that had once been a jewel among show palaces some decades ago. He handed his gaudy flyer to a tall, thin usher, who apparently bathed in pancake makeup, and was led to a less than comfortable seat.
Little Metal Doggy began, and Darren quickly realized that this was an opera performed in the Czech language. Darren had learned quite a bit of Czech back in his college days when he had been wooing a pretty young thing from Bohemia. He also quickly realized that this opera was about the game Monopoly. The tenor had just managed to purchase St. James Place and was so excited, he was singing with an impossible number of Z's. Although the music was performed by a standard orchestra, it was becoming readily apparent that it was based on the works of Ted Nugent. After three hours, large set pieces of green houses were being turned over to large set pieces of red hotels. There was finally an intermission. Darren was pretty sure that the fat lady was going to take the cake, after all she had Boardwalk, Park Place and all the greens, so he decided to go ahead and leave.
As he was reaching for the door that led out, he was grabbed by the usher and another pale and thin man and then quickly led away. Before he could either protest with a yell or a swing of his arms, he was pushed through a door he hadn't noticed before. He found himself in a white, brightly lit room where there stood a man in surgical dress holding a long, skewer like instrument.
"What the..." Darren began.
"See sir, here's the thing," began the second thin man who had grabbed Darren. "We need so many things to survive as a troup, but mostly, we need an audience."
A rag was slipped over his mouth from behind him and he could feel himself fading fast. Just before that impenetrable blackness overtook him, he heard a soft voice:
"Lobotomy for this one. And don't forget to give him a pile of the 'Citizen Kane! A Musical' flyers."
Thursday, March 23, 2006
What Can't Be Erased
I was reading Magnet magazine, and the rumors apparently are true; the band Grandaddy is breaking up. There will be a release of a final album and then nothing, no more touring, no more shows.
Grandaddy is a band that holds a special place in my heart for a variety of reasons. They sound like nobody else for one - though I have heard comparisons to other bands run rampant (my favorite was "Neil Young meets ELO"). They've always just seemed like guys, like dudes I would hang out with and drink beer, but who happened to make music that at times could kick me right in the heart.
A few years back, I was spreading the Grandaddy love around the workplace. R-Lo took to them immediately. The divine Jenny Miller developed a hankering for them. As I was sharing an office with Hippy Jonny at the time that I was listening to them almost nonstop, he began to let them drift in and I think began to appreciate them as well.
Grandaddy was doing a show in Sacramento, so the lot of us decided on a mini road trip, on what I believe was a Thursday night, to go seem them. It's not necessarily a show that was spectacular in and of itself, but I remember having a great time with these folks that I loved, seeing a band that I was excited about, a band that just got more and more adept with each time I saw them. It was a long, tired drive home with people spread out and passed out in various areas of the Blazer, but it was worth it.
The last time I got to see Grandaddy, they played a great show at the Fillmore. They were on top of their game and just seemed so legitimately excited to be playing at the Fillmore and having all of these people there to see them. Jason, the lead singer, thanked the crowd with that sort of sun-baked, awed gratitude way a number of times, and again, it just felt like a large number of friends gathered together and hanging out at the historic Fillmore. I remember jumping like a loon and shouting out my own hearty "thank you" when they played AM 180. Just all sweetness and well directed excitement that show.
It makes me a little melancholy to know that they're packing it in, another in what seems like a large number of signposts marking the end of eras. Thank you Grandaddy for doing what you did, thank you for all those little gems that found their way inside and bloomed in smiles and joy and excitement of being alive at that particular moment. You will be missed...
Grandaddy is a band that holds a special place in my heart for a variety of reasons. They sound like nobody else for one - though I have heard comparisons to other bands run rampant (my favorite was "Neil Young meets ELO"). They've always just seemed like guys, like dudes I would hang out with and drink beer, but who happened to make music that at times could kick me right in the heart.
A few years back, I was spreading the Grandaddy love around the workplace. R-Lo took to them immediately. The divine Jenny Miller developed a hankering for them. As I was sharing an office with Hippy Jonny at the time that I was listening to them almost nonstop, he began to let them drift in and I think began to appreciate them as well.
Grandaddy was doing a show in Sacramento, so the lot of us decided on a mini road trip, on what I believe was a Thursday night, to go seem them. It's not necessarily a show that was spectacular in and of itself, but I remember having a great time with these folks that I loved, seeing a band that I was excited about, a band that just got more and more adept with each time I saw them. It was a long, tired drive home with people spread out and passed out in various areas of the Blazer, but it was worth it.
The last time I got to see Grandaddy, they played a great show at the Fillmore. They were on top of their game and just seemed so legitimately excited to be playing at the Fillmore and having all of these people there to see them. Jason, the lead singer, thanked the crowd with that sort of sun-baked, awed gratitude way a number of times, and again, it just felt like a large number of friends gathered together and hanging out at the historic Fillmore. I remember jumping like a loon and shouting out my own hearty "thank you" when they played AM 180. Just all sweetness and well directed excitement that show.
It makes me a little melancholy to know that they're packing it in, another in what seems like a large number of signposts marking the end of eras. Thank you Grandaddy for doing what you did, thank you for all those little gems that found their way inside and bloomed in smiles and joy and excitement of being alive at that particular moment. You will be missed...
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
1 Year
Today, my lovelies, marks the one year anniversary of this here blog.
Much like the rest of our society, it is concerned with aging and looks, so I took the opportunity to toss a little botox into the HTML code, gussy this whore up a little bit.
Thank you for putting up with my rambling, my pontificating, my assumption that anything that comes tumbling out of my head would be worth documenting and being read by others.
I would also like to state a mission objective here: In the next year I hope to write extensively on the deep investigations I have done for a hard hitting indictment of the cruel and brutal world of scrubby sponges.
It’s an exciting time…
Much like the rest of our society, it is concerned with aging and looks, so I took the opportunity to toss a little botox into the HTML code, gussy this whore up a little bit.
Thank you for putting up with my rambling, my pontificating, my assumption that anything that comes tumbling out of my head would be worth documenting and being read by others.
I would also like to state a mission objective here: In the next year I hope to write extensively on the deep investigations I have done for a hard hitting indictment of the cruel and brutal world of scrubby sponges.
It’s an exciting time…
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
High Hopes, Record Store Folks
Maybe I've just gotten lucky, but maybe, just maybe, it's how the people working at record stores behave in Seattle. On my last two experiences with purchasing CD's, I have not been treated like an interloper in the land of the uberhip. Where is the derisive attitude? Where is the smirking? Where is the I-know-everything-get-out-of-my-store-as-you're-interrupting-my-listening-to-this-band-that-only-I-will-ever-appreciate-on-a-level-that-is-worthwhile cold shoulder that I am so used to?
A few months back, I was picking up a CD of a band I had just seen at a show. At the counter, I could feel my shoulders hunched up, waiting for the full fall of the counterman's judgment on my musical taste. The guy looked at the CD, then looked at me questioningly. "I've been meaning to check these guys out. They're pretty good?"
I think I was so shocked that I just stood there for a second, mouth wide open and jaw moving up and down.
This weekend, I did a little music shopping at a store that had an even bigger hipness index than the last place. I was looking over my purchases before going up to the register. What would my selections say about me to this guy I may never see again, and whose opinion really should not matter to me in the least? Were they esoteric enough? The guy had a black indie band T-shirt, goatee and piercings, your typical sort of record store worker uniform. He glanced at the pick that I was most excited about, as it was sorta hard to find. This is when he busted out, "I think we have a used copy of this. If you want, I'll go grab it for you."
What? Seriously, what the fuck was happening here?
I guess I'm still used to the San Francisco record store jockey with a chip the size of Sun Studios on his shoulder; the guy or gal whose sole mission in life is to deem what exactly has enough street cred to be worthwhile. The sort of person who will not only ignore you, but will make snarky comments about your picks to their coworkers while you stand there seething, hoping against hope that you see them at some awful all ages show where you can clock them with a full bottle of Rolling Rock. That's right Amoeba Records counter wage slave, I like the band Cake. P.S. You're band sounds like a dispassionate version of a sober Husker Du, and the reason you haven't had any label interest or haven't been booked into a better venue is not because you're misunderstood, it's because you suck.
I’m sure these guys haunt some of the stores around town, but I’m psyched by my couple of experiences. I’m looking forward to a visit where the clerk says something along the lines of, “Oh hey, if you like these guys you should really check out…” The thought of music fans appreciating the passion and spreading knowledge without judgment, well it makes me smile. I dream, I hope against hope…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Steady Rollin’ by the Two Gallants
A few months back, I was picking up a CD of a band I had just seen at a show. At the counter, I could feel my shoulders hunched up, waiting for the full fall of the counterman's judgment on my musical taste. The guy looked at the CD, then looked at me questioningly. "I've been meaning to check these guys out. They're pretty good?"
I think I was so shocked that I just stood there for a second, mouth wide open and jaw moving up and down.
This weekend, I did a little music shopping at a store that had an even bigger hipness index than the last place. I was looking over my purchases before going up to the register. What would my selections say about me to this guy I may never see again, and whose opinion really should not matter to me in the least? Were they esoteric enough? The guy had a black indie band T-shirt, goatee and piercings, your typical sort of record store worker uniform. He glanced at the pick that I was most excited about, as it was sorta hard to find. This is when he busted out, "I think we have a used copy of this. If you want, I'll go grab it for you."
What? Seriously, what the fuck was happening here?
I guess I'm still used to the San Francisco record store jockey with a chip the size of Sun Studios on his shoulder; the guy or gal whose sole mission in life is to deem what exactly has enough street cred to be worthwhile. The sort of person who will not only ignore you, but will make snarky comments about your picks to their coworkers while you stand there seething, hoping against hope that you see them at some awful all ages show where you can clock them with a full bottle of Rolling Rock. That's right Amoeba Records counter wage slave, I like the band Cake. P.S. You're band sounds like a dispassionate version of a sober Husker Du, and the reason you haven't had any label interest or haven't been booked into a better venue is not because you're misunderstood, it's because you suck.
I’m sure these guys haunt some of the stores around town, but I’m psyched by my couple of experiences. I’m looking forward to a visit where the clerk says something along the lines of, “Oh hey, if you like these guys you should really check out…” The thought of music fans appreciating the passion and spreading knowledge without judgment, well it makes me smile. I dream, I hope against hope…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Steady Rollin’ by the Two Gallants
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Gerald Gets A Tattoo
Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, shuffled lamely into Hot Ink, the dingiest of the six tattoo parlors on Cardinal Street. His hangover was pulsing in his fuzzy head like heavy liquid and he winced at the jangling of the brass bells hung on the inside of the door.
With one fluid motion, far more graceful than should have been allowed by a bunny in his state, Gerald ripped the bells off the door with his left paw and whipped his sunglasses off with the left.
“What’s shaking big guy?” the bald inker with the bushy mustache behind the counter asked.
Gerald threw the bells to the floor with a satisfying clamor.
“I’ve got the DT’s, everything’s shaking. I’m looking to get ‘Charlene’ put on my arm.”
The tattoo artist led him back to a chair and began shaving a patch of matted hair from the upper part of Gerald’s right arm. The electric razor jammed no less than five times on knotted hair, burrs and singe marks where cigarettes had been put out in the fur. As the needle began to relentlessly puncture his flesh, an oversweet and primal smell began to waft out. The artist grabbed one of those painter masks that cover the nose and mouth.
As he was putting the finishing touches on the simple, cursive script tattoo, the inker asked Gerald who Charlene was.
“Bitch broke my heart,” Gerald mumbled as he stood from the chair.
In the chair next to him, a young man was being prepped for a piercing. Just as the needle was about to go in, Gerald screamed, “Poser!” at the top of his lungs.
Mikey, who had gone in for a stylish eyebrow piercing wound up with a stainless steel hoop in his forehead. Incidentally, this started a short lived hairline piercing fad around Daytonville.
With one fluid motion, far more graceful than should have been allowed by a bunny in his state, Gerald ripped the bells off the door with his left paw and whipped his sunglasses off with the left.
“What’s shaking big guy?” the bald inker with the bushy mustache behind the counter asked.
Gerald threw the bells to the floor with a satisfying clamor.
“I’ve got the DT’s, everything’s shaking. I’m looking to get ‘Charlene’ put on my arm.”
The tattoo artist led him back to a chair and began shaving a patch of matted hair from the upper part of Gerald’s right arm. The electric razor jammed no less than five times on knotted hair, burrs and singe marks where cigarettes had been put out in the fur. As the needle began to relentlessly puncture his flesh, an oversweet and primal smell began to waft out. The artist grabbed one of those painter masks that cover the nose and mouth.
As he was putting the finishing touches on the simple, cursive script tattoo, the inker asked Gerald who Charlene was.
“Bitch broke my heart,” Gerald mumbled as he stood from the chair.
In the chair next to him, a young man was being prepped for a piercing. Just as the needle was about to go in, Gerald screamed, “Poser!” at the top of his lungs.
Mikey, who had gone in for a stylish eyebrow piercing wound up with a stainless steel hoop in his forehead. Incidentally, this started a short lived hairline piercing fad around Daytonville.
Friday, March 17, 2006
St. Patty's Past
Sorry everyone, I've spent the last two days floating between fever sleep, glued to the couch by a blanket and a serious desire to not move. I came back to work today not even realizing that it was St. Patrick's Day.
Granted, it's not like forgetting it's Christmas, but I would have at least made a half-assed attempt at putting a shade of green somewhere; a button, or somewhere on my boxers.
Actually, I probably would have just thought about it for second while getting dressed and said "fuck it" and left.
As I have nothing interesting to cull from my last two days of convalescing, let me tell you about a St. Patty's Day over 10 years ago. Biffy and I had just started seeing each other, and in those first tentative days, she gave me the overflow of vicodine from her recent surgery. And it was a lot of vicodine, a big mamajama of a pill jar. Here was a woman who really knew how to get to my heart, ply me with pharmaceuticals.
This was back in my wanton college days, so not only was it expected that I would get three levels of messed up for St. Patrick’s Day, it was necessary. I mean how long could I stretch this early twenties irresponsibility thing? For a while it turns out... Thing is, I really wanted to celebrate that bit of Irish in my blood by getting good and fucked up, but I was so broke at the time that it was difficult to buy food let alone drinks. My options were the bottle of Cuervo atop the refrigerator, where it had sat for over a year due to my hard learned aversion to tequila, and the handful of pain killers left.
The plan was to slowly drink my Mexican poison (with orange juice I stole from work, if I remember correctly), pop a pill or two and spend that intoxication spilling nonsensical words onto a spiral notebook. What hadn't really occurred to me was that, as I had been indulging in a steady diet of these fantastic, white pills, I had built myself up a Great Wall of China sized tolerance. After a little while, I realized that I wasn't feeling anything so I took another pill. And then another, and then another... All said and done, I think I took about 7 little vicodine.
Word to the weary: A serious vicodine hangover is like being in a moveable coma. I had of course heard that analogy where someone is so tired that their head feels like a stone, impossible to lift off the pillow. This will literally happen. This is not your normal hungover and tired, this is chemicals in your body fighting triumphantly to put you down. I did finally get out of bed and over to Oakland somehow, but my shambling, zombie strut gave me up to the drug encyclopedia/airplane mechanic that I spent my spare time with. He asked what it was I had taken, I told him, he laughed knowingly and told me to find one of the belt loaders (used to get baggage from the ground to the inside of the plane) and stretch out and sleep. There was nothing else that was gonna help, and he would cover for me.
So for those of you going out tonight, avoid the opiates. And for the love of the Irish avoid the green beer – that shit looks plain evil coming back up.
Granted, it's not like forgetting it's Christmas, but I would have at least made a half-assed attempt at putting a shade of green somewhere; a button, or somewhere on my boxers.
Actually, I probably would have just thought about it for second while getting dressed and said "fuck it" and left.
As I have nothing interesting to cull from my last two days of convalescing, let me tell you about a St. Patty's Day over 10 years ago. Biffy and I had just started seeing each other, and in those first tentative days, she gave me the overflow of vicodine from her recent surgery. And it was a lot of vicodine, a big mamajama of a pill jar. Here was a woman who really knew how to get to my heart, ply me with pharmaceuticals.
This was back in my wanton college days, so not only was it expected that I would get three levels of messed up for St. Patrick’s Day, it was necessary. I mean how long could I stretch this early twenties irresponsibility thing? For a while it turns out... Thing is, I really wanted to celebrate that bit of Irish in my blood by getting good and fucked up, but I was so broke at the time that it was difficult to buy food let alone drinks. My options were the bottle of Cuervo atop the refrigerator, where it had sat for over a year due to my hard learned aversion to tequila, and the handful of pain killers left.
The plan was to slowly drink my Mexican poison (with orange juice I stole from work, if I remember correctly), pop a pill or two and spend that intoxication spilling nonsensical words onto a spiral notebook. What hadn't really occurred to me was that, as I had been indulging in a steady diet of these fantastic, white pills, I had built myself up a Great Wall of China sized tolerance. After a little while, I realized that I wasn't feeling anything so I took another pill. And then another, and then another... All said and done, I think I took about 7 little vicodine.
Word to the weary: A serious vicodine hangover is like being in a moveable coma. I had of course heard that analogy where someone is so tired that their head feels like a stone, impossible to lift off the pillow. This will literally happen. This is not your normal hungover and tired, this is chemicals in your body fighting triumphantly to put you down. I did finally get out of bed and over to Oakland somehow, but my shambling, zombie strut gave me up to the drug encyclopedia/airplane mechanic that I spent my spare time with. He asked what it was I had taken, I told him, he laughed knowingly and told me to find one of the belt loaders (used to get baggage from the ground to the inside of the plane) and stretch out and sleep. There was nothing else that was gonna help, and he would cover for me.
So for those of you going out tonight, avoid the opiates. And for the love of the Irish avoid the green beer – that shit looks plain evil coming back up.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
The Uncle And The Whale
When I was but a wee Billy, we had a family reunion at a place up here called Ocean Shores. Much as the very original name of the place implies, it a collection a buildings near the shore of the ocean.
I have been brainwashed by movies and eventually by my moving there, that beaches are to be like the ones found in Southern California. Glistening sand, blue sparkling water with perfect waves, great looking and perma-tanned bodies scattered like M&M's when the bag accidentally rips all the way open.
The beaches up here seem desolate and cold, and the water... The only word that comes to mind is bitter. You probably don't want to get into that water unless you're saving a loved one. And even then, you'd probably give it a good long thought, dragging your feet for a long enough time so that said person might go under those frigid and unforgiving waves and you could rationalize your way out of it.
My memories of the Ocean Shores beach is grey. The beaches here seem to be more an exercise in extremes than playing. The ocean here seems to be about communing with the awesome power and beauty and allowing it to move and transform your soul than it is about body surfing.
And realizing that this sounds fairly judgmental, I have to say that actually being able to get in to the water is a great way to have your soul transformed. The austere version of land's end here though seems somehow perfect for the British Isles/Lutheran/Scandinavian background of so many of the people here. I again wonder if similarities in geography attract a person to a place, if there is something in the blood that brings a person to a cold, wet climate versus the glaring heat of a desert.
There is a picture of my brother and I, and our two cousins standing in front of that vast, cold ocean. We are happy to be on a trip, and we are happy to be together, but you can tell that we are also very cold.
Or maybe it's just that I can tell 'cause I was there.
On that trip though, along those seemingly endless miles of empty and grey beaches, we found the corpse of a beached whale. This was the first time I had actually seen a whale in real life, dead or alive. I spent most of my time checking out the blowhole situation. The thing stank, as it was a large amount of sea born flesh rotting on land. My uncle, my drunk Uncle Paul, thought it would be a great idea to climb up on top of the carcass, as if he were conquering a mountain in the name of all beer drunk, young, uncles everywhere.
Uncle Paul was always trying to make us laugh. I totally get it in a different way now. Drunk or no, Paul was in love with laughter. And he knew how to communicate with kids, probably only knew how to communicate with kids, and he always knew how to have fun. It makes me a little sad now, remembering that rambunctious and devil may care laugh and knowing a badness that would happen down the road.
The only time I can remember being angry with Uncle Paul as much as the adults around us is on that van ride back to the hotel from the beach. That dead whale smell stuck to his boots and soon overcrowded the air inside that death trap van. And man, that is a stink that lingers…
I have been brainwashed by movies and eventually by my moving there, that beaches are to be like the ones found in Southern California. Glistening sand, blue sparkling water with perfect waves, great looking and perma-tanned bodies scattered like M&M's when the bag accidentally rips all the way open.
The beaches up here seem desolate and cold, and the water... The only word that comes to mind is bitter. You probably don't want to get into that water unless you're saving a loved one. And even then, you'd probably give it a good long thought, dragging your feet for a long enough time so that said person might go under those frigid and unforgiving waves and you could rationalize your way out of it.
My memories of the Ocean Shores beach is grey. The beaches here seem to be more an exercise in extremes than playing. The ocean here seems to be about communing with the awesome power and beauty and allowing it to move and transform your soul than it is about body surfing.
And realizing that this sounds fairly judgmental, I have to say that actually being able to get in to the water is a great way to have your soul transformed. The austere version of land's end here though seems somehow perfect for the British Isles/Lutheran/Scandinavian background of so many of the people here. I again wonder if similarities in geography attract a person to a place, if there is something in the blood that brings a person to a cold, wet climate versus the glaring heat of a desert.
There is a picture of my brother and I, and our two cousins standing in front of that vast, cold ocean. We are happy to be on a trip, and we are happy to be together, but you can tell that we are also very cold.
Or maybe it's just that I can tell 'cause I was there.
On that trip though, along those seemingly endless miles of empty and grey beaches, we found the corpse of a beached whale. This was the first time I had actually seen a whale in real life, dead or alive. I spent most of my time checking out the blowhole situation. The thing stank, as it was a large amount of sea born flesh rotting on land. My uncle, my drunk Uncle Paul, thought it would be a great idea to climb up on top of the carcass, as if he were conquering a mountain in the name of all beer drunk, young, uncles everywhere.
Uncle Paul was always trying to make us laugh. I totally get it in a different way now. Drunk or no, Paul was in love with laughter. And he knew how to communicate with kids, probably only knew how to communicate with kids, and he always knew how to have fun. It makes me a little sad now, remembering that rambunctious and devil may care laugh and knowing a badness that would happen down the road.
The only time I can remember being angry with Uncle Paul as much as the adults around us is on that van ride back to the hotel from the beach. That dead whale smell stuck to his boots and soon overcrowded the air inside that death trap van. And man, that is a stink that lingers…
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Saturday Shenanigans
I think it would be really funny to sit in a bathroom stall and wait patiently until someone walked in. After they'd been in there for about 30 seconds, comfortable in their normal bathroom routine, the show would start.
I would thrash around as loudly and jarringly as possible. I would kick at the door and scream at the top of my lungs, "SEBASTIAN!" over and over again.
Mostly, I just want to hear this poor guy, who had only come in to urinate in peace, yell, "holy shit!" in a teenage girls falsetto and run out as quickly as his undone pants will allow.
I don't know why this entertains me so, but seriously, I'm cracking myself up.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Just by Radiohead. In fact, the entire The Bends album is giving me a serious chubby right now.
I would thrash around as loudly and jarringly as possible. I would kick at the door and scream at the top of my lungs, "SEBASTIAN!" over and over again.
Mostly, I just want to hear this poor guy, who had only come in to urinate in peace, yell, "holy shit!" in a teenage girls falsetto and run out as quickly as his undone pants will allow.
I don't know why this entertains me so, but seriously, I'm cracking myself up.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Just by Radiohead. In fact, the entire The Bends album is giving me a serious chubby right now.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Curtains, Inc.
Danny sat on his couch, getting ready to dig into his organic pizza rolls. He felt good about his dinner choice; felt, in fact, a little superior to the chumps who had chosen normal frozen pizza or mac and cheese for their dinners. Of course the semi healthy dinner was only a pretext for the pint of gourmet ice cream that he was going to plow through afterwards.
The phone beside him began to ring. He hit mute on the Twilight Zone marathon he was watching and picked it up.
"Yello?"
"Daniel Masters?" a voice which sounded remarkably far away asked.
"Yes?"
"This is Darryl from Curtains Incorporated. I understand that you were mugged at the corner of Fourth and Central last week.”
“Um…”
“I just wanted to follow up with you regarding the quality of your experience.”
Danny closed his eyes as if a massive migraine had just come on.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“This is Darryl, from Curtains Incorporated. We are an independent, third party. As I said, I just wanted to follow up with you and make sure that the incident was handled appropriately.”
“Well some junky made off with my wallet and… Seriously, who the hell is this?”
“Would you say that you have now experienced a zen-like state because of this? Where you realize the spiritual folly of possessions?”
“No, no I wouldn’t.”
“Um-hm, okay. Would you say that you have a new viewpoint on how precious life is now that yours has been threatened?”
“No! Why are you…”
“Would you rate your displeasure at street denizens who might perpetrate this sort of crime as say… high?”
“I’m gonna fucking hang up now, you’re freaking me out!”
“All right, can I give you a number to call us if you have any questions?”
“No!” Danny yelled as he slammed down the phone. He was breathing hard as he turned the volume back up on Rod Serling. He popped another pizza roll in his mouth and tried to calm down.
There came this sudden feeling that would end up haunting him for the rest of his days: he should have gotten that number.
The phone beside him began to ring. He hit mute on the Twilight Zone marathon he was watching and picked it up.
"Yello?"
"Daniel Masters?" a voice which sounded remarkably far away asked.
"Yes?"
"This is Darryl from Curtains Incorporated. I understand that you were mugged at the corner of Fourth and Central last week.”
“Um…”
“I just wanted to follow up with you regarding the quality of your experience.”
Danny closed his eyes as if a massive migraine had just come on.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“This is Darryl, from Curtains Incorporated. We are an independent, third party. As I said, I just wanted to follow up with you and make sure that the incident was handled appropriately.”
“Well some junky made off with my wallet and… Seriously, who the hell is this?”
“Would you say that you have now experienced a zen-like state because of this? Where you realize the spiritual folly of possessions?”
“No, no I wouldn’t.”
“Um-hm, okay. Would you say that you have a new viewpoint on how precious life is now that yours has been threatened?”
“No! Why are you…”
“Would you rate your displeasure at street denizens who might perpetrate this sort of crime as say… high?”
“I’m gonna fucking hang up now, you’re freaking me out!”
“All right, can I give you a number to call us if you have any questions?”
“No!” Danny yelled as he slammed down the phone. He was breathing hard as he turned the volume back up on Rod Serling. He popped another pizza roll in his mouth and tried to calm down.
There came this sudden feeling that would end up haunting him for the rest of his days: he should have gotten that number.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Why?
Sometimes, I've found, the universe hands you exactly what it is you need without you having to search it out.
The director of the show that I'm working on is taking a different route to prepping us for than what I'm used to. As it turns out, it's work doing something I've needed work on.
Last night, after some exercises, we sat around and talked about the play itself, started dissecting it. I get off on this sort of thing, I get all wanky and intellectually masturbatory. The discussion began to spark connections in my head left and right, and I walked home with my mind whirling.
The question that was asked that is really sticking with me though, is why celebrate imagination.
My first reaction is to yell, "Because!" I can come up with a number of controlled answers and I can state that I simply believe it, that imagination is precious and I simply know that. But then I begin to feel like those people who blindly follow leaders, political and religious, and never ask questions of these leaders or themselves.
That, by the way, takes imagination.
This began to seep in this morning when I sat down to write a post here. I wasn't quite sure where to start, and then the tidal wave of questions that had begun as a slight tremor last night came rolling in. I began asking myself why I even do it anyway, why I write at all. This frightened little voice suddenly shot out, "if you start asking too many questions, that wall that you're standing on is gonna come falling down."
Questions are like cannonballs; well aimed ones can shake your foundations. Then again, if your beliefs are strong enough, all the fire power in the world won't take them down. So what's the problem with possibly knocking down what I'm standing on? You can tell how strong it is, and possibly more importantly, you can determine if you even need that wall to begin with.
And man, if you're not brave enough to face that, you don't deserve to stand on that wall.
The director of the show that I'm working on is taking a different route to prepping us for than what I'm used to. As it turns out, it's work doing something I've needed work on.
Last night, after some exercises, we sat around and talked about the play itself, started dissecting it. I get off on this sort of thing, I get all wanky and intellectually masturbatory. The discussion began to spark connections in my head left and right, and I walked home with my mind whirling.
The question that was asked that is really sticking with me though, is why celebrate imagination.
My first reaction is to yell, "Because!" I can come up with a number of controlled answers and I can state that I simply believe it, that imagination is precious and I simply know that. But then I begin to feel like those people who blindly follow leaders, political and religious, and never ask questions of these leaders or themselves.
That, by the way, takes imagination.
This began to seep in this morning when I sat down to write a post here. I wasn't quite sure where to start, and then the tidal wave of questions that had begun as a slight tremor last night came rolling in. I began asking myself why I even do it anyway, why I write at all. This frightened little voice suddenly shot out, "if you start asking too many questions, that wall that you're standing on is gonna come falling down."
Questions are like cannonballs; well aimed ones can shake your foundations. Then again, if your beliefs are strong enough, all the fire power in the world won't take them down. So what's the problem with possibly knocking down what I'm standing on? You can tell how strong it is, and possibly more importantly, you can determine if you even need that wall to begin with.
And man, if you're not brave enough to face that, you don't deserve to stand on that wall.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Calling To You Across The Groves
Seriously though, do you remember driving out to Chico that weekend, all of that dry and hot Central Valley air blowing through the car? I was running on adrenaline, which was about all I had in those days, blinding myself from the inevitable and blissful crash. I think you were looking for a brother that had run across the border to Mexico. I know I was looking for one that had run across to only quickly fading memories.
We pulled over on the side of the nearly empty freeway just to check out a grove of trees which stretched on and on in impossibly parallel lines. I remember feeling the overlap of moments, breathing in that arid and dusty air and feeling it sooth my runaway soul like an ethereal postcard from home. We just walked through the rows, talking and playing with that feeling of being young and having nothing calling to us too hard.
Something about trees that weekend... Later on in the days, we were led to a small farm where they were growing kiwis. I was amazed by those trees, about how the braches grow like a 'T' to create an environment all it's own for the fruit to grow beneath all of those leaves, oblivious to the world just outside. We crawled into this living cave and I immediately noticed the humid difference in the air that the trees were creating.
And I still, to this day, cannot shake that remarkable green light of the sun filtered through those leaves of the kiwi tree.
We pulled over on the side of the nearly empty freeway just to check out a grove of trees which stretched on and on in impossibly parallel lines. I remember feeling the overlap of moments, breathing in that arid and dusty air and feeling it sooth my runaway soul like an ethereal postcard from home. We just walked through the rows, talking and playing with that feeling of being young and having nothing calling to us too hard.
Something about trees that weekend... Later on in the days, we were led to a small farm where they were growing kiwis. I was amazed by those trees, about how the braches grow like a 'T' to create an environment all it's own for the fruit to grow beneath all of those leaves, oblivious to the world just outside. We crawled into this living cave and I immediately noticed the humid difference in the air that the trees were creating.
And I still, to this day, cannot shake that remarkable green light of the sun filtered through those leaves of the kiwi tree.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Lower Case And An Exclamation Point
Chuck came to town from the wastelands of Dallas to celebrate the Seattle chapter of his bachelor party weekend before moving the party train to Vegas. There was drinking, there was laughing, there was the obligatory strip club.
kc! came up for the festivities as he and Chuck have been friends for some insane number of years that would make you wonder how two guys could still stand to even look at each other. One thing to realize is that Chuck and kc! are two of the nicest guys I have ever known.
I have been meaning to write a post, singing the praises of the mighty kc! for awhile now, and getting to see him this weekend reminded me once again. kc! has this amazing exuberance for life and for the things that he loves that is infectious; it’s like avian bird flu, but with less phlegm and more laughing.
kc! gave me my first writing gig, doing snarky film reviews on his now defunct website, a gathering place of some truly astonishing artists that I was humbled to be working with. He has always been this amazing, positive voice of support in my writing endeavors. It was because of him that I started doing this blog and I look forward to the comments he will invariably and consistently write.
I feel honored to have him in my life, and getting to see him for a scant few hours this weekend was like a much needed kc! buzz. He reminds me of being a kid again, completely unashamed at geeking out over what I’m passionate for and seeing the beauty and humor in things that I sometimes forget is there.
If I wasn’t married, and he wasn’t married, I’d totally ask him to go skating with me…
Much love to you brother, it was great seeing you this weekend.
kc! came up for the festivities as he and Chuck have been friends for some insane number of years that would make you wonder how two guys could still stand to even look at each other. One thing to realize is that Chuck and kc! are two of the nicest guys I have ever known.
I have been meaning to write a post, singing the praises of the mighty kc! for awhile now, and getting to see him this weekend reminded me once again. kc! has this amazing exuberance for life and for the things that he loves that is infectious; it’s like avian bird flu, but with less phlegm and more laughing.
kc! gave me my first writing gig, doing snarky film reviews on his now defunct website, a gathering place of some truly astonishing artists that I was humbled to be working with. He has always been this amazing, positive voice of support in my writing endeavors. It was because of him that I started doing this blog and I look forward to the comments he will invariably and consistently write.
I feel honored to have him in my life, and getting to see him for a scant few hours this weekend was like a much needed kc! buzz. He reminds me of being a kid again, completely unashamed at geeking out over what I’m passionate for and seeing the beauty and humor in things that I sometimes forget is there.
If I wasn’t married, and he wasn’t married, I’d totally ask him to go skating with me…
Much love to you brother, it was great seeing you this weekend.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
If Only They Came In Size 13
Finally, shoes that are both functional and hot (in that electro-shock, slap with a paddle, dominatrix kind of way).
They will also gather all the right attention when I have to take them off during the airport security screening process…
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Heavy Into Scratch N' Sniff
I had a few scratch and sniff books when I was a kid. I remember a Sesame Street Scratch and Sniff Choose Your Own Adventure book where snuff film makers were trying to get Grover. No matter how hard I tried, I always ended up getting Grover killed on film and his body stuffed in a scratch and sniff Oscar the Grouch trashcan.
I also remember stickers given out by congratulatory teachers that I horded like a scratch and sniff miser. I remember Pledge-like lemon, and candy grape, and root beer. But I also remember getting the occasional oddball one like gasoline, skunk and dead fish. I remember thinking that this was AMAZING technology.
And it kind of is...
Scratch and sniff magic relies on the technology of microencapsulation, which captures odor generating chemicals in microscopic pockets of gelatin or plastic. Every time you scratch, you break open these tiny bubbles, these tiny jars of smell.
This makes me think about cracking my back and breaking open tiny jars of LSD that have been encaspulated there. Suddenly these cubicle walls would come loose of their stuck ways and start swimming in cascading patterns; Mr. Fuzzy Brown Shoes would say, "hello"...
But honestly, someone should look into a line of Scratch and Sniff classics for adults: Scratch and Sniff The Sun Also Rises, Scratch and Sniff Wuthering Heights, Scratch and Sniff Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Scratch and Sniff Bible.
I also remember stickers given out by congratulatory teachers that I horded like a scratch and sniff miser. I remember Pledge-like lemon, and candy grape, and root beer. But I also remember getting the occasional oddball one like gasoline, skunk and dead fish. I remember thinking that this was AMAZING technology.
And it kind of is...
Scratch and sniff magic relies on the technology of microencapsulation, which captures odor generating chemicals in microscopic pockets of gelatin or plastic. Every time you scratch, you break open these tiny bubbles, these tiny jars of smell.
This makes me think about cracking my back and breaking open tiny jars of LSD that have been encaspulated there. Suddenly these cubicle walls would come loose of their stuck ways and start swimming in cascading patterns; Mr. Fuzzy Brown Shoes would say, "hello"...
But honestly, someone should look into a line of Scratch and Sniff classics for adults: Scratch and Sniff The Sun Also Rises, Scratch and Sniff Wuthering Heights, Scratch and Sniff Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Scratch and Sniff Bible.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
No Other Place I Wanna Be
Can you feel it?
The sheer excitement, the vibrating and thrusting power of potential that is right now? Right, effing, now!?!
It reminds me of Van Hagar singing Right Now, or Jesus Jones singing Right Here, Right Now. Boy, were those chumps wrong! It's now! Fuck the early 90's!
Now I don't have to tune in to entertainment news to find out what celebrities are splitting up, the local news will tell me. It's like I'm multi tasking! Now cars are so large that a family of four can cruise the outlet stores in more luxurious room than most families in South Africa have to live in. It's finally a given that families cooking their own meals at home is the anomaly to fast food dinners.
Americans rule the country, and soon, I know it, we'll rule the world!
It makes me want to take my self righteous sense of entitlement, demand that McDonald's bring back the McRib, and take my Hummer down to the drive thru for a supersized combo. Then I'm gonna drive out to the heartland, nothing but Jessica Simpson and the same regurgitated (thus easily digested) country artists on my 6 disc CD changer. Hell, it's easier than thinking about what I might like.
On the plus side though, Tom Cruise has stated that he and Katie are definitely not breaking up. I was worried for the baby...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Right Here, Right Now by Jesus Jones. It's my own damn fault...
The sheer excitement, the vibrating and thrusting power of potential that is right now? Right, effing, now!?!
It reminds me of Van Hagar singing Right Now, or Jesus Jones singing Right Here, Right Now. Boy, were those chumps wrong! It's now! Fuck the early 90's!
Now I don't have to tune in to entertainment news to find out what celebrities are splitting up, the local news will tell me. It's like I'm multi tasking! Now cars are so large that a family of four can cruise the outlet stores in more luxurious room than most families in South Africa have to live in. It's finally a given that families cooking their own meals at home is the anomaly to fast food dinners.
Americans rule the country, and soon, I know it, we'll rule the world!
It makes me want to take my self righteous sense of entitlement, demand that McDonald's bring back the McRib, and take my Hummer down to the drive thru for a supersized combo. Then I'm gonna drive out to the heartland, nothing but Jessica Simpson and the same regurgitated (thus easily digested) country artists on my 6 disc CD changer. Hell, it's easier than thinking about what I might like.
On the plus side though, Tom Cruise has stated that he and Katie are definitely not breaking up. I was worried for the baby...
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Right Here, Right Now by Jesus Jones. It's my own damn fault...
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