Love Cats

I was in a polite mood, or else it wouldn't have lasted for twenty minutes, but on my attempt to purchase cat food and litter at the store last night I was accosted by crazy cat lady.

The crazy cat lady has achieved almost archetypal status, if we don't personally know one, we certainly know who they are. They are lonely, probably unkempt and smell vaguely of things people shouldn't smell of. There are degrees of crazy in the crazy cat lady categorization which seem to range between still able to sort of function in the outside world and shut-ins speaking in tongues.

My specimen didn't exactly look homeless, but looked like she had seen better days. Her glasses were five shades of fucked up and she spoke in low, slow and even tones, occasionally stumbling on her words. Her hair appeared clean, but looked as though she washed it with dish soap.

It started with me noting the sales price on the Arm and Hammer kitty litter to myself and her letting me kindly know that the clumping litter causes cancer in cats. As does flea spray and cat food, unless of course you make it yourself. You can buy the natural cat food at stores, like that one on Twelfth. I tried to go there, but I've been trying to find out how to make my own, you know? Have you seen that guy that's on Martha Stewart that talks about pets? {Slowly shake my head}. He loves animals, you can just tell. And one time he did a commercial for kitty litter and I wrote him a letter {I'm sure you did} asking him about it and how kitty litter gives cats cancer and why would he do this commercial. He denied doing it, and I didn't want to argue with him, but I saw that he did it. Do you ever watch Oprah? {Again, slowly shake my head}. You don't watch Oprah? {As if this were akin to raping one of her cancer cats}.

When I told her that I was typically at work when Oprah was on, I was kindly informed that it is played twice in the Seattle area, and where I could watch the evening edition and on which station (including the call letters). I was then treated to the tales of her two cats which developed cancer, and the various vet stories, and how she had apparently catnapped her neighbor's orange tabby, and lord only knows what else because I started attempting to block out the crazy by the sheer force of my mental powers.

I tried all my polite attempts to extricate myself from the crazy cat lady trap (including slowly walking away, to which she would slowly follow me) only to be met and bested. Bitch was good. But after twenty minutes... Let me write that again, TWENTY MINUTES! I had to firmly tell my feline queen that I had to be on my way.

Kelly Bean came up with the idea of getting cards that I could pass out to the crazies, and quickly escape by saying, "I would really love to talk to you, call me". It was my idea to put the number for recorded time message on said cards.

Ultimately, I could tell that she was a lonely lady who had no one else to talk to besides her abducted cat. I felt a little bad for her, and she didn't seem dangerous. Was there also that brief flash of recognition, that precognitive glimpse of myself as an old man hanging around the Denny's and telling the tired waitresses about how things were done in my day?

Maybe, but personally I see myself going out in a blaze of ill-advised glory, and taking more than a few people with me.


Oh, by the by... I'm taking a little time off, and I don't know how readily available a computer will be, so there may not be many posts next week (if at all). Sorry, but a full report will follow.

For Pete's Sake

Watching the local news is an act of agony for me. It makes me want to pick up something, anything, and fling it with force at the television set. Luckily, the only liftable items tend to be the cats, and I somehow realize that destroying the TV doesn't destroy the problem. And the problem? The "news" tends to be bits sandwiched in between pill commercials that are presented by the most vapid, radio-voiced morons that were apparently available. Attractive heads that can manage to tell the most awful story of death and anguish and then immediately turn with that plastic smile and tell us all a miracle story about puppies. It always feels like a skit, like a performer imitating what a bad local news anchor does.

And the "news"? Updates on the celebrities of Grey's Anatomy that are shooting a scene or two actually in Seattle, weather reports that read like missives of the apocalypse, and just general nonsense intended to terrify.

And the national news? Not a lot better. I love when the conservatives complain about the liberal media. Where the fuck are they? Why are they not bringing up the evils of the war that we're in? Why aren't they vilifying the insipid and criminal "president" that we have? Why aren't they making the connections when reporting that weather systems around the world are fucked and glaciers are disappearing to the fact that our insane consumption of fossils fuel and our pollution are more than likely causing these problems?

And this is why I miss Pete Wilson. Not the near fascist ex-governor of California, this Pete Wilson:

Pete Wilson was a local newscaster in San Francisco. He eventually left television news when the NBC affiliate he was on was dismantled (NBC then started being only broadcast on cable - a national network, only available on cable in a major city...) and began a talk radio show. I haven't listened to his show, nor can I say that I completely agree with his politics, but this is why I love Pete Wilson:

Pete Wilson would report something fairly ridiculous, and would fully and knowingly roll his eyes on the camera and sigh. A story of some mindless cow suing a major corporation instead of taking responsibility for their own actions? He'd roll his eyes as if to say, "effing people, can you believe it?" If Pete Wilson were forced to read the same constant copy of Tom Cruise's antics, he would more than likely sigh before flashing a sardonic look to the viewers. He would quite often even throw in a snide comment about how ridiculous the situation was, and that he actually just had to tell us about this.

And he just had that every-guy look to him, like he was some business friend of your dad's.

Ah Pete, you were the greatest. I miss ya.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Driving Me Backwards by Brian Eno

All That Jazz

I remember hearing John Coltrane and being knocked out. There were all those insanely woven sax notes smacking me around and not stopping even after I was lying on the floor and moaning. I didn't stop to ask myself or try to figure out why I was so taken, I just let it be enough that the man did it for me.

Years later, checking out the Jazz miniseries on PBS, I watched Wynton Marsalis speak about the music and I couldn't help grinning from ear to ear. The man was absolutely beautiful in his love for it, just life affirming. And I realized something while I watched and listened, something I felt like I should have known all the time; that life is jazz.

I know it to be true, and it's not my job to convince anyone or push my point of view. And while I don't want to explain away the magic of this simple statement, I want to point something out. Most jazz compositions start with the basic tune of the piece, move into the band's trading off of solos and improvised pieces, only to be resolved once again with the main tune (however brief).

This echoes life in that we are born and we improvise our way through life only to be resolved in the end.

The point is, it's what you do between those recognizable bits at the beginning and end that make the world interesting. There are people that are happy to tread obvious ground, and I certainly have no place to mock, the world needs Kenny G's. But I would like to live my life like a Coltrane solo - one of those pieces where you stand agog thinking, "where the fuck is he going?" before dropping back in with the group only take off again on rusty and stellar wings. I hope to look back at the end fulfilled by the joy and the grief and the love of friends. I hope to look back at the end and think, "yeah, not too bad."

Here’s hoping…

What Can't Be Erased (Again)

So, I walked up through downtown and kept going straight where I normally turn right to head up the hill and home. I had left in the morning without a jacket as it was warm, but it began raining as I broke into the streets filled with pricey boutiques, pricey restaurants and uberhip bars. It was still warm, so the rain felt like something out of a tropical climate, something blown in from New Orleans. The rain felt absolutely right. I was heading to a record store to see one of the handful of solo acoustic shows that Jason Lytle of Grandaddy was doing around the country.

Grandaddy, as I have stated before, is now no more.

He played, and it was sweet. He added the blooping keyboard sounds vocally to his rendition of Crystal Lake. I laughed and wiped rainwater off the back of my neck. He finished up with a song called Levitz (that I'm pretty sure I've heard at nearly every Grandaddy show I've been to) that he managed to make sound so sad.

Jason was going to hang around and sign stuff. I didn't particularly care about getting anything signed, but I wanted to take the opportunity to tell him thank you for the music, and that I would miss the band.

(Also, in reference to my kind Seattle record store clerk post: I picked up a new Mountain Goats EP and the girl ringing me up excitedly asked if I'd heard anything off of it. She told me they were coming to town soon and we talked about how great they are to see live... She was ridiculously nice and gave me a handful of Grandaddy buttons.)

They gave away posters for the signing, so I figured I could have Jason sign one of those. I told him hi, I told him that we'd seen the band a large number of times in San Francisco, I told him thanks and that we would miss the band. He seemed like such a nice, sort of shy guy. Biffy brought up seeing them at This Ain't No Picnic, a show down in SoCal from a number of years back. He surprised me by remembering something particular about the show. I always think that guys in the band don't remember stupid things that the folks watching the show do...

He asked if that was the show where the band before them continued playing past their allotted time and Grandaddy finally just started playing over them. He also told us that he had gotten really drunk the night before, had fallen asleep in some ditch and woke up covered with ants.

He seemed like a very sweet guy. I thanked him again and shook his hand goodbye, stepping into the vaguely tropical evening that was heavy with moisture. I was glad that I got to say goodbye, and still feel a little melancholy knowing that the band is done.

I also highly recommend the final G'daddy album, Just Like The Fambly Cat. It's good stuff...


Confidential to the CBGB group: Congrats on 7 years and going strong! I love all y'all.

Just Roaming

I was wandering around the storage rooms in my head, and thinking about how memories are archived up in there like some big and nifty warehouse.

I remember something in particular which starts shotgunning open all these other files, sending a flurry of memories raining down, like old triplicate forms blown by fans.

I begin to worry a bit about the sections of said warehouse where memories begin to morph with other people’s stories, or complete fictions to begin with.

I worry that sometimes I can’t tell. I worry about what happens to my past when my memories become corroded.

I start to think of that section of the warehouse as becoming overrun by strange, organic material, slowly melting formerly strong foundations into something completely new.

That’s kind of exciting…

Then I think that my head will begin to look like this if I continue to obsess over how my brain functions:

Sorry, that was weird.

Next time I’ll tell you about meeting Jason Lytle at Easy Street.

Large Rooms

I was walking home and thinking about the impending move that will eventually happen, and how disorienting it should feel to know that you will not settle into the home you are in. We (and by “we", I mean me, I'm just lumping you into my experiences. Lucky!) have gotten used to this quasi-nomadic life of moving from home to home.

I think about families raised in the same small apartment, say in New York, where they live for their entire lives. I wonder how they do that and not begin to feel claustrophobic, how they don't begin to feel smothered by the walls and the belongings that make up the place that shelters them from the outside.

I think, generally speaking, that we (again - lumping y'all in) tend to jump to larger and larger places. It's difficult for me to remember the cozy feeling of me and Biffy's tiny one bedroom in San Francisco. I only remember that stifling, claustrophobic feeling at the end, like I was in a moldy, but somewhat comfortably furnished prison cell.

And then I wonder, 'cause this is how my mind works, if we who were raised in the American west have adjusted to so much wide open space that that's how we feel comfortable.

But then, like a bad dream remembered the next morning, I think about large rooms that I've been in and how they begin to make me feel uncomfortable as well. If I'm in a room that feels too large, I begin to feel as I can only assume that those people who fear leaving their houses must feel, like there is not enough to keep me contained, like I may actually pull apart in all directions.

But then I began thinking about how beautiful it was to hear the Dead doing And We Bid You Good Night all a capella and sweet.

Apparently my mind likes to derail itself in mid thought process...

Looms Large

It's those weird, brackish weeks, it's the in between days, it's the onset... Summer has the door pushed open a crack, trying to connive spring into giving up the room. And people are all goofy - egging summer on and letting spring know that it's time to vacate, bitch!

I worry for folks that the bottom may fall out, that spring may hold tight and let loose with some more rain and a couple of those days that you expect to be dazzlers, but end up so cold that your nipples would break the sidewalk were you to fall down. And people get weather crazy up here, pushed no doubt by the weather reporters on the local news. We're having a few days of unseasonably warm weather (high 80's in some places - not big shakes having spent a number of summers in Southern California), and the grinning idiot faces of the telecasters actually called this system, "the first heat wave of the year". They touted it to a degree that you expected houses to explode and small animals and babies to burst into flames if you didn't keep them iced down.

But, I gotta be honest, it makes me feel like a younger man this warm, oncoming summer weather. I am reminded of desperate, sweaty hikes to Bidwell Creek to bask in the heady combination of cold water and hot air. I am reminded of shady porches and beers and cheap and grilled food and heavy laughter. I am reminded of the refusal to give up the day as there is still a glimmer of light in the sky so late.

I'm a little giddy right now. All of the cold and blue water surrounding this city is continuously calling for me to get in. And I'm trying so hard to ignore the warning voice in my head, telling me that come August I'm going to be so sick of attempting to sleep in a hot and stuffy room that I will curse summer and its coconut scented air for ever coming. I just want to float on this happy, seasonal feeling right now.

And here is the audience participation portion of the post: What is your favorite summer album? Which album, which band makes you think of summer?

Same Circles

Is it coincidence that my work sponsored skate-nite event collided with the Seattle visit of one Jen Jen the Panda Girl? Oh no, my 'creating your own reality' powers grow stronger by the day.

It just seemed so right that Jenny was here for skate-nite, a simulation of events from my childhood. I'm sure that we must have discussed a love of roller skating somewhere along the years, but I don't recall it. I think it's just more that Jenny feels like someone I went to grade school with. It's difficult to explain, but if I were to find out that she was the reincarnation of one of my first grade friends, I'd totally believe it. It may be that unapologetic, emotional closeness and goofiness I feel with her, those sort of strong feelings that only children seem able to muster.

But, the Skate King... So much like the Skate King in Kent that I used to visit in grade school that I'm surprised that I didn't fall to the ground in moaning convulsions, my brain misfiring as it tried to reconcile a thirty-five year old me invading the territory of the 12 year old me. The dark brown wood where you picked up your skates was the same, the snack bar seating and the lockers were the same, the hopelessly outdated lighting rig on the ceiling was the same. The music had changed, but they were still even playing Def Leppard!

(Pour Some Sugar On Me instead of Rock Of Ages or Photograph, but shit, it's like Def Leppard was created for the skating crowd)

I had a blast even though I didn't realize how effing sweaty I was going to get skating around in circles. Was I reminded of the heart-skipping, stomach-flipping excitement that came with the chance to hold the hand of my 6th grade girlfriend? Oh yeah I was. It seemed a little silly now, coming so strongly over the jaded years that have passed between, but I could remember the make or break seriousness that came with seemingly innocent hand holding and the dizziness that came with those tentative first steps into an ocean I was just beginning to explore.

Was I also reminded of the jealousy that I had at Chris' skating ability? Yeah, that guy took lessons on weekends and could 'shoot the duck' or some such shit.

Anyway, Biffy, Jenny and I had fun at skate-nite. We went back home and Jenny and I talked for awhile, eventually getting around to telling ghost stories. It was good. It is always fantastic to get to spend time with Jenny, I love her somethin' fierce. Again, it just seemed so right that she was there as I rediscovered my Skate King roots.

Confidential to Jenny: I think our first script should be a super scary ghost story - the image of your elevator guy gave me the creeps when I tried to go to sleep.

Second Run

I remember quite clearly, the months in my life where I made a conscious effort to search out knowledge instead of simply ingesting what was laid before me. I was a 19 year old in Orange County, a place that will wrap your soul in tract housing, smog and highway noise and convert it to something as innate and somehow tragic as asphalt. I was trying to figure myself out, trying to figure out what I stood for or if I stood for anything. It was a frightening and thrilling time of questioning my methods, my beliefs, my sexuality, my habits...

I was pulled in by the underground romanticism of the banned and forbidden, automatically drawn to Henry Miller and Kurt Vonnegut, but it was that nutty William S. Burroughs that found me a door I hadn't noticed before, opened it and pushed me through with rough, but loving hands.

It was about this same time that my eyes were being opened to the idea that there were film makers out there that were using this art form as a *gasp* art form. And so began my love affair with second run movie houses.

I didn't have any film geek friends at the time, so on days off from school and work, I would often drive up to the center of Los Angeles, by myself, to this little run down theater, The New Beverly, that would show double features of films that hadn't run in many theaters, or hadn't run in a decade or more. I remember taking in a double feature of Barton Fink and Naked Lunch with clenched hands, a conspirator's smile on my face in that darkened room. I got to see Taxi Driver, Blue Velvet, Sunset Boulevard, Blade Runner... All on the big screen in this rundown little theater that seemed so far from home out there near Beverly and La Brea.

I would always feel an echo of that same thrill when I went to the rep houses in other places, like remembering that first kiss that just made you dizzy. There were all those little houses in San Francisco; The Bridge and The Four Star and The Roxy and The Lumiere and my beloved Red Vic. Places with this romantic, underground charm that the new theater complexes couldn't touch with their concession stand chicken fingers- it was like twisting and exhausting, wondrous sex with a partner who knew a trick or fourteen versus fucking a plastic doll.

And The Castro! For fuck's sake people, The Castro! One of those beautiful old movie palaces that still manages to stand and earn its rent by showing art films, silent movies, second runs... It's a bastion of all that's good.

Ahhh, I hope to never lose that feeling, that thrill, that seemingly small act of rebellion in watching or witnessing something not ordained by the masses, something that strikes such a resonant chord with that wide-eyed 19 year old, still alive and well in me somewhere.

Circular Logic

I was having an issue yesterday. Apparently the body needed a little crash time, and as I'm not smart enough to pay attention to what my body may be telling me, body went and shut down for a few hours. I spent a majority of yesterday unable to stay awake and passing in and out of murky sleep fever dreams. This reminded me of having mono when I was 16.

-Which reminded me of working at Target, my first job, where the onset of mono came on while I put price tags on hundreds of candles.
-Which reminded me of the killer grilled ham and cheese that Dave made at the Target snack bar.
-Which reminded me of the most amazing cheese omelet I've ever had - and I have no idea what made it so fucking good.
-Which reminded me of Lois the Pie Queen in Oakland, where I had said omelet.
-Which reminded me of Reggie and James, who lived near Lois the Pie Queen.
-Which reminded me of a number of drunken evenings and singing Frank Zappa with James.
-Which reminded me of listening to Ship Arriving Too Late To Save A Drowning Witch on the old stereo when I was a kid.
-Which reminded me of my brother and I attempting to use an umbrella as a parachute by jumping off the back deck.
-Which reminded me of my brother and I jumping from his second story bedroom window, just 'cause.
-Which reminded me of some dark dream, which seemed to come through black and wavy glass, of hunched over shadow figures throwing a variety of foods off of the roofs of houses.

Where I then slowly woke up, sweating like a maniac and already feeling the too strong pull of my head on the pillow and worrying that this felt a little too much like when I had mono when I was 16.


Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: If This Is It by Huey Lewis and the News. I blame Jenny...

Cruise Control

Shhh, listen. Did you hear that? That was the anguished scream of rage that has shredded my vocal cords like chili colorado. It is currently making its way around the world. I understand that by the time that it gets to you it has passed through metal and asphalt and miles of polluted air, so it may be a bit garbled. This is what that unearthly shriek is saying:

"Enough with the Tom Cruise!"

The Tom Cruise PR campaign, which rolls on like the Third Reich on meth, yesterday invaded Aberdeen, Washington. Aberdeen is a small logging town on the coast that was already made famous as the place Kurt Cobain couldn't wait to get the fuck out of. For how much longer must I be inundated with the Cruise?

Yes, I realize I myself am talking about him. Shut it, you...

Tom Cruise is a mediocre actor (to be generous), who has gone to great and certifiably insane lengths to prove his manhood, virility and his believability as an important action star. Let us not forget folks, this is a sequel, the third film in a bad action movie series. While I did not see the original, I did have the misfortune to bare witness to MI:2 (man, those initials all done up in metal and flames just makes me want to ejaculate all over the place and then set something on fire). It was not a good movie. Let's put this into perspective, Kimberly's stuck up friend from Diff'rent Strokes didn't behave like a coked up, escaped mental patient when she made Friday the 13th, Part 3. And that fucker was in 3D!

I'm a fan of lists, and Tom has now made it to the top of one of my favorite lists - People I Would Like To See Kicked To Death By A Unicorn. He joins Lindsay Lohan and Paris "Fucking Jizz-Bag" Hilton. Cheers!

The only thing I think that can stop this madness, this constant Cruise updating in every media (including the freaking news) is to take his power away. Do not pay to see this movie. For the good of Amurica people, stay away. If you cannot live without resolving the cliff hangers and unfinished business from the last installment, get together in a group and rent this piece of shit; maximize viewing for fewer dollars. Or better yet, rent something good. Or hey, get together with friends, drink some beers, play some cards.

It’s time to love again…

What I Did This Weekend, by Billy

We closed our show Saturday night. There is a little bit of melancholy in knowing that the truly fun aspects of doing this show are over. It was great getting to do a show that had never been done before, doing a character that no one else had a claim to. It was great doing a show where most everyone I talked to who saw it seemed to really enjoy it. It was great doing a show where a teenager saw me afterwards and said, "You were awesome!" How can you beat being told you were awesome - that doesn't involve activities that can land you in the slammer. When we finished, some of us painted the theater floor, drinking cheap bourbon from a plastic bottle. We then moved on to a cast member's apartment where I proceeded to drink more expensive bourbon from a jelly glass.

I then went home and passed out about 7 minutes into Revenge of the Sith.

I got a haircut on Sunday morning finally, as I've been unable to do so because of the show. I was fairly nervous as the blue haired stylist clipped and buzzed. She sniffed a lot, which spoke of either a sizeable drug habit or a cold. The hectic and uncomfortable conversation led me to believe the former. She said she wanted to make her living as a dancer, but she didn't have any sort of dance training. It made me think of girls making hippie grilled cheese in Dead show parking lots talking of becoming chefs. It could certainly happen, but bad, sad odds. She did do a great job with my hair though.

Me and Biffy then went grocery shopping. Neither of us got cranky (bonus), and while we neglected to start a fake fight in the produce aisle for the enjoyment of our fellow shoppers, we had fun nonetheless.

Yesterday, I did a bunch of laundry, made some bacon, cheddar and scallion cornbread muffins (tasty) and reassessed my love of a Yo La Tengo album. It turns out I still love it, but I may not ever need to hear Neil Young's Heart of Gold again...

It was no trip to Disneyland, but not a bad weekend.

Overtime

Darren walked through the nearly deserted floor. It was well after close and he was just trying to catch up on some work. He was still a little worn out from some heavy rounds of Amaretto Sours the night before and was drinking more coffee than was probably good for him. He was headed back to his desk from the kitchen with yet another cup.

He looked over the numerous rows of cubicles. The flashing screen savers animated the empty cubes in a somehow unsavory way, like voltage passing through a dead frog. Without the inane chatter of dozens and dozens of coworkers, Darren had become way too aware of the recycled air clicking in the ducts above him.

He passed by a number of plain, closed doors that never really entered into his consciousness. There were no brightly colored door tags that explained who worked behind these doors, or what the rooms were used for. But one of these ever closed doors now had a piece of paper taped to it. The paper simply said: Room 4020 Is Open. Please Come On In.

Darren looked around the cubicle farm warily, and then realized that there was no one else there that would provide him with any answers. He knocked lightly on the door with the hand not gripping a coffee mug. There was no answer. He opened the door a crack.

"Hello?"

There was again no answer so he opened the door wide enough for him to walk into the darkened room. An amazingly strong arm shot out of the dark, grabbed him by his button down shirt and pulled him in. The coffee mug tumbled to the floor.

The lights came on, quickly and efficiently blinding him. He suddenly realized that these were not florescent lights, but that fancy, white, full spectrum light. He blinked through some discomfort and looked around at a mostly empty room where the walls had been painted with a jungle motif. There were two large, overstuffed chairs and a number of potted fichus trees. There was also a large middle aged woman in a bloody apron standing before him.

She looked like a truck driver. She looked like she smoked for a living. She looked like she enjoyed the taste of cough syrup.

"When they give you guys that free lunch tomorrow, y'know, the one for all the hard work you been doin?" Her voice sounded like a bike going down on asphalt in bad need of repair.

"Yeah," Darren said a little shaky.

"Don't eat none of it. You don't wanna know what's in there."

The woman then turned slowly towards the wall and stood absolutely still. Darren stood looking at the back of her head for a bit, waiting for more. When he realized he got all he was going to get, he turned away, flipped off the lights and slowly closed the door to room 4020 behind him.

He looked around the empty cubicles once again, searching out some grinning face that was having him on, but there was nobody. He turned back towards the door when he realized he had left his coffee mug in there, but then thought better of it. He had to get that 4th quarter sales spreadsheet done before he could go home.

Amurica

With all the talk about hippies this week - at least in the comments sections - I wanted to bring up something that occurred to me last night.

I went to see a play last night that culminated with scenes of a massive demonstration not unlike the WTO riots that occurred up here in Seattle a few years back. When asked why he took part in the demonstrations, one of the main characters threw out a litany of reasons like trade, unions, oil drilling in Alaska... It was clear he didn't have a concrete reason for taking a stand. I remembered watching footage of the riots while living in San Francisco and being angry with these people, some of who may have been trying to make a point that was important to them, for ruining any credibility they had a chance to have by behaving like retards. I remember expressing my frustration to a coworker who said that these people were shaking up the system at least. I asked two questions, which I never got answers for; how and why.

It all smacked of just being part of another scene.

While I whole heartedly feel that for many of the hippies in the sixties it was just about being part of the scene, I also feel that there were a large number of them who believed they were fighting for something worthwhile. There were individuals fighting for an America that they believed in, and for an America that could be.

The thing is I don't know if I would be willing to fight for America. Americans, for the most part, seem to me to be spoiled, fucking children with a sense of entitlement that is shocking. I'm embarrassed by my country and by its leaders. When you are instructed from those on top that success is gained by lying and cheating, when the laws work to erase the need of self responsibility, when most of the population lives in willful ignorance and continues to make choices that destroys the world around them... How can you stand up and be proud of that?

Thankfully though, my cynicism is cut with a naive hope. There is a potential for this country, on the ideals it was founded on that have never really come to fruition. I don't know how to change the course we are on short of a cataclysmic event, but I hope we can teach, that we can stand as amazing role models, that we can foster poets and artists and people that love and respect one another and the world around them. I hope that we can be brave enough to live every day in constant consideration, never blindly following the line.

Not Exactly A New Battle

I had to take part in a three hour work foofarah, so instead of getting paid to write a post, I got paid to sit in a large gathering room and feign attentiveness. One discussion that became heated amongst people sitting around me was this: Ewoks - cool or not cool.

For those of you who may not be Star Wars (or Return of the Jedi) fans out there, Ewoks were easily marketed, Teddy Bear creatures that helped the rebel alliance take out a shield generator so that the new Death Star could be destroyed what with the Emperor on it and everything. They looked like this:

The definitive answer to the above question is this; not cool. I don't care what reasoning you come up with, you are wrong if you think otherwise.

Honestly when these cuddlies first show up, I check out of the movie... to vomit. And frankly, while I'm talking all honest and Star Wars with ya, I'm done with Return of the Jedi after the whole Jabba episode. It's not a great movie, is it?

The original plan was a planet of wookies. A planet of Chewbaccas people! That would have been cool with a loud and resounding OOL!

You know what else would have been cool? A planet of flesh eating rabbit people would have been cool. But few kids like to sleep with stuffed, carnivorous, rabbit-men.

Uniformication

On my walk home from work, I pass the Paramount Theater. It's one of those big, old time theaters that present five day runs of the most trite and consumer friendly musicals touring (read Mama Mia!). They occasionally also hold concerts there. We won tickets to see Bright Eyes at the Paramount when we first moved here and were so broke we couldn't afford cheese.

I wasn't thrilled with Bright Eyes, but did get to see the wonderful Jesse Sykes, so there.

Anyway, last night at the Paramount, there was Tool. When I type Tool, I would hope that you here it in a big, manly, growling voice - TOOL! I saw the fans floating up from downtown before I saw the marquee, and wondered what alterna-metal band was playing as I was awash with 21-35 year old men in black T-shirts, black shorts, strangely trimmed facial hair and so many baseball caps...

I became annoyed by the obviousness of the uniform, but tried to quell it a bit. We all do it for the most part, we all wear something that makes us easily identifiable. Many of us make it easy to define where we stand socially by the articles of clothing we chose to cover ourselves with.

Indy fanboys? Uniform. Hip hoppers? Uniform. People trying to not wear a uniform? Uniform. Punk rockers? Serious fucking uniform.

I've always found it hideously ironic that punks, who want to shake up the system so bad, have the strictest code when it comes to what they wear. If you don't have the right jacket or accessories, then you ain't a real punk. Shit yeah, anarchy! Except in the haphazard shops that handily sell you your rebellion.

And this in turn reminds me of one of my favorite stories that Biffy told me: One of her teachers was in England during the initial tidal wave of punk and witnessed a group of them - done up in their painted mohawks and anarchy, A in a circle, leather jackets - waiting patiently for the WALK sign at the crosswalk.

I'm not sure what my point is, except that I tend to get frustrated when people try to make a point with their fashion, it seems like an easy way, not a lot of thought involved. Oh, and that I also love a little gem of a lyric by Frank Black, "I don't conform, I wear a different uniform".

Showbee, the Finger Man

I have an ouchy on my finger that resembles a face. There are two red dots like angry eyes and a cut along one if the finger wrinkles like a mouth. I'm having myself a little finger theater...

"What's going on Billy," finger boo-boo says with a voice that is reminiscent of a phlegmatic ventriloquist’s dummy. "You look sad."

"I'm not sad, Finger Man, it just that sometimes it takes so much energy to put up with people who are not bright and refuse to take responsibility for their actions."

"I know what you mean. One time, when I was in grade school, there was this other kid named Oliver who would always bring in Lego’s. Not like Lego sets, but just individual Lego’s. And never the same piece; one day there would be a blue block with 6 pegs, the next day a red one with 8 pegs. I said to Oliver, I said, "Hey Oliver, if Lego’s were ham sandwiches and you had a castle made out of fool's gold..."

"Finger Man, you never went to grade school."

"The hell I didn't! Ask my friend, Tricky Dick!"

Enter a grinning, photo-copied head of Richard Nixon, glued to a stick and sounding vaguely reminiscent of Mr. T.

"Tricky Dick don't like you calling Finger Man a liar!"


To be continued? Probably not...