I'm looking at it as the first line of demarcation in the age war. I had hoped that the day wouldn't come where I no longer understood the music that the kids were listening to, I didn’t want to start complaining about how the stores and restaurants are just too darn cold, I want to fight against he music being too loud.
But MySpace... I don't get it, I don't like it and it makes me feel a bit like a crotchety old man.
Honestly, I've already had the 'I don't get your music moment', I've been having them since I was about 13 actually. In seventh grade gym class, I would be doing my hurdler's stretches next to Travis, a mullet headed and sleepy lidded young man that will forever serve as my mental image of a stoner metal head, as he who would rave about the musical stylings of Motley Crue and their breakthrough album Shout At The Devil. I would politely smile and nod, hoping that he wouldn't decide to punch me in the arm or something, but inside I was screaming, "you cannot be serious."
I have continued to have disdain for what a lot of people listen to through the years. I'm unapologetically snobbish about music - while maintaining that I listen to some crap as well. But this has never been a generational thing, something where the style of music has shifted beyond my sensibilities, it's more that it bugs me that people will listen to whatever crap the promotional directors or reality television shows feed to them without even giving any thought to it.
But again, this MySpace thing... I understand how to use it, I have enough computer savvy to get that, I just get more annoyance out of it than joy. I only got on because Kelly Bean wouldn't stop bugging me about it, and now I honestly do feel like that old guy in chest high pants and a sweater vest yelling about how in my day people just emailed each other. I don't care about how many friends I have, I don't care about my profile, I don't care for high school acquaintances I haven't seen in 15 years searching me out.
I guess what I'm saying, good people, is that I give up. I had a spark burning in the back of my mind that one day I would understand what makes the other people stare at MySpace for what seems like an inappropriate amount of time, but now I must turn my back on it. I must admit that it wasn't falling out of my twenties, it wasn't the longer hangovers, it wasn't the jokes from younger friends, it wasn't having a child, it wasn't throwing out my back and then slipping and falling flat on my ass on a frozen road that made me feel old, it was MySpace.
Side Note: Today, we will be getting a new member to the world. Welcome Maxine, you've been blessed with an awesome mom. Enjoy the world, it's a blast.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
This One's For The Balcony, And This One's For The Floor
Is it just me? I would like a return to all out, gladiator style spectacles. I want a large open air venue, packed with a drunken, screaming audience so done up on their own corpulence that it’s barely possible to make out understandable words.
I want an all out battle royal between Tom Sizemore and Lindsay Lohan. I'm talking tridents and nets here people. I want to see Lindsay scurry around in some pounded brass ringlets and Tom stomp his way to either a dagger in the throat or a coronary. When the carnage has been cleared on that one, I want to see Britney battling bears.
I think that the battles should probably be scored by the great Danny Elfman, the man's got a way with percussion and choir, but at some point in the festivities I want a battle of the bands between Def Leppard and the members of Great White that have not been incinerated. Two stages set up, Def Leppard plays a song, say "Photograph", and then Great White plays "Once Bitten, Twice Shy". Def Leppard plays "Pour Some Sugar On Me", Great White once again plays "Once Bitten, Twice Shy". When the crowd, drunk on Zima and Slammin Strawberry Kiwi Kool Aid, have finally heard enough "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" (which honestly should have been partway through verse number two on the first go 'round), they give the screaming signal and the bands throw down their instruments and begin throwing down with fists. Fists and pen knives...
Then comes the chariot races with Paris versus Nicole. The winner gets to trudge over to the crumpled chariot of the fallen and decapitate the scrawny bitch that didn't win.
I think that the whole thing should end with something poignant and moving, something to calm the crowd down. I think that the entire collection of American Idol winners should come out and sing a song for the fallen; perhaps "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me" by Elton John or Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls".
It's probably just me.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "In The Colosseum" by Tom Waits. Duh...
I want an all out battle royal between Tom Sizemore and Lindsay Lohan. I'm talking tridents and nets here people. I want to see Lindsay scurry around in some pounded brass ringlets and Tom stomp his way to either a dagger in the throat or a coronary. When the carnage has been cleared on that one, I want to see Britney battling bears.
I think that the battles should probably be scored by the great Danny Elfman, the man's got a way with percussion and choir, but at some point in the festivities I want a battle of the bands between Def Leppard and the members of Great White that have not been incinerated. Two stages set up, Def Leppard plays a song, say "Photograph", and then Great White plays "Once Bitten, Twice Shy". Def Leppard plays "Pour Some Sugar On Me", Great White once again plays "Once Bitten, Twice Shy". When the crowd, drunk on Zima and Slammin Strawberry Kiwi Kool Aid, have finally heard enough "Once Bitten, Twice Shy" (which honestly should have been partway through verse number two on the first go 'round), they give the screaming signal and the bands throw down their instruments and begin throwing down with fists. Fists and pen knives...
Then comes the chariot races with Paris versus Nicole. The winner gets to trudge over to the crumpled chariot of the fallen and decapitate the scrawny bitch that didn't win.
I think that the whole thing should end with something poignant and moving, something to calm the crowd down. I think that the entire collection of American Idol winners should come out and sing a song for the fallen; perhaps "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me" by Elton John or Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls".
It's probably just me.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "In The Colosseum" by Tom Waits. Duh...
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Small Magic
I know that you have no way of knowing it, but in that moment when you go from shrieking to quiet contemplation, watching my fingers move around guitar strings, my mind gets a little lost in that magic trick.
And a little further on in the trick, when you smile at my hands and then look up and smile at me I get a little overwhelmed at the thought of wanting to hold onto that small smile so tight. Can I keep it when the world teaches you that being dispassionate and removed is cool?
I'm feeling all of these possibilities running through the lines, I'm feeling great things coming, I'm all enamored of those little things today, thankful for the small magic in life.
I'm thankful for dinners and lunches with friends, for Sunday afternoon and late May rainstorms that make all of that pulsing green outside that much more vibrant, for sunny day hikes through the city and the things that make a baby laugh. I'm thankful for the love of friends that you sometimes wonder what it is that you've done to deserve it. I'm thankful for sudden bouts of dancing in the kitchen, for The Band's second album The Band, for evenings when the baby goes down easy, for The Simpson’s, for laying on the couch with my lady friend even if it's just for a couple of minutes.
Can I get a hell yeah?
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Creature Song" from the album Ghana by the Mountain Goats
And a little further on in the trick, when you smile at my hands and then look up and smile at me I get a little overwhelmed at the thought of wanting to hold onto that small smile so tight. Can I keep it when the world teaches you that being dispassionate and removed is cool?
I'm feeling all of these possibilities running through the lines, I'm feeling great things coming, I'm all enamored of those little things today, thankful for the small magic in life.
I'm thankful for dinners and lunches with friends, for Sunday afternoon and late May rainstorms that make all of that pulsing green outside that much more vibrant, for sunny day hikes through the city and the things that make a baby laugh. I'm thankful for the love of friends that you sometimes wonder what it is that you've done to deserve it. I'm thankful for sudden bouts of dancing in the kitchen, for The Band's second album The Band, for evenings when the baby goes down easy, for The Simpson’s, for laying on the couch with my lady friend even if it's just for a couple of minutes.
Can I get a hell yeah?
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Creature Song" from the album Ghana by the Mountain Goats
Friday, May 25, 2007
More Beer With Fear
Thanks to the good people of Coppertone, I have learned that there are actually 2 kinds of UV rays that the sun is sending down to kill us. I for one certainly appreciate that they are not only willing to share the findings of the team of scientists that they have working around the clock in sterile labs simply to find more ways to make our lives more pleasant, but also creating products that will help defeat our oppressor, The Sun.
Apparently, there are UVA and UVB rays. UVA rays are the ones that age us prematurely, and it's easy to remember that that's the ray as "A" can stand for aging. UVB rays are the ones that burn, and again the ray comes with its own handy mnemonic device. And before y'all start to panic out there, it's okay, Coppertone has products that block both of these rays so you can go back to your jet skiing safe from harm - drunken drowning aside.
And to think, just scant few years ago, Coppertone was busy putting scented baby oil into its containers so that scantily clad vacationers could pull as many of the sun's harmful rays into their skin as possible. The irony engine rumbles on.
Yes, I'm sure that too much sun will probably do terrible things to you, that shit burns. But we're probably far more likely to earn cancer through the chemicals we spout into the air freshening the smell of our homes or by refusing to get out of our cars and walking our asses around when it's possible. Cancer is probably far more likely through polluted food through polluted soil, polluted water from power boats and jet skis...
I know it's not a new subject, that of corporations pushing our buying buttons by scaring us, of the government (which thanks to lobbyists and campaign donors is still corporations) bullying us into decisions through fear, but I feel it's a good one to be reminded of from time to time.
Cancer, identity theft, salmonella, toxic mold, terrorists, teeth not their whitest, teeth not their straightest, vague discomfort that someone is bound to have a pill for, secondhand smoke, dirty bombs, loose borders, shoddy machinery, you will probably die alone and unloved because of the clothes you wear...
I'm unclear myself of what my point is other than that I have enough of my own problems to keep me awake at night so that worrying over whether or not I've purchased the right product that I don't really need to begin with is the last fucking thing I need to worry about. I guess too that it dawned on me last night that I'm getting closer to the middle of the average lifespan and that when I look back over the years already spent, it's not near long enough; I would like to spend the rest of them looking up with a smile in my eyes and not worryingly over my shoulder.
Apparently, there are UVA and UVB rays. UVA rays are the ones that age us prematurely, and it's easy to remember that that's the ray as "A" can stand for aging. UVB rays are the ones that burn, and again the ray comes with its own handy mnemonic device. And before y'all start to panic out there, it's okay, Coppertone has products that block both of these rays so you can go back to your jet skiing safe from harm - drunken drowning aside.
And to think, just scant few years ago, Coppertone was busy putting scented baby oil into its containers so that scantily clad vacationers could pull as many of the sun's harmful rays into their skin as possible. The irony engine rumbles on.
Yes, I'm sure that too much sun will probably do terrible things to you, that shit burns. But we're probably far more likely to earn cancer through the chemicals we spout into the air freshening the smell of our homes or by refusing to get out of our cars and walking our asses around when it's possible. Cancer is probably far more likely through polluted food through polluted soil, polluted water from power boats and jet skis...
I know it's not a new subject, that of corporations pushing our buying buttons by scaring us, of the government (which thanks to lobbyists and campaign donors is still corporations) bullying us into decisions through fear, but I feel it's a good one to be reminded of from time to time.
Cancer, identity theft, salmonella, toxic mold, terrorists, teeth not their whitest, teeth not their straightest, vague discomfort that someone is bound to have a pill for, secondhand smoke, dirty bombs, loose borders, shoddy machinery, you will probably die alone and unloved because of the clothes you wear...
I'm unclear myself of what my point is other than that I have enough of my own problems to keep me awake at night so that worrying over whether or not I've purchased the right product that I don't really need to begin with is the last fucking thing I need to worry about. I guess too that it dawned on me last night that I'm getting closer to the middle of the average lifespan and that when I look back over the years already spent, it's not near long enough; I would like to spend the rest of them looking up with a smile in my eyes and not worryingly over my shoulder.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Boy Of Summer
I'm not sure where the local news programs get their weather people, but apparently it's from an over-excitable part of the country, from a college with a serious coke problem. Pick a channel, it don't matter, and the Seattle weather person will practically explode in a fury of sensible suited, orthodontically corrected, cement coiffed shrapnel telling you what the sky's gonna let loose on you today.
And when the weather gets like it is today, clear and sunny in all its pre-summer glory, the weather folks get all a' tremble, their eyes rolling back as they get towards the five day forecast, loads shot on the green screen behind them.
But alas, weather guy 'gasms are not the point here, the point is that when the weather gets to be all clear and warm up here I cannot help but think back to this time of year when I was a child. There are two specific days that always come to mind, the first a late May day in fifth grade. The sky was a spotless pale blue and the fold out, half windows in the classroom were opened in opposition to the stuffiness. I could smell the grass that had just been cut out on the playground.
I distinctly remember this precise moment of stillness where I understood that for the rest of my days, this day would be my example of late spring/early summer. A strange thought for an 11 year old to have, for sure, but it was there nonetheless. It's as if the me right now, in typing the words here at my work desk, somehow invaded the space/time continuum and put the thoughts in my own head so many years ago. I remember the feeling of youth, the strange power involved in that, and the overwhelming love, like the baby snake unwittingly pushing out too much poison, which coursed through me for the girl that had stopped my heart when I first met her in second grade.
All of it's wrapped up in a shiny ball of memory and definition.
The other day occurred a year later towards our last day of sixth grade. We had a skate day for the sixth graders at the Skate King, and then Chris had a party at his house for our class after that. I had held hands with the above mentioned girl at the Skate King so I was feeling pretty fly, pretty bad ass if you will. I remember sitting on the deck at Chris' place, the coconut smell of tanning oil being put on the arms of some of the young ladies nearby, again freshly cut grass, again an unmarked sky, and again that strange moment of stillness where the volume gets turned down on the rest of the world and I can barely breathe. I remember thinking that everything changes after this, that all of us were rushing headlong into adulthood and tossing our innocence behind us. I wanted to stop everything for just a moment and hold onto the world I was about to let go of. I wanted to tell Steve that Kristin was not only uninterested, but was not ready for a boyfriend. I wanted to grab Chris and make him promise me that we would be friends forever. I wanted to hold the girls hand again, maybe even embrace for a lingering moment.
But the moment ended and I went on drinking Capri Sun and acting like the foolish 12 year old that I was.
So, while fall is my main man season, the one that really does it for me, with spring running a close second, there's something about spring's broad jump into summer that reminds me for a scant moment of that stomach churning excitement of being a kid again.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Up On Cripple Creek" by The Band. This beats the living hell out of Gin Blossom's "Hey Jealousy" that's been in there for the past two days.
Crap, "Hey Jealousy" is back...
And when the weather gets like it is today, clear and sunny in all its pre-summer glory, the weather folks get all a' tremble, their eyes rolling back as they get towards the five day forecast, loads shot on the green screen behind them.
But alas, weather guy 'gasms are not the point here, the point is that when the weather gets to be all clear and warm up here I cannot help but think back to this time of year when I was a child. There are two specific days that always come to mind, the first a late May day in fifth grade. The sky was a spotless pale blue and the fold out, half windows in the classroom were opened in opposition to the stuffiness. I could smell the grass that had just been cut out on the playground.
I distinctly remember this precise moment of stillness where I understood that for the rest of my days, this day would be my example of late spring/early summer. A strange thought for an 11 year old to have, for sure, but it was there nonetheless. It's as if the me right now, in typing the words here at my work desk, somehow invaded the space/time continuum and put the thoughts in my own head so many years ago. I remember the feeling of youth, the strange power involved in that, and the overwhelming love, like the baby snake unwittingly pushing out too much poison, which coursed through me for the girl that had stopped my heart when I first met her in second grade.
All of it's wrapped up in a shiny ball of memory and definition.
The other day occurred a year later towards our last day of sixth grade. We had a skate day for the sixth graders at the Skate King, and then Chris had a party at his house for our class after that. I had held hands with the above mentioned girl at the Skate King so I was feeling pretty fly, pretty bad ass if you will. I remember sitting on the deck at Chris' place, the coconut smell of tanning oil being put on the arms of some of the young ladies nearby, again freshly cut grass, again an unmarked sky, and again that strange moment of stillness where the volume gets turned down on the rest of the world and I can barely breathe. I remember thinking that everything changes after this, that all of us were rushing headlong into adulthood and tossing our innocence behind us. I wanted to stop everything for just a moment and hold onto the world I was about to let go of. I wanted to tell Steve that Kristin was not only uninterested, but was not ready for a boyfriend. I wanted to grab Chris and make him promise me that we would be friends forever. I wanted to hold the girls hand again, maybe even embrace for a lingering moment.
But the moment ended and I went on drinking Capri Sun and acting like the foolish 12 year old that I was.
So, while fall is my main man season, the one that really does it for me, with spring running a close second, there's something about spring's broad jump into summer that reminds me for a scant moment of that stomach churning excitement of being a kid again.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Up On Cripple Creek" by The Band. This beats the living hell out of Gin Blossom's "Hey Jealousy" that's been in there for the past two days.
Crap, "Hey Jealousy" is back...
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
This One Is For The Bronze
This one is for Greta who shot a charge into me when we first spoke on the phone, which managed to stick around and multiply whenever she is in the vicinity. It's for the crazy dance and the morning song and the fact that she wears EVERYTHING on her sleeve, even when it's not so easy to do so.
This one is for Chris, one of the brightest, absolute drop down funny, and kindest men I will ever have the joy of sharing life with. He's like the best sort of drug, he can calm me, he can excite me, he can put things into a perspective that wouldn't have occurred to me. I love him fiercely and trust him with my life.
This one is for Bif, for so many of those everyday reasons like being loving and kind and for being an amazing mother and friend, but this one is mostly for the laugh. You don't go to the laughter to fill an empty space, or to diffuse an uncomfortable situation, you go to laughter 'cause it's the first thing that occurs to you to go to, and it makes me feel like I'm floating. But this one is also because your smell, and the way you feel, the sound of your voice is like "home"; a word with so many malleable word definitions, but very definite emotional ones.
This one is for a late night drive, a bottle of Highland Park, and White Russians in an all night bowling alley just outside of Reno. This one is for one of the worst hotel rooms I've ever spent three hours in, 2 for 1 coupons and again that Highland Park.
This one is for adventures made into everyday occurrences and everyday occurrences turned into adventures. This one is for beer and garlic fries. This one is for the agony and the ecstasy and the calm moments of contentment and the fights in hot and dirty foreign cities and the sheer power of love. This one is for the whole ball of wax kids.
Till the wheels come off...
This one is for Chris, one of the brightest, absolute drop down funny, and kindest men I will ever have the joy of sharing life with. He's like the best sort of drug, he can calm me, he can excite me, he can put things into a perspective that wouldn't have occurred to me. I love him fiercely and trust him with my life.
This one is for Bif, for so many of those everyday reasons like being loving and kind and for being an amazing mother and friend, but this one is mostly for the laugh. You don't go to the laughter to fill an empty space, or to diffuse an uncomfortable situation, you go to laughter 'cause it's the first thing that occurs to you to go to, and it makes me feel like I'm floating. But this one is also because your smell, and the way you feel, the sound of your voice is like "home"; a word with so many malleable word definitions, but very definite emotional ones.
This one is for a late night drive, a bottle of Highland Park, and White Russians in an all night bowling alley just outside of Reno. This one is for one of the worst hotel rooms I've ever spent three hours in, 2 for 1 coupons and again that Highland Park.
This one is for adventures made into everyday occurrences and everyday occurrences turned into adventures. This one is for beer and garlic fries. This one is for the agony and the ecstasy and the calm moments of contentment and the fights in hot and dirty foreign cities and the sheer power of love. This one is for the whole ball of wax kids.
Till the wheels come off...
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Now I Am The One Who Is It
I'm not sure I agree with this, but Mandy tagged me with the task of putting 7 random facts about myself on the bloggy today. But as I was already struggling with something to write about today, I will look at it as a mixed blessing.
1) The first movie that I ever saw was Bambi. I remember being really tickled by the skunk being mistakenly called Flower, and being crushed by the death of Bambi's mom. Oops, shoulda put a spoiler alert there... I remember being confused by the Bambi with antlers at the end and thinking that it was Bambi's deadbeat dad. Bambi bores the piss out of me now, but Jungle Book still rocks it.
2) Nikki 2 K's just handed me a sponge animal in a pill caplet without knowing that I freaking love these things. Once, solely to entertain kc!, I hatched a sponge dinosaur in my mouth. I repeated the trick for Nikki today.
3) The idea that Tylenol comes with laser drilled holes in their caplets to apparently let the medicine out better bothers me for some reason. It seems made up, it seems unnecessary, and it seems like a major waste of lasers.
4) When, in 7th grade, Cherity used Brenda to spread the news to me that she wanted to break up, I acted like it was no big deal, but it in fact broke my twelve year old heart. It also began my lifelong quest to make Brenda pay for the smug smile she had on her face when she approached me in the cafeteria. I'm getting closer Brenda! Do you hear me? Did I actually just write my plan down?
5) In the summer of 1984, my brother, my cousins and I snuck under the porch that my grandfather was building onto their house and each wrote the name of the person we were in love with at the time. The spooky thing is, we all ended up marrying the person whom we had written about; and mine was Abe Vigoda. The last sentence was a lie, none of us ended up with who we were in love with 23 years ago.
6) When I was a kid, I loved the movie Six Pack with Kenny Rogers, the chick from "Silver Spoons", and a bunch of child actors. I'm sure it's awful, but don't sully the memories.
7) When I was a wee baby, I almost drowned when a deck chair behaved like a catapult and threw your shrieking narrator head first into the drink. Thinking quickly, Grandpa leapt off the deck and fished me out. I was apparently smiling as if the whole thing were a game. Mom had spent the months before teaching me to hold my breath in a swimming pool much like this.
I am not going to tag anyone further, I'm taking my ball and going home.
1) The first movie that I ever saw was Bambi. I remember being really tickled by the skunk being mistakenly called Flower, and being crushed by the death of Bambi's mom. Oops, shoulda put a spoiler alert there... I remember being confused by the Bambi with antlers at the end and thinking that it was Bambi's deadbeat dad. Bambi bores the piss out of me now, but Jungle Book still rocks it.
2) Nikki 2 K's just handed me a sponge animal in a pill caplet without knowing that I freaking love these things. Once, solely to entertain kc!, I hatched a sponge dinosaur in my mouth. I repeated the trick for Nikki today.
3) The idea that Tylenol comes with laser drilled holes in their caplets to apparently let the medicine out better bothers me for some reason. It seems made up, it seems unnecessary, and it seems like a major waste of lasers.
4) When, in 7th grade, Cherity used Brenda to spread the news to me that she wanted to break up, I acted like it was no big deal, but it in fact broke my twelve year old heart. It also began my lifelong quest to make Brenda pay for the smug smile she had on her face when she approached me in the cafeteria. I'm getting closer Brenda! Do you hear me? Did I actually just write my plan down?
5) In the summer of 1984, my brother, my cousins and I snuck under the porch that my grandfather was building onto their house and each wrote the name of the person we were in love with at the time. The spooky thing is, we all ended up marrying the person whom we had written about; and mine was Abe Vigoda. The last sentence was a lie, none of us ended up with who we were in love with 23 years ago.
6) When I was a kid, I loved the movie Six Pack with Kenny Rogers, the chick from "Silver Spoons", and a bunch of child actors. I'm sure it's awful, but don't sully the memories.
7) When I was a wee baby, I almost drowned when a deck chair behaved like a catapult and threw your shrieking narrator head first into the drink. Thinking quickly, Grandpa leapt off the deck and fished me out. I was apparently smiling as if the whole thing were a game. Mom had spent the months before teaching me to hold my breath in a swimming pool much like this.
I am not going to tag anyone further, I'm taking my ball and going home.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Some More Late Night Lessons
I am reminding myself that putting a person or persons on a pedestal can very well lead to some heavy pain when that pedestal falls over, breaking convictions and bruising beliefs.
I hold artists in a special place because I want to believe that they are doing good, that they breathe some sort of rare air. I hold them there because I too want to be considered among them. But I also hold them to a higher standard, which their failing is remarkably like a sin in my version of a religion.
I need to remember that artists are human and they will behave as such. There are those that absolutely believe in and chase the infinite, the divine. There are those that travel to another realm and come back speaking a different language, doing their best to translate for the rest of us. There are those that never let loose that little bit of wonder given, as gift, to us as children. There are those who are truly artists even if they do not call themselves such. For every one of those true soldiers however, there are those posing for a glamorous photo. There are those, sometimes it seems like so many, that eat their own hatred and will stop at nothing to pull you down into a mire with painted smiles and elegant glasses of wine. There are those with no knowledge or respect for the sacred in art.
Important to remember that within artists, like within dock workers, there are those who live their lives with an indelible light in their eyes, and there are those who can't wait to tear that light out.
That was a lesson handed to me on Friday and Saturday.
Another lesson handed to me: When you, like the ignorant teenager you sometimes behave like, drink a fair amount of alcohol on an empty stomach, there is no amount of post drunk eating that is going to fix that situation. Even if it involves Triscuits, Garden Herb Triscuits.
Lesson number three: It's so very good to have your special lady friend and your son back home after a week away. This is true even when he wakes you up with his crying in the wee hours of the morning. Man, that kid's smile is gonna be the death of me.
I hold artists in a special place because I want to believe that they are doing good, that they breathe some sort of rare air. I hold them there because I too want to be considered among them. But I also hold them to a higher standard, which their failing is remarkably like a sin in my version of a religion.
I need to remember that artists are human and they will behave as such. There are those that absolutely believe in and chase the infinite, the divine. There are those that travel to another realm and come back speaking a different language, doing their best to translate for the rest of us. There are those that never let loose that little bit of wonder given, as gift, to us as children. There are those who are truly artists even if they do not call themselves such. For every one of those true soldiers however, there are those posing for a glamorous photo. There are those, sometimes it seems like so many, that eat their own hatred and will stop at nothing to pull you down into a mire with painted smiles and elegant glasses of wine. There are those with no knowledge or respect for the sacred in art.
Important to remember that within artists, like within dock workers, there are those who live their lives with an indelible light in their eyes, and there are those who can't wait to tear that light out.
That was a lesson handed to me on Friday and Saturday.
Another lesson handed to me: When you, like the ignorant teenager you sometimes behave like, drink a fair amount of alcohol on an empty stomach, there is no amount of post drunk eating that is going to fix that situation. Even if it involves Triscuits, Garden Herb Triscuits.
Lesson number three: It's so very good to have your special lady friend and your son back home after a week away. This is true even when he wakes you up with his crying in the wee hours of the morning. Man, that kid's smile is gonna be the death of me.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Late Night Lesson
Darren awoke with a start and with the uncomfortable feeling that someone was in his room. He sat up in his bed and sure enough there was a man in a white suit sitting cross legged on the collapsible stool in the corner, a rocks glass in his thin fingers.
"What the...." Darren stammered.
"There is something that I would like to tell the people about power," the man spoke in an effete British accent. "I would like people to realize that power is an abstract theory that in and of itself is worthless unless someone stands by the side and vouches for its worth."
Darren thought the man may be drinking absinthe, but he realized quite suddenly that it may in fact be a Midori sour.
"I wasn't finished Mr. Marshal," the man said.
"My name isn't Mr. Marshal. And how the hell did you get in here?"
"While power in and of itself is worthless, it can be banked in order to purchase other ideas. Some people broker their power so that they may force their will onto others; completely banal. Others invest their power so that they may write, indelibly, their names on the pages of history. Still others use their power in hopes that they can finally stop caring what others think of them. And this is my point Mr. Marshal..."
"My name is not Mr. Marshal, it's Darren Hubbard."
"This is not a privilege that power may purchase."
The man knocked back the rest of his green tinged drink and stood. He collapsed the stool and put it beneath his arm,
"I'm going to take the stool," he said as he walked out the room and, shortly after, out the front door of the apartment.
Confidential to Nikki 2 K’s, Gorgeous and Sarah (if you’re out there): Thanks for coming out last night, I had a good time.
"What the...." Darren stammered.
"There is something that I would like to tell the people about power," the man spoke in an effete British accent. "I would like people to realize that power is an abstract theory that in and of itself is worthless unless someone stands by the side and vouches for its worth."
Darren thought the man may be drinking absinthe, but he realized quite suddenly that it may in fact be a Midori sour.
"I wasn't finished Mr. Marshal," the man said.
"My name isn't Mr. Marshal. And how the hell did you get in here?"
"While power in and of itself is worthless, it can be banked in order to purchase other ideas. Some people broker their power so that they may force their will onto others; completely banal. Others invest their power so that they may write, indelibly, their names on the pages of history. Still others use their power in hopes that they can finally stop caring what others think of them. And this is my point Mr. Marshal..."
"My name is not Mr. Marshal, it's Darren Hubbard."
"This is not a privilege that power may purchase."
The man knocked back the rest of his green tinged drink and stood. He collapsed the stool and put it beneath his arm,
"I'm going to take the stool," he said as he walked out the room and, shortly after, out the front door of the apartment.
Confidential to Nikki 2 K’s, Gorgeous and Sarah (if you’re out there): Thanks for coming out last night, I had a good time.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Self Delusional Interview
As a further example of my mental illness, I have this problem when I read interviews or watch interview shows where I begin to hear my own mind asking me interview questions. I'm currently flipping through some interviews in the 40th anniversary edition of Rolling Stone, it's my current bathroom reading. I was brushing my teeth the other day and heard, quite clearly, an interviewing voice say:
"I notice that you eschew the recommended circular brush technique for the side to side method? Why is that?"
My own voice, sounding much deeper and melodious in my mind than it probably does in life, responded:
"Well, I've been doing it this way since I was a kid. Now it's just a matter of muscle memory."
This is fairly weird I thought to myself, but I remembered that I used to watch the Aresnio Hall Show late at nights and would later imagine Arsenio asking me questions. But they weren't necessarily questions for a famous Billy, just the sort of run of the mill Billy that stands before you today. "Tell me about the time that you were driving nonstop from LA to Seattle." "Wow Arsenio, it was crazy. Somewhere in Oregon I hallucinated hundreds of rabbits crossing the road. Crazy." An imaginary dog pound would pump their fists and hoot.
Occasionally, after watching a documentary, I will also have the feeling that my everyday actions are being recorded for the documentary of my life. Footage of my walk to the market shows, with a voice over of a friend or coworker saying, "He would walk to the store when he needed groceries, sometimes just by himself. There was this one time in the spring of '94 where he was cruising through the produce section and he bought a pineapple; just because he'd never bought a pineapple before."
This would then become a turning point in the documentary, that moment in my life where I realized that peeling and coring a pineapple is no friggin' picnic.
I do the same thing with regular movies though too. I imagine ways that I would help defeat the dreaded Empire, think about all the beer I'd drink on Captain Quint's boat, wish I could help Crocodile Dundee find his way through New York.
Where are these "meds" that everyone keeps talking about?
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Don’t Touch My Bikini” by The Halo Benders.
"I notice that you eschew the recommended circular brush technique for the side to side method? Why is that?"
My own voice, sounding much deeper and melodious in my mind than it probably does in life, responded:
"Well, I've been doing it this way since I was a kid. Now it's just a matter of muscle memory."
This is fairly weird I thought to myself, but I remembered that I used to watch the Aresnio Hall Show late at nights and would later imagine Arsenio asking me questions. But they weren't necessarily questions for a famous Billy, just the sort of run of the mill Billy that stands before you today. "Tell me about the time that you were driving nonstop from LA to Seattle." "Wow Arsenio, it was crazy. Somewhere in Oregon I hallucinated hundreds of rabbits crossing the road. Crazy." An imaginary dog pound would pump their fists and hoot.
Occasionally, after watching a documentary, I will also have the feeling that my everyday actions are being recorded for the documentary of my life. Footage of my walk to the market shows, with a voice over of a friend or coworker saying, "He would walk to the store when he needed groceries, sometimes just by himself. There was this one time in the spring of '94 where he was cruising through the produce section and he bought a pineapple; just because he'd never bought a pineapple before."
This would then become a turning point in the documentary, that moment in my life where I realized that peeling and coring a pineapple is no friggin' picnic.
I do the same thing with regular movies though too. I imagine ways that I would help defeat the dreaded Empire, think about all the beer I'd drink on Captain Quint's boat, wish I could help Crocodile Dundee find his way through New York.
Where are these "meds" that everyone keeps talking about?
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Don’t Touch My Bikini” by The Halo Benders.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
A View Of My Cubicle Wall
2 filled with faith, heavily made up ladies, 2 different views on the fate of Tokyo.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Today Was A Good Day
I got out of bed, fairly well rested, with enough time to get ready without a cat freaking dash through the place. And I had Radiohead's "Black Star" nicely sitting at the front of my mind to boot. I picked up my phone to see that there was a voicemail awaiting. I was a bit concerned that there was a panicked call from the middle of the night in Phoenix, something pertaining to my vacationing wife and child and a windblown horde of scorpions (even if it was the band, yikes). But it was simply my mother informing me that she was at that moment sitting with my son. I could easily assume that already so I was a little unsure of the point. The message sort of felt like a perverse sort of bragging, but I think mom was actually trying to tell me that I have a cute baby; and well, she's right.
I walked through the waking streets of Seattle in that perfect, pale spring morning; no chill riding the air and the trees just digging being trees for the moment. I had the momentum of my walk halted by a red light and at first let out an exasperated sigh through my nostrils. Then I realized I could see the Sound from my place on a hill, the water an impossible mix of hometown blue and the pink of dawn. I could smell the salt coming tramping up the air like a priceless gift drawn by invisible carriage, the smell reminding me, as always, of home and family and history and comfort and living blood, and I realized that it was a good thing that I was stopped for a moment with nothing else to do but take it in.
Later on down the road, I saw a hairy young man aimlessly strumming an acoustic guitar. I was reminded of the wise words of my good friend, and lesbian life partner, Chris Harper: "That's not vagina."
Indeed it was not.
Also not vagina, but a great capper to the first part of my day was the news of Jerry Falwell had left his fat fuck corpse littering his office. Now, I don't know what happens when a person dies, but I certainly hope that in his case he saw the "pearly gates" approaching, God waving him in with 2 thumbs up for a job well done there on earth, before the whole scene morphed into whatever torture chamber is reserved for those evil, intolerant, hateful fucks who spout their foul and ignorant beliefs couched in a perverted form of religion. If there is a hell, welcome to it Mr. Falwell. If reincarnation is the way we're given, I hope you enjoy your next life as shit eating flat worm.
Oh, and I had leftover pizza for lunch! Man, today is a good day.
I walked through the waking streets of Seattle in that perfect, pale spring morning; no chill riding the air and the trees just digging being trees for the moment. I had the momentum of my walk halted by a red light and at first let out an exasperated sigh through my nostrils. Then I realized I could see the Sound from my place on a hill, the water an impossible mix of hometown blue and the pink of dawn. I could smell the salt coming tramping up the air like a priceless gift drawn by invisible carriage, the smell reminding me, as always, of home and family and history and comfort and living blood, and I realized that it was a good thing that I was stopped for a moment with nothing else to do but take it in.
Later on down the road, I saw a hairy young man aimlessly strumming an acoustic guitar. I was reminded of the wise words of my good friend, and lesbian life partner, Chris Harper: "That's not vagina."
Indeed it was not.
Also not vagina, but a great capper to the first part of my day was the news of Jerry Falwell had left his fat fuck corpse littering his office. Now, I don't know what happens when a person dies, but I certainly hope that in his case he saw the "pearly gates" approaching, God waving him in with 2 thumbs up for a job well done there on earth, before the whole scene morphed into whatever torture chamber is reserved for those evil, intolerant, hateful fucks who spout their foul and ignorant beliefs couched in a perverted form of religion. If there is a hell, welcome to it Mr. Falwell. If reincarnation is the way we're given, I hope you enjoy your next life as shit eating flat worm.
Oh, and I had leftover pizza for lunch! Man, today is a good day.
Monday, May 14, 2007
You're The Root, You're The Hanging Tree
Once again, it's good to remember that I share time in this world with Califone.
Califone shuffled into town to play for 2+ hours in a small bar in the Ballard area of town. We set up Saturday night way ahead of time, we sort of have to set up anything way ahead of time now, so we got to celebrate the coming of Bif's first Mother's Day with a little bit of musical magic.
I first learned of Califone when we saw them opening for another band years ago at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. There wasn't this sort of polite listening and clapping that occurs with most wading through opening acts to get to the headliner, I was immediately taken, from note one they had me in their rusty and dusty clutches.
Califone seems like the strange fruit that grows in the shadows of the blues, seems like they fell in love with living in the spooky reverb that comes behind a guitar's well placed slide, they seem to be unafraid of jumping into the momentary rip left when a stick is dragged through the mud, unafraid of being smothered in warm, thick, darkness.
There's something homespun and comforting about Califone, but also something slightly off and scary which, man oh man, is the best effing combination. I closed my eyes and drifted along their dirty jam, feeling like they were leading me through some non trampled portion of the world that everyone else has forgotten about, through weeds grown higher than my head. They were taking me through darkness, into a place of darkness, pulling seductively, and I could feel a break coming, a parting of the weeds where everything was about to get too god damn sexy. I felt like they were going to pull me into a slight clearing that was carnal, the sort of blissful animal sex where there is no thought of tomorrow, no thought of hang ups, just hot fucking. They parted the weeds slowly, and did we find "2 Sisters Drunk on Each Other"? Yes we did. And I had to let out a yelp just to relieve the tension.
Despite a stomach ache that had me grimacing through the evening, despite the angry taste of aspirin sliding down my throat, despite my unending anger at the idiots talking their heads off around me, the magic of Califone would not be denied to me.
Thank you Califone, and thank you Bif for being a hot mama.
Califone shuffled into town to play for 2+ hours in a small bar in the Ballard area of town. We set up Saturday night way ahead of time, we sort of have to set up anything way ahead of time now, so we got to celebrate the coming of Bif's first Mother's Day with a little bit of musical magic.
I first learned of Califone when we saw them opening for another band years ago at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco. There wasn't this sort of polite listening and clapping that occurs with most wading through opening acts to get to the headliner, I was immediately taken, from note one they had me in their rusty and dusty clutches.
Califone seems like the strange fruit that grows in the shadows of the blues, seems like they fell in love with living in the spooky reverb that comes behind a guitar's well placed slide, they seem to be unafraid of jumping into the momentary rip left when a stick is dragged through the mud, unafraid of being smothered in warm, thick, darkness.
There's something homespun and comforting about Califone, but also something slightly off and scary which, man oh man, is the best effing combination. I closed my eyes and drifted along their dirty jam, feeling like they were leading me through some non trampled portion of the world that everyone else has forgotten about, through weeds grown higher than my head. They were taking me through darkness, into a place of darkness, pulling seductively, and I could feel a break coming, a parting of the weeds where everything was about to get too god damn sexy. I felt like they were going to pull me into a slight clearing that was carnal, the sort of blissful animal sex where there is no thought of tomorrow, no thought of hang ups, just hot fucking. They parted the weeds slowly, and did we find "2 Sisters Drunk on Each Other"? Yes we did. And I had to let out a yelp just to relieve the tension.
Despite a stomach ache that had me grimacing through the evening, despite the angry taste of aspirin sliding down my throat, despite my unending anger at the idiots talking their heads off around me, the magic of Califone would not be denied to me.
Thank you Califone, and thank you Bif for being a hot mama.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Potent Potables
You know those scenes in movies when a character is slipped a drugged drink and loses consciousness? The fat man ruffied Bogie in The Maltese Falcon, Jackie Treehorn slipped The Dude a Mickey in The Big Lebowski, and they're all similar. There's a point of view shot where things start to go a little out of focus, and a shot of the actor realizing with their now fuzzy brains that they've been had...
When I see this happen, I get this tight feeling of empathy in my stomach. I know what it feels like to be enjoying a cocktail and suddenly realize that you've been led astray, that you will quickly be in a very compromising state of affairs where someone can either rifle through your apartment or mock you while you are unable to form words. Tequila is my Mickey.
Some of us were gathered together for Cinco de Mayo a number of years back. I was being careful, knowing fully well that tequila will beckon you to the edge of reason oh so seductively, and also having a recent tequila disaster still sitting fresh in my mind like agave flavored road kill. But no matter how careful I am, Tequila will eventually jump my bones and hump me ragged.
Slowly sipping drinks, keeping a careful count, I was having a discussion with kc! when it happened. My POV shot became a little out of focus and I had that drop in my stomach, like hitting that first big and queasy hill on a rollercoaster, that let me know that tequila had won this battle. I had to mumble an excuse that was all M's and long vowels, but no actual discernable words, and make my way outside to breathe deep the air.
Things turned out okay that time, but not long before that all hell broke loose. Broke loose on a boat. A landlocked boat filled with coworkers.
I became "that guy" at the work holiday party. But first let me tell you about this delightful way to do a tequila shot; instead of the normal lick of salt, then shot, then suck a lime, you lick some hot sauce off your hand and then do the shot - like a Prairie Fire, but not as damaging to your esophagus. Well, after 5 or six of those, oh yeah and a deathly cortisone shot a few days before, I was again having a pleasant discussion when suddenly came the "Mickey shot".
There as no suspense this time, no slow focus pull, no meandering understanding that things were going to get bad. I was talking, and seeing things quite clearly, and then suddenly I wasn't. In the blink of an eye, I could no longer see. I couldn't really form words anymore either. I again tossed out an M or two, a long "uuuuuh" and made my way outside to smoke a cigarette as if nicotine were the miracle drug that would rearrange the mish mash of chemicals currently crippling me.
The sad and scary part of it was that there was this seed of sober me locked away in a drunken prison in the center of my brain. I could understand what was happening, I could form thoughts but they shattered passing through the rivers of spicy liquor, I could see that I was fucked but was unable to do a damn thing about it.
I had friends who did their best to keep me safe and comfortable, but I ended up being pushed through a wide-eyed kitchen staff, embarrassing the hell out of my wife, and vomiting off the rail of said landlocked boat, watching it fall for what seemed like three stories into the San Francisco Bay.
So I spent this last Cinco de Mayo not drinking tequila, much as I will spend every other day de Mayo not drinking tequila. Tequila and I went through a rocky trial separation, but I'm happy to say that we are now divorced. I'm keeping monogamous with you whisky, kisses.
When I see this happen, I get this tight feeling of empathy in my stomach. I know what it feels like to be enjoying a cocktail and suddenly realize that you've been led astray, that you will quickly be in a very compromising state of affairs where someone can either rifle through your apartment or mock you while you are unable to form words. Tequila is my Mickey.
Some of us were gathered together for Cinco de Mayo a number of years back. I was being careful, knowing fully well that tequila will beckon you to the edge of reason oh so seductively, and also having a recent tequila disaster still sitting fresh in my mind like agave flavored road kill. But no matter how careful I am, Tequila will eventually jump my bones and hump me ragged.
Slowly sipping drinks, keeping a careful count, I was having a discussion with kc! when it happened. My POV shot became a little out of focus and I had that drop in my stomach, like hitting that first big and queasy hill on a rollercoaster, that let me know that tequila had won this battle. I had to mumble an excuse that was all M's and long vowels, but no actual discernable words, and make my way outside to breathe deep the air.
Things turned out okay that time, but not long before that all hell broke loose. Broke loose on a boat. A landlocked boat filled with coworkers.
I became "that guy" at the work holiday party. But first let me tell you about this delightful way to do a tequila shot; instead of the normal lick of salt, then shot, then suck a lime, you lick some hot sauce off your hand and then do the shot - like a Prairie Fire, but not as damaging to your esophagus. Well, after 5 or six of those, oh yeah and a deathly cortisone shot a few days before, I was again having a pleasant discussion when suddenly came the "Mickey shot".
There as no suspense this time, no slow focus pull, no meandering understanding that things were going to get bad. I was talking, and seeing things quite clearly, and then suddenly I wasn't. In the blink of an eye, I could no longer see. I couldn't really form words anymore either. I again tossed out an M or two, a long "uuuuuh" and made my way outside to smoke a cigarette as if nicotine were the miracle drug that would rearrange the mish mash of chemicals currently crippling me.
The sad and scary part of it was that there was this seed of sober me locked away in a drunken prison in the center of my brain. I could understand what was happening, I could form thoughts but they shattered passing through the rivers of spicy liquor, I could see that I was fucked but was unable to do a damn thing about it.
I had friends who did their best to keep me safe and comfortable, but I ended up being pushed through a wide-eyed kitchen staff, embarrassing the hell out of my wife, and vomiting off the rail of said landlocked boat, watching it fall for what seemed like three stories into the San Francisco Bay.
So I spent this last Cinco de Mayo not drinking tequila, much as I will spend every other day de Mayo not drinking tequila. Tequila and I went through a rocky trial separation, but I'm happy to say that we are now divorced. I'm keeping monogamous with you whisky, kisses.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Notable Quotables
"It's a silly movie. ... There just isn't much there. Once you take it all apart, there's not much story, is there?" - George Lucas reviewing Spider Man 3.
I'm not really sure that George Lucas has earned the right to critique someone else’s special effects extravaganza, it reminds me of glass houses and black kettles and what not. This is like George W feeling all superior... well, to anyone. This is coming from a man who took a good adolescent male fantasy epic and introduced 2 forms of cancer called "Episode 1" and "Jar Jar Binks".
Upon encountering unfamiliar Canadian poppy quarters, U.S. Army contractors, traveling in Canada, said that they filed confidential espionage accounts about them. The worried contractors described the coins as "filled with something man-made that looked like nano-technology."
I guess I hope that U.S. Army contractors will be somewhat rational, I guess I expect too much out of people representing my country. My only guess is that these guys enjoyed some of Canada's over the counter codeine and went back to their hotel room to read a bunch of cyberpunk. Seriously? Nano technology? On a frigging quarter? Did these guys think Canada was trying to take over the world with their nano spy quarters? Don't they know Canadian quarters end up gathering dust in some novelty ashtray on a bookshelf? You can't even use 'em in a vending machine for Christ's sake. I haven't seen paranoia like this since I convinced my tripping roommate that the pizza man knocking on the door was actually building security.
"The American public who support Paris are shocked, dismayed and appalled by how Paris has been the person to be used as an example that drunk driving is wrong. She provides hope for young people all over the US and the world. She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives. If the late former President Gerald Ford could find it in his heart to pardon the late former President Richard Nixon after his mistake(s), we undeniably support Paris Hilton being pardoned for her honest mistake as well." - wording on a petition to keep Paris Hilton out of prison.
Wow, I don't know what to say. Oh yeah I do; fuck you, you sniveling cunt. You were drunk driving after being busted for already drunk driving. You can afford to have your skanky ass driven around in a limo, but you were dumb enough to get popped twice. No one is making an example of you, you are finally being held responsible for your actions for the first time in your spoiled life. The thought of you going to prison has brought so much happiness to my life that I only regret that you will not be being locked up in a male prison where all those post modern prison house fears, that sometimes keep the white collar section of America in line, could be perpetrated on you by big, sweaty convicts. If Fox's marketing gurus were on top of it, they would be planning the next season of The Simple Life around this; Paris crying through puffy, blackened eyes and Nicole pressing her withered breast against the glass of the visitor's vestibule.
But I'm being too harsh, after all Paris has brought beauty and excitement to my otherwise mundane life. And anyone who compares themselves to Nixon is okay in my book.
Just some things that I have read in the last couple of days to recharge my cynical battery, just wanted to share.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" by Echo And The Bunnymen.
I'm not really sure that George Lucas has earned the right to critique someone else’s special effects extravaganza, it reminds me of glass houses and black kettles and what not. This is like George W feeling all superior... well, to anyone. This is coming from a man who took a good adolescent male fantasy epic and introduced 2 forms of cancer called "Episode 1" and "Jar Jar Binks".
Upon encountering unfamiliar Canadian poppy quarters, U.S. Army contractors, traveling in Canada, said that they filed confidential espionage accounts about them. The worried contractors described the coins as "filled with something man-made that looked like nano-technology."
I guess I hope that U.S. Army contractors will be somewhat rational, I guess I expect too much out of people representing my country. My only guess is that these guys enjoyed some of Canada's over the counter codeine and went back to their hotel room to read a bunch of cyberpunk. Seriously? Nano technology? On a frigging quarter? Did these guys think Canada was trying to take over the world with their nano spy quarters? Don't they know Canadian quarters end up gathering dust in some novelty ashtray on a bookshelf? You can't even use 'em in a vending machine for Christ's sake. I haven't seen paranoia like this since I convinced my tripping roommate that the pizza man knocking on the door was actually building security.
"The American public who support Paris are shocked, dismayed and appalled by how Paris has been the person to be used as an example that drunk driving is wrong. She provides hope for young people all over the US and the world. She provides beauty and excitement to (most of) our otherwise mundane lives. If the late former President Gerald Ford could find it in his heart to pardon the late former President Richard Nixon after his mistake(s), we undeniably support Paris Hilton being pardoned for her honest mistake as well." - wording on a petition to keep Paris Hilton out of prison.
Wow, I don't know what to say. Oh yeah I do; fuck you, you sniveling cunt. You were drunk driving after being busted for already drunk driving. You can afford to have your skanky ass driven around in a limo, but you were dumb enough to get popped twice. No one is making an example of you, you are finally being held responsible for your actions for the first time in your spoiled life. The thought of you going to prison has brought so much happiness to my life that I only regret that you will not be being locked up in a male prison where all those post modern prison house fears, that sometimes keep the white collar section of America in line, could be perpetrated on you by big, sweaty convicts. If Fox's marketing gurus were on top of it, they would be planning the next season of The Simple Life around this; Paris crying through puffy, blackened eyes and Nicole pressing her withered breast against the glass of the visitor's vestibule.
But I'm being too harsh, after all Paris has brought beauty and excitement to my otherwise mundane life. And anyone who compares themselves to Nixon is okay in my book.
Just some things that I have read in the last couple of days to recharge my cynical battery, just wanted to share.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" by Echo And The Bunnymen.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Radio Wars
I was barely into the trek home yesterday when I landed in the middle of an apparent turf war. I had passed a group of three, placing vinyl banners for The End 107.7 on every lamp post and wooden pole available. Not two blocks away I came across another three, also placing vinyl banners on all available free space for KISW 99.9.
It was as if The End kids had started from the south, marking their territory like vinyl pissing dogs, and the KISW clan came down from the north. The apparent Mason-Dixon Line is Edgar Martinez Drive, just where Safeco Field sits. When I passed the three unpaid KISW interns, the girl with eye makeup heavier than an acid trip bummer was muttering into a cell phone and looking despondently down towards the interns from Seattle's home for alternative rock.
Walking back through the war zone this morning, I was traveling through the rawk territory of KISW, all of those black banners far more insistent pollution than the empty energy drink cans and crumpled newspaper. As I was not wearing a denim jacket or longish hair, I didn't really feel safe until I crossed Edgar Martinez.
Then again, I wasn't wearing any of that strange skater/goth uniform (with some dayglo here and there for attention) that seems to be the alternative code of dress. But I did at least have my iPod as proof that I had some Smashing Pumpkins, some Modest Mouse. I just hoped that my complete catalogue of Zeppelin's studio albums wouldn't cause me to be pushed back into KISW country and make me late for work.
I believe that The End 107.7 is owned by the same company that owns Live 105 in San Francisco - they have the exact same play list, are skewed for the exact samely dressed demographic. I will assume it's Clear Channel as, due to government deregulation, they seem to own most of the western hemisphere. It would appear it's the same company that owns the once mighty World Famous KROQ.
I hold a special place in my heart for Southern California's KROQ. Back in those halcyon days of the mid to late 80's, KROQ was playing stuff that could not be heard on any other station in the area. *Well, you could hear a lot of it on 91X, but that was coming from over the Mexican border and difficult to get clearly too far outside of San Diego. My discovery of KROQ coincides with my beginning infatuations with music, so admittedly my memories are painted a bit rosy. But daily I was being seduced by the likes of The Cure, The Smiths, Oingo Boingo, The Clash, X, Depeche Mode, Love and Rockets, Pixies. Man oh man, it was love.
I look back at the original World Famous KROQ as this bastion of salvation in the sad wasteland that is suburban Southern California; a delightful, neon church in a rotting landscape of conspicuous consumption and denial. It spoke to the outsider in us, gave us some sort of power, taught us to love.
It what? Never mind...
About the time I was moving out on my own, MTV was co-opting the music I had spent the last four years listening to and selling it as "alternative". When it was discovered that there was a market for it, suddenly every douche bag programming manager was slavering over "alternative". Grunge came in, a new wave of punk came in, and eventually everything morphed in to this thrasher rap/rock amalgam that fit every station’s play list, no matter what they were selling themselves as.
I'm honestly unsure what the radio stations are playing these days. Like that codgerly old man I promised myself I would never become, I walk past lines for station sponsored shows and bemusedly shake my head at the kids who seem so willing to merge their identity with the rest of the line, all those similar outfits and hairstyles.
But hey, maybe they're cleverly playing on the idea that choice is an illusion in these corporate owned days. On checking the websites for KISW and The End 107.7 to see what their play lists are, I discovered that the websites are EXACTLY the same. Maybe I'm the douche bag living a deluded life.
It was as if The End kids had started from the south, marking their territory like vinyl pissing dogs, and the KISW clan came down from the north. The apparent Mason-Dixon Line is Edgar Martinez Drive, just where Safeco Field sits. When I passed the three unpaid KISW interns, the girl with eye makeup heavier than an acid trip bummer was muttering into a cell phone and looking despondently down towards the interns from Seattle's home for alternative rock.
Walking back through the war zone this morning, I was traveling through the rawk territory of KISW, all of those black banners far more insistent pollution than the empty energy drink cans and crumpled newspaper. As I was not wearing a denim jacket or longish hair, I didn't really feel safe until I crossed Edgar Martinez.
Then again, I wasn't wearing any of that strange skater/goth uniform (with some dayglo here and there for attention) that seems to be the alternative code of dress. But I did at least have my iPod as proof that I had some Smashing Pumpkins, some Modest Mouse. I just hoped that my complete catalogue of Zeppelin's studio albums wouldn't cause me to be pushed back into KISW country and make me late for work.
I believe that The End 107.7 is owned by the same company that owns Live 105 in San Francisco - they have the exact same play list, are skewed for the exact samely dressed demographic. I will assume it's Clear Channel as, due to government deregulation, they seem to own most of the western hemisphere. It would appear it's the same company that owns the once mighty World Famous KROQ.
I hold a special place in my heart for Southern California's KROQ. Back in those halcyon days of the mid to late 80's, KROQ was playing stuff that could not be heard on any other station in the area. *Well, you could hear a lot of it on 91X, but that was coming from over the Mexican border and difficult to get clearly too far outside of San Diego. My discovery of KROQ coincides with my beginning infatuations with music, so admittedly my memories are painted a bit rosy. But daily I was being seduced by the likes of The Cure, The Smiths, Oingo Boingo, The Clash, X, Depeche Mode, Love and Rockets, Pixies. Man oh man, it was love.
I look back at the original World Famous KROQ as this bastion of salvation in the sad wasteland that is suburban Southern California; a delightful, neon church in a rotting landscape of conspicuous consumption and denial. It spoke to the outsider in us, gave us some sort of power, taught us to love.
It what? Never mind...
About the time I was moving out on my own, MTV was co-opting the music I had spent the last four years listening to and selling it as "alternative". When it was discovered that there was a market for it, suddenly every douche bag programming manager was slavering over "alternative". Grunge came in, a new wave of punk came in, and eventually everything morphed in to this thrasher rap/rock amalgam that fit every station’s play list, no matter what they were selling themselves as.
I'm honestly unsure what the radio stations are playing these days. Like that codgerly old man I promised myself I would never become, I walk past lines for station sponsored shows and bemusedly shake my head at the kids who seem so willing to merge their identity with the rest of the line, all those similar outfits and hairstyles.
But hey, maybe they're cleverly playing on the idea that choice is an illusion in these corporate owned days. On checking the websites for KISW and The End 107.7 to see what their play lists are, I discovered that the websites are EXACTLY the same. Maybe I'm the douche bag living a deluded life.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Gerald And His Street Cred
Gerald, the slow rotting Easter bunny, sat on a weather worn bench and tried not to shift his vaguely itching ass for fear of getting a sliver he could not reach. Spring had moved from its wet and cold stage to its overly bright and warm stage practically overnight. It was as if someone in Season Control had flipped a switched.
Groaning, Gerald looked out over an expanse of well mowed park. He was way too hot to deal with this kind of day. He was also way too hung over to deal with this kind of day. The brightly colored flowers shot rays of pain directly into his corneas and the heat seemed to be baking his brain inside his nappy fur covered skull. The baking brain theory would be a good explanation for the pulsing headache that made him feel like sicking up his Old Crow breakfast.
"Jesus," he said to no one at all. "Shouldn't I be in a hole or something?"
Gerald didn't have a hole. He had a shitty, unclean, one bedroom apartment over on Water Street so close to the train tracks that he could feel the Burlington Northern's passing as he sat on the couch he'd pulled from the dump. Technically he talked a couple of fifteen year olds into pulling the couch out for him, promising them a bottle of cut rate vodka, of which he drank half and replaced with water.
"What up Gerald?" some college fuck sat down next to him. Gerald got the feeling that hanging out with him became some sort of bragging point within the college fuck community.
"What's up kid?" Gerald coughed which turned into a retch that he almost didn't recover from without making a mess.
"Whoah! What's that smell?"
"Your probably smelling the stench you mom left on my face last night."
The kid laughed and pulled a joint from his breast pocket, lit it up. Gerald watched him, once again fighting back the urge to vomit. The kid looked over at him with half lidded eyes and offered the joint his way. Gerald put the joint to his lips, and with one immense intake, turned the rest of the doobie to ash.
"Way to bogart it man," the kid said with an uncomfortable laugh.
Gerald began coughing, his entire shambling body shaking. It was one of those coughs that started a domino effect of more coughs. Gerald's aching eyes began tearing up.
"I mean seriously dude," the kid began. "I was trying to be..."
Gerald's coughing crossed a threshold, and with a sound like something being torn in half, Gerald ralphed all over the kid's legs.
"Better," Gerald said.
"Dude!" was all the kid could think to say.
"You're lucky I don't cover you with a bunch of little shit pellets." Gerald shifted his bulk off of the bench to begin his shuffling trek to his apartment and managed to imbed a green painted sliver into the flesh of his haunch.
"Mother puss bucket," he muttered.
Groaning, Gerald looked out over an expanse of well mowed park. He was way too hot to deal with this kind of day. He was also way too hung over to deal with this kind of day. The brightly colored flowers shot rays of pain directly into his corneas and the heat seemed to be baking his brain inside his nappy fur covered skull. The baking brain theory would be a good explanation for the pulsing headache that made him feel like sicking up his Old Crow breakfast.
"Jesus," he said to no one at all. "Shouldn't I be in a hole or something?"
Gerald didn't have a hole. He had a shitty, unclean, one bedroom apartment over on Water Street so close to the train tracks that he could feel the Burlington Northern's passing as he sat on the couch he'd pulled from the dump. Technically he talked a couple of fifteen year olds into pulling the couch out for him, promising them a bottle of cut rate vodka, of which he drank half and replaced with water.
"What up Gerald?" some college fuck sat down next to him. Gerald got the feeling that hanging out with him became some sort of bragging point within the college fuck community.
"What's up kid?" Gerald coughed which turned into a retch that he almost didn't recover from without making a mess.
"Whoah! What's that smell?"
"Your probably smelling the stench you mom left on my face last night."
The kid laughed and pulled a joint from his breast pocket, lit it up. Gerald watched him, once again fighting back the urge to vomit. The kid looked over at him with half lidded eyes and offered the joint his way. Gerald put the joint to his lips, and with one immense intake, turned the rest of the doobie to ash.
"Way to bogart it man," the kid said with an uncomfortable laugh.
Gerald began coughing, his entire shambling body shaking. It was one of those coughs that started a domino effect of more coughs. Gerald's aching eyes began tearing up.
"I mean seriously dude," the kid began. "I was trying to be..."
Gerald's coughing crossed a threshold, and with a sound like something being torn in half, Gerald ralphed all over the kid's legs.
"Better," Gerald said.
"Dude!" was all the kid could think to say.
"You're lucky I don't cover you with a bunch of little shit pellets." Gerald shifted his bulk off of the bench to begin his shuffling trek to his apartment and managed to imbed a green painted sliver into the flesh of his haunch.
"Mother puss bucket," he muttered.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Crossing Borders
Bif, like a champion, ran the Vancouver Half Marathon this weekend, a mere 5 months after having a baby extraction performed. This is Vancouver, Canada and not Vancouver, Washington. This is a distinction that many folks up here feel needs to be made. Though it seems to me like living in Dallas and telling someone you're kind of excited as your vacation to Paris is coming up in a couple of days and they ask, "Paris, Texas?"
So no, Vancouver, Washington was not hosting a marathon this weekend. Vancouver, Washington in fact touts it's city's contributions by explaining what is 30 minutes to 2 hours away from it. So yes, I crossed an international border this weekend.
It had been a number of years since I had been to Canada and over a dozen of them since I had crossed the border in a car. I don't remember the border and customs officials being so dour and all questioning like. I mean frankly, it was none of Ms. Officer McInterrogation's business why my wife was not in the car with me. But as I don't like to be facing down the barrels of multiple firearms - the last time was no frigging picnic - I answered her unsmiling questions with my own short, unsmiling answers.
I like Canada. It seems very nice, pastoral, and clean. It reminds me of being smack dab in the middle of a Sunday afternoon PBS special; not something I'd want to do all the time necessarily, but good times occasionally. I didn't really get a chance to check out Vancouver in a vacation like aspect, I was only in the country for about 19 hours, but I would certainly like to go back and spend some quality time there. The 10 block square of downtown that I got to know pretty well seemed nice. I was reminded of San Francisco quite a bit, particularly in driving through Stanley Park and onto the Lion's Gate Bridge and into North Vancouver. It felt remarkably similar to cruising through Golden Gate Park on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin.
So a little tired (read actually A LOT tired), but in a calm and PBS kinda place, I wished my parents-in-law farewell, kissed my wife and son goodbye, and headed back across the border solo. As I sat waiting on a light in the part of town I had now driven through for the eighth time, I looked over at one of the stone buildings that sit in that city so comfortably among the tall towers that seem to have been transplanted from some European city somehow, and I saw a young man that looked like Damon at 19. He must have sensed my staring at him, because he looked over and we locked eyes for a moment.
I thought how strange it would be to run into him again here, so many years later and in another country. I wanted to know how his demons were faring. I wanted to know if he had ever found someone to love, if he had any kids, and what a strange twisting feeling in my gut that was caused by my imagining him my own age and with children. I wanted to know if he ever got into Radiohead, what he'd thought about Lost Highway and if he'd ever lifted his self imposed embargo against black and white films. I wondered if he liked Thai food, if he'd ever gotten to Germany, I wondered if he would have enjoyed Vancouver. Vancouver seemed like the sort of city that would have fit him well if he were to be in a city.
The remainder of the trip was a pulsing miasma of border crossing frustration, yawns, and that sort of bordering on hysterical laughter that seems to only be birthed with near exhaustion and hours in a car alone. But there was also a small amount of disappointment that I did not actually find Damon ambling down a Vancouver sidewalk.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Idylls Of The King" by The Mountain Goats.
So no, Vancouver, Washington was not hosting a marathon this weekend. Vancouver, Washington in fact touts it's city's contributions by explaining what is 30 minutes to 2 hours away from it. So yes, I crossed an international border this weekend.
It had been a number of years since I had been to Canada and over a dozen of them since I had crossed the border in a car. I don't remember the border and customs officials being so dour and all questioning like. I mean frankly, it was none of Ms. Officer McInterrogation's business why my wife was not in the car with me. But as I don't like to be facing down the barrels of multiple firearms - the last time was no frigging picnic - I answered her unsmiling questions with my own short, unsmiling answers.
I like Canada. It seems very nice, pastoral, and clean. It reminds me of being smack dab in the middle of a Sunday afternoon PBS special; not something I'd want to do all the time necessarily, but good times occasionally. I didn't really get a chance to check out Vancouver in a vacation like aspect, I was only in the country for about 19 hours, but I would certainly like to go back and spend some quality time there. The 10 block square of downtown that I got to know pretty well seemed nice. I was reminded of San Francisco quite a bit, particularly in driving through Stanley Park and onto the Lion's Gate Bridge and into North Vancouver. It felt remarkably similar to cruising through Golden Gate Park on the way to the Golden Gate Bridge and into Marin.
So a little tired (read actually A LOT tired), but in a calm and PBS kinda place, I wished my parents-in-law farewell, kissed my wife and son goodbye, and headed back across the border solo. As I sat waiting on a light in the part of town I had now driven through for the eighth time, I looked over at one of the stone buildings that sit in that city so comfortably among the tall towers that seem to have been transplanted from some European city somehow, and I saw a young man that looked like Damon at 19. He must have sensed my staring at him, because he looked over and we locked eyes for a moment.
I thought how strange it would be to run into him again here, so many years later and in another country. I wanted to know how his demons were faring. I wanted to know if he had ever found someone to love, if he had any kids, and what a strange twisting feeling in my gut that was caused by my imagining him my own age and with children. I wanted to know if he ever got into Radiohead, what he'd thought about Lost Highway and if he'd ever lifted his self imposed embargo against black and white films. I wondered if he liked Thai food, if he'd ever gotten to Germany, I wondered if he would have enjoyed Vancouver. Vancouver seemed like the sort of city that would have fit him well if he were to be in a city.
The remainder of the trip was a pulsing miasma of border crossing frustration, yawns, and that sort of bordering on hysterical laughter that seems to only be birthed with near exhaustion and hours in a car alone. But there was also a small amount of disappointment that I did not actually find Damon ambling down a Vancouver sidewalk.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Idylls Of The King" by The Mountain Goats.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Operators Are Standing By
Are your demons flabby and listless? Do your demons get winded walking to the refrigerator to make another peanut butter and butter sandwich? Is one or more of your demons close to blindness or losing a foot from their obesity related illnesses?
Then exercise your demons on the newly enhanced Exorbike!
Redesigned with today’s demons in mind, all parts are forged in the eternal fires of hell. New properties make the seat and hand grips flame retardant and practically immune to the abuse of otherworldly pus drippings. The peddles come with a special "cloven hoof" attachment.
Check out the raves from these satisfied customers!
"Some people may think it's vain, but I want to look my sexiest when I'm reminding Shirley of her abusive childhood. I was tired of seeing all that flab when I caught my reflection in the mirror. And now I just feel hot! Look out clubs, here I come!" - Azreal P.
"I have a pretty sedentary type job, you know? I just figured that as long as I'm sitting on my gigantic, scaled ass, I can ride a stationary bike as well. This way I can get in shape, still watch The View and keep up on my job of shouting out reminders, 'you love coke, you love coke.' It's awesome." - Beazelruger F.
"The strain of simply rolling over onto my right side when the left side of my body went to sleep caused me to pass out on at least four occasions. I realized it might be time to get a little movement in my routine. The Exorbike has given me a new lease on life, and a ton more energy. So much energy that I'm pushing old Theo to suicide with the constant reminders of his deviant sexual desires. Whatever, he's a sick fuck." - Lester K.
Remember, the Exorbike makes a great gift for Mother's Day! Order today!
Then exercise your demons on the newly enhanced Exorbike!
Redesigned with today’s demons in mind, all parts are forged in the eternal fires of hell. New properties make the seat and hand grips flame retardant and practically immune to the abuse of otherworldly pus drippings. The peddles come with a special "cloven hoof" attachment.
Check out the raves from these satisfied customers!
"Some people may think it's vain, but I want to look my sexiest when I'm reminding Shirley of her abusive childhood. I was tired of seeing all that flab when I caught my reflection in the mirror. And now I just feel hot! Look out clubs, here I come!" - Azreal P.
"I have a pretty sedentary type job, you know? I just figured that as long as I'm sitting on my gigantic, scaled ass, I can ride a stationary bike as well. This way I can get in shape, still watch The View and keep up on my job of shouting out reminders, 'you love coke, you love coke.' It's awesome." - Beazelruger F.
"The strain of simply rolling over onto my right side when the left side of my body went to sleep caused me to pass out on at least four occasions. I realized it might be time to get a little movement in my routine. The Exorbike has given me a new lease on life, and a ton more energy. So much energy that I'm pushing old Theo to suicide with the constant reminders of his deviant sexual desires. Whatever, he's a sick fuck." - Lester K.
Remember, the Exorbike makes a great gift for Mother's Day! Order today!
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Take It Away
There are few times in my life that I have been genuinely embarrassed, I don't much care if I'm thought of as a fool. There is plenty of regret, plenty of moments that I wish I could go back say what I said just a little differently, but there are only a handful of moments that I'm embarrassed about, and only one that I really hang onto.
I'm hoping to exorcise it here, it's ridiculous that I'm still holding onto it.
Come here, take my hand, let's go back to San Francisco in the early 90's. Grunge was the rage, Tarantino was the name on all the film freaks' lips and I have no idea what was on television as we didn't have one that worked. Oh, and my roommate and I were smoking a lot of pot.
Now the best way to go about having that sort of daily pot habit is to have a steady dealer, or at least know someone who knew of a dealer. We did not, we relied on buying in with others when we heard about it, or lord help us, buying off the street. Back when I first moved to Magic Town, you couldn't walk two blocks down Haight Street without being offered pot or 'shroomies.
Our first street fishing experience paid off well with some transient looking fellow tossing down a baggie of green onto a table of the Happy Donuts at Shrader and Haight; a bag of some of the stoniest green I'd ever experienced by the by. Every expedition afterwards seemed to end in tears, either waiting restlessly at 6th and Mission while the rest of the expeditionary forces tried to figure out how they were going to tell your parents that you were dead, or walking away with a bag full of rolled up green paper.
So Robo Nixon comes for a visit from Chico and asks, amiably enough, if we have any green. We did not. No fears, he says, he knows a guy who lives on the San Francisco State campus who probably has some. He feels the need to go visit for a couple of minutes while he's in town anyway.
Well, Robo's friend lived in the new student apartment building on campus. The two of them stood in the living room catching up while I sat on a chair and thought about just how much money it cost to live in this place, stewed in the jealousy of friend's film major roommate's ability to have a 16mm camera lying haphazardly on the floor with the laundry. Not really paying attention to the conversation, I only picked up on the words, "titty joint."
Mistakenly thinking that he was complaining about purchasing a small joint, I threw out in commiseration, "Every time I buy drugs in this city I get ripped off."
When I took a moment to take in the bewildered and somewhat annoyed looks, and a quick moment to try to rewind the brain's recording of the conversation, I realized that Robo and friend were actually talking over a story of visiting a strip club. My irrelevant non-sequitur sat there like a monkey turd on a lace table cloth.
It must have seemed like I had a specialized form of tourette's where instead of uttering nonsensical profanities, I threw out nonsensical stories of attempts at purchasing narcotics. And granted it's not as if I had bawdily told a story of having my filthy way with a particularly nimble older woman only to discover that, after a few well placed comments as to location and household decorations, I had actually fucked this stranger's mom, but it was ridiculously embarrassing for me nonetheless.
I think that a lot of it comes from feeling out of my element to begin with, but then seeing Robo Nixon try to inelegantly bridge the chasm between conversations I had created just made me feel even worse. I feel like Robo saw me as this ass that couldn't wade through 7 minutes of pleasantries before jumping into why we were there like some axe swinging barbarian.
This one clings to me for some reason, haunts me at the oddest moments. I hope that writing it out sets it free.
I'm hoping to exorcise it here, it's ridiculous that I'm still holding onto it.
Come here, take my hand, let's go back to San Francisco in the early 90's. Grunge was the rage, Tarantino was the name on all the film freaks' lips and I have no idea what was on television as we didn't have one that worked. Oh, and my roommate and I were smoking a lot of pot.
Now the best way to go about having that sort of daily pot habit is to have a steady dealer, or at least know someone who knew of a dealer. We did not, we relied on buying in with others when we heard about it, or lord help us, buying off the street. Back when I first moved to Magic Town, you couldn't walk two blocks down Haight Street without being offered pot or 'shroomies.
Our first street fishing experience paid off well with some transient looking fellow tossing down a baggie of green onto a table of the Happy Donuts at Shrader and Haight; a bag of some of the stoniest green I'd ever experienced by the by. Every expedition afterwards seemed to end in tears, either waiting restlessly at 6th and Mission while the rest of the expeditionary forces tried to figure out how they were going to tell your parents that you were dead, or walking away with a bag full of rolled up green paper.
So Robo Nixon comes for a visit from Chico and asks, amiably enough, if we have any green. We did not. No fears, he says, he knows a guy who lives on the San Francisco State campus who probably has some. He feels the need to go visit for a couple of minutes while he's in town anyway.
Well, Robo's friend lived in the new student apartment building on campus. The two of them stood in the living room catching up while I sat on a chair and thought about just how much money it cost to live in this place, stewed in the jealousy of friend's film major roommate's ability to have a 16mm camera lying haphazardly on the floor with the laundry. Not really paying attention to the conversation, I only picked up on the words, "titty joint."
Mistakenly thinking that he was complaining about purchasing a small joint, I threw out in commiseration, "Every time I buy drugs in this city I get ripped off."
When I took a moment to take in the bewildered and somewhat annoyed looks, and a quick moment to try to rewind the brain's recording of the conversation, I realized that Robo and friend were actually talking over a story of visiting a strip club. My irrelevant non-sequitur sat there like a monkey turd on a lace table cloth.
It must have seemed like I had a specialized form of tourette's where instead of uttering nonsensical profanities, I threw out nonsensical stories of attempts at purchasing narcotics. And granted it's not as if I had bawdily told a story of having my filthy way with a particularly nimble older woman only to discover that, after a few well placed comments as to location and household decorations, I had actually fucked this stranger's mom, but it was ridiculously embarrassing for me nonetheless.
I think that a lot of it comes from feeling out of my element to begin with, but then seeing Robo Nixon try to inelegantly bridge the chasm between conversations I had created just made me feel even worse. I feel like Robo saw me as this ass that couldn't wade through 7 minutes of pleasantries before jumping into why we were there like some axe swinging barbarian.
This one clings to me for some reason, haunts me at the oddest moments. I hope that writing it out sets it free.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
6 HOT Models For Debut Music Video
This title, from an audition posting that was emailed to me, assures me that the world hasn't changed in the last couple of days. I took a vacation from the world outside my apartment for the last two days, and frankly I'm always afraid that I'm going to miss something.
There's rarely a need to worry.
A lot of times lately I feel like I'm a cartoon character who has run off a cliff. I'm pumping furiously, and it's that moment just as I'm realizing that there's no more ground underneath me; it's a dizzying mix of the exhilaration of everything and the panic of falling.
A lot of times it seems perfectly reasonable to me that I could spryly launch off some object (cliff wall, falling car, etc.) in the reverse direction, thus breaking my fall and averting a disastrous landing.
A lot of times I try to forget about that little piece of wisdom I learned as a child, that at a fall from a great height, water will be as hard as cement. I want to believe that water will receive me, welcome me. Water will slowly stop my fall in a tickling cloud of bubbles before pushing me gently back to the surface.
It's interesting to me that they specifically asked for HOT models.
It gets me wondering if there is an agency out there for ugly models. It makes me wonder if it's possible to escape the implanting that television and marketing firms have done. It makes me wonder if it does any good to point at things and laugh.
There's rarely a need to worry.
A lot of times lately I feel like I'm a cartoon character who has run off a cliff. I'm pumping furiously, and it's that moment just as I'm realizing that there's no more ground underneath me; it's a dizzying mix of the exhilaration of everything and the panic of falling.
A lot of times it seems perfectly reasonable to me that I could spryly launch off some object (cliff wall, falling car, etc.) in the reverse direction, thus breaking my fall and averting a disastrous landing.
A lot of times I try to forget about that little piece of wisdom I learned as a child, that at a fall from a great height, water will be as hard as cement. I want to believe that water will receive me, welcome me. Water will slowly stop my fall in a tickling cloud of bubbles before pushing me gently back to the surface.
It's interesting to me that they specifically asked for HOT models.
It gets me wondering if there is an agency out there for ugly models. It makes me wonder if it's possible to escape the implanting that television and marketing firms have done. It makes me wonder if it does any good to point at things and laugh.
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