I do not like the condiment ketchup, we’re not friends. I’m also not fond of catsup. I know that this, along with my complete ambivalence towards football, makes me somehow un-American. It astounded my former roommate Raf to the point of him stating, “you’re the only white boy I know who doesn’t like ketchup.” I was astounded by his ability to lure fifteen-year-old girls into his skeezy clutches.
Anywho, some things that have happened since we last spoke:
America got all kinds of better (California somehow took a giant step backwards – I’m looking at you Orange County).
In trying to write lyrics to a song, I realized I was re-writing “From A Whisper To A Scream”.
I taught Kickers the joys of the Eskimo Kiss. Or is it Inuit kissing? Whatever, he digs rubbing noses.
I had an almost perfect Seattle moment when waiting for a bus in some unincorporated part of the city, in the rain, Modest Mouse came on the headphones.
I saw the latest Bond girl naked. Okay, that one’s a lie. It was Chuck Hunt I saw naked.
I went to see a show that had a couple former cast mates performing their brains out. The director asked if I would come do her next show, and I said sure. She then sheepishly asked if I would consider doing it in drag and I quickly realized she didn’t know me that well.
I had a quick flashback to my bachelor party where the stripper made me wear her dress – and no one was surprised.
I realized that despite my best efforts, I might be growing up. A possible and serious life change did not throw me for a loop. I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, we’ll make it happen.”
I let loose that deep breath in relief when that possible and serious life change turned out to be nothing.
I annoyed my friends showing them how friggin sexy my new iPhone is. Seriously, that thing’s gotta lightsaber.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Motorized Instinct
When it comes to zombie movies, and man I love some zombie movies, you have to go with George A. Romero. The guy started it with his shot on the weekends in black and white Night of the Living Dead. It’s a simple story – the dead mysteriously begin to return to life to eat the flesh of the living. They cannot be killed unless the brain is destroyed.
The original is a great, tight little horror movie and all of the sequels have something to offer. They’re not progressing any story necessarily, just taking the viewer further along in the days of the zombie apocalypse. Dawn of the Dead takes off a couple of days, maybe weeks, after the initial night; humans are scattering to survive, fleeing cities for the country. Day of the Dead shows a world mostly overrun, hope for survival pinned on pockets of underground installations of stir crazy military and scientists hoping to train the zombies. Land of the Dead extracts it even further; the world has lost hope of this ending, humans are exiled to scattered, fortified cities and special units sent out to small towns to gather supplies. But the zombies are starting to learn and don’t like being used as target practice. Diary of the Dead takes us back to the first days with a first person camera approach.
For my money, you cannot beat Dawn of the Dead; funny, scary, tense and gory as all get out. Four survivors flee the city and accidentally end up taking root in a shopping mall. As with all of his Dead movies, Romero makes a point about the times they were shot in. Here it’s not as heavy handed as in some of the others because it doesn’t need to be. Shots of zombies strolling a mall, aside from the rotting flesh, don’t look much different from any other day in any other mall.
But more than that, and the point that most everyone seems to miss when watching Romero’s zombie epics, is the idea that we as humans will rebuild in our own image when things get hairy, but refuse to learn from the past. Invariably in his films, we as people build the same society only to fuck it up for ourselves do to greed, jealousy, ignorance…
Why Dawn though? It moves at a good frenetic pace, like a horror comic brought to life, and there’s this lack of gloss to it that makes you feel like anything can happen. Plus these guys hole up in a mall, it’s like an adolescent fantasy mixed in a missive from the end of times. Oh, and the soundtrack kicks fucking ass; great, liberal use of mall music to underscore the action.
While I did enjoy the remake on some levels, it just doesn’t compare. Why? There was no need to remake it, for one. As it was a studio release it had that safe, well produced shine to it. The original unrated Dawn of the Dead got away with horrifying zombie carnage as it didn’t have to worry about a studio or the sensors. Plus the remake had running zombies. Cool for a bit, but there is something absolutely overwhelmingly dreadful in the fact that these shambling, slow moving messes are inevitably going to get you – and eat you.
A mini, gory epic – with zombies. Eight kinds of awesome.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Tundra/Desert” by Modest Mouse.
The original is a great, tight little horror movie and all of the sequels have something to offer. They’re not progressing any story necessarily, just taking the viewer further along in the days of the zombie apocalypse. Dawn of the Dead takes off a couple of days, maybe weeks, after the initial night; humans are scattering to survive, fleeing cities for the country. Day of the Dead shows a world mostly overrun, hope for survival pinned on pockets of underground installations of stir crazy military and scientists hoping to train the zombies. Land of the Dead extracts it even further; the world has lost hope of this ending, humans are exiled to scattered, fortified cities and special units sent out to small towns to gather supplies. But the zombies are starting to learn and don’t like being used as target practice. Diary of the Dead takes us back to the first days with a first person camera approach.
For my money, you cannot beat Dawn of the Dead; funny, scary, tense and gory as all get out. Four survivors flee the city and accidentally end up taking root in a shopping mall. As with all of his Dead movies, Romero makes a point about the times they were shot in. Here it’s not as heavy handed as in some of the others because it doesn’t need to be. Shots of zombies strolling a mall, aside from the rotting flesh, don’t look much different from any other day in any other mall.
But more than that, and the point that most everyone seems to miss when watching Romero’s zombie epics, is the idea that we as humans will rebuild in our own image when things get hairy, but refuse to learn from the past. Invariably in his films, we as people build the same society only to fuck it up for ourselves do to greed, jealousy, ignorance…
Why Dawn though? It moves at a good frenetic pace, like a horror comic brought to life, and there’s this lack of gloss to it that makes you feel like anything can happen. Plus these guys hole up in a mall, it’s like an adolescent fantasy mixed in a missive from the end of times. Oh, and the soundtrack kicks fucking ass; great, liberal use of mall music to underscore the action.
While I did enjoy the remake on some levels, it just doesn’t compare. Why? There was no need to remake it, for one. As it was a studio release it had that safe, well produced shine to it. The original unrated Dawn of the Dead got away with horrifying zombie carnage as it didn’t have to worry about a studio or the sensors. Plus the remake had running zombies. Cool for a bit, but there is something absolutely overwhelmingly dreadful in the fact that these shambling, slow moving messes are inevitably going to get you – and eat you.
A mini, gory epic – with zombies. Eight kinds of awesome.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Tundra/Desert” by Modest Mouse.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Camp Blood
The good news of the situation is that my stomach probably can still hold up to a couple slices of pizza and some whisky; I feared that my age was catching up and this cannot happen. The bad news is that stomach flu was the culprit.
On the mend, but now behind by a couple of days. What I wanted to do this week, in celebration of the nearing of Halloween, was go over a handful of my favorite horror movies.
Caveat 1: My favorites lists tend to switch up on an almost daily basis.
Caveat 2: I’m cheating from the get go as I’m starting out with Friday the 13th, parts 1-4.
Wait! How can you pick 1-4 of a cheesy ass slasher series? Well, because it’s my game. Friday the 13th was nothing more than a way for some guys to make a quick buck; get some young actors in the woods, a small arsenal of sharp garden tools, some latex and fake blood and this sucker writes itself. The rundown (and okay spoiler alert):
Part 1 starts out with the mother of a deformed and drowned young Jason Voorhees taking her revenge on camp counselors at a reopening Camp Crystal lake.
Virginal survivor hacks off her head with a machete. Part 2 finds us 5 years later where traumatized survivor is taken out by a mystery man who turns out to be none other than the not dead Jason Voorhees. He makes his way back to Crystal Lake and through a handful of counselors in training. 
Part 3 (in super 3-D on it’s original release) finds Jason going on strong the following day. He’s no longer necessarily seeking revenge, just inventive ways to slaughter teens who drink, smoke pot and screw. Some nice 3D effects include obligatory bodies thrown through windows and an eyeball being popped out. This also marks where Jason gets his hockey mask to cover his deformed face. 
Part 4 (named The Final Chapter) again picks up the following day and again shows our man hacking his way through horny teens and a not so great Jason hunter until he is confused by a young make up wiz and whacked on with a machete a number of times. 
Part 4 is a well directed little number with some impressive effects – one of those effects being Crispin Glover.
No, they’re not great, but I still can feel the unease I had when I thought of these movies as a child. They’re a morality tale people will say – bad people, people who do drugs and have sex get killed. That’s crap. They’re fairy tales and they speak to something primal within us. There’s a monster in the dark woods that we have to face to get out and see another day; an unstoppable monster that will hunt you down and eradicate all kinds of bad 80’s fashion. And much like the old fairy tales, these movies are grisly. They pushed the boundaries of makeup effects and sensor boards. They were a strange roller coaster, a dare to get scared and see if you could watch someone get an axe to the head and not peek through your fingers. Plus you got to see some tame sex scenes, again primal…
After Part 4, things got weird and silly and got away from that basic and effective monster in the woods story. But the first four, bad or good, still hold a place in my young heart as Halloween favorites.
Oh yeah, Rocktober Song of the Day: "Web in Front" by Archers of Loaf.
On the mend, but now behind by a couple of days. What I wanted to do this week, in celebration of the nearing of Halloween, was go over a handful of my favorite horror movies.
Caveat 1: My favorites lists tend to switch up on an almost daily basis.
Caveat 2: I’m cheating from the get go as I’m starting out with Friday the 13th, parts 1-4.
Wait! How can you pick 1-4 of a cheesy ass slasher series? Well, because it’s my game. Friday the 13th was nothing more than a way for some guys to make a quick buck; get some young actors in the woods, a small arsenal of sharp garden tools, some latex and fake blood and this sucker writes itself. The rundown (and okay spoiler alert):
Part 1 starts out with the mother of a deformed and drowned young Jason Voorhees taking her revenge on camp counselors at a reopening Camp Crystal lake.
Virginal survivor hacks off her head with a machete. Part 2 finds us 5 years later where traumatized survivor is taken out by a mystery man who turns out to be none other than the not dead Jason Voorhees. He makes his way back to Crystal Lake and through a handful of counselors in training. 
Part 3 (in super 3-D on it’s original release) finds Jason going on strong the following day. He’s no longer necessarily seeking revenge, just inventive ways to slaughter teens who drink, smoke pot and screw. Some nice 3D effects include obligatory bodies thrown through windows and an eyeball being popped out. This also marks where Jason gets his hockey mask to cover his deformed face. 
Part 4 (named The Final Chapter) again picks up the following day and again shows our man hacking his way through horny teens and a not so great Jason hunter until he is confused by a young make up wiz and whacked on with a machete a number of times. 
Part 4 is a well directed little number with some impressive effects – one of those effects being Crispin Glover.No, they’re not great, but I still can feel the unease I had when I thought of these movies as a child. They’re a morality tale people will say – bad people, people who do drugs and have sex get killed. That’s crap. They’re fairy tales and they speak to something primal within us. There’s a monster in the dark woods that we have to face to get out and see another day; an unstoppable monster that will hunt you down and eradicate all kinds of bad 80’s fashion. And much like the old fairy tales, these movies are grisly. They pushed the boundaries of makeup effects and sensor boards. They were a strange roller coaster, a dare to get scared and see if you could watch someone get an axe to the head and not peek through your fingers. Plus you got to see some tame sex scenes, again primal…
After Part 4, things got weird and silly and got away from that basic and effective monster in the woods story. But the first four, bad or good, still hold a place in my young heart as Halloween favorites.
Oh yeah, Rocktober Song of the Day: "Web in Front" by Archers of Loaf.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Get (Off) On The Bus
This has been a plain crappy Rocktober. Seriously Billy, what the hell? Let’s play a tiny bit of catch up.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Third Uncle” by Brian Eno.
It’s been some rough times kids, he said with a solemn look to his eyes, a sly smile to offset it a little. But I’m tired of friggin’ talking about it. I seem to be better in my head, and I’m hoping that throwing those words out don’t come back to slap me on the ass.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Strange” by Wire
Yesterday, I rode the bus into work, through the cold, through the dark, and not soaking in that rolling feeling in my stomach of desperation and hated anger. I was listening to some Virgil Shaw – so very nice. It wasn’t up terribly loud so I could hear the bus driver calling the stops. These calls usually begin with the amplified sound of the driver pulling over the flexi arm of the microphone, sounding like a metal Satan unfurling his metal penis. And yeah, after that you expect a bus stop called with some gusto: “California and Faunt – la – fuckin’ – roy bitches!” But the driver yesterday morning whispered out the stops.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Serpentine Pad” by Pavement
I thought this was funny at first. Maybe the bus driver was just putting a little style into her routine. Then as it continued to happen I began to think that maybe she was coming on to us, as if the subtext to a hushed “28th and Thistle” was “hey babies, who wants a good time?” I continued to think this was funny. I mean in my mind, she wanted all of us, possibly particularly the girl who wears short skirts even when it’s October cold out. Seriously, she was gonna pull that rig over for some serious good times, I could hear it in the excited sigh that was “16th and Roxbury”. For some reason, this whispering was really catching me as funny. Not so much when I think back on it and realize the rational was probably laryngitis and that she was in pain.
Who am I kidding, still funny.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Hang Me Out To Dry” by Cold War Kids
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Third Uncle” by Brian Eno.
It’s been some rough times kids, he said with a solemn look to his eyes, a sly smile to offset it a little. But I’m tired of friggin’ talking about it. I seem to be better in my head, and I’m hoping that throwing those words out don’t come back to slap me on the ass.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Strange” by Wire
Yesterday, I rode the bus into work, through the cold, through the dark, and not soaking in that rolling feeling in my stomach of desperation and hated anger. I was listening to some Virgil Shaw – so very nice. It wasn’t up terribly loud so I could hear the bus driver calling the stops. These calls usually begin with the amplified sound of the driver pulling over the flexi arm of the microphone, sounding like a metal Satan unfurling his metal penis. And yeah, after that you expect a bus stop called with some gusto: “California and Faunt – la – fuckin’ – roy bitches!” But the driver yesterday morning whispered out the stops.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Serpentine Pad” by Pavement
I thought this was funny at first. Maybe the bus driver was just putting a little style into her routine. Then as it continued to happen I began to think that maybe she was coming on to us, as if the subtext to a hushed “28th and Thistle” was “hey babies, who wants a good time?” I continued to think this was funny. I mean in my mind, she wanted all of us, possibly particularly the girl who wears short skirts even when it’s October cold out. Seriously, she was gonna pull that rig over for some serious good times, I could hear it in the excited sigh that was “16th and Roxbury”. For some reason, this whispering was really catching me as funny. Not so much when I think back on it and realize the rational was probably laryngitis and that she was in pain.
Who am I kidding, still funny.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Hang Me Out To Dry” by Cold War Kids
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Southern Washington, Sunday Afternoon
Driving back from Portland, windshield wipers deliberately set a bit slow. It was the big drops falling, the ones that are so swollen that they seem to have somehow shifted past being mere rain. I watched them hit the window. I watched the seventy mile an hour air brush them out along the glass and reflect the surrounding gray and green in a still life impression for a short, short moment. Wipers come in, do their gig.
It made me think of stolen moments in Northern California. Not really thinking of moments, it gave me the calm feeling of those moments, an all too brief moment of comfort. I tried to fit that feeling with actual memories the mind had stored; a wet walk up a windy and beautifully lonely road, roasting a chicken while the world outside was equally freezing and wet, the sound of a river full of itself.
None of them fit the feeling quite right, threatened to sully it, so I quit trying to make it work. I tried to just feel that comfort for a bit, watched the rain do its thing.
I wanted to sleep for a long time.
Rocktober Song of the Day: "I Turn My Camera On" by Spoon. Seriously, deny the sexiness. I dare you.
It made me think of stolen moments in Northern California. Not really thinking of moments, it gave me the calm feeling of those moments, an all too brief moment of comfort. I tried to fit that feeling with actual memories the mind had stored; a wet walk up a windy and beautifully lonely road, roasting a chicken while the world outside was equally freezing and wet, the sound of a river full of itself.
None of them fit the feeling quite right, threatened to sully it, so I quit trying to make it work. I tried to just feel that comfort for a bit, watched the rain do its thing.
I wanted to sleep for a long time.
Rocktober Song of the Day: "I Turn My Camera On" by Spoon. Seriously, deny the sexiness. I dare you.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Gang Bands
I was running full long into a day that was not starting well. John on KEXP played “Where Is My Mind?” by Pixies, and I thought, “well all right.” He then did “Pictures of Matchstick Men” by Camper Van Beethoven. Not my top choice for a Camper Van Beethoven song, but I’ll take it.
This for some reason got me thinking about that radio show Loveline. Now back in the day, Loveline was a local show in LA on KROQ, it was not syndicated. In fact, for those of you out there who are fans of Heathers, the show that Veronica and green Heather rush to the room to listen to while yellow Heather talks of suicide is based on the old Loveline. The DJ in the movie is in fact the Poorman, who used to host Loveline.
And all of that for this…
One such back in the day show talked about gangs. As much as the news would have us believe differently, us kids in south Orange County didn’t have much to fear in the way of gangs, so this seemed an odd choice. But some guy calls up to defend the idea of gangs, that he was in a gang and they weren’t thugs and didn’t go out to hurt people; his gang was a group of guys who supported each other in their musical endeavors.
This, by the way, is not a gang. This is called a band.
But, in honor of this, the first day of Rocktober, I say unto thee that I want to start a band and act like it’s a gang.
We’ll have initiation rites where we pummel a new member with a C and E combo two chord jam. We’ll get into tussles with other bands where we spank each other with cables, twiddle the knobs on some other guy’s effects peddle and effectively whacking out the tone on the distortion they’d spent so much time crafting just right. Other bands would write songs about our lifestyle.
And then those bands would eventually get arrested for possession; of song books probably, or at least tablature sheets. We would eventually do public service tours, talk to youngsters about how they don’t want to join bands, live clean, praise Jebus.
It tastes like glory good people, and glory tastes like banana popsicles.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Debaser” by Pixies.
This for some reason got me thinking about that radio show Loveline. Now back in the day, Loveline was a local show in LA on KROQ, it was not syndicated. In fact, for those of you out there who are fans of Heathers, the show that Veronica and green Heather rush to the room to listen to while yellow Heather talks of suicide is based on the old Loveline. The DJ in the movie is in fact the Poorman, who used to host Loveline.
And all of that for this…
One such back in the day show talked about gangs. As much as the news would have us believe differently, us kids in south Orange County didn’t have much to fear in the way of gangs, so this seemed an odd choice. But some guy calls up to defend the idea of gangs, that he was in a gang and they weren’t thugs and didn’t go out to hurt people; his gang was a group of guys who supported each other in their musical endeavors.
This, by the way, is not a gang. This is called a band.
But, in honor of this, the first day of Rocktober, I say unto thee that I want to start a band and act like it’s a gang.
We’ll have initiation rites where we pummel a new member with a C and E combo two chord jam. We’ll get into tussles with other bands where we spank each other with cables, twiddle the knobs on some other guy’s effects peddle and effectively whacking out the tone on the distortion they’d spent so much time crafting just right. Other bands would write songs about our lifestyle.
And then those bands would eventually get arrested for possession; of song books probably, or at least tablature sheets. We would eventually do public service tours, talk to youngsters about how they don’t want to join bands, live clean, praise Jebus.
It tastes like glory good people, and glory tastes like banana popsicles.
Rocktober Song of the Day: “Debaser” by Pixies.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
These Dreams
I’m totally bogged down with work stuff that I have to do, but I’m taking a few minutes for me, right now.
Dig it.
I had this dream the other night, where I kept finding all of these extra rooms in the house I was living in. I found a door inside the washing machine, and when I went through it there was this huge room. The door off that room led to this short hallway where there was another door to this huge room.
I remember thinking in my dream, “man, I can put so much stuff in here.”
It was as if the former owner of the place had completely forgotten that these rooms were there – and no wonder, being you had go through the washing machine. There was a chest of drawers and a television; the random detritus of a quick move out where what’s not necessary gets left behind.
This dream left me feeling hopeful, I can’t say why. I also had the feeling that if I were to do some investigating into the meaning it might break that fragile little feeling of hope.
So you think that I would have known better than to go to work trying to hold onto that.
Yeah, blah blah work, blah blah you hate your job, blah blah some nimrod in another department did something incredibly stupid that will unfortunately effect you and your team badly, blah blah someone in charge, instead of going about fixing things rationally, is taxing you with fixing this problem in the most inefficient way possible as if you were the guy with the shovel made just to use when someone else poops. Blah blah…
So… I’m up and getting ready to head in at round abouts 5:30 this morning, already feeling the seething come in. It had rained last night, but was clear and cold. There was this sliver, this shaving of ice, this baby’s fingernail of moon hanging over a big, dark pine tree. It threw off enough light to just touch the clouds and excite ‘em a little bit. And a few bright stars, the light blending in with the cold air... It was shockingly beautiful. I could feel everyone asleep around me, and I began to wonder if wasn’t still sleeping as well, feeling the cold because I’d managed to kick off the blankets again.
Now, I don’t like to spend a lot of time up before the sun (and with the coming winter I don’t have a lot of choice), but if they could all feel like that, it wouldn’t be half bad. I put the seething away for a bit, tried to remember that early morning scene, and those extra rooms.
Zeptember Song of the Day: “Baby Come On Home”.
Dig it.
I had this dream the other night, where I kept finding all of these extra rooms in the house I was living in. I found a door inside the washing machine, and when I went through it there was this huge room. The door off that room led to this short hallway where there was another door to this huge room.
I remember thinking in my dream, “man, I can put so much stuff in here.”
It was as if the former owner of the place had completely forgotten that these rooms were there – and no wonder, being you had go through the washing machine. There was a chest of drawers and a television; the random detritus of a quick move out where what’s not necessary gets left behind.
This dream left me feeling hopeful, I can’t say why. I also had the feeling that if I were to do some investigating into the meaning it might break that fragile little feeling of hope.
So you think that I would have known better than to go to work trying to hold onto that.
Yeah, blah blah work, blah blah you hate your job, blah blah some nimrod in another department did something incredibly stupid that will unfortunately effect you and your team badly, blah blah someone in charge, instead of going about fixing things rationally, is taxing you with fixing this problem in the most inefficient way possible as if you were the guy with the shovel made just to use when someone else poops. Blah blah…
So… I’m up and getting ready to head in at round abouts 5:30 this morning, already feeling the seething come in. It had rained last night, but was clear and cold. There was this sliver, this shaving of ice, this baby’s fingernail of moon hanging over a big, dark pine tree. It threw off enough light to just touch the clouds and excite ‘em a little bit. And a few bright stars, the light blending in with the cold air... It was shockingly beautiful. I could feel everyone asleep around me, and I began to wonder if wasn’t still sleeping as well, feeling the cold because I’d managed to kick off the blankets again.
Now, I don’t like to spend a lot of time up before the sun (and with the coming winter I don’t have a lot of choice), but if they could all feel like that, it wouldn’t be half bad. I put the seething away for a bit, tried to remember that early morning scene, and those extra rooms.
Zeptember Song of the Day: “Baby Come On Home”.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Curse Of Lono
I was standing in the backyard, waiting impatiently for that moon, way too large and bright for its own good, to rise up over the trees. I could make it out between the branches, I could make it dance when I swayed myself, but the damn thing just wouldn’t get any higher. But oh, that PBR tasted good.
I got to thinking about the last time that I had a backyard. It was back in the early nineties, when grunge was ripping through the world, and I was slowly realizing that Santa Barbara was not the place I needed to be at that particular time.
The backyard wasn’t ours necessarily, and it was long drop from the back porch. The downstairs neighbor claimed that part of the yard, we got the scrabble of dirt and the occasional pop up of wildflowers that came from a drunken toss of seeds one fine afternoon.
There was the three of us in the house, and Raf. Raf was an older, womanizing, Social Security cheat that didn’t partake in the inebriating excess that we did. The three of us were trying to figure out what it was we were. Part of me loves that devil-may-care, try anything attitude – part of me desperately needed to travel the road to get where I am – but mostly I feel like we were trying too hard.
I was spending a lot of time drunk and writing truly stream of consciousness pages when I could. What little money I could scrounge went towards whiskey. I once, at the daring of one of the others in a moment of figuring out if I was a shoplifter, stole a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor store.
One thing that Corado and I decided to try being was dog owners. We went into this with the same amount of preparation that went into most everything else we did at the time; none. “We should get a dog,” one of us said stonily. “We totally should,” the other answered. And off we went to the pound.
We got ourselves a black lab/pit bull mix and we named him Lono after the Hunter S. Thompson book The Curse of Lono. We were all Thompson fans as he made being an inebriated smart ass seem like a logical career move.
Lono ate my hat. Lono spent about ninety-five percent of the evening hours barking his face off. When I took him on a walk one afternoon after class, he went apeshit and tried to attack a Hispanic gardener up the street, the dog literally dragged me across the asphalt while the man ran for his life. Lono welcomed one of Raf’s aggressively under aged girlfriends with wagging tail and doggy smile, only to corner her in the doorway with bared teeth and the sort of emanating growl that spoke of tearing out a throat when she attempted to leave.
I guess it would have been a good idea to pay attention to the Humane Society’s warning that Lono had attempted to maul a kid when he was the dog formerly known as Lightning, but we figured hey, we don’t have any kids. We didn’t take into account Raf’s proclivities.
We also didn’t take into account that we were irresponsible, drug addled, wannabes who had no business owning a dog.
Zeptember Song of the Day: “Heartbreaker” followed by “Living Loving Maid (She’s Just A Woman)”. I hate to seem them split up, it hurts a bit.
I got to thinking about the last time that I had a backyard. It was back in the early nineties, when grunge was ripping through the world, and I was slowly realizing that Santa Barbara was not the place I needed to be at that particular time.
The backyard wasn’t ours necessarily, and it was long drop from the back porch. The downstairs neighbor claimed that part of the yard, we got the scrabble of dirt and the occasional pop up of wildflowers that came from a drunken toss of seeds one fine afternoon.
There was the three of us in the house, and Raf. Raf was an older, womanizing, Social Security cheat that didn’t partake in the inebriating excess that we did. The three of us were trying to figure out what it was we were. Part of me loves that devil-may-care, try anything attitude – part of me desperately needed to travel the road to get where I am – but mostly I feel like we were trying too hard.
I was spending a lot of time drunk and writing truly stream of consciousness pages when I could. What little money I could scrounge went towards whiskey. I once, at the daring of one of the others in a moment of figuring out if I was a shoplifter, stole a bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor store.
One thing that Corado and I decided to try being was dog owners. We went into this with the same amount of preparation that went into most everything else we did at the time; none. “We should get a dog,” one of us said stonily. “We totally should,” the other answered. And off we went to the pound.
We got ourselves a black lab/pit bull mix and we named him Lono after the Hunter S. Thompson book The Curse of Lono. We were all Thompson fans as he made being an inebriated smart ass seem like a logical career move.
Lono ate my hat. Lono spent about ninety-five percent of the evening hours barking his face off. When I took him on a walk one afternoon after class, he went apeshit and tried to attack a Hispanic gardener up the street, the dog literally dragged me across the asphalt while the man ran for his life. Lono welcomed one of Raf’s aggressively under aged girlfriends with wagging tail and doggy smile, only to corner her in the doorway with bared teeth and the sort of emanating growl that spoke of tearing out a throat when she attempted to leave.
I guess it would have been a good idea to pay attention to the Humane Society’s warning that Lono had attempted to maul a kid when he was the dog formerly known as Lightning, but we figured hey, we don’t have any kids. We didn’t take into account Raf’s proclivities.
We also didn’t take into account that we were irresponsible, drug addled, wannabes who had no business owning a dog.
Zeptember Song of the Day: “Heartbreaker” followed by “Living Loving Maid (She’s Just A Woman)”. I hate to seem them split up, it hurts a bit.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Dot Dot Dot
This poor blog, it’s like I’m in a depression and this blog is my general hygiene and appearance – ignored.
Truth be told, I am fighting a depression, but this has nothing to do with why I can’t get it together to post something, it’s the job.
Again with the job, I’m tired of talking and writing and bitching and moaning about this job.
The funny thing about this depression, is that I seem to be getting better at handling them. Instead of months of closing myself off in a room with cigarettes and Cure albums, I go through a few hours, half a day, of absolute despair and then clue in that I got some pretty good shit goin’ on. Positive movement, right?
You’d think so, but each time I’m able to crawl out of my boiling pot of self pity, I think it’s over, that I’ve concurred this demon depression. Then the next day I’m cock smacked in the face by it all over again
It feels like falling down a hill, limping back up said hill, just to have some hairy stranger pee in my mouth.
It’s not really like that at all. But then I start to think that I only see the negative of this situation because I’m fighting a depression, and then I get dizzy with the vortex my head begets.
And then I think I might need a haircut. But then I think I sort of like where my hair is now.
Then I think about those fish deep in the ocean, with the glowing dangly things that come off their heads and lure unsuspecting fish to their mealtime deaths.
Then I think about getting all done up on Ouzo, laying out in a field somewhere and laughing.
Then I think about the fact that with fewer postings here, I hesitate in typing out something just off the cuff and bizarre.
Then I think about how we should all be in Greece right now.
Then I think about how it’s Zeptember, and the Zeptember song of the day is “The Rain Song”.
Truth be told, I am fighting a depression, but this has nothing to do with why I can’t get it together to post something, it’s the job.
Again with the job, I’m tired of talking and writing and bitching and moaning about this job.
The funny thing about this depression, is that I seem to be getting better at handling them. Instead of months of closing myself off in a room with cigarettes and Cure albums, I go through a few hours, half a day, of absolute despair and then clue in that I got some pretty good shit goin’ on. Positive movement, right?
You’d think so, but each time I’m able to crawl out of my boiling pot of self pity, I think it’s over, that I’ve concurred this demon depression. Then the next day I’m cock smacked in the face by it all over again
It feels like falling down a hill, limping back up said hill, just to have some hairy stranger pee in my mouth.
It’s not really like that at all. But then I start to think that I only see the negative of this situation because I’m fighting a depression, and then I get dizzy with the vortex my head begets.
And then I think I might need a haircut. But then I think I sort of like where my hair is now.
Then I think about those fish deep in the ocean, with the glowing dangly things that come off their heads and lure unsuspecting fish to their mealtime deaths.
Then I think about getting all done up on Ouzo, laying out in a field somewhere and laughing.
Then I think about the fact that with fewer postings here, I hesitate in typing out something just off the cuff and bizarre.
Then I think about how we should all be in Greece right now.
Then I think about how it’s Zeptember, and the Zeptember song of the day is “The Rain Song”.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Song
There’s a little ritual that I’ve been indulging in for quite awhile now that is pretty much my favorite part of the day - Oxycodone.
I kid of course. Seriously, I’m kidding.
No, it’s putting Kickers down for sleep every night. I’m sure this sounds dumb, and I’m way “kidding out”, so I apologize ahead of time.
The night will lead to dinner, and depending on the sauce quotient of said dinner, it may lead to a bath as well. There’s a diaper changing where we practice the alphabet or counting (it keeps him from getting upset with me for being all up in his junk), there’s the dressing in PJ’s which eventually itself leads a tickle fest of grand proportions. Afterwards, there’s usually some reading.
All of that’s fine and well, it’s the next step that’s the one. And understand, like most kids, this one is not one for just giving up the ghost and charging into sleep, he likes to fight, fight against the dying of the light. There have been some epic screaming fits, particularly when we rudely took the bottle away.
Like father, like son.
But the routine… We get the blanket, he wraps his little arm around my neck, sort of cocks his head on my shoulder, and man, if I have any say in it, that’s a feeling I want to take with me when I go. Then I start to sing.
I don’t know why, but “Ship of Fools” by the Grateful Dead has become the lullaby of choice. He doesn’t shout out requests, I don’t do encores. When I’m done, I tilt him down to get him into the crib and he’s usually either blinking long and slow as if the Baby Oxycodone has kicked in, or he’s smiling. I ask for a kiss, and get it. Then I say my goodnights and walk out to never a fuss since the singing started.
It’s nice that at least once a day I can do something that actually means something.
I kid of course. Seriously, I’m kidding.
No, it’s putting Kickers down for sleep every night. I’m sure this sounds dumb, and I’m way “kidding out”, so I apologize ahead of time.
The night will lead to dinner, and depending on the sauce quotient of said dinner, it may lead to a bath as well. There’s a diaper changing where we practice the alphabet or counting (it keeps him from getting upset with me for being all up in his junk), there’s the dressing in PJ’s which eventually itself leads a tickle fest of grand proportions. Afterwards, there’s usually some reading.
All of that’s fine and well, it’s the next step that’s the one. And understand, like most kids, this one is not one for just giving up the ghost and charging into sleep, he likes to fight, fight against the dying of the light. There have been some epic screaming fits, particularly when we rudely took the bottle away.
Like father, like son.
But the routine… We get the blanket, he wraps his little arm around my neck, sort of cocks his head on my shoulder, and man, if I have any say in it, that’s a feeling I want to take with me when I go. Then I start to sing.
I don’t know why, but “Ship of Fools” by the Grateful Dead has become the lullaby of choice. He doesn’t shout out requests, I don’t do encores. When I’m done, I tilt him down to get him into the crib and he’s usually either blinking long and slow as if the Baby Oxycodone has kicked in, or he’s smiling. I ask for a kiss, and get it. Then I say my goodnights and walk out to never a fuss since the singing started.
It’s nice that at least once a day I can do something that actually means something.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Rain
I can’t say that it’s longing for fall, being we haven’t had much of a summer, but we got a metric shit ton of rain in the last couple of days and I was digging it.
On Sunday, the day started out with some promise; mostly blue sky, a fine and fresh smell on the cool breeze. I opened the kitchen window to get some air in the place and was reminded of green things and sunshine, a subtle and slow vitality. Then at some point I heard the raindrops hitting the corrugated fiberglass of the carport.
I was reminded of other times and other memories that weren’t mine, but felt close enough to have been passed down through the blood. There was nothing concrete, nothing visual, just a feeling of calm of having literal shelter from a literal storm.
Kickers went down for a nap and I stood at the window watching all of that muted gray shining through running water. I thought that sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a book sounded like the best damn idea I’d had in a week. A damn fine idea it was, and the pot of red beans on the stove seemed like the perfect set piece.
A little later I was running errands, driving through washed out streets downtown, the wet and deserted, industrial and absolutely shining atmosphere kindly grabbed hands with the Tom Waits on the stereo with a smile and dragged it along for a great ride.
And yesterday there was more rain, heavy rain. There were lightening bolts that while attention getting, seemed almost ashamed to be here and so out of place.
The thing is, I don’t mind it, all this noise of a storm, all the compressed gloom of the clouds waiting to let loose their load, I'm kinda digging it. I know that summer’s leaving quick, that we’re probably in for a dark and wet and cold winter, but somehow my mind, my soul needed this.
I needed something to make me stop and stare the world for a minute, enjoy the quiet music already playing.
On Sunday, the day started out with some promise; mostly blue sky, a fine and fresh smell on the cool breeze. I opened the kitchen window to get some air in the place and was reminded of green things and sunshine, a subtle and slow vitality. Then at some point I heard the raindrops hitting the corrugated fiberglass of the carport.
I was reminded of other times and other memories that weren’t mine, but felt close enough to have been passed down through the blood. There was nothing concrete, nothing visual, just a feeling of calm of having literal shelter from a literal storm.
Kickers went down for a nap and I stood at the window watching all of that muted gray shining through running water. I thought that sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a book sounded like the best damn idea I’d had in a week. A damn fine idea it was, and the pot of red beans on the stove seemed like the perfect set piece.
A little later I was running errands, driving through washed out streets downtown, the wet and deserted, industrial and absolutely shining atmosphere kindly grabbed hands with the Tom Waits on the stereo with a smile and dragged it along for a great ride.
And yesterday there was more rain, heavy rain. There were lightening bolts that while attention getting, seemed almost ashamed to be here and so out of place.
The thing is, I don’t mind it, all this noise of a storm, all the compressed gloom of the clouds waiting to let loose their load, I'm kinda digging it. I know that summer’s leaving quick, that we’re probably in for a dark and wet and cold winter, but somehow my mind, my soul needed this.
I needed something to make me stop and stare the world for a minute, enjoy the quiet music already playing.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Home
Sitting in a sideways seat on the old 22, coming home, I’m struck suddenly by a combination of things.
First, there’s Tom Waits’ “Come On Up To The House” in my ears. It’s a song that’s held a special place from the first time I heard it, a song that really foots the bill at the moment, a song that reminds me that even when it’s rough out there, there’s always a place of solace.
“When the only thing that you can see is all that you lack, you gotta come on up to the house.”
So I got that going on, caught somewhere between a goofy smile and tears. And honestly, that’s one of my favorite places to get caught; way better than between the moon and New York City. I’m noticing the mists and low gray clouds that have come to town in a coach of unseasonable storm patterns. I’m watching all that West Seattle green fold itself inside the gray and can’t help but think that they were meant to be together the way it works so well. They’re like lovers. No, there’s something volatile and fragile about that. They’re like old fiends who have more than once gotten drunkenly naked together – unashamed and still digging each other’s company.
Then the bus passes right by this little house. Nothing fancy, probably four rooms up in there. The front door is open and there’s a boy of about 5 standing in the doorway. He’s looking out at the yard, I’m assuming at the rain gathering in the yard. The look on his face as I quickly passed him by caught for a long second. And I’m totally reading into it, but there wasn’t this look of annoyance at not being able to play in the yard, no sadness, just this serene look of being caught in a moment unguarded.
I caught him, though he’ll never know it. And I held onto those things the rest of the ride, through the walk in the strengthening rain, myself caught once again somewhere between a goofy smile and tears.
First, there’s Tom Waits’ “Come On Up To The House” in my ears. It’s a song that’s held a special place from the first time I heard it, a song that really foots the bill at the moment, a song that reminds me that even when it’s rough out there, there’s always a place of solace.
“When the only thing that you can see is all that you lack, you gotta come on up to the house.”
So I got that going on, caught somewhere between a goofy smile and tears. And honestly, that’s one of my favorite places to get caught; way better than between the moon and New York City. I’m noticing the mists and low gray clouds that have come to town in a coach of unseasonable storm patterns. I’m watching all that West Seattle green fold itself inside the gray and can’t help but think that they were meant to be together the way it works so well. They’re like lovers. No, there’s something volatile and fragile about that. They’re like old fiends who have more than once gotten drunkenly naked together – unashamed and still digging each other’s company.
Then the bus passes right by this little house. Nothing fancy, probably four rooms up in there. The front door is open and there’s a boy of about 5 standing in the doorway. He’s looking out at the yard, I’m assuming at the rain gathering in the yard. The look on his face as I quickly passed him by caught for a long second. And I’m totally reading into it, but there wasn’t this look of annoyance at not being able to play in the yard, no sadness, just this serene look of being caught in a moment unguarded.
I caught him, though he’ll never know it. And I held onto those things the rest of the ride, through the walk in the strengthening rain, myself caught once again somewhere between a goofy smile and tears.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Grain Of Salt
The memories of my high school years get fuzzy as time continues to grow between then and now, as more drinks are consumed in that growing time, so I cannot remember if it was an ad hoc substitute Chemistry teacher, or Mr. Dempsey, the intrepid Physics teacher who barely let me skate by to graduate, who performed this experiment in class. The idea is that you have this salt water solution that is as packed with salt as it’s going to get and still be liquid. One more piece of salt will literally force all of the solid salt out of the liquid, it will change the physical composition. It’s a nifty parlor trick, it’s the idea of critical mass.
It’s also a great analogy for my work situation.
I can no longer keep up with the demand. I can rarely step away to go to the bathroom without trying make said trip more efficient by also printing up a document, possibly make a copy on the way to the john.
Here’s a funny thing, and when I say funny I actually mean bitterly sad; I’m a completely disposable and interchangeable middle management drone. As such, I’m subject to the whimsy of others. Let’s say that there’s a person I have to answer to that obsesses over details that should be invisible to someone at that height; oh, and is a friggin nutball made up of the worst kind of nuts – Brazil nuts, peanuts that are eight weeks old and found beneath a barstool, the elusive loco brain nut.
Here is a person who has a severe case of crazy eye, a person who I had to talk to when I went to work with a 104 fever and was pretty damn sure I was tripping balls because of the things they were saying, a person who will use this psychotic baby talk voice in business meetings, a person who says “right?” in a sentence roughly 27 times.
After said crazy face pointed out to me that they realized how busy I was at the moment, and even more so now that they were throwing a bunch more crap at me, decided to have me investigate a customer case that had gotten up to them.
Let’s say that I worked for a cookie company, and within the stores of this cookie company, along with cookies, the company also sold brightly colored sugar water. Let’s say a customer writes to this cookie company to let them know that when they went down to the ol’ cookie store, the store was out of their favorite colored sugar water. And this is not the first time this has happened, oh my no.
Now let’s extrapolate this a bit. Let’s say that’s one customer contact out of roughly 3000 that this cookie company gets daily – all contacts more or less playing on that same theme to varying degrees of “poor me”. Now, let’s say that after a couple of weeks this customer realizes that their colored sugar water (let’s say aqua blue, spicy cucumber flavor) is still out when they go to the cookie store. Being a the tricky bastard they are, the customer uses a friend to get a name higher up the food chain to contact. This customer bounces around the executive emails for a couple of weeks, like a .22 slug ricocheting off the inside of a skull and tearing apart the bubble gum upper management brain. Until Captain Baby Babble taps me to answer to why this customer wasn’t escalated correctly.
I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that in the grand scheme things, there’s no reason that they should even be paying attention to something like this. I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that sending a report to the store so they can adjust their ordering is the correct way to handle this pig fucker and not to send him on up to an executive (who should have way more important things to do) just because the customer has learned to whine more efficiently. I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain the reason why there’s a floor of disposable and interchangeable folks like me.
This person is Legion, and my job has become like a Captain Beefheart album; disturbing, surreal and in so many ways very wrong. It’s a little thing in the scheme of things, it’s my missing colored sugar water, but it’s enough to realize that a huge majority of my life’s energy is spent on it.
If this isn’t rock bottom, it’s a comin’ soon.
It’s also a great analogy for my work situation.
I can no longer keep up with the demand. I can rarely step away to go to the bathroom without trying make said trip more efficient by also printing up a document, possibly make a copy on the way to the john.
Here’s a funny thing, and when I say funny I actually mean bitterly sad; I’m a completely disposable and interchangeable middle management drone. As such, I’m subject to the whimsy of others. Let’s say that there’s a person I have to answer to that obsesses over details that should be invisible to someone at that height; oh, and is a friggin nutball made up of the worst kind of nuts – Brazil nuts, peanuts that are eight weeks old and found beneath a barstool, the elusive loco brain nut.
Here is a person who has a severe case of crazy eye, a person who I had to talk to when I went to work with a 104 fever and was pretty damn sure I was tripping balls because of the things they were saying, a person who will use this psychotic baby talk voice in business meetings, a person who says “right?” in a sentence roughly 27 times.
After said crazy face pointed out to me that they realized how busy I was at the moment, and even more so now that they were throwing a bunch more crap at me, decided to have me investigate a customer case that had gotten up to them.
Let’s say that I worked for a cookie company, and within the stores of this cookie company, along with cookies, the company also sold brightly colored sugar water. Let’s say a customer writes to this cookie company to let them know that when they went down to the ol’ cookie store, the store was out of their favorite colored sugar water. And this is not the first time this has happened, oh my no.
Now let’s extrapolate this a bit. Let’s say that’s one customer contact out of roughly 3000 that this cookie company gets daily – all contacts more or less playing on that same theme to varying degrees of “poor me”. Now, let’s say that after a couple of weeks this customer realizes that their colored sugar water (let’s say aqua blue, spicy cucumber flavor) is still out when they go to the cookie store. Being a the tricky bastard they are, the customer uses a friend to get a name higher up the food chain to contact. This customer bounces around the executive emails for a couple of weeks, like a .22 slug ricocheting off the inside of a skull and tearing apart the bubble gum upper management brain. Until Captain Baby Babble taps me to answer to why this customer wasn’t escalated correctly.
I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that in the grand scheme things, there’s no reason that they should even be paying attention to something like this. I feel that I shouldn’t have to explain that sending a report to the store so they can adjust their ordering is the correct way to handle this pig fucker and not to send him on up to an executive (who should have way more important things to do) just because the customer has learned to whine more efficiently. I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain the reason why there’s a floor of disposable and interchangeable folks like me.
This person is Legion, and my job has become like a Captain Beefheart album; disturbing, surreal and in so many ways very wrong. It’s a little thing in the scheme of things, it’s my missing colored sugar water, but it’s enough to realize that a huge majority of my life’s energy is spent on it.
If this isn’t rock bottom, it’s a comin’ soon.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Today Is The Day Of The Day
Because I’m in need of a celebration, and because I did a bunch today but accomplished nothing – I dedicate this post to a variety of “things of the day”.
Song of the Day: “As Sure As The Sun” by The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Ice Cream Flavor of the Day: Memphis King – Banana with peanut butter and chocolate covered bacon. This was actually the flavor of the day yesterday from my neighborhood ice cream vendor Full Tilt, but was good enough to slosh over into today. Thanks for coming along Mandy.
Everyday Word That Seems Like It Should Be A Dirty One of the Day: Proclivity.
Product That Should Be Ashamed To Be Around (Especially Because of the Commercial) of the Day: Pizza Hut Chocolate Dunkers with Chocolate Dunking Sauce - Some new desert that Pizza Hut is offering that involves a chocolate dipping sauce. The commercial features a delivery girl putting on a fake French accent to trick all these dumb white folks into thinking this Pizza Hut travesty is a French bakery travesty. Word to the wise: The French would never name something a "dunker". Fool me once...
Word To The Wise of the Day: If someone who is 8 kinds of high says to you, "seriously man, really think about Sesame Street for a minute" walk the fuck away without looking back.
Someone With A Case of the S'pose To's of the Day: Mark Spitz, former mustachioed Olympic swimmer, sounds like a friggin' child while talking about not being invited to the Olympics in these (admittedly out of context) quotes:
Douchebag Who Could Still Kick My Ass of the Day: Mark Spitz.
Weekend Celebrity Death That Seems Like A Real Drag of the Day: While Isaac Hayes is a bummer, I’m goin’ Bernie Mac. The man seemed like a funny guy and pneumonia is no way to go.
Song of the Day: “As Sure As The Sun” by The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Ice Cream Flavor of the Day: Memphis King – Banana with peanut butter and chocolate covered bacon. This was actually the flavor of the day yesterday from my neighborhood ice cream vendor Full Tilt, but was good enough to slosh over into today. Thanks for coming along Mandy.
Everyday Word That Seems Like It Should Be A Dirty One of the Day: Proclivity.
Product That Should Be Ashamed To Be Around (Especially Because of the Commercial) of the Day: Pizza Hut Chocolate Dunkers with Chocolate Dunking Sauce - Some new desert that Pizza Hut is offering that involves a chocolate dipping sauce. The commercial features a delivery girl putting on a fake French accent to trick all these dumb white folks into thinking this Pizza Hut travesty is a French bakery travesty. Word to the wise: The French would never name something a "dunker". Fool me once...
Word To The Wise of the Day: If someone who is 8 kinds of high says to you, "seriously man, really think about Sesame Street for a minute" walk the fuck away without looking back.
Someone With A Case of the S'pose To's of the Day: Mark Spitz, former mustachioed Olympic swimmer, sounds like a friggin' child while talking about not being invited to the Olympics in these (admittedly out of context) quotes:
- "They voted me one of the top five Olympians in all time. Some of them are dead. But they invited the other ones to go to the Olympics, but not me. Yes, I am a bit upset about it."
- "I won seven events. If they had the 50m freestyle back then, which they do now, I probably would have won that too"
- Speaking of visiting the Olympics in Athens – "They did not once put my face on television”
- Speaking of Michael Phelps – "He's almost identical to me. He's a world-record holder in all these events, so he is dominating the events just like I did. He reminds me of myself."
Douchebag Who Could Still Kick My Ass of the Day: Mark Spitz.
Weekend Celebrity Death That Seems Like A Real Drag of the Day: While Isaac Hayes is a bummer, I’m goin’ Bernie Mac. The man seemed like a funny guy and pneumonia is no way to go.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
The Voids Of Summer
Today I felt another piece of my soul slide away for some chump change due to me on Friday. Whining about a job is a pretty ugly form of self-pity, duly noted. There are worse jobs out there to be sure, I’ve had some of them.
There’s just this cyclical destruction of the inner wall that I’m able to put up, that psychic masonry that doesn’t let me forget how this job is slowly making me into something I hate, but at least lets me ignore it for awhile. The wall cracked a bit today.
I didn’t flood out in a wash of anger as is typical, there was just this quiet and sad moment that I realized that our breaths are numbered, and I’m spending a good chunk of mine fighting pathetic battles against enemies that could care less in a war that means nothing.
So yeah, there’s a bit of an existential funk brewing; no sexy bass line, but I can hear some vibraphones trying to get through back there somewhere…
And this is precisely the mood one should be in to hear the two bits of news I did when I got home, both revolving around the baseball stadium downtown.
First, the city is planning on spending something like 5 mil to build an over-street walkway over the train tracks that run near the stadium, this will take the place of the typical sidewalk with traffic lights and those easily ignored crossing arms with flashing red lights and bells that you can hear two towns away. And I definitely see the need, as a handful of people – strike that – a handful of drunk dumbasses, have tried to beat the train getting back to their cars after a game. I gotta say, point blank and without clever, if you’re dumb enough to try to run across the tracks as the above mentioned arms of obvious are warning you not to, than you deserve to be someone’s sick fuck fodder on youtube.
Moving on….
There will now also be a “no peanut” zone at this stadium so people with peanut allergies can go catch a game. This will surely increase those flagging ticket sales. I know there are folks out there with life threatening allergies, and a drag that is, but having dealt with a number of allergy claims at the above mentioned job, and after listening to a middle aged woman the other night go on and on to a number of wait staff about how she was allergic to coconut which was apparently in the Pan Asian soup that she ordered (go figure), I feel like about 85% of people with food allergies just talk about them so that they can, in some sick way, show how “special” they are. It’s like vegetarians who can’t wait to tell you all about how they’re vegetarians. Shut up and eat already. I might need a special zone at work as I think I’m deathly allergic to my job.
Isn’t this where we came in?
There’s just this cyclical destruction of the inner wall that I’m able to put up, that psychic masonry that doesn’t let me forget how this job is slowly making me into something I hate, but at least lets me ignore it for awhile. The wall cracked a bit today.
I didn’t flood out in a wash of anger as is typical, there was just this quiet and sad moment that I realized that our breaths are numbered, and I’m spending a good chunk of mine fighting pathetic battles against enemies that could care less in a war that means nothing.
So yeah, there’s a bit of an existential funk brewing; no sexy bass line, but I can hear some vibraphones trying to get through back there somewhere…
And this is precisely the mood one should be in to hear the two bits of news I did when I got home, both revolving around the baseball stadium downtown.
First, the city is planning on spending something like 5 mil to build an over-street walkway over the train tracks that run near the stadium, this will take the place of the typical sidewalk with traffic lights and those easily ignored crossing arms with flashing red lights and bells that you can hear two towns away. And I definitely see the need, as a handful of people – strike that – a handful of drunk dumbasses, have tried to beat the train getting back to their cars after a game. I gotta say, point blank and without clever, if you’re dumb enough to try to run across the tracks as the above mentioned arms of obvious are warning you not to, than you deserve to be someone’s sick fuck fodder on youtube.
Moving on….
There will now also be a “no peanut” zone at this stadium so people with peanut allergies can go catch a game. This will surely increase those flagging ticket sales. I know there are folks out there with life threatening allergies, and a drag that is, but having dealt with a number of allergy claims at the above mentioned job, and after listening to a middle aged woman the other night go on and on to a number of wait staff about how she was allergic to coconut which was apparently in the Pan Asian soup that she ordered (go figure), I feel like about 85% of people with food allergies just talk about them so that they can, in some sick way, show how “special” they are. It’s like vegetarians who can’t wait to tell you all about how they’re vegetarians. Shut up and eat already. I might need a special zone at work as I think I’m deathly allergic to my job.
Isn’t this where we came in?
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
One Flu Over The Low Budget Sci-Fi Movie
I want you to think of a man sized sandwich.
Did you go Manwich? Did you go sloppy joe in a can - an idea that seems more dangerous than a methed out whore with a gun – a gun with a real loose trigger? I’m thinking 6 foot turkey and swiss on whole wheat, with arms and legs, but that’s me.
Moving on, seriously…
Since last I wrote, a flu invaded the house and ripped through it like the above mentioned tweaker looking for hidden cash. Riley fell victim, and while I was busy feeling sorry for him and freaking out about a crazy high fever (enough so that I had a shrieking, sick baby in a cold bath trying to break this fever) that it didn’t dawn on me that I would probably be fighting this off as well.
Two numbered points of interest about bodily functions that you might want to skip over (which is why I’m numbering them – for your convenience) if you’re easily bothered by that sort of thing, or eating over your computer.
1) Diarrhea is not fun - period. Add to that the idea of changing diapers full of it. No, yeah, I totally almost threw up too. Which brings me to number
2) Watching a baby throw up for real for the first time is both horrifying and humorous – much like the idea of Paris Hilton (i.e. methed out whore from above). While there is this unbelievable amount of juice and water plummeting from the baby’s mouth, there’s also this wide-eyed look of, “what the fuck is happening right now” that almost made it worth mopping up the living room floor.
Anywho, things are back to relative normalness. I remember thinking as I was coming down off my fever high, that I’m glad that flu hit when it did and not when I had the audition set up.
Yeah, that would have been a drag.
Some people overcome great hardships to attempt to do things they love, I overcome ridiculously mundane ones that pile up and become more annoyances than the sort of things people make movies about.
Here are some things that were trying to stop me from getting to Capital Hill for a film audition: I couldn’t find my shoes, I couldn’t find the resume I printed out, when I found said resume and tried to staple it to my headshot I realized the stapler was out of staples, couldn’t find staples, got on the freeway to find it was completely backed for no good reason, the Capital Hill Block Party attempted to thwart my secret squirrel back way in…
I persevered, I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through. I did not however get the part. And aside from the massive layoffs at work, that pretty much catches you up.
Who needs a drink?
Did you go Manwich? Did you go sloppy joe in a can - an idea that seems more dangerous than a methed out whore with a gun – a gun with a real loose trigger? I’m thinking 6 foot turkey and swiss on whole wheat, with arms and legs, but that’s me.
Moving on, seriously…
Since last I wrote, a flu invaded the house and ripped through it like the above mentioned tweaker looking for hidden cash. Riley fell victim, and while I was busy feeling sorry for him and freaking out about a crazy high fever (enough so that I had a shrieking, sick baby in a cold bath trying to break this fever) that it didn’t dawn on me that I would probably be fighting this off as well.
Two numbered points of interest about bodily functions that you might want to skip over (which is why I’m numbering them – for your convenience) if you’re easily bothered by that sort of thing, or eating over your computer.
1) Diarrhea is not fun - period. Add to that the idea of changing diapers full of it. No, yeah, I totally almost threw up too. Which brings me to number
2) Watching a baby throw up for real for the first time is both horrifying and humorous – much like the idea of Paris Hilton (i.e. methed out whore from above). While there is this unbelievable amount of juice and water plummeting from the baby’s mouth, there’s also this wide-eyed look of, “what the fuck is happening right now” that almost made it worth mopping up the living room floor.
Anywho, things are back to relative normalness. I remember thinking as I was coming down off my fever high, that I’m glad that flu hit when it did and not when I had the audition set up.
Yeah, that would have been a drag.
Some people overcome great hardships to attempt to do things they love, I overcome ridiculously mundane ones that pile up and become more annoyances than the sort of things people make movies about.
Here are some things that were trying to stop me from getting to Capital Hill for a film audition: I couldn’t find my shoes, I couldn’t find the resume I printed out, when I found said resume and tried to staple it to my headshot I realized the stapler was out of staples, couldn’t find staples, got on the freeway to find it was completely backed for no good reason, the Capital Hill Block Party attempted to thwart my secret squirrel back way in…
I persevered, I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through. I did not however get the part. And aside from the massive layoffs at work, that pretty much catches you up.
Who needs a drink?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wild Ride
Again, am I creating my own reality?
I walked to the bus stop this morning only to find that the empty field that sits serenely behind a chain link fence that the 22 line drives along, a field that is typically shrouded in early morning mists and visited a inquiring crow or two, is now filled with carnival rides. I saw The Octopus, The Scrambler, The Tilt-A-Whirl… The oft locked away emotional memories of childhood ran rampant for half a second. And then the logistics of getting down to this carnival fair shenanigan with a child at home not yet old enough to suffer possible soft tissue damage at the hands of traveling machines set in.
And that’s about as exciting as that story gets. There’s also the story of my panic when I discovered Kickers had a high fever last night and I was stuck at home with no phone, car, or sense at where the Baby Tylenol might be hiding. It ends fine, with a cold bath that was very much unwanted, the triumphant discovery of the Baby Tylenol hiding place, and the breaking of a fever. Honestly though, I can’t imagine the details being all that interesting to many outside of the house. Consider yourself spared for once.
What else do I got? I got Dick.
Speaking of feverish and wild rides, it appears Andy Dick was busted for being inebriated and mauling a minor. There are times when I think that Andy Dick is playing the role of Andy Dick. Sometimes I think he’s unaware of any social boundaries of good taste – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing unless you’re the minor being mauled. Now I don’t know Andy Dick, and I’m not sure that I want to necessarily, but that being said – I’m voting for bat shit crazy.
I was reminded of a fine time in the past with Mercedes and Buddy in New Orleans. There was drunkenness to be sure, but also a couple minutes of viewing the “Tom Green Show”. On this episode, Tom Green began impersonating Andy Dick and Andy Dick began impersonating Tom Green. All this involved was the two of them walking into unsuspecting offices, crawling all over desks and file cabinets, and saying in loud, nasally voices, “I’m Andy Dick, I’m Andy Dick” (or “I’m Tom Green” if it was Andy Dick) over and over again.
I laughed and laughed... I can’t remember if that was the same trip as the shoelace story; never mind, really boring and uneccesary.
Anyway, here the mighty have fallen (again):
Don’t look too hard, this picture is trying to steal your soul.
I walked to the bus stop this morning only to find that the empty field that sits serenely behind a chain link fence that the 22 line drives along, a field that is typically shrouded in early morning mists and visited a inquiring crow or two, is now filled with carnival rides. I saw The Octopus, The Scrambler, The Tilt-A-Whirl… The oft locked away emotional memories of childhood ran rampant for half a second. And then the logistics of getting down to this carnival fair shenanigan with a child at home not yet old enough to suffer possible soft tissue damage at the hands of traveling machines set in.
And that’s about as exciting as that story gets. There’s also the story of my panic when I discovered Kickers had a high fever last night and I was stuck at home with no phone, car, or sense at where the Baby Tylenol might be hiding. It ends fine, with a cold bath that was very much unwanted, the triumphant discovery of the Baby Tylenol hiding place, and the breaking of a fever. Honestly though, I can’t imagine the details being all that interesting to many outside of the house. Consider yourself spared for once.
What else do I got? I got Dick.
Speaking of feverish and wild rides, it appears Andy Dick was busted for being inebriated and mauling a minor. There are times when I think that Andy Dick is playing the role of Andy Dick. Sometimes I think he’s unaware of any social boundaries of good taste – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing unless you’re the minor being mauled. Now I don’t know Andy Dick, and I’m not sure that I want to necessarily, but that being said – I’m voting for bat shit crazy.
I was reminded of a fine time in the past with Mercedes and Buddy in New Orleans. There was drunkenness to be sure, but also a couple minutes of viewing the “Tom Green Show”. On this episode, Tom Green began impersonating Andy Dick and Andy Dick began impersonating Tom Green. All this involved was the two of them walking into unsuspecting offices, crawling all over desks and file cabinets, and saying in loud, nasally voices, “I’m Andy Dick, I’m Andy Dick” (or “I’m Tom Green” if it was Andy Dick) over and over again.
I laughed and laughed... I can’t remember if that was the same trip as the shoelace story; never mind, really boring and uneccesary.
Anyway, here the mighty have fallen (again):
Don’t look too hard, this picture is trying to steal your soul.
Monday, July 14, 2008
You Wanna Go For A Ride
The computer died this weekend and with it went my sense of place within the world. That’s not at all true, it actually took away any sort of guilt I had at the lack of attention I have paid to the blog, or emailing friends. I was absolved, Macbook died for my sins.
My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their two young daughters were staying with us this weekend. It was great to see Rog and Reena again (it had literally been years) and to finally meet my beautiful nieces and watch my son manhandle said nieces. There was a lot of talk about Southern California life over beers and bourbon and a chilled bottle of limoncello. And while none of this talk revolved around amusement parks, that is what had come out after I let thoughts and conversations steep in a steaming cup of sleep deprivation sweaty summer evenings.
So that’s what you get…
Also, side note, side bar, hush hush side to side… I am remembering at this very moment an idea for a short novel about an amusement park. I should really get on that. Moving on…
Knott’s Berry Farm filled my mind this morning. Knott’s Berry Farm is an Orange County institution. Knott’s Berry Farm is like the malformed and socially inept younger sibling to Disneyland that should be locked away in a basement room, but is instead let out into the general public by well meaning parents. If the world were right, there would be a made for TV movie where Knott’s Berry Farm escaped from its home prison cell to murder the pretty amusement parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain; maybe the cops would arrive to some dingy torture pit just in time to save a shapely water park…
Knott’s Berry Farm is, as I remember it, much like a county fair that never packs up. There is an infestation of gaming booths where you can win stuffed Snoopy dolls, there are shops to buy jellies and jams, and there was one major ride; Montezooma’s Revenge! Montezooma’s Revenge was a roller coaster that shot you through one (count it, one) loop before sending you back through said loop backwards. It was probably king shit of roller coasters back in the day, but pretty lame when you take a minute to compare the mild amusement to the hour plus in line.
This also got me thinking about other misguided uses for the misguided term “amusement park”. Up in this neck of the woods, where fairly inclement weather keeps most Disney knock offs at bay, there was and is the Enchanted Village. The Enchanted Village is now connected to a waterslide park to make for a fun summer day jaunt, but when my brother and I were children it was as if someone had set up carnival rides and giant plywood figurines in their sizable backyard, started charging admission. The whole thing revolved around a big fiberglass slide that you rode while sitting on burlap bags. Not at all trailer trashy in the slightest…
I looked at the website to see how things had changed at the ol’ EV as the kids are calling it (they’re not). It looks like they have added some “exciting” new rides, and have written into their website exciting new description of said rides. I got the impression that EV’s web guru got sick of wading through delusion when describing The Scrambler.
The Scrambler by the way is one of those rides that you can find at most county fair/carnivals. It looks like:
The description of the ride on the EV website asks us to:
Enjoy the exciting thrills on this circular motion, back-and-forth journey.
Back and forth journey… There’s a “your mom” joke in there dying to get out.
I have to get back to work, and as I don’t have a good or clever way to end this, I want to share a quick thought about the Zipper ride.
I have never actually been on this ride, and not for any sort of fear for life or limb, but because this thing is apparently a vomit manufacturer. Anytime that I have been to a county fair or carnival and there is one of these, invariably, some irritated attendant is hosing down one of the cars and ridding it of the pungent combination of cotton candy and bile.
Long live carnival rides! And thanks for stopping by R&R, I miss you guys. It was good seeing you!
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: Happy Birthday, you’re 8 kinds of sexy – mostly because you were eight when I saw Depeche Mode live at the Rose Bowl.
My brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their two young daughters were staying with us this weekend. It was great to see Rog and Reena again (it had literally been years) and to finally meet my beautiful nieces and watch my son manhandle said nieces. There was a lot of talk about Southern California life over beers and bourbon and a chilled bottle of limoncello. And while none of this talk revolved around amusement parks, that is what had come out after I let thoughts and conversations steep in a steaming cup of sleep deprivation sweaty summer evenings.
So that’s what you get…
Also, side note, side bar, hush hush side to side… I am remembering at this very moment an idea for a short novel about an amusement park. I should really get on that. Moving on…
Knott’s Berry Farm filled my mind this morning. Knott’s Berry Farm is an Orange County institution. Knott’s Berry Farm is like the malformed and socially inept younger sibling to Disneyland that should be locked away in a basement room, but is instead let out into the general public by well meaning parents. If the world were right, there would be a made for TV movie where Knott’s Berry Farm escaped from its home prison cell to murder the pretty amusement parks like Disneyland and Magic Mountain; maybe the cops would arrive to some dingy torture pit just in time to save a shapely water park…
Knott’s Berry Farm is, as I remember it, much like a county fair that never packs up. There is an infestation of gaming booths where you can win stuffed Snoopy dolls, there are shops to buy jellies and jams, and there was one major ride; Montezooma’s Revenge! Montezooma’s Revenge was a roller coaster that shot you through one (count it, one) loop before sending you back through said loop backwards. It was probably king shit of roller coasters back in the day, but pretty lame when you take a minute to compare the mild amusement to the hour plus in line.
This also got me thinking about other misguided uses for the misguided term “amusement park”. Up in this neck of the woods, where fairly inclement weather keeps most Disney knock offs at bay, there was and is the Enchanted Village. The Enchanted Village is now connected to a waterslide park to make for a fun summer day jaunt, but when my brother and I were children it was as if someone had set up carnival rides and giant plywood figurines in their sizable backyard, started charging admission. The whole thing revolved around a big fiberglass slide that you rode while sitting on burlap bags. Not at all trailer trashy in the slightest…
I looked at the website to see how things had changed at the ol’ EV as the kids are calling it (they’re not). It looks like they have added some “exciting” new rides, and have written into their website exciting new description of said rides. I got the impression that EV’s web guru got sick of wading through delusion when describing The Scrambler.
The Scrambler by the way is one of those rides that you can find at most county fair/carnivals. It looks like:
The description of the ride on the EV website asks us to:
Enjoy the exciting thrills on this circular motion, back-and-forth journey.
Back and forth journey… There’s a “your mom” joke in there dying to get out.
I have to get back to work, and as I don’t have a good or clever way to end this, I want to share a quick thought about the Zipper ride.
I have never actually been on this ride, and not for any sort of fear for life or limb, but because this thing is apparently a vomit manufacturer. Anytime that I have been to a county fair or carnival and there is one of these, invariably, some irritated attendant is hosing down one of the cars and ridding it of the pungent combination of cotton candy and bile.
Long live carnival rides! And thanks for stopping by R&R, I miss you guys. It was good seeing you!
Confidential to Mo Money Mandy: Happy Birthday, you’re 8 kinds of sexy – mostly because you were eight when I saw Depeche Mode live at the Rose Bowl.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Childish Questions
I had other ideas to write about; the battle at work with a coworker, camping, the nonstop barrage of illegal Chinese fireworks outside my house on Friday night… There’s even this Kenneth Anger piece I’m tossing around for kc!. But…
Round abouts 11 on Saturday night, Kickers woke up screaming his face off. This one wasn’t that sort of exploratory, “hey I’m crying – sorta” sound that he will occasionally make before dropping off again, something was not working out well for him. I went in his room, and on entering he quieted down a bit. I put my hand on his back and he seemed to drop off, but as soon as I started to leave he would kick up his screaming fit again.
I finally picked him up and took him out to the dark living room to lie on the couch together. He immediately poked his head up to check the street for passing busses, but I whispered for him to lay down and he did. He whispered “dada”, grabbed gently at my face and slowly sank back into sleep.
I laid there with him, listening to him mumble his musical language as he faded, feeling those impossibly little fingers stroke my face slower and slower, and suddenly the lack of importance in most anything else shone like a neon X-Ray.
How do you hold onto that feeling of peace, that clarity of calm? How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it? How is there still this unending drive for power, for destruction of ANYONE? How does the president sleep? How is it that the only interaction I’ve heard with the neighbor woman and her beautiful little girls is through yelling?
How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it?
Sure, words are easy and clumsy and dangerous. How is it that sitting here at my desk I’m 8 kinds of wrapped up in work bullshit? How is it that I have to close my eyes and block out the sounds around me to even have a slight impression of those fingers on my face, the sound of his language of the universe, the smell of his hair? It’s because everything beautiful and magical is fragile.
I want to lock it inside of myself like some biological compass, some blinding legend. I wonder if my father remembers this…
Round abouts 11 on Saturday night, Kickers woke up screaming his face off. This one wasn’t that sort of exploratory, “hey I’m crying – sorta” sound that he will occasionally make before dropping off again, something was not working out well for him. I went in his room, and on entering he quieted down a bit. I put my hand on his back and he seemed to drop off, but as soon as I started to leave he would kick up his screaming fit again.
I finally picked him up and took him out to the dark living room to lie on the couch together. He immediately poked his head up to check the street for passing busses, but I whispered for him to lay down and he did. He whispered “dada”, grabbed gently at my face and slowly sank back into sleep.
I laid there with him, listening to him mumble his musical language as he faded, feeling those impossibly little fingers stroke my face slower and slower, and suddenly the lack of importance in most anything else shone like a neon X-Ray.
How do you hold onto that feeling of peace, that clarity of calm? How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it? How is there still this unending drive for power, for destruction of ANYONE? How does the president sleep? How is it that the only interaction I’ve heard with the neighbor woman and her beautiful little girls is through yelling?
How is it that anyone who has held a child can forget it?
Sure, words are easy and clumsy and dangerous. How is it that sitting here at my desk I’m 8 kinds of wrapped up in work bullshit? How is it that I have to close my eyes and block out the sounds around me to even have a slight impression of those fingers on my face, the sound of his language of the universe, the smell of his hair? It’s because everything beautiful and magical is fragile.
I want to lock it inside of myself like some biological compass, some blinding legend. I wonder if my father remembers this…
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