Play Ball!
Just in time for mass distraction, it's baseball season!
And not a minute too soon. At least now I can obsessively pore over the latest baseball news and stats and innuendo instead of the latest war news and stats and innuendo. Call me a coward, but my fragile psyche can't take the constant (nonliteral) bombardment. My heart goes out to those people who are suffering actual bombardment. I can't even imagine what that must be like.
On another subject, I'm sick of people (I'm looking at you, Fox News) trying to frame the antiwar movement as an antitroop movement. Is this some misguided post-Vietnam War guilt, or what? I oppose this war for more reasons than I can possibly enumerate, NONE of which have to do with a lack of regard for servicemen or servicewomen of any nationality. In fact, one of the fundamental reasons I oppose this war is that I don't want anybody to die. Come home today. Or the day before that.
So all you pro-war protesters (Can you really be pro-war? Do you want to rethink that at all??) out there: I respect your right to support this war, and I'll defend to the death your right to share your misguided and inconceivably naive opinion, but please stop pretending that your support for "our president" and "our troops" makes a whit of difference. The day you stop questioning what your government does is the day democracy stops working. And as far as my opposition to this war offering support or solace to the enemy, that's just preposterous. Do you even know who the real enemy is?
I'll give you a hint: it isn't the megalomaniac in Baghdad. ßßß
All the World Is Coming Down Around Me
It's difficult to be my usual flip and cavalier and smart-assed self when people are killing and dying and suffering elsewhere. Not that someone's not always killing or dying or suffering or anything (counting my negatives to make sure they all even out into a positive ... check), but you know, war and shit. And you don't come here for your war news. (That doesn't mean that I will spare you my occasional insights or unsolicited opinions on said war, however.) So what does that leave us? The minutiae of my everyday life? Hardly seems worth the effort, sadly.
But apparently there are still some people who read this site, like, every day. So for them, I will deign to write something.
Last week I went to consult with an endocrinologist about my hypothyroidism. Most doctors, in my limited experience, are arrogant bastards, so I generally dread going to the doctor. They usually treat me like a child, are dismissive of my concerns, and seem to want nothing more than to write a prescription for something — anything — and get the hell out of the room. So meeting my endocrinologist's physician assistant was a bona fide treat.
She was young, for starters, probably younger than me. And she looked like a normal person. No lab coat, no stethoscope, no obvious accoutrements of the medical clergy to distinguish her from the rank or the file. But her medical knowledge was extensive, and she had thoughtful answers to all my (myriad) questions except one, which she deferred to her boss, the actual M.D. guy. He was OK too, but when I was asked whether I wanted to see the P.A. or the M.D. for my follow-up visit, I picked the P.A. Judging by the surprised look on the receptionist's face, I may have been a little too enthusiastic about my selection.
Upon hearing my litany of hypothyroid-type symptoms — cold extremities, weight gain, listlessness, et al. — and hearing what my current dose was, Meghan the P.A. increased my dosage of thyroid medication by about 18 percent. That was a week ago, and I'm already feeling markedly better. I'll be even happier when (OK, if) this spare tire retires from around my gut, but I'm trying not to be greedy. I'm just happy that I can feel my fingers and toes, fercrissakes.
Bloodwork and follow-up in four more weeks. I'll keep you posted.
If you have a sense of humor and a wicked-fast 'Net connection, I suggest you click here right now and check out Greg Behrendt's latest star turn in the semi-eponymous "Greg Behrendt Does Not Rock." It also stars Tom Morello and Rhett Miller for you starfuckers out there. Dig it. It's good times. Word. ßßß
Necessary Goods
Dack's new site, the Rational Enquirer, kicks much ass. Oh, and Salam Pax is famous.
I wish we didn't need a Rational Enquirer or a Where Is Raed, but we do, so I'm damn glad they're there. ßßß
Worst Overheard Conversation of the Day #2
Who: "President" Bush.
My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the world will be overcome. We will pass through this time of peril and carry on the work of peace. We will defend our freedom. We will bring freedom to others and we will prevail.
Orwellian doublespeak in full effect. War is peace. Wrong is right. Freedom is slavery.
Worst Overheard Conversation of the Day #1
Who: Me and a stupid yuppie girl.
Where: At the gym. I'm on an exercise bike, and she walks up, preparing to stairmaster.
What: The big-screen TV's tuned to CNN. I'm intently watching the crawl and reading the closed captioning. (This is the news TV, by the way. There's another TV adjacent to this one tuned to ESPN for people who can't stomach real life.)
Stupid Yuppie Girl: Do you mind if I change the channel?
Me: (incredulous) Huh?
SYG: Can I change it to, like, the Today Show or something?
Me: Ummm ... No?
SYG: (perturbed) Even though they're all covering the same stuff?
Me: Yeah, I do mind. CNN has the latest news and the crawl. Sorry.
SYG: ...
I'm sorry you won't get to watch Matt Lauer and that pumpkin-headed plastic-surgery disaster cohost of his this morning, stupid yuppie girl, but we're at war. We've all got to make sacrifices. ßßß
Reprinted Without Permission from the Guardian Unlimited
Weapons inspector: 'US gave us wrong data'
A UN weapons inspector who returned from Iraq yesterday said today that the US had given them wrong and misleading information about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction.
Jorn Siljeholm, 48, a Norwegian scientist at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, spent 100 days in Iraq as part of the UN inspections team.
He told the Associated Press that assertions by US officials, including the US secretary of state, Colin Powell, about Iraq's arsenal and its attempts to hide it, did not tally with his own findings.
"None of their hot tips were ever confirmed," he said, adding: "I don't know about a single decontamination truck that didn't turn out to be a fire engine or a water truck."
Put It in Perspective
Came across this weblog on memepool today (be patient; I'm sure blogger's servers are getting killed thanks to the memepool link), and it made the thought of posting a long, clever, self-congratulatory entry seem even less savory and less worthwhile than normal. And that's saying something.
If you're one of the handful of people who enjoy reading about the vagaries and minutiae of my life, please take whatever time you'd spend reading this site reading Salam's site. Thanks. ßßß
On like Aust-on
So, I'm back from South by Southwest. Austin was unbelievable, and we ended up having an awesome time in spite of the fact that we didn't see a single fucking show. Of course all the good shows were sold out, and we didn't have fancy badges or lanyards or laminates or wristbands or anything, so we were screwed. I could list off all the amazing bands we coulda/shoulda/woulda seen, but I'd just end up making myself sick. We did see famed toboggan-head Mary Lou Lord doing her thing out in the street, and we drove by Neko Case and Wayne Hancock, and I'm sure we drove by innumerable other indie-rock superstars without recognizing them. It was good times. But next year? I'm buying a goddamn badge.
Our show was unremarkable. We played, people clapped, no one offered us a lucrative contract.
Austin, though, rules my world. It's hard to imagine what it's like not during SXSW, when just about every hipster in the U.S. and most of Europe descends upon it, but what I saw I liked. People are just so laid back (but not in a gross hippie way). Even the people at the Diesel store — those people at the top of the retail clothing hierarchy — were super sweet to us. It was weird. And wonderful.
I forget what it's like in the South. People actually look at you, they make eye contact. Strangers nod and smile and wave. I'm not saying it's utopia or anything (it is still the South, after all), but that's a major cultural difference.
This was the first time I've ever left the Bay Area and not sighed a huge sigh of relief upon my return. Usually I'm so desperately glad to be back in San Francisco or Oakland or Berkeley and around normal (read: abnormal) people that I can barely contain my glee. But going to Austin, at least during the fest, was like being surrounded by thousands of like-minded souls. (Is that some kind of a contradiction in terms? A like-minded soul? It looks to be a mixed metaphor at the very least.) So while coming back home was nice, I definitely coulda kicked it in Austin for a few more days. Or maybe longer.
One never knows. ßßß
Everything Subject to Change
The bulk of the band left for South by Southwest last night, which means they're currently in a van somewhere between Oakland and Austin. Poor saps. Since I'm the only gainfully employed member of the band, I opted to travel by aereoplane in order to miss less work (and to avoid being cooped up in a van with four smelly boys for 30 hours each way). Apart from blowing the doors off the place and getting signed to an obscenely huge major-label contract, my goals are to go to as many shows as possible (hopefully including Supergrass) and see Melvin Goes to Dinner, the new film by comedy mastermind Bob Odenkirk. Good times, people.
The listings for each SXSW event carry the following disclaimer: "Everything subject to change." I think I'll adopt that as my own personal mantra.
See you clowns next week. ßßß
Priorities
So here we are, lurching toward war in Iraq, and all I care about is the fact that I've managed to max out my 20-gig iPod. 4,162 songs. Woo fucking hoo.
Not much seems to make sense on the eve of war. I mean, how stoked can I get about writing and editing health plan member communications when we're poised to decimate and entire country? And how can I possibly get excited about the decidedly rosy prospects of this band of mine when people will soon be dying a few thousand miles away?
Not much seems to make sense on the eve of war, least of all this war itself. Even George W. Bush's own father, the first President Bush, is telling his son to calm the fuck down. Now that's surreal.
It's at times like this that weblog seems especially pointless, but here I am, typing away. Hell, I don't know what else to do. I've already read the Onion, and my iPod's all full up. Wake me up when this is all over, would ya? ßßß
Workin' for the Weekend
So I'm an editor by trade, and I've recently been deluged with freelance writing gigs, so the prospect of writing a weblog has just felt too much like work lately. Plus I've had neither the time nor the inclination to write, nor anything even remotely interesting to write about, hence the blawg silence. That's the gospel truth.
The band is going to Austin next week for South by Southwest, which should be fun, or at least interesting. So don't expect a whole lotta anything to happen here next week either. I'm sure I'll have lotsa fun stories of debauchery and music-industry shenanigans upon my return, though.
I will be making every effort to see this this weekend, and so should you. I'm told it's the feelgood movie of the year. Not really. ßßß
You Gonna Eat That?
I'm so hungry right now that my brain cannot even form coherent thoughts or make the simplest decisions. This is crazy. I need to eat, people.
(That was funny, because I read the above sentence quickly and noticed that, if the comma were removed, it would change the meaning drastically, to wit: "I need to eat poeple." Which I don't. Need to eat people, I mean. ALthough I don't know that I necessarily have a problem with eating people, even though I'm a vegan. It's complicated, and I'm far too famished right now to explain my ill-conceived position on cannibalism, so you can ask me later, preferably after lunch.)
I've eaten now. And I'm ready for a nap, but not ready to discuss cannibalism at length with you or anyone else.
Why is it that people who should know better forsake all their good sense and book-learnin' when it comes to the topic of astrology? Seriously.
Do you honestly expect me to believe that I share traits with one-twelfth of the world's population just because of when I was born? That something about the position of celestial bodies at or around when I was born somehow predetermines major aspects of my personality? Not really, right? I mean, that's crazy talk. Superstition. Witchcraft. Nonsense.
So stop it. It doesn't become you. ßßß
Please, God. Not another entry about politics.
I wish I had something funny to write about, but not much is funny in these parts of late. No one's told me I remind them of Britney Spears. Playa hataz.
I had lunch with my Buddhism-practicing Dad today. I was telling him how uncertain everything in my life felt. He said Buddhists had a name for this phenomenon, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. Anyhoo, times like these, apparently, are the most fruitful for one's Buddhist practice, because they kick your ass and make you work.
Well, I'm tired of working. I'm tired of processing, and goddammit, I'm tired of "feeling my feelings." I want to not feel my feelings. Hell, I'd even settle for feeling someone else's feelings. I just want to check out for a while. Nothing drastic and nothing permanent, mind. Just a temporary hiatus from daily life and its attendant responsibilities.
It's times like these when I really wish I could be a social narcotics user. I loved me some narcotics. That warm, buoyant feeling, accompanied by the absolute certainty that everything was going to be OK. If there's a heaven, that has to be what it's like.
I could use a little slice of heaven right now. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
