Another Year in the Books
2002. Whoa, dude. What a fucked-up year.
I could try and sum up all the things that happened in the past 12 months, but it would hurt my head too much, and that's what the archives. Besides, you wouldn't believe it if I told you anyway, so I won't.
So I've got a cold and I'm off my proverbial (and vestigial) tits on cough medicine. Maximum Strength Tylenol Cold Non-Drowsy Day Formula, to be precise. Pseudoephedrine HCl + Dextromethorphan HBr = my brain doesn't know what the fuck to do. Laugh? Cry? Write a weblog? Sure, it's all good. One response is just as good as any other.
Even though it's completely arbitrary, the end of a calendar year seems like as good a point in time-space to reflect on stuff. Man, I'm hungry. Joe Strummer's dead of a heart attack. Now that is positively fucked up. He was 50, which is weird in and of itself, but now the long-awaited and always-looming-on-the-horizon and quite-possible-now-that-Mick-and-Joe-just-shared-a-stage-together-recently reunion will never happen. Which means I will never have seen the Clash. The only band that ever mattered.
So I'll sit here with a "Straight to Hell" tattoo on my arm and never ever have seen the Clash. So, so wrong. I won't even bother trying to explain the profound experience that band had on me, or what they meant (mean?) to me, cuz there aren't any words for that sort of thing. If the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you listen to "Clampdown" or "Death or Glory," then you know of what I speak. If not, not.
Of the four thoughts that turn the mind toward the dharma, impermanence is the second thought. Until we've confronted the inevitability of our death, we cannot deal with the uncertainty of life. Knawmsayin'? The impermanence of ourselves and others. Joe Strummer. 2002. My cold. This job. This body. You. It'll all be gone soon.
Which, if you're all hopped up on cold medicine or a Buddhist, can be a strangely comforting thought. ßßß
Think of the Garbageman, Won't You?
So I generally buy beer once a year. At Christmastime. For the garbageman.
I think it's an East Coast thing, cuz Californians always look at me funny when I tell them about it. But it's simple. I spend $7.50 on a six-pack of decent beer (Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale, in this case) and I get special garbage consideration all the year 'round. Which seems like a fantastic deal to me. He takes any- and everything we put out there, no questions asked. And I mean really, that's a shitty job, and buying the man a six of beer to dull the pain is the right thing to do, don't ya think?
But since I don't drink (and don't generally buy liquor; see first paragraph above, thanks), the actual procurement of the brew is a strange and mystical procedure. First of all, I don't know where to go. Does 7-11 sell beer? Does Safeway? Do they have a decent selection, or just Corona, Bud, and the Silver Bullet? The rules governing the sale of alcoholic beverages seem as complicated as they are arbitrary.
And then there's the whole I.D. thing. I'd like to think I look younger than I actually am, and I have in the past been asked for proof of age. I didn't last night, though. Does that mean I'm old, or that the guy at Buckingham Wine & Spirits doesn't care if his patrons are 21?
And then there's just the whole novelty of the thing. I am completely and utterly out of my element in a liquor store. I quit drinking when I was 17, so the only time I've ever (legally) bought booze is my annual garbageman beer run. I don't know what the protocol is, what to do, what to expect, or anything. Anyways, it's weird. Trust me.
But take a hint from an old East Coast cat and buy your sanitation engineer a li'l sumthin'. You'll be glad you did. And so will he. ßßß
A Long Overdue and Cryptical Update
The wheels are in motion, people. The wheels. Are in motion.
I'm afraid that's all I can say about that.
Lantana was bad ass. If you ain't seen it, see it. You won't be sorry, promise. It's no Ladies Man, but it's good all the same.
I have officially finished all my Christmas shopping without setting foot in an actual store. God bless Amazon.com.
I'm afraid that's all the information that is currently available for publication. More info as it is declassified. Over, out. ßßß
Happy Friday the 13th, All.
I have yet another sitting on my backpiece this afternoon. The seventh session. This feels like it's never, ever gonna end. Wish me luck.
Me and the missus went to a nondemoninational, non-Judeo-Christian, nonpatriarchal, nonhierarchical, winter solstice holiday celebration, AKA the Office Christmas Party. It was actually the party of a former employer, so I was not compelled to act right, make nice, or keep my bare ass off the copy machine, but I did anyway. There were more hip, creative, beautiful, super-ultra-cool people than you could shake sticks at. But they weren't really being the way those people usually are, y'know? Not looking down their noses at you, scrutinizing you, glaring at you as if to say "You're not cool enough to be in our club, former employee that no one knows and no one liked when you actually did work here, and who invited you anyway, and oh my god I can't believe you had the gall to show up here, the nerve!" Nope, there was none of that at all. It was pretty fun.
And now, after a too-long hiatus, the Best Overheard Conversation of the Week returns!
Who: Me and a coworker over AIM.
Me: i just found the world's most expensive dildo
Me: guess how much
Coworker: what is is made of?
Me: glass
Coworker: hmm. $1500
Me: close
Me: a G
Coworker: geez.
Coworker: i could buy a man for that.
Me: HAHAHAHA
Thank you, goodnight. ßßß
The Thing about the Wolves and the Sheep's Clothing and Not Being Able to Change Their Stripes...
Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity. And I'm not sure about the former.
Why the hell else would Trent Lott, he of the Teflon hair and normally Teflon reputation, let slip something as profoundly miscalculated as his recent speech at celebrated doddering racist Strom Thurmond's birthday bash?
He said that Mississippians were proud to have voted for Thurmond, "and if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years, either." Say what now?
Ummmm.... Trent? You do realize that Strom's slogan in the 1948 race was "Segregation Forever," right? OK, yeah. So. Whatever possessed ya? Did you not learn your lesson 20 years ago, when you said of Strommy, "you know, if we had elected this man 30 years ago, we wouldn't be in the mess we are today"??? Which begs the question, "exactly what mess is that, Trent?" The one where the Negro mingles freely with whites, drinks from the same water fountains, eats at the same lunch counters?
And you know you've fucked up when Jesse Helms comes to your defense. (I can almost hear the conversation now. "No, honest, Jesse, I'm gonna be just fine. Don't worry about me. No, Mr. Helms, I really wish you wouldn't issue a statement of support....d'oh....") "I resent personally the efforts to try to sling mud at Trent Lott because he was trying to praise Strom Thurmond," Helms said. "He may have chose a word that was that was too vulnerable to his critics. And they leap on it like a puppy dog on a biscuit."
HIS CAMPAIGN SLOGAN WAS "SEGREGATION FOREVER." There is no way to justify that statement, and even if Thurmond has changed his political stripes, there is no way to divorce that sentiment from that campaign. That's like saying Stalin was awesome except for killing those 50 million people. OK, it isn't, really, but you get my drift. You just can't defend that position. It's indefensible.
And now for the comedy portion of our program, I direct you to the genius of The Onion. Thanks to Peter for the link. Peace out. ßßß
Killing Is Our Business, and Business Is Good.
I was going to try and set down my thoughts about this whole Iraq weapons dossier deal, but A. I don't really know what I'm talking about, and 2. it's clear that the contents of said dossier are immaterial. We're gonna clusterbomb that place regardless. The goal is clearly not peace in the Middle East and/or bringing democracy to the region. (Ask the Iranians, the Chileans, the Turks, the Guatemalans, the Panamanians, the Nicaraguans, and others about our respect for their democratically elected governments.) It's about regime change, oil money, and George W. finishing what George H.W. started.
The administration is claiming they have "clear evidence" that Iraq's weapon program breaches U.N. resolutions. Well, it's not often that I agree with an Iraqi general, but in the words of Gen. Amer al-Saadi, Iraq's science advisor, "If they have anything to the contrary, let them forthwith come up with it."
Couldn't have said it better myself. Don't we deserve to see the evidence before they start killing people in our name? ßßß
If It Bleeds, It Leads. So What If Nothing's Bleeding?
My marriage is rock-solid. My job is blissfully boring. My mental/physical/emotional health is steady, verging on really good. I don't take public transit anymore. All in all, life is damn, damn good.
Which is great, but it also means I am frequently stumped for things to write about. If no news is good news (and let's say for the sake of argument that this is true), then I really have no news. And I suppose that is good news.
No blood, no blog, I guess. Here's to it. ßßß
Happy Birthday, Strommy.
More proof of the old "only the good die young" adage: Strom Thurmond turns 1 million ... sorry, no ... 100 years old today. Strommy is our longest-serving senator, turning in 48 years of disservice to the people of South Carolina.
But did you know:
"There's not enough troops in the Army to force the Southern people to break down segregation and admit the Nigra race into our theaters, into our swimming pools, into our homes, and into our churches."
Happy birthday, Strom. Only in America could a doddering, blackhearted, horny old racist enjoy a century like that. What a country, huh? ßßß
This Just In: I Am a Slack Bastard
It's been a week or more since I last updated this bitch. Weak. I have no good excuse, either, 'cepting that I've been busy and stuff. Busy with work (ack) and bands, mostly, and composing ridiculous music on my favorite new toy, my Yamaha QY-10. In fact, my latest brainstorm is to write an entire record on the QY-10. I even got a cool name — the QY-10 Qollective. Should be quite a challenge, in that it only has eight tracks and 30 instrument voices plus a drum kit. Wish me luck.
So. What have you missed in the last week? Umm, not much, actually. The Hills Have Eyes have a show on Friday. It's at Burnt Ramen, and it's supposed to start at like 7 or 8. It may be the last chance you ever, ever have to see The Hills Have Eyes, so peel your ass up off the divan and come on down. More details as they are made available.
Want to stick it sideways up the ass of the music industry and get free money at the same time? Of course you do! Click here to hop on the Compact Disc Minimum Advertised Price Antitrust Litigation Settlement bandwagon. It'll take you less than 3 minutes. Thanks to Tim for the heads up.
The Scheme is getting some love on various and sundry indie-music sites, but we are currently battling a lack of bandwidth with which to host and stream our mp3s. If you want to hear the demo tracks, email me. And if you can offer us some kind of free hosting or know of any scams for same, please please please lemme know. Thanks in advance.
Honestly? I don't know what else. Oh, wait; yeah I do. We went up to Lake Ta-bro this past weekend to behold the comedy stylings of Kathy Griffin. Now her standup isn't standup per se; it's more like her just talking smack on various celebrities for an hour-plus. Taking down a peg or three all those deluded, self-obsessed, megalomaniacal show-biz personalities who need to be taken down a peg or three. Basically it's just like you and your friends sitting home talking trash, except KG is way funnier than you or anyone you know and she actually knows these people. So she has amazing insider info and delicious stories about everyone. Plus she practically took her pants off during the gig, which never fails to elicit big laughs from the geriatric gambler set. Good times, mes amis. Good. Times.
Oh, and one last thing. This is far and away the most disturbing thing I have ever come across during my travails in and around the Interweb. There ain't no nasty pitchers, but seriously ... click at your own risk. And may God and Matt Groening have mercy on your souls. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
