You want postmodern? I'll give ya postmodern.
A brief list of things I considered writing about and subsequently rejected on my walk to work this morning:
Humanity is the rich effluvium, it is the waste and the manure and the soil ...
I haven't had any caffeine at all yet this morning, so forgive me if this is completely incoherent.
Went to see the A's trounce the Red Sox last night at ye olde Network Associates Coliseum. Good game, plenty of offense, T. Long had an outfield assist (always exciting), and I won six bucks in various proposition bets. Fun was had by all, except my friend Kevin, who lives and dies with the fortunes of the hapless Red Sox. Poor guy.
But it was dollar night at the ballpark. Dollar upper-reserved and bleacher tickets, and dollar hot dogs. Oh, the humanity.
There's usually an abundance of humanity at a regular-priced A's game, but it increasess exponentially at dollar night, as you might imagine. We saw several near fistfights and one actual one. Lotsa fat guys, mullets, 17-year-old nearly naked trollops (it was like 6 degrees with the wind chill, mind you), and general drunk and disorderly conduct. One theory holds that people have a budget going in, and they're gonna spend the same amount of money no matter what. So if the tickets and dogs are just a buck, they're gonna reinvest their savings in beer.
That would explain a lot. Like the fistfights, the fat guys, the mullets, the 17-year-old nearly naked trollops, and the general drunk and disorderly conduct. ßßß
Me and public transit just don't mix.
Public transportation will be the death of me.
Between the fucked-up ghetto bus I take from work to BART — that would be the lovely 19 bus that runs from Hunter's Point to the Tenderloin, two of the most jacked-up areas of San Francisco — and the daily freak show that is Bay Area Rapid Transit, I'm surprised I've only had to beat down one individual.
My morning commutes are generally uneventful, as I take the absurdly early and therefore sparsely populated 5:50 AM BART train, but coming home is always an adventure. Here are a couple of anecdotes just from last night's commute..
Tuesday night, me and Scoop Casey, the 19 to Market Street. First a 5' 2", 300+-pound woman forces her way past me to get on the bus before me. Fine. Whatever. Make sure her fat ass gets a seat so she doesn't block the whole goddamn aisle. So we're on now, and a dude, fully equipped with a face full of gold fronts, is bumping the new Eastsidaz record at full volume. He's trying to rap along with it but doesn't really know the words, so ends up looking lilke a complete tool. Meanwhile his girl is trying to conversate with him, but the music is so loud that she's screaming at him, and he's ignoring her anyway. Grand. Another lovely MUNI experience.
Then I get on BART and I had a complete Warriors moment. Remember when Swan and Mercy are on the subway headed back to Coney and the prom kids get on the subway car? And there's that awkward moment when they gang leader and the ho look at the wealthy white kids and realize the disparity? Well, it was something like that when these Midwestern-born, Dave-Matthews-listening, shlong-haired crackers got on the train. They were talking nonstop about ski-house arrangements for the winter and shit like that. They were reprehensible in every way.
And then there was the guy who was passed out in the seats next to me, with dried-up drool all down the front of his sweatshirt. And the there was the kid across from me who I hope was on Ecstasy, 'cuz he was just staring at all and sundry and smiling like a crazy person. In fact, I think he was a crazy person.
I gotta start driving to work. Before I have to dispense my unique brand of justice again. ßßß
Britney + Brando = Bad
If I never, ever see Katie Couric on my TV again it will be too soon.
Of course I know that when I go to the gym tomorrow, her hideously deformed countenance will be there on the big-screen TV, haunting me, taunting me.
She looks like the unholy offspring of a squirrel and a flounder, or maybe Britney Spears and Marlon Brando as Don Corleone. Is it me, or do her eyes move farther apart and her jowls expand a little each morning?
And yet she has this fanatical freaking fan base. What is it with you people?? Not you people, because I'm guessing if thought Katie Couric rocked you would not be down with this weblog. At least I hope not. But what is it with the vast number of people who worship her and Matt Lauer and Bryant Gumbel? Especially Bryant Gumbel. Man, that guy is one arrogant fucker.
But when Couric's contract expires a year from now, she will have collected $28 million from NBC. And experts are already predicting that her next contract will be worth more than $50 million. Fifty. Million. Dollars.
And for what? Reading the news. Reading the news! Not covering the news, not going out and doing hard-hitting investigative journalism. Probably not even writing the pap she reads off the TelePrompTer. Just reading it. And for this, she is paid the ungodly sum of $7 million a year. For having no talent other than being able to read English. Hats off to you, Katie. You are the ultimate Professional Celebrity. May you rot in hell for all eternity.
In other news, hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Not if I have anything to say about it. ßßß
Sweden to the Rescue — Again
They may not be much for fighting wars, but we may have to thank the Swedes for saving something much more important than freedom and democracy and shit. I'm talking about the future of rock 'n' roll.
I said as much in my third ever blawg entry. Up to that point, my exposure to rock 'n' roll of the Swedish variety consisted of Refused, The Hellacopters, and the Backyard Babies. But last week my friend Avi turned me on to some more great Swedish rock, and it has reignited my love of of music and restored my flagging faith in rock. I just read that back, and it sounds awfully grandiose. But I'm not changing it, because it's true.
So how is it that these people are outrocking the rest of the world by a wide margin? I haven't got a clue. But if you need proof, just check out The Soundtrack of Our Lives. Yes, that's a band, and it contains ex-members of Union Carbide Productions. TSOOL's sound is simultaneously instantly familiar and unlike anything I've ever heard. Their roots are obvious — Stones, Faces, MC5, the Stooges, et al. — but the take is original, not a slavish, by-the-numbers impersonation. But the fact is that I can't put my finger on what makes them so exciting. Apart from solid musicianship and excellent songwriting, that is. Maybe it's just that they're as excited about the music as I want to be. Hell, I can't explain it with words.
What was it that Frank Zappa said? Talking about music is like dancing about architecture? Yeah, something like that. He said some other really cool stuff too. I'm not a huge fan of his music, but he was always good for a soundbite.
Some Swedish Rock Resources
Don't miss last week's brilliant insight.
