Listening to: Love & Rockets, Express
In my last post I overtly challenged the tiny-minded weasels at the NSA to come lock me up for "seditious" words, words those dimwitted fucks no doubt needed to consult a dictionary in order to decipher. Considering I'm now on their radar tighter than their deoderant (honestly, fellas, think about personal hygeine a bit, k?) and obviously in their pock-marked faces, I figured I'd attempt to expand their horizons a tad and continue with the "word power" exercise. Hey, we all need it. When I was reading Harold Bloom's Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, I discovered the following words and wrote them down on my bookmark (an unpaid parking ticket) so I might flesh out my vocabulary a bit.
adumbrate
archon
apotropaic
proleptic
poetaster
persiflage
praxis
indite
sclerotic
palimpsest
apotheosis
quietist
imposthume
postlapsarian
sparagmos
vastation
apothegm
trope
emedatiom
salutary
fustian
That last word is what I've been accused of, for good reason, although I have nothing on Bloom in that regard. Still, considering the fact that I went to the trouble to write the words down and look them up gives you an idea how I got where I am and I yam what I... yeah, yeah.
However, this post is for the edification of those NSA ciphers who are taking a look-see at this spot on the blogosphere (and you know you are, asshole... btw, how's that male enhancement drug working?) and making little notes for their nazi stormtrooper colleagues; perhaps they'll use some of these big, dangerous words in their reports to confuse the hell out of the entire division.
Why am I so shitty with you sppoks? Because I assume you grew up learning about the same vision of the US and its principles that I was raised with but you were led astray, either by confusion or cupidity, and you've sold out.
If suckered, scared by swarthy men with bombs and scarves, you're more confused than you know. The terrorists don't win by body count, the terrorists win by having you listen in on phone calls, read emails, or send people up the river for no reason other than suspicion. You're allowing the terrorists to destroy much more than real estate, the confidence of shaky psyches and, God forbid, a few lives, you're allowing the terrorists to destroy 200-some years of freedom.
If, on the other hand, you're doing this for the jay-oh-bee, you're a whore. Although, I suspect I'm not telling you something you don't already know. Most likely your mother is/was a whore and this is part of a tragic legacy, whether you're here or walking the streets or working as a spammer. Whatever, hooker, you're used to taking it in the poop chute with or without lube and in some twisted way, you like it.
However you manifest justification for your meretricious little task, consider your place in history: a shit spot in the diaper of a president not fit to run a company much less a country. "Grampa, what did you do in the War on Global Terrorism?"
"Why, I spied on Americans."
What a fucking embarasment.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
Listening to: Liars, They Threw Us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top
Some snow yesterday, some today, some tomorrow they say, just some and not a moment too soon. This season has been a skimpy one for Colorado's eastern slope, scant amounts at best. Although there's a couple of months left to make up for the shortfall (with March and April being the wettest months, too), the pittance we've received so far is hardly the start our water table needs.
In the midst of this, I've heard whispers of global warming. From this tiny corner of the earth, I'm not so sure that what's going on here is due to global warming, strictly speaking. This June I'll have been in Colorado 20 years and in that time I've seen some extremely whacky weather (or whacky extreme weather) and this Colorado winter hardly seems exceptional compared with other winters I've experienced the past two decades.
That's not to say I'm not concerned about global warming. Hearing the other day that
Greenland's glaciers melting at twice the rate previously suspected, has me more than just a little freaked out. Even though in the Global Warming debate there is little disagreement that there has been a substantial rise in average global temperatures (since the Industrial Revolution), the fatuous argument that we aren't 100% certain of the cause seems rather thick-headed. Strictly speaking, we can't make a causal connection between smoking and lung cancer, heart disease, emphysema, etc., but damned if I hear the Cato Institute pooh-poohing the hazards of smoking because tobacco farmers would be economically disadvantaged due to uncertain science.
Considering that Polar Bears are drowning due to diminished arctic ice and they're expected to be extinct by the end of the century, concern for corporations seems a bit specious, at best. After all, who benefits when corporations pocket more profits - you? Get a goddamn clue, the big three auto makers in the US laid off almost 100,000 workers last year while Mercedes Benz (and other luxury car) sales went through the roof. A few people are getting by just fine and many people are sinking. Change the weather, in a big way, and many more people will sink, whatever the cause. Bring on global warming and the poor will get poorer at a much faster rate while the rich will - get tanned.
Despite the Christian Right's adoration of the mongrel murderous thug they elected,
some are beginning to see the madness - and unchristian-like destruction of the planet - enough to say, well, enough. Not only are they calling for christians to follow the mandate to be stewards of creation but recognize the economic and environmental desolation that will come with global warming. Renews my faith, it does.
Unfortunately, local hieratic hacks like Jim Dobson and Ted Haggarty oppose the call to action, they being bigger fans of Bush than Christ. Vermin like Haggerty and Dobson are more concerned with their Wal-Mart churches (and the mammon produced therein) and have little interest in Christ's real message. They're making a bundle off their theology of hate and remaining corporate shills serves their purpose more than actually practicing a Christian message. Besides, they're safe here in the Rockies and have little to worry about when the deluge hits the coastal lands.
Good for them. When my children are dealing with refugees from the coasts, they'll know where to point their guns. Because, I can assure you, when global warming makes its full effect known, changes in climate won't be the only tide turning here and elsewhere.*
*That last paragraph written as a certain "Fuck You" to our Glorious Leader and his anti-American sack of shit snoops.
Some snow yesterday, some today, some tomorrow they say, just some and not a moment too soon. This season has been a skimpy one for Colorado's eastern slope, scant amounts at best. Although there's a couple of months left to make up for the shortfall (with March and April being the wettest months, too), the pittance we've received so far is hardly the start our water table needs.
In the midst of this, I've heard whispers of global warming. From this tiny corner of the earth, I'm not so sure that what's going on here is due to global warming, strictly speaking. This June I'll have been in Colorado 20 years and in that time I've seen some extremely whacky weather (or whacky extreme weather) and this Colorado winter hardly seems exceptional compared with other winters I've experienced the past two decades.
That's not to say I'm not concerned about global warming. Hearing the other day that
Greenland's glaciers melting at twice the rate previously suspected, has me more than just a little freaked out. Even though in the Global Warming debate there is little disagreement that there has been a substantial rise in average global temperatures (since the Industrial Revolution), the fatuous argument that we aren't 100% certain of the cause seems rather thick-headed. Strictly speaking, we can't make a causal connection between smoking and lung cancer, heart disease, emphysema, etc., but damned if I hear the Cato Institute pooh-poohing the hazards of smoking because tobacco farmers would be economically disadvantaged due to uncertain science.
Considering that Polar Bears are drowning due to diminished arctic ice and they're expected to be extinct by the end of the century, concern for corporations seems a bit specious, at best. After all, who benefits when corporations pocket more profits - you? Get a goddamn clue, the big three auto makers in the US laid off almost 100,000 workers last year while Mercedes Benz (and other luxury car) sales went through the roof. A few people are getting by just fine and many people are sinking. Change the weather, in a big way, and many more people will sink, whatever the cause. Bring on global warming and the poor will get poorer at a much faster rate while the rich will - get tanned.
Despite the Christian Right's adoration of the mongrel murderous thug they elected,
some are beginning to see the madness - and unchristian-like destruction of the planet - enough to say, well, enough. Not only are they calling for christians to follow the mandate to be stewards of creation but recognize the economic and environmental desolation that will come with global warming. Renews my faith, it does.
Unfortunately, local hieratic hacks like Jim Dobson and Ted Haggarty oppose the call to action, they being bigger fans of Bush than Christ. Vermin like Haggerty and Dobson are more concerned with their Wal-Mart churches (and the mammon produced therein) and have little interest in Christ's real message. They're making a bundle off their theology of hate and remaining corporate shills serves their purpose more than actually practicing a Christian message. Besides, they're safe here in the Rockies and have little to worry about when the deluge hits the coastal lands.
Good for them. When my children are dealing with refugees from the coasts, they'll know where to point their guns. Because, I can assure you, when global warming makes its full effect known, changes in climate won't be the only tide turning here and elsewhere.*
*That last paragraph written as a certain "Fuck You" to our Glorious Leader and his anti-American sack of shit snoops.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Post Valentine's Blues
Listening to: Brian Eno, Before & After Science
Oh, there were posts a-ramblin' round' my brain pan regarding love things and thangs but I just didn't have the heart to write about Valentine's Day.
Not that I was without on that most romantic of demi-holidays - indeed, my cup, though not runneth-ing over, seems steeped with a steaming brew - but I encountered a complication with the wee ones that was cause for pause.
In the almost three years since X and I went our separate ways, I have introduced one woman into their lives. I may not be much of a dad but to my credit I have minimized the confusion that comes with romantic entanglements, to the point where my oldest has set about suggesting potential matches. If that was the end of the story, I wouldn't be writing this, obviously; unfortunately, not all is well that ended well.
Driving home the other night after picking up the brood from the sitter's, the topic-that-will-not-die was again resurrected in the backseat peanut gallery. It began when my littlest one, the effervescent Zeke, asked with all earnestness, "Will Woo be dare when we get home?"
"Woo" is, of course, the one I allowed to get close to my kids, the one of my relationship that I documented somewhat last year (and was copiously documented elsewhere but now those posts have mostly disappeared). Don't get me wrong: I have no regrets and place no blame, it is better to have loved and lost and all that shit. Still, the nascent minds that inhabit my backseat cannot comprehend the concept of finality. Despite stating numerous times that Lu and I were done and that she has a new boyfriend, Lilly, Marni, and Zeke continue to ask when Lu will visit again, will Lu be here for a birthday, when will go camping with Lu and Kaylee again, etc.
Any parent who has been driven past insanity by yammering, howling children cooped up in a car can appreciate my desire at that moment to spin the steering wheel and speed off the side of the nearest bridge. In the back, "Lu, Woo, Lu...," like baby loons hopped up on lithium, anything that could be said was said in relation to what Lu would do. Months after Christmas, the chorus sang,
Over and over and over and over and over again, some kind of karmic hell I'm positive I had no part in accumulating.
As I said, I'm not here pointing fingers or assigning blame. If Lu was guilty of anything it was treating my children well, lovingly, being nurturing and attentive.
And there's the problem. As I navigate the single life and search for another significant other, I am naturally going to gravitate towards someone who will be just like Lu as far as how she treats my kids. A drunken, self-centered nymphomaniac might be fun but in the morning, she won't meet my children. So the search continues and as it does, the wee ones continue to cherish the brief moments when we were almost a complete family again.
Despite my liberal inclinations and feminist posturing, I have to confess that I'm not entirely thrilled with being a single parent and the thought of having a partner is infinitely more attractive that continuing on wearing both the mommy and daddy hats. More than that, having had some glimpse of how my children thrive in a two parent household, I have to concede that my kids appear to be happier when two adults share the blessings and burdens. That "complete" family unit, "nuclear family" (whatever you want to call it) allows for a tag-team type of strategy which, under optimal conditions, allows one stressed-out parent some downtime, some time to decompress and refresh before rushing back onto the battlefield.
Sometimes in life you take your chances, uncertain of the rewards, in the end usually astounded at how much farther the results have reached into the silent corners of our lives. As I said, I have no regrets and I'd do it again given the opportunity. Really, I will do it again, with someone new, hoping for the best and not thinking that it will end with three birds chirping her name as I sit alone in the driver's seat. I can't guard their little hearts anymore than I can guard my own heart.
All I can do is make good choices and hope for the best. Obviously, my kids thought Lu was a good choice and they will remember her for quite some time. Until I make my next good choice and take the chance, introduce her to my children. Until then, I have my wee ones to remind me that I do not settle for anything less than the best.
Oh, there were posts a-ramblin' round' my brain pan regarding love things and thangs but I just didn't have the heart to write about Valentine's Day.
Not that I was without on that most romantic of demi-holidays - indeed, my cup, though not runneth-ing over, seems steeped with a steaming brew - but I encountered a complication with the wee ones that was cause for pause.
In the almost three years since X and I went our separate ways, I have introduced one woman into their lives. I may not be much of a dad but to my credit I have minimized the confusion that comes with romantic entanglements, to the point where my oldest has set about suggesting potential matches. If that was the end of the story, I wouldn't be writing this, obviously; unfortunately, not all is well that ended well.
Driving home the other night after picking up the brood from the sitter's, the topic-that-will-not-die was again resurrected in the backseat peanut gallery. It began when my littlest one, the effervescent Zeke, asked with all earnestness, "Will Woo be dare when we get home?"
"Woo" is, of course, the one I allowed to get close to my kids, the one of my relationship that I documented somewhat last year (and was copiously documented elsewhere but now those posts have mostly disappeared). Don't get me wrong: I have no regrets and place no blame, it is better to have loved and lost and all that shit. Still, the nascent minds that inhabit my backseat cannot comprehend the concept of finality. Despite stating numerous times that Lu and I were done and that she has a new boyfriend, Lilly, Marni, and Zeke continue to ask when Lu will visit again, will Lu be here for a birthday, when will go camping with Lu and Kaylee again, etc.
Any parent who has been driven past insanity by yammering, howling children cooped up in a car can appreciate my desire at that moment to spin the steering wheel and speed off the side of the nearest bridge. In the back, "Lu, Woo, Lu...," like baby loons hopped up on lithium, anything that could be said was said in relation to what Lu would do. Months after Christmas, the chorus sang,
"Jingle Bells, Lu smells.... GOOD!
Daddy took a pee,
On a tree and broke his knee
In 1943... HEY!"
Over and over and over and over and over again, some kind of karmic hell I'm positive I had no part in accumulating.
As I said, I'm not here pointing fingers or assigning blame. If Lu was guilty of anything it was treating my children well, lovingly, being nurturing and attentive.
And there's the problem. As I navigate the single life and search for another significant other, I am naturally going to gravitate towards someone who will be just like Lu as far as how she treats my kids. A drunken, self-centered nymphomaniac might be fun but in the morning, she won't meet my children. So the search continues and as it does, the wee ones continue to cherish the brief moments when we were almost a complete family again.
Despite my liberal inclinations and feminist posturing, I have to confess that I'm not entirely thrilled with being a single parent and the thought of having a partner is infinitely more attractive that continuing on wearing both the mommy and daddy hats. More than that, having had some glimpse of how my children thrive in a two parent household, I have to concede that my kids appear to be happier when two adults share the blessings and burdens. That "complete" family unit, "nuclear family" (whatever you want to call it) allows for a tag-team type of strategy which, under optimal conditions, allows one stressed-out parent some downtime, some time to decompress and refresh before rushing back onto the battlefield.
Sometimes in life you take your chances, uncertain of the rewards, in the end usually astounded at how much farther the results have reached into the silent corners of our lives. As I said, I have no regrets and I'd do it again given the opportunity. Really, I will do it again, with someone new, hoping for the best and not thinking that it will end with three birds chirping her name as I sit alone in the driver's seat. I can't guard their little hearts anymore than I can guard my own heart.
All I can do is make good choices and hope for the best. Obviously, my kids thought Lu was a good choice and they will remember her for quite some time. Until I make my next good choice and take the chance, introduce her to my children. Until then, I have my wee ones to remind me that I do not settle for anything less than the best.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Sometimes we dance, sometimes we slip, sometimes we just stand still
Listening to: Super Furry Animals, Songbook: Singles, Vol. I
As I watched Lilly dancing with her first grade class, I was reminded that she's not the child with daddy's music gene. Amongst all the children on the gym floor, she was one of the kids spazzing out, not getting the vibe. She was going through the motions - an arm out here, a step there - but her movements were all mechanical, measured, doing what she was told to do. Lilly was merely being a good student, putting 'A' and 'B' together, step here, shuffle there, slide, slide, slide.
As I've progressed within daddyhood, I've come to realize my kids aren't perfect. All those Baby Einstein videos and Cds seemed to do was to help them become maestroes of the big fricken mess. Given some place and enough stuff, with markers and other implements of vandalism, my children will wreck a room, prodigeously.
With an eye on damage control, I'm thinking I should be proactive, nurture an interest in something other than screwing stuff up just for the sake of screwing stuff up. Obviously, I don't any of my children to grow up to be president.
Lilly loves animals and has a curiosity about the natural world beyond "Why is the sky blue?" If I'm carrying a spider outside (because she's insisted against me killing it), she insists on looking at it, seeing where I put it, asking if it will find food wherever I put it.
Last summer she watched as I caught a beetle and tossed it deep into a web built within the hood of a seat sitting on a derelict bicycle. At the periphery of the web hung the shrouded carcasses of previous prey, shells gray, black, and brown wrapped in tattered silk. Lilly watched in awe as the spider shot out of the shadow and attacked, "He's going to make it into a mummy like those other, dead bugs," she said, her arm crooked in mine, bouncing anxiously on the balls of her feet.
She says she wants to be a zoo keeper when she grows up. I can see that. A naturalist, a scientist, a seeker of truth. Or she could be a waitress at Denny's; she'd be no less the brilliant ray of light she is. I see no need to pressure her, to encumber her with my whacked-out ideas of what she should be, to try and deny her the right to be what she wants to be.
As most of the other children got their groove on, Lilly flailed around, timorous and reluctant, a full step and half off from the rest. That's fine, I thought, I don't have to watch the other kids, the presentation, I only have to watch her, capture that moment of her becoming in my mind. Not looking within, not even feeling pride because all there was at that moment was her and the space she inhabited. There in the reflection of the pristine gym floor she looked like a sunflower, whispy and elegant, swaying chaoticaly in a late summer's breeze.
To my daughter's credit, the kids had to be there, lessons of the first grade: line up, join the group, socialize, dance with one another. I don't know if I like the first two but I do like "dance with one another." Despite Lilly's failure as a dancer, her enthusiasm for holding hands and skipping and looking into another's eyes and saying, unsaid, "You're cool, I like you, let's do this," more than qualified her a place on the floor. Even if she stays out of step.
Feigned detachment; daddy's proud, proud she's out of step. Ecstatic to see daddy in the stands, she did her best, following the directions she'd been given. Unconcerned, she stayed out of step and stayed happy. And if there's anyting at all that I wish on Lilly is that she stays happy.
As I watched Lilly dancing with her first grade class, I was reminded that she's not the child with daddy's music gene. Amongst all the children on the gym floor, she was one of the kids spazzing out, not getting the vibe. She was going through the motions - an arm out here, a step there - but her movements were all mechanical, measured, doing what she was told to do. Lilly was merely being a good student, putting 'A' and 'B' together, step here, shuffle there, slide, slide, slide.
As I've progressed within daddyhood, I've come to realize my kids aren't perfect. All those Baby Einstein videos and Cds seemed to do was to help them become maestroes of the big fricken mess. Given some place and enough stuff, with markers and other implements of vandalism, my children will wreck a room, prodigeously.
With an eye on damage control, I'm thinking I should be proactive, nurture an interest in something other than screwing stuff up just for the sake of screwing stuff up. Obviously, I don't any of my children to grow up to be president.
Lilly loves animals and has a curiosity about the natural world beyond "Why is the sky blue?" If I'm carrying a spider outside (because she's insisted against me killing it), she insists on looking at it, seeing where I put it, asking if it will find food wherever I put it.
Last summer she watched as I caught a beetle and tossed it deep into a web built within the hood of a seat sitting on a derelict bicycle. At the periphery of the web hung the shrouded carcasses of previous prey, shells gray, black, and brown wrapped in tattered silk. Lilly watched in awe as the spider shot out of the shadow and attacked, "He's going to make it into a mummy like those other, dead bugs," she said, her arm crooked in mine, bouncing anxiously on the balls of her feet.
She says she wants to be a zoo keeper when she grows up. I can see that. A naturalist, a scientist, a seeker of truth. Or she could be a waitress at Denny's; she'd be no less the brilliant ray of light she is. I see no need to pressure her, to encumber her with my whacked-out ideas of what she should be, to try and deny her the right to be what she wants to be.
As most of the other children got their groove on, Lilly flailed around, timorous and reluctant, a full step and half off from the rest. That's fine, I thought, I don't have to watch the other kids, the presentation, I only have to watch her, capture that moment of her becoming in my mind. Not looking within, not even feeling pride because all there was at that moment was her and the space she inhabited. There in the reflection of the pristine gym floor she looked like a sunflower, whispy and elegant, swaying chaoticaly in a late summer's breeze.
To my daughter's credit, the kids had to be there, lessons of the first grade: line up, join the group, socialize, dance with one another. I don't know if I like the first two but I do like "dance with one another." Despite Lilly's failure as a dancer, her enthusiasm for holding hands and skipping and looking into another's eyes and saying, unsaid, "You're cool, I like you, let's do this," more than qualified her a place on the floor. Even if she stays out of step.
Feigned detachment; daddy's proud, proud she's out of step. Ecstatic to see daddy in the stands, she did her best, following the directions she'd been given. Unconcerned, she stayed out of step and stayed happy. And if there's anyting at all that I wish on Lilly is that she stays happy.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Like the dead-beat beat of the tom-tom
Listening to: Swans, Great Annihilator
In my intrepid pursuit of garnering nil traffic, I've decided that no updates are the best updates. Seems to have worked and thank God because I can't handle the comments, pain in the ass you all are, both of you. Considering both comments encouraged to me to keep not writing, I feel validated for doing nothing.
The blogosphere is something else, a place where a stale slice of intellectual Wonder Bread holds peanut butter and banality in the service of staying updated, rewarded with insipid tea ("Ha ha, I know what you're saying!") to wash down every inane syllable. Thus gingivitis, driving in Denver, Lilly's dance recital, a tenth planet and the ratio of anti-social assholes to single women over 30 who own dogs (and how that pisses off the religious right), means I've nothing to say and no inclination to say it, my dimwitted plan spinning like a floaty in the bowl towards oblivion.
I'm back, yo - live with it.
In my intrepid pursuit of garnering nil traffic, I've decided that no updates are the best updates. Seems to have worked and thank God because I can't handle the comments, pain in the ass you all are, both of you. Considering both comments encouraged to me to keep not writing, I feel validated for doing nothing.
The blogosphere is something else, a place where a stale slice of intellectual Wonder Bread holds peanut butter and banality in the service of staying updated, rewarded with insipid tea ("Ha ha, I know what you're saying!") to wash down every inane syllable. Thus gingivitis, driving in Denver, Lilly's dance recital, a tenth planet and the ratio of anti-social assholes to single women over 30 who own dogs (and how that pisses off the religious right), means I've nothing to say and no inclination to say it, my dimwitted plan spinning like a floaty in the bowl towards oblivion.
I'm back, yo - live with it.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Mixmania! - MARCH!!!
Listening to: A Boards of Canada mix Mamacita sent me… MMMMMmmm YES!!!
One of those worthless posts that say nothing (unless you’re interested in the next mixmania!) but fulfills my obligation to keep you all updated and me from freaking out because I haven’t written shit to speak of (ain’t that what blogging’s all about?).
So… another dual disk mixmania! because I’m such a lame-ass taskmaster. In my months of hosting this tiny little party, it’s my experience that the double-disk schnooks are the ones truly dedicated to making this work. So, your assignment, should you decide to accept it is this:
Disk One: Guilty Pleasures – a mix of songs you’re ashamed to admit that you love but, there you are, you can’t help it. Brittany Spears, Reuben Stoddard, Budgie, Fear, Marilyn Manson, Sonny & Cher, whatever, you get these earworms digging into brain and can’t get them out because, well, you just like the songs. Heh. You’ll be screwed (especially after you post your lame list) but we’ll know you for the human you are.
So you’re asking, “Why the fuck would I want to receive a disk of utter SHIT from someone who has questionable taste in music?”
Ahhhh…. So here’s the brilliance of the twist. Because Disk Two is:
The Proverbial Desert Island Disk: You know what I mean. You have a Diskman and ONE disk and you’re about to be stranded forever on an island. What music would you put on that disk? I ask my clients to give me a list of Ten Things I Want to do Before I Die (hoping it will motivate them to actually do something with their lives) and I’m asking you to consider a similar situation – if you only had one disk to listen to, for the rest of your life, what would you put on that disk?
Yes, a tough task and I’ll give you until March 1 to figure it out. If you have a blog, please – PLEASE – give me mention and wrangle some other players in the mix. I think this is a pretty cool mixmania! and worthy of rabble. If you’re unsure of the RULEZ, GO HERE, fuckin’ A.
As far as the other stuff, well, aren’t you glad you voted for Dubya you FUCKING MORON? Alito is about to be confirmed and he’s going to sit on a court that will take away your rights and will royally screw your daughters.
Nice, dipshits. Dubya was supposed to make you safer and now he, apparently, can listen in on your phone calls and read your emails, with impunity, wipe his ass with the Constitution and call it a day. In the meantime, Osama is where? Zaqari? Afghanistan is how much a Democracy? Iraq is a what – a clusterfuck? Feel better about that paycheck?
What the fuck has this idiot done?
Right, greased a right-wing nut into the seat of reason on the bench because, God knows, faggots are simply fucking up everything, rearranging shit because it looks good but oblivious to the fact that we’re in a bygod War on Terror. If we outlaw faggots, the terrorists will go away; if we outlaw abortion we’ll be given a Golden Sword with which to smite our enemy who will run away, afraid, eyes spit out and rolling on the ground from fear of our huge, golden phallus.
This from the folks who brought you Intelligent Design.
Yee haw, ya dumbfuck. You thought you were voting for Uncle Jesse and you got Boss Hawg. Alito is Cooter but you get the point, Einstein. Just as you thought Dubya wanted to protect you, you're realizing that all he wanted to do was get in your business (unless you’re a major corporation, of course, because them guys want your business as well, derrr yup).
That old joke about a nuclear attack, shove you head up to your ass to kiss it goodbye? Well, it’s time to pull your head out of your ass and realize you’re no safer and as little bit poorer. Take a look around and recognize who’s taking money or making money.
Then vote.
One of those worthless posts that say nothing (unless you’re interested in the next mixmania!) but fulfills my obligation to keep you all updated and me from freaking out because I haven’t written shit to speak of (ain’t that what blogging’s all about?).
So… another dual disk mixmania! because I’m such a lame-ass taskmaster. In my months of hosting this tiny little party, it’s my experience that the double-disk schnooks are the ones truly dedicated to making this work. So, your assignment, should you decide to accept it is this:
Disk One: Guilty Pleasures – a mix of songs you’re ashamed to admit that you love but, there you are, you can’t help it. Brittany Spears, Reuben Stoddard, Budgie, Fear, Marilyn Manson, Sonny & Cher, whatever, you get these earworms digging into brain and can’t get them out because, well, you just like the songs. Heh. You’ll be screwed (especially after you post your lame list) but we’ll know you for the human you are.
So you’re asking, “Why the fuck would I want to receive a disk of utter SHIT from someone who has questionable taste in music?”
Ahhhh…. So here’s the brilliance of the twist. Because Disk Two is:
The Proverbial Desert Island Disk: You know what I mean. You have a Diskman and ONE disk and you’re about to be stranded forever on an island. What music would you put on that disk? I ask my clients to give me a list of Ten Things I Want to do Before I Die (hoping it will motivate them to actually do something with their lives) and I’m asking you to consider a similar situation – if you only had one disk to listen to, for the rest of your life, what would you put on that disk?
Yes, a tough task and I’ll give you until March 1 to figure it out. If you have a blog, please – PLEASE – give me mention and wrangle some other players in the mix. I think this is a pretty cool mixmania! and worthy of rabble. If you’re unsure of the RULEZ, GO HERE, fuckin’ A.
As far as the other stuff, well, aren’t you glad you voted for Dubya you FUCKING MORON? Alito is about to be confirmed and he’s going to sit on a court that will take away your rights and will royally screw your daughters.
Nice, dipshits. Dubya was supposed to make you safer and now he, apparently, can listen in on your phone calls and read your emails, with impunity, wipe his ass with the Constitution and call it a day. In the meantime, Osama is where? Zaqari? Afghanistan is how much a Democracy? Iraq is a what – a clusterfuck? Feel better about that paycheck?
What the fuck has this idiot done?
Right, greased a right-wing nut into the seat of reason on the bench because, God knows, faggots are simply fucking up everything, rearranging shit because it looks good but oblivious to the fact that we’re in a bygod War on Terror. If we outlaw faggots, the terrorists will go away; if we outlaw abortion we’ll be given a Golden Sword with which to smite our enemy who will run away, afraid, eyes spit out and rolling on the ground from fear of our huge, golden phallus.
This from the folks who brought you Intelligent Design.
Yee haw, ya dumbfuck. You thought you were voting for Uncle Jesse and you got Boss Hawg. Alito is Cooter but you get the point, Einstein. Just as you thought Dubya wanted to protect you, you're realizing that all he wanted to do was get in your business (unless you’re a major corporation, of course, because them guys want your business as well, derrr yup).
That old joke about a nuclear attack, shove you head up to your ass to kiss it goodbye? Well, it’s time to pull your head out of your ass and realize you’re no safer and as little bit poorer. Take a look around and recognize who’s taking money or making money.
Then vote.
Monday, January 16, 2006
AMAZING STORIES!
Listening to: Sigur Ros, Takk...
Yes, I should have updated right away to let everyone know I am fine. Instead, I decided to be selfish and take some time for myself. As you saw, I had the wee ones from Jan. 2 until Thursday and hey – I needed a breather.
So, obviously I’m not in prison. Things actually worked out better than anyone anticipated. My attorney was blown away by what went down. Two-thirds of the time we rambled around that little corner of the courthouse she was convinced I’d be leaving in shackles.
While waiting for the proceedings to begin, X and I cooled our heels out in the hall, griping about what a screwed up situation we were entering into, growling about what a mess BushCo has created in our country and how badly we need to impeach the sonofabitch.
My attorney, Erin, approached and asked for a few words. She was reticent, pessimistic, certain I’d be spending my next night in the stir. We eased into a side room and she spelled out what she felt would happen: certainly jail time, how long was in question. Telling her how insane jail time would be, I handed her X’s letter and told her why the both of us thought the state needed to reconsider.
She read the letter, mumbling, “Oh, very good, this is very good.” She then asked if the woman I was sitting next to in the hall was X. I told her yes, that was X.
“So you two…”
“Yes, we get along very well, better than we ever did when we were married.”
That news and the weight of the words in the letter obviously changed things for Erin in a big way. Over the next couple of hours, she listened as X and I chatted, saw that we indeed were good friends. She heard X tell about Noble and how I lost my job after Zeke was mauled by my brother’s dog. She got to see that X and I are two people struggling at the bottom rung of society and through mutual support, helping each other catch a breath lest we drown.
When the attorney representing the state approached Erin to discuss what the state would seek, Erin spoke pointedly, “We need to talk some more about this… see me in the hall.”
Of course I have no way of knowing what was said but Erin must have shown the state’s attorney the letter and given her the benefit of her observations. They stayed in the hall for at least 10 minutes and when they returned, the change in tone was palpable. The state’s attorney entered the courtroom and we waited another five minutes before we were called in.
The magistrate called us to the docket, acknowledged the parties, reiterated why we were there. She then commented, “It appears Ms. McQuiggin has written a letter to the court as an appeal to keep Mr. McQuiggin out of jail and that both parties have an amicable agreement to share custody. Am I correct in this?”
Both attorneys concurred. The magistrate continued, "When the needs of the state conflict with the welfare of children, I have to rule in favor of the children. Since this couple seems to have worked out their differences, share custody under what is essentially a 50/50 situation, and have been provided for their children under extreme circumstances, I think the state ought to reassess what Mr. McQuiggin is paying and come up with a different sum." She then ordered the state's attorney to meet with my attorney, X, and me to calculate an amount more in line with what I make, what X makes, and our custody arrangement.
We were dismissed momentarily and met in the side room. The state's attorney broke out her files and calculator and arrived at $41 per month support plus $59 to pay the arrears - $100 per month. Everyone then returned to the courtroom and the judge made it official.
This was at the end of the day, the docket cleared, an empty courtroom except for both parties and our attorneys, the magistrate and the recorder. Erin said she felt we were delayed in order to prevent other plaintiffs and attorneys from witnessing how well the case went for me and X. The magistrate asked X if she was agreeable to the amount and she readily agreed. Having X’s blessing, the magistrate deferred my sentencing on the contempt charge for failure to pay child support, set the deferment off until February 2007 when, if I’ve complied with paying $100 a month, the matter will be wiped from the books.
Erin was nonplussed, declaring she’d never seen a case like ours turned around so favorably. I have to admit that I was likewise stunned. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d walk out of there free and with a substantially lowered order.
Thank you, all of you, my friends, for getting behind me on this and offering your support. I especially want to thank Lauren (again!) for stating my case on her blog with her much more articulate voice and sharing it with her substantially larger audience. I’m forever her thrall.
Each and every one of you holds a special place in my heart.
Yes, I should have updated right away to let everyone know I am fine. Instead, I decided to be selfish and take some time for myself. As you saw, I had the wee ones from Jan. 2 until Thursday and hey – I needed a breather.
So, obviously I’m not in prison. Things actually worked out better than anyone anticipated. My attorney was blown away by what went down. Two-thirds of the time we rambled around that little corner of the courthouse she was convinced I’d be leaving in shackles.
While waiting for the proceedings to begin, X and I cooled our heels out in the hall, griping about what a screwed up situation we were entering into, growling about what a mess BushCo has created in our country and how badly we need to impeach the sonofabitch.
My attorney, Erin, approached and asked for a few words. She was reticent, pessimistic, certain I’d be spending my next night in the stir. We eased into a side room and she spelled out what she felt would happen: certainly jail time, how long was in question. Telling her how insane jail time would be, I handed her X’s letter and told her why the both of us thought the state needed to reconsider.
She read the letter, mumbling, “Oh, very good, this is very good.” She then asked if the woman I was sitting next to in the hall was X. I told her yes, that was X.
“So you two…”
“Yes, we get along very well, better than we ever did when we were married.”
That news and the weight of the words in the letter obviously changed things for Erin in a big way. Over the next couple of hours, she listened as X and I chatted, saw that we indeed were good friends. She heard X tell about Noble and how I lost my job after Zeke was mauled by my brother’s dog. She got to see that X and I are two people struggling at the bottom rung of society and through mutual support, helping each other catch a breath lest we drown.
When the attorney representing the state approached Erin to discuss what the state would seek, Erin spoke pointedly, “We need to talk some more about this… see me in the hall.”
Of course I have no way of knowing what was said but Erin must have shown the state’s attorney the letter and given her the benefit of her observations. They stayed in the hall for at least 10 minutes and when they returned, the change in tone was palpable. The state’s attorney entered the courtroom and we waited another five minutes before we were called in.
The magistrate called us to the docket, acknowledged the parties, reiterated why we were there. She then commented, “It appears Ms. McQuiggin has written a letter to the court as an appeal to keep Mr. McQuiggin out of jail and that both parties have an amicable agreement to share custody. Am I correct in this?”
Both attorneys concurred. The magistrate continued, "When the needs of the state conflict with the welfare of children, I have to rule in favor of the children. Since this couple seems to have worked out their differences, share custody under what is essentially a 50/50 situation, and have been provided for their children under extreme circumstances, I think the state ought to reassess what Mr. McQuiggin is paying and come up with a different sum." She then ordered the state's attorney to meet with my attorney, X, and me to calculate an amount more in line with what I make, what X makes, and our custody arrangement.
We were dismissed momentarily and met in the side room. The state's attorney broke out her files and calculator and arrived at $41 per month support plus $59 to pay the arrears - $100 per month. Everyone then returned to the courtroom and the judge made it official.
This was at the end of the day, the docket cleared, an empty courtroom except for both parties and our attorneys, the magistrate and the recorder. Erin said she felt we were delayed in order to prevent other plaintiffs and attorneys from witnessing how well the case went for me and X. The magistrate asked X if she was agreeable to the amount and she readily agreed. Having X’s blessing, the magistrate deferred my sentencing on the contempt charge for failure to pay child support, set the deferment off until February 2007 when, if I’ve complied with paying $100 a month, the matter will be wiped from the books.
Erin was nonplussed, declaring she’d never seen a case like ours turned around so favorably. I have to admit that I was likewise stunned. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d walk out of there free and with a substantially lowered order.
Thank you, all of you, my friends, for getting behind me on this and offering your support. I especially want to thank Lauren (again!) for stating my case on her blog with her much more articulate voice and sharing it with her substantially larger audience. I’m forever her thrall.
Each and every one of you holds a special place in my heart.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A sort-of goodbye
Listening to: Mamacita’s gracious gift of Man of La Mancha
The dearth of posts here is due to the glacial pace 2006 has deemed how it will slouch out of the primordial ooze and greet that ideal we call The Future.
By all accounts 2005 was not that bad: I found a new job (though not a great job), fell in love, fell out of love (and in and out and in and out, errr hmmmm), watched my kids grow, had my car repo’d, got a better car as a result with none of the payments or headaches of bill collectors, got tons of new music as a result of ‘mixmania!’ and kept this blog afloat despite my propensity for the Brechtian alienation of my readers.
No hurricane hit me, no tsunami swept over me, and no lobbyist handed me money for which I’d later find led to an indictment. In the era of Whine and Neuroses, I’d say I’m batting about two-fifty, thereabouts.
Unfortunately, the New Year has not gotten off to an auspicious beginning. X has been in the process of moving and I’ve had the kids every day since January 2 while she attempts to get her shit together. And school doesn’t start back until tomorrow, which means I’ve had my little darlings demanding all – ALL – my time with no time for Daddy to indulge his perks for sharing Rick Blaine’s citizenship.
The munchkins are still with me and I know I’m going to dread getting up to drag them out of their beds
at six fucking A M tomorrow. The drill begins again, the oatmeal not eaten and the teeth brushed under protest, rejections of that shirt and those pants, the long explanations of why Superman cannot also go to school.
Rinse, repeat until Thursday when Daddy goes to court for Contempt of Court on his insufficient remittance of Child Support. The state is asking for six months in jail with no recommendation of work release.
Those of you who have followed this blog from the beginning are probably shaking your heads and wondering, “What the fuck?” I was, after all (when X was emotionally melting down), the custodian, full time, not comfortable with her ability to care for my children. When I started this blog (and no one read it), I truly was “a full time dad, figuring it out.”
To X’s credit, she agreed, acknowledged she needed help and time to decompress and allowed me to keep them full time until she could regroup and reassess. By measures. I gave her custody until we eventually worked our way back to 50/50 custody, even though it took a few months to get there. We’re now at three days one week, four days the next, a system that works out very well and keeps everything relatively blissful. Indeed, we’re better friends than we were spouses (as we both joke to our friends).
Soon after X and I separated, I was giving her about $700 a month child-support – with no court order – just to keep her afloat. When X and I split I made it clear that I wanted shared custody (something she completely agreed to), my feeling being that I did not want to use the children as a weapon like I’ve seen far too many couples do, to deleterious results. X agreed the kids needed their daddy in their lives as much as I insisted on having mommy in their lives.
Again, long time readers of my blog know how I lost my job (due to my brother lying to get me fired in order to get vengeance for me having his dog destroyed after his dog mauled my son). Without my income to support her and my children, X applied for assistance: TANF, Food Stamps, etc. This is where the state steps in and why I’m looking at 6-months of jail time.
Perhaps I’m a sap since I signed paperwork to give the state the impression that the custody arrangement is 49% (me) vs. 51% her. I knew X wasn’t skilled (thus, consigned to a minimum wage job) and would need public assistance. I signed that agreement knowing X would need public assistance to give my children the bare minimum of what they need to survive.
The state demands remittance; they’re not giving TANF money without making me pay. And they’ve made their assessment based on my income two months after I got fired (when X made her claim) as opposed to what I make now – less than half of what I used to make. Interesting that the state will research a job I haven’t had for two months (at around $2200 a month) but can’t be bothered to research a job I have now (about $900 a month).
More interesting is that the state won’t do simple math. Even if the 49%/51% split was true, X would have the children 7.3 more days per year. With the state requiring $638.00 per month, I am being asked to pay child support in the amount of $1,048.77 per day.
365 / 51% = 186.15
365 / 49% = 178.85
186.15 – 178.85 = 7.3
$638 x 12 = $7656
$7656 / 7.3 = $1048.77
Even in my most hedonistic drug days, I never spent a fifth of that. I can’t imagine spending a grand a day on anything, frankly. Nor should I expect the state to expect any ordinary citizen to spend that kind of money. Then again, I’m talking about mindless bureaucrats, worthless parasites who would not think twice about spending a grand a day of your tax money.
If you don’t hear anything from me after Thursday, you’ll know why.
The dearth of posts here is due to the glacial pace 2006 has deemed how it will slouch out of the primordial ooze and greet that ideal we call The Future.
By all accounts 2005 was not that bad: I found a new job (though not a great job), fell in love, fell out of love (and in and out and in and out, errr hmmmm), watched my kids grow, had my car repo’d, got a better car as a result with none of the payments or headaches of bill collectors, got tons of new music as a result of ‘mixmania!’ and kept this blog afloat despite my propensity for the Brechtian alienation of my readers.
No hurricane hit me, no tsunami swept over me, and no lobbyist handed me money for which I’d later find led to an indictment. In the era of Whine and Neuroses, I’d say I’m batting about two-fifty, thereabouts.
Unfortunately, the New Year has not gotten off to an auspicious beginning. X has been in the process of moving and I’ve had the kids every day since January 2 while she attempts to get her shit together. And school doesn’t start back until tomorrow, which means I’ve had my little darlings demanding all – ALL – my time with no time for Daddy to indulge his perks for sharing Rick Blaine’s citizenship.
The munchkins are still with me and I know I’m going to dread getting up to drag them out of their beds
at six fucking A M tomorrow. The drill begins again, the oatmeal not eaten and the teeth brushed under protest, rejections of that shirt and those pants, the long explanations of why Superman cannot also go to school.
Rinse, repeat until Thursday when Daddy goes to court for Contempt of Court on his insufficient remittance of Child Support. The state is asking for six months in jail with no recommendation of work release.
Those of you who have followed this blog from the beginning are probably shaking your heads and wondering, “What the fuck?” I was, after all (when X was emotionally melting down), the custodian, full time, not comfortable with her ability to care for my children. When I started this blog (and no one read it), I truly was “a full time dad, figuring it out.”
To X’s credit, she agreed, acknowledged she needed help and time to decompress and allowed me to keep them full time until she could regroup and reassess. By measures. I gave her custody until we eventually worked our way back to 50/50 custody, even though it took a few months to get there. We’re now at three days one week, four days the next, a system that works out very well and keeps everything relatively blissful. Indeed, we’re better friends than we were spouses (as we both joke to our friends).
Soon after X and I separated, I was giving her about $700 a month child-support – with no court order – just to keep her afloat. When X and I split I made it clear that I wanted shared custody (something she completely agreed to), my feeling being that I did not want to use the children as a weapon like I’ve seen far too many couples do, to deleterious results. X agreed the kids needed their daddy in their lives as much as I insisted on having mommy in their lives.
Again, long time readers of my blog know how I lost my job (due to my brother lying to get me fired in order to get vengeance for me having his dog destroyed after his dog mauled my son). Without my income to support her and my children, X applied for assistance: TANF, Food Stamps, etc. This is where the state steps in and why I’m looking at 6-months of jail time.
Perhaps I’m a sap since I signed paperwork to give the state the impression that the custody arrangement is 49% (me) vs. 51% her. I knew X wasn’t skilled (thus, consigned to a minimum wage job) and would need public assistance. I signed that agreement knowing X would need public assistance to give my children the bare minimum of what they need to survive.
The state demands remittance; they’re not giving TANF money without making me pay. And they’ve made their assessment based on my income two months after I got fired (when X made her claim) as opposed to what I make now – less than half of what I used to make. Interesting that the state will research a job I haven’t had for two months (at around $2200 a month) but can’t be bothered to research a job I have now (about $900 a month).
More interesting is that the state won’t do simple math. Even if the 49%/51% split was true, X would have the children 7.3 more days per year. With the state requiring $638.00 per month, I am being asked to pay child support in the amount of $1,048.77 per day.
365 / 51% = 186.15
365 / 49% = 178.85
186.15 – 178.85 = 7.3
$638 x 12 = $7656
$7656 / 7.3 = $1048.77
Even in my most hedonistic drug days, I never spent a fifth of that. I can’t imagine spending a grand a day on anything, frankly. Nor should I expect the state to expect any ordinary citizen to spend that kind of money. Then again, I’m talking about mindless bureaucrats, worthless parasites who would not think twice about spending a grand a day of your tax money.
If you don’t hear anything from me after Thursday, you’ll know why.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
The Lion, The Witch, and The Wormwood
Listening to: Pink Floyd, Animals
School's still out, for what it's worth. January weather means the wee ones stay inside and play games like dragging food out of the fridge and line every item up on the floor like its part of a signal to ancient astronauts. Who are they calling?
I shouldn't have given them a telescope for Christmas, not just because they fight over who gets to peer through the eyepiece but, I suspect, they're scoping out what civilization will answer their food symbols, will land here, and will probe my ass with alien speculae and other devices of torture. After all, my children have shown a willingness to torment me with their willingness to rim my kitchen with olives, calling down sadistic alien perverts with symbols drawn with olives is not outside their purview, it seems.
The girls have been getting a chapter-per-night reading of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, despite their nefarious plan to have me abducted by aliens. They seem to be enjoying the story but I suspect they're awaiting The White Witch to snag me into anothe dimension and dispense of me summarilly.
Their loss, I think. CS Lewis's prose is simplistic enough and certainly entertaining (they seem to be involved); incredible stuff. Still, I can't help but think that today's play with the refrigerator was nothing less than some desperate call to have me hauled away to a distant galaxy and reformed into decent dad.
In the spirit of CS Lewis, God bless em' if they succeed.
School's still out, for what it's worth. January weather means the wee ones stay inside and play games like dragging food out of the fridge and line every item up on the floor like its part of a signal to ancient astronauts. Who are they calling?
I shouldn't have given them a telescope for Christmas, not just because they fight over who gets to peer through the eyepiece but, I suspect, they're scoping out what civilization will answer their food symbols, will land here, and will probe my ass with alien speculae and other devices of torture. After all, my children have shown a willingness to torment me with their willingness to rim my kitchen with olives, calling down sadistic alien perverts with symbols drawn with olives is not outside their purview, it seems.
The girls have been getting a chapter-per-night reading of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, despite their nefarious plan to have me abducted by aliens. They seem to be enjoying the story but I suspect they're awaiting The White Witch to snag me into anothe dimension and dispense of me summarilly.
Their loss, I think. CS Lewis's prose is simplistic enough and certainly entertaining (they seem to be involved); incredible stuff. Still, I can't help but think that today's play with the refrigerator was nothing less than some desperate call to have me hauled away to a distant galaxy and reformed into decent dad.
In the spirit of CS Lewis, God bless em' if they succeed.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
The Empire Strikes Back
Listening to: Zeke’s running commentary on The Empire Strikes Back
Daddy, why is he hanging from that tree? Ooooh, he cut his arm off.
Oh, I don’t like that (as Hans Solo cuts Luke from creature) – Zeke sticks his fingers in his ears.
“Nerf Herder” – Shut up, Princess Leia, you’re making me crazy!
Daddy making Darth Vader sound in his hands – DADDY!!! DON’T SCARE ME!!!
I don’t like Darth Vader, I only like Aniken
Daddy, I can kill those robots, those things with the shooters (making gestures at his face).
Is de sote de set det dar? (no translation available, despite numerous attempts).
I don’t like worms (denying dad’s offer of microwave taquito and dad’s claim that taquito was a fried worm).
He parked it right there (as Luke crashes into the swamps of Dagobah)
Heh heh – siwwy oh Yoda
Yeah, you won’t be a Yedi master!
As Leia and Han kiss – “Are my hands tween?” (wriggling fingers – no translation available, figures he’s not keen on kissing scenes).
I wike Yoda but sometimes he woozes Jedi (he having seen Part III)
Remember when he falls of his bed? (RE: Yoda – I have no clue; “uh huh” I say)
Creature on windshield of Millennium Falcon “Oooooh, it’s a baby Yoda!”
“Shoot! Bad bats!”
Why did Luke Skywalker put on his pants? (really, I don’t know – did it have something to do the the dark side of the force?)
Yoda lifts Luke’s ship from the swamp: I have the force daddy, look! (wriggles his fingers)
I feel the force around me – because it’s HOT
Capt. Neidar is dead – Whoo Hoo!!!
Don’t kiss Capt. Han!
Attempting to stand on his hands; daddy holds him up to stand on his hands; daddy stands on his head and impresses son to no end – “Daddy, how did you do that?!?!” Daddy, I LOVE you!!! I sense he believes the force runs through me.
Uh oh, he’s (C3PO) gonna get shot! He (Chewbacca) is gonna carry all his pieces (C3PO’s) pieces on his back
He’s putting his head on backwards!
Leia: Why is he doing this? Zeke: Why is he doing that?
Dad with hands over mouth, etc. Zeke tries to spread hands, “I know who you are, daddy!”
Son hangs tight onto daddy for the remainder of movie.
Afterword: He’s soooo bummed that Aniken became Darth Vader and still insists that Aniken Skywalker is NOT Darth Vader – “I saw a new Darth Vader!”
Daddy, why is he hanging from that tree? Ooooh, he cut his arm off.
Oh, I don’t like that (as Hans Solo cuts Luke from creature) – Zeke sticks his fingers in his ears.
“Nerf Herder” – Shut up, Princess Leia, you’re making me crazy!
Daddy making Darth Vader sound in his hands – DADDY!!! DON’T SCARE ME!!!
I don’t like Darth Vader, I only like Aniken
Daddy, I can kill those robots, those things with the shooters (making gestures at his face).
Is de sote de set det dar? (no translation available, despite numerous attempts).
I don’t like worms (denying dad’s offer of microwave taquito and dad’s claim that taquito was a fried worm).
He parked it right there (as Luke crashes into the swamps of Dagobah)
Heh heh – siwwy oh Yoda
Yeah, you won’t be a Yedi master!
As Leia and Han kiss – “Are my hands tween?” (wriggling fingers – no translation available, figures he’s not keen on kissing scenes).
I wike Yoda but sometimes he woozes Jedi (he having seen Part III)
Remember when he falls of his bed? (RE: Yoda – I have no clue; “uh huh” I say)
Creature on windshield of Millennium Falcon “Oooooh, it’s a baby Yoda!”
“Shoot! Bad bats!”
Why did Luke Skywalker put on his pants? (really, I don’t know – did it have something to do the the dark side of the force?)
Yoda lifts Luke’s ship from the swamp: I have the force daddy, look! (wriggles his fingers)
I feel the force around me – because it’s HOT
Capt. Neidar is dead – Whoo Hoo!!!
Don’t kiss Capt. Han!
Attempting to stand on his hands; daddy holds him up to stand on his hands; daddy stands on his head and impresses son to no end – “Daddy, how did you do that?!?!” Daddy, I LOVE you!!! I sense he believes the force runs through me.
Uh oh, he’s (C3PO) gonna get shot! He (Chewbacca) is gonna carry all his pieces (C3PO’s) pieces on his back
He’s putting his head on backwards!
Leia: Why is he doing this? Zeke: Why is he doing that?
Dad with hands over mouth, etc. Zeke tries to spread hands, “I know who you are, daddy!”
Son hangs tight onto daddy for the remainder of movie.
Afterword: He’s soooo bummed that Aniken became Darth Vader and still insists that Aniken Skywalker is NOT Darth Vader – “I saw a new Darth Vader!”
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Ding, Dong, the witch is lame
Listening to: Kathy’s awesome holiday mix
As 2005 winds down and whizzes itself out like the final sputters of 4th of July whirligig, this intrepid wannabe blogger would like to indulge in the well-worn tradition of putting inconsequence into sets of tens and boring you with my pontification on those things. And had I not had a few brews which gave me over to severe apathy, perhaps I’d have done the deed I’ll not do now. Instead, I’ll just laugh at people more stupid than me.
So yeah, another of my usual posts.
Just recently, a conservative, Christian judge ruled that the proponents for Intelligent Design:
lied to cover up their religious motives, made a decision of "breathtaking inanity" and "dragged" their community into "this legal maelstrom with its resulting utter waste of monetary and personal resources."
I have no problem with ID, per se – I like how God-things make me feel warm and fuzzy and assured that, at the end of the day, I’ll get handed a harp and have a set of wings slapped on my back. Nonetheless, I find it interesting that a judge (his qualifications previously stated) found that these so-called Christians “lied”.
Hmmm… I thought lying was a sin. Interesting how some Christians pick and choose their sins. Don’t abort that kid, we need him to molest. And if that kid turns out to be gay, we’ll lie about damn near anything in order to deny he’s worth a shit. Roll the Screwtape, Jeebus.
Not that anyone should be surprised. Back in the early 90’s, James Dobson and his army of nitwits attempted to create a discriminatory law against gays in Colorado and in fact, had the voters of Colorado that it was a good law. Problem was, well, they lied. They convinced the law was to give gays special rights when in fact, it was a law to deny gays basic civil rights. The voters won, the courts over-ruled and in almost 15 years since, the lying, gutless fucks of Focus on the Family have yet to adequately challenge the decision. Ultimately, the lawyers for FotF knew Dobson and his yapping clams had lied with all the aplomb of my three-year old.
Like I said, I love to laugh at people more stupid than me. People so stupid they don’t even have the intellectual wherewithal to create viable lies.
Holly shit – doesn’t that sound like the Bush administration?
Afterword (via Alicublog):
SHORTER CONSERVATIVE MOVEMENT 1994:
"I'm from the government, and I'm here to help you."
HAW HAW HAW! AW HAW HAW HAW HAW! Thassa good one! Yee-haaa!
SHORTER CONSERVATIVE MOVEMENT 2005:
"I'm from the government, and I'm here to spy on you and perhaps indefinitely detain you without charges."
That sounds reasonable.
Fucking morons. If you manage to see some twit still stupid enough to sport a 'W-04'' sticker on their car, spit on them. Please.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Coal for Christmas
Listening to: Hank's killer holiday(?) mix
If visions of sugarplums danced in the heads of the munchkin mafia, I heard nary a word of it. While X had the lil's Christmas Eve, I sat in a bar drinking 5 Barrel Pale Ale, listening to an ostensible "rave" DJ spin stale vinyl and looking at how many low-slung sets of jeans revealed satin thongs. My own visions of sugarplums much less tasty, agreed?
My stocking ended up with no digital camera. A bit disappointed but considering that extent of my gift giving amounted to toilet paper rolls with GW's face on each sheet, I should have expected as little (I will, however, post pics my GW-fan folks shot and, I hope, saved).
The kids got what the ether deemed was theirs and they never waned in their enthusiasm, of course. The day was spent ripping Barbi from some marketers version of bondage and Thomas the Tank Engine's version of cheap Chinese finger puzzle. The children's version of heaven amounted to my notiom of hell, with with me building this and chopping that out of its wired up cardboard dungeon, me tring to figure out how to fit 'Slot A' into 'Figure B' while they rolled around in cardboard boxes giggling and oblivious.
Christmas can be too much. As night fell, we wandered up to the zoo for the "Electric Safari" and dammit, had Marlin Perkins been there to shoot my little ones up with a tranquilzer dart or two, I'd have bought him a drink. I eventually had to negotiate with the wee ones that they'd go straight to bed if they got what they wanted (a ride on the merry-go-round). That seened to be sufficient but it doesn't hurt to have some dude with a rifle loaded with tranquilizer darts in your corner.
Not that I needed that card in my hand: by the time we got back here, they were all passed out, the day's excitement all the tranquilizer I needed. In that regard, Santa had served me well.
Unfotunately, as far as Santa was concerned, my name was in the 'bad' column when it should have been in the 'dad' column.
To be fair, the delicious and saintly (and soon to be sainted - I carry a lot of weight in the Catholic church, shee-it) Mamacita sent me gorgeous handmade stockings, Christmas disks, lots of love, and a copy of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair (which I've been dying to read) while another latest crush (and oh, what a huge crush!) sent me a copy of Orhan Pamuk's, Snow, ticks off my Amazon Wish List that will satisfy me until February (my birthday).
I keed, I keed - I am grateful, so grateful for my internet friends.
If Santa had considered screwing me, it was do to some lip-service from Jeebus do to this, the 2nd disk Melina got (goddamn, I apologize my sweet):
Thurl Ravenscroft, You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch, he was the voice of 'Tony the Tiger' singing one of the coolest Christmas songs, a song I forced my band to cover. From the cartoon, not the sorry-ass Jim Carrey movie.
The Vandals, Christmas Time for My Penis, because we all know how much my penis deserves a good Christmas.
Fear, Fuck Christmas, a negative song by the most negative hardcore band, hands down. I was never a Fear fan and I'm not inclined to give them any slack at Christmas.
Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics, Merry Fucking Christmas, so un-PC it simply must be sung at every Kindergarten pageant.
Bad Religion, The First Noel, also un-PC but in a different way; what did you expect from a band with this name? Are you loopy?
Stiff Little Fingers, White Christmas, the best Irish punk band rocks out on a song that needs rocking.
Bob Rivers, I Am Santa Claus, I play this song to scare my kids which, during the Christmas season, is as useful as Nembutal in milk.
Jimi Hendrix, Little Drummer Boy/Silent Night, if anyone thinks Jimi was an angel, they need to listen to the wretched knock-off High, Live and Dirty and give up their illusions of Jimi's sainthood. He wasn't fucking around on this.
Patti Smith, We Three Kings, scary, truly scary, which is what I think Patti had in mind - prior to becoming a mush-mouthed Nader apologist.
Dandy Warhols, Little Drummer Boy, simply weird and the song that turned me onto the Dandy Warhols.
The Who, Christmas, by far, the most brutal song on this mix and I'll do time in Purgatory simply for including it; I assume Pete Townsend* has done his bid.
Ween, Suzy Snowflake, a truly twisted, paranoid nightmare of a song (what else would you expect from Ween?) but no worse than, "he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake." In these dark days when our rabid cur of a president can wipe his ass with the Constitution, a topical little tune.
Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Dance Of the Sugarplum Fairies, you know, not that fucking bad but it rocks so... so what, merry fucking Christmas, asshole.
Yellowman, We Wish You a Reggae Christmas, dude, if I'd received a sticky green bud of killer ganja as a gift, this rant would be soooo much more mellow.
The Singing Dogs, Jingle Bells, utter fucking genius. For anyone who has had to strip away essentail muscle in order to undo absurd anti-theft wires or dig up unavailable batteries to make shit hum or attempt to follow directions from half-literate sadists, this song makes total sense.
Elvis, Merry Christmas, Baby, yeah, OK, it was on my other mix, sue me, I was probably drunk.
Chuck Berry, Run, Rudolph, Run, I think the intent was there to make a decent Christmas song (and the Rolling Stones covered it thinking the way I did) but it sounds like you're giving Rudolph a ten-second head start before you pull the trigger on that AR-15.
Sonny Boy Williamson, Sonny Boy's Christmas Blues, blues songs are the best for creating bad Christmas karma; "Lord, I tried to trust religion, but the devil won't let me pray; that's why i got to stay drunk boys, all Christmas day;" mmmmm hmmmmm.
Amos Milborn, Let's Blame Christmas Merry, Baby, "I want to slide down your chimney, baby, fill you stockings full of toys" - nuff' said.
The Chipmunks, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, see the Singing Dogs; annoying is annoying.
P.D.Q. Bach, A Consort of Christmas Carols, if you don't get P.D.Q. Bach, I must assume you only get me on my slapstick level. Fair enough. Merry fucking Christmas.
Yeah, you'll get pics of my kids, big-eyed and happy, if I can get my tech-challenged parents to trust me with their digital camera
--------------
* I'd change that assessment had I included The Residents, Santa Dog and/or Skinny Puppy, Tin Om on this disk.
If visions of sugarplums danced in the heads of the munchkin mafia, I heard nary a word of it. While X had the lil's Christmas Eve, I sat in a bar drinking 5 Barrel Pale Ale, listening to an ostensible "rave" DJ spin stale vinyl and looking at how many low-slung sets of jeans revealed satin thongs. My own visions of sugarplums much less tasty, agreed?
My stocking ended up with no digital camera. A bit disappointed but considering that extent of my gift giving amounted to toilet paper rolls with GW's face on each sheet, I should have expected as little (I will, however, post pics my GW-fan folks shot and, I hope, saved).
The kids got what the ether deemed was theirs and they never waned in their enthusiasm, of course. The day was spent ripping Barbi from some marketers version of bondage and Thomas the Tank Engine's version of cheap Chinese finger puzzle. The children's version of heaven amounted to my notiom of hell, with with me building this and chopping that out of its wired up cardboard dungeon, me tring to figure out how to fit 'Slot A' into 'Figure B' while they rolled around in cardboard boxes giggling and oblivious.
Christmas can be too much. As night fell, we wandered up to the zoo for the "Electric Safari" and dammit, had Marlin Perkins been there to shoot my little ones up with a tranquilzer dart or two, I'd have bought him a drink. I eventually had to negotiate with the wee ones that they'd go straight to bed if they got what they wanted (a ride on the merry-go-round). That seened to be sufficient but it doesn't hurt to have some dude with a rifle loaded with tranquilizer darts in your corner.
Not that I needed that card in my hand: by the time we got back here, they were all passed out, the day's excitement all the tranquilizer I needed. In that regard, Santa had served me well.
Unfotunately, as far as Santa was concerned, my name was in the 'bad' column when it should have been in the 'dad' column.
To be fair, the delicious and saintly (and soon to be sainted - I carry a lot of weight in the Catholic church, shee-it) Mamacita sent me gorgeous handmade stockings, Christmas disks, lots of love, and a copy of Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair (which I've been dying to read) while another latest crush (and oh, what a huge crush!) sent me a copy of Orhan Pamuk's, Snow, ticks off my Amazon Wish List that will satisfy me until February (my birthday).
I keed, I keed - I am grateful, so grateful for my internet friends.
If Santa had considered screwing me, it was do to some lip-service from Jeebus do to this, the 2nd disk Melina got (goddamn, I apologize my sweet):
Thurl Ravenscroft, You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch, he was the voice of 'Tony the Tiger' singing one of the coolest Christmas songs, a song I forced my band to cover. From the cartoon, not the sorry-ass Jim Carrey movie.
The Vandals, Christmas Time for My Penis, because we all know how much my penis deserves a good Christmas.
Fear, Fuck Christmas, a negative song by the most negative hardcore band, hands down. I was never a Fear fan and I'm not inclined to give them any slack at Christmas.
Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics, Merry Fucking Christmas, so un-PC it simply must be sung at every Kindergarten pageant.
Bad Religion, The First Noel, also un-PC but in a different way; what did you expect from a band with this name? Are you loopy?
Stiff Little Fingers, White Christmas, the best Irish punk band rocks out on a song that needs rocking.
Bob Rivers, I Am Santa Claus, I play this song to scare my kids which, during the Christmas season, is as useful as Nembutal in milk.
Jimi Hendrix, Little Drummer Boy/Silent Night, if anyone thinks Jimi was an angel, they need to listen to the wretched knock-off High, Live and Dirty and give up their illusions of Jimi's sainthood. He wasn't fucking around on this.
Patti Smith, We Three Kings, scary, truly scary, which is what I think Patti had in mind - prior to becoming a mush-mouthed Nader apologist.
Dandy Warhols, Little Drummer Boy, simply weird and the song that turned me onto the Dandy Warhols.
The Who, Christmas, by far, the most brutal song on this mix and I'll do time in Purgatory simply for including it; I assume Pete Townsend* has done his bid.
Ween, Suzy Snowflake, a truly twisted, paranoid nightmare of a song (what else would you expect from Ween?) but no worse than, "he sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake." In these dark days when our rabid cur of a president can wipe his ass with the Constitution, a topical little tune.
Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Dance Of the Sugarplum Fairies, you know, not that fucking bad but it rocks so... so what, merry fucking Christmas, asshole.
Yellowman, We Wish You a Reggae Christmas, dude, if I'd received a sticky green bud of killer ganja as a gift, this rant would be soooo much more mellow.
The Singing Dogs, Jingle Bells, utter fucking genius. For anyone who has had to strip away essentail muscle in order to undo absurd anti-theft wires or dig up unavailable batteries to make shit hum or attempt to follow directions from half-literate sadists, this song makes total sense.
Elvis, Merry Christmas, Baby, yeah, OK, it was on my other mix, sue me, I was probably drunk.
Chuck Berry, Run, Rudolph, Run, I think the intent was there to make a decent Christmas song (and the Rolling Stones covered it thinking the way I did) but it sounds like you're giving Rudolph a ten-second head start before you pull the trigger on that AR-15.
Sonny Boy Williamson, Sonny Boy's Christmas Blues, blues songs are the best for creating bad Christmas karma; "Lord, I tried to trust religion, but the devil won't let me pray; that's why i got to stay drunk boys, all Christmas day;" mmmmm hmmmmm.
Amos Milborn, Let's Blame Christmas Merry, Baby, "I want to slide down your chimney, baby, fill you stockings full of toys" - nuff' said.
The Chipmunks, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, see the Singing Dogs; annoying is annoying.
P.D.Q. Bach, A Consort of Christmas Carols, if you don't get P.D.Q. Bach, I must assume you only get me on my slapstick level. Fair enough. Merry fucking Christmas.
Yeah, you'll get pics of my kids, big-eyed and happy, if I can get my tech-challenged parents to trust me with their digital camera
--------------
* I'd change that assessment had I included The Residents, Santa Dog and/or Skinny Puppy, Tin Om on this disk.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
The playas, screw the hatas, please, screw me
Listening to: Melody's delicious mix
Reagrding my listening choice this evening - it comes from the uber-goddess Melody who not only makes rockin' mixes (oh, you need to go check and see her playlist sistas and bruthas) but sends her mixes with ART. Real honest-to-god ART, stuff you can hang on your wall and get your friends asking "who did that?" and feel cool because you have friends with actual talent.
Needless to say, Patriside has another huge crush. But I digress (and regress and de-evolve and turn into a worthless horny male) and need to wipe the drool from my chin to present the list, playas, in no particular order:
Matt
Ben
Hank
Kathy
Evil Mommy
Nat
Shari
Chuck
Sterfish
Melody
Deb
Kimberly
Mamacita
Melina
Easy handed me the tragic news that he had to put an end to his blog and so, I'll post his list (and comments) here:
I'm bummed that easy had to kill his fine blog (and more bummed that the news slipped under the wire during this holiday madness) - he'll be missed.
I need to come clean on a couple of things regarding this month’s mixmania! and how I manipulated my own match for this mix. It was purely selfish, I concede, and beyond the pall but hey, it’s been my party up to this point and I decided I needed to give myself a little Christmas present for hosting this little soiree.
I have been following Melina’s blog for some time now and have adored her taste in music, figured we had a lot in common, music-wise. Previous mixmania! rounds had been split up with the help of Lu but that was impossible this time do to her time-constraints and, um, obvious other issues (I assure you, all amicable). So this time I did all the mixing-and-matching by myself and figured, hey, I might as well treat myself to some mutual satisfaction. No, not in that way you pre-verts (in the words of the inimitable Col. Bat Guano), although Melina is certainly very easy on the eyes. RRRRrrrrowrrrrr. Hell, she’s a fricken’ Goddess, gorgeous; but I digress - down boy, down - I digress, regress, de-evolve and I need to be spanked. Please, I really do need to be spanked. I'm a baaaaaad boy.
Reagrding my listening choice this evening - it comes from the uber-goddess Melody who not only makes rockin' mixes (oh, you need to go check and see her playlist sistas and bruthas) but sends her mixes with ART. Real honest-to-god ART, stuff you can hang on your wall and get your friends asking "who did that?" and feel cool because you have friends with actual talent.
Needless to say, Patriside has another huge crush. But I digress (and regress and de-evolve and turn into a worthless horny male) and need to wipe the drool from my chin to present the list, playas, in no particular order:
Matt
Ben
Hank
Kathy
Evil Mommy
Nat
Shari
Chuck
Sterfish
Melody
Deb
Kimberly
Mamacita
Melina
Easy handed me the tragic news that he had to put an end to his blog and so, I'll post his list (and comments) here:
I took a different approach to Mix Mania this time.
The theme was to do a holiday mix, but I've honestly
got a load of these lying around. For Christmas, I
just pop in 6 discs and set the CD player to shuffle
them.
So instead I got out the calendar and selected a song
for each holiday that came up, as well as a few that
aren't really holidays, but I felt should be observed.
The reason behind each song selection should be self
evident, even if they are stretching things a bit.
Disc 1
New Years Day
New Year's Day - U2
Martin Luther King Day
Pride - U2
Chinese New Year
China Cat Sunflower (live) - Grateful Dead
Groundhog Day
I'm Your Weatherman - Delbert McClinton
St Valentine's Day
Can't Get Enough Of Your Love - Barry White
Presidents Day
Dead Presidents - Curtis Mayfield
St Patrick's Day
Bugger Off - The Tim Malloys
April Fools Day
What a Fool Believes - The Doobie Brothers
Opening Day
Centerfield - John Fogerty
Tax Day
Taxman - Stevie Ray Vaughan
Easter
Egg Man - Beastie Boys
Arbor Day
Trees - Rush
Mothers Day
Tie Your Mother Down (remix) - Queen
Memorial Day
I've Known No War - The Who
Flag Day
US Blues - The Harshed Mellows
Fathers Day
Daddy Don't Live In That New York City No More -
Steely Dan
Disc 2
Independence Day
Justice and Independence '85 - John Mellancamp
The Real Christmas?
Christmas In July - Brave Combo
Labor Day
Finest Worksong - R.E.M.
Columbus Day
Columbus - Burning Spear
Halloween
Werewolves Of London - Warren Zevon
My Birthday
Birthday - The Beatles
Election Day
Elected - Alice Cooper
Veteran's Day
Walking On A Thin Line - Huey Lewis & The News
Thanksgiving
Alice's Restaurant Massacree - Arlo Guthrie
Chaunnukah
Chaunnukah Song (part II) - Adam Sandler
Christmas Eve
Santa Claus Is Coming To Town - Frank Sinatra & Cyndi
Lauper
Christmas Cheer
You're gonna be Santa - Paulie - (The Sopranos)
Christmas Day
Christmas Is - Run D.M.C.
New Year's Eve
What Are You Doing New Years Eve - Harry Connick, jr.
I'm bummed that easy had to kill his fine blog (and more bummed that the news slipped under the wire during this holiday madness) - he'll be missed.
I need to come clean on a couple of things regarding this month’s mixmania! and how I manipulated my own match for this mix. It was purely selfish, I concede, and beyond the pall but hey, it’s been my party up to this point and I decided I needed to give myself a little Christmas present for hosting this little soiree.
I have been following Melina’s blog for some time now and have adored her taste in music, figured we had a lot in common, music-wise. Previous mixmania! rounds had been split up with the help of Lu but that was impossible this time do to her time-constraints and, um, obvious other issues (I assure you, all amicable). So this time I did all the mixing-and-matching by myself and figured, hey, I might as well treat myself to some mutual satisfaction. No, not in that way you pre-verts (in the words of the inimitable Col. Bat Guano), although Melina is certainly very easy on the eyes. RRRRrrrrowrrrrr. Hell, she’s a fricken’ Goddess, gorgeous; but I digress - down boy, down - I digress, regress, de-evolve and I need to be spanked. Please, I really do need to be spanked. I'm a baaaaaad boy.
Merry Christmas! My holiday mixmania! list is here
Listening to: My match's wonderful Christmas mix
Merry Christmas to one and all. I have waaaaaaay to much to get done and so I'll keep my list comments brief. I tried to give this disk a mix of the untraditional, traditional, and the obscure. Anyway...
Vince Guaraldi Trio - Linus & Lucy, Traditional, obviously, it entered our collections over 40 years ago and has stayed there ever since.
Rosemary Clooney - Come On-a My House, Traditional at my house, come on-a my house, baby...
Mabel Scott - Boogie-woogie Santa Claus, a nice little novelty number from the golden age of R&B.
Bob Marley & the Wailers - Sound the Trumpet, a beautiful reggae Christmas song from the day when Leslie Kong was the reggae producer.
Dr. John - Il Est Ne, Le Divin Enfente, a taste of New Orleans for Christmas as is...
Fats Domino - Frosty the Snowman, no wonder Frosty melted.
Harry Conick, Jr. - Sleigh Bells, smoothe as a Hurricane.
Ella Fitzgerald - Let It Snow, more smoothness from the lady who defined "smoothe".
Eartha Kitt - Nuthin' for Christmas, a naughty take on a song about being naughty.
The Soul Stirrers - Christmas Means Love, some people who read my blog might think I'm anti-Christian which would be a sad miscalculation; I just despise how the fuckwit whiny ass cocksuckers of the Christian Right have approprated the voice of most Christians and have given the majority of Christians a bad name. The Soul Stirrers were one of the greatest gospel groups ever and this song defines what real Christians (not scum like Bill O'Reilly) know about Christmas.
Mahalia Jackson - Oh, Holy Night, another gospel great - this version gives me shivers.
Kiri te Kanawa - Ave Maria (Schubert), I think you could point to this song (and this singer) to argue for the existance of a God without having to stoop to the intellectual dishonesty of "Intelligent Design".
John Fahey - Oh Tannenbaum / Angels We Have Heard on High / Jingle Bells, amazing guitar work from the master of "Joe Blind Death".
The Roches - We Three Kings / Good King Wenceslas, if there are angels, they sing like The Roches.
The Beach Boys - Christmas Day, since I listened to "Smile" far more than any other CD in 2005, I had to include this.
The Crystals - Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, the sassiest version of this song, EVER.
Stevie Wonder - Someday at Christmas, probably the best Christmas protest song.
Al Green - Silent Night, I don't think I could make a Christmas mix without including the Rev. Al, no way.
Elvis Presley - Merry Christmas, Baby, Elvis had his sneer going with this one.
James Brown - It's Christmas Time, not a frantic JB but a subdued, JB; incredible restraint and oddly beautiful.
Blind Lemon Jefferson - Christmas Eve Blues, oh, mama, if you've never had the blues on Christmas, BLJ will tell you how it feels.
Enrico Caruso - Cantique de Noel, I remember being a kid and listening to this on a 78, thinking "Wow, wow, wow... how does he do that?!?"
Renata Tebaldi - Ave Maria (Bach/Gounod), Tebaldi is, to me, one of the greatest singers of all time, someone whose voice can move me to tears because of the sheer beauty of it. I worship her.
Judy Garland - Have Yourself a Merry Christmas, Why isn't this one of the greatest Christmas songs of all time? I mean this version...
Diana Krall - Christmas Time is Here, she had the good taste to do a killer version of this song and marry Elvis Costello, so you gotta figure the woman's got substance.
Louis Armstrong - White Christmas, couldn't think of a better way to end this mix than this version of this song.
Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas to one and all. I have waaaaaaay to much to get done and so I'll keep my list comments brief. I tried to give this disk a mix of the untraditional, traditional, and the obscure. Anyway...
Vince Guaraldi Trio - Linus & Lucy, Traditional, obviously, it entered our collections over 40 years ago and has stayed there ever since.
Rosemary Clooney - Come On-a My House, Traditional at my house, come on-a my house, baby...
Mabel Scott - Boogie-woogie Santa Claus, a nice little novelty number from the golden age of R&B.
Bob Marley & the Wailers - Sound the Trumpet, a beautiful reggae Christmas song from the day when Leslie Kong was the reggae producer.
Dr. John - Il Est Ne, Le Divin Enfente, a taste of New Orleans for Christmas as is...
Fats Domino - Frosty the Snowman, no wonder Frosty melted.
Harry Conick, Jr. - Sleigh Bells, smoothe as a Hurricane.
Ella Fitzgerald - Let It Snow, more smoothness from the lady who defined "smoothe".
Eartha Kitt - Nuthin' for Christmas, a naughty take on a song about being naughty.
The Soul Stirrers - Christmas Means Love, some people who read my blog might think I'm anti-Christian which would be a sad miscalculation; I just despise how the fuckwit whiny ass cocksuckers of the Christian Right have approprated the voice of most Christians and have given the majority of Christians a bad name. The Soul Stirrers were one of the greatest gospel groups ever and this song defines what real Christians (not scum like Bill O'Reilly) know about Christmas.
Mahalia Jackson - Oh, Holy Night, another gospel great - this version gives me shivers.
Kiri te Kanawa - Ave Maria (Schubert), I think you could point to this song (and this singer) to argue for the existance of a God without having to stoop to the intellectual dishonesty of "Intelligent Design".
John Fahey - Oh Tannenbaum / Angels We Have Heard on High / Jingle Bells, amazing guitar work from the master of "Joe Blind Death".
The Roches - We Three Kings / Good King Wenceslas, if there are angels, they sing like The Roches.
The Beach Boys - Christmas Day, since I listened to "Smile" far more than any other CD in 2005, I had to include this.
The Crystals - Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, the sassiest version of this song, EVER.
Stevie Wonder - Someday at Christmas, probably the best Christmas protest song.
Al Green - Silent Night, I don't think I could make a Christmas mix without including the Rev. Al, no way.
Elvis Presley - Merry Christmas, Baby, Elvis had his sneer going with this one.
James Brown - It's Christmas Time, not a frantic JB but a subdued, JB; incredible restraint and oddly beautiful.
Blind Lemon Jefferson - Christmas Eve Blues, oh, mama, if you've never had the blues on Christmas, BLJ will tell you how it feels.
Enrico Caruso - Cantique de Noel, I remember being a kid and listening to this on a 78, thinking "Wow, wow, wow... how does he do that?!?"
Renata Tebaldi - Ave Maria (Bach/Gounod), Tebaldi is, to me, one of the greatest singers of all time, someone whose voice can move me to tears because of the sheer beauty of it. I worship her.
Judy Garland - Have Yourself a Merry Christmas, Why isn't this one of the greatest Christmas songs of all time? I mean this version...
Diana Krall - Christmas Time is Here, she had the good taste to do a killer version of this song and marry Elvis Costello, so you gotta figure the woman's got substance.
Louis Armstrong - White Christmas, couldn't think of a better way to end this mix than this version of this song.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
WWJT?
Listening to: Sterling's wonderful holiday mix
This Tuesday night group is beginning to organically bond. A strange phenomena, how groups evolve and begin to mesh, find common ground with each other and a comfort level that allows them to share what tingles beneath the surface. With this group, I’m beginning to see true cohesion emerging, empathy expressed, eight souls beginning to grasp that there’s something bigger than themselves and sharing that realization, with glee.
This group had an intense start and took awhile to find its soul, to recognize the reasons to come back every week and talk about what really matters, to grasp the hands of others and feel the vibration that moves us and binds us. However, within the last month, the clients began to place themselves on the line, take risks, gripe and moan and disclose their innermost thoughts, feelings, and pain.
An intense beginning to an awfully insouciant topic that follows - mea culpa. Foregrounding this, though, seemed essential to dealing with something that needs to be addressed "outside of group".
One of the clients of the group is working his way through college as a server/bartender, much the way I did, with the same gripes I had when I busted my ass smooching the great brown asterisk for a few extra shekels. Seems he’d had a big top (sixteen or so) of church-going Christians and they tipped him a piece of paper asking him if he’d been saved.
A $90 tab, whiny kids and demanding shits and for his trouble he got a piece of paper, a piece of paper, essentially, because who the fuck is going to see your point of view when instead of honest remuneration (about $18) you give a worthless flap of scold?
WTF? WWJT? At the last supper (Hey, one has to figure it was at restaurant or at least catered), after all the plates were cleared and Christ announced someone would betray him and the whole movement, he at least left something besides a pose. It’s difficult to imagine that the server who finished and cleaned up didn’t walk away whistling that hey, that was an awesome party, a little depressing but it paid well.
Church folk seem to imagine that scripture states “And the Lord stiffed the staff and Lo, the waiters walked from the table with much mumbling because they had not spit in the salads.” Christ, I don’t pretend to be someone who spews chapter and verse but I’m pretty sure “Screw thy server” isn’t anywhere in the Good Book.
So, for you witless hillbillies, let me give you a clue. A (as in, “A, B, C, D, etc., the alphabet, you know), servers make TWO FUCKING DOLLARS AN HOUR which is shit, of course, and they really make their money off tips – TIPS, you dipshits, the money you don’t leave. Got it? The money you don’t leave is pretty much what hat server needs to pay rent and such. B (Made the connection yet? Yeah? Ain’t you clever?), the server brought you food and managed not to put the tray on your flat head. C (See the pattern here? No? You illiterate shit, no wonder you can’t work out percentages.), people bringing you food are the last people you want to piss off because, let me tell you, those aren’t really sausages on your plate.
In the 21st Century, as opposed to the 15th Century or whatever it is where you born-again Taliban live, 1% is insufficient, 20% is the norm and no one wants to see your idiotic pamphlet. 10% if the service really sucks but you have to wonder that if the service is less than adequate it might be due to the blinding effect of your double-knit suits (and polyester children).
If you’re interested in winning converts to your starched out cult, being cheap cheese dicks is probably a bad start. Ponying up with decent tips is probably a much better strategy; a 25% tip (and a lack of laughable haircuts) might have made me give a second thought to the merits of your blood cult. However, even the born-again zombies who worked with me when I was waiting tabled acknowledged that Christians were shitty for tips and were loathe to wait on those assholes. “Yeah, I tell everyone at my church,” they’d apologize, “but they don’t seem to get it.” And in the spirit of good Christian charity, they’d attempt to palm a table of holier-than-thous off on any sucker around.
If there’s any Christian types reading this, A) why?, B) Are you really getting the sense of this whole alphabet thing? And C) why are you so goddamn CHEAP?!?!
Tonight’s group has been grilled on the dangers of seeing The World As It Is though a “filter”, how our filters are deleterious in operating objectively. Yet, it’s impossible for me to gainsay the “Church-going Christians are cheap” preconception because, hey, they’re their own stereotype, a consistent thread throughout the universe.
Servers of the world would love to prove me wrong but it’s not up to them. It’s up to those folks who would ask, “WWJT?"
This Tuesday night group is beginning to organically bond. A strange phenomena, how groups evolve and begin to mesh, find common ground with each other and a comfort level that allows them to share what tingles beneath the surface. With this group, I’m beginning to see true cohesion emerging, empathy expressed, eight souls beginning to grasp that there’s something bigger than themselves and sharing that realization, with glee.
This group had an intense start and took awhile to find its soul, to recognize the reasons to come back every week and talk about what really matters, to grasp the hands of others and feel the vibration that moves us and binds us. However, within the last month, the clients began to place themselves on the line, take risks, gripe and moan and disclose their innermost thoughts, feelings, and pain.
An intense beginning to an awfully insouciant topic that follows - mea culpa. Foregrounding this, though, seemed essential to dealing with something that needs to be addressed "outside of group".
One of the clients of the group is working his way through college as a server/bartender, much the way I did, with the same gripes I had when I busted my ass smooching the great brown asterisk for a few extra shekels. Seems he’d had a big top (sixteen or so) of church-going Christians and they tipped him a piece of paper asking him if he’d been saved.
A $90 tab, whiny kids and demanding shits and for his trouble he got a piece of paper, a piece of paper, essentially, because who the fuck is going to see your point of view when instead of honest remuneration (about $18) you give a worthless flap of scold?
WTF? WWJT? At the last supper (Hey, one has to figure it was at restaurant or at least catered), after all the plates were cleared and Christ announced someone would betray him and the whole movement, he at least left something besides a pose. It’s difficult to imagine that the server who finished and cleaned up didn’t walk away whistling that hey, that was an awesome party, a little depressing but it paid well.
Church folk seem to imagine that scripture states “And the Lord stiffed the staff and Lo, the waiters walked from the table with much mumbling because they had not spit in the salads.” Christ, I don’t pretend to be someone who spews chapter and verse but I’m pretty sure “Screw thy server” isn’t anywhere in the Good Book.
So, for you witless hillbillies, let me give you a clue. A (as in, “A, B, C, D, etc., the alphabet, you know), servers make TWO FUCKING DOLLARS AN HOUR which is shit, of course, and they really make their money off tips – TIPS, you dipshits, the money you don’t leave. Got it? The money you don’t leave is pretty much what hat server needs to pay rent and such. B (Made the connection yet? Yeah? Ain’t you clever?), the server brought you food and managed not to put the tray on your flat head. C (See the pattern here? No? You illiterate shit, no wonder you can’t work out percentages.), people bringing you food are the last people you want to piss off because, let me tell you, those aren’t really sausages on your plate.
In the 21st Century, as opposed to the 15th Century or whatever it is where you born-again Taliban live, 1% is insufficient, 20% is the norm and no one wants to see your idiotic pamphlet. 10% if the service really sucks but you have to wonder that if the service is less than adequate it might be due to the blinding effect of your double-knit suits (and polyester children).
If you’re interested in winning converts to your starched out cult, being cheap cheese dicks is probably a bad start. Ponying up with decent tips is probably a much better strategy; a 25% tip (and a lack of laughable haircuts) might have made me give a second thought to the merits of your blood cult. However, even the born-again zombies who worked with me when I was waiting tabled acknowledged that Christians were shitty for tips and were loathe to wait on those assholes. “Yeah, I tell everyone at my church,” they’d apologize, “but they don’t seem to get it.” And in the spirit of good Christian charity, they’d attempt to palm a table of holier-than-thous off on any sucker around.
If there’s any Christian types reading this, A) why?, B) Are you really getting the sense of this whole alphabet thing? And C) why are you so goddamn CHEAP?!?!
Tonight’s group has been grilled on the dangers of seeing The World As It Is though a “filter”, how our filters are deleterious in operating objectively. Yet, it’s impossible for me to gainsay the “Church-going Christians are cheap” preconception because, hey, they’re their own stereotype, a consistent thread throughout the universe.
Servers of the world would love to prove me wrong but it’s not up to them. It’s up to those folks who would ask, “WWJT?"
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Dodging the bullet, for now
Listening to: The final version of my happy Holiday mix for the zillionth time
We were supposed to traipse out in this uncharacteristically civilized weather to sit on Santa's lap. Unfortunately, Marni is a miserable little elf with fever and congestion so the visit with Santa was postponed. Scant chance of getting smiles with Santa when one of the munchkins is so sick.
Marni christened my new ride yesterday. Nice how easilly vomit wipes off of leather. Needless to say, she's been on a diet of broth and clear liquids, with the occaisional electrolyte-replacement popsicle. With the popsicles, Zeke sees some value in being sick.
"I tick," he announced, stressing his canard with a little fake cough, "But a pop tit toe would make me feel better."
"Tick" and "Pop tit toe" is, of course 'sick' and 'popsicle' with his inversion of C's and S's with T. Translation can be tricky, even for dad, and at times a little disconcerting. For example, this exchange the other night:
"When I gwo up I gonna be a Top."
WHAAAA?!? A "Top"? WTF? Where did he learn that? For those of you ignorant of the parlance of gay culture, a "top" is the partner in a gay couple who plays the male role.
I was a little reluctant to press him further but as a father, I felt obligated to press him for information. Hey, if my son is gay, I have no problem with that but I think he's a little young at three-years old to be determining what role he'll play in a gay coupling. "Why do you want to be a Top?"
"Tuz', tops have duns and help people"
It took a moment but I realized the D/G inversion which brought me back to the T/C inversion, deductively concluding that he wants to be a 'cop' when he grows up. Don't know if 'cop' is any better than 'top' if slightly more ambitious.
Dodging bullets all day. Someone has a busy 'dun' and one of these days, I'll have to bite the bullet.
We were supposed to traipse out in this uncharacteristically civilized weather to sit on Santa's lap. Unfortunately, Marni is a miserable little elf with fever and congestion so the visit with Santa was postponed. Scant chance of getting smiles with Santa when one of the munchkins is so sick.
Marni christened my new ride yesterday. Nice how easilly vomit wipes off of leather. Needless to say, she's been on a diet of broth and clear liquids, with the occaisional electrolyte-replacement popsicle. With the popsicles, Zeke sees some value in being sick.
"I tick," he announced, stressing his canard with a little fake cough, "But a pop tit toe would make me feel better."
"Tick" and "Pop tit toe" is, of course 'sick' and 'popsicle' with his inversion of C's and S's with T. Translation can be tricky, even for dad, and at times a little disconcerting. For example, this exchange the other night:
"When I gwo up I gonna be a Top."
WHAAAA?!? A "Top"? WTF? Where did he learn that? For those of you ignorant of the parlance of gay culture, a "top" is the partner in a gay couple who plays the male role.
I was a little reluctant to press him further but as a father, I felt obligated to press him for information. Hey, if my son is gay, I have no problem with that but I think he's a little young at three-years old to be determining what role he'll play in a gay coupling. "Why do you want to be a Top?"
"Tuz', tops have duns and help people"
It took a moment but I realized the D/G inversion which brought me back to the T/C inversion, deductively concluding that he wants to be a 'cop' when he grows up. Don't know if 'cop' is any better than 'top' if slightly more ambitious.
Dodging bullets all day. Someone has a busy 'dun' and one of these days, I'll have to bite the bullet.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Snow day
Listening to: Ohio Players, Gold
Beastly cold; not early December cold but a February cold that kept us inside as if stepping outside would flash freeze flesh and leave it for dog kibble. Except, the dog wasn't so stupid to linger long enough to seek out any bits that dropped off had we been dumb enough to venture into the weather.
Our high today was six frikkin degrees, fahrenheit.
So, school closed and too cold to go anywhere, the four of us stayed indoors, punching one another, bouncing toys off of each other's skulls, pigging out on Pop Tarts and Fritos, seeing who would be the first to fire up the chainsaw and make it a real party.
My son was entrenched into a Star Wars movie marathon and knew what he needed to make the whole thing doable:
Zeke: Daddy, do you have any hot chaw quat?
Me: Yes, I do.
Zeke: Because I NEED some, because I'm full of juice.
Hot chaw quat made the rounds and while Zeke enjoyed his movies (waving a flourescent straw around as his "light saver"), I spent time with the girls, playing art teacher and pretending to lose at Candyland.
Everyone eventually got out of their PJs and we sped across town so I could work. Reality hit us in the face like chill air. The day with dad in the small house was over and we needed to move on, And moving on is the coldest cut of all.
Beastly cold; not early December cold but a February cold that kept us inside as if stepping outside would flash freeze flesh and leave it for dog kibble. Except, the dog wasn't so stupid to linger long enough to seek out any bits that dropped off had we been dumb enough to venture into the weather.
Our high today was six frikkin degrees, fahrenheit.
So, school closed and too cold to go anywhere, the four of us stayed indoors, punching one another, bouncing toys off of each other's skulls, pigging out on Pop Tarts and Fritos, seeing who would be the first to fire up the chainsaw and make it a real party.
My son was entrenched into a Star Wars movie marathon and knew what he needed to make the whole thing doable:
Zeke: Daddy, do you have any hot chaw quat?
Me: Yes, I do.
Zeke: Because I NEED some, because I'm full of juice.
Hot chaw quat made the rounds and while Zeke enjoyed his movies (waving a flourescent straw around as his "light saver"), I spent time with the girls, playing art teacher and pretending to lose at Candyland.
Everyone eventually got out of their PJs and we sped across town so I could work. Reality hit us in the face like chill air. The day with dad in the small house was over and we needed to move on, And moving on is the coldest cut of all.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Little piggy needed something new/nothing can stop me now
Listening to: Cream, Wheels of Fire
RE: my last post; the story has somewhat of a happy ending.
After the minivan was hauled off, I contacted my younger brother, the one who’s a General Manager at one of the huge car dealerships here in town (obviously, the brother I still talk to) to see if there was any way he could help me out. Desperate for any transportation, I was willing to take whatever he sent my way.
The first offer he made was a 95’ Chevy Astro, a real POSV*, with a clunking transmission and jittery brakes. Also a gas hog, the thing was a real lemon and hideous. When it was obvious the thing would be a money pit (the service department flushed the transmission to no avail), I turned it in to see what else he could get me.
There were a couple of options, he told me, a 97’ Ford Escort. Uh uh. It was when I saw the second option that I immediately fell in love. A 1995 Audi Quattro A6, fully loaded, smoky-gray with leather interior and an accelerator that screams to be pushed to the floor.
And, oh – I notice that I get noticed. The Audi gets me 100 times more double-takes per mile than the minivan ever did. Damn, I love driving it**, it’s beautiful.
I was talking to a friend about the car I'm driving, she laughed, "boys and their cars."
Her take is that my perception is determined by what I drive, that maybe I'm a bit more confident because I'm behind the wheel of what I think is a bitchin' machine. My take is that yeah, I'm probably deep in my pimp stroll because of my ride but ya' gotta' admit, the ladies like a dude driving something other than a minivan.
My evidence in this argument has been the double take. When I was driving the minivan, I’d look over at a woman and she’d shoot back a sneer of derision like, “Go away, you old pervert.” But oh yes, the double take. There’s nothing that makes a guy’s day more than having an attractive woman briefly check him out and then follow it up immediately with a longer check – and a smile. Puts a lift in my step, a deep breath of “Oh, yeah,” to whisk me breezily through the rest of my day.
The other night I stopped at a local coffee shop to get a tall cup before my group. I parked the Audi in front a local tanning salon. Inside, two orange-skinned, blow-dried blondes were manning the front desk. The older, taller of the two took notice with the double-take I talked about. Again, the same thing when I returned to the car, with a long follow-up third take as I pulled out. Not that I have any illusions that she’d be anything close to “my type” but, hey, I’ll take an ego-boost when I can get it.
Boys and their cars, indeed.
* Piece of Shit Vehicle
** Except the damn radio is shot and a friend tells me this model is very delicate with the electronics. Any suggestions?
RE: my last post; the story has somewhat of a happy ending.
After the minivan was hauled off, I contacted my younger brother, the one who’s a General Manager at one of the huge car dealerships here in town (obviously, the brother I still talk to) to see if there was any way he could help me out. Desperate for any transportation, I was willing to take whatever he sent my way.
The first offer he made was a 95’ Chevy Astro, a real POSV*, with a clunking transmission and jittery brakes. Also a gas hog, the thing was a real lemon and hideous. When it was obvious the thing would be a money pit (the service department flushed the transmission to no avail), I turned it in to see what else he could get me.
There were a couple of options, he told me, a 97’ Ford Escort. Uh uh. It was when I saw the second option that I immediately fell in love. A 1995 Audi Quattro A6, fully loaded, smoky-gray with leather interior and an accelerator that screams to be pushed to the floor.
And, oh – I notice that I get noticed. The Audi gets me 100 times more double-takes per mile than the minivan ever did. Damn, I love driving it**, it’s beautiful.
I was talking to a friend about the car I'm driving, she laughed, "boys and their cars."
Her take is that my perception is determined by what I drive, that maybe I'm a bit more confident because I'm behind the wheel of what I think is a bitchin' machine. My take is that yeah, I'm probably deep in my pimp stroll because of my ride but ya' gotta' admit, the ladies like a dude driving something other than a minivan.
My evidence in this argument has been the double take. When I was driving the minivan, I’d look over at a woman and she’d shoot back a sneer of derision like, “Go away, you old pervert.” But oh yes, the double take. There’s nothing that makes a guy’s day more than having an attractive woman briefly check him out and then follow it up immediately with a longer check – and a smile. Puts a lift in my step, a deep breath of “Oh, yeah,” to whisk me breezily through the rest of my day.
The other night I stopped at a local coffee shop to get a tall cup before my group. I parked the Audi in front a local tanning salon. Inside, two orange-skinned, blow-dried blondes were manning the front desk. The older, taller of the two took notice with the double-take I talked about. Again, the same thing when I returned to the car, with a long follow-up third take as I pulled out. Not that I have any illusions that she’d be anything close to “my type” but, hey, I’ll take an ego-boost when I can get it.
Boys and their cars, indeed.
* Piece of Shit Vehicle
** Except the damn radio is shot and a friend tells me this model is very delicate with the electronics. Any suggestions?
Monday, December 05, 2005
Here, pig, pig, pig, pig, pig, PIG
Listening to: Ministry, The Land of Rape and Money
About a month ago, I had my minivan repo'd, the swine that finances vehicles sent lesser-swine to go take it away and charge me $70 to get carseats and the rest of my shit out of the blocked-up and towed car. Lilly was particularly disturbed by this since she'd arranged stickers and such on the wondow that was "hers" and there was no getting it back.
She asked, "What are you going to do about those people who stole are van?"
Whatever their karma is, they'll find out, I answered, and then had to explain what 'karma' is, a concept she's far too young to comprehend. In a 7-year old's universe, people don't do mean things unless they're a Disney villian.
There's your concept of the devil: a 7-year old's concept of someone who'd repo a van.
My own concept of the devil goes like this:
This idiotic exchange has been in perpetuity since I was a little kid (I'm waiting for conservative shitheads to provide their calculus and provide the canard of economic distribution as a bad idea; I know that, if I get a thing, it will be wind).
I mention this because, if there is a Satan, he likes it when rich people fuck poor people; as I read the various Gospels (of the Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, et al), it's the rich who are fucked. Call me a loony leftist but that's how all those scriptures play out.
Back to my idealistic daughter and her wondering how her dad who works too much could have his van "stolen"; honey, I can only tell you that the most important lesson to learn in life is, Life ain't fair.
About a month ago, I had my minivan repo'd, the swine that finances vehicles sent lesser-swine to go take it away and charge me $70 to get carseats and the rest of my shit out of the blocked-up and towed car. Lilly was particularly disturbed by this since she'd arranged stickers and such on the wondow that was "hers" and there was no getting it back.
She asked, "What are you going to do about those people who stole are van?"
Whatever their karma is, they'll find out, I answered, and then had to explain what 'karma' is, a concept she's far too young to comprehend. In a 7-year old's universe, people don't do mean things unless they're a Disney villian.
There's your concept of the devil: a 7-year old's concept of someone who'd repo a van.
My own concept of the devil goes like this:
- Conservative shithead: "We're sick of the chaos you peace & love dopeheads tried to get across in the 60's, it's just not working for us!"
- Lilly Liberalheart: "We just wanted to validate everyone.... isn't that the ultimate goal of your so-called 'culture of life'?"
- CS: "Fuck you, you Communist whore! No one matters unless they're making a lot of money! If they're not filthy rich it must be because it's because they haven't taken personal responsibility for their moral vagrancy!
- LL: "I'm sorry but simple calculus should tell you that, in light of finite resources, some people will do really well and most will not; it has nothing to do with 'personal responsibility' and everything to do with how finite resources are allocated."
- CS: "God will provide, you worthless cunt, just have faith!"
- LL: "I don't know, calculus is fairly sound and I've seen how it works, but God's never shown his/her face."
This idiotic exchange has been in perpetuity since I was a little kid (I'm waiting for conservative shitheads to provide their calculus and provide the canard of economic distribution as a bad idea; I know that, if I get a thing, it will be wind).
I mention this because, if there is a Satan, he likes it when rich people fuck poor people; as I read the various Gospels (of the Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, et al), it's the rich who are fucked. Call me a loony leftist but that's how all those scriptures play out.
Back to my idealistic daughter and her wondering how her dad who works too much could have his van "stolen"; honey, I can only tell you that the most important lesson to learn in life is, Life ain't fair.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Phlegmatic
Listening to: Al Green, Call Me
I wrote this (well, kind of threw it together) the other night when I was up late and energetic, having one of those moments where I’d slept away the day trying to get over a cold and found myself having far too much energy for how I was feeling. Unfortunately, life got ahead of me and this fell by the wayside. Hope it’s much a criminal waste of time for you as it was for me.
Hopped up on Sudafed and green tea (with tons of sugar), I feel like there’s something else to do besides watching The Revenge of the Sith for the sith time and that would be sharing my boredom with the rest of you. You’ve been adequately warned then and if you haven’t clicked away yet, you have no one but yourself to blame. Don’t come rapping at my door with pieces of your skull in hand and your brain a smoking, smoldering cinder, there’s no room at the inn up in here. Especially for folks who don’t know a red flag when it’s slapping ya’ silly.
In the midst of this antihistamine buzz, I’ve been checking in with lovelies on my blog roll and one of the loveliest, Anne of Cooking With Anne, picked me for a meme that I’m just now getting around to answering.
List 5 things people may not know about you and tag 5 people to do the same.
Now, the 5 people I’d really like to answer this:
Mamacita
Trusty
Melina
Grace
Hank
Panthergirl had this meme up on her blog and although I've seen it before, I decided to answer it this time because of it's numeric allusion to Robert Anton Wilson and "The Law of Fives":
Which brings me to:
"As a bonus, Grace Davis popped in to say more nice things about me."
You can do the math if you doubt me (and have waaaaaaay too much time on your hands) but I'm certain my 23rd post* is me thanking the Academy for nominating me for a BoB, something I doubt will happen again since everyone's wised up to my essential, royal assholery. Anyway, Grace had done a follow up on my nomination, speaking highly of me and proving once again the axiom that, love by Grace is The Kiss of Death.
The same five people can answer that meme, too.
I was almost loopy enough to list 3 bloggers I’d sleep with but reality got the best of me and I’m holding my cards close to the vest. You’ll just have to guess who they are but I will tell you that I wouldn’t list anyone who was married just because I’m that kinda’ guy.
-------------
* Minus 4/5 of the Noble posts, which were back-dated.
I wrote this (well, kind of threw it together) the other night when I was up late and energetic, having one of those moments where I’d slept away the day trying to get over a cold and found myself having far too much energy for how I was feeling. Unfortunately, life got ahead of me and this fell by the wayside. Hope it’s much a criminal waste of time for you as it was for me.
Hopped up on Sudafed and green tea (with tons of sugar), I feel like there’s something else to do besides watching The Revenge of the Sith for the sith time and that would be sharing my boredom with the rest of you. You’ve been adequately warned then and if you haven’t clicked away yet, you have no one but yourself to blame. Don’t come rapping at my door with pieces of your skull in hand and your brain a smoking, smoldering cinder, there’s no room at the inn up in here. Especially for folks who don’t know a red flag when it’s slapping ya’ silly.
In the midst of this antihistamine buzz, I’ve been checking in with lovelies on my blog roll and one of the loveliest, Anne of Cooking With Anne, picked me for a meme that I’m just now getting around to answering.
List 5 things people may not know about you and tag 5 people to do the same.
1. I’m a pretty fair artist, meaning I can draw well. In fact, until my late teens, I thought I’d go into art school. However, it was clear to me that although I was a fair, illustrator, I’d never be an artist.
2. I was a bed-wetter until I was into my 13th year.
3. From my late teens until my early 20’s, I thought I was bisexual, meaning I had sex with other guys as well as girls. In retrospect, it had more to do with me being fully immersed in the punk lifestyle and thinking bisexuality was the ultimate punk pose. Plus, at that age, I’d fuck anything that didn’t run. I finally gave it up when I realized that every time I was with a guy, I wished he was a girl.
4. I am 1/16th Blackfeet Indian.
5. I have more than a passing interest in quantum physics.
Now, the 5 people I’d really like to answer this:
Mamacita
Trusty
Melina
Grace
Hank
Panthergirl had this meme up on her blog and although I've seen it before, I decided to answer it this time because of it's numeric allusion to Robert Anton Wilson and "The Law of Fives":
1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.
Which brings me to:
"As a bonus, Grace Davis popped in to say more nice things about me."
You can do the math if you doubt me (and have waaaaaaay too much time on your hands) but I'm certain my 23rd post* is me thanking the Academy for nominating me for a BoB, something I doubt will happen again since everyone's wised up to my essential, royal assholery. Anyway, Grace had done a follow up on my nomination, speaking highly of me and proving once again the axiom that, love by Grace is The Kiss of Death.
The same five people can answer that meme, too.
I was almost loopy enough to list 3 bloggers I’d sleep with but reality got the best of me and I’m holding my cards close to the vest. You’ll just have to guess who they are but I will tell you that I wouldn’t list anyone who was married just because I’m that kinda’ guy.
-------------
* Minus 4/5 of the Noble posts, which were back-dated.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Sick, sick, sick and just getting sicker
Listening to: MC 900 Ft. Jesus, Hell With the Lid Off
You get a bonus post, for what it’s worth, because I’m down and out with the season’s first dose of coma-inducing crud (hmmm, a good description of my blog!), body aches, chills, and a respiratory system packed with fluorescent-green jelly. Yum. This nasty bug prevented me from attending a 3-day seminar in Denver and so here I am, exposing you to my pasty, pale visage and my purple prose.
If you think that’s sick, I submit to you something that’s much sicker, the meanderings of the oxygen deprived Vox Day:
My own take on this pathetic, pinched turd of a man is that he is over-reaching in his attempt at irony. Neo-conservatives have gotten a lot of mileage from irony the past few years but it’s a limited commodity, with limited effect. The more irony is used, the more it loses its sheen and the tendency is to turn up the volume to give it more punch, to make it seem edgier, more subversive.
It’s difficult for me to believe a thinking adult (so-called) could actually advocate this tripe and so I say he’s just acted up, like some snotty little adolescent trying desperately to get some attention.
However, if he is indeed serious and stupid enough to test his little proposition, he’ll find out just how wrong he is. Whatever intellectual footwork he tries in prison won’t fly; convicts are convinced of the evil of rape and have a particularly savage way of expressing their disgust for rapists. If Vox Day thinks he can equivocate the evil of rape, God help him if he decides to try it out. He’ll change his tune during his first prison shower.
What’s more disgusting is that Elliott Wave International continues to advertise on Vox’s shitty little blog. One would think it would work against its business plan to give the impression that Elliott Wave International condones rape but there you have it. You may want to drop Elliott Wave International an email (as I have) and ask why they believe it’s good for business to advertise on a blog that advocates rape. You’d think a company would be a little more circumspect about where its name is associated but then, maybe rape is what Elliott Wave International is all about. If that’s the case, there should be quite a party in the pokey.
(A nod to Jill at Feministe for the heads up on this horseshit)
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Mixamania! participants: emails are going out this evening, please have your disks in the mail by December 10 - thanks!
You get a bonus post, for what it’s worth, because I’m down and out with the season’s first dose of coma-inducing crud (hmmm, a good description of my blog!), body aches, chills, and a respiratory system packed with fluorescent-green jelly. Yum. This nasty bug prevented me from attending a 3-day seminar in Denver and so here I am, exposing you to my pasty, pale visage and my purple prose.
If you think that’s sick, I submit to you something that’s much sicker, the meanderings of the oxygen deprived Vox Day:
I have to confess that I don’t understand this ceaseless quest for victimhood. Being raped doesn’t confer some mystical moral superiority on a woman, it just makes her a victim. And unfortunately, in all too many cases, it just makes her a stupid one.
I’m just curious what basis the moral relativists have for condemning rape in the first place. If I deem the slaking of my desire for lust - or violence, if you prefer that theory of rape - to be an intrinsic good, who are you to condemn it? Certainly, one could argue that it is a violation of private property rights, but then, what of those moral relativists who reject the notion of private property. If all property is held in common, then how can a woman object if I decide to make use of that which belongs to me?
My own take on this pathetic, pinched turd of a man is that he is over-reaching in his attempt at irony. Neo-conservatives have gotten a lot of mileage from irony the past few years but it’s a limited commodity, with limited effect. The more irony is used, the more it loses its sheen and the tendency is to turn up the volume to give it more punch, to make it seem edgier, more subversive.
It’s difficult for me to believe a thinking adult (so-called) could actually advocate this tripe and so I say he’s just acted up, like some snotty little adolescent trying desperately to get some attention.
However, if he is indeed serious and stupid enough to test his little proposition, he’ll find out just how wrong he is. Whatever intellectual footwork he tries in prison won’t fly; convicts are convinced of the evil of rape and have a particularly savage way of expressing their disgust for rapists. If Vox Day thinks he can equivocate the evil of rape, God help him if he decides to try it out. He’ll change his tune during his first prison shower.
What’s more disgusting is that Elliott Wave International continues to advertise on Vox’s shitty little blog. One would think it would work against its business plan to give the impression that Elliott Wave International condones rape but there you have it. You may want to drop Elliott Wave International an email (as I have) and ask why they believe it’s good for business to advertise on a blog that advocates rape. You’d think a company would be a little more circumspect about where its name is associated but then, maybe rape is what Elliott Wave International is all about. If that’s the case, there should be quite a party in the pokey.
(A nod to Jill at Feministe for the heads up on this horseshit)
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Mixamania! participants: emails are going out this evening, please have your disks in the mail by December 10 - thanks!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Tony's, it's been awhile
Listening to: The Germs, Like This in Hell
It had been awhile since I pulled into Tony's. Downtown hipsters just don't do it for me, the Elvis haircuts and dykes flaunting their fun; it all seems posed. But I needed a beer and there was Tony's, flagrant, thighs spread wide.
I entered, reluctant but desperate. I'd been in there before but the experience had always been empty. Effective, sure, but otherwise cheap and tawdry.
That's how desperate I was.
It didn't take me long to regret what I was doing. Oh yeah, it felt good but was I cheapening myself?
The blonde, blue-eyed sorority girl from the way-too-expensive liberal arts college asked for an obscure shot. Old folks just want whiskey. Only the young, insouciant children of privilege order shit like, "Tinkerbelle" (Absolut, Rumplemintz, and Drambui).
OK, I used Tony's and Tony's used me. So sue me, I'm single.
It had been awhile since I pulled into Tony's. Downtown hipsters just don't do it for me, the Elvis haircuts and dykes flaunting their fun; it all seems posed. But I needed a beer and there was Tony's, flagrant, thighs spread wide.
I entered, reluctant but desperate. I'd been in there before but the experience had always been empty. Effective, sure, but otherwise cheap and tawdry.
That's how desperate I was.
It didn't take me long to regret what I was doing. Oh yeah, it felt good but was I cheapening myself?
The blonde, blue-eyed sorority girl from the way-too-expensive liberal arts college asked for an obscure shot. Old folks just want whiskey. Only the young, insouciant children of privilege order shit like, "Tinkerbelle" (Absolut, Rumplemintz, and Drambui).
OK, I used Tony's and Tony's used me. So sue me, I'm single.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Self-absorption spent in Saturday night suckitude
Listening to: Dr. Dre, The Chronic
Self-absorbed.
Stuck in my craw, unable to shake it loose and let it go. I guess because, on the one hand, I know that I'm all that (so to speak) and on the other hand, all that what I am is just that, only that. Anything else betrays me, denies the energy that drives this pen, these electrons configured into something worth reading.
This is where I expose my ass, hair, warts and all. Stroking my ego so that it splooges right here on your screen.
As usual.
I do this because there's a sneaking suspicion in me that the few readers I have keep coming back because whatever I say, I say well. No one's coming here for the kid quips or the dog anecdotes but for the long-shot chance that I'll actually speak in way that's unique in this little corner of the blogosphere.
And if what I've just said has some toehold in reality, then you kinda' know that how I do who is who I am. I yam what I yam yeah, but that's not all.
My craw holds more than just snapshots of the obvious and its grit and grind. There's no pearls here but a pull, a pull more toxic than last post's issue, a pull downwards that not just invites a peek but permanence.
Sometimes seeking the depths because the life forms that dwell there are more interesting than those living closer to the light. What skims along the surface or resides just beneath take on a sheen of the everyday, a patina burnished by rubbing aginst everything seething and wriggling, everything moving towards a single point of referrence, unity displacing individuality until everything is a singular motion, a field of color moving stage right. In the depths, isolated from light, unity disappears, everything disappears; colors, when exposed, are warnings, not invitations. What's offered in the depths is boundless opportunity offset by the broader probablity of being eaten whole. Bones and all. Any trace of existance obscured in the black mud at the bottom, an equivocation of everything.
Sometimes sinking there because compulsion calls, cajoles, demands, draws me down on a leash and pins my head to the floor with a spiked heel, bids my captive heart to howl like a dog until I meet my needs. There, then, the choice is nullified, the reprieve of light lost and inconsequential, an errant ping dissapated in the shadows. All there is is desire, stripped of pretense and inhibition, naked hunger shaking uncontrollably in the cold, black void screaming for satisfaction. Or release.
And yet, in the depths, I'm no monster. I provide love and other things; I awake in the moment and I'm there for others, my kids. So, in the depths I can hold my oxygen, breathe deep, take an objective look up into the glow above me. See what needs to be done in the midst of chaos and still groove in the deepness.
Then I swim to the surface, shake my head, and take in a breath that feels like my first.
Self-absorbed.
Stuck in my craw, unable to shake it loose and let it go. I guess because, on the one hand, I know that I'm all that (so to speak) and on the other hand, all that what I am is just that, only that. Anything else betrays me, denies the energy that drives this pen, these electrons configured into something worth reading.
This is where I expose my ass, hair, warts and all. Stroking my ego so that it splooges right here on your screen.
As usual.
I do this because there's a sneaking suspicion in me that the few readers I have keep coming back because whatever I say, I say well. No one's coming here for the kid quips or the dog anecdotes but for the long-shot chance that I'll actually speak in way that's unique in this little corner of the blogosphere.
And if what I've just said has some toehold in reality, then you kinda' know that how I do who is who I am. I yam what I yam yeah, but that's not all.
My craw holds more than just snapshots of the obvious and its grit and grind. There's no pearls here but a pull, a pull more toxic than last post's issue, a pull downwards that not just invites a peek but permanence.
Sometimes seeking the depths because the life forms that dwell there are more interesting than those living closer to the light. What skims along the surface or resides just beneath take on a sheen of the everyday, a patina burnished by rubbing aginst everything seething and wriggling, everything moving towards a single point of referrence, unity displacing individuality until everything is a singular motion, a field of color moving stage right. In the depths, isolated from light, unity disappears, everything disappears; colors, when exposed, are warnings, not invitations. What's offered in the depths is boundless opportunity offset by the broader probablity of being eaten whole. Bones and all. Any trace of existance obscured in the black mud at the bottom, an equivocation of everything.
Sometimes sinking there because compulsion calls, cajoles, demands, draws me down on a leash and pins my head to the floor with a spiked heel, bids my captive heart to howl like a dog until I meet my needs. There, then, the choice is nullified, the reprieve of light lost and inconsequential, an errant ping dissapated in the shadows. All there is is desire, stripped of pretense and inhibition, naked hunger shaking uncontrollably in the cold, black void screaming for satisfaction. Or release.
And yet, in the depths, I'm no monster. I provide love and other things; I awake in the moment and I'm there for others, my kids. So, in the depths I can hold my oxygen, breathe deep, take an objective look up into the glow above me. See what needs to be done in the midst of chaos and still groove in the deepness.
Then I swim to the surface, shake my head, and take in a breath that feels like my first.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Bittersweet Symphony (Coda)
Listening to: The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
I headed west out of DIA – Denver International Airport - on my way home from dropping off my Thanksgiving guest, listening to the motor hum, lost in the quiet, no thoughts other than making my way towards the mountains in the distance, a serrated hem of smoky blue and gray. The day after Thanksgiving and the traffic was heavy, cars that had been lined up two deep at departures and arrivals were on the road, speeding towards Denver.
Stopping at the rip-off Conoco ($.50 a gallon more than in town!), I needed to piss, have a smoke. I lit up and looked out over the plains, thinking it looked less like Colorado and more like the wind-swept, grassy steppes of central Asia, my chin thrust into the breeze with the defiance of a Khazak nomad. Cars sped by on the highway below, people pumped gas and bought candy bars and energy drinks and yet I felt completely isolated, alone on the plains, pensive, taciturn. There was still another 75 miles to drive but my thoughts were lodged in the past, how I’d arrived there, overlooking hills brown with dead grass.
Six days previous, we’d driven by here, oblivious to the landscape, looking towards the road home, some small voice telling us both that this was our last visit. The visit was pleasant, heavenly at times but the specter of finality seemed to vibrate just below the surface. Things unsaid came to life in the day-to-day details of who we are and how we conducted ourselves.
In the drive to the airport, the unspoken heartbreak was finally given a voice. She said I’m self-absorbed, that she saw herself taking the lion’s share of the child-rearing if we were a couple. There is no doubt I’m self-absorbed, I conceded, although I took offense that my children were left wanting because of that. An impasse, I felt, we would never agree on this. All we would agree upon was that there was no use pursuing something that had little common ground, something doomed and mercurial.
The hills were bathed in an amber glow as I crushed out my cigarette butt and walked back to my car. Time to move on, to get back on the road and return home, to my life, to see what other roads there are.
So many roads to follow.
I headed west out of DIA – Denver International Airport - on my way home from dropping off my Thanksgiving guest, listening to the motor hum, lost in the quiet, no thoughts other than making my way towards the mountains in the distance, a serrated hem of smoky blue and gray. The day after Thanksgiving and the traffic was heavy, cars that had been lined up two deep at departures and arrivals were on the road, speeding towards Denver.
Stopping at the rip-off Conoco ($.50 a gallon more than in town!), I needed to piss, have a smoke. I lit up and looked out over the plains, thinking it looked less like Colorado and more like the wind-swept, grassy steppes of central Asia, my chin thrust into the breeze with the defiance of a Khazak nomad. Cars sped by on the highway below, people pumped gas and bought candy bars and energy drinks and yet I felt completely isolated, alone on the plains, pensive, taciturn. There was still another 75 miles to drive but my thoughts were lodged in the past, how I’d arrived there, overlooking hills brown with dead grass.
Six days previous, we’d driven by here, oblivious to the landscape, looking towards the road home, some small voice telling us both that this was our last visit. The visit was pleasant, heavenly at times but the specter of finality seemed to vibrate just below the surface. Things unsaid came to life in the day-to-day details of who we are and how we conducted ourselves.
In the drive to the airport, the unspoken heartbreak was finally given a voice. She said I’m self-absorbed, that she saw herself taking the lion’s share of the child-rearing if we were a couple. There is no doubt I’m self-absorbed, I conceded, although I took offense that my children were left wanting because of that. An impasse, I felt, we would never agree on this. All we would agree upon was that there was no use pursuing something that had little common ground, something doomed and mercurial.
The hills were bathed in an amber glow as I crushed out my cigarette butt and walked back to my car. Time to move on, to get back on the road and return home, to my life, to see what other roads there are.
So many roads to follow.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Heads up
Listening to: The Replacements, All For Nothing, Nothing For All
Yee haw. Look at the time of this post and know, we're having a real good time. Drinking this year's Beaujolais Nouveau, listening to The Replacements and gossiping about our blogger friends. We're done with Vicki's Annie Dillard pose and Mamacita's terrible taste in bloggers; we're disappointed with Trusty's deliberate discretion and Ellison's inability to send his feast our way (the dude can cook!). We're frustrated with Cinnabar for not updating her incredibly well-written blog and Coffee-breath for lurking and not commenting (chickenshit - not commenting on a train wreck when it's inevitable!).
Obviously, this year's Beaujolais Nouveau is THE SHIT. Especially since my company (an admittedly 'cheap date') is not only hanging with this but adding editorial content. Not just adding editorial content but indeed asking "What blogger would you most likely sleep with?" This is a silly and pointless conversation at damn near 4 in the morning and we realize most of you wouldn't be up at this hour, drinking killer wine but still, if you have the inclination to list the 3 bloggers you'd get it on with, we'd love to know.
What else do you expect from two juicers at 4 in the goddamn AM? As the Dead Kennedy's said, "Too Drunk To Fuck".
Yee haw. Look at the time of this post and know, we're having a real good time. Drinking this year's Beaujolais Nouveau, listening to The Replacements and gossiping about our blogger friends. We're done with Vicki's Annie Dillard pose and Mamacita's terrible taste in bloggers; we're disappointed with Trusty's deliberate discretion and Ellison's inability to send his feast our way (the dude can cook!). We're frustrated with Cinnabar for not updating her incredibly well-written blog and Coffee-breath for lurking and not commenting (chickenshit - not commenting on a train wreck when it's inevitable!).
Obviously, this year's Beaujolais Nouveau is THE SHIT. Especially since my company (an admittedly 'cheap date') is not only hanging with this but adding editorial content. Not just adding editorial content but indeed asking "What blogger would you most likely sleep with?" This is a silly and pointless conversation at damn near 4 in the morning and we realize most of you wouldn't be up at this hour, drinking killer wine but still, if you have the inclination to list the 3 bloggers you'd get it on with, we'd love to know.
What else do you expect from two juicers at 4 in the goddamn AM? As the Dead Kennedy's said, "Too Drunk To Fuck".
Monday, November 21, 2005
The mudman arises and motivates for Holiday Mixmania! so that Santa will treat him right
Listening to: My Disk #1 for this fiasco
Someone said that I'm not one of those bloggers who throws up a post when I have nothing to say just for the sake of putting up an update. Not sure I ever have anything to say (with few exceptions) really but I appreciate the compliment. So, if you've wondered about the dearth of posts here lately, it's because I haven't been inclined to let you know about the goo I've extracted from my toenails.
Yhe few of you who have decided to participate in the Super-Duper Holdiay Mixmania! Extravaganza may have been checking in here to see what's up wit' dat' (and wondering when I'll pull my head out of my ass). So, listen up, children, here's the latest update as we get closer to the culmination of a brand new clusterfuck.
So far I have these people in the mix (mouse over the names):
If you're not on this list and you think you should be, email me before Saturday, November 26 (the day I'm going to mix every body with their match and email those matches) - be sure to include your postal address, URL, and a list of all the bad things you've done this year.
One last thing: it was suggested that I back the deadline up to December 10, that it would be better if people got their mix a little early. I know this is backing it from December 15 but I agree... if you're a little late, expect some coal in your stocking. Oh, and I mean December 10, 2005 not 2006, fool.
Yeah, you can see who Santa's gonna' be skipping this year....
Someone said that I'm not one of those bloggers who throws up a post when I have nothing to say just for the sake of putting up an update. Not sure I ever have anything to say (with few exceptions) really but I appreciate the compliment. So, if you've wondered about the dearth of posts here lately, it's because I haven't been inclined to let you know about the goo I've extracted from my toenails.
Yhe few of you who have decided to participate in the Super-Duper Holdiay Mixmania! Extravaganza may have been checking in here to see what's up wit' dat' (and wondering when I'll pull my head out of my ass). So, listen up, children, here's the latest update as we get closer to the culmination of a brand new clusterfuck.
So far I have these people in the mix (mouse over the names):
Matthew Dykstra
Ben
Easy
Hank
Kathy
Evil Mommy
Nat
Shari
Chuck
Sterfish
Melody
Deb
Kimberly
Lu
Mamacita
If you're not on this list and you think you should be, email me before Saturday, November 26 (the day I'm going to mix every body with their match and email those matches) - be sure to include your postal address, URL, and a list of all the bad things you've done this year.
One last thing: it was suggested that I back the deadline up to December 10, that it would be better if people got their mix a little early. I know this is backing it from December 15 but I agree... if you're a little late, expect some coal in your stocking. Oh, and I mean December 10, 2005 not 2006, fool.
Yeah, you can see who Santa's gonna' be skipping this year....
Monday, November 14, 2005
You get what you ask for
Listening to: The Cure, Pornography
This is November, I know. The leaves are now all brown and tattered, not the golden Hallmark cards of October but a scattershot through the breeze like flecks of dead skin from a desiccated corpse, spilling in through the doorway and littering the carpet, the dandruff of a season passed on. Whatever bits remain swirl on a wind that slices to the marrow and fills the cleft with ice, collecting into cryptograms, anagrams, put the pieces all together and it all spells “you’re screwed”. I know November is not a nice month but by God, winter’s here way too early.
I’m not ready for this, really, not ready for this at all. Call me a drunken optimist but I was hoping that summer would kind of linger well into February, throw some snowflakes into mounds that my kids could sled though and then disappear, drip down the window effortlessly without having to be scraped and slapped against studded tires. Then everything would be green again, full of life and most importantly, warm.
Living here in Colorado, I should be geared up for the season, to welcome the opportunity to slide down a hillside on pieces of wood but I’m not. And to hell with you who say, “Oh, appreciate the change of the seasons, blah dee da blah dee da blah blah blah blah.”
You’re fat, OK, I’m skinny; there’s nothing to gird me against the cold. You can take your mesomorphic fat ass and ski to hell. All winter long, all I can do is throw on the layers and wish for spring. You can stick your finger in my face and remind of what I’m missing out on but you know what?
When summer rolls around, I’ll still be skinny.
This is November, I know. The leaves are now all brown and tattered, not the golden Hallmark cards of October but a scattershot through the breeze like flecks of dead skin from a desiccated corpse, spilling in through the doorway and littering the carpet, the dandruff of a season passed on. Whatever bits remain swirl on a wind that slices to the marrow and fills the cleft with ice, collecting into cryptograms, anagrams, put the pieces all together and it all spells “you’re screwed”. I know November is not a nice month but by God, winter’s here way too early.
I’m not ready for this, really, not ready for this at all. Call me a drunken optimist but I was hoping that summer would kind of linger well into February, throw some snowflakes into mounds that my kids could sled though and then disappear, drip down the window effortlessly without having to be scraped and slapped against studded tires. Then everything would be green again, full of life and most importantly, warm.
Living here in Colorado, I should be geared up for the season, to welcome the opportunity to slide down a hillside on pieces of wood but I’m not. And to hell with you who say, “Oh, appreciate the change of the seasons, blah dee da blah dee da blah blah blah blah.”
You’re fat, OK, I’m skinny; there’s nothing to gird me against the cold. You can take your mesomorphic fat ass and ski to hell. All winter long, all I can do is throw on the layers and wish for spring. You can stick your finger in my face and remind of what I’m missing out on but you know what?
When summer rolls around, I’ll still be skinny.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Doggie pics
Listening to: The Doors, LA Woman
For all you malcontents who insisted on having a pic to name my dog, here you are:
And another:
So yeah, she's a beautiful puppy (notice the first pic put her in perspective - my ugly ass makes her GLOW!), so keep it up with the names. You'll win my 2-disk Holiday mixmania! set, guaranteed to get dogs howlin' in your neighborhood.
--------------
BTW, I'll take names until the 15th for the Super-Duper Holiday mixmania! and after that, you're SOL, aight?
For all you malcontents who insisted on having a pic to name my dog, here you are:
And another:
So yeah, she's a beautiful puppy (notice the first pic put her in perspective - my ugly ass makes her GLOW!), so keep it up with the names. You'll win my 2-disk Holiday mixmania! set, guaranteed to get dogs howlin' in your neighborhood.
--------------
BTW, I'll take names until the 15th for the Super-Duper Holiday mixmania! and after that, you're SOL, aight?
I am Sofa King, Wechaw Jed.
Listening to: Morcheeba, Big Calm
Vacation time in early November; not to the Caribbean but up to the mountains, to stay in a friend’s remote cabin, just myself and Joseph Heller, Gustave Flaubert, and cheap bottle of shiraz, no phone, no internet, no noise other than the crackle of a fire and the soft flop of snow falling from tree branches.
Colorful drinks with fruit on plastic swords? Sweaty folds of flesh beneath Aloha shirts? Drunken spastics on a disco floor or painted shells strung on fishing line? That’s not a vacation, that’s an expensive trip to a bored Dominatrix. Finding myself miles from the nearest bleep or blip bubbling beneath the skin of society, isolated from the soul-hammering yammer of media nitwits - that’s my escape.
Driving into the mountains on Friday, I hit heavy snowfall, serious November flakes the size of maple leaves streaking past the windshield like a leap into hyperspace, leaving this galaxy and entering the frontier of darkness. Mahler’s Symphony #1 for the soundtrack, first movement perfect for venturing through the slipstream, each measure bringing me closer to revealing the mystery around the next corner which merely hints at the unknown beyond. As my tires crunched into the newfallen snow in front of the cabin, Mahler brought the final movement to crescendo, carrying me inside and the rest of everything out beyond the hills, to lie in state until my return.
The cabin was dark, darker than the snowfields outside, cold and forbidding. My fingers traced the letter of the nameplate over the door, “Hotel Sophia” to seek out the key and find out where I’d spend the next few days. The lock unlatched and I entered into a Spartan room, two bunks, a couch, a kitchen and fireplace. Unhinging the flue, I immediately went to work on a fire, the flames that would be my only live company over the next few days.
The snow still fell Saturday, fast and hard, bending boughs and burying any hint that I’d just rolled in the night before. If a bear tore me limb from limb, no one would know until the ski season started. Well enough; it’s what I wanted.
And enough to bring me here, to state this, to say, “I got away and what did you get?” Not to rub your nose in it (though I will, God knows) but just to ask if you’ll likewise take a moment to step out of the lines and breathe deep, really deep. One, two, three, take a moment and forget who we are, why we’re here and consider what really matters. That’s enough, isn’t it?
Sure seemed that way as I drove back home. Dousing the flames of the fire, closing up the flue, and carrying the ashes to be interned in the yard outside was the hardest thing I’ve done in awhile. I hated to leave, to have to re-enter this universe and return to all I’d forgotten for the past few days and nights. Driving back home, blinded by the sunlight bounced off by the snow, dealing with sheep shot through the chute into this eternal shithole, I wondered: is this all there is?
And thinking back on my weekend of sheer solitude I realized, no, there is so much more. A weekend without TV and internet and phone and chatter is what I needed to remember that yes, there is so much more. When a client said he’d spent his weekend watching football, I just nodded, good; I wasted my time as well. Sofa King Wechaw Jed.
If you haven't taken the time to get wechaw jed, you'll die with an empty skull. Count on it.
Vacation time in early November; not to the Caribbean but up to the mountains, to stay in a friend’s remote cabin, just myself and Joseph Heller, Gustave Flaubert, and cheap bottle of shiraz, no phone, no internet, no noise other than the crackle of a fire and the soft flop of snow falling from tree branches.
Colorful drinks with fruit on plastic swords? Sweaty folds of flesh beneath Aloha shirts? Drunken spastics on a disco floor or painted shells strung on fishing line? That’s not a vacation, that’s an expensive trip to a bored Dominatrix. Finding myself miles from the nearest bleep or blip bubbling beneath the skin of society, isolated from the soul-hammering yammer of media nitwits - that’s my escape.
Driving into the mountains on Friday, I hit heavy snowfall, serious November flakes the size of maple leaves streaking past the windshield like a leap into hyperspace, leaving this galaxy and entering the frontier of darkness. Mahler’s Symphony #1 for the soundtrack, first movement perfect for venturing through the slipstream, each measure bringing me closer to revealing the mystery around the next corner which merely hints at the unknown beyond. As my tires crunched into the newfallen snow in front of the cabin, Mahler brought the final movement to crescendo, carrying me inside and the rest of everything out beyond the hills, to lie in state until my return.
The cabin was dark, darker than the snowfields outside, cold and forbidding. My fingers traced the letter of the nameplate over the door, “Hotel Sophia” to seek out the key and find out where I’d spend the next few days. The lock unlatched and I entered into a Spartan room, two bunks, a couch, a kitchen and fireplace. Unhinging the flue, I immediately went to work on a fire, the flames that would be my only live company over the next few days.
The snow still fell Saturday, fast and hard, bending boughs and burying any hint that I’d just rolled in the night before. If a bear tore me limb from limb, no one would know until the ski season started. Well enough; it’s what I wanted.
And enough to bring me here, to state this, to say, “I got away and what did you get?” Not to rub your nose in it (though I will, God knows) but just to ask if you’ll likewise take a moment to step out of the lines and breathe deep, really deep. One, two, three, take a moment and forget who we are, why we’re here and consider what really matters. That’s enough, isn’t it?
Sure seemed that way as I drove back home. Dousing the flames of the fire, closing up the flue, and carrying the ashes to be interned in the yard outside was the hardest thing I’ve done in awhile. I hated to leave, to have to re-enter this universe and return to all I’d forgotten for the past few days and nights. Driving back home, blinded by the sunlight bounced off by the snow, dealing with sheep shot through the chute into this eternal shithole, I wondered: is this all there is?
And thinking back on my weekend of sheer solitude I realized, no, there is so much more. A weekend without TV and internet and phone and chatter is what I needed to remember that yes, there is so much more. When a client said he’d spent his weekend watching football, I just nodded, good; I wasted my time as well. Sofa King Wechaw Jed.
If you haven't taken the time to get wechaw jed, you'll die with an empty skull. Count on it.
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