Ok, so no shit, I'm standing by my pickup outside some cheap-ass liquor store waiting for my pappy to emerge with two handles of local rum in tow. I cast my gaze upon some rusted-out, POS, Russian-issue military jeep with the saltiest old man I have ever seen behind the wheel. He wears a sweat-stained captain's cap and a dingy linen shirt missing the top 5 or 6 buttons. He is actually smoking a corncob pipe and actually wearing an eye patch. He grumbles something (through jowls so blackened and bewhiskered I couldn't possibly understand a word) to an invisible passenger in the seat to his Right, then emphasizes his words with an sharp "No!" and repeats this three times. He raises his hand and swats (with authority, the bastard) whatever animal lurks below my view.
Thinking it was actually a dog or cat or something normal, I was surprised to hear a wholly unnatural screech come out of whatever felt the unjust hand of Mr. Pirate.
Then a monkey jumped out of the car.
This is what happened to me on Christmas Day, 2006. A fucking monkey.
12.26.2006
I AM SURROUNDED BY PIRATES
12.23.2006
I AM IN PARADISE
And you are not. That may or may not suck for you.
Unfortunately, I have found myself missing someone more than I care to. She bothers me in anoying and unflattering ways. Yet, fortunately, I am surrounded by hot Dutch college students on their spring break. This I have found to be excellent and successful therapy.
RECAP (response to an email sent to me just this morning):
not bad not bad.
I'm surrounded by Dutch college students on their christmas break.
I am drunk.
I am happy.
I miss Pete (and Mel to a much lesser, but nonetheless significant extent).
You two are my sunshine and, with one exception, you are my only sunshine. There is a giant burning ball of hydrogen in the sky that will be difficult to usurp. work on it.
xoxoxo
12.20.2006
COME ON, BLEED
Oh, it's so nice when they tell you they're dating again. It's even better when they tell you how many dates they've had, and with whom. I did, however, think it was perhaps unnecessary to drop that knowledge and expect me to pick up the check. Not cool. But hey, that's how it goes. C'mon bleed for me, baby.
Not that I, myself, have been a perfect angel. I can't help it if I'm a cuddle whore.
Thanks to the hot hot heat we've been pumping into the atmosphere, California has become ironically cold this winter. I am a skinny skinny man so, in lieu of gaining several pounds, it would seem the only logical countermeasure would be to find a warm heterosexual with which to adjoin myself. Perhaps this is why on several occasions I've been labeled "Cuddle Whore."
The roots of this terrible affliction spring up from my years in the Midwest, when the only acceptable form of "coeducation" was watching a movie in your parents' basement under a blanket. Keeping warm during the dark days of winter is more about self-preservation than anything else, so it would seem perfectly natural for a 9th grader to share air with another warm body--which, of course, would ultimately lead to hand-holding and making out (in later years, getting "felt up," dry humping, and in the end, genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting. Cheeky me, I went to private school).
It would seem only natural, therefore, that I would associate cuddling (or "snuggling," alternatively) with pleasant childhood memories. And, yes, in case you had any doubt, I consider genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting a fond childhood memory. Me and Mark Foley. ZING!
I also suspect there are many of you out there who also enjoy cuddling, sex or no sex. Why not, then, launch a network of "Cuddlers in Your Area," where local cuddle whores can meet local cuddle... "Johns?" Am I working this metaphor properly? Surely there must be just as many people out there wanting to be cuddled as there are those needing to cuddle.
I imagine some sort of form one would fill out to make the process easier:
1a) Cuddle Whore
1b) Cuddle John
2a) Big Spoon
2b) Little Spoon
3a) Shoulder Circles
3b) No Shoulder Circles
And so on. I believe this world would be so much better if, on those rare occasions you just want to "chill out and watch a movie tonight," you could summon up your cuddling partner for some heat exchange. It would be a free service, but paying members could get their own big, snuggly, fleecy blanket for the low price of $24.99.
P.S. Not prostitution!
Update: I, apparently, am not nearly as
12.19.2006
I AM TIME MAGAZINE'S PERSON OF THE YEAR
This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.
...More...12.18.2006
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Hooray for Christmas (and a myriad of other end-of-the-year holidays that I can neither pronounce nor spell correctly)! Conservative talk radio blesses me with a daily reminder that, owing to my God-hatin,' latte drinkin,' Subaru drivin,' baby killin,' tree huggin,' hippie, liberal tendencies, I am waging a silent War Against Christmas. Or "WAC" for brevity's sake. Yes, America, I hate Christmas because I don't have a plastic, light-up Jesus on my front lawn. Ironically, I did once have a plastic, light-up He-Man sword, which did an equally good job of reminding me about the Christ child, but I really don't think that qualifies me as an anti-Christ-child warrior.
See, I dig Jesus's style. JC was the original hippie love muffin, dig? Peace? Love? Bearded? He was a cool dude, that Jesus. So what the holy fuck would he think about our WAC? Would he be pissed to see a giant Santa statue replaced by a gargantuan menorah at the mall? I doubt it. In fact the idea of Jesus at the mall in the first place, or even cast in pressure-molded translucent plastic, is borderline offensive, even to a non-Christian Jesus fan like myself.
So, what to do, what to do...
In a rich tradition dating all the way back to Jonathan Smith, I propose we meet stupidity with absurdity. I say we join the pro-Christian ranks in their war to "preserve and promote the true meaning of Christmas," which as far as I can tell means spending eleven hundred dollars at Brookstone. I say we march right down to the mall and meet these anti-Christmas warriors head-on with big signs that read:
Now that's preserving the true meaning of Christmas. Happy Hanukkah day 4! Read what smarter people have to say. ...More...
12.15.2006
SIGH...
Just because I know that last post bored you a little, I'll pass on this information from my friend Celine Dion Badass McAwesome. She's real. Seriously.
I, of course, already knew this, but it may interest the rest of you to know that tofu makes you gay.
DEATH KNELL FOR THE REPUBLICAN MIDDLE CLASS
2004 was the year of same-sex marriage in my mind. The majority of exit polls following the '04 presidential election cited gay marriage as the top-dollar issue, despite the myriad of other, let's say "reality based," campaign issues. Needless to say, I was not thrilled (Re: "you have no health care because gays make you feel icky. dumbass.").
I was, however, impressed by the conservatives' leverage of a socially hot topic to win a slim majority of votes in an extremely tight election. Those sneaky bastards really know their shit.
These days, it's much less common to hear stories about gay marriage thanks to the unending stream of bad news erupting from the middle east (though, horrifyingly, the Iraq 'diversion' has allowed a sinister seeping-in of 'conservative' social reform while our backs have been turned. Sometimes I feel like us righteous don't have enough fingers for all the dikes in this country. Awful, awful pun not intended). These days illegal immigration seems to be the rallying cry for the conservative middle class, which I, for reasons outlined below, believe should cause the final and spectacular self-destruction of the conservative middle class as it exists now. God knows what evil glue will hold it together in the future (I don't suspect "principled integrity," but "down with Canada!" may be rising over the dim horizon). I can't even begin to predict what dumb shit will fall from the sky next week.
Illegal immigration (specifically un-documented labor), for better or worse, is the foundation of our economy. Businesses throughout the country, from the very small to the very large, depend on un-documented laborers to reduce insurance costs, heath and benefits payouts, social security, payroll, safety provisions, and a continuing list of items the AFL-CIO, etc. were nice enough to provide for documented workers. This is, of course, the reason why pears don't cost you 12 dollars apiece. Big business needs this contingency built into our labor system; a company that refuses to hire illegal immigrants will quickly fall to one that does. Capitalism is a bitch like that.
But let's not pretend, even for that one sweet second, Republican policy makers aren't ruled by business interests. Their success is inexorably tied to a system heavily subsidized--on the scale of billions of dollars--by illegal immigrants. Surely the Republican upper crust is pro-illegal immigration; if they weren't they'd be insanely stupid. So what of the middle and lower class conservatives' new and fierce hatred for the illegal immigrant?
The harder these nouveaux nationalistes cry for stronger borders, the more eroded their relationship with the conservative elite. Yet the strength of the Republican party is fed by the so-called patriotism of it's middle class soldiers; just ask yourself why 'liberals hate America' works so well as a slogan.
Let's just say, for conversation's sake, that immigration reformists get their way and all of a sudden we wake up and all un-documented workers have disappeared from the picture a la Back to the Future. Hey, so many more jobs for Americans, right? Oh Jesus, how naive! Ignoring the undesirability of many of these jobs for a moment, why don't we think about some simple economic principles first, shall we?
Unemployment in the US is (at least superficially) low. When workers are scarce, wages rise. (duh) Add to that the increased cost of benefits, etc. for the new workforce, and you get a sharp rise in market prices (duh), until job outsourcing to other countries stabilizes the job surplus (duh). Moving low- or entry-level jobs to foreign markets moves mid-level jobs as well. Sooner or later the Republican mainstream will eat itself unless it gives up its 1) delusion of upward mobility into the super-rich echelon, or its 2) delusion of isolationism. Cough, *NAFTA* cough.
Duh.
I have a great deal of sympathy for illegal immigrants. They make shit, and they get treated like shit, and they don't get to complain to anyone about it. Still, I think kicking them out of the country might be a little counterproductive, don't you?
God bless you if you actually read this entire post. And God Bless America!
12.13.2006
ON LOCATION
I wrote the following while imprisoned in meetings all day:
Below are the top ten places I'd rather be than right here, right now:
10) Bosnia
9) Mary Cheney's uterus
8) The Gap
7) Turkish prison
6) Daler Mehndi video
5) International 'Bring Your Penis to Work Day'
4) Dennis Kucinich's uterus
3) Thunderdome
2) Coke + Whores + Rush Limbaugh
1) In the shit.
Apparently today was a bit rough on the nerves. I do righteous work, and I do it well, but my God the constant hugs are killing me.
12.12.2006
HUMBUG!
I can't figure what to ask for Christmas. I know I want stuff, I just don't know what stuff. What are you asking Santa for this year?
...More...12.11.2006
7 FAT YEARS, 7 LEAN YEARS
Good God, I resent being awake this morning, despite the fact that once again I am the first person to arrive at work. However, I now have carte blanche to finish the following thoughts I had while weighing the evils of a) remaining in my remarkably comfortable bed while conservative talk radio (Con-Tak-Ra in MOTU speak) splits the fragile seams knitting my skull plates together and b) getting up and leaving the house:
1) If I remember correctly, high-school theater is the the greatest pussy scam in the history of mankind, which makes the 30th anniversary Broadway production of Annie next spring all that much more terrifying. (Former Annie performers Catherine Zeta-Jones and Molly Ringwald make the situation all the more confusing).
2) Jim Buckmaster is my hero. "Dear venture capitalists, how would you like to just kiss my ass? Please quit trying to leach off my success. Go ahead and try to have a creative thought on your own." I/we need more individuals like Jim Buckmaster. Take 10 minutes out of your day and write a letter to your local/national bank executive manager. Place it on his desk and kick him swiftly between the genitals.
And to top off my morning, I was appalled to read in the New York Times Reader's Opinion the general feeling is that, no, the United States generally unprepared for a Woman or an African-American in the executive office. I say this, not because the comments were overly negative, but because the question itself is particularly appalling. At this point in our nation's history, I think it would be much more important to ask the question, "Are we ready for a president who isn't out of his/her fucking mind?"
...Oh yes, I disagree with 'ol Whitey's "baby-slaughtering" and "old-man-pimp-slapping" policies, but he's so much better than that colored fellah, with his crazy "let gay people get married" ideas...
Like sands through the hourglass, so doth the head-groove in the wall next to my desk blossom and grow. Thud. Thud. Thud.
12.09.2006
POSTCARDS FROM THE BROKEN SPINE OF THE BEAR
It is time for us to kiss the earth again,
It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies,
Let the rich life run to the roots again.
I will go to the lovely Sur Rivers
And dip my arms in them up to the shoulders.
I will find my accounting where the alder leaf quivers
In the ocean wind over the river boulders.
I will touch things and things and no more thoughts,
That breed like mouthless May-flies darkening the sky,
The insect clouds that blind our passionate hawks
So that they cannot strike, hardly can fly.
Things are the hawk's food and noble is the mountain,
Oh noble Pico Blanco, steep sea-wave of marble.
12.08.2006
I AM A PSYCHO GENIUS
There are two types of people in this world, those who prefer to have things laid out in front of them, and those that prefer to have things laid down behind them. I am, without a doubt, of the latter.
This became clear to me while trying to explain the governing principles behind the BAM philosophy:
1) A plan is the antithesis of adventure. A plan presupposes you know what to expect, and should be avoided. The best experiences in one's life are often built upon the ashes of well-laid plans.
2) A map is a crutch. Unless you are late for something important, keep those demons under control. The most boring distance between two points is a line drawn by someone else.
In both cases, the introduction of a secret map (e.g. treasure map) trumps all rules. But beware, not everyone can stomach the thought of operating without a net. This is a perfectly acceptable and commendable position, and you should take steps to avoid scaring these people. They will not, however, be receiving a super-secret nom de guerre. What say you, Skip? Have I done right by these principles?
12.07.2006
BAM 12.06
There are no words to describe my loathing for Grey's Anatomy. I thought that perhaps I could curl up on the couch, pour a tall glass of red wine for myself, fire up a Glade Scented Oil candle, dim the lights and just lose myself in Patrick Dempsey's beautiful doe eyes. I tried. I made the effort to watch 2 seconds at a time through fingers criss-crossed over my eyes... then 3 seconds... then 4.
When I could no longer resist the urge to peel back the fragile skin at the top of my scalp and massage the gruesome head wound with fine Afghani heroin until the horror finally came to an end, I decided to give up on Grey's Anatomy (more like Grey's Lobotomy, huh? Heyyyoooo! Up high!). Jesus, what an awful show. It's like Nip/Tuck without the luscious, milky bosoms.
But moving on, and at the risk of jinxing the whole waterworks, I'm working out my p-p-plan to get the hell out of town for a weekend with guns a-blazin'. Yes, it's true, a plan is just a list of things that never happen (and wicked-bad juju in my estimation), but I have to get my coordinates locked in before I depart.
I'm on a quest for Bolinas, a place where the locals defend their territory so fiercely, Caltrans has long since given up posting signs for the quiet coastal town because the damn things just keep getting torn down. I dig your style, Bolinas. To uphold my end of the bargain, I've decided to follow in the footsteps of the original explorers in finding my way to this paradise oasis, I'm going to use the sophisticated surveyor's GPS I jacked from the GIS department at work.
What. Lewis and Clark were pussies, what do you want me to say?
I have dreams about this place where naked sirens dance in the frantic sparks from beachwood bonfires. I see emerald lagoons filled with bronzed flesh, and great glistening waterfalls casting iridescent spectra from silvery fingertips. I can hear the hypnotic heartbeat of the meandering waves folding black sands rich as coffee in the fading daylight. Oh great rivulets of K-Bear saliva, no karmic shield so powerful will shroud me as you! The gentle lover's caress, the sensuous embrace of my "Property of Bolinas High Athletic Department" T-shirt. What ecstasy, what purple passion so deep waits for me there? I can't hold back my tears of... holy fuck, is that grain alcohol coming out of me?
Wow, man. Wow.
Well, most of that story is, in fact true, or was at some point in history. There was a time when Bolinas existed as only a rumor in a dark hallway. Now? Now it's probably one giant tourist attraction.
Fuck it. There's always free cheese in a mousetrap. BAM, sucka.
12.06.2006
2nd ALBUM OF THE WEEK
I understand that the idea of an "Album of the Week" may have been confusing enough to spin some of my readers into a psychotic episode (*cough* Reckless *cough*), and I should have probably been a little clearer in my description. The title, "Album of the Week" refers not to the freshness of the music, rather the weekly nature of the blog post. I apologize for an confusion/minor nerve damage/atherosclerosis/rabies this may have caused.
yikes.
Anyway, moving on, today's guest post comes from a dear friend of mine who, if she had been born 30 years earlier, would have slept with Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, David Bowie, Jim Morrison and Hall (but not Oates). Of course, I would have totally done John Oates with that thick-ass moustache of his.
What was I talking about? Right, wise words from the District:
...More...The Practical Application of Gestalt Principles in Album Construction
I bought an album a few days ago. I mean, I bought a real, physical album. I even ordered it through the mail, so I had excitement in anticipating its arrival. It has been a few years since I ordered music - mostly I buy albums at shows and swap discs with my local coffeeshop employees. But, I had heard this band on Myspace and was tired of listening to the few tracks available on their music page. So, when I finally got the CD in my hot, little hands, I unwrapped it immediately and stuck in my CD player, and prepared to groove.
Pffflew. Deflation. So, the album that I ordered and had waited to receive, Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time" is quite enjoyable at times; however, the album itself has no continuity, no theme, no story to tell. There are two standout tracks onthe album, but the surrounding songs do nothing to support the singles. Both "Funeral" and "The Great Salt Lake" are strong songs with delightful melodies and catchy lyrics. Tempo changes and instrumental breakdowns drive the tunes, while Ben Bridwell's vocals compliment the tone and temper of the individual songs. Although Band of Horses lacks the orchestral depth and magnitude of Bridwell's previous band, Carissa's Wierd, the songs are solid rock pieces and induce toe-tapping. Hell, I like the band so much I bought the album. Individually, there are nice songs, but the path of the album is jarring with odd tempo and key changes between the tracks. At this point, I am not sure if it is better on random shuffle or listened through from start to finish.
I guess this is what happens in our new age of iPods, mp3s, and shuffle. You can pick and choose the tracks, and so how they work together just does not matter any more. I bought the Band of Horses disc off their songs on Myspace, so I am guilty of this myself. However, I remember the time when the traditional album was put together with love and care - the transitions between songs were just as important as tempo changes within the songs. Hell, Death Cab for Cutie's "Photo Album" has one of my favorite musical moments in between the tracks "Steadier Footing" and "A Movie-Script Ending." And Built to Spill's masterpiece "Perfect From Now On" escalates from song to song and culminates with the raucous pieces "Kicked in the Sun" and "Untrustable/Part 2." These albums (quite recent as 2001 and 1997 releases) are thoughtful works as a whole in addition to the individual song, and the development throughout the album only makes them better pieces.
Perhaps I am advocating for concept albums. The Decembrists certainly have figured out how to tell a story through an entire album; Ben Folds Five did a lovely job with "The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner." But, really want I am suggesting is that the format of the album needs to be considered when creating a marketable product. The sum of songs can either help or hinder the success of the album, and in the case of Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time," it certainly hurts. Or, maybe I should just use shuffle.
12.05.2006
OH GOD, SWEET MYSTERIES OF THE DIVINE
If you haven't noticed, and no one's told you, tonight is such a special night for me. CBS, a station known for its integrity of journalism, will broadcast the sexually deviant version of Christmas, Passover, Chinese New Year, The Moon Landing, Second Coming of Christ, Wham! Reunion Tour, and The Day I Awkwardly Became a Man (in no particular order). At 10pm ET, you'll be able to catch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, with musical guest Justin something-or-other (don't think I've heard of this guy. Also, I'm having trouble understanding why a lingerie fashion show would need a musical guest. Refractory period?).
Since I'm a tan, svelte, real-or-fake West Coast Boy now, I'm trying to figure out how to watch both the initial broadcast on the East Coast, then get back home to catch the rebroadcast on Pacific time. See, people, this is why we need supersonic jetpacks. (Yes, I could TiVo the broadcast and watch it over and over and over, but I prefer the old-fashioned jetpack strategy. Good enough for Connery, good enough for me).
Put the kids to bed, open a bottle of wine, and enjoy the fruits of The Digital Age. Wives, girlfriends, dominatrices beware.
P.S. Jesus, I almost forgot to mention it's been exactly 79 years since the last state ratified the 21st amendment to our constitution (Utah, not surprisingly, was the holdout. Way to go, Utah). Remember this tonight while you're watching semi-nude women prance up and down a trippy little stage. Ahhh we're just like the Romans. Many of you, no doubt, will be dressed in Togas. I know I will. Ego diligo pectus quod imbibo!!
I AM A DIRTY, DIRTY SINNER
It's a terrible, terrible sin, but I think both of the Bush daughters are hot. I have unhealthy fantasies about Jenna and Barbara where they are engaged in various inapropriate acts with each other and me simultaneously. I wish I could end this terrible affliction, so I ask you, Oh Wise Readers, how to resolve these feelings of self loathing? Also, which is hotter, Jenna or Barbara?
P.S. The tall one kind of looks like Alanis Morissette. Crazy sexy Canadians.
AHHHHH...
There, now don't we all feel better? I know I do. Thus ends my social experiment (Thank. God.). Now we can get back to business as usual.
...More...12.04.2006
I AM PLEASED WITH THE RESULTS
P.S. Somewhere in that last little shake-up, my 6,000th visitor popped his or her or its head into the room. That's 6,000 since February, though if you remove that 4 month vacation I took (thanks to all of your death threats words of encouragement that brought me back), it looks a lot like more like 1,000 per month on average. Since I view readership as a validation of my otherwise pointless existence upon this easy-on-the-eyes planet of ours, I feel quite good about myself! Yay, self esteem! Now send me panties. Goddamnit, you send me bushel upon bushel of exotic panties so that I might make countless panty-angels!
I love you!
WEEKLY HIPSTER MUSIC REVIEW (I AM A SHILL FOR THE MUSIC BUSINESS)
The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side.It's about time I started paying attention to my indie rock vocabulary since I couldn't possibly entertain the idea of walking through the Mission District without my messenger bag, one in my extensive collection of post-modern (PoMo) T-shirts, and my hair quaffed exactly as I found it when I woke up: unwashed and un-styled for maximum cowlick exposure. Plus I need to Coke my way out of about 15 pounds; my ribs lack full definition.
I've noticed my mean machine C-money reading my blog from B.C. (henceforth referred to as "Bitchin' Canada!"), and she's always been my lifeline to new and exciting music. I figured all the BC rippers / weed dealers / tattoo + piercing outdoorsmen have got to be on the music up-and-up, so I'd better start pulling my A-game together, eh?
Plus (man, the hits just keep on rollin'), I've had a song tickling the back of my brain for a few days, and every time I hear it I think of an old friend of mine from the beating heart of Les Vert Mont. She's got such a dirty mind, and it never ever stops...
Ergo, I return these boys their hard-earned props. Hard-earned in respect to the Strokes diaspora in which all "indie rockers" now reside, poor skinny bastards.
ALBUM OF THE WEEK: Silent Alarm by Bloc Party
CHARTED SINGLES: "So Here We Are," "Banquet"
Their failure to find mainstream success in the US somehow makes this band just a little better in my esteem (think David Hasselhoff in Germany. Does any American own a DH CD? Or do we just enjoy mocking his hypnotically gyrating hips through the cultural crystal ball that is YouTube... Yea, I didn't think so.). Having been a fan of Franz Ferdinand's first album, then refusing to listen to even one track from the second, preferring instead to reflect on the heady days when "Alternative Music" meant "I don't hear that one track on every goddamn radio station 24 hours a day," I enjoy Bloc Party's homage to their closest relative on the indie family tree. The band, having met their defining moment at a Franz Ferdinand concert, pulls the IndieDiscoPop card from pretty much the middle of the deck, but some of the tracks are catchy enough to stick. I also failed to find even one of Bloc Party's tracks on all Bay Area radio stations through two straight days of dedicated searching, a critical moment in the audition process.
Give the album a gander, and then you can impress your friends with "That Bloc Party show at The Fillmore was so deck last night. Did you see all those tassles bustin' mad moby's in the VIP box?"
PS. I haven't the slightest idea what I just said. Comments will be met with appropriate consideration / mocking. ...More...
12.02.2006
WE DON'T NEED ANOTHER HERO
I'm up early for work today, but that's not even the beginning of my woes. I have Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome stuck in my head. Go on ahead an' marinate on how I got that in there.
...More...
