I just saw a flash of lighting out my window, in the clouds over the Wasatch Mountains. I’ve heard that for Navajo’s the first strike of lightning signifies the beginning of spring. To me this seems more accurate than the lunar or solar calendar. More applicable. More in tune with what’s happening on earth, more able to adapt to the vagaries of inexplicable atmospheric changes. Similarly, the first snowfall indicates the beginning of winter. My college mentor (though not by academic appointment), Barre Toelken, taught me this. He speaks Navajo. His first wife was Navajo. She died at a young age in a snowstorm while out with the sheep, trapped in a box canyon.
Anyway, I don’t know that much about it and there’s nothing more annoying than some Caucasian fool who thinks they’re an expert on Native Americans. Except Barre, who is Caucasian, but doesn’t walk around like a cocky rooster (if he’s cocky, his long life has taught him how to hide it). He’s an academic (and real life) expert on Navajos. I mentioned Barre because I spent roughly 8 years studying with him and he always told me and his other students when he had received the call from his adopted family in southern Utah, informing him of lightning or snow. Aside from that freak snow/hail storm with lightning in January, this is my first thunderstorm of 2005. And now there’s thunder and it sounds like it’s being broadcast to me through a tin can. If only I worked somewhere else, where I could at least OPEN the window. *Sigh*, I guess I’ll have to throw my computer monitor through it.
The other night, Stoker and I went to the M.Ward show. Remind me of why I go to shows? Always the one to romanticize things, I build up how great seeing so and so will be. Then I get there and resent everyone and their body odor, their huge head or afro blocking my view and their stupid clothes. It didn’t help that M.Ward sat down the entire time. Had this been In the Venue* and not the famous/infamous Kilby Court garage, sitting the whole time with his head tilted down (in an LA Dodgers baseball hat no less), tilted down wouldn’t have been a problem. Sure, it’s a cool spot, but only when there’s 30 of you. Any more than that and it’s like being trapped in a closet with your entire high school class breathing down your neck. And Kilby attracts people I don’t know or like. You hear with your ears, not your eyes, is what you’re thinking. Not true. Deaf people hear with their eyes. And I’m partially deaf**. So I needed to see him to know what was going on. If I just wanted to hear the music, I would have stayed at home or in my car and listened. With my ears, not my eyes.
The good that came of it was that I discovered Norfolk and Western (just call me Lewis. Or Clark. Or that Indian girl they took with them, what was her name? Pocohontas? Sasquatch? No, that’s big foot, hmmmm. Lucky for me I have the internet and can look it up in a matter of seconds). And they’re really good. So I’m sharing. See the link on my sidebar.
Also, for my diehard friends and fans, I’ve put an imix on itunes***, under Aries327. Originally there were 21 songs, but itunes didn’t support all the music. So if you’re truly desperate to have the whole thing, email me and I’ll send you the rest of the songs. I’d be happy to do it. Truly.
Sacagawea.
*Who thought that name up? It’s so annoying, “I’m going to a show tonight.” “Oh yeah, where at?” “It’s In the Venue.” After a long pause. “It’s in what venue?” “That’s the venue, In the Venue.” Annoying, for more reasons than because it's a name that begins with a preposition and all that. I shake my fist at the owners of In the Venue.
**No I’m not.
***I’m addicted to itunes. Stupid itunes, it doesn’t even know what it stupid does (see the Simpsons, when Lisa gets on the wrong bus the day of her science fair. I think).
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
On My Mind
a) I miss my hetero-soulmate, Christy Baugh. For any of you who know her, you’ll know why I miss her. She’s fun, easy-going, hilarious and uniquely adorable. So. . . all things opposite of me. Because I’m not easy-going, fun, or hilarious. Definitely not, by any means. Anyway, CBG (as I sometimes call her) lives in Logan. I miss Logan too. If you don’t know, Logan is in northern Utah in the valley of the cache. Cache Valley. Going north, the towns come at you like this: Logan, Smithfield, Richmond, the border, Franklin ID, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Preston ID. With smaller towns (populations of 100 and stuff, so not even worth mentioning) in between. Lewiston might be in between Richmond and Idaho. And Cove. Not sure about that and I’m not going to look it up. The point I was trying to make is that it’s the area where the great Napoleon Dynamite was filmed. And watching Napoleon Dynamite makes me yearn for Cache Valley. I watched Napoleon Dynamite on Sunday night. I miss Christy Baugh and Logan. I lived in Logan for 8 years because that’s how long it took me to finish my undergraduate and master’s degrees. I could be a doctor. But I’m not. I’m nothing. No, I’m something. But I’m not rich.
I’ve known Christy Baugh for four years. She’s great. Really. She’s got style. And no, I’m not a lesbian.
b) I’ve been looking at the Eels’ website*. There’s a link on it to something called Amber’s Guesthouse. It’s funny. Supposedly Amber is E’s mistress. She answers his fan mail. I don’t know if anyone who visits or writes to her believes it. But I don’t. I think E is actually answering it and has created this whole Amber thing as a joke. Have you heard of E and the Eels**? You know what they say, “no press is bad press.” Or “bad press is good press.” Anyway, visit the link to E disguised as Amber (this is my hunch and not in fact, a fact. Don’t go telling E, Nicole said there is no Amber. I don’t want him mad at me). Also, if you’re not an Eels fan, check them out. Their new album came out today and as soon as I blow this joint, I’m going to purchase it.
c) Guilty pleasure: Maroon 5. How can I help it? And how can I not be annoyed with the term “guilty pleasure?” I used it anyway, but honestly I think it’s one of those over-used expressions and I have just contributed to its overuse. More accurately, Maroon 5 is a hidden shame. Don’t tell a soul I like some of their songs. I do. I appreciate the funk/soul beats and rhythms and chords they use. In a way, we should all be grateful for their influence. I think listeners have been turned on to some of the funk/soul music such as old Stevie Wonder and Shuggie Otis—stuff that has slipped through the cracks. Another cliché expression.
d) Have you heard Kalai? He’s a real hit among some locals. But that doesn’t do him justice. His second album, Six Strings and the Rainy Day Man is phenomenal. Pure phenomenal. His bass player is an ex-studio musician who played with bands like Fleetwood Mac (that’s all I know, there could be and probably is, more). I’m listening to him and coincidentally, Maroon 5. Here’s a link to Kalai's site if you haven’t heard him yet.
e) Stoker bought a digital recorder. Did I tell you this? He’s been playing on it, recording stuff. And he’s amazing. That boy never ceases to amaze me. In July we’re moving to Tempe, AZ so he can go to a school for recording engineering. I'm 100% sure he’ll be the next Brian Eno. I always tell him (because I’m so damn positive), “Shoot for the moon, if you don’t make it, you’ll be among the stars.” Aside from its completely inaccurate portrayal of our solar system and the rest of the universe, it’s quite the pep-talkie expression. He finds it completely uninspiring. But he finds me completely inspiring.
*Stoker and I have actually argued over whether it’s wrong to say ‘the Eels’ because the band is just Eels. I say it’s sort of an English grammatical rule to use an article before their name and he says no.
**Never name your band something like that without an article in it already. It’s too annoying. People will insert their own article so you might as well just include it in the title. It’s not like a store will alphabetize it under “the” because who does that? Yes, Music Match does that. But they’re fools.
I’ve known Christy Baugh for four years. She’s great. Really. She’s got style. And no, I’m not a lesbian.
b) I’ve been looking at the Eels’ website*. There’s a link on it to something called Amber’s Guesthouse. It’s funny. Supposedly Amber is E’s mistress. She answers his fan mail. I don’t know if anyone who visits or writes to her believes it. But I don’t. I think E is actually answering it and has created this whole Amber thing as a joke. Have you heard of E and the Eels**? You know what they say, “no press is bad press.” Or “bad press is good press.” Anyway, visit the link to E disguised as Amber (this is my hunch and not in fact, a fact. Don’t go telling E, Nicole said there is no Amber. I don’t want him mad at me). Also, if you’re not an Eels fan, check them out. Their new album came out today and as soon as I blow this joint, I’m going to purchase it.
c) Guilty pleasure: Maroon 5. How can I help it? And how can I not be annoyed with the term “guilty pleasure?” I used it anyway, but honestly I think it’s one of those over-used expressions and I have just contributed to its overuse. More accurately, Maroon 5 is a hidden shame. Don’t tell a soul I like some of their songs. I do. I appreciate the funk/soul beats and rhythms and chords they use. In a way, we should all be grateful for their influence. I think listeners have been turned on to some of the funk/soul music such as old Stevie Wonder and Shuggie Otis—stuff that has slipped through the cracks. Another cliché expression.
d) Have you heard Kalai? He’s a real hit among some locals. But that doesn’t do him justice. His second album, Six Strings and the Rainy Day Man is phenomenal. Pure phenomenal. His bass player is an ex-studio musician who played with bands like Fleetwood Mac (that’s all I know, there could be and probably is, more). I’m listening to him and coincidentally, Maroon 5. Here’s a link to Kalai's site if you haven’t heard him yet.
e) Stoker bought a digital recorder. Did I tell you this? He’s been playing on it, recording stuff. And he’s amazing. That boy never ceases to amaze me. In July we’re moving to Tempe, AZ so he can go to a school for recording engineering. I'm 100% sure he’ll be the next Brian Eno. I always tell him (because I’m so damn positive), “Shoot for the moon, if you don’t make it, you’ll be among the stars.” Aside from its completely inaccurate portrayal of our solar system and the rest of the universe, it’s quite the pep-talkie expression. He finds it completely uninspiring. But he finds me completely inspiring.
*Stoker and I have actually argued over whether it’s wrong to say ‘the Eels’ because the band is just Eels. I say it’s sort of an English grammatical rule to use an article before their name and he says no.
**Never name your band something like that without an article in it already. It’s too annoying. People will insert their own article so you might as well just include it in the title. It’s not like a store will alphabetize it under “the” because who does that? Yes, Music Match does that. But they’re fools.
Monday, April 25, 2005
An Hour in Someone Else's Shoes (or, Photos.Wedding Dress.)
In an email to Stoker*:
The pictures went okay. I'm sooooo glad I'm not a model. What annoying work that would be. You know how we (as in anyone who’s not a model) look at models in advertisements for clothing and in catalogs and whatnot and think, "What shallow looking people." Or we think that sometimes, anyway. Well, if you’ve ever been the subject of a photo-shoot, that idea feels rather accurate and reinforced by the whole process of modeling and posing. I’d stand there in a position I thought the photographer wanted, feeling retarded, and then she'd leave her camera to come over and move my arms around and turn me and tilt my head and change the way I was holding the flowers and fluff my dress up. It was so bothersome and boring. The whole process wasn't great fun by any means, not to mention completely devoid of anything that could stimulate my brain (aside from the gorgeous landscape. But how long can I think about the landscape?). Then I'd start thinking things like, "Boy, I feel like a retard." Which led to, "Crap, don't think that, it'll show in my face or eyes."
So, what I mean is that standing there modeling, you're really like a puppet. They tell you how to hold your hands and arms and move you around like a claymation doll. So then you even feel like a puppet. Like you have no will of your own. And it was hard for me to let her control how I was doing things like holding the flowers. She'd start moving my arms and I'd feel them resisting and then I'd realize, "Oh, relax." But it was difficult. I didn't want to relax and let her move me around like I was an inanimate object.
And, not in the email to Stoker: The very fact that I just stood there while she moved me and directed me in how to stand…..well, it just serves my purpose. My purpose being to back up the argument that models are rather shallow people. How could any thinking (and I mean thinking, not thinking. The difference in my voice, if you could hear it, being the emphasis on the first thinking to imply that a person is given to deep thoughts of an analytical, critical and sometimes philosophical nature) person endure hours of that kind of work? While perhaps being rather light on the intellectual side, I will endorse the idea that models are probably very, very patient people. Able to take orders. And I don’t know, maybe the experienced ones really know what they’re doing and so they don’t have a photographer telling them how to stand, where to put their hands, whether or not they need to tilt their chin up, or down. I couldn’t do it. That’s all I know.
*Edited and altered to some degree. Much of the sappy stuff and sexual references removed. Joke. There were no sexual references. What do you take me for, anyway? Some bawdy, bar-room comedian?
The pictures went okay. I'm sooooo glad I'm not a model. What annoying work that would be. You know how we (as in anyone who’s not a model) look at models in advertisements for clothing and in catalogs and whatnot and think, "What shallow looking people." Or we think that sometimes, anyway. Well, if you’ve ever been the subject of a photo-shoot, that idea feels rather accurate and reinforced by the whole process of modeling and posing. I’d stand there in a position I thought the photographer wanted, feeling retarded, and then she'd leave her camera to come over and move my arms around and turn me and tilt my head and change the way I was holding the flowers and fluff my dress up. It was so bothersome and boring. The whole process wasn't great fun by any means, not to mention completely devoid of anything that could stimulate my brain (aside from the gorgeous landscape. But how long can I think about the landscape?). Then I'd start thinking things like, "Boy, I feel like a retard." Which led to, "Crap, don't think that, it'll show in my face or eyes."
So, what I mean is that standing there modeling, you're really like a puppet. They tell you how to hold your hands and arms and move you around like a claymation doll. So then you even feel like a puppet. Like you have no will of your own. And it was hard for me to let her control how I was doing things like holding the flowers. She'd start moving my arms and I'd feel them resisting and then I'd realize, "Oh, relax." But it was difficult. I didn't want to relax and let her move me around like I was an inanimate object.
And, not in the email to Stoker: The very fact that I just stood there while she moved me and directed me in how to stand…..well, it just serves my purpose. My purpose being to back up the argument that models are rather shallow people. How could any thinking (and I mean thinking, not thinking. The difference in my voice, if you could hear it, being the emphasis on the first thinking to imply that a person is given to deep thoughts of an analytical, critical and sometimes philosophical nature) person endure hours of that kind of work? While perhaps being rather light on the intellectual side, I will endorse the idea that models are probably very, very patient people. Able to take orders. And I don’t know, maybe the experienced ones really know what they’re doing and so they don’t have a photographer telling them how to stand, where to put their hands, whether or not they need to tilt their chin up, or down. I couldn’t do it. That’s all I know.
*Edited and altered to some degree. Much of the sappy stuff and sexual references removed. Joke. There were no sexual references. What do you take me for, anyway? Some bawdy, bar-room comedian?
Friday, April 22, 2005
Crushworthy
A poem, by Big Poppa E -- I found him about 5 years ago. Tried to have my stupid Arts and Lectures people bring him in. But they were stupid and not cultured enough to realize the cutting edge culture of Poetry Slamming. It never happened. Something I read today made me think of this great poem. Thanks to Big Poppa E for sending me a copy of this. I tried to keep the original formatting, but some of it may have been lost through emailing. Sorry about that.
CRUSHWORTHY (for Jen)
I want someone
to have a crush on me
for a change
to notice
when I don’t come to class
and wonder if I’m okay
to get nervous
when I enter the cafe,
to fumble
with her papers
and books,
to pick at her clothing
and check her reflection
in salt shakers and napkin holders
to catch her breath
when she sees me from across campus,
tug on her best friend’s collar
and point with her eyes
and whisper loudly,
"There he is...
Big Poppa E!"
to run around the block
as quickly
and nonchalantly
as she can
just to walk past me
make eye contact
and smile
to look into my big brown eyes
(such long lashes!)
from across the room
and think, "Yes..."
to look at my full kissing lips
and think, "Oh yes..."
to hear my voice
and imagine
how her name
would sound
if I said it
if I whispered it
if I...
"Oh yes..."
I want someone
to make up nicknames for me
to talk about me in code
"I saw Backpack Boy today
in the library
in the Romantic Lit. section...
I saw Steel-Toed Boots Boy
talking to some girl (some girl!)
in the bookstore today..."
I want someone
to go straight home
every night
and check her answering machine
just in case
just in case
and check the phone cord
and check the battery
and check the tape
and make sure the goddamned blinking light
isn’t burned out
just in case
I want someone to say,
"You’re wrong about him
because you don’t know him
the way I know him,"
because she can just tell
that I’m a good person
must be
a good person
gotta be
a good person
because I write poetry about my mom and my cats
and because she likes me so much
for some reason
some unexplainable psychic supernatural reaction
to me
me.
I want someone
to mark her calendar
"He talked to me today"
to wonder
what I would smell like
after a long warm sleep
under a down comforter
to close her eyes
and picture
what our kids would look like
to write silly wretched wonderful
poetry
about me
for a change
*****
Big Poppa E
CRUSHWORTHY (for Jen)
I want someone
to have a crush on me
for a change
to notice
when I don’t come to class
and wonder if I’m okay
to get nervous
when I enter the cafe,
to fumble
with her papers
and books,
to pick at her clothing
and check her reflection
in salt shakers and napkin holders
to catch her breath
when she sees me from across campus,
tug on her best friend’s collar
and point with her eyes
and whisper loudly,
"There he is...
Big Poppa E!"
to run around the block
as quickly
and nonchalantly
as she can
just to walk past me
make eye contact
and smile
to look into my big brown eyes
(such long lashes!)
from across the room
and think, "Yes..."
to look at my full kissing lips
and think, "Oh yes..."
to hear my voice
and imagine
how her name
would sound
if I said it
if I whispered it
if I...
"Oh yes..."
I want someone
to make up nicknames for me
to talk about me in code
"I saw Backpack Boy today
in the library
in the Romantic Lit. section...
I saw Steel-Toed Boots Boy
talking to some girl (some girl!)
in the bookstore today..."
I want someone
to go straight home
every night
and check her answering machine
just in case
just in case
and check the phone cord
and check the battery
and check the tape
and make sure the goddamned blinking light
isn’t burned out
just in case
I want someone to say,
"You’re wrong about him
because you don’t know him
the way I know him,"
because she can just tell
that I’m a good person
must be
a good person
gotta be
a good person
because I write poetry about my mom and my cats
and because she likes me so much
for some reason
some unexplainable psychic supernatural reaction
to me
me.
I want someone
to mark her calendar
"He talked to me today"
to wonder
what I would smell like
after a long warm sleep
under a down comforter
to close her eyes
and picture
what our kids would look like
to write silly wretched wonderful
poetry
about me
for a change
*****
Big Poppa E
Thursday, April 21, 2005
"Fair"
If you liked/saw Garden State, you probably heard and liked the Remy Zero song featured in it. I discovered them several years ago when the movie Crazy/Beautiful came out and I bought the soundtrack for one song: “Shattered.” Anyway, “Shattered” is an excellent song, filled with a gut-wrenching reverence for love. Cinjin Tate’s voice has an inherent ability to make any experience seem epic. He could be singing about going to the store for a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk and a stick of buttah* and it would sound like the most poignant moment in the history of the world.
What disappointed me was how Zach Braff, the director of Garden State, took my favorite song** “Fair” and cut it up to fit an inappropriate moment. Because as I remember it, they’re sitting in front of the fire in that big house and maybe they get up for a second and dance around (kind of stupidly) or something. I just remember that it was anti-climatic and somewhat contrived (putting aside that all films are contrived. They shouldn’t feel contrived). Anyway, a song bottled with that much yearning, that much angst over losing love should be reserved for something greater. And especially it shouldn’t be cut and spliced like it was. If it’s going to be cut and spliced, attach it to something amazing.
This isn’t to say that I think Garden State sucks. It’s fine. Especially in comparison with the other films that came out in 2004. However. It aspired to be more than it was. If you enjoyed Garden State, a film I found to be more delicate and exploratory surrounding the topic of twenty-something’s in love is one that came out several years ago called All the Real Girls. It’s a very good show. And incidentally, “Fair” would have been more fitted to this indie-film.
The real point of all this is to point out how excellent Remy Zero is. But they broke up. From their remains a band called Spartan Fidelity has risen, made up of the brothers Cinjin and Shelby Tate. Yes, they’re brothers but not like the Partridge Family and nothing whatsoever like the Bee Gees and their hair (the first tape I ever owned was 1987’s E.S.P.). And I want to tell you that as far as I’ve been concerned, the real force behind Remy Zero was Cinjin’s voice and songwriting.
Anyway, listen to Spartan Fidelity ("Okay."). I'm recommending them to you. So go ahead. Listen ("I will."). I’ve been thoroughly swept away by several songs from their album Excava-11. So do it ("Fine, I will. You're the queen. Everything you say is amazing."). Simply follow the link on my sidebar for a free download of “Broken Drum.” ("Everything you listen to is amazing. Whatever it is, it must be great. Because you're great.")
Enjoy.
*And if you get this reference, you obviously spent too much time watching public television as a child.
**The churning emotions and instruments of “Fair” snuff out “Shattered.” That percussion. That guitar. It makes my heart hemorrhage. Can a heart hemorrhage? It kills me. That line where he says, “All my words were bound to fail / I know you won’t fail.” It’s blinding.
What disappointed me was how Zach Braff, the director of Garden State, took my favorite song** “Fair” and cut it up to fit an inappropriate moment. Because as I remember it, they’re sitting in front of the fire in that big house and maybe they get up for a second and dance around (kind of stupidly) or something. I just remember that it was anti-climatic and somewhat contrived (putting aside that all films are contrived. They shouldn’t feel contrived). Anyway, a song bottled with that much yearning, that much angst over losing love should be reserved for something greater. And especially it shouldn’t be cut and spliced like it was. If it’s going to be cut and spliced, attach it to something amazing.
This isn’t to say that I think Garden State sucks. It’s fine. Especially in comparison with the other films that came out in 2004. However. It aspired to be more than it was. If you enjoyed Garden State, a film I found to be more delicate and exploratory surrounding the topic of twenty-something’s in love is one that came out several years ago called All the Real Girls. It’s a very good show. And incidentally, “Fair” would have been more fitted to this indie-film.
The real point of all this is to point out how excellent Remy Zero is. But they broke up. From their remains a band called Spartan Fidelity has risen, made up of the brothers Cinjin and Shelby Tate. Yes, they’re brothers but not like the Partridge Family and nothing whatsoever like the Bee Gees and their hair (the first tape I ever owned was 1987’s E.S.P.). And I want to tell you that as far as I’ve been concerned, the real force behind Remy Zero was Cinjin’s voice and songwriting.
Anyway, listen to Spartan Fidelity ("Okay."). I'm recommending them to you. So go ahead. Listen ("I will."). I’ve been thoroughly swept away by several songs from their album Excava-11. So do it ("Fine, I will. You're the queen. Everything you say is amazing."). Simply follow the link on my sidebar for a free download of “Broken Drum.” ("Everything you listen to is amazing. Whatever it is, it must be great. Because you're great.")
Enjoy.
*And if you get this reference, you obviously spent too much time watching public television as a child.
**The churning emotions and instruments of “Fair” snuff out “Shattered.” That percussion. That guitar. It makes my heart hemorrhage. Can a heart hemorrhage? It kills me. That line where he says, “All my words were bound to fail / I know you won’t fail.” It’s blinding.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Blessed Brown Bananas
I have two extremely ripe bananas on my desk. I’m considering eating one. Mostly because with each second that passes, the yellow fades to brown. They look diseased and I’d say that if I don’t eat both of them pronto, my entire cubicle (a.k.a. cage) will begin to smell like a banana boat stuck in the doldrums.
Once, I actually found a bunch of black, shriveled bananas behind my computer monitor. Someone from my department had hidden them. I accused just about everybody and no one would admit to the crime. So now I look upon everyone with suspicion. And instead of getting a fresh bunch to put behind someone else’s computer monitor, I took the shriveled ones and hid them in my neighbor’s cubicle. Apparently I work with a bunch of jokers here and I’m just not joker material (if I was, I would have realized a shriveled bunch of bananas wouldn’t achieve the proper sense of hilarity. Then I would have stolen a fresh bunch from the break room on Monday morning to hide in a coworker’s cubicle). If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that no one gets my sense of humor, anyway.
So. The bananas. I don’t even really like them. But they were going bad in my mother’s pantry and I felt like it would be criminal to just to let them waste away like that in defeat of the banana’s higher calling, which is to feed me and provide me with sustenance. Blessed sustenance. So I brought two of them to work.
There’s also an apple on my desk. It’s been there since last week. I like bananas more than apples. But as you can see, I prefer pineapple. And I mean that. As far as I’m concerned, cottage cheese (of the low-fat variety) and pineapple is the breakfast of the gods. When I say gods, I mean Zeus and that lot of Greek gods who reside on gorgeous Mount Olympus, which I happen to have a great view of right outside my office window. I’m not kidding, either. Currently Olympus has a few feathery clouds crowding around it and has received a light dusting of snow. It’s been raining down here in the valley of the mortals and so I guess right now, we’ve got it better than the gods because at least it’s not snowing.
I keep eyeing the bananas. Like they’re my enemy. Like the smell is bothering me. Like I wish I hadn’t brought them to work because if I don’t eat them, I’ll feel enormously guilty. If you know me at all, you’ll know I have a deeply ingrained sense of guilt. I feel guilt for everything. For feeling annoyed at traffic. For not eating all my food at restaurants. For not recycling. For driving a car instead of riding my bike to work. For not wanting to eat the bananas. If only this guilt were balanced by an equally congratulatory feeling when I do something great, like eating a healthy dinner instead of a cheeseburger at the Dairy Queen, like when I refrain from flipping another driver off, or for recycling the rejected papers from the office printer instead of lazily throwing them in my own personal trash can. If only.
So. I’ll let you know how the bananas go down. And in case you’re wondering, the pineapple and cottage cheese this morning was divine, as was the sun momentarily shining through the clouds as it rose over blessed Mount Olympus.
p.s. My sister just came into my cubicle and asked me, as she pointed in disgust at the bananas, “You’re not going to eat those, are you?”
Once, I actually found a bunch of black, shriveled bananas behind my computer monitor. Someone from my department had hidden them. I accused just about everybody and no one would admit to the crime. So now I look upon everyone with suspicion. And instead of getting a fresh bunch to put behind someone else’s computer monitor, I took the shriveled ones and hid them in my neighbor’s cubicle. Apparently I work with a bunch of jokers here and I’m just not joker material (if I was, I would have realized a shriveled bunch of bananas wouldn’t achieve the proper sense of hilarity. Then I would have stolen a fresh bunch from the break room on Monday morning to hide in a coworker’s cubicle). If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll remember that no one gets my sense of humor, anyway.
So. The bananas. I don’t even really like them. But they were going bad in my mother’s pantry and I felt like it would be criminal to just to let them waste away like that in defeat of the banana’s higher calling, which is to feed me and provide me with sustenance. Blessed sustenance. So I brought two of them to work.
There’s also an apple on my desk. It’s been there since last week. I like bananas more than apples. But as you can see, I prefer pineapple. And I mean that. As far as I’m concerned, cottage cheese (of the low-fat variety) and pineapple is the breakfast of the gods. When I say gods, I mean Zeus and that lot of Greek gods who reside on gorgeous Mount Olympus, which I happen to have a great view of right outside my office window. I’m not kidding, either. Currently Olympus has a few feathery clouds crowding around it and has received a light dusting of snow. It’s been raining down here in the valley of the mortals and so I guess right now, we’ve got it better than the gods because at least it’s not snowing.
I keep eyeing the bananas. Like they’re my enemy. Like the smell is bothering me. Like I wish I hadn’t brought them to work because if I don’t eat them, I’ll feel enormously guilty. If you know me at all, you’ll know I have a deeply ingrained sense of guilt. I feel guilt for everything. For feeling annoyed at traffic. For not eating all my food at restaurants. For not recycling. For driving a car instead of riding my bike to work. For not wanting to eat the bananas. If only this guilt were balanced by an equally congratulatory feeling when I do something great, like eating a healthy dinner instead of a cheeseburger at the Dairy Queen, like when I refrain from flipping another driver off, or for recycling the rejected papers from the office printer instead of lazily throwing them in my own personal trash can. If only.
So. I’ll let you know how the bananas go down. And in case you’re wondering, the pineapple and cottage cheese this morning was divine, as was the sun momentarily shining through the clouds as it rose over blessed Mount Olympus.
p.s. My sister just came into my cubicle and asked me, as she pointed in disgust at the bananas, “You’re not going to eat those, are you?”
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
A Post of Explanation. A Legend, if You Will.
Some of you may be wondering about the stuff on my sidebar. First of all, let me explain that I don't really think that I'm a genius. That's a joke. I mean, come on. How many certifiable geniuses are there? If it was so easy to be a genius, then maybe the IQ test would be easier. Then we'd all be geniuses. I don't know what I'm saying anymore (see? Not a genius).
On that note of genius testing, let me explain that I have actually taken a real IQ test. Not one of those ridiculous Tickle web site IQ tests. I don't know how accurate those are, but they're sort of fun. And real IQ tests are in no way fun. More than anything, they're aggravating. My sister, bless her heart, sat me down one weekend during the semester of her graduate studies in which she practiced giving IQ tests (or something like that). Basically she forced me to take the test in order to help her out. And it was horrible, I tell you. Torture. It took many, many, many hours. It consisted of several organize-the-blocks moments and fill-in-the-missing-word tests, and do-this-ridiculous puzzle-even-though-there-are-no-right-answers tests. Near the end of the test (which, clearly consisted of a lot of small tests), I was so fatigued and mentally exhausted and annoyed that I started to purposely give the wrong answers. How’s that for a top-notch intelligence quotient?
And now, because she wasn’t a full-fledged psychologist at the time, she refuses to tell me my score. I refuse to go through another real test just to find out. But, I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere near genius.
Back to the blog. My use of genius is ironic. So don’t get all huffy and offended with me. Either you want to read through my archives, or you don’t.
The sidebar headline about loving me and loving this, is simply to direct you, my reader, to pages I’ve enjoyed in the past and am currently enjoying. My Space Cowboy, for any of you who don’t know, is my one and only Stoker. The man of my dreams in the flesh. And yes, Stoker is his real (first) name. Hence the space cowboy reference, ala Steve Miller, uh, “I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight Stoker…” you know. Inside joke...Stoker rhymes with toker...you probably don’t get it. Never mind. The important thing is that I do. Get it. That is.
Plus there are other links there. Ward-o-matic is some guy in Atlanta or somewhere like that. He does graffiti art, animation and whatnot. Very cool stuff. And Imaginary Mind is actually the first blog I ever read. From North Carolina, I think she does computer stuff and her layout is great. Anyway, she’s pretty damn funny and if you don’t catch her on a funny day, then she’s usually informative in a very clever way (a poem? Or a rap? Not on purpose). I also catch that intern in NY blog, but I didn’t put a link to his blog on this because I have a rule of fives. Just kidding. There's no rule. I just haven’t felt like including him. And Gersh is some writer in NY who is sometimes hilarious. Sometimes not. Usually I disagree with his political opinions, but that’s the beauty of it.
Soul Candy. Self-explanatory. I update it fairly often. If not daily, then weekly.
Dream neighborhood. Self-explanatory. Now go watch the Season 1 episodes of Arrested Development. (Season 2? Hasn’t lived up to the expectations created by Season 1. So no, stick with Season 1).
On that note of genius testing, let me explain that I have actually taken a real IQ test. Not one of those ridiculous Tickle web site IQ tests. I don't know how accurate those are, but they're sort of fun. And real IQ tests are in no way fun. More than anything, they're aggravating. My sister, bless her heart, sat me down one weekend during the semester of her graduate studies in which she practiced giving IQ tests (or something like that). Basically she forced me to take the test in order to help her out. And it was horrible, I tell you. Torture. It took many, many, many hours. It consisted of several organize-the-blocks moments and fill-in-the-missing-word tests, and do-this-ridiculous puzzle-even-though-there-are-no-right-answers tests. Near the end of the test (which, clearly consisted of a lot of small tests), I was so fatigued and mentally exhausted and annoyed that I started to purposely give the wrong answers. How’s that for a top-notch intelligence quotient?
And now, because she wasn’t a full-fledged psychologist at the time, she refuses to tell me my score. I refuse to go through another real test just to find out. But, I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere near genius.
Back to the blog. My use of genius is ironic. So don’t get all huffy and offended with me. Either you want to read through my archives, or you don’t.
The sidebar headline about loving me and loving this, is simply to direct you, my reader, to pages I’ve enjoyed in the past and am currently enjoying. My Space Cowboy, for any of you who don’t know, is my one and only Stoker. The man of my dreams in the flesh. And yes, Stoker is his real (first) name. Hence the space cowboy reference, ala Steve Miller, uh, “I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight Stoker…” you know. Inside joke...Stoker rhymes with toker...you probably don’t get it. Never mind. The important thing is that I do. Get it. That is.
Plus there are other links there. Ward-o-matic is some guy in Atlanta or somewhere like that. He does graffiti art, animation and whatnot. Very cool stuff. And Imaginary Mind is actually the first blog I ever read. From North Carolina, I think she does computer stuff and her layout is great. Anyway, she’s pretty damn funny and if you don’t catch her on a funny day, then she’s usually informative in a very clever way (a poem? Or a rap? Not on purpose). I also catch that intern in NY blog, but I didn’t put a link to his blog on this because I have a rule of fives. Just kidding. There's no rule. I just haven’t felt like including him. And Gersh is some writer in NY who is sometimes hilarious. Sometimes not. Usually I disagree with his political opinions, but that’s the beauty of it.
Soul Candy. Self-explanatory. I update it fairly often. If not daily, then weekly.
Dream neighborhood. Self-explanatory. Now go watch the Season 1 episodes of Arrested Development. (Season 2? Hasn’t lived up to the expectations created by Season 1. So no, stick with Season 1).
"Give Me Some Privacy": Things Not to Do in the Workplace Bathroom
Finally. The post you’ve all been waiting for.
But first. A warning for the sensitive reader. See below.*
And now.
Allow me to explain a few things. At home, some activities in the bathroom are completely acceptable. That’s why we put the toilet and the shower in the same room. My contention is that the rules at home don’t apply at work. Am I right, or am I right? If I'm right, then by all means, read on. If I'm not, by all means, stop reading.
So I’ve compiled a short list of things I’ve noticed happening that break the unwritten, social rules of public bathroom use:
1. Make-up application**
Now, I don’t wear make-up. Generally. There was a brief stint of insanity during my 18th year which extended to my 22nd year. But I grew out of it when I realized the futility of putting on base, blush, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner and etc. Every single day. Just wasn’t worth the time and effort. So I stopped. In my defense, the company I kept heavily influenced me. It was this boyfriend I had. Anyway. It was stupid.
Years after him I looked in the mirror and realized I’m beautiful without it. How valuable is that? To be able to say, “Hell, I don’t need it.” Not that my self-esteem is based on whether a man wants me or not, but I’m still desired by men and without any make-up EVER (see How Stoker Proposed). The point of this is that I don’t have it in me to empathize with the girls and their spread of make-up on the bathroom counter. Get up earlier to put it on, or just forget about it. OR, you could even take a mirror with you to your desk, so that I can eliminate my bowels in peace, and if not by myself, at least with other women who are also eliminating their bowels (and would most likely prefer to do it in peace, but simply don’t have the courage to post a blog entry about it. Or don't even know what a blog is).
2. Teeth brushing
Again, there are things we do at home, in our bathrooms, that we probably shouldn’t do in public bathrooms. Being the sole proprietor of your home equals the peace of mind knowing that your bathroom is clean. This means your toothbrush is also kept relatively clean (and even then, I’ve heard tell that you kick up a cloud of germs when you flush without putting the toilet lid down, which hovers over and coats the head of your toothbrush, standing there innocently in its little cup. True? Not true? I don’t know, but that’s what I heard).
That’s why it’s okay to brush your teeth in the (potentially) dirtiest part of your home. The bathroom at work is not clean. You don’t know if the last woman who took care of business and flushed got anything on her hand before she touched the handle of the toilet or sink faucet -- which you just touched to turn on the water, and then you touched your toothpaste to squeeze the tube, and then you put the toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing with the (potentially) dirty hand holding the toothbrush which is now in your mouth, and as you hold it, germs are multiplying by the thousands, crawling up your toothbrush, LOOK YOU CAN SEE THEM!!! AND NOW THEY’RE IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!! Disgusting. This story ends in the resolution that it’s the exact same thing as having licked the toilet seat.
You might as well do that and save me the embarrassment of having to poop while you’re out there brushing your teeth.
3. Cleaning your pet fish’s bowl out
Uh, I have no idea what this person was thinking when they brought a fish to work. But they did. And while it seems cute, what isn’t cute is me having to (again) poop while someone is just outside the stall, rinsing out a fish bowl, cleaning the little rocks and marbles, refilling the bowl, putting in some drops of water purifier, rinsing the cleaning tools and putting the fish back in. All while other women and I enter the bathroom, immediately uncomfortable with our intentions of using it for the bathroom’s sole purpose, defecation. Uh, should I leave? Should I stay and, to hell with it, stink up the air? Or is that rude? Maybe I should wait. I don’t know. I don’t know.
4. Reuniting with friends from other departments
So maybe you do happen to run into Barbara from downstairs (what are you doing up here? Ha ha, don’t you guys have a bathroom on your floor? Well, it’s so good to run into you!). I can empathize with running into old friends. But can you empathize with my performance anxiety? Can you? Because when you stand in front of the sink or by the paper towel dispenser and chat away, I can hear you and I can’t bear the thought of adding my symphony of body noises to your conversation. It’s psychologically impossible. I’ll be forced to sit, waiting, waiting until you take your delightful reunion outside.
That’s what halls and break rooms are for, conversations.
And also, break rooms are for cleaning out fish bowls and brushing your teeth. Same with eating or filling your water bottle.
In summation, anything that’s not directly related to urination and bowel movements should be taken to the break room or your desk. I didn’t make these rules up. They willed themselves into existence out of sheer propriety. The workplace bathroom is not your private sanctuary, powder room or vanity table. It’s dirty (but not visible-dirty like with towels strewn about and whatnot), it usually stinks, and your best bet is to take care of your business and get the hell out of there. For my sake as much as yours.
* Sensitive readers, be warned. This post will contain references to the bathroom and biological processes that occur there, namely urination and defecation (or, as some of my less sensitive readers like to call it, “pooping”). My attempt isn’t to achieve hilarity through "potty humor." It’s to point out the inappropriateness of some of the bathroom activities happening in my workplace, public bathroom.
** Not necessarily applicable to men’s bathrooms. Necessarily. But still possible.
But first. A warning for the sensitive reader. See below.*
And now.
Allow me to explain a few things. At home, some activities in the bathroom are completely acceptable. That’s why we put the toilet and the shower in the same room. My contention is that the rules at home don’t apply at work. Am I right, or am I right? If I'm right, then by all means, read on. If I'm not, by all means, stop reading.
So I’ve compiled a short list of things I’ve noticed happening that break the unwritten, social rules of public bathroom use:
1. Make-up application**
Now, I don’t wear make-up. Generally. There was a brief stint of insanity during my 18th year which extended to my 22nd year. But I grew out of it when I realized the futility of putting on base, blush, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner and etc. Every single day. Just wasn’t worth the time and effort. So I stopped. In my defense, the company I kept heavily influenced me. It was this boyfriend I had. Anyway. It was stupid.
Years after him I looked in the mirror and realized I’m beautiful without it. How valuable is that? To be able to say, “Hell, I don’t need it.” Not that my self-esteem is based on whether a man wants me or not, but I’m still desired by men and without any make-up EVER (see How Stoker Proposed). The point of this is that I don’t have it in me to empathize with the girls and their spread of make-up on the bathroom counter. Get up earlier to put it on, or just forget about it. OR, you could even take a mirror with you to your desk, so that I can eliminate my bowels in peace, and if not by myself, at least with other women who are also eliminating their bowels (and would most likely prefer to do it in peace, but simply don’t have the courage to post a blog entry about it. Or don't even know what a blog is).
2. Teeth brushing
Again, there are things we do at home, in our bathrooms, that we probably shouldn’t do in public bathrooms. Being the sole proprietor of your home equals the peace of mind knowing that your bathroom is clean. This means your toothbrush is also kept relatively clean (and even then, I’ve heard tell that you kick up a cloud of germs when you flush without putting the toilet lid down, which hovers over and coats the head of your toothbrush, standing there innocently in its little cup. True? Not true? I don’t know, but that’s what I heard).
That’s why it’s okay to brush your teeth in the (potentially) dirtiest part of your home. The bathroom at work is not clean. You don’t know if the last woman who took care of business and flushed got anything on her hand before she touched the handle of the toilet or sink faucet -- which you just touched to turn on the water, and then you touched your toothpaste to squeeze the tube, and then you put the toothbrush in your mouth and began brushing with the (potentially) dirty hand holding the toothbrush which is now in your mouth, and as you hold it, germs are multiplying by the thousands, crawling up your toothbrush, LOOK YOU CAN SEE THEM!!! AND NOW THEY’RE IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!! Disgusting. This story ends in the resolution that it’s the exact same thing as having licked the toilet seat.
You might as well do that and save me the embarrassment of having to poop while you’re out there brushing your teeth.
3. Cleaning your pet fish’s bowl out
Uh, I have no idea what this person was thinking when they brought a fish to work. But they did. And while it seems cute, what isn’t cute is me having to (again) poop while someone is just outside the stall, rinsing out a fish bowl, cleaning the little rocks and marbles, refilling the bowl, putting in some drops of water purifier, rinsing the cleaning tools and putting the fish back in. All while other women and I enter the bathroom, immediately uncomfortable with our intentions of using it for the bathroom’s sole purpose, defecation. Uh, should I leave? Should I stay and, to hell with it, stink up the air? Or is that rude? Maybe I should wait. I don’t know. I don’t know.
4. Reuniting with friends from other departments
So maybe you do happen to run into Barbara from downstairs (what are you doing up here? Ha ha, don’t you guys have a bathroom on your floor? Well, it’s so good to run into you!). I can empathize with running into old friends. But can you empathize with my performance anxiety? Can you? Because when you stand in front of the sink or by the paper towel dispenser and chat away, I can hear you and I can’t bear the thought of adding my symphony of body noises to your conversation. It’s psychologically impossible. I’ll be forced to sit, waiting, waiting until you take your delightful reunion outside.
That’s what halls and break rooms are for, conversations.
And also, break rooms are for cleaning out fish bowls and brushing your teeth. Same with eating or filling your water bottle.
In summation, anything that’s not directly related to urination and bowel movements should be taken to the break room or your desk. I didn’t make these rules up. They willed themselves into existence out of sheer propriety. The workplace bathroom is not your private sanctuary, powder room or vanity table. It’s dirty (but not visible-dirty like with towels strewn about and whatnot), it usually stinks, and your best bet is to take care of your business and get the hell out of there. For my sake as much as yours.
* Sensitive readers, be warned. This post will contain references to the bathroom and biological processes that occur there, namely urination and defecation (or, as some of my less sensitive readers like to call it, “pooping”). My attempt isn’t to achieve hilarity through "potty humor." It’s to point out the inappropriateness of some of the bathroom activities happening in my workplace, public bathroom.
** Not necessarily applicable to men’s bathrooms. Necessarily. But still possible.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Internal Monologue
Sunday. April 17, 2005. Sitting in Stoker’s green Mazda 626 (a very popular car, you might have seen several of the same model on a freeway near you). Listening to Cake. “Rock n’Roll Lifestyle” begins. Stoker asks me if I’ve heard this song before. Not knowing what the song is (but not because I don’t necessarily not know the song, it’s just too quiet and a diesel engine is idling nearby), I say no. Then I say, “Well, what’s it called?”
“Rock n’Roll Lifestyle,” he says.
“Oh, yes, actually I have heard this song. I like it,” I reply.
“Me too. It’s cool.” Listen.
“Well, your CD collection looks shiny and costly.
How much did you pay for your bad Moto Guzzi?*
And how much did you spend on your black leather jacket?
Is it you or your parents in this income tax bracket?”
I laugh. It’s funny. The shiny cd collection is ironic. It’s just full of irony and satire because you know, here I am, listening to a cd and it’s their cd and Stoker had to buy it and you know, he was in his parents income tax bracket when he bought it. Hilarious. Although, I don’t wear leather jackets these days. I feel pretty good about having left that trend in high school, after mine was stolen right out of my locker. Never felt any pressure to replace it.
“Now tickets to concerts and drinking at clubs,
Sometimes for music that you haven't even heard of.”
Ha, ha, ha. This is really funny. And satirical. I mean, how many times have I called Bryan what’s-his-name and asked him to get me into a show for free so I can write a concert review of the show, and I’ve only just heard of the band. Just so I can go to the show. Yeah, I mean, then I’ll listen to their music and ‘get into them’ right before the show so I look like a huge fan. Funny.
“And how much did you pay for your rock'n'roll t-shirt
That proves you were there, That you heard of them first?”
Heh, heh. Starting to feel uncomfortable about this criticism that’s so obviously directed at me (or am I simply paranoid?). I mean, just because I buy the t-shirt at the show because I was there and I want to show off that I was there and I want everyone to know I heard of the band before everyone else. . . I mean, that’s not annoying. Is it? Or necessarily bad. Is it? I mean, come on, at least I don’t order band shirts off their web sites. Right? Right?
“How much did you pay for the chunk of his guitar,
The one he ruthlessly smashed at the end of the show?
And how much will he pay for a brand new guitar,
One which he'll ruthlessly smash at the end of another show?”
Oh good. It’s not about me. Because I have never bought a chunk of anyone’s guitar (I think that’s a Catholic thing, like collecting relics, you know. Not to insult the Catholic’s, I think they’re great). Nor do I endorse ruthlessly smashing guitars at shows. I think that’s disgusting. A guitar is a beautiful instrument.
“And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.
And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.”
That’s right, I agree. How long will the workers keep it up? I mean, really, how long? And luckily, my soda cans are only red and white because I drink Coke, the choice of a new generation (wait no, that's Pepsi, right?). I mean, Coke is always refreshing. That’s why I drink it. And while image is nothing, Sprite is everything. That’s the un-cola, the one I drink when I’m not feeling up to the heaviness of Coke. You know what I mean? I mean, patriotism is one thing, and favoritism is another, and I favor Coke.
"Aging black leather and hospital bills,
Tattoo removal and dozens of pills.
Your liver pays dearly now for youthful magic moments,
But rock on completely with some brand new components.”
Feeling really, really good about this song because I realize now it has absolutely nothing to do with me. I have no tattoos and we’ve already established that I’m anti-leather clothes (except for shoes and belts, in general). Plus, as far as I know, my liver is in tip-top shape – and I have no idea, really, what he’s referencing when he says, “youthful magic moments.” What’s he talking about? Mushrooms? LSD? Pure drunken revelry? Raving? I have no idea. Whatever it is, I’m not into it. New components don’t sound like a bad idea, though. A little nip, a little tuck, some Botox. I might be down with that when I start to look like aging leather.
“How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?”
I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. It's not about me. Oooh, yeah, rock’n’roll lifestyle. Rock’n’roll lifestyle. Yeah.
“Excess ain't rebellion.
You're drinking what they're selling.
Your self-destruction doesn't hurt them.
Your chaos won't convert them.
They're so happy to rebuild it.
You'll never really kill it.”
Interesting. Very good song. Very good. Chaos won’t convert them. So true, so true. If only the people who are really like this song would listen. You know? I mean, it would really, really make a difference. It would. If only.
p.s. they’re finally washing my windows. Cleaning that oily film off and now it's like I don't even have a window. Finally. But sadly, it’s about to rain. Ironic. Ironic Monday, you might say. Just another.
*What is a Moto Guzzi? An expensive stereo? A watch, like a Rolex, you say. No, it’s a motorcycle.
“Rock n’Roll Lifestyle,” he says.
“Oh, yes, actually I have heard this song. I like it,” I reply.
“Me too. It’s cool.” Listen.
“Well, your CD collection looks shiny and costly.
How much did you pay for your bad Moto Guzzi?*
And how much did you spend on your black leather jacket?
Is it you or your parents in this income tax bracket?”
I laugh. It’s funny. The shiny cd collection is ironic. It’s just full of irony and satire because you know, here I am, listening to a cd and it’s their cd and Stoker had to buy it and you know, he was in his parents income tax bracket when he bought it. Hilarious. Although, I don’t wear leather jackets these days. I feel pretty good about having left that trend in high school, after mine was stolen right out of my locker. Never felt any pressure to replace it.
“Now tickets to concerts and drinking at clubs,
Sometimes for music that you haven't even heard of.”
Ha, ha, ha. This is really funny. And satirical. I mean, how many times have I called Bryan what’s-his-name and asked him to get me into a show for free so I can write a concert review of the show, and I’ve only just heard of the band. Just so I can go to the show. Yeah, I mean, then I’ll listen to their music and ‘get into them’ right before the show so I look like a huge fan. Funny.
“And how much did you pay for your rock'n'roll t-shirt
That proves you were there, That you heard of them first?”
Heh, heh. Starting to feel uncomfortable about this criticism that’s so obviously directed at me (or am I simply paranoid?). I mean, just because I buy the t-shirt at the show because I was there and I want to show off that I was there and I want everyone to know I heard of the band before everyone else. . . I mean, that’s not annoying. Is it? Or necessarily bad. Is it? I mean, come on, at least I don’t order band shirts off their web sites. Right? Right?
“How much did you pay for the chunk of his guitar,
The one he ruthlessly smashed at the end of the show?
And how much will he pay for a brand new guitar,
One which he'll ruthlessly smash at the end of another show?”
Oh good. It’s not about me. Because I have never bought a chunk of anyone’s guitar (I think that’s a Catholic thing, like collecting relics, you know. Not to insult the Catholic’s, I think they’re great). Nor do I endorse ruthlessly smashing guitars at shows. I think that’s disgusting. A guitar is a beautiful instrument.
“And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.
And how long will the workers keep building him new ones?
As long as their soda cans are red, white, and blue ones.”
That’s right, I agree. How long will the workers keep it up? I mean, really, how long? And luckily, my soda cans are only red and white because I drink Coke, the choice of a new generation (wait no, that's Pepsi, right?). I mean, Coke is always refreshing. That’s why I drink it. And while image is nothing, Sprite is everything. That’s the un-cola, the one I drink when I’m not feeling up to the heaviness of Coke. You know what I mean? I mean, patriotism is one thing, and favoritism is another, and I favor Coke.
"Aging black leather and hospital bills,
Tattoo removal and dozens of pills.
Your liver pays dearly now for youthful magic moments,
But rock on completely with some brand new components.”
Feeling really, really good about this song because I realize now it has absolutely nothing to do with me. I have no tattoos and we’ve already established that I’m anti-leather clothes (except for shoes and belts, in general). Plus, as far as I know, my liver is in tip-top shape – and I have no idea, really, what he’s referencing when he says, “youthful magic moments.” What’s he talking about? Mushrooms? LSD? Pure drunken revelry? Raving? I have no idea. Whatever it is, I’m not into it. New components don’t sound like a bad idea, though. A little nip, a little tuck, some Botox. I might be down with that when I start to look like aging leather.
“How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?
How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?”
I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. It's not about me. Oooh, yeah, rock’n’roll lifestyle. Rock’n’roll lifestyle. Yeah.
“Excess ain't rebellion.
You're drinking what they're selling.
Your self-destruction doesn't hurt them.
Your chaos won't convert them.
They're so happy to rebuild it.
You'll never really kill it.”
Interesting. Very good song. Very good. Chaos won’t convert them. So true, so true. If only the people who are really like this song would listen. You know? I mean, it would really, really make a difference. It would. If only.
p.s. they’re finally washing my windows. Cleaning that oily film off and now it's like I don't even have a window. Finally. But sadly, it’s about to rain. Ironic. Ironic Monday, you might say. Just another.
*What is a Moto Guzzi? An expensive stereo? A watch, like a Rolex, you say. No, it’s a motorcycle.
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