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!”
Thursday, December 29, 2005
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.
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* 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)
------------------
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)
------------------
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.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Got me a new bitch
Listening to: Ludwig van Beethoven, Fidelio (Angel #67361, Otto Klemperer conducting)
The last few days you've heard nary a whisper from these parts though not due to the old (oh, so old) excuse that I'm weeping into my Wheaties over dreams dashed and discarded. No, my friends, I've moved on and I'm adjusting to a new love - yes, I do recover quickly - a girl who is sharing not only my bed but my tiny apartment as well as the hearts of my children. She is young (oh, very young) and can be very annoying at times but her capacity for love and affection far outweighs her character defects; anyway, she's young enough to be teachable.
Sure, she's a mutt but that only adds to her charm and since she's very good with the wee ones - loving, gentle, playful, affectionate - I am forced to keep her. Just out of a bad relationship ("catch em' on the rebound" is never a good strategy but sometimes you take what comes your way) but had I not intervened, her fate might have been much worse and who knows where she would have ended up? Yes, tell me I'm too much of a softie, I don't care, she's here with me and I love her.
Now, as I mention that she's had all her shots and her tubes are tied, most of you are clicking away from me, for good reason. For those of you (and you two or three know who you are) who are still with me, she's a collie/german shepard mix (mostly shepard looking) and she really is a sweetie, very mellow but I need to train her.
Since she's my first dog, I'm calling on my handful of readers who own dogs to enlighten me on some of the finer points of dog training. I took her for a nice long walk this morning and all she did was sniff everything. We went a half mile and she had to stop and smell every - EVERY - spot where a dog had left it's mark. Forty-five minutes to go a half mile and she didn't do her business. No, she waited until we got back here to get that done. Right in front of me. WTF is up with that?
Help me out with that and this: the previous owner named my dog "Robin". Yuck. A friend told me that the dog is young enough to get used to another name (and told me that two syllables for the name is optimal), that I should have no problem getting her to respond to commands with a new name. So contest time: whomever comes up with the coolest name for my doggy will get a copy of my 2-disk Holiday Mixmania! set for your incredible creativity. Multiple entries are allowed, if you repeat someone else's suggestion, the person who suggested it first wins out.
I'll keep the link on my sidebar, so get to naming my dog!
The last few days you've heard nary a whisper from these parts though not due to the old (oh, so old) excuse that I'm weeping into my Wheaties over dreams dashed and discarded. No, my friends, I've moved on and I'm adjusting to a new love - yes, I do recover quickly - a girl who is sharing not only my bed but my tiny apartment as well as the hearts of my children. She is young (oh, very young) and can be very annoying at times but her capacity for love and affection far outweighs her character defects; anyway, she's young enough to be teachable.
Sure, she's a mutt but that only adds to her charm and since she's very good with the wee ones - loving, gentle, playful, affectionate - I am forced to keep her. Just out of a bad relationship ("catch em' on the rebound" is never a good strategy but sometimes you take what comes your way) but had I not intervened, her fate might have been much worse and who knows where she would have ended up? Yes, tell me I'm too much of a softie, I don't care, she's here with me and I love her.
Now, as I mention that she's had all her shots and her tubes are tied, most of you are clicking away from me, for good reason. For those of you (and you two or three know who you are) who are still with me, she's a collie/german shepard mix (mostly shepard looking) and she really is a sweetie, very mellow but I need to train her.
Since she's my first dog, I'm calling on my handful of readers who own dogs to enlighten me on some of the finer points of dog training. I took her for a nice long walk this morning and all she did was sniff everything. We went a half mile and she had to stop and smell every - EVERY - spot where a dog had left it's mark. Forty-five minutes to go a half mile and she didn't do her business. No, she waited until we got back here to get that done. Right in front of me. WTF is up with that?
Help me out with that and this: the previous owner named my dog "Robin". Yuck. A friend told me that the dog is young enough to get used to another name (and told me that two syllables for the name is optimal), that I should have no problem getting her to respond to commands with a new name. So contest time: whomever comes up with the coolest name for my doggy will get a copy of my 2-disk Holiday Mixmania! set for your incredible creativity. Multiple entries are allowed, if you repeat someone else's suggestion, the person who suggested it first wins out.
I'll keep the link on my sidebar, so get to naming my dog!
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Ups & downs
Listening to: Skinny Puppy, The 12" Singles
Rough start today with the wee ones in no mood to hurry to get to school. Not that I'm a morning person, by any stretch of the imagination, but rising and shining is a deed left up to dad, if not done gladly, indeed done with a great deal of shouting and pushing and pulling until all the clothes are on and everyone's snapped into their carseats and ready to roll. The morning aggression of "lock and load".
Growling at my need for coffee and the slug-a-bed attitude of my kids as we roll towards the city, the tone is nothing short of surly. Then, in an instant, I check the rearview and see big eyes glimmering in the morning sun, wide and alert to the passing landscape - my anger melts away. Who could stay mad at these babes?
We get to school and I hug-and-kiss, hug-and-kiss, hug-and-kiss, pat heads and wish a "good day" and then hie me back to the house while I consider how easy it is to forget the minor irritations brought on by small children when the immensity of my love washes away everything that got my day off to a rotten start.
Would it be so easy with the rest of the world.
By the time I had my DUI group together, I was in a fairly good mood: we'd opened up with the reports of our lives over the past week, laughed, taken tonight's topic into letting the little things pass us by, by cultivating awareness of the here-and-now. As we neared the cescendo, the door clicked, and clicked, "What the fuck is that noise?"
"There's some dud sitting out in the reception area."
And indeed there he was, with a toque and a bomber jacket, looking just as annoyed as I felt, annoyed that he'd sauntered into my office and disturbed the groove.
"I was told I could get my intake done tonight," he said, "that you'd be here until 9 o'clock."
"A," I responded, "I won't be here till 9 o'clock and 'B' no one told you that you could get your intake done here."
"Yeah, they did"
"Who?"
"I dunno, some guy. The judge told me I had seven days to get enrolled and I have to have that done by tomorrow and some guy told me you'd be here until 9 o'clock."
"Well, I'm sorry if someone told you that - if anyone DID tell you that - but I have a group here and after this is done, I'm picking up my kids and going home. Besides, the court's don't accept an intake until after you've attended your first class and that isn't going to happen tonight, pal."
It wouldn't have surprised me if someone had indeed told the idiot that he could come into my office and do an intake at ninefuckingpee em but I wasn't about to accept the blame for a moron who had waited seven days - until 9 at night - to keep his sorry ass out of jail. With that kind of irresponsibility (on top of driving drunk), he deserved to be locked up.
After group, I called the main office and left a curt little message relating the experience and, if someone had told the idiot he could come in to do an intake, don't do it ever again. I have kids that I need to get home and make too little money to cover for other people's fuck ups.
I don't expect the rest of the world to be as smart as me but I do expect a modicum of competence in every day life. Apparently, that's too much to ask for. If a Department of Slap-em'-upside-the-head-and-wake-em'-the-fuck-up is ever developed, sign me on, I'll be happy to do my patriotic duty. Too many Americans sleepwalk through life.
I sent the idiot packing, sent my group home, did my notes, picked up my kids and drove them home, to put them to sleep. Tomorrow we'll have another cranky morning but I can sleep well with the knowledge that when I get my kids up in the morning that they won't be sleepwalking.
Rough start today with the wee ones in no mood to hurry to get to school. Not that I'm a morning person, by any stretch of the imagination, but rising and shining is a deed left up to dad, if not done gladly, indeed done with a great deal of shouting and pushing and pulling until all the clothes are on and everyone's snapped into their carseats and ready to roll. The morning aggression of "lock and load".
Growling at my need for coffee and the slug-a-bed attitude of my kids as we roll towards the city, the tone is nothing short of surly. Then, in an instant, I check the rearview and see big eyes glimmering in the morning sun, wide and alert to the passing landscape - my anger melts away. Who could stay mad at these babes?
We get to school and I hug-and-kiss, hug-and-kiss, hug-and-kiss, pat heads and wish a "good day" and then hie me back to the house while I consider how easy it is to forget the minor irritations brought on by small children when the immensity of my love washes away everything that got my day off to a rotten start.
Would it be so easy with the rest of the world.
By the time I had my DUI group together, I was in a fairly good mood: we'd opened up with the reports of our lives over the past week, laughed, taken tonight's topic into letting the little things pass us by, by cultivating awareness of the here-and-now. As we neared the cescendo, the door clicked, and clicked, "What the fuck is that noise?"
"There's some dud sitting out in the reception area."
And indeed there he was, with a toque and a bomber jacket, looking just as annoyed as I felt, annoyed that he'd sauntered into my office and disturbed the groove.
"I was told I could get my intake done tonight," he said, "that you'd be here until 9 o'clock."
"A," I responded, "I won't be here till 9 o'clock and 'B' no one told you that you could get your intake done here."
"Yeah, they did"
"Who?"
"I dunno, some guy. The judge told me I had seven days to get enrolled and I have to have that done by tomorrow and some guy told me you'd be here until 9 o'clock."
"Well, I'm sorry if someone told you that - if anyone DID tell you that - but I have a group here and after this is done, I'm picking up my kids and going home. Besides, the court's don't accept an intake until after you've attended your first class and that isn't going to happen tonight, pal."
It wouldn't have surprised me if someone had indeed told the idiot that he could come into my office and do an intake at ninefuckingpee em but I wasn't about to accept the blame for a moron who had waited seven days - until 9 at night - to keep his sorry ass out of jail. With that kind of irresponsibility (on top of driving drunk), he deserved to be locked up.
After group, I called the main office and left a curt little message relating the experience and, if someone had told the idiot he could come in to do an intake, don't do it ever again. I have kids that I need to get home and make too little money to cover for other people's fuck ups.
I don't expect the rest of the world to be as smart as me but I do expect a modicum of competence in every day life. Apparently, that's too much to ask for. If a Department of Slap-em'-upside-the-head-and-wake-em'-the-fuck-up is ever developed, sign me on, I'll be happy to do my patriotic duty. Too many Americans sleepwalk through life.
I sent the idiot packing, sent my group home, did my notes, picked up my kids and drove them home, to put them to sleep. Tomorrow we'll have another cranky morning but I can sleep well with the knowledge that when I get my kids up in the morning that they won't be sleepwalking.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Mixmania! clarification for those intimidated by the process
Listening to: Disk I of the two disks I'm mixing
If you're thinking of signing up, GO HERE and read the rules.
Things are looking a little pathetic participant-wise considering past mixmania! extravaganzas and I don't know the reason. All I'm asking is for you to give me your favorite holiday music on a disk, something you'd pop in at a holiday party at home or work, it's that simple. I don't see why it's so intimidating.
Folks, I have some awesome disks ready to go. You'll play the first disk while the egg nog goes around (heavy on the rum, yeah) and then play the second disk while everyone's shitfaced. Not even Halloween but I'm ready to get this going.
Speaking of Halloween, here's a disk I mixed a few years back:
Give me your mixes or STFU, children of the corn...
If you're thinking of signing up, GO HERE and read the rules.
Things are looking a little pathetic participant-wise considering past mixmania! extravaganzas and I don't know the reason. All I'm asking is for you to give me your favorite holiday music on a disk, something you'd pop in at a holiday party at home or work, it's that simple. I don't see why it's so intimidating.
Folks, I have some awesome disks ready to go. You'll play the first disk while the egg nog goes around (heavy on the rum, yeah) and then play the second disk while everyone's shitfaced. Not even Halloween but I'm ready to get this going.
Speaking of Halloween, here's a disk I mixed a few years back:
- Mike Oldfield - Tubular Bells
Sets the mood. If you haven't seen the movie before Halloween, SEE IT. - Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels - Devil With the Blue Dress/Good Golly Miss Molly
If People aren't dancing to this at your party, they're dead, I assure you. You don't want dead people at your party. - Rocky Horror - The Time Warp
Every Halloween mix has this song on it for a reason. If you don't know the reason, you have no reason holding a Halloween party. - The Clovers - Love Potion #9
Do you have a Love Potion #9 mixed up at you party? No?!? Why are you having a party? - Sheb Wooley - Purple People Eater
Silly, simply silly. And redundant. - Classics IV - Spooky
Do we have your attention yet? Have FUN!!! - Michael Jackson - Thriller
If I have to explain this one, you really are clueless - DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince - Nightmare On My Street
Before he went on to movies, Will Smith made disposable rap. This is an example but it fits the season. - Redbone - The Witch Queen of New Orleans
Man, they sound black but they're actually native american. Scary. - The Buoys - Timothy
My actual, single 'guilty pleasure' on this mix (OK, count the last cut), a tune about guys trapped in a mine and who resort to cannibalism. YUM!!! - Crazy World of Arthur Brown - Fire
I don't know why this guy wasn't bigger considering Alice Cooper stole all his chops. Must have been because Alice had Zappa and Lou Reed behind him and Arthur Lee had was a heroin addiction. - Black Sabbath - Iron Man
Yeah, so what, by this time everyone has had a few beers in them and you know what? They're singing along so shut up. - Blue Oyster Cult - Godzilla
The giant, irradiated and dangerous prick known as Norbizness would sway you away from this song (he really is a giant penis knocking down buildings - BEWARE!) and this group but I think they rock. If anyone disagrees, offer them drambui and vicodin. - Van Halen - Runnin' With the Devil
From their first, best album and if anyone at your party whines, toss them. - Ramones - Gimmee Gimmee Shock Treatment
Good thing you got rid of the asshats who pissed and moaned about the last song because, really, that's what they needed. - The Cramps - Goo-Goo Muck
God, I *LOVE* this song and God, why do all Cramps cuts sound like they were recorded under water? - KMFDM - Go To Hell
Yeah?!? Ok. - Ministry - Everyday Is Halloween
OK
Give me your mixes or STFU, children of the corn...
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Bow down, ye mortals
Listening to: Assorted Artists, Down With Dixon (A Tribute to Willie Dixon)
Having dodged the bullet thus far, I'll attribute my superhuman powers of steering wide of The Sick to the fact that I have been deified:
You can find out what deity you are by taking this test. Thanks to Skippy for pointing me there.
Having dodged the bullet thus far, I'll attribute my superhuman powers of steering wide of The Sick to the fact that I have been deified:
Indeed, you are 87% erudite, 87% sensual, 54% martial, and 62% saturnine.
Amun was a mysterious God indeed. His very name basically means "what is hidden", "what is not seen", "what cannot be seen", and though even his form was said to be “unknown”, he was depicted as a man with the head of a uraeus (cobra), or a man seated on a throne and holding in one hand the sceptre, and in the other the ankh.
All secrets aside, what we do know is that Amun was the Egyptian King of the Gods, not unlike his counterparts Zeus (Greek mythology) and Odin (Norse mythology). With his ruling might over the Gods, Amun soon became associated with the Pharaohs.
Being responsible for the creation of the world, it is not surprising that he was also the God of fertility, reproduction, and sexual power, and thus also the God of agriculture. With the combined powers of regeneration and royalty, Amun became linked to the sun and the great God Ra, becoming known as Amun-Ra, which pretty much consolidated his status as Supreme God.
In spite of Amun's political ascension, he also enjoyed popularity among the common people of Egypt, who came to call him the vizier of the poor, the protector of the weak, and an upholder of justice.
You can find out what deity you are by taking this test. Thanks to Skippy for pointing me there.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Waiting for the other shoe to drop
Listening to: The Replacements, Let It Be
For those of you who have emailed me your intentions to join in on the Holiday mixmania! - I haven't forgotten you - just been, um, preoccupied. I promise to get on this by the end of the week. Natalie & Shari - I swear, your disks will get mailed soon and I'm sorry - life got ahead of me
Two down, two to go.
Lilly was laid out on the couch all day with a little blue waste basket next to her, vomiting into the bucket about once an hour. Poor little thing. The process was always the same, her starting to whine, then cry, then her wretching into a bucket, a plastic echo maginfying her misery.
Zeke started this off a few days back, low-grade fever, diarrhea and then lots of vomit. Lots of it.
The doctor said to restrict solid foods and keep the kids on clear liquids. I could have sworn I told my mom this but somehow, the message was lost and she plied the hungry little guy with toaster waffles and chocolate milk. Lots of it.
On the way home from my parent's, Zeke did the whining thing, then the crying, the vomit. Lots of it.
It's about a half-hour drive from my parent's to my place and, well, what can you do? Zeke had to sit there covered in his own puke until we could get home and I could carry him in the house like a tube full of enriched uranium, strip him down and get him in the tub.
After I got the kids to bed, I carried a bucket of hot, soapy water out to the minivan, removed his carseat and went to work on the damage. It was obvious that, after almost two days of not having solid food or choclate milk, the little guy gorged himself. There must have been a half gallon of emesis puddled up in the rear bench of the minivan. Yes, lots of it.
After I had that cleaned up, I went to work on the carseat, a freakin' chinese puzzle. The seat cover was intertwined with the belts and there was no directions on how to remove it. I tried running the entire carseat under the shower head but that got old with a quickness. The Evenflo website was no help and I was forced to go at the sopping, disgusting thing with a flat-head screwdriver.
Let me tell you folks, that works.
With a clean carseat and two kids with hit with this evil bug, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. One more kid and me. Who will get the pukes next?
Place your bets now.
For those of you who have emailed me your intentions to join in on the Holiday mixmania! - I haven't forgotten you - just been, um, preoccupied. I promise to get on this by the end of the week. Natalie & Shari - I swear, your disks will get mailed soon and I'm sorry - life got ahead of me
Two down, two to go.
Lilly was laid out on the couch all day with a little blue waste basket next to her, vomiting into the bucket about once an hour. Poor little thing. The process was always the same, her starting to whine, then cry, then her wretching into a bucket, a plastic echo maginfying her misery.
Zeke started this off a few days back, low-grade fever, diarrhea and then lots of vomit. Lots of it.
The doctor said to restrict solid foods and keep the kids on clear liquids. I could have sworn I told my mom this but somehow, the message was lost and she plied the hungry little guy with toaster waffles and chocolate milk. Lots of it.
On the way home from my parent's, Zeke did the whining thing, then the crying, the vomit. Lots of it.
It's about a half-hour drive from my parent's to my place and, well, what can you do? Zeke had to sit there covered in his own puke until we could get home and I could carry him in the house like a tube full of enriched uranium, strip him down and get him in the tub.
After I got the kids to bed, I carried a bucket of hot, soapy water out to the minivan, removed his carseat and went to work on the damage. It was obvious that, after almost two days of not having solid food or choclate milk, the little guy gorged himself. There must have been a half gallon of emesis puddled up in the rear bench of the minivan. Yes, lots of it.
After I had that cleaned up, I went to work on the carseat, a freakin' chinese puzzle. The seat cover was intertwined with the belts and there was no directions on how to remove it. I tried running the entire carseat under the shower head but that got old with a quickness. The Evenflo website was no help and I was forced to go at the sopping, disgusting thing with a flat-head screwdriver.
Let me tell you folks, that works.
With a clean carseat and two kids with hit with this evil bug, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. One more kid and me. Who will get the pukes next?
Place your bets now.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Yesterday we played a little and I remembered what it was like to be alive
Listening to: Ken's excellent mixes
For those of you who have emailed me your intentions to join in on the Holiday mixmania! - I haven't forgotten you - just been, um, preoccupied. The following post (and previous posts) should explain why I've been so distant.
It's not that my head has not been with this (if you made any sense of my last post, pass what you're smoking on to me) but that I've not had the heart to put anything here. With no heart for this (or much of anything, for that matter), it's felt futile to sit here and just bang out something to show this has been updated. Reminded of a passage by Carlos Castaneda,
Indeed.
A little bit of my heart returned yesterday, warmed in the autumnal sun and nurtured by my children. We attended Lilly's school carnival. "Balmy" afternoon is appropriate if by "balm" I mean "salve" or "succor" and an unseasonably warm breeze pushing gold leaves down the street, pushed me outside of myself, where I've needed to be, with my children and not stuck inside myself.
Children have a way of taking your pain and popping it away, like a tetherball; ready to come back and smack you back, jack.
We walked onto the playground and met Lilly's teacher at the first booth, the place where you tossed beanbags at wooden bottles and if you knocked them all over, you got a fake gold coin. Marni was instantly enamored by the gold-coin concept, apparent as it was that the currency bought things from the prize table: stuffed lime-green ducks, princess gear, touchable bubble blow-things, a gazillion goodies to be had for doing what the games demanded. Zeke just wanted to hang onto my pant-leg while Lilly was eager to indulge her teacher’s pet status.
Ms. Ferran met me and said, “Daddy, you have such a good daughter, there,” No doubt of that. Lilly spent most of the day at Ms. Ferran’s booth, setting the bottles back up, collecting bean bags, collecting trash from the playground and presenting it to her like a cat bringing the carcass of a newly killed bird and although the teacher’s pet spent a little time accumulating prizes (mostly modest trinkets, she seemed to have no interest in the larger prizes), when I looked up for her at any given moment, Ms. Ferran’s booth was the first place I checked.
In so many ways, the carnival was a long, deep breath of clear mountain air, not just because it forced me out of my head, took my focus away from the rent in my heart, but it allowed me to let my kids run free with no worries that they’d get snatched or hurt. In the confines of that playground, among other families and under the watchful eye of the faculty, I’d momentarily walked away from everything harsh and ugly and painful.
About a dozen booths were arranged mid-way fashion beyond Ms. Ferran’s pivot point, the fishing game, a penny-toss, ring-toss, Frisbee-toss, everything requiring a little dexterity, nothing so demanding that the wee ones couldn’t win a little something. The booth workers gave dispensation to the smallest children, holding them right over a target to drop the ring or beanbag then awarding a prize even when nothing was hit. Truly, a kid’s paradise.
The penny-toss involved miniature flamingo float-rings holding beer cups in a big tub of water. This was Marni’s bailiwick and her aim was exquisite, whether dropping a cold whoosh into the cup or taking a rebound off the forehead of the kid working the concession. Having found her game, Marni returned again and again, stashing her prize tokens with penurious glee. She’d been by the prize table and had decided on several stuffed animals, two or three princess ensembles, and a large velvet rose. She had her game, she was in the zone, and when the requisite prize tokens had been accumulated, she pushed her way to the front of the prize table to claim her spoils.
Zeke just wanted to fish. Unconcerned with results, unencumbered by any desire other than the desire to wave the plastic rod and reel sacerdotally over the tub of water, an ascetic’s detachment, process, ritual. Every time the magnetized hook latched into the mouth of the robotic fish and he was offered a prize token for the catch, Zeke ignored the prize, preferring to drop the toy hook back into the tub with no other intent than to wave the rod around again.
The old man watching the concession was amused. As children lined up impatiently for their turn, the old man leaned his ancient shoulders towards me, “That boy’s a natural born fisherman!”
“I guess,” me, kind of mumbling, “I only fish to read and smoke a cigar.”
My sarcasm was lost on him and his frame snapped back towards my son, the serious angler. Having no patience for a dilettante like me, not appreciative of my son’s inborn inclination to fish.
Not appreciative? I relished the entire day.
For those of you who have emailed me your intentions to join in on the Holiday mixmania! - I haven't forgotten you - just been, um, preoccupied. The following post (and previous posts) should explain why I've been so distant.
It's not that my head has not been with this (if you made any sense of my last post, pass what you're smoking on to me) but that I've not had the heart to put anything here. With no heart for this (or much of anything, for that matter), it's felt futile to sit here and just bang out something to show this has been updated. Reminded of a passage by Carlos Castaneda,
Look at every path closely and deliberately, then ask ourselves this crucial question: Does this path have a heart? If it does, then the path is good. If it doesn't, it is of no use.
Indeed.
A little bit of my heart returned yesterday, warmed in the autumnal sun and nurtured by my children. We attended Lilly's school carnival. "Balmy" afternoon is appropriate if by "balm" I mean "salve" or "succor" and an unseasonably warm breeze pushing gold leaves down the street, pushed me outside of myself, where I've needed to be, with my children and not stuck inside myself.
Children have a way of taking your pain and popping it away, like a tetherball; ready to come back and smack you back, jack.
We walked onto the playground and met Lilly's teacher at the first booth, the place where you tossed beanbags at wooden bottles and if you knocked them all over, you got a fake gold coin. Marni was instantly enamored by the gold-coin concept, apparent as it was that the currency bought things from the prize table: stuffed lime-green ducks, princess gear, touchable bubble blow-things, a gazillion goodies to be had for doing what the games demanded. Zeke just wanted to hang onto my pant-leg while Lilly was eager to indulge her teacher’s pet status.
Ms. Ferran met me and said, “Daddy, you have such a good daughter, there,” No doubt of that. Lilly spent most of the day at Ms. Ferran’s booth, setting the bottles back up, collecting bean bags, collecting trash from the playground and presenting it to her like a cat bringing the carcass of a newly killed bird and although the teacher’s pet spent a little time accumulating prizes (mostly modest trinkets, she seemed to have no interest in the larger prizes), when I looked up for her at any given moment, Ms. Ferran’s booth was the first place I checked.
In so many ways, the carnival was a long, deep breath of clear mountain air, not just because it forced me out of my head, took my focus away from the rent in my heart, but it allowed me to let my kids run free with no worries that they’d get snatched or hurt. In the confines of that playground, among other families and under the watchful eye of the faculty, I’d momentarily walked away from everything harsh and ugly and painful.
About a dozen booths were arranged mid-way fashion beyond Ms. Ferran’s pivot point, the fishing game, a penny-toss, ring-toss, Frisbee-toss, everything requiring a little dexterity, nothing so demanding that the wee ones couldn’t win a little something. The booth workers gave dispensation to the smallest children, holding them right over a target to drop the ring or beanbag then awarding a prize even when nothing was hit. Truly, a kid’s paradise.
The penny-toss involved miniature flamingo float-rings holding beer cups in a big tub of water. This was Marni’s bailiwick and her aim was exquisite, whether dropping a cold whoosh into the cup or taking a rebound off the forehead of the kid working the concession. Having found her game, Marni returned again and again, stashing her prize tokens with penurious glee. She’d been by the prize table and had decided on several stuffed animals, two or three princess ensembles, and a large velvet rose. She had her game, she was in the zone, and when the requisite prize tokens had been accumulated, she pushed her way to the front of the prize table to claim her spoils.
Zeke just wanted to fish. Unconcerned with results, unencumbered by any desire other than the desire to wave the plastic rod and reel sacerdotally over the tub of water, an ascetic’s detachment, process, ritual. Every time the magnetized hook latched into the mouth of the robotic fish and he was offered a prize token for the catch, Zeke ignored the prize, preferring to drop the toy hook back into the tub with no other intent than to wave the rod around again.
The old man watching the concession was amused. As children lined up impatiently for their turn, the old man leaned his ancient shoulders towards me, “That boy’s a natural born fisherman!”
“I guess,” me, kind of mumbling, “I only fish to read and smoke a cigar.”
My sarcasm was lost on him and his frame snapped back towards my son, the serious angler. Having no patience for a dilettante like me, not appreciative of my son’s inborn inclination to fish.
Not appreciative? I relished the entire day.
Friday, October 14, 2005
OK, I'm over this, I swear, test me, if you can and put a cigarette out on my scrotum
Listenig to: Brian Wilson, Smile^
So over this.
Having hammered my self-esteem into tiny, unrecognizable pieces and then ground those pieces with a morter & pestal, I've tum-tummed everything into a fine powder, fine enough to snort in such a way that pain of bringing it into me is ten times less than the effect. Woot,
whoosh,
do it again.
In the aftermath, why not? Repeat that whack in the face, expect different results, and whistle loud, whoo-hoo, tweeeeeet. Do it again. Whoo-hoo, tweeeeeet.
So over this.
Having hammered my self-esteem into tiny, unrecognizable pieces and then ground those pieces with a morter & pestal, I've tum-tummed everything into a fine powder, fine enough to snort in such a way that pain of bringing it into me is ten times less than the effect. Woot,
whoosh,
do it again.
In the aftermath, why not? Repeat that whack in the face, expect different results, and whistle loud, whoo-hoo, tweeeeeet. Do it again. Whoo-hoo, tweeeeeet.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Ground Zero minus me and square one equals too tired
Listening to: Lost's SUPERB Mix
How does one start when one has nothing to say other than, frankly, one has nothing to say?
This blog has remained a big blank space for the past week for no other reason than the well's been dry, devoid of original thought or anything even passably interesting.
In the spirit of the season, I submit my hobgoblins to you, for your consideration, and trust such beasties scare up something more than the small-minded foolish consistency that my readers have come to expect. Not meaning to creep up on ya' and go "boo" but it's about all I have at the moment.
Arise zombie: speak and eat some brains.
This past week passed in a pissed off blast of Indian Summer. Cold in the morning, hot as catshit in a pan in the afternoon. "Fall, fall, for fuck's sake FALL," I kept chanting.
Fall arrived today. Finally. Even some snow tonight. As, I said, the Zombie speaks.
Hollow as I am, a husk of what I was, bone dry and crypt cold, I welcome the turn of the planet towards chill. Blow away the wisp of what I was, I'm so over that.
Delapsus Resurgam, When I fall, I shall rise. Everything that falls is renewed as something else, different, maybe better.
Maybe. It's nice to believe that, anyway. At Ground Zero it feels good to believe in something.
How does one start when one has nothing to say other than, frankly, one has nothing to say?
This blog has remained a big blank space for the past week for no other reason than the well's been dry, devoid of original thought or anything even passably interesting.
In the spirit of the season, I submit my hobgoblins to you, for your consideration, and trust such beasties scare up something more than the small-minded foolish consistency that my readers have come to expect. Not meaning to creep up on ya' and go "boo" but it's about all I have at the moment.
Arise zombie: speak and eat some brains.
This past week passed in a pissed off blast of Indian Summer. Cold in the morning, hot as catshit in a pan in the afternoon. "Fall, fall, for fuck's sake FALL," I kept chanting.
Fall arrived today. Finally. Even some snow tonight. As, I said, the Zombie speaks.
Hollow as I am, a husk of what I was, bone dry and crypt cold, I welcome the turn of the planet towards chill. Blow away the wisp of what I was, I'm so over that.
Delapsus Resurgam, When I fall, I shall rise. Everything that falls is renewed as something else, different, maybe better.
Maybe. It's nice to believe that, anyway. At Ground Zero it feels good to believe in something.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Semi-domesticity in the shadow of St. Louis, a previous love, and shit-stain spammers
Listening to: The Smiths, Louder Than Bombs
As the magically hip are aware, I'm visiting with my love, swamped with humidity I'm not accustomed to, a pilgrim shot back eastward into the arms of someone greater than the sum of me and certainly better than anything I deserve.
Those who know say that I have "better things to do" and aren't expecting me to post, at least not this weekend ask why, WHY would I be here, here, chatting this thing up? Why not entwined amongst my fair lady's thighs and rutting like a rabid ferret, shredding the mattress into little clouds to pass through the room with precipitation promised, mmmmmm yes, why indeed? Except that she has things to read and write and fill out for this her third year of college, there's no other reason but that I'm bored.
Hearing old poetry and journal entries of hers, CDs that mean something, trying to figure out what she'll write next, I'm in the shadow of something that I that I can't just blow away with a puff from my lips. Sitting here in Illinois, figuring out something to do now while she figures out her future a few weeks down the road, I realize there's a bigger legacy to contend with than I'd considered. A legacy so big, I wonder if I will ever overcome the shadow that seems to darken every inch of continent I try and inhabit.
In the meantime, I'm checking my email to see if anyone has commented on my previous posts and find that I'm finally a victim of comment spamming. There's bigger things to turn in my sphere and I also have to deal with fly shit who have nothing better to do than shill their worthless product on my blog? If I had a gun and a target to plug, these spammers would have gray-matter spread across the mounds of garbage that spawned them.
Lu's neighbors saw me smoking on the porch and invited us over to celebrate another human brought into this mess. Not something Lu was up for but I went ahead and crossed the street to shoot the shit and drink with them, no matter how inconsequential my presence would be, excused Lu with her mass of homework (which, indeed, she had to do). They were good folks, loud, drunk, fun, welcoming of a Colorado alien in their midst and generous with their food and booze.
Still, I wonder if, given the chance to transcend their circumstances, they'd take the opportunity to spam blog accounts, emails, shoot shit into people's private lives for the sake of a few more bucks. In the hour or so I spent with them, I got the sense that every single one of them would have taken the opportunity to spread that shadow a bit further, for a few more shekels, for another trip to Mazatlan.
Listening to The Smiths, I get the sense that shadow is part of the landscape, here. It's up to me to see something else, make something else and if I can, I will. If not here, than somewhere else, I guess. But she's here and this is the place where I need to get it done. Now. Tonight.
If not now, then never.
As the magically hip are aware, I'm visiting with my love, swamped with humidity I'm not accustomed to, a pilgrim shot back eastward into the arms of someone greater than the sum of me and certainly better than anything I deserve.
Those who know say that I have "better things to do" and aren't expecting me to post, at least not this weekend ask why, WHY would I be here, here, chatting this thing up? Why not entwined amongst my fair lady's thighs and rutting like a rabid ferret, shredding the mattress into little clouds to pass through the room with precipitation promised, mmmmmm yes, why indeed? Except that she has things to read and write and fill out for this her third year of college, there's no other reason but that I'm bored.
Hearing old poetry and journal entries of hers, CDs that mean something, trying to figure out what she'll write next, I'm in the shadow of something that I that I can't just blow away with a puff from my lips. Sitting here in Illinois, figuring out something to do now while she figures out her future a few weeks down the road, I realize there's a bigger legacy to contend with than I'd considered. A legacy so big, I wonder if I will ever overcome the shadow that seems to darken every inch of continent I try and inhabit.
In the meantime, I'm checking my email to see if anyone has commented on my previous posts and find that I'm finally a victim of comment spamming. There's bigger things to turn in my sphere and I also have to deal with fly shit who have nothing better to do than shill their worthless product on my blog? If I had a gun and a target to plug, these spammers would have gray-matter spread across the mounds of garbage that spawned them.
Lu's neighbors saw me smoking on the porch and invited us over to celebrate another human brought into this mess. Not something Lu was up for but I went ahead and crossed the street to shoot the shit and drink with them, no matter how inconsequential my presence would be, excused Lu with her mass of homework (which, indeed, she had to do). They were good folks, loud, drunk, fun, welcoming of a Colorado alien in their midst and generous with their food and booze.
Still, I wonder if, given the chance to transcend their circumstances, they'd take the opportunity to spam blog accounts, emails, shoot shit into people's private lives for the sake of a few more bucks. In the hour or so I spent with them, I got the sense that every single one of them would have taken the opportunity to spread that shadow a bit further, for a few more shekels, for another trip to Mazatlan.
Listening to The Smiths, I get the sense that shadow is part of the landscape, here. It's up to me to see something else, make something else and if I can, I will. If not here, than somewhere else, I guess. But she's here and this is the place where I need to get it done. Now. Tonight.
If not now, then never.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tagged again
Listening to: Punk/New Wave mix I'm making for Kaleigh
You have until November 1 to sign up for the extended SUPER-DUPER Holiday Mixmania! - enough time to plan your stocking full of coal.
Listen: I'm making the *hsssshhhhhhh* sound bloggers make when they've been tagged for a meme, a breath of ether between "sheesh, what a hassle" and "Ain't I special?!?!"
Trusty shot this one my way and I'll shoot it out like a spit shot:
If I pass this on, it's to those I'd like to meet.
OK, I feel guilty for not posting is so long....
You have until November 1 to sign up for the extended SUPER-DUPER Holiday Mixmania! - enough time to plan your stocking full of coal.
Listen: I'm making the *hsssshhhhhhh* sound bloggers make when they've been tagged for a meme, a breath of ether between "sheesh, what a hassle" and "Ain't I special?!?!"
Trusty shot this one my way and I'll shoot it out like a spit shot:
- Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog?
I never try to look "hot" - I prefer to look COOL. However, the chances of anyone recognizing me from my blog are about as remote as me becoming the next FEMA Director. Oh wait a minute, my taking over FEMA isn't that far-fetched after all and as the father of three young children, I'm probably more qualified at handling disasters than that bozo whining before congress. - Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered?
Not at all. My psychedelic aura was developed after years of Lysergic excess. When I die, I intend to be cremated... slowly, wrapped in huge sheets of rolling papers and passed around to be puffed on by all attendees of my wake. - Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you?
Being a creep and a dork, I find such emails redundant, really. - Do you lie in your blog?
Often. It's like a bed of clover, only with a more pungent aroma than the usual sheep shit scent. - Are you passive-aggressive in your blog?
Often. It's like a bed of clover...doo-dah.
Hey, is this like that Chinese fortune-cookie game where you add "In bed" after the fortune? So the question is, "Are you passive-aggressive in your blog - in bed?" No? Well, that's how I'm playong it... - Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop?
Yeah and it's as effective as my threats to quit smoking. - Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping?
Maybe I should be in therapy - ask my clients. - Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones?
I've only deleted stupid comments. I've never faked a nice one but I'm told my partners fake nice ones all the time :(( - Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after?
Why rub out the comment when you can rub out the commenter? - If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less?
I'm pretty sure they'd like me, more or less. Mostly less. - Do you have a job?
If you mean, "Do I have to go somewhere everyday, do something that I get paid for and then give some of that money to the government," then no, I don't have a job. On the other hand, if you mean, "Do I have to go somewhere everyday, do something that I get paid for but don't give jack shit to the government," yeah, I have one of THOSE. - If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it?
"Without restrictions?" Meaning I could do it while sitting nude in a store front window? HELL YEAH!!! - Which blogger do you want to meet in real life?
All kidding aside (and assuming I met Trusty due to his passing this meme on to me), Mamacita, Grace, Vicki, and Sterfish. - Which bloggers have you made out with?
This Saucy Wench is all I'm admitting to... - Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have?
On my blog, less. In a bar, much, much more. - Does your family read your blog?
I told my family that I call my blog "The Zero Boss" and they read that. When they ask about the details not exactly being congruent, I scream "It's just a goddamn blog!", storm out of the room and slam the door. - How old is your blog?
Old enough to be moldy and stale, eh? - Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care?
I'd care if I was getting 1000 page views because then I'd expect the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to be immediately thundering through my living room. - Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar?
Maybe if I wasn't so busy sleeping all day - with multitudes of anonymous partners - I'd have time to write that "secret blog". - Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing?
If you think anyone is paying for this crap, email me. We have a proposition to discuss. - Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes?
Just the money I get from writing erotic blog posts. - Is blogging narcissistic?
Only if you do it well. - Do you feel guilty when you don't post for a long time?
No, because I do it so well (per above comment). - Do you like John Mayer?
Not as much as I like John Mayall. Not even close. - Do you have enemies?
Plenty but none that I'll dignify with mention here. - Are you lonely?
Yes, but only in a strict existentialist sense. - Why bother?
I don't.
If I pass this on, it's to those I'd like to meet.
OK, I feel guilty for not posting is so long....
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep...
Listening to: Renata Tebaldi, Vol. 1
If you have yet not read my love's wonderful paean to Lilly, please go there and then return for my ceaseless babble. Go on, scoot, I'll be here... *sheesh!*
In the midst of the madness that is the autumnal equinox, My Bright, Shining Light missed out in a big way on which should have been her big day - her seventh birthday. Delivering children to school, facilitating a DUI therapy group, dropping my brood off at childcare while I worked and then picking them up to go home just in time to read them a story and put them to bed - there was no time to celebrate her, how much I love her, how much she means to me.
We had to wait until the weekend to break out the cake and the balloons and the midgets for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and busting up the piñata and squirting silly string over the patio furniture. Even then, I could only stay a little while before I had to run off to stand in front of a dozen drunk drivers and tsk-tsk their sorry asses.
Daddy bought her a last minute gift from the Discovery store a Mellow Moodscapes Projector, which she apparently loves - she told me "It's my favorite-est gift!" I don't doubt her sincerity - she has, after all, gone to bed with it every night - and I know she relishes the thought of camping out on a rainforest floor, looking up through the canopy and listening to animals chattering away in the trees. Still, it seems so little to give her considering all that she has given me, all that she gives to her little brother and sister, all that she gives to everyone she touches.
Hours after she was born, I went and bought a journal to begin recording my thoughts for her, chronicling the world as it was that day and where we stood in relation to everything around us. I still make entries (I'm up to Vol. 3) but most of my writing for the kids ends up here (the other two also have journals... another story, that). One of these days I need to make copies (paper and disk) of my writing here to include in their journals. I want them to know my voice as a younger man, not the scold they will know when they are 18 when I hand them those journals, and my writing on this blog is as vital and immediate as anything I've put down in the diaries I keep for them.
To Lilly, my Bright, Shining Light, there is nothing I could write that could express the full breadth of how much I love you.
------------------------
Today, Noble would have been 8-years old. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read this.
------------------------
Trusty, answering your meme in my next post, I promise (and you'll know why I evoked Frost for this post).
If you have yet not read my love's wonderful paean to Lilly, please go there and then return for my ceaseless babble. Go on, scoot, I'll be here... *sheesh!*
In the midst of the madness that is the autumnal equinox, My Bright, Shining Light missed out in a big way on which should have been her big day - her seventh birthday. Delivering children to school, facilitating a DUI therapy group, dropping my brood off at childcare while I worked and then picking them up to go home just in time to read them a story and put them to bed - there was no time to celebrate her, how much I love her, how much she means to me.
We had to wait until the weekend to break out the cake and the balloons and the midgets for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and busting up the piñata and squirting silly string over the patio furniture. Even then, I could only stay a little while before I had to run off to stand in front of a dozen drunk drivers and tsk-tsk their sorry asses.
Daddy bought her a last minute gift from the Discovery store a Mellow Moodscapes Projector, which she apparently loves - she told me "It's my favorite-est gift!" I don't doubt her sincerity - she has, after all, gone to bed with it every night - and I know she relishes the thought of camping out on a rainforest floor, looking up through the canopy and listening to animals chattering away in the trees. Still, it seems so little to give her considering all that she has given me, all that she gives to her little brother and sister, all that she gives to everyone she touches.
Hours after she was born, I went and bought a journal to begin recording my thoughts for her, chronicling the world as it was that day and where we stood in relation to everything around us. I still make entries (I'm up to Vol. 3) but most of my writing for the kids ends up here (the other two also have journals... another story, that). One of these days I need to make copies (paper and disk) of my writing here to include in their journals. I want them to know my voice as a younger man, not the scold they will know when they are 18 when I hand them those journals, and my writing on this blog is as vital and immediate as anything I've put down in the diaries I keep for them.
To Lilly, my Bright, Shining Light, there is nothing I could write that could express the full breadth of how much I love you.
------------------------
Today, Noble would have been 8-years old. If you don't know what I'm talking about, read this.
------------------------
Trusty, answering your meme in my next post, I promise (and you'll know why I evoked Frost for this post).
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