Hair Today.... ::
I think I'm losing it.
My hair that is. My dad is mucho bald, and I always figured I'd go the same way, if for no other reason than that my Mom's dad was also mucho bald. So that old failsafe about where the actual genetic predisposition for hair loss comes from, not so safe in this case.
The thing is, I've been shedding mad amounts of hair for years, with no visible effect. And I've read that it's normal to lose 50 to 100 hairs a day as a result of just regular shedding type hair loss. As a result of pulling it, brushing it, using it as a broom, etc. Anyway, latley I've noticed a lot of hair precipitating from my head, and I'm getting mucho paranoido.
The thing is, I'm vain. I'm shallow. I'm a man. I always have been and I planned on being so for quite a bit longer. But if my hair all falls out, I'm not going to be able to get much out of being shallow. Not that I get much out of it now. Actually, I guess I really won't be missing all that much. Because, you really have to be good looking in the first place in order to miss the perks of being good looking. So, technically, even if my whole head fell off, it wouldn't really effect my life that much.
Plus, I always see really goofy looking dudes with really attractive women. Of course, I've been goofy looking for some time, and that doesn't seem to be garnering much attention.
I guess this could be really good for me. Maybe it teach me the value of looking really deep within someone instead of judging them by their outward appearance. Or maybe it will just make me miserable and give me one more reason to hate everyone. That sounds more likely.
Regardless of what happens, I'm really going to try to stop worrying about it. The stuff I have still grows like weeds, and I get it cut all the time. So I guess I'll just keep mowing it down until its turns that yellowish brown colors and gets trampled under soccer cleats.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Sunday, December 19, 2004
That snot coffee::
We had a gig tonight. Simply put, we dominated. We played this huge brand new venue in center city, and the entire staff loves us there, not to toot our horn or anything. I think it's mainly because they have mostly singer/songwriter - guy with a guitar and cheesy lyrics, or whiny chic who's angry at the world kind of acts there, and it's refreshing to have a party band come in and just have fun. And also 'cause we rule. But that seems less important in view of the events of later this evening.
As has become customary, Brian, Theron, Luke and I.... and also, un-customarily, Tomacina .... went to the diner. The south street diner, specifically, which we all love and which was, tragically, closed when we arrived. They close at two now, undoubtedly because too many drunk south streetians wandered in in the early hours of the weekend and caused messy trouble. Anyway, we were all set to just go home, which, in retrospect, would have been the best plan, when someone suggested we all go to the oregon diner which was, conveniently, right around the corner on, you guessed it, oregon ave. So we did.
At first glance it looked like any other diner... dirty, unkempt, with similarly dressed and similarly disheveled wait staff who were all going through the motions, visibly tired of life. That's how it looked at first glance. It turned out, however, to be much, much less. So we sat down, or more accurately, were seated, in the smoking section because the non-smoking section was full.
Interesting side note: a booth later opened up in the non-smoking area but we couldn't take it, because brain is too huge to fit in a booth. End sidenote.
We ordered. Pancakes and mozzarella sticks for me. Not my usual, but hey, I'm on a diet. food came several years later, looking and smelling greasy and unhealthy, and there's no maple syrup. The waitress also decided that that would be a good time to not be around anymore. So I went on a hunt for syrup, which I eventually found via another, older, and much friendlier waitress who was clearly not quite as world weary as the waitress to whom we had been assigned, who was no doubt in the back with her head in the oven.
Anyway, the meal was uneventful, but fun. Tomacina pretty much laughs at everything I say, so that was a pleasant departure from the usual circumstance of never being around a woman, let alone one who gets anything I say. I think brian should marry her. She seems like the kind of girl who would always be giving him that "are you crazy" look that old women always give old men. And that's just fun.
So anyway, I drained a cup of coffee, and ordered and received another and drained most of it, when, out of the corner of my eye, taking a sip, I noticed something odd. Namely, a small whitish glob of something which was apparently growing or living in the bottom of my coffee cup. I passed the cup around and everyone was equally disgusted with it, so of course, I brought it to the manger's attention. Our waitress had recently dropped an entire tray of food on the table adjacent to ours, so I figured she wouldn't be happy to hear that she served me a cafe crappe (pronounced crap-ay). Anyway they refunded my four dollar pancakes and ninety cent coffee bill, so hopefully that will cover the extensive blood work and tetnus shot I'll undoutedly be needing. I'll definitely be cuddling up with that five-spot I saved in my hospital bed after they cut out the parasite that's gestating in my abdomen.
Aside from all that unpleasantness, I've definitely been really unhappy lately. I'm snapping at everyone, I have no patience for anybody or anything. The tiniest little thing sets me off. I'm pretty sure it's because I've been womanless for what seems like an eternity. It really hasn't been that long, and I could probably get laid at every show if I really had zero standards and ethics, but I kind of just want to have another body in the bed when I wake up. Walk in the door at night and have someone say, 'it's about time you got home.' Someone besides my mom, that is. Frankly, I don't miss that. Someone to give this damn necklace to.
Oh right, the necklace.
So I bought this necklace, right. From tiffany's of course. Nothing but the best. I think I bought it last christmas. I was going out with jodi at the time, and we'd been off and on for a while, and we happened to be on for a long while and I bought her this semi-pretty-expensive necklace. The thing was, that was right about the time that everything started falling apart with us, again, and so I wasn't sure if I wanted to give it to her, because I was still really bitter about the whole her jumping back and forth between me and her ex a million times thing. That's a whole other story. Anyway, I wound up breaking up with her, because that's what she wanted, somehow, and never gave her the necklace. And we even got back together and dated for a while again and then broke up again, and I still never gave it to her. Now I'm totally certain that I'll never give it to her, because she's a selfish manipulative mind warping bitch... but it's just sitting here.
I can't take it back because it's way too late for that, and I don't want to sell it, even though I should. She even offered to buy it from me, but I refused because I just didn't want her to have it. You know, cause I'm bitter and hold grudges. So I still have it, and I'll probably have it for a long ass time, because I'm pretty sure every relationship I ever had any interest in has ended with someone hating me. Which brings me to a whole other story. For another time.
For right now, I'm gonna go make myself vomit up whatever bodily excretion was fed to me earlier.
We had a gig tonight. Simply put, we dominated. We played this huge brand new venue in center city, and the entire staff loves us there, not to toot our horn or anything. I think it's mainly because they have mostly singer/songwriter - guy with a guitar and cheesy lyrics, or whiny chic who's angry at the world kind of acts there, and it's refreshing to have a party band come in and just have fun. And also 'cause we rule. But that seems less important in view of the events of later this evening.
As has become customary, Brian, Theron, Luke and I.... and also, un-customarily, Tomacina .... went to the diner. The south street diner, specifically, which we all love and which was, tragically, closed when we arrived. They close at two now, undoubtedly because too many drunk south streetians wandered in in the early hours of the weekend and caused messy trouble. Anyway, we were all set to just go home, which, in retrospect, would have been the best plan, when someone suggested we all go to the oregon diner which was, conveniently, right around the corner on, you guessed it, oregon ave. So we did.
At first glance it looked like any other diner... dirty, unkempt, with similarly dressed and similarly disheveled wait staff who were all going through the motions, visibly tired of life. That's how it looked at first glance. It turned out, however, to be much, much less. So we sat down, or more accurately, were seated, in the smoking section because the non-smoking section was full.
Interesting side note: a booth later opened up in the non-smoking area but we couldn't take it, because brain is too huge to fit in a booth. End sidenote.
We ordered. Pancakes and mozzarella sticks for me. Not my usual, but hey, I'm on a diet. food came several years later, looking and smelling greasy and unhealthy, and there's no maple syrup. The waitress also decided that that would be a good time to not be around anymore. So I went on a hunt for syrup, which I eventually found via another, older, and much friendlier waitress who was clearly not quite as world weary as the waitress to whom we had been assigned, who was no doubt in the back with her head in the oven.
Anyway, the meal was uneventful, but fun. Tomacina pretty much laughs at everything I say, so that was a pleasant departure from the usual circumstance of never being around a woman, let alone one who gets anything I say. I think brian should marry her. She seems like the kind of girl who would always be giving him that "are you crazy" look that old women always give old men. And that's just fun.
So anyway, I drained a cup of coffee, and ordered and received another and drained most of it, when, out of the corner of my eye, taking a sip, I noticed something odd. Namely, a small whitish glob of something which was apparently growing or living in the bottom of my coffee cup. I passed the cup around and everyone was equally disgusted with it, so of course, I brought it to the manger's attention. Our waitress had recently dropped an entire tray of food on the table adjacent to ours, so I figured she wouldn't be happy to hear that she served me a cafe crappe (pronounced crap-ay). Anyway they refunded my four dollar pancakes and ninety cent coffee bill, so hopefully that will cover the extensive blood work and tetnus shot I'll undoutedly be needing. I'll definitely be cuddling up with that five-spot I saved in my hospital bed after they cut out the parasite that's gestating in my abdomen.
Aside from all that unpleasantness, I've definitely been really unhappy lately. I'm snapping at everyone, I have no patience for anybody or anything. The tiniest little thing sets me off. I'm pretty sure it's because I've been womanless for what seems like an eternity. It really hasn't been that long, and I could probably get laid at every show if I really had zero standards and ethics, but I kind of just want to have another body in the bed when I wake up. Walk in the door at night and have someone say, 'it's about time you got home.' Someone besides my mom, that is. Frankly, I don't miss that. Someone to give this damn necklace to.
Oh right, the necklace.
So I bought this necklace, right. From tiffany's of course. Nothing but the best. I think I bought it last christmas. I was going out with jodi at the time, and we'd been off and on for a while, and we happened to be on for a long while and I bought her this semi-pretty-expensive necklace. The thing was, that was right about the time that everything started falling apart with us, again, and so I wasn't sure if I wanted to give it to her, because I was still really bitter about the whole her jumping back and forth between me and her ex a million times thing. That's a whole other story. Anyway, I wound up breaking up with her, because that's what she wanted, somehow, and never gave her the necklace. And we even got back together and dated for a while again and then broke up again, and I still never gave it to her. Now I'm totally certain that I'll never give it to her, because she's a selfish manipulative mind warping bitch... but it's just sitting here.
I can't take it back because it's way too late for that, and I don't want to sell it, even though I should. She even offered to buy it from me, but I refused because I just didn't want her to have it. You know, cause I'm bitter and hold grudges. So I still have it, and I'll probably have it for a long ass time, because I'm pretty sure every relationship I ever had any interest in has ended with someone hating me. Which brings me to a whole other story. For another time.
For right now, I'm gonna go make myself vomit up whatever bodily excretion was fed to me earlier.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
On guard... Douche::
Simply put, Lon is a huge douche.
Lon is a guy I kind of work for. I say "kind of" in the sense of "not really." You see... actually you know what, it's pretty complicated so just be content with the facts that he can't fire me and doesn't sign my paychecks, but, inexplicably, he's still in charge.
The thing is, he's slightly southern, implying an accent, which under different circumstances and from a different person I might find cute or even endearing, but which, under these circumstances and from this person I find incredibly annoying and condescending. When he speaks I want to jam a grenade in his mouth. Then I want his head to explode.
Every so often we have to meet with Lon, present our progress and listen to his concerns and feedback because he represents our customer. We have to address issues and hold discussions, all of which are dominated by Lon, and, in which, Lon displays the amazing douchitude which he possesses.
The thing is, Lon knows that he's in charge. He knows that it doesn't really matter what he says or how arrogant and rude he is, because basically, everybody has to do what he says. This makes Lon drunk with power--something he is unlikely to experience in any other facet of his life, seeing as he is an impotent little weasel with stupid spikey receding grey hair and stubby potato fingers who stands about 3 and half feet smurfy tall.
Clearly, I hate Lon. And during the meeting, it's pretty obvious that everyone else does too. I suspect this has something to do with what an incredible turd sandwich he is.
In conclusion, someday Lon will be dead, and I will dance a happy jig on his still moist grave.
Does that make me a bad person?
Simply put, Lon is a huge douche.
Lon is a guy I kind of work for. I say "kind of" in the sense of "not really." You see... actually you know what, it's pretty complicated so just be content with the facts that he can't fire me and doesn't sign my paychecks, but, inexplicably, he's still in charge.
The thing is, he's slightly southern, implying an accent, which under different circumstances and from a different person I might find cute or even endearing, but which, under these circumstances and from this person I find incredibly annoying and condescending. When he speaks I want to jam a grenade in his mouth. Then I want his head to explode.
Every so often we have to meet with Lon, present our progress and listen to his concerns and feedback because he represents our customer. We have to address issues and hold discussions, all of which are dominated by Lon, and, in which, Lon displays the amazing douchitude which he possesses.
The thing is, Lon knows that he's in charge. He knows that it doesn't really matter what he says or how arrogant and rude he is, because basically, everybody has to do what he says. This makes Lon drunk with power--something he is unlikely to experience in any other facet of his life, seeing as he is an impotent little weasel with stupid spikey receding grey hair and stubby potato fingers who stands about 3 and half feet smurfy tall.
Clearly, I hate Lon. And during the meeting, it's pretty obvious that everyone else does too. I suspect this has something to do with what an incredible turd sandwich he is.
In conclusion, someday Lon will be dead, and I will dance a happy jig on his still moist grave.
Does that make me a bad person?
Sunday, October 10, 2004
The Deep End::
Respect.
What's sad is, the memory of being with a girl that I respect is fading. It's faded. I just can't remember what it's like. Does that make me a bad person? Or is it just that I choose not to simply give out respect? Could it be that everyone else just has low standards when it comes to whom they should show respect? Or am I just a prick?
Well I definitely am a prick. No one is debating that. But in addition to that, I'm also very picky. I just can't respect some girl who is blathering on and on about how life just isn't worth living if she can't get a fucking contract in some bullshit school district. How if she can't teach there, then she doesn't want to teach at all. Honey, wake up. Your job is bullshit. I mean the dumbest guy I knew in college was an elementary education major. Your job is mostly making sure they don't kill each other, or develope some microcosmic Lord of the Flies type social order. After that it's basically just killing time before recess and cleaning up pee.
Alright. Maybe that's an exaggeration. A slight hyperbole. But the point is, the day to day minutia of your life, is boring me to tears. That's why I broke up with you. It's not the distance. It's because you're not smart enough. You're eye candy. And you have stubby potato feet. Lord help me if she ever reads this.
But she won't. She's no doubt already forgotten that I even mentioned it. Casually. Once. And then never again. I should really get around to lowering my estimations of people.
And the one before her.... religious nut. Born again bullshit. I must obey the bible, even though I've never actually read it. But I have this guy who I call my pastor -- the qualifications of which are owning a black shirt and being able to button it up all the way -- He reads and interprets the bible and then tells me what to do so I don't have to do any thinking on my own. And I can feel good about myself and look down on everyone else because he tells me that as long as I don't do any dancing, I'll go to heaven. And that just makes sense. Oh, and by the way, when I decide I don't want to date you anymore, instead of telling you, I'm going to use my religion as an excuse to not show you any physical affection until our relationship degrades into a sort of plutonic dislike and you have no choice but to break up with me. Because I'm mature and well adjusted.
What a nightmare. Skinny, big tits, complete moron. Yup, those are the qualifications, apparently.
And of course it could never work out. Being good looking is a definite plus, but where do hot girls learn about the bedroom? Cause let me tell you, they suck. And not in a good way. Maybe this is too much information, but seriously, are you kidding? Is this really it? Do you think this is good for me?
Look. I'm a man, and all men are shallow. It's a fact of life we all have to come to terms with eventually. And me...I'm as shallow as it gets. I couldn't possibly drain any more out of the pool. I"m at the bottom. I know it. You know it.
But really, being shallow just isn't as fun as it used to be.
Having no respect for the person you're with really undermines the whole relationship. I just say fucked up shit all the time. I always say I'm kidding afterwards, but I hardly ever am. Like I'll be asked a question, and my response will be "because you're dumb." Literally. I'm not kidding. And I'll say "I'm just playing." But really I'm not. I mean, I can remember having said that and having really been joking, but that hasn't happened for a long ass time. The reason you don't get it, is because you're dumb. You're just too fucking dense. It's funny to me, and I can't share it with you because by the time I explain it to you it terms you can understand, it won't be funny anymore. In fact, having to explain it to you depresses me. Really, it does.
What if you could just come out and tell someone, "you know what, you're a nice person, but you're just not good enough for me." Tell me you never thought that. Go ahead. Try and keep a straight face and tell me you never thought that about someone. You know you did.
Ok. So maybe I am a bad person. But I at least try not to hurt people's feelings and at laest I'm honest about myself and how I feel. I mean, if I treat someone with totally disrespect and disregard, you'd think they wouldn't want to talk to me anymore. You'd think that girl would just break up with me and save me the trouble. But somehow, and I'm not being conceited here, that never seems to happen. How can I respect you, when clearly you have no respect for yourself. And also you're dumb.
When I play Jeopardy with a girl, and for the whole half hour, I'm the only one talking...that's bad. You must know about something. Anything. What the hell is in there anyway? Party mix? I want to crack your head open because I'm pretty sure it's full of party mix.
I'm slowly wading into the deep end. I'll get there someday. I just hope I don't go off it.
Respect.
What's sad is, the memory of being with a girl that I respect is fading. It's faded. I just can't remember what it's like. Does that make me a bad person? Or is it just that I choose not to simply give out respect? Could it be that everyone else just has low standards when it comes to whom they should show respect? Or am I just a prick?
Well I definitely am a prick. No one is debating that. But in addition to that, I'm also very picky. I just can't respect some girl who is blathering on and on about how life just isn't worth living if she can't get a fucking contract in some bullshit school district. How if she can't teach there, then she doesn't want to teach at all. Honey, wake up. Your job is bullshit. I mean the dumbest guy I knew in college was an elementary education major. Your job is mostly making sure they don't kill each other, or develope some microcosmic Lord of the Flies type social order. After that it's basically just killing time before recess and cleaning up pee.
Alright. Maybe that's an exaggeration. A slight hyperbole. But the point is, the day to day minutia of your life, is boring me to tears. That's why I broke up with you. It's not the distance. It's because you're not smart enough. You're eye candy. And you have stubby potato feet. Lord help me if she ever reads this.
But she won't. She's no doubt already forgotten that I even mentioned it. Casually. Once. And then never again. I should really get around to lowering my estimations of people.
And the one before her.... religious nut. Born again bullshit. I must obey the bible, even though I've never actually read it. But I have this guy who I call my pastor -- the qualifications of which are owning a black shirt and being able to button it up all the way -- He reads and interprets the bible and then tells me what to do so I don't have to do any thinking on my own. And I can feel good about myself and look down on everyone else because he tells me that as long as I don't do any dancing, I'll go to heaven. And that just makes sense. Oh, and by the way, when I decide I don't want to date you anymore, instead of telling you, I'm going to use my religion as an excuse to not show you any physical affection until our relationship degrades into a sort of plutonic dislike and you have no choice but to break up with me. Because I'm mature and well adjusted.
What a nightmare. Skinny, big tits, complete moron. Yup, those are the qualifications, apparently.
And of course it could never work out. Being good looking is a definite plus, but where do hot girls learn about the bedroom? Cause let me tell you, they suck. And not in a good way. Maybe this is too much information, but seriously, are you kidding? Is this really it? Do you think this is good for me?
Look. I'm a man, and all men are shallow. It's a fact of life we all have to come to terms with eventually. And me...I'm as shallow as it gets. I couldn't possibly drain any more out of the pool. I"m at the bottom. I know it. You know it.
But really, being shallow just isn't as fun as it used to be.
Having no respect for the person you're with really undermines the whole relationship. I just say fucked up shit all the time. I always say I'm kidding afterwards, but I hardly ever am. Like I'll be asked a question, and my response will be "because you're dumb." Literally. I'm not kidding. And I'll say "I'm just playing." But really I'm not. I mean, I can remember having said that and having really been joking, but that hasn't happened for a long ass time. The reason you don't get it, is because you're dumb. You're just too fucking dense. It's funny to me, and I can't share it with you because by the time I explain it to you it terms you can understand, it won't be funny anymore. In fact, having to explain it to you depresses me. Really, it does.
What if you could just come out and tell someone, "you know what, you're a nice person, but you're just not good enough for me." Tell me you never thought that. Go ahead. Try and keep a straight face and tell me you never thought that about someone. You know you did.
Ok. So maybe I am a bad person. But I at least try not to hurt people's feelings and at laest I'm honest about myself and how I feel. I mean, if I treat someone with totally disrespect and disregard, you'd think they wouldn't want to talk to me anymore. You'd think that girl would just break up with me and save me the trouble. But somehow, and I'm not being conceited here, that never seems to happen. How can I respect you, when clearly you have no respect for yourself. And also you're dumb.
When I play Jeopardy with a girl, and for the whole half hour, I'm the only one talking...that's bad. You must know about something. Anything. What the hell is in there anyway? Party mix? I want to crack your head open because I'm pretty sure it's full of party mix.
I'm slowly wading into the deep end. I'll get there someday. I just hope I don't go off it.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Idle Time::
Is this it? I'm so disappointed. Where's the glamour? The interesting people? Where's my life?
Dave. Dave is my friend, my colleague, my mentor. At work, anyway. We also drink together sometimes. Dave has a wife and a new daughter and he's moving away. He's moving away to a better job in a nicer area that costs less and has better schools for his daughter. His daughter. The child which he spawned, with the help of his wife, kristen. they are adults. They have lives. Things happen to them. They know other adults.
They're both intelligent, interesting people, who lead eventful lives with a clear path and a comforting security.
I, however, live some kind of sham life, with seemingly no point and very little action. I work all day and night, I make money which I do nothing with, I see know one except the people I work with, I meet a million people every night and not one of them is the least bit interesting, or adds the tiniest bit of flavor into what is quickly becoming a bland and boring routine. Sleep, work, practice, sleep, work, gig, sleep, gig, sleep, work, sleep, sleep, sleep....
In a hundred years we'll all be dead.
What is the fucking point? Don't you see? Just tell me. What is the fucking point of it all?
Grand philosophical questions are such bullshit.
I just can't figure it out. All your life you're directed, driven towards something, and then you get there and it's like, this is it? This is what you made me work so hard for? This bullshit?
Genuine pleasure in life is so fleeting. There was that minute earlier when she said that line on that TV show -- that was funny. It made me feel good, and reminded me of happy times for a second.
Ok, so I'm in a rut. I get it. It's not the end of the world. It's just...a dry spell. A period of inaction. A waiting room. Something interesting will happen to me soon. Someone will finally say something insightful to me. It will happen. Someone will say something and it will change my whole attitude about everything, and I'll see things in a totally different light. It will renew my faith in humanity. It will provide some motivatioin to talk to someone, and incite hope that they will not be stupid. Someday, sometime, somebody or something will be cool.
All it is, is burnout. Working hours that are too long, putting too much effort into a dream that is not moving fast enough, never taking a second to sit back and breathe. Constantly working because I haven't got anything else. I always wanted it this way. Empty. Simple.
Cut. Dry.
So what's my problem? All I know about, is my life. I need to create something. Something memorable. I just want to be memorable. I need to be part of something bigger than me.
I'm going to start practicing again. Really devote myself to it. I'm going to quit wasting time relaxing. I'll force myself to be great. I'll take a methodical organized approach involving repetition and improvisation and I'll make myself into something that I can respect again. Seems like I used to be so much surer. Is that a word? Surer? More sure? See? I don't even know that anymore.
Well that's it. My mind is made up. That's what I'm going to do. Hell, it's the longest relationship I've ever had. Hands and strings. A match made in heaven.
I need to not need this.
If I can just make something good, I'll be ok.
Is this it? I'm so disappointed. Where's the glamour? The interesting people? Where's my life?
Dave. Dave is my friend, my colleague, my mentor. At work, anyway. We also drink together sometimes. Dave has a wife and a new daughter and he's moving away. He's moving away to a better job in a nicer area that costs less and has better schools for his daughter. His daughter. The child which he spawned, with the help of his wife, kristen. they are adults. They have lives. Things happen to them. They know other adults.
They're both intelligent, interesting people, who lead eventful lives with a clear path and a comforting security.
I, however, live some kind of sham life, with seemingly no point and very little action. I work all day and night, I make money which I do nothing with, I see know one except the people I work with, I meet a million people every night and not one of them is the least bit interesting, or adds the tiniest bit of flavor into what is quickly becoming a bland and boring routine. Sleep, work, practice, sleep, work, gig, sleep, gig, sleep, work, sleep, sleep, sleep....
In a hundred years we'll all be dead.
What is the fucking point? Don't you see? Just tell me. What is the fucking point of it all?
Grand philosophical questions are such bullshit.
I just can't figure it out. All your life you're directed, driven towards something, and then you get there and it's like, this is it? This is what you made me work so hard for? This bullshit?
Genuine pleasure in life is so fleeting. There was that minute earlier when she said that line on that TV show -- that was funny. It made me feel good, and reminded me of happy times for a second.
Ok, so I'm in a rut. I get it. It's not the end of the world. It's just...a dry spell. A period of inaction. A waiting room. Something interesting will happen to me soon. Someone will finally say something insightful to me. It will happen. Someone will say something and it will change my whole attitude about everything, and I'll see things in a totally different light. It will renew my faith in humanity. It will provide some motivatioin to talk to someone, and incite hope that they will not be stupid. Someday, sometime, somebody or something will be cool.
All it is, is burnout. Working hours that are too long, putting too much effort into a dream that is not moving fast enough, never taking a second to sit back and breathe. Constantly working because I haven't got anything else. I always wanted it this way. Empty. Simple.
Cut. Dry.
So what's my problem? All I know about, is my life. I need to create something. Something memorable. I just want to be memorable. I need to be part of something bigger than me.
I'm going to start practicing again. Really devote myself to it. I'm going to quit wasting time relaxing. I'll force myself to be great. I'll take a methodical organized approach involving repetition and improvisation and I'll make myself into something that I can respect again. Seems like I used to be so much surer. Is that a word? Surer? More sure? See? I don't even know that anymore.
Well that's it. My mind is made up. That's what I'm going to do. Hell, it's the longest relationship I've ever had. Hands and strings. A match made in heaven.
I need to not need this.
If I can just make something good, I'll be ok.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Choices. Period.
There come, infrequently, times in each person's life, or at least in my life, that suggest the cusp of an event; the beginning or end of something; an anticipation of newness; a kind of wonder and curiosity and fear of and about the future, a feeling I might compare to losing sight of the shore. These times simply evoke a feeling, a silent and perhaps unexplainable premonition that things are going to be different, or that things that were, are no longer. I guess it's only natural that a feeling like this encourage some reflection, and at least a half-hearted examination and evaluation of the decisions and actions that lead to this point.
Is this one of those times?
Change has crept up on me, it seems. Gradually, and without my noticing. But now, somehow, I'm faced with the whole of this gradual change all at once. When I look at the way my life is now, I'm optimistic about the future, but unsure, and nostalgic about the past. Sometimes I feel encased comfortably in my dream, the execution of which is progressing smoothly, if a little slower than I planned. Other times, idle times, I feel very alone.
I'm not regretful, in general. I think I learned hard lessons the hard way, but I learned quick, and I haven't forgotten. Everything I ever wanted has lead me to this point, which I'm proud of, but this point also lacks some qualities that I never wanted, and never thought I wanted, and am still not sure I want at all. But I'm even less sure that I don't. This is definitely new.
Did you ever feel like no one else .... gets it?
Like when you see something that's amazing, funny, insightful, revealing.... and then you realize that no one is going to see it that same way. No matter how perfectly you phrase it, how soon you replay it, how accurately you reproduce it; no one is going to get it the way you did, right then. Not anymore.
In general, things never turn out the way you expect them to. Not exactly.
Did you ever read 'Singularity' ? It's a childrens book about these two twin brothers who spend a summer away from their parents. At the place they stay, they find a shelter, built on a large stone and discover that inside, time moves much faster. A person could walk inside, spend hours and when they walk out again only seconds have past. The two brothers are identical only in appearance. The one is clearly the stronger of the two, and the weaker, in fear of his brother doing the same and leaving him behind, steps into the sigularity and spend an entire year inside. When he walks out again a year older, it has only been a few hours, not even a day. But he is separated now from his brother, in a very real physical and emotional way, and he feels a certain regret, and certain detachment that he didn't expect. He doesn't regret it entirely, because he feels stronger, more sure, more... not sure why I thought I that just now...
So what's the point? The point is that my life and every life will continue to change and evolve. My brothers will make me laugh, and pound my fists, and I will see and hear things in a way that hardly anyone could possibly understand. I will burn bridges and build new ones. Everyone has choices to make. But I'm not going to try and control my choices by limiting the scope of my experience. I want to look forward and back.
But hey, I'll make my choices and you'll make yours. And who knows, I mean, the middle is a big place... maybe we'll meet there someday.
There come, infrequently, times in each person's life, or at least in my life, that suggest the cusp of an event; the beginning or end of something; an anticipation of newness; a kind of wonder and curiosity and fear of and about the future, a feeling I might compare to losing sight of the shore. These times simply evoke a feeling, a silent and perhaps unexplainable premonition that things are going to be different, or that things that were, are no longer. I guess it's only natural that a feeling like this encourage some reflection, and at least a half-hearted examination and evaluation of the decisions and actions that lead to this point.
Is this one of those times?
Change has crept up on me, it seems. Gradually, and without my noticing. But now, somehow, I'm faced with the whole of this gradual change all at once. When I look at the way my life is now, I'm optimistic about the future, but unsure, and nostalgic about the past. Sometimes I feel encased comfortably in my dream, the execution of which is progressing smoothly, if a little slower than I planned. Other times, idle times, I feel very alone.
I'm not regretful, in general. I think I learned hard lessons the hard way, but I learned quick, and I haven't forgotten. Everything I ever wanted has lead me to this point, which I'm proud of, but this point also lacks some qualities that I never wanted, and never thought I wanted, and am still not sure I want at all. But I'm even less sure that I don't. This is definitely new.
Did you ever feel like no one else .... gets it?
Like when you see something that's amazing, funny, insightful, revealing.... and then you realize that no one is going to see it that same way. No matter how perfectly you phrase it, how soon you replay it, how accurately you reproduce it; no one is going to get it the way you did, right then. Not anymore.
In general, things never turn out the way you expect them to. Not exactly.
Did you ever read 'Singularity' ? It's a childrens book about these two twin brothers who spend a summer away from their parents. At the place they stay, they find a shelter, built on a large stone and discover that inside, time moves much faster. A person could walk inside, spend hours and when they walk out again only seconds have past. The two brothers are identical only in appearance. The one is clearly the stronger of the two, and the weaker, in fear of his brother doing the same and leaving him behind, steps into the sigularity and spend an entire year inside. When he walks out again a year older, it has only been a few hours, not even a day. But he is separated now from his brother, in a very real physical and emotional way, and he feels a certain regret, and certain detachment that he didn't expect. He doesn't regret it entirely, because he feels stronger, more sure, more... not sure why I thought I that just now...
So what's the point? The point is that my life and every life will continue to change and evolve. My brothers will make me laugh, and pound my fists, and I will see and hear things in a way that hardly anyone could possibly understand. I will burn bridges and build new ones. Everyone has choices to make. But I'm not going to try and control my choices by limiting the scope of my experience. I want to look forward and back.
But hey, I'll make my choices and you'll make yours. And who knows, I mean, the middle is a big place... maybe we'll meet there someday.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
If this van's a'rockin', don't come a'knockin'::
Ahh....the eve of yet another journey bound to be fraught with awkward physical positions. Packing, trying out new toys that I plan to illicit much awe and envy with on the unbelieably long road to friggin' canada tomorrow.
Well not really friggin' canada, but I could just about spit on Ottawa from the stage. Or so I'm told.
Tomorrow The Blue Method embarks on a thing of beauty and wonder, but which has become pretty common in its life...a road trip. We're getting pretty good at them. We bought a spiffy new tour bus (by "spiffy new" I of course mean ten years old and stinking of geezer pee), we invested heavily in periodicals, and we're all learning a new language. It's called shouting.
Yeah, we've pretty much got the jist (gist?) of it, so here are some of the details.
The Funk Bus::
Yeah, that's right, we bought a bus. A tour bus. And we tour in it. You know....like bands do. It's what I might be strongly inclined to call "the shit". There were initially a few kinks; like how it overheated and broke down on the side of I-476 on the way to state college the very first time we attempted to use it, and how we had to subsequently install a new water pump, cooling system hoses, brakes and tires, and how while innocently idling in the toll booth line on the way to New York we were rear ended by an SUV, didn't have time to take down any information and then got stuck with the bill, and how it makes this disturbing growling noise when we go up hills or try to accelerate to fast, ....but these minor hiccups have all been more or less solved, fixed, glued, taped or painted over. And I'm feeling good about that. Very Secure. And not at all nervous.
Now it's not a bus in the traditional sense of long and yellow with whiny brats inside throwing poo at each other. It's more a bus in the sense of being too big to call a van and having once had the pleasure of carting around disabled, and, lucky for us, often incontinent senior citizens. So it has a bit of the aroma of pee about it, but that's being slowly replaced by dirty man gunk...accumulating after countless days of eating, sleeping, introducing foreign gas, and throwing poo at each other on it. And then there's Brian with his signature "Balboa" sandwich, which, as far as I can tell, is basically just a big chunk of garlic, which has been fryed in garlic oil, between two slices of garlic bread and then all dipped in sme kind of molten liquid garlic. Traditionally served with a healthy serving of heinous smelling, belly rippling garlic and bile belches. I hear it's good for the colon too.
Anyway, so the bus is getting a bit ripe, but it serves its purpose. Luckily, with the addition of a laptop to my family of superfluous gadgets, I will be able to provide much more frequent and accurate accounts of my life, given that I'll have about seven hours on my hands tomorrow alone. Then it's off to vermont for some other crazy show, and then back to cozy NJ for a big pile of going to work. Ain't life glorious.
But it's cool, man. I love a good road trip, and there's really almost nothing I'd rather be doing. The band is dominating, moving forward, becoming slowly profitable and looking to record a new CD soon which I will (a.) actually play on and (b.) actually have written or helped write the songs on.
So it looks like everything is working out for everybody. Except for, you know, the same old nostalgia. But hey, if you keep busy enough, most of the time you'll be too tired to think about anything but how much work you have to do and how much you'd rather be sleeping. And that's good for everybody.
So we've past a pretty important one year anniversary a few months ago, and now we're approaching another one. The one year anniversary of my tenure with the Blue Method. And, I'd like to say that we've come a hell of a ways in the past year. We've gone from playing little tiny dive bars in south jersey to playing colleges, outdoor ampitheaters, festivals and owning a tour bus. And to hiring a keyboard player who wound up taking a big shit in a flower bed at a rest stop on a highway after passing out in a ditch on the side of the road. But that's another story.
In the next year we should close the gap even further between my job and my band pay, which won't exactly satisfy my "full time musician making mad loot by age 25" goal, but it's pretty close, and nobody (or almost nobody) thought I could make anything happen at all anyway, so in a way, I'm ahead of the game.
"In a way, you're both winners. But in another, more accurate way, Barney is the Winner."
Ahh....the eve of yet another journey bound to be fraught with awkward physical positions. Packing, trying out new toys that I plan to illicit much awe and envy with on the unbelieably long road to friggin' canada tomorrow.
Well not really friggin' canada, but I could just about spit on Ottawa from the stage. Or so I'm told.
Tomorrow The Blue Method embarks on a thing of beauty and wonder, but which has become pretty common in its life...a road trip. We're getting pretty good at them. We bought a spiffy new tour bus (by "spiffy new" I of course mean ten years old and stinking of geezer pee), we invested heavily in periodicals, and we're all learning a new language. It's called shouting.
Yeah, we've pretty much got the jist (gist?) of it, so here are some of the details.
The Funk Bus::
Yeah, that's right, we bought a bus. A tour bus. And we tour in it. You know....like bands do. It's what I might be strongly inclined to call "the shit". There were initially a few kinks; like how it overheated and broke down on the side of I-476 on the way to state college the very first time we attempted to use it, and how we had to subsequently install a new water pump, cooling system hoses, brakes and tires, and how while innocently idling in the toll booth line on the way to New York we were rear ended by an SUV, didn't have time to take down any information and then got stuck with the bill, and how it makes this disturbing growling noise when we go up hills or try to accelerate to fast, ....but these minor hiccups have all been more or less solved, fixed, glued, taped or painted over. And I'm feeling good about that. Very Secure. And not at all nervous.
Now it's not a bus in the traditional sense of long and yellow with whiny brats inside throwing poo at each other. It's more a bus in the sense of being too big to call a van and having once had the pleasure of carting around disabled, and, lucky for us, often incontinent senior citizens. So it has a bit of the aroma of pee about it, but that's being slowly replaced by dirty man gunk...accumulating after countless days of eating, sleeping, introducing foreign gas, and throwing poo at each other on it. And then there's Brian with his signature "Balboa" sandwich, which, as far as I can tell, is basically just a big chunk of garlic, which has been fryed in garlic oil, between two slices of garlic bread and then all dipped in sme kind of molten liquid garlic. Traditionally served with a healthy serving of heinous smelling, belly rippling garlic and bile belches. I hear it's good for the colon too.
Anyway, so the bus is getting a bit ripe, but it serves its purpose. Luckily, with the addition of a laptop to my family of superfluous gadgets, I will be able to provide much more frequent and accurate accounts of my life, given that I'll have about seven hours on my hands tomorrow alone. Then it's off to vermont for some other crazy show, and then back to cozy NJ for a big pile of going to work. Ain't life glorious.
But it's cool, man. I love a good road trip, and there's really almost nothing I'd rather be doing. The band is dominating, moving forward, becoming slowly profitable and looking to record a new CD soon which I will (a.) actually play on and (b.) actually have written or helped write the songs on.
So it looks like everything is working out for everybody. Except for, you know, the same old nostalgia. But hey, if you keep busy enough, most of the time you'll be too tired to think about anything but how much work you have to do and how much you'd rather be sleeping. And that's good for everybody.
So we've past a pretty important one year anniversary a few months ago, and now we're approaching another one. The one year anniversary of my tenure with the Blue Method. And, I'd like to say that we've come a hell of a ways in the past year. We've gone from playing little tiny dive bars in south jersey to playing colleges, outdoor ampitheaters, festivals and owning a tour bus. And to hiring a keyboard player who wound up taking a big shit in a flower bed at a rest stop on a highway after passing out in a ditch on the side of the road. But that's another story.
In the next year we should close the gap even further between my job and my band pay, which won't exactly satisfy my "full time musician making mad loot by age 25" goal, but it's pretty close, and nobody (or almost nobody) thought I could make anything happen at all anyway, so in a way, I'm ahead of the game.
"In a way, you're both winners. But in another, more accurate way, Barney is the Winner."
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Hell Phone::
Let me just say, right off the bat, that I just cannot grasp how amazingly idiotic cell phone companies are. The only way wireless carriers can succeed is if they prevent any problems from happening in the first place. Because once the tinest, most insigficant problem arises, the entire customer service division of any wireless company completely shuts down and morphs into a giant middle finger.
Let me try to summarize the incredible events of the last two months:
June 10th:
It was on this day that I found out that Sprint, a company with which I had never dealt, but whom I had heard good things about, was releasing a version of my favorite cell phone without the camera. This was a good thing for me because my highly sensitive and secure occupation does not allow camera phones in the buildings. Overjoyed that things were finally going my way, I immediately call sprint and order the phone and service, both of which were obviously overpriced, but worth it to me seeing as I'm wiping my ass with money right now.
June15th:
My phone arrives. It is awesome. I am happy. For a few fleeting days.
June 22nd:
My brand new superphone spontaneously and without cause develops what I would describe as a rattle. Some loose part inside the phone shaking around making noise and causing me some anxiety.
June 23rd:
I go to my local sprint pcs store, where they inform me that "wow, that's messed up" and that I'm entitled to a brand new phone -- with a camera. No, no, I say, this is a special camera-less version. Huh? they say, and, we didn't even know we offered that phone, because we're sprint, and not only do we have virtually no communication between business units, but also all the people who work here are mongoloid retards. Then they tell me that the only way to get a new phone is to call sprint. And I tell them that they are sprint. And they tell me that I have to call someone else, who, dichotomously, are also sprint.
SoI call the number they give me, and sprint 2 tells me to go back to the store because they are the only ones who can order me a new phone. So I do, and sprint 1 tells me to call sprint 2 back and tell them that sprint 1 can't help me, because they are all missing a pair of chromosomes. So I do, and sprint 2 tells me to go back into the store and tell sprint 1 --- here's where I lose it. I tell sprint 2 that they had better get me a new fucking phone, because so help me god I will come down there and rip your testicles off sprint 2, and then I will beat you over the head with a shovel and shove you're newly amputated testes into the gaping head wound that I had preesently inflicted upon you, so that you may get a sense of my frustration. So they offered me an alternative where I buy a second phone, and when it comes send the first one back and get a refund, thereby only effectively paying for one phone total. And being in the money-as-toilet-paper phase that I'm in, I say ok.
June 29th:
My new phone arrives. It is awesome. It is brand new. It has a goddamn camera on it. I call sprint 2 up and they say, our bad, send it back, and we'll send you a new one. So I send it back.
July 15th:
I call sprint 2 and ask where my new phone is having never received it. They say what phone. I say the phone you're supposed to send me. Then I try to explain the whole situation up until this point, to which the crack customer service team correctly responds by hanging up on me. I call back. I go through the same routine with someone else. They hang up on me. I call a third time. I explain the situation once again complete with hangups. Finally the third person sort of gets it, tells me that they refunded me for the second phone, but never charged me for a third. Here's where I stop myself from asking why they didn't just keep the money and put it towards the right phone--that question could only lead the obviously already challenged customer service monkey into confusion. So I just cut my losses. I say fine, charge me for the third phone and fucking send it to me, you blunt, ignorant douche stick. They say ok.
July 22th:
I call sprint again to find out where my new phone is. My old phone has now degenerated into an abacus. I explain the situation up to that point. They don't get it. I re-explain. They re-don't get it. I reduce my explanation to monosyllabic words and a series of grunts, and they finally start catching on. They say no phone was ordered. I have to order again. I do. They say I have to pay more this time because I've been accruing service charges for services that I've been using but don't have on my account. Then I tell them that I ordered those services long ago, and that there's no way I'm paying an extra hundred bucks for some shit I should have had but don't because they screwed up, yet again. Finally they adjust my account, I pay for my regular service charge, plus the new phone cost.
July 26th:
Finally I receive my new phone, planning to send the old phone back when I get time which happens to be tomorrow, August 8th. After having had the phone for a week, I'm satisfied that it's in working condition, and after only a month and a half and the cost of three phones, I have the service and device I originally wanted. Kudos to sprints 1 and 2. But wait, there's more.
Today, Aug 7th:
I notice that for the past three days there's been a negative balance on my account, denoting that sprint actually owes me money, i.e. the refund from the second phone. This money does me no good here, and I could definitely use it elsewhere, so I call and ask sprint 2 to please refund that credit to my credit card. They do. Several hours later, I get out of work and try to make a phone call. I am directed to a service that says my invoice was not paid on time, and they've suspended service. I go online to my account. It tells me my balance is zero dollars. I call back and decide to pay the fifty bucks the phone guy says I owe. I go back online, now my account balance is negative fifty dollars. Many, many hours later I still have no service, and now the phone guy tells me I owe sprint the approximate cost of my phone, which I coincidentally just had refunded to my credit card. Now, as you no doubt see, there's a miscommunication here somewhere. I mean why would sprint 2, in its all knowing middle-fingerness, give me a refund only to claim that I owe them that money a few hours later. I bought a phone for a bunch of money, paid for it, then sent it back and received credit for it, cashed that credit, and now somehow I owe them money. There are two possible answers. One is that the sprint corporation is run by amoebas. The second is that I've entered some twilight-zone-esque alternate dimension where everyone is stupid. Well stupider then they usually are anyway.
Now, I acknowledge the fact the I was wrong, sort of. Sprint doesn't really owe me any money, and if you review carefully, you'll see why. Unless you're from sprint. In that case, give up before your head explodes. But, why then, would they refund me any money? It doesn't make sense. The saddest part is that, sprint online, we'll call this sprint 3, says that my balance is negative fifty bucks. Sprint on the phone (sprint 2) tells me that I owe them like six hundred bucks. The problem is that they only let you pay up to two times your balance at any time. This means that sprint 2, having erroneously refunded my money, has somehow informed sprint 3 that my balance is correctly negative 50 bucks, and now neither sprints 2 or 3 will allow me to pay them back the money that sprint 2 claims that I owe them. I realize that this has now reached ludicrous speed, and there's really nothing I can do. I'm going to have to go back to sprint 1 tomorrow and try and dumb down my situation into sprint-speak, or what I like to call kooky-talk, and maybe they'll have someone with higher than a fifth grade education working the service desk.
So, about two months, the cost of three phones, about 4 hours in phone conversations, three hangups, and about two and a half ulsers worth of frustration, I wind up with one broken phone and one functional phone with no service. Again, sprint has raised the bar for corporate stupidity and general incompetence. Thank you, sprint. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pee in sprint's won-ton soup.
Let me just say, right off the bat, that I just cannot grasp how amazingly idiotic cell phone companies are. The only way wireless carriers can succeed is if they prevent any problems from happening in the first place. Because once the tinest, most insigficant problem arises, the entire customer service division of any wireless company completely shuts down and morphs into a giant middle finger.
Let me try to summarize the incredible events of the last two months:
June 10th:
It was on this day that I found out that Sprint, a company with which I had never dealt, but whom I had heard good things about, was releasing a version of my favorite cell phone without the camera. This was a good thing for me because my highly sensitive and secure occupation does not allow camera phones in the buildings. Overjoyed that things were finally going my way, I immediately call sprint and order the phone and service, both of which were obviously overpriced, but worth it to me seeing as I'm wiping my ass with money right now.
June15th:
My phone arrives. It is awesome. I am happy. For a few fleeting days.
June 22nd:
My brand new superphone spontaneously and without cause develops what I would describe as a rattle. Some loose part inside the phone shaking around making noise and causing me some anxiety.
June 23rd:
I go to my local sprint pcs store, where they inform me that "wow, that's messed up" and that I'm entitled to a brand new phone -- with a camera. No, no, I say, this is a special camera-less version. Huh? they say, and, we didn't even know we offered that phone, because we're sprint, and not only do we have virtually no communication between business units, but also all the people who work here are mongoloid retards. Then they tell me that the only way to get a new phone is to call sprint. And I tell them that they are sprint. And they tell me that I have to call someone else, who, dichotomously, are also sprint.
SoI call the number they give me, and sprint 2 tells me to go back to the store because they are the only ones who can order me a new phone. So I do, and sprint 1 tells me to call sprint 2 back and tell them that sprint 1 can't help me, because they are all missing a pair of chromosomes. So I do, and sprint 2 tells me to go back into the store and tell sprint 1 --- here's where I lose it. I tell sprint 2 that they had better get me a new fucking phone, because so help me god I will come down there and rip your testicles off sprint 2, and then I will beat you over the head with a shovel and shove you're newly amputated testes into the gaping head wound that I had preesently inflicted upon you, so that you may get a sense of my frustration. So they offered me an alternative where I buy a second phone, and when it comes send the first one back and get a refund, thereby only effectively paying for one phone total. And being in the money-as-toilet-paper phase that I'm in, I say ok.
June 29th:
My new phone arrives. It is awesome. It is brand new. It has a goddamn camera on it. I call sprint 2 up and they say, our bad, send it back, and we'll send you a new one. So I send it back.
July 15th:
I call sprint 2 and ask where my new phone is having never received it. They say what phone. I say the phone you're supposed to send me. Then I try to explain the whole situation up until this point, to which the crack customer service team correctly responds by hanging up on me. I call back. I go through the same routine with someone else. They hang up on me. I call a third time. I explain the situation once again complete with hangups. Finally the third person sort of gets it, tells me that they refunded me for the second phone, but never charged me for a third. Here's where I stop myself from asking why they didn't just keep the money and put it towards the right phone--that question could only lead the obviously already challenged customer service monkey into confusion. So I just cut my losses. I say fine, charge me for the third phone and fucking send it to me, you blunt, ignorant douche stick. They say ok.
July 22th:
I call sprint again to find out where my new phone is. My old phone has now degenerated into an abacus. I explain the situation up to that point. They don't get it. I re-explain. They re-don't get it. I reduce my explanation to monosyllabic words and a series of grunts, and they finally start catching on. They say no phone was ordered. I have to order again. I do. They say I have to pay more this time because I've been accruing service charges for services that I've been using but don't have on my account. Then I tell them that I ordered those services long ago, and that there's no way I'm paying an extra hundred bucks for some shit I should have had but don't because they screwed up, yet again. Finally they adjust my account, I pay for my regular service charge, plus the new phone cost.
July 26th:
Finally I receive my new phone, planning to send the old phone back when I get time which happens to be tomorrow, August 8th. After having had the phone for a week, I'm satisfied that it's in working condition, and after only a month and a half and the cost of three phones, I have the service and device I originally wanted. Kudos to sprints 1 and 2. But wait, there's more.
Today, Aug 7th:
I notice that for the past three days there's been a negative balance on my account, denoting that sprint actually owes me money, i.e. the refund from the second phone. This money does me no good here, and I could definitely use it elsewhere, so I call and ask sprint 2 to please refund that credit to my credit card. They do. Several hours later, I get out of work and try to make a phone call. I am directed to a service that says my invoice was not paid on time, and they've suspended service. I go online to my account. It tells me my balance is zero dollars. I call back and decide to pay the fifty bucks the phone guy says I owe. I go back online, now my account balance is negative fifty dollars. Many, many hours later I still have no service, and now the phone guy tells me I owe sprint the approximate cost of my phone, which I coincidentally just had refunded to my credit card. Now, as you no doubt see, there's a miscommunication here somewhere. I mean why would sprint 2, in its all knowing middle-fingerness, give me a refund only to claim that I owe them that money a few hours later. I bought a phone for a bunch of money, paid for it, then sent it back and received credit for it, cashed that credit, and now somehow I owe them money. There are two possible answers. One is that the sprint corporation is run by amoebas. The second is that I've entered some twilight-zone-esque alternate dimension where everyone is stupid. Well stupider then they usually are anyway.
Now, I acknowledge the fact the I was wrong, sort of. Sprint doesn't really owe me any money, and if you review carefully, you'll see why. Unless you're from sprint. In that case, give up before your head explodes. But, why then, would they refund me any money? It doesn't make sense. The saddest part is that, sprint online, we'll call this sprint 3, says that my balance is negative fifty bucks. Sprint on the phone (sprint 2) tells me that I owe them like six hundred bucks. The problem is that they only let you pay up to two times your balance at any time. This means that sprint 2, having erroneously refunded my money, has somehow informed sprint 3 that my balance is correctly negative 50 bucks, and now neither sprints 2 or 3 will allow me to pay them back the money that sprint 2 claims that I owe them. I realize that this has now reached ludicrous speed, and there's really nothing I can do. I'm going to have to go back to sprint 1 tomorrow and try and dumb down my situation into sprint-speak, or what I like to call kooky-talk, and maybe they'll have someone with higher than a fifth grade education working the service desk.
So, about two months, the cost of three phones, about 4 hours in phone conversations, three hangups, and about two and a half ulsers worth of frustration, I wind up with one broken phone and one functional phone with no service. Again, sprint has raised the bar for corporate stupidity and general incompetence. Thank you, sprint. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pee in sprint's won-ton soup.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Goldfarb...Sandy Goldfarb::
Dude,let me tell you something about life that may save you some trouble, some aggravation and a little bit of time someday if you take it to heart: Rich people suck a big fat one.
Now, obviously blanket statements like this one are nearly always wrong in some instances, because you can never really account for every little skewed outlier in the distribution. But in general, in my incredibly limited and in no way qualifying experience, rich people do indeed suck a big fat one.
So we were hired to play a show at this guy's house in South Hampton. Like, in the Hamptons. The ones you always hear about, where celebrities hang out and make uncensored sex videos. Anyway, the house was pretty big, especially for a second or third house, which it probably was, and had this huge, immaculately groomed, football field sized yard with a sparkling pool and where they had set up a stage and dance floor. In addition, for the obscene numbers of driveling, spoiled, and boudary-less little brats they had running around, the guy had hired a bunch of those inflatable carnival games...you know like where you put on the velcro suit and throw yourself up and the big sticky wall. Yeah, great fun there. Anyway, the point is, these were not your regular cake and ice cream, game of outburst of if you're lucky, seinfeld trivia kind of party people. These were catered affair, grilled food to your request, huge inflatable carnival games, band and DJ and pool and cake and ice cream-- rich-ass snobby people. Complete with annoying bratty little spoiled kids.
Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but these mongrels were straight out of the bowels of hell. They were all over all of our equipment, wanting to play with it and touch everything, and their parents thought this was just the funniest thing...ha ha, no go ahead tiffany, pee all over my new speaker cabinet, its ok cause mommy has fake tits. That's another thing about this party. All the people were beautiful. Like, expensive beautiful. The whole yard just kind of bounced. The dudes were all buff and had good hair, and all the chicks had tiny waists and asses, with these enormous, completely disproportionate breasts that looked as though they were taken right off the shelves of a sporting goods store. It was unreal. And the whole time it was like we were just a prop for these beautiful rich peoples' spoiled, rich, beautiful kids. They took to coming up on stage while we were playing and getting in our way and knocking things over and just generally being a huge pain in the ass, and expecting us to cater to them and their needs. So that was right up our alley.
And they treated us like shit. The guy wanted everyone and their brother, including his asshole brother to sit in with the band. This one guy totally beat the crap out of our drummer's drum kit. And by "beat the crap out of them", I mean he beat them like they killed his mom. After a while, we just had to be like, no, you're trogladytic half-cousin can not sit in on bongos. He just can't, that's why. They also kept requesting these hard rock covers which we don't do because, strangely enough, we're not a hard rock cover band. We're actually a funk/soul original band, but we can see how you idiot rich people might have gotten those two diametrically opposed genres confused, seeing as how they're nothing alike in any discernable way.
And everyone there treated us like waiters. No one spoke to us except the guy whose house it was, and even he could only break away from the breasts long enough to say, "play another set in twenty minutes." It sucked.
But they did pay us a lot of money which, it later turned out, wasn't nearly enough for the torture that we endured while there. So let this be a lesson to all you kids out there: fake tits do not outway the rich snobby assholes that are usually not far behind. Although, in some extreme cases, they might exceed them in volume.
Dude,let me tell you something about life that may save you some trouble, some aggravation and a little bit of time someday if you take it to heart: Rich people suck a big fat one.
Now, obviously blanket statements like this one are nearly always wrong in some instances, because you can never really account for every little skewed outlier in the distribution. But in general, in my incredibly limited and in no way qualifying experience, rich people do indeed suck a big fat one.
So we were hired to play a show at this guy's house in South Hampton. Like, in the Hamptons. The ones you always hear about, where celebrities hang out and make uncensored sex videos. Anyway, the house was pretty big, especially for a second or third house, which it probably was, and had this huge, immaculately groomed, football field sized yard with a sparkling pool and where they had set up a stage and dance floor. In addition, for the obscene numbers of driveling, spoiled, and boudary-less little brats they had running around, the guy had hired a bunch of those inflatable carnival games...you know like where you put on the velcro suit and throw yourself up and the big sticky wall. Yeah, great fun there. Anyway, the point is, these were not your regular cake and ice cream, game of outburst of if you're lucky, seinfeld trivia kind of party people. These were catered affair, grilled food to your request, huge inflatable carnival games, band and DJ and pool and cake and ice cream-- rich-ass snobby people. Complete with annoying bratty little spoiled kids.
Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but these mongrels were straight out of the bowels of hell. They were all over all of our equipment, wanting to play with it and touch everything, and their parents thought this was just the funniest thing...ha ha, no go ahead tiffany, pee all over my new speaker cabinet, its ok cause mommy has fake tits. That's another thing about this party. All the people were beautiful. Like, expensive beautiful. The whole yard just kind of bounced. The dudes were all buff and had good hair, and all the chicks had tiny waists and asses, with these enormous, completely disproportionate breasts that looked as though they were taken right off the shelves of a sporting goods store. It was unreal. And the whole time it was like we were just a prop for these beautiful rich peoples' spoiled, rich, beautiful kids. They took to coming up on stage while we were playing and getting in our way and knocking things over and just generally being a huge pain in the ass, and expecting us to cater to them and their needs. So that was right up our alley.
And they treated us like shit. The guy wanted everyone and their brother, including his asshole brother to sit in with the band. This one guy totally beat the crap out of our drummer's drum kit. And by "beat the crap out of them", I mean he beat them like they killed his mom. After a while, we just had to be like, no, you're trogladytic half-cousin can not sit in on bongos. He just can't, that's why. They also kept requesting these hard rock covers which we don't do because, strangely enough, we're not a hard rock cover band. We're actually a funk/soul original band, but we can see how you idiot rich people might have gotten those two diametrically opposed genres confused, seeing as how they're nothing alike in any discernable way.
And everyone there treated us like waiters. No one spoke to us except the guy whose house it was, and even he could only break away from the breasts long enough to say, "play another set in twenty minutes." It sucked.
But they did pay us a lot of money which, it later turned out, wasn't nearly enough for the torture that we endured while there. So let this be a lesson to all you kids out there: fake tits do not outway the rich snobby assholes that are usually not far behind. Although, in some extreme cases, they might exceed them in volume.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Blend in the Clowns::
A quick aside that has nothing to do with anything. My new favorite song is Vibrate, by Rufus Wainwright. The first line is, "My phone's on vibrate for you." It's gold, jerry, gold.
With that out of the way lets get to the meat. My blender, my poor precious blender, which I use without fail each and every single day, is no more. Due undoubtedly to the consistency of use, and the frequency of ice crushing requests imposed upon it, two days ago the blade of my blender unexpectedly spun off the spindle and into my beverage, which remained, sadly, unblended. Knowing, the way you know about a good melon, that there was no fixing the still attractive and youthful appliance, I was forced to accept its untimely and pointless demise and put it to rest...on the floor right outside my kitchen.
The plan was to leave it there out of the way until I'd conceded that I had no other way of blending things that day, and then go and throw it out. But, as with so many other things and people, I completely lost interest or any kind of lifting/carrying motivations. So I guess it'll just sit there until some person who is unfamiliar with its addition to my decor trips over it, becomes agitated and insists that I let them dispose of it, which I probably would. Fortunately for the blender, that day may never come.
So anyway, now I have a loaner blender from my mom, which, may I say, sucks a fat one. The shape of the jar is all wrong and there's too many buttons and it smells like burning when I use the "ice crush" mode, which they should really call "bounce ice around inside the jar, chipping slowly away at the fragile cubes for several presidential administrations," but I don't think they could fit that above the button. Also, that title may disincline potential crushers of ice to use that option. But anyway, this blender can't hold a candle to its predecessor, which had a shiny brushed steel base and minimalistic yet highly uitilitarian low/high/pulse switch. Ahh, the memories.
Of course, from frustration my first inclination is to become a monk and leave the situation -- whoops, slipped into bust a move there for a second. Never know when that might sneak up on you. Anyway, my first inclination is to go out and buy the exact same blender because the old one was, lets face it, the bomb diggity. However, its extreme lack of endurance leads me to conclude that I need an equally simple setup and shape but with a sturdier construction and perhaps, a warranty. Conveniently, at the recent celebration of the day of my birth, I received a gift card to Home Depot, so perhaps I'll peruse their provisions in the way of perennial powered perturbers.
In other news, Tivo continues to be the shiznit, and my new favorite show ever(aside from seinfeld, of course, which is safely perched at number one without competition)is Good Eats on the food network. The difference between it and virtually every other mind numbing, do this, do that instructional cooking show is that Good Eats is not a cooking show, but rather, a food science show. I seriously reccomend that you watch it, and if you don't love it, I'll eat my blender.
In still other, and possibly most exciting news, The Blue Method (htp://www.thebluemethod.com) has achieved international stardom via cd baby (http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/bluemethod). Our first online sale goes to the distinguished Mr. Hitoshi Takasawa of Japan, whom we've never had the pleasure of meeting or hearing of before, and also some dude in Canada bought one. Domination. You people should definitely pick it up, because it rules, and you could use some excitement in your lives.
Also, 14% of every purchase will go to the "Buy Me A New Blender" fund.
A quick aside that has nothing to do with anything. My new favorite song is Vibrate, by Rufus Wainwright. The first line is, "My phone's on vibrate for you." It's gold, jerry, gold.
With that out of the way lets get to the meat. My blender, my poor precious blender, which I use without fail each and every single day, is no more. Due undoubtedly to the consistency of use, and the frequency of ice crushing requests imposed upon it, two days ago the blade of my blender unexpectedly spun off the spindle and into my beverage, which remained, sadly, unblended. Knowing, the way you know about a good melon, that there was no fixing the still attractive and youthful appliance, I was forced to accept its untimely and pointless demise and put it to rest...on the floor right outside my kitchen.
The plan was to leave it there out of the way until I'd conceded that I had no other way of blending things that day, and then go and throw it out. But, as with so many other things and people, I completely lost interest or any kind of lifting/carrying motivations. So I guess it'll just sit there until some person who is unfamiliar with its addition to my decor trips over it, becomes agitated and insists that I let them dispose of it, which I probably would. Fortunately for the blender, that day may never come.
So anyway, now I have a loaner blender from my mom, which, may I say, sucks a fat one. The shape of the jar is all wrong and there's too many buttons and it smells like burning when I use the "ice crush" mode, which they should really call "bounce ice around inside the jar, chipping slowly away at the fragile cubes for several presidential administrations," but I don't think they could fit that above the button. Also, that title may disincline potential crushers of ice to use that option. But anyway, this blender can't hold a candle to its predecessor, which had a shiny brushed steel base and minimalistic yet highly uitilitarian low/high/pulse switch. Ahh, the memories.
Of course, from frustration my first inclination is to become a monk and leave the situation -- whoops, slipped into bust a move there for a second. Never know when that might sneak up on you. Anyway, my first inclination is to go out and buy the exact same blender because the old one was, lets face it, the bomb diggity. However, its extreme lack of endurance leads me to conclude that I need an equally simple setup and shape but with a sturdier construction and perhaps, a warranty. Conveniently, at the recent celebration of the day of my birth, I received a gift card to Home Depot, so perhaps I'll peruse their provisions in the way of perennial powered perturbers.
In other news, Tivo continues to be the shiznit, and my new favorite show ever(aside from seinfeld, of course, which is safely perched at number one without competition)is Good Eats on the food network. The difference between it and virtually every other mind numbing, do this, do that instructional cooking show is that Good Eats is not a cooking show, but rather, a food science show. I seriously reccomend that you watch it, and if you don't love it, I'll eat my blender.
In still other, and possibly most exciting news, The Blue Method (htp://www.thebluemethod.com) has achieved international stardom via cd baby (http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/bluemethod). Our first online sale goes to the distinguished Mr. Hitoshi Takasawa of Japan, whom we've never had the pleasure of meeting or hearing of before, and also some dude in Canada bought one. Domination. You people should definitely pick it up, because it rules, and you could use some excitement in your lives.
Also, 14% of every purchase will go to the "Buy Me A New Blender" fund.
Friday, May 21, 2004
You're a Peein'::
So, a journal is not a journal when you only write about trivial inconsequential shit that you think you can make sound funny. You have to be honest, you have to tell the gritty details in all their ugly accuracy no matter who is reading. So, that's what I'm going to do.
I have returned from Europe for the third time. Each time I've gone it has changed my life. Not sweeping, overwhelming changes like coverting to shintoism, or marrying a french prostitute, but definitely smaller, but just as significant changes that make you a different person whether you think they should or not. Like shaving your head.
Yes, alright, I did it, I cut it all off...are you happy now? So now you know, I shaved my head. It's not long and flowing like it was, it's short and stubbly and easy to manage, and I don't have to shower everyday if I don't want to, not that I wouldn't, but sometimes, like on sundays when you're out late the night before and you don't have anything to do all day except sit at home and watch Tivo'ed smallville's and gilmore girls's (girls's?) you just don't feel like waiting for the shower to heat up so you can scrub your long greasy disgusting mop that no one will see anyway. So in that situation, I'm not a dirty slob, I'm a pragmatist. But back to the point.
Or one of the points at least, which is that I shaved my head. I did it. In ireland. that's right, I was in Ireland, and there was a survey, and it was conclusive...100% of people said cut that dirty rag off your head. And I'd been thinking about it for a while anyway, and the barber shop had trophies in the window and claims of national championships, and I didn't even know they had barbering competitions, but apparently they do, and these guys dominated. So I asked one of them to shave all my hair off. And though he and I both cringed as he took the scissor to that first clean, shiny twelve inch strand of long glorious locks I've had for so very, very long, it's over now, it's all gone, and I'm ok with it. Change can be good. I've never been one to fear change, but I do like routine. SO anyway, just to get it out of the way, I'm officially a stubbly, cue balled uncle fester.
And it's not like a had a reason to keep it anyway. It was long and ugly and no one else in the band had long hair, and I can think of other ways to make myself stand out, and no one liked it anyway, except for one person a long time ago and she's gone now, and I'm still here. I'm still here and it doesn't matter so lets just move on to other things.
I'm moving.
I'm moving out of this goddamned city because I hate it. I hate everything about living in this piece of shit city, I hate everything I used to love. I hate finding a parking spot, and the traffic...I hate the useless wage tax, and the hiked up car insurance, and the parking tickets for parking on a street that gets cleaned every first and third wednesday of each month between nine and eleven AM. Or for stopping my car for literally two minutes to pick up my goddamned dry cleaning. And that's no joke. I hate going over the bridge, and paying the tolls, and the goddamn pot holes which are everywhere and multiplying at a rate that would have virile young bunnies shaking their heads and drafting population control legislation. Bunnies always make me think of cadbury cream eggs...mmmmmm cream eggs....but I digress. Again.
So, I'm moving to New Jersey, because its cheaper and easier, and I used to have reasons for being here but they're gone now and I'm still here. I'm still here and it doesn't matter. And this comes at a very convenient time, because having just returned, jet lagged and bladder bursting from a week long stint across the UK and Ireland, I step into my craphole apartment in a fantastic location for a reasonable price to find that my bathroom ceiling has collapsed, wet and heaving onto the bathroom floor at some point in the last seven days, leaving chunks of former ceiling crusted around every Thomas's English Muffin nook and cranny in the pathetic six by six foot square shitting hole. If I'd been drinking out of the toilet, I might have been killed.
Beautiful isn't it?
So yes, I'm moving tomorrow. It's all lined up and there's no stopping it, not that anyone would want to. Not that I would want anyone to, because I don't. I'm moving away, so goodbye city, goodbye shitty, tiny apartment, goodbye me from last week, last year, last life. I'm gone and it feels fucking good.
I'm setting a new precedent here. Honesty. Do you want to know me, know my life, my mind? Read on. It's a brave new world out there, and there's a whole new me staring back from behind the plaster chunks and drywall dust. I'm burning bridges and building spaceships. Domination.
So, a journal is not a journal when you only write about trivial inconsequential shit that you think you can make sound funny. You have to be honest, you have to tell the gritty details in all their ugly accuracy no matter who is reading. So, that's what I'm going to do.
I have returned from Europe for the third time. Each time I've gone it has changed my life. Not sweeping, overwhelming changes like coverting to shintoism, or marrying a french prostitute, but definitely smaller, but just as significant changes that make you a different person whether you think they should or not. Like shaving your head.
Yes, alright, I did it, I cut it all off...are you happy now? So now you know, I shaved my head. It's not long and flowing like it was, it's short and stubbly and easy to manage, and I don't have to shower everyday if I don't want to, not that I wouldn't, but sometimes, like on sundays when you're out late the night before and you don't have anything to do all day except sit at home and watch Tivo'ed smallville's and gilmore girls's (girls's?) you just don't feel like waiting for the shower to heat up so you can scrub your long greasy disgusting mop that no one will see anyway. So in that situation, I'm not a dirty slob, I'm a pragmatist. But back to the point.
Or one of the points at least, which is that I shaved my head. I did it. In ireland. that's right, I was in Ireland, and there was a survey, and it was conclusive...100% of people said cut that dirty rag off your head. And I'd been thinking about it for a while anyway, and the barber shop had trophies in the window and claims of national championships, and I didn't even know they had barbering competitions, but apparently they do, and these guys dominated. So I asked one of them to shave all my hair off. And though he and I both cringed as he took the scissor to that first clean, shiny twelve inch strand of long glorious locks I've had for so very, very long, it's over now, it's all gone, and I'm ok with it. Change can be good. I've never been one to fear change, but I do like routine. SO anyway, just to get it out of the way, I'm officially a stubbly, cue balled uncle fester.
And it's not like a had a reason to keep it anyway. It was long and ugly and no one else in the band had long hair, and I can think of other ways to make myself stand out, and no one liked it anyway, except for one person a long time ago and she's gone now, and I'm still here. I'm still here and it doesn't matter so lets just move on to other things.
I'm moving.
I'm moving out of this goddamned city because I hate it. I hate everything about living in this piece of shit city, I hate everything I used to love. I hate finding a parking spot, and the traffic...I hate the useless wage tax, and the hiked up car insurance, and the parking tickets for parking on a street that gets cleaned every first and third wednesday of each month between nine and eleven AM. Or for stopping my car for literally two minutes to pick up my goddamned dry cleaning. And that's no joke. I hate going over the bridge, and paying the tolls, and the goddamn pot holes which are everywhere and multiplying at a rate that would have virile young bunnies shaking their heads and drafting population control legislation. Bunnies always make me think of cadbury cream eggs...mmmmmm cream eggs....but I digress. Again.
So, I'm moving to New Jersey, because its cheaper and easier, and I used to have reasons for being here but they're gone now and I'm still here. I'm still here and it doesn't matter. And this comes at a very convenient time, because having just returned, jet lagged and bladder bursting from a week long stint across the UK and Ireland, I step into my craphole apartment in a fantastic location for a reasonable price to find that my bathroom ceiling has collapsed, wet and heaving onto the bathroom floor at some point in the last seven days, leaving chunks of former ceiling crusted around every Thomas's English Muffin nook and cranny in the pathetic six by six foot square shitting hole. If I'd been drinking out of the toilet, I might have been killed.
Beautiful isn't it?
So yes, I'm moving tomorrow. It's all lined up and there's no stopping it, not that anyone would want to. Not that I would want anyone to, because I don't. I'm moving away, so goodbye city, goodbye shitty, tiny apartment, goodbye me from last week, last year, last life. I'm gone and it feels fucking good.
I'm setting a new precedent here. Honesty. Do you want to know me, know my life, my mind? Read on. It's a brave new world out there, and there's a whole new me staring back from behind the plaster chunks and drywall dust. I'm burning bridges and building spaceships. Domination.
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
Going Klunk in the Night::
I do not have time for Klunk. In fact, I do not have time for much, much more important things than Klunk, such as eating, and sleeping, and often times the blowing of noses, and generally most things, which are, in general, more important than Klunk.
Sarah Klunk. A fitting name, as it sounds like something you would hit an intruder with should they happen to break into your home and stab you with something rusty. Klunk is what I might be inclined to diplomatically call, brain-liquifyingly boring. Last time we were out, or in as it were, she proceeded to pass out on my couch and remain there, whilst I went out and got drunk with other, unrelated peoples. Then I returned, and she was still there, on my couch, which, you know, I sometimes like to sit on, still sleeping, still liquifying my brain with how boring she was. I assume she wandered home the next morning, but she might have bored herself into coma a few times on the way there.
This particular night finds me having fixed Klunk's computer on a previous occasion and being owed dinner to be paid for by said Klunk. The only problem is, I have neither the free time, nor the desire to have any meal, let alone the most sacred of meals, with friggin' Klunk. I have to admit, though, that I did agree several days ago to have dinner with said Klunk tonight, because I thought that I would be free, which in reality, I am not. Was not. I was not free because The Blue Method scheduled a previously unscheduled improptu practice for this weekends slew of shows. And honestly, I'll take practice over said Klunk anyday. In fact, I'll almost always take anything over said Klunk, including a rectal exam.
But every time that I cancel dinner with said Klunk, said Klunk reacts as though I just told her that I'm backing out of donating her a kidney. Yelling and screaming about what a horrible person I am, making plans and then breaking them at the last minute, over and over and over.....and over and over again. But the thing is, fuck you Klunk.
Look, the fact of the matter is, weeknights are a time for not being with said Klunk. They are time for merry, jolly things like watching Tivo, and practicing with the band; working late and engaging in rectal exams. Said Klunk simply does not fit into my schedule, but, being the magnanimous humanitarian that I am, I agree to grant said Klunk the pleasure of my company the next night, being tomorrow night, which I again, several hours later, had to cancel out of the sheer dread of having to go through an entire day knowing that it will end with said Klunk.
I'm having a vision.....it's my future....I see... Klunklessness. I just hope I never encounter an intruder wielding a sharp, rusty weapon.
I do not have time for Klunk. In fact, I do not have time for much, much more important things than Klunk, such as eating, and sleeping, and often times the blowing of noses, and generally most things, which are, in general, more important than Klunk.
Sarah Klunk. A fitting name, as it sounds like something you would hit an intruder with should they happen to break into your home and stab you with something rusty. Klunk is what I might be inclined to diplomatically call, brain-liquifyingly boring. Last time we were out, or in as it were, she proceeded to pass out on my couch and remain there, whilst I went out and got drunk with other, unrelated peoples. Then I returned, and she was still there, on my couch, which, you know, I sometimes like to sit on, still sleeping, still liquifying my brain with how boring she was. I assume she wandered home the next morning, but she might have bored herself into coma a few times on the way there.
This particular night finds me having fixed Klunk's computer on a previous occasion and being owed dinner to be paid for by said Klunk. The only problem is, I have neither the free time, nor the desire to have any meal, let alone the most sacred of meals, with friggin' Klunk. I have to admit, though, that I did agree several days ago to have dinner with said Klunk tonight, because I thought that I would be free, which in reality, I am not. Was not. I was not free because The Blue Method scheduled a previously unscheduled improptu practice for this weekends slew of shows. And honestly, I'll take practice over said Klunk anyday. In fact, I'll almost always take anything over said Klunk, including a rectal exam.
But every time that I cancel dinner with said Klunk, said Klunk reacts as though I just told her that I'm backing out of donating her a kidney. Yelling and screaming about what a horrible person I am, making plans and then breaking them at the last minute, over and over and over.....and over and over again. But the thing is, fuck you Klunk.
Look, the fact of the matter is, weeknights are a time for not being with said Klunk. They are time for merry, jolly things like watching Tivo, and practicing with the band; working late and engaging in rectal exams. Said Klunk simply does not fit into my schedule, but, being the magnanimous humanitarian that I am, I agree to grant said Klunk the pleasure of my company the next night, being tomorrow night, which I again, several hours later, had to cancel out of the sheer dread of having to go through an entire day knowing that it will end with said Klunk.
I'm having a vision.....it's my future....I see... Klunklessness. I just hope I never encounter an intruder wielding a sharp, rusty weapon.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Matrixilated::
Ok, so I watched "The Matrix: Reloaded" again, because I refuse to believe that it sucks as bad as just about everyone says it does, and I hate to be the guy submitting half baked theories on directoral motivation in sci-fi movies, but hey, I am that guy so I guess I can deal with a little self-loathing.
Right, so lets start off with the crazy shit, like when Neo gets to see the Architect. This scene is basically the explanation of the whole movie, and the explanation of the super complicated undercurrent of all three movies, which rules. However, If you're anything like me, when you watched the scene excitedly in the theatre for the first time, gripping someone's arm and squealing softly because, lets face it, you're a movie nerd, after you listened to the convincingly mechanical monotone soliloquoy of the architect, you took a deep breath and replied "huh? Dude, did you get that? What the fuck is he jabbering about?" And then a bunch of people who are obviously way smarter than you (yeah, right) shushed you in a very impolite way causing you to be slightly less enamoured with the film for several seconds while you berated them inappropriately with big words and harsh tones. Fuckers. But back to the point. What?
The point is, I think I figured out the second time around -- and yes, I am a little disappointed that I didn't get it the first time around, priding myself on getting things the first time around as I do, but I mean come on, he was talking super fast and in a difficult to interpret tone of voice which does not lend itself to explanation of an already difficult subject matter -- what the hell that honky cracker was talking about. What he said was, that he built the matrix and it was this perfect piece of precise mathematical art, but somehow was a resounding failure. And then the oracle, which was a program that was created to research and probe into the human psyche for better understanding and hence a better matrix, discovered that a solution to the problem of the matrix, the "bug" so to speak, was that each person had to be given a choice of whether to accept the matrix as reality, even if the choice was on a less than conscious level (insert leap of movie faith here). Consequently, since every person was given a choice, there was a small minority that refused to accept the reality of the matrix, hence the questioning nature of Neo in the first movie. In addition to this, the architect eludes to the nature of "The One" as being created or at least altered in some way by the machines. He references the "design" of Neo's predecessor's and the "code that [Neo] carries." So, the events of the second movie are orchestrated by the matrix to lead The One back to The Source, the central core, CPU of the matrix, where The One encounters The Architect who explains all this and presents the one with the choice. The first choice is: The One can fulfill his purpose, which is to enter the source and reinsert the code he carries back into the matrix essentially rebooting it, allowing all the people inside to continue living. This choice is to coincide with the destruction of the human city, Zion, and the extermination of all its inhabitants. The One is then to select a group of 23 individuals from the matrix who will rebuild Zion and start the whole process over again. The second choice is to return to the matrix, which would cause a "cataclysmic system failure" causing all the inhabitants of the matrix to be executed along with everyone in city resulting in the effective extinction of the human race. So , as you can see, it's all very simple.
What's not explaned is how the machines facilitate the creation of The One and how they "insert" the critical "code" in him which makes him the essential instrument in the success of the matrix. The other thing that is never mentioned is how exactly the first few matrices "failed." This fact is stated by the architect but never discussed. Interesting.
Another thing I found interesting about the movie was when Morpheus's Ship, The Nebuchadnezzar, is destroyed, and Morpheus says, "I have dreamed a dream, but now that dream has gone from me." This is a rather clever reference to the bible, Daniel Chapter 2 verse 3, in which the King Nebuchadnezzar had a disturbing dream, but could not remember it, and called on daniel to explain it to him. Daniel told him that he dreamt of a statue made of five different pieces with a head of gold, and that crumbled and fell. He told him that the five pieces were kingdoms, the gold head being Nebuchadnezzar and the other four being kngdoms and rulers to come after him. This is also referenced in the car chase scene, where one of the cars bears the license plate DA0203. Very clever. Also note that Morpheus is the god of sleep or dreams in greek mythology. Very nice.
As you can plainly see, some parts of the Matrix: Reloaded do indeed suck fat ass. A lot of the dialogue is contrived, the new characters suck...I mean Jada Pinket just sucks over all, admit it. She sucks a big fat wang, and this movie is no different. She's about as good an actor as, say, my colon. Let my colon play Naiobi, it'd do just as shitty a job. Anyway, it does suck, but I dig it, mostly because of all the hidden meanings and because most people just don't understand it.
There is a ton of info like the above to be read on this subject. My favorite::
http://www.corporatemofo.com/stories/051803matrix.htm
29 Days left as a Philadelphian...
Ok, so I watched "The Matrix: Reloaded" again, because I refuse to believe that it sucks as bad as just about everyone says it does, and I hate to be the guy submitting half baked theories on directoral motivation in sci-fi movies, but hey, I am that guy so I guess I can deal with a little self-loathing.
Right, so lets start off with the crazy shit, like when Neo gets to see the Architect. This scene is basically the explanation of the whole movie, and the explanation of the super complicated undercurrent of all three movies, which rules. However, If you're anything like me, when you watched the scene excitedly in the theatre for the first time, gripping someone's arm and squealing softly because, lets face it, you're a movie nerd, after you listened to the convincingly mechanical monotone soliloquoy of the architect, you took a deep breath and replied "huh? Dude, did you get that? What the fuck is he jabbering about?" And then a bunch of people who are obviously way smarter than you (yeah, right) shushed you in a very impolite way causing you to be slightly less enamoured with the film for several seconds while you berated them inappropriately with big words and harsh tones. Fuckers. But back to the point. What?
The point is, I think I figured out the second time around -- and yes, I am a little disappointed that I didn't get it the first time around, priding myself on getting things the first time around as I do, but I mean come on, he was talking super fast and in a difficult to interpret tone of voice which does not lend itself to explanation of an already difficult subject matter -- what the hell that honky cracker was talking about. What he said was, that he built the matrix and it was this perfect piece of precise mathematical art, but somehow was a resounding failure. And then the oracle, which was a program that was created to research and probe into the human psyche for better understanding and hence a better matrix, discovered that a solution to the problem of the matrix, the "bug" so to speak, was that each person had to be given a choice of whether to accept the matrix as reality, even if the choice was on a less than conscious level (insert leap of movie faith here). Consequently, since every person was given a choice, there was a small minority that refused to accept the reality of the matrix, hence the questioning nature of Neo in the first movie. In addition to this, the architect eludes to the nature of "The One" as being created or at least altered in some way by the machines. He references the "design" of Neo's predecessor's and the "code that [Neo] carries." So, the events of the second movie are orchestrated by the matrix to lead The One back to The Source, the central core, CPU of the matrix, where The One encounters The Architect who explains all this and presents the one with the choice. The first choice is: The One can fulfill his purpose, which is to enter the source and reinsert the code he carries back into the matrix essentially rebooting it, allowing all the people inside to continue living. This choice is to coincide with the destruction of the human city, Zion, and the extermination of all its inhabitants. The One is then to select a group of 23 individuals from the matrix who will rebuild Zion and start the whole process over again. The second choice is to return to the matrix, which would cause a "cataclysmic system failure" causing all the inhabitants of the matrix to be executed along with everyone in city resulting in the effective extinction of the human race. So , as you can see, it's all very simple.
What's not explaned is how the machines facilitate the creation of The One and how they "insert" the critical "code" in him which makes him the essential instrument in the success of the matrix. The other thing that is never mentioned is how exactly the first few matrices "failed." This fact is stated by the architect but never discussed. Interesting.
Another thing I found interesting about the movie was when Morpheus's Ship, The Nebuchadnezzar, is destroyed, and Morpheus says, "I have dreamed a dream, but now that dream has gone from me." This is a rather clever reference to the bible, Daniel Chapter 2 verse 3, in which the King Nebuchadnezzar had a disturbing dream, but could not remember it, and called on daniel to explain it to him. Daniel told him that he dreamt of a statue made of five different pieces with a head of gold, and that crumbled and fell. He told him that the five pieces were kingdoms, the gold head being Nebuchadnezzar and the other four being kngdoms and rulers to come after him. This is also referenced in the car chase scene, where one of the cars bears the license plate DA0203. Very clever. Also note that Morpheus is the god of sleep or dreams in greek mythology. Very nice.
As you can plainly see, some parts of the Matrix: Reloaded do indeed suck fat ass. A lot of the dialogue is contrived, the new characters suck...I mean Jada Pinket just sucks over all, admit it. She sucks a big fat wang, and this movie is no different. She's about as good an actor as, say, my colon. Let my colon play Naiobi, it'd do just as shitty a job. Anyway, it does suck, but I dig it, mostly because of all the hidden meanings and because most people just don't understand it.
There is a ton of info like the above to be read on this subject. My favorite::
http://www.corporatemofo.com/stories/051803matrix.htm
29 Days left as a Philadelphian...
Friday, April 30, 2004
Passion of the Cheese::
I think my ultimate goal is to just never need to sleep. Silly, you say? Unttainable you say? Misguided,you say? Well I say shut your pie hole, nobody asked for your crappy opinion, which, by the way, is stupid. Whoa. That's lack of sleep talking. Wait, no...that's me talking, I forgot, I'm a prick.
So look, it's not like I don't like to sleep. I love to sleep. Sleeping could conceivably be the best part of my day. On days when there's no gig of course, which lately, are few and far between. Well, few, anyway. Comparitively. But that's not the point.
The point is that at night, I just don't want to go to bed. Sitting on the couch, or here in front of my computer, typing, eyelids drooping, body begging for sweet rest, I just don't want to fall asleep. I want to stay up all night, and quite often, I do. See, I have what we in the biz call "flex time," which basically means that as long as I cram 40 hours of work into seven days, I don't get fired. So if I stay up till say, 3 AM, like tonight, I can go in tomorrow at, say, never, and it'll be, as they say, "all good." So sleep can wait, for there are more pressing issues to be discussed.
No, I haven't seen "The Passion of the Christ," and goddamn it, I'm not going to. I can already tell that it's just a complete exploitation of people's beliefs and religion enabling mel gibson (whose name I refuse to capitalize since he is, in fact, the devil) to make money off all those years my parents spent instilling a huge healthy helping of catholic guilt in me. Mel gibson can suck on my salty testes, he's not getting my 8 bucks.
Now keep in mind I haven't seen the movie, but I reserve the right to be completely closed minded about just about everything, so screw off. And just the other day, on easter sunday, I got into a somewhat heated conversation with my aunt wherein she expressed her complete shock that I hadn't seen it yet, because it was "so realistic," and "that's the way it really happened." To which I replied, "Oh really? Were you there? Did the movie bear a striking resemblance to your own eyewitnessed memory of the shocking events leading up to the crucifiction?"
Then again, I'm just a pissed off kinda guy. I just hate it when people make assumptions like, that the events described in the bible actually happened, which has yet to be proven, or that they happened in any one particular way, or that one story is more credible than the next, because when it all boils down to it, there's really no absolute proof of anything. All you have are four stories written by four different guys, that more or less say the same thing and surprise surprise, at the time the four authors were together pretty much all the time sharing the same beliefs. Now combine that story with the all too coincidental similarities with stories about altogether different and unrelated prophets and saviors from just about every other major religion, and you know what you have? A big heaping lack of evidence. And why should I believe that? Everything else in life is don't believe what you hear, and you can't beleive your eyes, and don't trust anyone. Except in religion, some guy with no historical credentials whatsoever wants me to basically take his word on a whole system of beliefs and spirituality with not one shred of physical evidence.
And then you come at me with, well half the civilized world believes this, so it must be true. But the only reason you belive this particular story now, is that a long ass time ago, some roman emperor sat down and said, listen, this is the story we're all going to believe, and we're gonna kill anyone who refuses to believe it. Then the romans conquered most of the world, or at least europe, and the descendants of all those converted Europeans spread all over the world, bringing their crappy religions with them everywhere they went.
Now if that emperor had sat down and said, from now on we're going to worship....cheese. Cheese is our god and death to all who will not bow down to cheese. Hail cheese, in all it's terrible glory.....If he had said that, well then you'd have a big stupid commercialized hunk of cheese hanging over your bed, because cheese was eaten to pay for your sins, because you are an asshole. Everynight you would pray, oh great and merciful cheese, in your wisdom, grant me the cheesy strength to blah blah blah blah blah.
And now, as it is past 3:30 AM, and I have to work at some point tomorrow, I guess I should abruptly end with no conclusion and go to bed. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy cheese.....
I think my ultimate goal is to just never need to sleep. Silly, you say? Unttainable you say? Misguided,you say? Well I say shut your pie hole, nobody asked for your crappy opinion, which, by the way, is stupid. Whoa. That's lack of sleep talking. Wait, no...that's me talking, I forgot, I'm a prick.
So look, it's not like I don't like to sleep. I love to sleep. Sleeping could conceivably be the best part of my day. On days when there's no gig of course, which lately, are few and far between. Well, few, anyway. Comparitively. But that's not the point.
The point is that at night, I just don't want to go to bed. Sitting on the couch, or here in front of my computer, typing, eyelids drooping, body begging for sweet rest, I just don't want to fall asleep. I want to stay up all night, and quite often, I do. See, I have what we in the biz call "flex time," which basically means that as long as I cram 40 hours of work into seven days, I don't get fired. So if I stay up till say, 3 AM, like tonight, I can go in tomorrow at, say, never, and it'll be, as they say, "all good." So sleep can wait, for there are more pressing issues to be discussed.
No, I haven't seen "The Passion of the Christ," and goddamn it, I'm not going to. I can already tell that it's just a complete exploitation of people's beliefs and religion enabling mel gibson (whose name I refuse to capitalize since he is, in fact, the devil) to make money off all those years my parents spent instilling a huge healthy helping of catholic guilt in me. Mel gibson can suck on my salty testes, he's not getting my 8 bucks.
Now keep in mind I haven't seen the movie, but I reserve the right to be completely closed minded about just about everything, so screw off. And just the other day, on easter sunday, I got into a somewhat heated conversation with my aunt wherein she expressed her complete shock that I hadn't seen it yet, because it was "so realistic," and "that's the way it really happened." To which I replied, "Oh really? Were you there? Did the movie bear a striking resemblance to your own eyewitnessed memory of the shocking events leading up to the crucifiction?"
Then again, I'm just a pissed off kinda guy. I just hate it when people make assumptions like, that the events described in the bible actually happened, which has yet to be proven, or that they happened in any one particular way, or that one story is more credible than the next, because when it all boils down to it, there's really no absolute proof of anything. All you have are four stories written by four different guys, that more or less say the same thing and surprise surprise, at the time the four authors were together pretty much all the time sharing the same beliefs. Now combine that story with the all too coincidental similarities with stories about altogether different and unrelated prophets and saviors from just about every other major religion, and you know what you have? A big heaping lack of evidence. And why should I believe that? Everything else in life is don't believe what you hear, and you can't beleive your eyes, and don't trust anyone. Except in religion, some guy with no historical credentials whatsoever wants me to basically take his word on a whole system of beliefs and spirituality with not one shred of physical evidence.
And then you come at me with, well half the civilized world believes this, so it must be true. But the only reason you belive this particular story now, is that a long ass time ago, some roman emperor sat down and said, listen, this is the story we're all going to believe, and we're gonna kill anyone who refuses to believe it. Then the romans conquered most of the world, or at least europe, and the descendants of all those converted Europeans spread all over the world, bringing their crappy religions with them everywhere they went.
Now if that emperor had sat down and said, from now on we're going to worship....cheese. Cheese is our god and death to all who will not bow down to cheese. Hail cheese, in all it's terrible glory.....If he had said that, well then you'd have a big stupid commercialized hunk of cheese hanging over your bed, because cheese was eaten to pay for your sins, because you are an asshole. Everynight you would pray, oh great and merciful cheese, in your wisdom, grant me the cheesy strength to blah blah blah blah blah.
And now, as it is past 3:30 AM, and I have to work at some point tomorrow, I guess I should abruptly end with no conclusion and go to bed. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy cheese.....
Monday, March 29, 2004
My Ants in Town::
Killing one or two is easy. Stomp, swap, smash, crush. That's all there is to it. One motion, no remorse, easy. But it doesn't matter. Ants. Fucking annoying.
Killing ants isn't like killing a bear. Its not like ripping off a bandaid. Ants are like your sleeping grandmother on the couch at Christmas. Sure, she's not bothering you now, but it's only a matter of time before she wakes up, and insists on watching Lawrence Welk or some other horseshit on your tv. Invading. Stealing. Those little fuckers.
So yeah, I have ants. Now I know what you're thinking....what a wretched repugnant slob you must be, wallowing in a tepid pool of your own festering stank, attracting insects and small woodland animals to the scene in search of something dead or dying on which to scavenge. But you would be sorely mistaken friends, for I wallow not, and my pool of festering stank is in fact not tepid at all. Admittedly I'm not the cleanest guy on the planet. Sure I leave some dirty dishes around, but does that make me a pig? Sometimes I drop clothes on the floor...qualifying me as some vile troll? I think not.
Look, I'm not that dirty. I eat in my bedroom sometimes, that's all. I should be able to eat in my bedroom if I want to. I should be able to crust my genitals in tostidos and dip them in hot gooey salsa con queso if I want to, and do you know why? Because I'm a grown man, and I live alone, so who gives a fuck what I do? However, there are, as you might have guessed, some very unpleasant ramifications that accompany the dipping of genitals in salsa con queso, namely, you attract some unwelcome six legged friends. And they never go away. But see the whole salsa/testicles thing is not to blame here. Before ants can feast on the leftovers from your deviant lifestyle, they have to have a way of getting into your apartment. So somewhere in the infinite well of problems in my building there's some little crack in the foundation where some completely inconsiderate ants are crawling in and setting up shop. And for that, friends, they must die.
But ants are tough as hell to kill. You can't just step on them, squash them, burn them, shoot them and stab them. Well you could, but more will inevitably come back. The key is to kill the queen. That bitch. Without her they all die. So you buy some weak poison, so that the stupid unsuspecting little ants will eat some, and bring some back to the nest and feed it to their stupid unsuspecting ant friends, and they bring two friends, and they bring two friends, and so on, and so on, until everyone is dead. Pretty sweet. Except that the Goddamn ants won't eat the very weak poison because you bought it off some half cocked website where they advertise real customer reviews, and everybody can't believe how fast and easy it was, and how effective it was at killing ants, and it cost 20 friggin dollars, and it comes from some tiny little middle eastern nation on the northern tip of my ass and probably tastes like carpet cleaner to some particularly persnickety pests.
So now what? I still have ants, I guess, because every once in a while I'm sitting at my computer, innocently ranting about my life, and I'll see one walking by. Just mosying on down the desk, passing by a big honking load of weak ant poison, off to some ant utopia that's undoubtedly flourishing in one of my lesser frequented left shoes. I suppose what I'll do is clean up the notably unsightly pile of ant poison, wipe everything down with some sort of clearner that advertises kililng 99.9% of germs and , with any luck, everything else, and hope that I don't wake up one morning, put on my shoes and immediately have my foot gnawed off by 6 million stupid, unsuspecting, pissed off ants.
Killing one or two is easy. Stomp, swap, smash, crush. That's all there is to it. One motion, no remorse, easy. But it doesn't matter. Ants. Fucking annoying.
Killing ants isn't like killing a bear. Its not like ripping off a bandaid. Ants are like your sleeping grandmother on the couch at Christmas. Sure, she's not bothering you now, but it's only a matter of time before she wakes up, and insists on watching Lawrence Welk or some other horseshit on your tv. Invading. Stealing. Those little fuckers.
So yeah, I have ants. Now I know what you're thinking....what a wretched repugnant slob you must be, wallowing in a tepid pool of your own festering stank, attracting insects and small woodland animals to the scene in search of something dead or dying on which to scavenge. But you would be sorely mistaken friends, for I wallow not, and my pool of festering stank is in fact not tepid at all. Admittedly I'm not the cleanest guy on the planet. Sure I leave some dirty dishes around, but does that make me a pig? Sometimes I drop clothes on the floor...qualifying me as some vile troll? I think not.
Look, I'm not that dirty. I eat in my bedroom sometimes, that's all. I should be able to eat in my bedroom if I want to. I should be able to crust my genitals in tostidos and dip them in hot gooey salsa con queso if I want to, and do you know why? Because I'm a grown man, and I live alone, so who gives a fuck what I do? However, there are, as you might have guessed, some very unpleasant ramifications that accompany the dipping of genitals in salsa con queso, namely, you attract some unwelcome six legged friends. And they never go away. But see the whole salsa/testicles thing is not to blame here. Before ants can feast on the leftovers from your deviant lifestyle, they have to have a way of getting into your apartment. So somewhere in the infinite well of problems in my building there's some little crack in the foundation where some completely inconsiderate ants are crawling in and setting up shop. And for that, friends, they must die.
But ants are tough as hell to kill. You can't just step on them, squash them, burn them, shoot them and stab them. Well you could, but more will inevitably come back. The key is to kill the queen. That bitch. Without her they all die. So you buy some weak poison, so that the stupid unsuspecting little ants will eat some, and bring some back to the nest and feed it to their stupid unsuspecting ant friends, and they bring two friends, and they bring two friends, and so on, and so on, until everyone is dead. Pretty sweet. Except that the Goddamn ants won't eat the very weak poison because you bought it off some half cocked website where they advertise real customer reviews, and everybody can't believe how fast and easy it was, and how effective it was at killing ants, and it cost 20 friggin dollars, and it comes from some tiny little middle eastern nation on the northern tip of my ass and probably tastes like carpet cleaner to some particularly persnickety pests.
So now what? I still have ants, I guess, because every once in a while I'm sitting at my computer, innocently ranting about my life, and I'll see one walking by. Just mosying on down the desk, passing by a big honking load of weak ant poison, off to some ant utopia that's undoubtedly flourishing in one of my lesser frequented left shoes. I suppose what I'll do is clean up the notably unsightly pile of ant poison, wipe everything down with some sort of clearner that advertises kililng 99.9% of germs and , with any luck, everything else, and hope that I don't wake up one morning, put on my shoes and immediately have my foot gnawed off by 6 million stupid, unsuspecting, pissed off ants.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Brand New Car Smell
Its gonna smell good. Like, new good. Brand spankin new good. Is how it will smell, I mean.
I'm talking, of course, about my brand spankin new car, which I pick up tomorrow morning, and which will smell brand spankin new good. It will fill my nostrils with newness, and there shall be much rejoicing.
So yeah, new car, finally. My old clunker has finally reached the end of its pitiable lemon life, and will be forever retired to be being driven by high school kids and junk yard proprietors, and other people who have direct access to trash. I can say this callously and without remorse due to the fact that I've only had the thing a year and it has let me down ceaselessly in times of dire need and low temperature.
In fact, even peripheral parts of the car, e.g. the tires, have let me down at the worst possible time. Like when I'm leaving the studio, in the middle of January, when there's snow and ice on the ground, and I'm in Manayunk, the hill and crest capital of the world....all factors contributing to the worst tire changing environment imaginable. But that was a while ago and I'm over it.
Mostly. The fact is, for some reason I have just an incredibly difficult time buying new things. I buy everything used. Or refurbished, which I think means, "slightly crappier than new, and with a funny smell." That's what I'm comfortable with. That way I know that when I inevitably ruin the miscellaneous stuff in question, at least it will already have been partially ruined when I got it, therefore disencumbering me of at least part of the blame. That's all I really want out of life...to not be responsible.
Also, part of it is the money. Moreso, the money leaving my hand. That's the part I have trouble with. I'm what you might call "cheap." Yeah, that's right, I'm not gonna sugar coat it by calling it, "practical", or "thrifty" or "ignominious." Oh, oh no I won't. I'll come right out and say it. I am fucking cheap as hell. I don't want to buy a new car, a new tv, I don't want anything that isn't stripped down, watered down or broken down. I'll fix it, repair it, tie it up in a knot and throw it in the river. Huh? What does that mean? I'm really just babbling now. But the point is, I just can't spend money.
I prefer, actually, to hoarde it. I just want to have piles of money in my house. I want a money bin that I can swim in like in duck tales. I want to wipe my ass with it. Although, that could lead to chafing....
Anyway, I think I fear spending money, because I have such an unblemished history of making the wrong decision. I almost nearly close to sort of always make the wrong decision, and somehow later it becomes painfully, glaringly obvious what decision I should have made. Like when I bought my current, soon to be former, car. Yeah, I'd say that goes up there with the Jerry Curl and buttless chapps with all time worst decisions. But hey, I shit the bed, and that's that. I'm moving on.
And when I go there to pick up the new car tomorrow, friends, I will close up all the windows and the fully retractable power glass moonroof, and I will slam my face down against the Sport lit LED dashboard and take a big whopping whiff of that brand ass spankin' new ass car smell. Ass. Because, in all likelihood, I may never smell anything new again. Unless I'm wiping my ass with money. And then that new smell will probably smell a whole lot like my ass.
Its gonna smell good. Like, new good. Brand spankin new good. Is how it will smell, I mean.
I'm talking, of course, about my brand spankin new car, which I pick up tomorrow morning, and which will smell brand spankin new good. It will fill my nostrils with newness, and there shall be much rejoicing.
So yeah, new car, finally. My old clunker has finally reached the end of its pitiable lemon life, and will be forever retired to be being driven by high school kids and junk yard proprietors, and other people who have direct access to trash. I can say this callously and without remorse due to the fact that I've only had the thing a year and it has let me down ceaselessly in times of dire need and low temperature.
In fact, even peripheral parts of the car, e.g. the tires, have let me down at the worst possible time. Like when I'm leaving the studio, in the middle of January, when there's snow and ice on the ground, and I'm in Manayunk, the hill and crest capital of the world....all factors contributing to the worst tire changing environment imaginable. But that was a while ago and I'm over it.
Mostly. The fact is, for some reason I have just an incredibly difficult time buying new things. I buy everything used. Or refurbished, which I think means, "slightly crappier than new, and with a funny smell." That's what I'm comfortable with. That way I know that when I inevitably ruin the miscellaneous stuff in question, at least it will already have been partially ruined when I got it, therefore disencumbering me of at least part of the blame. That's all I really want out of life...to not be responsible.
Also, part of it is the money. Moreso, the money leaving my hand. That's the part I have trouble with. I'm what you might call "cheap." Yeah, that's right, I'm not gonna sugar coat it by calling it, "practical", or "thrifty" or "ignominious." Oh, oh no I won't. I'll come right out and say it. I am fucking cheap as hell. I don't want to buy a new car, a new tv, I don't want anything that isn't stripped down, watered down or broken down. I'll fix it, repair it, tie it up in a knot and throw it in the river. Huh? What does that mean? I'm really just babbling now. But the point is, I just can't spend money.
I prefer, actually, to hoarde it. I just want to have piles of money in my house. I want a money bin that I can swim in like in duck tales. I want to wipe my ass with it. Although, that could lead to chafing....
Anyway, I think I fear spending money, because I have such an unblemished history of making the wrong decision. I almost nearly close to sort of always make the wrong decision, and somehow later it becomes painfully, glaringly obvious what decision I should have made. Like when I bought my current, soon to be former, car. Yeah, I'd say that goes up there with the Jerry Curl and buttless chapps with all time worst decisions. But hey, I shit the bed, and that's that. I'm moving on.
And when I go there to pick up the new car tomorrow, friends, I will close up all the windows and the fully retractable power glass moonroof, and I will slam my face down against the Sport lit LED dashboard and take a big whopping whiff of that brand ass spankin' new ass car smell. Ass. Because, in all likelihood, I may never smell anything new again. Unless I'm wiping my ass with money. And then that new smell will probably smell a whole lot like my ass.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Careful not to step in my debt.
I, finally and after long periods of the opposite, am on the fringe of being without debt.
Well, that's not exactly true. Well, that is exactly true, but what's false is the implication, being that I was, up until now, and for allegedly long periods previously, in some sort of debt, which, in fact, I wasn't...sort of. the fact of the matter is, or was, at least, that I had recently spent several thousands of dollars repairing my shit-tacular idiot-mobile, and hadn't exactly paid that money back to the creditors who had lent it to me. However, an additional fact of the matter is, was? is? is. is that I had the money the whole while, but it was, inconveniently, located in my savings account which, for some ridiculous reason which I'm sure has to do with my mother and possibly catholicism, I am loathe to sap, drain or withdraw from in any way. So, here I stand, having finally paid the brunt of it back, and perched on the inevitability of receiving a large sum from the immutable federal government presently. Whoopdie fuckin' do.
The sad part is that I was forced, to avoid paying sizable interest related penalties, to drain some funds from my prized, ribbon winning saving account, and thus feel the nigh unquenchable guilt and shame of failure which prods me into paying myself back, so to speak. So technically, though I am out of debt with regard to any outside source, I am still, confusingly, in very much debt to myself, which makes not one shred of sense, except from my obviously perverted viewpoint. So, on the dawn of the next day (or-- lets be realisitc, around ten) I will access my accounts, engage payments, transfer balances, and other such quasi-esoteric bankisms which will result in that little outstanding balance line of all my credit accounts to read zero. Domination.
Of course, in spite of the huge weight that will no longer be resting on my proverbial testes, I will still be living on protein powder and saltine crackers until such time as I am able to replenish my savings to their full, once glorious capacities. And it will be good.
And in addition....soon, yes very soon, muah ha ha ha haaaaa.....I will begin reaping not insignificant benefits from my fledgling band, which, though dominant, has until now failed to be in any way profitable, due to, conincidentally, a big fat honkin debt. With that debt underfoot and out of mind, we can begin selling our soon to be released CD, and playing mad gigs, and makin', as they say, mad loot. Double domination.
And although my sole means of generating the money with which I will pay off my debt is this persistently present day job, I still feel an overwhelming desire to not go to work ever. Work really does not motivate me to go to work. Nothing, in fact, motivates me to go to work, with the exception of knowing that without income, I would undoubtedly be forced to move back in with my mom, which would be the absolute worst possible thing to ever happen in my life, so far. Well maybe not, but pretty damn close.
So, with the threat of mom's house lingering on the horizon I suppose I have to continue at least showing up to work. And someday I will have amassed a fortune of such great proportions that I myself will have to admit that I can afford to buy some new pants. Shortly thereafter I will conquer the known world.
I, finally and after long periods of the opposite, am on the fringe of being without debt.
Well, that's not exactly true. Well, that is exactly true, but what's false is the implication, being that I was, up until now, and for allegedly long periods previously, in some sort of debt, which, in fact, I wasn't...sort of. the fact of the matter is, or was, at least, that I had recently spent several thousands of dollars repairing my shit-tacular idiot-mobile, and hadn't exactly paid that money back to the creditors who had lent it to me. However, an additional fact of the matter is, was? is? is. is that I had the money the whole while, but it was, inconveniently, located in my savings account which, for some ridiculous reason which I'm sure has to do with my mother and possibly catholicism, I am loathe to sap, drain or withdraw from in any way. So, here I stand, having finally paid the brunt of it back, and perched on the inevitability of receiving a large sum from the immutable federal government presently. Whoopdie fuckin' do.
The sad part is that I was forced, to avoid paying sizable interest related penalties, to drain some funds from my prized, ribbon winning saving account, and thus feel the nigh unquenchable guilt and shame of failure which prods me into paying myself back, so to speak. So technically, though I am out of debt with regard to any outside source, I am still, confusingly, in very much debt to myself, which makes not one shred of sense, except from my obviously perverted viewpoint. So, on the dawn of the next day (or-- lets be realisitc, around ten) I will access my accounts, engage payments, transfer balances, and other such quasi-esoteric bankisms which will result in that little outstanding balance line of all my credit accounts to read zero. Domination.
Of course, in spite of the huge weight that will no longer be resting on my proverbial testes, I will still be living on protein powder and saltine crackers until such time as I am able to replenish my savings to their full, once glorious capacities. And it will be good.
And in addition....soon, yes very soon, muah ha ha ha haaaaa.....I will begin reaping not insignificant benefits from my fledgling band, which, though dominant, has until now failed to be in any way profitable, due to, conincidentally, a big fat honkin debt. With that debt underfoot and out of mind, we can begin selling our soon to be released CD, and playing mad gigs, and makin', as they say, mad loot. Double domination.
And although my sole means of generating the money with which I will pay off my debt is this persistently present day job, I still feel an overwhelming desire to not go to work ever. Work really does not motivate me to go to work. Nothing, in fact, motivates me to go to work, with the exception of knowing that without income, I would undoubtedly be forced to move back in with my mom, which would be the absolute worst possible thing to ever happen in my life, so far. Well maybe not, but pretty damn close.
So, with the threat of mom's house lingering on the horizon I suppose I have to continue at least showing up to work. And someday I will have amassed a fortune of such great proportions that I myself will have to admit that I can afford to buy some new pants. Shortly thereafter I will conquer the known world.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Frustrated with the idiocy of youth
"hey well i dun feel like updatin bout nethin b4 2day cus nuttin happened neway so 2day i came bac 2 atlantic city and me an ava went 2 da beach but it was freezin so we came bac an messed wit pplz online (soo funni lol) then we went bac down2 tha beach an then afterwards we went bac 2 her house an went in tha hottub then bianca came ova so we stayed in there 4 awhile then we went online 4 a sec (an i got a nosebleed lol) then we went bac 2 da beach an we were like tryin2 have a conversation but every 5 seconds we'd b hit by a wave lol so then after that ....."
It goes on like that for several more would-be paragraphs, separated from literary classics only by its lack of any type of coherence and its complete disregard of any sort of grammatical convention. This is what I like to call "the idocy of youth."
Now, I am no longer what I might be inclined to call "young." In fact, I'm old. I'm real old. I'm not as old as your mom, but I'm old enough to be her embarrassingly too young for her sextoy. The point is, I can't read this. This, to me, appears as feces smeared all over the page. It's crap. It's the crap of crap. The person who wrote it....is crap. You.....are probably also crap, but it isn't good practice to insult the reader, so I'll abstain from calling attention to your obvious crapitude.
Being old, as I am, I feel as though I may have lost touch, somewhat, with the mainstream demographic, and at least a year early I might add. I just can't get excited about khakis and flip flops. Not that I ever could, but lately I especially can't. I think pop music is pretty much a dick in the ear, and I think "punk rockers" should die of gonnarhea and rot in hell.
Man, when did I get this bitter? Oh wait, I was always this bitter. Ha.
"hey well i dun feel like updatin bout nethin b4 2day cus nuttin happened neway so 2day i came bac 2 atlantic city and me an ava went 2 da beach but it was freezin so we came bac an messed wit pplz online (soo funni lol) then we went bac down2 tha beach an then afterwards we went bac 2 her house an went in tha hottub then bianca came ova so we stayed in there 4 awhile then we went online 4 a sec (an i got a nosebleed lol) then we went bac 2 da beach an we were like tryin2 have a conversation but every 5 seconds we'd b hit by a wave lol so then after that ....."
It goes on like that for several more would-be paragraphs, separated from literary classics only by its lack of any type of coherence and its complete disregard of any sort of grammatical convention. This is what I like to call "the idocy of youth."
Now, I am no longer what I might be inclined to call "young." In fact, I'm old. I'm real old. I'm not as old as your mom, but I'm old enough to be her embarrassingly too young for her sextoy. The point is, I can't read this. This, to me, appears as feces smeared all over the page. It's crap. It's the crap of crap. The person who wrote it....is crap. You.....are probably also crap, but it isn't good practice to insult the reader, so I'll abstain from calling attention to your obvious crapitude.
Being old, as I am, I feel as though I may have lost touch, somewhat, with the mainstream demographic, and at least a year early I might add. I just can't get excited about khakis and flip flops. Not that I ever could, but lately I especially can't. I think pop music is pretty much a dick in the ear, and I think "punk rockers" should die of gonnarhea and rot in hell.
Man, when did I get this bitter? Oh wait, I was always this bitter. Ha.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
My stand up routine.
Declared hereunder for the first time ever, and possible last time, though not likely, whoa too many commas already in this sentence, is my new standup routine, which I have never, ever performed live and which stands a very good chance of never, ever being performed live by anyone, anywhere. These jokes are listed in no particular order, and without segues. Man, the word "segue" looks nothing like how it's pronounced. How do you even get that? Who looks at that word and goes, "sure segway, that's obvious?" That's not in the routine but the following are.
Here goes. Please be kind.
joke #1.
Seems like there's a lot of drug commercials on TV lately. The other day I saw a commercial for this drug Paxil CR. It's an antidepressant drug, and they show all these clips of people being happy and leading exciting lives with picnics and stuff. And then they launch into this huge laundry list of side effects. And they're really strange side effects too, like, yawning, and sweating, shaking, abnormal vision, loss of apaetite,sexual side effects. The list just goes on and on...and I'm thinking, how happy could you possibly be if your taking this drug. "Well, sure, I'm yawning sweaty, dizzy, shaking, can't eat, can't shit, and can't get an erection....but at least I'm not depressed. Cause that..........would really suck. Who's up for a picnic?"
Joke #2
So I moved into a small apartment in the city....and its small, but its ok...the only thing I don't like about it is the toilet. Really weak flush on the toilet. keeps getting clogged. I hate that. I want one of those toilets you see in department store bathrooms and gym lockerrooms. YOu know the ones that jut straight out of the wall, prison style, and have those flush levers. I always feel like a secret passage is going to open when I push the lever down. But the great thing about those toilets is the flush....its like a reverse nuclear explosion. I flush at the gym and tiles are getting sucked off the walls into the toilet. Its like a black hole, light can't escape the gym toilet flush. You could stuff a small dog down this thing, mine can't even handle number one.
joke #3
I love chinese food....you know what my favorite is....General Tso's chicken. Fantastic, of course I never got the connection between The chicken and the 19th century chinese general. I can't really see the guy winning too many battles...I mean, how fast can soldiers really move with a belly full of fried chicken and molasses? Not exactly the breakfast of champions. And what is it with military leaders and chicken? There's general Tso, colonel sanders? Are they in the tent on the battle field experimenting with spices? "Sure my men are decimated and defeat is imminent, but that is a tasty glaze..... I bet they'd die before they gave up that recipe...
joke #4
So the thing about my job is the bathroom is real small. It's like a urinal and a stall and that's it. So naturally I mean a little...concerned about doing business in there so to speak. I mean its so tiny, its like an anal ampitheater in there. Its like your puttin on a rectal concert for everybody that happens to come in. And everybody knows everybody...you can tell who it is just by the shoes stickin out. If there's one thing you don't want co workers hearing it's the sounds you make when you're "in a meeting." How can you look somebody in the eye after something like that, all I can think is "unnnngh, rrrngg..."
Well that's it for right now, People. Four whole jokes. Not exactly ready for Atlantic City yet....but I'm working on it. More to come....
Declared hereunder for the first time ever, and possible last time, though not likely, whoa too many commas already in this sentence, is my new standup routine, which I have never, ever performed live and which stands a very good chance of never, ever being performed live by anyone, anywhere. These jokes are listed in no particular order, and without segues. Man, the word "segue" looks nothing like how it's pronounced. How do you even get that? Who looks at that word and goes, "sure segway, that's obvious?" That's not in the routine but the following are.
Here goes. Please be kind.
joke #1.
Seems like there's a lot of drug commercials on TV lately. The other day I saw a commercial for this drug Paxil CR. It's an antidepressant drug, and they show all these clips of people being happy and leading exciting lives with picnics and stuff. And then they launch into this huge laundry list of side effects. And they're really strange side effects too, like, yawning, and sweating, shaking, abnormal vision, loss of apaetite,sexual side effects. The list just goes on and on...and I'm thinking, how happy could you possibly be if your taking this drug. "Well, sure, I'm yawning sweaty, dizzy, shaking, can't eat, can't shit, and can't get an erection....but at least I'm not depressed. Cause that..........would really suck. Who's up for a picnic?"
Joke #2
So I moved into a small apartment in the city....and its small, but its ok...the only thing I don't like about it is the toilet. Really weak flush on the toilet. keeps getting clogged. I hate that. I want one of those toilets you see in department store bathrooms and gym lockerrooms. YOu know the ones that jut straight out of the wall, prison style, and have those flush levers. I always feel like a secret passage is going to open when I push the lever down. But the great thing about those toilets is the flush....its like a reverse nuclear explosion. I flush at the gym and tiles are getting sucked off the walls into the toilet. Its like a black hole, light can't escape the gym toilet flush. You could stuff a small dog down this thing, mine can't even handle number one.
joke #3
I love chinese food....you know what my favorite is....General Tso's chicken. Fantastic, of course I never got the connection between The chicken and the 19th century chinese general. I can't really see the guy winning too many battles...I mean, how fast can soldiers really move with a belly full of fried chicken and molasses? Not exactly the breakfast of champions. And what is it with military leaders and chicken? There's general Tso, colonel sanders? Are they in the tent on the battle field experimenting with spices? "Sure my men are decimated and defeat is imminent, but that is a tasty glaze..... I bet they'd die before they gave up that recipe...
joke #4
So the thing about my job is the bathroom is real small. It's like a urinal and a stall and that's it. So naturally I mean a little...concerned about doing business in there so to speak. I mean its so tiny, its like an anal ampitheater in there. Its like your puttin on a rectal concert for everybody that happens to come in. And everybody knows everybody...you can tell who it is just by the shoes stickin out. If there's one thing you don't want co workers hearing it's the sounds you make when you're "in a meeting." How can you look somebody in the eye after something like that, all I can think is "unnnngh, rrrngg..."
Well that's it for right now, People. Four whole jokes. Not exactly ready for Atlantic City yet....but I'm working on it. More to come....
Monday, February 23, 2004
Blow it out your exhaust pipe.
What a person generally wants out of a car is for it simply to get them from point A to point B.
Now that statement is a steaming pile of gooey festering elephant feces. In general, a person couldn't care less if their car got them about a half a block from point A and broke down, leaving them thousands if not millions of miles, if not lightyears away from point B, so long as it made everyone that person knew go "Wow you drive a saab? How much money did you say you make again, and when is the next soonest possible date on which you can have intercourse with me?"
That's what people want from a car, because people, simply put, are complete mongoloid retards. Well maybe not simply, but accurately.
So by "people" in the above paragraph, obviously I'm talking about me. I am a complete mongoloid retard. But I will say that although I'm learning life's lessons the extremely rectal-exam-like hard way, I am, in fact, learning them. So that's something, I guess.
Anyway, the lesson here is that the right decision is often masked by the flashy, exciting, enviable exterior of the wrong decision, and also, that the flashy, exciting exerior often, if not always, masks the broken, malfunctioning ugly shithole underbelly of the wrong decision. The fact of the matter is, though, that I personally, and many others like me, will continue to see the flashy exciting exterior until the retched, disfigured underbelly becomes so intensely obvious that no one can continue to ignore it. And its at that point that I give up and say, "man, was I wrong as hell."
Well that's the case here folks, and, in what is quickly becoming intensely obvious, in one other particular case as well. But that case is outside of this topic.
So the question then becomes, what the hell am I gonna do now? The choices, in this case, are simple. I can continue beating my head against a nail spiked wall until the grey matter of my brain is mashed into a fine pulp leaving me with the mental capacity of my now defunct exhaust system, or.....I can get a new car.
See what gets me is that the problem isn't so much me, even though I treat my car about as well as George Bush treats the first amendment. Its all about idiot mechanics. Mechanics that are supposed to know that the ignition switch is broken and the starter is firing and to not continue running the car so long as it's making a sound like cats being made to listen to Michael Bolton.
Its mechanics breaking my shit and then charging me for it. That's my problem. Because they're like dictators really. You have to do what they say.
Me: So the starter worked when I brought it in, and now the you've "fixed" it, it doesn't work?
Mechanic: Yup that about sums it up.
Me: Ok, and so why am I responsible for that?
Mechanic: Well its your car.
Me: But didn't you break the starter.
Mechanic: No, you did.
Me: But you've had the car for three days.
Mechanic: But you did the work on it.
Me: But I've been out of town for three days.
Mechanic: No you haven't.
Me: Yes I have, I wasn't in this state.
Mechanic: Yes you were.
Me: Ok so how much do I owe you now
Mechanic: How much do you have?
See how it goes? You just have to take their word for it. The guy could lift up the car and show me anything and I'd be like 'Oh yeah, man that is bad. Glad you only charged me six thousand for that.'
So the moral here, kids: Mechanics have a power in this world that you and I will never experience. So go out and slash their tires. Fuckers.
What a person generally wants out of a car is for it simply to get them from point A to point B.
Now that statement is a steaming pile of gooey festering elephant feces. In general, a person couldn't care less if their car got them about a half a block from point A and broke down, leaving them thousands if not millions of miles, if not lightyears away from point B, so long as it made everyone that person knew go "Wow you drive a saab? How much money did you say you make again, and when is the next soonest possible date on which you can have intercourse with me?"
That's what people want from a car, because people, simply put, are complete mongoloid retards. Well maybe not simply, but accurately.
So by "people" in the above paragraph, obviously I'm talking about me. I am a complete mongoloid retard. But I will say that although I'm learning life's lessons the extremely rectal-exam-like hard way, I am, in fact, learning them. So that's something, I guess.
Anyway, the lesson here is that the right decision is often masked by the flashy, exciting, enviable exterior of the wrong decision, and also, that the flashy, exciting exerior often, if not always, masks the broken, malfunctioning ugly shithole underbelly of the wrong decision. The fact of the matter is, though, that I personally, and many others like me, will continue to see the flashy exciting exterior until the retched, disfigured underbelly becomes so intensely obvious that no one can continue to ignore it. And its at that point that I give up and say, "man, was I wrong as hell."
Well that's the case here folks, and, in what is quickly becoming intensely obvious, in one other particular case as well. But that case is outside of this topic.
So the question then becomes, what the hell am I gonna do now? The choices, in this case, are simple. I can continue beating my head against a nail spiked wall until the grey matter of my brain is mashed into a fine pulp leaving me with the mental capacity of my now defunct exhaust system, or.....I can get a new car.
See what gets me is that the problem isn't so much me, even though I treat my car about as well as George Bush treats the first amendment. Its all about idiot mechanics. Mechanics that are supposed to know that the ignition switch is broken and the starter is firing and to not continue running the car so long as it's making a sound like cats being made to listen to Michael Bolton.
Its mechanics breaking my shit and then charging me for it. That's my problem. Because they're like dictators really. You have to do what they say.
Me: So the starter worked when I brought it in, and now the you've "fixed" it, it doesn't work?
Mechanic: Yup that about sums it up.
Me: Ok, and so why am I responsible for that?
Mechanic: Well its your car.
Me: But didn't you break the starter.
Mechanic: No, you did.
Me: But you've had the car for three days.
Mechanic: But you did the work on it.
Me: But I've been out of town for three days.
Mechanic: No you haven't.
Me: Yes I have, I wasn't in this state.
Mechanic: Yes you were.
Me: Ok so how much do I owe you now
Mechanic: How much do you have?
See how it goes? You just have to take their word for it. The guy could lift up the car and show me anything and I'd be like 'Oh yeah, man that is bad. Glad you only charged me six thousand for that.'
So the moral here, kids: Mechanics have a power in this world that you and I will never experience. So go out and slash their tires. Fuckers.
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Car you Retarded?
Cars, sometimes, can make you throw your hands up into the air in frustration...in the middle of the street with hopes of getting hit by one. The maintenance, cleaning, maintenance, court costs, maintenance, vehicular homicide, and maintenace make cars very expensive, and stressful possessions.
Sometimes, it may seem as though you're actually going to work for the sole purpose of generating enough money to pay for your car repairs. In this situation, the best thing to do, is to set your car on fire and roll it into a ditch. Then get a new fucking car, because your old one sucks big fat monkey wang. That's what happens to cars when they get old. They suck wang.
My car is no different, other than the fact that, being the wisened old genius that I am with stellar foresight, chose to buy a car that, conveniently, had already reached the "wang suck" stage of it's existence. Sure, when you see it in the lot, all shiny, and shit free, you think, 'hey, that car hasn't got any shit on it, so clearly it must be in peak functioning condition.' And then, when you test drive it, and the body doesn't immediately separate from the chassi and sail flaming onto the interstate, causing real physical harm to innocent bystanders and significant property damage, you think, 'cool. this thing will continue running far past my own death.'
Sadly, this is not the case. Cars, and by this I mean all cars, every car ever built or hatched, will eventually wind up a smoldering reck on the side of the road, leaving you stranded with no hope of survival.
Ok, well maybe not quite so dramatic as that, but pretty close.
So as you may or may not (born again christians) have guessed, my car broke down. What happened was the starter burned out because the ignition key snapped, which in layman's terms translates to, "turny thing no make rev rev go go." Or something like that.
Anyway, it didn't start. Or 'turn over,' as really pretentious people say. So yeah, I had to have the damn thing towed, wherein I had to help the crack towing squad push the thing out of a parking space the size of a drinking straw onto the bare street so it could be safely hit by oncoming traffic. Or else, loaded onto the tow truck. You know, whichever.
Then I had it 'fixed,' by which of course I mean, I had some guys who's credentials came off a cereal box make one set of strange noises into a completely different and slightly less grindy set of strange noises. And all I had to give them in exchange was all my worldly possessions, several internal organs which they assured me I could live safely without for several months, and the promise of my first born male, should I live to spawn one. Suckers.
So, to sum up: the car got 'fixed,' and I'll be making payments directly to the car until the repair bill is paid, or I die. So, I think I come out on top here. I mean, at least I can get to work. To make more money. To pay to the car. Which I need to get to work. See, it all makes perfect sense.
Cars, sometimes, can make you throw your hands up into the air in frustration...in the middle of the street with hopes of getting hit by one. The maintenance, cleaning, maintenance, court costs, maintenance, vehicular homicide, and maintenace make cars very expensive, and stressful possessions.
Sometimes, it may seem as though you're actually going to work for the sole purpose of generating enough money to pay for your car repairs. In this situation, the best thing to do, is to set your car on fire and roll it into a ditch. Then get a new fucking car, because your old one sucks big fat monkey wang. That's what happens to cars when they get old. They suck wang.
My car is no different, other than the fact that, being the wisened old genius that I am with stellar foresight, chose to buy a car that, conveniently, had already reached the "wang suck" stage of it's existence. Sure, when you see it in the lot, all shiny, and shit free, you think, 'hey, that car hasn't got any shit on it, so clearly it must be in peak functioning condition.' And then, when you test drive it, and the body doesn't immediately separate from the chassi and sail flaming onto the interstate, causing real physical harm to innocent bystanders and significant property damage, you think, 'cool. this thing will continue running far past my own death.'
Sadly, this is not the case. Cars, and by this I mean all cars, every car ever built or hatched, will eventually wind up a smoldering reck on the side of the road, leaving you stranded with no hope of survival.
Ok, well maybe not quite so dramatic as that, but pretty close.
So as you may or may not (born again christians) have guessed, my car broke down. What happened was the starter burned out because the ignition key snapped, which in layman's terms translates to, "turny thing no make rev rev go go." Or something like that.
Anyway, it didn't start. Or 'turn over,' as really pretentious people say. So yeah, I had to have the damn thing towed, wherein I had to help the crack towing squad push the thing out of a parking space the size of a drinking straw onto the bare street so it could be safely hit by oncoming traffic. Or else, loaded onto the tow truck. You know, whichever.
Then I had it 'fixed,' by which of course I mean, I had some guys who's credentials came off a cereal box make one set of strange noises into a completely different and slightly less grindy set of strange noises. And all I had to give them in exchange was all my worldly possessions, several internal organs which they assured me I could live safely without for several months, and the promise of my first born male, should I live to spawn one. Suckers.
So, to sum up: the car got 'fixed,' and I'll be making payments directly to the car until the repair bill is paid, or I die. So, I think I come out on top here. I mean, at least I can get to work. To make more money. To pay to the car. Which I need to get to work. See, it all makes perfect sense.
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