Dream I had some time in the last few hours...

I met DEVO last night. Well, it wasn't actually DEVO, but it was too.

They were back to being in their early 30s and impossibly tall.

Mothersbaugh was like six foot six. He was also the father of NOFX's Fat Mike and MST3K's Joel Hodgson.

The band as a whole supported the idea of getting buffalo wings.

I am sad but relieved to have woken up.

Random thought...

The best news I've heard all week...

Apparently, the word misanthropy has been around for awhile.

They didn't make it up to describe us.

That just makes us normal.

Getting down to the guts...

Yes, son.
What does regret mean?
Well son, the funny thing about regret is that it's better to regret
something you have done than to regret something that you haven't done.
And by the way, If you see your mom this weekend, will you be sure and
tell her...

-Gibby Haynes
the Butthole Surfers

Regret is a funny thing indeed. It all comes down to the fear of the unknown.

There is what you did and what you've done. It's quantifiable. It is. Depending on possibly irrelevant criteria, everyone could know.

Ah, but then when you didn't do something, and nobody, least of all you knows, that bastardly guilt kicks in even worse,
because YOU DON'T KNOW.

That goddam mystery.

Moe's reading Vonnegut's Galapagos right now. She fucking loves it. I enjoyed it, but forgot almost all of it. I call it " the one where an asterisk means something other than butthole."

Anyhow, a minor character in the novel, a crazed man with an inoperable brain tumor, upon his lucid deathbed, explains that a soul, that soul which sets humanity apart from animals, is simply the awareness that you are aware of what you do, even if you are unable to prevent it.

I apologize for the previous sentence masquerading as a graf containing far more nonessential clauses than your average reader can handle.

Point resuming in 3...

I submit to you that what we call a soul, that mystic thing other than opposable thumbs and upright stature and all that crap that 70-year-old biology teachers foisted upon us in 7th grade to separate us from animals...

That sentence is crap also.

What we call a soul is nothing more than cognizance and a passing interest in that HOLY FUCK of a bastard question, WHAT IF?

Of course animals can regret their actions. Anybody who has owned a dog for a decent amount of time knows this. Damn expressive eyes they have.

What if?

What a magnificent bugger-all of a thought.

Who hasn't been crippled a time or two, caught in its thrall?

The age I'm at, I'm supposed to be wondering about my legacy, which is precisely the sort of question that leads to...

What if?

Indifference is not immunity.

What have I done that will stand the test of time?

Most of my notable feats are in the field of drinking, but they're all overshadowed by legends who did it when they were younger than I was, who did it longer than I've lived, and who wrote about it with far more depth and insight than I have.

That's fine. Unless I get dramatically better (or worse) at drinking, my lifespan will be three times as long as my erstwhile peers.

Anybody really want to see me pull a Bukowski at 90?

Me neither.

Of course, there's an old wine drinker (presumed) and fable writer that comes in handy here.

The concept of 'sour grapes' is beautiful.

It's the only treatment for 'What if?'

Though, like so many 'cures,' it obscures the symptoms rather than fixing the problem, but that's for the best.

'What if?' is only a bastard when looking over your shoulder.

Yesterday sucked, but tomorrow's gonna be awesome.



Totally not worth reading.

I was going to write about several things.

But then I saw that Stien was awake via that Last.fm doodad, so I talked to him for an hour.

In the process, I drank Wyatt's last beer, which I was going to use as fuel for this.




I wore some pants to work today.

After I got there, I noticed that the crotch had split.

Now, at the end of my day, I'm going to tear them off.

A little bit of destruction so the day wasn't a total void.

Maybe THIS will do the trick...

So as it turns out, one of my coworkers has a film degree and has written, directed and produced two features. Investigating the net a bit deeper, I discovered he also has a band and a fledgling record label.

I'm going to watch his movies now and see what that does to me.

I may be inspired because they're good, and somebody who does what I do for a living made them.

I may be inspired because they're bad, and there's nothing I hate more than failure succeeding where I've failed (thusfar).

I may be inspired because they're somewhere in between and I am compelled by the noble calling of one-upsmanship.

Never underestimate one-upsmanship. There would be far less art in the world, good and bad, if it weren't for arbitrary and sudden rivalries.

I may also simply fall asleep on a couch or a chair because the part of me that's excitable is often sat upon by the part of me that simply doesn't care.

If I survive, I shall report.



Maureen told me of a dream she had recently. I remember it poorly but fondly.

We were out and about somewhere, and were being accosted by aggressive evangelical missionary types.

I had some sort of business card or something with some sort of foreign script on it. When approached by would-be conversionists, I would show it to them smugly and ask if they could read it.

Indeed, they could read it. Their eyes would get big and they would turn and flee.

Maureen told me that dream intuition allowed her to infer that the card announced to them, in some sort of crazygodpeople language, that I was Judas.

When I was confirmed as a yout', I chose the confirmation name Jude for two reasons.

First, the patron saint of lost causes. Ironic and fitting, I thought.

Second, my disenchantment with the Church had grown from a little pit of doubt into snarky disdain. Jude was as close as I could get to Judas.

But the dream sticks with me. If I'm Judas, who's the blowhard I have to screw over and I get paid up front, right?


Narcotic Candy

O frabjous day, calooh callay!

Here in my head, there is a ridiculous wealth of music knowledge. It's cataloged strangely, but well enough that I can unfurl a bizarre tapestry of side projects, B-sides, and assorted minutiae at the drop of an "I just wanted to know if he liked the Dismemberment Plan," hat.

The dark(er) side to this knowledge is that I'm also a bit of a bumbling fuck. I tend to forget things, and the more immediately pertinent they might be, the more likely I am to forget what the hell it is I was supposed to be about.

You know how, back in the day, you'd want a record or two, so you'd go to a store and the second you stepped over the threshold, you immediately had no idea who this white-gowned woman in your arms was?

Multiply that sensation by 25 and then divide by two for the overstretched threshold gag.

That's me.

Anyhow, this morning as I was puttering about on the nets, searching for any bits of data that could prove crucial to my fantasy football teams, some delightful old Mercury Rev popped up on ze randomizer.


I love Shady. I've spent most of the last 12 or so years with that knowledge forgotten.

It's pretty easy to see why, I mean, I only heard the album once or twice in high school.

But I found it on Amazon's mp3 site this morning after the aforementioned Mercury Rev incident.

The exposition: After the first two Rev albums, they had a bit of a falling out. David Baker, whose name I forgot while attempting to tell Austin about it this morning, left the band and recorded one album, World, under the name Shady in 1994.

Seriously, there's at least a dozen albums I would buy in a heartbeat if only I remembered what they were. There's probably a lot more.

As I remember them, I shall purchase them (when possible) and proceed to blather.

If I do not find them, I shall blather nonetheless.


Bore w/ Teeth

not that but
we're more casual than that
but art in the world is worth more
than the contents of one head
casual disregard it is
remember doing things?
those times places
forever is only that
but behind

rusty spigot art-in-head
the bore baring his browns
and yellows
and wisdoms growling plain-old red
full of crossed-finger flag-waving white

article herald's slight
the smartass is in this crowd
articulate ever hollow sound
this forever is/was/is/was
un-things done
yet art not art yet not art yet
wicked-smart behind the eyes
and does it ever show
listen if he'll let you
on and on
some comic cosmic tide


What's in my pants...

Is a list of interesting phrases I wrote down at work:

#1. I don't know what inspired it completely, but I believe this is an absolute truth of humanity regardless. " A little less civility leads to a lot more honesty."

Dude. Duh. Being nice is the strategic art of lying tactically.

#2. RoboSpierre. Not such a good idea, but crossing Buckaroo Banzai with Terminator and the French Revolution made me giggle.

#3 Copulative verb. Who knew "be" could be so dirty? Oh, Hamlet...

And now a shot of cognac and bed, where I shall be by myself.


Yes, I am an asshole

I'm contemplating registering just to vote for John McCain in the upcoming election.

Wait... what?

Do I distrust him intensely?

Yes. What he's done since losing the Republican primary last time he ran is appalling.

Eh, fuck the pseudo-clever set-up. Let's get down to chewing the gristle.

The way this country is being run is comparable to a favored elderly relative, kept alive with needles and hoses.

Let it go.

What Washington's got now is terminal. Enough trying to jockey for a better will position.

Give it up.

This being a Christian nation, no matter how untenable it is to admit, we won't let ourselves pull the plug.

Kill it.

A new day nurse is not going to suddenly revive a patient who's been systematically abused by the rest of the hospital staff for the last forty years, the same abuse which engendered an atmosphere in which the critically flawed concept of compromise "for the good of all" being worthwhile.

Let it die with a shred of dignity.

Of course I prefer Obama by a landslide over McCain. But as powerful a thing that hope can be, it sometimes allows for years more suffering before the inevitable.

I'm no anarchist, but I sense the end of the Constitution, and it's for the best rather than the worse. It was a brilliant document in the sense that it protected the people from the public fear of a monarchy.

Well, it's been a couple of centuries since a king was dumb enough to seriously fuck with us.

Democracy's still where it's at, but we need a New Constitution. One designed to protect us from democracy and prevent bloodlines from being as important to politics as it is to horse racing.

As we practice it, democracy is an entertaining sham.

I saw a couple of kids (aka college age, which it still terrifies me that I am no longer) walking around with clipboards and pamphlets and local candidate teeshirts, and I can say beyond a doubt that my participation in a non-local fantasy football league will prove more important in the long- or short run than their campaigning.

Even if Obama hung out with hookers and lepers and made them all better, what good could he possibly do with a Congress hellbent for leather on spending more than it earns, regardless of having a credit rating that wouldn't qualify for a loan from itself?

Newsflash: nobody in politics above the local level is " a uniter, not a divider." You get above the local level, and most politicians are divisive within their own ranks.

Yes, while that is a nice reflection of society, that is only further proof that somewhere along some lines, we need to come up with a new Bill of Rights that is designed to protect us from the professional politician.


I'm going to vote for McCain. I think it's best for America, in the long run. Obama represents hope, and that's the last thing we need right now, if we want to truly move forward. A vote for McCain represents, I believe, a vote for an American sub-majority too large to ignore. McCain as president, acting in the manner he can be reasonably expected to act in, will encourage discontent and the development of a better system.

Even to give both candidates ultimate faith: reform in the face of drastically different situations and opportunities is not as safe or wise as reformatting and rebuilding.

I hate to sound like a Mac snob or a product placement, but the next president is going to be Windows Vista, and even though no one initially preferred XP, we're going to go ahead and call it an upgrade anyhow.

Me? I'm a firm middle-class cynical do-nothing. I spent the RNC drinking and working, laughing at the people who clearly deserved to be arrested and doing whatever it is I do in lieu of praying for those who happened to get lippy near an out-of-town cop who didn't care about image because he was on vacation from his day job.

This is America 2008. We live in a world where many countries that we inspired with our revolution have governments that are in many ways more modern than our own. Yeah, a lot of the world is shit, but then again, what's more powerful to a national consciousness: a smart asshole getting killed for being a smart asshole, or a smart asshole being drowned out by legions of legally protected smart assholes, each one thinking they're smarter than the asshole before or beside them?

As a disenchanted dick, I ain't advocatin' nuthin'.

But that new America we all want? It's a phoenix.

A vote for Obama will put that process off for a bit.

A vote for McCain ought to start the proceedings quite toastily--

The America that soothed and anointed our ancestors worked for the time and technology it was born unto.

If I weren't so lazy, I'd feel inclined to influence what ought to come next.



The Way Things Are Where People Don't Care...

For roughly a month and a week, my immediate post-work routine has involved walking a half-mile from work, having a beer and a shot at a pizza joint, killing time until I got on the bus.

I've gotten to know most of the late-night drivers fairly well. There was a new guy tonight, which made sense, as one of the drivers I'd gotten to know gave me a lift to work early this afternoon. She'd mentioned she was up for a new shift cycle, so it stood to reason that when I saw her that afternoon, I would not see her that evening.

All of this having roughly no meaning whatsoever on my life was promptly forgotten; under-realized.

So I get on the bus tonight, and I swear to god, the bus driver looks like Weird Al or Ross's old roommate D'artagnan. I was excited. I said something along the lines of, "Hey, new driver on the route!"

This was intended to be a jovial greeting. Instead, it invited a view of soul-crushing burden.

"Not really. I've driven this bus for ten years."

It wasn't his hair or posture that was so pervasively depressing. Over the years, I've come to view those tell-tales as signs of interesting conversation.

But it was a damn burden for him to even speak to me, and I'm talking about a guy who wasn't yet forty.

Anyhow, in a combination of defiance and remorse, I plugged my earbuds in and listened to the UHF soundtrack for the remainder of the trip home.

At the Pizza Luce, I drink tallboys of Pabst and doubles of Jameson. Tonight, my home selection includes the equally prince-and-pauper selections of Black Label and Henessey.

Fire-wise, my options are curiously limited to cloves (Djarum Black Supersmooth, because I hadn't seen them before and I haven't had cloves in forever, although the way 'supersmooth' is written in lowercase and surrounded by a soft foil-embossed oval is really creepy because it seems like it would be far more natural on a condom package...) and mentholated Remington 'little cigars,' which were given to me in exchange for a single Camel.

Changing gears, I think I'm about to scrap my MySpace page. I check in and all I find are thirteen surveys from Jeremy and a new flyer for some concert at Rowland's joint back in Verm.

Since I enjoy wallowing in isolation while crowing about the virtue of my abilities, when I finally get back to making rackets again, I'll start a new page and be obtuse about it.

Yeah, it's what being passive-aggressive is all about. Sue me. It would only get my attention.

By the way, The Venture Brothers is the best program still on television.

Since I'm unfocused, I'm going to drink more and watch parts of season three again.

The Hennessy is too stuck up to say goodnight, but the Black Label would like you to know that I love you very dearly.


What to share...

The long legs of Maureen have finished the longest legs of her journey. She's between her parent's house and Sioux City and here the remaining bit of her journey.

Not that I was exceedingly worried about her safety for most of the trip, but I've been through some of the places she was going and I didn't feel safe.

To be fair, regardless of gender, a 6-foot 26-year-old is going to have more confidence in Theresnoescapeville, Montana than a ten year old aspiring urban slacker, which is what I was when I passed through. Anyhow, she's back on a path that we've all beaten the hell out of and I'll see her soon enough.

Which leads me to my next tricky management situation. She gets back the same day as professional football.

The Giants-Redskins game counted as much as talking to her on the phone. Nice, but no replacement for the real thing.

Scott rolled into town on Wednesday night. His sister's getting married tomorrow. I've been invited (by him) to the reception, but I'm not going to go unless I'm can remember his sister's name without coaching. It would be weird.

I've spent the last two days trying to think of it, fruitlessly.

Somehow typing out the once-removed graf made me remember, I think. Maybe. Is it Kari, or some phonetic variation thereof?

Regardless, I don't know if a reception (near my house though it may be) is what I need.

Anyhow. A recent work project may have made me re-evaluate my position on The Police.
The future will tell. Me right now, not so much.

Considering I promised that this blog would be more focused than my previous efforts, I'm going to pack it in. I don't have anything major rolling through my brain right now, and I don't want to ruin the ongoing housewarming party by overstaying my welcome.

Happy Friday night to those that are still enjoying it, none of whom are near me.



Muddville saw it coming--in their hearts, they knew...

Jesse Hazel once claimed that no car had ever bested him. I was more than willing to believe him. The first year I lived here, I watched him fix an unceasing queue of vehicles: imports, domestics, motorcycles - everything. He even helped me diagnose some car problems I'd been having and loaned me the tools to fix it myself.

Back in March, my timing belt snapped. I enlisted Jesse's aid. Some six months later, his work is done.

He was going to drop the car off if he could get a ride back, or swing by and leave the key with Wyatt.

Yesterday or the one before it, I found out he left the key inside the gas tank compartment.

I finally got to go look at it today.

By way of TKO, '95 Escort over Jesse Hazel in the 6th round.

Even if it was bullshit braggadocio, I take solace in the fact that my car handed him his first defeat and he opted not to show his face to drop the key off, which would have led to him being questioned about the car's status.

Nope, he left the key in the car and split for Fort Collins, Colorado.

The only evidence that he did anything to it all is a socket left on a head bolt, some unreplaced covers, and a thin bead of sealant on the head he replaced. Probably. I don't really feel like opening it up to see if he did the valvework he said it needed.

Most notably irritating is that he didn't leave the new timing belt, which represents the first chunk of money I gave him back in the day, something like $180 for a kit including a new water pump, belt and new tensioners.

All said, I gave him nearly $600, and while I might have a partially rebuilt engine, I also have an unmoveable car about a mile and a half away and no parts to fix what the original problem was.

This seals the fate of the Xbox, which I'd actually figured I was going to be able to keep, financially wise. There's only so big a bath you can take, even on technology and its depreciation, but--

After consulting my email, I may even be selling it tonight. I feel better about the purchaser, having just spoken to him on the phone. He has to see if he can get a ride from a friend because he has too many DUIs to drive. Now I feel like a charity, but in a good way. Here's what you should have been doing while drinking in the first place, buddy...

Wy and I took a break to play some Guitar Hero, the only video game he's ever gotten into, to my knowledge.

For nine games, most of which have value, two controllers, charge cables and the general kit'n'caboodle, I'm getting $350. Blech, but if selling it means I look at my bass and keys with something other than mystery and apprehension, then excellent. I just wish I hadn't spent the like $800 dollars on new stuff in the first place.

On the other hand, I find it best to not complain about beer already drank.