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.
9.27.2008
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.
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...
Daddy?
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...
SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!
-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...
2...
1...
and...
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.
Right?
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...
SATAN! SATAN! SATAN!
-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...
2...
1...
and...
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.
Right?
9.26.2008
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.
Whoops.
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.
Whoops.
9.25.2008
Hurm...
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.
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.
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.
9.20.2008
Confirmation
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?
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?
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