Friday, January 26, 2007

The Content of My Night Terrors

This commercial has been running incessantly on East Bay late night television for the past year or so. It's mesmerising. Wet Pets San Pablo!


Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Free checking! Praise Jah!

Cool runnings! I and I was walking from work yesterday when coming across the above alarming window display in the front window of a bank.

It pictures a disciple of Emperor Jah Ras Tafari, Haille Selassie, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, conquering Lion of Judah in an act of praise and celebration because his bank has abolished his checking fee.

Jump Niyabinghi! Babylon has fallen! And dem given I and I a free t-shirt wid a logo!


Saturday, January 20, 2007

My full disclosure

As Bloggers, we have been assigned the portentous titles of “Citizen Journalists” by people, people who should probably spending more time belching and picking their toes, instead of having technocratic fever dreams about the Future of Media and Its Distribution.

I am wiling to indulge these types, and so here, in my role of journalist, I offer Full Disclosure on Areas of Potential Conflict. Were I to, in my role as a Hard-Hitting Joe Public Hack, write about any of these topics, TURN AWAY, as I might be using my seriously bad ass power over language to twist your little mind to my debased way of thinking, or to divert you from the True and Good Way.

English – Use this language almost exclusively, though I have been leaning on the word “qua” a bit heavily lately. I’m fond of it, and often use it with other English speakers.

Converse Sneakers – Own two pairs, and may want to buy more in the future. Can’t be trusted. Might be hustling. Turn away at the mention of “Chuck Taylor” Basketball Sneakers.

Adidas – Samey samey same same samey samey same same same-oh same “Stan Smith” Tennis Sneakers.

Heterosexuality – Am a fan, and have been for quite of few years, and I have actively made serious capital investments since my teenage years to cultivate it for my personal profit. That includes a mortgage.

Ruby and Owen – Again, I have outlaid serious capital keeping these little creeps clothed and fed, so I may try to cultivate the idea they are somehow cute or desirable to have around, when I am merely priming the pump for a trade or straight cash deal.

Sound – I have dumped a lot of cash buying cassette tapes (first cassettes: Bow Wow Wow, Black Flag, Sex Pistols), buy record albums (first wax: Sesame Street Sing-a-long, or maybe it was Billy Joel: Glass Houses), CDs (don’t remember), MP3s (don’t remember), in order to listen to sound, organized in an amusing way in the medium of time. I also like listening to the TV, wind, people talking, amusing bodily sounds, small cats, fireworks, airplane refueling on the tarmac, bugs, cows, and other things. I like sound quite a bit, so don’t expect me to conform to any sense of objectivity here.

Ink – Me and ink and its digital facsimiles go back and so I will not talk shit about ink here, even if ink deserves it. I’m sticking by ink, so go somewhere else for ink bashing.

Things That Are Pleasant – Call me a vicious spineless shitheel, but I am going to stand by Things That Are Pleasant. “Oh, but Greg,” you ask “Shouldn’t you give penny nails driven into your eardrums a fairshake? What about sharing a puptent with a goat with diarrhea? Don’t the rules of journalistic objectivity dictate you give a balanced exploration of all these things?” To which I would answer “What in Zeus’ Taint are you on about? Me, I’m sticking by Pleasant, thank you very much.

Having penny nails driven into my eardrums – Phenomenologically, I have what I admit is a visceral fear of having penny nails driven into my eardrums. If I win a Pulitzer, it most definitely will not be for a fair-minded exploration of having penny nails driven into my eardrums. I mean, my bias comes down fairly hard on the anti side of this issue, and I can’t say I could give a dispassionate record of the event. It would probably go something like this….

(Berkeley, CA) – In a shed somewhere in the verdant, eucalyptus-scented hills that roll behind the campus behind the University of California at Berkeley, I had a penny nail hammered into my eardrums. And I have to say: AAAAAHHH. WHY ARE YOU READING THIS, YOU SADIST PRICK. I had… a fucking NAIL DRIVEN INTO MY HEAD! It HURT, AND YOU’RE SITTING THERE IN YOUR BATHROBE SIPPING WARM MILK AND READING ABOUT IT. THE WORLD IS EVIL.

So there you have it. My Areas of Potential Conflict. Now I think we can say honestly that there is a clean slate between you, the Consumer, and I, the Journalist.


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Thursday, January 18, 2007

Oh holy fucking shit Christ hell of goddamn BMs

I might be... pretty good chance I will be... working on a project with this guy:

Excuse me... I may have wet myself from the mindblowing realization of it.


Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I like it.

Little Tony was sitting on a park bench munching on one candy bar after another. After the 6th candy bar, a man on the bench across from him said, “Son, you know eating all that candy isn’t good for you. It will give you acne, rot your teeth, and make you fat.”

Little Tony replied, “My grandfather lived to be 107 years old.”

The man asked, “Did your grandfather eat 6 candy bars at a time?”

Little Tony answered, “No, he minded his own fucking business.”

-- Robert Anton Wilson

Thursday, January 04, 2007

My influences

First, Happy New Year. It'll be better this time, I promise.

Second, Xmas. My 85 siblings treated The Wife, a known latina, to a surprise Quinceañera.

It's this sort of confirmation-sweet sixteen-launch party-debutante ball that 15 year old girls are subjected to in various Latin American countries. Alas, The Wife is only a 1/4 Latina and her family is none too keen to play up the Mexican. Sad, really.

But my family, we embrace the Latina-ness. So my siblings went all out, surprising my 38 year old wife with a cheesy second hand gown, a little crown and a homemade Virgin Mary shrine. And a Pinata! And about thirty stone of delicious tamales! Yay, my Family!

She felt like a princess. And I did, too!

Third: Given over as I am to foolish idylls, I wondered recently what my influence are, bandwise. I don't play an instrument, and if I sing, I sing like a donkey getting biffed in the hindquarters with a polo mallet. Not well.

But I have influences, sure. And since Mojo has failed to call me for my interview by press time, I have taken the ropes in hand and I will bring this big bastard to the corral myself.

So, errr, who would you say influenced, music wise?

About time you fucking asked. Uh, I'd have to say...

Mark E. Smith -- Cult leader and frontman for the mighty Fall.

Language-wise, I'm indebted-uh to Mr. Smith. He's also so not like any human being on earth, at least anyone who doesn't drive a forklift for a living. His weirdness comes from the fact that he really is how a lot of normal people are, but famous people somehow aren't. Your cousin, the odd one who lives in a basement, has a friend like Mark Smith, who you hung out with one night. You drove around for a while, then you drank cough syrup in a green grocer's parking lot. It was great.

Mark E. Smith also writes the sort of lyrics that a Russian who learned English from H.P. Lovecraft novels might write, which is also great.

The Who -- It's what you listened to in High School. Served a sort of a bridge between various cliques, rockers because of "Who's Next", New Wave dorks because the Mod thing, stoners because... I don't know what I'm talking about. Perhaps this idea is stupid. And frankly, I'm getting an ass full of coding the links pretty fucking quick. I will forge ahead, however. I owe that much to you, dear reader.

Ah, fuck it, it's dinnertime.

Anyways, hope the holidays didn't treat you like scum. I hope your family was just present enough to provide intimation of joy, without bumming everyone out with their cur-like manners. I hope the toilet maintained integrity during your cocktail evening. I hope the knives stayed sheathed and the recriminations were made with panache that made everyone sigh with contentedness at the sublimity of it all. I hope your affair with the farmhand was undiscovered, even as you slipped away to give him an I-Pod and a stolen kiss. And that applies to my male readers, as well. I hope the rats didn't manage to chew through the subfloor into your pantry, and I hope your landlord kept her teeth in when she dropped off the forms to sign. I hope your arson remains undiscovered and your anonymous donation to the orphanage is discovered and celebrated, leading to some sort of tasteful medal being pinned to you by your country's representative to the Miss World pageant. I hope the blisters clear up, but only if they have stopped giving you pleasure. I hope your dissertation is met with open mockery, but then, at the last minute, the Duke appears with the Grail and the committee is forced to acknowledge that yes, you were right, Ringo was the best Beatle and Dickens invented Peach Melba.

You looked marvelous on New Year's by the way. Your strengthy bits were accentuated in sublime ways. Gorgeous, approachable, mysterious, warm, funny.

And nobody noticed when you slipped away to vomit the vodka punch. Very discreet, well done. The toothpaste was a classy move.

Happy New Year.

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