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.