Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Rack and roll

Remember when I punched the wall, causing a painting to fall and destroy our thermostat? The hijinks continued last week. I'm turning into a walking pratfall. Last Wednesday, I was bringing my fist down on my leg to emphasize a point about an "American Idol" contestant's shitty singing voice but I missed my aim and racked myself hard in the right testicle. On Saturday, I thought a water bottle I'd been drinking was empty and flipped it in the air and caught it. It still had a little water in it, and my glasses and face got drenched.

Texas A&M's press has I think cornered the market on boredom with an upcoming book I have been unlucky to proofread. The whole book is about twine! Twine, goddamnit! I proofread the index today, and while I think it notable that a scholarly tome was written about twine, it is even more notable that the index has entries for both Michel Foucault and "Weird" Al Yankovic.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

New Weekly Feature: Good and Bad Album Covers of the Week

Each Thursday, I am going to reach into the Dr. Mystery CD, cassette, and record collection and inaugurate one album cover into the Hall of Fame and one in the Hall of Shame. Sometimes I will explain my reasoning, sometimes I may have nothing to say. The music will not be judged and is irrelevant to my purposes here. These are all albums from my stash, so it's safe to assume that I like at least three songs on them.

Hall of Shame #1
Frank Black and the Catholics - Devil's Workshop
Frank Black has written many fine songs, both solo and as a member of the Pixies, but his album covers have grown increasingly shitty. This cover always makes me laugh. It is half-ass to the extreme! Welcome to the Hall of Shame, Frank.

Hall of Fame #1
Guided By Voices - Mag Earwhig!

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

A paragraph reserved for the kings

Sammy Hagar on Van Halen's upcoming induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

"My hope is that everyone lets everything go and we go there in complete respect of each other and in a loving way, with the attitude that 'I couldn't have done it without you' towards everybody," says Hagar, who received the official word of Van Halen's selection at his Cabo Wabo Cantina in Mexico, where he and Van Halen bassist Michael Anthony have spent the past week jamming with Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith in a newly developing side project called Chickenfoot.

I can't wait until that Chickenfoot album drops.

Sammy Hagar should be David Lee Roth's butler, goddammit! Van Halen should have been called Lee Roth. Every post-Diamond Dave album sucks so much ass.

Learning to love it

It was a traumatic moment for me when I realized that most adults were every bit as dumb as us kids, and probably dumber. The safety net was gone. Life was a dangerous and supremely unfair game of chance. I think most adults are stupider than children because they stop learning, stop being curious. They get settled in to something and quit thinking about everything else. Keep swimming or die! Be like the shark! If you smell blood, fucking go after it! Yes, I can whip up the exhortations like nobody's business, but do I follow my own advice? Many times, no. Let's take a couple of Sundays ago, for example. I was making some fish chowder, and things were going swimmingly (for more bad puns, email Henry Kissinger at bombthefuckoutofthem@yahoo.com). Unfortunately, the pot boiled over and the water put out the burner. I ladled some water out of the pot and moved it to a different burner (or more accurately, my wife did while I yelled profanities). Unfortunately, the pot boiled over again and put out the pilot light. Instead of cleaning things up and relighting the pilot light, I punched the wall, hard, knocking a painting off the wall, which fell, hard, on top of the thermostat, which broke. My knuckle was also bruised and bloodied. I'm an idiot. But, like Zelmo Swift, I go on. What else can you do? Keep getting out of bed. If my plans succeed, July 2007 will be the last month I ever spend working in an office, and that's something to get out of bed for.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Caption contest winner

I am going to take a brief respite from drunken profane rants to bring you the results of this month's caption contest. All entrants have been placed in the winter cap, and a winner has been pulled from the cap at random. This month's winner is Casual Ninja. Congratulations, Casual Ninja! I especially enjoyed all the captions this month. Funny stuff. Good job, people. And please, losers, enter again next time. There are still five or six regular entrants who haven't won yet, so keep entering.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Dumb things read at work

Some things I've come across proofreading books at work:

From a steaming pile of dog shit that purports to teach college freshmen how to "read" pop-culture texts but mostly does stuff like damn "Magnolia" for not offering solutions to how men can fully embrace the "new masculinity" or how "Being John Malkovich" doesn't do enough to fully endorse Cameron Diaz' and Catherine Keener's pseudo-lesbian romance. This book makes my groin ache more than it usually does, and makes me think my political sympathies should maybe be shifted toward the colossally powerful evil that runs the world rather than the shitty, ineffectual morons I've been throwing my votes toward since I was 18. Adults don't expect fictional characters in artworks to solve the world's minor problems, if indeed they are problems, I hope. Children already have this shit figured out. Get a fucking life. Anyway, here's an excerpt from this piece of garbage (from the chapter on how to read movies and music, as if they were the same thing):
"When I listen to Joss Stone on my Ipod, this says something very different about me, my mood, and how I view myself in the world than when I blast the pulsating alt beat of Audioslave, for instance."
I don't know what this sentence means, except that it reminds me of a really bad television commercial where a white man says "homey" and "that's off the hook." What different something is it saying about you, for christ's sweet tittyfucking sake? That you're willing to trade one empty corporate simulacrum of experience for another? I know what I'm about to say is not popular with many people I know, but I really don't give a fuck about the environment or saving the planet or recycling or any of that shit. We had a good run and we fucked it up. The world will still go on, believe me. We won't. That's alright. Everything has to end sometime. Yet I still weep when I think of the strong, majestic, eagle-of-freedom-worthy trees that were killed to bring the world this motherfucking piece of cock-ass-bullshit. Maybe I'm overreacting. Fuck that. There's no "maybe" in it. This book is inconsequential, and so is my stupid rant. But, goddammit, everyfuckingthing is becoming inconsequential and I am tired of it. Let's have some good times and piss on everything else. Hedonism now! Epicurean diets and rock and roll for all! Solutions for none! Let Sherlock Holmes have his solutions and leave me to my two bottles of wine and Dinosaur Jr albums!

Which is why I am glad to present this next sentence, from a food science book:
"Hollandaise is the aristocrat of sauces."
That's what I'm trying to find, every day. Glorious stupidity, not deadly stupidity, not mediocrity. I want aristocrats of sauces!

Happy Valentine's day! Save the dolphins! Don't blame me, I voted for a more coherent blog!

Monday, February 12, 2007

Crustville, episode three

Episode 1
Episode 2

"Who was that on the phone?" Sheryl asks her husband while he chews on a toothpick and looks irritated.
"My dumbass drug-dealing cousin Tony," Frank says and grunts. "He wants to get that dumbass techno-blues band I was dumb enough to play bass for back together. He's fixing up some sketchy half-douche with a prosthetic robot arm and programming the arm to play keyboards. Fucking Emerson, Douche, and Palmer is hitting the fucking big time."
"Mondays," Sheryl says and laughs bitterly to herself.
"You know the only good thing about Monday nights?" Frank asks his wife. "They're not Monday mornings."
He grunts again and stares at his knuckle. It's red and he doesn't know why, though it's been red since 1987.
"You want to fuck?" he asks his wife.
"No," she says.
"Good," he says back. The phone rings again and he throws his toothpick at the wall. It lands on the couch. He leaves it there.
"Hello," he barks. "Make it worth my while."
"Hi Frank," his aunt says reticently. "It's Marnie. Your uncle has some really bad ideas. I want you to come over here and talk him out of them."
"Shit on my balls," Frank says and groans for an incredibly long time. "You're worried rich uncle Gene is going to squander a few of your million doll-hairs and you want poor working man Frank to come over and put the kibosh on it. Nutsack!"
"Awww Frank," Marnie says. "Come on. Frank. Come on. Awww. Frank. Come on. Come on. Come on. Aww. Come on, Frank."
"Fuck you and fuck John Wayne."
"You don't mean it, Frank. I'll make you some strawberry rhubarb pie and give you all the gin you can drink and you and Gene can have a nice talk about his incredibly stupid ideas and how bad they are and then you guys can play a little ping pong. Wadda ya say?"
"It beats not fucking my wife. I'll be over when I feel like it. Goodbye and piss on it!" Frank slams the phone down and bites a loose piece of skin on his right thumb.
"Gonna go over and keep them in gold-plated televisions for another month?" Sheryl says, laughing. "Have fun." She picks up their cat, Rufus, and walks back to the bedroom. Frank hears the radio go on and he puts his boots on, swearing.

"Frank!" his uncle greets him warmly and hands him a bottle of gin. "Your aunt has the idea that I'm not onto something. Bullshit! Let me turn you on to more of my ever-illuminating brilliance! The ideas flow like wine, Frankie, when you open the tap and let them flow. People have heart attacks from not expressing their ideas, Frank! Real live heart attacks!"
"I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Frank says.
"I've got some beverage ideas, and also some television ideas that I think could make some money."
"One word, Frankie. Race."
"Race, man. Marketers are looking at this world as one big multicultural awareness-raising melting pot. But you have to market to race, man. Niche marketing."
"Not sure where you're going with this one, but I'm already leaning toward Aunt Marnie's side."
"Hear me out, Frank. Check out my beverage ideas. First up, ReJEWvenation: The Sports Drink Too Intense for Goys! What do you think?"
"Uh. I'm going to have more of this gin while you keep talking," Frank says.
"Okay. Also, Halal-cohol: The Non-Alcoholic Beer for Muslims. All the party, none of the guilt. Eh? Eh?"
"What else you got?" Frank says.
"Oh, I got. I got. Check this one out. African-American History Month: The Soft Drink. It's an orange drink, not unlike Sunkist."
"How will you make a profit off a drink only available in February, Uncle Gene?"
"Ever heard of pumpkins, man? Ever buy one of those shits in June?"
Gene snorts disgustedly at Frank's lack of response.
"I can see I'm wasting my breath on the beverage ideas, but let me tell you about my television show. The CW and Bravo are interested. I talked to my buddy Dave at the CW last night, as a matter of fact."
"OK," Frank says, warming to Gene's tone. After all, Gene made most of his money producing Crustville's top-rated sit-com, Whoops, I Fucked Your Niece from 1997 to 2002. "Let's hear what you got."
"Okay?" Gene says. "You know how everybody loves Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Spin-off time. I got a little variation on that. Black Eye for the White Guy. Heh? Does it smell like a blockbuster hit in here, or am I just inhaling past glories?"
"I don't know," Frank says. "Does anybody still watch that show?"
"Of course they do," Gene says. "But hear me out. What we have are three teams. On each team is a black man and a white man. The white man's ancestors were slaveholders. The black man's ancestors were once slaves for their very partner's ancestors. Get me?"
"Awww fuck," Frank says. "You're a moron."
"This is just the beginning. The black man on the team, once a bell rings, punches the white teammate repeatedly in the face. The first team in which the black guy pummels the white guy until he gets a black eye wins. The black guy will get forty acres and a mule and the white guy wins a trip to Hawaii. Spike Lee is already attached to direct the pilot. This is a winner, Frank."
Frank walks into the kitchen and grabs a slice of rhubarb pie. He eats it and leaves without saying goodbye to his aunt and uncle. He gets in the car and drives past The Place Where No One Is Happy But No One Gets Cut Off. He turns around and drives past it again, slowly. Bertie Hogan, Ass Disagreement's drummer, is sitting on a stool at the center of the bar. Frank parks and sits in his car, the keys in his hand. It wouldn't hurt to jam with them just once, would it?

Monday, February 05, 2007

February caption contest

Enter and win a compilation CD, made by me.
The rules:
1)Leave a caption for the photo in comment form under the post.
2)You have until the 15th of the month to enter.
3)On the 16th, I put all the entrants' names in a winter cap and draw one winner at random. That person gets the CD.
4)Last month's winner is ineligible this month, but may still enter for fun.
5)Go nuts!