I haven't updated for a week because I haven't felt like it, suckas

Hi everybody. Time to reconnect with this can-smashing albatross and update the fuck out of it. What's been happening in my world? What hasn't been happening? I ate some leftover soup for lunch with some celery on the side. I rested my head on a pillow. I drank two PBRs. I remembered 9/11 and shed a tear. I farted. I smelled potpourri. It was a day to remember, my friends.
I'm still unemployed. The novelty has worn off. I'm ready to make some dead presidents again, bitch. I want to buy a better stereo and a better TV. I want to live the dream. The American dream. Job prospects are looking better this month. There are finally jobs worth applying to, but will I get them? Only Alan Alda knows for sure, that fuck. I'm beginning to think I will finally be gainfully employed again when either "Chinese Democracy" or the followup to "Loveless" hits record stores near you. I am cursed.
In all seriousness, jerks, I made a major breakthrough this week. The graduate school application project was rolling like a well-oiled oiling machine, but I was getting more and more depressed and not understanding why. Last week, I had my Eureka moment. I finally came to my senses. I don't want to go to grad school! I hate school! I like to learn on my own, without going $60,000 in debt for a degree that will not help me get a job! I don't want to live like a college student! I want a house, a dog, a cat, boring American dream bullshit, freedom from wearing a fucking backpack! Immediately, the sky opened up. Birds began to sing. Multiple rainbows stretched across the sky. Leprechauns teabagged me while angels gave me handjobs. Life was worth living again. I've felt great for a week (though I was sick with a fever for two of those days), and it hasn't dissipated. I can finally live in the goddamn present! What's happening to me right now is what's happening to me. No more plans for the future. Here it is. I live day to day, minute to minute, second to second, etc., and that's the way I like to live. I'm not the academic type. I've learned very little in school, either grade, junior high and high, or university. Part of it's me, part of it's them. I learn from reading, doing, and making huge mistakes. From living. I realized I'm never going to like any job I have, and grad school isn't going to change that. I will (hopefully quickly) find another job and keep doing what I want to do on my own time. I will keep pursuing my creative pursuits in my own way at my own pace whether I'm good, lousy, or extremely lousy. One day, I will be dead and that will be it. What I do here goddamn well better be what I want to do here. If I do something just so I can tell people I don't know at dinner parties that I'm going to film school in Boston, I'm as good as dead. I don't care if I ever make money or am successful at a goddamn thing other than being reasonably happy and satisfied with the way I live. Money's for assholes, careers are for people without lives, and life is short as hell. Donald Trump's sad, pathetic money-chasing life has never been as good as my Sunday evening, drinking a whiskey and coke, listening to music, watching a Chaplin movie, being with someone because you want to be with them, not because of some mutually beneficial trophy-wife/financial-windfall barter system. Of course, Donald Trump probably doesn't make an ass out of himself whenever there's an open bar. Whatever. As long as there are no legislative sessions or comp time in lieu of money situations at my next job. Comp time was great up to a point, but with special session onslaught, it became kind of like being paid in magic beans or, really, fucking nothing. I'm sorry, some of you won't know what that means. You are the lucky ones.
In conclusion, here are some FAQs from a professional wrestling information website which I have lifted without permission. They bring me a lot of joy.

"What happened to the WCW Television Title?
After being one of the most prestigious titles in NWA/WCW, the Television title lost value at the end of WCW's run and was scrapped a year before it's close. The last actual title change took place on October 24, 1999 when Rick Steiner beat Chris Benoit. Scott Hall was then given the title for no reason and just 8 days later he threw the title in the trash saying he didn't want it. The television title then was scrapped for a short while until Hacksaw Jim Duggan "found" the title in the trash on a February 2000 edition of Saturday Night and was made the champion and only defended it on WCW Saturday Night. After Vince Russo and Eric Bischoff were brought back into WCW in April 2000 they decided to vacant all the titles and the Television title was never mentioned again."

Who was Wildcat Willie?
Wildcat Willie was the WCW mascot from 1995 to 1999. He'd come out to the ring and dance around in between matches on Monday Nitro and Saturday Night. He was finally fired in 1999 after they realized that fans hated him and had more fun throwing stuff at him than actually watching him.

It isn't actually known who Wildcat Willie was. There is a rumor that Lanny Poffo played the role since he had a WCW contract from 1995 to 1999 and was never seen on television. Nobody has ever confirmed the rumor though.

Was their going to be a Wrestling Jesus character?
I don't think so. In mid 2000 their was a strong rumor Vince Russo had an idea to give Devon Storm the idea of being the Wrestling Jesus. He was too come out and do "miracles" and be followed by "12 Disciples". It is not known if the angle is actually true though since no one has confirmed the rumor."

Collage #5

"The Arkansas Blowjob Queen Rides the Emo-Pole to the United States of Axlmerica"

Boo!

Happy early Halloween, guys and ghouls. Click here for a special Halloween surprise. Don't say I didn't warn you. Pleasant screams! Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!

Dr. Mystery vs. Sports: An Explanation

The onslaught of football and baseball coverage and My Drunken Socks' defense of football have got me thinking about my lifelong indifference toward sports and my lifelong hatred of a lot of grief my indifference has caused me, particularly growing up in a tiny town that revolved around sports in general, and local basketball in particular. My previous, one-word post was flippant and dismissive, especially to anyone who happens to like sports, and I don't think he's wrong when he writes, "Philosophically, I just don't understand why people wholesale dismiss sports." (Although, I'm equally unable to understand his hatred of the Beatles.) I don't want to dismiss or begrudge anyone's enjoyment of a favorite sport or sports. It's just that I was born with a deeply ingrained disinterest in any sport of any kind. I leave sports alone, and I want them to leave me alone. But the world, especially Hometown, won't let me and sports peacefully coexist in our own separate worlds. The world won't stop dragging sports into my life. I can never avoid sports. It always comes up, embarrassing me, emasculating me, boring me, abruptly halting friendly small talk, preempting Arrested Development, closing streets I need to drive on, fucking up parking, causing me to disappoint family members and friends' parents with my lack of even the most basic sports chat, including what teams are playing that day. Knowledge and interest in sports are a big part of our shared American culture, and I'm missing some part of my brain that allows me to give a fuck about it, though I'm not missing the part that makes me wish I gave a fuck. I just can't. I've got no interest, and life is short and getting shorter. So I'm stuck with this huge, awkward, social deficit. It's not quite so bad now, but growing up in Hometown was a bad place to be for a sports loser.
Step into my world, won't you?
An anecdotal history of Life in the Dr. Mystery Sports Void
1) All I wanted to do when I was three was look at comic books and listen to rock and roll. This hasn't changed much, if at all. My fellow Hometownians were outside playing kickball. When school started, they were good at kickball. I sucked, though I learned to read first and I could name every member of Van Halen and the lyrics to Michael Jackson's "Thriller." This was a poor substitute for kickball skills at the time, maybe still. Probably still.
2) Junior high. Turns out, kickball wasn't the only thing I sucked at. Baseball, basketball, football. You name it, I sucked at it. Girls stopped liking me. I've written about this in the comments at My Drunken Socks, so I won't whine about it anymore except to say when girls don't like you anymore, there's not much point to anything. You just have to keep waking up knowing that someday, you will be old enough to get the fuck out of Hometown.
3) Nebraska football is a big deal, but Hometown was four hours from Denver, so Bronco football was a big deal as well. I was thrown into a sweaty panic whenever someone asked me about the big game. Were they talking college ball? Pro ball? What the hell do I say? I don't even know who we're playing or what day the game is. I had a small repertoire of vague answers that never seemed to satisfy. "It's too tough to call right now." "It's going to be a good one." "I agree with you." "You know it." "Yep." "I know. I can't believe it either." Who's-going-to-win questions were easier, since either "Huskers" or "Broncos" was the correct answer, but if I mentioned Broncos when I should have mentioned Huskers, my dark secret would be revealed. I especially dreaded questions about coaches, plays, particular players, or league politics. I had nothing. The only one who was easy to snow was my grandfather's lunatic friend Estrada. He was so obsessed with the Broncos that he called every teenager "Denver Bronco." Whenever he saw me, he would say, "Hey, Denver Bronco. Who's going to win today?" I knew the answer was always "Denver Broncos." Then, he would whoop and holler and tell me he liked the cut of my jib or something. Actually, I made that last part up. This may not sound like much of a big deal, especially since most kids at my high school knew I sucked at sports and had no interest in them, but the adults were different. They were harder, more suspicious, disgusted even. They knew there was something wrong with me. I wasn't one of them, and it made them angry. Not liking sports meant one of four things in Hometown. I was either 1) "weird" 2) on drugs 3) a big pussy or 4) flamingly, screamingly gay. Most people thought I was a one with a little two thrown in, but I was always under the impression that a jock father of one of my friends was in the three camp, trying to get a fix on whether I was a four. To him, my not going out for football was equivalent to giving head in drag to Harvey Fierstein during halftime at Homecoming while the Pet Shop Boys and Liza Minnelli duetted behind me. He eventually decided I wasn't a four and warmed up to me a little, but I could never break out of the number three ghetto.
4) One of my uncles is a sports-fixated kind of guy and his kids are all good athletes. He thinks I'm a great big pussy. He's only said about five sentences to me in my life, and we've probably been in the same room together for at least 1,000 hours of our collective lifetimes. Oh well, he's only related by marriage. Fuck him.
5) Pep rallies were mandatory in my high school. Was this the case at other schools? I hope so. I hope you all suffered, too.
6) I've lived in two college towns that are football mad. In college in Lincoln, I lived a few blocks from Memorial Stadium. On game days, I wasn't allowed to park in my street. I call bullshit on that one. I got several tickets because I never knew when the home games were and I slept late, my car parked in its usually legal spot. That's some bullshit. No taxation without representation, bitch! I fucking live there! Fuck you! I pay rent on this house and I pay taxes on this street! Fuck your football tax!
7) I flew back home recently because my grandmother was having risky surgery. The priest of the local Catholic Church was at her house for a visit. After learning I lived in Texas, he said, "You're probably a Spurs fan, right?" I no longer try to hide my shame, so I said, "Actually, I'm not much of a sports fan." His face fell, he stared silently at me in disbelief, and it was a good seven seconds before he could regain his composure. My disinterest in sports disgusted a priest. I was emasculated by a guy who is not allowed to touch women.
8) This list could be endless. I've purposely left out the most painful stuff to keep it amusing and less whiny. But sports have rained on my parade for years. Why do shopkeepers, bartenders, people I meet on the elevator, people in line at the bank, etc. etc. keep asking me my thoughts on sports? Do I sidle up next to some random stranger and say "Hey, buddy, what are your thoughts on the films of John Cassavetes and Robert Bresson? Compare and contrast?" or "What did you think of that Raymond Carver book? Wasn't that a doozy?" or "Where do you think Yo La Tengo will take things on the next album? Back to the Electropura style or continue in the more contemplative direction of recent years?" If you like sports, God bless you, but I have to live in your world so much of the time, and I want out.

You know what I hate?

Sports.

Peppered with prayer

The Baptist church in my neighborhood just left us a free can of Dr. Pepper, with a note saying that we had been "peppered with prayer." I will never step foot inside a Baptist church if I can help it, but I wholeheartedly welcome this prayer peppering. I hope this trend of religious bribery continues. I look forward to being pizza-ed with prayer, cheeseburgered with prayer, whiskeyed with prayer, and handjobbed with prayer in the weeks to come. Don't let me down, Baptists. In my hour of darkness, I need to be peppered more than ever.

Urrrrrrrr

Bad Idea #1. (I can't think of another performer who is a greater antithesis to the Broadway idiom.)
Bad Idea #2. (I don't want some Catholic teaching my Baptist children how to make macaroni necklaces.)

Who wants hot dogs?

Man. My wife and I both like to enter our friends' names on Google and see what comes up. I just entered my own name, and a shit-eating porn website came up. I looked for my name and never found it. What the fuck? It's a little creepy. Especially creepy because a favorite party trick of mine is showing people the volume of TV Carnage that intercuts shit-eating porn with the opening theme of "Three's Company." I'll be clear on this. I like a lot of shit, but I don't like "shit." I am not turned on by feces. Why is my name there? Why? Why? Why?
In related news, why is it so satisfying to emit a particularly foul-smelling gaseous emission? I almost killed my wife with a noxious fart tonight. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment, akin to winning a date with an attractive woman, passing a particularly difficult class, or lifting a car off an injured family of eight with my bare hands. I really did something today. What did you do, losers?
Vegetarians. God bless you. You really love animals. Or do you really love your own sense of self-righteousness and/or masochistic sacrificial self-abuse rituals? Who can say? Here's what I think. Yes, and yes. Take this with a grain of salt, vegetarians. I mean this lovingly. Many of you, including my mother and several friends, are members of your silly, silly club. This is just one man's opinion. WAKE THE FUCK UP! Your refusal to eat meat is misguided sentimentality. If you cared about your fellow humans as much as you care about a fucking chicken, life would be better for all of us. Animal cruelty is abhorrent. No animal should ever be tortured, killed for sport, or forced to undergo painful tests to improve cosmetics. But if thousands of monkeys have to die to find a cure for cancer, kill those fuckers! And if any animal happens to be delicious, kill it humanely and eat the fucker! No animal, left to its own devices, has a good death. If we don't eat them, step on them, or keep them as pets, something will fuck their ass up. Another animal or the ravages of nature will take care of that animal painfully and slowly. Circle of life, food chain, all that shit. Ripped apart by mountain lions, starved to death, infected with disease, etc., etc. You're not going to save any animal by not eating it. It's like one of my friends says, "No deer is going to have a comfortable retirement and no cow is going to write a novel." A lot of vegetarians think they have a point by asking "What about dogs and cats? You wouldn't eat them, would you?" My usual reply is "I wouldn't eat my cat, no. But I would eat your cat." My real answer is that I've witnessed most of the people who've asked me this question swatting flies, stepping on spiders, spraying cockroaches, and/or putting out mousetraps. Some vegetarians justify eating seafood, or eating things that don't have a "face," but somehow, cows or chickens are off limits. A fish is smarter than a fucking chicken. Why is it lower on the hierarchy? Besides, dogs and cats are eaten in parts of the world, and they've proven themselves to be good pets. My judgment of their worth is entirely based on their use to human beings. Their primary worth is as a pet. If they weren't so stringy and affectionate, I would eat them. As long as they aren't being tortured, I can rest easy. Everyone needs to eat the meatloaf sandwich at the Kitchen Door. It's really fucking good, people. I'm drunk and incoherent. My argument is full of holes. This is not a serious defense. But I sincerely believe that no one will ever get to heaven, get a medal, or save an animal's life by not eating animals. If you're doing it to get laid, there are much better women (and probably men) out there. Women (and probably men) who eat cheeseburgers are much sexier than emaciated plant-nibblers! But, seriously, vegetarians, I've rarely met one of you I didn't like on a personal level. I'm just teasing. You're alright. I even know a few vegetarians who just hate the way meat tastes. That's more aesthetically and morally defensible in my book. But, you're alright, veggie-lovers. It's hard to hate people who love animals. Vegans, though. Fuck vegans. Vegans are ill-tempered dumbass goofballs. Eat a pizza and loosen your belt, fuckface. For a similar philosophy, please read Cornelius Bear's thoughts on gambling. Bite into this godless, secular wonderland! Whoo hoo!
In my ten-best sandwich roundup, I forgot to mention my own favorite sandwich in Austin, criminally ignored by the Statesman. My favorite sandwich is the Gypsy Grove at Foodheads. Sure, Gypsy Grove sounds like a Blind Melon cover band, but it's actually a timebomb of deliciousness. Check this out: Marinated and grilled pork tenderloin, grilled ham, Swiss cheese, cherry peppers, tabasco slaw, and fried egg on toasted garlic baguette. This sandwich is decadent, yes, but in the holiest way. It is a mindfuck express to sandwich nirvana. If you refuse to eat this sandwich, you hate America! And the Swiss! Nuts to you!
I watched "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" again over the weekend. I don't know if it's Hunter S. Thompson's recent death, drug nostalgia, or disappointment over how much "Brothers Grimm" sucked, but I think this movie has improved considerably since I first saw it in the theater eight years ago. I wasn't impressed, then, but it was a great day anyway, and yet another reminder of how much I hate a predictable, consistent schedule. Week days meant something in college. I never knew what I was going to be doing on any given weekday, outside of class. This particular 1998 day, I think it was a Wednesday or Thursday, about twelve of us got drunk on whiskey at 9 a.m., then went to the matinee of "Fear and Loathing" and ate at Wendy's. Of course, most of us could take a day off work, get drunk in the morning, go to a matinee, and eat some fast food afterwards. But we would be lucky to find one person, let alone twelve, to accompany us. Instead of a fond memory, like this day will always be for me, a similar day now would probably conclude with a crying jag, internet porn, leftover pizza, an episode of "The O.C.," contemplation of suicide, and falling asleep on the couch. Why must every day be the same? Being an adult means decomposing early. Anyway, I didn't like the movie much at the time, but I felt good because most of my friends loved it (though they would have loved anything with drug references), and it was 10 a.m., we were drunk, and we were 19-22. There was a light and airy feeling, life was in front of us, and we were turning a mundane weekday into a Bacchanalian celebration of life. I miss those days. Of course, I'm mostly happier now and I only remember the good stuff when I think back. Nostalgia is an enemy, but sometimes it's a sexy, sexy enemy. Anyway, it's a nice little movie.
I had a couple of weird encounters in public places this weekend. #1 I was buying some beer at HEB and I showed the cashier my ID. He grins at me and says, "You barely made it." Huh? I'm young, yes. But I'm 28. I barely made it seven years ago. What an odd thing to say. #2 My wife and I are at Denny's today, paying for our meal at the counter. The guy looks at us and says, "Imagine seeing you two crazyheads here." I whisper to my wife, "Does he know us?" She whispers back, "No." What a fucking cuckoo batshit looney tunes thing to say. Somehow, the HEB encounter bothers me more. I'm 28, goddammit! 28! Show me a little respect! I didn't fall off the turnip truck! Fuck!
Edna and Troy died. The musk was too strong.

A Tale of Ten Sandwiches, or Operation:Sandwich -- The Complete Report

Mission accomplished. The eagle of freedom has been grilled, placed between two slices of bread, and eaten. God bless America and its sandwiches. Four more years...of delicious sandwiches. These colors don't run...away from good eating. USA! USA! USA! I'm an idiot.
The Austin American-Statesman threw down the gauntlet, and I picked it up and ate it. Here are my findings.
Austin American-Statesman's 10 Best Sandwiches in Austin
1. Italian Godfather, Russell's Bakery. I was skeptical when this sandwich was placed before me. It was quite handsome, fetching even, but was a mere deli-style, meat-and-cheese, mayo-dressing-mustard-lettuce-and-tomato kind of sandwich. However, once bitten into, the sandwich sent off shock waves of culinary delight that exploded all over my palate. Why was it so good? Could it be the tantalizing rosemary bread that held it all together? Methinks it could. Grade: A+
2. Egg Salad, Sweetish Hill Bakery. How could a simple egg salad sandwich be one of the contenders? It was nonsense. Or was it? Holy mother of shit, this sandwich was good. Homemade mayonnaise, fresh farm eggs, hydroponic lettuce, a little white cheddar, and homemade bread. Fuck, yeah. Grade: A
3. Oyster Po' Boy, Gene's New Orleans Style Po' Boys & Deli. Setback #1: Gene's is out of oysters. I settle for my old favorite, the shrimp po' boy. It was good, but I've had it several times. I had yet to try the oyster po' boy. I returned three days later, full of vim, vigor, and determination. Success! I ate the shit out of it, and it was good. Slathered in real mayo and deep-fried to perfection, my arteries say no but my mouth says word booty. Grade: A
4. Nicoise, Texas French Bread. This sandwich was actually good for me, a nice change (tuna, capers, red onion, lettuce, tomato, vinaigrette), and also very tasty. So far, so good, Statesman.
Grade: A
5. Chicken Salad, Galaxy Cafe. Nine of the ten restaurants represented on this list are close to my home. This one is practically in fucking Dallas. Completist that I am, I made the 18-mile trek to the Galaxy Cafe and waited in a hellishly long line to order. Once I ordered, though, service was fast and friendly. It was a good sandwich, but it didn't blow my mind. The first one on the list to be overrated, it was accompanied by a side soup that blew away the sandwich. The Upper Crust Bakery has a much better chicken salad sandwich, in my view (keep in mind I'm not exactly a chicken salad expert). Grade: B-
6. Philly Cheesesteak, Hog Island Italian Deli. Whooo! Yeah! Alright! This restaurant is a few blocks away from my old job, so I spent quite a few lunch hours eating here, but I'd never had the philly for whatever reason, though many of my old co-workers raved about it. They were right. Apparently, the meat and bread are actually flown in from Philadelphia daily. I now have no reason to go to Philadelphia. Thanks, Hog Island! You're the tops! Grade: A+
7. Reuben, New World Deli. Mmmph. If you want a great Reuben, go to the Avenue B Grocery (fortunately right across the street from my home). This one was decent, but a little overstuffed and dry. Grade: C+
8. Avocado Sandwich, Upper Crust Bakery. I think the guy or lady making this sandwich fucked it up. It's supposed to have red onion and vinaigrette on it, but apparently they're rationing these ingredients because only two bites had this stuff on it. Those two bites were awesome. The rest of the sandwich was bland as fuck. I may have to give it another chance, since human error affected its overall score. The chicken salad sandwich is great here, though. Grade: C-
9. Grilled Meatloaf Sandwich, Kitchen Door (Lake Austin Blvd. location). This may be the best sandwich I've ever had. Weep, you silly vegetarians. Weep. Then join Planet Sensible and Club Food Chain and eat this sandwich. Esquire magazine called this one of the ten best sandwiches in the U.S. Don't hold that against it. It's probably true. Grade: A++++++++
10. Three-Cheese Panini, 1886 Cafe in Driskill Hotel. Setback #2: Lunchtime on a Saturday. They have extended breakfast hours on the weekend, so the panini wasn't available until dinner. I ordered the Turkey BLT instead. It was awesome, but I wanted to get my panini on. Five days later, I saunter back in. Success! I had a great time, unemployed, on a Thursday, looking at a classic car parked across the street, sitting in a semi-fancy restaurant in a fancy hotel, watching the light and shadow in the cafe, drinking some tea, eating a panini, taking it easy. This is living, my friend. I loved the sandwich. It's just bread and cheese, but somehow it's incredible. Conversely, it's just bread and cheese, so why is it eleven fucking dollars? Perhaps this has something to do with the spinach salad and "tomato confit" included with the meal (I'm just a small-town Nebraska boy. I don't know from confit, but it wuz good.) Additionally, there was an insane older woman at the table in front of me throwing a ridiculous tantrum because there were three flies buzzing around the restaurant. She complained to the waitress about 12 times and gave her a status report on the flies every time she walked by. She also attempted to kill the flies by lunging across her table with her napkin and exaggeratedly swatting at one whenever it flew past. "Excuse me, miss. I killed one of the flies." "Miss, I saw another fly." "Miss, a fly landed on my spoon but fortunately I was done eating." "Miss, please do something about these flies." "Miss, flies are buzzing everywhere!" "Miss, I killed another fly!" Then, the crazy old bat ordered dessert! She was flapping her arms and carrying on so much that the flies completely ignored the other customers and concentrated solely on her. Grade, (excluding inflated price): A.

Coming soon: Why vegetarians are kind-hearted but misguided and foolish, why weekdays were better eight years ago, and odd statements from customer service workers. All that, and what happened to Edna and Troy after they got locked in Dr. Crazynut's Cave of Ominous Musk. Stick around, kids.

Warm sasparilla

Hey, friends, lovers, and jerks,
I got a little ahead of myself. Professor dude resigned as head of the program. He's still teaching there. So Operation: Grad School is once again back in play. Let's see what will happen. If I get accepted, great. I'm starting to get the five-year locational itch, and a new city might be what I need to get out of Rutsville, especially with the job situation in Austin being pretty much Shitsville. If I get denied, shut down, refused, slam dunked, or embroiled in a layup of savings, I won't cry. Plan B will resume its place as Plan A, aka Operation: Get a House, Dog, and Cat and See If I Can Find Some Job in Austin That's Not Total Shit. Either way, limbo will be busted out of and life will once again be scary, interesting, and erotically charged.

I'm one sandwich away from eating all ten of the Austin American-Statesman's so-called ten best sandwiches in Austin. A complete Operation: Sandwich report should be up by Sunday night.

I have a Flickr page now, so Operation: Bad Photographer is newly public.

That's it. Fuck, I fucking need a motherfucking job. Shit.

It's time to update this bitch

This anecdote I forgot to pass on to you happened on my last visit to New Orleans, a week before the hurricane: My friend, Professor Romance aka Dr. Sympathetic, and I were in the French Quarter, drinking absinthes at the Pirate's Cove or Pirate's Alley or whatever the hell the place is called where the guy dresses like a pirate and serves absinthe, and while waiting at the bar for our drinks to be made, I eavesdropped on a conversation between an older, drunken Australian man, his much younger woman friend, and a twentysomething douchebag of the particularly noxious fratboy/hippie/world-traveling, cultural sophisticate triptych of shame whose dubious European accent occasionally slipped, revealing an American one. Or maybe the American accent was the dubious part. Either way, he was working some kind of affectation that had become malignant and all-encompassing, eventually swallowing up any trace of the personality that had birthed it. This conversation was mildly nauseating, mostly because each person was trying to one-up the other in a game of Let's See Whose Traveled the World the Most and Become the Most Intellectually and Culturally Enlightened, but I was in a good mood, they were mostly harmless, and I wasn't feeling any hate. I was feeling the love, baby. I was in the Big Easy, drinking and eating from sunup to sundown. I had dinner twice. It was a good day. I keep listening in. Dubious Euro Boy starts talking about Japan. He says he lives in Austin, is a UT student, but every summer he goes to Tokyo and teaches English to Japanese children. He goes on and on about how the Japanese experience has enriched him, wonderful, Japan, excellent, amazing, blah blah blah. Then his cell phone rings and a classic moment of unintentional hilarity ensues:
Euro Boy, looking at the number of the caller: "Sorry, guys. I've got to take this call. It's my sensei."
Euro Boy, answering phone and walking out of the bar, looking pensive, serious, and deeply touched: "Moshe-moshe."
I had an extended laughing fit, exacerbated by trying not to laugh at the poor doofus. God bless that ridiculous dork.

I took the GRE last week. I did pretty well. Unfortunately, that doesn't matter now. The sole reason I took it was so I could apply to one particular film studies program at one particular university. I have no real desire to attend grad school anywhere else for any reason. I don't want to be a college professor, and I have an extreme distaste for academic writing and the insularities, irrelevancies, pretensions, and Dungeons and Dragons-style games of oneupsmanship that seem to dominate most graduate schools, though there are loads of exceptions, I have friends who get a lot out of their grad programs, and it's still preferable to a money-chasing careerist nine-to-five lifestyle even at its worst. This particular program is run by a professor and writer whose books, ideas, taste, and classroom methods appeal to me greatly. It's the only film program that teaches what I value in ways I find valuable. It places zero value on academic theory and jargon, sociologic and symbolic readings of film, or junky pop-culture entertainment. Instead, all value is placed on art (which is an academic dirty word) as a form of experience, not some puzzle or message to figure out or "get" or theorize about or throw a sociopolitical net on top of but as a new way of understanding, experiencing, feeling, and expressing what it's like to be a human being. Unfortunately, this professor is not well liked at his university because what he teaches is not academically fashionable. Changes he disagrees with are being made to the program, so he resigned. This will be his last year. So now my goal of the last two years has been rendered moot. I'm back to square zero. I was so caught up in studying for the GRE and preparing my application, I almost forgot I'm still unemployed. I've hit rock bottom. I have nothing going for me right now. It's actually not that depressing. A few months ago, I was waking up in the morning in a sweaty panic because I was having so much trouble finding a job. Now I don't give a shit. I don't give a shit about anything, and it feels good. My grad school plans are fucked, my job situation is fucked, and in a few more months, my checking and savings accounts will be fucked. I don't give a shit. I've got real freedom right now. It probably won't last. This is what I care about: My wife, family, friends, books, music, movies, art, writing, good food, good drinks, living. When I get a job, hopefully it won't depress the hell out of me, but they always do. Now that grad school's out, I want to get a house and a dog and a cat and continue to read, listen to music, watch movies, write, eat, drink, hang out with my friends, maybe luck into a job that doesn't disgust me, travel a little bit. That sounds good to me. That sounds like what I want to do until I'm dead. Too bad the university I wanted to attend will probably end up teaching classes about the representation of lesbianism on TV's "Friends" and the religious symbolism of "The Matrix" and churning out students who go on to write books like "Digital Diasporics: Reimaging Africanity in Cyberspace" (actual book title) that five other academics will read, but my life goes on. At least I'm not floating in a two-foot pool of feces-ridden water in New Orleans, am I right? Something will happen to me eventually. I will once again receive a steady paycheck and hopefully luck into having a meaningful life.

Reading: An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

These new indie kids need to eat a cheeseburger, run a comb through their hair, and spend a little time in the sun

I haven't been posting much lately. I was in New Orleans for a week, then an unexpected trip to Nebraska for a funeral two days after the NO trip. 45 hours in a car in two weeks. Then New Orleans floods. I didn't know if my friend and gentleman scholar, Professor Romance, was okay for a few days. Fortunately, he escaped to Houston, then Florida, but he's probably lost most of his stuff and his college is closed for a semester. There's lots to say about this flood, but I'm not up to it. It's just bad. Very bad. In this early retirement/poor life decision/necessary insane gesture/winter of my discontent/endless summer/neverending dance party I've launched myself into without a Plan B, I've taken two separate trips to New Orleans and fallen in queasy, degenerate love with the place. It must rebuild. It's below sea level. That kind of lunatic hubris needs to be respected. Nature will fuck all of us up bad one way or another. Nature is a bad motherfucker. The world is a scary place and life is brutal and short. Eat animals. They'll eat you first if they get the chance. Drink, cavort, be merry. Get as much pleasure out of this shithole as you can.
For some stupid reason that escapes me now, I've decided to apply for grad school. I've been studying for the GRE these last two weeks. It's probably pointless. My undergrad transcripts are the equivalent of a three-year-old coffee-stained map of Afghanistan. Lots of As, Bs, Cs. An F. No Ds, though. Fuck. I've had a weird month. I feel like a kicked skeleton. I need some luck. Maybe I'll go to clown school.

Reading: Lords of Chaos: The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Soderlind
These Norwegian Black Metal guys are some of the most hilariously stupid people who ever lived. It would be easier to laugh at them if many of them weren't neo-Nazis or in jail for murder and arson. They got the writers they deserved, too. I don't think the book has touched an editor's hands. The writing is disorganized, pretentious, repetitive, ridiculous, and unintentionally funny, just like the bands. These guys have names like Euronymous, Dead, Hellhammer, and Count Grishnackh. Check out this quote from Dead about his band Mayhem's stage show: "Pigheads, as well as other heads, is what we try to have at all gigs." After Dead committed suicide, his roommates Euronymous and Hellhammer found the body. Hellhammer: "Euronymous thought of sawing his arm off and putting it under a glass display case, but he figured it wouldn't be very smart because the police would probably ask where his arm was." I love the use of the word "probably" in that quote. Genius.

R.L. Burnside is dead, New Orleans is flooded, I still don't understand geometry, and I still don't have a job

I'm back, bitches. The circle of life is a harsh mistress.

Set the nest egg on fire

I still don't have a job. I'm running out of money. I'm going back to New Orleans for a week. While there, I hope to give a nice, large portion of my remaining life savings a Viking funeral and an Irish wake. See you at the soup kitchen.

Little girls dislike rough men in dirty clothes and beards

I love some of the answers given by theater managers in the early part of the last century to the questions, "Are the children ever frightened by cartoons or during serials? If so, by what type of incident?"
My other favorite, besides the one I used for the title of this post: "Only in cases of extreme knife incidents."

Spam of the kings

I think by now we've all been inundated with so much bizarre spam (for example, "sluts suck cock through slice of pizza") that we've become jaded. However, a spam I received recently broke through my defenses. I have no idea what it's trying to sell me, but I'm buying. The spam is from Thicken Q. Fervently and the subject line is "Bonjour Sir Joshkrauter, 60% discount on cheapest CIA." Nice.

I'm not so angry today

Yep.


Listening to: Roky Erickson

Message to everyone I like: Please have as many kids as possible so we can thoroughly outnumber these idiots

These people probably aren't going to the Deuce Bigalow sequel. Nevertheless, they are also morons. I feel like crying. Instead, I will have another Schlitz and stick my dick in the hole that the farmer forbid. The first two were so great, the third one has to be gangbusters. Creationism 4 Life! I love dinosaurs! Whooooo!

Fuck you

The Dukes of Hazzard is Number One at the box office, grossing more than $30 million in one weekend.

All week, I have been bombarded with ads for Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo. According to imdb.com, 174 people worked on this film. Huge amounts of money were spent making this film and paying these 174 people. In addition, the movie is rated R, so anyone purchasing a ticket is at least 17 years old. Think about that while watching the TV ads. It's mindblowing.

If you pay to see either of these two movies, you are hurting our country. Fuck you.

Usually, I can laugh about the awfulness of a horrible movie, but for some reason, the fact that a sequel to Deuce Bigalow exists, and that probably lots of people will go see it, depresses the hell out of me.

The information suppliers

Even though I currently have no pot to piss in, I am very, very glad I did not make use of my journalism degree and become a journalist. I would have been a terrible journalist. For one thing, I'm not interested in the daily dispersal of facts. I don't think immediate facts are a bridge to the truth. I think you can get a lot closer to the truth from immediate lies, jokes, and art than you can from isolated facts. A really good sandwich (or a really bad one) can give me more truth than a network newscast or New York Times article. Historical facts, while just as meaningless if presented out of context, can at least provide some understanding of current political and social situations by giving us the chain of events, the contexts, the known reasons how and maybe why things are happening the way they are, both in this country and everywhere else, but our current television and newspaper journalists have no interest in historical facts. Most of us in this country know fuck-all about foreign policy, politics, and history. I include myself in this condemnation. I am an idiot in this subject. While I am partially responsible for my own ignorance, the mainstream United States media does a horrible job of keeping its citizens informed. All we get is a vague, muddled "what" without any "how" or "why." The past is creepily ignored at all costs. What happened yesterday might as well have never happened at all. Immediacy slays understanding. No context is supplied. No cause is explained. Nothing exists but effect. Stories that are irrelevant to the populace at large but push emotional buttons siphon coverage from important stories. Natalee Holloway's disappearance, Michael Jackson's trial, Russian submariners. These stories are unimportant as news. They mean a lot to the handful of people directly affected, but for the rest of us, they function at the same level as a sentimental Hollywood tearjerker. Our newspapers are woefully inadequate, but at least we can skip the most egregious articles and advertisements. Television news is an abomination. We get the day's murders, assaults, and car accidents (again, irrelevant as "news"), a brief, shallow dip into local politics, an even briefer, shallower dip into national and world events, a bunch of weather, some sports highlights, and whatever animal baby was born in a zoo that day. It's appalling. Telling us about a car bomb in Iraq or a shooting in Israel tells us nothing about those countries or their conflicts. We're being read a random page from a different novel every day and it means nothing. Business and advertising values have irreversibly corrupted our news outlets. Our local Fox outlet doesn't even hide its taintedness. Fox is owned by Rupert Murdoch's News Corp., which also owns 20th Century Fox film studios. Each day on the local news, there is a behind-the-scenes "story" about some new 20th Century Fox movie. Shameless. Once a news outlet presents advertising as news, it can never be trusted again. This is a basic tenet of journalism school. It is unethical in journalism to let the advertising infect the reporting. Why do television news stations get away with this daily? My rant so far is not very original or topical. This is obvious, old, artless stuff. I am beating a dead horse. What's the solution? We probably all need to be more vigilant about seeking out information instead of letting it come to us, and there are many good and great journalists and depth and investigative reporters writing for good and great magazines, but why are newspapers and television news broadcasts so awful and what can we do about it?

H.W. Ross founded The New Yorker magazine. He was worried about advertising infecting news and editorial content back in 1926. This is from a letter to publisher Raoul Fleischmann that year:
"I think it essential that all members of the advertising staff be tactfully but firmly taught that they are in no way to have direct contact with the members of the editorial staff or with me...
...Unless stern measures are taken my present efforts to keep the editorial department independent, uninfluenced, honest and - more important than all - slightly aloof, will be more or less defeated..."

Reading: Agee On Film by James Agee

Collage #4

"Self-Portrait w/ Flying Dutchman"

Wha?

It was not clear why he licked the wounds.

Fun with Google and Yahoo image search revisited

Perhaps you remember this post. Let's try a new batch of words and see what pops up first on these two titans of engine searching.

First up, Google image search:

outrageous

teens

Bill Cosby

hoagie

nutrageous

extravaganza

bearded

bonehead play

robotic squirrel

goddamn

Now, Yahoo image search:

outrageous

teens

Bill Cosby

hoagie

nutrageous

extravaganza

bearded

bonehead play (same photo as Google)

robotic squirrel

goddamn

Jeb Bush has too much forehead and the other jerk has too much neck

Look at them. Just look at them.

I hate the summer

It's time to admit it. The romance and nostalgia are dead. Every year I look forward to the summer, but it's time to wise the fuck up. Summertime blows. It's hot as shit, bugs are everywhere, my car is an inferno and its air-conditioning is competent at best, the heat makes me nauseous and lazy, I drink too much beer, and I sweat a lot. I'm not in school anymore. What charm can the summer hold for a man whose schedule is the same year-round? It's time for summer to get its ass smacked off the top of the seasonal chart. I like the fall. I like the spring. I hated winter in the Midwest, but in Texas, the winter is pretty damn swank. Somehow, summer retained a sexy reputation in my mind. Summer's been coasting on its grade-school charm for too long. It is the worst season. FUCK YOU SUMMER! YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE! I'll be smiling it up when October comes along and pimp-slaps this oppressive heat-funk back into the hell from which it spewed forth.

This post is only the beginning. Can-Smashing Robot will now have an all-weather format. Nothing is more interesting than weather. What's it like outside? That's the most interesting question that's ever been asked.

Holy shit, what's my problem? Do I even have a problem? Am I great? Hunky dory, even?

I have a lot of alcoholics in the family tree, and I've been warned by doctors that it is an inherited trait. More than one doctor, in fact! But not my current doctor! He's more concerned with my hoagie intake! The problem, for me, seems to lie in the symptoms. Everyone seems to think that alcoholism is revealed when hidden drinks are discovered throughout the abode. The toilet tank, say, or behind the powertools in the garage. I have a problem with this symptom, though, because the amount a person has to hide depends on the temperament of his significant other. Say a man is forbidden to drink more than three drinks per week by his wife, gay lover, hidden extra-terrestrial, or talking basketball-playing werewolf. If he has that fourth drink, beer # 4 is probably hiding somewhere. But four drinks per week does not an alcoholic make. If the same man is drinking twelve bottles of whiskey per week, but the significant other allows it, an element of denial is strongly in place. Evidence: That werewolf was really good at slam dunking the ball, but, when he decided to simply be himself, we still won the state championship! Conclusion: Binge drinking is fully justified! USA! USA! USA! If any of you would like to talk to me, I'm passed out in my own bile! Color Me Badd 4 Life!

Potpourri of observations

Hello everyone. I like to pretend I'm a big man. I make it known around town that I have no use for the lower entertainments many of you commoners gawk at for hours upon years upon decades. I am a man of refined taste, culture, reputation and style. I'm drinking wine right now, for example. That being said, I have become addicted to the reality program, "Hell's Kitchen." It combines my newfound love of cooking with my age-old love of abusive tirades.

The mayor of Austin, Will Wynn (with a name like that, how could he lose?), has announced he is taking suggestions from anyone who wishes to e-mail him about how to celebrate Lance Armstrong's seventh Tour de France victory. I don't know Lance Armstrong, but I know this much. He would undoubtedly want me to have a high-paying, albeit surprisingly relaxing, job. This job should involve lots of screwing around, jacking around, screwing off, fucking off, pissing on it, and forgetting about it. I know this.

Take my wife, please.

But seriously, folks. My wife is great. It's these airline peanuts that burn me up. There are so few airline peanuts in a package of airline peanuts. Airline peanuts. Fuck.

This headline is a dream come true.

Please listen to lots of Silkworm, and remember how unfair this lottery of waking up every morning is. No one from the Barenaked Ladies has been killed. All the original members of Color Me Badd are still alive. Jeb Bush is still breathing in and out. Julia Roberts has been allowed to live. Thomas Kinkade talked shit about Picasso on "60 Minutes." Every host of "Entertainment Tonight," past and present, still exists. But we're still here, too. So fuck them. Do things you like with people you like as often as you can. One day, Conor Oberst will die. This gives me hope.

Damn it

A water main burst near our apartment, so the water has been shut off since three in the afternoon. It is now fourteen minutes past midnight, and the water is still off. We bought a bunch of bottled water, so we're doing alright in the hydration department, but bottled water is not going to flush my urine-filled toilet. Please, water department, let me flush my toilet filled with piss. Why won't you let me flush it?

I'm a liar

I lied about being too old to feel a personal attachment to people in rock bands that I like. I'm really bummed out about this Michael Dahlquist thing. How could this guy be dead?

If Robert Pollard died, my wallet would be much thicker

The four days following my birthday, I received three pieces of bad news, one after the other, boom boom boom. Then I get up on the fifth day and check out a few Internet sites, only to discover that one of my favorite drummers, Michael Dahlquist, from one of my favorite bands that hardly anyone gives a shit about, Silkworm, was killed in a freakish car accident on my birthday. I'm too old to feel any personal attachment to people in rock bands I like, but I am sad that the band has decided to break up. I'm pretty obsessive about this band. They enjoyed a brief period of hipster buzz around '95, '96, but it didn't last because indie rock fans are scumbags with no loyalty. They kept putting out great albums anyway. The whole thing sucks, especially how he died. Dahlquist and two other Chicago musicians worked the same day job and were stopped at a red light on their lunchbreak. An ex-model had an argument with her mother and decided to kill herself by getting in her car, running a bunch of red lights at 70 mph, and hitting whatever got in her way. She hit them. All three of the men died. She just broke her foot. Silkworm is no more, and three people are dead because they didn't bring their lunches to work. Dahlquist's death wasn't even the top story on Pitchfork. They thought the guy from Broken Social Scene getting punched by a cop was a more important story. This jerk was buying drugs in the park, got busted, resisted arrest, and got roughed up a little bit. Now he thinks he's a big man, announcing from the stage that he's going to sue the NYPD. At least his proximity to the obituary made him look like an even bigger twat. So anyway, I'm thinking about how ridiculous and short our lives are, and how ridiculous our deaths can be, and lots of other stuff about the three pieces of bad news I mentioned earlier, and how fucking hard it is for me to find a job, and how I'm running out of money, and how directionless my life is at the moment, and about how lots of stuff I've been enthusiastic about in the past is not currently floating my boat, and I'm walking down the street, and a homeless guy asks me how I'm doing. "Alright," I say and keep walking. "Just alright?" he says. "You're great! You woke up this morning. You're doing great!" The homeless fucker's right, but he's still a jerk. I still didn't feel great. I had something else bad happen to me today, and it finally turned me around, pulled me out of the funk. I'm in the bathroom at the Arbor before the movie starts. I'm done. I'm washing my hands. I turn on the faucet. I push down on the soap dispenser. Something is fucked up with this soap dispenser. I push down harder. Soap shoots out of it in a direct arc toward my crotch. It splatters all over the groin area of my shorts, looking exactly like I pissed myself. I know a lot of people say that when they spill something on their crotch, but this time it was true. There would be no "maybe he spilled water" reaction. This could only provoke a "that guy pissed himself" reaction. This is absurd. It's kicking a man when he's down. With all my problems, I didn't deserve to have soap sprayed on my crotch in a dribbly urine pattern. I had to walk back into the theater, past the people waiting in line near the other screens. I pulled my shorts way up, pulled my shirt way down, and did the walk of shame. My shorts slowly moved down to their normal position. People looked at me funny. I walked in the theater, sat down. I looked at my crotch. My wife looked at my crotch. We both started laughing. I tried to tell her what happened. I kept laughing. I finally got the story out. Laughed some more. Now life is good again. It's been a good night. Saw a good movie. Ate a good dinner. Some productive things happened. Listened to good music. Getting ready to read a good book. Eventually, something will happen to make me angry or sad. That will last a long time. Then something good will happen again. This pattern will repeat. Then I'll die.

Alright

Chris Cunningham made another Aphex Twin video. I'm happy about that.

Mix CD report #3

Neil Young's "Cripple Creek Ferry" is possibly the finest one minute, 34 second song. I'd have to consult my Minutemen albums to see if there's any competition, but I'd have to get out of my chair to do that.

Pop that funk

"Freedom is free of the need to be free. Free your mind and your ass will follow."
----- Funkadelic

Boop blap beep bwoooooop

I enjoy Brian Eno's synth solo on Roxy Music's "Editions of You." It's a barn burner! I also enjoy Bryan Ferry's pronunciation of the phrase "Boys will be boys" ("boys will be boy-yoy-yoy-yoys"). Who else sounds like Roxy Music? No-fuckin'-body! That's who!

Collage #3

Collage #3: "Competing Histories"

Bust a birthday nut

Hello friends and enemies,
I turned 28 today. I've now lived longer than Kurt Cobain. Smells like teen longevity. Dr. Mystery 1, Kurt Cobain 0.

My job search is about as successful as the Donner Party. Speaking of eating flesh, my new goal is to forget about finding a job and find Austin's ten best sandwiches instead. The Statesman threw down the gauntlet (gantlet?) and had the hubris to proclaim the ten best sandwiches in town. I am going to eat all ten. I've already had the Italian godfather and the best egg salad in town. I will eat the remaining eight before the summer is over, cholesterol be damned. You have my word on that. Are they the ten best sandwiches in town? Who cares. Are they good sandwiches? Yes. I will eat them with pride. Civic pride.

Reading: The Turn of the Screw and Other Short Fiction by Henry James
Listening to: A bunch of mix CDs I made last week on shuffle - #1, #2, #3, #4 (#5 is a reggae compilation I haven't posted yet)
Farting: a lot

All the best professor names have already been taken

Reinhardt, you're alright.

Sunday morning coming down

Saturday night, I'm in my underwear, drinking PBR and watching "CSI: Las Vegas" reruns (could there be a better way to waste my life) when I hear some odd banging and kicking sounds coming from nearby that sound a whole lot weirder than the usual Saturday night drunken apartment complex living hijinks. I look out the window, and some strange person is standing motionless in front of the maintenance man's supply closet, which is right next door to our apartment. He is not one of the three maintenance men my landlords employ. He's tall, skinny, blonde, and vaguely indie-rock looking. He sees me and walks to the apartment complex across the alley, holds something above his head, stares at it for a few seconds, throws it over the fence, and takes off down the alley. I'm pissed off now because I assume he's broken in to our complex and I have to put my clothes back on and call the police. Ten minutes later, the police show up. I walk them outside and recreate the chain of events. The supply closet is still locked, and the mysterious object he stared at intensely and then threw over the fence turns out to be a fucking lightbulb. The police couldn't find him, tell me to lock my door, and leave. The next day, we're driving back from lunch and Captain Lightbulb is standing in the alley, shirtless, making weird gestures with his hands. We go inside. I contemplate calling the police again, but we end up just watching him for several minutes from our window, mesmerized. He looks directly into the sun, holds up his hand in a vaguely mystical gesture, and begins talking to himself. Then, a girlfriend/sister/roommate/friend pops out of the apartment across the alley and shoves him back inside. We discuss whether to call the cops again now that we know where he is, but we decide that he is either mentally ill, retarded, or under the influence of a particularly heavy dose of psychedelics and pass on further interactions with APD. Later, my wife sees him sitting in his pickup, talking to himself, and pressing on the horn once every ten seconds or so. Later still, he attempts to open our complex's supply closet yet again, but his girlfriend/sister/etc. grabs him and ushers him back inside. Turns out, he's just fascinated with the supply closet door, and he's really, really fucking high on psychedelics. He hasn't caused any hullaballoos since then. What's the point of this true story? I'll tell you the point, my friends. The point is that it's a dangerous, crazy world, and the children who are our future need to learn to just say no. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .to high prices! For real savings, shop at Costco. That's the Costco difference.

Get thee behind me, Satan

They've been airing the commercials for this heap of shit for the past three or four weeks. I've made a pact with myself that if I happen to watch even a minute of this show voluntarily, I will chop my dick off and eat it. Apparently, a millionaire record producer (who's recorded albums for such luminaries as Celine Dion and Kenny G.) is "tired" of his adult stepsons living off his money and is now "cutting them off." They have to find ingenious ways to raise money to survive on the mean streets of Trust Fund, USA, and we're supposed to sit on our couches and laugh heartily at this grotesque public display of obscene wealth and meaningless, pampered existence. Look at this asshole, his asshole stepsons, and the pile of hand soap, silicone, hairdye and chipmunk skulls that has somehow been fashioned into the female matriarch of this collection of fucksacks. This record producing jerk stares into the camera, fondling a handful of money, and grinning smugly, while he intones, even more smugly, "I'm cuttin' 'em off." Hee hee. He also says, false modesty gangraping arrogance while tact cries alone and ignored in the corner, "I've written and produced a few songs that did alright." (Cut to footage of him winning a Grammy for producing some horseshit.) A fucking Grammy. If I won a Grammy, I would find someone I hate and give the award to his dog. Never mind the fact that the whole pretence of this show is false. One of the stepsons has a band, produced by the stepfather, and this is their crass, vulgar, dishonest way of advertising it. Some day, I can only hope that a reality show about this family concludes with Record Producer Jerk stabbing his wife and stepsons, cutting Celine Dion open and feasting on her entrails, shoving Kenny G.'s phallic half-sax down his throat, and finally, turning the blade on himself while tears fall on the pile of worthless records he's devoted his life to recording. Fuck that guy.

Overheard at HEB on Saturday while buying beer, French bread, and chicken

Asian man in line ahead of us purchases some Celis raspberry beer.
Cashier: "Asians sure buy a lot of this beer."
D'oh!

The genius of David Lee Roth

"You mean that hot dog I just ate was Sammy Hagar?"

I regret nothing

Right now, my life is a plane and the plane is on fire. I am, apparently, unemployable, and the money is slinking away like kids from a swimming pool after little Gerald shit in it. My life savings will soon be joining Luther Vandross, and my enthusiasm for this job search is headed in the same direction. That's okay. Right now, the whiskey is joining its friends gin and vodka in my bloodstream, music that pleases me is coming out of the compute-box, and I am, for the moment, lord of all I survey. When Warren Zevon was asked, shortly before his death, for any insights he had gleaned from his terminal cancer, he replied, "Enjoy every sandwich." That's maybe the best advice anyone's ever been given.
P.S. Could it be any fucking hotter? This is the most miserable summer of my five years in Austin. It's just compounding all the other bullshit. My car is the next wood-fired oven of (name of downtown eatery with wood-fired oven here). My keys actually bake while I drive. I'm serious. I burned my hand twice today by touching my keys after I removed them from the automobile. This is not the way things should go.

Let's try this again

Two of my posts just disappeared without a trace after being up for a day, and I don't think they're coming back. Looks like I gotta recommend this Internet radio station again. It's www.erika.net/ and it's good. There are no commercials, and I've only heard two songs in three days that did not please me in some way. They just played Tobin Sprout, Bach, Hank Williams, and Sun Ra back to back. This almost makes me forget about that idiot who told J. Lo she weathered the Bennifer era with strength. Sometimes, things aren't so bad.

What?

I was flipping through the channels last night and briefly landed on "Access Hollywood." I didn't stay long, but I got to hear the interview jerk say this to Jennifer Lopez: "You weathered a whole era in pop culture called Bennifer, and you weathered it with strength."

The last Conor Oberst post ever, I swear

I may have been a bit too hasty in my dismissal of Bright Eyes' protest song, "When the President Talks to God." Upon further inspection, I've discovered a troubling accusation against our current commander-in-chief that I feel deserves investigation. Mr. Oberst, your anthem may have more layers than an onion. I apologize.
Let's look at the final verse again:
When the president talks to God
Does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head
When he kneels next to the presidential bed
Does he ever smell his own bullshit
When the president talks to God?

Oh my god! I can't believe I overlooked the explosive allegations in the second to last line! I have been shamed! This question, "Does he ever smell his own bullshit?" is a disturbing one. Oberst has, apparently, been given covert information. I don't know who his sources are, but I'm going to assume they are from the highest level of our federal government. Evidently, when our president defecates, this defecation is colloquially referred to as "bullshit," and the possibility exists that he may catch a whiff of this excretion. I assumed this statement to be a metaphor representing Bush's deceptions. However, if this line were a mere metaphor, the line would obviously have been delivered as, "Does he ever smell his own shit?" Instead, Oberst has cleverly and slyly revealed to us that our president excretes "bullshit." What a bombshell! We have been clued in, finally, to the horrible truth that our president is either a magical bull who has cloaked himself in human disguise, or a half-man, half-bull creature hell-bent on destroying the earth through secret missives delivered by "God," obviously a code name for either a sinister zookeeper or an even larger, more powerful super-bull, or bull-man. God help us all, and my apologies to you, Captain Bright Eyes. Goodnight, you princes of Maine, you kings of New England.

Reading: Essays in Pragmatism by William James
Listening to: some radio show and Chappaquiddick Skyline

I've been tagged

I've been tagged by Mary P Pants. Here goes:
1. Total number of books owned: This will be no fun to count, so I'll estimate. More than 10, less than 100 billion.
2. The last book I bought: I sold a bunch of books to Half Price yesterday, and bought a bunch more with the cash. They are: Samuel Fuller's autobiography, poetry by Baudelaire, and fiction by Peter Schneider, and, coincidentally, more authors who start with the letter B, Marie-Claire Blais, Paul Bowles, and Heinrich Boll.
3. The last book I read: Captain Maximus by Barry Hannah
4. Five books that mean a lot to me:
a. Boomerang by Barry Hannah (or anything else by him)
b. The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky
c. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, text by James Agee, photos by Walker Evans
d. Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung by Lester Bangs
e. Cassavetes on Cassavetes, edited by Ray Carney
5. Tag five people to fill this out: I can't do that. Too much like a chain letter. If you're reading this, have a website, and want to fill out something like this, I tag you.

I finally have some concrete evidence to back up my specious claim that Conor Oberst is an idiot

This is already two months out of date, since Conor Oberst, a.k.a. Bright Eyes, performed his little protest song on "The Tonight Show" a couple of months ago, but I just stumbled across the video of it last night. I'm going to provide the lyrics for you, and comment on them. I feel I'm somewhat vindicated for my embarrassing, poorly written, ill-conceived, childish rant against Bright Eyes back in March on this site. In fact, they're almost cousins, my stupid post and his stupid song, for, while they attack worthy targets (Bright Eyes in my case and George W. Bush in his), they ultimately condemn their authors more than their objects of scorn and protest due to their inarticulate, whiny artlessness. The comparison is otherwise incorrect in that I am not so bad and he is a total dumbfuck. On to the lyrics, and my damning condemnation. Hopefully, he will retire after reading my shaming of him. Oh, will his face be red.

"When the President Talks to God" by Bright Eyes

When the president talks to God
Are the conversations brief or long?
Does he ask to rape our women's rights
And send poor farm kids off to die?
Does God suggest an oil hike
When the president talks to God?

Let's ponder this first verse. Read the second line. It's completely useless. He's already singing throwaway, meaningless lines before he gets to the real meat of his song. What fucking difference does it make whether the conversations are brief or long? He's already marking time. Let the artless soapboxing continue. The third line: How the hell do you rape rights? It's nonsense, but we can infer what he's getting at. Women's rights are being destroyed, blah, blah, blah. If he cares that much about women, why does he refer to them as "our women"? Odd, isn't it? The word "our" implies ownership of these women and, unintentional though it may be, is a far more extreme position than any our current leader W. has put forth. Apparently, whether subliminally or overtly, he feels the country's female population belongs to Saddle Creek Records. On the sunny side, ladies, you may be passed around like currency between Conor and members of The Faint and The Good Life, but he will make sure your rights aren't raped. Next line: Bush "sends poor farm kids off to die." What condescending faux-pity from a privileged urbanite. We're both from the farm-spattered state of Nebraska, so this dick-nut should know better. The age of the small family farm is near-dead. There are still a handful in each town, but the vast majority of farms and ranches are now owned by corporations or wealthy families. This line also implies that these poor farm kids aren't smart enough to know what they're getting into and explicitly makes known that Mr. Oberst must speak for every last one of them for they cannot speak for themselves. I imagine their being sent off to die has less to do with them being farmers and more to do with them being motherfucking teenagers when they sign up for the military. Also, a lot of poor city kids are going over there, too, Ass Eyes, but the line "send poor city kids off to die" doesn't have quite the propagandistic pizzazz, does it? This line is the equivalent of hugging a retard for the benefit of a cheerleader you want to fuck. Alas, I have no time for the absurd oil hike line or why it's in the same verse as farm kids and women's rights.

When the president talks to God
Are the consonants all hard or soft?
Is he resolute all down the line?
Is every issue black or white?
Does what God say ever change his mind
When the president talks to God?

This is fake-ass poetry from a non-poet. My consonants are soft, Conor. Soft and flaccid. They can't get hard. Can't....get.....hard. Condemning Bush for making every issue black and white is funny coming from a song that does the exact same thing. Being tails instead of heads doesn't stop you from being a coin.

When the president talks to God
Does he fake that drawl or merely nod?
Agree which convicts should be killed?
Where prisons should be built and filled?
Which voter fraud must be concealed
When the president talks to God?

Finally, Oberst attacks Bush for specific, documented reasons, though still artless in his delivery. Points immediately lost, however, for attempting to rhyme "concealed" with "killed" and "filled."

When the president talks to God
I wonder which one plays the better cop
We should find some jobs. the ghetto's broke
No, they're lazy, George, I say we don't
Just give 'em more liquor stores and dirty coke
That's what God recommends

You've got the fucking Downing Street memo at your disposal and you're wasting time blaming Bush for liquor stores and cocaine in the ghetto? Maybe he's responsible for the Watts riots, too? With all we've got on this cocksucker, why make up shit?

When the president talks to God
Do they drink near beer and go play golf
While they pick which countries to invade
Which Muslim souls still can be saved?
I guess god just calls a spade a spade
When the president talks to God

The "near beer" thing is a lazy cheapshot at a recovering alcoholic, even if that alcoholic is the asshole who's currently ruining our country. It's like criticizing Mussolini for eating too much cake. Come on, jerk, you've got a lot of ammo. Why are you wasting it shooting at empty cans? Also, Bush doesn't want to convert Muslims. He wants to kill them. Get it straight.

When the president talks to God
Does he ever think that maybe he's not?
That that voice is just inside his head
When he kneels next to the presidential bed
Does he ever smell his own bullshit
When the president talks to God?

The whole song is based on a lie when the truth is right there acting crazier than shit, so I don't get why he doesn't choose the latter. Bush is a fundamentalist, or at least he pretends to be to get votes, which amounts to the same thing if it's influencing legislation, but he's never once said that he actually "talks to God." He's never said that he and God have regular conversations. He did say that he thought God wanted him to be president, which is even nuttier. So why not write a song about that? Or better yet, act like an artist if you are one. Don't tell us exactly what you think so we can feel congratulated if we think the same thing. This is a pamphlet, not a song, and not a very good one.

I doubt it

I doubt it

What a jerk.

If specious reasoning were Rice Krispies, c. 1986 Washington Times columnist John Lofton would have a lot of fucking boxes of Rice Krispies

Since we got DSL last week and I can finally watch streaming video on the compute-box at home, I've been watching Frank Zappa's 1986 appearance on CNN's "Crossfire" multiple times. I'm going to go out on a limb and declare it Zappa's finest work of the eighties. At any rate, it makes a few things abundantly clear. Tom Braden was a pretty ineffective leftist spokesperson, Novak seems to have some common sense but wants to have it both ways, I've only seen 20 episodes of "Crossfire" in my life (liberal estimate) but I can say without fear of being proven wrong that John Lofton is the stupidest man to ever grace that particular program or the newspaper business, and it's a shame that someone as intelligent and vital as Zappa had to die so early even though his best work was behind him. This 19-year-old TV clip has given me a lot of pleasure in the last couple of days, but it's kind of depressing to hear Zappa say that Reagan is pushing the U.S. toward a "fascist theocracy" considering who we've got running the show now. It's even more depressing to think that Zappa, Bill Hicks, and Hunter S. Thompson are no longer around to spread the gospel of informed, humorous, pretense-free, common sense when we need it most. Who's on our side now? Just this nut-twat (speaking of specious reasoning...). I've got an idea. Let's fight fascism with idiocy. Fantastic. You're making us all look stupid. Stop it. Why is everything so fucking dumb? I'm going to eat some Rice Krispies. Whooo!

A joke told by my mother's cousin

A woman has been feeling ill for weeks, so her husband takes her to the doctor. They run some tests on her, and, a few days later, they call with news of the results. The husband answers the phone.
"Well, doctor," he says. "What's wrong with her?"
"Unfortunately," the doctor says, "we had a chart mix-up with another patient, and we don't know which one is your wife's. At any rate, the news isn't good. She's either got AIDS or Alzheimer's."
"Oh my god," the man says. "What should I do?"
"Well," the doctor says. "Drive her three miles into the country and drop her off. If she finds her way back home, don't fuck her."

Ba-dum bum ching!

If you love smooth jazz, set it free

I found another cassette on top of the mailboxes. It was unlabeled. I took it. It was more smooth jazz. The next day, there was a Luther Vandross tape there. Someone else took it, then brought it back. It's still there.

Forget all your troubles and smile it up, jerks

I deleted a post for the first time, because it was written in drunken anger and the person it was directed toward could have read it. I should have learned my lesson from the whole "punching that rock band guy in the face" fiasco. To make up for the deleted post, here is a photo of a smiling man.

I found some crappy, sexxxy music when I was outside of my apartment

The wife bought a car several months ago, and the old owner's mix CD was still in it. I tried to listen to it, but it was absolute shit. I decided to bring it into the apartment today and give it another try, because I'm a masochist with a lot of free time (a winning combination!). On my way in, a mysterious cassette tape labeled "mix" was sitting on top of the mailboxes. I couldn't pass that up, either, and snatched it like I've snatched all your hearts. (A digression: Anytime someone in our apartment complex wants to get rid of something no one would ever buy, the silently understood system is to place it either on top of or directly below the mailboxes. Some items I've seen there include troll dolls, keychains, the little plastic couple from a wedding cake, a box full of accounting textbooks, Barry White 8-tracks, and a small vial of mysterious green liquid.) First up, I put the CD in. It was still shit, but this time I sampled all 18 hot tracks. These tracks were truly a combo platter of dung. The mix-maker's taste was catholic, but also reeked of butt. Many genres were disgraced: soul, hip-hop, country, alternative rock, metal, techno, indie rock, pop. There was even a dance version of a Bryan Adams song. Grade: B for Boring. I put the CD on top of the mailboxes. Next, I put in the mystery cassette. For about five minutes, I didn't even realize it was playing. "What is this?" I said to myself. "The sound of nothingness? A black hole? Inertia? Stasis? Did I forget to press play?" Then, I chuckled quietly to myself, for I realized my error. "Lo, it has been playing all along, unbeknownst to these naive vessels of sound I call my ears. And not just playing, but playing smooth jazz! The only music extant that provokes no response, neither emotional, nor intellectual, nor physical! Oh, smooth jazz! Your neutrality amuses me! You are like a particularly unmemorable carpet from an office I never visited!" In between the smooth jazzers, an R&B slow jam advised women to cook and clean for their man because "it's about give and take." A promising thesis, but this songster does not go far enough. Just when I was ready to chuck the cassette back on top of the mailboxes, a beautiful thing happened. An entire soul album followed the smooth jazz-fest. I am going to do some investigating and try to discover the name of the artist and the album, but for now, his identity remains a mystery. All I know so far is that he sounds like a middle-aged man and is fond of fuzz guitar solos, and the production values hint at a 1991-1995 vintage. The album, before it devolves into a series of boring ballads about halfway through, is one of the greatest things I've ever found on a mailbox. All the pre-ballad songs are mid-tempo funk jams detailing what kind of sex the singer is going to have, full of hilariously lazy double entendres and straightforward promises to a "sexy lady" to "get you naked," "get between the sheets," "make love on the floor," make love on the rug," "get the bed squeaking," and "open it wide, because I'm going in wherever I can." The best song is about him catching his "sexy lady" making it with some other guy upstairs while he's watching TV. He's having none of that, but he understands because the "bitch is so sexy" that no one can keep their hands off her. The greatest thing about all of this is that it's sung with a deadly seriousness (un)deserved by the material, like he's singing about drug abuse, AIDS victims, or poverty. He means business. When he sings about "getting freaky," he's singing from the heart. I love how serious he is about making love on rugs. I think I may have stumbled upon a neglected masterpiece, or at least a half-masterpiece. To paraphrase critic Dave Kehr (who was talking about the movie Gone with the Wind), "It isn't all that good, but somehow it's great."

Suplexed by life

I need a job but I don't want one. This thing on my arm is probably skin cancer. I'm slapped by heat every time I leave the house. I didn't get a single e-mail today. No one can discover the origin of the Irish whip or what distinguishes an atomic legdrop from an ordinary legdrop though the legdrops look identical. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes won't stop licking my face. Chinese Democracy still has no release date. The next pope will defect from the church, setting into motion Mideast chaos, WWIII, and the end of days, and the streets will run red with Rexella Van Impe's blood. The new Beck album is underwhelming. Hollywood still hasn't realized the untapped potential of Malcolm Jamal-Warner. I've wasted my life. This post sucks.

(excerpted from my one-man-show For Christ Sakes Why Won't Claire Huxtable Let the Man Eat Just One Hoagie?)

In our hearts, he'll be born again

W.W.J.D.? Who cares? The real question is H.W.E.T. (How Would Enchiladas Taste?) The answer: Great!
Fact: Jesus has yet to cook a single enchilada.
Fact: Jesus has never once been photographed eating a taco.
Fact: The Apostle Paul once offered Jesus a burrito. He refused it.
The record speaks for itself.
Advantage: Mexican cuisine!

Reading: Heart of Darkness and The Secret Sharer by Joseph Conrad
Listening to: The Twilight Singers
Burning: Up my future

The liberal media will turn our children into lesbians and terrorists with these dangerous books.

A friend of mine came across this piece of infotainment/lunacy/frightening reactionary nutjobbery, and now I pass it on to you. Read it and weep.

Manifesto of Robotic Self-Love

The Manifesto
1) These words are evil and must be obliterated: Work, Career, Money, Safety, 401k, Oral Surgery, Overtime, Dress Code, Church, Alarm Clock, Stasis, Sunday School.
2) These words are good and must be upheld: Sandwich, Life, Art, Free Time, Pattern Disruption, Sin, Setting Own Schedule, Large Supreme Pizza.
3) If an animal gets in your way, eat it.
4) If a book gets in your way, read it. Unless it's by Dean R. Koontz. In that case, throw it away.
5) Sleep as often as you like. If anyone gets on your case about it, tell them to fuck off.
6) Soul-death is a reality. To prevent this, spend as much time as possible away from the eyeline of the Bossman. Hunker down beneath a desk or table if you have to.
7) Don't let "doctors" tell you how to live. If you like to smoke twelve packs of cigarettes a day and eat lard sandwiches, continue to do so. Quality, baby. Not quantity. Did you know that not a single one of these so-called "doctors" has successfully beaten death?
8) If you waited in line more than 30 minutes to see any of the last three Star Wars movies, may God have mercy on your soul, for I cannot.
9) It is noon. If you have pants on, you have failed somehow. Don't be sad, we are all failures. We will all die. Remove your pants and carry on.
10) Pick some arbitrary category, then debate its merits. Example: "I used to think Stevie Wonder was the best 1970s soul artist. Now I'm leaning toward Curtis Mayfield." This is a good way to waste time.

Reading: Captain Maximus by Barry Hannah
Looking: disheveled, unshaven, tousled, dilapidated

I've got nothing to say...

... except that my former coworkers are some handsome motherfuckers. A fine group of people. If working in an office didn't make me hate my life, I would still be there. One of the reasons I've been dragging my feet getting a new job is that I don't think my next batch of coworkers is going to measure up. I worked in a place where I once overheard a coworker talk about crossbreeding a tomato with a vagina for his garden. This was not an isolated example of bawdy ribaldry. This was par for the course, my friend. Par for the course. Still, a job is a poor substitute for a life and must be destroyed. Work is for jerks. Take this job and shove it. Feel the burn. Where's the beef? Why is there air? My other car is a boat. My son is an honor student at Fuck You Junior High. Don't like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT! I'd rather be snorkeling. Don't blame me, I voted for Alf. Whoo! Yeah! Huzzah! Honk, honk! Beep! Yowzah! Urgh! Snuh! Flerp! Zaz! Yoink! Whirroo!

The Big Easy

I have completed my maiden voyage to New Orleans. It was a success. I shall return someday. These are some of the things I saw, did, and/or heard:
1) Started my breakfast with two enormous Vodka Lightnings and crawfish nachos.
2) Tore into the delicious flesh of turtles and alligators.
3) Drank two absinthes.
4) Saw a woman give a man a blowjob on the sidewalk of a crowded street in the middle of the afternoon.
5) Got called Eminem by a crackhead.
6) Was within a block of several rounds of gunfire, smoke from aforementioned guns, and a man running away frantically.
7) Ordered three Heinekens at once. Watched a man in a pompadour/mullet combination perform the longest version of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" in U.S. history.
8) Baffled the French.
9) Taxi driver, after my friend inquired about the condition of a woman about to vomit out of her car window: "Put a dick in her mouth, and she'll be alright."
10) A stripper told us she wasn't allowed to pick her own songs at the strip club and once had to dance to the theme song from "Friends."
11) Rich, on the proximity of Taco John's (a Midwestern fast food Mexican chain) to his new home in Washington, D.C.: "I'll drive 200 miles for a lot of shit, and Taco John's is one of them."
12) Our friend Rich, again, on the difficulties of picking a Ramones song to put on a mix tape: "Picking your favorite Ramones song is like picking your favorite ant from a pile of ants."
13) Accosted by a street performer for being too tolerant to the crackhead who called me Eminem. This street performer, the angriest sax man in the world, told us that "the motherfucker probably breathed TB all over you guys."
14) Found a mysterious rip in my shorts that wasn't there at the day's beginning.
15) Got called "honey," "baby," "sweetie," and "sugar" by various waitresses. I like that.
16) Got drunk on Russian plum wine.
17) Looked at the Mississippi River. It was good.
18) Rode the trolley a lot. Looked at fantastic architecture and urban squalor.
19) Sweated my ass off. Drank, ate, and walked constantly. This is living.
20) Saw a chef and an alcoholic nearly break out into a fistfight over the way a steak was cooked and the way the salad dressing was poured.
21) Every five steps, a different aroma. The pungent stench of delicious food, Southern humidity, fruity drinks, sweaty tourists, and rotting garbage was an olfactory symphony that accompanied my every move.
22) Watched some episodes of "The Office," in between hitting the city. It was good. Peace to the I-Hump (or IHOMMP), Learning Center, and Robot Town. Air Wolf, Teen Wolf, and Robot X have destroyed another city.

"You know what I would change about the world if I could change one thing? Absolutely nothing." (Lift up your shirt, rub your belly, and dance) -- the crackhead.

Dare to dream

Gaze into the eyes of Rod Stewart. Now gaze into the eyes of the cat. Gaze once more into the eyes of Rod Stewart. Feel his magnetism, his shirtless charm. Stare deep into his armpit. You will never be as powerful as Rod Stewart, but, for the moment, dare to dream. Now you are in that bed. You are holding that cat. You are resting your golden mane against a giant, fluffy doily while a mere photographer snaps your iconic, heavenly image. You are a rock god. But, lo, the dream cannot last. You have awakened from your trance like a common coma victim. You are not Rod Stewart. Realize this, and weep.

Hollywood blockbuster with the most ridiculous names of the week

This week: "Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith"

Character names
+ Special Bonus Round! Guess which three names are not actually characters in this movie? Win a sardine!
Obi-Wan Kenobi
Padme
Anakin Skywalker
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine
Mace Windu
Senator Bail Organa
Yoda
C-3PO
Count Dooku
Queen of Naboo
Tom Sizemore
Ki-Adi-Mundi
Nute Gunray
Captain Typho
Admiral Diabetes
Tion Medon
Governor Tarkin
Sonoma Baby Lamb with Braised Greens and Rosemary
Commander Cody

Referring URLs of the week

A really piss-poor weak for hilarious/baffling/sick-making Internet searches that led to my site. These are the best ones, and they're not that good:

"chloe sevigny oral sex prosthetic"
"soulsucker + myth"
"nude christians"

Disappointing.

David Lee Roth vs. reader questions from this week's Parade Magazine column "Personality Parade"

Personality Parade: I read that "Desperate Housewives"'Teri Hatcher and "24"'s Kiefer Sutherland are more popular than ever in Europe. If Europeans hate America so much, why do they watch our TV shows? -- L.H., Manhattan, Kansas

David Lee Roth: More people have been arrested here tonight than the entire weekend last year. -- a drunken Roth, from a mid-1980s concert televised on MTV

Personality Parade: Condoleeza Rice's high-heel boots and sexy wardrobe made me wonder: Has she ever been linked to a man romantically? -- Richard B. Ellenberger, Normandy Park, Washington

David Lee Roth: Lewisham! You're the rock'n'roll capital of the world! -- Roth, from a 1978 concert in Lewisham, England

Winner: David Lee Roth!

New weekly feature: Hollywood screenwriters write the darndest names!

Every week, I am going to pick a Hollywood blockbuster with ridiculous character names. This week's winner, "XXX: State of the Union."

Names of the characters
Darius Stone
Agent Augustus Gibbons
Gen. George Octavius Deckert
Agent Kyle Steele
President James Sanford
Zeke
Toby Lee Shavers
Lt. Alabama "Bama" Cobb
Bull
Gen. Jack Pettibone

Referring URLs of the week

People typed the following phrases into search engines last week and ended up at my site:

"spector detector"
"robot mustache"
"asian robot"
"woman smashing grapes"
"Amazingly funny jokes...........Hilarious!!!!"
"yahoo vaginas photos"


I was listening to "Fear of a Black Planet" in the car last weekend, and I just want to leave you now with the last four lines of Flavor Flav's "Can't Do Nuttin' For Ya Man":
"You're on welfare.
Your mother got gold nipples.
You got a rip in your couch.
Wash your butt."

Tower of babble

I was at the arcade last week, drinking Zompo and listening to gangsta rap on my Discman, when some teens came up and started conversing with me. I tried to glean something from the whirlwind of incomprehensible verbiage spewing upon me, but, alas, it was all Greek to me (and I'm not even Greek!!). Had the language changed that much since my own high school years, a mere decade ago? The answer: Yes! The solution: An advertisement on the television from my local Fox affiliate promised a special in-depth report about "cracking the code of teenage slang" on the nine o'clock news that same evening! Oh, sweet manna from heaven! You heard my cries, Jesus, and answered accordingly. This in-depth report promised to decipher such baffling turns of phrase as "pimpin' hotties," "rippin' it up," and "off the chain." Unfortunately, a few blasts of absinthe and England Dan & John Ford Coley records later, and I realized I had forgotten all about it. Shit! Has any fellow Austinite been more dutiful in their Fox 7 viewership? If so, please inform me of anything you may recall from last week's special report. You will be forever in my stead.

Listening to: Ween - Paintin' the Town Brown
Reading: Three Short Novels of Dostoevsky: The Double/Notes from the Underground/The Eternal Husband (That book of horror stories turned out to be hyper-shitty. I have to read something phenomenal to wipe it from my memory.)
Fucking: Up my life

The birds are pissed off

I was returning to my apartment after my evening constitutional (to keep my heart sexy and erotic and combat my previous interest in Hardee's' Monster Burgers) yesterday when an enormous grackle flew at my head. I was spooked, but continued on, figuring it just didn't see me when it flew out of the tree. Unfortunately, the bird had seen me. Turns out, it was a jerk. It perched atop the apartment complex, fluffing itself up like it was Kofi Annan, then it flew at my head again. Directly at my head. It missed by only a few inches. What a dick. I'm not sure why it did that. I know that a condor will defecate on itself to cool down, but I don't know from grackles. Maybe I was too close to the nest, but I walk by that tree every day and I've never been attacked before. That bird is a dead man. It's debuted at number three on my shitlist. Pat Sajak, you've been bumped back down to number four. Rest easy tonight, Sajak, but only tonight. Prepare for a wheel of misfortune, jerk.

There's a new age store in our neighborhood that sells shit like crystals, candles, incense, rain sticks, dreamcatchers, spirit weavers, horse whisperers, angel sniffers, horseshoes of multiculturalism, etc. I walked by it tonight. There was a sign in the window that said "Intuitive Circle Wednesdays." When I looked in the window, there were about twenty people sitting in a circle, staring at each other. Can I make fun of them? Is the target too easy? Is it like punching a baby in the throat? I think I'll leave them alone for now and cultivate my haughty sense of superiority silently.
Sincerely,
the genius who is entering his sixth month of unemployment

Listening to: Talking Heads - Naked

Referring URLs of the week

People Google- and Yahoo-searched these phrases and ended up at my site:
"my wife sucks in bars"
"smashing thumbs" (Again. Five times.)
"Paul Reiser spotted"
"Josh asshole"

Listening to: Todd Rundgren - A Wizard, a True Star
Reading: Borderlands 4 (This is an anthology of horror stories I'm reading after a crippling wave of nostalgia hit me at a book sale. I bought a handful of horror anthologies there. I was a horror fanatic between the ages of five and fourteen. I still love horror movies, but horror fiction hasn't really held up for me. I have no problems with adults making movies about vampires, werewolves, etc., but somehow a grown person writing about vampires seems kind of pathetic and embarrassing. I can completely understand a group of people getting together and saying, "Let's rig up this cool exploding head effect and film it. Yeah. That would be an excellent thing to do," but I have no such understanding for some writer sitting alone in front of a typewriter, pecking out words like, "Judy felt the familiar throbbing at her temples, signalling a return of the awesome but destructive psychic powers she had unleashed so far only on a handful of mice near the barn. This time, her father stood in her way. His head exploded like a ripe melon, blood and pulpy matter spewing from the hole where his face once had been. He'll never touch me again, Judy thought." Still, I had so much fun reading that stuff, and enough time has gone by, that I'm giving it another try. So far, I'm enjoying myself, but I wonder if I'll want to read the other ones I bought. I wish I could read this stuff with my thirteen-year-old head. If I had that head, though, I might still be listening to L.A. Guns, so I guess I'm okay where I am.)