oh, also, meet the new boss not even close to the same as the old boss

my roommate's cat, for many a complicated reason, might be getting a sex change operation. i mean, his penis will be made more vagina-like. he'll tell you it's for urethra enlargement but i know better. he just wants to feel pretty

all her woman things

i have not really seen maria for what is certainly days but feels like weeks. between our work schedules and her constant illness we have rarely found ourselves in the same place at the same time. if i were one for flowery language i would call her a ghost. see, i have a girlfriend. i must because i keep telling friends and family that, no, she hasn't changed her mind and, yes, they will all meet her in less than a week. the thing is, now, it's her stuff that reminds me. when i walk in the door to my room and flip open my computer next to it is that paddle brush she "discovered" recently. or the hairdryer box that she told me i could throw away but haven't because it's always cold outside and fuck it i'm just not really into moving much these days. i've been eating her cream cheese lately and even dabbled with her chocolate ice cream. yes, you've noticed. there is a lot of her stuff here. just, lately, not her.

my 70's bias

so i was watching a documentary on genesis (the band, not the beginning of all things) that was clearly made in the early 90's when genesis was still a brutal hit making machine of crapdom. besides the obvious theme of phil collins being a complete lightweight fool there was a weird, telling moment about the 80's mindset and it went vaguely like this: peter gabriel had long since left the group and genesis was now down to just 3 members, all of which have horrible hair and sport jackets with sleeves rolled up. invisible touch is just around the corner and the producer is talking about what he was thinking at the time. he was, it seems, disappointed by those 70's albums all sounding like they were recorded in a cardboard box (genesis albums, for sure, do but, christ, zeppelin albums don't nor do yes albums nor, for that matter, do most) and he made a point about how loud drums are live and how he wanted to be, i'm guessing in his mind, the first to really bring that to recorded music (john motherfucking bonham, asshole!). fine, sounds great. then, instantly, phil collins is talking about the drum machine on invisible touch. as if we are to make the connection that this was the revolution we were are looking for. that 5 minute piece summed up neatly why the 80's was to produce some of the most unlistenable pop music of all time. sure, some could incorporate synthetic sounds into something otherworldly (prince. god damn prince) but rock music was not so lucky. this is an argument i make and make and make. i'm not saying the 80's was bad for music. most of what i like and that influenced me came from the 80's (and if anything sounds as if it was recorded in a cardboard box it is you're living all over me and i couldn't be happier for it). but i am listening to a free album. paul rodgers, you know, of bad company. it has no right to be very good but damn if it just doesn't groove and sound, well, organic. made in the 80's this album would be hysteria, an album that does not sound like it was made by human beings. i can't help myself, even 70's light rock sounds so good to my ears. so take that mr 80's genesis producer. i'll take the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald to land of confusion any day

when you shit right before jumping in the shower do you still wash your hands?

i do

6pm is the new whatever time you wake up

i just took a shower and am making a pot of coffee. chicago, as much as i love you (and you know i do) your winters do, at times, bring me down. what they do, really, is bring my anti-social tendencies bubbling to the surface. come to me or i'll see you in the spring time. if it weren't for my steadfast commitment to riding my bike no matter the conditions or detriment to my health i'd probably look more like the 37 year old that i am (by that i cleverly mean fat. looking at my fellow high school graduates i am, unfortunately, forced to believe this is generally the case). so props for my hard headed stubborness i say.

coda

sometimes you have to pull out in through the out door or coda. nevermind that i can not think of one time i even thought "nope, not really in the mood for zeppelin" sometimes i need to be reminded that even bad zeppelin is better than your favorite bands best album. now, i don't believe that but hyperbole is what it is. it does, however, shed even more light on the fucking otherworldliness that is the mighty z when you listen to the songs they decided to throw away. and clearly coda is full of late era throw aways. there's darlene which sounds a lot like ewww eww double e. but denying the world of bonzo's montreux until after you are no more? this throw away is neil pert's wet dream.

senator obama, grow that mustache

you are riding a groundswell of support. ex-clinton supporters are flocking to you. the ladies love you (so much so they are fainting in your presence). you are about to make history. well, sir, now is the perfect time to grow that mustache. not since taft: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Howard_Taft
have we had a president with a mustache. so far you have overcome your blackness, your youthful drug use, your inexperience, and your lack of specifics. surely you can overcome facial hair. i believe in you, barack. worse comes to worse you'll get a got milk ad out of it

who needs to leave?

see that? that came in the mail yesterday. thank the bush tax cuts if you want but i work hard, motherfucker, and life rewards me. 13 discs, 3 "lost" episodes, dr katz live, and, of course, hours and hours of listening to h jon benjamin talk about what he's talking about. fuck you winter, i win. bring your worst because i'm not going anywhere.
wait, give me a few minutes of blue skies so i can get to reckless to buy the new amc. then it's on because i'll be sitting in this here seat listening to every word, every heart wrenching croon, every damn sound.

20 years has done me some good

here you go:
http://calhigh88.com/welcome.html
that is the website for my high school reunion, 20 years. i won't say much. i can't even find the words. but, fuck, man, i am so much cooler than everyone else. there, i said it. i fucking said. look at them. this is hardly a boast of any real significance. just facts. straight up.

hippie v gutterpunk: r

so i play this game with myself and, occasionally, lucky friends. it's called who would you root for in a fight and the rules are simple: who would you root for in a fight (i said they were simple). for example, say you are walking down division and you stumble upon a crowd gathered around a right wing AM radio hot talk faggot hating republican engaged in fisticuffs with a fixed gear riding hipster with tight pegged pants and huge white basketball shoes listening to, as far as i can tell, vampire weekend on his i-pod. deep down in your gut, who would you want to see come out on top?
in every scenario involving a hippie i can honestly say that i root against the hippie. except for one: when that hippie is pitted against a gutterpunk. the thing is, for all of their ineffectual talk of peace and love (and, for the sake of full disclosure, their's is not a far cry from my ethos of just be cool. or don't be a dick) hippies, by their nature, stay out of your face. a curt "yeah, whatever hippie" is all you need to dispose of them. gutterpunks, however, are hippies with bad attitudes. attitudes they think are revolutionary and need to be shoved down your throat. i wish a simple "get a job" would suffice when a gutterpunk, in a misconception of originality, asks for change for a beer. good one, gutterpunk. the thing is, the gutterpunk doesn't work for one of two reaons: a) because he/she can't get hired by the square, non-conformist system we live in or b) because the gutterpunk wants no part of the square, non-conformist system we live in. the truth is, gutterpunk, neither argument holds sway because the system does not give a shit whether or not you participate. your cry of "fuck you" is met with a "whatever, gutterpunk." and i can't say, on this one, i don't agree with the system. because i know where you live. and it's your parent's house. i know for all of your telegraph avenue begging there's a box of mac 'n cheese with your name on it just up the street. so go home gutterpunk. take your dirty fingernails and sub-humans patch and hit the road. because, if there's a day where i am fortunate enough to come across a hippie and you in a battle royale i will jump right in and beat you over the head with a sandal. hippie, i have your back. but just this one time.

to wierd

i have friends, bright friends, maybe even college graduates, that constantly use "to" instead of "too" and misspell "weird" "wierd." here's a picture in case you don't find this observation of interest

at least i don't have a brain tumor?

i am in that state of constant illness that winter or chicago or, more realistically, just being brings out. it's always a little something. a little sore throat. a little sinus headache. a little ache in my lower back (technically, the third one should be funny. technically, i'm not in the mood). i stopped typing and sort of re-read what i wrote. this, i feel, falls much too neatly into the type of whining i'm constantly accused of and that i think is an easy and false characterization. i'm usually more clever and subtle than my detractors believe. what i'm doing now is arguing against what i think you, the reader, are saying (or just rolling your eyes to). it's all too self-referential. cut me some slack. i'm kind of a little bit sick.

give her the gift that says hail satan

i just got an e-mail from the slayer store (already you know too much) that's titled "new slayer merch and valentine's day specials". add your own commentary because i'm reminded of a dream i had back in the early 90's in which i was at a mall and saw the slayer summer pack (for anyone that might remember there was a slayer blood pack for i want to say seasons in the abyss. what this was was this: see above because i don't know how to get the picture here
anyways, the slayer summer pack came with a slayer frisbee which me and my dream friends threw around the food court. well, it all seems less ridiculous now

why do i bother to save leftover rice from chinese take-out?

a) i don't even bother to take it out of that little paper box and put it in something that might, oh, seal in the freshness
b) i don't really like white rice. that is, unless it is covered in chinese food. or in a burrito i suppose.
c) ignored for days it's now as dry and hard as tic tacs.

i feel like i'm a person that learns and grows (someone is laughing at this. don't mistake stubborness and the inability to see beyond today as a detriment to growth. but i can see how you might). for years i've been throwing out those little paper boxes half full of rock hard rice. yet, here we are. two more boxes neatly closed up and put in the fridge are now at the bottom of the garbage.

bike enthusiast i'm not

but bike rider i am. i rode to work today in a white haze of razor sharp snowflakes. i watched mostly my front tire as every time i looked up to, you know, see that option was quickly taken away by wet sticky snow to the eye. but i trudged on, sticking to main roads as if a moderately plowed north avenue is more safe than, say, something really not safe. north avenue is crumbling under the weight of i don't know what. i used to know where most holes were on my way to work (that one by the evergreen market on damen is my favorite, so perfectly round and ready to take your two front teeth). but damn if north hasn't turned into a mindfield. fortunately i couldn't see a thing. sometimes ignorance is bliss, sometimes blindness is.
the thing is, i hate bike people. or the idea of them because i know plenty and they are fine folks. but don't ruin my judgmental ways with individuals. i don't buy into critical mass because i think it's foolish and naive and, ultimately, hurts more than it helps. there will always be cars. it's fine. brother, we need to live in harmony, not antagonize them into even more apathy. i read something in the reader today about these winter bike riders clubs. i do like that they use it as an excuse to go out when, honestly, no one really wants to. but why make a spectacle of it. just get on your bike and ride. i do it for necessity. you don't see my writing a blog about it

i tend to get married

when my name comes up in the game of do, dump, or marry. obviously this isn't the worst case scenario although it is funny because i'm 37 and work in a grocery store. if that's what you want in a mate so be it. but, let's be honest, one really wants to be done (doed?). you can try to justify marriage by saying the person just wants to be able to do you over and over again. this, clearly, is not the case. it means you are the one that someone can see being able to stand for the longest period of time. at least when i'm on the other end that's usually my rationale. so i rarely get dumped. that's good. but i just as rarely get done. is it too much to ask for someone to just want to fuck the shit out of me and nothing more. why always a commitment?

thank god for distance

i had never seen a rambo movie before. i'm a child of the 80's. rambo always seemed to fit too snugly into the reaganized world we were living in (i initially called it the bullshit reaganized world but found that redundant). i couldn't separate my growing animosity towards things mainstream and my unadulterated joy over things violent. i even worked at a movie theater when rambo 3 came out. it just entrenched my feelings of otherness. all these feelings still exist, mind you. they've been well honed by now. they are sharp, more in focus. but this isn't the 80's (it's much worse) and some separation has been achieved. i just saw the new rambo. holy christ is the gore unbelievable. it's like a zombie film but instead of the walking dead it's the tyrannical burmese army that is getting blown to pieces (oh, and some civilians but who cares. gore is gore when there are no emotions attached to it). the laugh out loud joy that i (and kyle) felt was blissful. i don't even know what this moviewas trying to say. something about dying for something and not living for nothing. i can dig. as long as there are shit tons of people dying, graphically, for something (my pleasure?). after, i think, giving rocky a proper send off, sylvester stallone has now allowed me into the world of john rambo and i fully intend to see what all the hub bub was about.

proof

i do enjoy joy. i like fun.

i like paul mccartney

there's something about power pop that just sits well with me. we all know my feelings about my new home's very own cheap trick (yet i've still failed to fulfill my pilgrimage to rockford) and perhaps i had those big smiling chills when the, well, not original but the neurotica era redd kross played at the double door. hooks, like riffs, are manna to my ears. this all being said i'm just not the same music listener that i used to be. the days of driving past my home and around a few more blocks in order to get the end of hang time or sitting in my car after getting an advance cassette of where you been (maybe i need a car) are long gone. the last time i got high i listened to eddie murphy's boogie in your butt and not rock for light (maybe i need to relearn how to get high). perhaps my newfound oldfound love of metal is, in part, because it is easy to wrap your mind around a big fat ass killer riff. a couple of listens is usually enough to know that the saviours are living up to their name. so sloan put out this 30 song, 70+ minute record a few months ago. i kind of stayed away. i mean, their last record had a weird hold over me but a little bit in a last gasp way. or so i thought. plus, you know, it's been a metal oriented world lately. if you are hip to my myspace bloggings you know i had a record shopping jones to fill last week. lost in it all was that i bought the sloan album. i gave it a cursory listen not knowing what to expect. it sounded good. by this i mean i paid attention in a limited way but what i thought i heard was a sloan album. now i'm listening again, this time while writing, and again the sounds are good. now, somehow, i have to regain some of my old listening magic and make it my own. i haven't been up to it a lot lately. without a car and with my strange reaction of paranoia and anti-social giggling when high i'm not sure where to turn. what would paul mccartney do?