now that the election is over

and i don't feel compelled to watch msnbc every waking moment...i can catch up on my yes, dear viewing. now in HD!

hey guy that always has to stand up and dance at a show where everyone else is sitting

we get it. you are way more of a fan than the rest of us. the music compels you to stand up and shake your ass. and the sooner you recognize the song the more we marvel at what a big fan you are of the band that we thought we were really big fans of. you shame us. sitting, nodding our heads in rhythm. listening and watching is clearly not enough. if we can't wave or hands in the air and awkwardly try to high five our friend while they remain seated then we have proven nothing. we are posers. heaven help us if we try to get you to sit so every single other person there can perhaps see the show. who do we think we are? not real fans, that much i know. so, guy who is standing at a show where everyone else is sitting...guy encouraging us to do the same because clearly it is the path to fun...guy sitting down during the new songs that you are not familiar with but getting right back up when the 20 year old overplayed hit kicks in...you, sir are a maverick. a true original. no one does what you do. except the other guy at the other show. the one mouthing all the words. but you two, well, you and all the others at all the other shows, you are one of a kind.

a whole nother blog

i was about to rant and stuff about a commercial where a woman looks right at the camera (straight into my soul) and says..."whole nother". i imagined it to be "hole nuther" because when i hear nother i assume idiot. see, my spell check is underlining each nother i type. yet, this:
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/nother

i don't want to sound like my uncle here but isn't "another" and/or "whole other" what we mean to say? i get the laziness. i get how it is easier to say. i get my hypocrisy because i use me and so-and-so because it just sounds less pompous than so-and-so and i. i get that i have completely undermined my argument by having it come out stream of conscious style. if i keep talking i might be able to come to a third conclusion. perhaps a whole nother me and so-and-so. well, i guess if you thought i was stubborn we have all learned not judge me so rationally. what i say and what i say don't always jive. still, that won't stop me from arguing that it does. or doesn't. depends on which side you take

i did not shower today

i fundamentally changed the smell of my body

i've been watching so much msnbc

henry paulsen was in m dream last night.

death magnet

yep. i'm 38 and i am about to say that at times the new metallica gives me chills. trust me, i did not think this would be the case. i had hoped that it would not embarrass me at best. yes, i take it personally. i won't go into it at length but i felt like the time could not be more right for metallica to regain some of their passed glory but also felt there was not a band more ripe to completely fail. i am therefor blown away that metallica has remembered all the things that make metal, shall i say, fun. i know what you are thinking but i stand by that. because big fat riffs and raging guitar solos and all that, when done right, just makes me smile, man. and to hear metallica, fucking metallica, remember at a time that i also remember, well, it gives me chills. fuck you.

that time you realize

man, i kind of just don't dig my face. i shaved myself clean and, after a moment of novelty, i just thought that i am not into looking at myself this way. other people have faces and they look fine. i used to walk around this way most of my first 34 years. now i think my mouth is too small and my eyebrows just alone hanging out on my forehead. maybe it's my need for symmetry. my sideburns are less fashion and more based on the notion that if my hair goes down in the back then maybe it should have a similar look on the other side of my ears. whatever the reason, one day later i am not clean shaven. i am in day 2 of growing back my beard.

"they can't all be gems" he said

after a particularly bad joke, "then you would know i was an alien from a much funnier planet"

summer of my boys. over?

really? 9 episodes make a season? but what about bobby? i mean, clearly he has feelings for pj but now that he's put that out there how does this fling (and come on, it's just a fling pj, i mean jack has the soap opera good looks but his self-deprecating humor is so not genuine) with jack affect their possible relationship? are things going to be awkward at crowley's? that is sacred ground. i was so invested and then to learn last week of this week's season finale it was like, well, like someone stole summer and replaced it with the olympics. where's the human drama in that?

i gauge temperature

not by how hot it is but by how solid or not my pomade is. today it is nearly liquefied. that's hot

again my reference points are askew

so maria, kyle and i were dining last night at bite when maria mentioned that she saw a girl roughly her age carrying a kid in one of those baby bjorn things. the catch was that the kid was like two or three and therefor too old to be carried in this manner. obviously this lead to me thinking about someone carrying a child that is ridiculously too old (nothing too clever in that train of thought). the thing is, the first, very first, image that popped into my head was a 40-something chomping on a cigar reading playboy. it cracked my shit up (ask maria, i was tickled by my own joke again). kyle astutely pointed out the quite 50's era nature of this image. it's true. my brain went for a totally out of date reference rather than a modern one. in the shower just now i realized how easily i could have conjured up a teenager smoking pot and playing a nintendo ds (those are the portable ones, right?). or one reading on the road or tom robbins. or studying for the SAT (that was my favorite post-original idea one). there are a plethora of scenarios that would fit into this modern world. but i came up with a sleazy 50's businessman. why is this not shocking? because i also sat in front of my roommate's playstation 2 the other day like it was the monolith from 2001 trying to figure out how to turn it on. i failed. now he has a playstation 3 and i was shown how to wave my hand over the on/off sensor. but i tried to play a cd this morning and what i still call the joystick would not work for me. it's like it knew my limitations and choose to not let me get too far in over my head. i'm not necessarily a techno-phobe per se. i just have little use for most of it. here are three examples of me diving into modern culture head first: 1) cell phone...i actually see no point in a landline anymore. that is, unless they invent one that receives texts. 2) netflix...i never thought i really wanted to see movies that much. but there are hundreds on my queue. 3) luffa (sp?)..i really like this more than a wash cloth. scratchy. nice. i'm sure there are more but those are the big 3. good day

just some electronic notes, you know, for the sitcom

can't forget to work in the everyone randomly singing same song and the suicide pact. for those not familiar, i came up with a suicide pact at work that revolved around the shitty music we are usually forced to listen to. it's bad now but it was worse under the rule of brian webster. he of the always listening to the disco station. the first time you here in the navy you think "shit, i haven't heard this stupid song in years." the 4th time you hear it that week you think, "shit, i should only be forced to hear this song once every 3 or 4 years." true, i believe disco is music not made to be listened to. it is to be danced to, if that's your bag. therefor, it is repetitive to no end. that's great when you are hopped on goof balls and cocaine and don't want to have to stop dancing to the same rhythm. that's an aside. just know it drives me fucking crazy. so i came up with a statement in protest: we all agree to kill ourselves when a song we know we will hear comes on (it was "on the radio" by i think donna summers when i came up with it). the kicker is we have left a envelope tacked to the corkboard in the breakroom with a card in it that just has the song title on it. take that brian webster and your fucking horrible taste in music!
anyways, those two things

pride schmide

yesterday went well for a day where nothing went right. where were you? i tried and i guess that's what i get. i really wanted to be out. and with people. it was and wasn't to be. my desperate pleas were met with silence or occasional unrewarding texts that lead to more questions i'd have to wait to have partially answered. i walked to work to get my bike. i got to fullerton when the rain came so hard i had to pull over and wait it out. i got to belmont when the post-parade crowd was coming the other way. i did, however, stumble upon a friend which seemed good but got caught in conversations i haven't wanted to have in 20 years. i begged lara to save me but it took her forever. long story short...my socks were wet all day. i saw my friend owen play. i stuck it out, man. walked to dunkin donuts to get some coffee. and finally, at roughly 9:30, american music club honored one of the handfull of people left's request and played outside this bar. see, i like music. and sometimes i really like music. i was cold and, at times, lonely most of the day. i had that feeling that i was the guy everyone forgot to think about. but by 9:30 i was just fucking pleased as punch. and i rode my bike home really fast. fastest i have ever ridin. that felt good, too

i'd say sometimes i amaze myself

but you all know that i often amaze myself. yes, i'm my biggest fan. still, the fact that i cut my own hair and consistently do a really good job on the back with no more than a hand mirror and a zen like feel does, indeed, amaze myself. sure, i've been cutting my hair since you were in short pants. i used to have an intricate system when i lived with my pop that included a folding mirrored closet door that allowed me to have both hands free and see my neck from multiple angles. maybe that helped with my "feel". who knows? what i do know is that my neck is clean and i'm ready to sweat freely.

the pitch

ok, i've got to get this down on what isn't paper but, you know, is like it. my sitcom...goes something like this: it is about a guy that works in a grocery store. maybe he's, oh, 38. anyways, he's tried and failed at living with girlfriends so when the girl he loves asks him to marry her he says yes on the condition that they keep separate apartments. see? scenes of failed relationships include reading an 1100 page book on the making of the atomic bomb while in bed with girlfriend and one i'll just call room full of farts. i also like the idea of this clearly made up guy carrying his wife over the threshold and then cut to them in bed post-coital where he asks "so, do you want to spend the night?" comic gold. oh, the real catch is that this guy and his friends are always coming up with made up sitcom ideas or scenes. so, in that way it'll be a little scetch-y. i'm thinking kendra can animate some of these asides. if hbo picks it up i'll flesh it out with f-bombs and tits.

i hate cleaning for one reason

i know it's just going to get dirty again. i clean the toilet and then i use the toilet. is that a pubic hair already? it's like i don't want to touch a thing but i know that's not a reasonable solution. much like everything else, i clean so i don't have to clean. i shave so i don't have to shave. i cut my hair so i don't have to cut my hair. so the bathroom is clean. but is it?

the need to reference

look, i'll be the first to admit that i am always thinking of a reference, usually in the pop culture realm, for every stranger or situation i encounter(you'd be amazed at how often something fits in nicely to a brady bunch or leave it to beaver episode) but this mustache thing has gotten a lot of unnecessary attention and even more poor reference points (freddie mercury's teeth are way bigger than mine). i think people's desires to comment has betrayed their actual depth of reference points (maybe the fact that mine are a bottomless pit taints my judgement... but still). that said, of all people i think adam zunt gave quite possibly the best, deepest, and certainly most subversive of them all. at first when he said chopper i assumed, based on knowing adam zunt, he was making a really poor attempt by lumping me in with anyone that rode a motorcycle. but when he asked if i had seen that movie i was pleasntly surprised. yes, i had. and, damn, nicely done. an independent film from new zealand starring eric bana as a serial killer. adam zunt? now all y'all should be ashamed of yourselves. porn star? cop? please. you've been schooled by adam zunt. try living with that.

man, who likes music

i do. i love looking for it. i love buying it. i love listening to it. and i love loving it. i say this with a nod to permanent records whom i've come to trust. things are alright.

frye johnson: RIP

today we are a one cat house. frye has gone to that big apartment in the sky, free to chase invisible things and knock over all the nick-nacks his heart desires. i know i've said some pretty harsh things about cats but, let's be clear, i am no monster. i don't enjoy watching them suffer (i don't enjoy watching them, period). the poor guy lost his brave battle with whatever the hell was wrong with his pee hole/man made vagina. he put on a brave face day after day but became too sick to go on. frye johnson, you were a crazy fucker that for some reason felt the need to bum rush my bedroom only to get stuck in the hamper or hide in a corner. i may not have understood your needs and desires but i never wished an infected pisser on you. may your pee always run yellow in that great big litter box in the sky. that's the great big litter box in that great big apartment that i assume is in the sky. is that what you wish for a cat? dogs are easy. a field to run in. maybe a farm so he has some buddies. what does a dead cat get? a giant sofa? filled with mice? walls made of tuna? anyways, frye, god speed

a jew walks into a tent: redux

no he didn't. a jew walked into a hotel. and took all the free stuff he could find. no camping this weekend as we both felt the weather (rain) was against us. but i think getting that close proves that i am nothing if not willing. we now have sleeping bags. it's a step. but that king sized bed in the double tree was pretty fucking great. you can sleep in any manner and direction you please. now that's living. and free cookies!

bought a bike

simple. cheap. looks like this and in a week or two i'll ride it around. this is me a little excited. i know, it's hard to tell

a jew walks into a tent

rumor has it that some of you (you know who you are. well maybe not quite yet since i haven't said anything. but soon. you will know) think it funny that i might be camping with my lady friend (lady friend, you are one of those "some of you"). the thing is, i am with you. when i became the one least likely to sleep outside is unclear. i have, i am ashamed to say, a semi-hippie past which included walking and/or sleeping in nature. i don't know if my wholesale rejection of all things hippie has, by it's very nature, meant that i no longer view camping as a calming, meditative retreat. i perceive it now as an uncomfortable and uncomfortably quiet and, therefor, disquiet endeavor. i am woody allen. i need buildings and traffic noise and indoor plumbing. when i feel the need to escape the city i only think of going to another city. i don't dream of riding my bike over trails. i dream of riding over bridges. big metal bridges with cars whizzing by. i look at skyscrapers with the same wonder as some look at redwoods. so this weekend's possible camping excursion (which came about because maria and i are going to milwaukee to see the brew crew take on her hometown cardinals) has turned me into a cartoonish fool asking questions about having to shit in a hole and picturing how inept i will be in setting up the tent. if you are one of those people that i said would know who you are, you are very much right to think this is funny. at least i embrace my urban jewness and see my future bumbling for what it is: a chance for ridiculous photos and self-mockery. a good jew knows how to mine everything for humor. i am nothing if not a good jew

in case you are not maria and don't know that i bought a blender...

i did. i bought a blender. we won't get into the details of how persuasively maria shoves doubt directly into my brain. we'll save that for another day. besides, she's the one that deposits cash through the atm so who is she to judge? anyways, blender. mainly for smoothies. seems like i've found the one thing trader joe's does really well: cheap frozen fruit. ok, so i'm making smoothies. turns out there is another bonus besides the obvious delicious health benefits: it forces me to shower on my days off. these things make me so damn cold, like to the bone cold (i'm literally replacing my marrow with this icy goodness. i mean, i think i am), that i've no choice but to jump into the shower for no other reason than to get my body temperature up to something approaching normal. this, in turn, makes me feel less of a lazy slob on my days off. physical AND mental heath benefits. who knew?

psychic...powerless...another man's cat

maybe i just woke up on the cranky side of my bed but today, in the shower, i was thinking that next time, and i'm sure, unfortunately, there will be a next time, i need a roommate i will adopt a strict no cats policy. i don't care how clean and attentive a cat owner you are i do not want to live with in their filth anymore. i don't want to have my everything covered in their hair (i'm already covered in my own, thanks). i don't want to smell their wet food or feces or urine. i don't want to walk through their litter. and i don't want to hear their bitching when they are hungry. get a fucking job, cat, and provide for yourself. all you are to me is a houseplant with the ability to knock shit over.

the mustache is the bangs of the beard

that said, when i trim mine no one says it looks cute

this thing, this metal thing

i will say this about my newfound oldfound love of what is called heavy metal: it has re-awakened my musical curiosity. see, when i was a youth there was nothing i loved more than reading reviews and buying music i had never heard based on album cover (you're living all over me) or label (metal blade) or what have you. as i grew older that curiosity waned as more and more stuff just kind of sat there in my ears doing not much. i became that guy, telling stories of yore, you know, when indie rock was actually independent of something and metal didn't sound so cartoonishly scoobie doo. i eagerly awaited the new built to spill and mark eitzel records with nothing much in between. then i went and saw the sword at intonation and that thing that was dormant was released a bit. the riff came back into my life. megadeth started putting out good records, dave lombardi re-joined slayer, and the classic anthrax line up played the house of blues. the cagey veterans were rejuvinated and so was i. long story short(er), somehow when i wasn't looking a pretty fucking great underground metal scene had been chugging along. the 90's weren't so much the barren wasteland of neu metal as i thought. high on fire led me back to sleep which led me to om which showed me the way to electric wizard which brought me to relapse records and kemado and rise above. yesterday i bought a burning witch 2-cd retrospective purely because it looked boss and was on southern lord. fuck yeah i did.

the month (or so) of living uncomfortably

just washed all 3 new pairs of levi shrink to fit 501's. now comes the hard part: making these seemingly unflappably rigid motherfuckers conform to my will. mind you this is not a complaint. i face this challenge with the same glee as always. i'm old hat at this. call me a jeans whisperer if you will. there's nothing i love more than taking what seem to be a brick wall of pant and turning it into a second skin. worn in levi's are pajama pants in my book. pajama pants that at first have to be forced around my waist, shown a belt regardless of the need, and stretched and bent and buttoned and unbottoned until they slowly learn my shape and desires. and they will. and one, inevitably, will be neglected at first and fall behind. but quickly he too will make it into the fold and for years to come my pants and i will grow old and soft and frayed. but we will do so with dignity and grace for we are a timeless classic.
weather permitting this story will be also true for that new pair of converse i plan on buying. spring is almost in the air and with it comes the strange march forward that more than anything is a march to the past.

virtual cigars and frye's vagina

so i am an uncle now twice over. jasper james meyerson has found himself thrust into my family's strange little world and if there was any question my brother has been in l.a. too long go re-read that kid's name. zander and now jasper. the suffix brothers. i imagine the schoolyard taunts will be something like that. hey, suffix brothers, how's about you form nouns to designate persons from the object of their occupation or labor. that'll hurt.
the larger picture here is that i just realized how late a start my brother got on this making me an uncle thing. i'm almost 38. that means by the time of competitive 2 on 2 basketball or doubles tennis i will be, wait for it, i'm about to type this, here it comes, look away if you are not willing to know the truth.....51!. 50-fucking-1. my brother will be 58. these little punks are going to destroy us. fuck, i need to start working on my game.
part 2: frye got his stitches out the other day and his cone removed in a touching cone removal ceremony yesterday. he is now free to pursue his new life as a woman. time to change the pronouns i guess. let's all make this as easy on him as possible by buying him little kitty tu-tu's and flaunting our penises.

yes, maria, tv is back in my life

and, yes, maria, that means i've neglected my blog. it's true what they say about tv but i don't care. i love letting my brain go to mush every now and then. perhaps i'm letting down my fans. but i can't take my eyes off of that blue glow emanating from my living room.
that said, let's talk about a roommate philosophy. i have some and here's one: when purchasing things that are unimportant (at least aesthetically) go with the most ugly so as to not get confused as to which are yours. specifically, buy the bright orange and/or yellow towel(s). if you come home and your canary yellow towel is damp you know one of two things: your roommate is colorblind or a dick.
also, i was posting a picture of maria in my somewhat mismatched yet totally out of character for me addidas sweats (go to her myspace page to mock her) and i thought of our modern blossoming relationship. it goes as follows: first, we openly flirted with each other through coy comments. then i sent her a let's go out tonight message after months of not crossing her path organically. after a few dates we cracked each other's top whatever. things were heating up. but you know things are for real when statuses change from single to in a relationship. but tell me what this means: maria is now my number 1 but i am 2 behind her brother. should i be worried?

dare to dream big i always don't say

i had a revelation while in california. maybe just a dream. let's call it an idea. it came to me like a bolt of lightening and i had to share it with maria regardless of whether or not she was talking to me about, well, whatever she talks to me about. you see, when i have a bold vision of my future it trumps all. ready? here it is: i am going to find the definitive biography on led zeppelin and then read it. see, i have hammer of the gods but i'm talking something more. i want to get inside the music and the circumstance and really be able to bore the shit out of my friends. as you all know, when i have a plan nothing can stop me from following through with it. it's like i see my future and can't wait to get there. so i ordered this book and someday it will come in the mail and maybe i'll read it or it'll sit by my bed for months acting as a $20 coaster. either way, i have dramatically altered the course of my life once again in a bold, decisive way. yep

you are the adopted phillipino child of trader joe's

we have a new "quirky" regular. fat and bald with a slight queer speaking voice, one shoe soon to be opened toed, this guy comes in with a suitcase and the gift of boring gab. the thing is, his addition has just felt forced and unnatural. he's poorly written and two dimensional. we've been down this road before. where did he come from? why all of a sudden is in the store almost every day? these questions could pose an interesting mystery. instead it's like he was dropped into the narrative mid-scene with nothing to say. there he is, smelling a bit sour trying to engage customers and staff in conversation. i can't even build up a true hatred. there is nothing compelling about his presence. hopefully he'll be gone as quickly as he came, a failed attempt to keep the tj's storyline fresh. months from now someone will try to remind me and i'll have wrack my brain just to get a fuzzy picture in my head. yeah, whatever happened to that guy? he'll be sitting on a park bench thinking the very same thing.

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?

this isn't much but it's something

i'm getting e-mails about my upcoming 20 year high school reunion. my feelings they are mixed. see, i don't know if this is an opportunity for the kind of pain that feels good (like biting infected taste buds) or the kind of pain that dulls the senses. either way it's pain. there's no getting around that. i haven't kept in touch. i started not keeping in touch right after i got out. in fact, glossing over the list of names from my class i barely remember any of them. this is a false dilemma. the point i really want to make is that i work with folks that are not yet even 20 years old. and, as far as i can tell, they are fully human. i treat them as such. hopefully in 20 years they'll be as midly interested in the possibilities as i may or may not be.