Thursday, February 21

Huey

Bitches love me cause they know that I can rock.
Bitches love me cause they know that I can rhyme.
Bitches love me cause they know that I can fuck.
Bitches love me cause they know that I'm on time.
However, bitches apparently don't love me when it becomes clear that I might be smarter than they are (Bitches in this case being the various 20-something brainiacs who found their way out to the bar Wednesday night to see their buddies play acoustic guitar).

Hey, if you want to start up a conversation with me out of the blue, that's fine. But if you're gonna get all huffy that I actually know things about the topic we're talking about -- then kindly allow me to introduce my foot to your crotch.

Yes, I know you're in college -- which means you know everything, and I'm just some old dude at a bar sitting next to you who must surely believe whole heartedly in the mad deadly worldwide conspiratorial gangster computer god communism with wall to wall deadly gangster protection, life long sworn conspirators murder incorporated organized crime, the police and judges, the deadly sneak parading of the gangsters using all of the deadly Frankenstein controls -- but the simple fact is that my 30 plus years on this planet might have provided me the opportunity to read a fucking book once in a while, which yes -- sometimes does make me an authority on many of the things that you have chosen to engage me in conversation with while waiting your turn to get on stage and pretend you can sing.

So if I tell you that "No I've never thought Pauly Shore was gay since the first time I saw him," and then go on to support that assertion with evidence including the fact that he used to date a porn star named Savannah back in the day -- you're first response should not be a quip like, "What are you, some kind of smart guy?" followed by a look that indicates you're worried that some of my knowledge cancer might accidentally rub off on you should we continue this line of conversation any further.
You asked the question, douchebag.
I know that the correct social response to that sort of question is supposed to be something like, "Oh yeah, total butt pirate" -- but sometimes when you're faced with abject idiocy draped in latent homophobia as an icebreaker, it's hard not to want to match it with a factual correction.
Is that "Old Dog Trey?" -- That sounds like "Old Dog Trey" to me.
Pardon?
Stephen Foster. You know -- "Oh, Susannah," "Camptown Races." Stephen stinking Foster!
Ah, yes. Well, this happens to be a nocturne.
..A which?
You know, Frederic fucking Chopin.
Look, I never really asked to be the Wikipedia of Pauly Shore's sex life, but the simple fact is that I happen to recall that particular piece of information about him. In fact, now that I stop and thing think about it I apparently seem to know quite a bit about Pauly Shore -- which is disturbing, but is probably easily explained by the fact that for many years he was one the best friend of one of my favorite comedians -- the late Sam Kinison, who was a fixture at the Los Angeles comedy club that Shore's mother owned and managed before his career took off.
But then again that's the problem, isn't it?
I know too many stupid things.
Maybe it's better said that my problem isn't so much knowing stupid things (because everyone probably has a corner of their mind that's crammed with useless facts), but that for whatever reason I tend to feel a need to share them out loud, which I guess indicates to the people I'm talking to that my apparent knowledge base may be a hindrance to them being able to freely pontificate about which celebrities on TV they feel might be "teh gay."

And of course, there's nothing nubile young co-eds love more than the guy who can (off the top of his head) help the bartender remember the name of the actor who played the pervert FBI agent who was worried about his skinny penis in "Deuce Bigalo" (William Sanderson), or who knows the name of the band that played the song "Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress" (The Hollies), or that American Idol judge Randy Jackson actually was a renowned studio musician and the touring bass player for the band Journey before he began producing records for pop artists in the early 90's and not just some guy they got off the street because he is black -- all of which came up during the course of that evening.
"What are you, some kind of smart guy?"
I don't know -- I guess when it comes to know it all people -- especially (but in no ways limited to) bars, the best policy sometimes is to shut up and let them dig their own holes. But as a former schoolteacher and more importantly a regular human being who feels that unchecked stupidity is one of the most unattractive qualities any person can possess, it's hard not to want to help a dumbass out once in a while.
Besides, you people apparently know who Sam Lufti is. How is that any different?
I guess when people are shooting their mouths off, facts aren't really as important as the level of confidence you're brandishing when you talk. You'd think I'd know that, considering the amount of time I spend on the Internet every day -- but sometimes it's hard just to stand by and let people tell me how some people out there in our nation don’t have maps which is why you believe that our education like such as in South Africa, and the Iraq, everywhere like such as, that they should -- our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., or should help South Africa, it should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future, for our children -- without wanting to slap them upside their damn heads.
Bitches better recognize.

[Listening to:  From Zero"Myself" ]


Tuesday, February 19

Jukebox Zero

Whenever I meet new people there always comes a point where they ask things like, "So what do you do?" or "What's your thing?" -- A question that I almost always answer anymore by saying "I'm a writer." Even though it's been a while since I've had anything published, and I don't really have anything recent circulating around right now -- it's still the thing that seems to most define what my life has been focused on (professionally and otherwise) for the past few years.

Which is strange, because as much as I've always loved the written word -- it wasn't really all that long ago when there was only one answer I would give when faced with a question like that.
Because ever since I can remember, all I really wanted to be in this life was a guitarist.
From the time I was a little kid air guitar-ing along with songs in front of my parents record player until the several consecutive years that I pestered every Mall Santa I could find to bring me a guitar of my own to play, to the period where my father and I transformed all the leftover plywood and lumber in the house into a extensive collection of fake guitars that I would pretend to play, to the years I endured piano lessons that my parents said I had to take first before they would consider getting me a guitar, -- until mom and dad finally gave in and got me a $50 student-sized acoustic that I would lock myself in my bedroom and practice chords and scales on, to the days where Gristina and I spent almost every spare moment we had learning songs together, to the days when I would skip classes in college so I could spend more time figuring out how to play every riff and solo on whatever album I was obsessing over at the time note for note -- all the way up to the present day where I find more or less any excuse I can to end up at the Guitar Center in Regency Square every weekend ogling over the latest piece of equipment that I feel I absolutely have to buy in order to perfect my overall sound -- playing guitar has been a part of my world.
But for some reason it's never risen above a certain level.
I've been in my share of bands, but very few of them ever reached a place where they played regular gigs. It was always more about having a good time and being creative (which in my opinion is an important part of the formative process for any musical group) -- but for whatever reason never made that next step towards refining their sound into something that could be presented to others for fun and/or profit.

And if you really want to sit down and listen, I can easily provide you with a laundry list of logistical and situational excuses that got in the way of each specific group never reaching their full platinum record sales/sold out concert tour earning potential -- all of which are true and real, but none of which offer clues to any sort of final answer to the real question that's at hand here.
But whenever I sit down and really try to examine and answer this question in writing, I get stuck.
There's no rule that says I have to update this site every day. I enjoy writing things here, but one of the truly nice things about blogging is that it's only as serious as you choose to make it. For me (beyond the fact that it enables me to spout my various crackpot opinions and flesh out story ideas in front of an actual audience), blogging offers a convenient way to try and deal with personal issues in words. It's the same theory in many ways as having a personal diary, a place where you can vent about whatever issues you're dealing with so that you can a) get them out and release the tension, but also b) try to deal with your conflicts by explaining them in words -– which forces you to define them with actual terminology and reasoning, instead of just reacting to them emotionally.
Which is something I’ve been doing for the past few days with this whole "I'm not really a guitarist" thing.
It kinda reminds me of the times when I was in going to all sorts of therapy and counseling sessions towards the end of my marriage, where I noticed was that all to frequently it was easy to look the shrink in the eye and say "I'm sooo mad about XYZ!!" but then when they asked you What it was about XYZ that makes you so angry?, or Why do you think XYZ bothers you so much? -- That answer wasn't always so easy to come by.
That's what you would spend hours and hours talking around – trying to put into words, trying to figure out.
..That’s when the blog doesn’t get updated for days at a time.
It's funny now looking back -- especially when I think about all those marriage counseling sessions where we'd both go in there and say "He/She does this, and it pisses me off." and whether we wanted to admit it or not -- our actual hope was to have the counselor say "Really? Well, He/She is wrong -– You have every right to be mad."

But instead the marriage counselor would just listen, scribble a note down on her pad and then say, "Well why does that bother you? Lots of people act like that every day -- what is it about that behavior that makes you mad, and where do you think that comes from?"
At first you'd be all, "Who cares where it's from -- just tell the bitch to watch some football with me once in a while!"
But the counselor would never do that. She'd just keep on you, twisting the same question around in different ways until they found the combination of words that actually got you to face the issue underneath the anger/frustration.
Have you ever thought that maybe she doesn’t like football?
Why does it matter that someone else watches football with you in the first place?
Do you ever refuse to watch television shows she likes with her, even when she asks you to?
When did you first start to worry that she might think your passions are kind of childish?
If you’re secure in your identity, then why do you need someone else to validate it?
Without getting too deep into all the mess that was my divorce, one of the things that I took away from both the couples and individual counseling that I went through was that regardless of the situation it's all too easy sometimes to get lost in little details and the emotional debris that a problem causes – but if you never actually figure out what the underlying issue is and try to face that with an open eye -- the problem will always come back and wreak the same havoc in your life.
This should be the point where you start to notice that I've been using stories about my divorce
to try to distract myself from exploring the reasons why I feel like I've largely failed as a musician.
..Let me try this a different way. For a few weeks now, Bar Manager Ralph has been on me to bring a guitar out on Wednesday nights and take part in the "open mic night" that he's been trying to get off the ground over at Endo Exo. And while I don't really ever remember telling Ralph that I was a guitar player and I'm kinda flattered by the offer -- I haven't really done so yet.

See, an open mic night, especially an acoustic guitar intensive one -- sorta calls out for that whole idea of Pick-a-song-everyone-knows-and-just-play-the-chords-so-no-one-gets-lost-or-bored. It's kind of an unofficial sing-a-long type of deal. Otherwise it would be called a Jam night -- which is more like an excuse for guitar players to get together and play 15-minute versions of "Red House" so they can trade solos.

(And heeerrre come the excuses) But I am hopeless when it comes to playing and singing at the same time. I don't really know why I've always had such trouble with it -- but it's just something that trips me up. Not to mention the fact that I'm not all that great of a singer to begin with. Truth be told, I'm more of a "Do cool things on the guitar while the other dude sings" kind of guy.

But really, if I want to be a working musician -- If I want to be the kind of guitar player that could meld into any group at any time and just blow the doors off people, then I sorta need to drop that crutch and walk on my own.
I don't know -- I've written about this whole issue So. Many. Times.
In fact it's kind of odd to me that I’ve never had any problem letting other people see the kind of writer I am; but for whatever reason I see my guitar playing as different.
Why are you afraid of letting other people judge your talents?
Anyways, I go to the open mic thing last week (didn’t take my guitar, but I had a pick in my pocket) and a bunch of college kids came in and set up. You could tell they knew each other, and that they had prepared a bit for this thing together -- but in the end only two of them got up on the little makeshift stage. They set up all the microphones and adjusted their little multi-colored Rasta hats and then proceeded to out and out butcher Bob Marley's "Redemption Song".
I'm not kidding here -- they did fake Jamaican accents when they sang it.
Nevermind the fact that although I'm sure I learned them once upon a time (Gristina loves that song), I can't really remember the way the chords go (or all the lyrics off the top of my head) -- the important thing is that almost instantly I was 100% confident that I could have done the song a billion times better than this dude ever would.
But I didn't.
Why do you hold back and hesitate in situations where it seems you could thrive?
For better or worse, logistical thinking got the better of me -- and as they moved into bad song after bad song I resigned myself to the thought that my time would have been more or less wasted trying to show the guy behind the wheel of the Titanic that I could drive a boat better than he could – especially after he'd already hit the iceberg and the thing was talking on water.

That being said, there were probably plenty of opportunities for me to jump up there later and play some other song with total confidence and skill (which would have accomplished the same goal).
But I didn't.
If you’re so secure in your abilities, why do you need other people to validate them?
And that's when something dawned on me: I don't have a pocket song. I mean, I know how to play plenty of songs. I have a full list of "May I help you?" riffs that I use whenever I'm at guitar stores. But if you were to walk up to me right now, hand me a guitar and say "OK hotshot, play something" -- I'd be more or less busted.

Sure I'd probably start doodling around, maybe try to put out a few bars of some tune that you'd recognize, but I don't have a tune that I could break out with at a party. I don't have a song that I could play without having another player around to pick up the slack when I broke into a melody line or something.
I don't have a tune in my hands that I could take in front of an audience by myself.
But here’s the problem – that’s another excuse. The real question I need to be asking myself is: Hey asshole -- You’ve been playing guitar for almost 20 years now. You’re telling me after all that time and practice that you couldn't figure out some stupid little 3-chord ditty and then to practice it to the point where you could sing your way through it in front of other people? No way. I'm not buying that.

In short, There’s no logistical reason I can’t have a pocket song.
..So why don’t I have one?
[Listening to:  Incubus"Dig" ]


Monday, February 18

Double Deuce

Part of me wonders if there might be an "Is it Real or is it Memorex" question that should be asked here (possibly because of the inclusion of a statement promoting a "new" foreward to the book written by "The guy who played Tinker") -- but I'm honestly hoping that I'm wrong in my Photoshop suspicions, because if this thing really does exist, there's no way that it couldn't be utterly and completely awesome.
Movie novelizations still happen from time to time, but they seem to be a bit of a dying breed. When you think about it -- things like "Road House: The Novel" are probably a big part of the reason why.

For a short while back in the day movie novelizations became sort of a guilty pleasure of mine, as I was too young to get into R-rated films, but still susceptible to the relentless advertising that would surround such things (promising scene after scene filled with murder, explosions, mayhem, and movie boobs -- all of which my parents objected to me seeing for some reason or another..).

But then one day during a weekly library trip with my mother I came upon the revelation that there were literally shelves upon shelves of R-rated movie books available for my dirty little mind to read, it seemed (for a short, blissful time) that I had discovered the ultimate in pre-cable television loopholes.

Explosions and Mayhem were finally mine, thanks to the scores of hack ghostwriters willing to sell themselves out.
Sadly, movie boobs rarely ever made it past the censors -- and the ones
that did really never could hold a candle to their celluloid forbears
(nsfw).
The problem was, if you actually wanted to read a film novelization -- you quickly came to realize that there were different varieties you had to navigate. For example, many movies that were actually based on books prompted publishers to re-release the original novels with new cover artwork (and frequently middle of the book inserts featuring photographs from the films themselves). Or to put it another way, you always had an easier time finding Clive Barker or Steven King novels once they made a movie out of them.

But then there were other movies that didn't have such literary beginnings (Roadhouse being a prime example) that would still somehow find their way into print -- usually at the hand of some guy who's agent signed him on to watch the film and transcribe it more or less verbatim onto the page.

This means all the character development, flashbacks, inner monologues, and connecting scenes that you might normally get from a book that's been turned into a script are still missing, which to anyone who enjoys a good book can't help but come off as anything less than a total gyp.

It's like the ultimate goal of these things was to leave you sort of disappointed with the book itself, which might lead a lot of people to go and see the movie anyways -- so I guess in the end everything worked out the way the publishers/studio executives wanted, but for those of us who still had parents who freaked out at the idea of their child seeing an R-rated film before his time (who at the time didn't yet have the group of friends he could sneak into said films with under the guise of "just going to hang out at the mall"), the whole novelization thing started to wear thin once you realized as much as it was a book based off a movie you wanted to see, in the end it was always a really shitty read.

All that being said, when it comes to Swayze's masterpiece -- all bets are off. Anything that can even profess to add extra crappiness to what might be the most entertaining bad movie ever made is something that couldn’t do anything but rock.

And yes, it is his Masterpiece. Don't even try to fool yourself -- aside from the fact that it's utterly unentertaining, formulaic RomCom crap, Dirty Dancing could have been made by any of the sorta homosexual really skinny acting icons of the day with any level of formal dance training talent (Kevin Bacon, Richard Gere.. the list writes itself).
Roadhouse is brilliant because of Swayze.
Put any other actor in that role and the movie becomes just another action film with explosions, bar room brawls, and naked women standing on the roof of a farmhouse that just happens to be across the street from the villain's mansion where he and his henchmen terrorize the townsfolk with their Monster Truck.

But the fact that Patrick effing Swayze, (only months after Dirty Dancing had become an hit -- providing movie viewers with the once in a lifetime opportunity to watch the exact moment when a would-be megastar decided to toss his career in the toilet); complete with the mullet hairdo, the forced Texas accent, and the suggestion that Dalton -- the professional "cooler" has a philosophy degree from NYU, (which apparently is supposed to be the justification for his practice of doing Tai Chi half-naked at inopportune moments throughout the entire film) -- shows up on the screen trying as hard as he possibly can to desperately be serious, deep, and above all tough -- and the result still ends up being a completely kick ass movie in the end?

Look, I know this movie is an utter piece of crap -- but if I'm flipping channels late at night or on a weekend afternoon and I come across that beyond awful scene where Dalton tells the other bouncers how to be "nice" -- I'm stopping. And I'm not moving until the moment when Swayze has that fake zen moment where he realizes the error of using violence to stop violence -- and decides not to rip Ben Gazrra's trachea out, but instead leaves the opportunity open for the townspeople who have finally stopped fearing their oppressor come forth one at a time and shoot him in the stomach.
..Because it's just that good.

[Listening to:  Static-X"So" ]


Thursday, February 14

Microwave Dinners

I don't know what's up with me lately. I'm just kinda ..not there. I mean, I'm going to work, I'm hanging out with friends, I had dinner with my dad earlier this week -- and I've enjoyed and appreciated all of those moments; but then when I come back to my apartment it's like I'm finding myself still really craving inspiration, still needing some sort of personal spark that for whatever reason I can't seem to find.
Dinner is nuked. Dishes are stacked. TV is watched. Couches are slept on.
I mean, I had a great weekend with my kid. I had this whole rant about Valentines Day worked out in my head. For gods sake, last night at Endo there were a bunch of ratty college kids in African-flag-colored knit hats struggling to create their own god-awful acoustic versions of Bob Marley songs, complete with forced Jamaican accents -- the table couldn't be more set for me to put pen to paper.

But when I open up Blogger to write it all down it's like the engine won't turn over. I mean, there's the usual pressure at work and drama at home -- but nothing really to the point (I don't think) where I can't hear some white kid butcher the hell out of "Redemption Song" and not get all revved up over the prospect of laying waste to his lame ass.
But for whatever reason, the words aren't happening.
It's like there's a shadow on the floor crossing over mine. Something I can't see. Something I've gotta figure out.
..And all these heart-shaped Mylar balloons and rose bouquets showing
up at the office every five minutes aren't really helping things either.

[Listening to:  Fugazi"Birthday Pony" ]


Sunday, February 10

Me Me Me and Timothy

Like a lot of people out there, I'm waking up today to the sobering realization that (at least for this year) football is over. Even though we were treated to one of the best Super Bowl games in years -- which helped put a fitting stamp on what has really been an entertaining season to watch (college and pro), it's still a little weird to have to face the prospect of a weekend without it
And don't come to me with any of that Pro Bowl nonsense, either -- no one watches that crap.
I mean, I know not everyone digs the game, and there are probably some people out there who are beyond glad that all things pigskin will be taking a break for a few months. But until my mania for college basketball has the chance to properly warm up and take over, I for one will be mourning it's absence.
I'll tell you one thing I'm not missing, though:

      -first seen @ catsandbeer.com

[Listening to:  Missy Elliot"The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)" ]


Friday, February 8

East Asheville Hardware

Ok, Imma 'bout had it with all the little quirky outside software add-on's to this blog flaking out. If it's not Haloscan's comments going all apeshit or blogrolling's links disappearing for days at a time it's last.fm or SiteMeter linking to some half-witted javascript that slobs up the page formatting on my site. I'm no genius programmer, but I do consider myself somewhat competent at navigating embed codes and user tags, which means if stuff ain't working, it's probably not because of anything I did, aiight?
I'm not asking the world here -- if you make a doodad that's supposed to do "x", then is
there any sort of possibility that you can ensure that it actually does "x" once in a while?
I've sorta resisted using blogger's comment system for ages because it's sort of a hassle for anonymous/non-blogger.com members to use, which to me is a deterrent for newcomers to jump into the discussions that we're having about a topic. I've also sorta straggled on jumping completely over to Blogger's beta templates because quirky as it is, I kinda like the way this site is. I know in the end it's not that big a big deal, and eventually there's gonna come a day when I'll have to replace my record player with an iPod (so to speak), but there's nothing worse in our technology-tethered world than putting your trust into something that's supposed to make your world easier only to have that thing crap out with no hope of being able to do anything about it from your end but just hit the refresh button over and over.
All of this hassle makes me want to just switch everything over to Blogger's latest interface, boxy and
un-user friendly as it is -- because regardless of the pod people mentality, shit works when you want it to.
You know what this reminds me of? The constant struggle I have feeling like huge conglomerate stores like Wal-Mart are poisoning consumers away from local small businesses and products, while at the same time having to deal with the dissapointment of going into your local corner store to pick up something you really need, only to find that they don't actually have it, or if they do -- it's some crazed out 15-year old looking off-brand/generic thing that you're sorta not comfortable buying in the first place.
"Excuse me, I cut my hand and really need a Band-Aid, where are they?"
"We don't carry those, but if you look in Aisle 3 you'll find a wide selection of Aid-bands, which are made by the same company that had all those toys recalled recently for having lead paint in them. Look, they come in assorted colors!"
Because when stuff like that happens, the first thing I really want to do is.. go to effing Wallyworld.
And I don't want to go there.
But dammit if they don't always bloody have what I'm looking for.
It's like that line from the should-be-funnier-but-really-isn't-half-the-time cartoon Frisky Dingo
"Why do you have an account with a bank owned by your arch-enemy?"
"Checking with interest, Phil. You can't just get that anywhere."
How about this:
Attention world. I want to support good things. I have a strong personal interest in promoting endless varieties of non-crap. I want independent cinema. I want music that's not been over-produced or filtered down by record companies. But I like Oreos, not Hydrox -- understand?. I want my MTV, not 15 straight hours of rich 16-year old white girls planning their birthday parties. I want every writer who isn't John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell to have the chance to sell an effing book once in a while. I want food that's not pumped up full of chemicals and radiation. I want to watch television that was written by writers, listen to music that wasn't programmed into a sequencer, and wipe my ass with toilet paper that didn't require the destruction of a rainforest to get made. But I gotta be honest here -- I'm not gonna sit forever hovering over the bowl while you stand around trying to figure it out.
In short: I understand it's tough out there for mom and pop businessman, but the fact that you're not owned by Rupert Murdoch doesn't mean you get a free license to suck.
I'm still in your corner. I really am. But ish gets old, knammsayin?

Anyways, all of this ranting probably won't do any good -- but it did sorta remind me of the lyrics one of my brother's favorite songs -- which kinda sums up in two minutes what I've been blathering on about this whole time (which when I think about it is normally how things work out when Josh and I are discussing similar topics, because he's cool like that).
Anyways, it's a neat little song, and you should all check it out:
So yeah, my blog the world is FUBAR (but my little brother is really cool).
Pretty much all you ever really needed to know.
[Listening to:  The Dead Milkmen"Bitchin' Camaro" ]


Thursday, February 7

All Around the World Same Song

                                                                                             -- Endo/Exo 2/1/08

Oh Ricky, you magnificent dumbass -- I feel your pain. Honestly, how many among us can say that we've never gotten ourselves stuck somewhere we never really should have gone to in the first place?

Last week I thought this was funny. But now with all this drama going on I feel like I'm right there with you, save for the fact that I bought my plane ticket 15 years ago.
Other than that, it's pretty much the same.
Details too convoluted and aggravating to really go into right now, but if I can speak just for a moment to the person who found this site the other day by googling the words "How to convey your feelings without getting into a fight?" (which btw, couldn't have been any more immaculately timed) there are a few things you need to know:
1) Apparently I don't have that answer.
2) Run. Get the fuck out and don't look back.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back on Orbitz to see if there are any super-savers to Maine going on.
..What?
[Listening to:  Skindred"Firing the Love" ]


Wednesday, February 6

Help Me Obama Wan, You're My Only Hope

I watch the movies on a semi-regular basis. I continually use lines from the scripts as part of everyday conversations. I can easily be drawn into heated discussions about the flaws in the story and/or explanations of the subtle societal commentary/thematic implications implied by the imagery, costumes, and music that's used throughout the series.
Basically, my journey towards the dark side is complete:
I'm totally gay for Star Wars.
But you know what's weird? I've always kinda looked down on the action figure people. I mean, they're nowhere near as bad as the whackos who dress up like stormtroopers when they report for jury duty or whatever -- but despite the fact that our geekitude comes from the same place, I've always kinda felt like the guys who line up outside toystores at all hours of the night just to buy the latest incarnation of R2D2 are all a little, you know ..pathetic.
Still loving a kids movie 30 years after you first saw it?   Dorky, but forgivable.
Collecting the action figures and seeming to know an awful lot about them?   Loser.
Maybe it's because of all the dem on dem bitchiness that's been a part of this election season, with candidates from my party beating each others brains out while McCain quietly builds his clone army -- but I'm really starting to wonder if all this disdain I have for grown-up action figure nerds has become unnecessarily divisive.

I mean, there's a whole new Star Trek movie dropping in the next year, and the last three things we put on the screen sucked out loud -- maybe the time really has come to put our differences aside and finally start acting like the unified force for good that we keep trying to convince everyone that we actually are.
That being said --
Dude, lose the doll. Seriously.
[Listening to:  Element Eighty"Pancake Land" ]


Monday, February 4

Alanis

The world moves in strange ways sometimes. You work for things that never happen. You fall into things you never expect. You want things you can't have. You get things you don't truly appreciate until they're gone.

If you knew the script, it wouldn't be about becoming the best person you could be. It would simply be about giving a good performance to lines that someone else had written.

That being said, there are some curveballs you're never really ready for.
The company I've been contracting with for almost two years has offered me a permanent position.
..If I agree to a pay cut.
[Listening to:  Chevelle"To Return" ]


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