Monday, March 31

You and Me Baby Ain't Nothing But Mammals

I have no idea what kind of space Cheetos Hirayama Aya is chowing down on here, but whatever they are --
..Sign me up.
[Listening to:  Dark New Day"Bare Bones" ]

Friday, March 28


Good evening Mr. and Mrs. America, from border to border and coast to coast and all the ships at sea -- Let’s go to press.
Flash! -- One of the day's most beloved celebrities, known to most as a devilishly handsome and talented writer of wildly unbelievable stories about tunnels under the English Channel has apparently been discovered wasting away his days away in a sea of corporate reports, boring meetings, and hours upon end of staring out the window at the increasing number of sunny Florida days as summer continues it's approach.

Who is he?? This reporter will never tell -- but one thing's for sure, this mystery man has plenty to say. In fact, here's the latest stories he's revealed about the dandies and dolls we all love from the society pages:
  • Which starlet of the lab coat set has always been considered easy on the eyes, but as of late has been revealed to be sort of a stuck-up biznatch by anyone who tries to hold the door open for her? And if that wasn't enough, friends of the program are beginning to suspect that her habit of wearing what seems to be far too much brightly colored eye makeup might just a result of paying someone to permanently apply it. These facts have yet to be fully confirmed, but if they are true -- the only words this reporter can think to react with would be.. Eww.

  • In other news, several paparazzos have noted the visible addition of a framed photo featuring a second floor romeo embracing an attractive, as yet unnamed femme. But what would the girl in the photo say if she knew just how bad the man's skills still appear to be when it comes to being being discreet while surfing dating sites at work, even as people who would rather not know about any of this continue to have to walk by his desk every day?

  • Question! Short guy who's always walking around with that embarrassing white guy stride that seems to be only one step short of a flat-out sprint: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO GET TO, AND WOULDN'T IT MAKE MORE SENSE TO LEAVE A MINUTE OR TWO EARLIER ONCE IN A GODDAMN WHILE?
New from the downtown desk -- where residents of one of riversides most exclusive apartment homes have started to notice that ever since that one new guy started hanging out with the couple downstairs that the entire stairway has started to reek with the aroma of (wink wink) cookies -- comes this update.
  • Hey you -- college boy at the bar on Wednesday night. No one wants to hear your retarded jokes.

  • Hey you, Duke University's men's basketball team. This is my NCAA bracket. See your name all over it? No!? How about I jam the damn thing down your throat just for tanking it in the early rounds again. Can you see it now, a-holes!?
And finally, in a story that should shock no one at this point -- sources say that the "mystery writer" featured from our first update above was recently seen stumbling around outside of a popular local bar, and as he attempted gamely to sit down in the seat of his vehicle, it became plainly clear that he'd forgotten to wear any underwear ..again.
Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

[Listening to:  Ill NiƱo"Numb" ]

Tuesday, March 25

Shit Ain't Like That

So this past weekend I had my son, and one of the things we did along the way was visit Blockbuster to get some movies to watch. I let him choose the films he wanted, and we ended up with a Disney Dog Double-Feature including the recent live-action remake of Underdog (the original was one of my favorites growing up, so there was no way I was ever going to like it) and a straight to video release called Snow Buddies, which as I mentioned yesterday, finally provided me with what I thought would be the perfect topic to help me get over my recent bout with writer's block.

For those of you out there who might not know -- Snow Buddies is the latest installment in a franchise of sequels spawned from the initial success of Air Bud, a 1997 movie about a golden retriever who could play basketball, which itself (at least in my mind) was a rehash of that old-school Disney flick Gus, about a football-playing mule that could kick field goals.
All of which should serve as important evidence that when it comes to the art of producing films about talking animals doing things that animals aren't supposed to normally be able to do -- there are few studios
out there who have gotten more mileage out of (or experience in how to create) this idea than Disney.
Now before we get too deep into things here, let me sort qualify all this by saying I've never seen Air Bud. Neither have you, but it's not a problem -- because really, we've all seen this film in one form of another at some point during our lives.

The important thing to know here is that somewhere along the line (after mastering a number of professional contact sports), Buddy the Golden Retriever met a sexy little bitch (see what I did there?) named Molly on MySpace -- told her he was a jet pilot, took her to PF Changs, suggested they go back to his place, put on some Barry White -- and then a few months later became the proud father of five puppies, all of whom just happened to excel in individual sports like he did.

The added bonus here is that all his puppies come complete with their own broadly drawn sterotypical personality: The surfer dude, the football-loving jock, The one that plays in the mud and gets dirty, The fat one who's always hungry, and the tomboy girl who really wants to be a princess.

Then in the oldest of Disney traditions, Buddy the dog is sent to the bench to join Donald Duck, Annette Funicello, and Captain Hook while the studio that gave us Britney Spears turns his younger, cuter progeny who into stars of the kinds movies he worked so hard to make famous, ensuring that series will never, ever end (IMDb lists something called Space Buddies as currently being in production for a 2009 release).
One can only hope that once they reach space they will meet Jason from the equally un-killable Friday
the 13th
franchise, who (last time I checked) was still up there killing half-naked co-eds with his machete.
Anyone who has a child or has looked after someone else's kids in this day and age has probably had to deal with the circle of hell that is kids programming. Whether it's Barney, the Wiggles, Kidz Bop, or any of the rest -- kid-oriented media has never seemed more pervasive or annoying than it is now.

Being a parent, I've noticed that there are two basic schools of thought when it comes to films of this type. First are the movies that kids like that still offer a little something for adults to enjoy (the various Pixar Films come to mind). But what you see the most of -- especially with the recent success of things like Alvin and the Chipmunks or Hannah Montanah, are movies that feel like they were shoved off a factory assembly line, the ones that feel as if they were specifically designed to keep kids quiet and mentally engaged for a certain amount of time without any worry of disturbing or offensive images coming up -- "virtual babysitters," for lack of a better term.
Snow Buddies is clearly one of these.
As a result, it's a waste of time for me to sit here and pick apart the movie for being bad -- especially because it's pretty clear that it was never intended to be anything more than simply good enough.

I mean, you'd pretty mucy have to be a cat in order to resist the cuteness inherent in of a bunch of puppies running around doin' stuff without having at least one "Awwwww" moment. And as expected, my boy jumped in with both feet -- laughing at the jokes, getting mad at the villain, and actually cheering for the happy ending. And it's always a lot of fun sharing things like that with him, because it gives you the chance to see his sense of humor as it's developing.
So on that front at least -- it was mission accomplished.
Of course sitting next to the child was his father; the cynical movie snob, silently dying inside because there was no one else in the room old enough to understand just how utterly awful this over-saccharinated Call of the Wild ripoff truly was, leaving me with no opportunities at all to call it out for the complete piece of shit that it was.
And this was all before the Wigger dog showed up.
So this morning I finally found a free moment to release the kraken on the utter hypocrisy that is the Disney Company (whose track record when it comes to racial issues is already less than spectacular) including of all things a streetwise character spouting off all sorts of supposedly hip-hop/gangsta phrases in a pre-teen voice that might as well have belonged to Honky McWhiterson -- prancing around with his jewel encrusted bling necklace like some sort of puppy-fied Al Jolson, and I decide to check out the movie's Wikipedia page to make sure I got the name of the voice actor right --
When I come across a little blurb detailing the fact that as part of the pre-production process, 30 under-aged golden retriever puppies were obtained and then imported to Vancouver, only to fall victim to an outbreak of a highly contagious parvovirus, which the dogs should have been vaccinated against, but apparently weren't. 15 puppies got sick, and three had to be euthanized. Then, after the enforced removal of the first set of puppies, Disney acquired a new set of 28 older puppies to continue filming with. These puppies ended up being exposed to the same virus, which increased the reported death toll to at least five.
What the hell, Mickey?
So let me get this straight -- your production company is making a movie starring dogs, which just happens to be the sixth in a series of movies about these exact same dogs, all funded by a multi-national corporation that's made a huge hunk of it's vast fortunes from movies about talking dogs -- and you expect me to believe that you somehow forgot to hire a vet?!
Honestly, where did you get these dogs from -- the mall?
I mean don't get me wrong here -- I'm no huge fan of PETA or any other overzealous publicity-hungry animal rights advocacy group out there, but how is this not an utter outrage? How did the production even pretend to continue filming after all of this shit went down?
Moreover, how the hell are you willing to entrust these same
to take yet another truckload of puppies into Space??
But if all this talk of tragedy, exploitation, and death wasn't enough to completely derail the mood I had going when I started putting this rant together -- now I'm stuck having to consider the fact that after so much drama and all the brothers and sisters he lost along the way:
Damn, B-Dawg might just be an OG after all.

[Listening to:  Pressure 4-5"These Hands" ]

Monday, March 24

The Story of Us

I've not been writing a lot lately. I mean, I'm blogging here and there -- but even though this site remains my main outlet for words, there's always a clear difference between the times I'm sort of reporting the events in my life, the times I'm venting because I'm pissed off and don't really have anywhere else to unload it all, the times I'm just screwing around for fun, and the times when I really dig into a topic, delve underneath the surface to try to examine ideas and motivations, and see just how far I can pull the thread away from the sweater before the whole thing falls apart.
The problem is, right now I'm not really doing any of these at all.
I don't know -- I could easily over think it all and try to identify some sort of psychological reason behind it all, especially because if you look back through my history of blogging and online journaling, it's a pattern that repeats itself at least once or twice a year. Sometimes I just don't have the desire to write here. Sometimes I just sit in front of the keyboard and there's nothing in my head at all.

But sometimes there are things I want to write about. Very specific ideas that I want to discuss, examine, and figure out. Except that when I sit down to put it all into words, the connection between everything swirling around in my mind and the words I need to describe them just don't seem to be there.
Writer's block.
It's different from disinterest. It's not like times when you have other things to do. I'm talking about the times when you really want to say something -- but cant figure out the way to get started, can't find the patience to just sit down and explain it on the page, can't be satisfied in any shape or form with any word you type.

Times like that present a unique sort of frustration, especially with people who like to express themselves in words. Because it's supposed to be something you're good at. It's supposed to be something you love. But just like everything we love -- sometimes there's nothing easier to feel like you hate. Hate because you love it, especially when it seems like it doesn't love you back.
Which sometimes makes you wonder if it ever really loved you at all.
I know that sounds overly dramatic, but that's what it's like sometimes. It's like those days in a long relationship where you start to quietly wonder if the other person is using your desires against you, that they're only in it for the place to live, the money to spend, or whatever else sometimes seems like it's more important in their lives than you.

I mean, we all have our flaws, we all take other people for granted once in a while -- but every now and then even in the best relationships it's like one person gets something in their eye and starts to see things the wrong way. You get tired of those same quirks that were once cute. You get wrapped up in the importance of things that you previously had no problem compromising on, but still sorta feel like you're getting shafted over.
It's one of the worst things a relationship can encounter -- those times where
nothing is really wrong, but you still quietly worry that things aren't good enough.
So in effect, this is sort of me telling writing that we've been together long enough, you'd think I wouldn't have to tell you to put down the toilet seat when you're done using it. And would it kill you to replace the toilet paper roll once in a while?
And then writing is like, "I can't believe you're hitting me with all this shit right now while we're supposed to
be enjoying this oh-so-romantic meal together at Applebee's. Honestly, could you have picked a better time?"
And then we drive home in silence and don't talk for a while.
So perhaps what I'm going through now (in a manner of speaking) are those really sucky couple of days afterwards where you're all like "Hey, honey? I just wanted to say that your outfit looks really nice. I'm gonna take out the trash now, k?"
But you know how that goes -- she ain't having it.
Eventually things will cool off, or we'll have some really fantastic angry make-up sex -- but until that happens, we're left with all of this uncomfortable silence.

The key in these situations (as a writer) is to not lose hope in your abilities. Because it's not the words that are the problem -- it's the inspiration. The connection between the ideas in your head and the desire to translate them into language. Language that you use everyday, even if sometimes it's just to talk to your coworkers or order more Chinese take out over the phone.
And perhaps that's part of the problem.
Because no matter what you write, how much people like it, or how much feedback you get -- sometimes it just feels like words. It just feels like all you're doing every day is waking up, getting the kids ready for school, going to work, calling each other about this and that during the day, picking up the kids, nuking something for dinner, helping with homework, watching a little TV, brushing your teeth, watching Letterman while she reads, clicking the lights off, and then retreating to your side of the bed to try and sleep while you wonder what the hell happened.
It's a bad place to be -- but it does happen sometimes.
The key is how you deal with it. The ways you keep your perspective. The ways you spice things up instead of letting them get old and then resenting them without realizing that it's probably just as much your fault as anyone else's.

One of the ways writers specifically can deal with this is to keep writing. But instead of trying to force something your heart isn't in at the moment, you go another way. You write about something else. So for example if your strength is in fiction writing, in far away characters and spectacular settings -- and you can't find that spark the way you usually do (or worse, you get caught up in admiring your past work and worry that anything new won't adequately compare), then it's a good practice to break away from it, write a few personal essays. Step outside of your comfort zone a little -- maybe review a restaurant, or do a travelogue about a vacation you took.

For example, some of the stuff that Stephen King is writing these days is laughable, especially considering some of his other work, and his overall reputation. But honestly, I'd rather ignore ten books he writes about old cars and baseball than endure another mailed-in piece of crap like Desperation.
And we've all read books by authors we love that made us want to hate them.
One of my absolute favorite writers is Haruki Murakami, whose historical accounts of the nerve gas attacks on the Tokyo subways should be utterly fascinating -- but in truth are kinda dull. I felt similar disdain for many of the Spin magazine articles written by Chuck Palahniuk, the children's books written by Neil Gaiman, or those oh-so-snobby wine reviews that helped Jay McInerney get off the schnide between novels. But I've grown to understand them a bit more over the years, especially when I found myself unable to get past the point of putting the blank page into the typewriter, and sliding my chair up to a good spot in front of the table.

And so, faced recently with my own little writing drought -- I had decided that the best way for me to break out of it was to find something innocuous to attack, some side topic that I could sink my teeth into a bit -- maybe get the wheels turning enough that I wouldn't feel so blocked when it came to trying to work through some of the real issues that have been plaguing my mind and making me a dreary emo mess lately.

And this weekend it seemed that I had finally found it. The perfect topic. The perfect target.
Because this was the weekend that I found what might be the single most racially offensive thing that the Walt Disney Company has ever attempted to foist upon the youth of the world:
A wigger dog. A talking. Wigger. Dog.

It was as if god himself had shone a blinding light into the Blockbuster video store that I went into with my son on Friday afternoon and said "This is a little something I like to call Snow Buddies. it's a film your son will enjoy watching, but if you're patient there might just be a little something in there for you too."

I swear that what's left of my hair turned completely white the first time that mutt showed up. It was all I could do to stumble down Mt. Sinai to spread the word to the masses about what I had seen --
A golden retriever puppy. With bling. Repeatedly uttering the phrase "Crackalakin."
Seriously -- you know that moment, that point after months of complaining to your friends that your significant other seems to have totally forgotten about anything in the world that doesn't have to do with gardening -- where you're more or less robotically holding the door open for her so she can bring in the groceries and as she walks by you catch a hint of the fragrance in her hair, and then realize as she walks by that she's wearing that one pair of jeans (you know the ones) that make her ass look fantastic, the ones she wore that one time.. on the beach.

And she's trying to set down the shopping bags and catches you staring with that look in your eye, and she's suddenly caught off guard, saying "What?.. Is there something wrong with my outfit? Why are you looking at me like.. that?"
Hey kids, go play outside for a while.
Mom and dad have some groceries to put away.

[Listening to:  Skrape"Bleach" ]

Friday, March 21

Two Tickets to Paradise

Still working through things, still very much cleaning house -- emotionally and literally (hard as that might be to believe).
I bought a mop.
..Hilarity ensued.
Once again I'm feeling the itch to move into a better place, but finances aren't going to let that happen anytime soon, which means for the time being I'm still in mine. Don't get me wrong, I love this little apartment with all it's little quirks and faults because of what it means to me and the good times I've had there -- but I feel like I'm finally starting to outgrow it.
Finally able to throw things away that I didn't need to be holding onto in the first place.
It's not an easy process, (especially because I'm not really talking about my apartment at all) but the more I chip away at it, the better I figure it will get.

All that being said, if I've still got to live here the least I can do is try and clean the place up and bit and perhaps finish some of the design plans I had when I first moved in. To that end, I've been looking for a new piece of artwork to hang on the wall opposite from my beloved John Coltrane painting -- a search that right now is focused pretty solidly on the work of one Aaron Chang, who whether you realized it or not -- totally rocks your face.

I have a piece in mind already, but (as usual) my taste in high art/photography appears to be completely at odds with my understanding/ability to pay the prices that professional photographers/artists normally charge for their work -- especially considering the size print I'm looking to find.

I mean, the rate I'm getting quoted is fairly on par with what I paid for the Coltrane -- which is probably a fair price for a painting that size, so I guess what I'm really trying to say is that the price sucks essentially because I can't afford it, which is pretty much the reasoning behind my frustration about the going rate for guitar pedals, plane tickets, and new apartments as well.
At the same time it's hard not to wish there was some way to call Chang up
and negotiate, maybe see if he'd be willing to help a brother out, you know?
[Listening to:  Depswa"Prom Song" ]

Monday, March 17

Jax Vegas

As anyone who's checked in on this blog the last two weeks can probably tell, I've been having a rough go of things lately. For a number of reasons not worth going into right now this is always sort of a down time of year for me -- which only served to make Friday afternoons surprise revelation regarding my personal economic dis-incentive package from the IRS much worse than it probably would have been otherwise.

So as usual, I went all emo and kinda shut myself out from most everything in my world, because regardless of how bad things actually were and how justified my mood might have been at that moment, no one (including me) really likes Emo-Dan, and in general it's just better to let him muddle his own way out of his whole whiny bullshit victim mode rather than have to be the one who has to hear his whole life story every year during the first week of March.
Which is fine for everyone else, but I still have to live with the guy.
So I got him drunk, and made him watch a lot of TV -- which I think helped me out in it's own odd way. The only down side was that weather-wise Saturday turned out to be really nice, which meant I blew away a gorgeous day of freedom over self-pity and a bag of pretzels. At the same time I think sometimes when things get on top of you and you lose your best perspective it's a good thing to find some way to refocus your direction. Lock down and get it out. Try to pick back up on the other side as best you can --
Because nothing good ever really comes out of moping.
Still, when Sunday rolled around and I got a call from Matty seeing if I wanted to hit the Lemon Bar with him and the gang I gave serious consideration to bailing on them, thinking that even if I had woken up in a slightly better mood, spending time with my friends who never seem to have anything bad happen to them might put me right back in the emotional spot I started from on Friday.

Don't get me wrong, I love those guys -- but sometimes when you're feeling fat and lonely and broke and depressed the last things you want to hear about are the continuing successes of all the skinny, oversexed people in your life who can pay for everything in cash.

Plus as much as we are friends, I don't have the kind of deep history with any of those guys where they're vested enough to listen to my troubles with anything resembling real interest, which made me worry that my current circumstances and mood might increase the chances of me wanting to "talk about it," -- which wouldn't be a fun proposition for anyone involved.
At the same time, it was a gorgeous day..
Fortunately for me, it turned out that being around people who didn't want to hear about any of my troubles but instead just wanted me to leave them at home and come have a good time with them was exactly what I needed.

Granted, I probably could have done without that last Irish Car Bomb we did at Lynch's or all of those Habanero Tequila shots Matty was forcing everyone to drink over at his place, but sometimes when you need to cross a river you've got to pay the ferryman first, knammsayin?

And pay I did -- because this Monday morning hangover is turning out to be a total beast.

Honestly, the IRS should take a few lessons from these guys.
That way if you still end up broke and hurting the next day, there would at
least be a few embarrassing digital photos for us all to laugh about afterwards.

[Listening to:  Dry Kill Logic"Neither Here Nor Missed" ]

Friday, March 14

12 Things That Piss Me Off That No One Understands

  1. Kick Drum tracks recorded with multi-tap delay.
  2. People who fish off the side of bridges.
  3. The IRS (guess what happened).
  4. Ridiculously good-looking skinny people who have their shit together, more money than they'll ever need, all the sex they could ever hope for whenever they want with everyone they meet and feel the need to tell me all about it.
  5. The IRS (guess what else isn't going to happen).
  6. The situation/person/reason I'm in this goddamn mess in the first fucking place.
  7. Every flop-haired fucktard who can't string two chords together but still has all new top-of-the-line equipment.
  8. Tyler Hansbrough.
  9. This feeling that everything good in my life is always just one step from slipping away.
  10. Former Denver Bronco Javon Walker (I know it was $60 mil -- but did you really have to sign with The Raiders?)
  11. That bitch on the phone from the IRS that tried to paint all of this to me as good news.
  12. My apparent inability to see any of these trains coming down the tracks until they've already run me over.

[Listening to:  Lo Pro"Fake" ]

Thursday, March 13

Actually Spoken During the Course of My Evening

Ralph: Dude, long time no see. You want a beer?
Me: Vodka.
Ralph: Rough day?
Me: Double.
Ralph: Say no more.
[Listening to:  Ra"Rectifier" ]

Monday, March 10

Go Screw

Here's how my work day basically ended last Friday afternoon:
I'm in my boss' boss office, explaining to my boss' boss' boss the importance and impact of a set of engineering document changes that were given to me three days ago by my boss (who is conveniently absent today), who told me in no uncertain terms that that they have to be updated, trained on, and fully released by close of business today.

This is maybe even the second time I've even been in the same room with any of these executives, all of whom make about 10 times what I do and are more or less unaffected in any direct way by any of the changes I'm trying to get approved, yet are somehow still key signatures in the process.

Anyways, I finish my little spiel explaining to everyone in the room how despite the 11th hour nature of this approval process and some of the unexpected problems we've encountered along the way that these are still very important changes and unless we find a way to get the signature of one of their co-executives (who has been unavailable all day for unlisted reasons) this project will not go through.
Only to have the other person in the room -- my boss' boss' boss' boss' boss turn to me and say:
"Well, what do you think we should do?"

[Listening to:  Sevendust"Waffle" ]

Wednesday, March 5

Flop, Turn, River

So for the first time in like five years, I'm expecting a refund on my income taxes.

Bad financial planning, crap luck, fallout from the divorce -- whatever you can imagine, the government has found a way to dump it right back on my head. It got so bad last year that I actually had to enter into a repayment contract with the IRS that it will probably take me five to six years (at least) to clear.

So this year when I showed up to file my return it was only natural for me to be a little gun shy. The woman who helps me and my dad out with these things offered a friendly smile, but seemed surprised at the fact that I hadn't even opened my W-2 to look at it before I brought it to her.
"Come on now, nothing could be as bad as you got it last time."
"..That's what you told me last year."
But by the end of all the forms and calculations, it became clear that this time I was actually above water for once. But then came the real question:
Could I actually have it?
In other words, because my finances were considerably less fucked up this year then they have been for a while, the IRS owes me a check. At the same time, I still owe the IRS like eight large. After referring to a few manuals and things, it was concluded that because I've already officially entered into an approved repayment plan with the IRS for last years debt, the check should come my way.

Which would be fantastic, because not only am I in serious need of a little boost in the bank account, but there is a certain overpriced guitar pedal that I've been exceptionally diligent in not blowing my entire paycheck on every time I get paid that I would love to finally be able to purchase.

But then the other day while I was checking the status of my return, I caught sight of this little blurb on the IRS website:
We have received your tax return and it is being processed. Unless we find
mistakes or you owe other taxes, you should receive your refund by [redacted].
Although my tax "people" seemed pretty confident that the check would come to me, seeing this statement in black and white from the IRS has me terrified that it's all gonna go poof right before my eyes. Of course the sucky part is that the government pretty much has every right to take it from me, and modest as the amount of my expected return is -- adding it on to the balance would really help take a bite out of this debt that I owe.
But that doesn't mean I wouldn't really rather just have the cake.
I called my tax lady back to see what she thought, and she's like "Honestly it could go either way -- it just depends on how they interpret things."
It's like I'm sitting at the table across from Teddy KGB.

[Listening to:  From Zero"The Other Side" ]

Sunday, March 2

Huis Clos

If there's a fitting metaphor for the way things have been going for me lately (and the reason that things on this blog have been so quiet lately), it would be my hands. Right now they're covered with scratches. Hatched up like they've been through all sorts of hell. Things have happened, but a lot like these scratches -- they're not as big a deal as they probably appear to be from the outside.

Sometimes the longest shadows are the ones you create for yourself.
I don't know -- this always seems to be a bad time of year for me.
Scattered reminders of the past. Demon distance. Sleepless nights.
Going into it in any detail would start to sound like the lyric sheet from some half-rate emo band, so I'm gonna pass on all that for now -- but I just wanted to let everyone who's contacted me wondering where I'm at and if I'm OK that I'm still around.
I'm just ..dealing with some stuff, trying to stay on top.
In the meantime, here's something to keep you happy that's been getting some heavy rotation in my headphones lately. Great song from a great band, from a time where every heavy rock video inexplicably seemed to feature some shirtless old man wringing his hands in front of the camera. Seriously, you have to imagine that somewhere in Hollywood at a retirement community there's like five old guys sitting in wheelchairs talking about the good ol' days.
"Oh, you mean the good ol' days like when you were a young man?"
"No, the good ol' days like the Summer of 1999 -- when I was working like 3 video shoots a week. I mean, one day I'd be the old guy in a cave for Metallica, then I was some sort of mad scientist for Alice in Chains, and then on Fridays I'd be wandering around some basement naked for Tool."
"Did you have to sodomize the marionette?"
"Are you kidding? I sodomized the hell out of that marionette."
"..Good times."

[Listening to:  Alice in Chains"Get Born Again" ]

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