She Shot

"Don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me.
You know you've got my sympathy. but
don't shoot shoot shoot that thing at me." Add it Up - The Violent Femmes

(Heheh you thought I'd put up "Happiness is a Warm Gun", but that's a heroin reference my sweets.)

My dream job at this point, aside from writing for "The Daily Show" or Jimmy Kimmel, would be to have my own cop series with an all female precinct.

I would play the cranky, seven time divorced captain. My girls Sabrina, Jean, Myla, and Kelly would be my detectives, and Candy would head up the K9 unit and be our bookie.

We would all play former skateboarders turned liberal cops. All would be borderline drunks that would never dream of going to rehab, and Denis Leary would direct and consult.

We'll start our own Lifetime Network branch, "Lifetime Fuck You" for the less sappy of our generation.

Actors need to be comfy with guns for parts like that, and yesterday a bunch of my dancing buddies and I cozied up to a variety of them: A PS-90, shotguns, 45's, and 9 mm's.

Can you believe a psycho like me is allowed to have a gun? (Some laws definitely need to be revised.)

I'm not a gun "nut" or advocate, but am not "anti-gun" either. I think getting behind some of those weapons helps one further understand what they can really do. I won't lie, I take to a Beretta like it's a pair of Italian boots, but shooting a 45 gave me the shakes and I had a lot of nightmares last night. I grew up with shotguns in Michigan (about 90% of all rural American Indians have guns specifically for shooting white people with), so those don't alarm me, but I will stick with the 9 mm's, thanks.

Yes, I am a "peace first", left wing liberal, but one that can step up to them Alaskan bitches if we're ever in a pinch. (That would be fucking hilarious.)

Me shooting a PS-90:



A rare pic where the shell casing is flying from the clip, just above my wrists:



When I yelled "Yeah I shot his dick off!" (referring to my target dude), everything got quiet and all my weaponry was swiftly confiscated:




Currently listening :
Don't Shoot Me Santa By The Killers
Release date: 2007-12-04

Put Your Hands Up

"Put your hands up for Detroit
Our lovely city" Put Your Hands Up For Detroit - Fedde LeGrand

Yours truly was born in Dearborn, Michigan approximately 5 miles from downtown Detroit.

When most brains process Detroit, two things come up: Motown music and cars.

A good deal of the people I grew up with there have someone in their family that worked or works in the motor vehicle arena (my grandmother and one of my aunts both did 25 years at Ford Motor Company respectively). I don't know what Detroit would be without car companies, but unfortunately, I may soon find out.

This week, pleas for an auto industry bail-out were shocking to the ears as our eyes saw the pleaders fly in three SEPARATE private jets to D.C. for a handout. The representatives being asked for said handout duly responded by tearing their hair out and hanging themselves in alphabetical order (by state) with seatbelts from the latest Ford Fiesta vehicles. Well, not really, but that would've made some good TV.

I won't put my hands up for Detroiters like this, but I can spare a middle finger.

There are a few other auto related "FUCK YOUs" that I would also like to note:

To whoever spilled steering or brake fluid all over the road and it got kicked up into my engine by my wheels this week and cost me 50 bucks to get cleaned off - FUCK YOU!

To whoever dropped the nail on State Rd 54 that decided it's new home would be my left front tire 2 years ago - FUCK YOU! (A similar FUCK YOU to the ass that left one on Wilson Blvd in Arlington, VA when I was 20 as well.)

To the family based business I used to take my old Celica to that seemed to find a way to charge me a grand every single time (which was every three months) I needed a repair - FUCK YOU!

To Toyota when they quit making the Celica - FUCK YOU! (I will rescind this if you bring it back as a hybrid. I get hard just at the mere prospect.)

To Ford for the obvious reasons, and not making better cars than Toyota. I can get a family discount at Ford, but me no likey the product, so again - FUCK YOU!

To anyone I've ever bought a used car from - FUCK YOU!

Now the "Fuck Yeahs":

To my mom for giving me an awesome 2003 Celica - FUCK YEAH!

To Toyota for servicing my car in under an hour the rare few times I had to go there - FUCK YEAH!

To people that sell used car parts on eBay - FUCK YEAH! (I got a $500 part on there for $30 including shipping to my mechanic.)

To my cleavage for helping me out with my mechanics - FUCK YEAH!

To gas being under two bucks a gallon again - FUCK YEAH!


Currently listening :
The Cars
By The Cars

Philosoph Eco

"Little boy you're going to hell
You said bad words" Kenny Goes to Hell - Metallica

"Carlin's Going to Hell."

A few days ago, that's what protesters had on their signs outside of an awards ceremony honoring the late (and oh so fucking great) George Carlin. You have to wonder why one would feel the need to heckle a dead comedian (unless you have a life, in which case, you're probably not reading this), I mean, aren't there more productive places to be playing the "self righteous" game? Not to mention that if there is a "Hell", Carlin died months ago, wouldn't he have already gone? (As if proper grammar is a priority for these types.)

I can't imagine that Carlin believed there was an actual Hell. Nor do I (Hell, Michigan notwithstanding), but I do find the symbolism of these afterlife destinations intriguing (I wonder if there is an after-after-life? Sort of like the after-after-party?), especially in regards to the environment.

Heaven is above and Hell is below yeah? Interesting that raping the earth of coal and oil involves going waaaaaayyyyy down below and it's produced some scary shit. Strip Mining isn't nearly as sexy as it sounds (ask the Navajos about Uranium - not their idea of foreplay, I'm guessing), but we're told that it's a "necessary evil" at this point.

CLEAN ENERGY….ahhhhhhhhhh, deep yoga breath of …AIR? Solar and wind power come from where? Above; the "heavens". Sun grows our greens (legal or otherwise - it doesn't discriminate), and the rain and wind, well, you see what I'm saying here.

Isn't it fascinating that the political party screaming "Drill baby drill" hypocritically stands behind a book that starts off saying that the one they worship created "the heavens and the earth"? These two places were supposedly created before anything with genitals came to be, but the inhabitants conduct their business here like a bunch of meth addicts running a health food store. Some whilst yammering on about biblical symbolism, yet they can't see what I'm musing about here (walk that dogma much?).

I know there are many factions in "small town America" that feel the need to only read one book (look how many trees that saves!), or claim they read it, as most just sheep it "cuz readin's for them elitist types that cain't play football", but the closer you get to a city, the more libraries and book stores appear (they actually get used too).

Leash laws are enforced in these close quartered, reader populations because dogmas must be curbed and kept under control in order for the masses to get along.

They run free in "ril America" though; leaving nothing but shit filled lawns in their wake, and with that scent abound, those folks will probably be the first to purchase bottled air (eh em…water used to be free).

Maybe George left Hell? Wouldn't it be funny if Hell was believing that there is something else besides this?

"Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck." George Carlin


Currently listening :
Heaven Up Here
By Echo & the Bunnymen

Accent Á Goo (Pt. Two)

Affecting an accent, yeah it pisses me off, but not in every instance.

If one is a 'Mo (short for homosexual), one may acquire the gay accent to whatever degree they see fit, and I'll tell you why.

I know all gay men weren't raised by people that speak like Ru Paul (can I get a snap up in here?). I know that when little gay boys were first venturing into the sandbox, they weren't rolling their eyes going "Hooker hand me that red shovel! You trannies build it, but girlfriend's got the interiors!" No, it didn't happen that way, but most of our sweet, gay friends did not have an easy time of it coming up, and I think they had to suppress their real selves for the most part. The gay accent may be who they truly are, so I leave it to their discretion as for its usage.

When I was in 4th grade (8 yrs old), my friend Tom and I worked in the library together at lunch recess. He came to school as a woman for Halloween that year (I was a gorilla and won the costume contest, eh em, home sewn bitches!) and I remember people picking on him and calling him all kinds of things. I didn't really know what "gay" was in suburban Michigan back then, but I adored Tom and punched a few faces so that it never happened again. He did have the gay accent then, but I don't think he even knew. I haven't a clue what became of him, but he was my first gay, and I'll never forget him.

It's such a shame that these harmless aspects of people were so maliciously sat on when we were kids. Parents didn't give a shit if their sons tortured animals or other kids, so long as they weren't wearing yellow pumps while they did it (dark blue may have been allowed, I'm having my people look into it).

I wonder how it is growing up in Australia though, because to me, everyone has the gay accent there. Did they invent it? I watched the Aussie version of Project Runway, and it is clear by looks who is queen or king, but not by accent. They take that sibilant "S" to a whole new level down under. Even David Sedaris would sound like a het-het there!

I love the gay accent. Lovey love. Other accents I dig are the New Mexico accent (yep they have one) and northern British ones, like from Manchester and Liverpool. I like Scottish and Irish the best of all, as I can barely decipher what the hell they're saying half the time.

I was once in a band with this guy from Dublin. We were pretty trashed one night and he was going on about the boards in back of his apartment complex. The rest of us just stared at him with our eyebrows meeting our hairlines. Finally, I figured out he was talking about "birds" not "boards", but it took two drunken UN translators, a soap commercial, and a deck of tarot cards to help crack the code.

I leave you with this old clip "How To Speak Irish" - it's kind of lame but I dug it as a kid. I hope it doesn't offend my new found Irish friends as I want to have torrid affairs with you all (at the same time - oh yeah).

Accent Á Goo

"It won't take you long to learn the new smile.
You'll have to adapt or you'll be out of style.
It's always the same. You're jumping someone else's train."

Jumping Someone Else's Train - The Cure

I was perusing the "interweb", as I do, and ran across someone saying something to the effect of "I try to be more than a collage of the people around me". This really tugged at my peepers as the last few weeks I've been contemplating writing a piece about overly absorbent people. The type of folks (yeah I said "folks"; I'm originally from Michigan so kindly fuck off) that just are an amalgam of all that they inhale from other people's personalities. We used to call them "posers" when I was coming up, but I've no clue what label these self deluded frauds unknowingly cower under now.

These human barnacles are now more evident than ever with the advent of Youtube, Myspace, etc. Youtube in particular, where you'll see 6,000 different versions (or more) of people filming their friends watching "Two Girls One Cup" (which is a COPY of the movie trailer for "Hungry Bitches" - ah porn accuracy brought to you by Wikipedia), as if the first couple hundred weren't unique enough.

I've seen my own words (I don't OWN the words, but I put in an application for joint custody last week) from my blogging efforts painted elsewhere, assigning credit to authors who really only deserve to be violently stabbed in the balls. Too gender specific? The pilfering fuckwads do claim "MALE" status. Were they females, I'd build them two sacks myself, and then brandish something sharp (but lightweight like an industrial sewing needle) for unleashing some serious psycho voodoo pinning.

There are such a wide variety of these coat-tail dwellers that I think a series of blogs is how I will tackle the subject, ridiculous as it may be. Fuck it. I'm just killing time till time kills me, right?

At this point, I'd like to have a go at those who acquire faux English accents. If you're an American and have only been dating a teabag a week, and start throwing around "trainers" instead of "sneakers", um…you suck ass. Yeah, I've witnessed such a thing. This person lived in the south, but never said "Y'all". They called NYC home for a few years, but Brooklyn did not seize their tongue. Give them one week with a Londoner, and they slip in "trainers" like they've been saying it that way for years. They even seem shocked that you don't know what they're talking about. Thinking back on this, I'm just flabbergasted that I've never done time in prison for assault. Really.

You notice it's the English accent that these flimsy Americans (do Canadians do it too?) are always copping? I've known plenty of people that spent years in Scotland, Ireland, and Australia, and they've never affected those accents. Though, I'm certain that if Madonna had married Billy Connolly, she would've given it the old college try. I grew up in the same area (different ERA - I'm younger) that Madonna did, and homegirl couldn't scare up a proper New York accent for a film role in the '80's, so I can't imagine why she's trying to pirate one from the UK now. She's fuckin' Madonna, how is that not good enough for her? Why does she have to be English now? Does it magically transform you into some pure, clean, intelligencia that didn't shag (oh now I'm doing it) their way to the top?

Do these people know they're doing it? Do the English cringe as much as we do when they hear it?

I don't mind my accent; in fact, I actually enjoy the fact that it annoys people sometimes. It's not as thick as most mid-westerners, but it's quite evident that I hail from a place that heavily consumes various meat products (though I'm phasing them out, regretfully). My accent is the one used by newscasters, as it apparently is the most coherent voice the U.S. can choke out. Although, with my penchant for cursing, one would never connect my dialect with anything professional that wasn't accompanied with a parental advisory of some sort.

I always tend to be the "peer" character in the phrase "peer pressure", so it's difficult for me to cut these osmotic kleptos some slack. I'm just not a follower.

Unless, of course, you tell me to photograph myself bathing in milk, then its lemming time fo sho.


Currently listening :
Goo
By Sonic Youth
Release date: 1990-06-15

Like Kissing Girls? Yer Goin’ to HELL!!

Oh don't you just love the folks that get to decide what merits an all expense paid eternity in a warmer climate?

This time the residents of that throne are cozying up in Blacklick (Mudflap and Buttfuck already had their turn), Ohio.

Personally, I'm not a fan of Katy Perry, I think she's creepy, but her voice is all right. The fact that she pisses off people like this, however, does give me some degree of delight, I must say.

I'm not a kisser of chicks and I can't see that in my future (I just don't drink THAT much), but last week I was at a very "meow" oriented event in which I saw what I thought was a guy that looked like Kurt Cobain (pre Courtney) and checked him out a bit. He was a SHE though, so I retracted my "check", as it were (I swear I saw an Adam's apple), but SHE was taken anyways heheheheh. I'm not embarrassed or grossed out, a bit sad maybe? (She'd have been a hot guy, but in my world, that entails some key ingredients of the phallic nature.)

I honestly don't think Katy Perry kisses women; I think she knew she had a hit and ran with it. She's really not cool enough to go to Hell, in my overused opinion, but then, I don't know her. She might play guitar like Hendrix or make a mean quiche, who knows? Regardless, I fail to see where consensually kissing someone of the same sex hurts anyone else (no matter where the kiss lands). It just seems like there are so many more justifiable things going on that would endorse such a judgmental campaign.

I guess "girl on girl" action is far more dangerous than someone with no health insurance that has cancer though. Where are the billboards for this type of injustice?

The pastor of the 'mo hating church claims that the sign was a "loving warning". Wonder what qualifies as a STERN warning then. Yeesh.

If there is a Hell, then according to these types, I've booked my reservation ages ago, but I guess that all depends on your take on things.

Can you have pre-marital sex if you never actually plan to marry? Is it not just "sex" then, since marriage was never part of the agenda? It's not a commandment (none of them mention the Rainbow Coalition either). Does it count if you didn't orgasm? Technically you don't "get off" (enjoying the sin is far more sinful is it not?), but I suppose faking one is lying, unless it's not with your neighbor maybe?

Can't I just repent everything on my deathbed like rapists and murderers do to avoid a life of Florida-like summers sans the a/c? (If I thought that would work, I'd do it now to get the HELL out of Florida!)

I actually don't believe in Hells of any kind (except the "living Hell" experienced when you dig someone that you can't be with, for whatever reason, or when you're stuck in an elevator whilst having to piss really bad with someone stinky that is jingling change in their pocket and whistling a Toby Keith song), and I don't have a problem with people that do (some are close friends of mine), but maybe it's better to keep the contents of who you think is on Satan's guest list to yourself. You know, that whole "judge not lest ye be judged" thing?

**************************************************************************************************************************

If life is what you make it, then hey, maybe death is too.


Currently listening :
Oh My Gawd!!!...The Flaming Lips
By The Flaming Lips
Release date: 1993-07-01

Turn A Kit 8/24/08

"One time a thing occurred to me.
What's real, and what's for sale?
Blew a kiss and tried to take it home." Vasoline – Stone Temple Pilots

I rarely change my mind about a band, but Stone Temple Pilots are (was?) a band I completely misjudged upon first listen. I just wrote them off as a secondary spewing in a long line of Pearl Jam spinoffs, but I knew someone that was opening for them and caught them live about five thousand years ago (feels like). Total 180. They didn't just change my mind, they sanded it down, refurbished it, and gave it a new coat of varnish (they used a nice matte teak color – it just goes with everything now!).

The reunion tour had me salivating since I first got word, but I figured I would do what I did for Radiohead and swoop in for some last minute tickets at "desperate to at least break even" prices offered up by those whose scalping abilities are not up to snuff. I had been eyeballing my usual sources, but nothing stood out till the day of the actual show.

I got a line on really great orchestra seats for $30 each ($65 originally) that I was nibbling on but the person I wanted to go with couldn't go and the option was only for a pair.

I had been up all night dancing and the usual host of volunteer work that I do for underprivileged, half faced, diseased people that get raped and pillaged on top of the land mines that they built their huts on (what can I say? I'm a giver), but my weary, tired ass was going to find a way to see the DeLeo brothers pay the piper. (They clearly got back together for cash. I wonder what the going rate is for enduring the behavior of heroin soaked, loose cannons these days – oh yeah, $65 a head.)

My fogged brain then ran across an ad claiming to have awesome tickets, but that a friend backed out and whoever sent the most innovative email would be invited along for the fun.

You know my crazy, adventurous ass couldn't resist such a morsel this tasty, so I replied to it for a laugh. I was just messing around and even offered cash for the ticket if they couldn't find anyone else. I didn't expect to hear back at all, and thought the entire thing was just a joke anyways.

Well, I did hear back, and it had been sort of a joke, but there really was a ticket and we exchanged Myspaces and whatnot and I was invited along! Yep, I was going to meet up with total strangers and go to a concert with them in the pouring fucking rain. Weird, but I like to mix it up.

Driving there they sent a text informing me that we had PIT tickets – AWESOME! We met up to tailgate with drinks and hit it off in the rain and mud. We're all originally from Michigan, so I felt right at home, and two of them are writers so that was groovy too.

Our foursome entered the Ford Amphitheatre to the sounds of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the second opening band. I think I was one of 3 people that actually liked 'em. They're so influenced by the Jesus and Mary Chain (whom I love STILL) and they poached their drummer, Leah Shapiro, from the Raveonettes. She was amazing.

The PIT is general admission in front of the stage, and the guys appointed me "Head Weasel", a job that entails conning our way to the stage, or at least as close as possible. Being petite and forceful qualifies me for such a position as I can slip in between people virtually unnoticed. Plus in a crowd of mostly inebriated males whilst wearing a low cut shirt, a smile goes a long way.

We were nearly front and center within minutes, but so were some other people that somehow lacked the wherewithal to apply anti-perspirant. I barely clear 5'2, which puts my nose about pit level to most men, so in a sweaty mass of this size, I totally had my PEW face on. Lots of stinky pits in the PIT.

After Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (that name is too fucking long, makes me think of when I used to smoke Benson and Hedges DELUXE Ultra Lights –that's when I knew I had to quit buying smokes, as just asking for that brand took up minutes that I'll never get back) left the stage, I figured I had about 20-25 minutes to get drinks and weasel my way back to the guys. I was wrong. I actually had about an hour and a half, unbeknownst to me or any other ticket holders.

The PIT started to get nasty. People had to pee, but didn't want to miss the first song. Fights were starting to break out, and I got clocked in the head by someone's poor attempt to throw a drink at the stage. As if my hair wasn't gross enough from the humidity, now it had the added ingredients of a cocktail and possibly someone's spit. I looked like a Hasidic Jewish guy, my hair was so curly, but my main concern was that an hour had gone by and STP were nowhere in sight.

I joked about throwing a tourniquet on stage to draw Weiland out in the event that he couldn't find a vein, and that was what was keeping him from wowing us, but humor was lost on this pissy crowd (understandably).

At about 10:15 it was announced that due to "inclement weather", STP was stuck in Ft. Lauderdale and the show was OFF.

Funny how their tour bus, their equipment, and their opening acts made it, but they didn't? The "weather" was north of us, and Ft. Lauderdale is south, WTF? I found out today that the venue knew at 9:15 what was up and didn't tell us for an hour, during which time they kept selling more bevies, but we got nothing. Well some got t-shirts at $50 a pop; such a wimpy consolation when you'd prefer to have gone temporarily deaf to a live performance of "Interstate Love Song".

There is no news of rescheduling as of yet, and with my luck, the band will break up again the day of any such occurrence. But hey, I have a free PIT ticket, a semi –interesting story to tell, and some new friends out of the deal. =)


Currently listening :
Purple
By Stone Temple Pilots
Release date: 1994-06-07

Babe Truth, All You Can Eat 8/20/08

"The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off." - Gloria Steinem

Ahhhhh TRUTH. My star sign is Sagittarius, which has the symbol of this half horse/half hippy dude that is shooting a bow and arrow. The arrow is supposively the truth, but I've happily shot some lies around – I'm honest enough to admit. Mostly, though, I've put truth in overdrive; meaning I tell it when it isn't always necessary. I crave it when it's beyond my grasp, and I detest it after its departure from my tongue, when the fallout arrives.

Telling the truth has cost me, but hearing it is symphonic relief, even if it's horrific at first.

I'm suffocating in truth today. There's so much of it that's been piled on me, I don't know what to do with it, and it really doesn't go with my outfit AT ALL.

I keep looking away at anything else, including other people's truths, but it's constantly lurking out in the peripheral slant of what my brother-in-law calls my "Anglo-wagon-burner-eyes" (that would be his attempt at Carlos Mencia-ing my American Indian heritage, and yes I see the humor in it – besides he's bald so I can't scalp him now can I?).

I thought about stuffing the truth in my closet, but even walk-in size couldn't contain it.

I tried body slamming it away from me, at least into another room, but it wouldn't budge. It just hangs there attached to my furthest-to-the-right eyelash of my way-too-tired-to-be-awake right eye; persistently clinging in the kind of deafening silence that so harshly makes its presence known after an epic door slam.

I shrugged my shoulders, ordered some Chinese food, and sat down to eat with TRUTH. We didn't say much (truth is very laid back once you get to know it – maybe mixin' with the moocah? Shhhhhh), we just stared at each other as if we both knew that little would change once words entered the scenario.

At one point, TRUTH pretended to choke on one of those free crab/cream cheese wonton thingies, just to see what I would do in order to save it. But very shoddy acting skills prevailed, and I just wasn't in the mood to pander to its wry attempt at testing me.

I'll probably sleep with the TRUTH later, as it's bound to screw me one way or the other. I wonder if it will be like HOPE and never call again afterwards.

"Believe nothing just because a so-called wise person said it. Believe nothing just because a belief is generally held. Believe nothing just because it is said in ancient books. Believe nothing just because it is said to be of divine origin. Believe nothing just because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself test and judge to be true." – Buddha

This entire week has been like some accidental anthropological dig. With different friends, different TRUTHS have arisen, and I've come to now believe that 99% of what we perceive to be true for us probably isn't (I hold the internet partially responsible for this).

I'm feeling Socrates with his "All I know is that I know nothing" spiel, which is something I lamely tried to make a song when I was like 19 or something. Heh.

Anyways, for a while I've had something going on that I thought was one way and had nothing to do with anyone else. Another friend had something going on that they thought was solely in their domain, and we had discussed them separately until I stumbled onto a connection to our situations. I then realized that both events were the complete opposite of what we thought, leaving me feeling extremely uncomfortable, but my friend at least may benefit from the discovery, so that makes it a little better, I guess.

Several other occasions come to mind where misrepresentation occurred with such ease, it is a wonder how any of us function at all.

Maybe there is no truth; it's just an ideal that keeps us chasing our tails.

I think there is something to be said for the thick-skinned and superficial that prop themselves up so cozily with denial.

You wanna pour me some of that?

"And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh." - Friedrich Nietzsche


Currently listening :
Don’t Believe the Truth
By Oasis
Release date: 2005-05-31

Stalling August 15, 2008

I only had two drinks last night, and about half way through the second one, a wave of YUCK overcame me.

My slight frame only amounts to 92 pounds these days and I'm a hypoglycemic that has to eat constantly, which is dreadfully boring. I ate before I left, but not enough, I guess.

After releasing a portion of what I drank into the unfortunate pipes that delve below the Castle, I just stayed in the stall, leaning against the door feeling that foggy urge to pass out. My head pulled down as my eyes fluttered in defiance, but the thought of sleeping right there, where I stood, felt like velvet somehow.

Until I thought of how many other faces that may have squished upon this very door; possibly less hygienic faces, or even other malodorous body parts and…fluids.

I immediately jerked back to the far wall where I imagined a CSI person snapping on the old latex gloves and black lighting said wall, nodding as they said "Oh yeah this place is just coated in jizz. This particular sample is from a 27 year old Goth named Shane, but he goes by "Dark Dildon't" in his social circles. We can tell a lot more from the samples with today's technology. We're working on DNA GPS systems, and when that's up and running I'll be able to track someone from their spooge stains".

I thought of the fetish nights at the Castle, and how many riding crops get accidentally dropped into the toilet, and how painful that would be to be fishing it out whilst donned in a whalebone leather corset (they aren't known for their flexibility).

I don't know a lot about fetishism, I have many acquaintances that are into all that, but I've never peered behind that curtain. I really love that song by IAMX though, "Spit It Out". It's one of the few songs that I know of that isn't industrial, but does sort of touch on violent proclivities in the sexual wonderland.

I would be a disaster in that world, I mean, I think I'd look ok in the garb (Do they make leather hoods in extra extra small?), but I'm a wimpy goofball with a low threshold for pain and claustrophobic to boot. I could inflict it, I guess, given the right circumstances (ball kicking available upon request?).

I previously wrote something to this effect in a sarcastic series I posted elsewhere for one of my voyeur stalkers that I guess hates me (whatever, and yes I have no life) , but I tried to turn it around and make it humorous as if he didn't and that I'd do anything for him, including the following :

"If YOU wanted me to beat you raw, I would. If you want me to roll an egg down a dark hallway with my bare feet whilst singing the national anthem, I will. If you want me leather clad and chopping onions on your back with a strobe light on, it's done. If you want me to scream Russian obscenities at you while tenderizing your giblets with a flatiron, I'm so there. If you want me to dig the fingernails of my right hand (left hand has stumps – it's a guitar thing) into the base of your scintillating scepter, then I'm your girl. I can't promise that I wouldn't laugh the entire time, but I would do your bidding whenever, wherever."

I'm serious about the latter bit, the laughing. I wouldn't be able to straighten my face in any capacity, so unless there's cackling dominatrix's abound, I best stay on the side of the fence that doesn't require any "safe" words (the Kama Sutra can be just as interesting as a ball and gag, if things get tedious in that department).

The bathroom stall – the stories it might tell (or scream). Actually, they seem pretty clean, compared to most places (CBGB's facilities were unsuitable even by third world standards), but I have a wild imagination. It's a wonder I can even check out books from the libraries, as what possibly touches them before you mentally ingest their words, might drive you to drink.

Currently listening :
The Alternative
By IAMX
Release date: 2008-05-06

Train in Brain August 7, 2008

"It's 4:00 a.m. I've got the Dr. Hfuhruhurr Ale
I've got nothing to lose so I'm pissin' on the third rail
Groggy eyed and fried I'm headed for the station
D-Train ride Coney Island vacation" Stop That Train - The Beastie Boys

It's strange what memories remain at whim to our instant recall. I often wonder what sparks the mental rolodex and why it can hang on so clearly to a snowy walk home, but yet block out a life changing conversation someone swears you had with them.

The weird shit that I've seen in the New York subway constantly frolics through my grey matter, no matter how long I've been away. It pirouettes through my thoughts at the oddest of moments. Two instances in particular.

The Broadway/Lafayette station in Manhattan has three levels, and a million stairs. Once you depart the train and go up one set of stairs, there is a platform where you can cross over to another track or more stairs to continue up to even more stairs (it takes approximately 5 hours to exit to street level if you're even remotely out of shape).

My ears were encapsulated in Radiohead's "OK Computer", when I bounced up to the semi-deserted platform after my jaunt on the D train. I can't recall why I was there that day, but I definitely remember my peepers zoning in on this man who could easily pass for Pavorotti.

Seeing Pavorotti in the subway, alone would make an interesting tale, but I hardly think it was him. This man was dressed exactly in his likeness though, and even had the Italian trench coat draped expensively over his shoulders, accented with a silky white scarf that probably cost more than everything I had on my person (including electronic apparatuses).

What stopped me in my tracks was what he was doing. He was "skooching", for lack of a better term, sideways across the platform, the way someone would sidle along a ledge of a high rise building before making veiled threats to leap to their demise. He was also sweating like a Republican congressman caught bare-backing a pierced up 14 year old boy behind a McDonalds.

Ironically, "No Surprises" had just entered my ears as I slowly moved past this gigantic panic attack that I so couldn't look away from. He was attached to some earphones as well, and when he reached the center of the platform, he just started bawling as if someone had whispered through them that Toby Keith was penning an all country music opera in German, and that Lincoln Center locked down a 2 year commitment to running it (assuming he liked opera - the mix of that and country definitely brings the idea of cochlear torture to a new disturbing level, not to mention the German aspect).

For some reason I can't forget this, but the last name of the 3rd guy I ever slept with is lost to the ether. (Does that make me a HO? F'excellent.)

The other event that lurks in my back catalog is when I was waiting for the 1 or the 6 at 72nd in the Upper West Side. I was going to rehearsal and had my guitar slung over my shoulder as I paced for what seemed like eternity (that's about 15 NY minutes) waiting for the train.

I'm not usually into hippy looking guys, but there was this one in a tie dyed shirt scoping me out, and he was kind of delish. He had shaggy blonde hair; kind of suntanned as it was summer, and a scarf tied around his head. He looked a bit like a Deadhead pirate from California, but with a great face (and a nice ass, I must say).

He circled around me twice and then went behind whatever those giant pillars are that keep the tunnel above your head (as opposed to crushing it to bits).

I looked away and then back as I saw him peer out from behind the pillar. He smiled, opening wide to bare some fangs at me! Seriously, he had fucking vampire teeth! Not fake waxy shit either; he had the real surgically implanted (or veneers?) bite-bites!

Now a pale Goth doing this at two in the morning in the East Village would not have shocked me (it's almost a pre-requisite on St. Marks), but a tan hippy vampire dude at 72nd hissing about around 5pm? That completely flabbergasted me.

Some other guy interrupted my wide-eyedness to ask me what kind of guitar I had, so I quickly answered and then glanced back but un-deadhead was gone, and I never saw him again (thankfully).

If this kind of yip yap flutters through my brain's waking moments, you can only imagine what I dream about.

I just hope that whatever flashes before my eyes in the seconds before I draw my last breath has absolutely nothing to do with the New York Transit system.

Watch, I'll be killed on the subway now, simply because I wrote it. THAT would be hilarious.


Currently listening :
Paul's Boutique
By Beastie Boys
Release date: 1989-07-19

Wow or Never July 28, 2008

"Empty prayer, empty mouths, combien reaction
Empty prayer, empty mouths, talk about the passion
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world" Talk About the Passion – REM

From Wikipedia:

Passion (from the Latin patior, meaning to suffer or to endure) is an emotion of feeling very strongly. Passion is an intense emotion compelling feeling, enthusiasm, or desire for anything and often requiring action. Passion often applies to lively or eager interest in or admiration for a proposal, cause, or activity or love.

Passion can be expressed as a feeling of unusual excitement, enthusiasm or compelling emotion towards a subject, idea, person, or object.

I've got passion on my mind lately; in the broader sense, and yes, in the sexual sense too.

You may take passion for granted, as I have done, when it's been just another part of who you are, but when it's missing, YIKES.

My passion for music surpasses any other that I could muster. From gated snares to the mere act of shaking my itty bitty badonkadonk (in some Asian countries I would be considered bootylicious, so we'll run with that) to the pulsating vibrations that start their seduction with a full audio massage.

Music is never boring; it's forever changing except in one pivotal area. It consistently provokes the full range of emotions like nothing else. For that reason alone, I remain faithful and duty bound in a way that I've not been able to do with anything or anyone.

I think what makes some music go beyond superior is the passion that is behind it. What you put out there is what you get back. If uncertainty is lingering in your work, you get uncertainty back. If balls to the walls are what you put in, well, you get pixel right?

At the Radiohead shows I've been party to witness, the exchange of passion between the audience and the band was the most exquisite "back and forth" imaginable. The more we were into it, the more they were too, which made us even MORE into it. Frankly, I'm shocked that we all didn't just burst into goo by the time they played "The Bends".

You can't fake passion. You can fake an orgasm (well some of us can), and you can feign interest in someone, but you cannot fake passion.You can't teach it either; it's either there or it's not.

Now sexually, you have to teach mechanics to some people, sometimes. In my early 20's I didn't have the patience for that. I thought if a guy didn't know what he was doing, then we just didn't have any chemistry, but in my later years, I've found that if you teach someone the ropes, they will tie them just how you like =)

Unfortunately, some people are mechanically set; they know where everything goes and don't do anything really wrong, but are indeed mechanical. You can teach them the entire Karma Sutra, but if they lack the enthusiasm, you'd be better off just playing Twister (there's less clean up afterwards).

Passion is all reciprocity. I can't get into it if someone is about as passionate for me as they would be a math exam. Now I'm not speaking of LOVE (whatever that is), as I can have passion with people that are everything I don't want in a friend, but do want to be friendly with. (Pheromones? It's not a crime.)

If I had to choose between the guy I was friends with that laid there like a sloth on ludes, or someone I barely know that would fiercely (not violently, but definitely SAFELY) shag me stupid, girlfriend is all about the stupid then. Given the choice, I would rather have one weekend with someone that reset my clock and crossed my eyes, than some stale ass relationship where the guy lacked more WOW than the "accepted terms of agreement" you never read when installing a new computer program.

WOW is a look in their eyes, like they'd absolutely lose their shit if their skin doesn't get to frolic all over yours. You can't summon it (especially if they're using you for something besides sex –money, connections, whatever), it's reactive. Some simply are devoid of WOW. I didn't even know people could be like that till, well… that's neither here nor there.

I realize that the novelty wears a bit thin and life happens, but I think we can possibly take our cue from music and learn to keep things at a level where you aren't just phoning it in after a while.

If we can keep songs forever entertaining and growing, maybe we can do that in every aspect of our lives.

Art is reflective of people that are reflective of art. Back and forth. Talk about the passion.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Yesterday, I had the grim task of making rounds with a funeral announcement for a lifelong friend who lost his battle with cancer this weekend. I don't remember not knowing Dennis, whose passion was his family and mountain bike racing. My association with him and his family made me a better person in ways they will never know.

Life is short.

If yours is lacking passion, it's time to get lit, man. Don't stay with people you can't get it up for. Don't lock yourself down out of obligation. Don't let rigidity or boredom consume you.

Bite life in the ass! If nothing else, you'll leave behind some interesting teeth marks.



Currently listening :
Murmur
By R.E.M.
Release date: 1992-08-06

Cherchez Pour L’Emo (Finding Emo) July 24, 2008

I started to write this blog on Bastille Day, but I got hungry and forgot about it. Most Americans could give a shit about Bastille Day (July 14), and I only think of it as a day to engorge oneself in French cuisine.

In NYC there is usually a small outdoor thing going on for Bastille Day. All the Francophiles head down to flex their linguistic muscles, and dolts like me make an appearance just long enough to buy my crepes and run.

Banana crepes with chocolate sauce could only be more awesome if spread across an emaciated, young, rocker boy's hairless chest, but even without the human platter, they rock the 'buds like nothing else.

I have a French surname, as well as French ancestors (duh). I speak, read, and write a decent amount of French, and my favorite food is also FRENCH. I've not been to France, but I've visited French speaking Canada (where my favorite "Scot" in the world lives. I know 6 different Scot/Scotts), and I cringe like a Republican at the threat of Universal Healthcare when I hear the language mispronounced. So yeah, that and the permanently snippy look on my face often gives away this segment of my heritage (we look pissy, but are very warm and friendly, apparently too much so).

I adore French directors (did my thesis on Truffaut for film class), and their products. "Amelie", "The Bride Wore Black", "Un Coeur en Hiver", "Belle De Jour", and "Delicatessen" (brilliantly insane) to name a few.

I thought of these things when I first abandoned this blog, but then weird French stuff kept appearing on my scope, if you will.

One thing was a dream that I was in Provence, where I've never been, and I've never even spoke of. In the dream, I was sporting a gigantic soft taco (not like that) that I had folded in half twice, under my left arm like a portfolio. (I really don't care to know if that means anything - REALLY!)

The following day when I checked my email, there was a Myspace friend request from a band called "Five June" from France. Guess what area? Provence! Freaked my ass out. I kind of dig 'em too; they have that Patti Smith-gets-even-dirtier vibe about them, so I accepted.

France isn't really known for its hot music scene. I mean, in the dance world HELLz yeah - "Daft Punk", "Yelle", "Les Rita Mitsouko", but to my recollection, there's never been a French "Beatles" type of group.

Lots of non-English speaking bands have the quirky thing ("Cibo Matto"), or the dance thing (again "Cibo Matto") but do these countries ever produce bands like "Coldplay," "U2", or "Radiohead"? Meaningful pop music, for lack of better terms.

Does Germany have bands like "Snow Patrol?" Does Italy have its own version of "Death Cab for Cutie"? Or do these countries only generate bands that dress in angry pig costumes, and robot dance to endless computer loops?

Are power chords and piccolo snares not as satisfying as accordions and tubas? Are there any Emo bands in India or China? Are these countries just satisfied with "spectator" status? What is it about the English world that facilitates the above mentioned bands, but is not inherent in the Ukraine?

"Five June" has a garage band sound, so at least that's a step in a different direction from what I have assumed of France. But you know what happens when you assume (oh did I really just type something that lame? Yep).

One band that I really like that sings in English is "Prime STH", who hail from Sweden, which also gave us "PB&J" ("Peter, Bjorn, & John"). Indie rock, but not BIG time pop bands.

If anyone knows of any more, by all means, send them along.

I'm all ears (if only, but then I couldn't type).


Currently listening :
Underneath the Surface
By Prime STH
Release date: 2001-07-10

The Squid and the Bail July 3, 2008

"It's king and queen and we must go down round behind the chandelier where I won't have to speak my mind and you won't have to hear. Shreds of news and afterthoughts and complicated scenes. We'll weather down behind the light and fade like magazines" Romeo's Tune - Steven Forbert

If you haven't seen "The Squid and the Whale" by now, by all means get your eyes on it, and then check out Noah Baumbach's next work "Margot at the Wedding".

I saw "The Squid and the Whale" just over a year ago, and it certainly raised a brow right off of my face (it collided with the ceiling fan - painful and ugly). Baumbach, the filmmaker, has an intellectual honesty about sexuality and dysfunctional families that you either salivate for, or detest. He has an exquisite indie style that I don't always get ("The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou" was complete shit, but he's only guilty of writing it, not directing), but he's nothing, if not impressionable.

Last night (well, 4 AM this morning), I viewed "Margot at the Wedding", his film from last year. It's not as good as "Squid", but there was some formidable dialogue, as well as some good tune-age. The characters weren't as developed as they could've been and a majority of the editing was a bit erratic, but I get the feeling this is a jumping off point to bigger and better.

It was a little hard to buy Jack Black as the serious guy, Malcolm, but I love the line that Kidman's character, Margot, uses in regards to him: "He's not ugly, but he is completely unattractive." (Yeah he's naked in this and my corneas aren't taking my calls anymore, despite promises of shirtless Jared Leto photos.)

I think judging by the cast, some would be sniffing too hard in what they think is the "chick flick" direction, but their sexist asses might be a tad surprised.

Baumbach is a native Brooklynite, and like his predecessor Woody Allen, he places women in very meaty roles instead of roles where they are merely "meat". Why do you think Allen got so much play in the '70's and '80's? He changed film for women. "Interiors", "Another Woman", and "Annie Hall" made that f'ugly little genius the most sought after lay on both coasts back in the day. (If you further our cause, we further yours - strange how that works ay? Don't treat us like were just a piece [even if we act like it] and you'll be showered in piece a' bounty.) I'm a die hard Allen fan (books and film) but this blog's going to stay in the confines of Baumbach's stuff.

"I don't listen to music anymore."

WHAT???????? The character Margot, who seems to be a combination of the two parents from "Squid", nonchalantly spews this as if she's talking about giving up skiing or something. In my book, the only way you don't listen to music anymore is if you're 100% deaf, or dead. And even then, I think I could conjure a way. WTF?

I've heard of people like this. They conform to the dictates of societal ageism and resign themselves to being couch plants that live through their children. That's a choice, and certainly not one I'm up for selecting. Life without music isn't a life. I don't know if I'll make it to like 60 or 70, but I still plan on shakin' my thing till it falls off, basically. I don't give a fuck how it looks. I'm here for my ears, not for those judgmental eyes placed so rigidly above pursed lips, and giant noses that can't mind their own.

I will NEVER bail on music.

Eh…Margot clearly had a stick up her ass, but this film does slip in some Blondie (2 songs!) and an obscure old fave of mine "Romeo's Tune" by Steven Forbert. The fact that that song is highlighted has endeared Baumbach to me forever.

"Margot at the Wedding" wasn't great, but again, if you dug "Squid", it's a must see. I don't think it's as fluid as say, "Mr. Jealousy" and "Kicking and Screaming" (also by Baumbach), but like "Squid", it's unpredictability is addictive.


Currently listening :
Eat to the Beat
By Blondie
Release date: 2001-09-11

Fu Food July 1, 2008

"The world today seems absolutely crackers, with nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high. There are fools and idiots sitting on the trigger. It's depressing and it's senseless, and that's why...I like Chinese." I Like Chinese - Monty Python

MMMMMmmmmm yummy, just finished some Chicken Mei Fun mixed with Chicken and Garlic Sauce, my two faves from China Wok. It's not as good as NYC Chinese food, but for where I live, it works.

When I did eat Chinese food in NYC, I ate off a plate, as you do, but you notice in a lot of New York based movies they have characters eating the food directly from the containers?

Who the fuck really does that?

These annoyingly, pretentious ass holes that put scenes like that in a flick think its artsy or some shit to be in NYC eating take-out that way. I think it's disgusting and completely implausible if you eat what I eat; hot food that mostly has to be mixed with some separate ingredients. So unless you despise the nerve endings in your hand, or fantasize about having a glove made of sweet and sour sauce, it's all about the plate.

I ate Chinese food on a weekly basis in NYC (often with Chinese people, who would sooner implode than eat from a container like that), and never once saw anyone scarfing from the boxes.

Maybe it's just me that finds this irritating. I do have some quirks (don't even get me started on white shoes - yikes), but let's get back to what I likes. =)

Ok, the Chinese are not known for their chart topping hits. In fact, I can't name one musician (that isn't Classical) from where the Pandas hang (if you can, I really don't give a rat's booty, go write your own blog), but they do have some wild movies.

"Mr. Vampire", hands down is my favorite. If you like really awful b-movies, this will kill you. It's totally a Fu flick, so martial arts cats will dig it no matter what, but stoners and those of you imbibing in various other things will LOOOOOVE it.

It's one of those cheesy films where you can sometimes see the wires that the actors are hanging from, and the jonesy musical score is superb!

I'm not a Fu movie fan by any shot, but I nearly laughed out of my skin when I saw this one (stone cold sober, might I add).

If you can tolerate a bouncy, glitch-filled youtube version, it is available there in about ten segments from this guy: http://www.youtube.com/user/meetou. As far as downloads in any other capacity (wink wink), I've not come across it.

I've no intention of ever going to China (unless I hook up with one of those Panda singles); as far as I'm concerned the "Great Wall" was the one holding up the back part of the stage at CBGB's (may it RIP).

Besides, I heard the Chinese food there isn't that great. :}

Currently listening :
Monty Python’s Contractual Obligation Album
By Monty Python
Release date: 2007-04-10

Stalker Jesus Ranger June 30, 2008

(This blog probably only makes sense if you read a previous one I've written called "Guess Who Digs Me?" dated here on Sunday July 20th, first)

I guess Jesus doesn't read my blogs, cuz he's still scamming on me. Now it's even spread to my photo albums.

Yes the sponsored links are now leeching off the captions you put on your myspace photos. So like where I put "Me on Mt. Hood", there are ads for Mt. Hood resorts below it. I mention guitars or cats and get hounded to buy lessons or "Date Siamese Felines".

People's names bring up some interesting things. One was an ad for divorce lawyers, and it ironically showed up on my friend's pic that is going through a divorce. Creepy.

Out of the sheer need to NOT think my usual thoughts, I changed up a few of em just to see what ads popped up.

On one of my captions, I put "Fuck fuckety fuck you, you fucking fuckface" (I have a t-shirt with something close to that on it), and it pulled an ad for '69 Camaros.

On two others, I put "Murdering atheist vampire molester" and "Cookie brained armpit licker". Instead of finding something from that, the computer pulled from my profile interests ( I guess they're only willing to go so far).

The first one generated "Like the White Stripes?" which is clearly one of the bands I put down. The second one grabbed from my movies, somehow tying in "What the Bleep?" to financial freedom, and "I Heart the Huckabees" snagged an ad for Mike Huckabee Campaign GEAR ("Gear" really? Yeesh). Does he not know that McCain has won the Presidency, er em the nomination? (Let's not fool ourselves, he is the next president. Even Oprah can't change that, unless she ran as an indie. I wonder if everyone would get a car and a makeover then.)

I'm still not positive what is triggering the "Jesus" ads, but I'd be interested to find out if anyone else gets them.

I need to know if he's really into me, or if he's simply just another myspace whore.


Currently listening :
Lola versus Powerman and the Money-Go-Round, Part One
By The Kinks
Release date: 1990-10-25

That is Some Sikh Sh*t June 28, 2008

"Things are shaping up to be pretty odd
Little deaths in musical beds
So it seems I'm someone I've never met" That Green Gentleman - Panic at the Disco

Last night when I was on my way home, the exit I needed was closed and I got lost for a bit. I usually have an impressive sense of direction, and I wasn't drunk, but I got all turned around just from one glitch in the itinerary.

I didn't have to inquire of myself as to HOW I got where I was, as that was obvious. In this case, it was just a matter of resolution.

My mishap added another ½ hour to my ride, and I was thinking about some weird shit in my life and wondering the origins of said shit. How did it come to this?

Then I thought "Eh fuck that analytical nonsense! Thinking about that stuff is probably why I got lost in the first place!"

I really missed New York at that moment. I mean, I love driving, but I sort of missed being able to get pissed out of my gore and then carted home by either train or cab.

I REALLY missed being able to annoy the shit out of the Sikh cab drivers that totally hate women too. I got one to laugh once, which is a feat, since showing any facial expression at all is probably against their belief system. I'm normally quiet in the cab, but these people fascinate me, and the act of annoying sexist ass holes is a far more interesting hobby than scrap booking, wouldn't ya say?

Once I got into the cab and gave the destination, I started asking him questions like "Hey do you like The Clash?" - NO! (A Soup Nazi from Seinfeld kind of NO.)

"How about Pavement?" - NO!

"Kula Shaker? My Bloody Valentine? Echo and the Bunnymen?" - NO! NO! NO!

I'd go through a list of 20 or so bands, getting the same response every time; neither of us changing tone or inflection. It almost felt scripted, like a flat scene from a Jarmusch flick with a hint of Bugs Bunny.

I then leaned towards the malodorous front half of the cab and bellowed oh so obnoxiously, "CUNTTTTTTTTTTTT tree music! That's your thing isn't it? Five bucks says you have some ass-less chaps on under whatever that thingy is you're wearing! You're one of those line dancing fuckers aren't you? YOU are a TURBAN COWBOY!!"

Then I quickly sang this made up twang: "Turban Cowboy, I swear that was his name. He drives a cab in Brooklyn, goes line dancing when he can. He says he's got a woman who sings them country songs, and when he gets his green card he gonna move to a Honky Tonk! YeeeeeeHawwwwww!"

He absolutely lost his shit.

I couldn't have timed it better as my building was in sight. Still giggling, he refused my money and waved me out of the cab saying "You are a VERY crazy."

To which I replied, "Yes, I are."


Currently listening :
Coming To Terms
By Carolina Liar
Release date: 2008-05-20

Outsomnia June 25, 2008

"Up in my lonely room when I'm dreaming of you. Oh what can I do? I still need you, but I don't want you now." *

I can't f*ckin' sleep lately. Well, I can from like 7am-3pm, but I prefer the 4-noon shift. When I do sleep, the dreams are very annoying. It's bad enough that certain people have to taint your waking life, but when they chase you down into slumber land, oy, that blows.

My first night in New Mexico I dreamt of someone I so didn't want to, it's like my own subconscious despises me. Maybe I have an autoimmune brain, that might account for all the crazy (gotta blame something right?).

"When I'm down and my hands are tied, I cannot reach a pen for me to draw the line. From this pain I just can't disguise. It's gonna hurt but I'll have to say goodbye" *

I think it's harder to sleep when you don't like to be alone with your thoughts. Music, TV, books, and other people can be miraculous distractions from our worst enemy - ourselves.

"Up in my lonely room when I'm dreaming of you. Oh what can I do? I still need you, but I don't want you now." *

I can kill the lights and stranglehold my pillows, but the thoughts just keep ruminating, sticking a violent elbow into that divide between awake and out cold (or "out hot" for my reptilian readers - my fan base is about 20% lizards and 7% smiling gators).

Last night, the song quoted above (in addition to thoughts of barely legal, rocker boys) was bouncing around my grey matter for whatever reason, fueling my insomnia. The song's about 5 years old, but never loses its flavor with me. It blatantly rips off "My World is Empty without You" by the Supremes, but that doesn't piss me off for some reason. I have an exceptional ear for picking out who rips off what, but to my chagrin, it's not even a somewhat lucrative skill. Along with it, I also have some sort of Tourette's related problem causing me to tell people who they steal from, which is not always welcome information. It's bought me a few enemies, but some people surprisingly respect my awkward bullets of truth (my aim is rather low so it shouldn't hurt THAT bad).

"Two Ways Out" by Darker My Love rips off Supergrass' "Alright". My precious Radiohead has ripped off a few songs by The Hollies, Beethoven, and even something from the musical "Jesus Christ Superstar", (those thieving bastards!), but it's allowed. Monsieur McCartney certainly borrowed from Procol Harum when he wrote "Let it Be" (the chords in "Salad Days", which has the best line, "Your skin crawls up an octave"). The list of leeches could go on forever, or at least until you fall asleep.

Ok, back to the manorexic rocker boys in those tight fitting, low rise jeans…no rest for the wicked. =)


* Dreaming of You - The Coral



Currently listening :
The Coral
By The Coral
Release date: 2003-03-04

Guess Who Digs Me? June 23, 2008

According to Myspace, Jesus Christ has a crush on me. Would someone please tell him I'm not into guys with beards? (Unless they're named Brian Thomas and went to NYU film school. The one that got away - he made me laugh. A lot.) And that shroud thingy; a little high waisted don't you think? They do make low rise shrouds these days, geeeeeeze Jesus, get with it!

Can you imagine dating Jesus Christ? Holy shit (literally), you'd never win a fight cuz he'd be all martyring and victimy, and he'd get blood on everything with those stigmatas. Who's gonna clean that shit up? Pas Moi! I can tell you right now that I would be talking through clenched teeth all the time about the differences in musical taste. I hates Christian rock (yes "hates", as in Yosemite Sam types of hatin'), and just the very thought of it makes me do the backwards hiss thing one does when one witnesses an epic fingernail break (the kind that involves the bending back first, then the rip to the nail bed, blood, and an endless run of expletives).

You notice that most Christian rock is Metal? I wonder if that's why beards and long hair are so prevalent in that world. I also wonder if Jesus' stig's count as the first body piercing, and is that what awaits us in the near fashionable future? Stig piercing?

Regardless, I think it's tacky of Jesus to be taking out ads on Myspace, claiming his love for me, when we haven't even kissed. Too smothering for my taste.

Myspace is insane. They try to customize the ads from your profile info, as you can see in the "sponsored links" below your inbox message area. Apparently, being single and agnostic has generated the computer to digitally insult my intelligence. I don't need any suggestions when it comes to shopping for beliefs, thanks so much, I can pick em out all by my lonesome.

In my "Who You'd Like to Meet" section, I put a "Giant Panda", so I get bombarded with ads for Panda singles chat groups, Panda anti-virus programs, and "Panda Ringtones". I haven't a clue what a Panda sounds like, but I'm reasonably sure it wouldn't suit my cellular needs.

Were I to have a proclivity for "Barely Legal Rocker Boys" and put that instead of "Panda", I wonder what the computer would surmise of that? Would I be showered with invitations to join NAMBLA? (Or NAWBLA since I'm a chick…is there? Oh wait no I think that's some sort of Teacher's association.)

I've seen worse on other sites, particularly one where I googled advice on my slightly underweight cat. I was deeply concerned for my furry snookiecookie-puss and the site popped up "dying cat ringtones". WTF? Is there a market for such a thing? I don't even want to participate in gaining the insight on that one. Right below it was some sort of feedback you could fill in for the "ad", if you can call it that. Oh yeah, I filled it out. My cat told me what to put, and it's much too controversial to repeat here. Suffice it to say, we got our point across.

I'd be curious to know if the people that are marked as "in a relationship" or "married" get a different barrage of ads. Well, maybe I wouldn't. =)

**************************************************************************************************************

Some of you may think that this post ensures my ticket to Hell.

What makes you think we aren't already there?


Currently listening :
Nine in the Afternoon
Release date: 2008-06-17

Let U Entertain Me June 22, 2008

"I wanna be adored." I Wanna Be Adored - The Stone Roses

I was thinking of this song a few days ago, particularly the lyrics (there are very few in it) as like everyone else with a pulse, I want to be adored. Unfortunately, it's conditional. I would like to adore the person that adores me too (don't ya hate the fine print?).

Yesterday my friend called, and he brought up the same song explaining his current relationship. He's getting adored but it's not 100% mutual, and he couldn't figure out why, but I could.

People get together for a thousand different reasons (alcohol being the main one), but they stay together if they find each other amusing or entertaining. When that stops, you're done. Sometimes it never starts because you only got together out of physical admiration of each other, and then there are some that do amuse each other, but have no physical chemistry.

When you are an entertaining type of person, whether it be a musician, comedian, writer, or just plain fun to be around, you can get lost in the adoration from someone and not realize that that is all you are getting from them - they adore you, but that isn't the same as entertaining you. My friend is a musician, and he totally got what I was saying. He makes her laugh, but it's a one way street.

I practically constructed that street, as I've met so many wonderful and nice guys, but…yeah, no laughs (like this blog). I don't expect Bill Hicks (can't he's dead) or Dave Chappelle, but I do expect some degree of charm and humor. I gave up on it for a long time, but it is out there, I've seen it. I've met it; hell I've dated it. Sadly, the ones I find amusing either don't see me in the same light or else they know they're awesome and feel that many could benefit from their exposure. I date one at a time and I prefer that "one" to adhere to the same type of philosophy.

I've always been the entertainment in my relationships, making the decisions, coming up with things to do, and then I got sick of it. Last year I made a conscious effort to back off. Instead of absorbing people into my "thing", I wanted to see what they would come up with. I wanted things to be different, since what I was doing obviously wasn't working, but this didn't either and by January of this year, I was back to square one.

Drinking can give the false illusion that others are more amusing than is true, so I didn't drink for a very long time. I still don't much, but will be doing so on Thursday (dancey dance).

If nothing else, I'll make myself laugh.


Currently listening :
The Stone Roses
By The Stone Roses
Release date: 1990-10-25

I’m Not Human, I’m Just Stuck in One - Pt. 2 6/17/08

I was just having a chat with my friend Candy about Marlon Brando in that scene in "Last Tango in Paris" where he's shoving butter up that woman's ass.

Who thought that one up? Is/was this a common thing, butter-packing? Do you think it inspired others to squish some "Land O' Lakes" between the cakes?

Imagine the director, Bertolucci, telling Brando "Ok, the butter…you put uppa her ass, no?"

Brando was probably like "But then what do we put up mine, paté ? Frozen, or fresh? I need to know how to project the texture - it's a Stanislovski thing."

I do wonder how one mentally prepares for a day of filming that requires a straight face while implementing a stick of butter into someone else's rectal area. Or for that matter, being on the receiving end of the dairy product. Was there like 20 takes with a big cooler of fresh butter from craft services at hand? Can you tell the difference if they use margarine instead?

Think of the conversations between the stand-ins while the lighting is being tested for this shot, or better yet, imagine the actress, after the scene, deciding the best route of removal. Let it melt or is it latex glove snapping time?

Were there other items that Bertolucci first opted for butt plugging, but found they didn't suit the scene? What was the deciding factor that butter was the clincher?

I used to play with this drummer who let me have a go on his kit whenever we took a break at practice, that is, until he told me his girlfriend would shove his drumsticks up his ass whenever they had sex. I can still hear the clicking sounds of the sticks when they fell from my very sorry hands to the unsuspecting floor below (that floor never did forgive me). I scrubbed like a surgeon about to crack open a lawyer after that tidbit of information (there is a limit to how well informed I want to be). It certainly gave new meaning to the term "rim shot", if nothing else.

I guess I'm boring vanilla, since I'm pretty much an "exit only" person when it comes to the workings of my butt, though I don't begrudge those that get hopped up on the old "reach around", I guess. Your thing is your thing.

How does one broach the subject these days? Especially if butter is the insertion of choice. Do you just stop off at the fridge on the way to the bedroom, point and raise your eyebrows? Or do you discuss it beforehand, over dinner when the bread arrives?


Currently listening :
I Should Coco
By Supergrass
Release date: 1995-07-18