Reap what you sow

March 31, 2005

Calling all right wingers and war-supporters! There’s a war going on and you’re not fighting in it. Why is that? There’s so many of you out there who wanted nothing but to “Free Iraq,” and yet the men and women in our armed forces are expected to extend their tours because there’s no one to fill their shoes. [Link]

WASHINGTON – If American forces aren’t pulling out of Iraq in a year, a draft will be needed to meet manpower requirements, military analysts warned Wednesday.

Where are all of the people who wanted this war? They aren’t in Iraq, fighting for what they believe in.

I have an idea. Start by taking all of the anchors from Fox News and sending them to bootcamp. They could form a platoon, enough to search a house somewhere in Baghdad and get torn apart by roadside bombs. Sounds good to me.

I’m not worried about the draft, nor do I believe we’ll actually have one. I am worried about the 50% of this country that applauded this war and our president for what he did. I’m worried for the people serving in Iraq right now. So…where are you, America?

Mexico vs Iraq

March 30, 2005

Someone sent me this link today.

“There was no evidence that the detained Iraqis had ties to any terrorist groups, Mexican officials said. Still, the arrests spotlighted fears that terrorists might try to enter the United States from Mexico.”

Really? Think so?

Gimme a break. Any person with even subpar intelligence (they are religious zealots, after all) that wants to get into this country has quite a few options to choose from. Our southern border has obvious issues, we certainly don’t put too much effort into defending against a Canadian invasion, and then there’s the west coast.

So, maybe we should worry about keeping the Mexicans who can’t speak English from jumping the border into California and securing drivers licenses before we worry about stopping the conniving and oh-so-deadly terrorists in their tracks…?

Ah, well. I’m sure it will all work out. It’s America, after all.

You are a drop in an incomprehensibly large bucket and nothing is worth taking seriously.

This is a NASA Hubble photo of over 10,000 galaxies, sure to make you feel completely and utterly inconsequential. I took the huge 60meg version and cut it down to fit as a wallpaper for my pc. Nothing like the expanse of space and time to put you in your place.


A Joy Division movie is apparently being made

I suppose it’s nice to see them get some recognition… at least more than “Hey, these guys sound like Interpol!” Which is a great observation, I might add. Shitbags.

Ya know, you would think there would be a documentary or something already produced, but I haven’t heard of one yet. I wasn’t aware they were that obscure of a band, though. Is it just the whole indie-emo flavor of the month thing that is getting people riled up over them?

Don’t they deserve more than that? I mean, I’m not sure what I would have done in those rocky teenage years if I didn’t have Joy Division to lean on. They’re every self-pitying recluse’s dream band. I take that back—I know what I would have done in those teen years. I probably would have found something more productive to do than drink vodka in the dark and roll around on the floor with “Disorder,” repeating in the CD player. But still, they helped. Thanks, Ian Curtis.

Hopefully the movie will be decent and on the factual side. I don’t know of any video footage ever taken of the band, so I’ll bet the movie is as good as it’s going to get.

Let’s make mediocrity

March 21, 2005

IMDB has a trailer up for Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I can’t wait to see how they fuck this one up, especially since Adams died before it was created. Then again, the original hhg2g movie sucked and was made while he was alive, so I don’t know. What I do know is that the book was great, the radio series was cool, and I fail to see how Adams would have wanted his book, which appealed to so many people from so many places, summed up into an abbreviated 2 hour story filled with horrible computer generation.

The Office. I saw a commercial for our bastardized American version a few days ago and laughed. I’ve already made a post about this sort of thing, but I don’t mind bitching some more.

I wish I was laughing because it looked hilarious, but that’s not the case. I laughed because it looked horrible and because they’re taking a classic TV show and they’re converting it into another cheap, watered down moneymaker. They appear to be replicating the entire thing—joke for joke—but making it “American,” i.e., bad.

The Office is a show that can’t be duplicated and it’s a show that definitely cannot be converted into another American sitcom without the humor being completely torn from its chest. What could possibly be the point? They’re using different accents and different actors who are probably incapable of recreating those awkward moments from the original Office, the awkward moments that made it one of the greatest shows ever made. Who could live up to Ricky Gervais when it comes to making you shift in your seat in embarrassment? Steve Carell isn’t made for that kind of comedy. He’s made for Daily Show comedy. I suppose what I’m saying is, god forbid we air something from another culture on our very own networks.

Maybe it’s all for the best, though. You can’t honestly expect the average citizen of xenophobic America to enjoy the UK version of The Office when they probably can’t find the UK on a fucking map.

It seems like the more I experience, the more I’d like to sit in my room with my movies and music and booze and just pretend my little chunk of the world is the only thing that really exists. I guess it wears me down knowing that some places and some people are indeed out there. I can’t really say that experiencing new things broadens my mindset or views…unless you want to include the broadening of my bitterness and cynicism. Seems like socializing is almost exhausting to me some times.

I spent most of yesterday in Destin with Michael and Hannah, which was great. Hannah shopped, Michael and I drank beer. After that we met up with friends of theirs and some how ended up half drunk, in some rich couple’s minivan, equipped with DVD player and automatic sliding door, being transported to some strange gated community called Sandestin. I think my eyes might have glazed over at some point. I really had no idea what the hell was going on.

We entered through the gates and after some driving, ended up in a section of this “community” called Baytowne or the Village or something (I was looking for the poison-laced Kool-Aid or the applications for cult membership, but found none), which was designed to look something akin to Bourbon Street, complete with clubs and restaurants and shops, the one major separation between them being that Sandestin was created for middle-aged, rich, white people and “trust fund babies,” as Michael put it. On this Bourbon Street, you don’t have to brush arms with the filthy commoners.

I don’t think I am capable of describing the gyrations and dances the 50-somethings were executing in front of the sub par classic rock band that was playing, as the only “dance” that could truly be recognized was some form of a drunken Hand Jive. I don’t think I can justly communicate to you the vicious air guitar brought down upon us by a gray haired city council member or mayor; I would only fail you. And I don’t think I can describe accurately to you how all of the youth present looked like they were snatched out of the OC or 90210 set and were forced to walk around, looking shallow and intoxicated. So I won’t even try.

I was certain we’d be detected and the secret police, clad in tight white shorts and striped polo shirts, would be sent forth from a patio deck somewhere to find us and whisk us away in their golf cart. We would be tortured and interrogated to great lengths. “Who brought you here?” they’d shout in our faces, demanding to know exactly how we penetrated their complex. After a thorough going-over and a swift kick to the ribs our cell doors would slam shut on us and we would be enveloped in darkness. “Our leader has plans for you, scum,” they’d bark.

That didn’t happen, so Michael and I bought two $4.50 cups of Killians from an incredibly bitter waitress and the girls got some margaritas. We watched the freak show from a table.

We didn’t have a camera handy, but what a thing that would have been if we had. I doubt I’ll ever really see anything like that again…and I’m not entirely sure I would like to. That, and going from Crestview where I work almost every day with people who live in trailers, people who are scraping by, and then going to an orgy of the shameless and wealthy with beachfront condos was almost too much to handle. But hey, it was an experience.

Aside from that, there’s not much else that is noteworthy. I bought a pink shirt, some sheep and pig boxer shorts, and I got my shoes wet and sandy while on a trip to the beach, which angered me greatly. I bent over to fold up my ever-so-trendy faded jeans so that they wouldn’t get wet, when a rogue wave shot up around my legs and soaked my shoes and socks which were placed next to me. I cursed at the sea god and Michael and Hannah mocked me. I moved down the beach to fix my pants again, and again it happened. At least I had a witness to back up the claim that I am not a complete and total god damn idiot, because I wasn’t really standing that close to the water.

The lord of the sea was forgiven later after I had found a pair of socks to buy, but I’m still a little sour over the whole incident. We will meet again, Poseidon, and should I happen upon your Sauconys lying on a beach some day, let it be known that I’m going to fuck your shit up. Watch yourself.

Kiss me, I’m shitfaced

March 17, 2005

Happy Saint Patrick’s day, friends.

Now to get something off of my chest. You people seem to think that just because you have a shamrock pin on your t-shirt or a green ribbon in your hair that you are doing the Irish justice on this fair day. You are wrong. I am no full blooded Irishman or anything, (although I’ve enough in me to get by like any good American mutt) but I do know that what separates you from the rest on St. Patties is getting absolutely plastered and shitfaced. This is one day of the year dedicated to drinking and Irish stereotypes, so you have absolutely no excuse if you don’t get fucked on green beer, or any beer for that matter. Old, young, no excuse. You can manage one day with a hangover, unless you’re some sort of god awful pansy, like Michael. Do me proud, America.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to listen to the Pogues, Clancy’s, Dubliners and to continue the dipsomania.

Row, row, row your boat

March 15, 2005

Today I woke up at 6:20am because someone opened my door. I went back to sleep and one second — EXACTLY one second later — my alarm went off, telling me it was 6:30am. Apparently I had entered some sort of mysterious space-time warp. That is a bad way to start the day, as far as I’m concerned. I got up and put on my wifebeater & boxers and everything else and then drank the only heineken left in the fridge. To most people, I would imagine that drinking when you first wake up would be considered abnormal, but I am not most people and I have the following quote on my side:

“A glass of Champagne lifts the spirits, sharpens the wits, but a bottle produces the opposite effect.”

Churchill agrees with me and so I fear nothing.

Having ventured through a time warp of sorts and having had a decent beer, I headed off to work. I dealt with all of the usual horseshit and was then cut two and a half hours early because it was “slow.” Fuck you, Cracker Barrel.

I studied for my PAR II test (IF YOUR SAUSAGE IS PINK IT IS BECAUSE OF THE “SPECIAL INGREDIENT”) and walked to Hardee’s where I fucking destroyed a Frisco burger. I sat near a father and son in a booth. The dad had on work clothing, like he was a mechanic, and the kid had on a Marilyn Manson shirt that said “Got Violence?”

The father shouted what I think was “QUACK QUACK QUACK,” randomly, although I’m not sure if those were his exact words. Either he had Tourette’s syndrome or he thought he was very clever. It doesn’t matter. I also got to sit and think about the guy who took my order. A completely normal person except for the fact that he had some sort of disability (I can’t remember the name) which caused him to walk awkwardly. My memory sucks. Either way, most people would classify him as “retarded,” that is, until you look him in the eyes and talk to him. He’s completely normal. More normal than most people, I’m sure. Which made me feel bad and I don’t know why. I’m not that intelligent.

I’ve got my own handicaps, but his are very apparent, and yet he still manages just fine, probably better than myslef…doing a job I could do, but one that I avoid simply because I don’t want to deal with customers. I can’t handle it. In the end I think I acted more retarded than him, because I did my best to treat him like anyone else so as to make him feel comfortable, which was a horrible and idiotic idea and which ended with me repeating myself twice and looking stupid. Sorry, Hardee’s guy.

After that I decided it would be best to walk across the street to the gas station and get “the beers.” And so here I am. I have an excuse for my alcoholism today – it is in celebration of several things.

Most important of all that I’ve been lucky enough to hear Alkaline Trio’s new album “Crimson” and I found a “new” band called The Falcon, which is Alk3 & Lawrence Arms members. Goodness gracious. A friend of mine also just uploaded The Bravery to me, which is decent. Sort of makes me think of a mix between The Stills and Franz Fredinand, but with less “bassy dance shit” and more “electronic dance shit” (I know I am the next Hemingway, fuck you!). Maybe it’ll grow on me, we’ll see.

Crimson isn’t bad. At all. At first I wasn’t sure. It seemed poppier than usual, which seems to be a theme with new Alkaline Trio albums. It’s grown on me though, and with some beers to christen it, it’ll be good. I guess they’ve decided to put “Sadie” on this album too, cause it is on this release and they have apparently added keyboard & violin tunes to to it. It’s one of my favorite songs by Alkaline Trio, I’m just not sure if violins and Casio’s are a good addition. The rest of the stuff is great though… like “Mercy Me” and “Stained In Satin” both have lines sung by Andriano And Skiba, which is cool, cause most songs either just have one singing back up or the entire song is sung by one of them. Good stuff. “Deathbed” and “Prevent This Tragedy,” are also good songs. They’ve both got the good lyrics and harmonizing vocals that Alk3 is known for. Now for May to roll around so I can buy the thing.

Bob from New Orleans

March 13, 2005

I have come to terms with the fact that this webpage is nothing more than a public restroom wall for me to scribble graffiti on. From now on, I guess I’ll just write whatever comes to me or happens to me and that will be that.

My “goal” was to make a page that wasn’t like the millions of other blogs out there that nobody reads, but I guess I failed. There are so many damn people out there writing to themselves it make me want to puke. Let’s face it; not many lives are really that interesting. I mean who really cares about what Bob from New Orleans did Monday morning before heading to work? Bob, and that’s about it.

I just wanted to write a few, good articles and leave the whole blog thing alone, but I suppose to do that you have to be passionate about certain things, and I suppose I’m just not really passionate enough about anything to write a “good article.” I’d rather just scribble “Call 555-9109 for a hand job” and give up.

Today I woke up at 8 am with a hangover. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been because I vomited before passing out on my bed with Ben Hur still playing on the TV. The rest of the day was mostly normal.

I just finished watching Sideways, which was great (“Did you drink and dial?”). I have to say that I’m surprised it got so much praise, though, because it doesn’t seem like it would appeal to most people. It’s sort of slow going and it’s got a certain brand of humor. It was filmed in California, so I recognized a lot of places near Lompoc. I liked seeing the tunnel I used to pass through when traveling south to San Diego and I liked seeing Solvang, where I first gambled at an indian casino. I remember the european look of the buildings and even the street they drove in on in the movie. To be honest, it sort of made me want to be back there. That doesn’t mean I had a good time in California, because living in apartments and having no friends is pretty much just shit, but it was a fairly unique place. The beaches out at Vandenberg AFB are not like Florida beaches, which are bright and white and clear. The beaches there are foggy and craggy and they’re cold, and you go there to end the lives of many a starfish by pulling them away from the rocks and ocean. You don’t really go there for fun. It was still good, though. Better than here. Anyway, Sideways is a good movie. I wonder if I’ll end up being a bearded, overweight, disheveled man sucking on bottles of wine. At least if I knew about wine I’d have an excuse for drinking so much. My pallet isn’t quite so discerning, as it is mainly used as a resting place for the likes of Schlitz and Red Dog, which undoubtedly have slight traces of urine and rat feces…not strawberries and cloves. I cannot be saved.

That’s about it. I don’t work tomorrow, so I’ll probably stay up late tonight and continue to withdrawal from Lexapro and feel hung over. All I need now is the beard…


March 11, 2005

Thanks to my tax refund, I have just received the Philips DVP-642. Consequently, I want to fly to the Philips headquarters and impregnate all of their employees.

Nevermind that I should be saving my money for future excursions to foreign lands – not only does the DVD player look fucking cool, like it could turn on some sort of light speed hyper-engine and zoom around my house being all sleek and silvery, but it plays Divx and Xvid files. I shouldn’t even have to go into why playing those types of movies is completely and totally god damn awesome (Porn, The Tick, Porn…). Given, they’re not going to be great quality with 5.1 sound or anything, but you can put a movie on a CD-R and pop it into your player and watch it like it’s any other movie. The future is here, and it is beautiful.

Now to round up all of the other Tick and Dr. Katz episodes I can find and burn them. Curse you Comedy Central for abandoning me in my time of need, and you as well, Adult Swim. I’ll take matters into my own hands.

Relevant info for my DVP642 bruddahs:
Fixing garbled images: “The colors will be all messed up and the image is pixelated. I find that this can be easily fixed by pressing the System Menu button and select Exit Setup.” Works for me.
Firmware upgrade for 642/37: here

Today at work I was getting very, very angry — angrier than ever — with Philip, the stupid white boy who “raps” to himself and sort of stands around doing nearly nothing, but just enough to evade the watchful eye of the managers. Ok, so they aren’t very watchful. They come by every hour or two and say “Where is x?” and we all say “I don’t know,” and the manager goes back to whatever it was they were doing… probably counting money in the office. Nobody gets in trouble for not being there, nothing ever happens. So when I was working my ass off today as a dishwasher, or more accurately, the “laboring resident Cracker Barrel bitch,” Philip was in the bathroom jerking off and just basically being an awful jack ass. The boy is useless. I was about to confront him and yell profanities at him, and I’m sure something would have escalated from there (maybe he’d “Pop trunk” on me!), when I was asked rather randomly to help with a trash run with one of the shift leaders.

To get to the point, I’m the last one outside after all the trash is emptied and as I’m pulling a cart back in I see that there’s a piece of cardboard lying in the parking lot, the only piece of a box that happened to fall out onto the ground. It had the following printed on it in very large letters: “KEEP COOL.”

Punching Philip in the neck and maybe stomping on him and crushing his windpipe sounded like a good idea at the time, but it probably wasn’t, and I thank the God of Cardboard for steering me onto the right path. I can’t say I cooled down because I still hated his guts, but I did crack half of a smile before walking back into the restaurant, and I’m sure that was worth something.

Apparently I’m supposed to update my “blog” regularly. That’s what someone told me. Well then, here’s some personal fucking blogging. As if there isn’t enough personal fucking blogging going on all over the internet. Because everyone’s life is that interesting. We’ll all just keep telling ourselves that…

I’ve been lucky enough to get three days off on this week’s schedule and all three of those days I will try to keep myself from drinking because I told myself I’d stop for a few days. What’s that leave me to do? I’m trying to keep interested in things and that is hard, because lately nothing seems interesting at all. Video games can only be played so much… and books can only be read so long. Music’s a given, but some days it just fades into the background with everything else. Your mind, on the other hand, can keep going all day long, especially when it isn’t slathered with a healthy dose of alcohol. So I flip through channels and click endlessly through the news and hear about countries getting angry at other countries over absurd and meaningless things, stuff which will be inconsequential in another two hundred, three hundred, one thousand fucking years, and I read about people dying and a cat that rode 10 miles on top of its owner’s car and I read about how I am inferior to most other men simply because of the fact that my index finger is nearly the same length as my ring finger, something that will not matter one bit two hundred years from now either, when there’s nothing left of my middle or index fingers. And nothing means anything at all. Strange thing to feel like you are teetering between apathy and collapse, cause you’re not sure what is holding what up.

I’ve been washing dishes and bussing tables even though I am 21 god damn years old and I feel like a loser doing it and I’ve been trying to stop myself from shaking nervously in front of the hordes of people sitting and watching, but I just shake harder. I think maybe I just need that drink I’ve been avoiding.

I’ve been listening to Blind Willie McTell and thinking about how it must have been to be a blind, black kid from Georgia in the 1920’s. I can’t play a 6 string when I’m looking at it, but Blind Willie could play a mean 12 string guitar, that’s for sure. I guess someone like that would know a little something about pain. Like Bob Dylan himself said, “no one sings the blues like Blind Willie Mctell.”

“I got the blues so bad I can feel them in the dark…”

I’ve been thinking about the bright light at the end of the tunnel…a $500 plane ticket to London in May, where I will hopefully proceed to Ireland once again and hopefully drink way too much for my own good, with my friend Ted. I’ll probably live on beer and bread and peanut butter, but I’ll live. Maybe this time I won’t fall into a thorn bush on a dark, narrow road and shit myself. If I do, I’m bringing Ted down with me.