The Third Side

So Long, And Thanks For All The Shoes.

2007-01-10T05:14:00.000-08:00

I'm moving--my blog that is--but I leave you with this moment, brought to you by the man who made this blog possible:

What Do I Have On My Mind Today?

2007-01-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.
--Oscar Wilde.

If you wish for peace, understand war.
--B. H. Liddell Hart.

O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle-be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it-for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.
--Mark Twain.

I have concluded, there is no war, in the history of man, that could not have been avoided by 15 minutes of honest diplomacy.
--Andrew Mutton.

It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.
--William T. Sherman.

I am by heritage a Jew, by citizenship a Swiss, and by makeup a human being, and only a human being, without any special attachment to any state or national entity whatsoever.
--Albert Einstein.

As people are not eaten, butchering them is of no use.
--Arndt Pekurinen.

If you want to make peace, you don't talk to your friends. You talk to your enemies.
--Mother Theresa.

Peace sells... But who's buying?
--Megadeth.

Atheism Meets Hip Hop.

2007-01-01T20:45:00.000-08:00

Since the Tribe's down, I'll blog here for now--because I just can't wait to share this:

Check it out on YouTube!

Pandora's Box:

Check it out on YouTube!

Molotov:

War Is Peace, Etc.

2006-12-19T15:38:00.000-08:00

I think the president missed that article from Salon the other day. You know, this one. The one with the byline, "U.S. Military...can't muster many more combat troops for the war." So where exactly do you plan to find these troops you mean to send forth to battle terrorism, Mr. Bush?

You know, they say that in Hitler's last days, crouched in his bunker while the Russians took Berlin, the Führer was still giving orders for troops who weren't there to move against fronts that had already been overrun, too. You know, because Hitler was nuts.

Then again, I suppose that's why Bush hasn't offered any proposals as to how he plans to accomplish this new military buildup, just more empty (and increasingly weak) rhetoric.

I especially liked this little nonsensical tidbit: "It is an accurate reflection that this ideological war we're in is going to last for a while and that we're going to need a military that's capable of being able to sustain our efforts and to help us achieve peace." You read that correctly--"fighting for peace." Isn't that a little like fucking for virginity?

Okay, so it's not entirely nonsensical. Not if you're at all familiar with the ideology and aims of this administration. But at this point, who isn't?

Five Weeks To Seattle.

2006-12-19T01:39:00.000-08:00

Five weeks, give or take. One day very soon I'm going to wake up in Seattle, and then I'm going to do so every day after that.

It's just one of those little realities that begins to sink in.

[/OCD]

2006-12-17T11:24:00.000-08:00

I just finished YouTubing "The Maxx," so I can finally put that little obsession aside and get back to doing other, more important things. I didn't watch it all in one sitting, but over a couple of days. It was the same thing when I first got into Questionable Content, with the huge backlog of material to catch up on.

It's really a shame that this series, from MTV's Oddities block and based on the first story arc of Sam Keith's comic series, isn't on DVD. But it's been awesome reliving this psychological monstrosity (what a coup for someone at MTV to have actually gotten this series on the air on that channel!) in all its greatness.

Now. Back to packing.

Mad Respect For Sen. Obama.

2006-12-02T13:33:00.000-08:00

You know, Barack Obama just continues to impress me. He impresses me as being a person of great integrity and a politician of great candor and forthrightness. Specifically, what I'm thinking of was the humor and honesty with which he spoke on Leno about his drug use.

Mr. Obama, did you inhale?

"[laughing] ...that was the point. I don't mean to make light of it, but I do think that one of the things that hopefully you try to do in public life is to acknowledge, 'look, I'm not perfect, and I've made mistakes,' and the question is, 'do you learn from your mistakes, do you grow from your mistakes?' and hopefully I have."

Quick Friday Blog.

2006-12-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

A quick spin through the Times this afternoon--

Pelosi Picks Reyes to Head Panel on Intelligence: So Reyes is a Repblican. So what? I'm a whole hell of a lot less interested in a new Democrat-dominated hegemony to replace the former Republican one than I am in Democrats actively investigating and overseeing some of the Bush administration's criminal activities (i.e., domestic spying without due process). If Harman is going to kowtow to Shrub & Co., then axe her. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Why Doctors Don't Cry: I'm old-school when it comes to doctors. I really don't like doctors who are touchy-feely or who recommend TCM. I want my doctors cold, dispassionate, professional, blunt, and preferably godless. That way, I know I can trust them.

The Antikythera Mechanism: I just find it absolutely fascninating that the ancient Greeks developed a computer. As soon as this semester is up, I'll be upgrading my own Antikythera Mechanism with my new quarter-terabyte internal HD and Linux. I'm going to start with Fedora, but if I've got to tweak too many things about it, I'll probably try Kubuntu next. Freespire will be a fallback. (I'm trying to get away from proprietary shit, you know?)

What I'm YouTubing: Hagfish, "Happiness." Damn, these guys were great.

What I'm Reading: Karen's new blog. She's always been a really good writer, but I have to flat say that I'm proud of her for this piece. And I mean, come on: she got to see Cat Power! She told me about CP months ago, but I got to see her/them first. Even if Chan was feeling puke-y, it had to have been a great show.

A Blog For Ann Coulter: This Is How You Really Ad Hominem, Moron.

2006-11-08T15:52:00.000-08:00

"Hi. I'm Ann Coulter. I think I'm a model, which is why I have this very un-pundit-like, wind-blown-hair-in-my-face picture on my blog.

"It helps me to think so that the picture is cut off just above my jutting Adam's apple."

See, Ann? Anybody can throw stones. Anybody can just insult someone personally, say, on the way they style their hair.

The difference between you and I, Ann, is that--when I choose--I have intelligent things to say; I'm not just ranting like a rock critic to bamboozle my half-witted readers into thinking I'm a genius the way you do.

Now. Have we learned how to insult someone personally, you pseudo-intellectual, middlebrow, right-wing, vapid, gaping cunt?

Resistance. (For Danielle.)

2006-11-03T23:15:00.000-08:00

For there can be no fellowship between us and tyrants--on the contrary there is complete estrangement...Indeed the whole pestilential and irreverant class ought to be expelled from the community of mankind.
--Cicero, De Officiis, III.32.

I Am Jack's Complete Lack Of Surprise.

2006-11-02T16:28:00.000-08:00

Evangelical leader Ted Haggard resigns amid allegations of hiring a man to fuck him.

Excuse me for asking the obvious question here, but why would you become an outspoken opponent of gay rights if you are, yourself, fond of men (even occassionally)? That just doesn't make sense on a variety of levels.

I don't personally care if you want to suck dick or eat pussy; nothing could matter less to me when I'm standing in line at the bank. But advocating a hypocritical and self-defeating cause is personal and political suicide. And for crying out loud, why would you fight for the diminution of your own rights?

What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to self-deceive.

Quote Of The Day, Part IV.

2006-10-30T06:44:00.000-08:00

"I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I don't think you do, either."
--David Letterman, to Bill O'Reilly.

Just When You Thought Rush Limbaugh Couldn't Be Any More Of A Scumbag.

2006-10-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Really, Rush, what's next? Accusing cancer patients of "faking it"? Are you going to mimic the epileptic tremors of a person with a brain tumor?

I know, I know--your real point was that Democrats are accustomed to making sympathy pleas to achieve political ends. But what you did was neither insightful (let alone original) political commentary, nor was it the concerns of true conservatives. I know you've made a comfortable living for yourself by being a right-wing shock jock, but that was just a mean-spirited demonstration of your complete lack of class.

Now do the world a favor and eat a bullet, you piece of dirt.

Live: The Decemberists @ Gypsy Tea Room, 10.25.06.

2006-10-26T17:26:00.000-07:00

Read anything at all about Portland, Oregon's The Decemberists and you'll invariably come across the same statement repeatedly--that they are indie rock's greatest success story. Now, the real rule of thumb is that that which is popular is, by its very nature, suspect to people of discerning taste. The Decemberists, however, are the real deal; they've got the goods where it counts: they're smart, ecclectic, progressive, and they rock. Not only that, but Colin Meloy is really up there among rock's great frontmen: he's got the vocals, he's got the vision, he's got the lyrics, and he's a true showman.

Funny. Freudian slip--I almost typed "shaman" there.

Let me go ahead and get the negative elements out of the way:

obnoxious Dallas hipsters: Shut the fuck up, n00bs. I'm there to hear the music, not your bullshit talk. If you're not there for what I'm there for, go. the fuck. home.
emo douchebag to my right: there were signs all over the place reading, "at the request of the artist, please do not smoke inside during tonight's performance." You think you're the only one who wanted a smoke? No. You're just the only one with no self-control, or else no sense of the world beyond your carefully coiffed, in-your-face bangs. That's why I told the bouncer who was looking for the smoker where you were, shit-for-brains. Oh, and tip #2: no one thought you were making an interesting fashion statement by wearing a wool blazer and muffler inside a packed club on a night when it was 65 degrees outside and over 90 inside. We all thought you're a poseur.

Now where was I?

OK. Having gotten the bad stuff out of my system, I'll get down to what was really important, which was the band's performance. It was outstanding. Absolutely first-rate. The one and only downside was when they performed "The Crane Wife" in its entirety, which provided the crowd an opportunity to socialize. Songs like "We Both Go Down Together," "Shankhill Butchers," "Sixteen Military Wives," and "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," however, were sing-along greats. Meloy really knew how to work the crowd, too, and not in that artificial ("when I say 'hey,' you say 'ho'") way, but in a very organic way that sprang from everyone communally getting on board with his energy, his passion, his performance.

I confess that I was dying to hear "The Mariner's Revenge Song," but they never played it. Come on. If you're reading this, you would've wanted to hear it, too. Actually, I think someone even requested it, since at one point, Meloy replied to someone up front, "no, we can't play that one. After you start writing 10-minute songs, you realize you can only play so many songs at a show."

Nevertheless, the musical joy continued: "O, Valencia!" and "Sons and Daughters," with that wonderful, hope-filled coda: "hear all the bombs fade away." It's no great wonder, English major that I am, that I love a band that named an album Picaresque and understands the structural formula of the frame narrative, as in "The Mariner's Revenge Song," modeled as it is after "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," with shades of Moby-Dick. What is a little surprising for me is how much I love The Crane Wife, which is a little more...real, I guess. It's political, without being pointed or mean-spirited. It's got the same dark love songs of suicide, murder, and loss, but they can pull it off with such joy and exuberance. Like They Might Be Giants before them, The Decemberists can take your pain, whatever it is, and turn it into laughter with a joy that's heart-breaking.

What can I say? Get their albums. Go see them. They will absolutely set you free.

Just try to avoid seeing them with a Dallas crowd.

You Will Never Take Me Alive.

2006-10-22T14:56:00.000-07:00

let's here it for circuits
lines drawn in the earth
cut to scramble for ramble
little mouse hole to park your new car
& chew off our arms
with teeth we are losing from slow, comfy screwings
three cheers for the backseats
your legs pin that look in your eye
you'll never take me alive

this is what you are
you are what you are

let's here it for mirrors
with the ghost image clearer
hip hip for the pig that religiously belts you undone
this little piggy had none
'cause god hates our country
she told me she wants me to sing out "he's female!"
three cheers for the gal in the sky
you'll never take me alive

this is what you are
you are what you are
this is what you are

do you know what it means to be doomed?
do you know what it means to be cursed?
when the blue eyes are washing their mouths in the south
you know they're hiding bodies north
did you know that we're sinking knee-deep?
did you nail down what you plan to keep?
when the poltergeist pushes his freight on your shore
you are done for, done for, done for

the caskets are coughing with quotable quoting
the graveyard is littered with loves who thought their was no doubt
the world could not live without

this is what you are
you are what you are
this is what you are

if i live through the day when the comet does come
i will write everyone down on my list one by one
sharpen the axe
stomp the flames out on backs
i will be who you want me to be
i will be who you want me to be

do you know what it means to be doomed?
do you know what it means to be cursed?
when the blue eyes are washing their mouths in the south
you know they're hiding bodies north
did you know that your boot hills are stuck?
loosing feet worth the rabbit's good luck
when the devil is resting his head on your door
you are done for, done for, done for

you are done for
done for
done for

did you know that you nurse a beehive?
come & get it, come take me alive
all the nooses are in it; a grizzly frontier
we will show this cruel world
we will show this cruel world we were here
=========
I don't normally want to post lyrics here, but I had to share this one.

Quote Of The Day, Pt. III.

2006-10-09T12:46:00.000-07:00

We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. We must remember always that accusation is not proof and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law. We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men— not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular...We can deny our heritage and our history, but we cannot escape responsibility for the result. There is no way for a citizen of a republic to abdicate his responsibilities. As a nation we have come into our full inheritance at a tender age. We proclaim ourselves, as indeed we are, the defenders of freedom, wherever it continues to exist in the world, but we cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home.

--Edward R. Murrow, 1954.

Murrow was speaking on the paranoia of the Red Scare of the 50s, specifically, the fearmongering of Joseph McCarthy and his ilk. But his sentiment remains as relevant today as it was then: The idea then--that a fifth column of communists already existed in this country, eroding American values and undermining our culture; the idea now--that Democrats don't want to protect this country from another attack, that we're unwilling to do all that is necessary to prosecute a "war on terrorism." That we constitute a fifth column of enemy sympathizers.

But if you see enemies everywhere you look, they've won. If we willingly give up our freedoms, our heritage, to be free of fear, they've won. To you Democrats who still refuse even at this late date to stand up to this criminal administration, shame on you. Shame on you, you cowards.

Note To Self.

2006-10-08T10:23:00.000-07:00

Movies I have to see:

American Hardcore
Renaissance
Stranger Than Fiction

I swear, every time I see the trailer for American Hardcore, I want to just throw the goat and bang my head. And that's just watching the trailer! When I saw it again last night before This Film is Not Yet Rated, I was seriously tempted to turn to my friend next to me and clock him in the jaw from pure excitement.

Our Government Is Wiping Its Collective Ass With The Constitution, The Federalist Papers, And Pretty Much All International Law.

2006-09-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

Habeus Corpus is on its way out, too.

That's It, Folks. America Died Yesterday.

2006-09-28T12:15:00.000-07:00

Senate votes in favor of torture.

There's nothing more to say.

A Gift In The Mail.

2006-09-27T15:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I got a wonderful little package in the mail--a CD Karen burned for me in memory of the Dave Matthews show we went to at the Gorge Ampitheatre September 2nd.

She'd painstakingly taken notes during the show of the setlist, and she then hunted down even the new, unreleased material they'd played and burned it onto a compilation CD. It was like the old days, when you'd get a mix tape from the one you love, only this one came complete with cover art (a color picture of the band at the Gorge) and a personalized note from Monster K herself:

"I hope you enjoy it at least one tenth as much as I enjoyed the show itself, and being there with you!"

I'm certain I will, but the pleasure was all mine. Airfare to Seattle Labor Day weekend: $xxx.xx. Seventeenth-row seats to the sold-out Dave Matthews show at the Gorge: $xxx.xx. Watching an outstanding show and putting my arm around Karen as she got (joyfully) weepy* during "Crash Into Me": priceless.

==================
*Sorry, honey. But it's true.

Quote Of The Day, Pt. II

2006-09-27T05:08:00.000-07:00

"If large and important parts of the [National Intelligence Estimate] can be safely declassified and known by the American public, why were they classified in the first place? And why have they been kept classified since April? Obviously, the NIE is being declassified now only because the White House needs a political defense to the New York Times article reporting that the NIE concluded that the war in Iraq worsened the terrorist threat. But it is really amazing just how transparent the White House is being about the fact that it routinely conceals information as "classified" not because it is secret but because it is politically damaging. What other explanation even theoretically accounts for this behavior?"

--Glenn Greenwald, Salon.com. [Emphasis mine.]

We Aren't Safe.

2006-09-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

And now, I suppose, we're to believe that the "liberal" media are spinning things to undermine American confidence in St. George.

That's right. We're all just fearmongering, America-hating Islamofascist sympathizers.

After all, Shrub & Co. have protected us from another terrorist attack on American soil for the last five years. Gee, it's so obvious that we're safe from terrorism since we've not been attacked again!

Not like the absence of evidence equalling the evidence of absence, or anything. Get stuffed, Cliff.

The Trap.

2006-09-26T09:53:00.000-07:00

"But what in the hell are the Dems going to do if McCain makes a deal and this thing gets to the floor? Are they actually going to vote for a bill that eliminates habeas corpus for terrorist suspects? Because if they don't, you know what the Republicans are going to be saying, don't you? After all, the saviors of the republic and guardian kinghts of the constitution say this bill is ok. The only reason the Dems can possibly have for opposing it now is that they are terrorist loving cowards."

--Digby, on the problem of Democrats approving the McCain-Graham-Warner bill.

Catch-22. Approve a bill that strips away yet another basic freedom enjoyed by Americans, or be called an Islamofascist sympathizer.

You know, this isn't a new strategy. We've seen it before:

"Naturally the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. ...Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country."

--Herman Goering.

At Last, The Claims Of A Liberal Media Are True!

2006-09-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, my hero, Mr. Keith Olbermann.

Finally, finally, someone who isn't afraid to call the administration out on all their bullshit, their lies, their misdirection, their cowardice, and their criminality. Finally, finally, someone who rightly lays the blame for the current state of affairs at the feet of pansy-ass, candy-ass so-called journalists that enable a tyrannical regime by failing to be the watchdog of the people.

There may yet be hope. We just have to remember that Rome didn't fall in a day.

Jesus Camp, Mars Hill, and Evangelism: Will I Never Get Out Of The Bible Belt?

2006-09-21T08:52:00.000-07:00

"It would have been so easy to make a farce, to ridicule these people, to do a liberal lynching," Ewing says. "We could have done it in our sleep, with the material we had. Instead, we edited this film for 10 months to make sure that we were being fair, so that we could sleep at night. Being fair is all you owe your subject. And the subjects of our film, Ted Haggard aside, believe that it's fair and accurate. We're showing them the way they are in their lives."

--Heidi Ewing on her controversial documentary, Jesus Camp.

Haggard's problem is likely that he's portrayed in the film as "a cynical, showbizzy creep," according to Andrew O'Hehir at Salon.com. Gee, that sounds familiar. I seem to recall another Christian evangelist who, apart from his fundamentalist, misogynist douchebaggery, has further earned my ire for marketing Jesus, Inc. to my generation by dressing it up with the trappings of hipster youth culture.

What a scumbag. Someone tell me why it is that when a church preys on young people who are lost, searching for an answer, and in need of structure, rules, and a sense of family, it gets the pseudo-legitimate name of "evangelism" rather than "cult," which is (psychologically speaking) the more accurate term. I don't think Driscoll is hording guns, but aside from that, I don't see the difference between him and David Koresh. I really don't.

Anyway, I'm going to have to see Jesus Camp. I applaud Ewing and Grady for going to such pains to make a fair documentary. Still, I don't think a "liberal lynching" is even called for: Give fundamentalists enough rope, and they'll hang themselves.

Quote Of The Day.

2006-09-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

"If you just look at how we are perceived in the world and the kind of criticism we have taken over Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib and renditions, whether we believe it or not, people are now starting to question whether we're following our own high standards."

--Colin Powell, on America being perceived globally as a terrorist state and Bush's desire to "clarify" Common Article 3 of the Geneva Convention.

Dallas Sweet Dallas.

2006-09-05T01:24:00.000-07:00

For almost as long as I can remember I've wanted to live in Dallas, and since 1997 I've called Dallas home. But I just got back to my apartment a few minutes ago from my second trip to Seattle this year, and I have to say that Dallas feels less like "my home" and more like "my toilet."

It's just a place that, for the time being, I park my ass and leave my shit.

Professionalism.

2006-08-30T04:01:00.000-07:00

Last night, while I was talking to Karen, she told me a story about the day that she'd had. Apparently, she was on the line with one of her managers, who was evidently having a spotty cell connection. While she was trying to take instructions from him on some project or other--which, she explained, entailed her doing his job for him--he would cut out, forcing her to ask him to repeat himself. So he would, by repeating himself from the beginning.

Now, Karen relates this story to me, prefacing it by saying, "this guy's a pig anyway." I don't even know the story yet, and already I just know I'm going to love it.

So in the process of repeating himself needlessly, he gets impatient with her and says he's going to "send [her] to shorthand school." Now don't get me wrong, I admire Karen for saying what she said next, and I think it's great that she has the kind of relationship with a boss that allows her to say it: "I'm going to send you to kiss-my-ass school."

To which this smarmy fuck replies, "Oooo. That sounds like fun."

Hey! Tony Manero! I'm talking to you: Kill yourself, you macho douchebag. You're at work. And you're somebody's manager, to boot. Why don't you start acting like it? Leave that unprofessional bullshit at home.

Now, this whole exchange--while completely unmerited on his end, being that he's thoughtlessly passing his work on to someone else--was fairly innocuous. That's mostly owing to the fact that Karen can keep things in perspective. There are women out there that would've made a federal case of this. That's where at least some of my righteous indignation comes in to play.

When I'm at work, it's time for work. I'm a professional. I'm not there to flirt, pick people up, or make snide remarks. But I still have to go to sensitivity training and sexual harassment seminars; I have to walk on eggshells at work, in spite of all this. Even though we're catering to the lowest common denominator by tailoring workplace behavior to accommodate the most PC of the PC, there would be no need for any of this if douche-roosters like this guy would just go to work and have an ounce of professionalism.

And so it is with a glad heart that I present this week's Assclown Award to Karen's macho, unprofessional pig of a manager. He's a winner in all four categories:

Worst. Blog. Ever.

2006-08-15T09:37:00.000-07:00

This link goes to a blog where there are pictures of people's shit. I mean literal shit, sitting unflushed in the toilet. Don't click if you're not into looking at pictures of crap.

Are there people out there that are this obsessed with what comes out of their asses? Are there people who feel compelled to share their waste with everyone else? Sadly, the answer to both of these questions is, "yes."

I mean, why bother using the toilet like a civilized human being? Just go ahead and shit in the corner like an untrained puppy, if what you want is to share your shit with the world.

I used to be a real misanthropist; however, I've found that as I age, I've mellowed out. Hating people is a young man's game. But every once in a while, I get a reminder of why I think people suck.

Still No Flying Cars, But This Could Be Proof That We're Living In "The Future."

2006-08-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

Thought-controlled bionic arms.

I saw a video of this also, in which Sullivan says that asking him how he does it is like asking anyone how they move their own arms. Amazing.

We can do this, yet I still have to jiggle the handle on my commode to keep it from running all night.

You Wish You Had a Shirt This Cool.

2006-08-08T04:39:00.000-07:00

Seriously. I mean, I get the most unusual kind of treatment when I wear my Alex Ross "Liberty" shirt. Just this past weekend I went into Freebirds World Burrito on Greenville and they didn't charge me for the "extras" like guacamole or whatever. They even threw in some chips and salsa. I didn't even ask for it. To top it all off, the lovely young girl with the Australian accent who piled my burrito high with black beans and steak sheepishly but sincerely professed her love for me.

I was so touched, I almost made a gift of the shirt for her. But fuck that. I might need this shirt when I'm low on funds and I'm looking for some free drinks at the local watering hole.

And Now, This Brief Public Service Announcement.

2006-08-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

All hail Frogkitty!
Kneel before his amphibious headgear!

Dallas Vice City.

2006-08-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

The list is now four items long: coffee, sugar, "Questionable Content," and "San Antonio Rock City." I don't know what it is with the web comics. I'm sure a part of it is a legitimate nostalgia on my part for the days spent reading strips when I was a kid. I never got "Peanuts" back then, though later in life, I came to understand it. I did love "Bloom County" and its sequels. My favorite, of course, was "Calvin and Hobbes."

Part of it is probably just my addictive personality. I get into a thing and I take it to an extreme. If you give me something that gives me a little pleasure, and you're going to give it to me on a daily basis, a little at a time, that really works for some of my more obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I don't think I'm actually any more obsessive than the next person; I'm certainly not in need of medication; I'm probably just more aware of this aspect of my personality than most people are concerning their own neuroses. The problem is that when I discover something like "Questionable Content" or "Nothing Nice to Say" (Mitch Clem's other comic), I find myself having to catch up. The downside? An entire day spent last week catching up on QC. From the beginning.

I had dreams about that strip and I woke up the next day with the worst craving for Pavement. Meaning the biggest.

As an internet friend of mine put it, you start out reading it for the random destruction wrought by Pintsize, but stick around for the indie-rock in-jokes. But what I've really enjoyed was SARC--specifically, the way that Mitch Clem makes a strip of his life. Kind of a web-comic-cum-blog. It's not unlike Harvey Pekar, but punk. And Clem does his own art.

Why he moved to San Antonio of all places is beyond me, but that's a topic for another day. The thing is, I found it kind of inspiring that he can create this semi-autobiographical strip, make it so self-referential and an outright postmodern punk attack on the fourth wall, and do it with such a unique voice. What was inspiring about it was that it kind of put me back on track for what I wanted to do with this blog to begin with.

I'd thought that I could use this blog as a writing sample for prospective writing gigs I might be looking for in the future. A place to practice my writing and hone my own voice, which I've somewhat lost since grad school. The problem is that I decided this blog would not be a soapbox for my two favorite subjects, religion and politics. Right away, I limited my subject matter. In so doing, I also cut myself off from my own sense of humor. To make matters worse, I have this thing about being too serious, too grave. "Life's too short not to take it seriously," I like to say. So I just want to write about important things like my trip to Aberdeen and meeting Eric Melvin. The conflict here, though, is that I also want to post more often than once in a blue moon.

So SARC kind of showed me the way. I'm just going to stop trying to make this thing into something it's not and just let it become whatever it's going to be. And what it's going to be now is a lot more fun, and a lot more me. So without further ado, enough of this self-contemplation: I'm going to post this, then another one right away just to start me off in the right direction.

And Now for Something Completely Banal.

2006-07-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

I've found a new reason to get up in the morning. CoffeeGiant.com is carrying a new kind of Flavia packet called "Intense Dark Roast." Flavia rates the strength of their coffee on a scale of one to five, with five being the most intense. Sumatra, heretofore my favorite blend, was the only one rated a "5+." It was the "plus" that did it for me. The Intense Dark Roast, however, is rated 7 on a scale of 5. That's just good stuff. Believe me, a couple of cups of that will really sharpen you right up. Coffee is one of my few remaining vices, and as I've given up the others, I only make up for them with stronger and stronger coffee.

Speaking of vices, yesterday saw an increasingly rare phenomenon--a hangover. As I've gotten older, I just don't drink to the kind of excess, or with the complete abandon that guarantees nausea, headache, the whole nine yards anymore. I'm better about drinking water, eating, and doing all the other things (i.e., not just slamming drinks like I'm immortal) to spare myself that kind of worthless experience.

When you order that first tequila shot, that ought to be your indicator that you've had too much already. Unfortunately, this is the point at which you're already too far gone to have such a revelation.

The occassion? I had gone Saturday to Tomcat's on Commerce to see Error of Free Will. They opened for a couple of totally forgettable metal bands. The vodka tonics I was sucking down like water helped make them a little more tolerable, at least. It was EFW's first show, and I think it's safe to say they had a few nerves. They also have some balls: you've got to have some big ones to cover Toadies in Dallas, especially "Tyler." It seemed to go over pretty well, though. There was a pretty decent crowd there, especially considering how dead Deep Ellum has become, and there were more than a few heads bobbing along to that one and more than a few people singing along.

But forget the cover--the original material was where it was at. EFW is kind of a strange mutt. Dave lays down the funk, playing back in the pocket and putting the real bottom in the bottom end. DJ has the slashing, high-end guitar that, coupled with Dave's legato basslines gives the band an unbelievably mature sound, especially on "Shiny Steel Splinter," hands-down the best song of the night. If this is the direction they're taking the band, it's the right one. There's a real sonic distance between the two; too often, bassists and guitarists simply play the same rhythm and the same notes for a flat tone. These guys have some real musicianship and complexity going for them.

Not to ruffle anyone's feathers, but beyond that, I can't comment. I was significantly impressed by the union of guitar and bass; beyond that, I was too drunk to recall, and I've slept since then. Hey, this ain't no music review I'm writing here. Tell you what, guys: line up another gig, I'll come out, we'll do it again.

The Most Romantic Movie of All Time.

2006-07-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Spider-Man 2.

Of Course, We Could Just Kill All the Stupid People. That Would Improve Literacy, Too.

2006-07-11T10:02:00.000-07:00

The push for simplified spelling persists.

I'm appalled. I have to say, as an English teacher, that this represents everything that I oppose. This is everything that in my life and work I stand against. The obvious satire of the article itself notwithstanding, the subject is nothing less than the decline of Western Civilization.

The idea of a top-down revision of official spelling--even if it could be done--really galls me. It's exactly the kind of thing would be championed by a President who once said that we have to ask ourselves the question--and I quote--"is our children educated?" I mean, I've always wanted to run the Boston marathon, but it's just so damn long. Oh, sure, I could train and all that. But why should I have to? Why not just change the marathon to suit the needs of an out-of-shape loser like me? I've always said that if I weren't teaching English, that I'd be a theoretical physicist. It's just that I'm not that good at math. But that shouldn't be a problem--we can always dumb down calculus as well.

Just watch as our nation excels at mediocrity!

All sarcasm aside, I'll be the first to tell you that not everyone can excel in every skill set. Math, as I've said, is not really my strong suit. Maybe it's just the way my brain works. Maybe it's that I wasn't taught math the right way, or at the right time: It's a simple and often-overlooked truth that the mill that is our educational system is based on arbitrarily arrived at, cookie-cutter models of indoctrinating certain skill sets at certain times in a student's life. It's one of those nature-nurture things.

I can tell you from experience that I can't reach every student every time. Sometimes they have to be ready. Since I'm teaching college-aged kids, sometimes I have to contend with years of poor teaching that my students bring with them, carrying it as they do their backpacks. There are many factors involved here.

The point is that whether you're a teacher or a student, education isn't for wimps.

Last Night, I Met One of My Heroes.

2006-07-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

Last night when I got off work--not my teaching job, but the other one--I went to the Double Wide to see Mescalero play. I'll admit I sort of dragged my feet changing my clothes and getting cash from the ATM. It was one of those times that I resigned myself to the fact that I would either get there in time to see them or not. I didn't get there in time, but it turns out that I would've missed them even if I had hurried.

It was the Warped Tour after-party, and the Double Wide--usually a place that attracts a pretty authentic crowd in spite of its over-the-top white trash camp aesthetic--was packed with more emo kids than you could write a crappy poem about. I've rarely seen so many preternaturally long bangs and guys in girl pants in one place.

It's also been a long time since I've seen the Double Wide so packed; sizing up the crowd and mentally timing my wait in line to get up to the vinyl-wrapped bar, I decided it would be in my best interest to go ahead and get my next two Tecates-with-lime now, rather than try to fight my way to the front again. If you've never been to the DW, let me tell that cheap Mexican beer (with lime no less) is high toned for this joint--the Double is maybe the only place in Dallas where you can get an honest-to-gosh Pabst or Lone Star without the risk of getting in the way of some biker's game of pool.

I wouldn't really call the Double Wide a dive, but it certainly wants to be.

The Double Wide is also a place in stiff, if unspoken, competition with the Grapevine for the "smallest and most ill-placed restroom in a bar" category of next year's Dallas Observer Best of Dallas Awards. The closet-sized unisex toilet (and that's all it is) is conveniently located directly in front of the door between the patio and the barroom, the most highly trafficked area in the place.

I was mentally weighing my chances of being able to get past the drunks standing in line for the head without spilling my beers when I saw the unmistakable blue-green-brown dreads of Eric Melvin in the corner. He was standing behind a table with buttons reading "Guitar Hero" littering the top, chatting affably with anyone who stopped by. Mostly this consisted of girls, punks, and other hangers-on. All of them talked and talked while Mel smiled politely. You just know he's done this before.

You don't get many opportunities to meet your heroes, so my advice is always to meet them whenever you get such a chance. It's entirely unlikely that he would remember me any more than he's going to remember any other yahoo that walked up to him last night or any other night; that doesn't change the fact that you want to say something that--to you at least--is authentic and heartfelt. You want to say something that you can look back on later and say to yourself honestly, "I didn't make an ass of myself. And maybe, just maybe, I said something he doesn't hear from the same drunk assholes over and over."

I took my time and thought it over. I mean, what do you say to a guy whose band has been the supreme example of ethics, honesty, and courage? This is Eric Fucking Melvin, guitarist for NOFX, the band that wrote "The Decline," "Linoleum," "Irrationality of Rationality," and "Punk Rock Elite." This guy doesn't have to hold down a day job to live for his art; his art supports him and he can sleep well at night knowing the money he makes is his own. He didn't get it by selling himself, his audience, and his art to an evil corporation that exploits fans and artists alike. He's never turned his back on DIY or on the fans--in fact, he's a fan himself (just check out his side project Punk Rock Karaoke).

What do you say? What can you say, I mean.

I finished my beers. I walked over and waited my turn.

"Melvin?"

"Yes." I shook his hand.

"Thank you."

To the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah.

2006-06-30T15:23:00.000-07:00

Congratulations you have won
It's a year subscription of bad puns
And a make-shift story of concern
And to set it up, before it burns
My opinions.

Have you ever been fortunate enough to know one of those people that just continues to surprise you with their depth, their range, their capacity to continually surprise you, even if you've known them for years? No? That's too bad. I have had the exquisite pleasure of recently reuniting with an old friend that has precisely this quality. In spades. This is a blog about a dream I recently had the pleasure of realizing--a dream I've held close to my heart for some twelve years. But it's also about the woman that made it happen, a woman I never could've imagined would make my dream her own. So excuse me if I'm about to get medi-emo on your ass.

My 20th birthday was not the greatest I ever had. Mere days beforehand, I'd gotten the news that Kurt Cobain's body had been found in his home in Seattle. To say this news put a damper on my birthday would be an exercise in supreme understatement. Plenty of shit's been written about Nirvana--some of it real, some of it made-up; some of it accurate, some not--and punk revivalism, grunge culture, the voice of a generation, the alternative revolution, etc. "Whatever, nevermind." To me, they were just a great fucking band. They didn't reinvent the wheel; if I wanted innovation, I could (and did, and do) listen to Sonic Youth. If I wanted rock, I listened to Nirvana.

Their music was authentic, like Buddy Holly or the early Beatles. It was an uncomplicated expression of the blues (Ralph Ellison's definition: the wedding of the near-comic and the near-tragic), like Johnny Cash. It was powerful and raw, like the Ramones or Led Zeppelin. Then there was the scream. Something about the futility of it, the self-loathing, the underlying dead-end inferiority complex spoke to the kid who'd struggled so much (I thought) to get out of a small town in the armpit of Texas.

I was hooked on Nirvana.

I never once got to see them in concert. I had an opportunity to see them once at the infamous Trees show in Dallas, but I passed it up for reasons I can't recall. They were my favorite band and I didn't go see them. Go figure. All I remember is thinking, I'll see them next time. Although they eventually came back through Dallas, I missed that show. Then there would be no next time. Ever again.

When Michael Azerrad published his Nirvana bio, Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana, I devoured it. It became my bible for a while. I read it and reread it. For me, it's still the definitive story. I learned that Kurt had come from a small town, too, and it only helped me understand him a little better. Azerrad goes a long way toward romanticizing Aberdeen's dilapidation and implosive, expected-failure mentality. Its backwardness. Its cultural depletion. Nevertheless, I always implicitly understood that Azerrad was romanticizing all this stuff that is, by its nature, not romantic to anyone who's come from a shithole town where everyone knows your name and from which so very few ever leave.

It was that same month that Kurt died--the month I turned twenty--that I first concocted the idea of journeying to Seattle for the express purpose of a spiritual journey, a pilgrimage, to Aberdeen to connect with my fallen hero. I didn't expect to see anything I hadn't seen before; what could really be that different between Aberdeen and Mexia? Gray skies vs. oppressively blistering Texas sunshine? Logs vs. cows? One backward-ass, repressed, shitpot, redneck town is pretty much like another. So why bother? In Kurt--or at least through his music--I'd found a kindred spirit: an artistic soul born, fortunately or unfortunately, into geographic mediocrity. The fact that I never saw Nirvana live except on TV drove me to bond with my hero in some kind of way. I wanted to see this place that Krist Novoselic--in Azerrad's book, no less--once described thus: "It's cloudy and rainy. There's mud in the streets from all the trucks. The buildings are all kind of dirty. It's like an East German town or something. Everything is so damp down there that the wood just gets kind of soft and things fall apart."

More than anything else, I wanted to see and absorb the holiest of holies, the bridge over the Wishkah where Kurt lived during a brief homeless stint in his "home" town. Could there be any better icon of his malplacement? For artistic, creative people (dare I say it? Like Kurt and I), there's nothing worse than small-town existence. It should come as no surprise that he was living under a bridge--so symoblic of transition and mobility--and not in a home.

Underneath the bridge
The tarp has sprung a leak

You know how this shit goes, though. The best-laid plans of mice and men, all that. I never did make the trip. Until now.

I should tell you about Karen now. I met her in August of 93. Kurt was alive, the laments for his death, "1995" (Mudhoney) and "Junkie's Promise" (Sonic Youth) were years away. She was a great friend, an amazing listener to a young man who needed someone to listen to his self-obsessed, neurotic, and self-loathing diatribes. Judas Priest, was this really me? Yes, I'm afraid it was. Musically, however, we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye. Her tastes were more Edie Brickell than Kurt Cobain. [see footnote/disclaimer below.] So I could not have been more surprised when she suggested to me--no, insisted--we go to Aberdeen.

Wait. I should back up.

I had lost touch with Karen after she moved to Seattle in 1999. Before, truth be told. When we reconnected earlier this year, we started talking about a trip to Seattle. She was actually one of three friends who went there only to return with the news she was moving there. All three of said friends did within six months of their respective announcements. This was going to be my opportunity to see what it was about this town that had such appeal. Aberdeen was not on my agenda.

Karen was awesome at coming up with ideas for things for us to do during my stay. Shows to go to, art exhibits to take in, happy-hour friends to meet and carouse with. But she kept asking if there was anything I wanted to do.

--No, no. I leave the planning to you, I told her on the phone one night when she was being particularly persistent. If I come up with something, it would be touristy, and I don't want to do that. I don't want to see the Seattle the rubes see. But she wouldn't stop. Wasn't there something I wanted to do?

--Alright. I'd always said that if I were to get the chance to go to Seattle, I'd make a trip out to Aberdeen to soak up a little of Kurt Cobain's youth. Take in the atmosphere, y'know? But forget about it--I'm not going to drag you into my geek hell. It wouldn't be fun for anyone but me anyway. Anyone who came along would just have to put up with a day of me geeking out. So no. Forget it.

The next day I got an email from her with link to a page called, "a walking tour of Kurt Cobain's Aberdeen" and a note that read, "we're doing this. No. Shoosh. I WANT to do this."

One baby to another says,
"I'm lucky I met you."

So it was that I somehow found myself standing on Karen's balcony, looking out over the tops of funky, modernist wet dream, ivy-covered Capitol Hill apartments in the direction of "disease-covered Puget Sound," appreciating the bloated, heavy skies so apropos for this pilgrimage into the redneck heart of darkness upon which I was about to embark.

Aberdeen, like many small towns, has a public face and a private face. The public face is the first thing you encounter when you come into town. It's also likely the only thing that most people passing through will ever see. There are brightly colored flowers in front of new businesses situated along the main drag. Large picture windows reflect the glare of the leaden skies but give the impression of openness, of welcome. This, as any small-town resident might honestly tell you (under, say, the influence of sodium thiopental) is bullshit. Outsiders aren't welcome except for the gossip they provide. And the money. Venture even a block off the main drag and you see the real Aberdeen: building after vacant building with signs like the above plastered on them. These buildings are caving in; Aberdeen is caving in; small-town America is caving in.

The sense of corruption and rot is palpable, the small-town paranoia evidenced in the streets, too narrow for two cars to pass each other. There are no curbs; lawns run right up to the black top and send out desperate runners. The houses look as though they were all designed by someone who enjoyed trailer living too much to let it go: They are all long and narrow with depressing mudporches leaned against the fronts. They have few windows, as if in tacit acknowledgement of the fact there's nothing to look out on or to look forward to.

Karen and I had bonded over Azerrad's book in the weeks before my arrival. We discussed the story in detail, we emailed each other Nirvana songs and commentary. It became a secret we whispered to each other as we walked the streets Kurt once walked under the same ashen skies. She was like a guerilla photographer, amazing me with her determination as she strode right up onto what was once Wendy Cobain's lawn to snap this one:

The way that fucking house just looks like it's sinking into the overgrown lawn says it all for me, somehow.

Even in his youth he was nothing.

Mapquest sucks when it comes to directions, so we found ourselves winging it a few times. We found Krist Novoselic's old house on top of Think-of-Me Hill by intuition; we found Maria's Hair Design, where the band used to practice, just by putting together several scraps of evidence. We wandered into Hoquiam (if there's a more depressing place in the Pacific Northwest than Aberdeen, it's Hoquiam). A more gray and dismal place I cannot imagine.

And I've been to Galveston, so trust me.

Neither Karen nor I knew where to find the bridge over the Wishkah that Kurt had lived under. We thought we'd wing it. We happened upon the merest piece of evidence--that the bridge was two blocks from his childhood home--and by chance we found it.

If it seems to you that a journey 3000 miles and twelve years in the making has been glossed over too briefly here, I can only say that sublimity is, well, sublime. Aberdeen was nothing new for me, after all, and I was so deeply enraptured by the chill, damp air and low, heavy clouds over the defunct town to fully process it. It was a landscape I've only seen in my dreams: brightly pastel sheen thinly veiling a deep corruption, stagnation, and rot.

The bridge is a holy place. A quiet place. By the time we found it, the sun had begun to come out, spoiling the mood. Nevertheless, we spoke in whispers with great reverence. The messages of the living to the dead were--

--touching.

It's a solemn, somber place. We left messages of our own, then left this little town because we could.

She'll come back as fire
to burn all the liars
leave a blanket of ash on the ground

Make no mistake about it, despite my own romanticization of this hole: I would eradicate every small town in America if it were in my power to do so. Small towns foster paranoia, a defeatist attitude, mediocrity, and conservatism. They hold us back.

Unfortunately or fortunately, they also drive us forward. They foster in the few of us who are driven to get away an absolute lack of regard for others' opinions beyond what is reasonable, a desire to succeed driven by a fear of failure, and a healthy contempt for box-thinking.

One way or another, we never escape from these small towns.

But maybe, just maybe, we were never of them to begin with.

I don't know what Karen got out of this trip, but I know what she put into it. I'm in awe that, setting out to make a dream come true for me, she made my dream her own. She may have read the book, done the research, printed the mapquest directions--carefully numbered to lead us from one photo op to the next--driven us there with a picnic lunch (OK, convenience store sandwiches) for me, but it became her own thing along the way. And that's just cool.

How do I know this?

She's yet to finish the book. After Kurt's death, Azerrad added a final chapter to the second edition. Karen has yet to read this chapter, not wanting Kurt to die all over again.

Two days before my 20th birthday, Kurt Cobain was found dead. Twelve years later, Karen still refuses to acknowledge that loss.

I'll go out of my way to make you a deal
We've made a pact to learn from who
Ever we want without new rules
We'll share what's lost and what we grew
They'll go out of their way
To prove they still
Smell her on you.
------------------------------------------
Footnote: In 1995, my CD collection was stolen, right out of my apartment. The front door and the sliding back glass were unlocked (thank you very much, former roommate). I returned from a weekend out of town to discover that my CDs and only my CDs were gone. Many irreplacable, out-of-print albums were lost. My Nirvana collection--quite extensive, even then--was, however, safely in the hands of Karen when the thievery happened. Why it was there is anyone's guess. Neither Karen nor I can remember.

Postscript: You can now read Karen's side of things at her blog.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.

2006-06-09T06:55:00.001-07:00

On Being a Morning Person

2006-06-05T03:27:00.000-07:00

This is the best time of day. If you haven't been fighting insomnia all night, pre-dawn is the very best time of day: It's absolutely silent.

No lead-footed neighbor stomping on my ceiling.
No sound of traffic.
No children playing in the halls of my building.
No garbage trucks with their squeeling hydrolics and back-up-beeping.
No dogs barking.
No neighbors barking at their dogs to shut up in Spanish.

This is the one time of day when all of its opportunity, all its possibility is as-yet unspoiled. All those things that the day might yet be are still believable. I can hear myself think as I drink a cup of Sumatra black as the morning outside my window. It puts hair on my chest, that coffee. If you can't stand a spoon upright in the cup, it's not coffee in my book.

I can order my thoughts and put together exactly what I have planned for the day, and in the stillness, I can believe that it might actually go down like I plan.

No birds calling.
No people loudly sharing their half of whatever stupid conversation they're holding on their cell phone.
No interruptions.
No distractions.

When I was a kid, my parents made a deal with me: You can get up this early and turn on your light as long as you promise to play or read quietly and not disturb the rest of us. I was only too happy to comply. The thing about disturbing people in the morning, it cuts both ways. As a kid, I wanted to be left alone to play or read; now I just want to be alone with my thoughts. It's really the same thing, though. Then and now. I just want to be left alone with this wonderful, silent time when anything might yet be.

So the rest of you, just keep sleeping in.

Do me that one favor.