January 2003

January 27, 2003
Year after year, Winter in New England brings a little something extra for me. The combination of plenty-frigid and mucho-arid air reduces the skin on my hands to cut and bloody ham-gloves. The skin on my digits seems to suffer most. All those little lines and wrinkles on your fingers? Mine turn into miniature blood red roadmaps. Looks fucking nice. Makes my fists look like I picked them up on a "Silence of the Lambs" surplus special effects auction on eBay. I visited my sister's family over the weekend and 2.3 seconds after strolling through the front door my nephew came bounding up and yelled, "Why do you have boo boo's?" (which would be almost endearing if he wasn't 27.) And they friggin hurt. I say that because I'm not a Marine or a woman and I do not know what real pain is. This is real enough for me, though. It's big wussy pain - it feels like hundreds of wee paper cuts all over my paws.

It's odd how the ailment fades away as soon as the temperature warms. Always in Winter. Always in Winter. It got me thinking, actually. (well, my version of thinking, anyways) I fired up a smattering of that old-time arithmetic and pinpointed the apex of the pain and misery, date-wise. It falls consistently on December 25. Which, after some more of that thought stuff, makes perfect sense. See, in my version of the Bible, Jesus isn't a carpenter - He's a bear-knuckle fighter. And He isn't crucified - He dies in the ring.

You see where I'm headed?

This isn't dry skin. It's Stigmata.

January 24, 2003
I like dealing with big companies as clients. Cause it's fun. Cause it's fun, and I just don't get enough shit in my diet.

Asinforinstance:

Big company: We like the design. Looks good. But we want to move the navigation from the top of the page to the bottom. And make it small.

Us: Interesting. Here's a few thoughts on that: moving the navigation to the bottom and reducing the size is likely going to make it harder to find and use for a good number of users. We suggest leaving the navigation at the top of the page, since that's a fairly common place for it, and keeping it relatively large and prominent, to ensure that users will be able to easily find and use it.

Big company: We've done tests. Our users don't like it there.

...20 or 30 hours of back and forth that pretty much restates what's above...

Us: Terrific. We'll move the navigation to the bottom of the page and reduce the size like you asked. Super.

...a week later...

Big company: Oh, one of our guys has some agency experience, and he said we should move the navigation back up to the top of the page and make it larger. Just make it like it was.

Us: Yeah, really? "Some agency experience," huh? Oh, that's great. Very, very rich. Cause, um, I don't know if you know this... I would assume so because you hired us and all, but... WE'RE AN AGENCY. So then, by definition, EVERYONE. HERE. HAS. AGENCY. EXPERIENCE. You follow? Oh so fabulous.

Pillowheads.

January 23, 2003
Come and smile, don't be shy.
Touch my bum, this is life.

We are the cheeky girls, we are the cheeky girls.
You are the cheeky boys, you are the cheeky boys.

- from "Touch My Bum" by The Cheeky Girls

If you can make it through the entire song without rupturing your eardrums with the nearest Bic, ask your doctor about euthanasia.

Any chance while we're bombing the shit out of Iraq we could tag most of Europe as well? Seeing as how we're gonna be in the general vicinity, and all. Tuneless wanks.

January 22, 2003
Better than an extra day off added to the tail of a weekend is the same extra-long weekend spent with friends visiting from out of town.

Last Friday, Dougie and his lovely wife, Kristin, and Z (only his first initial will have to suffice. With a name like his, any more will risk the forfeiture of anonymity. I refuse to use faux-names to protect the innocent. There are no innocents left to protect.) and his lovely wife, Toni came to visit. Doug and Kristin stayed with their friends, Mark and Jimmy, in the North End. Z and Toni stayed at moglia's funhouse.

Jimmy and Mark are fabulous former neighbors of Doug's from Detroit. They now make their home in the aforementioned North End in an apartment that screams, "WE'RE BOTH DOCTORS." Setting foot in their home, I suddenly understood the look on my parents' faces when I told them, "I'm going to be a musician." Holy Fuckshit. Their commanding view of a chunk of both the Boston skyline and the mess that the Big Dig has made of the highways was so surreal that my instinctive first thought was, "Cool special effects." Very Blade Runner. The pad was decorated in a manner that does little to dispell a particular stereotype about homosexuals. Hoo fah. Gorgeous.

We all hung out while Jimmy tended bar and enjoyed some fine, fine techno at a volume that would lead one to infer that either:

1. Their neighbors are deaf, and attribute the thumping vibrations to the neverending construction job outside.
2. Their building not only houses some fineass apartments, but possesses space-age sound dampening materials 'tween units.
3. All of their neighbors are gay.

It was a smashing weekend, front to back. A few random bits, all compressed-like:

I got new shoes. A New Shoes Day is a banner day, indeed. That much I know. We visited a club on Sunday night that was "too gay" for me. I have decided to confer "too gay" status to any activity that involves getting shirtless strange men's sweat on me. I'm down with Dorothy's friends, but Christ, I'm no bathtowel, boys. Saturday morning, we made chocolate chip pancakes with chips we made ourselves from a one-pound bar of bittersweet Belgian chocolate. Also, I created carbon out of three slices of bacon. The wind chill on Friday night forced Jimmy, Z, Doug and myself to take momentary shelter in a closed Starbucks entrance/alcove (thank God they're everywhere). It was the coldest I ever remember being, including my youth spent tracking Yetis in western New York. I lost at Trivial Pursuit. I always lose at Trivial Pursuit. Friends wonder why I don't like board games. It's because I lose. Every. Time. Not once in a while, or most of the time. Always.

I think a lover-ly time was had by all - frigid, winning, losing, sweaty, gay, straight or intoxicated (that last one was a pretty safe bet). Good show.

January 21, 2003
Well, it worked. And in less than a week.

I can now spontaneously produce the pitch A. That is, with the following restrictions: there is no other music within earshot, as whatever is playing suddenly "becomes" A. As of yet, I'm unable to divorce myself from what I'm hearing enough to produce any other pitch than the key of the song I'm overhearing. (in fewer words, that means I can'ts be hearing no music if I'm going to make an A.)

The hard part(s) will be knowing the pitch well enough that hearing other musical tones won't futz with my inner A, and getting my relative pitch in good enough shape that I can judge all other pitches relative to A. The good news is I will never again buy a guitar tuner.

Fucking A.

January 17, 2003
KING: Laura, do you think your pain is greater because it was a murder? Does that make it different than if she ["Dr." Laura's mother] had died naturally?

SCHLESSINGER: My pain is like this vegetable soup. There's so much stuff in there.

That am one batty, batty bitch.

January 16, 2003 (later)
Since my New Year's resolution includes everything, that also covers obtaining perfect pitch. (Duh. Didn't Barry White sing "ev'ryfang is ev'ryfang"? You don't mess with Barry.) I first learned of perfect pitch (I think more commonly known in academic circles as absolute pitch) via advertisements in Guitar for the Practicing Musician magazine (I was always disappointed that they hadn't settled on a more verbose moniker. Something like, Guitar for the Truly Earnest and Those Willing to Labor in Return for a Fair Level of Proficiency on an Instrument). Anyhow, as I recall, the ads featured some freaky guy with a combed-to-the-sides, part-in-the-middle mullet. He wore a tux, I think. Perhaps, my memory fails me. Whatever - let's say he wore a tux. To me, mullets plus tuxes equals a Southerner (represented in scientific tomes as m + t = S). I'm guessing this guy had one or more cousins in one or more of the following: 38 Special, Molly Hatchet, later versions of the Alman Bros. He promised me Perfect Pitch - the ability to identify pitches by name - in return for some cash. I, of course, balked.

Fast forward several years. Ok, make it fifteen. Jesus. Oldness. Christ.

I was Googling for an online guitar tuner, when I came across some flaky looking site offering "perfect pitch memory training." To quote said site:

"There are no drills, tests, or lectures in my ear training CD. You just listen to the sounds regularly and musical note "A" will be memorized."

Now, this is surely too good to be true. I know this. But, seeing as I have a penchant for pinning the repeat button on Winamp (six hours of the Foo Fighter's "Monkey Wrench" may not be a bad thing, but that, in and of itself, does not make it a good thing, either), I figured I have nothing to lose (with the possible exception of a few more hours of "Monkey Wrench"). So, yesterday I downloaded the sample tunes, fired up Winamp, and settled in for a day of A.

Now, I skipped the fine print, but I think the theory behind the program goes something like... we all have, um, pitch memory. For instance, you probably could hum the tonic note of a song right after the piece finished (the tonic being the key of the song. Put more clearly, it's the note that Metallica spends droning for 10 or 15 minutes at the end of each song when they play live - If the song is in E, it would go something like: "EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! THANK YOU, CLEVELAND!!! E! E!!!" where the first string of E's lasts 10 or 15 minutes and the last two are short, staccato punches. Forget it, it's not really that important). However, as time passes, your memory of the note fades and in, say, 6 hours, you might not be able to reproduce the same tone with any accuracy. Using this "perfect pitch memory training," you spend some time every day for a week listening to the sample sound files (pleasant enough ambient/techno pap composed nearly solely of the note "A") and at the close of the trial, you should be able to spontaneously produce and/or identify "A."

Sounds sorta silly to me, but then, so did a prostate exam. I've since heard that those are pretty serious business. Maybe this is too!

My first bit of anecdotal evidence: after listening to "A" for a good part of yesterday, I came into work this morning and hummed the pitch pretty darn accurately.

I'm embarrassingly excited about this.

January 16, 2003
Over at Jay's place, there's some debate over the death penalty. Is it "right"? Is it "wrong"? Will the Bachelorette pick the creepy guy that just wants to stick his tongue in her mouth? Ya know. The big issues.

It makes for interesting reading, but really, it's akin to discussing whose religion is best. (mine is, by the way. We have nude CCD.) Everybody has their pick (era, many do, at least) and nobody's really even considering switching sides. It can all make for some futile, if engaging, yappin - you end up on yer soapbox, trying to one-up the reasons and rationales volleyed from the other side. Which is fine. I can dig it. And do.

I'm all for the death penalty. If it's not a proven deterrent, that's ok with me. If it's more expensive than keeping the same convict alive in prison, that's ok with me.

It sucks, don't get me wrong. All the laws of men and god(s) and we still can't get it right and just live peacefully. We just can't do it. Not happening. At all. Even a little.

I think I've cornered the problem. It's the complexity of laws, really. Let's take something as (supposedly) simple as The Golden Rule. You know - Do unto others blah blah blah... Maybe it's all the "untos," but I don't think your average dilltard on the street can follow it. The thing reads like friggin Shakespeare, really. No wonder.

I've come up with an abridged version. Something even the kids who wear the football helmets with no team affiliation can follow:

Play nice.

Play nice. That's it. Really, what more do we need? Ten Commandments is nine too many. It's like my Dad always told me, "Keep it simple, bastardchild."

Of course, we'll keep the death penalty in our back pocket - if you can't play nice, you'll be removed from the playground.

January 15, 2003 (updated)
And from the "oh, shut the fuck up" file:

Neither are $75 designer t-shirts with stupid catchphrases pasted on them.

Here Sheryl, have an extra helping of "oh, shut the fuck up."

I really gotta work on the up with people part of my New Year's resolution.

Update:

It's a two-fer-one "oh, shut the fuck up" day!

This one goes out to MTV yappin head, SuChin Pak, for the following comments.

Bitching about how tough life is for her, she notes:

"As an Asian American, I feel like I'm auditioning for my job everyday."

Welcome to the fucking party. I think everybody I know has felt that way in recent years... Oh, except for including heritage, race, nationality, etc. in the statement. I'm sure if only you were white, you'd have some job security like the rest of us. Oh, shut the fuck up.

But she yobbed on:

"I look at my Asian-American friends who are actors," Pak said, "and I still see them playing roles entitled Mean Karate Kid 12."

Those poor friends of yours. I look at my white friends who are actors and they aren't fucking working. Anyone holding a gun to your friends' heads and forcing them to take those roles (the lucky bastards)? Then, kindly... oh, shut the fuck up.

Hell. I only wish there was a string of "Pasty White Guy" films I could audition for. I'd kill for the chance to be in "Pasty White Guy 12." Kee. Rist.

Lastly:

"I didn't win a fucking contest," she said. "It takes a long time to break through."

Cause all the white people have their shit handed to them on gilded fucking platters, right? God knows my life has been just one long string of winning contest after contest. And "it takes a long time to break through," huh? I guess you really paid your dues, finally on MTV at the ripe old age of... what? 22? Oh, shut the fuck up.

January 14, 2003
The thing that sucks about bootlegs is that the microphone always seems to end up inches away from some German shithead who's tunelessly shouting along with the singer.

Christ, didn't we win a war against those people? Why are they still here?

January 13, 2003
Another thing I love about Macs (or, maybe just my Mac - I have no idea if they're all this bad) is the contextual CD ejection mechanism. Macs being so intuitive and easy-to-use and all, (hey, if that stoned girl can write her paper without the computer going all "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!!! Errrrggghh..." then I should be able to eject a CD, no?) (No.) I figured I could eject a fucking CD without a call to my personal Mac life/tech support.

Seconds after my eight or ninth bazillion attempt (which consisted solely of pushing the button on the front of the CD-ROM drive. Which, to me, seemed like an intuitive and easy-to-use place to begin), I was on the horn asking for help. Ejecting a CD. It went something like this:

Greg: Hello.

Me: Say a user wanted to eject a CD out of his, um, or her Mac... how would one do that? Assuming one had pressed the fucking button on the front of the CD-ROM drive, say, half a dozen fucking million times?

Greg: Is there a CD-ROM in the drive?

Me: (blinking)

Greg: Hello?

Me: Yes, there is. (blink) Why? I just want to open the drive. The CD-ROM drive. I tried to open it by pressing the fucking button on the front of the CD-ROM drive, say, half a dozen fucking million times. Each attempt a fully and completely qualified failure. That's a lot of fucking failure, no?

Greg: Ok, this is easy - if there's a CD-ROM in the drive, you have to drag the CD-ROM icon on your desktop over to the trash can icon to open the drive.

Me: (blinking rapidly)

Greg: Hello?

Me: I'm sorry. What?

Greg: If there's a CD-ROM in the drive, you have to drag the CD-ROM icon on your desktop over to the trash can to open the drive. If there's no CD-ROM in the drive, you press that button to open the drive.

Me: (blinking VERY rapidly)

Greg: Hello?

Greg: Hello?

January 10, 2003
It seems we've finally found a country that likes to talk about war as much as we do. North Korea is yabbering about a Third World War while breaking its promise not to make the big bombs. I guess every generation needs to have some kind of war scare to keep 'em up at night. For my generation, it was the Cold War with the Ruskies. I remember learning in gradeschool that between the US and the USSR, there were enough nukes to destroy the world several times over. That really crossed my eyes. Eventually, I just chalked it up to being a kid, and not understanding big people logic. Now, I don't really have an excuse. I plain don't fucking get that one. Me, if I had enough ammo to kill my annoying neighbor (say, if for instance, he had a southern accent), I'd cheerily spend my beans on other things. Mission accomplished.

I'm guessing we're going to get a lot more of these cute lil nations challenging us as time goes on. Sort of like when you have this one kid on the playground who grew a bit faster than the other kids, and he gets the respect that comes from having the muscle to push everyone else down - one by one, or all at once - and then the other kids eventually suffer their own growth spurts, and everybody starts to level out, physically. What that formerly bigger kid needs to do, if he wants to secure his place in the playground's org chart, is to seek out the one shit who's making the biggest noise and punch him directly in the nose. Bam. Sure, he might get sent home from school, but when he returns to the playground, nobody is going to fuck with him.

It's sad and sickening and ugly, but isn't power more often taken than given? Trying to play nice-nice and fair while everyone else is plotting to punch us in the nose isn't going to give us the desired results, I fear.

January 8, 2003
Into every day let a little sun shine.

And what is sunnier or shinier than instant karma?

January 7, 2003
Quite possibly the most disturbing instant messenger "I'm away from my computer" message I've seen:

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmambien pre-buzz blackout, in full effect! biY! yo shot is so dope, and i ridieinto kay and i see tomorror wraooed against todyay, a plastic bag on your stickinged leh

In other news...

If I had known Scientology was this much fun, I would have taken the "Free Personality Tests" they proffer incessantly on Hollywood Boulevard years ago:

I mean, if you can experience joy like this during programming, I can only imagine the delights of deprogramming!

January 6, 2003
I hate New Year's resolutions. Shocker. I'm not big on holidays, period, or anything really relating to holidays. I've always felt that, if you wanted to do something, just fucking do it. Do it cause you want to do it, not out of an obligation created and fostered by Hallmark or the Free Masons. Of course, being a heterosexual male, this is all academic. I play ball. Chicks dig holidays.

I think what really bothers me about New Year's resolutions is that no matter how small they are, nobody ever keeps them. Sure, you start out all gung-ho and everything, but before long, Real Life steps in and tells you, "Ok. Enough of that. Right back to how you were before." How sad is it that you set out to drop ten friggin pounds and a week later you're shoveling Almond Joys down your gullet faster than you can say, "Fuck resolutions! These puppies taste good!"

So, it's no surprise to relate that I've never made a New Year's resolution. Ever. Til now.

The way I figure it, since I'm destined to fail, I want to fail big. I don't want to renege on some pedestrian promise that everyone else has lied to themselves about. I want my defeat to be spectacular, grandiose.

In that spirit, this year, I resolve to do everything. Everything. If you're thinking, "Does that include x?" Yes. "Even... Even y" Yes. I said "everything." Look it up.

Thank you, and a belated Happy New Year.

January 4, 2003
Everyone has stories. Here's one of mine.

Back in the early 90's, when I was a-fixin to become a RockStar, my band had a record company showcase at CBGB's. For those fortunate enough not to know, a record company showcase is a gig - either at a "regular club," or set up at a private location like a rehearsal studio - that a bunch of label A&R (artist and repertoire - these are the industry people who are responsible for discovering talent. Like Mandy Moore.) folks have agreed to attend. The typical rigamarole goes something like: you set up a record company showcase (at either type of aforementioned venues), you petition the gods of A&R to come down from Olympus, you play, your management (if you've got 'em) and your friends (if you've got 'em) blow a tremendous amount of billowy white smoke up your hiney, nothing happens. Repeat.

It's a bit like fishing a pond with 100,000 other anglers that's been stocked with three fish.

CBGB's is a great place to play. It's well-known, it has a lot of history. The sound system (at least, back then) was like hot apple pie. Man, I say it was good. Louder than bombs and crystal clear. Normally, those are mutually exclusive qualities in a club. The decor was appropriately shitty - wall paper courtesy of a million, million band flyers. The toilet downstairs was something to witness. Something awful to witness. I'm not sure why they just didn't barricade the stairway leading to it. Or burn it. The best way I can describe it is to say that it looked like someone had entered the loo, hammered a stick of dynamite into his head through the ear canal (messy style), proceeded to give himself a swirly, and then lit the fuse.

Nasty.

So, anyways, there we were. Our first big shot. We were all giddy and shit. Adorable.

Another great thing about the club was the dog. I think it was the club owner's pooch. God rest its soul - it appeared to be eleven thousand years old (in dog years), so I'm guessing it's no longer rocking in the free world. I friggin love dogs. I love 'em, I do. This was a sweet old dog, it appeared to move in slow motion that had been considerably slowed. I mean to tell you, it was old and slow.

So, anyways, sound check time arrived and we took the stage. We were taken aback at the quality of the sound, and the fact that the monitors actually fucking worked. I remember thinking that we sounded good. Really good. The sound guy didn't cut us off (usually the sound guy just gets the levels set and then tells you to shut the fuck up), so we kept playing. I could see the looks on the other guys' faces. This was special. This was magical. This was going to be our night. Goddammit. That's when I noticed even the dog had come to the front of the stage to witness our otherworldly sonic juju. This, I knew, had to be a good omen. The dog came right up to front and center and just stared at us. Just stared. Intently. At us.

"Amazing," I thought. "That dog fucking digs us. Dogs fucking rule. Tonight is going to be one to remember. Tonight, CBGB's, tomorrow, THE V-V-VORLD!!!"

That's when the dog sauntered off.

Leaving a great big pile of dogshit where he was standing.

The End.

January 3, 2003
Dear Jiffy Lube Oil Technician,

   I have a confession to make: I've been lying to you.

   When I told you that the $59.99 Radiator Service would have to wait until my next visit, well... I've been saying that for, roughly, my last half dozen visits. Or so. Maybe more. Probably more.

   Mayhaps, you somehow didn't notice what I'm driving. It's a Tercel. A '96 Tercel. A '96 Tercel with 109,000 miles. See, the Radiator Service costs about half of what the car is worth. Now, I'm no economics major, but that just don't add up, do it? This is a car destined to be driven hard and put away wet, until, at long last, it's discarded at the side of the highway like so much crumpled, dirty trash, drawing notice from other drivers only because of the bright orange sticker affixed to the window or driver's side mirror.

   Now, don't get me wrong, qualified and trained automotive type person - I do appreciate you pointing out how my car will likely turn to dust if I don't pony up for all recommended services, immediately. Hell, I savor the inevitable moment when you lean in the pass-through door between the garage and the waiting area and call out the make and model of my car as if it were my first and last name and bring me to the open hood of my car to look at what I'm guessing is the engine (there's lots of hoses and belts and stuff) and tell me what I need to do to save my car's life with all the solemn portent of a battlefield medic telling a soldier that it doesn't look like the buddy he brought in from the theatre of war is gonna make it without a transplant, right quick.

   I like that. Plenty.

   But, really, you're no medic, I'm no soldier, and that's no walking wounded there in your Jiffy Lube garage.

   It's a Tercel, from '96, with 109,000 miles. And it's not getting any $59.99 Radiator Service.

   Until my next visit.

Sincerely,
moglia

January 2, 2003
I hate to judge a book by its cover (perhaps I should get into the holiday spirit and resolve not to do so), but Jesus Christ, if this (photo below) represents the crack team of UN weapons inspectors in Iraq...

How can we expect them to find weapons of mass destruction when they can't even find hats that say, "Hi. I'm not an asshole." I'm guessing if she gets that card around her neck swiped one more time at The Puddin' Shack, she gets her "buy 9 get the 10th free" vat o' puddin'.

In other news... Why is Gondorf conducting the orchestra in this ad? I don't remember him striking up the band in The Twin Towers...

Oh.

That's Dweezil's arrow.

Nevermind.

January 1, 2003
Two weeks off and the only thing I can think of to post is my idea to form a Tenacious D tribute band named Asparagus P.