September 2002

September 27, 2002
Looks like the US military is gonna need three more bullets:

Saddam and his Dopples

September 26, 2002
This photo was front and center-ish on Boston.com tonight (I didn't care for their caption so I added my own):

Blow to head by soccer ball shakes loose an entire man from the colon of New England Revolution player, Taylor Twellman (pictured in blue)

alternatively:

Man Poops Man

September 24, 2002
So, I joined a gym.

Like most decisions a spoused individual makes, it was partially my own. I think the lard-laden straw that broke the fattyboombalatty camel's back arrived a few weeks ago. Mike was watching a Sox game in the living room and said to me: "Move your ass, please. I can't see the tv."

"What?" I called, from the kitchen.

My gut has become somewhat less cherubic (read: disgusting) in the intervening weeks, but it's probably a good thing we're Fall, Winter and Spring away from swimsuit season. If I'm going to get in prime Speedo-donning shape, I'ma need a little time. A lot, that is. A whole lot of goddamned time.

I'm driven in my fitness pursuits by a couple of likely unnatural concerns. One, if I should require an autopsy after expiring, I want the Scully-like doctor to comment, "The cadaver is in exceptional shape for his age. Or, any age really. BOOYA!" And not, "Jesus Christ. This guy must've lived, worked and vacationed right next to a Dunkin Donuts. Possibly, directly on top of one."

Also, I so want to be the cool dad. I don't want to be the sloppy dad. Lordy, lordy, please, don't let me be the sloppy dad.

So, back to my gym.

It's full of people, like, working out. Gyms. Crazy. The odd thing (well, one of the odd things - this is a gym) is they often pipe in this retro-80's pop music for the pleasure of those working it. I would've guessed typical gym musical fare would include that faux-techno song... what the hell is the name? The one that starts with a sample of some guy saying, "Y'all ready for this?" You know the one. I would imagine that song would really get some gymizens going. Bouncing around and such. Pointless aside: I fucking hate that song. I have ever since I was working as a satellite dish salesman in ultra-rural Pennsylvania - hawking "space tv" to yokels who lived so far out in the middle of absolutely nowhere that the cable co. declined to run coax anywhere near them. It woth a crappy job. Selling channels upon channels of crap to farmers who had no need for any of them. Awful. Dreadful. I went to work with a heavy heart day in and out. Of course, that heavy heart went a-sailing away when our manager (always dressed in an expensive, shiny suit that shouted "Hi! Dick bag here! Me! I'm a dick bag!") would come running into our daily morning meeting with a boombox blasting that fucking dumbass song. He'd make us stand up and clap in time. He friggin loved it. Hooted and hollered, he did. Just thinking about it now makes me want to die a little bit. But then, I'm not autopsy-ready, yet. Anyways, that's the type of song that I figured the sound system at the gym would blare. That and maybe some Creed for the heavy lifters. Shit like that.

I was surprised to find 'roid poppin guys the size of dumpsters grunting and groaning to the plaintive sobs of Morrissey's "Suedehead" or Tracy Ullman's sugary "They Don't Know." The whole scene strikes me as pretty bizarre. Supersized dudes with arms like redwoods burstin a forehead vein liftin a metric ton listenin to Haircut 100.

Sorta gives you the giggles. The quiet, "to yourself" giggles. Almost completely silent giggles, really.

September 23, 2002
I enjoy being a dweeb like Phranc enjoys being a girl.

I stumbled upon my new favorite TV channel recently, whilst cruising the perilous upper stratosphere of basic cable - way up in the nose-bleed-inducing 200's.

My digitally-relayed source of glee? G4. A very oddly Mac-sounding name for a television channel devoted to video games. Yes. Devoted to video games. As in, devoted to video games. I'm gonna need a gross of grosses of Cool Ranch Doritos and a choice selection of extra-caffeinated beveragi. Stat.

I'm diggin video games again like I did as a lad - wearing out joystick after joystick playing my Zaxxon tape in the ol' Atari 410 peripheral. Those were magical days, carefree days. Income tax free days, which is probably one of the main sources of allure. I mean, peeps of my Dad's generation probably fondly remember playing stick ball in the streets, with Frankie Valli crooning on the AM. I get misty-eyed reminiscing about skating up to the Beserk machine and plunking down a tall stack of quarters while .38 Special cautioned me to "Hold On Loosely."

I guess that's why I can happily camp out in front of the TV for an embarrasing amount of time as glowing CRT images of the latest and greatest video games parade by in eye-popping and bizarrely soothing (to me) fashion. The games are getting startlingly realistic (or, in many cases, startingly nightmarish) looking, but I'm not certain that makes them any more immersive than Pac Man felt in its day. Note: Pac Man was originally slated to be titled "Puck Man," but the Japanese makers of the game decided that Americans were too prone to mischief and would deface the machines with a epithet-laden variation of the name. (you guessed it: "Puck You're An Asshole.") (I learned that while watching a documentary on Pac Man (There is a steely-hard black pit where my soul should be.) on G4. Except for the "Puck You're An Asshole" part - that was a joke. Unless you didn't laugh. Then it was irony.)

It's an extra strange thing to find strangely comforting, I admit. In the end, though... strange is fine. So much better than indicted.

September 20, 2002
Kinda silly for me to bring up anything even remotely political in nature, since I'm not even sure who the president is, but...

If you have a couple minutes to kill and you dig any internet radio "stations," you may want to petition your elected officials (or whatever they're called) to support a bill (or whatever it's called) that will effectively let owner/operators of internet radio "stations" to continue doing what they do do (or whatever that's called).

My motivations are purely selfish - I'm not sure I want to live in a world that doesn't include FLARESOUND.

Ick. That had a slightly touchy-feely patina, didn't it?

I gotta bring the rage back.

September 19, 2002
Almost got hit this morning braving the "Crosswalk O' Death" on my way to work. Twice. In the same crossing. That's two times in the space of about a dozen paces.

The first instance was brought on by a man of roughly 100 years of age in a crusty white station wagon who swerved closely around me as I made my way across the street. Thanks, Grampy. I guess it's hard to hit the brakes when your big boy diaper's brimming to the rim with refuse. I only pray that his denture adhesive slips and he asphyxiates on his own cheap, stained chompers. Preferably, slowly and alone. Jesus Christ, my former lord and personal savior, I will come back to the flock and obey your commandments without fail if only you will return to Earth once more to pluck the withered, shrunken soul from that heathen and eat it before me like an apple. Alternatively, if you can turn water to wine, certainly you can turn that decrepit, hollow shell of a human into a puddle of piss and bile. He's more than halfway there already. I really don't see this as a big challenge for ya, J.C. However, if you fail to prove your godliness in one of the ways I've outlined above, it's me an' Buddha giving you the double raspberries, pal.

The second near-splat experience? Some suited jerkhole in a Passat came so close to me before stopping that I did a little side-shuffle-step back, away from the hood of his car. I delineated the crosswalk for him, flight attendant-style, with my pointed hand (crosswalk starts on far side of street, continues in front of your car you fucking prick, and ends on the near side of the street) before inviting him out of his ride for a closer inspection. The good chap declined.

Now, I'm not one of those pedestrians who streaks at ramming speed headfirst into the abyss that is crossing the street in this city. Of course, I'm not one of those wallflowers that waits until there's no sign of traffic for miles before dipping a toe into the street like I'm testing the pool water. I mean, shit, I have to get to work today, after all. I generally wait until I judge that any car approaching has ample time to come to a complete stop, and then I cross. This ain't rocket science, folks. It's crossing the fucking street.

Also, I'm not some toughguy looking to pick a fight. If the fucktool in the suit had exited his VW, he likely would have split my skull in Boston's first documented case of Briefcase Rage™. I'm all about peace and love and butterflies and rainbows and shit. I am a delicate flower. See? But there's something about getting less respect than a speedbump from drivers that gets my Irish up.

Maybe those fucking Gingers aren't such a bad idea.

September 17, 2002
ISLAMABAD, Pakistan (AP) -- Pakistani Special Forces commandos arrested al Qaeda operative Ramzi Binalshibh last week, leaving him armed but blindfolded after his capture. The Yemeni national was taken amid cries of "Allahu Es Sabado Gigante!" which is Swedish for "God bless Telemundo." No intelligence officials would comment on the portent of the phrase. Pakistani officials remarked that the soldiers felt blindfolding, but not disarming, the terrorist was "protection enough, since he obviously wouldn't be able to see what he was shooting at."

"Did you think blindfold would stop me from shoot you? Like dog? I shoot you! Like street dog in street! Shoot! Shoot!"

"I shoot knees! Pain! Knees! I shoot them!"

"Now I have a machine gun. Ho. Ho. Ho."

September 16, 2002
Stumpy asked an interesting question on his site a while back:

Do you think in pictures or words?

Stumps said he thought in pictures, which I'm sure is little surprise to those who know the man, all-personal-like. You only need be in the room once when Stumpy returns from a trip to the bathroom to underdig that this guy uses words as his paint, and your ears are his canvas. If a picture is indeed worth a thousand words, a handful of Stumpy's words are worth about a bazillion mental pictures. A bazillion nasty, filthy mental pictures. It's a gift. He is gifted. I do love him so.

I think in words. Exclusively. Torrents of words. Sort of like an unholy union of a barrel full of monkeys and a clown car. Except the monkeys are words. Or.. the clowns... are the.. um, words. This made sense in my head (scary). Not so hot on paper/monitor.

I was chatting with Sean a while back about mental illness (I have to divert the course of conversation away from football somehow). Eventually, the subject of my sanity came up, (ok, maybe I initiated the conversation with "Sean, I'm fucking looney." I don't really recall.) and he asked me if I hear voices in my head. Because he knew someone who had some mental... issues, and this person heard voices, occasionally.

Doc SB gave me a clean bill of heath, though. I never hear voices in my head. Never have. Ever.

Unfortunately, I hear voice. Incessantly.

September 13, 2002
Listening to Gary Moore's "Blues Alive" this morning, thanks to a generous coworker. That guy is fucking fierce. (Gary Moore, that is. Actually... my coworker is kinda fierce, too.) Mr. Moore bends notes like he's throttling the neck of the man who killed his momma. You wanna talk aplomb? Jeebus.

Hear that? That's the fucking blues, Johnny.

I've heard that all the great guitarists have terrific hand strength in common. I need to work on my vice grip. Currently, I have trouble giving a firm handshake. I don't see great things in my guitarplaying future.

Strangely, lots of musical things abound lately - a friend is joining a rock n' roll band, Pep just picked himself up a new ax, another friend just gave me a disc full of his absolutely gorgeous takes on some standards, Mike's gonna start doin' a little cabaret singing next week, and so on and so forth.

It's very nearly motivating me to pull my '91 Jeff Beck Signature Series Seafoam Green Fender Stratocaster from under the bed. The very guitar that inspired the lovely look and feel you're enjoying today.

I remember when I first saw her at Matt Umanov's Guitars in the village. Damn. She was sweet. She was sleek. She was seafoam green. I knew I had to have her.

She was well protected - behind the counter - of course. You don't go leaving a piece like that lying about where any dirk off the streets can paw her. I asked the salesguy to see her, and he spat, "You gonna buy it?" I love New York. I mean, I understand the jackhole was dead busy holding up the wall and all, so I didn't take offense. After promising to purchase fifty-five percent of the gear in the store, Mr. Management Material relented and set me up.

Yeah, it was nice.

I think I spent more time pacing the sidewalk directly in front of the shop than I did actually playing her, trying to rationalize that kinda cash outlay while pulling down the hefty wages that teaching guitar to gradeschoolers and the odd oddjob produced.

In the end, it was all just a charade - I knew I wasn't heading back to Jersey emptyhanded. She was mine before I set foot in the joint. Kismet. Destiny. An assload of money. They say money can't buy happiness, but if you have the slightest semblance of a clue, it can buy the things that make you happy. Ya know, like love.

And I'll tell you this: If loving wood, wire, plastic and paint is wrong, I don't ever wanna be right.

September 12, 2002
I've read and heard a lot about how people were outraged at the excessive 9/11 coverage in the media yesterday. I think Forrest commented (somewhere, I'm afraid I don't recall exactly where) that since no one had posted to the contrary, everyone felt the same indignation.

Well... no, actually.

For me, the irony lies in the fact that I may have heard more protests yesterday (and several days before) about the news coverage of the event than I heard regarding the attack when it happened.

The media coverage didn't bother me. At all. Sure, I didn't care for the overly-saccharine tone of some of it. My grandmother probably dug that stuff. It wasn't for me. I turned the tv off. Sure, I didn't care for the overly-alarmist tone of some of it. My friends who buy Guns and Ammo magazine and wear camo to bed probably dug that stuff. It wasn't for me. I turned the tv off. Certainly, you see where I'm headed here.

Is the news onslaught really that big a deal? Is it that piercing of a thorn in your side? Something pretty fucking horrendous happened a year ago. That's, like, centuries in American culture. I'm surprised most people can even faintly recall what transpired 300 odd days ago. I don't mind being confronted with it for a few days. I'm all for "getting on with our lives" but, shit, if we're going to err on one side or the other, I'd rather we had to wallow in reminders for a few days. We're so flippant. We feel so easily inconvenienced. Our blood boils when the fucking news dares to overstep the personal boundaries that we've imagined apply to it. We rant, we yell, we rail against the injustice! (pot, kettle, phhhhht! COMMENTS 0)

Most of the news coverage didn't really interest me. I didn't watch it. The sun rises again.

September 8, 2002
Spam subject line o' the day:

GET A HUGE PENIS OR YOUR MONEY BACK!

Tough choice, that one. Decisions, decisions.

Do they mean, like, all my money back? Cause I'm guessing I've dropped a lot of coin over the years... Like, assloads, really.

I'm sure being supremely hung has its advantages, er... I mean, being supremely hung sure has its advantages, but...

Yeah. I'd like my money back.

September 6, 2002
I have a preternatural fear of flying. That is to say, I friggin hate it.

My dear friend, The Notorious D.U.G., is getting married next month. He and his lovely bride-to-be live in Detroit, Rock City. That's roughly an 11 hour drive from where I sit.

If it weren't for the fact that I can't physically get there via pimped out Tercel in time to honor some of my obligations, I'd be driving, for sure.

Unfortunately, this means I have only days until I will board an object composed of tons of steel, wires, hydraulics, spit and tape. An aberration against nature and everything good. A winged beast that would have even less business volleying roughly overhead if not for the sheer brute force of jet engines that have been known to simply fall off mid-hurtling.

I found an odd comfort in the days immediately after September 11th of last year when all air traffic halted. It seems terrible to admit taking any kind of solace in that time... but I sort of hoped that everyone would realize with a universal sigh of relief that we could function fine without air travel. That our dependence on these coarse and crude metaled beasts was merely imagined.

Shit. No dice.

Purchased my ticket tonight. Dee-troit, here I come.

Still, in the back of where the mind would be on a normal person, I can hear the sing-songy Neanderthal's justification for refusing to fly: "If man were meant to fly, he would've been born with wings."

Just ask Icarus.

September 5, 2002
The problem with having a really poor sense of smell (besides grossly underestimating the potency of your b.o.) (and I do mean, grossly) (cause, well, it's gross) is that when an odd scent finally does manage to break through the no-smelly barrier, it's drives you fairly fucking batty.

I've noticed lately our basement has taken on an ominous, awful, putrid stink. Since the computer is down here, it makes work and play just that much more nauseating. Kack. My dull sense prohibits me from tracking the exact source of the ick, but does not prevent me from getting dizzy and headachey after spending about 20 minutes in the dungeon. This, apparently, is a good place for a stickup.

Today, I detected what I can only describe as the smell of dirty metal mixed with a-little-too-old meat in the kitchen. Which makes preparing a little somethin-somethin to eat a task that I'm nowhere near up to. Frankly, I want to barf.

Working our way to the top of the charts, I picked up the scent of something nasty going upstairs this evening. Not as bad as the kitchen, but bad still. I suspected an overstuffed diaper genie, (if you don't know what a diaper genie is, think of it as a little miracle that keeps the nursery from smelling like baby ass. Do you like poetry? I think you know that I do.) but no, um, luck.

It's like a family of poltergeists have moved in, one offal-scented member per floor, with the sole intent of stinking us to death. Well, maybe not us exactly, since I cannot convince Mike that there's any odor out of the ordinary around here. I ask her, but she just shakes her head dismissively and says she doesn't smell it. Which, to put it politely, is an outrageous fucking lie. I mean, it stinks! I think she's just trying to make me mad(der). Who knew my little minkie was such an overachiever?

Ok, I'm out. It's just too repugnant in here. I think I'm losing my smelly marbles.

September 3, 2002
I always have the same reaction when visiting great cities. I fall in love instantly, decide it's my manifest destiny to move up/down/over at once, and immediately begin composing my "We're moving to city x!" speech to be delivered with great conviction and fanfare to family and friends back home.

Three days later? It's over, Johnny.

Montreal was no different. Don't get me wrong - that was one mighty fine weekend. And Montreal is an egg-abulous city. But I don't think I could live in a town where there's so much goddamned French being spoken that I wanted to gut Pepe LePew with a Bowie knife and wear his entrails on my head.

I must give Sean a bazillion thanks for piloting the batmobile there and back (with me in it). The three hour backup at the border on the way home was particularly trying. And after inching towards home for said three hours, the poor guy had to bear the following exchange with a particularly bright border guard:

Border Guard: Are you bringing anything into the country that you purchased in Canada?

Sean: Yes, I bought a few paintings.

The border guard... let's call him, Sharpie... Sharpie takes a gander at the paintings in the back seat of the batmobile.

Pause.

Border Guard: What is the purpose of the paintings?

Sean blinks for a couple seconds.

Sean: The purpose of... the... paintings?

Sean blinks for a couple seconds.

Sean: They're... just... for my apartment?

Pause.

Border Guard: Mm hm.

The purpose of the paintings. Purpose. Christ, Mac. I guess you'd have to ask the artist, wouldn't you? I was waiting for Sean to respond, "TO ASTOUND AND AMAZE!"