Blame Clinton First

I liked President Clinton but there are some things I wished he'd done differently. If I'd had Bill's ear during the Lewinsky crap, I'd have advised him to say something like this:

" My Fellow Americans, I am here to address a matter of absolutely no domestic or international significance whatsoever. Despite the unending stream of infantile jokes, this is an adult topic so I will pause for a moment so you can escort your children out of the room should you choose to do so.
*pause*
OK. Here's what happened. This woman (below), Monica Lewinsky, was a White House intern.

One evening I was working late and Ms. Lewinsky brought me a pizza (below) and an offer of fellatio (not pictured).


I took her up on it and we had an affair. I'll spare you the details but it happened. No laws were broken and I'm working it out with my wife.
Thank you for your time. I will now get back to work. I'm trying to catch a man named Usama bin-Laden, but it's classified so I cannot divulge the details.
My personal life isn't classified, but it is private. If you really want to hear the specifics, please ask Ms. Lewinsky. I understand that she's looking for a book deal at the moment."

-----------------

What's that you say? That speech wouldn't have gone over very well?

Compared to what?

In reality, Clinton got impeached and the Democrats lost control of all three branches of government. We all know what happened next. Could being forthright have made it worse?

Personally, I want the person who controls our military to be sexually satisfied instead of cranky, irritable and prone to starting wars. I don't especially care how they get off , as long as it doesn't involve 'shock and awe', torture and wiretaps.

I lost a measure of respect for Clinton that I never got back. I didn't fault him for his dalliances- I would have done the same thing, as often as possible- I faulted him for telling such an obvious lie. If he had admitted it right away, there may have been no investigation, no Blue Dress DNA testing, no impeachment...eh, I'm kidding myself. Nevermind.

Passive-Aggressive Post

Please don't get me started on this.

Too Young To Die

When I arrived at the Theater yesterday, I saw a construction nightmare. The Theater was a hardhat zone. In ten hours it was supposed to host a big Rock Show...was that possible? It didn't seem so.
I found my New Boss and he gave me a mop. The stage- which is huge, probably the best, largest stage that I've ever been behind- was covered in plaster dust and needed swabbing. Great.
Well, it did need doing, so I did it.The bands arrived on schedule, we rolled them in, set them up and the show went on without any hitches that the audience could see. It was a pretty remarkable accomplishment, really. I feel good about being part of that.

---------------------------
The opening act, The Radiators, were great; funky Louisiana rock in the vein of Little Feat. Every member of the band was well over fifty years old and still rockin' hard...there's optimism in that. They also didn't have to carry anything or set anything up- they arrived, played and left, they weren't in the building very much longer than it took to play.

---------------------------

The headline act was a Grateful Dead clone band. Each member of the clone band portrays a member of the long-defunct Grateful Dead and what the clone band does is to take the set list from a specific long ago GD concert,Sept. 13 1982, for example, and replay the entire original show. Why anyone would want to see that eludes me, but there is a large following for this sort of thing.
I find it sad that people would rather watch clones than listen to something that they haven't heard. I mean, it's never been easier to find new music than it is today- thanks to the Interwebs, I've found countless new bands (some current, some not) and I don't really even try very hard.
Why go clone?
Immediately after every meandering song, the standing band members turned their backs to the cheering, adoring crowd and fiddled with their tuners. Every song. They never said "thanks" or bantered with the audience. I found them chilly and aloof but the crowd loved them.

---------------------------------
One of the best parts of a real Dead show was the intermission, during which the band stopped playing.

During last night's cloned intermission, a middle-aged man in a suit stood at the center mic. He gave a short, sincere speech of appreciation- his young son had a terrible form of cancer and was able to get medical care due to the charity of persons present in the audience- he wanted to say thanks. I thought it was kinda sweet.

Backstage, a stoned clone guitarist was making 'sock-puppet' fingers and mouthing 'blah, blah, blah' ...
He was mocking the man with the cancer story.
Something snapped.
It was the neck of a guitar over a malignant hippie's head.

"Dude", I explained as I wound a D-string around his neck in a form of improvised garrote,"you make your living pretending to be someone that you are not; therefore, it makes sense that in your life, you pretend to be something that you are not. Such as human.
Your lack of compassion compels me to strangle some empathy into you."

"Aaack", he replied.

"Furthermore", I continued, " I know who you are. You used to sell bootleg cassette tapes of Grateful Dead concerts, which is like a million times worse than dealing drugs. I mean, at least your dope dealer will sometimes sell you some really good shit. Now, do you feel the love yet?"

"Aaaack."

---------------------------
I wish.
--------------------------

Loading in and out was interesting. The loading zone doesn't exist yet, we had to push cases across traffic, onto a sidewalk that was covered with steel work plates, down a ramp and through a crowd of bustling construction workers. It was brutal, back-breaking work. During the final load I felt something start to tear inside. I was suddenly aware of every one of the internal sutures I received in 2005 and I couldn't help but cry out in pain, which is a gross violation of roadie protocol.

"I'm OK," I said, but my boss gave me 'easy' jobs for the last hour or so. During a break he took some time to talk to me. He was a little concerned. It was great that he didn't have to explain gear to me, but knowledge isn't everything. He needed people who could lift heavy weights, 14 hours a day, six days a week. He really wanted me aboard, but first he needed to know if I was capable of doing that.

14 times six is , um, er...84. That would be 44 hours of overtime per week. For that I would try my best, I assured him. I can't lift the really, really heavy stuff but you can let me loose on the mics and monitors and stuff. I can do lots of things. 44 hours of OT is a helluva motivator.


Well, no. See, I am considered an independent contractor. At the end of the year, I would have to report my own wages and taxes and there is no such thing as overtime . Oh.

I have to be realistic. I can't do 84-hour weeks of hard labor. This morning I could barely move. I have bruises, blisters and everything hurts except my feelings.

Today the boss asked me how old I was.

41.

He said he thought I was thirty. My youthful good looks and all...anyway, he politely said that 41 might be a bit old for what was expected of me. I saw this as an "out" and I took it.
Yeah, you are right, I said. I'm too old for this. Then I went outside into the cold rain and rinsed the stale beer out of two dozen plastic trash cans.

Boss asked if I could work until he found a replacement, a day or two? Apparently, his boss was pretty adamant about everyone lifting the heavy stuff, but he would try to cover for me- they needed hands though.
Sure, I can do an entire week if needed.

My replacement arrived this afternoon. I parted ways with my new job on good terms.

I don't feel bad though. I did my best and worked my ass off, but I have limits. 4 days a week, maybe...six is too much.

I've also been feeling differently about life in general. There was a time when getting paid beans to spend 6 nights a week at a rock show was my idea of fun; I thought my batteries were recharged but the accumulated years of rock-n-roll burnout haven't faded away after all.
The reality of a life spent moving heavy boxes in loud rooms with burly men who enjoy talking about their dicks is perhaps not the best reality for me.
Plus, I made a lot more money per hour as a secretary.

I have become a total square.

On/Off

My phone rings and suddenly I'm on the stage crew again. Hmmm...

I had been toying with the disturbingly comforting idea of having a clinically dissociative episode, but now I have to work in the morning- I guess my cognitive breakdown will have to be postponed-at least until after the Grateful Dead tribute show is over...eighteen hours or so.
I will be ass-deep in a sea of tripping hippie wannabees...all night.

I will remain functional, lucid and rational out of sheer spite, if nothing else.

Have I ever told you that I used to be a bus-following, tie-died, high-dosage Dead Head?
No shit.
Blue Dove...far out, maaaan. How many Grateful Dead songs have I played on the radio over the last three years?
Zero. None. I can barely stand the sound of them anymore. Blue Dove, far-out maaaaannn...

In any case, it feels like tomorrow is some sort of Karmic event. I just hope it's a good one.

Teenage House Party

This morning I turned on the radio and heard the robot, which meant that the DJ preceding me hadn't shown up-normally, this would really piss me off, but today was different. Today I had a new LP , Sandy Nelson's Teen Drums, and I figured I'd use the extra airtime to play the entire record from start to finish, pausing only long enough to change sides.

Alas, it was not to be.

By the time I arrived, our Gospel Guy was already there. I walked into the booth just in time to hear him completely fuck up, breaking serious rules- in the interest of the station, I won't repeat what he said but I will share what I said after I killed the mic:

"Have you lost your fucking mind?"

It was a rhetorical question. I already knew he was insane, I just hadn't counted on his witless utterances ruining my Teen Drums fantasy...I was no longer entranced by the wholesome innocence of the pupil-less teenage model and her red-sparkle sex toys...er, I mean drum kit. Red-sparkle drums...teen drums, to be specific.

Luckily, I was prepared. I'm as ready as a hundred Boy Scouts and my favorite Swiss Army Knife hails from East Germany:


Nina Hagen- Lucky Numbers
I have learned that an admission of the Major Hots for Nina Hagen is a sure-fire conversation killer. It doesn't matter who you are talking to, they will walk away and their opinion of you will be irrevocably diminished. Ask me if I care.

Pink Floyd- Bring The Boys Back Home
There are at least 100,000 ways to make on-air political commentary without risking a $250,000 FCC fine. This song, for example, is one such way.

Steve Hillage- It's All Too Much
Is it? I feel like Oliver fuckin' Twist.

Grace Slick & Paul Kantner- Harp Tree Lament
Grateful Dead lyricist Robert Hunter co-wrote this song. I like it anyway.

Kinks- Jukebox Music
Ray Davies is one of the best American songwriters of all-time. Him being British doesn't change that.

Damien Dempsey- The Jar Song
Damien sings about getting loaded with Christy Moore and Shane McGowan. Don't try that at home.

Rajput and the Sepoy- Up, Up and Away ( in my beautiful balloon)
Ok, I'm starting to get back into the storyline of my 1960's teen drums melodrama...this sitar-driven inanity is easily the worst song I have ever played, anywhere, at any time.
Don't expect an apology.

Klark Kent- Don't Care
"If you don't like my arrogance, you can suck my socks!"

Rod Stewart- Mama, You Been On My Mind
So true.

Steeleye Span- Dark-Eyed Sailor
If the leftover ballads from the period are any indication, 18th century courtship went something like this:

Him: " I am leaving on a long and dangerous sea journey, one from which I may never return. If you are ever going to put out, now is the time. I'll even marry you if I have to. I'm a dead man either way."

Her (swooning): "Yes, my darling. I will prove my love."

She, of course, becomes pregnant and he inevitably perishes in a horrible shipwreck, leaving her alone, pining away with her fatherless child, watching the horizon for a ship that will never come in...hold on a second while I check my email. I think it's broken.

Fiona Joyce- Long Road to Travel
The more things change the more we wish they hadn't.

Fairport Convention- Beggar's Lament
Have I mentioned my employment woes lately?

Altan- Suil Ghorm
This song might sound upbeat , but I'm pretty sure it involves some heartbreak. What doesn't?

Papa John Creach- Fiddlin' Around
PJC was to Jefferson Airplane what Sugarcane Harris was to Tupelo Chain Sex. Grok?

Iron Butterfly- Best Years of Our Life
Man, if the best years of your life were spent listening to Iron Butterfly...geez. Sorry.

Be Bop Deluxe- Sister Seagull
You're the reason I survive...this is a love song. To a guitar. Makes sense to me.

Al Stewart- Sirens of Titan
Thanks Leo!

Sandy Nelson- Quite a Beat
This is my favorite song on the record, but other titles include: Teen March; Teenage House Party and Bang a Teenage Gong.
Ok, I made the last one up...BTW, if you found this blog by 'accidentally' trolling for pervy delights, stay tuned. My next post is going to be about backtracking IP addresses.

Grin- You're the Weight
He mentions oceans, sex and drowning in this song...it's like Bergman with a rock beat.

Ten Years After- I'd Love To Change The World
After this song, a Public Service Announcement about pollution...

Neil Young- Let's Impeach the President
Followed by more FCC-safe commentary, courtesy of Old Neil.

Lou Reed- Satellite of Love
I dedicated this one to the spy machine that we recently exploded. Our government is pretty good at blowing up broken shit, I'll give 'em credit for that.

Pretty Things- She Don't
I'll be there.

Katie Lee- Will to Fail
Or not.

Quicksilver Messenger Service- Gold & Silver
Right before the really, really good twin guitar part my record started skipping...I bought this album in 1982 and it waited this long to fuck up? On air? How embarrassing. I felt naked and exposed. Impotent, like.

Atomic Rooster- People You Can't Trust
Do you have a sitemeter thing on your blog? Do you sometimes get hits from folks searching for things like " naked teenage girl eating possum at drummer house party"?
This song is about those people.



Next: What am I , a prophet?

Kvetching and Betching: With Update

"Something good to say?"
That doesn't mean anything.
Sometimes I hate my own writing, but not as much as I hate having my very mundane and wholly reasonable dreams dashed on a daily basis. Some days bring multiple dashings.

First, an old stone that's been in my shoe for months:

For a long time I've had a Sunday morning radio show. Seven in the morning;an OK slot for a newbie, which I no longer am. For months, I've been asking for a better time slot...a while back , one opened up.

I wanted it. I asked for it. Multiple times. No use. An open, public announcement was made in hopes of filling the time-spot. One I felt I'd earned. It was up for grabs. To the public too, even if they had never even heard of the station.

After much hippie hand-wringing, it was decided that an ad hoc committee would be formed and all the applications would be voted on by the committee, which was comprised of everyone who showed up at the meeting, which was the largest crowd in station history.

It was essentially a popularity contest. I do poorly in those.

I was also disqualified for not attending the meeting. Two of my friends pointed out that I was at my grandmother's funeral 150 miles away and perhaps my show should be considered despite my absence .
This didn't help my show get on the air but it did give me a fair idea of how many friends I have in a crowded room at a place that I have given three and a half years of my life to.

I feel great about that.

But at least I have a job, right, and one that I am excited about. I was afraid I'd have a hard time sleeping Thursday night, being all nervous about the next day...at around 10 pm Thursday my phone rang. It was my new boss:

"There's a storm coming in, they have postponed the show until Monday."

"Oh.That sucks. Well, see you Monday morning, same time and place then?"

"No. We don't need you for that show.".

"Oh. What about the other shows? I'm ready to go, anytime. All summer."

"Probably not. Maybe late summer, helping with the tents in the West End. I'll call you"

Click.

What the fuck? The last time we talked, it was like we were old pals...now this?
On the website it mentions the storm and some city inspection trouble, but the rest of the shows are still on...someone has to set up the scaffolding, hook up the monitors and carry the gear around. I thought that I was going to be one of those guys...I know it's not lucrative or glamorous, but it's what I want and it''s damned hard to get a break into the biz...I had my break. Or not, it turns out.

I'm back to dreaming of simply sitting in a cube for 40 hours a week, fucking around with someone's Word and Excel docs, but that dream is more elusive than the music business...last week I endured three interviews, all through agencies and all done en masse. What is with these 'group interviews' anyway? When did that start?
These are for file clerk and secretarial positions, not for cheerleader tryouts.

Anyway, I felt pretty sexy when I thought I had that job. Sexy enough to answer a local personal ad, the only one of dozens that made me laugh; a very witty and sly writer- I met every one of her listed requirements -including having a job that I was passionate about-I sent her a very entertaining, upbeat and downright sweet missive- and she wrote directly back! At length and with humor! She had even figured out -via radio clues- who I was. Despite knowing this, she wrote back! It's looks like a date is almost inevitable.

I've been blogging long enough to know when romantic words are (or aren't) working and this was good...especially given that in this case we live in the same city...but now I have to explain that I don't really have a job...if that part wasn't true, why should she believe anything else I say?

What am I gonna do? Show her my blog? Sometimes I think the only reason I don't delete this fucker is because I may need it as an exhibit for my insanity defense.

Well, I gotta run. One of my DJs canceled at the last minute and it's my responsibility to make sure the shift is covered. I'll have some help from one of my new trainees, who has been a bright spot on my otherwise sore radio mood, so that's good...halfway through the show, I have to leave in order to attend a technical meeting.

I feel like quitting.


Update: The show tonight was fun and our meeting included pizza and a discussion about microphone processors, compression ratios and CD repairs. To me, that's a good time. I can't quit...I have another show in ten hours...and a compressor to calibrate...and pizza...fuck.

Nevermind

I'll be back when I have something good to say.

If.

Job!

I start a new job on Friday. I just found out a few minutes ago and I really wish my grandmother was still alive so that I could call her and tell her. She'd be very happy.

It looks to be a good one. This isn't a union state, so the pay isn't all that great, but it's a very good place for me to gain experience and meet the 'right' people. I'll be starting as a stagehand; my background in audio was a big factor in hiring me- I need some training before working the front-of-house and monitor mixers, that being my long-term objective. This is my chance to get that training. Stage work is hard and is not glamorous- it's long hours as well... for example, if the show is from 8pm-11pm, the crew is there from, say, 11 am to 3am...it's been 15 years since I did this for a living, so I'll have to adjust. It'll be easy, I think, or at least worth it. Plus, I like sound. A lot.

Here are some dates on my new work schedule as well as a site that describes my new place of employment:

March 1- The Wailers
March 7- Neville Bros.
March 10- Little Feat
March 18- Willie Nelson...Willie Nel-

Willie Nelson! Wow.
No shit? I'll be helping Willie? My karma seems to be improving...I have been worried about that lately.

April 4- Jorma Kaukonen- Jorma, late of Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna, is one of my all-time guitar heroes, ever. No kidding. I have huge love for this man's music.

April 15- Pat Benatar- She's from Richmond, y'know?

Oh yeah- I might have to take time off to be a roadie for the Doobie Bros. this spring... I wasn't sure if that offer was real or not, but it came from the same source as this job, I start this job Friday morning, so the Doobies may well be true...I do have good roadie skills so I'm ready if they are.


Anyway, this will be interesting.

ZZZZ

"Mmmrrrlllmmmbbbmmmrrmm."

"Wake up."

"Mmmr...uh? What?"

"Wake up. You were mumbling in your sleep. You do that a lot. It's starting to bother me."

"What do I say?"

"I don't know...I can't understand it. Consonants, mostly."

"But you can't understand any of it? Not a single word?"

"Nothing. Nada."

"Good. I'm going back to sleep now."

Radio Today: 1980's Crap

It was great.

Tires

Kathy had a problem with her bicycle. It was out in the shed, behind the house we shared and she wanted to know if I could take a look at it for her, maybe figure out what was wrong with it. I thought this was odd, Kathy could take apart an automobile engine and I, well, I didn't even have a driver's permit. What would I know about broken bicycles?

But I said 'yes' anyway. I always did, even when I didn't want to. Kathy was like that.

"Great!", she said, grabbed my hand and led me out of the kitchen door and up the steep backyard hill to the tin storage shed.

Was this Utah? Maryland? I didn't have time to get my bearings, suddenly we were in the musty little shed and Kathy was shining a flashlight on an old, rust-colored Huffy 10-speed. Even I could see what was wrong with it.

"Kathy, your wheels are flat."

"Can't be. I just inflated them."

"No. I mean that they are flat- they are squares. They have four flat sides. Wheels, by definition, are round."

"These aren't squares. They are rectangles. Or maybe triangles".

I looked more closely in the narrow beam of light. The tires kept shifting, it was hard to determine what shape they really were or how many sides they really had. I wasn't even sure it was a bicycle. It may have been a tricycle.

"I stand corrected. In any case, that's the most fucked-up bike that I've ever seen. Did you slip me some acid earlier or something?"

"No", she laughed, "I really just wanted you to crack my lizard."

"You know", I replied,"I would have fucked you in the house if you'd asked. It would be a lot more comfortable."

"No, silly, the lizard on my back. It's sore. I need you to crack it for me. You remember how to do that, right?"

I didn't have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

"Of course I remember."

"Good." She handed me the flashlight, turned around and pulled her shirt over her head, exposing her naked back. There was a small green lizard tattoo in an odd location, halfway between her bra-strap and her ass. It was wiggling.

"Just press down on it like you always do."

"Uh, sure", I reached out and touched the inked reptile. There was a loud 'pop' and it stopped moving. Kathy sighed.

"Thanks honey. Hey, bring that light over, take a look at this", she beckoned me over to the shifty bike.
Oh man, I didn't want to look at that thing. It made my head hurt. Square tires? Fuck.

"Sure. What's up?", I knelt down next to her, trying not to let my irritation at the psych-bike show.

Our faces were inches apart and a lock of her auburn hair slipped into my mouth. My head filled with her fantastic smell and suddenly I realized that she and I were not yet lovers and that this was to be our first kiss. It was a moment of sublime anticipatory grace.

Later, I was tracing lines on her back with my finger. The lizard was gone.

"Kathy, your tattoo isn't there."

"What tattoo? I don't have any tattoos. And did you just call me 'Kathy'?"

"Um, no, of course not", I lied, and addressed her by her real name. "By the way, what year is this?"

"What year is this?", she looked at me as if I had a fever. "Are you high?"

"Probably. Seriously, what year is this?"

She rolled onto my chest and sank her eyes into mine. One of her eyes was blue, the other green.

"This," she said, "is the Summer of Fucking Love. And."

"And?"

"And if you ever call me 'Kathy' again, I will kill you in your sleep."

Same Old News

A couple of weeks ago the Pentagon announced that a disabled U.S. spy satellite would soon fall harmlessly to Earth. Today we are told that the satellite poses a potential hazard and the military plans on launching a missile attack on our own surveillance device.

President Bush ordered the action to prevent any possible contamination from that hazardous rocket fuel on board, and not out of any concern that parts of the spacecraft might survive and its secrets be revealed, officials said. The challenging mission to demolish it instead on the fringes of space will rely on an unforeseen use of ship-based weapons developed to defend against ballistic missile attacks. That makes it a real-world test both of the nation’s antiballistic missile systems and its antisatellite capabilities, even though the Pentagon said that they were not using the exercise to test their most exotic weapons or send a message to any adversaries.

Gosh. I thought it was just a cynical opportunistic ploy by BushCo and the Star Wars defense lobby to drum up support for the useless, lucrative contracts they've been seeking since the Reagan era, but it's really just for our own safety. The Pentagon is going to use missiles to save us from our own space trash, targeting the satellite as it hurtles out of orbit. To make us safe.

If we don't shoot down that spy junk, maybe it'll land on a FEMA trailer park and make the 'temporary' housing even more toxic and uninhabitable than it already is.

ATLANTA -- U.S. health officials are urging that Gulf Coast hurricane victims be moved out of their government-issued trailers as quickly as possible after tests found toxic levels of formaldehyde fumes.

Given this administration's record on public safety, it's probably better if they stay the fuck out of gravity's way and just let the goddamn thing burn up in re-entry. I'm from the generation that survived Skylab; I'm not afraid of space junk. I am afraid of incompetent fuckwads with more bombs than sense though. They'll probably wind up blowing the moon out of orbit by mistake.

The government also feels that it cannot protect America unless it first protects AT&T, Verizon and other telecom giants that are currently subject to dozens of multi-million dollar civil lawsuits for illegally spying on Americans. If we, the people, are allowed to sue Verizon, the Taliban wins and everyone dies.

Meanwhile, John McCain has changed his mind and decided that waterboarding isn't torture after all and has decided to support Bush's decision to veto any anti-torture legislature that might cross his desk.

In [a recent] BBC interview, Bush was asked whether, given waterboarding and other human rights abuses, he could claim the US still occupied the moral high ground.
Bush said: "Absolutely."

I'm not sure if he said that before these letters from Gitmo were released or after the House of Representatives ruled that his confidantes Harriet Miers and John Bolten are in contempt of Congress for refusing to respond to Congressional subpoenas during the investigation into politically motivated Justice Dept. firings.

I guess it really doesn't matter. No one who deserves punishment will get it. We the people will have our asses waterboarded by Verizon and the government will be there to make sure we stay gagged...on the positive side, it's pretty unlikely that we'll be crushed by a falling satellite.

Gifts

Way back in ancient times, the evil American Sun Kings and Queens of Temperance declared that the rabble should sober up. This didn't sit well with the rabble, who quickly defected to more 'spirited' personality cults, such as the ones led by charismatics like St. Bugs and the legendary St. Alphonse. In the course of establishing the only religion honest enough to call itself Organized Crime, these beatific bootleggers became fierce, bitter and violent rivals for the lucrative tithing of the parched and desperately sober masses.

Like most profitable religions, Organized Crime soon sparked it's share of competition, internal conflict, bloodshed and corruption; and so, on Feb. 14, 1929, missionaries from the Capone Church, aided by Centurions on loan from the Chicago Police Legion , decided that the Bugs Boys needed some Holy Reformation. They took a half-dozen or so Moran followers into a garage on Clark Street and nailed them to the wall with hundreds of .45 caliber Theses.

Today, we use roses and candlelight dinners to mark that occasion.

This makes poetic sense if your love life resembles mine; for your sake I hope that it doesn't.
If it does, I'm truly sorry. Maybe it'd help if I offered some priceless gift alternatives. By priceless, I mean worthless. Buy them for yourself, it may the only attention you'll get on the 14th.

THE CAMELSBACK SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE CATALOG FOR THE UNLOVED AND DEPRESSED:

EMOTIONAL TRAIN WRECK

No lights. No tunnel. Just derailment, gravity and inertia. You probably thought that you'd never need to wear a parachute on a train. You thought wrong.

A real bargain for only 76 cents!

EXPRESSIONS OF UNREQUITED LOVE

This could be that letter you wish that you'd torn up when you had the chance. Maybe it's that necklace you knew that she'd love-the one you purchased the day before she told you she wasn't looking for a relationship. Perhaps it's three weeks of unreturned phone calls. It might be a horribly embarrassing love poem or song that fell into the wrong hands.

Two lousy bucks.This item knows no limits , so don't be such a cheap-ass.

A LIFETIME TOGETHER

Well, you got what you wanted. Too bad it turned out to suck, but hey, there were some good times, weren't there? Weren't there? Live the same miserable day over and over for the rest of your pointless life while you brood about the way it could have been. Even your children will pity you.

If you have to ask, you can't afford it.

LONELY ALCOHOLIC MELANCHOLIA

He doesn't deserve you. Take another shot.

Buy yourself something nice. No one else will.

ENDLESS SEARCH FOR LOVE

Remember how your friends used to tell you that there was someone for everyone , and someday, somebody special would see you for the irresistibly sweet, kind and golden soul that you are? That was bullshit and they knew it.These days, your friends don't call you very often; they've all married and had kids and you haven't.

Maybe throwing your money away will make you feel better.

.

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

Tuesday I had what I thought was a cold. Sniffles, sneezes. No big deal, right? I haven't been sick- really sick- for two and a half years and I wasn't about to let sniffles ruin my mood- I have mourning, grief, poverty, disillusionment, depression, rejection, loneliness and a horribly eroded sense of self-worth for that - with all those, who needs sniffles and sneezes in order to feel bad?

A sneeze- at face value - is a lot like an orgasm. In highly-scientific terms, during a sneeze (or a climax) a great number of specific nerve endings go wheee simultaneously and it causes a brief, powerful physical pleasure coupled with the expulsion of goo from the appropriate orifice(s). This lasts several seconds at maximum.

According to practitioners of Tantric sex, the human orgasm can be extended for hours...this sounds pretty good, right? Well, I have mastered the art of Tantric sneezing and it's no fun at all.
I had a single sneeze that went on for hours- endless, debilitating hours. Usually I enjoy a good sneeze, but this was torturous respiratory misery at it's worst, not revelatory kundalini mysticism at it's best.

It's really hard to enjoy being miserable when you can't breathe. By late Weds. night , my chest and throat- my entire face as well- were sore and painful from coughing, sneezing and the constant, forceful outward blowing required to maintain life...in order to inhale, I first had to clear enough space in my air passages for oxygen atoms to pass through. I am no scientist, it was my mistaken understanding that atoms were fairly small objects; I was a bit surprised when I learned-the hard way- that the air we breathe actually consists of gravel, thumbtacks, twigs and ground glass. Ow.

Shortly after midnight I drove to the all-night druggist. The young lady behind the counter took one look at my sweaty, shaky, emaciated self and started giving me directions to the nearest Methadone clinic...such is the neighborhood I live in.

Then she looked down at my intended purchases: A giant bottle of night-time cough syrup, a bag of menthol lozenges and an overpriced quart of orange juice. She picked up the medicine bottle and pointed to the label:

"Sir, these products no longer contain pseudoephedrine."

"Wha...I am not making homemade meth. I have the flu. "

To illustrate my point I sneezed in her direction, just barely failing to cover my mouth in time. Oops. I felt like wiping my nose on the ten-dollar bill I handed to her as payment, but I refrained from doing so, me being a polite Southern Gentleman and all.

Thursday was a day of torpor. I tried playing a computer game of Civilization IV, but I forgot to feed my citizens; they revolted and deposed me, which I took as a cue to go back to bed.
For 16 hours.

Friday was much the same, although I tried to interact with the real world a little- the results were not much better than my brief attempt at PC-simulated regency- after burning a few real-life drawbridges, I decided that another 20-hour nap was in order.

Today I merely feel terrible, which in terms relative to Thursday's malaise, is excellent.

One thing I did while I was deathly ill was to accumulate blog awards, one of which, ironically, is for Excellent blogging. Usually my blog fills me with the same sense of pride that I felt when circumstance forced me into presenting a Roach Motel from the family kitchen as my 6th grade Science Fair project.
(Hypothesis: Roaches go in but they don't come out. )
I got a B+.
I would have aced it , but one dogged cockroach escaped...in hindsight, I should have rigged the experiment by removing a few legs from each insect beforehand.

But when I saw that ??? had deemed my blog as 'Excellent', I was forced to reconsider my low self-worth. Of all my blogpals, ??? is one of those that I most admire. There are many reasons why I feel this way; one of the primary being her parenting skills.
When I was a kid, I, like her children, loved archery and fencing- one of the best things my own father ever did was 'talk' a local medieval recreation group into suspending it's (18+) age requirements and letting my brother and myself participate in their tourneys and mock wars- some of the fondest memories of my teen years revolve around archery and foam-padded swordplay; when I see pics of her kids fashioning their own bows...well, I can't help but love that.

If she thinks that my blog is excellent, then it truly is.

Thursday I got these, a two-fer from my Pal of Pals, the redoubtable Whim:

Whim became my friend at a time when many of my blogpals were deserting me,
she has since become a steadfast off-blog friend as well. I got to know her before I learned the full details of her story...I have become quite squeamish when it comes to the suffering of people that I care about, so I will not go into what happened to Whim; I will only say that she is one zillion times stronger than she might think, yet she is still only human; I will add that I love her dearly for that. If you haven't visited her site, check her sidebar for the suggested starting points in order to get the complete background.

I must say that I don't participate in many awards, memes and the like. On-line, as in reality, I am an iconoclastic loner with fingerprints on many surfaces and footprints on very few.

This may give the impression that I am aloof, indifferent and apathetic.

Pft. Whatever. I don't care.

I am, however, currently experiencing just the right combination of fever, pharmacology and weariness to allow me to achieve a state of temporary benevolence. Warm fuzzies at 102 Fahrenheit.

In other words, let me say a few kind things about a handful of fellow bloggers before the phone rings and some motherfucker ruins my day.

- Yin-Yang. She's a high school student with a brilliant, inquisitive mind and an intellectual curiosity that typical teen ephemera (such as MTV) cannot EVER hope to satisfy. She entered- and escaped- the carefully constructed emotional and psychological beartraps laid out by one Mr. Ron Luce, a feat which, sadly, many young persons cannot accomplish.

If the world is to be 'saved' -I prefer the phrase 'well-managed'- it will be by young people such as YY and the offspring of ???.
Yin was, in no small way, the inspiration for the protagonist in this short piece of fiction. I hope she doesn't choose revenge.
(The adults are modeled after mine, not hers, btw.)

-Craig. For someone who describes himself as 'doughy', Craig is made of pretty durable stuff. He recently survived a long bout of unemployment and a 50th birthday, two things that I am not sure that I can or will do. Doughy? Pft. He deserves better:


- JP. Acting under direction from then-Attorney General John Ashcroft, I was sent to infiltrate JP's blog in order to gather intelligence about the dreaded Gay Agenda. I must say that the homosexuals do a damned good job of encrypting their data- 'Britney's Panties' seems to be a sort of Rosetta Stone that I cannot decipher...my report to the AG went like this:

"Boss, I think that the gays pretty much want to drink and watch TV with their buddies. They (mostly) go to work but they don't especially like their jobs. They like warm weather and dislike rude neighbors. It also pisses them off when their cars get towed."

I was told to dig deeper, so I watched a couple re-run episodes of Queer Eye.

This, according to my QE research, is how the Gay Agenda works:
They (the Gays) pick an unsuspecting and hopelessly unfashionable straight man (such as myself) and give him an entire apartment full of cool new furniture, clothing and accessories. Then they clean him up, dress him nicely and present him to a heterosexual, unmarried woman- when she sees the 'new' man that the QE dudes have created, she invariably accepts the straight man's marriage proposal.

The Gay Agenda: Encourage Heterosexual Marriages.
Devious, eh?

(JP, please speed-dial the QE dudes forthwith- I could use their help!)

Auld Hat- I think JP helps her encrypt some of her posts, but the ones I do understand are usually brilliant. She's good at everything...it's scary, really.
Attractive too. Last week I was showing my blog to my 80-year old great-aunt and Hat's icon caught her eye.

"That one. She looks nice. Do you like her?"

*gulp*
"Ah, noooo...I don't even know her."

"Liar. You are blushing."
Busted.

Hat knows I'm a mess but she talks to me anyway and I'm always glad to see her when she does. I hope she's enjoying her trip at the moment- spittle, diapers and all.

Wow. I've left out a lot of my favorite blogs. I apologize for that, but I'm still a bit sick and I think I need another nap. Tomorrow brings an early radio show and I have a new trainee to indoctrinate in the morning.

G'day 'till next time.

War Money

What happened in 2003 that caused Exxon- Mobil's profits to double?

Was it Super Bowl XXXVII?
No.

Was it Great White?
No.

What else happened that year?

We invaded Iraq.

Exxon-Mobil has managed to quadruple it's profits in the five years that have passed since BushCo started the Iraq War. This trend shows no sign of change, in fact E-M just posted the highest-ever annual profit by an American company, beating the record that was set by themselves last year.

One would think that such an announcement would be celebrated, but Exxon is trying to down- play it; there are currently quite a few apologists trying to explain how this boom is actually very good for America. They point to the enormous taxes that Exxon pays on those profits ; on the surface this sounds almost reasonable:

"Millions of people benefit financially, as either individual shareholders, or through their pension, insurance and mutual funds that hold Exxon Mobil shares," [E-M public affairs VP] Mr. Cohen said. "We have over 2.5 million individual shareholders alone, and for every dollar we earn, we contribute US$2.50 in taxes the governments use to provide schools, roads, hospitals, and other essential services. In the U.S. alone, our total tax expenses over the past five years were about US$65-billion, exceeding our U.S. earnings during that period by more than US$18-billion."

The only problem with this is that it isn't exactly true. I mean, with all that moola rolling into "essential services", you'd think we'd be living in a Golden Age. Instead, the federal deficit is threatening to break BushCo's 2004 record of $413 billion dollars.
One year, Exxon breaks records, the very next year the federal deficit hits an all-time high. Interesting.
It happened in 2003-2004 and it's happening again right now.
Does this feel like a Golden Age?

The man that gave Exxon their 2003 cash cow is doing his best to make sure that as little money goes to social services and programs as possible. BushCo's recent budget proposal includes large increases for defense spending and drastic cuts in social programs:

The Pentagon would receive a $36 billion, 8 percent boost for the 2009 budget year beginning Oct. 1, even as programs aimed at the poor would be cut back or eliminated. Half of domestic Cabinet departments would see their budgets cut outright.

The tax dollars are funneled to the Pentagon, which awards contracts to corporations like Exxon, who return a portion as "taxes", which are given back to the companies in the form of more government contracts and so on, all at the expense of the average citizen. It's an amazingly efficient mechanism for the upward re-distribution of wealth but it requires an endless war in order to maintain itself.

That is why we invaded Iraq.

To BushCo, the Iraq War is not a failure, it's a huge success. That infamous "Mission Accomplished" banner was true- the Mission was to make money, which obviously has been done. Peace would break the money cycle, which is why the Bushies have been so hot to invade Iran as well...we'd be at war forever if they did. Profits would continue to rise and a new generation of impoverished, jobless Americans would make excellent fodder a volunteer army.

Desperate economic times at home would prevent the need to re-instate the military draft- if there are no jobs or opportunities, then the poor kids will have little choice but to enlist; a draft would be inevitable in prosperous times as few people would be willing to give up good jobs for a bad war, so it's unlikely that we'll see prosperity while the war profiteers are calling the shots in D.C.- BushCo knows the best way to avoid a draft is to limit the educational and career opportunities of America's youth, forcing enlistment up.

Actually, the best way too prevent a draft would be to not start wars in the first place but it's a little late for that now.

Happy Trails

I had two job interviews on Saturday. If I accept them both, clone myself and simultaneously work at both locations I can earn a combined sum of fourteen dollars an hour. The two positions are at two affiliated record stores, one of which is managed by a friend that I wouldn't mind working for- if I could survive on eight bucks an hour. I can't. He said I would be a great asset to the business, but offering me less than a living wage is a bit insulting and it left me feeling sour.

The other store offered me six dollars an hour.

Six dollars is what I made at my first 'real' job (dishwasher) twenty- four years ago. Things are considerably more expensive in 2007 than they were in 1984 and I think my next salary should take that into account. I was speechless when I heard "six" but I'm sure my expression spoke for me, daggers and scowls is all I had by way of reply. The manager told me that everyone wanted to work there ( is everyone an aggressively pierced poseur kid who lives at home and thinks working in a record store will launch their indie rock career?) and that experience wasn't really what they were looking for, contrary to what I had been told the previous night.

Twice in one afternoon I was told that I am worthless. Saturday sucked.

Saturday night was...fodder for a later post.

Sunday was much better. First, there was my weekly radio show:

XTC- Dying/Sacrificial Bonfire
Alan Parsons Project- Don't Let It Show
Eleanor McCovey- Whisper & Prayer
Billie Holliday- Don't Explain
Cat Stevens- Life
Steeleye Span- The Blacksmith
John Prine- Grandpa Was A Carpenter
Loreena McKinnett- All Souls Night
Marianne Faithfull- Guilt
Atomic Rooster- Stand By Me
Chieftains & co.- Millenium Celtic Suite
Jefferson Airplane- Thunk
Eleni Mandell- Man In The Paper Hat
Pentangle- Night Flight
Mitch H. Price- Love Roller Coaster
Moody Blues- Ride My See Saw
Faces- Stay With Me
Pretty Things- The Sun
Stranglers- Ships That Pass In The Night
Fred Frith- Balance
The Kinks- You Don't Know My Name
Ray Davies' younger brother wrote and sings the lead on this song. Ray's brother's name is Dave. My name is not Dave.

Emerson, Lake and Palmer- Still You Turn Me On
Claanad- Love and Affection
Fairport Convention- The Way I Feel
Bruce Cockburn- The Strong One
Neil Young- Looking For A Leader
Clash- Lost In The Supermarket
Roy Buchanan- Tribute To Elmore James
Anuna- Peperit Virgo

Afterwards, my maternal uncle took the Twin and I to see his property in the country.
It's beautiful and the work he's done is amazing. There's an extensive bull-dozed maze of roads designed for motorbikes and ATVs; there are hills, loops, mud jumps, all perfectly suited for raising off-road hell- I knew my uncle was good at building things, but I didn't know he'd built an entire universe in the middle of nowhere. He rocks!

This is where my uncle is going to build his house.

The Twin is smarter than me. He wore a helmet.

I was scared at first. I figured I'd hit a tree and split my head open. I was half-right.
Vroom! Bam! I hit a tree after 10 seconds. Nothing hurt but my pride, though. I rode for hours without mishap, really grooving on the speed, sounds and sights.
Before we left I was jumping the mudpit, all four wheels in the air- man-what a thrill! I'll be sore tomorrow, but it'll be worth it.

My uncle rode his bike and led us on a scenic backwoods trip that wound up down at the river.


Twin: "Having fun?"

Me: "Hell yeah! This is better than sex!"

Twin: " How's that?"

Me: "This thing doesn't call me 'Dave' when I ride it."








A perfect day. Only one thing to make it better... 17-14, Patriots lose!

A Perfect Season has to include the Super Bowl. Ha ha ha ha ha ! Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ha!

2007 is Over

The radio station had it's third birthday party tonight- our little non-profit volunteer station has been on the air for three years and one month- our 'real' birthday is Jan. 1st, 2005, but we have our celebrations in February...this year I decided that I would use the occasion to name Feb. 1, 2008 as my personal New Year's day; according to my revised calendar, this past January was part of 2007, a year that was so miserable and unlucky that it deserves a thirteenth shitty month. 2007 had two Januaries and they both sucked. Good riddance.

I admit that I was tempted to skip the party and stay home. I didn't do that. I felt like I was at a crucial point; that if I withdrew from the world now, I might never go out again, ever. It was a jolting realization, so I braved the bad weather and crappy parking and went downtown.

I'm glad I did. I arrived feeling lonely, depressed and hopeless and I left feeling lonely, depressed and hopeful, a significant improvement in attitude. I only stayed a few hours, but in that time I managed to set up a pair of job interviews, was approached by a band about some production work, re-established contact with an old friend that I've always been a little sweet on (she asked for my number, woo!) and had free food aplenty.

After a few hours things started catching up to me...I've been meeting with people all week - at the funeral home, the church, the burial- tonight I was exhausted quickly, but not before seeing some old friends and making a few tentative steps towards the future.

Well, not so tentative, perhaps. My potential employer wants to meet with me tomorrow , hopefully to get me started working post-haste and I'm hoping that my old friend calls soon. After months of illness and death, a booty-call would be positively life-affirming.

Tonight I'm tired. I feel grief calling and I have learned the hard way that it's not something that one should ignore. Tonight I will cry a bit while no one can see me, tomorrow I will start life over.

I'm looking forward to it.