Happy New Year 2019

I think the most astonishing thing about 2018 was that Childish Gambino dropped "This Is America" all the way back in May, and not much changed. I found that work to be so astonishing, so direct, so urgent that I half expected it to plunge a sword into the planet and cause a massive ripple of awareness planet-wide. But instead it dried up and blew away just like the Charles Atlas bully said, just like everything does.

It is 2019 now for 26 minutes, and I am watching the entertainment on the ABC. The first music I heard in 2019 was a live performance by somebody named Post Malone. There was no band, not even a group of stand-ins pretending to be a band, just him, just this guy saying these things into a microphone as if he's singing. Now this other chick is on the TV lip-syncing something into a microphone. And the weird part to me is that all the kids in the audience know all the words to all of these songs, and they're singing along like she's singing "Free Bird." Okay wait, I figured it out. The one on my TV right now is somebody named Camila Cabello, and she is singing her new hit single, "I'll Never Be The Same."

I sure am glad I don't have to like that shitty music. There's enough good music that I don't have to know all the words to Post Malone songs and Camila Cabello songs.

Well, nothing to do but toast with a shot of Jager and go to sleep. I gotta work tomorrow. Yes, that's right. I'm one of the suckers working New Year's Day. Woot.

He's Such A Charmer Oh No

Hot Rats

Wow. I am finding it difficult to believe that I have never before listened to Zappa's Hot Rats. It is, truly, the necessary companion piece to Burnt Weenie Sandwich, while somehow simultaneously both bridge and precursor to later works like Jazz From Hell. Hot Rats is like the missing link. And it's awesome. I find myself hearing some gorgeous melody in it and wondering if this grouchy, practical man actually had that voice somewhere, or if he was merely exploiting music theory, and if Willie the Pimp is meant to tip the scales on that question. Anyway, I'm amazed that I'm a Zappa nut at my age who's never heard this one. That's the lovely thing about Frank. He did so much that you can always learn something new. (By the way, did I mention that eMusic carries a whole lotta Zappa?)

You Better Get Right...

Whilst in sunny Illinois: I couldn't help but read the bumpersticker out loud in the back of the cab. I wish I hadn't. But it made use of an ol' Southernbaptisism that I only know because it's a Jennyanykind song. It was sort of in rhebus form somehow, and it said, "you better get right with God," and so I read it out loud and went "hmmmmph." The coworker next to me said, "That's right." Then said, "What, are you not a true believer, Aaron?" Now, my religious beliefs cannot actually be written on a notecard. I tend to follow the thinking of many of our Founding Fathers, most of whom were Deists. However, I also tend to believe in some form of reincarnation. But I do not tend to accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. Call me a skeptic, or call me a person who was not * raised * with any particular faith. More certainly, call me someone who has noticed that belief in Jesus Christ has been one of the most politically misppropriated forces of the universe, evar, and that this trend has been on a spectacular rise as of late. You may also call me somebody who has found more universal truths in Frank Zappa's Only In It For The Money than from any book in the Bible. Finally, call me someone who thinks a tale that spans from virgin birth to resurrection is only slightly less goofy than the one about the winged horse flying thousands and thousands of miles in an evening or the fella what found holy documents based on the advice of an Indian ghost. But how do you explain this to the Suthun belle sitting next to you in the cab after the wine and the prawns and in a still semi-work environment yet? So I mumbled something like, no, but I appreciate folks who do have faith. Which I do. As my answer trailed off, she chimed in with a "Veddy intedesting." Which I thought was weird. Her editorial comment was as if to say, how very strange it is that you say you don't believe in the Christ. Wow. You really are a weirdo. And I find it sad as a progressive that this country hasn't gotten further than this, that in fact the government has been infiltrated by the Lubavitch of Christianity, and that just admitting that you believe differently than a Christ-worshipper grants you an eyeroll. I once, seriously, had a fella tell me that the Consititution guarantees us freedom of religion, not freedom from religion. Seriously. So, by this guy's mandate, I'd be game to be locked up in the stocks because I tend to believe that some fortuitous spark, not an ethereal being who watches over us like Santy Claus and requires us to kiss his ass every Sunday, is what led to all of this? Anyway, I know I'm probably overreacting. I often do. Still, I sort of wish I hadn't read that stupid bumpersticker out loud.

Play Spy at the Airport

I have just got back from the Chicago trip. It was a good meeting, and I'm glad I went. I schmoozed with members of the trade association I work for as best I can and schmoozed with a few coworkers as well. Six of us took a train into the city and ate Chinese last night at a trendy little joint called "Opera." I had the prawns. I left the hotel right after the noon meeting. I didn't need to, as it turns out. One of my colleagues at the D.C. office had overnighted me the replacement driver's license I'd ordered after I lost my wallet, so the full cavity search I received at Dulles (okay, so it wasn't that severe) was not a concern. And, as it turns out, my plane was delayed. But I got to snoop around at O'Hare. Ate lunch at the Chili's, which seems to be the only reasonable place at O'Hair where a man can get a beer and lunch and sit down and enjoy it. Then I wandered around to the usual suspects, book stores, gadget stores. Picked up a Rolling Stone and a Computer Shopper. There's some good stuff in RS about the atmospheric C02 that's ravaging the planet and such. I flew one of them new-fangled big-ass planes. That was nice. Each seat had a little screen in front of it, and you could call up a map to show you where your plane was and how long it was before you'd get there and such. Very good for the little kid inside of you going, "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" So I'm home and I'm glad and I haven't yet seen my cat, who I assume is upstairs snoogling with the housemate who's been taking care of her. Time to catch up on e-mail and Tivo. Good to be home.

At least he didn't eat the sofa...

My girl, her housemate and I returned to her house Saturday night apprehensive. Said housemate has a big floppy mutt (previously pictured here, but he's a lot bigger now) that she figures has some Great Dane in him, and, well, as they say in the South, bless his heart. They were apprehensive because he tends to eat furniture. They walked in and were very happy to find that he had not eaten any furniture. Then they explored the rest of the house. He had eaten a copy of the housemate's dissertation and had laid a turd in the middle of the kitchen. I wish I could say I had come up with something as witty on the spot as to lean down to the beast, pet him on the head, and to say, "Not so crazy about the dissertation, eh, buddy?" No, I just thought of that this morning. Damnit. Instead, all I could think to point out was how glad these two were that the dog hadn't eaten any furniture. But. But. But. But. But he SHIT in your KITCHEN! That's like the worst thing a dog can do! I don't think they quite grasped that. I think perhaps the neo-medieval code of "you don't shit where you eat" is something that only rings genuinely true if you're a fella. And I can't tell you how this real-life representation of this metaphor tickled me.

Over and Over

Attention, practitioners of the American English language: Can we please stop using the word "over," which most directly is meant to explain a specific spatial relationship, when you mean to say "more than," which is meant to explain a specific relationship regarding amount? No, goddamnit, Takeru Kobayashi did not eat "over" 40 hot dogs in 12 minutes to win the Nathan's Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest this year. He ate "more than" 40 hot dogs. When you say that Kobayashi ate "over" 40 hot dogs, I imagine 40 hot dogs on the floor and Kobayashi hovering over (you see?) them while eating a TV dinner. "More than." Say it with me. "Mooooooore thaaaaaaan." Very good. Because you're on TV, dummy. I watched Network again last night. That is such an incredible movie. The folks who made it told the future, didn't they? You have to keep slapping yourself on the back of the head to remind yourself that this movie was made WELL BEFORE television ever had anything like The Howard Biehl Show on the air. Don't even get me started about the movie's commentary about Saudi ownership of the U.S. of A.

The Dude Abides

We decided last weekend that the groom was, indeed, "The Dude." It's the hair, I guess. And the attitude. It was a nice wedding. Sorry about denting your open bar bill so badly, dude. Thank goodness there was a nice big bed after. This Otto crashed the reception. That was funny. Overheard him talking to a waiter. "So, like, what, you just have a happy hour right now or something?" he said. The waiter explained to him that all of these people dressed up in monkeysuits were there for a wedding reception. Oops. I was winner of the Ralph Wiggum Award for the weekend. The elevators at the Marriott made a funny, metallic noise when they arrived at the floor. "It's like a robotic elevator or something," I said, realizing in the next beat that, actually, an elevator kind of IS a robot. I swear to gosh I'm really smarter than that. We lunched at a Retarded Wendy's. It's like a normal Wendy's except that everyone who is working there appears to be "special." I swear, these are people who should be wearing helmets, always. Not fast food, but food served slowly and without any sort of system to expedite efficiency. I swear I'm going to book a bus and bring 150 people there sometime for lunch, just to see what happens. I will, however, suggest that everyone pack a lunch. It was a very nice weekend, so nice I'm still thinking about it. The dude abides.

It's Geena...not Gina

From a friend, regarding Commander In Chief

---

I believe you called Geena Davis's new show a lumpy sugar turd because its writing is not up to WW level. "An Hour I'll Never Get Back." You didn't even spell the woman's name right. For once I wish you could look at the big picture. I like to think of things in terms of "The Cause." You are one of the people who can see the injustice in the democratic system when 56% of its citizens are denied access to the highest office? I would have sworn you were, but maybe I'm wrong. The show is by no means glaringly bad. It continues to dominate its timeslot, the reviews are rather good & its viewership is increasing. Yes, it is not as well made as the Sheen Show, but it is about a woman as the Chief Executive Officer. At the very very least, it serves to desensitize the public to the notion of a woman as Prez. It plants a wonderful seed. For the first time in history, there are two viable female candidates that are being seriously considered & a drama on TV that tries to show the possibility. Tabloids, news shows & talk shows are discussing the issue. It's not the content of the show, my friend, it is its concept that is important. It is not particularly well-done, but its message is loud & strong....& millions are watching. It represents the concept well. Despite its shortcomings, Donald fucking Sutherland is in it. They could have him balance on a giant ball in a tutu while juggling & he's still going to lend class, dignity & talent to the project. Geena ain't no slouch either, let her settle into this part. She's a member of MENSA....she'll work it out. Now, do you think your snippy little comments helped or hurt "The Cause"? The show helps it, you hurt the show....do the math. I love reading your opinions & most often agree with them. When it came to this one, I wish you had just kept your mouth shut & sat there & looked pretty.

TSOP

Note to self: Please stop hearing "Ain't No Stopping Us Now" on the radio and insisting that it is sung by a band called "TSOP." That is incorrect. This song is performed by McFadden and Whitehead. "TSOP" was a song, the theme to "Soul Train," in fact. Silly.

R.I.P. Scratchy

There is a tool that exists that is perfect for digging a deep hole deep into North Carolina clay. It is a steel-cast heavy pick that you can lift up and use gravity to do some of the work for you. It has a blunt-sharp end and it's taller than you unless you're Shaq. Me and my buddy walked into a Home Depot in Concord, N.C., looking for such an implement Monday morning. We needed it to dig a grave for a cat. Yes, I happened to show up the weekend his boy Scratchy decided to exhibit his swan song. You see a cat who is doing his best not to be seen in broad daylight, and you see a cat who is ailing and ready to go. Sunday afternoon, he was sprawled out in the neighbors' yard, convinced that nobody could see him. By Sunday night, he was cooped up in his own litter box, which is where they found him ten minutes before he gave up the ghost. Which led my friend to have to make a seemingly immediate decision while he was in the first moments of grief, what to do with the shell now that his little monkey had left it. I'll never forget the impossibly silent forever while he sat with his friend wrapped up in a towel, both shrieking inside and trying to lay plans. His wife and I steered him from floodlights and trying to dig right that moment. He will keep, and you need to say goodbye in daylight, that's all I could think while I sat on that couch across from them. He and I later toasted his boy, a fascinating feline in his prime, truly tolerant and beautiful and funny and love. But when they pulled him out from his box and set him on the ground, it was pretty clear he was in his last minutes. This old boy looked like a newborn kitten, his eyes big and wide and unsure of his step. He was shortly wrapped in a towel and brought upstairs, only to say goodbye. I was rooting that night for cremation, an easier solution, but my buddy kept saying he's always seen burial at his home. I was wrong. Not that I had a right to harbor an opinon, which is why I only whispered it that night. It was up to him, and he was right. I dug a little, but he dug mostly, and it took hours and hours and a trip to Home Depot and hours more. But my friend will always know he took the trouble to commit his little man to the earth. That he made an effort. That he fought for something, even if the fight was only against the cement-hard clay of the planet. That he did something for Scratchy. God bless Scratchy. Meow.

...or whatever it's called...

Dear Dr./Gov. Dean, I am a proud Democrat but I cannot help but laugh nonstop regarding your use of a certain colloquialism on "Hardball" last evening. I wanted to help you with the following advice. First off, I imagine that Mrs./Dr. Dean is getting pretty darned tired of you grabbing her by the elbow and saying, hey, baby, let's you and me go and exercise our executive privilege, and then making that wink-wink noise. No, Doc, that's not what the kids are calling it these days. So stop it. Just stop it. Further bits of advice for you, with all due respect:

• You probably should not refer to President Bush's plan to overhaul Social Security with private investment accounts as the "horizontal rumba."
• Please stop referring to the 2000 presidential primary as a "Mongolian clusterfuck." While this phrase is a completely accurate characterization of that primary, it is entirely inappropriate to say it in front of cameras.
• Calling the Bush administration's domestic policy a "Cleveland steamer" is perfectly acceptable, anytime, anywhere.
• Under no circumstances, I repeat, under no circumstances, should you refer to the Title IX Education Amendments of 1972 as "reverse cowgirl."

I hope you have found this information helpful.

There's An Hour I'll Never Get Back

What a disaster. "Commander in Chief," the new television show with Gina Davis as the first lady president, is a phone-it-in, predictible mess whose largest problem is that NBC's "The West Wing" is still on the air. It's like trying to market your own lumpy sugar turd water drink against Coca-Cola. "The West Wing" is subtle, light, and expert at exposition. The first episode of "Commander in Chief" was obvious, heavy, and all about it. First this happened. Then this. Then this. From start to finish, you could almost see the actors ponder the blocking. Finally, it might help to create situations that are actually politically plausible. A conservative presidential candidate drafts a near socialist to the ticket? The Vice President redirects the entire U.S. Navy to save a single woman? The Vice President's husband is also her Chief of Staff? Predictible, predictible. The prompter snaps off and the mean, evil Speaker expects her to be flummoxed, but the amazing new President pulls a Bill Clinton and gives a flawless speech anyway! FU, man! I'm the PRESIDENT! Save your Tivo time. The show to watch is called "The West Wing," and it is on Sunday nights at 8 p.m. If you need to get caught up, this show in reruns is half the programming on Bravo network.

HFB

I don't know about you, but birthdays make my psyche walk around the house without any underpants on.

Isn't it weird to know...

...that Joe Walsh played on an Andy Gibb record? P.S. Dear Psychic Jukebox: Why Peter Frampton? Why, why, why? Sincerely, Aaron

Curiosity...

I was drifting off to sleep last night and was stirred by the strangest noise. There was thrashing and a weird kind of cellophane crunching. I rolled over just in time to see Alice the Cat struggling and banging against the door. She had come across an empty lunch-sized bag of Lay's potato chips and had decided to try to get herself a taste. The bag got stuck on her head. My girly girl nearly suffocated herself last night. She is not long for this world. Her kidney enzymes and a new, persistent limp suggest cancer. Whatever the malady, I do not have the funds to diagnose and treat her properly. So, I watch every day for signs of discomfort or changes in her spirit. She continues to be interested in snuggling, eating, and purring. The minute that changes, she will be off to the vet for a compassionate end. But that would have been a very stupid way for her to go.

Tilting At The Shack Out Back

When she visits the Big House, Maddy Pryor has an amazingly specific ritual. First, she has to explore the house. She walks into the dining room, the kitchen, then downstairs to my space. Then, I have to encourage her outside for a "strictly business" trip. Then, she's back inside to do a bit more exploring and to collect a biscuit from me. Soon, she gives me that snort that tells me she wants to go outside again. I have come to expect this trip, the one in which she must go tilting. I open the door, and she takes off, direct in her purpose. She runs directly to the white shack in the far back right of the yard and growls and barks ferouciously at it. In a moment, she is apparently satisfied that she has appropriately terrified the building, and she wanders the yard for a bit, sniffing. Then, she returns to me. She only does this once per visit. Dogs are amazing.

Haiku: By Vanilla Ice

Stop. Collaborate And listen. Ice is back on A brand new edition. (Stolen from Fark)

Hey, Gordon...

Aren't you glad now, Gordon? Aren't you glad I dragged your drunken ass out of bed that first night of bachelor party weekend and made you get out on the Quarter with me? You poor bastard, you were bumped into bunking with me. And we started boozing at the airport and had hit the Quarter by 3 p.m., eating and drinking and were all in bed by 8. I woke up a few hours later, pissed that we were wasting precious moonlight. "C'mon, fucker, get up!" me said. "We're in New Orleans! We're in New Orleans!" You'd lived in New Orleans before, so you knew it, knew how it smelled and what a carnival it'd probably be to a kid like me. So we rolled on down and got drinks t'go and spent a little time in a titty bar. Then on to Cafe Du Monde, then wandering back to pass out exhausted in our room. Now that it's drowning, aren't you glad I bought you a few more hours awake and alive in New Orleans? I sure am. I got to go back, you know, this year, on business. Took a whole afternoon and walked around the Quarter and tried to remember where we'd been, you and me and the crew. And that week, I spent a lot of time at the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center, which is funny because that's exactly where all those people are trying to stay safe, and some failing at it. These are sad and weird times; you can't count on a place as beautiful as New Orleans staying alive. You can't count on something as tall as the World Trade Center standing. I am utterly sad because New Orleans will never be the same again, not just for the buildings but for the culture and the food and the magic. Within the next decade, developers will recreate it as a Vegas East, mark my word. That magic is gone, it got done flooded out. It has been regentrified overnight, and I cannot help but wonder if that was part of the plan.

Tailgaiting Sucks

The latest AITWK creation at CafePress: Get your very own "Tailgaiting Sucks" bumpersticker. http://www.cafepress.com/aabp.30150385

When The Levee Breaks

I've spent today thankful to have gotten to visit New Orleans this year, even if I spent most of it holed up in a convention center. I did get to spend an afternoon wandering around the Quarter, so it was useful, especially since some say the place might not be the same after today. I saw a picture of the quarter on the wire today, and it made me a little sad. That's a special place, and I'd hate to see it ruined like that. Anyway. Did anyone else see season finale of The 4400? Oh. Mah. Gah.

---

SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS AHEAD! DON'T READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU TIVO'D IT AND HAVEN'T WATCHED! The doc is shooting himself up some magic powers. Richard, whose only previously discernible 4400 power was "scoring with white chicks," now has the Force, man! Isabelle was all about the instant puberty, and, WAH? Rip Van Winkle? No, it's Jordan Collier, baby! A few questions: Can Kyle actually GO to prison now? Or, can he go, but get time off since his victim was supernaturally revived? And, will the returned Jordan be good or EEEEE-VILL? Hell, I don't know what I'm looking forward to television-wise more, this or Los Sopranos.

---

I like pie.

Look What I Made

http://www.aabp.net/

I. Am. NERD!

Today, I recorded two hours of XM radio at home to MP3 format while I was at work, then had it automatically uploaded to an FTP account so I could download it at work and install it to my iPod just in time for the commute home. Just getting ready for Sept. 1, when XM radio starts broadcasting Randi Rhodes from 3 - 7 p.m. (presently, XM bastardizes her sweet, sweet broadcast in the first two hours with that lunkhead Ed Schultz). I've set this up because I cannot count on the AAR stream to be up and running and therefore can't record it at my desk each and every day. And, because, I'm a nerd who wants Randi on his home commute no matter what.

At Least Their President Is Doing Something Useful

The president of Turkmenistan has outlawed lip synching.

Stupid Random Thought

So does Tom Cruise's dog eat Scientology Diet brand?

...and then, there's Maude...

I just got done watching the Pamela Anderson Roast on Comedy Central. And, I think, this is what happens when you take a comics' tradition and set it loose on the general public. If you are on the dais of a comedy roast, you are not supposed to heckle. You don't flip the roaster off, you don't make the "FU" gesture by placing your fist at your elbow and pumping, you don't roll your eyes and call the roaster a "bitch", and you don't attempt to yell him down. You're supposed to clap and laugh because you're on the dais an honor. The greatest performance of the evening was Bea Arthur. All she did was read from one of Pamela Anderson's novels. The excerpts she read should have graced the Bulwer-Lytton Awards. It was ballbusting, and funny, and smart all at the same time.

I'm Just Sayin'

Don't Screw With Marc Cohn

I've been asking for quite some time now what the hell Huey Lewis had against double-reeded woodwinds. It turns out that I am the victim of a misheard lyric. For years, I thought he was saying, "now the oboe may be barely breathing," and I wondered what his first lyrics looked like: "Now, the bassoon is just a motherfucker...and don't get me started on the didgeridoo..." It turns out that it's not "oboe," it's "ol' boy," though I think the third interpretation listed at amiright.com is even better: "Now the elbow may be bad at breathing..." Either way, not a great song to have tootling away in the old psychic jukebox. Speaking of horrible music, did anyone see that Marc Cohn got shot in the head, and the bullet didn't even touch his skull? Jesus, carjacker guy, I hated Walking in Memphis as much as the next guy, but I think spraying his van with bullets is a tad much. Watch out, Michael Bolton. Seriously, though, Marc, you're a Michael McDonald wannabe who wrote and performed one of the worst songs ever, but many happy returns anyways, big guy.

It's Going To Be A Hell Of A Day

You walk into your uncle's cat-doored house where you're popping in from time to time to look after his cats while he's out of town for the weekend, and you find the dry cat food container overturned and empty, and the food dish empty, and the water dish empty, and dog biscuits on the floor, and water everywhere, and parts of a bird who appears to be pining for the Fjords. Lovely. The cats probably encountered a racoon during the night and opted to go all lord-of-the-flies about it. What a mess. I had nice weekend, nothing new to report. I cooked a lot for my date. The news is that I still can't cook a meatloaf. This one was better for consistency but was not cooked when I pulled it out. Blush. I did better with dessert, the gingerbread with peaches and blueberries, and much better with breakfast, scrambled eggicles with hash browns and a croissant. Still working to get her caught up on Los Sopranos. In other news:

• Mmmmm...sandwiches...
• What was that? (Beatles anomalies)

Sigh.

Is it worth explaining to my coworkers that asking me to put up a "hotlink" is not the same thing as asking me to put up a "hyperlink," and that, actually, a "hotlink" is a bad thing?

Jaw Droppingly Cool

The Mac Mini.

But I Don't Live In Richmond

Question: Why is every news story about the Susan Torres delivery datelined "Richmond" when she and her new baby are at Virginia Hospital Center, not four blocks from my house? Even the Post datelined it that way but said in the story it was "100 miles north" of Richmond. Weird.

I Sure Do Like That Potted Meat

What is it about gloved portions of pigmeat boiled in beer and seared over a grill that makes it so fucking good? I don't know why I got the gumption to cook such a thing while in the supermarket. Mmm. Brats in beer and grilled. Dad's relish. Red beans and rice. I think I have some canned French cut beans at home. That would go well with this Four Brothers wine. Either it's because I was fucking starving by the time I got home or because it was just that fucking good. Oh, my, god. My buddy Justin taught me how to boil brats in beer and then sear. That's one of at least four reasons he's still one of my four best buddies in the world. He taught me how to boil meat in beer. I talked to another on that short list tonight. The doc is good. He is a dad. That's weird. This fella I met in about what, 1984? And we palled up based on an equally perverse sense of humor and an equally odd taste in music and an equal sense of desperation and wonder when it came to wimmen. And we're still pals and he's a married dad, and that's weird. Awesome, but weird. Either way, look for me to fly south next month sometime to finally meet his little girl. My vacation was excellent. The time off gave me the solar plexus soul injection that I needed. As a result, I'm eating better and sleeping better and hoping to cook more and live more and make merry fun on the stage. I can't explain it better than that except to say that if you feel like you need a vacation, you probably do. I needed this one for years. Life is an abstract. My natural inclination is to try to create it as a matrix. But while I'm diligently setting up the rows and columns, life itself is throwing paint and clay and poop and vegetables at me and at my perfect table. My biggest challenge is to conduct the negotiations.

Added to the linkyboard

Leave It To Bush

Quick Tip

The best breakfast cereal in the known universe is: Three Parts Fiber One One Part Peanut Butter Capt'n Crunch Seriously. Try it tomorrow. Yum.

I Think It's Your Mind

One of my big vacation projects has been to at last deal with the creepy-crawlie CD collection. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I own entirely too many compact discs. Well. I don't think it's too many. The problem, though, is that I own too many crappy compact discs and own and display too many that are mediocre. So, I've been spending some time on each day of my vacation sorting through my CDs. Sad, right? Well, we'll see. I just traded a big stack of 'em at Orpheus. The man gave me $30 store credit, and I blew nearly all of it on one LP. It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the store, and I nearly dropped to the floor when I saw it. Frank Zappa's Only In It For The Money. He wanted $25 for it, and it's worth every dime. This is an album that must be heard on vinyl. And this one is MINT. Unfortunately for my housemates, I can't listen to this record without singing along. Wah wah wah wah. Other titles collected via my remaining $5 from the $1 vinyl bin:

• Sesame Street, Original Cast Record
• The Best of Bill Cosby
• The Best of Bob Newhart
• The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart

As per my bargain with myself before I left this afternoon, whatever Mr. Orpheus didn't take would go straight to Goodwill. And, they did. Reading out, baby! So today was a good day. I got my hair cut. I tracked down three new excellent recipes at the libary that I intend to try. I wandered around aimlessly through Barnes and Noble. I wandered aimlessly through the Container Store and purchased something that I think will help me create an excellent hPDA. Then I had the tomato salad and a pupusa at Mexicali Blues. Then, I went up the street to make my trade. There will even come a time when you can take your clothes off when you dance.

Vacation

I'm off this week and among the things I'm reassessing is what the hell to do with my blogs. Blogging seems so stupid when you're pushing 40. By the way. It's not made with prune juice.

"...it's like they're saying, 'Here, you throw this away.'"

Am I overly annoyable through my daily commute, at the tourists who consistently block my passage off of the train, at the escalator leftstanders and the hogs of egress, at the pedestrian meanderers, and, perhaps most troubling, at the leaflet and newspaper distributors? They are mother birds on PCP, more than eager to jam their found pablum into you. Here's a restaurant you should try. Here's some stuff on newsprint you should read. Here, you throw this away (thanks, Mitch). Today there was some falun gong dude handing out pamphlets inside the Metro Center station. Well, it was either falun gong he was selling, or it was miso. I don't know because I have a general policy of neither accepting nor offering anything whilst I'm in transit. I'll pick up an Express from time to time, but that's it. I'm not giving you money or whatever the hell you just mumbled to me about, and I'm not taking your little pieces of paper. I'm thinking of printing up a little sign and wearing it on my hat. The sign would say, "I Accept No Fliers. Thank You." And, if these people keep being pushy about it, on the other side of the sign, it would perhaps say "Piss Off, Already. I Said No."

Identity Crisis

There is a stapler in my office that someone has labeled "Fax Machine Only."

I Just Cleaned My Cat's Litterbox

I got to share the magick of Sage Francis today. My buddy Griffy was saying at a Pool of Car fiesta Friday how much he loves hip-hop, and I knew what he needed for his birthday today. He got the new Sage Francis CD. So Jay marinated and grilled a humongous mess of meat. Did it well, too, damn it was good. I am convinced that there is something orgasmic about a medium rare steak and a good red vino. Mmmmmmm.

iPod Mini Fix?

I don't know if this helps anyone, but I'll share anyway. This morning the iPod mini was doing the weirdest thing. I was trying to listen to the Rachel Maddow Show, and it was stuttering. I tried fast forwarding it, but it only kept stuttering. So, I paused play and THEN fast forwarded while it was paused, then unpaused it. No more stutter. Damn I'm good.