Entry tags:
Friendly advice from one who's been there.
Old friends turn rotten? Destroy them and grow new ones. Works for Lawrence, works for me. Burn those bridges before they burn you, kids!
Entry tags:
Fear Is The Mindkiller
For starters: I just figured my taxes for 2005. Somehow, I owe the feds almost $200. Looks like the only place I'll be filing these forms is in the motherfucking DUMPSTER, man. Seriously, haven't I already paid enough? How is it I barely even make enough money to clothe myself (outside of paying for rent, bills, child support, student loan shit, etc), yet for some reason I STILL HAVEN'T PAID ENOUGH? All this on top of last year's audit. Fuck that. If I can't even afford to keep a roof over my head, I sure as hell can't afford to pay for the US Senate's annual pay raise. Sorry to hear the fees at the local bathhouse went up, gang, but I got mouths to feed. Deal with it.
I went to Liberty Hall last night to rent DUNE: THE EXTENDED EDITION. My conversation with the clerk on duty went something like this:
ME: Oh, Dinosaur Jr. is coming?
CLERK: Yeah, I guess so. Who are they, anyway?
ME: You've never heard of Dinosaur Jr?
CLERK: Well, a lot of people come in and seem excited about it, but I'm not really sure I've heard them
before.
ME (slowly realizing that I'm old): Um... They were pretty big in... THE 90's.
CLERK (slowly realizing that I'm old): Oooo-kay.
By the way, the extended edition of DUNE is NOT the long-promised "director's cut." Instead, you get the 3-and-a-half hour long TV version that David Lynch removed his name from (Alan Smithee appears in the directing credits). Also, I seemed to remember that DUNE was a bad movie... What I had forgotten was that it's also a TERRIBLE movie. I mean, really, REALLY awful. The voiceover narration, the interior monologues, the rushed storyline, ALL OF IT adds up to one giant MISSED OPPORTUNITY. What a shame, especially considering some of the acting talent on display: Dean Stockwell, Grace Zabriske, Max Von Sydow, Kyle MacLachlan... At least David was able to put most of the people to better use on his later projects.
One last thing: Does anyone know whatever happened to THIS GUY?
I went to Liberty Hall last night to rent DUNE: THE EXTENDED EDITION. My conversation with the clerk on duty went something like this:
ME: Oh, Dinosaur Jr. is coming?
CLERK: Yeah, I guess so. Who are they, anyway?
ME: You've never heard of Dinosaur Jr?
CLERK: Well, a lot of people come in and seem excited about it, but I'm not really sure I've heard them
before.
ME (slowly realizing that I'm old): Um... They were pretty big in... THE 90's.
CLERK (slowly realizing that I'm old): Oooo-kay.
By the way, the extended edition of DUNE is NOT the long-promised "director's cut." Instead, you get the 3-and-a-half hour long TV version that David Lynch removed his name from (Alan Smithee appears in the directing credits). Also, I seemed to remember that DUNE was a bad movie... What I had forgotten was that it's also a TERRIBLE movie. I mean, really, REALLY awful. The voiceover narration, the interior monologues, the rushed storyline, ALL OF IT adds up to one giant MISSED OPPORTUNITY. What a shame, especially considering some of the acting talent on display: Dean Stockwell, Grace Zabriske, Max Von Sydow, Kyle MacLachlan... At least David was able to put most of the people to better use on his later projects.
One last thing: Does anyone know whatever happened to THIS GUY?
Entry tags:
Living in Oblivion
I often like to pretend that I don't believe in hell, that Judeo-Christian concepts of eternal damnation are nothing more than a cleverly designed guilt trip manufactured to shame people into conforming to a desired pattern of control.
Then, I have to spend all day listening to ACE OF BASE, and the idea of Hell comes roaring back to me in spectacular fashion.
Oh, the humanity. The walls of our humble bakery rattle and pulse with the soul-retarding sounds of Summer and her remarkably poor taste in music. Her locker is stuffed with tapes that she'll throw on the deck to punish us for every perceived slight against her. In addition to ASS OF BASS, we've been subjected to a relentless onslaught of MEREDITH BROOKS, ALANIS MORRISETTE, WILL SMITH, LINKIN PARK, that terrible fucking BANGLES cover of "SEPTEMBER GIRLS," and some really annoying song called "ANGRY JOHNNY" that I had never even heard before she brought it in, but now it stays on a constant loop in my head 240hours a day because the bitch simply will NOT stop fucking playing it. DIEEEEEEE!
Summer, as you all remember, was suffering from a peculiar skin affliction. By peculiar, I mean DISGUSTING. By affliction, I mean SCABIES. After months of refusing to seek treatment, because, in her own words, "I don't want no fuckin' doctor makin' me pay for some shit that I don't even know what's in it," her mother finally broke down and stuffed a tube of skin cream in her christmas stocking. Just in time, too, because there seems to be a pretty good chance that she went and got herself knocked up by the sword-toting, jobless, half-wit she blows in exchange for rent money. She seems to think she'll be a wonderful mother. I think THIS ARTICLE is better than any retort I might present to her:
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33652
In other news, our computer continues to exist in a persistent vegetative state, but my heroic father will hopefully put an end to that soon. His technological know-how has saved the day on many occasions; I have no reason to doubt my faith in his ability.
Personally, I'm falling to pieces at home without the internet. I still haven't made my awesome post about our trip to DEALEY PLAZA over the holidays, and the longer I sit on it, the more stale it becomes.
The library is getting ready to kick me off the computer now. I would have gotten more done if their fucking browser didn't crash every thirty seconds. Hope you guys are doing well, I promise to fill your lives with candor and wit as soon as humanly possible. TOODLES!
Then, I have to spend all day listening to ACE OF BASE, and the idea of Hell comes roaring back to me in spectacular fashion.
Oh, the humanity. The walls of our humble bakery rattle and pulse with the soul-retarding sounds of Summer and her remarkably poor taste in music. Her locker is stuffed with tapes that she'll throw on the deck to punish us for every perceived slight against her. In addition to ASS OF BASS, we've been subjected to a relentless onslaught of MEREDITH BROOKS, ALANIS MORRISETTE, WILL SMITH, LINKIN PARK, that terrible fucking BANGLES cover of "SEPTEMBER GIRLS," and some really annoying song called "ANGRY JOHNNY" that I had never even heard before she brought it in, but now it stays on a constant loop in my head 240hours a day because the bitch simply will NOT stop fucking playing it. DIEEEEEEE!
Summer, as you all remember, was suffering from a peculiar skin affliction. By peculiar, I mean DISGUSTING. By affliction, I mean SCABIES. After months of refusing to seek treatment, because, in her own words, "I don't want no fuckin' doctor makin' me pay for some shit that I don't even know what's in it," her mother finally broke down and stuffed a tube of skin cream in her christmas stocking. Just in time, too, because there seems to be a pretty good chance that she went and got herself knocked up by the sword-toting, jobless, half-wit she blows in exchange for rent money. She seems to think she'll be a wonderful mother. I think THIS ARTICLE is better than any retort I might present to her:
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/33652
In other news, our computer continues to exist in a persistent vegetative state, but my heroic father will hopefully put an end to that soon. His technological know-how has saved the day on many occasions; I have no reason to doubt my faith in his ability.
Personally, I'm falling to pieces at home without the internet. I still haven't made my awesome post about our trip to DEALEY PLAZA over the holidays, and the longer I sit on it, the more stale it becomes.
The library is getting ready to kick me off the computer now. I would have gotten more done if their fucking browser didn't crash every thirty seconds. Hope you guys are doing well, I promise to fill your lives with candor and wit as soon as humanly possible. TOODLES!
Entry tags:
Whine, Whine, Whine...
The computer is down! The computer is down! It was trying to start itself up the toher morning so I unplugged it... No it won't turn on at all. Luckily, my father is a technological wizard of MacGuyver-esque proportions, so there's a good possibilty he can bring our friend back from the dead... But, alas, the procedure might take up to a week, which leaves myself and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
secret_malady stranded inn our hermit-hole, all alone.
And sick, too. Ms. Malady is wheezing over the brink of death, and I've been getting hot flashes all day. This comes hot on the heels of a phenomenal day of thrifting, whihc means all that digging through moldy records probably jump started some long-stewing funk in our lungs. I'd post pics of our best scores (including the framed hologram of our new oracle, The Mystic Poodle), but, as I said before, THE COMPUTER IS DOWN. Which also means that I'm unable to finish burning my (now EXTREMELY)late christmas gifts for you guys... Sorry to keep you all hanging in the lurch, but you'll be getting a special delivery soon. I SWEAR IT!
secret_malady stranded inn our hermit-hole, all alone.And sick, too. Ms. Malady is wheezing over the brink of death, and I've been getting hot flashes all day. This comes hot on the heels of a phenomenal day of thrifting, whihc means all that digging through moldy records probably jump started some long-stewing funk in our lungs. I'd post pics of our best scores (including the framed hologram of our new oracle, The Mystic Poodle), but, as I said before, THE COMPUTER IS DOWN. Which also means that I'm unable to finish burning my (now EXTREMELY)late christmas gifts for you guys... Sorry to keep you all hanging in the lurch, but you'll be getting a special delivery soon. I SWEAR IT!
Entry tags:
Burger Time!
Sigh... So, it's official. Nick Carrol is installing a fucking BURGER PRESS behind the bar at the Jacpot Saloon. Because, apparently, the only think that can save our beloved watering hole from it's current financial nosedive is to make the entire place smell like a fucking GREASE TRAP.
For those who haven't had the pleasure, this is what the bar at the Jackpot looks like:
Lots of polished wood and pressed tin, not to mention the red velvet wallpaper plastered behind the row of highend whiskey bottles. Not exactly the kind of situation you want to introduced EVAPORATED CATTLE FAT into, right? WRONG! Because, despite what every employee, patron, and random passerby have said, Nick Carrol knows what's best for everyone. In this case, "what's best" equates to "irritated bartenders handling raw hamburger while pouring drinks for you." It just doesn't make any SENSE, you see...
I swore a long time ago that my days of line-cooking were over. After spending my entire working life as a short-order monkey, I've finally pushed my food service days behind me... Except for baking, which doesn't really count. After all, asskajester put it, assembling bread is more in line with MANUFACTURING work. Yeah.
I guess what I'm saying is, I'm probably out the door the moment Nick fires that grill up. And I've got several vegetarian co-workers who will probably follow me into the street, just because they don't want to smell like dead animal whenever they come home from work... Personally, I'm used to smelling like the ass end of a stove top at the end of the day. I just don't like the idea of being tied to a sinking ship as it goes down.
Sigh... Why wasn't I blessed with my DREAM JOB? Why can't I be a tough-but-tender ne'r-do-well with rebellious gleam in my eye? Why can't I be a troubled young dance instructor at some high class resort in the Catskill Mountains? Why? Why?
For those who haven't had the pleasure, this is what the bar at the Jackpot looks like:
Lots of polished wood and pressed tin, not to mention the red velvet wallpaper plastered behind the row of highend whiskey bottles. Not exactly the kind of situation you want to introduced EVAPORATED CATTLE FAT into, right? WRONG! Because, despite what every employee, patron, and random passerby have said, Nick Carrol knows what's best for everyone. In this case, "what's best" equates to "irritated bartenders handling raw hamburger while pouring drinks for you." It just doesn't make any SENSE, you see...
I swore a long time ago that my days of line-cooking were over. After spending my entire working life as a short-order monkey, I've finally pushed my food service days behind me... Except for baking, which doesn't really count. After all, as
skajester put it, assembling bread is more in line with MANUFACTURING work. Yeah.I guess what I'm saying is, I'm probably out the door the moment Nick fires that grill up. And I've got several vegetarian co-workers who will probably follow me into the street, just because they don't want to smell like dead animal whenever they come home from work... Personally, I'm used to smelling like the ass end of a stove top at the end of the day. I just don't like the idea of being tied to a sinking ship as it goes down.
Sigh... Why wasn't I blessed with my DREAM JOB? Why can't I be a tough-but-tender ne'r-do-well with rebellious gleam in my eye? Why can't I be a troubled young dance instructor at some high class resort in the Catskill Mountains? Why? Why?
Entry tags:
Some New Kinda Kick
Bah. I'm back from the brink of insanity, in case anyone was wondering. You didn't really think I was going to vanish forever, did you?
It was tough going there for a while, though... Dead friends, sick family, too much work, too little money, alcohol, arguments, and general feelings of malaise threatened to ground me there for a while. AND THEN... AND THEN...
I bought this:
And this:
And one of these:
And my life immediately snapped back into shape. The three thousand pounds of pot that we smoked with our houseguests this weekend helped, too.
Things are starting to look pretty good for us here in Spook Light Land.secret_malady, JT, and myself ventured to our (possible) new drummer's suburban pad for a two-hour rock session, and things came together swimmingly. Curvacia and JT laid out our three-and-a-half song set as loud as humanly possible, and for the first time I was able to step up to the mic and sing along with them... Fan-fucking- tastic. JT's fuzzy guitar blast lays the perfect framework for Curvacia's high-end reverb. I can say without irony that The Spook Lights will one day be remembered as the greatest contributors to the artistic advancement of Western Civilization. End of story.
Problems with the drummer: He's fucking awesome. Truly. In fact, he's too good. He's a classically trained percussionist/ future high school music teacher. He's a full time student, faculty member, and has a new family at home to take care of. So even if he ISN'T totally bored with our music (which he seemed to be), he may not have much time to devote to our sonic takeover of the United States.
Now, the whole world knows how hard I've obsessed over finding a drummer these past few months. I've thrown money, time, and energy into a black whole trying to create, copy, and hang fliers all over town... Not to mention all of the responses I've had to field from interested parties (one of whom was the drummer from KANSAS before they were KANSAS, heh heh),so now that we've latched on to someone, I'm reluctant to let him go. But I've got this nagging feeling at the base of my spine that we're going to commit ourselves to someone who will eventually flake out on us, then we'll be right back at square one.
Despite my fears, I'm pretty damned excited about the whole thing... my best gal is an amazing goddamn songwriter and gee-tar player, and JT has more than enough rock chops to pull this thing together. Good thing no one seems to have noticed that I can't carry a tune to save my life... Hey, at least I look good. And I bathe pretty regularly. That has to count for SOMETHING, right?
It was tough going there for a while, though... Dead friends, sick family, too much work, too little money, alcohol, arguments, and general feelings of malaise threatened to ground me there for a while. AND THEN... AND THEN...
I bought this:
And this:
And one of these:
And my life immediately snapped back into shape. The three thousand pounds of pot that we smoked with our houseguests this weekend helped, too.
Things are starting to look pretty good for us here in Spook Light Land.
secret_malady, JT, and myself ventured to our (possible) new drummer's suburban pad for a two-hour rock session, and things came together swimmingly. Curvacia and JT laid out our three-and-a-half song set as loud as humanly possible, and for the first time I was able to step up to the mic and sing along with them... Fan-fucking- tastic. JT's fuzzy guitar blast lays the perfect framework for Curvacia's high-end reverb. I can say without irony that The Spook Lights will one day be remembered as the greatest contributors to the artistic advancement of Western Civilization. End of story.Problems with the drummer: He's fucking awesome. Truly. In fact, he's too good. He's a classically trained percussionist/ future high school music teacher. He's a full time student, faculty member, and has a new family at home to take care of. So even if he ISN'T totally bored with our music (which he seemed to be), he may not have much time to devote to our sonic takeover of the United States.
Now, the whole world knows how hard I've obsessed over finding a drummer these past few months. I've thrown money, time, and energy into a black whole trying to create, copy, and hang fliers all over town... Not to mention all of the responses I've had to field from interested parties (one of whom was the drummer from KANSAS before they were KANSAS, heh heh),so now that we've latched on to someone, I'm reluctant to let him go. But I've got this nagging feeling at the base of my spine that we're going to commit ourselves to someone who will eventually flake out on us, then we'll be right back at square one.
Despite my fears, I'm pretty damned excited about the whole thing... my best gal is an amazing goddamn songwriter and gee-tar player, and JT has more than enough rock chops to pull this thing together. Good thing no one seems to have noticed that I can't carry a tune to save my life... Hey, at least I look good. And I bathe pretty regularly. That has to count for SOMETHING, right?
Entry tags:
I'm Crazy and I'm Hurt...
Hot flashes. Vertigo. Listlessness. Sleeplessness.
Ever have a nervous breakdown? Those things are real fucking treat, let me tell you. They say after your first one, it gets much easier for your whole system to collapse. Kind of like a broken nose: After the first snap, it gets a little bit easier to break.
My nose has been broken seven times now, and I'm starting to get a familiar, shaky feeling again.
Ever have a nervous breakdown? Those things are real fucking treat, let me tell you. They say after your first one, it gets much easier for your whole system to collapse. Kind of like a broken nose: After the first snap, it gets a little bit easier to break.
My nose has been broken seven times now, and I'm starting to get a familiar, shaky feeling again.
Entry tags:
The Anus Position
In case anyone still thinks that Lawrence ISN'T becoming one giant, Top 40 shopping center, I'd like to direct your attention to the new Claire's Boutique that just opened on Mass Street, right across from Free State.
You hear that knocking sound? It's Mr. Bulky and Spencer Gifts breaking down the door. Welcome to the Mass Street Shopping Mall... Which way to Sbarro's?
Sigh.
In other news,secret_malady and I started yoga classes last night. All day long, I was stressing out about it, wondering whether or not I would mess up the poses, wondering whether or not I would fart out loud and break everyone's concentration. I voiced these concerns to Kelly, who assured me that everything would be fine.
So, of course, I immediately farted in the middle of class. It was a deep, juicy, resonant blast that rattled the walls of the room. And as if that weren't embarrassing enough, I was doing the wrong pose at the time, which forced our teacher to WALK INTO MY FART CLOUD so she could bend my arms in the proper position. This happened less than five minutes after I entered the room. Oh, the humanity.
So, um... Yeah. THIS is still going on, so if'n you guys know anyone, PLEASE send them our way:
You hear that knocking sound? It's Mr. Bulky and Spencer Gifts breaking down the door. Welcome to the Mass Street Shopping Mall... Which way to Sbarro's?
Sigh.
In other news,
secret_malady and I started yoga classes last night. All day long, I was stressing out about it, wondering whether or not I would mess up the poses, wondering whether or not I would fart out loud and break everyone's concentration. I voiced these concerns to Kelly, who assured me that everything would be fine.So, of course, I immediately farted in the middle of class. It was a deep, juicy, resonant blast that rattled the walls of the room. And as if that weren't embarrassing enough, I was doing the wrong pose at the time, which forced our teacher to WALK INTO MY FART CLOUD so she could bend my arms in the proper position. This happened less than five minutes after I entered the room. Oh, the humanity.
So, um... Yeah. THIS is still going on, so if'n you guys know anyone, PLEASE send them our way:
Entry tags:
Rob Gillaspie Needs A Nap
Is there an LJ mood icon for THIS?
Because that's how I feel today. And not in a GOOD way.
But rather than bore you guys with the depressing details of my personal problems, I'm going to distract myself by talking about something CHEERFUL...
George Takei, "Mr. Sulu" to us Star Trek fans, is officially batting for his own team.
Don't believe me? See for yourself:
http://advocate.com/news_detail_ektid22037.asp
I searched and searched through my back catalogue of Trek epsiodes, looking for clues, and came up with a total blank. Mr. Sulu's lavender secret was a closely guarded mystery, it seems.
In other news, more and more schools (my own elementary school included) have been canceling Halloween celebrations to appease an especially vocal contingent of irritable Christian parents. It's a new fad that seems to be sweeping the nation. And yet, even as they are being robbed of their inalienable right to have SPOOKY FUN, kids all over America are still being forced to sing religious crap like "Away in a Manger" and "Little Drummer Boy" every December in music class. Where is the justice in THAT?
Somebody please cancel my subscription to this universe... I'm ready to check out something NEW.
Because that's how I feel today. And not in a GOOD way.
But rather than bore you guys with the depressing details of my personal problems, I'm going to distract myself by talking about something CHEERFUL...
George Takei, "Mr. Sulu" to us Star Trek fans, is officially batting for his own team.
Don't believe me? See for yourself:
http://advocate.com/news_detail_ektid22037.asp
I searched and searched through my back catalogue of Trek epsiodes, looking for clues, and came up with a total blank. Mr. Sulu's lavender secret was a closely guarded mystery, it seems.
In other news, more and more schools (my own elementary school included) have been canceling Halloween celebrations to appease an especially vocal contingent of irritable Christian parents. It's a new fad that seems to be sweeping the nation. And yet, even as they are being robbed of their inalienable right to have SPOOKY FUN, kids all over America are still being forced to sing religious crap like "Away in a Manger" and "Little Drummer Boy" every December in music class. Where is the justice in THAT?
Somebody please cancel my subscription to this universe... I'm ready to check out something NEW.