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Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Another emergency, another hospital and - thankfully - another agreeable outcome. Details will be overlooked here, but if I don't post for a while, never fear. Just don't feel like it these days. I feel like sleeping and sleeping and sleeping is all.
Sunday, April 27, 2003
Haven't posted much, haven't checked email in many days, and ain't feeling terribly urgent in either case. Recent days have been largely joyless and nights largely sleepless. No reason to get too deep into any of it, though... just more of the constant stress and agita. Aftermath of the recent fires, car accidents, et al. The family is just battered and weary and enough is too much already. Whenever the stress lets up, depression fills the breach, so Jesus, what to do? I roused myself from my torpor to go to the Vanity Set release party on Monday. It was simply a matter of deciding (last minute) that I didn't want to let Meredith down by behaving like some suburban slug... I already had to bail on plans to join Bianca Bob at a Tin Huey reunion last Friday, and that was regrettable. So, at 9:30, I made up my mind to go to the midnight show, and it was cab to train to cab for 2 hours, catch the show and hang a bit (stayed about 2 and 1/2 hours) and repeat the trip home. I'm glad I went, though; the band sounded great and she seemed real happy that I came in. It was predictably fucked having to continually go out and in for smoke breaks, but what the hell.
Shelley's early pregnancy is pretty taxing for her. I hope things get a bit easier so we can enjoy the prospect of these births without all the nausea, migraines and exhaustion she's been enduring. Me, I'm in a fog. Began trying to figure out how to use the recording machine I got many months ago. It'll be a long time learning for this technocretin, but even if I don't return to "songwriting" it oughtta be fun dicking around with sound. Songs do come to mind but I let them pass. They're like idle thoughts that hold no more significance than puns or remembered film trivia. Waiting on line in some drug store today, I was subjected to the Talking Heads - a band I can't fucking stand - and this Beck song "Lost Cause," which sounds to me like Keith Carradine's "I'm Easy" if Carradine had even less to say lyrically and even fewer ideas musically. I honestly don't know what some of you people hear in this stuff. I did, however, buy some Pinaud bay rum aftershave, and that's something I can recommend. Smells are more satisfying than songs lately, and the only passing attention I pay to music is whatever happens to come on the TV as I click from channel to channel.
Watched "Decline of Western Civilization 2: the Metal Years" for the first time since the Skels watched it together back in '89 or so. I recall the chill that ran down my spine as all the interviewees responded to the question "what if you don't succeed?" with flat assertions of "But I will. There's no question in my mind." Anyone could see that none of them would make it, and yet we'd have answered exactly the same way. This time I didn't feel the chill; I just wondered what they were all doing now, and what replaced that determination in each of them. It's some lovely fantasy that youngsters believe, and as much as most of the music meant nothing to me then (or now), I appreciated seeing them all with their dreams still burning. I did not feel as empathetic watching Gene Simmons interviewed. Then and now, what a prick. As much of a dolt as Dave Mustaine might have been, his earnestness reminded me why I'd always choose Megadeth over Kiss. Even as a teen I hated the music of Kiss, but in the early Skels days I listened to "Peace Sells" a LOT. I recently read a biography of F.W. Woolworth, and can see that a study of Kiss might be interesting from the same standpoint of American business savvy, but that's about it. The kids with the teased hair handing out flyers for their bands' Tuesday night showcase gigs wanted nothing more noble than what Simmons so arrogantly flaunts (untold riches, boundless poon), so it's pretty feeble grounds for romanticism, but hell, so be it.
Right now everybody's hot and bothered over stuff like the White Stripes. There's nothing but NOTHING there, to these ears. I prefer the new Voi Vod, but that isn't saying I'd sit and listen to it. In Tower Records the other day I noted the further shrinking of the classical department; soon it'll be about the size of Spoken Word. I'd gone in to look for a particular Lou Harrison piece and discovered that there is no Lou Harrison music there at all, just a few bins featuring the usual "Mozart To Make Your Baby Smarter" kind of thing. The house system played "Pet Sounds," which has begun to approach "Appalachian Spring" in the "music-I-love-ruined-forever-by-fad-overkill" stakes.
In upcoming entries will probably write more of the song-memory things I began to spew here on a recent boozy night-morning. They remind me of a past where life was not really "better" but blessed with a sense of hope that time has since doused.
Well, that'll do for one day.
Shelley's early pregnancy is pretty taxing for her. I hope things get a bit easier so we can enjoy the prospect of these births without all the nausea, migraines and exhaustion she's been enduring. Me, I'm in a fog. Began trying to figure out how to use the recording machine I got many months ago. It'll be a long time learning for this technocretin, but even if I don't return to "songwriting" it oughtta be fun dicking around with sound. Songs do come to mind but I let them pass. They're like idle thoughts that hold no more significance than puns or remembered film trivia. Waiting on line in some drug store today, I was subjected to the Talking Heads - a band I can't fucking stand - and this Beck song "Lost Cause," which sounds to me like Keith Carradine's "I'm Easy" if Carradine had even less to say lyrically and even fewer ideas musically. I honestly don't know what some of you people hear in this stuff. I did, however, buy some Pinaud bay rum aftershave, and that's something I can recommend. Smells are more satisfying than songs lately, and the only passing attention I pay to music is whatever happens to come on the TV as I click from channel to channel.
Watched "Decline of Western Civilization 2: the Metal Years" for the first time since the Skels watched it together back in '89 or so. I recall the chill that ran down my spine as all the interviewees responded to the question "what if you don't succeed?" with flat assertions of "But I will. There's no question in my mind." Anyone could see that none of them would make it, and yet we'd have answered exactly the same way. This time I didn't feel the chill; I just wondered what they were all doing now, and what replaced that determination in each of them. It's some lovely fantasy that youngsters believe, and as much as most of the music meant nothing to me then (or now), I appreciated seeing them all with their dreams still burning. I did not feel as empathetic watching Gene Simmons interviewed. Then and now, what a prick. As much of a dolt as Dave Mustaine might have been, his earnestness reminded me why I'd always choose Megadeth over Kiss. Even as a teen I hated the music of Kiss, but in the early Skels days I listened to "Peace Sells" a LOT. I recently read a biography of F.W. Woolworth, and can see that a study of Kiss might be interesting from the same standpoint of American business savvy, but that's about it. The kids with the teased hair handing out flyers for their bands' Tuesday night showcase gigs wanted nothing more noble than what Simmons so arrogantly flaunts (untold riches, boundless poon), so it's pretty feeble grounds for romanticism, but hell, so be it.
Right now everybody's hot and bothered over stuff like the White Stripes. There's nothing but NOTHING there, to these ears. I prefer the new Voi Vod, but that isn't saying I'd sit and listen to it. In Tower Records the other day I noted the further shrinking of the classical department; soon it'll be about the size of Spoken Word. I'd gone in to look for a particular Lou Harrison piece and discovered that there is no Lou Harrison music there at all, just a few bins featuring the usual "Mozart To Make Your Baby Smarter" kind of thing. The house system played "Pet Sounds," which has begun to approach "Appalachian Spring" in the "music-I-love-ruined-forever-by-fad-overkill" stakes.
In upcoming entries will probably write more of the song-memory things I began to spew here on a recent boozy night-morning. They remind me of a past where life was not really "better" but blessed with a sense of hope that time has since doused.
Well, that'll do for one day.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Hey, has anybody seen the PBS "American Experience" episode on the race horse Seabiscuit? I just did, and wow... made me weep. What a beautiful show.
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
Getting old and dying has never worried me, but the passing of time has always been a torment. For as long as I can remember, I've bitterly resented anything - school, work, all that rot - that has stolen my attention from the things I value in "real time" (as much as I hate put-downs and rip-offs from the hostile idiots of the world, special hatred is reserved for those who waste my time). One of the qualities of music that place it foremost in my heart is the strange effect it has upon time and one's experience of it. Of course, music is the art that exists in time: it suspends cherished moments or accelerates dull time and captures fleeting moments and transient feelings with a vividness that only scent can rival. Making music - by which I mean sitting around and playing/singing it - is, to me, about as wonderful an experience as one can enjoy, and I miss it sorely. But records are a whole 'nother smoke. Apart from the pleasures inherent in a recording, once in a while one becomes associated with a memory, and it makes little difference if the moment remembered is "important" or "ordinary" (every moment is important and irreplaceable). Likewise, the objective quality of the work (as if there is such a thing) means nothing when a song freezes the dimensions of a moment for perpetual revisitation. I very rarely listen to recordings anymore, and that's an indication of deep depression. But I know heaven, and if I am (temporarily, let's hope) distanced from it, maybe recalling some of it will prime the pump.
My very first memory is of watching family members sing "Rock a Bye Baby" to me. Big smiling faces crooning this song about a baby like me (no, it WAS me… what did this budding solipsist know or care about other babies?) falling out of a tree. I'd fucking freak, reliably. Too small to form very many words, I was pretty precocious about understanding them, and this tune was a nightmare guaranteed to set me bawling. My older brothers found great amusement in this phenomenon, and their repeated applications of the lullaby torture must account for the indelibility of the trauma. Soon I was sprung from the confines of crib and muteness, and songs began to accumulate as a mental file of atmospheres and incidents. I dunno about you, but for much of my early life (and onward) I felt like I was just passin' through. Deeply involved in my inner life, the world around me was only something to observe, a set of random particulars with little connection to that interior life. This is why the most vivid and satisfying mnemonic events tend toward the banal; experiences that "actively" involved me didn't usually sink into the psycho-acoustic tar pit for preservation.
Some exceptions involve a combination of the two modes. For example, as a pup I loved Laurel and Hardy, and for some reason was deeply moved by a film sequence in which Stan and Ollie sang "Shine On Harvest Moon." As their image faded from the TV, I became upset and wanted them back. In that pre-VCR age, once something ended on the tube, it ended. Likewise, I had no idea one could go buy a record of the song. All I had was the image of "fat-n-skinny" smiling and singing in my mind. The song nestled there for a while until my parents dragged me to one of the frequent parties where all the aunts, uncles and cousins would gather and gambol. At some point in the night the song "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" played, and certain melodic similarities to the other song (the A line of the former closely follows the B line of the latter) tripped a switch. This instantly became my favorite tune, and my unaccountable affection for singing it prompted performance demands at every subsequent party. Never do I hear the tune without smelling the medley of perfume and cocktails that permeated the given apartment - Aunt Sis's place or Aunt Ronnie's… holy precincts. I see all the grown-up faces laughing and their voices chattering. I see my cousin Patricia - object of my first crush - laughing with them. Is she goofing on me? If so, it's OK… look at her laughing face. Lovely. Most of the adults were then around the age I am now, and most of them are now long gone. I miss them all, and I miss those nights with an undiminished aching. Now I can rent the film Laurel and Hardy sang in, but I can't really see those relatives any more, so the Vic Dana recording brings on another, deeper longing.
More common than this cause-and-effect song-nostalgia is a strictly atmospheric association: whenever I hear "Tell Him" by the Exciters, it's the early/mid 1960s and I am a tot. Bobby and Brian are adolescents and Maureen is living in Puerto Rico. We're on the street in Brooklyn, and the hoody girls with whom my brothers consorted are snapping gum and commenting enviously on my long eyelashes. This confounds me… who wants girls envying your eyelashes, fussing and calling you "cute?" Kinda quiffy. My brothers are wearing pea coats, tennis shoes and white slacks. It's hip to have a long lock of hair in front, which requires a frequent toss of the neck to flip it back from one's eyes. We little kids affect this neck toss, even though our heads are regularly shorn at the Pride of Brooklyn barber shop ala Garry Moore, and no hip forelock is possible. There they loiter, brothers and gals, insolent around stoops as little transistor radios with perforated metal speakers spew forth hits from WABC and WMCA. These teens are mighty. They inhabit a fascinating world centered around "school" (whatever that is… a place of deep mystery) and parties. No booze yet, no drugs. All is sunshine and languor. I'm content to ponderYogi Bear and dinosaurs as I tote my talking Beanie (Cecil's pal) doll, but "Tell Him" is exerting its strange minor-key magic upon the mascara-and-hairspray hoody gals, inciting gyrations in these gamins as my brothers and their buddies flock around them, all wound up for reasons yet unknown.
The crush on my cousin was not akin to the yearning my brothers felt for these girls; my first taste of that came in 5th grade, when the ceremony of Confirmation temporarily interrupted the segregation of boys and girls in the Catholic school I attended. There was a cutie across the church who caught my fancy and how, and hymns like "Faith of our Fathers" still inspire a brand of awe different from that intended. Boy, did I love her. We hardly ever spoke, and her name is lost to time, but I still search vainly for a private recording that will simulate the cacophony of us kids screeching that hymn ever louder, as per Monsignor Downey's instruction. I know that when I listen she'll be smiling across the church to me again, and I'll again blush and feel the thumpa thumpa of true romance. At that time, backyard tenting was a big deal. Two or three other boys would join me in my dad's old army tent as the surrounding city melted away... clotheslines became jungle vines and the yammer of neighbors all about was just a monkey din behind our vital conversations. We played with GI Joe figures and told jokes through the night, sometimes growing loud enough to prompt threats from annoyed parents from the second floor bedroom window: "I'll send your friends home!" Ssssh… anything but that! For some reason, the beloved song was a little-remembered minor hit by Manfred Mann entitled "My Name is Jack." Whatever was going on, we'd keep the radio just at the level of audibility until that tune came on again. Then it was stop everything, turn it up and sing along. Other songs of the period invited this kind of fun, but most of them - such as "Yellow Submarine" - were too popular and often-heard, so the specific impression got lost. Hearing "Jack" again (25 years later) was magical because its association with that backyard tent remained undiluted. To this day I can practically taste the fennel we'd steal from Mr Alberti's garden next door. I can nearly smell Joe Quirke's feet. I can certainly recall our agreement that "Voice Control Kennedy Airport" was the toy to have.
A little bit later, I'm walking past the Holy Name schoolyard with my pal Woody. The tune is "Help Me Rhonda." Since everyone listens to the same station, Brian Wilson's mono mix bursts out in decaphonic omnipresence from every corner of the scene. Older kids are shooting hoops and smoking. By this time, America and my brothers had discovered drugs, which would bring a world of misery into our home for years to come. But today, that's not imaginable. My brothers are my heroes: a pair of scenesters with the longest hair and the coolest records. Bobby had recently stolen into the playground at night and painted few strategic lines in the circle over the division line, turning it into a peace sign. This raised a fair amount of controversy, but nobody could prove he'd done it and some of the hipper teachers managed to prevent the removal of Bobby's addition. I am here, secure in the smug knowledge that my bro had brought revolution to the communal asphalt. By now I have my own "little brother," Petie.
My sister had come home to the folks' house and her son Petie suffered at my hands the same abuse Bobby and Brian had heaped upon me. Ferinstance, I'd hold him down and produce a long, suspended extrusion of spit above his face, sucking it back up before the strand snapped. It usually worked. He and his buddy Paul Quirke (little brother of Joe of the Vile Feet) would pester us, just as we'd pestered Brian and Bobby, and as irksome as it was, who'd want it any other way? An eager fly proves the majesty of one's dogstink. Now, with that little acolyte to confirm my status, a close friend who played the delinquent Huck to my reserved Tom, and a long haired brother who'd made his statement right there at the school, I am exultant. Woody and I are making fun of the jocks (not loud enough so's they could hear, mind you) as we lean against the cyclone fence. We'd already burned our notebooks in a "school's out" Savoranola ritual, so the looming school building holds no dominion on this freewheeling summer day. We sing along with the Beach Boys and continue the jock-mockery until one of them senses our sarcasm and gives threat. No problem. Let's go to Ray's and Otto's and buy some stickers. Never has life felt more right than it did that day. In my teen years, when I rediscovered the Beach Boys through the Endless Summer set, it was disconcerting to find that "Help Me Rhonda" sounded different. No high climax, just a unison "Help me Rhonda yeah!" It was an alternate version, and I didn't hear the right one for another 15 some-odd years, when the remembered single poured forth its glories from a cd. Suddenly I was there by the schoolyard with Woody again, and I've often returned happily ever since.
There'll be more of this.
In current news, tonight I broke my NYC club ban in order to toast Meredith's good fortune with the new Vanity Set cd. Meredith is one of the current exemplars of all good people I've known, so mind you, all isn't retrospective. It goes on, and music will recall today's pleasures just as fully as yesterday's. And the twins will learn it all soon. Easter Sunday was nice, but bring on domani. God bless us, every one.
My very first memory is of watching family members sing "Rock a Bye Baby" to me. Big smiling faces crooning this song about a baby like me (no, it WAS me… what did this budding solipsist know or care about other babies?) falling out of a tree. I'd fucking freak, reliably. Too small to form very many words, I was pretty precocious about understanding them, and this tune was a nightmare guaranteed to set me bawling. My older brothers found great amusement in this phenomenon, and their repeated applications of the lullaby torture must account for the indelibility of the trauma. Soon I was sprung from the confines of crib and muteness, and songs began to accumulate as a mental file of atmospheres and incidents. I dunno about you, but for much of my early life (and onward) I felt like I was just passin' through. Deeply involved in my inner life, the world around me was only something to observe, a set of random particulars with little connection to that interior life. This is why the most vivid and satisfying mnemonic events tend toward the banal; experiences that "actively" involved me didn't usually sink into the psycho-acoustic tar pit for preservation.
Some exceptions involve a combination of the two modes. For example, as a pup I loved Laurel and Hardy, and for some reason was deeply moved by a film sequence in which Stan and Ollie sang "Shine On Harvest Moon." As their image faded from the TV, I became upset and wanted them back. In that pre-VCR age, once something ended on the tube, it ended. Likewise, I had no idea one could go buy a record of the song. All I had was the image of "fat-n-skinny" smiling and singing in my mind. The song nestled there for a while until my parents dragged me to one of the frequent parties where all the aunts, uncles and cousins would gather and gambol. At some point in the night the song "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" played, and certain melodic similarities to the other song (the A line of the former closely follows the B line of the latter) tripped a switch. This instantly became my favorite tune, and my unaccountable affection for singing it prompted performance demands at every subsequent party. Never do I hear the tune without smelling the medley of perfume and cocktails that permeated the given apartment - Aunt Sis's place or Aunt Ronnie's… holy precincts. I see all the grown-up faces laughing and their voices chattering. I see my cousin Patricia - object of my first crush - laughing with them. Is she goofing on me? If so, it's OK… look at her laughing face. Lovely. Most of the adults were then around the age I am now, and most of them are now long gone. I miss them all, and I miss those nights with an undiminished aching. Now I can rent the film Laurel and Hardy sang in, but I can't really see those relatives any more, so the Vic Dana recording brings on another, deeper longing.
More common than this cause-and-effect song-nostalgia is a strictly atmospheric association: whenever I hear "Tell Him" by the Exciters, it's the early/mid 1960s and I am a tot. Bobby and Brian are adolescents and Maureen is living in Puerto Rico. We're on the street in Brooklyn, and the hoody girls with whom my brothers consorted are snapping gum and commenting enviously on my long eyelashes. This confounds me… who wants girls envying your eyelashes, fussing and calling you "cute?" Kinda quiffy. My brothers are wearing pea coats, tennis shoes and white slacks. It's hip to have a long lock of hair in front, which requires a frequent toss of the neck to flip it back from one's eyes. We little kids affect this neck toss, even though our heads are regularly shorn at the Pride of Brooklyn barber shop ala Garry Moore, and no hip forelock is possible. There they loiter, brothers and gals, insolent around stoops as little transistor radios with perforated metal speakers spew forth hits from WABC and WMCA. These teens are mighty. They inhabit a fascinating world centered around "school" (whatever that is… a place of deep mystery) and parties. No booze yet, no drugs. All is sunshine and languor. I'm content to ponderYogi Bear and dinosaurs as I tote my talking Beanie (Cecil's pal) doll, but "Tell Him" is exerting its strange minor-key magic upon the mascara-and-hairspray hoody gals, inciting gyrations in these gamins as my brothers and their buddies flock around them, all wound up for reasons yet unknown.
The crush on my cousin was not akin to the yearning my brothers felt for these girls; my first taste of that came in 5th grade, when the ceremony of Confirmation temporarily interrupted the segregation of boys and girls in the Catholic school I attended. There was a cutie across the church who caught my fancy and how, and hymns like "Faith of our Fathers" still inspire a brand of awe different from that intended. Boy, did I love her. We hardly ever spoke, and her name is lost to time, but I still search vainly for a private recording that will simulate the cacophony of us kids screeching that hymn ever louder, as per Monsignor Downey's instruction. I know that when I listen she'll be smiling across the church to me again, and I'll again blush and feel the thumpa thumpa of true romance. At that time, backyard tenting was a big deal. Two or three other boys would join me in my dad's old army tent as the surrounding city melted away... clotheslines became jungle vines and the yammer of neighbors all about was just a monkey din behind our vital conversations. We played with GI Joe figures and told jokes through the night, sometimes growing loud enough to prompt threats from annoyed parents from the second floor bedroom window: "I'll send your friends home!" Ssssh… anything but that! For some reason, the beloved song was a little-remembered minor hit by Manfred Mann entitled "My Name is Jack." Whatever was going on, we'd keep the radio just at the level of audibility until that tune came on again. Then it was stop everything, turn it up and sing along. Other songs of the period invited this kind of fun, but most of them - such as "Yellow Submarine" - were too popular and often-heard, so the specific impression got lost. Hearing "Jack" again (25 years later) was magical because its association with that backyard tent remained undiluted. To this day I can practically taste the fennel we'd steal from Mr Alberti's garden next door. I can nearly smell Joe Quirke's feet. I can certainly recall our agreement that "Voice Control Kennedy Airport" was the toy to have.
A little bit later, I'm walking past the Holy Name schoolyard with my pal Woody. The tune is "Help Me Rhonda." Since everyone listens to the same station, Brian Wilson's mono mix bursts out in decaphonic omnipresence from every corner of the scene. Older kids are shooting hoops and smoking. By this time, America and my brothers had discovered drugs, which would bring a world of misery into our home for years to come. But today, that's not imaginable. My brothers are my heroes: a pair of scenesters with the longest hair and the coolest records. Bobby had recently stolen into the playground at night and painted few strategic lines in the circle over the division line, turning it into a peace sign. This raised a fair amount of controversy, but nobody could prove he'd done it and some of the hipper teachers managed to prevent the removal of Bobby's addition. I am here, secure in the smug knowledge that my bro had brought revolution to the communal asphalt. By now I have my own "little brother," Petie.
My sister had come home to the folks' house and her son Petie suffered at my hands the same abuse Bobby and Brian had heaped upon me. Ferinstance, I'd hold him down and produce a long, suspended extrusion of spit above his face, sucking it back up before the strand snapped. It usually worked. He and his buddy Paul Quirke (little brother of Joe of the Vile Feet) would pester us, just as we'd pestered Brian and Bobby, and as irksome as it was, who'd want it any other way? An eager fly proves the majesty of one's dogstink. Now, with that little acolyte to confirm my status, a close friend who played the delinquent Huck to my reserved Tom, and a long haired brother who'd made his statement right there at the school, I am exultant. Woody and I are making fun of the jocks (not loud enough so's they could hear, mind you) as we lean against the cyclone fence. We'd already burned our notebooks in a "school's out" Savoranola ritual, so the looming school building holds no dominion on this freewheeling summer day. We sing along with the Beach Boys and continue the jock-mockery until one of them senses our sarcasm and gives threat. No problem. Let's go to Ray's and Otto's and buy some stickers. Never has life felt more right than it did that day. In my teen years, when I rediscovered the Beach Boys through the Endless Summer set, it was disconcerting to find that "Help Me Rhonda" sounded different. No high climax, just a unison "Help me Rhonda yeah!" It was an alternate version, and I didn't hear the right one for another 15 some-odd years, when the remembered single poured forth its glories from a cd. Suddenly I was there by the schoolyard with Woody again, and I've often returned happily ever since.
There'll be more of this.
In current news, tonight I broke my NYC club ban in order to toast Meredith's good fortune with the new Vanity Set cd. Meredith is one of the current exemplars of all good people I've known, so mind you, all isn't retrospective. It goes on, and music will recall today's pleasures just as fully as yesterday's. And the twins will learn it all soon. Easter Sunday was nice, but bring on domani. God bless us, every one.
Monday, April 21, 2003
In the past few days I've gotten royalty checks from FINLAND, of all places, totalling about 210.00. It's For Willoughby, amigos, so don't get too excited for me. My amateur status is unthreatened. But can Luxembourg be too far behind?
Remind me to tell you about how much I love Alan Price's song "Between Today and Yesterday."
Remind me to tell you about how much I love Alan Price's song "Between Today and Yesterday."
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Thought I'd get off the lugubrious lectern tonight and write about something less "personal" and more on the "food for thought" wavelength. I realize that this isn't everyone's interest, but maybe it'll raise a few points for future reflection.
Sometimes I'll wind up in an argument with someone regarding an admitted prejudice of mine, which favors the Visigoths over the Ostrogoths. I don't think it's anyone's right to second-guess my preference any more than I feel in any way obliged to justify it. Certainly any preference for either of these barbarian tribes - over run-of-the-mill favorites like the Huns or the Vandals - reveals a special nuance of mind which should encourage a mutual respect between partisans of either horde; sadly, such commonsense tolerance is rare in this most heated of debates. By now I'm beginning to see the whole conflict as counter-productive, but feel just as strongly that some explanation for my position would be helpful, if only as a show of support for newer Visiphiles unprepared for the kind of gutter tactics employed by Ostrocentrics in pressing their poignantly ignorant case. To be perfectly Frank (heh heh), I am - in the full maturity of my years, and after considerable reflection - prepared to extend more than my formerly patronizing largesse toward those who express ambivalence toward both the Ostros and Visii in favor of a maverick enthusiasm for the Jutes: I am, as it happens, almost persuaded that they are on to something.
Hold on! I know that this statement might "ruffle a few feathers," and I am by no means Jute-happy just yet. I'm merely recognizing that there is a "shock of the new" element involved in the conventional dismissal accorded the "Yout' for Jute" crowd (incidentally, though their accepted taxonomic designation "Jautists" looks like it should be pronounced JOWT-ists, it is correct to pronounce it as JOOT-ists... go figure). We who flatter ourselves as "connoisseurs" for eschewing the easy path of Hunnish/Vandalian orthodoxy might do well to recall the scorn with which our first tentative declarations of Ostro-Visipreciation were greeted. In these callow Jautists I see the same questioning spirit that informed my early passion. At this late date, I see no disgrace in loosening the straps of my hide-bound Visigothic perspective to allow some latitude to the arguments these young Turks (or are they Lombards? Heh heh) contribute. Before I continue into my comprehensive pro-Visigoth argument, let me explain why I say all this.
By now we're all familiar with the apoplectic impasse usually reached in short order every time the classic question is posed. We who have graduated from timidity ("well…um… I sort of like the Visigoths…") to bold assertiveness - nay, pride - ("Damn right I'm for the Visigoths! You're not? What the HELL is your problem?") sometimes forget how fragile we felt in the early blush of Visigothic boosterism; we've earned a few bragging rights, sure, but oh what short memories we have! It is in this healthy spirit of retrospect that I view the young Jutesters: they are what we were, regardless of where we now stand on Euro-barbarism. But there's more to this than simple corrective humility or bland indulgence. As we engage in these initially bracing discussions, armed with our "facts" and our "stats," we often lose sight of our own higher impulses and allow the debate to crumble -like those very cities of antiquity - into volleys of cliché; exchanges clanging ooftily with the thrust and parry of minutiae and meander; we venture incropotically into a sargasso chowder of mixed metaphor, received wisdom and oddly non sequiturian digressions into nonsensical asmatrophy. Before you know it, it's the same old catfight. "You say Amalaric, I say Roderic… You say Theudis, I say Theudisclus…" Let's call the whole thing Goth! Heh heh. Please excuse the levity.
Or should I even say this? We would do well to remember to keep a measure of levitas in our struggle to make sense of why we choose - given the range of possible positions and the seemingly infinite well (or seldom) trodden pathways of exposition, example, insinuation, blunt assertion, vile threat, fatuous claim, preposterous conflation of incongruent particulars etc. (to give only a small sample of the range of rhetorical options at our - advised or otherwise - disposal) - to cling to what may be a comforting… albeit incomplete and ultimately unsatisfying (or not)… stance in our ongoing but perhaps (and we should face this) ultimately pyrrhic battle for dominance in this "small-to-many-but-not-to-us" conflict within the larger conflict of ideas, which started for so may of us with that simple urge to find "our" barbarian people, lest we lose all sense of proportion and, yes, enjoyment. Allow ourselves to be misled thusly, friends, and truly we are taking the primrose path less traveled toward a slippery slope indeed.
With that illuminating -it is hoped - digression disposed of, perhaps I can return to the central topic in a spirit of light-hearted conciliation: the Ostrogoths setting up shop in Italy and the Visigoths keeping house in France. Which neo-krautic, proto-froggadago kingdom would this celtomickoyank prefer, and why? For this we'll have to turn back the clock to the 5th century AD.
Oh! Look at the time! Fuck it.
Sometimes I'll wind up in an argument with someone regarding an admitted prejudice of mine, which favors the Visigoths over the Ostrogoths. I don't think it's anyone's right to second-guess my preference any more than I feel in any way obliged to justify it. Certainly any preference for either of these barbarian tribes - over run-of-the-mill favorites like the Huns or the Vandals - reveals a special nuance of mind which should encourage a mutual respect between partisans of either horde; sadly, such commonsense tolerance is rare in this most heated of debates. By now I'm beginning to see the whole conflict as counter-productive, but feel just as strongly that some explanation for my position would be helpful, if only as a show of support for newer Visiphiles unprepared for the kind of gutter tactics employed by Ostrocentrics in pressing their poignantly ignorant case. To be perfectly Frank (heh heh), I am - in the full maturity of my years, and after considerable reflection - prepared to extend more than my formerly patronizing largesse toward those who express ambivalence toward both the Ostros and Visii in favor of a maverick enthusiasm for the Jutes: I am, as it happens, almost persuaded that they are on to something.
Hold on! I know that this statement might "ruffle a few feathers," and I am by no means Jute-happy just yet. I'm merely recognizing that there is a "shock of the new" element involved in the conventional dismissal accorded the "Yout' for Jute" crowd (incidentally, though their accepted taxonomic designation "Jautists" looks like it should be pronounced JOWT-ists, it is correct to pronounce it as JOOT-ists... go figure). We who flatter ourselves as "connoisseurs" for eschewing the easy path of Hunnish/Vandalian orthodoxy might do well to recall the scorn with which our first tentative declarations of Ostro-Visipreciation were greeted. In these callow Jautists I see the same questioning spirit that informed my early passion. At this late date, I see no disgrace in loosening the straps of my hide-bound Visigothic perspective to allow some latitude to the arguments these young Turks (or are they Lombards? Heh heh) contribute. Before I continue into my comprehensive pro-Visigoth argument, let me explain why I say all this.
By now we're all familiar with the apoplectic impasse usually reached in short order every time the classic question is posed. We who have graduated from timidity ("well…um… I sort of like the Visigoths…") to bold assertiveness - nay, pride - ("Damn right I'm for the Visigoths! You're not? What the HELL is your problem?") sometimes forget how fragile we felt in the early blush of Visigothic boosterism; we've earned a few bragging rights, sure, but oh what short memories we have! It is in this healthy spirit of retrospect that I view the young Jutesters: they are what we were, regardless of where we now stand on Euro-barbarism. But there's more to this than simple corrective humility or bland indulgence. As we engage in these initially bracing discussions, armed with our "facts" and our "stats," we often lose sight of our own higher impulses and allow the debate to crumble -like those very cities of antiquity - into volleys of cliché; exchanges clanging ooftily with the thrust and parry of minutiae and meander; we venture incropotically into a sargasso chowder of mixed metaphor, received wisdom and oddly non sequiturian digressions into nonsensical asmatrophy. Before you know it, it's the same old catfight. "You say Amalaric, I say Roderic… You say Theudis, I say Theudisclus…" Let's call the whole thing Goth! Heh heh. Please excuse the levity.
Or should I even say this? We would do well to remember to keep a measure of levitas in our struggle to make sense of why we choose - given the range of possible positions and the seemingly infinite well (or seldom) trodden pathways of exposition, example, insinuation, blunt assertion, vile threat, fatuous claim, preposterous conflation of incongruent particulars etc. (to give only a small sample of the range of rhetorical options at our - advised or otherwise - disposal) - to cling to what may be a comforting… albeit incomplete and ultimately unsatisfying (or not)… stance in our ongoing but perhaps (and we should face this) ultimately pyrrhic battle for dominance in this "small-to-many-but-not-to-us" conflict within the larger conflict of ideas, which started for so may of us with that simple urge to find "our" barbarian people, lest we lose all sense of proportion and, yes, enjoyment. Allow ourselves to be misled thusly, friends, and truly we are taking the primrose path less traveled toward a slippery slope indeed.
With that illuminating -it is hoped - digression disposed of, perhaps I can return to the central topic in a spirit of light-hearted conciliation: the Ostrogoths setting up shop in Italy and the Visigoths keeping house in France. Which neo-krautic, proto-froggadago kingdom would this celtomickoyank prefer, and why? For this we'll have to turn back the clock to the 5th century AD.
Oh! Look at the time! Fuck it.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Weird days. I've been suffering insomnia and a general twitchiness of late, and it's been difficult to organize my thoughts in any entertaining way. I had wanted to discuss the reunion on April first with cherished boyhood chum Matt "Hawkeye" Mignone, among other things, but it'll have to wait. The big news is that Shelley is indeed pregnant, carrying fraternal twins of yet-undetermined sex(es). We saw their hearts beating! Joy is tempered by the obvious concerns, but Joy it is. This being life on earth, however, the onslaught of horseshit will not pause to permit too much undiminished happiness.
The past week has included a house fire at the folks' place, contained by brother Brian's dexterity with a fire extinguisher, but frightening nonetheless and requiring insurance agent visits and upcoming remodeling. Not two days later, we were rear-ended at a red light. Brian, David, his date Becca and I were returning from a cousin's wedding at the time. Everyone's OK, but the car ain't. All these things atop all other day-to-day crap and the ongoing ups and downs of the pregnancy have made for the tw-tw-twitch. I hope for calm and sweet boredom in coming weeks.
This partial account of the daily traumarama (if "traumerai" means "dreaming" then whence "trauma?" I'll do a linguistic investigation, but for now I can only wish these things were dreams), along with long sleepless nights watching the war, might explain outbursts like my NYC smoking-ban screed (which is truly moot, as I shouldn't be drinking or smoking anyway). The other major issue is the practical side of our upcoming parenthood. Apart from other issues less germane to this blog's default bailiwick (which is, largely, my undistinguished career in music), a major concern rears up. It's twofold: how do I make money now and what becomes of my artistic delusion? These are obviously of unequal significance, the former being important and the latter anything but. Making money is my new task, and any ideas or offers would be welcome. Music, the successor to my earlier - equally deluded - ambition as a cartoonist/illustrator has been the thing that defined me for nearly 20 years now. That definition has seldom been flattering. But I'll piss about it a little, since my few remaining blog perusers must have at least a measure of sympathy for the issue or you wouldn't be reading this now.
It's maybe coincidental, maybe not, that this looming, complete change in life comes at the exact point when I have accepted defeat in the music pursuit. What I mean by this is that I can no longer kid myself that there is great work in me waiting to get out. The work that has been made so far proves that, but that's no shame. The real shame is that I can think of no way to retrieve any financial advantage from these many years of effort. I'd sell the complete rights to my songs and recordings to any fair bidder if that were possible (it isn't, but I am sincerely open to offers); none of it means much to me in terms of property or accomplishment. If it represents anything, it's a sort of demonstration of stubbornness. There are not too many people who'd have stuck with this for so long under the circumstances, and there is a measure of satisfaction in having made these things against complete apathy and seen them through to national release on a legit label. Nobody will ever take that from me. It would have been helpful if they'd succeeded in commercial terms, even to the degree that I could continue the pursuit as a modest source of additional revenue for the family. Any such possibility would be welcomed, but the likelihood is minute.
On one of the recent insomniac nights I listened to all 3 KRS albums and the Skels post-mortem cd in reverse order. There's a lot to be said for the work, I think, but it would only mean something if someone else said it. Those friends who've responded to it seem to indicate that part of what I hear in it actually transmits. The friends whom I respect the most in terms of their own talent and keen minds for music have validated the good parts with their comments and revealed the bad parts with their avoidance of comment, which is just as eloquent. I only wish I'd had such perspective myself, but maybe then I'd never have done any of it, since the respectable mediocrity of the stuff falls short of the grand ambition behind it and the burden of personal vindication I placed upon it. It would have been better if it all could simply represent the fruits of a hobby well integrated into an otherwise normal life, and now there's a chance I can reclaim that plain nobility for it by placing it quietly next to the jigglers and comic books and concentrating all that errant passion on this family.
The irony of the thing is that the only feasible way me to make money now is to go out begging for freelance critic gigs. This way I can change diapers and such while tapping out words about the albums other (luckier, smarter or more gifted) musicians make. This has been an occasionally useful way to raise dough, and I hope I can get the work and somehow tolerate the process itself. This includes listening to music I invariably detest and contriving commentary at odds with my indifference to it, absorbing the ethical blow of becoming the exact kind of hack I hate, and subjecting the thing I love most - music - to a personally painful process of devaluation, all for a very small and unreliable buck. The emotional toll of the gig should be minimal when compared to all the other, deeper disgraces incurred by my vain campaign. The reason for doing it surely outweighs any of these concerns.
In this ego-blog, gaseous whine context - as opposed to the wider, richer context of actual life - I'm eager to experience the shrinking of selfish concerns and the immersion in all joys and anxieties of fatherhood. It might save me from myself as I try to rise to the job. With any luck, the creature I have been for so long will die and be replaced by a doting dad who'll teach the kids why reading books is great, how much better Bugs is than Pokemon, what a symphony orchestra can do for the spirit, the best way to pilot a sled so as not to break one's skull open, how to write in code, the best way to do nothing at all but laugh hysterically through a long summer night, how beautiful they are, how to survive school with their minds intact, who the scariest monsters are, what God is and isn't, how insignificant the approval of others is, and why papa made all those goofy tunes so long ago. As should be obvious, I'll be learning some of these things right along with them. I'll show them pictures and play them tapes of their cousin Petie and their Uncle Bobby so they'll know them as well as possible. I'll sit on the bed with them and Shelley and celebrate this 4-way love affair with absolute abandon.
I wish I could grace their lives with material comfort, but as my own quixotic life has thwarted that, maybe I can instead prove my mettle by devoting the rest of my life to their betterment. If they grow up to be sane and loving people, this life will finally have meant something. Right now, Shelley and I have hope. Hope is something I haven't felt in a long long time, so already they've given me that. My dad hopes to live long enough to hear them call him "Grampa." My mom hopes her son can get his forever-scattered shit together to do right by them and Shelley. I hope they thrive and find a happy way through this world. I hope they are as strong and loving as their mom and that, if they are unlucky enough to be artistically inclined like their dad, they'll have 100 times his talent.
The past week has included a house fire at the folks' place, contained by brother Brian's dexterity with a fire extinguisher, but frightening nonetheless and requiring insurance agent visits and upcoming remodeling. Not two days later, we were rear-ended at a red light. Brian, David, his date Becca and I were returning from a cousin's wedding at the time. Everyone's OK, but the car ain't. All these things atop all other day-to-day crap and the ongoing ups and downs of the pregnancy have made for the tw-tw-twitch. I hope for calm and sweet boredom in coming weeks.
This partial account of the daily traumarama (if "traumerai" means "dreaming" then whence "trauma?" I'll do a linguistic investigation, but for now I can only wish these things were dreams), along with long sleepless nights watching the war, might explain outbursts like my NYC smoking-ban screed (which is truly moot, as I shouldn't be drinking or smoking anyway). The other major issue is the practical side of our upcoming parenthood. Apart from other issues less germane to this blog's default bailiwick (which is, largely, my undistinguished career in music), a major concern rears up. It's twofold: how do I make money now and what becomes of my artistic delusion? These are obviously of unequal significance, the former being important and the latter anything but. Making money is my new task, and any ideas or offers would be welcome. Music, the successor to my earlier - equally deluded - ambition as a cartoonist/illustrator has been the thing that defined me for nearly 20 years now. That definition has seldom been flattering. But I'll piss about it a little, since my few remaining blog perusers must have at least a measure of sympathy for the issue or you wouldn't be reading this now.
It's maybe coincidental, maybe not, that this looming, complete change in life comes at the exact point when I have accepted defeat in the music pursuit. What I mean by this is that I can no longer kid myself that there is great work in me waiting to get out. The work that has been made so far proves that, but that's no shame. The real shame is that I can think of no way to retrieve any financial advantage from these many years of effort. I'd sell the complete rights to my songs and recordings to any fair bidder if that were possible (it isn't, but I am sincerely open to offers); none of it means much to me in terms of property or accomplishment. If it represents anything, it's a sort of demonstration of stubbornness. There are not too many people who'd have stuck with this for so long under the circumstances, and there is a measure of satisfaction in having made these things against complete apathy and seen them through to national release on a legit label. Nobody will ever take that from me. It would have been helpful if they'd succeeded in commercial terms, even to the degree that I could continue the pursuit as a modest source of additional revenue for the family. Any such possibility would be welcomed, but the likelihood is minute.
On one of the recent insomniac nights I listened to all 3 KRS albums and the Skels post-mortem cd in reverse order. There's a lot to be said for the work, I think, but it would only mean something if someone else said it. Those friends who've responded to it seem to indicate that part of what I hear in it actually transmits. The friends whom I respect the most in terms of their own talent and keen minds for music have validated the good parts with their comments and revealed the bad parts with their avoidance of comment, which is just as eloquent. I only wish I'd had such perspective myself, but maybe then I'd never have done any of it, since the respectable mediocrity of the stuff falls short of the grand ambition behind it and the burden of personal vindication I placed upon it. It would have been better if it all could simply represent the fruits of a hobby well integrated into an otherwise normal life, and now there's a chance I can reclaim that plain nobility for it by placing it quietly next to the jigglers and comic books and concentrating all that errant passion on this family.
The irony of the thing is that the only feasible way me to make money now is to go out begging for freelance critic gigs. This way I can change diapers and such while tapping out words about the albums other (luckier, smarter or more gifted) musicians make. This has been an occasionally useful way to raise dough, and I hope I can get the work and somehow tolerate the process itself. This includes listening to music I invariably detest and contriving commentary at odds with my indifference to it, absorbing the ethical blow of becoming the exact kind of hack I hate, and subjecting the thing I love most - music - to a personally painful process of devaluation, all for a very small and unreliable buck. The emotional toll of the gig should be minimal when compared to all the other, deeper disgraces incurred by my vain campaign. The reason for doing it surely outweighs any of these concerns.
In this ego-blog, gaseous whine context - as opposed to the wider, richer context of actual life - I'm eager to experience the shrinking of selfish concerns and the immersion in all joys and anxieties of fatherhood. It might save me from myself as I try to rise to the job. With any luck, the creature I have been for so long will die and be replaced by a doting dad who'll teach the kids why reading books is great, how much better Bugs is than Pokemon, what a symphony orchestra can do for the spirit, the best way to pilot a sled so as not to break one's skull open, how to write in code, the best way to do nothing at all but laugh hysterically through a long summer night, how beautiful they are, how to survive school with their minds intact, who the scariest monsters are, what God is and isn't, how insignificant the approval of others is, and why papa made all those goofy tunes so long ago. As should be obvious, I'll be learning some of these things right along with them. I'll show them pictures and play them tapes of their cousin Petie and their Uncle Bobby so they'll know them as well as possible. I'll sit on the bed with them and Shelley and celebrate this 4-way love affair with absolute abandon.
I wish I could grace their lives with material comfort, but as my own quixotic life has thwarted that, maybe I can instead prove my mettle by devoting the rest of my life to their betterment. If they grow up to be sane and loving people, this life will finally have meant something. Right now, Shelley and I have hope. Hope is something I haven't felt in a long long time, so already they've given me that. My dad hopes to live long enough to hear them call him "Grampa." My mom hopes her son can get his forever-scattered shit together to do right by them and Shelley. I hope they thrive and find a happy way through this world. I hope they are as strong and loving as their mom and that, if they are unlucky enough to be artistically inclined like their dad, they'll have 100 times his talent.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Okay, I think it's time we organized some more massive antiwar protest rallies. Obviously those hordes of rejoicing Iraqis are simply frightened by the barbaric American and British soldiers into shouting "Hurray Bush! Hurray USA!" We need to save them and get those "terrorist training camps" back up and running. I'm sure they are really not terrorist training camps - that's just propaganda - but I will reserve further comment until I read what Chomsky says, and then I'll know the TRUTH.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Been too busy to blog lately, but see here: NO More will I head into New York to see friends and socialize in bars. This smoking ban has RUINED the one fucking thing New York was good for: night life. I've long avoided movie theaters for the same reason. The fact that movies SUCK makes the boycott easy to stick with. And joining a bunch of boring ass nonsmokers, sitting around dainty taverns sipping one or two glasses of lite beer while shit music blasts away is about as appealing as jonesing though some 2 and a half hour moronofilm in a scummy multiplex full of obnoxious teens and interminable, overloud "NO SMOKING" trailers before the shittin' feature begins. NO THANKS. Here at home it's videos and viceroys, and nobody to tip.
Stepping to the street to puff is bad enough in Los Angeles, where the usual climate is room temperature. I will not do it in NYC, where it's either freezing or boiling outside and every move in the open invites the attention of fecal panhandlers …who themselves are preferable to the passing nonsmokers who direct exaggerated, hand-waving-the-air-to-clear-the-smoke disdain and fake "koff koffs" at anyone enjoying this LEGAL product anywhere in a 2 mile radius. If anyone ever wants to see me again, HOST ME at your APARTMENT. Wait… most of you don't allow smoking there either. Well, fuck you then. You can get on the goddamn train, ride for 2 hours to my house and visit ME for a change, where I'll graciously serve you my fine single malt scotch, politely blow my smoke toward the window screen and ask you what you'd like to listen to. You won't, though, so sayonara.
The governor of New York State, George Pataki, is a born weasel with the permanent worried brow of a Basenji. The mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg, is a billionaire catamite who closes firehouses as a hobby. They've ruined everything. Everything. I hate these two cunts with a fervor. Lot o' good it does me. Not that I'm saying you SHOULD smoke, either. Most of my friends don't smoke, and I couldn't care less about who does and doesn't… I've always been a polite smoker anyway. This whole thing probably amuses most of you who think my habit is disgusting and déclassé, and who have no sympathy at all for this predicament. Well, fuck you twice then.
Sure the French are a bunch of ingrate shit heels, but at least they let a person drag a public bogue. Vive le France! I'd rather sit in a Parisian dump listening to leftist blowhards insult America than sit in a New York dump listening to the same crap, because at least I'd be able to savor a Gitane with my drink! Did you see those G.I.s in Baghdad smoking away in Saddam's palace? FUCKING A, soldiers! Bring the tanks to Manhattan! Here's one oppressed citizen who'll greet your liberating arrival with hurrahs and hosannas! I'll lob one of those penetrating missiles at Gracie Mansion and fire up a straight as I piss on the charred bones of billionaire Bloomberg.
I can't WAIT to see what these puritan pricks take away next. Times Square is already a fucking shopping mall, and now the whole town is as appealing to visit as Branson Missouri. There's NOTHING left. Nothing. No reason at all to leave my house. Forgive me if I don't go to your band's gig, attend your birthday gathering or participate in any more occasions of convivial congregation. Pffft. Kaput. From now on, if something's happening, unless I receive assurance that accomodations for my addiction are available, I cannot promise my presence.
BUT: if anyone can come up with any scofflaw saloons civilized enough to overlook this draconian decree, establish terms with any "private membership" loophole lounge, or in any other way arrange for, enable or discover an alternate means whereby A GUY CAN FUCKING RELAX INDOORS WITH A COCKTAIL AND A COFFIN NAIL, let me know and I'm there.
Yeah, let me know. I'm there with bells on and Zippo blazin'. The first round's on me. Meanwhile, I'm here. Smoking and drinking if I want to. Choking on the exhaust fumes all you fucking drivers spew out into the air as your Japanese cars burn off the fossil fuel that finances the terrorists. Me, I support American tobacco farmers. And the medical professionals who'll vainly try to save my life. And the undertakers. And the local liquor store / smoke shop / video store.
Bye.
Stepping to the street to puff is bad enough in Los Angeles, where the usual climate is room temperature. I will not do it in NYC, where it's either freezing or boiling outside and every move in the open invites the attention of fecal panhandlers …who themselves are preferable to the passing nonsmokers who direct exaggerated, hand-waving-the-air-to-clear-the-smoke disdain and fake "koff koffs" at anyone enjoying this LEGAL product anywhere in a 2 mile radius. If anyone ever wants to see me again, HOST ME at your APARTMENT. Wait… most of you don't allow smoking there either. Well, fuck you then. You can get on the goddamn train, ride for 2 hours to my house and visit ME for a change, where I'll graciously serve you my fine single malt scotch, politely blow my smoke toward the window screen and ask you what you'd like to listen to. You won't, though, so sayonara.
The governor of New York State, George Pataki, is a born weasel with the permanent worried brow of a Basenji. The mayor of New York City, Michael Bloomberg, is a billionaire catamite who closes firehouses as a hobby. They've ruined everything. Everything. I hate these two cunts with a fervor. Lot o' good it does me. Not that I'm saying you SHOULD smoke, either. Most of my friends don't smoke, and I couldn't care less about who does and doesn't… I've always been a polite smoker anyway. This whole thing probably amuses most of you who think my habit is disgusting and déclassé, and who have no sympathy at all for this predicament. Well, fuck you twice then.
Sure the French are a bunch of ingrate shit heels, but at least they let a person drag a public bogue. Vive le France! I'd rather sit in a Parisian dump listening to leftist blowhards insult America than sit in a New York dump listening to the same crap, because at least I'd be able to savor a Gitane with my drink! Did you see those G.I.s in Baghdad smoking away in Saddam's palace? FUCKING A, soldiers! Bring the tanks to Manhattan! Here's one oppressed citizen who'll greet your liberating arrival with hurrahs and hosannas! I'll lob one of those penetrating missiles at Gracie Mansion and fire up a straight as I piss on the charred bones of billionaire Bloomberg.
I can't WAIT to see what these puritan pricks take away next. Times Square is already a fucking shopping mall, and now the whole town is as appealing to visit as Branson Missouri. There's NOTHING left. Nothing. No reason at all to leave my house. Forgive me if I don't go to your band's gig, attend your birthday gathering or participate in any more occasions of convivial congregation. Pffft. Kaput. From now on, if something's happening, unless I receive assurance that accomodations for my addiction are available, I cannot promise my presence.
BUT: if anyone can come up with any scofflaw saloons civilized enough to overlook this draconian decree, establish terms with any "private membership" loophole lounge, or in any other way arrange for, enable or discover an alternate means whereby A GUY CAN FUCKING RELAX INDOORS WITH A COCKTAIL AND A COFFIN NAIL, let me know and I'm there.
Yeah, let me know. I'm there with bells on and Zippo blazin'. The first round's on me. Meanwhile, I'm here. Smoking and drinking if I want to. Choking on the exhaust fumes all you fucking drivers spew out into the air as your Japanese cars burn off the fossil fuel that finances the terrorists. Me, I support American tobacco farmers. And the medical professionals who'll vainly try to save my life. And the undertakers. And the local liquor store / smoke shop / video store.
Bye.