...mount a cannon at home plate of Camden Yards and fire my body over the Esskay "Out-of-Town" scoreboard and onto Eutaw Street. You can even dress me up like The Bird, or maybe a big baseball, and if the money's alright, I hope someone ponies up for a big enough bang to make me the first man to truly hit the warehouse. (Fuck you Griffey.) And as I course through the air, gracefully arcing over the flag court and through the smoke rising from Boog's, I want Jim Hunter mournfully intoning over the PA - "See. You. Later."
I came across two interesting articles on cnn.com about this prolonged root canal of nomination process the Dems are caught up in; the first delineates the differences between the pedigrees of the Clinton and Obama camps , while the second is about a few discussions happening behind the scenes on what it will take for Hillary to exit the race with "honor."
Basically, whats happening with Obama is like a coup within the Democratic party, as the Clinton insiders who have controlled the party for the last 17 years are being shoved out of the way by dudes groomed by Daschle and Gephardt. It really seems to be being sticking in Bill's craw, especially since he's spent the eight years since he left office setting his family up to be the new Kennedys, even going so far as to kiss his old nemesis, George H.W. Bush's ass. That's why he's on T.V. every other day, red in the face, veins bulging from his neck, spouting some half-thought-out nonsense that has been carrying a creepy, ominous undertone to it as of late. I can understand his anger - when people that owe their entire careers to them (i.e. - Bill Richardson) are jumping on the winning bandwagon and leaving the Clintons alone in the settling dust, its as much - if not more - a slap to his face as it is hers. Bill just simply can't fucking take it anymore, and he is definitely ensconced in the "shitting blood" level of angry.
As to the second article - leaving aside the negotiations over how much of her $30 fucking million dollars of debt that she wants Obama to cover before she bails - I don't believe for a second that Obama would seriously offer Hillary the VP nod, unless he is secretly a complete fucking retard. No matter how this breaks, she's going to spend the next four years trying to sabotage every move he makes so that she's in the discussion for 2012 - why give her a great shooting platform? And all this party unity stuff is a little far-fetched - why should he be the one to bear the brunt of the discord and disharmony that Clinton has spent a year of her life working to build? When this race could have been about issues, she made it as damaging and divisive as possible, probably due to the fact that if she had to explain her voting record over the past five years, she'd be losing even worse than she is now. I mean, she's the one who wouldn't let the Rev. Wright shit drop; she's one the who raised the issue of his attending a mandrassa when he was a child; she threatened to give all the juicy details of his past drug use to the press before he made it a non-issue by admitting it himself, like the adult she'll never be; she even drew attention to him not wearing a fucking flag pin! Now, she casts him as "unpatriotic" because he's sticking by the rules they BOTH agreed to with regards to the Michigan and Florida primaries, while she played dirty and is now trying to have those results admitted clean. She has done everything she can to ruin and defame him all in the name of politics, and party unity was a sacrifical lamb that she led to slaughter as soon as it became convienient. Now that she's got everyone foaming at the mouth, it's Obama's responsibility to bend over and take one for the team? Fuck that. She's the one who needs to make amends, and she can start by stepping up to the dais tomorrow - Memorial Day - and saying:
"I realize I've been a craven, power-hungry piece of shit in a power suit for the last year, and most of you have seen enough of me to last you a lifetime. I can't blame you - not only have I embarassed myself and my family (well, at least Chelsea), but I've actively tried to reduce the American political process to the level of a playground pissing match between incontinent seven-year-olds. Thankfully for all of us, you - the American people - have seen through me and have correctly identified me as the scheming, shit-eating low-life that I am, and all but the least educated among you have turned away from me in droves. This is good for America! In recognition of this fact, and as an acknowledgement of my true idenity as The Succubus sent here to destroy all hope that America might once again assume the mantle of 'civilized nation' where industrialized countries are concerned, I hereby announce plans to drown myself in sewage this evening while humming 'I'm Every Woman,' until the bitter, noxious end.
And following the suggestion of a creative supporter, I would henceforth like a cannon to be mounted at homeplate of Oriole Park at Camden Yards..."
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Notes
Only three days left of tour. I am in fine shape and spirit aside from a pesky swollen tonsil and the requisite scrapes and bruises that always litter my hands by this point in any trip. We're in Chicago at our friend Sara's place and Zach and I are waiting on a pizza we ordered 45 minutes ago, which has long since lost any appeal, probably due to our discovery of a list of restaurant reviews that repeatedly described the fare of this particular joint as "vomit worthy." Billy and Sara are asleep in the living room, Rod's sleeping in the "art" room, and Zalamia is snoring so hard in Sara's bedroom down the hall that even with the door closed we have to talk over his racket. It sounds like he's either making an ice carving via chainsaw, or making margaritas on super-slow pulse. Its fucking savage.
This tour has been awesome - maybe my favorite one yet. The turnouts have been good, the other bands fun as hell, and the late-night hi-jinks pretty fucking stellar to boot. I don't want to be home, but I could sure as hell use two or three days spent high as hell watching baseball. Then I'll be good for another month.
Tomorrow Louisville, then Charlottesville on Friday. At least the latter drive will be scenic, as we cross the Blue Ridge south of Charleston, WV. Tomorrow is just five more hours of boring Indiana flat-land. I swear to Christ that state is the biggest piece of shit on the continent. That or Ohio.
Pizza just got here and was promptly downed. Capsule review - passable sauce, non-descript cheese, absolutely god-fucking-awful crust that we agreed could best be described as "hardtack." Its like Civil War pizza.
I need to go crawl into bed with Z., and give him the old "please fucking stop snoring" kick in the ass thats become routine this tour. My two going-to-sleep choices - The Louvin Brothers' "The Family Who Prays" and "Nilsson Sings Newman."
Over and out..
This tour has been awesome - maybe my favorite one yet. The turnouts have been good, the other bands fun as hell, and the late-night hi-jinks pretty fucking stellar to boot. I don't want to be home, but I could sure as hell use two or three days spent high as hell watching baseball. Then I'll be good for another month.
Tomorrow Louisville, then Charlottesville on Friday. At least the latter drive will be scenic, as we cross the Blue Ridge south of Charleston, WV. Tomorrow is just five more hours of boring Indiana flat-land. I swear to Christ that state is the biggest piece of shit on the continent. That or Ohio.
Pizza just got here and was promptly downed. Capsule review - passable sauce, non-descript cheese, absolutely god-fucking-awful crust that we agreed could best be described as "hardtack." Its like Civil War pizza.
I need to go crawl into bed with Z., and give him the old "please fucking stop snoring" kick in the ass thats become routine this tour. My two going-to-sleep choices - The Louvin Brothers' "The Family Who Prays" and "Nilsson Sings Newman."
Over and out..
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Work
Teacher #1: Who are you in for today?
Me: Mitchell
Teacher #1: Ahhh...all the kids think that she's out taking care of her dad again, but they don't know that he died a year ago.
Teacher #2: No he didn't.
Teacher #1: Oh...really?
Teacher #2: No - he's still alive...he only has one leg, though.
Me: Mitchell
Teacher #1: Ahhh...all the kids think that she's out taking care of her dad again, but they don't know that he died a year ago.
Teacher #2: No he didn't.
Teacher #1: Oh...really?
Teacher #2: No - he's still alive...he only has one leg, though.
Friday, February 29, 2008
All Lost in the Supermarket
Sometimes the place I feel the most foreign in this world is the grocery store. I want so badly to be fluent in the language of taste, but instead I stand there looking at 86 different kinds of rice thinking "What the fuck is 'Basmati'?" I cook no-frills, and hence I eat like a hostage. Some days, I like to pretend this is part of some great existentialst suffering, like I have too much on my plate to care what the broccoli tastes like - "People are dying, man!" But in reality, its simply an acknowledgement that I have waaaaaay too many Monkees songs to track down to really give that much thought to what I'm putting in my body.
I've eaten badly for just about as long as I've been cooking for myself. One of these days, I'm going to start renting young children to put in my grocery cart so that when people look down at my purchases, I can just point at him/her and shake my head, laughing, as if to say, "Lady, do you really think I 'm buying all these little Gatorades for myself? And who but a child would buy two boxes of Bacon Better Cheddars when they're not even on sale? And the Fruit Gushers?! Fuckin' kids today!" Then I'll make a big show of asking my rented child why he really needs all three boxes of Cinnamon and Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts.
But I have gotten alot better over the years. I remember the first time I successfully made an omelet that didn't look like it had already been half-digested - I was so proud of myself, you would have thought I cracked the fucking Rosetta Stone. I almost didn't want to eat it. For Christmas this year, I dropped $40 of grandmom's hard-earned money on a Bible-sized vegetarian cookbook, with the goal being to learn how to make two new dishes per week without making myself sick. I cracked it open just long enough to learn that "real" scrambled eggs are supposed to take 25 minutes to cook, and that I'd have to forfeit valuable spatula space to build a spice collection big enough to cook anything the proper way (and I have some primo spatulas, my friend). Needless to say, it quickly became entombed on the top of my dresser, beneath my St. Jude candle and the Christmas card my mom sent me from the dogs.
So for now, my cooking advancements are measured in inches. Why, just yesterday I discovered that if you use cinnamon toast to make fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, its pretty bad-ass. But don't use rye bread unless its just one of those weeks.
Save that shit for grilled cheese.
I've eaten badly for just about as long as I've been cooking for myself. One of these days, I'm going to start renting young children to put in my grocery cart so that when people look down at my purchases, I can just point at him/her and shake my head, laughing, as if to say, "Lady, do you really think I 'm buying all these little Gatorades for myself? And who but a child would buy two boxes of Bacon Better Cheddars when they're not even on sale? And the Fruit Gushers?! Fuckin' kids today!" Then I'll make a big show of asking my rented child why he really needs all three boxes of Cinnamon and Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts.
But I have gotten alot better over the years. I remember the first time I successfully made an omelet that didn't look like it had already been half-digested - I was so proud of myself, you would have thought I cracked the fucking Rosetta Stone. I almost didn't want to eat it. For Christmas this year, I dropped $40 of grandmom's hard-earned money on a Bible-sized vegetarian cookbook, with the goal being to learn how to make two new dishes per week without making myself sick. I cracked it open just long enough to learn that "real" scrambled eggs are supposed to take 25 minutes to cook, and that I'd have to forfeit valuable spatula space to build a spice collection big enough to cook anything the proper way (and I have some primo spatulas, my friend). Needless to say, it quickly became entombed on the top of my dresser, beneath my St. Jude candle and the Christmas card my mom sent me from the dogs.
So for now, my cooking advancements are measured in inches. Why, just yesterday I discovered that if you use cinnamon toast to make fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, its pretty bad-ass. But don't use rye bread unless its just one of those weeks.
Save that shit for grilled cheese.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
"...were at one time it's most hopeless romantics."
Hoy Hoy Gentle Reader,
The title of this blog comes from a quote I distinctly remember coming across during my high school days; in fact, I've been attributing it to Ambrose Bierce ever since, as though there's some nugget of memory hidden upstairs that at one time or another made me absolutely certain of this fact. Unfortunately for me, Google's never heard of it, so either I made it up or the piper has finally come to collect his due for all those years of self-medication. Probably a little of a) and a little b).
Whoever said it, I happen to like it, and it's a thought that's kept me company in the depth of many a misunderstanding. I can identify with the idea of the cynic as being someone who's not out to discourage all around him/her out of a defect of personality, but rather as someone whose too great hopes and too fragile nature have conspired to create, at periods, a very agitated soul. OK, so maybe it does sound like a Conor Oberst pick-up line; my first cat was named Gobo and I actively tried to convince my parents to change my middle name to "Butch" when I was six years old - I'm clearly not cut out for naming things. My future children better hope my future wife is a woman with ideas.
Two-thousand-seven was a banner year for me; so much so, that 2008 has felt straight pedestrian so far. Milestones were a'plenty in The Year of the Pig - I left my day job at a non-profit/government agency after three years, with approximately 13% of my idealism intact; I moved out of my long-time apartment - one whose roof and deck I will be missing like hell in a few months - and into the swankest digs I've yet to lay my head (not that that's saying much, but still...); I saw large swaths of this country from the bench seat of a van, and met great people just about everywhere we went; I narrowly escaped eviseration via samurai sword; I made out with a girl for three consecutive hours (pro and con); and I reaped the benefits of gainful unemployment for six months, during which time my daily regimen consisted of bong hits, blueberry pancakes, Walt Whitman and long walks. By the time December rolled around, I sure as shit was sad to the see the year end.
But more importantly than all that, 2007 saw a marked increase in "me time," where, by the process of mental triangulation, I tried to figure out exactly where I was standing most times. I did alot of thinking. I did alot of re-thinking. I did alot of writing. I threw alot of that writing out. I tried to learn the difference between "valuable" and "invaluable." I did alot of staring at Christmas lights and stop lights and the few stars one can see through the Baltimore smog and tried to imagine myself as a beam of light making its way out to everyone around me. I wondered what I meant by that. The whole thing felt like pulling off an old scab thats clearly not protecting anything any longer, and letting the new, pink flesh soak in the air.
And now we've got The Year of The Rat, and I'm excited to put my new-found theories to the test. Then I'll know whether I'm totally full of shit or not.
But I don't reckon this space will be a bleeding heart parade too much; I'm still too uptight for that. If anything, this will be a respository of half-baked musings, which are still awesome because maybe you can still taste the batter and thats the best part of the cake anyway. I'm sure alot of it will be band shit because that takes up an ungodly portion of my time, plus its something I'd really like to write about. It might also be about my search for a money-making venture of some kind because I have 10 days of unemployment left as of this writing. Maybe its time to finally get that professional parallel-parking career off the ground?
Over and out...
PS - Will some male cat of the neighborhood please do something about this puss-in-heat thats been hanging in the alleyway for the last week? One more night of this, and I'm going to fuck that cat myself.
Listening to: Ben E. King and The Drifters
Hoy Hoy Gentle Reader,
The title of this blog comes from a quote I distinctly remember coming across during my high school days; in fact, I've been attributing it to Ambrose Bierce ever since, as though there's some nugget of memory hidden upstairs that at one time or another made me absolutely certain of this fact. Unfortunately for me, Google's never heard of it, so either I made it up or the piper has finally come to collect his due for all those years of self-medication. Probably a little of a) and a little b).
Whoever said it, I happen to like it, and it's a thought that's kept me company in the depth of many a misunderstanding. I can identify with the idea of the cynic as being someone who's not out to discourage all around him/her out of a defect of personality, but rather as someone whose too great hopes and too fragile nature have conspired to create, at periods, a very agitated soul. OK, so maybe it does sound like a Conor Oberst pick-up line; my first cat was named Gobo and I actively tried to convince my parents to change my middle name to "Butch" when I was six years old - I'm clearly not cut out for naming things. My future children better hope my future wife is a woman with ideas.
Two-thousand-seven was a banner year for me; so much so, that 2008 has felt straight pedestrian so far. Milestones were a'plenty in The Year of the Pig - I left my day job at a non-profit/government agency after three years, with approximately 13% of my idealism intact; I moved out of my long-time apartment - one whose roof and deck I will be missing like hell in a few months - and into the swankest digs I've yet to lay my head (not that that's saying much, but still...); I saw large swaths of this country from the bench seat of a van, and met great people just about everywhere we went; I narrowly escaped eviseration via samurai sword; I made out with a girl for three consecutive hours (pro and con); and I reaped the benefits of gainful unemployment for six months, during which time my daily regimen consisted of bong hits, blueberry pancakes, Walt Whitman and long walks. By the time December rolled around, I sure as shit was sad to the see the year end.
But more importantly than all that, 2007 saw a marked increase in "me time," where, by the process of mental triangulation, I tried to figure out exactly where I was standing most times. I did alot of thinking. I did alot of re-thinking. I did alot of writing. I threw alot of that writing out. I tried to learn the difference between "valuable" and "invaluable." I did alot of staring at Christmas lights and stop lights and the few stars one can see through the Baltimore smog and tried to imagine myself as a beam of light making its way out to everyone around me. I wondered what I meant by that. The whole thing felt like pulling off an old scab thats clearly not protecting anything any longer, and letting the new, pink flesh soak in the air.
And now we've got The Year of The Rat, and I'm excited to put my new-found theories to the test. Then I'll know whether I'm totally full of shit or not.
But I don't reckon this space will be a bleeding heart parade too much; I'm still too uptight for that. If anything, this will be a respository of half-baked musings, which are still awesome because maybe you can still taste the batter and thats the best part of the cake anyway. I'm sure alot of it will be band shit because that takes up an ungodly portion of my time, plus its something I'd really like to write about. It might also be about my search for a money-making venture of some kind because I have 10 days of unemployment left as of this writing. Maybe its time to finally get that professional parallel-parking career off the ground?
Over and out...
PS - Will some male cat of the neighborhood please do something about this puss-in-heat thats been hanging in the alleyway for the last week? One more night of this, and I'm going to fuck that cat myself.
Listening to: Ben E. King and The Drifters
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