My Top Five Most Said Phrases During The Day

1) "Time To Use My Sinus Rinse!"
2) "She Was Pregnant When I Met Her"
3) "Maybe If I Hit Reload, I'll Have a New Facebook Notification"
4) "Oh Well, No New Notifications"
5) "This Uncontrollable Sobbing Will Stop If I Drink Vodka at 3PM".

Plus:
"Man! If I only had a guitar, 15 years of practice, a driving passion and a unique talent, Id be a big time rock star."

Random Thoughts 'O The Day

The phrase "don't cry over spilled milk" doesn't really take into account "crying while spilled milk murders and rapes your neighbors within earshot".

Is love still blind for a blind person? Or is it "love is sighted" for them?

Jews aren't money hungry, they're "getting the coat at cost" hungry.

I'm easily distractible which is a word I just had to add to my web browser dictionary. What kind of web browser doesn't have "distractible" in its dictionary? I guess it's time to stop using Mosaic. I wonder if my Geocities personal page is getting any hits from aol users looking at alt.binaries.Geocities.arcane.references.

If Axl Rose was a 10 year old fat Mexican kid who looks nothing like Axl Rose would he look like this?
Fat Baby is Strong Baby!

I am not getting older, everyone around me is just getting a lot younger and speak a strange internet acronym based language.

I'm not gaining weight, the world is just contracting at an imperceptibly fast rate.

In 1993, I took neither side the "whoomp! there it is" or "whoot! there it is" war. I preferred the less well known "whoopie goldberg! there it is". That's probably why I was so unpopular in middle school.

"Nobody walks in LA" except when you're filling up your gas tank and an insane drunk hobo walks up to you to ask for money/to read his "manifesto".

The word manifesto sounds like a type of basil leaf-derived sauce created by stereotype Italian mobsters. "Aaay, taste this fuckin' manifesto, you goombatz!".

14 year olds who make fun of 18 year olds because they wear late-80s Run DMC style hip hop clothing should be gently reminded that in 4 years they'll be dressing like The Spice Girls and wearing $80 vintage "Silverchair" tee shirts. Fashion is macabre cyclic charade.

being outraged is better than being enraged

I died slightly when I was 30.

My heart raced, my head pounded and a slight numbness rang through my fingers. I thought it might be the end, or at least what the end might feel like.

I woke up at 9am on a Tuesday, blinked, and it was 4pm next Wednesday. I had a dream about being older; and when I woke up, the dream came true.

I thought about my job and realized that it was just something that distracted me from life. I thought about my life and realized it was just something distracting me from my job.

I went to the doctor, who made me wait for 45 minutes because people who had appointments after me arrived before me.

When I came through the door he smiled.

"How are we feeling today?"
"I feel too old to be young, but too young to be old".
"Wow! That sounds like a trite insight into the intrinsic truth of human nature."
He got me there.
"Touche!"
"What it sounds like to me," He said, "is that you've got a case of the 'being aware of the transience of time'. The only cure is to stop paying attention."
"How do I do that?"
"Well, there's TV. Pop culture blogs, alcohol, skat porn. Anything that will take your mind off your mind."
"Gossip girl?"
"Now you're talking!"

I hopped in my car and bought some McDonalds. I thought this was an appropriate first step; I ate just enough to give me the runs and constipation at the same time.

I got home, turned on MTV just in time for a "The Hills" marathon. It felt a little weird and I vomited for the first hour; but after the initial shock to the system, things seemed to fall in place.

Time set itself right. Well, maybe time didn't set itself right, but I didn't notice the gaps. In fact, I didn't notice much.

I was OK with sitting around the house staring idly at the ceiling. It didn't bother me at all that I wasted a night looking at Perez Hilton, because my concept of value was greatly diminished. Soon, I paid no mind to museum visits, British Sitcoms and Italian cinema from the 1960s. All the pop culture noise and bland sameness allowed me to forget what I might be missing out on.

Time became an abstract concept instead of a stark reality. It no longer came and went with each passing breath; it just happened, like water running through your fingers in a shower.

When you fill your time with vapid, superficially unimportant things, time loses all its value. You're no longer missing out on things; things just happen around you.

I finally knew what it was like to be an American. Each day passed, but I didn't notice each day passing because I was too busy not noticing each day passing. I voted for the most handsome candidate and became outraged at things other people were outraged about because being outraged is better than being enraged.

I bought a flat screen TV and when that didn't fill the void, I bought a super fucking huge cinema display for my computer. These things became exponentially more important as I became exponentially less important.

And when I died, it all made sense. Because there's no questions when you aren't paying attention.

I'm Bound To Insult You

I hate silence.

I would rather be savaged clumsily by a spork than sit in uncomfortable silence.

There's a grating, unnerving feeling when people sit in silence. I can't really explain it. Not talking to someone is essentially the same as screaming "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU, YOU FETID SACK OF COW TURD!!" at them.

So, that's why I ramble on and on and on. It's how I keep myself sane.

It's also how I get in a lot of trouble.

You see, the more one talks, then more one is likely to say something highly insulting or embarrassing to the other person. At least, that's the way it works for me.

Take, for example, a poker game that I had a week or so ago.

End of the night, everyone sort-of making their way out the door, the remaining few just idly sipping whiskey...

Barack Obama came up. (preface, I'm a huge Barack supporter and went around PA passing out fliers, making phone calls, etc for him)

I was attempting to express my pride and amazement that someone like Barack could win the election. How did it come out? An expression that more closely resembled a KKK recruiting pamphlet.

"When I was a kid, my dad told me that the US would elect a black man as president before they'd elect a Jew. I was like 'no way...how could that ever happen'! 'How could the US elect a black guy before they elected a Jew?'"

So the silence crept in and I felt like I needed to back up or keep chugging; basically cause some sort of car wreck...

"I didn't mean it like that; I just didn't think that anyone would actually vote for a black person to be president"

Of course, what I meant was that I didn't have the faith that a black person would ever be elected president because of our country's chequered past. Judging by the dropped jaws and piercing stares, it must have come across as "who could ever believe that an inferior race would be elected!".

A few days later, I found myself at the house of a good friend of mine, discussing internet culture with his girlfriend.

She spoke of her distrust of Twitter, and I picked up on it.

"Yeah, I mean, there are all types of vain, narcissistic weirdos taking pictures of their meals and tweeting 'this is what I'm eating'. What's up with that?"

I then realized that her boyfriend tweets all day and 90% of them are pictures of his meal with a "this is what I'm eating" tag on it.

I quickly tried to correct myself...

"uh, except your boyfriend, he's always taking pictures of interesting food. I completely understand why he does it. It's not vanity or narcissism when he does it. More of an art..."

So she's not responding and I think maybe I've taken it a little to far with the "more of an art" comment...too much silence, right?

"Well, as much of an art as Twittering can be, I mean, obviously an idiot could Twitter, not that your boyfriend is an idiot"

She was watching "The Hills" as we spoke and later on in the conversation (during a lull) a very sexy condom commercial came on.

I felt the need to butt in.

"Not to be too puritanical, but isn't this show for 15 year old girls?"

Note, we had just had a conversation about how this was one of her favorite shows. Of course, I was referring to the too-sexy commercial on, not the fact that a 28 year old girl was watching the show, but she didn't pick up on it.

"Uh, I guess, but you know, it's funny, that's why I watch it"

"Yeah, but I mean, how can they show that crap to little kids?"

She looks offended and stays quiet. I realize that she has no idea I'm talking about the condom commercial, and that I'm probably insulting her.

"Oh, I was talking about the condom commercial, I don't think this show is for 15 year olds, I just meant that was part of the demographic. The show can be enjoyed on different levels, you know? Like, if you're 15 you can enjoy it as an MTV reality show, and if you're older, you can enjoy it as..."

I lose track and try to quickly come up with something.

I can't.

"Anyway, I certainly didn't mean to imply this show is just for 15 year old girls!"

15 minutes later she went to bed and I didn't see her again for the next two days that I stayed at her house.

So, you get what it's like spending an uncomfortable night with me. I'm bound to insult you, your significant other, or your race. Perhaps all three.

Just know I didn't mean it.

Recovering Sick Days

I am slowly recovering from a particularly annoying case of the flu. Bedridden for 4-plus days, I spent the long, solitary hours in a bright white room covered in Kleenex and TheraFlu packets.

I'm fairly certain that nothing brings back vivid childhood memories than sick days at home. Sure, there's a difference; at the age of 8, 4 sick days doing nothing is a heavenly blessing from Jeebus; at the age of 28, it's a macabre exercise in the realization of how quickly life is passing you by.

Still, there's nothing like a good old sick day.

It brings me straight back to ear aches and sniffles at my childhood home at 88th street and Riverside Drive, watching bootleg World War II-era Superman and Bugs Bunny cartoons that my dad picked up from a street vendor at 96th and Broadway.

Occasionally, it might be something else; Star Trek II, Doctor Who, any one of a dozen Marx Brothers movies...even when I was sick, they made me feel better. Something about good watchin'...makes for a wonderfully constant healer.

Lacking ability to do much besides lay half-unconscious with my laptop on my stomach, I went to southparkstudios.com and watched probably close to 80 South Park episodes. Of course, I slept through about 50 of them, but I gotta say; even though the slightest laugh might have caused a painful coughing fit, it was worth it. South Park got me through the sickness; distracted me enough, kept me company enough, made me smile enough. Thank goodness for good programming.

My grandmother, who passed away last year at 98, was basically bedridden for the last 25 years of her life. "Bedridden" in this case is defined as "Anti-socialism" as opposed to "Too Sick To Move", but in any case, the gal kept herself going by watching TV day and night. Certainly nothing I would condone (I canceled my cable long ago), but something I can understand. Being kept company doesn't always mean there's anyone else with you.

Anyway, the first attempt I made to go outside was to drive over to Rocket Video to rent some British sitcoms. While there, I encountered 2 20-ish year olds arguing which Marx Brothers movie they should rent for an upcoming Acid Trip. I guess good entertainment can also keep your Id and Superego company.

downtown LA at 7am

there's a darkness rising in the streets
hazy glow of a stray mourn
skyscraped scars of a distant city
as fog suffocates the breathless air

up go the golden cold night lights
they awake with a squint and a sigh
the beams creep in with a scream unseen
til they just whimper and die

3 Cult Artists Worth The Hype

Cult artists tend to elicit a "love it or hate it" reaction; I used to think that I was generally in the "unpopular middle" on most of them, until I realized that it absolutely depends on your mood. I fucking love these musicians at certain times. Most other times I'm at sort of a "crunchy whatever"...an "eh", if you will.

Here are some great artists and some great times to listen to them.

On A Quiet, Rainy Day:

SYD BARRETT:

Ahh, the sound of someone mentally breaking down. That's either his two solo albums or the gentle sobbing that comes from my bathroom each night around 1am.

Originally the leader of the first (and in my approximation, best) incarnation of Pink Floyd, Syd had a bit of a breakdown; staring blankly ahead during a lip sync performance on American Bandstand, strumming his detuned guitar at random intervals during live shows, and writing a song called "Have You Got It Yet", which he introduced to his band mates by never playing any chords in sequence, asking the rest of the Floyd to follow along, and shouting "have you got it yet?" every few seconds.

In any case, they stopped picking him up for gigs at some point in 1968; his managers, thinking he was the star of Floyd, got some solo albums together.

The two records, "The Madcap Laughs" and "Barrett" consist of strange, almost rambling songs. Some are melodically captivating, some emotionally evocative, all pretty fucking weird.

His voice has an odd ethereal quality; he's almost not there. I would liken it to someone who is really, really exhausted; it's the last karaoke song of the night and all the wine is putting him to sleep. Yet, it's somehow special.

He strums his acoustic guitar wildly, changing time signatures willy-nilly, occasionally playing chords that he probably shouldn't be playing. His backup band seem to be playing catch up, confused as to where he might be going next (they haven't got it yet).

The more rambling songs are something to behold; they really feel like he just sat down, started playing his guitar and sang whatever strange things that came into his head. Take the lyrics of the track "Rats" off his 1970 album "Barrett":

Blam, splattered, tactile, engine heaving,
quacky, squeaky, dormy, roofy, wham
I`ll have them mind blown broken
jardy, cardy, smoocho, poocho, paki, puffi
splosh eat moxy, very smelly, cable, gable,
splinter, shaddle top the seam he`s taken off

Half poetic, half "Huh"?...all pretty interesting. If you're going to give him a shot, be prepared to be full of sadly fun whimsy.

No Good Trying off 1969's "The Madcap Laughs"
Great song, odd lyrics, listen to his backing band (the superb Soft Machine) attempting to play "catch up"...



Gigolo Aunt off 1970's "Barrett":
One of his most "pop oriented" songs, which tells you something:



Barrett moved back in with his mom after some unproductive sessions in 1974 (financed by David Bowie). He died in 2006.


Taking a Nap On a Beach:


SCOTT WALKER:
If I was to say "An industrial Josh Grobian singing over barren, yet complex musical landscapes" would you want to listen? Probably not. So I won't say it.

Scott Walker was a huge pop star in the 1960s, reemerged in the mid-1970s with an album that continues to "inspire" David Bowie (IE, he continues to "rip it off") and now releases a record every 10 or so years.

He is so unclassifiable as an artist, that I am simply unable to come up with words to describe his music.

My favorite album of his is 1995's universally praised Tilt, something that will lull you into a sense of false security with a minute or two of ambient rattling, then blow your mind with abrupt dissonant percussion, orchestral bursts and operatic wailing. Oh, and lyrics about everything from the trial of Adolf Eichmann to the endangerment of the buffalo.

Bowie, again, used that album as the blueprint for everything from his 1995 album "Outside" to his 2002 album "Heathen".

If Tilt sounds like too much of a drag to you, a good starting point might be his four tracks on The Walker Brothers' 1978 album "Nite Flights"; Can meets Genesis meets Roxy Music hybrid which is worth the price of several admissions. Hey, Bowie even covered the title track. Enough Bowie for you? Only one more reference, I promise...

If you're interested in pushing your musical horizons into bleak, dark, insanely intellectual territory, than this is the man for you. If "ten piece orchestra, wailing guitars, loud organ, lyrics about Europe in the summertime" turn you off, don't bother.

Oh, and there's apparently an amazing documentary on him which actually was just in theaters (produced by none other than David Bowie!). I missed it, but it'll be in my Netflix queue...if I had a Netflix queue...

Tilt off 1995's Tilt
The poppiest song off the album...it's about leather, Buffalo mothers and the enviroment. That makes it sound waaaay worse than it is...




Night Flights off 1978's Night Flights
It's poppy, but also a little mysterious...gotta love it...and the processed violins...



Taking A Shower After The Museum Of Modern Art:

CAPTAIN BEEFHEART:

Yeah, it's totally cliché to use the words "cult", "captain", and "beefheart" in the same blog post, but what the hell.

I really appreciate (almost) everything this guy's done. From his early bluesy cuts to his last album, 1982's Ice Cream For Crow. His music is cosmic, jagged, fucking strange and wonderful.

Famed BBC DJ John Peel did a pretty good job of defining him. In discussing his 1968 masterwerk, Trout Mask Replica, he wrote:

If there has been anything in the history of popular music which could be described as a work of art in a way that people who are involved in other areas of art would understand, then Trout Mask Replica is probably that work.

Beefheart's beat-poetry-meets-proto-punk-riffs-sung-in-a-blues-howl always appealed to me in a way that most music doesn't; artistically. His music sounds like a Pollock painting, without the vomit stains. It's music that belongs in the MOMA; the wine and cheese set say they like it, but it's just because they don't understand it; the rest of us enjoy it on a visceral level; it's poetry we can bob our heads to.

Not everything has to make sense. Things can be beautiful without being beautiful.

He's inspired everyone; from Sonic Youth to Bloc Party. He even inspired ME. I think this was the first song I wrote the music AND lyrics for at 23...why not post it here? I was listening to a lot of Beefheart at the time. Don't judge...


Anyway, pick up Trout Mask Replica, which lands on everyone's top albums of all time (Rolling Stone said #58...I would say about #25).

Sweet Bulbs off 1968's Trout Mask Replica:
A great track about...what I'm assuming is the vagina...but I'm not sure. Not sexual, it's evocative, dense, and jagged with poetic lyrics that will have you grabbing your "pocket guide to explaining poetry"




Zig-Zag Wanderer off 1967's Safe As Milk
I hear this blaring often in Hipster Bars' Jukeboxes. It's easily digestible, but full of enough cache to fit into a hobbledehoy's 2009 "songs I tell people I like" playlist.




Anyways, if you don't like any of these people it's probably because you don't like any of these people. Profound, I know.

Give 'em a listen, maybe it will open up your musical horizons.