There's Something Going Wrong Around Here

I know. I mocked. I, shall we say, expressed disdain. I said, somewhere, something about Pod People and managed to tie it into bad horror movies. I know. I know.

I was wrong.

I got an ipod. A used one. It’s old school. But it holds 20 megabytes of fucking music. That’s a lot of fucking music. In fact, I’ve loaded almost every single note I own (and several I’ve, um, acquired) onto the damn thing and it’s not half full. I’ve got a lot of music. Much of which I’ve forgotten about. Even with the pre-move-to-Texas-purge, I had a ton of music. And I can double that and still put it on this little, beautiful white gadget. I love my ipod. It is my new best friend. And that U2 b-side from 1982? Totally awesome tune.

And, well, let’s just say I’ve had a certain fantasy for a long time. It’s a good one. Not that kind of fantasy (Damn, Briar), but this:

Remember Reality Bites? Remember how Ethan/Troy was all pissed because Shop Lift Chick had started to date Jerry Stiller’s Kid? And Ethan/Troy, he had this band that was oh-so-hip-and-cool that it played the same Houston coffee shop all the time.

Remember?

They had a self-propelled, wheeled vehicle in their band name, if that helps.

Anyway, Ethan/Troy’s all broody and jealous, and Shop Lift Girl walks into the club with Jerry Stiller’s Kid while he’s playing and they launch into the Violent Femmes classic, “Add It Up,” and Shop Lift Girl’s all sad because Ethan/Troy’s singing right to her and her almost cheating but totally shattered heart.

That’s some good cinema. (And, really, Ethan/Troy, what kind of fool cheats on Uma with a Canadian Stripper? Are you insane?)

But like most Hollywood product, it’s too easy. See Ethan/Troy was already cool, just by getting out of bed in the morning. That hair. The goatee. The artfully out of tune guitar. The spiraling smoke from yet another Camel. That passage in the script that every-alt-woman-between-the-ages-of-25-and-35-can-quote-word-for-word about, “You, me and five bucks.”

You can’t argue with it. Ethan/Troy was a model for a whole lot of people like me who spent the ages of 11-17 in fear of a random ass kicking, but who hoped they had something more.

BUT...too easy.

He’s already cool. And they play a Violent Femmes song. Please.

Allow me to explain. The record containing that particular track was released in 1983. By my own high school years, several years later, tattered, many-dubbed copies of that cassette circled, We all had it. When Chris G. got the Escort, and he could drive me home from rehearsal to Hello, Dolly, we blasted side 1. At parties, it blared. Later, in college, it was produced like a chestnut. It is cornerstone in the geek soundtrack.

No. It would’ve been better if Ethan/Troy’s band had chosen a song that’s not so good. That doesn’t have the hip cred. A song that could’ve been made new through snarling, anti-folk from under a curtain of almost-greasy hipster hair. A song like Joe Jackson’s, “Is She Really Going Out With Him?”

Because, today, as I was walking in the sun, wearing my ear buds, the ipod's shuffle feature produced that number, and I was back in my fantasy. In the fantasy where I have a soupcon of musical talent. Where I have an inkling of melody. Where I can carry a tune and have the faintest notion of rhythm.

In the fantasy, I’m the lead singer and rhythm guitar player in a band. We have a gig in a club that is much like Southpaw or the Mercury Lounge. We’re doing our thing, and my soulful, broken hearted air is earned, and the kids love us. We’ve got the friends we’ve known forever over by the bar, signing along to the words, and enough people in the room, digging the vibe, that we think we might make it.

Oh yeah. I’ve written a record. One of hope and heart break. Of love and despair. You’ve heard Beck’s Sea Change? It’s all sad like that, but groovy too. You can shake it while you’re sad. It’s that kind of record.

And, lo and behold, as I’m finishing a tune, squinting into the crowd over the mic stand, I see her. The inspiration for the record, chatting and laughing with some dude. And I nod to the drummer, and he counts off, “One, Two, A-One, Two, Three, Four,” and there’s sludgy bass bringing in the opening notes, and I’m leering the words into the room, “Pretty women out walkin' with gorillas down my street/ From my window I'm starin' while my coffee goes cold /Look over there /(Where?) /There! /There's a lady that I used to know /She's married now or engaged or somethin', so I'm told... ."

And I’m wide eyed at the mic, watching. And she knows I’m singing to her. It’s all dramatic and she storms out of the club. And, then. [choose your own adventure]:

a) I get the girl in the end like Ethan/Troy. After chasing her into the street and going to Chicago because my abusive father has died.

or

b) It ends in a moment of punk rock glory I will ever know. The set is trashed and she is crying and I’m above it all. My demons are exorcised. And the really cute, yet totally unappreciated best friend character who’s been long suffering, finally gets some attention.

or

c) I get nothing. Just spiral into pills and more nefarious drugs in an attempt to nearly end my pain, get suddenly famous for a novelty single, tour the world, come home muttering, "Somebody, for the love of God, toss me a vicodin," end up on an episode of "Behind the Music--One Hit Wonders," while calling an agent who wants nothing more to do with me to try to beg a spot on some new reality show.


Really, I'm not all that fussed.

Because I love my ipod.

And it’s so pretty.

I Blame the Clucking Bunny

Every year, near the dawn of Lent, Cadbury releases it's Cream Eggs into the world. Every year I see one in a store and I buy it. Every year, I eat about half of said Cream Egg and feel the need to both puke and brush my teeth at least three times.

Every single freaking year. Clearly I'm not as smart as I'd like to think.

I Don't Think the Iman Would Approve

Two days ago, a user from the Islamic Repbulic of Iran landed on this page after searching for "english t.v. sex" without the quotes.

Naturally, one would assume these musings weren't what the user from Iran was after, because the visit was short. "0 Seconds," in fact, according to statcounter.

But, what could that person have been looking for? Descriptions of lascivious western television? Something to do with a tranny?

And, most importantly, how screwy is MSN's search if this site is the fifth hit when one searches, "english t.v. sex."

I think I'll stick to Google, thanks.

Welcome Hon. A

So, The Hon A. discovered Myspace and started to blog there (I don't think I can link to it), and as I read her work, I determined I should let her in on my blog here. Once she tires of the rather creepy attention on myspace, I assume she will have come to adore the blog world and will start a proper blog.

That said, she remains my closest friend in Austin and I value her more than I suspect she knows, so it only seemed fair to clue her in to the fact that she's been mentioned here.

However, in her myspace blog, she objected to something I said concerning her lifestyle in this space.

Let's let her words speak for her:

Mostly I wanted to set the record straight (pun intended) that I am NOT a fag hag, dammit! I never go to gay bars and I don't go to gay parties or wish I did. Just because my best friend is gay and I had a brief addiction to QAF doesn't make me a fag hag. Okay? (btw, will they ever release season 5 on DVD?!) Plus, in your blog, you made it seem as though I somehow shared the atrocious taste of the only gay couple in the whole world who has atrocious taste. But I DON'T! I'm not even friends with them and I hated that place. Eucalyptus and baskets everywhere. It was like Pier One on a bad trip. But now all your friends think I'm friends with them and that is my taste too. Which could not be any less true on all fronts. I think you owe it to me to revise your blog to make it clear that my house is tasteful and nice. (It is, isn't it?). And that I"m NOT a fag hag. (not that there's anything wrong with it).

First, I want to make it clear that I in no way meant to associate the Hon. A's style with that horrible house.

The Hon. A has a lovely home. It is decorated well and simply and is, in affect, soothing and nice. I am particularly fond of her living room furniture which manages to be comfortable, minimalistic and resistant to dog hair. Many kudos for all of those things.

But, I maintain that my descirption of the Hon. A as a "fag hag" is accurate.

I shall refer you all to wikipedia on this matter. According to that site:

Fag hag is a slang term, either abusive or affectionate, for a woman who enjoys the company of gay men. Gay men and fag hags often share a very close friendship, generally closer than they have with other women or men. It is this close friendship that is the hallmark of the fag hag relationship.

While I in no means think of her in the "abusive" manner, it remains fact that she meets the other requirements. As she says, there's nothing wrong with that. And she may not go to gay bars, but I know for a fact that she spent Valentine's Day watching movies and eating, if not bon-bons, at least healthy nibbles, with her best friend who just happens to be a big old queen. And I've been to at least two gatherings at her house that include enough friends of Dorothy to qualify as "gay parties" by Texas standards.

So, Hon. A. you're a judge. You are trained by vocation to evaluate the facts and make a decision. I have ruled on this. It is not subject to appeal. You are one of the best people I know. You are one of the best and most loyal friends I could hope to have. You are also, for lack of a better phrase, a fag hag. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Là pour ça

So, I have a number of friends who are musicians. And I’ve always loved going to see them play, loved hearing their songs. Loved most of all those parties that would wind down and find a few people left, when those that could play would break out guitars, and those that could sing would sing, and those of us, like me, that can’t do any of that, would listen and be thankful for good friends and good music.

Tonight, I went to see a band play. If you’ve got some familiarity with one hit wonders from the mid 90s, you’ve heard of them. If you’re up on current indie rock, you also know their work. If you hung out, late at night, at the last bar that employed me in Brooklyn, you’ve been drunk with at least one, and probably all three of them. They’re good people, and at least two of their last three records (the most recent is too new for me to call yet) have been regulars in my stereo for a while.

But, by the time I knew them, they’d already had a moment in the rock star sun with a novelty song that is nothing like anything else they’ve ever recorded. They weren’t exactly famous, but people in my age cohort know that one particular song. More recently, fans of a certain Fox prime time soap have at least heard their music. But I never visualized them as anything other than these dudes I knew in New York. When they played at North Six, it wasn’t a big deal; I could decide to go an hour before the show, and just make it on time and get in. They were filed in the same category as people I’d known for years, who made music I enjoyed, but had day jobs.

Except they’re not.

I shouldn’t be surprised, given their history, but it was sort of shocking to see them as rock stars. The venue was outside, fairly large (about Irving Plaza size) and it’s freaking cold here. Cold enough for me to break out the hat, gloves and heavy leather jacket. And it was packed. Packed with people who regarded the guys on stage as icons. And I’m watching them, blown away by how good they are, but also thinking, “Lychee Martini, Pint of Brooklyn Lager, Gray Goose and Tonic,” and it was weird. The last time I’d seen these guys, it was 18 months ago in New York (except for the drummer, the last time I saw him was here, when he played with another band, and we had breakfast the next day and he kept running to the bathroom because of his hangover). We’d talked about Kafka and Blood on the Tracks and their hopes for this record they’d been working on.

But, up on stage, they were someone else.

In other news, there’s been something I’ve been holding back, for a few reasons. But let’s just say I’ve been spending a fair bit of time with someone who makes me smile when I think about her. Like now.

Two Months, Repeat Tests

The scans show something, something very small, on a lung. It is too small to biopsy, so, in two months, the blood work will begin again.

Most of the worry is gone, except for the need to repeat everything.

But I'll say this, if my mother has cancer in her lungs, there is no karmic justice in the universe, anywhere.

On a related note, my last cigarette was smoked two days ago. Here's hoping I can keep up with that.

The Greatest Four Word Phrase in The English Language

Pitchers and catchers report.

Ah, baseball. Now that I have semi-consistent free wi-fi at home, I may have to sign up for the on-line t.v. broadcasts of Yankee games. I had the radio last year, but I want my Yankees.

Google Searches That Have Brought People Here In The Last Week

beercraft blogspot
sawhorse desk
beercraft brooklyn
bill norris blog
bill norris blog
bill norris blog
cary mcnair
waterbugs game
chicken shit bingo

None of them as good as "Park Slope Sex Club" from this time last year, but I do like "waterbugs game" and have to wonder what that's all about, especially because it came from Holland.

Happy Valentine's Day

So, do you think the writers for SNL/Letterman/Leno/The Daily Show et al woke up and saw the Dick Cheney story yesterday and felt like it was their birthday, Christmas, and every other good day wrapped into one?

My mom goes in for her scan tomorrow morning. I'll keep you all updated.

Update, no results until Friday.

I'm Calling From The Diner/The Diner on the Corner...

I Like Balls. I Really Like Big Green Balls. But This One's Broken.

Inconclusive

And we wait some more. A mildly concerned oncologist. A wait for test results. A scan scheduled for next week. And I’m feeling every single inch of the 1727.53 miles between here and there.

In Which I'm Thankful We Don't Live in The ER World

My mom goes in for her blood work this afternoon. Good friends are awaiting the results of blood tests regarding their efforts to spawn. And I woke up this morning thinking that it's a damn good thing we don't live in the orbit of Country General Hospital, because then it would be impossible for both of us to get good news, given that birth and death, renewal and disease were so intertwined in that place.

Sometimes I'm glad life isn't a bad television metaphor.

Enchanted Rock

Whatever Form of Beseechment You Choose, My Family Can Use It

The vast majority of people who come here are friends of mine from my "real life," and this post is directed at them.

I know most of you, like me, aren't religious people--to put it mildly. But, I would like to ask those of you who pray for prayers and those of you don't for good and positive thoughts. My mother's had some blood work come back that has her doctors worried about cancer returning. She goes for further tests this week and I'd be grateful if you could keep her in your thoughts this week.

My Blog's Magnetic Poetry Kit

The State of the Union 2006: Dissent is A Crime

I didn’t watch King George’s speech last night; I’m pretty confident that the State of the Union is perilous, and I thought a better use of my time would be to earn some cash. But I’ve read the coverage today.

And, in something that’s slipping through the cracks, anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan was arrested and removed from the Capitol gallery for sporting a t-shirt that read, “2,245 Dead. How many more?”

Now, there is a law on the books that prohibits groups from “demonstrating” inside the Capitol. But, as first amendment lawyer Glenn Greenwald notes:

In Bynum v. U.S. Capitol Police Bd. (Dist. D.C. 1997), the District Court found the regulations applying 140 U.S.C. § 193 -- the section of the U.S. code restricting activities inside the Capitol -- to be unconstitutional on First Amendment grounds. Bynum involved a Reverend who was threatened with arrest by Capitol Police while leading a small group in prayer inside the Capitol. The Capitol Police issued that threat on the ground that the praying constituted a "demonstration."

That action was taken pursuant to the U.S. Code, in which Congress decreed as follows: "It shall be unlawful for any person or group of persons wilfully and knowingly . . . to parade, demonstrate or picket within any Capitol Building." 140 U.S.C. § 193(f)(b)(7).

As the Bynum court explained: "Believing that the Capitol Police needed guidance in determining what behavior constitutes a 'demonstration,' the United States Capitol Police Board issued a regulation that interprets 'demonstration activity,'" and that regulation specifically provides that it "does not include merely wearing Tee shirts, buttons or other similar articles of apparel that convey a message. Traffic Regulations for the Capitol Grounds, § 158" (emphasis added).

Nothing Sheehan did could even be remotely construed to constitute a "demonstration." She was sitting quietly in her seat wearing a t-shirt, an activity which is expressly excluded from the activities prohibited by this statute and, in any event, could not possibly be criminalized consistent with the First Amendment. We don't have a system of government -- at least we didn't used to -- where someone can be arrested for wearing a t-shirt that expresses criticism of the President.

Not surprising, really. But telling.