Old Lies Past Planted the Seed. Where's my Weed Wacker?

I always doubted parents and professors and grand parents who said (and a paraphrase), gettin' old dumbs you down. Well as usual they were right and I was wrong. I'm dumber then I was. These kids I go to school with are WAAY smarter than me and I find this very disappointing.

It's either that or When you're young you're convinced those old folks are so damn smart and someday you'll be just like them. Then when you 'get older' (whatever that means to you) and you assume your opinion of people 'your age', formed when you were a snotty-nosed kid. IE someone who knows everything, totally together, capable of anything, ect...

Well this just isn't true. So when your old enough that the significantly younger are 20, your in for it. Time for the ego to GO DOWN in fa- fa- F L A M E S. Everyone of the those twenty year-olds are manning anti-aircraft cannons shooting your, large, old, slow, over-confident ass to the ground. When you get hit the first time you think, 'oh that's just a kid what do they know, pffft' Now that I'm crawling through the wreckage lemmie tell you, they know a lot. The whole time your spirialling down to earth you're in utter disbelief, 'but, but, but I'm older and wiser, and they're just KIDS! That's impossible!' (say like Luke in Empire Strikes Back.)

So when you come to, you wander aimlessly through the wreckage of your self image, looking for some piece of truth to salvage, something that survived the merciless attack of the twenty year-olds, I'll tell you what I find when I find it.

But maybe the truth is that we were right when we were kids, those fucking old fuckers don't and didn't know jack. They just thought they did, and then we believed them, just as they did.


Today's Song of the Day is "It Was A Very Good Year " by Frank Sinatra, (composed my Ernie Drake) off his 1965 Album "September of My Years."

Crazy Fact: In 1993, he recorded the album Duets. After over 50 years of recordings this album became his biggest-selling album, with sales over 3,000,000 copies. Maybe crazy, maybe not so crazy.

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Dartmouth is a Curse.

What a string of bad decisions:


Yeah I guess I'll buy the rest of my books today. (add 200 pounds to back pack, possible back-up career as Sherpa)

Yeah I guess I'll meet you for a drink. (get tipsy, c'mon nothin' wrong with tipsy)

Yeah I guess I'll argue Ethics with you. (You have a PhD in Philosophy, mentally I'm in traction)

Yeah I guess I'll play some poker. (get drunk, but I won 2 bucks!)

Yeah I guess I'll meet you in Hell to see 'Caledonia.' (Should've gone home, but they were great.)

Yeah I guess I'll leave after this beer. (don't leave.)

Yeah I guess I'll walk home, don't worry about it. (Should've slept on her couch.)

Yeah I guess this way is faster? (no, it's not)


I hates it. Walking home from the 'the bar' I went the wrong way and got stuck circumnavigating golf-course, therefore, walking for an extra 40 minutes. With 800 pounds of books on my back. Where the HELL did that golf course come from?!


Today's Song of the Day is "Can't Find My Way Home" by Blind Faith off their first and last ablum released in 1969, "Blind Faith."

Crazy Fact: At Madison Square Garden (their US debut) on July 12 in front of more than 20,000 people, a riot developed when fans charged the stage, only to be repulsed by the police; in the half-hour melee that ensued, Ginger Baker was clubbed on the head by a policeman who thought he was an interloper, and Winwood's piano was destroyed. YeHaw! (Wouldn't that be awesome if the police accidently club the Bushster at the GOP convention!)

Worst Episode Ever.

What can you do about geeks? Poor bastards.

So I'm on the Yellow School Bus, Lunch packed in my bag, with 'the Kids' chattering away in the background. There is one voice that grabs my attention from the front of the bus. I peer over the top of the high dark-green vinyl seat. Oh dude. He's talking about comic books. Not only is he talking about comic books, but, animately so. As the volume of his voice increases more and more people stop there conversations and turn towards the guy letting his geek flag fly. Ok to give you some idea of his vehemence is like he is standing on a desert island waving this flag for dear life trying to get the attention of the lone plane in the distance, it's as if his very existence hangs in the balance. Oh he got some attention all right, when he reaches his loudest and nerdiest crescendo everybody on the bus is silent astounded by his firebrand sermon of dorkdom, today's topic "How he'd kill superman."

Me in my Head: I wish McMurphy was driving this bus, I FEEEL like I'm in a nut-house, well more like a daycare, no like..Wha...?

The Lone Nerd: (loud) I COULDN'T Believe it, he had a WHOLE stack of Superman graphic novels!

Me in my Head: Uh-oh. dude, don't do it.

The Lone Nerd: (louder) It was awesome!

Me in my Head: That guy is trying to impress that girl with comic book stories?

The Girl: Really! Wow.

Me in my Head: Wow, it's working. And they met on the Big Yellow School Bus, how sweet. (chuckle)

The Lone Geek: (Really Excited) See you could make bullets out of Kryptonite, and load them in to any nearby semi-automatic or sub-machine gun.

Me in my Head: oh my god no... dude. Listen to yourself. Stop for your own sake. Please. please. p l e a s e.

The Lone Geek: (Near Bursting with excitement, but holding back) Well a Stupid man would fill up the clip with Kryponite Bullets. But then Superman would just be like 'Pow' and crush the gun.

Me in my Head: Maybe he'll find some Kryptonite on this field trip. (snicker)

The Lone Geek: (freaking out at the Fiendishness of His Plan) Not Me. I'd make the first five bullets normal so he'd be like 'haHA!' and then-

Me in my Head: DUDE! don't do it, calm the HELL down.

The Lone Geek: then after, (with Wild Abandon, waving his arms in the air) then he'd be like "AAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The bus is silent.


It broke my heart. I have my nerd leanings: Computer Science Major, a whole collection of old 'Micronaughts' and 'Ghost Rider' up there, for example. Therefore seeing this 'comrade' crucify himself was really hard, and of course really funny, but did it HAVE to be SUPERMAN? Couldn't it have been something interesting or at least obscure, and not so LAME as superman. In the deeper circles of Nerddom he'd be outcast.


Today's Song of the Day is "O Superman (For Massenet)" by Laurie Anderson off her 1981 Album "Big Science"

Crazy Fact: After earning an M.F.A. in sculpture from Columbia University in 1972, Laurie Anderson taught art history and Egyptian architecture at City College. and Last I heard Lou Reed was her boyfriend.

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Dawn of the Married.

Well this song goes out to Dawn and Michael who got married yesterday. Lucky bastards. Couldn't go. Damn Geolo...er... I'm sorry I couldn't attend I was "in the field."

In my humble opinion, I am the ULTIMATE Match-maker for getting you two together. I had to lie like a rug to get you two to leave my apartment together, I felt like a bastard at the time. But it proves Kant wrong with his half-baked 'lying is never the right move' theories (oh I'm not done with you yet, Immanuel, you fucker). Either way I you guys are so happy together it's, well... it's upsetting.

Anyway, this song represents how I think the Wedding Party went while I was in Cold Dark Dartmouth reading about Carbonic Acid. And this song reminds me off you, Dawn of the dead. Well the Betelguised part at least.

Enough with the wisenhiemer. Congratulations guys. I'm glad I could help.


Today's Song of the Day is "Jump In The Line (Shake, Shake, Shake Senora)" by Harry Belafonte (and The Trinidad Steel Band) off his 1961 Album "Jump Up Calypso."

Crazy Fact: His 1962 album 'The Midnight Special,' featured the first-ever recorded appearance by a young harmonica player named Bob Dylan. (ooo. That's a GOOD one.)

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McMurphy, Bust Me Outta Here.

The big yellow school bus sits. Staring at me. I must get in the big yellow school bus. But, a part of me has to DIE before I get in the big yellow school bus. When anyone else in my geology class looked over there I'm sure they see a bus. When I look over there, I see a fist, with one middle finger defiantly raised in the air. Did it have to be Yellow? Right now the lunch packed in my bag is weighing heavily on my mind, intensifying the insult. I'm NOT in Junior High right. Right? Obviously that fist wants to crush my ego. Which is not such a bad idea, it's just hard as feldspar (HA! I Learneded sompin' Paw!) these days, stubbornly holding on to the old out-molded workin' boy ways. Speaking of which. Last nights beer, disturbed from it slumber is angrily brewing it's terrible gurgling hot chemistry in my guts.

This gives me the fear.

Turns out, this was about the best thing that could happen to me. I lined up, got checked of the attendance sheet (AAAAA!) and got on the bus, without a thought of being offended by the process. I was concentrating all the powers of my mind on my bung-hole. Deep in concentration on the all important sanity threatening question of "Is that a fart? or is that... something else." If I get this wrong, I'm up shit-creek. Literally. Yeah, the old guy shit himself on the bus on the way to the beach. fitting. While I was playing chicken with my butt, some guy near me opened all the windows he could reach. I didn't make the connection till just now. Poor bastards, I was gassing them and didn't even have the decency to be embarrassed about it.


Today's Song of the Day is "Magic Bus" by The Who off their 1968 Album "Magic Bus."

Crazy Fact: Roger Daltrey was spotted on an info-merical selling out to some sixities CD Compliation. That's just awful.

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A Scatological Fear Rules Me.

(please follow the link under the title it is FUCKING FUNNY!)

I have one Major fear. We all have them and they're always unique and specific. Mine is no different.

I don't want to shit myself on the bus.

If I were to shit myself anywhere else the first emotion I would feel would be relief, "Thank God I'm NOT on the bus." I'd be SO happy about it I'd probably pick up the phone and call all my friends in fits of hysterical chatter "I shit my self WHOOOOOO! It's Awesome! I was watching tv and I shit myself! It's in my pants RIGHT NOW! Really! WHOOOO! I'll save you some! Come over you HAVE to see this"

The idea of shitting myself on the bus. Having to sit in it, bumping and winding through streets. Smelling it, knowing everyone else is triangulating that shit smell to you. Looking at you in that awful florescent light. Trying to figure out why your not doing anything about it. Realizing there is nothing you can do about it, and then for the rest of the trip silently smelling and pitying your shit covered ass with a pungent mixture of disgust and compassion.

Seeping through your clothes. Getting on the seat. Getting on everything. And at the top of this stinking heaping of inconveniently and public placed shit, is your face. I'd die. After I died. I'd have to wait for my stop. Minutes would be as hours as your brain traced the route from your present location to home, again and again and again. Then you have to peel your ass off the shitty seat and your shitty pants slip away from your legs and you yank that cord. Then sit inevitably back into your own shit. Then you wade through a lifetimes worth of embarrassment as you waddle slowly and past everyone on the bus, ass blanketed in shit face bathed in shame. Their pity and disgust reaching a deafening crescendo. Then the final gauntlet, terrible in it's own right, the walk home. Let's hope it not a long walk. The less time you have to feel your own cooling feces slide down the inside of your leg, jerking a little closer to the bottom of your pant leg with every step. Like a trail of bread crumbs, your feces traces the final leg of your, shameful, foul-smelling sojourn home.

I wouldn't leave the house for a year.


Today's Song of the Day is "Baby Elephant Walk" by Henry Mancini off the 1962 Album "Hatari! (The Original Motion Picture Score)"

Crazy Fact: Henry Mancini won four Oscars and twenty Grammys, the all-time record for a pop artist.

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Sesame Street

I'm old.

SOOO I'm in my Geology Class or as my good Munich living friend EV calls it 'The Dirt Sciences' Class. It's early i'm sleepy. From here on it goes down hill.

It's announced that we have to go on a field trip. This makes me feel like I'm in junior high and I'm working again in one fell swoop:


"I have to work the WEEKEND!?" and "Wicked! Field trip! no no no wait... field trip? What am I... ten? WTF?"

While I'm trying to calm my poor panicked brain bursting with painful probing questions like "WHO AM I?" "Where AM I" "What am I DOING Here?" "How did..but...NO WAY... this ISN'T..you FUCKING..." It is at this point the prof says something seemingly unworthy of comment in our increasingly difficult legal world that becomes my most horrible Dal moment yet:

Ms. Ryan: I'll have to get you all to sign a waiver, so you can't sue us. It's a technicality really.

Me in my Head: sure that makes sense... A FIELD TRIP!? What fucking GRADE am... look just call it 'going out into the field..." yeah. ok. That sounds better...

Ms. Ryan: Now if any of you are under nineteen your going to have to get your parents to sign it.

Me Bursting out of my Head: You didn't hear anything. DO YOU HEAR ME! Just look straight ahead. don't even think abou...

Ms. Ryan: If you are under nineteen raise your hand.

Me Trying to Hide in my Head: Don't turn around. DON'T turn around! DON'T... (I look. There is a forest of mid-eighties Born hands in the Air)

Ms. Ryan: That's just about all of you isn't it.

Me Running Amok with an AXE inside my Head: *Pop!* ( <-- the sound of a vein popping in my head) AAAAAAAAAAAAA! One of these things is not like the other! One of these things is not like the other! One of these things is not like the other!


Today's Song of the Day is "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by The Band off their 1969 Album "The Band."

Crazy Fact: These Guys are Canadian! (Mildy crazy.) (big ups to VR for the link)

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Poor Company In The Company Store.

Odd. Having just come out the the working world to the student world, my universe has been gutted and it's entrails examined. And I'll tell you what. Working is easier than being a student (who is actually trying to get good marks. The first time around didn't count.) No doubt in my mind. See when you work, you work your ass off and they give you CASH (and it's not enough cash.) When your a student you work your ass and they give you a MARK (and it's not high enough.) One hour at ANY job will earn you the priviage of AT LEAST one beer. Well I just found out that I can't go down to the bar and whip out my not highenoughmarked Geology Assignment and trade it for even one beer. Even if it's an A.

Did you know this?
I was shocked.

What a rip. AND they make you pay 6500.000 bucks to do it. dude. I think you got it wrong. I work hard you, give me cash, see? That's the way the world works. Then they have this company store attitude. Buy these overpriced books from us or fail (get fired). (600/term!!!) Oh and if you want to print on Campus (work) that's 10 cents a sheet. And you HAVE to print on campus. Where the HELL are the labour laws. I think I hate this crazy bizarro world.


Today's Song of the Day is 'Once In A Lifetime" by Talking Heads off their 1984 album 'Stop Making Sense.'

Crazy Fact: Their 'big break' came in 1975 when the band won a spot opening for the Ramones at the seminal New York punk club CBGB.

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He Retarded Me with Science.

I sit in calculus class understanding everything. Totally following everything he says (with a little work, granted, but by the end of the class I understand.) So today I stay after-class for the "optional tutorial.' Cool. I'm sure I need all the help I can get. 60 or so in the class. 57 leave. So me and the remedial remainder stare at him blankly as his asks what he wants him to do for us.

The 3 Retarded Borg: 'uuumm...'

Teach: 'I fink I'll do anuva derivative equaytion, fat way we can look limits too'

The Collected Retarded: (we nod our head in understanding as he solves the problem.)

Teach: 'Ok so you guys do this one. It's a simple one.'

Sure. I write it down. I look at it. I get to work. (pause) I have NO IDEA what to do.

It seems the universe turned on the retardation ray. It's a heat lamp right above my head. Whenever he looks at me the temperature goes up. If he speaks directly to me it is as if I stuck my head into a sun. I am utterly overwhelmed. Utterly retarded. I don't know how to speak or think or move. I can only sense two things: fear and retardation. At this point, these dependant variables are nearing infinity. I just want to say the thing that makes him go away. As soon as I do or say that thing (even though I don't know what that was I was incapable of rational thought at that point). I take my head out of the sun, pack up and leave. I try not to run.


Today's Song of the Day is "Let's Get Retarded" by Black Eyed Peas off their 2003 album "Elephunk." (I had to.)

Crazy Fact: Eazy-E's Ruthless Records signed the group in 1992, but many in the Ruthless camp were puzzled by the group and the enthusiasm of Eazy (of NWA), who had no problem reconciling his own gangster style with the peace-minded breakdancing of these cats.

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DJ Eighties. (part six)

'Hi. I'm Darren's roommate, you...and you know...that time...'
It's really loud and I can't really hear what she's saying, and I'm probably pathetically drunk.
'I'm sorry I don't remember...'
'You NEVER Remember me!'
I remember. 'Oh YEAH ERIN. You're Darren's roommate! Yeah I never remember you! I remember you now!'
'yeah.'
'hey... So... How are you doing?'
'good, good.'

She is REALLY cute.

Now I remember feeling like an idiot for not remembering her the first-time again.

Super-nice smile.

There's something else, i'm not sure... she has a relaxing effect on me and... and well... she's like butter. That's the best way to describe her. She is warm and comfy. perfectly salty, yum. With the nicest warm-yellow glow. sunny. Butter makes everything just a little better, and the fools mistake margarine for butter, the smart ones can tell the difference. Without it, so many of my meals are lacking, it's essential. To me there is no substitute, smooth and comforting.

Kevin, who's fighting for drinks with the crowd, looks back. He can tell the difference this time. He turns back with re-newed purpose and fights the good fight with the remaining, desperate alkies.

'So did you like the show?'
'yeah very much.'
'I stood up right and the front taking it all in.'
'yeah, it's was really really good'
'Today's my birthday!'
Kevin returns, plunks a beer in front of me and one in front of her, 'Your a Leo! That's good news,' Kevin gives me the thumbs up.
She looks at me and smiles and looks down.
'Wow. Happy birthday! How old!
'Today I turned 26.'
'cheers to you.'
A guy steps in to make a move on Erin, Kevin anticipates the move and steps in-between like a body guard taking a bullet it was awesome.
'Did you see that? Your friend totally cut that guy off it was awesome!'
'Hahaha. Yeah, he's pretty happy I'm talking to a girl.'
'really?' She says with a laugh. I think she says everything on the edge of a laugh.
'He has spent the whole night singing my praises to every girl in this bar.'
'Any luck?'
'Well one girl said I look like Jesus'
'I can see that.' she laughs.

TIME TO GO! EVERYBODY DOWN STAIRS. LET MOOOVE PEOPLE!

Instead of flashing back to a million panicked moments. I'm calm, I'm focused, I'm happy. I'm surprised. I wonder why? Well this time I don't run for it. Who knows why.

'my hand is bigger?'
'really?' she laughs
'l think I got an extra key on you.'
'Look at that.' eyes bright. 'I loved Chopin.'
'Me too.'
'the Nocturnes.'
'They're thoughtful.'
'yes they are.'

Wait. I think I know why. because it's not forced. It's not obvious. it's not anonymous. It's not pre-determined. I have no expectations. It's the things it is, as much as the things that it's not that make it...well properly undefined.

People leave and we make are way out in a subtly questioning, carefully interested, delicately available sort of way.

For all of Kevin's valiant efforts, this seemed to make itself, in just the way it needed to be made. This suited my taste perfectly. I liked that. To me, it means there's hope for the weird guy. The guy who, when it matters, gives all the wrong signals. It means there's still room for failure in this nearly 'perfect' world we've created. This cult of perfection: the hair, the clothes, the look; the wit, the social grace, the charisma have not eaten the humanity out of humanity. Not to mention it's still possible for a real connection to be made in any stinking gin palace.


Today's Song of the Day is "Nocturne No. 2, Op. 9 in E-flat" performed by Artur Rubinstein, composed by Frederic Chopin in 1832.

Crazy Fact: In 1838 Freddy Chopin began an affair with French novelist George Sand. The affair ended in 1847 after, among other things, Sand had portrayed their relationship unflatteringly in her 1846 novel Lucrezia Floriani. Yikes!

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DJ Eighties. (part five)

'hey man! how doing!'
'good man. good.'

short pause.

'So... we need to get you a girlfriend.'

I didn't like that look in his eye, it was hungry with help. Like many things, it made me nervous. After pausing too long, unsure of what to say, I croaked, 'yeah, boy do we ever.'
'Ok lets go find you one.'
'Whoa here? now?'
'Yup.'
'look, I'm not so good at meeting girls.'
'oh come on, it's easy'
'I'm actually pretty shy, in my own way.'
'oh come on.'

He put another beer in my hand and grabs my arm. He peers over the crowd, picks his target and drags me over to the first, and most importantly, the closes female contestant.

I quickly put on my best forced and awkward smile.

'hey how you doing?'
'fine.'
'This is my friend and he is without a doubt the best guy in this bar.'
'really.'
I blush and turn from the unbearable embarrassment. This is too much, it's fun, I'm totally without responsibility, but still, I'm emotionally incapable of handling the situation. I take a few steps back lean against the wall, smile and squirm uncontrollably just out of ear shot, taking momentary glimpses at my representative and the contestant. After an obviously cheerful and witty banter between the two of them, he comes back to me looking for new faces,

'No good. Keep looking. How about her.'

He's got my arm and we're off again. I take a position just out of earshot. My advocate gestures and talks animatedly with contestant number two, obviously, he's got skills and no fear. She laughs. She giggles, she turns and looks at me. She gives a little wave. I wave back. She Asian and very very cute, wow, he can talk to anybody. I try desperately to finish one of the two beers in my hands so I'm not 'two-fistin' 'er' which I'm sure is very attractive to all the wrong people. I finally clean out one of them and Kevin's back.

'Nope, No Good, Let's keep going.'

Upstairs downstairs he tries. He puts me on the auction block and nobodies bidding. Fortunately, he is drowning me in beer otherwise I'd feel rejected by every girl in the bar, which by the time we finished, was essentially true. But with the all the beer in my brain, it just seemed kinda like a race, i'm not sure what for but the less I thought about it the better. I'll just live in the moment.

We sat down for a moment to take a break at my request. Kevin runs off to get more beer. I think I'm in trouble, he has a much higher tolerance then I do. There's a tap on my back. I turn and it's contestant number two.

'Why are you so shy?'
'umm... I guess it's my nature.' awkward
'oh.' she smiles
'umm... Where are you from?' awkwarder
'Korea.'
'Really! That's pretty cool. How long are you here?' feeling better.
'another week, I'm recruiting for ESL school in Korea.'
'oh that's pretty cool.' this is ok.
kevin comes back with a beer in one hand and double rum and coke in the other, he stops in his tracks and wears a stunned, but pleased expression.
she continues, 'Do you know what?'
'what?' felling pretty good.
'You look like Jesus.' she giggles
'wow. oh well, thanks. I'm.. umm.' awkwardest.
'Well it's good talking to you.'
'yeah yeah for sure.' fight urge to run.
'cya.'

Kevin sits down incredulous,
'dude, you should have closed that.'
'see I'm no good at this, she seems really nice and pretty but, I can't do this. It's weird, it's...'
'you could have totally closed that.'
'well, like I said, I'm shy it's hard. I...'
'she is sitting right over there, go talk to her...'
'no no no just forget about her, well will find someone else.'

I'm ready to run at this point, but fortunately, this seemed to satisfy him, thankfully and we moved on. I know his heart is in the right place, but, the closer to 'closing the deal' the more uncomfortable I become. It's forced and awkward and worst of all it's obvious. I can't stomach it.

We take another tour of duty and I'm exhausted, I can't deal any more, I'd just be happy to go home. We sit in the smoking room and Kevin makes the last trip to the bar as it's quarter after 3 in the am. I'm slouched over, drained, frustrated and spent. I look to my right and a girl comes up the stairs, looks at me, stops, smiles, looks at the floor, looks back at me and walks over, I've never seen her before, she's definitely not one of the nightly contestants so far interviewed.

(to be continued)


Today's Song of the Day is "Jenifa Taught Me (Derwin's Revenge)" by De La Soul off their 1989 debut album "3 Feet High and Rising."

Crazy Fact: The stage names of all of the members derived from in-jokes: Posdnuos (born Kelvin Mercer, August 17, 1969) was an inversion of Mercer's DJ name, Sound-Sop; Trugoy the Dove (born David Jude Jolicoeur, September 21, 1968) was an inversion of Jolicoeur's favorite food, yogurt. I don't know about Pasemaster Mase (born Vincent Mason, March 27, 1970.)

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DJ Eighties. (part four)

The video started up beside the turn tables, Showing DJ Qbert spinning and scratching to crowded stadiums, signing women's breasts, guy's heads, crazy dancers. ok ok this is good this is VERY promising. I can officially say he is NOT DJ Eighties. He has a custom made turn-table called the QFO. Alright this is cool. The video made him look like a Hip-hop uber-DJ, lord of the surrounding realms, commander of thousands in a hip-hop crusade to re-make the world in a hipper hopper image. I like that. And he seemed unassuming in demeanor, he's all skills, no macho. I like that too.

The crowd was getting pumped up
'Mix Master Mike is in the House! y'all!' The crowd freaks out, screaming and jumping up and down.

'really?'
'wow, that's cool.'
'totally!'

This made me happy, the good news was pouring in. Praise God I've heard the good news! Redemption is on it's way.

'Jamie?'
'yup?
'I have the feeling I'm going to meet someone tonight?'
'yeah?'
'yeah. I don't know why?
'here's hoping, cheers.'

I don't know why I thought that. But I did. every once in a while you get that feeling. It's always bang on. I'm sure there's a non-flakey assed reason for this, but I'm happy either way.

The place was packed. the crowded dance floor was screaming and pulsing, arms in the air, the lights were flashing and spinning and the music was pumping and rumbling.

'DEE JAY QUE BERRRRT!"

The crowd goes nuts, people are jumping and screaming, freaking out like Jesus just stepped out on stage in on a Pentacostal Sunday.

He goes straight to the turn-table and gets to it.

My prayers were answered. He was incredible. Most of the time you look around and people would just be shaking there heads in incredulity. I had never seen anything like it. There were three video camera's on him at all times and a bunch of guys taking pictures. They projected closed-circuit live video on the screen and at thirty frames a second his hands were a blur, his fingers hardly even registered. This went on for about an hour. The audience was agape, astounded, he was doing like 128th notes in the slow parts. It was nuts.

The whole thing was like a hip-hop circus no lie...'and now DJ Qbert will scratch, without... touching... the fader.'

The crowd awes and silences. I can almost hear the drum-roll in my head. The concentration in his eyes, the sweat dripping down his face, and he attacks. It sounds much like it did before, very cool, very fast. maybe it would have been cooler if I new what the fuck the fader was for. Nonetheless, I clapped, I jumped, I cheered and got carried away with the crowd. That's the point and the end of the day, it's a rock show. After about 20 minutes of that:

'now DEE JAY QUE BURRRRRRRY with battle DEEEE JAAY EYE DEE in a turn-table war... right... in front... of your eyes.'

So it is written, so it is done. They scrit-i-scra-scri-scra-scritity-tit-tit-titit-scratchity-cra-scra-scratched against each other for a bit, it was very cool. But by this point I got my money's worth and my body reminded me I had to pee, and my empty beer bottle reminded me I needed another, so I made the oft repeated bathroom sojourn. On my way I looked at the entrance.

'Kevin!'
Kevin spins quickly 'Hey Buddy! Is it worth all this cash?'
'It's really good you missed most of it though. Look, I gotta piss, I'll catch up with you in a bit.'

I headed to the can, got another beer and returned to the crew. After the encore, the Jamie turned to me,
'shit man, I gotta go, my drive is leaving'
'cool, gimme a call later.'
'sounds good later man.'
'cya'

I took his chair and sat staring at the emptying stage with a satisfied grin. Ulo turned to me,
'I gotta go too, tired.'
'cool man I'll just finish this then head home.'
'ok'
'later m'man
'it kicked ass'
'it sure did.'
'cya'

I hadn't taken more then one sip of my beer when Kevin appeared.
'Hey man your a hard guy to track down.'

In my victorious bliss I had complete misplaced my conversation at the door.

(to be continued)


Today's Song of the Day is "Doo Wop (That Thing) by Lauryn Hill off her 1998 album "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill."

Crazy Fact: At the February 1999 Grammy awards Lauryn Hill took home five trophies from her 11 nominations, including Album of the Year, Best New Artist, Best Female R&B Vocal Performance, Best R&B Song, and Best R&B Album; the most ever for a woman.

njoy

DJ Eighties. (part three)

Time for damage control.

"ok, if it sucks we have to say it was good no matter what. I took such a razzing.'
'ha ha ha yeah I know they were eating you alive, ha ha ha.'

When I go down, I'm going down alone it's clear to me now. Prepare thine self for death young Jedi.

'Man I hope it's not dead.'
'me too.'
'twenty-bucks will keep a lot of people away.'
'word.'
'and it's only Thursday.'
'people gotta work.'
'yup.'

'there's a bit of a line up.'
'that's a good sign.'
We get in line. I try to think of ways to 'turn lemons into lemonade'. All I can see is my 20 bucks going into a shedder. Not working. If it sucks I'll just get hammered and well... I'm sure embarrass myself in some way or another.

I'll just try not to think about anything. Talk to me buddha for once I'm listening.

I watch the faces of girls in front of me as the guy rips my ticket. As they turn the corner I'll know for sure if it's dead by their reaction.
Shit.
It's empty.

Make ready the shit eating grin, piffy my boy, soups on.

We turn the corner.

Hey... (bewildered)
No...(stunned)
It's OK...(confused but smiling)
Opening DJ is pumping out tunes, a decent share of folks spread out through the place. Things are ...well, there ok.

'Keep your eye out for Jamie.'
Jamie instantly emerges from the crowd. 'Hey Guys! whadap? Drinks are half-price.'
'So much for not getting sloshed.'
'This is going to be awesome! This guy is going to blow you away. He's crazy good. Fucking crazy good.'

Jamie's Enthusiasm was contagious. Shit is turning around here. Jamie's got a crew. Drinks are cheap, the place is filling up, it's not too hot in here. well Alright!

'Who is THIS guy?' Pointing at the DJ.
'Don't know, but he sucks, we don't like him.'
I turn to the dance floor. 'tell me I don't look like THAT guy when I dance.'
There laughing made me nervous.

But DJ Whoever sounds ok to me, but, hell Jamie's the hip-hop producer, what the Jesus do I know about it.

I saw an odd looking bunch making there move to the dance floor. It was like a cross between a special missions unit and a side show. Big black guy built like a lumber-jack with a Sixers jersey, a tall white guy dressed all in red head to toe, tuke (sp?), baggy T-shirt, baggy pants, red shoes, the works, a little maybe vietnamese guy about 5' 3" and about a hundred pounds of pure energy and two nondescript sideways hat wearing hip-hop soldiers of fortune. This Hip-Hop A-Team took turns attacking the music.

While they were strutting around, I started to wonder about the actual coolness of this. Is this cool? I'm mean look at these guys. These guys are as much geeks as some guy who plays Dungeons and Dragons and watches too much japanese animation, these guys just do it in public. They sit around in there basements and work out moves, other geeks sit in their basements and roll dice. They have there own language of 'busting moves, jiggy-wit-it' which is pretty easily matched with '13 hit-dice Elf. and the 10th-level Fireball' Geeks are just obsessed hobbyist. Most people are obsessed hobbyist in their own right, but they just won't admit it. TV is a hobby, lotsa TV junkies out there. When people start talking about survivor or Gary Beals with tenacity and emotion, I feel like there talking about there Dungeons and Dragons character and I'm from another planet.

They all think they are rock-stars. There bravado was a little stomach-turning. I don't have much patience for macho and this is so over the top.

Captain red clothes goes down on one knee and the little guy steps in his hand (or something the Sixers's lumberjack guy was kind in my way) and the little guy flies into the air in a psycho-hypnotic acrobatic hip-hop hop-hippery. He flew 14 feet through the air. It was amazing. His legs just crumple underneath him when he hits the concrete floor. He's grabbing he legs and rolling all over the floor I thought he broke them or they must of popped out of the socket. The rolls and spins continue. I can't really see what's going on but a back flip later he was on his feet wiping his forehead and walking back to the crew at the edge of the circle. High-fives all around.

'Holy fuck! That was fucking COOL!'
'Fucking right! Are these guys local?'
'I don't know I'll ask Jamie.'
'yup. there local.'
'shit man, they're awesome.'

Ok, if these guys are geeks, I want in. I'm totally eating my thoughts.

The pre-show continued. There were guys jumping, flying, contorting, spinning, bending, flipping, crazy mutant balances, handstands, by themselves, in unison, in teams of two, three four and a six. There were a couple girls jumping in to the mix doing there crazy trix. It was wholly a show of it's own.

The circle was wide and about ten deep. People stood awkwardly trying to see something between the heads. The red guy stood on his hands and got the crowd clapping to the music with his feet. The little guy was like a fucking ninja, he was a blur of limbs and acrobatics, I'm not even sure he was human at this point. But the guy that blew me away, was the Sixers lumber-jack, I had just watched 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' again and the way he stood tall and thick, just watching, reminded me of 'chief.' Then he moved, like the moment when 'chief' steps in to help McMurphy, surprising though inevitable. He stepped into the circle, first a little of this and a little of that. Then bam he's on the floor kicking his legs rolling, spinning, doing all the crazy ninja moves. This guy was a monster of a human being and he was as quick as a cat. shit. With the little guy it was was to be expected but the strong man here... To me he changed the rules, it was fascinating. It's official, this is sir psycho-crazy's hip-hop circus. I hope the main attraction was worth the price of admission, even still this was something to write home to mom about. Mom are you reading this?


(to be continued)

Today's Song of the Day is "Rockit" by Herbie Hancock off his 1983 album "Future Shock."

Crazy Fact: Having taken up the piano at age seven, Hancock quickly became known as a prodigy, soloing in the first movement of a Mozart piano concerto with the Chicago Symphony at the age of 11.

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DJ Eighties. (part two)

I think Ulo could sense my insecurity.

'Dude. let's check him out on the net.'
'His site will rock. He's a big name.'
'yeah YEAH. It'll rock, let's check it out.'
googled him. djqbert.com. that's a good sign he's got his own domain name. Excellent! This was an awesome idea!

As the sight loaded I waited for the crazy ultra hip uber-flashed animation to shoot out at me. nope. it just loaded and looked at me. I felt like I was waiting for a glimpse of the face of god and when the clouds parted all I saw was a neon sign repetitively flashing 'face of god' in my face. It took way too long for the excited wide eyed smile to fade from my face as I clicked on links in a futile search for coolness or hipness or some sort redemption.

'Is he Japanese?'
'Maybe, he's Asian for sure.' There was a pause while we stared at the screen.

'Pif, this site is lame.'

I hadn't given up yet. There was a long pause as Ulo watched my sad search through the adequate and very typical pages:
HOME NEWS CALENDAR STORE CONTACT.

'yeah, it is lame. jeeze.' Temporarily overwhelmed by the disappointment of the moment I let out a very revealing 'jeeze' I eyed Ulo quickly but cautiously for any recognition of this momentary weakness. If there was any recognition, he didn't let it show. I turned back to the screen, forlorn. That wasn't a 20 buck website, that's for sure. shit dawg, I'm going down. I gulged at my beer.

'Maybe we can get download some tunes off Limewire'

'Yeah!' I had a new purpose. opened the app. searched it. Lotsa hits. This is a very good sign. Went to get a couple new beer while it loaded.

As I walked by Jim's room I thought. I wonder if Jim is home. I wonder if he is pissed. Am I too loud? I wish he'd speak to me the fucker or at least look at me when I speak to him. I can't wait to get out of this shit hole. fuck it's frustrating. I got back to my room and closed and locked my door which is my habit these days, he makes me nervous. When I got back I eagerly looked over the list.

'COOL! He's scratching Video game samples, street fighter, mortal combat..'

'Mario Brothers! That's awesome.'

I cracked a beer and downloaded with a new found hope. I gleefully slurped at my beer and watched the little bars grow.

'...take me to the promised land!'

Did I say that out loud? I looked a Ulo in the blue light from the monitor, he looked at me and laughed. What the hell was he laughing at? Me? what I said? The situation? I decided it was best not to know and turned back to the screen, intensely waiting for redemption. Really patiently. NO not 'really' never REALLY again. I'm so so SO done with really, no more lame lame lame REALLY's. I'm not even sure of what I'm thinking about anymore, if that fucking file doesn't start playing soon I'm gonna really fucking LOSE IT, really really really I'll really fucking really super ready to really tear-

'you got good bandwidth.'
'yup.'
'you got four comin' in'
'yup'
what are you on?
'eastlink.'
'cool.'

We simultaneous slurped at our beers in silence peering at the tube. While the little gnomes worked away in my head, taking me apart thought by thought.

'Ok let's check this baby out...click.'

We listened. Maybe it was good, maybe it was bad. I had no idea, I was too wrapped up in myself to hear anything but echo's of my inevitable howls of defeat. It was the dippy little mario theme alright with a hip-hop beat and some scratching. Could Jim hear this was he pissed? It's only 9:52 PM! That's nothin'! Come on it can't be too loud. Anyway I'll tell ya it didn't sound worth 20 bucks. Lame. shit it was lame.

'it's ok'
'yeah it's alright.'

We listened to a few more, gulged a few more beers and headed to the show.

(to be continued)


Today's Song of the Day "Hold On Hope" by Guided By Voices off their 1999 album "Do The Collapse"

Crazy Fact: I missed these fuckers EVERYTIME they came to town and now they're breaking up. crap.

njoy

DJ Eighties. (part one)

'DJ Qbert has won, like, all these awards everywhere, he's awesome.'

'Yeah, what awards?'
'Says Who?'
'Lemme guess, The Yarmouth DJ World Championships'
'Did he make them in his basement?'

'I'm serious in like 92 to 94 he won DJ of the year and shit.'

'So your paying 20 bucks to see some DJ from the eighties. Maybe he's a little past his prime. pass.'
'pass.'
'pass.'
'20 bucks. no way.'

It was a feeding frenzy. I didn't really know what I was talking about. All I did was read the poster. I didn't even read it well. I guess I should say I skimmed it. They could smell blood. They ate me alive. Mostly, my Hip-Hop-hipest friend Jamie told me it would be good and reminded me that he released a CD bundled with DJ Shadow's Preemptive Strike. Let me just say I would wet myself if I could see Shadow. During my utter defeat on the battlefield of musical credibility and subsequent razzing, I knew, now I HAD to go. No choice, it was a certainty. I only hope was that I'd be laughing last. Shit. Who is this joker anyway? I started to get nervous.

Not nervous enough not to lay out 40 bucks for a couple tickets the next day.

'Who'd you sucker into see DJ eighties? Ha Ha Ha.'
'Ulo... and hey, I didn't SUCKER him, he's into it.'

But I gotta say I was happy to have him on side. I didn't know a soul who was going. Except for Jamies' 'maybe... if I get off work in time,' which was a little unsettling. I haven't ever heard a damn thing he has done. And forking over 20 bucks to stand alone in a mostly empty bar, hollow with the sounds of 'DJ Eighties' echoing my defeat in my ears, inescapably. Well let's just say the idea of it was, well, disquieting. Hasty, ill-conceived, sucker-born every minute, load-mouth, idiot, acting the fool, looking the fool, feeling the fool, being the fool.

This may turn into a three-ring circus of failure, I really hope not. I really didn't really want to be a part of that, really. really. really. I feel so lame the only word I can say is 'really' about the whole thing. It was the answer to every question in my head for two days, it was the symbolic definition of my doubt, my fears.
he sucks. really?
he's good. really?
what if it sucks. I really hope it doesn't
what it's good. I really hope he is.
Is he good? I really think so.
Is he really crappie and eighties? I really don't think so, do you really think they'd say those things about him if he really didn't do them, really?

I hated the word, I was saying it obsessively it seemed to represent the very real possibility of failure. All I had was faith. I'm doomed.

I said it too much. The word lost all meaning. And what a Lame word, I mean really, does really, really mean anything really. Bland. Useless. To me, it utterly defined my weakness, my approaching failure, my foolish big mouthed boob-boobery.

(to be continued)


Today's Song of the Day is "Building Steam With A Grain Of Salt" by DJ Shadow off his 1996 debut album "Endtroducing ...."

Crazy Fact: In 1995 "What Does Your Soul Look Like," topped the British indie charts. The crazy thing is it's 40-minutes long.

njoy

The Pages of My Calculus Book are All Stuck Together.

I've decided I have to LOVE math in order to survive this course. "Baby I'm gonna love you, like nobodies loved you come rain or come shine."

You can't do something you hate. You can't. Well you can, but then you end up hating your life. I'm DONE with hating what I'm doing. So I'm trying a NEW THEORY, (I have lots and they always blow up in my face) and I think this one is fool proof. I'm making the intellectual choice to LOVE calculus.

Though I don't understand her, though she is totally unpredictable, though she like no other I've ever met, though she's keeping secrets from me, I'm gonna try like HELL. I'm going to love her anyway. Actually usually that's not so far off base. Calculus is my prototypical girl-friend.

That's trouble. We know how all those ended. I liked this theory more when it was fool proof. oh I don't care, I'm doing it anyway. Baby I luuuveses you! Beautiful, I got you a new chalkboard! Come to Papa! Gimme the Love!


Today's Song of the Day is "Bang A Gong (Get It On)" by T. Rex off his/their 1971 album "Electric Warrior"

Crazy Fact: Not only was Gloria Jones was driving the car when it hit a tree and killed her boyfriend, ex-model, Marc Bolan (of T. Rex) in 1977, but in the mid-sixities, she is recorded the original version of 'Tainted Love' which was popularized in 1982 by soft cell.

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How do you spell fear? C-A-L-C-U-L-U-S

"50% of you will fail. If You think you might be in this 50% you probably are."

That is a truly terrifying thing for your professor to say to you on the first day. Damn STRAIGHT I think I'm in that 50%! good lord. fear learned me a valuable lesson however. DO YOUR READING. It helps. really. I wondered why I got crappie marks 'n' why shit was hard back in the day. bingo. things are different now. me read the stuff 'n' get goodem plenty smart.

wow. calculus is hard. no joke. it's the tough stuff. It makes Jacques Derrida read like Goodnight Moon. My brain turns off mid sentence and I wake up asleep on my text book 6 or 7 times a day. It's bizarre. Usually I just get distracted and suddenly realize I've been walking in circles giggling for 20 minutes. No this is different. It's a shutdown, it catches me off guard everytime. Being asleep makes learning really hard and studying nearly impossible.


Today's Song of the Day is "Mr. Sandman" by The Chordettes off their 1954 Album "Listen."

Crazy Fact: Jinny Osborn, who formed the group with three college friends, was exposed to harmony singing via her father, who was president of "The Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barbershop Quartet Singing in America Inc." good lord.

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What Are They BUILDING Up There?

You know the "one man's ceiling is another mans floor" deal? Yeah, well for the first time in a LONG time I stayed home for two days in a row (I just wanted to mix it up) and I'll tell you people are Stompy McStompsters. Holy shit. I can't believe it. There's giggling stompy craziness going on up there for like an 2 hours. There havin' a blast 'n' all and I don't have that big a problem with noise so it's no biggie to me... Except when you start to wonder what the hell is actually going on? Are they Wrestling? Well it's all girls up there so... HEY MAYBE THEY *ARE* WRESTLING! Hmmm... Maybe there having a fight and those aren't squeals of joy but more like screams of pain... Maybe I should call the police. Maybe there a murderer up ther... No there definitely laughing now. Wow. They totally just broke a lamp with that sliding thud smash squeal giggle. What the HELL are they DOING? Tag? Squirt gun fight? For like another hour this goes on. It's entertaining enough so whatever.


Today's Song of the Day is "O Choruscans Stellarum" by Sequentia off their album 'Canticles Of Ecstasy' composed by Hildegard of Bingen in approximately 1148.

Crazy Fact: This dirty little nun wrote the oldest surviving description of a female orgasism. hmmm... This begs a question, don't it?

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I'm Saying This as Calmly as Possible.

2 very strange things:

A) I stayed home to study on a Saturday, turning down several opportunities for debauchery.

B) The world is going for shit. Let me explain:

I opened my EXTREMELY over priced Philosophy text last night, whilst being a very VERY good boy, and read. and read. and read. Upon reaching PAGE SEVEN i discovered this:

'But your must first make quire sure that your sacrifice will indeed produce the great good intended...'

let's skip the second word part. An emotional to physical pain analogy would be something like this makes me feel like someones driving a nail in my eye with a shoe. So I'd prefer not to think about it for the time being. Let's move on.

quire n. Abbr. qr. or q. A set of 24 or sometimes 25 sheets of paper of the same size and stock; one twentieth of a ream. A collection of leaves of parchment or paper, folded one within the other, in a manuscript or book.

I will definitely make 24 or sometimes 25 sheets of paper sure that my sacrifice will indeed produce the great good intended. That's pretty damn sure now isn't it? or actually on second thought maybe I feel like an idiot for spending 60 HEL (Hard Earned Loonies) on a fucking book that you didn't even proofread. Hmm... oxford university press, I think I heard of them, lets look them up and see what they have to say about it:

http://www.oup.com/about/quality/

Quality in publishing
Though we don't know how to spell, Oxford University Press has very specific criteria governing the types of books that it publishes, which necessitate careful monitoring of content and quality, but not spelling.

We have invented our own KIND of english, for our own enjoyment. This is particularly true of academic books, with which the Delegates are most closely involved. An author will be invited to submit a proposal for a book. If the proposal is approved, the author will be given a contract and will then work with an editor translate it into gibberish and then produce a final manuscript. As well as the appropriate Delegate, the editor will usually invite other specialists in the field, either from Oxford or from other universities, to let them in on the joke. The editor will discuss their comments with the author and, where appropriate, amendments will be made before the final text is approved for publication. This peer group review is fundamental to OUP's publishing policy and is one of the major factors in having a good laugh at the over-charged plebs suckered by the prestige associated with the Oxford name.

Thanks for the cash and a good hardy belly laugh at your expense,

Sincerely,
The Oxford University Assholes.


The building anger in my very center is overwhelming and I fear may spark an utter emotional meltdown. Instead, I will choose not to release it until a completely inappropriate moment. Thanks for the tip H.K. I think this is the 'right' emotional move for me right now too.


Today's Song of the Day is "We're A Happy Family" by The Ramones off their 1977 Album "Rocket to Russia."

Crazy Fact: By the end of 1975, the Ramones secured a recording contract with Sire; discounting Patti Smith, they were the first New York punk band to sign a contract.

Money for Nuthin' and my Books for Free.

The world is running low on decent scams. This is how revolutions start, you know! Just paid those smiling THIEVES at the Dal bookstore 291.91 for 3 fucking books. There's one other bastard book I need to buy. I thought I'd hold off and see if I can get it cheaper... maybe you didn't hear me two-HUNDRED and NINETY-one bastard dollars! equals THREE mother-fucking books... anyway I go on-line thinking amazon or whatever will have it cheaper. nope. once you include shipping and handling... (what the hell is 'handling'? really, come on, Listen bub, I'll give you half and how about you JUST ship it, no handling, I don't want you to even look at it, ok, arsehole! I just payed 99.99 for that thing I'm making damn sure I'M the first one to HANDLE it OK!?) ...same. I was shocked. but but but what happened to the scams?

There is supposed to ALWAYS be a cheaper way, someway for the poor and starving to totally inconvenience and deeply humiliate themselves to get what they need but can't afford. My understanding is that's the way this whole crazy system worked. Not anymore. they just keep hiking tuition, books, rent and giving us less and less student loan cash. It blows, I'd been out of touch I didn't know how bad it's gotten. It's gotten 291.91 = 3 books bad and 6,500 = 5 credits bad. I'm stunned.

If I could have downloaded them like so many MP3s I would have been laughing, truly, for the Irony in stealing a book on Computer Ethics off the internet would not be lost on me. (Once more to Clarify almost 300 damn dollars) I would revel in it.

That's the scam... The Internet: free porn, free music, free phone calls, free mail, free movies, free information, free publishing, free you-fuckin-name it. The problem with the internet, is when you need it, it lets you down. I think that's built-in. I can send 40 mindless, rambling e-mails a day all over the world but when I have one important file to a client or supplier. fucked. I might as well call the pony express:


me: (whispering) pssst...I need this book it's called "Single Variable Calculus Concepts and Contexts, Second Edition."

Internet: (as the announcer from the Price is Right.) Big tittie barely legal lesbo golden showers, comin' up!

me: no no no not this time. I need a PDF of this book.

Internet: How about a PDF of the Commodore 64 user guide in ASCI or perhaps as a text file?

me: sure sure ok but I also need a PDF of "Single Variable Calculus Concepts and Contexts, Second Edition."

Internet: Can I interest you in a few pop-up windows?

me: um...

Internet: Aren't these new emoticons SO cute...

me: uh...

Internet: Did you know that you are our 50,000,000th visitor! That gives you a free prize!

me: no, look. i NEED this. it's 134.04 in the bookstore.

Internet: DId you try Amazon.com? You know, they are the largest on-line retailer in...

me: Yeah I know. OK. Look just find me the fucking PDF.

Internet: Big tittie barely legal lesbo golden shower, comin' up!

me: I don't want PORN! Look this is important, fuck-head.

Internet: Hey looky here... NEW MAIL!

me: Oh Really!? Cool! Who is it?

Internet: It's a GIRRRRRR-LLL!

me: Lemmie see, outa tha way!


Today's Song of the Day is 'Stuart' by The Dead Milkmen off their 1988 Album 'Beelzebubba.'

Crazy Fact: Guitarist and vocalist Joe Jack Talcum (born Joe Genaro) and lead singer Rodney Anonymous (aka Rodney Amadeus Anonymous, aka Rodney Anonymous Melloncamp, born Rodney Linderman) grew up together in the small Pennsylvania town of Wagontown. During high school, Genaro started writing a newsletter about a fictional band called the Dead Milkmen, and the exploits of its lead singer Jack Talcum.

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An 'E' for Effort.

I think this is funny but probably for the wrong reasons.

I was ...(god I have trouble saying it, I need a therapist)... at school... What the hell happened to "I was at work"? It's GONE! anyway there I was outside the library and there's a kid pounding on a little wooden sign beside the door, then stopping and staring at the door. Then returning to this square of wood on the wall and pushing and struggling on it as hard as he can. Then waiting and staring at the door. Then back to it. He's going balistic, jumping up and down, beating on this sign beside the door. On the little wooden sign is the little blue and white wheel-chair 'disability' symbol. The kid thinks it's a button to open the door. nope. just a little wooden sign, kid. He was totally stumped. I had to leaving him grunting, huffing, bashing and waiting at this sign and walk away before I expoded or started to point and laugh and give this little genius a complex.


Today's Song of the Day is "Dueling Banjos" by Eric Weissberg and Marshall Brickman off the 1973 Album 'Dueling Banjos from Deliverance.'

Crazy Fact: The multi-instrumentalists Eric Weissberg and Marshall Brickman, are a couple of city slickers.

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Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.

Some part of this student shit totally offends me. There is a part of me still holding on. To what I can only guess: is it Working Guy or is it Old Guy. I'm not sure which. But I'll tell ya after my first day I felt REALLY good, I had such an enormous feeling of accomplishment. It's when I was going to bed I was horrified to remember that I had to go back the next day. Honestly, it totally shocked me, I'm living so utterly in the moment and so incased in ancipation of my first day that I totally forgot about the rest of the year. It was with a spontaneous, fearful, half-hearted, spurious laugh that the real weight came down as I remembered I had to go back for almost everyday for rest of the year... and do homework, and that's just this term! Good Lord. Shit. Shit. Shit. I always screw up the details.

The tide is going out on my life, something strange is happening, everything is in reverse. I don't think it helps that ol Mr. Pogie (what a great guy, really, I had never really got to know him before, and that guy... well, he is all that and a bag of chips, truely.) was keeping me in booze and funemployment for the last 8 months.

Where the hell did I put those bootstraps?


Today's Song of the Day is "Push It Out" by The Beta Band off their 1998 Album "The Three E.P.'s"

Crazy Fact: The Beta Band announced they would disband at the end of 2004, citing the frustration of much critical praise but no commercial impact. bitey.

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I Want to Kick My Dal Card in the Shins.

I'm like the a modern photographic re-telling of Portrait of Dorian Gray. Every time I get a piece of Photo ID taken my picture looks worse and worse, (maybe that means I'm looking better and better! let's hope. (Hope with me everyone! What's with the 'lets' part of that? Why the hell should you care? I mean, I hope you don't wish ill upon me, but still, the thought of everyone who reads this thinking 'OH my GOD i SO hope Pif is looking better with every photo ID, it would make me SO Happy!' That would be... well... nice, but absurd and unlikely and maybe a little creepy...) anyway, with all these tangents I'm not sure why your still reading.) In my first one I was 19 and drunk and medicated, so it should look a little messy but that's my best one! I look like I can bearly hold my head up which is partly true and I have a smile that goes for miles, you know that very pleased stoned sort of s m i l e .

From there it's all downhill:

- the next one I simply call "German Pornstar,"
- the next one's main comment is 'What's with that HUGE vein in your forehead!",
- next it's "Oh my GOD. Pif! That's Awful! What's with that scarf? and your eyes!",
- and most recently it's well no one has seen it yet, but it's awful. I'm cursed.

I think it's my building neurosis showing itself on camera, every time they take a picture I think to myself 'I hate this part.' and I think you can see it in the resulting crappy photo (that I have to constantly drag out and wave in front of people who don't trust me. (that's basically what they are saying when they ask for ID, no matter the circumstance) ...ummm...) and then every picture reinforces this 'bad photo ID curse' in my head and it gets worse and worse. It's going to spiral out of control and someday, right in front of the camera, my face will age and melt turning into the image of pure anxiety, like The Scream, but for real, and me.

that would be cool.


Today's Song of the Day is "Welcome Home (Sanitarium)" by Metallica off their 1986 album "Master Of Puppets."

Crazy Fact: Lars Ulrich is a dick. I'm just making sure everyone knows.

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Mr. Noodle is Dead. (Therefore NOT in the Sequel.)

"I'm NOT looking for another crappy job, fuck it, I'm going back to school."

WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!?

WHAT!? but but but now it's REAL! Why did I have to turn thirty and start doubting everything? JESUS.

The thought of sitting in a room with a bunch of people (kids!!!) i don't know and... doing...er, not doing, that's the thing, no more making money for The Man. I was getting used to making money for The Man. I was getting into it. The Man provided. It was comfortable. Now I'm... What the HELL am I?

Oh look! I just figured it out, I'm having an identity crisis. great. How SNAG of me. I am my own episode of Dawson's Creek. Why don't I just quit working and go back school. oops did that. Maybe I should start a blog. gotcha again. I need to watch High Fidelity again.

I know every job is a pride eating, all-you can eat, easy-listening, 24-hour Bonanza. If it's not your peers, it's your boss, if it's not your boss, it's a supplier, if it's not a supplier, it's the client/customer/patron. Put on the shit-eating grin and get to work. Eat all you can stomach, go home and try to sleep it off. Up again, then back to the trough. Just make it week-end to week-end which you drink into oblivion just to make the week bearable. You know what? It wasn't so bad. But this do-it yourself, free-thinking, academic Choose Your Own Adventure... you know what? I think I understand the Borg. I want back into the cube. Tell me what to do and then give me my down time. Strip me of my individuality, give me my cool costume, the necessary technological improvements and plug me in to the matrix. Jesus. Gimme the other pill! I TOOK THE WRONG PILL! Morpheus you bastard, telling me fairy tales about Alice in Fucking Wonderland. You should be ashamed of yourself. Now I gotta learn stuff (nothing cool, no Kung-fu for me) and eat slop (who thought to call these fucking noodles "mister!") and live in a hole in the ground on the wrong side of town. You call this FREEDOM! You Mother-Fuckers!

Ah! That felt pretty-good.


Today's Song of the Day is 'Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)' by Pink Floyd off their 1979 Album "The Wall."

Crazy Fact: Pink Floyd's 1973 album, Dark Side of the Moon spent an incomprehensible 741 weeks on the Billboard album chart.

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Ice, Ice, Baby. (part three)

I think she picked up on my momentary weakness, my sudden start at the confrontation with my own ill-conceived and irrational dating rules. Without understanding it's strange origins she did the only thing anyone in that loud, hot, crazy, sweaty bar would have done. With Alice Cooper's wailing screeching maddenly in her ears, she jumped me, block of ice in hand, stuffs it under my shirt and holds it there.

I squeal and laugh and squirm and squeal and scream some more. There's a lot of things to enjoy in this situation, it gives one pause. Don't struggle too hard now, we have to think about a few things here... Hmm... cute sweaty girls jumping me, I think THIS might be ok.

My scan of her hardly hidden agenda and methods, proved... that I was surprisingly NOT creeped out, which was unlikely, I don't claim to fully understand myself, I'm not sure were my comfort levels lie, but I know when they've been crossed, that doesn't lie. A rational analysis of past experiences would have suggested that these boundries would have been overwhelmed at this point, but, a hasty retreat I did not beat, so therefore I must be ok with this. It's STILL really FUNI Eventually, my pansy-assed roots got the better of me and the cold became to much to bear. I put less of my energy into laughing and giggling and more into struggling and squirming. For my manliness's sake I'd like to say it paid off, but the reality is, she let me go.

The next hour is a blur of giggling hotness and squirming sweatiness while bits of ice and hands went under shirts and into pants. Attack, counter attack. Parry, riposte. A few chases around the bar, some screaming "How can you do that to our baby!", each time pushing the envelope a little further. Sweaty sexy funness had by all, all the while entertaining the crowd and bar staff whose attention was split between Alice Cooper's Festivus for the rest of us and this spontaneous giggling mating ritual.

The show was good, but the sexy ice fight was great. By now, the table and I were soaked and exhausted. She was bigger then me so I was the wetter of the two.

Then the lights came on.

Things started to get a little awkward. The spell was broken, the service is over and reality stands at the door calling you back for supper. We're not kids anymore, I know what supper means, after supper comes bed. I don't know if I want to go to bed. I don't even know if I want her phone number. Now my comfort level is getting overwhelmed. I can feel expectations starting to rise. The social pressure is starting to build. As my energy is re-routed to the fear centers in my brain I become noticeably less animated. Things start to cool off between us as fear makes his move. I become jittery, she plays it quiet.

The encore is out for summer, the bar's been blown to pieces. All there remains is the residual bar chatter, the sounds of tables clunked black into position, chairs scraping against the floor and gear being packed up, while she and I stare forward with our fears centre stage in our minds.

James leans in, "Get her phone number."

I look at James and say nothing, hoping we are out of ear shot.

"Don't be a pansy and get her phone number. At least get her phone number, c'mon you HAVE to get her phone number after all that JUST get her phone number phone number phone number."

I look at her pig tails. I look at the lake of ice water on the floor, at James repeating 'phone number', at my soaked pants, the tattoos on her back, at my bloodstained shirt. I think to myself. I have to do something. Something, I can't just leave it at this.

"TIME TO GO FOLKS! FINISH UP AND MOVE OUT!" The general muttering is starting to clear out.

I hate social pressures. I feel like this is a gender specific sorta dichotomy, I'm the man I have to blah blah blah, though that's bullshit, lots of girls have made the first move, probably ALL of the ones I'VE ever got together with, and so I'm just spoiled and feel angered, so the emotionally convenient 'gender specific dichotomy' argument waging war in my head is just a distraction from my own cowardice. Look, my roommate is crazy crazy (a very long story punctuated by a recent psychotic freak-out leading to my moving out soon) and my phone is dead (my bill is too huge.) So, this poor, homeless, slob (did I mention what a wreck my apartment is?) doesn't really have anything to offer, but still, I have to do something. I can't just leave her sitting there, without closure, without anything.

"We're going to the Marquee now, see ya."

Oh man. did I blow that. We leave. I feel like an idiot.

On the way up the long smelly stairs to the cool night air I am comforted, in this small town, if you see them once you'll see them a dozen times.

I try to put it out of my mind. As James and I speed through the night to the Marquee for further debaucherous adventures, I say to myself the same thing I usually say to myself when I'm on my way to the Marquee, 'Maybe she'll be there.'

Anyway, cheap beer is a liar looking for trouble.


Today's Song of the Day is "Hey" by The Pixies off their 1989 Album "Doolittle."

Crazy Fact: Look you and I both now that I'm totally OUT of crazy facts for Radiohead and the Pixies, I've sent 17 songs from these two bands, so I think I'm going to skip the crazy fact, and that's a fact. No, I know! the crazy fact is that this is the 10th Pixies tune I've sent out. CrAzY!

njoy

Ice, Ice, Baby. (part two)

She laughs, "Your a really good screamer."

"thanks."

After Alice was finished with his sacrilege, the idol of all that is cool was returned to us.

"Whoo HOO!" I cheer.

"ok," she extends her hand in the cramped quarters, "You can give me a fake one if you want, but what's your name?"

Bewildered, "Why would I give you a fake name? Anyways it's Pif though that SOUNDS fake."

"Biff?!?!"

"No. Pif. PIF!, with a pee, pif." I go through the 'draw a 'p' in the air with my finger' routine and stare at her intently waiting for a sign of recognition, while drawing my little pee in the air. I'm not sure I'm getting anywhere. The band is loud and I'm probably, definitely a little drunk. Maybe this strange hand motion is confusing her, nonetheless it's all I got, so I keep repeating myself and making my absurd little pee. staring, peeing and repeating.

James chimes in with a devious grin, "You wanna know his REAL name?"

"oh man." I roll my eyes. I hate this move. Why do all my friends have to play it. And they all do.

I turn and try to watch the band through the pointlessly crowded pillar in front of me leaning one way, then the other, dodging and looking, trying to see something, whatever people are cheering at. I can see the guitarist. What's up the soul patch, I'm sick to death of the soul patch, uck. He didn't have that last time I saw these guys.

I turn back, James has done his worst. I will come out unscathed. That is the pif way. The way of the pif. I am determined.

"My name is Pif I swear."

She gives me a look where she is trying to believe me, with a bit of the 'why is this so important to him' analysis.

I turn and look for back-up. I got peeps. I need an outside man.

"DOOD!" I put my arm around a peep a-passin by, "What's my name?"

Mike (aka Dick) looks at me questioning my sanity and then again analyzing my inebriation. I look at her, then back at Mike. He gets it, turns to her and says, "Pif!" triumphantly.

"Thank you my m'man." I release him. "See!" I screech victoriously.

"Your going to be totally hoarse tomorrow."

"No way, I scream all the time, I learned it from my friend Mairi." Meanwhile, I am stunned by my own coolness and popularity. I without a bat of the eyelash seemed to pull a random human out of the crowd and demand justice, Oh justice is what I received. I felt vigorous, bold... unstoppable!

"I'm Angela." She extends her hand again.

Alarm bells ring maddeningly in my head. Red flags fly-up flapping in the furious wind, slapping and blinding me on there way up the pole. Amidst the cacophony of alarm and alert, my own book of rules is thrust forefront in my mind, spread wide to the page banned anymore girls with names who begin and end with 'a' then the page is turned to the addendum where highlighted and underlined it further bans all girls whose name have the now dreaded 'an' sound.

shit. double shit.

I must have freaked her out by my limp handshake and thousand yard stare. If I my life was a movie, which I'm not entirely sure it's not, it would have been the moment, when Ray Stanz sees Slimer for the first time and the cigarette hangs from his bottom lip.

Suddenly, I'm splattered by fake blood, it's flying everywhere. It snaps me out of it, I look into the spray. Alice cooper is wildly chopping up a Minnie Mouse doll filled with blood and guts with a large axe.

"Awesome! WHOOOOO! HAHAHAHAH! WICKED! HAHAHAHA" I scream.

This is why I come here. Nowhere else do you get this kind of entertainment. Some crazed maniac in tight quarters hammering an monster axe into a blooded disney toy on an oak table, wailing retro metal lyrics. Minnie our sacrifice, the bar table our alter, Alice Cooper our priest. Metal his benediction. The axe his wrath. Beer his love. The Seahorse is our temple. And the crowd goes wild.

I wipe the red muck from my eye, look down at my thin white t-shirt splattered in blood. Wicked. You know I was close to the action.

(to be continued... again.)


Today's Song of the Day is "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails off their/his 1994 album "The Downward Spirial."

Crazy Fact: In 1987, Reznor appeared in the Michael J. Fox/Joan Jett film Light of Day, where he played keyboards with a trio dubbed the Problems during a bar scene.

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Ice, Ice, Baby. (part one)

It was retardedly hot in the Seahorse, but the beer was cheap, real cheap. Bad combination. Soon I was out for a slice to cool down and sober up. I have a new theory, going downtown with girls you know scares the new girls away and new girls are WAAAY better than the girls you know, at least that's what the cheap beer was telling me.

The first band blew. The guy sounded nothing like Ozzy. James, Mike and I just waited for them to get off the stage. The next cover band started up, they kick ass as usual, lots of blood sprayed at the audience, axes chopping into cabbage patch kids, he fries himself in the electric chair, he hangs himself, runs around on top of the tables with a cordless mic, throws fake money and most importantly he sounds and looks exactly like Alice Cooper.

So I walk up to get a better view. Someone has brought a tall clear block of ice and has it on their table.

"Wow!"

I stare fixated for a moment at this monumental piece of coolness in this skanking hot bar. I look at it's custodian. She looks friendly.

"Can I touch it?"

"Sure."

"Coo-wool! It's awesome! I love it. Where did you get it?" I recognize this prop from the story our friend at Stage Nine, James, told us the night before, but, it seemed like the right thing to say.

"He just found in the street, and we brought it with us, it seemed like the right thing to do."

A cloud of fake American billion dollar bills erupt from the periphery and flutter through my field of vision. They must be playing 'billion dollar babies' cool prop, but I hardly notice, I'm enchanted by this clear cold monster on the table, this piece of heaven in the dank, dark, debaucherous hell, I've paid to climb down into. She begins to stick the money to the little piece of icy happiness. Automatically I follow her lead.

"Don't cover the top."

"Ok"

"Cool."

"Fun!"

Wow. She's fun too. We stare at our masterwork, periodically touching it, adjusting the fake money, whatever to keep touching the only thing in the world holding back the wet oppressive heat.

"It's our baby!" I scream.

She smiles and looks at me in a way I've seen many times before, but on different faces, always on different faces. Maybe everyone gets this look, or maybe just me, maybe you'll recognize it. It's a moment where the looker, loses self-consciousness, looks me in the eye and evaluates me, actually sees the individual me for the first time. Part of this moment is disbelief. I know! It is the moment where the normal societal doubt is defeated, where I'm accepted as naturally harmless or honestly friendly or something, It's the subtextual/ hidden agenda scan, I think it comes up negative. But always in the reaction hides a little difference from one face to the next. This time it's a bit of happiness and warmth in the corner of her eyes and in the ends of a subtle smile. wow she's cute.

Some guy swoops in, scoops up the block of ice and carries it through the crowd over his head. Hands reach out for a precious blessing of the almighty cold. It's now a sacred thing.

"My Baby! Someone stolen my baby!" I wave my arms exaggeratedly and laugh.

He carries it to our own Alice Cooper who without missing a beat or lyric, licks it, rubs it all over his body and finally humps it on the long oak table for a few minutes, to the jubilant cries of the crowd.

"Your a terrible mother! How can you let him do that to our baby!" I point and scream, and laugh and point.

(to be continued.)

Today's Song of the Day is "Crazy Train" by Ozzy Osborne of his 1981 Album "Blizzard Of Ozz."

Crazy Fact: Guitarist Randy Rhoads was killed in a bizzarre plane accident in 1982, when his plane crashed into Ozzy's Tour bus.

njoy

I'm Bad Like Jesse James.

I'm in a bad mood. I'm searching for my happy place. So far no luck. Fucking happy place!

What's with sentimentality? It sneaks up on you and next thing your listening to some embarassingly crappy 80s tune on the verge of tears. I hate that. I'm trying to be in a bad mood over here. And then The Dream Academy comes on or like Cutting Crew (what the HELL are they doing on my computer?!) and I'm like...(pause)... you know what's funny, I'm TOTALLY lying. Those 'artists' are infinitely superior to what had me on the verge of tears. Can you imagine how bad it really is? It's SO bad that I would use The Cutting Crew as a cover, as a way to defend my musical taste. You can't imagine. I will go to the grave with the truth.

Anyway, where the HELL was I? I forget, whatever face the music.

(You can't spell triumph without 'tri'?!? 'Tri' is a damn prefix! Of course you can't! Other wise it's just 'ummph.' That's the lamest attempt at an inspirational quote EVER. You can't spell LAME without ME. Wait, wait, that didn't work lemmie 'tri' again. How about you can't spell 'Idiot' without umm... Time to stop talking. <-this will make sense if you follow the link under the title, otherwise...whatever.)


Today's Song of the Day is "Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy" by Ren and Stimpy off their 1993 Album "You Eediot!"

Crazy Fact: In 1992, Nickelodeon, dismayed over his increasingly demented storylines and scatlogical humour, wrested control of the show away from its creator, John Kricfalusi, after only one season. I think that bites.

njoy

The future is so stupid, I gotta wear a helmet.

Oh man! Who here has lost a bet? Money is no where near as interesting, funny or detrimental than to wager an act of utter stupidity. Who here has made a stoopid stooopid bet and lost and then had to eat like a worm or a spoon of dirt or something. We've all at least witnessed this sort of behavior I'm sure, but dude! This Joke came around the internet that is just killing me, cause you KNOW this guy lost a bet, it just has to be. This will be me someday I just know it. I get as sure as shit about all kinds of stupid shit.


Future Pif: No way! The second world war started in 1949! I fucking know it.

Some Bastard (probably Mike): No, it wasn't, you idiot.

Future Pif: YES it was, you fool!

Some Bastard (oo oo no Dennis, for sure): Ok we'll look it up-

Future Pif: totally, I can't wait to see the look on your face!

Some Bastard (could be James): we'll look it up, whoever's wrong will have to go to The Seahorse and lick the bathroom floor.

Future Pif: No they have to jump off the Dartmouth Ferry in the mid-transit!

Some Bastard (Caleb you bastard, it would be you, wouldn't it.): NO WAY You were going to do that anyway! I know, I know they'll have to legally change there name to 'Heywood Jablowme.

Future Pif: HAHA! Wicked! Next time we meet you'll be Mr. Jablowme, m'man. (extends hand)

Some bastard (nah, it's Mike): (shakes hand) Deal. (smug smile)

(a couple google clicks later)

Future Pif: oh shit.


Today's Song of the Day is 'Fools Gold' by The Stone Roses off the 1989 Debut Album 'The Stone Roses.'

Crazy Fact: In 1995, they embarked on a short American tour at the conclusion of which John Squire broke his collar bone in a bike accident. Squire's accident forced them to cancel a headlining spot at the 25th Glastonbury Festival, which would have been their first concert in the U.K. in five years.

njoy

Boozers Take Heart

We've all been sucked into these articles 'Five wrong things to do in bed' or '12 quickest ways to lose weight' or whatever but I followed one of these wayward links to an unlikely end:

Researchers Say They May Know What Causes 90% of Heart Attacks

Blah
Blah
Blah...pinpointed to one or more of the following:

Smoking (ok, I knew that. I quit that shite.)

Abnormal cholesterol (sure sure, nothing new.)

Diabetes (I no got. I no care.)

High blood pressure (I'm pretty sure mine is low... actually I have no idea, but whatever...)

Stress (yeah yeah, this one pretty much ruins EVERYTHING, so no freakin' surprise here doc.)

Abdominal obesity (so far, so skinny.)

Sedentary lifestyle (Hmm... not capable of sitting still... might be ok.)

Eating too few fruits and vegetables (shit, mom was right AGAIN! dammit)

Abstaining from alcohol (yeah yeah booze is the source of all evil, blah bl...w-wait a minute, come again? "Abstaining!?" no it can't be! I-I must have this mixed up, this word can't possibly mean what I think it means, let's look it up...

"Ab·stain: To refrain from something by one's own choice."

Well well well, Doc, you crazy bastard! That's the best news I heard from your ilk since "No, I guess we don't have time to do the prostate exam, today." Shit dawg read on...

'Studies have shown that men who drink up to two alcohol drinks a day and women who drink up to one a day have a lower risk of heart disease. One drink is generally considered to be four to five ounces of wine, a 12-ounce beer, or 1 ounce of liquor.'

Two drinks a day, huh? Well, that's a start... and EVERYONE knows you can bank them so if I don't drink all week that means 7 for friday and 7 for saturday right? and those are just the healthy ones! That not my limit anymore that's my new starting point. Or if you don't drink all week that's 14 drinks (Hypochondria and Alcoholism make strange bed fellows):

Pif: lisssen osifer I's under dockers (hick) orzderzz. I hasta dink at leeeeasht two, that'sh TWO, more a dees beersh before I go (hick) home or I could DIE of a heart attack! yeah, you heard right (hick) DIE! Shcoutsh honour. and and I's gots the (hick) the hic-ups and I un know iff I kin make (hick) it. You knows duh CPR? beshter (hick) calls duh 9 1 1 jush in cashed. Bartender, I'lll haff doze lashed two ta go (hick), k?


Today's Song of the Day is "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer" by John Lee Hooker off his 1974 album "Free Beer and Chicken." (Great Name!)

or

Today's Song of the Day is "Jersey Girl" by Tom Waits off his 1980 album "Heartattack and Vine."

You guy's vote by clicking on the comments link right below this line: