I Just Watched CSPAN. . . On Purpose(!?)

Ironically, it was an address by Harvey Levin, of TMZ notoriety.

Mr. Levin had some interesting things to say about innovation in media, changes in journalism, and the Internet's continuing influence on those matters and the world in general.

He was not the loathsome sleaze I expected. I also didn't realize he was gay. My west coast gaydar is verkakte.

Seriously? We Deserve Extinction

So, um, flipping channels and "Toddlers and Tiaras."

Besides the many obvious things wrong with this concept in general, this one is specifically sick: a three year old just did a ~talent~ section dressed and dancing in the style of Michael Jackson.

There are no words in the english language to adequately express the perverse ironic Wrongness of this happenstance.

Holy shit, just as I was about to post, another section of the pageant came up. There was a kid dressed as cone breasted madonna, one as a pimp, and another one as MJ--this one literally grabbed her crotch, repeatedly.

These mothers should be slapped. Hard. Repeatedly.

Holy Shit, He's a White Dude! (And Other Musical Musings)

Coldplay is webcasting for free right now. Pretty cool. (Probably over by the time I finish this post).Thanx AMEX, guess this makes that yearly membership fee worth it. I know the points program sure as hell doesn't.

http://www.youtube.com/coldplayvevo?om_rid=NsmmUf&om_mid=_BOqEXyB8eGP0qS&om_lid=gen103

So, the Interwebz is both magical and a bit of a killjoy. You can find information about practically anything, no matter how obscure. While this is immensely gratifying, there are losses. People with minds for trivia (*cough*me*cough*) are being rendered obsolete. Especially with the advent of 3G/4G data streaming. Fucking iPhone has made me useless. And though I do have my hunches proved right in a more timely manner, I now make less money by betting against inebriated bar patrons.

The other loss is the joy in a certain type of reminiscing. The kind where you say, "Hey, anybody remember that song/movie/book that went 'Something, something, power windows, something, blah blah?'" and your friends go, "No, but I do remember 'Blah Blah babycakes whoopsie blah,' was it by that guy's brother?"

And from such modest and befuddled beginnings, hours of conversation and information exchange sprang forth.

Now everybody just whips out their phone/pocket super computer and we are forced to endure YouTube clips like we used to have to brave a wallet full of family photos. The video clips are only mildly less aggravating that the picture of your 22 month old covered in pudding. At least thumbing through the wallet pix was shorter.

Now that I'm done with my Luddite grumping, here's the part where I glory in all the Web does afford. Yesterday I went online to look for work. I didn't quite make it, as I got distracted by updating a playlist. I awoke with a lyric in my head, to the tune of  "Down in Jamaica they got lots of pretty women/ Steal your money and they break your heart." As the morning progressed, that song was interspersed with "That's how much/ That's how much/ I live for your loving/ That's how much."

Well, looking up those songs just started an avalanche. I started searching for all the songs I used to hear on the radio during that time in my life. Surprisingly to me, but I'm sure no one else, a huge portion of my music was Yacht Rock. I've also realized that Crosby, Stills, Nash (and sometimes Young) have had an unhealthy influence on my life. Ditto for America and Ambrosia. What the hell?

(This Coldplay concert is pretty damn good. I just squeed b/c Politik came on. YEAH!!!!! Oh crap, now it's Viva la Vida. This crowd is amazing.)

Anyhoo, I really was going to job hunt. But my computer froze and got all funky on me when I started doing serious stuff. Sign from god or happenstance? You make the call. I'm back on today, and as you can see, music has sidetracked me yet again. After the National Geographic Channel gave me a double whammy this morning with The Devil's Bible and the The Unreadable Book. Damn, I am such a sucker for that stuff.

But I have set aside Nat Geo and vow to get some shit done today. But first. . . . . . . (you see the problem here, right?)

I FINALLY remembered to look up a song that has been haunting me for years. Not just for the song itself, but I swear the horn melody has been sampled in many songs. Well, this is what I found:

Check his ass out! What the crap? This is right up there with finding out Rick Astley was a cracker, back in '88. Anyhoodle, that song is wicked smooth and has some soul behind it.

Ah, Coldplay is encoring with "Clocks."

I suppose some people would view this entire post as a condemnation of my musical taste. Hmmm.

Oh well, it makes me happy. Now they are playing "Fix You." It's weird, but I have this theory that you can spot when a songwriter has had children. This is one of two Coldplay songs that signal that to me.

RDJ, Hackman, Elliott, Dempsey

What do these four actors have in common?

Well, I've playing catchup on my DVR, so I've seen a few more commercials than usual.

These are actors I'm pretty sure I've heard narrating some tv ads.

Downey--Nissan cars, specifically the "wouldn't it be cool?" one
Hackman--Lowes hardware, I think
Elliott--some trucks, but I'll be damned if I can recall. Chevy, GMC
Dempsey--these werebawhile back, but maybe it was Mitsubishi?

Finally caught up on The Mentalist and Criminal Minds. CM is awesome bc they hired back all the chick characters. And it was all worth it for Reid's sotto voce vow to Morgan, "I will crush you."

(. . . I Wish I Was)

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how things work. I spend a (probably unhealthy) amount of time on self analysis, falling victim to the seemingly logical supposition that if I want to understand the world, I must have an understanding of myself.

I had naturally expected that as I got older and gained experience, I would also gain understanding. And with that, greater peace, greater calm. But that just doesn't seem to be the case. Some days it feels like quite the converse.

I've been kicking around the psychology and philosophy of knowing oneself and balancing that against external input. That is, to have a sense of identity but not be deaf to other viewpoints--some of which might have truth or value I've overlooked.

And yet, and yet, and yet. . .

Recently a friend greeted me at the beginning of an outing with a rather unpleasant report of how I had apparently upset and set to grumbling a whole room full of people after my departure. For me, it came out of left field. While I'm pretty sure it was done with no malice--and I believe my friends have a right to express their honest opinions about me, to me--it was still abrupt and out of place, at least to me.

I had a similar experience recently when someone bid me adieu and snuck in a parting shot, casually citing something about my character that I have expressed concern and contrition over, many times. Something, in other words, of which I'm not fond nor proud and which I'm trying to work through.

Someone else recently expressed interest in the possibility that I might return to a former residence. When I asked what had changed, since we didn't hang out when we were neighbors, they replied "Well, you're not crazy anymore." Skipping right past the implication that anything that had ever gone wrong was solely my fault, let me just say that the joke is on them: I'm just as shithouse insane as ever.

Moments like these, where an item of potential sensitivity is treated with casualness, tossed out like a beach ball when it's really a lobbed hand grenade--they really throw me for a loop. Besides the hurtful messages and notwithstanding any truths they may contain, it leaves me wondering: is it me that doesn't make sense, or the world? Have I done such a poor job in communicating essential things about my person that these a the garish results? Or have I somehow earned a level of disregard and insensitivity. Are people just giving back to me their interpretation of what I put out?

So, here's a few things I think I may have sorted out.

• Being open minded and honest tends to make people think that you are open about everything in your personal life. It doesn't. It just means you're not into judging others for what's going on in their lives. 
• Being honest can come across, can even end up being, blunt. When you are blunt or plain spoken about something, people assume that you are insensitive. 
• Honesty and bluntness also lead people to believe that you don't think about others' emotions. They assume you just bash away at life. I think a lot of people who have labeled me blunt, hard case, intimidating etc, would be surprised to know how much time I spend thinking about how other people feel. And how energy I expend in trying not to hurt people's feelings, in being aware of the hot buttons and sore points and delicacies of those around me. 
• Here's a big one: I think if you can vocalize a feeling, and/or discuss an event in a rational manner, everyone assumes you don't have strong emotions, or any emotions. Even if your discussion is contains phrases such as "I have a really hard time with/ I'm really ashamed of/ I am very angry about,"--if you are not crying, frothing at the mouth, kicking and screaming, people associate very little emotional attachment on your part. 
• If you try to be honest, open, and promote rational discourse about all events, including the emotional ones, people assume you are bulletproof. They think they can come at you swinging, because, hey, that's what you do to them and besides you don't get upset, right? 

For the record and for the bajillionth time: I am all for honesty. I would always rather have the truth than a convenient or comfortable lie.

But I'm not bulletproof.

Boomerangs and Babbies at the Beach

So, besides nuptials, other things were gotten up to on the Gulf Coast these last few weeks.

Innocent looking, but not to be trusted.

Got a boomerang lesson from some scooter-riding hottie. First rule of Boomerang Club: Don't talk about Boomerang Club. Second rule of Boomerang Club: If you see one coming for you, move. Quickly. 

In a moment that sort of sums up my entire experience here on Earth, I threw and caught a boomerang on the second try. The rest of the attempts ranged from mildly disastrous to injury inducing. That's me, folks. No real luck, no real skill, just the vague shadows of those things which give a false, cruel hope of betterment.

Got to eat lunch at Dee's Hangout--it was Fried Chicken Tuesday! Dee's holds the honor of being the only restaurant I deem worth ordering fried chicken or collards from--all the others are bullshit. Dee himself was on the premises, and made sure our large party got seated as quickly as possible. I would say I had the banana pudding, but the portion I took home mysteriously disappeared after I took two bites and put it in the fridge. Mysterious. . . .

I like ridiculous things, and so do my friends. I challenge you to watch this and prevent yourself from mimicking it. It's impossible.

Unfortunately, no locale is without its darker elements. NW Florida is no exception, and I and my family encountered some serious thuggery during my visit.

Two wild and crazy guys!

 Sure, at first they seemed friendly. Hell, we even invited them in. Big mistake.

Tricksy and slippery, this one.

 See that look in her eye? See how she's cleverly evading the grasp of authority? And what is her cohort doing?

Not a got-dayum thing. Because Slick there knows what's coming. It's all sweetness and light. . . until Babby Wants Something.

Say, old man. Are those ciggies and whiskey? Gimme a coffin nail and a cuppa, luv.

Perhaps you didn't hear me, good sir. Please quite trying to remove the heart meds and ciggies. BABBY WANTS A FIX!

Not only did the little fiend try to make off with the hooch and the smokes, but she pulled a Shiva-like transformation. Suddenly it was as if she had 8 arms, all making like Pete Townsend in a non-stop strike to gobble up the goodies.

This kid had run around, crawled on bare wood on her knees, busted her lip open the day before---all no problem. But when she didn't get her hooch? Oh, the wailing and gnashing of teeth. This child is a hooligan.

Wanted: One Juvenile Delinquent. Goes by "Octopus." Approach with caution, secure your alcohol, firearms, and medications. Watch for accomplice, also extremely short.

If you run into these two, don't bother appealing to the mother for help. She just laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

One of the highlights (or lowpoints) of my trip was my little bro's never ending supply of MST3K movies. He trotted out several gems from the post Joel years that I hadn't seen. (Jooooooeeeeeel!) One of these was Space Mutiny.  Egads. Highlights include:

*incredible slow speed chase with modified golf carts that probably gets up to 2.5 mph.
*bad editing that leads to the miraculous resuscitation of murdered cast
*guardrails, guardrails, guardrails
*Captain Santa Claus--most incompetent leader ever.
*age inappropriate make outs
*one of the most unlikely villain names ever
*a "star" is a muscle bound lad with the unlikely name of Dave Ryder. Mike and the Bots have some fun with alternate names for him.

It occurs to me that I am telling this story all out of order, but oh well.

Nuptials in NW Florida

~And Other Filthy Sounding Adventures~

Except for the no money/security thing, being unemployed is pretty great. This recent trip marks the second time in my (so called adult) life that I've been able to indulge in an extended stay. I wanted these recap posts to be sensible, easy to follow, etc. But every time I begin composing those entries I lose the thread, get lost in mountains of words, and in general defeat myself before I even begin.

So you know what that means, kiddies!

What, BlatherBlahg?

More nonsensical meanderings and swiss cheesed narratives!

My second night there, me and my usual band of miscreants met at the usual place and did the usual thing. The Klesmerizers were reunited! Unfortunately, we didn't come ready to perform.

You gotta appreciate someone who brings their own grub to the bar. Go, fellow Klesmerizer, go!

Also a band member, and occasional road manager for the band. We don't get as many gigs as you might think.

Badly shopped pic of Table of Doom. Our party was too large, so we had to switch to back up benches and scoot them together. Altered to protect the Guilty and the Even Guiltier.

So, some other things happened which I will discuss later. That Thursday saw me headed for my first "destination" wedding at the Bonne Terre house in Seacrest, FL. (Please note, half the "beach" names in NW FL are pure shite. These people just make up a name for the plot of land they've plunked their rental mansions on. I'm pretty sure "Seacrest" doesn't really exist in any county registry anywhere).

The front.

The back.

 I've lived in beach towns and stayed at my share of condos and hotels and what have you. But this place was amazing. Literally right on the beach, with gorgeous and plentiful accommodations. Plenty of bathrooms, plenty of seating, amazing views, and a general sense of serenity.

First floor back deck.

View from second floor back porch. Not even a promotional pic. Just me with my little camera. Feel very free to turn green and vomitous with envy.

In a moment of extreme sagacity, the betrothed couple put their friends in the upstairs half, and their family in the downstairs half. I haven't felt like such a kid since sitting at the tiny fold out table at Thanksgiving. But as noted above, it was a decision that turned out to be very wise.

My bedroom.

My shared lavatory, joining my room to the Two J's.

 I had my own boudoir, with a super fluffy bed. I got really spoiled by beds this trip, and it saddens me. For I'm in no position to change my current bedding condition. I shared a bathroom (that is as long as my entire apartment) with two of Hotsauce's friends from Maryland. God bless married men, they have such good bathroom etiquette. 

Wedding decorations that came on the largest of three truckloads we unpacked that day. That's right: 3. Truckloads. At least I didn't get roped into setting it up like these poor lads.

The energy in the house was hectic, as it always is before a wedding. I helped as much as I could, but scenes like this always reach the point where there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. And the chiefs are on the warpath. So I helped really hard where I could, and dipped inside when I felt extraneous. Which ended up being quite often on the last day before the wedding.

Despite the crazy aura of Wedding that permeates such things, the house was remarkably soothing. Non-family guests hung out, starved, subsisted off of beer during the days, and just sort of drifted around.

Easy like Sunday morning. Looking back, I should have arranged a poker tourney.

I love knowing that this picture has a mate somewhere out there, equally silly. It's like Blackhawk and I each have a part of story.

The big day arrived, and all the family's frantic work really paid off. The house was decorated beautifully. The bower on the beach looked amazing. The groom ended up getting ready in my bathroom, which drove me into another bathroom. But I ducked back in to get a final shot of him as a single man.

My Boy, Hotsauce.

Gorgeous dress, gorgeous girl, lucky guy, dreamy wedding. Sickening, no?

Hotsauce grabbed me right before the ceremony and asked a favor. So I got the interesting job of "rosing" the bed. I could've sworn I had pix of that, but then again there were so many camera phones and gadgets around that there is no telling where that photo ended up. 

We got three hours of music from a stainless steel drums/guitar combo--I've known the drummer for years. The whole reception was kind of like that: either people you've known for decades or absolute strangers. An interesting mix. My friends tink and jdog flew in for a visit and came over for the party. My little seester broke it down AWESOMELY to the William Tell Overture. It was the most epic dancing I've seen since the Crocodile Rock of Halloween '05. That girl can work it. 

Like most receptions, you never get to spend enough time with all the people you'd like, because there are so many things going on. But that is the sign of a good party, I think. I did get to spend a fair amount of time with the below deviant. We got convo-bombed by somebody with a loud and abrupt question about breastfeeding, milk pumping, and other personal inquiries. It was a good thing I had champagne in one hand, cake in the other, and a straight whiskey on the sideboard, because by the time my friend started a  "WTF?" commentary under her breath, I was having difficulties keeping a straight face.

Pure, delicious, scientific evil. I love it.

In another moment of Unadulterated Awesomeness, my leetle seester went downstairs for the throwing of the bouquet. It's not really her thing, so I was surprised to see her pull a Matrix-esque acrobatic move to catch the flowers. She dropped forward over one knee, snaked her hand out and snatched that thing up. Then with amazing grace she spun, went down on one knee, and handed the flowers to the four year old girl standing behind her. That kid's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Turns out the little one had expressed her extreme desire for the bouquet as they were standing around, and my sis promised to try and catch it on her behalf. I wish to hell I had videotape of that. 

It was beautiful weather, beautiful decorations. No one fell in the pool. The bride and groom seemed happy. Pretty much a success.

Guess Who's Been Up Since 3 AM?

>Wallace has?

I had the singular privilege of getting to watch Twatlight: Part the Shirtless. Jeezy creezy, the acting and direction of Bella is neurotoxic. But apparently not deadly enough to induce sleep.

I'm getting to hear my flatmates alarm now, which has been going since 7:00. Apparently that person has no trouble sleeping. Fucker.

I'd post about my trip to date, but I require visual aids that I cannot muster with my ipadz.