Years top...1

Instead of a top ten list, I’m just doing a top album.

Muse “Black Holes and Revelations”

First off, this album is so over-the-top it sling shots around the Sun of Shame, enters a hyper warp field, emerges in the Land of Lame, and then, dipping it’s wings into the Glitter Galaxy, erupts back into normal space time avenged, shining, and just utterly fabulous.

How do you approach this? Well, as with any truly great album you have to start with the packaging. A bad album cover can really ruin your listening experience. Muse do not disappoint on this, their fourth album. In a kind of Pink Floyd-y way we get the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse sitting around a table on the surface of Mars. How do they achieve this Floyd-like creation? By going straight to Pink Floyd’s sleeve designer, obviously. They don’t knock about, these boys.

The album opens with “Take a Bow,” and this is not a Madonna cover (even though they used to be on her Maverick label). No, it starts out with some nice low frequency synth bass and a simple arpeggiated pattern that will make any simpleton fanboy happy. It’s political which I obviously don’t care about, but it seems to be a bit about consumerism as well. They try very hard to be deep, but in a less introspective way than Radiohead. It’s almost like this song takes you by the hand into Clockwork Orange land. Certainly by the Rachmaninov bit.

“Starlight” is a good old romper stomper bit of Brit Pop. The kind that Keane make now. It’s a bit sludgy so maybe you can imagine Brett Anderson (him of Suede) doing it. I don’t know what it’s about, it sounds achingly hopeful, so I assume it’s about some girl.

“Super Massive Black Hole” is almost exactly like Suede from their “Head Music” album. I read something that said it’s like Franz Ferdinand. Maybe it is. It’s funky, like Queen on “The Game.” It’s got a lot of that four on the floor thing going on. Makes you feel like punching your boss.

“Map of the Problamatique” is one of those typically vague and posh sounding pieces. Yes, it’s an awful like Violator from Depeche Mode. Someone wrote that Muse is a band that can’t let a moment of silence go unfilled by drum fills. This is quite true. It’s a trade mark sound, I guess. Anyway, good stuff here.

“Soldiers Poem” is slow and reflective. This one is really, really like Queen from “A Day at the Races” or “News of the World.”

“Invincible.” Guess what? This one is really triumphant.

“Assasin.” No one seems to have mentioned anywhere that this starts off like a minor key version of the Knight Rider theme. That alone makes it A-OK. Then it get’s all Smashing Pumpkins “Zero.” And Then the singing starts and its pretty Brit Poppy. There’s a little honky tonk sound in the background that appeals to me.

“Exo-Polotics.” This one is a glam banger. Big guitars, crunchy bass and drums that make you march along with arms outstanding. Kill, kill, kill. Or just maim a bit.

“City of Delusion.” Acustic guitar intro, simple chord patterns. Willing voice coming out of the dark, yearning to run high. And then it goes Symphonic!!!!!!!!!!! Yes, heaping piles of spaghetti. Things get really crazy at the end of this album, I promise. The disco bit kicks in right about…now!

“Hoodoo.” I had to read that one twice. Starts of with some Spanish guitar and someone stomping on the floor. Presumably to do one of those fandango dances. This one is Radiohead with a heaping pile of Libarace at the end. Awesome!

Ok. Now the album closer. Even though this isn’t a band that claims any sort of strong influence from Queen, here comes the strongest coincidence. A completely over-the-top closing track that could certainly sit alongside Bohemian Rhapsody. And that’s even if you don’t get a chance to see the video. “Knights of Cydonia” is a bad-ass-sci-fi-cowboy track. Really. It opens with horses galloping, laser guns firing, and then the Ennio Morricone bit comes in and you think you’re in the “The Good the Bad and Ugly.” No kidding! This song is utterly insanse. And it’s all nicely arranged so the first verses almost lull you with their lullaby-like quality. Sweet…sweetly…sweetness. Ok. Bit of a Spaghetti Western break here, some chorus of voices going ‘ahh…ahhh ahhh…ahh’ AND THEN the big bit. The multi tracking starts here. The high pitched singing. The part where the song stops being over the top because, frankly, the top just doesn’t exist anymore. Bliss (the second track to their second album…coincidence?? Yes.) And the ending of the song? Well, lets just say that’s a mystery you can unravel for yourselves. But it just happens to sound-check one of the best synthesized compositions ever laid to acetate.

Some movie reviews... in my head.

Spurned on by Spablab’s prodigious text messages, here is the first of my “Very Quickly: Why Particular Popular Indie Films Failed To Impress Me” series.

“Lost in Translation”

The entire time I was watching this movie the only thought I had was: They’ve castrated Bill Murray and have now served him his sack, on a plate. Bad, just bad.

“I Heart Huckabees”

This movie was like watching Rocky & Bullwinkle: I kept asking myself when did people find this kind of one dimensional storytelling interesting?

“Donnie Darko”

Finally a movie to make kids on meds think kids on meds are cool.

This also inspired another review:

Finally a movie about plot holes!

OK, so I’ll have to think of the other stinkers I’ve seen over the last few years. Post your fave’s and I’ll provide you with some real insight. Later, dorks.

Tied to the sick, the sick tied to time.

The stone sound, my soul is grinding, one big crunch before your life’s departed. What you can’t bring, I will deliver, fast forward punching in the facial features. Each day becomes an uncharted river, the water boiling as you make your way. I hope on the heat of a burning sun, each day finds you crushed and gone.

Your blood, the liquor at its sweetest, poured over lips that chase receivers. His eyes, pierce the foul mood that you bring with you, we all had a laugh while your railing continued. A meager glance at the food around you, hands bound with the leather of a family’s fortune. Turn around; touch the tortured, the nourishment of vanity is trapped in porcelain.

Your friendship dropped into the abyss, everyone you know gathers at the precipice. Laughter follows your falling form; we all form a line to make water from scorn. Gravity grips your muscles and skin cells, every bone creaking from the guilt you weigh. A party of revelers from the rock face continues, some cheering louder as your screams diminish.

Good-bye, to the beast departed, we make with parody of your life and times. Caricature of your body and soul, the twisted and the sick made in death now seem divine. Children run around with your face cast in plaster, the apparition of your features now a masque macabre. Twist the skin of the one you're near, the momentary pain a memory of what to fear. Your life, a sad remembrance: a contribution of nothing but sick descendants.

Put the money in my mouth, shake my legs.

This is for UglyAgnes: u r cool and u deserve this gorilla pendant!

I feel lazy, and that means you suffer.

But not much, as this is goood. King Diamond. No more questions.

Life's leading man, made to wait.

I want to escalate this effect of drowning, drinking more water than I should. I have transient thoughts that connect with nothing. These are the anagrams of ephemera that might mean something one day.

I am polite, but only to the Pope. This is a character trait I’ve developed over time due to my maternal parent’s insistence. She has dubious notions of his infallibility. I feel dwarfed in the presence of such men. They wear their robes like the wings of leathery predators. I feel their hawkish gaze upon me from the moment of my birth. In a book, they write down such things as my first word and my first impure thought. I can’t escape, but I don’t feel like trying.

One morning, when I am young and not capable of distinguishing the face of evil from that of a beatific angel, my father takes me walking. We pass through several parks where long lines of black clad men walk in stiff formation, their lips moving in silence as they communicate a pastiche litany of numbers and borrowed phrases. All wear top hats though none stop to lift them as we pass. We play a crazy snake game, weaving between and around them as they move at a pace far slower than seems to please my father. He is determined and urgent in his stride; his large rough hand grips mine and compels me on. I feel safe in this sea of confusing adulthood. The further we move, the grayer the grass becomes. Iron swing sets rust away to dust in the air and a heavy fog envelops us. I clutch my father’s hand and feel how warm his grip becomes as he squeezes, keeping me in tow.

My uncle kept an ocean in a small glass jar, just hidden behind a bucket under the kitchen sink. I would take the jar from behind the bucket and set it on the kitchen floor. For hours I would study the small tide that washed against the side of the jar, wondering where all the ships went. My uncle had never told me about his ocean, though I had tried to broach the subject of large bodies of water many times. He went silent when the conversation turned to these waters, his face growing sad and his eyes looking through me, out beyond the walls of the house. He kept a blanket over his legs; they never were warm enough while he sat in his wheelchair. I pushed him through the house and talked to him about everything I could think of, everything except the small ocean under the sink.

On the day I stopped being a young boy anymore, I walked for hours up a winding staircase thinking about my life. Every now and then I would stop and sit on the stairs. I would light a small pipe my father had made for me, filling it with a sweet tobacco he felt was suitable for his charming son. Sitting in a cloud of my own thoughts, I could feel my body communicating with itself, readying for the shift. My knees looked a darker color and I began to seriously consider not wearing shorts anymore when this was over, when I got to my room. I felt taller and more powerful, though the distance from my eyes to the floor seemed the same, I assumed my vision had grown stronger as well. This was the moment, the time when my body rebelled and my mind would free itself from the shackles of youth. I had waited many years for this moment to pass, and my only regret was that it should transpire while I climbed, alone, on the stairs. I had several hours left before I should reach my room, so I hooked my pipe into the pocket of my shorts and resumed my climb. As I noticed how my toes pushed against my shoes, I realized a new wardrobe would really be the first order of business.

Buggery is the finest form of flattery.

Persistence is a form of vanity; pushing through obstacles to achieve an end you believe in is the same as believing you deserve it, which is a function of vanity, isn’t it? Anyway, as November rolls around I’m finally in the position I should be in, with the appropriate raise, title change, and feeling of some small victory. The move is underway, and while no move is ever that smooth, I suffer well in the advent of hope that this one does, indeed, have a happy ending. Albeit still several months away (6-8 weeks) but still. I’m getting out of the decaying abyss and moving into something new and fresh and different and concocted with an air of personality. I could ask for more, but this does seem sufficient for the time being. Onwards, upwards, better foots forwards.

To avoid any appearance of slander, I’m going to place a moratorium on any story telling of the move, or items of interest that precipitated any negative (even hostile) feelings around it. Rather, I would allow the story to finish itself out in reality, percolate in my mind, and become the fodder for adventure tales as told by a humble narrator, humble in self-proclamation only. This seems fit, as I rather prefer my retelling of events than a journalistic, in-the-trenches approach. History has a whiff of fiction about it. Let this be not a place of fact or reason, but of treason and less tact. Offense is always intended, on my part, to the world in general. Why should thoughts and feelings be easy? They should require work, and suffering, just like everything else. Except, strangely enough, this season of Smallville: Clark does seem to be breezily taking everything in stride. I think it’s those awful work boots he always wears.

I’m rather overwhelmed, these last few weeks, with local political campaign commercials. They suffer from aping too much their national counterparts, and wind up looking hokey and amateurish. It’s also nearly impossible to distinguish one from another in Rhode Island. It gives you the feeling that voting is an exercise in facility (not futility, as it simply needs to be done in order for the law to be unbroken). The biggest issue (and I promise I’m not delving into politics here, that would be intensely boring…holding any political belief is equitable to holding some religious belief, i.e. it’s pointless and magical thinking) in this state at the moment is the question of whether a casino is needed. Obviously a casino is never needed so I feel that really short circuits the whole process for them, and everyone involved could have saved a lot of money if they’d only reached that epiphany sooner.

I managed to sell a 10 year old television that I absolutely refused to carry anymore. 80 pounds of glass and cathode ray tubing are no longer an appetite whetting combination. Despite the rich colour and picture clarity, I see no need to expose myself to potential injury just to watch the many, many, many hours of childish programming I enjoy. Oh, and the list just flows on and on, I admit it.

Of some note is the new Iron Maiden disc, “A Matter of Life and Death.” It’s a galloping journey, and it only has a whiff of nostalgia about it. Good, too, is the new Cradle of Filth disc, “Thornography.” Their cover of Heaven 17’s “Temptation” is about as inspired as they’re likely to get. At least it’s not another cover of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.” I’ve heard a pop punk cover, a hardcore cover, and now a power metal cover. Too many. The song only worked the once, anyway. I might as well own up to owning the new Trivium output, “The Crusade.” Yes, it’s plainly a coy clone of Metallica, but Metallica as they were, not are, so I suppose that’s somewhat forgivable.

One final comment: the Opera house in Boston was an amazing venue for the Pet Shop Boys. The sound was like a rapid fire chorus of machine guns blasting out heartfelt disco, with pregnant ricochets of melancholy and ironic devices thrown in for good measure. The look was a gay-dipped uniform of color and black holes from which emerged some sort of anarchist cabaret. Well worth the money, I’ll say.

"Make merry," he said, "Make merry bleed, brutha."

I’m feeling sick, and it’s the kind of sick feeling that’s lingering in the near background so it’s not really serious but it’s certainly annoying and tedious. I’m not sick enough to be able to sleep or relax through it, but it’s seeped into my joints and sinuses and won’t really let me concentrate on anything. TV’s too bright, music’s too loud, and oh, can you imagine, work is just too much.

So. Solemn me, I’m here writing and trying to focus my thoughts into whatever passes for narrative meaning this week. Like the fact that I’m feeling dusty; a surface covered in dust and every movement releasing a cloud of allergen and particles that evoke eruptions of sneezes. Is it possible to feel this dusty? As if clapping a hand on my shoulder will shake off an avalanche of debris. That’s how I feel. It’s not feeling old, or useless; its feeling weighed down with minutiae and the sub-atomic strands that tie together daily operations like getting coffee or spending two minutes to rub the cat’s poor, neglected head. The space between her ears where even the dog’s vicious, yet playful, teeth don’t bite. The dog goes for the soft jugular, inciting an inter-species war that lasts for as long as the cat is willing to put up with the tussle. Then the inevitable. She pushes back, a weak resistance that’s still enough to scare the dog, and then leaps a foot above her and watches like a disgusted socialite. This is something that never ends, it just repeats, it’s pointless but it’s real.

If everything is interconnected then even just waking up in the morning is making a difference. This is some stale sort of philosophy that will surely get your mind into gear and wondering if even brushing your teeth is a good idea given the state of the world. Are you in part responsible for all the awful things that are happening just by going through such a staid routine? Can complacency in the mundane lead to genocide? People want to feel so in touch with the good things that happen they forget how tied to the grinding, pulverizing horrors they actually are. This isn’t meant to prevent you from having eggs at breakfast, but stop and think before you add that extra spoon of sugar to your black cup of coffee. You might well end it all.

People have a tendency to lie out of a fear of being seen as weak. The weakness is somehow the admission of not knowing what you feel expected to know, or not having done that which maybe you should have done but can’t quite understand how soon it all caught up with you. This is pale and weak. Only lie about things that are irrelevant and shouldn’t possibly be lied about. Be honest about how weak and predictable and lazy you are. But lie like a politician about everything else. Lie about the movies you like, the music you love, the shows you watch. For every opinion you agree with, espouse exactly the opposite. Never let anyone know what you think or feel or know about the things you love and care for and obsess over. It’s not that it will make any difference, and it’s not like anyone will ever guess, and that’s sort of the point. It’s a kind of small and ingenious deception that could possibly remain undetected until well after you’re dead. Isn’t that a sad kind of legacy? Nothing to be proud about, but at least it will last. Thoughts and feelings will linger well after you’ve rotted into the ground. Not me, though. I’ll be around forever so what do I care?

So, this leaves me feeling a little empty now, which was exactly the point. I spilled forth on this page like an inkwell finding its perfect blotter. I used the white space to dump a little black poison into the world. Like a knife finding itself slipping through a nice fatty tissue, stabbing right into the artery and letting a steady, rhythmic beat pump the blood right out of your neck and into the air and onto the wall and drip down to the floor and pool into a puddle and lapped up by the cat who’s rubbed by my sweaty hand. A perfect circle, baby.

Not the note that refreshes.

I was going to post updates re: my conference in Orlando, but it just didn’t seem worth it. I mean, there were some choice moments of hilarity, a good night out at the best gay/drag/piano/dance/pool bar I’ve been to in a long time, and a night of drunken floating in lagoon pool with waterfall backdrops and a stranger from Chicago…but, again, I just didn’t feel like synthesizing a story out of it all. So all you get is this capsulated review and the option to make up any other details you see fit.

Anyway, all fronts moving forward and all that. Lots of good things that were in the pipeline months ago are just on this side of bursting out of their bubbles. And this is all for the best, at least nothing that seemed promising has fallen back on itself. Some things take time, and it seems that in this period of my life, the best things are wearing my patience thin, but they are still wearing, so that’s the outlook I’m keeping front most in my mind. How polished and adult I’ve become, even as I continue to fit and frolic as I see…fit.

I think the fall will be fun, the weather has really cooled down (the air conditioner hasn’t been on in weeks). This means that I will be more open to outdoor activities, and I feel as though last fall was overly warm and kept me too in mind of the summer, so I stayed inside as usual. I’m hardly the type to champion a New England autumn, but if I can layer my clothing, maybe that’s something I can get behind and support. Somehow the decay of leaves awakens my energy. Like a Decepticon chasing an illicit supply of Energon Cubes, I’m somehow ready to take on and do battle with a dodgy looking car or tractor trailer. You know what I mean?

A four day weekend was a welcome rest from the normal non-thinking states I engage in. I walked around a particularly large cemetery, attended a tented Irish folk festival in the rain, watched Nicholas Cage face-punching some warrior woman in ‘The Wicker Man,’ and had a very relaxing evening dying laughing with the ‘Kims of Comedy.’ Now I only have a 2.5 day work week this week, and a three day week next. Just trying to run out the clock on my vacation days before they’re sucked up.

Saturday I spent alone trying to gather some needed strength for the outdoor festival, and my allergies were at a peak so I stayed in and did the unthinkable. I watched (back to back) Doom and The Fantastic Four. Both were understated pieces of cinematic bleh. I did enjoy them, however. Doom in particular had some really funny moments. And the Rock pulled off a performance I wasn’t expecting: no smart talking, one-liners; just a straight forward approach to a straight forward character. You don’t get that in these kinds of sci-fi action movies. He never questions his orders, his mission, or the loyalty of his men. He just goes in and gets the job done. Kind of refreshing.

My blobbing of the conference. Part One

Hello. Welcome to Crapra. No. Unfair. I’m not even there yet. Where am I? In the JetBlue terminal.

I think it’s the JetBlue terminal. It’s certainly the only airline represented here on the C wing of Terminal C at Boston’s Logan Airport, located somewhere in Quincy or something.

Cheap. I think this must be the cheap airline because everyone here looks poor. Including me. I’m riding with my ghetto ass looking suitcase with the purple ribbon tied to the handle to indicate that, yes, it’s mine! In the most shrill, Carson Kressley kind of way. Great start. There are maybe two attractive people in this area. And I’m not included in that head count. For sake!

A tiny blue jet just rolled by the window. Not JetBlue, but a blue jet. The size of a shoebox. I can’t imagine flying in that thing. If I’d brought a camera I could have photo blogged this, but I’d rather do it the old fashioned, 1999 way. Foo yeah.

So, what can I report at this early stage of my Conference trip? Well, so far I’ve had Johnny Rockets for lunch, a Viva Rita from Wolfgang Pucks, and now I’m sitting here behind a somewhat hot looking individual. Um, yeah. Welcome to the relatively boring life of whatever world I’m living in.

UglyAgnes drove me up here, which was nice. Bad enough having to wait two hours for a three hour flight into humid heat, but if I’d had to take the bus…please. I wish this was taking place somewhere else. Canada, Seattle, anywhere but Orlando. In August. At least it’s a resort hotel, but still. I have some dignity. I hate wearing shorts. Well, I don’t hate it, my legs are nice, but they’d be nicer still if I was a girl, probably (most likely) let’s leave it at that and let my ego have a bite to eat just once this week.

I’m not going to pay the massive WiFi bill here at the airport, so once this is posted it will have long have transpired (the content of this missive, that is). I’ll probably be lying in my freezing hotel room with either CNN or the Golden Girls on when I post. What fun that future self is having! Envy him, not me, the schlub in the terminal (gate C 36). It’s funny how young and tall some people can be. I just saw one. So young, so tall. What a life. I’ll never know any of it now. Well, end of part one. Look forward to what Mr. Part 2 is able to contribute.

Tryst.

This may be the most important video at the moment. It says so many things. If you make it to the guitar solos then you understand what I'm saying. We're connected.

When being wet is the last resort.

I think there’s an expectation you have with prog rock that the music you’re listening to comes from a tight group of guys with long hair and weeks of stubble growing on their chins, working hard, sweating and lighting up in a studio to produce a transaction between the psyche of the band and the listener. That’s a given. So when the new Muse record is played through you can’t help but be amazed by how earnestly, truthfully, and of course, spectacularly (!) gay an experience it is!

This is my first experience traversing through what can only be described as “Camp Space-Rock.” Love child of Barbarella, YES, ELP, Hawkwind and just about a gallon of pretension, and they somehow become the hairdresser’s version of Pink Floyd.

This is of course delightful.

Other avenues of though? Not many functioning today. The heat’s too high, the sun too bright, and most of the day spent working towards going home, which will not be that much fun due to the furnace like qualities of the apartment.

I feel clinically depressed, which is good for me as I work in a cubicle landscape with no lab coats in sight. It’s almost as if my emotions have no bearing whatsoever on my life or the lives of others. No wonder people think I’m a soulless zombie…it’s quite true.

If I’m around a conversation between a group of people (that means I’m not the focus of the conversation if you’re bothering to follow this) and you notice I’m not talking this is why: I’m imagining what you would look like dead after a car hit you. This is also quite true. Another example: when I go to bars I imagine the look on people’s faces if someone were to suddenly pull a gun on them. I want to know what their mouths would do. How fast would the react? Do they ever consider the possibility that someone could become really unhinged and do that? How thin is this transparent line between the crime and dream of the crime? Andrew Cunanan was possibly obsessed with this idea.

In a typical fashion I’m hiding from reality, so nothing cold can touch the last spark that burns.

I can’t be chastised for the awful things I think.

Sitting down at this late hour in the work day (just under 27 minutes before I go home) I’m trying to think of what I want to write about. This isn’t one of those journalistic clichés where the writer then muses on some ordinary event and suddenly, triumphantly, pulls out some meditation on life that you obviously expect and enjoy otherwise why would anyone print that garbage? Anyway, I’m not trying to muse on anything; I’m just applying the filter so I don’t inadvertently spill any of the truly good details out here. Muse on that.

In non-chronological ordering, then. Yesterday I spent one of the hottest days on earth skulking around the North End of Boston. It was apparently the Feast of the Madonna (and not, as I had hoped might be the case, a cause for some Gay Italian group to pose a counter-festival like the Feats of Madonna), but this was quickly and obviously subsumed by the Feast of World Cup Football Playoffs or whatever they were by Italy and France. The Italian fans outnumbered the French fans at City Hall Plaza by about 5,500 to one. I haven’t seen that much meat since the last time I checked out the dry cure room at Whole Foods. Ba-da-bing!

On with that festive note (I can only sing in a rather limited register), I haven’t been that hot all summer. Something about the mixture of concrete and brick at the plaza seems to create a breeze vortex, and where it was mildly unbearable just a few feet away, suddenly you’re walking across the surface of the sun while trying to avoid the noxious smell of unwashed armpits and beer bellies hungry for more beer, sausage, and goals. Goals! I don’t know how many there were. I didn’t care. I wasn’t there for the majesty of football, I didn’t show up for the mist tent, and I certainly don’t care to be surrounded by so many Italians! What was my point? I’m just in it for the put-downs. I’m not really interested in providing any content.

Well, I don’t have a sophisticated philosophy upon which to draw platitudes and observations that would make women with appliqué sweaters swoon, so I’ll just end it here. If one of these women happens to read some of these neatly typed lines and would like to issue some sort of reprimand to me for dragging them into this nonexistent fray, well, you just go ahead, dear, it won’t make a bit of difference, but I will sure love reading some of your homespun ridicule.

Tying knots in the stomach of teenage lovers everywhere.

No, I have not updated in ages, but Time marches forward and I’m stuck on the soft leather of her heels. I feel as though I’ve been keeping a low profile, but this does seem to indicate that there is something out there desperate to get through to me and that’s just not the case. In a world full of political intrigue and high stakes games of war and famine, I haven’t even had the energy to go out for breakfast and have some pancakes.

Between strip clubs and the google-eyed monster of strip poker MC’d by an un-disguised cohort sans the usual mascara, Pride parades and Pride debauchery, leather bars and more hamburgers than I’d care to remember, somehow, for some reason, the summer has settled its choke upon me. No, I have not yet seen Superman’s returning bulge, or Streep’s spin as fashion Gestapo, or even heard Owen Wilson dubbing an animated car with a slightly out-of-alignment front bumper. So in some sense, the summer has yet to truly foist itself upon me, but that yoke is going to tighten, I just know it.

My birthday came and went with such little fanfare I feel as though it didn’t happen, so score one for me, I’m going to be younger than I should for at least another 11 months. There was something primal about spending so much time on my own that weekend, if by primal I can include hours of Stargate SG-1 (Season 7), watching the 24 hour Superman: the Animated Series marathon on Boomerang, and walking in the rain to get iced coffee form Dunkin Donuts, then by all means, call me Mr. Primitive.

There really isn’t much else for me to say, as this isn’t much of a platform for any thoughts I have. I can’t really be bothered trying to telegraph them to you, anyway. I wrote a letter last week in support of some legislation I know nothing about. I was asked to do this for certain reasons that obliged me to comply. I tried to interpret the undertaking and relate it back to myself, but the information I was provided was so thin I really couldn’t, and really couldn’t be bothered. Still, I wrote the letter, attempting to infuse it with a personal sense of expression such that the recipient(s) (were there any?) might feel that the missive originated from at least, by most accounts, a real person. Did I succeed? I have no idea. I am of the opinion that the actions I was asked to support were already accepted and in the pipeline of execution, that this was all just a formality, such is the true nature of politics and civic reality, but I still wonder who read it and if they even cared a little. I mean, I know I didn’t.

Once again I find myself several paragraphs deeper on the page than I had intended. There are few things in life that once removed I actually miss. But there are some. Then there are those things that have been so long gone I rarely think of them unless some odd phrase or visual induces a wavy lined flashback. At those moments I suddenly feel transported and transmuted into whatever mindset I was experiencing at the time. I do like to remember that I once knew less than I do now. At those times there’s a sense of panic, and then abandon. I don’t hang on to tokens of the past, or at least the things I hang on to are not for sentimental reasons. But there are moments, incidents of personal weakness, when a sense of nostalgia for my own history can be rather overwhelming. If nothing else, at the very least the story of my life has kept me somewhat engaged. You may not find it a riveting page turner, but in the end, it’s the only book I’ve got. And yes, I have tried to exchange it for an erotic anthology but the clerk at Border’s was less than accommodating.

Queensbury Rules? Put 'em up, then.

Joining the ranks of the Vestibule Virgins? I thought not. A lie predicated on truth is merely a half-truth. The vast wastes of space between your thighs…are merely vast wastes of space. I haven’t had much to say on here in some time. This is not to say that I have been devoid of any actual words or thoughts to convey, but I have seriously overestimated your ability to understand even half of them. So, in an earnest interest to keep your lovingly simple minds at bay, I have continued to allow the white noise of non-updates soothe and regress you back to a simpler time. Say, last Wednesday. Of particular note, I am working on a short piece that I will soon present here. I will then, at some point, at some discretion, based on my understanding of things only I can comprehend, steer this space into that space, that space being the space I believe this space to be heading towards. That said, done, and finalized, I will herewith make this update. Of interest to no one is my soon-to-be new job. July oneth, I will start with new title in hand, new responsibilities on paper, and new amounts of money in bank. If. If, and only if, everything proceeds well enough, though it already ceeds itself somewhat. I hope not to concede this, and I rather expect not to. Oh, Boredom. Oh, many armed goddess of Boredom. Why do you spin in circles that envelop enough dust to choke a field mouse? I ask not because I care, but because I know someone who cares less than I.

Nothing funny, just work and not interesting work, just work-work.

Performance review time is back again, patiently waiting for me to somehow cram all of the things I do into a few simple paragraphs and content-constructs that will enable HR to seamlessly upgrade my position and create for me a higher earning potential. That’s my boss’s plan, anyway. I’m going away in less than a week but I haven’t really had a chance to think about that. I suppose that’s a good thing as it will allow the experience to have a somewhat alien quality about it, though I feel this is something that would have a happened naturally enough, anyway. Besides, I have my own particular way of looking at things that tend to make them unique enough in my own right. Still, there’s no accounting for planning, and there’s no taste like a new one. My phone rings non-stop at work now. People calling and asking me the same questions every day. It’s almost fun, but so much rides on giving them the correct answer, it can drive you crazy. I have to present a confidence about my replies that leaves no doubt as to the veracity of my response, but this is a game where the rules keep shifting and what seems concrete this week may be redirected and turned to mud next. Anyway, this is reason enough that I need a big pay raise and new job title. I need to be on a more equal footing with the people I’m helping. I mean, that just makes sense. I’m also at the compliment-saturation point here. Right now people say so many good things about me it must be getting annoying to them. It’s also a fairly good rule that you can only inflate for so long before you pop, but since my compensation is lagging behind my contribution to this overall system I think I have a bit of a pressure-release valve going for me. I’m not complaining, though, I know plenty enough people who have jobs they hate or can’t find any sort of inroad to a good career, so I’m not going to bitch about it. But I will continue to navigate a path that leads to a decent pay day and a decent working environment. I’m half-way there, I just need to make it home. A couple of people have already come to me for some advice about how to phrase their own performance reviews. Given the number of resumes, cover letters, and interviewing assistance I’ve given I still can’t figure out how that would be a job I’m good at. I can’t imagine liking doing that. Too much face time with people trying to pull out of their own minds the skills they possess. It’s the same reason I would never have gone into therapy-based psychology: I don’t really care all that much about the outcome; I’m far more interested in the process. I’m pretty sure that my burn-out time would have been about one year. I’m still craving a Cuban Cosmo. That was one of the best drinks I’ve had in a long time. I’d have two right now if I could.

We who are so small count on our stature least of all.

The relative insanity of a Monday morning has been dissipated by a delightful early breakfast. Even two hind-numbing hours of meetings couldn’t get rid of the power from three cups of coffee. In the last couple of weeks the craziness of work has increased, or at least the part of ‘work’ that I’m responsible for. Thankfully I enjoy being in the position of ordering my betters around, so no harm done there. I’m tricking on Hammerfall’s most recent disc, Chapter V: Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken. For Swedish-Battle Metal it’s very good. It’s very good for any Battle Metal. Joacim Cans vocals are distinctive, even while reminding me of Ralf Scheepers and Harry Conklin. Some Jon Schaffer as well, I suppose. I was having some fun making Mandelbrot sets the other day, but that fun sort of flitted away after about 30 minutes. Who’d have figured? Then I spent the week divesting thought and extrapolation to mereological ontological arguments, purely as a frame of reference for the weekend. I had to ease my way into BSG season 2.0. It rocked, by the by. I have to admit I was disappointed about the collapse of the Dubai port deal, as I fully expected that it would open up the possibility of vacationing there sometime in the near future. It’s like the future in Dubai. The real future people always talk about. Oh well.

Repeat this.

Blogging about nothing because there is nothing to blog about. Welcome to the sentential hell of Friday, 3 PM. I’m definitely suffering from television-commercial induced Restless Leg Syndrome this afternoon. I can’t stop my legs from jiggling around, willing my brain to decide it’s time to just leave. But this isn’t going to happen. I can’t get anything done. Problems loom on the horizon, but the people I need to rectify these situations are out until Monday. All I can do is wait. I think that I’m currently at the legal limit for slouching in your chair as you type. I’m almost horizontal. All I need is a foot rest. My desktop is awash in cables and wires. I have a satellite receiver pointing at the window, more adapters than Altoids, two different types and brands of MP3 players, micro printers, and both my monitors are now set up to give me a headache because they seem to contradict each other. I ran an audit yesterday afternoon, and it was so long I decided, in fairness to the trees, to use the duplex printer and get it printed on two sides of the page. No one here does that. I’m just a saint. I think this day is going to devolve into an afternoon of trying to beat my personal best at Tetris. Is this movie Ultraviolet going to be any good? I can’t imagine a PG-13 film aimed at young boys who can’t see naked breasts being the most critical film of the year, but I need some distraction from the low-tech reality we still are suffering to live in. I feel so slow and sped up at the same time. Could this be why I keep having awful dreams? No, I think that’s all the American Idol I’ve been watching. I might dig out Star Wars: Bounty Hunter and play it tonight. Maybe pretending I’m Jango Fett will lift my zany sprits. They’re supposed to cut the power tomorrow night at 8 PM. That’s 8 on a Saturday night. For some sort of maintenance. How about Sunday at 3 AM? That would make my life easier. Thankfully the WB isn’t running a new Smallville this week. You know, I don’t think we’ve seen Tom Welling’s ass even once this season. Time for a rethink on the story arc, I believe. I have two books in my bag, and about 12 on my Palm, so I should try and do some reading this weekend. One of the tasks I need to start thinking about is doing something with the bookshelves sagging under the weight of books in my apartment. I should probably start by figuring out the never-read ones so I have something to look forward to. My brain is literally shutting down sector by sector. This must be how Neal Peart gets lyric ideas.

When there's nothing to say, sing.

The Trip Planning Committee has expanded the number of our party to five. That’s right: we’re a resurrected Fox young adult soap from the 90’s. Much drama will ensue, we’ll have some revelations, a lot of laughing and realizing that we really, really need each other, and then there will come the moment when we have to pack it all up and leave, realizing that each moment in life is fleeting and we must take it all for what it is. Next, look for me in a horror movie franchise! Ok, geek time. For those so disinclined, be blind. I awoke on Saturday at about 6:30 am, and started watching some Battlestar Galactica episodes, eight of them. This still allowed us to get the day going before noon, so win-win. A.A. was coming down to visit, which was fun, but the whole day had been so draining (there was some actual going out that did happen) and so much drinking that we never made it outside that night. No big loss, though we also didn’t get around to watching “Deep Throat,” the Linda Lovelace classic UglyAgnes won during Sex Toy Bingo last week. There’s always tomorrow. I feel like I missed an opportunity to buy a lot of 60’s pulp sci-fi while we were in North Addams as there was a good used bookstore tucked away out there, but I didn’t feel like shopping. Now I’m reviewing a list of reviews and finding a few good books I’d like to read. I should probably find a library that’s falling apart with a good paperback selection of books from the mid-60’s through the early 80’s, which is the beset period of time to find a decent pulp fiction book with a good piece of cover art. I feel like the quality of the artwork is directly correlated to my eventual enjoyment of the book. I’m not ready for what the week will bring, so I’m going to hide behind the veil of superiority that protects me from the thin nerve sheath of reality. The wolves of daring, the paucity of decency, and the froth of a bad coffee drinks: I feel like sleeping.

The long walk that leads to a slow sleep.

After a four day weekend I’m extremely tired. Mostly because I have to be sitting here at work, all the while wondering what the next weekend will bring. We made it to Mass MOCA where I took a number of pictures, but haven’t gotten around to uploading, so they sit sadly on my desktop at home. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get it together. I wrote two demo tracks yesterday. UglyAgnes even helped provide me with a distinctive vocal sample that I promptly morphed into something else. It’s my art after all. She did say the second one sounded like music for a car commercial. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a free SUV. I put up samples on my music page. Anyway, it was good to get back to music editing; I forget how engrossing such a task can be, even if my setup is less than comfortable and induces spasms in my lower back. It looks like the snow will melt away by the middle of the week. Perhaps we’ll be able to walk barefoot again, as I love to do. I also love to chew some barley. And talk to strangers.

If you put your hand..there, I swear you won't regret it.

I don’t really come here to say anything spectacular. Is that an obvious statement, or do you feel it saved you digging through the mire and saved you some time? The weather was nice enough this weekend to spend an enjoyable amount of time traipsing through the Swan Point Cemetery. UglyAgnes thinks it’s funny to try and break into crypts. She thinks there will be dead bodies lying in wait for her. She’s a vampire. Of fun! We watched “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo” and it was 100% better than I thought it would be, a point not hard to believe given I felt it would have been the worst comedy I’d seen since “Puddle Jumpers” (which in itself wasn’t that bad, just not that good). Anyway, Deuce was 50 times better than the Dukes of Hazard movie. That was awful. There were a few funny moments, but for a movie based on a lame tv show, even I felt it was too crude. I’d rather see a crude movie divorced of any ties to something usually slated as family entertainment. The translation doesn’t work. I also watched a French film that tried to blend too many film making techniques together. Some of it really worked, reinventing a future a-la Blade Runner that made me excited, but the other parts dipped into the low budget end of effects making, drawing away from the overall initial excitement I felt about watching it. I hope this guy makes another movie that ditches the mistakes, because the parts that worked were stunning. We went to the Purgatory Chasm, but I wouldn’t go in it because it was covered in snow, ice and slush and I was wearing pants I wear to work and didn’t feel like getting them ruined. I’ll return when it’s not so covered in snow and the sign next to it doesn’t say ‘closed.’ We saw “Hostel” a week or so ago. It was really great. A lot of T&A I had to sit through, but I think it was overkill in order to be funny, and most likely to entice underage viewers. I mean, I think that’s ok. Fifteen year old boys like that kind of thing. It didn’t hurt me, I turned out pretty messed up, and that’s the norm. I think I’ve put about 15 novels on my Palm, and a bunch of WSJ, Newsweek articles. Good for those moments waiting at the Lincoln Marshall’s while someone is trying on jeans. Also loaded Tetris on it, as every single piece of electronic equipment I have that is capable of playing a port of this game has it on there. I’d put it on my flesh if it was animated. I have a long meeting to go to today so I can’t really get it together to start working on anything in particular. That’s why I’m here. If you wanted to know how you look today, my answer is simple: awful.

Before the boring recap of my breakfast, this.

From beyond the great void, I return. The weekend blew up in a rather quick way, but there weren’t that many details so it will be easy to recap the whole thing. Friday I nerved through the award ceremony where I got my hands on my prize check. Is it wrong to keep your eyes on the prize? I don’t think so, especially given my lack of enthusiasm when thrust into a crowded situation like that, people breathing down your neck and watching you. And it’s not your performance, so it makes a difference. Give me half a second to bomb with my own material, fine, someone else’s’, I’m not having it. Went out for a few drinks after that which was fun. Saturday was prep time for the party that night. Not that I had much to prep except the music play list, so obviously that was easy. I can mix for a wide range of people while still slipping in the odd track here and there that hits my sweet spot. Did anyone notice the flaming audio of King Diamond belting out “Abigail?” I hope so. Besides that early Black Metal classic, there was the morose cover of “Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)” by Erasure. Truly, something for everyone. Anyway, the party was great. The theme was “Appreciate the Penguins” featuring fancy dress, and fancy drinks. The dress was slightly less than fancy, and the fancy drinks were condensed down to two main factions: an amazing, dazzling, stupendous punch that blew your mind to smithereens and then several bottles of champagne. There may have been more, but this is what counted, what I’m going to remember, and therefore all that matters. I had at least nine cups of punch. My brain was like a wet brick looking at it’s mortar sliding down the street in the rain. Great stuff. Sunday’s brunch was another highlight only because I’d been looking forward to it since Friday. Along the way I managed to watch a few movies, but I don’t feel like listing them. The up shot of everything was deciding to get my new Palm Pilot. I’m several layers of happy with this. Wi Fi, video playback, fits in my pocket. Lengths ahead of the older one.

Wet wire ware.

Well, I might as well put to rest my database concerns: I have finished it. The barcode scanner works as I planned it to, the reset commands work, the forms look pretty, the reports are completed. It’s all done, and just in time for my award (which may or may not have had something to do with this project to begin with). Anyway, I just felt as though this labour should be commented upon since I did put it in my last post. Not that it was ever about the excitement, anyway. Just so you don’t think I’m toiling away with no goals now, I’ve come up with some new projects to throw myself into. For a three-day weekend I can be proud in saying I remember very little of it. I know I did a few things, but none of them took off like a rocket, so nothing burned itself onto my memory to celebrate in daydream fantasies. I have a number of good things coming up, but I don’t feel like revealing what they are right now, so I’m just going to number them like this: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. I might be pushing it a little on 6, but I’m going to include it on my list of good things for now. If it later reveals itself to be disappointment, well, you’ll never know, will you? If you’re in to this sort of thing, you’ll also be terribly excited that this week brings the airing of the 100th episode of “Smallville.” According to series star Tom Welling, this is the episode where the show takes a dramatic turn towards the future. It’s apparently, again according to Tom Welling, the point in the whole timeline fans have been waiting for. Some main character is going to die. No one knew who until they got the script. You can’t beat entertainment like that. I know I’ll be tuning in. Around here they’ve switched the broadcast night to Saturday’s so we can see “Beauty and the Geek 2” on Thursdays. Yes, it’s true, one lame show is trumped by an even lamer one. I wish Tom Welling would come and do a press conference about my life and get everyone really excited about it. Well, everyone in the boxedrobot fan community anyway. If anyone would like to contribute some slash about me to this site, please feel free and I’ll post it. Not even the best, I will post the worst as well. I’m not going to be discriminating. If you would like me to write some disturbing fiction starring you, please let me know as I’m only too willing to be mean to you in print.

Eat your heart out, then petits four for desert?

Nothing you can imagine worth writing about at the moment. I’m working on my library database again this week, after ignoring it for a month. I cleaned up the user-forms, made them look pretty. I fixed/figured out the way to quickly use my scanner to look up titles in the library and filter them. Now I just need to figure out how to spool those results into a new sub-form, record activity on it, and then receive things back, closing out the sub-form. I managed to lock myself out of the database by deleting a series of command buttons I thought weren’t being used, but they were still being called in the opening of the database, so I had to blindly edit the Visual Basic code and hope I did the right thing…and I did. I managed to change the number of buttons the program looks for on start up, but I didn’t actually fix it so I’ll have to readdress that at some point, just so all my code doesn’t look like crap. Anyway, back to the trivial drivel that makes up the majority of my waking life. This weekend I had some fun back up in Salem, MA. At the disquietingly busy North Shore Mall (Shopping Centre?) I was able to purchase the gayest of necessities, body lotion. From C.O. Bigelow, I acquired a pot of "breathe delight" deep nourishment body cream uplifting tamarind nectar. It smells so wonderful; I’m only using it as a hand lotion at work. It makes my day slightly more delightful. So, working in conjunction with my iced coffee, it really is a treat. So, lots and lots of activity approaching. Not a lot of definite dates and such, but things broiling and the like. I only hope the next ice age doesn’t drop down upon us due to this frighteningly spring-like weather in the midst of January. I couldn’t swear by it, but I feel as though at this time last year it was somewhat colder by about 20 degrees, and we were buried in near perpetual snow. Perhaps I’m wrong. I don’t care. I have an award ceremony coming up which I’m not looking all that forward too. Being spotlighted for something other than an actual artistic contribution really makes me uncomfortable. I prefer the performance spotlight, where I can shed my inhibitions, anything else is like torture. Besides, you have to be nice, which you don’t in performance, and everyone knows I’m not nice.

You may touch, but please, wash first.

I’m pushing through the doors of the new year. Someone else is pushing out, but I won’t let that stand in my way. Where do the doors lead? Back to work, of course. It’s been a non-stop gang bang since I returned on Monday. Everyone’s in a rush to get this big piece of work completed, and I’m caught in the cross fire. It’s not bad because the week has gone by faster than my week off. There’s much afoot around here. I’m lucky to be at my desk for an hour before I have to go off and do something. I’m overwhelmed, so I hope they’re getting me an android underling. I’ve enjoyed a number of days of good cinema over the last few weeks. I haven’t gotten much of anything done, as in the sense of things that need to be done, so I suppose I’ll have a crack at that now I’m back to work. I have recurrent flashbacks of my trip to Chicago, specifically the image of Sonya’s finger waves. Sonya, I had no idea you’d have such an impact on me. My visual hallucinations (or perhaps day dreams as I stare out the office window) focus on that head you were working on. I wonder what became of him? This is not to say the time I spent with Sean was any less memorable (and, yes, for clarification it did begin to feel like the start of an illicit spring-time affair, which was made all the more confusing by the bitter sting of wintery weather…now we’ll never know what might have been, especially as Sonya wasn’t going to let go of her man no matter how many martini’s I poured down her throat). Where was I? I’m totally of my track, but I just felt like rambling. Oh, was this about a three-way with them? I don’t even remember now! I shouldn’t even begin to mention the amount of television I subjected myself to over the last few days, but I’ll give you a peek. I used the useful function of the DVR to record about 20 episodes of Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I’ve watched them all. I’ve had TWO dreams featuring Mr. Vincent D’Onofrio as his amiable character, Det. Bobby Goren. His investigatory skills were put to good use in order to solve the mystery of the Latin etymology of a particular horticultural menace, I kid you not. This was my DREAM. Somewhere, deep inside of me, lives a little old lady mystery writer trapped in a thatch roof cottage in the Cotswolds. Beee-Itch. It may not be of particular interest, and certainly provides no relevant insight, but I seem to have fewer pairs (even though they don’t come in two’s) of underwear than I thought. They seem to disappear, though they aren’t of the collectable variety. Only the newer ones, however. The older ones, they hang around forever. Which is good news, I suppose, because, if not, I’d be bare. I’ve rambled here, there and everywhere and said a lot of nothing amounting to less than, even, so here shall I stop. On a scale of one to one hundred million, three hundred and fifty thousand, and two, I would say my personal outlook has notched up about two points. That’s not so bad.