Happy Holidaze

I don’t mean to point any fingers, but ever since the addition of a certain employee, rather odd accents of freedom have been sighted in the office.

The first being an American flag coffee mug, which wasn’t strange initially. But it started making rather bold appearances at the front of the cupboard at eye level. Then a calendar honoring our troops was hung above our copier. Again, not too strange…I’m all about protecting our freedom and all. But pictures of soldiers hugging small children before raiding their parents’ homes in Iraq? Hmmm.

So to demonstrate my freedom toward this individual, I plan on giving her a National Geographic magazine on Evolution for our company festivus celebration. While dropkicking a baby down the hall to exercise my freedom of choice. Glory to the Flying Spaghetti Monster on the highest.

On Synesthesia, Nabokov

On top of all this I present a fine case of colored hearing. Perhaps "hearing" is not quite accurate, since the color sensation seems to be produced by the very act of my orally forming a given letter...The long a of the English alphabet...has for me the tint of weathered wood, but a French a evokes polished ebony. This black group also includes hard g (vulcanized rubber) and r (a sooty rag being ripped). Oatmeal n, noodle-limp l and the ivory-backed hand mirror of o take care of the whites. I am puzzled by my French on which I see as the brimming tension-surface of alcohol in a small glass. Passing on to the blue group, there is steely x, thundercloud z, and huckleberry k...The confessions of a synesthete must sound tedious and pretentious to those who are protected from such leakings and drafts by more solid walls than mine are.

Speak, Memory. Nabokov, Vladimir.

My entire life I have read only one autobiography. Even with an English degree. Yet recently that's all I have read. Before you know it, I will have invested in a leather barcolounger to watch the History Channel all day.

Dear Readers

Like the millions of blog writers who post pathetic apologies for their lack of writing, I hereby give my half-assed attempt of an apology for not writing a more timely entry. My excuse is real life (I know! What a drag!). In the last month, I have been preoccupied by the non-Internet life of the following:

• Celebrating Toombsday’s birthday.
• Traveling to Portland, Oregon to plan my next phase for world domination. It involves mariachi music and dwarf waiters. You’re going to love it.
• Organizing piles of correspondence into origami kites and sailboats.
• Fulfilling every 12-year-old boy’s fantasy and dressing up as an X-Men character at the fantabulous 2006 Halloween extravaganza courtesy of Megatron.
• Oh, and it’s November. The busiest month in my line of work wherein the thin line between living in the moment and living on the edge is erased. So if it looks as if I might pierce your soul with an envelope opener, pay no heed and avert your eyes.

I could go further, but rest assured, half-assed attempts at writing will resume once life is normal and I complain about not having enough work to do. To my four readers, my sincere apologies. Here are some linky-links to stuff that makes me happy:

• This music video is beyond words. Combined mustachio and science fiction kung fu westerns? And a unicorn? It’s a trifecta of interestingness (via goldenfiddle).
• There are many reasons why I love Dave Eggers. But really, check out this nonprofit community writing center disguised as a store for superhero supplies. Fo real, is there any difference between a teacher/writer and a superhero? I think not.
• Does anyone get excited when reading Homer and think, Damn! With computer graphics this could be adapted into a film of magnificent proportions! Only to watch Troy and have your hopes dashed. But at least seeing Brad Pitt’s arse makes up for a lack of director’s imagination. Okay, maybe not. But I am understatedly excited about Frank Miller’s 300.

Smooches.

Leaving the Frady Hole

Illustration by Don Woods

Last night, I was revisited by that childhood anticipation of Santa Claus visiting for Christmas. Instead of sending him a letter with my wish list, I cast my ballot. Instead of watching the weather to check on Santa’s flight pattern across the nation*, I watched the incoming poll percentages. I went to bed last night thinking, it’s really going to happen. We’re going to take back the House, in childlike giddiness.

And then when I woke up. Instead of a carton of cigarettes and a Louis L’amour book underneath the tree, the Dems swept the House. To make matters even better, Donald Rumsfeld resigned. It was like getting everything I asked for only to have my rich, beautiful auntie visit for dinner and give me a Barbie Fashion Fever Grow N Style Styling Head. Jeezie Chreezie, can it get any better?

* For anyone who grew up in Green Country during the 1980s, the forecaster who did this the best was Don Woods with his illustrated character named Gusty. Gusty rocked the hizzie every night as Don would give the forecast while sketching this kickass little dude. So much cooler than the Doppler 6008 with 4D mapping systems.

Meh

Can't swallow or breathe. Only eating broth and crackers. I'm officially sick. And I'm totally blaming Christopher Columbus. You sneaky bastard. I never even saw you coming.

Well, it looks like it's me, DayQuil and the first season of Twin Peaks.

I walk the line

It’s Friday. A denim Friday, mind you. A rare occurrence in this office only granted to those who make charitable contributions to a national umbrella nonprofit. This reminds me of my brief attendance at a private school that gave “free dress day” to those who volunteered on a regular basis. Why should we have to coerce people to give back to society with incentives? Doesn’t this defy the intrinsic value of giving?

But this is beside the point. Because of my early introduction into the workplace, I only own two pairs of functioning jeans (gasp). I bought my second pair a couple of weekends ago at a department store, a place I hope to visit twice a year. I adore some of the new trends, i.e. the dark, skinny jeans, pea coats, and fabric headbands. I hold my breath when I walk by displays of leggings and short jackets. Why must we bring back the Blossom and the Debbie Gibson? Holy Jebus, I don’t want to be reminded of my awkward phase, my daily middle school battle with side ponytails and skyscraper bangs.

The skinny jean, though nice, is a stretch for me. My badonkadonk disagrees with the sizing. I look like a finalist for an “In Living Color” Fly Girl dance off. This is not right. While my arse was engaged in a battle with these jeans in the juniors’ dressing room, I overheard some sighs in the room next to me. A red-headed girl, probably 15 years old, was helping her friend pick out a new outfit. Said friend was wearing said skinny jeans, black high-tops intentionally untied, and layers of derelict candy coated in flannel. Her friend just nodded her head, “Man, Emily, you look so emo.”

tractus derelictus located here

Emo. Emo is a look? The music started in the mid 90s. By 2000, it was manufactured and shifted into mainstream music. Somehow, we’ve moved from Sunny Day Real Estate to My Chemical Romance in a span of ten years. And the kiddies are eating it up, metaphorically speaking. Because adults like me should not mix up emotion like excitement with their emotion that is apathy, a detached hipness and smug. It’s the same type of excitement I had when I latched on to Nirvana and Mudhoney, listening to Pearl Jam in the dark and relishing in every single lyric. How I could trace the lyrics to “Black” in the darkness on my bedroom wall that I wished was painted black but my parents just don’t understand motives such as this because they are against me and the world is against me. And Pearl Jam understands this. That type of excitement - the kind that wears Doc Martens and ripped jeans, which evidently is making a comeback.

I can’t hold that much against the whole emo resurgence. At least Nirvana’s Lovebuzz gets radio play now. When this album was released, all that was played on the radio was Michael Jackson’s “Black or White.” For this, my little emo kiddies, I thank you.

Related Links:

The Great Grunge Hoax: Wikipedia blurb about the Grunge Speak article featured in the NYT and debunked by Thomas Frank in "The Baffler." Another example of an adult's attempt at breaking youth's cultural code and its backfiring.

Also, I'm eagerly awaiting the release of American Hardcore. See this trailer now.

doo ba dee

About eight years ago, you would have found me in Mrs. Carroll’s computer lab playing You Don’t Know Jack with the dork squad during Friday afternoon pep rallies. It wasn’t that I lacked school spirit; it’s that my high school didn’t understand my particular flair for school spirit. My bathroom tissue throwing during the cheerleading squad’s Cotton Eyed Joe routine was quickly dampened (per se). For some reason, the GHS administration thought it was distasteful. But if you go to a Jenks Trojans rally, TP throwing is the bomb. It’s the pinnacle of school spirit. And they won football state championship like three hundred times in a row. So who wants to argue with that?

Somehow, Indianapolis has chipped through my icy shell that has despised, nay vomited on, football all these years. It might have something to do with the fact that this town is an island…an island with temperatures below freezing for about eight months of the year. The only way to survive on this island is with gas heating, fried cheese, cognac, and NFL football.

I scare myself with my newfound passion for football. Especially, when I start insulting a referee's mother during a ridiculous overlooked pass interference last weekend and led my section in booing him off the field at halftime. Shouldn’t I be at home reading Chomsky or Sontag? Yes, I should. But my real test is WWHSTD or What Would Hunter S. Thompson Do? And he would totally support this, so I don’t question it too much.

At press time on Monday, however, the refs were not the center of attention. Neither was the fact that Peyton ran his own second touchdown ever. Or the fact that Reggie Wayne’s brother was killed in a car accident over the weekend. No - the most important thing was every god-fearing football fan’s concern was Ice Cube’s “Go to Church.”

You see, most of our NFL players warm up to music that moves the spirit. And generally this music is hip hop, which occasionally has questionable lyrics filled with (shhh) curse words and sexual innuendos. So, when the dome played Ice Cube’s song, they replaced “motherfucker” with “mothermother.” But the audience, in their chastened state of upset, thought they heard the vulgar version. Granted, this is a family venue and they probably shouldn’t have played it all (and now won’t ever). If Peyton could play his own inspirational music, we would be subjected to Toby Keith and Faith Hill. So, let’s please not get all Tipper Gore by putting chastity belts on our ears, shall we?

To my horror, the one overlooked crime against humanity is credited to the new mascot, Blue. He’s innocent enough and entertaining. But his introduction music is Eiffel 65’s “I’m Blue,” a song that I sold to hundreds of acne pocked, brace wearing kids on NOW Hits Volume 423 in 2000. A song whose haunting refrain of “doo ba dee doo bad dah” echoed throughout thou hallowed walls of Barnes & Noble and still sends shivers along my spine...next to the Macarena. Do we really want to subject another generation of children to a “musical” group that looks like this:

I think not.