Yesterday, White House spokesperson Ari Fleischer announced, “the Iraqi regime is gone.” This could be the work of looters.
[ok, let's try that again]
Today, White House spokesperson Ari Fleischer announced, “the Iraqi regime is gone.” Fleischer, however, predicts the regime will not be gone for long and expects it to show up on ebay in the coming weeks.
[oh, forget it.]
Nothing quite reminds you of how terribly small our daily toils are as much as inter-office communications. Today, by the elevator banks, someone from the corporate cafeteria (sometimes known as lounge-a-terias) posted a sign heralded the cafeteria’s exciting new changes for spring. The sign was carefully composed, using the “May Flowers” template provided by Microsoft Publisher. Among the many changes employees of this company can look forward to in the next few weeks: new flavors of Baked Lays® Snack Chips. I can’t think of a more compelling argument for pursuing a career as a stunt cyclist or mob muscle. It’s nice to see what I would have missed had I accidentally died yesterday.
(p.s. the baked cool ranch doritos taste as expected, only less so.)
I am not sure how to say this without appearing extraordinarily morose, but this afternoon I actually thought to myself, “today is a good day to die.” Allow me to remove my black nail polish and eyeliner, and then I will offer a perfectly sane explanation from a well-adjusted, unmedicated man.
Expiring today would not be a desperate solution; just a practical one. I am neither terribly unhappy nor perfectly self-actualized. I have had some really lucky breaks. I’ve gotten to do certain things that have made me extremely happy, even if I haven’t done all of them. I’ve fallen in love more than once. I’ve had my heart squished more than once. I’ve had sex, seen mountains, deserts, lakes and oceans. I’ve eaten cactus. I’ve tasted snow and washed my face in a natural, fresh water pool more than two miles above sea level. I’ve been drunk, high, stupid, depressed, giddy, shocked, inspired, defeated, applauded. And I’ve touched an okapi. I’ve been to the prom, I’ve stolen a car, went to college, never looked back. I’ve seen art, made it, laughed at it. Saw nature bring half a forest down, and listened to the creak of maples splitting in two from the icy lip of one of Letchworth Park’s scenic views. I’ve made amends with my family. All in all, I’ve had a good run.
And, better still, are plenty of things I haven’t done, or left incomplete. Death takes the pressure off, doesn’t it? Some of my personal projects are half-finished. Others are only half-realized. Work is neither totally enriching nor unsatisfying. I’m not in love now. I don’t own anything significant or legally burdensome, like a home or even a car. I have cats, but many people love cats. Today, the loose ends are not a source of anxiety for me. They are a tiny legacy, and perhaps a bit of a mystery of potential energy. Langston Hughes wrote about the sad physical states of a dream deferred, but what about a dream denied? People forget, while some of them remember a little longer. Today, if I died, they’d sort it all out.
So, between this life and the one ahead of me – the one that still confounds me – maybe today would be a good day to die. I don’t wish it upon myself at all. I’m no longer the dramatic sort. I certainly would not lean into a deadly situation for a kiss. I wouldn’t die angry either. I wouldn’t miss the things I haven’t done, or the things I’ve done poorly. I wouldn’t even miss the things I’ve done well.
But I have family and friends with an astounding capacity for faith, and I would miss them. And I’m still very curious. So, maybe tomorrow would be more convenient.
At the video store, trying to decide between Black Orpheus and Black Caesar, I heard a loud exclamation from the “HORROR AND GHOULS”. It was a nine year-old girl, kneeling on the ground with a video box in her hand. She was shouting, “AWWWW RIGHT! ZOMBIES!!”
Little girl, if you were 15 – 22 years older I would make you my wife. (sadly, more like 11-18 years.) (even more sadly, more like 10 – 12 years.)
I am glad I attended “Entertaining the Young” last saturday afternoon. The show, which was hosted and produced by an acquaintance of mine, featured song and dance performances from entertainers who were all well into retirement age. There was hula dancing! And one of the most sincere, least hammy renditions of “On Broadway” I’ve ever heard. The performers were enthusiastic, easy with a compliment (a skill i do not share yet, in my unadvanced age), and adorable beyond reproach. I had the good sense to bring a camera, and I will send a few of the photographs to my mailing list later today.
I also took several pictures of the host, and found myself growing increasingly excited about the posture of stand-up comedy. There’s something very expressive about the body as it tries to squeeze laughter out of you, and everyone’s body does something entirely different to accomplish this. Patrick, who became the subject for the first series of photographs, has an extremely laconic style and his body language follows suit. (as does his actual suit.)
I saved a few of the comic images as a screen saver, which is viewable to anyone blessed with an Apple computer, an Internet connection, and Mac OS X. I’ve done this before, and the instructions are here. Here’s a sample from the series:
Last night I performed comedy in front of several attractive hipsters, all of whom I wanted to invite to a rollerskating party; some chubby kid who graduated from Starcraft Fleet Commander to Internet celebrity because he sang a horrible song about the superbowl and everything else being gay (watch your back, mahir!); and one crazy, drunk, loud, homeless war veteran who somehow managed to remain perfectly silent until about 45 seconds before I got onstage, and who threatened to upstage my pristinely crafted jokes by shitting his pants.
I actually taped my set, which is something I should get used to in order to remove the “um”s from my delivery, and I captured the many uncomfortably delightful exchanges between me and my new comedy buddy, Crazy Homeless Guy. Perhaps I’ll post the audio this weekend so you can see what you’re missing by not performing stand-up in front of cute twenty-somethings an dthe clinically insane.
(when Crazy Homeless Guy – who might actually have a home, for all i know – was ejected from the theater, right after my set thank you, he kept claiming that it was his right to make lots of noise because he was a u.s. marine. i kept thinking, i don’t care if he’s a marine. shit, i don’t care if he works at old navy. they’re supposed to teach you discipline and respect – and murder skills – in the military.)
My prediction for the number of record reviews that will paint The White Stripes’ (excellent, so excellent) new album “Elephant” as a departure from the band’s other releases by pointing out that the first track begins with a bass sound, only to later explain that this bass sound is in fact just Jack White picking his guitar through an octave pedal: ALL OF THEM.
Please remember the album was only officially released yesterday and I’ve already gathered the following pieces of hard evidence:
from Spike Magazine
“Elephant kickstarts with a pristine bass sound. “7 Nation Army”. The first single to be. Whatever you say, however you approach this, you don’t expect bass. The White Stripes are guitars and drums. Guitars and drums and occasional piano. They make a primal noise. That is what they do. The bass is just foolin’, though (it’s not bass at all – it’s just an effect – it’s just gee-tar)”
from Shake It Up
“A big statement is made right out of the starting gate as, yes, that’s a bass that we hear introducing Seven Nation Army before Jack’s now trademark slide style takes over.”
from Modernrock.com
“The first notes of the first “Elephant” track, “Seven Nation Army,” will tell fans that the two-piece band has altered its rule book. They are bass notes, the sound famously missing from most of the group’s previous work. The bass riff – actually Jack playing his guitar through a pitch-dropping device…”
from Totally Wired
“The best tracks by far are where the familiar guitar and drums formula is subverted; opener ‘Seven Nation Army’ is a bass-driven stormer.”
from Fake Jazz
“…on the album’s first single and leadoff track, “Seven Nation Army.” Using an octave pedal, Jack White turns his guitar into a bass to propel this foot-stomping Chuck Berry-style rocker.”
from the BBC
“…’Seven Nation Army’ – which finds Jack seeking a way out from international superstardom, helped by a driving pseudo bass and unforgiving guitars.”
from Rolling Stone
“There is, for starters, true bottom here, for the first time on a White Stripes record. Jack’s dancing-cobra bass line announces, then underpins, Elephant’s opening fight song, ‘Seven Nation Army.’”
from Other Music
“the production is not lushly over done nor is it the same old formula. For instance, the first track “Seven Nation Army” (an anthem of an opener — hooky, sexy, destined to be a single) starts with… a bass! Actually, it’s Jack playing guitar through an octave pedal.”
[Typically, Pitchfork Media is the exception to the rule because they are the only source of information more self-conscious than me. Also typically, their review totally overlooks this album's merits because that would confuse their always-contrarian agenda.]
Music journalism is the best! Glad you died and didn’t have to see any of this, Mr. Bangs.
My optometrist ruins everything. As a man who choose a strict, almost autistically obsessive code of economics over all else, dinner can often be a dicey proposition. When the subject of dining out is raised, he often responds by rattling off restaurants like this:
“What about the eight dollar chicken parm? Or 50 wings for $7.50? I haven’t had stomach cancer in a while. You pick!”
Quality takes a back seat with my optometrist. In fact, sometimes quality isn’t even invited along for the ride, and most of the time it’s just tied to the rear bumper and dragged along behind him at dangerous speeds. He has just enough patience for something – meat, fish, a candy bar – to be lowered into a vat of bubbling oil, and raised again 30 seconds later. I’ve seen him pick up the remains of a steak in his bare hands and chew on it all the way to the car because his attention span for sitting in one place had expired too quickly. And when my optometrist is finished, everyone is. I wish I could explain how this works, or why it’s impossible to fight, but that would be like trying to explain why lightning kills babies. It just does, so adjust. Stop buying aluminum strollers, and copper rattles. Taking all of this information into consideration, I should have known my optometrist would figure out some way to taint the single greatest joy my mouth has ever known: barbecue.
[Several months ago, I became apprised of a new storefront a few blocks from my apartment. The sign read, "BISCUIT," and I had a hunch that this would mean very good things. I grabbed a takeout menu and, upon scanning it briefly, nearly popped an audible boner right on Flatbush Avenue. Pulled pork. Double (yes double) fried chicken. Collards. Grits. Beans and rice. Bread pudding. Lemonade. The menu had the very rare whiff of authenticity, particularly their claim that, if requested far enough in advance, they will COOK AN ENTIRE HOG FOR YOU. (pig roast location pending, but you're all invited.) Before I even made it home I had my optometrist on the phone, as he is often my partner in artery-clogging meat. And I knew he'd love the menu because items were listed both by name and volume - 6 oz. pork vs. 11 oz. - and I knew my optometrist would appreciate spinning the mathematics of the arrangement. In that way, he was like a retarded child with a dreidel.]
I had gone weeks without pork. Weeks! And it was not self-imposed, like my caffiene strike, or beyond my control, like my pussy fast. I was just too busy to meditate on a plate of freshly slaughtered pig but I couldn’t think of a better partner to celebrate my return to hog than my optometrist, so I gave him a call. (this served a dual purpose for me. our friendship has fallen upon hard times recently and i’ve been off my optometrist even longer than i’ve been off espresso. we are making a comeback gingerly, slowly, and though we may never enjoy the same co-dependency we once did i thought this meal would be a good reunion for us. two old friends, putting aside their differences while tearing greedily at flesh on a bone.) He was game and within minutes we were seated at Biscuit, and giddy from the high levels of sodium we were anticipating in our bloodstreams. The waiter/owner dropped menus, and that’s where the trouble began.
My optometrist couldn’t overcome the low prices and his famous indecision, and insisted we order three entrees to split between the two of us. The suggestion was sort of reprehensible, and not just because our nation is being torn asunder by an overseas war. I knew he was ordering too much because he felt he could afford to waste leftover meat, and I knew that even if he’d ordered two additional entrees I would have found a way to eat it all, so great is my love for smoked meats. My self-control was being compromised while his tendencies toward low-budget conspicuous consumption were being teased and licked.
The food arrived and I ate more than I could manage. I stretched myself from the inside in order to struggle a few more pink-ringed bits of pig down my greedy throat. I ate until I absolutely hated myself, and then I ate several more bites. It was quite a scene at Biscuit. A small dining room full of oversized black men being out-gluttoned by a pair of reedy, bespectacled Jews. My optometrist upset the balance of good taste with an order that could have been prevented had he taken his ritalin today. Now, as a result of my over-indulgence I will probably never look at pork, and then run home and masturbate, again. Thanks a lot, my optometrist.
I co-authored this book, which Publishers Weekly called "a hilarious and addictive page-turner." If you'd like to call it things, too, you can buy it.
