"Well, I certainly seem to have gotten myself into a pickle, here."
I actually said those words out loud this morning. In previous blog entries, I've mentioned that I'm a fat guy. In addition, I have a minor muscle disease - the specifics are irrelevant, but my muscles are about half as strong as those of a normal male of my age group. This is something that is, in general, not overly limiting, and I've learned to deal with it. But sometimes I just don't think ahead, and today, it bit me on the ass.
Being a fat guy, I have a fat guy office chair. I can use a standard office chair, but the fat guy chair is big and comfortable, with an extra wide seat, movable arm rests, and a tilting back that lets one assume a semi-reclining position. Semi-reclining. We're not talking La-Z-Boy here, this is just an office chair, not a place for lounging around. Of course, I routinely lean as far back as possible, just to think or to stretch out. No worries, though - it's a well-balanced chair, and is almost impossible to tip over.
So this morning, I was working on my book, having a little writer's block, unsurprisingly. I was having trouble figuring out how my Hero was supposed to retrieve the stolen documents from inside the zebra without killing it or its unborn calf, and I was at a complete impasse. I leaned back to ponder, and as I reached the usual reclining limit of the chair, I heard a loud "SNAP," tipped back about an additional foot, and stopped. I didn't go to the ground, but I was leaned way back, with my back almost perpendicular to the ground, legs at about head level.
This situation may not sound so bad, but considering my muscle strength, I knew I was fuuuuuuucked. I felt exactly like the proverbial turtle on its back. I was simply not strong enough in my legs or abdominals to right the chair. You know how you can start a swing in motion by moving your lower legs? No use in my case, there just wasn't enough space to generate any momentum. Mac was already on the way to work, so no help there. The cats were, of course, utterly indifferent.
"Well, I certainly seem to have gotten myself into a pickle, here." The thought crossed my mind that I might possibly be stuck for the day, until Mrs. A. came home. The only conceivable exit seemed to be rolling off the side of the chair onto the ground, but I was about three feet off the solid wood floor, and just knew I'd break every bone in my body if I tried. I couldn't see any option, though.
Slowly, slowly, I rolled to the side, and was able to maneuver my right hand into position to prop myself up a bit. So when I did fall off the chair, it wasn't a complete disaster - my arm protected my head, I banged my knee a little, had the wind knocked out of me. Nothing major, though. I'm just really fucking happy that I've been losing some of this fat - a hundred pounds ago, I don't know what I'd have done.
The last time I felt so helpless, I was about eight. I was climbing a tree with a V-shaped branching in the trunk, slipped, and wedged my knee into the V. I was alone and utterly terrified. I remember just wailing and wailing until my Mom heard. She had to call the Fire Department to get me out. Even they couldn't dislodge me. I almost passed out when I saw the chainsaw - I was 100% certain that they were going to cut off my leg, and I begged my Mom to not let it happen. I was 8, gimme a break, man.
Point is, I have an office chair for sale, cheap!
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
I Really, Really Hate Bugs
Sand fleas. We've got sand fleas. Or at least the cats do. I feel like I talk about the cats too much. But if every time I turn around, there's a hairball on the floor or an unwelcome anus in the face, there's only so much I can do. You have to write what you know, and right now, I know fleas.
There's only one possible place they could have come from - the beach a few blocks away. Y'see, I am an avowed sun-avoider. I love the light, and I love a nice Spring day, but I am white. Not quite Edgar Winter-level, but decidedly pale. I have burned on a cloudy day. But goddammit, it was Mackenzie's turn to pick the afternoon's activity, and she wanted to go to the beach. Not sure of her reasoning, as it's been colder than day-old piss around here, but at least it wasn't crowded. Much fun was had, and the day was soon forgotten.
Fast-forward about a month. The cats were miserable. As soon as I got paid, I took Trudy to the vet. Sand fleas was the verdict, and she even specifically asked if I had been to the beach lately. Grr...
I'm not really that mad. The medicine (Advantage II) prescribed was like some kind of Ebola for fleas - they appear to be gone, only a few days after treatment. And over the decade or so we've had them, the cats have cost us almost nothing other than food and litter. It's worth the companionship. Sometimes I'm stupid though, and I start to imagine that they think like I do.
About eight or so years ago, we lived in a house with lots of windows looking out on grass and trees and whatnot. The cats (we only had two of them at the time, I think, as I look back on it) loved sitting at the windows and talking to the birds. So I got the bright idea of taking them outside! I went out and bought them a couple of hot-pink mini harnesses and leashes. Nothing restrictive of the neck, of course. I had grand visions of walking them like dogs. Yes, this is the point in the story where the reader points and laughs at the moron. For me to have even considered such an idea seems impossible, in hindsight. You can see where this is going, I'm sure.
When the doctor finally took the stitches out, it was the happiest day of my life.
There's only one possible place they could have come from - the beach a few blocks away. Y'see, I am an avowed sun-avoider. I love the light, and I love a nice Spring day, but I am white. Not quite Edgar Winter-level, but decidedly pale. I have burned on a cloudy day. But goddammit, it was Mackenzie's turn to pick the afternoon's activity, and she wanted to go to the beach. Not sure of her reasoning, as it's been colder than day-old piss around here, but at least it wasn't crowded. Much fun was had, and the day was soon forgotten.
Fast-forward about a month. The cats were miserable. As soon as I got paid, I took Trudy to the vet. Sand fleas was the verdict, and she even specifically asked if I had been to the beach lately. Grr...
I'm not really that mad. The medicine (Advantage II) prescribed was like some kind of Ebola for fleas - they appear to be gone, only a few days after treatment. And over the decade or so we've had them, the cats have cost us almost nothing other than food and litter. It's worth the companionship. Sometimes I'm stupid though, and I start to imagine that they think like I do.
About eight or so years ago, we lived in a house with lots of windows looking out on grass and trees and whatnot. The cats (we only had two of them at the time, I think, as I look back on it) loved sitting at the windows and talking to the birds. So I got the bright idea of taking them outside! I went out and bought them a couple of hot-pink mini harnesses and leashes. Nothing restrictive of the neck, of course. I had grand visions of walking them like dogs. Yes, this is the point in the story where the reader points and laughs at the moron. For me to have even considered such an idea seems impossible, in hindsight. You can see where this is going, I'm sure.
When the doctor finally took the stitches out, it was the happiest day of my life.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Just One More Log on the Heart Attack Fire
You people probably think I complain an awful lot. I assure you, you have no idea. In real life, at least in the last couple of weeks, I've been nothing less than a whiny little snot, and it's starting to get annoying. To me, I mean - I'm sure that Mrs. Arone is long since past that stage.
When I'm watching TV, and an advertisement comes on, and the narrator blabs on about how his product is "the ultimate [whatever]," I inevitably say, "Uh-oh! It's the very last [whatever]!"
"Every time, Cheech? Every single time?", Mac asks me. "Yes. Every time." It's like a compulsion. At this point in the evolution of the English language, most people probably wouldn't even understand why this usage of "ultimate" bugs me. Hell, man, I barely even understand why - it's an utterly insignificant issue, by any measure of the word. Yet here I am, bitch bitch bitch.
Or the stop sign at the intersection. Our apartment overlooks a medium-busy residential intersection, controlled by four-way stop signs. I love looking out the window, just watching people go by. But I just can't help but monitor the traffic and comment incessantly about how nobody ever fricking stops at the stop signs, in any direction. In general, of course, it's a safe intersection. There are no line-of-sight impediments, so pedestrians and vehicles all have clear views, and I never see any near-misses. And 99.9% of the time, the cars come to an almost-stop, then continue through the intersection. And I'm about the farthest thing there is from a cop. But all I can do is bitch and moan, and have long, completely imaginary conversations with the drivers about what they think "STOP" means.
Or the bicyclers. Oh, those wacky bicyclers. It's great that they're doing what they're doing to keep themselves healthy, but I want to fucking stab them, all of them, right in the face. I don't mind sharing the road, and I don't have a problem keeping their presence in mind. But the number of bicyclers who seem to give not the tiniest little corn-kernel-sized shit about traffic laws must approach 95%. And I'm not even talking just about the bicyclers in my neighborhood, I mean everywhere. This is something I've observed since I first started driving, 22 years ago and 3000 miles away. Dammit, if I, as a 16-year-old taking Driver's Ed, had to learn how to make and recognize bikers' hand turn signals, why haven't I seen a bicycler make one, even ONE, since about 2008? Fuckers. To their credit, however, I must admit this : most of the time, they DON'T simply blast through the intersection at full speed, while not even bothering to acknowledge the other wheeled conveyances in the road. That only happens like seven out of 10 times.
When I'm watching TV, and an advertisement comes on, and the narrator blabs on about how his product is "the ultimate [whatever]," I inevitably say, "Uh-oh! It's the very last [whatever]!"
"Every time, Cheech? Every single time?", Mac asks me. "Yes. Every time." It's like a compulsion. At this point in the evolution of the English language, most people probably wouldn't even understand why this usage of "ultimate" bugs me. Hell, man, I barely even understand why - it's an utterly insignificant issue, by any measure of the word. Yet here I am, bitch bitch bitch.
Or the stop sign at the intersection. Our apartment overlooks a medium-busy residential intersection, controlled by four-way stop signs. I love looking out the window, just watching people go by. But I just can't help but monitor the traffic and comment incessantly about how nobody ever fricking stops at the stop signs, in any direction. In general, of course, it's a safe intersection. There are no line-of-sight impediments, so pedestrians and vehicles all have clear views, and I never see any near-misses. And 99.9% of the time, the cars come to an almost-stop, then continue through the intersection. And I'm about the farthest thing there is from a cop. But all I can do is bitch and moan, and have long, completely imaginary conversations with the drivers about what they think "STOP" means.
Or the bicyclers. Oh, those wacky bicyclers. It's great that they're doing what they're doing to keep themselves healthy, but I want to fucking stab them, all of them, right in the face. I don't mind sharing the road, and I don't have a problem keeping their presence in mind. But the number of bicyclers who seem to give not the tiniest little corn-kernel-sized shit about traffic laws must approach 95%. And I'm not even talking just about the bicyclers in my neighborhood, I mean everywhere. This is something I've observed since I first started driving, 22 years ago and 3000 miles away. Dammit, if I, as a 16-year-old taking Driver's Ed, had to learn how to make and recognize bikers' hand turn signals, why haven't I seen a bicycler make one, even ONE, since about 2008? Fuckers. To their credit, however, I must admit this : most of the time, they DON'T simply blast through the intersection at full speed, while not even bothering to acknowledge the other wheeled conveyances in the road. That only happens like seven out of 10 times.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Maniacs. They're all maniacs.
The Juventus guy is at it again. I call him that because his secondary vehicle is a white 1970s-vintage Econoline-style van upon which he's emblazoned about two dozen different decals and adornments boosting Juventus F.C., his favorite soccer team. An entire story in its own right, but that's just background info right now.
Today, he seems to have gone for a drive in his main vehicle, a late-70s Mercedes-Benz. It's nice. A perfectly fine vehicle. But he's kinda nuts about it. This morning, I've been watching him for about the last 9 minutes. He caught my eye as he pulled into the curb spot that's right outside my window, and right next to my computer screen. It appeared to be a normal park-job, perhaps not centered between the driveway entrances sunken into the curb on either end of the car, but reasonably close.
He got out, stepped back from the car six or seven feet, eyeballed it up, got back in, pulled forward six inches or so, and got out again. He was still not centered, but a few inches in the other direction. Mind you, he was still comfortably in the legal spot, just not centered.
He put one hand on his hip, and (apparently, as I saw this all from behind his body) the other on his chin. Clearly, this was a challenge. He got back in, backed up a few inches, and cut the engine. Perfectly centered, from my vantage point. He got out, backed away, and reassessed the sitch. Something was not right. He got back in the car and turned on the engine. For a minute or so, maybe only 30 seconds, he sat there, motionless as far as I could tell. There was some little activity, and the brake lights (or, the one that I could see) came on. The car sort of lurched a bit. No actual forward or backward progress, just a jolt.
He got out and walked around to the other side of the car, stepped up on the curb, and set himself up AGAIN in his thinking pose. He paced up and down the sidewalk three or four times, measuring it up. I fully expected to see him pull out a tape measure, but no. He made a circuit around the car and, apparently satisfied, went into his apartment building. Victory!
And what caused me to write this? The activity described above took place in about 8 minutes. Before the next minute ticked on my computer's clock display, he bolted from the building, got in the car, and drove off.
Today, he seems to have gone for a drive in his main vehicle, a late-70s Mercedes-Benz. It's nice. A perfectly fine vehicle. But he's kinda nuts about it. This morning, I've been watching him for about the last 9 minutes. He caught my eye as he pulled into the curb spot that's right outside my window, and right next to my computer screen. It appeared to be a normal park-job, perhaps not centered between the driveway entrances sunken into the curb on either end of the car, but reasonably close.
He got out, stepped back from the car six or seven feet, eyeballed it up, got back in, pulled forward six inches or so, and got out again. He was still not centered, but a few inches in the other direction. Mind you, he was still comfortably in the legal spot, just not centered.
He put one hand on his hip, and (apparently, as I saw this all from behind his body) the other on his chin. Clearly, this was a challenge. He got back in, backed up a few inches, and cut the engine. Perfectly centered, from my vantage point. He got out, backed away, and reassessed the sitch. Something was not right. He got back in the car and turned on the engine. For a minute or so, maybe only 30 seconds, he sat there, motionless as far as I could tell. There was some little activity, and the brake lights (or, the one that I could see) came on. The car sort of lurched a bit. No actual forward or backward progress, just a jolt.
He got out and walked around to the other side of the car, stepped up on the curb, and set himself up AGAIN in his thinking pose. He paced up and down the sidewalk three or four times, measuring it up. I fully expected to see him pull out a tape measure, but no. He made a circuit around the car and, apparently satisfied, went into his apartment building. Victory!
And what caused me to write this? The activity described above took place in about 8 minutes. Before the next minute ticked on my computer's clock display, he bolted from the building, got in the car, and drove off.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Everything I Own is Trying to Kill Me
As I type this, the room is filled with smoke. I have every window open, and the kitchen and living room fans are on, and it makes no difference. The cats have abandoned their usual raised perches, and have literally gone to ground, where the air is mostly clear.
I think I've figured out the problem. It started a couple of months ago. I started cooking much, much more often than I ever have in my life. I went from using the stove or oven maybe once or twice a month, to being the primary food preparer, using it at least once, and usually twice or more, daily. The second or third time I cooked something in the oven - likely bacon or chicken - there was a ton of smoke, even though the food wasn't burnt. I figured there was some kind of loose food item in the oven, burning up and making the smoke. Found nothing, and it kept happening intermittently. Long story a little shorter, I found that the baking pans I use to cook bacon suck balls, and when the temperature in the oven reaches about 350, they suddenly warp, causing a muffled "clang" sound, and apparently spraying grease all over the oven. So the NEXT time I cook something, I get the Towering Inferno. Good times.
I tend to lose socks. I wear them in the cold mornings, and they gradually work themselves off over the course of the afternoon. This often happens when I'm just lounging around, so they wind up under or behind the bed, or the couch, or whatever. I (or Mrs. Arone) collect them every week, but the number gets smaller, and I'm sure there's a huge sock nest somewhere in the apartment. So I'm short on socks, and Mackenzie brings me home a couple pair of new socks! "Sweet, thanks for thinking about me!" I put 'em on - they fit like a champ, which is actually rare, as I have one fat ankle (Long story. Trust me.) With my warm, comfy feet, I stand up to go into the other room, and immediately go completely ass-over-tits, as the socks fly out from under me as if made of inside-out banana peels. Turns out that the socks are coated with some kind of space-age sweat-repellent which also functions as a floor-repellent. They are nice and toasty, but to this day, when I wear them, I have to repeat the phase "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" in my head every time I try to step from the carpet to the wood floor.
The three cats seem to be in a competition to see which one of them can murder me first. A clear, empty room is still an obstacle course because of cats weaving between my legs as I walk, or plopping down in front of me as I'm about to step down right there, hands full of dishes, or leaving a nearly-invisible puddle of piss right on the edge of the carpet/floor border, so I step in it, go flying, and break a hip.
When I'm found dead in the middle of the room, with no clues as to the cause of my demise, IT WAS THE CATS. Disregard the suicide note, as I think I saw Trudy practicing her penmanship last week...
I think I've figured out the problem. It started a couple of months ago. I started cooking much, much more often than I ever have in my life. I went from using the stove or oven maybe once or twice a month, to being the primary food preparer, using it at least once, and usually twice or more, daily. The second or third time I cooked something in the oven - likely bacon or chicken - there was a ton of smoke, even though the food wasn't burnt. I figured there was some kind of loose food item in the oven, burning up and making the smoke. Found nothing, and it kept happening intermittently. Long story a little shorter, I found that the baking pans I use to cook bacon suck balls, and when the temperature in the oven reaches about 350, they suddenly warp, causing a muffled "clang" sound, and apparently spraying grease all over the oven. So the NEXT time I cook something, I get the Towering Inferno. Good times.
I tend to lose socks. I wear them in the cold mornings, and they gradually work themselves off over the course of the afternoon. This often happens when I'm just lounging around, so they wind up under or behind the bed, or the couch, or whatever. I (or Mrs. Arone) collect them every week, but the number gets smaller, and I'm sure there's a huge sock nest somewhere in the apartment. So I'm short on socks, and Mackenzie brings me home a couple pair of new socks! "Sweet, thanks for thinking about me!" I put 'em on - they fit like a champ, which is actually rare, as I have one fat ankle (Long story. Trust me.) With my warm, comfy feet, I stand up to go into the other room, and immediately go completely ass-over-tits, as the socks fly out from under me as if made of inside-out banana peels. Turns out that the socks are coated with some kind of space-age sweat-repellent which also functions as a floor-repellent. They are nice and toasty, but to this day, when I wear them, I have to repeat the phase "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" in my head every time I try to step from the carpet to the wood floor.
The three cats seem to be in a competition to see which one of them can murder me first. A clear, empty room is still an obstacle course because of cats weaving between my legs as I walk, or plopping down in front of me as I'm about to step down right there, hands full of dishes, or leaving a nearly-invisible puddle of piss right on the edge of the carpet/floor border, so I step in it, go flying, and break a hip.
When I'm found dead in the middle of the room, with no clues as to the cause of my demise, IT WAS THE CATS. Disregard the suicide note, as I think I saw Trudy practicing her penmanship last week...
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Want Some Cheese With That Whine?
As anyone familiar with this blog should already know, I'm usually not big on complaining over the internet. Ahem. But I'm having a hard time thinking of anything to write about. I know that I don't HAVE to write anything - I'm not on a deadline here, and nobody's lining up to pay for this stuff. And I also know that it's a common conceit for a writer to write about writing. But really, there's just nothing in my life worth writing about, so this is what it's come to.
I've been writing pretty much forever, and have never, until the last month or so, even attempted to write fiction. It's always been about my life, or my opinions, or my (puke) feelings. I recently went through a ton of old crap, and found the original copies of the dozen or so issues of the zines I used to hand-publish back in the Nineties. Such a massive volume of stuff, the equivalent of probably a couple hundred pages, and the majority of it is absolute crap, self-centered whining about how put-upon I, a white, middle-class male living with Mom and Dad in the suburbs, felt. I mean, I DID have a less-than-ideal childhood, but who the fuck didn't? Even rich kids suicide every so often, and I certainly wasn't THAT. It's just that 20 years of perspective makes me realize what a little shit I was.
My point was, It's just so hard to come up with a workable idea for a piece of fiction, at least for me. Right now, I've got approximately the first 6,000 words of a much longer, novel-length piece of fiction, and it's quite good, in the author's opinion, but it's really just a highly-fictionalized version of things I've experienced. It's just so much easier that way. I have no problem coming up with words that make sense, and which tell the story in a concise, entertaining manner, but first formulating that story is massively daunting. If I write about my life, well, I already know how the story goes, don't I? Makes it flow like milk instead of molasses.
I feel like a rip-off artist when I post an update here, and it's an album review or something like that. I don't even fucking like music, man, what the hell am I doing telling people what I think of it? Not that anything else I write has any intrinsic interest to anyone beyond my tiny circle of family and friends, but the music stuff must be on an entirely higher level of I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck for most people.
And even when I write something that is all about me, I still fight the idea block. If I spend an hour writing one of these things, you can bet you ass that 40 minutes of it was just me, staring at the screen, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, wondering what I've done to deserve such a fate. Then, if I'm lucky, something catches, and I can usually pound into submission fairly quickly.
I always seem to have trouble ending an entry, though. Thank god for YouTube.
I've been writing pretty much forever, and have never, until the last month or so, even attempted to write fiction. It's always been about my life, or my opinions, or my (puke) feelings. I recently went through a ton of old crap, and found the original copies of the dozen or so issues of the zines I used to hand-publish back in the Nineties. Such a massive volume of stuff, the equivalent of probably a couple hundred pages, and the majority of it is absolute crap, self-centered whining about how put-upon I, a white, middle-class male living with Mom and Dad in the suburbs, felt. I mean, I DID have a less-than-ideal childhood, but who the fuck didn't? Even rich kids suicide every so often, and I certainly wasn't THAT. It's just that 20 years of perspective makes me realize what a little shit I was.
My point was, It's just so hard to come up with a workable idea for a piece of fiction, at least for me. Right now, I've got approximately the first 6,000 words of a much longer, novel-length piece of fiction, and it's quite good, in the author's opinion, but it's really just a highly-fictionalized version of things I've experienced. It's just so much easier that way. I have no problem coming up with words that make sense, and which tell the story in a concise, entertaining manner, but first formulating that story is massively daunting. If I write about my life, well, I already know how the story goes, don't I? Makes it flow like milk instead of molasses.
I feel like a rip-off artist when I post an update here, and it's an album review or something like that. I don't even fucking like music, man, what the hell am I doing telling people what I think of it? Not that anything else I write has any intrinsic interest to anyone beyond my tiny circle of family and friends, but the music stuff must be on an entirely higher level of I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck for most people.
And even when I write something that is all about me, I still fight the idea block. If I spend an hour writing one of these things, you can bet you ass that 40 minutes of it was just me, staring at the screen, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, wondering what I've done to deserve such a fate. Then, if I'm lucky, something catches, and I can usually pound into submission fairly quickly.
I always seem to have trouble ending an entry, though. Thank god for YouTube.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
I Got Hit By a Car This Morning
I'm very tired of being a complete fat-ass, so I've been going for walks in the morning. Just walking around the block, or to the park and back, whatever keeps me moving and interested. I'm actually somewhat proud of my progress - since my first foray out of the realm of the sedentary, I've literally octupled the distance I can walk comfortably. I'd not go so far as to call it a "long walk," but definitely an accomplishment.
I have found myself rising very early these days anyway, regardless of when I go to sleep, but I particularly choose mornings for my exercise. I like the weather on the cool side, and a San Francisco morning can be, shall we say, a bit brisk at times. I like that there are not many people out and about, to see me huffing and puffing down the street, red-faced like some sort of ambulatory tomato. And I like that there aren't a lot of cars at that time of day. It's not a major issue, in general - more than half the time, my walk is simply a number of circuits around the block, so I don't even cross paths with cars in the roadway. But I do sometimes vary the route, to the park, as mentioned, or the 7-11 a few blocks over and down the hill.
This morning, I decided to not walk anywhere in particular, but to widen my "lap" - instead of going around the block four or five times, I'd circle two blocks, twice. A nice distance, and a view that, in the context of me being on foot, as opposed to driving, was new.
I had completed the first block of the trip. I was at a four way stop sign, and stopped to look. There was a car coming up behind me, maybe 50 feet down the street.
I started to cross, as I was the only thing actually at the intersection - no other pedestrians or cars. Luckily, I kept alert. The car behind me kept coming, and not slowing down, not slowing down. As I got to almost halfway across the street, I realized that he had ignored the stop sign, and I twisted my body out of the way. I saw him see me as his front fender just barely got my calf muscle. I went to the ground, and he immediately stopped and jumped out of the car.
"Where did you come from? Where did you come from? Oh my god, where did you come from?" As if I'd simply poofed into existence in his path. I shook my head a few times and gathered my thoughts. Did a quick inventory, and found all parts accounted for. I hefted my ass off the pavement and walked a few paces back and forth, just sort of making sure I was alive. Surprisingly, I had only a few choice words for the driver, nothing too outrageous. I was fine, and I think I might have been in shock or something. I mean, now, I can think of all kinds of ways the whole thing could've played out. At the time, though, I just shooed him away, cursed a little, said "Watch where you're going, asshole!", and went on my way.
Dammit, I should've at least flung some feces or something.
I have found myself rising very early these days anyway, regardless of when I go to sleep, but I particularly choose mornings for my exercise. I like the weather on the cool side, and a San Francisco morning can be, shall we say, a bit brisk at times. I like that there are not many people out and about, to see me huffing and puffing down the street, red-faced like some sort of ambulatory tomato. And I like that there aren't a lot of cars at that time of day. It's not a major issue, in general - more than half the time, my walk is simply a number of circuits around the block, so I don't even cross paths with cars in the roadway. But I do sometimes vary the route, to the park, as mentioned, or the 7-11 a few blocks over and down the hill.
This morning, I decided to not walk anywhere in particular, but to widen my "lap" - instead of going around the block four or five times, I'd circle two blocks, twice. A nice distance, and a view that, in the context of me being on foot, as opposed to driving, was new.
I had completed the first block of the trip. I was at a four way stop sign, and stopped to look. There was a car coming up behind me, maybe 50 feet down the street.
I started to cross, as I was the only thing actually at the intersection - no other pedestrians or cars. Luckily, I kept alert. The car behind me kept coming, and not slowing down, not slowing down. As I got to almost halfway across the street, I realized that he had ignored the stop sign, and I twisted my body out of the way. I saw him see me as his front fender just barely got my calf muscle. I went to the ground, and he immediately stopped and jumped out of the car.
"Where did you come from? Where did you come from? Oh my god, where did you come from?" As if I'd simply poofed into existence in his path. I shook my head a few times and gathered my thoughts. Did a quick inventory, and found all parts accounted for. I hefted my ass off the pavement and walked a few paces back and forth, just sort of making sure I was alive. Surprisingly, I had only a few choice words for the driver, nothing too outrageous. I was fine, and I think I might have been in shock or something. I mean, now, I can think of all kinds of ways the whole thing could've played out. At the time, though, I just shooed him away, cursed a little, said "Watch where you're going, asshole!", and went on my way.
Dammit, I should've at least flung some feces or something.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Despite All This, I'm Still a Filthy Bastard
The first baseball game that I ever went to was a Philadelphia Phillies game, some time around the end of the 1982 season. I'd have been just about to turn nine. I remember that it was freezing cold. It was a close and high-scoring game, possibly extra innings. It was the bottom of the ninth, and I have no idea of the exact score, but the bases were loaded, and Ozzie Virgil was at the plate. If he got a hit, or knocked in a run in some other way, Phillies win. It was a pennant race - I don't remember that part, but I looked it up. So big tension, lots of emotion. Everyone was on their feet, screaming "Ozzie! Ozzie!" And wouldn't you know it, he smacked it right into the stands, grand slam! I vividly remember the scoreboard flashing a crude animation of a sausage with the words "It's a Grand Salami!" The already-manic crowd erupted, my Dad and Grandfather were jumping up and down. Good times. The next day, or possibly later that night at home, I was excitedly recounting the game to friends of my Dad's. When I got to the end, I proudly said, "And Ozzie Virgin hit a grand salami!"
The room just about fell apart with laughter, of course. Someone said, "That's Ozzie VIRGIL. Virgil." For about 5 years, I never got what was so funny. Eventually, I learned what "virgin" meant, and sure, it was funny. But I was pissed off to be the butt of a joke that they wouldn't even explain to me.
It's evidence of my parents' weird aversion to even the slightest reference to anything sexual. They both curse like sailors, and have for as long as I can remember - fuck this, shit that, asshole the other, all day long. But never anything remotely sexual. My Mom was in the hospital overnight once, and I visited, of course. I remember a stereotypical Big Sassy Black Nurse being the primary caretaker while I was there. I must have been fooling around, because B.S.B.N. told me "You'd better behave, or I'll smack you right in the twat!" Now, by this time, I had been around the block. I'd cherrypicked all the sex books from the library, so I sure as hell knew that "twat" meant "vagina." I asked my Mom, "What does THAT mean?" She turned seventeen shades of red and said to my Dad, "Well, I'M sure not gonna tell him!" He just sat there, stupefied.
I later found out, somehow, that apparently sometimes "twat" means "behind." Less offensive than "ass," I guess? Who'd a-thunk it? If I hadn't looked it up, I'd still be wondering if I looked a little girlish that day.
And the time I kept shortening the word "pimple" to "pimp." I was about ten or eleven, I guess. Just having fun with words. Mom got all weird and said to stop saying that, but she would never tell me why.
I mentioned in a recent blog entry that she once kicked me out of the living room during the love scene in The Terminator. Well I sure wasn't exaggerating. It's a ridiculously violent movie, with, among other highlights, a dude getting punched right through the heart so the guys fist went through, and the heart was in his fist as it poked out of the other dude's back. Badass, right?! My mom must've thought so, because we sat through it. But the one brief sex scene, which,as I verified at a later date, contains a sad lack of penetration shots, was verboten, and she scuttled me off to the kitchen. "I don't want you to think love is like that," she said.
I still don't know what the fuck she meant.
The room just about fell apart with laughter, of course. Someone said, "That's Ozzie VIRGIL. Virgil." For about 5 years, I never got what was so funny. Eventually, I learned what "virgin" meant, and sure, it was funny. But I was pissed off to be the butt of a joke that they wouldn't even explain to me.
It's evidence of my parents' weird aversion to even the slightest reference to anything sexual. They both curse like sailors, and have for as long as I can remember - fuck this, shit that, asshole the other, all day long. But never anything remotely sexual. My Mom was in the hospital overnight once, and I visited, of course. I remember a stereotypical Big Sassy Black Nurse being the primary caretaker while I was there. I must have been fooling around, because B.S.B.N. told me "You'd better behave, or I'll smack you right in the twat!" Now, by this time, I had been around the block. I'd cherrypicked all the sex books from the library, so I sure as hell knew that "twat" meant "vagina." I asked my Mom, "What does THAT mean?" She turned seventeen shades of red and said to my Dad, "Well, I'M sure not gonna tell him!" He just sat there, stupefied.
I later found out, somehow, that apparently sometimes "twat" means "behind." Less offensive than "ass," I guess? Who'd a-thunk it? If I hadn't looked it up, I'd still be wondering if I looked a little girlish that day.
And the time I kept shortening the word "pimple" to "pimp." I was about ten or eleven, I guess. Just having fun with words. Mom got all weird and said to stop saying that, but she would never tell me why.
I mentioned in a recent blog entry that she once kicked me out of the living room during the love scene in The Terminator. Well I sure wasn't exaggerating. It's a ridiculously violent movie, with, among other highlights, a dude getting punched right through the heart so the guys fist went through, and the heart was in his fist as it poked out of the other dude's back. Badass, right?! My mom must've thought so, because we sat through it. But the one brief sex scene, which,as I verified at a later date, contains a sad lack of penetration shots, was verboten, and she scuttled me off to the kitchen. "I don't want you to think love is like that," she said.
I still don't know what the fuck she meant.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Just Waiting For that Knock on the Door...
I had a very, very bad dream this morning. At least I think, I assume that I did - I can't say I remember any specifics. The only thing I do remember is opening my eyes, propping my chest up on my elbows, and yelling "FUCK YOU!!" at the absolute, most eardrum-shattering top of my voice. I think Mac must have about shit the bed - when I came to my senses a few seconds later, she was recoiled as if from a giant praying mantis, eyes like saucers, saying, "Cheech? Sweetie? You there?" I grunted, "Guh," or some similarly witty rejoinder, blinked a few times, and the next thing I remember was waking up for real, a couple hours later.
It's not the first time that something like this has happened. A few years ago, I had a vaguely similar, though less-well-remembered incident, in which I sat up, slapped the wall HARD with a flat palm, and went right back to sleep. I can only imagine that the guy in the apartment across the hall, whose bedroom shares a wall with ours (I know it's his bedroom. Trust me.) must think I'm a wife beater. Thank god that Mrs. Arone is very good at keeping calm in these types of situations. One errant terrified scream, and I'm in the back of a paddy wagon.
The walls here aren't so bad, though. When I first moved to San Francisco, I had almost no money, and took a room in a $90-a-week crack hotel. Among many other interesting ...features?... of the old building were the ludicrously thin walls. I could literally hear my next-door neighbor fart through the one-inch plywood walls. And since one of the walls was against nothing but naked outside air - it backed up to no other buildings or anything - I froze my nuts off nightly. Can a body feel wind through a wall? I dunno, but if so, then I felt it.
The old upstairs neighbors moved out a few months ago too, which sucks out loud. I think they wore slippers or something all day. Sure, it sounded like they were bowling up there once in a while, but as a rule, they were quiet as an emo church mouse. The new guys, whose cat you've already met, are loud. Always. The cat is a ball-baby bitch, crying like its ass is on fire all the time. The 14-year-old has either a PS3 or XBOX 360, with, I shit you not, Dance Dance Revolution as what I can only assume is his favorite fucking game - I am right this very second being stomped upon from above. He does keep that to daylight hours, however, then switches to what sounds like some kind of first-person shooter, like Halo or Call of Duty. I hate those fucking shooters, but that's more likely because I am an old bastard who stinks up the joint when I try to play them.
Sigh. I guess the world doesn't owe me shit, does it?
It's not the first time that something like this has happened. A few years ago, I had a vaguely similar, though less-well-remembered incident, in which I sat up, slapped the wall HARD with a flat palm, and went right back to sleep. I can only imagine that the guy in the apartment across the hall, whose bedroom shares a wall with ours (I know it's his bedroom. Trust me.) must think I'm a wife beater. Thank god that Mrs. Arone is very good at keeping calm in these types of situations. One errant terrified scream, and I'm in the back of a paddy wagon.
The walls here aren't so bad, though. When I first moved to San Francisco, I had almost no money, and took a room in a $90-a-week crack hotel. Among many other interesting ...features?... of the old building were the ludicrously thin walls. I could literally hear my next-door neighbor fart through the one-inch plywood walls. And since one of the walls was against nothing but naked outside air - it backed up to no other buildings or anything - I froze my nuts off nightly. Can a body feel wind through a wall? I dunno, but if so, then I felt it.
The old upstairs neighbors moved out a few months ago too, which sucks out loud. I think they wore slippers or something all day. Sure, it sounded like they were bowling up there once in a while, but as a rule, they were quiet as an emo church mouse. The new guys, whose cat you've already met, are loud. Always. The cat is a ball-baby bitch, crying like its ass is on fire all the time. The 14-year-old has either a PS3 or XBOX 360, with, I shit you not, Dance Dance Revolution as what I can only assume is his favorite fucking game - I am right this very second being stomped upon from above. He does keep that to daylight hours, however, then switches to what sounds like some kind of first-person shooter, like Halo or Call of Duty. I hate those fucking shooters, but that's more likely because I am an old bastard who stinks up the joint when I try to play them.
Sigh. I guess the world doesn't owe me shit, does it?
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Viper Mad Blues
I honestly wonder whether I was dropped on my head repeatedly as a child. It's the simplest explanation, really. Otherwise, what could have possessed me, as a 16-year-old living with my parents, to ask for this CD as a Christmas present? It's a compilation of jazz songs, originally released between 1927 and 1943,exclusively about marijuana, with a dash of coke thrown in for spice.
I'm sitting here wondering, how on earth did I manage to sneak this one by? And what audacity to even try - I must have assumed that Mom and Dad were clueless, and would never notice the subject matter. Hell, my Dad is approximately clueless about everything more illegal than scotch. Mom only seemed to give a damn about stopping me from seeing sex - she once kicked me out of the living room during the love scene in The Terminator, for fuck's sake. Ha! It's actually all coming back now. It was ordered from a catalog of all jazz CDs, and I also asked for (and received) Louis Armstrong, Spike Jones, Ella Fitzgerald, Stan Getz, Charlie Parker, and Billie Holiday. (No, I'm not a big jazz guy, but I've certainly wet my feet.) I figured "Viper Mad Blues" would blend into the background. And I guess I was right, because here we are.
It's not exactly a secret that musicians and drugs are often fast friends, but it seems that some people think that the Beatles brought that first reefer across the pond or something. No, here we have Cab Calloway, Bessie Smith, Ella, Benny Goodman, and other prominent musicians singing, among other songs, "The Stuff is Here, and it's Mellow" (1935), "Dope Head Blues" (1927), and Fats Waller's cleverly titled "The Reefer Song" (1943). The CD is a lot of fun, if of somewhat poor audio quality. Not a problem, really - I certainly understand that these aren't necessarily recordings taken directly from diamond-encrusted masters, or whatever. It's raw, full of pops and crackles, but so am I.
Alright, I gotta go refill the bong. Back tomorrow...
Monday, January 14, 2013
Old Man Yells at Cloud
We're having a tech from Comcast (spit) come to install wi-fi at the Arone homestead this afternoon, and I'm old-man excited. This is what officially puts me right there on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise and ushers me fully into the world of commonplace sci-fi technology. It's simply astounding to me that merely an eye-blink of 25 years ago, I was 14, in my room playing games on my Commodore 64, which was hooked up to my shitty CRT TV, and had no access to BBSs because my mom wouldn't buy me the expensive 1200-baud modem, nor would she let me use the phone that much. I used 5 1/4 inch disks to load comparatively tiny pieces of software slowly into memory. There was a lot of switching disks, and even a cassette tape drive before mom sprung for the several-hundred-dollar, loaf-of-bred-sized disk drive. And now I have more computing power in my front pocket than the entire Apollo Moon Landing's Mission Control room.
Excuse me, I need to adjust the onion on my belt.
Print is dead. Oh, yes it is, it just doesn't know it yet. I mourn the loss, but that's for some other time. And if print is dead in general, then for porn, it's double-secret dead, the fine paste left over after being sucked into a jet turbine. When I was 12, I had to steal Penthouses from the local drugstore, and watch scrambled cable porn, hoping for a glimpse of muff. By the time I was of age, I could proudly (?) stride into the 7-11, and say, "One copy of Swank, please! Why, yes, I am 18, here's my ID!" Soon after, I found the porn stores. Two entire stores - one near each end of town - filled with pornography. Huge racks full of every standard newsstand-quality porn rag. Endless aisles of video tapes, those stupid gigantic boxes taking up a ridiculous amount of real estate. Porn newspapers like Screw, even. And the lubes, condoms, cuffs, dildos, vibrators, fuck dolls, sex swings. You name it, they had it. There were even little booths in the back where you could watch a variety of porn in private, right there in the store, doled out in increments of four minutes for a quarter. I made a few 75-cent transactions there myself. It was porn heaven for a frustrated 18-year-old.
I imagine that for a kid of 18 or 20 today, it must be a feat of nearly-impossible mental gymnastics to understand just how different the landscape of pornography is now. Once the wi-fi is installed, I'm done, finished, good-bye Cheech. FROM MY BED, I will be able to, on a complete whim, turn on my detached, wireless computer, type into a search engine any possible combination of filthy words, and be immediately offered hundreds if not thousands of videos depicting people doing those filthy things. FOR FREE. No ID needed. Just press this button promising that you're 18. And the filthiest stuff is no longer hidden - at the good ol' porn store, I never saw scat, or pissing, or any of the really heavy (legal) stuff. But I can Google "midget transsexual horse fucking a blue whale" and be offered a choice of several different whales. A stack of soggy, used-up Hustlers just can't compete in this day and age.
Friday, January 11, 2013
"We're Not Gonna Take It" by Twisted Sister is the Greatest Rock Song of All Time
Well, maybe not. The other strong contender is "I Want To Hold Your Hand" by the Beatles.
I get strange looks, if not outright derisive laughter, when I talk about "We're Not Gonna Take It," but the song moves me like few others. It's not really the music - the vocal style is good, and fits the song, the drums are mixed poorly, IMO, and the guitar solo is lame at best. But I defy you to find a song that better epitomizes the true spirit of teenage angst. It's viscerally effective on someone like me, who puts individual freedom as his primary life ideal. I'm fully aware that I grew up a white, middle-class male, with little to really complain about, but that's irrelevant, isn't it? Despite the fact that nothing in this existence is universal, pretty much everyone I knew when I was a teenager HATED their parents, at least occasionally. Hell, I hated them because they tried to love me, what's more typical than that?
Something with a similar feel would be "Killing in the Name of..." by Rage Against the Machine. It's hard not to like a repeated refrain of "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" But in my head, I often hear, "Fuck you, I won't tidy my bedroom!" Y'know? The song is effective, yet a little childish. "But Cheech, it doesn't GET any more childish than 'We're Not Gonna Take It!' It's the exact same as 'Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me,' isn't it?" Sure, but I don't have a defense. And if I did, I don't think I'd present it. There's never a more valid argument for a song's merit than "I love it!"
"I Want To Hold Your Hand" is the same song, except that it's about that desperate brand of hopeless, formless, hormone-induced lust that most of us have felt. The heart-skipping, breath-stopping, choking certainty that you are going to DIE if she rejects you.
The song quite clearly resonates with the artists of today - Akon barely changed the words for this one.
I get strange looks, if not outright derisive laughter, when I talk about "We're Not Gonna Take It," but the song moves me like few others. It's not really the music - the vocal style is good, and fits the song, the drums are mixed poorly, IMO, and the guitar solo is lame at best. But I defy you to find a song that better epitomizes the true spirit of teenage angst. It's viscerally effective on someone like me, who puts individual freedom as his primary life ideal. I'm fully aware that I grew up a white, middle-class male, with little to really complain about, but that's irrelevant, isn't it? Despite the fact that nothing in this existence is universal, pretty much everyone I knew when I was a teenager HATED their parents, at least occasionally. Hell, I hated them because they tried to love me, what's more typical than that?
Something with a similar feel would be "Killing in the Name of..." by Rage Against the Machine. It's hard not to like a repeated refrain of "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" But in my head, I often hear, "Fuck you, I won't tidy my bedroom!" Y'know? The song is effective, yet a little childish. "But Cheech, it doesn't GET any more childish than 'We're Not Gonna Take It!' It's the exact same as 'Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me,' isn't it?" Sure, but I don't have a defense. And if I did, I don't think I'd present it. There's never a more valid argument for a song's merit than "I love it!"
"I Want To Hold Your Hand" is the same song, except that it's about that desperate brand of hopeless, formless, hormone-induced lust that most of us have felt. The heart-skipping, breath-stopping, choking certainty that you are going to DIE if she rejects you.
The song quite clearly resonates with the artists of today - Akon barely changed the words for this one.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
I Caused a Commotion at Safeway This Morning
Goddamn cats. Everything would've been fine if cats weren't bitches. But no, "Feed us! Feed us!" Sigh. Off to Safeway on a scrotum-shearingly cold 5:30 January morning.
Grocery stores at off-peak hours can be a mixed blessing. I love that there are very, very few customers to get in my way - morning joggers, derelicts looking for their first bottle (sorry, guys, 6 AM in California!), and humanity-avoiders like myself. But inevitably, the shopping space is marred by the dozens of pallets lining the aisles - it seems that the dead of night and early morning is the best time to stock a very busy store. That's not so bad - I'd rather slalom between mini-forklifts full of Chef Boyardee than seventeen blue-hairs in the Metamucil aisle.
This morning, there was a customer in front of the store trying to pack about six gallons of milk into her backpack and bicycle basket. She seemed very earnest, but I had my doubts as to her foresight. Inside, the store was eerie - the lights were at about 50% power, and they seemed to be working with an almost-skeleton crew. The aisles had the usual to-be-shelved merchandise, but only a dozen or so stockers for a full 15-or-20-aisle store. Fewer people means less hassle, even with floors full of stock, so it was a quick circuit around the store. Green beans, cat food, cat litter, and trash bags - ooh, look, a 55-cents-off coupon for the trash bags! Score!
The cashiers at this particular Safeway (NON-self-serve, unfortunately) don't handle the coins they give as change. They have these coin dispensers at the end of each aisle - the cashier gives you the bills, the machine gives you the coins. This morning, the worker was having a hard time removing the self-adhesive coupon from the trash bags. I noticed his short nails, and said, "I have longer nails, let me try." And as I reached over to help, my forearm hit the change dispenser and knocked it approximately to China. Coins everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Yes, literally, even in space. Everywhere. "Oh, Shit!", is of course, what I said. I tried my best to help, but there was money under the counter, under the Claw Game and Lotto machine off to the side, under the gum display. Just a debacle.
The cashier did a valiant job of not giving me too much of an overt stinkeye. He did wonder out loud why this particular machine wasn't bolted down, and I think that's my best course of action - blame it on the machine.
As I was heading out, the lady with the milk was still struggling, but with her bike lock. It had been ten minutes, so I said, "Do you need any help? You were having trouble when I went in..."
"No, asshole, keep it in your pants!"
Grocery stores at off-peak hours can be a mixed blessing. I love that there are very, very few customers to get in my way - morning joggers, derelicts looking for their first bottle (sorry, guys, 6 AM in California!), and humanity-avoiders like myself. But inevitably, the shopping space is marred by the dozens of pallets lining the aisles - it seems that the dead of night and early morning is the best time to stock a very busy store. That's not so bad - I'd rather slalom between mini-forklifts full of Chef Boyardee than seventeen blue-hairs in the Metamucil aisle.
This morning, there was a customer in front of the store trying to pack about six gallons of milk into her backpack and bicycle basket. She seemed very earnest, but I had my doubts as to her foresight. Inside, the store was eerie - the lights were at about 50% power, and they seemed to be working with an almost-skeleton crew. The aisles had the usual to-be-shelved merchandise, but only a dozen or so stockers for a full 15-or-20-aisle store. Fewer people means less hassle, even with floors full of stock, so it was a quick circuit around the store. Green beans, cat food, cat litter, and trash bags - ooh, look, a 55-cents-off coupon for the trash bags! Score!
The cashiers at this particular Safeway (NON-self-serve, unfortunately) don't handle the coins they give as change. They have these coin dispensers at the end of each aisle - the cashier gives you the bills, the machine gives you the coins. This morning, the worker was having a hard time removing the self-adhesive coupon from the trash bags. I noticed his short nails, and said, "I have longer nails, let me try." And as I reached over to help, my forearm hit the change dispenser and knocked it approximately to China. Coins everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Yes, literally, even in space. Everywhere. "Oh, Shit!", is of course, what I said. I tried my best to help, but there was money under the counter, under the Claw Game and Lotto machine off to the side, under the gum display. Just a debacle.
The cashier did a valiant job of not giving me too much of an overt stinkeye. He did wonder out loud why this particular machine wasn't bolted down, and I think that's my best course of action - blame it on the machine.
As I was heading out, the lady with the milk was still struggling, but with her bike lock. It had been ten minutes, so I said, "Do you need any help? You were having trouble when I went in..."
"No, asshole, keep it in your pants!"
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Oh, the Books...So Many Books
I've been on an austerity kick lately. I've been confronted with the fact that, though there's still an uncertain time frame in which I'm working, I will almost certainly have to move some time within the next couple of years. Maybe not a city relocation, but at least an intra-San Francisco move. In a perfect world, I'd have only whatever half-dozen pieces of larger furniture or computer hardware, and a backpack or suitcase to move. That level of clutter-reduction doesn't seem feasible, but I am cutting to the bone, very gradually. I'm having trouble with my books.
I love to read. Books, magazines, whatever is around, even if I'm not interested in the content. "Shape" Magazine while waiting at the dentist, though my "shape" is a perfect sphere. "Golf Digest" while my car is being smogged. "People," even though I hate them so. In literature-deprived bathrooms, I've gone so far as to read up on the mechanics of tampon insertion and hemorrhoid relief. I've accumulated a lot of books over the course of almost 20 years in the wild, and the worst part is that I haven't even read at least half of them. I always get, and appreciate, a book or three for most gift-giving holidays, as well as Amazon gift cards. I also have a pattern of spree-shopping for books well before the last stack is through, and that has resulted in shopping bags full of unread gems.
Well, this morning, a friend asked a question that I had never really considered. "Why," he asked, "do we even HAVE the current model of book distribution?", referring to mass-market retail books, not texts or institutional tomes. "A $30 hardcover, followed 8 months later by the paperback or trade paperback that everyone wants? The fuck is that?" The answer, obviously, is "A massive cash grab." I pointed out how many millions of people were waiting, dicks in hand, for the last Harry Potter book to be published in hardcover, willing to fork over ANYTHING to be among the first to find out Hermione's terrible secret.
But of course, that's the .001% of books. For the other 99.999%, hardcover is nothing but a tax on being an early adopter, like when buying the newest iPhone. Sure, some people like hardcovers better - they look nice on a shelf, they are more durable, and they can foil a mugging if well-aimed. BUT!! A paperback book has, in theory, the exact same function as the hardcover of the same title - the content doesn't change. UNLIKE with the release of the newest gadget, which is usually a marked IMPROVEMENT. When "The Hunger Games'" third installment was released in paperback, a year (or whatever) after hardback, could you read it with 40% less attention span? Was the paper made of a space-age polymer that repels liquids? No, of course not. No, it was just smaller and lighter.
That's my point. Though I don't buy them, I am often given hardcover books as gifts. If I had my entire collection in paperback instead, I estimate a savings of about 50% in volume, and the same in weight. And then maybe I could keep all of my books. Not that I'd read them all, but you know. And I'd probably buy more books anyway. I'm not even going to touch on the idea of e-books. That I could have the entire library in my pocket is a real mind-blower.
I don't want to ban hardbacks, but for shit's sake, release a paperback alongside the more expensive version. Then maybe I'll buy it new, and not for $4.00 used at the Book Hutch.
I love to read. Books, magazines, whatever is around, even if I'm not interested in the content. "Shape" Magazine while waiting at the dentist, though my "shape" is a perfect sphere. "Golf Digest" while my car is being smogged. "People," even though I hate them so. In literature-deprived bathrooms, I've gone so far as to read up on the mechanics of tampon insertion and hemorrhoid relief. I've accumulated a lot of books over the course of almost 20 years in the wild, and the worst part is that I haven't even read at least half of them. I always get, and appreciate, a book or three for most gift-giving holidays, as well as Amazon gift cards. I also have a pattern of spree-shopping for books well before the last stack is through, and that has resulted in shopping bags full of unread gems.
Well, this morning, a friend asked a question that I had never really considered. "Why," he asked, "do we even HAVE the current model of book distribution?", referring to mass-market retail books, not texts or institutional tomes. "A $30 hardcover, followed 8 months later by the paperback or trade paperback that everyone wants? The fuck is that?" The answer, obviously, is "A massive cash grab." I pointed out how many millions of people were waiting, dicks in hand, for the last Harry Potter book to be published in hardcover, willing to fork over ANYTHING to be among the first to find out Hermione's terrible secret.
But of course, that's the .001% of books. For the other 99.999%, hardcover is nothing but a tax on being an early adopter, like when buying the newest iPhone. Sure, some people like hardcovers better - they look nice on a shelf, they are more durable, and they can foil a mugging if well-aimed. BUT!! A paperback book has, in theory, the exact same function as the hardcover of the same title - the content doesn't change. UNLIKE with the release of the newest gadget, which is usually a marked IMPROVEMENT. When "The Hunger Games'" third installment was released in paperback, a year (or whatever) after hardback, could you read it with 40% less attention span? Was the paper made of a space-age polymer that repels liquids? No, of course not. No, it was just smaller and lighter.
That's my point. Though I don't buy them, I am often given hardcover books as gifts. If I had my entire collection in paperback instead, I estimate a savings of about 50% in volume, and the same in weight. And then maybe I could keep all of my books. Not that I'd read them all, but you know. And I'd probably buy more books anyway. I'm not even going to touch on the idea of e-books. That I could have the entire library in my pocket is a real mind-blower.
I don't want to ban hardbacks, but for shit's sake, release a paperback alongside the more expensive version. Then maybe I'll buy it new, and not for $4.00 used at the Book Hutch.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Why Do I Watch This Shit?
I'm not a big fan of sit-coms anymore. I watched the Cosby-Family Ties-Cheers-Night Court combo back in the '80s, like everyone did, but really think they've stagnated as a humor-delivery vehicle. But I do find myself watching "The Big Bang Theory" pretty much every day.
I'm still amazed that the producers haven't been burned for heresy yet, simply because the show isn't called "Intelligent Design." Actually, that's probably the answer to the question in the title of today's update - I watch because SCIENCE! But it's really poorly written. Not in a "Two Broke Girls"-style, "every joke is like a corpse hitting the floor" way, but in an annoying, "Every character is a hard-core stereotype" way.
Sheldon is a terrible human being. He has shown that he can learn to follow "non-optional social conventions," yet he can't speak a sentence without mentioning how literally EVERYTHING and EVERYONE other than himself and his work is utterly meaningless. And his friends don't help him learn, they accept his shit and roll their eyes. He seems to think of women as truly unworthy of anything other than reproduction. He is destined to be beaten to death.
Raj is a terrible human being. He's given the most childish lines, using words like "wee-wee" and "doody," with no follow-up as to why his character says way more stuff like this than the others. Not only can't he talk to attractive women, he can't utter a word to ANY woman - old, young, fat, thin, white, brown, doesn't matter. Except when alcohol touches his lips (literally - he goes from mute to Casanova in the space of time it takes to raise the glass and put it down once). And then, he becomes supreme douchebag #1, and frankly a borderline date rapist, after a molecule of alcohol.
Howard is a terrible human being. He despises his mother, despises living with her, yet cannot even think of moving out. When Bernadette suggests it (going on memory, here), he not only assumes that she will literally wait on him hand and foot, as his hated mother did, he doesn't even pretend to consider her feelings, in the slightest. She's Hollywood gorgeous, "So round, so firm, so fully packed," as Bugs Bunny might say, and fucking brilliant, but settles for this repellent personality?
Penny is a terrible human being. Not in relation to others, but in how she treats herself. Sheldon dismisses her completely, without a moment's thought, because she's a non-academic (unintelligent, as he has literally stated), and a woman. Raj can't talk to her, but CAN whisper jokes about her pussy to Howard, right in front of her. Howard is a complete lech toward her, and she's lucky he hasn't tried to finger her in her sleep. And she is BESTEST BUDDIES with them.
Leonard is the only character that seems to be written as human. He has emotions, and desires, and the capability for deep introspection (as much as a sitcom character can). But he's still JUST a nerd, really, a cute li'l' scamp who somehow gets the girl.
The other regular female characters are fully inconsequential - a female Sheldon in Amy, and a beautiful doormat in the aforementioned Bernadette.
I wonder if it's on now...
I'm still amazed that the producers haven't been burned for heresy yet, simply because the show isn't called "Intelligent Design." Actually, that's probably the answer to the question in the title of today's update - I watch because SCIENCE! But it's really poorly written. Not in a "Two Broke Girls"-style, "every joke is like a corpse hitting the floor" way, but in an annoying, "Every character is a hard-core stereotype" way.
Sheldon is a terrible human being. He has shown that he can learn to follow "non-optional social conventions," yet he can't speak a sentence without mentioning how literally EVERYTHING and EVERYONE other than himself and his work is utterly meaningless. And his friends don't help him learn, they accept his shit and roll their eyes. He seems to think of women as truly unworthy of anything other than reproduction. He is destined to be beaten to death.
Raj is a terrible human being. He's given the most childish lines, using words like "wee-wee" and "doody," with no follow-up as to why his character says way more stuff like this than the others. Not only can't he talk to attractive women, he can't utter a word to ANY woman - old, young, fat, thin, white, brown, doesn't matter. Except when alcohol touches his lips (literally - he goes from mute to Casanova in the space of time it takes to raise the glass and put it down once). And then, he becomes supreme douchebag #1, and frankly a borderline date rapist, after a molecule of alcohol.
Howard is a terrible human being. He despises his mother, despises living with her, yet cannot even think of moving out. When Bernadette suggests it (going on memory, here), he not only assumes that she will literally wait on him hand and foot, as his hated mother did, he doesn't even pretend to consider her feelings, in the slightest. She's Hollywood gorgeous, "So round, so firm, so fully packed," as Bugs Bunny might say, and fucking brilliant, but settles for this repellent personality?
Penny is a terrible human being. Not in relation to others, but in how she treats herself. Sheldon dismisses her completely, without a moment's thought, because she's a non-academic (unintelligent, as he has literally stated), and a woman. Raj can't talk to her, but CAN whisper jokes about her pussy to Howard, right in front of her. Howard is a complete lech toward her, and she's lucky he hasn't tried to finger her in her sleep. And she is BESTEST BUDDIES with them.
Leonard is the only character that seems to be written as human. He has emotions, and desires, and the capability for deep introspection (as much as a sitcom character can). But he's still JUST a nerd, really, a cute li'l' scamp who somehow gets the girl.
The other regular female characters are fully inconsequential - a female Sheldon in Amy, and a beautiful doormat in the aforementioned Bernadette.
I wonder if it's on now...
Sunday, January 6, 2013
An Early Obituary for a Funny Man
This will happen some time in 2013:
A lot of people tell me that I'm a funny guy, and that makes me feel good. Obvious, I know - people enjoy praise. But it makes me feel extradoubleplusgood because I love comedians. The great standup comedians, in my mind, include Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Louis CK, Bill Cosby, and the late Katt Williams.
When I was about 12, I saw Bill Cosby : Himself for the first time. I laughed so much that I watched it again immediately. I probably watched it 25 times. And the first time I saw the Katt Williams performance linked above, I had the same level of experience. You know the scene in "The Blues Brothers," in the church, with people writhing around with the power of the holy spirit? It was like that. Sort of. I mean, I stayed in my chair, but you know. I was moved to... to motion by how funny it was.
And then he completely imploded. I mean, this was a hard-core, I-am-not-fucking-around-here implosion, a personal dumpster fire the likes of which I had never seen. The toxicology reports aren't in yet, but authorities aren't even sure if drugs were involved, or if the blunt trauma to the head was sufficient to kill him. Drugs are assumed, of course.
A lot of people tell me that I'm a funny guy, and that makes me feel good. Obvious, I know - people enjoy praise. But it makes me feel extradoubleplusgood because I love comedians. The great standup comedians, in my mind, include Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Louis CK, Bill Cosby, and the late Katt Williams.
When I was about 12, I saw Bill Cosby : Himself for the first time. I laughed so much that I watched it again immediately. I probably watched it 25 times. And the first time I saw the Katt Williams performance linked above, I had the same level of experience. You know the scene in "The Blues Brothers," in the church, with people writhing around with the power of the holy spirit? It was like that. Sort of. I mean, I stayed in my chair, but you know. I was moved to... to motion by how funny it was.
And then he completely imploded. I mean, this was a hard-core, I-am-not-fucking-around-here implosion, a personal dumpster fire the likes of which I had never seen. The toxicology reports aren't in yet, but authorities aren't even sure if drugs were involved, or if the blunt trauma to the head was sufficient to kill him. Drugs are assumed, of course.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
I Guess it's Time to Wake Up...
I'm relatively happy with the neighborhood in which I live. The rent is expensive to the point of ridiculousness, but it's a fine area. Golden Gate Park is a block away, but it's a very quiet part of the park. Most of the residents appear to be families with kids and old, old Chinese and Russian ladies streaming in and out of the beauty shop below my apartment. This is my view right now, a typical 6 AM. It's San Francisco-y, but not a place where there's a ton of commotion, as a rule. But this morning was different.
I woke up to pee a couple of hours ago, at about 4. As I was trying to go back to sleep, I heard a skateboard go by down on the street. If you've never heard a skateboard on pavement in the dead quiet of night, be aware that it is LOUD, much louder than it is among the daytime activity sound-level. Then it went by again. And again. And again. And then someone yelled, "CAN I BORROW A CELL PHONE CHARGER?" at the absolute top of their lungs, with no warning or leadup, very close to my window. Imagine a gunshot when you least expect it. That's the degree of shit-myself that I felt at that second. I poked my head over the windowsill, and literally in the middle of the intersection shown in the pic above, was a guy with a skateboard, walking in circles. No, I didn't get pictures, because I am a moron, and I was groggy.
"I JUST NEED TO CHARGE MY FUCKING PHONE, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?"
Lights started to go on in the windows around me. He got on his skateboard and skated away, maybe a block, turned around, and skated back. "HELLOOOOO!" Skate-Skate-Skate in circles. About 3 or 4 minutes of skating in circles, followed by "HELLOOOOO!" again. Silence for a minute or so, then,
"YOU GUYS ARE ALL FUCKING ASSHOLES!"
Then he skated away, hopefully for good, leaving naught but a cranky Cheech in his wake.
I woke up to pee a couple of hours ago, at about 4. As I was trying to go back to sleep, I heard a skateboard go by down on the street. If you've never heard a skateboard on pavement in the dead quiet of night, be aware that it is LOUD, much louder than it is among the daytime activity sound-level. Then it went by again. And again. And again. And then someone yelled, "CAN I BORROW A CELL PHONE CHARGER?" at the absolute top of their lungs, with no warning or leadup, very close to my window. Imagine a gunshot when you least expect it. That's the degree of shit-myself that I felt at that second. I poked my head over the windowsill, and literally in the middle of the intersection shown in the pic above, was a guy with a skateboard, walking in circles. No, I didn't get pictures, because I am a moron, and I was groggy.
"I JUST NEED TO CHARGE MY FUCKING PHONE, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?"
Lights started to go on in the windows around me. He got on his skateboard and skated away, maybe a block, turned around, and skated back. "HELLOOOOO!" Skate-Skate-Skate in circles. About 3 or 4 minutes of skating in circles, followed by "HELLOOOOO!" again. Silence for a minute or so, then,
"YOU GUYS ARE ALL FUCKING ASSHOLES!"
Then he skated away, hopefully for good, leaving naught but a cranky Cheech in his wake.
Friday, January 4, 2013
You Axed For It!
Up The Dose / You Axed For It! - The Mentors (1989)
All you really need to know is in the track listing here (Click to enlarge) :
I bought this in about 1992 or 1993, in a tiny little CD shop in New Hope, PA. I had heard of The Mentors thanks to testimony during the PMRC hearings, but had never heard a note of their music. I just knew that they were one of the most hated, disgusting bands in the world, and I'd be dipped in dogshit if I wasn't going to listen! I wasn't looking for it, but I think I audibly gasped when I saw it in the rack. For some reason, I expected them to be a punk band, it's really just standard heavy metal, as far as the music goes - not awful, but not good.
The lyrics, though, really are the true exemplar of shock rock, the flip side of the Marilyn Manson crap I reviewed yesterday. While Manson is very produced, very polished, very deliberate, this is a very raw-sounding disc in both production and musicianship. And while Manson's lyrics are menacing and dark, El Duce brought a very mundane sort of presence to The Mentors' songs of very casual violence. I don't exactly like listening to this music, but it's got a lot more power than the weak, calculated schlock Manson has produced.
All you really need to know is in the track listing here (Click to enlarge) :
I bought this in about 1992 or 1993, in a tiny little CD shop in New Hope, PA. I had heard of The Mentors thanks to testimony during the PMRC hearings, but had never heard a note of their music. I just knew that they were one of the most hated, disgusting bands in the world, and I'd be dipped in dogshit if I wasn't going to listen! I wasn't looking for it, but I think I audibly gasped when I saw it in the rack. For some reason, I expected them to be a punk band, it's really just standard heavy metal, as far as the music goes - not awful, but not good.
The lyrics, though, really are the true exemplar of shock rock, the flip side of the Marilyn Manson crap I reviewed yesterday. While Manson is very produced, very polished, very deliberate, this is a very raw-sounding disc in both production and musicianship. And while Manson's lyrics are menacing and dark, El Duce brought a very mundane sort of presence to The Mentors' songs of very casual violence. I don't exactly like listening to this music, but it's got a lot more power than the weak, calculated schlock Manson has produced.
It'd be easy to disregard this as garbage, and I'd certainly glance twice at someone who listened and took this stuff seriously, but it's got just as much artistic merit as anything else, even the aforementioned Marilyn Manson abortion. It's hateful, but clearly it hasn't riled me up as much as one might expect. I'll give it a D- because of a few good riffs.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Liquor In The Front... Poker In The Rear
I've been having trouble coming up with any damn thing even remotely interesting to write about. No updates in about 2 weeks. But I just got an idea. I was straightening up The Swamp when I came across my old CD collection - hundreds of them. When I left my parents' house, I took the discs and booklets, and left the cases, to save space. So when I'm stuck for something to write, I'll pull one out at random and review it.
Liquor in the Front - The Reverend Horton Heat, 1994
I'm not 100% sure why I bought this. When I was a kid ("kid" being roughly up until I left home in 1996), I had a ton of disposable income - my car was old and paid for, my parents took care of pretty much all other need-based expenses, and I had a full-time job when I wasn't in college. So I bought a LOT of CDs based on one or two hearings of one or two songs. I think this is one of them. In reading the track listing, I recognize only one title, "Liquor, Beer, and Wine."
The disc is pretty good so far (thru track 6). Punky-rockabilly. The harder tracks are actually pretty rockin'. The Wikipedia article linked above says that it was produced by the guy from Ministry, and it really sounds like it. I only have one disc by Ministry, somewhere in the pile, I assume, and I totally hear the similarity.
Just got to the track I remembered, "Liquor, Beer, and Wine," and frankly, it sucks, the weakest track so far. Might as well cut this short. 65% of an album is enough to judge.
Would I buy it again, now? No. But I give it a B-.
Liquor in the Front - The Reverend Horton Heat, 1994
I'm not 100% sure why I bought this. When I was a kid ("kid" being roughly up until I left home in 1996), I had a ton of disposable income - my car was old and paid for, my parents took care of pretty much all other need-based expenses, and I had a full-time job when I wasn't in college. So I bought a LOT of CDs based on one or two hearings of one or two songs. I think this is one of them. In reading the track listing, I recognize only one title, "Liquor, Beer, and Wine."
The disc is pretty good so far (thru track 6). Punky-rockabilly. The harder tracks are actually pretty rockin'. The Wikipedia article linked above says that it was produced by the guy from Ministry, and it really sounds like it. I only have one disc by Ministry, somewhere in the pile, I assume, and I totally hear the similarity.
Just got to the track I remembered, "Liquor, Beer, and Wine," and frankly, it sucks, the weakest track so far. Might as well cut this short. 65% of an album is enough to judge.
Would I buy it again, now? No. But I give it a B-.
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