Name aside, I'm really digging the '80's shoegazer meets Bowie, Love and Rockets, and Smithyness of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart.
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Sheer Dramatic Pain of Overly Long and Ostentatious Band Names is Only Mitigated by a Really Good Fucking Record
Name aside, I'm really digging the '80's shoegazer meets Bowie, Love and Rockets, and Smithyness of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart.
What is your f-ing malfunction?!
It’s been a rough few weeks, dear reader, on the technological front. And by rough I mean frustrating, really. On the first day of a week-and-a-half long business trip, my computer basically took a shit on me. I couldn’t get online, functionality diminished and my little laptop actually looked a little pale. The IT guys told me it caught a virus or had worms or the gout or something and they needed to clean its clock and reformat it. I WAS able to get all my files onto our server, but reformatting a computer and getting it running the way you want with the programs you want kinda sucks. And, truth to tell, I think the little guy may still be a little sick, but work piles up like a mo’fo I’ve learned and I don’t have time for a virus right now, so I'm runnin' and gunnin come what may.
On top of that I sat on my camera and broke it. During week one of said trip, after a long day on Capitol Hill in DC, my lobbying companions and I decided to take a break outside between appointments. Not wanting to get the ass of my nice suit pants dirty, I brilliantly used my document bag as a buffer and sat on it, forgetting I stowed my camera there for the security screening. Hmmm what was that little snap I just heard? Oh yeah, the sound of $250 being compacted into nothingness.
So without computer and without camera, I’m essentially useless, I’ve learned. Maybe I’m useless with them too…In any case, I hope to rectify the situation soon and commence blathering directly.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Every now and then, justice prevails
So there I was sitting at the intersection on my bike…a crap crossroads really. A pretty big highway ends and intersects a busy street that’s overrun with motorists, pedestrians, and cyclists. A traffic engineering clusterfuck that’s exacerbated by the light’s long interval, which seems to bring out impatience in even the laid-back-peace-sticker-on-my-biodiesel-Volvo-Santa-Cruz-hippie-types. Even more affected by this traffic-induced time loss are people on the other end of the spectrum—the ones whom are dickheads as a matter of course. They wake up dick nasty, dick the day away and go to sleep in the same dickish manner.
Light green, I proceed forward...but about half way through the intersection, the hair on the back of my neck pulls a “Danger Will Robinson.” For to the right and rear—a space where sound should only be receding by virtue of a mandatory right turn—I feel the approaching Doppler effect of an undermuffled and over-tired bromobile. A peek toward the sound confirms my suspicions and a lifted dickhead wagon—complete with custom laser-cut skull grille—comes flying by in a non-lane then swerves left, cutting me and a steady line of cars off to take his rightful place at the front (see drawing).
To be clear, I actually never felt in danger nor threatened. He passed me on the right with plenty of space and cut in far enough ahead that I could’ve stopped if I needed to. Mostly I was just disappointed that said vehicle—which I believe at one time was a Jeep Grand Cherokee—didn’t have fake gonads hanging from its trailer hitch. The truth is, I keep an ear/eye out for this move as I’ve actually been passed at this same spot in similar manner on a number occasions. Usually, it’s a tourist looking to go up Highway 9 to the state park who got in the wrong lane, are apologetic, confused and use their signal as they give that ThanksI’mReallySorry wave as they peaceably merge. Today’s occasion was just a middle finger all the way around.
Predictably, this afternoon’s maneuver elicited a chorus of car horns…at least two, maybe three--it was the kind of thing where even people in the other direction honked. I joined in by switching gears emphatically—take THAT!—making what I hoped would be a perceptible clickety-clack of outrage towards the driver. This was drowned out by the rumble of a motorcycle from the left…a white and black motorcycle that made me smile.
“Fuck man,” I heard the driver say to the passenger as the penismobile pulled over. “Fuck man indeed,” I thought as the blue and red lights bounced off the brogo covered rear window like the flashing cherry on top of a caramel sundae of a lunch ride.
Light green, I proceed forward...but about half way through the intersection, the hair on the back of my neck pulls a “Danger Will Robinson.” For to the right and rear—a space where sound should only be receding by virtue of a mandatory right turn—I feel the approaching Doppler effect of an undermuffled and over-tired bromobile. A peek toward the sound confirms my suspicions and a lifted dickhead wagon—complete with custom laser-cut skull grille—comes flying by in a non-lane then swerves left, cutting me and a steady line of cars off to take his rightful place at the front (see drawing).
To be clear, I actually never felt in danger nor threatened. He passed me on the right with plenty of space and cut in far enough ahead that I could’ve stopped if I needed to. Mostly I was just disappointed that said vehicle—which I believe at one time was a Jeep Grand Cherokee—didn’t have fake gonads hanging from its trailer hitch. The truth is, I keep an ear/eye out for this move as I’ve actually been passed at this same spot in similar manner on a number occasions. Usually, it’s a tourist looking to go up Highway 9 to the state park who got in the wrong lane, are apologetic, confused and use their signal as they give that ThanksI’mReallySorry wave as they peaceably merge. Today’s occasion was just a middle finger all the way around.
Predictably, this afternoon’s maneuver elicited a chorus of car horns…at least two, maybe three--it was the kind of thing where even people in the other direction honked. I joined in by switching gears emphatically—take THAT!—making what I hoped would be a perceptible clickety-clack of outrage towards the driver. This was drowned out by the rumble of a motorcycle from the left…a white and black motorcycle that made me smile.
“Fuck man,” I heard the driver say to the passenger as the penismobile pulled over. “Fuck man indeed,” I thought as the blue and red lights bounced off the brogo covered rear window like the flashing cherry on top of a caramel sundae of a lunch ride.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
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