Ancient Rumblings

Thankyou to those who left comments on the last blog. First of all, I would like to again clear my name of the slanderous lie that I had anything to do with John’s feeble dresser. I’ve owned up to the damages I accrued over the years, and I’ve stood by them no matter the cost to my upstanding reputation.

This includes, but is not limited to, 1) several desk chairs, 2) several shower curtains, 3) a bathroom mirror torn off the wall, 4) a kicked out bathroom window, 5) many hockey-stick-slashed and punched out walls in my townhouse, 6) garbage cans emptied up and down the hallway freshman year on several occassions, 7) a love seat, 8) a door frame, 9) a shoe streak left on my parents living room wall after I threw my brother’s sneaker across the room at 3am (post-college), 10) punched in bedroom wall (pre-college), 11) completely smashed in front end of my truck ($3500 damage), 12) mangled telephone pole (related incident), 13) a door beaten right off the frame (post-college), 14) window kicked out (related incident), 15) screaming at a group of five black guys at 2AM on Delaware Ave., “What the fuck are you staring at!?” and so on (while a shocked and rightfully apprehensive companion pulled me away) (also post-college), 16) forbidding anyone in the room to open the fridge for the RA’s and demanding that they call their RD and wake him up sophomore year (which only served to land me on “residential probation”), 17) abandoning the Allegany bars and falling down a cliff behind someone’s house while jacketless in the snow and smashing face-first into a tree – tried to get back up and fell the rest of the way down, 18) smashing a beer bottle over my townhouse kitchen counter and cutting my hand wide open for a reason that escapes me, 20) Spring Weekend ’05: telling the hotel manager that “I don’t listen to Olean people,” throwing a whiskey bottle across the parking lot, and then hiding from my friends in the woods for two hours (came within six feet of being sprayed by a skunk), 21) and finally whatever damage (hopefully none) occurred from a beer bottle being thrown from the living room through the open bar area and into the kitchen at Fraser’s townhouse during a party (after which I got up and announced I was leaving by blowing my ice rink whistle at full blast). I’ll admit to this entire inventory of stories, and maybe some others I’m forgetting to mention. So I have no reason to hide from the fact that I broke Fraser’s dresser … if that is what happened. But it isn’t. I’ll go to my grave saying it … in fact my guess is that it will be my last words on this earth – “I didn’t break Fraser’s dresser sophomore year, damn it!!” As for hearing the “dresser story” – you’d have to ask Fraser, but I think his contention is that I threw the chair into it. At least that’s what it was most recently.

As for the honorable Rosiek’s suggestion that a good old night of wild drinking could make for fun stories – maybe, but nothing good will come of it. The last time I tried (October) I got dragged out of Dave and Buster’s (the family restaurant/bar) by the police at 8:30PM after throwing around some geek, and very nearly arrested by a crabby officer while a crowd of yuppies and old people said “yah, that’s him.” Thankfully, I was saved by the last-second emergence of one of the owners who told the officer to let me go if I promised to leave immediately and never return. I promised and left. So I’m trying to stay away from the demon whiskey.

“Highway Companion” … Tom Petty’s third solo album … is now supposed to come out in June. If this actually happens – and I have my doubts about it – it will mean that it took over a year from the album’s initial announcement to actually hit stores. But since there is no official release date, and fans are merely going off of Petty’s recent interview claiming June as the month, I’d be surprised if this even came to pass. I mean, Petty originally said the end of ’05. Then he said the beginning of ’06. Then he said March of ’06. None of this ever happened … so now I’m just saying don’t be surprised if June doesn’t either. The record label has yet to announce the album or provide a release date, so we might be waiting until the beginning of the 22nd century to see this album. Either way … if it does eventually make its way into the consumer’s hands, it’s bound to be a masterful album, and not just because it’s Petty. For one thing, Petty’s two highest selling albums ever were his other two solo efforts. For another thing, he’s working with long time friend and fellow Wilbury Jeff Lynne, and that tag team has proven dynamic enough in the past (*see “Free Fallin” “I Won’t Back Down” “Runnin’ Down a Dream” “Learning to Fly” “Face in the Crowd” “Yer So Bad” and “Into the Great Wide Open”).

As for Petty on tour this summer – while long suspected, it’s been officially confirmed. Though no official dates (beyond Bonnaroo), they will reportedly be touring in June and July and then in September and October (I think those were the months I read, but I’m not going back to check). To celebrate the 30th anniversary of their self-titled debut they will be hitting the road with friends, which will include Pearl Jam, and possibly The Strokes (cool), John Mayer (uggh), and others. They’d better make damn sure they get to Darien Lake again. I’ll catch them in Bonnaroo of course, but I want them on my home turf as well. It’s only fair, after all. I travel 13 hours south to see them once, they travel way up north to see me once.

The Sabres are breaking my heart. Kalinin is a travesty and it’s time to accept that and move on. We really could have used a point man at the trade deadline, but as usual, Regier doesn’t like to do his job. Maybe he doesn’t realize he even has a job, I don’t know.

Did you catch the new South Park? Masterful, as expected. What better way could there have been to write a bitter scientologist out of the cast than to have him molest children, get hit by lightning, fall down a cliff, get stabbed by a tree branch, get shot three or four times by a rifle, have his face pulled off by a lion, and his leg chewed off by a bear? Nicely played, Matt and Trey.

As much as I hate the world of never-ending commercials and advertisement, I am not above shamelessly plugging a product I swear by. You may have noticed, if you read this blog on a regular basis – though I pity you if you do that – that I like to do my fair share of free advertisement for various markets and force it down your trusting gullet. So, in that spirit, here’s a bit of unsolicited marketing on behalf of Buffalo’s favorite alternative newspaper … THE BEAST! Readers of (the profoundly talented keeper of centuries-old wisdom) Fraser’s blog have already seen this plug … but seriously, if you’re not reading this newspaper, get your mug out of your bum and pick up a copy. I have yet to peruse this periodical without finding myself nearly in tears. It’s worth reading for the writing alone, which is bitingly sarcastic, fantastically cynical, and totally hilarious. For instance … one article in the most recent issue was about the boys who were just arrested for starting several churches on fire. Their defense was that it was a joke that got out of hand. The entire article in The Beast was comprised of fake quotes from government, church, and police officials who were tremendously relieved to learn that it was just a joke, and that in light of this it was actually very funny. In response to the boys’ claim that the first couple of fires were set up as a distraction, The Beast imaginatively quotes the chief of police as admitting that they were completely baffled and had even begun to formulate a theory that the fires weren’t fires at all, but earthquakes. Another article about a planned hotel project on Elmwood suddenly referenced the current landlord of the property, saying that the guy “is widely regarded around Buffalo to be a total dick, in addition to having the name of a comic book super-villain” (note: I do not recall the guy’s name, so piss off). The Beast also chastised a letter writer for referring to the mentally handicapped as “retards,” saying that this offensive word had no place in their own vocabulary – they then went on to refer to mentally retarded people as ‘changelings’, and various other oddities, all very entertaining. “What’s your point, Sherry, you wandering, incoherent toad?” Well, only this. Newspapers, weeklies, and periodicals in general can become very repetitive and tedious in their cliché style, strict adherence to journalistic codes, and sweeping generalities without being able to take a position. The Beast is your antidote to this journalistic swamp ass. Seek them out if you live in Buffalo. If you don’t – get yourself a subscription, jerk!

I’m currently looking for a new roommate. If you already know who I am, and you enjoy The White Stripes and Tom Petty constantly being played at extreme volumes, and if you think the Sabres are the most important group of individuals in the known universe, and if you can tolerate a sometimes reclusive, sometimes brash asshole as a roommate, and if you want a two-story living room with a spiral staircase going up to a loft with a pool table (the place is immaculate), and if you want to live a block away from the Elmwood bars, and if you want to constantly be regaled by me about things that I think are totally interesting and brilliant even if you couldn’t care less … or if you know anyone who meets these qualifications … speak up! I have to let the landlord know in the next month if I’m staying.

I will now close with this bit of wordless poetry:

“


.”


Remember that. And be excellent to each other.

A Presto

Saucerful of Twaddle

Well, I now have advertisements for porno sites being left in bulk quantities in my comment section. This is really just fantastic. I mean … I was already giddy over the exciting new things they’ve been doing with blog invasion in the past months, but now to add 8 comments worth of porn links? A million times THANK YOU! It’s reassuring to know that even a man or woman’s personal blog can become marketing space for the wholesome and culture-progressing internet porn industry. I was beginning to think for a moment that it was possible for those weird creeps who want to keep small amounts of space free of advertisement might actually have been on to something with their blogs, but thank heavens for the persistence and resourcefulness of those undying footsoldiers … internet marketers! With a track record like theirs, we may one day reach that indescribably beautiful utopia wherein the entire earth is transformed into one big commercial.

Well, where should we start off today? I can only thank whatever god may or may not exist a million times over that Heath Ledger failed to win best-actor award. It would surely be a sign of pending apocalypse if that weird fucker were to be acknowledged as something resembling a legitimate actor, let alone the best in the biz. I’m disappointed that Joaquin Phoenix was not acknowledged for “Walk the Line.” He’s a tremendously talented actor, and he did a remarkable job as Johnny Cash. But the guy who did win for male lead is a talented and hard working actor as well, and I’ve read good things about “Capote,” so cheers. Other than that, the staff of Dominion of Cool don’t know a damn thing about what happened at this year’s Oscars.

Speaking of signs of approaching apocalypse, there’s some revelations you should probably all be aware of, if you don’t already. For one thing, I have become Jerry Sullivan’s greatest supporter in the past nine months. Yes, the same Mr. Sullivan I spent years comparing to the likes of Bin Laden and Molly Shannon in terms of sheer evil. The same Mr. Sullivan that once prompted me to sacrifice a fatted calf to Ra in the hopes that his evil would be extinguished and he would be banished to the inner most chamber of the earth’s core where he would try for eternity to write his vicious and lying articles, but all to no avail because they would evaporate into thin air from the tremendous heat. How things can change. It is now the rest of the Buffalo sporting media whose reporting I bemoan, while Mr. Sullivan’s articles seem to-the-point and dead on balls accurate. While Gleason has disappeared off the face of the earth, and plays things excruciatingly safe when he does occasionally surface, and while DiCesare and Vogl lack both personality and color – Sullivan, love him or hate him, offers passionate conviction and vivid, entertaining writing. When you agree with him, he’s a genius. When you don’t, he’s less likable than Hitler. But even then, he, like Robitaille, is the kind of guy you love to hate, rather than just hate.

The second sign is my newfound respect for Lindy Ruff. I know, I know. Your eyes probably just rolled back in your head as you fought the temptation to faint dead away. Listen, don’t jump the gun here. I am not saying Lindy Ruff is a “good” coach. I’m just saying I respect his transition from defensive grunt and unimaginative hack to hands-off-the-offense liberal. Then again, I think that order probably came down from on high within the organization, but Lindy caved and deserves credit for having the wisdom to do so. Also, there has been another transition on his part. He’s gone from tyrannical overlord, hated by fans and players alike, and often a public target of former-Sabres’ bitterness toward their wasted years here, to a respected and downright encouraging figure. Rather than constant shuffling of lines, benching of players, rotating of players, and public criticism of players, he’s bought into the traditional notion of “be positive” and “let them build chemistry” and “reward them for their hard work.” Pays dividends. Nice work, Lindy. We’ve been saying it for years, and you finally got on board.

Finally, the third sign of impending doom and chaos … I now like The Strokes. Now I know you fainted, so I’ll take a moment to let you get some air and come to. I’ll sing quietly to myself while I wait. “Hang down your head, Tom Dooooley. Hang down your head and cry.” Alright, I’ll assume you’ve come to. I know I’m laying a lot on you guys, but seriously … the new Strokes album is damn good. I still think the first two suck, and the band just sounded like some recycled late 70’s shit. But this album has scrapped the cheesy distorted vocals approach, and tried to make the band sound like an actual contemporary act. “First Impressions of Earth” it’s called. Check it out. There’s a lot of fun lyrics too, many of which sound like he’s making them up on the spot. There’s a particularly great song about how much he hates his friends, so he drinks so that he’ll like them. Then he drinks too much and hates them even more than he did before. Good stuff. Another song has a chorus that just repeats over and over again “I’ve got nothing to saaaay!” I’m listening to the album right now while I type this at work, rather than actually earn my paycheck. Though I consider the fact that I even show up to this shit job every day and sit in a cubicle more than enough to justify five or six times what I make. So maybe I should ask for a raise. Anyway, listen to the new Strokes album. I think you’ll be as impressed as I am.

You know, I drink so little these days, and I’ve found it’s had a tremendous upswing on my overall quality of life. Rather than guzzling whiskey, I now have a few beers, a couple of shots, and maybe a glass of wine to round out the evening. I don’t get savagely drunk, rather I have a very pleasant buzz, or a very mild but totally aware and in control drunk. It’s three or four times as entertaining as being totally blasted. The drawback, as you’ve no doubt discovered, is that it gives me less to talk about in this blog. No funny stories, no bad experiences, nothing. Sure, I could write about how I went to a couple of bars last week and did nothing exciting, and …. OH WAIT! Hold on. Forgive my total stream of consciousness here, but rather than go back and delete the above, I’m just going to plow ahead. A very mediocre and bland sort of interesting thing happened last weekend that is just barely worth relating, but it was hilarious if you were there. Saturday night was the first time I have ever been nearly kicked out of a bar for dumping salt on a candle. Now, I’ve been booted for my fair share of things, and that’s fine. But I really wish this guy would have followed through, just so I could have the distinct honor of being maybe THE ONLY person ever to be asked to leave a bar for shaking salt on a candle.

Here’s the story. Buss, Lisa, Liz, Mumbach, and Myself were in Jimmy Mac’s on Elmwood. Nice joint. We had ourselves a booth, and for some reason certain members of the party (not including myself) decided to have a salt and pepper fight. So while sodium chloride and fresh ground pepper soared through the atmosphere and scattered all over the table and floor, I sort of hunched over my gin and tonic and chuckled at the absurdity of it. So nothing happened for a while and we relocated to another booth so as to avoid the filthy salt/pepper surface of the old one. At which point, for reasons unexplained, my sometimes lucid, sometimes anarchic mind started asking certain questions that probably wouldn’t occur to most normal minds to ask – namely, what would happen if I shook salt all over the decorative candle and into it’s melted wax and flickering flame. At which point, needless to say, it became clear to me that my mind was not in “Lucid Phase,” but I persevered to find an answer nonetheless. After about two minutes of shaking salt into the candle, some fellow from the bar came over and politely asked (I thought) for me to stop doing that, saying something along the lines of “nice people like you don’t need to spill salt into the candle.” Luckily, my mind was still somewhat in “Lucid Phase” and I saw no argument against this assessment, so I smiled awkwardly and put the salt down.

My colleagues felt differently, and insisted that we leave the bar immediately as protest against this unfair treatment. And as the night wore on, I was regaled with tales of this fellow being confrontational and a hardass, and even using the word “fuck” at some point, and also he didn’t even work at the bar supposedly. I am in no position to verify or refute any of this. Suffice to say, his point was just – there was no need for nice people like us to spill salt into the candle (moral of the story).

And, unfortunately, the anarchic half of my mind felt justified in the whole thing because it’s original question was “what would happen if I shook salt all over the decorative candle and into it’s melted wax and flickering flame?” Rather than accept the inane nature of the question, and that the answer was “nothing,” (as did the lucid half of my brain) it satisfied itself by maintaining that the question was academic, and the answer was “a guy from the bar will come over and ask me to stop.” So my eccentric half, as usual, was only encouraged by something so stupid, and will undoubtedly use it as justification to do further pointless things in the future. Sigh.

Well, I’m not saying anything go of real significance here (do I ever?) so I should bring it to all to a halt. Thanks for reading, chums (if you did), and stay tuned. These things have been coming slower, and growing less pointed, but who cares. It kills an hour at work.

Leave a message. And ignore the automated advertisements and links. The bastards who create those things are indecent, and not to be trusted!

A presto …

As a post-scrip of sorts ... I've just added this final note on edit. Through the "settings" section of my blog, I have been able to manipulate the blog so that comments can only be left by passing a word verification system. In other words "retype this word as it appears on your screen" type shit ... meaning only physical human organisms can leave comments. I apologize to anyone who supported the automated porn links. It's not the end of the world, it's just one of those things.

Please ... Do Browse The Following

I sure wish I knew who Sally W. was. How sweet of her to search through thousands and thousands of blogs and finally leave that adorable comment on mine. Because I’m sure she didn’t leave it on anybody else’s. I am touched. Thank you, Sally.

Society:
Mad, extremely mad props given to that Italian politician that wore a t-shirt with the offending Mohammed cartoon on it. I know all these stiffs are crying about being sensitive, but I just can’t fathom wearing a muzzle because head-chopping fascists don’t have a sense of humor. It’s a lousy choice, but I’ll choose dangerous expression over fearful silence any day of the year. It’s one thing to apologize if your cartoon offended an entire religion … it’s another thing to cower and censure yourself because a handful of weirdos are setting buildings on fire and firing machine guns into crowds. Crazy.

Music Part I:
Oh, cripes. Here comes a new album from Guns N’ Roses. That era in rock has faded, my friends, and while they still work as a nostalgia group for parties, they’re not going to cut it 2006 as a contemporary act. Especially if Slash isn’t pitching his weighty lead-guitar efforts into the production. GNR without Slash is like The Jackson Five without Michael. It simply doesn’t compute – nevermind Axl, that ghoulish creep. His vocals are about as enticing as being in a shark attack. I wish them no luck at all, and I hope they flop miserably.

Still no word whatsoever on Petty’s new album, and it’s supposedly coming out this month. Yah right. I’ll expect it to hit stores by 2009.

Better news – The Chili Peppers and The Raconteurs (Jack White’s new band) both are due for new albums in May. That will be interesting. The Raconteurs’ “Steady, As She Goes” single sounds very different from the Stripes, but very catchy. The Chili Peppers will be putting out a double disc (“Stadium Arcadium”) and it will be produced by their longtime chum Rick Rubin, who has produced some damn fine albums in his illustrious career … including “Wildflowers” by Petty and “Californication” and “By the Way” by the Peppers. Bring on May!

Society:
The worst thing about yuppy life is the tedium. I’m hating it. Every day is the same. I get up, stumble grumpily to work, talk on the phone and try to look busy all day, and then I wonder home to read/watch TV/play guitar, and then go to bed so I can do it all again. What is the point of making money if you’re just going to spend it on those things which you’re sick of anyway? This is where people usually say, “That’s life, kid. Grow up. Everybody’s gotta do it.” Thanks, oh wise elders. I’m smart enough to realize this on my own. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it, and it doesn’t mean that we should all skip happily around and wear bow-ties and give high-fives. All it means is that I’m not the only stupid one … EVERYBODY IS STUPID!! There’s a mantra for you, pallies. Everybody, right down to the last grinning wheat-bread halfwit, is the dumbest person you’ve ever met. And that includes you. If you sit at a desk all day, or drive in a car all day, or talk on the phone all day … if you do the same thing every day whether you want to or not, just so you can lease a nicer car or buy things from Pier 1 Imports to put on your walls … then you are an idiot. If you work to get by and give your kids a good life – god bless you. But if you’re nickel and diming, honing in on that bigger/better deal, all so that you can wear nicer clothes, then you don’t have any guts at all. I don’t either, that’s the point. If I did, I’d go to bartender school and move to Florida, or California, or Hawaii, or Ireland, or wherever I wanted, because everywhere has need of bartenders. Then I’d live in a halfway decent apartment, drive a run down car, and spend my off-time doing what I wanted … which would not include TV and getting a good night’s sleep so I’m fresh for the phones the next day. Yuppies are cowards, bottom line. That’s my rant for the blog. Cliché, sure, but that doesn’t make it less aggrevating when you’re stuck in it.

Sports:
The Bills have lost Sam Adams, and will probably let go of Moulds. Last year I would have an opinion on this … I probably would have said good riddance to Adams and we can live without Moulds, but still a shame. Now, however, I stare blankly and indifferently and stay silent until something that I care about comes up. The Bills simply don’t matter anymore.

Music Part II:
The Black Keys. This name has been tossed around a lot of late in the shady/mysterious circles I travel in. I downloaded the album and listened a few times. “Hmm,” said I. “Not bad. Not bad, but not good. I appreciate them, but I don’t think I’ll put much effort into listening to them.” Well, here’s what I’ve learned since that initial reaction. The album isn’t necessarily great for just playing in your car or at the office. But … last Friday … while we shot pool up in the loft and smoked cigarettes, the eternal Mumbach and I played The Black Keys at fairly high volume levels down on the living room stereo. It is in this situation that “Rubber Factory” becomes a different album altogether. It sounded like live music. Live blues, to be exact. I looked upon it and saw that it was good. Moral of the story – don’t listen to The Black Keys while you work-out or lay around. Listen to them loudly while you are drinking and there is other people around. You will NOT be disappointed.

Politics:
As usual, I have no opinion.

Local News:
It is very nice living so close to Elmwood. I skip merrily down Hodge Rd. and I’m on a halfway decent area of Elmwood. There’s the Elmwood Lounge (which was lame last weekend), and there’s a couple of other bars whose names I can’t remember … but which were very good times indeed. In one of these, if you go to the back and walk upstairs, you can play pool and foosball, which we did. The only drag is there’s a weird, tall black guy with dreads that walks around and says things like “Don’t put your drink down right there, it’s a pool table, not a pool table,” and then comes around three minutes later to say “What I meant to say was don’t put your drink there because it’s not a table, it’s a pool table.”

And you can always hit up Louis for some hot dogs before the walk home. That’s a plus … especially if the eternal Mumbach is with you because there is no end to the fun to be had explaining to the waitresses that he is a savage, and that he was here first. This confuses the waitresses and they hurry about their work with furrowed eyebrows, making annoyed sighs, while trying to figure out if Mumbach is really and Indian or not (he is).

Well – this was a weak blog. I typed it entirely at work, and I’m bored out of my mind – the content of this effort bears that out, I feel. Maybe next week I’ll write something on whale sharks … god knows they’re fun to read about. Until then…

A Presto