In Which, Found Guilty, I Declare That I Am Unfit For Office, And Resign, Only To Be Pardoned Of My Crimes By My Successor

Man, I fail as a blog writer. . .

I sit here on these here "internets" (because there is MULTIPLES, kids!) for hours on end, with no particular agenda, reading many things, downloading many things, seeing and hearing many things, yet I don't actually bother to fulfill the simplest of promises I have ostensibly made to my "readers" (of which I am sure there are multitudes). No pithy words, no witty aphorisms, no anecdotes of such profound intelligence and grace that they make the very ground you stand on seem to tremble in ecstasy. NOTHING. Epic fail on me, yes yes.

I can't really do anything but apologize. I mean, I have been writing, it's just not been here. It's been (to a certain extent) on my livejournal, which would not fit with the verbal aesthetic or stated goals of this blog, and to a greater extent into twitter, which is possibly the worst/best thing to happen to me on the internet since I signed up for Myspace (oh, god, how I loathe and love you). And, yes, I really have no excuse for not writing here other than "But it's haaaaaaaaaard...!" I've been working on the Venture Brothers/failure/Sixties post for a while now, and every time I make some progress, I lose my thread and erase 4 paragraphs because they're Not. Good. Enough. And to be honest, I am not one to skimp on the excellence I know that people expect of me.

Also, there's been some good television on, so... you know.

But yes, as I seem to have so often done in the life of this weblog, I promise to write more in here. As long as it takes, I will FINISH THE GODDAMN POST. No one will read it, but it will be done. And the Fountain piece will eventually be done too, and maybe something on the election, depending on if the country devolves into civil war or not. If it does, I suggest investing in canned food and shotguns. Also: baby wipes.

So yeah: writing, more of it, going to do it, it will be spectacular.*


Listening: Los Campesinos!: We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
Reading: A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace
Watching: Futurama. A lot.








* so long as nothing good is one television.

.valis.

When did everything become so detail-oriented? I find myself asking this more and more these days, rhetorically, of course. It would be daft to expect an answer to the question. Still, it hangs in the air, like a word balloon from a comic book, visible to only me but somehow sensed by everyone else. Like the thundercloud that follows cartoon characters. Its a curse of my introspective nature, I suppose. Some people question the details, and what they are, and what they represent; I question the need for them in the first place.

I've been biding my time, waiting for the right moment to... I don't know yet. My mind has started to feel as if its preparing for some momentous flash of insight, when I will suddenly understand everything; I'll know what's wrong with me, why the world is that way it is, why the planets are misaligned, what the hidden secret of pi is, the name of the gnostic god, how many licks does it take, the actuality of the universal constant... It will all be revealed. But... my practical side realizes this is a blind rationalization, and that more than likely I will spend my entire life waiting for a moment that will never come. Though I suppose that's life, such as it is. We swim in the spaces between content and context.


I don't pretend to understand the whims and whiles of my brain chemistry. Philip K. Dick said, "Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away." As a generally faithless person, this brings me some small comfort.

desolation is no destination.

I've had this idea percolating in my head, inspired by much self-rumination and an essay by David Foster Wallace, about how my life has thus far been defined by curved spaces and lines. I'm hoping I actually get off my ass and finish the thought rather than following through with my as-of-late tendency to start an interesting idea and then drop it when I see something shiney.


Music as a whole lately has come to mean less to me as an outlet and more as an obligation. I don't know if this is because my songwriting is being dismissed more than before, or if its being subjugated, or whatever, but I'm not sure if I like the way it is moving forward. One project finding its feet again (and also losing its way a bit, but that's a personal opinion), one project on "hiatus" for some reason I'm not sure of, and another thats begun to circle in my head as a bigger possibility than before... not really what I'm looking for or what satisfies my sense of musical aesthetics.


Everything in pop culture, with the exception of the Colbert Report and Grant Morrison comics, has become boring to me. Hence lack of entries. Everything is cliche and uninteresting to me. I think I'm just being overwhelmed by the sameness of every day. But then again, I guess that's just how it goes at this point of my life. I'm too old to appreciate everything as new, but too young to really feel a genuine sense of nostalgia. Again, probably something for another post. Anyway, my thoughts on various things I've read/seen/heard should be forthcoming soon, probably after I spend my annual week at the shore. That'll recharge my batteries, I hope.

you are a constellation.

I realized tonight that I am horrible at keeping friends.

I make friends easily, as I'm an affable fellow who enjoys the company of intelligent people with worthwhile opinions, as well as those whom play music instruments, since I am rather proficient in three myself (guitar, bass, and my voice). But I have the damnedest time in keeping these relationships together, as I have the tendency to retreat into my own world, or get distracted by problems, or get torn between two different groups, and find that I am inadvertantly ignoring some and flat out pissing off others.

This is not intentional.

So, if anyone is reading this, and wonder why I didn't call, or didn't IM, or have had a hard time getting me to do something, its not because I don't want to. It's mostly because I don't want to upset anyone, so rather than shun one to the benefit of the other, I retreat from all.

I'm hoping my soon-to-be-purchased (in the next day or so) automobile helps alleviate this.

More on this eventually.
But probably not, because I'll be distracted by a shiny object and forget.

Don't let anyone tell you no.

I hate March.

Nothing good has ever happened to me in March. Additionally, an inordinately large amount of BAD things have happened to me in March. (One positive thing: one of my sisters was born in March; though on the same day, Reagan was shot and DIDN'T DIE.)

So forgive me for a smidge of pessimism, but nothing good comes of this month or anything associated with it. In fact, I wish St Patrick's Day wasn't in March, because then I wouldn't have to leave the house for any reason...

ANYWAY.

NextWave #2 came out today. It makes me warm and fuzzy inside. Yes, Warren Ellis is your new personal lord and savior; bring him cigarettes, booze, and whores.

My mind is too frazzled with the thoughts of impending doom from the coming month to concentrate on much of anything, so I'll write something more when I'm not feeling so apocalyptic.

I leave you with a random picture of Scarlett Johansson's breasts:

You're welcome.

give me a reason to end this discussion

I am the deaf and dumb and blind boy, sitting alone in front of a flickering screen, digitalia and half-tones bringing nothing but regrets and responsibilities unfulfilled. But then again, who knows more than me about promise undone and worn down by neglect and self-abuse? No one, that's who. Lets throw out the bathwater and keep the baby this time, and burn the bush and the bird contained therein. I am waiting for something to go right this time, and extending my thoughts in your direction, hoping you will hear me as you sleep. I am restless and wanton, full of indifference and disarmaments, tired of waiting to be tired. Blending into the background noise, looking for patterns in the white sounds and distortion patterns, this echo is repeating (repeating repeating), "TRUST ME, I know what I'm doing." I miss the ability to rhyme and reason my way out of everything and the situation bears repeating (repeating repeating). Call me stranger, call me lover, call me friend, call me any time, call me whatever you want. Just call. Down and out in south jersey and willing myself to wake up when there's really nothing to keep me anchored here, I float above the horizon and drift towards the sunset that has disappeared in the grey overcast afternoon and iced over tree limbs. The road tonight is cold with ice, so good night, sweetheart, good night.

I want there to be an answer, even though I haven't asked the question. I've left it as an ellipse, and with apologies to Zach Braff, an ellipse is no way to leave things. I am tired of metaphors and synonyms and similes and rhyme schemes and pipe dreams and flailing in the dark for the right thing to say and writing in code and pregnant pauses and silence that says more than any words and broken phone connections and not saying what I mean and not meaning what I say and not meaning anything and not saying anything and. endings. Endings are hard. "I'm waiting for something to go wrong" but I'm afraid I was never right and I'm not going to say anything because I'm just barely breathing as it is and I'm afraid of everything. Everything being different. Everything being the same. "Goodbye", "Hello", its all the same anymore to me. Kiss me goodnite, then erase me from your memory. If you want. If you want me.

Ohwellwhatevernevermind. What was I saying? I'm lost in a quarterlifecrisis. Lost in the mail. Lost in the mall. I could be lost in you, but "you" is a concept that I am not sure exists anymore, if it ever did. Besides, "you" could be nothing but an imagination that ran away with itself over the hills and into westampton. "Are you out there, do you hear me?" Do I still hate me? No. I've become accustomed to myself and all my inequities, and I am comfortable with who I am. I'm just not sure that I can last long in this forward moving time frame of existence. "What is the 4th dimension?" is my query and allegory and metaphorical statement of consciousness. I said forever. It got shorter. Goddamn you Zach Braff and Charlie Kaufman for defining my existence. "Fuck you, and your shortness of breath." That one's dedicated to a dud bomb. I'd call you. But I don't think you would answer. And I'm not sure what I'd ask. Held my breath, just then. Call me on it. Please. Won't "you"?
Oh well.
Whatever.
Nevermind.

Really, everything is fine.
Back to pop culture ranting normality in 3 and 2 and...

Return of the (not really a) Jedi.

My computer's harddrive went to sleep sometime around 3am on Tuesday and never woke up. We had a traditional Irish wake for it (ie. I got drunk and staggered around for awhile Tuesday night.)

BUT.

A new computer was purchased Wednesday evening. And if my last computer was Jesus, this one is Buddha, because its like 9000 times better. For a visual representation:

My old computer:
Grant Morrison on New X-men. Better than most things. A solid read, interesting ideas and takes on characters he didn't create, as well as some new ones which are cool too.

My New Computer:
Grant Morrison on The Invisibles. The nature of god and the universe and "life as a game" and anarchy and "You are on the Island" and quantum magic and chaos theory and "Eye youse thee enn emm eee" and fucking brilliance in a three volume series. One of my favorite things ever.

So you see how they compare now. Good. Moving on... I got a new camera/music phone. So I am techno-ed out right now.

In completely different news, Billy Corgan and Jimmy Chamberlain are apparently going to be reuniting and recording as the Smashing Pumpkins. And possibly performing. I don't know how I feel about that. The Pumpkins were my favorite band for a long time (only within the past 2 years have they been overthrown by Jets to Brazil, who are now firmly entrenched), and I'm more than a bit leery of an attempt by Billy to revive them, especially noting the abscence of James Iha. (D'arcy was crap anyway, so I could care less about whether she's in.) We'll see how this develops, I guess. Maybe it'll be good, I don't know.

So yeah. Quick hits: the State of the Union address was laughable, and yesterday Dubya asked for $120 billion more for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. You know the one in Iraq, right? the one we "won" in 2003? Yeah... anyway... moving on, The new Strokes album, First Impressions of Earth, is really good, much better than their older ones... I watched about half of Brokeback Mountain the other day, and it's not bad or anything, but it's friggin BORING and insanely overpraised... Grant Morrison is god... ummm... what else...

Oh yeah, Modest Mouse's Good News for People Who Love Bad News is a great album to listen to while driving around in 60 degree weather with the windows down.

That is all.

Info-dump.

Last night, while I was falling asleep masturbating to softcore on cinemax* listening to a Dane Cook cd, an idea came to me about what to write about today: Everyone has random thoughts, right? Just the completely bizarre stuff that you tend to obsess a bit about, and then forget until later. I know I do. So what I'm going to do is compile a list of the topics you'd Google if you had access to my head and wanted to know what the fuck has been running through my mind this week (other than its normal program of fear and loathing). So here we go!

• Eddie Izzard Sexie double cd. While not as consistently funny as Glorious or Dressed to Kill, and not as gleefully blasphemous as Circle (Blas-phe-my!!! Blas-phe-you!! Blas-phe-everybody in the room!!), Eddie's newest release is still one of the funnier things you will ever listen to that's from a modern stand-up. Sample line from the beginning of the show: "I had breast envy! I didn't have penis envy. I had penis nonchalance."

• Infinite Crisis. Driving home the point to me that I know way too much about DC comics history (both Pre- and Post-Crisis [the original]), especially since I never read DC when I was younger, and hardly read any non-Morrison DC now. But, on the whole, an enjoyable mini-series that seems to be getting the "universe threatening crossover!!!111!!1!!" thing right. (Unlike House of M, which was teh suck.) Superboy-Prime going ape-shit was pretty cool, actually.
  

• Harvey Danger Little by Little... album. I posted about this very briefly before, just to get the word out about it, but the Danger boys released their newest album as a free download on their website. I'd suggest downloading it, because it's an excellent slice of indie-rock and well worth your time. I've been listening to it pretty constantly on my iPod, Motherboxxx, especially while at work.
  

• Grant Morrison is the fucking man. Well, duh. Seven Soldiers, All-Star Superman, added atop his already impressive resume of THINGS THAT I LOVE? I am a manwhore for him, in a way your tiny non-5D brains can't even comprehend.

• NEXTWAVE Did I hype this up enough? FUCK NO. It's even funnier than I thought it was going to be. Deal with it.

• Hunter S Thompson. Still in the throes of my HST obssesion. Currently re-reading Fear and Loathing in America: The Gonzo Letters vol 2, and let me tell you: I am still in thrall to this man's writing. Sweet Jesus. Did I just say that? Can they hear me?
  

• Sin City. I enjoyed the hell out of this movie, easily my favorite of last year, and while I generally watch the whole thing (I have the Extended Special Edition DVD), there's one section which I love far and away more than the rest:Clive Owen as Dwight is so amazingly bad-ass. I don't have a DVD drive in my computer, otherwise I'd get a screencap of my favorite shot in the movie (him jumping down the manhole, both guns blazing downwards).

• Driving. Not really pop-culture related or anything, but I'm finding it disturbing how I just zone out when driving to work or class. I literally have no memory of driving these places, unless something unusual happens to make me remember. I get to both places on time, with no accidents or mishaps, but it still weirds me out that I can unconsciously do something as complicated (and let's face it, dangerous) as operating an automobile and not have any memory of it.

• More Driving. Has anyone else ever thought about what it would be like to swerve into the oncoming traffic, just to see what it would be like....? No, just me? Ok.

• Insomnia. It leads me to make things like this:Christopher Walken is your new personal lord and savior. He's also running for president. Vote for him. Or don't. It's your choice. But he'll swallow your soul if you don't.
  

• Anthropic Principle. Doctrine of quantum physics that states that one explanation for why the universe has the properties we observe is that, were the properties different, it is likely that life would not form and therefore we would not be here to observe the changes. Discuss.

• Monty Python's Flying Circus. I need to get the DVDs of the episodes, since I am wearing out my VHS tapes through constant watching. My favorite sketch EVER from the show is The Penguin Atop the Television Set. It is pure bizarre genius.

• I am old. Well, older. And while I have adjusted to this, every so often I get reminded of it, and I curse time and its chronological momentum. Damn you, minutes/hours/years! Damn you all to hell!

Ok, that was fun. I'll have to do this again sometime.


*Actually, it was Showtime.

I'm stuck in the middle, between what is and what might be

I do my best work creatively in the 3-4AM range, but I also end up weird and crazy because of it. This is the inherent conundrum in my artistic endeavors, and I think explains alot to my addled brain about why artists in general are tortured. They need something wrong with them in order to facilitate the existence of their work. Show me an artist who is not flawed, or broken in some way, or without faults, and I will show you a poseur.

I'm sorry, I forgot where I was going with this. I still can't sleep. And while I know I will regret this tomorrow when I attempt to awaken, I am still unable to force myself to sleep. And its not even as if I'm doing anything important. I am waiting for inspiration to hit me for my unfinished story, or for another one to begin. I am waiting for a lightning storm to knock out the power so I can sit in the complete silence that only comes in the abscence of humanity and all its trappings and bring clarity to my mistreated head. I am waiting for something to go right.

Still waiting.

Nope, didn't think so.

Still awake at the peak of exhaustion, nerves frazzled and raw from dealing with rampant stupidity on a daily basis and from answering questions that have no real answers, and full of piss and vinegar and extract of whiskey, I let all off the hook with one simple statement: "I'm ok." And truly, I am, nothing affects me nearly as much as it seems, but then again, when something truly DOES affect me, I don't let on. I keep it bottled up like nitroglycerine in the dark corner of my mind that doesn't allow light to escape, much less thought or feeling, until it expands and eventually explodes in bursts of creativity, or ambiguous rantings, or all-out stress anxiety attacks. I haven't had a full-on meltdown for awhile now, and I have been quite grateful for that. Work and play have not caused as much stress or anger, but lately its been increasing exponentially almost every day. Hypocrisy, shortsightedness, idiocy, rampant and blatant contempt: it's all been there, and more. All directed at yours truly, through no fault or deservingness of my own, only due to the fact that I happen to be the nearest target, and I make such a lovely target. Fire away boys, he can take it. Well, mister, I have two words for you: "Fuck" and "Off".

I'm hoping this wears off soon. I feel like I should be happier than I am, but I never seem to be. I am full of promises and regrets and indifference, but I want to at least feel something other than ennui and disappointment for once. "There's no consolation prize; there's no prize for consolation." Whatever. None of this makes any sense to me right now. I'm sure I'll delete this in the morning (afternoon; whenever I wake up). I just wish I knew what to do. I never do. Having direction would be nice for once, other than "vaguely downwards."