Archive for September, 2008

Politics? No thanks.

September 28, 2008

I made a decision when I finally (it only took like two years, right?) decided to get semi-serious about this here blog to not even bother or try to bother with politics again, not even the everlasting clusterfuck of corruption on Grant street here in Pittsburgh, as fun as that is. There’s better-equipped individuals already doing that.

That being said, and to clarify, I can write whatever the hell I want, ok? Get off my back.

But this comes up because of my crafty ole pops.

Exhibit Alpha:

Now if’n that isn’t the funniest political cartoonesque thing I’ve seen all week, I don’t know what is. Certainly not the whining, unfunny shit in every major city’s free weekly. I’m looking at you, Derf. The City.

Not funny. Irritating choir-preaching.

The exception, of course, is Get Your War On, as I have illumined before here, but Pittsburgh City Paper doesn’t get that. At least Savage Love is in there, explaining that inserting one’s testes into a partners orifice is perfectly acceptable sexual behavior.

So that’s that.

I watched the debate last night, and without going into it too much, our boy Obama needs to get a few more teeth in his head, cause good ol’ boy McShame has some razor sharp ones in his dentures. It was nice to hear that the “tie” came out for Obama, as far as the talking heads were saying, but I’d like to see just a little indignation. A little (more) accusation; the best moment was when Obama directly called out baldy for being wrong a numerous counts.

Thursday’s debate with Palin and Biden ought to be good, if only for the laughs I’ll get out of seeing a seasoned and grizzled DC dog run circles around Mz lipstick.


Bad Art and iPods

September 25, 2008

This last weekend, my best pal from highschool came to visit. As the host, I had a credible and decent agenda laid out. However, my lesser demons tend to get involved when I make plans, giving black eyes to anything with a halo. So the agenda got pretty much blown to hell.

The original plan was as follows:

-Shadyside Arts Festival
-Lunch in Shadyside
-Roller Derby Championship

I only managed three of the five. Ouch.

So my buddy gets lost on the turnpike (laugh all you want, but I did it at least three times back when I still drove) so that buys my hungover ass two extra hours of tequila induced nonsleep.

He shows up, I man up, we stroll up.

To Shadyside. I make him buy me a hotdog to keep both the physical and spiritual sickness at bay. I had forgotten what a lame fuckaround these kinds of things are. Thomas Kinkade would fit in perfectly. Almost the entire lot was shite art for idiots with too much money.

Perfect for Shadyside.

There were some really cool artists- a bronze sculptor, a few painters, one or two other sculptors, but you had to wade through series of tents filled with uninspired tripe. Most of the tents had manual credit card swipers ready. Imagine.

To perfect this sickeningly bourgeois experience, this one here knuckled under and replaced (and recycled for a 10% discount!) his long-dead five-year-old iRelic.

In the Apple store.

The moral of this story is that for all my grousing, I’m no better than the lilies of Shadyside, because I fucking need an iWant, dammit.

I just have better taste in art.

Not skill, there was a good bit of skill there, more so than my technical learnin’. But a shithouse is a shithouse, and I can manage some usable, albeit grimy receptacles.

I had fucked us by forgetting to buy Roller Derby tickets until the night before. They were of course, sold out. Congrats, Bitch Doctors!

So a meal was next. Back to Bloomfield, and Lot 17. I was thereby informed I had already taken my buddy there, so….Brillobox!

Closed? At like 5? Fuck.

Here’s where the lesser demons really got busy.

hey we can just go to the strip it’s totally not that far away

Dear lesser demons, the Strip is over twenty fucking blocks from that particular spot of hell-borne inspiration, you fucks. And my damn sandals gave me blisters.

So, great conversation, urban blight, and eventually Primanti’s. Then, for some reason, I’m all like, “Yo, fuck the 54c, I don’t even like that bus.” So we walk downtown.

We finally hit a 61 back to Oakland for Dave & Andy’s (dude, Strawberry Coconut!) and then walked back to my house, leaving us both wholly satisfied with a pretty packed afternoon and early evening.

Then we each bought a bottle of wine.

I recommend this to anyone:

The bottle is a magic trick! It disappears in a single gulp and you are magically invincible. It does not help yr pool game, however. As the neighbors made obvious. Then, wanting to show my pal how I roll when the night creeps into my veins, I demand we all go to Sonny’s. They told us it is haunted, and used to be a way-station on some old passenger train line. No shit. Some guy told me I should write horror poetry, but I was too chickenshit to tell him there’s not too much I could do to make it more horrible, haHA!

We finally came back into orbit, only to have me force my friend into the waiting arms of a neighbor for a salsa lesson. Perfect way to end an evening.

I awake Sunday, he drops me at work on his way back to the 216, leaving me with a compound hangover, a reaffirmed disgust for Shadyside, the hypocrisy of a shiny new iNeed and a half-finished painting from Friday night.

Shit, I’m not all mouth.


September 16, 2008

At the pretended behest of my roommate (he only casually asked, and I was actually being a bother when I answered him a few minutes later. He’s a very busy man), I endeavored just now to investigate what in hell my last name means. It is inexplicably German, while the lineage I distinctly know of is Scottish, Welsh, English, Czech, French and some other stuff.

Obviously, there’s German in there.

Those of you who read this regularly, know that I will readily lay claim to being American, especially because here’s my birthrights, as far as I know them:

+Caber Toss: admittedly awesome, but is instantly nullified along with anything else cool (like, say, generations of axe-wielding badasses) by
Golf: Fuck. This. Game.

=Golf anyone?

Fuck it, we still need a visual of awesome.

+Boudica: Amen, tell it on the mountain, a warrior queen.
Reality– Who the fuck is Welsh anyway? (Answer: The Manic Street Preachers)

=I guess I can deal with Welsh.

+Dude, more barbarians: I view the English as the historical precursors to the Americans, which a lot of people do, but I tend to go a bit further back. To cut it short, just like us, they’re descended from just about everyone, they killed everyone they could, formed a country, then killed more people and formed an empire. It’s not so much a plus per se, but it makes for a nice point of reference, and explains why we get along so well. Also probably why both countries do stupid things. Like not using metric. Or invading countries.
Wicked, Tricksy, False, Thieves: Contrary to popular belief structures, the English have had next to nothing to do with modern culture. Yes, I’m talking about punk rock. Yes, I’m talking about blues. Yes, I’m talking about rock and fucking roll. And while we’re at it, can I get a Wu?

(say Tang, or I’m gonna look real bad!)

They can keep Clapton, and we’ll trade all hair-metal for Ozzy, the only one who had anything to do with anything. Dance pop should have been over next week and everyone knows Radiohead is saving money to buy a modest island in the Arctic Ocean and start their own country (Damon Albarn can probably come too). Deal with it, and do not call my own musical tastes into question, I am making a point here.

=It’s a filthy toss-up.

+Kafka, thank you.
Ennh: As far as Wikipedia tells me, they eat lots of meat. Also, pointing with the index finger is considered rude, and I tend to use my pinky, huh.

=I can also deal with this, minus the kidney eating.

+Dial That Shit IN: Please, by all means, name as many Poets and Thinkers as possible.
Flag Collection: Ya’ll ain’t never gonna live Vichy down.

=The elevation of humanity is, in hindsight, a bit more relevant. I can deal.

+Dude, beer: Dude, beer. And I guess big daddy Nietzsche.
Oooky television: I think that’s obvious.

=Ennh. I could hang without it. N did go nuts, after all. I worry about that enough as it is.

I’m getting lost here, and I know I’ve missed some things. I think my sister explained it to me at some point. I must not have been listening. Oh well.

So, I’m lost, but then, oh shit! I done gots this flag hangin up above mah bookcase!

I’m not gonna do the chant. That’s for Republicans and morons.

So, in the end, this little experiment was good for drinking a beer and listening to Joanna Newsom, who is a faerie. And further shored up my own personal definition, where I cherry-pick the good stuff and then own up to the bad stuff. Like Republicans and morons. And those stubborn fucking Texans waiting for rescue. Obviously certain death doesn’t scare Texas.

But, like I said, those folks are, in some weird way, related to me.

Thanks, all you shallow-end-of-the-gene-pool morons, for making me increasingly an exception to some bizarre set of rules we have in this country.

And thanks Mom and Dad, for the incongruous fucking name. I should go back to my old plan and drop the middle and switch it to Danger. Then I will get all the ladies.

All of them.