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All I know is that I don't know nuthin'.
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Sunday, December 14, 2008
It's been awhile since I last blogged. I mean, legitimately blogged. Hard-core BLOGGED. Just opened up my head and vomited out all the bad noise, the bad blood, the hopes and fears, the laughs and tears, the junks and rears.
And, I apologize.
I apologize for many, many things.
First of all, I apologize for writing like Alcoholic Lange-Kubick. I am truly sorry for writing in sentence fragments. I know that I am better than that. I apologize for writing like I think. I apologize for speaking with poor grammar. In my defense, however, I am not surrounded by the New Brahmans. My work environment isn't exactly conducive to... well, however the fuck those guys spoke.
Secondly, I apologize for not having blogged. I work, on average, 12 hours a day as a waiter. After work, I want to relax. By "relax", I mean "drink several beers". By "drink several beers", I mean "Wow. I need to go home and pass out."
This is not conducive to writing. Unless you're Ernest Hemingway. Or, when mixed with amphetamines, Jack Kerouac. I am neither. I don't have that sort of talent, drive, or addiction.
(BTW: "Lover's Rock" by The Clash could be covered by Ween without anyone batting an eye.)
Thirdly, I apologize for not leading that interesting of a life of late. "Yeah, fucker. The life of a small-market radio DJ with no skill in softball was SO engrossing," you're thinking (if you've been with me from the beginning, that is. If you haven't, I invite you to read my archives which include such bits as: "I suck at softball", "I am bored and lonely", "I think I am a disappointment to everyone" and, everyone's favorite, "Why don't girls like me?").
SO, that out of the way, here's this update. I don't know if I'm dropping science on y'all, I don't know if you care, hell, I don't even know if anyone apart from Dav is even reading this. (Thank you, Dav. Knowing that someone periodically checks this shit out does mean a lot.)
I am tired. In nearly every sense of the word. Physically, mentally and emotionally.
(True story: I answered the phone one day. I'd been working 14-hour days for around 6 weeks. The co-owner of the restaurant asks how I'm doing. I reply that I'm tired. She asks, "Why?")
I am tired. I can not trust my memories because there is cross-talk between my dreams and reality. I know for a fact that DoubleWide, the acapella octet I was in in college was not in the hallway at the Ed Sullivan Theatre waiting for a cue to perform during the commercial break of "The Late Show with David Letterman", but, I remember it happening.
I am tired. I wait tables. I am OK at it. I make decent money. But, every day is exactly the same. I show up, I set up, I do my thing, I set up, I do my thing, I go to the bar, I come home, I lather, I rinse, and I repeat.
I am tired. Several weeks or months ago, (and, honestly, it's tough to tell sometimes) I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. A million-dollar idea.
I had found a way for people to have their privacy invaded, like it, and pay money for the privilege.
One of my favorite books of all time is 1984 by George Orwell. I can't rightly explain why, except that the textural details of the book always stood out for me. The dull razors, the metallic gin, the overcast sky (would it be the color of a TV tuned to a dead station? I think that it would be.) The "branding" of the book is absolutely phenomenal. Orwell's skill at drawing you into the world, the "immersion" that the book presents always struck me. It, along with Flowers for Algernon, is one of the books that I was compelled to liberate from my Junior High.
My million-dollar idea was this: Victory Bars. All of the alcohol would be Victory brand. Victory Gin. Victory Bourbon. Victory Beer. Everything would be slightly greasy. The atmosphere would be drama-free, but slightly uncomfortable. The bartender would give you booze, but not conversation. The customers would be aloof. And then, you would get a text message.
"Look straight ahead."
"Go to the bathroom, NOW."
"Order a top-shelf gin and tonic."
Why on earth would you get a text message like that? Because, in the backbar, there are White Hat crackers/hackers/phreaks who have opened up your cell phone.
By performing the action you were texted, you give tacit agreement to participate in the ARG that Victory Bars, a subsidiary of JohnnyCorp, is hosting. The bar customers? Many of them are plants. Actors, playing a role. The "police"? Same thing. The bartender? He/she would be the GM/DM. The one calling the shots, finding the "marks" who might be interested in playing, who might want to pretend they are part of an underground resistance movement against a totalitarian government.
This plan would work for a week, tops.
And, this, ladies and gentlemen, is what being tired results in: really dumb ideas that sound good until you take a nap.
Comments by: YACCS