List, to tilt to one side in a state of equilibrium. I love that word. What happens when your brain lists? Do you travel through life with an elephant man head -- wishing to succumb to cuckoo cuckoo, but never getting to escape the retard corporate hash? Ah, 2004, what does it bring? A great, growing, pulsating, and thirsting body of knowledge (BOK!). And jeez, look at the intellectuals with their sticky forks and high-powered cerebral vacuum machines. They're going to examine that BOK and make it bigger. You and I will just grow another year older, succumbing to the ever-expanding list of cable choices... Oh, there's justice, but it doesn't feel good. You'll find that no good feeling on a very clever recursive wheel, one that proves that the biggest boon to intellectualism is not to be intellectual at all... God forbid I start 2004 out on a complaint... Sans the preceding words, the simple pleasure of returning from my vacation and having my cats lick my bare, showered feet -- that's all I've ever intended to say.

Except in my eyes I didn't do anything wrong. Yeah but baby the self never does anything wrong. Yeah but baby I'm drunk and looking towards those altruistic means -- although nobody ever reads my blog. Yeah but baby you never promote your blog... Oh yeah, well, maybe I can hire the Old Spice marketing department. Think anyone ever returns a half-used deodorant stick for his $ back? Ah, flock that, yes, 23 not so long ago -- when all the time in the world was mine. It makes me think of that guy who said "I will not back down; I will not go quietly." Well, I can't think of his name, so he must have retreated a little, maybe even ended the world with a whimper. Flock it, might as well go quietly -- ride off into the sunset with unpunctuated sentences. But hey, if I was smarter than you I would have kicked your ass on the SATs -- would have morphed into Frank Zappa and obtained some ambassador status in a Checked Republic. Alas, no, I spell Czech like Check and some total verbose asshole writes the phrase "propitiatory lupanar" in the foreword to some Borges book. Propitiatory lupanar, my 23 year old, unpunctuated ass...

Artist: Jonas Hellborg & Shawn Lane & Jeff Sipe
Song: Rice With The Angels
Album: Personae
Year: 2002

Another Metro find: September 20th, 2003, 4:46 AM.

Hellborg, Lane, Sipe: better than aspirin, or butt rock? Roll down your windows and take from your car stereo everything it has, and don't tell me you wouldn't be slightly embarrassed having "Rice With The Angels" blaring from your car (ahh, Lawyers, Guns, and Money? how about Camaros, mullets, and AC/DC?). "Hey man, is that soil your pants rock? Well, turn it up!" Oh, but I'm not mocking it, this stuff is legit. Plus, you have to feel a bit sorry for musicians who probably never get a single woman go to their shows. In the Sex, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll equation, they are missing at least 1/3 of the variables, and that's such a tragedy for how good the melodies are. Lane's amphetamized jazz runs put Alvin and the Chipmunks to complete shame. Put the CD on repeat and bask in amazement as well as enjoy (oh my god oh my god oh my god).

[Update: I pulled this post down yesterday after I discovered that Lane had died only a few days after the first time I heard Personae... Yeah, I'm poking a bit of fun in the post, but there's a lot of respect there too.]

Last night, my cat Madison (cat #2, but cat number one at heart) left a big-ole #2 in the litter box. Like he often does with the stinky ones, he fails to cover it. The stench is pretty alarming, but I'm a bachelor, so I just sit in the stench and complain about it. Along comes Pascal, cat #1 (also number one at heart). He's also alarmed by the smell, but more alarmed that I'm not doing anything about it. Solution? Pascal goes into the litter box and covers up Madison's job. Now, that's brotherhood.

I think Nigel Tufnell wrestled with the same dilemma, but I think drugs have to come first. As for the other two, I think it comes down to being able to listen to "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" versus experiencing paradise by the dashboard lights. I think this is right, or it could be my pitcher-of-margaritas-n-cheeseburger-lunch that is doing the thinking.

I woke up today with full understanding of the hackneyed phrase "waiting for my ship to come in." I'm standing on the shore of that desert island -- the one where you get to listen to that one CD of choice for the rest of your life. My choice was Talk Talk's Laughing Stock, but, of course, someone forgot to give it to me upon my island arrival. So, I sit musicless and meaningless on a beach without rum and sunshine, waiting for sight of the masthead of purpose -- the provisions and sundries of fulfillment. I've got two choices on this island: sit and wait (for Godot or any other non-entity), or take a risk and swim for my ship and don't wait for the fucking thing. Oh, it's cool that God helps those who help themselves, but c'mon, these two choices are just long and short versions of the same suicide. Maybe I'll hit the Panacea Lotto straight on the head (or maybe the Club Med corp comes and buys me out). Then, I won't be depressed any longer -- I'll just be rich and depressed...

http://tqed.com/ -- a storage house for my writes and rewrites of different takes of the same depression.

Slipknot, GWAR, and Marilyn Manson, step a bit aside. You aiming for overt shock value? Oh so pedestrian. Twenty-five years ago Kizz was slapping this stuff on lunchboxes and selling it to seven year olds. There's some sort of (perverted) genius in there -- by the end of the 70s they were almost selling stuff under the guise of family fun. And oh what fun (a sampling of 6 songs from just one album):

This Wesley Clark guy might be a good thing:

I’ll Be Voting For Wesley Clark / Good-Bye Mr. Bush — by Michael Moore

In 1992 I threw my heart, soul, and Cheap Trick vibes behind Jerry Brown -- and what happens? His own flocking Democratic National Party railroads him in New York because they didn't think he was elect-able. I was crushed.

Although, I'll think about this Clark thing. Thinking...

Drunktion: a cross of drunk and function. Let's slap a definition on it and get it into oral circulation quickly.

I feel like a number.
Yeah, I feel like a number.
I feel like Fozzy Bear.

I feel like a joke.

Shalom Shalom.
Christ have mercy.
Lord have mercy.
Hare Krishna.
Buddha step on my shoes.

I feel like a joke.

When you are down and (obligatorily) out, imagine this: think of yourself playing a world wide game of Indian Poker, but everywhere you go, people have the two-of-clubs pasted to their foreheads. That's some guided imagery that has to make you smile...

Hey, if the ship is going down, let's all climb aboard to make it fun for everyone -- holey boats for all!

I'm wondering how well my three readers know the depths of igknowledge of "y'all can't all be wrong."

1) What is a nword? (hint: see the July Archives)

A) Like a noid but more of a nword.
B) Nonsensical new words that I make up when I'm too lazy to use real ones.
C) Short for NW ordinance -- like the stupid one we have for jaywalking in Seattle.
D) What's it to you flock face?

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2) What is the emoticon [e.g. :-)] for "up your nose with a rubber hose" (hint: see the August Archives). This question is fill in the blank.

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3) What is my favorite band in the category of bands-with-an-overabundance-of-pictures-hanging-in-middle-school-lockers-in-the-mid-1980s?

A) Winger
B) KIZZ
C) Quiet Riot
D) Bon Jovi

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4) What is a ycabw vic ferrari?

A) It's the license plate number on my car.
B) It's the name of a character from a failed Taxi spin-off that was called Airport Shuttle Service.
C) This one really isn't an answer, but you wouldn't believe how many people do a Google search on "how to spell ferrari?". You spell it F-E-R-R-A-R-I. As far people who are googling on "Who invented the ferrari," you are on your own.
D) It's a verbal paroxysm post, usually leaving the reader totally confused and reaching for his/her crash helmet.

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Extra Credit) What is your (as in you the reader, not me the author) favorite "y'all can't all be wrong" post?

Before I get to the prose -- let me humbly thank Mike, Natalie, and Jennifer for really encouraging comments on my last post. I know it's a little unfair pegging you as my three readers, but cock-crows-thrice, y'all-all commented in perfect sequence. I loved it...

Quote of the week for me is from the Phish song, "Farmhouse":

I spent ten summers on a farm and every year removed from it -- a little more and a little more of me dies. It would be a bad thing -- except at least I had those ten years.

!arrival? (c) 04/05/2000 tqb

there are certain days --
weaving in and out of fantasies that the
little men create in the head --
staring blankly only to simulate some
cross-legged-sitting guru who has
been all the way there and all the way back.
mr. yuck stickers on fast food sacks.
personal drugs in everyone's vanity.
speed marries acceleration --
certain spots. certain green spots;
the farm is one, Retzer Nature Center is another.
I will never get back because I will never let go.
patient & gentle...
what's the point in thinking too far out
if the return trail is unobtainable?

wanting everything. patience for nothing.

Gasp! Look mom, no hands nine fingers. Ah, choose your poison. We got words for fate you know. Yeah, we got words for fate and then we're going to use them, and then what happens?

Kevin Rowland said that Van Morrison said that Jackie Wilson said, "I'm in Heaven when you smile." And I am in Heaven when you smile -- I really am -- but now I'm feeling guilty for tacking on that "I really am" bit 'cause it might cause you to guess that I am reading The Catcher In The Rye. Is there a Salinger expert out there? Did he borrow the vernacular or did he invent it? So, Heaven. David Byrne said that Heaven is a place where nothing happens. I reference David Byrne a lot in my journals (I really do) -- and so where does that get us -- where do you want to go? Well, TQ says that David Byrne said that Heaven is place where nothing happens, and I'm sure that somewhere up there in Heaven Jackie Wilson is staring down at Van Morrison (ever think Van Halen and Van Morrison might consider a tour?) and staring down at Kevin Rowland and assuredly both Kevin and Van Morrison are smiling back. This Devil thing though -- it's got me down. And good Old Johnny Fiddler is a big old liar. This crap that he boasts:

I'm in the middle of the worst unpleasant fit that I've had in years and all I can think is that I'm a goddamn pussy... To (almost) make things worse I had to play a gig tonight -- the inaugural gig on my vbass (think lower-range guitar). Thank god things went well -- I feel like shit as is, but at least the music that was created tonight will give me enough spark to stumble through tomorrow. Music, however, is funny, and the gig could have easily been a flip-flop in the direction you don't want to go. And I think a bad performance would have dumped me in front of the Devil, naked, with nothing to say. As it is, I'm afraid to goto bed 'cause I'm afraid to get up. And I keep thinking, "goddamn pussy, goddamn pussy, goddamn pussy." I'll keep going though. Those damn Phoenix birds taught me a lot a few lives ago. Plus, every time I get drunk with Bernie Taupin he's telling me that if the Phoenix bird can fly, then so can I. I'll keep going too 'cause I can't wait to post some of the audio clips from tonight's show; and, I'll keep going because I am the number one result for a Google search on goddamn pussy (happy face). See, it ain't that bad. But, if you don't give a fuck, yep, then I don't give a fuck (but make mine flying please).

Also, since it probably wasn't read the first time around, how about a repost?

Is Arrival Here? [2003 September 10 @ 12:37 AM]
Is it under some rock that some philosopher might metaphorically turn over and talk about -- or -- actually turn over and then talk about metaphorically?

Man, you just can't escape personal retribution. I mean, depression is a very wide rake, it's an all-knowing god, it's a (Pixies) wave of mutilation, and it's (David Byrne) water at the bottom of the ocean.

Worse, depression is the sore loser -- that is it prefers to win. It prefers furtive introduction. It hangs with hangovers and detests the causal revelry.

So you punch it and punch it, 'cause that's the only way it subsides. You take a few punches; you take everything it's got, but you keep punching back. Patience, punches, and (if you need it) Prozac.

In the end depression rarefies. Tonight I ride on that 'cause tomorrow finds me happier.

Wednesday night's show at Mr. Spot's Chai House:

Neon Brown with Five and TQ - 2004-Jan-28

Five on the left, Four on the right, and the rest in between (metaphorically, of course).

More about the show in the preceding post (time not direction):

While waiting for life that sucks to die, why not listen to my favorite unsigned bands: TQ's Garage Band Playlist.