I love it when somebody slips you a piece of wit and you laugh your ass off when you finally get it two months later. Verbal dancing -- brilliant... Masters of wit, oh you move me, you shake me. You are my -- Thriller! Thriller yeah! Bah do-do-do-dow dunt; Bah do-do-do-dow dunt; Oh my god, think like you're on methamphetamine and speak like you're on weed. I think I read that in the Bible somewhere -- some "Today's New Word" version, or something like that.

I realize that the cup of ycabw often runneth over in negativisticalismal content, and I just don't want to give the world the wrong idea -- don't take my cynicism and depressing words to heart. I really don't use pencils to stab holes in paper to make them both worthless. I'm just a South-Going-Zax stuck too far north, but when the final count comes in, rest-assured, I'll be slicing through champagne bottles with substantially long machetes. There's a party in my head (David Byrne) -- y'all-all just haven't seen it yet. Y'all can't all be wrong. QED. (t)QED! Anybody still with me?

So, to avoid being classified as a cynical blog, my next 7 posts (at least 7) will avoid any sort of cynicismicalationism and will focus on why life (the freakazoidalational thing that it is) is so great. But, I need one last bite of angst before I commence a-merrily:

Oh, I'll see you on the Styx my friend.
Yeah, my friend, we'll drown on the Lethe,
So sad to say goodbye.

God, I fuggin love that (I wrote it nearly a year ago). But hey, smilelys for all :-) [with or without the rubber hose :-~) ]... On the first day of happiness my Prozac gave to me: I give them props all the time, but picklejuice and being jennifer garrett have been two great joys in my life over the last six months. They are really the only two blogs that I read every day, but it's cool and their words keep me motivated and feeling Willy Wonka-ily. They've even influenced the way I write as that little "ily" demonstrates. Rock on.

Due to budget cuts, the Seattle Public Library system will close for a week in March. Lovely. Let me reiterate. I'm an American; I love paying taxes. Why? Because I like things like libraries that stay open, and stop signs, and safe roads, and museums, and power that stays on, and all that stuff that the tax system provides us, but never gets credit for. But soon we'll have the best non-working missile defense system in the world, so I shouldn't feel so bad. Oh, but wait. Prozac battles back. There's bright side here and it's called the first Tuesday in November. That's right Mr. Bush, your day in the sun is over -- regardless that it never legitimately began. I can't speak for Middle America, but here in Seattle, zeitgeist has plunged and it precipitated largely upon the election you stole and your undiplomatic, un-intellectual, and unapologetic attitude. I can't blame you, you probably had a terrible father; you probably never got the love you needed; you probably heard things like, "son, read my lips, you'll never amount to anything." So, I don't fault you for your incompetence, but, unfortunately, you are responsible for 275 million people and you haven't a clue and it's time for you to step aside. You won your family's game of capture the flag with Saddam -- now go back to your Rangers and Lone Star state and leave the rest of us to salvage zeitgeist and look to re-polish our dismal looking economic and social future. And please, for everyone's sake, stop passing the buck. The buck stops at you -- you are CEO. CEO means that you have ultimate responsibility. Also, you might want to investigate a man by the name of Richard Nixon. He had a job similar to yours and he also did a lot of finger pointing. You might be interested in the outcome of his finger pointing. Of course, history forgave Nixon, and history will probably forgive you, and that's OK too. I forgive you; just get the hell out of my way.

No, Jen, I am not on Prozac. I tried it once, but I didn't swallow and I didn't like it and I never did it again. It's ycabw that is on the Prozac. But I love your comment, "life-sucks-and-you-know-it-but-you're-too-chicken-to-admit-it-ness." Beautiful... Unfortunately, it is a sad day for me. Sad for various reasons that might get posted in my subtext sometime this weekend. Until then, and continuing on the Prozac groove, I recall my first (in time) blog post, SOTW Vol 1: Hindsight Emetic. Maybe the reader missed it, but I mention planting a garden at the end of that post. I love the cyclic nature of gardens. I love the peace that a flowering plant emits. I am the world's crappiest gardener, but every Spring, there I am, seeds in hand, hoping somehow to make a return connection to the earth. It could derive from my ten summers on the farm, but the connection to the land is instant solace for me.

Thank you (pronoun paraphrased) Joni Mitchell

OK, the picture is a repost -- just deal. The one on the left down there is Pascal. The other one is Madison. Pascal has pretty much stuck with his name, but Madison vacillates among Madison and Madtown and Mister (although Pascal won't complain if you call him Mister). Madison -- although comfortable with his sexuality (which has been neuter since he was six months old -- are you following the pronoun paradox?) -- has never been too keen on having a girl's name. I tell him that he's named after a cool town, but he never buys it. Then, when he's really fuming, he not only resigns himself from his name, he also disowns the Abyssinian breed altogether. This is a cool thing too, 'cause it's humorous watching an Abyssinian cat act all regular-old-housecat -- especially when his brother prances around the house looking like he's won more than a few cat shows. Anyway, to the point sans segues or fluidity (called writing when I should be doing other things), Madison got a new name today: Heartbreaker. He's got it down man -- the perfectly timed meow (he never talked for 1.5 years too!), the perfectly raised paw, the perfectly sad twinkle in his golden eyes. This cat is a master in psychology -- I almost took the day off of work just to keep him company. And, all of this just because he loves me -- or was it that his food bowl was empty?

minions, monions, funions, funyuns. nword.

It's funny when the second you warn someone about the dangers of hubris -- hubris itself sneaks in the backdoor and pulls down your pants. "Hi, my name is TQ and I'm standing before you with my pants down to my ankles 'cause I have a rockstar ego and a Ghandi heart..."

Eyah. I meant to type yeah. Then, I realized that eyah has equal, if not better conveyance of the feeling I was trying to transcribe.

Here's a phrase I came up with last week -- incited by a couple of long muses about my crazy bouts with unemployment: good enough for desperation.

Then, I thought, "hey, why not turn it into a song?"

Well, it's good enough for desperation,
But I'm a little bit better than that.

Then I opened a beer and gave up.

You know how flight attendants tell you that your seat cushion can be used as a personal floatation device?

Well, I tested that out the other day, and when I picked up the seat in an attempt to wear it as a life-jacket, I found a note attached to the bottom that said, "dude, you're screwed."

My life when on fire goes to Hollywood. My life when snuffed out goes to hell. The choice is yours; choose wisely. Go figure fish.

Alternative title for this post: Take A Chthonian Dive Dr. Greenspan.

This is probably the best musical performance of my life (download mp3 ~7 MB) and somebody caught the thing on tape. Howz that for Friday-the-13th payback? God, even if you don't believe in Numerology, it still bites you in the ass. Anyway, I'm playing my new v-bass on the recording (melody for the first 3/4ths of the piece and bass for the last 1/4th). Andrew is doing bass and then melody on his stick-thingy. Adrian is doing the drums, and Five is creating the most brilliant noise that I have heard in my life. Listen carefully for the point in time where Andrew and I switch on bass, 'cause it's subtle and cool. You can find more of Adrian and Andrew at neonbrown.com and more of Five at piratemusic.tv, brilliant minds, indeed. Also, more clips from the performance can be found on the Jam-Of-The-Week site.

Not that an Aryan Nation is even close to a good idea, but I kick back in my imaginary recliner and wonder if our insatiable zeal for differentiation is the cause of all our ills...

I don't want to go off on a rant here, but Dennis-Miller-parading-as-a-Republican just doesn't make (any-no-god-damned) sense. Where I'm from, if you drink beer, you fart, and if you drink a lot of beer you get a top-fed, 8-hour-delayed enema. Dennis, c'mon baby, you're drinking beer and not even farting. What, are you a guy on a first-date or a chick-in-denial? C'mon man, let that thing go (or in your terms -- don't be like Nixon after the tapes were discovered -- extricate your impeded bowels and let your flatulence dissipate)... No idea why I broach Dennis Miller...

I just had this revelation that Statler and Waldorf are really who God is. Why didn't I think of that before? Now life makes sense.

Blogs are just another manifestation that people like to talk but don't like to listen. Do something useful today, go look up humble in the dictionary -- I'll do the same.

Shh... Subtext gets its own spot (with comments too).

Here are some y'all can't all be wrong quotes from last summer. Y'all-all can't really be wrong; you really can't.

"Life was better when people used a barrel instead of an SUV to precipitate their crappy lives over a dam into fifteen minutes of media coverage that they'd never get to see."

"It feels good knowing that humans can escape environments that run counter to the health and philosophy of their individualism."

"Legit art just takes your underwear and hangs it high in a tree."

"First, apparently life is going to suck. Second, apparently you're going to die."

"Try it without a fucking editor, you know?"

"If jaywalking tickets exist to alleviate budget woes, then I would rather have the city hand out random-$40-we-need-a-little-budget-help tickets."

"I'm just trying to say tah-tonka -- making horns on my head with my fingers. But y'all keep saying platypus or orangutan, which is pee-in-the-pants-frustratingly-off-base."

"Abjure the intellectual ego builders, those who punish the stupid to push their pride."

"I don't like verbal nouns: standing, squatting, picking, plucking, dicking, ducking. Make up your mind -- one side or the other."

"Modern communication sucks. People can't turn words into meaning and that hurts the thinkers. In turn the thinkers tip the bottle hard -- inebriated congruence."

***

The title of this post was inspired by a line in picklejuice's Feb 11th post: "I bet Noah was the first person to say, "Hey, it tastes just like chicken!". That's why we don't have any unicorns." God, that's brilliant.

In response to fly-over country boy's comment, the post that he was looking for was Arff (It's all very frustrating; It's all very sick). I didn't know if people got that one. Alas, even the zeppelin-over-Wisconsin boy did. Arff...........Arff-Arff.

Fact: Nearly 2.8 million factory jobs have been lost since Bush took office and the issue looms large ahead of November's vote.

Statement: Bush seized on NuAir's hopes to hire 40 more workers this year. "Forty workers here, five workers there, begin to add up," he said.

Let's see: 40 + 5 - 2,800,000 = -2,799,955 = !holyeconomicrecovery

Bush's campaign slogan should read, "if you like vacation, vote for Bush."

Enervated, incapacitated, stepped to the plate and bunted. But y'all don't want to hear a wallow. Hurt is life's truism that's worse than blush. You don't want to hear and I don't want to tell you, but think of this: In ABC's "thrill-of-victory/agony-of-defeat" thing, which imagery can you recall, victory or defeat?

***

Deep Water

When you need a place to live and no one understands you
And all you want to do
Is to cry out loud
But you don't know how
No way no one
No one understands
The hand that strikes
When just a touch of love is all the problem needed
And when you hurt someone so much that still they die loving you
And all you want to do
Is to cry out loud
But you don't know how
Jade
A shade of pain and then we die

-- Seal 1991

The worst kind of hell is the hell you can't see. -- tqb circa early 2002

Heaven (5.07 MB -- a place where nothing ever happens).

Taken from pickle juice:

"Intellectual analysis is bullshit 'cause then you get cancer and the shit that's important is so far behind it's... well, it's so far behind... " -- tqb 2000-04-12 in an email to Lesley Davidson

Burning A Hole (5.07 MB) 1997 Unbelievable Jolly Machine

I wonder how frequently bathroom stalls console people when they cry. Pathos. Tears are not made for a small smelly room with a toilet.

The emotion that destroys me most is regret mixed with envy. Perhaps the feeling is called engret (regvy?), but when those two fuse and party-down in my physiology, it's spilled-milk portending the end of the world...

A few weeks ago I was eating dinner with a friend at the Spar cafe in Olympia. Hanging on the walls inside the cafe are old black & white photographs of ostensibly the original wait staff. I pondered the faces and wondered how many of them relied on the photographs as their final legacy: no family, no posterity, no tombstone, just a lonely picture without a caption in a tiny cafe. It saddened me. Today, I found that emotion and sadness in a song (and somehow it makes me feel better):

And it sounds like this: A Good Dream (6.02 MB) God Street Wine

Note to bachelor self: running out of toothpaste is not the same as running out of underwear. It's really difficult to use the toothpaste that you used earlier in the week...

Ladies first when exiting an elevator: it's just another cheap excuse for guys to look at a woman's ass. So, don't hate me when I exit before y'all. I'm just not stooping...

We're going to party like it's 1999.

I went to my first and last estate sale on Saturday. Talk about a serious invasion on someone's private death. No way was I going to buy anything. The smell of death pervaded everything, and in certain spots where it was heaviest, I was expecting it to morph into some sort of slime-me-Ghostbusters-ghoul. But even if the stench didn't morph, it assuredly decreed that if you bought anything you would have been better off breaking a mirror with an open umbrella on Friday-the-13th under a ladder in front of a black cat and on a sidewalk crack (but inside somewhere so that the umbrella clause would apply). Does anybody ever think that buying something from an estate sale is an invitation to a lifelong curse? -- and all because you thought you needed that dumb-old iron.

Forget the curses, I could never again subject myself to the manifestation of someone's very slow death: the kitchen full of rusted soup cans and stale crackers, the basement full of busted dreams, and the never-used dining room full of loneliness and want. I don't care how good-of-deal, or how good-a-find something is. If it was purchased at an estate sale, I can only think of it as a symbol of soul stomping.

And now for something completely different: I heard Robyn's Show Me Love (3.5 MB) at the Sonics' game last Thursday. I picked that song up from the movie Fucking Åmål (or at least, I think I did)[alt link]. I'm such as sucker for sickly pop like that. But, what the hell, it's a feel good song and a feel good movie.

Maybe the Bush family should consider making headcheese.

When I was nine, my twelve year old friend explained to me that I could be one of three types of people: freaks, jocks, or hippies. The lesson never got lost on me -- except I wanted to listen the music of hippies, be healthy like a jock, and I wanted to think like a freak. I wanted to be all three at once. It's a burden, but for those who need to interact with me, I hope it explains a few things.

Nobody Else Can Save You
1. Admit you are a Socialist.
2. Be willing to turn from humanitarianism (repent).
3. Believe that Capitalism made sacrifices for you, was threatened by Communism but rose from the dead.
4. Through prayer and servility, invite the Free Market into your country to become your economic savior.

What To Pray
Dear Alan Greenspan, thank you for showing me what you think about Socialism, I also reject it! I accept the Free Market's sacrifice as perfect and complete. Please forgive me in Capitalism's name. I invite Capitalism to come into my country and I place my trust in the Free Market alone for my country's salvation. Thank you for giving me eternal greed right now.

If I were the CEO of Ex-Lax I would sue McDonald's for trade-secret infringement.

If I were the CEO of Imodium, I would also sue McDonald's for trade-secret infringement. Holy (no) shit.

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