Conversation about weather is one of the greatest building blocks of small talk. It's a cliche of the highest order. But the recent shitstorm here in the lovely Constitution State has transcended the normal inane chatter about weather and brought about something more:
It's ruining the goddamn fucking summer! Today is Friday. I'm supposed to be antsy in my pantsy about today. I should be dreaming about frolicking on the beach and grilling in my backyard. But I look out the window at this dismal gray world and I can only muster sounds of supreme disappointment. Ugh. Sigh. Bleh. Fuck. I don't care that I'm at work. I should be bursting at the seams to backflip out the door and enjoy the weekend, but I'm lethargic and just don't care about anything.
I seriously can't remember any stretch of bullshit weather having lasted this long in my lifetime. I mean, it's depressing enough that Michael Jackson just bit it yesterday and the Knicks missed out on Rubio and Curry, but now I have to sit here and contemplate how much more it can rain before I'm driven to suicide. The answer? Let's say 4 days.
Already a pessimist about many things, I'm now forced to add sunshine to the list. Occasionally in this god-awful month-long marathon of misery, the sun would peek its shiny little stupid face out from behind the clouds. The people around me...family members, friends, co-workers...might feel some enthusiasm, but I know. I know what's coming. In twenty minutes it'll be darker and nastier than before and then it'll pour. It's cruel; it's unmerciful.
A few times in the beginning I fell for the sun's teasing bullshit. But now I'm like your dog when you overuse that fake-tennis-ball throw. Sure, I hauled ass to the other side of the yard the first time, but each time after that I reacted a little less to the point where now I just lie down and stare depressingly. Why tease me? Sure I pissed on the carpet a couple times...metaphorically and literally...but do I really deserve this? The weather has shackled and beaten my spirits like Kunta Kinte.
So hey: it might be cliche to talk about the weather, but this is different. I'm this close to building a fucking ark. God, if you're really up there, do something about this shit. Because it's summer, and it should feel like it. I want to lie in the yard and crave iced tea and have barbecues and be able to leave my windows open without it raining on my pillows.
Seattle, I don't know how you do it.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The RIAA is evil
Take a look at this.
It's a CNN article about a 32 year old mother who was taken to court by the RIAA. The court ordered her to pay 1.9 million dollars as punishment for the 24 songs she illegally downloaded.
Holy fucking shit. 24 songs, 1.9 MILLION dollars? There's a quote at the end from an RIAA spokesperson who's all chipper and pleased with the outcome. What the fuck ever happened to "may the punishment fit the crime?" How in the hell are the RIAA lawyers so good they convinced everyone that the cost of illegally downloading one song is eighty-fucking-thousand dollars? This shit is out of hand.
At the same time, Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns (former Patriot, but he sucked and was upstaged by Wes Welker) just received a thirty day jail sentence for a crime he recently committed. Ah, a month in jail; that's nothing. He must not have done much of anything. Ha. Or so you think. He drove drunk and killed a pedestrian. Now, that's the result from criminal court, I'm sure he'll be handing a nice chunk of change over to the victim's family in the end, but this to me is troubling.
A run-of-the-mill everyday woman downloads 24 songs and she now owes the RIAA more than a lot of people make in a lifetime. A pro football player gets hammered and ends a person's life, and we're talking about when he can play football again. What the fuck? The point really isn't to bitch about Stallworth's case, just show the juxtaposition between the two cases for shock/comedic value.
There really isn't much more to say...the inner anger you're rightly feeling should suffice. Let's go to the RIAA headquarters and burn that mother down. Stealing music is wrong, but so is extorting millions of dollars from laymen for 24 dollars worth of music. If a song is worth $80,000, then call me Bill fucking Gates' daddy. 3,401 songs on my iTunes at 80k a pop comes to $272,080,000. Who knew I was sitting on such a fucking cash cow? That's it, I'm taking early retirement. See y'all in the Hamptons.
It's a CNN article about a 32 year old mother who was taken to court by the RIAA. The court ordered her to pay 1.9 million dollars as punishment for the 24 songs she illegally downloaded.
Holy fucking shit. 24 songs, 1.9 MILLION dollars? There's a quote at the end from an RIAA spokesperson who's all chipper and pleased with the outcome. What the fuck ever happened to "may the punishment fit the crime?" How in the hell are the RIAA lawyers so good they convinced everyone that the cost of illegally downloading one song is eighty-fucking-thousand dollars? This shit is out of hand.
At the same time, Donte Stallworth, a wide receiver for the Cleveland Browns (former Patriot, but he sucked and was upstaged by Wes Welker) just received a thirty day jail sentence for a crime he recently committed. Ah, a month in jail; that's nothing. He must not have done much of anything. Ha. Or so you think. He drove drunk and killed a pedestrian. Now, that's the result from criminal court, I'm sure he'll be handing a nice chunk of change over to the victim's family in the end, but this to me is troubling.
A run-of-the-mill everyday woman downloads 24 songs and she now owes the RIAA more than a lot of people make in a lifetime. A pro football player gets hammered and ends a person's life, and we're talking about when he can play football again. What the fuck? The point really isn't to bitch about Stallworth's case, just show the juxtaposition between the two cases for shock/comedic value.
There really isn't much more to say...the inner anger you're rightly feeling should suffice. Let's go to the RIAA headquarters and burn that mother down. Stealing music is wrong, but so is extorting millions of dollars from laymen for 24 dollars worth of music. If a song is worth $80,000, then call me Bill fucking Gates' daddy. 3,401 songs on my iTunes at 80k a pop comes to $272,080,000. Who knew I was sitting on such a fucking cash cow? That's it, I'm taking early retirement. See y'all in the Hamptons.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Why do I spill everything I eat on my lap?
Moments ago, while enjoying a delicious lemonade popsicle (box calls it a Fruit Bar. That makes me feel better about myself) I shifted my gaze from the computer screen to my customary attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I just wrote about the emotional rewards of wearing this outfit. I swear. (Note: I'm not wearing slippers at the moment. The thing happened where I can plainly see one and the other one is God-knows-where, likely in some bizarre location like three feet under my bed, or outside).
My t-shirt was unscathed, at least according to my cursory glance. But it's a black shirt...something could have easily gone unnoticed. I quickly ran my hand over the surface to feel for a wet spot before refusing to examine this garment any further. Then, my focus shifted to the sweatpants.
Sigh. A veritable Jackson Pollock of rogue condiments and dripping Fruit Bars. It remains to be seen whether the Fruit Bar drippings will remain visible upon drying, but I think I like my odds on this one. The lemony drops of tongue-numbing goodness lack the viscosity of the usual suspects such as ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, and ranch dressing.
This picture of my washboard abs should shed some light on the issue.
But one question remains: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I eat like a normal person? I feel like the last kid to learn to tie his shoes. Is there some big secret that everyone else knows besides me? This epidemic of food spillage is causing catastrophic results. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Public ridicule
2. Premature washing of the pants
3. Premature washing of the shirt
4. The great debate as to whether or not to eat the piece of food that I dropped on myself
5. Permanent stains
Putting a napkin on my lap helps, but only slows the onslaught. The shirt is still fully exposed. It's like carrying a shield in battle. It's nice when you're deflecting blows to your arms and torso, but then someone stabs you in the face. The napkin and shield are both so often victims of poor strategic placement.
Indeed, my friends, it is a problem, but I do believe, one day, I will persevere. The ability to change and adapt is one of the things that makes us human. A stained garment is but a temporary affliction, and one which I will rise above.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a slipper to find.
My t-shirt was unscathed, at least according to my cursory glance. But it's a black shirt...something could have easily gone unnoticed. I quickly ran my hand over the surface to feel for a wet spot before refusing to examine this garment any further. Then, my focus shifted to the sweatpants.
Sigh. A veritable Jackson Pollock of rogue condiments and dripping Fruit Bars. It remains to be seen whether the Fruit Bar drippings will remain visible upon drying, but I think I like my odds on this one. The lemony drops of tongue-numbing goodness lack the viscosity of the usual suspects such as ketchup, hot sauce, salsa, and ranch dressing.
This picture of my washboard abs should shed some light on the issue.
But one question remains: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I eat like a normal person? I feel like the last kid to learn to tie his shoes. Is there some big secret that everyone else knows besides me? This epidemic of food spillage is causing catastrophic results. They include, but are not limited to:
1. Public ridicule
2. Premature washing of the pants
3. Premature washing of the shirt
4. The great debate as to whether or not to eat the piece of food that I dropped on myself
5. Permanent stains
Putting a napkin on my lap helps, but only slows the onslaught. The shirt is still fully exposed. It's like carrying a shield in battle. It's nice when you're deflecting blows to your arms and torso, but then someone stabs you in the face. The napkin and shield are both so often victims of poor strategic placement.
Indeed, my friends, it is a problem, but I do believe, one day, I will persevere. The ability to change and adapt is one of the things that makes us human. A stained garment is but a temporary affliction, and one which I will rise above.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a slipper to find.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Why don't we have drinking songs?
It's been a while. I'm working now, and I'm spending 8 hours a day writing. Suffice to say, my current situation decreases the desirability of writing as an activity. You know, it's like being a chef and then coming home and deciding you're just going to whip up a souffle and some steak tartare just for the hell of it. Fuck that, you know that chef is headed right for the Stouffer's.
So, for a while at least, entries might be a little few and far between, but I promise I'll try super super hard when I write. Pinky swear.
Why don't we have drinking songs?
This is bullshit. Ireland has drinking songs, England has drinking songs, Germany has drinking songs (I think...), where are ours? Was this a Revolutionary War era thing? Did Americans, upon fleeing Europe, decide to drop drinking songs as a break from the homeland? Whatever the case, I motion to start some up. Drinking is jolly and social, you're bound to throw your arm around a pal or two. You're already in position. What's wrong with swinging a frothy mug full of beer back and forth in time with a frolicking song about drinking in the fuckin' U.S. of A?
Drinking songs are unique because they are the only songs in history besides Biz Markie's "Just a Friend" in which they have to be sung drastically out of tune to be sung properly. If you sound coherent, you need to consult your beer. Several times in a row. But that's the appeal of it all. It's all about having a good time. Just like Hungry Hungry Hippos.
The problem is, I think we've missed our window. The Irish and English drinking songs (obviously, the gold standard for drinking songs) are old fashioned and rustic. Americans wouldn't be able to come up with something comparable this late in the game. Any drinking song we came up with at this point would sound forced and embarrassingly bad. I'm sure it would involve synths and distorted pop vocals. Fuck this country.
I mean, imagine trying to write something like "Row, Row, Row your boat" these days. Dammit, a charming jingle like that wouldn't survive in this petulant musical climate. It's the fact that it's been around seemingly forever that gives it its charm. We know it's silly, we know it's bafflingly inane, but that's why it's great. Maybe we should all get drunk and sing that. Hmmm...
That's it. There is no resolution. Many of my complaining posts cover a possible solution to the problems of the world, but this is one in which I've pretty much got nothing. It's just unfortunate. I want a drinking song, and I'm not welcome in foreign ones because it's a national pride thing. So while the damn Europeans sway to and fro to the rousing anthems of their forefathers, I'll cringe as drunk girls screech "Don't Stop Believing" again, and again, and again.
Fuck you and the metric system, Europe!
So, for a while at least, entries might be a little few and far between, but I promise I'll try super super hard when I write. Pinky swear.
Why don't we have drinking songs?
This is bullshit. Ireland has drinking songs, England has drinking songs, Germany has drinking songs (I think...), where are ours? Was this a Revolutionary War era thing? Did Americans, upon fleeing Europe, decide to drop drinking songs as a break from the homeland? Whatever the case, I motion to start some up. Drinking is jolly and social, you're bound to throw your arm around a pal or two. You're already in position. What's wrong with swinging a frothy mug full of beer back and forth in time with a frolicking song about drinking in the fuckin' U.S. of A?
Drinking songs are unique because they are the only songs in history besides Biz Markie's "Just a Friend" in which they have to be sung drastically out of tune to be sung properly. If you sound coherent, you need to consult your beer. Several times in a row. But that's the appeal of it all. It's all about having a good time. Just like Hungry Hungry Hippos.
The problem is, I think we've missed our window. The Irish and English drinking songs (obviously, the gold standard for drinking songs) are old fashioned and rustic. Americans wouldn't be able to come up with something comparable this late in the game. Any drinking song we came up with at this point would sound forced and embarrassingly bad. I'm sure it would involve synths and distorted pop vocals. Fuck this country.
I mean, imagine trying to write something like "Row, Row, Row your boat" these days. Dammit, a charming jingle like that wouldn't survive in this petulant musical climate. It's the fact that it's been around seemingly forever that gives it its charm. We know it's silly, we know it's bafflingly inane, but that's why it's great. Maybe we should all get drunk and sing that. Hmmm...
That's it. There is no resolution. Many of my complaining posts cover a possible solution to the problems of the world, but this is one in which I've pretty much got nothing. It's just unfortunate. I want a drinking song, and I'm not welcome in foreign ones because it's a national pride thing. So while the damn Europeans sway to and fro to the rousing anthems of their forefathers, I'll cringe as drunk girls screech "Don't Stop Believing" again, and again, and again.
Fuck you and the metric system, Europe!
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