The Gayest Song I Love

Short entry today, I'm going to expend my creative energy on another Pomp Culture article (if you missed my last one regarding Iron Maiden's supremacy to the United Nations, by all means check it out here). And I need to once again make the disclaimer that I am not disparaging the gay community at all in this entry, as regular readers will know that It'd look like I was throwing stones from a glass (bath)house.

Anyway, like most people who commute on public transportation, I listen to music on headphones. An iPod nano to be exact, partly because I am attempting to transform, butterfly-like from post-punk hipster to yuppie sleazebag, but mainly because none of the Zunes I keep in a bucket by my front door seem to be working at present.

Like many who make the Geek "lifestyle choice," I often succumb to an axiom that my friend Susan and I uncovered more than a decade ago (note I am using Courier, the Official Font of Logical Verities):

"To the untrained eye, the line between a
well-groomed geek and a gay man is indistinguishable."

(Cf. Sweatervests, designer nerd glasses, unseemly public excitability, the inability to throw a 10-6 curve)

Yeah, I come off pretty darn queer at times. Over 15 years in theatre-with-an-"re" has not helped this, either. Or the fact that I spent Sunday night in a gay bar (my girlfriend was singing in a band, Your Honor!). Or that, in between songs, I actually overheard someone in that bar say "An honest to God GLORY HOLE. I shit you not!" with a lisp that rivalled Buddy Cole.

Anyway, as I rode in today, after I wrapped up listening to Kraftwerk's Trans-Europe Express (Note: believe it or not, that's NOT the source of the gayest song. And a day where Kraftwerk is the most macho music I have listened to so far is already red-letter), I decided to listen to the Associates collection I recently acquired.

Not to be excused with The Association (of "Along Comes Mary," "Cherish," and "Windy" fame), the Associates was a two-man Scottish band that had minor success in the early 1980s (mostly in the UK) in the height of the New Romantic movement (sorry Djakarta: no pics of Adam Ant this time). It consisted of a multi-instrumentalist (Alan Rankine) and a vocalist (the late Billy Mackenzie).

The song in question is, first and foremost, a cover of an exceptionally gay song: Diana Ross's "Love Hangover" (which happened to be the #1 song the day I was born). One might think that would be hard to top. One would be right. But that one has not heard the Associates.

Musically, the Associates, at least during the early period I'm moderately familiar with, had a sound that ranged from minimalist post-punk to Duran Duran-esque New Wave pop. And the music of this particular song is actually a pretty cool post-punk-white-funk that reminds me of Remain in Light-era Talking Heads with a more jangly lead guitar.

And the resemblence doesn't end there. At first Mackenzie's voice sounds very much like David Byrne. Very much so. Until he belts a series of ridiculously sweeping falsetto yells, laden with vibrato. Add in some ridiculously cheesy female backing vocals, and the picture is complete. This song is, well, gay...

This is a song that ran away from home at 17 to go to New York to become a dancer, stays in touch with it's mother, but hasn't spoken to its father in 10 years. This is a song that wears men's capris and clogs when it shops at Treasure Island. This is a song that owns the Director's Cut of Moulin Rouge. This is a song that the average Pet Shop Boys fan would eschew as "a little too queer for me."

And this is a song I think is awesome. This is a song that I have already played 3 times today, at the expense of listening to the rest of the album, which I haven't heard.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't find a gayer song if I looked through my girlfriends collection of showtunes and asked Clay Aiken to cover the gayest one I found. I dare anyone to find a gayer song, in fact--

Oh, wait...I'm finally listening to the rest of the album, and a cover of "Heart of Glass" just came on. Wow.

You win again, Associates.

Wolter's Face Held Hostage - Day 7

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Beard¹

So, regular readers of this blog² are probably aware that I'm in a play. I'm not going to complain about it here, as I think the flavor of how it's going can be found here and here.

I do want to point out that I am Super Not-Jewish. Like hilariously Goyish. I eat more pork and shellfish than anyone I know. I buy everything retail. And I've never sent a meal back at a restaurant in my life.³ And I've been asked to play a hasidic Jewish Satan.⁴

I assumed that that meant I would have a false beard in the show, which opened last Friday and prompted a Minor Binge Event. However, last Wednesday I discovered that the false beard was a no-go. So, I decided on the spur of the moment to grow a real one for the show. The show that opened in two days...

Needless to say, I didn't have one for the opening weekend. Which is where I squarely place the blame for my uninspired performance. I looked less like a dedicated yeshiva student studying the mysteries of the Torah, and more like someone who just bought The Miami Device⁵ And the white clothes did nothing to ameliorate things.

Of course, I am 32 years old, so I'm able to ALMOST grow a grownup beard. An itchy, hateful, Billy-Maysesque⁶ grownup beard. This marks the second time in three years that I have grown facial lameness for a play.⁷ The last time this travesty occurred I looked like a chubby James Brolin, circa Amityville Horror. And somehow, this time, I VOLUNTEERED myself for this hell.

A brief open letter to the Vice reading hipsters that might have stumbled onto this page looking for tight jeans to mail order (the rest of you can skip ahead a few sentences): ironic facial hair is not cool. Please shave. I would if I could.⁸

Okay, I'm back.

Another aspect of the beard that is annoying me is that I'm getting a couple of big white patches in the beard. My Advancing Age doesn't bother me altogether that much. I have no problem with the gray hairs in and of themselves. However, I have no desire to look in the mirror and be reminded of Mike-Freaking-Remlinger.⁹

My exceptionally vague resemblance to over-the-hill setup men notwithstanding, I figured The Slog would be a fitting place to chronicle this most marginal of my life's marginalia. So come with me on a month-long journey into my facial defilement, won't you?

Unfortunately, I don't have a photo of this travesty just yet. Or I would post it for your education. You'll just have to go with a sophisticated simulation of my progress, using the finest computer simulation 1988 had to offer:

Me, before Beard

Me, currently:

My goal:

Shalom, y'all.

---

1. I don't, in fact, love the Beard.
2. Seriously, there can't be such a thing as a "regular reader" of this blog. Unless it's a goldfish or other creature with a memory of less than 3-4 seconds.
3. But I kid The Chosen People. Please don't report me to the Anti-Defamation League.
4. No really, I'm not anti-Semitic. Stop looking at me that way.
5. So...is The Miami Device real? It seems so fakey and standuppy.
6. I can't be the only guy who wants to kill this douche with a tire iron, can I?
7. Okay, I normally have sideburns, but those are cool. Right?
8. See note 7
9. Really, I doubt even Mike Remlinger wants this.

The Slog Golden Rule?

Why it's: If I haven't been blogging, my life is probably interesting.

In case anyone still checks here, I will be opening a show tomorrow. It's called Saints in Strange Places, and was written by one of the staff writers on Weeds.

My part? A gay, Jewish (Hasidic, to be precise) pedophile. Who happens to be Satan.

Once again, I have been typecast.

You can find out the info on that here. The most important info? It's at Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N Broadway in Chicago from July 11th-August 9th on Fridays and Saturdays only. Tickets are available at www.strawdog.org.

Oh, and get this: both My Dog Sparky and My Significant Other are also in the show. So it's a Slog THREE-FER!

No. Seriously. Spend your money and watch me make an ass out of myself. You won't regret it.

Two Important Announcements

More on The Goonies soon, but I had to mention these two things:

1. Congratulations Ryan Dempster for being quasi-competent today. I hereby declare a moratorium on mocking you at The Slog, or any other place I frequent, whether it be in the "real world" or in cyberspace, conditional on performance. I will reserve my burning, searing hatred for you until the point that you inevitably botch a start and give up 6 earned runs in the first inning, which I estimate to occur in the next 3 appearances. Enjoy your time off, Demp-truck.

2. Apparently I am number eight on the google hit list when one searches for the term "myspace antisemitism." That's...sobering...

How My Back Ruined My FOUR Day Weekend

Or, Even I Can't Blame the Dog For This One¹

Greetings from the Slogosphere! Though I have never yet gotten to the point of writing The Slog Manifesto, there is a reason for this blog's title. And it's hints are in the definitions on the corner of the page, and how they relate direct to My Sad Little Life.

Even barring the surprisingly common occurrance of Unauthorized Canine Fecal Matter in my apartment,² I am not known as either

• A particularly lucky person
• A particularly level-headed³ person when my luck is bad

In other words, bad shit⁴ happens me to a lot, and I like to complain about it.

I suppose I should "man up" and take charge of my own destiny. But no. In the case of my back, I think it's entirely fair to whine and moan like an 11-year-old that's just been told she can't get tickets to see Hannah Montana.⁵

As eagle-eyed Slogophiles might well be aware, I am 31 years of age. When I was about 26 or so⁶, I developed sciatica. Your mid-to-late-twenties is always a fantastic time to develop a lower back problem. Because, since youth is wasted on the young, why not just take it away from them, and give them a disorder that makes them feel like they're 78 years old?

Honestly, "sciatica" sounds like something your Granpappy complained about just before Mom and Dad made the so-called "tough decision" to ship him to some raisin ranch with a name like Sandpiper Estates or Pleasant Hill Cove. Maybe we could come up with a more "youth-oriented" or "Xtreme" name for it? Or name it after someone kinda cool? I'd much rather tell people I had "David Cross Syndrome" or "a Bulging Chiklis."

Where was I? Oh yeah.

Pain.

I has it.

Anyway, my sciatica has been an on-again, off-again phenomenon since then. Mostly off, as one of my Top Three Deadly Sins to commit is Sloth,⁷ so it's usually easy for me to follow doctor's orders and lay off lifting more than 20 pounds at a time. However, there comes a time in a man's life when he's sick of paying 108 bucks a month to store his excess crap. So Teh Aly-Baerz⁸ and I went on a trip to Public Storage this weekend, and sorted through the Lion's Share of Wolter's Library.

Other facts about me that I could share right now:

• I am a compulsive book reader
• I am a compulsive book buyer
• I am a compulsive book hoarder
• This makes me a jackass

So, I had to sort through roughly 700 pounds of Assorted Printed Material, deciding what to keep and what to give away to Goodwill. I managed to actually give away something like two boxes worth, which is a serious victory in My War on My Compulsions.⁹ However, the specific gravity of paper is high. Oh, so very high.

Before anyone says anything: I (mostly) lifted with my legs, I swear. The problem with that? Oh, the next day, when my legs were killing me and we had to move the boxes into our apartment. Because I then favored my legs. At the expense of...well, I think I've spelled that out enough.

Anyway, yesterday, I couldn't walk, and wasted some Paid Time Off to rest it off. I basically spent the whole day in or around the bed, pestering La Alejandra del Hombre Bueno and complaining. I was moderately better this morning, so I decided to cut off what was rapidly becoming The Worst Unplanned Vacation in History. And since you can't get heroin over the counter, in order to rejoin the work¹¹ force I had to take (to paraphrase Bill Hicks paraphrasing someone else) An Heroic Dose of ibuprofen this morning.

Interesting fact about ibuprofen: it's not a miracle pill.

So, the Slog Status Report for March 18th, 2008:

• I am in excruciating pain
• It is largely my own damn fault
• I have tried and failed to blame The Spark
• In retaliation, he will no doubt crap on something I love while I am at work
• I will be powerless to clean it up, as it took me over 5 minutes to put on a shoe yesterday.

Hope you liked this bitter, largely unfunny rant about My Defective Body. Next one will be less self-centered and have more Synthpop Stars and Mogwai Feeding Tips.

---

1. But Lord how I tried. I really did.
2. Located in stately Slog Towers ("You don't have to be Section 8 to live here, but it helps.")
3. I was going to put sanguine, but I suddenly remembered that I can't remember if sanguine means calm or belligerent. If only I had some way to look up words and their meanings. Oh well, back to writing about myself on the internet.
4. I still can't believe he shat the bed. THE BED!!!
5. I'm not sure who this is. But I'm following the time-honored old-guy tradition of making an attempt to appeal to the youth demographic ('cause kids love reading blogs where 30-somethings rant about how much Citizen Kane could have been improved by adding a scene with a young Bea Arthur and a Talking Rhino singing a show tune [and you KNOW it would have been]. Or at least they do when you mention some pop star and/or actress they like).
6. It might have been 27. I honestly can't remember much that happened in my life before last Tuesday or so. Every now and then I have to consult this blog just to remember what I'm mad at lately.
7. The other two? Gluttony and Wrath. I would have put in Lust, but honestly, thinking of Lust just makes me commit either Envy or Pride, depending on my current status. And Greed is pretty awesome as well. Really, all of the Deadly Sins are pretty good. But I try to stick with my Top Three for most occassions.
8. See my new line of "Loljew" merchandise, soon to be available at a cafepress store near you.
9. Up next: I tackle My Irritating Need To Put Footnotes In Blog Entries¹⁰
10. And after that? Randomly Capitalized Terms.
11. I admittedly use that term loosely (see "Seven Deadly Sins, My Top Three" above)

About Me, or What? No Hitler Picture?

I know I'm breaking both the "No New Content" rule and my amazing streak of Hitlarious¹ Photos, but I think it's about time to really get to know me, The Slogger. I should probably fill all this crap out in the profile section, but that's kinda lame. But a Cult of Personality isn't built in a day, so let me get cracking.

As you may have guessed, I am a reasonably heterosexual² male, I live with my girlfriend, who is a [note to self: come up with clever synonym for "Jewish Person" that is Not At All Antisemitic and Done in Good Fun before you post this], in the city of Chicago (Pennant Loser To the World).

I grew up in Charleston, SC ("Now Slavery Free for 143 Years!"), where I spent the first 28 years of my life, including a nine-year stint at the College of Charleston³, where I majored in Theatre⁴, with a concentration in Dramaturgy⁵ and a minor in Studio Art. Needless to say, I am now working as a receptionist.⁶

I'm tone deaf, which leads me to a passion for music. I've got a soft spot in my heart for any punk or post-punk band formed before 1982, and at least 10 that formed after that. I believe that Bowie is God⁷, and the Clash are The Greatest Thing In History.⁸ I cannot think of a genre that I don't like any representative piece (other than Anything Some Dumb Hippie Likes). For the most part, however, I prefer songs with Loud Guitars and/or Memorable Hooks.

God? You bet.

In my estimation there is One True Sport. That sport is baseball⁹. For reasons Bowie only knows, I have been a lifetime supporter of the Chicago Cubs.¹⁰ I would blog more about my feelings about the Cubs, but numerous other sites do it better, smarter, and funnier.¹¹

I'm not really interested in blogging about politics, but my general sympathy to the anti-authoritarian left will probably shine through from time to time. I'm neither liberal nor conservative, but I'm not really a fan of the middle either. I'd be an activist, but I can barely get up the energy to write a blog about the Goonies, much less overthrow the Capitalist System.

I'm a huge fan of cartoons and cartooning (and may one day toss some art up here). I love a lot of intelligent, arty comics, but for the most part am satisfied if the issue has at least one jetpack riding monkey punching a dinosaur. I'd blog about that love more often, but at last count there are roughly sixteen thousand people doing ironic, silly comics reviews, and at least fifteen thousand of them have better collections and a more thorough knowledge of the minutiae of mainstream comics.¹²

Random assorted arty things I have been paid either money or beer to do:

• Drawing Caricatures at a Bat Mitzvah (Money)
• Stand Up Comedy (Beer)
• Acting in plays (Money and Beer)
• Designing posters for plays (Money or Beer)
• Designing a brochure for a Theatre Program (Money)
• Designing a logo for a set piece in a play (Neither money nor beer, I was young and foolish)
• Writing a play (Money)
• Writing sketch comedy (Beer)
• Drawing a Turkey (Money)
• Drawing a Dragon (Money)
• Designing a tattoo (Beer)
• Illustrations for some handbound books (Beer)

If you have something you'd like me to do for money or beer, feel free to contact The Slog.

There. That's enough about me for now.¹³

---

1. I coined this specifically to be the "w00t" of 2008. Use it with my blessing.
2. My inexplicable non-sexual fascination with the Spice Girls (and for that matter Bea Arthur) notwithstanding...
3. Despite its reputation as a "party school," I have very clear memories of six of those nine years.
4. Spelled this way because we in The Theatre are pretentious.
5. After countless classes and at least two separate instances of working as a Dramaturg, I am still murky on what it means exactly. I think it's kind of like the Consiglieri of a play. At least, I hope it is, otherwise it was way out of order for me to leave that horse's head in the playwright's bed...
6. Straight! I swear!
7. That's the 1968-1982 Bowie. And c'mon, that's not weirder than any given major world religion. Hinduism, I'm looking in your direction.
8. Even greater than the McRib? Yes, fictional interrogator. Even greater.
9. Or, as the English call it, "Football."
10. "World Champions Every Hundred Years, Like Clockwork!"
11. "How is that different than any other topic?" you ask. "It's complicated," I answer. Then I stare knowingly into the distance until you feel a little awkward and leave.
12. A genre I stopped reading for over a decade due to the concerted efforts of one Rob Liefeld to destroy it utterly.
13. I actually think that's EVERYTHING about me. I may have no reason to ever blog again. Other than, of course, boredom fueled egomania.

Swastikas=Comedy Gold

As one may have guessed from recent posts, I'm dating a person of the Jewish persuasion. Have been for some time now. The culture shock is not as bad as one might think, and it turns out I'm quite good at blowing the Shofar.¹

But every now and then...well, I get confused by her. First and foremost, by her own admission, she's not a very good Jew. The only reason she doesn't eat pork is that she's allergic to it. Which she only found out by, well, eating it.²

Bad Jew.

But that still didn't prepare me for the exchange I had last night, regarding this picture I used on my last entry:

Exhibit A

The exchange, delivered as close to verbatim as my crappy memory can make it:

Ali: You should have put a swastika on it. That would have been funnier.

Jon: I'm not really sure if a swastika is exactly the idea--

Ali: It would be funnier.

Jon: That's not what I'm trying to say with--

Ali: You're overthinking this.

Now, I am of German descent. We are not known as a funny people. However, Ali hails from a people long renowned for their comedic tradition. So how can I argue with the inherent comedy of Charles Foster von Kane: Hatemonger?

---

1. Not nearly as vulgar as you would think. Sorry.
2. ibid

MySpace Archive: The Dark Underbelly of the 80s, 1a

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

This is part one of my so far two-part exposé into the
movies that shaped my life. Part two followed some time after, and part three will probably come out some time around The Second Coming (or the First, if you are Ali).

I suspect I will have minimal commentary on this one, as though this is flawed, I have a soft spot in my heart for these entries, especially given that is the beginning of my one-man war against The So-Called Greatest Movie Ever. This war has not really touched any of my other entries to date, but is a major part of any given day.

Any footnotes not in italics are from the original post.

[Originally posted on April 12, 2007]

The Dark Underbelly of the 80s - Part One, Section A

Movies that begin with G.

NOTE: I have abandoned my initial practice of starting all blogs with "Well." It seems to be making me unable to come up with new blogs, is a little too precious, and has outlived it's usefulness (I really only set it up that way so I could whip out a "Well, I have cancer" blog, but silly me, I had to be healthy).

Anywhoo.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

I am a child of the 80s. Scratch that. I hate that term. I didn't spring fully formed from the thigh of the 80s. That's lazy, cliché-riddled writing to say that. But I did spend the ages of 3.43 to 13.57 years of age living in that Reagany, Syth-laden, and Acid-washed time. Somehow, despite spending the entirety of the decade in South Carolina, I never had a mullet, barely wore Jams, and...well I fucking loved Guns'n'Roses. Fine. I admit it. I still love Appetite For Destruction. But that's neither here not there. The point is, I missed out on some of the finer and more embarrassing points of the 80s.

But I did watch a lot of movies.

And a lot of them began with G.

Well, three of them began with G (not counting sequels). Those three were very important in the process of forming my worldview. It's tempting to say that without them, I would be a happier, more trusting human being. Of course, that would be a lie, as what I'm about to write is pure BS-driven hyperbole. However, the fact that such darkness exists in what are ostensibly comedies is proof that we are in the grip of unnamable dread.

The first of the movies in my Trinity of the Damned¹ is the aptly named Ghostbusters.

Ghostbusters, in and of itself, is a fantastic movie. Probably the greatest ever made. You know that's true. Don't even fucking try to lie to me or pull that "Citizen Kane" junk with me. You know you've watched Citizen Kane maybe one time, and you probably dozed off for part of it. But you've seen Ghostbusters so many times that you know what to say if someone asks if you're a god, you know better than to step on a Church in Venkman's town, and you know good and damn well not to think of anything when asked to choose the form of your destroyer (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: Your delicious, fluffy doom awaits you.

But, of course, underneath the cheery and wise-assed exterior beats the thousand-tentacled eldritch heart of Lovecraftian terror. And that's a good thing. Ghostbusters taught me that, no matter how successful your life is, there's always a chance that a 3,000 year old Sumerian god will eff your world up for no damn good reason. Also, the Babylonians certainly knew a hell of a lot more about theology than Rome does (Fig. 2), no matter what Lenny's Archbishop buddy says.

Fig. 2:The Church isn't gonna save you from Gozer.

So, if god ain't gonna save you, who can you turn to? The state? Hardly. The government (Fig. 3) is, if anything, a total douchebag. Any tinpot bureaucrat with a hard-hat and a government I.D. can set off a nuclear chain reaction that unleashes the full fury of the Elder Gods on an unwitting soundstage that looks sort of like New York. Is it any wonder that I gravitated to Left-leaning Libertarian Socialism² as I grew older? No. It's a wonder more people didn't. If Walter Peck weren't already dickless, Bakunin would have ripped his junk off in a nanosecond.⁴

Fig. 3:The U.S. Government.

Ghostbusters II also taught me a lesson: no matter how anxiously you await a sequel, there's a good chance it will suck on toast. Also, that no matter how good a person you've been in your life, there's always a chance you will have to see Peewee from the Porky's movies paw all over Sigourney Weaver.

Okay, I think I've run out of steam about Ghostbusters. I promise I'll have more meaningless crap to say in Section B: Gremlins.⁶

Surprisingly, I think Section B actually DID come next. But don't hold me to that.

---

1. Wouldn't that be a great horror movie title? Or maybe the name of a Goth power trio? Is there such a thing as a Goth power trio? I bet they would really suck.

2. Secret euphemism for Anarchism. Used to describe people without huge beards and round cartoon bombs with fuses that find all control systems to be anathema. See, you learn something every day. ³

3. I must have been rereading No Gods, No Masters when I wrote this. Jeez, Wolter, way to bring politics into a blog about Ghostbusters...

4. This is the truest sentence I have ever typed. No foolin.'⁵

5. I bet people who read all the way through without checking footnotes thought I screwed up the numbering.

6. The fifteenth greatest movie of all time, for those counting.

MySpace Archive: Using Antisemitism To Flirt With Jews

In an attempt to beef up this blog's appearance before I actually tell anyone about its existence, and also to relive some of my wacky antics over on MySpace, I am archiving all of my old posts over here at The Slog.

Let me fill you in on some backstory: This post dates from a time when I was single, but was in the midst of a long, drawn-out, both-parties-in-denial flirtation with my current girlfriend, who is a Red Sea Pedestrian (and who I should not mock, as there is a good chance she's the only person that actually reads this blog). I was raised by Southern Baptists.¹ It's like Random Sitcom Situation #37! Her MySpace screen name at the time was Ali Blue-Backpack, if that helps contextualize the beginning for all zero of my non-Ali readers.

Anywhoo, looking back, I think I was using the time-honored fourth grade flirting technique of "hitting someone and then running away." Only I added a modern twist!²

I was surprisingly happy at that point in my life,³ and therefore not complaining. And as anyone who knows me well knows, I'm not happy unless I'm not happy. With nothing to complain about, I had nothing really to say (which has, admittedly, never stopped me before).

Note, I am switching my "new commentary" over to footnotes. This is largely because I finally looked up the HTML code for it.

[Orignally posted on Friday, February 16, 2007]

Well, I have this friend...

...let's call her (for the sake of this thought excercise) "Jewy Blue-Backpack" or "Jewy" for short.

Jewy has a problem with my frequency of blog posts. She thinks that because she is pouring out all of the intimate details of her shattered Semitic psyche⁴ onto the metaphorical floor of the blogosphere, then I should too.

But, my life is going really well right now. I'm reasonably happy with my job⁵, my standard of living, my ability to cope, my lack of malignant tumors of the lung, and my hair (except at work, but I don't want to go on about how I'm forced to style it like a young Hitler there - on account of the whole "Jewy" nickname I might come off a little too hateful and Amon Goerth-y for my taste)⁶.

And a life that's going well makes for really dull blog posts. I'm at my most entertaining when I'm miserable. And, sorry Jewy: I'm not miserable. I'm content.

I suppose I could complain that my little dog has worms in his colon right now. But he's kind of a douchebag, and probably deserved it⁷. Besides, I have already dropped 3 and a half C-notes on meds and tests for for the little bastard, and it turns out he's probably gonna be fine in a few weeks. The Spark is a resiliant little turd. Just like his old man...

Actually, for the sake of honesty, I should admit that Jewy actually put that on her credit card for me- but I'm writing her a check today (as I just got paid).

Hell, I just got paid! There's another reason to be happy! I have money in the bank! My power and my phone won't be cut off! I can buy food! I can get a CD copy of Zeppelin IV⁸ (dude, I gotta get When the Levee Breaks⁹ out of my system)! I can get really drunk this weekend and waste it all!

Anywhoo. In conclusion: Life is good. My dog is sick, but he'll improve. I have no reason to complain. My friend has been Chosen by YHWH.¹⁰

The end.

And, after this I didn't post again for two months (which you will note is a frequent pattern). Until I was drawn into The Dark Underbelly of the 80s.

---

Notes

1. I'm no longer a Southern Baptist, as I stopped believing in fairy tales, especially nasty ones, as a teenager.

2. That twist: random bigotry.

3. Especially surprising, given that I lived in a what amounted to a shoebox with a stove and, like now, earned a paycheck by getting essentially yelled at by People with More Money Than Brains.

4. I will admit that this technique is actually cheaper than therapy. And probably about as effective. On a side note, The People With More Money Than Brains often use me as a sort of ad hoc therapist. If I responded to their complaints with "And how does that make you feel," I could probably get away with charging $125 an hour.

5. Liar!

6. My hair still kind of sucks, but I've never been altogether pleased with that aspect (or any aspect, really) of my head.

7. Time has not changed my opinion on this one whit.

8. I actually never did. Truth-in-blogging.

9. What a kickass song. Seriously. I spent years hating Zep because punks are supposed to. But damn that song beats the hell out of anything Screeching Weasel ever did.

10. Number of times I went for a Pointless Jew Joke in original post alone: 8