I like bartenders who drink, otherwise it feels like I'm being poisoned

I have a job interview next Wednesday, unless something changes, which wouldn't surprise me. I got the call last week, on the 23rd, while wrapping presents, from the very same company which had called me a month ago with promises of an interview the next week. So either they've interviewed 14 million applicants already and haven't found 'the one' yet, or this is a job which is permanently open. I don't know. So, anyway, I'm supposed to call Monday to confirm and get details, and then Wednesday's the big show. I'm still not 100% sure what the job entails, but I do know the following: I'd get paid well, I'd work in a tall building that I can see from my apartment on a clear day, and the commute would be great: walk block to train, take train downtown, walk another block.

I'm a bit nervous about the interview, and it's kept me up at night lately. I haven't had much experience on that front, and sometimes I suspect that I'm somewhat lacking in such valuable interview skills as "charisma", "confidence", "the ability to speak English", and "personal hygiene."

Aside from that, Christmas was good, got to see family and friends and got lots of gifts, including 7 books, 2 DVDs, 2 pair of pants, Scrabble, and a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum cleaner is something I asked for myself, which I think shows a level of maturity I never thought possible. It's designed to replace our old one with the fraying cord, lack of mobility, and a noise so ferocious that it sends M scurrying on top of the furniture like a house cat. I was promised a new vacuum cleaner would bring us closer to chore parity, but still remain skeptical.

Scrabble has already caused problems of its own; last night our first ever game ended abruptly when the person who was losing by 115 points quit and complained that it was unfair to play when she was post-call, and that if we played another time the other person (who was at that time not only dominating but also holding both blank tiles and ready to drop an 8 letter word) would get his illiterate ass handed to him. I'm not going to say who was who, that wouldn't be fair.

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve, and for the first time in ten years or so I won't be at a party of any sort. It's rather sad. To make matters more depressing, M is on call that night, which also happens to be her 26th birthday, so for the the 26th time in 26 New Year's Eves I won't be kissing at midnight. I'm sure that's the saddest thing you have ever heard in your entire life.

Best of 2004 CD Liner Notes

Every year, for the past four years, I make a year-end compilation CD to give to friends and whoever else wants one. Since I've had a lot of time on my hands lately, this year I wrote a rambling essay of considerable length to include with the disc. If you are a friend or acquaintance of mine and would like a CD of your own, email me with your current address and it's yours. Here are the liner notes, plus a closing paragraph that I didn't have room for:


The Black Keys – ’10 a.m. Automatic’ – Rubber Factory
A.C. Newman – ‘On the Table’ – The Slow Wonder
Madvillain – ‘ALL CAPS’ – Madvillainy
Sonic Youth – ‘Unmade Bed’ – Sonic Nurse
Ted Leo and the Pharmacists – ‘Me and Mia’ – Shake the Sheets
The Fiery Furnaces – ‘Evergreen’ – Single Again 7”
The Libertines – ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ – The Libertines
Loretta Lynn – ‘Portland, Oregon’ – Van Lear Rose
The Von Bondies – ‘C’mon C’mon’ – Pawn Shoppe Heart
Mirah – ‘Jerusalem’ – C’mon Miracle
Joanna Newsom – ‘Bridges and Balloons’ – The Milk-Eyed Mender
Franz Ferdinand – ‘Take Me Out’ – Franz Ferdinand
Belle & Sebastian – ‘Your Cover’s Blown’ – Books EP
Annie – ‘Heartbeat’ – Anniemal
Madvillain – ‘Fancy Clown’ – Madvillainy
Madvillain – ‘Accordion’ – Madvillainy
Rogue Wave – ‘Every Moment’ – Out of the Shadow
TV on the Radio – ‘Staring at the Sun’ – Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes
Modest Mouse – ‘Float On’ – Good News for People who Love Bad News
Saturday Looks Good to Me – ‘Since You Stole My Heart’ – Every Night

So, what do we have here? We have lots of albums by fantastic bands that didn’t quite live up to expectations (The Streets, Mirah, Von Bondies, Interpol, Bjork), we have several good albums without any real stand-out tracks (Fiery Furnaces, Arcade Fire, SLGTM, Madvillain, Streets and Mirah again) and too many broken promises of albums that were supposed to be released this year but have been delayed ‘til 2005 (Beck, Spoon, Built to Spill, Sleater-Kinney). This year I also purchased the fewest number of new CDs ever, and spent less time listening than usual. But, despite all that, I think this year’s line-up turned out OK. For the first time, every single piece of music was released in 2004, there were no stragglers to fill out the running time. So, the mistakes I made last year, by forgetting The Shins, The Darkness, and the Postal Service, are something I’ll have to live with. As I write this, the final track order hasn’t been finalized, but certain differences from last year are pretty obvious. First off, I apologize a trillion times for putting ‘Hey Ya’ on there, and ‘In Da Club’ as well. Everyone had heard those songs too many times already, and I grew completely sick of them about 5 minutes after it was too late. So no obvious ‘hits’ this year, unless you count Franz Ferdinand or Modest Mouse (they were on SNL after all), but I’m not sure if you can. Also, it seems like last year I had about a dozen bands with only guitar/drums instrumentation, and this year there’s only one. I ended up with a weird mix: a track by a harpist, a track with a 70-year-old country singer, only one song over four minutes long, two non-album b-sides, two songs used in car commercials, three songs with what sounds like an obvious disco influence, three songs by one group, and I think the second half is better than the first.

So now I need to talk about the “rap” music. For the most part, I don’t have a lot of respect for most rappers, especially the popular ones. With a few exceptions, most popular rap songs are popular not because of rapper’s amazing skills on the mic (about getting money, bitches, or popping a cap or whatever), but because of some good beats or sample or guest vocalist’s chorus. ‘In Da Club’ was a hit because of the music, not the words. There seems to be a rotating cast of superstar producers behind any hit song: Dr Dre, the Neptunes, Timbaland, Lil’ Jon, and Kanye West. Even underground rap producers, or ones that only work with specific artists, seem to get more recognition than the actual rapper, like Prince Paul, Automator, or the Bomb Squad. And this is fine, all of these people are very talented. Then you have the Puff Daddy’s of the world who aren’t creative enough for a hook of their own, so they just steal an old pop song to be catchy. Puff Daddy, or whatever he goes by these days, is a rapper so bad that he only appears good when standing next to Mase. So, once you get by the many shortcuts taken in the form, all basically designed to take all pressure off of the actual ‘rapper,’ you have the problem of the ‘rap album.’ These include stuffing the album’s running time (which usually is stuffed like a sausage to over 70 minutes) with intros, outros, reprises, and comedy skits. The actual songs on the record are usually chock full of guest appearances, so that any potential singles are performed by Rapper X featuring Rapper Y, Rapper Z, and Female Singer A.

That said, I must admit that I don’t listen to a ton of rap, mostly because the good stuff is so hard to find. I typically check something out if it’s gotten great reviews, but right now on my shelf I have less than ten rap CD’s, not including ‘instrumental’ hip-hop. As a general rule, rap music is harder to get into because it’s harder for me to sing along in the car. Granted, 50 Cent is pretty easy, or Eminem maybe, but Outkast go about a mile a minute, which is why it took me a very long time to get into ‘Stankonia,’ which despite its bloated running time and annoying skits, is quite a good exception to the rule.

When I’m looking for new CD’s to buy, I typically look for indie rock, with rap joining country, jazz, electronic, folk, and blues on the fringes of my radar. Which makes all the more surprising that this year I’ve picked a rap album as the best album of the year. In fact, it wasn’t even close, really. I couldn’t even tell you who was number 2. Granted, the year wasn’t particularly strong, as I mentioned, but still, Madvillain’s “Madvillainy” was by far the best album, and the one I’ve listened to most. So how could this happen? Well, unlike most rap albums, this one is only 46 minutes long, and there are 22 songs, a combination more common in punk rock. Throw out the r ‘n b choruses, exchange the ‘comedy’ skits for cut-ups of old superhero radio shows, and create beats made mostly of old jazz records and 1950s lounge music. There are a few guests, but about half of these are the alternate personas of the two group members: Madlib, who takes care of most of the beats, and the fantastic MF Doom, a rapper who wears a metal mask over his face. The songs average about two minutes apiece, and there’s no fat left to trim. It’s very lo-fi, sounds like nothing you’d hear on the radio or in the club, gets better with every listen, and even warranted a multi-page write up in The New Yorker. It’s that kind of rap. There are no ‘singles,’ or highs or lows, and I spent most of the last month trying to pick the best song, one that could justify my ramblings and best represent the feel of the album. I failed miserably; I ended up with three. This probably spells disaster, but you’ll have to accept it.

To lead off I had to go with a killer, something that gave the listener the comforting feeling of putting the next 65 minutes of their lives in my hands, and preferably something that rocks and hasn’t been used in a car commercial. The Black Keys are a blued-influenced Midwestern guitar/drums duo who record their albums in a single day (stop me if you heard this one before); “10 a.m. Automatic” is a song that rocks for a couple minutes, and then just when you think it maybe is a good time for the song to be over, a second guitar part kicks in, and while at first you think your stereo or car engine may be falling apart, you never want it to end. They’ve released three albums in as many years, all of which are raw and contain an element of ‘blackness’ that sets the group apart from other blues-rock acts. A.C. Newman follows, he’s best known as most of the creative force behind the New Pornographers (as Carl Newman), his first solo effort is a bit more low-key and maybe eight percent less catchy. Then we have the first Madvillain track, ‘All Caps,’ which also has the best music video I’ve seen all year. Check it out online if you want, it’s particularly sweet if you are a comic book fan.

Then we have Sonic Youth, who this year released their millionth album. Though they’ll never make a jaw-dropping masterpiece again (go back to ’88), they’ve been remarkably consistent, especially in the last few years since they added fifth member Jim O’Rourke. Granted, they still use the same melody for the vocals and music, but they’ve got a nice formula in full effect here of starting off softly, then halfway through brutally deconstructing the melody, then returning to earth for the end of the song. Ted Leo follows, his band has been reduced since last year to a trio, and still is writing catchy vaguely-political pop songs and singing them as if his life depended on it.

The Fiery Furnaces released “Blueberry Boat” this year, a very challenging 76-minute album of 10 minute multi-part epic songs. I liked it, but there’s nothing catchy enough to warrant inclusion here, especially for the length. So I choose ‘Evergreen,’ a b-side on a non-album single (like The Beatles used to do!) which came out at the beginning of the year. It’s not a very good representation of their sound, and certainly not of their last album, but it’s a good song. The Libertines follow, a band from the UK whose singer I believe is in a constant flux of heroin/rehab. Joe Strummer produced this album before he died, and there’s a pretty obvious Clash influence present. Then we have Loretta Lynn, who is incredibly old and whose album I wouldn’t have noticed if Jack White hadn’t produced and played on it. He sings a little on the song I included, which could have had a shorter intro but still seems like it belongs here.
Then we segue into The Von Bondies, whose singer was beat up by Jack White last winter (brilliant, huh?). This is one of the car commercial songs, but I heard it long before. Their current album pales in comparison to their first, more unpolished effort (a song from which was included on ‘2002’), but this is undeniably a good single. I slow things down a notch for Mirah, who is another artist who’s made better albums in the past (2002’s Advisory Committee is a complete masterpiece). She seems to go between quiet, singer/songwriter type pieces and loud songs with crazy kitchen-sink production, which usually are the ones I like the best, but were lacking on “C’mon Miracle.” I continue on the quiet vibe with Joanna Newsom, whose voice sounds like a cross between a crazy 60-year-old lady asking for change, a six-year-old girl, and some sort of flying pixie-like creature. And she’s playing the goddamn harp. It took me awhile to get into this album, it’s not exactly what I’d describe as my usual cup of tea, but after a while it struck me as brilliant.

Next we have the ‘disco’ section, beginning with the ubiquitous Franz Ferdinand. I’m sure everyone’s heard this song already, they use part of it for background music during Monday Night Football sometimes. Belle & Sebastian follow, the track ‘Your Cover’s Blown’ is another b-side, from the ‘Books’ EP. This song is very very very un-B&S, so if you never heard them before, this is the worst possible introduction. But I liked this song immensely from the start; despite the long running time it’s very catchy, and has a ringing phone sound at the beginning that fooled me about a dozen times into thinking my phone was ringing, and that was enough to warrant inclusion here. This is followed by Annie’s ‘Heartbeat,’ which is shockingly mainstream-sounding disco-pop. Surely you’re wondering how I could include such a song, even if is extremely catchy after a few listens? Well, one of my dearest friends and longtime listeners is a HUGE Kylie Minogue fan, so I figured he’d love it.

We go back to Madvillain again now, ‘Fancy Clown’ is interesting because here MF Doom is rapping under one of his aliases, Viktor Vaughn, and he’s rapping about how his girl left him for, well, MF Doom. The second verse is hilarious. ‘Accordion’ is the final Madvillain song, a very unique sounding sample, but the key is the bass keyboard part buried underneath. I know this violates sacred rules about not putting two tracks by the same artist consecutively, but I was trying to capture the scattered feel of the album by putting two tracks next to each other. Plus both are short, so think of it as one normal-length song. Rogue Wave is a pop band a bit reminiscent of the Shins with more keyboards, their debut album was good if not a little spotty, but definitely worth keeping an eye on for the future.

TV on the Radio I first saw live in late 2003, they played at the Union South cafeteria in Madison. I will never forget that when the band was setting up their instruments, one of the guitar players rushed in holding a loaf of bread and some lunchmeat, and all of the members, who apparently hadn’t eaten for awhile, leapt upon it like hyenas. After this initial display, the singer, Tunde Adebimpe, asked if anyone in the small audience would like a sandwich. Fantastic. This is from another debut album, their sound is very vocally driven; I’ve heard it described as ‘Urban Barbershop.’ I can count three genius musicians in the band, so I’m looking forward to great things. Then we have the new pop heroes Modest Mouse. I’ll admit I went through a very brief ‘I liked this band six years ago; I’m better than everyone else’ phase when ‘Float On’ first hit the charts, but I’m still happy for their success. I didn’t like this album as much as their others (the last half is too much of an obstacle), but it does contain some of the best songs they’ve ever recorded. Finally, we close where we began last year, with Saturday Looks Good to Me. SLGTM is an interesting band because there is only one true member who writes, produces, arranges, and records all the songs, a Mr. Fred Thomas (a very friendly man that I had the privilege of meeting after a show last year). But on each of the band’s records, there’s between 20-40 guests, who play instruments and sing. I’ve seen them twice live, once with 7 other musicians, the other time as just a trio. Fred sings less than half the time, and he’s had the most success with guest female vocalists. The songs seem like they are from an alternative version of the 1960s in which the music was really as great as your parents thought it was. This was another album from which it was difficult to choose one song from, it is remarkably consistent and full of good ideas.

Some of the songs included aren't from terrific albums; there were records released that were great but didn't have that one surefire song. As usual there are some weird surprises and old standbys, as usual I'm sure I missed something golden. The point is to keep listening for your new favorite songs. Maybe you'll find one here.

Summer at Christmas

Sorry no substantial updates lately, today I'm working on notes for my Best of 2004 CD and will finish Xmas shopping later. Weekend was OK, yesterday I saw a huge chunk of the city I never knew existed. Going to Milwaukee Thursday night and alone to C-ville on Friday, should be fun.

In the meantime, I feel guilty about not updating my blog, so here is a slightly edited but still completely true story I wrote a year ago. Spring of 2003 I took a solo road trip, mostly sleeping in my car on the way to New Orleans, and I started writing about what happened in a very grammatically poor style. Here is an excerpt, from Day 4:


4. On the Rocks

Saturday morning I have to be out of my hotel by noon, and I am, with ten minutes to spare. My car has been sitting in the hot sun all morning, and feels like an oven. Like an oven that’s been sitting in the hot sun. I’m afraid to breathe the air. I have decided to go southeast to Galveston, on the gulf coast. I can’t wait to see the ocean. I drive on a small two-lane highway. Texas doesn’t look like I thought it would here, it’s all light green grass and slight hills, scattered trees. I suppose I’d have to go further south or west to see what had been in my imagination: dusty trails, adobe, the bones of a steer, still laid out in perfect formation, like in cartoons. After a couple hours I meet back up with the interstate (I-10), and head towards Houston. Since I’ve been in Texas I’ve noticed that every single vehicle I see has a Texas license plate. I know the state is large, and I’m deep inside its borders, but by this point I’m starting to become a little worried. I’m sure all of these people have guns. Houston, I’ve heard, is the most polluted city in the United States, so I’m reluctant to roll my window down at all as I enter its limits, despite the fact that is has to be close to 90 degrees, and the traffic is crawling along. I see distant buildings and endless interstate highway, but not much of a feel for a city. No desire to stop yet, either, I want to run on the beach and dive into the cool water as soon as I can. Last night’s sleep makes driving easier than it has in days; I’m awake and my body has lost its stiffness. It feels like day one again. Because of this, I don’t mind the standstill traffic I encounter, or the fact that my car has no air conditioning. Besides, today is going to be a short day of driving, just over two hundred miles. I don’t make any stops (I got gas right before Austin, and none of the food in my trunk looked appealing) until right before Galveston on I-45, now going south, I stop at a tourist info place and get a handful of maps and brochures. The nice old lady encourages me to try a number of fancy restaurants and hotels, tourist attractions, and I don’t bother explaining to her that I’m not a tourist, I even sign her guestbook. I find out that the city is one long beach, with free parking. I thank her for her help and leave. I drive to the island while studying the map. There are a few palm trees, and the interstate runs directly into the ocean. It feels like I’m at the end of something, I can’t go any further, after around 1700 miles I’ve finally come to a dead end. I turn left on Seawall Boulevard and cruise the length of the town along the beach. It’s Saturday afternoon and crowded. I need to eat something, I haven’t yet today, plus I need to buy a long beach towel to lie down on, I don’t even own one. Near the east end of the island I turn left again, head into the downtown, park at a meter and walk around. The downtown in this city, like most, caters to out-of-towners, everything is a bit too expensive and unauthentic. But there are relatively no cars, and a lot of girls around, so I can’t complain. I find a small little outdoor café, order a grilled tuna sandwich (which is fantastic) and a Shiner Bock, eat outside at a table near a rather impressive manmade waterfall fountain, listening to some guy playing guitar and his wife singing back-up, they cover the Beatles and Van Morrison and are horrible, I’m one of only three tables occupied, and one of those are friends of the singing couple. And they have a giant tip jar, a gallon pail, hanging in such a manner that you actually have to duck under it in order to walk down the narrow pathway back to the street. I still have a substantial amount of the one hundred and twenty dollars I took out of an ATM in Madison, I’ve been paying for gas with my check card, but have no desire to give these kind folks anything, simply want to leave without feeling guilty. I get up and push in my chair, and, oh Christ the dude is smiling at me as he’s singing, that friendly “thank you for listening, we have shared this experience together and now are friends” kind of smile, I smile back and then resist eye contact as I walk calmly past the tip pail and out to the street. I smoke a cigarette and walk up and down the sidewalk in my flip-flops, checking out the stores and bars and firm tan girls. I buy a towel and then head back to my car, drive back to the beachfront, find a parking spot on the side opposite the water, and realize that I still have to change into my swim trunks. Hmmm. I get everything I need out of the trunk of my car: swimsuit, sun block, and return to the front seat. There is a lot of traffic on the road, but not too many pedestrians on my side of the street, so I wait for a space between the cars and quickly slip off my shorts and boxers and on my swim trunks. If someone saw me doing this I didn’t notice. I don’t really care too much, I guess. I put on sun block while standing near my car, it’s already about 4:30 so I shouldn’t have to worry so much, then grab my new towel and cross the street and down the stairs to the beach, not exactly good postcard material, a little drab and gray, but there is a breeze and waves and piers and gulls and surfers and bright sun and I’m so goddamn happy I want to sing. I leave my towel and flip-flops, hide my keys underneath (I don’t even want to think about what would happen if they got taken or misplaced, I’d be totally fucked), and walk towards the ocean for the first time since I was eleven (in Florida over Christmas on vacation with my parents). It’s warmer that I had thought it was going to be, I wince past the small rocks washed up near the edge of the water and wade further out. The waves are big and strong, I have to struggle to keep my balance as they hit me from in the front, and then the water rushes back out to sea underneath, pushing my ankles from behind. The water doesn’t get deep very quickly, but soon I’m out far enough to dive into the water with my whole body, right through a wave which instantly pushes my swimsuit down around my knees. I crouch and tie it properly, and then I’m off, feeling the sun and water and wind all at once, feeling the heat I’ve absorbed over the past couple days just leave my body in a rush. I want to stay here forever, grow fins and gills. I dance with the waves like Fred Astaire, dance with them like I never could with any girl I’ve ever met. I get out of the water, due to exhaustion, and crawl onto my towel. I look at the muscular surfer girls and the beach bunnies and their tanned boyfriends and feel incredibly white. I seem to be the only person here by himself, as well. Who goes to the beach alone? I walk up and down the shore and then go back into the water, where all my worries are washed away. I can’t remember when the last time was that I went swimming anywhere besides an over-chlorinated pool. While camping, a couple years before? I don’t even recall. And that would have been in some stagnant lake, without the salt and waves and endlessness of the ocean. I’m at peace, except now it’s past six and the shadows are getting longer. I dry off and wrap my towel around myself, get back in my car, drive out of town to the west end of the island, there’s a state park campground, but it’s all out in the open and mostly full and I didn’t bring a tent. Why didn’t I bring a tent? It would have been wonderful, sleeping outside, hearing the waves in the distance and waking up in the cool morning air feeling sleepy and horny and certainly more comfortable than folded in the backseat of my car. I almost consider going to a store to buy a tent, but decide against the expense, it’d be almost like getting an unnecessary hotel room, and instead drive into town. I call my parents from a gas station pay phone, telling them, as I have every night so far, which city I’m in and where I plan to be tomorrow. They seem amused by my actions. They didn’t quite understand my motivation for this trip, I had told them last weekend and they instead wished I’d go somewhere more certain, and not by myself, and possibly look for a job along the way. Their attempts to talk my out of it were barely acknowledged, and perhaps only delivered in a half-hearted manner. I also try and call my best friend, but he’s gone so I have to leave a message. We’d talked about taking a trip many times in the past, going on a whim to New York or even moving for a year to San Francisco or London, but those plans never really developed, he was busy and poor and there was always something which came up to prevent anything grand from happening. So if anything grand was ever going to happen, I would have to do it on my own.

A few hours later I am sitting all alone on the rocks by the beach as the tide stretches in, listening to my headphones and the surf, drinking out of a bottle of Shiner Bock I had bought, along with five others, at a mini-mart, trying to settle my butterfly-driven ‘come-on let’s keep moving there’s too much to see and do to possibly just sit in one spot and enjoy a moment’ stomach and my hopelessly kinetic heart. I had gone downtown and walked around the blocks and along the north piers, but had decided on avoiding all the bars and dance clubs and sunburned tourists, and found this little spot for myself. Earlier I had gone to Walgreen’s and bought turkey lunchmeat and made sandwiches with the bread I had brought along and no condiments. I was walking down the sidewalk along the beach when a homeless woman asked me if I had a sandwich for her. So I gave her one of mine and kept going. I’m regretting the fact that I didn’t start a real conversation with her, asked her to tell me a story. I, after all, was living in my car practically, so we shared some sort of bond. The bond of non-traditional sleeping arrangements, perhaps. But, no, I just kept walking, going to the Super Wal-Mart where I’d buy postcards. So now I am trying to look out for a) cops, because I’m not quite sure about the rules regarding drinking alcohol on the beach, maybe it’s not allowed; and b) packs of wild homeless men, with rat-like teeth and dirty fingernails like claws, ready to steal the fifty or so dollars in my wallet and devour me whole. And these rocks, wet, I could easily slip, especially after I’ve had a couple beers, drown in a foot of water. I’d drown, and then the pack of wild homeless men, or just one loner, would come and steal my wallet, and when my body was found the next morning the police would have no idea who I was, and my parents would start freaking out that night when I failed to call them. Maybe after a little while my parents would contact the Galveston police, since they knew I was there that night, and of course my car would get ticketed and maybe towed since you can’t leave it parked next to the beach overnight (unless of course my keys were taken out of my pocket and my car, parked very close, stolen), and eventually, after a few days, it would all come together for the authorities, and I guess someone would have to fly down there to identify my bloated dead body. My parents would have to call my apartment and let them know what had happened; I wonder if they’d have to pay my share of the rent for the rest of the lease. And I had just renewed it too. And they’d call all my friends that they knew, but what about the ones they didn’t know? I had an address book with me, in my car, maybe they’d find that. And what about Anne? Would she find out? Would someone think to tell her? Probably not, and of course she’ll never call me if I don’t call her first, that’s the way it has been for a couple weeks now, and she’ll just go on as always, probably glad that I’m no longer bothering her. She’ll get the first postcard I sent, from Oklahoma, and that’ll be it. And that fucking sucks, because if I die a sudden death, I’d want her to be the first to know about it.

A particle of dust

Yesterday around 9 am I got the hiccups. Ordinarily hiccups are no big deal, any ailment with a thousand cures can't be all that bad. Well, this time, none of them worked, and each hiccup felt like my diaphragm was going to fly out of my mouth, taking with it whatever was attached. I am also suffering from a cold, so I had to risk choking on lozenges. During lunch they went away for a bit, but came back. Also went away around 4 and then during dinner. But when I went to bed, they were still going strong. I was so tired that I simply fell asleep, and they were gone this morning. Weird. So that was the highlight of my day, aside from turning down a rare dinner invitation because I felt so ill.

And what is the Deal with that blue liquid that the combs are in???

So it's time to talk about something serious... My hair.

My hair is very special to me, like a pet or second-favorite child, and I've spent countless hours giving it nothing but love and attention. Only the finest and most expensive hair-care products are allowed to touch its precious follicles, and our bond grows closer with every deep-conditioning treatment.

As far as cutting goes, I never was very picky. I kept is simple, so any chimp with a razor and scissors could do a decent job, and then I'd take care of the rest at home. So, in Madison, it was always Cost Cutters, and they never let me down. "Take an inch off the top, and shave the sides and back, #3 razor guard," I'd say, and that's what they did. Sometimes, if they decided to go beyond my expectations, like by using the little texturizing-scissors thing or by flirting with me, I'd give them a tip.

So now I've moved, and had gone over two months without a haircut. I've gone longer (eight, ten) but at this stage it's difficult to manage sometimes, and I decided it was time for a trim. Last Saturday afternoon we were driving up to Madison for a party, so I decided to get it cut on Saturday morning. Now, my neighborhood has a lot of little 'salons,' but all of these look rather minimalistic and expensive, and, being poor, I tried to find someplace a little more cost-effective. Plus, I'd never need the fancy-type places in the past, so why start now?

The only no-frills, inexpensive-looking place I could find was a barbershop. It had a spinning pole outside and 70s decor. Now, I had a few reservations about the barbershop. First, I hadn't been to one in a number of years, and that didn't go very well (My hair had been bleached to an orangish color, and the barber didn't seem to realize this until he was nearly finished cutting). Secondly, I've had bad experiences with crusty old men touching me. But, I figured, how bad could it be? I wasn't asking for much. So I walked in. There were about 5 barbers, no customers. The barbers ranged in age from 30 to 70. Remember the old logic problem about how you go to a town with two barbers, and one of them has a horrible haircut and the other a great haircut, and of course you get your hair cut by the one with the bad hair, because obviously they cut each other's hair? Remember? Well, I tried to find the one with the worst hair, but instead he found me. I didn't have a choice, really, I hung up my coat and he was the only one that stood by his chair and got ready for me to sit down. So I thought maybe this was a good thing, like he was the number one barber in the rotation, and therefore got the first customer. His hair looked like it hadn't been cut in years, it was a grayish/white and hung down to his shoulders in one giant curly clump without any individual hairs visible to the naked eye. I'm not sure what nationality he was, he had an accent, though he didn't really speak. In case he was a 'talker,' I had planned on making up an elaborate life story (My name would be Chester). But he didn't say much of anything. I sat down and he got everything ready and grabbed his razor and stood poised an inch from my head. I told him what I wanted, and he got set to begin. There was a TV in the corner behind me, with a college basketball game on, and when he saw my glance at the TV he wordlessly turned the barber chair around so I could watch the game. I thought to myself: "Awesome." I really dug the place, big black and white tiles on the floor, wood paneling and a goddamn television right in front of me. But, as the unnamed barber began whirring and clumps of hair began falling onto my smock, I realized that since I was watching the basketball game, I could not see the mirror, and had no clue what was happening. He didn't seem to be cutting that much off, and was almost exclusively using the electric razor. Then he got out his straight-razor and did the back of my neck. He used the scissors for a bit on the top, put some old-man goop in it, and then brought out a giant man-brush and actually brushed my hair. When he turned me around... well, I wasn't horrified or anything, that would be a pretty predictable story. He didn't cut enough off the top, but oh well. And it looked all brushed and bushy, so I figured I could fix it OK after my shower. It looked neat enough though. I paid him, it was more that I was expecting ($17) so I was lucky I had that much cash on me, and then I hurried home.

When I got home I took a closer look. In retrospect, the lighting in the barbershop was not too bright, and I was a bit too far away from the mirror. The sides around my ears were shaved pretty short, but instead of blending in with the longer hair on the top, it just kind of looked like the top hairs hung awkwardly over an abyss, and curled under a bit, sort of like a stalk of celery or Beaker from the Muppets. To make matters more interesting, the left side looked semi-decent, but the right side was a much more exaggerated version. I decided to wash my hair and see if it was any different after I re-styled it. It really wasn't. It was fine on top, fine on the left side, and then a large tumor was growing out of the right side of my head. M got home from work at this point, gave me a compliment before I pointed out the deformity. She expressed equal horror, though she was mostly laughing. She then attempted to 'fix' it with a scissors and my sideburn/beard trimmer, both of which she wielded while standing on the toilet. I had my head over the sink. I really couldn't see into the mirror, but I could hear: brrr, brrr, brrr, BRRRRRR, "Whoops!". The sink was completely covered in hair, and when we finally agreed it was good enough, or enough damage was done, what was left cannot be properly described. From a distance, I'm sure it looks normal and fine, but upon examination, the right side looks like it was cut with a weed-wacker and/or samurai sword, the hair on top is an inch longer on the far right side, hangs down before awkwardly being chopped off. I keep looking in the mirror today, I still can't decide if it's OK or if it's a disaster. At the party Saturday night of course M had to tell everyone the whole story (a shorter version, I'm sure) and everyone could tell that something weird was going on, but all said they didn't notice anything at first. I think if I get a job interview anytime soon, I'm going to have to go somewhere else to get it fixed up. It obviously bothers me enough to write 1200+ words about it.

You don't mind if I bring my wingman do you? His name is Our Lord.

Funny as all hell.

Reunion Tour

I think it's about time to get the band back together.

My Ideal Occupations, by age.

Age 0: Breast Inspector
Age 1: Drool Manufacturer
Age 2: Talk Show Host
Age 3: Candy Inspector
Age 4: Candy Inspector
Age 5: Candy Inspector
Age 6: Entomologist/Rock Star
Age 7: Undercover Police Officer/Football Player
Age 8: Scientist/Football Player/Basketball Player/Baseball Player
Age 9: Geologist/Basketball Player
Age 10: Vice President of the United States
Age 11: Chemist/Writer
Age 12: Mathematician/Writer
Age 13: Mathematician/Tae Kwon Do Instructor
Age 14: Big Game Hunter/Mathematician
Age 15: Computer Programmer
Age 16: Computer Programmer/Professional Masturbator
Age 17: Computer Programmer/Bearded Hermit
Age 18: Computer Programmer/Jewel Thief
Age 19: Breast Inspector/Alcohol Taster/Cabana Boy
Age 20: Rock Critic
Age 21: Film Director/Marijuana Inspector
Age 22: Screenwriter
Age 23: Alcoholic Novelist
Age 24: Novelist/Record Store Owner
Age 25: Pop Culture Commentator/"House-husband"

Turn me down

Someone told me last winter, when I was last unemployed and looking for work, that she and her roommates would paste all of the rejection letters they received on the wall, and would admire the growing square footage. This is a mildly interesting idea, I admit. Unfortunately, though I would currently received great joy by plastering our unadorned walls with "Dear Applicant" form letters, so far I have received exactly zero. I'm not sure why. I'm sure this seems like a ridiculous thing to complain about; no one likes getting a rejection letter. No one likes getting rejected.

And I've been rejected once or twice in my life, believe me. Twice, actually, by girls. One said she had a boyfriend and the other, in retrospect, was surely a raging lesbo.

But my point is that the only thing worse than getting rejected is getting complete silence. All of these cover letter/resume one-two punches I've let fly, and I have nothing to show for it, besides the one cock-tease phone call. I want closure here. I'd love nothing more than a letter, or even an email, saying: "We got your resume, you are hopelessly unqualified for the position, best of luck surviving flu season without health insurance. Sincerely, Giant Company." Instead: Did these places even get my resume? Did I send it to the wrong address, or did an eager HR bottom-feeder, after seeing my cover letter, jump so high in exultation of my existence that he hit his head on a ceiling fan, showering my resume with his blood, and now lies in a endless coma, motionless except occassionally muttering the phrase 'Communication Arts with Film and Television Emphasis' over and over in his voice like death??? I may never know.

Swamp-Water

Last week's party went much better than expected, though not too far off from my original predictions. The 'open bar' was actually a swarm of waitresses with angular haircuts programmed to fetch glasses of wine in 3.2 seconds. Perhaps this was novel enough to explain, along with the lack of a proper dinner, me drinking enough to completely ruin my Saturday (Unless you consider sipping Sprite and eating nothing but buttered toast one of the highlights of your life). But while crab cakes, valet parking, and my unquenchable thirst for red wine might have been new, the off-key singing of Bon Jovi classics brought back far too many memories. Good memories, of course.

Rough Draft -2K4

Here's what I got so far, but it's looking pretty thin: Black Keys, Libertines, Loretta Lynn, Madvillain, Mirah, Modest Mouse, Saturday Looks Good to Me, Sonic Youth, Fiery Furnaces, Rogue Wave, Joanna Newsom, AC Newman, Von Bondies, Annie, Franz Ferdinand, Ted Leo/Rx, TV on the Radio, Belle & Sebastian, Stereolab, the Streets, Arcade Fire, Elliot Smith.

Suggestions needed, or Xmas might be cancelled this year.

Cocktail Weenie

You know what would be a great gift for me? This. I'm just saying.

This week has gone too quickly for me, with no progress on the job front at all. But now it's the weekend, and I can finally relax. Thank God.

Tonight we are going to a Medical Resident type Holiday party, at some fancy place downtown. I'm a guest, as always, and haven't decided if it will be fun or not. I'm not sure how many people will be there exactly, but if it's going to be anything like the medical school parties i went to last year, the night will go something like this:
7:30 pm - arrive to party
7:31 - 8:15 - get introduced to a couple dozen people, make small talk ('i just moved here', 'still looking for a job,' ' well, my degree was in film but i last worked in insurance')
8:16 - 10:00 - Stop trying to be social and concentrate on frequenting the open bar. Sit next to M and daydream as others talk about boring hospital things i don't understand.
10:00 - 11:00 - Shout "How's it Goin'!!" to anyone I know, try unsuccessfully to make out with M, feel extremely tired and bored
11:00 pm - depart.

So we'll see how that goes. Over the past month i've become more introverted than ever, going from a relatively normal guy into a bug-eyed creature who shuns the light and hisses "My preciousssss" all the time.

An Open Letter to my Unemployment (Day 38)

Dear State of Unemployment,

Though it seems like we were reacquainted yesterday, like abusive lovers who can't keep away, you've been around for over a month now. Though I figured you'd be staying for a month or two, it looks like you've made yourself rather comfortable, and are in no hurry to leave. Frankly, you are starting to wear on my nerves a bit.

No, wait, don't get angry, we've had our share of good times, right? Remember Summer of 2000? Yeah, when I was rehabbing my knee. I didn't even try to make you leave. I just spent all of my savings in bars and hung out with friends all day. You were a welcome houseguest, and I'll never forget that. And remember January - May of 2003? How could you forget, it happened so recently? Granted, this wasn't quite as fun, with no money and the bad luck with girls and drinking too much, but still, I didn't fight too hard to get rid of you. And even January and February of 2004, how could you forget? Though it seemed like I didn't want you around, with the frantic searching for a job and all, you still provided a welcome break in my routine.

But now things are different. You are here because I quit my job on purpose, so I could move. I welcomed you with open arms, figuring we'd have a nice reunion, some quality time, and we could say goodbye for at least a few more years. But the thing is, it hasn't been quite as fun as in the past. First off, it sucks to be out of a job when it gets cold outside, because then you have to spend your whole day inside, and that will wear on anybody. And I know that M is going to make more money than I for the rest of our lives, but it'd be nice if I could take her out a bit more. Also, since i've just moved here, I don't know how to properly entertain myself. I'm reading a lot, sure, but the closest library sucks, and it's hard finding anything worth reading. I was spoiled in Madison, with placing holds and requesting books from crosstown libraries, that was awesome. I would mind walking the ten blocks there if it was warmer outside. I should be working on some grand project with all my free time. I should be writing a novel. If a wrote just two pages a day I'd be over 70 already, that'd be a solid start. But instead nearly all of my writing is 'blogging,' which is the lowest form of writing imaginable, save for pamphleteering, which ranks lower due to its inherent self-righteousness and grand illusions.

And I know I don't have a clear direction, I don't have a 'dream job' or a clear objective to put on my resume. I want to gets paid, and I don't want to break a sweat doing it, and I'd rather sit most of the day. How can I tell people, without losing any dignity, that my ideal job is being a 'fundit' on VH1's Best Week Ever? That I can make up jokes about Kevin Federline for hours? (Britney Spears presented an award at the Grammy's last week, and to mark the occasion Kevin Federline wore his finest beer-stained wife-beater and 'mentally' shaved. It's so easy!)

I must admit sometimes I behave like I'm in no hurry to get rid of you, but I know it would be for the best. I got super-excited last week when I got the phone call from that company, and subsequently was devastated when I never got a call back about an interview. This sort of thing wears on my self esteem, and temporarily affects my effort. But you know i'll find my footing again eventually, instead of wasting a day by downloading music and shaving off my sideburns. So enjoy yourself while you still can, our love/hate relationship must continue for at least a while longer. I just wrote to let you know where I stand, and let's make the best of the time we have left together, live each day like it's our last. Let's go buy something to cook for dinner and maybe do some laundry later. If you're good, we'll split a beer or two later, there's still 3 in the fridge.

Your pal,
N.