Sunday, October 31, 2010

Halloween is for the macabre


Friday, October 29: I finally bandaged a gash on my index finger but only because it appeared to be festering and I didn’t want students to focus on an oozing open sore over their troublesome grammatical errors. I later exed over and reopened the original wound while cutting a stale piece of sourdough bread and no, not with the knife. Apparently old food takes on a dull edge that hurts, for lack of a better word, like a motherfucker.

Saturday, October 30: South Mo-Pac and 183, two major traffic arteries, were closed early Saturday morning leaving drivers to scatter like cockroaches into the surrounding neighborhoods for alternate routes. Why? Because on an overpass high above the two highways’ intersection a man was burning to death in his flipped over gasoline tanker. The 7AM atmosphere confined the thick black smoke into a hazy stripe across the horizon and at the mouth of this colorless rainbow, fire gushed like an inverted waterfall into the sky, its moist spray, a smoky perversion. I watched the flames with fearful wonderment as I slowly steered my car among the living. If I’m to reach the precipice of death before humanity realizes and shares immortality, I hope, hope, hope my fall will be as disruptive and commanding as the one I witnessed this weekend.

Sunday, October 31: Shoes are back in my footwear rotation and I’ve taken to grooming the various holes in my face with fine instruments because my rancid finger injury and likely scar are only complementing my knobby toes and the more and more frequent hair trolling out of my ears. I’ve become Dorian Grey but my portrait is gnarling in real-time. . .and I’m not an asshole. The bumpy toes are a direct response to the fat thongs of my Croc sandals, apparel that I’ve lazily worn instead of real shoes for the past 8 months, but my ear coiffure is explicable only within margins of our times, a period I’ve affectionately titled “The Deformative Years.”

Happy Halloween.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

In defense of Jackass 3D

I watched Jackass 3D the other day and I make no apologies. Something about dumb humor appeals to my humanity and I thoroughly enjoyed the agony and revulsion the movie inspired. It was funny.

A couple of years ago, I read that one of the oldest jokes ever recorded dealt with farts: “Something which has never occurred since time immemorial; a young woman did not fart in her husband's lap.” I guess you had to be there, but it dates back 4000 years to Sumer, the cradle of human civilization, so maybe I just have my finger on the pulse of mankind and you’re the asshole.

My only criticism of Jackass 3D is that it didn’t really need to be in 3D. Perhaps that was too sophisticated for me. I only appreciated the feature when Chris Pontius stringed a remote controlled helicopter to his full-frontal man parts, and via 3D technology, flew it out to interact with millions of people across the planet. That was somehow transcendental for me.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Belated ACL post

I've been meaning to write about the ACL Festival last weekend and since I’m experiencing a complete writer’s block with another project, here we go.

ACL reflections (I spent a long time linking these songs so listen to them or I will wish ill upon you):

Friday.
1) I missed The Mountain Goats because I didn’t get out of work early enough.
2) The Black Keys, who are awesome, were not awesome live.
3) A combination of the mild heat and the 16OZ can of Austin’s own Green Leaf tea sloshing around in my stomach made me sick and I left after two hours so I wouldn’t be someone’s memory of a vomiting festival goer.

Saturday.
1) I arrived in time for Pete Yorn, who was amazingly unexceptional, so I cut his crowded set in half and visited Bear in Heaven. They were a band to see, and I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time at Yorn’s show. Pete Yorn is the Dane Cook of music and if you know Pete Yorn and Dane Cook but still don’t know what I’m talking about, I would like for you to identify yourself. But Bear in Heaven. Underappreciated. Awesome.
2) The Dough Rollers held my attention after The Gaslight Anthem could not. The Dough Rollers are a foot-stomping, old-timey, blues-roaring duo. Quite impressive. I found out the next day that the lead singer is none other than Harrison “Han Solo” Ford’s son.
3) After a few false starts, I settled at a three-drum set group called Beats Antique. Very talented, these kids. They even gimmicked a belly dancer for some of their songs. On top of her being brow-perspiringly desirable, her moves were original and not primarily, or secondarily for that matter, belly dancing. There was mechanical rigidity to her movement that I don’t know how to categorize. Anyway, I love her.
4) While tip-toeing over crossed legs and intimately brushing past sweaty men and women in bikinis, a man called out, “Hey, Crabby!” Naturally, I turned. He was an old man in a collapsible chair beside an equally old woman. “You can’t walk past here unless you have a smile on your face.” I laughed and continued on. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t bothered by anything, in fact. I just scowl.
5) I lost a solid hour catching up with friends I hadn’t seen for a while but ended up at LCD Sound System. For a bunch of middle aged unsexy musicians, they had a packed . . . field and their show was engaging and fun. I was, of course, drunk by then so I’m perhaps not the most reliable source.
6) Muse. Ah Muse, how I don’t understand your appeal. They were the Saturday headliner and people were going completely ape shit over them. They put on an aesthetically pleasing performance, but I’m apparently the only person in Austin who thinks their music is boring and unoriginal.

Sunday.
1) The Constellations were my Sunday highlight. I chanced upon them and took them first to be clowns by their ridiculous hip. But if they must be clowns, let them be clowns of cool. The link is the best sound I could find but trust me when I say that the two women are stifled on record 'cause live, they held the band together.
2) Sunburns. Sore neck. Aching back. Dusty feet. $7 beer. $5 Torchy’s taco.
3) Let me first say, lastly, that I love The Flaming Lips. I love The Flaming Lips. But they spent more time on their presentation than did playing music. Yeah, if you’re a rock star, you can make your audience meow like a cat but that doesn’t make it right. The looping video of a nude woman dancing was, perversion aside, very interesting and kept the slow moments dynamic, but I found The Lips’ reluctance to perform to be arrogant. They redeemed themselves by ending the show with one of my favorite songs ever written, “Do You Realize??” and thus concluding my time at ACL, for I couldn’t think of anything more exhausting than staying for two hours of soft rocking Eagles.
3.1) Flat tire upon returning to my car. Air compressor. A rush home.
3.2) I witness a three-car collision and heroically stop to check on everyone. Flashing police and ambulances. People shouting in Vietnamese. Cops shouting in English. I go home and sleep. Strange and unusual weekend.

End ACL.


Saturday, October 2, 2010

Collapse, watch it.

This post is dedicated to Chindiana Trails for expressing disapproval toward my recent optimistically-toned writings.

Last week, I watched an interview/documentary called Collapse and have been reflecting over it ever since. Unlike so many well-watched deliveries in the past, the Netflix envelope containing the DVD was crisp and new. And as evidence to its limited exposure, the disc had been sitting unwatched in front of my TV for weeks. You see, I’ve been avoiding local and national news lately because I actually feel my face swell with anger and frustration and it’s quite the uncomfortable bloat. As a simple solution, I’ve taken the advice I received from a ride to Big Bend: “Man, change the channel.” And I have, and I feel better. Collapse arrived from my queue before I could bump it and I couldn’t bring myself to send it back without watching it, so I did.

The documentary is about the total collapse of civilization as we know it with the running out of oil as the single catalyst. The man behind the theory is a guy named Michael Ruppert. I spent half the movie dismissing him as an arrogant crazy person and the other half struggling to counter his position. Essentially, oil is in everything: plastics, paint, even food. It is responsible for generating energy for our entire way of life and we are unarguably running out of it. The guy’s evenly apocalyptic the entire interview, which can be a little tiring but he seems to transcend blue, red, even green politics, and I appreciate his dumping politicians into the same bastard theater.

Anyway, if you don’t watch it, at least check out the 2-minute trailer. I promise your face won’t swell with anger or frustration. . .or don’t watch it, but when the shit hits the fan, don’t bother trying to join the marauding clan I will have assembled because we will eat you. Better, Mr. Trails?
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