Some music for the evening

I'm currently working on a number of projects, literary and bloggerary, so I have nothing to contribute tonight. In lieu of real content, here is a fantastic video by a new band this blog heartily endorses, the1921a, whose debut album ('21a) can be purchased through the sidebar (Working Performers of America; follow the store link). Enjoy, and if you like what you hear, please support this group.

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Louis' Tips On Etiquette

Aging baptists will not see the humor in your demands that they call you "Love Messiah", and are even less amused by your threats to demonstrate your powers.

Die, Horsie, Die!

So, I'm writing you now from my new MacBook laptop, which is as awesome as a blowjob with the balls cupped, with the balls cupped, dammit! (Sometimes you have to remind people.) Of course, it's most likely already fubar after frantically downloading several dubious applications in order to rip my iPod onto this thing, but c'est la vie.

Anyway, my reason for writing this is that something actually happened to me worth writing about. It all started when I was driving home from my grandparent's house (the generous source of my new puter), and I accidentally cut off some dicksack in a fire engine red Ford Mustang (the new Mustang, mind you, not the kind I'd actually feel bad about cutting off). This cum guzzler decides that, instead of merely allowing my transgression to pass by unanswered, he'd tailgate the living shite out of me and hurl insults into my rearview mirror. Noticing this had little effect on a superior being such as myself, the lesser ape decided to, as they say, take it up a notch. He revved his engine into the five or six thousands and ripped up to my side, arms flailing, mouth foaming, and spewing a general air of psychotic danger my way. He then, in what might be the quintessence of road rage, began rocking violently back and forth between his lane and the inside of mine, threatening to run me off the road. What is one to do in this situation? Look for divine providence, that is what.

Ahead of us in his lane was a massive pick up truck moving considerably slower than the two of us, and I saw my opportunity. I sped up to ninety, and slammed at my brakes when I got along side him. Boxing the monkey in the Mustang out, I prepared my ammunition. I had three chances: a can of Coke, and some kielbasa and potato salad from my Grandmother. He played into my hand and moved to my rear, nearly touching my bumper with his and continuing to flail and scream in pitiful anger. First the Coke. I hurl it over my shoulder and it glances off his hood. Seeing that that did no damage (except to his paint job) I decided to throw the tinfoil full of kielbasa next. Right off the windshield, but to no avail. And then glory. I opened the Cool Whip container full of greasy potato salad and sent it his way. BULLSEYE! The salad splattered all over the windshield right in front of his face, and he swerved into the breakdown lane. He may have went off the road, but fuck if I care. I gunned it again and got as much distance between me and the rabid baboon as possible.

And the moral of the story? Well, there are two. One: people in late model Mustangs are most likely douchebags, so be vigilant around them. Two: kielbasa is not an effective projectile, but is very tasty, so don't throw it; eat it.

-Barnes

Hero for the day.

Fun fact: Did you know that Tim Roth (Sir-Bleeds-A-Lot in Reservoir Dogs) named his children Hunter and Cormac, after his favorite authors?

Words of wisdom.

"Mmm. Very pretty."
-Igor Stravinsky, upon hearing one of his pieces.

This quote comes courtesy of my new music theory teacher, whose father apparently knew Stravinsky. Imagining that quote in a thick, possibly senile Russian accent makes it all the funnier.

The virtues of the Populist: A Restatement

Some time ago, I posted a brief defense of socializing with the masses that generated a small amount of controversy among people who are opposed to such things. I'd like to clarify my views on the solitary life, to put a stop to any misconceptions that might be floating around these mighty internets.

I spend most of my free time alone. I specify "free time" because I must work to support myself, and, though I am on a hiatus, I am a student. Time spent at work and at school is time necessarily spent with people. When I am free of such things, I am most often to be found studying, reading, writing, and of late, translating. I have filled dozens of journals with solitary musings; I read rabidly, and though school has forced my output to dwindle, I write short fiction regularly. My time alone is some of my most valued, especially given its unfortunate infrequency.

The amount of time I actually spend with people is by far the less. On Saturdays, I usually see Barnes and Louis. Sundays are spent with assorted friends at restaurants and coffee shops. Once and a while, I'll get together with some people during the week, but other than weekends, I enjoy my time alone.

The fundamental difference between the renowned cave-dweller and me is that I enjoy solitude for what it offers, not for what it can shield me from. I am not a misanthrope. I have always enjoyed a general and abiding love for humanity, even if I dislike several of her constituents. Most people are fine by me, and when I emerge from my solitude I enjoy spending time with them. Solitude wrought from hatred is hardly the Thoreauvian ideal. The Man himself enjoyed the company of the simple woodcutter and the passers-by through his woods. Of course, referencing great men proves not a thing; but the point ought to be made that when one values solitude because one hates humanity, the actual merits of being alone are smothered.

It should also be noted that humanity is what makes solitude possible for most of us in the first place. Without the innumerable benefits conferred upon us by existing in a functional society, we would not have the books to read or the pens with which to write or the food to sustain us while doing both. Thoreau built his home with supplies from town, and sold his beans for a profit there. Without extraordinary effort that would likely detract from hating the world, effort that would include cultivating the land, building a home, and dozens of daily chores; without that sort of effort, solitude would be impossible if it were not for the hated many. The paradox of hating those who feed you would be funny if it weren't just sort of sad.

Have your solitude, gentle reader, and enjoy it. Be warned, though: excessive solitude has been known to cause misanthropy, a bloated sense of self-worth, and the delusion that feuds with your computer screen are meaningful.

In loving memory of good PSAs at the theatre.

I don't know if my local theatre is the only one to do this, but before every movie an animated sequence of frogs singing to the tune of "Heard It Through the Grapevine" comes on, telling us the usual about cell phones and smoking. It was cute at first, but now it makes me want to eat glass.

So, to alleviate the pain, here are two brilliant PSAs that came and went, forgotten by most.

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