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Thursday, August 4, 2011

It Won't Be Long Until We'll All Be There With Snow

It never ceases to amaze me how much listening to music can really enrich my life. No matter what I'm feeling, I've always been able to find a song that fits just swimmingly.

Lately, the heat has really gotten to me. I sit in the cube, looking out the window and stewing about how I can see little heat lines in the air. Those little heat lines that steal your breath, make you sweat and make tacky people think that tube tops are appropriate attire for non-beach situations. I hate those heat lines. I hate their little heat line guts. When it all seems to be too much, I hop on YouTube and listen to some Irving Berlin. I can't believe how refreshing this song can be when you're sweltering and grumpy.

"Snow," from White Christmas

When I'm feeling utterly depressed and loving it. When I'm simply revelling in how fucking miserable I am, I can't help but put this one on repeat until either I'm feeling slightly more jaunty, or until I'm tired of hearing it. Even Morrissey can wear out his maudlin welcome. With that being said, when I'm sick of this song...I'm usually on to another Morrissey/Smiths song. Except "Meat is Murder." That song sucks.

The Smiths, "Asleep"

When I'm in the most jovial mood and almost laughing at nothing at all (it's probably some kind mental disorder), there are some many songs that I can't help by smile about. I blame The Simpsons for making this song stick out in my mind, because it's being featured in a particularly hilarious scene made it unforgettable. Pairing this with Herb Alpert's "Spanish Flea," and you'll be sure to find that my head would explode with joy and happiness. I feel like this is the closest thing to knowing what it's like to be Buddy the Elf. "I like smiling. Smiling's my favorite."

Lesley Gore's "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows"

Finally, I was at the thrift store the other day, feeling alright (I guess) and I heard this song and I didn't know WHAT to feel. I was upset and enthused and scary and confused. Someone please help me understand this song. It's one of those songs that makes you feel like some big rock breakdown is going to occur...but never does. Kind of like every song by Phil Collins. F-U Phil Collins.


Al Stewart's "Time Passages."
(He probably should've just stuck to "Year of the Cat," so that Psapp could do an awesome cover.)



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Thursday, July 28, 2011

YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP. HEARING'S GONE. LONG STORY. GOT THESE THINGS CRANKED UP TO THE MAX.




Diane, 7:30 am, February twenty-fourth. Entering town of Twin Peaks. Five miles south of the Canadian border, twelve miles west of the state line. Never seen so many trees in my life. As W.C. Fields would say, I'd rather be here than Philadelphia. It's fifty-four degrees on a slightly overcast day. Weatherman said rain. If you could get paid that kind of money for being wrong sixty percent of the time it'd beat working. Mileage is 79,345, gauge is on reserve, I'm riding on fumes here, I've got to tank up when I get into town. Remind me to tell you how much that is. Lunch was $6.31 at the Lamplighter Inn. That's on Highway Two near Lewis Fork. That was a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, a slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. Damn good food. Diane, if you ever get up this way, that cherry pie is worth a stop


I hear that you're really good at what you do...Well, that's good. Because normally if a stranger walked into my station talking this kind of crap, he'd be looking for his teeth two blocks up on Queer Street.

Harry, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men's store, a catnap in your office chair or two cups of good hot black coffee. Like this.

COOPER, YOU REMIND ME TODAY OF A SMALL MEXICAN CHIHUAHUA.




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Monday, July 25, 2011

Combs

When I was around kindergarten-ish age, my mother worked across the street from our house at the local bar as a cook/bartender. There were a lot of locals and truckers that came in and out throughout the day to have a few and spend their disability dollars...or whatever it was they were using while still being able to go to the bar on a weekday.

Anyway, the owner's son, Beaver (not the funny part), told me that the machines in the bathroom that I asked about on several occasions held combs. You know, "combs." I distinctly remember really wanted a comb, but my mother wouldn't let me get one. I can remember thinking, "What's the big deal? It's only a comb. Why can't I have a comb?"

It wasn't until SEVERAL years later that I found what these magical machines actually dispensed. Actually, it was probably way too many years later that I realized what these machines were for. Where was I when all of the bad kids that sit in the back of the bus and talked about inappropriate things that they didn't really know anything about (or worse, they actually did know something about)?

Anyway, I was at a local bar on Saturday night and I saw one of these "comb dispensers," that could've very well had the image that I saw when I was a youngster.

All I can really think is: how could I possibly have thought that this was a comb dispenser? She must REALLY like to have her hair combed. That's all I can figure.
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Sunday, July 24, 2011

Tom


...We used to beat on the wall for long-distance phone calls...
...You ate the whole cake and left one triangle: like in the movies...
...I was all, "Play some Duane Eddy," and then you did...
...You used to bum the girl cigarettes from Gram and then break off the filters...
...You gave us an entire wheel of cheese. What the frick could we do with an entire wheel of cheese...
...I'll probably remember those glasses, more than anything...
...The last thing that you said to me was, "Thank You."...


Uncle Tom, tell Gram I said "Hi," okay?
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Friday, July 22, 2011

Overheard At Work Today

"I was tempted to take my bra off. It was bothering me."

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Monday, July 18, 2011

An Open Letter to Every Tattoo Artist I've Ever tried to Work With

To get a little philosophical for just a brief moment, everyone in the world, regardless of physical appearance, monetary wealth, societal desirability or even time period in history, wants and needs a way to show their inward feelings and propensities with their outward appearance (this is exactly why there are furries). Throughout time, body modification has been a medium that has transcended geography as well as all of the other aforementioned factors to provide for those innate needs. Even now, tattooing and piercing, in the modern world, are more popular than ever (well, maybe not EVER, but the point of this is not statistics. The point is that I'm pissed off). It seems as though every outlaw, inlaw, hiker, biker, outhouse, doghouse, hoghouse, henhouse, bimbo, kimbo, tramp, MILF, DILF, and middle-managment paper-pusher wants something that translate into their hopes and dreams. Soemthing to make them look introspective and edgy. Something that makes them look like more than themselves. In a way, I want that too. I guess.

What is probably even more popular than totally twee and hipster body modification (besides Affliction shirts and looking like a dime-bag sleaze with skunk-colored flat-ironed hair) is supporting small business, by buying things from places like Etsy online, or trying your best to buy apple-bourbon-cornflake fritter-goat cheese ice cream from a local computer-programmer/turned ice creamer that has a knack for making flavours that supercede "Superman" icecream. While there tattoo empires like the ones that are featured on LA Ink and whatever that other show is where everyone looks like they've taken seven hours to get ready to go to work and have a really fucking awesome time, tattoo shops are the pinnacle of small business ownership. You've got a really small staff of supposedly talented people that have thrown-off the chains of big business's oppression and are going to make their livelihood out of selling body modification to people that want to throw off the chains of whatever kind of oppression they've got going on by getting some kind of body modification that they'll surely place strategically, in order to still be employable in the cube (myself included on this one). It's a cluster-fuck, but it's better than buying your recycled bamboo sheets at Wal-Mart, right? The key, though, that tattoo shops seem to miss about being a small business: customer service. While this isn't the kind of business that forces you to rim all of your customers in the way that businesses like Starbucks, etc., do, a little bit of organization, decorum, professionalism and basic human kindness can go a long way in making a profitable and admirable business that is still standing when body modification is less fad-ulous. Maybe, too, try keeping a date-book and maintaining website...thanks.

I've heard, time after time, about how they've been burned in 'x' situation, or how this dude did 'y' and now they don't take checks or some other ridiculous policy. Somehow, I fail to see how those people's inadequacies are really my problem and why I should be privvy to some blanket policy because some drug-addict stiffed you five years ago. I can venture to bet that you probably hate that kind of predjudice when it is exerted upon you. Remember that the next time you can't be bothered to turn down your screamo-y "Bullet in my Forehead my guts spilling out on your newly restored Chesterfield," (or whatever those bands are called that have all of those ugly neon t-shirts at Hot Topic for three-hundred dollars) and talk to me about something that I'd like to have done. You know what, I can extend this message to any kind of service I've ever received at a tattoo shop.

There are people that often frequent tattoo shops even when they're not getting anything modified,those people that bring fifteen friends with them when they're getting a tattoo and those tattoo artists that have girlfriends that look like prostitutes that never seen to have any gentlemen callers to entertain. All of these people are annoying and don't make the tattoo shop any money...but still, they're allowed to loiter with unmitigated gall: smoking cigarettes right in the doorway so that I smell like American Spirits when I leave (thanks a lot!). I guess my problem in receiving any kind of appropriate service or communication from an average tattoo shop is that I fall into none of the above categories. Because I don't look like tarted-up skeletal remains, a paint-by-number coloring book or a tackle box, I must not be a legitimate customer that understands the "vision" of their methods of body modification. You know what, you're totally right. Much like the last tattoo shop I visited, where really classy guy in front of me wanted a Papa Smurf tattoo, I am not the kind of person that frequents these places and makes it my business to try be "cool," like that dude that's getting a half-sleeve of skeletons coming out of a rockabillyish, naked Pandora's "box."

Part of people a small business owner is being able to read people and respond to their needs accordingly. In fact, that's the goal over every business. I fail to see why tattoo shops feel as though they've escaped this basic part of every other businesses' model. Please, explain it to me. That's probably the most irritating of all of the complaints that I have. Tattoo artists present this sort of flippant and very blase attitude about everything that you could ever want to be tattooed on your body, unless you give them complete and utter freedom to do whatever they want and don't critique them about any drawings or suggestions that they give. WHAT?!  Cut the attutide buddy, before I rip the "Prince Albert," right off of your body. The next time that I suggest a scent to someone at the candle shoppe and they don't like it...I'm going to try out this behavior on my customer and see how things go down.

Be reliable. If you say you're going to do something, do it by the time that you've given yourself. I'm not asking for something overnight, but you've set the parameters for your own business, not me. If you say you're going to be open, you better be there. If you have a website/facebook page/email address, respond to the messages that I send. I have to shower and be at work sober...so should you. If body modification is ever to become something that is accepted in mainstream society (it's practically there, although some SAHM's still use butterfly and purple rose tattoos as a means of rebelling against the fact that they hate the life that they so desperately wanted before they actually had children), then tattoo shop owners must create their own legitimacy.

With all of my anger and resentment at the tattooing industry as a whole, I'm sure that there are owners and artists that don't run this kind of show. I just haven't met them, tried to email them, called them or tried to set-up an appointment or get a drawing done of a custom tattoo I've wanted for three years. If you're reading this and you're a tattoo artists and you can actually keep your shit together, bravo! Send me a message and maybe I can give you my money. I mean, that's the bottom-line isn't it? They must not need my money that badly.

When I want a cup of coffee and I can't make it myself, I go to a coffeeshop and there's no hassle about what kind of coffee you want, if you want a work-up of the coffee with an estimate for how much it's going to cost, that you need to put down a deposit on the coffee and wait a year for an appointment to receive the coffee or how you've got to wade through a dozen hangers-on blowing organic, hand-rolled cigarette smoke in your face, talking about all of the awesome coffee that they've had in the past. You just buy the coffee and drink the coffee. That's it.

Whatever...I'm done with this topic. Working hard is for every other small business owner. You guys must've gotten a carte-blanche and didn't tell me about it.Best Blogger Tips