Crash

Sly little thing… July thought she could just slip away without seeing anything new from me? Whatta bitch.

Well, it’s July, (actually it’s almost August) a month I dislike even more than December. July brings the beginning of another year for me, but thankfully, another year less from the magic number in the big book. And now I’m 23. So what? Plenty of people are.
I honestly don’t get the whole ‘celebrate your Birthday’ thing. What’s to celebrate? You popped out from a person some years ago, causing said person great anguish for multiple hours. After that you were a burden of puke and other much less pretty bodily expulsions for a couple of years until you actually began to eat. Then you became a financial burden, pushing away the thought of a hot new car to drive through the midlife crisis. And after putting your folks through at least these many years, you want to celebrate? Are you out of your freakin’ mind???
Of course I know that people have opinions, of course I know that these are my own views on birthdays, which are not necessarily subscribed to by others and I respect that fact. Hence, I’m happy for anyone who’s got reason to be happy about his or her own Birthday. If that’s the way you want to think about it, then that’s how I’ll play the game, just for the day. And now, before I get carried into another boringsome tirade, the end.

I saw Crash the other day, you know, the movie that won the award(s) for whatever. And I was pretty happy. Not happy after watching the movie, happy that I was able to watch it. Obviously I didn’t know if this was a realistic depiction of the current racial relations situation in the world (read USofA) but I thought it was pretty darned good as a work of fiction at least. There was no clear central character, no clearly defined good, no lush sets, no fast cars, no fast women, no single defining moment and no outstanding moral. It just was. And like everyday life, in the end there’s always change. For better or for worse.
Two scenes really had me going for a bit though. First, the one where the would-be-carjackers walk out of the diner and Chris complains that he wasn’t served any coffee that he hadn’t ordered and never wanted anyway and refused to tip the waitress because he assumed that she had assumed that they wouldn’t tip because they were black, although the coffee was the reason he didn’t tip. That makes a lot of sense when I read it. You can try to figure it out if you haven’t watched the movie yet.
The second was Sandra Bullock talking to her friend on the phone. This really hit me so here’s the main portion:

I just thought that I would wake up today and I would feel better, you know?
But I was still mad. And I realized... I realized that it had nothing to do with my car being stolen.

I wake up like this every morning!

I am angry all the time, and I don't know why.

I wish I could have said this was just another line from just another movie. But it wasn’t. It may be, but not to me. To me it is my reality. Every day runs a similar route until I find myself going through the same door once again. It becomes so that I am angry all the time. I could say that even the little annoyances add up, but that’s not an acceptable reason. And I don’t know why.


Have I mentioned how much I do not like the rain? If I haven’t then I just have. This rain has an uncanny ability to begin as soon as I decide to leave the house. It is completely unfuckingbelievable how it can start pouring in just a few moments after I leave the dryness of my home.
This year I decided to go prepared so I bought myself no, not a body condom… a rain-proof suit. Of course it’s not sane to wear the hot pants all the time (Not hot-pants... hot as in they don’t breathe!) so I need to carry around an extra bag, a mild annoyance compared to having to sit in an air conditioned room with wet pants. So, having bought it, for 2 weeks I carried it everywhere I went without ever needing to wear it. The day it finally rained at an inopportune time and I pulled on the protection, it stopped raining within minutes of my stepping out the door. Since then I have only carried the jacket. Of course it only rains hard and long enough to soak me in moments and as soon as the jacket is on there isn’t a drop in sight. You may argue that I should wear the jacket at all times, but you see, that would prevent me from proving my point!
Some may call it coincidence, bad luck, or even ordinary precipitation and although I’m sorely tempted to call it a conspiracy, I’m more level headed than that: seeing as how the rain is so apparently brought forth by my presence, if there is a Rain God, surely it is I!


This was never meant to be made public, but seems like it would fit in properly here, so, out of the archives comes my little poem.

I don’t like rain
I always get
Wet
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
So de-press-ing
Ann-oy-ing
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
Water proofing
The roofing
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
I hate the muck
Fuck!
I don’t like rain

I don’t like rain
End the monsoon
Soon
I don’t like rain


Roy Orbison and k.d. lang – Crying Over You
Creed – With Arms Wide Open

Morons

Now that I’ve been blogging for close to a year, I know that I hate blogs. All blogs are blogged by egomaniacal pricks. From now on, this is NOT a blog. This WAS never a blog. This will never BE a blog. What the hell?! Everybody wants to “document” something or the other about their miserable little lives… it’s so fucking annoying. Stop wasting web space and my time! Visit any given blog on any given day and you’ll be bombarded by a barrage of links to other shitheads who blog and link too. Or if not links to other blogs it’ll be links to web articles from where the blogger has pilfered his/her/its information/shit. If only stupid bloggers (is there any other kind?) would stop “documenting” their shitty ideas and lives, people like me wouldn’t have to tell them to shut the hell up! Today I happened across a blog all about Google. Of course, the world never knows enough about “Google”, so now we all have to depend on this dipshit to drop us the hottest scoops about “Google”.
Gimme a break. Get a life.
Another thing… what’s with the grammar? Don’t they fucking teach grammar in primary school?? The worst thing about stumbling into a blog like you stumble into dog crap is not just that it’s a blog and I hate blogs, but people spell like shit. Take the easiest thing: you are. Is that too difficult to type? Okay, we’ll try you’re. Nope, not yet good enough, lets just go with your. That just saved you two characters and is perfect spelling: Great job Dumbass! Only if you completely ignore the existence of something called a possessive pronoun!! I wish blogs were people so I could now smack the look of incredulity right off their stupid faces!

And what is with these allergies? Seems like every kid is born and labeled with some sort of disorder before being released to its parents. Nut allergy? Lactose intolerance?! The only allergy I know is an allergy to bullshit and the only intolerance I know is intolerance towards egotistical pricks who write crap on shitty blogs. NUT allergy??? Dyslexia, ADD, what else are they going to introduce? Damn, at this rate we may as well put up a giant neon sign that says “Invaders welcome, this planet occupied by distracted, illiterate, intolerant weaklings.” Hypochondriacs, YOU can kiss my ass.
Enough of this bullshit. Having to deal with bullshit is making me feel like punching someone in the crotch.

If you ultimately realize that I’ve been talking about you all along and you’re thinking of a riposte, knock yourself out, Dummy. But before you waste any of those precious brain cells, get this: Nothing I’ve said here doesn’t make a whole lotta sense. So time to suck it and acknowledge what’s now become a lifestyle choice for you. Losing.


Songs for the week? It’s the same week, Jackass! See yesterday’s post.

Fuck Football, Screw Soccer

I’m in love with this beautiful game!!! Don’t be daft, of course I’m not! Piss off yer fucking wankers!!
Well it’s the season apparently, so as you can see, I’ve made honourable mention of the flavour of the month, right in my title. Ok, so it not all that honourable, but at least it’s a mention… I’ve even been considerate in case you happen to be across the Atlantic: Soccer!

You know what they should televise? Wrestling for the elderly. That would make for good TV! Just because they aren’t as young as you or I, doesn’t mean that they can’t be part of one of the finer viewing experiences available on broadcast television. Really! Check it out.

Llllets get ready to grrrumbuhhhlllll!! ‘Evening Ladies and Gents, this is Bucky Tooth and welcome to The Sunset Old Folks’ Home. We’ve got one helluva slobberknocker lined up for ya! Oops, can we cut that bit out? I don’t want Jim Ross climbing up my ass for lifting his lines! Our main event, in fact our only even tonight is the deathmatch between Old McJoe and Viagraman. Tensions are raised and it’s reported to be the culmination of a longstanding feud between these two that began yesterday afternoon. Apparently McJoe cut in front of Viagraman in the jelly line. And when Viagraman finally reached the head, they had no more grape. Now everybody knows Viagraman loves grape! To add insult to injury, Old McJoe was later seen sharing his jelly with Viagraman’s nurse. Viagraman has since sworn revenge and it’s been an intense day of staredowns and fist clenching, all building up to this very moment!
It looks like we’re ready to go, but before we start, let’s get some background info on our superstars. Old McJoe is 67, and has a history of neckbreaking. That would probably explain why he always wears a brace. Some of the ladies around here seemed to think it was a sports accessory. To me, that looks like a weakness that Viagraman won’t hesitate to exploit. McJoe grew up in the mean streets and his affection for tattoos is well displayed all over his chest. Can you believe he draws those back on everyday after his bath?! Very impressive, considering the weak neck and the fact that he’s looking at it upside down all the while… McJoe will be cheered on by his folks at ringside. There go his three grandchildren, kicking in the snack machine. Viagraman is not so lucky, he has seven of them. Even at 69, he’s well known for his dirty tricks, often stooping below the belt. His nurse can confirm that well; she follows him with a bedpan for two hours after meals. This guy spent 11 years in the army, so he’s pretty tough, you can be sure of that! All those years of cooking military meals really toughens a man. You can see it in his face. McJoe must look like nothing more than a potato to him. An inky potato in a neck brace.
The gents climb into the ring, assisted by their nurses. Damn, Viagraman’s corner is smoking from that hot piece of ass! I can see why he’d want to be a Viagra-man!! The referee checks them out for foreign objects and they move to the centre of the ring for a customary shake of hands. Why am I cursed with crappy fucking keyboards?!! This is a beautiful aspect of the violent sport, the competitors taking time out to show respect for their opponent even though they’re gonna be pounding on each other a minute later. Whoah and look at that, McJoe really isn’t wasting any time, he’s got Viagraman in a wrist lock already! So much for respect, ladies and gentlemen! The bell rings and Viagraman is responding to the pressure being applied by Old McJoe as we see McJoe beginning to grimace as well. The referee has been reduced to a spectator here because this is a perfectly legal move; all he can do is watch as these… hardened veterans squeeze the life out of each other…’s hands. Looks like we’re gonna need the medics down here after this one!
It’s been a minute of wrinkly hand wringing now and the sweat is beginning to pour off these guys. There goes the referee to get a chilled beverage. Nothing left for him to do here. And speaking of pouring, McJoe is beginning to drip more ink than sweat! That tattoo is almost gone; all that’s left of the detailed crocodile are his nostrils. And will you take a look at those nurses! The bouncing bazoombas!! Forget the oldies, I want some of that action! They’re cheering for their wards from the ringside, as they put their bodies on the line to sort out their differences. Some may talk about the “exuberance of youth” but I’ll tell you, there’s nothing un-exuberant about these sixty-somethings… and with that both the contestants drop to the mat: it looks like McJoe is having a stroke and the old bastard has fallen over Viagraman! Viagraman is trying to get up but McJoe is dead weight. The referee is back in action finally and I don’t believe this, he’s started a count! Viagraman is desperately trying to get to his feet but the quivering McJoe is keeping him down. We’re up to five now and the nurses are looking awful anxious there. Come here nursie baby, Papa’s got a brand new bag… Seven, the medics are rushing down to the ring but they can’t get in till the count is up. Nine, Viagraman is actually trying to hoist the inky pensioner into a fireman’s lift but he’s too heavy for a potato peeler. TEN and we’re done! The bell rings, it’s all over, no one wins! The feud is still alive and well but I can’t say the same of the feuders. The medical personnel lug the sexagenarians out of the ring while the nurses flutter around them. Oh there’re gonna be some sore backs tonight. And I’m not talking about the old dudes!
Well, this has been a matchup for the ages Ladies and Gentlemen, the hottest face-off at The Sunset since Granny Gumboots took on Big Mama Cash in the battle for underwear priviledges. Brrr… if you don’t know how that one turned out, the less said the better! So as we leave The Sunset with fond memories of the evening and the solid effort put in by our competitors let’s not forget that we’ll be back next week for the Chairs, Walkers and Canes match and you surely don’t wanna miss that! Signing out for now, this is Bucky Tooth, off to watch them defibrillating my father beside the ring.


Motorhead – Line In The Sand
Motorhead – The Game: This is the first time any track has made it onto my chart for a second week… so, it’s a first second! Mr. Kilmister, you’re a lucky dude. But I’ve been listening to these two before leaving for work everyday and now even at work! So they gotta be up here.
The Rasmus – Guilty
The Sex Pistols – Johnny B. Goode/Roadrunner : Very few proper lyrics, Johnny at his Rotten best!

Devoid

I go on and on about myself and my meandering musings. Day after day and post after post; filled with intertwining redundancies, judgmental opinions and the occasional self loathing comment, but carrying eternally unending attitude. One might even go so far as to presume that I am conceited. But I do think. I do think beyond myself.
I make no pretense of being socially conscious or whatever you want to call those people who voluntarily visit villages in Ethiopia or some other dark corner of the earth and return carrying videos brimming with living, walking, talking horrors. Or even those who spare change for the guy without legs who sits outside the hardware store. I am not one of those. (Just for the record, he was not in a war or anything like that)

A lot of people, if asked “So, if you could live your life again what would you change about it?” would stare into space for a few seconds while they think they’re thinking or want you to think that they’re thinking, then grin back at you and say “Nothing!” I’d probably be tempted to do the same too. Yeah, walking down the street on a Saturday evening, painted faces all around and I’m wondering how the girl ahead could have such a perfect ass. Life is sweet.
But what about the guy who can’t walk and admire beautiful booty because he’s too busy collecting coins outside the hardware store? Oh and did I mention he can’t walk? What about the guy, nay people, who don’t know what I’m saying, who have never read my blog… who cannot access a computer… who don’t know a computer… who couldn’t use a computer because they have no electricity… who couldn’t read this because they cannot read… who never learned to read because they were more occupied with trying to get a single meal in a day or perhaps even three…?
I don’t know.
For those of you who didn’t use the answer illustrated above, what will it be? “I would start investing earlier.” “I wouldn’t get married!” “I’d get that managerial degree…” “I’d leave this damn country before I reached thirty!” Don’t even get me started with the comparisons here.

Who knows? Who cares? Of course everyone cares when the topic comes up at a dinner party with loudmouthed uncles who like to stand in the center of the living room and gesticulate with gusto in front of all the aunties. But once the drinks are done and dinner has gone past dessert and everyone has driven home in semi-stupors, who among them still care? Nobody. And I don’t blame them. Why would you think of a far removed world, when yours is spinning just fine?
I don’t either. The only time I’ve thought of the legless fellow was when I wrote this. Twenty minutes later I don’t think he was on my mind anymore (phew!) And unless you belong to the small class of people I mentioned in my opening paragraph, you’re the same as me. But that’s okay; I’m not judging you… today.

I dislike the hedonism and overstated extravagance that often tends to follow large accumulations of capital. I hate when a sense of gratitude does not come with the package.
Sure, I understand that when you’re disassociated from certain aspects of the world its hard to think of them, let alone imagine the circumstances. Disassociated even though paths intersect at any given busy traffic junction, I might add. Ask the children who sell those colouring books.
I’m not asking for anything from you. I don’t run a charity nor do I subscribe to any. In fact, if you ask me, there’s a Charity Fatigue Syndrome going around. There are so many of them for so many reasons nowadays that people are beginning to give even less of a shit than they did before. I’ve said what I wanted to and now I can’t find a closing line. (I was going to write a song today!) So I’m just going to stop here.
If you were able to read this then you already have enough reasons to be grateful. So whichever God you pray to, thank him in sincerity that you’re not one of those who will be re-forgotten once everyone who reads this post is done reading.


Air Supply – Goodbye
The Divinyls – I touch Myself

Golden Revolver

I’m 23!! Well not for a few more months, but still! I’m getting old… One day I’ll wake up and see the lines in my face and know that I’m 38. The next day I’m 52. And the next day I put a gun to my head. Its probably the same for everyone, all through your childhood you wish you were older. You’ll get to watch the movies you couldn’t before, you’re legally allowed to drink and drive although not simultaneously and definitely not in that specific order, you can get laid, well you could… and you can be the boss for a change. Again… you could.
But when you finally cross the whistlepost you wish you were a kid again. No, I don’t know what a fucking Whistlepost is… what’s a Wonderwall? So there.

But seriously, I’m so afraid of being old, I’d rather be dead. I know what my old age will bring with it… No hair by 35, Losing my memory, Losing my pants, Arthritis, Respiratory disorders, and possibly annoying grandchildren. Theeen it kills me. You don’t die of old age, you die because the damn thing craps so hard on you that you start waiting to meet your maker just so you can gripe about the whole sucky affair.
See, you start out in life all wrinkly and helpless and constantly wetting yourself. And you end that way too. The difference is that when you’re old, no matter how helpless you are, no one is willing to put a tit in your mouth!


These days there are three kinds of people. Those who live in the fast lane, those who wish they lived in the fast lane and those who don’t live in the fast lane because they hate the fast lane. And by fast lane, I mean keeping up with the times. I honestly don’t know which of these categories I belong to. Now there is hardly such a thing as a mistake. It’s like your computer. No matter how bad you screw up… you always have options. Whether it’s a restart or a re-format, you can always fix your cock ups with little or no consequences. I like that. But I also like simpler times. When you had to work for everything you earned. When there was no BPO industry. When how much you got out of something depended on how much you put into it. When everything wasn’t available on DVD. When teachers taught lessons. When The Internet was the internet. And when King Kong vs. Godzilla scared the crap out of me.

Where are we now? Over the last decade or so we’ve been hurtling across barriers faster than ever and now I don’t know where we can go from here. There aren’t many frontiers left to conquer. Unless they can send someone into yesterday and tell themselves to slow the hell down or we’re all gonna fall off the edge into deep, deep, deepness. But that’s all that remains to do… tinker with time and space. And I believe they’ve started to try already, accelerating electrons to faster than the speed of common photons, so they can see it arrive even before it’s left.
We’ve altered our own reality enough to the point where it’s often hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. We’ve made and remade superheroes and monsters so believable that it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary if they jumped right off movie screens. And we’ve converted books to tape. What literature? Google has replaced dictionaries, thesauri and encyclopaedias. And the once gigantic computer now fits neatly into a shirt pocket, adding to the fact that nowadays people give off more radio waves than bio-waves; a cyber population can’t be very far off.
I think that the true measure of a civilization is not its use of technology and the extent of it, but it’s rein on technology.

You know that we are living in a material world and I am a material girl. Uhh, boy.


Additions:
41. Apparently I’m a Male Chauvinist Pig.
42. I can still sing along to most of the Spice Girls’ songs.

Click here for the whole list.

Points to ponder:

> Did Scatman John want to be taken literally?
> Who scrapes Spiderman’s webs off the buildings?
> Why do we have Lips?
> Who is Richard Head?


DNA/Suzanne Vega – Tom’s Diner
Madonna – Material Girl