Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Johnny On the Spot's LiveJournal:

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Friday, November 21st, 2008
2:34 am	The Wait is Over... For years, our generation has been taught to be cynical and to not believe those in power. They made us promises that could not be kept, they put limitations on our ambitions and told us what could and could not be accomplished in life. Their attitudes have caused us to cast our eyes hopefully to the past, praying mightily that we could be saved by the ideals of a bygone era -- that maybe, somehow, their prosperity could defy the restraints of time and sweep triumphantly into the modern mind. But now, their voices have been silenced. They have been turned into liars and cowards by none other than W. Axl Rose. That's right. Chinese Democracy, the long-awaited Guns N' Roses album, is on the precipice of worldwide release. And the verdict? See http://www.findingsleep.blogspot.com (Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 17th, 2008
1:38 pm	Meditations on Milk Money I just finished watching Milk Money, which is a 1994 film about a prostitute who falls in love with an out-of-touch science teacher and moves to the suburbs. I am not giving away the ending, because the outcome of the movie becomes apparent about fifteen minutes in (it is what alleged screenwriting guru Syd Field would call Plot Point #1). Once you've seen the beginning, you know exactly how it will end. What happens in between, while somewhat less predictable, is utterly ridiculous. Milk Money is billed as a romantic comedy, but that is just a catch-all term for remarkably unfunny movies involving an attraction between men and women with opposing personalities. This movie tries to be all things to all people, and as a result feels dense and strange. Basically, this is what happens: Three eleven-year-old boys pool their milk money (uh oh!) and ride their bikes to the city in search of a woman that will let them look at her naked. They do, but one of them, an emotional and somewhat aggravating boy with no eyelids named Frank, covers his eyes. Afterward, the prostitute (who is named V) drives them home to the suburbs. It is never explained what happened to their bicycles. Her car breaks down in front of Frank's house so she stays the night in his treehouse, while Frank's father (the usually awesome Ed Harris playing a jovial science teacher) believes she is Frank's math tutor. The two flirt awkwardly for a few days and eventually go out. On the date, V's true profession is revealed and Frank's dad almost shits a kitten. They make up after what amounts to be the first of three scenes in which somebody cries for no reason, and realize that they are in love. This culminates in the most uncomfortable kissing scene I have ever witnessed. All would be well, except for a nasty subplot in which an enraged pimp is after V for reasons that are never fully explained. He catches her at a school dance but Frank pulls a fire alarm and all hell breaks loose. There is an unbelievable car chase scene where two of the boys drive V's car while she sits screaming in the backseat. Shit just goes to pieces. The steering wheel inexplicably pops off and the car catches on fire for a reason that I don't remember. I don't remember what happened to the pimp, either. I am not interested, really. This is a movie where people communicate with tin cans and string and it fucking works. That doesn't fucking work. There is also a scene near the end of the movie where one of Frank's friends, for no reason whatsoever, announces that he no longer bathes. The most amazing thing about this movie is that its screenplay sold for 1.1 million dollars while it was still in the speculative stage, a record at the time. The studio probably thought they were getting a hell of a deal, since this movie contains an attempt at ever genre but Kung Fu. Melanie Griffith (who plays the dirty filthy whore) is great-looking in the movie, but it is still rip-roarin' dumb. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008
4:07 am	This is just about the funniest thing I've ever read. I thought I'd share it. http://www.theonion.com/content/news/area_man_makes_it_through_day (Comment on this)
Monday, March 17th, 2008
4:39 pm	The following is a piece that I wrote a month or so ago for Helium.com, which is a "get-paid-to-write" website that specializes in rewarding marginally talented people with the feeling of being "published" and a small cut of their advertising revenue. Lately, the website has come under close scrutiny after allegations of fraudulent business practices and withholding payment have come to light. Basically, you can write about any number of topics, from politics to religion to music and every sub-topic in between. I came across the website and found a topic about love songs. Since I had been having a conversation with someone (I can't remember who) only days before about that very topic, it was the one I chose. As the article is "published" on the website and Helium now owns the rights to it, posting it here on LiveJournal puts me at risk of being sued for plagiarizing myself, which would place me in an elite group of people, including the incomparable John Fogerty. Anyway, here is the article if you decide you want to read it. Please note that it appears exactly as it does on Helium.com, nothing has been edited, and, as of today, the article has earned me twenty cents of Helium's advertising revenue. ----------------------------------- If asked to make a list of the greatest love songs ever written, one must first ask the question, “What makes a song a love song?” This seems to be one of the hardest questions to answer, simply because most of the greatest art ever created, since man first put pen to paper, pick to string, or brush to canvas, is about that very thing. I guess the simple answer would be to say that a song is a love song when it is about or inspired by love. This answer may seem elementary at first, but when you look at it closer it becomes somewhat more problematic. “Heroin” by Lou Reed is a love song. However, because it is directed at a substance and not a person, it would never even be considered for position on any list of great love songs. It’s an easy fix, though. Just take the lyrics to the song and replace every appearance of the word “heroin” with “Margaret” or “Wendy” and you’ve got yourself a desperate oath of loyalty, the story of a man under the spell of a temptress known to the listener only as Margaret (or, I suppose, Wendy). “Margaret, be the death of me/ Margaret, she is my wife and she is my life.” See? If Lou just omitted the lyric about “dead bodies piled up in mounds,” that could be a freakin’ wedding song. But the existence of love songs not directed at people isn’t the only thing that complicates the search for proper love song criteria. When asked what Eric Clapton’s greatest contribution to the love song genre is, most people would answer with “Wonderful Tonight” or “Layla.” But this is wrong. “Tears in Heaven” is the most heart-wrenching love song that Clapton ever wrote, but it almost never gets counted among his best because a) it is unbelievably sad and b) it has nothing to do with romance. Clapton wrote this song for his son who died in 1991 after falling off a balcony, which is probably the strangest way that anyone can die, especially considering that four-year-old Conor was not on Spring Break and he was not drunk. So how can a song as joyless and unromantic as “Tears in Heaven” be considered a love song? To anybody who has been paying attention, the answer is clear: Because it is inspired by love. It does not have to be love for a significant other, or even for a person at all. So, we now know how to define a love song, but we haven’t yet hit the crux of the problem: How can we separate a plain Jane love song from a GREAT love song, and once we can do that, what are the greatest love songs ever written? Some people might argue that a love song becomes great when it stands the test of time or if the listener is able to relate completely to the lyrics. This argument is flawed, however. When I was in first grade, I had a debilitating crush on a girl named Mandie. This was about the same time that my dad was listening to a cassette of Billboards’ biggest hits from 1969 whenever we went for rides in the car. My favorite track on the tape was (and still is) The Foundations’ “Build Me Up Buttercup.” Whenever I heard that song, I would think about Mandie and how the song’s lyrics perfectly summed up my situation with her. In reality, the “situation” with Mandie was that she was in my class and (if I recall) we sat somewhat close to one another. That was it. I don’t remember there ever being an instance during that year that involved Mandie and I even speaking to each other. Even still, when the Foundations sang about waiting for a visit from that special Buttercup, only to be let down in the end when it was someone else at the door, I related completely. And when they sang of their desperation in waiting by the phone for her call, I couldn’t help but think, “That’s me and Mandie.” Obviously, this is ridiculous, but not just because I was in first grade. People do this with music every day, and it just goes to show that the listener’s ability to relate to a love song has nothing to do with how “great” or “not great” that song may be. “Build Me Up Buttercup” may very well be a “great” love song, but my ability as a youngster to apply it to my own life has nothing to do with that. If anything, it is proof that we should never underestimate a child’s ability to consume pop music on an emotional level, even if those emotions are in no way grounded in reality. And as for a love song’s ability to stay relevant over time, just listen to Barry Manilow’s 1974 hit “Mandy.” “Mandy” is still enormously popular, but there is nothing “great” about that song and there never will be; but it probably would have been a better choice for my first grade infatuation. So now, we can recognize what a great love song is NOT, but we’re not finished yet. What makes a love song “great,” I propose, lies in its simplicity. Love is the most complicated feeling that any human being will ever have to grapple with, so when looking for its interpretation within music, there needs to be a balance. For example, most of the songs on Meat Loaf’s 1977 album Bat Out of Hell are love songs. And they are great. But they are not great love songs. They will always be great songs, but they will never be “great” love songs because the feelings described are too complicated. It’s as if when Jim Steinman composed these songs, he was trying to get as musically and lyrically close to the actual emotion of love as he could. While this is a noble goal, he inadvertently prevented himself from writing any love songs that will ever be “great” because he was too obsessed with re-recreating love itself. “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” is a terrific song, but “I want you/ I need you/ But there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you” is just too complicated of an emotion for that song to ever be a great love song. It’s just too insistent on re-creating the complications of actually feeling that way. So, if love is the most complicated emotion we can ever feel (and I think we can all agree that it is), we need to find the counterpoint to that complication. A love song can only be a contender for “greatness” if it is lyrically and musically simple. With that in mind, the following is a list of five songs that I posit should be serious “greatness” contenders. “What a Wonderful World” (Louis Armstrong) – In keeping with our first rule of thumb, that is, not to be deterred by love songs not directed strictly towards people, this is a great love song. In this song, Satchmo sings of his undying optimism and love for the world itself. With lackadaisical commentary on the grass, the sky, and the colors of the rainbow, “What a Wonderful World” is every inch a love song, and nothing if not simple. “Nothing Compares 2 U” (Sinead O’Connor) – First, we have to excuse the presence of numerals and letter-for-word substitutions in the song’s title. This song was actually written by Prince and he lost the ability to gauge the coolness of anything a long time ago. This great love song is a lamentation on the universal (read: simple) feeling of loneliness. The lyrics effortlessly portray the singer’s isolation and need for closure on a romance gone sour. It is also one of the most heart-achingly beautiful vocal tracks you could ever hear. “I Will” (The Beatles) – It really doesn’t get any simpler than this. Light strumming, a basic chord progression, and Paul McCartney’s quiet declaration of devotion to his lady. Whatever it is, he promises, “If you want me to, I will.” “We’re Going to be Friends” (The White Stripes) – Jack White wrote this song from the perspective of a schoolboy on his blossoming friendship with, what is presumed to be, a girl in his class. With lyrics about playing in the dirt and climbing fences as the two make their way to school, the song is nothing if not innocent and this is accomplished with only three chords played on two strings. No love is more genuine than that of a child for their favorite toy, friend, or family member, and “We’re Going to be Friends” achieves that feeling without a trace of irony or smugness. “Your Song” (Elton John) – The piano playing is beautiful and the lyrics are sung with honesty and conviction. Of the five songs on this list, this one is probably the most recognizable, and that’s for a very good reason. In addition to be a “great” love song, it is also “great” within another genre: the song-about-a-song. Elton’s mission with “Your Song” is humble – he simply wants his lover’s permission to write a song about them. We are never told what their response is, but if he (?) wasn’t keen on the adulation, well, too bad. There it is. There. We did it. There is a 93% chance that you will hear a love song before you go to bed tonight unless a) you don’t listen to music or b) you take drugs that prevent you from sleeping. Ever. Either way, when you hear the song, listen closely and see if you can decide if it is a love song or a “great” love song. You’ll know it by its sonic simplicity and its ability to simplify the world’s most complicated emotion. Great Love songs can get you down, they can get you going, and they can even get you laid. It is important to note, however, that this latter function of love songs does not apply to “Tears in Heaven.” If you can successfully have sex while listening to “Tears in Heaven”, you have no business engaging in either activity. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 12th, 2007
12:32 am	I am honestly unsure how many times I've quit Pita Pit in the last couple of years. It's irrelevant. I'm doing it again, and my last night is this Friday. I may come back. I may just stay away. They're apparently introducing all-day breakfast pitas. It is important to note that I have been lobbying for breakfast pitas since I started in August of 2005. I was naive. I am glad I will be absent during the advent of the breakfast pita. This just goes to show that I am almost always wrong, almost all of the time, and should never be trusted when food and business are involved. My living situation is different, but enjoyable. I live with an all-black human named Tim, and an all-white cat who has no name. Logic says that there is no use in naming a deaf animal, and this animal is 100% deaf. She loves to lick humans, whether they be all-white or all-black, all of the time; and this may have something to do with her deafness. Or perhaps she is the most equal opportunity pain-in-the-ass who ever existed. Imagine you're asleep. You are dreaming of wealth or sex, or perhaps a reasonable arrangement between the two. All of the sudden, sandpaper engulfs your nose. And then your left eye. And then your right eye. And then your subconscious realizes that suffocation is imminent if you don't wake up and rectify the sandpaper situation. So you do. And it's a cat. A deaf cat. A cat who doesn't recognize the angry tone of your voice when you grab it by the scruff of its neck, stare it dead in the eyes, and tell it to fuck off or you will cook it in tomorrow's soup. No matter how angry your tone, or how loud your volume, this diabolical creature remains blissfully willing to lick you in your most sensitive of facial features. Imagine that. She's damn cute, though. That will do it. For now. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 7th, 2007
2:06 pm	I believe that David posted this link a long time ago, but I rediscovered some of these the other day, and if you need a laugh, please take a look at THE WORST ALBUM COVERS EVER! http://www.octanecreative.com/Parodyville/worst_album_covers/ Pay special attention to "Julie's Sixteenth Birthday." (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, October 29th, 2007
4:38 pm	It would only be fair to tell you, right from the beginning, that there isn't anything universally significant here. There are only some scattered thoughts on past and future events, and mild contemplation on the present. I'm getting on a plane on Wednesday evening. I'm flying with my family to our old stomping grounds-- that crusty little village located almost directly in the center of the boot-shaped land mass that is the state of New York. I haven't been back to Johnstown since my grandmother's funeral, and that was last year. This visit will be under happier circumstances. We're going up to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of my remaining grandparents. Fifty years is a long time to stay committed to someone else; some people can barely put up with themselves for that long. On top of that, my cousin Eric and I are going to go around to some bars and I'm going to experience the nightlife that Johnstown has to offer, of which I'm sure there is none. It's going to be fun, though. I like going up to see my family, even though the whole lot of them are some of the strangest people I am ever going to have the privilege of knowing. It's going to be strange not having Grandma and Grandpa McGivern there, though. It will probably always be. I'm in the process of having my senior check and applying for graduation in May. It makes me nervous to think about, but this will be my last year spent within the relative security of higher education. After this, I'm all on my own. The job market awaits, but I'd like to circumvent the real world altogether. I enjoy being in Shallow Palace and, while we're nowhere near the level of proficiency and prolificness that I would like, I believe that we are a good band and have the potential necessary to rise to the next plateau. It's just a shame that finding the one thing that reminds you that you are alive doesn't guarantee any kind of money or security. If that were the case, society would be nothing but a disjointed collection of artists, athletes, and fornicators, all of us wealthy, all of us happy. And that would be the end of civilization, as it requires a certain amount of monotony and disenchantment to function as it should. I've been dating Lampshade/Amanda for a little over two months now. So far, everything has been going well. It's nice when someone that you enjoy spending time with turns out to like spending time with you, as well. The relationship is relaxed and uncomplicated, and that suits me just fine. We watch movies, we drink cocktails (bourbon and Coke for me, vodka tonic for her), we sing songs, we talk about things that are on our minds (some serious, some couldn't be further from), and sometimes we don't do anything at all. The whole thing seemed very appealing from far away, and I was pleased to discover that it was once I got up close. I want to see The Darjeeling Limited. Wes Anderson has always been one of my favorite filmmakers, and his latest doesn't appear to be anything short of his usual brilliance. His movies are like Ernest Hemingway's prose on film; confident, symmetrical, and full of characters whose stoicism and ungarnished dialogue can be everything from melancholy to humorous, all within the same scene. That's all, I suppose. Current Mood: Roundabout Current Music: The Kinks - This Time Tomorrow (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, September 28th, 2007
1:54 pm	A general announcement or two, for those with interest Gathering One took place at my parents' home. It was fun, and it ended with Rico urinating on the living room carpet. Gathering Two took place in Five Points. It was also fun, and it ended with me breaking the China Garden sink. Gathering Three is going to take place at the Josh/Filip/David/Ryan House tomorrow night. For some of you, this may be news; or for others, the confirmation of a vague suspicion. This is not an act of narcissism or vanity. I am well-aware that no one person truly needs three birthday gatherings. On the contrary, the reason for three gatherings is selfless in nature. I have the best interests of my friends at heart, those who were unable to share my company and bask in my birthday glory during Gatherings One and/or Two. See? No vanity. This promises to be fun. If you can't make it or simply don't care to go, that's alright. But I'd like to just spend time with friends. I can't really get enough of that. ::End Transmission:: (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 28th, 2007
1:59 pm	I'm not a jobless mongrel anymore! Well, sort of. I have put my pride to bed and returned to Pita Pit. It was surprisingly easy to get my old position back. Brenden, the manager, still had all the paperwork on me and all of my information, so there was no need to go through all of that hassle again. He's moving to Massachusetts in a month, so for the time being I will only be working a couple of days a week. Once he's gone, though, there will be more hours to go around so that will be really nice. It's not much, but it's something. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 22nd, 2007
11:32 am	I give it a few hours. Three, maybe. Probably a little bit less. My phone could die any minute, and here I am. Standing like the fool who forgot to bring an umbrella to Seattle, I have left my charger in the most dangerous place of all-- the backseat of someone's car. Things left there don't often return, but I have hope. I must have hope. I will get it back....on Sunday. Until then, if anyone gives in to the ever-present urge to call me and I don't answer, you know why. The new White Stripes album is great. I approached it cautiously, but I've gotten accustomed to it now, and it's terrific. I think the title track is one of the band's strongest singles to date and the rest of the record lives up without batting an eyelash. Man, I need work. I've been applying for jobs around Five Points for some time now, but things are looking bleak. This just isn't the season to be seeking employment in a party neighborhood of a college town. There's just no need for people, it seems. This was alright. (Comment on this)
Thursday, May 10th, 2007
2:38 am	This is just a reminder about today's show. Keg City Sluggers By The Sins Fell Angels Monday in London Shallow Palace The show is at Headliners and the doors open at 7PM. The cover charge is $6, I believe. It would be wonderful to see as many friends there as possible, because this promises to be a really fun show. I hope to see everyone there. Thanks, MC (Comment on this)
Friday, April 27th, 2007
8:12 pm	From my window on the fifth floor, I saw a mother and father and their two little daughters by the fountain. One little girl was running barefoot and then she fell and hurt herself. She started to cry, I think. The mother and father went over to help her and make her stop crying. The other little girl started to run, too. She hoped that she would also fall and then her mother and father would help her, too. (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 26th, 2007
11:46 am	My day is shot My day started out alright. I woke up, took care of my hygiene, listened to some music, and got ready for Rhetoric. I went and listened to my professor wrap up the course and thank us for a good semester. Hell, she even passed out chocolate chip cookies. I turned in my final paper, and she said that everything looked good. Things were really looking up for me today. Until I came home. I wanted to watch a little bit of TV just to see what was one; but since my apartment only gets CBS and ABC, my choices were severely limited. I turned on ABC to find five women (including Rosie O'Donnell, Tyra Banks, and Bette Midler) sitting in a semicircle discussing the merits of teaching young women that looks aren't everything and that they should love themselves just the way that they are. Yes, I had stumbled upon The View. Their message was a noble one, and I didn't have any problem watching them talk for a cigarette's worth of time--until one of the two nameless women told Tyra Banks how she admires her so much for "having real boobs." It is important to point out that this woman appeared to have natural breasts herself; other than obviously having been massacred during hair and makeup, there wasn't anything pointedly artificial about her. But this isn't what disturbed me so much. Tyra, smiling like an idiot, accepted the compliment gracefully and thanked her colleague. Rosie, always the sharp wit, decided to point out that her boobs were not fake either. This prompted a chorus of feminine laughter from the studio audience and Tyra, not to be outdone, asked Rosie, "Really? Can I touch them?" Without waiting for a response, she reached out and, with one hand on each of Rosie's breasts, began to squeeze and knead them all while facing the audience and cackling like a wild hyena. This went on for no less than five seconds, which may not sound like a long time; but count it in your head. 1...........2..........3...........4...........5. See? That's a pretty long time to be massaging Rosie O'Donnell's boobs. The audience was loving it. Screeches, cheers, and crazed laughter emitted from the audiences side of the studio and, while still getting publicly violated by Tyra, Rosie announced that they were going to take a commercial break and that I should not go anywhere. Well, I went somewhere. I now sit here typing this, thoroughly grossed-out and without any hope that my day can continue with any semblance of normalcy. This image has been burned into my memory and I just can't shake it. So I beg you, no--implore you. If you ever, EVER, are tempted to, or have the opportunity to watch even three minutes worth of The View, just...don't. Go watch Harriet the Spy or something. At least there, Rosie does the violating. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, April 1st, 2007
2:32 am	You Owe Me The following anecdote is true. Nothing has been made up or exaggerated. After getting off of a ten hour shift, I went to meet up with a co-worker for a post-work drink. Nothing to get rattled about. Well, we parted ways and then I decided to hit up the China Garden for a White Russian and a game of pool (the latter of which I won, by the way). After the game, I was just relaxing at the bar, when Joe Q. Frat Boy rolls up on me. I swear to God, his first words were "Do you know where to get some blow?" I was feeling just Russian-ed enough to answer in the affirmative. "Yeah, man. How much do you want?" I responded casually. "Just a G" said my wasted friend. "There is this girl, and she has really sweet ass, but she won't fuck me unless I have some coke." I held my sarcastic tongue and pretended like ALL ugly-ass boring uneducated popped-collar pink polo shirt wearing nobodies were my normal business associates. We played friendly for a hot minute while I pretended to talk on the phone to my "guy." I yelled. I said words that would make my mother slap me. And when I "got off the phone", he was curious. "So, what's the story on that blow?" he asked with all of the naiveté of a third grader on the first day of college. "I can't get it for you" I said. My eyes were huge and bursting with apology. My practical joke would have ended there if he hadn't stared me straight in the eyes and said "How come?" This was my opportunity to REALLY get creative. It was as though this cokehead had just handed me an loaded revolver and said, "I simply LOVE bullets. Give me a few. Right in the eye. Or the shoulder. It feels good in the shoulder." I didn't blink. I didn't even smile. I maintained. And said, "Because...my guy..you know...my coke guy....I fucked his wife..." You would have thought I just declared war on Iraq. He stared at me as though I was responsible for every bad thing that ever happened in his small, predictable life. Well, I played it as though I was. And then I asked him, very casually, "What do you think about buying my next drink?" He was obviously reluctant, so he didn't say anything. This is when (Holy Lord, this the best part) I turned and looked him square in the eyes and said, "Want to hear a funny secret?" He answered in the affirmative, so I replied with, "I'm actually a cop." His expression could have birthed twins. He did not know what to say, so I helped him out. "Buy me my next drink, and you won't go to jail. How does that sound?" He nodded furiously. Long story short, I enjoyed a double White Russian for the next half hour, and my frightened compatriot learned what America was all about: Survival of the fittest. Yep. I am still laughing at his sorry ass. Yes, it was morally irresponsible. Yes, it wrong. Yes, it was immoral. Yes, it was boring and mundane. (You Owe Me) I realize and readily accept the fact that I am no better than the coke enthusiast in this situation. I told blatant lie after blatant lie. I literally faked a phone conversation just to get this cat off my back, not knowing the hilarious outcome. Yep, that makes me a dick. I did it. Without shame or a second thought. But still..... ...it's funny. And after all, he was no one I knew. He was no friend of mine. But still..... ...it's funny. (at least I think so) (You Owe Me) (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, March 19th, 2007
7:30 pm	Amphetaminute My sleep cycle just isn't what it should be; but for the most part, I'm OK with that. I will see to it that the end will justify the means. It was good to work the St. Pat's festival on Saturday, even though they stuck me on the country stage and I was closing in on 24 hours with no sleep. Despite my (best?) efforts, I haven't been able to secure steady employment, and it felt good to contribute something to society...with the promise of monetary compensation, of course. These fingers don't bend for free, son. Recording music is, for the most part, a boring and frustrating process; but when it's rewarding...it's rewarding. Shallow Palace is currently working on its full-length debut, and at the moment we're calling it Surrender Dorothy. Take a guess as to who came up with that one. I do love my Wizard of Oz. This has required putting in a lot of late nights, but I don't really mind. It's not that often that I get fired up about something, so when I do, I find that it's best to see it through and put in as much as I can. On a related note, the CD release show for said album will be on May 10th at Headliner's. We will be playing with Monday in London, End's Passing (?), and the Keg City Sluggers (Ameer's band). Any and all attendance would be more than appreciated. We want this to be the big one. After that, a southeastern tour begins with Monday in London and End's Passing. I'm wicked excited about that, too. I like traveling from town to town with no agenda except to hit my drums. Soon after that, a long overdue trip to the Great White. I'm pretty sure that Montreal just isn't the same without me. Hell, what is? (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, February 1st, 2007
12:31 pm	Michael Vs. The Raptors Last night, I had a dream that me and all of my friends were in a mall-like place. But it wasn't just stores. There were also academic and karate classes going on. And outside, there was a pier leading to some dark water. Unbeknownst to most of us, there was a room full of vicious, bloodthirsty raptors. Somehow, they were released and let loose on a killing frenzy within the complex. The lives of my friends was in my hands, however, as I was the only one who possessed a hoverboard. Using the hoverboard, my task was to lure the ratpors outside and then swoop away as they plummeted over the pier to their certain doom. After a few unsuccessful attempts, I finally managed to accomplish this. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt. No need to thank me. All in a day's work. (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, January 22nd, 2007
5:49 pm	The Litterbox Diaries To begin by stating the painfully obvious, the great thinkers and foundation-layers for western philosophy were men. And I don’t mean this to point out that they were not women; this is not a gender-based idea. What I mean to say is that they were not cats. Specifically, Socrates, and Plato were not cats. However, whenever I am reading an article or discussion by or about one of the aforementioned philosophers, I almost always picture them as pencil-drawn, lead-smudged, cartoon cats with ever-present goofy grins and crossed eyes. Most of the time, I don’t even realize that I’m doing this, it’s been so engrained in my mind. It is only when I see artists’ renditions and marble busts of these men that I think to myself, “Wait…he’s not a fucking cat?” This isn’t a random habit that I have, formed out of the vacuum of the unconscious mind. I know exactly why I do this. I do this because when I was in elementary school (what grade exactly, I don’t remember), Greg and I used to draw cartoons and comic strips together. And, after learning to (somewhat) accurately draw Jim Davis’ Garfield, Greg lived briefly under the belief that cats were the only creatures worth drawing. During this torrid and unstable period in our creative partnership, one day as we sat at his kitchen table, Greg showed me his latest additions to the cartoon-cat universe he so hoped to become a pioneer in, two characters by the names of Plato and Socrates. I don’t know what Greco-Roman Philosophy conventions Greg was attending as a grade-schooler, but I had never heard these names before in my life and, to be perfectly honest, thought they were a little uninspired. "Any fool with the sense God gave a tree stump could have thought of Play-Doh and Soccer Tees", I probably thought to myself. The cartoons weren’t exceptional in appearance or artistic skill, and I can’t recall ever seeing them again past this one meeting of minds, but for some inexplicable reason the images of these cats has remained with me and come to mind every time I hear either name mentioned, either in casual conversation or a university setting. So thank you to my ridiculously selective memory for reducing my mental representation of some of the greatest minds this world has ever known to nothing more than a little kid’s Garfield knock-off. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, January 20th, 2007
12:16 am	Sara f*ckin' Sara Fisher I've done the math. I've performed the necessary experiments. I've hypothesized. I've tested. I've concluded. My attention span is 39 seconds. Officially. Just ask Sara Fisher (the song, not the girl). (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 9th, 2006
12:47 pm	I am a dumbass. I got in a fight with someone who was much bigger than I was. That is why I am a dumbass. I didn't start the fight, but I am a dumbass. Dried blood on my forehead. My lips are swollen. My front tooth is chipped. Do I feel cool waking up like this? No, I don't. My whole body is swollen. Yep. I got my ass kicked. And I feel like a bag of garbage. I am a dumbass. (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 5th, 2006
8:39 pm	On November 7, 2006, the US Department of Justice declared that November 30, 2006 be Methamphetamine Awareness Day. This is true. The overwhelming irony, however, is that this holiday takes place so close to another famous holiday, which is devoted almost entirely to eating and sleeping. I could not be happier that the semester is on its way out. No offense to this semester in particular. I would say the same about any semester. It's not you, Semester; it's the system. I can't stop listening to Highway 61 Revisted. There's just something about it that rings true 100% of the time; pure poetry, delivered to the masses by a man who looks eerily like a young Adam Sandler. I guess I can see the parallelism between "Desolation Row" and "The Hanukkah Song." Thus, the neverending battle between pill-poppers and name-droppers continues. Where does pride end and happiness begin? [This is not some vague 'what am I gonna do' thing. I'm interested in your thoughts.] My favorite Misfits song is "Speak of the Devil" or "Saturday Night." This fact is unrelated, but I felt like mentioning it. Comment as you see fit. Current Mood: apathetic Current Music: Bob Dylan (5 Comments |Comment on this)