I’m currently in possession of two gigantic secrets. (Not about anyone here.) I’m money with secrets; I never tell. But damn if it isn’t killing me to not be able to talk about them. Both are the kind where something huge might happen and those are the kind you really want to chew on in detail with other stakeholders. Alas.
Last night we came up with what would be the literal worst job in the world (for me): reading and reviewing or summarizing business books. I’d rather clean a pig truck with my tongue.
It took me until age 47.2 to figure this out, but it’s a game changer.
For years, I have needed to shave only every other day during the work week. My beard is thin, white, and fuzzy. (I realize that according to the standards I see on tumblr, this dooms me to a life without love, a life not knowing a woman’s touch. Such is my cross to bear.)
Historically, I shaved on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. A little extra fuzz on Sunday? Whatever. But I had to shave yesterday for a meeting and today it dawned on me that a new, more optimized shaving schedule is Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday. This way, I only have to shave twice per week before work instead of thrice, allowing me two more minutes of sleep† net per week.
† By “sleep” I mean “laying awake thinking about my life” but that’s still better than being up.
Have a great day, babies. I’ll be at the beach.
Highway To Hell // AC/DC
This is what I’m talking about.
In re. Even if you’re Bruce Springsteen, Tom Morello, and Eddie Vedder shamelessly pandering to an Aussie crowd.
Nut up, sing it in A, tune down a quarter step for max authenticity.
“All the other sidekicks live within their movies as characters, walk around, do things. The gargoyles only live when Quasimodo is alone with them.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he breathes life into them. They only live in his imagination.”
Everything goes still. “What’s that mean, buddy?”
He purses his lips and smiles, chin out, as if he got caught in a game of chess. But maybe he wanted to. “It means the answers are inside of him,” he says.
“Then why did he need the gargoyles?”
“He needed to breathe life into them so he could talk to himself. It’s the only way he could find out who he was.”
I'm gonna put down a blend of Kentucky bluegrass and Northern California sensamilla. You can play 36 holes on it and then get stoned to the bejeezus.
I got pounds of the stuff. Here, try this, it’s some dynamite hack.
It’s a little harsh.
CANNONBALL IT. CANNONBALL IT RIGHT BACK.
- I learned about a new thing today: eosinophilic esophagitis. Turns out it’s possible to be allergic to something you eat and the only place the symptoms manifest is in the esophagus. Wanna see the pictures?
- Next stop: allergist. It would be hard to overstate my fear that the allergen is something in beer, wine, or whiskey, or, heaven forfend, the critical common ingredient to all three. Do you think that’d qualify me for a medical marijuana scrip?
- I talked with the guy who will be Danny’s baseball coach this “spring.” He’s coached Danny before, and I know him a little. Super nice guy, great with the boys, and he played Div I ball so he really knows the game and the mechanics of the swing. He asked if I’d be able to help coach. I hesitated, knowing that leaving my office before 5:30 is something like that scene in Shawshank where they all taunt the new fish on their way in to the cell block. I told him “sure.” I’m gonna march right the fuck out of there at whatever time I need to to get to practices and games. I truly, truly cannot think of a better reason to get fired, should it come to that.
- Ain’t no nap like a fentanyl hangover nap. Sweet, sweet slumber of the angels, even while the World’s Most Expensive Roofers were working with power tools right above my head. I totally see where Michael Jackson was coming from. (On insomnia. Less so on the batshit insanity and depraved, possibly criminal creepiness.)
- Did you hear it melting? I did. It was like music, the drip-drip-drip of that horrendous, soul wrecking sky-ice as the sun mass murdered it and gravity bore its gray, wet carcass into the filthy sewers for the burial it deserves. I will survive this winter and dance on its grave.
I’m Housin’ // Rage Against The Machine
Relate to the matter as I drop the bomb
I’m thinking a lot about mortality lately.
My mortality. Statistically, I’m probably on the back nine. I find myself wondering less about firsts and more about lasts. My body reminds me every day: various bits breaking down, my metabolism withering as my middle swells, my hair rapidly approaching “rumor” status. Oh, and the slowing of the mind! Simple words that are hard to find, memories and faces which I struggle and fail to drag from the haze, stuff that coworkers told me an hour ago that sounds brand new.
I’m old. I feel it. I look it. I am it. And don’t fucking argue with me.
But today I was reminded that I still have purpose, and that, when most needed, some of my powers are as strong as they have ever been. I can still find the words when I have to take things apart, examine their little pieces, and put them together again. I can focus under the right circumstance. My adrenal glands are as functional as they have ever been and I swear I hope you, reading this—you, who are my friend—never find out. It’s simple.
Do not mess with my babies.
Helpless // Sugar
Still on my Bob Mould high from Sunday night.
In the mid-80’s, Hüsker Dü exploded in classic rock-and-roll fashion: drugs, alcohol, fistfights over songwriting credit, insults on stage, etc. Hot hate. Bob and Grant still take shots at each other in the media. Bob took a little time off, dried out, and in 1989 he went up to a farm in the Minnesota woods and wrote Workbook, a dark, brooding, angry masterpiece that goes to the desert island with me.
Shortly after that he released Black Sheets of Rain. You can probably guess from the title that it isn’t a walk in the park, either. It’s angrier and more violent, and where Workbook has a lot of sparse, clean guitar playing, this second album brought back the wall of screaming guitar sound he was more known for previously. I love the record, but no one else does. His label reports official sales of 7,000 units to date.
Perhaps realizing that expressing all that anger wasn’t helping, or maybe because he had gotten it out of his system, he next formed Sugar and out comes Copper Blue with a fair number of upbeat, almost poppy tunes like this. Happy Bob! But no:
And now you find as time goes by
You’re left with nothing meaning much
Angry Bob became Existential Crisis Bob.
Hang in there, Bob. It will get better. (to be continued, maybe)
Holy crap, I got tagged!
By rartastic! I do believe this is the first time ever. Much excite! So questions!
- Always post the rules
- Answer the questions from the person who tagged you
- Write 11 new ones
- Tag 11 people and link them to the post
- Actually tell them you tagged them (hopefully they will check their own tags)
- Tags. I’m going for people who are relatively new to me in the hopes I may get to know them better: potjie, pasteisfun, broomtilda, escapereality, eoporto, bunnkwio, quickwitter, coyotesqrl, notyouraverageharlot, ayeshamus, rhetoricallydomestic.
New questions for the new players:
- Sink or swim?
- We have to leave RIGHT NOW because the cops busted our meth lab. You have to grab only one personal belonging from your home; what is it?
- And where are we going? One-way ticket—never coming back.
- Which Beatle do you most identify with and why? (Assume the dead ones aren’t.)
- Fish or fowl? Or neither?
- Which movie can you quote the most dialogue from?
- If you could make one federal law, what would it be?
- What’s the worst? Like, the literal worst? Like, you can’t even?
- Name the head of state you most want to see shirtless.
- What was the best moment of the last 24 hours?
- Fight or flight?
Rachel’s questions for me and my answers below the fold unless you’re on the tumblr app in which case blame them:
1 to 2…maybe 3, could be 8, πr², a baker’s dozen, hell if we know.
Even the NWS has given up trying.
Last night I got to see one of my heroes, Bob Mould, at City Winery, a really intimate venue in the west loop. He is touring to mark the 25th anniversary of Workbook, which I believe is a masterpiece. It laid the foundation for the decade+ of alternative rock that followed a couple of years later. Guys who were there, like Dave Grohl, will tell you so.
I’ve seen Bob maybe a half-dozen times in various configurations, which puts him at or near the top of the list of artists I’ve seen most often. I remember one night at Metro when he showed up late, walked out on stage by himself, took out his mid-80’s blue American Standard Strat (I have one too, coincidentally) and then proceeded to rip everyone’s head off all by himself, no band required. I also saw him with Sugar at the Aragon Ballroom, which remains the loudest concert I have ever attended.
Last night, he did something I don’t think I’ve seen him do before: he had Jason and Allison (formerly of Verbow, local heroes who were labelmates of ours back in the day) on guitar/bass and cello. No drums.
And I’m here to tell you that 53-year-old man absolutely rocked everyone’s face into liquid. And how completely inspirational. Without getting too corny, unless I do, it was a timely and necessary affirmation to me that it doesn’t have to be over, at my age or any other. I was grinning like an idiot the whole time, trying not to sing along too loudly. I was once teased by a friend at one of his shows that I was drowning out the band. It was all I could do to resist doing it again last night.
I tried recording a little of it but it didn’t work out. That’s OK, because I don’t think it could possibly do justice to the experience as it occurred live in the room.