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Nov. 6th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

In Dire Illness

I'm totally sick right now.  Not sick in the metal way (TOTALLY FUCKING SIIIIIIICK) but sick in the fever dream flu way.  I'll write a proper article about my tour when I recover from this sickness.  You'll enjoy it, I guarantee.

Oct. 2nd, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria


You fucking hear me?

Sep. 28th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

Not Mistaken (said as NOT MAH' STEAKUM)

I've carefully edited and re-edited this to the point where I felt it was post-worthy. It was originally written a week ago, but due to a crash, I lost it so I re-wrote it from scratch. I feel this version is better as it's more angry, and the rule of writing is Angrier = Funnier. On with this:

I feel tempted sometimes to post about the inner workings of my job; but then I remember that I'd swiftly get my ass fired and probably fined an exorbitant amount from the powers that be. So I have to tiptoe around it like I just fucked its' wife and now have to leave because someone has to get up early to take the kids to school. There are certain aspects of the job that I like, the only two so far being Money and an On-Site gym. The rest of it can go fuck itself in the bowels of hell with every other bad aspect of a job I've held previously. I feel it is my need to elucidate what you should and should not do when you call my place of employment. Given that I'm on the phones for 10 hours a day dealing with you, the least you can do is read this and maybe, just maybe, show me some respect. Yes. You. I point in an imagined direction, at you, the hypothetical reader. Let's start.


1. Getting down to business.

That's right. Shut up and listen.

I know you've been waiting some ungodly amount of time and that to talk to a human being is like the gods bestowing great vasts of wealth and high bouts of glory upon thee, but stop right there. What I consistently get is a constant barrage of inane and unnecessary backstory to an issue that should take mere seconds to absolve or completely banal patter. Yes you've got a nice dog that can jump and catch balls or your wunderkind accidentally said "aveycaca" instead of "avocado". My two mental responses are as follows: I DON'T FUCKING CARE and HOW DOES THIS HAVE ANY FUCKING RELEVANCE? Honestly, you are contacting me with an issue, not a story. I am not your pal, we are not at a bar, you aren't picking up my tab, I am not eating your buffalo wings. I am a disembodied voice that can fix your issues or just hang up on your verbose ass. So-and-so did this-and-that? Guess what? I don't give a fuck! Parents decided to buy a condo? Guess what? I dont' give a fuck! Next time you feel a diarrhea-esque onslaught coming because someone stopped browsing wikipedia to answer your call, don't shit mindless verbage because you waited. If you hold it in a little longer, I can make it disappear and we can both walk away happy, smelling of roses and I can go back to browsing wikipedia articles on Duran Duran.

More relevant than you will ever know...

2. Mastering your common sense.

There are certain things that I will admit irk me to a great degree. The first is mindlessly repeating myself because someone is unable or unwilling to listen due to some cranial blockage. The second is just plain ol' sheer stupidity. Allow me to present a sample of my day to day routine:

Myself: What is your name?`
Berk A: Larry.

This is where Richard Dawson would buzz your ass because the survey agreed you just said something incredibly stupid. Walk home, no consolation prizes, no home version. Approach it from my point of view (also known as Logical or Normal): If you are calling a place of business that has a file on you, it's safe to assume there is more than one Larry or Bob or Richard in existence within the system. Hell, even within the same 3 miles of one another. So why do people, again and again, continue to do this? If I ask you for your phone number, you don't give me the first 3 digits, you give me the whole thing...sometimes. I'd like to think that it's a means to personalize, but see the above for my stance on that already. Name means your full name. Address means your full address, not just the street name and 1 or two bits of the building number. Phone number generally means "area code included". I would rather not have to tack on additional questions to clarify things you were too fucking dumb to tune into the first time around; you being the shining beacon of failure, not you the suave cool reader with oozing personality and intelligence. All it takes is a little dab of common sense and a gentle rinse with logic. I know this seems like an unnecessary quibble to have, but I do this ALL DAY. Imagine if you worked in retail and someone came up to you and asked for the price on something that had a price tag on it in clear display. It feels like a slow, agonizing pain, followed by your face in your palms.

3. Listen [lis-uh n]

I mentioned previously that one of the biggest dickpokes in the eye is the constant need to repeat myself. This has and will most likely never change; because aside from Lil' Jon and that Mr. Show skit where Jay Johnston falls a lot, repetition generally stops being novel for me after the first couple of times.


If there is a faster way to grind gears, I have yet to discover it. If I am in the middle of explaining something seemingly complex and/or difficult to you that you feel you may need clarification on, perhaps interrupt me to grab a pen or paper so that you might jot this information down to satiate any concerns and if a point needs further clarification, ask. Please, for fucks sake, do not talk over me while I'm explaining it going "WHAT? I DON'T GET IT, I'M CONFUSED!". Shut the fuck up and lis-ten-ver-y-care-full-y-to-what-I-am-say-ing. You call for one of two things: help or answers, so the least you could do is exercise a modicum of restraint and be quiet. This brings me along to my next point.

4. Don't Interru-

No long point here, just don't interrupt me. It's rude and extremely disrespectful.

5. Sounds like...

I get this one a lot, and it really annoys me. The line is usually something akin to "Boy it sounds like you're having a bad day."

You know what? I am.

I am having a bad day. I work 10 hours a day at the same job I've had for a year. I have a veritable pile of things that need to be organized. I get screamed at by old people who believe they're right, and young people who don't give a shit. I have to deal with apathetic retards who, months later, turn into furious balls of hate when we're garnishing their wages and try to claim they never knew. I have to put up with shit from high on up down to an annoying co-worker who won't stop looking over my shoulder or try to snag cigarettes off me. I deal with dumb motherfuckers who can somehow take a black and white question and give me a completely gray answer. I have to deal with the power going out in half my apartment or a ceiling leak. I have to deal with a lot and to top it off, you have the amazing observational skills to pick up a fraction of a tone in my voice and call me on it. CONGRATULATIONS LIEUTENANT OBVIOUS, YOU WIN 5 POINTS, NOW GO DIE IN A FUCKING FIRE: YOU ARE PARASITIC SCUM FESTERING IN HORRIFIC ANNALS OF SOCIETY. Would you go back in time to Treblinka circa 1943 just to say "Boy you gals sure look tired!". Fuck you, die.

6. What it might be

I mentioned in my seething blackout rant something about black and white questions. I'll explain this to the uninitiated. Here is an example of what I call a black and white question:

Is it alive or dead?

This is a pretty simple question with a fairly simple answer(ALIVE AND DEATH, IDIOT), or so you'd think. The above would show both, but that's just space padding, you know that.

Somehow, I encounter alchemists of language smithing the fuck out of it and twisting it into something so distorted it would make Noam Chomsky cry bitter tears of venomous hate. Every once in a while I will get what I call a Bill Clinton. If you ever watched Clinton go through the motions of the Lewinsky blowjob trial (old news, I know), you'd know what the fuck is up. That, my friends, is the post-apocalyptic graveyard of gray answers. I will ask a basic question such as "What is your current mailing address?" and will be met with an answer like "Well the one I lived at 2.5 years ago might be..." Slow down there Chief (it's Bostonspeak for Dickhead), if I wanted to know what one I had on file, I'd look at the file right in front of me. I am asking you for your current mailing address, which should be responded to with I don't know...YOUR CURRENT FUCKING ADDRESS. A 'might be' is what I call a gray answer. It sucks and it makes me end up repeating myself again, which I've already touched upon. If I say it with a little bit of demand in my voice, I then get the ill-fated 'sounds like' response, which at that point I either bite my tongue so hard I can eat shit with a smile because I can't taste it over the blood, or I hang up and forget about it. Yes, I hang up, and I will hang up on your stupid fucking ass if you pull this shit. I don't have time for it.

7. Privacy is Privacy, stop it.

If there's one thing I've noticed that has sprung up in abundance, it's the amount of bad parents. I don't mean the ones that lock their kids in hot cars or dump them in trashcans to die, those are crazy parents. I refer to the ones who fail miserably to educate their kids as to what is outside the giant lower-middle class stucco box with siding known as home. It's plagued with the soothing reassurances and sickening coddling I saw a lot of my peers adhere to in my youth. Perhaps you who are reading this are guilty of such a thing. If so, shape up and ship them out with some knowledge. There are two ways to do this:

1. Tell them what responsibilities they stand to face once they get out into the real world. Elaborate on bills, rent, utilities and so forth. Don't leave it to some miserable fucking CAPP teacher who hates their job and would rather go teach Phys-Ed or Math. They won't do shit for your kids. As far as they're concerned, they pretty much hate your kids either way because they're dickheads who don't pay attention. At most, they'll make them do stupid presentations on things that they will never use outside in the real world and maybe ponder what life on their own is going to be like after school (student loans and 3$ highball night).

2. Kick their ass out and let them deal with it.

This is the biggest problem: most parents still maintain the nesting mentality, refusing to let their kids deal with their issues, and would rather consistently bail them out then let them get a boo-boo and learn from the mistakes. This is called SPOILING and it does nothing to develop character or capability in your spawn. I have an invisible quota of parents calling in on behalf of their kids wanting to fix everything. This invisible quota gets filled every fucking day, without fail. Your child lives on their own, has their own bills, their own life, their own responsibilities, and you still try and fix things. We are bound by privacy laws (see that? LAWS) to protect information from any third party that may try to access it. Sorry, I'm not going to tell you anything unless I have permission. I get told often that this is bureaucratic bullshit, because personal information such as:


...you know what, fuck privacy. Privacy is stupid. Let's just go ahead and share this with everyone, shall we? The above list is often times more than enough to commit massive amounts of identity theft. I'm talking accidental arrest, mail bomb and credit card charges to dick pumps all over the place identity theft. It's shitty enough to have your identity stolen, but it adds insult to injury when it was stolen by a dude pretending to be your dead father.

It's full of credit card offers from beyond your fathers grave. Also, dick pumps.

If this whole thing is left willy nilly to Mr. and Mrs. Shittyparent who want to fix everything, how do I know I'm talking to Mr. and Mrs. Shittyparent to begin with? If I asked my mother to deal with my affairs when I was a full grown adult, she'd tell me to deal with it myself, and probably scowl, because that's what a good parent does. Here's a harsh truism: You can coddle your child all you want, but sooner or later, you're going to die. Unless you outlive your kid, they are going to have to deal with reality and bills at some point or another. Get fucking used to it. Don't pressure me into this because your kid is too lazy to deal with it themselves. I don't call your workplace and ask you to embezzle because my buddy needs to pay off loan sharks. Apples and Oranges those are, but the principle is still the same. You ask me to break a federal law (which seems innocent and harmless unless you get caught) because of someone elses issue. Think about this and throw the bill back in your kids' face next time he asks you to call for him. They're a grown adult, let them act like one.

SIDE RANT: Isn't it funny how most teens who can't wait to get out of their parents house still ask their parents to deal with their shit?

8. Don't make that tongue clicky noise with your mouth when you're thinking.

You know the one I mean. That tch tch tch sound you would make if you were scolding someone like an upper class pussy at the Opera. The thing is, you use it to signal to me that you're an idiot like it's some sort of retard morse code. You might as well play some smooth jazz meshed with some babies crying while you're at it; that is, if you're going to be a fucking douche. I still wonder from time to time what sort of cranial blockage causes this. If you could get someone who does this and record them doing it, following it by playing it to them afterward, what would the response be? Would it be met with a Stanford Prison Experiment-like look of terror? It seems strange to get pissy about this, but it literally is the sound of pure concentrated annoyance for most people. Some are still doing this consistently enough to make me question whether it would be more profitable for me to speed up my tinnitus so that i don't have to listen to this shit anymore.

9. My opinion is worthless

Yeah, I know it seems perplexing to hear and almost counter-intuitive to hear me say this, but it's true.

My opinion is fucking worthless.

One would believe that you would call in for answers, and answers I can give you. Don't ask me what I think you should do when situation x arises (substitute for x) because half the time, I don't give a fuck, and the other half, you can figure it out yourself. If you get shot in the face, you don't stand there slack jawed and ask the shooter what you should do next. At that point, instinct and common sense take over. You run your ass off and call an ambulance. If you do fall victim to the former situation, you will die alone and I will piss on your grave. I'm not kidding here. The other problem with my opinion is that roughly 90% of the time, said parties that ask me for it don't listen to me any way, so why ask? To be polite? That is wasted time, my friend. A lot of the calls I get on a regular basis can easily be subverted by someone taking 10 minutes to read some info, rather than 35 minutes (this is our AVERAGE wait, I fucking kid you not) to talk to someone who doesn't even deal with half your issues. To summarize: you sat in a phone queue listening to Gordon Lightfoot(not even GOOD Gordon Lightfoot either) for 35 minutes to string together a series of confusing statements and ask me for my opinion on matters you could have figured out yourself in a fraction of the time. You then have the nerve to get pissed at me for giving you a basic answer. In my defense: Allow me to present a scenario to you ala Choose Your Own Adventure

Johnny gets a bill for his health insurance. He works for Buttfuck Joineries ltd. and they're supposed to be covering his medical. What does Johnny do?

A) For Johnny to call his benefits person in the office and find out what medical coverage is through his work and clear up any misconceptions, go to page 3.
B) For Johnny to Google 'pacific blue cross' and find out there exists Basic and Extended Benefits and the exclusive differences therein, go to Page 4.
C) For Johnny to call the billing department for health insurance and wait 35 minutes to tell them that he has employer coverage, go to THE NINTH CIRCLE OF HELL JESUS YOU ARE CLOGGING UP OUR FUCKING PHONE LINES WITH YOUR DUMBASS PLEBE ISSUES. AGHRRRR!


PS. I too worked for Buttfuck Joineries ltd. They paid 10$ an hour.

10. In Closing (Hanging It Up)

As I finish this up and proofread this post, I realize that a majority of this is unnecessary bitching about my job. I know for a fact, however, that anyone reading this who has worked a call center job long enough to hate it can empathize with this list and most likely add new ones. So rather than this being a bitch session about my job, I'd like to pose to anyone else in the same shoes to write a list yourself. Plagiarise this one if you want, hell add to it. Call it a manifesto even though it's not. Send it to friends, I don't give a shit.

I do a fairly good job of keeping my cool internally when talking to most of you, the hypothetical reader, on the phone. Hopefully you took notes because otherwise, you'll be seeing lots of porn spam and dick pumps in your mailbox once I've hung up on your stupid ass.

Sep. 18th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

(no subject)

 I had a long diatribe written, but my browser crashed and I lost my draft.  Fuck you, livejournal.

Sep. 14th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

Ugly Personas

So I guess I'm a bad person in some respects.

I once had a minor relationship not too long ago that fit something close to the standard archetype. The only problem was that the circumstances under which we visited each other were abject and poisonous (literally). I tried to stick it out thinking things would get better, but they wouldn't.  I allowed myself to let it fall to pieces rather than say "Listen...". This is my fault, and I take responsibility for it. I need to own up when a situation goes south rather than walk away (to the gym or work).  I will say in my defense though that I have been extremely busy with work, a pending tour, and self-improvement through biking 60 miles a week.  So if I let something fall apart, let it be this: a relationship that was a potential tragedy turned out to be a complete pathos.

With that out of the way, I got to see some fucking CARS AND TRUCKS HIT EACH OTHER WHOOOOO!

You cannot honestly blame this for ending a shitty relationship...

I went out to Langford: B.C.'s Nashville on Saturday after a boring and utterly useless day at work to go see Can-Am Hit To Pass. Demolition. Fucking. Racing. Sounds like the equivalent of a harsh noise show (+) with a combination of utterly fucking haggard people picking fights while drunk (++) and possible monster trucks (+++). It's like taking everything you hate about a place and spinning it in this really positive fashion so in reality, it's like watching CMT and enjoying it. Throughout the night, between cars catching on fire and cars driving into walls, I got peppered with a barrage of angry text messages on my phone from the above party. Everything from "you're a jerk" to "at least I got drugs and a book out of it" to "don't ever talk to me again". Bear in mind that I was not responding to any of them because I was too busy watching a grown drunk woman nearly get into a fist fight with a teenager. Sorry baby, but a man has priorities.

Can't blame this either...

The following day, I wake to find out that power is still out partially in my apartment.  Allow me to backtrack:  Around 10:30PM on Friday, while trying to not die again in S.T.A.L.K.E.R. as I do so many many many many many times, the power flickered, and all progress was lost.  Minor annoyance yes, but then shortly after, the power went out completely.  The exception was, some outlets still worked and some lights still worked.  So now while I wait for an electrician to fix the circuit, I am typing this by candlelight while a phonograph plays soft contemporary music.  I sometimes wonder to myself if I should find a new apartment.

Sep. 8th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

Tirades and Brigades

Now that things have seemingly returned to normal for an undetermined period of time, so does the routine. The stitches are out so I can stop making excuses for not going to the gym; let me remind you though that sweat in wounds still stings a lot. I don't know what constitutes a good workout album anymore, so I've been putting on The Sisters of Mercy "Floodland" album because frankly, it's a really catchy album (save for one or two sinkers). Anyone who knows me little will attach the goth stigma that comes with that album, everyone else knows me well enough to do otherwise. The pigeonholing margin is small, probably 1% because I'm not announcing it to everyone I encounter, but fuck that. I will defend my disassociation with that subculture as much as Andrew Eldritch does. When you see Mindless Self Indulgence, Djarum Blacks, and Jhonen Vasquez in my interests, let me know because I will then need to kill myself in the manliest, un-goth way possible (though my suicide will still cave to the goth stereotype). Perhaps something unsuspecting, like a bus accident.



If you don't see the joke here, I can't help you.
Tasteless topical jokes aside, my other half of the weekend involved acquiring the new Will Wright toys-for-universe-building-blocks-for-children timesink SPORE.  I discussed this with my friend briefly who had a feeling I was going to be let down by this, and I was. Allow me to explain why though. I first became aware of spore approximately 2 years ago, when It was still in development and things floated around and churned in the rumor mill. I found out by sheer fluke as I was reading up on Brian Eno because I was in another one of those phases where the only thing to sedate me after a long day of getting screamed at by entitled yanks was Music for Airports. I kept it on watch, not like suicide watch (we already made those jokes, I'll stop now) but more of a concerned parent or avid Psilocybin mushroom grower. The occasional check up to make sure things were moving along and not stagnating because I wanted the spoils all to myself. As the date grew closer and things were finalized, I was psyching myself up for what I had hoped to be a deep, challenging and most of all, fun game. I unwrapped it yesterday, started around noon and ended at around 9 or 10PM, completely appalled at the fact that I was more or less done with it. I don't mean done as in for the night, but as in I wanted my money back.

There's not enough room to spin in Charles Darwin's grave...

I can handle the cutesy stuff, but the biggest letdown for me was the promises made by Maxis at the time when i was first reading about it. What happened to the consistent evolution of a species as it formed and turned into something different? Instead it's replaced by a consistent state of editing and re-editing. Think E.V.O. for the SNES (if you're that old school) but instead of constantly adapting and having potential drawbacks to your actions, you instead have a cosmetic editor that does essentially nothing. If I have 6 arms I should be able to beat the fuck out of some; if not many people (even Goro). In SPORE, you could have a monster with 60 legs and he still moves as fast as any other creature, thus eliminating any sort of Darwinist approach the game may have had hoped for, and scoring some negative points with the Anthropology crowd.

Richard Leaky don't like playin' games with this shit...

My review may seem a tad bit rushed, but after reading several other reviews like this, it appears I'm not the only one on the lonely mountain of bitterness. I know GameFAQ's is not word of god, nor should it be, but some valid points were raised. There isn't much depth to it; a game that seems like it you could throw the elderly into it's depths and guarantee certain death.  Strip back the layers and you have a series of connecting games that as far as I'm concerned were done before, and done much better.  You could spend the same amount of money from a copy of SPORE and buy every game that this one specifically tries to be like. Fuck, you could play some of them for free even (see Jenova Chen's flOw if you haven't already), and you can imagine that you're slaughtering something other than a village full of creatures that look like a stuffed animal you win at a carnival.

For anyone that was TL;DR on this. I think this image sums it up:

Hey now, hey now now, sing this sporrosion to me...

I swear to god I will not make that joke ever again.


Sep. 4th, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria

(no subject)

The power went out in my building today.

There were lots of nice notices up in my apartment elevators all this week and the week prior stating "THE POWER WILL BE OUT FROM 8:00AM TO 7:00 PM DO NOT CALL US FUCK OFF THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO". Luckily for me I had the day off, so I took advantage of a powerless situation (groan) and went downtown. My first order of business was sending off some CD's to people in the U.S. that I had made promises to (I do this a lot and never follow through). After that, the next goal was claiming a 500$ gift certificate I had waiting for me at The Brick. One agonizing bus ride to Langford: British Columbia's Nashville later and I had it in my hands. I'm bad with holding onto funds, real or imaginary; it's why I lose at Monopoly a lot. So I pose the question, what would you buy with a 500$ gift certificate. Me? I bought a digital camera. I needed one.

I have to justify myself somehow...

Despite the fact that I couldn't quite charge it at my apartment due to lack of power, I managed to work around that and hang out at a Starbucks watching a slew of standard Starbucks types run in/out while I read my copy of Lolita and kept a low profile. Once there was enough battery power in there I went to go get my stitches taken out.

Yeah, I had stitches.

Allow me to explain: last weekend was the annual Victoria Noise! Festival which, for me, was mostly a good hangout with old friends from Vancouver/Pacific Northwest and a good blast of harsh noise and power electronics. I got an opportunity to play with a good friend of mine, beat the shit out of a trash can, and scream at people about slaves. The second night, around midnight or so, I collided with a friend of mine who was performing. Literally, it was a head-to-head smash, with me being the weaker of the two, I opened up nicely. Five stitches later, I was back in time to walk my friends home.

Pre and post brutality, sorry mom...but I look pretty happy.

They suggested I wait until Friday to take them out, but scars are good, in a true fashion.  I have them still as a souvenir, I will most likely send them back to the man who cracked my eyebrow.  Noise dudes are all about obscure shit in packaging.  Look at your modern Anti-Records sometime, they can be pretty fucking intense.  Came back to my apartment, expecting to slowly crawl through the dark back to my sunlit apartment.  Turns out the power came back on around 4:30PM or so so, luckily nothing spoiled in the fridge and the "Xtra Hot" noodle box was still good and mouth destroying.  Today's moral: a lack of power creates newfound power.  Also, Starship Troopers is fucking retarded in a great way.


I'm doing my part!

Sep. 3rd, 2008

Noise, Live, Victoria


I'm in the midst of preparing for a 3.5 week tour through the U.S. doing my Power Electronics act.  Considering that I'm going to be trapped in a car for that time with 3 other people, I figure it's best to stock up on a variety of music.  It's one of the sacred tour rules, up there with taking all of your shit out of the car, regardless of where you are.  People tend to think people stealing shit only happens to the lower demographic, which is bullshit.  Just recently one of my tourmates and friends had his bike stolen from literally outside of his house in a super quiet, seemingly crime-free neighborhood.  If you happen to see an 1998 Orange Gary Fisher 'Kaitai' that isn't being driven by a laid back dude with shades and a soul patch, steal it back, and beat the person to death (have to be sure).  Back on track however, in the process of finding tour music that isn't war metal or black metal or blackened war metal, I came across a gem from many yesteryears.



Quarteto Em Cy - S/T (1965)

Allow me to fill you in on some back story for the uninitiated (re: anyone reading this who didn't go to school with me for the years 2004-2006).  During these years I was undergoing a developmental process that mainly consisted of becoming less ugly and more charismatic.  This period consisted mostly of a hermetic state of self-learning and shunning the expected traits of dumb teenage years.  Note: I still did drugs and stuff, this is more for relevance purposes.  Most of the self-learning here was mostly trying to find out as much as I possibly could about the arts.  Finidng obscure films, obscure artists, strange painters/photographers.  The idea was that if I wasn't able to charm the people, I might as well focus on finding something that could be all mine.  Filesharing obviously destroys this theory, but fuck them, I lived in the middle of nowhere.  You could probably write this as a young kid desperately trying to get what I refer to as the hipster edge on people.  You know the hipster edge, you've seen it everywhere.  A common use of it manifests itself as such:

"So I've been listening to a lot of Tropicalia lately"
'Oh man, have you heard the first Quarteto Em Cy album?'
"Uh...no...how is it?"
'Oh man, it's essential, I'm surprised you haven't heard it.'

There, you see?  Easy as pie, party A gets the edge going, while party B scrambles to keep up.  Note that this generally only works amongst music nerds and hipsters and possibly tropicalia aficiandos.  This album holds a special place in my heart because even with teenage angst manifesting itself in bad poetry and poorly written arty scrapbooks which i would then later burn, this album cheered me up on the worst days.  This album is basically an old school South American bossa nova/MPB album, but the vocal harmonies are fantastic and the mood is incredibly laid back.  More than that, for me it almost perfectly encapsulates that era of a black and white family household with a bored wife, endlessly on amphetamines.  This is feeling a tad tangental, so I felt I would share this with whoever bothers to read this, or whoever happens to stumble around looking for this album (as I was earlier today).

For your pleasure, a link to download it is right here.

Noise, Live, Victoria

The Root of Some Humor

Consistently quitting and re-starting seems to be my M.O. so I guess this would be...the third time. I suppose that I've restarted unnecessarily detailing shit about my life based on some trivial need to keep a solid memory because despite the fact that mine is rock-solid (you just wait), I can't seem to remember nothing but small things and Jeopardy! questions.

I've started watching The Comedy Network online because it has all the South Park episodes for streaming, but I can only watch them once before they become stale. There are some funny parts but mostly if you've seen it once, there's no point in watching it again unless you're at a party and no one wants to watch old Aqua Teen Hunger Force episodes, those motherfuckers. Bearing that in mind, I decided to see what else I might have missed in my blissful days of not watching cable, not that I'm morally opposed, the actual cable just won't reach the T.V.

I stumbled upon this:

Forever Typecast...

I honestly can't say what possessed me to start watching this. Maybe it's because Lewis Black, in stand up comedy form, is fucking untouchable in a sinister crank way. He reminds me of a grandfather you can't argue with, lest your ass get handed to you with a side of 'back in my day'. Truly a funny man, but for some reason anyone who touches the Comedy Network/Comedy Central gets cursed with a few mediocre laughs.   The Premise:  Black hosts a debate between two comedians arguing over who is more evil and who has a looser grasp as to what "evil" truly is.

Not even the comedic cutesy voice acting styles of Patton Oswalt can get more than some small laughs out of most people.  Therein lies the tragedy; Patton Oswalt and Lewis Black have proven to be harshly funny on an intellectual level the same way David Cross is on a political level (if you're still into Bush jokes).  To see them degrade themselves to shitty photoshopping and gag spots/candid street interviews.  It's like Proust for a communications student, but can't actually fully please either party like some sort of failed 3 way.  The intellectual feels patronized, and the simpleton feels condescended.  What laughs there are, are usually when the audience isn't laughing.  I mean really now, a guy wearing goofy glasses stopped being funny a while ago I think.



I really wish they had ran with it in a more direct way, but when you try to please everyone, you please no one (grey haired man, bitches).  What could have been potentially a good show with some valid arguments (Beer vs. Weed for instnace) has been ruined by everyone compromising their abilities of humor for the paycheque.  I guess they have mortgage payments too...