Due to recent remarks made during international correspondence, I feel I must issue a statement of political position re: international affairs. This is a self-indulgent medium, in other words, and any excuse to run my mouth is a good excuse. Not that I need one. Because I don't. And if you think I do, you are obviously new here.
AIM FOR THE ENEMY....NOT YOUR FRONT LINE.
A. Anyone traveling the web using the moniker 'First Nations' is not going to get too exercised when you slag off the U. S. federal government.
B. Explore and discuss the differences between the following concepts:
1. Individual
2. Government
C. Discuss and explore the differences between:
1. Focused political discussion
2. Light, general conversation.
D. If your personal sense of self worth is so very small, your perception of the relative worth of the country you inhabit so very withered, and the burden of living in the shadow of the ill-percieved 'superiority' of another nation - a nation that no amount of watching 'The Dukes of Hazard' qualifies you as an expert on.... if all that is just too much for you to bear without assing off with some unconsidered excuse for an opinion every time your Spidey Sense picks up the presence of an American, First Nations makes the following suggestion:
1. Open a 'party size' bag of potato chips.
2. While you're up, bring me a beer.
3. Dump the chips out, put the bag over your head and tie the opening tightly around your neck.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Air quality issues
Is it time for the diaper story?
Yeah, its time for the diaper story.
__________________
Once upon a time there were two very bad evil dogs who used to go rambling in the woods with their mom. This one time we were down by the Nooksack river (yes, thats really its name)following a railroad embankment. It was salmon season, meaning March, and quite warm, and so thaw was well under way. This is the time of year that...lets call them 'woods dwelling skank beasts, holler monsters and pintos' begin to notice that the trash is starting to stink, so they start sneaking all the garbage that they'd accumulated over the winter months out of the carport - or the back bedroom, or wherever - and down to the river banks so the spring floods will wash it away. Anyway thats the theory. The most convenient hidden dumping place nearby was the riverward slope of the railroad embankment. This had been going on for years and years-there were Model T cars down there, parts of old treadle sewing machines, all kinds of stuff on up to microwave ovens and plastic milk jugs.
And diapers.
Lots and lots of diapers.
LOTS of diapers.
Which, you know, had I known about beforehand would have made me think again about my choice of hike, see.
Jett kept coming back to me down the tracks all wriggling and wagging and grinning with her head and front paws covered with what I thought at the time was, um, mud. Kind of, um, reddish mud. She'd do her little 'This is so great, mom!" dance and run back up the tracks and down into the woods again.
Meanwhile I'm just sauntering along in my childlike stupor, admiring the river, when Opie comes out of the brush ahead pulling something in his mouth. I take this something for a fast food bag. I trot up to grab it away from him but he dances off trying to entice me into playing chase. He gives his head a little shake.. "C'mon, Jiggles, don't you wish you had this? But its mine! And YOu can't have it! And I've got it!" and as he does this it unravels, and a big fat chunky baby turd rolls out.
These animals had found a virtual Mt. Everest of diapers. Was it all from one kid? One really big, fat obese mutant kid who liked ketchup? Or a lot of kids? Like crop circles and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
There is no way to describe the smell. AND there were salmon carcasses mixed in with it. It was all nice and warm with pretty curls of mist coming off it, and my dogs obviously hadn't been the first ones at the banquet either, and oh Jesus it was everywhere. In the trees, hanging in the brush, floating down the river....
And y dogs? My dogs were romping in it. Romping in this giant pile of swollen, festering, ghastly-ass funky baby shit. They are accomplished poo rompers; theres a horse story I will recount at a later time; but now is not that time. This is the time........ of the DIAPER.
I had to drag them away by the collars.
They each got repeated duckings in the river, which seemed to irritate them for some reason, probably because it was pure snowmelt, and then we all trudged back to the car and left.
Halfway home, Jett barfed.
By the time we had pulled into the driveway Jett had filled both the entire rear footwells. With barf. Baby shit barf. Both of them.
Opie was pretty quiet, but I watched as he swole up like a little inflatable hairy pig full of poo. And he was burping. Until that moment I did not realize that dogs got face farts. They do. Oh indeed they do.
They both ended up at the vet overnight and both of them had to get their stomachs pumped.
The admitting nurse seemed to have some very real elemental difficulty getting her mind around the whole shit issue. 'Feces? Oh. You mean, poop? They've been eating...some kind of doo?"
Now here I'm thinking 'Madam, aren't you the one with the degree in veterinary medicine? Is it really such big news that dogs are coprophageous?' So I lead her to the car, and opened the rear door.
"Oh", she said.
Just, 'Oh.'
'You got any paper towels?" I ask.
"No!" she replies. Before I'd finished saying the word 'towel', even.
Cost me 300$. Little fuckers.
Yeah, its time for the diaper story.
__________________
Once upon a time there were two very bad evil dogs who used to go rambling in the woods with their mom. This one time we were down by the Nooksack river (yes, thats really its name)following a railroad embankment. It was salmon season, meaning March, and quite warm, and so thaw was well under way. This is the time of year that...lets call them 'woods dwelling skank beasts, holler monsters and pintos' begin to notice that the trash is starting to stink, so they start sneaking all the garbage that they'd accumulated over the winter months out of the carport - or the back bedroom, or wherever - and down to the river banks so the spring floods will wash it away. Anyway thats the theory. The most convenient hidden dumping place nearby was the riverward slope of the railroad embankment. This had been going on for years and years-there were Model T cars down there, parts of old treadle sewing machines, all kinds of stuff on up to microwave ovens and plastic milk jugs.
And diapers.
Lots and lots of diapers.
LOTS of diapers.
Which, you know, had I known about beforehand would have made me think again about my choice of hike, see.
Jett kept coming back to me down the tracks all wriggling and wagging and grinning with her head and front paws covered with what I thought at the time was, um, mud. Kind of, um, reddish mud. She'd do her little 'This is so great, mom!" dance and run back up the tracks and down into the woods again.
Meanwhile I'm just sauntering along in my childlike stupor, admiring the river, when Opie comes out of the brush ahead pulling something in his mouth. I take this something for a fast food bag. I trot up to grab it away from him but he dances off trying to entice me into playing chase. He gives his head a little shake.. "C'mon, Jiggles, don't you wish you had this? But its mine! And YOu can't have it! And I've got it!" and as he does this it unravels, and a big fat chunky baby turd rolls out.
These animals had found a virtual Mt. Everest of diapers. Was it all from one kid? One really big, fat obese mutant kid who liked ketchup? Or a lot of kids? Like crop circles and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
There is no way to describe the smell. AND there were salmon carcasses mixed in with it. It was all nice and warm with pretty curls of mist coming off it, and my dogs obviously hadn't been the first ones at the banquet either, and oh Jesus it was everywhere. In the trees, hanging in the brush, floating down the river....
And y dogs? My dogs were romping in it. Romping in this giant pile of swollen, festering, ghastly-ass funky baby shit. They are accomplished poo rompers; theres a horse story I will recount at a later time; but now is not that time. This is the time........ of the DIAPER.
I had to drag them away by the collars.
They each got repeated duckings in the river, which seemed to irritate them for some reason, probably because it was pure snowmelt, and then we all trudged back to the car and left.
Halfway home, Jett barfed.
By the time we had pulled into the driveway Jett had filled both the entire rear footwells. With barf. Baby shit barf. Both of them.
Opie was pretty quiet, but I watched as he swole up like a little inflatable hairy pig full of poo. And he was burping. Until that moment I did not realize that dogs got face farts. They do. Oh indeed they do.
They both ended up at the vet overnight and both of them had to get their stomachs pumped.
The admitting nurse seemed to have some very real elemental difficulty getting her mind around the whole shit issue. 'Feces? Oh. You mean, poop? They've been eating...some kind of doo?"
Now here I'm thinking 'Madam, aren't you the one with the degree in veterinary medicine? Is it really such big news that dogs are coprophageous?' So I lead her to the car, and opened the rear door.
"Oh", she said.
Just, 'Oh.'
'You got any paper towels?" I ask.
"No!" she replies. Before I'd finished saying the word 'towel', even.
Cost me 300$. Little fuckers.
editing
You might notice I edited the crap out of yesterdays' post. I felt like shit knowing that was out there. My husband, Rq, is a good guy and he doesn't deserve that kind of lampooning. Plus, imagine him taking a notion and reading this...you just know that would be the post that popped up. And then all of yesterdays troubles would redouble themselves.
Which would suck since all of yesterdays troubles are gone! YAY!
We've had a car for sale for a little while-I sold it yesterday afternoon. A man came up, drove the car around the block and handed me 2 bills to hold it for him while he went about the rest of his day. Never asked me my name, never asked for a reciept...that, my friends, is life in the country.
My daughter came in with good news about her life and plans...which in a circituous fashion solved part of the problem with my father-in-law's care. I'll end up with more time to look in on him without the goonybird in tow. Normally thats kind of amusing, watching Great Grandpa be totally charmed watching the 'Bird lay waste to his home, but not real practical now since both of them are unsteady on their legs.
I'm wondering what the next few years will be like, taking care of an elderly person. My daughter is the one who is brave. She used to facilitate for the challenged; she's the one who can wipe up dirty asses and deal with geeking and drooling and not think a thing of it. Not me. Frankly, sickness and infirmity scare the living fuck out of me. Incapacity repels me. Both of these things combined with old age....fuck, I'm having trouble typing. Forget it.
Make of that what you will; there it is.
What I am certain of is that I can suck it up and deal with it.
What I worry about is being able to deal with it with grace. I want to be a blessing to the man. Certainly there are things in this world more awful than helping another person on the toilet or cleaning up after they miss.
It's the level of intimacy that is geeking me out. That moreso than my detestation of human filth, although that is running a close second.
So theres the whole issue in a nutshell. It will probably turn out to be one of those things that isn't nearly as bad as the anticipation of it is. After all, I love the man. Meanwhile I deliberately go to gross-out websites and read the ill stories and look at the ill pictures to kind of steel myself for it...and God willing, nothing in my future is going to be as bad as 'the Death of the 600 Pound Man" or the *ahem* Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain. No I will not post links you icky potty person.
Which would suck since all of yesterdays troubles are gone! YAY!
We've had a car for sale for a little while-I sold it yesterday afternoon. A man came up, drove the car around the block and handed me 2 bills to hold it for him while he went about the rest of his day. Never asked me my name, never asked for a reciept...that, my friends, is life in the country.
My daughter came in with good news about her life and plans...which in a circituous fashion solved part of the problem with my father-in-law's care. I'll end up with more time to look in on him without the goonybird in tow. Normally thats kind of amusing, watching Great Grandpa be totally charmed watching the 'Bird lay waste to his home, but not real practical now since both of them are unsteady on their legs.
I'm wondering what the next few years will be like, taking care of an elderly person. My daughter is the one who is brave. She used to facilitate for the challenged; she's the one who can wipe up dirty asses and deal with geeking and drooling and not think a thing of it. Not me. Frankly, sickness and infirmity scare the living fuck out of me. Incapacity repels me. Both of these things combined with old age....fuck, I'm having trouble typing. Forget it.
Make of that what you will; there it is.
What I am certain of is that I can suck it up and deal with it.
What I worry about is being able to deal with it with grace. I want to be a blessing to the man. Certainly there are things in this world more awful than helping another person on the toilet or cleaning up after they miss.
It's the level of intimacy that is geeking me out. That moreso than my detestation of human filth, although that is running a close second.
So theres the whole issue in a nutshell. It will probably turn out to be one of those things that isn't nearly as bad as the anticipation of it is. After all, I love the man. Meanwhile I deliberately go to gross-out websites and read the ill stories and look at the ill pictures to kind of steel myself for it...and God willing, nothing in my future is going to be as bad as 'the Death of the 600 Pound Man" or the *ahem* Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain. No I will not post links you icky potty person.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
y'all see this ass here? BITE IT!
heres the links again:
http://marlowefish.blogspot.com/
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/witchbabywiggbat
http://wornoutshoe.blogspot.com/
http://collagemama.blogspot.com/2006/01/rooney-rants.html#comments
http://greatsheelephant.blogspot.com/
.....I tried to post them in the sidebar but apparently thats beyond my capabilities at the moment. But I tried! I did!
Warning: what follows is
WHINING! UNREPENTANT, UGLY, SELF PITYING WHINING! YES! THATS RIGHT!
Adulthood just blows. Not all the time, and really, not that awfully much, until lately.
My husband, as he does every year after a prolonged interval of bad weather, has decided that we are poor. But not just poor; no, we are at the doorstep of the workhouse poor. Eating rats poor. Wearing rags wrapped around our feet, Charles Dickens poor.
This is not the case. This is SO not the case.
Just like it isn't the case every year.
Every.
Single.
Year.
For the past 20.
Yes, this is seasonal dissaffective disorder, I know...see, but its one thing to know that and quite another to have to live with it.
Anyway, as I do every year around this time, I look for work. Which stresses the hell out of me because simply anticipating having to work alongside the same people day in and day out makes my hands tingle with anxiety. Knowing this probably isn't necessary in the first place again adds to the merriment. But it makes dh feel so validated, and it makes me feel like I'm doing something, even if it doesn't make any goddamn sense. Wierd, the funny games and rituals you find yourself performing. Still the stress level around Rancho FirstNations is pretty high.
A contributing element is my father-in-law, who is loveable; really...he is in his mid-seventies and lives alone in a huge house with bad stairs. Of course, he also has trouble walking. Of course he refuses to move. And then theres bad habit he has of, oh, just fainting for no particular reason and DYING TEMPORARILY. The man's heart just stops and starts again for no reason anyone can determine. One time he came to stuck between the toilet and the vanity, no idea how long he'd been there. Thought it was pretty funny. Mainly he calls us from the hospital and airily announces "Guess where I am?"
This is the phone call we got last night. "Mmmnhello-oo......guess who? I'm in the hospital again; came in this afternoon.....I really don't know why....I felt kind of dizzy. Well yes, I fell down. But I'm fine. I think they'll be releasing me tomorrow....unless they decide to keep me...."
Fuck I hate trouble in my house! Everybody just get a fucking grip for the love of Christ! ' *slappity biffity slappity slap*
Yeah, thats gonna happen...not. Everyone else can be a puke; ah yes, but let mom have a moment and ITS JUST ABSOLUTELY UNFUCKINGFORGIVEABLY THE WORST THING EVER!
Why now, I ask you? Why now, I beseech the skies?
Its early spring! We have blue skies for the first time in months! The snowdrops are up! Its beautiful! It's not raining! We have money!
Thats my new mantra. If I say it often enough, it'll come true.
http://marlowefish.blogspot.com/
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/witchbabywiggbat
http://wornoutshoe.blogspot.com/
http://collagemama.blogspot.com/2006/01/rooney-rants.html#comments
http://greatsheelephant.blogspot.com/
.....I tried to post them in the sidebar but apparently thats beyond my capabilities at the moment. But I tried! I did!
Warning: what follows is
WHINING! UNREPENTANT, UGLY, SELF PITYING WHINING! YES! THATS RIGHT!
Adulthood just blows. Not all the time, and really, not that awfully much, until lately.
My husband, as he does every year after a prolonged interval of bad weather, has decided that we are poor. But not just poor; no, we are at the doorstep of the workhouse poor. Eating rats poor. Wearing rags wrapped around our feet, Charles Dickens poor.
This is not the case. This is SO not the case.
Just like it isn't the case every year.
Every.
Single.
Year.
For the past 20.
Yes, this is seasonal dissaffective disorder, I know...see, but its one thing to know that and quite another to have to live with it.
Anyway, as I do every year around this time, I look for work. Which stresses the hell out of me because simply anticipating having to work alongside the same people day in and day out makes my hands tingle with anxiety. Knowing this probably isn't necessary in the first place again adds to the merriment. But it makes dh feel so validated, and it makes me feel like I'm doing something, even if it doesn't make any goddamn sense. Wierd, the funny games and rituals you find yourself performing. Still the stress level around Rancho FirstNations is pretty high.
A contributing element is my father-in-law, who is loveable; really...he is in his mid-seventies and lives alone in a huge house with bad stairs. Of course, he also has trouble walking. Of course he refuses to move. And then theres bad habit he has of, oh, just fainting for no particular reason and DYING TEMPORARILY. The man's heart just stops and starts again for no reason anyone can determine. One time he came to stuck between the toilet and the vanity, no idea how long he'd been there. Thought it was pretty funny. Mainly he calls us from the hospital and airily announces "Guess where I am?"
This is the phone call we got last night. "Mmmnhello-oo......guess who? I'm in the hospital again; came in this afternoon.....I really don't know why....I felt kind of dizzy. Well yes, I fell down. But I'm fine. I think they'll be releasing me tomorrow....unless they decide to keep me...."
Fuck I hate trouble in my house! Everybody just get a fucking grip for the love of Christ! ' *slappity biffity slappity slap*
Yeah, thats gonna happen...not. Everyone else can be a puke; ah yes, but let mom have a moment and ITS JUST ABSOLUTELY UNFUCKINGFORGIVEABLY THE WORST THING EVER!
Why now, I ask you? Why now, I beseech the skies?
Its early spring! We have blue skies for the first time in months! The snowdrops are up! Its beautiful! It's not raining! We have money!
Thats my new mantra. If I say it often enough, it'll come true.
Monday, February 06, 2006
As near as I can figure it
I am sitting in the kitchen typing away, and Goonybird grandkid rushes in.
"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" gestures of great amazement.
"What, honey?"
" Oh no! Oh no! Dog dog!" pointing into the livingroom with great emphasis.
"What about doggie?"
"Dog dog nose! Ow! Nose! Ow!" smacking self with an open hand on the nose.
Translation: Grandmother! I've discovered the most amazing thing! The dog and I share a common feature! We BOTH have a nose! Its inconceivable! Furthermore it hurts every single time I do this!
___________________
I am folding laundry, sitting crosslegged on the floor. The Goonybird is racing around me in circles.
"One two! One two! One two! One two! One two! Oh no! Got go! Got go!" pointing at me.
"Go where, honey?"
"Go! Go go! rrrrrm! buk! One two!" pointing with great intention at the front door.
Translation: I am marching! Quite determinedly! On your stacks! Of clean clothes! We need to leave immediately ! Go start the car, woman, I need a book from the library! In the meantime It's vitally important that I continue to march on the laundry!
___________________
Goonybird comes racing up to me as I carry clothes into the bedroom.
"Wheddo go? Whaddoo gots? Go! Buck a buck a buck a buck!" gesture of confusion.
"I'm going into the other room, kiddo."
"Oh! Shit! Geddoo go! buckabuck! Rmmmm!" both arms raised over head.
Translation: where are you going and what in Gods' name do you think you're doing with my grandfathers clothing? Very well, move along. In the meanwhile I will imitate a chicken. Oh shit! Where are you going, did you say? Ah yes; fine. Carry on. Here's my chicken imitation again. Now heres' a car.
"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" gestures of great amazement.
"What, honey?"
" Oh no! Oh no! Dog dog!" pointing into the livingroom with great emphasis.
"What about doggie?"
"Dog dog nose! Ow! Nose! Ow!" smacking self with an open hand on the nose.
Translation: Grandmother! I've discovered the most amazing thing! The dog and I share a common feature! We BOTH have a nose! Its inconceivable! Furthermore it hurts every single time I do this!
___________________
I am folding laundry, sitting crosslegged on the floor. The Goonybird is racing around me in circles.
"One two! One two! One two! One two! One two! Oh no! Got go! Got go!" pointing at me.
"Go where, honey?"
"Go! Go go! rrrrrm! buk! One two!" pointing with great intention at the front door.
Translation: I am marching! Quite determinedly! On your stacks! Of clean clothes! We need to leave immediately ! Go start the car, woman, I need a book from the library! In the meantime It's vitally important that I continue to march on the laundry!
___________________
Goonybird comes racing up to me as I carry clothes into the bedroom.
"Wheddo go? Whaddoo gots? Go! Buck a buck a buck a buck!" gesture of confusion.
"I'm going into the other room, kiddo."
"Oh! Shit! Geddoo go! buckabuck! Rmmmm!" both arms raised over head.
Translation: where are you going and what in Gods' name do you think you're doing with my grandfathers clothing? Very well, move along. In the meanwhile I will imitate a chicken. Oh shit! Where are you going, did you say? Ah yes; fine. Carry on. Here's my chicken imitation again. Now heres' a car.
a triumph of the embalmers art: The Rolling Stones live at halftime
I remember it as though it were only yesterday. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was some other shit. It was THE DAY THE ROLLING STONES PLAYED THE HALFTIME SHOW AT THE SUPERBOWL.
Yes, and what a show it was. The Rolling Stones! Can you hear them back at the NFL boardroom? Oh, dude, we grab the boomer demographic and make everyone forget about that whole Janet Jacksons' tit thing!
The problem? The Rolling Stones are deceased.
They need to retire. Retire, retire, retire. Please, please, please. I sat through the whole thing hoping for I don't know what. I just did.
Man, it was like watching a breakdown in the air conditioning at the House Of Wax. They don't play their own instruments anymore so much as they just randomly flap away at them while three other 'mystery guys' tucked away at the back fill in the blank spots. (exception: Ol' Charlie Watts was keeping his end up.) It was blatant, and it was sad and ludicrous.
I cringed watching old Mick breathlessly trudging around the stage chasing chickens off the porch, yelling lyric fragments when the whim took him. Keith Richards staggering about picking up cigarette butts off the floor and looking for his Vicodin.
There were four of us watching. We sat here, former rockers every one and three of them Stones fans, and do you know what we said as we watched this debacle?
Not 'Gosh, you just gotta admire those Stones, they just keep on going!'
Not 'Wow, they're still SO GOOD!'
No, what we were all saying was 'Mick, keep your shirt on. PLEASE keep your shirt on. God, keep your shirt ON, Mick.'
The only equivalent on the 'painful to watch' scale was the pathetic last years of Frank Sinatra, another man tried in the court of Not Knowing When to Take His Hat and Go and found guilty. Maybe it's a generational thing, but watching the Stones creak through the same farce was somehow more pathetic. A lot of it had to do with Mick. It was just gross. He's still out there flogging the sulky youth -gamin- rough trade thing. With a more attractive man, it would have been a caricature. But as played by an underfed 63 year old frog wearing hiphuggers and a demi-tee........fuck, the indignity.
Old age does not have to be that ugly. Jesus God Almighty.
So no, I was less than impressed with the halftime entertainment.
Yes, and what a show it was. The Rolling Stones! Can you hear them back at the NFL boardroom? Oh, dude, we grab the boomer demographic and make everyone forget about that whole Janet Jacksons' tit thing!
The problem? The Rolling Stones are deceased.
They need to retire. Retire, retire, retire. Please, please, please. I sat through the whole thing hoping for I don't know what. I just did.
Man, it was like watching a breakdown in the air conditioning at the House Of Wax. They don't play their own instruments anymore so much as they just randomly flap away at them while three other 'mystery guys' tucked away at the back fill in the blank spots. (exception: Ol' Charlie Watts was keeping his end up.) It was blatant, and it was sad and ludicrous.
I cringed watching old Mick breathlessly trudging around the stage chasing chickens off the porch, yelling lyric fragments when the whim took him. Keith Richards staggering about picking up cigarette butts off the floor and looking for his Vicodin.
There were four of us watching. We sat here, former rockers every one and three of them Stones fans, and do you know what we said as we watched this debacle?
Not 'Gosh, you just gotta admire those Stones, they just keep on going!'
Not 'Wow, they're still SO GOOD!'
No, what we were all saying was 'Mick, keep your shirt on. PLEASE keep your shirt on. God, keep your shirt ON, Mick.'
The only equivalent on the 'painful to watch' scale was the pathetic last years of Frank Sinatra, another man tried in the court of Not Knowing When to Take His Hat and Go and found guilty. Maybe it's a generational thing, but watching the Stones creak through the same farce was somehow more pathetic. A lot of it had to do with Mick. It was just gross. He's still out there flogging the sulky youth -gamin- rough trade thing. With a more attractive man, it would have been a caricature. But as played by an underfed 63 year old frog wearing hiphuggers and a demi-tee........fuck, the indignity.
Old age does not have to be that ugly. Jesus God Almighty.
So no, I was less than impressed with the halftime entertainment.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
BUT I LIKE IT and you have to too.
So I'm driving down the road, the rain and wind rocking my little beater car, and I'm listening to the radio, when what to my wondering ears did appear, but jolly Led Zeppelin playing Whole Lotta Love, and eight tiny reindeer.
Forget everything ever written about how lame and sad it is to listen to the music you liked your senior year- I was 17 again.
And I was ROCKIN THE FUCK OUT.
I pulled up into the parking lot of the store and parked, and I'm still showing John Bonham how its done, man, I'm singing, I'm playing air guitar, and I look up and another car has parked next to me, and the passenger is looking at me with the white showing all the way around her eyes.
'Aw, you poor thing', I thought, 'You probably feel bad because you want to listen to the nice music too.'
So I turned it up.
I have a good stereo. If you'd walked by my little car you'd have seen it was probably whoomping in and out like a paper bag on a hysterics' face. But hey-it was Zep. You understand.
And that is the point, after all-it was Zep. Some things transcend time and fashion. Led Zeppelin is one of those things. Another one is Jimmi Hendrix. In particular, the recording titled 'Hendrix Live'.
I've pillaged and burned my way through TWO MOTHERFUCKING vinyl copies of 'Hendrix Live' and one cd so far. Everyone knows Hendrix is best enjoyed at the 'Ears bleed; small animals die' setting, right? RIGHT.
Nothings changed now that I live out in the country. When the neigbors' cows start giving paisley milk, thats when Hendrix is being played at the right volume. And seriously, it is my job, nay, my responsibility, being a former resident of civilization, to bring culture to these poor toiling rural proles. And what better way, I ask you?
When I lived in Portland Oregon I had a third story apt. at the top of Hall Street (1984 was the address; is that not cool?) I'd get up early Saturday morning, crack a beer, fire up a joint, face my speakers out the window and blast Hendrix' 'StarSpangled Banner' straight down 5th Avenue into downtown, baby. Damn, you could hear those notes rising and bouncing off the buildings and echoing down the streets all the way past Burnside and trailiing off into the distance, and man, it was BEAUTIFUL! All over town, you could hear people doing concert screams. Bums would wave up at me. College kids would start rocking out on the sidewalk. Man, it was fucking glorious.
So if you lived in Portland during the 70's, that was me, and you're welcome.
That was also me on 9th and Pine.
And Republican and Queen Anne in Seattle.
And driving through Wenatchee a couple of years ago.
Forget everything ever written about how lame and sad it is to listen to the music you liked your senior year- I was 17 again.
And I was ROCKIN THE FUCK OUT.
I pulled up into the parking lot of the store and parked, and I'm still showing John Bonham how its done, man, I'm singing, I'm playing air guitar, and I look up and another car has parked next to me, and the passenger is looking at me with the white showing all the way around her eyes.
'Aw, you poor thing', I thought, 'You probably feel bad because you want to listen to the nice music too.'
So I turned it up.
I have a good stereo. If you'd walked by my little car you'd have seen it was probably whoomping in and out like a paper bag on a hysterics' face. But hey-it was Zep. You understand.
And that is the point, after all-it was Zep. Some things transcend time and fashion. Led Zeppelin is one of those things. Another one is Jimmi Hendrix. In particular, the recording titled 'Hendrix Live'.
I've pillaged and burned my way through TWO MOTHERFUCKING vinyl copies of 'Hendrix Live' and one cd so far. Everyone knows Hendrix is best enjoyed at the 'Ears bleed; small animals die' setting, right? RIGHT.
Nothings changed now that I live out in the country. When the neigbors' cows start giving paisley milk, thats when Hendrix is being played at the right volume. And seriously, it is my job, nay, my responsibility, being a former resident of civilization, to bring culture to these poor toiling rural proles. And what better way, I ask you?
When I lived in Portland Oregon I had a third story apt. at the top of Hall Street (1984 was the address; is that not cool?) I'd get up early Saturday morning, crack a beer, fire up a joint, face my speakers out the window and blast Hendrix' 'StarSpangled Banner' straight down 5th Avenue into downtown, baby. Damn, you could hear those notes rising and bouncing off the buildings and echoing down the streets all the way past Burnside and trailiing off into the distance, and man, it was BEAUTIFUL! All over town, you could hear people doing concert screams. Bums would wave up at me. College kids would start rocking out on the sidewalk. Man, it was fucking glorious.
So if you lived in Portland during the 70's, that was me, and you're welcome.
That was also me on 9th and Pine.
And Republican and Queen Anne in Seattle.
And driving through Wenatchee a couple of years ago.
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