The Daniel Williams

Twenty Odd or Incongruous Items (or Collections of Items) found in a coworker's Cubicle

2008-04-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

They moved me to a new cubicle this week. Instead of altering and editing mysterious reports and analyzing mutual funds, I am now assisting actuaries in another part of the building. I will do this work for one week. It's pretty dull, except for my richly decorated immediate surroundings. Here are twenty items I found in my cubicle:

1. Untitled Christian inspirational message

This four-paragraph screed alludes casually (in navy blue Comic Sans 12-point) to the reader's "enemies", "agonies", and, in one memorable line, "sufferings sorrows and pains [sic]". How can such a downbeat message be affirmative enough to warrant daily contemplation?

2. Untitled congratulatory certificate

The company president's signature is reproduced at the bottom of this longish ivory-colored certificate. The text (Lucida Calligraphy, 12-point in tan) alludes to "loyalty, dedication and contributions" but fails to mention any specific event or achievements. A psychedelic-looking clock is printed in the background.

3. "Certificate of Appreciation in the Category of: Disney Cast Members"

This certificate reads: "[Name] WINS THE Tigger AWARD FOR ACHIEVEMENT IN: Organizing data and information, it's a wonderful thing!" in five different fonts. Printed above the text are two illustrations of Milne's extraordinarily popular tiger. Apparently someone in the certificate-printing division of my employer's Human Resource department intended this certificate for babies, or perhaps very slow adults.

4. "Certificate of Completion"

The Certificate of Completion is Spartan. A small clip-art illustration is printed above the bearer's name [this is MY certificate!] and the words "has completed the Project Management Foundations Training" are printed in reserved, almost dignified olive green 18-point Arial. Presumably, the training was mandatory.

5. Photo of four black ladies

Relatives?

6. Various photos of children

Or perhaps photos of various children? All the children appear happy.

7. Various lotions, perfume samples, and a lint remover

The items are stacked on a small shelf.

8. "Just Beautiful!!" poem

What makes me weak? My fears.
What makes me whole? My God.
What keeps me standing? My faith.
What makes me compassionate? My selflessness.
What makes me honest? My integrity.
What sustains my mind? My quest for knowledge.
What teaches me all lessons? My mistakes.
What lift's [sic] my head high? My pride, not arrogance.
What if I can't go on? Not an option.
What makes me victorious? My courage to climb.
What makes me competent? My confidence.
What makes me sensual? My insatiable essence.
What makes me beautiful? My everything.
What makes me a woman? My heart. [!]
Who says I need love? I do.
What empowers me? My God & Me. [sic]
What am I? I AM AN AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN.

9. "The Seven Dwarves of Menopause" printout

The word "menopause" has been struck through in red pen and replaced with the letters "PMS" in the title of this printout. Presumably, my co-worker will update it in a few years. A picture of Disney's beloved Seven Dwarves is accompanied in this printout by the legend "Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful & Psycho." The serial comma is thoughtlessly omitted, advancing the possibility of an unnamed Dwarf. Naturally, this sort of whimsy is printed in navy blue 12-point Comic Sans.

10. "TO MY SISTERS IN THE LORD…" poem

This poem is noteworthy only for the line "Before you wonder 'What's up with her?' ask yourself, 'What's up with me?'" The text is printed in black 12-point Times New Roman.

11. "Psalm 23 (For the Work Place)" printout

This inspiring bit of 12-point Comic Sans sacrilege begs to be reproduced in full:

The Lord is my boss, and I shall not want.
He gives me peace, when chaos is all around me.
He reminds me to pray, before I speak in anger.
He restores my sanity.
He guides my decisions that I might honor Him in all I do.
Even though I face absurd amounts of e-mail, system failures, copier jams, back-ordered supplies, unrealistic deadlines, staff shortages, budget cutbacks, red tape, downsizing, gossiping co-workers and whining customers, I won't give up, for You are with me. [Note the pronoun shift.]
Your presence, peace and power will see me through.
You raise me up, even when the boss fails to promote me. [I thought He was the boss.]
You claim me as your own, even when the company threatens to let me go.
Your loyalty and love are better than a bonus check.
Your retirement plans beats any 401K [sic], and when it's all said
and done, I'll be working for [Y]ou a whole lot longer!
Thanks be to God!

An accompanying (and severely pixilated) illustration depicts a light-skinned black woman with short braids and enormous gold hoops in her ear.

12. "PRAYER BEFORE STARTING WORK" printout

Stern 12-point Times New Roman printing in red and blue asks the Lord to "anoint [the reader's] projects, ideas, and energy" in this touching prayer.

13. Untitled navy blue 12-point Comic Sans inspirational message

Numerous sailing and soaring metaphors populate the text of this message.

14. "READ THE FIRST LINE CAREFULLY" poem

This seven-line poem begins with the words "READ THE FIRST LINE CAREFULLY", Epimenides be damned. It closely follows "Just Beautiful!!"'s question and answer format save for the logically confounding first line. The font is 12-point Times New Roman, in black with pink highlighting.

15. Small mirror

A small mirror hangs on a plastic hook next to the computer monitor in this cubicle. I repositioned it so I can see if anyone is sneaking up on me.

16. Numerous office supplies and folders

There are office supplies and folders everywhere in this cubicle, but they are most concentrated on the far right of the desk. All the folders are hand-labeled, and some appear quite old. All are utterly incomprehensible to me. The office supplies include "Wite-Out", scissors, and a giant eraser.

17. Small boombox

The office is eerily silent all day save for muted conversations and clicking keys. I've never heard ANYONE use a boombox, or even computer speakers. The boombox is an older cassette-only model.

18. Anne Geddes calendar

March's photo depicts little black babies peeking out of tulip blossoms. All wear shower caps.

19. Fortune cookie fortune

"KEEP YOUR EXPECTATIONS REASONABLE".

20. Empty bottle of Prozac

The label reads "DANIEL W. WILLIAMS: TAKE TWO CAPSULES EVERY MORNING WITH FOOD FOR DEPRESSION, ANXIETY"

Remove me from you list!

2008-04-22T23:58:00.000-07:00

I really walked into a shitstorm today. They moved me again at work, so now I'm filling in for a nice woman who left last weekend for Iowa. When I sat down this morning to check this lady's email I discovered over one hundred unread messages! (That's the shitstorm. Exciting, huh?) Apparently someone at Risingproducts.com created an email distribution list (subscribers3@risingproducts.com) filled with random email addresses (including my coworker's) and used it to send a newsletter. One of the addressees responded to this letter asking to be unsubscribed and his response went to everyone on the list. The people who got it went nuts and responded that THEY hadn't sent him any emails, and then THESE responses went to everyone on the list, prompting further denial and confusion. None of these people can figure out why they're getting hostile email, but every letter they write to subscribers3@risingproducts.com is redistributed to the list. Since none of these people have the grade-school sophistication to use a heading or salutation of any kind in their letters, the recipients all interpret the generic complaints as being directed at them personally. I wanted to get involved, but I'm not, uh, retarded.

I realize this is probably incredibly boring to the vast majority of people, but I find the range of responses this situation generated to be profound and interesting. People react to this misunderstanding in many different ways. Some get angry:

did you fix the problem doesn't seem like it so get it done i am sick of the damn email so fix this shit now (luvburns2001@yahoo.com)

Whoever you people are, stop sending me bogus emails say your on my list! You are not! STOP WRITING ME ASAP!!!!!!!! (marie_9440@yahoo.com)

Some make idle threats:

If I continue to receive messages from others I have no affiliations with I will make sure that your company will be reported to the ip server connected to you site. Or worse...make sure that your computers be shut down permanently. (martin9446@sbcglobal.net)

You have hacked into my email and used me as a way of "spaming" others. You better get this fixed ASAP or I will be contacting my lawyer later this evening. What you are doing is considered fraud and will be handled accordingly! I have your name/address and other important info to report to the authorities. You better get this cleared up soon! (mariegilbertson@yahoo.com)

people are asking to be un subscribed and i dont know how they got my email address, if the messages dont stop u will have a lawsuit on ur hands, guarenteed. (marcella_devincent17@yahoo.com)

Some are confused:

seems like a lot of problems surfaced since i seen this email address: subscribers3@risingproducts.com. first of all who are you and what do you want? (mactopolis@yahoo.com) [Try reasoning with it!]

We are not sending these either. I do not even knowhow they have our address. If you find out how to get these people off your list, please let me know. We have small children!! (madbil1@cox.net)

And some logically confounding:

DELETE ME KNOW! (mantolson@reinbeck.net)

your e males are messing up in my box! (matsukes@yahoo.com)

It's as if these people HAVE to write back, like they're compelled to do it. The emails would stop if they'd just stop responding to each other! It's funny to me how technology kind of leaves people behind; these goofballs are treating these messages like crank calls, and trying to give the "spammer" a piece of their minds. They just can't grasp that their reactions are the same as screaming at a pile of junk mail.

Like I wrote earlier, I know its totally boring, but I love reading this stuff. I wish I could devote all day to these modern predicaments and write about them them my leisure, rather than when no one is looking. Really and truly.

I am thankful

2008-04-21T23:58:00.000-07:00

I got another great email forward today. Here it is, with comments:

I AM THANKFUL:

FOR THE HUSBAND
WHO IS ON THE SOFA
BEING A COUCH POTATO,
BECAUSE HE IS HOME WITH ME
AND NOT OUT AT THE BARS.

Have people been forwarding this thing since the forties? Discounting fictional characters (like Homer Simpson and Andy Capp) and bartenders, I don't know of any men who spend every night in a bar, particularly married men. Granted, I don't know any actual BUMS, but still, despite watching five hours of TV a night, even I can't fathom enduring the tedium and inanity of spending every night in bar.

FOR THE TEENAGER
WHO IS COMPLAINING ABOUT DOING DISHES
BECAUSE IT MEANS SHE IS AT HOME,
NOT ON THE STREETS.

Do that many teenagers end up "on the streets?" Is it really a serious enough problem to warrant this line of reasoning? This seems a lot like being thankful for NOT getting struck by lightning. I assume the passage refers to being on the streets permanently, like teenaged prostitutes or runaways, because it seems kind of stupid for a parent to not want his child outside at least some of the time, unless they're attempting to raise a shut-in.

FOR THE TAXES I PAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM EMPLOYED .

Yeah, well, I can see ACCEPTING taxes as a consequence of working, but actually being thankful for them seems a bit much. I usually want MORE of the things I'm thankful for; if there was a tax rise, would the person who wrote this be more grateful yet? And is having a job really something to be that thankful for? How about being unemployed and not caring?

FOR THE MESS TO CLEAN AFTER A PARTY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE
BEEN SURROUNDED BY FRIENDS.

I've thrown a few parties, and it usually seemed like any messes I cleaned were the products of various nerds and dickheads that just showed up, rather than my friends. But what do I know? I don't clean ANYTHING!

FOR MY SHADOW THAT WATCHES ME WORK
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM OUT IN THE SUNSHINE

See, I'm grateful for not being a day-laborer.

FOR A LAWN THAT NEEDS MOWING,
WINDOWS THAT NEED CLEANING,
AND GUTTERS THAT NEED FIXING
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE A HOME .

Again, I don't care about any of that shit. The gutters fell off my old house into the waist-high lawn, but I didn't notice since the windows were so filthy. These are bourgeois concerns. Besides, who doesn't have at least some sort of dwelling? Even BUMS have tents and boxes. Should they be grateful for their leaky cardboard roofs and battered tarps? At what point is it okay for a person to stop being grateful and become resentful, jealous, or irate?

FOR ALL THE COMPLAINING
I HEAR ABOUT THE GOVERNMENT
BECAUSE IT MEANS
WE HAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH.

Yeah, not to be a stickler, but "freedom" and "rights" refer to things that everyone has. That's the whole point of the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, Bill of Rights, &c. Everyone is born with total freedom of expression. Mathmatically, governments can ONLY limit this right; it's impossible to grant or expand an inherently unlimited freedom. There's nothing whatsoever to be grateful for. The person who wrote this needs to take a fucking civics class. Is she also grateful to the government for NOT killing her or for NOT seizing her property for no good reason?

FOR THE PARKING SPOT
I FIND AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM CAPABLE OF WALKING
AND I HAVE BEEN BLESSED WITH TRANSPORTATION .

This is really stupid.

FOR MY HUGE HEATING BILL
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I AM WARM.

Not necessarily. It's perfectly possible that if oil prices continue to rise, a huge heating bill might not represent a warm house, but simply an inhabitable one. Keeping the temperate JUST high enough to prevent the pipes from bursting could be a pretty expensive venture in a few years. Will the author be grateful for that, because it means her pipes won't burst? If they do, will she be grateful for scrap copper piping to sell? When does it end?

FOR THE LADY BEHIND ME IN CHURCH
WHO SINGS OFF KEY
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I CAN HEAR.

I'm grateful I don't go to church.

FOR THE PILE OF LAUNDRY AND IRONING
BECAUSE IT MEANS
I HAVE CLOTHES TO WEAR.

Again, not neccesarily. An unsuccessful maid or drycleaner could have a huge pile of clothes to wash and iron and still not have a sufficient amount of clothes for herself. Sweatshop workers (boo hoo!) often toil over enormous piles of clothes while themselves wearing rags. Would this inspirational passage apply to them? (I suppose the author thinks they should be grateful for having jobs.)

FOR WEARINESS AND ACHING MUSCLES
AT THE END OF THE DAY
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE BEEN
CAPABLE OF WORKING HARD.

Fucking ridiculous. Rather than sitting around being grateful for everything, why doesn't this joker get a better job? And what's so great about "[having been] capable of working hard"? Crippled horses and most dead bodies were at one point capable of such work, too.

FOR THE ALARM THAT GOES OFF
IN THE EARLY MORNING HOURS
BECAUSE IT MEANS I AM ALIVE.

This is a bit of a fucking stretch. Unless this shit was written by a ghost, pretty much any observation would indicate that the observer is alive. I mean, really! It's like saying, "I'm grateful for involuntary muscle spasms in response to reflexive stimuli, because they mean I'm alive". And why pin that grateful-to-be-alive shit to something horrible, like waking up early? Plus, what if being a ghost is better than living? Then it would be stupid to be grateful to be alive.

AND FINALLY, FOR TOO MUCH E-MAIL
BECAUSE IT MEANS I HAVE
FRIENDS WHO ARE THINKING OF ME.

Finally, more fallacious reasoning. Great. More email usually means more "offers" from places craven enough to send spam to people foolish enough to sign up for their lists. I bet the people who got mixed up with subscribers3@Risingproducts.com aren't so fucking thankful for email.

SEND THIS TO SOMEONE YOU CARE ABOUT. I JUST DID.

Live well, Laugh often, & Love with all of your heart!

Good old work. I learn something new every day.

Black Kids I Knew

2008-04-20T23:58:00.000-07:00

I remember a lot of great black kids from junior high school; some were menacing toughs, others garrulous clowns. Their clothes and mannerisms inspired much emulation, and the strange argot they adopted from God-knows-where peppered many fine conversations with phrases like "Oh, Lawd", "cuttin' up?", and "bobos, they make your feet feel fine". I'll never forget their chatter. Naturally, my people and I were subject to a fair amount of scorn from these children, but everybody's somebody's laughingstock, so I hardly resent them for it. Besides, being called "King of the Headbangers" has a certain cachet, and I wish people would call me that now. What happened to these guys?

As nostalgic as I am for their name-calling and antics, the thing I miss most about these junior high black kids is hearing their names… Franco Anderson, Demetrius "Meatball" Jackson, Soso Dede (!), Alfred "Buddy" Padgett… Where are they now? A MySpace search, as you can easily imagine, is difficult: Franco locked his profile, there are dozens of Demetria, &c. I'd love to know where they are, though, and if they suffer like I do, or in different, inconceivable ways.

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT: BUTT-FUCKING

2008-03-04T23:58:00.000-08:00

Three Great Simulated Gangsta Rap Sex Scenes

This article was originally published as "The Negro Speaks of Sodomy" (after Langston Hughes) in The Atlantic monthly.

Simulated sex is part of our culture. We routinely watch actors and actresses pretending to fuck each other on television and in the movies, and if we're lucky we see some nudity while we're at it. Nowadays, even the tamest entertainment features simulated sex, from Brazilian sexpot and educator Xuxa's scenes with a twelve-year-old boy to prime time television programs featuring the infamous "sock." So-called "gangsta" rap--arguably the best kind--is no exception: there's simulated sex in it. I present here my three favorite simulated sex scenes in rap music:

"The Pimp"
Mr. Scarface
Mr. Scarface is Back

Mr. Scarface Outdoes Himself might have been a more apt title for this recently back-in-print masterpiece, as it remains, despite seemingly countless follow-ups, Scarface's greatest solo achievement. Crucial songs like "I'm Dead," "Your Ass Got Took," and the inexplicably-titled "Good Girl Gone Bad" (not about a girl) affirm MSIB's standing amongst its contemporaries, Little Big Man (Bushwick Bill) and Controversy (Willie D), both of which are awesome. However, even on an album filled with excellent tracks, "The Pimp" stands alone in poignancy and relevance; it surpasses the listener's expectations and leaves him disoriented in an emotional dumpster of prurient sex-talk and cold-blooded hostility toward women that requires repeated listening to fully believe.

"The Pimp" reaches new lows. Mr. Scarface gleefully chortles his way through such lines as "Yeah, that's right: butt-fucking/then [ugh] a real good dick sucking," and unlike fellow Geto Boy Willie D, whose lighthearted "Pussy" provides a sort of paradigm of genial misogyny, Mr. Scarface comes across as being totally serious, even humorless, despite his jocose delivery. With this in mind, it is easy to imagine the impact of such lines, delivered almost conversationally, as "loosen up and it won't hurt so bad," referring to anal intercourse.

As in similar songs, "The Pimp" features a woman performing what could perhaps be called backing vocals while the principal performer raps over her moderately realistic panting and whinnying. The simulated sex heard in "The Pimp," however, is unusual in that, unlike as in most other examples from the genre, the male participant (presumably Mr. Scarface himself) is clearly audible: deep, masculine groans continue through the latter half of the song, while Mr. Scarface makes repetitive and largely unimpressive claims like "my next-door neighbors even heard her" and talks about his dick more than a high-school athlete. One wonders if the afore-mentioned neighbors (who probably hear regular things, like Scarface's TV, through the presumably wafer-thin walls of his Fifth Ward tenement) were as put-off as I was upon hearing his passionate cries. He sounds like Conan the Barbarian, and the noises in "The Pimp" are more like something one would expect to hear at the zoo than in the bedroom. I once knew a girl who said she and her boyfriend "fucked like black people." I certainly hope she didn't mean this.

"Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head"
Mack 10 featuring Boo Kapone, Techniec, Binky, and CJ Mack*
The Recipe

The Recipe is, by any account, an abysmal album. Despite his apprenticeship with Ice Cube, Mack 10 has been responsible for some of the worst, least imaginative raps I've ever heard, and The Recipe is no exception. Over the course of eighteen tracks, Mack's adolescent boasting and standoffish, meaningless threats alternately bore and annoy the listener enough to essentially eliminate the possibility of listening all the way through. I assume this music is played in hell. That said, tracks seven and eight ("Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head," respectively), provide a welcome respite from Mack's dubious criminal posturing by describing how much he and the guys (the, ahem, "Hoobangin' Affiliates") like getting their dicks sucked. Are the songs meant to satisfy listeners' curiosity? At any rate, the two are companion pieces, with the former serving as a sort of object lesson to illustrate the principles expounded upon in the latter.

"Suck Down" is an "insert" or skit, which (to those unfamiliar with this sort of thing) means it lasts only twenty-seconds and doesn't feature any music. The track begins with sucking noises and Mack urging his "bitch," whose mouth is obviously too full to respond, to "put that shit all the way in." Mack then proceeds to compliment her technique and make a series of strange, warbling noises. Is this the mating cry of the self-described "Chicken Hawk"? "Get a Lil Head" begins immediately after "Suck Down" and allows each of the Affiliates a chance to elaborate on his love of fellatio. Don't expect any surprises--no one speaks against the practice or says he's "more into guys."

Mack 10's fumbling, amateurish delivery elevates the sex-noises heard on "Suck Down" and "Get a Lil Head" above more mediocre examples by providing a unique, trembling quality similar to a nine-year-old's account of a bogus sexual experience. The songs are so hypersexual it seems doubtful anyone, even the Hoobangin' Affiliates (who clearly appreciate the absurd) could take them seriously. "Get a Lil Head" ends with Mack feverishly demanding the fellator (who is never named) to "suck Binky's dick, suck Eiht's dick, suck Techniec's dick..." until, presumably, the whole posse is satisfied. For what it's worth, Mack is usually good for a quick laugh or two, but why does Ice Cube spend so much time with this pervert?

"Fuck Westside Connection" (or "Ice Cube Killa")
Cypress Hill
Unreleased

Okay, so apparently B-Real and Ice Cube used to be friends, but after listening to a "Throw Your Set in the Air" demo by Cypress Hill, Cube allegedly stole the hook and produced a similar song of his own. Naturally, B-Real made a song about the theft, which prompted Ice Cube's Westside Connection to record TWO songs in response to that ("King of the Hill" and "Cross Em Out and Put a K," on Bow Down) filled with rambling and incoherent disses. "Fuck Westside Connection" is Cypress Hill's response to Westside Connection** and never officially saw release, but can easily be found on MP3 trading servers. It features simulated homosexual sounds.

"Fuck Westside Connection" is cerebral stuff. Most of the song is simply B-Real and Sen Dog wheedling and cajoling Ice Cube and Mack 10 to suck their dicks, calling them "faggots" (the double-standard goes unmentioned), and talking about being really tough guys. Eventually, a simulated Mack 10 fellates a real B-Real, and their homoerotic affair is recorded for posterity.

The encounter begins with B-Real impatiently demanding that Mack 10 "start to sucking," which he does. Cypress Hill's friends, who can be heard carrying on in the background, eagerly await their own "suck down" and shout things like "save some for me, esé" (because they're, you know, Spanish) and "save some for me, dog!" The sucking goes on for a while. Thankfully, B-Real's orgasm is merely implied, as it is difficult to imagine a situation in which his high-pitched moans would be palatable. Sex noises aside, the most interesting aspect of this recording is B-Real's homies insisting he "save some for [them]" as if the quantity of simulated dick-sucks available was limited by anything other than their imaginations and the patience of the recording engineer, who must have been tickled pink by this seldom-heard gem.

*This shit was KILLING my spellchecker.
**The girlishness continued to the EDITED version of Bow Down sold in K-Mart, in which a post-post production Mack 10 responds to "Fuck Westside Connection" in language shockingly free of oaths.

Damage, Inc.

2008-03-03T23:58:00.000-08:00

We chew and spit you out
we laugh, you scream and shout
All flee, with fear you run
You'll know just where we come from
Damage Incorporated

So what on earth is Damage, Inc.?

If the abbreviation at the end of its name is to be believed, Damage, Inc. is a business of some kind. According to the song's lyrics, the business hurts people, and apparently, its founders incorporated at some point, affording Damage, Inc. certain legal and tax advantages. This doesn't bode well for the rest of us. But what does Damage, Inc. REALLY do? To whom do they do it? How do they make a profit? Who signs the paychecks at the organization, handles its pension plan, and does the hiring? To find out, I went to the internet.

The first link I found directs to the website for a Metallica tribute band called Damage, Inc. I can't say with any real certainty, but something tells me they didn't actually incorporate with the state of California. It does make for a humorous vision, though: I picture four mangy headbangers standing before a judge, scratching their fleas and routing the motor oil out of their nailbeds with a book of matches while explaining what, precisely, Damage (as it would have, at that time, been called) does. "[We] all contribute certain styles that capture a mix of classic Metallica, with the energy and intensity similar to one of their live performances" is how they attempt to explain themselves on the website. Huh. One would think a single style--classic Metallica's--would be sufficient to capture the style of one of the most (if not THE most) stylistically distinctive heavy metal bands of the eighties. But what do I know? Judging by the FREQUENT use of the dubiously-spelt "ryhtym" on the site's biography section, one of us (me or the site's primary author) is stylistically crippled. It could be me, right? I do wonder through, how the band mixes Metallica with the "energy and intensity" of Metallica. Following my study of the Damage, Inc. website, I can safely conclude that Chris Knight, Chris Brightwell, Kevin Knight, and Boyd Machtolff are a Damage, Inc., but not the Damage, Inc. referred to in the song. (It does, naturally, seem unlikely that Metallica would write a song in praise of a tribute band that did not, at the time, exist.)

Since I work for investment consultants (businesspeople) I am able to call upon my faculties as a business researcher. I looked to Yahoo! finance to find out if Damage, Inc. stock was publicly traded on any exchange. I didn't find anything. Perhaps they recently succumbed to takeover by a private equity firm, and are no longer publicly owned, but it must have been a clandestine process. You can't buy stock in Damage, Inc. You CAN, however, buy the following stocks on the international market:

METALLICA FPO (MLM.AX)
METALLICA MINERALS (MM4.BE)
METALLICA RES WT I (MRBWF.PK)
METALLICA RESOURCES (164648.F)
Metallica Resources Inc. (MRBA)
METALLICA RESOURCES (MRW.DE)
METALLICA RESOURCES (MRW.BE)
METALLICA RESOURCES INC (MR.TO)

Unfortunately, none of these are actually Metallica, at least not in the sense I understand it. I contacted Metallica Resources, Inc. about Damage, Inc., but they didn't know anything.

So what is Damage, Inc.? I guess you can say I don't know. But whatever they are, I hope to avoid them. I'd hate to end up in their presence, screaming and shouting while they laugh, always laughing, endlessly laughing. However... Assuming Damage, Inc. ISN'T real, I'm once again scratching my head about James Hetfield and the things he chooses to say in lyrics consumed and pondered by millions of fans worldwide. "We laugh, you scream and shout." Party on, Garth.

-----

From Wikipedia:

The lyrical matter deals with the conformity and trends in music, or possibly that of an armed military acting as a blindly cohesive unit, unable and unwilling to acknowledge any destruction they cause, not unlike the subject matter of No Remorse. Interestingly, the lines "Fuck it all and fucking no regrets; Never happy endings on these dark sets," are nearly re-used in exact form on the song "St. Anger".

I wish I could see the guy who wrote this. He's probably a corporate trainer for Intel or Starbucks*. Seriously, "not unlike"? "Lyrical matter"? "Blindly cohesive"? "Armed military"? I particularly like the faux-academic silliness of "unable and unwilling to...", as if--somewhere out there, right now--Damage, Inc. is REAL. I can practically hear the dude's Beavis and Butthead internal monolog lisping those words as he wrote them. And how is Metallica's tendency to self-plagiarize "interesting"? Why didn't this joker simply say the lyrics were reused or paraphrased, rather than adding the non-sequitur "nearly...in exact form"? Does he mean to imply the lyrics to "St. Anger" read like "...never happily ending on these darker sets," after having been switched in form from adjective to adverb, noun to gerund, and so forth?

*Well, in all likelihood he's a chronic masturbator and candy-bar junkie who can't work because of his panic attacks, but that's relatively unimportant.

Dramatis Personae

2008-03-02T23:58:00.000-08:00

I'm tired of dealing with the insane. I don't get paid enough to spend all week stuck in a big stupid room with a bunch of crazy people. I once found these idiots amusing but now they just disgust and terrify me. I've been robbed, I've dealt with piss and "kiddie" porn, I know half the hicks who come here by name… What the fuck? From now on I just want to deal with normal, reasonable people. I no longer want to see these people:

Frank Weller claims to work for the post office, and does occasionally write crackpot letters to the Postmaster General. He favors bold typefaces and capitalizes more words and phrases than I do. I've known him for years. He comes in here EVERY SINGLE NIGHT to use eBay. He bids exclusively on vintage vacuum cleaners and ultra rare size 6E tennis shoes. Often he prays or screams when he wins an auction. He is prone to asking unusual questions at odd times like: "Do my ankles look swollen?" "Do you think this coat is waterproof?" or "What would you do if your car got stuck in the snow?" He carries a dog-eared bible and a box of tissues wherever he goes. I have seen him at Thriftworld and the Arlington Flea Market. He does not recognize me outside of work. His attitude toward me alternates between chatty and condescending.

Daniel Kellogg wrote a poem in 1981 called "Weapons of War" to mourn his hero Jimmy Carter's failed run for President. He is now reproducing this poem in an effort to halt global warming, overpopulation, and war. The poem reads like the lyric sheet to the world's stupidest anarcho-crust album. I've reproduced a bit below (all grammatical errors are, or course, [sic]):

from "Weapons of War":

Will I die or will I live?
Shall we too pursue a role
to have more weapons as our goal?
Shall we make so many and be so greedy
that we'll starve the hungry
and cheat the needy?

As you can easily imagine it goes WAY on from there with little variation on the central theme, "Be Excellent to Each Other". Mr. Kellogg is extremely chatty.

Doctor Doris and I have known each other for years. She is homeless and insane. She sings, talks to herself, harasses the customers, and does all that other shit crazy people do. I neither like nor dislike her. She stinks and has the fattest arms I've ever seen discounting television shows about shut-ins. She carries mountains of paper wherever she goes and never leaves her "desk" without preparing a note to hold her place. They typically read as follows:

Doctor Doris is occupying this desk. This desk is occupied. The doctor is IN.

Several days ago she told me to "take it up with the NAACP" when I asked if she had a radio. Also, I once tried to help her apply online to manage the store in which we both spend our evenings. She typed, deleted, and retyped her name for half an hour. It cost her six dollars to rent the computer. She never speaks to me unless spoken to. She responds entirely in non sequiturs.

I do not know the Mailman's real name. He's been coming here for years. He is a little brown man with pop-bottle glasses, grey hair, and a childishly high-pitched voice. He wears a filthy postman's uniform and drives an antique station wagon. He has, at various times, brought me cans of cashews, frozen diet dinners, candy, and soda to drink. He is mentally retarded and takes copious notes on every subject. He frequently dances while he copies. Music he particularly likes will drive him to feverish dancing which alienates all onlookers. He is REALLY talkative but has difficulty following even the most simple conversation.

Catherine Millard is a one-million-year-old South African who thinks I speak Greek and am a Satanist. She is an evangelical Christian and so afraid of me she shrinks away in terror when I get near her. She no longer visits at night since the "devil's music" disables her thinking. The last night she came around I was listening to the fucking Smiths and she held her hands over her ears. Needless to say we do not speak to each other.

Mysterious bearded Arabs, wildly gesticulating Asians, Hispanics both rowdy and reserved, and pushy, overzealous Africans all visit nightly. These third-worlders need steady help and constant reassurance to use any machine more complicated than a lever or inclined plane. At least once a night I help one of these wonderful visitors complete some inexplicable errand: copying strange documents with otherworldly designs and weird, old-timey seals; faxing crudely Xeroxed passports and green cards to Korea or the United Arab Emirates, giving directions to Wal-Mart and the highway… No language barriers or common sense inhibit our interactions. I generally try to avoid all conversation beyond the practical, but am occasionally drawn into confounding, one-sided exchanges about tattoos or my odd schedule. For the most part I am able to steer clear of these nuisances.

Perot is banned for life. He pissed all over the carpet and I believe I've covered this elsewhere. If memory serves, I have also discussed Scar Kid (Perot's arch-enemy) and "All Life is Agony", two rare homeless. Other notable, but rare, homeless include: Golden Gate Screamer, Devil-eyes, and Blood-soaked Drunk. I don't know these peoples' real names, and they visit so rarely I don't think of them as recurring problems. Strangely, these are all ACTUAL PEOPLE, endowed presumably with the same kind of soul as you or me. I think for the most part they all eventually hurt somebody and the state takes them away.

I like to think I endure, rather than hate these people.

Weird Quiz Thingy!

2008-03-01T23:58:00.000-08:00

(after Bitten and Laurie)

Nine things I want to do before I die:
1. Go to a blood rave
2. Check out one of those parks where you get to hunt human beings for fifty-thousand dollars
3. Deface a mosque in response to a terrorist bombing
4. Amputate my righthand index finger
5. Reset my broken nose in front of a mirror after a fight
6. Talk to that sign language monkey or whatever
7. Rape and kill a woman
8. Feel up an underage girl at a concert
9. Find out if Mexican guys really like listening to that stuff or if it's some kind of joke or weird conspiracy

Eight things I am wearing:
1. Tiki mask
2. One of those tiny barrels of liquor they put around Saint Bernards' necks
3. Vietnam-era ear necklace
4. Hang 'Em High poncho
5. Black Bart Simpson bootleg t-shirt
6. Million Mom March armband
7. Board shorts
8. Air Jordans

Seven things on my mind:
1. Why with soul kissing no AIDS but AIDS in blow-job?
2. Do those dick pills actually work?
3. How much is rent in Portland, Oregon?
4. Will the little brunette junk who come in here every morning drop something and pick it up already? Jesus!
5. Why do Archie's methhead buddies think I'm so fucking droll?
6. Why do they get to use the "N-word" and not us?
7. What is a "blood rave"?

Six items I touch every day:
1. My enormous black dildo
2. This brown-haired girl's jacket when she isn't looking
3. My AIDS medicine
4. My Air Jordans
5. My jejunostomy apparatus
6. The Collected Short Stories of Flannery O'Connor

Five things I do every day:
1. Feverishly masturbate
2. Call bank and say fuckwords at teller
3. Rub against ladies on the Metro
4. Pet the dog and cat
5. Brag and make empty threats at the Latinos working in the restaurants in Springfield Plaza

Four songs stuck in my head:
1. Monster Mash
2. Monster Mash
3. Monster Mash
4. Monster Mash

Three things I think when I wake up:
1. My boss is like a dirty diaper: always on my ass, and always full of shit.
2. Different day, same old B.S.
3. If six million really died, where's all the documentation?

Two of my favorite foods:
1. Pizza
2. Tacos

One person I love more than any other:
1. Love isn't really my thing.

A Man's Delight

2008-02-29T23:58:00.000-08:00

WORN BUT IN NEW CONDITION AS MY THAI GIRLFRIEND IS HAVE IN A CLEAR OUT
ITEM WILL BE SENT FROM THAILAND ...ABOUT 5 DAYS

HERE WE HAVE A DOUBLE STRAP THONG C THROUGH
ON THE FRONT IT HAS A GORGOUS BUTTERFLY PATTERN
THIS IS SO SO SEXY THE CAMERA DOES NOT DO JUSTICE TO THIS ITEM
DO NOT MISS OUT ON THIS

ON THE BACK WELL IT DONT HAVE ONE ONLY STRAPS
SO I SUPPOSE IT IS CROTCHLESS

A MANS DELIGHT
SO GET BIDDING NOW

I DO NOT SELL RUBBISH

My delight:

My boss is kneeling with her hands tied in the middle of a circle of huge black dudes. They've sweated through their t-shirts and you can see hard muscles and scars through the soaking-wet cotton. They lick their enormous lips as she struggles against the ropes around her wrists. She tries to scream but her mouth is gagged. Her face turns red and her eyes get HUGE as the guy facing her unties the rope holding up his farmboy jeans and starts unzipping them. All the other guys jump from foot to foot waiting their turn while hooting and hollering, showing their brilliant white teeth and rolled-back animal eyes.

Crackbrained Theory

2008-02-28T23:58:00.000-08:00

I've recently been thinking a lot about why I have such a hard time fingerpicking when it seems to come so naturally to the womyn folk singers I love and cherish (Dar [not "Dan"] Williams, Michelle Shocked, Lucy Kaplansky, etc.) Put these same bitches in front of an amplifier with a like, Flying V, though, and I bet they'll suck a dunk dick. It's only dudes, isolated and nerdy dudes, Dungeon Masters and shit, who really make the dope shit happen on the electric guitar: James Hetfield, that dude Abcess or whatever from Immortal, fucking Iron Maiden and shit... What have these guys done for years in their rooms as teenagers to develop such a speedy stroke? Masturbating, of course - jerking off!

I thought about playing the guitar in general, how it's like jerking (or "beating") off in MANY ways - it's solitary, it's weird to get caught doing it when you think you're alone, it's gay as shit to do it with only ONE other guy around, only marginally less gay with a roomful... It makes a lot of sense: these lonely nerds develop massive forearm muscles and powerful wrists from constantly pleasuring themselves, then they take up the guitar (or "axe") and the shit just, like, happens. It's basically the same motion, you know, "downstrokes" or whatever and just regular, uh, strokes.

Then I thought about the gals. What's a homely girl to do besides experimenting... "down there." Hell, I would if I was a girl - I'd love to expose the hidden myth behind the (yeah right) "female orgasm". So first these girls are touching themselves, then perhaps they're touching somebody's guitar. They'd do it just like they "do" themselves: in a way what comes naturally. Hence fingerpicking - it's a lot of rhythmic touching, varied pressure, and it takes just the right amount of finesse. Tellingly, I'm as bad at touching whores as I am picking strings, which is pretty damn bad.

So what, then, about dudes who fingerpick? I got to thinking about it hard, and I realized a ton of male, like, hillbillies do that shit as well: big burly mothers with arms like treetrunks - guys women can't stay away from, probably. Fingerpicking makes you a sex god, I bet. Then I thought, hell... Most of those folk bitches are dykes, you know? I'll bet they've got LOADS of experience feeling up on broads. Why, I'll even bet every time they "fingerbang" a bitch their picking might get a little bit better. And the same is true for dudes. The more they sit around touching their "things" the more alienated and awesome they get, encouraging thoughts like: "with sword in hand/ I now stand/ on my enemy's land." "Sword in hand" indeed!

In conclusion, Immortal is awesome and please don't misunderstand if I can't make girls orgasm without one of those "things" they sell.

Fan Fiction

2008-02-27T23:58:00.000-08:00

This art student or something, this big fruit, he came in here last night with a big stupid sneer on his face and approached me all gingerly, checked out my homemade t-shirt, leaned adorably on the counter. I tightened up my fists and got ready. "I…" he said with a jubilant, princely air "need to print some transparencies." He looked again at my home-painted shirt. "For screen printing." He beamed, confident but not too cocky in his silly red scarf and his just-so jeans, leaning against the counter in four or five "vintage" layers, scruffy but not too scruffy, blond like a woman, you know: "indie". Like DIY, dude. I looked at him and didn't say anything. He smiled at me like we were both in on some delicious joke. I didn't smile back. He looked at me, like, "What's wrong, man? Why won't you, like, step to it?" I told him to get away and do it himself. He looked flabbergasted. "But…" I told him how much it'd cost to rent a computer but I knew we don't have what he needed to make his shit. I refused to move but kept gesturing to the back of the big, stupid store where the pay computers are. "But…"

I mock relented. "Oh yeah, man. Let me help you." I produced a handful of transparencies and handed to him. "Good luck, man." Ha! He went into the back and I didn't see him for about half an hour. I went to the store or something and when I came back he was trying to talk Jose and Luis though a rather complicated maneuver in Adobe Illustrator we all knew just wasn't going to happen. This time I laughed at him aloud. "I guess there's nothing we can do to help you, man." I beamed. "I guess the sthreen printh will have to wait, huh, buddy?" He looked hurt, like, lessened somehow. Like he was less of a person from the insult. I laughed even more. Ha ha!

Remembering Sean Cutaback

2008-02-25T23:58:00.000-08:00

I've written a great deal about various retards I knew in junior high, but until now I've never really taken the time to talk about their king and chiefmost party animal: Sean Cutaback. He was the best. There really was no one like him. I remember this guy was probably the first truly, like, RETARDED person I'd ever really gotten close to. He sat in a wheelchair and when the teachers wanted to punish him they'd put his hands under his seatbelt and the poor bastard couldn't get 'em back out again. He was that retarded. My school was the, like, S&P (severe and profoundly retarded) center for the county so there were tons of guys like Sean around, but nobody really captured IT the way he did. Here are some crucial Cutabackisms:

1. He screamed the name "Dana" at the top of his lungs all day. He'd modulate it, too; sometimes it was a rumbling bass, other times a piercing falsetto. One never knew what was up next. He also screamed "nan-or" or something similar all the time. Who knows, right?

2. At his sixteenth (!) birthday party in my art class, Sean screamed and carried on so much he had to get the hand restraints I was talking about earlier. It was hilarious. What a maniac!

3. Also in art class, Sean reared back and knocked a pot of water all over Kristina Napier, who sat at my table. I had to accompany her to the office for some reason after this. Greg Nevarez suggested there was some sexual tension there, which would have been interesting with the wet t-shirt and all. Way to go, Sean! If I'd been a bit older, maybe I could have capitalized on that kind of opportunity, but at eleven or twelve I wasn't that suave.

The sad thing about it all is that Sean is almost certainly dead now. Those S&P guys rarely see adulthood. There are attendant health problems to that level of retardation, not to mention the potential for death by, uh, misadventure. Sean could've drowned in a bowl of vegetable soup. I'd like to know what became of him, but it's not like the guy's got a fucking Myspace page. I did a so-called Google search but it yielded only a few known Cutabacks, none of whom seemed especially retarded. A search for "Sean Cutaback" gave me almost nothing. I'd sure like to see that guy, and I hope this page somehow memorializes him properly in case somebody else comes looking for information about him.

Another Gripe From Old Man Williams...

2008-01-28T23:58:00.000-08:00

Me and MY DUDES (that's D., D., M. and M., you gays) hit the rock concert last week, and now I have to tell you: rock shit sucks. Seriously. It sucks. Now look, I understand if you have some favorite band you like to see, and maybe they're a whole lot better in person than on the radio or in your stereo, but for the most part I'd rather start up a CD and stare in bed at a poster of my favorite band (Sevendust) than actually go SEE them. And here's why:

The drive to and from the show cost about six bucks. It took forty-five minutes to get there from the suburbs, and then I had to find somewhere to park. Luckily for me, the bands' "load-in" spot in front of the club was empty, so I just hopped in there.

The admission was six dollars. I didn't have it but they cut me some slack. That's cool. I didn't have no beer money, either, which wasn't so cool. After a bit of scrambling I managed to get a seat at the bar on one of the SIX (!) stools they provide for about seventy people. Since, as usual, we had to wait an hour after the posted start time, I finished the drink I'd loaned from Dustin and hung outside for a while until I heard music from in the club. The music sucked. The band sounded like Rage Against the Machine. No joke. It was bullshit music. The dude was, like, shouting about the American flag and shit. I think they thought they sounded like Fugazi, but trust me: they were dead-ringers for RATM. Also, since the bald dude from Fugazi was there hanging out, it probably would've been cooler to NOT act exactly like him. I mean, shit, the guy's, like, seventy years old and his music is ALSO boring-ass bullshit (as I loudly proclaimed later that evening) but there are a million stupid "DC-band" soundalikes and I personally can't take another one. All told I dropped about ten bucks (some, uh, borrowed) and spent, like, two hours waiting for the main attraction. Then they came on.

I have a job. It isn't a hard job like coalminer or steel-driving, but it is a job. They require me to stand. I spend a great deal of my time standing. When MY LIFE is being sucked away for gas and cigarette money I'm usually just standing around dressed like an asshole being bored. Going to a nightclub is exactly the same, except it's too loud to talk to the homeboys and there are usually fewer women. Also, "the club" seems to cost MORE per hour than I get paid to work (so I can't buy as many singing statues and dog paintings as usual.) When the last act started there were so many people in the joint I couldn't even sit on the floor without getting a New Balance or vintage Puma on my fucking fingers. I sat outside and read the newspaper. After a while I tried to sleep but I was afraid some asshole'd come along and stomp on my stomach so I just CHILLED. When the shit was damn near over a bunch of, like, frat guys came out with their girlfriends and talked loudly about how "wasted" I must be. I was cold fucking sober. It would've cost fifty bucks to get drunk! Also, I overheard this huge fruitcake I used to work with discussing his "solo project." Like anyone gave a flying fuck. He was talking to some other barfbag about how difficult it is to find people to "work with". Apparently, he just had to "get some songs down" on his own. Seriously. Both of 'em looked like high school lacrosse players some gay dude dressed up to wait tables at his novelty 1970s party. What are these guys thinking when they dress that way? Are they all, like, "the only way I'll ever meet a hot guy is by dressing like the dudes from Bread?" Being old-timey or vintage or whatever says something about a person they may not want said. It may have been neat at one point but that shit has been co-opted and there's nothing anyone can do about it. That "look" belongs to BIG MUSIC now. You shouldn't dress like Jet unless you listen to Jet, and you shouldn't listen to Jet unless you're in a fucking coma.

Me and THE DUDES (and DUDETTE) hung around after the shit was over for a while. I dangled from the barred windows next-door to the place and eventually I realized I'd had a pretty good time, in my way. I don't get to see M. and M. NEARLY enough, and we'd eaten some wonderful Ethiopian food earler in the evening so I was pretty satisfied. It's the music, though, that got to me. Why all the writhing and belly-aching? If I wanted to get yelled at I'd ask my Dad how I'd look with an earring. If I wanted to get hassled and talked to about politics I'd hit up a high-schooler about "the war". I just want SINGING. I want entertainment with life and with DEPTH to it. I had a great time seeing Michelle Shocked, and believe me, she did more with one acoustic guitar than any of these guys did with Marshall stacks and a drum kit. Music is important to me… It just ALL SUCKS. I drove home listening to my Joan Armatrading CD and was pretty impressed. She can really sing.

Also, on a totally unrelated note, my loud-ass freakout rock band, the SORDID AFFAIR is gearing up for a tour this spring, so you know, uh, support the scene.

It's Hard Out Here For A Temp

2008-01-25T23:58:00.000-08:00

I've been working as a temp. It isn't so bad, I suppose; I could be out of work, but it isn't great either.

In New York I temped in an office. I worked for a charity for a while last year, so the temp agency sent me to the Council on Accreditation, which is on Wall Street. The Council ("COA") set rules for adult daycare centers and adoption agencies and other humanitarian organizations. I read their documents to find words Canadians spell differently than Americans and then changed how these words were spelt. It was pretty boring, so I wrote myself a little MSWord macro that did the job for me. Then I looked at internet all day and emailed the documents to my boss at about the rate I figured it took the other people on the project to do the work by hand. I made fifteen dollars an hour for this.

I'm back in Virginia now, and I'm still working as a temp. Things work differently here, though. I got a sweet job in a box factory for one day. They paid eight dollars an hour. I basically folded up pre-adhesived boxes and stuck them together. Later I put cell phones in some of the boxes. It was real stimulating. The, uh, permanent employees were exactly the sort one would expect to meet in a box factory. The women typically looked like foxes or other forest animals. The men were pathetic, but there was an old black dude named Willy who was fairly funny-looking and an awesome "supervisor" named Patrick who tried to talk jive with the black employees with humorous results. They all got into a big argument about sweet potato pie, and I enjoyed hearing the boss alternately argue his opinion and sheepishly acknowledge the blacks' allegedly superior palate. He was fighting a war between his gelled-up bossman haircut and his pale "boner" jeans, which long to be accepted by black people but can't. Eventually he capitulated, but I got to enjoy the accent he affected for about twenty minutes. Everyone then got back to the serious business of complaining in low, weary voices about their dying aunts and health concerns. It was a depressing, stultifying environment.

After the box factory, I spent the week waiting for a call from Rachel, my job advisor, or temp helper, or something. Her company is called "Temporary Solutions", but this is only funny, apparently, to me (it makes me think about using a belt as a tourniquet.) Rachel found me work at Comcast, on Dale Boulevard. I took the job. Now I walk there from my house.

My job at Comcast is pretty grim. Here's how it works: When a cable guy ("technician" or "tech") is about to go to someone's house to fix the cable, or to install the cable, or whatever, he prints a work order with some information on it about the situation he needs to resolve. I don't know who puts the work orders together or assigns them. After the technician resolves the problem, he writes a few numbers on the work order and enters them into another computer, which I assume uploads them to some kind of database. I don't know what the numbers mean. Later, the cable guy drops his completed work orders in a little basket near my desk. I gather the completed work orders and check the numbers. I don't enter data. I don't interpret it, either. I make sure the numbers are the same. In virtually every case, they are. It's incredibly boring.

Comcast's computers count how many work orders are left for me to, uh, process for each day. When I arrive in the morning, I can check to see how many work orders remain from the day before, or the day before that, and so on. I never bring this count to zero. My work for the day typically lowers the number of unprocessed jobs from about six hundred to about three hundred. As one might easily imagine, this detracts from the small amount of satisfaction I might conceivable derive from this task.

I have a few more, less important, things to do at Comcast. These auxiliary tasks are less interesting and more labor-intensive than the routine described above, and all involve checking numbers on a list against numbers on a computer. I make ten dollars an hour for this. Soon, though, I'll take off and work somewhere else. My co-workers've been doing this shit for YEARS, with essentially NO distractions.

My bosses are pretty stingy with their bandwidth. The company makes extensive use of a net filter of some kind which prevents me from accessing the vast majority of websites I might otherwise use to help pass my time. I can't check my email. I can't access any forums or use eBay. I can't get most non-profit organizations, so it's difficult for me to see pictures of diseased children. I don't have access to any kind of "streaming media", so I can't watch the "Protect Ya Neck" video or listen to Launchcast. As nearly as I can tell, my entertainment options are limited to reading Wikipedia and Kunstler.com. Luckily, I have a clock radio.

I listen to B-101.5 ("the B") all day long. The little clock radio in my office apparently only picks up one station. I haven't bother to check because, you know, it's a radio—-it's not like I'm going to get the dope shit anyway. B-101.5 is a pretty difficult station, though; it comes out of Fredericksburg, so all the ads are for Honeybaked Ham and some kind of heating and cooling place with vaguely threatening implications for, uh, homeowners ("Write this number down… For when you need it.") But if "Tell it to my Heart" or Rick Astley is your thing, the B is a pretty good bet. I like the eighties retro lunch hour.

My coworkers are a musical bunch. Jarmel, a mincing black homosexual, likes to hum along with the All-American Rejects when "Move Along" plays on the B. Marie, with whom I am developing an especially close relationship, loves the Police. (We determined this to be a shared interest.) My primary boss, Denise, listens to subaudible soul music in her office while caterwauling along in a piercing, atonal soprano. It's enough to drive anyone crazy—and has: Jarmel locks his file cabinet (presumably to hide his pictures of Taye Diggs and Tyrese), Marie talks like a four-year-old, and Denise, like, makes those horrible noises. I have some consolation, though. The B routinely plays "Lips of an Angel" and Evanescence...

The Lips Of An Angel

2008-01-24T23:58:00.000-08:00

I love Hinder. I think they're just great. At first, "Lips of an Angel" put me off a little bit because it was so stupid, but I'm definitely coming around as I hear it more (typically six or seven times a day.) The premise is fairly simple: the narrator receives a phone call from his former girlfriend for whom he still retains some romantic feelings. He then questions his attachment to his current girlfriend based, apparently, on fond reminiscences about his former girlfriend's "lips of an angel". The song is extraordinarily popular. I suppose it resonates well with its target audience. I finally caught the video a couple days ago. It's excellent.

The band all look like the kind of guys who'd comfortably wear vinyl tuxedos from Lip Service. The lead singer is a total hunk and vamps around a fake living room like Theda Bara with a phone to his ear while his oblivious current girlfriend putters around in the background, presumably caring for him in some way. The former girlfriend is shown only in flashbacks in which she and the singer investigate various monochromatic cliffs and beaches. Her lips do not appear particularly noteworthy. Later in the video, Hinder appears to "practice" in a basement or similarly informal setting while all the band girlfriends gather to gossip on a couch, despite the presumably overpowering volume of a full drum kit and hundred-watt amplifiers.

The strangest aspect of the video (to me) is the number of candles burning in Hinder's practice space. There are hundreds. I have several questions: Are the candles Hinder's idea? Why? Who loaded the dozens of candelabra throughout Hinder's otherwise casually-decorated basement? Must this person light them before EVERY practice session? Why? Are the grown men in Hinder really that dependant on ambiance for what is presumably an unremarkable practice session? I imagine them shimmying around the basement, delaying practice and busily lighting candles until the place looks like a whorehouse. Rock and roll, right?

Call Me When You're Sober, Okay?

2008-01-23T23:58:00.000-08:00

Evanescence is quite popular right now. My soft-spoken homosexual work partner, Jarmel, gently sings along with their latest hit "Call Me When You're Sober" several times a day. I can't say I blame him; the song is played constantly and many people presumably identify with its message, however inscrutable that message may be. Since I love music videos, I watched "CMWYS" on the internet. I hoped to divine the meaning behind the lyrics, and the video (which singer Amy Lee claims is based on the Little Red Riding Hood story) is pretty hilarious. Here's what happens:

Amy Lee, seated at the head of an olde tyme long table, is clad in a tartish red number which I would think more appropriate for the Torrid set she seems destined to one day join (I blame the emotional rigors of touring and nutritionally-unsound rider agreements.) Seated WAY across from her is a decidedly, uh, lupine dude with a quixotic smirk and some, like, "period" clothes. I assume AL's gothopotami core fanbase is already sold at this point. The two diners share mysterious glances as Lee milks lines like "you can't play the victim this time" for all they're worth. Her casual (but portentous) adoption of pseudo-"psychology" is perfectly in tune with the conventions of the genre, and stinks of Staind and Disturbed's efforts to understand themselves in light of their, er, dysfunctional relationships. (Pronouns "you" and "me" are always spoken, sang, or barked by these people with near-mystical reverence.)

Amy then prances around for a while in various scary and atmospheric settings, including a haunted house, and then appears, inexplicably, with a bunch of black-clad children at the head of a, like, totally awesome staircase. Whoa! Miss Lee then descends the stairs, children whirling mysteriously at her side, and assumes a position in the center of the audience's viewpoint. After a few perfunctory shakes and curtseys, she rises INTO THE AIR AS IF LUCIFER POSSESSED. The satanic children shortly follow, pirouetting into the sky and looking suspiciously like the dwarves from This is Spinal Tap. I imagine at this point Amy Lee's audience of overweight teens, enraptured to see their most cherished wish-fulfillment fantasies depicted by their hero, totally lose it ("it's like she read my diary!") I fucking loved it, too. Don't get me wrong.

The video ends with a stern Lee strutting across the antique table at her companion, whose look of confidence collapses as he realizes SOMETHING is about to happen. Old dishes and cutlery fly everywhere as Lee approaches the other end of the dining room, and then the whole thing is over.

Huh.

Sligo Loop, And Others

2008-01-11T23:58:00.000-08:00

I work with addresses all day at the cable company. I read thousands of street names and humans' names a week, but for the most part they do little to capture my imagination. There are a few exceptions, though. I present my five favorite street names in Northern Virginia, along with a brief description of how my life might be if I lived on them:

1. Bobolink Drive: On Bobolink Drive I'd be either a clown married to a clown or a cold ass bama. I like either scenario. I see myself getting clowned (!) by black kids for wearing bobos either way, too, so I guess my life would be fairly similar on Bobolink Drive.

2. Sligo Loop: I LOVE Sligo Loop! What an awesome street name! On Sligo Loop, my kids would look like Our Gang and I'd be made of goo or something. I also like saying Sligo and would love telling people my address.

3. Real Quiet Court: I'd live a real quiet life here, you bet. Probably Bittën and I would be farmers or other just plain folks. I think I'd end up looking like that dude who played Dan's dad on Roseanne. Everyone'd wear overalls.

4. Dismal Hollow Road: This one's really David Burns' joke, but I can't help mentioning how I'd live out my dismal, hollow life on Dismal Hollow Road.

5. Sunday Silence: This is a real street name; it just doesn't have any sort of drive or road or what-have-you attached. Sunday Silence is probably my favorite of the lot. I imagine I'd live a dramatically different life on Sunday Silence, one which bears little resemblance to the one I live now. It has an almost science fiction quality to me. I picture a Caribbean blue, cloudless sky broken by aluminum trees and silver-eyed children echoing giggles in otherworldly metallic tones. I don't know what about this street name I find so fascinating.

There you have it. Should anyone ever ask, these are my favorite street names in Northern Virginia in December, 2006.

The Next Fixed-gear

2008-01-07T23:58:00.000-08:00

If fixed-gear bikes are the next skateboards, wheelchairs will soon become the next fixed-gear bikes, since they are closer to the ideal machine all fixed-gears riders crave: a simple, easy-to-maintain device that is easy to accessorize and can be used for the occasional trick. Recently transplanted college students, the young-at-heart, and lonely bachelors will soon flock to medical supply houses to buy into the craze; major news outlets will ponder it without real answers; and native New Yorkers (who have seen wheelchairs around town for years) will shrug it off as a fad. But everyone will have to get used to seeing a lot more wheelchairs! Here’s why:

Urban riders appreciate simplicity. The wheelchair is simpler and more elegant than any fixed-gear bike, and has the same quiet air of dignity as the lever, the inclined plane, and the other simple machines. Its single-axle drivetrain lacks the heavy and impossibly complex chain that is (and has always been) the bicycle's weak point. It requires little to no upkeep to stay roadworthy, unlike the nightmarish ordeals associated with maintaining headsets and bottom brackets. It transfers its rider's strength into motion without the trickery and artifice of cranks and pedals: one simply grips the wheels with one's hands, pushes, and the chair goes forward. What could be simpler (and thus more desirable?)

Wheelchairs are easily accessorized, an important feature. A wheelchair’s backrest, unlike a bicycle’s tubes, offers a wide, flat space for vinyl decals, handwritten political slogans, graffiti, and sewn-on patches. Plus, wheelchair backrests and seats can be made from many CUSTOMIZABLE materials, from leather to burlap to high-tech plastic. Metal wheelchair components can be anodized or powdercoated just as easily as bicycle components, so wheelchair operators have more color options than stodgy old silver. And please, don’t even think about the bulky contraption Franklin D. Roosevelt was so eager to hide from America, today’s wheelchair is as sleek and modern as a racing motorcycle. Of course, for vintage purists, numerous archaic and otherworldly vintage designs are available, some dating back to the reign of Phillip II of Spain—by comparison, the MacMillan velocipede and penny-farthing seem high tech.

For daredevils, dangerous stunts and games can be performed in wheelchairs that make bunny hops, bar spins, and bike polo seem sedate, even trivial. MTV’s Murderball (a movie featuring the Jackass gang, veteran arbiters of taste) recently introduced America to a fascinating sport that is half rugby and half bumper cars—who wouldn’t want to try it? And just like riding fixed, part of the thrill comes from mastering an unfamiliar method of conveyance. Imagine the excitement and sense of accomplishment a recent wheelchair convert might experience, say, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time. And, no one will EVER ask a person in a wheelchair if he races track, so there’s no need for riders to feel embarrassed (for pounding nails with a wrench.)

Wheelchairs are the next fixed-gear bikes, as they provide current fixed-gear cyclists with everything they want—and more. Once the province of a small and dedicated group of devotees, they are now poised to become mainstream, however impractical YOU find them. And as “One Less Walker” stickers become commonplace, expect to see other trappings of the fixed-gear “scene” adapted to wheelchairs: regular-chair conversions, fraudulent Craigslist entrepreneurship, and, worst of all, rampant theft. But wheelchairs are definitely coming, so raid your grandmother’s attic for her old ‘chair, grab some WD-40, and hit the streets!

Iesha--the girl I NEVER had!

2007-12-21T23:58:00.000-08:00

I went to one of those websites where they say what your name means. I looked up the name Iesha; I didn't find out what it means, but I was able to find this graph:

It depicts the popularity of the name Iesha over the past few decades. I suppose Another Bad Creation had something to do with the surge around 1990.

The website has a comment section--or something--which allows people to post short messages about what their name means to them, or whatever else is on their minds. Here are the things people named Iesha felt important enough to pass along to the world:

"hey as you know my name is IESHA it hurt to see all you other people have my name but it fits me best and i love it whats kind of weird is i got my name from ANOTHER BAD CREATION and it was called IESHA so thats how i got my name and thats my theme song"

"aye wat up im iesha kick it in skool bored and chillen and found this name website its basically g. i love the name is random and rare. its for g's be reppen that."

Aye, wat up, matey.

"HI MI NAME IS IESHA AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE MII MOTHER GOT IT FROM...ALL I KNO IS THAT MII MOTHER WAZ PROUD THE DAY SHE NAMED ME BECAUSE IM YHT YOUNGEST GIRL IN MI FAMILY"

Unless your mother named you long after your birth or you were the first of twins, it seems impossible for you to be anything other than the youngest child in your family on the day you were born--which hardly seems an achievement, much less an achievement warranting any sense of pride.

"My name is Iesha and i love my name some people call me Esha or just E. I've gotting different reponses to my name, iv'e had people from Africa tell me it's an African name and ask if i was from there. Alot of white people i came across never heard it and could'nt pronouce it,but i love to explain to people where my mom got it from. She loved Stevey Wonder and thats his daughter name!"

I feel you. My name is Daniel, but people often just call me A.

"My names iesha, IM BLACK! im bootylicious . . . . I LOVE MY NAME BECAUSE IM FLY, my friends call me esh. but i just think the name is THE BEST IN THE WORLD! ,"

"my name is iesha im black!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! love that song with my name in it"

"my name is iesha and i'm black but most people think that i am white when they talk to me on the phone but i love my name it's so hot and sexy and i know about the people that say or spell my name wrong it's so freaking awesome"

Yeah, no shit, Ieshas: you're black. How about "I'm Abe Rothstein and I'm Jewish?" I would recommend something insightful about your name that goes slightly beyond the obvious, like "My name is Iesha, and people don't even bother to read the rest of my resume."

"My name is Iesha.......... GO FABIO & THE ACCOUNTANT!!!!

But where’s Hello Kitty?

2007-12-20T23:58:00.000-08:00

I am writing about someone called Tristan. It’s the perfect name for him, too, since the only other Tristan I’ve ever met was a sniveling wimp from junior high called Tristan Morin (or, if you prefer, Tristan Moron). Tristan Morin’s mother was a substitute teacher and Tristan talked in a high-pitched, whining British (“English”) accent. This Tristan doesn’t have an unusual voice, and I have no idea what his mother does for a living, but he irritates me and I saw him yesterday.

I went to the Bicycle Room to repack my bottom bracket, and as usual the place was full of fuckers: the fake lesbian with acne rosacea; the tall, affected geek with braces and a “family” first name (Finnegan? Spartacus? I don’t remember) and, rather unfortunately, the stoic Hispanic dude I think is kind of cool (thankfully, the guy seemed to hate me on sight, thus eliminating the frightening possibly I might have to make a friend.) Tristan was there, too, but I barely recognized him. He sure had changed.

-----

When I first put my bike together a few months ago, I barely knew anything about frames, or “wrenching” or any of that shit. I knew what most of the parts were called and I knew what sort of bike I wanted to build, but that was it. I kept my mouth shut when I showed up at the bike shop so I could learn something. I also watched people.

The Bike Room is not a regular store. A person just walks into the place, looks at the frames they have on the wall, picks one, and puts it together. At the end, when the entire bike is done, you pay a small, mutually agreed-upon price as a “donation” for the bike. It’s a non-profit bike shop. I reserve my judgment. At least they don’t call it a “co-op”. At any rate, it’s the only shop I can afford and the bike I built there isn’t horrible, just idiosyncratic. It took a while to finish, and during that time I met Tristan.

He first showed up after I’d spent a few sessions putting my bike together. It was slow work and at times I was getting nowhere. Only a certain percentage of people (volunteers, or—ugh—“roommates”) at the Bike Room actually know anything whatsoever about bikes; they mainly stand around jawing each other about bisexuality or “uplifting the black race” or Mr. Peabody’s Sociology class. I think Tristan came on a good night, when Mike was around, who actually knows a thing or two. I was routing brake cable or greasing something when I first saw him.

The Bike Room is a narrow, dimly-lit warehouse with eight stands, a cramped backroom, and a cash register. Light streams in from the folding-metal garage door one of the bearded layabouts opens at six-thirty PM (!) every weekday to let people in. Tristan, backlit, tiptoed into the place while I was doing whatever I was doing. When my eyes adjusted, I saw him. He wore:

A giant silkscreened t-shirt depicting a pair of stylized handguns shoved into his improbably positioned waistband (as a feature of the shirt);

A pair of blue jeans, startlingly pressed, with enormous contrasting cuffs and fantastically complicated embroidery on the back pockets; and

Huge orange-and-turquoise moon-boot Air Jordans, like a black girl from Brentwood would wear to her skateboarding-themed sweet sixteen party.

I couldn’t fucking believe this guy. No one else noticed. They’re not really about judging people at the Cycle Room. Tristan also wore thick plastic prop glasses and had bleached his hair white-blonde. He might as well have added a sandwich board reading: “I Moved Here Recently from the Suburbs” on one side and “I’m Just Here for College” on the other, but then no one could see the “sick” advertisements adorning various parts of his body. He walked in and immediately started issuing compliments: “Dude, love the bike!—Sweet frame!” I remained silent… Like a man.

Tristan wanted to build a bike to get from his loft Downtown to his college campus. No shit. I can’t remember what college had the responsibility of keeping him off the streets in the daytime, but something tells me “clown” or “baking” isn’t in its name. Tristan was obviously studying something important, which might explain why he didn’t know what a fixed-gear bike was (thus sparing me one indignity.) He did want something vintage and an old 54cm Schwinn frame caught his eye. Plus, since it was turquoise, it matched his weird enormous basketball shoes. “Sweet frame,” he lisped, before fiddling inscrutably with his cell phone. Someone brought it down for him and gave him the stand next to mine. The person assigned to guide him through the process, as it turns out, had a lot in common with Tristan. They intermittently chattered.

I worked next to Tristan until nine or so. Then we cleaned up the place and went home. I watched him drive off in a black Volkswagon Jetta with a Hello Kitty sticker on the back window. Maybe he’s saving himself for marriage. What about the ozone layer? All the flak and hostility I got (and continue to get) from the anarchist crowd (is it mutual?) and they let that shit fly? What about global warming? “Shit-eating hypocrites,” I said “—fucking faggots.” I got on my bike and went back to my apartment. I guess the artistic crowd knows that people who have to ride bikes are pathetic, like people who have to work.

Tristan was back the next day, just like me. He wore the same giant, puffy sneakers and had the same positive outlook. He made a point of putting grease on his steer tube by hand (I guess to show he could also get dirty and wasn’t stuck-up because his father’s the head of Client Development at the Deloitte & Touche in Toledo.) He looked like he was lubing a giant dildo with raw metal ends. The blue grease matched his Nikes. “Getting ready for the Pride Ride?” I whispered spitefully when I was sure no one could hear.

Eventually, the Schwinn was made roadworthy. I was astonished to see derailleurs on it and thought perhaps I might have misjudged Tristan. AT LEAST HE WASN’T RIDING A FIXED GEAR BIKE. And despite the uniform appearance of the “roommates” he steadfastly refrained from adapting his Midwestern “punk?” look to something more modish (the Bike Room staff tend to dress like Li’l Abner, almost to the point of affecting rope belts and chewing long blades of grass.) He finished his bike before I did and disappeared. I talked to him on the last day we worked near each other:

“Those are sweet handlebars,” he said. I had moustache bars on my bike (they’ve since been traded out.)

“Yeah.” I fiddled with my brakes. “Nice set of wheels.” He had brand-new looking 700c wheels on his bike. Somebody’d been building them as a project, then allowed the thirty-day time limit to expire and the wheels were up for grabs. I’d wanted them, too, but didn’t want to take anyone’s things or alienate the staff by forcing them to guide me through the steps to switch from stock 27” wheels to the more modern 700s. Tristan, apparently, had no such reservations. Fucker. THEY always get what they want because they don’t give a shit—nay, they can’t even fathom—that they are an inconvenience.

“Yeah, dude, I know. I had to switch my brakes out to use ‘em, but it was totally worth it. I like that they’re yellow, too. They match the bar tape I’m getting.” He was so fucking proud. I looked at my piece of shit. It looked like something out of the trash. My cranks were mismatched and my wheels listed like a sailor in port and my frame and fork were two different shades of grayish green. But I didn’t hate my bike. I hated Tristan’s, and his inconvenient wheels and stupid owner’s expression and the fact that neither of them were going to be chained up (or inside) a fucking office building the next morning at eight-thirty AM.

“Yeah, well…” I feigned interest in something across the room and went over there. Like I said, eventually the Schwinn rolled off. I finished my bike a few days later. I’d been overtorquing the bolts and broke a bunch. It took me longer than it should have to finish.

-----

I took my first real ride yesterday. I went from Downtown to the West Side, rode around for a while, and came back. To a serious cyclist that wouldn’t seem like much, but to me it’s a lot of riding—maybe twenty miles before ten in the morning. It felt good. I stopped for coffee at a doughnut shop and called my friends back home. On the way back to my apartment, I noticed my bottom bracket squeaking and that it was getting louder. I’d read quite recently that a squeaky bike was a sign of serious incompetence so I made up my mind to fix it. I was pretty sure the bottom bracket was fucked up. I'd rushed through it earlier. I went home, talked to my wife, and went to the Bike Room to fix my shit.

When I got there, the same old jerks were standing around directing a posse of fake poor people, token minorities, and a big, heaving fattie building an aluminum hybrid into something even more like a wheelchair. I signed up to wait for a stand and watched the “punks” take turns tried to befriend the single black guy who’d come in to do something to his mountain bike. Then I saw the shoes.

Tristan was helping the black dude. He was working in the Cycle Room. “But where’s Hello Kitty?” I wondered. Then I realized; Hello Kitty was gone. She wasn’t cool here, not in the big city. I felt sorry for her. All she ever wanted was to bring joy to her pre-adolescent female market, but she’d been raped and discarded by a creature so repulsive in his fickleness that he didn’t even hate himself for making friends or developing a new hobby.

He came around where I was. The screen-printing and embroidery were gone and replaced by a faded, no-color t-shirt and threadbare work pants, just like anyone else at the shop might wear. The sneakers remained. One has to hold on to what matters. He didn’t say hello. He doesn’t remember meeting me.