Set the WayBack Machine!

The last two weeks I have been cleaning and re-organizing my apartment, buying new furniture that is long over due and just sort of eviscerating whatever unnecessary odds and ends I've been hoarding like a packrat. I'm not an obsessive saver, but I do store things just longer than I need to, but there will be a couple times a year I go through it all like this and just throw a ton of stuff out.

I've also been working non-stop, non-stop, and haven't had time to update with a serious entry, but I thought that to keep updating, I would post some juicy, gossipy tidbits from my high school journal, junior year (1999), that I found in the bottom of a large box in the back of my closet.

I want to make it VERY clear that I am ridiculously embarassed by practically all of this. In fact, some of you are going to know the people I am writing about, sooooo....there's that.

Here goes nothing:


January 10, 1999

"I went driving today in the Honda Civic, that I now have to drive because my parents traded in the Ford Taurus. The Honda is a stick-shift or manual transmission, if you will. I think that it is incredibly manly to drive a stick, but it's really hard! I have been having trouble with it for about 3 weeks. But today, I finally got the hang of it."

January 12, 1999

"I started writing my 10-minute play this evening and i think it's going to be really funny. I'm sure that most of the really good student writers out there are going to try writing drama. most likely the winning one will be about a teenager with AIDS, cancer, or is suicidal or something. Mine is about Matt Gourley's experience trying to buy an armoir at an antique store. It's a really funny story, I just hope I can make it into a good play and do his story justice.[Note from 2006: it came out REALLY racist] I found out today at lunch that the spring formal is going to be on Feb 20. Now the only thing left to do is find a date. I need a girl that is hop to groove and a site to see on the dance floor. A girl who is excited to go and wants to go with me!"

January 25, 1999

"I hate my parents sometimes. I can't stand it when they will not leave me alone, and are always nagging me about everything I do. They got really mad at me. Why? usually it's because they think i ask them for too much stuff. I don't. I do however bitch and moan about how our computer is completely messed up and we need new equipment. They don't seem to understand at all. I NEED to have video-editing equipment so that I can do it by myself and I won't have to go to chris's house or jesse's house. It would be such a relief if I could do it at my house. well, soon I should be getting equipment and anyway, I'm going to finish my music video at Jesse's house tomorrow. I did however get a lot of it done after school today."

February 20, 1999

"Well, tonight was formal night and, man alive, did I have a spectacular time! Arielle and i rocked the house all night long! I had finally badgered my parents into letting me drive the new Taurus. We took pictures at Ashley's and waitied for Cameron who was running late. Arielle was wearing a black and red, 50s style prom dress with a huge petticoat- it was awesome. I was wearing a sailor suit. [note from 2006: The theme was Rock the Boat!] Our group picture is going to be awesome! We had the photographer tilt the camera and then we all leaned the other way to make it look like we were sliding off a ship or something [note from 2006: i don't think this picture turned out the way we wanted it to in any way]. I had an incredible time and all the people that said stuff about my suit were really funny. [note from 2006: it should also be noted that this suit got Arielle and I a HUGE two page color spread in the yearbook. Goddamn right.]"

That's about where it all ends, or shortly afterward i don't start another journal for a year or two. There is a lot of stuff sprinkled in there, that I deliberately left out about my ex-girlfriend Barbara. Why leave it out? Because I'll edit the highlights from those entires together and it is quite possibly some of the most entertianing writing I've ever read in my life.

Does anyone else have a journal or diary from high school they would like to share with us? Does anyone have that little shame? Does anyone know what the origin of "The WayBack Machine" is?

For anyone who hasn't subscribed to this blog what are you waiting for?

The Fat Ghostbuster

So last night i wrote a blog(that I accidentally closed before posting) about this picture:



And I'm sure you can imagine that there isn't much to write about this picture that doesn't already explain itself. Thoroughly.

Here were a few highlights that as well as I can remember them-

- Only referring to this picture as "Fat Aykroyd"

- Explaing how Fat Aykord kills at least one person he's in a movie with (Belushi, Farley, John Candy, Rosie O Donnell, etc.)

- Speculating that Fat Aykroyd ate Rick Moranis, because seriously, has anyone seen Rick Moranis recently?

- Is he doing stand-up in this picture? Is he part of a telethon? Or is he singing "Reelin' in the Years" at karaoke?

Anyway, I'm said that I deleted the entry, but really, the writing was just an excuse to post the picture.














here it is again so you can keep laughing.

Faux Po-Mo Quasi Irony of Obvious Coincidence

(I hated that title right after I wrote it, but I'm not going to change it (if i did, i would never write this blog))

I guess this is really a sequel to my last entry about Triplets, because it's another "rule of threes" observation.

Not to mention the observation that I better right another one to finish the trilogy of triplets. Yes, sometimes(read: all times) i hate myself.

Here are three things that are related without being related:

Kelly Clarkson's song, SINCE YOU'VE BEEN GONE, is an amazing feat of addictive pop song coming from an addictive, hit TV show.

The Osbournes was also an addictive, hit TV show.

Ozzie Osbourne was the front man for Black Sabbath in the 70s.

Ronnie James Dio followed Osbourne as the front man for Black Sabbath.

Dio was previously in a band called Rainbow, who sings an amazing song called SINCE YOU'VE BEEN GONE.

The Rainbow is the symbol of gay pride.

Gay is derived from the word gai meaning happy, carefee, or bright and showy.

Rappers like to showy offy their bright jewelry and flashy cars.

The rapper Coolio was no exception.

Coolio's song, "Gangsta's Paradise" was lampooned by Weird Al Yankovic on his 1996 album, Bad Hair Day(a reference to Coolio's drug addled hair style).

Also on the album, Bad Hair Day is a song entitled SINCE YOU'VE BEEN GONE.

Did I miss anything? Leave me a comment with any addendums of corrections.

I update this pretty regularly so if you haven't subscribed to my blog, feel free to automatically recieve the latest updates. (this is of course assuming I have any regular readers at all, which may be a brash assumption.)

The End.

Triplets!

For those that have never compared Broadway musical composer Andrew Lloyd Weber and self-proclaimed Master of Horror Lit Stephen King, I've created this image:



WHOA. What the fuck? Were these two separated at birth? Long ago, in a faraway land, was Steve Lloyd split in two? Where one side, the Lloyd, became a master of dancing gay, musical delight while the other side, the Steve, was cast into shadows to dwell with clowns and tommy knockers? Did Weber spring from the forehead of King? Or some other obscure mythology reference?

I know, it's a lot of questions to throw at you and I apologize, but this is an issue that really needs to be addressed. Preferably before any more clones spring forth in different artistic, creative careers.

Perhaps this is a hidden symbol of intelligent design that we are supposed to figure out; that men without upper lips are more likely to succeed in the area of high school reading lists and musical stagings about Jesus.

OH SHIT. THERE IS ANOTHER ONE!



IT'S TOMMY HILFIGER!

So now the creatures with the big foreheads and massage moustache zoning occupy top tier positions of theater, horror lit, and fashion. Pretty soon, the whole world will look like these three men, like that Twilight Zone episode with the pig-faced people. We will turn into a society of fashionable, musical, writers, meaning all other things will cease to exist in a specialized entrepreneurial manner! No more chefs, no more car salesmen, no more farmers!

This is the point of humanity where we devolve(devo) back to cavemen, and come full circle with the beginning and ending of humanity. Our society will construct Dark Towers, dress in fine red, white and blue linens, and sing glorious songs about Cats!

Join with me my brothers and sisters! We will lead the revolution and destroy these tyrannical monsters! No more phantoms of operas! No more crappy sweatshop polo shirts with sweaters tied around the necks! No more Pet Cemetary and Dreamcatcher! We will fight back!

If anybody has any reasons that I am missing to keep these people around please tell me. Is Maximum Overdrive reason enough to keep The Steve? Is Jesus Christ Superstar (movie or play) enough to keep the Lloyd? I think we can all agree that Tommy Hilfiger is a racist douche, so we can dump his sorry, faux-patriotic, crap-fashion ass in a ditch.

Thoughts? Arguments? Comments?

Twister: Anatomy of Addiction

As I sit watching a VHS of the movie "Twister," directed by Jan DeBont (Speed, Speed II: Cruise Control) and written by prolific science-fiction writer Michael Crichton (Westworld), I can't help but notice the obvious underlying thematic elements, like a miner buried alive, calling out for help, but his cries are lost in the quagmire and rotting soil about him. Crichton wrote the screenplay with his wife whom he divorced shortly after the film was released. This analysis may get to the bottom of the desertion of his spouse.

For anyone unaware of Crichton's work, his modus operandi can be summed up like this: scientists cheat the laws of science to discover a new, brilliant technology which backfires, kills some interns, and is stopped by the man or woman who swore the science was dangerous in chapter 2.

From the Wikipedia entry on Crichton: "His work is consistently cautionary in that his plots invariably portray scientific advancements going awry, often with worst-case scenarios. Seldom if ever does Crichton portray scientific achievement as going according to plan."

Twister isn't much different- Bill Paxton, having sworn off "tornado chasing" has to get Mad About You's Helen Hunt to sign divorce papers, but gets roped back into it to try and finish the tornado studying technology he invented, succeeding only after the "finger of God" annhilates half the midwest.

The film's screenplay should resonate with addicts of any kind. The clues are there if you know what to look for, if you know someone struggling with addiction, or someone that has recently overcome addiction.

Bill Paxton(the addict) arrives in Kansas or Oklahoma to finalize his divorce from Mad About You's Helen Hunt(the dealer). Helen Hunt is surrounds herself with her "colleagues," who she has convinced to come with her while she "chases tornados," which the audience discovers is a constantly life threatening venture, save for a few fleeting moments of bliss. Mad About You's Helen Hunt has successfully convinced these fellow "storm chasers" to join her along her ride through a drug-induced hell, always promising an ever illusive high- data on tornados- and once they have chased their first "tornado" they are hooked forever.

Before Mad About You's Helen Hunt can sign the divorce papers, the call goes out that a tornado is in the vicinity and she whips her gang into a furious frenzy to go catch it. Bill Paxton, perhaps a few months sober, reluctantly tags along in order to get the divorce paper signed so he can be on his way with his sponsor AKA his new fiance. This raises an important underlying question that will definitely be answered in the last moments of the film: Can we ever REALLY divorce ourselves from our addiction? Or do we merely stave it off for a few months until we find that sponsor to latch onto and help us through the hardest moments of withdrawal only to abandon them when our primal urge for getting stoned erupts throughout our body?

The gang of misfits constantly congratulates Bill Paxton for his return to their band of addicts and users. For the first fifteen minutes of the movie he rejects it and tells them that he's "not back," but we get a good glimpse into his mind, the soul of an addict, the desperation of a broken man who should not have come to the midwest- a land of bitter whirlwind destruction.

In this case, Bill Paxton's sponsor, his naive fiance, has been helping him through recovery and probably come along on this trip into Helen Hunt's midwest opium den to guide him out again. As soon as she leaves his side though, he is seduced back to the pipe by the sinister succubus.

Crichton uses this immediate flurry of action to show us how quickly a man can fall to the desire of that deceptively, delicious drug. Perhaps this is a projection, a prophecy of Crichton's own battle with addiction? Maybe he is calling out from an early grave about his addiction to lame paperback science fiction written at a fourth grade reading level? Either way, the author clearly has a history with addiction to be able to write this coherently about something so serious and debilitating. Brave author? or spineless hack? (And who better than Jan DeBont to guide us to the answer...)

Throughout the film, Bill Paxton becomes increasingly more and more obsessed with chasing tornados and catching them and studying them and discovering what makes them tick. He pushes himself harder and harder destroying just as much as the tornado does as well as numerous personal relationships. For instance, just after they get on the road, the addicts run into another gang attempting to study tornados in the same fashoin as Bill Paxton devised all those long years ago. Instead of acting in a rational manner, talking things through like the new Bill Paxton should have done, he attacks the Princess Bride's Cary Elwes with savage ferocity of a man who has just watched his stash get flushed down the toilet by a cop. As he is pulled away from the melee, he demands to know why Mad About You's Helen Hunt didn't tell him someone else has devised a simliar way to shoot up than he did. This is the final straw to break Bill Paxton's sobriety camel's back and he plunges back into full fledged addiction once again, only this time, he won't stop until he gets the ultimate high.

Then of course we begin to hear stories about Bill Paxton's addiction- the time he was naked and threatened the "tornado," the time he figured out he could think like a "tornado," and of course, we learn his nickname was "The Extreme." Could you think of anything more vague Michael Crichton? More sophomoric? Did your junkie friends call you that in the flophouse while you were tying off your upper arm for the thirteenth time that day? This sounds like it's hitting pretty close to home, Mikey.

Bill Paxton's fiance doesn't even try to stop him once he becomes the old addict he clearly once was, she rejects him as he destroys another interpersonal relationship(the third referenced in the movie). She is helpless and cowers amidst his superior knowledge and insane drive to obtain this peak of "tornado study."

At the end of the film, he acheives this ultimate high- this apex of tornado study- after killing many people, destroying relationships, blowing up cars, etc (Thanks for the subtlety, Jan DeBont). Of course at the end of this road, he sacrifices his fiance's car(wanton destruction of property), and risks his life and the life of his dealer (who is clearly more determined than he is) to get what he wants. And at the end of this long, destructive road, he ends up in the arms of his dealer, promising never to leave her again and to work with her forever, even having the audacity to attempt to usurp her control over the other members of the gang.

I think I've learned an important lesson from Michael Crichton, a lesson that transcends science fiction and the known universe, a lesson of such magnificent metaphorical tastes that I will always refer any addicts I know to it's important, deep views on the terror and fear that addiction can cause- the whirlwind of desire versus destruction that your life will lead to if you take the quick fix, the addicts course, that hell-bound Twister to the god-forsaken land of Oz- not to mix metaphors- where you can't control your will power and your need for the most human emotion we have- self destruction.

Non-Stop Cock Rock Blocks Around the Clock

Maybe this is a regional thing, or perhaps the long arm of popular commercialized radio reaches into America's cities and scratches and aggravates the scabby wound we received from corporate sponsored radio. I am referring to the darwinian process of quasi-commercial free "blocks" of music.

In Los Angeles, this has come in a variety of forms, from the late Arrow 93.1 Classic Rock Block to the Seven Song Super Set; while KROQ (pop rock) plays the Block Party Weekend (now the New Rock Block Weekend, which is basically reserved box seats for bands with new albums coming out); Meanwhile, KLOS (classic rock) stays firmly planted in their rotation unless it's a Two-fer Tuesday or a holiday and they program in a "Rock and Roll A-Z Weekend," not to mention the daily 30 minutes of "Whole Lotta Led." Why Led Zepplin gets a half hour of the evening commute is beyond me, but every now and then, when they serve up a B-side of Communication Breakdown, it's worth it.

A year ago, Arrow 93.1 ("Classic Rock That Really Rocks") was replaced by a international radio phenomenon known as "JACK." If you aren't familiar with Jack, you're in luck, it's like a soulless, white business man who's dreamed of being an insult comic with an iPod shuffle plugged into a gold-plated radio transmitter. But considering this Canadian delicacy broadcasts to every inch of the nation, you probably have heard that snarky voice saying things like, "playing what we want," "these commercials don't play themselves," and my all time favorite, "you're called LISTEN-ers, not songpickers, we play what we want."

The Wikipedia has a fantastic entry on Jack FM: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_FM

Besides JACK though, most pop radio stations have some sort of gimmicky radio block programming intended to make you think you're getting more than you are. The only time this was even remotely successful was during the Seven Song Super Set. Arrow93 really let it rip with some amazing seven song blocks, and with Classic Rock, when almost every good song is a 5 minute epic shred-fest, you know you're in for some good times. Freebird to Come Sail Away to Back in Black to Boston to Ragdoll(livin' in the city) to Killer Queen to the Boys are Back in Town by Thin LIzzy is truly some of the best modern radio has ever offered.

KROQ used to tout their 40 minutes of non-top KROQ, but they would interrupt their shitty Linkin Park flow with their shitty mid morning DJs talking about how to win tickets to go on a Green Day shopping spree. Now you're out 30 minutes and they've played two songs.

By far the most interesting of all is the Rock and Roll A to Z weekend that KLOS designed for it's holidays. You may be asking yourself the question- is it by band or by song? My dear listener, it's BOTH. You can listen to Pinball Wizard by The Who which segues into Who Made Who by ACDC. Girls Got Rhythm by ACDC into Anyway You Want It by Journey. The possibilities are endless and plentiful and rocktastically enjoyable.

I know that many radio stations include All Beatles programming on Sunday mornings and the Los Angeles based Indie103, our newest, bestest radio station, has DJs dedicating two hours to Metal or Techno or Alt Country or Latina music. But these are different species as they are hosted by someone that truly loves Metal and such; a connoisseur, if you will, which is decidedly different than the poor sap who has to press play on the next shitty ten minutes of Supertramp(Seriously, Supertramp sucks).

Perhaps my central question is this: Why do these rock blocks evolve so violently and so randomly? There was no reason to discard the Seven Song Super Set(or Arrow93 for that matter), nor was there a reason to make the Rock Block Weekend exclusive to only New Rock. Are these gimmicks or selling points? Is corporate controlled radio on it's last legs and will the pendulum swing back to it's independent roots(a la Indie103)?

One thing is for sure- I need a CD player in my car.

Explosions!

I dont quite remember what brought back this particular late 80s/early 90s nostalgia, but do people recall the period of advertising history when everything marketed to kids involved some sort of explosion?

Theres been an explosion at the raisen factory!! Now Raisen Bran has an explosion of raisens in every box!

Theres been an explosion at the marshmallow factory and now Alpha-Bits have an explosion of marshmallows in every box!!!

Theres been an explosion at the Chips Ahoy factory!! Now Chips Ahoy has an explosion of chocolate chips in every cookie!!!!!

First of all, why were we promoting such haphazard safety management in some of our favorite factories? We were lucky that no one was ever injured in all these explosions. If I recall, that Fruit Roll Ups factory was a DEATH TRAP. We certainly got lucky that each time one of these lapses always resulted in a delightful burst of flavor or color.

Now I know that most likely, these advertising campaigns didnt actually come about from a real explosion. But what if they did? I can imagine a 60 minutes expose about our nations candy factories having poor safety environments, leading to dangerous working conditions and faulty machinery.

Maybe the first of the salvo of explosion marketing campaigns did come about from an actual explosion occuring at a factory. Maybe the vat that drips honey into HoneyComb cereal is located above the big bin where they keep the already honeyed HoneyComb. Its very possible that this vat could have exploded or imploded as a result of a pressure change or loose rigging or something. This could have resulted in the honey vat releasing its deliciously sticky sweetness into the HoneyComb cereal making it even more honey than we could have EVER IMAGINED.

I can hear it now:

SECRETARY: Um. Sir? I just got a call from Duffy, down at the HoneyComb factory and apparently there was an incident...
OWNER OF HONEYCOMB CEREAL: An incident?
SECRETARY: Yes sir. The HoneyVat exploded and now our HoneyComb cereal is even more sweet and delicious.
OWNER OF HONEYCOMB CEREAL: Dear lord. Was anyone hurt?
SECRETARY: MIraculously, no.
OWNER OF HONEYCOMB CEREAL: Thank god. Does this mean we have lost six months worth of our delicious, honey dipped, HoneyComb cereal?
SECRETARY: Well sir, I dont see how we can sell it seeing as how it wouldnt be the same product on the shelves. What would we tell the public?
OWNER OF HONEYCOMB CEREAL: Ms. Dawson, you know Im committed to honesty in advertising. We should tell our faithful customers the gruesome truth.

And the rest is history.

Feel free to post your favorite explosion slogans in the comments below, real or otherwise, this is truly an untapped goldmine of enjoyment.

And if anyone remembers the ones I was saying at the Prospector two weeks ago, I know there were some gems in there...