Only very recently, today in fact, have I reconciled myself to the unpleasant fact that while I once owned more than one pair of exercise pants, I am now a man who owns merely one pair. This is the sort of difficult set of circumstances that a man can deny for quite some time. But ultimately, he must own up to them.
I remember the heady days of owning as many as three or four pairs of exercise pants. Each had a specialized purpose for which it was perfectly suited, whether that purpose was running in the rain, bicycling in the sun, or kicking the french fries out of a portly gentleman's airway. But for so long now, I have been a man who owns merely one pair of exercise pants.
I won't lie. I truly wish I were still a man who owned several pairs of exercise pants. There is a certain something about a man who owns multiple pairs of exercise pants. As he sloshes by in the rain, you find yourself admiring his gait a little more keenly. As he whisks by on a bright afternoon, you marvel at how he sits in his saddle. As he kicks you in the lung, forcefully expelling the Happy Meal lodged in your trachea, you anticipate tha first breath you will draw through your cleared airway, as you know it will be scented as fresh and bold as clean laundry.
There is a steely glint in the eye of a man who owns three or more pairs of exercise pants. A no-nonsense air of masculine competence. Apparent, but not o'erweening. Case in point: it is known that Sean Connery owned seventeen pairs of exercise pants, whereas Roger Moore had only two.
How many pairs of exercise pants Chuck Norris owns, alas, remains a mystery.
But a man who owns only a single pair of exercise pants is a sad figure indeed. Such a man must contemplate either slavery to his laundry machines, or reconciling himself to "airing out" his one pair of exercise pants between sessions. It is a cruel choice.
For while he may deceive himself into thinking that his "aired out" exercise pants retain a kind of manly musk, they do no such thing. In fact, they come to more closely resemble a murdered possum, left to age somewhere dark and damp until finally being draped across the air vents of one's enemy's automobile. Wet, dead possum musk is no proper substitute for multiple pairs of exercise pants.
O, cruel fate.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
About the M3
"We need a blog about the M3," Fashpo said. So blame the orange-haired librarian if you don't like cars.Last week, during my extremely non-productive time off, I got out for a good drive or two. One day I woke up hearing a radio forecast of sleet, snow and freezing rain in the mountains. So naturally I jumped in my rear-drive coupe with semi-slick performance tires and headed for the mountains.
I turned around when it got too stupid, of course, but not before I had some fun and took some pictures. Most of which didn't come out. Apparently, cameras need light. Which was a revelation to me, so the nice, nestled back in the trees pics I took didn't come out at all. But a few others did.
The scenery was beautiful, especially the snow-dusted mountainsides visible from the road. But, once again, I'm rubbish with a camera, so you'll have to take my word for it.
The old M3 was marvelous, once I was able to break out of traffic. The back roads through the forest and mountains are good and twisty, and this car has far more grip than I will ever need, absent a Bugatti full of machine-gun wielding thugs behind me. The steering is about as communicative as you'd want on American roads. Some folk say E36 M3 steering was vague (though not as vague as E46 M3 steering), but they're shmucks. Any more feedback, and your average North American road would drive you completely nuts, imvho.
Just before the weather forced me back to lower altitudes, I got it up as fast as I've driven the car so far. I've driven considerably faster in lesser cars, but I wouldn't want to anymore, after getting the feel of this one. Dead stable at high speed. It just hunkers down, feels very well connected to the road. Very impressive, though I'll admit it is fresh from a full 4-wheel alignment at the shop.
Of course, I never exceeded the posted speed limits. Whatever the hell they were.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
The ones that get away
"You're in late."
"Can't sleep."
The Waffle House is empty but for Catherine, John, and the cook at the grill.
"What can I get you?"
"Decaf? And maybe some browns. With ham and tomatoes," he says, refusing to use the Waffle House scattered, splattered, whatever code for hash browns.
"'kay," she says and smiles.
She comes back and pours his coffee after calling his order to the cook. Then she pours herself a cup and sits with him.
"You okay?" she asks.
"More or less," he answers, and sips at the coffee.
"Which one?"
He smiles. "Less, I guess. I can't sleep."
"Girl troubles?"
"No. Brain troubles. Can't stop thinking. That gets my heart racing. That makes me overheat, which means I can't sleep. No sense just laying there sweating."
"Well, whatcha thinkin' about, Johnny?"
"Today. December tenth. Seven years ago today, I was sitting in a courthouse, reading old records on film. Piece of crap case. I had a current case on the guy. He'd tried to kill his wife, then got divorced, and then tried to kill his girlfriend, almost the exact same circumstances. He'd get jealous, stressed, angry, and try to kill whoever was around. But the rest of the time he was Mister Mild. The courts had just slapped him on the wrists."
"Anybody I know?"
"No, I don't think so. I wanted to violate him back, force the judge to make him do some time. He was bound to kill somebody sometime, if he ever ended up dating or marrying somebody small enough."
"Little fella?"
"Yeah. Little, pathetic. Lifetime alcoholic."
"You sure it's nobody I know?"
He laughs. "So I'd dug back on him. Turned out he was referenced in an old missing persons case. He'd been married five times. One of these earlier wives had a son when they married."
He drinks some more coffee. "A five-year-old son. Money's tight. Times are tough. Marriage gets stressful."
He looks her in the eyes like he's asking her for help.
"And then the son disappears. No ransom notes, no witnesses. Just poof-- no more little boy."
She makes a sad face. "That's awful."
"They do newspaper articles, they offer what little reward they can afford, nothing ever comes of it. The kid never shows up again."
"They thought your guy did it?"
"Nope. He was never a suspect. Combination of bad detective work and his sometimes-mild manners."
He holds the hot coffee cup in his hands, warming them.
"But I didn't think he did that one, either. Until I was looking at that old film. There was a copy of a newspaper article in there. Local paper interviewed the mother. They had a picture. She was sitting on the couch for the interview. My guy wasn't beside her. He was behind the couch. A few feet behind the couch, with his back against the wall and his arms folded over his chest.
"Not beside her. Not holding her hand, not right behind the couch with a hand on her shoulder. And the look on his face. That was guilt, not grief."
They both drink some more coffee.
"It fit him like a glove," he says. "New husband, young wife. He gets jealous, just like he'd always do later. But it's not another man. It's the kid. It's the love she has for the kid. He can never compete with that.
"And right when I see him in this picture, right when it crashes in on me that he's the one who got rid of the kid, my cell phone rings. And I answer it, and it's my mother telling me that my brother's first child has just been born. My niece, eventually my goddaughter."
"So now, every year when we celebrate her birthday, I sing the song and cheer when she blows out the candles, and all the while I'm really thinking about that little boy who would be just a few years younger than me if he was still alive. I wonder what he did with him, and if he even remembers doing it."
His browns come up, and Catherine goes to pick them up. She deposits them on the table with a bottle of Tabasco and pats his hand.
"At least you got him, didn't you?"
"No," he says. "No, I did not."
"Can't sleep."
The Waffle House is empty but for Catherine, John, and the cook at the grill.
"What can I get you?"
"Decaf? And maybe some browns. With ham and tomatoes," he says, refusing to use the Waffle House scattered, splattered, whatever code for hash browns.
"'kay," she says and smiles.
She comes back and pours his coffee after calling his order to the cook. Then she pours herself a cup and sits with him.
"You okay?" she asks.
"More or less," he answers, and sips at the coffee.
"Which one?"
He smiles. "Less, I guess. I can't sleep."
"Girl troubles?"
"No. Brain troubles. Can't stop thinking. That gets my heart racing. That makes me overheat, which means I can't sleep. No sense just laying there sweating."
"Well, whatcha thinkin' about, Johnny?"
"Today. December tenth. Seven years ago today, I was sitting in a courthouse, reading old records on film. Piece of crap case. I had a current case on the guy. He'd tried to kill his wife, then got divorced, and then tried to kill his girlfriend, almost the exact same circumstances. He'd get jealous, stressed, angry, and try to kill whoever was around. But the rest of the time he was Mister Mild. The courts had just slapped him on the wrists."
"Anybody I know?"
"No, I don't think so. I wanted to violate him back, force the judge to make him do some time. He was bound to kill somebody sometime, if he ever ended up dating or marrying somebody small enough."
"Little fella?"
"Yeah. Little, pathetic. Lifetime alcoholic."
"You sure it's nobody I know?"
He laughs. "So I'd dug back on him. Turned out he was referenced in an old missing persons case. He'd been married five times. One of these earlier wives had a son when they married."
He drinks some more coffee. "A five-year-old son. Money's tight. Times are tough. Marriage gets stressful."
He looks her in the eyes like he's asking her for help.
"And then the son disappears. No ransom notes, no witnesses. Just poof-- no more little boy."
She makes a sad face. "That's awful."
"They do newspaper articles, they offer what little reward they can afford, nothing ever comes of it. The kid never shows up again."
"They thought your guy did it?"
"Nope. He was never a suspect. Combination of bad detective work and his sometimes-mild manners."
He holds the hot coffee cup in his hands, warming them.
"But I didn't think he did that one, either. Until I was looking at that old film. There was a copy of a newspaper article in there. Local paper interviewed the mother. They had a picture. She was sitting on the couch for the interview. My guy wasn't beside her. He was behind the couch. A few feet behind the couch, with his back against the wall and his arms folded over his chest.
"Not beside her. Not holding her hand, not right behind the couch with a hand on her shoulder. And the look on his face. That was guilt, not grief."
They both drink some more coffee.
"It fit him like a glove," he says. "New husband, young wife. He gets jealous, just like he'd always do later. But it's not another man. It's the kid. It's the love she has for the kid. He can never compete with that.
"And right when I see him in this picture, right when it crashes in on me that he's the one who got rid of the kid, my cell phone rings. And I answer it, and it's my mother telling me that my brother's first child has just been born. My niece, eventually my goddaughter."
"So now, every year when we celebrate her birthday, I sing the song and cheer when she blows out the candles, and all the while I'm really thinking about that little boy who would be just a few years younger than me if he was still alive. I wonder what he did with him, and if he even remembers doing it."
His browns come up, and Catherine goes to pick them up. She deposits them on the table with a bottle of Tabasco and pats his hand.
"At least you got him, didn't you?"
"No," he says. "No, I did not."
Monday, December 04, 2006
My Project for a New American Century: Step Two
Fuel Economy
We use too much oil for our own good. Fuck global warming. Fuck the planet. I'm talking about national security here. Oil is bad news. Everyone with any sense knows we need to stop using so much.
If we weren't American, we'd tax the living shit out of gas. Or we'd legislate higher corporate average fuel economies. Yeah. But then we wouldn't be law-hating, government-fearing Americans. So what we need is a free market solution. We need cash incentives in the marketplace, dammit.
I have just the solution. Untaxed cash awards for vitriolic put-downs doled out by car salesmen at customers intent on buying gas guzzlers.
"You wanna see the Yukon, huh? What, so people will be so distracted by the size of your car that they won't notice your enormous, fat ass?"
That's $300.
"This here's the Dodge Viper. It's designed for bald men with small penises, so basically, dinky, it's your dream car."
That's $750.
"You and your wife want to test drive the Hemi Magnum R/T? Hey, why not? If I had to fuck such an ugly woman, I'd want to crawl in a hearse, too."
A cool grand.
Additionally, we'll collect statistics on the average fuel economy of the vehicles sold by each salesman. Every year, the salesman in each county with the highest average fuel economy gets a free, mail-order bride from the country of his choice (certified disease- and mafia-connections-free) and a lifetime supply of green sportcoats.
Walk with me, my countrymen, into our brave future.
We use too much oil for our own good. Fuck global warming. Fuck the planet. I'm talking about national security here. Oil is bad news. Everyone with any sense knows we need to stop using so much.
If we weren't American, we'd tax the living shit out of gas. Or we'd legislate higher corporate average fuel economies. Yeah. But then we wouldn't be law-hating, government-fearing Americans. So what we need is a free market solution. We need cash incentives in the marketplace, dammit.
I have just the solution. Untaxed cash awards for vitriolic put-downs doled out by car salesmen at customers intent on buying gas guzzlers.
"You wanna see the Yukon, huh? What, so people will be so distracted by the size of your car that they won't notice your enormous, fat ass?"
That's $300.
"This here's the Dodge Viper. It's designed for bald men with small penises, so basically, dinky, it's your dream car."
That's $750.
"You and your wife want to test drive the Hemi Magnum R/T? Hey, why not? If I had to fuck such an ugly woman, I'd want to crawl in a hearse, too."
A cool grand.
Additionally, we'll collect statistics on the average fuel economy of the vehicles sold by each salesman. Every year, the salesman in each county with the highest average fuel economy gets a free, mail-order bride from the country of his choice (certified disease- and mafia-connections-free) and a lifetime supply of green sportcoats.
Walk with me, my countrymen, into our brave future.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Magic
I left work today tired, but somewhat satisfied. A wrong had been righted. A kind of tawdry, squalid little wrong. And another more sizable, potentially a legitimate evil, wrong had probably been squelched before it came to pass. Some people's egos were trampled on in the process, and for once I actually did feel a little bad about that, even though they deserved it. But I had helped accomplish some good, and other good people had helped with it, too. It was kind of a good day.
And when I got outside, I was dazzled. The weather has been shit here for weeks. Particularly bad since Monday afternoon, when we got hammered with the first of two serious bouts of winter storm this week. But today, the clouds broke and I got outside just in time to see the sun before it set.
It was very low on the horizon, starting to fall behind the mountains, and it shot a pure, golden light straight up the streets downtown. It shot down on the water and bounced back up at shallow deflection, giving us twin beams of that pure, golden light.
It was gorgeous. White buildings turned to solid gold. Red brick turned to shades of red, brown and gold. Every inch of downtown with a line of sight to the water was bathed in gold. And it seemed entirely rational, for the moment, to believe in magic.
And when I got outside, I was dazzled. The weather has been shit here for weeks. Particularly bad since Monday afternoon, when we got hammered with the first of two serious bouts of winter storm this week. But today, the clouds broke and I got outside just in time to see the sun before it set.
It was very low on the horizon, starting to fall behind the mountains, and it shot a pure, golden light straight up the streets downtown. It shot down on the water and bounced back up at shallow deflection, giving us twin beams of that pure, golden light.
It was gorgeous. White buildings turned to solid gold. Red brick turned to shades of red, brown and gold. Every inch of downtown with a line of sight to the water was bathed in gold. And it seemed entirely rational, for the moment, to believe in magic.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Long Reach of Sir Walter Raleigh
“I got hooked on these when I was a dumb kid,” he says, picking up her pack of cigarettes and shaking it gently.
“Me, too. It’s a comfort.” She smiles, softly blowing a cloud of smoke over the edge of the balcony.
“Yeah," he puts them down decisively. "But then I really got hooked on them in the CAP. They've got Marlboros there, but they’re not real Marlboros. Fake packaging. Real tobacco. The old stuff.”
“Oh god.”
“Yeah, oh god is right. With all the cancer and addictions and everything else. It was hard to kick when I got back. The counter-addiction treatments aren’t a real treat. Headaches, impotence.”
She giggles.
“It wore off,” he says through a lopsided grin.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Nothing New Under the Sun
Quite a while back, I started writing a serial which has since been titled Break to Bind. It started out on the William Gibson Board, then migrated to Dead Channel, where I update it about once every one to two weeks on average. It's not great literature. I joke that it's my un-illustrated graphic novel. I use it as a learning tool, as a means of forcing myself to write on a regular basis, to work through the types of scenes that I'm lousy with, to commit to continuing and eventually finishing a sizable work.
When I first started it, some people commented (positively) that it reminded them of Watchmen, the classic graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. At the time, I'd never heard of Watchmen, honestly. And I avoided picking it up until just recently. I'm reading it now.
Holy crap, says the articulate wannabe writer, it's bloody fantastic. I laugh out loud, make the heavy-metal-devil-horns-sign at the book occasionally, and try to explain the genius of the climax scenes to my wife as she looks at me like she's humoring the nutbar. This is really good stuff. Dark, dark, terribly dark, but no darker than many stories I have to tell. Too bad I can't write them as well as Moore can, and I can only draw stick figures.
Anyway, there are certainly similarities between Break to Bind and Watchmen, but thankfully there's a good bit of difference. I'm not done yet, but I'm confident that some of the messages I'm going for, which are uncharacteristically upbeat for me, are probably very different from the messages that Moore is headed toward. The ploy of using narrative combined with occasional 'found documents' is uncomfortably close, unfortunately. I swear I just started reading Watchmen.
But thankfully, the similarities don't really bother me that much. I like my characters, I like what they're about, and it doesn't matter that a) it seems similar to Moore's story in some superficial ways and that b) Moore's story is infinitely better than mine. There was a time in my life when I would have said "oh, something similar's been done, and done much better, so why bother." I'm glad I'm over that.
When I first started it, some people commented (positively) that it reminded them of Watchmen, the classic graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. At the time, I'd never heard of Watchmen, honestly. And I avoided picking it up until just recently. I'm reading it now.
Holy crap, says the articulate wannabe writer, it's bloody fantastic. I laugh out loud, make the heavy-metal-devil-horns-sign at the book occasionally, and try to explain the genius of the climax scenes to my wife as she looks at me like she's humoring the nutbar. This is really good stuff. Dark, dark, terribly dark, but no darker than many stories I have to tell. Too bad I can't write them as well as Moore can, and I can only draw stick figures.
Anyway, there are certainly similarities between Break to Bind and Watchmen, but thankfully there's a good bit of difference. I'm not done yet, but I'm confident that some of the messages I'm going for, which are uncharacteristically upbeat for me, are probably very different from the messages that Moore is headed toward. The ploy of using narrative combined with occasional 'found documents' is uncomfortably close, unfortunately. I swear I just started reading Watchmen.
But thankfully, the similarities don't really bother me that much. I like my characters, I like what they're about, and it doesn't matter that a) it seems similar to Moore's story in some superficial ways and that b) Moore's story is infinitely better than mine. There was a time in my life when I would have said "oh, something similar's been done, and done much better, so why bother." I'm glad I'm over that.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
It's All My Fault
I admit it: I'm responsible for monotheism. I was an enthusiastic young lawyer, shooting for partner in a firm with some fantastic clients, among them several gods who must remain nameless under the terms of my contract. I was dazzled, of course. I was trying to impress them. Though I didn't see it at the time, these gods were not exactly top-shelf, if you know what I mean. They were past their prime, rarely got any tithes, hardly ever saw a sacrifice. Times were lean, and the creditors were starting to come sniffing.
No fewer than three castles of gold were foreclosed upon in my first year with the firm. They had multiple mortgages out in different names-- it was a fucking mess. My clients were looking at doing some serious time, considering their extremely fraudulent financial activities. Ever read any Greek myths about punishments doled out by immortals? Yeah. I said serious time, I meant Serious Fucking Time.
So I pitch this crazy idea: I drop a dollar or two in the pockets of certain talented 'prophets,' my clients build up what very little juice they still have left to kick in a few convenient, though minor, miracles for these 'prophets,' and we start a new mythos moving. A burning bush here, a fish dinner there, and all the sudden, you've got people's attention.
We spread the word that there is only one God. And, wait for it: none of my clients are Him.
As a matter of fact, my clients were nothing more than myths... yeah, that's right, Biff. They never existed, so take your liens and your judgements and your writs and just fuck off.
My clients went for it. Not like they had any better options. But then, I have to admit, things got a little out of hand.
I underestimated the gullibility of mankind. I used to complain about how stupid people were, about how they couldn't wrap their heads around all the different variables in a problem, they had to boil it all down to some simple, stupid, singular explanation for everything. Simplicity was always better than veracity. Well. The chumps latched onto the monotheism gag like nobody's business.
It spread like the Spanish flu, and was nearly as deadly. Whole civilizations fell to it. A few of the gods made a good stand against it, but the reductions in tithes and sacrifices meant hard times for everybody. So the collectors started closing in on all of them. Before we knew it, we had thousands of divine clients, all wanting in on the "I'm only a myth" defense against their creditors.
So here we are, four thousand years later, in an endless cycle of holy wars. And all I've got to show for it is a three-thousand-year-old BMW chariot with the spokes rotting out, and a roster of deadbeat clients as long as Ayman al-Zawahiri's beard.
Yeah. Monotheism. Great fucking idea that was.
No fewer than three castles of gold were foreclosed upon in my first year with the firm. They had multiple mortgages out in different names-- it was a fucking mess. My clients were looking at doing some serious time, considering their extremely fraudulent financial activities. Ever read any Greek myths about punishments doled out by immortals? Yeah. I said serious time, I meant Serious Fucking Time.
So I pitch this crazy idea: I drop a dollar or two in the pockets of certain talented 'prophets,' my clients build up what very little juice they still have left to kick in a few convenient, though minor, miracles for these 'prophets,' and we start a new mythos moving. A burning bush here, a fish dinner there, and all the sudden, you've got people's attention.
We spread the word that there is only one God. And, wait for it: none of my clients are Him.
As a matter of fact, my clients were nothing more than myths... yeah, that's right, Biff. They never existed, so take your liens and your judgements and your writs and just fuck off.
My clients went for it. Not like they had any better options. But then, I have to admit, things got a little out of hand.
I underestimated the gullibility of mankind. I used to complain about how stupid people were, about how they couldn't wrap their heads around all the different variables in a problem, they had to boil it all down to some simple, stupid, singular explanation for everything. Simplicity was always better than veracity. Well. The chumps latched onto the monotheism gag like nobody's business.
It spread like the Spanish flu, and was nearly as deadly. Whole civilizations fell to it. A few of the gods made a good stand against it, but the reductions in tithes and sacrifices meant hard times for everybody. So the collectors started closing in on all of them. Before we knew it, we had thousands of divine clients, all wanting in on the "I'm only a myth" defense against their creditors.
So here we are, four thousand years later, in an endless cycle of holy wars. And all I've got to show for it is a three-thousand-year-old BMW chariot with the spokes rotting out, and a roster of deadbeat clients as long as Ayman al-Zawahiri's beard.
Yeah. Monotheism. Great fucking idea that was.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
I lied
Okay, so the rain only paused in Seattle. And then restarted today, only for me to find that my sunroof is leaking. Water is dripping right through the control console for it, which contains, oh, I don't know, at least four switches and god knows what other electrical components. Reminds me that when we bought it, I was thinking sunroof=extra weight at top of car, maintenance issues, road noise--bah! It's a sunroof! It'll be cool!
I think my B5 was built on a Friday, and the Turks were in a hurry to get to Jum'ah. That, or the former East Germans doing all the weather seals were in a hurry to go stand in a line.
They don't have to do it anymore. It just comforts them.
I think my B5 was built on a Friday, and the Turks were in a hurry to get to Jum'ah. That, or the former East Germans doing all the weather seals were in a hurry to go stand in a line.
They don't have to do it anymore. It just comforts them.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
When I'm dressed in white, send roses to me
The rains stop for hours, and the sun comes out for minutes.
The Schizoid Trio breaks into the green room. They sway, slide and thump, moan and mouth-breathe, teeth bared, arms spread.
The Salsa Lady pauses on the sidewalk, presses play. Clamshell liberation draws her out through her ears. She poses, vertical jazz hands. Nods and steps. Arms work, feet accelerate. She spins, sings out with the beat, dat da-dat-dat-daa! Ever gaining momentum, spiral and slide down Third.
The rain has stopped in Seattle.
The Schizoid Trio breaks into the green room. They sway, slide and thump, moan and mouth-breathe, teeth bared, arms spread.
The Salsa Lady pauses on the sidewalk, presses play. Clamshell liberation draws her out through her ears. She poses, vertical jazz hands. Nods and steps. Arms work, feet accelerate. She spins, sings out with the beat, dat da-dat-dat-daa! Ever gaining momentum, spiral and slide down Third.
The rain has stopped in Seattle.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Welcome to Red's Recovery Room
So don't be an asshole. Go to Amazon for a minute, just to listen to a few soundbites off the Clodhopper album, Red's Recovery Room. Here. I'll even give you a link: Bam.
God damn it. You can buy this thing for $3.98.
If you don't want to pick through at random, then at least check the clips for Dinah, Walking Tune, Cafe Joli and Red's Recovery Room. That's just a tickle of the sound in this album, which is fucking amazing. I've had this thing for years, and it never ceases to stupify me.
Cafe Joli is, as I and at least a few others have said before, probably the best damned song ever written and recorded. You can feel this song 'just walkin' down the street' wherever you are. If it doesn't put a smile on your face, then bring down the colors and surrender right now, because you're already dead.
God damn it. You can buy this thing for $3.98.
If you don't want to pick through at random, then at least check the clips for Dinah, Walking Tune, Cafe Joli and Red's Recovery Room. That's just a tickle of the sound in this album, which is fucking amazing. I've had this thing for years, and it never ceases to stupify me.
Cafe Joli is, as I and at least a few others have said before, probably the best damned song ever written and recorded. You can feel this song 'just walkin' down the street' wherever you are. If it doesn't put a smile on your face, then bring down the colors and surrender right now, because you're already dead.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Friday, December 09, 2005
Alternative Rock
I'm forever indebted to a Terry Gross interview with William H. Macy that I heard on the radio years ago. In it, she grilled him on his acting technique, and he held forth on it with perfect confidence and Mametian precision. He said something to the effect that he didn't like method acting or so many of the other popular acting techniques because they all came too close to relying on inspiration, or the Muse. He said that any 'technique' that relied on inspiration or the Muse wasn't a technique at all, and that when you were inspired or had the Muse, you didn't need a technique. You were on fire then, and nothing could hold you back. But for the other 360 or so days per year, you needed a technique to get you through each scene. To reliably produce results in the absence of inspiration. It's common sense, but he put it very nicely and it applies to any kind of work you're serious about, in my humble opinion.
In a sense, his technique turned each scene into a problem, and it was his job to work toward a given solution. I'm a hyper-analytical kind of guy who likes solving problems, so this way of working through things does wonders for me.
So anyway, I'd identified a problem in one of my stories that I'm working on, and I was trying to work through it today. Imagine if all human civilizations were hijacked by a somewhat oppressive power in about 1943. We're not talking about slave-camps-and-hot-iron-on-the-feet oppression, just a power that attempts to put a collar on all humanity's baser instincts (being loud, sensual, indulgent, etc.). So think of it as a giant Baptist church, but without God. So in other words, like the Baptist church in the South. We'll call it The Power.
Now The Power doesn't really understand humans terribly well. It has great technology, superior to humans', but it doesn't understand how good humans are at running around or going under barriers they are confronted with. So The Power is, like most so-called totalitarian authorities, quite inefficient, leaving people with some wiggle room to play with.
So my 'problem' was: what do you think popular music would look like in America by 1983? Pretty soon, I got so fascinated with the possibilities that I forgot about any kind of solution. So really, the exercise worked.
No Sun Records. No British Invasion. And then no hippies, and no Summer of Love. No mass production or distribution of rock or R&B records. It all stays underground. Records are cut in improvised basement studios or in normal studios, after hours, when nobody's around to see it happen. An array of regional bootleg networks bleed over into each other somewhat, but mostly you're listening to records produced one town over. Except when you can tune in a pirate station across the country run by a music fanatic with some balls and a shortwave set, beaming outlaw, raunchy blues out of the South or the latest crazy jump and swing out of Chicago, and it blows your mind because you've never heard it before, and may never hear it again.
Rock and Roll (though it doesn't exist by that name) stays naughty. Even the 'mainstream' of it is subversive when it's not sexy, angry when it's not animated. It's sweaty men in juke-joints playing for that girl at the edge of the stage. It's the obsessed who only find peace in their music, recording it for the love of the sound. Very little in the way of paychecks, very little in the way of marketing. It's country boys with homemade electric guitars jamming with R&B drummers and horn players, after hours, in the back of the roadhouse.
Rock and roll.
I'm getting drunk on thinking about the ultimate bands that might exist in such an alternative universe.
And whatever it ended up looking like, there would be no such monstrosities as this.
In a sense, his technique turned each scene into a problem, and it was his job to work toward a given solution. I'm a hyper-analytical kind of guy who likes solving problems, so this way of working through things does wonders for me.
So anyway, I'd identified a problem in one of my stories that I'm working on, and I was trying to work through it today. Imagine if all human civilizations were hijacked by a somewhat oppressive power in about 1943. We're not talking about slave-camps-and-hot-iron-on-the-feet oppression, just a power that attempts to put a collar on all humanity's baser instincts (being loud, sensual, indulgent, etc.). So think of it as a giant Baptist church, but without God. So in other words, like the Baptist church in the South. We'll call it The Power.
Now The Power doesn't really understand humans terribly well. It has great technology, superior to humans', but it doesn't understand how good humans are at running around or going under barriers they are confronted with. So The Power is, like most so-called totalitarian authorities, quite inefficient, leaving people with some wiggle room to play with.
So my 'problem' was: what do you think popular music would look like in America by 1983? Pretty soon, I got so fascinated with the possibilities that I forgot about any kind of solution. So really, the exercise worked.
No Sun Records. No British Invasion. And then no hippies, and no Summer of Love. No mass production or distribution of rock or R&B records. It all stays underground. Records are cut in improvised basement studios or in normal studios, after hours, when nobody's around to see it happen. An array of regional bootleg networks bleed over into each other somewhat, but mostly you're listening to records produced one town over. Except when you can tune in a pirate station across the country run by a music fanatic with some balls and a shortwave set, beaming outlaw, raunchy blues out of the South or the latest crazy jump and swing out of Chicago, and it blows your mind because you've never heard it before, and may never hear it again.
Rock and Roll (though it doesn't exist by that name) stays naughty. Even the 'mainstream' of it is subversive when it's not sexy, angry when it's not animated. It's sweaty men in juke-joints playing for that girl at the edge of the stage. It's the obsessed who only find peace in their music, recording it for the love of the sound. Very little in the way of paychecks, very little in the way of marketing. It's country boys with homemade electric guitars jamming with R&B drummers and horn players, after hours, in the back of the roadhouse.
Rock and roll.
I'm getting drunk on thinking about the ultimate bands that might exist in such an alternative universe.
And whatever it ended up looking like, there would be no such monstrosities as this.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
New Orleans: It's fucked, no, wait, it's fine, no, wait, it's-
So I spent a couple days in and around New Orleans over the holiday, and yeah, it's an eye-full. You've seen the footage, so I'll spare you. Large tracts of it look quite normal, and then you see large tracts that are totally fucked up, as per the footage you've seen, and then more normalcy, and so on. Katrina definitely had that irrational here-I'm-windy-here-I'm-not, tornado on a really large scale kind of thing going. Many neighborhoods that were not flooded feature rows of houses that look untouched right beside rows of houses of identical construction that were nearly blown to pieces.
Much of the French Quarter actually smells better than it used to, after being nearly blown down and flooded with nasty-ass contaminated water. The cleaning up that was required for re-opening after the hurricane was the only cleaning that most Quarter restaurants have seen in fifty years. Functionally, most everything is back to normal. The twin spans over the Lake are down to one span. They cannibalized the more seriously damaged span to repair the one that's open. There are times when the other span just disappears.
The thing about the recovery is this: New Orleans has always been a nasty, shitty town. My apologies to NO-lovers, but it really is a nasty town for the most part. Blame it on geography. So there's a lot of relatively simple cleanup that could have been done already, but will probably never be done, because for the most part, NO-ians don't clean or organize anything. Abandoned cars remain in the drainage canals, continuing to contaminate the runoff. Trash lays around everywhere. Meanwhile, middle-class New Orleans sits at home watching television, their unscathed, full-size Ram Hemi Super-Hauler Dick-Compensator trucks sitting in their driveways when they could get their lazy asses out in the street to pick up some crap, or tow those abandoned cars out of the way. Or at least repair their own fences or set their overturned garden furniture upright.
But no, that's not the citizens' job. That's the government's job. And don't you even think of raising taxes to do it-- grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I'll try not to get started. So yeah, NO will continue to look like shit for a long time because that's just how the people are. People who choose to live in swamps generally aren't that fastidious.
Cafe du Monde is up and running, and that's really the best part of the city. Apparently, it came through pretty well untouched, though there's a tarp on the roof. Most of the wait staff was Chinese, which seemed like a change, so there may have been some personnel shuffles. But the beignets are still divine.
The huge downtown towers with boarded up windows are a little surreal, but they've still got nothing on Sarajevo.
Most of the poorest people are still gone, by all appearances. Few street performers. Fewer street vendors than there used to be, even though the Quarter is full of traffic as usual. Lines at restaurants are longer most of the time, as there are fewer restaurants open. Many can't re-open because their barely-living-wage employees haven't returned. And yes, the Burger King down the street from my in-laws' place is offering $6000 signing bonuses.
If you've ever wanted to flip burgers in a swamp, there's no time like now.
Much of the French Quarter actually smells better than it used to, after being nearly blown down and flooded with nasty-ass contaminated water. The cleaning up that was required for re-opening after the hurricane was the only cleaning that most Quarter restaurants have seen in fifty years. Functionally, most everything is back to normal. The twin spans over the Lake are down to one span. They cannibalized the more seriously damaged span to repair the one that's open. There are times when the other span just disappears.
The thing about the recovery is this: New Orleans has always been a nasty, shitty town. My apologies to NO-lovers, but it really is a nasty town for the most part. Blame it on geography. So there's a lot of relatively simple cleanup that could have been done already, but will probably never be done, because for the most part, NO-ians don't clean or organize anything. Abandoned cars remain in the drainage canals, continuing to contaminate the runoff. Trash lays around everywhere. Meanwhile, middle-class New Orleans sits at home watching television, their unscathed, full-size Ram Hemi Super-Hauler Dick-Compensator trucks sitting in their driveways when they could get their lazy asses out in the street to pick up some crap, or tow those abandoned cars out of the way. Or at least repair their own fences or set their overturned garden furniture upright.
But no, that's not the citizens' job. That's the government's job. And don't you even think of raising taxes to do it-- grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I'll try not to get started. So yeah, NO will continue to look like shit for a long time because that's just how the people are. People who choose to live in swamps generally aren't that fastidious.
Cafe du Monde is up and running, and that's really the best part of the city. Apparently, it came through pretty well untouched, though there's a tarp on the roof. Most of the wait staff was Chinese, which seemed like a change, so there may have been some personnel shuffles. But the beignets are still divine.
The huge downtown towers with boarded up windows are a little surreal, but they've still got nothing on Sarajevo.
Most of the poorest people are still gone, by all appearances. Few street performers. Fewer street vendors than there used to be, even though the Quarter is full of traffic as usual. Lines at restaurants are longer most of the time, as there are fewer restaurants open. Many can't re-open because their barely-living-wage employees haven't returned. And yes, the Burger King down the street from my in-laws' place is offering $6000 signing bonuses.
If you've ever wanted to flip burgers in a swamp, there's no time like now.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Death > Money ...sometimes
After dim sum today in the International District, I and my lunch companions set out in search of crazy-looking fish in a couple of pet stores. Along the way, I became intent on finally seeing the Wah Mee, so after the first pet store I asked a couple of my companions where it was. As we stood outside the pet store arguing about where it was, I looked at the doorway right beside me and realized we were standing right next to it.
That's it with the gouged, filthy adobe facade and filthy glass block window. The doors were chained, but were hanging open a couple of inches. Not exactly highly secure.
The ID is not exactly swank. It's not pretty to look at in most places. Yet it's still bloody expensive. And the Wah Mee, right in the middle of the ID, has remained vacant for 22 years due to respect and fear of ghosts and bad luck. There's something comforting about the fact that a neighborhood still has that kind of memory and that kind of heart. I hope it remains vacant forever.
Though it would be the ultimate 'infiltration' project. Just a little chain secures the door. Well, a little chain and a pack of demons from hell...
Monday, October 17, 2005
Strike a blow, gimme some dough
I haven't done the linky bit here at all, have I? And isn't that what a blog's supposed to be about?
So go here
And then check out 'A Form of War.' The message of which appears to be that you will be a true rebel, standing up and giving The Man a Finger if you buy their $500 hoodie. You can change the world by fattening up a designer who thinks you're an idiot.
The beautiful thing is that you just know people are buying it up, and for that exact reason. Because, as I've mentioned before in other venues, people are vermin.
So go here
And then check out 'A Form of War.' The message of which appears to be that you will be a true rebel, standing up and giving The Man a Finger if you buy their $500 hoodie. You can change the world by fattening up a designer who thinks you're an idiot.
The beautiful thing is that you just know people are buying it up, and for that exact reason. Because, as I've mentioned before in other venues, people are vermin.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
My Project For A New American Century, Step One
The Pharmaceutical Problem
Or, more specifically, the pharmaceutical advertising problem. For too long have gullible Americans been convinced that they needed to ask their doctor whether XXX-itrol was right for them. I believe I have arrived at a convenient solution to this problem.
They can still be advertised on TV. However, all warnings of side effects must now be read by rehabilitated New Jersey mobsters. In their own words. With no musical accompaniment. And with nothing on the camera but a zoomed-in headshot of the mobster.
"Some a youse guys is gonna have a, uhh, what the fuck? Holy shit, this shit says abdominal bleeding. Abdominal bleeding, Jesus fuckin' Christ here. This is a fuckin' hay fever medicine, here. You gonna have blood sprayin' outta your fuckin' intestines, just so's you don't sneeze so much. How fuckin' smart is that?"
"Eh, this here thing says that this shit might make your fuckin' eyeballs shrink. Do I look like I'm makin' this shit up? Your fuckin' eyeballs is gonna shrink up and fall outta your fuckin' head, all so's you can lower your fuckin' cholesterol. What are you, fuckin' stupid? Stop eatin' the two egg breakfast every day, you fat fuck, and then you can keep your fuckin' eyeballs in your head where they belong."
"Hey, listen up, you ignorant fucks! I understand, believe me, not bein' able to control your fuckin' bowel movements is fuckin' embarrassing. Okay? I got that. But holy fuckin' Jesus, read this shit with me here: this stuff helps you control your bowels, maybe, right? Maybe? But maybe it also makes your mother-fuckin' heart stop! Holy Christ! Your fuckin' heart! Don't be a asshole! Buy the fuckin' Depends diapers! Wear bigger pants and nobody'll know, honest to God! Would I fuckin' lie to you? I shit my pants just readin' this shit. I wouldn't take one a these pills if you wacked Johnny Straponi for me and put me in charge of the West Side Mob. Not that I do that kinda thing anymore."
Okay, so that's one problem solved.
Or, more specifically, the pharmaceutical advertising problem. For too long have gullible Americans been convinced that they needed to ask their doctor whether XXX-itrol was right for them. I believe I have arrived at a convenient solution to this problem.
They can still be advertised on TV. However, all warnings of side effects must now be read by rehabilitated New Jersey mobsters. In their own words. With no musical accompaniment. And with nothing on the camera but a zoomed-in headshot of the mobster.
"Some a youse guys is gonna have a, uhh, what the fuck? Holy shit, this shit says abdominal bleeding. Abdominal bleeding, Jesus fuckin' Christ here. This is a fuckin' hay fever medicine, here. You gonna have blood sprayin' outta your fuckin' intestines, just so's you don't sneeze so much. How fuckin' smart is that?"
"Eh, this here thing says that this shit might make your fuckin' eyeballs shrink. Do I look like I'm makin' this shit up? Your fuckin' eyeballs is gonna shrink up and fall outta your fuckin' head, all so's you can lower your fuckin' cholesterol. What are you, fuckin' stupid? Stop eatin' the two egg breakfast every day, you fat fuck, and then you can keep your fuckin' eyeballs in your head where they belong."
"Hey, listen up, you ignorant fucks! I understand, believe me, not bein' able to control your fuckin' bowel movements is fuckin' embarrassing. Okay? I got that. But holy fuckin' Jesus, read this shit with me here: this stuff helps you control your bowels, maybe, right? Maybe? But maybe it also makes your mother-fuckin' heart stop! Holy Christ! Your fuckin' heart! Don't be a asshole! Buy the fuckin' Depends diapers! Wear bigger pants and nobody'll know, honest to God! Would I fuckin' lie to you? I shit my pants just readin' this shit. I wouldn't take one a these pills if you wacked Johnny Straponi for me and put me in charge of the West Side Mob. Not that I do that kinda thing anymore."
Okay, so that's one problem solved.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The Specialist
"What the fuck is that?"
"It's a yo-yo."
"That's a fuckin' yo-yo?"
"Yeh. See? Here's the string."
"What the fuck kinda yo-yo is that?"
"It's a Duncan Satellite. It's a classic. Looks like a flyin' saucer."
"Like a fuckin' flyin' saucer?"
"Yeh. From the fifties. Or sixties, maybe. A flyin' saucer."
"Looks like a fuckin' pie tin."
"Yeh. Well, that's what a flyin' saucer looks like."
"What the fuck are you doin' wit it?"
"I'm sandin' it."
"You're fuckin' sandin' it?"
"Yeh. Sandin' the inside. To smoove it out."
"Ta fuckin' smoove it out?"
"Yeh. It's turned from a single piece a wood. But it's all rough inside, so it don't go smoove."
"It don't fuckin' go smoove?"
"Yeh. So youse gotta sand the insides. It ain't like plastic."
"It's fuckin' wood."
"That's right."
"So it ain't like fuckin' plastic."
"Yeh. That's right."
"I fuckin' know wood ain't like plastic. What you got the sandpaper on there?"
"It's a piece a aluminum. It's taped on."
"Fuckin' aluminum?"
"Yeh. That's right."
"Where the fuck you get a flat piece a aluminum like that from?"
"From a buddy a mine. He works with aluminum."
"What the fuck does that mean? He works with aluminum?"
"He works with aluminum. He cuts it. He makes parts with it."
"He fuckin' made that for you?"
"Yeh. For the sandpaper, so's you can get it inside and press down-"
"For a fuckin' yo-yo?"
"Yeh. My pops showed me when I was a kid. It's gotta be smoove in there, or it gets all snagged."
"Your fuckin' pops showed you that?"
"Yeh. Didn't your pops teach you nothin'?"
"Fuuuuuuuck."
"It's a yo-yo."
"That's a fuckin' yo-yo?"
"Yeh. See? Here's the string."
"What the fuck kinda yo-yo is that?"
"It's a Duncan Satellite. It's a classic. Looks like a flyin' saucer."
"Like a fuckin' flyin' saucer?"
"Yeh. From the fifties. Or sixties, maybe. A flyin' saucer."
"Looks like a fuckin' pie tin."
"Yeh. Well, that's what a flyin' saucer looks like."
"What the fuck are you doin' wit it?"
"I'm sandin' it."
"You're fuckin' sandin' it?"
"Yeh. Sandin' the inside. To smoove it out."
"Ta fuckin' smoove it out?"
"Yeh. It's turned from a single piece a wood. But it's all rough inside, so it don't go smoove."
"It don't fuckin' go smoove?"
"Yeh. So youse gotta sand the insides. It ain't like plastic."
"It's fuckin' wood."
"That's right."
"So it ain't like fuckin' plastic."
"Yeh. That's right."
"I fuckin' know wood ain't like plastic. What you got the sandpaper on there?"
"It's a piece a aluminum. It's taped on."
"Fuckin' aluminum?"
"Yeh. That's right."
"Where the fuck you get a flat piece a aluminum like that from?"
"From a buddy a mine. He works with aluminum."
"What the fuck does that mean? He works with aluminum?"
"He works with aluminum. He cuts it. He makes parts with it."
"He fuckin' made that for you?"
"Yeh. For the sandpaper, so's you can get it inside and press down-"
"For a fuckin' yo-yo?"
"Yeh. My pops showed me when I was a kid. It's gotta be smoove in there, or it gets all snagged."
"Your fuckin' pops showed you that?"
"Yeh. Didn't your pops teach you nothin'?"
"Fuuuuuuuck."
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Clean
"Baby, I was out with Jenny."
"No, you weren't. It doesn't matter where you were to me now, but you weren't out with Jenny."
"But I was."
"No, you weren't, goddammit. Do you know what you're doing? Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"If I can't tell the difference between you and the rest of them, what good is it?"
"What?"
"The lies, the lies, Jesus Christ, you think I won't see when you're lying? What do I do? Huh? What do I do all these hours that I'm gone? Huh? A bird doesn't know flying? A wolf doesn't know killing? I'm not going to recognize a lie?"
"You're so fucking melodramatic!"
"You lie, baby, and not particularly well. There's a look behind your eyes like you're taking yourself somewhere else while you're doing it. You breathe differently, deeper, slower, you think I don't know how you breathe when you talk? After all these years?"
"What, you gonna put me on the box--"
"I don't need the box to see you're lying. Just stop lying; stop lying. Tell me the truth, anything would be better than lies. If I can't tell the difference between you and them, then what good is it?"
"You don't mean that. You can't mean that. What if the truth was something awful, something you couldn't forgive? Huh?"
"It's not a trap, it's not a fucking trap. Just tell the truth. The lies are worse than anything else to me, don't you see that? Nothing you've done could be worse than the lie. It makes you just another liar, just another game to me! You want me to game you? You want to be gamed? You want to see what happens in that little room when I take liars into it and make them sing? Is that it? You're so curious what goes on in there that you want to see the business end? It might take me four hours with a good one, it might take me three eight-hour days in there to figure out a real master. I've been watching you for fifteen years."
"Shut the fuck up."
"You want to try your hand? Really? Should we count to three and start over, and pretend you're not my wife? And see how long it takes?"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
"I've been a son of a bitch for longer than I can ever apologize for, but for God's sake, if anything we ever had ever meant a thing to you, just come clean. We can work it out--we can work through it-"
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I do, I do, just listen to me, just tell me the truth, just start with the little things and the big things will come. I wouldn't tell you that if I were gaming you, I wouldn't tell you that, I'd just pull you into it, but I told you, I told you, we can still do this but you have to meet me half way, baby. Tell me where you were tonight."
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Say, man...
A couple of months ago, a colleague of mine from the right coast was sent out here to help me and another colleague out on a little project. Basically, he was underworked and we were overworked, so they sent us a slave for a couple of weeks. He was an excellent slave, and he knocked out a huge chunk of our more tedious work before he flew back out. Shortly thereafter, his immediate employers went belly-up in rather spectacular fashion and he disappeared off the radar. Much luck to you, C, if you're out there.
In those two weeks he was in Seattle, though, he had some odd little run-ins with the local strangeness. One of which was on Capital Hill, when he went there to do his laundry on a weekend. For those of you not in the know, parts of Capital Hill are Seattle's high-freakuency strangeness zone. He obviously walked into one of those areas.
C is a fellow who has traveled all over the world and likes everyone to know it. Ergo, he covers his luggage with crazy stickers from crazy places all over the world. As he exited a taxi with his suitcase full of dirty clothes, a crack-skinny gentleman carrying a plastic grocery bag stopped to chat with him.
"Where you been, man?" he asked.
"Oh, all over the place," answered C with a smile.
"Say, man," said the grocery bag man, "I got a hundred dollars worth a meat in this bag... You want some?"
C declined and, much to his discredit in my eyes, did not even look in the bag. How could you not look in the bag? Or ask what kind of meat? But C was in a strange city, so I guess I can't blame him too much.
Another friend of mine, who is a former Capital Hill resident and fellow conoisseur of the absurd, says that he is pretty sure he's seen this guy--we'll call him the Capital Hill Butcher--and that this is his usual, daily gig. So it wasn't just a one-time thing.
Which I think is good because, you know, some people like meat, but don't like supermarkets. Voila! The Capital Hill Butcher's niche market is born.
While I am aware that the sale of stolen meat is quite a regular occurrence, I am also aware that such sale usually takes place in bars and such, and the meat is usually sold in its original packaging. This is especially common in parts of New England with serious heroin problems, I've been told. I've even talked with a young man who sold shoplifted steaks in bars in Maine to pay for his drug habit. And then, after he kicked drugs (yea for him!) he continued his meat resale business to pay for his four-wheel-drive vehicle habit (boo for him!).
But I can't shake the image of the Capital Hill Butcher sitting at home with a drug habit, a roommate, and a meat grinder, thinking:
"I know I'm sitting on a gold mine here."
In those two weeks he was in Seattle, though, he had some odd little run-ins with the local strangeness. One of which was on Capital Hill, when he went there to do his laundry on a weekend. For those of you not in the know, parts of Capital Hill are Seattle's high-freakuency strangeness zone. He obviously walked into one of those areas.
C is a fellow who has traveled all over the world and likes everyone to know it. Ergo, he covers his luggage with crazy stickers from crazy places all over the world. As he exited a taxi with his suitcase full of dirty clothes, a crack-skinny gentleman carrying a plastic grocery bag stopped to chat with him.
"Where you been, man?" he asked.
"Oh, all over the place," answered C with a smile.
"Say, man," said the grocery bag man, "I got a hundred dollars worth a meat in this bag... You want some?"
C declined and, much to his discredit in my eyes, did not even look in the bag. How could you not look in the bag? Or ask what kind of meat? But C was in a strange city, so I guess I can't blame him too much.
Another friend of mine, who is a former Capital Hill resident and fellow conoisseur of the absurd, says that he is pretty sure he's seen this guy--we'll call him the Capital Hill Butcher--and that this is his usual, daily gig. So it wasn't just a one-time thing.
Which I think is good because, you know, some people like meat, but don't like supermarkets. Voila! The Capital Hill Butcher's niche market is born.
While I am aware that the sale of stolen meat is quite a regular occurrence, I am also aware that such sale usually takes place in bars and such, and the meat is usually sold in its original packaging. This is especially common in parts of New England with serious heroin problems, I've been told. I've even talked with a young man who sold shoplifted steaks in bars in Maine to pay for his drug habit. And then, after he kicked drugs (yea for him!) he continued his meat resale business to pay for his four-wheel-drive vehicle habit (boo for him!).
But I can't shake the image of the Capital Hill Butcher sitting at home with a drug habit, a roommate, and a meat grinder, thinking:
"I know I'm sitting on a gold mine here."
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