Oh, God. This again?

 
Masterpiece (of Feces) Theatre

So, just as Miss Styro signed up for an interview by da crab, so did I. This is one of those fun, interactive activities brought to you by your friends at The Internet. If you would like to play along and have me interview you, the following rules apply:

1. If you want to participate, leave me a comment saying “interview me.”
2. I will respond by asking you five questions; each person’s questions will be different.
3. You will update your journal with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

So, here we go.

ssc: You can relive any day in your life good or bad. Describe that day. What would you do differently / what would you do the same?

I’d relive last night so I could work on my dismount.

Oh! Wait, forget that.

Um, I’m not sure about reliving the good times, or changing the bad days because of how it might affect the future events. (You can’t open the space-time continuum and not fuck things up, sweetie.) If I were pressed, I’d like to go back to a recent car-dealership experience and force a different decision.

ssc: Street drugs: better to remain illegal or better to legalize and control?

Hmmm. When you say “street drugs,” I think of things like crack, crank, and really stepped-on heroin. I guess my semi-official position is that marijuana should definitely be legal, and possibly ‘shrooms. Really, I’d say most things that are naturally occurring substances (i.e., nothing made in a lab) are okay, but that opens the door to some opiates that are just too hardcore.

ssc: When is it okay to snoop through your child’s room / personal belongings / (web) journal?

I’m sure this is one that we will have to tackle sooner than we’d like to. I want to say “never,” but I know that’s not realistic. If we suspect she’s dealing drugs, plotting a mass murder, or hustling blow-jobs, you can bet we’ll be going through her shit.

ssc: Genetic engineering is widely used today to enhance animal feed, engineer heartier crops, aid in medical research, etc. Genetic engineering: providing for a brighter future or massive global eco-disaster in the makings?

If the genetic engineering is for making the marijuana better, I’m all for it. Okay, that was bad.

It’s twelve of one, half dozen the other. There’s good and bad . . . it’s not a black-and-white issue. I’m against animal testing, but manipulating the leafy stuff is probably not so bad, right? As long as such tampering with nature is used for good. (Oh, shit. That never happens. Can I change my answer?)

ssc: If you had to give up one of the following which one would pose the biggest personal hardship?
All forms of music.
All forms of transportation other than walking.
All kitchen appliances including stove, microwave, and fridge. Oh and you can’t order out either.

Sweet, gentle God. I could never give up music. Period.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:26 PM

 
Kamikaze the Greek
Here at Kamikaze Lunchbreak, we like to put it all out there, throw caution to the wind, lay it on the line. Okay, that’s bullshit. I’m a pretty careful guy, but I do like to shoot my mouth off in a not-fully-informed way.

So, in honor of college football season and my once-great alma mater (that’d be Florida State University, ‘holes . . . which rhymes with ‘noles), I have my ill-advised season predictions. I'm sure you'll all comb my archives at the end of the season to see how I did. I'll save you the trouble if I (choose to) remember that I did this.

First are five predictions for FSU, and then five for college football in general.

Florida State:

-- FSU will lose at least two games this season, but no more than four.

-- Most/all of FSU's losses will be indirectly (and accurately) blamed on Jeff Bowden.

-- FSU will beat either Miami or Notre Dame, but not both.

-- FSU will not win the ACC and, thus, will not go to a New Year's Day bowl.

-- FSU will finish the season ranked just inside the Top 20 (maybe in the 17-to-19 range).

In general:

-- Neither Miami nor Ohio State will be in the National Championship game.

-- Oklahoma and/or Notre Dame will be in there (the latter most likely due to some stupid BCS loophole).

-- Notre Dame will only lose one game this season; if they lose to FSU, it’ll be two games. (And I will continue to hate them, although I will respect them. Unless they play for the National Championship, and then I’ll just hate them.)

-- Kansas State players will be at home on New Year's Day, fucking their large, corn-fed girlfriends.

-- People will continue to whine that there isn’t a playoff system.

My apologies to those non-football fans and those who are large and/or corn-fed. (Queenie, I'm not baiting the fat people. And SSC, see how I incorporated the 'holes?)
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:33 PM

 
OooooOOooh, METH!
Take a break from the beer debate (see the comments from yesterday's post) and check this out. Funny stuff. Okay, disturbing stuff.

(Link from Pie by way of Queen Styro.)
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 11:50 AM

 
Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is
This is for all you marketing types out there. The Madison Avenue crowd.

With football season almost upon us, it’s time to make your commercials better and funnier. Because I like to be entertained when there’s a timeout, or after a team scores a touchdown.

And why should you listen to me? Because I will not buy your product(s) if your commercial(s) suck(s). I will also see to it that my followers avoid your product(s) as well.

Think I’m kidding? Okay, big shot. Solely based on the commercials, I will never by a Mazda. Those “Can you hear me now?” commercials? Yeah, I won’t be signing up for that shit, or whatever cell phone company Teri Hatcher is involved with. My wife and I need to pay off our Pier One account so I can avoid their store after they hired Kirstie Alley as a pitchperson.

We want funny commercials, like the "office linebacker." (That almost makes me want to buy some Reeboks.) Funny commercials make me consider buying shitty beer (but not even shittier beer). This extends to print ads, too. I think the Volkswagen ads are hilarious, so I’d consider buying one (again).

---------------

On a side note (probably not something I should admit) but, in response to an article on the homosexual influence on/takeover of Madison Avenue (yeah, it was a conservative piece), some friends and I started playing a game during commercial breaks of televised sporting events: Find the homosexual subtext. Yeah, sometimes it’s pretty blatant. But other times, you have to dig. Like the Docker’s commercial where the truck drives off a road, flies through the air in a corkscrew spin, and lands at a pool-side party.

Something to think about (or initiate with your drunk friends) the next time you’re stuck in front of the T.V.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 2:27 PM

 
Enter the Lunchbreak
It was a run-of-the-mill weekend here at the Lunchbreak . . . okay, less than average on the alcohol consumption, but still pretty tame. Well, except for Mia’s birthday party on Saturday. And date night (in the spirit of the ‘Poo) after that. Oh, and some poker Friday night. Besides all of that, I’m pretty positive nothing of note happened . . . on Sunday, anyway.

Anyway, here’s a smattering of things that have passed through my brain in the past . . . um, 108 hours:

-- There are two kinds of people in the world: Those who make their turns using both hands, keeping one wrapped around the wheel at all times, and those who use only palm pressure.

-- Whenever I go into just about any business establishment, I wonder when the last time someone had sex there. This weekend, I had that thought at the Hungry Howie’s pizza when I stopped by at a slow period. There was the manager guy and a reasonably attractive girl making pizzas. I totally knew that they were going to throw down at some point that afternoon.

-- I suck at chess. Switching from Go to chess (at Yahoo!) in a sad attempt to boost my self-esteem has not worked. At least I have cribbage to fall back on.

-- I can’t stop thinking about playing poker.

-- When people bring doughnuts or cookies or some other crappy confectionery to work, that shit disappears in a couple hours. But when someone brings a red velvet cake, no-one wants it. What the fuck? I’m not the one that brought it, so my feelings aren’t hurt. However, my stomach will be hurtin’ because I’m damn-sure eatin’ that motherfucker!

-- It’s refreshing to hear a Motorhead song on the radio that isn’t “Ace of Spades.” Okay, maybe refreshing isn’t the right word.

-- It’s strange how you e-mail Jules at her standard address, and she replies back (quickly) from another address. If you reply to her at that address, you get no response. Is that just coincidence?
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:28 PM

 
And the Falsie is . . .
I'm glad that everyone was so concerned about our young 'kaze friend getting his face shoved in a pile of dog shit. Unfortunately, that story is 100% true. And so is the one about my friend and I throwing dog shit at each other. Yeah, I don't need to hear what a "sick fuck" I am . . . really, I get that all the time.

The story about peeing on the VW seemed completely generic when I wrote it . . . inspired by a kid that I saw do something similar. But reflecting back, I remember my mother telling me I did something like that, too . . . but the details are a bit fuzzy.

Now I have to visit everyone else's sites to see how wrong I was (am) about the people I "know."
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:12 PM

 
Pick the “Falsie”
Rather than mine my latter-day (not Mormon) tales of drunken revelry for stories to trick you with today, I thought I’d go back a bit further . . . back to a day when yours truly was having apple juice and/or Strawberry Quik lunchbreaks.

Today, I’ll be pick-your-drink bathroom break. (You may notice a theme in my three stories.)

Now, two of these stories are true, and one of them is not true. Your job, gentle reader is to . . . Pick the “Falsie.” All will be revealed Monday.

Story 1
Bored, young adolescents will do almost anything to entertain themselves—play tug-of-war with a dead snake, execute dangerous stunts on their bikes, perform horrific experiments with small animals. Well, one time, on a nice summer day, my best friend and I stumbled into my next-door neighbor’s yard which, at the time, was littered with piles of dog shit (most of it was dried). So, of course, my friend and I started throwing the dog shit at each other. Some of the older pieces even survived for multiple throws. The softer ones? Well, those splattered and/or ended up stuck to my next-door neighbor’s house.

Story 2
Young children have a strange affinity for public nudity, don’t they? You’re always seeing naked kids running around without a care in the world. What about nudity combined with public urination? I once escaped from the house, fresh and wet from a bath, parents in pursuit. I ran to the Volkswagen Beetle parked out front and climbed onto the hood in broad daylight. Scattered people in yards nearby were watching me, perhaps egging me on. Maybe to my five-year-old psyche, it felt like a dare. And, just before my father could grab me off the car, I started to pee on the windshield . . . swinging side to side, ensuring full coverage.

Story 3
When I was around seven or eight years old, I used to play with one of the neighbors, Lance . . . a 14-year-old of very bad influence and/or upbringing. One day, we were in his yard and there was this pile of dog shit. A fresh pile of dog shit. He had this brilliant idea that he’d hold his face a few inches above it and see if I could push his head down. When he told me to “Go,” I pushed his head down with one quick burst. And the tip of his nose dipped down into the shit. For a brief moment, he looked at me with disbelief and anger . . . the tip of his nose covered with shit. And then, with rattlesnake quickness, he grabbed my head and shoved it (face first) into the pile of shit. I ran home crying, my face covered with dog shit. My parents, to say the least, were not at all pleased. And I don’t think I was allowed to play with Lance ever again.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:01 PM

 
It's the Little Things
Ah, the week of crises continues.

Last night, Michelle called me at band practice with a report of Mia's high fever and trouble sleeping. Pulling at her ears. Trouble breathing. With the help of Tylenol and extreme fatigue, she eventually went to sleep. Of course, her parents didn't sleep very well worrying about her.

This morning, I took her to the doctor. I was in and out of that place in 25 minutes. Let me repeat: 25 minutes . . . in and out of the pediatrician's office. And there was nothing really wrong with her--chest, ears, and throat all clear. Just teething, maybe a touch of the cold.

Do I have to blow someone for that one?

---------------

A couple people have recently posted about their one-year blog-i-versaries. Well, mine is this Saturday. Here is how it started.

---------------

Once again, I'm working on my stories for tomorrow's "Pick the Falsies" challenge. I'll try and post them around lunchtime, but I can't promise anything with my workload. I'll do my best.

---------------

If the world seems a little darker, it's because their are goth/olde wave/club/dance CDs in the mail to five or six of you . . . if you are even reading this. Anyway, the next CD was gonna be a survey of late-90s radio. And then it became what I was listening to between 1995 and 1999. And then it just got out of control. I was collecting songs (y'know, from my *coughcough* own CDs), and realized I had too many for one CD, so I bumped it to two CDs. I kept finding and remembering more songs. More collecting, arranging, cataloguing. Last weekend, I did a count of the songs for the CDs: 58. Fuck.

So, now, I'm gonna do three CDs. And since these are for me first and you second, I'll do a couple/few of each CD a handful of you will get one (randomly chosen). E-mail if you're interested.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:01 PM

 
Squirreling
I'm saving up all my great ideas for Friday's game, so there won't be any life-altering revelations here. Y'know, like on other days . . . when you come here and leave a better person.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 3:35 PM

 
Just Another Manic Monday
Yeah, so yesterday’s flow was interrupted by a call from my mother’s friend. She’d stopped by to take my mom to buy Mia a birthday gift. (Note: For those of you who are newer, mom had a stroke and isn’t supposed to drive . . . although she does for short distances. I berate her for this.)

Mom mentioned that she’d had some chest pain for a week or so. Mom’s friend became concerned and had her call her doctor, whose office told her to go the Emergency Room. Then her friend called me to meet them there. That was around 10:30 a.m.

Flash forward to seven hours later when she’s being released. The diagnosis was “chest wall pain.” (It’s musculoskeletal, or something.) Not her heart. Not a blood clot in her lungs. Now she says that the next time she’s having pain that doesn’t kill her shortly thereafter, she’s not going to tell anyone.

See, mom’s one of those people who doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone, especially after her stroke. When I was living with her years ago, she once woke me up in the middle of the night clutching her chest. “I’m sorry, honey, but I have a pain and I don’t know what to do.” Well, I didn’t either, so I called 911. (That’d be a funny tape to have. They asked if I wanted an ambulance. They asked if they should have the lights and siren, and I thought that the lights were enough at 2:30 in the morning.) I followed the ambulance to the Emergency Room. Turns out she was having an anxiety attack.

The false alarms are always the dramatic ones. It's the sudden emergencies that are somewhat more mudane and real. She had her TIA (stroke lite) when she was driving home from work. Her big stroke was in her sleep. She once gave herself an innocuous bruise on her leg and, within a week, her entire leg was swollen and pink; she was on antibiotics for a month.

My point here is that Fate's gonna deal my mom a shitty hand at some point. She's always gonna have someone around for the false alarms, but when the real deal comes along, she's going to be all alone . . . and/or sleeping, when her Lifeline will be no use.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 1:34 PM

 
Stats That Shape a Weekend (Revisited)
Ounces of beer consumed Friday night: over 90 (i.e., way too fucking much)
Hours of sleep Saturday morning: five (if I was lucky)
Hours spent hungover on Saturday: all of them

I started writing a post Saturday morning after my body, for some reason, allowed me to get up a little after 7 a.m. (I guess my body wanted to punish me.)

I started writing about Friday night—going to play trivia by myself at BW3 and how half the place was closed for remodeling and how they had a (very) limited draft beer selection and how I had two 23-ounce Miller Lites and how my friend didn’t show up (because, as I learned later, he was locked out of his car) and how I had to endure Miami Dolphin fans and how I decided to leave when my friend wasn’t there because I don’t wear a watch and the BW3 clock was about 30 minutes fast and how I went to Poor Paul’s Pourhouse and ordered a tiny 10-ounce Amber Bock and drunk-dialed another friend who was supposed to be there from a pay phone and how I played some more trivia and drank some more and got to witness a confrontation between my shiksa friend and the man-ass Jewish girl who just had a boob job and how we left there to see Girls on Film play at Floyd’s and how everything was foggy after that but I somehow made it home okay—but I stopped writing because my brain hurt.

---------------

Disclaimer: I was writing this post for Monday. I had to leave work unexpectedly, so I had to delay posting it. Sorry for the delay. More later.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:10 AM

 
The Weekend “To Do / Not Do” List

This weekend, I will:
-- think of three stories/vignettes for this game
-- start working out the details of this season’s football pool
-- start working on my birthday list
-- finish filling out the planning calendar(s) for this Fall, including Mia’s birthday party, show dates for our bands, the Mogwai show (in Tallahassee, no less!), the Interpol show, a beach trip, my birthday party, Richard and Allison’s wedding, and Michelle’s 30th birthday trip to New Orleans
-- start evaluating various possessions for their garage-sale potential
-- work on getting the house clean(er)
-- continue working on my recently rediscovered “novel”
-- drink a respectable amount


This weekend, I will not:
-- send fan e-mails to fellow bloggers that mention Matthew Perry or my up-and-coming commenting system
-- spend my personal money on anything but alcohol
-- drink as much as Princess Kitty (check out the tiara)
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 4:25 PM

 
And Now, a Little Something I Like to Call "Sweet Gentle Jesus, Why the Fuck am I so Uninspired?!!"
In addition to my own self-flagellation about my inability to write anything creatively, I’ve recently read other fellow bloggers decrying their lack of literary output. Like me, Whitey longs for the days of yore, when writing seemed so much easier to do. The ‘Poo is having her will to write beaten out of her by her thankless job. And CW . . . well, he just wants to write so he can be famous, but he still needs that extra motivation.

So, it is with this in mind that I look back on my own writing “career.”

Things started promisingly early in elementary school. I wrote a story for Halloween in which me and a few of my little friends were beheaded and/or hung. (Yes . . . I did.) Later, around fourth or fifth grade, I wrote a play; I can’t remember the plot, really, but there was a climactic food-fight scene that included one student attacking another with the flagpole that sat on the stage in the cafeteria. (The teachers were initially excited about putting on the play . . . until they read it.)

The years from sixth through ninth grades are my “dark years,” where I either can’t remember writing anything of note, or I was too swept up in learning new words like “boner” and “orgasm.” (For those of you who follow the theory of Historicism, my middle-school years started fashion-less but ended knee-deep in “hip.” I went from wearing a t-shirt that read “E.T. loves you” to wearing checkered Vans, parachute pants, Members Only jackets, and brightly colored Polo shirts with camouflage pants.)

My “career” picked up in tenth grade when creative writing was part of the English curriculum. That’s when I started writing poetry. I also started writing a series of stories about a troubled boy who periodically went on killing sprees.

During my senior year, I had British lit with Mrs. Bell, who changed my life. She’d read some stuff I submitted for a writing competition (no, I didn’t place . . . thanks for asking). She had me read “Porphyria’s Lover” by Robert Browning; in the poem, the narrator strangles his lover with her own hair. It’s a really beautiful poem. I started actually reading and enjoying poetry which, in turn, improved my own poetry. (Looking back, the change is very relative . . . my poetry went from doggerel to just plain bad. I collaborated on a vicious S&M poem with a couple friends around this time; it was called "Moral Hate/Love," and it divided the after-school writing club . . . yeah, big controversy.)

The college years were even more fruitful. I discovered more poets to admire, including the two most influential writers on the young 19-year-old Scott: Sylvia Plath and my friend Joe. Joe sang for our band at the time (drowning in violets . . . thanks for asking). His lyrics were inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez novels, and they were brilliant. Around that same time, I was taking writing-related courses at community college. I was churning out poetry . . . 10 or 12 poems a month. I was out of control.

When I got into FSU, I had transferred as a junior non-major. I was trying to get into the media production program. And then I settled for general communications. And then I realized I’d have to actually talk to people I didn’t know, so I declared myself a creative writing major.

The creative output continued to grow, and the quality got better. During my first summer with no classes (not no class, ass), I was going to write a screenplay . . . I still have the basic plot structure in my head.

By the time I graduated from college, I was a half-decent writer . . . in poetry anyway. In the next couple years, I kept writing fiercely, but things started to taper off after that. In 1995, I started a novel that sat around for until about 23 months ago. (The fact that it opened with a plane crashing into an office building has permanently shelved that incarnation.)

Michelle and I got engaged and moved to Upstate New York. Even though I had much more time (and less friends), I was making even less time for writing. And then I wasn’t writing much at all.

We started a literary journal to get things going again. That helped, for a short time. But eventually, the journal faded along with the writing.

So here we are. I haven’t written more than a poem or two in the past year. There have been fragments and good lines and stanzas, but nothing complete. I’ve thrown down some of these pieces in the form of song lyrics, but I need more than that.

Maybe we need a blogger-based writing support group. Or some sort of creative exchange. Whaddya say? Anyone have any ideas?
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 2:25 PM

 
Easy Access
In the continuing effort to get my comments to work properly, I've given Leo access to my Blogger account. So, if there's a post here about the time I anally violated someone's cat, or drank a shot glass full of semen, or engaged on some serious felching action with an Episcopal minister . . . well, Leo wrote it.

Once all this is straightened out, I'll be back with something nice and wholesome. At least, more wholesome than that first paragraph. Ew.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:21 PM

 
Moving
Yeah, for those of you who care, I'll be moving to D.C. to work for the 'Poo. It seems her editing workload has gotten out of hand. And now her boss is yelling at her, which sucks.

. . .

. . .

I'm just fuckin' with you. As much as I'd like to help out, I can't uproot my family at a moment's notice and leave town. But you should send some love to the 'Poo.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:42 AM

 
I’m Back from Wandering, yet Still Wandering
Mia is in daycare once again, and I’m back in the office. I spent most of last week moving from place to place like some kind of Bedouin. (Mia’s still just crawling, so she probably appreciates clean and/or carpeted floors, which we do not have.) I spent a lot of time at my mom’s and Michelle’s parents. I went to my dad’s for a few hours one day. I came to work to tie up some loose ends when I could. And I came here when I could.

---------------

Mrs. Dayment asked about the back story regarding my dad. Some of it is here.

I’ve talked a lot recently to people (including his current wife) about how disconnected I am from him, and why that might be. And now he’s looking very sickly. About a year and a half ago, he dropped 25 or 30 pounds in a few short weeks. Everyone was sure he had cancer, but the (limited) screening the doctor(s) did didn’t reveal anything other than early emphysema. But his health continues to deteriorate. He’s drinking a 12-pack of beer a day, and smoking Godknowshowmany cigarettes.

I just can’t feel sorry for him. I can’t change him, and I don’t really care enough to try. It’s sad, but that’s the bottom line.

---------------

I received word from Leo that my comments are set up and ready, so they should be installed (as you read this). Things may be a little touch-and-go at the outset, but I’m sure any kinks will be worked out wid’a quickness.

---------------

This past Friday was poker night. A friend of a friend organized quite an event: 21 participants, lots of money, and no-limit Texas Hold ‘Em. I’d never played in a poker tournament, and it was a lot of fun. Michelle and I each lost $20, but we did okay. Our friend Richard made it to the final table and was out until after 5 in the morning. I guess by losing $20 each, we earned the right to go to bed before midnight.

---------------

So, I’m in exactly the same place I was a week ago as far as the CDs are concerned . . . still have to burn the ones I’m sending out. The lucky recipients? Cait, SJ, Kat, ssc, Rob, jab (my blogless sister-in-law), Maria (bass player from my band), and the chicks from Girls on Film.

The CDs will be put together this week and in the mail by the weekend. That’s my story right now, anyway.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:44 PM

 
Chronicle of a Death Foretold
It's been a busy week of trying to keep track of Mia. Next week should be back to "normal."

Thanks to those of you who participated in the quiz . . . all two of ya. Kat was getting a CD anyway, and I guess I'll give one to my sister-in-law (the other respondent).

I went to have lunch with my dad yesterday . . . more on that later (maybe). These details should say a lot, though:
-- We ate at a place called Riverside in St. Marks. It's an open air bar/restaurant, and it was raining.
-- There was a snake on its way into the dining area. Our waitress caught it and released it in some bushes near the river. She was bitten in the process. She cleaned her hands with a packet sanitizer and put on a band-aid.
-- My dad is ashen-looking, and we think he has cancer.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 3:48 PM

 
No, We Really like Death!
I got bored trying to come up with ten questions, so I stopped at six. I'll have at least one CD to give away, maybe two. "Winners" will also be qualified for the big birthday-CD giveaway in September.

Now, put on your thinking-cloak!

1. Robert Smith is to The Cure as ______________ is the Sisters of Mercy.
a. Al Jourgenson
b. Trent Reznor
c. Andrew Eldritch
d. Wayne Hussey
e. Flea

2. Which band and club dance hit are not correctly matched?
a. Front 242, “Rough Sex”
b. Nitzer Ebb, “Join in the Chant”
c. My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, “Sex on Wheels”
d. Peter Murphy, “Cuts You Up”
e. Nine Inch Nails, “Head like a Hole”

3. Which of the following bands does not belong?
a. Pailhead
b. Lard
c. Ministry
d. Laibach
e. Revolting Cocks

4. Alan Wilder from Depeche Mode formed this industrial-dance band and used multiple guest vocalists on its full-length debut, Bloodline:
a. Curve
b. Slowdive
c. Creation
d. Recoil
e. Echobelly

5. All of the following statements about the Cranes are true, except:
a. Their singer sounds somewhat like a young girl.
b. They eventually became Switchblade Symphony.
c. They opened for The Cure during the Wish tour of 1992.
d. They did a soundtrack for a Jean-Paul Sartre play.
e. They once recorded a song called “Pillow Panther.”

6. Which of the following bands does not belong?
a. Love and Rockets
b. Tones on Tail
c. Bauhaus
d. The Chamleons
e. The Bubblemen

E-mail your answers because the comments are still under construction. Actually, Enetations wasn't even fucking working last time I tried. Man, they're right up there with Haloscan.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 9:56 PM

 
We like Death
The quiz is still coming. Still. It's in the works. Really. But the (master) CD is done, and the title is, We like Death. Eat that, fuckers.

I've tried to patch up the template to fix the (current) commenting system. Word has it that a valiant knight in shining armor has offered to let me use his commenting system. That is so boss. Thanks to everyone else who offered assistance with my template woes. You rock.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 9:13 PM

 
Er . . . Um . . . the Fuck?
I'm not quite sure what's going on here. If you turned up looking for the promised quiz, it's not quite done. Sadly, it won't really be that neat when it does show up. But, should you stumble upon it, amuse us, won't you?

So, since installing the codes for my new comments, I've lost all of the old comments and my template's fucked up. Now each post is indented . . . further as you go back in time. And all the comments are the same (three) comments. It's like my whole 'blog is one continuous post.

Shit.

I'm not promising to blow anyone who helps me figure this one out, but . . . y'know, I'd be mighty appreciative.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:54 PM

 
I'm a Bitch, Blah, Blah, Blah-Blah
Two things:
-- My commenting software all-of-a-sudden wanted me to give them money. For people having to retype their info every time, that shit should be free. So I switched. If this one works out (especially if I don't lose all my goddamn comments), maybe I'll give them money. Maybe.
-- We played in Tallahassee's Most Wanted 3 last night. Didn't win. There was some shady stuff going on with one of the judges, though. Bad taste in mouth (outside of residual Yuengling/morning breath combo). I shouldn't be surprised, I know, but that doesn't mean I can't complain . . . the douchebag judge in question. Oh yeah, I'm gonna bring it.

More later. Tater.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 8:17 AM

 
In Da Club
It was a coming of age.

I was 20 when I first started going to Club Park Avenue. It was the best club in Tallahassee at the time. And, like any good club, it started as a predominately gay bar.

CPA had a “goth” night on Monday nights. On Wednesdays, there was a ridiculous college night where drinks were 50 cents and the place would get packed and they’d open the upstairs dance floor at midnight for new wave / olde wave / darkwave / industrial hits. (Downstairs was booty music where, on more than one occasion, frisky college students engaged in intercourse on the dance floor; two students were caught once and it was big news in the local paper.)

Having spent years in high school and early in college not fitting in, it was nice to go somewhere and be accepted. I’d get dressed in all black, tease my hair into a suitable mess, and meet up with my friend, Aaron. One of us would have the underage-contraband bottle of Captain Morgan, which we’d pass back and forth in the car outside the club until it opened. One time, Aaron (who was 18) literally drank until he had to open the door and throw up. And then he closed the door and drank some more. I passed on drinking any more after him that night.

Of course, we knew the DJs. We’d even hang out in the DJ booths, picking out records, even bringing some of our own stuff for them to spin. The night after my 21st birthday (a Monday), I took a list of five requests to Mike to play. One of them was “Trophy” by Siouxsie and the Banshees. I remember when he played “Don’t Fall” by the Chamleons I leapt in the air like a ballet dancer on PCP and started thrashing and stomping around on the dance floor by myself.

And thinking back, I spent a lot of time on the dance floor by myself.

Monday nights were sparsely populated. In addition to the dedicated homosexuals that would represent at the club, there were a couple dozen black-clad denizens lurking about. The dance floor itself would be empty for large chunks of time, especially early in the night. But when Mike would throw on a popular goth/dance song, the kids would descend on the floor like vampires encircling a defenseless virgin in your favorite Anne Rice novel.

Life at the club was mostly fun, but there were hard truths to be learned. For instance, never bank on a relationship that begins at the club lasting very long or going beyond the bedroom (or the club). I met lots of girls (and women) at the club, and dated a few (or many) of them. And none of them lasted. Not the girl I met on my 21st birthday and whose car I chased down the street to get her number. Not the older one who was separated from her husband. Not the one who ran off with my Bauhaus CD when she started fucking her ex-boyfriend. Not even the one who just wanted to be friends because, to date me, she’d have to be physically attracted to me . . . even though she didn’t necessarily want to sleep with every guy she dated.

I didn’t meet Michelle at a club, so I guess we’re meant to last. But that’s another story.

Drinking was a popular side-story. I’ve passed out (more than once) at the club. One time, I just fell asleep across a row of chairs. Another night, I blacked out while dancing (after way too many 50-cent kamikazes) and came back to reality throwing up out the door of Michelle’s car driving down Monroe Street. Many of my most fascinating drinking adventures took place in or around a club.

The club nights later switched to other nights and other clubs. Tallahassee couldn’t really sustain more than one “goth” night. For a brief time, it migrated from CPA to The Louvre. Other clubs had cool nights that came and went: The Late Night Library, Waterworks (original), Club 506 / Nightline, and Clyde’s & Costello’s (very briefly . . . that’s where the sorority girl requested “Tainted Love” and our DJ friend played the very un-danceable Coil version). I kept going to the clubs off and on until we left Tallahassee in 1996.

We moved back to town in 1999. I know the DJs who do the most popular “goth” and retro nights in town . . . both of which are held at predominately gay clubs.

And I don’t dance much any more. But when I do . . . watch out!

---------------

The CD is done. The quiz is coming Monday (I hope). I don’t know how many CDs will be available to give away, because I’ve promised out a goodly bunch.
shaken and poured by Scott-san at 12:46 PM