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Monday, June 30, 2003
Monday, Monday (as Sung by The Mamas and the Papas)
Didn't they do that song?

Fairly quiet weekend. Actually, that's a lie. Went to a pregnancy-congratulatory party where Girls on Film were the last-minute entertainment. (Congrats, Mrs. Taylor!) I took pictures of The Girls beforehand, and at the party. The official score for the weekend was 1 beer, 2 kamikazes, and 3 Mike's Hard Lemonade Cranberries . . . so, that's 50% gaybo, right?

I've been spending more and more lunchbreaks away from my computer. For instance, today I bought this guitar at lunch. Tomorrow, I'll probably be getting my oil changed.

So, I'm busy. But, luckily, I thought to bring some recently received mix CDs with me so I wouldn't have to listen to garbage-ass commercial radio.

Friday, June 27, 2003
Yeah, I hardly had a lick of work to do all day. However, I did learn some skills in the art of photo-hosting, finding my way around my free ISP web space. Could this mean that pictures might start appearing here?


Have a spiffy weekend, everyone.

Thursday, June 26, 2003
The RIAA is My Enemy II
I've been getting really worked up over the course of the morning. Yeah, I really mailed that letter this morning. (And, no, I didn't put my full name or my full address . . . although I almost did to dare them to fucking bring it!)

I wish I had the sac to organize a grassroots campaign to keep people from buying major-label releases (new), to keep people from tuning in soulless commercial radio stations . . . to avoid supporting the status quo that we are so fucking beholden to. And to do all this without advocating stealing. I mean, just ignore the major labels altogether. Don't buy, don't download. Just tune them out entirely.

Leo's post today was about spreading disinformation (in a humorous way). And that got me thinking of some disinformation that I've been thinking about, and I was wondering how much truth there is in it:

The RIAA (and their major-label partners) want to keep you from file-sharing because they're afraid that you'll discover independent artists that are superior to their glossy, homogenized, market-tested tripe and you'll start buying records by Death Cab for Cutie and Juno and shunning the latest from their bands.

I know Queen Styro is on board. Any other takers?

The RIAA is My Enemy
Read this article. Then read my post on Enemyster. (It's the long one to Cary Sherman.)


Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Scott Speaks Out Against Blogging with a Two-Beer Buzz
Good God. Michelle leaves me alone for a few hours, I get a couple beers in me, and WHAMMO . . . instant drug confessions. I literally wrote that as I was typing it, really on the fly.

I felt a disclaimer was needed.

I am a father . . . in most senses of the word. I haven't partaken in any illegal substances in at least a couple years, and then it was the one that should be legal anyway. And I'll never do acid again (I promise).

Really, I'm not tweaked out, strung out, or stoned even a little (right now).

I think this calls for a debate: Which is more damaging to the health, culture, and general well-being of the United States population . . . alcohol or marijuana?

Tuesday, June 24, 2003
I Sit on Acid*
I'm drinking Red Stripe. I just finished reading a great post by the ever-impressive Mrs. Jules. It reminded me of this:

I was working at McDonald's. It was my senior year in high school. Now, I'd been curious about drugs because all my friends were doing them. So, it was kind-of timely and appropriate the way my friend, J., approached me with a proposition.

"Hey, man, remember that $5 I owe you?"

"Yeah . . ?"

"Well, would you be interested in a hit of acid? I have two, and I could give you one."

"Um, okay."

I think we made the official hand-off right there in front of the fry station.

A week or so later, my best friend (A.) and a couple underclassmen punk rocker/goths skipped school with me. We went to this girl's house; we'll call her Jen. Bored teenagers, parents at work, blah, blah, blah. I was on a mission. I dropped around 10 o'clock.

We hung at the house for a while. Nothing was happening.

"Dude, this isn't doing anything. We should go to J.'s house and tell him." J. was the guy who "sold" me the blotter. The fact that I didn't register that he was in school at the time should've been the first sign that I was on my way.

We piled in my car and drove to J.'s house, where I found myself face to face with his mother.

"Is J. here?"

"No, he's at school."

You probably get the feeling that I was (or am) slightly retarded. Well, perhaps.

We drove back to Jen's. I sat on the floor against the wall. I wasn't feeling strange. I was starting to get bored. My friends were running around the house, looking for ways to entertain themselves. I was about to become the entertainment, and I didn't even know it.

I stood up, and that's when it happened. It was like someone hit a switch, turning everything surreal. The ceiling was moving in waves. The room suddenly felt auditorium-sized. There was a lot of reverb on people's voices. I think I grabbed my head, closed my eyes, and yelled out an expletive (or two).

A. wanted to go to the store. I had the only car. A stick-shift that only I could drive. We went to a nearby (thankfully) convenience store. I stood drooling at the counter while A. went to get a couple 2-liters of Coke. The counter-person looked at me like I was retarded. (I was retarded, at the time.)

Out at the car, A. asked if he could drive. I threw him the keys. When we got in, I tried to explain how to drive a stick-shift. No luck. I drove us back to the house.

They ordered a pizza. They fucked with me. (I called my mom at work, and another secretary told me that she was away from her desk. When I got off the phone, A. said, "You just told whoever that was to 'fuck off!'") The pizza toppings taunted me. The butterflies on the shower curtain taunted me. The latticework on the wicker chair taunted me.

Around that time, our school was getting out. I was very open to suggestion, so they convinced me to go back to school to pick up some friends, which I did. I was probably peaking around this time.

Driving under the influence of hallucinagens is a bad idea. My VW Beetle was transformed into a bus. We picked up a girl and, I swear, she was sitting in the back seat 20 feet behind me. Cars were passing me in stop-motion. Somehow, we made it home alive. That's when I realized I had a guitar lesson that night.

I got out the music book to practice my jazz syncopation. Notes were moving all over the page. The neck of the guitar was rubber. I called my dad and told him that I wasn't feeling well and that we should cancel my guitar lesson.

I started to come down that evening. To help me through, I called my cheerleader ex-girlfriend to talk to me. But the best part was the waterbed.

My parents had bought me a super-single waterbed. I helped my dad put it together while I was coming back to reality. We filled it with warm tap water. We covered it with slippery, silver, satin sheets.

When I climbed into bed that night, it felt like a womb . . . safe, warm.


* "I Sit on Acid" is a song by the Lords of Acid. It will appear on the next mix CD in July . . . a dance/club mix. You should probably avoid doing acid, especially if you have things to do, or it's night time, or if you're doing it by yourself either alone or in a group of non-acid doers.

You should also avoid writing about acid while drinking Red Stripe.

Where Do I Go From Here?
Why do I feel so put-upon? Anyone got an answer for that one?

Just when I thought things were slowing down at work, and I could get back to some beneficial slacking-off, some unscheduled projects have popped up. Dammit.

Anyway, change of format coming up. Maybe. I wasn't gonna make a big deal about it. I mean, it might not change anything . . . just the way I approach this. I find myself having less to say. Or having less time to say things. So, future posts may be either short and snappy, or long and well-thought-out.

No, I'm not quitting. I just aspire to be more than I am.

The bottom line: I'm tired of writing boring dreck just so I can post something.

Just forget you read this. And pretend (for me) that the quality is improving, even if it's not.

Thanks in advance for your help in this matter.

Monday, June 23, 2003
I'm so Sure
After this weekend, here are five things I'm pretty sure of:

-- The Brits at Squawkbox have something against me, or the other people using their commenting software for free. (I keep thinking, If this happens one more time . . !)

-- Slim Fast's Cappuccino Delight is no delight.

-- A Wal-Mart on the "good side" of town is still a Wal-Mart.

-- Lenox Lewis was going to lose that fight. Wait, did I watch a fight?

-- German porn music from the 1970s makes a good soundtrack for cleaning the house in the early 21st Century.

Friday, June 20, 2003
The Post Office Awaits
Hola, kids. Squawkbox has finally relented and is now allowing my page to load, even if the comments are stuck-in-the-mud slow. I've been reading posts and not writing, so I got nothin' for ya.

Actually, I have CDs for some of you. They're packaged up and going in the mail tomorrow (or Monday). One of them may go a little later, though (sorry, Jen).

I'm having one of those "I-sound-bored-on-the-phone-and-my-wife-thinks-I-don't-love-her" days. Maybe it's the rain. Maybe it's the lack of work. Or the fact that I haven't heard good music at work for weeks.

Yeah, that has to be it. Commercial radio is rotting my fucking brain right out.

But I do love ya, honey. I love you the most . . .

Thursday, June 19, 2003
How We Get from Pier One to Skinheads
When Michelle and I got married, we asked for gift certificates to Pier One so that we could buy some furniture. Using those, plus opening our own account and going totally red, white, and blue American (i.e., going hellishly into debt), we purchased an entire living room set, plus some. We also purchased a bed from Eddie Bauer and an entertainment system from Sears.

That was five-and-a-half years ago. The bed is still holding up. So is the entertainment center, although I'm tired of looking at it. But the Pier One stuff? Well, its time has come.

We recently won a bid on Ebay for an entire living room set. It's a five-piece black leather (composite) set. We could have it in the next several weeks. So, now we're rearranging to prepare for the new arrivals. And that meant that the Pier One stuff is being phased out.

Actually, the pampas chair and ottoman are already out by the street. Both had been repeatedly victimized by our cat (Archie). No amount of vinegar was gonna help them (thanks for the tip, Queen Styro). Those, along with a cat throw, were filling our house with a distinct piss smell. The couch has taken a couple shots (sprays), but we can ride that one out until the new stuff arrives.

It seems that if we stay in one place long enough, we get into a habit of rearranging our entire abode every six to twelve months. We started the process last night. In addition to ejecting the chair and ottoman, we moved the black bookshelves from our office into the living room. Next to those (on the back wall), we moved my record collection and most of my CDs (also on black shelves). Now the back wall of our living room is pretty much black . . . with books, records, and CDs.

Another thing: We have a moderately sized collection of books, and many of them are really good. And many of those are unread. I think we both recognize that we need to read more; Michelle commented that that was part of the reason she wanted the shelves into the living room. I was rereading One Hundred Years of Solitude and got bored. When I get it back from my mom, I'm probably going to reread Memoirs of a Geisha. I got the latest A.M. Homes collection for my birthday last year, so I need to read that. After that . . . well, I know a fag hag who's full of suggestions.

Oh, skinheads.

Here. My boss e-mailed me the link. Funny stuff.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003
The Ever-Popular Vacation Bible School Freak Out
I've found myself getting angrier lately. Most of it is solitary hostility directed at inanimate objects. For instance, this morning, I was late for work because Mia had an appointment. (No, that didn't make me mad, Professor.) I couldn't get my key to work in one of the front doors (the side that's always locked). And my lunch fell off the brick ledge. And I kicked the wall. Walking to the other door, I had the urge to slam my lunch against the wall (I didn't). But my soda must have noticed my pre-violent state and jumped free of the plastic bag my lunch was in. When I got inside, I noticed the soda was missing. I went back outside and saw that it had fallen and rolled under a car, leaving a spiraling trail of sprayed soda. Of course, I had to retrieve said soda, grip it tightly, and hurl it at some bushes.

I've been doing things like this for a while . . . outbursts that solve nothing and, generally, make me feel stupid. And I can trace all of this back to the middle-school days.

I went to summer camp for four years, starting after fifth grade and leading up to my entrance into high school. It was a Christian summer camp, so there was always one week of Vacation Bible School. (I think my final year of summer camp, my family planned an out-of-town trip for that week . . . at my request.) For those of you who've never been, VBS is exactly what the name implies: Round-the-clock Bible study, with a break for lunch.

One day, we were in a semicircle around the Bible-study leader/camp counselor. I was sitting next to my friend, whose name I can't recall. Anyway, as we were talking about the Bible, or playing some Bible-related game, I had a flashback to a day (or week) earlier, when my friend had accidentally slammed my finger in a locker after a swim activity.

I had a psychic break . . . that's the only way to describe it. So, right there in front of everyone, during the relative calm of Bible study, I grabbed my friend around the neck and started throttling him. My memory of it is pretty hazy, but I do remember him looking very surprised . . . and then punching me in the face. My next memory is being in the hallway with the counselor, crying uncontrollably.

I don't think I was friends with that guy anymore after that.

My Life is Just One Great Big Endorsement Deal . . . or Not
I won't ever get a $90+ million deal like LeBron James. Shit, I won't get even a five-spot to blog about a product. But I had a recent Consumer Reports moment.

See, it started at Christmas. Michelle got me a some razor / CD wallet / shaving kit combo thing as a stocking gift. (Not blaming or judging; it was one of those I'm-done-shopping-oh-one-last-thing gifts.) It was a glorified promo item from Gillette. Now, I use their Mach III Turbo to shave with because the disposable razors weren't cutting it (you can take that literally, if you wish). Anyway, it came with a travel-size can of Gillette's shaving gel.

Now, I'm Utilitarian. I use whatever I have on hand, unless it becomes a problem. Well, I've used Edge shaving gel for years. When my can went empty, I started using the handy Gillette gel. Well, it started crudding up my razor. I couldn't just rinse it off when I was done. The Gillette gel combined with my facial hair in a very obstructive way. And when that can ran out, I switched back to Edge and it's been smooth sailing ever since (although I did nick myself this morning).

There you have it. Guys, if given the choice between Gillette and Edge shaving gel, pick Edge.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast, which is hopefully more entertaining. (For me, it's my mom sobbing on the phone. Dear God.)

Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Just so We're Clear
The CDs are going out later this week to the following people: Chuckles, Vectorgirl, Jules, Mrs. Dayment, JenB, Queen Styro, Susan, and Leo. My brother-in-law (Spaceghost) is getting a copy, too.

I have to go close on another mortgage refinancing at lunch. More later . . . maybe.

Oh, yeah. Just say "No" to (stepped-on) drugs.

Monday, June 16, 2003
I Don't Like the Drugs, but the Drugs Like Me
Here's the deal: You match the substance* with the correct effect**.

The substances:
a. rum
b. tequila
c. pot
d. LSD / blotter / acid
e. mushrooms

The effects:
1. May cause someone to have the following exchange with a friend while driving down a canopied driveway: "You're too close!" "Stay on target." "Loosen up!" "Stay on target." Conversation may even end with someone saying, "You watch out for those fighters, I'll watch out for the towers!"

2. May cause someone to hallucinate (if enough is consumed), or have a "deep" conversation with someone else (a future spouse, perhaps) on a trampoline. May also cause someone (else) to name a dead worm "Monte." (Said worm may have been from a bottle of liquor.)

3. May cause someone to spend all available cash on food from Taco Bell. Or claim that Twinkies are "the best food I've ever tasted" while playing Super Mario Kart on Nintendo 64. Or claim that his/her stomach has "negative volume," or that his/her "knees are fuzzy."

4. May cause someone to open-mouth kiss someone else who has fallen face-down in his/her own vomit.

5. May cause someone to appear zombie-like during sex. Or see/hear butterflies on a shower curtain laughing while he/she urinates, or toppings rearranging themselves on a pizza, or cars passing by in stop-motion. However, it's doubtful that this will cause someone to be better at Tetris or Archanoid.


* Kamikaze Lunchbreak does not advocate the use of illegal substances. Well, not LSD anyway. Probably not tequila either, unless it's really good. Other substances are probably okay . . . in moderation and not while driving.

** I can safely say that, while these are all based on personal experiences, I was a witness . . . in one or two cases, anyway.

Friday, June 13, 2003
Kick It!
Got a CD in the mail yesterday from everyone's favorite sassy hoochie-momma-banged hipster, Styro. To quote an older post of hers, it'll "rock [your] tits off!" I think many of the people reading this probably received one also, but it was cool nonetheless. So, I'm adding her to my list of recipients for KL, Volume 3 . . . and not just because she's sending her neglected flat iron to my gay ass.

So, my CD's done. I did 10 copies last night, and seven are spoken for. That leaves . . . yeah, you do the math!

Here's the deal: Barring any unfortunate incident/accident, I will be posting next Monday between 12 and 1 EST (or is that EDT?). If it turns out that it's a quiz, merely participating qualifies you to receive a CD. If it's a regular, standard-issue post, just respond. The first three people get CDs.

Now you've been warned. I don't want to hear any whining that you didn't have any notice, or you'll get a copy of KL, Volume 4. And you probably won't want that as much as this one . . . a blended mix of 80s hits and more recent fun hits, broken into three "sets" punctuated with bits of silliness. The CD features four King Missile songs, my favorite song of the 80s, songs with "ice" or "winter" or "cool" in the title, and songs with "sex" or "penis" or "cock" in the title.

You know you want some. See ya Monday.

Thursday, June 12, 2003
Just Call Me "Eight Ball" (Oh, That Was Bad)
I got my hair cut during my "lunchbreak." I recently decided on a new look. It happened while watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade a few weeks ago. River Phoenix has (er, had) such cool hair. So, that's where I'm headed.

How is that different from my current Flock of Seagulls 'do? Well, it's longer, and longer is better, right?

It's straighter, too. Mr. Steve (hair guy/high school colleague) took the "Seagull" right out of my hair with a flat iron.

"How much is that thing?" I asked.

"Well, this is the kind Jennifer Anniston used to straighten her hair on Friends. It retails for about $200."

(long pause) "Do they have a more consumer-friendly model?"

So far, the Tallahassee humidity hasn't re-Flocked my hair. I look halfway stylish. And all the way "gaybo."


A few minutes ago, the IS guy in our office was making copies of his "white paper" (I called it his "Manifesto") for switching the entire company over from Microsoft to Linux.

Yeah, that's what I thought.


Rather than reverting back to being Ambitionless, I need to get going on some of these projects I have floating around in my head. Or half-finished in my writing notebook.

I solicited poems for a journal that never happened. I've pretty much decided that it's going to come out this fall (ya hear that, M--- . . . Ms. Solo?). It'll probably be the last issue unless, while putting it together, I feel this sudden rush of creativity and nostalgia for my quasi-fundamentalist poetry fanaticism. (Okay, so I was never that fanatical about poetry. Sue me.)

I also have a novel idea that I've actually started. It's outlined (kind of). I often have new revelations on character development, plot points, literary allusions, and scenes. I've thought about trading in our old desktop for an even older laptop so that I could write on the go. But I never really go anywhere.

I still haven't started writing that hateful letter to the RIAA. But when/if I do, you'll hear (or read) all about it.

I contacted the editor of The Simon about doing an article for them. Okay, actually, I just asked if they accepted submissions. (He said "Yes.") I have an idea for something to write. I've just been too busy to do it (at work).


I'm working on a new quiz. I'm probably going to burn a handful of CDs (Kamikaze Lunchbreak, Volume 3) tonight. These two things may or may not be related.

So far, Jules, Mrs. Dayment, and Chuckles are shoe-ins to receive a copy. Vectorgirl, too, if I get a copy of her latest concoction. I was only going to do a few copies, but it's going to be too fun to hold down. Later summer volumes will be less fun, and I'll just do less of those.

Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Grunt and Trickle
I was over at JR's site, and he had a post that touched on Depends Adult Undergarments. That reminded me of something . . . quite the opposite.

At my previous job, there was a V.P. who apparently had some sort of prostate problem that made it difficult for him to urinate. When he was using the urinal, he would lean against the wall making all sorts of noises to let everyone nearby know that he had to really work at it just to get a few drops out.

Of course, my friend and I gave him a nickname: Grunt and Trickle.

The guy wasn't very pleasant, either. He always had a really sour look on his face. After peeing next to him, I understood why.

Sometime later, though, he seemed to be more human. And, sure enough, the next time we were in the bathroom together, he was pissing like a champ. I remember feeling very happy for him. Because no man should have difficulty peeing.

I had an allergic reaction (I think) to Nonoxynol-9 once, and I thought I was pissing fire.

In summary: The ability to "pee freely" should be a right, not a privilege.

Tuesday, June 10, 2003
'Tis Not the Season
It's almost officially summer. Of course, here in the Sunshine State, it's really been summer for quite some time. So, how about some season-appropriate storytelling?

Oooo, I have one. I'll tell you about the coldest day I can remember . . . y'know, to shake those summertime blues.

We were living in Albany, New York, at the time. It was early January which, incidentally, is the worst time of the year up there. On that particular day, we woke up to temperatures around 11 below zero. And it was windy. After a night of cold, dry snow, the wind was blowing the snow around like a sandstorm.

I felt like crap, with a sore throat, but I was going to work anyway. I went out to start the car and scrape the ice and snow off of it.

The car wouldn't start.

The events that followed are somewhat hazy, but I seem to remember yelling, cursing, and madly swinging the jumper cables around the parking lot. I ended up hyperventilating, which was great for my sore throat but bad for my head. When I fully realized what was happening, I was laying on the floor of our apartment with my cat meowing (she was worried) next to my head.

After I calmed down a bit and pumped blood back to my brain, I went back outside. I calmly started my wife's Trooper and pulled it alongside my car. When I'd successfully started the car, I went inside to tell my wife that I was leaving (she was still in bed).

The roads were swirling with wind-blown snow, but they weren't icy, so I made it to work okay. Once I'd settled in, the phone rang. It was my wife. The Trooper had broken down on the side of the Northway (I-87 north of Albany). She was at home because the CVS Good Samaritan van driver had refused to let her stay with the broken down Trooper (for fear that she'd freeze to death). I called AAA; the guy told me that dozens of cars were having problems (understandably) and that it'd be hours before I could get towed. My best bet was to call a garage directly and get them to tow the car. I picked a place near where we lived and he said he'd meet me there in 45 minutes. I remember there being an issue with time because the cops would have abandoned cars on the side of the Interstate impounded.

At the side of the Interstate, I watched as the tow-truck guy was loading the Trooper onto the truck. A cop pulled off to the side to yell at me for standing too close to traffic.

When I got back to work, I called the garage. They said that the Trooper was completely out of oil and that the radiator cap had blown off when the engine overheated. The price to fix it was pretty reasonable . . . the only relatively good news of the day. We were actually lucky that the engine block didn't crack.

I think the high temperature that day topped out at a balmy 2 below zero. And even after that whole ordeal, I still want to live up there again . . . someday.

People here are, like, "Why?"

And people in Canada are, like, "Pussy."

Monday, June 09, 2003
The One Where Scott Does Something Very Un-Gay, and Then Settles Back in to Being a Total Gaybo
I did three things this weekend that you didn't do . . . I can almost guarantee:

1. I watched Ultimate Fighting Championships (#43) on pay-per-view. By choice. At my house. (My best friend is a UFC fan. I was just being a good friend. Okay, that's a lie . . . I was drinking beer and yelling at the TV.)
2. I screamed like a little girl and swatted a giant spider off my leg while playing disc golf. (An errant throw went into some foliage. Going in to retrieve it, I walked through a spider's web. When I realized it, I looked down to see what looked like a spider with a 3-inch legspan. I have to qualify that because I immediately shrieked, swung a frisbee at it, and gaybo-galloped to safety. Yes, I'm so manly.)
3. I saw Kathy Bates naked . . . in About Schmidt, which I thought was a pretty average movie. (It kind-of makes me wish I could see a life-altering movie soon.)

Friday, June 06, 2003
Now That You're Here . . .
It seems that Squawkbox was fuckin' it up the past couple days, but everything seems copacetic now. I figured once the Brits rolled out of bed, they'd fix their server(s). Anyway, nothing new today. Read (or re-read) yesterday's post, or anything you may have missed. Maybe I'll drop by over the weekend.

Thursday, June 05, 2003
I'm Too Busy for Long Trains of Thought. Plus, I Have a Short Attention Span
A girl stopped by our office this morning to ask if we needed any reception help. She asked me, as our full-time receptionist is out today, and I happened to be sitting in the large conference room (off the reception area) proofing changes to some engineering figures. I told her that I didn't think so, because we have a full-time receptionist (apparently not today), but that I was not the person to ask (you can't get much lower on the org chart than me).

Now, she was a little chunky, but I don't make fun of fat people like that meanie CW (yeah, that was a joke). But, when I told her that she could leave a resume, she said that she didn't have any with her . . . that she had just woken up and left the house (or something like that . . . I wasn't really listening).

So, I have to make fun of her for that one. Coming to inquire about job openings without a resume? Don't they teach that sort of thing in elementary schools by now?


Remember how I was gonna cap my blogroll at 30? Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do now that Vectorgirl, IA, and . . . er, well, now there's Shampoo Solo? Plus, I stumbled onto another funny blog this morning (yes, before I started working).

So, you're on notice . . . especially you people towards the bottom. Say "Hi," link me, or at least be funny. (Hint: Admitting to thorough enjoyment of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" aren't endearing you to me. Try harder.)


I've surfed Pete Beck's site a few times recently, and saw repeated references to Blogshares, where you can trade options on your fellow bloggers. Now, yours truly isn't being traded. Nor is the aforementioned hater. But Julia is. And, of course, Sarah B. I didn't check Enemyster*, but I'm thinking about signing up just so I can buy up those "shares" when they become available, because the hate is growing exponentially. And hate sells, my friends. Hate sells.

(* I didn't realize there is going to be another Enemyster. But they're doomed to be second-best, I'm afraid. Too bad, fuckers.)


It's the Summer of Love . . . at least, in the realm of CD trading and file-sharing. I'm getting ready to put together Kamikaze Lunchbreak, Volume 3, which will be an ultra-fun collection of party favorites, with a decidedly heavy 80s flavor and more than a couple King Missile songs. I don't know how to decide who to send them to. I'll have copies earmarked for Jules, Ms. Dayment, and possibly Rob. I may post a track listing and have interested parties contact me. Or something.


While I'm touching on file-sharing, I'll let you know that I'm planning on writing a super-venomous letter to the RIAA about the issue, touching on the ridiculous $0.99-per-song thing at iTunes (and other sites). When/if I actually complete this expository dagger, I'll post it here and here.


I want to stand alongside that new/old blogfriend Ms. Solo by thanking the FCC for giving broadcasters license to expand their mind-control experimentation via commercial radio/television. Having trouble competing with cable and internet broadcasts? Try improving the quality of your programming, Toolbox. C'mon, instead of funneling millions to the lobbyists, why don't you try hiring some fucking talent?

So, get ready some more deep probing, bloggers.

"Assume the position!"

Wednesday, June 04, 2003
More Cops
My recent encounter with the Po-leece has me thinking about the more (read: less) innocent days . . . back when brushes with the law were, well, more frequent.

There's a great story about one of those. No, not the one where the cop broke up a make-out session between my 15-year-old girlfriend and I in the backseat of my Super Beetle (I was 17 at the time, pervs). Not the time where the cop pulled me over (with backup), saw my Star of David pin (I was a Siouxsie and the Banshees fan), and asked if I was Jewish. And not the time we were pulled over because the cops thought my friend and I were calling them "faggots," when, in fact, my friend had yelled that at some random kid on a bike who happened to be riding past a police car waiting to turn onto the road behind us. No, my friends, this is the story of the infamous St. Patrick's Day incident.

There were four of us. We were all 21, except for our younger (increasingly alcoholic) friend. We went out to a local dive bar for their green-beer special. It was godawful cheap (and nasty), and we drank a lot of it . . . and snuck some to our younger friend. But, as always happens, the night had to end.

Your hero was the "designated" driver . . . and very drunk. We piled into my 1992 Hyundai and headed home. Halfway there, travelling through neighborhood shortcuts, we were about to pass an elementary school. From the backseat, one of my friends said he had to pee.

"Man, stop here." Then the other two chimed in, "Pull over! Pull over!" It turned into a laughing joke between them to see if I'd actually pull over.


I pulled into the school's circular driveway, where there was an empty school bus. I drove around the circle until I was facing out toward the road.

"Okay," I said, somewhat perturbed. "Hurry up and go."

The three of them piled out of the car and ran toward the bus. I was anxiously watching the straight road that ran in front of the school. As my friends were peeing, a car turned onto the street, driving slowly.

"Car!" I shouted. The guys finished up and raced back to the car, but not before the cop car had pulled up. Flashlight beam in our faces. The officer walked up to my window, surveying the scene.

"License and registration." I fumbled for the requested documentation and handed them to him.

"You stay here," he said.

The cop called in my tag number and then walked around the bus with his flashlight. Upon returning to the car, he handed me my license and registration.

"If I had found one drop of piss on or in that school bus, I would have dragged your asses to jail." He continued, characterizing us as "good white boys," in obvious contrast to other-colored kids. He may have even used the word "nigger." Ah, growing up in the South.

My friend said he knew the guy, because his dad was a cop. He was likely on his way home and didn't want to go through the hassle of processing four kids for pissing on (or near) a school bus. I don't know if he could tell that I was drunk; luckily, he didn't tell me to get out and "walk the line." I don't know if he saw the empty beer bottles on the floor of the car. Or the half-full plastic cup of green beer my friend had tried to hide on the passenger side of the car.

Needless to say, I was scared shitless. I didn't drive drunk for . . . well, a really long time. I wish I could say the same for my friends, but that's another story.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003
All Work and No Play Makes It Hard for Scott to Blog
This week is going to be busy. Next week? Busier. (Honey, incidentally, I'm going to be bringing some work home with me this weekend.)

I'm a technical editor (II) at an environmental consulting firm. This means I have an English (creative writing) degree and have at least two years of technical editing experience. I know what a monitoring well is. I know what a SVE system is. I know what BTEX is. And MTBE. And PAHs, TRPHs, and VOCs. I know way too much about soil and groundwater cleanup standards in the State of Florida.

But you know what I really know a lot about? I know how to use a copier, specifically the Xerox 480. Yeah, that's right. Because editors don't just edit anymore. Nope, they're expected to do it all. You wanna be an editor? Make sure you know how to use a variety of word-processing software backwards and forwards. And some basic graphics software. And spreadsheet software; yep, you'd better know some basic accounting, kid. And bone up on those comb-binding skills. Remember any high-school chemistry? That would help, too.

I know, this isn't true everywhere. But as I scan job listings, I often see people who want editors who can do layout and design, or build webpages using HTML. And if you're not doing those upscale things, you're making your own revisions and producing your own documents. I'd venture that, soon, there will be various editing and document-production tasks under the job title of "Administrative Assistant."

Now, I'm not complaining exactly. But I know that I will eventually leave this job and move on to something else . . . possibly in the editing field. What are the chances that I'll find something that I'm qualified for? (You got a line on that, Meredith?) I know job prospects are better in larger cities. Maybe even pure editing jobs. But I'm not holding my breath. For the next few years, I'm going to squirrel away every transferrable skill I can . . . graphics, accounting, arcane grammar rules, etc.

Look out, because I'm gonna rule the fucking Earth.

And by "the fucking Earth," I think you know I mean an 8 x 8 cube near a copier, with a large stash of binding supplies.

Monday, June 02, 2003
Eighties Night
Girls on Film, the band that Michelle plays drums for, had a show Saturday night. They were the second of four bands.

The first band, Broken Sound, played up-tempo indie rock with a brilliant keyboard player. To be totally blunt, they put on a good show, but without their keyboard player, they'd be just like 95% of the other radio-friendly indie-rock bands. (As I was watching them, I was thinking, "Man, I could so see these guys on M2.") Anyway, they played a cover of A-ha's "Take on Me" in their set, and gave a shout out to Girls on Film. (That rocked.)

The girls played a great set. The crowd ate it up. I'm suddenly the less-important musician in the house.

Next up was the local "It" indie band, Believe in Toledo. They rock pretty good, but don't vary the tempo much. I'd never seen them play, but I enjoy their songs when I hear them on the radio. Still, the live show was a little lacking (not in energy, but diversity). Their cover of The Cars' "Just What I Needed," though, was fucking awesome.

The headliners were the much-hyped, much-lauded Revolution . . . a Prince cover band. Everyone who's seen them raves about them. I'd missed them the first few times they played. For guys that are used to playing much harder music, they pull off the Prince songs with surprising finesse, sounding only a little like a bar band playing Prince songs. The singer (a new-rock white boy) pulls off a pretty decent rendition of Prince's voice.

So, that was the night in a nutshell. No real crises to report. I only had a couple ciders to drink.


Now, if you're still reading this boring-ass post, you can check out the Girls on Film website here. The girls have code names . . . Michelle's the one playing drums. There are pictures from all of their shows, plus a section of pictures dedicated to our Mia. I'm in scattered pictures (playing guitar and badminton). I could link directly to them, but they're ugly. So if you really care, you can go find them.