I ended up taking today off to burn off a soon-to-expire personal day from work. Good move, I realize now; I had too much to do, having finally and officially fallen behind in my outside-of-work-and-band life. Just little things, really, like shopping and laundry. No big deal.

And so I’ve spent the day caught up in the mundane minutiae of life, and I’m still feeling like I’m light-years away from where I want to be. I think maybe this nihilistic frame of mind might stem at least in part from the dream I was having when I woke (dreams involving ex-wives, places that we lived eight years ago, and extreme details like a telephone ring that I haven’t heard since then — those dreams are never going to end well, nor start the day properly).

But I did manage to enjoy a movie (The Station Agent) in the dead quiet heat of my apartment over my predictable Mexican dinner, and it’s still early enough that there are decent odds that I’ll hit my bed before midnight. So I guess it’s not all off-kilter.

Except that that makes it off-kilter…

Long (and ongoing as of this post) story short: Sidekick lost. Sidekick found. Sidekick not returned. Power of the Interweb unites peoples. Pressure applied. And so far, all legal, non-violent, and beautiful.

http://www.evanwashere.com/StolenSidekick/

So very worth reading.

Five years later, I’m awakened by news that gets its start in the Middle East, with Al Queda. Al-Zarqawi is dead, and people across America are celebrating.What? Really?

Look, I’m all for the man having been taken out of play. He’s responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths. Oh, wait; that would be our President. Um, let’s see… Well, he did it for religious reasons… Shit. Still there, hunh?

Bush-bashing aside, the man was a bad person and needed to be pulled from the game board. I’m all for the death penalty, too, if it is known without any shadow of doubt that the person being put to death is the killer (and that’s the person holding the degree in criminal psychology talking). I’m not standing on a soap box preaching that we should have captured him, or some alternative to blowing him up. Although I will note that Michael Berg, father of Nicholas Berg (who was beheaded in 2004 in Iraq, likely by Al-Zarqawi), noted in an interview with Soledad O’Brien, “Well, my reaction is I’m sorry whenever any human being dies. Zarqawi is a human being. He has a family who are reacting just as my family reacted when Nick was killed, and I feel bad for that.”

Good man, Michael Berg. You have to respect that sentiment.

But Berg makes another good point, one that is being casually drowned out by all the celebratory pomp and circumstance: Al-Zarqawi is now a martyr. One the one hand, this could be a turning point in the war; on the other, it could be a stage of reinforcing the status quo, perhaps even pulling some Muslims extremists into action. I certainly hope not, but I can’t say I’ll be surprised if it only gets worse from here.

Is there anyone out there willing to shut Ann Coulter up? Whatever means you want to use, fine by me.

I’ve decided that her outrageous commentary is an act, crafted to sell books and public speaking engagements. Hey, controversy sells — and for all the time that right-wing extremists have helped boost the profits of some of my favorite entertainment, well… Frances Farmer is having her revenge.

I don’t feel so bad for her; not even irritated, so much, as she’s either a brilliant saleswoman and performer or teetering on the edge of sad and pathetic delusion. It’s the people that buy her books, that allow her to command extraordinary fees for lectures, and worst, take her mixture of fact and fiction and cheap heat as fact.

The more attention that she gets, the worse it is. And yes, I know that I’m just as guilty as Hillary Clinton in pointing all this out, but damn — can’t we all just ignore her? I think that’s my new plan.

Either that, or blatant condescending pity. In fact, I have a request for the Al Frankens and Alan Colmes and anyone else that gets an interview with her: shower her with sadness and gentility. Treat her like the retarded cousin that she is. Humor her. But let your patronization run rampant.

But if you want to debark her and take her typing fingers away while you’re there, I can’t really say I’d argue with you too much.

A thirty minute nap in my world is equitable with unicorns, leprechauns, and happy endings.

The truest joy of being a rock star is not playing the music you love for money, or punishing your liver with a zealous vengeance (and being encouraged to do so), or even wearing a cheap cowboy hat onstage while you cover Ozzy Osbourne and Metallica and make jokes about Michael Hutchence’s affinity for leather belts.

No, the absolute peak of your life as a performing musician comes when you take a live instrument (amp cranked to a painful volume that is further enhanced with a serious distortion pedal) pound out the final notes of whatever song you happen to be playing (note: must be bombastic and drawn out; the more retarded and METAL the better — in this case, “For Whom the Bell Tolls”by Metallica, done up all hellbilly style), remove said instrument from your body, and procede to use your instrument to put a divot in the concrete floor of the club you’re playing.

Hendrix and Townsend had it right. Smashing your guitar, while somewhat hazardous to anyone standing in front of you, is brilliant fun.

If only I had been allowed to set things on fire, the night would have been complete.

Shadows of angels and Machines of Hate and Rage will be unleashed from the Bowels of the Earth, and the gutters will be awash with the Blood of innocents! The screams of the children as they are sacrificed to the Dark Powers will echo across the lands as the sun and the moon are swallowed by eternal Night! Your souls will writhe in agony as they fester and rot in the Hopeless Cold that is the breath of the Ancient Ones! All while Long Island Teas and cold draught Newcastle wash over your parched and bleeding lips! The Winged Beast of the North will peck at your eyes!

The Exhibit(s) are at Bailey’s Pub on Southside tonight, Tuesday, 6/6/6. Rumors of mystical incantations and sacrifices to dark powers may or may not be true. Rumors of encouraged liver damage are definitely true. And the odds that you’ll hear us play a lot of songs with “Devil” in the title? Pretty damn good. No cover charge, good drinks, and a possible surprise appearance by Satan. What more could you ask for?

6-6-06: How to Tell the Real Me from My Evil Parallel-Universe Me Should I Ever Have to Plead with You to “Shoot the Fake Me!

Take the Dante’s Divine Comedy Inferno Test

Team Satan merchandise? Why have I never heard of this before?

Hell on Earth. I’ll be going here on the same trip that I eventually make to the real world Silent Hill, Centralia, PA.

Expecting? Check the scalp carefully for birthmarks…

(Speaking of expecting — while not Satan-related, this is certainly implying evil, or at least poor choice in logo design)

Today is June 6, 2006, also known as 6/6/6.

Today is election day — gubernatorial primaries and more.

Anyone else see the connection?

I laugh about this even more when I think about Roy Moore using it as an excuse when he loses.

[cue ominous music] … or will he?