How Avon Knows The State Of The Country

So, I was reading the Avon catalog in the bathroom when...........

Yes, I have an Avon catalog in my bathroom. This isn't some hideous dark secret of mine, nor is it a thing of lust-fed guilt. Just hard truth in the constant reminder that I live with women. Yep, I live with women. Women who buy beautification things on a regular basis. Hence, I have an Avon catalog in my bathroom.

It's not my preferred reading material, but when in the bathroom, sometimes one needs a bit of topical insight to smooth out the matter at hand. And when you've caught up on all your magazines, and a novel is overkill, well you rely on what's available.

So, I was reading the Avon catalog in the bathroom when...........

I noticed something odd. Something missing I guess you could say. In days gone by there used to be a plus-sized girls section. Nothing fancy, just some basic sportswear and a few unmentionables for the ladies with larger dimensions. I found that strange, considering that section has been pretty commonplace for a few years now (yes, I've read the Avon catalog in the bathroom for years now. I live with WOMEN!)

My first thought was that maybe Avon had decided making a line like this just wasn't worth the time. Didn't sound right. Women like, and deserve to be beautiful no matter what shape or size they are. And they would pay any price to feel pretty. Avon knows this. They've been in the game long enough to have figured out the basics. Only reason to stop marketing such a line is if there is no market for it anymore.

No market means nobody's buying it anymore. If nobody's buying it, chances are good it's because it no longer fits anymore. If it no longer fits...............then women are losing weight.

Now, I'm all for it. Healthier women means happier women, and that's never a bad thing. But I find the fact that more women are losing weight interesting because of the times we're in. We're almost knee deep in a recession. Good folks are becoming homeless, the job market is dwindling, people are holding on to whatever extra money they can.

Basic survival tactics. If one must cut the fat, start with yourself. And they're slimming down in preparation for a long drawn out impoverished dirt nap. The female species, through some deep subconscious instinct, figured this out. I'm not sure how that power works, probably similar to how animals know when an earthquake is coming, but I know it's there. And they, without ever saying a word, have prepared for it.

The Avon catalog has served as some form of active early warning device. Things are about to get very rough in the world good people. Stay lean and be prepared.

Of course, it's altogether possible that there are alternate reasons for the omission of said section, but I'm sticking to my theory on this.

Arise! For On This Day...

Today, March, 28 2008 marks a great milestone in these times. Today, is the 10th anniversary of the drug we know as Viagra. Yep, 10 years ago today, during some pharmaceutical studies on hypertension, an interesting side-effect to the drug was noted, and Viagra was on it's way to becoming a household name.

So today we salute you, O' creator of monoliths, bringer of soaring heights. You have taken the sagging, weary, and overweight men of the world who have no business copulating, and given them hope.

God bless.

The Costs Of Heart And Soul

This past week, I've been in the studio trying to catch up on the musical works. I have many a project that needs to be completed, and have not utilized my time in the sonic sector too well. Instead of writing and recording, I've spent far too much time reading, cooking, oh and of course writing for you fine people. Certainly all worthwhile pursuits, but it does make the "To-Do" list swell in size, and god knows I lose enough sleep as it is.

So, I cranked everything up and was determined to get down to it. My first order of business, as is my practice, was to listen to the last thing I finished before taking the break. I find that listening to one's prior completed projects has a couple of positive attributes. One, it's a boost to the ol' ego, ("Ha, I finished something!") and two, it helps to set the bar. Get an idea of where I've been, and make a plan of where I need to go next. And of course, make sure I'm not copying myself. Always important.

So, I pulled up the last thing I finished, which happened to be a shiny new track for the second BGO album. And after I finished listening, I realized why I took the break in the first place.

When I listen to a track of mine, I tend to block out the more unpleasant elements. Things like, having to play a guitar part eighty times because you kept messing up at the last second, or banging your head against a table trying to find useful words that rhyme with "sexy." All that nonsense gets pushed aside in my noodle as I review a song.

But this song was different. In this song, I remembered one very big detail about the process of writing it. I remembered how much writing this song had scared me.

Musically, the song went by without a hitch. The groundwork came together very quickly, the recording process was pretty smooth, not too many hiccups. A success in my book. The lyrics on the other hand....

Once I made a decision about what the song would be about, the process of writing those words down and singing them out loud gave me chills. I won't venture far into the subject matter of said song, might ruin the surprise y'know? But I will say it's one of the darkest things I've ever thought to put on paper. It's a subject that I had to think long and hard about just to try and write it as effectively as possible. When one dabbles in brutal subjects, make every word count right? Well I did it, as best as I could do. And when I was finished, I had to cuddle up to Mrs. Boogie for several hours to try and feel like a normal person again. I had dug so deep into the subject matter, that I actually felt like I was the guy I was writing about. It was a weight. A guilty, sticky weight, and it took me some time to shake it.

I'm not usually in the practice of writing like this. With Fuzzy Jank, I was still playing with the BGO sound, and as a result I didn't take the lyric writing too seriously. Oh sure, I based a lot of the content on personal experiences and stuff, but I didn't put a lot of thought into the darker aspects of what I was writing. I was just trying to make it funny and rhyme occasionally.

Not so with this second album, nope this time I had to take it a bit more seriously. If this was something I was going to hang my hat on, I needed it to be better than decent. Make sure heart and soul was firmly attached to what I was doing. And apparently, heart and soul sometimes required walking into the belly of a beast to pull the words out of.

I've been disturbed by things I've seen and things I've read, but never before by things I've written. It's an unsettling feeling to say the least. Sometimes, I honestly feel like I can't trust myself anymore. Any man sick enough to venture into those dark waters can't be all there right? Sane people who sing about love and flowers don't ever get institutionalized. These people never add details of why they're the brokenhearted. It's possible that it's ground not meant to be be treaded on. Dear god what have I done? They're gonna lock me up for sure.

Needless to say, my current projects are far happier, a bit more comedic, and much easier on the soul. So, it was easy enough to get back into the swing of things. As for where this goes from now on, who knows? Such a thing doesn't get lost or forgotten. Hell, I may have to call on it again, when some new piece of music commands I venture into the depths to write something with heart and soul.

Stand at the ready ye nice men in pretty white coats.

Dear Gibson Guitar Corp: WTF?

Well fellas, you had me. you had tickled my lust in a way only a musician can appreciate. Yes, you, mighty pedestal of six-stringed goodness, made me desire a new instrument.

New gear is a powerful addiction for us musical types. The near equivalent of nymphomaniacs and crack fiends. Except of course that the addiction costs more, is noisier, and has none of the cool side effects. Oh cruel be the fates that lead me to such carnal lechery! How the need for firm woods, nickel plated metals, and magnetized copper drives a man into sleeplessness and starvation!

You guys had me at my wit's end. I was circling around a hot little Epiphone G-400, decked in a sexy shade of blue, like some wild vulture. There was no question about it, she would be mine. I would possess her soon enough, and all my dark depraved fantasies would come true. You pretty much had my hard-earned dimes in your hand.

And then you had to go and be completely stupid didn't you?

You went and started shit with a video game company. Raised up this huge turd-fest with Activision and the Guitar Hero franchise over some fine print issues. Supposedly, they violated a clause on your patent that prevents any "technology from simulating a musical experience." Ye gods you say?

Have you stopped your legal battalions long enough to even think about how ridiculous that sounds? That maybe you might be stretching the letter of the law a little too thin? I mean goddamn guys, this isn't "oh they made a game controller shaped like our shit and put our name on it without telling us." You might have had a case with that. But this, this is infantile blubber people! It's the equivalent of automakers suing Hot Wheels, or Apple suing Granny Smith.

I have backed you guys for a long time. Even before I wanted to purchase some of your wares, I stood behind you. We were in the same field after all, shared a squire/knight sort of relationship. I felt I needed to defend the purveyors of sonic sex appeal. And you have, at times, pushed me to the limits of my willingness to defend you.

I stood by you during the lawsuit with Paul Reed Smith. It seemed kind of silly to get vicious on another instrument manufacturer for making a guitar that looked kind of like yours, but was totally different too. What the hell right? Maybe you know something I don't know. Besides, I hated PRS at the time, and a little tactical law brought a smile to my face.

Then, I stood behind you through the invention of Maestro. Something I know you have to be feeling pretty dumb about. You, a guitar company that makes instruments that routinely cost as much as a used car, now making cheap Wal-Mart clearance aisle guitar caricatures? How absurd. But you did it, and shamelessly I might add. Hell, you even gave them the classy "Gibson" headstock. Something us Epiphone disciples can't even get without dropping at least a grand on the table. Dirty pool guys. But I stuck with you.

I even stuck with you when you invented the Robot Guitar. And that was one of the major cardinal sins for the musical types of the world. Basic training has always included learning how to tune your own damn instrument, and here you are making things that tell folks, "It's okay you don't have to learn how to do it. Just spend more money and we'll do it for you." Bad form methinks, but still, I stuck with you.

Not this time fellas.

Nope, you guys crossed the line. Made this huge fuss about how a form of entertainment owed you money because there were some similarities. C'mon, you guys know better. No musician in the world could make a Guitar Hero controller perform like a real instrument. Well, maybe something percussion-ish, but it would have limits. The thing is a game, a toy for amusement. The people who enjoy it seem to know it, and those of us who use the real deal seem to know it too. You're the only one deluded here.

So, I feel it's only right that I remove the G-400 from my "Must own" list. I had to stop and realize what I'd be waking up in bed next to, when that instrument lust was gone. And I didn't like what I saw. You guys may have been one of the first guitar companies out there. You're probably one of the best, certainly one of the more well known, but you don't get everything. You're not some all-encompassing musical totem that stands for everything that makes glorious noise. And I for one, refuse to regard you as so. So, I will follow my lusts elsewhere, and hope somehow, you can walk out of this handicapped litigation you've made for yourself without looking so damned foolish.

Now, let's see what other instruments might awaken my passions.

Chuckles

Comedy. It's a funny thing.

Maybe not something I profess to understand, but certainly a subject of interest to me. I do like to laugh you know? And the ability to make someone laugh, chuckle, giggle, or guffaw on your terms instead of theirs is a skill worth having. People need the occasional side-splitter to get through their days, and fame and glory can be your yours if you have the strength and capacity to deliver it. It's something that seems easy until a bunch of people are staring straight faced at you, not laughing.

I'm not going to sit here and claim I've figured out the rules of comedy, that would be lying. The rules are probably so deep and detailed, not even a roomful of the smartest bastards out there could figure it out. That's assuming, that there are rules to it, which I won't do either. Nope, comedy is quite the mystery to me.

However...

After a few long sleepless nights and much drink, I did stumble across one of the wacky ironies inherent to comedy. Yes sir, it hit me like a ton of bricks. And while I'm fairly confident that most comedy occurs on an individual level, seeing how people react to these rules with sitcoms and bad comedians makes me feel pretty positive that these bylaws are true:

• Smart people being smart are not funny
• Dumb people being dumb are also not funny

However, hilarity ensues when...

• Smart people do dumb things
• Dumb people do dumb things in a smart way

For example, watching Fraiser can often be an exercise in pretentiousness. Upper class snobby folks talking about the things that make them so much better than us can be downright painful. That is, of course, until shit hits the fan. Suddenly things go completely screwy, as they tend to do at least once per episode, and our intellectual protagonists end up running around like idiots. Now, the wacky antics of the elite are absolutely hilarious.

On the other side of the coin would be a program like Beavis and Butthead. A classic in the world of comedy these days. However, a couple of less-than-sharp kids watching TV all day and laughing at nothing just can't hold the interest for more than a few minutes. After that, things get pretty obnoxious. But people don't watch the program for that now do they? Nope, they watch it for the well-crafted intellectual gems that are fashioned by stupidity. For example, like referring to an entire race of people as the "Hispandex." It's like watching the light bulb turn on, then explode in the middle of a crowd, causing collateral damage.

I feel this is some of the basic laws that we all abide by and laugh to, though few ever stop to think about it. One of those strange conundrums about the universe that we naturally subscribe to. Keep an eye on it in your own lives, see if it holds true.

Ah, the healing power of laughter is damned confusing.

Birthday Wishes

Today I am here to celebrate a birthday. The birthday of a very special, very wonderful individual. Someone who's very existence has changed the lives of many, all for the better. Today, I wish a big happy birthday to.......Mrs. Boogie.

That's right, that delightful young woman who decided that she had nothing better to do then spend them with me for these past seven years, has gotten a little older. And though the idea of increasing age makes her less than enthused, and any mention of her birthday usually elicits more grumps and groans than a retirement home that ran out of pudding, god dammit I think it needs to be commemorated.

For you see, the delightful Mrs. Boogie is quite the woman. More talented than any creature I know. She can pick up any art, any trade, and master it it minutes. I have no doubt that if she desired it, she could be a better musician than I'll ever be in half the time. Currently, she's a master of sewing, watercolors, calligraphy, pencil drawing, and my personal favorite, writing. Capacity of even one of these skills would be enough to make any normal person's life pretty satisfactory, but not Mrs. Boogie. Nope, she's constantly shooting higher.

She's smart too. Very smart. I've watched this woman routinely make science her bitch. It's an impressive sight to behold if you ever have the time. When asked a question about biology, chemistry, or any other heavy science, she sighs, answers it with the tone an accountant uses to tell a child what 2 + 2 equals, then wraps it all up by saying, "Duh!" There have been doctors,who have been on the receiving end of one of those "Duh's." It's something pretty special to watch a person with a PhD and years of experience feel completely incompetent at her hands. I, of course, am not a doctor, and hear that tone on a regular basis. Somehow she still feels inclined to keep me around.

Most importantly, she knows how to bring out the best in people. Anyone who crosses paths with her is almost always better for the experience. She's accepting of people's quirks, encouraging of their dreams, and always ready to cheer up anyone who's down.

Especially yours truly. I was a miserable sack some eight plus years ago. Grungy, unkempt, and miserable. I locked myself away from the world and dealt with no one. Dark rooms with no light and bad music with horrible, fucked-up lyrics. That was the womb to me. My coat of arms in a confusing world. I trusted no one, and kept my thoughts to myself. And despite all the piles of built-up bullshit I had created, the woman stayed with me. She cleaned me up, made me feel like I was worth something, and she encouraged me. She saw potential in my ideas. Thought my art was decent and entertaining. And she pushed me to finish it.

There would be no Bastard Groove Orchestra without her. The name, the idea, or the sound would simply not exist. Frustration and old age may have been the fuel that pointed me in the direction of what I do, but she was the catalyst. Without her, there would be no album. Hell there wouldn't even be a single finished piece of music. I was an artist before her, I'm a better artist because of her.

So happy birthday to you my dear, my beloved wife and friend. Thank you for sticking around this crazy time and place. Not just for these past seven years of our relationship, but for the whole shebang. This world needs your faith, happiness, and honesty more than you could ever realize. I know I sure do.

Boogie And The Cat

There are very few sanctuaries anymore. The civilized world is buying up more and more of the real estate. The quiet corners of the world are slowly being paved away to make room for over sized gyms and coffee huts. And the poor souls of the world have fewer and fewer places to collect their thoughts.

Thankfully one bastion of peace remains, one that I'm sure most of my loyal readers can identify with: The bathroom.

Yes sir, four walls brought forth by our inherent need for porcelain and the private calm it can bring. A holy place of peace, meditation, and hygiene. Oftentimes modern man and woman rush home to barricade themselves in their bathrooms for a few minutes. There they pause and reflect on the inherent mental and physical relief that comes from those well worn walls. Some use the time to catch up on their reading, but most simply sigh and use their well-deserved time to ease the mind and reflect on the times ahead.

I am no stranger to this ritual. My restroom serves as an oasis when the mind goes numb. My deep breath in chaotic times. I cherish these quiet moments, for the absolute isolation of the restroom is without equal.

Naturally, I tend to get a mite ornery when these meditations are interrupted. Knocks on the doors, demands to get out, loud televisions, and children crying. All a threat against this finely barricaded fortress you've made for yourself. It puts great strain on a weary mind, the equivalent of being plucked from Heaven and dropped into a hangover. Hostilities flare up and suddenly the world is your enemy. You find yourself lashing out at these people, striking at them with harsh words and fierce tone. Most likely they're just craving some of the peace you have, but it matters not, this is your realm. You were here first.

These are not simple matters blown out of proportion. I would dare say that many a questionable marriage was destroyed because of these sanctified disturbances. Emerging couples have a hard time adjusting to each other, and the rules of the bathroom are not yet known. Divorce papers have been signed on the basis that one's spouse kept coming in at inopportune times to get her toothbrush. I'm sure a few friendships have been lost in the war too, probably a few family ties are a little more strained. The power of the bathroom is great, something that must be respected.

Lately, my bathroom time has been interrupted more than it should be. It has happened so much, that I've actually started getting nervous on my walk towards my porcelain kingdom. What's worse is that these interruptions are not caused by man, but by beast.

Yep, The Cat has taken to coming into the john with me.

There are two cats in this house. There is My Cat, and then there is The Cat. The distinction is simple: I own My cat. I pay to keep her fed and vaccinated and have trained her personally. My Cat knows the rules.

The Cat belongs to nobody. A derelict stray that is attached to all but has loyalties to none. The Cat has no regard for the rules. She is an outlaw in this house, a vagabond feeding upon the kindness and impartiality of those around her. And it is The Cat that likes to ruin my times of peace.

The scenario usually plays out like this: I walk to the bathroom in the same way many of you do. Slow and steady, very composed. A sense of anxiousness for the relief and quiet seperation, along with one part nervousness. You know, on the off chance you don't make it. As I open my bathroom door, I feel a furry sensation streak past my leg. As the lights come on, I see a cat, standing in the center of the floor, staring at me. It's too late to do anything now, I'm here for a reason after all. So I close the door, drop trou, and get to the matters at hand. Here's where things get weird. The cat then takes to rubbing the length of her body against my legs. Over and over again in some weird unsettling ritual. And if that wasn't strange enough, she will then sit upon the wad that is my pants and unmentionables, bathe herself, and occasionally reach her neck towards my hands in an effort to get some undeserved head-scratching. Upon completion of my duties and a good wash of the hands, she'll walk out the door with me. We'll head our separate ways, with her only pausing momentarily to look back at me, almost as if to say, "I enjoyed this quality time with you," before heading out to her normal pursuits.


Many might call it cute, and coo audibly with "Awww's." If this is you, then you are a fool. There is no comfort that can come from this arrangement. This is where the word "disturbed" finds its meaning. Remember good people, this is my quiet time, my Tibet. I am here to relax. And relaxation is hard to find when the meowing, shedding vermin is underfoot.

Also consider the physiology of the situation. In the bathroom, you will always find yourself in a contorted, postulated position staring at your ankles. It's a position that would make most observers nervous, but not you. You've seen this sort of thing before. You've had time to become quite comfortable with the shape of your leg or any hair that might befall them. It's part of your native lands and you accept it without question.

But, when you've got an animal standing on your underwear and rubbing themselves against the leg you've come to know, it makes things a bit more awkward. Now you're self conscious about yourself. Why is this animal touching you there? What does it all mean? Is it affection, loneliness, a sexual act? Dear god, please don't let it be sexual. You're petrified now, too uncomfortable to let her continue, but too afraid to make her stop. Odds are this cat won't sporadically leap in the air and start attacking your most precious of assets, but why play with the odds? No, just let her finish. Stare at the wall blankly, reach for the roll, and walk away without looking back. Nothing happened here, nothing at all.

This has occurred on enough of a regular basis to make me very unhinged. Usually, I love animals. I adore my dogs, and have a comfortable working relationship with My Cat. But, this distraction to my state of mind is too much. I'm starting to ponder things. Some very bad, very dark things. The other day, I actually caught myself staring at this cat and saying out loud, "If only I had a blender." There is no good ending to a sentence like that.

So, obviously I can't kill the critter as that would be cruel. But I can't have this precious time constantly intruded on either. I am left with one recourse when tinkle time comes a'calling: I must try to outrun the cat.

When approaching the bathroom, As soon as I hear the little tinkle bell on that maniacal beast's collar, I burst off like a madman. Full sprint, eyes on the prize, no time to look back. I can hear that damned bell catching up with me. One of the advantages of being a quadruped. She's gaining on me, the terror overwhelming. With a final burst of energy, and I get through the door. Now to spin around and close it quick. All it takes is the door being open a few inches for her to get though. I must move fast. Momentum is not my friend here.

Through some miracle, I get that door closed. The bell stops on the other side. Her prey has evaded her, now she must find someone else to victimize with her affections. Breathing heavy I stand there, hard pressed against the door. A stronger sense of victory I have never felt. I have won this match, the sanctuary is mine alone to cherish. With proud heart and belt unbuckled, I venture forth to claim my spoils.

The things one must do for sanity.

Reverb Nation

It is not typically part of my M.O. to eschew kind praise on.................well anything really.

Be it a troubled upbringing, voices in my head, or just the sheer adrenaline rush that comes from sarcastic ravings, I really like to complain about stuff. To systematically dissemble an entity, be it thought sound or idea, find the inner workings of the beast, then destroy it with violent word. That's good times right there brother.

I've made reference in the past that positive praise is a dying art form. In my humblest of opinions, I feel we've maxed out the English language for words that favor optimism. We just can't get any happier. Or at the very least, we can't express said happiness to a roomful of people as well anymore. The words we're stuck with have been left in the chafing dish for far too long. "Great, " "Wonderful," "Amazing," all now bland and meaningless. When one sees them on paper, they must stop for a second to wonder if the words are being used in a proper, or a sarcastic context. It is that second glance that has made the words stale.

Now negativity on the other hand, never grows old. There's always interesting and fresh ways to bitch. And people hunt for those ways on a daily basis. Complaining is indeed our undiscovered country. And, I consider myself a pioneer of sorts. Probably not an innovator by any means, but I can pee in the formulas with the best of them. As such, I'm always on the hunt for the latest thing the bugs me, and I leave the things that make me smile to wallow in the darkest parts of my mental basement.

But today, I felt I must tip my hat to something that has actually done me some positive good. Something that educates me and makes a little better at the things I consider my strengths. Today I celebrate you, Reverb Nation.

Reverb Nation started as the alternative to Myspace, a place for musicians and fans of musicians to celebrate each other. Naturally, Myspace being the Studio 54 to Reverb Nation's CBGB's, the site's been pretty underground for the most part. Few artists use it, and fewer people know about it.

I'm a recent member to the site. Had a few nifty extras that I couldn't get on Mypace, and more exposure is a good thing for us starving musical types right? So I made the account, dropped some finely penned tuneage, and went about my way. Occasionally, I'd visit. Just to see if anything was happening. Nothing ever did, and I didn't expect anything to change. It and I had the relationship of a blind dating couple. We wanted to be interested in each other, but at the same time, figured we'd probably end up going home alone.

Naturally, my praise doesn't come from what it was, but what it became. You, Reverb Nation, have become the site that can actually make me a better businessman. And since most of what I create needs to be treated very business-like, this is a happy thing for me. And you have given me the very thing I need to be better at it: Information.

Your new setup allows me to see the statistics of every connection I have to your site. I know where most of my traffic is coming from, I know where I stand compared to other musical types of my ilk, I even know in what parts of the world where the music is popular. For hell's sake, I know the sex demographics of my listeners. Truly impressive.

Thanks to you, I have a better grasp on how to boost my work. I can make better decisions about how to invest my time, where I need to focus my efforts, if my music is even worth a second listen. Crucial information to know, when one starts to question oneself and ask, "Dear god, am I even any good at this?"

Places like Myspace don't provide that kind of information. All I know is a few people looked at my page, maybe somebody listened. Could have been a dedicated fan for all I know. Most likely it was some Webcam girls spam site with pictures of seedy women in tight clothes who, by sheer coincidence, happen to be named Godfrey or Earl. I am no wiser for my time there, get no sense of the effectiveness of my work, frankly I feel kind of second class. But not with you Reverb Nation. Nope, you make me feel like I'm top priority. A part of the team who has the information needed to operate effectively. And I appreciate that.

So here's to you Reverb Nation. Here's to a long and fruitful relationship. Cheers!

The President Says, "Happy 5th Anniversary!"

Today marks the fifth anniversary of the Iraq war: Take 2. Today the president extolled the triumphs of this engagement to an audience at the Pentagon. President Bush was quoted as saying, "The successes we are seeing in Iraq are undeniable, yet some in Washington still call for retreat," and refused to acknowledge that any setbacks had occurred since the order to start Operation: Iraqi Freedom began. Setbacks, for example, such as the 4000 soldiers who were killed in the line of fire, or the sectarian violence that has occurred in Iraq since 2002, or the state of our current national budget.

Bush also stated that, "War critics can no longer credibly argue that we're losing."

The man's consistent, I'll give him that.

P. Diddy: Criminal Mastermind

The Los Angeles times has reported that Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs, along with his manager and the late Biggie Smalls were responsible for the murder of one TuPac Shakur back in 1994. It is believed that Comb's label, Bad Boy entertainment, wanted Shakur to sign to the label, but were refused. In act of retaliation, they orchestrated the shooting that resulted in Shakur's death.

Alright...................

Let's forgo the fact that the police are not involved in this and treat it as something plausible for a second. Take a good look at who we're accusing in all this. Look deep people. Do you really think that this man is mentally capable of pulling off such an articulate plan?

The man has no skills for fuck's sake. We've all seen it. He dances like a circus dog, can barely string together words that end in rhymes. These are the basic requirements for being a rap star people. He obviously can't ride a motorcycle, and his music? Dear god. He doesn't sample the works of others, he plagiarizes it. No need for drum loops or sections of orchestra, not when you can lift several measures of someone else's blood and sweat in their entirety and claim it as your own. Lackluster performances over someone else's greatness, that is what the Puff is known for.

Need further proof that the man is inept? One word: Mase. 'Nuff said.

So a man who has proudly bumbled his way into a functional career somehow has the faculties to mastermind an execution? I seriously doubt it. The man is brain lard. Even if his plan was to simply, "Drive past the big black car and shoot at it," I'm still gonna say it's beyond his scope. Murder takes some pretty intense thought processes, the likes of which I'm going to gamble the "Diddy" has not the wherewithal to consider. Time may prove me wrong, but until something more substantial than a news article based on an, "unnamed source" comes around, I'm sticking with my current, "He's dumb as hell" theory.

Now, if you really must know who killed Tupac...........Enter if you dare.

The Inner War

Here I stand alone.

Alone in this empty hallway, where all doors are closed to me. My shadow is my only company. Behind those doors I know they're watching me. Bureaucrats, businessmen, and the regular haunts that run this place. Their watch through the peepholes built into those well-secured doors, waiting to see what I'll do next.

I've knocked on all of those doors. I've seeked out opportunity and admission into the realms they've made for themselves. I've never asked much. Just a reason to wake up in the mornings. Maybe some finance for food and debts. I've been reasonable and I've been polite. No handouts, not my style. Just a job. The door slams in my face, over and over again. "Not in this lifetime freako!" laugh out the catcalls behind the door. "You're too strange and too angry. Your brand of nonsense corrupts."

I'm a threat to them. Something unusual and different. Too outspoken for my own good. Speak too quick, defend myself too hard. That kind of behavior can be imitable. No good when you're relying solely on the blank stares of burned out people to stay wealthy. I just might have what it takes to open a few minds. An outcast without ever coming in.

They keep me crippled and distant. Tucked away like some dirty secret. Locked in that hallway, they wait for me to grow old. They'll wait until I die.

I'm not one to go that easy.

I've still got weapons after all. I'm a determined S.O.B. Hard to crack harder to break. And I have my voice. I have every word, every memory, and every emotion at my disposal. And I will use them. Through speech and hand, spoken and written, I will have the last say. My voice will carry beyond those guarded doors, and lodge themselves into the ears of those poor blank souls, waiting on the other side. The venom they carry will provide something their hearts have not felt for eons: hope.

They will know that they've been done wrong. That the creatures that sustain them will use them up and suck them dry. That there is more to their lives than the walls surrounded by partitions and fiber optics. My song will reanimate dead tissue, as they stand for the first time in decades and find the strength to say, "Dammit, this isn't right."

They will turn on their masters, who with blood-stained suits and horrified glances, will know they've been beaten. I won over the people without even having to walk through the precious doors. Deny one person, you deny them all. And for souls looking for nothing more than acceptance and purpose, this is one denial too many. The revolution moves quickly. From the hallway, I can hear the overthrown be quartered and ceremoniously flushed down the low-flows. A sigh of relief fills the lungs of the victorious. Their destiny is their own again. As the doors open, me and my new comrades leave that godforsaken hallway and walk into the sunlight.

Years from now, I will sit in a rocking chair, gray and aged. I'll watch the world I was a participant in making. Children will scurry through the ancient mausoleums we made for ourselves in days gone by, and talk of one day achieving their dreams. Their parents, founders of this new time, will have pursued their passions to the fullest and live a life without regret. I close my eyes and smile. For the first time in my days, I feel like I've accomplished my tasks. Like I'm truly accepted.

...This is just a sample of the bullshit world I live in.

Robert Irvine And The Truth

As many people have probably figured out, I am enamored with the Food Network. When I'm not writing mean things in the heat of anger, or strapped to an instrument making my latest masterpiece, I'm in the kitchen cooking. It's a great passion of mine, and when I'm in need of ideas, or some all-important understanding of what I'm throwing in the pan, you know where my cable box will be set. There are lazy days in front of the TV where I can watch a solid ten hours of cooking programs, fine dining experiences, and competitive culinary greatness.

For those who don't care much for the culinary arts, I would invite you to take in a little Food Network yourselves. It makes for an interesting case study in something we haven't seen on television in a long time: honesty. Yep, these people who provide entertainment and recipes are very honest. Hell, they have to be. People might actually cook this shit you know? Can't have things like bleach and motor oil on a recipe if it isn't going to enhance the flavor. Might kill someone if the doses aren't right.

So, the Food Network has earned quite the reputation with me for being straight and true. I respect their opinions and trust their word. Even when it comes to something so obviously asinine like putting tomato sauce on a pot roast (which works surprisingly well I might add,) I trust in the word. And they have yet to let me down.

Which makes a recent Food Network announcement that much harder to deal with. For they have decided to fire one of my all-time favorite chefs: Robert Irvine.

Yep, the host of Dinner: Impossible, one of the more interesting Food Network programs has been terminated. And why this outrage? Because the man lied. He falsified things on his resume to make it look more impressive, and got caught in the lie.

One of my newfound heroes is gone, and my Wednesdays are now empty and cold.

Make no mistake, the man was an ass. He had a major arrogant streak, was smug, and had no problem running over and stomping on anyone who caused him problems. I've never held it against him, frankly I think it's why I enjoyed the program so much. Watching him maintain his composure and not strangle Neil Patrick Harris definitely made for good television. Still, I never guessed he would forge anything to get ahead. The man's always seemed very capable and competent, and making stuff up to get ahead seemed ludicrous.

And I find myself conflicted in this. I mean, I agree with Food Network's decision. Having someone claim to do some amazing things only to find out they didn't actually do them would piss anyone off. Remember, Food Network thrives on honesty, half the reason I watch it. Keeping someone dishonest around goes against the very foundation of the station.

On the other hand, I like the program. And I like the guy. He's a complete prick, but an entertaining prick is never unequaled. And I know the nature our current economy. It's not always easy to get ahead in the world. Sometimes over-exaggerating things to get ahead turns out to be the name of the game. Hell, I know my resume tends to emphasize a few things that were minor in the grand scheme of things. And I do it without regret, hoping that said skill will result in opportunity. The man got opportunities, and did well with them. I'm not sure what he lied about, nor do I care all that much. The man put on a hell of a show. Whipped up some fantastic looking eats in ridiculous conditions, and did it without ever losing his cool (much to my dismay.)
I certainly was a fan, and can almost sympathize with his transgressions. I dare say, most of us have been there. Irvine did it, and got so big that there was no way he could back down. Nope, someone had to pop the bubble for him.

Would the show have been entertaining without the forgery? Damn right it would've. Would he be the host of said show without the forgery? I don't know. That's not for me to even speculate on.

In the end, I guess that the Food Network made the necessary decision given the circumstances. Irvine came out and admitted his fault, and acknowledged the actions of the station. There is no blame game here, no passing the buck. Simply a guy getting caught with the things he was trying to hide. The decision has its valid points, even if it does ruin Wednesday nights for me. So, I will stand by one of my favorite stations, and hope that when the steam dies down, they can cut my man Robert some slack.

However, if they screw with Alton Brown, violence will ensue.

Plastic Singers And The Fools Who Create Them

Take a look at this would you?

Some may call it cute. Others a new renaissance in what is capable with modern technology. I, on the other hand, opt for a different word set.

This shit is scary.

We're at a very interesting apex point in the social pangs of our musical development. The power of technology has acted as the great equalizer, putting the common man face to face with the tigers of business. The record industry is slowly beginning to realize that they are indeed, the legion of doom. The age old tactics of strong arming the artist and squeezing every possible cent out of selling other people's wares has lost it's efficacy in this day and age. The masses have seen the potential, and the dark guerrilla tactics that the record industry will employ to cease it.

And we have seen that the power of determined people actually has the fortitude to win a war against overpriced lawyers and the demons they represent. It's the closest we've come to winning a battle in a long time.

The artist has the opportunity to control where and what his music does, and never has to sell off more than he wants to. The music listener can be selective in what they hear, and where they hear it. No more Pepsi-endorsed, so-called music stations squeezing the latest thing between pop sensationalism and bad reality. The fruits of revolution are indeed sweet.

And we can thank the advances in computers and what it's made the internet into for our success. But be warned, the very technology that once liberated can now become a tool of the enemy.

In recent skirmishes, legitimate, blood and sweat artists have long been trampled on, in favor of pretty women who had no business being in front of a microphone. "Boss, the girl with the big breasts can't sing in key. No qualms there sonny-boy, we can fix it all in the mix." Fantastic, high memory applications that can take any fool's voice, and make it sound tolerable. Squeeze in some sonic beeps and bloops, one can cut a record in a single afternoon. Short skirts and sleazy publishers will do the job of selling it.

And now, with an application like this, the basic ability to even sing is no longer necessary. "Let the computer do it," they will say, "it'll sound better and give us less attitude. " Entire catalogs of artists a few clicks away, all within reach. These fools are crazy enough to do it.

Need a face to go along with all that plastic? Just pick them up off the street. Find some vixen with huge mammaries and a short attention span to lip sync to your creation. If she looks great, no one will ever notice her lips rarely move.

"You contemptible bastard," you may scream, "there's no way something like that could be successful in this day and age." Ah, you poor naive soul. It's been been happening this whole time. Pick any music station and watch for twelve minutes. These people are making money. Certainly not from me. And not from you, my loyal readers, for I have no doubt you have quality tastes. But somebody is buying it. A lot of somebodies.

And these somebodies have no regard for things like purity and honesty. A well-dressed, positively perky lip syncing gelatin mold can ultimately be successful. Ashlee Simpson has driven that point home quite well. Caught lip syncing on a national program should have surmounted into sheer destruction and exile. And yet, to this day, her needs for plastic surgery get far more press than all the talented musicians on Myspace combined. It is clear that even from a wounded state, the industry still exerts great power.

Artist and fan alike, take a good look at this. This may soon be the new enemy. This may be what we need to overcome next.

Death And Politics

So apparently Dr. Jack Kevorkian, the suicide king, has it in his mind to run for congress. Despite still being on parole for all that dirty business that came up a few years ago, the man's gonna put feet to concrete and try to get on the ballot.

Now it could just be me, but this whole thing seems to make a lot of sense.

In this day and age, where politicians tend to treat their promises like drunken, loose women at a club, it's a little refreshing to have someone who stands by their convictions run for office. Most political types tend to speak poetically, with long powerful speeches about the need for change, and the ardent fury in which they will bring that change to us, the tax-paying public. And we buy into it, every single time. Those sparkly eyes with those impassioned, enchanting speeches, it always takes the breath away. It's something out of Shakesphere really.

And we run with great haste to those voting booths, and slap that person who won our hearts, deep into the office of their choosing. And we sit, hands clasped, waiting for the change to rain upon us. Weeks and months go by, and we realize we've been had. Underwear on the floor, shame on the face, stuck with the bill. It's the way the game is played, and we've all come to accept it.

Now here's a guy whose taken something we hold sacred and dear, the sanctity of life, and had his way with it. He helped people end their lives. And what's better, is he had no qualms about being honest with the world that he did it. "Yes," he said, "I killed those people, I felt it was the right thing to do, and if you weren't throwing me in jail, I'd do it again."

The man has fortitude. Even now, he's unapologetic about a decision he made, despite the fact that the rest of the world has painted him a monster. And he's willing to stand on the pedestal and defend those decisions in an effort to be elected to office.

Hell, with that kind of straightforward determination, can you imagine what other things he might get done? This man might just have the guts to say, "Screw you commerce and industry, your wants are not what's right for the people!" And when those conniving bastards whip out their list of past politicians that they've had under their coattails since the beginning of time, ol' Jack can simply smile and whip out the list of people he's put into the ground. The business world would immediately back off and tell Doctor Death that he can run the country any damn way he pleases.

This could be our doorway to utopia people. Embrace it.

People I Hate: Jessica Simpson

Name:
Jessica Ann Simpson

Born:
July 10, 1980 Abilene, Texas

Profession:
Singer/Performer, Actress, Marketing

Reason I Hate Her:
She's marketing stupidity, and succeeding


I'm the first to admit that reasons for hating Jessica Simpson are abound in copious amounts. The woman puts out so much infuriating energy, that she could probably sell it as a perfume. This particularly holds true for people like me, who tend to crave a little more reality and sincerity with their time. Still, most of it is things I can't get too hostile about. They are just simply elements about her that conflict with my opinion, and as such, cannot be torn asunder.
However, there is one element in this debacle that should be challenged:

She is deriving financial success from being a complete and total dumbass.

I'm sure we all remember "Chicken By The Sea." Where our heroine, completely dumbfounded by the labels that advertisers use to expand a company's reach, is confused as to whether or not tuna is, in fact, chicken or fish. When it first reared it's ugly head on my television, I was in a rage. All that success and good fortune, and the basic survival sense one needed to get by in the world was nonexistent. If a person didn't know what section in the supermarket to buy canned tuna from, they surely wouldn't be able to defend themselves when the wolves come.

And being a trifle ego-maniacal, it tends to irk me when people who I couldn't depend on in a life-or-death situation are sitting better than me. I know, with all degrees of certainty, that if I had to kill a deer barehanded just to live, I could. But in this current environment, such instincts are meaningless compared to sex-appeal and pop credentials...neither of which I possess. So, it got me angry.

But, I've had time to sit with that incident, and realize that mistakes can be made. Her youth may have been different. I was working in a grocery store when I was seven years old, routinely stocking things like canned tuna and chicken. I've got a bit more experience in the field when it comes to such matters. Besides, mistakes do happen. Everyone has a lapse of intelligence and does something completely foolish. Hers was just captured on camera, that's all.

So, I was ready to let bygones be bygones. Let her moment of foolishness slide into obscurity, and not beat a dead horse, knowing full well that she would do the same.

Of course, I was wrong. She didn't just beat the dead horse, she disemboweled it and wore the corpse as a headpiece.

I wasn't deluded into thinking she'd decide to MENSA or take a few online courses, of course. But, I assumed she would be out there trying to vindicate herself in light of this embarrassing situation. She, in fact, did just the opposite. Now every time she stands in front of a camera, she immediately plays the whole rap of, "I'm ditzy! Tee hee hee." Misunderstanding more labels, being unable to open doors, all with that adorable little "I don't get it" look about her.

Ms. Simpson, take note of this: lack of intelligence is not endearing, it's pathetic. Children who make silly mistakes like this may make for funny side notes in the stories of their parents, but a lesson is expected to be learned. That child is supposed to improve and grow from that point on. Besides, children can be forgiven, mistakes come with the territory. Lack of experience, they don't have it, and are trying to get it. This story changes significantly when an adult person acts like a damn fool. There is no severance for it. You've had the time to be acquainted with things, and somehow avoided all of it. Those of us who have invested that necessary time tend to feel a bit of contempt at how content you are at being so inept.

And a person of your age, with your amount of resources , should be able to rectify this. You've got no excuses Jessica. There are college students living off of ramen and old cheese that could do twelve times more with a fraction of your money. There's no reason you can't pick up a book or two. Do a little investigative research into how the world works. It's a good thing to do, and above all, necessary. For without the producers, promoters, sponsorships, and so forth, you are merely one of us. And we expect more out of that skull of yours. If you are unwilling to use it, expect to stick potatoes in hot oil and put other people's food into bags for the rest of your days.

So, get out there and do something. Read a newspaper, take a class, hell walk into a grocery store and look around for christ's sake. It's good for you, and good for us who will no longer have to see quotes from you that read "I'm having a blast in Iraq!" The irony of which, I'm sure, is very very lost on you.

Ship out, shape up, or get eaten alive. The choice is up to you.

Paradise Lost

Comfort, it's a wonderful thing. Small, little pleasures that pop in and out of one's existence and make things a bit more tolerable. We all have them, and most stockpile them whenever possible.

There is great diversity in the world of comfort. Some favor long walks through quiet parks, fresh air, and sunny days. Admittedly, I don't know many of this type of person, but I know you freaks are out there. My stable of running mates usually tend to favor things like stiff drink, old movies, and loud screaming. It's not for everyone I suppose, but it does help the weary get by.

As colleagues in comfort, I think we can all sympathize in that feeling of frustrated depression when said comfort is stripped from us. And inevitably, it always gets stripped away. Whether by time, responsibility, or the bottom of the bottle, one cannot stay comfortable forever. And it's never easy to bid those cozy moments adieu with any degree of grace or civility. Losing our places of serenity gives way to reactions similar to stealing a security blanket from a toddler. Composure is lost, and the frustration returns.

This reality became particularly clear to me the other day, with one of my minor comforts: clean sheets.

This may seem surprising to you, my loyal reader. Surely the Boogie Man's comforts are more along the lines of barrels of mead and animal sacrifices. Whilst those things definitely have their place, there still is no sense of peace greater than climbing out of a shower, and into clean bedware. Fresh sheets, decent smelling blankets, it's a paradise. A cotton and softener-laced garden of eden. A place where the body can rest, and the mind can let go of all those nagging preoccupations.

Comfort was in my hands, when it was all stripped away from me. And not by some hostile force, or adversaries looking to disrupt my utopia, but by nature itself. For you see, when one is in a comfortable place, and has achieved a state of relaxation.......oftentimes certain gases tend to emanate out of certain orifices.

You guessed it, Boogie cut the cheese in his clean sheets. And paradise was forever ruined.

For no amount of mental bargaining can help you escape the fact that the things your body didn't want are now floating in the cotton boundaries you've created for yourself. At this very moment, an unseen enemy is infiltrating itself in the 200 thread count sheets I've secured myself in. There they will hide, slowly rotting my flesh and breaking my peace of mind.

And I am powerless against it. The lights are off, and my need for sleep has overtaken me. No sense in changing the bedding now, I'm already situated. I'm here for the duration. So sleep I must, surrounded by my own fumes, white flag in hand.

In the light of day, it seems like such a silly thing. There's no sense in getting riled up over this nonsense. Flatulence is a natural thing. And I'm around myself enough to know that most of what I put into my body is pretty decent stuff. But, in the end it isn't about that. It's about the little personal meditations we make for ourselves. The things we look forward to, just so we can get up the next day and face the world. We clutch on to them with a death grip, hoping they never have to leave, but knowing that eventually they will.

So, relish your comforts people. Embrace them where and when you can. Relish them while you have them, for they all bid farewell far too quickly. As for me, I have blankets to wash.

Kids With Guns

A few weeks ago, Northern Illinois University became a statistic. Another shooting, another kid with artillery, more decent folks shot down. These days, it's nothing new. A week before that, Louisiana Technical College had it's own little firestorm. From a nursing student no less. Then of course we're rapidly approaching the anniversary of that mess that occurred over at Virginia Tech.

This isn't your run-of-the-mill premeditated violence that occurs daily in inner cities. No ties to gangs. No fancy shoes, diamond encrusted jewelery, or any of the other things that spawn urban violence. This is different. Premeditated is the word for it. These folks woke up in the morning and had their breakfast cereal with the plan of shooting a bunch of people by day's end. Most had zero intention of making it home for dinner. No, this is something new.

And it's nothing to be laughed about or celebrated in any way. Certainly nothing that gets turned off like all the other forms of youth on youth violence we're surrounded by. It's unacceptable to leave things like this with simply shaking the head and turning the page. Ignorance will not work here.

I dare say, ignorance is what got us into this mess in the first place.

I'm sure we were all there when Columbine became an ugly word. It was a dark and scary time, even for those of us who had escaped high school intact. The notion that you could walk into a room full of acquaintances and start shooting is too far out of reality for the likes of me. These were not our daily bastards, not the folks who make life a little more annoying. Just faces in the crowd. People who you may have recognized from a class, but didn't know their name offhand. And they were killed, simply for where their personal geography was from a bullet. It's scary stuff.

It gets even scarier when you do the math. Steven Kazmierczak, the young man who made Northern Illinois University a darker place, was 27 years old when it all went down. That means in 1999, he was 18. Same age range as Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold when they executed the shootings at Columbine.

We don't have random shootings committed by lost, young people. We have a lost generation.

An era of disenfranchised youth who have yet to fully adapt to the world as it stands now. People so confused and unattached, that the only reasonable solution appears to be opening fire on a crowd of colleagues. Where a blaze of glory, followed by a quick end, seems to be the only real statement of their existence.

These youngsters were my peers. I share their generation. Still, I'm not sure I can ever understand what led to this. The cause and effect, topsy-turvy occurrences that pushed all these people over that edge will probably never be made clear to me. That edge is beyond me, something I try to steer clear from.

But I've come close. I've snuck a peek over it once in awhile. Tried to make heads or tails over my options. And I've had plenty of company. Day in and day out, I see more and more of the disenfranchised weigh those options. A lot of them don't feel like their ready for this place. Unadapted. Obsolete even. No sense like they're even a cog on the gear of life's clock. The past came with few explanations for them, and the future..........well, the future is a mess. Even those firmly experienced in the times will attest to that.

And I can't go blaming violent movies, or ultra-realistic video games. Music and dress are not responsible for any of this. They've had their part, no doubt, but cannot stand trial all alone. What is to blame? I'm not sure. I've yet to find the answers, try as I might. How does one guide a soul who's lost? Especially when they're asking questions you never completely answered yourself? I've yet to figure it out.

But I know this much, that lost generation is getting older. They're in college now, graduating even. They're gonna be in the real world soon, where things are even more bloodthirsty and cruel. And they may still be confused. Still convinced that raw firepower is a viable option. A decision they may make when in general proximity of any of us. It's a scary thing when you can't trust the person standing next to take your well-being into account.

So what's left? Not much. Wish well for these people I guess. Hope they find that special someone who has the time and patience to understand them. Hope maybe they can afford therapy. Hell, just plain hope they can live to an age where they can laugh it off someday. Try and stay understanding of the folks who pop in and out of your life. Be open, be civil,be a friend even. Don't give them a reason to succumb to that kind of mentality. Who knows? We might all get to our 50's, and make a toast to getting out of this godforsaken time with all our parts.

You And What Army?

Here's a fun experiment in perspective.

Take the phrase, "You and what army?" It's original meaning being, "You are not tough enough to actually win in a fight with me for I am powerful enough to succeed in a battle with several well-trained men." This phrase became popular in the early, post-WWII, 50's, as a means of intimidating one's adversary. But, between Bruce Lee and Arnold Schwarzenegger, who had the abilities to destroy entire armies all by their lonesome, the phrase has all but been retired to the annals of history.

Still, there are times when the finger is pointed at you and the question is asked. And one must count his list of allies to best decide how to contend with the situation.

So, when the President Of the United States gets asked "You and what army," he needs simply but to point towards the nearest military installation (or given our current deployment situation, in the direction of Iraq,) to show his army. Said adversary now has to contend with a large military force, instead of a single, gray-haired, old man.

If a US military corporal finds himself in a similar situation, and is asked the same question, he simply needs to point to his platoon. The option of confronting a single well-trained military man no longer exists. You see, this simple phrase can illicit a variety of fear-inducing situations dependent solely on who's perspective you look at it from.

It gets really funny when you look at both these scenarios and try to guess which of them has the stronger army.

Give up? Why, the corporal does of course.

The corporal's army is actually acquainted with the corporal. It means these guys know what kind of person he is, and trust him with their lives in a firefight. This man is their buddy, their comrade, their brother in arms. These men have been forced together by conflict, and are ready to protect each other in a pinch should the hammer come down. This also means, they've got a pretty good line on what this corporal is like. So, when the phrase in question is uttered, and the ensuing conflict is a righteous one, that army will leap to the cause. And if the corporal happens to be drunk, overly aggressive, or simply having a bad day, well then that army might do everything in their power to prevent a fight from taking place.

And the Presidents army? Well he does not have the luxury of comadre. Matter of fact, it would be a safe bet to say that the man probably doesn't know most of those troops on a personal basis. His army is derived from the fact that he hired the men who writes their paychecks, and that makes him the boss. A faceless figurehead atop an unseen mountain. Naturally, most people do what their boss tells them to do, but there's a catch. You see, it is a common belief amongst the employed that their supervisor may not have everyone's best interests at heart. It's possible that the man in charge is being fueled by other forces, and making his people do things that a rational person may not otherwise instruct upon his people.

This means that dissension can occur at any given time. Said army can start to take a little bit of what they're ordered to do a bit personally. See, when the corporal starts falling out of line, his squad of loyal brethren are right there to inform him, "Dude you're being a douche." Whereas the president can be a douche and never know it. Therefore, the corporal's army, though smaller, is far more loyal to corporal than those huge battalions are to the president. And when the corporal is in the wrong, his colleagues might set him up with a life lesson, whereas if the President is in the wrong, well he might eventually see a lot of very angry guns being pointed at him.

And the moral? I don't know. I don't think there was one. This was merely an exercise in futility. Hope you had fun!

Happy Birthday To Meeeee

Well, today the earth has spun around for another full cycle in my existence on this small blue blob we call home. Sometime between noon and 1pm of this day, I was born some 29 odd years ago. The world, has yet to be the same.

It's my typical habit, you may have noticed, to be regretful about a day like today. To mourn the loss of time, and all the things I had wanted to accomplish, but never got around to. Most days, I would consume healthy doses of stiff drink and harsh reality, and try to come to terms with the failures fed by my procrastination and perfectionism.

Today doesn't feel like one of those days.

Today, I think I'll try something a little different, and celebrate a few milestones I've managed to bring forth in these 365 days. Because somehow, I was able to do a few things worth commending.

So, for this, the first day of March, here are ol' Boogie's milestones:

• For the first time in 6 years, the label on the back of my pants says 36 instead of 38.
• For the first time in 11 years, I have short hair.
  
• For the first time in over a decade, I actually gained more friends then I lost
  
• For the first time since her adoption, my dog can be trusted to run around without a leash.
• For the first time in 15 years, I'm comfortable with my musical sound.
• For the first time ever, I have an album in the world.

The last one's quite the head trip for yours truly. For a long time now, I've blown out birthday candles (or opened beer bottles or wept into towels, depending on which of my birthdays you pick from,) and told myself, "This will be the year I do it!" The next birthday would come along, and I would find myself no closer to that goal. Another year of my sonic goodness remaining trapped in hard drives, cassettes, or my aging noodle. Always assuming that next year, things would be done.

And here it is, the 29th birthday, and I'll be damned if I didn't actually do it.

I finally have an album. A musical baby of my very own. Granted, it's not the powerhouse rock opus that I had thought it would be all those years ago. It doesn't revolutionize or change the way people perceive music. Matter of fact, it would be a flat out lie to even say it rocks. But it's mine, no apologies about it.

Matter of fact, I almost have two of the damn things. Despite a few setbacks, I've almost managed to make two complete works with my pitiful handwriting all over them. I'm feeling pretty good about this whole mess I've made for myself.

Now, I admit it would be a lie to say, that in the four short months it's been out, that my music has taken the world by storm. Things are still pretty quiet on the BGO front. But, people are listening, and that's always good. Plus, I have yet to hear someone say they hate the album so much, that they rue the day it became public. Bonus points for me.

So one year short of thirty, and I am able to find things to be optimistic about. How about that? Age is something I dread less than I used to. My pants fit better and I am certainly less disgusted with what I see in the mirror. Life is good people.

So, I'm gonna leave you now. Tip a glass of Merlot, slice a slab of cake, and indulge in the simple pleasures of breathing and existing, steeped with high amounts of sugar and a bit of libation. I hope today, birthday or no, is equally pleasing to you all.

From the top everybody,

"Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday to me
Happy birthday dear Boogie,
Go buy my CD."

All the best.