| january
14
|
And here we are, freshly refurbished for the
new year. Hardly a radical departure, but at least the photo's changed.
And in theory, I won't have to go studding my brilliant observations of
the world with pop culture references because they're all conveniently
left on the side of things, where they belong. Just wish I had some brilliant
observations about the world to share, which would make all of this worthwhile.
Hum. Well, how about a tour of the new place, and then in the next entry things of import will be discussed. First, we have our brand new photo at the top, which is not brand new at all but in fact is from 1986. I always called it my drug dealer photo; we all look like we either seriously need to go score some good shit, or that we've just done some. Being still blonde, as in the previous photos, I'm in the center with a pair of shades you would never, never catch me in public in. To wear those things you have to have given up all hope of being fashionable; be named Bud and out shootin' 'coon; be a drug dealer (natch) or be about 80 pounds and hopelessly trendy. I know the first and the last don't seem to match, but believe me, they do. To the left of the photo sits Alexis, whose children have been heretofore noted multiple times here, and here. Needless to say, in 1986 she was several years away from begetting any of them. On the far right, with the goofiest Elton John glasses we could find in the universe (they weren't his; they were bought for my now-late friend Jo, who was on her one and only trip to the U.S. at the time, but that's another day) sits Jez, and he's a whole other story, is Jesse William Short, Jr. but suffice it to say I was definitely one of the coolest teenagers in the world in this moment, with my A-ha inspired o-rings on my arm, in my drug dealer sunglasses surrounded by one of my best and longest-lasting friends in the world and the guy I had a major thing for all through high school. They made me look cool. I think it worked, at least for the millisecond during which this photo was taken. Dig the stone-washed jeans! Dig the basement paneling! Was there any home in America which did not have a basement/rec room/any room, really without some form of wood paneling? A little 'splainin' on the side junk (and I said I'd avoid this but what the hell) -- Hustle '76 should've been the description of the album, not the CD, but when you're 7 years old and buying your first record (by K-Tel!) off of the TV and they say they'll send you 2 albums of Great 70s Hits for just $4, well, what the hell. I went through a brief mail-order phase where even at my tender years I realized stuff would come to me in the mail if I just filled out some of those free cards you could get in the supermarket -- and that it was possible to call those numbers on the TV when they screamed "Call now!" I don't know for sure that I personally ordered the Hustle '76 album myself; I sense it was a cheap way for mom to get me to quit saying I really had to have my favorite song in the world on an album ("That's the Way I Like It") so I was easily bought off, but I always think of it as my first album purchase. For what it's worth. Well, it's a great little package. You get that funky CB-Radio song "Convoy," the Swedish-meatball sounding voices on "S.O.S." and the vaguely religious/agnostic falsetto keening of "Swearin' To God." (Hey, this was before the Bee Gees hit disco, so let's hearken back, shall we?) And for years -- I mean, really not until just a few years ago -- did I think, hey, you know, $4 was cheap even for two albums back in the '70s. And hey, you know, this version of "S.O.S." is a version, not the original. And hey ... well, you get the picture. These are all, down to the last flute (yeah, one song has a flute solo), cheap rip-off copies. I find it hard to believe that the rights to all of these songs were more expensive than re-doing every single one, but that's what K-Tel did. And there's no artist credit, not on the circular yellow sticker on the album, nuffin. These are anonymous versions and most of them are pretty much bled of personality. But I was fooled! For years, I was fooled! I'm trying to figure out the metaphor here, but it isn't
coming.
My inner sci-fi geek has arisen in the new year and I've decided to read the entire Dune series, all 8 (I think) books. I'd already read the main series, written by the late Frank Herbert, back in high school, but then they came out with these prequels written by Herbert's son and sci-fi guy Kevin Anderson, so I started in on those ... and have now decided once I finish the last prequel (Corrino), I will move back into the Herbert series. You have to enjoy sci-fi to like them, I suppose, but even if you don't you should give them a try. No other literary form tackles environmental and religious issues so thoroughly and thoughtfully -- and the two are not necessarily exclusive, nor is it some kind of totemistic ritual stuff a la Native Americans. It's something quite beyond. The other book, When Jeff Comes Home, is something I stumbled across. They say it's for young adults, and it mayhap be, but ... when I was a youngster none of my young adult books dealt with a kid who comes home after being kidnapped for three years and repeatedly raped. (The sex stuff is quite muted and hardly stated at all thus far, a tone I suspect will continue, and I wouldn't want it there anyway.) But crikey. And I thought reading Lois Duncan and Robert Cormier warped me enough. Anyway, I read that at night and tote Corrino around during the day. Been busy these first few weeks of the new year, and the last few of last year, too, finishing up the book. And I can now say it is done. Well, done in terms of getting to the end. The first half I feel good about; the second half needs paring down and then it will be ready to show around to people for some critiquing. Then, the agents, etc. I really feel good about the book -- but that doesn't mean anyone else will. And that's all I have to say about that. As for the random comment ... let's say I'm dealing with people who don't always seem to speak English quite right, and who have kidnapped my VCR (which they cannot repair but which I want back on principle, plus they have $25 of my deposit to refund me). They say they'll come between 10 and 12 on Saturday; no show. I leave, after arranging with them to see them around 5, 5:30. Come home, message on the machine from 2pm. So I call today and speak to the manager. That's the kind of conversation we have. They say "okay" to everything, whether or not you're finished asking the question. So I got cheesed and demanded a "yes" or a "no," not an "okay" that translated into "okay, will you leave me the fuck alone so I can go do real work?" It was painful. I'm sure they hate me. But in the middle of this crappy conversation the guy says, "You're going to need a new VCR, right? Well, we have lots, Samsung, JVC...." and I nearly burst out laughing. C'mon, dudes, show me some service before starting to shill. Get your priorities in order. Okay? And finally, I wonder if the Secret Service have gone after the Rold-Gold people for potential terroristic activities yet ... I swear, those Bush men need to watch it with the food. |
