7.08.2009

sounds i've been especially digging of late

- The squeak of tennis shoes on tile.

- The shhhhing! of a pizza cutter as I pick it up from a counter.

- Colliding pool balls. Especially the authoritative smack of a good break.

- Your mom.

- Women swearing, especially the words 'shit' and 'motherfucker.'

- The tac-tac-tac of my cat's claws on the hardwood floor.

- A beer bottle set down upon a wooden surface.

- The sound of metal shower-curtain rings as I open the shower curtain.

- The curiously vomiting-like sound of pouring coffee into my travel mug.

fronted by bo at 7/08/2009 | 3 booties shakin' back  

7.02.2009

first-person-shooter disease

fronted by bo at 7/02/2009 | 1 booties shakin' back  

6.30.2009

life of leaves

I saw this over at Ms. Rose's site and decided to cop it. I won't have 20 books, but I will do this in chronological order.

1. It, by Stephen King. I read this book in the fifth grade; it was my first grown-up book. And I never looked back. Once they finally let me into the big-kid section of the school library, I went straight for the fattest book on the shelf (I still do this). I'd been eyeing it for at least a year.

From this book I learned about themes, that there's the story being told, a story sort-of being hinted at, and often a story not being mentioned so much as transmitted through some type of tele-libro-kinesis. Additionally, I learned that some things are better - scarier, purer, and ever more beautiful - if left to the readers' imaginations.

2. Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury. This came out as a movie when I was a kid, and it was a wicked-creepy flick. I loved it. So when I stumbled upon the book in our attic (wtf? my parents read?) I couldn't just leave it up there.

This is the first time I encountered the idea of light and dark being two parts of a whole, a gestalt reliant upon the continuation of both constituents. (I was maybe 10 or 11 at the time, so I used smaller words to describe this.) This idea would be later summed up by Tom Robbins as 'a shadow of light.' If I wrote an autobiography, this would be a theme to my life.

3. The Shining, by Stephen King. Again, I was young, and Danny Torrance was the first character I ever felt I could relate to in a paranormal kind of way. Some of the things he experiences are things I'd sort of gone through. This is how I learned to feel less lonely through books.

4. Gone with the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell. I read this when I was 13 or 14, and this book helped me figure out which kind of girl I never wanted to fall in love with. I've always hated Scarlett. Even at that age I realized that her 'I'll think about that tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day' dictum is this woman's whole damn problem. I vowed never to think like that (and I'm pretty sure I've kept that vow) and never to fall for anyone that weak.

5. The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. In high school we had to do a presentation on a book we chose, and we had to present it as a character from the book. I had to get my parents' permission to read this book, which was part of why I chose it. (The other part was because the guy who killed John Lennon (public enemy number one in my old man's eyes) gave this book as his reason.)

I did the presentation as Holden Caulfield because, frankly, I didn't have to act. Holden and I were roughly the same age at the time, and I could totally identify with him in every regard. It was scary. This is the first time I read a book and swore - swore - the author was writing about me.

6. 1984, by George Orwell. I've always questioned everything. This is the book that hinted that doing so is valid and perhaps necessary.

7. Howl and other Poems, by Allen Ginsberg. Bored in class one day, I shuffled through the anthology in front of me until I hit upon the first line of this poem. It blew my mind, which never came back together the same way again. And I'm totally okay with that.

8. Jitterbug Perfume, by Tom Robbins. This book changed my life more than anything I've ever read. I had no idea that the world was so rich and that our language could capture that richness perfectly if we are honest with it.

9. Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, by Tom Robbins. Same as Jitterbug Perfume, except the main character, Switters, feels like a brother to me. I understood - finally - that my own inner contradictions where not signs of pathologies or psychoses. Rather, they are part the 'shadow of light' that is me. This book went a long way towards quelling a lot of long-standing inner turmoil for yours truly.

10. Franny and Zooey, by J.D. Salinger. No matter how fucked up you are, all you need is someone who loves you unquestioningly and who is willing to show it in his or her own way. That's what I got from this book. And I'm fortunate enough to have two Frannies to my Zooey. (As opposed to two fannies to my Zooey, which would make me an anatomical wonder.)

11. The Oxford English Dictionary. Yep. I've never believed in synonyms, believing instead that each word has its own history and meaning uniquely suited to itself and the situation it's presented in. This book, and my continued love affair with it, validates my theory, in spite of mass media's attempt to take away these particulars.

12. House of Leaves, by Mark Danielewski. Who says you have to read from top-to-bottom and left-to-right? Who says you can't tell a whole sub-plot in footnotes? Who says you can't randomly color certain words? All my life I've been breaking rules. This book gave me permission to do it in an all new way.

13. Gravity's Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon. Thick, intelligent writing doesn't have to be serious. It's okay to write about poop. Even about someone eating someone else's poop. Hell, you might even win a book award for it.

14. Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. I can't honestly list why this book has influenced me so much. I'm re-reading it right now (after finishing it just last November), and maybe I'll be able to answer it this time. But I think part of it is that it's such a cerebral book, but it also gets at how the world feels in a very honest, true, and funny way.

fronted by bo at 6/30/2009 | 2 booties shakin' back  

6.28.2009

things realized after my cat ran away this weekend and i spent hours and hours looking for him, sitting outside waiting for him, and not sleeping well

That there is a certain amount of fear bound with love. That it is not the fear that the love will leave; it's the fear that the love will remain after the loved is gone. That an amputated arm can still itch, and an amputated love can still yearn.

That I was afraid to take him outside, and that I was afraid of that fear.

That I have always - and still do in a majorly dark and interior way - believed that everyone I love will leave. And that everyone I love should leave.

That I may have bought that harness and leash specifically to test myself regarding my fears. That I may believe in purity more than I believe in love, or believe that the two should be intertwined, guilloche-like.

That if I saw him dead in the middle of the road, I would have stopped traffic and picked him up in my own arms and walked him home, crying the whole way. That this fact may be the guilloche-like wending of love/purity I was seeking.

That nothing I did or have done over the last two years has anything to do with him running off. That he did exactly what cats do.

That it is often instinctual behaviors that rend hearts.

That no matter how you've loved, you'll always feel you didn't love well enough when love's vessel has left.

That there's a deliberate and decided difference between loving enough and loving well enough.

That sweat and tears have similar but distinct tastes.

That asking neighbors for help doesn't help when they just want to point out that new hawks and hawklings nesting in a tree in nearby backyards. That some people just don't understand how distraught a person can be over the absence of a pet.

That the people who do are blessings.

That the dining room table, which I've eaten at maybe six times over the last two years, is a great place to eat and still keep an eye on the backyard.

That I can, in fact, fall asleep in a lawn chair on a deck in the dead of night.

That we believe in deities in order to give over our desperation. That when you have no one to pray to, you feel utterly alone. That faith in anything is difficult.

That I don't believe in God, but I do believe in love.

That those dreams you have after a bad break-up, where you run into your new ex except he/she isn't your ex and everything is fine and your heart flutters for a while and you smile a lot both in the dream and there snug in your bed but then you wake up and remember that he/she is in fact gone from your life and everything is so much worse than it was when you fell asleep...those dreams aren't limited to break-ups. Or even humans.

That rocks, tree-limbs, squirrels, rabbits, trash and bare earth can all look like a cat.

That I miss the sounds of him as much as I miss him. That for two years, the rhythm of his tail swishing against the bed is what got me asleep.

That not having him jump up on my bathroom sink when I'm in there in the morning and not being able to scratch his little head and have him close his eyes and smile is heartbreaking and makes it really hard to put in contacts.

That if he doesn't come back, I will in fact get another cat. That knowing this makes me stronger man than my father, and stronger than any previous version of myself.

That if he does come back, I will cry - no matter who's around.

Come home soon.

fronted by bo at 6/28/2009 | 2 booties shakin' back  

6.26.2009

resolving an issue w/r/t questions of paternity and the death of an american pop icon

So it turns out that Billie Jean is not, in fact, my lover. She's just some girl who claims, well, this is a little awkward, but she claims that I am the one. She's even been picking up those bridal magazines and lagging as we walk past gown-stores. I found a napkin the other day with her names and my last name decidedly signatured over and over, even once in bright red magisculed letters. But I swear - and the courts of Los Angeles and the state court of California uphold - that the kid is not my son. She was one fantastic shag, though, before she went all hosebeast w/r/t to the kid thing and dancing in a round on the floor. She was all like, 'I don't dance in a round on the floor with just anyone, bucko!' And I was like, 'That's so not what it says on the restroom wall out at Villapiano's.' And she was like, 'How could you say that?!?!?' and I said, 'SAY that?!?! Hell, I WROTE it!!' And she was like, 'Oh no you didn't!' Then she wigged out and swung at me but missed and instead hit some other chick walking by and well...and then we were all wanna be startin' something, if you know what I'm saying. And but so the point is, the kid is NOT - I repeat, IS NOT, my son.

fronted by bo at 6/26/2009 | 3 booties shakin' back  

6.24.2009

cousins, uncles, line dances, and other inexplicables

This weekend I attended pretty much the best wedding ever. (You can scope some pics right here.) The ceremony was nice and relatively brief, exceptionally brief for a Catholic wedding. The reception was great. The music was great. The booze was free. And my friends, as always, were awesome.

Of course, this got me thinking about all the shitty-ass, sucktastic weddings I've been to.

I grew up in Hicktown, Hick Township, U.S.A. My family makes love - missionary style - with Chet Atkins and Merle Haggard wafting in the background. They remove cowboy hats and boots before climbing into rickety beds set against crumbly brick walls. They have shotgun weddings whilst their shotguns are mounted in the back windows of their farm Dodges. They leave Christmas early to check their raccoon traps.

Truly. How did I ever turn out this normal?

And at their weddings, they do things that defy logic, decorum, and occasionally gravity. They brazenly flip off Emily Post and go with their own wedding traditions and (ab)norms.

The line dance

If 'dance' isn't immediately preceded by 'line,' my family won't partake. They do not interact with music on a genetic level, not even to dance...even white-guy dance. Nope. If they can't stand in a row with other people all following a prescribed pattern of hops, kicks, turns, ass-shakes, and claps, they'll wallflower it up like an adolescent Jakob Dylan.

Not shown: Alan Jackson on the Chattahoochee

The beer slide

There are no pictures of a wedding-style beer slide on the internets. So here's a picture of Naomi Watts:

Not shown: The rest of my bedroom. And my boner.

To make a wedding-style beer slide, you'll need:
  • Wooden dance floor (1)
  • Miller Lite, Bud Light, and/or Old Milwaukee Light (lots)
  • Rented tuxedos (1 per participant)
  • Uncles and/or agnate cousins (the more the better apparently)
  • Angry aunts and/or other indignant distaff relatives
The uncles and agnate cousins should consume as much beer as possible, w/ or w/o vomiting. Once they're sufficiently inebriated, pour as much beer as possible on the floor. After enough time passes, the uncles and cousins will discover on their own that the beer is slippery. This will inevitably lead to them running from one corner of the dance floor - usually with a beer in hand - and sliding - on ass, gut, leg, or face - to the other side. You'll want various protective barriers on the other side to protect the dj/band, sound equipment, and angry distaff. You'll also want cans of beer lined up, as the uncles and cousins will likely spill their beer on the floor, which at first seems to happen just from clumsiness, but eventually you'll realize that it's a carefully disguised method for keeping the slide slick.

I have honestly seen this stupid tradition nearly end a four-hour-old marriage.

The trough dance

There are many traditions from all over the world regarding marriages and birth order. For example, in some places a man marrying the youngest daughter takes the daughter's last name.

In my family, any unwed older male siblings must give a public sign of their disgrace and embarrassment of having taken longer to beat a woman over her head with a club than his younger brother. This public display must be aptly metaphorical for his life as it stands now, his new outcast social standing, and of the reason he has been incapable of landing a wife.

He must dance. And he must dance in a pig trough.

Seriously.

I am probably related to this sad bastard.

When my brother got married, The Moms looked at me and said, 'If we were back home, you'd be dancing in a pig trough.' I replied, 'If we were back home, I'd have maimed any and all family who tried to get me in a fucking trough.'

I simply cannot explain the idiocy of the trough dance, which is okay because the idiocy is obvious and apparent.

So, congratulations to Erin and Dave. For finding each other. For sticking with each other. For being married and happy. And for not sucking, wedding-style.

fronted by bo at 6/24/2009 | 2 booties shakin' back  

6.17.2009

lazy wednesday

Copped this from CajunVegan.

STEP ONE:
Spell your name with songs.

Because - Beatles
O Valencia - The Decemberists

STEP TWO:

Name: Bo
Birthday: 12 September
Nickname: Uhm...Bo
Eye Color: Blue, bluish-green, or green. And sometimes grey.
Hair Color: Brown, with large quantities of scalp visible. So brownish-peach
Zodiac Sign: Virgo

STEP THREE:

The shoes you wore today: The only pair I own that doesn't have holes (because it's raining).
Your weaknesses: Boobs, ice cream, boobs with ice cream, ice cream with boobs, and girls who are weird and also have boobs.
Your fear: That I won't make it through life without killing myself.
Your perfect pizza: There are so many. But any pizza I share with Ms. Rose is a good pizza.
Goal you’d like to achieve: Finishing the novel that's been running around in my head for a few years now, publication, making out with Naomi Watts and/or Mary-Louise Parker.

STEP FOUR:

Your best physical feature: I have huge balls.
Your bedtime: Well, I go to bed around 10:30 or so, but I fall asleep somewhere between then and 2AM.
Most missed memory: What does this mean? If I still have the memory how can I miss it?

STEP FIVE:
This Or That…

Pepsi or Coke: Cherry Coke
McDonald’s or Burger King: BK has veggie burgers.
Adidas or Nike: Chucks
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Tea is for namby-pambies.
Chocolate or Vanilla: Peanut butter.
Cappuccino or coffee: Coffee. Dark, bold, no fillers.

STEP SIX:
Do You…

Smoke: Yep. Repeatedly.
Curse: Li'l bit, sure.
Sing: Yep. Frequently. Background vocals are my specialty.
Dance: I have my own genre: Bo-dancing. A little bit Beavis, a little bit trapped whale, a little bit Avitable.
Take a shower everyday: Sometimes I skip Sundays.
Have a crush: A few. Ms. Rose. Naomi. Mary-Louise. Your mom.
Do you think you’ve been in love? About as frequently as I've smoked cigarettes. I'm kind of a love-slut.
Want to go to college: Did that. Prolly will do it again.
Like(d) high school: Hellz yeah.
Want to get married: Under certain conditions.
Get motion sickness: Sometimes.
Think you’re attractive: I have huge balls.
Think you’re a health freak: No.
Get along with your parents: Sure, now that I don't talk to them we get along great.

STEP SEVEN:
In the past month…

Gone to the mall: No.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos: No.
Eaten sushi: No.
Been on stage: In my head I'm always on stage.
Gone skating: What? People do that after eighth grade?
Made homemade cookies: No.
Gone skinny-dipping: No.
Stolen anything: No.

STEP EIGHT:
Ever…

Played a game that required removal of clothing: Yes.
If so, was it mixed company: Boys, girls, hermies, and aliens.
Flashed anyone: I flash Ms. Rose all the friggin time. I call it The Penis Dance.
Been beaten up: No.
Shoplifted: Yep.

STEP NINE:

Age you hope to be married: I'll say Bronze.
Number of children: One.
Describe your dream wedding: I'm not particular, but I've always vaguely hoped Elvis would be present.
What country would you most like to visit? A country of unusual love.

STEP TEN:
In the opposite sex…

Best eye color: Boobs.
Best hair color: Boobs. And red hair. Preferable not with the red hair on the boobs, but I'm not known for being exceptionally picky.
Short hair or long hair: Boobs.
Height: Boobs.

STEP ELEVEN:

Number of people I could trust with my life: Two. And my cat.
Number of CDs that I own: One. I had lots, but uploaded everything to my computer and gave all my CDs to my brother who was lamenting that he'd lost all of his over the years and now didn't have music to share with his kids.
Number of tattoos: None.
Number of piercings: I used to have my ears pierced.

Personal Quiz

Who were you with yesterday? A girl who I thought had died, who instead had had both of her lungs transplanted, and who is also living in her car. (Seriously.)
What woke you up this morning? Alarm/cat.
Where are you? In my starship at work.
Is tomorrow going to be a good day? Indeed it will.
Do you like anybody? Well yeah.

THE PAST

Ever thrown up in public? Repeatedly. I once threw up green cheese. It was awesome.
Passed out because of alcohol? Yes. High school was a grand old time.
What’s on your mind RIGHT NOW? Trying to decide if I need to poop badly enough to necessitate a trip to the public restroom.

THE FUTURE

What kind of home would you like? One that floats on a giant lily pad in the sky.
What do you want to be when you grow up? A writer.
Where do you see yourself in 5 years? In your mom.

IN GENERAL

Do you like candy necklaces? What?
When was the last time you fell over or ran into something? I fall down a lot.
Do you listen to music every day? Every second of every day, as a matter of fact.
Do you still go trick or treating? No.
What was the last thing you ate? Organic Granny Smith apple.
Are you a fast typer? Sure. Now ask if my quick typing is accurate.
What’s your favorite type of soda? Cherry coke. (Didn't we do this?)
Have you ever moved? Nope. I am, in fact, a rock.
Have you ever won an award? I won lots of big-brain/nerd awards in high school.
Are you listening to music right now? Yep.
How long ’till your birthday? Less than 90 shopping days.
When were you the saddest in your whole life? The day your mom broke up with me.
What time is it? Time to get ill.
Do you use eBay to buy or sell? No.
Who makes you mad? Flagrant disregard for grammar and syntax, willful stupidity and denial.
Have you ever heard a song written about you? The Bad Touch, by The Bloodhound Gang.
Something you want to happen in 2009? I'm hoping for a b-day bj.
Summer 2009? A visit to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Honestly, do you miss 2008? 2008 is so 6.5 months ago.

HONESTY SECTION

Honestly, what color is your underwear? Light blue with little red chevrons.
Honestly, what’s on your mind? Still debating the poop issue.
Honestly, what are you doing right now? What the hell do you think I'm doing?
Honestly, have you done something bad today? No. I'll work on that.
Honestly, who is the last person you talked to on the phone? Ms. Rose.
Honestly, are you jealous of someone right now? Nope.
Honestly, what makes you mad most of the time? Idiots.
Honestly, do you bite your nails? I keep them pretty closely trimmed. Biting them would be painful and superfluous.
Honestly, have you had an eating disorder? Nope.
Honestly, do you want to see someone this very moment? Elvis, Jesus, Buddha, Tom Waits, John Lennon, Tom Robbins, David Foster Wallace.
Honestly, are you keeping a big secret now? Why do you want to know?
Honestly, do you have a friend you don’t actually like? Why would I do that?
Honestly, are you in denial? Not that I'm aware of.
Honestly, do you get up in the middle of the night and eat? Nope. It's about the only time I'm not eating.
Honestly, do you like anyone? Well sure.
Honestly, does anyone like you? Maybe.

ANGER SECTION

What do you do when you’re mad? Throw something and/or yell.
What’s the worst thing you’ve done when you were mad? Brought down a tree with a sledgehammer.
Ever made anyone cry when you were mad? Intentionally.
Do you swear when you’re mad? I swear when I'm not mad, yo.

CRYING SECTION

When was the last time you actually cried? Not sure. I caught my ballsack in the folds of my underwear once, and there were tears. Believe me.
Ever cried yourself to sleep? Yeah. Mostly as a kid.
Do certain songs make you cry? Yeah.
What usually makes you cry? Well, music, now that I think about it.

HAPPY SECTION

Are you usually a happy person? I like to keep a generally sunny disposition.
What makes you the happiest? Boobs. And ice cream. And Ms. Rose, even when she doesn't have ice cream.
Do you believe in yourself? I'm not entirely sure that I exist, if that's what you mean.
When people say they think you are good looking/pretty, do you get happy? No one ever says that to me.

fronted by bo at 6/17/2009 | 1 booties shakin' back  

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