Picking up from halfjack:

Rank the following bands in order, from couldn’t live without to couldn’t care less. To add value to this process, you must also add one band to the list, and remove one band from the list, before passing the list on (including these instructions).

Adding: Joy Division

The Minutemen
The Clash
The Beatles
R.E.M.
XTC
Devo
The Kinks
The Beach Boys
Queen

Removing: Paul Simon

Hilarious dream last night, mostly about a rock band. They were one of those bands that rock nerds know about. Old guys, had started out in the early sixties. They had a rough, almost metallic sound with lots of surf and a bit of country. They’d survived over the years because a few famous people had covered their songs. Most recently they’d been in a Coen Brothers movie. Everyone who was anyone would go to their shows, which were legendary for their antics. They always wore suits and shaved their heads, and frequently wore white cowboy hats. Everyone knew one song of theirs, the “hit”, but if you were into them you weren’t supposed to like it. During certain songs the audience was supposed to do special things, like sing along to one verse or hold up one hand. There was one guy in the band who could play any instrument.

I woke up giggling. It was a complete Nick Hornby-style sendup of the Legendary Hipster Band that record store clerks like. If you combined NRBQ, the Kinks, Link Wray, and Big Star you’d have them. This is what the Spinal Tap/Folksmen crew should do next, dammit.

The spoiled baby grows into
The escapist teenager who’s
The adult alcoholic who’s
The middle-aged suicide. OY!

Anyone know what happened to Leisuretown or to Mr. Farnon himself? I hope he’s not dead or something.

The patio was a regular injured list tonight, including: one concussion with neck strain, one sacroiliac separation status post motor vehicle accident, one gastritis patient in recovery. Let’s try to be careful out there, folks.

I had a four-hour nap today. It was pretty much a napgasm. I would wake up for a few minutes in the middle and say “hmm.. yeah… more… NAP!” and go back to sleep. God that felt good.

I need to write another cgh article. It’ll either be about jerkcity, or about the paradox of orange county punk.

I’ve been thinking about going back into therapy, mainly because the fact that I cannot get a date to save my life has been constant for years, and it has to be me and not the Cruelness of the World, and I should try to fix that. But it’s so expensive, and so time-consuming, and it so didn’t work before. I’m resistant, and in fact it makes me angry to think about it, because therapy to me is something you do because other people tell you to, basically in order to make *them* happy. I don’t want to destroy another couple years of my life for a slim chance at improving things. Just the memory of those years of always leaving work early and missing out on interesting things in life, and being poor all the time, and feeling bad all the time, just for some marginal improvements, is enough to make me really angry again at the whole business. But what else am I going to do? Each time the game of musical chairs is played and I’m left standing I get a little more bitter about dating, and I don’t like being bitter; it doesn’t suit me at all.

But another 10 years of being the spacer filler friend for women between boyfriends is not gonna be ok. Nope, nope, nope.

Good MORNING. I am at work. I am at work because, although I can do my job remotely, I have to be here because of peoples’ “comfort level”.

My own comfort level is fucking ZERO because the people who can actually fix things are at home doing bonghits or sleeping and not answering the phone, and I am the “point of contact”. This means that I keep getting harassed/paged/sobbed at by people who can’t use the broken crap that Captain Cannabis and the All-Night Vodka Patrol wrote.

So basically I’m here being a pissed-off secretary for a lot of partying 20somethings who are at home having sex and drugs and ignoring their jobs.

You know, there isn’t any waiting period for shotguns.

Courtesy Nick:

http://www.ghoststudy.com/monthly/sep03/crypt.htm

Photoshop and kooksville doesn’t mix, folks.

A very good evening at pbd‘s house for the how swarming. Pasta, cheese, bread, wine, and pie. Everyone was nice and smart, good conversation had for several hours. I should have brought my digital camera because all the women were very beautiful, and I could make everyone on the Internet jealous of my cute friends.

My BEER! CHEESE! BREAD! was a great hit which makes me happy. the_silent_one and Bethya collaborated on a rather excellent sauce for the pasta.

They’ve got a very nice house.

Tomorrow it’s up at oh dark 30 for work, because I’m on FOOTBA’AL duty. Despite the fact that science! means I can do my entire job from a Starbucks with a Palm Pilot, I have to physically be in the office because of stupid.

Parties always make me feel lonesome afterwards. I wish I could find someone to go out with.

ignatz: metaspy.
pea: ignatz: average penis size; average penis size; martyrs day in mali; honda of troy; swarna deepa; smallville episode guide; boys pissing
ignatz: penis martyrs episode guide
zebulon_y: ow
zebulon_y: smallville pissing day
ignatz: 43B (ORIGINALLY AIRED DECEMBER 8, 1998): EUGENE AND RON GET THEIR COCKS WHACKED OFF AGAIN.
zebulon_y: ignatz++ # augh
ignatz: AS KEEPER OF THE PENIS MARTYRS MAILING LIST AND ALT.FAN.PENIS-MARTYRS I HAVE A BUSY SCHEDULE. CURRENTLY I’M UPDATING THE FAQ TO INCLUDE THE RECENT ACTION FIGURES SOLD AT OWDONGCON IX.
ignatz: something is wrong with my head.

The headphones hurt my ears. I guess there’s a reason they cost $5.

I need to get another pair of those Koss earbuds.

I listened to a straight hour of punk rock and then a guy I don’t like at work walked by and I had to resist cluebatting the shit out of him out of sheer manic punktastic joy.

I have to work Sunday morning. I am not looking forward to this. ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOT BA’AL?

I believe I’ll make a good loaf of bread to take to the Beckers’ how-swarming tomorrow.