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Happy consumerism, brothers and sisters.
Time to bitch like the biatch I am. The biatch I can be.
There are a few shows on Much Music that I am just so digusted with.
"The Fabulous Life of...", "Young and Loaded", and "MTV Cribs".
The entire point of these shows seems to be to brag about how much money these stars have to throw around and waste.
Sure - if you have money - spend it. Live in luxury if you can afford it.
But the fact that we - the Zombie-Land viewers are expected to sit and listen to the annoying British dude's commentary on how Puff Daddy spends "six thousand dollars a day on his moustache" or how Paris Hilton drops "fourteen hundred thousand dollars" for leather booties, for her little doggie, Tinkerbell - is sad and pathetic...but even more pathetic: We actually watch it. Suck it up like hungry, envious leaches.
First of all - these shows are just commercials.
If you watch a show like "The Fabulous Life of..." - they are constantly name-dropping brand-names.
Nothing is just a "hand bag" or a "restaurant bill".
Instead it's "A seven-hundred and fifty THOOOOUUUSAND doll-AH Prada bag..." or
"A gargAAANtuan six hundred and ninety-nine bill at the posh eatery 'Butter'."
These are commercials.
We are tricked into watching commercials for all the places our supposedly "hot" heroes frequent.
Then, between segments - we are fed more commercials of things our sorry asses CAN afford (most of which we don't need anyway).
I don't get it though. These shows are just numbers and product names.
That's it.
It's like some kind of zombie-land group hypnosis trick.
They flash the face of our favorite celebrity - then flash a candid photo of them out on the town partying, flash the product (ie - the Gucci hand bag that is to DIIIIE for) and then - flash a price across the screen:
$$$$1490.00!!!!!! in big bold letters.
Is it supposed to invoke envy? Is it supposed to inspire us to work harder so we can one day buy all these things? Do we really need to spend seven thousand dollars at the hair dresser?
Does anyone? Is a haircut REALLy worth seven thousand dollars?
Does the celebrity get off on flaunting how rich they are?
If there is this much money floating around in Beverly Hills or Los Angelas - then there really should be no world hunger.
I totally mean that.
Never mind world hunger - there should be no hunger in the United States. Or Canada.
There should be no national debt.
These celebrities, politicians and company owners who feed off of our consuming habbits have the key to ending world hunger. To ending homelessness.
Fuck - there's ads everyday of how "Just ten cents a day" can feed, cloth and educate a poor child in Africa.
If it's REALLy ten fucking cents a day - how about Paris Hilton just...*doesn't* buy something for one day - and instead - send all the money to this miracle "ten cent a day and you can eat for the rest of your life-bank" and save a few hundred-thousand lives?
Why?
Because it's all bullshit.
I don't care how good you are at budeting.
Ten cents a day won't feed and cloth a fucking kid.
Now - I'm not blaming world hunger on Paris Hilton..or any rich person for that matter.
I just think our priorities are out of whack.
Mine included.
I hear about music artists bitching about downloading..."Don't download. Don't steal from us."
Steal from us??
Like what - release a CD and charge people $30 dollars for it? THIRTY DOLLARS?
"Don't steal from us" ????!?!!?
WE ARE BEING RIPPED OFF!!! Nevermind the artists. They are already rich!!
We're not! WE are the ones who are being stolen from!
Average, common people - MADE these artists rich by forking out ridiculous amounts of money for over-priced items.
Madonna charges $500 bucks a ticket for a close seat at her show. Barbara Steisand charges a couple THOUSAND.
No one is worth this much of OUR money.
It is us - the zombie-land idiots who are most to blame for this as well.
We are the reason these people are filthy rich and flaunting it - laughing at the rest of the world over how an entire TELEVISIOn show can be made into just how fucking RICH they are.
Young and fucking Loaded.
And we fork over the big bucks. Myself included.
$350 to see Madonna? SURE! $27.99 not including tax for the new Liz Phair record (that sucks anyway)? Not a problem!
I'll keep forking it over. $30. $40. $80.$100.$200.$400.$600.$1200.
Etc.Etc.Etc.Etc.Etc.Etc.Etc.
No one is worth this much money.
I've totally changed my mind about downloading music.
When I want a CD - I'll download it. ESPECIALLY if the artist is rich.
If I pay $10 bucks to see a great show (ie - Juliette Lewis) and I see their vendor is selling their album for $15 - sure - I'll buy a copy. It's straight from the source.
Otherwise - it's all fair game. If it's online - it's mine.
If they want me to buy the C.D. - I'll buy it.
Just lower the price.
Don't insult me by charging such a ridiculous price.
$27.99??? Come ON!! Gimme a large break, for real.
A compact disc costs about two cents to make.
They are mass produced and mass-burned within seconds. The push of a button.
It costs nothing.
But in turn - it costs us. A three or four hundred percent mark-up, maybe more.
Everyone wins, except us.
And our cool favorite star goes on shows like The Fabulous Life Of...to show us how they are spending the cash they stole from us.
$600 for a nail touch up.
$800 for a prada bag.
$900 for booties for Tinkerbell.
Thank GOD I spent that $29.99.
Well worth it.
*sigh*
Off to McDonald's for a Big Mac...and then Starbucks for a triple soy latte double-half-cap-frap-a-cino chai tea.
hearts and farts and free HMV stamp cards...

dan

Last Night....

Juliette + the Licks

Saw Juliette Lewis and her band the Licks in Detroit last night.
It was FANTASTIC, to say the least.
Nevermind that Juliette Lewis has been my NUMBER ONE favorite actress since 1994 (when I went to see Natural Born Killers eight times on the big screen) - her band flat-out ROCKED harder than any band I've seen in a long time.
I didn't have the HIGHEST of expectations for her, musically.
I admit, I was mostly interested in seeing a "celebrity". I heard her live shows were high-energy, wild, exciting, crazy....but I had no idea her band would be so tight and her songs so strong.
Compare the energy of Peaches and Le Tigre with a fierce stage presence (due to her charisma and celebrity) and combine the sound of bands like Garbage, Sleater-Kinney, PJ Harvey and the lyrical style of Patti Smith.
It sounds atrorcious to compare Juliette Lewis to a living rock and roll legend like Patti Smith - but I was stunned - several times throughout the night, Juliette would merge into this whole spoken word slam-poetry RANT while the music pulsed harder and faster and riffier and I just found myself making the comparrision to Patti.
Juliette was incredible! Her band is seriously a force to be reckoned with in the alternative rock scene and she did on-stage (after only being with her band for a very short period of time - their album doesn't even come out until May 17th - my birthday) what most bands (who have been together for years) only WISH they could do.
No lip-syncing, no pre-recorded drum beats or special effects, no stage props...just Juliette and four amazing musicians.
It was great.
The end of the night she stage dived us and lucky us...we all got to cop a feel of good ole Mallory Knox.
Anyway, I highly recommend anyone looking into Juliette and the Licks - because they are seriously a fantastic and incredible band.

Dan

What Happened?

So...I knew this guy. His name was Jason...I met him when I was fourteen, and he was 17. He lived in the basement apartment of one of my best friends house.
Shadey character, but a nice guy.
He used to give me and my friend Ted cigarettes and get us booze.
We'd look at tittie magazines (yay!) and talk about sex and music.
It was an extremely "iffy" scenario.
What was this kid doing with two fourteen year old boys?
He never tried anything weird...might have smoked a joint infront of us and offered it to us (to my horror - "How could he offer us DRUGS!?!? REAL DRUGS!! OH MY GAAAWD!) but that was it.
He was unemployed, on welfare, didn't do much at all...dropped out of school...strange shadey weird guy.
Compulsive liar.
He would go missing for days on end, then show up with a bunch of money.
One day - he came back after being gone for about three days - and his arm was in a cast.
He said he got into a big brawl at a bar because some guy was picking on a girl.
So of course, he fucked that guy's face up and in turn, had his arm broken.
But - a neighbor down the street said he spotted Jason riding his bike a few days ago and saw Jason swerve to avoid hitting a cat, and crash, breaking his arm.
Perosnally - I think he was probably a drug runner or middle man or maybe even a prostitute.
There was just something so weird about him.
Older guys in cars would come pick him up or knock on Ted's door looking for him, while Jason would hide in the kitchen saying "Don't tell them I'm here."
He was terrfied. Now at the time - I wasn't even in grade 9 yet - I thought he was so old, a total adult - with "adult problems."
Looking back - he was only seventeen years old. A fucking KID, for real.
Even though I really only hung out with him for a few months, like 14 years ago - he was one of those people you always remember and think about and wonder what ever happened to.
Today - I found out:
This is from CKLW AM 800 - April 26th, 2005 Windsor News:
A 29-year old man has become Windsor's second murder victim of the year. His body was found on an upper rear landing at 231 Gladstone Avenue about 11:30 last night. He'd been shot to death. No name has been released.
A girl came into my store today and was talking on her cell phone to her friend about the murder and she said "Did you hear they released the name?" and the minute she said it - I knew who it was.
I remembered. I hadn't heard anyone say the name in so long, it took me a minute -but then it all became clear.
It was him. Dead before thirty. Shot in a shitty house in a shitty end of town probably still doing the things he did back when he was 17.
Crazy world eh?
I guess life just has a weird way of telling you what happened to people you always wonder about.
dan

This Is Her.

Polychrome

Today - we got ourselves a new pet for Pluto.
Her name is Polychrome. She's a betta fish.
She's space-age silver, neon pink, electric blue, tropical orange and beautiful midnight blue eyes.
She's gorgeous.
I named her after Polychrome, Daughter of the Rainbow from L.Frank Baum's Road to Oz book.
Yeah, kinda on a bit of an Oz kick lately...but seroiusly..it so fits.
Flowing fins like angel hair - literally every single colour of the rainbow.
This is seriously a strikingly beautiful fish.
I also bougth an underwater plant for her, and some neon green gravel to compliment her colours. She's all set.
A nice Pink Floyd-esque backdrop behind her, I bought her humongous home from Canada Salvage - I think it was at one time a big cookie jar, but it works nicely as a home for Polychrome.
Pluto has taken quite a liking to her, but she's up high enought that no harm can come to her.
Anyway, I'll leave you with the excert from the passage of the book that inspired her name.
Keep in mind - I didn't go in there thinking "I'm going to name this fish after Oz..."
Just, when I saw her...I thought "wow..what does this remind me of?"
And I immediately thought of the cover of that book, which depicted Polychrome hanging onto the mast of a ship (that hovered over the Deadly Desert) and I used to stare at that cover for hours on end when I was a kid. Her colours were so similiar to the colours of the character.
It's the perfect name.
ANyway, here's the passage. It is the perfect depiction of what this fish looks like.
It's really beautiful actually, it's worth the read:

A little girl, radiant and beautiful, shapely as a fairy and exquisitely dressed, was dancing gracefully in the middle of the lonely road, whirling slowly this way and that, her dainty feet twinkling in sprightly fashion.
She was clad in flowing, fluffy robes of soft material that reminded Dorothy of woven cobwebs, only it was colored in soft tintings of violet, rose, topaz, olive, azure, and white, mingled together most harmoniously in stripes which melted one into the other with soft blendings.
Her hair was like spun gold and flowed around her in a cloud, no strand being fastened or confined by either pin or ornament or ribbon.
Dorothy looked at her closely. Her gauzy flowing robes might not be very warm, yet the weather wasn't at all chilly, but rather mild and balmy, like a spring day.
"Who are you, dear?" she asked, gently.
"I'm Polychrome," was the reply.

hearts and farts,

Dan

Holy Granola! It's EARTH DAY!

Happy Earth Day, brothers and sisters.
I found out about Earth Day in 1990, I was twelve years old and at a B-52's concert.
The band has always been hardcore activists with regard to environmental issues - and they were extremely sincere when they were talking about making Earth Day an every day event.
Of course, being the obsessive sponge that I am, I soaked it up and immediately converted myself into a recycling nut - for a total of about 23 hours.
Now I'm not the most conservative person in the world - and I'm not talking about social views and human rights...I'm talking about the little ball of energy we consume from daily which makes up the heartbeat of our beloved mother earth.
I've been known for leaving lights on.
I've been known for tossing my magazines in the garbage, usually because I can't stand the sight of my own published stories - so my copies of UPFRONT end up in the garbage...but regardless..it ain't right.
Ain't right, I say.
The B-52's would NOT be impressed.
At the same time...I'm not the most wasteful person in the world either.
I recycle lots of my recycle-able things. I try to use environment-safe products.
I smoke lots of pot and I even pick up trash in a park or on the street now and then just because NOTHING pisses me off more than people who just throw their shit around in public places.
I am also going to treat Earth Day - like a Birthday.
My view is we should always be as nice as we can to everyone - and it's always sweet to do something a little kinder for someone on their birthday - even if it's just give a phone call out of the blue to wish them a good day.
So I figured I'd go a LITTLE bit out of my way today, and do something for Mama Earth.
So I figured it would be fun to have a candle-lite party tonight.
No electricity. No T.V.
If we want music - we can pick up our instruments and make songs out of our own rhythms, be it on key, or off.
For Earth Day.
It'll be fun. Like the great power failure a few summers back.
Cutting out electricity brings people closer together, because we don't have any gadgets that go "beep-beep" and "flash-flash" to distract us away from each other.
And that's part of Earth Day too, in my opinion.
We are all earthlings, when it cuts down to the shit of things.
Earth Day should be spent interacting with others on a nice broken down human-to-human sans frequency level.
There's a magnetic draw to Earth Day for me. It wasn't always on April 22nd.
It was originally in March.
It used to be about utilizing astronomical phenomena in a new way; using the vernal equinox (March 22), the time when the Sun crosses the equator making night and day of equal length in all parts of the Earth.
To this point in the 365 days we call our calendar, Earth Day attaches no local or divisive set of symbols, no statement of the truth or superiority of one way of life over another.
We're just all beings, organisms, collections of cells and biology - crawling and writhing about on this big blue orb of water and mud we call home.
I'm always intrigued by an equinox because it is so uniform.
It's an outer-space, cosmosis event.
It makes planetary observance of a shared event not only a daydream by some earth-loving hippy, but a possibility as well.
If that doesn't say beautiful, I don't know what does.

Hearts and farts, Earthlings.

dan

The Road Through Oz

Even though stereotypes suck...dammit...some of them are just flat-out honest-to-goodness TRUE.
No two ways around it.
Like the gay stigma that is attached to the film Wizard of Oz.
So help me god - this is and has been my number one favorite film since I was old enough to remember watching any kind of television.
I always kind of half-roll my eyes though, when someone asks me what my favorite film is because it just seems so damn obvious:
"Gay guy's favorite movie is Wizard of Oz".
OF course it is. I'm gay.
It's supposed to be.
I think there is just something in our genetics that compels us to put this film above all others.
When I was young - it was my obsession (and fear of) witches that drew me to the wonderful land of Oz.
The Wicked Witch of the West totally freaked me out - to the point where I found myself dressing up like her, even forcing my parents to take a trip out to the now-defunct Cavalcade of Magic to buy me green face paint so I could smear it all over myself to look like her.
Then I'd stare into a mirror for hours on end and speak in her voice if anyone asked me anything.
Maybe that was too much info.
When I got older, around eight or nine - I started reading the L. Frank Baum books - the entire series, and I have to say: Nothing expanded my imagination like those books.
I LIVED in Oz. I'd search my backyard garden hoping to find an old key that would one day lead me to this beautiful and peaceful land.
I'd touch any pair of shoes that even somewhat resembled a pair of ruby red slippers while question marks glowed in my eyes whenever I went shoe shopping, wondering "what if..."
When tornado season came around, and all the other kids were freaking out because the curling club had it's roof torn off in the late seventies, I would clench my fingers into fists with excitement and anticipation thinking:
This is it. My friends in Oz are FINALLY coming to take me away from all this.
Not that my life was horrifically painful. It wasn't at all.
But you know...call me Dorothy Gale...I just wanted to find that land that I've heard of once in a lullaby.
Okay that was cheesey. Sorry.
I had to say it.
Anyway, my point to all this....Wizard of Oz was on last night - and of course - I was tickled a very queer shade of pink when I just happened to tune in as the MGM lion was roaring.
I watched the entire movie for the billionth time (it's shocking how it never gets tired) and I thought a lot about it.
It has such a fantastic moral - it's just brilliant.
The person who feels unhappy and dreams about the grass being greener on the other side finally gets there and realizes they had happiness the entire time and just didn't recognize it because it was so blatantly obvious.
They find intelligence, courage and love and realize they had it in them the entire time as well - they didn't need any Wizard to serve it to them on a silver platter - and to top it all off - the Wizard, who they had such high expectations of - turned out to be (gasp!) just a regular old person with flaws and glitches, like anyone else.
They came to realize they had what they were looking for inside them the whole time.
My only problem - if any - with this movie, is the end.
In the end - Oz was a dream. She wakes up and the viewer is given the impression that she was in bed with a bump on her head the whole time.
When I first saw this ending - I wanted to cry.
It HAD to be real, I thought. It WAS real. It COULDN'T have been a dream.
And my parents would tell me it WAS a dream - it was just a dream that taught Dorothy a lesson in the end.
But I refused to accept that.
I thought it was so disrespectuf to the land of Oz. That humans back on earth deny this wonderful place even exists.
Why COULDN'T it exist?
If she went there - even in a dream - doesn't that make it real enough?
I grew a bit of contempt towards poor Aunti Em and Uncle Henry.
And my heart ached for the Tin Man, Scarecrow and Cowardly Lion - so bad - that I wanted to make it my life work to find a way to get to them and tell them that I believed in them and knew they were real all along.
*sigh*.
Then I discovered the joy of syncronizing Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon album with the film.
But that's another story.
Until then...I'm still travelling down that long, long, LONG yellow brick road - trying not to forget to stop and smell the poppies along the way.

hearts and farts,

dan

MathRock

Okay so last night at Phog there were a few math rock bands playing.
Although I had an idea...I was unsure of what "math" rock was. I kinda figured it was something like Funeral for a Friend, something like..borderline emo-bands/hard-punk - crazy weird erratic hard rock with really really trippy spaced out lyrics.
That's pretty much what it is.
Take the intricacy and complexity of classic weirdo hard rock bands like Rush or Jethro Tull, then add some of punk's hyperspasmodic schizophrenia, and that's the "equasion" for a math-rock band. Erratic, unpredictable, even kind of noisey and really, REALLY fucking pretentious, for real.
But - all music is good in my book, in it's own way. It just is what it is. I hate stupid labels anyway.
In this day and age - Britney Spears could be considered "alternative", when compared to some of the stuff we all listen to.
For sure different than what I'm used to listening to. Out of my "norm", for sure out of my element. Definetly alternative.
Anyway, we left before the band played and that was when I had a drunken idea.
What about starting a little solo-project thing called "Mathrock" and it be just me and my bass - and I play really fun riffy bass-lines, but instead of lyrics - I just count.
Like - pure counting.
By tens, twenties, fives, twos - or just straight forward counting...to a beat.
All numbers. Me singing out addition and multiplication equasions - kinda like a spoken-word or sing-song poetry type thing - but all numbers - put to the tune of a catchy bass line.
And people will just be like "Huh? He's COUNTING. He's just COUNTING!"
BUT - as they find themselves thinking this - they will also notice they are tapping their toe to the catchy beat.
And that's the whole point of this litte "equasion": It's just MUSIC. Meant to be taken seriously - or not-so-seriously.
Mathrock. What do you guys think?
If you were at a bar - say - open mic night - and some guy went up with a bass and said "Hi, I'm Math Rock," and started some kicky-uppity-catchy bassline and begain counting in time with the beat..would you laugh?
If so - would it be a good laugh, or a bad laugh.
A little FYI - I've already penned two songs.
One is called "9" - kind of a slow-opener-bluesy but rockin' song..
THe other is called "10-2-4" - kind of a catchy and nostaligic tune.
This could perhaps someday be a reality at open mic night...so keep your eyes peeled for Mathrock.

hearties and farites,

dan

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD/ R.I.P. GRANDMA/ I *HEART* LIZ PHAIR

I just wanna give a major Happy Birthday to my Pa - My dad - who turns 59 today.
Happy Birthday DAD!!!
I know everyone's dad is the greatest dad in the world - here's why mine is:
He gave me my stubborness and also drew a fine line between "stubborn" and "dedicated" refusing to ever give up - working selflessly for years and years - sometimes multiple jobs to support my entire family.
Sometimes grouchy, but he'd give anyone the shirt off his back - cripple himself just to help an old lady shovel her driveway.
He's peaceful, hilarious - as politically incorrect as you can get - always getting himself into trouble at work by refusing to wear a tie and recently storming out after comparing his union to Nazi Germany.
Seriously.
He's on the cusp of sixty and if it were up to me - there'd be sixty more.
Anyway - CHEERS TO YOU DAD!!! Get drunk for me!
Also - I wanna give a little R.I.P. to my grandma who was buried today six years ago. It kind of sucked that it was my dad's b-day and it is always a wee bit of a downer for the day, the fact that it will forever be associated with his birth day - but - such is the circle of life, right?
It all means something. Just figuring out "what" is the hard part.
Also - The same day my grandma was buried, I met Liz Phair (kinda) in Grand Rapids Michigan.
Shook her hand, exchanged BRIEF words with her. It was mind-blowing.
I still love you, LIz Phair.
Even though your new album is a fucking sell-out.
hearts and farts,
dan

I Wish I Was A Radical

I've been reading a few fantastic blogs.
Check out my friend's at www.thirdwaveproject.blogspot.com - it's rather informative and interesting.
It prompted me to start thinking. Well - I've been thinking of this for a long time, but the blog was a wee bit of a trigger.
I'm not really radical about anything. I mean, how many people are? But I don't even really FEEL radically about many issues.
I remember saying to my friend Jeff one day, while we were driving home from a Ben Lee concert (one of the coolest geetar players around, and ex-beau of Claire Danes):
"I wish I was a radical......something."
*Something*.
But what?
It's horrible. I don't even know "what".
I mean, of courseI feel somewhat strongly about a few things.
I really HATE cruelty to animals, but I think chickens are absolutely delicious.
I'm all for gay-marriage...but at the same time, the idea of a wedding was never appealing to me, so my stance is: "Why bother?"
Gay pride? Whatever. I never feel energized at a parade. Just cramped, hot and annoyed that I have to wait 25 minutes at a bar to get a beer. Mind you - I still feel it's an important event.
Abortion - pro-choice, but not mine.
Environment? I recycle. I'm a member of the Green Party. But an activist?
I don't even compost, for fuck's sake.
Like many-a-university-student before me, I wish I had radical opinions about life and social issues.
I wish I was the president of Out On Campus, or that I worked in a greenhouse, splicing different hybrids of plants, creating thriving and lush ecosystems.
I wish I was involved in organizing protests (the problem is, finding an issue I feel energetic enough about to organize a protest over) and staging ridiculous publicity stunts, like the clever motherfucker who decided to douse fur coats in red paint - I wish I was a tutor to help children learn to read and write - I wish I cared enough to write about issues that are affecting us every day - I wish I knew what our government even stood for - I wish I had a grasp of where our taxes go, so I could complain and take my letter to "congress" and be pro-active and start a movement. Whatever that means.
In truth, I guess I really just don't care enough, or I would be doing these things.
Is that sad?
Hopeless?
I think I'm one of those live-and-let-live people, but to an extreme.
My awareness is down, my inequity radar is turned off.
As long as everyone I know is happy - that's all I care about.
The world could be in a rage of Christian fundamentalism, banning gay marriage left and right, but as long as I can still go to my favorite bar and listen to a fun band, as long as I can sit in my backyard and listen to music with all my friends, as long as my life or the lives of all the people I know aren't altered, hurting or on the brink of ruination:
Fuck it.
Fuck it all. It's just life. There's too much bullshit to weed through.
The only thing we can do - is weed through it and live as happy as we can.

Radical, eh?

hearts and farts,

dan

My Vagina Monologues: January pt.II

Sorry about that little speedbump.
I hate gaps - especially between cliff-hangers.
Anyway, back to my story.
January gave me the third letter once again apologizing to me for bothering me, putting herself down as someone I "wouldn't want to be friends with" and hinting that she would like to be friends with me or "anyone else I knew".
Subtle.
I had no idea what to do.
I now HAD to address the issue the next time I saw her - because she literally HANDED this letter to me. No more pretending I never saw her letters.
Then - the phone rang.
It was January.
"Hi...Dan?"
"Yes," I replied, sighing after seriously considering disguising my voice and doing my "italian momma" impression and squawking "Danny no work here no more!" into the reciever before slamming it down.
I chickened out.
"Um..do you guys have video cameras?"
Jesus fucking christ.
"January, I got your letter...." I began, and paused.
Dead silence on the other end, save for the heavy breathing.
It was now or never.
I had to say something, reject her without being mean or rude, without setting her off and pissing her and her red goons off before this whole scene got out of hand.
The words just started coming.
"Listen, I really wish I knew some people I could introduce you to, but I don't. I've been in a relationship for about five and a half years now and all my friends are in long-term relationships too. It sounds pathetic but I really don't even know any single people! I guess that's a sign that I'm getting old!" I chuckled, hoping she'd laugh too, to lighten the mood.
Dead. Fucking. Silence.
So I continued, possibly adding insult to injury:
"And, it looks like we don't have any video cameras right now, either."

"So," I continued, begging for the other phone line to ring, for her to say something, for her to agree to not bring in the goons and slaughter me in a ritualistic way, "I hope that answers all your questions..I'm really sorry I couldn't be more of a help to you."
My head was spinning.
Say something you stupid bitch, I wanted to scream, but the wrath of the Red Goon Sqaud had me biting my tongue harder than January wanted to nibble on my neck.
"Okay," She said.
Relief. Maybe it just took her hearing it - now the letters will stop.
"Thanks January! I gotta run though, I'll see you later!"
What a fucking relief.
I fired up the computer and started looking up concerts (Juliette Lewis and her band The Licks will be playing at the Magic Stick in Detroit Michigan on April 26th - tickets are $10 - I highly suggest going to see this Natural Born Killer in action) and relaxed, realizing the headache of having to confront January and her trashy henchmen was slowly beginning to fade.
Then, the phone rang.
It was January.
"Hi, Dan...about my letter..."
OH no. Dear God no. Please Dear God Oh No Oh No Oh No NO NO!
"Yes?" I asked, clearing my throat.
"Um..well..do you know anyone who would maybe need a friend?"
Kill me now. Please. Send in the red goons, hand them butcher knives and just have them cut my head off. Put me out of the misery that has become my work-life.
"Well...you know..um.....shit! January! I have a whole store full of people, can I talk to you later?"
This chick is psycho, for real. I realized it wasn't going to stop.
"Okay, call me back," she said.
No!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
"Okay, bye."
I hung up.
I finally find a job that doesn't require me to scrape plates and serve crayons and colouring books to brats - a job where I can work at a desk and be alone for the most part and what happens?
I end up getting harassed by some of the craziest stalkers the Wyandotte East ghetto has to offer.
What was I supposed to do? Write her a letter? Wording it carefully.
Fuck that, that's evidence. I don't know this chick, except that she has some issues.
What twenty-five year old passes notes and calls a stranger incesstantly, bugging him to be her friend or hook her up?
Do I bite the bullet and take her out for fucking ice cream?
Face it: We're all fucking weirdos and queers in our own way. Some people just wear their weirdness on their sleeve.
(I'm paraphrasing my wise, philosophizin' friend Jeff now, but it's food for thought).
Why is it - when a weird - truely weird - person asks us for something as simple as our company, we get freaked out and immediately think it's something sinister and evil?
So maybe she doesn't have the social skills most people her age have.
Does that make her a criminal, a gang lord of Red Goons, capable of murder?
Of course not.
But I'll be damned if I was going out for ice cream with this crazy piece of work in my lifetime.
The phone rang.
It was January.
I let it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring.
It stopped.
It started ringing again.
I let it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring.
We still had an hour before we close. What the fuck was I going to do?
The phone rang again.
I picked it up -
"January! I am really sorr - I am just too busy to talk right now okay?"
"Oh. That's okay," She stammered, nervous. My heart broke. It always does.
"Um..if it's okay, can I just call back and leave you a voicemail message, and then I won't bother you no more.."
GOD! This couldn't be sappier and more heart-breaking if it were a made for T.V. movie.
Except, it was my life.
"That's fine January. Sorry I can't talk."
We hung up, and the phone ring.
A few seconds later, the voice mail indicator light went on.
Star-Ninety-Eight.
Pass code.
One new message.

"Hi. My name is January. This message is for one of your workers, named Dan. Dan, I was just wondering if maybe YOU would like to be my friend and hang out with me. Please call me back."
*click*
This was not going to stop. It was only going to get out of hand, spiral out of control.
January would keep calling. I would eventually have to be rude to her. Her goons WILL keep calling and eventually will probably cut my head off and castrate me.
Luckily, she did not call back that night and I had the next three days off in a row.
Three days later - back at work - all my co-workers told me that January had been calling non-stop for me, six to ten times a day - all through different times.
As if her entire day revolved around it.
WIthin seconds of me walking in the building, the phone rang and it was January.
"Hi January, listen. I would really love to talk to you but I can't. I have been getting in trouble from management about getting so many personal phone calls. Too many people are calling me here and I am going to be fired. So I can't take any more calls, I'm really sorry. The boss is cracking down on all of us for having our friends hang out in the store or being on the phone for social calls. I'm sorry, but I just don't want to get in trouble, okay?"
She basically just said "Okay" and hung up.
Of course, she called back about three times that day, asking me what bunk beds might cost with tax, or how much our floor lamps were and if we'd be getting any more in within a month.
But, the calls started slowing down.
So thankfully - I think this problem might be on its way to being solved.
Okay. Enough about January. Time for some soup.
Hearts and farts,

dan

My Vagina Monologues: January

Not your usual vagina monologue, bruthies and sissies.
You've been warned.
A young lady, about twenty-five years old (although I assumed she was actually 35 when I first met her), named January, has been coming in to my work lately.
I work in a furniture store, so we see lots of regular faces coming in all the time to make monthly payments.
She has an account with us and is always coming in at odd times in the day - multiple times a day - and buys things.
A V.C.R., (?!?!?!who buys V.C.R.s anymore???) a floor lamp set, a wall unit, a couch, a chair, a five piece dinette.
She's whacked up quite a collection and so far - has been a really good customer.
She has pale red hair...borderline strawberry blonde.
Her eyebrows blend in with her white skin and her eyelashes are so light it gives the impression that she doesn't have any. You know the kind? I just wanna grab some mascara sometimes and go to town. I think it could work wonders for her...but, I digress...
She has one lazy eye, thin lips and is a bigger girl.
She's a little on the slow side...but when I say "slow" - I don't mean disabled or handicapped.
(shit, i hope "handicapped" is still a P.C. term...)
She strikes me as the "kid sister" of those infamous neighbors EVERYONE had living down the street from them, growing up.
Probably the poorer house on the block, a whole clan of them - lots of brothers and sisters, maybe the grandmother lived with them too - they mostly kept to themselves...you'd see them out at school now and then...they always seemed older than you, yet were only one grade ahead. They eventually flunk out and end up babysitting or taking a paper route or penny saver route - and keep that job for the rest of their life.
Not "slow"...just - grade three level of thinking. Not socialized properly. Perhaps deeper, sadder issues than I could ever imagine. Maybe abuse or alcoholism is going on...and because they are poor, and uneducated, they are just victims of this inequity. I have no idea.
But January reminds me of one of those kids.
It's sad actually. She was probably picked on quite a bit in school.
Just one of those people - you look at her and think "Shit...life did not deal her a kind card."
And I say this without an OUNCE of spite or mean-ness. I truely felt for her because she seems like such a nice girl, I always make a point to be extremely pleasant with her.
Anyway, last week she started coming in at a ridiculous rate of frequency.
She'd bike all the way down - just to ask me if we sold video cameras.
Or, she'd walk from her home just to ask me how much a 32" television set would cost, including tax.
So one evening, around 5 p.m., I'm sitting there - and sure enough - January walks in. She wanted to know how much she owed next month.
"158.90," I smiled.
"Okay, thanks." She said - and walked out.
Five minutes later - door opens.
January.
"Hi. Um...how much will I owe again?"
"158.90," I smiled again, slightly annoyed because I was trying to write a blog.
"OKay, thanks."
Gone.
Two minutes later: Door opens.
I minimized my blog, biting my lip at how annoyed I was and fingered my key on the desk - the key that locked the door. I brushed the thought out of my head and smiled January's way.
"Hi..um..can you write down how much I owe?"
"Of COURSE!! I forget everything too!" I scribbled it down on a piece of paper - and she was on her merry way.
So a few minutes later - I'm out on the showroom floor and I see a small piece of folded paper just sitting aimlessly and out of place on the floor near the electronics section.
The word "DAN" was written in bubbly, girlish writing and under it, the infinity symbol.
Immediately intrigued (I haven't recieved a note like this since grade six) I opened it - and read the letter January left me:
Dan -
Please don't show anybody this but I was wondering if you know any guys who are single and who would want somebody who's medium bulid and not pretty and the reason I'm asking you is because I'm a very shy person, thank you and please don't tell anybody about this letter because I'm really embarassed.
January.
I was stunned. Is that not the saddest thing?? "Not pretty". How horrifically sad. I feel awful publishing it on here - especially after she specifically asked me not to show anybody...but I just wanna tell it.
Think of the self-esteem issues. Part of me wanted to call her up and just go out for ice cream or something. Part of me was weary.
I didn't know what to do. In all honesty - I know I for a fact I don't have any friends who would be interested in January..but I had no idea how to tell her that.
Do I call her? Do I act like I never got her letter? I was stumped at how to handle this without hurting her feelings. But she was obviously a little on the fragile side, and didn't think very high of herself. Which is awful.
The next day at work, one of the girls working said January and two guys came in first thing in the morning with a letter for me with specific instructions to give the letter ONLY to me - and NO ONE can read it.
"Two guys were with her??" I asked, swallowing.
"Yeah - big guys." Justine, the girl I call "My secretary" replied.
"Were they cute?" I asked.
"No. They were ....really .....red."
I raised an eyebrow as I unfolded the letter.
Dan:
I'm really sorry for the letter I wrote to you I hope you're not mad. I have no right asking you if you knew any guys who are single right now, but I could sure use a friend because I don't have any and I really don't think you would want to be my friend and I wouldn't blame you if you don't but please don't show this letter and please don't tell anybody about it because I am really embarassed writing this to you and I am really, really sorry for bothering you.
January.
Now this left me at an awkward stage. Before - when I found the letter - I could have easily said I never got it - that it must have been swept away at the end of the day.
But this time - her and her goons dropped it off with specific instructions to give to me. She knows I have it now.
The phone rang all day with her number showing up and I made My Secretary answer it - and say I wasn't in today.
I was getting annoyed.
At 5 p.m. - everyone went home and I was left alone to close the place.
I was at my desk, writing a blog (notice a theme here?) and I heard the little "beep-meep-beep" of the door opening. I was writing down a few thoughts so I didn't look up right away.
AFter hitting the publish button, I scanned the store to see who came in.
Empty.
I figured someone must have opened the door but not actually come in.
So I went back to surfing the net.
THen I thought I heard something down on the showroom floor. I kinda got a little creeped out (I am known to get the willies pretty easy) so I got up to just take a peek.
As I approached the showroom floor, I noticed the top of someone's head, crouched down behind a t.v. and a couch.
Red hair.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
January immediately stood up and ran to a blue leather couch.
"How much is this with tax?" she asked.
"Two hundred and seventy-nine dollars, twenty-six cents." I lied.
I had no fucking idea how much it was. I was just creeped out that she was hiding in the store.
Then my heart melted a bit when I realized she was probably just hiding out there trying to get the courage up to come and talk to me. When I approached her - she did the only thing she knew how to do: Ask how much something was with tax.
On her way out - she stopped and said:
"You are Dan, right?"
I nodded - wondering if now was the time I had to address the fact that I got her letter.
She pulled a small envelope out of her pocket and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said..trying to sound shocked.
Dan
Hi Dan sorry to bother you but I don't know if you got the other letter before but I had no right asking you if you knew any guys who are single. It's hard to find friends now a days someone who you can talk to or hang out with as a friend and you seem like a really nice person but if you don't wanna be friends with someone like me I don't blame you but please don't show anyone this letter and please don't tell anybody about it because I feel really embarassed writing this letter to you.
January.

This was going too far now. I had to address it. She was the type to wait outside for me after work. With big red guys. I didn't know her. Something was not completely right with her. One note is cute. Two was a little endearing.
Hiding in the store and passing me a third - all in a 24 hour period - is a little borderline stalker-esque - and my store is not located in a great area of town to begin with.
Something was not completely right with January and it was only going to get more out of hand if something wasn't done.
Then - the phone calls started.

TO BE CONTINUED.
(sorry!)

Our Featured Item of the Day: POT:
Goes well with: a vintage bouquet of Pink Floyd, Beck, Bjork, Secret Machines, Velvet Underground, served chilled with a Grandaddy garnish.
Also compatible as a digestif for a Breeders, Massive Attack and/or a Leslie Feist entree.
Does not mix well with Shania Twain or Roxette.
Do not bring to wine and cheese parties.
Would be especially effective on a Christian Fundamentalist.
The trick is, getting them to try it.
Good luck, brothers and sisters.

Pot Head

Remember my last post?
About tracing the stages of my highness? Seeing if I make a total arse-hole (props to faust for useage of the word "arse") out of myself while high and online, writing?
Well - it taught me something instead.
See - for the longest time, I didn't really smoke much pot.
Maybe the odd hoot off a joint here or there - but to get full-on-stoned?
Nope - wouldn't do it.
About a year ago last autumn, winter - I'd smoke pot and feel like I was losing my mind, out of control, thinking thoughts insane.
I'd get high, and rather than grab a jumbo bag of jiffy pop, or throw on a Pink Floyd album like any other normal stoner, I found myself retreating into the darkest crevices of my mind, exploring and reading too much into everything.
Wondering if the world was going to end, wondering if I was already dead, already in heaven, just dreaming and about to wake up. Questioning whether or not I was even REAL.
Sounds ridiculous, but the scary thing was - I held up a pretty good debate with MYSELF over whether or not I was a real person - and the side that said I "wasn't" real, was winning.
My heart would race, I couldn't follow conversations and I'd suspect my man-boobs were looking too big, which would prompt me to go to the bathroom for a half hour to duct tape them back.
You wanna talk about paranoid?
I brought it to a whole new level.
Which finally made me make the unofficial (and unannounced) decision to abstain from smoking pot.
I just didn't like the feeling it gave me. It made me scared of myself, made me afraid to even speak, for fear of sounding like a bumbling idiot.
It just wasn't worth it. So for the last few months or so I just drank like a fish, while my friends got baked. The longer I stayed away from pot, the less I even liked the idea of getting stoned.
Until that fateful afternoon, when I got high infront of the computer.
I was alone, it was a glorious spring day - no one to laugh at me if I did become a bumbling idiot.
I was totally in my element, a few beers in me for liquid courage.
So it happened.
Now - this taught me something.
While I was writing that blog - I thought I was writing absolute NONSENSE.
It turns out - it was just BORING.
It wasn't really nonsensical or derranged, the way I thought it was.
It was just...a boring blog.
I never would have known I was stoned after re-reading it - except that I keep repeating how stoned I am.
So I think that paranoia was just all in my head.
Since that day - I've smoked pot every night with life partner, and we discovered a new favorite thing to do.
We roll a big fat joint, actually - I roll it, since LIfe Partner seems to think I roll the most stellar joints (something I still did for everyone even while I didn't smoke pot), we get the house all cozied up, select CDs (we have a five disc changer) and we each pick two CDs each (and don't tell the other person what we picked) and then we both agree on one CD - put it all on shuffle and smoke our faces off.
Then, with the t.v. turned off, we sit and listen...discuss....dissect...compare...
It's the GREATEST!!
Sure we probably sound like over-analytical stoned music-lovers...but fuck it!
If the shoe fits, right?
Anyway, I'm back to smoking pot again. No paranoia this time. Let's hope it stays that way.
FYI - the new Fiona Apple record "Extraordinary Machine" (one of our stoned-listening-party-items two nights ago) is interesting. If you're a fan of Fiona and orchestra-type show-tunes kinda songs, it's right up your alley. It's really growing on me. The last track sucks though. What a shame. It should have had an epic-finale - to keep with the theme of the album, but it really fizzed out for that last track. If only SONY would fucking release the damn thing already.
AND - BECK's latest Guerro is absolutely a masterpiece. One of the most under-rated artists of our time. I think he is going to be looked back on by OUR kids as one of the greats. His production and song-writing is stellar - the trippiest, most beautiful album I've listened to in a long time, my only complaint - track one kinda sucks - so don't let it scare you off.
Hearts and farts,

dan
PS - Vagina Monologue coming soon!!!!

Experiments in Excess

It's gorgeous. I have the day off. The windows are open.
Shitbanger car just got fixed, again. Only sixty bucks this time.
Time to celebrate. I decided to crack a beer and write a blog. I ended up writing a horrific review of Scout Niblett - my review was lacking personality and originality and passion.
She really is great.
It's one of those days when I just want to write.
So.
I decided to do a little experiment.
I'm already a tad buzzed, but nothing a rainstorm wouldn't sober out of me.
I'm gonna role a small joint, and keep track of how my train of thought and writing ability (and content) varies, before - while - and after I smoke the joint.
It's 2:50 p.m.
I'm going downstairs to roll the joint right now.
I'm going to document the time as it goes. For me - this is all real time.
For you, the reader - the experience will be instantaneous - all balled up neatly into one nice big ole fat paragraph of a blog.
2:51 - Okay - I'm seriously leaving to roll the joint now.
(swig of beer).
2:54 - told you it would be instantaneous for you. Meanwhile - three whole minutes went by for me - and I rolled a joint and listened to half of a great Dressy Bessy song.
FYI - the new Dressy Bessy album drops in July and is called Electrified.
2:55 - *spark*.
3:01 - stoned.
I decided to go downstairs to smoke pot - I got paranoid and I didn't wanna infect poor kitty (Pluto) with my potness. So I smoked by the window - half way through I got paranoid.
Didn't wanna infect poor housey (My house) with my pot-stank, so I went out in the back yard and finished then got paranoid that my neighbors were watching me - I invisioned helecopters in the sky, deployed with FOX NEWS video cameras, capturing me in my ugly t-shirt and broadcast all over Detroit Michigan/Windsor - "Breaking News!! Dan Caught Smoking Pot in Backyard!!"
So I went back in the house and put the joint out.
God - pot gives me delusions of grandeur for real.
Ugh. I can hardly look at my kitty, I'm so stoned. I feel baked, I feel like my hands reek of weed.
I wonder if I really hate weed? Shit I wonder if I should even hit the "publish" button on this blog. This could be horrifically embarassing. I'm just kind of typing. Like - typing, and everything is really really still and quiet all around, dead quiet-stoned-in-the-day-time-dog-barking-in-the-distance-kinda-stoned.
I'm making a huge ass of myself, I can feel it. I hope to god no one calls me.
You know - whenever anyone smokes pot - you know how you always feel really weird around people who aren't stoned - even if they are your good friends?
(making myself microwave popcorn and getting butter out to melt and add to give the popcorn that little extra *OOMPH!*)
this one time - I got really stoned and and bumped into a big group of not-stoned friends at a party. ACtually, at the Happy Tap - the sleaziest bar in windsor at the time - but whatever.
So I see them and they're all like:
"Hey Dan - how goes it?"
and I'm like:
*giggle giggle* "Good.." *giggle giggle*.."You?"
And they give me (what I think in my highness to be) the evil suspicious eye, and exchange knowing glances with each other and say with a sly smile:
"Not bad...."
to which I reply:
"Good! how are you?"
and then I've blown it. Totally hammered/ripped stoned - don't know where I am.
'What did I just say to them?' I think to myself in a panick, and dart my eyes to meet theirs and challenge them: Do they think I'm a drug addcit? Do they think I'm stoned?? Do they think I'm the loser friend and that's why we don't hang out anymore? Jesus? Am I the loser friend and that's why we don't hang out anymore? Wait a minute... When was the last time I hung out with them? Oh my god! Like two weeks ago! jesus, it seems like longer. Maybe nothing is wrong at all. Or maybe -
"Dan?" they interrupt, and I jump and smile.
"Yes?" I reply. (jesus what DID they say to me??? what was I just thinking of? Who the FUCK is this??)
"Are you stoned?" they ask.
Me - sighing, relieved. Trying to talk over the loud music:
"Yeah, stoned." And I laugh. And they give worried glances. Or so I think. Maybe they are stoned too. I can't let them Know I'm stoned.
So I walk away.
Fuck where was I going with this?
What was the moral of this story? HOw I get when I'm stoned?
Fucked up, no attention span, not witty, boring?
Creative, funny? Thoughtful? Maybe a little too-analytical?
I can't even tell. Too stoned.
I think I wanted to write an email that accurately depicted the way I feel when I'm stoned or drunk.
I always ask people this:
"What does Stoned feel like?"
Ask yourself - when you are in a circle of people - passing a joint around - when is it you kinda think to yourself "Yup, I'm stoned?"
Like - what tells your body - how do you know - how do you feel when you are stoned? What are the symptoms of being high?
I can never give a straight answer.
People tell me "Excited." "Fuzzy". "Focused". "Creative". "Enhanced".
So I guess it is that conversation that kinda extended over into my inspiration for doing this today. I feel like a robot typing.
Blah blah blah.
I want to try and answer that question for myself. Write down my symptoms or feelings as they come - so I can get the most accurate description of them.
Am I rambling? Is this crazy? or do you find yourself relating with any of this at all, as a fellow-stoner or fellow-human being in general?
If you do - I guess it was worth something. A fucking experiment in excess, to say the least.
Whatever the outcome: Profound or fucking stupid - it is what it is.
Just remember!!! the stupid weird, random things you think after you get stoned.
Embarassing as hell - but easy to pass off as "just being stoned".
I'm just wondering if actually seeing some of these (possibly redundant, it's too early to tell) thoughts written down and published for all to see on the internet might be ultimately extremely embarassing for me in the future.
But like I said - too early to tell.
ah shit,
hearts and farts, I guess....
dan

Scout Niblett

I'm an obsessive music freak, seriously.
When I find a new artist I am unfamiliar with (and that is pretty much every day) and that I take a bit of a shine to, I immediately become a super fan and have to surround myself with as much information, visual stimulation and sounds by the artist as possible.
My latest craze and crush is Scout Niblett - who I had the divine pleasure of hearing for the very first time live and in the flesh when she opened for the Kills - (for a review of that show - read my post about Jack White and the Kills).
For lovers of people like Cat Power, PJ Harvey, Bjork, Edie Brickell, the Gossip, Bratmobile and Mary Timony - this performer is a must.
Her actual name is Emma, she stole the nickname "Scout" from the book To Kill a Mockingbird.
(Hold on a sec - it's such a fucking beautiful day and I'm drinking my fourth Alexander Keiths and it's fucking GLORIOUS - and I just have to revel in it for a moment......okay, I'm done.)
Basically - Scout is England's answer to all the brash, intelligent and honest female songwriters that we canucks have grown to love over the years.
Her songs remind me of what I used to love about old PJ, Liz Phair, Jen Trynin, and Bikini Kill.
She plays drums and guitar, her songs are schizophrenic in that they sound like soft, acoustic lullabies one minute - and hard rock, drum beat, riff-oriented metal masterpieces the next.
Heaven.
She digs wigs too. She's always wearing a blond, choppy-cut blonde wig.
She's got four albums -
Sweet Heart Fever (2001)
I Conjure Series (2003)
I Am (2004)
all which can be found on the Secretley Canadian record label and her newest album
Kidnapped By Neptune will be out this summer - at least this is what vv from the Kills emailed me yesterday - on the Too Pure record label.
It's gonna be fantastic.
Check this chick out. She does not - nor will she ever have any airplay.
She's a word-of-mouth type artist - so this is my doing my bit for the word-o-mouth scene.
Buy Scout Niblett.
hearts and farts,

dan

Ballotine of Chicken with Mustard Brandy Creme Sauce.
Note the proximatey in size of the food to the fork.
Not a lot of bang for your buck, is it?
I dare you to read on.

Chez Rip Off

Brothers and Sisters,
I think it's about time we all wake up and address something that should have been addressed a LONG time ago.
Fine Dining.
It's a rip off.
I'm going to make a statement here - and be it drastic or not - I think it needs to be made:
Fine Dining might very well be -

the BIGGEST RIP OFF IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

I'm talking about gourmet food.
The kind served in haughty-taughty restaurants like Noi and 3 and El Gabiano's.
The kind of place that serves "gourmet" "meals" on fashionable plates, with a drizzle of sauce and a well balanced garnish.
The kind of meal that after you finish - you forgot you ate.
The kind of dish that sells for $75 bucks a pop.
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
Let's check out your average fine-dining, supposedly high-class dish that you'll find at any ole fine-dining watering hole for rich, white folk:
Ballontine of chicken with brandy mustard creme sauce, for example.
Sure - it looks darn pretty on the plate.
But it's about as big as a sushi role, and could easily be swallowed in one gulp like a fucking tylenol, washed down with water.
Rich fuckers need to have it broken down for them, so I am going to dissect this particular gourmet dish for them, so they can see exactly what they are actually paying for here.
Hell - rich fuckers oughta love this - they are all cheap fuckers anyway, bunch of scrooges counting out each penny they make, usually too cheap to even toss a busker on the street a quarter for playing till their fingers bleed.
Anyway, the break-down:
ONE boneless chicken breast (probably 50 cents to a dollar at cost)
One spinach leaf (probably .1% of a penny)
one leek (maybe .5 cents), (hell the recipe only calls for the white part of the leek sliced thinly and chopped finely)
1 tablespoon butter (you can buy a whole brick of butter for two bucks, so a table spoon would probably set the kitchen budget back about one and a half cents.)
1 tablespoon dry white wine (a whole bottle costs as low as $12 - a table spoon can't cost more than a penny)
1 egg (ten cents - and that's giving the chicken the benefit of the doubt)
separatedKosher salt (fuck it - it's kosher - let's be wild and charge a whole penny)
Cream Sauce (which consisists of 1/4 cup cream, 2 teaspoons seeded mustard and 1 tablespoon brandy - probably totally about 8 cents of food cost)
and of course - the most important fucking part - it just wouldn't be gourmet with out it:
2 sprigs fresh tarragon for garnish (two cents)
Balsamic reduction sauce for garnish (this is that pretentious swivel of sauce you see. how much does a "swivel" of sauce cost? Maybe one cent?)
And that's it people.
Let's do the math now:
The ingredients to make this high-class dish probably costs about $1.15.
Menu price:
$42.
Forty-Two DOLLARS?!?!?!?!?
Are you fucking shitting me?!
For a meal that cost less than two dollars to make - and less than two bites to eat - forty two dollars???
For forty two dollars I could buy groceries for a month and make enough Ballontine of chicken with brandy mustard creme sauce to feed a starving family in Asia for ten fucking weeks.
You know - I always thought it was average and poor folk like myself who were getting played by the system.
Fuck no.
If rich people are stupid enough to drop that kind of cash on a meal that only costs two bucks to make - their sorry asses are being taken for a ride by the servers and hostesses and restaurant owners of the world.
So a chef knows how to mix his spices. Big deal. Tack on five - even ten bucks to the dish.
If it's tasty - tip your server an extra five bucks. Hell - an extra ten bucks. Fuck it - tip him fifteen bucks.
That's still only twenty-six dollars and sixteen fucking cents. Everyone should be happy.
The kitchen made a 1000% profit, the server made fifteen extra dollars for putting a plate with a teeny morself of food on it - and you only paid twenty-five bucks.
Still pricey if you ask me. But everyone's happy.
Now I thought rich fuckers were supposed to be tight wads? Supposed to be good at managing their money? How the fuck did they get rich if they are able to drop that kind of money on a quarter piece of a chicken tittie wrapped in a little bitty flake of spinach???
Good lord.
Mark ups are a bitch. The rich feed the rich. The poor kill the poor cuz they need more, more, more.
No wonder. I just don't see the appeal. I don't see what is worth it.
Is it a status thing? Does it really taste that fucking good that you're willing to shell out that much money for it?
If I'm gonna spend forty two dollars on one meal - it better be an all you can eat chicken-wing buffet, a pitcher of beer and a big fucking slice of Turtles cheese cake to wash it down.
Jesus.
Reminds me of a Leonard Cohen song - one of the greatest song-writers - and poets in the world, in my opinion and I'm gonna end with some words of wisdom by Mr.Cohen.
"You can say that I've grown bitter - but of this you may be sure: The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor and there's a mighty judgement coming, but I may be wrong...you see you hear these funny voices up here, in the tower of song."

Well Lenny, my funny voices are speaking to me right now - it's time we all wake up and smell the gourmet coffee brewing in my Wal-Mart coffee-pot.
We're all being taken for a ride.

hearts and farts,

dan

my aplogies

Disregard the "ugly blog" below.
It turns out - my Kills Concert story did publish. So you can read all about it.
I will however, leave the "ugly blog" up there, as a reminder to cyber-land and computers everywhere to NOT fuck with me.
One time - my computer fucked with me SOOO bad - I went out that day and bought another one (after punching my old computer right square in the hard-drive tower, busting it) and i tore it from my wall and threw it on my bed.
I seriously wanted to bite it. Sevre the mouse-cord with my teeth.
So I bought a new computer that day - a good one - and spent the night downloading porn at a speed so fast - it was the stuff fairy tales are made of.
I also left my old computer in a corner in my room for one week -on purpose - for PUNISHMENT for being such a shitty computer - and so it could see how much fun I was having on its replacement.
hearts and farts,
dan

fuckfuckfuck

this is a test. i'm gong to fuck with this posting...blahdy blahdie bllllaaaaljlkjjelfja
acjlkejc
ajfl;k wejfrjaw


ajflkejaflkwejfoiewj faio a_--------------___)#*$(#*$()*()*)(*

LIKE I DON"T CARE WHAT GOES IN IT. I bet you TEN DOLLARS this post WILL post and actually make it to the blog site.
See - i just spent like 20 minutes writing this very cool blog about how we saw the guy from WHITE STRIPES at a bar in detroit last night -and the computer erased it.
so i'm gonna make this blog look ugly - and i bet it will post, just to spite me.
fucking computers.
490q238r908908*&)(&(*&(*&*(&(*&
$(&*#q&$(*@#&$#*($&#(*$&#(*$&#q(*$&

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HEARTS AND FARSTSSSSXXXJKJALJKJ

DANNNNNNNNNNN NOT MACDONALD, MACDONALD.

I Don't Know Jack, But The Kills Are Okay

I went with Jeff and Mary to see the Kills last night at the Magic Stick.
The bar was spattered with it's usual crowd of fashionable hipsters and boys so tiny and skinny and small I seriously found myself questioning whether or not they even come out during the day.
Lots of guys with shaved patches in their shaggy hair...like - one side shaved - the other side long and straggly. Jean jackets are back in style stronger than ever, at least amongst indie detroit hipsters anyway.
The air was dense with pot smoke.
That bar is always such a people-watching event. There is ALWAYS an annoying twat or two infront of me pretending to be lesbians hoping to turn one of the straight boys on.
News flash: All gay.
Well, not really - but it seems that way sometimes.
The boys were far prettier than the girls though, I have to admit. And that's not just a phag's point of view. I think everyone would agree.
Anyway, before the show even starts we're all sitting there - and who walks into the room and stands by our table? Jack White from the White Stripes.
Normally, being the blind one - this would not be a credible story. .
As I turned to the other people at my table to point him out - they were already staring and doing double-takes.
It was him. Picture a tall Johnny Depp, with a disease. That's what he looked like.
I shouldn't say that - that's really mean. He seemed pretty down to earth, talking to his friends at the bar. I thought it was cool that he still comes to the shitty local bar to see shows like everyone else - probably the way he did before he was even famous.
God, I'm such a Starfucker.
And yes - I did make an "on-purpose-trip" to the bar (while he was there) to get a beer (even though i didn't even NEED a beer - I just wanted a closer look - and we made brief eye contact and nodded to each other.
We're tight now.
Meanwhile - it was probably more like me staring at him until he had no CHOICE but to acknowlege me so he nodded back at the creepy guy ordering Budweiser at the bar.
He stood behind us for a bit during the opening act, and we contemplated saying something but backed out - and as the crowd got bigger, more people started coming up to him and chatting (a few girls even screamed like Beatles fans - how embarassing) so he finally went backstage to hang out with the other bands.
The funniest thing though - was how at first - EVERYONE in the club saw him, knew who he was, (you could see every table shoulder-nudging their friends and nodding in his direction, secretly pointing him out so he wouldn't see) but refused to go up and say anything to him because they were either a) intimidated, b) didn't want to blow their indie-rock snob-coolness and admit they actually like a band as "mainstream" as the White Stripes or c) heard stories about Jack White punching out the lead singer of the Von Bondies at that very club not even a year or so ago and didn't want to annoy the snotty little bitch.
But hey - I don't know Jack so I can't say for sure that he is a snotty little bitch.
But - I do like the White Stripes and I can say he was definetely there.
The first band who opened - The Blame - were okay.
I think they need to find their sound. Four piece band with a chick bass player and back-up vocalist. She even looked like a water-ed down Kim Deal and they sorta reminded me of...a watered down Pixies.
Not bad for a warm up band...catchy..but I think they need to hone their songwriting if they want to go anywhere.
They weren't shinging stars by any means.
The next band was a cross between Cat Power, Bjork and Edie Brickell. Fucking fantastic.
Just one chick on guitar and one guy on drums. They were great.
She had a really cute voice and could rock out on that guitar like no one else.
Lots of feedback, fuzzy guitar effects - she even did drums for a song.
Too bad she was high on heroin and could hardly keep her eyes open.
Very sad.
The Kills were okay.
They use a drum machine which made for a static sound.
The lead singer chick ("W" is her name!) had a great voice and the guitar playing guy was super innovative - but the songs all started to sound the same.
Repetative, a little Jesus and Mary Chain influence and a LOT of PJ Harvey rip-off.
Reminded me of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the White Stripes and Peaches - but none of the gimmicks those bands use (catchy guitar riffs, analogue drum machine and echoey voice distortions) seemed to click or mesh with this band.
I highly recommend their CD "No Wow" - download the song "No Wow" to get a taste of it...but live...hmmm...they need a drummer.

hearts and farts,

dan

WHY?

WHY? WHY!??!?!?!?
Why must they - and when I say "they", I am referring to the corporate fucks of the world who have the control over EVERYONE by posessing and harnessing the superior power to be able to create things like this - why must "they" insist on making air freshener spray cans emit such a LOUD fucking sound when they spray???
Today at work, for example.
One of my poor, poor co-workers excused herself to the bathroom today. I assumed (as I am sure everyone did) that she had to piddle-paddle. (That's urinate for all you slang-illiterates out there).
Cut to eleven minutes later.
It was pretty damn obvious she was not piddle-paddling.
She was shitting. Probably one of those ridiculously long-at-work shits that you just HATE having because you know that because of Murphy's Law - if you had to shit at home it would only take you three minutes, but because people are lingering just a few feet away outside your door and KNOW you are in there - it has to take six times as long to (pardon the expression) "cut some cable".
Ew.
Anyway, our deepest and darkest suspicions were confirmed when we heard the tell-tale sound of:
"KOOOOOOOOSH! SKOOOOOCH SKOOOOOCH! KOOOOOOOOSH".
The fucking air freshener going off.
She flushed the toilet, ran the water and tried to only spray the spray while the toilet was flushing and the water was running - but the fucking cans are so damn loud - a herd of elephants could be trampling outside the bathroom door - and you'd still hear the fucking sound and recognize it as someone who is desperately trying to conceal all remnants of their work-shit.
Okay - April Fool's - the co-worker:
ME.
It was totally me.
But this is ridiculous.
Why in the world must they be that loud? An aerosal can of hairspray doesn't sound that loud.
It's always deafening:
KOOOOOSH!!! The sound was like, designed to bounce off the walls of the bathroom and play with the acoustics.
It's humiliating. I think "they" do it on purpose.
They must die.
Now.
Happy april,

dan