Mark's Mundane World

my father, sixteen years later

2010-04-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

Today is the sixteenth anniversary of my father's death. I don't usually mark the day much, or too overtly. Yet I'm trying to think a bit more about it, perhaps because I'm a father myself now, giving me maybe some partial insight into and appreciation of the challenges my dad may have faced in life, at least as a parent and likely in other ways as well. Also, I'm approaching an age finally that I can start to imagine my father inhabiting. That is, I am 39, approaching 40, of course. He was 41 when I was born, and my earliest memory of him is at age 45. This means that for most of my life I could never picture him at all vividly as anything but someone appreciably older than I was. But that is beginning to change. It's a bit easier to imagine him as a 39 year old man that as, say, a 28 year old.

I feel forced to admit that I don't conciously think much about my father anymore. I don't assume others experience the death of a parent this way, but as the years pass he simply seems increasingly remote, as more and more of my life story involves elements of which he could have no knowledge and in which he could not participate. This is saddenning sometimes, to be sure. I find myself driving through places familiar to him (like the peninsula) and wonder both what thoughts he may have had on these very same roads and what he might think of me or make of my life now, were he alive. Yet these are kind of interstitial moments between long stretches of time in which the current world presses so hard that there's little time for memory, and what time there is may get devoted to memories that have little to do with him. This latter point makes sense when I realize that I left home for college when I was 17 -- 22 years ago -- and never really lived most of the time with him again (whereas I did move back home and live with my mom for nearly two years after he died).

Sometimes I think my detachment from his death and my loss of a parent is not simply a matter of the passing of time. Rather, I sometimes wonder if I never really fully experienced his passing. He died while I was living in Santa Barbara. I received phone calls and came up to San Francisco as soon as I could. But I hadn't seen him in months, so he seemed to kind of slip out the door, in a sense. I remember experiencing panic several time the day he died and a day or two after. Also, I think I could reasonably have been called depressed for the year or so after he died, though it was easy to attribute that to working crappy jobs and not knowing where my life was headed at that point. I don't think I ever really grieved. I forced myself to stay whole and not give in to tears, even immediately after. I'm not sure why; I'm not sure it was intentional. But I do think it means something got skipped in me like a line from a song on an old record player.

I don't have any romantic memories of some fatherly heroism or dynamism. Many people seem to have such high-gloss memories. I think those memories are actually probably basically accurate. That is, I don't think it's some greater realism on my part that makes me see my father in some realistic or unsentimental light (I'm terribly sentimental, though my sentiment fastens itself on odd objects, I think). Rather, I believe my father did not make that kind of impression, that he did not fit easily into the stereotypical all-American capable father image (however true or false in general). His was not a "big" personality in that sense. But I think that was his very strength. In a way, I remember him as relentlessly ordinary, with little inclination for the sublime or ambitious, qualities that may seem -- I guess "are -- at odds with my choice to study Romantic poetry and perform heavy rock music well into adulthood. There's no doubt that I've pursued goals that my father would never have considered for himself.

Yet, perhaps strangely to some, he allowed and in unglamorous yet powerful ways helped me pursue those very goals. Those who know me well have heard the stories about how he bought me my Les Paul when I was 15 (he had to walk into Guitar Center on a Saturday with his coat and tie with me among all the 80s era long-haired musicians -- he could not have been very comfortable, but he did it for me), how he rode BART with me to my first metal concert (and waited in Oakland while I went to the concert so he could ride back home with me), and how he took me on countless trips to the game store that sold Dungeons and Dragons merchandise. These were only the beginnings of what he helped me do. I didn't even think to mention how he helped in my path toward the advanced literature degrees I ended up with.

I don't know if he ever wondered where the fat little kid who liked electric guitars and orcs but who couldn't glue things together or write legibly to save his life came from. I'm not sure he troubled himself with such a question. (Maybe that's the kind of question that I narcissistically consider.) I think he just did what he thought he should do as a father. I really don't want to lapse into some corny story of his kindness or make him out to be perfect, because he wasn't (and who could really love a parent who was perfect [if such a person could exist] anyway?). But I do think his actions have value to them. They show a kind of day-to-day ordinary selflessness, a kind of love for one's child that resists imposing one's own ideas on him or her. It's true my dad did do a lot of things with me that HE liked, like going to Stanford football games, etc. Yet when I stopped being interested, he just let me stop and move on to something else that was part of my own vision of what to do. It seemed relatively easy for him to do that. I wonder if it really was so easy, and I wish I could ask him.

Returning to my blog

2010-03-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

I don't know if anyone will still be reading this blog, as I have not posted in over a year. I thought it might be time to put this venue back into use, for what purpose or addressing what issues, who knows?

It is, nominally, a blog about the mundane. I suppose I live in one of the more mundane spots of San Francisco, a fact in which I take great pride (tinged with spite, maybe). The Sutro Heights area, near the VA Hospital, is really not mundane at all -- at least not as mundane as the flatter, more standardized Sunset, in which I grew up and which I also love. In fact, we're mere steps from the Land's End Trail, part of the beautiful Golden Gate National Recreation Area. Yet as much as I love that area, right now my favorite part of the neighborhood is outer Clement Street, the stretch that runs from about 33rd Avenue out to 45th, right by the Lincoln Park Golf Course. In late afternoons, it's lovely to walk east or west on Clement Street, looking down the avenues on Golden Gate Park and the western half of the city. You can see nearly the entire SF coastline down to somewhere around Pacifica and the spires of various, mostly Catholic churches that rise amidst the Richmond and Sunset residential neighborhoods. For me it's a mild, mostly residential cityscape soaked in memories of my childhood, awkward adolescence, summers home from college, the wrenching and confusing years of rebuilding after my father's death, and now the last nine years here in San Francisco with Sarah and (more recently) Daisy.

Projecting my thoughts about my life and my past onto this view makes me think of past times elsewhere, and all the neighborhoods, views, and walks that were important to me in other places. I'm kind of doubtful about the prospects of an afterlife, by in my mundane way, I've tried to imagine it as a world of my favorite neighborhoods from different towns all mixed in with or right next to each other, so that I could walk from downtown Eugene right into the inner Sunset, and then over to the Nines in Ithaca, then a coffee in Isla Vista and finally back to my Richmond District apartment, outside of which I'm pushing an excited pink-and-white helmeted Daisy on her new red, yellow, and blue tricycle, just too happy -- both of us -- to be pedaling around the block at 45th and Point Lobos right before the sun goes down. I myself took years to learn how to ride a bike. (My sister, four years younger, beat me by a year, I think.) I don't know if that has anything to do with how I feel about Daisy, but as I push and steer using the weird long loop-stick think that's wedged into the back of her tricycle, I just want her to enjoy blissfully, intensely, and un-self-consciously pedalling at her own pace on three secure wheels without worrying about anything at all.

Talking to my daughter about 80s metal

2009-02-24T20:59:00.000-08:00

So I was sitting with Daisy (2 and a half) the other day in my living room, and we were listening to my Ipod on shuffle. Daisy likes to ask me about the songs she hears. She remembers them well too. In fact she frequently requests "Saints of Los Angeles" by Motley Crue.

Speaking of said Crue, as Daisy and I were listening, a song from Motley Crue's first album came on: "A Piece of Your Action." Here's a sampling of the lyrics:

I want you
I need you
I want you to be mine tonight
You need me
You tease me
Use you up, throw you away

You get the idea. Anyhow, Daisy asks me, "What's Motley Crue [who she believes is one person, presumably the one singing -- ala mistakes about Skynyrd and Floyd] saying?"

I respond, "Ummm...he's talking to a girl."
"What's he saying to her?"
"He says he likes her and he...uh...wants to hug and kiss her."
"What does SHE say?"
"She says, 'I don't know; you're kind of gross.'"
"Gross?" Daisy asks, laughing.
"Yeah, gross," I reply.
"Is he covered in poo?" Daisy asks.
"Umm...No, I think he's just dirty -- needs to take a shower."
"Is Motley Crue in the shower?"

Before we could go further, fortunately the song ended. On came "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest.

"Who's that singing?" asks Daisy.
"Judas Priest."
"Oh! What's Jewish Priest saying?"
"Ummm...They're saying they want to go outside late at night and have fun."
"What does Jewish Priest's mama say?"

2008-09-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

How well do you know your SO meme

How well do I know my wife?

1. Sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen? So You Think You Can Dance, Project Runway, or Top Chef most likely.

2. You're out to eat; what kind of dressing does she get on her salad? Vinaigrette or Italian.

3. What's one food she doesn't like? Cilantro (for some reason)

4. You go out to the bar. What does she order? Varies -- white or red wine, occasionally beer.

5. Where did she go to high school?

Northport HS with Patti Lupone and Mariah Carey (OK they went before she did, but they're alumnae)

6. What size shoe does she wear? I guess 6.

7. If she were to collect anything, what would it be? 18th and 19th century novels and pens that have run out of ink.

8. What is her favorite type of sandwich? Italian sub from a good deli without frightening meats.

9. What would this person eat every day if she could? A can of chocolate frosting or very good Japanese food.

10. What is her favorite cereal? That's tough; I don't think she eats much cereal, but I know she has enjoyed cocoa pebbles.

11. What would she never wear? A suit of chainmail armor.

12. What is her favorite sports team? The mets.

13. Who will she vote for?Obama.

14. Who is her best friend? Tie between me and Daisy.

15. What is something you do that she wishes you wouldn't do? See her answer to this question regarding me.

16. How many states has she lived in?3: California, New York, and Oregon. (Should I count a few weeks of a summer she spent in Florida?)

17. What is her heritage? Ukrainian Jew and Irish.

18. You bake her a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake? Very rich chocolate with lots of frosting.

19. Did she play sports in high school?No. She played soccer in grammar school/middle school. And she was a spelling champ.

20. What could she spend hours doing? Reading, blogging, and playing various Facebook games.

a political post

2008-08-05T12:34:00.001-07:00

Hi everyone,

I'm not given to posting on politics, not because I don't feel strongly about issues but because (in part) this blog is more personal and because I don't feel that I'm exceptionally well informed. However, I need to express a feeling and opinion here.

I'm very angry about John McCain's tactics in the present campaign. I'm an Obama supporter, so naturally I'm inclined to look more critically at McCain. However, in the past I have admired McCain for his departure from Republican positions when his conscience dictated such. For instance, his criticism of the current administration's employment of torture (which in fact even many conservatives, some within the administration, disagreed with) was commendable. (By the way, the Bush administration's degradation of our government through its conduct should just appall Repblicans and Democrats alike.) However, his attacks on Obama have been both offensive and plainly dishonest.

All one needs is to look at the recent ad attacking Obama's celebrity status (the one in which Obama is compared to Britney Spears and Paris Hilton). It's hard to count just how many things are offensive about this ad. First, it clearly is intended to stoke fears of "black power" through the soundtrack's "Obama" chants. That is, we're asked to fear that Obama will lead an irrational mob of un-Americans into an assault on our country's putatively pure values and practices. Second, that same chanting soundtrack is clearly meant to evoke comparisons of Obama to fascist dictators. Third, comparing Obama to Spears and Hilton is not only silly (a more legitimate critique might compare him to charasmatic political figures or some other kind of figure) but is deeply sexist. What is implied here is that Obama is shallow and without substance -- like these women are supposed to be. The ad is clearly meant to feminize Obama and tag him with sexist stereotypes (lack of depth and practical ability) usually attached to women in the dominant misogynist culture in which we still live.

To top it all off, McCain's ad claims that Obama said he would tax electricity -- a simple, out and out lie.

Speaking of lies, I keep hearing on the news that many people STILL think Obama is Muslim and fear his election for that reason. First, it's sad that Muslim faith could be cited as a reason not to vote for a candidate. Isn't that simply overt religious prejudice? Second, as anyone with an IQ above 3 who has payed more than 1.1 second of attention must surely have discovered several times over by now, Obama is NOT a Muslim. He's a Christian (as if that should make a difference).

I don't think this post will accomplish anything. Obviously political discourse is complex and to ask for total honesty from any politician unrealistic. However, McCain's lies and misogynistic, racist advertising tactics are disappointing, to say the least. People should vote their convictions and make up their own minds. I don't like telling people how to vote. But in my utoptian vision of our public sphere, such lies would be unthinkable, in part because voters/viewers/listeners could simply see through them.

Thanks for listening...

thoughts on my daughter

2008-04-29T11:15:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've posted. This morning I've been puzzling over something I haven't been able to explain to myself. In general terms, I'm interested in how the most mundane moments in our lives can be really moving. More specifically, I'm trying to figure out why something my 21 month old daughter Daisy says -- "Play wif Play-do Map" -- nearly moves me to tears.

What she is trying to say of course is, "I want to play with the Play-do Mat," a plastic mat upon which she can play with her Play-do set. I think just the simple earnest expression of her desire to play with this basic children's toy is in itself moving. Aren't people's simple pleasures -- eating a not fancy favorite food, playing with an "unexciting" toy, or liking an uncool TV show (unironically) -- a big part of what lends them their humanity? One way of thinking is that what makes people special is each person's putative "uniqueness." That certainly must be true; otherwise we would like all people equally and see few distinctions or variations. But I feel that it's at least equally true that we love and care for others precisely because of their ordinary or even generic qualities, those seemingly meaningless and empty gestures, habits, or decisions that weave the moments of their lives together.

But I also think Daisy's particular formulation is important. The use of the verb without a subject -- not "I want to play with" but "Play with" -- seems touching to me, maybe because the lack of syntactial specificity and sophistication makes her want seem more basic and natural. The mispronunciations -- "map" for "mat," "wif" for "with" -- also have this effect, as anyone observing any child knows.

When I think of Daisy negotiating her small way through this large, complex, and increasingly (it seems) perilous world, expressing a simple wish to slighlty enjoy herself by sitting on a three by three plastic mat, I find it adorably sad. It's hard not to resort to cliches about childhood and innocence, and I feel that I'm getting at something deeper -- or maybe not -- maybe part of becoming a parent is shedding the habit of dismissing cliches about childhood and innocence and recognizing that you yourself are much more ordinary than you ever thought (if you ever were pretentious enough -- as I was -- to think otherwise).

Van Halen Dream

2008-02-05T21:43:00.000-08:00

I've been re-reading bits of Freud for some reason lately. Perhaps that's why my unconscious decided to become a bit more active last night. (Can an unconscious "decide"?)

Well, I dreamed last night that I went to the Van Halen reunion concert. (I didn't go to the real concernt; I like Van Halen but am not a superfan.) Interestingly, the concert was not in an arena; it was a small, rather rustic cottage or cabin, roughly the size of my living room. Van Halen were playing on a hardwood floor mere feet from the audience (no stage). What's more, the venue was nowhere near full; roughly nine fans were in attendance. Yet VH seemed very grateful for the crowd, as if they preferred to have an intimate evening with a few good fans. David Lee Roth allowed each of us in the audience to sing a line or two here and there (I sang a line from "Jump," not a song to which my conscious daylight self is particularly attached). After completing "Jump," the band broke for a moment, and then Eddie Van Halen approached the microphone and said, "Thanks. We're happy to have with us a very special guest here tonight: California State Senator Don Peratta, and we'd like him to sing the next song." Sure enough, Peratta was in the crowd, chatting into the ear of a friend. He looked a bit sheepish about getting onstage, though not surprised at the request. I don't remember whether Peratta sang. Someone turned to me and said, "You know, it's amazing. When you talk to Eddie, he has no accent at all. But Alex Van Halen's Australian accent is very clear."

I don't think the Van Halen brothers hail from down under.

Any armchair psychoanalysts out there wanna tackle this one?
Wait -- aren't all psychoanalysts kind of "arm chair"? I mean, it's a sit down job, isn't it?

Neurotically yours,
Mark

Destroyer backstage at Slim's

2007-11-26T13:41:00.000-08:00

How do you like this retro style backstage shot from Thanksgiving Weekend?

Overdrive on Youtube

2007-09-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a link to Overdrive doing a couple of Kiss songs last weekend (at our "reunion" show) -- enjoy:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=VHSR8VWXrYE

why I don't like "Tell Me You Love Me" but REALLY like "Don't Tell Me You Love Me"

2007-09-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

Ok,

So I saw previews of this new show on HBO -- "Tell Me You Love Me." I hate it. I've never watched more than three seconds of a preview with the sound off, but I hate it (even though my opinion is totally uninformed obviously, so I don't think I have much of a right to this view). It seems like wanna be Neil LaBute.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I can't be sure, 'cause I won't watch it. I can't condemn a show I won't watch. Or I can, but who would care what I say?

So, instead of criticizing "Tell Me You Love Me," I'll talk about why I LOVE the Night Ranger song "Don't Tell Me You Love Me."

There will be several posts.

For one thing, it begins "in medias res." "It aint' the way you move..." So, beginning with a pronoun, already a delicious ambiguity is introduced. What's the antecedent? It's like we're eavesdropping on an intimate conversation, perhaps voyeuristically. Jack Blades (bass and vocals) is poetic here...More to come

taqueria etiquette

2007-08-09T14:53:00.000-07:00

Let me pose some scenarios for you all.

You're in line at a taqueria. You may be very hungry for a burrito (as I often am). The person in line in front of you orders two or three burritos. Are you mildly annoyed/peeved? If so, you deserve some sympathy, but doesn't the person ahead of you have the right to a limited number of multiple orders?

Again you are in line. The person in front of you orders, let's say, six burritos! That will take some time. However, the person orders six identical burritos (perhaps one or to with minor variations like no guacamole), so the ordering at least will take less time and the staff can make the burritos faster because they're all the same. Again, somewhat annoying but understandable? Perhaps the order is for a large work crew or family.

In line again. The person ahead orders five burritos. Yet this time, most or all have subtle differences: "OK, I'll have one super with black beans and no sour cream. Then, a regular with extra salsa -- did you get that? And then...No wait..." You get the idea. This is less understandable. When ordering bulk, shouldn't the person ordering simply get standard versions to avoid delays and mistakes? Still, one might reasonably expect that multiple orders made to the tastes of various friends, family, and/or co-workers are acceptable.

Finally, the person ahead of you is on a cell phone while ordering: "OK, I'll have a super veggie with no cheese, and --hold on --[into the phone] yeah? You want regular or super? They have chicken, steak, and pork -- no, they're out of refried beans. [back to server] OK, another super chicken -- no steak -- with [into phone] was that black or pinto?..." This repeated two more times.

OK, personally I find this last practice unacceptable. Maybe it's the cell phone, but that's where I draw the line personally on multiple burrito orders. If you're ordering for someone, get ALL their choices in advance and improvise when those choices are not possible.

I'm thinking of trying to get such taqueria etiquette codified into San Francisco law as a proposition. If it passes, we can call it "Mark's Law."

2007-07-09T22:46:00.000-07:00

A couple of strange misperceptions have occurred for me lately.

First, as I drove on Hwy 580 recently, I saw a billboard from a distance that looked as if it presented the image of a bunch of children in a river raft. As I drove closer, it became clear that the raft of chilrden was in fact a Quizno's sub. The bread slices looked like the inflated sides of the raft, and the meat slices looked like the children.

Second, earlier today I looked in by rearview mirror and saw the back of another car. The make of the car appeared to be "URANUS." However, as I looked again, "URANUS" turned out to be "SUBARU." Part of the issue was the fact that the letters were reversed in the mirror.

Instances of this type have happened more frequently as I've aged and slept less.

Think about it -- or not.

Check out me as Ace on Youtube

2007-05-07T22:58:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

Just what I know you've all been waiting for -- a clip of "Shock Me" performed by Destroyer on Youtube.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=RrP7UPdTjDQ

Your day is now complete,
Mark/Ace

a culinary confession

2007-04-02T21:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes for lunch I go to the St. Mary's Hospital cafeteria.

I work at a university, as many of you know. There I have three options for lunch.

I may attend the university cafeteria. The lines are long, it is a loud and crowded room (many students among the crowds), and the food is criminally overpriced.

I may eat in the faculty dining room. The food is generally mediocre (though reasonably priced), but the room has no windows, and (worst of all) I may be compelled to speak or eat with a colleague from my own or another department. Now, lest you think I would speak ill of my colleagues, I am not doing so. Often I am happy to dine with fellow members of the professoriate. However, on some days I simply wish to be left alone to sulk over my bland meal in delicious self-pity and general greasiness.

I may off campus -- much walking, much waiting, and much spending.

So I sometimes go over (a short distance) to St. Mary's. The food is pretty good, actually, and it's fairly cheap. Plus, I never run into anyone I know. I feel a bit anxioius or guilty, however, as I devour my clumsily constructed sandwich. Since I don't work at the hospital, I feel like I'm getting away with something -- unless I happen to have a sick relative or friend there. On the other hand, I'm giving them business, aren't I? And isn't my money going to help keep the hospital running?

So, maybe, I'm some sort of hero....

new ace pic

2007-03-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Just a quick post. This is my latest pic as Ace, from Destroyer at El Rio, St. Patrick's Day!

less confident than ever in my judgments

2007-03-11T23:03:00.000-07:00

It's been a very long time since I posted on my blog. So here are some thoughts.

Lately I've been feeling less confident than ever in my ability to understand or assess a lot of things.

For instance, sometimes I'll be preparing to teach a poem in my lit class. I'll stare at a poem for hours and think, "I don't get it," or "I get it but I don't know what to say about it." After hours I usually come up with something. Then I go in to teach it and realize my students came by most or all of my insights right away.

I'm starting to think I'm very uncritical and just like or dislike everything I watch or read or hear for no good reason and without adequate reflection. My critical capacities are diminishing with age...

Or am I becoming more intuitive? Or is my willingness to admit that I don't "get" something a strength, a kind of openness?

Most of the time I just feel like a very foolish visceral thinker of elementary thoughts who has somehow managed to pass himself off -- perhaps through hard work and misplaced confidence -- as intellectually capable...

Please don't tell anyone!

Too Many Genes!!

2007-01-08T21:25:00.000-08:00

Hey there everyone! Happy New Year!

Here are some pictures from recent Destroyer shows. My favorite is the group one -- it's from after our set at the Little Fox Theater in Redwood City this past Friday. Two Gene Simmons impersonators showed up and joined us (including our excellent Gene, Stone Clement of Passive Aggressive and Shaxul Records) onstage for Rocknroll All Nite.

If you haven't seen our show live, you must.

It'll rock you silly...

returning shoes

2006-12-13T20:45:00.000-08:00

I told this story at a party the other night, so apologies if any readers were there and heard it.

I went to Macy's and looked around in the shoe area. These days I like to wear dark functional shoes with no laces. I buy them every three years or so, and since I wear them about every day they get pretty worn out.

Macy's had many shoes on sale. I picked a pair of black ones upon the sales clerk's recommendation. I tried them on, finding them rather tight. I mentioned this tightness go the clerk, in response to which he explained that such shoes are tight and first and loosen up (which indeed jibed with my experience with a pair of shoes I had recenlty enjoyed for a good two-three year stretch). I purchased the shoes.

In he parking lot I put the shoes on. They now felt VERY tight. I grew distressed, yet I drove a ways. I pulled over near Sunset Boulevard in the Outer Sunset of San Francisco. I took off the right shoe. I discovered the shoes had inserts! Problem solved? I thought. I removed the inserts and put the shoes back on. But now the right shoe was just a bit too loose.

I thought I was stuck with these shows; perhaps I could get used to them. But I really didn't want them anymore. I've never returned a piece of clothing before. I took courage and returned to Macy's, waited nervously in line at the shoe counter, and made my case.

I explained that I really should have taken greater care and time with my decision but that I really hadn't worn the shoes for more than ten minutes and that they just weren't right for me. The very nice clerk immediately took the shoes and credited my Visa, no questions asked.

Sadly, I count this a great personal triumph over my own timdity.

my daughter rules!

2006-11-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,

Just a quick report.

Yesterday Sarah and I took Daisy to her four-month pediatrician's appointment. All day we waited with trepidation for the administering of another round of vaccines. Like all babies who get their first "jabs," Daisy at two months cried and cried, her face all red and her mouth agape, when the needles first went in. It's a new experience of pain, and they don't know why it's happenning, of course.

We expected the same this time around. Daisy seemed awfully cheerful during her exam, which made us feel all the more horrible about the impending misery. However, when the time came and the shots were given, Daisy let out a tiny whimper and then settled herself within seconds! Unbelievable. She's a tough one, dat little Daisy is. I was impressed -- and relieved.

Here's a pic of her from a month or so back; I need to get some new ones from Sarah.

my late goatee

2006-11-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

For those interested, here is at least one picture of my recent facial hair experiment. I'll try to find two.

Please share your thoughts on my appearance in the photo(s). I expect long, detailed comments that explore the many ways in which my face might be read. I'm sure you have nothing better on which to spend your time...

been a long time

2006-10-24T11:36:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

It's been a long time, but I don't have much to say. Been busy with school, fatherhood, and some music.

I'm trying a new oatmeal flavor today -- apples and cinnamon -- wish me luck!

-Mark

me as a neighbor, or my recent goatee

2006-09-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

About a month ago I grew a goatee. Then I shaved of the mustache part, and I had just a little bristle pad on my chin. Then I shaved that off.

There's a story here, believe it or not.

A month or so ago, Sarah and I felt kind of put upon by our neighbors for several reasons, some of them having to do with laundry. (This is an exciting tale, isn't it?) Well, my tactic for dealing with them was as follows:

Rather than courageously asserting my rights (as I am comfortable doing only in my daily, caffeinated rants to Sarah), I thought I might try subtly intimidating my neighbors. First, I would dress even more frequently than I do all in black, making more liberal use of my black leather jacket. Second, I would try to play a lot of Venom and perhaps King Diamond and Fantomas to create ominous, even threatening moods for those who passed outside our door. Third, I would grow a rather devilish goatee, as my tendencies to the hirsute and my black facial hair allows me to do rather quickly. (For those of you who don't know it, my hair is dark brown with subtle reddish highlights -- when clean and in the sun at least -- but my beard is black and wiry).

Well, about a week into my goatee, our downstairs neighbor knocked on the door. I appeared with baby Daisy and my goatee, wearing a Motley Crue t-shirt. Turns out my neighbor came to give the baby two big boxes of baby clothes. She was very nice, and I was touched. I smiled gratefully through my scruff -- there went my pathetic attempt to be intimidating!

This sounds like some kind of Reader's Digest feel-good essay. Oh well...

This says it all!

2006-08-19T22:26:00.000-07:00

Got this picture from Jonathan -- rocknrollallniteand partyeveryday!

test post

2006-08-18T21:38:00.000-07:00

I've heard that blogger's photo uploading ain't workin', so I'm testing it.

Discuss!

2006-08-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

Ok all,

I've not posted in a long time. I wanted to come up with a list of paradoxical beliefs that I hold, but I realize that hold very few beliefs other than that Kiss should be in the Rocknroll Hall of Fame and that maybe there shouldn't be a Rocknroll Hall of Fame -- is that a paradox or just a stupid contradiction on my part?

I also believe that people who talk all the time about their babies are potentially annoying and that I'm one of those people.

OK, but here's the real one: I'd rather imitate Ace Frehley than actually BE Dave Matthews, a successful novelist, seven feet tall, or a member of congress.

What does this mean? Discuss....

Disturbing Similarity to Goya's Saturn, or I Have a Tremendous Mouth

2006-08-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

Hi All,

Here is a recent picture of me with my little girl. I thought it was rather amusing and charming and such. It also reveals the enormity of my maw.

However, upon reflection, I have found this photo a tad unsettling. It reminded me of a painting I'd seen and been struck by in a book on Romantic art years ago. I'm sure it's familiar to many of you; it's Goya's Saturn Devouring His Children (seen above right).

Now, I have no fears that Daisy or any others among my offspring (of which there are none) will displace me as ruler of the gods and the whole universe (I'm quite secure in that position, thank you). But I fear that if Daisy ever happens upon Goya's classic painting, she may think back on this photo from her infancy. Such a mental connection could result in all kinds of inaccurate retrospection on the cruelty of her father! Therefore, I'm nipping this thing in the bud, putting both images forth here to confront any seeming similarity or continuity head on. If, in contrast, Daisy made this connection on her own she would perhaps be more inclined to view the parallel as somehow deliberately concealed from her due to its containing some element of truth.

the perils of being a rocker dad

2006-07-26T11:33:00.000-07:00

Hey all,As you know, I've recently become a father. But, as you also know, for some time now I've been a rocknroll superstar on the local dingy, beer-stained tribute band scene. As a member of bands paying tribute to Kiss, Motley Crue, and others, it has been important for me to retain my streams of rocker hair (even as it begins to thin ever so little on top -- if anyone wants to buy me some rogaine for my next birthday, I wouldn't be offended).

Now, when doing dadly duties like changing diapers and burping, it's mighty convenient to put the old mop back in a pony tail. But here, kind blogreader, a problem arises. I want Daisy's formative images of me to be accurate. If during these early days, weeks, and months she sees me only in pony tail and glasses, I fear she may see me only in terms of one aspect of my personality: the pretentious wannabe bohemian intellectual type. To be sure, that side of my life is important, but what about the mighty Rawk Warrior who lives alongside (and sometimes in conflict with) him? Daisy needs to know me not only as Daddy, not only as a responsible adult, not only as a thinker, but also as a God of Thunder, a Lord of Darkness, and Monster of Metal, as an arena rocker prowling a sticky-floored stage at a dank suburban watering hole.

As a result, I make sure to wear my hair down around my daughter, even when doing the tasks described above.But last night, while wearing a favorite Screaming for Vengeance shirt and letting my mighty mane flow upon my shoulders, I picked up Daisy to burp her. She promptly spat up onto my shoulder and into my hair, as if to say, "Get off it, you vain piece of semi-talented crap! You Jon Lovitz with stringy long hair and a Les Paul!" Such are the risks a rocknroll dad must take -- spitup in the hair. Does this compromise my rockingness? Hell no! When I thought about it, what's more rocknroll than puke in your own hair? Maybe Daisy is just reminding me what rock is all about! What kind of rocker would I be if I minded getting my hair tangled and wet with regurgitated milk? I mean, would it bother Ozzy or Nikki Sixx?Thank you Daisy, for keeping me real.

Daisy's budding musical tastes

2006-07-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

The indoctrination begins! Here's Daisy wearing what I hope will be her favorite shirt! (Next to her other two Kiss shirts...)

stool sampler

2006-07-25T10:02:00.000-07:00

I know this is probably not the most significant thing to happen in the recent days of my life, what with the new baby and all (whom I love beyond my wildest expectations and stuff), but here's something I have to share.

Due in some way to her cesarian (spelling?) deliveray, Sarah has been prescribed stool softeners (sorry, honey -- I know this is very personal and too much info, but it has to be described). When Sarah remembers to take the caplets or tablets or whatever they are, she says, "I need my stool sampler." "Stool sampler"? She's made this little slip of the tongue at least seven times. Now, of course it's understandable; Sarah is eliding the term "stool softener" with its cousin "stool sample." But the result is delightful: I imagine a smartly attired waitperson bringing out, tastefully arranged on a clean white plate, several varities of stool, turd, poop, dung, fesces, etc. The guests admire the selection, licking their lips and reaching greedily for a taste.

Stool sampler -- thank you, honey, for the image...maybe it should become a song....

more daisy

2006-07-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

Oops -- I selected the wrong picture before. Here's one where you can see more of her.

young rocker chik hitz the scene!

2006-07-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

Here's my baby, Daisy Susannah Meritt! Mom-Sarah heroically endured tough and lengthy labor, and ultimately a c-section for her, so hat's off to you, honey! Here are a couple of pics. More to come. I just bought a "Pottey Crew" t-shirt. It's black and presents said words along the chest on Motley-Crue style lettering.

Rock on, Daisy Sue!

I hate venetian blinds

2006-07-04T10:51:00.000-07:00

My new apartment has vertical venetian blinds -- you know, the kind that are about four or five feet long and four inches wide and hang from the top to the bottom of the window. You pull them back to reveal the outside world in its full glory, or you turn a small rod to make the blinds rotate and allow degrees of illumination.

Well, anyway, I hate the damn things. I'll rotate the rod, and one snotty recalcitrant blind will refuse to comply with the rotation imperative -- then another refuses, and this clicking sound begins, and then they all won't move.

These things never work. Now, I know some of you may write in and tell me I'm doing something wrong or give me a tip that will ensure that the blinds always work. Fair enough, but please, let's stop right there. True, perhaps there is a way to make them work, but (a) I don't think it's worth the effort and (b) even if my failure is resulting from my ineptitude in handling the blinds, then I'm just not the kind of person who should have them. Sure, one might argue that this is an opportunity to confront -- and overcome -- a failing of my own. Where would I be today if I simply said "That's it -- I can't play the solo on 'The Trooper,'" or "Well, reading Milton is just too hard, so I'm not going to continue"? My friends, there are only so many battles I'm willing to fight within and against myself, and this just isn't one of them.

(C) I just don't like the way they look that much.

I want curtains or the horizontal blinds.

With too much time on my hands and attempting to waste yours,
Mark "looking forward to when I can be a curmudgeon" Meritt

parking peril

2006-06-19T10:05:00.000-07:00

As some of you may know, Sarah and I recently moved into a new apartment. Our new building has the advantage of a parking space, though one -- not unusual in SF -- into which maneuvering is a tad difficult. Am I going to hit that other car as I back in? No, but I will certainly hit that wall! Adjust! Cut wheel! Cut the other way!

I had mastered a strategy for parking my car facing outward. Though the strategy required a fair amount of maneuvering and shifting, I felt pretty comfortable with it -- until last night. For some reason, as I was attempting to back my car into position (parellel parking style), I just could not find the right way into my slot. Now I'm convinced I'll never be able to do it again. I'm even thinking of going down right now to practice. How sad.

Of course, not being as skeptical as others are towards the offerings of psychoanalytic theory, I'm assuming many deeply entrenched anxieties about my adequacy as a man, as a driver, as a human being, as a husband, as a father-to-be, as a singer, as a teacher, as a citizen, as one in charge of his own hygeine (sp?), and as a member of the human community are a the root of my parking failure. Any thoughts?

latest kiss show

2006-06-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

Here's a photo from Destroyer at Bourbon Street in Concord Friday June 2. We'll be playing the Eagle in SF, along with Screaming for Vengeance (the Priest band I sing in) June 15.

Rock on you maniax

my blog has been too interesting

2006-05-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

Lately my blog has been too interesting, which really bores me. All these pictures of rock concerts and exotic dancers have really taken me far away from where I started.

So let's talk about rugs. Why do they buckle? We have a rug in our hallway that buckles, but it has padding under it -- shouldn't that keep it stable? What do I know?

Also, I've had very good luck parking lately. When Destroyer played the Elbo Room, I got a space just two doors down. Those of you who live in the Bay Area (particularly in the city) will certainly appreciate how much this means (right on Valencia for crying out loud!). Those of you who do not must understand that parking three blocks or less of a venue in the Mission District is a titanic achievement.

Sarah and I saw Maria Shriver (sp?) in our local deli. She doesn't look well. I wonder what she ate... probably some kind of infused pesto bean salad reduction for 9 dollars an ounce. At least that's what all the moms buy their little well-dressed kids named Ashton Wethercock III.

More later on the objectionable people who frequent our deli -- someday I fear I may become one of them, which is why I need to listen to "Breaking the Law" and "God Gave Rocknroll to You" at least four times a day.

kiss burlesque show

2006-05-19T15:11:00.000-07:00

For those of you who read Sarah's blog, this may answer some questions. If you don't know what I'm referring to, oh well. Here are some pics of a recent show I did with my Kiss tribute band Destroyer. We were accompanied by Madame Maraschino's burlesque dancers. They were fun, crazy, over-the top and lewd in a campy way -- in other words, they rocked -- it was a fun, packed --INSANE -- show!

I had a picture of a woman in a space helmet dancing to "Rocket Ride." I thought it was a bit risque (she's wearing very little other than the helmet and pasties), and I'm concerned about the blog being seen, so I edited it out -- do you think I'm worrying too much? I'm also throwing in one of my favorite pix of Destroyer -- backstage at TimOut in Concord.

toilet paper, part III

2006-04-27T11:55:00.000-07:00

Of course, as many of you know, Sarah and I recently moved to a new place in the Richmond District of SF. We like it very much, even though we miss our old place (as I told you already).

One of the first things we did about a week or so ago was bring a roll of toilet paper to the new place. There are a few things that begin the territorializing process that makes a new apartment feel like home. These might include getting your phone service transferred, having some food or a beloved piece of furniture there, or putting up a picture.

But none of these -- for me, at least -- compares to the act of putting that first roll of toilet paper on the roller, which by the way I think I heard is called a "mandrell," as in Barbara Mandrell -- does anyone know if that is true?

the mundane is not so mundane

2006-04-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone,

Long time since my last post. I'm writing now because soon I'm moving out of my current apartment. Sarah and I need another room for the baby, so we're moving a short distance away to a two-bedroom.

I know it's a good idea, but I really will miss the little things in my apartment and all their associations. I find myself holding onto doorframes and staring out the windows. I guess I've come to realize that aside from the house I grew up in this is the place I've lived in the longest. I will miss it.

pix from this weekend

2006-03-28T14:29:00.000-08:00

Hey MundaneMark devoteez! Here are two quick snapshots from my tribute show this weekend.

Hope you enjoy.

the genius of kiss lyrics

2006-03-20T11:24:00.000-08:00

The discussion of Neil Peart/Rush lyrics on my wife Sarah's blog made me think of a similar subject.

Let me start out by saying that I'm a fan of Rush -- and of Kiss, obviously. As far as Rush goes, though, I think even those of us who liked their lyrics as youngsters eventually have to look back at that period as one of -- to be euphemistic -- "development." The pseudo-intellectual aspirations possess a certain charm, I suppose, in retrospect -- but damn those lyrics are over the top and silly in their loftiness.

On the other end of the spectrum, there's Kiss, whose lyrics can be seen as equally bad in the other direction -- with one caveat, though -- Kiss really (I think usually) did not pretend to intellectual depth (except on the Elder -- dear God....even Lou Reed's contributions sucked on that -- actually, Kiss's lyrics overall are better than what he wrote for them). Kiss lyrics, however, are more than just vapid. They're bizarre and -- I would argue -- strangely brilliant in their utter emptiness. Who could write lyrics so lacking in specificity or in any kind of thought? Here are some examples:

Baby gets tired
Everybody knows
Your mama tells you
Baby has to show
Yeah yeah, Let me go!

What the hell does that mean? For one thing, I submit that the odd syntax here (even for a rock song) evidence of Gene Simmons' lingering non-standard knowledge of English (he didn't start learning it until he was 8).

How about this?

She's a dancer, a romancer
I'm a capricorn and she's a cancer
She saw my picture in a music magazine

I'm a man, I'm no baby
And you're lookin' every inch a lady
You're good lookin' and you're lookin' like you should be good

Baby baby don't you hesitate 'cause I just can't wait.

It's so full of pointless empty info -- and even tautology. Now, it's easy -- and basically right -- to say that Kiss lyrics are just dumb filler. But they're SO GOOD at being dumb filler and they're so memorable as dumb filler that they start to seem kind of, well, perfect. I think Kiss is the perfect realization of a rock band with absolutely NO substance -- pure, relentless IMAGE -- a simulacram par excellance -- no pretense to anything behind the makeup. It's ALL mediation.

And that's what makes them -- in some ways -- my vote for the greatest rock band ever. Of course, if your criterion is that a great rock band has to have substance (which is a legimitate criterion) then Kiss fails utterly. I'm of two minds myself -- but I'm so drawn to the emptiness, an emptiness that SEEMS to gesture towards something but refuses to, of Kiss.

Plus, they have some cool riffs.

some references to masters of mundanity

2006-03-11T11:30:00.000-08:00

Michael's reference to Neruda's poem on socks (which I'd LOVE to read -- did I understand you rightly Michael?) has made me think of other great writers on the mundane.

As far as Romantic poets go, it seems easy to point to Wordsworth as fascinated by the mundane -- the way in he tries in his Lyrical Ballads to focus intently on ordinary objects and describe them in "the language really used by men." However, Wordsworth -- if I can generalize -- focuses on the ordinary to find the extraordinary within it, many would say with often ridiculous results (see "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," the poem about daffodils -- I like it, but it's not one of my favorites, and certainly can read pretty silly).

Though I still love the Romantics, my more recent readings have led me to appreciate more writing outside that tradition. One of my favorite reading experiences recently involved the Japanese essayist Tanazaki (I think that's his name) -- his "In Praise of Shadows," which (no suprise for my readers) devotes a LOT of time to describing old-fashioned Japanese toilets, contrasting them with the cold, well-lit sterility of western facilities. I won't say any more, but this is a wonderful essay to which I can't do justice. I know my description may make it sound funny, but it's a truly beautiful and moving essay -- one that moves from the most mundane particulars to profound reflections on cultural divisions -- and does so seamlessly.

I think someone could make an argument that Virginia Woolf is the greatest prose artist in English (and one of the few writers who I think is pretty much smarter than all her critics -- some others I see this way are Henry James and Lord Byron -- I don't know enough about him, but I have similar feeling when I read James Baldwin; I'm sure there are others if anyone wants to share) -- though it depends on what criteria you use. Anyway, her essay "Street Haunting" about going out to buy a pencil is another truly astounding meditation on the (seemingly) mundane.

Finally, I recently discovered G. K. Chesterton's essays, specifically his collection Tremendous Trifles," in which all of the essays are about the mystical lurking within the familiar -- maybe this is more within a kind of Romantic tradition, but Chesterton was an orthodox Christian and ultimately an orthodox Catholic. I don't know too much esle about him, but I love essays like "A Piece of Chalk" and another one on chasing his hat down the street.

BUT, the true master of the mundane in my view is Wesley Willis -- especially the song "Northwest Airlines."

libby lewis/lewis libby?

2006-03-09T11:11:00.000-08:00

I don't know if the names in the title are properly spelled or not. In any case, the other night I was listening to NPR in my car, and I heard a story about the upcoming trial of Cheney's right hand guy Lewis "Scooter" Libb(e)y. Now, Scooter's first name is the subject of some debate -- I've heard Lewis, Irv, Irving -- among others. Anway, I'm pretty sure Lewis is in his name somewhere.

The strange thing, though, is that the NPR reporter presenting the story was a woman named Libby Lewis. When they introduced her, I thought, "My mind must have supplied that information; it was some kind of Freudian parapraxys or slip of the ear." But, sure enough, when the story ended, the reporter said very clearly, "Libby Lewis reporting."

I think there was a Jesuit who taught at my high school named Lewis Libby. I think he went by "Chip." He was very nice. On a retreat he played a recording of the song "I Can See Clearly Now The Rain is Gone" to inspire us. That's a great song; it's almost as good as "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey.

Whether you know it or not, kind Blogreader, you like Journey. You might think you don't, but you do. (Sarah, I know you would agree with me.) You also like Dolly Parton and Charo (and not for their physical characteristics, but for their music and personality). And "Come Sail Away" by Styx, though not necessarily "Too Much Time on My Hands."

new interests develop as I age

2006-03-06T17:23:00.000-08:00

I find that as I grow older, the more interested I am in the mundane. For example, here's what I was interested in when I was, say, 20:

literature, music, the opacity of language, the existence or non-existence of God, whether the Romantics were truly greater than the Classicists, whether Milton had read the Kaballah, the exact relationship between Keats's Hyperion poems and Miltonic poetry, the relationship between rock music and Romantic aesthetics.

Here are topics that are of more interest to me now:

the sweet smell of soap, heart-healthy oatmeal, socks, really really comfortable socks, telephone surveys, more socks, getting a good deal on shoes, the possibility of owning a minivan

Yet I feel that my interests are in fact DEEPER and more profound today. I think all that art and philosophy stuff -- the way I thought about it at 20 at least -- was kind of cliche and superficial. What really matters more in the world -- what Percy Shelley felt about marriage or whether or not people are warm and comfortable and have enough to eat? And my really comfortable socks?

Absence and Almond Cans

2006-03-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Dear Blogreaders/Fans of the Mundane:

I've been absent from my blog for sometime, as I've been consumed with work responsibilities. Those responsibilities have been profoundly mundane: I have had to arrange travel for visiting job candidates, make sure said candidates eat, etc. All of these mundane tasks have been extremely confusing and stressful.

I have three empty almond cans in my office. Two are stacked awkwardly. I should recycle them (though where on campus I should drop them off is unclear -- I guess in the soda can recycling recepticles).

But the almond cans look like they should be used for something -- storing paper clips or binder clips, or perhaps pipe tobacco (I can't smoke in my office, and I don't really smoke anyway, though I have some pipes and tobacco). I suspect that these cans will sit on my desk for many years along with the dirty coffee cups and old papers.

This ain't mundane

2006-02-22T22:43:00.000-08:00

I know I violate my own aesthetic credo all the time, but I just have to pause to say something significant. Last week I found out that my wife Sarah and I are going to have a girl this summer. I'm very excited. It's not that I wouldn't have liked a son -- that would have been great too -- but knowing that it's a girl makes the whole thing much more real to me. And I'm not saying that people who choose to be "surprised" (by not finding out the sex in advance) are mssing out or are wrong in anyway -- that's exciting in a different way. Anyway, just thougt I'd share my excitement, corny as it may be.

anthrax as kiss decades ago

2006-02-13T15:13:00.000-08:00

Here's something interesting.

In looking through an old issue (probably from 77 or 78) of 16 Magazine, I turned to the "reader-star lookalikes" section. Here, readers of this fine periodical would send in pictures of themselves in which they claimed to resemble such personages as Leif Garrett, Kristy McNichol, Shaun Cassidy, and various members of the Bay City Rollers.

A number of folks (mostly young women actually, but a lot of men) got themselves up as the members of Kiss and sent in photos.

One photo of such Kissitators came in from the Bronx, NY. The boys in the picture looked to be about 12-14 years old. Two of them were names Frankie Bello and Charlie Benante.

Frankie and Charlie are members of Anthrax -- I thought that was pretty neat.

mundane song from my past

2006-02-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

I once took a bus trip to Dallas (I think back in '92) from SF with my good friend Albert. A few months later, I believe, we wrote a song to commemorate the journey. I think it's pretty much all about what food (usually processed, fast, or from some kind of machine) we ate. Here are the lyrics to the musical/poetic log of our journey, "Desert Angels":

Chorus:

desert angels on a greyhound bus
oh the wonders we would see
san francisco dallas ride with us
might be cheap but it sure ain't free
said it might be cheap but it sure ain't free

1
midnight ride to l.a.
the ride was smooth and the talk was gay
headed east on highway ten
off to places we had never been
stopped in blythe at mickey d's
for a coffee with some sugar please
dozing off in the desert dawn
and phoenix was the next big town

2
stuck at stuckey's in the benson heat
damn that pecan log was good to eat
off to lordsburg we did ride
for a big mac coke and a side of fries
eastbound freeway in the late afternoon sun
who could have foreseen the end of our fun
stopped in old el paso and the bus it would take us
to that dreadful hamlet we've come to know as pecos

3
cursed be that coffee machine
that stole our change and spewed caffeine
a change of clothes and some mighty scowls
and a homesick grumbling from our bowels
woe are we oh the demons that vex us
will we ever make it to dallas texas
fear not for greyhound guarantees
leave the driving to us if you please

Thanks to Albert for preserving -- and sending -- these lyrics.

high cholesterol and ranch dressing

2006-01-31T11:47:00.000-08:00

It seems I have slightly high cholesterol and will have to make some little changes in my life.

Looking back, I think ranch dressing must be a culprit. When I passed my dissertation defense, I went to a bar to have some celebratory beers. As an appetizer I ordered a dish called "cheesy bacon fries." I think the name very accurately reflects what I was served.

Since I had just undergone a challening academic test and succeeded -- finishing grad school -- I decided to indulge myself. I guess if Caligula had had my tastes he would not only have made his horse as senator but also have fed his horse ranch dressing. Anyway, I ordered a side of ranch dressing in which to dip my cheesy bacon fries. I don't regret it; it was damn good.

But all good things must come to an end. Ranch dressing simply cannot play the role it once did in my life. Now, lest you fear otherwise, kind blogreader, I'm not swearing off the creamy, tangy stuff (ew!). I just will have it only on very special occasions, perhaps after I've lowered my levels a bit.

Just to let you all know, I've also substituted mocha mix for half and half in my morning coffee, and I've begun eating oatmeal.

more pics

2006-01-30T17:43:00.000-08:00

Here are some other band pictures -- Overdrive -- more mundane and therefore in line with my agenda. My patient and loving wife Sarah took these with her new camera

another picture

2006-01-30T13:52:00.000-08:00

Here's another attempt at a picture from another band -- this is Wildside (Motley Crue tribute).

my attempt at images

2006-01-30T12:02:00.000-08:00

here are some boring and not very boring pictures

This picture contains me as Ace Frehley in Kiss tribute Desstroyer. The show was last October.

Fart Whistle

2006-01-26T19:23:00.000-08:00

Today on the sidewalk in front of my house, I saw the remnants of the packaging for a novelty toy called the "Fart Whistle." It had a cartoonish picture of a person in bright red pants sticking out his or her (can't remember the gender) exaggerated posterior, presumably miming the act of expelling gas.

The background on the packaging was black. I wondered where the fart whistle itself had gone.

Haven't we all wondered that at some point?

envelopes

2006-01-24T13:47:00.000-08:00

Today I needed a single manila envelope in which to mail some papers.

I went to Office Max, and the smallest number I could purchase was four. Again, I needed only one.

I bought the four and used one. Of course, I'm likely to have a need for the other three at some point in the future. But it is also likely that by then I will have forgotten where I had placed the three extra envelopes from today's purchase. I will end up buying another one (or four) and find the extra three from today when I don't really need them.

I scraped the top of my left index finger, and it stung last night. I put a band-aid on it.

Best lyrics EVER!!!

2006-01-20T15:47:00.000-08:00

Ok everyone, I'm breaking my typical mode temporarily and getting interesting.

I just want to share some fabulous rock lyrics that I discovered listening to satellite radio. The sheer volume of 70s and 80s hard rock allusions makes me want to weep with joy. Now, I liked Soundgarden and Pearl Jam (at least their first album) and a few other grunge bands, but all that stuff about "killing" metal in the early 90s just turned out to be plain wrong. Those 90s bands are essentially history, and the hard rockers are stronger than ever before. Here's to nostalgia and unabashed dumbness, I guess! But wait -- maybe 90s nostalgia will bring THOSE bands back again... Anyway, the great thing about nostalgia is it lets you love genres of music that may have in their day seemed opposed -- time heals all petty aesthetic rifts, at least it does for me. Still, got to appreciate the wonderfully sneering quality of the followign lyrics:

American Hair Band
Yeah, well I've been up and been down, town to town with several bands,
Then tortured for ten long years by critics, agents and the A&R man, and some bandwagon fans.
It's time to stand up, fight back, be proud and once again be free,
So if you want a piece of me, come and get it!
Kurt Cobain is gone but I'm back
Wearing leather pants and a backwards hat
Guitars slung low
Where the down boys go
The night trains back so on with the show
I'm Metal HealthAnd dressed to thrill
I'm an SMF with the looks that kill
I rocked and rolled, n' long hair is back
And I grew up, singing Strutter, And Back, in Black
I'm going back to eighty-nine I went Platinum zero times
You're in the jungle sweet child o'mine
I want another piece of that cherry pie
Chorus #1: (Oooooohhhhhh)They call 'em hairbands
Leather jacket in black
Throw your hands in the air
Yeah we're bringing it back
N' Say (Shout, Shout) At the Devil again
And Say (Shout, Shout) At the Devil my friend
So Say (Shout, Shout) never letting it end and say
(Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout) yeah…(Bad Medicine)
I like Old Van Halen and Hanoi Rocks
Black n' Blue and Britny Fox
Guns n' Roses, Motley Crue
When Def Leppard rocked and Skid Row ruled
Yeah, Ratt went round n' round
Rocking out in Boston, get loud in Chi-town
Vandenberg, Priest, Dok-ken, Kix
Throwing Faster Pussycat in the mix (P-P-P-P-P-Pussycat)
Give me L.A. Guns & The Dangerous Toys
Quiet Riot, Bang Tango & Bullet Boys
Love Johnny Crash grunge bands are trash
I like C.C. DeVille, Mick Mars, and Slash
Chorus: #2Breakdown:Yeah, I saw your grunge band, staring at your shoes on stage, wearing that dirty flannel shirt, when you gonna learn dirtball, you just can't f**k with Twisted Sister. "What are you going to do with your life"?
I'm an American hairband
Watch me rock
You can raise your hands
Or you can suck my c**k
Heavy Metal God
I'm a Pin-up boyI'm the singer from Tuff not Pretty Boy Floyd
Super loud and Super wild
Sebastian Bach is youth gone wild
Diamond Dave and Nikki Sixx
I wanna see Tommy Lee back spinning those sticks
Up all night, gonna sleep all day
I love girls; girls, girls and I love L.A.
I won't waste my breath, but here's a clue
Give Pearl Jam & Eddie a big f**k you
Who cares about Weezer and the Screeming Trees
When we got White Lion
And of course the Sleeze Beez
If you wanna rock n' roll then read my lips
Let's shout it out loud
For a band named KISS
Chorus: (Oooooohhhhhh)They call 'em hairbands
Wearing leather and black
So throw your hands in the air
Now we're bringing it back
N' Say (Shout, Shout) At the Devil again
And Say (Shout, Shout) At the Devil my friend
So Say (Shout, Shout) never letting it end and say (Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout) yeah,
I'm a hairband wanted dead or alive
Singing (Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout)
I wanna rock n' roll in the still of the night
Say (Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout)
Gonna take you down to the Paradise city
And (Shout, Shout, Shout, Shout)Everybody let's sing talk dirty to me

Texas Toast

2006-01-19T11:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday as part of my lunch I ate a piece of Safeway brand Texas Toast with some peanut butter on it.

This Texas Toast was basically a loaf of standard Safeway white bread sliced at wider intervals, resulting in really thick slices of white bread. I guess the size is what makes it "Texas."

The only other time I remember eating Texas Toast was at Sizzler. At that fine restaurant, Texas Toast was basically a large piece of white bread toasted with butter and perhaps some kind of spice on it. It came with the steak.

Toilet Paper, Part II

2006-01-17T10:35:00.000-08:00

There in deed will be more -- an infinite number of posts on toilet paper.

Though my obsession with tp supplies may suggest my succumbing to capitalist commodity fetishism or something, I think it can also be seen as subversive (Dude, I'm subversive!). That is, a good capitalist would purchase in bulk, laying in supplies, secure in his/her knowledge of bountiful resources -- so secure in fact that he/she would take for granted unlimited availability of this very useful item. Indeed, it would seem that 24-pack is valued not so much for its usefulness but for the IDEA of abundance and unlimited security it supplies. You never even have to think about not having toilet paper.

Conversely, keeping around only a minimal supply -- as I have done -- forces one to think more about the concrete use of toilet paper, indeed to value its intimate connection to our daily functioning and our bodies. Having only a slim supply reminds you that hygeine is not to be taken for granted, not a "natural" or inevitable or "normal" condition, but one historically enabled by our technologies and means of production.

So in sum, my little toilet paper games demonstrate my deep intuitive commitment to an ideal of economic justice.

Toilet Paper, Part I

2006-01-16T15:49:00.000-08:00

I have to confess that I get a kick out of nearly running short of toilet paper.

For some reason, I get an uncomfortable thrill from having just a few rolls (or one, or half of one) in the house, estimating whether they will last out the week, wondering whether or how, if I had only ten dollars to make it to my next paycheck, I would be able to budget in food, coffee, deoderant, toilet paper.

It would be very easy and very practical to buy toilet paper in bulk, whether I went to Costco or just to the supermarket. It’s cheaper that way, and I know I’m going to use it, so why do I gravitate toward the four packs – or, in convenience stores, toward the single roll for eighty-nine cents? I just wouldn’t get the same satisfaction out of a twenty-four pack; it would deprive me of the thrill of last-minute toilet paper purchasing.

There is something so reassuring, so cozy about buying a single roll of toilet paper.

For a few months in Eugene, Oregon in my mid-twenties, just before getting married, I lived in a rooming house. I lived with all my possessions and a futon (that replaced an air mattress) in a very small room. I knew only one other person who lived in the house, and I knew him not at all well. I had a very small, antiquated clock radio that my father had used. He would lie on his bed, inert, listening to repetitive AM radio news. This is one of my strongest images of him, and I quickly claimed the radio after he died. I took to lying inert and listening to the local NPR affiliate in Eugene. One strong memory I have is of lying awake one typically overcast morning and listening to a female vocalist covering the Kinks’ “Better Things,” a terribly sad song with an ostensibly optimistic thesis. I remember I had listened to the Kinks’ version many times my freshman year of college when I was young and hardly in need of the reassurance offered by the song’s speaker to (I think) a woman seemingly past her “prime.” Somehow I think the old radio and the toilet paper are connected, but I’m not sure how just yet.

The bathrooms in this house had no toilet paper in them. Residents were expected to keep their own, bringing a private or personal roll into the bathroom when they used it. One of the large house’s three bathrooms was my favorite. It was simply a closet with a toilet; I guess it was a half bath.. To bring my roll into this bathroom made me feel very secure.

I suppose it is a bit of a cliché of contemporary cultural criticism to find deep significance in the small and mundane. A whole culture’s deepest values or most crucial ideologies are to be found in its car advertisements, its napkin folding practices, its attitudes toward dental care. I begin to wonder as I write this whether the affective attachments I have to the purchasing and use of toilet paper have something to do with consumer capitalism or a kind of Barthesian mythology. Perhaps the roll of toilet paper signifies comfort, childhood (the associations above with my father’s clock radio?), protection from the messy materiality of bodily existence (the shit gets wrapped up in folds of angelic white softness to be flushed down the pristine toilet) – think of all those images of teddy bears and cherubic babies that decorate toilet paper plastic wrap. Hey – the roll/role of toilet paper? Hmmmmm…

More to come

a good sit and a 79 cent burrito

2006-01-14T20:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I really enjoy a good sit. On a bench, in a chair, whatever. Enough said.

I've given up the quest for the delicious 79 cent burrito.

In a previous period of my life, for several years I would on occasion find myself drifting toward the frozen burrito sections of various convenience stores. These establishments offered many brands of cheap microwavable burritos. Now, I had even at that point eaten my share of poor pasty frozen burritos. Though at times they provided necessary calories, they never satisfied me in any deep sort of way. Yet I always held out hope that someday I would purchase a burrito for less than a dollar that would taste nearly as divine as a five dollar taqueria super or especial with the works. I tried and tried, but of course I never did.

But where did I get the idea that I could put one over on the man this way? It's like believing in a get-rich quick scheme or thinking that this time I'll hang one microphone up in THAT spot and run another out of the board and just maybe I'll get an album quality recording of my band.

We all have our 79 cent burrito delusions, don't we? I don't -- anymore. I've learned to buy the big burrito from the taqueria. It's still a great deal.

One time ten years ago when I had a beard, I noticed it had some white spots. I thought I was starting to show signs of age. Turns out I just was staining it with toothpaste. Now there really are white whiskers creeping out of my face, but I don't really care. This is too interesting so I'll stop.

feedback

2006-01-12T11:04:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the many who wrote responding to my posts.

At the risk of being too interesting, let me explain some of my practices.

I am a poor speller (though an exceptional grammarian and "syntactician," if I may coin a new term). My usual practice in formal writing is to edit, etc., but I fear that would be too interesting an activity for me to take up. Therefore, spelling here will be less than exact, though I might argue that such variations from standard writing practices may be viewed as a subtle form of subversion -- a sly reminder to you all that standards of grammar, spelling, usage, etc. are the product of what many see as the disciplinary tyrrany of enlightenment rationalism over the explosive free play of the letter. Perhaps that's a Derridean/Barthesian version of, "who carez if'n I kaint spelll!?".

Also, I'm trying to be uninteresting because in reality I'm a deeply fascinating person. My links will be interesting, revealing the fascinating elements that mix to compose my true character, a paradoxical blend of charisma and depth, of crassness and sensitivity, of erudition and willful ignorance, or something.

To more important and less interesting matters, I'm planning to eat today. My jacket's comfortable but missing a sleeve button. I should clean my glasses more often.

addendum

2006-01-10T20:57:00.000-08:00

I forgot to mention that Sarah, my wife, had lunch/brunch with me.

Also, I didn't spell restaurant right in my last post. Many apologies. Things are shaky here at the home office. We working under extremely difficult -- perhaps primitive -- conditions.

I still don't know how to spell "OM-LET," and I'm too lazy to go look it up.

lunch

2006-01-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

For lunch today, I ate a breakfast. It was an omlette (which I'm not sure if I'm spelling correctly, and I'm an English teacher). It had sausage and cheese and peppers in it.

They called it a Mexican omlette. It was fairly good. The restaraunt was comfortable and clean.

I would like to eat again. I'm going to get a burrito.

Hello

2006-01-10T15:32:00.000-08:00

Here I will tell all of the boring details of my life, in which none can find interest.