Damn you Craigslist. I only love you for your /msg section, because I find the rest of you seedy and strange (kinda like holding a garage sale with only one soiled and smelly item). But your musical instruments section is like a magical toy store to me. I've become pretty adept at sifting through your piles of musical crap, looking for peanuts and nuggets of corn amongst the turds.
Today you made me broke Craigslist. Flat ass buh-roke. My finances are red-lined, and I couldn't care less. I can and will endure the coming week until payday frugally, and I'll do it happily. I have no choice but to eat ramen and air until then, since I dropped five Franklins on my new (used) uber-toy. But I'll only be hungry for a week; I'll have my kick-ass gear for a LOT longer than that. And I doubt a unit like this will be for sale again in the next twenty years at so convenient a location and certainly not at so low a price.
I can't believe someone listed an X77 at about one-quarter of its value. Can't. Fucking. Believe. It. I could NEVER afford a properly priced unit. Never. And I can't believe no one else beat me to close the sale. I was well over a day late responding to the post due to illness (mostly mental), and was astonished that no one else got there first. Actually, one guy did beat me there, but he told the seller that he had to look into some repair questions (three of the keys don't work) and make some calls before he made his offer. I did all my homework on the x77 before I ever met the seller, brought a handful of cash and a friend with a truck, and I didn't aim to fuck around. Yeah, the cabinet has the tonewheel. Yeah, it has the Leslie. And yeah, it's mine for life (or until my house burns flat). I like to imagine that the guy who showed up first but waffled on the sale is tonight curled up in some dark room, drinking and crying at his inability to pull the trigger.
This whole affair also drove home one of the finer points of being single, as I could never have pulled some shit like this when I was married.
My music room is almost complete now. I only lack a drum kit...
Fuckin sweet.
27 August 2008
01 August 2008
The Mad Hatter
The trial upon which I served as a juror in April was concluded recently with sentencing. The local paper covered every "exciting" angle:
Accountant sentenced in tax fraud
By DAVID HARPER World Staff Writer
7/31/2008
The Tulsan, who made some unusual claims during his trial, says he was singled out for his political views.
A Tulsa accountant who was found guilty in April of nine felonies for reporting false information on his federal income taxes was sentenced Wednesday to three years and five months in prison.
Robert Steve Miles, 65, received the maximum possible punishment from U.S. District Judge James Payne, who issued a warrant for Miles' arrest earlier in the day after Miles failed to appear for his sentencing hearing.
Miles, who was in the tax-preparation business for about 30 years, was arrested by the IRS at his Tulsa office and was brought into court in handcuffs while wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
He tried to explain his failure to appear earlier in the day by saying that he was surprised that his case was not transferred to the "Cherokee-Wampanoag Supreme Court," as called for in pleadings he filed recently in federal court in Tulsa.
Miles, who represented himself at his April trial, claimed in his closing argument that he was being singled out for prosecution because of his political views. On Wednesday, he said, "I don't believe I have done anything wrong."
At his trial, he periodically managed to get some of his views about government, the courts and the tax system in front of the jury. At various points he seemed to be arguing that tax returns aren't "documents" and that "zero" isn't really a number.
In an April 3 filing, Miles claimed that "any correspondence sent to Robert S. Miles etc. or to a ZIP CODE AREA will be returned and will constitute a direct and deliberate attempt to infringe My religious beliefs and to Expatriate Me and Convert My Sovereign Status to a subject, serf, person and slave and to the secular humanism, commercial religion of government."
At an April 4 hearing, Payne ordered a psychiatric or psychological examination for Miles.
The results of that report were sealed, although Payne wrote in an order filed April 21 that the examining doctor thought Miles was competent to stand trial.
Miles told jurors that he had no intent to violate the law in January 2006 when he mailed his federal income tax returns for the years 1996 through 2004.
On those tax returns, Miles reported that he had "zero" total income or business income.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Kenneth Snoke said Miles' income from 1996 to 2004 was not exactly clear, but he told the jury that "it certainly wasn't zero."
The judge used a tax loss of $256,316.93 to help arrive at the sentence.
...
I am glad to see that the judge ordered some type of mental evaluation for this guy. It was apparent that he wasn't living 100% of his life in reality.
The trial was a fu¢king travesty. Imagine someone with only a dim grasp of legal procedure and decorum attempting to represent himself. Imagine if every time this person opened his mouth, whether to make an opening statement, cross-examine a witness, or question the court, imagine that this person made the same mistakes and received the court's reprimand. For four days.
Ken Snoke and his staff did a fine job, especially his beautiful young assistant whose sole duty was to place documents entered into evidence upon an image viewer so that the jury could see them. After carefully deliberating and weighing all the evidence, I rendered a verdict of hot as hell and sentenced her to spend three to five days belly-dancing in my dreams.
Next time I get called for jury duty (which will be the third time), I'm showing up naked in the hopes they'll send me home for being crazy.
Accountant sentenced in tax fraud
By DAVID HARPER World Staff Writer
7/31/2008
The Tulsan, who made some unusual claims during his trial, says he was singled out for his political views.
A Tulsa accountant who was found guilty in April of nine felonies for reporting false information on his federal income taxes was sentenced Wednesday to three years and five months in prison.
Robert Steve Miles, 65, received the maximum possible punishment from U.S. District Judge James Payne, who issued a warrant for Miles' arrest earlier in the day after Miles failed to appear for his sentencing hearing.
Miles, who was in the tax-preparation business for about 30 years, was arrested by the IRS at his Tulsa office and was brought into court in handcuffs while wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
He tried to explain his failure to appear earlier in the day by saying that he was surprised that his case was not transferred to the "Cherokee-Wampanoag Supreme Court," as called for in pleadings he filed recently in federal court in Tulsa.
Miles, who represented himself at his April trial, claimed in his closing argument that he was being singled out for prosecution because of his political views. On Wednesday, he said, "I don't believe I have done anything wrong."
At his trial, he periodically managed to get some of his views about government, the courts and the tax system in front of the jury. At various points he seemed to be arguing that tax returns aren't "documents" and that "zero" isn't really a number.
In an April 3 filing, Miles claimed that "any correspondence sent to Robert S. Miles etc. or to a ZIP CODE AREA will be returned and will constitute a direct and deliberate attempt to infringe My religious beliefs and to Expatriate Me and Convert My Sovereign Status to a subject, serf, person and slave and to the secular humanism, commercial religion of government."
At an April 4 hearing, Payne ordered a psychiatric or psychological examination for Miles.
The results of that report were sealed, although Payne wrote in an order filed April 21 that the examining doctor thought Miles was competent to stand trial.
Miles told jurors that he had no intent to violate the law in January 2006 when he mailed his federal income tax returns for the years 1996 through 2004.
On those tax returns, Miles reported that he had "zero" total income or business income.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Kenneth Snoke said Miles' income from 1996 to 2004 was not exactly clear, but he told the jury that "it certainly wasn't zero."
The judge used a tax loss of $256,316.93 to help arrive at the sentence.
...
I am glad to see that the judge ordered some type of mental evaluation for this guy. It was apparent that he wasn't living 100% of his life in reality.
The trial was a fu¢king travesty. Imagine someone with only a dim grasp of legal procedure and decorum attempting to represent himself. Imagine if every time this person opened his mouth, whether to make an opening statement, cross-examine a witness, or question the court, imagine that this person made the same mistakes and received the court's reprimand. For four days.
Ken Snoke and his staff did a fine job, especially his beautiful young assistant whose sole duty was to place documents entered into evidence upon an image viewer so that the jury could see them. After carefully deliberating and weighing all the evidence, I rendered a verdict of hot as hell and sentenced her to spend three to five days belly-dancing in my dreams.
Next time I get called for jury duty (which will be the third time), I'm showing up naked in the hopes they'll send me home for being crazy.
23 July 2008
Almost time.
It's so close now I can think of nothing else.
Fun Day. The cold beer. The varied music. The oppressive heat. The late night jams while the mosquitoes drink away any precious bodily fluids I haven't already sweated out. Relaxing in the "river". Relaxing in the Beer Garden.
So close now.
22 July 2008
Dope Specs
Found these online.
Forty bucks to have them delivered to my front door, and that includes the cost of my prescription lenses (slightly tinted blue because I'm that cool).
At that cost I can just throw them away if they suck. But they won't. I've got a good feeling about it.
Forty bucks to have them delivered to my front door, and that includes the cost of my prescription lenses (slightly tinted blue because I'm that cool).
At that cost I can just throw them away if they suck. But they won't. I've got a good feeling about it.
19 July 2008
46.1 miles. Since lunch.
__________________________________________________
James Brown - September Song
_________________________________________________________
Oh, Miss Black.
My fuel light came on last night as I rolled to get Coneys. Sweet, sweet Coneys. More correctly, it popped while I waited in the parking lot with a sack full of greasy wieners while a friend was securing dutch chocolate ice cream from the grocery store next door. I remarked to my friend that I'd have to get gas first thing in the morning. He looked at the Coneys.
By lunchtime today (yesterday) the "low fuel" light seemed to be glowing more brightly than ever, and since my noon-hour battle plan covered a good amount of ground, I surrendered cash to Sinclair and surrendered vapors for liquids that oddly everyone calls gas. Then the Baja de Tulsa commenced as I was off to secure a signature from my ex, trap some lunch, and deposit my stimulus check with my money people.
The first part of the trip was plagued by sh!tty cell phone reception that almost torpedoed twp-thirds of the whole excursion. After finally connecting a hand to a pen to a check, I was headed off south on Harvard in search of anything digestable. I headed straight for the most likely suspect, Jim's Coneys (Never On Sunday).
Now, a word search of this blurb up to this point would reveal a disproportionate number in the use of the word "Coneys", but I can openly state that I have not declared a war of attrition upon my tract (or "sh!t-sluce", as my redneck uncle called it). Only a fool visits Jim's for the Coneys; not that they're bad, but there are many items on the menu that shame anything offered up from the mixture of chili, cheese, and hot dogs.
The chicken oreganato is one such variant at the restaurant renouned for its Greek chow. I have a pair of pants that after two years still have a grease stain from where a small piece of the bird landed. Experience has taught me that consuming the oreganato (which is half of an entire chicken, tabouli and salad) would result in a long and sleepy afternoon of me doing my impression of a head-banger in slow motion. No, the meal in the cross-hairs was the yeros plate, a pile of roasted lamb, onion, sour cream and rice, shoved next to green beans and salad. Bliss.
I drifted through traffic further south, and arrived at the money changers' pavillion while still picking onion out of my teeth. It was turning out to be a hot afternoon. The elevator ride up to the eighth floor was interrupted only by a gentleman pushing an empty cart on at the second floor and off at the seventh.
Then I hit the eighth floor and beheld the lovely Miss Black.
I was just a bit shy of oblivious at first, fishing out the check and mumbling something about needing to deposit it. When Miss Black looked up and asked me what account I wanted it in, her baby blues stuck me like a butterfly. I stammered that I really wasn't sure, and asked her if maybe the account number was on my checkbook somewhere. She glanced at it and set to work. A fraction of time later she turned back to me and asked me if I wanted to deposit in my IRA or RMA. By this point I was almost fully hypnotised by Miss Black's beauty, only retaining enough of my faculties to note her name and investigate her left hand.
"IRA, ... RMA...?"
Those lips were ... well, Miss Black would never have to make a living mopping floors.
Full-tilt dumb strikes me at this point, and in an attempt to see her computer monitor and discern which account I need to select ("RMA", as any non-smitten Kreg can tell you) I try to cram my skull through a large verticle slit in the teller window. Image a full grown man trying to stick his head through a five-inch gap between two giant panes of glass; that is the calibre of jacka$$ to which I had regressed.
"RMA" I finally utter. I stand silently trying to cling to any remaining dignity I might possess until Miss Black hands me my receipt. Definately no ring on that left hand. Hmm. "Thank you."
Back on the elevator, my ride down is again colored by the same gentleman with the same cart, only this time getting on at seven and off at two, and this time with a plant on his cart. "Stealing plants?" I ask. He pretends not to understand, or at least I think he does.
The heat outside knocks me flat, but doesn't burn the thoughts of Miss Black from my head.
...
And even late this evening as I sit recounting this long day and all the miles I've driven, I think that one aspect of it all electrified me more than anything in the past few years. Not that I think Miss Black had any interest in me, or that I think something may have happened. I have no such misapprehension that Miss Black would have to settle for the likes of me. No, what truly and deeply thrills me is that I found myself attracted to a person today (yesterday), and I haven't felt that in a long time. I don't know if I haven't thought I deserved to be attracted to someone else, or if I haven't found other people worthy. But I haven't felt that pull in a long time and it felt fantastic.
And I want to thank you Miss Black, for doing nothing more than sitting on a chair, pushing some buttons, and reminding me how it feels.
James Brown - September Song
_________________________________________________________
Oh, Miss Black.
My fuel light came on last night as I rolled to get Coneys. Sweet, sweet Coneys. More correctly, it popped while I waited in the parking lot with a sack full of greasy wieners while a friend was securing dutch chocolate ice cream from the grocery store next door. I remarked to my friend that I'd have to get gas first thing in the morning. He looked at the Coneys.
By lunchtime today (yesterday) the "low fuel" light seemed to be glowing more brightly than ever, and since my noon-hour battle plan covered a good amount of ground, I surrendered cash to Sinclair and surrendered vapors for liquids that oddly everyone calls gas. Then the Baja de Tulsa commenced as I was off to secure a signature from my ex, trap some lunch, and deposit my stimulus check with my money people.
The first part of the trip was plagued by sh!tty cell phone reception that almost torpedoed twp-thirds of the whole excursion. After finally connecting a hand to a pen to a check, I was headed off south on Harvard in search of anything digestable. I headed straight for the most likely suspect, Jim's Coneys (Never On Sunday).
Now, a word search of this blurb up to this point would reveal a disproportionate number in the use of the word "Coneys", but I can openly state that I have not declared a war of attrition upon my tract (or "sh!t-sluce", as my redneck uncle called it). Only a fool visits Jim's for the Coneys; not that they're bad, but there are many items on the menu that shame anything offered up from the mixture of chili, cheese, and hot dogs.
The chicken oreganato is one such variant at the restaurant renouned for its Greek chow. I have a pair of pants that after two years still have a grease stain from where a small piece of the bird landed. Experience has taught me that consuming the oreganato (which is half of an entire chicken, tabouli and salad) would result in a long and sleepy afternoon of me doing my impression of a head-banger in slow motion. No, the meal in the cross-hairs was the yeros plate, a pile of roasted lamb, onion, sour cream and rice, shoved next to green beans and salad. Bliss.
I drifted through traffic further south, and arrived at the money changers' pavillion while still picking onion out of my teeth. It was turning out to be a hot afternoon. The elevator ride up to the eighth floor was interrupted only by a gentleman pushing an empty cart on at the second floor and off at the seventh.
Then I hit the eighth floor and beheld the lovely Miss Black.
I was just a bit shy of oblivious at first, fishing out the check and mumbling something about needing to deposit it. When Miss Black looked up and asked me what account I wanted it in, her baby blues stuck me like a butterfly. I stammered that I really wasn't sure, and asked her if maybe the account number was on my checkbook somewhere. She glanced at it and set to work. A fraction of time later she turned back to me and asked me if I wanted to deposit in my IRA or RMA. By this point I was almost fully hypnotised by Miss Black's beauty, only retaining enough of my faculties to note her name and investigate her left hand.
"IRA, ... RMA...?"
Those lips were ... well, Miss Black would never have to make a living mopping floors.
Full-tilt dumb strikes me at this point, and in an attempt to see her computer monitor and discern which account I need to select ("RMA", as any non-smitten Kreg can tell you) I try to cram my skull through a large verticle slit in the teller window. Image a full grown man trying to stick his head through a five-inch gap between two giant panes of glass; that is the calibre of jacka$$ to which I had regressed.
"RMA" I finally utter. I stand silently trying to cling to any remaining dignity I might possess until Miss Black hands me my receipt. Definately no ring on that left hand. Hmm. "Thank you."
Back on the elevator, my ride down is again colored by the same gentleman with the same cart, only this time getting on at seven and off at two, and this time with a plant on his cart. "Stealing plants?" I ask. He pretends not to understand, or at least I think he does.
The heat outside knocks me flat, but doesn't burn the thoughts of Miss Black from my head.
...
And even late this evening as I sit recounting this long day and all the miles I've driven, I think that one aspect of it all electrified me more than anything in the past few years. Not that I think Miss Black had any interest in me, or that I think something may have happened. I have no such misapprehension that Miss Black would have to settle for the likes of me. No, what truly and deeply thrills me is that I found myself attracted to a person today (yesterday), and I haven't felt that in a long time. I don't know if I haven't thought I deserved to be attracted to someone else, or if I haven't found other people worthy. But I haven't felt that pull in a long time and it felt fantastic.
And I want to thank you Miss Black, for doing nothing more than sitting on a chair, pushing some buttons, and reminding me how it feels.
17 July 2008
Money, it's a crime...
...Share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie.
I'm thinking I might need to find a new financial company with which to keep my money. Morally, I don't think I can continue to support those guys, even if they are doing a bang-up job with my scratch.
I'm thinking I might need to find a new financial company with which to keep my money. Morally, I don't think I can continue to support those guys, even if they are doing a bang-up job with my scratch.
03 July 2008
Tracks
Some holiday wax* for your (and my) ear-holes, shamelessly stolen from other blogs.
Jim Noir
Thao Nguyen And The Get Down Stay Down
Rolling Stones
Red Astaire
*(wax not included)
Jim Noir
Thao Nguyen And The Get Down Stay Down
Rolling Stones
Red Astaire
*(wax not included)
27 June 2008
Steampunk GPS
I usually don't yearn for earthly things, but this little baby is the perfect blend of geography and steampunk to switch on my inner geek. Hell, I'd even pay that ludicrous amount for one, but I can't find them online anywhere. I feel lucky that I could find this much information about them. I'm sure it's just the way I imagine things from the forties and fifties, but I'm convinced that thing must emit orange light when it's on.
The thing must be at least the size of a cantaloupe, and mounts to those antique steering columns that impaled any fedora-wearing-era driver involved in even a minor fender-bender. So I suppose I can see why these things weren't minting new millionaire salesmen. How convenient and wise is it to bend over to peer into an illuminated sphere while blasting down the highway? That's almost as negligent as talking on a cell phone while driving.
I still want one though.
I still want one though.
24 June 2008
Narrowing the field
I am partial to the second image. Most others are taking to the first.
But it's my house.
This finally happened.
02 June 2008
Painthead
I've been scraping and sanding and caulking the outside of my house for a few weeks now, in preparation for painting it a new color.
Now if I could only decide what color...
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
And...wrong.
If only I knew what was right.
Now if I could only decide what color...
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
And...wrong.If only I knew what was right.
08 April 2008
To Dream The Impossible Dream
(Written for the Mindscrapes blog.)
About a week ago, my mind was trying to jar my body awake. When I'm too cold, or I have to pee, or the phone is ringing, my head makes every effort rouse my body so that I can tend to business. I suppose that experience has taught my collective self that the best way to get things moving is to start threading weird events together until my brain finally has a "what the f*ck?" moment, realizes it is dreaming, and takes corrective measures. However, this particular evening, traditional methods weren't working, so my brain started throwing curve balls.
In the earliest part of the dream that I can recall (which was pretty late), I was walking down a street that looked pretty similar to Bourbon Street. It was packed with people, and we all seemed to be having a great time. Suddenly and without explanation, the street was ankle-deep in crunchy black beetles, and people were far less jubilant. The panicked crowd began to move away and carry me along with them.
As I was borne along with everyone else, I noticed a cloaked, shadowy figure darting from person to person, like something out of The Frightners or one of those Harry Potter And The Epic Of Suck movies. Every time the shadowy freak would close in on someone, he would do an impression of David Lo Pan and shoot red light out of his mouth and into the face of his victim. That person would shudder briefly, then drain of all color, and finally begin attacking the surrounding crowd like a coked-out zombie.
Amid all this chaos of beetles and soulless roid-ragers and a red-light-vampire thing, I just get swept along in the throng. It doesn't really weird me out or cause me any distress. People are getting trampled down into the beetles. Friends are turning against each other. That bizarre black-robed creep keeps zipping about and turning more people into FOX-News viewers. It just doesn't penetrate that I might be dreaming and I need to wake up to check on the toilet-phone-blanket or whatever.
Finally, the thing shooting red light from its mouth gets close enough to me that I can get a good look at his face. He stops just a few people away and throws back his hood. I find myself looking at Armand Assante with red light coming out of his mouth. And THAT is when I finally have my "what the f*ck?" moment, blow a gasket, and realize that I am dreaming. Sure, streets full of beetles are possible. A spooky bastard with a mouth that shoots red light that turns people into a mindless violent army of the undead is feasible. But that red-light mouthed person COULD NOT POSSIBLY have starred opposite of Sylvester Stallone in Judge Dredd. No way. Wake up.
And so I did. After turning off the ringer on the toilet, I wondered briefly what had become of Armand Assante's career. Was he still making movies? Was he still alive? Was he chasing hapless victims through the beetle-infested streets of New Orleans?
As I lapsed back into sleep I quietly hoped that I would never learn the truth.
About a week ago, my mind was trying to jar my body awake. When I'm too cold, or I have to pee, or the phone is ringing, my head makes every effort rouse my body so that I can tend to business. I suppose that experience has taught my collective self that the best way to get things moving is to start threading weird events together until my brain finally has a "what the f*ck?" moment, realizes it is dreaming, and takes corrective measures. However, this particular evening, traditional methods weren't working, so my brain started throwing curve balls.
In the earliest part of the dream that I can recall (which was pretty late), I was walking down a street that looked pretty similar to Bourbon Street. It was packed with people, and we all seemed to be having a great time. Suddenly and without explanation, the street was ankle-deep in crunchy black beetles, and people were far less jubilant. The panicked crowd began to move away and carry me along with them.
As I was borne along with everyone else, I noticed a cloaked, shadowy figure darting from person to person, like something out of The Frightners or one of those Harry Potter And The Epic Of Suck movies. Every time the shadowy freak would close in on someone, he would do an impression of David Lo Pan and shoot red light out of his mouth and into the face of his victim. That person would shudder briefly, then drain of all color, and finally begin attacking the surrounding crowd like a coked-out zombie.
Amid all this chaos of beetles and soulless roid-ragers and a red-light-vampire thing, I just get swept along in the throng. It doesn't really weird me out or cause me any distress. People are getting trampled down into the beetles. Friends are turning against each other. That bizarre black-robed creep keeps zipping about and turning more people into FOX-News viewers. It just doesn't penetrate that I might be dreaming and I need to wake up to check on the toilet-phone-blanket or whatever.
Finally, the thing shooting red light from its mouth gets close enough to me that I can get a good look at his face. He stops just a few people away and throws back his hood. I find myself looking at Armand Assante with red light coming out of his mouth. And THAT is when I finally have my "what the f*ck?" moment, blow a gasket, and realize that I am dreaming. Sure, streets full of beetles are possible. A spooky bastard with a mouth that shoots red light that turns people into a mindless violent army of the undead is feasible. But that red-light mouthed person COULD NOT POSSIBLY have starred opposite of Sylvester Stallone in Judge Dredd. No way. Wake up.
And so I did. After turning off the ringer on the toilet, I wondered briefly what had become of Armand Assante's career. Was he still making movies? Was he still alive? Was he chasing hapless victims through the beetle-infested streets of New Orleans?
As I lapsed back into sleep I quietly hoped that I would never learn the truth.
14 March 2008
Erin Go Barf
The much anticipated 2008 St. Patrick's Day Greeting Card:
And the abominations of previous years:
2007:
2006:
And the abominations of previous years:
2007:
2006:
13 March 2008
...Live Together In Perfect Harmony...
Got myself a new toy for the rock-bottom price of seventy-five clams. Moved it with the help of good friend.
That 2x4 isn't affixed. I cut it down to size after I took this picture. It was necessary because this piano no longer has casters.
This thing literally fell of the back of a truck. It belonged to the Adam's Mark hotel here in town, and they used it during parades. I guess during one event, the truck took a corner a bit too fast. Anyhow, it made the woodwork uglier than a sack of smashed assholes, but didn't hurt the actual mechanics of the instrument at all. Well, one mallet is missing, but it is the highest B, and I'm pretty sure I won't use that much until I get better at playing.
So long story short, it looks like whiskey but plays like wine.
It's missing the flap-part that covers up the keys, and the large piece of wood between the pedals and the keys, but as ugly as the rest of the woodwork is, that is probably a blessing.
Today marks it's one week anniversary in my house. I'm surprised how much I've learned in one week. I printed out a sheet of piano chords and I have been fairly successful at playing songs I already knew on guitar. I can't wait to see where a month takes me.
It turns out that Craigslist is actually pretty cool. This is the first purchase I've ever made using it. Although you should always be careful when shopping in the musical instruments section. "Free Organ" isn't always what you think it should be.
It occurs to me that an excellent test of friendship is a friend's willingness to help you move a piano on short notice.
________________________________________________
Here some tracks:
Beck - Pressure Zone (Buy Here)
Bruce Springsteen - Pink Cadillac (Acoustic Outtake) (Buy Here)
That 2x4 isn't affixed. I cut it down to size after I took this picture. It was necessary because this piano no longer has casters.This thing literally fell of the back of a truck. It belonged to the Adam's Mark hotel here in town, and they used it during parades. I guess during one event, the truck took a corner a bit too fast. Anyhow, it made the woodwork uglier than a sack of smashed assholes, but didn't hurt the actual mechanics of the instrument at all. Well, one mallet is missing, but it is the highest B, and I'm pretty sure I won't use that much until I get better at playing.
So long story short, it looks like whiskey but plays like wine.
It's missing the flap-part that covers up the keys, and the large piece of wood between the pedals and the keys, but as ugly as the rest of the woodwork is, that is probably a blessing.Today marks it's one week anniversary in my house. I'm surprised how much I've learned in one week. I printed out a sheet of piano chords and I have been fairly successful at playing songs I already knew on guitar. I can't wait to see where a month takes me.
It turns out that Craigslist is actually pretty cool. This is the first purchase I've ever made using it. Although you should always be careful when shopping in the musical instruments section. "Free Organ" isn't always what you think it should be.
It occurs to me that an excellent test of friendship is a friend's willingness to help you move a piano on short notice.
________________________________________________
Here some tracks:
Beck - Pressure Zone (Buy Here)
Bruce Springsteen - Pink Cadillac (Acoustic Outtake) (Buy Here)
04 March 2008
We are the children
In addition to the rape of Nanking, here is something else that can be added to the list of Japanese atrocities...
Speaking of the rape of Nanking, I'm on the hunt for 2008's famous photo to be turned into my St. Patrick's Day greeting card. It may be impossible to top the past two years, but I'm going to give it my best.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
Speaking of the rape of Nanking, I'm on the hunt for 2008's famous photo to be turned into my St. Patrick's Day greeting card. It may be impossible to top the past two years, but I'm going to give it my best.
Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
21 February 2008
The Early Bird Won't Get Fat
I like to delude myself into believing that humans are continually getting smarter, always building further upon the cumulative knowledge amassed by previous generations to create and even broader and more accessible educational foundation. It is a beautiful lie that I tell myself in order to feel better about the direction that humanity is heading. Amidst the famines, wars, natural disasters and other heartbreaks that grip the world, I can take false solace in the idea that the average IQ must be climbing steadily as time passes.
Then I read things like this:
Hong Kong warns against using worms to lose weight
Lovely. I don't know what bothers me most; that there are idiots out there who think that weight loss via parasites is a good idea, or that there are buttstains who market this product to other feeble-minded idiots. I suppose I shouldn't be overly concerned with this possibility of people deliberately ingesting parasites. I mean, if you're dumb enough to eat worm eggs, the world is probably throwing WAY larger obstacles in your direction. Between walking upright, trying to earn income, and not choking to death on your own tongue, parasites are the least of your worries.
Still, I'd love to see the packaging for a parasitic weight loss product. Would there be a cuddly tapeworm battling against a vicious-looking wad of cellulite? Would there even be much need for flashy packaging? If you're dumb enough to knowingly eat worm eggs, you'd probably eat them right out of a ziploc bag. A bottle with a child-resistant cap would only confuse and enrage you.
Oh well, I suppose I can always numb out with a warm glass of whiskey…
________________________________________________
Tracks:
Against Me! - Pints Of Guinness Make You Strong (Buy here)
Frédéric Chopin - Opus 22:Andante spianato and Grande Polonaise (Buy here)
19 February 2008
Did you ever know that you're my hero...
Meet Spencer. Spencer used to shoot heroin and snort crystal meth. He was so far gone that he was living on the streets, blowing strangers for change. The whole time, Spencer was still a good guy at heart, but he was one of society’s rejects because of his rampant drug abuse. He just couldn’t kick the junk. Then one day, he wandered into Midland Methadone Clinic. Six months later, he had completely quit shooting heroin, and had turned his life around. Midland Methadone Clinic, in conjunction with eating right, exercise, and not using intravenous drugs, changed Spencer’s life. Now Spencer is a hero.
Meet Janet. Janet used to chain smoke more cigarettes than a Denny’s full of drunks. Some times she’d smoke two at a time. She had one of her eardrums removed so she could smoke through her ear-hole. Janet was a dear woman, but society shunned her because she had yellow teeth and smelled like a horse-track. But she just loved her Pall-Malls too much. Then one day Janet found Nic-o-gum-patch, the only nicotine gum that is also a patch. And also maybe it’s a pill too. Within a week, Janet had curbed her cravings. Now that she exercises and eats right and doesn’t inhale burning tobacco, Janet is a new woman. People like her and shit. And it’s all thanks to Nic-o-pill-gum or whatever. Janet is totally a hero. Also, she had her eardrum put back in.
Does this sound plausible to you? Do you feel someone can be a hero because they decided to stop some type of self-destructive behavior?
Apparently Subway has thought so for 10+ years.
Congratulations Jared. You're not only a mindless shill, you're also pretentious. Or at least you're represented that way.
Also I can make a WAY better sandwich for about a quarter of the cost, but that may be beside the point of this particular tirade.
_________________________________________________
Here's some tracks for ya:
Elvis Costello - Watching The Detectives (Buy Here)
Bon Iver - Skinny Love (Buy Here)
14 February 2008
Just Because You're Paranoid...
Subject: i'm not that paranoid
From: Tim
Date: Fri, Feb 8, 2008 at 7:26 PM
To: Smith, Tubbs, Krëg, Dustin
or, more accurately, i'm not wrong:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/TECH/02/06/microsoft.ads.ap/index.html
--
Tim
Subject: RE: i'm not that paranoid
From: Krëg
Date: Mon, Feb 11, 2008 at 11:50 AM
To: Tim
Cc: Smith, Tubbs, Dustin
Hey man, ads are only effective if you actually BUY shit. Marketing departments have pissed away untold sums trying to get people to buy their crap. I'm not suddenly going to switch to Pepsi because of some algorithm developed by a sexless geek in a Microsoft lab. My eyeballs are connected to my hands (and therefore my wallet) by my BRAIN. Until techie ad gurus figure out how to hack my skull, I'll buy shit just like I always have: based on real need, personal preference, and recommendations of people I trust.
I have always scoffed at the advertising industry, and they haven't shown me anything yet that makes me want to take them seriously. This included.
--
Krëg
Subject: RE: i'm not that paranoid
From: Smith
Date: Mon, Feb 11, 2008 at 1:58 PM
To: Krëg
Cc: Tim, Tubbs, Dustin
Krëg,
You've become a bitter and cynical old man. I'm sorry your vote for Huckabee was not counted in the primary. You should consider an angry revolutionary write-in for November. Perhaps Howard Dean will fall off a horse on his way to the Democratic National Convention and to convert to the Republican party, ala Saul and Paul. Then you'll have the appropriate candidate.
Got to go. A pop up just reminded me to get some coffee at Starbucks and I need to buy some chinos at the Gap. Better stop to get a Pepsi along the way. I'll be thirsty long before I get to the mall. Then I have to refinance my mortgage and get some Viagra from an online pharmacy. No time to chit chat.
--
Smith
Subject: RE: i'm not that paranoid
From: Tim
Date: Mon, Feb 11, 2008 at 2:06 PM
To: Smith
Cc: Krëg, Tubbs, Dustin
you're missing the point, but that's ok, because you're both idiots. the
point is not whether or not marketers can convince you that the right
kind of douche will change your life, but that microsoft (among others)
is going to be watching you, both online and off, to gather as much
information about you personally (what websites you go to, what searches
you make, what you buy, what programs you have installed on your
computer) in order to gather "'audience intelligence' -- figuring out
what kind of person the Web user is based on their surfing and searching
habits." or even better, to force your computer to eavesdrop on you:
"Another used speech recognition to make a transcript of a video, then
served up ads -- in the demonstration, they were text links -- alongside
the video. As the topics discussed on screen changed, so did the ads."
--
Tim
Subject: RE: i'm not that paranoid
From: Krëg
Date: Mon, Feb 11, 2008 at 4:43 PM
To: Tim
Cc: Smith, Tubbs, Dustin
No, I'm not missing the point. But as always, I concede I may be an idiot.
My DSL/Cable modem provider could easily serve up a list of what sites I visit.
My bank could create a dossier about what I regularly purchase (mostly cigarettes, booze, and jalapeño sausage rolls...in that order).
Microsoft or Dell or one of the many spyware programs that Norton hasn't picked up and I'm too stupid to notice could probably report in detail about what is installed on my computer.
I just don't give a shit what people know about me. Let's say that I spend six hours per day browsing for homo-erotic goat porn, or maybe for geriatric snuff porn (or Kevorkian porn, if you follow me). Let's just say that. In theory or whatever. Microsoft or Dell or AT&T or COX or whomever is going to have a great time trying to find advertisement tie-ins to match my tastes. They'll probably kick out ads for goat cheese and Geritol.
And when SuperSneakyTrojanSpy finally reports to someone that I have an unlicensed and hacked copy of Digital Anus Simulator installed illegally, I probably won't even notice. What's someone going to do, blackmail me? "I'm going to tell the world that you spank it to pictures of cocktail shrimp covered in feces while running Digital Anus Simulator!" Knock yourself out, chief. I'm not running for congress or anything, and I'm really not that repressed anymore. And I'm not going to act like I have a lot of pride or dignity. Because if I did, I wouldn't be visiting webpages where men and women cover their gentials in peanut butter to entice ducks to wrench them in their bills. Or at least I wouldn't get off on it.
Are you worried that Microsoft may report about your behavior and habits? To whom? And why? I got news for you, out of the 301 million Americans, your "odd" habits and fetishes probably rate you a ranking somewhere in the middle. You're not a Mormon, and you're also not a dead marmot rapist.
Finally, I hate to burst your bubble, but agencies have been collecting information about you and all your fellow citizens for a few decades now. Check out a company called Acxiom. Granted, Acxiom has of late fallen on hard times, but they aren't the only player in the industry.
ALF LANDON for PRESIDENT in 2008!
--
Krëg
____________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________________
Here's some tracks for ya...
Beastie Boys (Soul Assassin Remix) - So Whatcha Want (buy here)
Eric Bachmann - Genie, Genie (buy here)
06 February 2008
Chow
Roast Beef +French Roll +
Dijon Mustard +
Egg +
Worcestershire Sauce +
Mayo +
Lettuce +
Onion +
Tomato +
Swiss +
Bourbon
=
Dijon Mustard +
Egg +
Worcestershire Sauce +
Mayo +
Lettuce +
Onion +
Tomato +
Swiss +
Bourbon
=
Bad-assed sammich. And bourbon.Oh, and a couple of pickles.
I love dinner.
I love dinner.
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