Filing and other f-words

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my new filing technique is unstoppable

Click it and see. Not the big red letters. The sidebar. Or not. It is of no consequence. Nor should it be. Maybe you don't even deserve to click it. Now, that being said, go get all f***ing defiant and click it. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks, you can click the big red letters if you want to. If you're too lazy to even look for the sidebar.

"Thoughts in time and out of season"

An informal poll for you Dear Reader: if I were to have set my alarm for 3:00 AM in order to watch the first regular season baseball game between the Oakland A's and the Boston Red Sox, live from Tokyo, would you think

(a) I am a dedicated baseball fan
(b) I am a nutbag
(c) A and B
(d) Poor Susie

Now I must confess that my use of the subjunctive mood is erroneous. I did in fact get up to watch the game. Also, and don't take this too personally D.R., when it comes to my love of baseball, I really don't care what you or anyone else thinks, thought, or might think in the future.

Changing gears. I mowed the backyard yesterday afternoon. Big friggin' woop, right? Yes, it was. It was the first time I mowed MY OWN YARD. Thoughts and feelings about the unspoken bond between a man and his lawnmower... aw, screw it.

Hammerin' Hank

Suckers! No. Not baseball's rightful home run king. Another clue? Think Damaged. Henry Rollins brought his "Provoked" spoken word performance to town last night. Three-and-a-half hours of it. Let's see, twenty bucks plus service charge divided by three.five... a bargain! I knew going in that he would have something to say that would prick my ego. Something. I was waiting for it. I wanted it. I needed it. We all get old. Rather, we all grow up. Some of us are just a little slower at doing so. When Mr. Rollins spoke of becoming less cynical as he has gotten older, and that he now saw his cynicism as "cowardly armor," I think I grew up. A little.

Dim, but still...

Brief. To the point. I just now returned from remitting the first payment on our mortgage. Only three hundred fifty-nine more to go. Woo-hooo! There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

The black cars of the guardia civil

It has come to my attention that I have not posted in a while. Quite a while by metastandards. I have some ideas about which to write. And some not to write about. They are more interesting. Duhhh. But I feel like phoning this one in.

Arctic Monkeys/This house is a circus
Bow Wow Wow/I want candy
Circle Jerks/I wanna destroy you
The Clash/Spanish bombs
The Damned/I just can’t be happy today
Depeche Mode/Martyr
Elastica/Connection
Fang/Fun with acid
Frankenstein Drag Queens from Planet 13/Scary song
Gang of Four/Outside the trains don’t run on time
The Melvins (w/Jello Biafra)/Caped crusader (Subway gas/Hello Kitty mix)
Metallica/Enter sandman
Midnight Oil/The dead heart
Nine Inch Nails/The hand that feeds
Nirvana/Drain you
NOFX/Seeing double at the Triple Rock
Pearl Jam/Jeremy
The Pixies/Dig for fire
Public Image Ltd./Death disco
Rage Against the Machine/Vietnow
Red Hot Chili Peppers/Dani California
The Smiths/What she said
Sonic Youth/Waist
Suicide/Girl
Tom Waits/Walking Spanish
Underworld/Born slippy
Sara Bareilles/Love song

It's the playlist I assembled for my listening pleasure as I pore over however-many-hundreds of names have backed up in the system. I have left it intact for a couple days now. It just works. Playlists can be revealing. By design. Often. Über-cool. Pretentiously so. "When in Minnesota and you got a drinking quota..." I'd better leave well enough alone and get. Rather, git.