Grandpa Harrison wandered away from the Senior Living Community and into the parched desert wasteland without shoes again
I love VINTAGE Harrison Ford as much as the next guy, but PERSONALLY I was NOT THRILLED about INDIANA JONES and the KINGDOM of the CRYSTAL ASSISTED LIVING FACILITY.
For many years now, I have cringed every time I've seen him in a movie, or presenting at an awards show. I am not ageist, but geriatric Harrison Ford just sucks. He always seems confused, and it's a bummer. I always imagine him having difficulty with soup.
Recently, I heard about the Blade Runner sequel, and the simultaneous announcement that Harrison Ford would be returning and I was NOT HAPPY. My first (admittedly unkind) thought was "maybe he'll die in pre-production so he won't ruin it."
And oops he crashed his airplane at a golf course a week later
Russell Tovey saying he's glad he's not effeminate is not the end of the fucking world, gay people. It's just not PC.
I see gay friends posting about their OUTRAGE and reposting their favorite drag queen's OUTRAGE and so on and so forth. It's... Disproportionate.
People have types. That is ok. If we have types that we prefer in others, why would we not prefer to be a type ourselves. I wish that the gay community- one of the most back-biting, shit talking, superficial, territorial, ageist, classist, racist, elitist cultures I have ever observed or been a part of- would take a step back and think about every willfully cruel shitty thing they have ever said about, I don't know, THEIR OWN FRIENDS BEHIND THEIR BACKS and then revisit whether it is alright or not for Russell Tovey to be accountable to the world for being glad to be the way he is.
Take a fucking breath, gay community.
Also, Drama School IS PRETTY FUCKING GAY. If nothing else, let's just admit that. We've all seen FAME.
#ChapelHill shootings. A white American man who devoted a great deal of his energy and identity lumping fundamentalist terrorists together with American Muslims enrolled in dental college and going frothy-mouth crazy about hating religions because they are SUPER EVIL shot three people who fit into his ideological hate spectrum (admittedly a somewhat undistinguished accomplishment given the breadth of his untethered hate and xenophobia) execution style point blank in the head. Because of a parking spot dispute and there are no other issues that factor into the TRIPLE HOMICIDE.
Watched the news tonight. Story number one was a single white girl being murdered by ISIS. Second story was #ChapelHill and story number three was about POOR, SYMPATHETIC CHRIS KYLE, American Martyr, American Sniper and American Hero. Who basically bragged about how he shot a triple load every time he killed a categorically evil Muslim dead. Chris Kyle, who is being celebrated by large chunks of the population and celebrated and immortalized in film.
Yeah, the United States isn't anti-Muslim. This was one man who HAPPENED to be white (let's not SMEAR white people! THAT'S not fair! Let's not LUMP A GROUP TOGETHER, that's not FAIR!)
Eighties Heart is rad. Ann Wilson looks like a dumpster wearing too much makeup, a veil and a wig, while Nancy Wilson overcompensates with EPIC velveeta posing and posturing. The song's premise is frightening.
"How do I get you ALOOOOOOOONE????!!!!" like Ann is going to rape people with her Siren song and dumpster body.
HOLY CRAP, I just checked my stats, and i'm almost at 100,000 page views? probably 92,000 of them are me obsessively checking this bitch, but still. damn.
every person on earth feels that way. it's hard to say something so obvious and universal without sounding trite (or maybe it's the kind of thing you have to say when you're super-young to get away with? i don't know about that, though, i roll my eyes half out of my head at some of the tired old chestnuts i hear tumbling out of kids' mouths. sorry, these sidebars can go on and on) i like this kid.
had to take the car crash post down. nobody's missing it anyway, lol.
here's radical face's 'glory' instead. i'm a little stuck on it.
words:
I was born when they took my name
When the world turned wicked, when I joined their game
But I turned and fought them
Like you always knew I'd do
I sat and dreamed at the foot of your bed
You split my skull and reached inside my head
And pulled out the pictures I'd been wishing I'd forget
And you stitched me up then
And wiped the blood from off my chin
Now I sit on the rooftop's edge
The muddy street beneath my swollen head
Trying to forget you
To believe we've never met
And the sky is wrecked, full of rotting clouds
From chimney mouths spewing smoke around
And I can't stop coughing
My lungs just won't calm down
But still I keep grinning
As the blood from my face stains the ground
A bird, caught in the wires
Bleating for help I can't provide
(I'm not that big)
I hope for the best but nothing changes
(I'm sorry)
But I was blessed with bad eyes
There's a lot that I miss but I don't mind, I'm not that old
I'll find out what broke me soon enough
this is the somewhat less than ideal version of my face after i got vehicularly made over by some girl born in the fucking nineties over graduation weekend here in tucson. while i concur that the look is striking, it made my crazy hair and piercings somewhat pale in comparison (possibly due to a loss of whole blood). anyway, that is what i've been dealing with for the better part of the last thirty days. preceding that, i got in a bike wreck that partially tore my left rotator cuff, so give or take ten days at most, i have been out on short term disability for the best of the last two months. when my friend told me to go out and do something interesting, this was not something that had crossed my mind. i was thinking more along the lines of subversive macrame. you know, really STICK IT TO THE MAN.
i don't remember being hit. i just remember being in the ambulance for a minute, and from there, my version of chronology leapfrogs to the trauma unit where they try their even best to de-picasso-ize me into a real life three dimensional entity. thanks, vaguely foreign training doctor! they cut off my favorite outfit, except for my blood drenched shoes and my helmet (praise allah that i had been having "you should wear your helmet" juju floating (uncharacteristically)in my brain for the preceding ten or so days. i'm in the trauma and CDU for a couple more days, ever more the perfect spitting image of a post-modern elephant man, before they discharge me with a souvenir size bucket of percocets and muscle relaxers. i won't lie, they were the breath of god. i hurt every time i woke up.
my job struggled to say the right thing, to be grudgingly supportive. i just started working again the other day (last night was my fourth night back). i have to say, my back hurts like a bitch by the end of my shift, and this shit probably won't fly in ten or so years. still, i'm working poor... very poor. so what do us poor losers with limited skill do? we suck it up and keep on fucking keeping on. praise allah for my high pain threshold. or praise my blue collar alcoholic upbringing. potato/po-taw-toe.
anyway, i'm doing better-ish, but let's be marsha fucking brady real here, yeah? now i'll NEVER BE A TEEN MODEL.
They had to sew the left nostril back on, i have the broken teen in the upper front and center, i look like my nose was sluiced open by a jaguar, and the left side of my throat looks like i was the sole survivor of a nightmare on elm street sequel.
i all thought this was sort of a testament to my inherent bad-ass-ness, as i essentially walked away without so much as a broken bone (though i did suffer a mild brain bleed) and i walked around the first several weeks saying shit like "you should see the CAR!!!" you know, reassuring myself, reassuring others. i wore a helmet, thank god, and since the damage was so largely to my face and throat, i assumed that my bike- made of METAL and RUBBER must be in excellent shape. last week when i was able to make my appointment to collect my baby, i was greeted with the following sight:
so after seeing my brand new bike twisted into a four hundred dollar pretzel, and after an incident in which i rode my OTHER bike to seven eleven and laid down my helmet while i paid only to realize that my helmet- the one that saved my life when i got it- was nothing less that caked with blood. the straps, the interior helmet, the whole thing was like IT should have been in an evidence locker.
whatever, this happened three weeks ago. i'm freaked out, but that's what's going on with me.
and the super duper fun times keep on coming, right?
it's just before i saw the bike and the helmet, i was kind of laughing it off in a way. facial trauma when you get hit by a car, but not a single broken bone? kind of a slap on the wrist. when i got my bike back i was ripped from my delusion that it was minor all along. i could have gone under the car instead of hurtling away into relative safety and well being. the helmet full of dried globs of blood... i should get it bronzed with a plaque that says THANK YOU underneath it.
i almost died, and it has (of course) fried my waffle a little bit, but i tell you what, i don't fucking want to die. and apparently, it's not easy to make that happen. just saying.
thoughts, just thoughts. just trying, TRYING to process this wacky shit.
got the bill. 25 grand. gonna lawyer up here pretty quick. wish my fuckup ass all the luck you can muster.
seth, i like you too much to continue. im an emotianally damaged, neurotic mess. i dont know how much of last night you remember but i meant it when i said i like you. i need to focus on other things right now. know that ill think of you often.
now doctor horrible is here. to make you quake with fear. to make your whole world neal. and i wont feel...
it has been said before that solely based upon the genius of the video for don't come around here no more TP&theHB deserve mad, MAD props, and i am certainly NOT going to disagree, but i would like to go off on the awesomeness of both some of his wildly successful mainstream hits and videos as well as some lesser known works that for WHATEVER REASON never made it into heavy rotation. I don't know how familiar you guys are with patrick bateman... i'll try not to be too creepy clinical.
this is sort of my first non-misery oriented post in quite a while, so please- be kind. i don't feel quite "back" yet, but i am TRYING, and i feel like i'm getting closer. Tom Petty has been a big part of that, in the musical component of catharsis sense, for whatever reason.
[ALSO- sidebar- i hope you guys enjoy the new header pic. i look like holy hell, i just woke up and clearly didn't even try to look pretty, but THAT FUCKING SCARY ASS MONKEYSHINES MONKEY is apparently something that Robert bought for me a few months before he died. If that doesn't indicate how mind-melded and close we were, NOTHING WILL. it is an example of a profound understanding of who i am, NOT AN EASY FEAT, LET ME TELL YOU (you know, because i'm so deep and complicated, lol) and the only other time in my life i've seen such a perfect gift was (this is arrogant, but TRUE) when i got rob the carol channing ventriloquist doll. OH, HOW I WISH HE COULD HAVE GOTTEN TO SEE MY REACTION TO RECEIVING IT! his partner michael did, though, and that was a joy and a blessing (oh, sick, i just used the word 'blessing'- please kill me). i love you, Robert! I miss you!]
In no particular order, apart from ballads vs. non-ballads/'rockers' (with videos when possible, which should be all of them in this day and age, and given the wealth of Petty concert footage, which is, you know, supposed to be one of the great musical experiences one can have. i've seen bob dylan live, and i realize he's like four thousand years old and everything, and that his voice was never a vocalist voice, and i realize that at one point seeing him perform was like seeing god and by the time my ass got around to it, it would be kind to say that he is a BIT past his prime by any reasonable standard, but WOW being a transcendentally great writer and a sonic pioneer does NOT make you a valid stage presence, and this is turning into an off-topic rant so moving right along):
Rebels:
ok, before i even get into the song, please make note of the backup wenches at :48 - :52, because they are of A PRICE ABOVE RUBIES, MOTHERFUCKERS!
sadly, i must begin with a concession: calling yourself a rebel is lame, at least at this point in time. possibly it's always been lame. if anything, Fonzie from Happy Days butt-raped the cool out of being a self-proclaimed rebel. Real rebels just go about being ahead of their time or outside of society (alá Patti Smith) like the rock and roll niggers that they are. and yet, YET, this song holds the hell up. This unforgivable "i'm a rebel" sin is bypassed, the proverbial two-hundred dollars are collected.
Excusing THAT: Tom Petty, especially in his youth was, to quote my once-clever and brutally articulate mother, "uglier than a bucket of assholes," although, as with many ugly people, they make ever more dashing, distinguished elderly people. Paradox. anyway, off topic again. So he was an ugly, weird, bug-looking motherfucker. AND YET, there is no DENYING the presence. Check the quick little facial expressions at the beginning, the movement (he looks like he's fucking the back of his guitar, but it doesn't seem to be an intentional, Jagger-esque effort as self-sexualizing), the swagger, the ROCKSTARNESS, but without the APATHY or the MOCK-INDIFFERENCE- he is being COOL AS FUCK while being OPENLY HAPPY AND EXCITED TO BE THERE (i wish gay guys at bars could master this trick- you CAN be awesome and sexy and still be really happy and nice and friendly at the same time, it CAN be done).
Next, lyrical validity. The simplicity is deceptive: on the page, not hearing the song, the words are pretty good, but not apparently brilliant. what many people don't realize or take the time to think about (although, dear reader, i am sure that you are not that way, because if you're reading this you are of better stock, am i right? of course i am) is that writing a song, enunciation and delivery must be considered. simple pentameter is not enough- that's why there aren't musicals in Shakespearean verse, at least none that i know of, and if there were one, a good one, i'm sure it would be somewhat well known. Petty is an absolute master of this: his inflection elevates his lyrics ALWAYS, which is not to say he is not lyrically brilliant. He stylistically tends toward non-abstract narrative, character stuff, storytelling. sort of a seventies southern styled corridos kind of thing... i mean, he isn't the only person who does it, but he uses broader strokes than, say, Bruce Springsteen or John Mellencamp, who are more geared towards 'and then this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened to these same people' kind of narration.
check out the lyrics in their entirety here and just click the x on the popup offering to send the ringtone to your phone and you're good.
My personal lyrical highlight from the song:
She picked me up in the morning/and she paid all my tickets
Then she screamed in the car/Left me out in the thicket
Well, i never would of dreamed/that her heart
was so wicked
Yeah, but i keep/coming back
'Cause it's so hard
to kick it
HEY! HEY! HEY!
and then the exTREMELY sing-along-able chorus kicks back in.
oh, it fucking kills me, it's like bukowski is the character in the song- there's the jail reference, the fucked up woman who rages out, the addictive allusions... and let us not overlook the simplicity on the page versus the way that they turn into perfectly fitted Tetris pieces when he SINGS THE WORDS. Rapture.
Final point: this is a southern pride song. How the FUCK do you do that without being yucky or "i'm on the mountain with mama and paw drinking moonshine and i love trucks and yay trailer park realness" alá modern country, (ugh) kid rock, or even other southern-ish rock music like (UGH) Lynard Skynnard? he even makes mention of those "blue bellied devils," and not that i feel that i have to break this down for you, that's an allusion to hating the north during the civil war. BUT HE DOES IT, and- at least to me- it's not offensive. you never get the "he hates black people" vibe, you never even get a "he hates everybody above the mason-dixon line" vibe, even though he basically SAYS IT in the song. He's in character to a certain extent, though the performance doesn't read that way.
Tom Petty is exempt from many well-established guidelines for being awesome. he can call himself a rebel (even call the FUCKING SONG "REBELS"), he can do legitimate southern pride and talk shit about the north without seeming racist or even offensive while being simultaneously sincere and himself AND in character. He's a fucking wizard... not a grand imperial wizard of the ku klux klan, though, just to be clear :)
ok, this is a long post... i'm sure i'm writing this primarily for myself- i doubt many of you have any interest in tom petty, so this might be a series.
it's been cool, though! to write again, to put something on here that wasn't about grief or loss or whatever.
i think next up will be either yer so bad or swingin' or possibly room at the top, if you guys are familiar with any of those. oh! maybe i'll do insider, one of the songs that he wrote for stevie nicks but ended up keeping for himself, lol- this happened several times!
stevie nicks has said that she wanted to quit fleetwood mac after rumours and JOIN TOM PETTY AND THE HEARTBREAKERS. WOW, that would have been a very different musical universe, huh?
anybody who's still reading my shit, thanks for sticking it out, i know i've been difficult.
written and unsuccessfully published on 11/02/2011:
so i've been trying to edit my post about robert, but for whatever reason, blogger isn't letting me save changes. i wrote it a few hours after i found out he was dead, and it was late and i was calling people to talk about it, but nobody was up so i wrote about it. i just wanted to say that i don't really want to die, i was on my third forty and deep in grief and that's what came out. i don't believe in god, but robert sure did, and i was/am angry that something like that should happen to him. anyway, i'm up in prescott now. his partner michael got in last night, and i'm surrounded by amazing friends and things are as good as they can be given the horrible circumstances.
Robert barely knew me when he made a concerted effort to pull me out of the wreckage of my life. i was doing daily labor and couch surfing with no personal belongings beyond a ratty post-post-second hand duffel full of lost and found clothing from the kicked out bin from a series of half way homes. he barely knew me, but he was like "i'm sick of you being in flux. fuck that. you're coming to stay at my place." and so it was. i moved in. he arranged me to take over his lease. he got me a job at the resort he worked at. he got me dress clothes, he took me to meetings, he was amazing, he was like pure love.
yesterday, while he was helping his sister angie move, he got in a car accident and now he's dead. i can't fucking believe it. if i had never met him, i know for a fact that i'd be dead. i am so broken hearted i can't even express the pain. he is one of the most amazing, selfless people i've ever known and to think that he's dead is such a slap in the face of fairness, reason, and cause and effect that i am in a profoud tailspin of faith and so on and so forth. his partner michael isn't even in the state. i'm zooming up to prescott tomorrow to um... you know. be there. i love robert so much, i want to die with him. i can't believe he's gone. i can't fucking believe it. no no no no no no no. no fucking nooooooooo. where is your god now, world. where is your fucking god?
This guy is a GRADE A CUNT, and if you don't think so, i hope you end up marrying this guy because you deserve it.
MY SELF SUMMARY
I'm a University of Arizona graduate, I studied marketing and work in the field. I grew up in California before moving to Arizona as a teenager. I attended high school here and was involved in several sports. I'm pretty laid back, I like to chill out with friends and have a few drinks. Play sports. I like to travel and see new places. Enjoy some great sex.
I don't like drama. While I'm on the subject on things I don't like; fems and flamers, fatties and chubs, old men, unemployed and uneducated. PLEASE DON'T message me.
WHAT I’M DOING WITH MY LIFE
I've graduated from the U of A and now I'm working my dream job, I continue to grow in what I do and embrace my growth as human being.
My ultimate goal is to open my own ad agency and marketing firm and have a global clientele.
I’M REALLY GOOD AT
at sports, I lettered in Baseball, football and swimming. I'm also good at sex, I've told I'm amazing and I only attribute it to my nice friend below the waste...lol I'm pretty good at making my partner feel good too.
THE FIRST THINGS PEOPLE USUALLY NOTICE ABOUT ME
Guys tell me they notice that I'm fit and in shape. Girls say they notice my eyes then they tell both tell the truth and tell me the bulge in my pants...lol
FAVORITE BOOKS, MOVIES, SHOWS, MUSIC AND FOOD
Don't care to read much these days.
I like action movies, the more fighting and explosives, the harder my erection, I hate foreign films and think that subtitles are dumb. I don't want to spend time reading during a movie. Most of the time they are low budget anyways.
Music is pretty much open, I do like alternative and rock, but sometimes catch myself listening to pop.
I love food! A day at the beach and eating fresh seafood seaside is the best. Never can pass up a good surf and turf. I like Mexican and Italian food as well, just can't cook for the life of me.
I SPEND A LOT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT
Honestly, sex. I'm young and have a great libido. If YOU CAN INTEREST ME IN YOU, then I think you have a good catch. I can have great conversations, they just need to spark my interest.
ON A TYPICAL FRIDAY NIGHT I AM
Chillin with friends, usually on 4th Ave getting drunk, not at the gay clubs!
THE MOST PRIVATE THING I AM WILLING TO ADMIT
The most private thing I’m willing to admit I've slept with my ex-girlfriend's brother.
I’M LOOKING FOR
Guys who like guys
Ages 18-27
Near me
For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating, activity partners, casual sex
YOU SHOULD MESSAGE ME IF:
You're HOT, you like how I look, You like sex, you think you can handle me. I like to be outdoors and stay busy and fit, if you are a runner, swimmer, hiker, sports guy or cyclist we'd get along fine.
You shouldn't message me if you're; FAT, OLD, feminine, an IDIOT or looking for a "life partner" I'm 23 and NOT ready to settle down.
Reboot coming very soon. It has been a hard fucking year, and i think i'm ready to talk about it (as well as random bullshit, as is my wont). So much to say.
so since i got back from nebraska on march sixth i have been whirlwinding hardcore- on the seventh i SORT OF moved in with my new, probationary boyfriend. he's half native american and half black, really handsome, super sweet and nice and easy to be around but he also owns a gun. i find him very sexy, which is not my strong suit. sex is a bit of a handicap for me, but we fit together like legos (is that an asexual thing to say?) and yeah. it's pretty weird- he manages a care home that specializes in alzheimer's and dementia, and he's been there for fourteen years. he started as a caregiver. he got me a job there, and i really like the residents, but there are a lot of cunts in the house i work in. they're all latinas and they're very cold and mean and clique-y but i don't mind so much most of the time, i'm so happy for the job and i do love the residents. joel doesn't manage that house, though, he manages the one next door. apparently, his employee given nickname over there is 'The Red Queen,' which he and i both delight in. he has a little long haired dachshund. my cat juju TERRIFIES him, and yet he won't stop antagonizing him. he literally ate rocks the other day, though, so there you go. the thing is retarded (although very sweet). school is set up for me to go back this summer, starting in the end of may. they said my spring semester financial aid would roll over as long as i was enrolled half-time for the first summer session, which i am.
hmm... what else. oh, because god likes to make me eat my words, joel lives in tucson so i have moved back to tucson. when i lived here before i hated it, but joel says i just wasn't hanging out with the right people/going to the right places. both are true- i wasn't hanging out with anyone and i wasn't going anywhere except school and occasionally to the movies. i guess the last thing is that since august i've lost eighty pounds through exercise and diet. i'm not saggy like i was worried i would be- i guess that only happens if you were either super super huge or if you lose your weight via diet alone without sufficient exercise. i ride my bike about ten miles a day during the workweek, and i do free weights and ab stuff and planks. i am feeling somewhat attractive, have visible muscles and all that. don't want to jinx it, and i am not done (but i'm getting close!) but i am proud-ish of myself.
just wanted to say that i'm alive, i'm doing really well, i'm with a new guy who treats me well, i am working, school hasn't blown up in my face... oh, and david foster wallace came out with a new book. i mean, it's posthumous, but still. DAVID FUCKING FOSTER WALLACE. if you're a reader, get on that shit.
this has been my three hundredth blog post. thank you for reading.
Yellow circus left the stakes a broken ropes world's useless mug The ties that bind, ha ha I can be bad poet Street poet Shit poet Kind poet too
Subway Almost 4AM Halloween night Had enough to drink to make my own party All my fellow writers in half costume, half asleep Half silly, gone to seed
I don't mark my time with dates, holidays, faded wisdom, locked karma holders Convenient
I am made by my times I am a creation of now Shaken with the cracks and crevices I'm not giving up easy I will not fold I don't have much But what I have is gold
I saw your face...
I sing in platinum I dress in brass I eat in zinc Let it pass
Compare a toast I like that I understand courage I still roll with the shout of a character I was married to today I try to see outside myself I understand the eyes Excuse all the highs Sorry I am sorry Ha ha
I like you, love you, every coast of you. I've seen your eddies and tides and hurricanes and cyclones. Low ebb tide and high, full moon. Up close and distant. I read you. Look, the sky, the sea, the ocean, the sun, the moon. Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue blue, blue, blue, blue, blue. Naked and blue.
Breathing with you. Touch. Change. Shift. Allow air. Window open. Drift. Drift away. Into now.
I want Whitman proud. Patti Lee proud. My brothers proud. My sisters proud. I want me. I want it all. I want sensational. Irresistible.
This is my time and I am thrilled to be alive.
Living. Blessed. I understand.
Twentieth century: Collapse Into Now
Cinderella boy You've lost your shoe
Cinderella boy Your coach awaits
A sun makes shadows All over your face As you sit Naked and blue Into me
