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Saturday, February 26, 2005
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WHEN skippy GOES A-SHOPPING or "SAY IT IN BROKEN ENGLISH"
Wanna hear a secret? I'm supposed to be saving my money. I'm actually supposed to be going out of town sometime in the next few weeks, but for reasons that I'm not sure that even I understand, I doubt that it's going to happen. As I've mentioned before, recklessly buying stuff that I can't can't afford makes me feel better. Besides, I'm going to be 35 fucking years old next Wednesday and I don't see you fucking people lining up to give me free stuff. Fuck, I probably won't even get a handjob out of it.
I always knew that living this long was a mistake.
In an odd way, I feel kind of bad for not having posted the past few days. I'm actually in the middle of an essay about my libido, but I don't feel like writing that right now. Besides, I don't have time. Not enough time + a demanding public that won't even give me a handjob for my horrid entry into middle age + my general resentment of this - any enthusiasm I have for writing = a shopping list. Yeah, you'll read it and you'll fucking love it, too.....You demented curs.
Ordinarily, I get paid early Monday mornings. Payday Monday is also my regular day off. This week my boss fucked up. Instead, I got paid late Tuesday afternoon. Then we had to have an involved discussion about whether older women are better in bed than younger ones. I refuse to tell you which position I took in the Great Debate. I also refuse to disclose what I consider to be "young", for reasons that should be crystal clear.
As entertaining as the whole thing was, it dramatically cut into my shopping time. Why haven't we developed a truly civilized society where a gentleman of advancing years can smoke, shop and get drunk all at the same time? I'm hardly HAL 2000 here, but is just a little efficiency too much to ask? As it happened, I abandoned any pretext of buying a new stereo on Tuesday after the Arabs at the discount place couldn't find a box for the stolen merchandi....I mean, home entertainment unit. This was so dispiriting that I proceded directly to drinking heavily to ease the burden that is my very existence.
The shopping was conducted in two installments. One immediately before my Wednesday shift, and the second this afternoon as I worked. Like I said, I'm all about efficiency.
On Wednesday, I bought the following;
The Randy Newman Songbook Volume 1: I am a great admirer of Mr. Newman's and this is a fine CD. But as I'm planning an essay on him soon that’s all you get for now.
On to the books.
1.Election 2004: How Bush / Cheney '04 Won and What You Can Expect in the Future by Evan Thomas and the Staff of Newsweek. Did you know that Evan Thomas' grandfather was the Socialist Presidential candidate Norman Thomas? I'm here to tell you that the "socialist" part didn't rub off on Evan. About a third of this book was originally published in Newsweek's election issue. I paid six bucks for that. And I paid 20 for the book.
This is because I'm a moron.
2. Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness by Hunter S. Thompson. This, Hunter's last book, came out without my knowing it until he croaked himself. The book is a reprint of his ESPN.com columns, which I could read for free. I bought the book instead.
Did I mention that I'm a moron?
My appreciation of Dr. Thompson's last words will also be undermined by the fact that I know absolutely nothing about professional sports. Throughout human history, there have only been two sports that I've had any enthusiasm for. One is, of course, throwing Christians to Lions. I'm still hoping for a comeback of this fine sport. Seriously, just because the fucking Itallians invented it can't make it all wrong, can it?
The other sport close to my black little heart is boxing. My firm feeling is that if you're a modern athlete and not a boxer, then you're a homosexual. Think it through. You wouldn't see Jake LaMotta playing baseball, would you? I've yet to hear of a boxing manager molesting small boys, but hockey coaches are so accused every day. As a matter of fact, hockey is the priesthood of athletics.
Perhaps that is another post for another day.
3. Why Terrorism Works: Understanding the Threat, Responding to the Challenge by Allan M. Dershowitz. Professor Dershowitz teaches at Harvard, a fact that I would have held against him until Harvard told me that girls suck at math.
I've read a few of Dershowitz's books, and I should say that I only agree with him about 30% of the time. But he greatly pisses off people I seriously hate, so that mitigates my disagreement. Besides, the book was only six bucks in hardcover.
Then I bought a shitload of magazines. These include the current issue of Vanity Fair, which had an article on Michael Moore that wasn't sufficiently venomous. I should receive these assignments. On the other hand, my ability to discern venom from libel becomes handicapped with my whiskey intake.
The issue of New York magazine which I linked in my Cheney, Condi and Hillary post was also purchased then. I read it on the subway, just before I wrote the post. Am I industrious or what?
Then I got the February 28 issue of the New Yorker, which debates whether the Iraqi people just elected religious psychotics, or just the regular, anti-American kind, to be their next government.
Oh, and I can't forget that Commie journal Harper's. This month's issue attempts to explain why people who volunteered for the United States military after September 11 now feel justified in deserting after they learned that might be required to kill some brown folks. It should be a fun read.
I also picked up the March issue of Maxim. As off-putting as I find her giant forehead, Jennifer Love Hewitt has spectacular knockers. Shit, if you cut off the top of her head, like Ray Liotta at the end of Hannibal, she'd be as close to perfect as a woman is likely to get.
Also included is a completely uninsightful article about possible follow up al-Qaeda attacks on the United States by Colonel David Hackworth. Your average four-year-old could make the same predictions.
My complete disappointment in this issue is mitigated by a layout of Grace Park, whom I'd like to hold like an oven mitt. However, Miss Park isn't as cute as fellow Korean actress and recent suicide Lee Eun-ju is. But she'll do in a pinch.
My love of beautiful, if doomed, women neatly brings us to CD Saturday. I was working in a record store today, and I went to work with a plan.
For reasons I can't explain, I'm currently in the midst of a Marianne Faithfull kick. Yes, she has a new album, Before the Poison, out which I bought today, but I could have gotten that anywhere. It was Broken English that I was interested in.
Ms. Faithfull has had a very interesting life. Discovered as a 17-year-old member of the British aristocracy, one could have reasonably expected her to be a dim witted tart with poor teeth. Instead, she was what then Rolling Stones manager, Andrew "Loog" Oldham referred to as "an angel with big tits." My fondness for women of said description is.... well, legendary.
And in 1969, Ms. Faithfull starred in a British production of Hamlet. Guess what role she played?
Marianne's fame was largely tied to the Rolling Stones throughout the 1960's. She was Jagger's girlfriend for several years, and Wild Horses, among the most beautiful songs the Stones ever wrote, is reported to be about Marianne after a near fatal overdose. In fact, Keith wrote the song, but it's a neat story.
By 1979, Marianne Faithfull was, what can most charitably called, a titanic mess. She was right in the middle of a 15 year affair with her greatest love, heroin. She was homeless. And she made a great fucking record right in the middle of it.
Broken English is a masterpiece. A virtual testament to everything that is truly horrible about the Human Spirit. In fact, it was meant as Marianne's last will and testament. She wanted to complete the album before, what she considered, her certain death. She even had the balls to cover John Lennon's Working Class Hero.
Why D'Ya Do It, alone is worth the price of the CD. The lyrics tell a horrid tale of sexual betrayal. The main riff is worthy of Keef and the verses go into a near-Reggae tempo. The vocal is a tour de force of resentment and spite. It just so happens that resentment and spite are my two favorite emotions these days.
If you're a musician - particularly a female one - and want to impress me, here's what you do, make a really angry, desolate album.....without sounding like a douche. You get bonus points if you were once rumored to have been found by the police with a Mars bar in your rectum.
For these reasons, I can see Broken English being my bedtime stories for months to come.
Despite what even Faithfull concedes is the horrible production, Broken English is an incredible fucking record. If you don't go out and buy it right now, you're not someone I want to know.
Oh, and I also got two copies of Peter Gabriel's So. When I wait 20 years to get behind an album, I really get behind it.
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