Modern life. So, my blog needed some maintenance, and I thought I’d put it up on blocks on the front lawn, for all the neighbors to see, and get shit done under the hood. It’s a guy thing, that fantasy of pulling wrenches for the betterment of my bits. And whammo, the weeks rolled by, the weeds grew up through my dashboard, and all my other occupations that occupy me came visiting. The days rolled by softly and quietly, and before I knew it I hadn’t posted anything in weeks. Well, that’s gonna change. I got my blog down off her blocks, fired it up, and here we go. Looks a lot like it did, but it runs a whole lot better under the hood. There’s still a ton of cool music out there, and the music industry is just as fucked up as ever. This fact is obvious when you see poor Barnes & Noble trying to figure out how to get in on some of those rising vinyl dollars, bless em. Seeing displays like this one, however, make me wonder how they’d be doing if they were just starting out selling those crazy new things called books. Damn!
From The New Yorker Magazine, 21 April, 2014.
Did you ever notice how Netflix film descriptions are almost impossible to work out. Even for movies about musicians and concerts, you never know what the film is really about. I mean, you read the description, but the blurb is no help at all. I think they write these blurbs based on the studio poster thumbnails. So I did some of my own. These are real movies. I didn’t watch even one of them, but neither do they. I can’t be too far off from what these movies are all about. This took five minutes to write. And I still nailed it.
A hot girl, who for some reason refuses to wear seat belts and won’t sit down in moving cars, and who never leaves her house without wearing short shorts that highlight the lower half of her body, and who seems to always look like she just got off a horse or mechanical bull, is into men who never look at her, but love to drive their convertibles into sunny places that make them angry.
Men who age mysteriously yet somehow look better to one woman they both know who is much younger than they are, and who find themselves doomed to wearing cowboy themed clothing, and who wear cowboy hats even when they sleep, frown a lot while silhouettes of horses with riders appear mysteriously (and seductively) every night at sunset, yet remain too far away to ever become part of the story.
A large man gets lost on a mountain hunting adventure while riding his armored motorcycle wearing designer bathing suits that make him feel both good about himself in public and somehow simulatenously ashamed of his unexplained dark past in a non-mountain town someplace else where weight lifting and armored motorcycles are forbidden.
Money might fall from the sky as a man wearing a Vivienne Westwood suit faces serious environmental problems involving burning cars, terrible weather, far-away cities, and a life when his only free hand is his left hand, being forced to reserve his right hand for holding loaded pistols as a substitute for love.
Three men with huge bodies and no necks covered in tight clothes that accentuate their well-toned muscles, share their lives and loves with one another while holding M4 carbines in open clearings between palm trees, longing to be ambushed, after which they rub oil into each other’s gloriously tanned bodies while talking about their favorite kills back in their high school days.