They Did it.

I am no longer 15 years old. This is a good thing. In many ways I was your typical angry teenager, apathetically convinced that the world of adults was built on a mound of bullshit and that every authority figure was some lame automaton doing the bidding s/he'd simply been programmed to do. And now that for that most part (I have my moments) I have removed that big, burdensome chip from my shoulder, I am a much calmer person.

But They can still stick it to me, sometimes, you know? And make me feel 15 again.

C feels that in this day and age and, in viewing the world as adults and no longer as piss-and-vinegar-filled teenagers, there is no such thing as an artist "selling out." Allowing the use of one's music in a commerical or a television show or a film or something accomplishes some meritous things:

1: The use of an artist's music in other media disseminates said music among people who otherwise wouldn't be exposed to it, especially if the artist in question isn't particularly "radio friendly" (although in the Age of the iPod who listens to the radio much anyway)

2: Allows the marginal artist to make a living doing what they do, which is a good thing, clearly

3: Creates an entirely new "business model" for a musician pursuing a career in that rather than being forced to rely on radio play and A&R promotions, s/he can really take more personal control over his/her financial and populist destinies


This is all true and I'd be an idiot to argue.

But...but...BUT.....!

But some things are sacred, right? I mean, some things have meaning. RIGHT?!? Do things have meaning? Do they? I really don't know. I THOUGHT they did. I convinced myself they did because I really didn't think I could float around in my life without thinking that way. I needed this meaning. I needed to believe this. I still do.

Art Blakey (legendary jazz drummer) said the second most insightful thing about music I ever heard (the first most is another blog entry): "Music washes off the dust of everyday life." I like that. Don't you? I think it's so true. Replace the word "music" in that wonderful sentence with whatever does it for you (food, sports, Pokemon cards, alligator wrestling) and that pretty much sums it up.

So here's my problem: when music is used in a commercial, it BECOMES the dust of everyday life. And when that happens, what am I supposed to use to wash it off?

Over the last--what?--10 years or so, as Commercial/Corporate America has taken to using "popular" songs in commercials and other media, I thought I had built up a thick, rhinocerous-like skin against getting upset about this. Rage against the dying of the light? That's all well and good, but sometimes getting angry about that which one cannot change is wasted energy waiting to evaporate.

But...but...BUT.....!

"Do You Realize?", that absolutely GORGEOUS Flaming Lips song, in a Range Rover commerical? Really? Range Rover?

"Island in the Sun" in a commerical for some shitty cruise line? Really? Hell, it's not even the original performance; it sounds like it's done by Weezesque or something.

And the coup de grace:

"All You Need is Luvs?" Really? A diaper commerical?

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Come on! Those songs have meaning! And purpose! "Do You Realize" is a song about DEATH and LOSS! "Island in the Sun" is a peon to Brian-Wilson-like world-weariness, to the idea that escaping this bullshit world with only the one you love is sometimes--at the most important times--enough to sustain oneself! And where do I fucking BEGIN with "All You Need Is Love?" You know what Lennon meant when we wrote that song? He meant: All. You. Need. Is. Love. He was SERIOUS. I'm no long-haired dirty hippie or something; I'm a serious guy. It's not like I'm sitting around pulling bongs, eating popcorn chicken and watching reruns of "Scrubs" all day long. But I can understand what Lennon was trying to say, as idealistic (and perhaps naive) as it was. Hell, I at least know that he wasn't trying to sell fucking diapers.

So, They did it. They still find ways to steal little motes of my soul. I'll tell you this, though: I'm going to hang on to the ones I still have like grim death. There's no way I'm going to allow anyone to take this away from me. Nothing takes off the dust of life like music. Fuck Them.

An open plea to T, the receptionist in my office

I don't mean to be a jerk, but T--the receptionist at my work--may in fact be the dumbest, most vacuous individual I have ever had the displeasure of knowing. Sometimes she doesn't come into work because--as she explains it to our boss--she "just didn't feel like it." Sometimes she doesn't come into work because her sinuses are stuffed up. Sometimes she doesn't come into work because she can't figure out how to get our of her garage when there's a lot of traffic. No, really.

But when she DOES come into work...ah, that's when the real fun begins.

T, I know you'll never read this because you're over 60 and don't know what a blog is and even if someone explained to you what a blog is--like a 2nd grade teacher, for instance--and all the other little kids in the class, after having heard the explanatory lecture regarding this thing called "blog," were on-line blogging their little minds out, you STILL wouldn't understand it, nor would you even be able to find a blog on-line with two hands, a flashlight, a pith helmet, a map drawn by the finest cartographers in the world from many nations working in concert, two sherpas, a GPS system rivaling that used in the space program, and Vasco de FUCKING Gamba himself. But, if you do manage to overcome all those obstacles I just listed and you should somehow stumble your way onto this humble blog on one of your days off at your high-rise apartment that you and your asshole husband who insists everyone address him as "Mr. Pxxxx" fucking RENT for some reason, please, for the love of Christ, listen to me:

You do not have to tell me the ethnicity of every person after you have spoken with them. Saying, "Oh, Carmen called from Bentley Forbes. She's a nice, Hispanic girl" doesn't really help me address Carmen's sign needs, unless she needs a sign about being Hispanic. This is America. Not everyone's white. That nice Bill Cosby fella? Yup, not white. Seriously. It's OK. It's all going to be OK.

I do not need to know the "gossip" at your daughter's office, especially since I deal with some of those people in the course of doing my job. I really don't care and, in fact, it puts me in a uncomfortable position, knowing information I don't need to and would rather not know. Telling me that they're getting their insurance benefits cut...it doesn't help me do my job.

I do not need to hear about how you and S (another co-worker) aren't getting along. Again...weird position. Don't like it. And I don't care. So it's not necessary. Thanks.

When you answer the phone and get the name and company of the person holding for me, it would be just awesome if it were the correct name and the correct company. For instance, telling me that "Tom from Frontis" is on the phone, who I don't know, doesn't help me when it's actually "Ron at Premises," who I DO know. Nor is telling me that it's "some guy from somewhere" particularly helpful.

It IS in fact possible to hear the phone ring when the fax machine is printing or when the laser-printer is warming up. See, the latter two events generally sound like this: "Mmmmmmmmmmm." The phone, however, sounds like this: "Ring." Quite different, actually.

When you continue to talk to me yet walk away, out of my office, I am no longer listening to you. So you can either (1) stay in my office, address me properly by looking me in the face and continuing to move your lips while making organized noises or (2) shut the hell up. Either one is cool.

Please don't moan and groan when I ask you to do something for me. I'm not some jerk. I don't bark orders at you like other people in this office. In fact, when I have gotten palpably annoyed with you in the past, I have taken particular care to apologize to you as sincerely as possible, so I would appreicate it that when I ask you to do your job and help me, that you do it and help me without complaining or sighing or lamenting about how busy you are. Because you're not busy. I know it. Frankly, I think YOU know it and even if you WERE busy, I truly believe that a tree frog with a learning disability could get more accomplished on a day-to-day basis than you do.


Thank you for reading. I'll say this about your employ at the office at which I too work: I am constantly amazed, day after day after day, that you have a job. It's a fucking miracle.

Look out, I'm gonna BLOG

So, I'm going to blog. Why not, right? I can write, I think things, I'm funny (or so they tell me), so I'm going to write funnily about things that I think.

There will be times, however, when I don't post an entry for longish stretches, perhaps a week or so. This will most likely be due to one of two things: (1) I am extremely busy at work and don't feel like updating the ol' blog at home or (2) I'm completely sick of hearing myself pontificate about the subject du jour. See? Like that. I use little Frenchy phrases like an annoying piece of shit.

Get used to it, if you're going to read.

So I actually started this blog around Halloween of 07 and never posted anything because I got completely sick of myself. But...since all our friends and family know about the baby and I have stuff on my mind from time to time I'd like to get out there, I guess, I'm going to start up again with new posts. The following posts, however, all date from before the New Year.

Enjoy and more is on the way. At some point.