Saint Wanger

There’s nothing worse than seeing the rock ‘n’ roll heroes of your youth turning to shit, becoming washed up, and trying to jump the shark while failing miserably. In this case? I’m talking about Metallica.

(Obviously, I’m being histrionic. There are clearly worse things in life that can happen than being washed up.)

For me, Metallica had 3 terrific overall albums, and 1 great rock album. “Kill ‘em All (a.k.a. “Metal Up Your Ass”)”, “Master of Puppets”, and “… And Justice for All”[1] were the terrific ones. The “Black Album” is a great rock album, but also signified a change in the band. Metallica, in essence, changed the way that I listened to and performed rock music: time changes, technique (for guitars, not drums [2]), phrasing, etc. This made my interest in Metallica significant, or at least until 1996.

In 1996, Metallica released “Load”, which was essentially “Metallica Unleaded”. The guitar playing was weak. The songwriting was weak. And the weak spots of earlier Metallica efforts were greatly exploited by the new material. In particular, I’m talking about the drums, which were clearly the weakest link of this release (and of subsequent releases). Since then, Metallica has released a couple of other albums of the same ilk, did a symphonic piece, publicly trashed each other in “Playboy” magazine, then had a public falling out with their bassist, Jason Newsted. They got into a scrum with filesharing service, Napster. James Hetfield, lead singer, put himself into rehab for alcohol abuse. In other words? The looming demise of another corporate brand. Or was it?

Yesterday morning, on VH-1 (or was it MTV?), I caught the return of Metallica, a video for “St. Anger” (yes, that’s “Saint Anger”). It starts out with Metallica entering a prison, being warned by a guard about the prison’s “no hostages” policy, which means: “if you’re taken hostage, we won’t negotiate with your captors, so you’re on your own”. Oookay. After this warning, the rock ‘n’ roll cavalcade is let loose. The song sounds cool. And then? The song sucks terribly. And then? The song sounds cool. Cross-cut to images of prisoners and their tattoos. And then? The song sucks terribly. And then? Cross-cut to images of why various prisoners are incarcerated. And then? The song sucks terribly.

In the end? Screen fades to black with the following text on the screen: “Metallica dedicates this song and video to the lost souls at San Quentin”. Really? Well, I guess that dedicating a sucky song to a group of violent and career criminals is shades better than dedicating it to important people like those who aren’t career criminals. In all? What else is there to say?

[1] Don’t get me wrong; for a great album, “… And Justice For All” had some *major* production problems. The bass was non-existent. The drums sounded like someone was pelting the drum heads with handfuls of coins. The album had a weak bottom end, which is an embarassment when you’re talking about metal. But the guitar playing and songs? WOW. It blew my mind. You just don’t hear stuff like “The Shortest Straw” anymore.
[2] Lars Ulrich, in my opinion, has always been a weak drummer technically. Yeah, his “double kick (drum)” extravaganzas on Metallica’s first four albums were great, but his lack of chops really hindered all of the music after the “Black Album”. This, in large part, is what I blame for sucking the life out of Metallica.

On Giving Out Money

As humans (or Americans, maybe more specifically), we seem to have this weird response to people showing money in public. Now, I’m not talking about flaunting wads of money. I’m merely talking about the response of another person when they see you, say, transferring a dollar bill from your pocket to your wallet. Such a benign act that’s all-too-often followed by an extremely weird exchange.

Me: *transferring dollar bill from pocket to wallet*
Co-worker: (seeing me do the money transfer) Giving out money, Nate?
Me: (pausing to think about when I actually offered to give out money) Ha, no, just tidying up.
Co-worker: Well, you could tidy up better by giving the money to me.
Me: (rolling eyes)

Let’s take a closer look at that exchange.

My biggest problem with public displays of money is that people almost always ask you if you’re giving money away. It’s not that I mind some silly form of humor that’s related to open wallets and shown dollars. It’s more that I guess I don’t understand the history of showing money in public.

Could it be that in the wild west, if one displayed money in public, they were challenged to a duel?

Could it be that in the Great Depression, Daddy Warbucks would travel the streets of New York in his Rolls showing money to anyone who was willing to let him adopt their red-headed stepchild?

Somewhere, probably someplace in time, someone gave someone else some money after the money was displayed in public. But I can’t quite figure how this happened.

Or maybe there’s no history behind peoples’ reactions to money being displayed in public. Maybe people just need to think of better jokes when it comes to public displays of bucks. Maybe I was right all along. Maybe dollars showed should lead to exchanges like these instead:

Me: *transferring money from pocket to wallet*
Other person: Giving out money, Nate?
Me: Only if you like to fuck.

Me: *transferring money from pocket to wallet*
Other person: Giving out money, Nate?
Me: Yes. But only to the people who had money down on you being a jackass.

Fuck You, Sir. Please. Thank you.

There’s an art to telling people to “fuck off” without, well, actually telling them to “fuck off”. As in my dealings with Verizon and my lousy voicemail, it appears that Verizon customer service people were trained to substitute the word “Sir” for “fuck off”, and the word “misunderstand” for “leave me alone”. Consider the following:

Me: So, are you telling me that it takes two weeks to setup my voicemail service?!
Verizon: You are correct, sir.
Me: No, really.
Verizon: Sir, it’s normal for voicemail setup to take two weeks.
Me: And what makes it take two weeks?
Verizon: Sir, you misunderstand why I’m telling you. Hang on a moment, sir.

See what I mean?

But I’m learning important things from Verizon customer support. In my own way, I’m telling you to “fuck off” without actually telling you to “fuck off”. Folks, you can’t buy passive-aggressive quipping like this. You have to practice, practice, practice until your sheer amount of disgust and rage leaves you at a crossroads: do I kick someone’s ass, or do I just refuse to show any signs of losing it, such that they wonder to themselves that I’m actually telling them to go screw. Maybe they don’t get it at all. I don’t know.

For example, I’ve decided that I’m unwilling to settle for anything but a new cellphone for work. They keep giving me used/reconditioned ones, which is bullshit, primarily because a used phone (in my experience) is almost as effective as not using a phone at all. So, my response? “This is my third cellphone from work. I’ve decided that since I can’t rely on the stability of used phones, we’d all be better off if I just left it in my desk drawer.”

Or even. “Sir, you can upgrade all of these machines at once, but it’s not recommended. The wiser path would be to upgrade them one per week, or maybe not even at all.”

Void Mail

I bought a new cordless phone recently. Hell, I’d had the last one for three years, so I was due. Unfortunately, the new phone didn’t have an answering machine, so I was somewhat forced to get voicemail service through my telephone company. Okay, fine. Not all that expensive, and you never have your answering machine go offline if you have a power outage or whatever.

But these upsides didn’t keep me from being upset about the service.

First, it took Verizon nearly two weeks to setup the voicemail account up. Ummm, what? When I call my cable company, for instance, and tell them that I want Cinemax, they hit a few buttons — and I can instantly watch partially pornographic movies in the privacy of my own home. Upon calling Verizon, the reason for this two-week delay became even less clear.

Me: So, I’m told that it will take 2 weeks to setup my voicemail box with Verizon?
Verizon: That’s correct, sir.
Me: Why is that?
Verizon: Because we have to setup your voicemail on the system.
Me: Yes, I know, but why is this?
Verizon: Well, because someone will have to key in your entry.
Me: Can you key in my entry?
Verizon: No sir.
Me: Fine. Can you tell me if there’s someone who can key in my entry now?
Verizon: Let me check.

*transferred*

Me: Re-explaining pertinent bits about Verizon, my voicemail, and why two weeks seems like an unbelievable amount of time to delay keypunching.
Verizon: Sorry, sir, but it takes two weeks for the installation.
Me: Okay, well, can you tell me what’s involved in the installation, then?
Verizon: Well, we setup your voicemail box, and then you can dial this number and enter blah PIN to access it.
Me: That’s not what I meant. Can you tell me the steps that you’ll perform to install my voicemail box?
Verizon: Oh. Yes sir, someone on our end will follow your request and setup your voicemail box.
Me: And that will take two weeks?
Verizon: Yes.
Me: And why will it take two weeks?
Verizon: Because someone will have to enter your voicemail box configuration manually.
Me: Will they be using a computer?
Verizon: Yes sir.
Me: And the computer will take two weeks to process the request?
Verizon: Sir, you misunderstand. It will take us two weeks to put your request into the system.
Me: By system, do you mean computer?
Verizon: Yes, put the request into our computer systems.
Me: And that takes 2 weeks?
Verizon: Yes.
Me: But why?
Verizon: Because we have to enter the data manually, sir.

*sigh*

Fine, so given that this Ben-Hur vessel wasn’t reaching ramming speed, I hung up the phone. And sure as shit, I had working voicemail in two weeks!

But the second problem is that nobody has called. I mean, no messages at all! I bet that people have decided not to call, what, with the phone terminally ringing during the course of two weeks and all.

Come Spend the Night Inside my City Walls

I have phobias about big cities. That’s probably why I don’t care for New York City at all. But it’s really not a phobia about people, crime, terrorism, or public transportation. It’s just the realization that I like peace, quiet, and privacy to the extent that I’d regret paying expensive city rents so that I could be “hip” while pursuing all of my existing hobbies (writing, music, etc) indoors.

What’s the point of this entry? Well, I read something in the NY Times about blogging. Specifically, the article was about the compromises between blogging and real life. One of the cited sources was a blog that (supposedly) discussed this woman’s relationship — and breakup — with her boyfriend. “Not to be missed”, I said to myself, “I cherish reading about breakup stories more than any blogreader could ever know”. Of course, this blog was a collection of short quips and notes that only an insider could appreciate. Mind you, there were kernels of good stuff therein, but stories were left untold.

And then I read some bits (in same blog, or corresponding “other” website) that the blogger had written about city life, and her jaunts abroad. “Huh”, I said to myself, “I can’t understand the fixation with NYC. I guess that there’s lots to do there, but gosh. Why spend so much money?” These thoughts, of course, reminded me of why I moved far away from the city.

Walden Pond is only a Golden Pond when you pee in it. I can’t necessarily say the same thing for cities.

American (Karaoke) Idol

-or-

Turning Japanese, I Really Think So.

A few nights ago, I figured out what bothered me about “American Idol”. (Mind you, I shunned last season entirely, even though I got sucked into this season.) Actually, more than a few things bother me about “American Idol”. Sure, at the “heart” of the show’s premise is the suggestion that “Idols can be built from commonfolk”. But let’s dissect that.

Holy fuck. I can’t believe that I’m paying serious attention to “American Idol”. Wow. Uhh. Holy fuck.

The premise of “American Idol”, now that I think about it, is really two-fold. First, a field of 32 contestants is selected from a field of thousands of bad contestants. So, in relative terms, these 32 souls were the best of the worst, no matter how bad they actually are. Second, a good majority of the “Idol” singers are really no better performers than the person who can sing along with music in their car. Seriously, even with my bad sinuses, I can still sing in key with Rod Stewart and other crap like that. After those 20+ people who are clearly non-trained performers, you get a field of 10-12 who are “on the cusp”, and 2-3 who really stick out. But even with the 2-3 people who are overall good performers, there’s still something missing.

First, the song arrangements and song selections are eerily reminiscent of something that you’d hear at a karaoke bar. This really ruins good performances by otherwise good vocalists. Second, the show is high on image, which amounts to less-talented performers advancing on with the more talented in the groups. Third, there seems to be some internal disagreement (between the judges) as to what makes an “American Idol”. This year, I was pleased to see “normal-looking” people (you know, overweight, not the typical “siren” types, just plain goofy, etc.) make it that far. But I was displeased that one of the finalists sounded more like a canary than a pop star; I’d pay money to see him on Broadway, but definitely not crooning to “Mack the Knife” or “Separate Ways”. And definitely not to the price of $17 for a CD.

Finally, it flat-out bugs me that the music industry claims to be in the crapper (financially), but at the same time throws recording contracts at “nobodies”, while also having hundreds of signed artists whose products never see the light of day, much less getting any attention on MTV/VH-1 or radio. “American Idol” is quite a nice illustration of misplaced priorities.

“IFF you find a way to get more product to market? More people will buy it. When people tire of your existing product? They will stop buying it.”

Oh, and for what it’s worth. Clay should’ve been plopped last night. PLOPPED right on his Broadway-singing head. Kimberly Locke (to whom I refuse to refer as “K-Lo”) was a more powerful and soulful singer all the way around.

Drop Dead Fred(erick’s).

It started happening again. Yesterday, I trudged out to my mailbox and collected a week’s worth of mail. Nestled in an otherwise pedestrian bunch of bills, advertisements and other crap was… the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog: Summer Edition.

Oh, for Pete’s Sake. I just wasted a toll call so that I could argue with them (to stop sending the catalog) a few months ago. Now it’s back. But maybe this time I won’t fight it. In other words: why should I pay for a toll call for something that’s apt to recur anyways?

I’ve been speaking with my date/girlfriend/your-moniker-here about taking a break from technology, long hours, and generally being pissed off all the time. She concurred, or at least in part, until I explained that I might decide to dedicate my time to pimping, instead.

Dearest Date, since we have a fancy catalog in hand, can I be your pimp if you’ll be my “best bitch”? We now have an authoritative source for the purchase of slutty clothes (the catalog). There’s a Cadillac in my backyard. With a little bit of desparation, and entrepreneurialism (Is that a word? Hell, pimps don’t give a shit, yo!), we could make it. You, me, the Cadillac, and Frederick’s.

[So, to the person or people who may have resubscribed me to the Fredericks' mailing list, would you mind taking my name off? I have your home addresses, too, remember! Thanks in advance!]

Catbox Conspiracy

Changing the cat’s litter is a simple and selfless act. My cat seems happier, and the basement smells better. Both of which items can’t explain, however, why I neglect to change the litter as much as I should. Now, I’m not a cruel person — or at least to my date, my family, my friends, and my cat. But somewhere between my bad sinuses and not paying attention to the litterbox develops a situation where apparently the smell of the litterbox becomes an atrocity. And of course? Unless the cat has been missing the box, I never notice it.

But people with good sinuses, and workmen who need to labor in my basement sure do! Every time it’s the same thing. Workmen arrive. I ask them if cat should be stowed away. They confirm that they cannot be responsible for a missing cat. Cat is stowed away. They start to work. And each time, they open the sliding door of the basement, undoubtedly to air it out. This is a very embarassing situation.

“We’d prefer to let burglars into your house by leaving the door to the basement open than having to deal with the stench of your catbox.”, they’re probably thinking to themselves. Yesterday was no exception. I asked myself (before their arrival): “self, do you think that I should clean the catbox? No, self, I can’t smell it so it should be fine. Fine, self. Fine”. Workmen arrive. Cat is stowed. Cat has a tantrum when stowed. Sliding door is opened. Work is completed. Cat is unstowed, and proceeds to barf everywhere to share his displeasure of having been stowed, if even for 5 minutes.

This time around, tho, there’s a different twist. Apparently, the stench of the box was so bad that the plumbers who were working downstairs decided to leave their work undone. Today? Drip drip dripping from the new copper that they installed. Fuck. And all because of the catbox, I’d postulate. Thank my lucky stars that they weren’t doing anything with the propane lines!

Tonight, I will replace the litter in the catbox with new stuff entirely. Tomorrow morning, I will track the sliding door and see if it opens. If it does? Maybe it’s not the catbox at all. If it doesn’t? Catbox conspiracy.

Oops.

Well, accidents happen. In this case? My work cellphone was the victim. Granted, this victim had been a dysfunctional participant in my life for the last 2 years, given his tendency to bother me several times a day. Or other times, he acted as a disgruntled secretary, one who sometimes would only let some of the calls get through to me. Either way? He ain’t working for me anymore.

Due to the cheap-ass holster that he used to call home and pitch blackness outside, nobody saw him when a car was backing out of the driveway.

*crunch!*

I can’t wait until I have to explain this again!

Fontleroy?

After a couple of complaints about the font sizes here, I opted to bungle around with the stupid stylesheet for this site. Hope this this is better. I normally don’t “do html”, so this MT configuration was basically the same as it ever was. Let me know if the fonts look broken, or the page layout has gone south. Thanks.