Saturday, December 31


A19 year-old female on Friendster sent me a message. She wants to talk to me. Her name is Ricardo.

I hope she's crazy hot.

Wednesday, December 28

Now At Last

There's a song that Feist sings called 'Now At Last'. It's an amazingly beautiful jazz standard.

So I added this Blossom Dearie CD to my Amazon wish list. She performs 'Now At Last' as well as 'Tout Doucemente' (both on Feist's Let It Die) Should be a treat.

Now I've done it.

I started a myspace account.

Myspace has been popping up alot lately in my daily conversations and readings. People at work are on it, customers are on it, and there have been multiple articles in the papers. This place is hopping. I was genuinely a little startled to find numerous, and then some, people that I know active there.

I didn't really hear about myspace until this summer when I was down in Portland and out with Kris. I didn't look into it as I already had mostly unused Friendster and Livejournal accounts. I don't know that I'll do much with it, but I think it will get more use than those others.

Word to your Momma.

Thursday, December 22

Twilight Zone

I agree with Kris, seems Pitchfork has gone black sheep on us, and I think they like to mess with the expectations of their readers. Granted it's likeley that every Pitchfork writer listened to 5 times as many albums as I did this year so I can't reasonably argue against the list they created. Perhaps they're breaking seriously new ground.

Caribou and Broken Social Scene made the Top 25 & here's the Metacritic Top 30 along with Top Ten's from many significant magazines and sites.

5 things

Here are 5 things I'm glad to see existed in 2005

The FSM. I could explain why, but if you're reading this blog, and don't understand why, then you should stop reading this blog.

The Stewardess. While she was here, she left a good mark. Like a dog you hope comes back to visit. I won't say I always understood what the fuck was going on, but she served as a fine balance to the boys of the site. I am always glad to see her doing what she's doing (which, lately, apparently involves taking photos and posting song lyrics, but it's good anyway).

The game of the year: Resident Evil 4. I played some goddamn awesome games this year. RE4, with the corresponding commentary that occurred on this blog, was the most engaging game I played. I think A.Ho still has not finished this game, to which I say: get fucking to it man! It's been a year and the game was AWESOME. Plus, that game got me through the ice storm of this year, as I played it for 14 hours one day, and it allowed me to filter out the sound of one of my roommates fucking.

Health Insurance. Yes, I am displeased with my job. Yes, I don't know what I'm going to do, just that I need to do different things, and mid-life crisis and Bush is ending the fucking world and on and on and on.
But after breaking my leg and stabbing myself in the span of 11 days, plus getting a cold that may or may not be morphing into something awful, and having to pay about $700 bucks for all that, as opposed to over $1400, I am grateful that I have a job that provides me with something that is so damned helpful to live. 'Cause bad things happen sometimes, and you shouldn't be impoverished for wanting to be healthy.

The internet. You don't need a link; you're on it.
I was able to keep and maintain friendships, or develop new relationships, because of the 'net. I'll admit, it does make me a little lazy, and I'm frickin' tired of people forwarding their crazy spam-disguised-as-joke/story/anecdote/warning of the week. Nonetheless, I'm glad for this, because fostering the relationships is what makes life meaningful-and bearable, honestly.

Wednesday, December 21


I just tried to sign in to my very first email account that I started back in 1999 with Yahoo! but they shut it down saying that I have not logged in for over 4 months.

WRONG! I updated my account profile on 11/25/2005! (Said so right on my profile, until I updated it again, that was a mistake.)

There is a reactivate account option available but they deleted all me email. Many many emails. Dating back to 1999.

This is fucked.

Oh yeah: So the reason I logged in today was to find an email address in my contact list there. Guess what. FUCKING GONE! All kinds of shit gone, gone, gone.

My Tally of Pitchforks Top 50 of 2005


  • Fiery Furnaces - EP
  • Sleater-Kinney - The Woods
  • Sufjan Stevens - Illinois
  • Wolf Parade - Apologies To The Queen Mary

Second Tier Faves
  • Bloc Party - Silent Alarm
  • The Decemberists - Picaresque
  • The Hold Steady - Separation Sunday
  • Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - S/T
  • Isolée - We Are Monster
  • M.I.A. - Arular

Need more Listens to form Opinion

  • M83 - Before The Dawn Heals Us
  • Franz Ferdinand - You Could Have It So Much Better
  • New Pornographers - Twin Cinema
  • LCD Soundsystem - S/T
  • Kanye West - Late Registration


  • The Boy Least Likely To - The Best Pary Ever

Not In Top 50?

  • Caribou - The Milk Of Human Kindness
  • Broken Social Scene - S/T
  • Architecture In Helsinki - In Case We Die

The Next 2005 Albums I Want:

  • Ladytron - Witching Hour
  • The Clientele
  • Bonnie "Prince" Billy & Matt Sweeney - Superwolf
  • Love Is All
  • Antony & The Johnsons - I Am a Bird Now
  • Deerhoof
  • The National - Alligator

I'm aware I'm out of touch now

Just read Pitchfork's top 50 albums of 2005.
I own 3 of them.
Nobody wrote anything that made me think I should own anything I don't already own. It all gushed but didn't actually seem to say anything.
For the record, those albums were: Sleater-Kinney, Bloc Party, and Sufjan Stevens.


If these words were an image, they would be a big middle finger.
I've been coughing for 6 days now, sick for 7. I go see the doc on Friday. Every morning I've woken up for the past 6 days has been with a dry mouth and something slimy in the back of my throat. I can breathe through one nostril. I won't even bother to describe what I hack up for the first hour of the morning. Yay me.

I hate being sick for more than 2 days. Especially when I'm supposed to get a whole bunch of free time.
Plus; I'm being donated an Xbox for about 14 days. Half Life 2, here I come.

All made immediately less enjoyable by the fact that I'm coughing every 90 seconds.

Thank God it's Warmer

It was up to around 40°F today, which ends 3+ weeks of below freezing temperatures.

That is all.

Tuesday, December 20

Body Blow!

After witnessing the band We Are Scientists on David Letterman I have a couple of comments:

  • The guitarists attempt to replicate the energy, sound, and motions of Franz Ferdinand is too obvious and falls short.

  • Vapid prosaic lyrics contribute a jejune sophomoricity(?) that is difficult to communicate.

  • Ugh.

They have an album coming out January 10th on Virgin records. I urge against its purchase.

Friday, December 16

Oh Christmas Tree

I don't think I could own a set of these without getting evicted from my apartment, but I'd be willing to give it a go if they end up under the family tree with my name on it. Can't fight the destiny.

Tuesday, December 13

I've been very busy hacking up my lungs.

So, I'm feeling much, much better. I've been hosting an ugly, lingering, abs-punishing cough for days and days and days now. Seriously, I haven't been with an illness this long since high school. I'm not entirely done, but I've only had one coughing fit the entire day.

Here's a comic.

Monday, December 12

You know what this blog needs? Some pseudo-suicide and some sex.

hi there!

long time no see!

can you forgive me?

can you remember me?


Here -- I'll refresh your memory (courtsey the private reserve):

Doisneau and his hotel-loving ways make me feel like putting that black and white Zapruder special triple-underpass magic bullet in my already black-hole-riddled-and-addled curled-adder riddle brain and if it wasn't a conspiracy, I think I'd go for the guilt-gilded noose. I think that good cry I had the other night was the dealer-reeler-vacuum-sealer for me...I had to cough up that Catholic guilt before I could really release myself of that lien and sign the over that deed of trust.

Speaking of the musical bullets, I've never been one to play the musical beds, and I think I had a siginificant amount of crying to do over that, too. So, now that you are getting more of me than you probably ever possibly wanted, do you still want me? Worthless copper teardrops and all? I don't want to waste your time. I don't want to trick you or decieve you with clever paramnesia - arguably my most marketable skill. If you want me, I want you to want the real me - the me who thinks in Chinese riddles and alliterations and obscure allusions and is constantly slipping and sidling in her own brain with her own black hole. I imagine this sounds like a lot of work. I imagine it is. I will understand if you say thanks but no thanks. I understand the reasons people don't like me. I don't fault them for it, either. That doesn't mean I don't wish it were some other way, but shit, I can't blame them. I mean, these are my selling points: the great human-animal experiment, a house formerly occupied by heathens, a castrating compadre, and a perfect little girl. I can understand my unappeal.

Back in later, back in later, I'll be Echo, you be Satyr.

Oh the molassess that so quickly coats my throat when I see but one word, and in another language, at that. That inestimable elixir of bad-gone-good forged in fire from your simple acknowledgement. Gouge the fuck away, because it only gets sweeter as the noose draws tighter and my lineaments grow lighter and I wait with baited breath as I take the bait: hook-line and sink her! Oh, how I long to see your chest rise and fall and feel that skin on skin and the breathing of the other's breath and the smiling kisses and the noses that know and the eyes that, try as they might, can't help but to look down south and the ears so finely tuned to pick up on every rude smack and every rude slick-slippery sounding sound and insert whatever onomatopoeia tickles your penetration fancy. But you know what gets me the most? What makes me the most crazy and the most desperate? When you forget to breathe altogether and I feel pleasantly stuck in a vacuum of silent sex. Yes, that's what I remember the most. The heavy breath, heavy breath, kissing, licking, various flesh between your two jaws and various teeth making invariable dents in that various flesh and breathe and breathe and kiss and lift the head and close the eyes and, stop..... .... ..... ..... breathe again. It's like the slow bliss of a perfect gliss coming down with you inside me.

Thursday, December 8

Tasty Listening

My newest album pick for 2005 is Let It Die by Feist (aka Leslie Feist of Broken Social Scene.) I've just skimmed through the review after having listened to it numerous times. I was a bit disappointed to learn that it is comprised of half cover songs, but still, it's delicious goodness to my ears.

¡Me gusto mucho! - or something like that.


That's the current temperature and the expected high. Yurg.

Also. I put up a new post but for some reason it got shoved underneath Dan's latest post. Odd. Anyhow there it is. This is kind of a test post. Wee.

UPDATE: Post is properly positioned now. I think I know what happened. I don't want to try to explain it.

Tuesday, December 6

Forgive your heart (don't spend too much time on that)

The title of the post comes from the liner notes in Broken Social Scene's It's All Gonna Break. I don't know if they are lyrics, or just little notes about the song; the liner notes are maddeningly vague about everything. But I put it up there because it made a lot of sense to me, today, when I read it.

I've been spending too much energy debating politics, I think, over in the SGC forums. You'd almost think I don't have anything better to do. And in this, you'd be right. What the fuck am I doing, arguing with people who want to negate my arguments by calling me intolerant? As if by using that word, they can get me to become a coward instead of a liberal-because if you're liberal and don't just want to allow bullshit to happen, you're intolerant, and should back down so idiots, assholes, and greedy bastards can do what they want. Fuck that.

Conversely; why am I putting my energy into talking to them? I haven't written anything in terms of stories or poems in months, and that just makes me feel weak, as though I'm failing something I barely understand. But I have no trouble working up the righteousness to tell someone their views on the sale of the morning after pill are fucked up. Good lord, this is your life, and you're losing it one minute at a time.

An old, loose thread has started to get taut again. I hate loose ends, usually represented by people who drift out of my life, either ripped by the tides, or seperated slowly by current. I keep trying to let it be, since I don't have the personality to cut it off, and my distaste of loose ends keeps it around, in hopes I'll be able to knot it someday. Truthfully, I guess I'm not so much bothered by the thread getting a tug, so much as the motives behind that. This thread belongs to a sweater I don't trust to keep me warm anymore, and I just don't know what to do with that. The whole thing could be repaired, useable, though not good as new. Or maybe it just stays as is.

Lately, though, I've just felt a whole lot like moping. Stay in bed too long, never go out, semi-hostile to everyone kind of moping. I've felt like this before, and traditionally, my answer to this has been writing and/or therapy. Instead of those things, I've been playing videogames, tricking out Magic decks and watching the Daily Show, coupled with shots of Jager. In truth, I guess I just miss writing, and need to find a way to work it back into my life on a regular basis. If I don't, what becomes of me? I don't exactly know, I just know that not writing makes me less happy.

I don't want to close this post. I feel like there's something I should say and haven't. Some thorn that doesn't want to come out, but needs pulling. I've got nothin', though. Or, better to say, I've got plenty, but little that can be made coherent and write well, in the time I have for this post. Work calls, and I should actually do a task that I'm paid for. I just hate hitting the Publish button with the vague unease in my chest.

This post is about beer.

It's been some years, but I do like Deschutes' Jubelale this time around and it looks like one of my other Deschutes faves is coming around again in January. I'll probably let you know when I find Cinder Cone back on the shelves.

I am also quite fond of Lang Creek's Glacier Pilot, my palate dost covet.

I thought that maybe I'd like the Sam Adams Winter Lager. I was mistaken. I've not consumed a more mediocre beer since Fat Tire.

Sierra Nevada's Celebration Ale would be the place to start if you need to wipe that Sam Adams taste from your molested palate, find it on tap for a grand delight, have at least two.

Red Hook's Winter Hook is a durable and stalwart beverage, but not necessary among these other selections.

I found myself enjoying some old favorites the last couple of months as well. Spaten Optimator is a 7.2% Doppel Bock that hits the mark every time, and my preferred vessel for pouring a Guinness down my throat is undeniably the stubbish dark bottles, I find them charming and capable.

Lastly, you must go out and find a bottle of Hop Trip.

David Nevue -- In Memory of Dax Johnson

Part I

Part II

Sunday, December 4

If your happy, and you know it.

In the other room I have thoughts about blog entries, or things to say to particular people. I think about how I'm spending my time this year, opposed to how I've spent my time the last number of years. I ponder my ability to communicate and connect with those I don't see often enough, or those I've never seen. I wonder why I have so many ideas, and little evidence of my muse. So I thought I should take a moment and see what I spat out. And here's where I think I should stop, but I know as soon as I go into the other room that thoughts will start flowing, emotions and words I should explore will erupt from my innards, yet I sit here stifled.

Then I think about the joke my Dad made on Thanksgiving, an impossible kind of funny. When he chose that particular moment to reach back in time and weave his humor he entered my newly created Comedic Hall of Fame. Too bad I can't remember what he said.


Saturday, December 3

Don't call me that, my new name is…

Ice Master Aaron Slither

…and check out the LED belt buckle. B'Ling!

My sister is a trooper.

As of early yesterday afternoon, December 2nd, I have two brand new, utterly adorable, little baby nieces. It was a pretty damn fine day.

Friday, December 2

So Very, Very Wrong

Smokescreen: EAT YOU
fuzzy1: *snicker*
fuzzy1: Cookie Monster no longer eats.
fuzzy1: Cookies are a sometimes food.
Smokescreen: OK, that's way too funny for me. I need pot or sleep.
Smokescreen: AND FUCK PCISM
Smokescreen: Cookie Monster EATS. He's my oral sex hero.
fuzzy1: ROTFLOL

It's gonna be one of those nights

Do you ever think: "Fuck it man, I'm just gonna post naked pictures of myself on the internet and get it over with"?