Overthunk

After nine years, this occupational hazard strikes. Guess what it is and I'll flip off a latte-clutching soccer mom in your honor.

People with placards All over this town People with placards Bring me down Come buy the leather Sofa that must go This is the final week For the twelfth week in a row Every item 6 dollars And splotched all with flowers Every item 6 dollars And it lasts 6 hours Hire someone desperate Forty-nine bucks a pop To stand in a cow suit On the corner block Ousting the unborn Out of the womb I'll never do it Do I have to look? If I didn't think Getting saved was required Is one verse on a poster Going to save me from fire? People with placards All over this town People with placards Bring me down

Sometimes I get ideas for posts and I just save them as drafts and forget. Today I was digging around here in the blog closet and found this darkly sparkly scrap, originally thought of back in November 2005 and languishing here until now. Enjoy. God makes trent reznor in his dark angelic glory trent experiences a life of woe enough so that he becomes an artist trent toils for years, distilling anger and pride and self-loathing into this: there is a game I play try to make myself okay try so hard to make the pieces all fit smash it apart just for the fuck of it it works its way down to me this distilled darkness allows me to go on another day I say thanks, God. thanks, trent I go on and have woe of my own I post here you read it maybe you don't feel so bad art will save us all.

I've already been pimping this guy all over the place, but I have to do it officially: Aqueduct, is, in fact, good music . Written and sung entirely (and sometimes performed!) by this one man, David Terry, it's a collection of indie confections, sweet and sinister all at once. What's it like? He claims the Beach Boys! as a big influence but I think I hear Beck and Cake, too. There's lots of Moog-y synth stuff. There are dark storylines of romantic intrigue woven throughout with syrupy, irresistible hooks (and one song based on The Princess Bride). It's often sad, jaded, and even violent, but little bundles of hilarity and hope are interspersed throughout (just like some gunslinger tales I know). His voice sounds like some 70's singer whom I can't place. You can listen to his complete latest record, Or Give Me Death, at the link above, but buy it if you can, because we should all support self-made musical innovation out of a bedroom in Oklahoma. This loveli...

Here in Dallas, many people are from other places. Make no mistake, I have no problem with people immigrating -- if I did, I wouldn't be here, I'd be on the slopes of Ireland or Scotland paying the UK's exorbitant 40% taxes, digging potatoes from the soil, and dancing jigs and reels without moving my arms. If there were no immigrants, I'd be out of a job, as many of my students' parents came here from Mexico. Furthermore, I don't believe for a moment that anyone is taking any job that any native-born American wants. But I digress... Not that long ago, a protest called "Day Without An Immigrant" was staged in which immigrants stayed home one day from work to show people the value of immigrants working in our society, and that they provide vital services that the country can't run well without. Well, I don't dispute that, but I think that the day-to-day life of upwardly mobile 30 somethings like me is run from hidden centers of power not by immi...

Think that's my rapper name? Well, let me tell you a little story. En route to Saturday School on Saturday, I became involved in the backwash from this . When two people are killed by a drunk driver, it really bungs up Central Expressway, as well it should, I suppose. The ensuing traffic glut took THREE hours to get out of. Not only did I have to navigate the jam with my carpooling matey, but our battery also died in the middle of it. Thank God I live in Texas, where you can always count on a truck-drivin' bubba to come along momentarily and rescue you. And, bless him, one did and had the car jumped within about a minute. But on we sat. And inched up. And sat. And inched up. And watched people drive the wrong way up the on ramp to get out of it. And watched people look at their watches time and again. And called our bosses to say we weren't going to be in. And sat. And it occurred to me that I had to go. So I thought I'd try to wait. But on we sat. And inched u...

Click of keys and wail of song Working out whatever's wrong Throwing open my heart's door May they blaze on forevermore (Sure, you can get it tattooed on yourself somewhere in Gothic letters. No problem.)

Not to be an oldster hipster, but I do seek new stuff. Occasionally, it brings me joy. Maybe it can joy you too. In ABC order: Cheeseburger So throwback and ridiculously rock star, it's delightful. It's been done, but it's still fresh. How, I don't know. Louis XIV Sex, sex, sex. Let's keep that between me and you, ok? Piebald I'm still investigating, but things look promising. Ian Moore Bluesy deliciousness. Each new song I hear, I can't believe how beautiful and heart-capturing it is. Dandelion. I think he has short hair now. Now have fun matching the pics and the descriptions! (Having said that, I still burn candles at the altars of Corgan and Reznor on alternate Thursdays.) -------- A wedding salad: lettuce alone. (Ok, maybe you've heard it. I hadn't. But it was good.)

The pugcupine is rumoured not to exist, but know all ye by these presents that I removed about the FIFTH black pugcupine quill from deep within the skin of the sole of my right foot as it was burrowing deeper and deeper. Deceptive are these quills, for they look like single regular black dog hairs, but somehow they penetrate into the skin as I shamble about here shoeless in this pseudo-redneck dwelling like the sort of hick that I am. Sure, I could stop the madness by just wearing shoes around here, but that is nigh unthinkable. Just keep in mind that the ancestors of the hound shown here once had truck with quilled rodents. They MUST have done.

When creation'd barely got its legs Applesauce with nuts and eggs.

You scored as The Hazel . In Celtic astrology, you're a Hazel. The animal symbol that accompanies this tree is the salmon. The ancient Druids say Hazel people are creative, artistic, expressive, imaginative and perceptive. They often make good teachers. However, Hazels may be prone to being overly analytical, morose or preoccupied in their own thoughts. The Hazel 80% The Rowan 80% The Hawthorn 60% The Birch 60% The Ash 60% The Elder 60% The Oak 60% The Ivy 60% The Reed 60% The Vine 60% The Alder 50% The Holly 50% The Willow 30% What Tree Are You? (Celtic astrology) created with QuizFarm.com

Section 59.287 Materials used in burrito construction must be sufficient to contain bean, meat and cheese loads up to 1.78 lbs. as determined by the Texas Department of Burrito Filling Weights and Measures. Section 59.288 Burrito construction teams (at Taco Bell, Taco Bueno, or the like) must remain mindful of the high probability that end user of said burrito will likely be snarfing said foodstuff down at speeds of 45 mph or greater. Section 59.289 Pursuant to Section 59.288, burritos, in addition to being constructed of tortilla (or shingling) outer covering of at least .0599 inch thickness, should also be centered in a paper holding device of sufficient thickness to contain spills of superheated filling goo, should said outer covering fail. At no time should the tortilla (or shingling) outer covering rupture, pooping said goo in smelly driblets upon the user's shirt like hot, steaming, chili-flavored scat from a burrito bird.* Section 59.290 Pursuant to Sections 59.287, 59.288 ...

Driving today (why do SO many posts start like that? I DRIVE TOO MUCH!), I saw this brilliant solution to all our Middle East problemos, articulated in seconds by a piece of sticky vinyl affixed to the back window of a pickup. I couldn't get a crappy cellphone picture in time, so I had to use my mad Paintskillz to recreate this piece of Americana for y'all. Somewhat guiltily, I have to admit it had a certain lizard-brain , barbaric charm on some hickass level. I like to think that my cerebellum rapped the medulla oblongata (or wherever such cavewoman sentiments stem from) soundly. In any case, the thought went away. The laughing didn't, though. Can you imagine the pacifist violence that would erupt in response to this if you were driving this truck in California or somewhere? A rock through the windshield or a lead pipe beating would be prescribed to drum up the lost compassion in your sick, Southern, Bush-loving heart. Besides, it's not gas yet. It's just sweet, sw...

I wink you or you wink me we trade some stupid pleasantry we choose some place at which to dine sip bucking stars or glug some wine then at this dump we laugh and smile words flit and jump fling pearls to swine and swiftly then like some black hex you disappoint i holler, "Next!"

Swelled cans... it's more than just the highly anticipated effect of a bust enhancement cream.* It could be a life-threatening bacterial invasion of your earthly flesh. It could be... BOTULISM!! Why am I providing this public service messsage? You see, kids, in high school, I was in Honors Biology. I had a teacher (possibly even a lesbian now that I think back on her button down men's oxford shirts, utter lack of makeup or a purse, cords, and short 'n fringy haircut even in the Big Dallas Hair era of the '80s). She went by the name of Ms. McFarland (names have been changed to protect the scientific). She had one class rule: respect. So anyway, she taught us that we should always be on the lookout for swelled or dented cans, because they could be harboring seething hordes of BOTulism!!! We needed to worry about this because botulism causes a horrible death, you see, paralyzing bits of you until you die of death. A fatal dose of this powerful nerve toxin is ONE MICROGRAM,...

While it was never my original intent to turn this blog into an Antiques Roadshow competitor, that is the turn it has been taking of late. If you're not into old things, you might want to flip channels. If you are, stay tuned for a tale of lost relics, vulgarity and passion. This, blogpals, is my first typewriter. Now, I know: "WHa?!?!" you're shouting to the screen before you as you sputter forth flavorful capuccino and/or mouth-swished gatorade. Yet, no, I'm not much older than you thought. This ancient machine of uncertain age and lineage was purchased for me by my grandmother when I was but a young, nerdy writer whelp of 12 or 14. Though it languished in my mom's hall closet for many years, unreachable due to crap piled 10 feet high in there, recently we took stuff out of the closet and so it has returned. It is still functional but for the lack of a ribbon -- it can type in black AND red, given the proper ribbon. To make the letters, a metal arm jumps fo...

Recently, due to Arctic Blast 2007 (i.e. a quarter-inch of sleet upon these Dallas roadways), a much-anticipated night of drinking, fooling around and Sopranos was nixed. Did I sulk? Well, hell yes, I did. And then I did some more. But after that, pouting began to bore me and I hit upon a mission: I was gonna make a goddamn sock monkey. Why the flip did this occur to me? Well, I'd talked it up for many years, seeing as how my grandmother gave me one when I was six or seven and it was subsequently so cherished and frequently hugged that the tail developed a hole at the end. As it turns out, my friends listen to me on occasion, so I was gifted with this kit at Christmastime this year. Though my original hosiery simian was far more tricked out than this one, with a red gingham dress and hat that had lace trim, this nostalgia-fueled, red felt vested ape would do nicely on a blustery, pissy winter's night . Besides, the original mon-chi-chi was lost. Generally speaking, I'm n...

Yeah, I'm closer to 40 than 14, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend to be in that band I always wanted to be in. And no, I can't play the guitar for real, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the tar out of this game. In fact, that's the whole POINT. The second version of this Playstation 2 diversion, called Guitar Hero as you can see here, just came out, but I'm too busy woodshedding on a borrowed version of the first one to care about that yet. At first, I sucked so thoroughly the game kicked me out of the song and the crowd booed. Yet now, I can successfully hit 80-96% of the notes on average of tunes ranging from Boston's "More Than A Feeling" to Audioslave's "Cochise." The cool thing is, songs you don't even like much and dismiss as crap, you get new respect for when you try to play them. You also learn how Nikki Sixx must have felt when his fingers and forearms ached from the amount of rockin' he was doing, but...

Seasons greetings, blogpadres! It's hard to believe it's been a year since my last post about cooking , but certainly it has. This year, instead of Candied Nuts, I decided to make Rum Balls. Though there may be some hidden symbolism in my two-years running choices of recipes that could be euphemisms for cajones , I choose to believe differently. That yellowed paper next to the plate is the recipe of old, typed on the ancient, black, 50-pound manual typewriter I was given by my grandmother as a kid. (Yes, even 25 years ago I was a writing, typing dork.) The recipe came from one of the neighbors on our street, who still lives there. And yes, my mom did make these and allow us to eat them as children. Who knows what current freakitudes (such as a simultaneous love of chocolate AND rum!) I can blame on this underage intake of hard liquor in candy form. This year, instead of rockin', I watched a DVD I found of the 1982 Leslie Nielsen series Police Squad , instead of egg nog, I w...

When I was a youngster, toiling away at what used to be Southwestern Bell Mobile Systems (now Cingular Wireless), I swore off office politics. I reported to work, fended off oldsters who hit on me and my "sexy voice" daily, pretended to sell extra features, took much too long constructing a faux jellyfish from a styrofoam plate and bits of plastic for a team decorating contest, just generally toiled there in my cubicle from morning 'til night, fixing glorified walkie talkies. Then (usually a few minutes early), I went home. As a result, I never got the attention (nor the raises) of my superiors. Then I got ten years older. The world and its ways slowly and painfully revealed themselves to me. I realized, that in all kinds of realms, you have to do as Freddie Mercury suggests, and "Play the game, play the game, play the game, play the game!" With a single email that could have been utter bullstuff (it wasn't, but the point is, verification of my lofty claims ...