And it's Hot Like Me.

Still blazing, still humid. You could grow orchids in here, but I wouldn't bother. They're probably poisonous to cats, and Truman's curious. The AC still kicks out, shutting off the computer while it's at it. It makes typing an act of desperation; you never know when you're thoughts will disappear into the ether. It's hot in here- you'd see them float away, hazy.

I went to the gym tonight for the first time in a month or so. Hot in there, too. So it felt familiar. There was an old man with a personal trainer, and if he's not dead yet, he will be by nightfall. I admire the man's moxie, but mourn his family's loss. I got my stuff done and split, and now, here I am.

New 100 Words. If you get there late, meaning tomorrow, it's yesterday's, dig? Something about brunettes in red dresses being nothing but trouble.

I Know You Want to Get Even.

It's hotter than hot right now in this damned stupid apartment. Air conditionining that works conditionally, all this nonsense. I try to turn the AC up the teeniest bit, and I blow out the power. The clock flickers 12:00 AM.

I might inflate like a baked potato-- I might die. And, while you might try to direct my attention to the pioneers who made it past situations such as mine, I would say the following:

Said pioneers don't count, goddammit.

I live where I do because I can afford it. The 1890 electricity is about to kill me, dry me to a husk, etc.

At times I wish I were a vengeful god. I'd have my revenge.

A Waste of Chicago.

Yesterday was our big team outing to the Taste of Chicago. The six of us were to meet at Buckingham Fountain at 11:00. However, the Boss was concerned that folks wouldn't be working up until then, so he decided to pick me up at 6:00 AM and drive me into the city where we would work in a Starbucks until that time. I'd been out whooping it up a bit the night before, so the early-morning wake up really hurt. My laptop doesn't have wireless, so I literally had to sit at a Starbucks for four hours re-reading old emails. I occupied most of my time watching people come and go. What a stupid, stupid morning.

The taste itself was fine, I guess. I ate a lot and broiled in the sun. When I got home, I napped for a spell.

I do not much care for these team outings. They end up as more trouble than they're worth. And, so it goes. New 100 Words. Off to my folks' to help my dad with some work on the porch.

Yeah, Yeah- No.

All hail to the stupid day, where a detour makes my 25 mile commute take well over an hour and where the cat wags his tail directly into my allergic eye.

Actually- the eye's bothering me quite a bit, and I'll be trying to do something about it shortly.

Dammit.

The eye's consuming me now. Writing about it brings about thinking about it... focusing on it, etc.

And, so it goes. For those inclined to check out such things, new entry at 100 Words today. Hated the theme, and did with it what I could.

No Longer Listless.

After reading Michele's post on Spin's top 20 songs of the last 20 years, I decided to take a stab at it myself. I stopped at 16 to give myself some wiggle room as I realized obvious omissions, and also because I have a short attention span. There's not too much overlap on our two lists, but I appreciate her reminding me of the importance of creating musical lists.

Replacements- Tim
Elvis Costello- King of America
Graham Parker- Mona Lisa's Sister
Screeching Weasel- My Brain Hurts
Paul Westerberg- Stereo
Stiffs, Inc.- Nix, Naught, Nothing
Pixies- Surfer Rosa
Pogues- Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash
Tom Waits- Rain Dogs
Replacements- Pleased to Meet Me
Tom Petty- Full Moon Fever
Radiohead- KID A
Joe Jackson- Laughter & Lust
Possum Dixon- Star Maps
Naked Raygun- Throb, Throb
The Mr. T Experience- Our Bodies, Ourselves

I Try to Be a Better Person.

I have identified the look on my cat's face when he views me from across the room.

It's condescension.

Up early this morning with a sore neck. What else to do but another 100 Words?

Stupid necks.

Girl, Kill Your Boyfriend.

After seeing the Figgs open for and then back Graham Parker, I'm on a Figgs kick.

You all should be, as well.

I've seen them a mess of times, and each time, they've been astounding. Should you ever be in an area in which the Figgs are playing, you should make the time to see them live.

But, Adam- you just said you don't really care for live music anymore.

My cynicism should not be a barrier to your enjoyment. Hit ebay and look for "Lo-Fi at Society High." You can probably get it for the price of postage. Then, "Bando Macho." Same story. I think both of these major label forrays are out of print, and ebay will be your only chance to pick them up. And, you should. This is some of the best rock you are ever going to hear. Trust me on this. Subsequent releases have maintained the Rock.

He Said, "You've Got What I've got Son, You've Got a Dislocated Life."

Faithful readers: I apologize for the lack of updates as of late. The more charitable among you might say, "well, you did let us know about your air conditioner," and the more charitable among you would be correct, but I still can't help but feel it's just not enough. You deserve better. I'd get you all puppies, if I could.

It's been a rushed and hectic week. I was in D.C. last weekend-- and you didn't even tell us?-- and since getting back very late on Tuesday night, I've been too wrapped up in the actual living of life to report back on it.

D.C. was a nice time. I got to spend a lot of time with AMF, which is one of the nicest ways I know to pass the time. I was also able to see a few other friends, which was quite nice as well. I was even able to see Amanda, with whom I went to high school in Dallas. The last time I was out there, our schedules were at odds, and it came close to happening this time, as well. The stars ended up in alignment, and I ended up able to have dinner with Amanda last Monday night.

On the way to the restaurant we saw this, arguably the ugliest car in the world:

Painted on the back? "Illegal Alien." That, my friends, is class. Especially when it's parked right outside of a Mexican restaurant.

After we'd received our margaritas and placed our food order, the skies turned black and opened up. We were seated outside, so this was a problem. We were kind of sort of able to eat inside, but the subsequent power outage made it a pretty crappy experience. Not having a table made it worse, and the power outage's way of shutting off all the ventilation fans in the kitchen made it suck worse than my tamale, and let me tell you, sister, my tamale sucked.

From here, Ed, AMF and I walked down the road to a club to see Graham Parker and the Figgs. Amanda was unable to join us owing to her water breaking, and she had to see to finding her fiancee and a hospital. We were soaked, and the club was packed with my parents and my parents' friends. Not literally, but figuratively. I believe that all the babysitters in the Arlington area were working that evening. The old folks, they love Graham Parker. This kind of bugged the piss out of me. It's not that I have a problem with folks (considerably) older than me being at shows; it's that 90% of them carry on like buffoons.

There's two types of buffoonery that make appearances at shows like this. The first is the getting completely hammered, singing loudly/playing air guitar buffoonery. This is also known as the, "whoo, hoo! We're free from the kids, and out to be wild!" buffoonery. Like the blue jeans from college, it just doesn't fit too well anymore. It makes you look awkward, and probably isn't too good for the digestion. The second kind of buffoonery is that of the old hipsters. These folks dress in their version of "cool," with hands stuck deep in pockets and heads barely nodding. You see- they're hip. It's another kind of being stuck in some time that just doesn't exist any more. They see the performer as being "Theirs," and the other folks in the crowd just don't get it. Before anyone asks, yeah, kids can be jackasses at shows, too. They very often are, and they piss me off, too. It just feels a lot more like putting on airs when the grown ups, are doing it. You'd think they'd know better.

Live shows just aren't that much fun for me anymore. Graham Parker and the Figgs were great-- no flies on those guys-- but the environment just gets old to me. I'd prefer to just stay at home and listen to my records. I think so, anyways. I'm a complicated person. I might go see the same show in Chicago at the end of the month. Maybe I'm just a martyr, doing it so you don't have to.

Here's the only picture I shot at the show, right before I noticed the large "NO PHOTOGRAPHY" sign. Below is a Figg:


The rest of the trip was really just hanging out with AMF. We walked in the humid nature, walked in the air conditioned malls, and did a lot of napping. Good times, good times.

Since then, it's been lots of busyness, but at home and at work. Too dull to report, really.

Now, I'm sitting around on a Sunday evening, waiting for Family Guy and American Dad to start, and thinking about all I have to do at the office tomorrow morning.

Time to get the clothes out of the dryer.

Me to Joshua and my Air Conditioner: Thank You for Being So Cool.

My brother came by on his way home from work and helped me install my air conditioner. The past two nights here have been hellishly hot, and while one-man installation of the air conditioner is possible, it is certainly not advisable. So, I say: Let there be cool.

While I Flit My Time Away.

I was dead tired today, and when I got back from work, I needed to eat. I drove around for a while with a sick belly, and nothing appealed. So- I went and had a beer down the street instead. Played some jukebox and had some great conversation with a friend I hadn't seen in some weeks.

Then, someone went and got hit by a train right outside. Feet outside. A state trooper I know went out with an Amtrak employee I somewhat know, and they both came inside to wash their hands. Back to their beers, boys.

Strobe lights filled the joint, and I left. It's just bad karma to stick around. As I walked across the park and past the Doughboy statue, all I saw were sirens. I don't know the outcome, and I didn't want to know what happened as I headed back to my home and the cat. I've been there before for train deaths, sad high school girls or bums. No matter the lifestyle, the end's the same. Lots of blood, I heard. Me, I walked home and called AMF, and now I'm getting ready to go to bed.

News will come soon enough.

A Firework.

Last night, I heard gunshots breaking out in my neighborhood. Being the intelligent guy that I am, I decided to wander outside unarmed to see who was shooting whom. To my surprise, no one had been shot, at all! In the midst of the rain, there was a fireworks show going on. Above is a firework.

Summer's Here, and the Time is Right for Fighting in the Streets, Boys.

I remembered today, and I wish I hadn't, a conversation I overheard in my office a few days ago. A very fat woman (N.B., She was not large. She was fat) was telling a guy how happy she was that she had health insurance. The tests she had had done last week were so expensive. And, then when they did the colonoscopy, well, boy howdy.

I puked a little bit in my mouth. I thought that I was past it, but I am not.

You might ask me, "Adam, would you have puked a bit in your mouth had it been a sweet skinny young thing?" And I'd answer, "Of course not." Nor would I have gone rabid with lust, but facts are facts: a fat woman talking about having something inserted into her ass is foul. It is especially foul considering the fact that they were looking for something untoward in there.

As I said, I wish I hadn't remembered this. It's worked its way into my brain, and now I feel it my responsibility to work it into yours, gentle reader.