Guns and Records

I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment I knew, without any doubt, that I was living in the most base and stupid generation in American history.

It might have been when all of the warning labels started popping up on almost every product on store shelves. Even replica football helmets marketed to fans of certain teams have stickers informing consumers that the helmet is not intended for on-field use, and won’t protect the user in the event of a tackle. Are you seriously that stupid? Did you think that the $59 Packers helmet that you just bought at the fan shop could be used to keep yourself safe when riding that dirtbike? Moron. When did we as a country decide that we should intervene in the Darwin’s “fittest” theory?

I hate to agree with Bill Bellamy, but he told a story of his youth as it applied to “child-proofing”. There are now companies that will come to your home and install all kinds of kid-proof shit on your cabinets, outlets, glass coffee table, etc., in order to make your home safe for your children. Bellamy tells how his mother didn’t stop him from touching a hot stove, and when he subsequently burned himself his mom stated that the stove was now “child-proofed”. Remember when you could ride a bike without a helmet at the age of 8? How climbing trees and half touch, half tackle football was a weekly (if not daily) occurrence in your neighborhood? You hurt yourself, and through the pain you learned that the activity that caused the injury was now off-limits unless you just liked pain. Or maybe you are just stupid, and that activity might eventually remove you from society.

To continue on the “wrong era” theme, I’m getting quite tired of women wearing less and less in commercials, theme restaurants, and even on the streets/ in clubs. You can’t swing a dead stripper without hitting a Hooters, Bone Daddy’s, or Twin Peaks. For the uninitiated, these are restaurants that have female servers wearing less than your average NFL cheerleader while bringing you your hot wings. I long for the days of pin-ups that were fully clothed and posed in positions of answering the office phone, or on the street on a windy day. You might catch a glimpse of the top of a stocking, and that was all you needed to get a little excited.

Now, I have to be smacked with tits when I’m trying to eat lunch. Sure, I could just avoid those places, but it doesn’t stop there. Watch TV for a couple hours, and I’m sure you’ll be bombarded with half-naked women a few times. Maybe I’m just a bit old-fashioned, but I prefer to leave something to the imagination when women are concerned. “I wonder what she’s got on under that,” has gone by the wayside. I can usually tell how well a woman “maintains herself” with most of the outfits that can be purchased at the local mall. I know you girls have some class out there. Just watch any old movie, or even “LA Confidential” to see what I’m talking about. That’s some hot shit right there.

Of course, these are just my opinions. I like to think (or maybe just hope) that our nation isn’t as stupid as it looks. Even though we elected Bush Jr. twice, we can come back from the brink. Let your kids enjoy a helmet-less existence. If you’ve raised them right, they’ll make the right choice and not kill themselves when playing. And, for God’s sake, please put some clothes on.

I have the coolest job sometimes.

Yeah, I know. I haven’t written anything in a while.

For those of you who decided not to read the “about” page of this blog, I’m a plumber. Most of what my company has me doing can be considered commercial service plumbing. This means, that if the office building in which you work has a leak on a plumbing pipe somewhere (and your maintenance personnel is either too lazy or inexperienced to fix it), I get the call. This goes for sewer stoppages, fixture installs/ changes, etc. This next story involves a couple of minor problems in a restaurant.

First, let me say that the movies/ porn industry have completely overexaggerated the “calling a plumber out and then banging him” scenario. If you ever meet a plumber that tells you a customer laid him, you have my permission to call shenanigans and tell him he’s full of shit. We don’t have sex with customers. Not only because some of us have a bit of a moral problem with that, but find me one attractive plumber. Not your husband or boyfriend, either. This story doesn’t end in sex, so if that’s what you’re waiting for- stop reading now.

Anyway, I got a call to a local DFW restaurant that had complaints of their soda fountain/ icewell drain being clogged, and a leak on a water tap-type fixture that customers used to get water with their meal. I arrived after my first call (approximately 9:15am), and found the restaurant to be dark and closed. This isn’t unusual, and most times there’s a manager in back somewhere waiting for my arrival. I cupped my hands around my face to look for any signs of life, and found none. I then knocked loudly on the glass entry doors to announce my prescence. Suddenly, someone sat bolt upright in a booth off to my right inside. I jumped a bit, and directed my attention to this person that I had awakened.

I was surprised to see a young asian girl (20-23 years old by my later approximation) wrapped in a sleeping bag with her index finger held up to tell me to “wait a minute”. I held up my hands to let her know that I was fine with waiting. Here’s where the story gets really surreal.

This young lady stood up from the booth and didn’t take the sleeping bag with her. She was dressed in a small t-shirt and a pair of blue, slightly sheer underwear. It was at this point that I literally took a step back from the doors. “Oh, holy shit,” I thought, “this is how it starts. This girl comes to the door, asks me if I’m here to snake her drain, and muted wah-wah guitar takes over.” There’s no winning for me here. I have a girlfriend, you see. A girlfriend that takes really good care of me. I’ve also seen Dateline NBC’s “To Catch A Predator”. This girl most likely being 16 is consuming most of my conscious thought at that moment, and she hasn’t even made it to the door yet.

“Can I help you?”, while still waking up.

“I’m with (random plumbing company), and I’m here to fix a couple of plumbing problems you guys have.” I reply.

“Oh, yeah. OK. I know what problems you’re talking about. C’mere, I’ll show you.” She beckons me to follow her.

Keep in mind that this restaurant has blinds covering their floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, but the blinds are open. This girl, whose name I never got, is walking through the restaurant in just a “baby T” and her underwear. Also, try to understand that I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that just seconds ago she was sleeping in a booth in the restaurant. Needless to say, I followed.

“Here’s the drain that’s stopped up.” She pointed to the soda fountain/ icewell combo behind the counter. Yes, there was water standing in the bottom but I didn’t give a shit. It was all I could do to concentrate on the icewell’s drain and not looking at her. It’s hard to be polite in that situation. How could any man, girlfriend or not, not turn and fucking stare right at her. I mean, what the fuck? Who sleeps in a restaurant? If you are the type of person to sleep over where you work, who sleeps in their underwear and t-shirt IN THE DINING AREA OF A RESTAURANT WHERE ALL OF THE WALLS ARE WINDOWS? All I could think of was, “Where are the fucking cameras? This has to be some kind of joke.” This was one trusting girl.

She then pointed out that the drain piping was in the cabinet below the icewell. As I crouched down and opened the cabinet to inspect the piping, she leaned over me to have her own look into the icewell above. Her underwear-ed crotch was now mere inches from my face.

“Is it still not draining? Nope. It’s not draining.” she says. I have hardly spoken a word since our introductions a couple of minutes ago. I said nothing then, either. Every bit of my mental faculties were being taken up with thoughts of “Don’t stare. Don’t look at anything but her face. Keep it together, Pappy. Keep your shit straight, man. She’ll realize she’s half-dressed, and correct it.”

I asked about the other problem the restaurant was having. She said she’d have to call her boss to get details on that. She disappeared in to the back office and left me to the icewell’s drain. “What the fuck was that?”, I asked myself. No sooner than I had begun to inspect the drain not draining, she reappeared from the office with details on the leak.

SHE STILL HADN’T PUT ON CLOTHES.

“My manager says that this tap is leaking over here.” She was pointing to a cabinet below a peninsula countertop that had a glass-filler in it. She then crouched down and opened the cabinet. For visual reference, she had taken up the position of a catcher on a baseball diamond. I made my way beside her and shined my flashlight under the cabinet, and sure enough- there was a bucket catching a water leak from the tap above. I told her I’d have a closer look at it after I fixed the icewell.

“Cool.”, she said.

She then went back to the booth she had been sleeping in when I arrived, and retrieved some clothing. I turned my attention back to the soda fountain. The next time I saw her, she was fully clothed for work. I fixed the leak below the counter, and cleared the icewell drain. Her manager arrived not long after I completed my work, and added a couple of other things to the job.

I returned the next day to work on the other stuff he wanted done, and “sleeping bag girl” was there. Funny thing- she acted as if she’d never seen me before. Maybe it was because I DIDN’T make any kind of pass at her or mention her state of undress the day before.

Either way, that was the closest I’ve ever been to banging a customer, and it wasn’t even that close.

Some of you might stop reading this blog after this story, and I’m OK with that.

If this is the first post you’ve ever read on this site, let me give you some information.  I’m a DJ in a small Dallas bar.  I play hip-hop, reggae, Baltimore Club, and some rock mixed in.  Sometimes people tip me when I’m playing music they like, or when they want to request a song.  The bar I play in is small, dark, and weird.  The bartenders are an eclectic group of guys, and I draw an eclectic group of people on Saturday nights.  A lot of the people that come out on Saturday are people that have been there before, and like what I do.  Of course there are the people that happened to show up there early and are digging my music and hang around.  This story is about one of the latter people.

Towards the end of the night (about 1:20am), a girl approaches the booth to make a request.  One of my friends is usually standing near the entrance of the DJ booth and heads off most “requesters”.  This time, it was my brother.  He talks to her, sees she has money in hand (which is a good way to get your request played).   She sticks the money out towards me, and my brother hands me a piece of paper with a song title on it.  I assume it’s her request, and I direct her to put the money in the jar I have handy for tips.  She puts the money in the jar, and goes away.

Two songs later, I play the song on the piece of paper.  As is the norm, I only play 2/3 of the song (since that’s where I usually mix out of a song and into the next one), and go on to the next tune.  The girl that had previously tipped me to play her song re-approached the DJ booth and started talking to my brother.  My brother looked bewildered and reached into the tip jar and retrieved her money.  She took it.

As she turned to walk off, I yelled to get her attention.  She turned back, and I said (loudly over the music), “Are you kidding me?!  Did you just take your money back?!”  She looked as if she was trying to think about how to explain what she had just done.  “I played your song,” I said.  Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.  She then thrust the money back towards me.  “Stick it up your ass! I don’t want your fucking money!  You don’t do that,” I yelled.

She turned away again, and walked back to her friends.  Keep in mind that the place is pretty busy, and full of people.  I’m fucking mad now.  If there’s a golden rule of bars, it’s DON’T TAKE YOUR TIPS BACK.  I’m assuming that the piece of paper with the request on it wasn’t hers, and someone had made a request to my brother at the same time she walked up.  So, maybe I hadn’t played her song.  Who cares?  You making a request isn’t a contract.  And, above all, YOU DON’T TAKE YOUR TIP BACK.

Two songs later, it was last call.  I usually get on the mic and do the usual speech- “Did you guys have a good time tonight?  It’s last call.  I’m not playing hip-hop anymore.  It’s time to get your last drinks, etc.”.  Except this time, my speech was different:

“Did you guys have a good time tonight? “  (Cheering from the crowd)  “My name is PappyFromJersey, and I have to point someone out in the crowd tonight.”  (More cheering)  “There’s a girl here that thinks it’s OK that if she tips me to play a song for her, and I don’t play it then she can come take her money back.”  (Rising boos and jeers from the crowd)

I point her out, and one of the barbacks shines a flashlight on her.  Cries of “Fuck you, bitch”, and “What?! Who did that?”  come flying out of the crowd.  All attention in the place is on her.

“I think I did a good job for you people tonight, did I not?”   Everyone cheers.  “If I didn’t play a request for you guys, then I’m sorry.  But, please don’t throw anything at me and certainly DON’T TAKE YOUR MONEY BACK!”   The cheering was almost deafening.  I went on to play my usual last call selections that get people out of the bar (Slipknot, Rage Against The Machine, System of a Down, etc.).  I normally get back on the mic when the lights come on to help speed up the process of emptying the bar.

“Alright people, the lights are on.  It’s time to go.  Thanks to all of you for coming out.  If that girl that took money out of my tip jar is still here: I hope you get AIDS.”

At that, the crowd that’s still left is laughing and smiling.  15 different people come over to tell me that I did an awesome job and put money in my jar.  I thank them all, and start packing up my shit.  At this time, a short Hispanic girl approaches me.

“Excuse me, are you the DJ that just said he hopes some girl gets AIDS?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“Do you know anyone who’s ever died of AIDS?” she says.

“No.”

“That’s an awful thing to say about someone.”

“OK,”  is my reply.

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I hope she dies of AIDS.”

“What if someone hoped your Mom gets AIDS?”

“I’d ask her what she did to make someone so upset.”

“It’s sad that you have no love for your own mother.”

“Where are you going with this?  What’s your point?”

I should have just turned my back by now, but curiosity got the best of me.  There’s a group of my friends forming, and her boyfriend that’s standing behind her is getting really uncomfortable.

“Are you from Texas?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then how can you represent Texas with that kind of attitude?”

“I never said that I represented Texas.”

“You’re a horrible fucking DJ.”

“Really?  What makes you say that? You’re still here at the end of the night.”

“Because you said you hoped that girl got AIDS!”

“What does that have to do with me being a good DJ or not?”

“Because you’re supposed to have compassion for people!”

“What does having compassion for people have to do with being a DJ?”

“You’re an awful human being.”

“How long have you known me?  A couple of hours?  That makes you an authority on what kind of human being I am?”

At this point, a couple of my friends were trying to get this girl to shut up.  She looked willing to take them all on, so I turned around and kept packing my shit up.  I took a bunch of shit from two of the bartenders about the AIDS comment.  I pointed out that we worked in a weird, dark bar where the bartenders eat broken glass and spit fire during the night.  I also pointed out that if no one had complained about my statements, then we wouldn’t be talking about it.  They had no reply.

I’ve never claimed to be the nicest person in the world.  If you reach into my tip jar to get your money back because you were unhappy with my performance, then I’m going to wish AIDS on you.  I won’t touch you or even call you names.  I’ll just hope that you get AIDS.

Being a plumber, I don’t get to eat lunch at regular intervals or at the same place every day like office workers. We take lunch when we can, and sometimes not at all. On occasion, we get to eat with other plumbers that we work with and might even sit down at an actual restaurant. The following story is about one of those times.

I was working with a friend I’ll call “Jim”. Jim and I had just completed installing a water heater in a customer’s house and happened to be just around the corner from a Chili’s. I’m not usually one to eat at the “apostrophe” restaurants (Friday’s, Snuffer’s, etc.) because they usually suck and are filled with the kind of people that I can’t stand. Jim wanted to eat there, so I agreed. Just before we arrived, some other fellow employees had called Jim and asked where he was eating lunch. He told them, and they came too since they weren’t far away.

There were 5 of us at the table, and the waitress came by to take our drink order. Jim wanted to go wash his hands, so he instructed me to order him an iced tea in his absence. When he returned to the table, our drinks had arrived.

Jim: “Thanks for getting me the tea.”

Me: “No sweat.”

Jim: “Oh, you got tea too?”

Me: “Yeah. Well, it’s peach tea.” (I don’t know why I ordered peach flavored iced tea. It sounded good at the time.   I’m now glad I did.)

Jim: “Ugh. Really?”

Me: “Yeah. What, you don’t like peach tea?” I begin to take a drink of my tea.

Jim: (looks me right in the eye) “I’d rather suck dick than eat a peach.”

Me: (sprays peach tea back into the glass and onto the table in front of me) “What?!”

Jim: “I fucking hate peaches.”

Me: “Well, no shit. I mean, you REALLY hate peaches.”

Jim: “Yep.”

Me: “There are a LOT of other things I would rather do than suck dick, man. You could make me eat all of the foods I hate before I do that.” (If you’ve read any other blog posts here, then you’d know that there are a lot of foods I hate.)

Jim: “Not me. Just peaches.”

We went on to eat our lunch without incident. We’ve discussed this exchange a few times since, and he still feels that way. I’ve told this story in person to a bunch of my friends, and I get the same reaction every time:

“Man, he REALLY hates peaches.”

I found myself watching the Masters Tournament a couple of weeks ago on Easter Sunday, and Zach Johnson had just pulled off a nice run past Tiger to win. Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I don’t like golf. Never have. I just happened to be somewhere where it was on TV, and since it’s a sport- I watched it. Anyway, after someone wins the Masters, they get an awful green jacket and get to make a little speech on TV.

Like so many other athletes before him, when presented with a trophy or some other big win in a big event, he thanked Jesus. Zach Johnson believes that Jesus played an active role in his winning the Masters. Not Johnson’s belief in Jesus, but actually Jesus himself had something to do with him winning.

So then, we are to assume by all of these “I’d like to thank God” speeches that God/ Jesus have stakes in how well a certain player or team does in their respective competitions. How fucking egotistical and selfish are you that you think that what you’re doing on that course or field is that important that God Himself would affect the outcome or assist you in winning some inconsequential game. Ever hear the losing opponent blame God in a post-game interview? “Our team would have won if God had helped us out a little more. Thanks for nothing, Jesus!”

I wouldn’t have a problem with athletes attributing their wins to “my being a Christian”, or “my belief in Jesus Christ”. That speaks more to having a belief system or a mindset that was conducive to being successful. Hell, the athletes in question could have just seen a particularly inspiring episode of “October Road”, and that’s what helped them win. That would be easier to handle than the idea of you being such a good Christian that God felt it necessary to step in on your behalf to defeat your obviously less devout opponent across the pitch.

In the future, just thank your wife and sponsors and shut the fuck up.

I’ve been spinning records in front of people for about 4-5 years now.  When I say in front of people, I mean house parties, weddings, clubs, etc.  I’m primarily a hip-hop DJ, and also incorporate reggae, rock, Baltimore club, and b-boy breaks into my sets as well.  The crowds I play for are pretty mixed as far as race, age, and sex go.  Here’s the story of how it all started:

Music’s been a part of my life since I was just a kid.  My mom was constantly playing records in the house.  Since we didn’t have cable, and didn’t get any kind of video game system until long after every other kid, my mom would put records on and sing along to them.  I began to learn the “Hair” and “Jesus Christ Superstar”, and was singing Bill Withers while my friends were playing with Lincoln Logs.  Then, a few years later, I was introduced to Rap music.  This was before the culture of Hip-hop was born.  There was just Rap.

I couldn’t get enough Rap.  Run DMC, Eric B and Rakim, Boogie Down Productions, Big Daddy Kane, and Public Enemy were constantly in my tape deck.  I devoured as much beat-oriented music as I could.  Around the same time, I found out about skateboarding.  Skaters were a kind of low-level hoodlums.  We tore up other people’s shit and ran from the cops.  We listened to Hardcore and Rap music.  Both of these genres of music had messages that seemed directed right at me.  Yeah, my mom’s pissing me off.  I hate the government too, Chuck D!  At the time, Dead Kennedys and D.R.I. were just the white KRS-Ones.  I listened to Rap to feel good, and Hardcore when I was angry.  Sometimes the two were interchangeable.

As I got older, hardcore was changing, and so was Rap.  There was now an entire lifestyle associated with Rap called Hip-hop.  I’m sure you all know of the 4 elements: MC’ing, B-boying, Graffitti,  and DJ’ing.  Out of the four elements, I found DJ’ing to be the most appealing.  I had no idea how to even get into being a DJ.  I was too young, and too poor.  There were still great artists in Hip-hop, and I was still drawn to the intelligent Rap like A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Black Sheep, and Pete Rock  & C.L. Smooth.

Fast forward to New Jersey circa 1997.  I was perusing the internet one night, and I found a New Year’s Eve mix by Fatboy Slim.  As I heard the opening buzzsaw notes of Armand Van Helden’s “Necessary Evil”, I was blown away.   I went out and bought everything I could find by Fatboy, the Chemical Brothers, and especially Daft Punk.  I was still without the means for purchasing any DJ equipment, but I had new inspiration.

By the time I moved to Texas, I was certain I could save enough to get some ‘tables and a mixer.  I found a bunch of local record shops and met some DJs.  They gave me advice and told me to search pawn shops and the newspaper for equipment.  Finally, I found some pretty crappy used tables and a mixer at a pawn shop for $250.  I started buying records off of other DJs and used record shops.   The more I practiced, I began to realize that I didn’t suck at this.  I wasn’t anywhere near good, but I found myself mixing house records and not completely fucking it up.  As I gained confidence, some friends let me set up my gear in their living rooms and play during their parties.  I went mostly unnoticed, but at that time, it was OK.  That meant that I wasn’t awful enough to draw attention, either.  Where this was going, I didn’t know.  What I DID know was it made me really happy.

As I shopped for records in actual record stores (and not garage sales), I found that record companies had been still producing Hip-hop music on vinyl.  I had no idea.  For every 5 house records I bought, I’d pick up one Rap record.  I started searching Ebay too, and was amazed to find that I could get some of my favorite albums and singles from back in the day.  Soon, I would pick up 5 Rap records to one House record.  Then I stopped buying House altogether.  I concentrated all of my efforts in practicing being a Hip-hop DJ.

One day, my brother told me that there was a bar in town that had some turntables set up and allowed people to come in and mix for 30 minutes at a time on Monday nights.  I told him that I wasn’t interested (mostly due to me being scared to death to perform in front of people).  Then, one of our mutual friends wanted to have a birthday party.  My brother suggested the bar that had “Open Turntable Night”, except this would be a Saturday night.   He talked to the bar’s owner, and got the guy to allow me to spin records during the party.  For some reason, the bar wasn’t busy that night, so he said OK.   I played that night , and impressed the owner so much that he offered me Saturday nights from then on.  I’ve been there ever since.    That was 3 years ago.

I make a decent side-living from the gig, and have made a shitload of friends playing the music that I love.  I’ve had a lot of offers to play in other clubs (and have taken one of them, only to leave the gig 6 months later), but find that the combination of a regular day job along with a weekend gig  is perfect for me.  I don’t get sucked into the DJ lifestyle of only seeing people after 5pm every day, and never having weekends free.  Our bar’s been bought by new younger owners, and things are looking up even further now.   Sure, I’ve got to deal with drunken idiots every week requesting shitty mainstream music, but it comes along with the territory.

If you’re interested in becoming a DJ, go buy some shitty used equipment and get good on it.  If you can be good on crap equipment, then you can be good on anything.  First and foremost, LEARN TO MIX WELL.  Scratching and trickery is just icing on the tasty cake made of good mixes.  A good DJ is a good mixer first, and a scratch DJ second.

Any questions, just comment below.

DJ Shadow (a.k.a. Josh Davis) released his new album, “The Outsider”, on September 18th of last year. Every review I’ve read on this album has been awful. I feel like I should review it from the point of view of a DJ Shadow fan.

If you haven’t guessed from my post title, I love Shadow. For those of you who still don’t know who DJ Shadow is, let me tell you. DJ Shadow got his start in the Bay area of California and, like most DJs, began playing house parties and making mixtapes for friends. After a while, he caught the attention of James Lavelle and they formed U.N.K.L.E. He toured in England, where the two were immensely popular, and began recording his first solo album, “Endtroducing”.

“Endtroducing” was released in 1994, to critical acclaim. Shadow’s sound was like nothing that American audiences had heard before. Mostly “trip-hop”, or slowed down hip-hop beats with sampled vocals and instruments throughout, “Endtroducing” blew minds. It was seven years before fans would get a follow-up album.

“The Private Press” gave Shadow fans more of what they loved about “Endtroducing”. Again, mostly slow and laid back, it was another album that could get heads nodding or could get people laid. There was only one track with live vocals, and it was too quirky to get any sort of radio play. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of one time that Shadow’s EVER had radio play (”The Outsider” included).

Five years later, we were given “The Outsider”.

It would seem that DJ Shadow’s finally had enough with 75bpm. “All over the place” doesn’t even come close to describing the sound on his newest release. An overwhelming majority of the songs have live vocals, whether from well known rappers like David Banner or KeakDaSneak, or from European artists like Cris James. Shadow even directs a live band on “This Time (I’m Gonna Try It My Way)”- a loungy-funk jam reminiscent of Marvin Gaye if he was white.

Personally, I couldn’t be happier with “The Outsider”. DJ Shadow himself has stated that he’s getting tired of the same-old-same-old. “The Outsider” couldn’t be further from “Entroducing”. Even though there are some slower tracks on his new album, they’re nothing like anything he’s done before. Hearing Q-Tip over a Shadow beat may have just made my year.

Anyway, go get everything you can find by DJ Shadow. Once you do, thank me here.

I bought a gun yesterday.

I had just finished serving my county by sitting in a Jury Holding Room for 5 hours, and felt like buying something. My girlfriend had just sold her 9mm Taurus and had been drooling over my SigSauer .40. I told her she could have my semi-auto, because I was getting a revolver, dammit.

Two hours and two pawn shops later, here it is. It’s a Smith and Wesson Model 28-2 Highway Patrolman in .357magnum. I couldn’t be happier with it. I haven’t shot it yet, but I’ll let you know when I do.

Here it is on my cleaning mat:

Propped up:

Down the back of my pants:

And gratuitous money shot with ammo:

And edited for new grips:

The old saying still applies here:

“You know you’re getting old when new music all starts to sound the same.”

I’m sitting here listening to Led Zeppelin’s “BBC Sessions”, and I almost started to cry a couple of times.  Not because the music moved me to tears (even though a Zep song has done that before), but because I know I’ll never hear anything like it again.  When’s the last time you heard a voice like Robert Plant’s in a new band?  Talent like Jimmy Page’s?  Fucking gone.

Don’t misread what I’ve written, there are some great musicians out there (Mike Patton, Tool, Primus, Fishbone).  Goddamn are they hard to find, though.  Faith No More’s broken up, Primus’ last couple of albums have kinda blown, and I think Fishbone’s doing opening slots for bands like Nickelback and Train.  Tool is my last great hope.  I hope they keep it going into their 60s, so I can still give them my money.

Hip-hop is even worse.  I can remember a time when hip-hop had an overwhelming majority of good music, and a few crap albums floating around on the edge.  Most people call this time the “Golden Age of Hip-Hop” when groups like Eric B and Rakim, Public Enemy, A Tribe Called Quest, and Boogie Down Productions reigned.  Then, the West Coast got involved and a few years later, the genre had gone entirely the other way.  Now, there’s an overwhelmlingly huge pile of crap albums released every year, with a few good albums floating around the edge.  These are called “underground”.  Look for them.

Finding new and interesting music is a fucking chore.  Usually, you hear about a good new band from a friend or on a specialized internet blog site that has 10 readers (like this one).  A lot of the time, the new and interesting music is some guy playing the pan flute with his asshole.  But once in a while, that gem shines through and you realize all of the searching has finally payed off.

Keep looking for good new music.  Support the bands and groups you like, and tell people about them.  Even if 99 out of 100 people tell you to fuck off, one of them will get it and you’ll help your favorite band to get a new fan.

There’s a woman I know who is a lesbian. She likes women, and only women- as far as I know. She doesn’t live her life as a lesbian, but as a woman who likes women. At the time of our last meeting, she didn’t have one peice of rainbow paraphenalia, one rainbow sticker on her car, and hadn’t been to a single “Gay Pride Event”. Not because she was afraid to do any of these things, but because she just didn’t care to broadcast it. Why can’t all gay people be like her?

I’ve tried to understand where the gay community is coming from. You’ve been opressed into hiding who you like to sleep with your whole life until you “came out”, and now you want to show the world what you’ve been hiding. No one cares. Join a support group or something, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to be bombarded with your sexual preference while I’m driving to work. No one I pass on the highway would know that I’m heterosexual unless they saw me banging my girlfriend. Let’s keep it that way.

The same goes for you, soccer moms. This new trend of the stickers with your kid’s name and number and their sport of choice on your rear window is fucking stupid. Why did you do that? Is “scrapbooking” (you know, that moronic industry created by bored housewives to make their day seem meaningful) getting old? Fuck your kid. I hated kids to begin with, and now I’ve got a particular kid to hate now. My prayers are now directed at your kid’s team losing terribly in whatever sport they choose, and have their dreams crushed. Don’t worry, they’ll still get some kind of fucking trophy anyway. See how childhood is becoming more and more like the special olympics? Your kids are now emotional retards. Congratulations. What’s next, “My kid took his first steps today!” sticker? I hope your children grow up to become drug addicts that won’t move out of your house, just to prove that your idea of childraising (enrolling your child in as many extracurricular activities as possible) came back to bite your dumb jogging-pants-wrapped ass.

See a trend here?