( 2:34 PM )
Thursday, November 20. Afternoon Some Time. Music Currently Playing: Neutral Milk Hotel, In An Aeroplane Over the Sea
I haven't blogged in a while because I have lacked the conviction of my own cleverness. Have been reading several bloggs and that seems to be the prerequisite - this beleif that you are some charming witty fellow who has interesting and important things to say about the world. Ha ha, aren't I clever? I made some obtuse observation about the world around me. I notice things and report back to my readership with a shrewd comic voice and humorous slant! My readership which is probably two people: one of which is some guy named Mark K. from North Cranton Idaho who wants to know if I got his band's CD (Hot Pork Deathpie * Deodarant Skull Chicken) and when I am going review it.
Mark: I will never review your CD. No offense meant, big guy, but it's just not worth my time to give language to something I found at best a tower of rock and roll mediocrity. That isn't to say you should give up your dream and go back to delivering Pizzas at your Uncle Marty's "Mexitalian Buffet and Pizza Kingdom" while taking night classes in Japanese Art History at Fountains Eastern Community Education Services (FECES) while simultaneously breaking up and getting back together with your girlfriend Marleesa in a destructive relationship cycle that has previously fueled the majority of the lyrics you write for Hot Pork Deathpie.
Nevermind that she is totally out of her gourd and makes your life a constant misery of suffering and humiliation, you get plenty of drunk college tail when Hotpie tours the small club circuit, and have deftly avoided contracting any serious social diseases that aren't quickly treatable by a high dose of antibiotics you keep in your gear bag. You are doing what most of us only wish, Mark. You're following a dream. You probably have no money, and sleep on the sofa at the apartment of Jason, Hot Pork's long time bass player and keyboardist, and it smells like cat box because he never changes it and anyhow the cat, Gertrude, (named after his great Aunt Gertrude Finkleweiss who was a major name in the Womens International Badmitton for Peace and an End to World Hunger Organization back in the 1970's), just pretty much poops wherever suits its fancy anyhow including such choice locations as in your shoes, on your Hot Pork Deathpie Leather Jacket, under the sofa where you currently reside, and in the soil of every house plant and landscape acoutrement in a ten mile radius. We're talking about THE Jacket. The one given to you my Marleesa, during one of those periods during the holidays two years ago when you, lonely, emotionally desperate, swallowed your pride and moved in with her for three weeks of incessant relationship analysis, foot rubs, self-help books, and evenings in front of soap operas she tapes while she's at work. The one you wore for the promo photo shoot. The one you want to be cremated in for crissake after you and the band die in some tragic airplane and/or tourbus and/or boating and/or Stage Show Pyrotechnics and/or Drug Overdose and/or Freak Sex Toy accident and you get your own VH1 Behind the Music special and copies of Deodorant Skull Chicken (and it's prequel "Anal Satan Yodel") go sailing off the shelves and grieving fans run to their record stores and hold candlelight vigils at local parks demanding to know why, why did it have to end so tragically, and local radio stations put all of your hits in constant rotation and they start a Hot Pork Deathpie Educational Scholarship which is awarded once a year to a promising young student in the field of Japanese Art History. All of this were it not for the now permanent stink of cat poo.
Nevermind that hits to the band webite, www.DeathpieRocksAmerica.com (and it's British sister site, www.DeathpieRocksUK.uk), are slagging and the company hosting it wants to raise the cost and the last drummer, that stoner asshole Rick is the one that has backups of everything and you don't even really know how to use the damn internet unless it's to guiltily beat off to golden shower porn thumbnails or check blogs for Hotpie album reviews.
Mark, when you are forty-seven, and you and Marleesa are bitterly divorced and your wages at Payless Shoes are garnished because you have repeatedly failed to pay your alimony, and you spend your weekends giving guitar lessons for under-the-table marijuana money to young kids who mommies buy them better hardware than you could ever afford to use back in your rock and roll days, you will look back at your stint as lead singer, guitarist, conceptual mastermind, and bandleader for Hot Pork Deathpie as a time of glory and freedom and triumph against all that sucks and does not rock. Here's to you, Mark-O. May your choruses always repeat after the 2nd verse. May you never have to bear with contempt and guilt that phone call with your father where he asks you when you are going to get a real job. May your rock and roll moments be bright, may they play with distorion and thundering drums, may all your solos be greeted with hoots from the audience. May you one day get the stink of cat poo from your Hot Pork Deathpie leather jacket. And whatever you do, keep sending those CD's. Who knows? Maybe someone will see you for the latent talent and musical genius and offer you that big break!
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