perfidy

....my guitar wants to burn your dad. But this time it's not a funny Zappa song. It's for real. Yeesh. (Thanks to Michelle, the best Yankee fan I know, for the tip.)

(I really gotta take off the skirt (ahorribly sexist phrase, that (I shouldn't be such a pussy about being P.C. (do two wrongs make a right?)) and get back on the regular posting thing. New stories of robot terror appear every day, and here I am with my brain wired into the Perfidious Brainwave Magnifier trying to fight back a cruel and oppressinve assault on the Perfidy Compound by the forces of pushin-paper. Soon, soon.)

In the meantime, I would just like to thank my competitors in the Great Ministry "Who's The Biggest Dork" contest for being so well-adjusted and normal, allowing me to reign victorious as the biggest dork on the Ministry roster. And to think! I didn't even have to share my belching contest stories! Or mention the phrase "kinky sex with a mushroom!" Anybody want to try to take me again? I got more photos, like the one of me from Marching Band.

Or perhaps I should just be done with that.

Thought for the day: Greil Marcus, an infuriatingly pompous music writer who I would drive any distance to hunt and kill if only he weren't so goddamn right all the time, has a piece in an old issue of Granta in which he observes that sometimes you have to be ready to hear a song; much like born-again Christians maintain that the time has to be right for the Spirit to move you, the same goes for songs. One day it's just an album cut you didn't think much of; you've heard it a thousand times without giving a second thought, and surface is all that's there for you. And then the next day the same song comes by, the clouds part, an invisible choir sings, some alcoholic songwriter in Birmingham who died of liver failure in 1934 opens a hole in time and space and pours his heart into yours, and you're changed a little forever after.

Discuss.