Oh, Fuck It. I’m Gonna Have A Party.

This is the 100th post on Bible Belt Babylon. Makes sense that I would continue as I began, namely by bitching about my government. Whoopee! Let’s go.

Why Bush is an idiot: his first, and possibly only veto as President of the United States was cast to protect embryos from being used to study and defeat human disease. Instead, they will simply be thrown away. Good fucking job, sir. But surely his stance on the sanctity of life extends to adults, right? I’m sure he’s antiwar, and opposes the death penalty. Oh, he’s not? Hm. Maybe he’s just trying to drag the world back to the Dark Ages.

I had a dream one time that I was at a picnic in the park, and George showed up. He was affable and friendly, with sleeves rolled up and a genuine, friendly smile on his face. He was a nice guy, and I like him. Then, across the park, I saw the President, surrounded by a ring of Secret Service Agents and a palpable cloud of stupid and evil. I couldn’t reconcile the two halves in the dream, and George seemed almost as disturbed by the duality as I was. I’m not sure what it means, but I think maybe I was trying to deal with the fact that yes, he’s a jackass, but he’s not a bunny-strangling psychopath.

Anyway, here’s the last 20 songs I used:

5/19/2006
I Ain’t Got Many Friends Left To Talk To
“Your Love” by Outfield

5/20/2006
You Had A Great Idea...
“Students Carve Hearts Out Of Coal” by Destroyer

5/22/2006
Love Is All Around
“Love Is All Around” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

5/23/2006
It’s A Dirty Job, But Shooting Guns Just Makes You Horny
“Miss Moneypenny” by Placebo
 
5/26/2006
Put It To Bed, Kick It In The Head
“Bang Bang, You’re Dead” by Dirty Pretty Things

5/30/2006
I Need New Clothes, I Need Somewhere To Stay
“Train in Vain” by The Clash

5/31/2006
But Oh How It Feels So Real
“Tiny Dancer” by Elton John

6/02/2006
I Want To Shoot The Whole Day Down
“I Don’t Like Mondays” by Boomtown Rats

6/06/2006
But What’s Puzzling You Is The Nature Of My Game
“Sympathy for the Devil” Bossa N' Stones (Rolling Stones Cover)

6/09/2006
And You, You Are No Fun
“Cheer Up (You Miserable Fuck)” by David Ford

6/13/2006
Can’t You Understand, Oh My Little Girl?
“Enjoy The Silence” by Agnes Vanilla (Depeche Mode Cover)

6/14/2006
As If It Matters
“Mouse” by The Bridgewater Band

6/18/2006
Can’t Get You Out Of My Head
“Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” by Kylie Minogue

6/28/2006
Leave The Key In The Old Front Door Lock
“L.A. Freeway” by Guy Clarke

7/05/2006
That’s Fuckin’ Teamwork!
“Fuck Her Gently” by Tenacious D

7/06/2006
I Am A Dreamer. I'm This Far Away.
“Lifetime for the Mavericks” by Go Back Snowball

7/13/2006
You’re A Star
“Tonight On The WB” by The Comas

7/14/2006
Il Me Reste Un Espoir Mais Tu Ne Te Retournes Pas
“Sur Te Pas” by Autour de Lucie

7/19/2006
No One Hears Me Sing This Song
“In The Garage” by Weezer

7/21/2006
Oh, Fuck It. I’m Gonna Have A Party
“Blankest Year” by Nada Surf

No One Hears Me Sing This Song

According to Joy, Kam has described the announced breakup of Weezer as “the worst thing that's ever happened in my entire life.” I don’t know if I would agree, but this breakup is a serious body blow to my youth. Weezer was the first band in my life that looked like me. They sang about the X-Men, Dungeons & Dragons and not going to Green Day shows. How cool is that? They made me realize that my awkward, semi-cool drama kid world view was just as valid as anyone else’s. And just like me, Weezer meandered through life, following up success with years of silence and results that never quite lived to expectations. There was a sense of self-doubt and criticism that came across in the music and mythos of Weezer, and I saw that in myself. Perhaps that’s why I identified so much with the music. That, and an unhealthy obsession with Sanrio-lovers.

Jeb and I saw Weezer last year in England. I wish I could say it was the best show I ever went to, and certainly it was the best Weezer show I ever saw, but I was left wanting more (Jamie, for instance, or My Name Is Jonas would have been nice additions). It was still a great show, thanks to Tegan and Sara’s affable opening act, the hordes of Britons chanting “Wee-ZAH! Wee-ZAH!” and the fact that it capped off my month in the U.K. with a show that I could not have seen at home. Jeb walked away with a “Rockin’ the Bitches since 1994” t-shirt, and I had a phone full of grainy photos and a few 30-second chunks of Say It Ain’t So. I was disappointed at the time, but I’m especially glad now that I got to see them then. I wish them all the best, and I thank them for three really great albums and two that had some awesome songs.

Rock on.

Il Me Reste Un Espoir Mais Tu Ne Te Retournes Pas

[Disclaimer: I love Paris. I want to live there. Keep that in mind.]

Happy Bastille Day! I’m not exactly sure what is entailed in proper Bastille Day celebrations, aside from storming prisons and stealing guns. I don’t really have any interest in either of those activities, so I think maybe I’ll just watch coverage of the Tour de France.

I’ve been to France twice in my short life, both during the summer, and both under the guise of “advancing my career.” The first time I went to work on a movie. I highly recommend it. It was my first job after college, and the only one I ever landed based on my undergrad degree. I was 22 years old, unattached, and I had just started drinking the year before. My first drink was the night of November 7th, 2000. It was a significant date. Not significant to these stories, however.

So I’m in Paris. I have some good times. I have some bad times. I learn to hate the Eiffel Tower. I add to the image of the Ugly American. I feel bad about it.

For instance, there is some holiday commemorating... something, on August... something or other. I don’t know. But regardless, there were lots of people not at work, and I think they all decided to come to the Eiffel Tower. It was also the day we were scheduled to shoot on the top of that fucker.

Being the low man on the totem pole, I landed the unenviable task of standing in line to buy elevator tickets to take the SONY HD camera up to the observation deck. Did I mention it was August? It sucked. It was hot. It was crowded. It lasted all day.

By the end of the shoot I was absolutely sick of Paris, Parisians, and their stupid fucking tower. I resolved to take out my frustration on the next Parisians I saw.

As it happened, it was two cops.

I was walking with the script supervisor, who wore a NASCAR cap and shirt during every day of the shoot. Every. Day. This man was embarrassed about nothing. As we walked away from the tower, I said to him, “I’m going to fuck with these cops.”

He chuckled as we ascended the steps of the National Museum, and looked at me as if to say, “funny idea, but no you’re not.”

Now, if you’ve never been to Paris, you should know that the National Museum is separated from the Eiffel Tower by a long verdant park, sort of like a really beautiful version of the South Oval at the University of Oklahoma. What’s important to know is that the steps of the National Museum, where I was standing, have perhaps the least obstructed and most complete view of the Eiffel Tower in all of Paris.

As the cops are walking past us, I stop them with a “Pahr-dough-nay-moaw” delivered in my most redneck accent.

They pause and wait for me to continue.

“I was wonderin’ if you could tell me, where’s the Eiffel Tower?”

They look at each other, they look at me, they look at the tower, back at each other, then at me.

I sense confusion. “Oh, Ah’m sorry. Oooo-eh le Tour Ee-fell?”

One of them points at the tower. “It’s right there, Monsieur.”

I look at it. “Oh,” I say. “I thought it was taller.”

They stare at me.

“How tall is that,” I ask them. They begin to say something about meters when I interrupt them with “how tall is that in feet? How many pounds does that thing weigh?”

They realize I am full of shit at this point, and walk away.

I catch up with the script supervisor, who is, for perhaps the first time in his life, embarrassed by the behavior of someone else. I feel a perverse sense of accomplishment.

After all, it is a rare act that is both embarrassing to a redneck and rude to the French.

You’re A Star

I’ve had some pretty hideous pictures on my site of late (Reginald, Rudy, Zombie, Master, Paul and Rummy come to mind), so enjoy the new and de-crazied Christina Aguilera. I’m not a fan of her music, but there’s a part of me that would be happy to just stare at her all day. You can probably guess which part of me that is. I caught her new video on VH1 and was left thinking first that VH1 rarely has a positive impact on my life, and that perhaps I have bad taste.

Perhaps. These thoughts have been pretty far from my mind, for the most part. If I’m not at work, and thinking about work, I’m probably in a library trying to work on my thesis. That’s where I was, both physically and mentally, last Thursday. I went back to one of my alma maters, Oklahoma City University, to use the biblioteque. It was just like I remembered it from my time as an MBA student. I didn’t get a chance to get down to Alvin’s for a cup of Starbuck’s finest, but the main floor of the lobby was enough to throw the nostalgia bus into overdrive. I thought about my life from that time, and how it is still so similar and yet so different. It was a strange feeling, thinking about all the people that were so important to me at the time and how some of them have drifted out of my life. It was a morose moment for me as I realized that most likely I will never see or speak to some of them ever again simply because I have no way to make contact.

I also thought about the documentary I started, and the six months I spent as an art critic for a local alternative alternative paper. Upon reflection, I thought that I must have some decent sense of what’s good and bad in the aesthetic sense. But at the same time, it’s bullshit. Like what you like, and if it makes you happy you should keep it near. If your buddies in the Hell’s Angels make fun of your Hello Kitty helmet, so what?

I thought about that the next day at an art show Shilo put together at the Electric Chair Gallery. I thought about how some of my friends would have loved it, and how others would probably get a headache from constant eye-rolling. I enjoyed myself, and I enjoyed the art. Mason Adams, Kristen Davis and Andrea Sheehan had their stuff on display, and it was pretty badass. I bought one of Andrea’s pieces, and if I had a couple hundred more dollars I would have picked up some of the pieces Kristen Davis brought. If anyone wants to buy something nice for me, I really liked “Bound.” Very nice stuff.

But that’s just my opinion.

I Am A Dreamer. I'm This Far Away.

I’ve had some pretty bizarre dreams of late. I’m going to share one with you, but first, an example of what constitutes reality.

I step into the elevator at work today, and I hear a kind of digital ringing, like a telephone. I look around for a cell phone on the ground, and find nothing. The ringing continues as the elevator descends. I check the emergency button and see that it has not been pushed. I’m about to chalk it all up to my imagination when the ringing stops and a voice asks me “Can I speak to Sandra?”

I’m startled. The silence in a lift is almost sacred to me. It’s like a dream, when you know you’re dreaming and you just can’t bring yourself to play along with the charade anymore, and you refuse to speak, waiting instead for the reverie to pass. I don't want to answer her. I hate speaking in elevators, and I hate speaking to elevators even more. But I know she'll keep asking. So I tell her “This is an elevator.”

“What?”

Good Lord, I think, how does this even happen? “I think you’ve got the wrong number,” I say as I look at the carpet.

“What?”

“This is an elevator,” I respond. How do you even dial an elevator?

The doors open, and visitors to the museum enter.

“What?” She is a bit louder now.

“This is an elevator,” I say again. The others in the elevator look confused.

“This isn’t a person’s home,” the voice asks.

“No, this is an elevator.” I’m having to raise my voice, which is making me extremely uncomfortable.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She hangs up.

I look at the tourists standing around me and smile as I press the button for the Third Floor.

And... scene.

So, that’s my waking world. Now, I’m going to share a recent dream I had. It starts out in a bar, like the kind of bar you see in old war movies. It’s dark, and green, and there are soldiers sitting around drinking beer. There is nothing celebratory. The mood is somber. These men have been in the shit, and are going back. I look around, and I see that there is no bartender in this small establishment. I’m about to go behind the bar to make myself a drink, when suddenly Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz come in. Their gray suits stand out in the green bar. Rumsfeld looks around and finally asks “who wants margaritas?” He says it like he’s calling children down on Christmas morning to open presents. No one responds. The soldiers keep drinking their beer, and I sit at the bar, watching.

“Well, we’re going to have margaritas, by gum,” Rumsfeld continues. He goes behind the bar and starts pulling out ice, and a blender, and other margarita accouterments, including Tequila. Rummy busies himself with the Margaritas, leaving Mr. Wolfowitz to his own devices.

The soldiers continue drinking their beer, and Paul looks around. I say to him “hey, wanna do some shots?” I pick up the bottle of José and pour two shots. He comes over, we clink glasses, shoot, and then eat some of the limes that Rumsfeld is slicing for his margaritas.

We keep on doing shots, and then Paul starts to look green. I take the opportunity to shove a lime in his mouth and spin him around to face Rumsfeld. He pukes all over the Secretary of Defense and stumbles into the wall. The room explodes with laughter, and I’m suddenly left thinking that my thesis is supposed about what just happened and the soldiers’ response to it. And that it is due in three days.

That’s it. Any ideas?

That’s Fuckin’ Teamwork!

Teamwork is a foreign concept to me. I have engaged in it through film and theater, but it always makes me nervous and shirty. Frankly, I blame team sports. Specifically, I blame the douchebags that I had as teammates when I was a kid. There were some real bastards in my class (and no, I was never picked on), and I hated having to depend on them almost as much as I hated helping them win. I never rose through the ranks of the Scouts, and I dropped out of team sports as soon as I could.

But times change, and we grow up. And sometimes we have to paddle a Dragon Boat on the Oklahoma River.

That’s what happened last week at the Museum’s leadership retreat. I was able to combine my all-consuming love of the outdoors with my aforementioned penchant for teamwork under the slight but nagging chance of accidental drowning. Plus, they did find a dead body in the area a few months ago. So, I was psyched. But I was also getting paid my regular hourly wage so I quit my complaining and got to paddling. That was the extent of the “team-building,” thankfully, and we were able to devote the majority of the day to plotting and scheming. Luckily for me, that scheming also includes plans for my employment for at least the next fiscal year. So now I’m part of a team, I guess.

I do worry about my future, though. I have this recurring vision of a man in a brown suit sitting on a chair outside by a large open hole in the ground. A man in a gray suit walks up to him.

“Well hello,” Brown Suit says.

Gray Suit stops and looks at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Seth’s dream of being a writer. Who are you?”

“I’m a job with benefits and a 30-year mortgage on a house in Heritage Hills,” Gray Suit responds.

Then he pulls out a silenced pistol and shoots poor Brownie in the noggin. Gray pushes him into the hole and starts shoveling dirt on top of him. Sometimes another guy in a suit walks up and helps him.

“Hi,” says the new guy, “I’m a wife and kids.”

And... scene.

I’ve got some problems.