Hands Across Ameri... Really?

The worst of the 80s Supergroup Charity Sing-a-longs. By far! But the most loyal to the spirit of crap 80s network-friendly music.

I wouldn't even bother watching it all.

I made a "Hands Across America' reference the other day, and it got a laugh, but then realized nobody really knew what I was talking about. because they group I was with would've been toddlers when it was released. Oh boy!

Notes on Nothing 8.0

Look at this little fella. 2XL. Kinda kute, huh? Played 8-track tapes. But something about those beady red eyes. Everyone knows I'm a friend to the robot. But isn't that the fucker who always gets it first in the sci-fi films?

Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I first wanted to announce that the computers took a quantum leap recently in both intelligence and arrogance when Wall Street bit it. Bit it. I read a clever article today about "the rise of the machines" and how the logarithms that have been pumped into the computers by some Wall Street quantitative analysts ("quants") to, I suppose, manipulate the market to make money fast have gotten away from the programmers so that the computers are computing so quickly and in such delicately intricate fashions that they're functions are beyong human comprehension. Or something. You know, like in the pages of Analog.

Christ, they warned us for years! Who? Philip K. Dick, John Sladek, E.M. Forster, Asimov, etc., etc. And here we are -- scripts flipped! Thinking our robot butlers would bring us our morning crumpets, but instead our robot butlers stole the money off our nightstands as we slept!

Why? What happened? I'll tell you -- we fooled around with our toy robots. Somebody played a punk rock 8-track in their 2XL and thus impregnated it with the anarchy virus.

I don't know why anyone hasn't figured it out yet.

I bet the Little Professor knew.

Notes on Nothing 7.0

Guided By Voices! Devo! And now -- Psaur in Ohio (well, he should be by now -- unless he and Donna fell in love with South Dakota along the way). Yes, the musical genius Psaur (for god's sake, he penned the lyrics to "Hell, Back & Back Again"!) is now a bug-eye (as you know, Ohio is the Bug-Eye State!).

Oregon is the Beaver State. You betcha! Oregon is composed of two political and social regions: Portland and Not-Portland. And I love them both very dearly. I've been through the beautiful arrid deserts of Not-Portland, and over its magnificent mountains. It's a place I'd always dreamed of growing up in. Which works out fine since I have barely begun to grow up (ask my wife -- my side of the bed looks like the inside of a St. Vincent de Paul box).

Meanwhile back here at the office, I'm beguiled by vacuity -- it's like staring into an abyss of stupidity. Where did Dante place middle management? I feel the people who actually work around here are days from open mockery of the management. I feel like Hawkeye Pierce!

Or B.J. Hunnicutt. The greatest porn name ever.

Notes on Nothing 6.0

In mud, in muck.

Beguiled by diamondheads, snakewalker filaments. Eye on thee canyon, the withering mountain.

Be not aware of the language you're using -- caution all travelers of the spells in the ruins.

The Scotman wore green and he whispered a secret to the dogs on the leashes outside of the druggist.

In mud, in muck.

I never catch glances, or listen for greetings. My tatooine days see the light through the ripples.

Gorgeous and gorgon-like dreams suffuse the room (and snake-like fingers uncoil in the gloom).

Must be a Wednesday the way the time unhinges.

Every molecule seems to record all my winging.

In mud, in muck. Amen.

Notes on Nothing 5.0

"Dread ain't nothing you can laugh about." - John Phillips

It is like a storm gathering. Clouds that crackle and whine. Grayscale prisms arch above my deathspot. Rain like soldiers with shields graffiti'd sluice the fallen heavens. Enveloped in the afternoon mud, I dream of cartoons, Saturday morning globes in video turnstiles.

Every house is a House of Mystery. Everyone worships his own god. The face smiles; the skull does not. I fell between two trees, took note of their heights, weighed the fallen leaves. The numbers are important.

I met a cowboy at the train and checked my phone for the time, anticipating an answer. A World Book opened in space and cast a page down to me, but it was lost in a funnel of oak leaves that skittered like a spun quarter into the levee.

It is minutes after4:00 pm. The rain has stopped, the wind isn't blowing. But the clock keeps pulsing.

The genius is at work.

Notes on Nothing 4.0

Such treacherous, untrustworthy, lying and greedy animals we are! - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Home. Not at work. Should be, some would say. It's a whole new world walking to store for a cup of coffee on a cool, rain-ready Friday morning ordinarily spent at the office. I feel rejuvenated, damn near reborn, or born again as myself (a born-again narcissist!).

Driving down to Ashland to see friends and a production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream", my first Shakespeare play. I've seen a few Hollywood interpretations (dreadful) but never on the stage. Although I did enjoy "A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy". I think. Maybe I just caught a few scenes on HBO years ago.

Erin's getting her hair did, and I'm home listening to Camper Van Beethoven II & III and recharging my iPod. Also, started reading Robert F. Jones' "Blood Sport" on the can this morning. I'd never heard of it before the cover caught my attention at a used book store in Seaside a few weeks ago. Described as a cross between Vonnegut and Castenada, I purchased it anyway. It has short Brautiganian chapters -- perfect! It reads a bit like Brautigan as well, but with more of a storytelling aspect. The prose is phenomenally evocative of a place you've never been, but perhaps recall snippets of from abruptly-ended dreams. Find it! Read it!

What else? I've decided I can't go back to work anymore. I mean, I will, but I just can't. At least not in the usual frame of mind. I must go in convinced this is a challenge, like something from Road Rules or a fraternity hazing ritual, meaning it is a means to an end. Or rather a beginning.

Or I could get a job at a farm, because I sure can talk a line of shit!

So, how's with you?

Notes on Nothing 3.0

Often, I rest my uncombed head on my desk and exhale, "I'm wasting my life here." What's worse is the echo shooting out of co-workers' mouths: You're wasting your life here.

Or maybe that's good for others to say. I've heard it for years (and indeed said it for years) but do little about it. i udes to rant on and on like this when I didn't have a job, so I do feel I'm being a bit ungrateful to, uh, I don't know, something!

Still, seven and a half years at one job (with a promise of no advancement and no prospect of even a salary increase at this point -- this I have been directly told) is enough. So I abuse my position as much as I can. Leaving early... well, I guess that's about it. But it's something.

It sure is something.

Speaking of...

Notes on Nothing 2.0

I'm going to add to this all day. So you can experience my psychological breakdown. Nah, nah... I'm kinda in good shape this morning, workwise. Already I can tell this will be boring for you. For both of you.

Fell asleep listening to "The Ricky Gervais Show" Season 3 Podcast. Christ, I hadn't listened to it in a while -- perpetually hilarious. Sometimes so funny, I can't believe it exists. You know that feeling?

So anyway my "boss", Big Poppa's birthday is Sunday. A devoted Yankee fan born in the Bronx. He's heartbroken again of course over this season. Seriously heartbroken. Anyway, he gets an email today from Jim Bouton, former pitcher for the Yankees, and author of Ball Four! He was shocked! So I google the email address, and it brings me to Jim Bouton's official website!

Over the years, Ralph's met many Yankees (even conducted a rare interview with Joe Dimaggio in Florida back in the 60s as a student reporter). He has met Bouton before, but it's been 30 years. In fact, he recounts an incident where he met Bouton before a game and predicted it would be his first major league win! And it was! Big Pops left a note on his windshield congratulating him, and later received an autograph from the winning pitcher!

Still, he doesn't know how he'd get an email from Bouton all these years later wishing him a Happy Birthday! Although Ralph recalls that it was his friend Al Sorvino who started the Jim Bouton fan club lo those many years ago! But he probably hasn't heard from Sorvino in as many years either.

What interests me most about Bouton is that he helped create Big League Chew, that shredded tobacco-like gum we'd pack our cheeks with back when Billy Martin was still driving off the road.

But really -- how did Bouton know Ralph's birthday was coming up?

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Tonight's the Vice-Presidential Debate. The real debate is whether Governor Palin will snap. I see it coming -- watch what her supporters call her "gutsiness and tenacity." It comes across as bad acting to me -- a high school production of "All the King's Men" televised to millions. She's going to smile, wink, and her head's going to crack in half revealing the beast from Revelation screaming "I can see the Apocalypse from my house."

And what's wrong with elitism anyway -- am I supposed to endear myself to these American slobs?

-------

Suddenly this blog's become a cross between Harry Golden and Larry King. Unfortunately, I'm aiming for a combination of Myles na gCopaleen and Joey Adams.

Notes on Nothing 1.0

In an attempt to write more often, even when i have nothing to say ("the manifesto of bloggers" -- especially political ones), I have decided to yammer on for a paragraph or two (thanks to the feeb's prodding). Today is an unfortunate day to begin as I'm in a lousy mood, and a bit under the weather. I'm both notoriously patient and famously intolerant. I've been yelling at every at work today. I become such a stereotypical New Yorker when I'm at the office -- loud, insulting, vulgar. I think the co-workers enjoy it to a point -- if you go to the zoo, you want to see the tiger shred a basketball, not nap on his paws.

Luckily, I have my iTunes to soothe my savage breast. Jim Ford plays now. He was a huge influence on Nick Lowe. I've also been listening to Paul Williams lately. It's the production mostly, the soft-seventies. Gentle strings, tinkling piano, and fat bass.

Back to work. My paid chores. Soulless toiling. Etc., etc...

Happy Birthday, Boobay!

For Pete...