>In the long and unheralded list of Worst Kinds of Blogs, “The Author Posts About Absolutely Nothing At All” ranks about fifth-to-worst, somewhere between “The Author Tells The World How Stupid It Is, Grammar and Spelling Be Damned” and “The Author Begs His Girlfriend to Come Back, Grammar and Spelling Be Damned.” This post has other names, among them “The Author Uses Blogspace for Incontinent Brain-Dumping” and, my personal favorite, “The Author Writes Under the Pretense of Purpose, Letting You Gradually Realize That This Entire Thing Has Been an Enormous Waste of Time.”
But it’s fall here in Nashville and the squirrels in my attic are singing and the wind smells like cinnamon and the garbage men sing Counting Crows b-sides in four-part harmony and in these, the best days of the year, how can anyone be expected to write, speak, or even think with an ounce of focus? Or avoid run-on sentences? Or, you know…make sense?
So I say ramble on and on…
If you haven’t seen Season One of Friday Night Lights and you even marginally enjoy 1) television 2) sports or 3) television about sports, I urge you to rethink this whole thing. I’d prioritize getting acquainted with the show somewhere around 1) keeping your job and 2) planning your upcoming wedding.
I think we’ve reached the point where “Meth Addict” has replaced “Heroin Addict” at the top of the Most Stigmatized Addicts list.
I wonder if anyone has ever uttered the phrase, “Relax Mom, it’s just heroin.”
Hot Apple Cider Addict, in case you’re scoring at home, is 247th on the Most Stigmatized Addicts list.
Remember when there were semi-annual tribute concerts, broadcast on national television? Like the Dylan Tribute? Or the Gram Parson Tribute? I think there should be a tribute concert every Wednesday. Month 1 would feature The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, The Who, etc. Month 3 would feature, say, Morrissey, REM, Radiohead, Pearl Jam, etc. By Month 18 we’d be featuring Spacehog, Chingy, and Rob Thomas’s solo career, with covers by J.C. Chasez and Semisonic. Because 1) they’re available and 2) why not?
I used to think that there’s nothing worse than watching a really horrible live music performance. But now I know that there’s nothing worse than watching a really horrible live comedy performance.
I don’t care how many cowboy boots you sell, your city isn’t “downhome” if your waiters don’t make eye contact and your waitresses don’t smile. I’m looking at you, Nashville.
All joking aside, there are about 5000 people I’d rather vote for next year than Barack Obama, John Edwards, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, or whoever else. Yes, Stephen Colbert is on that list. No, Bono is not.
Remember the Mix of Fifteen? The fifteen songs that mean the most to you–and likely always will? Here’s a follow up: what ONE ALBUM has meant more to you than any other? Nose it, taste it, chew, digest, then comment.
In the long line of Things I Probably Care About More Than Any Woman, BBC’s Nut Brown Ale is #33, right beside Darrell Green and Any Wes Anderson Movie.
If October isn’t the best month of the year, I don’t know what is.
If February isn’t the worst month of the year, I don’t know what is.
For some reason my horoscope keeps telling me to buy new clothes. If tomorrow’s says something about “It’s chilly out–bring a cardigan!” I’ll have to wonder if my grandmother got a new job.
T. S. Eliot wrote “Prufrock” when he was twenty-three. If you write, and you’re at least twenty-three, and this doesn’t upset you, then you’re clearly not me.
I remember–extremely well–the first time “going out to eat” did not feel like a fun novelty. I was fourteen and went to lunch with some friends at a mall-adjacent O’Charley’s. I know what you’re thinking: “How was that not a special experience?” That lunch made me sick, that lunch made me sad, and that lunch made me despair. I walked out of that O’Charley’s my naivete shattered, my adolescence permanently sullied, and my looming adulthood a dangerous and horrifying proposition. I ordered potato soup and was never the same.
One cop car and I feel bad for the citizen. Two cop cars and I feel bad for the second cop car. Three cop cars and I feel bad for all the cops. Four cop cars and I feel bad for me, even being in the neighborhood.
***After much renovation, the Archives are back, operative, and fully-accessible, so enjoy those (along the right sidebar).
If I were President, no “burger joint” would ever charge extra for the inclusion of fries. I’m serious. That would be, like, #9 on my list of Things To Do. #8, of course, is Outlaw Baseball, and #10 is Install Fondue Set In Oval Office.
If you think that 2007 produced a movie funnier than Superbad, I think that you are wrong, sir.
If this is starting to read like Norm MacDonald’s impression of Larry King, fine and dandy.
I bet Clint Eastwood can’t even throw a spiral.
Out here in the fields,