While my mother waters plants, my father loads his gun
1:35 p.m. on 2005-05-17
Okay, so if none of my like two "loyal" and obviously bored readers, nor any of the poor fools that have stumbled upon my diary by Google-ing "Totally Awesome Pot Brownie Trips" or whatever, have any parenting advice for me, how about some advice on how to stop eating peanut butter and jelly Ritz cracker sandwiches? I am generally against Ritz crackers for my own somewhat obscure reasons, but there is something so lovely and juvenile about said sandwiches. However, they are so messy, and I feel an attack of type 2 diabetes coming on. I should start building my own dialysis machine in my garage.
What am I talking about anyway? Can I sing an ode to this wonderfully inane passtime of online diary writing? If I were to really bluntly write out my innermost thoughts while chronicalling (that must be spelled wrong, who cares) the mundane details of my life, as is the traditional purpose of journalling...well, what the fuck is the point of that, anyway? I don't really think I would have the stomach to look back on what I was thinking while I was totally fucking up my life at various points in my existence, so I guess it is good that this medium is so ephemeral anyhow. And really I started this thing online, not so that people would read it, but so that my husband wouldn't. Why, I don't know. So, then, why do I care if people read it, and why do I ask people questions, and get all happy when someone leaves me a note?
Because I'm vain and human, for lack of other existential opportunities at the moment, save death. God-dinger, I wish this thing had a spell check. I was an A+ speller before I learned Spanish, and tried to learn Russian, French, German, and Italian. I guess the ASL classes can't be blamed for any of my shortcomings in that respect. Really I should blame my horrible spelling on the Word program, and all my many, bored secretarial hours drafting legal documents and letters, having all my stupid mistakes automatically corrected by the computer.
I guess I digress, but from which subject?
Hooo.
Anyway, Connor Oberst. My hero. I emailed one of my friends that he should go buy a Bright Eyes album. What I suspect happened was that, this friend, not liking to ever be the person second to hear about anything, especially a band, promptly Googled "Bright Eyes" and came upon footage of Sir Oberst singing a song called "When the President Talks to God" on Jay Leno, then emailed me about it like it was some hot piece of news that he had been in possession of all along. My friend doesn't have a TV, so wouldn't have seen this program anywhoo. Nor did I. I haven't even heard this song, it isn't on any of the Bright Eyes albums I have, and this computer doesn't have speakers so I can't play the net footage to any advantage. But I looked around on ye olde net and found the lyrics, and a lot of Christian and otherwise RIGHT-MINDED fuckwad discussion boards totally spewing venum at Oberst. Oberst is young, 22, a musical genius (though not precisely to my exact favorite taste, not that it matters), as well as an organizational genius; he started his own label, which is doing very well to say the least.
Anyway, way to go Connor. I'll say that rhetorically. Bright Eyes has given me new hope for the future of popular-ish music.
<< || >>