So have you heard Thee Emergency yet?

My guess, judging from what I've been seeing in the world of rock and roll reportage, is you have not, unless you're Bond.*  So here's my question for all of you (not Bond):

What the fuck is wrong with you?

It's Seattle rock by way of Detroit.  The lead singer is Suzi Quatro by way of Janis Joplin. 

Just fucking listen to them already.



*Not James.

Think of Liz Phair's song "Fuck And Run."  Flip the script on about 25% of it and there you go.

Man, I hate being discontent.  But I fucking love being inscrutable.

Notes from the city hearing: 

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

Now, lest you think me shallow, let me just say that yes, I fully understand the value and necessity of public hearings.  And the subject of this particular hearing is important to me.  But.

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

It does have all the ingredients for a good soap opera, though.  See, there are two kinds of people at the Center tonight:  those who support the rezoning and building of insanely expensive condominiums at the expense of the view from the downtown isthmus, and those who think it's a block of frozen crap painted gold.

Can you tell how I feel?  It's called "editorializing."

Anyway.  The two kinds of people have different stickers.  One is dark blue and advocates saving the downtown view.  The other is light blue and advocates revitalizing the downtown core.

By filling it with millionaires.

Okay, vast oversimplification.  But see, friend, that's just a taste of the kind of rhetoric I've been half-hearing all night. 

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

So we've got our opposing forces.  Our Hatfields and McCoys.  Our Team Jennifer and our Team Angelina.  In addition to the varying shades of blue on their lapels--because Olympia, despite the fight surrounding inevitable gentrification, is still blue, damn it--there are other notable markers, a visual shorthand for the inexperienced viewer.

Dark Blue (or, Fuck You, Moneybags):  Clarks.  Polar fleece.  Hemp.  Skirt+pants.  Earth-toned.

Light Blue (or, Wealth Is Delicious, Like A Fig Plucked From The Asscheeks Of An Underage Thai Prostitute):  Suits.  Ties.  Spit-shined shoes.  The occasional pair of jeans, rumpled just so, to go with the calfskin faux-mocs.

See, even without the badges it'd still be an easy distinction.  Part of me is baffled by how obvious this sartorial divide is.  And then I start thinking about cultural anthropology.  And then, for some reason, I start thinking of Sarah Palin.  And how much I--

Back up.  Take a breath.

So, point being, it doesn't seem like anything will be swayed tonight.  The vibe I get is that the council has already decided and they're just keeping their mouths shut.  I'm not going to go so far as to say the fix is in, but I'll heavily imply it.  So, to add to the tragicomedy of it all, they've given the public a bullshit forum to openly rage against the dying of their own personal light.

Wow.  I'm cynical. 

Eh, fuck 'em.  I'm going to go back to looking random shit up on Wikipedia. 

Hooray!

So I fell off my bike today.  It was bound to happen. 

Actually, to milk the incident for all its possible awesome badassery, I took a totally wicked header off that motherfucker and into the street.  I don't quite know what happened, I can only guess I ran over something that didn't agree with my tires.  And I ended up being ejected over the handlebars and coming to a stop with the assistance of nature's own brake pads (i.e., the palms of my hands). 

Damage:  I lost a quantity of skin from my palms to the pavement, but they didn't bleed.  The righty swelled up quite a lot which made writing difficult for a few hours and also hurt like a sonofabitch.  I have two silver-dollar-sized bruises on my inner thigh (sexxxy) and they are purple and black and kind of puffy.  Also they hurt like a sonofabitch, and there are more waiting in the wings, I can tell.  I don't think I hit my head, but I don't really remember.  I don't really remember what time this all happened, because I don't remember much of the afternoon or evening.  But the short-term memory is returning, so that's good.  Also, my head hurts.  Like a sonofabitch. 

I also ended up completely trashing the right pedal on my bike, and I have no idea how that happened.  But I went down to OlyBikes and got it replaced.  You should go there if you need a bike.  Or bike stuff.  Or bike repair.  They are awesome and also they replaced my squeaky brakes.  So, now I can perform ninja maneuvers on my bicycle.  Yaaay OlyBikes!

Okay.  I hear the hateful cackling of old people so I guess that means it's time for me to go pretend like I give a damn.

Hooray!

Update:  Hateful old people won't stop cackling and therefore I have missed the bus by two minutes.  Fuckers!

So I am a terrible manager.  I knew this when I was in management.  Fortunately I'm not one any more, but today I am still allegedly the power-holder in the box office.  Which would be fine, but man, I've got this serious trouble a-brewing to my right.

Let me just say that my job is delightful and pretty goddamned easy.  There is no way a customer should ever be on hold for twenty-five minutes because let's face it, we're just not that busy. 

Okay, back up.  I've just decided it's in bad form to vent about my co-workers.  So I'll stop.

What else.  I went camping.  It was neat.  If I was less misanthropic it probably would've been better still.  I just get tired of socializing very quickly.  In a big way.

I have to write papers for these books I'm still punishing myself by reading.  You know, I'm sure lots of people like Elizabeth Bishop and Tess Gallagher.  I'm just not one of those people.  Density, density, words words blah blah blah.  I will do it.  I must do it. 

I have to write more on Lysistrata.  Like, the whole goddamned thing.  By the end of this month.  I will do it.  I must do it.

Realization:  I don't get mad.  I get bored.

Something fucking awesome about being a writer:  I am tasked with asking Big Questions but am at total liberty to delegate the responsibility of answering them to the reader.  This is, as the kids say, "the shit."

I want a Portishead hoodie but I don't have $70.  Stupid exchange rate.

Tonight I am going to clean my room and try to con someone into going with me to Target so I can get a rug. 

The bank is only five minutes away, why don't I just get off my ass and deposit my checks?

These and other fascinating questions, facts, and trivia coming your way 24/7 via me until I decide I'm done talking to you and lock myself in my bedroom.