Thursday, June 25, 2009

Aw, shit.

When I was in second or third grade, I had the above image on a Trapper Keeper folder. Some 'friends' of mine began giving me shit, and I tore the folder across the middle and threw it in the trashcan.

The cock crowed once.

I feel worse today than I have in a long time. I'm sorry, Michael. You've given me reason to distrust you, but never when I was an impressionable kid. I didn't mean it.

Mr. Man no longer likes Thomas the Train, hasn't for a year or so. Says it's a "baby's toy", and that he's grown out of it. To be honest, this makes me more sad than remembering my thoughts on Michael Jackson as a kid.

RIP, weirdo.

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Monday, May 11, 2009

Back from the domain

You may have stumbled across this page, wondering what happened to

Well, it's no more. In fact, no use linking to it, because the domain has been parked, and the hosting canceled.

If you'd like to go back and see what was there, I dumped it all to:

If I continue to blog (and I suppose I'll make it back here from time to time, if only to see if anything ever gets added to the Blogger Cooler), I'll be posting here. Probably. If not, I'll let you know.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Lacivious Polyphony comes to an end

This will be the final post of Lacivious Polyphony.

I was thinking to myself, "Self, you enjoy blogging. What could make it even better?"

"Well," I answered myself, "I wish I were paying for the privilege."

Unable to refuse my sweet mug and puppy-dog eyes, I plopped down the cash.

Notice the 's'. I can finally duck questions about why I misspelled 'lacivious'. If you care, there's an explanation somewhere in the sidebar.

Extra special icing and sprinkles gracias to Mel for the inspiration, and more than a little help in beginning the process.

If things go poorly, she will be first against the wall. It's hard to leave a smiley emoticon after a statement like that.

I hope to see you all lurking around the new digs.


A brief dream XV

Last night I dreamed that I was listening to "It's my Party", when I realized that the lyrics are actually about trying to steal money for cab fare to a methadone clinic.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Upcoming announcement

I have some changes in store for Li'l' Ol' LP. Please accept that you may be forced to live without new posts for a few days.

I'll be back with more news as soon I can.
Read: when I get around to it.


I've got to put stickers on my stuff...

Our two year-old loves to walk around the house assigning objects to people. By far, the majority of items are "mine". My train! My chair! My sanitary napkins!

Which is what made it all the funnier last night when he walked over to the couch, and pointed at two objects sitting on the cushion.

To the remote he said "Daddy's!"
To the phone he said "Mommy's!"

I explained that while mommy generally uses the phone more than I do, it's our phone. Just like the remote, which both of use.

"Yeah right," said my wife from across the room, almost, but not quite, under her breath.

"Mommy can use it when daddy goes to sleep," I amended. I was only sort of joking.

Monday, January 02, 2006

The LP one-year retrospective spectacular!

The planets are nearly aligned. This was to be my 365th post, on my birthday, celebrating one year of Li'l' Ol' LP. Instead, and to avoid any Seventh Son of a Seventh Son biblical issues, this is the 364th post, near my birthday, a few days early of the actual 1-year anniversary of LP.

I have tried to collect my favorite posts from the last 12 months. It's very difficult for me to take a step back and allow these posts to live on their own - I want to preface each and every one with contextual back story. It's also been terribly difficult to pick my favorites out of the hundreds of posts that I've written. Some of my favorites have been dropped, just because I've organized on a monthly time-table, and there ain't room for them all.

I sincerely hope that you choose to look through these memories. And please feel free to cruise through the archives if you enjoy what you've read.


First, Something on the Lighter Side

Honorable mention:

LP First Post


My Friends Are Much Cooler Than I

Honorable mention:



Final Thoughts on the Germany Experience.

Honorable mention:



Stream of Consciousness Saturday

Honorable mentions:

Dali Ticket
Things I've learned as a dad


Good Times Bad Times

Honorable mentions:

Clause von Monkeysadd
Bachelor's Guide


Depeche Mode Cowboy

Honorable mentions:

Vader Built My Hotrod
Kom Gets a Haircut
Land of Flat and Plenty


Urine Souffle

Honorable mentions:

Painful Childhood Memory
LP Gets Lucky


You Make the Rocking World Go Round

Honorable mentions:

Imagined Exchange
Same Weekend - KOM as Asshole V.2.0


Open Letter to Wang Chung

Honorable mentions:

A Fair Warning
Led Bush


Casting Ivory Before Swine

Honorable mentions:

I'm Not Fond of Penile Legions
Do You Know How to Suck Dick?
Perrier Eleison


KOMs Time Machine

Honorable mentions:

Fasting on Mount Terrible Two
Squeel, CA


Freeform Friday, The Xmas Post

Honorable mention:

That Which May Not Be Named


"But I still think my interpretation is more interesting than his truth."

The above referenced line comes from the book Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman. As is my usual habit, I dove into this book while reading several others: Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them (Franken), and The Book of Imaginary Beings (Borges).

The Borges book is quite interesting, but not quite what I would ever have expected. It's basically (as the name implies), a bestiary of mythological characters. When I was younger, I colored nearly every page of a very similar book.

But not to be glib, this is the book that Joseph Campbell might have written were he more interested in the existing than of the of existing.

Not that this is fair, either. Let's just say that if you're familiar with Borges, you may be surprised at the brevity of cultural significance imparted by this book. If you've never heard of Borges, this particular piece will likely pass you by. Still, like all of his work that I've spent time studying, I'm sure that there are many surprises missed the first time around.

"Like life," I feel completely unqualified to say, Borges may have stated.

The Franken book is pretty damn funny, but a bit short on the details. I know that Bill O'Reilly is the henchman of the antichrist. Most of us know that. Even those who live and die by his show. But as a political piece, I imagine that it's about as entertaining and accurate as Anne Coulter with dysentery: we love to watch her squirm, but we also know that the shit coming out of her is just that - watered down shit. For the 99% of us that don't believe everything that comes from either Ari Fleisher or Michael Moore, it's a bit pedantic.

On the other hand, I would rather read an encyclopedia by Franken than a by-line by Sean Hannity. I actually respect Franken. I personally think that he's pretty darn funny (despite the whole Stuart Smalley thing), and I can tell that he thinks that he cares about politics. I'm a blue-state through and through, but I also have the ability (lacking in both the left and the right) to think for myself. But I can't abide by his choice to attack the talk-show radio right on their own ground. People like O'Reilly, Hannity and Limbaugh are bad for America. They profess to be good for America, all the while viciously attacking 50% of the country. Sadly, Al Franken has decided to fight fire with fire. It makes me sick to my stomach that most liberals believe that the best way to fight the Right is on their (the Right's) own terms.

You know, in conversation I always seem to come out as a relativist. I hate that. I usually consider myself liberal, but I find myself agreeing with several conservative points. I don't know if this is the chipping-away of youth, in which my ideology is slowly transmuted into concern for Me and Mine, or if I've actually always been of two minds. I bet people in other countries mock America for lining up in two simple queues.

Still, social relativism leads to things like the LA race riots. And a little thing that just happened in France. Unfortunately, the flip-side of relativism leads to Dachau. Except that we would never let that happen here. Because we're smarter, more informed, and dog gon'it, people like us.

Especially interred Japanese Americans.

But I've totally digressed, and probably already lost a lot of the people that the first half of this post was aimed at. "A lot" of people is relative, of course, because very few people read this. And I'm starting to understand why!

But it all leads well into Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. This book drove me crazy, the least of which was because I was thinking simultaneously about winged horses and lying conservatives. Actually, the reason that it nearly killed me is that I kept flopping between: "I would love to be able to write like this", and "What a fucking hack."

What bothers me the most is that this is exactly the response the fucker wanted me to have.

In one essay, Klosterman details every reason why I love (and this a big thing for me to admit, so please sit down if you haven't already done so) Billy Joel. Point for frickin' point, I said to myself "Yeah, those are all things that I should have told my friends!", instead of changing the subject to Metallica and trying to remember the words to Master Of Puppets while Goodnight Saigon played in my mental background.

But then Klosterman quickly makes me his worst type of loser for only owning a best-of album, and judging my love of his music for anything less than the most obsucre B-sides. And at the same time, he makes fun of people that only listen to obscure tracks. This motherfucker covers all of his bases.

Or, as I'm honestly surprised he didn't himself state, All Your Base Belong to Klosterman. If you don't get it, it's probably best that you don't read this book. If you do, it's probably best that you don't read this book.

I found myself going round after round with this guy, but it wasn't fair because I couldn't argue. And if I could have argued, I wouldn't be half as articulate.

Smart people who think they're always right... suck. That's right, I don't have anything else, and I admit it. Fuck you, Klosterbag douche McVulvalips.

At the same time, I was compelled to read every word, line, paragraph and chapter of the damnable book.

You all know what kind of person Klosterman is. He's that guy that you've always hated. But one time he put his arm around you and took you in. He showed you your first porno, smoked you your first joint, introduced you to your first girlfriend. Then one day he sucker punched you and stole all of your money.

You still hate him, but if you ever saw him again, say, getting beat up in an alley behind a seedy bar, you'd help. And when you'd finally driven off the assailants, your ribs bruised and your breath thick, you'd help him up. He'd buy you a beer inside, tell you about his amazing life, perhaps even introduce you to your future wife.

Then he'd sneak out and stiff you with the tab.

Thank you, Carter. It was great.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Bushism VII - The final frontier

"I think if you know what you believe, it makes it a lot easier to asnwer questions. I can't answer your question."

In response to a question about whether he wished he could take back any of his answers in the first debate; Reynoldsburg, Ohio; October 4, 200

Friday, December 30, 2005

Be careful what you wish for

The girl with the chips is gone.

She has been replaced by the woman with the fingernail clippers.

I submit that it is not fucking possible to clip your fingernails every day. They don't grow that fast! What could she possibly be doing?

I'm so afraid that I'm going to knock on her office, and catch her with a toe in her mouth, gnawing off a hard yellow nail.

She'll spit it out, and it will lodge in my sweatshirt. We will both stare at it for a very long, very uncomfortable time.

PSA con frijoles

"I haven't been there in what... 5 years?" I asked myself. This almost invariably leads to a bad decision.

"I think I'll try it out for lunch." Well played, shit-hole restaurant. Well played indeed.

While spending nearly 30 whole seconds investigating High Tech Burrito, I discovered that it appears to be a Bay Area phenomenon. But McDonalds started as a single stand, too. Just say no, people.

As soon as you walk in, you are accosted for your order. No time to look things over. You wouldn't be coming here if you didn't know what you wanted. Or at least that's what I imagine management assumes.

"I'd like the chicken burrito."

"What kind of tortilla?"

"Uhh, kind? Magic, please."

"Whole wheat or flour?"

This line of questioning continues through choice of beans, rice, salsa, and toppings. For people so uppity about me spending a few moments to decide on an entree, they sure have an awful lot of questions.

As they gave me my total, I discovered what all of the smoke and mirrors were about - my $4.00 burrito was costing me $8.00. It would seem that I had made the wrong choices. I could see it in register attendant's eyes: "Should have said whole wheat, asshole."

What kills me is that I could have gone to any hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant and gotten a burrito the size of my fucking head, with all the trimmings, for just over $3.00. Include tip, and I'm still ahead of the base price of this burrito.

"This better be one good burrito," I thought as I left.

How was my High Tech Burrito? Essentially, I had just spent $8.00 on a Taco Bell 7-layer burrito. Except that this burrito didn't have 7 layers, and was smaller. And cost over 4 times as much.

And I don't like Taco Bell.

Fuck you, Robotic Tostada, or whatever you call yourself. My bowels have stopped cramping from your food, but they still ache whenever I consider what an unmitigated rip-off you are.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

That which may not be named

"I shall not cause harm to any vehicle nor the personal contents thereof, nor through inaction let that vehicle or the personal contents thereof come to harm."

A meth snorting, Asimov quoting Harry Dean Stanton reciting the Repo Code is only one of the many reasons why Repo Man is among my favorite movies.

There's a scene in which Tracey Walter is waxing shamanistic about pine tree deoderizers. "Find one in every car. You'll see."

I haven't found that to be true, but I have found that the Post Office is a time machine. A twisted, fun-house time machine which forces you to confront the ghosts of your past. The poeople who you can no longer truthfully say you know, because both you and they have changed nearly beyond recognition.

Walter later explains that since there was a time without people, people must have come from the future. People who dissapear go to the past. And they get there by flying saucer. Which is really a time machine.

I haven't found this to be true, either. But if people do dissapear from the future, they come back to the Post Office. There's no other rational explanation.

I'm pretty sure that if I spend any more time there, I'll see my future self. And I'll see that he suddenly remembers what I just saw.

And we'll walk past eachother whithout saying a word.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

The spoken word!!!!!!

the spoken word is the spoken word the spoken word is just that.... the spoken word!!!!!!the spoken word is the spoken word damnit!!!!!!!!!

Dammit, people. Dammit.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

The Festivus jimmy leg

The night before last I had the worst leg cramp of my life.

It was Christmas, and after eating all day long, I had the bright idea of topping off with a brownie ala mode. Merry Christmas! Not so much later, and not at all surprisingly, during a rather intense dream in which I was training to be a ranch hand in a haunted town, I was awoken by a very sour stomach. As I rolled out of bed to look for an antacid, the room exploded in light and my leg buckled under me.

It was all that I could do to keep from screaming. I tossed back and forth on the bed, sweating furiously and mewling like a sick cat. I woke up my wife, and through clenched teeth managed to bark out, "Sorry."

Earlier, I had watched a show on Discovery about a couple of scientists investigating extremely toxic jellyfish in northern Australia. Inevitably, they were both stung. The program cut to the scientists in the hospital, writhing in pain, unable to keep their legs or arms still. They performed a ceasless dance in an attempt to find a position, any position, that would offer a fleeting respite from the pain.

I thought about this as I began to pray under my breath for Jesus, sweet Jesus to please kill me now.

Eventually, through sheer will, I managed to pull myself into a standing position. The pain began to subside, and soon I was able to move enough to shuffle my feet. I had heard that potassium helps with cramping, so I hobbled into the kitchen in search of a banana. It was about this time that my sour stomach found itself able to compete with my slowly easing thigh for my miserable attention. I leaned against the counter with a peeled banana in my hand, wondering which fate would be worse.

With a nod to Solomon, I ate half of the banana.

Later, I placed my hand on my thigh, just above and behind my knee. The muscle was still so tightly coiled that a palm-breadth length of my leg was only as big around as my forearm. It was if I were wearing an invisible corset or tourniquet.

Yesterday, my wife told me to drink some orange juice and finish the banana. The orange juice is supposed to help, as well.

I never got around to it.

How quickly we forget and adjust.

But I'm still afriad to go to sleep.