Sweet dream on only three hours

I made the fool's mistake of going to happy hour yesterday. That turned into an all night excursion. Not a lot of alcohol, just a lot of time awake. So, some girl decided that since we had talked twice before, I was her crying shoulder for the frustration of her recently failed 'going to get married' relationship. She was going into the bathroom to punch the wall and stuff. It was a "little" annoying, but it got me thinking... I must have a tattoo that is only visable to those wearing beer goggles, scrawled on my forehead, that says,"Cast all your cares on Him." Because it seems like an awful lot of people open up to me when they know me almost barely.

Pretty night turned ugly. Pretty night wasn't pretty. Never was, never will be.

So I got home late. Crawled into bed. Woke up this morning at 6:37am. I then realized that I had had a dream involving the most notorious man in history. He wasn't speaking German but I was not on his side. (Which is odd since I always thought I was a wee bit evil. eh... not a bad thing I guess.)

Then I was reading an H-I-Larious website by some Iranian and could not stop laughing. Oh, the story of the restaurant and his dad asking him if he was gay because this woman was kicking the crap out of him because she thought her boyfriend was leaving her because he was in love with the dude with the angry homophobe dad who wanted to know if his son was gay so as to know if he needed to pull out a sword and kill his queer son. I was rolling on the floor. Pure Genius.

Planning meetings are an integral part of any successful business.

Morning Word Salad

It's been a whirlwind morning involving telephone flavored lattes and trains sitting in the middle of the road with idiots flying round on broomsticks. I watched people sit at the intersection waiting for a train that wasn't going to move even though they could drive three blocks south and get on the other side of the tracks. It was like watching AI bots sitting at a dead end trying to get through a wall. No ability to think around their problem, just the automated, "Must get to point B. Must get to point B. Must get to point B." I could have sat there at the crossing as well and enjoyed the new album I purchased last night. I would have justified being late to work on account of the train and soaked in a second run through 10,000 Days.

"It's a creeper." as one fan put it on (double you, double you, double you).amazon.com and they seem to be right in a certain sense. My complaints are more about the mixing of the album rather than the overall sound. Sure there are repeat guitar tracks that are straight from "third eye" but the vocals are so low in the mix it's next to impossible to discern if there's singing or not let alone what the words are. Third Eye is a perfect example of that, the section where Maynard is whispering. It's not possible to fully understand what he's saying. (but then again, do we really want to?)

I also put to rest this demon that's been chasing me for the last four or so years. A friend said that I should read the Davinci Code, I would love it, it's full of religious stuff, blah blah blah. In most cases the religious stuff is a definite attractor (bug to bug zapper). Last week, I went to used bookstores looking for a copy of the book but didn't know the name of the author and didn't want to embarass myself by asking the NPR listening, "modern-hip" author reading clerk where I could find a copy. (Sigh, roll eyes, smartass response 'in the trash?') So I bought a Milan Kundera book instead. I really think that point B is not my goal at all.

Anyway this movie is so utterly end-of-chapter-cliff-hanger/easy explanation of end-of-chapter-cliff-hanger, it's a lot like being slapped in the face with a cock. Not having it. Tom and Ian are great actors (hence first name 'familiarity' like we're bros) and they were entertaining to watch but the story and the conspiracy and the Scion of Christ Bullshit...UGH... and the flashbacks and CGI overlaying made a 'bestseller' into a 'blockbuster'. They got my money and I can now file my summons an complaint against Dan Brown. I was compelled by the power of Christ to see that movie. I may have picked up the book eventually but not gotten much further than the first hundred pages. The movie made the story, if you can call it that, accessable to me without having to give up too much time. And why was Tom Hanks crying at the end when he figures out that the bones of Mary Magdelene are buried in the Louvre? (Oh sorry didn't mean to spoil it) sorry... so sorry, SPECIAL SHOES SPOILER ALERT!!! Michael Keaton is a musician who dies in a car accident, leaving behind his wife and son. Through the magic he left behind, one year later, he returns as a snowman, and has the final chance to put things right with his son before he is gone forever. Directed by Troy Miller.

uh... like I said, Where the I Divides will be playing an exclusive gig for three people this weekend. The venue is top secret but I'm pretty sure it'll end up being a basement in Milwaukee. Rider consisting of

1. Three (3) 20 oz. bottles of DeJaBlue water
2. One (1) half-eaten box of stale Nabisco brand Triscuts
3. One (1) pack of Winston Cigarettes (may be replace with Vantage Cigarettes)
4. One (1) carton of Camel Light Cigarettes (Wides preferred)
5. An assorted collection of vintage Playboy magazines (nothing after 1977)
6. One (1) hobo/clown statue

Communits Checks

I went to the bank and deposited my check from the work week.
No, wait.
Wrong checks. I've been reading "the Joke" by Milan Kundera. It was funny reading the Author's Note in the beginning of the book because it made me start to think that the whole book itself was a joke or that the story isn't really the story that he wrote or something. The title has really got me speculating as to what the joke really is. (that's what I'm trying to say)

I think that it would have been great to have been kicked out of the party and conscripted into the army to serve as a miner for the party. Work, eat, sleep, be abused, work, eat, sleep, be abused, go to town every other weekend, maybe. No one expecting me to be somewhere or to do something. Capitolism is a pain in the ass. No, wait. That's my wallet I'm sitting on.

I think the 'joke' so far is that the one character was voted out of the party because he sent a postcard to a girl at a training camp that was joking in its message... something about Trotsky being right. He was joking. They didn't see it that way. I'd probably end up in Siberia faster than a three peckered owl. I'm always using cynicism and satire to mask my arrogant vanity.

Take it to heart

Dear Friends,
Take it to heart, because I was talking about you. That's right. SUCK IT!!!
Love Zach

In other news, it's been Operation Shitstorm at work this week. It seems that May is the month to sue and sue alike. No time for the loging of my mundane life or "insight" on news or blah blah blah.

I retooled "I Hate My Friends" and it sounds better now that it did last weekend. I also wrote something that Travis "Steve Schieler-ed" * as Late Smashing Pumpkins or Early Radiohead.

I called him today to remind him about the C. Earl Cinnamon Swirl pick up for Joe for precttice tomorrow. We're going to record lyrics and bass for another track (hopefully.) I'd like to do "Excuse Me Sir, Can I Please Have Back My Soul," but Travis is betting on "Plastic Head," since Joe is more comfortable with that one.

In other news, Travis and I may be making a trip up to Sparta/Tomah on Sunday. I wanted to take the afterknoon off from work today and do it but, Op. Shitstorm is still in full effect. I have to hunt down the Mayor to serve him a Subpoena. The Subpoena lists him personally, not as the Mayor, so I have to track him down personally, and that means being in his office around 4pm today. Oh well. In Tomah, my plan is to get a few pictures of the signage as namesake of the band and put it up on a website that is yet to be discussed with the other members. Then I'll be able to make my crappy friends (all three of them) listen to my band's crappy music and if they don't, I'll just make them feel crappy.

We also may have a drummer that everyone can agree on if only we can find a practice space in the Madison area that's reasonably priced.

Yeah. Crappy.

* Steve Schieler-ed: to snap fingers repeatedly while saying, "Oooh, ooh, ooh," while someone is playing an original piece of music in an attempt to place the song into a popular band's catalogue. In this instance, the song was something that B. Corigan or T. York wrote and I stole. Steve Schieler (name may be misspelled) is a real person. He used to do this to Travis when he would play music for him. Travis wanted to make a short film about him, Steve Schieler's Rock and Roll Training Video. It's a funny story. He plays guitar and you can hear a full band even though there's no band in sight. It makes people afraid and they run away in terror.

Um, Whatever

I wrote a song this weekend called, "I Hate My Friends." I think that I should change the name to, "I Hate This Song," but I really do hate my friends. (Not really, sheesh, get over yourselves.) It has this repeating 404 track that just drones on and I've been trying out different guitar parts over top of it and the only things that seem to work are these damn cheesy keyboard parts that I write.

I gave the song that title because I'm sick of my friends doing the same damn things every weekend and every weeknight. I crave adventure. I crave excitement. I crave Brains. We did get out friday night to see the Gusto. Pat used to play with Dave in Plan B, and no not the shitty emo group with the same moniker. Pat put his guitar behind his head and played a sweet solo. I was watching him after he did it and it took at least 30 seconds before the smile cracked on his face. You know the smile I'm talking about, the one where you know you just pulled something off and it kicked ass. (like the guy doing the mid-air splits.) I'd never seen him do that before. After the show, I was talking to him about that and he said he hadn't done it before, but it was all in all pretty easy to do. Pat's a skilled guitarist even without that added "glitter."

I have been getting numerous phone calls this weekend. So many people need my advice or something. I have no advice, or my advice is this, "Listen to more Primus."

I hate my friends.

Love, Zach

Here Today

Gone tomorrow. Joe put a U2 "rarity" on a CD called "Last Daze of Smoking." I also have a copy of that song which I got when I bought ATYCLB. It's just an incomplete "Beautiful Day." Different lyrics, different guitar ideas, but the song was hiding in there.

Today is a Beautiful Day. No. Scratch that, I'm tired and stuck in a Tropical Jesus. Some lady walked past me today as I was switching jobs and said, "You better hope you don't get cancer. You're gunna get cancer." She was smiling and seemed happy. She was talking directly to me. I know because I was lighting up a cigarette. Not just a cigarette, a Camel Ultralight. The second to last one in the pack. Once I finish this post, I'm going to go outside and smoke the last one. I didn't have time to respond to her that 1) all things give you cancer in this day and age. 2)I'm an addict and regardless of the consequences, I can't hate the addiction as much as I hate myself. 3)Cancer is the bodys ability to be immortal gone fishing.

I read a story by a Hungarian author about an idea that Cancer is nothing more than the body trying to heal itself and keep us young and healthy and alive. Unfortunately, after the fall of man a/k/a Adam and Eve's devour-ation of the fruit of the the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Gee Whiz took away our cell's ability to "know" how to properly administer the procedure of regeneration and the modern form of Cancer as we know it comes from this. There was also a story in that book about a brothel run by gypsys that, upon entering, one wouldn't be able to leave for an extended period of time (say 50-75 years) but not have aged more than a day.

I'm not really here today. Tropical Jesus. I just want to go to the gym and then read some more of the Social Contract.

The blend put out a demo that had a track that was just their frontman reciting a poem. I listened to it with James and Andy when we went camping. I can still hear the dude say, "no, we're getting married, and as my heart sank, I remembered how my mom used to put up with..."

It was the way he said, "No, we're getting married." It's real quiet-like after a long tirade about his friends abusive boyfriend. But the point was that this girl was a cold queen, or not a cold queen, but a bold queen, on a campus that only has room for Bitch Slut or Whore, she defies them all.

--Advance slowly down the trellis like the ugly plastic ones once sold at the Depot. And I just want to watch Shakes the Clown.

Gray clouds hang over my landscape. Don't want to move an inch. Almost got more tattoos yesterday. Decided it wouldn't make the greengrass on the other side seem so brown.

Walked up Fairchild and remembered when I had done that a year earlier and said, "I live like a King in Madison." Didn't feel that way today. Had a dream about a Lion on Saturday night. Angry Lion. Like a freak Leo. And who was telling me about Coke Black this weekend? Someone was while I was drinking an Oatmeal Stout. I said that I didn't need coke black if I had Oatmeal Stout. The Porter was 13% and they didn't sell it in pitchers for logical reasons that didn't make sense to me after one pint. "Fuck that! I want a whole Damnin' Hell Bitch-Ass pitcher so's I don't gotta stumble up the dammin'-ass bar for another. I can't walk in this condititon. Hell, I'm gunn have to just pee all over my pants where I sit as it is, and who's the sorry one then? Huh?"

Then I kept giving Alison grief about keeping a small beer bong in her purse because I though she was dowining everyone's drinks when they left to go outside for smoking.


(last thing to get put in the clipboard)

Blomit

striped down the side racing past on eight wheels. Sunglasses and sporty cap. hair, hair? what does this say about you and me, what does it all mean? When do i get to stop grinding curbs and creating cracks in belts chasing children and seal their fate with my endorsement. Watch the sun set on the SUV and the cigarette, bleached out hair down to your shaved pits and, bumper stickers that say, "Unless you're a COCK, get off my ASS!" And there's the same guy everyday with his defeated gait to the bus stop. I always think I should give him a ride since we both work in the same building. Or at least give him a pair of sunglasses. Why does everyone wear sunglasses? gaffas del sol. strange.

I can't wait till I get to, "at the Mountains of Madness," in the Lovecraft collection I'm reading. I've been reading a story or two before bed. Good timing for the middle of the night wake-up-drenched-in-sweat-fest. Unfortunately, that's about as deep as it gets. I read that story a long time ago and it didn't make much sense. I've learned a thing or two since then about the cold and uncaring nature of the universe.

I was watching the View with Tom Cruise et. al. from MI:III and Ving was talkin' 'bout Cruise's love for humanity. That's such horse shit. horse Shit HorseShit HORSESHIT! Road apple anyone? Mindy once scarfed down a road apple before my dad could pull her away from it. That's one of the best memories I have of her. Actually, that was the weekend she ate close to a pound of Jalapeno Cheddar Bread. Nasty, Nasty Bread. I don't like cornmeal in my bread. The best way to make cornbread is to use a yellowcake mix and a cornbread mix from our friends at Jiffy (bakery goods for lazy people) and combine the two and bake. Light fluffy and toxic.

It's a ramblin' friday. I can't wail loud enough for the Memorial Day to arrive for a day off.

Hangover Mondays are the best

I stayed up way too late last night after drinking all day. Or should I say, I was drinking from 2:00 PM to 4:00 AM and boy do I not believe how much I don't have a bad hangover. Funny how that works out sometimes.

I realized yesterday:

1. I want my life to be more like Spirited Away. I want to be an animated pixie with a dragon to ride on through the clouds. I would also like to have demons in Kabuki masks strolling around more. That would be pretty damn sweet. Much better than trying to serve a 90 year old woman a Summons & Complaint and having her tell me I've got the wrong number. I went there expecting to have this old woman answer the door and be fragile and timid and instead I got blindsided by a either senile or crotchety grump. (I met my match-but she'll never take me.)

2. Sunday nights are not a good time out. Regardless of what show is going on, there's no fun waiting to be had. It's just a fake assertion of a fake social life with fake friends who generate static to drown out the restless uncertainty the keeps me pretty fidgity and grumpy most of, if not all of, the time.

3. Goldschlager will not increase your net worth

4. If you ask a bartender for "Yellowcake," he will most likely not have any idea what you are talking about or will tell you that the bakery is down the street.

5. I like sleeping in my own bed, I don't like after bar parties, and I can't stand my damn brain on the day after running through every thing I said and did (that I can recall.) It's usually a replay of the scene for processing based on emotional categorical resonance and then crossreference filing based on the individual(s) present at said current memory as either apology owed or no worries about being friends anymore.

I'm really sleepy. Wish I was an illegal resident so I could take the day off today. I'll take tomorrow off instead. If I was an illegal resident, I probably wouldn't have taken the day off today, I would have done it tomorrow instead. A day late and a dollar. That's enough to buy two Pokemon hats, or five Charger's hats. And during band practice, we had to stop playing when the Packers were up to pick, it was annoying.