I think I'm going to have to stop using this space for a while.
  Lately, every time I sit down to type something, I find myself preoccupied with issues concerning my apartment and my roommates. I don't think that a public forum like this is quite the place to be airing the private tensions between those of us living in the Bald Cave. I think I need to get these issues hashed out with them before I feel comfortable making the whole thing public fodder.

  I'm getting tired of rotten things in my kitchen.

  Quite frequently, I get emails from people about music. Perhaps "frequently" is misleading. I get about three emails a month. Of those at least one is music-oriented. They vary a bit, but generally the theme is "music sucks, except for my favorite bands which I will now list for you."
  Now let's get two things straight. First; I am a big fan of shameless promotion. If you like a band, and you want to try and use this space to get the word out about them, that's fine. Huzzah. Second; I do think that, in general, pop music is pretty appalling. I almost never listen to music radio anymore, because I find that, despite tuning in once or twice a month, I still recognize about every third song I hear. Frankly, I think that the corporate consolidation of radio is slowly strangling musical diversity, but that's another rant. The point is, I don't have any love for a vast majority of the music that is popular enough to make it on TRL. I feel your pain, music loathers.
  Having said that, I really think you should suck it up for once. If the state of popular music today is the most depressing thing you have to face this morning, then you're on your way to having a pretty fucking good day. There are people who can't hear the music they want on the radio because their government won't allow it to be played on the air. Hell, there are people who will wake up early so they can go to the hospital for kidney dialysis, because their name hasn't come up on the transplant waiting list yet. There are people who are living, breathing, screwing, starving and dying all over the world, and guy who's shitting out his large intestine because he drank the water from the river that runs past a pesticide plant before it gets to his village is never going to care that Britney Spears sells more records than Jimmy Eat World.
  I understand that sometimes it can be hard to keep these things in perspective. It's very easy to whine about the everyday problems in one's own life, and not take into account the suffering of less fortunate people. I've been guilty of forgetting the big picture innumerable times myself, so I don't escape blame when I say that we should all take a moment to be thankful for the things that we have, or at least for the things we don't have, like herpes, or a fascist regime ruling over us. Let's try to keep that in mind the next time we're tempted to lament the sad state of popular music. Instead, concentrate on how cool it is that, amongst all the dreck out there, you've managed to find a few bands that you really dig. Think about how satisfying it is to be able to feel superior to all the bubble-gum listening drones, and to sneer at the mass-marketed crap you see on MTV. If you can't be thankful for your music store cred, at least take a moment to be happy that you're not dying of a horrible wasting disease. Unless you are. In that case, go right ahead and bitch.

  I very often have a hard time thinking of anything to say.
  It's stupid, really. I can talk and talk and talk. In fact, some might say that's the only thing I'm really good at. Other than a tendency to speak too fast, I'm a good talker. (I'm trying to cram as much into a sentence as I can, so I speed through it and end up having to repeat myself anyway.) And yet, when I sit in front of the blank screen, something magically stupid happens. The words just seem to dry up.
  I think it may be a wierd form of anxiety. Subconciously, I doubt that anyone gives a rat's nusticles about anything I have to say. So, when it comes time to say it, I clam up.
  On the other hand, maybe I'm just not motivated enough. When somebody says "hey write about this," I rarely have trouble coming up with something. But when it's my turn to get an idea, I find it's like dragging a dead hippo through knee-deep mud.

  I sincerely hope that the Major League Baseball players union decides to walk off the job on August 30th.
  Why am I rooting for baseball's ninth work stoppage in 30 years? Because there seems to be a chance, however slim, that a walkout by the players union will finally push the fans too far, and they will abandon the sport altogether.
  Let me ask you this. Do you have any sympathy at all for a group of people who make, on average, $2.3 million dollars a year? I don't have a drop of it for grown men getting paid millions, or even hundreds of thousands, to play the same game that I played at recess in middle school. Yes, they're playing at a level that is exponentially higher than I could ever attain. And yes, their performances generate revenue, through ticket sales and broadcasting rights and merchandising. Based on public interest alone, their lives are worth far more than mine. I don't begrudge them being famous, nor do I begrudge their attempt to bargain for a better deal. But the threat of a strike is an implicit threat to hold their fans hostage to the negotiations.
  Sure, a strike will hurt the owners' wallets. It will likely hurt the players' wallets too. But I can't imagine that the fiscal hit these men will endure will be anything like the emotional letdown that the fans will feel if the players walk off the job on August 30th. It will prove that, unlike the people who endure ever-increasing ticket prices to see their heroes play, the players care less about the game than they do about the money.
  It is my firm hope that, if the players go on strike, the fans will turn their collective back on these people who have sneered at their devotion for so long. But, maybe I'm a bit naive. Perhaps baseball will linger forever, as the crack of the bat and the sheen of the Astro-Turf(c) seduce young and old alike into paying ten bucks for a beer and a hot dog, so they can convince themselves that they've been a part of something magical. Maybe we'll continue to talk about great ballplayers in the same hushed, reverential tones reserved for speaking of war veterans or long-dead saints. Maybe the Yankess will continue to win World Series after World Series, because they can basically afford to buy any player from any team, soul and all. But a small part of me hopes that baseball's fans will finally get so disgusted with the antics of these overpaid crybabies that they stage their own walkout, and remind both the players and the owners whose hard earned money really keeps the whole thing humming along. Imagine an entire season in which the league didn't sell enough tickets to make their stadium lease payments? How fast do you think the players would rush back to the table, begging for drug testing? Probably just as fast as the owners would re-write their revenue sharing plans.
  In fact, if you want to help avert a strike, you can do so by simply doing nothing at all. Don't go to a game. Don't watch one on TV. If every seat in every stadium is empty on August 29th, you can rest assured that an agreement will be reached by midnight. Neither the players nor the owners care very much about us, but they're very fond of our money. By simply withholding it, we have the power to make our feelings known. We just have to have enough pride in ourselves enough to let go of the game if the people who profit from it don't treat us with the respect we deserve.

  I finally have a fridge. And the landlord's handyman said that the landlord is "a turdwad." There is some justice in the world after all.

  My landlord is a crackhead.
  Okay, so he's not literally a crackhead. As far as I know, he isn't suffering from a debilitating substance addiction which reduces him to blowing sweaty men in grimey alleys for money to get his fix. However, he does exhibit some decidedly crackhead-ish behaviors.
  For instance, I don't have a refrigerator. It quit working on Sunday night. While my roommates frantically made "keep or trash" decisions about the contents of the freezer, I cleaned water off the floor and called my landlord. I left him a message, explaining the situation, and asked him to get back to me.
  Since it was after 10:30, I wasn't expecting him to get back to me that night. In fact, based on his past performance, I was anticipating a delay of at least two days. When he called me back Monday morning, I was pleasantly surprised. He said that he'd have a new refrigerator delivered Tuesday afternoon. Once I confirmed my roommate would be home when it got here, I considered the matter closed.
  This is because I am naive and stupid.
  I got home at about 10:00 on Tuesday night. My roommate was here, as well as the hulking mass of our old fridge, still lurking in the middle of the kitchen. As you can probably guess, the new fridge hadn't materialized. I called my landlord, and once again left a message. I called him again this morning at 11:30, but I still haven't been able to get in touch with him. I'm leaving for work at 2:00, and if I don't have it by then, it may be Friday before anyone will be home during the day.
  Someday, I will not live in the ghetto with a crackhead for a landlord. This is my mantra. Oooooom.

Susquehanna Hat Company -- The Official Site for Too Much Joy, Wonderlick, and The ITS.
  I don't know that I have a favorite band, but if I do, it's Too Much Joy. Check out their music, as well as the band members' other projects, because I said so.

Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Why does it take you so long to answer people's questions?
- LBB
Dear Little Bald Bastard,
  Because I'm a slack-ass.

  The bachelor party turned out pretty much as I expected. Everybody sat around and drank. Huzzah.

  The human body is an unreliable mechanism, confounded by the simplest methods. For instance, today I had to have some cavities filled. While dental work certainly isn't my favorite thing in the world, I am by no means phobic. However, I am always dismayed by the lingering effects of the anaesthetic. I am most grateful that I can have dental work performed relatively discomfort-free. (No Marathon Man for me) But here I sit, two hours after the procedure was performed, and my face feels just as numb as it did when I sat down in the chair. It's as if I have a side of beef hanging from the right side of my head. I can almost feel my cheek liquefying and sliding onto my shoulder. Imagine if the dentist had decided to jam that needle full of pain-killer into my heart?

  When people talk about "spam," I think they need to be more specific. During my first few years of Internet use, I managed to stay below the collective radar screen of the people who promised to show me adult pics FOR FREE!!!, help me meet the (insert city here) single of my dreams, and add inches to my cock GUARANTEEED!!!. Then, for some reason I can't begin to fathom, I started getting unsolicited porn. Not much, never more than 6-12 a day, but enought to annoy me. And now, after a year's worth of tinkering with my filters, I am just finally able to go a week without getting any solicitations for "Tight Young Vagina" in my Inbox.
  Now, the spam I receive has taken on an ominous new tone. All of a sudden, the email marketers want to get me out of debt. And there are lots of 'em. Fat ones, skinny ones, ones who climb on rocks. And they're all concerned about my financial future.
  Whoo-hah.

_ I originally intended this Blog to be something I would update every day. Instead, it's been almost a week since I was here. *sigh* even online I am a lazy, uninspired wastrel.
_ My ex-roommate is getting married, and I am to be his best man. There is all sorts of pressure associated with that hyperbolic title, not the least of which is planning a bachelor party. My options are severely limited in this endeavor.
A) The groom's brother will be attending. Since he's not of legal age, going to a bar is right out.
B) The groom is whipped like a recalcitrant galley oarsman. Thus, any form of risque entertainment... okay, a stripper, is also verboten. Personally, I'm sort of thankful for that one. Some bleach-blonde skank spastically twitching her implants around my living room is not my idea of a final send-off.
C) I've never even attended, let alone planned, one of these things. The closest thing I've ever been to was a bridal/baby shower for an old friend who got the "getting married and starting a family" thing all backwards. I did see a stripper once, at a birthday party for a fellow attendant at the gas station where I used to work. The dancer was pretty good, but he really didn't quite fit into that little thong very well. Not that Theresa, my co-worker, minded very much.
_ So far, all I've come up with is sitting around, drinking, and telling embarrasing stories about Otter. (Yes, his nickname is Otter.) While there is certainly an abundance of such tales, I can't help but wonder if I'm somehow short-changing both the groom and the guests. I've always had an abundance of female aquaintances, and the stories they tell about bridal showers are terribly intimidating. From what I can gather, they are elaborately choreographed affairs, with coordinated themes, decorations, and surprises that will both delight and amuse the bride-to-be. Otter's party won't be a surprise in any sense, since he helped me fill out the guest list. The theme consists of "drinking a lot," and the only decoration will be the life sized cardboard picture of Ian McKellan as Gandalf that I got from the bookstore where I work.
_ I'm sure that Otter will enjoy his party, as will the guests. Until they've drunk themselves into a blind stupor, they'll no doubt appreciate the chance to rip on each other in a sanctioned, encouraging atmosphere. In the end, I suppose that's really all that matters. Yet, I still can't shake the feeling that there was more I could have done to make the experience more unique. More planning, more decorating, more thematic consideration. Hopefully, everyone will get drunk too quickly to notice.

BFA2k2 The Boyfriend for America 2002 archive.
I was especially proud of this.

_ I spent the afternoon playing with Legos today. I whiled away countless days as a kid, building spaceships and tanks, etc., on the floor of my room in Vineland, NJ. It's been years since I did that, but I went to my parents house today, and my dad was building with my nine-year-old cousin, so I decided to join in. Five hours later, as my mother was admonishing us to clear the blocks off the table for dinner, I had come to realize two very important things.
_ 1) There is a certain pleasure and satisfaction to be gained from imagining something, picturing it in your mind, and then building it. Making the thing that you saw in your head into a three-dimensional object, that you can touch, examine and destroy if you wish, is a creative thrill of a very high order.
_ 2) I am much more anal-retentive than I was as a child. My method of storing my Lego pieces was to dump them all into huge plastic bins. When I needed a specific block, I would sift through them like I was looking for the last green M&M. Today, as I was digging through the bins as I built my hovercraft, I was seized by a near-overwhelming urge to sort each and every piece by type, size, color, and whatever other category my compulsion demanded.
_ *sigh* I guess I'm just not the same carefree kid I used to be. Although people who know me now will find it hard to imagine that I was ever carefree, let alone a kid.

  Here's a question: why do people feel the need to bare their souls to retail employees?
I support my bastardly activities with a day job at a bookstore. It's one of those mall-box type stores, a subsidiary of one of the giant mega-book-coffee warehouse chains. Aside from my mad register skillz, my main function is book-retriever. Customers come in, describe a book to varying degrees of vagueness, and I try to match their sparse data with an actual title.
  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but it invariably takes a few minutes of searching, both in our computer's database and on the shelf. For some reason, customers quite often feel impelled to fill that void of conversation with an explanation of why they're looking for the book in the first place.
  "My son's got ADHD, and he's a very bright boy, tested all off the charts, and his teachers don't know how to handle a kid that's so much smarter than they are. I heard that this book can set them straight."
  "I just found out I have this really large tumor on the inside of my skull, and the ichor dripping onto my brain is making me nauseous. My cousin's best friend's dentist is a water-skiing nut, and he says this book helped him overcome motion sickness, so I thought it might help."
  "The first time I made love to the missus, we was in the back seat of my Chevy Nova. We were so cramped and bent around and twisted up, but for some reason, I was fantastic. I here that this tantric sex has some yoga or somethin' involved with it. Maybe that'll help me be able to get it up again."
  I've heard more stories about sexual dysfunction, family dysfunction, marital dysfunction, recently diagnosed diseases, learning disorders and pet peeves from complete strangers than I ever expected. I feel like the world's lamest bartender. Is there a reason that these people are driven to share their sordid secrets with me? Is it just because they aren't comfortable with silence? Do I LOOK like I care? Whatever the reason, here's a piece of advice. The next time you're in a retail establishment, and the conversation lags for some reason, resist the urge to fill the void with intimate details about your personal life. The interest/sympathy/fascination that you'll elicit from the sales associate is most likely feigned. And, if it's a good enough story, it just might end up on the Internet.