Author and Columnist
01.14.02
6:33 p.m.
-John Quincy Adams
The influence of each human being on others in this life is
a kind of immortality.
Quartering and Bleeding with Leeches
Emily won tickets to a Biohazard concert from the local radio station. When she informed me of this fact, I affected a growling voice, screamed "BIOHAZARD!" and stuck my tongue out, ala Gene Simmons (not Richard Simmons, because that is just sad and wrong). She looked to me, a bit frightened.
Evidently, she never experienced the joy that is hardcore metal nor was she aware that is precisely the manner of beast with which we were dealing. She was not, I would say, happy about this turn of events. Still, she persisted that theoretical possession of concert tickets signaled requisite attendance. Plus, it would give her an opportunity to dress up and array me likewise.
I called her the night before the concert to inform her what I had learned from the official Biohazard website. Namely, that this was their tour against terrorism and they would only be playing three dates because the lead singer sprained his ankle. Then I recited the lyrics of their song against terrorism, wherein they advocate the chopping off of limbs, exsanguination, and oral mutilation as solutions to the hot-button issue of terrorism. If only the president had his finger on the pulse of America as much as Biohazard does.
But I guess he is kind of busy not choking to death.
M arrived a little after I returned home from a seven hour day at the library. I was, one might call it, wasted. There was more to my fatigue than I will detail right now. Maybe later in this entry.
She was wearing tight velvet pants and an evil fairy tank top. She was going to wear a short skirt and fuck-me boots, but she removed them upon realizing they impeded her ability to kick people in their heads. I love my girly's priorities. She dressed me in my pleather pants and a vinyl/fishnet shirt I wear when I need to rebel against work clothes. My younger brother titled this my bondage outfit, so I decided to put my leather cuff on as well. No sense going about this half-assed.
The entire way to the concert, Emily kept reminding me that we didn't have to go to see Biohazard. We could, say, take in a movie. This, perhaps, was helped by the fact that I kept making very clear, very eloquent sexual statements to torment her. I am evil like that, especially in pleather. Leather pants = evil. Fake leather = fake evil. Grrr.
We waited outside the venue for a good half an hour. Emily practiced saying, "I'm on the list," while jumping up and down to keep warm. It was quite the visual, I will have you know.
When we got into the concert, we promptly situated ourselves on a dilapidated sofa in the back. My, were we surrounded by white trash. Seriously, I think a combination monster truck rally/fried chicken eating contest/WWF match was empty tonight. We mainly sat and macked on the sofa, occasionally mocking an opening band. The high point of the concert had to be someone shouting, "play some Weezer!" and watching the hardcore band become flustered. My, how tough one seems when asked to play Weezer.
I am happy to report, we left after the second (of four) opening bands. We just could not take it. The bands were taking themselves so damned seriously, the music was monotonous and uninspired, and you couldn't understand a damned word the "singers" were growling. Their Master Satan (or Marshall Mathers III, whatever) is not pleased.
In the parking lot, a crazy homeless woman tried talking to us. I responded to her in a humorous fashion, realizing that my work at the library has desensitized me to the mutterings of the mentally infirmed. It's a good thing.
So, we went home and played Earthbound. A far more constructive use of our time.
Feeble Indeed
Let's have little discussion of Peter Jackson, the purported genius director behind the new Lord of the Rings trilogy. I demand to know who greenlighted this freak to come anywhere near legitimate theater.
Last night, Emily and I went to Tina's. Gifts needed to be exchanged, you understand. I gave Tina her bathroom monkeys and Stevehen his Batman novel. Kate was there, gurgling gleefully at the Civilization II CD-ROM that she received. Tina gave M and I grab bag gifts from the Archie McFee catalog, which is always fun. Then we decided to watch a movie. Our choices were blah blah shazblah to the blah From the 8th dimension or a puppet movie called Meet the Feebles. I figured, hey, puppets. Puppets are cool. Puppets are like Muppets. I love Muppets. Ergo, I would like a movie with nothing but puppets in it.
You know how I remind you all, often, that I can be wrong and frequently am? Yeah, this is one of those times. This film was one of the most horrifyingly dreadful experiences of my life, almost on par with seeing Greater Tuna. In the first five minutes, a walrus shags a cat. This is not covert, but it rather, I would say, hardcore. This wasn't even the worst act of puppet sex. There is an S&M scene between a cockroach and a cow, an all bunny threeway, and an attempted rape of a... um... husky by a chain smoking rat. Oh, and a frog snorts coke and shoots heroine. It ends with a spurned hippo machine gunning down most of the cast. The puppets bleed. Not enough of them, I fear.
When I was down watching this abomination of celluloid, Stevehen told me it was by the director of Lord of the Rings. I refused to believe this could be so. They must just have the same name. But, no, he made this and a string of equally terrible movies. The internet confirms this fact.
As such, I am forced to hate New Zealand. I have decided, with no evidence, that Peter Jackson is respected there and the government of New Zealand, which consists of the members of the defunct Monty Python, said the movie could not be made if this freak wasn't the director. It's all spite.
Commitment
Melissa admonished me the other day. The night before, I called her late at night because the book I am reading frightened me. Actually, I was fine with the book. The fact that I got bleary headed when I did my night protection ritual/prayer frightened me. So I called.
For obvious reasons, she saw justifiably fit to tell me that I was taking all of this too seriously. We were not going to Pine Bush to solve any great mystery, we are going there because it is fun. I lost sight of that.
Soon in Xenology: The Forces That Be move in mysterious ways. The work. I adventure. We return to Pine Bush. I go to a wedding.
last watched: Meet the Feebles
reading: How To Defend Yourself Against Alien Abduction Ann Druffel
listening: "Make It Home" by Juliana Hatfield
wanting: to return to Pine Bush.
interesting
thought: This isn't reality, though you can express reality here if you choose.
moment of zen: a sharp intake of breath on a winter's night.
someday I must: let go of that I love to see if it will return.
Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. He has published four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings.
He likes when you comment.