Uppity-Negro.com

"Aaron Hawkins and Anastasia Beaverhousen are stupid characters, a couple of stoners who spout dumb-ass catch-phrases like a third rate 'Cheech and Chong' or 'Bill and Ted'. Fuck Uppity-Negro.com. Fuck them up their stupid asses."

Meh.

"Uppity-Negro.com is a terrible, one-note joke that only stoners laugh at. It's fucking clown shoes. If the person writing it were real, I'd beat the shit out of him or her or whatever the fuck it's claiming to be today for being so stupid. I can't believe Hostway would have anything to do with this shit. I, for one, will be boycotting this website. Who's with me?"

And then there were about fifty more posts from people who agree to join Spartacus here's boycott of the site.

I'm gonna kill all these fucks.

Went out with the Ghettofab Jessica and her posse last night. She made the utterly bizarre claims a) that I'm bitter and b) that she's the Mary and I'm the Rhoda.

Where do people get this shit, man?

Was going to offer to make her Raspberry Swirl in exchange for the name, but there were gay men present, and such talk tends to make them physically ill. Especially after downing $1 (or was it 1 penny?) pitchers of whatever domestic swill they were drinking last night.

Realize some people might be offended about being described on this site, but let's face it, what I write is so tangentially related to reality that I might as well be talking about fictional characters. F-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-L  C-H-A-R-A-C-T-E-R-S. Am I. . . am I getting through to you at all here?

Before that, spent the better part of the evening at the local Screenz trying, and failing, to get the newly battery-powered laptop to recognize a wireless card and connect to their WIFI network. Maybe telling it, "Bitch, you betta rec'nize" wasn't the best possible approach.

Even tried under Linux -- gent who worked there was a part-time Penguinhead. No Joy Luck Club. On the plus side, they didn't charge me for the more than an hour spent in their company, since I never did manage to actually connect up.

Other PCMCIA cards are recognized without problems; this was the one they offer for rent for those of us without the new technology. Guess I can just try a different one. . .

Also found out from the cute girl working there -- dance major from Columbia -- that Urban Bush Women, the company I been looking for info on, and who I was wondering where they were and why they ain't touring. . . are in residence at Columbia, were last year, and will be this year.

Basically, I been scouring the Internet, and they was right down the street the whole fucking time.

There's probably a moral to this story, but since I was also downing that cheap domestic swill last night, I'm still too fuzzy-headed to figure it out.

Update: You know, they may have a point. I mean, a web site called Uppity-Negro.com? Who in God's name would read something like that?

BrowserSpy -Basic Information

Eheh.

Would make that iframe prettier, but probably should do some actual work this morning. . .

Update: Right, almost forgot.

"Uppity-Negro.com and his stupid alter ego Aaron Hawkins only work in small doses, if at all. He doesn't deserve his own website."

Didn't realize it was a question of deserve, but whatevah.

Have I used that enough that it constitutes a dumb-ass catch-phrase?

Cuz this is my United States of Whatevah.

Update 2:

Javascript courtesy of BrowserSpy - Privacy to the ultimate test, and W3Schools JavaScript Browser Detection.

I'm too kind to pull info out of the cookie that stores your name, email and web site address, if you chose do save suchlike when you posted here as some point.

Ok, too lazy. Call it kindness as an act of kindness.

Posted by Aaron at 7:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Oh, grow the fuck up.

Sometimes, anger is rooted in someone having done shit to you that really pissed you off. Sometimes, it's rooted in seeing a friend make incredibly stupid choices like, picking an example totally at random, getting involved in another poly scenario when the previous one they were in ended so very well for all involved -- and how is Jana these days, anyway? -- ending up getting hurt, and never quite seeming to make any sort of connection between her dumb-ass choices and the consequences of those choices.

And since you, you, my friend, have apparently managed to push away everyone else in your life who's actually willing to give you a well-deserved foot in the ass, I guess it's up to me.

Joy. Just what I always fucking wanted.

I swear, the Buddhism and the psychobabble are just armor to avoid having to take any sort of responsibility for your shit. . .

Hiya, fellas.

I'm in a great mood today.

And since I'm starting to regret asking goneaway not to go after that Canadian fuck who decided "open posting" meant "posting a chicken-shit anonymous attack on somone's own site," this probably ain't a good time to fuck with me.

Not that there's ever a good time. . .

Posted by Aaron at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

What a lot of fun
You guys have been real swell
And there's not a one
Who can say this ended well

All those secrets you've been concealing,
Say you're happy now -
Once More, With Feeling
Well I gotta run
See you all in hell

Well, you've just underutilized another perfectly good Free-For-All Friday reading Uppity-Negro.com. Our esteemed producer is Doug the subway fugitive not a slave to fashion bongo boy Berman, our Nutrition Consultants are Eaton Wright and Liven Good, our Head of Security is Barb Dwyer, our Interpretive Dance Instructor is Tristan Schaut, our Marriage Counselor is Marion Haste, and our Fact Checker is Ella Fynoe. We'll see you back here next month, and in the meantime, don't post like my brother.

Posted by Aaron at 5:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Free-For-All Friday

URL: http://www.uppity-negro.com/cgi-uppity-negro/mt.cgi

User: guest

Pass: guest

Other participants include:

Let's do it.

Sorry, y'all do it.

I'm keeping schtum.

Update: Historical revisionism on the time stamp, to move this to the top of the page, where it should remain until I turn the guest password off this evening.

Update 2: Sorted. Really, really should read Team Murder, or at least the MT site, more often.

Posted by Aaron at 11:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)

Some funky, funky reggae riddums courtesy of DK & Jack Dangers over at the Dub Lab

In the middle of a cyber cafe where young ones game and scream to their red bull amped up hearts content, a man with a G4 laptop in the shop with a broken logic board sits and contemplates his life.

Jessica Simpson's video is playing on TRL. Rolling Stone magazine called her Housewife of the year.

Oh My God. She just stole a scene directly out of *nsync's Dirty Pop video. I'm so mad about that.

Did I just say that aloud?

Hmmmm.

Better get my grown-man on.

If you haven't been reading my space lately, you probably don't know that I'm really obsessed with Time right now.

I watched Frida with my sister today knowing that the artist died at age 47. The story begins when she is in her early twenties (approximately 21) and quickly I realize that the midpoint of her life happens when she's 23 and a half. The point at which there is more physical time behind her than in front of her.

The presentation of that time that Salma Hayek and Julie Taymor present suggests that she lived most of that time in both great pain and with great passion.

And I'm left wondering if both are necessary to truly make the most of my days.

I'm also wondering if a game called "HO Town" would cause the same shitstorm that ghettopoloy did.

I mean, if the pimps were multicultural and you could be a female pimp and maybe have some male ho's would people be upset?

I'm also wondering if a person could be both "pimp" and "ho" at the same time.

"Bitch, don't make me take off my shoe and beat...uh...myself with it."

Damn, that killed last night when everyone was in a food coma.

Hi, I'm Jason (aka Gunn aka Malcolm) of Negro Please and, apparently, I've lost my way.

Posted by Aaron at 6:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (1)

*Steps up to the mic, after stumbling over the cord and almost demolishing it*

I'm the dude that creeps in the blogosphere. I'm crawling out from under my rock, and so with the sun on my face, food in my belly, and computer on my lap, I present me- ej.

I've been reading Aaron's site for quite a long time. As I told one of my cohorts: 'I need to get off this "maybe i'll come off as someone mega-stupid" feeling'.

'Bout me? I'm a DePaulian BGM, mid-30s Technical Architect who touches everything and yet i'm the quiet one in the background. Case in point- if I were to cheer each time I read Aaron's posts, my throat would be hoarse. I'm musically inclined (via exponent) and yes, I watched Amelie myself.

I got a set of blog brothers and sisters and I travel once a month so yeah, I'll be up in your 'hood. I'm sure of it. World AIDS Day is coming, and that's part of my construct in the here and now.

I could post more, but considering I've been doing nothing but eating food all day, I should just collapse on the bed. But then, how could I possibly keep up with Uppity Negro?

*Slinks away....*

Posted by Aaron at 5:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm doing unto others rule in hopes that others will do unto me (baby).

Well. It's Friday. We are buying nothing, but are consuming lunch at IHOP with my best friend and going to see Elf (I'd rather see Bad Santa but there are small children who still believe involved) -- I don't know if that counts as buying something, but I spent eight straight hours cooking yesterday and you couldn't pay me enough to set foot in the kitchen today, not that you would, since you're not buying anything, either.

I'm also thinking about December's lay-out, which will probably be red ribbon themed, as Monday's World AIDS Day.

And I'm still basking in a tryptophan glow. I made my first turkey yesterday, it came out surprisingly well and while it was a lot more work than I'd thought, it was also much easier. I might do it again, though not any time soon.

Finally, I'm still wondering if this is the Aaron whose birthday was Monday; I just noticed it on my calendar, but I know half a dozen Aarons on- and off-line and there's no last name, just 'aaron' written in black Sharpie. If it is, hope it was great; if it's not, happy early birthday anyway.

-Gwen

Posted by Aaron at 3:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

This place has, among other flavors:

Ube - a Purle Yam flavor
Pumpkin Pie
Queso - Ice cream with Kraft Cheese slices mixed in
Cherry Vanilla - Vanilla with full cherries mixed in
Mango
Avacado
and about 40 other flavors.

Your asses need to go!

Almost forgot....I'm Redpac

P.S. Passport To Paris with the Olsen Twins is on ABCFamily right now!

Posted by Aaron at 1:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Why is no one taking all my bait about a certain ex of mine? Do you not know WHO I AM TALKING ABOUT? Because I keep linking to her, and making references to her work, her sexuality, her apartment, and her dog. So I'm probably being too subtle. It's one of my faults.

Listen, folks, this is some profound relationship analysis, in the form of Shakira lyrics, and links to Snopes.com! I'm being fuckin' introspective here! If you can call petty blaming statements and misplaced metaphors "introspective". Which if you're me, you can.

Reply to my entries! Hello! Pay attention to meeeeeeee! Don't you get it yet?

I can't think of any other reason people would be turning away from this train wreck.

Posted by Aaron at 11:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Try to keep up with me here, people.

Shakira - Objection

It's not her fault that she's so irresistible
But all the damage she's caused is unfixable
Every twenty seconds you repeat her name
But when it comes to me you don't care
If I'm alive or dead, so

Chorus:
Objection
I don't want to be the exception
To get a bit of your attention
Love is for free and
I'm not your mother
But you don't even bother
Objection
I'm tired of this triangle
Got dizzy dancing tango
I'm falling apart in your hands again
No way
I've got to get away

Next to her cheap silicone I look minimal
That's why in front of your eyes I'm invisible
But you've got to know small things also count
Better put your feet on the ground
And see what it's about, so

Chorus (with a slight change)
The angles of this triangle

I wish there was a chance for
You and me
I wish you could find our
Place to be
Away from here

This is pathetic
And sardonic
And sadistic
And psychotic
Tango is not for three
Was never meant to be
But you can try it
Rehearse it
Or train like a horse
But don't you count on me
Don't you count on me boy

Chorus

Now.

Let's say the line about silicone refers to, say, a strap-on rather than tits.

And that we do a gender substitution in the line, "I'm not your mother," given the statement:

It's become clear to me that I have some truly atrocious relationship patterns with men, patterns I can tie right back, in predictable Freudian form, to my relationship with my father.

I'd hoped to avoid the sledgehammer approach, but there seem to be some slow learners out there.

Posted by Aaron at 10:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

But I was checking the referrals, and saw this: Froogle Search: dominatrix.

[Update: Not on that page anymore, apparently, try this instead.]

Could someone. Please. Explain. What.

The.

Fuck.

That's about?

And why am I so cheap?

np: C'est si bon, The One True Catwoman Eartha Kitt

Unless you one of them Lee Meriwether heretics. Julie Newmar, I can accept.

If you even thinking about bringing up Michelle Pfeiffer, you need to get the fuck off my website.

Update: added links, corrected the spelling of Lee Meriwether's name, ignored search results for Pfeiffer's assless self.

Posted by Aaron at 9:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

From August 20, 2002. I mention the date to avoid any possible misunderstandings.

I just don't never learn, is the problem.

So The Girl sends me a venting email complaining about some guy who made a lewd comment at her when she was jogging that morning.

I am sensitive new-age guy, and a supportive friend, so I may have written back something along the lines of, "It's called a sports bra, look into it."

The message might have continued, "And technically, running back to your apartment from where-ever the fuck last night's one-night-stand lives isn't really jogging."

There could have been something along the lines of, "And you must have been barefoot, since you own no shoes that you could possibly run in. I'm not even sure how you walk.

"Although it is interesting to watch.

"Especially from the back."

So I should not have been surprised at the call. I let the machine get it. Freaks call me.

"I know you're home, and I know that cheap-ass machine only got like five minutes of record time, and if you think I don't have five minutes worth of shit to say, you got another think coming. . ."

I picked up. This was a mistake. I tried to say hello, but she cut me off.

"What are you doing now? Doesn't matter. We're going to Victoria's Secret."

I weighed my options.

"¿Que? No hablo ingles."

"Baka."

"I don't speak Japanese."

"I don't speak Spanish," she lied. "C'mon, we're burning daylight."

I weighed my options, and realized I had none. "When should I pick you up?"

"Not a problem. I'm on your back porch."

I hung up the phone and walked to the kitchen. She gave what could be described as a jaunty wave through the window.

Praying I'd locked the screen door for once, I opened the back door. No such luck. She walked in.

"Hey. You got any beer? Real beer, not that Goose Island shit you like so much?"

Anyone else, I would have asked if it wasn't a little early for that. In her case, I'm surprised she didn't go straight for the hard liquor. "Check the fridge. How did you know I was home?"

"I saw your car. Why you always park so far? Come back and get me."

". . ." I walked out the door and held the screen open. She just looked at me.

"What, you expect me to wait outside? It's hot. Drive around some to let the AC kick in."

Once the car was cool enough for her highness, we set off. She flipped through the cds in the glove compartment with an expression of open disgust.

"And why are we going to Victoria's Secret?"

"You the one told me to get a sports bra."

". . . I don't think they sell sports br--"

"You ever look? Or were you too busy playing with the frilly things? You sick fuck."

". . ."

"Or looking at the posters. Those women are airbrushed all to hell, you know. Real women have hair down th--"

"Find anything you wanted to listen to?" I tried. Vainly.

"Hell no. I didn't even know Lisa Germano had this many cds out. Why you want to listen to whiny women, anyway?"

". . . Couldn't you have gone with somebody else? Stacey?"

Another look of disgust. She has a range of them. "No, she'd drag me up in Lame Giant."

". . . Bryant."

"No," she sighed, "unlike some people, Brian has a job, and a life, and can't just drive off to Mall of America at the drop of a hat."

I turned on the radio.

At the mall, I looked at the map to try to figure out how to get to the place. She said, "Ok, Hot Topic. Let's go."

". . ."

"It's on the way," she insisted.

I looked at the map again. "I don't see the dimensional portal you're talking about."

"Ok, maybe you want to hang out here checking out the ghetto hoochie mama jailbait, but some of us have other stuff to do. C'mon, we're burning daylight."

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

"You started."

I tried reason. "You wanted to go to Chicago. Then when we got there, you didn't want to get up before noon."

"I was tired after the drive."

"I drove."

"And I wanted to swing by the Sanrio store too, while we're here."

". . . You couldn't have taken the bus?"

She gave me a cold look. "It's freaks on the bus."

I let it slide. Sometimes it's easier to just let it slide.

Later, outside Hot Topic, she wore a grin which could accurately be described as "shit-eating." Hating myself, I asked why.

"The cashier was hitting on you."

This was a change from her normal technique, which is accusing me of looking at other women when we're out. I asked why this was a problem, seeing as we're not dating, and she said it made her look bad.

I hang out with her for the material. I keep telling myself that.

"She was like 13. And no, she wasn't."

"Like you ain't notice how she leaned over the counter."

"There wasn't much there to notice. Except the freckles."

"You were checking her out? She was like 13, you sick fuck. And why you looking at other women when you're with me?"

"I hate you. I've mentioned this before, right?"

"And the way she practically massaged your hand when she gave you the change. What was up with that?"

"Which reminds me," I said, "how did you manage to `forget your purse' when it was your idea to come here in the first place?"

"Damn, I said I'd pay you back."

"You say that often. It happens less often."

Check the comments for the original entry. As usual, the contributions of others are better'n my pointless babbling. Thanks to Hanne for the (Stalinist revisionismed) correction on the Lame Giant name.

Posted by Aaron at 8:45 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Damn it all.

The breathtakingly lovely Flash site(s) for Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain seem to have been lost to the ephemeral nature of the Web, or the failure of film studios to renew the domains for movies that are catalog material, or something. Major suckage; if you never saw 'em -- the French and English ones were very different, but both quite well-done -- you missed a treat.

Same thing if you haven't seen the movie yet. Which my moms still hasn't; I ended up looking at it alone in the living room while the rest of the fam watched judge shows in the kitchen.

Later, at dinner, suggestions were tossed around about which not-present other family members needs to get dragged onto one judge show or another so they finally cough up the cash they been owing.

(Ah, there is a site at http://video.movies.go.com/amelie/, but it's not nearly as good as the originals. Typical.)

Don't really care for the judge shows myself -- wretched displays of human desperation and misery, tortured emotions blatantly displayed for the amusement and mockery of the public. . . I'm being too sledgehammer-like again, ain't I?

Anyway, about that graphic and the title:

Confronted with the "twoness" of being both American and "Negro" in the United States, [William Alexander Brown, a free man of color and former ship's steward] demonstrated that African Americans did not have to privilege one cultural identity at the expense of the other. In fact, as a garden host and theatrical manager, Brown would attempt to represent all New Yorkers—African, European, Indian. From 1821 to 1823, Brown successfully but precariously integrated the U.S. stage and audience; provided African American actors complete yet frequently contested access to theatrical representation; rehearsed his black actors and audiences for full participation in public life; explored multiple but often conflicting European, African, and Indian performative identities; and showcased a New World Africanist aesthetic marked by skilled appropriations and unresolved hybridities. Brown's model national institution emerged in four specific stages or phases: an initial backyard pleasure garden on Manhattan's predominantly white West Side; the Minor Theatre on the fashionable and centrally located Park Row; the American Theatre in the remote Greenwich Village; and finally the African Company, featured in a brand-new Village theater. With each phase in this institutional journey, manager Brown encountered artistic, location, and audience challenges that can prove instructive for any truly diverse American theater.

In this study, I also contend that certain disapproving or dismissive Euro-Americans did not know how to "behave" at these mutually African and American entertainments. Although Brown enthusiastically celebrated the young nation's triracial and multiethnic potential, many white pessimists declared this overwhelming pool of multiplicity unworkable and undesirable. During America's early national period—the formative years between independence and the early 1830s—many Euro-Americans were unwilling to imagine an openly heterogeneous national character that embraced African Americans as legitimate cultural claimants. Specifically, competing white theatrical managers, incensed white newspaper editors, insecure white circus workers, and overzealous white patrons vehemently rejected Brown's intrepid participation in national self-definition. Even as this black impresario designed his entertainments for the pleasure of all Manhattanites, escalating racial divisions in nineteenth-century New York transformed his Minor, American, and African Theatres into exceptionally volatile and even dangerous social spaces. After a physical assault in August 1822, an irate William Brown allegedly responded to the rioters with a provocative sign, claiming that "Whites Do Not Know How to Behave at Entertainments Designed for Ladies and Gentlemen of Colour."

From, oddly enough, White People Do Not Know How to Behave at Entertainments Designed for Ladies and Gentlemen of Colour: William Brown's African and American Theater, by Marvin McAllister.

Amazing how little shit changes over a century or two, give or take.

Want to know more? Drop by http://fr.movies.yahoo.com/fc/amelie.html, and look for cognates, unless you're one of them bi(+)-lingual types. We don't like those here in America. If English was good enough for our lord and saviour Jesus Christ. . .

Posted by Aaron at 7:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, if nothing else, this sort of thing does give you a better idea of who your friends are.

Garrity, much love.

Hanne, much love.

Gray, you arrogant, self-righteous prick. No wonder the two of you get along so famously. Two choices, dog:

1. Oh, I'se powerful sorry, massa.
2. That's mighty white of you. Now fuck away off.

And while I'm on the subject, the agentless passive construction, "I realize you've been hurt" does not mean the same thing as "I realize I/he/she hurt you." At this point, I don't really consider the former to be a meaningful sentence of English, so if anyone else is thinking about tossing a sentence using that -- or the gerund -- my way, do me a little favor. Take that sentence, shine it up real nice, turn it sideways, and ram it up your candy cracka ass.

A similar request holds for starting off some shit with, "I understand [that]. . ."

Really.

Do you now.

Without having talked to me about any of this.

Your telepathy is impressive. Or, you don't understand jack shit, and need to shut the fuck up.

Finally, I am, in fact, still demonstrating an admirable amount of restraint. I've merely been tacky. I'm also capable of nigga-level tacky, and can approach, but not quite attain, gay black man level tacky. Wanna see?

Ain't think so.

A Very Merry Native American Genocide Day to all our readers.

Since there were no decent film suggestions -- useless Internet, anyway, where's that Al Gore fucker at? -- I just rented Amelie at Women & Children First yesterday. Only saw it once, in the theater, and figure it deserves a repeat viewing. And my moms hasn't ever seen it, and I think she'd like it.

No, I don't know why I'm supporting the local, independent, woman-owned, queer-friendly feminist bookstore either, seeing as I'm such a misogynist bastard. Guess it slipped my mind.

"Men in my life haven't been very friendly lately." Yeah, and you're just overflowing with the milk of human kindness, Miss My-Boundaries-Aren't-Being-Respected. Come down off the cross, sweetie, somebody needs the wood.

Posted by Aaron at 5:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

From Hey Ms. DJ :

Along with the equally formidable Heather, Dayhota and Lady D, Colette founded a collective called Superjane in their early days of DJing. These turntable wizards were already heavyweights in my mind after they made the cover of the music magazine XLR8R. Because of their precedence, and Chicago's prolific house-music scene (which, for house DJs, is like LA for actors) I had already made the decision to move to Chicago. I will never forget Luis' dismissive comment about Colette; it fueled me to get the hell out of San Diego.

Since the 1997 formation of Superjane, each member has successfully charged her individual career. Currently, in her new Los Angeles home, Colette Marino co-hosts a syndicated radio show called Maximum Rotation. Heather Robinson tours extensively around the world. In fact, her bookings were so jam-packed in Europe this month that I was unable to even interview her by email. Darlene Jackson, aka Lady D, is a full-time producer and touring DJ, and Shannon Lalongo, billed as Dayhota (which spells DJ in Spanish), does regular stints in Canada and the U.S. and has collaborated in the studio with the likes of Sombionx. Her first release arrives in the next couple of months on Chicago's Q Studios label. Together, this team of talent plans to unite for a relaunch of Superjane that will include a new website, tour, collective CD and possibly even a clothing line.

Quick Google only brought up a site for DJ Lady D; not sure the entire group, or other individual members, have 'em.

Well, you kids can do your own research for once.

Like the title says, they're spinning tonight at Smart Bar. $10 before midnight / $15 after midnight. Not sure I'll be heading to the show, but anyone who does, enjoy.

Update: Oh, right, there should be something here about sexism in the house dj community, and the use of sex appeal by women djs, and, um, lots of the usual sort of pretentious pseudo-intellectual babbling that I usually use to claim fair use by way of commentary. You've read enough of this to generate your own at this point, I'm sure.

Posted by Aaron at 3:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Ok, people, let's get this shit out the way. I leave work early today, and gots to drive out to the Skokie Gateway Country store to pick up the replacement battery for the laptop Nubian goddess Garrity donated to the cause.

So you wanna tell me what a misogynist, evil ex, cruel and hurtful blah de fucking blah I am, get it off your chest right here, right now.

Ain't no Alf marathon, but I had to tape the Shania concert last night, and it isn't going to watch itself.

Did catch a bit of the end. The goofy grin on Alison's face while they did the AC/DC cover made it all worth it.

Speak.

Update: As anyone who's taken an ecology course knows, fires are a natural, and in fact necessary, part of the life cycle of a forest.

Trying to prevent them just means building up more dead wood and other fuel, so when they do finally rage, they tend to be bigger, hotter and more destructive than they should be.

This is our forest fire.

And it should have happened a long time ago.

This has been your sledgehammer-like metaphor for the day.

Posted by Aaron at 10:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (1)

As you might have gathered, I'm finally willing to write about. . . certain events of several months ago.

It's Spring Cleaning for the soul. Only, um, in late November.

C.P.T., don't ya know.

Any road up, one of the reasons I left Minneapolis back in May, other than being dumped for someone my ex met on the Internet -- and that I drove her to her first date with, come t'think of it -- and who dumped her ass like a bad habit shortly after I left -- and if you don't think I felt just the tiniest bit of schadenfreude about that, given I got a teary, crying-on-virtual-shoulder phone call about it, you're confusing me with someone much closer to Sainthood -- damn, how many embeds is that? -- right, start over.

One of the reasons I left is that a one bedroom, no matter how spacious, just wasn't big enough for two adults and three cats.

Oh, and a pug.

Not that I really miss that annoying, yappy little bitch.

[wait for it]

[wait. . . for. . . it]

Or Sofia.

Alternate title: Here, My Dear.

Unfortunately:

Claim:   Ordered by a judge to hand over all the profits from his next album to his ex-wife as part of a divorce settlement, singer Marvin Gaye deliberately recorded a wretched album designed to sell poorly, which he sardonically entitled Here, My Dear.

Status:   False.

Damn. Another perfectly good gag, ruined by the facts. And I grew up hearing that story. . .

Posted by Aaron at 9:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Haven't been making too many of these lately. And since I've been given to understand that the Negro making OJ jokes about his problems with his white ex skirt the boundaries of good taste in a fashion similar to the Nazis skirting the boundaries of France during World War II [see below], I'll just substitute.

So. Ahem.

"Filipinas and Koreans are the only Azian sistas with hips, explaining my disturbing fixation with Margaret Cho and Tina Kim."

Discuss.

As I said, I've been told such comments are in poor taste.

If I have ever said or done anything which would lead visitors to the understanding that I'm interested in observing the conventions of good taste, I apologize unreservedly for leaving this mistaken impression.

Because I'm so not.

Thank you for your kind attention.

Posted by Aaron at 6:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh, come on, you must have seen that one coming.

As the fam will be trapped together over Thanksgiving, and god forbid we actually talk to each other, I'm looking for movie recommendations. Things the entire family can enjoy.

Meaning I'll be putting off my rental/viewing of Antonia's Line for a bit, I think.

Actually, since it's probably just my moms and two sisters, maybe that one would work. . .

So. Seen any good movies lately, that are out on video?

np: A Love Before Time, CoCo Lee, CTHD soundtrack

Posted by Aaron at 3:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

It bothers me that the preview for The Last Samurai that I saw before Matrix Revolutions made the thing look tempting.

Luckily, Secret Asian Man is here to disabuse me of these fool notions.

I'll just avoid seeing what angry asian man has to say about it.

I mean, I can probably guess.

Posted by Aaron at 2:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

I refuse to add to the previous monster of an entry just to mention that the mix disc also features The Staple Singers doing "Let's Do It Again."

So I note this here. And will make sure the thing is done before hitting that tempting little SAVE button.

Not that the world needs to know I also put Lords of Acid's I Must Increase My Bust on the thing.

I'm not sure I need to know this, in fact.

And that's the end. Thank the Nubian goddesses.

Luckily, I have another.

I'll spare you the track list this time.

You're welcome.

Update: This is so unfortunate.

Forgot to mention Life In Mono by Mono:

The stranger sang a theme
From someone else's dream
The leaves began to fall
And no one spoke at all
But I can't seem to recall
When you came along
Ingenue
Ingenue
I just don't know what to do
The tree -lined avenue
Begins to fade from view
Drowning past regrets
In tea and cigarettes
But I can't seem to forget
When you came along
Ingenue
Ingenue |
I just don't know what to do | X4
Ingenue
REPEAT TO FADE

. . . this is the mix that launched a thousand psychotherapy dissertations, isn't it?

Sweet creeping zombie Jesus.

Ok, we're going to pretend that I didn't also forget the live version of Tori's "Tear In Your Hand," because this just keeps getting more disturbing.

Margaret Cho is much better at this sort of thing.

Wish I was there to sing it to you, to replay a verse missed, to look in your eyes to see how a certain phrase affected you, hold your hands and just listen and love the music. I will make you more in time. This is just the one I made today and it felt good to me and so I wanted to share it with you.

Go visit her place instead.

Posted by Aaron at 1:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'll just be watching for fashion hints:

Alison Krauss + Union Station will be the backing band for a Shania Twain television special scheduled to air Tuesday, November 25th on NBC. The hour-long show will feature Shania hits, as well as, songs from her new album.

From the news page of the Official Site of Alison Krauss + Union Station.

No joy for me on the tour dates page, but readers in Mobile, Alabama and Choctaw, Mississippi finally have something to gloat about.

Enjoy it. I'm sure this will be your last opportunity.

ObAlison:

I always figured she was a cute, intelligent woman doing vaguely folky music, and therefore must be a dyke. But I'm just twisted that way. I'm working on it.

Still working on that one, I'm afraid.

Update: Images from Shania Twain: Up! Close and Personal.

No, that's definitely not going to work. I have hips, for a start. . .

np: Um, it's a mix, so Stan Ridgeway performing "The Cannon Song" when I started, and currently. . . Marilyn Manson doing "Beautiful People."

I mentioned the weird mood, yes?

Update: Which transitioned gently into NWA's Dopeman and Straight Outta Compton.

And when I see a punk pass, I smile
To me it's kinda funny, the attitude showin a nigga drivin
but don't know where the fuck he's going, just rollin

The mood was in effect when I was making this particular mix, I think.

Oy. Followed by Over the Rhine doing Little Blue River.

every step that you've been taking
is straying a little further south
as for me I am so tired of living (babe)
so hand-to-mouth

And the title is from the Edie Brickell & New Bohemians cover of A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall.

Note to self: stay away from the mp3s when feeling like this.

Next up, Kronos Quartet, Kyoko's House (Stage Blood Is Not Enough).

If you're keeping track of my obviously degenerating mental state.

Next: Heroes, Kronos Quartet performing with David Bowie.

I should label these things. But I guess that would ruin the surprise.

The next surprise:

Wendy?
Yes Lisa
Is the water warm enough?
Yes Lisa
Shall we begin?
Yes Lisa

Computer Blue, The Artist Formerly Known as The Artist Formerly Known as and the Revolution, including Wendy and Lisa. So you can almost understand that being followed by "She's Always In My Hair." Almost.

This doesn't explain The Immortals doing Sonya (Go Go Go) coming next, though.

Or the remix of Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal with Wu-Tang Clan.

Or 2pac and Dr. Dre doing California Love.

Or the original album version of Sting & The Police's Don't Stand So Close to Me. Not that I liked the P.Diddy thing, but prefered the remake from the Best Of album. . .

Oh good. This is followed by some nice, relaxing Shakira.

It's not her fault that she's so irresistible
But all the damage she's caused isn't fixable
Every twenty seconds you repeat her name
But when it comes to me you don't care
If I'm alive or dead, so

[Chorus:]
Objection
I don't want to be the exception
To get a bit of your attention
I love you for free,
And i'm not your mother
But you don't even bother
Objection
I'm tired of this triangle
Got dizzy dancing tango
I'm falling apart in your hands again
No way
I've got to get away

Next to her cheap silicone I look minimal
That's why in front of your eyes I'm invis -- ok, I stop now.

Ah. Nancy Sinatra's These Boots Were Made For Walking. Boy, the subtle workings of my subconscious are a mystery, aren't they? Christ. What next? Peter Gabriel's Sledgehammer?

As it turns out, no, belle and sebastian covering The Byrds' "Turn Turn Turn."

I'm taking the headphones off, and stepping away.

Final update, I think: Rounding out the disc, Bowie doing Dance Magic Dance from the Labyrinth soundtrack, and newly free man Slick Rick with Bedtime Story.

Right, definitely label these things in future, so I know to avoid them.

Spoke too soon. Also Drowning Pool with "Bodies."

Yes, I'm totally inconsistent with the quotes around song titles. Deal.

Posted by Aaron at 10:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Ripped some code off from Team Murder to put an MT-Search (and DJ Pete Niiiiiiiiice) box on the main page. Except the results page uses the lovely design for C.L.I.T., for some reason. I will ask Michelle about this after Turkey Day; she's kind'a busy right now.

And apparently, I will be the last person from the web that she meets in RL. All right then. Fine. I see how it is.

Apropos of nothing:     Hyperballad - Björk (with the Brodsky Quartet)

We live on a mountain
Right at the top
There's a beautiful view
From the top of the mountain

Every morning I walk towards the edge
And throw little things off
Like car-parts, bottles and cutlery
Or whatever I find lying around
It's become a habit
A way to start the day

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

It's real early morning
No-one is awake
I'm back at my cliff
Still throwing things off
I listen to the sounds they make
On their way down
I follow with my eyes 'til they crash
Imagine what my body would sound like
Slamming against those rocks
When it lands
Will my eyes
Be closed or open?

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you

Safe up here with you
Safe up here with you
Safe up here with you

From August of last year. Seemed appropriate, for some reason.

But np: King Nothing, Metallica (KMFDM remix)

Weird mood today.

And having odd flashbacks.

Ignore me.

Posted by Aaron at 9:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

And that was on VHS, so I don't feel too much like a tool for wanting this:

[click for an unnecessarily larger version]

More info from Sony Pictures, if you needed any.

For instance, if you bought one of the previous DVD releases. . .

Posted by Aaron at 1:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Just tell me what you've got to say to me,
I've been waiting for so long to hear the truth,
It comes as no surprise at all you see,
So cut the crap and tell me that we're through.

Now I know your heart, I know your mind,
You don't even know you're being unkind,
So much for all your highbrow Marxist ways,
Just use me up and then you walk away,
Boy you can't play me that way.

Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.

When I saw my best friend yesterday,
She said she never liked you from the start,
Well me, I wish that I could claim the same,
But you always knew you held my heart.
And you're such a charming handsome man,
Now I think I finally understand,
Is it in your genes?, I don't know,
But I'll soon find out, that's for sure,
Why did you play me this way?

Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.

Well I guess what they say is true,
I could never spend my life with a man like you,
I could never be your woman.

From White Town :: Lyrics, specifically for Your Woman from the album Women In Technology.

And from the FAQ:

I love 'Your Woman' *BUT* what is it about??? Are you a man/woman/transsexual?

Ummmm...well, that's a toughie. When I wrote it, I was trying to write a catchy pop song that had more than one perspective. Although it's written in the first person that viewpoint isn't the same as it may sound. So, these are *some* of the things it's about:

• Being a member of an orthodox Trotskyist / Marxist movement (as I was for three years in the 80s).
• Being a straight guy in love with a lesbian (ditto).
• Being a gay guy in love with a straight man.
• Being a straight girl in love with a lying, two-timing, fake-ass Marxist.

Was going to write something about that Facets of Gender Identity post over at Alas, a blog, but there's that whole lack of coffee thing to deal with first.

Update: And only $11.75 at Parasol. What a bargain. What a bargain for me.

Posted by Aaron at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (0)

But I felt that was going a bit far. Will mention that Remembrance of the Daleks and Battlefield are about the only episodes I'd actually consider renting or buying.

Any road up, from BBC Online - Doctor Who - The Doctors - Sylvester McCoy:

The seventh Doctor could be dark and manipulative, secretive and angst-ridden, keeping his cards very close to his chest and only allowing others to glimpse a fraction of his true motives and aims. He could also be unpredictable and flippant, enjoying teasing others with his apparent lack of concern when, inside, he was plotting and scheming a way to save everyone.

I'm all about the angst. You may have noticed this.

Reminded of the anniversary, as ever a day late and a dollar short, by a post at Elayne's and the linkage therein to budgie's squawks - Thirty Years Ago... Ten Years On... .

Want to know more?

Geek.

How about the McCoy section of the Doctor Who Drinking Game, then?

DRINK A SHOT EVERY TIME...

• Sylvester McCoy rrrrrrrolls an 'r'.
• Ace says "wicked", "Gordon Benett", etc
  (Double shot for "Ace!")
• Ace blows something up
  (Double shot if the Doctor uses Ace's nitro to blow something up)
• the Doctor uses his umbrella to save the day.
• you sight any "Unearthly Child" in-joke in "Remembrance of the Daleks"
• Ace's current love interest dies.
• "GhostLight" confuses you.
• the line that comes out of Sylvester McCoy's mouth is clearly NOT the one in the script.

Come t'think of it, might get Survival too, if they release it. . .

Posted by Aaron at 10:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Somehow, me, my sis and Pantalones Calientes managed to get in to see Teatro Luna's "The Maria Chronicles" last night. Possibly because someone else who reserved tickets ain't get there early enough. Hey, you snooze, you lose.

The show was hilarious. And touching. And slighly horrifying, considering the "Based on true stories" nature of the vignettes. Plus, it had gratuituous snarky remarks about Filipinos/as, always a good thing. I cannot recommend it highly enough.

Especially since the final performance is this afternoon at 2.

So I hope you're reading this fairly early in the day.

I picked up some buttons with the ¡Nalgonas Unidas! slogan, two of which were taken by the kids I saw the show with (but only one of which was paid for, come t'think of it. . .[which may have to do with the fact that I looked at the selection of colors and said, "Huh. Pink. Femme. Which is neither of you." They threatened to leave me stranded in Pilsen. If this does not frighten you, clearly you ain't ever been up in Pilsen.]). So I have two more, and am wondering who to grace them with.

Since, as I've mentioned before, I know very few assless women.

I'm tempted to give it to one of those few.

One who doesn't speak Spanish.

Moo hoo ha ha.

What should I tell her it means?

Posted by Aaron at 9:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Right, sort of a grab-bag entry. No, that's not the expression I want. Um.

Ok, first off, thanks to Vickie for getting a photo of me with Happy Rhodes at the show last week.

Shame it's the most unflattering photo of myself I've seen in ages, but I'm going to chalk this up to bad lighting. And too many Vodka & Red Bulls before and during the show, which, since this is me, means two. You can click the above image and get a larger version of the photo, but I can't imagine why anyone would.

Wait, to get a better look at Happy. Sillly question.

Ripped more code off from Mandarin Design, since I finally noticed the problem some folks had described in IE in 800 x 600. Or rather, in Avant Browser, since I was missing my tabbed browsing in IE. Seems like a nice program so far; give it a try if you have some odd phobia abut Mozilla and Opera and the like.

Also installed Spybot - Search &. Destroy, since no matter how pretty Avant is, it's still the IE engine under the hood. And that engine needs some serious work in some ways. If your browser's been acting up lately (resetting your home page, bringing up random popup ads, calling the Cayman Islands), you maybe wanna give it a try.

Oh, and removed Tina the Troubled Teen from the sidebar, since she was part of the problem with some visitors not being able to see the sidebar. Guess I could make it a wee bit wider to accomodate the image (since resizing the image with width didn't work very well). Or ask Michelle about this instead of doing even more damage to her lovely design. Or something.

Speaking of whom, after I whined pathetically about it, she changed the archives pages so they display the number of comments for an entry, and you can click the number to bypass whatever I was banging on about and go straight to the only interesting part of this place, what other people had to say in response.

And that's it, I'm off to get more Red Bull. Without the vodka. I swear.

Posted by Aaron at 12:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

From Roger Ebert's review of Looney Tunes: Back in Action:

Let me tell you a personal story involving Daffy Duck, which also takes place on the Warners lot. I quote from an interview I did with Albert Brooks in 1991, when his new movie "Defending Your Life" was about to be released.

As I was getting up to leave his office, Brooks said, "Look at these funny coffee mugs the studio sent over."

He had four or five of them on a shelf, cups shaped like the Warners cartoon heroes.

"Here," he said. "Have one. I want you to have one."

He pressed Elmer Fudd into my hands.

"No, that's OK," I said.

"Take one. What is this, a bribe? They're worth 10 cents apiece; 25 cents, tops."

"You know," I said, looking at the shelf, "I've never really been a fan of Elmer Fudd. My hero has always been Daffy Duck."

Brooks took the Daffy Duck mug from the shelf.

"Here, take it," he said. "I want you to have it. Really."

I could tell from the subtle intonation in his voice exactly what had happened. He had given me Elmer Fudd because he didn't like Elmer Fudd, either. He liked Daffy Duck. I had taken his favorite mug.

"No, you keep Daffy," I said. "I'll bet it's your favorite."

"Come on, come on," he said. "Take Daffy Duck. Take the one you want."

I tried to put Daffy back on the shelf. He pressed Daffy into my hands. I left with Daffy, but I would have bet a hundred bucks that the moment I was out of his office, Brooks had his secretary call Warners to see if they could send another Daffy Duck over.

The moral of the story is, rent "Defending Your Life" instead.

Or Roger is turning into one of those old guys who ramble on and on telling stories without morals.

You know.

Like bloggers.

np: Collective Heart, The Keep, Happy Rhodes

Posted by Aaron at 4:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

There's a new saint in Russia, a martyr in the war with Chechnya. The New York Times had it on the front page today, and I'd do the linky thing, but I have no mad html skilz, and there you are.

I find it astonishing, though, that the icons of this martyr feature him in full fatigues, AK in hand, and, as is traditional, haloed. I am fascinated by the ability of the cult of the saints to give devout Catholic and Othodox Christians the symbols they need in the moment to encapsulate their feelings about -- well, about pretty much anything. That's why I've falling into studying it for a living. But I do have to kind of blink when the image involved is so clearly aggressive.

Let me step out of my scholarly-analytical mode, which comprehends everything because of context, and into my hippe-pacifist-religious-philosophy mode, which clings to basic concepts of human dignity, and say this: carry an AK into Chechnya for Jesus? That's some fucked up shit right there.

I do feel very sad for his mother, though. She claims his icon weeps perfume to warn her when impending travel is dangerous. It's sad that she has nothing and no one better to care for her, to protect her.

Posted by Aaron at 2:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)