I went shopping at a certain large electronics store chain this weekend. I don't want to get sued, so in the interest of anonymity, I'll refer to it as "Optimum Purchase." I recently decided to replace some of my beloved old cassettes with CDs, beginning with the 1990 Concrete Blonde classic, "Bloodletting." I searched the aisle and to my shock it was there, for a mere $11.99. I snatched it up with glee, planning to listen to it on the drive back to Hell - I mean Laramie.
I was about halfway up College Avenue when it was finally opened and loaded up. I cued the first song, anticipating "The Vampire Song"... yet some sort of horrible hillbilly bluegrass abortion fell from the speakers. I looked at the CD case - the cover art was right, the liner notes were as I remembered from the days when I had this album on vinyl. I ejected the CD, and it also claimed to be Concrete Blonde, "Bloodletting." I popped it back in and checked several other tracks - every song was a whining tenor and a nasal alto yowling about prison sentences and how their parents had been siblings, over a pack of banjos and fiddles.
I returned to Optimum Purchase, and calmly explained to the young man at the customer service desk that although it said Concrete Blonde, it was not, in fact, Concrete Blonde. He looked at me as if I had suddenly sneezed up several live goldfish on his countertop. I explained it again. Then I explained it to his supervisor. Then once again. Despite my explanations, and my confession that I have owned this album three times before and thus know what it is supposed to sound like, they clearly did not believe me.
Finally, they said I could exchange it. I told the manager that I would only accept an exchange if they opened the new one and played it for me to be certain that it really was Concrete Blonde. He initially shook his head, but once he saw the "don't make me tip your building over" look on my face, he agreed. I checked the aisle, and naturally, the inbred Appalachian wailing was the only copy. After explaining it to another manager (twice), they finally decided that they should give me a refund, lest I begin to cough up larger, deadlier fishes.
I want to hear "The Sky is a Poisonous Garden" while I drive - is that so much to ask?
It hardly seems possible...
Karmic Funk
The janitor just ruined the belt on his vacuum cleaner. It smells like Bigfoot's penis wearing a burnt fur condom (don't ask me how I know, just take my word for it). It's that unique combination of dead skin cells, singed hair, and melting rubber that only a vacuum cleaner can give you. Seriously, it smells like a smoldering tire set in the middle of a hog pen in August, or like a fire broke out in a colostomy ward the morning after Enchilada Wednesday. It once made a proud skunk cry itself to sleep out of sheer frustration.
This smell is so strong that it has opinions and a personality. It's a Sagittarius, likes to rollerblade, and isn't ready to settle down yet. It's pro life, votes Republican, lies on its taxes, supports the gun lobby, and believes the death penalty is a deterrent. It also roots for the Cubs, buys "girls gone wild" videos, and wets the bed.
At any rate, it smells bad in here, and will for a few more minutes. In the meantime, I'll just sit here gagging quietly to myself. What kind of karma could possibly have brought this smell to me? Was I an evil perfume maker in a previous life?
Eeewww....
I almost never post twice in one day, but this is seriously damaging my calm...
How does a guy get so wrong? Take, for instance, this guy (believe it or not, it is completely work safe).
It's a joke, right? I know it must be a joke. I'm fervently hoping it's a joke. Please tell me it's a joke. With your grandma? When does that get fun?
Psychic or just Psychotic?
While driving home from California I kept having these momentary visions of a wreck, or rather, the aftermath of a wreck. I hope it was just sleep deprivation, and not some kind of psychic foreshadowing...
The car was crushed about me, upside down and tilted at an odd angle, as though it sat in a deep ditch beside the road. I was injured, and to make these flashes of a possible future more realistic, my mind dredged up every hurt, large or small, that I had ever felt and used them to concoct the bloody aftermath of a high speed roll-over. Nicks while shaving became slivers of windshield glass, chipped teeth from junior high baseball filled in for the bitten steering wheel, and a little stab wound from my late teens simulated the gear shift impaling my guts. Cracked ribs, bloody lips and noses, concussions, busted knuckles, torn ligaments, and a dislocated shoulder from twenty years of dangerous, adrenaline-junky pursuits came alive simultaneously as the results of not wearing a seat belt. 
Trapped in the wreck of my body, trapped in the wreck of my car, I could feel life leaking away through all the broken spots. The change from my pockets, two CDs, and a map of the western states sat soaking in a pool of blood on the headliner right next to my face. It was clear to me that even if they could pry me from the car, I, like it, was totaled.
So... who's up for a roadtrip with the Black Pope?
The Midnight Run
I lied (duh, "Black Pope"... ). I never went to Kingman. I went to Vegas, then boldly raced (observing all posted speed limits) across the land of Mor-mon. Prophet avoidance be damned!!! 18 straight hours of driving, and as of now, I have been awake for 39 hours.
Utah is really much better at night - what you can't see can't bore you to death. Because of this the trip was unfortunately quite dull in the hallucination category. Aside from a random dinosaur siting (turned out to be a construction crane), there were no other bonafide visions. No Helena Bonham Carter on the shoulder, no crocodiles in the median, not even a flash of the Sock God. If you have no idea what I am talking about, then you have some archives to catch up on...
Somebody remind me to tell you all about the waking nightmare I kept having about slowly bleeding to death in the wreckage of the car; that was a good one.
I have Magners!
Remember, a sleepless, drunk Pope is a fun Pope! (You should lighten up Benedict...)
Nite-nite.
Black Pope on the move...
Later today, I depart the unHoly Land. I'll be taking a southern route, to avoid crossing into the lands of Mor-mon; the Prophet and I have recently negotiated a pact of mutual avoidance. I'll be skipping the great Citadel of Las Vegas, in favor of revisiting Kingman, Arizona, where our tour bus broke down for 3 interminable days in the summer of 1983...
See you at Flock Hall.
Time Warp
I wrote this post about a month ago, saved it as a draft, and then forgot to ever post it. I thought about saving it for next Christmas, but I knew I'd just forget it again. Instead, we're all pretending today is December 22nd...
Some churches don't seem to feel the holiday spirit...
Technically, they are correct. Saint Nicholas was not martyred - he only used all of his family's considerable wealth to aid the poor and the sick during an epidemic in his village of Patara, in what is now Turkey. Oh, and he also served as the Bishop of Myra during the reign of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, known for his ruthless persecution of Christians. Ol' Nick was imprisoned, tortured, and eventually exiled, but he didn't die at the hands of the Romans.
When he finally did die, however, he was buried in the cathedral at Myra, and it is said that his tomb filled with liquid manna which healed the sick. Let's see Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson manage that...
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