It's 2 something in the afternoon. The TV is on and I'm waiting for Bonnie Hunt to get past her opening monologue so that I can gawk at today's guest, Mira Sorvino. While waiting with eyes on my computer screen and somewhat half-listening to the telly, my ears suddenly perk up to some instrumental piece playing during a commercial break.
Oh commercial music! How fine your ditties might be!
I look up at the television and see it's the advertisement for the anti-depressant, Pristiq. The odd thing is I've come across this the commercial before and hardly noticed the tune playing in the background. It took a look-away for me to finally hear the fine little melody playing.
Pom-pom-pa-rum-pom! Pom-pa-rum-pom-pom!
If Pristiq works like the tune that accompanied it then it is a fine drug indeed. From personal experience, if Prozac had a tune it would be some gnarly speed metal track.
When charmed by a select piece of music in a commercial I do search to obtain a copy. More often than not,however, I fail to come across an actual mp3 because enough information just isn't available. Artist:Unknown. There was a minivan commercial and a Weight Watchers one too that had bits of music I could not place in my mp3 player, to my chagrin. I have been able to grab the Helio ditty. I like that one. There was a second piece as well.
Should you head over to the official website for Pristiq you'll across their commercial I've mentioned and what do ya' know it?! An mp3 download! Splendid! Now if only car and diet companies were like this . . . darn.
All this talk about commercial music gets me a thinkin', where did it all start? Aha! It must have been that Mitsubishi Eclipse one!
What's your favorite commercial music?
[note: Depressed wind-up tin toy? Greatest thing ever? Indeed!]
Friday, May 7, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Here's To You, Miss
As lonely as I am and however seemingly content with it I may look, I do yearn to be with another. It's not something I'll declare on stage - just like with all troubles - but this is my blog so I'll go ahead and stand now for the sake of record. Plus, it really, really sucks to have felt what I felt last Friday morning. So remember this, butt-nut. Why remember it? My misery is all I've got so I tote it around like how I used to carry a box of Animal Crackers by its string handle. This one is an elephant.
You're dreaming. You're on a bed. There's a girl with you. She's fond of you. She makes her move and you are enveloped in her embrace. Her kisses.
Then you wake up.
Those 10 seconds hurt. I woke up broken. I knew that girl in the dream who loved me so. She crushed on me back in middle school. For all my troubles with women and all the years of quiet rejection by many a female smile, she stood out as the one who was kindest and most sincere. It took courage for her to let me know how she felt, which ironically became what I sought and have never received from girls before and after her.
I am weary of the flirtation game. It's an utterly perplexing Mexican Hat Dance, a drawn-out and fatiguing ritual where the obvious is ignored (just pick up the god damn hat!) and people continue to flutter their eyes and throw half-meant compliments. In my crazy and wacky world of admiration, if I like a girl, then I'll tell a girl directly how I feel. I guess that isn't enough. I have to twirl around, stick my cock out and say a few "hey baby, babies."
To that girl in the dream, I thank you. I felt like shit that morning but I'll forever remember you as the girl with the sincerity and honesty I now long for and judge every pretty face by. Here's to you, Miss K!
You're dreaming. You're on a bed. There's a girl with you. She's fond of you. She makes her move and you are enveloped in her embrace. Her kisses.
Then you wake up.
Those 10 seconds hurt. I woke up broken. I knew that girl in the dream who loved me so. She crushed on me back in middle school. For all my troubles with women and all the years of quiet rejection by many a female smile, she stood out as the one who was kindest and most sincere. It took courage for her to let me know how she felt, which ironically became what I sought and have never received from girls before and after her.
I am weary of the flirtation game. It's an utterly perplexing Mexican Hat Dance, a drawn-out and fatiguing ritual where the obvious is ignored (just pick up the god damn hat!) and people continue to flutter their eyes and throw half-meant compliments. In my crazy and wacky world of admiration, if I like a girl, then I'll tell a girl directly how I feel. I guess that isn't enough. I have to twirl around, stick my cock out and say a few "hey baby, babies."
To that girl in the dream, I thank you. I felt like shit that morning but I'll forever remember you as the girl with the sincerity and honesty I now long for and judge every pretty face by. Here's to you, Miss K!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Demon Brain Pincher
I woke up with a scurrying sound in my left ear.
I frantically slap the side of my head, images of yesterday's pincher bug frolic on my eyes wide.
Slap. My hand strikes my ear. Slap. Slap.
Aw shit, I got that bug in my head. Or its revenge-driven brother.
I'm not the type to kill bugs. When I come across a parade of ants making their way from one side of a walkway to the other, I certainly make sure to step over (not on) them, forgoing the use of one of my innate powers, ability #11: The Colossal Foot Crush. It was the same way with yesterday's pincher. I found a scrap piece of paper, scooped up the pincher bug and brought it out. Except it wasn't enough. Just outside my bedroom door, it made a sly maneuver, wriggled over and dove onto the hallway carpet below, taking refuge in a jungle mess of brown mini shag. Ugh. It would return.
And return it did. My mind was racing, hurried, like a jacked-up thought-disco, dominated by a horror story once heard. You know the one where the woman heard shuffling in her head and didn’t do anything about it? What happened? Cockroach. Brain. Eaten.
Fuck.
Damn you, pincher bug! Damn you! I should’ve used power #11 when you hit the carpet! Argh! Then I think again. Maybe it’ll be for the better? Could it be? The bug bites away the bad bits in my brain. In tiny nibbles it lobotomizes the insecurity, the anxiety, the depression. Instead of doom, a smile says hello. MaybeeEEE?eeeNaaahhh.
After a q-tip assault, I relax.
After all this paranoia, you know that scurrying in my ear? I think it was my long hair getting fussy around my head and ears.
I frantically slap the side of my head, images of yesterday's pincher bug frolic on my eyes wide.
Slap. My hand strikes my ear. Slap. Slap.
Aw shit, I got that bug in my head. Or its revenge-driven brother.
I'm not the type to kill bugs. When I come across a parade of ants making their way from one side of a walkway to the other, I certainly make sure to step over (not on) them, forgoing the use of one of my innate powers, ability #11: The Colossal Foot Crush. It was the same way with yesterday's pincher. I found a scrap piece of paper, scooped up the pincher bug and brought it out. Except it wasn't enough. Just outside my bedroom door, it made a sly maneuver, wriggled over and dove onto the hallway carpet below, taking refuge in a jungle mess of brown mini shag. Ugh. It would return.
And return it did. My mind was racing, hurried, like a jacked-up thought-disco, dominated by a horror story once heard. You know the one where the woman heard shuffling in her head and didn’t do anything about it? What happened? Cockroach. Brain. Eaten.
Fuck.
Damn you, pincher bug! Damn you! I should’ve used power #11 when you hit the carpet! Argh! Then I think again. Maybe it’ll be for the better? Could it be? The bug bites away the bad bits in my brain. In tiny nibbles it lobotomizes the insecurity, the anxiety, the depression. Instead of doom, a smile says hello. MaybeeEEE?eeeNaaahhh.
After a q-tip assault, I relax.
After all this paranoia, you know that scurrying in my ear? I think it was my long hair getting fussy around my head and ears.
This must be what combing is for.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Bukowski on Writing
Charles Bukowski
"What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."
I need something to slap. There are a couple of topics to tackle but beyond that? Who knows. A man without a life is a man with nothing to write. Bukowski had his drudgery, I got shit.
"What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."
I need something to slap. There are a couple of topics to tackle but beyond that? Who knows. A man without a life is a man with nothing to write. Bukowski had his drudgery, I got shit.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Clearness On An Eastheld Sun
Monday, March 15, 2010
Open eyes. A yellow wall. The same wall which just hours before was an audience to one of my morbidly creative meditations on death and bringing my own end. Now it was ready for a performance of a different perspective. In the morning cold, on a stage of pillows and bedsheets, I saw something clear. Recumbent though I was, I had now a better view. The faint streetlight of the night before was replaced by fervent sunlight, eager to break through the heavy cloth curtain guarding my room from the brightness of a possible better day. A slip in the curtain gave way for light to shine through and onto the wall. Open eyes. A yellow wall.
Why? Why break my head over one man's meth-driven ruin? The noose around my neck tightened by his disregard. His total loss and complete negligence of the chaos he created was so calamitous that it became a flood that spilled viciously over to what I had held for him. My care turned into a concern and from a concern, into a burden. No man walks away from the wrong he has done. Bobby has done wrong and continues to walk uncuffed, untouched and more importantly, uncaring. Was I to shoulder the broken face of a man who has hustled this entire family for their care, their pity? It's what I did. It's something I decided I will no longer do.
I have been loud these past few weeks. You can call it care. There are many strangers out there breaking the lives of others but you don't see my words roll on about them. Bobby - who just so happens to hold the same last name as I - was natural as someone to give a shit about*. As of that morning and that yellow wall, it no longer exists. Clarity was found with that sun in the east. For his detached, heartless, unconcerned pseudo-livelihood, I return my care no longer. He is as strange to I as the many people I don't give a fuck about. As I who have searched for my own demise, I instead kill a pestering negativity that put the gun to my head. He is as good as dead to me. Bobby who? I don't know him.
Proof of my newfound stance will come in the following weeks where he is sure to make an appearance. We'll see what happens. May this be the last of the disheveled disgrace. I hope to no longer commit any words in his name.
*As for family and automatic respect, that's another entry to be discussed on its own. Two-word summary: "uhh, no."
Open eyes. A yellow wall. The same wall which just hours before was an audience to one of my morbidly creative meditations on death and bringing my own end. Now it was ready for a performance of a different perspective. In the morning cold, on a stage of pillows and bedsheets, I saw something clear. Recumbent though I was, I had now a better view. The faint streetlight of the night before was replaced by fervent sunlight, eager to break through the heavy cloth curtain guarding my room from the brightness of a possible better day. A slip in the curtain gave way for light to shine through and onto the wall. Open eyes. A yellow wall.
Why? Why break my head over one man's meth-driven ruin? The noose around my neck tightened by his disregard. His total loss and complete negligence of the chaos he created was so calamitous that it became a flood that spilled viciously over to what I had held for him. My care turned into a concern and from a concern, into a burden. No man walks away from the wrong he has done. Bobby has done wrong and continues to walk uncuffed, untouched and more importantly, uncaring. Was I to shoulder the broken face of a man who has hustled this entire family for their care, their pity? It's what I did. It's something I decided I will no longer do.
I have been loud these past few weeks. You can call it care. There are many strangers out there breaking the lives of others but you don't see my words roll on about them. Bobby - who just so happens to hold the same last name as I - was natural as someone to give a shit about*. As of that morning and that yellow wall, it no longer exists. Clarity was found with that sun in the east. For his detached, heartless, unconcerned pseudo-livelihood, I return my care no longer. He is as strange to I as the many people I don't give a fuck about. As I who have searched for my own demise, I instead kill a pestering negativity that put the gun to my head. He is as good as dead to me. Bobby who? I don't know him.
Proof of my newfound stance will come in the following weeks where he is sure to make an appearance. We'll see what happens. May this be the last of the disheveled disgrace. I hope to no longer commit any words in his name.
*As for family and automatic respect, that's another entry to be discussed on its own. Two-word summary: "uhh, no."
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