The Mailbox Is The Greatest Box Known To Man

Holy Moly or Moley, if you prefer, that was a long sabbatical.  I've no idea if the world even knows I exist anymore, but I'm back to say that I do.  I shall pause while said world gathers its collective strength for the all important shrug.  So in the interim, bits of life happened, bits of life didn't happen and a lot of things stayed the same.  Perhaps this will all be covered in due time.  Perhaps not.  You see I've learned it's my enigmatic nature that keeps all 4 or 5 of you interested.  That or an opportunity to see self-loathing, cynicism and all around bitterness wrapped in the flag and God and the bible.  I'm just thankful that we as a nation have learned to forgive The Dixie Chicks and let them back into our hearts to regale us with further tales of whatever it is they've always regaled us with.  For if we can't forgive talented, beautifully airbrushed, fiddle playin' soccer moms then our great nation has truly lost its way.          

 

I can make no promises that this will become a daily ritual again, but I shall try my best.  At least until I get sidetracked.  Or bored.     

That I have to keep reminding myself and those around me that I'm really a nice guy would probably suggest the converse is true.  But I am.  Nevertheless, I seem to have increasingly less patience, tolerance and all-around use for stupidity and sorriness.  Nietzsche or one of those nihlistic eggheads people namedrop but no one actually reads suggested that the traits that drive us mad in others are those which we find in ourselves and try to keep hidden.  Fair enough.  I'll agree with ol' Fred that I'm perfectly capable of boneheadedness and motivation has never been a strong point--not lack of desire, mind, there is a tremendous difference.  I've no doubt that somewhere along the way I've been the focal point of some stranger's rage for the very thing I was only just criticizing them for.  However, I'm fairly certain that at no point have I let a traffic ticket inhabit Limbo for 12(!) years.  If I ever did, I probably wouldn't then politely suggest to the oh so pleasant voice on the other end that it sure would help a brother out if, uh, you could put the express on that for me.  A brother's gots to drive you know.  Indeed.  I think it's in the Constitution or something and sometimes I get in my car and just drive around the block because I can.  It's my own little way of telling the Man that he'll never get me cause I'm wild, young and free. 

 

Anyway, one would think that in 12+ years of doing all that driving that maybe just once those wheels would taken him to pay up   If your first born has had time to gestate, birth, crawl, toddle, walk, babble, talk, dig Santa Claus, etc., start school, not dig Santa Claus, etc., finish school and possibly have already made you a grandparent in the interim, this would suggest that, perhaps, time is not of the essence.  Suggestions to the contrary aside.  This is merely the view of one disinterested party.  Natch, I said I'd get right on it since I'm here to serve John Q. Public however stupid he may be.  I guess I'm a nice guy after all.            

Hard to believe it's been so bloody long since I've updated this thing.  Not so much for lack of desire as for lack of effort.  Admittedly, one must be pretty lazy to not feel motivated enough to tell the world (only an extremely small portion thereof is listening that's not to say cares) that nothing is going on.  Nevertheless, since my choices are to listen in on a conversation regarding how people don't particularly care for a local hotshot lawyer-whose clients even those on the other side of the world would recognize--or write as a method of ignorance, I chose the latter.  And you would to if you were here with me, which, of course, you're not.  This is all probably just as well.

 

Like all good Americans I've been avoiding any and all mention of the World Cup though I suppose that puts me in the global minority.  But then, we've got the bomb. 

 

Try as I might, though not really all that much, I've just never been able to get into soccer/football.  When I was a wee lad, suburbanite kids bided their time dreaming of baseball diamonds as soccer was just beginning its terrifying grip upon the scions of middle/upper middle class parents.  In a time before mini-vans and when SUVs were only driven by grizzly dudes that actually used them for work, the station wagon was king.  Or queen.  Somewhere along the way, however, parents/coaches decided that it was just too much trouble to teach all those pitching and catching fundamentals to disinterested wild ones hopped up on sugar and, uh, sugar just wanted to run around, yell and accomplish nothing but the parents are proud anyway.  Sort of like college with kool-aid instead of firewater.  Of course, I sucked at baseball and was scared of the ball to boot so back to the Atari I went.   

 

This World Cup.  Because I love everyone and do my best to imagine, as Lennon suggested, the world living as one, I think it's totally fab that for once the rest of the world can bond over something other than their hatred for the U.S.  It's a shame that they only get this opportunity every four years.  What bleak days are these.  Nevertheless, try as though ESPN might they just can't get me interested in whether we've got the skilz, mad or otherwise, to hang with the big boys.  What precious little I know of this sport suggests, historically at least, not no, but HELL NO!  I can't be arsed to figure out exactly how the rounds work or how it's possible to advance without actually winning a game.  I'm sure it's all very scientific and someone somewhere much smarter than I arrived at these rules.   Still, I've enough disappointment in my life without the possibility that the only thing that keeps my team from the next round is because your team couldn't score a goal on that team.  

 

But if by some chance you happen to have stumbled upon this site and are an ardent supporter of your particular nation's football team then please know that I am with you all the way.  4-eva.  That was indeed some great kick, save, match that guy on your team made/played.  Oi.  Indeed.

Hating to give in to the cliche that has become today's date, I nevertheless think that there's some bit of devilry at work.  Out of the blue comes the news that (presumably) someone's favorite singer named after a staple of suburban dinner tables, Meat Loaf, will be polluting the airwaves with yet another excursion out of Hell.  For those keeping count this will be his third such trip.  While not really wishing eternal damnation on anyone, least of all a guy as seemingly affable as Mr. Loaf, perhaps he'll stay there this time.  For the greater good, of course.  He's always occupied a strange place in the music world.  One that wasn't necessarily in need of inhabitants, but like, Japanese rap was nonetheless filled.  This area, or Meat Lair if you will, is a place for those that find the faux soul of Michael Bolton a bit too harsh on the ears and prefer their vocal histronics with a touch of Andrew Lloyd Webber all-around goofiness and Baby Huey girth.  That no one in his 30(!) year career has attempted to follow in his sizable footsteps is a blessing, if a slightly lamentable one.  Or as one he might paradoxically title it in a song, I was a trendsetter but nobody followed me. 

 

But if all this talk of another slice of Loaf has you a bit anxious then, aside from a serious need to question your usefulness to the world, it would be best to prepare for a long wait.  It seems that his former/current manager and the "genius" behind the previous trips out of and back into Hell as well as a Total Eclipse of the Heart are suing him for using the phrase, you guessed it, "Bat out of Hell."  If ever there was a court case that demands a very special episode of Cop Rock, this is it.  Given the general indifference that has greeted any Meat Loaf opus not forged in the fires of Hell, he should probably be forgiven for attempting a few more flogs at that particular horse.  Maybe some good can come out of the whole shebang anyway.  While they've got that crowd in there the court can put all involved on trial for musical crimes against humanity.  Exhibit A: "Bat Out of Hell" Exhibit B: "Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell" Exhibit C: "Bat Out of Hell III: Yep, I'm Still Here" 

 

Actually, somewhere in there there's probably a fairly interesting and serious legal point to be determined over the ability to copyright words and phrases.  As ridiculous as it sounds, who actually owns the right to a phrase associated with a particular performer: the performer or the creator?  The immediate reaction  would figure the rights go to the creator since, well, he came up with it.  Fair enough.  When you think of Bat Out of Hell, which hopefully is very infrequently, is Jim Steinman the name that pops into your head or Meat Loaf?  I thought so.  It'll be interesting to see how this one turns out, but we'll all probably have forgotten about it by then.  And isn't that the best we can hope for.

 

As an FYI for all interested, the AJC has an article about the final Lefont cinema closing in Atlanta.  For a couple of decades Lefont almost single-handedly brought art/foreign/indie films to Atlanta with his few theaters.  One by one though they all closed leaving only the one on Ponce as the megaplexes took over.  On this particular screen I saw two of my all-time favorites, Amelie and the excellent Sex Pistols doc The Filth And The Fury among many others including, um, Bridget Jones' Diary.  Thankfully, there are now other options to see non-mainstream flicks in Atlanta, but there's something quaint about the old art houses that even the newer ones can't replicate.  Maybe they just remind of the places I used to go see movies as a kid before it all got so very bright and loud.  Of the simple joys of loading up in the station wagon to see the latest zany Disney comedy or Muppet movie.  All movies, artier interests to the contrary, that I still love.  

 

As for Lefont, he says that this closure is not permanent and the Ponce will reopen soon, if slightly different.  Hopefully so, but it's hard not to feel there's another bit of individuality gone forever.  Sad.                

Yet again my best intentions causes me to lie therefore I come back to this thing slightly later than originally planned.  Not that there's been too much of interest since then.  Not for lack of effort, however. 

 

Thursday night found me overhearing a conversation that stretched from 9/11 conspiracy theories, the end of the world, homersexuals, the old testament and all points in between and somehow brung 'em together.  It didn't make the slightest bit of sense, mind, but was a marvel to behold, sort of like 2001.  The movie, that is.  

 

Lover of all things kook from the Masons to former teen idol Ed "Kookie" Burns and pretty much anything with tinfoil, natch, I couldn't help but eavesdrop.  Of course, neither could the fine folks on the other side of the restaurant either since this Art Bell acolyte's idea of hushed tones approached the dull roar of a thousand electric razors.  Admittedly, a chain restaurant that shall remain nameless in a small, southern city that rhymes with disgusta seems a reasonable enough place to be able to talk freely about such conspiratorial matters without fear of reprisal.  But then, that's the thing; a good kook should always be on his guard for one never knows where THEY might be lurking.  Hint:  Everywhere.  Those black helicopters are pretty fast, you know.

 

It's not that I'm nosy.  It's just that there are certain buzzwords that always seem to prick up my ears when overheard.  Some two or even three syllables.  So when ABA casually dropped an "esoteric" as if he maybe knew the meaning, I decided that this was a conversation worthy of ignoring my dining companion (my Dad) for.  Honestly, would you rather talk about Barry Bonds or real wrath of God type stuff.  I thought so. 

 

It seems that somewhere around Sept. 11 (that one), ABA was just minding his own business, perhaps doing some end of the season gardening, when he received a mysterious phone call as one would.  The caller, known only to ABA, cryptically suggested that he guessed he was right about 9/11.  About what I don't know, but really, does it even matter?  Someone, somewhere in a secure government bunker obviously thought so.  He began hearing two clicks whenever he went to use his phone which as any junior kook knows is a tell-tell sign of one's phone being tapped.  That or the need for a repair man.  Being sensible and all and wanting to take no chances, he quit using his phone for a time.  This was no doubt a relief to the unfortunates on his speed dial.    

 

Still, a man with insight like this cannot be held down so he communicated with the outside world some sort of way.  My money is on telepathic messages to dogs; they are amazing creatures.  Whether through dogs, pigeons or smoke signals the CIA, or "Agency" as those in the know--i.e. him--call it, managed to finally get him to pick up that damn phone after who knows how many attempts.  I was somewhat surprised to hear him tell the feds didn't suggest he turn to page 135 of his copy of A Catcher in the Rye, but instead requested his services for God and country.  Well, they can't all be Jack Bauer now can they?  Alas, your tax money was once again wasted as ABA told them that, "No, he didn't want back in.  He wanted no part of what was coming."  A understandably bummed CIA realized it would have to look elsewhere for a GL-G20.

 

What an asylum has lost, your neighborhood has gained.  Comforting thought that.