Amazing.
AMAZING!
The Universally Dreaded DMV. Deepest pit of sulfurous hell. The state-mandated embodiment of all things nightmarish. A huge roomful of drooling glass-eyed zombies, a few of whom probably cut me off on the way here. 100 carbon copies of Beelzebub working behind the counters, just waiting to stick a pencil in my eye.
I made an appointment for today to get my hugely expired license all nice and squared away finally. The dreaded hour of reckoning drew near. I got a good night's sleep. Woke up, took a nap.
Dread dread dread.
I got there 45 minutes early, expecting a line out the door and plenty of time to buy a hot dog or five from the cart outside.
No line, no hot dog cart.
I walked in, and the DMV was...empty.
I repeat, the DMV was empty. The SF DMV. That DMV. Maybe 20 people in the whole place. 4 people in line ahead of me. The nice (!?!?!?!?!?!?!) lady gave me a number. They called it before I could even find a place to sit and wait. Took my "eye exam", didn't have to take the written exam I thought I'd have to putter through, took what I'm sure will be a goofy-ass picture (not to be confused with a goofy ass-picture...), and was back in the real world before I even knew what had happened.
DMV. License renewal. In and out in less than 10 minutes. What kind of game is being played here? Has the whole world gone completely goat-buggeringly mad? I demand my god-given right to have my slogging preparation for inconvenience and humiliation acknowledged by the state. How dare they be intentionally efficient, leaving me with an unspoiled afternoon to enjoy the rain? That unmitigated chutzpa displayed while being friendly and helpful just burns my dimpled ass. It's, as they say, enough to make you chew your own leg off. I think I'll have to write a letter.
Proof positive that we do indeed live in interesting times. No wonder there are so many fucking idiots on the road.
Bill Watterson, perhaps my second favorite poet:
========================
What if my bones were in a museum,
Where aliens paid good money to see 'em?
And suppose that they'd put me together all wrong,
Sticking bones on to bones where they didn't belong!
Imagine phalanges, pelvis, and spine
Welded to mandibles that once had been mine!
With each misassemblage, the error compounded,
The aliens would draw back in terror, astounded!
Their textbooks would show me in grim illustration,
The most hideous thing ever seen in creation!
The museum would commission a model in plaster
Of ME, to be called, "Evolution's Disaster"!
And paleontologists there would debate
Dozens of theories to help postulate
How man survived for those thousands of years
With teeth-covered arms growing out of his ears!
Oh, I hope that I'm never in such manner displayed,
No matter HOW much to see me the aliens paid.
=================
Sweet dreams. Mwahahahaha....
A few more observations from the doorman's chair.
I can't help but feel ashamed for my gender sometimes clothes-wise.
Now, I'm no fashion plate. I've all but perfected the art of 'non-fashion', although Wendo has recently made some spectacular contributions which, frankly, make me look and feel like a goddamn stud among studs. Women know how men look best, and that's almost certainly not a two-way street.
When I'm at Fly working the door, my absolute first concern is mucho warmth in the Frigid Wind Tunnel that is the corner of Divis and Fulton, which means I might look a little thick and odd in my 18 million layers of whatever is clean. I do my best at least to present a respectable first impression for the club.
But if I had any real money to blow, one of the first things I'd concentrate on would be my "wardrobe." I'm routinely shocked at the affluent young or youngish lads, some otherwise perfectly fine specimens, who come through the door without a clue how to look good, especially when hitting the bars in groups at night looking to catch the attention of the ladies. Some matters of attire are obviously subjective; personally I think square-toed shoes make a guy look like a skinny duck crossed with Bigfoot, about to trip and fall on his face. Then again, few things scream out "anachronism" like Beatle boots, which I still wear with comfy glee.
But other things are just intollerable and make guys look like complete fathead morons. In no particular order:
1. Velour is not, nor has it ever been, sexy.
2. Track suits are not, nor have they ever been, sexy.
3. Velour track suits are not...well, you can see where this is going. Please, for the love of all that's right, stop wearing them when you go out. Brown ones especially. Girls laugh at you, all of them, and who needs that?
4. It's been said a zillion times. Pull your goddamn pants up. It might be uber-hip to hold on to your mush-head jeans to keep them from falling down around your ankles. But, again, I'm the guy that gets to hear the girls laughing at you, and it makes me sad. You look especially stupid when you run.
5. Leave your Star Wars attire at home. Always. No exceptions. This ain't the bar on Tatooine.
6. If you choose to wear nice shoes, a sport jacket, nice shirt, possibly even a cool tie, do not wear a ball cap to top it all off. Especially your red, white, and blue Pabst Blue Ribbon cap. Believe it or not, no one really cares if you're losing/have already lost your hair. Shave it, mousse it, gel it, burn off what's left with an arc welder. Anything but the cap.
7. Speaking of hair, spending an hour getting it to look like you just woke up got old the second Soungarden's second album came out. Please invest in a brush. Long hair can still be cool. Greasy long hair has never been cool. Mohawks will always be cool. Lots of them the other day for some reason.
8. American flag ties look ridiculous, no matter what is under it. They look that much more stupid when you've had six or seven and find yourself chewing on some poor lass's exposed bra strap at the bar. If you wanted to render yourself unforgettable in this girl's mind, mission accomplished. You're now a legend, and not in a good way. Putz.
9. Don't braid your beard.
10. If you're going to dress "goofy" or "irreverently", have the very refined and mature sense of humor to back it up. No one wants to deal with, let alone sleep with, a cross between Disco Stu and Surly from Duff Gardens.
I have a handful of friends who REALLY know how to dress well when needed. My Right Hand Man Steve Schneider knows how to dress. Bill Rushing knows how to dress. Will Strickland, Ted Savarese, Dino Nickolas, and John LeBlanc know how to dress. I usually look like a vagabond next to these gentlemen. Take a cue from them.
And ladies, some of you look preposterous also. But that's for another day.
A fine bit of mental gristle to, as Dr. Teeth might put it, masticate upon:
"There are no stupid questions. But there are a lot of inquisitive idiots."
No shit. Not too sure about the "no stupid questions" bit, but otherwise sound oratory.
Paint and all. All weekend just to do my little bedroom, and that's without the much-needed sandblasting or spackling of hundreds of nail/thumbtack holes. But serious zen fun.
Dust bunnies the size of my cat. That's really saying something.
Undiscovered cat vomit under my bed which might very well have been just festering there for 8 years or more. Hooray for Spray & Vac.
Breathing paint fumes makes you want to breathe more paint fumes. Beer/vodka & grapefruit juice nicely mitigates this horrible downward spiral into domestuffs hell. See 'The Young Ones' for a definition...
And it's truly amazing just how bad my feet smell after all that sockless painting. I have to laugh.
But YAY! I don't live in so much of a dorm room anymore. The Sandbox, legendary recording studio, is now cleverly disguised as the palatial estate of a super clever guy, and still retains the carefully-honed ambiance of The Recording Studio Of Stars Yet To Show Up. Where I used to go for the "no-rest-for-the-eye" motif wall-wise, now all is tasteful and cozy and smelling relatively nice. The DW drums are still smack in the middle of everything, and that's OK. Come on over and record something before my fiercely single-minded and surly-ass board decides to melt down once and for all and my happy-go-lucky ADATS go on permanent strike. ProTools of one flavor or another coming soon hopefully.
Major bags of roasted nuts go out to the Griddle lads for biting off a huge chunko and hitting the road for their first real tour of the American Southwest. Happy trails, boys, and hope the Vegas Asswater Boondoggle worked itself out (stupid pun definitely intended). Tip I'll remember for future road trips: no Indian food before an 11-hour hront in the van. Your bandmates will thank you. Or at least they won't strap you to the roof rack to air out.
Another all-too-relevant contribution from my favorite poet, Pam Ayres:
====================
Oh No, I've Got A Cold
I am sitting on the sofa.
By the fire and staying in.
Me head is free of comfort
And me nose is free of skin
Me friends have run for cover,
They have left me pale and sick
With me pockets full of tissues
And me nostrils full of Vick
That bloke in the telly adverts,
He's supposed to have a cold.
He has a swig of whatnot
And he drops off, good as gold,
His face like snowing harvest
Slips into sweet repose.
Well I bet this tortured breathing
Never whistled down his nose.
I burnt me bit of dinner
Cause I've lost me sense of smell,
But then, I couldn't taste it,
So that worked out very well,
I'd buy some, down the cafe,
But I know that at the till,
A voice from work will softly say
"I thought that you were ill".
So I'm wrapped up in a blanket
With me feet up on a stool,
I've watched the telly programmes
And the kids come home from school,
But what I haven't watched for
Is any sympathy,
Cause all you ever get is:
"Oh no, you keep away from me!"
Medicinal discovery,
It moves in mighty leaps,
It leapt straight past the common cold
And gave it us for keeps.
Now I'm not a fussy woman,
There's no malice in me eye
But I wish that they could cure
the common cold. That's all. Goodbye.