Another Year of Trying to Get my Shit Together

2005 is almost gone. I’ve never been one to make New Year’s resolutions. I figure if one wants to change something about one’s life, one doesn’t need a formal declaration of intent before one starts. However, in the interest of good blogging, I will list my resolutions for 2006 as though I had some, and as though you care what they are.

Get published.
Get a new job.
Move.
Buy a home.

The first three could possibly happen. The fourth is more of a dream than a resolution, but I suppose it could happen if I win Powerball (which I don’t play).

In the words of W.S.: If we shadows have offended/ Think but this, and all is mended… The Angry Piper is a character; comprised of equal parts fiction and truth. Apologies to those whose feelings were hurt by my rantings. Most of my barbs point inward, and if one stung you it was likely unintentional.

Unless, of course, you’re an Evangelical Christian or a Bush supporter. Or Dr. Murk. Or an ignorant cell phone user. God help you if you’re an ignorant cell phone user. The frothy venom of outrage from my screaming lips cannot soak thee enough.

Happy New Year to all who read this blog. I’d say it won’t be more of the same next year, but I’d be lying.

Hopefully you’ll come back anyway.

The Piper's Christmas List

Bought myself most of my presents this year. I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I did anyway.

Here’s what I would unwrap this year if I was dumb enough to wrap presents to myself in the first place:

My eh-eh-eh satellite radio. Bought it so I could listen to Howard Stern. Keeping my fingers crossed that his uncensored show doesn’t turn into endless fart jokes and lesbian interviews, as I think he’s pretty damn funny when he focuses on other stuff. (I was never one to find farts funny, and I am relatively indifferent regarding lesbians.)

My book list is somewhat extensive, but that’s true whether I buy them myself or request them from Santa. One of the very bestest gifts anyone can get me for Christmas is a Barnes & Noble gift card in any denomination, as I take all of them and go on an orgiastic book-buying spree soon after Christmas. Here’s what I got myself this year:

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon
The Perfumed Sleeve, by Laura Joh Rowland
Demonology, by Rick Moody
Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman
Adrift on the Haunted Seas: The Best Short Stories of William Hope Hodgson
Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake
Rules for Old Men Waiting, by Peter Pouncey

My video game list is smaller, but was a tough one to narrow down. I got myself:

The Incredible Hulk: Ultimate Destruction
X-Men Legends 2: Rise of Apocalypse
Fatal Frame 3: The Tormented

That last one was tough; it was a toss-up between Resident Evil 4 and Fatal Frame 3. In the end I went with the series that has made me change my shorts more (Fatal Frame games are scary). I really want The Warriors (Caaaan Youuuu Diiiig IT?), but I’m thinking seriously about going back and getting Fantastic Four, to make it a superhero hat trick. Or maybe Dragon Quest VIII. Because I need another 80+ hour role playing time sink since there was no Final Fantasy game this year.

My last gift to myself was my calendar, or in this case, calendars. Last year I got a Frank Frazetta wall calendar and a really lame desk calendar entitled “Well, Duh!” about dumb(and supposedly funny) things people have done. It turned out to be remarkably un-funny. This year I went with a Marvel Superheroes wall calendar and the Daily Show America desk calendar.

I’m proud of myself. No comics and no toys this year (not counting my PS2 games). After all, I’m trying to get rid of that stuff.

Happy Birthday, Keith!!!

On this day in 1943, Keith Richards, guitarist and founding member of the Rolling Stones, was born.

If you wish to leave Keith Richards (or anyone who happens to share the same first name as him) some fond birthday wishes, please feel free to do so in the comments section.

The Fugitive

The night was black as death and colder than a gun. I awoke with the certainty that something had just made a sound—something that didn’t want to be heard. As silently as possible I slid from beneath my covers and climbed the wall to the ceiling where I clung, legs splayed to afford purchase— and waited.

After a time I was rewarded with a whispered snatch of conversation in a foreign language. Soviet bloc, certainly. Serbian, most likely. The fall of the U.S.S.R. in the mid-nineties disgorged hundreds of unemployed mercenaries upon the West. They were well-trained, efficient and merciless. I was not surprised my nemesis had decided to use them. The fact that they were in my apartment—in the next room, in fact—was unsettling to say the least and cause for immediate concern.

I knew why they were here. I had been followed for weeks. So far I had managed to elude them but it appeared my luck had finally run its course. I was alone, weaponless and at their mercy, with only my wits to ensure I would see the dawn.

A light scuffle outside my bedroom door betrayed the location of one of the intruders. He was careless. Swiftly he entered the room, couching low. I expected to hear the muffled sound of a silenced pistol and watch my down comforter erupt in quick blasts of feathers, but the mercenary did not shoot. He took the scene in quickly, somehow managing to overlook me as I clung tenaciously to the ceiling above his head. I held my breath and prayed.

The soldier moved to my bed, a muffled curse on his lips. He laid a hand upon the depression in the mattress I had recently occupied, finding it still warm. A whispered question from the room beyond my bedroom door—his companion wondering why I was not captured yet. Although my Serbian was a bit rusty, I distinctly heard the word “captured”. I knew then that they wanted to torture me. A cold sweat broke out on my body, threatening to make me lose my grip and plummet into the midst of these brutes. Better to die than to fall into their hands.

The soldier took his time, thinking correctly that I could not be far. He looked under my bed and in my closet. He did not look up.

Fatigue was making my arms and legs shake. I had not taken a breath in several minutes. Thankfully, I play the bagpipes and can breathe through my ears if needed ( a skill that comes in handy in other endeavors as well). A single drop of perspiration rolled down my forehead, coming to a bead upon my nose. I stared at it and used every ounce of willpower I possessed to keep my head steady so it would not fall on the mercenary below and betray my position.

At last, with another grunted curse, the soldier took a final look around my room and vanished through the door without so much as a silken whisper to betray his passage. It was a long time before I breathed again.

I knew their leader, The Generalissimo, was relentless and would not rest until he got what he wanted. These men or others like them would certainly be back. I could only resist them for so long. So I came to a decision.

I would give The Generalissimo what he sought. I would give to him that towards which he bent all thought and will rather than face such ruthless errand-boys again. As Dog the Bounty Hunter says, a life on the run ain’t no life at all.

An hour later I called my enemies to let them know they could find what they wanted in an unmarked locker in a nearby train station. I hung up before they could reply.

The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week is now in their hands. Enjoy.

Angry Once Again

My computer is in the coldest room of my apartment, so I haven't been spending much time in here lately. This will be longer than normal, as I don't know when I'll be posting again. I could write of a million things that piss me off on a daily basis, like the fact that my new office mate apparently waits until she comes in in the morning to take her first stinking dump of the day rather than simply doing it before she leaves the house, and then sprays a disgusting cinnamon-smelling air freshener to cover it up which only succeeds in making my entire office smell like shit and cinnamon, and then proceeds to do it at least twice more during the course of the day. I could bitch about that, but for now these will have to do.

First off: what's with this latest trend of chicks going out in public in their pajamas? Every time I go to the grocery store there's at least a dozen women of all ages parading around in their pajama pants. I've seen them at the bank, at the mall, pretty much anywhere. Is it that much of a fucking chore to get your ass dressed in the morning? Or in the afternoon? Or whenever you roll your ass out of bed and go out to a public place? If I walked around in public in what I normally slept in, I'd be walking around in boxer shorts, which, while I've no doubt it would drive the women insane with lust, would just look damn trashy. Put some goddamn pants on, for Christ's sake.

As I write this, it is currently snowing outside. Actually, I should say it's white-out conditions beyond my window. I wouldn't be surprised if it's all gone by tomorrow, but for now it looks like Antarctica out there. It's a heavy, wet snow that was a driving hail a few hours ago, and last night it was a powdery yet steady shower. In other words, it's not the best driving conditions outside. Glad I'm home.

Not because of the snow, mind you. I usually have no problem driving in the snow. I drive a standard transmission, which, as anyone who drives one knows, is exponentially better than driving an automatic in the snow. No, I don't fear the weather at all.

Instead, I fear the fucking idiots who suffer from what I like to call "SUV syndrome". Picture it: you can barely see out your windshield. The middle lane is the only lane on the highway that is not covered with snow. Traffic is slowed to a crawl. These are the fucking dickheads who, while you're trying very hard to simply follow the tail lights of the car in front of you, screw past you in the high speed lane doing ninety. They splatter your windshield with the crap from their lane, and usually have their high-beams on, reducing your visibility further. Most of them are soccer moms yapping on their cell phones drunk on the power of their new Hummer (they just HAVE to call someone and tell them how bad the driving is- WHILE THEY'RE DRIVING) or Bubbas in pickups with stickers that say witty things like "I still miss my ex-wife, but my aim is improving" or "Good girls get fat, bad girls get eaten" or "Bush/Cheney '04".

One of these shitheads caused a 15 car accident the other day. I woke up early to set up at a comic show in Providence, RI. It was snowing, but nowhere near as badly as it is now. On my way to the show, I passed 15 cars- including two Mass. State Police cars- in various stages of destruction on the same highway. I don't drive a SUV. Anyone out there who does can perhaps answer this question for me: when you buy one, do you suddenly become a complete moron and forget that snow and ice are slippery? Do you, be you male or female, suddenly grow enormous, elephantine testicles proportionate to the size of your ride? Do you become firmly convinced that the laws of physics (i.e.friction) do not apply to your vehicle? Get a fucking clue, shithead, before you kill someone other than yourself.

And speaking of cell phones: I fucking hate cell phones. I hate them with the white-hot intensity of 1000 suns. I hate them like Ahab hates the white whale. Like Gollum hates the Baggins. Like slugs hate salt. Like I hate humanity in general. I fucking despise cell phones. However, before I go any further, I feel I should own up to the fact that I, the Angry Piper, hater extraordinaire of cell phones and people who use them, do, in fact, own a cell phone myself. After much deliberation, I got one two years ago because I got a job that requires me to be on the road much of the time, travelling far away from my home. I didn't want to break down in Boston traffic in weather like what's currently raging outside and not have any way to call for assistance. So I bought one. 98% of all my cell phone calls (with a 2% margin of error) are work-related. Aside from my co-workers, there are only a handful of people ( I can think of 5) who have my cell phone number, and most of them (3) have the same last name as me. They all have instructions not to call me on it unless SOMEONE IS DEAD. One person who feels he is an exception to this, of course, is the Angry Veteran, who I once gave my cell number to. I forget why, but there was a definite purpose, like he was coming to town and I was going to be out or something. Rest assured he got the same instructions as everyone else, i.e. aside from that one time, he was only to call me on my cell phone in time of direst emergency. Despite this, he and my brother continue to call me on my cell phone when they can't get in touch with me normally, which annoys me. A lot. So fucking stop it.

People who use cell phones in public places are generally rude and ignorant. A while back, my West Coast chum Tel did a blogpost all her own about some asshole using a cell phone in a movie theater, to which I responded with typical Angry Piper sympathy (i.e. anger). Nothing pisses me off more than browsing in a bookstore and hearing some assclown's cell phone an aisle over ringing with some personalized Nelly ringtone and then having to listen to some vapid ditz chat about her day while she searches frantically for the latest Oprah book club selection. Or getting into an elevator and riding 15 floors with a guy who acts like he's psychotic because he's having a conversation with HIMSELF, until I notice the headset he's chatting away on wrapped around his jaws like a pair of ants' mandibles. Or being behind someone who's driving like they just quaffed an entire box o'wine and washed it down with a few shots of Dewar's, cautiously passing them in hopes of getting out of their crazed, maniacally swerving path, only to look over and see the reason they can't drive is because they're blabbing away, holding a cell phone in one hand and clutching a fucking MAPQUEST in the other.

Once upon a time, not so long ago (thanks JBJ), I was eating dinner in a crowded restaurant. At the next table was an older couple. No sooner had they ordered their meal then the woman takes out her cell phone and calls, of all people, her mother. How do I know it was her mother? Because apparently, the reception inside the restaurant where dozens of people(including myself) were eating their dinner was not the best. So I got to hear the entire one-sided conversation, which, I shit you not, went like this:

Old Lady: Hi Mom. I said HI MOM. Yeah. We're at the HILLTOP. YEAH. THE HILLTOP. WE'RE HAVING DINNAH. WALTAH ORDERED THE PORTAH-HOUSE. YEAH. I'M HAVING THE STEAK TIPS. WITH MASHED POTADAHS. YEAH. HE'S HAVING THE SALAD. THE DOCTAH SAID HE SHOULD WATCH HIS CHOLESTEROL, SO HE'S NOT GONNA EAT THE POTADAHS. WHY? CUZ THEY HAVE A LOT OF BUTTAH...

I'm sure you get the point. This went on for about five minutes, during which time Walter expressionlessly ate the dinner rolls like he was chewing ashes. Walter was a broken, beaten and hollow man. It seemed as though he was resigned to the shrill voice of this cackling harpy he called a wife. He said nothing during her phone call and I'm pretty sure he said nothing for the rest of his meal. At least I didn't see them talk to each other at all. I'm pretty sure that had the lady choked to death in mid-phone call, Walter would have had no reaction but for a small, slow smile spreading across his face as she hacked out her last feeble, wheezing breath. I am certain that would have been my reaction, had I been Walter.

Was this phone call really necessary? Fuck no. Couldn't this hag with the fingernails-on-the-chalkboard-of-my-soul voice have waited until she was in the fucking car with a belly full o'beef to call Mom? Fuck yes. Does her mother need to know what she eats every night? Sweet merciful crap, lady...have some fucking consideration for people around you, who maybe want to eat a quiet meal and enjoy the company of the person they're with without having to hear about your husband's cholesterol level and your choice of entrees!

Here's a newsflash to all the people reading this who may find in themselves a bit of the folks described above: You are not that fucking important. Get off your goddamn phone. Turn it off in stores, restaurants, churches and movie theaters. (As I told Tel, I firmly believe anyone who uses a cell phone in a theater should be caned to within an inch of their life. I'm not kidding.) If you feel you are Mr. Important and can't be out of touch with anyone for the time it takes to drive somewhere, see a movie or go into a retail store, then take a cab, wait for the fucking rental and shop online. Don't be a fucking ignorant asshole.

Speaking of assholes, I was listening to NPR today and I heard one of these Evangelical Christians talking about the latest stupid fucking debate in our country, the "Hijacking of Christmas." For those who don't know, the ECs are particularly distressed by the fact that retail stores like Target (among others), refer to their sales as "Holiday sales" and not "Christmas sales." According to them, this, and saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" is an attempt to deliberately exclude their beliefs from the season.

Sigh. Where do I begin?

Saying "Happy Holidays" to someone is inclusive. See, my Jewish friends (one of whom needs to post to this blog more often and submit some poetry to Hill-TV-you know who you are) celebrate Hannukah. My Muslim friends (if I had any) celebrate Ramadan. My Buddhist friends...well, they don't celebrate anything this time of year that I know of. My athiest friend, Dr. Mantodea, celebrates Christmas not out of any religious observation, but because he enjoys gift-giving and receiving and is just brimming with goodwill for his fellow man. I assume Just Me celebrates Yule, but I don't know her personally and I could be wrong. I don't know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa, but I hear some people do. Jehovah's Witnesses don't celebrate anything, so if you know one don't offer holiday salutations, although I'm fairly certain they've come to terms with the fact that other folks celebrate stuff and wouldn't be too shocked to see a "holiday sale" this time of year. Also, a week after Christmas, there's a holiday you may have heard of called New Year's Day.

So you see, saying "Happy Holidays" means different things to different people. It's an attempt to be inclusive, not divisive-kind of like how Barnes & Noble plays Jewish music like the Hannukah song (not the Adam Sandler version-the actual light the menorah-dance around the Torah-explanation of the holiday song) in addition to incessant Christmas music. I'm willing to bet that since Hannukah also falls on the 25th this year, some Jewish folks may do some gift shopping at Target. So that company's "Holiday Sale" could be an attempt to appeal to people who observe this holiday as well. Just a guess.

Of course, there is a limit to this kind of political correctness. Calling a big fir tree with lights, garland and ornaments on it a "Holiday Tree" is fucking stupid, because as any kindergartener knows, it's obviously a Christmas tree. In other words, if you don't celebrate Christmas, you likely won't have a big decorated tree in your living room. You wouldn't call a menorah a "holiday candelabra" unless you had the intelligence of a corn-fed mule. It's obviously an object associated with Jewish tradition, and someone who isn't Jewish (like me) wouldn't have one in their home, so just call it what it is. There's a point of political correctness that's just ridiculous and it's a point people don't need to go beyond, but it seems we as a society go beyond it all the time.

The EC's (at least the one I heard today, a Mr. Robert Schenk (sp?) believe that by not specifically naming Christmas as the reason for the season, we are somehow belittling their beliefs. While I agree with him (holy shit-I never thought I'd say that) about the fact that Christmas trees should be called what they are, I don't agree with him that Holiday sales should be called "Christmas sales", because that excludes everyone else.

Mr. Schenk expressed irritation that being labeled as an "Evangelical Christian" often carries with it a kind of perjorative connotation, unless the people doing the labelling happen to be EC's themselves. Again, I agree (holy crap on toast-twice in one day!) Know why?

Because arguments like this are stupid, and I REALLY DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT THIS SHIT AT ALL. Nor should you. Hey Mr. Schenk...how about devoting your Christian concern (and money) to things that fucking MATTER, like Hurricane relief and combating poverty, instead of wasting everyone's time with bullshit like this that should be common sense to anyone with half a fucking brain? And if the EC's didn't constantly try to make their religious beliefs NATIONAL POLICY, maybe the rest of us who don't happen to share them wouldn't think that in general, EC's are narrow-minded, exclusive, gay-hating, bible-thumping, science-restricting, morality-touting, political power-hungry holier-than-thou assholes.

Just a thought.

It's fun to find out what your voice really sounds like.

Anyone from New England should hopefully get the title reference. Turns out I have a really deep voice. So either I have a really deep voice normally and it doesn't sound that way to me, or perhaps alcohol makes my voice deeper.

See, I just listened to the December podcast of The Murk and Malach Radio Show, where yours truly was the guest. Well, Tom Cruise stopped by too, but come on...who's the bigger celebrity, him or me? Yeah. Thought so.

Needless to say, it was pretty funny. I was drunk enough that night so that listening to it tonight made it all new to me. Some notable quotes:

"God has manna and he gives us manna and blessings from heaven." -Dr. Robert J. Murk.

"I don't give a crap about the Japanese." -Malach

"We were in the outhouse...smokin' doobies." -Dr. Robert J. Murk.

And last but not least:

"I am so looking forward to that movie (Narnia), my dick is hard." -The Angry Piper.

Yes. To my eternal shame, I actually said that. Sorry, C. S. That's what happens when you've had three pints of Guinness and then you switch over to Yellowtail Cabernet Sauvignon. I started the podcast drunk, and by the end of it I was downright faced.

That's not even the funny stuff. The interview with Tom Cruise is hysterical. The Fatbug Commercial is funk-tastic. Malach does an impression of Everlast (which pretty much sounds accurate) and Dr. Murk does the worst Scottish impression ever. We even (ok, it's mostly me) get into a discussion about Mimi Rogers's award-winning rack. Hey...don't blame me; it IS pretty stellar.

The Murk and Malach Show. It's one hour of your life you'll never get back, but it's pretty funny. Feedback welcome at Minimum Security.

In other news, my Book of the Week update at Hill-TV should be posted as soon as I write it. Which will be by the beginning of next week. Honest.

And on a personal note: Eve, it's December 2nd. The clock is ticking.

No pressure.