You say you want a leader but you can't seem to make up your mind; I think you better close it and let me guide you to Chipotle Mexican Grill.

I'm really jonesin' for some Mexican food right now. I haven't had much to eat today at all. Is this blogworthy? Maybe, maybe not. Part of me feels weird that living in San Diego I spend so much time at Chipotle which, of all horrible conglomerates, is owned by McDonald's and is a national chain and has no regional flavor at all. On top of that it's located in plastic-surgery land, accessed only by America's Worst Parking Lot. Why do I go there as opposed to say, a place like Wahoo's or El Portal; someplace with regional flare? Frankly, I dunno. Actually, I think I just like the food more. Pains me to say it. Portal is great, no kidding; but if Portal were right next to Chipotle, I'd be tempted to go to Chipotle nine times out of ten. I feel like I've failed my local community. Frankly, I'm just really starving for some Mexican. I'll feel guilty, but dang, I'll feel so good at the same time.

The GSA Movie night went off with only a few hitches last night. Showed the second-best film ever made: Ran. According to me, here are the top five:

1. 2001
2. Ran
3. Double Indemnity
4. Walkabout
5. The Last Wave

#'s 4 and 5 are up for negotiation, but I stand firm on the first three. I'd appreciate your lists. Importantly, this is not a list of my "favorite" movies (although there is a certain overlap). I think there is a clear distinction between thinking a movie is one's favorite, and thinking the movie is the best. I've been thinking about this as a counterexample to John Stuart Mill's proof of the principle of utility in Chapter Four of Utilitarianism (as reconstructed by Geoffrey Sayre-McCord): Mill relies on the idea that desiring something is desiring something as good, under the guise of its goodness. But I think this is clearly false: I desire to watch Ghostbusters, but I don't desire it as good. I desire it as a sort of base pleasure, a few nutty laughs, that bit where Rick Moranis talks about all the previous incarnations of Gozer. I don't desire it because I think it's somehow good, nevertheless, if I were given a chance to watch Ghostbusters or Ran, most of the time I would pick Ghostbusters. But Ran is better. FAR better. And, in fact, though I believe Double Indemnity is one of the best movies ever, when I desire it, I don't desire it under that guise: I desire it for the base pleasure, the fun double-crosses, and the funny speeches of Edward G. Robinson.

Sorry for the topic scramble. These are my thoughts for the day.

I've been taken for lost and gone and unknown for a long long time.

In response to Matt's request, I've started work on a new song. Hopefully it should be done by this weekend. I've got three-or-so minutes done, and only a few more sections to add. This one's turning out a hell-of-a-lot less mellow than "La La Land". Downright angry, if I may say so. But I like it. It's called "Deface". But the title is really just a conglomeration of the notes the right- and left-hand are plaing during the main section of the song. The bass plays "d-e-f" and the right hand holds an A minor triad (which has the effect of producing a nice F major 7 chord during the last bit). Anyway, you'll hear it.

This songwriting process, however, has put me once again into contact with my heroic inability to write lyrics that don't make me want to puke my guts out. So far the song has words, but the lyrics are precisely eight words long repeated ad naseum. It makes a nice effect, but I think I'd rather be able to have, you know, some sort of interesting point to the lyrics in a song, rather than just being content for the vocal parts and a foil for potential harmonies. So far, I really suck at it. Anybody out there feel like writin' some lyrics? I could sure use the help. Now I know how Sullivan must have felt. Besides, you know, the obvious differences.

The quarter has begun again. Fun fun fun. I'm currently trying to get all my committee members to commit to a time that would allow me to advance. So far I only have two members responding, and I'm forced into either tuesday, thursday, or friday mornings at 9:30 am. Ugh. Let's hope the other remaining four members don't have a problem with those times. Anyone have any advice on doing this? I want it to happen sometime in early May.

In Praise of the Early Radiohead

The received view of Radiohead's career is that their early works, notably Pablo Honey and The Bends (although the latter to a lesser extent) represent immature efforts that do not reflect Radiohead's real talent. They sound too much like the typical mid-90s alt-rock albums to be distinguished in any way from them. I think this view is drastically mistaken. While I don't believe that these records represent the best work Radiohead has done, I think they're roughly comparable - they are very good records. It seems to me that Radiohead records break down into roughly three camps.

1. OK Computer (I think this is unquestionably their best work).
2. Amnesiac, Hail to the Thief
3. Kid A, Pablo Honey, The Bends

While PH and TB are in group three, they are not sharply distinguished, in fact, these groups are very very close in terms of quality. This view requires a word of defense.

Start with 'You', the first song on PH. By my counting scheme, this song alternates between bars of 12/8 and 11/8 for most of the song. This in itself represents a real departure from the other alt-rock crap that was going on at the time, but I think the differences go deeper: listen to the opening, almost wimpy guitar line, that reappears toward the end of the song during the vocal harmony on "You, me and everything, caught in the fire"; there's such an interesting contrast between that weak line and the muscular guitar riffage going on at this point. It's very compelling. Thoughts like this one reappear in almost every song on the record. There are, of course, a few duds: 'Stop Whispering' among them. But even the poster-child song for PH-dissing, 'Creep', tends to focus much more on the somewhat clichedly sad lyrics, rather than the very interesting guitar work, especially coming from Johnny Greenwood's guitar. "Lurgee", "Blow Out", etc., are all fantastic songs.

Similar things crop up on TB. "Planet Telex", "Bones", and "My Iron Lung" all showcase JG's guitar talent (most clearly displayed on OK Computer, and then somewhat abandoned...too bad).

I think that if people were to take serious, sympathetic listens (to the music, as well as the lyrics) of these early records, they'll find that they are not merely indicative of future talent, they are genuinely great records in their own right.

I'm a reasonable man, get off my case.

Hey all. New Castrato stuff is posted. Here's a nice picture:


L to R: Dan, Derek, Matt, Lonny, Me, Martin Gore from Depeche Mode

A lot of the pictures are of me; that's a little strange. Derek: do you have others?

I took up all the leaves and fishes, and then I made myself a little sandwich.

Hey all.

It's been awhile.

Spring break has been in full effect. Earlier this week I split SD and took a drive up the coast. Lovely spot of coast, that. Went to the Getty Museum in LA. Fantastic. Like all great art museums, half of the exhibit is the museum itself. It's on a hilltop in the West Hollywood hills, surrounded by lush vegetation and celebrity houses. Cool.

Today I hung out in OB, caught some rays and then watched a bunch of TV on demand and, like, three movies. Here's a breakdown of the movies I've watched while on break:

Night and the City
Garden State
The Naked City
Tesis
The 'Burbs
Walkabout
Waiting for Guffman
Rebecca
Ran (Commentary)

There are a few others, I think, that I just can't recall.

And then tonight, just as I was about to go to bed, I check my email, and the Rev. has sent me like fifty million Doctor Castrato related messages. Included are some things that I've already posted, but there's a lot of new stuff. Including:

1. A recording of Music Box (that song Pat wrote, high 'c')
2. An old recording of Hey Mr. DJ from our very first show
3. Sex Machine
4. The ephemeral Tree Song
5. Different versions of Dickmonger and Jealous Lover's

PLUS

A bunch of pictures, mainly from the two Princeton, Ill. shows, but one nice group photo from our last show and a couple other things. One gutwrenching picture of my exwife and exgirlfriend. In the same photo! Ugh. Probably won't post that one. The other stuff will be available on the Castrato page in short order (hopefully).

We are criminals who never broke the law.

Hello. Sorry for the absence. It's nearly 2am right now, and I'm super-tired. Just got back home from a couple of days' worth of driving and non-San-Diego-inhabiting. Will write more tomorrow.

Seeya later, suckers.

This was a discount store, now it's turned into a cornfield.

Jeez. I take one day off from blogging and people start freaking out. What about him? Or any of the innumerable others who take a day off here or there?

Anyway, it hasn't been particularly eventful around here, so there wasn't much to blog about. Yesterday was complete vegetation day. I did a little internet research, thought a little about my fantasy team, learned that Urge Overkill recently reunited and played a show in San Diego which went completely under the rader (or, at least, under my radar). That pissed me off, but at the same time made me happy. Had some Bronx Pizza, took a walk in the park, and sang a little karaoke at the Carriage House in Kearny Mesa. Man, that place was a little disappointing. You didn't have to tip the DJ, but there was no stage, no mic stands, and basically no real entertainment until your next song was called, which could have been an hour or more, even with only, like, 10 people in the bar. But I did some nice renditions of Sledgehammer and Burnin' Down the House (even though I wanted to do Take Me to the River, which they ended up not having at the last minute).

I finished the (hopefully) final mixdown of my tune. It's now in .mp3 format on the Doctor Castrato page. Do your worst.

I'm on campus now, a shameful state of affairs. I have to have a meeting with a professor to organize stuff for a prospectives visit weekend. Ugh. I vowed not to return this week, to no avail, apparently.

So, in conclusion, here's a new James Ellroy Quote, from L.A. Confidential:

Justice in the City of Fallen Angels reminds us of a line from that sin-sational sepia show Porgy and Bess. Like "a man," it's "a sometime thing." As in for instance: if you're a well-connected contributor to demon D.A. Ellis Loew's slush fund and you get murdered - killer beware!!! - L.A. Chief of Police William H. Parker will spare no expense unearthing the fiend who put you on the night train to the Big Adios. But if you're a crusading journalist writing for this magazine and you get chopped into Ken-L Ration in your own living room - killer rejoice!!! - Chief Parker and his moralistic, misanthropic, mindless mongolians will sit on their hands (well worn from palming payoffs) and whistle "justice is a sometime thing" while the killer whistles Dixie.

All my lovers were there with me, all my past and future.

Did taxes yesterday. Turns out I owe Uncle Sam over 300 bucks. Three hundo. Tres hunski. Dale = pissed. Turns out that when you pool my earnings and my (ex) spouse's earnings, it totals something like 60 Gs. Thats, uh, in a larger tax bracket than I was expecting. Sucky. Even the awesome Lifetime Learning Credit couldn't save me on this one. On the upside, however, when I was doing my taxes, I was able to rip all the CDs that she took with her that I've been missing, most importantly Radiohead's Amnesiac and Pablo Honey. Overall doing taxes took too long, was too stressful. Next year, thankfully, I should just be able to do them in an hour or less on my computer with my W2 and that's it. Hopefully. But you never know about these things.

Last night was fun. Went out to Lancer's with A, M, and M. Unfortunately, however, we had to depart the bar a little earlier than I was in the mood for, M decided he "had work to do" or "some other such shit", so we had to leave. Trouble was, M still wanted to party, be he didn't want to go all the way back to A's house with M and me because he lives in Hillcrest, nearer to the bar and wouldn't have wanted to drive all the way back home from La Jolla. So, as a compromise, A took M home, while M and I hung out at my place. Eventually A showed up again, and we watched three-or-so Mr. Show episodes: "What to Think", "Who Let You In?" and "Show Me Your Weenis". Good stuff.

Today I sold a few used books and put about 15 bucks in my pocket so I could afford to have a nice afternoon on the town. It's really a gorgeous day. I'm currently writing to you from Lestat's Coffee House in Normal Heights (free wifi!). I think I might stay here for a little while, maybe read a little James Ellroy, maybe work on a paper I've been sitting on for awhile. The whole day is wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide open. Hopefully. But you never know about these things.

Nash, King, Blackie, and Me

Nearly every song on Urge Overkill's seminal album Saturation reminds me of some turning point in my life. Well, maybe not a turning point per se, but some important occurence. This record has been tied in with my post 1993 existence in a kind of weird way. It's a fabulous record, but certainly not my favorite. For some reason, it just has a tendency to reappear. I was first introduced to it when I was listening to 105.9 coming out of Lawrence in high school. They played "Sister Havana", and I was hooked. It was a great tune. Big guitars, nice riff, etc. Anyway, I didn't buy the record, and after awhile I forgot about it, but since that point that song always seems to remind me of high school, especially those innumerable half-an-hour car trips into Lawrence to Hastings, or downtown, or wherever.

A few months after that UO came to Lawrence, to Liberty Hall. I remember buying a ticked anxiously and going to see the show with some friends. Luckily, one of us was presented with a free copy of the CD (not me), so now I had access to the whole thing. I didn't like it so much, for a while, beyond "Sister Havana" and "Positive Bleeding" (which is a great song), but my friends played it so much that the rest of it started to seep into my consciousness. Time passed, we started getting into the Cure, so UO pretty much was put on the back-burner.

Off to college. Because I didn't myself own it, the next time I heard the record was sitting in the car of my future wife, close to the time we first met. (This must have been sometime during my first year, maybe over Christmas break?) I remembered liking those tunes from a few years ago, so she graciously let me listen to it as we drove wherever we were driving. Partly because of this, partly because of other things you can probably guess, I was interested in riding in her car more and more often. I like to think she left the UO CD in there to entice me. She probably just kept forgetting to take it inside.

Eventually I found my own copy. Kyra and I moved off to Boston for me to try my hand at graduate school. Once again, I put the record off to the side. (I was mostly listening to 1950s and 60s era jazz at that point.) But the program in Boston neared completion, time to go somewhere new. My applications to Ph.D. programs garnered me two acceptances: Columbia and UCSD. I basically ignored the Columbia offer; Kyra didn't want to live in New York. But I took the opportunity to go to see UCSD anyway for a campus visit. I took one CD with me, one I hadn't listened to at that point in over a year: UO. And boy did I listen. For the five-or-so hour plane ride I must have listened to that record eight times. It was like being reacquainted with an old friend, like going back in time. Things were so uncertain: Kyra was insisting that I take a deferment, I didn't know if UCSD would let me. I didn't know if we'd have to spend a year apart. I like to think I was calmed down, put back in control of myself by that record.

During the UCSD trip, two songs were going through my head: "Good Time Boys" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and "Heaven 90210" by UO. But the latter, actually, helped me make my decision, I think. At one point I took a walk by myself down to the cliffs near the department. As I stood there watching the sun go down, I felt kind of romantic, a little Californian. I went back inside and committed to UCSD.

Back in Boston, Kyra and I got engaged. I pushed for "Heaven 90210" as our last song at the reception. Turned down. I thought the line: "thinkin' a' movin' on back to Kansas" was apropos. Oh well. Finally we arrive in San Diego. Kyra still has her copy, and I have a copy as well. Turns out they are both in the car when it's stolen, all CDs lost. Luckily, however, I still have that ripped copy on the computer, which I listen to obsessively.

My obsession becomes desperation. Kyra decides to leave, and with it, take my access to UO. I tried to burn the record to CD, but for some reason I didn't have the right security clearance or something. One of the worst memories of that time was sitting at that computer for hours trying to figure a way to get the CD in a format I could use. To no avail. That year I left San Diego to take a post-divorce tour of the midwest. I bang out "Heaven 90210" on my mother's piano when I feel the need to do so. It's a pathetic exercise, I know, but I think it helped.

I don't know why I'm bringing this up. The record is out of print now, I was able to garner a used copy for a couple bucks somewhere. It makes me a little sad that this record that was so connected to the big events in my life is now out of print. That's the way of the world, I suppose. There appear to be over 90-some used copies on Amazon. Pick one up if you get the chance.

Our Long National Nightmare is Over.

Actually, my long national nightmare. Well, not 'national', per se, but it sure as hell was a nightmare. Grading papers. I know what you're saying: "Dale, you self-centered jerk! You're complaining about grading?! I have to wake up at 4AM every single day to sort and pack hay bales, work with tar on a blisteringly hot roof, lead camels through the desert, hang from a thin cable while I wash the windows of the Empire State Building, or some other such shit. Where do you get off? You're grading students papers! You got it easy!"

Think again.

There is nothing more brain-melting than thirty portfolios of 22-odd pages of freshman writing apiece. Really. Don't say it's not that bad until you try it. It's really horrible. Here's hoping that when I finally get a professorship somewhere, it's at a place where I can have TAs for these introductory classes. Ugh. It's complete drudgery. Of course, about twice a semester you get that awe-inspiring student paper that makes you think you're doing something good by being a teacher, but those are few and far between, my friends.

Of course, I don't have to go to the desert (unless I want to), and I sure don't have to hang from any thin cables, 700 feet above the streets of Manhattan. And I never have to look at a hay bale ever again. Or work with tar. (Actually, the last one is a misnomer, given my recent adventures.)

Thanks to everybody for being interested in my little opus I've been working on. Sorry it's taking so long. I have a few parts to rerecord, but after that, I think it should be (close to) finished. Spring break begins now.

Sho 'nuff to be cookin', in my book.

It's been a crazy few days. For some reason I've just been a little more anxious than usual. I've been a little "on edge". A little "wired". Don't know for sure what it is (actually, I might have an idea, but I don't think I'm ready to tell the internet yet). So that sucks. Hopefully once all the grading and fretting and all that is done, I'll be able to relax and play around on the new awesome music software given to me by A., "Reason". It's super-sweet. FYI: I posted a link to the song I recorded, but it's an early mix. I've already changed some stuff, and it turns out one of the vocal parts is singing the wrong notes at a crucial juncture. Too bad. But a better version will be up soon, I think (hope). I might even be able to use Reason to add some blips and beeps and drums and stuff.

Spring break is going to be so cool. Dale time. I might take a drive somewhere, might spend a hell of a lot of time in my apartment watching movies. I'll try to get caught up on my Netflix subscription. I currently have three movies that I need to watch: Thesis, Night and the City, and Rebecca, all of which are supposed to be awesome.

Last night I went to a special screening of a new NBC show. Apparently, they wanted philosophers and theologians and those types to watch the show and give them feedback. The name of the show is "Revelations", and it's apparently based on the idea that revelations actually starts happening on Earth, and these two characters (a scientist and a nun) have to race to stop the end of the world. I know what you're saying: you can't stop revelations! Well, a decent response would just be: hell, this is a sci-fi story, just like The Omen (which, coincidentally, was written by the guy who is writing this show). Well, wrong. The show itself wasn't so bad, but the question and answer session with the NBC people was really weird. Turns out that the guy in charge actually wants to make some sort of point about the relationship between religion and science. If so, it's really corny, unintelligent. There's something to be said for setting low standards and meeting them, I think. They set high standards, and failed miserably. Had they just said: hey, people, it's just a show! it would have been cool. Not so. Too bad.

Ugh. More grading. Hope I don't die before the end of all this.

I just want your extra time and your $800 a month.

Well, you're looking at (the blog of) someone with an extra 25% TAship next quarter. HELL YEAH. Why, with all this complaining about grading, do I subject myself to more teaching rather than less? It's all about that dough, bruthah. Yasee, during the summer I'm assigned to be an Associate Instructor for Philosophy 13 (Introduction to Ethics). Now, it turns out that this position is not a union gig, because it's not covered by the UAW contract that we signed. So they can bilk me in any way they feel like. And they do. I don't get paid until September first, and then it's really only two months salary, rather than three. So I have to come up with an extra month's worth of green from between now and August 1. And here she is.

This will also help me pay off (some of) my computer, which I have been fretting about. And it will also allow me to live just a little bit larger than normal. Of course, this is what happened last year when I had 1200 pages of student writing to read in a week.

Well, while I'm at it, may as well take a moment to complain about grading. AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH! I've been sitting here for three days and I only have 11 portfolios out of 30 done. The other 19 need to be done by Wednesday or I'm in some seriously hot water. Well, lukewarm water. I could probably fake it when I go to the grading meeting, but I sure don't wanna do that. (Actually, I've heard tell of some Instructors not doing any of their grading until after the grading meeting, but it just seems to me that that's a little dishonest. And plus you might get fired.) All this grading is giving me something of a headache, which makes it even more difficult to get up the will power.

I'm also about 75% done with the track I've been working on in Cubase. As soon as I complete it, I'll post a link (maybe on the Castrato Trax page). It's turning out to be a cross between the Beach Boys and the Cure. But I likes it, I think.

...and get some movement in your pants?

So, it's quite probable that I'm the greatest entertainer ever to set foot in San Diego county. Well, maybe the greatest entertainer ever to go to UCSD. Or, the greatest entertainer ever to enter UCSD's philosophy program. Well, probably the greatest entertainer currently enrolled in UCSD's graduate program. I think that's well established.

It's a regular occurence that certain members of this department will attempt to get a few more beers in me than I'm willing to drink at the pub to get me up on stage, singing, dancing, whatnot. Why, you ask? Take, for example, my San Diego Karaoke Champeenship performed at the Ocean Beach Octoberfest last year. I have to say, my version of Ike and Tina Turner's "Proud Mary" was showstopping. Perhaps even heartstopping? Actually, it wasn't really a championship; I was one of two asked back to perform the next night to establish the actual champion, but I didn't go. I felt that my greatness had been established. And also, the prize was a crappy $25 gift certificate to a karaoke store. Lame.

Anyway, I haven't been karaoke singing since, and I'm missing it slightly. Other people's descriptions of it make me long for those drunken nights at Mulligan's in Des Moines (the only decent bar in town - actually, strike that: the only bar we went to). So far I'm at a loss for places to get down in San Diego. There's the Lamplighter, but it's incredibly crowded, and you have to bribe the freakin' DJ to get your song played. What the hell? He should be bribing me! There are a few places that have nightly karaoke sessions, but mostly they're far from my place and in bars that I'm not particularly fond of. So the search goes on. As does the search for new repetoire. So far, at a moment's notice, I can bring action to a standstill with the following tunes:

Kiss, Sex Machine, Proud Mary, Burnin' Down the House, We Are the Champions, Anything from Purple Rain, Livin' on a Prayer.

I think I could do a fairly good job on:

Sledgehammer, Is She Really Going Out with Him?, Can't Get Enough of Your Love Babe.

There are probably a few others for which I'm qualified, but I can't think of them right now. Why, San Diego, must you rob yourself of me?

Of course, we should just forget about Klaus and I's duet on To All the Girls I've Loved Before.

Alien3, and other Crap

My students are turning in their final portfolios today. I have to have 30 of those bad boys graded by Wednesday. That means, at 21 pages apiece, I'm looking at grading 630 pages of student writing in, oh, five days? Suck. And freshman in college don't exactly know how to construct the most enticing writing in history. I mean, sometimes you get on of those papers that makes you remember that it's all worth it, but those are few and far between. Mostly they're the same B-level portfolio repeated ad naseum. Oh well, at least I get paid. And don't have to go to an office from nine to five. Oh wait...yeah I do. Oh, and the pay is really shitty. Er...why am I doing this again?

I finally remembered to save my work on Cubase last night. I have about a minute of five vocal tracks being layered on top of each other. It doesn't sound too bad, either. I mean, I didn't time out the breathing or anything, but I have to say, in 20 minutes, I have a decent minute or so or vocal recordings. My problem is that I can't figure out how to send an individual track to the left or right, i.e., I can't figure out how to mix down in stereo. I'm sure A. will be able to tell me.

After that I watched, or attempted to watch, Alien3. Why, you ask? Well, a long time ago, when I was but a Netflix novice, I added it to my queue because it was the one Alien installment that I hadn't seen. So I forget that it's on my Queue. And when I send back the second disk of the second season of "Jeeves and Wooster", I forgot that it was second on my list, behind only a movie listed with "Short Wait." Crud. So I try to watch it last night. What a piece of trash. I actually thought the movie was going to be interesting after the first 45 minutes or so, since there's this interesting doctor character that Ripley has a brief affair with. We get emotionally invested in his past, and just as he reveals to Ripley the sordid details, he gets unceremoniously capped by the Alien! That was it for me. I hung up.

I'm looking at some more studio apartments on Saturday and Monday. Maybe I'll find something that's to my liking. Not bloody likely, but we'll see.

Here's lookin' at you, world.

Been feedin' the rhythm.

A. has once again generously opened his music collection to me. This time I'm using him to fill my collection that was decimated by the insidious individual that stole all my great CDs (and my car) two Novembers ago. So far he's given me Kid A, Midnite Vultures, Teenager of the Year, John Henry, and Disintegration (which is a crying shame). Would that he had Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. I guess I'll have to shell out the additional 19 bucks at tower records to get that one. Ugh. 19 bucks! That's highway robbery. In any event, A. is helping me to reestablish that my record collection is indeed respectable. Despite the continued presence of "Jealous Lover's Theme Song v. III".

Got an odd phone call today. Some 1-800 number. When I answer it, an electronic voice says that I've been selected to receive a free cruise on Carnival Cruise Lines, if I call this number and complete a series of "eligability questions". Scam meter rising. But since I've never been on a summer cruise, and a free one would have been, well, free, I figured, "what the hell". If one of the eligability questions include: "Hello. What is your credit card number?", I'm hanging up. So I call. This guy asks me if I'm single or married. To be quite honest, if marriage is a vague category, I'm in the vague domain - Kyra and I divorced last November, but I'm not sure whether all the paperwork has been processed or what. In any event, I answer "no." Then he asks me if I'm over 35. I say "no". 'Cuz I ain't. He tells me that this offer is only open to people over 35. D'oh. So all that for nothing. All that fretting over previous relationships and dissolved marriages, only to tell me that I'm too young to be allowed on a Carnival Cruise to the Mexican riviera for free. Jerks.

Speaking of Castrato stuff, The Rev. called me the other day, saying he's mailing all of the Doctor Castrato archive. Apparently there's stuff he has that he didn't include on the previous disk. As soon as I get it, I'll post them to the Castrato Trax page. He also said something about pictures/photos (including the pictures of Tony Simon and Erik Fisk in all sorts of makeup for the Princeton show that first summer; turns out make-up is an impetus to quitting the band). Any and all will be available if I get it.

Appy Polly Lodges

Been away for awhile. I know everyone was on the edge of their seats, waiting for the next transmission. Or something like that. Anyway, so Friday I go to check out this studio apartment in Ocean Beach that is actually in my price range (praise be!). I go in the morning, and the people in the realty office that are in charge seem to all be part of the same family, or something, because the girl running the front desk was constantly calling to the back room: "MOM! CAN THIS GUY HAVE THE KEY TO THE RIALTO APARTMENT?" Fortunately, Mom gave me permission to check the apartment out. Unfortunately, I actually ended up checking the apartment out.

I didn't find any dead bodies or anything. No BTK. But what I did find was quite possibly the worst apartment I've ever seen in my life. It seems to me that if I were Buzz Aldrin, returning from the first moon mission, I would have found this place incredibly cramped. The apartment listing says "no pets", and I realize this is not, somehow, for the benefit of the apartment, but rather for the benefit of the tenant. Any pet confined to this would, sooner or later, begin to mistake the tenant for food. To add insult to injury, it wasn't even in Ocean Beach, but rather in middletown, or whatever the hell the name of that part of town is between Ocean Beach and Point Loma. Crappy, crappy, crappy. I guess the dream of finding my own place is over. But oh, was it a beautiful dream.

On Sunday night, I went to a "Social Justice Dinner" at some Lutheran Church downtown. Some of the work they did there was interesting, although the night was a little touchy-feely (the leader of a support group for women whose husbands are in jail suggested that it was wrong for people to tell these women to find other men, claiming that doing so was "dishonering their love"; barf). The most interesting part of the night was when some old dude who apparently liked to wax philosophical sat down next to the four of us, all from UCSD's Philosophy program. But it got a little weird - he started asking us all where we were from, what our interests were, what our parents did, what jokes we told about each other, progressively more personal information each time. EC was tempted, apparently, to announce that his mother was a crack-whore, but felt it was inappropriate given the setting. Next time, I say: crack-whore it up, EC! Unless, of course, your mother really is a crack-whore, in which case I apologize for making light of it.

In conclusion, Chris Grenz:

I think I'd be more comfortable working in a chicken coop.

In leiu of posting something about my incredibly exciting Saturday night, I thought I'd share with ya'll an interesting article from the New York Times on Axl Rose and Chinese Democracy. Super interesting. I wonder if he'll ever complete it or if someone will do it for him after he gives up.

Last of the McKettrick Supplicants

Hey all. It's been rainy here. Rainy, rainy, rainy. I read somewhere that San Diego (San Fucking Diego) has had more rain this year than Seattle. That's right. Seattle. By a good three-or-so inches. If we get one more inch of rain, this will be the rainiest year on record, and it's only halfway through the year (apparently they start measuring rainfall in July, or something like that; sounds dumb if you ask me, but what the hell do I know?)! So, in that spirit, I've decided to offer my top five songs with "Rain" in the title. There are some good ones, believe you me:

5. "Shadows in the Rain" by The Police

Cool. Mysterious. Nice piano part.

4. "Singin' in the Rain" by Gene Kelly / Malcolm McDowell

Gene Kelly gets all the play, but I have a certian fondness for MM's version.

3. "Prayers for Rain" by The Cure

Pure gloom. Possibly the gloomiest song ever.

2. "Red Rain" by Peter Gabriel

Incoherent lyrics, but a nice hi-hat intro by Stewart Copeland.

1. "Purple Rain" by His Royal Badness

Was there ever any doubt?

Sometimes I love my job.

Here's an intuitive principle, one that liberals (in the classical sense) generally subscribe to. Don't restrict behavior unless it harms others. If it's purely self-regarding (i.e., if it affects only the person doing it) don't restrict. That behavior is offensive is not reason for restricting it - laws are only justified when performing something (or refraining from performing something) might harm some other person.

But consider the following series of examples by Joel Feinberg. They rock. I'll give you a sampling. You are supposed to imagine that you're ona bus, a public, city bus, that you must take in order to make an important appointment (say, a job interview). It's crowded, and all the seats are taken. The question is: should the behavior in question be restricted (i.e., should the law say, legitimately, that such behavior can't happen in a public arena with a captive audience, like a city bus). There are thirty-one examples, I'll give you the highlights:

1. A passenger who obviously hasn't bathed in more than a month sits down next to you. He reeks of a barely tolerable stench.
2. A passenger wearing a sirt of violently clashing orange and crimson sits down directly in your forward line of vision. You must keep your eyes down to avoid looking at him.
3. A passenger sits down next to you, pulls out a slate tablet from his brief case, and proceeds to scratch his fingernails loudly across the slate.

Fairly benign so far. Here we go.

6. A group of passengers enters the bus and shares a seating compartment with you. They spread a table cloth over their laps and proceed to eat a picnic lunch that consists of live insects, fish heads, and pickled sex organs of lamb, veal and pork, smothered in garlic and onions. Their table manners leave almost everything to be desired.
7. Things get worse and worse. The itinerant picknickers practice gluttony in the ancient Roman manner, gorging until satiation and then vomiting on their table cloth. Their practice, however, is a novel departure from the ancient custom in that they eat their own and one another's vomit along with the remaining food.
8. A coprophagic sequel to story 7.

Yow! It goes on:

10. A group of mourners carrying a coffin enter the bus and share a seating compartment with you. Although they are all dressed in black their demeanor is by no means funereal. In fact they seem more angry than sorrowful, and refer to the deceased as "the old bastard," and "the bloody corpse." At one point they rip open the coffin with hammers and proceed to smash the corpse's face with a series of hard hammer blows.

I'll start to abbreviate some of the stories. You get the idea.

13. Naked passenger.
14. Naked passenger masturbating.
17. A man and woman engage in acts of mutual masturbation. which climaxes in the act of coitus, somewhat acrobatically performed as required by the crowded circumstances.
23. A passenger with a dog takes an aisle seat at your side. He or she keeps the dog calm at first by petting it in a familiar and normal way, but then petting gives way to hugging, and gradually goes beyond the merely affectionate to the unmistakably erotic, culminating finally with oral contact with the canine genitals.

Whoa! Now, I always thought of my self as a liberal, but it seems to me that if someone starts to have sex with a dog on a bus, they should be required to leave the bus. Call me crazy. Apparently not everyone agreed with me today. There's more stuff, but some of it is tinged with offense to religious symbolism which not everyone is offended by.

Also, my paper "Global Justice and the Limits of Human Rights" just got accepted by The Philosophical Quarterly today. YEAH! The graduate advisor told me that if I get one more publication, I get a job. Boo-yeah! Of course, that's bullshit, but it makes me feel good anyway.

Papers, Rent, Roommates

Last night was fun; I drove a bunch of souls down to see jazz night at the Onyx Room. Great quintet was playing. All straight-ahead, hard-bop type stuff. The ensemble didn't gel quite as well as I'm used to at the Onyx Room, but all the individual playing was really top-notch.

Then, when I got home at about 12:30, my roommate is up and proceeds to give me shit about paying half of the rent on the apartment when he has the smaller room. (In actuality, he doesn't pay half, I pay about ten dollars per month more than he does, but whatever.) Even though he said that he was fine about paying half when he moved in and he said nothing about this in the year since he's been living there. Turns out he was just trying to manipulate me into actively searching for a new apartment, because our landlord just raised the rent by thirty bucks, fifteen of which is, apparently, more than he is willing to pay to not have to move. I'm fine with moving, but I wish he just would have said so in the first place. So I'm looking for a new place, I guess, but I'm also going to be looking for places that are Dale-only, if I can find one suitably in my price range (not bloody likely). But if we do move, it looks as though we might be able to make money on the deal, there are some nice two-bedrooms available for less than we're paying now.

Then today I got slammed with 30 11-page papers that I have to grade by Monday. I can't even bear the thought of starting them.

If anybody knows of any cheap apartments in San Diego, lemme know. I'm on the market.

Or maybe the interior of somewhere like Siberia.

The great thing about having a new computer with a wireless connection is your ability to connect to other computers like yours who also have wireless connections and do some horse tradin'. Recently, for me, it's mostly been music related. A., yesterday, shot me, among other things, Frank Black's magnum opus Teenager of the Year. What a great freakin' record. The lyrics to the songs on this record are so interesting. It's like the best work of the Talking Heads in that way. Here's a little sampling:

I took three days to drive down one street / The radio on, tuned to the big fleet / Invisible planes are cracking the concrete / That's just what some people say / hey hey
I put down my blanket on Cigarette Butt Beach / I saw the old man, he was doing OK / He's making his last stand / On old bottles and cans / 'Round there, Calistan way / hey hey
Used to be sixteen lanes / Used to be Nuevo Spain / Used to be Juan Wayne / Used to be Mexico / Used to be Navajo / Used to be yippy-yay-I don't know
Went in from the weather when I got wheezy / I play some pachinko I play parchisi / And St. Anne is still making it breezy / In the valley of tar that once was L.A.
And my best friend he's the king of karaoke / He struck up a chord and he took it away / Out of the pan / And into Japan / 'Round there, Calistan way / hey hey
Used to be sixteen lanes / Used to be Juan Wayne / Used to be Mexican / Used to be Espano Nuevo / Used to be Navajo / Used to be yippy-yay-I don't know

That song also has this great rock-and-roll piano part. Very nice.

Guess I really don't have that much to say today. Last night was pretty low-key. I tried messing around on Cubase, but it unexpectedly quit as I was editing the tracks that I had recorded. Hey, anybody out there who's familiar with Cubase know how to change time signatures during a song? That one eluded me. One of the cool things about Cubase is its deepness regarding your ability to edit the sound of the tracks you've recorded. Bascially, I had about 1.5 minutes worth of sound on three separate guitar tracks, though because I don't have a real microphone, and because my roommate was home and hates it when I play the guitar amplified, I was basically playing an electric guitar, unamplified into the built-in microphone on my laptop. And dammit, it still sounded pretty good. Until it unexpectedly quit and I lost everything. That really sucked. After that I watched Zelig. That was also sub-par. It got me so down, I got me a headache.