My friend Mike who used to be in Smile but is now in Satisfaction wrote this which I think is pretty fucking ingenious so I’ve reprinted it here:

It’s alright.. cocaine.

It’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright..

Cocaine.

And here’s my contribution:

When you’ve been waiting to use the bathroom for like 25 minutes and the door is locked and you can hear a whole bunch of giggling bitches in there, one of whom asked to borrow a “key” or “pen cap,” cocaine.

the phrase “owning” your “sexuality.” Not the concept, or the notion, or the idea, or the H&M-clad strut it implies, but simply the phrase. I rent mine.

Similarly, while I can’t stand “walk the walk and talk the talk,” I really can’t stand when people say “walk the talk” or sometimes “talk the walk,” which actually just goes to show that these phrases are meaningless ultimately because how do you walk the talk? Uh-oh, now I’m beginning to wonder if walk the talk is right and I’ve actually had it mangled this whole time? walk is a weird word. everything’s losing meaning. help.

So I’m not really the karaoke-ing kind. I just don’t love it, perhaps owing to the stick up my ass. (note: not owing to the stick up my ass). Anyway though, late Saturday night I was bamboozled into accompanying old college friends to Sing Sing where, if you can push your way through the crush of frat guys clogging up the front artery without getting date raped, you’re allowed entrance into a small room with a large TV and some vinyl couches upon which you’d be remiss not to either spill something or film yourself engaging in all manner of kink, which we didn’t do, because all we did was sing and drink beer. Stupid us!

But anyway, while turning in a surprisingly heartfelt rendition of Dolly Parton’s stirring “Jolene” I was forced to recognize what a truly amazing set of pipes I have and when a friend said to me “good work” and “nice!” I truly believed her and felt that it was almost unfair to the others the level to which I was just killing at Karaoke and my god, is everyone sitting there taking in how much talent I have and thinking that they never knew I possessed such a pitch-perfect angels-singing type tone coupled with obvious hard-won technique? I mean, it was impossible to miss.

And it was only when I heard the same friend say “good work” and “nice!” to another friend after a really painful piss-poor slaughtering of some popular song that I began to wonder just what the hell was going on and also it occurred to me that I bet everyone who holds that mic and sings along to incorrect lyrics on a screen thinks all the people around them are secretly in awe of their alarming talent, and my god and who knew and how come you never told us and look at you, all bashful. You should go on American Idol!

Is that the appeal of karaoke?

Useless and yet very me-festooned.

Last night I told Chris Ziegler, who’s in town because Dios were playing and he’s on tour with them hawking their merch*, that I’d created the much debated blog. He seemed upset. Chagrined. Disappointed. “But if you have musings you need to share why not just call me up and tell them to me?” he asked. I explained that thus far, the musings were simply about musing on a blog, and were there no blog there’d be no musings. He requested a shoutout. He also mentioned ouroboros. I laughed an insufferable laugh. I can’t spell ouroboros.

* When asked “what is this CD?” by a potential customer on the last tour Chris actually responded, “What isn’t this CD really?”

Did you ever have that excited feeling when you were a kid and you got a new pet and you went to sleep the first night the pet was there knowing when you woke up the new pet would still be there and maybe you woke up in the middle of the night and forgot for a second and then remembered and it made you smile?

I wondered last night if this blog at all would be like that, even in the slightest way. Not so much.

I can’t believe I’ve now joined the ranks of the bloggers, but here I am. I expect I’ll be changing this template soon as there’s only so long I can hang with the sanitary napkin box look. Is everyone’s first post about their first post? Also, whilst staring in the mirror, I worry somehow that naming this blog after myself is gauche, declase, not done, lame, egomaniacal and yet naming it something wry, coy and clever would just be dishonest, like trying to mask narcissism with a saucy band-aid. And it is narcissism, all this writing and whatnot. Because it wouldn’t really be about a tempest in a teapot. Or critical mass. Or something lifted from a TS Eliot poem. Or something lifted from pop culture. Or something ironic and postmodern, which were the other options. You know?