briantology

I haven't posted in a while because I've been haunted. By a number of things. Thing the first: One of my oldest and most trusted friends, whenever the topic of blogging comes up, always makes the following observation: "I just can't understand why anybody would want to post their innermost thoughts for the entire world to read." This, for me, is an absolutely airtight argument against keeping a blog.

Thing the second: Due mainly to thing the first, I've had a hard time caring about blog lately.

Thing the third: That ole black magic, not the good kind, looming again. My sweetie's been feeling bad, real bad, and as the same black fungus monster haunts us both, it's hard not to end up feeling real bad too when all I set out to do was empathize. (That's where empathy gets you, people. Take note: When trying to help people with their problems, draw the line at sympathy.)

It is of course no fault whatsoever of my betrothed that I am feeling bad; sorry to even vaguely insinuate said. Truth is, I don't know what twist of questionable genetics and shit luck leads some of us to wake up some mornings, imagine a thermonuclear explosion in downtown Tulsa, and close our eyes and smile, imagining the sweetness of being instantaneously incinerated while lying in bed spooning the one you love, listening to Bob Edwards talk about stuff.

At any rate, though, there it is again, and I ran out of magic prescription happy pills two weeks ago, and all I've got to say is thank god for the over-the-counter self-medication available from the good people at Johnnie Walker. And the good folks of Central America, who probably get paid significantly less than 12 bucks a pound for the coffee beans they bust their asses to grow every day. Ladies, gentlemen, senors y senoras, gracias para keeping my ass walking and talking.

Thing the fourth: I've been busy at work. I find my desire to spend fewer working hours checking my blog every ten seconds to see if anybody's commented questionable, yet true. I don't know what to make of it.

Thing the fifth: Dude, Temptation Island 3 wraps up tonight. Seriously, I'm busy.

This is officially the greatest series of photographs I've ever seen.

Mr. Barrett Chase managed to spur my self-interest enough to follow through with this process, which I'm going to say he invented, whether it's true or not.

How it Works

1. Send me an e-mail, saying you want to be interviewed.

2. I will respond by asking you five questions.

3. You'll update your website with my five questions and your five answers.

4. You'll include this explanation.

5. You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

The interview.

1. If you could have one superpower from one superhero, which one would you choose and why?

I think it speaks to my level of dorkitude that this is perhaps the most difficult question I've ever been confronted with. Marriage? Not so hard; somebody hands you a gold nugget, you say thank you and move on. College? Six or seven major changes later, English lit was clearly the right decision. Superpowers? Damn.

After much consideration, I think I'd just like to be able to fly. I heard a piece on "This American Life" about how if you ask people if they'd rather be able to fly or become invisible, the honest people will all tell you they want to be invisible, and that by doing so they're indulging their ids, or some such. I certainly see their point, and I can't deny the amazing utility of invisibility, but at the end of the day, I'd just really like to be able to fly.

Getting to and from work would be a breeze. Ditto trips to the mall, or the coffee shop, or other solo journeys. Perhaps best of all would be the removal of the looming spectre of DUI arrests -- I'm pretty sure they haven't come up with a ticket for flying intoxicated under your own power. (It'd be tantamount to ticketing somebody for walking while drunk. Think about it.)

Plus, if worst came to worst, you could fly backwards around the world until you turned back time.

2. Have you ever had food poisoning? If so, describe your experience. If not, describe your sparkling clean kitchen.

1993. My freshman year at Phillips University, in scenic Enid, Oklahoma. Meat loaf night at Earl Butts Dormitory cafeteria straight up done me in. It's mostly a blur now, but I vaguely remember a few concerned callers, a distinct lack of help from my semiretarded roommate, and wondering if the skinny guy who shared our bathroom minded that the sound of me blasting my dinner through my nose drowned out "Use Your Illusion II."

3. In your opinion, what is the best role Burt Reynolds ever played?

Though part of me wants to endorse old-school Burt, the Burt that all us ironic kids "loved" in "Cannonball Run" and "Smokey & the Bandit" when we were "overusing quotation marks" to "seem sly and dryly funny," I can't quite. I think I liked Burt best in "Boogie Nights," 'cause he was way past his prime and he had something to prove. He was weathered, he was hungry, and he was gold. His distinct creepiness, present throughout his career, found a perfect home in Jack Horner.

4. It is my opinion that everyone is addicted to at least three things. What three things are you addicted to?

Coffee, booze, and fatty foods. With occasional nicotine relapses.

5. Tell me about a time when your attitude toward life fundamentally changed.

This is the kind of question that can make you feel real damn shallow if you let it.

I don't know what inspired it, or quite the moment it took place, but at some point I realized that if you want to go around having high standards for the world to live up to, that's fine, but first you'd better be willing to live up to them yourself. That was when I decided to start recycling. Retarded though it may sound, it's totally true. I don't always smile and act generally friendly to people I don't know. I don't always refrain from giving the finger in traffic. I don't always control my urge to scream and kick things when utterly inconsequential happenings don't happen to my liking. I don't always keep my house in order.

But sometimes I do. And when I do, I feel okay about it. And even when I don't do all those things, I still take my recyclables out to the bins. Because -- and again, I'm being totally serious here -- it makes a tremendous difference in how much trash you produce overall.

Especially if you drink between 24 and 77 Rolling Rocks per week.

Johnny Cash, who I say with very little hyperbole was The Greatest American Recording Artist Ever, has departed this smelly world. He was 71.

Johnny Cash came to mean far more to me than most musicians I listen to. Every wire service obituary you'll read today will tell you how much he cared about prisoners, about the soldiers in Vietnam, and about other people generally forgotten and fucked by The Man. And they're right.

But he backed up his talk. He went and sang at prisons, and cut some kick-ass live albums at two of them (Folsom and San Quentin). On "Live at San Quentin," after he plays the song "San Quentin," which he wrote for the occasion, and which contains the line "San Quentin, you been livin' hell to me," the prisoners get so stoked about it that they ask him to play it again, immediately. So he does, and it's there, on the uncut version of the live album. He was willing to go the distance for these guys, is what I mean here.

I think it's partly his music, and partly my admiration for craggy old men, that make me love that guy like I do. But at the core, it's that, as said before, the guy spoke and lived what he believed and vice versa. In a public way, that puts these useless "singers" we're pelted with today to something far beyond shame.

I'm sure in the days to come we'll hear a lot of really sincere sentiments from the pop star community, like Justin Timberlake saying Johnny was fa real, and shit like that. I like to think their inherent lack of worth will serve to underscore the power of the fucking rock-solid music that Johnny left behind.

As for me, I'm off to buy a black shirt. It's up to the rest of us now to carry off a little of that darkness on our backs. Rest in peace, Johnny. Say hi to June for us.

Okay people, enough is enough. I'm sick of this Jerry Springer horse shit in my comments box, or any fucking comments box. I'm sick of fucking comments boxes, period.

From now on, I'm deleting any shitty little message of any sort directed at anyone, friend or foe. I'm not writing this fucking thing so everybody and his fucking dog can act like two-year-olds.

This, of course, goes back to the tendency of every two hundredth person or so to act like they're invincible because they're on the Internet, and therefore feel they're not accountable for what they do or say. Andy, I'm lucky enough to have your sorry ass to use as an example, but sadly you're not the only one like you. People who act like you bring out the worst in everybody around them, and I've got no goddamn time and even less energy to deal with this shit.

My sincere apologies to anybody who got dragged into this overblown playground bitch-fest against their will. I suppose that's specifically meant for you, Ms. Chancellor; no harm intended to you. My sincere thanks to my friends for jumping to my defense. I hope to return the favor, only with a busted-off beer bottle or a tire iron, on your behalf at some point in the future.

In conclusion, please read a book or a newspaper or do a crossword puzzle. Or take sterno hits. Or talk to people at the bus station. Something that's not Internet-related.

Though if you absolutely won't log off, this is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my entire life.

In an unforseen development, I've been asked to be a presenter at the Spot Music Awards, a shindig put on by the our local paper's weekly entertainment mag to honor local bands, or at least to make them feel important. Which I believe is roughly the same as honoring them.

This presentership is due partly because of the fact that I work for our NPR station here in lovely Tulsa, and am thus marginally known enough to be thrust up there onstage, and partly because I know the guy who's putting the whole thing together, and let's face it, these awards aren't gonna give themselves away.

But there's a third factor coming into play here: At last year's awards, which my ID card from aforementioned local paper got Darleece and me into free of charge (I worked at said paper for a couple of years, and they weren't particularly concerned about me handing over my credentials), we were thrilled to learn that the Four-Day Furniture Guy was on hand to present an award. He's known for being bug-eyed and fat, and for doing this weird arm movement during commercials for Four-Day Furniture, this discount furniture place on the north side of town.

So 4DFG took the stage, the crowd went wild, they read the nominees, they announced the winner ... and that was it. No weird arm movement. No money shot. In essence, we were served a 4DFG sandwich with no meat in it. Just cheese and mayonnaise.

I have since learned that apparently, when you get the 4DFG drunk, you need to keep him away from hot girls (though sadly I heard no further details on this assertion). I learned that night that apparently when you get him drunk, his willingness to do the weird arm thing decreases as his libido increases.

Therefore, I can only conclude the following:

A): If you want 4DFG to do his weird arm thing, don't get him drunk or aroused (yeesh).
B): As the Spot Awards are down one presenter, and my draft card got picked, I am essentially a replacement for 4DFG.
C): I must now outdo 4DFG by getting drunk and aroused AND doing the weird arm thing.

My mission is clear. I am poised to carry it out, or die trying.

Channel 290, Lifetime Movie Network:
"The Abduction of Kari Swenson." 1987, 100 min. Rated PG. Biathalon champ Kari Swenson is kidnapped by mountain men. With Tracy Pollan, Joe Don Baker, M. Emmett Walsh, Michael Bowen, Ronny Cox, Dorothy Fielding. Directed by Stephen Gyllenhall.