too little too late

lately, the meatheaded ex-roommate has been making some kind of sideways-coup attempt, by telling mutual friends to let the wife and me know he's "really sorry" and that he would like to "make amends" and that the whole thing was a "big misunderstanding."

he's never bothered to tell either the wife or myself this, through email or text or whatever. i, personally, have been in the same room with him twice (yes, i behaved. rather than kicking him in the nads and sucker-punching him on his way down, i just ignored him), and he never tried to see if he could talk to me or even said "hi" for that matter.

and frankly, i am getting sick of this shite. so when my buddy caz (caz hates meathead's everloving guts, o beloved non-existant reader) told us at my wife's going-away party that meathead had asked him to tell us that meathead was sorry, when my wife got done asking, "are you serious? did he really say that?" i said, "you can tell meathead that darth said he's a cunt!" to which caz laughed uproariously, and said, "i'll do just that."

and he probably will.

and i hope to christ it ends meathead's underhanded attempts at making us feel sorry for him so that i can get on with my life.

darth sardonic

overheard

this is a real, no-shit conversation that i heard (or more like "was forced to undergo." like a colonoscopy.) while waiting in a line that i was unable to escape yesterday:

but first, let me set the stage. as i said before, i am in a line that i cannot leave, when several persons join the line right behind me. these people are what i, a lifelong card-carrying member of the Dorkboys of the World, Unite and Take Over Movement (or DWUTOM--you know it?), like to refer to as uberdorks. that is to say, these fellas speak klingon more than english, and make the 40-year-old virgin look like don juan played by ron "the hedgehog" jeremy with brad pitt's looks.

the one nearest me begins humming something loudly while we all wait.

"hmmmm hmm hmmm hmm hmmmmmmmmmmmm hm bmm hum bmml hm hmmmm hmmmmp hmmmmmmmmmmmm." (and if you think it is annoying reading it typed out right here, you should've been there when he was actually humming it!)

this lasts a minute or two, in which time i wish i had the ability to run screaming away, or at the very least, rip my ears right off my skull.

apparently, his annoying humming doesn't elicit the response he hoped for, so he says to one of his buddies, "that has got to be the best rendition of that song, ever."

"what's that?" asks his buddy. (i imagine someone doing motions as if they are reeling a fish in.)

"oh, something i have been listening to on my ipod."

"oh?"

"yeah, the best version of kumbaya."

i swallow my gum.

"it's a trombone sextet, and they jazz it up. it is awesome!"

i feel faint.

"if i could put it on my myspace, i would."

i think i am going to projectile vomit, and try to sneak off to my happy place, but the speaker has apparently skipped right over the lowering of the voice segment of puberty, and his high-pitched sandpapery words fight their way right past my mental roadblocks.

when i am finally out of the line, i realize i am crying and sucking my thumb with my other arm over my head like a shield.

kumbaya?!!!!? seriously? and where would one go to locate a trombone sextet of any song, let alone that particular song? i believe were i to walk into my local purveyor of dusty musical discs, and spout, in my best john cleese posh git, "i say, my good man, fetch me everything you have in print of jazzy trombone sextets, and be hastey about it." i might very well find myself staring down the barrels of a loaded shotgun that all small music stores keep behind the counter specifically for assholes seeking jazzy trombone sextets. or at the very least, john cusack would tell me, "trombone sextets? seriously? get the fuck out of my store. no, i'm serious, leave my fucking store right now."

of course, i think it behooves me to admit that i, until recently, had all the string quartet tributes i could find to system of a down, joy division, new order, tool, and nirvana. heh heh.

for now,

darth sardonic

periwinkle, tidy bowl, cookie monster

my hair looks pretty cool blue.

it might last another week, maybe, if i am lucky.

my wife accidentally (or, much more likely, completely on purpose and with malice aforethought, heh heh) picked up semi-permanent, so it goes washing out and tinting the tub a really soft almost not noticable turquoise that i will have to bleach out when my hair is back to a closer facsimile of normal.

less than two weeks until the wife leaves, and i think that i have more or less embraced it and feel like my support group is sufficient to keep me from going completely batty.

mostly, i keep reminding myself that people are doing this thing all the fucking time, and for longer stretches, and i should stop feeling sorry for myself and take it in stride like i do most things, and i have decided to actually listen at this point.

back to recording music on the computer, and soon i hope to have a music myspace and hopefully a (albeit burned) cd to distribute amongst my friends and people crazy enough to want one.

when i finally get that myspace, the link will be available here in my pals list, though i am not really my pal. (i kid, i kid, i am my pal, we are best mates--and as i like to say, "i am a gemini, and they say that geminis have dual personalities, but i don't.

and neither do i.")

heh heh.

more soon, o my beloved non-existant readers.

darth sardonic

'coz after rainy days the sun will shine

i, like many of you no doubt, was watching in dumbfounded horror as the events of the virginia tech massacre unfolded on the news.

every time something like this happens, i worry alot about the world that i have brought my kids into.

i know for a fact that i will not always be able to protect them from every thing that besets them. and i have to say, i fucking hate not being able to better control that. but i also know it is part of life.

i also know that my folks worried about the world they had brought me into. and that their parents worried about the state of the world that they had brought them into.

this isn't easy.

and i believe in hell. oh yes, my beloved non-existant readers and droogs, this fucking shithole of an existant is it. i'd like to know what they could throw our way that is worse than this place. that is not to say that there aren't beautiful and wonderful things here, too. just hard to see in moments like this.

my condolences and whatever else to the loved ones of the victims.

darth sardonic

pot calling the kettle black fishnet

i was with a group of acquaintances, when i overhear this conversation between two goth ladies:

"you know where i can find a good black fishnet shirt? not the small weave, like hot topic carries, but a bigger, more open weave."

"i don't know, i used to do nearly all my clothes shopping at hot topic, but the stuff they carry now is such shit."

"i know, it's gone all emo."

"'oh, let me smear my makeup and cover it up with my bangs!'"

(i choke at this point because goth number one is caked in fucking make-up that appears to have been applied several days ago and slept on since.)

they laugh uproariously, and the other says, "my sister sent me an email: 'emo, the reason we hide the razor blades.' i nearly peed my pants!"

(i choke again. when i dabbled in goth, they used to say the same fucking thing about us.)

so here's the rub, o my beloved non-existant droogs and readers: here sat two heavily made-up, dressed from head to toe in black, pretentious goth chicks making fun of heavily made-up, dressed from head to toe in black, pretentious emo people.

i was on the front lines of the goth movement, i guess you could say. i did it. the make-up, the robert smith hair, the black from head to toe. it was a pain in the ass. it lasted about six fucking months.

and i got sick of the goddamn pretentiousness and fucking posturing all the time. "o, i am so tortured. o, so pained. o, how i long for the release of eternal sleep." fuck off. jesus christ.

i mean i still dig the styles and bands and whatever, though i simply don't have the time or energy or ganas to dress like that anymore, but come on, are you fucking kidding me?!? when i was a goth and met other goths, we said, "hey, i'm darth." "cool. i'm nick." "you like bauhaus?" "yeah. do you like the cure?" "of course."

now, it's all, (in voice of the sepulchre) "i'm vlad." "i'm azreal abyss." (damn, cracked myself up there, using chris kattan's ongoing goth character's name. now those skits captured the pure ridiculousness of what is the whole goth thing now. sorry, i digress. now back to our regularly-scheduled program:) "where did you buy that lacey cravat?" "from 'treasures of the crypt' on 8th." "o, am so tortured and pretentious, and i long for the release of death." "o my, look at those two emo kids over there." "{snicker} i bet they bought their lacey cravats at hot topic." scene fades as vlad and azreal abyss huddle close and laugh uproariously, saying the very same things about the emo kids that i am saying about them.

when i see a young punk, i am just fucking glad that a few kids get it and are still carrying the torch or whatever other fucking highly cliched thing it is i'm sposed to say. it is a natural progression. emo kids look exactly like goths to my untrained eye. it's like one southern baptist telling another southern baptist he is going to hell cause he isn't of the apostolic line or whatever fucking thing.

and goths had their roots in punk, and we all came from the same fucking place. so what is the fucking issue?

and quite suddenly it becomes a bigger thing. this is what humans do. we get all cliquey and hang out with a select few people that we think are exactly like us and make fun of others who ultimately are exactly like us cause ultimately we are all fucking human. and this is what humans do. we get all cliquey and hang out with a select few...etc etc ad nauseum.

forgive me if i just can't figure out why we can't all fucking get along.

darth sardonic

sometimes nothing is a cool hand

wellp, my beloved non-existant readers (and i can never quite decide if that should be a hyphenate or a single word, hence the constant changing from one spelling to another), i am planted with my computer in front of me again. it has been nearly a week since it was taken to our computer tech's to be "cleaned", and boy o boy is it clean.

like we need to download nearly everything back in. and all the tracks i had recorded; gone. yep, gone. i was peeved yesterday, but the more i think about it the more i think that nearly every track i had laid down needed some fine-tuning, and what better opportunity to accomplish that? mostly, in my inimitable candide-ish manner, i piss and moan, shrug, and get set about redoing it all.

as a fun and added twist, for some sort of security thingie that is completely beyond my scope of understanding, we can only download in one setting and then have to make ourselves "users" to the downloaded stuff to be able to use it in our personal settings (or i would've rerecorded at least one song already!) now, i am sure each and every one of you much more enlightened techie types are nodding your head and saying "of course" and "makes sense" in your sage manners, but i am at a loss.

i am not a technophobe, in any stretch of the imagination: i love technology when it can help me enjoy myself more (i.e. porn, the ease of recording and mixing songs at home, producing dvds to view and what-have-you), but i am technically stupid. yes, stupid. there is simply no other word for it. it has to be explained and showed to me at least twice, and then i need to do it at least once with guidance over my shoulder, and then if for some reason, the process should change, i am skullfucked.

i also feel that, while technology is cool as fuck and makes our lives so much easier, somehow we end up missing out on simple pleasures. i still, despite the ease of typing on the computer, love taking a pen in hand and writing something across a virgin sheet of paper. it is calming. it is cathartic. it eases whatever pain i might be feeling, simultaneously bringing it to the surface so that i might examine it and discard it. i am a fan of vintage things, things from a "simpler" time and age.

but then again, i certainly am a bucket of contradictions.

darth sardonic

18 months feels like fucking eternity...

damn, i am hit-or-miss at best when it comes to posting lately.

i have to say, as the date of my wife's impending deployment looms nearer and nearer, my emotions become a bigger and bigger jumble.

it's not to say that i am not going to tackle this running, and do well, and survive and all of that. and i know my friends will "rally 'round the forces" so to speak, and make sure i am getting regular breaks, and adult human contact, and my mom has a number of summer odd-jobs to keep me busy and in flash money, but it is going to feel like someone is taking a chunk of me and flying it to points east for four (possibly six) months.

and i know that that is all sappy and silly, but i really can't help it, that is how i feel.

so, even though the chronological number of the song is wrong, the sentiment is the same: i won't breathe for 18 months.

as a funny aside, and to boost my mood a bit, i think i am going to begin adding labels for my posts, in the way that only darth sardonic can.

darth sardonic