Words are your friends. Especially when you take the time to spell the fucking things correctly.
I’d imagine that Hell, for many people anyway, is just a never-ending Scrabble tournament. Or in many cases, a round of “Wheel of Fortune” featuring only palindromes with silent consonants, or phrases with an apostrophe.
“You haven’t done enough Math-type stuff lately,” you say?
How about this:
Being Tuesday, let’s look at dividing by zero, and what it does to a Facit ESA-01 mechanical calculator. Neat (and a fine impression of a car I had in College that ate lifters as a steady diet), but what does this have to do with Tuesday? I mean aside from the fact that the resale value of that car I mentioned was precisely zero dollars.
Consider that Tuesday in many languages has connection to Mars, which, having exactly zero oceans, it has zero elevation with regard to sea level.
More? Consider that it was Merton Davies who selected a line along the crater Airy-0 a the Prime Meridian 0.0° longitude as the reference point for determining geospatial coordinates on the red planet. Davies was born on September 13, 1917, which was the 286th day of the year. Two minus eight gives us negative six, and adding six to that gives us… Zero.
All things are delicately interconnected, kids.
Transcendental Tuesday: Sleep Deprivation-Inspired Spiritual Hallucination Edition:
Anyone else find it statistically improbable that not one vegan who goes on some psychoactive-fueled journey EVER returns with news of their spirit animal being a Tiger Shark? I mean, as a carnivore, I once had a vision (following a pretty violent blow to the melon by an open cabinet door) that my spirit animal was broccoli, and it awakened a feeling of solidarity with the majestic green beast, and I began to wonder if tiny little birds built tiny little (well, slightly-bigger-but-tiny-in-proportion) nests within the broccoli branches, and that kinda freaked me the fuck out because accidentally chewing an itty-bitty beak would be like when you eat a clam and get some sand, and the grit is all like “CRUNCHACHRUNCHA-GRIND-GRIND-GRIND” and you have to spit it out. Only beaks would be worse, so I decided to never again eat broccoli. Also, I started a foundation (read as “tax exempt venture” or “Al Gore”) to keep zoos from displaying broccoli. To this day, not ONE municipal zoo has captive broccoli in their collection, thanks to the billions of supporters who read our propaganda, and failed biology in grammar school. But I digress.
I mean, consider that over the millennia, there had to be at least ONE vegan who craved a burger, or perhaps one Tiger Shark who, while munching on a hapless swimmer thought “you know, I need to stop this, because humans have feelings and lawn chairs that somehow wind up in the reef have a lot of fiber.” And, according to new age mumbo-jumbo, their souls must have crossed in the ether…
Food for thought the next time a bunch of you pile into Braiden’s Prius to head out to the festival: Your underarm scent may trigger an awakening in them, and then they’ll eat you. And probably your shoulder bag. And the floor mats. I mean those fuckers will eat anything, regardless of what color its aura may be. And if you have a friend named Aura, she’ll probably incite this shark-hippie hybrid much faster, because that’s how names work, so you’re best to just bike there anyway.
If you’re a band and looking to create a video for a B-side single, the least that you can do is hire a B-movie director to craft the thing. It just makes sense, you know?
Focusing on the golden era of music videos, I can’t help but imagine “Murder By Numbers” from the Police, set as a Larry Cohen short film, with the numbers in question bridging It’s Alive with a slightly more cerebral The Stuff. Better than that, a Troma Pictures-esque video for “How Soon is Now?” from the Smiths… Or even a super-low budget Robert Rodriguez-directed “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, which, while not a true B-side in that form, it was originally a Gloria Jones tune (1964; re-released in ’76, and then covered by Soft Cell in 1981 should you be keeping score), which could be an utterly epic, if not campy sci-fi-thriller about imported love that is, well, tainted with a virus. Or a present-day Jerry Lewis in a Rob Zombie-directed remake of Michael Jackson’s Thriller short, but using the original cut, “Starlight.”
Or we can abandon the B-side thing in favor of an Adam Jones stop-motion epic for The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” (which was the A-side to the terrible “Seconds” – don’t get me wrong, that whole JFK thing could work as a John Waters send-up), set as a peek into the breaking mind of a jilted lover… So many ideas.
I know… Most cover bands opt for the hits; the better-known songs, and sprinkle a set with a few key B-sides. What makes this trio what they are is having three members.
Wait, no… That’s not where I was going.
These guys have managed to capture the decline of Guns N’Roses… The years of infighting, manic-depressive behavior, and drug addled ruin, and packaged it in one take.
Seeing it this way elevates it from mere “learning curve” stature, and boost it to something more, transcending the headache it inspires.
It’s not a jam session.
It is PURE performance art.
…at least through the eyes of a modern art critic, I’d imagine. Welcome to the Age of Entitlement. Grab a trophy on your way out.