From the Desk of Nik Anderson

I want my 15 dollars back

I forgot my CDs today. I listened to Tucson radio. Coolio’s gem “Gangsta’s Paradise” made an appearance on the airwaves.

Now, I like a little 90s rap just as much as the next guy, maybe more as many of you are aware. I’ll throw down a little “Jump Around” or “Regulate” no problem. Picture Michael Bolton. Yeah, not the singer.

But “Gangsta’s Paradise” just straight up milks cock. It’s plain tough to listen to. After tuning away to the local soft rock (Tucson’s at work!) station, getting a little “Danger Zone” to calm the nerves (is Loggins soft rock?), I recalled that I am a proud owner of the Dangerous Minds soundtrack.

Did I ever even attempt to take in the whole album? Or was it just too much after song 4 or so? I guarantee I haven’t listened to it more than twice, probably both on the way home from the purchase, and even then probably just Coolio’s motivational little ditty.

I surmised at that point that the Dangerous Minds soundtrack may be my worst CD purchase ever. I know it’s hip to poke fun at some of our older albums, like the Ace of Base tapes we all own (the self titled album I believe), but you know when “The Sign” graces the radio you pump that shit. I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about just straight terrible albums you regretted about 4 hours after the transaction.

So what are some of your illustrious 15-bone mistakes? In addition to Dangerous Minds, I believe I have a Limp Bizkit CD that never even met a laser. Durst apparently sold me at Sam Goody’s with his money goatee. So what’s up? Anybody in for owning up?

Take it easy buddies,

Nacho

'B' Team Terrorism

Dear marginally loyal readers, I have but a solitary thought for your consideration so treat it as though it were a warm fur wrapped about the dura mater so as to allow all of your lobes to work in unison toward the resolution of the following quandary.

While patiently and attentively observing the news and all of the ugliness that usually pervades our media outlets I took note of the recent woolly happenings with our Anglophone brothers across the pond. As a natural recourse the new PM elevated the terror threat to an alarming 'critical'.

Side Note: Again, the Limeys have established a terror threat matrix that incites an associative response from their denizens. This is contrasted starkly to our own collage of failed Gatorade flavors that suffice to do little more than incite the insufferable the wrath of my meek and insignificant musings.

Be that as it may, I'm rather confident that we have little to fear. Obviously the story centers on a couple of 'B' Team floozies careening an SUV soaked in gasoline (I know, even the IRA could locate some plastique) into a Scottish Airport. While it's obvious these amateur jihadists were long on an overdeveloped hypothalamus gland -I can't imagine any other justification for such a hard-on for something, anything- and awful short on Semtex or Primasheet, the true story is behind the headlines.

The example I bring you -and the axis on which this meandering argument centers on- is why on earth would any self respecting terrorist cell use a fucking Jeep Cherokee in lieu of the 200 Diesel Mercedes?

An image of turban-clad holy warriors in an anonymous mountain redoubt shamefully shaking their heads, casting disapproving glances amongst each other whilst praying feverishly to Allah that the aforementioned terror network doesn't use their particular jihad brigade as a point of reference tonight on Sky News. How embarrassing that would be. How déclassé.

No, these fumbling morons are clearly not a particularly well financed group. As discussed well over a year ago, and so eruditely pointed out by one Cory Null, if you're going to kidnap Anwar al-Sadat's children, abduct a Western journalist, or pull off a car bombing (hello?) then you'd better give more serious thought to the 200D Mercedes.

Lastly, I'm throwing this on the old Towing the Company Line Blog because, well, I miss it and I figure I can press some of you back into literary service for the purpose of keeping me wildly entertained. More specifically, I'm calling out Null, Serazio, Valcke, Plumb, Ramey, Anderson, and Miller...

Damn People!

No update in almost 6 months. So, as a duty to the Company boys out there, I'd like to extend an invite to anybody that can make it Portland for New Year's. I know the circumstances, and the fact that its less than a month away. But hell, if you can get here, you've got a place to stay.

Now, Serazio said he was having problems with his computer and wanted me to post the following - the lyrics to the original "Golden Girls" theme song:

Artist: ("Thank You for Being a Friend" by Andrew Gold) Lyrics
Song: Golden Girls Lyrics

Thank you for being a friend
Traveled down the road and back again
Your heart is true your a pal and a confidant.

And if you through a party
Invited everyone you ever knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say
thank you for being a friend.

Preponderance of Insanity

While I'm still floundering with an adept synopsis of the Tucson fare to compliment Mikey's latest post I have, on the other hand, stumbled on something interesting in a recent read worth tossing out there since Moll-star, Pimp, Mikey, and Dimmy have traveled the roads of Thailand. To wit:
"Whereas your average Westerner does all he can to direct and control his fate, the latter-day Thai is no closer to adopting this attitude to life than were his ancestors a hundred or two hundred years ago. If there is any aspect of modern Thai psychology which continues to accept in toto the Buddhist doctrine of karma (so written) it is surely in the conviction that que sera, sera. At first glance such fatalism may seem backward, even perverse given the dazzling spectrum of weapons Westerners now have in their arsenal against the vicissitudes of life; but anyone who spends much time in the kingdom quickly finds themselves questioning the wisdom, and even the sincerity, of Western attitudes. When he has paid up his taxes, his life insurance, his medical insurance, accident insurance, retrained himself in the latest marketable skills, saved for his kids' education, paid alimony, bought the house and car which his status absolutely requires he buy within the rules of his particular tribe, given up alcohol abuse, nicotine, extramarital sex and recreational drugs, spent his two-week vacation on some self-improving (but safe) adventurous holiday, learned to be hypercareful of what he says or does with members of the opposite sex, the average Westerner may -and often does- wonder where his life went. He may also -and invariably does- feel cheated when he discovers existentially that all the worrying and all the insurance payments have availed him not a jot or a tittle in protecting him against fire, burglary, flood, earthquake, tornado, the sack, terrorist activity, or his spouse's precipitate desertion with the kids, the car and all the spare cash in the joint bank account. True enough, in a kingdom without safety nets a citizen may very well be brutally flattened by accident or illness, where a Westerner might have bought himself a measure of protection, but in between the bumps a Thai still lives life in a state of sublime insouciance. The standard Western observation is that the Thai is living in a fool's paradise. Perhaps, but might the Thai not reply that the Westerner has built himself a fool's hell?

Philly Manifesto

Boy this blog sure went to shit.

Well, let's see if we can't jumpstart the muthafucka. So: I like cities, as all two of you prolly know. But I like cities for the gross stereotypes and zeitgeist approximations that get perpetuated about them. Like, LA is plastic; Seattle is vegan. Shit like that. It's where people take all that they experience about a place - the day-to-day living experience, the attitudes they encounter, the values and styles on display - and you try to put into words what a city means, as if it were a brand name.

Here (four beers to the wind) is my Philly take, after one year:

FUCK PHILLY. This is how Philly likes it.

This is the great Philly paradox: For a city that so celebrates its starring role in the story of independence, I've never seen a place where it's residents feel so trapped. Social mobility? HA! If you're born somewhere here (racially, class-wise, etc.), you are destined to die there, it seems. The city is almost arranged to keep people in their respective zones.

Paradox two: For a city earmarked for its "brotherly love," there is a festereing, a seething anger that burns deep within the people of Philly. Feels like a fight - or a riot - is always about to break out here. Brotherly love my ass.

It cherishes its story of Rocky and holds him up as blue-collar role model par excellence, but when the going gets tough - as it does for most every city, most all teams eventually - its sports fans resort to whiny disillusionment so quick you get whiplash. May? The Phillies are born-losers. October? Forget the playoffs for the Iggles. Bums.

Its customer service is uniformly ridiculous in its pissed-off moodiness - like New York rude on quaaludes. It responded to last year's It City, 6th borough media cheerleading with a jaded cackle and a trademark scowl.

There is no bright side that Philly can't ignore, no glass that can't be looked upon as half-empty (even if full). You are resigned and you are bitter, Philly, with your Napoleonic chip-on-the-shoulder living in the shadow of New York glamour and DC power.

Your prize cheesesteak distributor is an unabashed xenophobe and your street violence seemingly knows no end.

You wear your past grimly and eye the future with a weather-beaten apathy. Accentuate the negative? Ha. Fuck Philly. I know that's how you like it.


Allllllright, whaddya got out there in Company Blogland? Jeremy, what's the Seattle Manifesto gotta say? Null, weigh in on Portland? Can we get a Houston manifesto? A Tucson?

Hello? Anyone?

smooches,
DJ Holy Day of Obligation

Ourelationships

What our relationships?
What makes them stay?

Our they vegetables?
Squeezed for freshness and purposefully picked?

Our they berries?
Plucked and popped in mouth
Eaten for nutritional content
or taste?

Out they roller coaster rides
Wait in line
Ride the loop
Cry “what a ride” and walk away,
to find some curos or candy apple
To give your heart a thrill

Out they silly little things,
Endured and forced to find fame
or fortune; or family or fate
Things we don’t consider sacred
Like T.V. shows and Playboy mags.

Our they things with spirit?
Our they the most magical,
and awing aspirations?
Embraced and supported, to find self,
Mirrors to which see the soul,
And better
-communicate-
with the Great Greatness
That lies everywhere
Inside and out.

Our they ours?

R they?

R?

Relationship
Ourelationship.

Ourelation. Ship.

A ship to where?
That’s the fun part. HA!

Rusty Nail