QUICK HITS

I've been in a pretty lame funk for most of this year, and hopefully I wasn't the only person who thought, while catching the reports out of Sri Lanka on the telly, how silly my reason for my funk (my growing fear of age, aging and death) is. Hopefully, Mother Nature managed to put some things into perspective for those of us who manage to skulk about with our thumbs up our asses thinking how ridiculously gay life has been treating us in whatever phase of life we're in. Sure, it won't make you feel better by comparison when you wonder why you seem to be geting more incoherent with every passing day or when a clan of Rastafarian magicians move in next door, but I'm sure at least six thousand Sri Lankans would jump at the chance of being in your shoes.

2004 is on its way out and it's trying to wrap itself out with a wrappish bang! Shit, not only are ordinary folks dying by natural, unnatural and violent means, celebrities are getting in on the action. It makes you hesitant to say stuff like "At least good old (whoever) is still around", because 2004 is trying to make a huge fucking update to the history books of all genres. Sport history, music, cinema, world government et al, those historical records are getting the fuck updated out of them.

On the lighter side of shit, I'm restoring a toy guitar! Anybody old enough to remember will know that cool shit made for the really really young....sters weren't always made from plastics. They used to be made of metal, baby! Metal was the law until somebody's child had so much fun he put out the neighbour's child's eye, then fabricated a sharp (or pointy, at least) weapon from the toy and went on a rampage. So over the Christmas weekend while I was visiting my folks I came across this amazingly detailed, quatro-sized, six string guitar. The really cool thing about it is that unlike today's guitars that are only good for parents who want to watch their kids air-guitar their way through any Yngwie Malmsteen album, this guitar is fully functional! All it needs is a good cleaning, disinfecting and a new set of strings and I can proudly set it on my wall until I have a little Bobobo who I can order to wear funny shirts, play ridiculously technical guitar compositions, have a revolving dor of musicians in their solo band.....and assault Japanese ladies who complain about their disruptive diva behaviour in the first class section of the airplane.

Lastly, thanks a fucking lot, Sony. Now that developer focus has shifted to the almighty PS3, I feel like a PS2 owner who's a day late and a dollar short.

WHEN IT'S TIME FOR ME TO PEE, IT'S TIME FOR ME TO GO

Nah, Jed. Seriously, this wrong. Since Friday, the office building hasn't had water. That's really out of place, since this is the first time ever the building has been without water. It wasn't much of a problem on Friday since the other workers were in slacker mode and turn out was low due to a staff function that was taking place in the afternoon, plus the office would be closed after 12. Friday wasn't a problem at all.
Today is a whole other beast entirely. There's no water. Sure there's drinking water, but there's no water to flush the god damned toilet. The strange thing about it is that women outnumber the men in this office and they really haven't mentioned anything about it. No complaints or anything. Did the Christmas vibe work its magic and fashion itself ino a pee-pee hole plug or something? Where's the toilet daemon who still leaves unflushed loads in the john for the cleaner to find every morning?
Something seems awfuly creepy about this whole matter. So creepy in fact, that I made some inquiries and found out that the office manager is aware of the situation and made a call in to WASA, to...you know...remind them that they made a call on Friday and uh...inform them that like nothing's happened since. So the Office Manager's sitting calm because their job is done. Then the question came: what if anybody has to go poopy?
A long pause came, then the reply: the Office Attendant would have to go fill the toilet tanks with a bucket. I couldn't find another what-if to challenge this wonderful example of problem solving. Actually I could have. What about the poor fuckers who have to make multiple flushes? Could they just station the attendant outside the toilets with his bucket of water (where in the hell he got the water is a mystery to me)?
I mean, what the hell here? It's a dead time at work, there's no water; if you must insist on having he workers show up, why not let them show up for half of the day and then leave if they don't have any pressing (or squeezing or pushing) issues to attend to? Sooner or later, the toilet daemon's gonna show up and leave a surprise in either the male or female toilet. I hope it's not my turn (again) to make the really crappy (pun) discovery.

NEXT UPDATE IS ON DECEMBER 20, 2004

I've been really bummed out ever since the senseless murder of Dimebag Darrel Abbott, formerly of Pantera and now, Damageplan. Really bummed out. I guess you can call this a couple days of silence in honor of the memory of the man.
You don't have to be a Pantera, Damageplan or metal fan to do this, but please take a moment to say a little word to whatever you believe in to help his family through this time.
For who who don't know, Darrel and his brother Vinnie Paul formed Damageplan along with Singer Pat Lachman and bassist Bob Zilla after Pantera officially fizzled out in 2003. Darrel was shot multiple times at close range last week by a 25 year old loser at a Damageplan concert. The coroner confirmed it was because of multiple wounds to the head. Three concert goers and one Damageplan employee were also killed. Reports and eyewitness accounts are conflicting, but the gunman was shot in the face and killed by a police officer while he was holding a hostage (who was rumored to be Darrel's brother Vinnie Paul).
It's been called the September 11th of metal and tributes are happening and the general consensus of all the memories of the guy is that he was one of the most genuinely nice guys in a genre defined by though looking motherfuckers.

Anyhow, keep the Abbott family in your words to whoever you believe in. Vinnie Paul's the drummer, so if you know anything about live performances, you'd know that the drummer sees the crowd and the other members of the band. His younger brother was murdered right before him, so he's got to be hurting more than any member of the family right now.

Also say something for that rat bastard Phil Anselmo while you're at it. If it wasn't for his consistently moronic remarks about the Abbott brothers in interviews and such, that idiot gunman wouldn't have been blaming them as the ones who broke Pantera up. He deserves whatever guilt arising from this, but at least pray that it won't consume his stupid ass.

DEAD, DEAD DEAD

Some days fly by so ridiculously quick that you hardly have the time to get the important stuff done before quitting time comes around, the day's over and you absolutely must get out of the office to get your shit done; then there's days like today that seem to go on forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and somehow you don't manage to get Jack fuck Susan done (you actually do manage to get some things done, but it still feels like you've accomplished nothing).
Today is one of those days. Although I finally downloaded the last song from the new Beatallica album ( coddle your inner metal fuckhead and spread the sickness...it's free and legal!) I mostly hung about Oni press' website to see if they added any new stuff since I last visited and stayed there for the majority of the day, reading their Sunday comics and the five page previews of the new graphic novels all the while thinking to myself: "I can do this."
Sure, my visual art is in the line with the rest of my creative outlets I'm on a love/hate relationship with, but it seems as if I love it these days. Plus on the odd occasion, I'm actually seeing it from the eyes of the viewer who thinks it's good stuff. I'm thinking about testing my luck and trying my hand at illustrating the story I wrote (I think its name was HE SAT AT THE PICNIC AREA BY THE SHORE, THINKING OF EVERYTHING AND NOTHING - I think it may be in either the July, August or September archives). Excuse me if I sound big-headed by mentioning this, but that so far has got to be the story I enjoyed thinking and typing up since this blog started. If it works and the few friends of Bobo give it a thumbs up, I’ll scan it, go through the trouble of opening a photobucket image hosting account and put it up for all four of you to see. Deal?
It won't look anything like this, but if I continue thinking lowly of my own talents, I'll never bother to try, hey?

SEVEN ANGRY SOCCER PLAYERS (SINGING)

The Ministry of External Affairs Griffons. They’re all stocky, sweaty and bald, plus they’re marching in single file down the street you live at two thirty in the morning, singing. It’s kinda spooky, because this would have been normal in like the next twelve hours, for Christ’s sakes! Plus, they’re singing Raining Blood! The baby finally fell asleep after crying for the past three hours straight and all this growling and yelling will wake it up for sure.
You can probably call out to them and ask them to sing something mellower, like Daisy Chain or that John Mayer song you said reminded you of Michael Jantze’s ‘The Norm’, but when those employees of the Ministry of External Affairs don their Griffons uniforms they turn into complete dicks.
It sounds wicked crazy, but you believe that they just may be reasonable, seeing how they’re twelve hours early for their Sunday afternoon routine. You put on your robe, hat and slippers and rush outside to meet up with them.

…

Okay, rationalizing with them didn’t work . Go wake your wife and your daughter. Wake your son as well because somebody has to watch the sleeping baby. The Griffons say a match will shut them up? Fine. They’ll get one that they’ll never forget. They may have a four player advantage, but you are Elian! Humberto! Ramon! Rodriguez! and around these parts, soccer is for pussies. Dedicate this one to Diego! It’s time for some football.

JUST SHARING

I came across this really cool site dedicated to Iron Man. Check it out, why don't you? Not too big on reading comics lately, but stuff like this makes me wish i had both the time and money to get back into it, this time in a ridiculously hardcore fashion.

DON'T THEY FUCKING KNOW IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME AT ALL?

I've mentioned it before sometime, I'm sure, about Carnival taking the place of Christmas. I'm not big on both seasons/festivals, but the tiny Roman Catholic spirit inside of me is sorta upset by it and further outraged by the outpouring of remarks I see in the print media and hear in the audio media from folks with the true Trini Spirit who believe that (and I'm with them on this) the Trinity Cross does not need to be renamed.
True, it doesn't. History is history. If the Maha Sabha and the other politically correct groups want to change history, let them and their followers haul their flowery man vaginas over to a secret laboratory, develop a time machine, build some high powered attack boats and stop the Spaniards from ever reaching this island and slapping a name on it after royally fucking over the native indians. Only then would they be able to remove the Catholic influenced foundation from Trinidad before it was ever laid and replace it with whatever they wish. If the whole La Trinity, Trinidad and Trinity Cross thing is bothering you that much, you're always welcome to make some other country your home and see how long they put up with your bullshit.
What raises the hair on my back, though, is the arguments against the renaming of the Trinity Cross that bring religion into the picture. Aren't they the same dicks with Carnival on the brain? Ever since Passion of the Christ hit our videoclub shelves, their life has been made easier since they don't have to go to church for doing messed up shit while they were drunk under the spirit of liquor or the spirit of the fete. Just fuck up, stumble home, pass out in their vomit and as penance watch Passion of the Christ before they go wash the vomit off themselves.
I'm surprised that since our 'greatest show in the world' has taken priority among all things and unofficially runs for seven months the bullshit artistic fakers known as mas people haven't suggested that the award be renamed to whatever is the hottest section in the winning band. We can even generate some cash from the tourism industry by setting a specific year in which we'll settle upon a year, then announce to the world that this will be the Carnival to end all Carnivals. This one will finally wash the sand out of the Maha Sabha's vagina when we pick a non-religious name for our country's highest award. As a bonus, we'll change the name of the country to give those ethnic extremists less to bitch about.
I'm telling you: this is a killer idea. What better way to show off our Carnival mentality, disregard history, make Atheists and Satan worshippers smile and please assholes who can't let go of their ancestor's countries of origin (that they hold in high regard, yet would be like fish out of water if they 'return' to those countries) by renaming Trinidad and it's highest national honor after a section full of glittery bathing suits, drunken revelers, society bodybuilders with steroid-shrunken units and sunburnt tourists who can't hold a rhythm even if it came with rubber grips?
I can only imagine how upset I would be about this Trinity Cross argument if I actually was religious or a 'Practicing Catholic' or something.