there's still parties to be hosted

Amidst the trips to the home and garden store, the long sessions of Grand Theft Auto 4, and my ongoing existential crises, I seem to have let Armagideon Time's second anniversary pass by without marking the occasion. For some reason, I was thinking that it fell on May 11, the due date for webhost's annual bill. It wasn't until this morning that I remembered that I used free file hosting services for the first week of AT's existence, and that May 3, 2006 was the date of my first post.

Two years (and three days) of Armagideon Time, and all the awkwardly written posts, embarrassing personal revelations, and off-the-cuff musical selections that entails. Can you believe it? I'm having a hard time with the concept myself.

I honestly didn't think I had it in me to last a month, much less twenty-four of them, yet here I am -- two years older, not much wiser, and only feeling moderately burned out. And despite the occasional urge to pull the plug on the site and walk away, I do enjoy doing whatever it is I do here.

Even though the final written results rarely match my initial intentions, there seems to be a not insubstantial number of you out there who enjoy them nonetheless. I'm always taken aback when someone tells me that they follow AT because of the writing (rather than the prospect of getting some cool tunes) because I fairly well wince whenever I go back and read my crimes against clearly phrased English.

So, thanks, everybody (except Anonymous Q. Shitheel and that spam commenter who used to write epic poems about his digestive problems and the One World Order. Those two fuckers can go hang). Here's to the promise of a fresh new year of posts concerning my lackadaisical concept of dental care, self-conscious nostalgic reveries, and vintage Captain Marvel stories.

Now for eine kleine anniversary celebration repost musik:

Billy Bragg - Waiting for the Great Leap Forward (from Workers Playtime, 1988) - Folk rock and socialism!

David Bowie - Changes (from Hunky Dory, 1971) - Glam rock and diaper commercials!

White Heat - Nervous Breakdown (from a 1979 single) - Note-perfect power pop and hormonal angst!

he's the man of the hour

It is only natural, I suppose, when recovering from a prolonged physical ordeal that one's thoughts would take a pronounced turn toward the introspective. During my slow convalescence, I have frequently found myself pondering roads not taken. My meditations have centered on matters as small as my habitual negligence regarding flossing, as well as grander existential questions about my ultimate purpose in life.

It occurred to me that maybe my talents were not best served in my current dual occupation of paid techmonkey/unpaid internet commentator, and that I could obtain a greater sense of personal fulfillment through a career in the European supercriminal field. There is visceral sense of satisfaction to be obtained in wrecking the economies of several Continenal powers through an overly elaborate scheme involving disintegration rays and amphibious cars. It's certainly a superior experience than explaining to my coworkers (for the umpteenth time) why downloading spyware-laden clutterware onto the department server is a bad thing.

One of the problems for the aspiring Euro supercriminal is the shocking absence of any vocational training programs or graduate-level seminars from which to learn the tricks of the trade. Granted, there are MBA programs, but those skew toward the megalomaniacal world-destroyer career path, where I'm more interested in the anarcho-hedonist side of things. Not even the renowned University of Phoenix offers something as straightforward as an MFA in Creative Villainy. No wonder this country has lost its competitive edge.

Instead, I've had to content myself with reviewing the recorded careers of some of the past luminaries of the profession, and performing a comparative inventory of relevant assets to determine my potential prospects. Here's a brief annotated summary:

Vehicle: While a tan 1998 Chevy Lumina lacks the sex appeal of a 1962 Studebaker Avanti or 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, the sturdiness, the horsepower, and, most importantly, the aggressive unremarkableness of the mid-sized family sedan make it an ideal getaway car. A quick turn into a suburban subdivision during a frenetic chase would utterly perplex the local constabulary as they would be forced to deal with dozens of vehicular red herrings.

Nefarious Weapon: At hand.

Secret Lair: The house on the hill isn't so much "secret" as "relatively isolated," which gives it the benefit of "hiding in plain sight." Its interior is well stocked with electronic gadgets (including a Zune, a gaming PC, and an Xbox 360) and exotic pets (well, a couple of dogs, some cats, some rabbits, and a chinchilla). While there are no alligator pits or other sinister deathtraps per se, we do have a garage full of feral cats who can be quite peevish at times and there are some low pipes in the cellar capable of braining the unwary intruder.

Disguises: An essential skillset for a supercriminal to possess, and one that I have clearly mastered.

Female Assistant Partner: No problems there. Even better, she has a ruthlessness and facility for physical violence which I am altogether lacking.

Wardrobe: This one poses something of a problem. I lack the physique to properly fill out a skintight body suit. (Diabolik was able to carry off the look, but his svelte frame had definition and tone, while mine does not.) Masks, hoods, or dominoes are right out, too, as they wouldn't accessorize properly with my spectacles. (A monocle would be an ideal affectation -- especially if it incorporated integral sleep ray/x-ray vision functions -- but the need to constantly squint would play havoc with the depth perception.) Formal evening wear is classy, but too constricting, and lasting trauma from 70's childhood prevents me from ever donning another turtleneck pullover. The best option would be an all-black business casual ensemble with a collarless button-down shirt. It's stylish, breathable, and has enough flexibility should I need to leap from an overpass onto the top of a passing train.

Though it would appear that I am well-prepared for the switch in careers, there are still a few questions that I still need to resolve. For instance, how are the elaborate interconnected networks of victims, accomplices, foils, and dupes that every supercriminal needs to carry out his or her plan generated? Is it something expected to be in place prior to embarking on the career path? Does it organically emerge once one has begun? Or does it involve some pump priming on the part of the supercriminal to make sure that the rival mob bosses, spoiled countesses, and brilliant-yet-unlucky detectives assume their proper places within the grand scheme? (Not to mention the serendipitous extended relationships linking all the major players, like the countess's servant being the former girlfriend of the mob boss's son who is a colleague of the dedicated gendarme...)

Because, honestly, the whole high maintenance aspect seems suspiciously like work to me, and would dim the allure considerably should it be the case. Sleeping on a pile of ill-gotten banknotes doesn't feel the same if you're too knackered to properly enjoy it.

Finally, every sophisticated supercriminal worthy of the title needs to have some appropriate theme music. To this end, I have selected a ginchy double-bill of parochial punk and cosmopolitan cool to accompany my anticipated dastardly adventures.

Jerry's Kids - Spymaster (from Kill Kill Kill, 1989) - The best track on this late-in-the-decade offering by the local 80's hardcore legends, and it's a crunched-up cover of a La Peste song.

Georges Garvarentz - Le Temps Des Loups (from Shake Sauvage - French Soundtracks: 1968-1973, 2000) - The wolf is on the prowl, and he has brought a horn section and vibraphone to assist him in his predations.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to attempting to shape my usual hissing chuckle into something better befitting my new vocation.

and so it was

Today is my 36th birthday. I'm not going to spend it composing a lengthy and involved post about the occasion.

Let Alex Chilton entertain you instead...

The Box Tops - A Whiter Shade of Pale (from The Letter/Neon Rainbow, 1967)

And a happy birthday to fellow 3/13 arrival Mike Sterling!

12 Days of Christmas - Day 11: I can see a better time

I put in a couple of hours at the office this morning and did a little last-minute shopping with the wife this afternoon (which wasn't nearly as crazy as I had been expecting, despite the desperation-level markdowns in the stores). Now it's time to settle in and enjoy the quieter aspects of the holiday.

As per our usual tradition, Maura will head out in a couple hours to spend some time with her relations before attending the annual Christmas Eve party at her best friend's family's house. As for me, I intend to celebrate in my own introspective fashion by playing X-Men: Legends 2 on the living room TV, surrounded by a host of sleepy kits and pups. It doesn't sound like much of a celebration, but it's exactly where I want to be.

Later, when the wife returns home, we'll exchange gifts and catch the first of too many viewings of A Christmas Story. (Familiarity breeds what, now?)

The Pogues - Fairytale of New York (from If I Should Fall From Grace With God, 1988) - Yeah, I know what I said before, but if the song is good enough for a couple dozen other bloggers to post this time of year, it's good enough for me as well. Besides those other bloggers don't have what I have -- a keen fashion sense. (Yes, that is a reference to what you think it's a reference to. And I'm sorry.)

seasonal holiday digression

Today is Thanksgiving. For our readers not blessed with the good fortune of residing in the World's Only Superpower^TM, the holiday commemorates how my Calvinist ancestors managed to survive an entire year in this forsaken part of the globe (through the aid of the native inhabitants of the Massachusetts Bay area), thus cementing their toehold in the New World (so that they could begin the important work of exterminating those who had helped them in their time of need).

Thanksgiving also serves an important role as a dress rehearsal for the tragicomic improv revue that is Christmas, allowing all the principle players to hone their characterizations and determine which grudges, resentments, or other issues they wish to bring to the main event. The venom of familial discord, like fine liquor (which also plays an important role in the process), grows more potent with the passing of time, and a month of ruminations over "what exactly did he mean by that?" can make all the difference between an awkward moment and a full-on, no holds barred scene occurring over the communal dining table.

Being an unapologetic social terrapin myself, I plan to do what I usually do every holiday that involves family gatherings -- drop the wife off so that she can celebrate with her boisterous Hibernian clan, then return home and spend the day in blessed solitude. I most likely will go over the Woburn Highlands and through the city center to my grandmother's house, though, for a short visit. Doing the Right Thing must needs trump my asocial tendencies, after all. I just have to remember to time the trip correctly so as to avoid the traffic nightmare generated by the annual class war by pigskin proxy otherwise known as the Woburn-Winchester game. (As a side note, the Woburn High athletic teams are called the Tanners, a historical nod to the leather industry whose environmental effects are still, despite head-in-the-sand boosterism, still being dealt with to this day.)

After those obligations are taken care of, it's a simple matter of squandering the empty minutes until Maura returns home with a plate of leftovers for me to pick over. (Maybe I'll finally commit to my plan of watching Armored Trooper VOTOMS in its entirety, or perhaps I'll queue up some choice episodes of MST3K in honor of Turkey Days past -- I tend to be more excited about the concept of unobligated time than the use I put it towards.) Then, as our customary coda for the holiday, the wife and I will pop Blast from the Past into the DVD player (a tradition started by Maura; I've long given up trying to make sense of these things), and let the soothing power of swing revival-themed romantic comedy lull us to sleep.

Not a bad way to spend the holiday, actually, and infinitely preferable to this...

Oh my. This isn't going to end well at all. (As if one needed yet another reason to fear legumes...)

The Neighborhoods - No Place Like Home (from a 1980 single; collected on D.I.Y. - Mass Ave - The Boston Scene: 1975-83, 1993) - Fulfilling all your provinicial power pop needs on this New Anglocentric holiday.

Camera Obscura - I Don't Do Crowds (from Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi, 2001) - Not if I can avoid it, and I'm as skilled in avoidance as these Glaswegian indie poppers are at crafting lovely twee-ish pop songs.

I'm not a glamour boy

At the first-time homebuyers class we attended three years ago, we were warned about several things to keep an eye out for when choosing a house -- radon, killer mold (a.k.a. the "new" radon), barrels of nuclear waste, proximity to traffic chokepoints -- but not the most insidous local hazard of them all, annual block parties.

Now I don't want to seem too mean-spirited about things. On a certain level, I see these yearly bouts of merriment as a sign that we made the right choice in moving here, what with the local pride and neighborly cordiality. It's just that I'm not really party-going material, and the onus of participation weighs heavily on my brooding loner's soul. (Okay, maybe the "brooding" part is inaccurate. Nom-de-plume aside, I am more Eyeore than Edward Rochester.) I accept that the fault is entirely my own; perhaps I lack the gene that makes it possible to shoot the shit with quasi-strangers over a heaping plate of German potato salad and barbecued pork ribs, and not reply to inquiries such as "So, Andrew, what line of work are you into?" with a stammered and potentially offensive non-sequitur.

So it has been since my teenage years. Andrew and large social situations just don't mix. Actually this weekend has tested my skills of social jujitsu (by which I mean "having my wife make excuses for my absence") to the utmost, with no fewer than three festive gatherings to be avoided in the space of forty-eight hours. I managed to make it to the other side without embarrassing myself or alienating my peers and/or relatives. Quite an accomplishment, indeed. Maybe I ought to throw a party in celebration of my achievement....

Joe "King" Carrasco & The Crowns - Party Weekend (from Anthology, 1995) - Texas Devo? Lone Star Boingo? Alamo Wall of Voodoo? You get the gist, I'm sure. Quirky new wave (or "weirdpunk," coined for an internet-release anthology of similar acts and which I think is a much better term for this style of music) from deep in the heart of Texas.

The Rousers - Party Boy (from a 1981 single) - Here some kids from NYC retrofit a Buddy Knox chassis with a supercharged power pop engine. As deep as a kiddie pool, but that's not atypical of the genre, especially when the party record motif is being pushed to the max. (The dead giveaway? The use of harmonica in the song.) The song was produced by Wayne Kramer, for any MC5 enthusiasts out there.

45 Grave - Party Time (12" version) (from a 1984 single; collected on the reissue of Sleep in Safety, 1983) - A more polished (and metal) version of the death rock classic made famous by Return of the Living Dead. A horribly mutilated version with revised lyrics reflecting the plot of the movie appears on the soundtrack album, but this is all you really need.

I bought my copy of the single (still in the shrinkwrap) at In Your Ear on Comm Ave in Allston back in the early 1990's. I remember there was much mockery from my friends about my musical tastes. At least I'm able with to sleep with a conscience clean of having ever claimed the Smashing Pumpkins were the greatest band ever.

I can't remember, so it can't be important

Hey, there are quite a few things missing from that timeline! Here’s a non-comprehensive addendum:

1899-1902 – The Philippine-American War

1910 – Jim Jeffries’ loss to Jack Johnson causes race riots

1916 – The Everett Massacre

1919 – The Omaha Race Riot

1919-1921 – The First Red Scare and the Palmer Raids

1920’s – Invasions of various Central American countries on behalf of American corporations

1929 – The Crash of '29 begins the Great Depression with a bang

1932 – Forced eviction of the Bonus Marchers

1931-1937 – The Scottsboro Boys' Trials

1937 – The Battle of the Overpass

1942 – Executive Order 9066 leads to internment of Japanese and Japanese-Americans

1947 – Congress overrides President Truman’s veto of the Taft-Hartley Act

1948 – Supreme Court upholds prayer in schools

I have no problem in taken pride in a job well done, but a little introspection helps keep one from getting smug and self-satisfied, especially when some of the accomplishments are dubious at best...

Sham 69 - Tell Us the Truth (from Tell Us the Truth, 1978)

Chumbawamba - Amnesia (from Tubthumper, 1997)