Bury · me · with · all · of · my · stuff · (because · you · know · it's · mine).

(The only place I could find Nina Nastasia's The Ocean online was Myspace so I've made it my profile song for now [ edit: it's sliding down the playlist, so if you don't see it try here . ], in case anyone wants to listen to it. Best to hear it yourself before reading on, so you can enjoy the music free from the influence of my interpretation, which is almost certainly inadequate--if not plainly incorrect--in a number of ways. I recommend turning it up loud.)

After a few moments with just the sound of the wind, a melody is plucked out and repeated on a cello, just enough so the mood is established before it's taken up by acoustic guitar. There are some quiet touches on a trembling electric guitar, the pronounced, forlorn sighs of an accordion. A voice with weighed with sadness relates the scene; the first few lines are irreducible and say more than the words express. Two people with a greater distance between them than the actual space of a room; a diminished perception that is likely more than just the effect of the light. A somber note on the cello. One is trying to get something across to the other, but failing. Again the accordion sighs, and the somber note sounds again. Someone has lost all patience; the scourge of unsympathetic anger provokes misery and helpless frustration. With the falling utterance of self-reproach in the words "big," "dumb," and "blind" there is transformation, a feeling of wretchedness so profound it makes one monstrous. And when to that abject condition comes the further horror of abandonment, it provokes a frenzy: a thunderous beat like the footsteps of a giant in pursuit accompanies a demand of urgency, anger and despair that is as much an entreaty as it is an order. This state towers over the self, over everything surrounding, over anything and anyone, far too powerful and immense to endure for very long.

It ends somewhere cold, suffocating, nullifying. No one who has ever slowly waded into the ocean will mistake the ponderous, sinking seesaw dirge of the cello. No one who has ever nearly drowned will not recognize what follows: the cacophonous, wheezing flood of sound, all struggle and terror; the unspeakable panic played on the saw. No one who has experienced the depths of hopelessness, who has been submerged in dark emotion to the point of vacancy and numbness will expect to hear a truer testament in song.

Not once have I ever been seriously involved with someone but that sooner or later I ended up in that dim room with them, talking and waiting, angry and exasperated that nothing I say rings clear. that sooner or later I ended up in that dim room, talking and waiting, angry and exasperated that nothing I say rings clear. Yet for all these repeated experiences and all their attendant heartbreaks--those I've known and those I'll know yet--I doubt I would have ever understood the situation so well if not for this song. Petty reason was all I could ever make sense of in those times, and emotion escaped my understanding (as my own emotions do, oftentimes) and I applied intellect when I should have applied empathy.

It is not often a song enlarges your understanding of humanity or puts you in the heart of another and lets you experience something beyond your sphere, not often a song makes you wiser, more compassionate. There is a reason I am constantly haunting music stores and libraries and theaters and this is it.

Ta-da. This foolishness dates to almost a year ago, when wasting your time was of the highest vogue, and no one did it better than me. My first time really doing much with a tablet. I actually considered doing a Big Thing on some of the more ridiculous current fashion trends, but I decided to read a book instead and never once did I look back. It would have been futile anyway, as fashion trends have more or less arrived at the extreme boundaries of silliness where no parody can surpass the actual absurdity of what's out there. The jeans can't get any tighter, the glasses can't get any larger, and the shoes can't get any day-glowier. (In fact, they actually sell fur-lined CROCS, so CRUGGS are frighteningly close to being a real product.) No loss really--does the internet really need any more self-serving, snarky observational humor? I went to ask.com to find out.

Way to disappoint,ask.com--if pileofshit.com weren't already taken by a cybersquatter, you'd have no excuse.

An occasion presents itself to see the Great Dull Countryside by bus, a 20-hour voyage, to be repeated after a few days so let us say 40 hours on a bus in a less than a week. Ever try it? Though I'm actually interested in seeing what's between the middle of the country and the coast, I've never been on such a trip and I have my doubts. How tolerable is this sort of thing? Once I did about twelve hours on the road to Niagara, but I drove myself and had good company. The impression I have is that bus company can be less than pleasant, and that there are sometimes odors.

Not long ago I purchased a digital audio player, the Sansa Clip (which for thirty-five bucks is a pretty good stopgap until a company decides to release a decent flash player that doesn't arouse contempt with its given limitations) so I'd have some music to enjoy for a while. I'm reading Ulysses these days, so I wouldn't want for reading material. And I've slept in theater seats before, so I'd manage on a bus I'm sure. But considering a trip just four hours shy of a whole day, questions arise:

• When does one eat?
• Will I be too tired to enjoy myself after I reach my destination?
• Can the restrooms truly devour souls?
• Will my limbs atrophy from immobility?
• Will my sanity be placed in jeopordy?

Tell me,
     tell me,
        tell me.

Haha.  Yeah!  What's deal with that? You can do this at a concert but nowhere else.  If you did this on the street during the day you would be thrown in jail without a trial; if you did it at a theater or an art gallery or at Dominick's grocery you would be executed.  But if you do it at a concert surrounded by people, folks will sniff the air, they will stare at you, but no one will tattle, for it is too inconvenient to tattle at a concert.  But you will be JUDGED.  Everyone will notice you, and many will think, "Heavens! What sort of rambunctious jackanapes is this who won't abide by one of society's most arbitrary, ineffectual and domineering prohibitions whilst in plain view for two hours or four?  Scandal and outrage!  Harumph! Harumph!"

I am not as such, pot smokers. I don't smoke, never have, but the smell to me is rather natural and inoffensive, and I actually mind more when people smoke cigarettes at a show, because a high proportion of those pay no homage to Goddess of the shadow's lights but are rather dopey teenagers wholly desperate to impress people.  You know the sort: holding their cigarettes just so, like monkeys in cadet caps imitating James Dean."Yeah, m'here by accident; may's well smoke.  So much, the smoking.  Guess some of these young turds around here don't get any, but not me, obviously.  Cigarettes, see?  Puff puff FWWOOOH.  So much the sex, because of the smoking."  Scientists!  Explain how it is that smoke smells worse when exhaled by poseurs.

I think they banned smoking in venues in Madison, but one way or the other nothing stopped the young woman who sparked a J at the Feist show.  The young woman who was, in fact, a lesbian.  I know this because as she smoked and swayed and waved her lighter in the air to a song, her girlfriend was frenching her good and pawing her like she was sculpting her body out of clay. (That almost never occurs by accident.)  I suppose this exhibitionism made the whole deal better by virtually completing the Sex, Drugs, & Rock 'n' Roll triad, but someone next to me took issue.  "Hey, doesn't that annoy you?" she asked.  I gave her the ol' "I-would-be-strange-to-care" shrug, implying that she was strange for caring, but I don't think she got the message.  She kept frowning and looking over to make sure they were still smoking and molesting each other so she could be offended by them.  She missed three songs or so.  Some people don't like for lesbians to get high and frot where everyone can see, but I don't mind.

If you were in that venue and you had a problem that I would not have complained about, you're probably hell to be around because I was pretty happy to be pissy about anything that night.  I had "the misanthropies" pretty bad.  That's when you walk into a crowd of people you and, for no good reason, you start to convince yourself that everyone's an asshole.  Let me tell you: if you're looking, you find reasons.  You end up noticing every single mouth-breather in the bunch and convincing yourself that all of 'em make a serious effort not to miss a single re-run of "That 70's Show", not ever, and they think Fez is really funny and Jackie's really cute.  Like this one guy I saw on the walk to the theater.  He was trying to make his friends laugh by acting like he was going to dash into traffic. Ho ho!  Then at the venue, the performance continued: he did rave moves with his cell phone, and  the whole night kept shouting WHOOOO! and Yeaaaah! and raising his hands for high-fives.  Later he did the phone thing while sitting on top of his buddy's shoulders. Damn extroverts.  Always putting on a show no one wants to see.

 He was the worst, but there were others.  There was the guy who fake-danced to one of the lamer pre-show songs.  The fake-bad dance is to scenester humor as pull-my-finger is to crass humor: the one guy has to fart, the other cannot dance, and calling attention to either unpleasant truth does not good humor make.  Still, it is better to see such a person fake a dance than attempt one in earnest and fail miserably.   I know, because some damned soul tried and it was the most shameful thing I ever saw.  In the space of time he danced, every miscarriage around the world had a reason, and that reason was dancing like an asshole not twenty feet from me.  (I just hate to watch people embarrass themselves--that's one reason I can't watch American Idol. Another reason is that trying to figure out who among a great bunch of untried possible talents can actually bear a second listen sounds like a rotten job, and I won't do it for free.)

And then there are all these people who came dressed in the Urban Outfitters ensemble.  Sometimes I think it's cool how the ol' subculture has become mainstream in a number of ways, other times I want to go back in time and kick Kurt Cobain in the balls.  Doesn't it suck to have a reminder that lifestyles are a commodity to be bought and sold?  Sure it does.  And you just know that the designers for these upscale fake-thrift store places have ideas for practical, nice clothes, but they're tossed out by some corporate thug who justifies his salary by making unnecessary dickwad decisions about everything. (For this vignette, please imagine a mustachioed man with ham hock forearms and arm hair so long he could comb it.  He sweats a lot and there are yellowish pit-stains on his white buttoned short-sleeve shirt, which he wears every day.  Also, he has a dog at home but he never pets it.)  "Lissen, kids nowadays wanna dress like hobos and drug addicts.  Go down to the OTB by the VA an' take pictures.  Same crap for the gurls, just tighter, with more fake fur and fake jewelry. Samples go to wardrobe at MTV, we charge $60--THAT'S HOW WE DO IT YOU PUNKS." When I imagine it, My Chemical Romance is playing, and the scenario concludes with the executive opening a drawer full of loose money, undoing the top button of his pants and stuffing them with greasy bills while the designers watch in horror.  "Har har! Oh, mercy!"   

Normally at a concert, I'd also have had this fantasy where someone who shows up late tries to take a spot in front of me near the stage, and despite my attempts at being polite and reasonable things get physical and I turn into Steven Seagal, but I didn't realize there was standing room in front so I was in the seated section. 

A little after the live music started I stopped being such a judgmental prick. The opening act was this singer/songwriter guy, the sort who sang out of the side of his mouth and pronounces all vowels "eh" (the "Bob Dylan method").  His music was sort of forgettable, but he did this really fun thing where he got the audience to sound like a rainstorm, first by rubbing their hands together, then snapping, then slapping their thighs, then stomping and slapping.  Right away when he starts this routine some guy shouts "IT'S TOO COMPLICATED!!" and without missing a beat the singer tells us, "It's not too complicated" and keeps right on making it rain.   God bless you, shouty stranger!  I've decided, contrary to the wishes of professional God-hater Christopher Hitchens, that God makes it rain, and when He's got the angels working them clouds, sometimes one of 'em complains that it's too complicated just to lighten things up, and all the rest and God laugh and that one gets to make the rainbow later.

It was good to have that little bonus, considering I didn't get to see what I had really hoped to see when I bought my ticket.  The reason I went at all was to see Leslie Feist dance, and she couldn't because she sprained her ankle the day before.  CRUEL WORLD.  She dances in her videos and she looks carefree and happy and it makes you wish you knew her so maybe some of that might rub off on you.  But it turned out ok anyway: the music was nice and there was a diverting light show and also this adorable little kid who got dressed up in a sequined suit like Leslie wears in the 1-2-3-4 video, and Feist's trumpeter (who sounded just like a woman singing the harmony parts) brought her on stage and introduced her to Feist.  She stayed up there and fidgeted for a whole song.  After the show her parents were bringing her down the stairs when I was leaving and everyone in the lobby gave her an ovation (which, being a toddler, she seemed completely confused by).  But how 'bout that?  All these folks going out of their way to make a kid feel special.  It wouldn't have occurred to me to be that nice. 

At the end of the night I had a very fine time and I'm pretty ashamed to have spent so much of it wishing shit up the nose of people I knew next to nothing about. It's a mean and lonely thing to do, and it leaves you feeling bad.  Where do I get off?  It's not like I don't own a hoodie from Urban Outfitters.  It's not like I'm a great dancer.  It's not like I don't try to be funny too often and get on people's nerves.  There I am sitting in a room full of people who have at least one cool thing in common with me, and I'm too occupied being a miserable cock to notice.  I gotta stop doing that.

After all, I'm pretty sick of other people doing it.  It used to be you'd be a cock about certain things, like when someone was being a cock.  Now a lot of people are total cocks about everything.  You've got shows like Southpark and American Idol (all of reality TV really) dedicated to acting like a cock, and these both program and are programming for the cock generation.  Note the Jennifer Love Hewitt story last week.  Here you have an attractive celebrity in the news due to an engagement, then some perfectly normal photos of her being a normal person having normal fun on her own time are posted on the web, and she becomes the target of so much inappropriate hate that it's unbelievable.  I won't link to the sites or quote their message boards, but trust me, it's total cocks on parade. And what did she do after all?  Not a thing except get photographed looking like a regular beautiful woman and not a video game beautiful woman.  Who are these people who rip into her and what must they look like?  You'd think they cannot be out there behaving this way in real life, but every so often you run into one of these people and the next thing you know you're wondering "What the hell?  Why was that person a total cock just now?"  It's one of the reasons no one talks to anyone unexpectedly anymore, because no one really wants to deal with the likes of Cartman or Simon Cowell or Christopher Hitchens or Perez Hilton.

You're ruining things, cock generation.  You're mean for no good reason and it's a real bummer.  Everyone has to be less of a cock to make up for your cockishness. Nuts to you and your celebrity gossip blogs where you talk shit about people indiscriminately.  Nuts to your inevitable appearance in every online forum just to write provocative crap intended to piss people off.  Nuts to your opposition to the WGA writers strike.  Nuts to your shows where you tune in to see people treat each other like shit, your shows where you laugh at people who don't know any better, your shows where you turn people you don't like into grotesque, perverted caricatures and the poo sings.  That singing poo is what your soul looks like, cock generation.  The next time I'm out there and I witness you being a cock, I'm going to call you on it.  I will demand to know where this cockishness comes from, and if you can't explain yourself I will advise you to stop being such a cock.  In fact, I'm advising that anyway.  Stop being such cocks.

Regarding Alien, I suspect it says nothing flattering about me that I prefer the James Cameron-directed sequel, but I still respect the original. Predator is the best Vietnam movie ever, so there. Alien. Predator. That's your baseline, see? Alien vs. Predator--now that's a new brand of balogna. It's an order of magnitude more ridiculous than either an Alien or a Predator. But Alien vs. Predator "TWO"? Dangerous territory. Are you sure? You want to let the monkey steer? Could be dangerous! Fuck it. Take your Cadbury Egg cake, make it flambé, serve it on rollerskates. And if they're not convinced, let's see what five dollars buys us. Apocalypse? Errm, no. Judgement Day? Taken. Here! "Requiem!" Whatsa Reckweeyim? Don't know. Sounds classy! Fucken critics. It's rated R! Shut up! Eat your popcorn!

From beyond, John Lennon, speaking words of wisdom said "Let It Be," but who could resist? Since The Fall only one has lived who could defy such temptation, and I am not so good; I succumbed to the weakness I was born into and read on.

What I found was the comfort I left in the womb. My life has gone by like a mirage and if ever I laughed or cried or smiled I lied because I lived a question and was daily denied the answer. Now I know The Answer. He is a collection of wax and knuckles and vacuum cleaner attachments and lobsters. His name is Predalien.

So many questions! Like, can the Predalien, in the absence of a Queen, reproduce by regurgitating embryos into a victim's mouth? Don't be a goose, of course he can! Can pigeons fly and shit?

But still--the Predalien? Who will FrankenDracula play with anymore? I promise you I don't care! I want MORE. I want him to sing! Something so divine should have the voice of an angel. I could die between now and December, so somebody lasso the creature's jaw (either one) in photoshop and make it dance to the lyrics of "Puttin' on The Ritz". The version sung by Taco, because that's the one they play in Heaven. Also, by all that's righteous, make it so they don't have any actors in this goddamn movie. Every other picture is lousy with them, saying things like "Come here, darling" and "I think that's too many peanuts" and "Pay it forward". If everyone is going to be and flayed and skewered, there's no reason each human can't be a young CGI Charleton Heston. Let him fall to his knees and strike the earth with his fists at the beginning and the end of every scene and shout "MADNESS!!" or "DEAR GOD, WHAT ARE THESE ABOMINATIONS!!" or "MY BIRTHDAY IS RUINED!!" He could howl "MADNESS!!" twice; no one will mind. Then it's acid and razors for him, too.

The film comes out on Christmas, so you've already the day off. Don't let your family feed you any of that taffy about visiting relatives or Jesus. All your life, people have been giving you the lime and lemon Skittles when they were done with the bag. Poison their food and head to the theaters, for you have a new life now. It's time to discover what existence can be like without the fetters of decency, the pestilence of art. His being makes anything possible; he can give you everything you want, you have only to pay the price of admission and ask. Join me. The Predalien is the new Santa Claus.

2. I've been watching Invader Zim in Spanish to help myself learn the language faster. ¡Soy un fenomeno! Sadly, it's not helping much.

3. Since I'm pretty much exhausted from studying and homework all the time, every, but EVERY time someone interesting starts up a conversation with me, I blow it. One-syllable-word-response Rich. Hhhfff. It happens.

4. I saw Ratatouille for free. The theater was packed with college students and they loved it even more than kids would, probably. I was a little annoyed at everyone for being so unsophisticated and laughing at every little thing, even the stuff that would make a kid roll his eyes. This kind of makes me feel like a jerk.

5. The first week I was here, I was eating by the window at a pizza joint. A complete stranger came by, knocked on the window, smiled at me, and went on her way. I'd like for this to happen more often, for a stranger to make it a point just to smile at another human being.

6. Christopher Hitchens came through town. He sure loves the culture war. What a shitty little man.

7. I know a ton of people up here, but I don't really "KNOW" anyone. The people I've enjoyed talking to the most so far are my TAs, go figure.

8. I was up until 10:30am writing a paper last Friday. When I got home, I slept through the homecoming parade that marched down the street.

9. I pretty much slept through Halloween, too. The first time in quite a while that I didn't dress up.

10. Everyone loves the badger. I'm badger-neutral. That's a step up from the disdain I feel for most mascots, so I feel that I still have a right to partake in any badger-related camaraderie if our teams win.

11. I won $3 in poker. They'd better open a seat at one of the World Championship tables, I think.

12. I took a lot of pictures of ducks one afternoon for an untitled duck project I'm working on. I'm not sure any of the pictures will work and now the ducks are gone, so it looks like the untitled duck project will be on hold until next year. Quack quack.

13. I go shopping after midnight because it costs half as much to rent the community car. One night I was walking home after dropping the car up and this guy rushes up to me, totally stinko.

"Hey yo. Where you going?"

"Just walking home."

"Oh. Wh- just, just walking home, huh?

"Mmyeah."

"Oh man I'm sorry I've just had a lot to drink tonight I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Take it easy."

He then goes up to this couple walking behind me with the same routine in mind, but the guy's not having it, and girlfriend tries to warn the drunk.

"Not tonight, okay? He's had a bad night, okay? Just leave us alone, please. Not tonight."

"Waaugh-Hey, I'm sorry. Look dude, I'm sorry. Hey, cool?"

"OH JESUS CHRIST. GO AWAY! JIM, NO! JUST GO."

"Bleearh. Sorry! Hey dude, c'mon--it's cool. See? I'm sorry."

"NO! JIM, STOP. LOOK ASSHOLE, JUST GO AWAY--", etc.

About the time I get half a block away, the drunk guy is yelling at Jim from the middle of the street because now he thinks Jim is kind of a homo and just wants Jim to know that it's cool. Jim, however, doesn't think it's cool and chases him a little. Jim's girlfriend catches him in ten steps, pulls him away and starts soothing him, which compels the drunk fella to act like a full-on shitape. Suddenly Jim breaks free!

"JIM, NO! AAAAAAAH!"

That's all I had time for.

14. I saw an actual fight one night. Pretty rough stuff. While the two principal combatants were punching each other in the face, a friend of one of the guys hit the other fella over the back with his skateboard. WHACK! It was like that movie Kids. #14 used to end with a reference to Chloe Sevigny and the HIV, but I lost the nerve. Only Sarah Silverman can get away with those kinds of jokes.

15. Another night, across the street a couple is making this kinda noise:

"NO! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, OK? I just need some time alone. Please. SOB." And she turns away.

This happens X 3.

On this side of the street, some guys are out on the porch enjoying the show. "Hey, I guess she's upset. Heheheh."

Finally she skulks off, and her boyfriend is standing on the sidewalk watching her disappear into the darkness, just like Dawson's Creek or something, but not as realistic.

16. Another night:

"HEY COWBOY! NICE HAT COWBOY HA HA HA!"

"FUCK YOU."

"WOOO! COWBOY! HA HA!"

"FUCK YOU."

"COWBOY! YEE-HAW! GAY!"

I guess wearing a cowboy hat is gay now, and so is walking down the street quietly with your girl. This must be part of that "Gay Agenda" one hears so much about. Last year it was tucking your shirt in and combing your hair, now it's this too. Soon, whistling will be gay, and so will wearing jeans, and then finally everything that everyone one does will be gay. On that day tolerance will reign and we will all be equals. Either that or we'll have a bunch of idiots in the streets screaming obscene stupidities at each other and starting fights to prove how straight they are. Is this then our Brave New World?

17. I was up at 3am writing ANOTHER paper, and some guy started bouncing around in the hallway shouting "WOOOOOOOOOOO! Sixth floor! SIIIXTH FLOOOOOR!" Damn straight. You gotta have floor-pride. I'll be fucked if we should let the other nine floors in this building persist in the nonsensical belief that they got shit on numero seis.

18. The thing that kind of sucks though is that every day someone manages to burn something while preparing a meal. We've had to evacuate twice because of fire alarms in less than two months, maybe more since I'm not always around.

19. Food's not the only thing someone's burning around here, if you know what I mean. Wink wink. Cough cough. ([{"THE HERB"]}).


20. Them what knows me know I don't partake of anything more controversial than caffeine. Lately, though, I can see myself smoking cigarettes. It won't happen, but like on a daily basis there's a moment where I just go "Jesus Christ, I feel like I could use a cigarette." Madison's been that kind of town to me.

21. I used non-chlorinated bleach for the first time the other day. Not so great on whites, but AMAZING on the colors. Recommended.

22. There are a lot of sandals around here. Even when it rains, no joke. Madison's a good town if you like seeing people's dirty toes.

23. The ear warmers I bought have wool shells, but polyester lining. They're not as bad, but they still bother my skin. My solution, unless I can find someone to knit me little coaster-sized covers for them, will be to buy children's wool mittens and slip those over the coverings. The only thing is, no normal 26-year-old man has ever purchased children's mittens unless he was pushing a stroller. I'm going to have to put the mittens on the ear warmers right there in the store so the checkout person doesn't think I'm rushing home to rub them on my nipples or something.

24. You know what's right on the verge of becoming old hat? The initialism BFF. Hurry up, get it out of your system. In 3 or 4 weeks time everyone will be telling you to shut the fuck up, forever (or STFUF, if you prefer).

25. I feel my soul filling up with such beautiful, generous, infinitely compassionate love for all of humanity and surely I will soon transform into a beautiful rainbow unicorn with butterfly peace-sign wings and soar above my worldly troubles into heaven, where I will be welcomed by my favorite authors, Thomas Jefferson, and a young Louise Brooks. She will hold my head to her bosom and whisper, "Caro, povero Rich. Ti aspettavamo. Vieni addesso con me, e guardiamo il magnifico televisore su di che poui vedere qualsiasi momento terrestrale. Polly Jean Harvey sta faccendo propio addesso la collazione! Volevi sempre sapere che tipo di cereale gli piacceva, no? Addesso lo saprai, e saprai tutto quello che vuoi. Vieni!" And on the silver road which leads into the heart of Heaven, we will pass every immortal poem written by humankind which will have become birds made of glass, and though I would cry for joy at such beauty, I could only sing, for every tear becomes a song in heaven, mmnyeeeeeh.

For the past 3 months I could have been watching cable because it's included in the rent where I'm staying, but I chose not to bring up a TV. Suits me fine. ("If you're paying for cable and not watching TV, you're losing money." The satire of that joke from the Strangers With Candy was not lost on me.) My only regret is not seeing the new episodes of The Office. Those I'd watch even with the goddamned commercials. I watched the first three seasons on DVD and I've decided that the American version has two advantages over the terrific British version: the supporting characters and Jim + Pam.

The supporting characters are refreshingly real: they look like real people and their personas are real enough, or at least they're more real than any sitcom characters I can remember. I'm convinced that there are actual Dwights, Creeds, Merediths, Angelas, Kevins, Kellys, Oscars, Ryans, Stanleys, Tobeys and Phyllises out there. And if a show this good needs a buffoon like Michael to do the dirty work of providing "the situation", fine. One must accept that Ricky Gervais' genius performance in the British Office portrayed the type as well as could be done and that Evan Almighty won't surpass him even for a moment. I can tolerate all the highly-improbable foolishness hitched to Michael as a necessary evil, as long as it gives a moment for Creed to tell us he has a Word document on his desktop called "www.creedthoughts.gov.www\creedthoughts" which he believes is a blog, or gives Kelly a chance to sing "This day is bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!" Maybe it's true that everyone in the show gets into rather improbable stuff, but the genuine weirdos, jackasses, and nutbars are funnier to me than the made-up weirdo, etc.

The characters of Jim and Pam are an inspiration. I mean that sincerely: these two fictional prime-time sitcom creations and their marketable romance are inspiring to me. Characters behaving the way you'd expect real,normal, mature people would behave. A depiction of human growth and emotion. (Do any of the other popular or acclaimed shows have story arcs where this is happening? Or is it all "how one deals with the complications of having a human/cylon baby", or "how one would react if one suddenly had super powers", or "how one deals with the bureaucracy of a medical institution when one is an abrasive, eccentric doctor who could find out what the REAL problem is if you'd only stay out of the way, damnit"? The older I get the less I care for the artistic impulse to enlarge universals, whether it's the epic strife allegories of science-fiction, or power-fantasies, or even the less-fantastic indulgence of seeing the world through the perspective of the brilliant man drowning in a sea of morons. I still have time for that sort of escapism, but a straightforward treatment of the human condition done right is spectacular enough to my taste.)

I've written before of how pleased I was in the third season when Jim took another job after being rejected by Pam. It was even more pleasing to watch Pam reconsider her life in consequence, realizing that she could be happier and that she deserved to be, and that this would require change on her part. Most especially, I liked that determination to change for the better even if it meant being alone instead of in a comfortable relationship for a while; even if it might not win her another chance at romance with her best friend. How good it was to see this done in an ordinary way, using one or two conventions to adapt the continuity of life to the episodic nature of a TV show in a way that was obvious but not thick-headedly obvious. The old cliché executed on television with dignity, for once. Not having to roll my eyes as usual, I was able to think of myself and the few times when I wish I had been as brave. It takes time, it happens little by little, and often even the merest acknowledgment of someone's effect on you is passed over in the madness to appear indifferent until you have an assurance that the feeling is mutual. An honest confession of love is a hell of a courageous thing, and when Jim really absorbs Pam's declaration, when he turns his back on the executive job and ends his relationship with Karen to ask Pam out, I was as moved as much as a sitcom can move me. Pam's smile after Jim asks her out is no easy thing to forget.

The line that made me laugh hardest in the third season was Dwight's, when he decided to shun Andy Bernard for 3 years. One of the silliest lines ever written for TV: "It's an Amish technique, like slapping someone with silence. ... I was shunned from age four until my sixth birthday for not saving the extra oil from a can of tuna." While searching for a transcription of that and a video clip of Dwight and Jim impersonating each other, I came across several blogs written by people enamored with the character of Jim. Quite a welcome departure from the plague of "handsome doctor" TV crushes one is accustomed to. I see no harm if people are inspired to seek out their "Jim Halpert" or their "Pam Beasley".

I hope future episodes don't fall into the trap of introducing a series of contrived conflicts to sustain tension between the characters. I've had my fill of those. A happy couple is fascinating enough; let a show culminate in something other than the suggestion that the interesting part of life is over once you've found love.

Perhaps due to the enormous amount of new tech introduced each year for the past few decades--the ever-more-rapid march of handheld computers, cellphones, virtual pets, portable dvd players, blackberrys, digital audio players, segways, roombas, electric ass-warming underwear etc.--I hardly give a damn anymore. As someone who grew up in the era of videogame consoles and late-Gen-X era cartoons I wish I could say that my generation won't be impressed by anything less than flying DeLoreans, jetpacks, or some manner of cyborg foot soldier of the ninja or terminator variety, but the truth is that something like a Disney Sing-a-long amalgamated with Milton Bradley's Simon in a plastic guitar is usually more than enough to have even the thriftiest of us subsisting on Ramen noodles until the next paycheck. I, however, have seen Dimension X; the Technodrome was to my liking, and whatever else seizes the ephemeral attention and disposable income of the gadget/status symbol starved crowd will probably strike me at best as inessential, at worst ridiculous. The Toyota Prius I drove last week was the first consumer-marketed technological advancement to raise my eyebrows since the little miracle that is TIVO. It honestly made me feel like I was in a sci-fi flick.

There's much that contibuted to this impression, but to begin with, the "key" happens to be a small black plastic cuboid--ostensibly this represents some sort of advancement in security technology, but more probably it was just designed that way to make the unwitting driver feel like a troglodyte. You can imagine me, after retrieving the "key" from a lockbox (big thanks, btw, to antarcticlust for first making me aware of Madison's car sharing company, Community Car) turning the thing over, prying at edges, trying to find some sort of release for the familiar little wand of metal and ultimately entering the vehicle not having any notion of how the hell I should start it. It occurred to me in a bit that maybe the key was in the glove compartment; as I leaned over I noticed, peculiarly, lack of a keyhole in the steering column as well as the conspicuous little matchbox sized slot in the dash. Eureka. And wouldn't you know it but the "key" fit right in. This, however, only resulted in the LEDs on either side of the key-port lighting up and me feeling like a jackass. Obviously I couldn't turn the cartridge-key and it wasn't going in any further, so... oh, look, an international "ON" symbol the size of a silver dollar is blinking at me from the center of the dash. And... VIOLA! All systems go. Monitor, on! Dashboard console, on! Cretinous local FM station playing horrendous emo cover of Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time, on! Everything suddenly came to life! Everything except the damn engine came to life!

There had to be some way to turn the stupid thing over, so I started from scratch--maybe I forgot to keep my foot on the brake while I powered on or maybe I missed a retinal scanner that swung of the visor while I was trying to figure things out. Once more--same result. I pressed a couple of random buttons... nothing. Huh! At this point I wondered if I would actually be safe driving the future-car, seeing as how everything encountered thus far had been radically redesigned. Looking around I found there was nothing but a storage compartment between the seats; the gear stick was on the dash--just a joystick really. Weird. The monitor showed a schema of the shift pattern; it looked ready-to-go so I thought maybe the engine starts when you put it in a different gear. A couple of quick taps on the joystick-shifter and the display showed me in reverse, but the engine was still dead quiet. I let my foot off the brake anyway and, like I was on an incline, the car starts rolling backwards. ¿Que? I wasn't on an incline. Brake. *Tap-tap* (Park) *Tap-tap* (Drive)--forward I go. Still no sound. MOTHER O' SHIT--HYBRID ENGINES ARE AS QUIET AS A MOUSE FART!

It's the coolest thing about the hybrid really, that the car moves as if it was ever pointed downhill and the gas pedal somehow controlled gravity. I was awed. Well, actually this is tied for the coolest thing with the pissant amount of gas the car uses, which happens to not be very much I know, because I got lost in Madison and drove around like an idiot for about an hour and the gas meter barely registered a change. The end.

The next week I tried out a Mini-Cooper (Aw. Mini!) and it was pretty sharp, though underwhelming after the Prius. Looks cool, handles GREAT. It's recommended as a getaway vehicle if you and Michael Caine are planning an elaborate heist in Italy. The Prius, on the other hand, is recommended to people who want to save on gas, people who think (rightly) that using less fuel makes a global difference, and to anyone who enjoys spending one hour or several weeks a month pretending to play music on a plastic guitar. Oh, and nerds. We like it too.

More annoying: mouth-drums or mouth-lasers?

I wanted to see Regina Spektor months ago. Because I despise Ticketmaster, I refused to order tickets and hoped to purchase them on the day of the show. Of course tickets sold out well before the show--Ticketmaster profits heavily from scalpers (euphemistically known as "brokering agencies") who purchase in bulk while gladly paying Ticketmaster's outrageous fees; in turn, they sell those same tickets to fans at a price several times their fair value.

How is this sort of parasitism allowed? Why is it not illegal? Ticketmaster and ticket scalpers add nothing to any transaction, they only inflate the cost. They do not create art. They do not make it more accessible. They simply make it more expensive. You receive a service charge when you buy from Ticketmaster, but there is no real service provided. They charge you a convenience fee, but in reality they represent inconvenience. They provide a point of sale, that's all. The venue or artist could do this very easily--and oftentimes they do--if they care about their customers/fans. Ticketweb does everything Ticketmaster does for about $2.50 per show. No bogus charges: no facility charge, or disgustingly-named "convenience fee".

There is a public interest in receiving positive social contributions from every occupation in society, and Ticketmaster and ticket scalpers are--for no good reason--exempt from this reasonable expectation. Suppose there was a train going between two places, that this train was the only mode of arriving at its destination and that there was every expectation of the tickets selling themselves. If I purchased all the tickets and I stood in front of the train station selling these with an exorbitant markup, telling passengers that they were being charged separately for my services, for the convenience of dealing with me, and for a meaningless "station fee", I would be fit to have my ass whipped publicly and no one would feel sorry for me if exactly that happened. An analagous situation exists with Ticketmaster; I just paid Ticketmaster $7 dollars for the convenience of dealing with them, $1 for whatever is meant by a "facility charge", and $5 and change to process my order. The ticket, which is originally priced at $23.00, is inflated to $36.33. This is business as usual.

I wish bankruptcy on the Ticketmaster corporation and all its executives. I wish that all its employees be made to find employment somewhere that doesn't harm artists and the general populace. I wish that all Ticketmaster stockholders take tremendous losses on their Ticketmaster stock, and that they learn to invest in non-cancerous enterprises. May this come to pass via legal action by consumers, or the disgust of the public.