I’d Rather Have My Cat Edit This [Friday Thoughts W/ TeeCoZee]
Good Moleman. We paid for blood! It’s Friday, February 1st, Two Thousand and Nineteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 13˚ & Pantone 664 and somewhere, somebody is patiently waiting for the mail. Or at least they’re convinced that they’re waiting “patiently”. Does anybody actually wait for the mail patiently? In order to do that, one would have to be passive about it, which would make the act of waiting for it null. To wait for the mail patiently is to go about your life as if the mail will never come and you could care less. To actively wait for the mail is to do so impatiently, as there’s a million things you could be doing while the mail comes. So this person is actually impatiently waiting for the mail, not knowing that the state-wide stoppage is still in effect. And me? You’re right. Where in the hell is my mail? While I wait, I have some things on my mind…
– I saw a guy on the street walking with a cane. If that wasn’t enough of a hinderance, he was wearing his pants down to his mid-thighs and his Timbs had no laces. Instead of walking in a straight line, he was doing some sort of strange full-body dance that could only be defined as “The Funky Grandpa”. I was extremely fascinated by how he went so far out of his way to prevent himself from walking like a normal human, or even a normal human with a cane. How does he even get from point A to point B? How long does it take him to do so? Is he constantly late? What is this man’s story and what does it all mean? As I was too focused on his chaotic gracefulness, I stepped in a big wet pile of dog poo. That’s what’s up–err, down.
– Because I love depriving myself from things, I abstained from drinking in the month of January. I expected a miserable month filled with sleepless nights and tooth-grinding days. I didn’t get that. Everybody else expected a refreshing month filled with revelations and healthy vibes. I didn’t get that. As a matter of fact, I didn’t feel any lick different. I slept in an extra hour ever day and drank a lot of cherry juice. I even read a memoir about an alcoholic and The Shining [which is basically a 700 page allegory to alcoholism] without feeling any sort of affected by it. And then as midnight struck on February 1st, I felt like a kid on Christmas. A world of beverages at my fingertips. Well, actually, not a world of beverages. My only option was a dusty bottle of rum that I knew I wouldn’t be tempted to drink, so I didn’t even have to hide it. It was given to me as a souvenir years ago from a Dominican co-worker. In the same vain as my [defunct] Free Wine Blog, here’s a truncated version of a Free Liquor Blog!
Presenting the Brugal Ron Dominican Extra Viejo Reserva Familiar. In translation, this means Ron Dominica’s family reserved a bag of extra crispy Bugles. What a bunch of dummies. In America, you never have to reserve Bugles. But you might need to call ahead. I took a good whiff of it and knew I was in for something stupid. Rachel also took a gander and stated, “it smells like that terrible taste that I get when they pump saline in my chest”. So I guess this will be like the time I took a shot of saline. Fantastic.
Upon first taste, I got a hint of nothing but gunpowder. I expected a skunk that ate too many vanilla beans, but after the initial gunpowder wore off, there was nothing. Not even booze. Just air. Upon second taste, nope, just gunpowder. I don’t even know what gunpowder tastes like. I just know, you know?
This rum whisked me away to some vast fields on a dark Dakota evening. People are gathered around, sullen and soft spoken. Nobody can look each other in the eye after what they’ve done. There’s a mattress on fire.
After my first gulp, my arms and shoulders folded inwards like I was Craig Kimbrel. Immediately after my second gulp, I found myself hurriedly rubbing my legs, which were covered in goosebumps. I then started writing the sentence that I wrote before this one and recited it out loud. Rachel made fun of me and I’m pretty sure that I’m drunk. Yes. I am indeed drunk off of 2 sips of free liquor. I have no recollection of what happened the rest of the night and that scares me. Did I play Mario Kart? Eat Bugles [extra viejo Bugles]? Go to bed? I don’t know! Damn you, Ron Dominica! You drugged me!
– I think all of the years that I’ve spent playing Mario games has made me more prepared to be a Cat Stepfather. Namely, I’m a lot more prepared when Will wants to attack my feet in the middle of the night, which is frequently. He does this thing where he tries to do something cute to distract me and as soon as I stop watching him, he goes in for the kill. I’ve learned to treat him like a Boo. As long as I’m staring at him, he won’t attack. I can strafe in any direction and as long as I’m facing him, he remains innocent. So the path in between the bathroom and my bed is a Ghost House that I strategically navigate while keeping my gaze on the Boo. I’m investing way too much energy in keeping my feet scratch-free. But now that he knows what’s going on, the all-knowing, all-powerful Will has adjusted his attacking techniques. There’s no more playing cute. I need to buy him a new cat tower and better food in hopes that he doesn’t destroy me. Because he’s really powerful and handsome and cool and could totally ruin me. Because I’m just a fat ninny who leaves his laptop open for everyone to read. Will is so much cooler than me. All hail Will.
Super Bowl Big Game is coming this weekend and holy hell, I could care less. I will admit, I took a minor interest in football this year. And by minor interest, I mean that I jumped aboard the bandwagon as the Chargers finished out the last month of their season. And by jumped aboard the bandwagon, I mean that I watched the second half of a few games while endlessly yelling and cursing at the TV. This game is so much worse off than it was when I left it. The symphony of rules is borderline unwatchable. Any time something good happens, there’s a flag. Any time something bad happens, there’s no flag, and that angers you. The infamous pass interference non-call in the NFC Championship is the exact embodiment of what the sport has become. It was a crucial play that changed the course of the game and the result had nothing to do with the prowess or athleticism of the players. It’s infuriatingly boring and I don’t know how this billion dollar industry can maintain. And now, there’s a problem with who the typical American should be rooting for. In one corner, you have the Patriots who are the former evil empire and well-hated football dynasty. In the other corner is the Rams, a franchise that was uprooted from St Louis against the fan’s will to a city that could care less about their existence. If this were pro wrestling, Vince McMahon would have you rooting for the Patriots. They spent all season as the underdog, the aging great. Whereas the Rams underwent a drastic heel turn in the pass interference play. I’d rather just watch Wrestlemania, any Wrestlemania would do [here’s looking at you, 9]. I would rather watch Ndamukong Suh repeatedly hit Tom Brady with a steel chair. I’d rather watch Will sleep because he’s such a cute and awesome cat that’s really cool.
But because I always need a horse in every race, I’m gunning for the Patriots this year. No, I didn’t buy into their kayfabe face turn. The way I see it, Tom Brady is not going to give up until he gets another ring. If the Rams win, he will find his way back next year. Let him win and he’ll ride off into the sunset. The nightmare would be over and competitiveness can be restored. Just let him win. He’ll go away, I promise.
– Last year, my laptop was hacked because I left it open like a dumb dummy Will is cool. When I recovered control, I found that my hard drive was filled with Vaporwave albums. As some kind of screwed up ransom, I am now responsible for writing about them on a regular basis. The Vaporwave Album of the Week is “Primetime” by Videofashion.
Over the months, I’ve considered myself to be a dabbler in the Broken Transmission subgenre. One problem that I’ve had with it [or with New Dreams LTD] is that it takes itself too seriously. People seem to think that because they can replicate the aesthetic of a TV in the 80’s, they’re doing it for the sake of art. They want to create some grand and dark world for you to reside in, where the TV static makes you feel uneasy and most of the commercials are in Japanese. This faux-noire gets stale really quick because ultimately, I don’t listen to music so that I can feel bad. If I did, I would listen to Bruce Springsteen or Will meowing for food. With Primetime, it opens up with a slowed-down Jack Handy reciting, “Its a shark, lying on an elephants back, just trampling and eating everything they see”. With this snippet alone, I knew that Videofashion was trying to do something different. Something profound. They were trying to have fun. And in this climate, that’s a rare thing to see. The album flows for over an hour in a seamless fashion. I feel like I’m 5 again, helplessly sitting on the couch while my dad rapidly changes the channels. He only stays on a channel for as long as his attention can hold. He browses through outlandish news pieces, weather reports and even teases me with the prospect of watching a scary movie [which happens to be The Fog, the ABC Movie of the Week]. The only time I’m taken out of the experience is on the second side, when Mike Piazza hits his dramatic home run against the Braves on September 21, 2001. It upset me because it has a definitive time-stamp that’s way newer than other artifacts in play. It also upset me because I’m getting a little sick of Vaporwave’s fascination with 9/11, as the genre was arguably formed because of it. But my anger was quickly alleviated with a drawn out interview with John Candy set to a muzak rendition of “You Were Meant For Me” by Jewel [a song made after Candy’s death]. The absurdity of it put the smile back on my face. And in a genre that’s trife with artistes that think their works are the word of God, absurdity is a very welcomed refreshment.
– I left the apartment while writing this to get food. While I was gone, this incriminating photo was sent to my phone:
Apparently, Will didn’t take kindly to my critique of his tactics. He decided to make some edits of his own. I’m just going to let it be.
– Try this trick over the weekend: teach your cat how to edit your blogs. You might even get 30 hits. THIRTY!
Have a cat, everyone!