Long (and ongoing as of this post) story short: Sidekick lost. Sidekick found. Sidekick not returned. Power of the Interweb unites peoples. Pressure applied. And so far, all legal, non-violent, and beautiful.

http://www.evanwashere.com/StolenSidekick/

So very worth reading.

Five years later, I’m awakened by news that gets its start in the Middle East, with Al Queda. Al-Zarqawi is dead, and people across America are celebrating.What? Really?

Look, I’m all for the man having been taken out of play. He’s responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths. Oh, wait; that would be our President. Um, let’s see… Well, he did it for religious reasons… Shit. Still there, hunh?

Bush-bashing aside, the man was a bad person and needed to be pulled from the game board. I’m all for the death penalty, too, if it is known without any shadow of doubt that the person being put to death is the killer (and that’s the person holding the degree in criminal psychology talking). I’m not standing on a soap box preaching that we should have captured him, or some alternative to blowing him up. Although I will note that Michael Berg, father of Nicholas Berg (who was beheaded in 2004 in Iraq, likely by Al-Zarqawi), noted in an interview with Soledad O’Brien, “Well, my reaction is I’m sorry whenever any human being dies. Zarqawi is a human being. He has a family who are reacting just as my family reacted when Nick was killed, and I feel bad for that.”

Good man, Michael Berg. You have to respect that sentiment.

But Berg makes another good point, one that is being casually drowned out by all the celebratory pomp and circumstance: Al-Zarqawi is now a martyr. One the one hand, this could be a turning point in the war; on the other, it could be a stage of reinforcing the status quo, perhaps even pulling some Muslims extremists into action. I certainly hope not, but I can’t say I’ll be surprised if it only gets worse from here.

Is there anyone out there willing to shut Ann Coulter up? Whatever means you want to use, fine by me.

I’ve decided that her outrageous commentary is an act, crafted to sell books and public speaking engagements. Hey, controversy sells — and for all the time that right-wing extremists have helped boost the profits of some of my favorite entertainment, well… Frances Farmer is having her revenge.

I don’t feel so bad for her; not even irritated, so much, as she’s either a brilliant saleswoman and performer or teetering on the edge of sad and pathetic delusion. It’s the people that buy her books, that allow her to command extraordinary fees for lectures, and worst, take her mixture of fact and fiction and cheap heat as fact.

The more attention that she gets, the worse it is. And yes, I know that I’m just as guilty as Hillary Clinton in pointing all this out, but damn — can’t we all just ignore her? I think that’s my new plan.

Either that, or blatant condescending pity. In fact, I have a request for the Al Frankens and Alan Colmes and anyone else that gets an interview with her: shower her with sadness and gentility. Treat her like the retarded cousin that she is. Humor her. But let your patronization run rampant.

But if you want to debark her and take her typing fingers away while you’re there, I can’t really say I’d argue with you too much.

A thirty minute nap in my world is equitable with unicorns, leprechauns, and happy endings.

The truest joy of being a rock star is not playing the music you love for money, or punishing your liver with a zealous vengeance (and being encouraged to do so), or even wearing a cheap cowboy hat onstage while you cover Ozzy Osbourne and Metallica and make jokes about Michael Hutchence’s affinity for leather belts.

No, the absolute peak of your life as a performing musician comes when you take a live instrument (amp cranked to a painful volume that is further enhanced with a serious distortion pedal) pound out the final notes of whatever song you happen to be playing (note: must be bombastic and drawn out; the more retarded and METAL the better — in this case, “For Whom the Bell Tolls”by Metallica, done up all hellbilly style), remove said instrument from your body, and procede to use your instrument to put a divot in the concrete floor of the club you’re playing.

Hendrix and Townsend had it right. Smashing your guitar, while somewhat hazardous to anyone standing in front of you, is brilliant fun.

If only I had been allowed to set things on fire, the night would have been complete.

Shadows of angels and Machines of Hate and Rage will be unleashed from the Bowels of the Earth, and the gutters will be awash with the Blood of innocents! The screams of the children as they are sacrificed to the Dark Powers will echo across the lands as the sun and the moon are swallowed by eternal Night! Your souls will writhe in agony as they fester and rot in the Hopeless Cold that is the breath of the Ancient Ones! All while Long Island Teas and cold draught Newcastle wash over your parched and bleeding lips! The Winged Beast of the North will peck at your eyes!

The Exhibit(s) are at Bailey’s Pub on Southside tonight, Tuesday, 6/6/6. Rumors of mystical incantations and sacrifices to dark powers may or may not be true. Rumors of encouraged liver damage are definitely true. And the odds that you’ll hear us play a lot of songs with “Devil” in the title? Pretty damn good. No cover charge, good drinks, and a possible surprise appearance by Satan. What more could you ask for?

6-6-06: How to Tell the Real Me from My Evil Parallel-Universe Me Should I Ever Have to Plead with You to “Shoot the Fake Me!

Take the Dante’s Divine Comedy Inferno Test

Team Satan merchandise? Why have I never heard of this before?

Hell on Earth. I’ll be going here on the same trip that I eventually make to the real world Silent Hill, Centralia, PA.

Expecting? Check the scalp carefully for birthmarks…

(Speaking of expecting — while not Satan-related, this is certainly implying evil, or at least poor choice in logo design)

Today is June 6, 2006, also known as 6/6/6.

Today is election day — gubernatorial primaries and more.

Anyone else see the connection?

I laugh about this even more when I think about Roy Moore using it as an excuse when he loses.

[cue ominous music] … or will he?

Watching things go down at the bar this weekend, you would have thought that there was something serious and heavy going down. Stress levels generally rise on Saturday nights as we approach the 1:40 last call — it’s the nature of our schedule, I think, and the fact that we almost always start off Saturdays dead and end up three deep at both bars around midnight. It makes getting into the swing of things difficult, but Jason and Garth and Mariel and I almost always keep level by drinking enough to keep us on a happy plateau and joking about feeling the Hate. This weekend, though — not so much joking.

And later on, finding out what it was all about — honestly, at this point, all I can do is scratch my head and wonder. But then I think about it more, and I realize that I don’t stress nearly as much as most people, and that makes it hard for me to relate.

It’s not that I don’t get angry, or have flashes of an extreme temper. I do. In fact, I’m apt to snap at seemingly nothing on a long night. But that’s it — I shout a little, or get blunt and rude with someone, or (once in a blue moon) punch a wall, and it’s over. I’m back to Happyville. I’ve never really gotten the point in hanging onto those tensions and letting them eat away at you.

Granted, part of it has a lot to do with my whole philosophy of the universe unfolding as it should. And I don’t say that as though I have no control or input about the way things turn out; I don’t believe that I’m predestined to do every little thing that I’m going to do, that I’m just running on autopilot (good lord, if you really think that’s the way life goes, you might as well go ahead and kill yourself now; what’s the point?). In fact, after reading Vonnegut’s Timequake, I now have the notion of having to relive a given number of years constantly nagging at the back of my skull, so I do my best to make sure that I won’t be stuck in a nightmare if that ever happens.

No, I just think that things have a way of working themselves out, for better or for worse (depending on your perspective). If you fuck up and make a mistake, you can make it right (although it might be a different idea of right than what you imagine or hope for). If things are going bad for you now, then you can do any number of things to make life better. Your alternative — the one that I think most people opt for — is to obsess and stick yourself in a loop of worrying and bitching and complaining.

The problem here is twofold, though — you carry that stress, it festers and grows and rots and eats away at you, giving you sore shoulders, bleeding ulcers, and a rather displeasing aura. It also doesn’t solve or accomplish anything; the problem that is causing you all the stress isn’t going anywhere, and therefore the stress and tension is sticking around as a nice foundation for all the other to sit upon.

I can’t remember who said it to me, but you can’t move forward if you’re constantly busy looking behind you. And that saying can be applied to many contexts, but this one’s included. It always reminds me of the Serenity prayer (is that the name?) — the one that asks for the wisdom to know what you can change, the strength to change what you can, and the patience to accept what you can’t (or something; religious catchphrases aren’t exactly my strong point).

And that’s when I start to see and understand a little better: those of you who are carrying steel cables in your shoulders, puking blood for seemingly no reason, feeling lightheaded and dropkicking the gallon of milk just need to start letting go of the things that are out of your hands (worrying isn’t going to make it any better, yeah?), and doing something about those things that are in your control.

Look, I’m bipolar. I don’t sleep nearly enough — maybe four hours on a good night. I don’t sleep because I’m too busy working or dealing with side projects. I take terrible care of my body — I smoke two packs of cigarettes a day, I drink too much, I forget to eat at least two days out of every week, and what I do eat could hardly qualify as a balanced diet. And yet even with all that, I manage to keep my stress levels under control, and I mostly feel pretty good about things, no matter how they are, because I know what I can change (and I actively work on changing what I’m not happy with, instead of passively pondering) and I know what I can’t change (and I don’t sweat that stuff).

I’m not saying that it’s that simple — just snap your fingers and you can change a lifetime’s habit or worrying (although I do think it’s possible, if you believe it to be that simple). But it’s not magic, brain surgery, or quantum physics. It just takes practice and a little self-awareness.

Just think how much money you’ll save on Maalox, and how nice it will be to eat spicy food again. Oh, and to have all the irritants out of your life. That’s what sold me.