In Honor of William "The Refridgerator" Perry, I give you...

POST # 72!!




Figured I'd make this my music post for the year. All I gotta say is, look at song number 20 on my top 25 most played list. It's not a comprehensive list, but apparently I do listen to a lot of Jeff Buckley, Serge Gainsbourg, Boz Scaggs, and, er, alright, I'm a fucked up dude.

But as I just stated to my friend Melina, I just downloaded two versions of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" : Elvis, Live in Vegas 1970, and Willie Nelson. Both versions rocked my world, and will soon find themselves climbing the list.

Saw "The Devil and Daniel Johnston," and also gaining ground are "Do You Really Love Me," and "Some Things Last a Long Time."

Extremely bummed about the Chargers. More than I care to admit. Ladanian Tomlinson, you did not fail; your team, and the city of San Diego, failed you.

I won't forget the things you did. Some things last a long time.

Memories of Temps Perdues

Angelina had an interesting post earlier this week on something I hadn't conceived of: passports which transmit radio/cell phone-esque signals, which allow you to check in to customs, track your location, download music, shank a fellow prisoner in the yard, etc.

She also had a funny passport photo of herself, which, of course, brought forth memories of mine own international identification thing, and, of course, the last time I used my passport for international travel: The Year of Our Lord, 2000.

Yes, that picture of myself as a 23 year old man, living a carefree life, tells a wonderful story. If you'll notice, the passport itself was issued from the U.S. Embassy in Paris, as I had lost my original documents the day before.

I left my original passport in the side pocket of a Martin backpacker guitar. In a phone booth. Just off the Champs-Elysees. I walked about two hundred meters down the street, and had one of the most major "Oh, Shit!" realizations of my life. I turned around, walked back to the booth, and it was gone.

Also in the side pocket of the backpacker guitar - a container of Sweet Breath brand breath freshener. Filled to the brim with liquid LSD. Straight from the crystal. Like my old friend "Tattoo Vinnie" used to make up in the mountains around Boulder.

Somewhere, someone, be it some gypsy, criminal, normal Joe, or none or all of the above, found my sweet guitar. They also found some breath freshener, which they may or may not have tried. And, of course, my passport, so they know who their benefactor was. I like to think they took that guitar, took a whole bunch of dose, and wrote the album that will sell a billion copies worldwide. And then they'll look me up, since, you know, they fucking know who I am. And hook me up.

Or they'll hunt me down for making them insane. I never promised you a rose garden..