I remember a Fox Trot comic strip from many years back, showing the mother hollow-eyed and crazy, listing off all the things she'd done in the past three hours, and then lamenting that she'd taken antihistamines with coffee. Today wasn't quite like that, but after calling out sick, the coffee/DayQuil combination (try it at home!) spurred me on to new heights of activity. None of it mental, though. I'm good for unthinking actions only. It's probably a mistake to sit down and write on this; it's all I can do to avoid writing an entry about how I moved a filing cabinet today. (It looks GREAT in the new location!)
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A while back, I was thinking about an entry on "every band I've ever called my 'favorite'." I abandoned it because the opening trio of Duran Duran/Motley Crue/Rush is pretty damn embarassing. But one of the bands that would (unashamedly) be on it was the Laughing Hyenas, who I loved in the early '90s. So it was with that muted shock that greets the passing of someone you didn't actually know, that I read about Larissa Strickland's death the other day.
I got into the LHs really late, and missed their glory years, but discovering their back catalog sent me -- it was a reflection of an anger and pain light years from the stuff I was generally listening to at that point. For a sheltered straight-edge suburban kid in Arizona, they (and their notorious lifestyle) were terrifying and alluring. I didn't see them live 'til it was way too late (about the time of the "Hard Times" album, which I've only in recent years been able to admit wasn't very good), but nonetheless, I worshipped pretty heavily at the altar in college (to fredoluv's disgust).
Rest in peace. I'll dig out "You Can't Pray A Lie" this week, the only sort of tribute I can really pay.
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By the time of Tuesday's elections, all my optimism had dwindled away -- I was resigned to the Democrats not only failing to take the Senate, but also failing to take the House. So the actual result has been a hell of a treat, and everything since (Rumsfeld out, Bolton a dead issue) would have me doing backflips if I wasn't shoving kleenex up my nostrils at every opportunity. It's almost too much. I feel like I've overdosed on Halloween candy.
When it became apparent the other night that George Allen was really going to lose in Virginia, I text-messaged a friend and said "now it's time for shattered illusions." It's gonna be a tough time after the euphoria -- people on my end of the spectrum satisfied by nothing less than world peace and socialized medicine, people on the other end looking for any excuse to pounce. The glow's already draining away.
Still, that asshole Santorum is out, Allen is out, Bolton is done. The silly optimistic part of me is giggling like a fool. I was also kinda happy to see Heath Shuler win, though only on party lines and nostalgia -- I don't think I actually agree with him on anything.
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As noted elsewhere, I finally saw the Thrashers play in person the other night. In addition to a ripping good game (what I saw of it: parts were missed as I awaited a new refrigerator), I noticed a new feature this year: you can text message things to get posted up on the scoreboard. Yeah, I imagine it's commonplace by now, but it's the first time I've noticed it. Most were of the garden variety "Hi Joey!" type, with a marriage proposal thrown in (I hope to God it wasn't sincere), and the random "I like turnip greens." I wonder how many "Bring back Kloucek" messages can go up before they'll block my number?