But wait, there's more! More, more more, as long as the punk rock holds out., i forget sometimes, how the punk rock energizes me. Yes, I may be 35, and yeah, I may hold down a pendantic job, and yeah, I may be a parent to an 8-year old with an inherited fixation on HORRIBLE pop singers, but goddamn, I love me some Horace Pinker. I'll trumpet them far and wide, still. Good guys, wonderful band. Everytime I listen to Horace Pinker, I feel renewed. Not like when I listen to Juno and feel - what? Challenged, which is good, in a different way. But with the HP, I feel vindicated. Like all the good things that I remember from punk rock, from when I was a part of it (becaiuse I feel estranged from it now) and all it gave me - it's there in their music. That's why they rock. If you don't have it, any of it (Copper Regret, Pop Culture Failure, Power Tools, all the 7", any of it, get it now. Now, Now NOW.
I mean, if you like the poppunkrock, of course.

So, yeah, I got interrupted in the middle yesterday, and hauled off to a lovely meeting about health insurance and how much it's going to cost this year (substantially more, it turns out, oooh, big shock that)..vital stuff. But I don't want to bitch about work, because, well, that's just dull. What I wanted to get down was that in the end it all comes back to Mick Jagger. See, I'm not a big fan, but I find our man Mick, and to a lesser degree, his boys (otherwise generally known as The Rolling Stones. Except for those hardcore Keith Richards fans, who will go head to head with you about who's more important and to who I say: Heroin does not trump glam, sorry. So there.
Jeezus. Anyway, it's been a bit dull on the public transpo lately, which is good in that I like a stress free commute more than anything, and have found two very quiet routes to take me to and from work. How-ev-er. I do miss the nutty wacky hijinks of a whacked route (like say, the 7, the mythical bus route that serves all the fringe elements, running from the Rainier District to the U with stops in the always dismal Capitol Hill neighborhood, bustling downtown (mmmmhmm, 2nd and Union baybee) and points in between). You know, the colorful characters potion of this show we call Life. Right. So imagine my delight when the one scruffy guy who disembarks at my stop joins me in waiting for the light to hange so we can cross, and he asks how my day was.
My day happened to have sucked, but I just told him it had been so far, so good, as far as days went, and then asked him how he was.
He broke into a huge grin and tossed his scraggly haired head back and forth "Awww, it's a great day, I got my tickets for the Stones this morning!" he said with unbridled enthusiasm. I grinned immediately watching his face light up as he told me about how he had stoof in line this morning ("I even brought my lawn chair") and was the first in line when the box office opened at 10am.
Box office? Huh. I haven't bought tickets to a show at a box office in a loooooong time. Meanwhile, as we chatted I mentioned that I had tickets to the Rolling Stones show back in (*cough*) 1982 ('83? something like that) and hadn't seen them since. He leaned forward and there was a distinct glimmer in his eye, "I haven't seen 'em since 1975 in San Fransisco (would that make it Altamont? naw, that was like '69, right? damn hippie history), and they were great then, they'll be great now."
I offered that it would be a trip to see them now comparing the two - but he wouldn't have it.

What's it take to get me writing again? Is it the bile that wells up inside of me as I read that the FBI is currently visiting libraries to investigate what people are reading? Perhaps. See, here's the thing: I know i wasn't the only person who had to read George Orwell's 1984 in high school...yet I seem to be the only person (except, of course for the SingleMostRockingGuyEver, who, in case it's been so long that you've forgotten, goes by the more managable nom de something SMRGE) who seems to notice a striking relationship to current events and that fine piece of what I'm sure was intended to be caustionary fiction (unlike Hitler's masterwork, which I do believe was a primer for how to bring this on, and obviously something the folks in the White House (and it's underground caves) are studiously reviewing step by civil-rights squashing and frenzy-stirring step)? Huh? Anyone? Other than Wil Wheaton I mean.
Okay. Sure, I could rant on about all that, but honestly