Addressing your comments, and The Beginning of a Treatise on Defecation

I'll use this space to respond to some comments that have been made over the past few weeks...


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First off, the De Palma post got the people riled up. Weibel asked how I felt about De Palma's relationship to the Boss. Luckily, De Palma only directed the "Dancing in the Dark" video, so I think I can justify the love of one and hatred of another.


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Qualler stated that he felt that "Carrie" was good and then De Palma forgot how to make films. Well, opinions (mine, too) are like assholes. We all have them, and I want to stick it in all of them. Wait. That's not how it goes. Oh, yeah, they all stink. That's it.


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Butt sex is gross.


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Weibel also stated that "Gigli" wasn't that bad. I tend to agree. It's not good, don't get me wrong, but it got lambasted and written off immediately as one of the worst films ever. "Scarface" is worse.


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To anonymous, who said, "You suck, do some research." Thank you. By the way, those were two independent clauses that should be separated by one of the following: ", and", ";", or ". Do".


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Little brother, now that you mention it, I did trade you those Counting Crows records. I wish I could say I queerly repurchased them, but, alas, I did not. I ended up trading something to Whit for Tom Cochrane, and I really wish I still had that CD. Tom Cochrane got the Broken Social Scene seal of approval in having appeared on the Kevin Drew record, so I finally can feel vindicated in my love to Tom Cochrane. Londonbeat was gay. Roxette was/is awesome. If you take a magical journey to the land that was 1989* and give "Listen to Your Heart" a second chance, you'll find that it's fucking awesome. Fuck it. Here you go.



* Now (and I'm getting this all from wikipedia, obviously the most reliable source for information on the planet) rumor has it that Roxette broke in the U.S. because some kid from Minneapolis was studying in Sweden in the fall of 1988, when "Look Sharp!" was initially released in Roxette's homeland, Sweden. The album was getting tons of airplay there, so when the kid came back to the states and found that the stations weren't playing it, he proceeded to badger KDWB until they played "The Look". The listener response was so positive that the DJ had to put it in heavy rotation and soon made copies to distribute to other stations. We lived in Rochester, a mere 70 miles from the epicenter of the stateside explosion of Roxette, so I now feel special for having been so close to something so important.

Just to have these things on the record, I also listened to Rick Astley, Debbie Gibson, Billy Ocean, and Tiffany as an elementary schooler. In middle and high school, I actually owned CDs by Fastball, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Squirrel Nut Zippers, Reel Big Fish, and many other awful bands. How I'm not gay or a townie, I'll never know. Now, I feel no shame for liking Rick Astley, Billy Ocean, or P.M. Dawn (who I didn't include because I stand by their awesomeness, and holy shit do I still wish I had those first two P.M. Dawn records), but I should mention that I owned albums by these artists. I also owned Nick Cave records in high school, so clearly a small part of me wanted to be cool. That was not the part of me that decided that buying that retarded Cherry Poppin' Daddies CD was a good idea.

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Moving on.

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If you missed it, Ryan said that Billy Corgan was pissed at Collective Soul for ripping a riff from Snail and using it in their only hit.

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And finally, Chad alerted me to a glaring omission from the Springsteen story. High on the adrenaline from having just seen the Boss, we exited the American Airlines Center and headed towards the ramp we parked (Platinum Parking). When we parked we found the closest spot to the exit that we could, so we wouldn't be waiting in the ramp for hours to get out. Well, upon reaching the spot in which we had parked the car, we found that Chad's car was gone. We looked at each other. We were all at once puzzled, scared, and dazed.

Chad asked, "This is where we parked the car, right?" To which I replied that it was.

We stood there. Looking around helplessly. As Chad and Mark continued to stand puzzled about 15 feet from where we had pulled in hours earlier, I decided to walk down a little further, doubting my recollection of where we parked. As I neared the end of the row, a car that was the same make, model, and color as Chad's car caught my eye. Oddly, it was backed in, which I was sure we had not done, because only assholes do that, and we're not assholes. Well, we are assholes, but not that kind of asshole. We're the assholes who play the lookalike game and laugh at everyone else. We're not backing into parking spot assholes. They're a different breed.

As I rounded the car to inspect the back, the signature bumper stickers on the rear of Chad's car were there. I flagged Mark and Chad over to the car in this strange spot. We sized up the car, making sure that it hadn't been broken into and that all of our valuables were there. Realizing that there was no ticket on the windshield, we got in, completely weirded out, and left the ramp.

We figure that they had to have towed us to a different spot (even though when we got out to the ramp, there was a different car parked in the adjacent spot to where we'd initially parked), but the weirdest part of the whole thing is that they have to have towed the car, and then someway in between points A and B, they dropped the car, brought the tow truck around to the front of the car, re-picked it up, and towed it the rest of the way into the spot where I found it, leaving it in a primo position for exiting without problem. It was completely fucked up. I guess that's what you get with Platinum Parking...

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Hopefully this all encourages future commenting, as I can give shout-outs and responses should your comments warrant that treatment.

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Mark thanked me for mention of his lavatory exploits. Not sure how sincere he was in the thank you. He should have been. I am a big fan of defecating in public. The more pristine the locale/bathroom, the better, as far as I'm concerned. I know Mark is cut from the same cloth in that regard.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll begin to talk about my personal beliefs insofar as dropping deuces is concerned.

First off, I will feel no shame whatsoever for taking care of business, regardless of where I have to do it. There is a certain quality of facilities that I'd prefer, but as Chad and Mark can attest to, I will shit in a cold-ass bathroom in a West Texas Rest Area if I have to. They were shocked. I wasn't too crazy about it either, but it happened, and I'm a stronger person for it.

Secondly, I love to read on the can. I get my best reading done there. No interruptions. Intense focus. These are good things. When I worked in offices, I'd sneak whatever book I was reading into the restroom with me and get an extra 15 minutes before and after lunch. When I worked at Spider House, I used to take a book in with me without shame. While sitting in there, I had a scale for how long I'd take, depending on the patience of those waiting to get in for their turns. So you can imagine it, the bathroom is (was?) ultimately a single-use bathroom. There was a urinal and a toilet, but there was no stall action, so there was a lock on the door to keep out the riff-raff. Well, for the first time the door was pushed on from outside, I gave that person a pass. If I was disturbed a second time, I was going to sit there for a little while longer, enjoying my read and my private time. If there was a third attempt at entry and I hadn't done so already, the obligatory courtesy flush went out the window. I enjoyed this. A lot. Some might say I enjoyed it too much, but I disagree. Moreover, whenever I grabbed for that book, my co-workers knew exactly what was going on and smiled knowingly.

Third, I do not answer the phone while taking care of business. That would be rude. The only exception would be this: A "friend" and I have this friend who is also named Josh but was nicknamed Deuce by yours truly. In the spirit of his nickname and our general affinity for defecation, we thought it would be appropriate if we called him whenever we were dropping a deuce to tell him, "Hey man. Just droppin' a deuce and thinking about you." Unfortunately, we've yet to do that (Why? I don't know...), but if ever I feel so moved, that will be the occasion in which I talk on the phone while dropping a deuce.

More to come in the future on defecation. For now, this should sate your appetites.