NASCAR is a Yankee invention to keep the South placated; they will never rise again.

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Here's an idea - if you're going to sing along in an ugly voice to a crappy song, why don't you at least make sure you know the words, stupid?

Your mom called, Pervy.  She hates you as much as I do and hopes you get robbed when you're in Morocco.

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Sometimes I wish I could make people understand The Mars Volta, because no one seems to.  Yes, they're overwhelming, and they make me cry because they turn my brainy-brain to mush.  But they're oh so very good.

If there was one band that makes me strive to put more into myself as a musician, it's Polar Bear.  And then The Mars Volta.  But still - they're freakin' high on the list.

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Another music thought:  most people who say they 'like everything but rap and country' don't actually like everything but rap and country.  Usually they don't like lounge music, trip-hop, metal, progressive rock, jazz, ambient, classical, or numerous other things, either.

Saying you 'like everything but rap and country' usually signifies to me that you just listen to the prepackaged tripe they serve you on the radio, and you usually don't have anything interesting to say about music.  Granted, there are plenty of exceptions to this generalization, but it holds true enough that I'll stick with it for now.

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I wish I had the money to either spend time in or set up an inexpensive recording studio. There are so many ideas floating around in my head, so many songs that need to be sung, but one man can only do so much with his two hands and voice.

I want layers, man - while I know that almost all of the songs I've written sound fine pared down to nothing but a guitar and a voice, when I play I hear all the other things that could be there.  A fragile violin passage?  Sure.  An explosion of organ - like real, honest-to-goodness pipe organ?  Why not?  multiple guitar parts weaving in and out of each other, making a tapestry of sound that rains down upon you like a wall of water?  I wish.

But I can't seem to find anyone who wants to pursue these musical visions with me.  The people I know who want me in their bands want to play generic, throw-away music, devoid of any life or vibrancy.  So I remain alone, writing music on my beautiful guitar in my basement room and imagining what could be.

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I hate that pit in your stomach when you've got a test to take.  I know I've done the necessary preparations, and I'll look over the material once or twice more before the exam this evening, but I've still got this sinking feeling that will be with me until I walk out of that classroom and turn my exam in.

Hate it, I tell you.

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So . . . I rarely take joy in the misfortune of others.  And I won't say that I take joy in this, but I do feel compelled to share this information with you, faithful reader.

Pervy took three courses while he's been over here.  (Never mind that we were supposed to take at least four to count as full-time students, so it's entirely possible that the school will rescind his grants and force him to pay for this semester.)  In his Spanish Level 4 class, he failed his test with flaming colors - which means he failed the course.  (And he said that exam was going to be so easy.)

Now, he didn't turn his final project in on time for his Spoken Spanish class, and the teacher e-mailed him yesterday to say that she won't accept it, so he's failed that class too.

Again, I don't wish ill on him and feel bad that he's flunked two out of his three classes, but at the same time, the schadenfreude monster makes me smile a little, if only for all the hell he's put me through these last four months.

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That's enough randumb nonsense for now.  Later, childrens.  I need to study some more, I guess.