Piano rock and Wal-Mart bananas

Finally, my place is beginning to look like I'd want to hang out with the person who lives there. Outside the running gag that is the Santa Cruz County housing scene, I can suddenly afford multiple rooms and furniture to fill them. I even bought a throw rug the other day. All of this is a unique experience for me. If you didn't know already, newspaper folks ain't in it for the money. Fame, maybe. Social approval, more than likely. But never cash. I'd be richer if I'd started hanging drywall in junior high. Even so, my second-hand futon and I are going to change the world.
I actually had to drive back to Santa Cruz last weekend to tie off some loose ends, several of which steadfastly refuse to be tied. I relearned a pair of major life lessons within the span of 24 hours: Rental agreements are legally binding, and people don't have to like everyone they kiss. Some of them they may downright loathe.
I was also exposed to a genre of music I have so far done my best to deny the existence of --- piano rock. I don't mean Elton John or Yes, both of whom could have staked claims on that name decades ago but wisely avoided it. I mean the new crop of moody popsters who equate tickling the proverbial ivories with emotional complexity and unrequited love. Don't get me wrong; my musical skills are pretty much limited to the easy part of "Chopsticks" and the backing vocals on a few songs that went out of style in the late '90s ("If you want to destroy my sweater *whoa whoa whoa* Pull this thread as I walk away"). I'm in total awe of anybody that can do anything at all on key. But just because an unimaginative pop single has a neat piano riff in the bridge doesn't mean it's not an unimaginative pop song, you know? Stop buying the album already. Also: Back in the day, rock 'n' roll didn't generally make you want to hang yourself. If you go back to the term's literal meaning, it was supposed to make you want to do something entirely different that, ahem, required help. Enough with the sad bastard music, unless it's a band I like.
Anyway, I visited my local Wal-Mart out of desperation the other night and found myself leaving with nearly $200 worth of stuff. I can almost justify the computer desk and the microwave, but I'm having trouble with the groceries. If any soulless retailer is up to its neck in the illegal coffee and produce trades, you just know it's Wal-Mart. There's no doubt in my mind that the spinach now in my refrigerator was picked in the diminishing tropical spinach groves of Nicaragua by malnourished Cambodian sweatshop workers whose ancestors considered that land sacred. I can barely choke it down (although a nice mustard vinagarette helps) and I can practically hear the Chiquita Banana overlords cackling as I peel their nefarious product and slice ity over my slave-labor cereal. But where else was I supposed to get cheap produce at 11 p.m. on a Sunday? On the other hand, if you can justify giving your money to Wal-Mart, you can pretty much justify anything short of violent crime.
Overall, this week was an experience in being an Average American. I found my emotional needs only marginally fulfilled, my diet unremarkable and my entertainment only somewhat diverting. Was I miserable? Far from it. Only vaguely displeased. But that can still wear a guy down in a hurry.
However, in true American fashion, I've made a new start in a new place and the possibilities yawn before me. There are many worse things to be than a promising young up-and-comer with romantic prospects, however unlikely, and that's something I think about every day. Things can only improve from here, and here's actually pretty nice. If only folks would ease up on the Coldplay...

Rule No. 1: Never, never touch the bedspread

Boy, am I tired of sleeping in hotel rooms. My new job was kind enough to set me up with a room until I get my own place, and I've certainly slept in worse places (see: three years of college housing; the Blue Diamond motel outside Las Vegas) but the Four Seasons this ain't. The boxed life is beginning to wear thinner than that odd burned patch on the curtains.
I've settled into as much of a routine as I can manage, though. I've mostly stopped flipping the wrong switch and plunging myself into darkness as I get out of the shower. I've established three separate but equal piles for clean clothes, dirty ones and those of indeterminate status. (Don't judge me too harshly, ladies. I've been around enough to know what the hotel room of a woman on vacation looks like. At least I have the sense to put my stuff on the floor so I can see the TV.)
There are approximately 700 Japanese exchange students staying downstairs from me. Most days at least one group of girls smiles at me when I come home from work and then giggle like maniacs as soon as my door closes. Based on previous experience, it's not likely that word of the cute American boy has made it to all of them and that several of them are on their way up right now, but that's what I chose to believe. Rather than, say, that this haircut isn't as stylish as I was led to believe.
I have a king-sized bed, which I like pretty well now that I've stripped the horrible bedspread off and burned it in the corner. There was some unpleasantness early on when I sat on it after a shower and recalled quite vividly that they only wash those things about twice a year, if ever, and I truly believe that I could have squatted a Buick in my haste to stand up. All that's in the past, though, so long as I can convince the management that either I or the foul afghan had to die, and I'm the one with the expense account.
The bed is wide with three pillows and there's a lot of space on each side of me. Sometimes when I come halfway awake in the early morning it seems like I ought to have company and I'm mildly disappointed when I discover that I don't. I always do that; it seems to have something to do with coming to in a strange bed.
On the bright side, I and I alone command the thermostat, and if I want to turn on the air conditioner so I can burrow into my remaining blankets and doze off in frosty style, then by God that is what I'll do. It feels like burning 100-dollar bills in the fireplace after paying for power in California for two years.

Is it Vietnam yet?

I'm still on the move, folks, so I've got to make this a short one. I was just wondering if it was just me, or if the whole Walter Reed scandal was somehow both the most shocking and the most "Yeah, it figures" moment of the entire War on an Abstract Concept. It seems like only yesterday that the Dems were desperately defending themselves against charges they didn't support the troops, and any answer other than "Yes, sir, I fully support the troops and the commander in chief, no matter what he does" was a treasonous repsonse. Now, it's apparently acceptable for the White House to respond to accusations that they should have known Halliburton would screw over the troops just like they've screwn over everyone else with a hearty "Mistakes were made, and besides, how can you respect a bunch of guys with no legs?"
(For those of you who are wondering what Halliburton has to do with this, if you go far enough up the chain, they ran the company that was contracted to operate Walter Reed. No conspiracy theories here, just google it. I know it's hard to believe that Bush would give them a no-bid contract to do a half-assed job, but there you go.)
And, for the record, I would like to fight Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez. No joke, I would box that guy right now in the parking lot. Following the pattern likely of his own career, Bush has flat-out handed Gonzalez nearly every promotion of his adult life. Now that he's in trouble for dismissing eight federal judges that didn't agree with the president and installing ones that did, his response is to smile indulgently at the press corps and tell them it's none of their business. Like true professionals, they quote him saying nothing, file their stories and wander off to the bar.
Next, I want Harry Reid to stop wringing his hands and do something. I met him once years ago, and was almost in awe. I thought he was going to be president one day. Now he just bickers with second-tier FOX News hacks and gets easily offended. Mr. Reid, as I fellow Nevadan, I humbly submit the following advice: Just challenge Dick Cheney to a duel already and watch the people rally behind you. You could totally take that guy.
Finally, I'd just like to remind everyone: Some adorable child lost her dad in Iraq today, gas prices are nearly as high as they were before the election (completely unrelated, I'm sure) and Bush is hellbent on starting at least one more of these things before he leaves office. Sorry to go out on a somber note, but it seems like some people still haven't caught on: The current state of affairs is not a terrible accident. It is exactly what a small percentage of powerful people want and they will keep doing it as long as they can because it benefits them. Dial that concept in now or repent for generations.

Departures and arrivals

"Now here's what I don't get about you," the fallen angel Loki says to his partner, Bartleby, as they walk through the Wisconsin airport in the film "Dogma." "Why do you feel the need to come here all the time?"

The angels watch a reunited family share a group hug.

"I like to watch," Bartleby says after a minute. "This is humanity at its best. Look at them. All that tension, all that anger and mistrust, forgotten for one perfect moment when they come off that plane."

He gestures to a young couple as they rush toward each other and begin making out feverishly. "See those two? The guy doesn't even know that the girl cheated on him while he was away."

Loki looks shocked. "She did?"

"Uh-huh," Bartleby says, nodding sagely. "Twice. But it doesn't matter at this moment because they're both so relieved to be with one another. I like that. I just wish they could all feel that way more often."

Ever since I saw that movie, I keep my eyes open when I fly and I'll be darned if "Dogma" writer Kevin Smith wasn't on to something. For every hundred people you see obliviously talking on their cell phones while the ticket line backs up behind them, you hear one toddler shriek happily when he spots his father in the waiting area. For every florid security guard that apparently wants intimate knowledge of the entire contents of your toilet kit, you see a couple of highschoolers in the eye of a swirling mass of travelers, speaking softly with their faces very close together, and you think to yourself, "Damn, those crazy kids just might make it."

Of course, that toddler’s going to be getting yelled at for pulling his sister’s hair within the hour, but this is one of those things it just doesn't pay to get too philosophical about. People are not very well equipped to appreciate most things until they've seen them stripped away, but at least that’s something, you know?

I came to understand all this in the John Wayne International Airport. I was waiting out a layover at one of those depressing airport bars where travelers go to drown the desire to hunt down the pencil neck back at Homeland Security who decided to make toothpaste a controlled substance.

I was flying alone, which I do a lot. I ordered a Heineken, the least of only about six evils in the woefully understocked bar, and watched people. I saw the standard families, the bickering couple and a sweaty guy not too much older than me working through a row of whiskey sours; the knot of his tie off center and sitting a few inches lower than it should have. I was guessing the job interview hadn’t gone so well.

I wondered what I looked like. I’m the type of person who strangers address as “sir” one moment and “sweetie” the next with no discernible pattern. Sitting at the bar in a t-shirt while I drank beer from the bottle, I almost certainly looked like a college kid with a good fake ID. But if I shaved and unpacked my nice shirt and used my reporter voice, I could probably convince everyone I was on assignment for Rolling Stone, or at least the local paper. It was nice to have options, even if I didn’t use all of them.

Airports are cool because they are the only real crossroads that remain in this country. Remember that “Three Stooges” episode where there’s a hallway full of doors and Larry chases Curley through one at the end of the hall and comes bursting out of one on the other side of the hall all by himself? Airports are just like that hall. You could, in theory, go through any one of those doors whenever you wanted and who knows where you’d come out.

And that sounds like my final boarding call. Thanks to everyone who has read my work here over the past two years and to everyone at the R-P and elsewhere who helped me scrabble my way from copy editor to general reporter extraordinaire. This column will henceforth be available only at http://mattfarleysforcedperspective.blogspot.com (notice that there is no “www” in the address). The site is already up and running and new stuff will go up every Thursday, just like the old days. If you’re like me, you’ve already forgotten the address, so you should probably bookmark it right now before someone throws the paper away and you lose it forever. See you there.

•••

So kiss me and smile for me. Tell me that you'll wait for me. Hold me like you'll never let me go. 'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane. I don't know when I'll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.

To Register-Pajaronian readers

Hey folks,
Welcome to my new page. I'm a complete amateur at web design, so this is about as pretty as things are ever going to get, but I still think it's nicer than the R-P's. I do know how to add pictures and things, so if I want, I can illustrate my points with pictures of Dick Cheney looking like the living embodiment of all that is unholy or Sen. Clinton looking unelectable, both of which are becoming increasingly common.
My plan is to get back to the Thursday schedule as soon as possible, plus whatever thoughts happen to cross my mind the rest of the week. I'm going to be moving around a lot for the next two weeks, though, so please stick with me at least that long. Also, be sure to keep visiting the The R-P's site. In spite of my slightly rocky departure, many of the folks over there are among my favorites in the world. Thanks for making the leap,
Matt

The day the mirth stood still

In case you missed it, traffic to this ATHF column from a link (which my friend Stephanie, who is awesome, posted) on FARK.com crashed register-pajaronian.com a little while ago. I somehow briefly wound up on the front page of FARK and scored 24,000 hits, which is more than the R-P normally gets in a month. Relive my glory here.


Remember the days when Boston was the nation's hotspot for godless liberals and unrepentant homosexuals? Boy, I sure do. Before Nancy Pelosi burst on the national scene with her infamous San Francisco Values (a FOX News term that refers to a preference for clean air and tolerance of people who aren't white Christians), Massachusetts was big stuff for being the only state in the union to allow gay marriage and generally known for its anti-Bush politics, large senators and damn fine clam chowder.

It goes without saying that all that's over after 1/31, or as I like to call it, the Mooninite Invasion. That was the tragic day when authorities in Boston noticed some blinking signs that had been posted in their fair city and lost their mother loving minds about it. Sure, now we know that the signs depicted characters from "Aqua Teen Hunger Force," a program from Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network and the subject of a forthcoming movie starring talking food. But how could officials have known that at the time they belatedly discovered the signs that it was all a joke? Aside from, you know, asking anyone under 35, since the show has an enormous youth following.

The ad campaign targeted 10 cities across America, including San Francisco and New York. It failed to cause a stir elsewhere, but Boston police made up for the national calm by immediately crying Al Qaida.

"Just a little over a mile away from the placement of the first device, a group of terrorists boarded airplanes and launched an attack on New York City," Boston police Commissioner Edward Davis told The Associated Press. "The city clearly did not overreact. Had we taken any other steps, we would have been endangering the public."

Funny how cops in New York, where terrorist attacks have actually happened, managed to maintain public order in the face of cartoon characters giving the finger. Conversely, the police response to blinking lights in the Boston area caused a mass panic and cost Massachusetts taxpayers something on the order of $1 million.

Overall, officials found some 36 signs around town. Though none of them were found to posses the capacity to injure a person, city bureaucrats have still done their best to tie the campaign to terrorism.

According to the AP, Massachusetts Assistant Attorney General John Grossman called the light boards "bomb-like" devices and said that, if they had been explosives, they could have damaged transportation infrastructure in the city. Later, Massachusetts Attorney General Martha Coakley noted that "(the sign I saw) had a very sinister appearance. It had a battery behind it, and wires."

You know another sinister device that has batteries and wires on it? My computer. It lets me write my column, but sometimes it does things I don't quite understand. Youth culture things. One time, it started saying things about "emo" music, which I took to be a terrorist code word, and I wrestled it to the ground to protect my loved ones. It can't actually hurt me, but the important thing is that I felt threatened, which means someone owes me a bunch of money. Another suspiciously wired device in my life is my alarm clock, which sometimes startles me out of a sound sleep with a loud noise. It makes my heart race and my head hurt, and I suddenly find myself filled with negative emotions. Of course, I trust Americans with this technology, but what if the Iranians somehow got their hands on it? Best just to indict everyone involved in its development, just in case.

Two men, 27-year-old Peter Berdovsky and Sean Stevens, 28, stand charged with disorderly conduct and felony placement of a hoax device in the Mooninite Invasion incident. Turner Broadcasting, Adult Swim's parent company, has also offered to pay the city of Boston $2 million to make up for the hysteria.

City officials are righteous with indignation and local kids are contemplating a move to Canada, but what nobody seems to care about is this: How in the hell did these guys place three dozen suspected explosive devices throughout the city of Boston without anybody noticing? If they were really terrorists, Beantown would look just like New Orleans right now. I'm absolutely against this whole Patriot Act thing, but seriously — shouldn't someone be paying attention to what folks are attaching to the left field wall of Fenway Park? Shouldn't the guys be getting medals for exposing critical flaws in national security? No, I take it back. Let's lock up the white suburbanites for promoting a cartoon. That will prove to the terrorists that America has the stomach for this fight.

Meanwhile, within the last week, every news source in the world has said the words "Adult Swim" and "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" and "upcoming movie" at least five times. A couple mil is going to seem like chump change by the time this thing sorts itself out. My prediction is that "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" has one of the biggest opening weekends in history, and I, for one, will be there. You might not think that talking fast food is a reasonable premise for a two-hour movie, but then, I didn't think a cartoon character could send a 21st century American city spiraling back into the McCarthy era. Looks like we've all had our horizons broadened this week.

•••

Meatwad make the money, see. Mfarley@register-pajaronian.com get the honeys, G. Drivin' in my car, livin' like a star. Ice on my fingers and my toes and I'm a Taurus.