Happy Potter Day

I'm waiting for Potter 6 to show up. If you are, too (and really, who isn't), have a look at this and this.

Punk You

I'm watching this documentary on IFC called "Punk:Attitude". It's actually kind of interesting, all about the history and evolution of punk music (a genre I've never particularly enjoyed). There are numerous interviews with various folks from the punk scene in the late 70's and early 80's. Many of the interviewees are smoking or drinking as they talk into the cameras; a number of them have been rendered nearly incoherent by years of drug abuse (Chrissy Hynde and Henry Rollins being the most well-spoken of the bunch). All of them seem to be simultaneously respectful and resentful of Nirvana and the success of the grunge movement in the early 90's.

Clearly, Punk had an important impact on the history of popular culture. But the coda of the film has nearly all of the interviewees from the film working the phrase 'fuck you' into their closing remarks. It's quite the thing. They seem to think that having that attutude is extremely important. And I can't help but think that if you go throgh your entire life defining yourself by those two words, you're missing an awful lot. These folks have a lot of power when it comes to forming opinions among the masses, especially among yong people, and the y know it. Yet they can't come up with anything deeper or more nuanced? Fuck you, indeed.

On the Bitterness of Wallets

Ever have one of those days where your wallet starts boring a hole in your ass? Most days, you never even think about it. It's like it's not even there. I've got a habit of occasionally patting my behind to make sure it hasn't been taken (I can imagine what people say - "oh, there he goes, feeling himself up again. I tell you, some people are just such... such perverts.").

But some days, the wallet gets pissy and decides to take it down on you. Most days, the it's content to ride along quietly, content to carrt your cash and other sundries. It doesn't even mind being sat on that much, so long as it has the honor of being the keeper of the cash. But sometimes, sometimes it decides to cop a 'tude and give you what-for. You make it do all this work, treat it terribly, and never buy it anything nice or take it out for a nice meal, and it just can't take it anymore. The lack of respect. The way you just take it for granted. The disappointment with the tedium of its job, staying quitely folded waiting for those rare, oh-so-brief moments when it can breathe the fresh air and make itself useful. Every once in a while, it's too much to take.

So it starts boring a hole in your ass. And once it starts, it can't stop. It digs, and digs, and digs until you finally relent, take it out, and put it on your desk. Where it sits. Quietly. Contentedly. Forgettably.

The only other alternative is to take off your pants. Which I cannot advise, since doing so tends to make those pervert comments take on a life of their own.