Psychotropic Ink

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 00:54:11 GMT

Nowhere to Hide

I’m pretty sure that Dennis Kucinich is stalking me.

I mean, don’t quote me on that – I don’t want to end up in court defending myself against a libel and slander action – but still, I’m almost certain I could prove to a jury that I’m right about this. To be honest, the real reason I don’t want to get sued by Dennis Kucinich for libel or slander is because I’m afraid that’s just the kind of crap he’d pull just to get into the same room as me.

This all started back in 2004, when I saw Dennis Kucinich speak here in Houston. I was co-chair of the county chapter of the Green Party at the time, but still, Kucinich spoke our language – stop the war, start a Department of Peace, um, be kind to animals… let’s see… don’t kick the elderly’s canes out from their wrinkled, crickety paws… Suffice it to say, it was a damn fine platform the man was talking.

So I gave the little dude fifty bucks.

I assume he put it to good use: platform shoes, or Noam Chomsky books, or maybe tin foil to cover his disproportionately enormous head and block, you know, the alien radio waves. I considered it a damn fine investment at the time.

But then the fundraising phone calls started. They came from the Omaha, Nebraska (402) area code, which is where all of my extended family hails from, so I answered it. The Kucinich campaign bastards fooled me with Omaha area codes three or four times before I labeled the number “Dennis Kucinich – Do Not Answer!”

And that was more than three years ago.

Then, this past December, the calls started again. And hell no, I didn’t answer it. I let it go to voicemail; I mean, c’mon, why should Dennis Kucinich get better treatment than my 84 year old grandmother or three unacknowledged illegitimate children?

So I didn’t answer it, but still the calls came. Every single day.

Every single day, without fail!

A few weeks ago, I was walking down the street during my lunch break, just minding my own business, hoping to listen to the octogenarian dude on the corner play his tuneless acoustic guitar for a few minutes when a little elfin figure leapt out at me. Big eyes, pointed ears, a smile from here to here: This was one weird looking itty bitty man.

“Hey, sir!” The little man said with a grin, hopping from one foot to the other. “Can I interest you in peace? Can I interest you in love and an end to corporate tyranny? I just need a couple bucks, if you got ‘em to spare…”

From that moment on, I’ve seen him everywhere.

Yep. Dennis Kucinich is stalking me.

I’ve had it with loonies on the Left: I’m voting for former Alaska Senator Mike Gravel. At least he isn’t crazy…

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 22:43:46 GMT

Brand new expensive, rich-guy brand suit.........$2,500

Authentic WWII handgun, restored...................$5,000

Finally coming to grips with the fact that you fathered
a complete idiot who ruined the world..............Priceless

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Sat, 10 Mar 2007 14:06:58 GMT

The Number 23 is a Bad Movie

Years ago, I moved into a new apartment with a friend of mine. It just so happened that it was Apartment #23 at this particular location, and I mentioned to my roommate that “That’s a William Burroughs thing, you know.”

No, she didn’t know, but when mail began showing up addressed to “The Nova Kid” – also a William Burroughs reference – I felt vindicated.

The Beat novelist William Burroughs was, you know, nuts. The 23 conspiracy was originally his thing. If it weren’t for Burroughs 23 conspiracy, though, Pink Floyd would have never written the song “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun.” Regardless, when the writer Robert Anton Wilson got his hands on the idea a few years later, it began to make more sense, or at least take more shape.

Wilson – who died back in January of this year – used the 23 conspiracy as grist for his anarchist philosophy mill. It was one of the centerpieces to his theorum that all disciplines are bunk and that once you start thinking too much about something, you’ll find support for it everywhere around you, be it a political philosophy or the idea that aliens from the Sirius Galaxy are sending radio transmissions into your head (yep, “Sirius Satellite Radio” is also a Wilson reference…).

Oh, wait. This is was supposed to be a movie review, huh?

Yeah, well, the movie sucked. Jim Carrey, in serious actor mode, starts to read a book his wife finds at a used book store. The book is called “The Number 23,” and sure enough, Carrey starts to see 23’s everywhere – when he adds up the value of the letters in his name, the dates in his birthday, everything. Only this is supposed to be a moderately shocking notion. Seriously!

The movie thinks it is hip, and even drops little details to clue insiders in to the fact that the screenwriter probably read Robert Anton Wilson’s Cosmic Trigger once. One character’s name, for instance, is “Dr. Sirius Leary,” a hodgepodge of Wilson references in itself. There are even references to the year 2012, which is a Mayan/Terrence McKenna/Wilson thing.

But it’s one terrible movie. The movie is as silly as the 23 conspiracy itself, with corny dialogue, hysterically stylized footage of JIM CARREY… WITH TATTOOS… HANDCUFFING HIS GIRLFRIEND…TO THE BED. Yes, Ace Ventura is quite the perv. It’s not convincing. It's not that I'm opposed to Carrey in a serious role -- in fact the only movie I've ever liked the guy in, really, was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and he was serious in that. The thing was, he had a really good screenwriter and director.

In the case of this film, I know I was the only one in the theater who was catching the inside references, and I still found it unwatchable. How is that even possible?

As I was driving home, I called my brother regarding the truly wretched nature of this film. He got online and reported, “Well Jer, it was directed by Joel Schumacher.”

Who is Joel Schumacher, you ask?

Joel Schumacher directed the Val Kilmer Batman movie. Yep. The worst movie in movie history. Don’t agree? Joel Schumacher also directed the George Clooney Batman movie. You know, the one with the current governor of California. He also directed Flatliners, 8mm, two John Grisham movies, and 2004’s version of Phantom of the Opera.

Joel Schumacher directs really, really bad movies. The Number 23 is another of them.

If you feel the need to go to a movie theater in the next few weeks, go see Pan’s Labyrinth. Even if you’ve already seen it – go again. Anything's better than a Joel Schumacher film.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 02:11:04 GMT

Big Brother is Watching

Yeah, I know it's been an obscene amount of time since my last post. But the truth is, I've been busting up the New World Order. It's true.

Like you, a lot of my time is spent worrying about the ways in which the government is keeping tabs on me. And one of the ways they do this is through the use of cameras, cameras, everywhere. On every street corner, in every convenience store. It's gotten to the point where, if I want to travel to Florida to assault the rival for my lover's affections, I have to wear a diaper, just so I don't have to pull over and get photographed while trying to use the bathroom.

As part of my recent attempts to watch the government watch me, I became intimately familiar with the newest state-of-the-art facial recognition software. Just out of curiosity, what celebrities might the government mistake me for?

And using the above photograph of myself, this is what I discovered:

I'm a 60% match for Michael Richards! I expected that, of course, but I've always thought that the Winston Churchill resemblance was more subtle. The most glorious part of all this is finding out that if I snuck into FoxNews and tried to pass myself off as Rupert Murdoch himself, there's apparently a 59% chance I'd get away with it! Dare to dream that I get to meet Sean Hannity. As it stands now, security is always chasing me away...

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 17:49:39 GMT

Secret GOP Weapon

"I see Condoleezza Rice - she goes on a plane, she gets off a plane, she waves, she goes there to meet some dictator. They talk, she leaves, she waves, the plane takes off. Nothing happens..." -- Donald Trump

Those damn Republicans are political geniuses! Many years ago, while Richard Nixon was running for some office or other out in California, he sent scary-looking men with Russian accents around door-to-door to encourage people to vote for his opponent. The idea being that... well, you can figure out the idea. If you can't, then I would encourage you to discontinue reading this page and go watch "American Idol" or something.

Anyway, fast forward to 2007, and Donald Trump makes the comment I've posted above regarding the current Secretary of State.

And I have to think, wow, these Republicans are really, really smart. Because I've never felt like defending Secretary Rice before now. The GOP should trot him out to attack Cheney, Bush, Rove. The ire of Trump could well be the best weapon the GOP has in its arsenal.

I mean, how odious does a guy need to be in order for me to reconsider any target of his verbal attacks?

Genius. Pure genius.

Karl, did you do this?

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 12 Jan 2007 14:54:03 GMT

Robert Anton Wilson, 1932-2007

Author Robert Anton Wilson died yesterday morning at the age of 74. Wilson was the author of a bunch of really interesting books -- some fiction, some non-fiction (and the non-fiction ones contained, you know, some questionable facts). He was a huge buff of conspiracy theories, drugs, mind expansion, and famous drug enthusiasts who tried to expand their minds while engaging in conspiracy theories.

His "non-fiction" books, like the Cosmic Trigger series and Coincidance [sic], made a big impression on me at a relatively young age. In the first Cosmic Trigger, Wilson discusses how he might have been receiving transmissions from the Sirius solar system back in the 70s. He was careful to point out that he did not believe he was receiving these transmissions, because he didn't actually believe anything at all, but had he wanted to believe it, he could have found plenty of evidence for it.

Wilson had polio as a child; as a result, he walked with a limp all of his life. His numerous health-related problems late in life were referred to -- at least in the press -- as "post-polio syndrome." Meaning, I presume, that the problems were caused by his childhood polio.

He inspired ... if not millions, then at least hundreds of thousands, and yet he really never made any money off of any of it. However, when California legalized medical marijuana a few years back, Wilson was there in his wheelchair, chosen to be the first in line at the age of 70 or whatever he was at the time...

Five days before he died, he left this blog post on his web site: "Various medical authorities swarm in and out of here predicting I have between two days and two months to live. I think they are guessing. I remain cheerful and unimpressed. I look forward without dogmatic optimism but without dread. I love you all and I deeply implore you to keep the lasagna flying. Please pardon my levity, I don't see how to take death seriously. It seems absurd."

Wilson is survived by absolutely no one. His wife died a couple years back. His daughter was murdered in the 70s. All of his friends (including Terrence McKenna, Timothy Leary, Alan Watts, etc) died years ago.

Regardless, I feel the need to tip my hat to one of the greatest pranksters of our time. I mean, c'mon -- I'm only assuming that news of his death isn't actually a trick!

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Wed, 10 Jan 2007 20:54:44 GMT

Uninsured and Proud

I still have so far to go when it comes to recognizing and looking out for the rights of poor, oppressed minority groups within our society. The truth is, I'm not just insensitive -- when it comes to some groups, the idea of their even having rights never enters my mind!

Case in point -- I listen to the right wing nutbag Mike Gallagher about once a week, on the way in to work. It starts my day off with, you know, that bad taste in my mouth that normal radio just can't achieve. Incidentally, a few weeks back, it was Mike Gallagher who began talking about tshirts with "This is America -- Speak English" on them. My resulting google search turned up the site that later produced my troll.

It's a whole circle of life thing.

Regardless, yesterday, Mike was talking about the Terminator's plan out in California to start -- [cue menacing music] -- state health insurance. Basically, it sounds like Arnie is proposing a variation on what Mitt Romney signed in Massachusetts, a plan that essentially mandates that people have health insurance just like they must have car insurance if they drive a car. Businesses will face new requirements about carrynig health insurance for their employees, and the people that fall between the cracks will be able to find coverage as well.

Now, I can -- theoretically -- find fault in this kind of state plan. But I never saw Mike Gallagher's criticism coming. And that really makes me sad. Worse, it demonstrates that I ignore the plight of some underrepresented insular factions.

Like, for instance... Oh, I don't know...

PEOPLE WHO WANT TO LIVE BY THE SEAT OF THEIR PANTS AND NOT BE COVERED BY HEALTH INSURANCE.

Seriously. That was his argument. Verbatim. The people of California would be ignoring the wishes and rights of people who do not want to be covered by health insurance.

Apparently, there are all kinds of folks running around out there who hold their right to untreated lockjaw very dearly. If their right lung collapses, they don't want the option of seeking medical advice to correct it.

Are there more of these independent, insurance-averse rebels than there are, say, families who would like to treat their child's diabetes but lack the health insurance to do so? More than there are families forced to declare bankruptcy due to medical bills?

I don't know -- that's really why I'm asking. Because evidently, based on this excellent, excellent argument I heard, merely having the right to NOT seek medical attention is not good enough for these strange anti-coverage straw men. They don't want to be covered.

I'm simply asking a question here, not pointing fingers.

Because I'm always on the lookout for new segments of rebels. If having untreated flesh-eating bacteria is your thing, then hey, be my guest. You could be at the forefront of the Next Great Civil Rights Movement. Because I dream of a day when a man is not coerced by any government into having medical recourse when he becomes ill. When we all save 25 cents of prevention and instead pay a million dollars cure when he shows up dying at the free clinic at taxpayers' expense. Until that day arrives, none of us is free... Bastards.

This is America, after all...

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 05 Jan 2007 01:57:35 GMT

Class Warrior

"The optimism that infused so much of [my generation's] writing was based on our belief that after the Magna Carta, and then the Declaration of Independence, and then the Bill of Rights, and then the Emancipation Proclamation, and then Article XIX of the Constitution, which in 1920 entitled women to vote, some scheme for economic justice could also be devised. That was the next logical step." -- Kurt Vonnegut

Spokesmen from virtually every walk of life -- people as diverse as Newt Gingrich, Ralph Nader, Osama bin Laden, and Pat Robertson -- can point to our modern culture and state, with absolute certainty, it seems, that there is something fundamentally immoral and rotten about it. The differences, of course, are "merely" what they deem to be immoral about it and what should be done about it.

A common theme, however, is that something has changed since America's Golden Age in the 1950s. In 1996, Republican Presidential candidate Bob Dole went so far as to offer himself up as the nation's "Bridge to the Past." What this usually means is that Christian worship would be "reintroduced" into public schools.

But even leaving aside for a moment that the 1950s Golden Age is largely a fiction, and even ignoring for the moment the manner in which racial minorities were treated at that time, let's assume that it WAS a Golden Age. Let's assume it was, for the average family in America, at least a better time than now.

What's changed? What have we lost?

It could be Christianity, of course, although my mother was in grade school in the 1950s and says that she never prayed in school, and neither did anyone else, at least in an organized fashion. In fact, the major changes that have occurred since that time, other than civil rights for blacks and Asians and to a lesser extent gays and Hispanics, well... the major changes have all been economic.

In the 1950s, corporate taxes accounted for about 50% of the tax base in this country. Today corporate taxes account for about 6% of the tax base. In the 1950s, the average CEO earned approximately 4 times what the average worker earned. Today that number has increased to over 400 times.

And yet whenever these things are brought up, one is either accused of being a communist (seriously?) or told that the only people who are poor want to be poor. The Dick Cheneys and Bill O'Reillys of the world -- and I hope I'm not misrepresenting their point of view here -- simply would have one go out and get a better job. The cream rises to the top, there are lots of good-paying jobs out there, and the only excuse for not earning as much as you need to is that you want to be on welfare.

I've had otherwise reasonable people get mad at me for implying that there are those who can't get ahead, even though they try. That's what made so many people so angry at the poor people in New Orleans a couple years back. I am advocating, after all, class war -- saying there's something basically unfair about the system.

Class warfare, as opposed to economic justice.

As it stands now, of course, the top 1% is not accused of class warfare when they buy Congress in order to get the capital gains tax reduced to 1/2 of what the income tax is. They're not accused of class war when they completely rig the system, colonize our minds so that we're even thinking in terms they've created.

Why wouldn't the top 1% want an explicit class war against the other 99%? Hmm... I wonder...

So tell ya what... You want prayer in school? Fine, let's put prayer in school. I went to a Catholic elementary school and it didn't turn me into Pat Robertson. But in exchange, in order to bring back those good old 1950s, we're going to reduce CEO pay to what it was then, we're going to reduce corporate profits to what they were then, we're going to increase corporate taxes to what they were then.

I'm a fairly reasonable person. We can even split up the states or something, conduct a little social experiment. See who ends up in a better position in five years.

We can do that, or we can do the class war thing. Either way.

I mean, the poor are stupid anyway, right? The rich and the powerful shouldn't have anything to worry about...

Oh, and yes, I'm definitely ranting. But I don't do it very often on here, and ... yeah, I'm ranting...

Carry on...

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 04 Jan 2007 17:19:53 GMT

Dear Troll Residing Under the Psychotropic Ink Bridge:

I'd always dreamed of having my very own troll. I had heard good things, as you might imagine. In fact, I once had a discussion with a goat in which he told me things about trolls that you wouldn't believe. In addition, my great grandmother -- shortly before she passed away ten years ago at the age of 136 -- began to LOOK like a troll (you know, one of the flesh-colored ones with the red hair that sticks straight up?). I miss her so.

So I was pretty damn excited when I began to see the telltale signs around -- just little things, as one would expect, troll-droppings and the like -- that this place had trolls. I mean, c'mon, how many blogs getting 2-3 hits per month do you know that have their very own troll? There's so little to eat around here that you'd think they wouldn't bother...

My only problem, in this case, is that this particular troll is a blatant racist apparently involved with hate-speech-ridden tshirts over at www.cafepress.com/therightmind. Oh, let me add -- IN MY OPINION. He's illiterate, too, incidentally. In addition, he must spend a LOT of time online -- trolling -- because he found my site and the entry referring to him within an hour of when I typed it up last month. Which is really, you know, impressive.

Alas, although his understanding of copyright law proved to be poor, even for a swarthy mythological beast, I took down the post in question because hate speech and illiteracy are never funny. Ever. The thing is, he didn't leave. He's still around, taking pot shots in posts that have NO other comments.  Some of these comments have in turn been erased. By me. Because, you know, I can't handle semi-literate flaming without running to Mom.

So I had temporarily disabled anonymous comments, but after giving it some thought, I've enabled them again. Mostly because I discovered that one of my anonymous music hecklers last month was actually my sister-in-law. She made a comment about country music back over at the entry where I committed copyright infringement against Carrie Underwood. I'm not one to discourage hecklers, and would even like to think I could handle one better than Michael Richards.

I know, I know, the rule is that you don't engage these trolls. They have enough to worry about -- the drooling, the self-loathing, the inability to create a funny tshirt design. But this page has been dead for months, and I've got a "Delete" button.

So, to the troll residing under the Psychotropic Ink bridge -- it's okay. There are places that can help you. And while, yes, you are borderline retarded (I mean that in the clinical sense, not as an insult), you should know that you're not alone.

Happy New Year.

Love,
Psychotropic Ink

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 04 Jan 2007 15:02:10 GMT

Prime Time Extravaganza

I know we're only four days into the new year, but even at this early juncture, Psychotropic Ink has scored a coup of sorts. You see, NBC Television has chosen THIS forum in which to announce THE NEXT GREAT TELEVISION SENSATION.

From the kind of minds that brought you BIG PRIMETIME GAME SHOWS like "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?", "Deal or No Deal", "Identity", "1 vs. 100", and "Show Me the Money" now comes

"HOW MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP?"

Like all of those other great prime time game shows only just now listed, "How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?" is a BIG GAME requiring BIG SKILL on a BIG STAGE with a BIG LIGHT SHOW and BIG SOUNDS. Beloved American thespian Billy Crystal is dwarfed on our mammoth sound stage as he dramatically hides his hand behind his back and asks the contestant(s), "OK, Bobby from Long Island... and let me just say, Bobby, that you look marvelous... [audience laughter and applause] OK, Bobby, for all the cash in that metal suitcase over there, I need for you to tell me.... How many fingers am I holding up?" [cue dramatic music as camera first pans to the suitcase, then to Crystal's furrowed brow, then to pensive-looking contestant]

Who needs scriptwriters or original series when you can raise that much tension with just an over-the-hill comedian, the remnants of Pink Floyd's old road show, and a couple million dollars of the network's petty cash?

This is exciting stuff, folks. And we hope you will tune in for the three-hour premiere next month that will pre-empt whatever program you normally watch on whatever night it premieres. In fact, we KNOW you'll tune in that night to find out HOW MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP?

We now return you to your normally scheduled Psychotropic Ink....

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 29 Dec 2006 23:49:13 GMT

Hanging Hussein

This has been an incredibly fruitful but tragic week for me. You see, I’ve always considered myself an exact cross between Gerald Ford, James Brown, and Saddam Hussein.

Absurd, you say? What the hell would a cross between Gerald Ford, James Brown, and Saddam Hussein even be like, you ask?

Well, me. Go ahead, think about it. Uncanny, isn’t it?

The truth is, I have an incurable love of underdogs. Any underdog will do, and it doesn’t matter why they’ve become an underdog. It could even be their just desserts, I’ll still root for them.

Has Rush Limbaugh gone deaf? For a moment, I’ll find it impossible not to cheer him on.

I don’t find myself particularly upset about the death of Saddam Hussein, which will apparently occur any moment now. Frankly, I’m fairly indifferent, even though I completely oppose the death penalty in any guise. And at this very moment, the big story on all of the news channels is the imminent execution of former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein.

This is a story so big that it threatens to knock the recent death of former U.S. President Gerald Ford off my television screen. Ford wasn’t executed, though. After some of the statements of his that have come out since his death several days ago, the powers-that-be would have had ample reason to suggest it, as it turns out. Cheney and Rumsfeld were his boys, after all, but he wasn’t very pleased with the way they’ve turned out.

The U.S. is making damn sure that it doesn’t look as though we’re the ones executing Saddam Hussein. We’ve been releasing statements all day stating unequivocally that this execution is an Iraqi matter and we’re not involved, nor do we, frankly know a damn thing about what’s happening.

This, of course, ignores the fact that Saddam is still in U.S. custody and that the execution under Iraqi auspices cannot occur until such time as we turn him over to them.

Now I’m no lawyer, but I’m sure it’s an everyday practice that a criminal is tried by one government while being held by another.

Oh wait! I am an attorney, and it’s not an everyday practice. My mistake…

But the sad fact is that, fifteen years ago, it was the Bush Family vs. Hussein feud that originally sparked my interest in all things political. For the record, the eighteen-year old version of me completely supported that first Gulf War, although even then I was a little hazy as to why.

So it’s the end of an era, in a way. And at this moment, sure, Saddam’s probably the underdog… Not to mention that once he's gone, we've effectively ridded ourselves of the one person who might have an inkling of how to get Iraq under control...

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 03:41:48 GMT

What I Listened To

And now, for the second part of our two-part series on the Year in Music, I humbly present my favorite recordings of the year. There appears, at first blush, to be an excess of acts I really know little about on this list, but over the past 12 months I've taken the novel approach with my music of JUST LISTENING and seeing what I feel like continuing to listen to. No expectations, no preconceived notions, and no attempt to be high brow or hip. I mean, I've tried all that, and it just led to the Great Minimalism Debacle of 1995.

So here goes...

01. Dirty Projectors, The Getty Address. Technically, this was released in 2005, but I didn't hear it until March of this year. This is the best electronic opera/concept album about Don Henley contemplating suicide and going on to have a religious experience ever.

02. Liars, Drum's Not Dead.   This shoulda been huge. It's too good to be on my list.

03. Six Organs of Admittance, The Sun Awakens.

04. Espers, Espers II.

05. The Mountain Goats, Get Lonely. I've always disliked the Mountain Goats, mostly because the lead singer sounds like he belongs on "Sesame Street." But "Sesame Street" never had songs this poetic and, well, depressing...

06. Dungen, Ta Det Lugnt. OK, this one is actually a couple years old. But it's my damn list, and I'll throw in some 2-year-old Swedish prog if I want to.

07. Joseph Arthur, Nuclear Daydream.   If for nothing else, he deserves a Top Ten spot for his Houston concert line: "Why do you think we're wearing these capes? We didn't come to f*%k around -- we put capes on!" But the music ain't half bad, either.

08. Caribou, The Milk of Human Kindness. I dunno. This one kind of grew on me. A couple times, when I was really tired, I mistakenly thought I was listening to Eno. You know, back before he lost his talent.

09. Robyn Hitchcock, Ole Tarantula! This marks Hitchcock's twelfth appearance in my Top Ten in seventeen years. Although admitting I've been keeping a Top Ten for seventeen years makes me look even more incredibly geeky than listening to Robyn Hitchcock otherwise would.

10. Joanna Newsom, Ys.   Yeah. I talked about this one a few weeks ago.

My least favorite recordings of the year included the new releases by David Gilmour and the Flaming Lips. And that's saying a lot because my ears give almost anything a chance these days. Why else would I get up in the morning?

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 16:39:07 GMT

What People Listened To

In anticipation of my own upcoming Top Ten recordings of 2006, I cruised across the internets to find what the masses have been purchasing over these past 12 months. This couldn't possibly have been foreseeable as a stressful event. I spend at least half my free time listening to, reading about, and discovering new and exciting music. The Big Ten of 2006 couldn't possibly be foreign to me, right?

Imagine my surprise, then, when I couldn't recognize about half of Billboard's list. I mean, these artists could have attacked me in a lighted alley and spent the better part of an hour kicking me, and I only would have been able to identify half of them in a police line-up later. In fact, I suspect that were that unikely event to happen, I would likely just report, "Johnny Cash assaulted me! He had some other people with him, too."

So without further ado, read on as I demonstrate how entirely clueless I am when it comes to pop culture…

01. Carrie Underwood, Some Hearts. I have no idea who this is. I mean, seriously, not a clue. My girlfriend suggests that this person might have done a Milky Way commercial, but man, that’s just not where I get my music news. Not a clue.

02. The High School Musical Soundtrack. Is this from a movie, maybe? I’ve never heard of the movie, I’ve never heard of the recording. Had you shown me this Top Ten list and stated that one of these recordings is made up, I would undoubtedly have chosen this one.

03. Nickelback, All the Right Reasons. Ugly lead singer, on MTV a lot, did a song for the first Spiderman movie a few years back? I can’t actually name a song, but if they were among the people assaulting me in that alley, I’d identify them sooner or later.

04. Rascal Flats, Me and My Gang. I have a vague feeling that this is a country recording of some sort. Truth be told, I might have even heard something off of it, since I suspect they were playing on an award show I flipped by on the television. But again, I couldn’t identify them or any of their songs in a police lineup.

05. Mary J. Blige, The Breakthrough. I know who Mary J. Blige is. She’s that woman who became famous because she was married to one of Janet Jackson’s producers. I don’t believe I’ve heard anything by her within the past year, unless this recording includes her remake of U2’s “One,” which I DID have the displeasure of being subjected to once.

06. Eminem, Curtain Call: The Hits. The title suggests the boy might be done with recording. I know who he is, of course – he’s that guy who pissed off all the gay people with his junior high sense of humor a few years back.

07. James Blunt, Back to Bedlam. Nope.

08. Kenny Chesney, The Road and the Radio. Hey, he was married/is married to the actress who was previously married or came close to being married to Jack White. You know, the Bridget’s Diary chick. Yep. No, I don’t know any of his songs, but… I’ve heard the name.

09. Johnny Cash, The Legend of Johnny Cash. My brother informs me that this is a box set, which explains a lot. You see, even if it’s merely a three-CD box set, that would mean Johnny would have only sold 1/3 as many copies as those around him to end up in the Top Ten. Because no one buys 1/3 of a box set, and Billboard figures their sales in a counter-intuitive way…

10. Kelly Clarkson, Breakaway. I am aware she exists.

Okay, there’s what your fellow Americans have been listening to this year. Coming soon: the list of what I have been listening to this year. Hint: None of them have appeared in a Milky Way commercial…

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Tue, 05 Dec 2006 02:50:01 GMT

The Unkindest Cut

According to Bob Woodward, who was offered unprecedented access to the inner workings of White House war planning for years, President Bush doesn't always have a lot of sway around his big house. Woodward describes meetings where everyone is talking except Bush, where Bush has to say provocative things just to be heard, and where his suggestions are ignored or quickly dismissed.

Now, on his way out the door, departing Secretary of State Donald Rumsfeld has made sure that the world knows that even he wasn't entirely on the bus when it came to the war in Iraq.

And now the cheese stands alone. Bush, and Bush alone, will go down in history as the guy who screwed things up in the Persian Gulf.

For a change, I almost feel sorry for the guy. Really...

As any good paranoid liberal knows, the invasion of Iraq was planned more than a decade ago, by (amongst others) Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, and Dick Cheney. They were all part of bizarre, pseudo-cryptic Randian/Straussian cults with names like "The Project for a New American Century." The one thing they lacked in the 90's, though, was a spokesman to sell their plan. I mean, c'mon, no one is going to follow Cheney off a cliff. Disney isn't about to make a Paul Wolfowitz cartoon character.

But Georgie Bush clearin' Texas brush in his cowboy hat and just a'slaughterin' the English language? He did what he was told, yukked it up for the cameras, implemented their plans without question, and it all blew up in his face.

And now the rats are abandoning ship. George is gonna get the blame.

The part that really pisses me off is that these guys are known for being resurrected when their ships go under. Rumsfeld, for instance, saved himself from the S.S. Nixon, the S.S. Ford, and made deals with Saddam Hussein for Ronald Reagan. Cheney was likewise part of some notably questionable White House teams.

Now obviously, Rumsfeld and Cheney are about done in politics due to age and/or health, but there are plenty of other people who were key in orchestrating the untenable international situation we find ourselves in who will -- mark my words -- be resurrected in some future Republican Administration. Wolfowitz or Rice or Hadley or countless others.

When I look at it that way, I almost feel sorry for George W. Bush, the all-too-willing dupe of Republican thinktanks.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Mon, 04 Dec 2006 21:58:21 GMT

Photo of the Week

Perhaps "Caption of the Week" would be more accurate. I found this on Yahoo News Photos, and the caption read, "Former U.S. President Bill Clinton, second from right, stands amidst puppets controlled by tsunami affected children at a rebuilt school at Thazanguda in Cuddalore district, around 165 kilometers (103 miles) south of Chennai, India, Friday, Dec. 1, 2006...

Second from right! Yes, my friends, this is indeed a sad commentary on how far our democracy has fallen, when it needs to be explicitly pointed out which of the puppets in a picture used to be President... (It should be noted that I'm typing this while in the midst of a moderately pro-Clinton mood.)

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 01 Dec 2006 03:06:00 GMT

Windows 101

For nearly fifteen minutes during undergrad, I considered being a teacher. The idea was quickly discarded to the dustbin of Bad Ideas. Here's yet another reminder why, in the form of a phone conversation between me and my mother...

Mom:   I got back some pictures. There's one of the outside of your new place.
Me:      Cool. Did you get a CD of them when you got them developed?
Mom: Yes.
Me:      Go ahead and email it to me.
Mom: I'm not sure how.
Me:      I'll talk you through.
[twenty minutes elapse...]
Me:      Okay, so you're really still not even seeing a drop down menu?
Mom:   I don't know what that is. It's not letting me do anything.
Me:      Okay, I don't know what you've done. Your computer must be messed up.
Mom: Oh no.
Me:      No, don't worry about it. Just X out the whole screen.
Mom: Where? I don't see an X.
Me:      [long pause] Um, up in the right hand corner of the screen? There's no X there? Just to the right of a minus sign and a little square?
Mom: No, Jerry, I don't see it.
Me:      [runs palm down face] Good God... You're not just sitting there staring at your desktop, are you?
Mom: I don't know.
Me:      Okay, what do you see?
Mom: It's just the big picture of your nephew.
Me:      Okay, that's the desktop. You haven't had anything open this whole time...

Incidentally, the picture she finally sent appears to give proof positive of alien life forms. What in the hell is that above my place? I think my mother might be able to sell this to the Weekly World News or something...

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 16:00:20 GMT

Imp, with Harp

I like singers who probably aren’t really singers at all. Unorthodox approaches to singing have always grabbed me, from Dylan to Tom Waits to Captain Beefheart, Jeff Mangum, Edward KaSpel, and Syd Barrett. In fact, after twenty straight years of listening to artists that can’t sing, I’d go so far as to say that voices that are “good” in a traditional sense bore me, strike me as completely bland.

But on Milk-Eyed Mender, freak folkie Joanna Newsom’s 2004 debut, even I blinked. She really laid on the whimsical child thing a little thick. I felt as though I was cruising the fenceline at an elementary school, trying to get little girls to get in my van. Creepy stuff, and way too… ew, yeah, a child molester's dream.

So now, two years later, Newsom has released the much-hyped Ys. The production should have been a mess – Jim O’Rourke, Steve Albini, and Van Dyke Parks. That’s 1) a sometime member of Sonic Youth / Wilco producer / all-around avant garde dude, 2) the guy who produced the last Nirvana studio album and whose signature style is a very stark fuzzy electric guitar thing, and 3) the orchestration genius who worked on late Brian Wilson-era Beach Boys albums. Throughout the CD, not on separate tracks.

Oh, it should probably be noted that Newsom is normally accompanied only by her harp. Yeah.

Somehow, the five songs (all hovering around ten minutes long) work, and you have to give her props for pulling it off. It’s certainly an objectively respectable CD, kind of an Astral Weeks for the modern indie crowd. It might even make my Top Ten of the Year. Who knows? I haven’t cracked this nut just yet, and this was exactly the kind of recording I was referring to a few weeks back when I said that I sometimes had to listen 30 times or so before I know if I like something.

Newsom lays off the worst of the kiddie voice on this one and creates layered songs, albeit layered songs without any hint of hooks. On the darkness meter, she makes Bjork sound like Diamanda Galas.

But I still have issues with her whole whimsical little girl thing. I saw an interview with her online where she was asked what kind of animal she’d like to be. Her answer (nearly in babytalk):

“Well… my favorite animal is a seahorse. But I would not want to be a seahorse. I would want to be a real horse. But I would want to be a real horse that is wild, not one that has an owner.”

Profound, Joanna. Profound. You’re so childlike and full of whimsy, you must be creative. You have somehow grown up in this society without getting jaded, like a fairy fresh from the grove. Too vulnerable for this world. An idiot savant.

The other options, of course, are a) that she’s retarded. I mean this in a medical sense, or b) that this is a paper thin act she’s delved into too deeply. Time will tell.

But for now, rest assured that yes, Ys is as good as the hype it’s getting. That does not, however, mean that I’ll still be listening to it in a week. Time will tell.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Fri, 17 Nov 2006 15:54:26 GMT

Loves You More Than You Will Know

I've come to terms with the fact that Christian capitalist faith in this Christian capitalist society requires, you know, faith. God burned out all of his magic a couple thousand years back, so we don't see a lot of parted seas, dead men being raised, or burning bushes these days. He's forced to be a lot more subtle. In fact, his magic's been pretty much reduced to burning holy images in the toast of Midwestern housewives, hiding my car keys, and transforming televangelists into perverts.

But this week, I saw a story about how the Marine Reserves' Toys for Tots program first rejected and then accepted a donation of talking Jesus dolls. And this got me thinking -- what's it going to take for God to start throwing his weight around here on earth? I mean, c'mon -- everyone knows that those Luke Skywalker dolls from 1976 didn't look a thing like Mark Hammill, and there wasn't anything that Hammill could do about it.

But we're talking about Jesus & Father here. How much are they going to take? You're not Mark Hammill! Smote someone, darn it! (Sorry, not even I could manage a "damn" there)

So I took a quick look around at the current choice in Jesus dolls, and this is what I found...

   Here we have bobblehead Jesus, complete with lamb. I find the historical accuracy of this one to be questionable. I've listened to speeches and lectures by individuals with bobbleheads atop their shoulders, and it's difficult to pay attention. No one would have remembered the guy beyond, "Hey, you remember that itinerant desert shaman that used to come around here whose head bobbled around when he spoke? What ever happened to him?"

   I call this one "Jerry Garcia Jesus." I am fairly certain you can smoke this one.

This Jesus is a nightlight with a "soft poly fill." I will assume it's his ("His") head that lights up. The tender cloth hands make for easy nailing...

Here's Beannie Baby Jesus. He's by far the most bizarre representation of Our Lord and Savior in the bunch. If a man who looks like this ever approaches you, offering to love you and save you, you should probably not accept his offer. I'm just saying...

Last but not least, I bring you Metrosexual Jesus, complete with perm. This guy obviously grew up in a Middle Eastern desert. Before seeing this one, I had never realized that Jesus had been the bassist for Foghat for a couple years in the mid-Seventies.

In the end, I don't expect huge miracles out of the guy. World peace? I know, I know -- if Kissinger and James Baker can't manage it, how is someone living on a cloud going to? All I'm demanding is some quality control. If I made an Elvis doll without permission, chances are I'd be sued for appropriating name and likeness. Why should Jesus be any different?

He doesn't need to sue for every single instance of his likeness being used. Paintings are paintings -- let 'em go. But dolls? And more specifically, these dolls?

But please don't take this to mean that I'm not asking for these dolls for Christmas. It's worth it just to see the look on people's faces when they enter my room and see my bed crammed with an Army of Jesus. Ain't capitalism grand?

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 16:03:14 GMT

The Stooge

Without making a conscious decision to do so, I have apparently gone into physical comedy. Classic stuff, you know – lots of pratfalls, funny faces, the whole bit. The kiddies love it.

In the past few days, I have managed to fall down the stairs at my new place, trip over a cat, bend back a fingernail while putting together a vacuum, and perform a leaf-sweeping act that really should have been recorded for posterity.

But during my lunch hour yesterday, I accomplished my masterpiece of performance art.

Where I work, there’s a car ramp that goes up to the back. I park under the car ramp, mostly because it’s always free for reasons that will soon become obvious. Along the side of the ramp runs a very heavy railing whose posts drop down a few inches below the ramp itself.

So yesterday, at about 1 PM, I exited my vehicle and marched off to the building only to bonk my head on the bottom of a railing post. Little cartoon stars and bluebirds circled my head. This sort of thing is not an unusual occurrence for me. As usual, I merely thought to myself, “Oh look, cartoon stars. Yep, I’m still an idiot,” and headed on into work.

It was about 5 minutes later when the blood began running through my hair and down my forehead. Now, I have a blood condition that normally leaves me without any platelets. My blood doesn’t clot, or at least doesn’t clot well. So two hours later, my newly-sprung blood fountain was still gurgling down my forehead unimpeded. My first thought at that point was that, hey, if I’m bleeding into my brain, I probably have, you know, twenty minutes left before I pass out for good. My second thought was that perhaps it’s frowned upon to be bleeding profusely at AIDS Foundation Houston. I’m just saying…

Around 3:30 I finally went to my boss and suggested that I go home to clean up. Granted, by that time the blood was slowing up, not because I was clotting but rather because I was just about out of blood.

Boss: “What have you been doing for the two hours since it happened?”

Me: “Feeling stupid, mostly.”

Boss: “Go home!”

I went back to my office to gather my things and send out goodbye emails to my loved ones, just in case this was the end. Hey, one of these days my antics will be the death of me. I sent out explicit instructions about what should happen to me if I were to go into a persistent vegetative state. These included:

1. Pull the plug immediately should it appear that I have irreparable damage to the right hemisphere of my brain. I don’t really need the left hemisphere, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to wake up just to have to go through life with only my logic skills intact.

2. I would like to have pleasing music piped in while I’m out. My brother will know what to play.

3. It is acceptable for my body to be utilized as a hat rack – or even a coat rack – but I would prefer not to be utilized as a cup holder. That would be demeaning.

4. Someone in my family should probably be told that I have my Uncle Charlie locked in the trunk of my car. He needs to be fed at least every other day or else he gets cranky.

5. I have been experimenting for years with cryogenics, and have had a modicum of success. After I unthawed my girlfriend’s cat, he soon regained nearly 50% of his basic motor skills. Go ahead and give it a go on me – I’ll place my trust in the future science of people living beyond America’s Dark Ages.

6. I would like an I.V. drip of pure psilocybin at least one day a week. If I’m going to be trapped inside my own head for the foreseeable future, I want to see colors and have someone else to talk to, damn it.

7. Under no circumstances should soon-to-be ex-Senator Bill Frist, Rush Limbaugh, or Bill O’Reilly be allowed to take part in any diagnosis of my condition. They’ve just proven themselves to be too unreliable when it comes to medicine for my taste.

For now, I'm still in one piece. But one can never be too careful about these things, especially when we're talking about someone with my grace and poise.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 16:49:14 GMT

OK, You Win

I’m pretty damn hardcore in everything I do in life. I stare death in the face every day and laugh. I eat danger for breakfast. People see me walking down the street, they think, “Damn, that Jerry is Xtreme!”

It’s just everything about me. A couple months back, I jumped from my bed springs onto a mattress that was lying on the floor, severely spraining/breaking/damaging my right ankle. It still smarts a bit, even now. I didn’t care – I’m hardcore.

I’ll listen to two or three Nurse with Wound CDs in a row. What are you going to do about it? I’m living in Texas, and yet I still occasionally vote Democrat. That’s right, I did it – what else ya got?

But even though it’s obvious even to you by now that I’m hardcore to the bone in everything I do, I still fall a little short of 54-year old Chicago avant garde musician / documentarian / activist Malachi Ritscher.

It seems that last Friday, Ritscher committed suicide by setting himself on fire in protest of the war in Iraq.

That, my friends, is hardcore.

Not even MTV's "Jackass" has risen to such heights of Xtremity, although I'd really like to see the entire cast set themselves ablaze. For the good of the children, of course. Especially that Knoxville guy who was in the Dukes of Hazzard movie. I dare ya, Johnny -- prove yer stuff.

Even more Xtreme, Ritscher performed this act of bizarre civil disobedience completely alone, without even a camera to document just how hardcore he was. In today’s world, nothing has really happened unless there’s a camera there to document it, and the guy filmed documentaries, so this is perhaps the strangest part of the entire tale.

Cynic that I am, there’s a part of me that just believes the guy was depressed, that maybe we shouldn’t all run out and curse the President for forcing him into a position where he had no choice but to self-immolate.

What alternative does a peace-loving hippie have in today's world? Maybe a couple.

But ya know what? In the end, if a guy is going to turn himself to ashes to make a point, I’m going to go ahead and take him at his word. A 54-year old man burned himself up in order to make a pacifistic point. Fine. You were hardcore, Malachi. You were hardcore.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Thu, 09 Nov 2006 15:31:26 GMT

Bright Spots

Tuesday night was enough to make even this crusty old cynic smile.

I’ll admit it -- I have less than total faith in the Democratic Party. The past couple decades are strewn with the carcasses of missed opportunities for them. I’m not thrilled about Nancy “One-More-Plastic-Surgery-Should-Do-it” Pelosi as Speaker of the House or Henry “Let’s-Force-Everyone-to-Strap-Pillows-to-Themselves-for-Their-Own-Protection” Waxman as Chair of a major committee.

Furthermore, I live in Texas, where we had two (2) and only two bright spots -- Tom DeLay’s district went Democratic and the Montrose area of Houston now has a very good state representative-elect about to represent it in Austin.

Taking a step back and looking at the country as a whole, there are three (3) amazing points of interest -- 1) Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens is still 275 years old, but there’s now a Democratic Senate, on the off-chance he turns out to be merely human; 2) the old Socialist Bernie Sanders is about to become a member of the United States Senate; and 3) white collar crime crusader Elliot Spitzer is about to become New York Governor.

And did I mention that Rumsfeld is gone?

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Wed, 08 Nov 2006 20:01:55 GMT

Say it Ain't So

My award-winning 15-part Gallery of Rumsfeld shall see no Part 16. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld is to leave his position, and quickly. It breaks my heart that a military tactician so brilliant has been run out of office by terrorist-loving hippies. But it's happened. By God, it's happened.

So for old time's sake, peruse through my Gallery of Rumsfeld before it's gone, for I shan't be keeping tabs on him once he's a private citizen again. Because after this, it's over. You shall not see him with a horse, nor Dolly Parton gig, of course. You shall not see him with cheerleaders, or riding a unicycle, either.

Rummy, here's to you:

"Thanks for the times
That you've given me
The memories are all in my mind
And now that weve come
To the end of our rainbow
Theres something
I must say out loud
Youre once, twice
Three times a lady
Yes you're once twice
Three times a lady
And I love you..."

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 16:18:28 GMT

Two Years Old

Psychotropic Ink is two years old today. Just look at how cute he is – stumbling around like a little drunk guy, vainly trying to pronounce grownup words. It seems like only yesterday that … OK, that’s enough of that.

I’ve made a second birthday vow to start updating regularly. I’ve been horribly negligent as of late, going to so far as to fail to even endorse a candidate for governor, a race that I was once a part of. Of course, one of the reasons I’ve failed to endorse is that the candidates are awful. I suspect I’ll inevitably vote for the Democrat (there IS a Dem in the race, right?), and the idea of that seems to excite absolutely no one.

A few months ago, I told a reporter from the big Austin paper I was going to endorse Chris Bell, and he nearly hung up on me. For some reason, everyone wanted me to endorse Kinky Friedman. Let me tell ya, my endorsement brings with it almost three votes, so I’m a hot property.

Since the last time I really thought about Psychotropic Ink (yes, I’m a bad father – how the kid survived I have no idea), I’ve gotten situated at my new job at AIDS Foundation Houston AND moved residences. I moved from the moderately gay side of Montrose to the jaw-droppingly gay side.

This part of Montrose is so gay (and if you know me, then you know I say this not in a derogatory sense) that when the owner was showing us the place, he looked at me, looked at the girl I’m living with, and asked politely, “Are you familiar with this part of town?” I don’t know whether he’s had people die of heart attacks after discovering Montrose too late, or if he is just a cautious guy…

I will update with new and exciting rants in the upcoming days and weeks. I will update with new and exciting rants in the upcoming days and weeks… Hell, I might even finally get to catching up on other journals, too.

Two years and counting…

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Wed, 18 Oct 2006 17:51:29 GMT

Masters of the Universe

Before I delve into today’s political lesson, let me go ahead and admit it – I can be surprisingly arrogant. I’ve been told that my entire emotional spectrum ranges only from sarcastic to stressed and on into superior. I can hide that superiority behind a thick veil of self-deprecation, but it’s there, nonetheless.

The truth is, of course, there’s a lot of arrogance out there today. Hubris, even. For instance, I consider the Bush Administration’s recent nullification of the concept of habeus corpus to be an almost unbelievable example of political arrogance and short-sightedness. They really outdid themselves with that one!

But here it is, only one day after his habeus corpus bill signing, and Dubya has topped himself again. I’m not kidding about this…

President Bush today signed a new National Space Policy that includes provisions for the United States to deny access to space to anyone hostile to U.S. interests.

Far be it from arrogant old me to order you around, but I strongly encourage you to go back, right now, and re-read that last sentence. You won’t, though, so here it is again: President Bush today signed a new National Space Policy that includes provisions for the United States to deny access to space to anyone hostile to U.S. interests.

I once had a Betta fish who believed he controlled my apartment, but in terms of ratios (Betta to apartment vs. U.S. to universe), this is way more arrogant than that. In fact, the Betta fish doesn’t even come close.

Be happy, my fellow Americans! For today, we control the universe! Forget the Western Hemisphere, buddy, we decide who does what anywhere outside Earth!

I’d planned out a whole letter to the President regarding this new National Space Policy, but I think it’s been said fairly well by others before me. Monty Python, for instance. In celebration of that, I now present a cautionary tale in the form of Python’s “Galaxy Song.”

Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving,
And revolving at 900 miles an hour,
That's orbiting at 19 miles a second, so it's reckoned,
A sun that is the source of all our power.
The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see,
Are moving at a million miles a day,
In an outer spiral arm at 40 000 miles an hour,
Of the Galaxy we call the Milky Way.
Our Galaxy itself contains 100 billion stars
It's 100 000 light years side to side.
It bulges in the middle, 16 000 light years thick,
But out by us it's just 3 000 light years wide.
We're 30 000 light years from galactic central point,
We go round every 200 million years
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding Universe.
The Universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding,
In all of the directions it can whizz.
As fast as it can go, at the speed of light you know,
12 million miles a minute and that's the fastest speed there is.
So remember when you're feeling very small and insecure
How amazingly unlikely is your birth,
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space,
Because there's bugger all down here on Earth.

jerrylarson@hotmail.com — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 00:57:00 GMT

Psychotropic Resurrection

Hark, the angels herald the Second Coming of Psychotropic Ink sometime in the next couple of weeks.

For, as told in the Gospel of Mark 24:35:

"Amen, I say unto you, there are some reading this blog who will not taste death until they see that the kingdom of Psychotropic Ink has once again come to power."

Of course, I might be paraphrasing, but it's still true...