In light of the recent passing of one Mr. Russert, many in the blogosphere have tried to note that, well, the ensuing hagiography is kind of morbid and weird. Those people have been vociferously shouted down by others who demand that "we not speak ill of the dead." Well, I'm gonna go there. I'm gonna speak badly of the illest of the ill.

Adolf Hitler was a mass-murdering fuckhead, a one-balled, stunted, sexually-frustrated revenge junkie who had the gall to manipulate his entire nation's feelings of post-WWI inadequacy only to completely wreck it all in a king-hell, epic case of death-by-cop. Oh, and fuck him for killing all those innocent people in such horrible ways.

I didn't notice it at first. I was under the all-consuming headphones, demolishing my remaining hearing with an album called Diamond Hoo Ha, deep within the selfish recesses of my own warped and spoiled suburban mind. It was the night of yet another dipshit, two-bit primary in some states, and an even skimpier night of civic duty here on the Central Coast, so the low whine was indistinguishable from Gaz Coombs and Measure G and Proposition 99 and the rest of existence's dull roar.

Then I recognized it, processed the foul frequency in my debilitating cerebrum, and promptly dismissed it. Popular vote Florida Michigan in to win why'd he back when I was president blah blah fucking blah. Another primary is lost and yet won. Another goal post is moved and yet there are still points scored and funds raised and egos stroked and babies kissed and blood sucked and brains fried in this stupefying death march of a Democratic primary. The ciphers croaked on. The mirrors kept reflecting. The desperate projection couldn't stop thinking about tomorrow.

It's really all about me.
I know, I know, I've said it before, and many times, but this time, I mean it oh so much more. Honest. So yes, it's come to this, a phone-in diary that nevertheless must be connected, because while there have been some valiant attempts to revive a rabid addiction to meta among the raging hordes of Naranjastan (yes, I coined that term), none has really seemed to take a permanent hold upon my crotchety, 4-digit UID sensibility. I used to live for meta, man. I used to suck it up like 1980s-moms snorted "Days of Our Lives" or "General Hospital" and other such genially geriatric baubles. I used to live for it, just like that, and since I have not been able to satisfy my perverse urges with the efforts of others, I shall subject myself to the merciless jaws of the Nostalgia Beast. Most of you won't care. That's absolutely fine. For those who do, though, you get a rank compendium of stale Liner Notes. Yep, for every DKos diary I've ever written. Re-issue, repackage, revival. Don't worry, it won't take up too much of your time. Come and see...

As a recovering political junkie, I was prepared for Campaign '08 to showcase all sorts of horrible visions that would threaten to throw me back off the wagon. Needless to say, I assumed these would all be thanks to the candidates, but nooooooooo. Their supporters have got in on the act as well, seemingly immune to that which Dr. Thompson once called "Campaign Bloat":

Many appeared to be in the terminal stages of Campaign Bloat, a gruesome kind of false-fat condition that is said to be connected somehow with failing adrenal glands. The swelling begins within twenty-four hours of that moment when the victim first begins to suspect that the campaign is essentially meaningless. At that point, the body’s entire adrenaline supply is sucked back into the gizzard, and nothing either candidate says, does, or generates will cause it to rise again...and without adrenaline, the flesh begins to swell; the eyes fill with blood and grow smaller in the face, the jowls puff out from the cheekbones, the neck-flesh droops, and the belly swells up like a frog’s throat...The brain fills with noxious waste fluids, the tongue is rubbed raw on the molars, and the basic perception antennae begin dying like hairs in a bonfire.

It's all about having something to do, really. About how you keep your creative brain churning when it's already spent the entire workday creating for other people. About how you can make music by yourself when the guys in the band have all moved away so gigs & rehearsals are rare and special. About being selfish. About lying your fucking head off. About writing what you know, with deliberate mistakes. About lots of things that won't be crammed into a riffy list. Abou...yeah, well, you know.

Disclaimer: Like yesterday's Part I, this is an email "interview" I conducted in June 2005 but for some reason never posted as a diary at the time.

For the second round of our "interview," my 2nd Lieutenant friend and I had the benefit of an "audience." He’d copied his entire address book onto his initial responses, so all his friends, family- everyone he was in contact with while stationed in Iraq- got to see our conversation. He explained:

"I find it funny- the reaction I received from my first batch of responses to your questions. People have apparently been wondering these same things (and probably more) but have been unable or unwilling to ask for clarification. This baffles me. One of the good things about being here is that I can shed some light on an otherwise murky situation. So if anyone has any more questions (anything, seriously I am not in a delicate mental state or anything) go ahead and ask."

Disclaimer: I conducted this "interview" in June 2005 but for some reason never posted it. I hope that it brings some reality back to the silly infighting of  Hillary/MyDD vs. Obama/DKos. You're welcome.

Not too many people, outside of soldiers’ families or political junkies, seem to actually pay close attention to the war in Iraq anymore, even two years into it. Getting people to notice anything these days other than their own little cognitive-dissonance-world is like pulling teeth from a rabid yeti, and I get pretty batshit crazy about it sometimes. I haven’t exactly become a raging hippie as far as war-protesting goes, but I just got tired of being judged by people who didn’t know what they were talking about and who didn’t know anything about me, simply because I disagree with the war and everything it truly stands for. Of course, I guess if everyone did think about this rationally all our heads would explode and no one would be thinking about anything important anyway. Maybe that’s already happened.

Sometimes, I wish I were Catholic / I dunno why"
-David Lowery of Cracker

Nice try, Dave. I know why- at least for myself, anyway. See, the idea of self-sacrifice, though usually repellent to rock stars such as ourselves, and especially non-denominational ones like me, is becoming unusually attractive to me in this, the Foul Year Of Our Lord 2008. Don't laugh- it's true. Mocking my newfound convictions will only make them stronger, but fire away if you must, because I've come to believe that the best offense is a solid defense, especially during the unbearable stretch from the Super Bowl to baseball's Spring Training. But never mind all that bullshit. What I really wanted to talk about, before that ridiculous tangent, was Throwing It All Away. So indulge me, because if you don't I'll indulge myself anyway, albeit perhaps for the final time.

"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."
- The Raging Id of Durden

Well...maybe so, but I get the feeling ol' Tyler never actually strapped on a guitar, and was never infected by the vicious fangs of the Rock Virus, though he faked it well. In my case, though, it zapped me good and proper, and at the most vulnerably fateful time- when I was defeated, weak, gullible, and desperate. I saw it coming, though, and even enjoyed letting it happen, and now, almost twelve years later, the brutal little bastard has only slightly loosened its grip on my terminally narcissistic soul. But so what? I was asked to offer my so-called "insights" into the psychologically dangerous and physically exhausting practice of "balancing artistic, creative passion with the mundane drudgery of everyday life," so we'd better get to it before I get too unbearably derivative. Come on backstage.

I think I'm going Puritan. Everywhere I look I see Degradation and Degeneracy, and a foul slippage into the primordial sludge of Apathy. Oh sure, you say, give us another laugher, Dubious One. Ah, but I insist- I haven't been only looking in the mirror this time, gang. I have been gazing out across the narrow fissure of All These Bent Tubes, and verily I say to thee it is a Waste Land, with no shining sword of justice to smite the raging masses.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, and lemme tellya, I'm scared shitless that the economy will be tanking, um, soon. Sometime soon. I'm also a bit concerned that we'll be Bombing Beautiful Persia within two months. Or tomorrow. Who can say? I'm mildly worried that White Male Christian Dominionists will, in short order, be transforming our country's military into their own personal paintball game, and in the process taking over everything else with ridiculous ease. Some people tell me that I'm overrreacting, but I don't think so, dude.

My back will be up against the wall, that's where I'll be. I've self-flagellated before, like every other liberal white straight suburban male, but I think I've only recently come to terms with how absolutely and irrevocably compromised I am when it comes to changing The Way Things Are in this country, at least as far as reversing the appalling damage done in the last fifteen years by neo-conservatism. In short, I've realized that I cannot competently help The Cause, whether it's helping to elect Democrats or (even better), helping tilt America toward the left to a degree it's never been before.

I wonder why this diary won't delete. Has it already been sucked into the archives and been imprinted irreversibly on a server disk?

I don't, you know, really know shit about, um, radio stations or whatever. Never managed one myself. Totally boring and selling out and stuff, running a station, you know? I mean, sure, I dig the music, man- hell, sometimes I even call in to say what's up or beg a few requests, but be in charge? Be a kahuna of any size? Nah. No way, even. Too much work, and, like, effort and shit. So I'm, like, not trying to harsh on anyone or anything, okay, but lately I've been picking up some seriously bad vibage pouring out of my FM speakers, and all I'm trying to do here is figure out what the fuck is going on, man. Somebody, please, enlighten me. I'm like those dudes who ended up all bummed and stuff in that one movie, you know?

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. The gate you crashed is not what you thought it was, or perhaps were led to believe. Verily we are treated to the regular drumbeat of diaries and comments here and elsewhere lamenting that the Daily Kos has, in effect, Gone To Hell.

I see that you are already feeling faint at the sight of the dread River Styx. Follow me across the water if you dare...

The American 21st century as an epic hangover. Either that or the beginning of a new Dark Age. Ah, the handy simplicity of the pop song lyric. Especially when there's no chorus and no hook. Again, if it's not cool, I'll delete forthwith. If it is cool, I'll leave it up for a day like the previous one.

Somehow we began the night invincible as ever
and always so impulsive or inspired
Somehow we're all ending up immobilized together
and always so oblivious and tired

Full lyric & mp3 below the fold...

For the first stab at this new series of mine I thought I'd start a discussion about the way people perceive the world around them and perceive their own history within and without that. In my opinion, that's usually where all the tribal trouble starts in terms of the more baser impulses of human nature- Fear (grounded in ignorance) of the Other. If that sound colossally boring to you, I'll put it this way: you can always make the jump and comment about how your personal history/geography made you the awesome person you are today, and have the rest of us vindicate your awesomeness. That or try to stump the DKos geo-geniuses with your geographic trivia-mojo. Get on down.

I thought it might be high time (after four years!) that I began pulling my weight around here as far as contribution goes. I really enjoy the various serial diaries that many users provide us, even the not-so-regular ones (I'm waiting for another Weekend Writer Workshop, Devilstower), and I thought that the best way I could add to everyone's general, all-around knowledge is to provide a place where we can all talk about one of my (and I hope, others') overriding, unbearably geeky obsessions: All Things Geography. I realize Super Bowl Sunday may not be the best time to throw this out there, but the game's not on yet, so please make the jump if you're interested.