I have been copying Type O Negative albums to MiniDisc all night long. Working on Summer Rain and writing email to Conan O’Brien. Once I get 1000 messages to him, I am putting them all out as a zine.
I have declared war on my apartment building. It is 2:45 here. In a minute, I am moving my 200 lb dresser in front of the door, turning my bass amp up to 11 and practicing scales to a metronome for about 4 hours. I guess I should go to work tomorrow, though. We had some sort of party today, and the most interesting part were those cans of Guiness beer with the nitrogen widget in the bottom. When you open them, the nitrogen releases and carbonates the beer. I have no idea how much it costs per can, but you can probably charge a lot, because on average, Guiness drinkers are idiots who think drinking a certain beer defines them as a person. If a person plays guitar, that defines them. Or someone who writes books. Or runs marathons. Or was in the CIA or finished medical school. Having ancestors from a country in Europe makes you as special as the other 250 million people in this country.
This is a rant of mine. Did you know someone in college, usually someone who spent a lot of time in IRC, who suddenly thought they were from the UK? They would talk about colour and honour and pubs and knickers and bonnets, and start watching a lot of Red Dwarf. That always bugged me. The same with the Australia people. Almost every semester I met some girl who was in love with a guy from Australia that they’d only met from a MUD or a chat room. I also love it when someone claims they are like 1/64th Cherokee Indian.
I am not trying to be xenophobic, but what I’m trying to say is that you can’t define yourself by your alleged ancestors or by suddenly claiming allegiance to some other culture that you think is neat or special. I think people are defined by the actions, THEIR histories, and their own personality. To me, people who think they are special because they come from France are the same as people who think they are special because their parents are rich – they aren’t.
I don’t remember why I started talking about this. Oh, beer. And someone asked me if I liked Monty Python and I had to give the abridged version of why I don’t.
I should either go to bed or get back to work on the book.