I realize that it is considered important or necessary or even a means to avoid boredom this month for various bloggers to cobble together some Top Ten list or similar rundown of pop culture media releases over this still-not-named decade. Given that I feel most of that could disappear off the face of the Earth and I wouldn’t even notice, it is not in my best interest to bother jumping on that wagon. However, what IS in my best interest — the subject I am always interested in discussing, dissecting, and dallying about — is, of course, me. So, taking an otherwise pointless and often misguided trend and focusing it back to something meaningful, here is a compare/contrast of myself over the past ten years, or thereabouts.

1999: Bars were occasionally fun spots to drink and pick up girls.

2009: Bars are boring. Not only are they boring, they are filled with the noxious blather of subhumans whose oblique pleas for an early death would provoke a mass slaughter from someone with far less self-control than myself. The attendants of most watering holes are, by and large, not interesting, intelligent, attractive, charming, or the least bit tolerable. Add to that the blaring cacophony of “music” and the utter lack of aesthetics at every turn, and I’d often rather do a house party. Even better, I’d rather choose my interactions whenever possible, rather than roll the dice on whatever floats into my personal space.

1999: Any woman with a sizable amount of good looks is worth sleeping with.

2009: Most women are weak and stupid. Most men have equally deplorable traits, but in the words of the late Sam Kinison, I don’t sleep with them so women are what I have to work with. Purely as a survival tactic, I’ve learned to develop a convincing outward display of patience for the bulk of the opposite sex, their often inane chatter, vile slang, lack of emotional control, serial whining, hideous hairstyles, pseudo-intellectual tirades, and all manners of thinly-veiled attempts at masking their core 12-year-old little girl inside. So, yes, I’m not wildly motivated to seek out nookie these days. Like anything, quality comes in small numbers.

1999: I really love music and shows and a whole slew of bands.

2009: I almost never listen to music anymore. When I do, it’s something next to no one I know even likes, unless it’s “something from the ’80s.” Following suit, I detest going to rock concerts. Having approached middle-age, my misanthropy has ripened into a well-bodied vintage. Putting that evolved disdain in a room full of drunken jackasses and other human failures isn’t even entertaining in that way for which the Germans have a nifty word I’ve overused far too much to include in this paragraph.

1999: I smoke too much, drink a bunch, never exercise, and eat poorly.

2009: Quit smoking, rarely drink, exercise a fair amount, and have cut a number of bad foods out of my diet. And I did all of that without the desperate need for outside support of other people, pharmaceutical or similar quitting aids, or any sort of tricks or false starts or indecision. Woke up one day, put my will in gear, and did it. And, no, I don’t want to hear how hard it is for you. Put up or shut up.

1999: I was in my early-30s and had a few of the naive assumptions folks of that age bracket have.

2009: The developmental leap from 30 to 40 is far more massive and utterly life-altering than I expected or could possibly explain to a young person without getting resentment and defensiveness in return. Just know, kids, that so many of the precious ideas you have and important positions you take now might be wiped away without trace in the future. Trust me, you’ll laugh about it all come your 40s — assuming you have even a modicum of intelligence and self-awareness.

1999: Probably mulling over the fact of how much I hated the 1990s in terms of cultural/media output. It appeared at that time to be a decade of non-relatable everything. My own media creations were what probably kept me from going insane then.

2009: I really love this decade we’re going to leave behind shortly — or in a year, for you nitpickers. The rise of personal technology such as various social media (notably, blogging), productivity gadgets, podcasting and more have brought an added level of enjoyment to my life — in addition to the usual low-tech and antiquated indulgences such as book reading, real-world conversations, and traveling. I even like the kids of today a lot more than those of the ’90s, though they still talk and dress too funny for this crotchety old geezer. At the very least, they appear to be a lot happier. All in all, a very good decade was had, and I look forward to the next one.

1999: This blog was two years old, had a different URL, published less frequently, and covered personal and professional tidbits that were interesting at the time.

2009: Coming into my 13th year of blogging (pre-dating the term, “blog,” to be exact), I’ve come to enjoy the experience of maintaining and contributing to this growing purple monster. It’s a challenge to post every single day and keep it relatively entertaining and/or informative. Given the subscriber numbers, it appears that it’s not done just for me, and I do appreciate the attention and promotion I’ve gotten from so many of you. And, yes, I deleted the old and boring posts long ago.

That is all. End of line.

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Back in the 1990s or nearabouts, I’d composed a lyrical examination of sorts for Dio’s first album, Holy Diver. At least, some of the choice tracks on the album. Bill M. posted it on the Internet, and then added his own commentary. Since you might have never seen this (or the other tracks dissected), here’s an example…

Holy Diver

Holy Diver [MGP: Question: what is a holy diver?]

You’ve been down too long in the midnight sea; oh, what’s becoming of me? [MGP: Call me kooky, but somehow I'm focused more on what's becoming of the drowning priest; he has my attention at this moment in time]

Ride the tiger, you can see his stripes but you know he’s clean [MGP: so, normally seeing his stripes means that the tiger is dirty? That brings us to Dio-ism #2: seemingly deep points obscured to all who are not Dio]

Oh, don’t you see what I mean? [MGP: as a matter of fact, NO!]

Gotta get away – holy diver [BILL: Is this "get away FROM the Holy Diver", or telling the Holy Diver to do so?]

Shiny diamonds, like the eyes of a cat in the black and blue [MGP: someone beat up a cat? maybe Dio? the holy diver? WHO?]

Something is coming for you – LOOK OUT! [MGP: important Dio word or phrase #2]

Race for the morning [BILL: See Dio-ism #2]

You can hide in the sun ’till you see the light [MGP: Dio-ism #3: blatant use of paradox]

Oh, we will pray it’s all right

Gotta get away – get away

Between the velvet lies [BILL: Does that mean fibs made of Elvis paintings, or "lies" as a verb?]

there’s a truth that’s hard as steel [BILL: Same Truth-with-Many-Lies from "Straight Through The Heart"?]

The vision never dies, life’s a never-ending wheel [MGP: one that, according to "Stand Up And Shout," we are all nailed to. Thanks, Dio]

Holy diver, you’re the star of the masquerade, no need to look so afraid

Jump on the tiger [MGP: any masquerade where they invite tigers may be one to avoid; jumping on him may be bad, too]

You can feel his heart, but you know he’s mean

Some light can never be seen [MGP: PARADOX ALERT!]

(repeat verse one)

[MGP: Note: this song, like many Dio songs, has a problem with clearly defining what is happening to whom. Who's got "shiny diamonds?" Who has to "get away?" We'll NEVER know!]

As for other Internet rantiness given to Rev. M. in the past, check out my continuation of his already established A-Z One Hit Wonder Metal Bands rundown. It’s truly retro-licious!

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An oldie, to be sure. Not really this angry anymore, but it’s still fun to share. Enjoy…

excerpt from “You’re ALL Fascists”
originally printed in Poo Poo Magazine #10
Copyright © 1995 Purging Talon

Fascism is fundamentally a dictatorial practice, which means that if you feel that everybody should think like you do on a particular issue AND you wish to implement some sort of regulation, force, or social stigma in order to engage your cause as status quo, then you’re in the club. I bet it would soothe you to know that you’re in a rather large club, wouldn’t it? Still in denial? Well, then, please goosestep with me through the remaining paragraphs.

First of all, I could care less how noble or “just” you feel your cause is. Ultimately (and this may be the rude awakening for some dreamy-eyed “revolutionaries”), not everyone is going to dig your little jamboree. The causists cry for education, but WHOSE education will be disseminated? Yours? Mine? And isn’t the broad assumption here that there exists (tee-hee) a universal definition of right (ho-ho) and wrong (ha-ha-ha)? How will you deal with the rebel elements in your politically-correct world? Prison camps? Gas chambers? BIBLE CLASS? Face it, children… the environmental and genetic differences (regardless of what labels you wish to give them) determine that we as humans are not all going to pop out of the uteral factory as precision-correct replicas. Want everyone to agree and live in harmony with humankind? Slash the earth’s human numbers down to one. There’s your world peace.

Providing room for all cultures and ideologies to exist would be beneficial. I’d like to see it, if it means leaving me alone for once. But, it’s hardly ever in anyone’s plan. (And, of course, there would be war and conflict, but that’ll happen no matter what you do.) The subjugation of non-compliant individuals will naturally occur and has been shown in nearly every arena throughout human history. The White supremacists want to dominate and control the social views towards African-Americans and others, yet our government and related social establishments respond by controlling White supremacists by restricting their passage to media sources such as public access cable and the Internet. People talking and people acting are two separate acts, yet most are too insecure to want to see that. Guilty before proven innocent.

I must interject here and state that I am not concerned with the moralistic implications of my examples used in this essay. Morals are personal and really have nothing to do with this subject, with the exception that each group’s morals often fuel their respective causes. I rather not play such a useless game. Or such a collective one.

Self-fascism. It has a delicious ring to it. My Reich. A pogrom against your expectations of me. I will subjugate all of you who wish to be subjugated by eradicating your impositions, and subjecting you to my existence by merely being. And, why not. A great deal of you live to be subjugated. Those cramped in boxes you collectively envelope yourselves in, safeguarding yourselves from facing anyone who personally rejects such limitations. Admit it. Most of you loathe independent thinking because no one’s there to tell you that it’s okay to do so. Some of you need your Hitlers, your Christs, your MTVs, your well-practiced poses, and your “alternative” or “underground” icons to give you strength. How uncomfortable it must feel to lack confines. All of those rules, the dress codes, the “exclusivity” of liking the “cool” bands. Trade the status quo for a smaller strain of the same thing and feel oh-so-free. You’re the perfect paradigm for what I DON’T want to be and it’s the only thing I’ll thank you for. As it stands, I’m on this dirtball to impress myself. No other.

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This gigantic pic appeared in a fairly old issue of the Burlington Free Press for a story on zines, taken by someone who would later end up being a pal of mine. The photo actually takes up about a third of the page, which even took me aback. This is pre-Not Like Most, by the way — back when Purging Talon pretty much consisted of one small-press zine title. I’m in my mid-20s at this time, just starting to get media attention, both local and otherwise, for my efforts. It’s a period of my life when the ball was just starting to roll. Sad that you can’t see the respective grin hiding behind my arm, but trust me, it’s there. Good times!

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The following text is from an 11-page history of Purging Talon that will introduce that still-in-the-works Not Like Most compilation book that I still need to get finished. Same story with many of my projects: I’m always waiting and waiting and waiting for other people. But, you don’t want to hear any of that. What you might want to hear — or in this case, read — about is this sliver of Purging Talon’s past, circa mid-1990s. Oh, what fun BSN was. Read on…

A huge supporter of Purging Talon back then, replete with many Purging Talon flyers plastered in its own storefront windows, was a business no longer around: Blue Suede News. BSN was an indoor newsstand/coffee stop across from City Hall Park and right next to what was then the Greyhound bus terminal. I worked there for a couple of years both for some extra cash and to facilitate their sizable zine selection, handling the ordering process by buying titles from then-distributor Desert Moon and others. If you wanted independent mags, BSN was the only game in town, and I wanted it to last forever. I loved going into work every day, getting to read all of the zines, ordering up the best ones for the shop, discovering networking sources throughout, and learning, again, what works and what doesn’t work in the indie mag game. It was valuable experience in the guise of jockeying a register and selling papers and coffee to crazy people.

When the place burned down one Saturday in the autumn of 1996, it was a sad day. As I turned the corner out of the glorified alleyway known as Lawson Lane onto St. Paul Street that afternoon, I froze in horror as I saw the entire building engulfed in flames and smoke. My favorite shop, gone. No more kitschy decor, no more mentally disturbed people giving me shekels or conspiracy theories, no more drunks free­falling into comic book racks, no more Québec tourists giving me attitude because I don’t speak French (and there were many), no more prank calls to druggies near the payphones in the park, and no more goddamn jerky beef! I still think of BSN rather fondly, actually. Seems weird even writing all of that but it’s true. Good times.

A short aside: Blue Suede News went through two owners in the time of my employment there. When the second owner came in, the first owner told him that a condition of buying the store was that I remain as an employee. In other words, I was part of the package. But, there was also another element to the story: the new owner was too scared of me to ever let me go. He told my co-worker and later good friend that I was “the Devil” and that he didn’t know what would happen to him if he ever fired me. Talk about superstition run amok! I really was a very nice fellow, but as long as he thought I was the Antichrist manning his counter and such is what kept the checks coming, then I had no problem with it. One does wonder if he blames diabolical intervention for his lost place of business, though.

There’s a lot more about crazy customers and the like. Oh, heck, here’s one of them, also from the NLM book intro and, more directly, from my BSN “field journal”…

Guy walks in. I shall refer to him as Mr. L, as he’s a regular in my store. As is the trend here and other places, we sell those post-hippie THC-sterile hemp brownies. They’re on the counter right next to the cheapo cigarettes few people buy. Mr. L is a funny one and he deserves description. Facially, he looks like Andre the Giant (remember the wrestler? I hope you do because I have no other reference for him) with big, frizzy, just-past-the-shoulders red hair. He’s chubby and looks drugged and overtly inbred. He can’t read and I suspect that he’s mildly retarded, but can’t prove it. Mr. L comes in the store, looks at the hemp seed brownies and asks me if there’s really pot in them. I couldn’t resist. I said yes. After telling me that this is illegal (because, I obviously don’t know and HE does… fucking Einstein), he asks me how we (the store) get away with it. With my best poker-face, I told him that we pay off the local police. He looked rather impressed and told me how cool that was in so many words. After he left, I nearly pissed myself…

Also in this masterpiece of an introduction — that you’d probably rather read than merely hear about — will be all sorts of other tales that stitch together the sordid saga of my fine media company. Of course, you’ll have to wait for that. Like I have to wait for others to get back to me so I can, in turn, release some projects. Can you sense the frustration?

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[Note: This segment from a larger essay of the same name was written sometime in my mid-20s -- a very adorable age, I'd say -- and before the Internet explosion of the latter-1990s. It appeared in an old and long-since-vanished issue of my first publication, Poo Poo Magazine. I chopped it down to its essence and thought some of you might enjoy this very limited peek at America's 14th state -- a classic if not slightly verbose MGP rewind...]

Qualifications for taking this far-flung, isolated state apart: I’ve lived in Vermont for five years, half in Johnson, half in Burlington. I didn’t grow up here or embrace its somewhat aggregate mentalities, which means that I can speak of its elements somewhat objectively. I’ve also lived in over 15 different states in this country, spanning almost 50 cities and towns, and I’m secure with the fact that I have a reasonable knowledge of socio-geographical similarities and differences. In other words, I’m more qualified to dispense the following comparisons than someone who’s never stepped outside the Green Mountain Bubble. (And, when I say “outside” I don’t include Upstate New York, which could be largely considered Vermont Part Two; and, of course, Montreal because it’s in a different country with entirely different cultural divisions.)

Vermont is a friggin’ world of its own… and that’s how it’s liked here. The old-timers want strangers out. The youngins can’t wait for a small slice of that outside world to come in. There are no toll booths, no industrial factories, no gun permits, just a ridiculously high number of bovines, some covered bridges, that shit you put on your pancakes, and an incredibly small amount of external exposure for Vermonters. Unless you include television or the urban gang thugs who hide up here to avoid New York or Massachusetts cops and courts, or non-natives like myself, you’re left with 562,758 examples of what 9-month winters and Canadian tourists can do to a susceptible maple sugar-fed mind. As I write these words, I can strongly imagine all of those self-imposed intellects rushing to their own defense for separatism. “I’m not like them,” screams the average native-Vermont scenester in Burlington. Know what? You’re lying through those well-fluoridated teeth. Sure, call me any outsiderism to justify your denial, but you and “them” are blood.

And, let’s talk a little about “them.” Yes, the R word. Rednecks. Such an extreme term for what we really have here. First of all, the only differences between what a lot of Vermonters call “rednecks” and themselves are musical tastes, household incomes, and a variant on that lovely, lovely accent that most strive so desperately to shed. You may not pronounce the hard consonants and sibilants as freely, but that “redneck” accent is as obvious to this non-native as is your collective delusion that it doesn’t exist. It’s a VERMONT accent. You fool each other, but not me. Frickin’ yeeahh, brah. You, too.

And, the term “redneck” you folks throw around so casually? I hate to burst your woodland-punk parade here, but the demographical group you refer to as “redneck” are strangely unlike the archetype the rest of the country would more collectively agree upon as being such. A great deal of Vermonters live under the delusion that a welfare kid who likes heavy metal and has one of those fashionably-late, early-80s, Def Leppard haircuts is a redneck. Follicle faux pas, yes… but redneck? Forgive me for asking a rhetorical question at this point but have you ever been outside of Vermont? Ever!? Put down your cappuccinos and wipe off your just-for-show glasses enough to see one point: REAL rednecks (and my experience here consists of the ones I’ve dealt with in California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Oklahoma, Texas, Florida, Missouri, Indiana, and probably somewhere else I’ve successfully forgotten about) wouldn’t merely blow you shit… they’d blow you away! Real rednecks are far more aggressive and violent than even the most Bud-wrenched, wife-slapping Vermont rube could ever pretend to be. I understand that these folks are probably Vermont’s closest facsimile to real rednecks, but maybe the term “hick” might suit some of these folks more accurately. Perhaps, even “White trash.” But, if I cared, I’d advise not to point if you’re just as guilty. If I’d grown up in Vermont, it probably would have been really easy for me to latch onto the nearest convenient scapegoat to better my image and make me forget my regional identity like a lot of you have. Of course, we’re speaking of pure conjecture here. I wasn’t raised here, nor would I have wanted the experience-deprivation which seems so prevalent in this state had I known of the reality which lies outside of Vermont’s state borders. Lucky for me, I do.

The one unwritten joke in Burlington, upon someone planning to move away from here, is that they’ll be back… sooner or later. It could be because some can feel like a big shot here… and probably only here. Maybe it’s a return to the womb trip. Especially if the person is a native, more so amongst the individuals comprising my familiar environment. I would assume that either the transition didn’t happen or facades and pipe-dreams were crushed somewhere “out there.” Probably both. But, experience is worth its immeasurable weight against mere talk and that’s something a lot of people learn once their meaningless theatrics stop having effect (on themselves or others). [END]

[Addendum: Vermonters reading this can disafford themselves the idea that I am anti-Vermont. I'm generally good with the state and think of it much like a long-term relationship that's settled and comfortable -- no real spark, but no beefs, either. So, there you go.]

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The original idea: “25 Random Things about Me…” (new “meme” recently floating around Facebook). The rules: “Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged.”

I’m fairly bad at following the rules of these things, possibly because I don’t care that much or simply because… well, okay, no “or”… I just don’t care that much. That means I won’t be passing it along to 25 other people. But, I am up for talking about myself, depending upon a receptive audience. (That’s you, in this case, reading a blog centered around a specific individual — namely, moi.) And even though the picture implies it, there are no references to Happy Days or the fact that I wanted to be The Fonz when I was eight… unless, of course, I just cheekily inserted a Number 26 there. Your call.

NOTE: The first six were originally from this post, but the following 19 are new. All of these previously appeared yesterday on my Facebook account, but not everyone has access to that, so it’s being reposted here.

1. In junior high school alone, I got into approximately 400 schoolyard fights, traversing eight schools. It was the price to pay to survive and retain dignity as an undersized kid.

2. I played alto saxophone when I was 10, but switched to clarinet at 11 because it was easier to carry and it put me closer to the pretty flute-playing girls in Six Grade band class.

3. When I was 13, I would go to the local rollerskating rink and pretend I couldn’t skate in order to trick pretty girls into “teaching” me. Executing a planned fall in front of them was a common tactic. Secretly, I could skate circles around most everyone I knew.

4. I have never seen a single episode of Seinfeld, Frasier, The Simpsons, Friends, Survivor, Family Guy, American Idol, Law and Order, Heroes, Lost, and virtually any other network television show from the last 18 years. Nor do I care to.

5. Through the course of my life, I almost drowned four times, three mentally ill people tried to kill me, had two accidental overdoses, three severe food poisonings, and one near-fatal car crash.

6. My very first record album was the soundtrack to Flash Gordon (1980). I still have a deep and nostalgic love for the film and its score to this day. Hail Ming!

7. All of my neckties are arranged by color and, yes, I wear one every day.

8. I met Evel Knieval when I was eight years old, during the peak of his career. If you don’t know who Evel Knieval is, I pity you.

9. When I was 10, I lived behind the winter home of Kate Jackson (of Charlie’s Angels fame) and I walked her dog regularly for money. Somehow, I failed to mention to her that Cheryl Ladd was my favorite Angel. And still is.

10. I’ve lived in 45 cities and towns, almost a dozen states, and 60 houses, as well as went through 21 schools from K-12.

11. I abhor the use of any toiletries that have a scent.

12. My alarm clock is always set to a time that ends with a 1, 3, 7, or 9. Never an even number, a 5, or a zero. And, I don’t know why.

13. The only living being to have resided more than 4 consecutive years with me is my cat.

14. I not only detest seafood of any sort, I cannot stand the smell of it, either.

15. When I was 11, I saw a family of four dead bodies in a car, apparently frozen to death by the cold Sierra Nevada winter. They were parked near my school bus stop.

16. When I was eight and living in Indiana, I witnessed a Christian revival meeting at which they “took up serpents” — meaning, handling live venomous snakes to test their faith. My crush on the girl who seduced me into going faded away and I ran home to tell my mom about the “weird Christian snake cult.”

17. I whistle breathing in, not out.

18. I hate coffee. A lot.

19. One of my earliest girlfriends was an identical twin. And I hated her sister.

20. Christopher Lee is my favorite cinematic Dracula.

21. As a young child, I read all 58 of the original Hardy Boys books. When I ran out, I went and read all of the Nancy Drew books, too. I also enjoyed Encyclopedia Brown, Choose Your Own Adventure books, and Tintin. And trivia books… lots and lots of trivia books.

22. I was suspended from school the day the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up.

23. One of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had was standing atop the highest point of Machu Picchu in Peru.

24. I came in 2nd place in a 400-person fourth-grade state spelling bee. When it came to me and one other kid, I panicked. The word I choked on: soldier. I was a very unamused little nine-year-old in that moment and I refused to accept the 2nd place medal. Read into that, if you like.

25. I am my favorite person in the whole wide world.

I might go more in-depth on some of these in future posts. If that interests you, let me know.

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Sometime back, I wrote about my childhood love of independent TV, notably the once-mighty Channel 56 in Boston. To indulge myself (and, perhaps, a few of you) further, here are some clips from that era long since past…

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