Dimensional Gates and Crystals

I began the day as any other: eating farm fresh eggs and a McIntosh apple.  No, that isn’t quite right.  The eggs were indeed farm fresh but my fruit of choice was actually strawberries.  There’s nothing quite as good as strawberry as the kids like to say.  Suffer the little children, am I right?  I topped it off with a mug of steaming hot coffee, black.  While consuming my breakfast I watched a bit of MLB Central wherein actress Alyssa Milano was a guest, discussing her new clothing line (which features some baseball themed garb that is actually quite cute) as well as her thoughts on the Dodgers lineup.  I’d forgotten how physically attractive Milano is and I never even knew she was a baseball fan so my morning was already productive as I’d been reminded of an important fact of life while learning a new one.  During a commercial break I also saw that Outback is now featuring some special involving steak and unlimited shrimp.  Maybe I should invite Milano out and we can consume aquatic life, slabs of undercooked red meat (as is my wont), and weak but appropriately priced alcoholic beverages while discussing America’s pass time.  I would tell her my favorite part of the game is the 7th inning stretch because it has a kind of lackadaisical poetry to it.  We’d laugh like old friends and she would order more shrimp and I would order more drinks.  Seeing that smile on her face I would finally feel like a real person, like I’m worth a damn (but you’re not).  

Immediately after my hearty breakfast I proceeded, via the magic of online resources, to watch several episodes of Sid and Marty Kroft’s Land of the Lost.  Savvy readers are no doubt wondering if I am speaking of the syndicated 70’s series or the 90’s revival.  It may shock some to realize that I am speaking of the latter.  It can be truly said that back in the day during those long lost golden years of the 1990’s I had a crush on cave-girl Christa played by Shannon Day.  Keep careful watch of my word choice for my feelings were not the same as the deep heart wrenching love I had for Star Trek the Next Generation’s Deanna Troi (played by the lovely Greek actress Marina Sirtis).  It was a simpler kind of sentiment yet looking back I can see the potential was there for true love.   Perhaps if I’d allowed those feelings to blossom instead of burying them with deceit and compromise I would not be the conflicted (you’re a complete ugly failure) man I am today.  I will continue to pray that some brave company – Shout Factory perhaps – one day puts this series on digital video disc or – dare I hope? – blu ray that I may turn the lights down low and marathon watch 26 episodes over the course of a single night; bottle of El Jimador silver tequila in one hand, standard police issue Glock 9 millimeter handgun in the other (just do it).  Still, it was an unexpected pleasure to view these episodes with the mid-morning sun.  I found the narrative to be as charming as ever and the theme song as divinely rocking and acidly metallic as I remember.  The dinosaur special effects (by the Chiodo Brothers if I’m not mistaken) are beautiful and make me truly feel as though I am lost in an alternate dimension of prehistoric proportions (just end it already, no one cares now,  no one will care once you’re gone).   

Whilst furiously pumping out my purple prose I’ve been listening to Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly.  Originally, I had no plans to purchase this latest release by the young Lamar however my beloved friend Willem Joseph Montejamo who is the most ardent and slavishly devoted fan of rap and hip hop I’ve ever encountered in my (failed and worthless) life exchanged federal reserve notes for the disc on its first day of release.  I’ve been brushing up on my street vernacular recently so I can say with some degree of certainty that he was “bumping” these tunes in his automobile for several consecutive months afterward.  The aforementioned fact that he and I are lifelong bosom buddies means that yours truly was privy to several listening opportunities while sitting in the passenger seat, watching the dirty streets grow dirtier and revealing to me their own rich tales of police brutality, child abuse, rape and murder.  Montejamo and I discussed at greats lengths the often controversial merits of this specific genre of music though no obvious conclusions could be reached.  Originally, I attempted to find some parallels to this release and D’Angelo’s Black Messiah from earlier in the year but this quickly proved to be the wrong approach and was almost dangerous in the way it gravitated toward an intellectually reproachful brand of criticism that I try not dabble in.  Eventually I would go on to purchase this disc where it would become an occasional soundtrack to my excision of tortured musings (hang yourself with your own neckties).  I can say that hearing George Clinton’s beautiful voice on the opening track, coupled with the frequent if slightly derivative funk leanings, makes me want to do nothing more than listen to all those great old P Funk recordings.  Still, it is so far a largely rewarding, messy and challenging album.  Further analysis is necessary on several different fronts.  

I began watching Brian De Palma’s 2002 movie Femme Fatale last night but only viewed roughly 15 minutes before stopping.  It seemed like a quality film and I was enjoying myself but an opportunity presented itself for the consumption of alcoholic beverages and I could not resist.  If memory serves I drank vodka on the rocks, an Aqua Velva, a Coors Light, another vodka on the rocks, a glass of wine and another Coors Light (you should have drank yourself to death).  I am not proud of that list.  Nor am I not not proud of it.  But it is accurate and I have always prided myself on accuracy.