Happy Birthday, Kurt Cobain!!!

Happy Birthday, Kurt Cobain.

I don't care if it's cliché to still understand you or love your music anymore, but you still deserve the wishes, even if they only come from me, your widow and your daughter.

Just know that, wherever you are, there are still people here who wish you were still with us.

Come As You Are

See, I have this theory about why a lot of really good independent bands never feel the need to stop in Florida when they choose to tour nationally. My theory has to do with the geography, really, and whether or not such a trip would be financially lucrative for said band. Any band that is currently touring to make some money (and that usually equates to every band that is currently touring, period) usually finds that traveling all the way to Florida would cost them more against the potential ticket and merchandise sales they would make if they came through and played the show.

Furthermore, not only are Floridian indie/punk-lovers trapped on the dick of America, wishing they could one day be in the same shitty bar as their favorite bands, but it is understandable that those bands probably don't want to get here by plowing through a Bible Belt that might not seem to take too kindly to their loud and unorthodox noise.

I think about this when I think about a conversation I had with Dan Peters, drummer for Mudhoney, when I asked him, when Mudhoney played at BackBooth in Orlando in June 2008, when the last time Mudhoney had come to Florida to play a show.

Somewhere around 1993 was what he had told me. That was fifteen years ago, at the time, and before the suicide of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain.

After I think about that, I think about one of my favorite independent bands of all time, the one in the YouTube link at the top of this posting: Rasputina. And it makes me want them to come to Florida in the near future. Or now. Please.

I love them.

A Poem

"Cheer up, Giada De Laurentiis"

Cheer up, Giada De Laurentiis.
Don't be so down all the time.
Try smiling once in a while.
Stop worrying so much
About the world
And all it's troubles.

A New Companion

I've been doing a lot of thinking since my college graduation ceremony two Fridays ago, and I have to admit that some of this thinking has been absolutely, bat-shit clinical, crazy. But the least one of the bat-shit clinical, crazy ideas has been to adopt a puppy. It'll get crazy, just wait for it.

The thought occurred on no particular day, driving through Avalon Park, outside of Orlando, and probably running mind-numbing errands with my girlfriend. We were talking about the things we wanted to do once we had settled into the house or apartment we are currently trying to find for next year's lease.

It was without question that I wanted to adopt an animal, because I love animals. Theyarethecoolestthingsever.

When I jokingly tell people that I grew up on a 1,200 square foot farm in West Palm Beach, few of them realize the accuracy of the term that I employ. Since my birth my family has housed a Greyhound, a Dalmatian, five Bassett Hounds, a *Bull Mastiff, a *Redbone Hound, a Bloodhound, an American Bulldog (whom we referred to as 'Shitforbrains'), a Poodle-mix, a mutt named *Tessa and at least 30 domesticated cats over roughly three generations.

The three dogs with *stars next to them are still around, with one of the Bassetts and six of the 30 cats.

A farm. No shit.

So I'm sitting in the car, with the girlfriend driving, thinking about the kind of animal I have always wanted, and this seems to require much thought because I have had a lot of animals in my lifetime. And then it hits me.


"Babe! Let's get a Doberman!"

I was surprised by the lack of concern in her expression. With it, she seemed to reassure me that, because I had considered this animal just like any other, she agreed with me and trusted that we would have no more problems with this type of dog than we would with a Parakeet, or something. She, having only one dog in her lifetime, might have even trusted my judgment over hers based on my experience.

Sure, I thought, a Doberman isn't a bird, but I don't really care. I want a Doberman, and I'm going to get one.

So I told my family, and one would have thought by their consistent refutations that I was adopting an African Crocodile to live in my shower.

All I heard was bullshit about temperament, and how Dobermans are known to be one of the most dangerous breeds of dog. According to FreeRepublic.com, the Centers for Disease Control reported Dobermans, Pit bulls, Rottweilers, German Shepherds, Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes, Chow Chows, Great Danes, St. Bernards and Akitas in their list of the Ten Most Dangerous Breeds.

Okay. That's cool. But on every other list, Dobermans are ranked the fifth most intelligent behind the Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, the Poodle and the Border Collie at number one.

As an intelligent animal, who has been trained to operate by positive reinforcement, I can only deduce that something very bad must have happened to these animals to make them behave very badly. I could get into B.F. Skinner right now but its redundancy is even apparent to a three year old: good animals come from good people and bad animals come from bad people.

But, you know what? It doesn't really matter because I probably don't have the resources or the finances to raise a puppy right now, so a lot of this pissing and moaning is for nothing.

But still, at least I know that when the time comes for me to get a puppy, at least I know the dog I want, and when I can provide the right environment for it, I still know it will be one of the best decisions I make.

New Layout!

It needed a change. Things were getting old so I took the inspiration from the dubious last album by "Chicago's Finest Forges," Big Black. Also, my girlfriend, a Lilly Pulitzer freak, can appreciate the dueling pink and greens.

Disclaimer: For all who view this blog, please remember that this is just an album cover, albeit a tasteless one.

What the hell is next?

Well, it's finally here.

The day I never have to sit in a classroom again if I don't have the desire to.

The day I finally become free to worry about my life without the burden of letter grades on top of it.

The day I step out into the world, having learned (technically) everything I need to know about it.

Two decades. Four presidents. God knows how many 5-page papers and 500-word assignments.

All for what? My B.A. in Journalism.

It would be a lie to say that I am not proud of myself, because for all of my counter-cultural convictions, I still consider an academic degree a valid achievement; a close second to teaching oneself to play music. But despite what I have earned from my experience in college, I still don't feel like I've accomplished anything.

I feel like a failure with a college degree.

It's comforting to know that my girlfriend and my family are proud of me, and I guess that makes me proud of me. But I still only have the same amount of direction I had when I was 18. I still consider the question of what I should do with my life.

Only now is it I know that if I'm going to do anything, I had better god-damned love it because chances are good in this economy that nobody will be paid adequately for the job they do.

So my goal for now is to forget about my field of study, but only temporarily. I need to find a new way to orient myself toward the marketplace of ideas and the role of journalism in this hyper-changing, on-demand information age.

Now, it even surprises me that I am writing in my free time. If I had a class assignment due, you'd better know I wouldn't give a rat's ass about this blog. But alas, optimism abounds.

My goal is simple: devote my time to getting paid for 40 hours a week's worth of work. If it's not enough, do something else. If it is enough, make it not enough. Isn't that the correct answer, Capitalism? Please! I have to get a good grade on this!

And I guess, once those necessities have been met, my goal will be to devoting the rest of my time to securing myself in the niche I make for myself. Sleeping now in the bed I have made.

Or I could just start a punk band.

They Just Like the Attention

For those who do not belong to my generation--Generation Y, the Millennials, the Echo Boomers, whatever the hell we call ourselves--you have not been granted license to comment on, criticize, justify, analyze or define what we do as a collective market demographic in any way, shape or form.

My opening statement seems harsh, but all too often in the press I have to listen to the commentary of sources who are interested in studying the behavior of all of us born between 1980 and 2000 and only sparingly finding those born within these decades to actually provide appropriate perspective.

All of this bile comes from an Orlando Sentinel story about the web-cam suicide of Abraham Biggs, a Broward College student who intentionally overdosed on benzodiazepine and opiates in front of an online audience. Click the title "They Just Like the Attention" above to read for yourself.

After reading the story, I immediately thought of the 1987 suicide of disgraced Pennsylvania treasurer R. Budd Dwyer, when he held a televised press conference to shoot himself with a revolver in front of the press and a live audience.

These stories are more different than they are similar, I know, but from the research I've done, the story of Dwyer's suicide never highlighted how his generation had "a penchant for sharing intimate details about themselves over the [television]."

The quote from 38-year-old Montana Miller, assistant professor of Pop Culture at Bowling Green State University, is disconcerting, if not downright insulting: "If it's not recorded or documented then it doesn't even seem worthwhile. For today's generation it might seem, 'What's the point of doing it if everyone isn't going to see it?'" As a source, her commentary is anecdotal, providing no factual evidence for the wildly broad generalization she has assigned to this particular group of individuals. And as a journalist, I would have no use for this source's commentary in the case of this 19-year-old's death.

I'm sure that many Millennials have taken flak from journalists and experts about how privileged we have been during our coming of age, what with our computers, iPods, cell phones, five-year on-going wars, four-dollar gasoline, our luxuriously high cost of education and high parental divorce rates. There's a lot to be jealous of, I know, but that's not our fault.

It was the hippies that created the internet. We just learned how to use it. Sure, the web, still only in its infancy, has revolutionized practically every facet of our lives in the last 8 years, and as a generation, we do have a strong dependence on it for information and entertainment.

But being quoted as saying that, as a generation, we would find a public suicide on the internet to be "not shocking, given the way teenagers chronicle every facet of their lives on sites like Facebook and MySpace," is wrong. It's undeniable that Miller, in her expert opinion, could have easily found sources born between 1980 and 2000, from an eight-year-old to a 28-year-old, who could provide plenty of evidence to the contrary.

Fun Fact: Wikipedia has a link to the video of R. Budd Dwyer shooting himself in the head. Will I not be shocked when I view it in this revolutionary 21st Century media outlet?

No. We watched two buildings fall in New York City. Duh. Everybody knows how passé that has become.

I also think my 11-year-old cousin, Jenna, would echo my callous dismissal of the melodrama that is broadcast public suicide.