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I used to have a reputation for being hip. When I was in grad school in my early 40s, the younguns would clamor to hang with me because I was considered to be quite cool. (Actually I think it was the fact that while I was the same age as most of their parents, I had absolutely no interest in acting parental towards any of them.) But now, alas, I call myself a hipster because my fucking hips are killing me. It is to laugh.
I had to get up about an hour ago to take some diclofenac because my hips ached so much that they woke me up. And when I get out of bed during one of these bouts, I shamble across the room like a Hollywood zombie, tipping from one side to other because the hips aren't moving in the way God intended. Plus, you know, there's moaning and mumbling. At least I'm not green and putrefying. Yet.
While waiting for the drugs to kick in (hip! cool!) I cruised around my favorite music sites. I am a slow learner about the wonders available on the internet. It's only been a month since I stumbled (zombie imagery!) across all of these mp3 sites out there. It's been a lovefest.
I've missed music. My kind of music. There's not much available on the radio in these parts, especially considering I have the crappiest car radio in the whole of history of crappy car radios. I truly dislike most of what is on the airwaves that I can pick up. Who the hell foisted emo on the world and how can we adequately punish him? (It's a guy. Let's be real.) Dar thinks I'm a snob, but of course I protest that I am not. It's more that the kind of rock that plays around here is precisely the kind of rock that puts my teeth on edge. At least this experience has helped me to pinpoint why it is that I dislike it. Why, you ask? Well, let me elucidate. Briefly (which is verging on oxymoronic but it's late/early/whatever), I can't abide music that hits the high pitches with voice or instruments. Don't screech at me, please. And for god's sake stop yelling. Oy. And don't attack me with a solid wall of sound - music consists of silence between the notes, too.
Now me and my cranky, creaky hips are going to try to get some rest.
Oh, I had an idea for a TV review column. I'd call it "You damn kids get off my TV!" and there'd be a picture of me waving a cane in my fist at my television; I'd review all the youth oriented shows that I just don't get like Wonder Falls and Veronica Mars and That 70s Show. (Please. I did the 70s. They were nothing like that.) See? I'm waving my cane.
Night all.
I had to get up about an hour ago to take some diclofenac because my hips ached so much that they woke me up. And when I get out of bed during one of these bouts, I shamble across the room like a Hollywood zombie, tipping from one side to other because the hips aren't moving in the way God intended. Plus, you know, there's moaning and mumbling. At least I'm not green and putrefying. Yet.
While waiting for the drugs to kick in (hip! cool!) I cruised around my favorite music sites. I am a slow learner about the wonders available on the internet. It's only been a month since I stumbled (zombie imagery!) across all of these mp3 sites out there. It's been a lovefest.
I've missed music. My kind of music. There's not much available on the radio in these parts, especially considering I have the crappiest car radio in the whole of history of crappy car radios. I truly dislike most of what is on the airwaves that I can pick up. Who the hell foisted emo on the world and how can we adequately punish him? (It's a guy. Let's be real.) Dar thinks I'm a snob, but of course I protest that I am not. It's more that the kind of rock that plays around here is precisely the kind of rock that puts my teeth on edge. At least this experience has helped me to pinpoint why it is that I dislike it. Why, you ask? Well, let me elucidate. Briefly (which is verging on oxymoronic but it's late/early/whatever), I can't abide music that hits the high pitches with voice or instruments. Don't screech at me, please. And for god's sake stop yelling. Oy. And don't attack me with a solid wall of sound - music consists of silence between the notes, too.
Now me and my cranky, creaky hips are going to try to get some rest.
Oh, I had an idea for a TV review column. I'd call it "You damn kids get off my TV!" and there'd be a picture of me waving a cane in my fist at my television; I'd review all the youth oriented shows that I just don't get like Wonder Falls and Veronica Mars and That 70s Show. (Please. I did the 70s. They were nothing like that.) See? I'm waving my cane.
Night all.
