Fleekin Floygn

mothafuggah.

Ok, so I just wrote this big long thing and my ass of a computer just ate it, and so je suis le pissed, but here we go anyway.

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Well, the floodgates have been opened. Very few people know this about me, but I don't believe in 'liking' something, or even 'really grooving with' something. I get full-out lobster-bib obsessed. This takes a lot of energy, as you may image, so I have been known to purposefully avoid certain pop cultural "things" that I know that should I be exposed to them, rampant obession will follow. Take RENT, for example; I put off listening to that for years, and then one day. . . cut to a month later a month later and I'm weeping in the middle of the Centennial Concert Hall. It was very much a wet-nap and cuddle-time situation.

So when I took the vows of Chastity where Tori Amos was concerned years ago, I really, truly, meant them. I listened to one song and capital L -oved it, but convinced myself that this was only due to the emotional placement of Siren - said song - in Great Expectations. But then on Thursday, I'm trolling my way down Corydon when I come across Boys For Pele, her 1996 album, in Music Traders. '"It's just one album and besides, she's kinda weird so I probably won't even like her all that much."

...

I freakin' love her, God damnit!

So now it's all Moses crashing the sea onto the Egyptians, except they weren't newly infatuated with a woman who's produced eight other albums, when of course I simply must have, cause of my freakin' addictive personality, and let me tell you, those other ones are not gonna cost me $7.95 neither. No sir! And let's talk for a minute about time commitment; this is not a woman that puts out wimpy indie-rock 10-track albums, oh no. We're talking anywhere between 12 and 19 on one album. That's 150 songs! So goodbye social life and hello Ms. Amos and her motherfucking gorgeously ethereal sound!

Ok, so in other news, a friend and I were talking last night and we were having this rather philisophical conversation. I say 'rather' cause it wasn't Plato and Aristotle here, mostly due to the fact that our philsophical conversations mostly arise out of trying to out-trump one another with quirky weirdness. Anyway, so we're all discussing the concepts of truth and reality and existential crap like this when he drops religion on me. Ok, back the truck up, I say, Are you sure you want to open this door? I mean, we've opened it a crack before, but once we do this, it's, like, open, and stuff. Now let's just say that my friend and I have very different spiritual backgrounds. We are both well-educated, open-minded people, but when the observant and the agnostic get together it can get messy. Well, he responded, I'm up for it if you are, not unlike two fourteen year olds guys playing 'truth or dare' for the first time (Hey, I said we were both open minded). So we begin, and I think this is going to be one of those awful debates that will enevitably end in the statement, "Well, that's why it's called faith." However through a series of realizations, we come to the conclusion that while he adheres strongly to a religion and I don't really adhere other than culturally, that we can both agree on the fact that NO ONE KNOWS DICK! I mean, we believe, sure, but despite protests from both sides - ok, mostly one side - no one knows, and the fact that we were both so humble in our own humanity was just beeee-yutiful.

I think about religion a lot, hey?