C.A. Lang's Blog, page 11

More amateurish video goodness!

 

Shakespeare’s Sister – Stay

First, check out the original video. It’s so absurd but so fakking cool at the same time. I mean what even happened to this guy? Is he dying of something he picked up from a space-tattoo needle? And the evil but better-looking antagonist gives up so easily I can’t help but be left with the feeling that she’s just a fickle space-brat who wasn’t at all interested in the guy with the space-hepatitis in the first place. That makes space-90s-pop-singer’s agony so heartbreaking. All this hepatitis and screaming for nothing.

And here’s our unrehearsed version, complete with spaced-out musicians, a spaced-out camera, and a space-guitar.

Also, Total Eclipse Of The Heart. There’s really nothing more to say about it.

Top 5 Politically Incorrect/Obnoxious Behaviours I Retroactively Legitimize By Being A Dieselpunk Author.

 

1)  Actually enjoying the smell of diesel.

 

Sue me. There’s got to be some buried sentimental memory I’ve long forgotten that’s been warped by my subconscious into something vague and romantic. Also boat gas, but that must come from childhood memories of briefly having a boat in the family. We’re supposed to hate fossil fuels, but we’re only human and sometimes sentimentality wins over being a hippie. By the way, pay attention to the photo because it might even offer a hint of some future awesomeness . . .

 

2) Wearing these in 40 degree weather.

 

I don’t care what season it is. Boots are it. And wool socks. I don’t even own a pair of sandals. If I must go to the beach, I will go there in boots, or even shoes if I’m feeling cooperative, and remove them when appropriate. Is this obnoxious? Apparently, because I get flak for it all the time. This year I admit to be willing to compromise at the behest of the Princess, because sometimes you just have to get over yourself and chill out. But once again, boots are it. Specifically these ones. You wouldn’t catch Indiana Jones in sandals or crocs or even chuck taylors. These. Are. It. Whoa, did I just call my girlfriend Princess? Look below . . .

3) Treating your girlfriend like a princess.

 

People are weird when I throw that one out there. I do it automatically. It’s just a thing that’s instinctual. I’m going to avoid a rant against politically correct nonsense in universities and so on, and about how men aren’t all that impressive anymore, but I won’t.  Do not confuse this with being a doormat or passive beta. Would Indiana Jones be still skateboarding at 35 and smoking pot and ignoring his girlfriend except when he’s got a lull in his video gaming and wants his once-per-week 5 minute morsel of lovins? I won’t insult your intelligence by answering that question.

 

4) Smoking.

 

Okay, so yes we all hate smokers. I do too. I’m a personal trainer and endurance athlete. But the occasional cigar isn’t going to kill you. Or even if it would, being that uptight is probably worse for you than the occasional cigar. And small cigars are so dieselpunk. And no–PrimeTimes aren’t dieselpunk. If it tastes like a slushie–whether it’s a cigar or booze–it ain’t dieselpunk.

5) Open headers and sidepipes.

 

 

Sidepipes are trashy and obnoxious. And not having a proper muffler is not environmentally friendly. I don’t actually own a car like this at the moment, but if I had the time and money, I’d build some ridiculous thing with an inline-8 and no mufflers and lots of dead animal upholstery.

 

How much of this is serious and when am I just being a shit? Who knows. I can’t even tell half the time. Except about the boots and the princess. But all this kind of amounts to what’s being called “retrosexual.” I don’t follow this by rote but it’s a good approximation of a possible dieselpunkish kind of mode. And this article uses Indiana Jones as their main photo to illustrate the concept. So that should support my theory.

Anyway.

 

Guest post and other rambling.

I have a guest post on Cherry Mischievous. It involves psychoanalysis and all sorts of pretentious goodness.

They linked a Leonard Cohen namedrop (told you it had pretentious goodness) with a wikipedia page explaining who he is. I almost want to tell them to put in a note that says, “You know, that guy who did a cover of that Jeff Buckley song.” Oy. But enough sarcasm, just for a second. I’m actually thrilled to be given soapboxes by the generous people who are providing them for me lately.

Also, now that I’m no longer nauseated, I’m a bit more coherent than this morning. But now I find myself obsessed with checking Amazon rankings. I know they mean nothing, especially in my case, and that it’s unproductive, but a day into it, this is the only feedback I have. But then, do I even want feedback? On one hand, being an adult would mean accepting the fact that some people are going to think my novel is complete bullshit no matter what. But on the other, why rattle myself with negative opinions when I already have enough trouble valuing my own work, whether music or writing?

Anyway. These are the things I think about when forced to not run due to fucked peroneal muscles in my right leg. Be nice to your peroneal muscles, kids!