Sinus infections are stupid.

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You tell it, Cookie Monster. You preach the truth.

Did I mention in my last post that sinus infections are stupid? Well, they are. I hate them almost as much as I hate the soulful musical stylings of Paris Hilton. Almost. It’s a tight race, but I think Paris just wins by a hair.

In more exciting news, I am in the paper today. It’s pretty strange and surreal. The thought of me. In the paper. That people read. I never thought I’d see the day. For once there’s a picture of me that doesn’t make me wince in pain. I look kind of scholarly and short-haired, like a professor of dulcimer theology in especially casual attire. Maybe it’s the glasses. In any case, huge thanks to the Windsor Star and Dalson Chen in particular for being interested, and for writing some very nice things about me. Flattery will get you almost everywhere.

But seriously, I have to quote this one bit: Dalson describes my sometimes odd song titles and surface weirdness as being “only a quirky wrapper for the beauty within, like a goofy T-shirt on a pretty girl”. That’s too good, man. I want to meet that girl. I’d buy her popcorn and take her to see a Spanish film with great subtitles.

Okay, so I would make the popcorn myself, and I would probably burn it in the process of realizing far too late that I was supposed to stop the popping before every kernel had given up the ghost completely. And if we watched the movie in my room I’d have to clear off my cluttered bed, because there’s nowhere else to sit. But I could make that sacrifice for the right person. And it would be a DVD from the Criterion Collection.

You know it’s love when the restoration makes a movie that’s several decades old look vibrant and new again.

Why did I lapse into hypothetical dating talk? Nobody knows.

Something I do know: I better replenish those little red plastic basket-boxes of CDs at Dr. Disc and Phog in case anyone who reads the article decides to head out that way in search of my CDs in the days and weeks ahead. I hope some people who haven’t seen me in a while get a kick out of seeing my hairy face in the paper. Maybe that girl I met once at the Loop some years back who was a dead ringer for Kim Novak will find herself with a sudden uncontrollable urge to get in touch with me. Maybe that guy from Slipknot will want to grab a beer and throw some darts. You know, that guy. He wore a mask and did stuff. You know the guy i’m talking about! He went to Rome to see the pope.

If anybody else in the world has ever heard the silly song I’m referring to, feel free to raise your hand.

Sinus infections are stupid. Did I mention that already? It’s especially fun when you’re right in the middle of working on an album and you find your momentum completely derailed by said stupid sinus infection. It’s kind of difficult to record and mix things when your ears are clogged up and you can’t hear all the nuances of what you’re doing. Of course, the exact same thing happened to me during the summer when I was working on CHICKEN ANGEL WOMAN. I guess I should be thankful I only get sick once a year these days.

It would be nice if it was a typical cold that was gone in a few days instead of a sinus infection that hangs on for a good week or two. I still aim to have the next album finished sometime in April. I just would have preferred not to lose more than a week of recording time because of stupid sickness crap. At least it seems to be on its way out now, sort of, so rejoice, and let the little children come to me. Or maybe don’t do that, because even though I seem benevolent, there’s a chance I could warp their young and impressionable minds with all kinds of wild ideas about proper balloon etiquette.

On the bright side, I did get to watch The Shining at something like two in the morning when I was at my most congested. It’s always fun watching Jack Nicholson lose his mind at a time when he didn’t just sleepwalk through movies with his eyebrows raised all the while. And I’d kind of forgotten how Stanley Kubrick completely subverted the typical “thriller” ingredients while gutting Stephen King’s book and adapting it to suit his own vision. The whole thing moves at a snail’s pace, with very few sudden “scary scary boo boo now now!” moments that will make you jump, aside from the obvious aerobics segment during which viewers are instructed to perform jumping jacks. The slowness is part of what allows the movie to weave such a unique atmosphere, I think. It takes its time in a way few horror films do anymore. It’s always nice to see Scatman Crothers strut his stuff too.

I also caught several episodes of Oz late at night. Now there’s a wholesome show for the whole family. I still have fond memories of staying up late on weekends to catch new episodes back when I was in high school, eating Combos and drinking orange Gatorade, wondering what machiavellian twist would come next in the Nappa-Adebisi rivalry.

Speaking of Cookie Monster, did you know he’s basically the godfather of death metal? The guy is a force of nature. His influence stretches out through the years like a knotty tree branch uncoiling its fist. Or maybe it’s a naughty tree branch. The point is, it’s a tree with an arm you can’t deny.

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