bring the noyz

Yesterday afternoon The Wife and I travelled to the fringe of our sprawl to a Big Box retailer in a mega strip mall. Sometimes ya just gotta. . .

Gift cards.

I was immensely pleased to see that The Original Noisebringer has returned.

Public Enemy has a new album out!

After almost 20 years and Chuck D. is still really pissed off and louder than a bomb.

Sweet.

Doctor Noyz sayz check it.
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. . . and to all, a good night.


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Mom got drunk and Dad got drunk at our Christmas party
-- Robert Earl Keen

Well honestly, no they didn't. Not at all really.

I just think that's about the second best Christmas song ever and I wanted to throw it in, because it's probably a more truthful and honest account of what the danged holiday is about nowadays than any song about some baby being born a couple millenia ago.

The first?

C'mon, man, that's freaking obvious. And no, it's not "Jingle Bells" or "Away in a Manger" or "Silent Night". Those songs are like way ancient old school, they haven't rocked since your great grandparents sung them as kids and even then it's highly questionable whether or not they rocked at all.

Yes, my dear reader, "The Little Drummer Boy" rocks in it's own weird ba rump pum pum pum way, but it's not the one either.

The flat rockin' balls out winner for Best Christmas Song Ever. Period. . .

Father Christmas by The Kinks.

And there still won't be snow in Africa this Christmastime. Um. . . duh, it's fucking Africa.

End of discussion. Now lets move on.

Early yesterday afternoon The Wife, The Boy and I pulled the Family Truckster back into our driveway to conclude a quick trip out west. We travelled to The Wife's hometown, to the odd City-less Sprawl in the midst of The Flatlands. We drove for hours and hours for hundreds of miles. We travelled on country highways through steadily decaying small towns where the dead in the local cemetary outnumber those still living there. Places like Paint Rock and Melvin, We stopped in The Wife's parent's home town of Robert Lee to visit with grandparents.

I gotsta' to tell ya my friend, it's a different world than where we come from.

It is a land where a brand new revolver is given as a Christmas gift with no sense of the incongruency or irony inherent in doing so.

It is a land where, as I heard advertised on the radio, a truck grill guard makes the perfect Christmas gift.

Wow.

While discussing the commercial we heard on the radio, The Wife commented, "I come from a place where a grill guard is the perfect Christmas gift and you come from a place where you get the perfect gift at Neiman Marcus. Yet somehow we managed to find each other."

Yes. Yes we did.

That's the greatest gift of all.
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I thought it was me.

Apparently, I am mistaken. According to Us Magazine, that title goes to Mr. Spears.



Smoking? Drinking? And scratching? That's like my perfect day.

Gahdamn!
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. . . la la la la

'Tis the season to be jolly

Yes. The Holiday season has officially begun for me. My last day of school was Thursday. I'm off for two weeks to enjoy time with friends and family and all that peace and love and fellowship nonsense that everyone gets so excited about this time of year. I must confess, my dear reader, and as you know me I am sure this comes as no surprise, despite my cynicism about the season I am well known for being quite jolly, year around.

As for my cynicism, well I need only to stop looking at the world through my eyes.

Instead I see the world through the joyful wonder and fascination in the eyes of The Boy as he marvels gleefully at the excitement and decor that surround him. I see it through the warmth and happiness in The Wife's eyes as she talks with her grandmother and in the amazing loving bond and connection I see when she sits and helps The Boy with his Advent Calendar.

'Don we now our gay apparel

Okay. Now wait just a gawddanged minute. That's just wrong. And another example of how the Liberal Hollywood and Media Elite have joined forces with advocates of the Homosexual Agenda to further advance their evil scheme to destroy Christmas.

Before you doubt me, my dear reader, let me reassure you, that just like this Great Journalist, and this Greater One, I serve nothing but double shots of truth straight up in a salt rimmed glass.

I hear your feeble objections, my dear reader, "But Good Doctor Noyz, 'Deck the Halls' is an old traditional English Christmas Carol. It predates both the Liberal Hollywood Media Elite and the Homosexual Agenda by decades, if not centuries."

That's just what the Homosexual Loving Liberal Media Elite want you to believe.

Let's look at the facts:

1) As a song, 'Deck the Halls' was written to be sung, to be performed. Right? Of course I am.

And where did our Society's theater and performance art traditions begin? With the Ancienct Greeks. And if the Ancient Greeks are known for anything, they are known for these two things: their Pagan Idolatry and their Buggery.

2) It's a traditional English Christmas Carol. C'mon now, my dear reader, surely I need not spell this out for you. A traditional English Carol? Sung by the English, originating in what, the Elizabethan or Victorian Eras?

Yeah, now you're getting the picture. We've all seen Masterpiece Theater. That time was just so gay. As further evidence I offer the following example.

I have it on good authority from a friend of a friend who knows this British guy that Jane Austen's most popular tale of love and longing, Pride and Prejudice, was originally written as a story entirely about British sailors with the working title of "Prick in Piece of Ass". It was only after reapeated threats of litigation from the Royal Navy that she reworked into the classic it is today.

I'm joshing you negative.

And really now, "fa la la la la, la la la la"! Go ahead, sing it, with me, fa la la la la, la la la la!

That is just so totally gay.

So be warned, my dear reader. And remain vigilant.

And, if you are so inclined to do so and take no offense at my request, have a Happy Christmas!

Or Happy Hannukah

Or Happy Kwanza

Or Happy Festivus

Or Happy Solstice

Or Happy Whatever you chose to celebrate this time of year.

Just have fun, be safe, and tonight thank God it's them instead of you.
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I need one.

The Boy currently has some resipiratory issues going on and raising their ugly heads. Nothing serious, perhaps a cold, perhaps allergies, mostly sinus and upper airway congestion. Happens all the time. It seems as though we are in the season when it is a regular occurence and a constant battle.

That's cuz we are. And it is.

But it gets scary quickly if it moves south, into his lungs. Like potentially life and death scary in a matter of hours.

You may, my dear reader, remember that happening around this time last year. If not, the events are detailed in a three part rambling rant you may and are encouraged to fine here.

That's just one of the adrenaline junkie loving perks of loving and raising a child with severe multiple physical and cognitive disabilities. The lil' buggers are prone to damnned near everything.

Last night was one of those basically sleepless autumn nights, checking on The Boy while he slept. We were continually monitoring the oxygen levels in his blood, trying to sleep with one ear open to the potential sound of the machine alarming when the level drops to low.

This started happening every few minutes around 5:00 am.

At least every two hours you carefully turn him from one side to the other, hopefully without waking him, in order to prevent the congestion accumulating in his lungs from pooling and turning into pneumonia.

I am quite proud to say we are currently winning the battle. The Boy is a little "gunky" (yes, that is apparently a medical term, as the school nurses use it frequently to describe sinus and other respiratory congestion), but otherwise fine.

And I, well I'm enjoying the giddy slightly surreality that comes with not sleeping.

And I'm not gonna get my nap.
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So what if the the other three guys don't really care, Bono's out to save the world: end poverty, prevent AIDS and all that.

And I know that in order to do that you gotta be able to get down and boogie with all sorts of different people and get along and build bridges and have frank honest discussions and blah blah de fucking blah.

Fine. Great. Good for him.

But please Bono, please, I beseech thee, stop posing for these types of photos; it's getting tough to handle the cognitive dissonance they cause.

As if if this wasn't enough. . .

Now come's this:















Bono Dines with Jesse Helms

Freaky.

What the fuck are they doing anyway?

Oh, I know. They are obviously doing a scene from "Over the Top", the best movie ever about arm wrestling truck drivers. Really, the best truck driving arm wrestling film of all time!

I can almost hear Bono leaning over Ol' Jesse and saying, "Back off little man or your in for a world of hurt."
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I'm calling all the shots tonight
I'm like a loaded gun. . .
I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back

-- Aerosmith

The Good Doctor Noyz is more than quite proud and incredibly pleased to share the news that one of my dearest and oldest friends has come out of secluded retirement and returned to the blogosphere.

As he himself so eloquently described it, "The Bitch is Back."

Well that just plain ol' rock and fucking roll style kicks fucking ass.

Welcome back, bee-otch!

Seems like only yesterday
We would sit and talk of dreams all night
Dreams of youth
And simple truths
Now we're so involved
So involved with life

Walk down vanity fair
Memory lane everywhere
Wall Street shuffles there
Dressed in flowing hair

Once we loved the flowers
Now we ask the price of the land
Once we would take water
But now it must be wine
Now we've been
And now we've seen
What price peace of mind
Take a piece of my mind

-- Neil Peart

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Yesterday aftertoon, I tucked away my cynicism and masked my shame that I am one of those Unwashed Liberal Hippie Bastards Hellbent on the destruction of Christmas. The Wife and I loaded up The Boy in the Family Truckster and journeyed forth beyond the confines of our quaint and quiet little 'hood onto the freeways and wide boulevards to continue our preparations for the big day celebrating the unbridled consumption of material goods, er. . . I'm sorry, I mean the birth of Christ The Lord.

Further proving that I have turned out to be, in fact, quite the family man (which is quite surprising to many, although to those that know me better not so much) I smiled and nodded through Garden Ridge, secretly amazed at the mountains of cheap imported crap, both in price and what in many instances appeared to be quality.

In my mind I was reliving the horrors and trauma of spending many Thanksgiving nights there , taking advantage of their "We're not closing our doors for three straight days because it's Consumer, er. . . I'm sorry, Christmas shopping season sale".

Like I'm some sort of veteran of the Yuppie War.

That's just one of the reasons she's my ex-wife.

My family was on a quest for lights for our Consumer, er. . . I'm sorry, Christmas Tree.

Apparently we were quite loaded or something when we packed up all this stuff last year.

We opened a bag with lights in it and a tangled web of interlocking tied up twisted globs of wires and tiny bulbs fell onto the floor. As those things cost about 2 bucks a piece, we decided it would be more cost effective just to buy more of those damned things than to spend hours untangling the mess.

Plus, it gave us an opportunity to go buy things!

Yeah yeah yeah, like you my dear reader, I also fondly remember Linus' speech, but we all know going to buy things is really what the season is all about. Right? I mean, that's about all I see on the TV, and television is your friend and does not lie.

So we got our lights, but as apparently two weeks before Consumer, er. . . I'm sorry, Christmas day is getting to be a little late, they were out of the silver shiny glass bulbs The Wife needs to complete her vision of the Perfect Tree. We did get some really cool black ones. Yes black. Like the night sky, or the skin of The Dude who started this mess.

Trust me, you do not interfere with The Wife's vision of the Perfect Tree.

So we held breath and bit our lips and set off for the symbol and living embodiment of the ultimate evil of our consumer culture.

That's right. . . we went to Wal-Mart.

Yes, Wal-Mart. I know, I know, like you and you, we also believe that Wal-Mart is the physical manifestation of evil on Earth.

But they have become that for a reason. And the reason is they are the place to go if you need to buy loads of cheap imported crap sold under the guise of being wonderfully blue-collar-God-loving American as apple pie and baseball.

And to be greeted by some old dude in a snazzy vest.

If you must go to Wal-Mart, which like taxes and the dentist is one of those things we all just have to do sometimes, there are two different approaches:

1) Go fast, get in, get out. Know exactly what you want, find it, grab it, and get the hell out.

Yes, but where's the fun in that. Almost sounds more stressful.

So make it an event. Make a mental list of things to see and do, like your a tourist and Wal-Mart is Italy or Paris.

Which of course it is not by any stretch of the imagination, and if my dear reader, you are a well travelled individual you may almost take offense at that remark, but you do need to psyche yourself up.

Here are the top three items on our list:

1) Look for a parent disciplining a child inappropriately.

Check. Within 30 seconds of walking in the door we saw some woman drag off a screaming 3 or four year old girl by the shoulder. Not quite the gold star of this item: the in-store spanking; but still good enough to qualify.

2) Look for morbidly obese people cruising around on those little scooters.

Check. We counted three.

3) Beef jerky.

Check. By the cash registers, between the tabloids and the candy. Yesterday's flavor was "peppered". Yum, beef jerky.

Happy Consumer, er. . . I'm sorry, Christmas.
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. . . is a concept by which we measure our pain?

Voice Of God Revealed To Be Cheney On Intercom
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It was 20 years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play.

And 25 years ago today, The Man took him out for doing so.

Bastards.
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No school today. It's a snow day.

Okay, not really a snow day, at least not in the traditional midwest real winter sense of the term I spent my childhood enjoying. It's more of an ice day.

I snugly sit in our little home, trapped in the middle of what one Lettermanishly sarcastic local talk show host has already dubbed "Blizzard 2005". All around the temperature continues to hover in the mid 20's, keeping the world covered with a lovely frosted glaze, like a giant Krispy Kreme. There's just enough ice outside to make travel slippery if not treacherous and convince some downtown administrator type to keep the school buses off the roads.

So, it's a snow day!

Yeah.

So I sit catching up on the news of the day and snickering at the poor local TV news reporters they make go stand on the frozen overpass to tell us that it's cold outside and there is ice on the ground. Thank the Lord for televsion, not like I could tell that by looking out the damn window. Apparently you can get frostbite in about 15 minutes when it's this cold. Really? Well whydon'cha come on over here, you hot lil' reporterette, I'll warm you up real good. . . meh how how how hmm. . .

Sorry, that was terribly inappropriate. The extra warmth from the Old Crow I've added to my morning coffee must be kicking in.

And well, maybe I do need the TV news to tell me not to go outside.

Last night, sometime after midnight as I sat exploring a new (for me) virtual world, I remembered an important task that need to be done in the real one. It's below freezing outside! Drip the faucets! Drip the faucets!

I took one step out the front door, onto the nicely functional even if not ADA compliant plywood wheelchair ramp we have for The Boy. . .

Um, hello McFly, sleet and freezing rain had been falling at a slow steady pace since sunset.

I went down faster than an old South Congress Avenue hooker.
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And so this is Christmas
And what have you done?
-- John Lennon

Yes, the holiday season is upon us like a drunken frat guy giving jello shots to an underage coed at a kegger.

Joy.

To the world.

No really, I totally mean that.

Please pardon my cynicism, my dear reader, and I will neither be ashamed nor embarassed to hear a snickeringly sarcastic "bah humbug" in response, but as usual, I am having difficulty fully embracing the alleged spirit of the season.

For many reasons, some of which I shall now further elaborate upon.

So do as I am doing (trust me, I do call myself doctor) and go make yourself a fat-honkin' screwdriver for breakfast, and I recommend using a very generous pour of citron vodka if available. It does make a difference. So does freshly squeezed orange juice, but that's a giant pain in the ass so go ahead and just pour it from a carton.

Then come back and join me. I'll wait. . .

. . . still waiting. . .

. . . waiting. . . oooh, no ice please, don't dilute a good thing. . .

. . . waiting. . .

Okay, your back. Good. I shall proceed.

And so this is Christmas. Yes, yes it is.

What have we done?

Well, as is typical, in a truly American fashion, the celebration of the birth of the Western world's original hippie, Mister Peace Love and Understanding, has been subverted and perverted into a celebration of all the grandiose excesses of a mass marketed consumer culture partying like it's 1999.

And yes baby, I do have a lion in my pocket ready 2 roar.

Really now, is there a better way to say "I celebrate and recognize the birth of Jesus, Our Lord and Savior" than buying a new X-Box 360 for a loved one.

What says "Hallelujah, Christ the Lord!" better than stampeding into a big box retailer at the crack of dawn, racing and wrestling your fellow citizens to piles of cheap crap imported from some Asian nation where children are virtually if not literally enslaved to put it all together for meager pennies.

Right. Bah dee fucking humbug.

Oops, all for now, The Boy and The Wife awaken. We have to work on setting up all the decorations and the tree.

While the Good Doctor is allowed to be a cynic, The Good Father and Good Husband is not.

It will be a very Merry Christmas.
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