Filling the Void

A friend called the other day and asked if I wanted to make a trip out to the technology superstore from hell. He said he needed to buy an external hard drive for his laptop. I’m nothing if not a conformist so I said yes. I had thought about getting an external hard drive, but I talked myself out of it. I can’t really see having a need for extra storage space on my computer. Then I got to thinking that our economy, nay, our entire way of life, is based on buying crap you don’t even want let alone need. Who am I to stand in the way of the juggernaut of the American economy? I grabbed a handful of bills out of the big leaf bag where I keep my money and headed out the door.

The superstore from hell has everything you need concerning modern technology. They even have blank VHS tapes. Who the hell uses blank VHS tapes these days, the Amish? The place is as big and about as attractive as an airplane hangar, but they have a lot of computer garbage—or what will be garbage in six months when all of this stuff is obsolete.

The technology superstore from hell has a large corner devoted to hard drives. We almost bought the 400 gig model, because if you are going to do this you may as well go all the way. The 300 gig models were on sale so my inherent cheapness gene beat out my techno-macho gene. I saw another guy put a 100 gig hard drive in his shopping cart. How is that supposed to make you feel like a man?

I set up the new drive and moved all of my music files off of my laptop and over to the big house. I don’t really have the slightest idea of what I am supposed to do with 300 gigs of storage. Using it for my music is like buying a three-car garage for your skateboard. Every single word that I have written thus far on Leftbanker would represent less than a box of matches stored in that three-car, 300 gig garage. It’s obvious that I need more digital possessions to fill up my new hard drive.

Wars have been fought over storage space. The Nazis referred to the territories to their East, primarily Czechoslovakia, as Lebensraum which translates as ‘living space,’ or in High German ‘storage space.’ You don’t need to wage a war for more space; you can just drive out to the superstore from hell and buy it in increments of 100 gigs. What you do with it when you get it home is your business.

I will use mine for music. Is there 300 gigs worth of music in the whole recorded history of music? I think I will try to find out. I am in need of a thoroughly useless, partly quixotic mission in life. At least until I get bored with it. If I don’t obsess over this I will just find something even less constructive, or more costly, to keep me busy. At least I’m not using drugs, right? OK, so I am doing drugs once in a while. At least I’m not out there reading People magazine.

Most of my free time these days is now spent hounding people about what music they are enjoying. I like to ask people to recommend something to me without reservation. I don’t want them to hedge their recommendation in any way. I want them to say to me, “Go get this piece of music. You will love it.” So if you have some music like that let me know about it.

I heard a pretty kick ass song in a mountain bike video I saw recently. The punk band, Pinhead Gunpowder, does a frantic version of the Joni Mitchell tune, Big Yellow Taxi. If you ever travel to Mexico you should know about Vicente Fernandez. He is sort of like their John Wayne and Hank Williams rolled into one. I’ll leave you with the lyrics to one of his songs. Even in the barbaric world of cock fighting, there is the right way and the wrong way to do things.

La Muerte de un Gallero.

Nadie soñaba ni el día
ni cómo habría de acabar.
Don Luís Macarena "el Cojo",
villano de Chicoaltlán,
Deshonra de aquél poblado
y gallero profesional.

Hagan apuestas señores
que un hombre va a desafiar.
Al partido Macarena
Y a Luís muy en especial
que no respeta ni gallos
ni lo que hay que apostar.

"Tu vida contra mi vida,
y no te me vas a rajar,"
Contesta así Macarena
"y no te me vas a rajar
Tu vida contra mi vida,
y peléala ha que hay."

"Cierren las puertas señores
yo mismo voy a soltar.
Y vayanle enciendiendo círios
al que me vino a insultar.
Un giro Patas Chorreadas
y mi pietro El Aguila Real."

Y en mudesió el palenque
cuando un giraso en el redondel.
Volando arrasa el suelo
sin darle tiempo a Don Luiís soltar,
se le estrelló en el pecho,
se le estrelló en la cara,
y de fieras cuchilladas
la vida le arrebató.
Y en mudesió ése palenque
cuando el giro enloquecido
remataba Macarena.
Poniéndose alegre a cantar.

(hablado:)
Cierren las puertas señores,
cierren las puertas,
yo mismo voy a soltar.
Y vallan enciéndiendo cirios
a ése, a ése, que me vino a insultar.
Tu giro Patas Chorreadas,
tu giro Patas Chorreadas,
contra mi consentido,
el más consentido,
mi prieto Agila Real.

Y en mudesió el palenque...