Bloom County, tea, Opus, and regret

I can say with little doubt that Bloom County by Berkeley Breathed is one of the most influential works I've ever read. My father got into the comic strip when I was about 11 or 12, bringing all the collections home for me to discover once he was through with them. I read all the books at least twice as a young, impressionable adolescent, and I loved them. My understanding of the 1980s, as well as much of my sense of humor, is largely tinted by Oliver, Opus, Binkley, Bill the Cat, Portnoy, Lola Granola, Steve Dallas, and the other Bloom County residents. Although it may be a cliche expression, in this case it's true -- I just wouldn't be the same person if I hadn't read these books.

So imagine how glad I am to purchase the Honest Tea flavor Peach Ooh Lah Long. It has Opus on the bottle. The bottles come with some explanation of how Berkeley Breathed complained that he always had to add sugar to the tea, why didn't the company just do it themselves, so they said they would if he let them put Opus on the bottle, so they put Opus on the bottle. It should be noted that aside from beautiful Opus gracing every bottle, the tea is very tasty itself. The Peach flavor is far and away my favorite, and -- yes -- that just might be some subliminal conditioning because one of the icons of my adolescence comes with it. Either way, I've come to drink a lot of this beverage. It's tasty and it has Opus, how can I resist?

So today I bought a bottle and brought it with me into my favorite burger joint in town. I just sipped a little on the way, deciding to save the rest for later, as there would be a drink with lunch.

At this point it should also be noted that another interesting quirk of the company is its insistence on printing pretty weird little affirming quotes on the inside of their bottle caps. They're usually pretty asinine, cheesy liberal type quotes, and I read them to see what trite piece of wisdom they have for me that day. This is today's quote:

A person is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.

--John Barrymore

I only highlight this so we can understand the true sadness of my story's approaching finale. When I finished my lunch I got up and left, completely forgotting my barely touched Peach tea on the table. When I arrived home I wanted my tea, realized it was gone, left behind most likely to be thrown in the trash, and I regretted it. I am growing older.

And for the reader of this story -- what the hell does that Bloom County opening have to do with anything? Perhaps you, like me, are now harboring regrets, regrets about wasted time, poor reading choices, and ever-looming boredom. Why exactly did you just read that crap about some comic strip just to find out I left my tea behind and felt bad about it? I'll tell you why -- so we can all grow old together.

my roommate, the brazilian dj

There are certain advantages to living with a dj; I obviously get to hear a lot of music. Thankfully my roommate is also primarily a hip hop dj, usually spinning some mid-90s NYC stuff, which I can dig. He also has some old soul and funk standards, like any good dj should. It's always fun to catch an early sample or just hear one of the classics from time to time.

There are also some disadvantages to living with a dj; I obviously have to hear a lot of music. Sometimes I'd rather listen to something mellow -- not that bumping hip hop -- but I don't always have a choice in this matter. There's also the issue regarding the apparently requisite dj pot habit. You don't even need to see my roommate digging through his crates to know some hip hop is coming on, you just have to check the smell in the apartment.

And then there's the beauty of getting to live with a Brazilian man who spends roughly 3-4 hours a day listening to American hip hop. In the end, he's probably more up on contemporary slang than I am. I don't ever have to clean up my sloppy English or avoid slang idioms, repeat myself or clean up my diction. If my roomate can make any sense of what Ghostface is saying, he can obviously keep up with me. And can he ever cuss up a storm. It's been noted that I have a rather strong tendency to swear myself, but I tip my hat to my roommate's cussing game. He's got that shit down.

I remember when I lived in Denmark cussing in Danish was one of my favorite pasttimes, as well. There's just nothing too remarkable about saying "for fanden" or "for helvede" or "for satan" or "fisse" or "koes" or anything like that. Do those words look vulgar to you? They don't look particularly vulgar to me, either, and boy did I ever like saying them. But that's neither here nor there. We're talking about my roommate.

So my Playstation 2 is starting to die -- like really really die. I almost took a hammer to it last night. And I'm starting to have some serious concerns about the negative effects of daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes quarter hourly, coat of thick, heavy, dark, stinky pot smoke on the machine. When I complain that my PS2 is dying, my roomate points out how he had to go through two Xboxes because they kept breaking on him. I don't bother to point out the possible correlation between incessant pot smoking and subsequent hardware failure. He's usually too busy spinning records to be concerned with such trivial matters as the failure of my $150 hardware.

Which brings us to the real point of this post -- how much does fucking Sony hate consumers? I reckon it's a lot. Fucking assholes.

the secret to my power

If I haven't told you already, now you know: it's my wisdom teeth and gray hair. Don't tell anyone else, though, because like the title says, it's secret.