Pop Geek

I just found out that a woman I worked with closely several years ago was murdered by her husband.

Kira was an assistant art designer on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Official Magazine. If it sounds like a slightly silly job, it was; we were paid to create a 64-page quarterly publication devoted solely to a single TV show. I’ve written before about my experiences working on the magazine, but not too much about the actual day-to-day of being in the offices of MVP Media Group, the publisher.

It was a really fun place to work, easily the best environment I’ve ever enjoyed. I was paid to goof off, be creative, and have fun with like-minded people. I wasn’t paid WELL, but I was paid.

Kira was one of those like-minded people, and I remember her as a bit of a goofball. We spent a lot of time together on late night deadlines, although I wouldn’t ever say we were close. I think we’d exchanged a handful of e-mails since last working together, which was probably…six? Seven years ago? I know she came to at least a couple of parties at my house.

At one point, she was taking singing classes, and they had her singing this song, “Bottle of Wine”: “Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine…” The melody was kinda like “Particle Man” by They Might Be Giants. Anyway, you’d walk into her half of an office she shared with some other assistant art director, and she’d be singing the song while she was working, not really to herself-just singing. Soon enough, I caught on to it, as it was a goddamned catchy song. Pretty soon, there were a few days where we couldn’t see each other without singing those lines.

It’s weird the handful of things that stick into your brain about someone you haven’t spoken with in many years.

I don’t want this to come off as melodramatic or like I lost some close, personal friend, or even like I found her to be some astonishingly remarkable human being-that’s not fair to Kira. She was a neat person with great talent, who was passionate about being creative, in a way that most people you meet in the corporate creative world aren’t. I know she pursued arts classes and degrees beyond working on the magazine, which means it was clearly a real passion for her, and not just a paycheck. It’s a shame that she died, and it’s a real shame she was killed in a fit of dark rage by someone she trusted and loved.

How many people have you left behind? How many faces, names, personality quirks, inside jokes, long lunches at shitty fast-food restaurants, college classes, impersonations of asshole bosses…how much life just slips away? Not gone, but not there, either; suddenly unimportant and behind, because there’s a new friend, or a new job, or a new interest. You move on; you have to. You get married, you have a kid; they become everything, as they should.

If you’re smart, you still try to maintain the ties that bind you to your own life. You keep in touch, even just a little. If you’re dumb, then it all just fades away, loose garbage in your brain, stray lines of songs clogging your synapses. That’s just what happens.

(okay, maybe a WEE bit of melodrama there, sorry.)

Back when I was a swangin’ sahngle, baybee, I lived in Chicago, IL, right off the intersection of three of the finest streets on the planet: Diversey Parkway, Racine, and the Great Lincoln Avenue, stretching across the city’s northwest side like a majestic rubber band.

This was my first apartment, and so our Christmases there were especially festive. We held unbelievably rocking holiday parties (actually, every party we held there was unbelievably rockin’; if you think I exaggerate, just ask anyone who was there). We hung lights. And we purchased a fresh live tree every year from the tree lot across the street.

One year, we started noticing a strange odor emitting from our tree, right around the post-Christmas, pre-New Year’s phase. It literally smelled as though someone had taken a shit beneath our tree. Inspecting the space and finding no dumps present, we remained confounded as to what could be causing the smell.

On New Year’s Day itself, our landlord stopped by for some reason, and upon entering the apartment, literally whipped his arm up to his nose, exclaiming, “Ew! What’s that smell?”

We took the tree down, and we learned that the smell wasn’t imaginary shit, but in fact the rotting, decayed tree itself. It gets awful funky in that tree stand, what with all the water and thriving mold and dried-up sap. It starts to smell, in fact, like shit.

This year, being our first in a new home here in Orlando, we decided to get a real tree. We got a doozy-everyone who’s seen it says it’s the best-looking tree they’ve ever seen. It looks like a greeting card. (Think I’m boasting? Ask my wife, fool!)

And it went great…until shortly before New Year’s, when that smell returned. That ugly, wretching smell, of dying plant and stale water and mold, wafting out from beneath the tree.

The Shit Tree is back, and now it lives in Orlando.

Moral 1: Do not under any circumstances shit beneath your Christmas tree.
Moral 2: When it starts to smell like shit, take that motherfucking tree and KICK IT TO THE CURB. That’s how I’ll be spending my weekend.

Not got anything in my head to write about today-not much in my head period right now except snot that is piled high in congestion-so here’s a song.

Back when I lived in LA, I heard this on the radio, and man did it grab me. It still gets me with its mix of horrific imagery and unashamed romanticism. It’s a chocolate-covered strawberry that’s rotting from the inside. From the Decemberists, here’s “Los Angeles, I’m Yours.”

So the holidays are over, and it’s back to the grind.

Had a very nice little break. The kid got sick on Saturday night, which led us to a torturous visit to an after-hours pediatric clinic yesterday, during which she screamed for about two hours straight, in between fits of mad giggling at our antics and pleading to “touch fish” located on the walls as decoration.

Otherwise, lots of Wii, lots of eating, lots of laffs. We watched the Rankin-Bass Frosty animated specials about 652 times, and counting. I cleverly used store credit and/or gift certificates to acquire some DVDs, a doohickey to let me edit my camcorder video on the computer, and a second remote for my in-laws’ Wii.

Speaking of which, that shit is NUTS. My body has ached from playing fake bowling.

I knew we were getting back into our normaltime groove when I spent last night reading while my wife caught up on the New Years Day One Tree Hill marathon. Can I just say something? Dan Scott is the BIGGEST DICK IN THE HISTORY OF TELEVISION. Seriously. His character is astonishingly bold in his awfulness. He shot his brother, then shacked up with his ex-wife, who is pregnant with said brother’s baby. And that’s just for starters.

That fucking show…it’s hypnotic. I can’t NOT watch it.

So I really crapped out at the end there.

Sorry. The actual holiday of X-Mas crept up on me and bit me in the happy ass. It’s been a relaxing and fun set of days, spent sore from the Wii and full of good food.

And even though most of you won’t hear this till the new year, I still have to ask this musical question…

A good read.

The word “classic” gets tossed around far too often. ESPECIALLY when referring to Christmas songs. Let’s be honest with each other here: Tunes like “Rudolph” and “Frosty” and “Here Comes Santa Claus” are fun, and fine, and have their place. But none of them are “classics.” In fact, they may not even be very good.

“Fairytale of New York,” however…that tune is a classic. The recent kerfuffle across the pond regarding this tune’s lyrics had me itching to hear it again, and sure enough, it’s still pure bittersweet brilliance. Plus, if you’re the kind of bigot who gets off on holiday tunes that feature gender slurs, it’s even better.

However, if you just want a dose of something easy with “Santa” in the title, then here you go.

Another virgin birth!

Full credit to my wife, who broke this story to me at about 3 a.m. when we were up with our crying 18-month-old daughter, who occasionally wakes up in the middle of the night and decides it’s time to “play,” which seems to involve her staggering around half-asleep and asking to read books. At least she likes to read.

As the holidays approach and the Pop Geek staff girds its loins for my annual holiday tirade, I’ll try to step up my track posting, so that your ears can lather up in a veritable sudsy orgy of yuletide tuneages.

Last Thursday, an internet friend (yes, I HAS THOSE, what’s it to you??) hipped me to a few blogs sharing out-of-print Xmas vinyl as digital files. I’ve got about thirty or so records to go through, but here’s a few early favorites. First, from the great, great Frankie Yankovic, a little seasonal polka.

Next, a truly great find-one of those “how have I lived this long without it?” tracks, from an album by Herman Apple Ses Carillons Et Ses Percussions entitled Stereo Percussion De Noel. If there’s one thing my Christmases have always needed, it’s stereo percussion. Also, enjoy the mildly erotic sound effects!

Finally, a little something for the Grinches in the audience, which is more and more where I stand, as I try to shake a head cold and deal with bullplop at the office. Anyway. All will be well when my beautiful 18-month-old daughter peeps the HIDEOUS PILE OF AWESOME LOOT we’ve stacked up in the guest room. Santa’s done good.

Off to brave the post office.

In a recent post, I misnamed the insightful screenwriter and blogger Todd Alcott as “Todd Allen.”

The staff of Pop Geek apologizes for this error. Especially the fucking RESEARCH DEPARTMENT, who apparently just let this one FLY by. What the hell am I paying you people for, anyway???

We all feel especially stupid since his name is IN HIS FUCKING WEB ADDRESS.

I swear to GOD, I will FIRE each and every one of you if you do not START READING MY GODDAMNED POSTS. I don’t care if it’s a week before Christmas-you can all go home and explain to your wife and kids that you have NO MORE MONEY COMING IN because you can’t FACT CHECK a blog post to save your lives.