"Eternal Flow" by Amon Duul I, a haunting, moody piece of guitar-bass minimalism. It's also the only thing you really ever need to know about Amon Duul I, whose other recorded works are incredibly annoying strum-und-chant that proves that German hippies were actually more annoying than their American counterparts.

Good evening, supporters of my campaign. As you know, we did not win tonight's New Hampshire primary. In fact, we placed ninth. Somehow, I finished with fewer votes than Al Sharpton, Dick Gephardt or write-in votes for Martin Sheen. Not even Josiah Bartlett, the president character that Martin Sheen portrays on The West Wing, but Martin Sheen the actor. Clearly, the people have spoken, and I would like to announce my resignation from the presidential race.

I would like to apologize to my supporters, who wasted valuable time and money on my hopelessly inept campaign. You spent hours away from your friends and loved ones, all so I could finish with one percent of the vote in a tiny, insignificant, homogenous state. In particular, I'd like to apologize to the college volunteers, who could've been enjoying illegal drinking and casual sex at their respective campuses instead of stuffing envelopes or having doors slammed in their faces in the streets of Concord. Our campaign's bitter failure will no doubt leave you disillusioned and will cause your complete withdrawal from the political process, and for that I am truly sorry.

I would also like to apologize to all of the voters of New Hampshire that I personally annoyed and bothered over the past month with my fumbling, incompetent attempts to garner support. In particular, I'd like to apologize to Nancy Fulton of Pelham, to whom I inadvertently blurted out the comment that she "sure had a lovely chest." In my defense, I only had three hours of sleep and was juiced up on some combination of dexedrine and Mexican over-the-counter stimulents given to me by a young campaign worker. Still, my comments were indefensible, and I apologize.

Most importantly, I'd like to thank my lovely wife, whose barely restrained disgust for the rigors of campaigning has caused an undoubtedly irrepairable rift in our already strained marriage. I can only hope that she'll continue to be the same classy, elegant figure during our upcoming public divorce proceedings. I'm also sorry that the Manchester Union-Leader ran all of those pictures from her high school yearbook, before she lost all the weight.

I leave you with a story. When I was a young boy, my mother told me that I could grow up to be anything I wanted to be, even president of the United States. Throughout my life, my mother's words gave me inspiration and made me believe that I could make my dreams come true. Obviously, I was wrong. In fact, I have no idea what I was thinking when I decided to do this. God, I'm so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

(bangs head repeatedly on podium)

Well, I'm told that the Merrimack Dodge dealers need the room for their annual "Rev Up the Sales" pep talk, so thank you to everyone for showing up. And please don't take all of the snacks on the beverage cart, I don't have enough spare change left over to buy breakfast.

MP3 is the second track from the Cambodia Rocks! compilation of Cambodian garage rock of the late 1960s. I don't know the artist or title, as the liner notes and documentation are scant for this particular series. It's rather fascinating to hear the weird transmutation of (probably bastardized) traditional Asian music and rock music being piped in from next door. Also, this song was prominently featured in a dream I had a few nights ago. Come take a quick listen inside the dark world of my subconscious, won't you?

So, with the new iPod, I've been re-listening to a lot of old stuff from my collection during work. Nothing livens up examining bank reconciliations or cancelled checks like listening to William S. Burroughs read from Naked Lunch, the Birthday Party or Albert Ayler. Here's a few random observations on stuff that I've taken another listen-to via the iPod. (I realize most of these topics have been beaten to death by the music criticerati, but what do you want for free?)

- I like the Jefferson Airplane (not a popular opinion in many circles, admittedly), but man, is their recorded output ever divided equally between brilliant songs that still hold up and dated, stupid stoned crap. I still love "Comin' Back to Me," "Wild Tyme," "3/5 of a Mile in 10 Seconds" and the like. But "Lather?" "Have You Seen the Saucers?" I guess that's better than fucking we built this fucking city, but still.

- Spirit, on the other hand, holds up as well or better than any band of that era except for the dumb lyrics here and there. Consistently great songwriting by a tight band that judiciously used their instrumental breaks to build fully developed pieces instead of the pointless noodling that mars so much late 60's rock.

- My review of Pop Group's Y from a few month's back wasn't sufficiently laudatory. It's a great, classic album, and "We Are Time" is one of the five best songs ever by anybody.

- Love's Four Sail is an underrated classic, and almost but not quite as good as Forever Changes or Da Capo. The absence of Bryan MacLean hurts, but the songwriting is as consistently excellent as the more famous prior albums (although lacking a standout like "7 and 7 Is" or "Alone Again Or"). Check out "Robert Montgomery," one of the best hippie-bashing-squares songs ever.

- I still love Zen Arcade, but damn, is it ever emo. Now that I'm a quasi-adult without the aimless adolescent rage or all-encompassing self-pity and moodiness, it seems kind of over the top. We were really that angry and/or sad once?

- I think I've finally settled the debate that has torn families and friendships asunder, pitted brother against brother, and contributed to the breakdown of polite society. Neu! is slightly better than Neu 75, and Tago Mago is better than Ege Bamyasi. There, it's settled. Now let us never speak of it again.

The seemingly unending ads for Comedy Central's reruns of MAD TV bill it is as "TV's riskiest sketch comedy." I'm not sure how continual parodies of Kenny Rogers qualifies as "risky," but in any case, I'm willing to restart my failed career as television showrunner and create a real, live, risky sketch comedy. It'll be just like the other sketch comedy shows (catch phrases run into the ground, limp parodies of showbiz figures, etc.), but every sketch will be performed inside a piranha tank or on a live minefield. Also, you'll love our wacky new character, Eddie the Hyperactive Spree Killer, who'll randomly fire several shots into the live studio audience during each appearance on the show. (He'll shoot to maim, not kill, but hey, who knows what'll happen?) And since the American viewing public is so jaded, we'll work around the clock to personally call each viewer and create personalized insults guaranteed to offend even the most unoffendable! Damn you, Comedy Central, this is the cutting edge risky landmark groundbreaking extreme television that will dominate this decade! Will you not answer my multitude of increasingly unhinged and threatening phone calls and e-mails?

The week in spam:

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Also, something from "Bored HouseWives." Christ, ladies, I've taken to reading my own spam recently, so don't look at me if you want someone to alleviate your boredom.

It's time once again for blog filler, the all-cereal, content-free look at the world around us. (And by "us," I mean "me.")

- John Kerry? Well, I hate to drag the infrequent political commentary here down to Maureen Dowd-ian levels, but will America really elect a man who looks like the kindly-but-serious apothecary from a Washington Irving novel? Kerry would've made a great president in the 1880s - just slap on a long ZZ Top beard or a set of burnsides, and he'd fit right in next to Rutherford B. Hayes or James Garfield - but it's undeniable that public image is nine-tenths of the law in the television era.

- Richard Gephardt? I blame it on Michael Bolton. This is, of course, not the first time Bolton has ruined a political career - from the candid snapshots of Bolton on Gary Hart's lap in 1988, to the infamous cadre of senators known as the "Bolton Five" who swindled the Isley brothers out of millions of dollars during the savings and loan crisis, to the Boltongate scandal when former president Clinton received a Bolton-like mullet haircut in Air Force One while blocking the runway - but you'd think that someone as experienced as Gephardt wouldn't have made the same mistake. Especially when Rick Astley was available.

- The Vegas tourism board's slogan is "What happens here, stays here." OK, that's good, although I'm guessing that the massive credit card debt, alcoholic relapse or crippling gonorrhea will not actually stay in Vegas. But I wish they had gone with "Your pitiful human 'morals' have no place here." Or "Y'know, Clorox and a little industrial solvent will get rid of those blood stains."

- I bought an iPod last week. (No better cure for the whole crisis-of-meaning thing than a completely unnecessary consumer purchase.) I don't mean to turn this into an unsolicited gush (especially since Apple isn't compensating me for my endorsement), but it's pretty damn awesome. The interface is slick and intuitively sensible and the sound is surprisingly good, even in the tiny earbud microphones. And this is coming from someone who hates the Mac OS and generally thinks that Apple's much vaunted "ease of use" reputation is highly overrated. My main qualm is with iTunes for Windows, which is a resource vacuum that doesn't work particularly well with my two year old PC. I'd also prefer a longer lasting battery (mine lasts about 8-10 hours, which is about par for the course), even if it made the player larger. But those are minor complaints - overall, I'm very pleased.

"Piano Fire" by Sparklehorse, from 2001's It's a Wonderful Life. It's about the importance of fire prevention when dealing with keyboard-based instruments, a concern that just isn't addressed enough in modern song lyrics. But it's also got great Mark Linkous/P.J. Harvey harmonies and a melancholy minor chord progression.

So, yeah. I haven't been updating this blog with any sort of consistent regularity this year. This is partly due to working on other writing projects, partly due to lack of inspiration, but mostly because of work. I'm in public accounting (auditing, to be specific), and this is the busiest time of the year. It's also the time of year when I am even more tired, irritable, listless and sluggish than usual. So, please indulge me for a brief round of pointless and ineffectual complaining, and regular programming (such as it is) will resume shortly.

Tax season will drain the livelihood out of the strongest, sturdiest individual. Long lists of deadlines to be met, neverending hours of work that cut into whatever free time is left over at the end of the day, all taking place in a cold and miserable winter that puts a bleak landscape behind the whole pointless and tiring agenda.

Making matters worse, I live and work in suburbia, which is finally starting to inflict full-on ennui on me after about a year and a half of residence here. I'm originally from a small rural town, so the novelty of not having to drive 20 minutes when you want to buy something held sway over me for a while. But now, the thought of spending the rest of my lifetime in the neverending, undifferentiated stripmallTGIFridayschurchdiscountsuperstorehousingassociation Pangaea that is American suburbia doesn't seem like much of an improvement over the dead end nothingness of a small town. The isolation of the suburbs is suffocating - from the endless commute, where the knotted mess and pressures of space and time turn total strangers into mortal enemies to be distrusted or feared, to the drive-thrus and ample parking and residential islands that serve to make social contact optional, to the sheer difficulty of finding likeminded people in an environment where despite the population density, people are scattered to the four winds.

You might think that auditing, which at least allows you to work in different offices, might provide some relief from all of this tedium. But it's just like tempwork - all the different offices are essentially the same, all blending into one gigantic undifferentiated mush. The same bleak industrial parks or sterile commercial office zones, floating out in space connected only by interstate highways. The same lukewarm coffee and routine banter. The same spare desks or conference rooms where they place you, separate from the rest of the people working there. This doesn't bother me too much during the rest of the year, when the job is manageable and I still have enough free time to pursue other interests, but it's unbearable during tax season. I accept that you have to make sacrifices in life, etc., but it is wearing at times.

(OK, I know - I should quit my job and move if I don't like it. I've run a cost-benefit analysis on this, and I've found that periodic complaining is cheaper, easier and more fun than massive life changes. I realize that my work could be far worse and I should note that eight months of the year, I don't mind my job and the liabilities that come with it. But tax season bites hard, so I think that one rant a year on its suckiness isn't asking for too much. OK, enough already. Back later this week with more stuff on more interesting subjects.)

Oh, man, greatest spam e-mail text ever:

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Although I'm also fond of this one from a couple weeks back:

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"Hot Metal Dobermans" by Brainiac, the leadoff track on 1994's Bonsai Superstar. A perfect encapsulation of their spastic rockmaroll - this particular song takes the chord progression from the Cars' "My Best Friend's Girl" and twists it 180 degrees, throwing in a high-pitched, sing-songy white R&B chorus and theremin/keyboard squiggles to boot. Also of note is the late Timmy Taylor's penchant for inspired Dadaist lyrics; you have to love a song that includes the line "silence! That's what my girlfriend says, when she's kicking out the teeth of some guy who thinks he's president."

As you're no doubt aware if you follow the NFL or live in the DC metropolitan area, Joe Gibbs is coming out of retirement to coach the Washington Redskins. To give you an idea of how the media has reacted to this announcement, here are some actual headlines from the past two days of the Washington Post:

Joe Gibbs to Coach Redskins, Commissioner Declares Redskins Champions of Next Six Super Bowls

Style: Interviews with Everyone Who Has Ever Known or Met Joe Gibbs

Fan Reaction: Eight Pages of Grown Men Gibbering Like Little Schoolgirls

Editorial: Bush Should Resign, Name Gibbs President-for-Life

With Cryogenics, Cloning, Gibbs Can Coach Redskins Forever

Gibbs More Popular than Jesus? Most Theologians Say Yes

60% of DC Population Killed in Massive Fireball from Space (see page A6)

(The Vitamin B Glandular Show will resume after this brief public service announcement.)

Hi, I'm Hank Williams, Jr. For years, as the voice behind the Monday Night Football theme song, I've been asking viewers if they're ready for some football. Unfortunately, it seems as though my simple question has gone unheeded. Last year, over 3 million Americans suffered from injuries related to inadequate football preparation (IFP) - everything from couch cramps to sprained remote finger to the dreaded Musberger's Rash. And IFP doesn't discriminate - people from all walks of life have fallen victim, from the president to all my rowdy friends.

That's why I've founded the Hank Williams, Sr. Memorial Clinic for Football Preparation and Rehabilitation. It's named after my daddy, who suffered a near-fatal blockage of the larynx brought on by hot dog inhalation during the 1949 LSU-Tennessee game. It's a place where those stricken with football spectating injuries can work towards their reintroduction into society, as well as a sanctuary where viewers can prepare for watching football in a caring and supportive environment. Together, we can stamp out the horrors of IFP, so our children and our children's children can watch football without fear or pain. I'm Hank Williams, Jr., reminding you to get ready for some football - the life you save may be your own.

Part deux of the retrospective on 365 Days begins…now!

The Space Lady, "Major Tom." The Space Lady is a San Francisco-area busker who's made a career of sorts out of odd, sparse covers of space-themed songs accompanied only by an ancient Casio keyboard. This version of the 80s Peter Schilling synth pop quasi-classic is a stark mini-masterpiece - the Space Lady's eerily clear and emotionless vocals combined with the minor key Casio vamping add a lonesome, ominous edge that's missing from the original's chilly, mechanical distance. It's the aural equivalent of watching a low budget 50's sci-fi flick late at night - sure, you can see all of the wires and gears, but it captures the essence of the vastness and distance of space that has been a human fascination for millenia.

The Ken Nordine Group, "Six Commercials In Search Of A Client." The inimitable Ken Nordine - poet, commercial voiceover announcer, voice of the Chicago Blackhawks - stars in this recorded pitch for mass mailed soundsheets. It's like an advertising pitch meeting on acid - you can imagine Nordine turning the lights down low in the executive boardroom and passing around some "special" brownies and coffee. Nordine's voice is so lulling yet authoritative that it makes you believe in the power of soundsheets or the real lives of the color spectrum or whatever else he's babbling on about at the moment. He missed his true calling as a charismatic cult leader.

Ford, "It's The Going Thing/Warranty Rock/It's The Going Thing" and Chevrolet, "An Exciting Thing/Grown-Up Baby/Man-Made Laws." You can trace the decline of the American automotive industry from these two songs, which use a 1960s middle aged marketing executive's idea of the crazy rock and roll music the kids are listening to - essentially, edgeless middle of the road Association-lite pop that wouldn't sound out of place on one of those "beautiful music" stations that used to be ubiquitous. As music, it's disposable (although "Warranty Rock," which sets warranty legalese to music, is sort of amusing), as a chronicle of how far the marketing of cool has come in four decades, it's an interesting curio.

Yaphet Kotto, "Have You Dug His Scene." Most of the horrible, terrible, no-good examples of celebrity singing on the 365 Days project can be filed under "seemed like a good idea at the coke party." But this is actually pretty good - Kotto does a poetry reading (which is more reminiscent of Beat leftovers from the 50s than anything else) over a repetitive, sorta-but-not-really jazz background. Substantively, there's not much to hang your hat on, but Kotto's delivery is commanding and convincing enough to warrant attention.

Shakin Jake Woods, "Baby Love/Closing Statement." Shakin' Jake Woods is a street musician from Ann Arbor, Michigan who (judging from this sample) specializes in a sort of manic, uptempo folk-blues interspersed with mini-monologues that only last a minute or so but nevertheless manage to ramble far afield. It's infectious as hell, and Woods' enthusiasm is enough to make you overlook the fact that the song is just one guitar chord strummed ad infinitum.

Christmas Gathering 1947. One of the greatest things about the gigantic library of media resources available in this day and age is the ability to reach into the past for nuggets like this - a recording of a holiday party circa 1947. OK, maybe the presence of a microphone inevitably changes peoples' behavior, and the audio fidelity is poor to say the least, but it's a window into one of the seemingly long lost, ephemeral moments that make up life - as close to time travel as we're ever likely to accomplish. And it's somewhat comforting to know that some things never change - the uncle who never stops making really bad jokes will endure throughout eternity.

Let's kick off 2004 on a positive, uplifting note - here is "Inspiration Information" by Shuggie Otis. It's about as happy-and-optimistic-without-being-syrupy-sweet as music can get, which is possibly the hardest songwriting feat of all to pull off successfully - there are a ton of mediocre talents who've managed to write great angry and/or depressing songs from time to time, but quality songs that are genuinely upbeat are few and far between.