I’ve changed my hairstyle so many times now
I don’t know what I look like

Voting was a trip.  In Santa Monica, you usually vote at somebody’s house. 
But once a decade I go to the elementary school a couple of blocks away.

First and foremost I couldn’t get a fucking parking spot.  For all the
parents waiting to pick up their kids in their SUVs.  Shit, doesn’t anybody WALK
home from school anymore?  Do these self-centered parents really think anybody’s
going to steal their obese kid?  Read the reports, it’s only FAMILY members
who abduct children.  Regular child thefts…lower than they were when WE were
growing up.  But a kid can’t even leave the house anymore, can’t ride a bike. 
We’re growing a culture of wimps who live in front of video screens. 
Playdate?  I’ve got your fucking playdate.  God, let kids be kids.

And on the other end of the spectrum you’ve got the octogenarians.  The
people who eat donuts and check you into the voting booth.  That’s the fucked up
society we live in.  We can’t allocate enough dough to pay on the ball people to
smooth the voting process.  How many people gave up and went on with their
day because they couldn’t continue to burn time waiting for Sally’s great
grandmother to remember the alphabet?

But worse was the voting itself.

We’re antiquated here in California.  I grew up in Connecticut.  Where we had
voting MACHINES!  You pulled levers, and an hour after the polls closed you
had results.  I’m filling out a fucking punch card.  Well, it USED to be a
punch card.  For the last twenty five years.  They switched it today.  Not that
anybody told me.  Not the person who gave me the instructions.  Not the person
who collected the ballots.

You see I looked for the hanging chads.  And not only did I not find any, I
found no HOLES!  It’s like I never even voted.  Then I noticed the black marks.
Turns out now the little pinpricky-thingy squirts a little ink blot instead
of making a hole.  But, I only counted five ink blots, and there were eight
measures on the ballot.  I just about threw fifty percent of my vote away. 
Imagine if it were a REGULAR election, with dozens of selections!  I reinserted
the ballot and reapplied my vote.  With FORCE!

And we’re supposed to trust elections…

And then I drove out to Burbank, which is like a whole ‘nother state, to
record some podcasts.

Then I was on a podcast PANEL at the California Copyright Conference meeting
at the Sportsmen’s Lodge.  They told me the food would suck.  It did.  But you
know when food is tasteless how you keep eating it, figuring if you intake
enough you’ll get the flavor you’re seeking?  So you end up bloated and
uncomfortable, and unsatiated to boot.

Now I’m ensconced back in my home in Santa Monica.  And I just listened to
this week’s podcast.  And I’ve got to tell you, I’ve got nothing to say.  It
speaks for itself.

So, the quote at the top is from "Life During Wartime", from Talking Heads’
"Fear Of Music" album.

Got to talk about that band sometime on the air.

But this week I’m talking about Ry Cooder.  From back in his early days. 
Before he was a cultural hero amongst rich baby boomers needing to feel hip.  I
can’t imagine these pricks enjoying "Into The Purple Valley".  But that’s one
of my favorite albums.  One of the first I ever re-bought on CD.

But you’re listening in MP3.

But you’ll get the idea…

You can listen or download the podcast from Rhino’s site

Or you can subscribe in the iTunes Music Store.  Just search for Rhino, click on "Podcasts" and it will come up.

OR, click on the link below, and if you’ve got a podcast-ready version of iTunes installed on your computer the program will launch and you can subscribe on the page that results (hang on a second for the process to complete).

Apple