You know why I loved Joe Strummer? Because he didn’t stick to doing the same stale thing with his music. Every album he released was a progressive step toward something new and different. And while his songs may not appear anywhere on this compilation, his progressive spirit does.

If you’re like Wayne and me, you read every possible news article every day about every issue. You’re a political glutton. Call it enthusiasm, or "being active". I call it paranoia that we’ll have to live another four years under this retard and his Richie Rich regime.

In 1995 a movie was released that you didn’t see. It was called Jupiter’s Wife, and was directed by documentary filmmaker and producer Michel Negroponte.
The film chronicles two years in the life of Maggie Cogan, and runs the gamut of topics, from women’s rights, to ESP, to heartbreak, to mental illness, to television game shows, to homelessness. Oh-- and there are ponies as well! It offers in character development and social introspection what any typical Hollywood movie could only dream of.

AIN'T NO FOOLIN' AROUND WITH THIS - DAY ELEVEN & TWELVE
By the time we actually left Minnesota, we had all established that we were glad we came so close to the North Pole. And, if you ask me, that’s the way it ought to be. How can you live without looking back? Not only should you be able to look back, but you should be able to do it with a lopsided smile.

I awoke at sunrise and rubbed my eyes. The eastern sky was a tall, tropical drink, full of maraschino reds, fiery oranges, and streaks of grapefruit yellow. I had the feeling it was going to be a great day. Best of all, it was the weekend.
I pulled aside the curtains, and watched a telephone repairman in white coveralls working high on the telephone pole near my house. He turned to me and glared.

I felt the urge again today, but I chose to wallow in it, saturating myself with the overpowering craving for bloodlust; the freeform frenzied longing to eradicate a human life-- to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze like a big snake; to dig my thumbs in deep, aim them toward his vertebrae, and shove a little further, until I could hear and feel that telltale crunching sound.
I can't remember being so completely full of searing blind anger, and I don't know what set it off. I thought I was going to burst if I couldn't get it out.

He will spend approximately 15 minutes with you right before lunch on a Tuesday, hemming and hawing himself into a protective blanket; a comfortable barrier which will allow him the position of being an innocent pawn in the game. His speech will not be original, and your ears will only pick out about half of what he will say, while you stare at his mahogany desk set and Dilbert calendar.
"Problems in the economy,.. downsizing through the company,.. it's hit us pretty hard,.. wish there was more I could do,.. all your hard work."

The event was melting itself with seamless acceptance onto the filmstrip of my unconsciousness like an uninvited guest.
I was at an office party; quite possibly the worst of the species. My options were limited. A kamikaze drink to the death mission followed by a planned escape-- which required precision timing and a well-thought out escape route, avoiding the concertina wire of polite conversation and the trench brooms of chit-chat. Or, I could soil myself forever in this rosy-cheeked free-for-all of bad humor, forced laughter, and gag gifts.

I think I am going to Hell. I mean, I can never be sure, but I think there's a pretty good chance.