Many heartfelt hellos to all my faithful followers from your friend in Florida, C.J. Another month has passed us by and we still beg the question: "When will George finally rid the world of the evil doers?" Jesus. Help us. Seriously, we could really use a hand down here right about now. Please. No? OK, never mind. Moving right along. I sure hope each and every one of you out there register and vote in the state elections that are coming up so we can make Ol' Jeb pay for his past treachery in assisting the real cabal of evil. Shit, I'd even vote for Fred Flintstone as a write-in if it meant that I'd be helping to end the career of Senor Arbusto. OK, I'm not going to start on a political rant here. No religion, no politics. I know the score. I hate reading that kind of shit myself. Sadly, I'm cinematically short on material once again so I guess I'll use my space in this issue to get a recent gripe off my chest. Let the spleen venting proceed!

Being an aging devotee of the punk music scene, I've always been a fan of personal expression. I'm a VERY open minded guy (in my own selfish, shortsighted way) but I have found one thing recently which makes me madder than some cuckold on one of those crappy reality TV shows who just found out that his wife was schtupping his golf buddies. Here in Tampa, especially in my 'hood (North Central), there seems to be a trend afoot that's growing exponentially. Actually, it's not new. It's been around for at least half a dozen years but recently has reached epidemic proportions (in my own field of perception, anyway). It's the auditory rape perpetrated by car stereo aficionados who find it necessary to arm their vehicles with giant subwoofers and super megawatt amplifiers sufficient to power them at levels high enough to knock down brick walls. This is one type of selfish ass with whom I have zero empathy, and I'm not ashamed to say so. What reason other than sheer "fuck you" inconsiderateness could be behind feeling the need to have a stereo that can concuss eardrums from a half-mile away?
I've always been a disciple (in theory) of Margaret Meade, and I really do tell myself this phrase at least a dozen times a day: "Remember to think empathetically." Hell, I can remember the days when I used to crank the shit out of The Exploited, G.G., or any other angry iconoclastic tunes to disturb those in the lanes beside me. PUNK ROCK baby! There was big difference back then though, right? At the most, loud car stereos could only be heard within close range outside the car, and with mostly high-end output it was harmless to all but the moron in the car himself. The shit is so high tech now that the wires and equipment come in designer colors! Whomever the asshole was that invented the "Kicker Box," they deserve to be added to the time-machine assassination "to do" list right after Hitler.

Sometimes, when sitting at a light surrounded by three, four or more of these trunk-rattling types (at the intersection of Dale Mabry and Waters Avenue, usually), I think of personal vengeance scenarios, as is often the case with the impotent. Am I pathetic or what? I remember some shitty cop movie from a few years back that is completely disconnected for me right now other than my memory of a scene where the protagonist asks some "street thugs" parked at a curb to turn down their music, and receives the obligatory "fuck you, asshole," then responds by blasting out each speaker and the dash stereo with single shots from his 95 pound Desert Eagle. I bet if I got back into guns (I'm just not safe around 'em - don't ask) and started taking Prozac, I could reenact that scene one day. That probably wouldn't be a very good idea though. As much as I hate to admit it, I'd take it in the ear before taking it in the rear, 10 times out of 10.

If only I was an electronics genius. Oh, if only. Imagine a device the size of a car alarm switch held inconspicuously in one's eager palm. Always ready for that moment of revenge, oh, sweet revenge. As soon as those first telltale gut-giggling thuds were heard, you could spring into action! The two-inch black plastic box has only one button: a red one, of course, which would instantly alter the wattage from the amp and cause an instant blow out of the entire system (I don't know HOW it would do it, just work with me on my vision, ok?). The back window splinters into a spider web, like a melting layer of ice on a small mud puddle after being stepped on. The giant subwoofer cones lay shredded and smoking, maybe there's even an electrical fire. Nice. Right? Me like, you like? The driver's face at that moment of chaos would be a sight to replay over and over in dreams of happiness for years to come. Shit, I would be willing to spend the DeBeers six-month salary guideline on a product like this if one were ever offered on the market. We all know that there are some mightily powerful brains out in the Web World, and you'd have to agree that there would be a huge market for this product. OK, my fantasy sequence is now officially over.

Now, I have been told that this aural ass-reaming is a fineable offense and that police do take action against it, but I've yet to see someone get popped for it, and as such I am waiting eagerly for this to happen so I can run up in front of the despondent perpetrator while Officer Moustache Jock Itch is writing out the citation and do my patented little victory dance, while snickering and pointing at them before exiting the scene quickly. So, if you're one of the assholes wearing an upside down golf visor backwards at an angle, and have thousands of dollars of aftermarket accessories on a car worth less than the entire upgrade package itself, I just have one thing to say to you on behalf of all mankind: TURN DOWN YOUR FUCKING STEREO, ASSHOLE!!

I guess I'll wrap this rant up by adding most importantly that I fully support everyone in whatever makes one happy (even shit that makes me cringe, vomit and flagellate myself in frustration), as long as it isn't coming into my house and bouncing my eardrums like a latex balloon punching bag on a rubber band. If that basic rule is applied, "I'm feeling ya kid." Hell, I'll even go so far as to say that if you believed The Fast and the Furious was some kind of documentary or benchmark for some standard of excellence to aspire towards personally, that's cool too, baby. I just want you cats to REMEMBER that other people actually live and exist in the same reality as you, so don't go pissing on the park benches so frequently. Oh yeah, also remember to wear your seat belts if you're participating in street drag races!
Am I just off my rocker on this? I hope not, and I hope that everyone has a magnificent April and eats lots of great food and has lots of great sex. (?? I dunno what the hell that means, it just sounds like a good closer to me.)