Hi, hi. Everyone find your seats okay? Good. This is “wasting the precious few moments while the baby sleeps 101” and I’m doctor Kelly. How’s everyone doing today? I’m fucking exhausted. I slept for seven hours, but it wasn’t enough. I need one of those “long bender accompanied by a massive, extended sleep” type situations where you wake up and you’re like, “what? It’s only ten thirty?” and your roommate goes, “Man, it’s Tuesday” and you’re all, “No way bro! Oh dude! I missed my Italian Cinema final!” and he’s like “totally bro, but you were sleeping so sweetly, you know? I didn’t wanna disturb you.” And then you’re all “Oh, man! Aren’t you just the most darling! Let’s cuddle.” Then he goes “Thought you’d never ask, compadre.” You guys know what I’m talking about. Wow, so that’s it. The baby is awake, meaning class is over. Hope you enjoyed it. Now we return you to the regular, haphazardly constructed, split-attention poor fathering mixed with poor semi-autobiographical prose. One sec.
All righty. (Oh, see. That reminds me of Jim Carey…”All Righty then.” He makes me so fucking angry, that guy. He stinks, and that SMUG fucking look that he always has on his face. It’s so punchable. It’s just so FUCKING PUNCHABLE. He’s married to Jenny McCarthy, who I like, because she’s one of those hot chicks that wasn’t afraid to fart. It completely destroyed her in my mind as a hot chick, but she gained a little bit of street cred, for whatever that’s worth. She’s also from Chicago, which I tend to think of as a positive character trait.)
Anyhoo…there’s a lot to discuss today, right? The guy from yesterday’s comments with the suicidal anorexic seventeen-year-old friend with trust issues…what to do? No one knows she’s suicidal, homie is the only one she’s told (along with one other person)…Hmm. Well, here’s the thing, if she’s anorexic, and that’s obvious, you know, with the bird arms, bald spots, barf breath (yes, I’m aware that bulimia and anorexia aren’t the same thing, but they tend to kind of work together a lot of the time, not unlike Danny glover and Joe Pesci) shit like that, chances are, there are people around her besides you who are at least somewhat aware that she’s on a self destructive, if not downright suicidal path. Okay, you mentioned that you didn’t want to betray her trust by telling someone, but that’s just dumb. If she didn’t want people to know, she wouldn’t have told you. In self-destructive situations, there are two real methodologies that people tend to follow. There’s the “oh, I’ve just been busy/out of town/getting my shit together” and then you find out they’ve been holed up in a by-the-hour motel with a tranny shooting coke and water into their veins for the last 5 days type of program, which I’m going to classify here as the “Mind your own fucking business” methodology, then there’s the one where a girl makes a complex series of parameters regarding her situation (I’ve only told you, I have trust issues, my parents betrayed me wocka wocka wocka) who in essence is screaming out for help. A seventeen year old girl who’s been starving herself for seven years is not a junkie who doesn’t want to come out of the cocoon she’s built around herself, she’s a scared kid who’s gotten so confused and turned around that all she can do is sort of cryptically beg you to help her (side note: I’d bet you somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hundred billion dollars that she’s told a few people about this, and also told each of them that they’re the only ones she’s told…this is a big move for seventeen year olds with any kind of secrets, from ‘I got a handjob from the foreign exchange student’ to ‘my dad sneaks into my room and uh…woah’ and anything in between, this isn’t really an important point, just sayin’) by saying things that mean the opposite of what she wants. “I don’t trust my family, don’t tell anyone.” Come on dude! I can tell by the way you wrote ‘grade 5’ instead of ‘fifth grade’ that you’re Canadian, but that’s no excuse…Tell someone, man. You’ll feel like such a shit head if you’re at her funeral going “man, she went to the grave trusting me, at least.” Especially because you actually betrayed her trust. She needs an intervention of sorts, and she’s asking you to help give it to her. She’ll probably hate you for a while, and she’ll probably be resistant to anything that people try to do to help her at first, but…uh, she’s starving herself and says she wants to die. That’s a red flag on a red flag, man. As someone who’s lurked in alleys waiting for models to head to their cars, I’ll tell you firsthand that malnourished young girls are extremely easy to kill, so quit with the bullshit and talk to someone.
Okay, now for the young lady who meets dudes only to have the relationships end before going anywhere, as in no first proper date, no boning, no HJ’s, nothing. Hmmm….I’m gonna give you some bad advice that I think will be helpful. Get out there and do a little boning. Just really, really put it out there and try to have fun. My guess is, it’s gonna end up a lot like what’s going on now, and maybe give you a little bit of perspective. Most people are idiots, jerks or a combination of the two. Think about your high school class. There were maybe three people you actually, genuinely liked, probably about ten more you could tolerate, and the rest could really go get fucked, right? That’s how the whole world is set up. Here’s the golden ratio: mostly dildos/ barely anyone worthwhile. Every relationship in your life is going to end except for maybe one…that’s just how it goes. So get out there and slut it up for a second and then feel like crap about it and go back to the way things are now (which, I should stress, is a much safer way to go about things…but fuck man! Uh, well behaved women rarely make history, or something) to slightly alter a classic, there’s plenty of dicks in the sea. Some of them are even gonna be attached to some good dudes. Just because you’ve hit a stretch of losers, don’t let that get you down. There are SO many more losers out there than worthwhile dudes. It’s like a thousand to one. Hang in there. Use the force. To get into Occam’s razor a little (a heuristic maxim which advises economy or simplicity, especially in scientific theories) you’ve tried the not slutting it up…not working? Well, the simplest solution is usually best. Uh, what did I tell you? Bad advice. Heh.
Okay. Baby is on my lap now, and it’s hard to type, so we’re gonna go to the farmers market. Oh throw your stones! It is TOO punk rock to take your baby to the farmers market.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
I was supposed to call this something and I forgot what it was (Sorry Danny)
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Yay!
Good morning everyone. It’s Friday, and WaMu has collapsed. Biggest bank failure, by far in the history of the US. Remember when a young, idealistic, beady eyed politician from Texas by way of Yale was first taking office eight years ago? People mentioned that he had never run anything (oil companies the Rangers etc.) that hadn’t ended up bankrupt. People were concerned about him executing Texan retards, Isn’t that funny? It all seems so sweet and innocent now, right? I mean, the theoretical, jokey, ‘this guy couldn’t make money with a whorehouse in Alaska” thing has given way to the ugly truth that, in fact, this guy has all but bankrupted one of the biggest economies in the world. Snide remarks about how he’s a retard killer kind of don’t even seem like that big a deal in the face of the two misguided wars, the travesty of Guantanamo Bay, the shameful lack of support that are being shown to our wounded veterans. Man…I WISH he was just killing retards and running the Rangers into the ground.
I guess you’re not supposed to say retards anymore. Well, I don’t know if that was ever acceptable. It’s one of those words, though, that you use when you talk about George Bush, just because you KNOW that’s the word he uses. So, before everyone gets bent out of shape, that was one of those post-ironic meta uses of ‘retard’ not an ignorant rant against Bush and Retards all in one go, okay? What’s it called if you’re against the mentally handicapped? Antarded? Well, it doesn’t pass the spell check muster, so I guess that’s enough for me. Nope, I guess antarded isn’t a word. Oh well.
My friend who’s brother has downs syndrome told me once that they don’t like you to say ‘retarded’ over where his brother goes to school, they call him…oh what was it? It was a euphemism so unbearably softened that it would make George Carlin spin in his grave. Oh! It was ‘consumer’. Good news Corky! You’re no longer retarded! You’re now a consumer! Is that fucked or what, man?
In a strange way, this insistence that we pretend that problems are just differences and differences are just similarities is the same boneheaded idiocy that leads people to call intelligent politicians elitist, dumb politicians ‘everymen’ and ultimately makes the banks fail because instead of having an elite, qualified brilliant strategist as our president, we get the guy that the old man at the bait shop feels is most like him. HEY! Your bait shop better be making millions in gross annual profits if that’s your criteria for who’s gonna run the country, Roy-Bob!
Okay, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Think about this…they say you can’t call retarded people retarded…it’s demeaning to their what? Intelligence? Okay, I’m not trying to be insensitive, and throughout my life I’ve met plenty of wonderful mentally handicapped people, but hey, guess what? They’re retarded, as in the development of their brains is retarded. It’s not a difference, it’s a defect. That’s why people conduct tests to see if the baby they’re carrying is going to be retarded and become disappointed if the answer is ‘yup.’ That’s why people who are ‘retarded’ or ‘consumers’ or whatever your term is in your prefecture, don’t, you know, drive, run banks, shit like that. It’s not an insult. It’s a fact. I can’t dunk a basketball. Retarded people can’t perform surgery (neither can I, for that matter, and on a side note, I wonder if there are any retarded people who can dunk. I bet there are, and I bet it’s wild.)
People with no legs are called ‘differently abled’ instead of disabled these days. Look, to call that a difference is to kind of ignore how bad it SUCKS to not have legs. It’s not a difference, it’s a problem.
Aside from pretending that problems are just differences, there’s also this tendency to pretend that differences are just similarities. People say dumb shit like this all the time: “Men and women are the same.”
No, they aren’t. One has a penis, one has a vagina. They have different hormonal make ups. One bears children. One grows beards. There’s a reason that male prisons are more violent than women prisons. Men and women ARE NOT THE SAME. It’s so counterproductive to argue anything else. It’s frankly retarded.
To go to an even more uncomfortable spot, I’d argue that people of different ethnic backgrounds are not the same. A black guy is not the same as a white guy. If we’re referring to America here, or the west in general, one grew up with the knowledge of being an ‘other’ from the moment he could formulate ideas about what it means to belong to something and that’s informed their entire existence. And the other one probably never really thought about race in any sort of meaningful way until they got to a point where they were forced to empathize with someone else. As big of a deal as race is in this world, there’s no way that those two people can have anything approaching a similar world view. Even when you replace people into different communities, an Asian kid growing up in a Mexican neighborhood, a white kid living in India, whatever, it’s still a DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE based on AN EMPERICAL and OBSERVABLE DIFFERENCE. To deny that is to deny what makes life exciting and great.
I don’t want everyone to be the same. Fuck, if women were just like men, it would kind of skeeve me out. If all people were the same, where would the good books that really shatter your own idea of self and completely turn you around get their genesis and perspective? People are different. Some are different because of their perspectives, and some are different because they have one arm or downs syndrome. This is why you can’t just have any old man that wants to run the fucking country just do it. Some of them are dumb. Some of them are senile. Some of them believe in a fantasy world of apocalyptic horsemen and spaceships to heaven. Some are smart, smarter than you or me, and those are the ones that you want running shit. Not the ones you’d most like to have a beer with. Keep them around, and actually have a beer with them. Get the smart ones in positions of power, please. I’m sick of the retards.
I guess you’re not supposed to say retards anymore. Well, I don’t know if that was ever acceptable. It’s one of those words, though, that you use when you talk about George Bush, just because you KNOW that’s the word he uses. So, before everyone gets bent out of shape, that was one of those post-ironic meta uses of ‘retard’ not an ignorant rant against Bush and Retards all in one go, okay? What’s it called if you’re against the mentally handicapped? Antarded? Well, it doesn’t pass the spell check muster, so I guess that’s enough for me. Nope, I guess antarded isn’t a word. Oh well.
My friend who’s brother has downs syndrome told me once that they don’t like you to say ‘retarded’ over where his brother goes to school, they call him…oh what was it? It was a euphemism so unbearably softened that it would make George Carlin spin in his grave. Oh! It was ‘consumer’. Good news Corky! You’re no longer retarded! You’re now a consumer! Is that fucked or what, man?
In a strange way, this insistence that we pretend that problems are just differences and differences are just similarities is the same boneheaded idiocy that leads people to call intelligent politicians elitist, dumb politicians ‘everymen’ and ultimately makes the banks fail because instead of having an elite, qualified brilliant strategist as our president, we get the guy that the old man at the bait shop feels is most like him. HEY! Your bait shop better be making millions in gross annual profits if that’s your criteria for who’s gonna run the country, Roy-Bob!
Okay, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Think about this…they say you can’t call retarded people retarded…it’s demeaning to their what? Intelligence? Okay, I’m not trying to be insensitive, and throughout my life I’ve met plenty of wonderful mentally handicapped people, but hey, guess what? They’re retarded, as in the development of their brains is retarded. It’s not a difference, it’s a defect. That’s why people conduct tests to see if the baby they’re carrying is going to be retarded and become disappointed if the answer is ‘yup.’ That’s why people who are ‘retarded’ or ‘consumers’ or whatever your term is in your prefecture, don’t, you know, drive, run banks, shit like that. It’s not an insult. It’s a fact. I can’t dunk a basketball. Retarded people can’t perform surgery (neither can I, for that matter, and on a side note, I wonder if there are any retarded people who can dunk. I bet there are, and I bet it’s wild.)
People with no legs are called ‘differently abled’ instead of disabled these days. Look, to call that a difference is to kind of ignore how bad it SUCKS to not have legs. It’s not a difference, it’s a problem.
Aside from pretending that problems are just differences, there’s also this tendency to pretend that differences are just similarities. People say dumb shit like this all the time: “Men and women are the same.”
No, they aren’t. One has a penis, one has a vagina. They have different hormonal make ups. One bears children. One grows beards. There’s a reason that male prisons are more violent than women prisons. Men and women ARE NOT THE SAME. It’s so counterproductive to argue anything else. It’s frankly retarded.
To go to an even more uncomfortable spot, I’d argue that people of different ethnic backgrounds are not the same. A black guy is not the same as a white guy. If we’re referring to America here, or the west in general, one grew up with the knowledge of being an ‘other’ from the moment he could formulate ideas about what it means to belong to something and that’s informed their entire existence. And the other one probably never really thought about race in any sort of meaningful way until they got to a point where they were forced to empathize with someone else. As big of a deal as race is in this world, there’s no way that those two people can have anything approaching a similar world view. Even when you replace people into different communities, an Asian kid growing up in a Mexican neighborhood, a white kid living in India, whatever, it’s still a DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE based on AN EMPERICAL and OBSERVABLE DIFFERENCE. To deny that is to deny what makes life exciting and great.
I don’t want everyone to be the same. Fuck, if women were just like men, it would kind of skeeve me out. If all people were the same, where would the good books that really shatter your own idea of self and completely turn you around get their genesis and perspective? People are different. Some are different because of their perspectives, and some are different because they have one arm or downs syndrome. This is why you can’t just have any old man that wants to run the fucking country just do it. Some of them are dumb. Some of them are senile. Some of them believe in a fantasy world of apocalyptic horsemen and spaceships to heaven. Some are smart, smarter than you or me, and those are the ones that you want running shit. Not the ones you’d most like to have a beer with. Keep them around, and actually have a beer with them. Get the smart ones in positions of power, please. I’m sick of the retards.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Clap your hands everybody, and everybody clap your hands
Guess what’s screaming. Go on, guess. Well, if you said my baby or my sense of outraged frustration at my ongoing existence, you’d be correct. Actually, he’s making the noise that my brain wants to make every day that I have to go to work. Ugh. You know, it’s funny. I went to my class last night, where I listen to all the skits that people write, and they also read mine, and last night, mine went over like a fart in a spacesuit. It was psychologically traumatic to be in a room full of unfunny people and feel even MORE unfunny than them…Woe is me, right? Well, usually you just pass out the skits and everyone does a blind read, but since I was doing a highschool/college/nerd movie genre parody, I felt that, like all good examples of the genre, it needed to end in a musical number, so I wrote a rap, which I felt needed to be performed by me, since doing a blind read through of an unfamiliar rap is nigh-impossible.
Okay, so imagine sitting in a room full of nerds, performing a rap that you wrote, and when you finish, getting a response somewhere in the neighborhood of when your grandpa casually drops the N bomb in front of your friends while describing his cab ride to the restaurant. Bemused silence…a sense that someone should say something…Uh, um…hmmm.
Hmmm…
Yeah, so it was brutal, and I actually found myself thinking ‘well, at least I’ve got the bartending job’ which is one of the most stupid things I’ve ever thought. I don’t know where I get off thinking that writing dumb skits in a dumb class full of comically crippled turds is going to turn into something other than me shoveling my money into the belly of the institution that I attend. Dumb.
Speaking of said institution, I actually got intimidated by these schlongs yesterday. I was walking into class and there are these guys always hanging around, and they’re in the higher levels or whatever, and they kind of gave me this judgy ‘who the fuck does this guy think he is’ kind of once over, and I was intimidated. What a sack of pig shit, man! I actually had to talk myself out of that one. I sat there and went “Come on, man, those guys aren’t anyone…they’ve just paid to go to these classes for longer than you have. Besides, you’re already IN the entertainment industry.” I had to tell myself this. I mean, as I was sitting in class, readying to perform this rap (a dis verse from the lead nerd to the captain of the swim team), I was thinking ‘man, don’t let those guys get you down. You’re doing cool stuff,” then I realized how fucking pathetic I sounded to myself and THEN I did my rap. It was a real perfect storm of ego deflation. If I was a woman, I would have housed a whole thing of Cookies n Cream on the couch when I got home, but instead I just passed out. I didn’t even have a beer. I’m getting soft.
Okay, so I know there’s lots of advice to get to out there, but I feel I really need to address this one that appeared in the comments regarding the potential school shooter with the giant head (seriously? Man, you can’t make that shit up…) Uh, okay, this is a pretty fucked up situation, and while I like to think of myself as a pretty level headed dude when it comes to doling out the ins and outs of life’s quandaries, this one, I gotta admit, has me kind of spooked. I sure don’t want anyone to get shot because they got bad advice from a bad advice columnist. Eh, fuck it. Here goes:
Chances are good, real, real good, that this dude is just a creepy blowhard who knows on some level that he’s being super creepy and enjoys the power that being a little creepy affords one (people, for example, try really really hard not to piss you off,,,it’s a total behavior rewarding situation, where you act a little creepy, or a little moody, and people tiptoe around you, which reinforces the creepy/moody behavior.) 99% chance that you’re dealing with that. Okay, so you want to tell this guy to get fucked, but you don’t want him to shoot you on that off 1% chance that he’s really nutso…Sorry to say, you’re in trubba trubba trubba. There’s no way to assess how someone crazy enough to shoot people is going to behave, regardless of what you do beforehand. You could be their favorite person in the world and they could still shoot you, (Lennon, Chapman), or they could be the trenchcoat mafia types who spare the ‘worthy’ ones. With crazies, it’s a real toss up. The point is, uh, if this guy wants to start shooting, duck. You say you want to stay off the dudes shit list…the only way to do that for sure is to not have any contact with him at all, and it sounds like it’s a little late for that. Okay, good luck with all that. God, I’m glad I’m not in highschool any more. The school shootings, zits, all the rapping, it’s just too much for a kid.
Later.
Oh, and I just thought I was drinking the last gulp of water in my glass, but it turned out to actually be the remnants of melted ice/vodka from god knows when...gross, and early. ugh. Already, what a day.
Okay, so imagine sitting in a room full of nerds, performing a rap that you wrote, and when you finish, getting a response somewhere in the neighborhood of when your grandpa casually drops the N bomb in front of your friends while describing his cab ride to the restaurant. Bemused silence…a sense that someone should say something…Uh, um…hmmm.
Hmmm…
Yeah, so it was brutal, and I actually found myself thinking ‘well, at least I’ve got the bartending job’ which is one of the most stupid things I’ve ever thought. I don’t know where I get off thinking that writing dumb skits in a dumb class full of comically crippled turds is going to turn into something other than me shoveling my money into the belly of the institution that I attend. Dumb.
Speaking of said institution, I actually got intimidated by these schlongs yesterday. I was walking into class and there are these guys always hanging around, and they’re in the higher levels or whatever, and they kind of gave me this judgy ‘who the fuck does this guy think he is’ kind of once over, and I was intimidated. What a sack of pig shit, man! I actually had to talk myself out of that one. I sat there and went “Come on, man, those guys aren’t anyone…they’ve just paid to go to these classes for longer than you have. Besides, you’re already IN the entertainment industry.” I had to tell myself this. I mean, as I was sitting in class, readying to perform this rap (a dis verse from the lead nerd to the captain of the swim team), I was thinking ‘man, don’t let those guys get you down. You’re doing cool stuff,” then I realized how fucking pathetic I sounded to myself and THEN I did my rap. It was a real perfect storm of ego deflation. If I was a woman, I would have housed a whole thing of Cookies n Cream on the couch when I got home, but instead I just passed out. I didn’t even have a beer. I’m getting soft.
Okay, so I know there’s lots of advice to get to out there, but I feel I really need to address this one that appeared in the comments regarding the potential school shooter with the giant head (seriously? Man, you can’t make that shit up…) Uh, okay, this is a pretty fucked up situation, and while I like to think of myself as a pretty level headed dude when it comes to doling out the ins and outs of life’s quandaries, this one, I gotta admit, has me kind of spooked. I sure don’t want anyone to get shot because they got bad advice from a bad advice columnist. Eh, fuck it. Here goes:
Chances are good, real, real good, that this dude is just a creepy blowhard who knows on some level that he’s being super creepy and enjoys the power that being a little creepy affords one (people, for example, try really really hard not to piss you off,,,it’s a total behavior rewarding situation, where you act a little creepy, or a little moody, and people tiptoe around you, which reinforces the creepy/moody behavior.) 99% chance that you’re dealing with that. Okay, so you want to tell this guy to get fucked, but you don’t want him to shoot you on that off 1% chance that he’s really nutso…Sorry to say, you’re in trubba trubba trubba. There’s no way to assess how someone crazy enough to shoot people is going to behave, regardless of what you do beforehand. You could be their favorite person in the world and they could still shoot you, (Lennon, Chapman), or they could be the trenchcoat mafia types who spare the ‘worthy’ ones. With crazies, it’s a real toss up. The point is, uh, if this guy wants to start shooting, duck. You say you want to stay off the dudes shit list…the only way to do that for sure is to not have any contact with him at all, and it sounds like it’s a little late for that. Okay, good luck with all that. God, I’m glad I’m not in highschool any more. The school shootings, zits, all the rapping, it’s just too much for a kid.
Later.
Oh, and I just thought I was drinking the last gulp of water in my glass, but it turned out to actually be the remnants of melted ice/vodka from god knows when...gross, and early. ugh. Already, what a day.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Poosy, I'm home!
It’s Wednesday. My dad and stepmother are coming to town today to hang out with the baby. Pretty good stuff, I suppose. The day they leave (Saturday), my mom and stepdad show up, so this baby is really stepping raft to raft, paternal grandparent wise, this week, I guess. Cool.
Currently, the baby is crying in his room. This leads me to all sorts of questions. Is he stuck between the slats of his crib? Hungry? Being pecked at by some sort of bird? The answers are probably no, no and no. He’s just a grumpy little shit sometimes. I have my writing class tonight, and I’ve already finished my skit, which is a good thing, since when my dad gets to town there will be no time for anything. Jesus, baby. Shut up for a second, huh? Man. Dumb babies…they’re such fucking babies.
There’s absolutely nothing going on today. I think it’s time for a positive list. Things I love? Things I can’t live without? Things I hate but can’t live without? Nah…I don’t feel like being negative today. That’s for tomorrow when I have to work. Today, it’s just me and a baby, which, actually, is a pretty good time. I always thought that when people would say shit like “having a baby is so great. It’s so much fun,” that they were bullshitting. As in, I always figured that they were REALLY saying “man, this sucks, I have to take care of this fucking thing all day and I can’t go out after six thirty…You should do this too so I don’t feel like I’m missing out on as many fun and debaucherous good times.” That’s always been my take…and I know I’m not alone in this interpretation. It’s one of those things though. They weren’t bullshitting. It really is fun. I KNOW!!! Yeah, I’m one of them now. Now it’s me who sits home watching Mario Lopez on TV and asking questions about what happened at the bar (she fucked THAT GUY?) and at the same time hyping up how fun it is to be a dad. I get it. You don’t believe me either. I wouldn’t believe me either. I mean, fuck. This time last year I was gearing up to ride a bus around the country and play music while people gave me money and free beer. This year I’m wiping butts and making bottles and sneaking out for a beer at the bar about once every five weeks, and I know more about baby bottles and diapers and swings and all that shit than you could possibly imagine. I’ve been to Babies R Us, man. I’ve BEEN there. Talk about a harrowing experience.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about Babies R Us. The women that work there, they’re pregnant too. So here’s the scene: All these catty pregnant coworkers constantly undermining each other’s recommendations, giving tons and tons of unsolicited advice about everything from what you need (everything) to what the husband is doing wrong (again, everything) to which stroller is the biggest death trap and on and on. Now, they’re dealing with a bunch of nervous, irritable pregnant women who are in the frantic throes of nesting, totally irrational with fear/anxiety/excitement/the joy of shopping/the bewildering nature of shopping for all sorts of new and unfamiliar things, and they’re dragging their husbands along behind them. The husbands can only shut up and try to hang on. Don’t offer advice. Don’t suggest an alternative item that you actually like. It will be immediately filed as completely unacceptable and dumb. Husbands at Babies R Us share a lot of knowing sympathetic glances in passing.
Now, add to this mix the DUDES that WORK there. These poor fucks are trapped in gestation like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I’d rather get hung from the dungeon walls at the Hanoi Hilton a la John Mccain than work at Babies R Us. These guys are so browbeaten that they make the husbands seem downright decisive and dynamic.
Anyway, it sucks…but you know what? That’s not being a dad, really. That’s being a husband. I mean, if I had this kid on my own, he’d literally sleep in a drawer with pillows in it. No two ways about it. There’s a reason that god decided to put the babies in women and not men. Also, probably squeezing a baby through your dickhole would present some health concerns…but I think it’s mostly so we don’t have a whole species that grew up sleeping in pizza boxes under TV guides. Maybe.
Okay, so some shit I like. Here we go.
Bill Bryson- This dude is, hands down, my favorite active American non fiction writer. He takes complex ideas and synthesizes them to a ‘we’re just bullshitting and drinking beers’ kind of level. You’ll be laughing out loud before you realize you’ve learned a ton of shit. At the risk of sounding like a total jagoff, (but in the spirit of full disclosure), I went to Northwestern and graduated on the dean’s list and I can honestly say that reading Bill Bryson’s books made me vastly more erudite and sophisticated sounding at parties than anything I learned there. So there you go…Sound like a nancy college boy at social gatherings in 3 weeks, just read these nine or so books. Talk with authority about everything from Australian flora to the history of Pepsi. Nice one. Start with Mother Tongue, a Brief History of Nearly Everything or Made in America, but read them all…they’re all good. (Oh, and Made in America has nothing to do with that movie starring Whoppi Goldberg and Ted Danson, in case you were wondering)
Miller High Life- I don’t know what it is, but I’m in love with this beer. I never used to like it, but suddenly, I can’t get enough. It’s so drinkable. I find myself literally going “oh god, it’s so good” when I take the first sip. I know. It’s crap. Whatever. You’re ugly.
Public Farts (the ‘not mine’ category) Nothing makes me laugh like some old lady blowing a fart right there in the Walgreens.
Public Farts (mine) You walk by a group of dumb looking chicks drinking Effen black cherry and sodas, and you fart when you’re right next to them, so they’re all standing in it just wondering which one of them broke the rule. My friend calls this ‘cropdusting.’
Alexandre Orion- He’s the best. My favorite living artist, for sure. His shit is on another level, to put it mildly. Check out Alexandreorion.com and look at the renegade shit, not the gallery stuff. No joke here. Just a recommendation.
Austrailians- Such polite and funny people who get shitfaced enough to fuck the knothole of the crabapple tree in your grandma’s front yard every day. I mean, in my experience.
Bikes- This one’s tricky. I love bikes, but I hate bike snobs as much as I hate, oh, I don’t know, racists. It’s a bike, dickweed. You’re not doing anything that cool just because your bike doesn’t have brakes. You know who cares? No one but the other worthless dildos you roll around with. What a thing to get stuck up about…You know who rides bikes? Everyone. You’re not special. Also, I hate that guy who has the sticker on his bike that says something like “I’m saving the earth by not driving a car. Aren’t I sweet?” Nope, you’re a smug asshole that makes me want to buy a Humvee out of spite and convert the engine so it runs on baby seals. But, I’m getting negative again. I love bikes. Riding a bike is the best way to travel, for sure. As long as you live somewhere with bike lanes and no hills. Which I do. So there. So. Many. Periods.
Whatever, I could go on, but I’m hungry. I’m getting lunch. And maybe a High Life.
Bye
Currently, the baby is crying in his room. This leads me to all sorts of questions. Is he stuck between the slats of his crib? Hungry? Being pecked at by some sort of bird? The answers are probably no, no and no. He’s just a grumpy little shit sometimes. I have my writing class tonight, and I’ve already finished my skit, which is a good thing, since when my dad gets to town there will be no time for anything. Jesus, baby. Shut up for a second, huh? Man. Dumb babies…they’re such fucking babies.
There’s absolutely nothing going on today. I think it’s time for a positive list. Things I love? Things I can’t live without? Things I hate but can’t live without? Nah…I don’t feel like being negative today. That’s for tomorrow when I have to work. Today, it’s just me and a baby, which, actually, is a pretty good time. I always thought that when people would say shit like “having a baby is so great. It’s so much fun,” that they were bullshitting. As in, I always figured that they were REALLY saying “man, this sucks, I have to take care of this fucking thing all day and I can’t go out after six thirty…You should do this too so I don’t feel like I’m missing out on as many fun and debaucherous good times.” That’s always been my take…and I know I’m not alone in this interpretation. It’s one of those things though. They weren’t bullshitting. It really is fun. I KNOW!!! Yeah, I’m one of them now. Now it’s me who sits home watching Mario Lopez on TV and asking questions about what happened at the bar (she fucked THAT GUY?) and at the same time hyping up how fun it is to be a dad. I get it. You don’t believe me either. I wouldn’t believe me either. I mean, fuck. This time last year I was gearing up to ride a bus around the country and play music while people gave me money and free beer. This year I’m wiping butts and making bottles and sneaking out for a beer at the bar about once every five weeks, and I know more about baby bottles and diapers and swings and all that shit than you could possibly imagine. I’ve been to Babies R Us, man. I’ve BEEN there. Talk about a harrowing experience.
Here’s what they don’t tell you about Babies R Us. The women that work there, they’re pregnant too. So here’s the scene: All these catty pregnant coworkers constantly undermining each other’s recommendations, giving tons and tons of unsolicited advice about everything from what you need (everything) to what the husband is doing wrong (again, everything) to which stroller is the biggest death trap and on and on. Now, they’re dealing with a bunch of nervous, irritable pregnant women who are in the frantic throes of nesting, totally irrational with fear/anxiety/excitement/the joy of shopping/the bewildering nature of shopping for all sorts of new and unfamiliar things, and they’re dragging their husbands along behind them. The husbands can only shut up and try to hang on. Don’t offer advice. Don’t suggest an alternative item that you actually like. It will be immediately filed as completely unacceptable and dumb. Husbands at Babies R Us share a lot of knowing sympathetic glances in passing.
Now, add to this mix the DUDES that WORK there. These poor fucks are trapped in gestation like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I’d rather get hung from the dungeon walls at the Hanoi Hilton a la John Mccain than work at Babies R Us. These guys are so browbeaten that they make the husbands seem downright decisive and dynamic.
Anyway, it sucks…but you know what? That’s not being a dad, really. That’s being a husband. I mean, if I had this kid on my own, he’d literally sleep in a drawer with pillows in it. No two ways about it. There’s a reason that god decided to put the babies in women and not men. Also, probably squeezing a baby through your dickhole would present some health concerns…but I think it’s mostly so we don’t have a whole species that grew up sleeping in pizza boxes under TV guides. Maybe.
Okay, so some shit I like. Here we go.
Bill Bryson- This dude is, hands down, my favorite active American non fiction writer. He takes complex ideas and synthesizes them to a ‘we’re just bullshitting and drinking beers’ kind of level. You’ll be laughing out loud before you realize you’ve learned a ton of shit. At the risk of sounding like a total jagoff, (but in the spirit of full disclosure), I went to Northwestern and graduated on the dean’s list and I can honestly say that reading Bill Bryson’s books made me vastly more erudite and sophisticated sounding at parties than anything I learned there. So there you go…Sound like a nancy college boy at social gatherings in 3 weeks, just read these nine or so books. Talk with authority about everything from Australian flora to the history of Pepsi. Nice one. Start with Mother Tongue, a Brief History of Nearly Everything or Made in America, but read them all…they’re all good. (Oh, and Made in America has nothing to do with that movie starring Whoppi Goldberg and Ted Danson, in case you were wondering)
Miller High Life- I don’t know what it is, but I’m in love with this beer. I never used to like it, but suddenly, I can’t get enough. It’s so drinkable. I find myself literally going “oh god, it’s so good” when I take the first sip. I know. It’s crap. Whatever. You’re ugly.
Public Farts (the ‘not mine’ category) Nothing makes me laugh like some old lady blowing a fart right there in the Walgreens.
Public Farts (mine) You walk by a group of dumb looking chicks drinking Effen black cherry and sodas, and you fart when you’re right next to them, so they’re all standing in it just wondering which one of them broke the rule. My friend calls this ‘cropdusting.’
Alexandre Orion- He’s the best. My favorite living artist, for sure. His shit is on another level, to put it mildly. Check out Alexandreorion.com and look at the renegade shit, not the gallery stuff. No joke here. Just a recommendation.
Austrailians- Such polite and funny people who get shitfaced enough to fuck the knothole of the crabapple tree in your grandma’s front yard every day. I mean, in my experience.
Bikes- This one’s tricky. I love bikes, but I hate bike snobs as much as I hate, oh, I don’t know, racists. It’s a bike, dickweed. You’re not doing anything that cool just because your bike doesn’t have brakes. You know who cares? No one but the other worthless dildos you roll around with. What a thing to get stuck up about…You know who rides bikes? Everyone. You’re not special. Also, I hate that guy who has the sticker on his bike that says something like “I’m saving the earth by not driving a car. Aren’t I sweet?” Nope, you’re a smug asshole that makes me want to buy a Humvee out of spite and convert the engine so it runs on baby seals. But, I’m getting negative again. I love bikes. Riding a bike is the best way to travel, for sure. As long as you live somewhere with bike lanes and no hills. Which I do. So there. So. Many. Periods.
Whatever, I could go on, but I’m hungry. I’m getting lunch. And maybe a High Life.
Bye
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Epic tales of adventure (all true)
When I was in high school I knew this dude who lived in the laundry room of his girlfriend’s apartment. He’d call me from the payphone in the parking lot nearby and I’d ‘come over’ to his place, which was about ten by ten and consisted of three coin operated dryers and three washers. He slept on the bench that was provided for people whose lives were so lame that they just kicked it in the basement of their apartment building and waited for their socks to dry. When you think about it, he really took that bench’s potential to the next level…You thought it was a sign of a pathetic life to chill down here for the whole spin cycle? This motherfucker LIVES here! Anyway, eventually, people got wise and he was forced to vacate the laundry room. So, what did he do? He moved in under his girlfriend’s bed. You heard me.
I know, I know…What? How’s that possible? Well, hear me out. First of all, this guy was the type of dude that you really don’t want fucking your daughter. I mean, he lived in the laundry room, for fucks sake (and he smelled like a weekend-long German-French cheese symposium conducted entirely in a Sauna/pay toilet, and he always wore the same clothes, and he had a rotten tooth [no offense, Nadie] and generally, he was gross) and the results were that his girlfriend’s dad didn’t allow her to see him, much less let him in the house. So, my creepily intrepid associate hatched a plan so genius, so creepy, so unbelievably impossible to pull off unless you’re a robot, that it boggles my mind to this day, a decade and a half later. Every day, before his old lady’s dad got home, he’d slip in the house and hide under her bed. He’d stay there until the dad fell asleep, and then he’d crawl up, bang his girl, crawl back under the bed and wait until the dad left for work the next morning, at which point, he’d kick it around the various parking lots of the neighborhood, eating fruit roll ups, bumming smokes and singing Pearl Jam inspired songs to himself until it was time to repeat the whole David-Blainian experiment again. Sounds perfect, right? They had it all worked out, except for one thing….
He knocked her up.
I mean, who writes this stuff? Really? A pregnancy? Jeez. So this guy went from being the monster in the house (“Daddy, there’s a gross, smelly thing under my bed/in the basement”) to the father of the grandchild of a very, very disappointed Baby Boomer…that is, unless…
To Planned Parenthood! They caught this one early and it was pretty easy to uh…cure, I guess. So he sold some stuff that he had stolen to pay for an abortion and then…and this is the part that’s so great, he took his girlfriend, day of abortion, immediately following the procedure, to his three hour long band practice, and made her sit through that. Apparently, he didn’t want her to remember the abortion as the worst thing that happened to her that day, which is pretty cool of him if you think about it that way, I guess.
Man, so guess what? She dumped him and a few years later, he started dating this other girl who would just wait in his car while he would stop by my friend Chris’s place and drink beers and watch movies. Let me repeat this. She would wait in the CAR while he would go upstairs and WATCH MOVIES. I guess, compared to making someone suffer through the stress of harboring you under the bed, carrying your devil spawn, ridding yourself of said devil spawn, and sitting through your horrible band’s 3 hour practice, making the bitch wait in the car is down right chivalrous. He’s probably still out there. I think he wanted to be an actor…maybe he’s famous by now.
I’ve got this other friend who has a band, and they practice every day. I live a thousand miles from this guy, and the last time I was at his house (just for one evening) he just up and left because his band had to practice. They, I’d like to re-iterate, practice EVERY day. So, my one night only appearance at his place, not a big enough deal to cancel band practice. Pretty sweet.
So, yeah, band practice is one of those things that you feel is important, I guess. Sometimes it’s like “Hey doc, you wanna hurry up down there? I got band practice! And sometimes it’s like “Hey, I’ll just catch you next time you’re this particular thousand-mile-away trajectory, cuz man, I need to rock (again).”
Me, I’m in a band. Without trying to get all dick thumpy about it, a band that is vastly more popular than either of the bands in question above, and you know when we practice? Never. That’s how we maintain our sloppy charm. It’s hard work not practicing…just ask the guys from these bands that I’m talking about here. BUT!!!!! Yesterday, not one, but TWO of my bands practiced. Both practices were fun, and I was tired at the end, and as a result, I didn’t get to fill in the September 22 Bad Sandwich Chronicles entry…sorry everyone, but it’s not like I ditched you or took your post surgery ass to practice with me. I guess what I’m saying is, it really could’ve been worse, people.
Oh, yeah. It's come to my attention that it's not really clear what's going on with the deleted posts in the 'comments' section. I don't delete posts. It's the author of the post who can choose to delete it. I've never deleted anything down there, just so you all don't think I'm some sort of Hitler/Palin type who doesn't support the blanket of expressive rights granted to us in our first ammendment...it ain't me deleting posts. My guess? It's people who write things and then go, 'that's kind of dumb.' So yeah. There's that. Okay, get out there and live, people!
I know, I know…What? How’s that possible? Well, hear me out. First of all, this guy was the type of dude that you really don’t want fucking your daughter. I mean, he lived in the laundry room, for fucks sake (and he smelled like a weekend-long German-French cheese symposium conducted entirely in a Sauna/pay toilet, and he always wore the same clothes, and he had a rotten tooth [no offense, Nadie] and generally, he was gross) and the results were that his girlfriend’s dad didn’t allow her to see him, much less let him in the house. So, my creepily intrepid associate hatched a plan so genius, so creepy, so unbelievably impossible to pull off unless you’re a robot, that it boggles my mind to this day, a decade and a half later. Every day, before his old lady’s dad got home, he’d slip in the house and hide under her bed. He’d stay there until the dad fell asleep, and then he’d crawl up, bang his girl, crawl back under the bed and wait until the dad left for work the next morning, at which point, he’d kick it around the various parking lots of the neighborhood, eating fruit roll ups, bumming smokes and singing Pearl Jam inspired songs to himself until it was time to repeat the whole David-Blainian experiment again. Sounds perfect, right? They had it all worked out, except for one thing….
He knocked her up.
I mean, who writes this stuff? Really? A pregnancy? Jeez. So this guy went from being the monster in the house (“Daddy, there’s a gross, smelly thing under my bed/in the basement”) to the father of the grandchild of a very, very disappointed Baby Boomer…that is, unless…
To Planned Parenthood! They caught this one early and it was pretty easy to uh…cure, I guess. So he sold some stuff that he had stolen to pay for an abortion and then…and this is the part that’s so great, he took his girlfriend, day of abortion, immediately following the procedure, to his three hour long band practice, and made her sit through that. Apparently, he didn’t want her to remember the abortion as the worst thing that happened to her that day, which is pretty cool of him if you think about it that way, I guess.
Man, so guess what? She dumped him and a few years later, he started dating this other girl who would just wait in his car while he would stop by my friend Chris’s place and drink beers and watch movies. Let me repeat this. She would wait in the CAR while he would go upstairs and WATCH MOVIES. I guess, compared to making someone suffer through the stress of harboring you under the bed, carrying your devil spawn, ridding yourself of said devil spawn, and sitting through your horrible band’s 3 hour practice, making the bitch wait in the car is down right chivalrous. He’s probably still out there. I think he wanted to be an actor…maybe he’s famous by now.
I’ve got this other friend who has a band, and they practice every day. I live a thousand miles from this guy, and the last time I was at his house (just for one evening) he just up and left because his band had to practice. They, I’d like to re-iterate, practice EVERY day. So, my one night only appearance at his place, not a big enough deal to cancel band practice. Pretty sweet.
So, yeah, band practice is one of those things that you feel is important, I guess. Sometimes it’s like “Hey doc, you wanna hurry up down there? I got band practice! And sometimes it’s like “Hey, I’ll just catch you next time you’re this particular thousand-mile-away trajectory, cuz man, I need to rock (again).”
Me, I’m in a band. Without trying to get all dick thumpy about it, a band that is vastly more popular than either of the bands in question above, and you know when we practice? Never. That’s how we maintain our sloppy charm. It’s hard work not practicing…just ask the guys from these bands that I’m talking about here. BUT!!!!! Yesterday, not one, but TWO of my bands practiced. Both practices were fun, and I was tired at the end, and as a result, I didn’t get to fill in the September 22 Bad Sandwich Chronicles entry…sorry everyone, but it’s not like I ditched you or took your post surgery ass to practice with me. I guess what I’m saying is, it really could’ve been worse, people.
Oh, yeah. It's come to my attention that it's not really clear what's going on with the deleted posts in the 'comments' section. I don't delete posts. It's the author of the post who can choose to delete it. I've never deleted anything down there, just so you all don't think I'm some sort of Hitler/Palin type who doesn't support the blanket of expressive rights granted to us in our first ammendment...it ain't me deleting posts. My guess? It's people who write things and then go, 'that's kind of dumb.' So yeah. There's that. Okay, get out there and live, people!
Friday, September 19, 2008
I will gladly pay you tuesday for a hamburger today.
Ah, Friday. You know what Friday is? It’s the day when all the jackoffs in all the little boxes in all the towers in all the towns kind of half ass their workday while perusing gangbang sites, online boat catalogs, weekend tv listings or, in the rare moment of sweetness, staring at pictures of their ugly kids. They loosen their ties right after they get to the office and they have a beer and a shot of wild turkey at lunch. They resent their bosses quietly and passively in a “Fine, jeez! YES, okay Gary, I WILL cc you on the memo next time, you fat fuck, I get it. GOD!…hey, who cares, only three hours until I’m outa here, then it’s motherfucking Miller time!” Then, these poor, put upon souls swoop down like vultures into the barrooms and act like absolute dickheads. It’s great. You can feel the wave approaching like a fucking barometric pressure drop. One second, everything’s sunny and nice and then it’s “woah, did it just get about ten degrees crappier in here or is it me?” Friday afternoons, my friends, are kind of lame.
Hey, why am I complaining though, right? I’m a bartender and it’s my job to get people drunk, and on Fridays, that’s exactly the program. I don’t know. I guess it’s one of those things where by five, (an hour before I get done) I’m at a snapping point where requests like, “could you put some more sour mix in this” become personal affronts. I’m not really cut out for customer service, after all. I much prefer barking orders at people than having them barked at me. I guess that makes me kind of unique, huh? Heh. Anyway…
So there’s a new development with this baby. He’s become enough of an actual guy with enough of an embryonic little personality that I’m no longer relieved to drop him at daycare. It’s now a little sad. It used to be a moment of great relief to hand over the little crap factory and head home to a quiet house for twenty minutes before work, but now it’s kind of lonely and I find myself missing him. Ah, fuck. That’s uninteresting parenty crap, innit? I sort of promised myself I wouldn’t tell schmaltzy stories about my kid or my feelings for my kid or any shit like that unless it was truly relevant, and yet here I am. Okay, that means it’s time for an, ahem, paradigm shift….something involving sex, drugs, I don’t know…
Ah, I can’t do it. I was going to make a list of towns with the best drugs, but who really cares? It’s irrelevant if you don’t know someone, right? In New York, they have delivery services where you just call a number and say “yo, I want 3 grams of Afghani black tar heroin” and they send a car or bike messenger to wherever you are, be it an apartment/bar/public bathroom stall…At least that’s my understanding. I can say with some semblance of truth that I’ve never ordered black tar heroin from anyone. Regardless, you don’t need a messenger service in New York to get high. It’s trite, but drugs, good drugs, are everywhere. My friend Gerry told me that the best meth (yeah, I know…gross, what are you gonna do?) that he ever had was in Nebraska, and that it wasn’t even something you smoked or snorted, it was a “grey ooze” that you dropped into your beer. To paraphrase Gerry “It was awesome! I didn’t even think about sleeping for six days, and I didn’t eat for four.” Wow. Good times. That, to me, sounds up there on the list of awesome ways to spend your leisure time with trying to suck off a hungry rotwieller, but hey, I’m kind of a pussy in that regard I guess. My point is, kids, there are great drugs right in your town, no matter where you live…all you have to do is look for ‘em.
Speaking of Nebraska, I have a friend out there who once went down to Omaha’s local uh, skid row, I guess, and found a crackhead who was willing to attempt to suck his own dick while she filmed it for ten bucks. I know what you’re thinking. This was a GIRL? I know. Anyway, so she’s got this video of this crackhead in this alley rolling around with his legs over his head grunting and repeating “just a minute…almost got it” for like ten minutes, apparently. I never saw it, as I kind of thought it was a TOTALLY fucking demented thing to do. Although, I guess that if you do the math, that’s like sixty bucks an hour, so whatever, maybe I was wrong to cast stones. Relatively, that bum made more money unsuccessfully trying to suck his own dick than I do slaving away over chocolate martini shakers and white wine spritzers while smug chumps with comb overs and Bluetooth ear pieces yell at me that they need change for a hundred. Now I’m pissed.
Not like, suck my own dick and film it out of spite pissed, but well, you get the idea. I don’t think I could do that anyway. I’m not limber enough.
Okay, have we balanced out the baby story now? Good. It’s Friday. Enjoy it. I know I will. PFFFFT.
Hey, why am I complaining though, right? I’m a bartender and it’s my job to get people drunk, and on Fridays, that’s exactly the program. I don’t know. I guess it’s one of those things where by five, (an hour before I get done) I’m at a snapping point where requests like, “could you put some more sour mix in this” become personal affronts. I’m not really cut out for customer service, after all. I much prefer barking orders at people than having them barked at me. I guess that makes me kind of unique, huh? Heh. Anyway…
So there’s a new development with this baby. He’s become enough of an actual guy with enough of an embryonic little personality that I’m no longer relieved to drop him at daycare. It’s now a little sad. It used to be a moment of great relief to hand over the little crap factory and head home to a quiet house for twenty minutes before work, but now it’s kind of lonely and I find myself missing him. Ah, fuck. That’s uninteresting parenty crap, innit? I sort of promised myself I wouldn’t tell schmaltzy stories about my kid or my feelings for my kid or any shit like that unless it was truly relevant, and yet here I am. Okay, that means it’s time for an, ahem, paradigm shift….something involving sex, drugs, I don’t know…
Ah, I can’t do it. I was going to make a list of towns with the best drugs, but who really cares? It’s irrelevant if you don’t know someone, right? In New York, they have delivery services where you just call a number and say “yo, I want 3 grams of Afghani black tar heroin” and they send a car or bike messenger to wherever you are, be it an apartment/bar/public bathroom stall…At least that’s my understanding. I can say with some semblance of truth that I’ve never ordered black tar heroin from anyone. Regardless, you don’t need a messenger service in New York to get high. It’s trite, but drugs, good drugs, are everywhere. My friend Gerry told me that the best meth (yeah, I know…gross, what are you gonna do?) that he ever had was in Nebraska, and that it wasn’t even something you smoked or snorted, it was a “grey ooze” that you dropped into your beer. To paraphrase Gerry “It was awesome! I didn’t even think about sleeping for six days, and I didn’t eat for four.” Wow. Good times. That, to me, sounds up there on the list of awesome ways to spend your leisure time with trying to suck off a hungry rotwieller, but hey, I’m kind of a pussy in that regard I guess. My point is, kids, there are great drugs right in your town, no matter where you live…all you have to do is look for ‘em.
Speaking of Nebraska, I have a friend out there who once went down to Omaha’s local uh, skid row, I guess, and found a crackhead who was willing to attempt to suck his own dick while she filmed it for ten bucks. I know what you’re thinking. This was a GIRL? I know. Anyway, so she’s got this video of this crackhead in this alley rolling around with his legs over his head grunting and repeating “just a minute…almost got it” for like ten minutes, apparently. I never saw it, as I kind of thought it was a TOTALLY fucking demented thing to do. Although, I guess that if you do the math, that’s like sixty bucks an hour, so whatever, maybe I was wrong to cast stones. Relatively, that bum made more money unsuccessfully trying to suck his own dick than I do slaving away over chocolate martini shakers and white wine spritzers while smug chumps with comb overs and Bluetooth ear pieces yell at me that they need change for a hundred. Now I’m pissed.
Not like, suck my own dick and film it out of spite pissed, but well, you get the idea. I don’t think I could do that anyway. I’m not limber enough.
Okay, have we balanced out the baby story now? Good. It’s Friday. Enjoy it. I know I will. PFFFFT.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
You're like a disease, Kevin!
Dudes, dudettes! Good morning. I woke up and had to get the house in order on my own today, as the wife is out of town. So, I got the hookers to help me mop, dusted most of the coke off the baby and finally kicked that tranny out of my guest room. Also I cleaned up the dog shit that has become so ubiquitous with my morning routine. The house is still kind of a mess, but whatever, man! I can’t be expected to handle EVERYTHING, right? I know that every Thursday I complain about work, and today will be no different. Fuck working, man. If I had my way, I’d just live under the overpass in SF and grow my beard out, rarely wear a shirt and hit up local professionals wracked with white guilt over at the Jamba Juice for their quarters. But no! The prisons of marriage, children and wanting to keep my teeth have tethered me to the brutal wheel of servitude. Eh…I’m like the greatest American hero in the history of heroes. Woe is me.
I got this email from New England. It had a wonderful subject heading which was “Opinions are like assholes, and I need yours.” Now, people, pay attention, because that’s funny. If you want to dissect the humor, it probably comes from the fact that of COURSE he wants my asshole…it’s only the most desired asshole along the eastern seaboard. That’s like me saying I live near a Starbucks. Heh. Droll. Anyway…on to his query.
I recently began dating this girl. She lives a good deal away from me. I'm in Boston and she's in South Western Connecticut. Its a solid 6 hours via bus. To kick things off, we never really actually talked about dating per se. We talked about random shit like unicorns, rainbows, unicorns shitting out rainbows, you know everyday life. Then out of the blue, after maybe a week, I've now been dubbed her boyfriend. She never talked this over with me, and quite frankly it didnt sit well with me. I have some issues when it comes to commitment, mainly, I have a dick. I'm not saying I want to go cheat on her all the time and shit. Its more that being in a relationship seems to just scare the utter shit out of me and I always run the other way and sabatoge them right out the gate. I've done this with my last 5 relationships. None lasted more than a month because I felt like I was getting too close and overly attached to the person, and shot it down in a firey blaze. I can feel this one coming on. I'm becoming snarky, avoiding talking with her, and just getting annoyed by her for no real reason. I dont want to make this girl feel like crap. What should I do with her and how the fuck can I get over this woe is me fear of being with someone and it meaning a little something?
Side question: What do you about falling in love with one of your best friends? I've had this happen a lot. This honestly doesnt have anything to do with the first question though.
Okay, first things first…I don’t know from this letter how old you are, but that’s pretty crucial. Let’s say you’re 17-27 (which I gotta imagine is the case), Okay then, eh…who cares? She’s pushing your boundaries, you don’t like it, she lives six hours away and she’s making you feel pissed off? Hmmm…what to do?
Look, in this situation (the one where you’re seventeen to twenty seven) you just need to say, ‘hey, you’re kind of putting pressure on me that I don’t want/need, and it’s making me resent you. Let’s take a few steps back.” If she doesn’t like it, boo hoo. Sounds like you don’t like how it is now, so at the very least, you’re even. Man, there are so many people out there to hang out with, talk on the phone to and drunkenly bang in the shrubbery behind dunkin donuts, there’s absolutely no reason why you should make any attempt to leash your commitment shy dick to this six hour bus ride and subsequent pain in the ass at the end of it just because you guys share a philosophy regarding unity symbols and Unicorn proctology.
You’re young and it’s easy to get caught up in situations, but this sounds like unnecessary stress and drama (which is exactly what young people like to immerse themselves in). In the words of Samuel Jackson, tell that bitch to chill.
Okay, let’s say you’re 28 or above: 2 big things: 1. So you’re commitment phobic. That’s fine. You don’t have to have a girlfriend or a wife. It’s your life, man. Just because your friends are getting married and shit doesn’t mean you have to. If they all jumped off a bridge, would you? (nice!) Okay, seriously though, if you’ve got some issue based in past heartache (oh, I loved her and she blew my uncle! Now I’m scarred!) yeah, welcome to being alive…everyone has that shit. Sack up and deal with it or don’t, but don’t refuse to deal with it and wallow in the depression of not doing it. This is like eating cheesecake covered in caramel and complaining that you’re a lard ass. You get no sympathy. This brings me to point two, which is a lot like point one. You got to tell this chick that she’s fucking with your parameters. If she can’t handle that, she’s no good. She may say, ‘hey, you know what asshole? I’m gonna fuck with your parameters, because you fucking need it and you’re too much of a spineless pansy to jump in the fucking pool, so I’m pushing you in” and you may find that to be refreshing and great, or she may just get quiet and cry and get passive aggressive, which means she stinks, or any number of other things may happen. The point is, nothing ever got solved by sitting there and not doing anything. You’re good at articulating your problem to me. Try doing it to her (heyo!).
As for your post script…falling in love with best friends…yeah that happens a lot. The trick is to find a best friend that enjoys boning you as much as you enjoy boning them…then you marry that person. I don’t know if this is the answer you were looking for…uh, try honesty, I guess. Good luck.
All right! Later days and better lays, chicks and gays (and lesbians and straight dudes too, I guess, but it doesn’t rhyme nearly as well).
I got this email from New England. It had a wonderful subject heading which was “Opinions are like assholes, and I need yours.” Now, people, pay attention, because that’s funny. If you want to dissect the humor, it probably comes from the fact that of COURSE he wants my asshole…it’s only the most desired asshole along the eastern seaboard. That’s like me saying I live near a Starbucks. Heh. Droll. Anyway…on to his query.
I recently began dating this girl. She lives a good deal away from me. I'm in Boston and she's in South Western Connecticut. Its a solid 6 hours via bus. To kick things off, we never really actually talked about dating per se. We talked about random shit like unicorns, rainbows, unicorns shitting out rainbows, you know everyday life. Then out of the blue, after maybe a week, I've now been dubbed her boyfriend. She never talked this over with me, and quite frankly it didnt sit well with me. I have some issues when it comes to commitment, mainly, I have a dick. I'm not saying I want to go cheat on her all the time and shit. Its more that being in a relationship seems to just scare the utter shit out of me and I always run the other way and sabatoge them right out the gate. I've done this with my last 5 relationships. None lasted more than a month because I felt like I was getting too close and overly attached to the person, and shot it down in a firey blaze. I can feel this one coming on. I'm becoming snarky, avoiding talking with her, and just getting annoyed by her for no real reason. I dont want to make this girl feel like crap. What should I do with her and how the fuck can I get over this woe is me fear of being with someone and it meaning a little something?
Side question: What do you about falling in love with one of your best friends? I've had this happen a lot. This honestly doesnt have anything to do with the first question though.
Okay, first things first…I don’t know from this letter how old you are, but that’s pretty crucial. Let’s say you’re 17-27 (which I gotta imagine is the case), Okay then, eh…who cares? She’s pushing your boundaries, you don’t like it, she lives six hours away and she’s making you feel pissed off? Hmmm…what to do?
Look, in this situation (the one where you’re seventeen to twenty seven) you just need to say, ‘hey, you’re kind of putting pressure on me that I don’t want/need, and it’s making me resent you. Let’s take a few steps back.” If she doesn’t like it, boo hoo. Sounds like you don’t like how it is now, so at the very least, you’re even. Man, there are so many people out there to hang out with, talk on the phone to and drunkenly bang in the shrubbery behind dunkin donuts, there’s absolutely no reason why you should make any attempt to leash your commitment shy dick to this six hour bus ride and subsequent pain in the ass at the end of it just because you guys share a philosophy regarding unity symbols and Unicorn proctology.
You’re young and it’s easy to get caught up in situations, but this sounds like unnecessary stress and drama (which is exactly what young people like to immerse themselves in). In the words of Samuel Jackson, tell that bitch to chill.
Okay, let’s say you’re 28 or above: 2 big things: 1. So you’re commitment phobic. That’s fine. You don’t have to have a girlfriend or a wife. It’s your life, man. Just because your friends are getting married and shit doesn’t mean you have to. If they all jumped off a bridge, would you? (nice!) Okay, seriously though, if you’ve got some issue based in past heartache (oh, I loved her and she blew my uncle! Now I’m scarred!) yeah, welcome to being alive…everyone has that shit. Sack up and deal with it or don’t, but don’t refuse to deal with it and wallow in the depression of not doing it. This is like eating cheesecake covered in caramel and complaining that you’re a lard ass. You get no sympathy. This brings me to point two, which is a lot like point one. You got to tell this chick that she’s fucking with your parameters. If she can’t handle that, she’s no good. She may say, ‘hey, you know what asshole? I’m gonna fuck with your parameters, because you fucking need it and you’re too much of a spineless pansy to jump in the fucking pool, so I’m pushing you in” and you may find that to be refreshing and great, or she may just get quiet and cry and get passive aggressive, which means she stinks, or any number of other things may happen. The point is, nothing ever got solved by sitting there and not doing anything. You’re good at articulating your problem to me. Try doing it to her (heyo!).
As for your post script…falling in love with best friends…yeah that happens a lot. The trick is to find a best friend that enjoys boning you as much as you enjoy boning them…then you marry that person. I don’t know if this is the answer you were looking for…uh, try honesty, I guess. Good luck.
All right! Later days and better lays, chicks and gays (and lesbians and straight dudes too, I guess, but it doesn’t rhyme nearly as well).
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Oh God, You Devil Part 4
Oh, and just so we're clear: I in no way oppose spirituality or belief in something greater or what have you. I'm angry at the way these manipulative institutions never get called on their shit. It's not "god" I'm mad at, or mocking...it's his fucking ambassadors here on earth. So, yeah. Mass is ended. Go forth and prosper.
Oh God, You Devil Part 3
It’s morning. Another miracle. Yay. Parenthood has bitten me in the ass today. Okay, that’s a little harsh, but it goes like this: My wife is out of town. She went to NY, one night only, and I’m home alone…Great, my synapses immediately kick in and start sending messages to my brain: “I should have a party and invite tons of people over, maybe get a keg and befriend some sort of pharmacist or something wild like that…get some chimps to strip for us, perhaps.” Well, actually, no. I have to care for an infant, who, by the way woke up at four thirty this morning. WTF, dude? I thought being a dad was gonna be a constant party, full of sexy librarians, sexy pediatricians, sexy young moms and teachers, tons of strippers and mountains of blow, but actually, that’s just the Hollywood gloss. I’m here to tell it like it is people: Parenting features almost NONE of the day-awesomizers listed above. Almost none. The real sack punch is that there’s this little bar right down the street from my house that I love, and even after the baby is asleep (six thirty), I can’t go there, because god forbid you leave a sleeping baby alone in a house with no one in charge but a couple of snide Chihuahuas! That’s apparently illegal. Total bullshit.
And it’s gonna be boring, people, because I don’t like CSI or Cold Case Files or America’s Great at Juggling Pies or any of that shit. I spend all day writing various songs, treatments, skits, scripts and this fucking blog thing, so I don’t exactly want to carry that on through the night. That leaves two options: read the bible or watch girls stuff melons into their assholes on the internet. Either way, I’m already exhausted.
And Christ, I work tomorrow, so that means that my chimp-stripper-pharmacist party wouldn’t really fly anyhow, since I’d be way to hung over to go “that comes with chips, but for an extra buck I can give you fries or veggies” or “I don’t have any Coors products” and inject it with any sort of believability.
The wee beast has just made his inaugural squawk that signals that his nap is over. My fingernails are already tingling with the fervent anticipation that comes with knowing that you’ll soon have shit squished underneath them. Again, yay.
Everyone kind of wishes they could change things about themselves, right? Maybe not physically, although I think that’s usually a big one (god I wish I wasn’t such a lardass/bald/such a bald lardass), but often people want to be better at public speaking, or funnier or more secure in their convictions.
I wish I was religious. Here’s why: You can do whatever the fuck you want and just say it’s gods will. If it’s something that’s obviously not gods will (smoking crystal meth with a gay hustler right before you felch him within an inch of his life) hey! That was a test! People forgive you and call you brave and see you in church and say “hey, brendan’s really cleaned up his act. He’s always in church and he’s always crying when preacher joe boy talks about the sin of fagdom. He must no longer have the desire to gargle balls while big vieny dongs hang halfway down his gullet. Good for him!” That right there is enough of a reason. Plus, if I was religious, apparently I wouldn’t be scared of this crazy Alaskan bitch. Never mind that Christianity is the biggest religion in the world and therefore necessarily populated by TONS of people who probably shouldn’t be in charge of anythng. Anyone who believes is automatically semi-qualified to run a gigantic powerful country. I mean, fuck, by that meterstick, Kirk Cameron, Liberace or Mike Tyson would be decent choices for VP.
Sheeeit! Hold the phone, grandma. Did anyone ever actually think about getting Mike Tyson in there? I bet diplomacy would go our way a lot more often if old “breakfast of ears” Tyson was across the table from Ahmadinejad discussing nuclear proliferation. Okay, I’ve digressed. Why else do I wish I was stupid…er, religious? Oh no you di’int!!!!
Yeah, sure, that’s a shitty thing to say. There are lots of religious people out there who aren’t stupid. Although, every last one of them shares a common stupid misconception that I can’t really deal with and that’s this: That religion is fundamentally a good thing that gives people a good set of rules for, you know, not killing and stealing and coveting thy neighbor’s Humvee and shit like that.
Here’s the thing. Nope. Those rules are hardwired into humans and with a few notable exceptions (John Wayne Gacy, Hitler) we follow them. In fact, the similarities in the basic tenets of ALL religions in the world, from the fucking Aborigines to the Eskimos to the Chinese Jews (I’m sure there are a few) more likely imply that when people were cooking up their creation stories and faiths, they injected these most basic of moral principles that are necessarily inherent in human beings in order for us to function in a society (which is a genetic necessity, because without cooperation, we would not be able to, for example, kill a wolf that wanted to eat us [maybe some people could, not me]) into the religions that they were making up. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. Morality is, at a fundamental level, universal. Everyone agrees that killing is wrong, raping, no good, stealing, a dick move, etc. Yeah, I know, it’s all twisted around now and plenty of people think raping is great, and stealing is justified if it’s for a greater good and blah blah blah, wocka wocka wocka. Well, are any of these people religious? Well, without casting blanket aspersions, I’ll tell you for damn sure that they’re not all a giant cabal of atheists.
Again, I’m off topic. My point is, this fallacy that religion injects something good into the lives of otherwise miserable fucks out there who, without jesus or Allah or Zoroaster, would just be killing and fucking their kids and stealing and worshiping golden cows…that’s a damaging and dangerous misconception. The truth is, religion is a way to organize stupid people. They point to the moral structure of their religion, say “this is what we gave you. Without this, you’d all be fucking killing each other, and besides, who cares if you are so poor that you need to serve your family shit-pies for supper? It’s all gonna even out in heaven, hoss!” and then they act in the best interest of some completely arbitrary ideology and expect everyone to go along with it. And by and large, it works. “They” even point to religious doctrine that can’t possibly have anything to do with modern problems and act like their agendas are right in the texts! Don’t like gay marriage? That’s fine, cuz hating that’s in the bible, apparently. Want to blow up a schoolbus? It’s in the Koran. Want to just waltz into someone elses home and set up camp and tell them to get fucked? Check the fucking Torah my friends…that shit’s allowed.
So yeah. I wish I was religious. Because I’d just leave my fucking baby at home and go get drunk tonight and blame it all on god.
Happy Wednesday.
And it’s gonna be boring, people, because I don’t like CSI or Cold Case Files or America’s Great at Juggling Pies or any of that shit. I spend all day writing various songs, treatments, skits, scripts and this fucking blog thing, so I don’t exactly want to carry that on through the night. That leaves two options: read the bible or watch girls stuff melons into their assholes on the internet. Either way, I’m already exhausted.
And Christ, I work tomorrow, so that means that my chimp-stripper-pharmacist party wouldn’t really fly anyhow, since I’d be way to hung over to go “that comes with chips, but for an extra buck I can give you fries or veggies” or “I don’t have any Coors products” and inject it with any sort of believability.
The wee beast has just made his inaugural squawk that signals that his nap is over. My fingernails are already tingling with the fervent anticipation that comes with knowing that you’ll soon have shit squished underneath them. Again, yay.
Everyone kind of wishes they could change things about themselves, right? Maybe not physically, although I think that’s usually a big one (god I wish I wasn’t such a lardass/bald/such a bald lardass), but often people want to be better at public speaking, or funnier or more secure in their convictions.
I wish I was religious. Here’s why: You can do whatever the fuck you want and just say it’s gods will. If it’s something that’s obviously not gods will (smoking crystal meth with a gay hustler right before you felch him within an inch of his life) hey! That was a test! People forgive you and call you brave and see you in church and say “hey, brendan’s really cleaned up his act. He’s always in church and he’s always crying when preacher joe boy talks about the sin of fagdom. He must no longer have the desire to gargle balls while big vieny dongs hang halfway down his gullet. Good for him!” That right there is enough of a reason. Plus, if I was religious, apparently I wouldn’t be scared of this crazy Alaskan bitch. Never mind that Christianity is the biggest religion in the world and therefore necessarily populated by TONS of people who probably shouldn’t be in charge of anythng. Anyone who believes is automatically semi-qualified to run a gigantic powerful country. I mean, fuck, by that meterstick, Kirk Cameron, Liberace or Mike Tyson would be decent choices for VP.
Sheeeit! Hold the phone, grandma. Did anyone ever actually think about getting Mike Tyson in there? I bet diplomacy would go our way a lot more often if old “breakfast of ears” Tyson was across the table from Ahmadinejad discussing nuclear proliferation. Okay, I’ve digressed. Why else do I wish I was stupid…er, religious? Oh no you di’int!!!!
Yeah, sure, that’s a shitty thing to say. There are lots of religious people out there who aren’t stupid. Although, every last one of them shares a common stupid misconception that I can’t really deal with and that’s this: That religion is fundamentally a good thing that gives people a good set of rules for, you know, not killing and stealing and coveting thy neighbor’s Humvee and shit like that.
Here’s the thing. Nope. Those rules are hardwired into humans and with a few notable exceptions (John Wayne Gacy, Hitler) we follow them. In fact, the similarities in the basic tenets of ALL religions in the world, from the fucking Aborigines to the Eskimos to the Chinese Jews (I’m sure there are a few) more likely imply that when people were cooking up their creation stories and faiths, they injected these most basic of moral principles that are necessarily inherent in human beings in order for us to function in a society (which is a genetic necessity, because without cooperation, we would not be able to, for example, kill a wolf that wanted to eat us [maybe some people could, not me]) into the religions that they were making up. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. Morality is, at a fundamental level, universal. Everyone agrees that killing is wrong, raping, no good, stealing, a dick move, etc. Yeah, I know, it’s all twisted around now and plenty of people think raping is great, and stealing is justified if it’s for a greater good and blah blah blah, wocka wocka wocka. Well, are any of these people religious? Well, without casting blanket aspersions, I’ll tell you for damn sure that they’re not all a giant cabal of atheists.
Again, I’m off topic. My point is, this fallacy that religion injects something good into the lives of otherwise miserable fucks out there who, without jesus or Allah or Zoroaster, would just be killing and fucking their kids and stealing and worshiping golden cows…that’s a damaging and dangerous misconception. The truth is, religion is a way to organize stupid people. They point to the moral structure of their religion, say “this is what we gave you. Without this, you’d all be fucking killing each other, and besides, who cares if you are so poor that you need to serve your family shit-pies for supper? It’s all gonna even out in heaven, hoss!” and then they act in the best interest of some completely arbitrary ideology and expect everyone to go along with it. And by and large, it works. “They” even point to religious doctrine that can’t possibly have anything to do with modern problems and act like their agendas are right in the texts! Don’t like gay marriage? That’s fine, cuz hating that’s in the bible, apparently. Want to blow up a schoolbus? It’s in the Koran. Want to just waltz into someone elses home and set up camp and tell them to get fucked? Check the fucking Torah my friends…that shit’s allowed.
So yeah. I wish I was religious. Because I’d just leave my fucking baby at home and go get drunk tonight and blame it all on god.
Happy Wednesday.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tattooed fingers, tattooed toes.
Man, I tried to put that baby of mine down without swaddling him, and let me tell you, it’s difficult. Granted, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing as a parent, but I’m pretty sure that noise in the background is him screaming. Hmmm…
I went to band practice yesterday for the first time in ages. I haven’t even touched my bass since January. It was great. We played really well and worked on some new stuff. One song was good, one was not so good. Hey, though, fifty percent is an almost unheard of percentage if you’re say, a professional baseball player and you’re talking about hitting. Hmmm…not the best analogy, Kelly. Moving on. It was great to reclaim a little bit of my identity as a guy in a band. For this entire year, I’ve really been a dad and a bartender. Of course, that’s cool too. I don’t mind being a dad and a bartender. I actually LOVE being a dad and being a bartender has its moments, good and bad, so that evens out to okay. I had kind of forgotten that I also love being a guy in a band though, especially because, as I was reminded yesterday, we’ve got some songs that I really, really love to play. Good times. I wrote a song this morning that I’m really happy with. Whatever, who cares? Let’s talk tattoos.
Okay, I’ve got a few visible tattoos. Enough that strangers feel justified in coming up to me, talking to me about them, touching me, showing me their tattoos, etc. Here’s a general little rule of thumb: The guy/girl with all the tattoos that you’re approaching at the 7-11, on the train, in the bar…they don’t want to talk to you about tattoos. It’s true. No one cares about your dumb personal journey through the realm of deciding how many tattoos you’re going to get. Here’s something people actually say to me:
“I want to get a tattoo, but I just can’t figure out what to get.”
Wow. That’s potentially the dumbest waste of a sentence in the history of language. So, essentially, you’re telling me about some vague ethereal notion you have about somehow altering your appearance, but you don’t know how you’re exactly going about it? Well, stranger, I don’t care about your appearance, first of all. Secondly, YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE AN IDEA. You’re telling me about NOTHING at all. You’ve taken a statement that’s stupid and pointless (I’m going to get a tattoo) and made it even more stupid and pointless. This is like saying, “I’d like to invent something, but I just can’t think of anything to invent.” It’s actually impressive, when you think about it. It makes shit like “it is what it is” seem like a fucking passage out of the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Here’s a little info regarding tattoos:
No cartoon characters- Yeah, Snoopy’s awesome. He’s gonna look bad on your arm. I promise. You know those guys with Taz, Mickey Mouse, Calvin (ahem), Dagwood? Those tattoos all look crappy, yours will too. Trust me.
No alien type shit- This should seriously be a general rule of fashion. No aliens from the mind of HR Gieger, no aliens from hippy tee shirts with the big green lightbulb heads. It’s a bad idea. I so promise that alien tattoos will repel pussy with the zeal and power of wearing panty hose over your face and carrying a jar of chloroform.
If you’re a chubby chick with severe bangs and big boobs and you’re covered with sailor tattoos, congratulations. You’re the Cracker Barrel of girls. There’s a million of you. Guys, no matter where you travel, there’s always one of these chicks to make you feel like you’re right back at home. Maybe this one doesn’t bartend, drink PBR and have an ex boyfriend with a shaved head and a goatee. She does? Weird.
Entertain the idea of getting super strange tattoos. A tattoo of a nautical star is dumb. But a tattoo of a nautical pie would be pretty righteous. A tattoo of, say, ghandi dressed up as Rocky Balboa would be neat. You get the idea. That shit is funny. Your tattoos, unless they’re you know, a memorial for a dead child or something, will cease to have any meaning to you almost instantly. So go wild.
No wizards.
Nah, I take that back. Wizards are cool.
Don’t ever EVER EVER EVER EVER wear some dumb sleeveless shirt or take off your shirt or unbutton your shirt just to show off some tattoo while you’re out just letting shit roar. It’s a pretty transparent move and it’s dorky. It’s so fucking dorky that it’s making me angry. Dorks.
Don’t get your face tattooed unless you’re A) not worried about ever getting any sort of job (so you’re either set for life or you’re comfortable living in a car) and B) ridiculously good looking. I have seen exactly two people who pull off face tattoos, and they’re both extremely handsome. Fucked up wastoids with almost no chance of living to get old, but very handsome.
Tattoos that match are the best ones. Tattoos that match that you and your friend do yourselves are even better. You can order a tattoo machine on line. I encourage all of you to get one and just go off.
If you’re a girl and you think your chest is a sort of a hidden place for a tattoo, or your legs for that matter, think again. That shit is out there. Go to the bar and check out the chubby chick with the bangs for an example of how prominent a chest tattoo is on a woman.
Finally, tattoos are stupid. Ami James and Kat Von D and all that shit on TV have sort of convinced the world that tattoos are really important and vital to asserting social independence and all that, but think about it. If that shit’s the subject of TV shows on fucking TLC, it’s hardly the anti establishment, iconoclastic statement that it used to be, huh? Well, unless you get Taz in a USA speedo. That’s off the fucking chain.
I went to band practice yesterday for the first time in ages. I haven’t even touched my bass since January. It was great. We played really well and worked on some new stuff. One song was good, one was not so good. Hey, though, fifty percent is an almost unheard of percentage if you’re say, a professional baseball player and you’re talking about hitting. Hmmm…not the best analogy, Kelly. Moving on. It was great to reclaim a little bit of my identity as a guy in a band. For this entire year, I’ve really been a dad and a bartender. Of course, that’s cool too. I don’t mind being a dad and a bartender. I actually LOVE being a dad and being a bartender has its moments, good and bad, so that evens out to okay. I had kind of forgotten that I also love being a guy in a band though, especially because, as I was reminded yesterday, we’ve got some songs that I really, really love to play. Good times. I wrote a song this morning that I’m really happy with. Whatever, who cares? Let’s talk tattoos.
Okay, I’ve got a few visible tattoos. Enough that strangers feel justified in coming up to me, talking to me about them, touching me, showing me their tattoos, etc. Here’s a general little rule of thumb: The guy/girl with all the tattoos that you’re approaching at the 7-11, on the train, in the bar…they don’t want to talk to you about tattoos. It’s true. No one cares about your dumb personal journey through the realm of deciding how many tattoos you’re going to get. Here’s something people actually say to me:
“I want to get a tattoo, but I just can’t figure out what to get.”
Wow. That’s potentially the dumbest waste of a sentence in the history of language. So, essentially, you’re telling me about some vague ethereal notion you have about somehow altering your appearance, but you don’t know how you’re exactly going about it? Well, stranger, I don’t care about your appearance, first of all. Secondly, YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE AN IDEA. You’re telling me about NOTHING at all. You’ve taken a statement that’s stupid and pointless (I’m going to get a tattoo) and made it even more stupid and pointless. This is like saying, “I’d like to invent something, but I just can’t think of anything to invent.” It’s actually impressive, when you think about it. It makes shit like “it is what it is” seem like a fucking passage out of the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
Here’s a little info regarding tattoos:
No cartoon characters- Yeah, Snoopy’s awesome. He’s gonna look bad on your arm. I promise. You know those guys with Taz, Mickey Mouse, Calvin (ahem), Dagwood? Those tattoos all look crappy, yours will too. Trust me.
No alien type shit- This should seriously be a general rule of fashion. No aliens from the mind of HR Gieger, no aliens from hippy tee shirts with the big green lightbulb heads. It’s a bad idea. I so promise that alien tattoos will repel pussy with the zeal and power of wearing panty hose over your face and carrying a jar of chloroform.
If you’re a chubby chick with severe bangs and big boobs and you’re covered with sailor tattoos, congratulations. You’re the Cracker Barrel of girls. There’s a million of you. Guys, no matter where you travel, there’s always one of these chicks to make you feel like you’re right back at home. Maybe this one doesn’t bartend, drink PBR and have an ex boyfriend with a shaved head and a goatee. She does? Weird.
Entertain the idea of getting super strange tattoos. A tattoo of a nautical star is dumb. But a tattoo of a nautical pie would be pretty righteous. A tattoo of, say, ghandi dressed up as Rocky Balboa would be neat. You get the idea. That shit is funny. Your tattoos, unless they’re you know, a memorial for a dead child or something, will cease to have any meaning to you almost instantly. So go wild.
No wizards.
Nah, I take that back. Wizards are cool.
Don’t ever EVER EVER EVER EVER wear some dumb sleeveless shirt or take off your shirt or unbutton your shirt just to show off some tattoo while you’re out just letting shit roar. It’s a pretty transparent move and it’s dorky. It’s so fucking dorky that it’s making me angry. Dorks.
Don’t get your face tattooed unless you’re A) not worried about ever getting any sort of job (so you’re either set for life or you’re comfortable living in a car) and B) ridiculously good looking. I have seen exactly two people who pull off face tattoos, and they’re both extremely handsome. Fucked up wastoids with almost no chance of living to get old, but very handsome.
Tattoos that match are the best ones. Tattoos that match that you and your friend do yourselves are even better. You can order a tattoo machine on line. I encourage all of you to get one and just go off.
If you’re a girl and you think your chest is a sort of a hidden place for a tattoo, or your legs for that matter, think again. That shit is out there. Go to the bar and check out the chubby chick with the bangs for an example of how prominent a chest tattoo is on a woman.
Finally, tattoos are stupid. Ami James and Kat Von D and all that shit on TV have sort of convinced the world that tattoos are really important and vital to asserting social independence and all that, but think about it. If that shit’s the subject of TV shows on fucking TLC, it’s hardly the anti establishment, iconoclastic statement that it used to be, huh? Well, unless you get Taz in a USA speedo. That’s off the fucking chain.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Ah, God...he is the biggest bitch of zem all
So, it’s come to my attention that the evangelicals in this world believe that judgment day is, well, nigh, I guess…so that’s why they’re into doing shit like pushing for drilling in Alaska and killing all the animals and making sure all the babies get born, so you know, they can get baptized and therefore get into heaven (where, presumably, they’ll no longer be retarded). I thought they were wasteful, selfish, self important pricks, but it turns out that they’re actually green…like, super, duper, stuff-it-in-your-ass-Gore green. I mean, Jesus left all this yummy wolf meat running around, a bunch of oil and a whole ton of brown people to kill and laugh at the backwards ways of. If we don’t clean it up now, well, the rapture’s just gonna come and it’s all gonna be tossed out with the bathwater like the big mess that it is. That’s great. When Jesus gets back here, I’m sure he’s not gonna be happy unless we’ve strip mined everything, clear cut everything, neatly eliminated all the ‘endangered species’ and heated up the planet to a suitable temp. It’s just like when I close down the bar, the last thing I do is melt all the leftover ice. Nice work God lovers! The holy trinity is calling last call right now, and you guys are turning up the shitty music and bringing in the shrill assholes that just bark orders at the rest of us. Thank god. I’m only just beginning to understand that it’s all out of love! You just want to get us out of here and on the spaceships to heaven or whatever. Again, thank God.
Funny fact. Did you guys know jesus was actually a heathen? Well, he was a jew, which is like a rich heathen, as per my understanding of how things work. He was also a zombie. Well, he died and then his corpse was reanimated…that’s pretty much the definition of a zombie, right? Also, he was kind of a hippy with a bit of an authority problem (kind of like a young Bristol Palin, or Jenna Bush), and I’m pretty sure this one time, he performed abortions for a whole congregation with only four coat hangers. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I read the bible.
I’m also finally picking up on that whole thing with the priests fucking the little boys…no abortions to worry about. In fact, that’s pretty much an ‘everyone wins’ sort of solution. Nice. See, Catholic fundamentalists and Protestant fundamentalists don’t disagree on everything.
I guess I had this modern take on religion wrong. See, I thought that fundamentalism, when applied to anything, be it Christianity, Islam, dog fucking, was dangerous and led to reprehensible behavior that can be easily explained away and justified by pointing to a list of made up rules…Turns out, they’re all just looking out for the rest of us.
We owe the fundamentalists in this world a debt of gratitude for ushering in the end of all things with such aplomb and zealous grace. So, thanks Islam, thanks Christians, thanks Zionists! As a token of gratitude I’m going to follow in the footsteps of Jesus and sort of march to the beat of my own drummer this weekend…You know, get an epidural, and abortion, some whiskey, a little meth, some porn and a big old dick to suck before this rapture thing goes down. Did I mention that Jesus was gay? Oh yeah, big time. It’s right there in the bible. He’s like, super gay. Like Larry Craig, Ted Haggard gay.
Funny fact. Did you guys know jesus was actually a heathen? Well, he was a jew, which is like a rich heathen, as per my understanding of how things work. He was also a zombie. Well, he died and then his corpse was reanimated…that’s pretty much the definition of a zombie, right? Also, he was kind of a hippy with a bit of an authority problem (kind of like a young Bristol Palin, or Jenna Bush), and I’m pretty sure this one time, he performed abortions for a whole congregation with only four coat hangers. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I read the bible.
I’m also finally picking up on that whole thing with the priests fucking the little boys…no abortions to worry about. In fact, that’s pretty much an ‘everyone wins’ sort of solution. Nice. See, Catholic fundamentalists and Protestant fundamentalists don’t disagree on everything.
I guess I had this modern take on religion wrong. See, I thought that fundamentalism, when applied to anything, be it Christianity, Islam, dog fucking, was dangerous and led to reprehensible behavior that can be easily explained away and justified by pointing to a list of made up rules…Turns out, they’re all just looking out for the rest of us.
We owe the fundamentalists in this world a debt of gratitude for ushering in the end of all things with such aplomb and zealous grace. So, thanks Islam, thanks Christians, thanks Zionists! As a token of gratitude I’m going to follow in the footsteps of Jesus and sort of march to the beat of my own drummer this weekend…You know, get an epidural, and abortion, some whiskey, a little meth, some porn and a big old dick to suck before this rapture thing goes down. Did I mention that Jesus was gay? Oh yeah, big time. It’s right there in the bible. He’s like, super gay. Like Larry Craig, Ted Haggard gay.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
We'll put a boot in your ass...it's the American Way (oh jesus...is this really where I live?)
Tonight I’m doing an interview on the radio…mostly about you know, grooming habits, politics, my family, this blog, which of the nudes that you guys sent in is my favorite (thanks Jim from Tuscaloosa!) and shit like that, but we MAY also touch on the rock show that my band is playing at the House of Blues in Chicago on October tenth. It should be exciting stuff, and as such, I’m willing to trek down to Q101 after work and bullshit with some dude about my influences and crap like that. Wooohoo! So yeah, I don’t think it’s gonna be broadcast live or anything, and I can pretty much guarantee it’s not gonna be interesting, so I dunno. I guess there’s no point to this bit of trifling information. Sigh.
Ah, September the eleventh…for some reason, this date always sticks out in my mind. Maybe it’s just that my birthday was a few days ago, and now the cobwebs have cleared and I’m on to my new year of life. Yeah, I think that’s it. “September eleventh: Never forget that you’re a year older”. Hmm…that sounds about right, if maybe a bit wordy.
If you were gonna lose a body part, what would it be? Finger, toe, ear? It’s hard to say really. I think I’d have to go with a ball. It seems like people get rid of one of those all the time and it just kind of fills in with scar tissue. Didn’t someone say that about the Olsen twins? They’re like Tom Green’s balls-They both look the same but one is empty inside. I think that’s funny, I guess because I don’t like any of the people involved. Whatever, sounds like Mary-Kate is fun to party with, at least. Heyo!
My class went okay last night, although the skit I ended up writing involved a tranny and two chickenheads (go to some sort of urban dictionary or something) and a husband and wife all in bed together rather than the lesbian, martian old man etc combo I conceptualized yesterday. It turned out pretty sublime, I think.
I really don’t have much of an agenda today. I gots to work soon, and I was hoping I could just start writing and I’d think of a good list or maybe someone would need some advice or something like that, but alas, I got nothing. This sucks. This has got to be the worst September eleventh in history.
5 Things I wish I didn’t like, but kind of do:
-Or-
5 Things I don’t like, except for on some rare occasions:
Mayo- It’s gross. I don’t want to even think about mayonnaise. When I see someone eating a sandwich or something and all that mayo is sliding down the back of their hand by their pinky, I want to barf. But man, it goes from disgusting to necessary pretty quick. Is that a rolled up newspaper full of Belgian fries? Better have the mayo, yo. Same with certain sandwiches. I actually tend to avoid these foods, because I can’t really bear the thought of needing mayo on food…but you can’t deny that shit sometimes. Did you know that they use mayonnaise in lots of Mexican dips, including some guacamole? That’s just revolting.
Rock of Love- I don’t know, man. I can’t explain what the appeal of watching strippers barfing and hurling liquor bottles at each other is…oh wait, it’s awesome. I just wish it wasn’t such a sign of the apocalypse. Also, it’s good to watch that show because (listen up guys) every time Bret Michaels wears a new piece of clothing on the air, he officially makes that piece of clothing absolutely unacceptable for any other self respecting male to ever wear again. So burn your Ed Hardy shirts and True Religions. They’ve been Michaelsized.
Perez Hilton’s website- So dumb…It’s kind of like if mayonnaise and Bret Michaels had a baby it would be this tubby pop culture disgusto-tron 9000 and his website dedicated to doodling jizz on people’s chins, but fuck me if I can stop. I don’t even know what Gossip Girl is, but I can name the fucking stars of that shit. Fuck!
Strip clubs- Throw your stones. There are naked ladies in there, and beer. I don’t know why this is even on this list, because I LOVE those two things…but it is. Something about putting the two together just kind of makes you seem like one of those guys, you know? Stupid puritanical national identity. So, I like them, but I don’t really go. Plus, the strip club is a bit like in n out burger in that we don’t really have them in Chicago, so I’m a little deprived anyway. Well, we’ve got places where the girls wear paint over their breasts, which is just kind of stupid looking, and places that have nude girls but don’t serve beer, which is creeeeeeepy. I like to at least pretend I’m there for the beer. The next option is driving to Indiana or something, which I’m just not going to do for the sole purpose of going to the titty bar, you know?
Those fucking hats that everyone is wearing now- I know that every douche in Williamsburg and in Echo Park and everywhere in between insists that they were wearing the brimmed, fedora style hat before it got all cool, but fuck man…I used to love those things. Now, I look like a kid rock fan impersonating brad pitt or something. It’s just embarrassing. I also used to collect mesh ‘trucker style’ hats when I was a kid. I have bags and bags of them that my mom would bring me from as long ago as I can remember. Suddenly, Ashton Kutcher shows up and my twenty five year collection of hats in reduced to “Hey, you like Punk’d?” No. I WAS punk’d. Fucking Kelso.
Okay, it’s off to work I go. Stupid work. Have a rocking Thursday, and let’s make this one of those September eleventh’s to remember for a change, right?
Ah, September the eleventh…for some reason, this date always sticks out in my mind. Maybe it’s just that my birthday was a few days ago, and now the cobwebs have cleared and I’m on to my new year of life. Yeah, I think that’s it. “September eleventh: Never forget that you’re a year older”. Hmm…that sounds about right, if maybe a bit wordy.
If you were gonna lose a body part, what would it be? Finger, toe, ear? It’s hard to say really. I think I’d have to go with a ball. It seems like people get rid of one of those all the time and it just kind of fills in with scar tissue. Didn’t someone say that about the Olsen twins? They’re like Tom Green’s balls-They both look the same but one is empty inside. I think that’s funny, I guess because I don’t like any of the people involved. Whatever, sounds like Mary-Kate is fun to party with, at least. Heyo!
My class went okay last night, although the skit I ended up writing involved a tranny and two chickenheads (go to some sort of urban dictionary or something) and a husband and wife all in bed together rather than the lesbian, martian old man etc combo I conceptualized yesterday. It turned out pretty sublime, I think.
I really don’t have much of an agenda today. I gots to work soon, and I was hoping I could just start writing and I’d think of a good list or maybe someone would need some advice or something like that, but alas, I got nothing. This sucks. This has got to be the worst September eleventh in history.
5 Things I wish I didn’t like, but kind of do:
-Or-
5 Things I don’t like, except for on some rare occasions:
Mayo- It’s gross. I don’t want to even think about mayonnaise. When I see someone eating a sandwich or something and all that mayo is sliding down the back of their hand by their pinky, I want to barf. But man, it goes from disgusting to necessary pretty quick. Is that a rolled up newspaper full of Belgian fries? Better have the mayo, yo. Same with certain sandwiches. I actually tend to avoid these foods, because I can’t really bear the thought of needing mayo on food…but you can’t deny that shit sometimes. Did you know that they use mayonnaise in lots of Mexican dips, including some guacamole? That’s just revolting.
Rock of Love- I don’t know, man. I can’t explain what the appeal of watching strippers barfing and hurling liquor bottles at each other is…oh wait, it’s awesome. I just wish it wasn’t such a sign of the apocalypse. Also, it’s good to watch that show because (listen up guys) every time Bret Michaels wears a new piece of clothing on the air, he officially makes that piece of clothing absolutely unacceptable for any other self respecting male to ever wear again. So burn your Ed Hardy shirts and True Religions. They’ve been Michaelsized.
Perez Hilton’s website- So dumb…It’s kind of like if mayonnaise and Bret Michaels had a baby it would be this tubby pop culture disgusto-tron 9000 and his website dedicated to doodling jizz on people’s chins, but fuck me if I can stop. I don’t even know what Gossip Girl is, but I can name the fucking stars of that shit. Fuck!
Strip clubs- Throw your stones. There are naked ladies in there, and beer. I don’t know why this is even on this list, because I LOVE those two things…but it is. Something about putting the two together just kind of makes you seem like one of those guys, you know? Stupid puritanical national identity. So, I like them, but I don’t really go. Plus, the strip club is a bit like in n out burger in that we don’t really have them in Chicago, so I’m a little deprived anyway. Well, we’ve got places where the girls wear paint over their breasts, which is just kind of stupid looking, and places that have nude girls but don’t serve beer, which is creeeeeeepy. I like to at least pretend I’m there for the beer. The next option is driving to Indiana or something, which I’m just not going to do for the sole purpose of going to the titty bar, you know?
Those fucking hats that everyone is wearing now- I know that every douche in Williamsburg and in Echo Park and everywhere in between insists that they were wearing the brimmed, fedora style hat before it got all cool, but fuck man…I used to love those things. Now, I look like a kid rock fan impersonating brad pitt or something. It’s just embarrassing. I also used to collect mesh ‘trucker style’ hats when I was a kid. I have bags and bags of them that my mom would bring me from as long ago as I can remember. Suddenly, Ashton Kutcher shows up and my twenty five year collection of hats in reduced to “Hey, you like Punk’d?” No. I WAS punk’d. Fucking Kelso.
Okay, it’s off to work I go. Stupid work. Have a rocking Thursday, and let’s make this one of those September eleventh’s to remember for a change, right?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Hello, my name is Chris Treborn
I have my writing class tonight, and I have to write some sort of skit with six characters. That’s gonna be a rough one. I was going to start it last night, but instead, I sat on the couch and watched Fistful of Quarters, which, for the uninitiated, is a great movie about what happens in a universe where no women dare tread. It’s a documentary, and it’s pretty damn awesome. Okay, that’s that.
My boy is super content in his swing right now, which is pretty cool, because usually when I write this, he’s freaking the fuck out in his bouncy seat. I’m having some coffee. Is this becoming a dull blog about what’s actually going on in my life? Oh dear. Let’s see…what’s in the news today….pizza pie is pretty hot these days….hmmm.
I woke up this morning and I was positive that I had to go to work and I was dreading the shit out of it, but nope. Not until tomorrow. Tomorrow is also the day that my bands have to start practicing, because we’re playing some shows. I’ve been writing new songs with the intention of doing a seven inch series, which is a good way, I think, to get some output going without having to live in a studio or a van.
Okay, that was a loooong pause there, as I spoke way too soon. The boy began to wail, so I had to dance him around and fly him (superman style) around the house.
It’s now way later and I’ve been thinking about some things. Namely:
If I was going to be an outlaw biker, I think I’d be one of those black dudes with the Kaiser Wilhelm type WWI single spike helmet and a crazy leather jacket with metal shit all over it. To me, those are the best outlaw bikers.
If I was going to be a homosexual, I’d probably want to be one of those guys who is just always really well put together and everyone kind of goes, “Is that guy gay, or just stylish?” Of course, the response would have to be “Oh, Brendan? He’s SUPER gay,” because repping the gayness is important too. These are my favorite gay guys. I like the bears and the leather daddies too, but they kind of freak me out. Also, the super swishy dudes are a little much, so yeah, I’m going with ‘dude in the nice jacket and matching scarf over there.’
If I was going to be an unattractive girl, I think I’d wear glasses and work in a coffee shop, thereby forcing the nerdy dudes to come in and lust after me in a way that only they can. I’d play cool music and maybe make my own clothes. I’d have either a cool station wagon or some sort of irreverent bicycle.
If I was going to be an attractive girl, I’d like to be super country, and always wearing tight things, but eating ribs and drinking Jim Beam and stuff. I’d also have to be pretty smart and together, because otherwise, I’d be the super country, tight shirt wearing, rib eating, Jim Beam drinking chick with all the friends at the abortion clinic who’s getting banged by that creepy lurker over in the corner of the room by the pool table.
If I was a giant black dude (non outlaw biker category) I’d want to be into cooking. I saw this thing on ESPN where these NFL dudes were chefing it up, and it was a good look. I dunno. Is that racist? Hmmm.
If I was a superhero, I’d want to be superman. Not picking superman is stupid. He can fly and his only weakness is a rock from a makebelieve planet. He can shoot shit with his eyes. I know Batman seems cooler, but he’s just a rich guy with a drinking problem and a metal suit,,, He’s essentially a more mobile Mick Mars.
If I was a lesbian, I’d have that fauxhawk with pixie sideburns thing going on for sure. I’d probably also have some questionable tattoos…just, you know, because they all do. Wait…I already have some questionable tattoos. Halfway there.
If I was super duper fat, I’d get tattoos of food all over myself. Pizza, Ice Cream Cones, Jars of peanut butter, whatever. This serves two purposes. Firstly, it would show that I was at ease in my own skin (which is the only quality in men that women find attractive, for the billionth time) and it would also be a great way for me to show my love for some of my favorite things. “Yo! You like Reddi Whip too? I got a can of it tattooed on my shoulderblade, dog!”
If I was old, I’d wear a fedora and have a mustache. I’d always dress with gloves and shit and I’d wake up at four thirty and be napping by five. I’d probably use a cane and always tip my hat to every lady I saw. While sitting at the bar, I’d tell incredibly offensive dirty jokes.
If I was a martian, I’d want to look exactly like an earthling, but you know, I’d have a huge wang and I’d get drunk by drinking orange juice or something. Also, I’d just know a lot of stuff somehow. Like English, for example. Also, I would be completely clueless about social mores, making it a real hoot for my friends to deal with me at parties.
If I was a washed up child actor, I’d be in a bad band and we’d always go on Howard Stern and talk about my ‘demons’. We’d play live, but we’d suck. My wife would have huge fake tits, a horrible tan and some of the worst skin ever seen anywhere.
If I was a bum I’d have to spread a way-out message about secret agents from countries that no longer exist (like maybe the Ottoman Empire, or Yugoslavia) and I’d have a crazy beard and wild eyes. I’d always wear hilarious Kenny Chesney shirts and stuff and I’d smoke and then eat the butts. I’d say things like “let me get that sandwich”. Or maybe I’d just play in a band and take care of my kid while my wife works…either way.
Hmm…alternate realities are funny things. I think, honestly that no matter what I was (save maybe the martian), I’d probably actually be a whole lot like I am now, just with a slightly different point of view (like I’d love cocks, or I’d be sick of white guys always clowning around me like idiots, or I’d really hate Lex Luthor). I don’t know. It’s Wednesday, which is my Sunday. I need to go write a skit about six people. Outlaw biker, Superman, Lesbian, bum, old guy and washed up child actor. This is really shaping up nicely.
Bye.
My boy is super content in his swing right now, which is pretty cool, because usually when I write this, he’s freaking the fuck out in his bouncy seat. I’m having some coffee. Is this becoming a dull blog about what’s actually going on in my life? Oh dear. Let’s see…what’s in the news today….pizza pie is pretty hot these days….hmmm.
I woke up this morning and I was positive that I had to go to work and I was dreading the shit out of it, but nope. Not until tomorrow. Tomorrow is also the day that my bands have to start practicing, because we’re playing some shows. I’ve been writing new songs with the intention of doing a seven inch series, which is a good way, I think, to get some output going without having to live in a studio or a van.
Okay, that was a loooong pause there, as I spoke way too soon. The boy began to wail, so I had to dance him around and fly him (superman style) around the house.
It’s now way later and I’ve been thinking about some things. Namely:
If I was going to be an outlaw biker, I think I’d be one of those black dudes with the Kaiser Wilhelm type WWI single spike helmet and a crazy leather jacket with metal shit all over it. To me, those are the best outlaw bikers.
If I was going to be a homosexual, I’d probably want to be one of those guys who is just always really well put together and everyone kind of goes, “Is that guy gay, or just stylish?” Of course, the response would have to be “Oh, Brendan? He’s SUPER gay,” because repping the gayness is important too. These are my favorite gay guys. I like the bears and the leather daddies too, but they kind of freak me out. Also, the super swishy dudes are a little much, so yeah, I’m going with ‘dude in the nice jacket and matching scarf over there.’
If I was going to be an unattractive girl, I think I’d wear glasses and work in a coffee shop, thereby forcing the nerdy dudes to come in and lust after me in a way that only they can. I’d play cool music and maybe make my own clothes. I’d have either a cool station wagon or some sort of irreverent bicycle.
If I was going to be an attractive girl, I’d like to be super country, and always wearing tight things, but eating ribs and drinking Jim Beam and stuff. I’d also have to be pretty smart and together, because otherwise, I’d be the super country, tight shirt wearing, rib eating, Jim Beam drinking chick with all the friends at the abortion clinic who’s getting banged by that creepy lurker over in the corner of the room by the pool table.
If I was a giant black dude (non outlaw biker category) I’d want to be into cooking. I saw this thing on ESPN where these NFL dudes were chefing it up, and it was a good look. I dunno. Is that racist? Hmmm.
If I was a superhero, I’d want to be superman. Not picking superman is stupid. He can fly and his only weakness is a rock from a makebelieve planet. He can shoot shit with his eyes. I know Batman seems cooler, but he’s just a rich guy with a drinking problem and a metal suit,,, He’s essentially a more mobile Mick Mars.
If I was a lesbian, I’d have that fauxhawk with pixie sideburns thing going on for sure. I’d probably also have some questionable tattoos…just, you know, because they all do. Wait…I already have some questionable tattoos. Halfway there.
If I was super duper fat, I’d get tattoos of food all over myself. Pizza, Ice Cream Cones, Jars of peanut butter, whatever. This serves two purposes. Firstly, it would show that I was at ease in my own skin (which is the only quality in men that women find attractive, for the billionth time) and it would also be a great way for me to show my love for some of my favorite things. “Yo! You like Reddi Whip too? I got a can of it tattooed on my shoulderblade, dog!”
If I was old, I’d wear a fedora and have a mustache. I’d always dress with gloves and shit and I’d wake up at four thirty and be napping by five. I’d probably use a cane and always tip my hat to every lady I saw. While sitting at the bar, I’d tell incredibly offensive dirty jokes.
If I was a martian, I’d want to look exactly like an earthling, but you know, I’d have a huge wang and I’d get drunk by drinking orange juice or something. Also, I’d just know a lot of stuff somehow. Like English, for example. Also, I would be completely clueless about social mores, making it a real hoot for my friends to deal with me at parties.
If I was a washed up child actor, I’d be in a bad band and we’d always go on Howard Stern and talk about my ‘demons’. We’d play live, but we’d suck. My wife would have huge fake tits, a horrible tan and some of the worst skin ever seen anywhere.
If I was a bum I’d have to spread a way-out message about secret agents from countries that no longer exist (like maybe the Ottoman Empire, or Yugoslavia) and I’d have a crazy beard and wild eyes. I’d always wear hilarious Kenny Chesney shirts and stuff and I’d smoke and then eat the butts. I’d say things like “let me get that sandwich”. Or maybe I’d just play in a band and take care of my kid while my wife works…either way.
Hmm…alternate realities are funny things. I think, honestly that no matter what I was (save maybe the martian), I’d probably actually be a whole lot like I am now, just with a slightly different point of view (like I’d love cocks, or I’d be sick of white guys always clowning around me like idiots, or I’d really hate Lex Luthor). I don’t know. It’s Wednesday, which is my Sunday. I need to go write a skit about six people. Outlaw biker, Superman, Lesbian, bum, old guy and washed up child actor. This is really shaping up nicely.
Bye.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
They call me Snotty.
The day after your birthday is always kind of crappy, right? You’re a little older, and you’re kind of getting used to the idea of everyone treating you a little bit special, but guess what? It’s not your time anymore, pal. There are billions of birthday boys and girls out there and we’ve gotta move on. Enjoy your hangover and your new proximity to death. Whee!
I went to Kuma’s Corner for lunch yesterday. What’s Kuma’s? Well, it’s only one of the places you absolutely should go when you’re in Chicago.
Kuma’s Corner-
Without having any of the details, I’m gonna just guess that this place was started by a guy who loves heavy metal, microbrews and cheeseburgers because, well, it’s a cheeseburger restaurant where every burger is named after a different metal band (I had the Insect Warfare yesterday…but I often get the Clutch), they blast metal and they have all sorts of dumb ‘specialty beers’. Fear not, for they also have PBR. It’s expensive and you’ll feel like shit for a long time after you eat one of their burgers (which have serious variety. What do you like on your burger? Eggs? Goat Cheese and green chili? Pineapple? Whatever, they do it there), but that moment you’re eating the burger, you’re kind of drooling meat and saying things like, ‘you know, Chris, this probably IS the best burger I’ve ever had.’ The waitresses are all cute chubby Midwestern girls who have lots of tattoos and look like they probably eat too many delicious cheeseburgers. It’s kind of a douchefest in there, honestly, because it’s where the elite hipster dildos and the bohemian graphic designer soccer dads go to agree on something and, you know, the employees know that the place is awesome, and they kind of act elite for some reason (um, dude, I don’t care how cool your restaurant is, you’re still a busboy, okay?), but that’s all easily overlooked, cuz, man, that burger is delish.
Yeah, so I went there yesterday. I got sick. I blame it on a late night, early morning, latent hangover, giant burger, trip to Costco, internet pornography, my parents, the state of America’s public schools, religion (God specifically), sexual taboos, beet famine, shit fetishists, bowlers, grandma’s day and jalapeno cheetos.
Regardless, I’m not here to cast stones. I feel okay today, and me and the boy are going to hit the town as soon as he wakes up. Maybe we’ll go to the zoo, or maybe to a bar. Who can say at this point? The world is our oyster.
I think that one thing I can tell you for sure is that I’m tired, and I didn’t get nearly enough nudes from you guys! Come on, I know you’re proud of that neatly trimmed nutsack or almost symmetrical set of tits! This is your big chance. I’m actually too much of a luddite to even know how to post pictures on this internet thingy, so whatever…I’m not turning this into a porn site any time soon, I guess.
Blogs are boring, huh? I woke up, ate lunch, hated my job, missed my dead puppy, played some scrabble and made a manwich. Whoopee! Someday I’m going to do something exciting, and you people will all sit there in your cubes, just eating lean cuisines and reading about my endless adventures and you’ll just be like “man, I wish I was doing that shit!” but today, not so much. I’m just kind of kicking it, which, technically is cooler than being at work, so yeah, nevermind. Start your jealous little engines. I’m in my underwear right now! Nah, that’s not even true. What’s actually true? I’m going to have a sparks soon! I hear they’re trying to outlaw sparks, which is just sad…What do they mean it’s bad for you? Spoken like a true old world pussy if you ask me. We need to stock up. In a world where sparks is illegal, only outlaws will drink sparks.
Beliedat.
I went to Kuma’s Corner for lunch yesterday. What’s Kuma’s? Well, it’s only one of the places you absolutely should go when you’re in Chicago.
Kuma’s Corner-
Without having any of the details, I’m gonna just guess that this place was started by a guy who loves heavy metal, microbrews and cheeseburgers because, well, it’s a cheeseburger restaurant where every burger is named after a different metal band (I had the Insect Warfare yesterday…but I often get the Clutch), they blast metal and they have all sorts of dumb ‘specialty beers’. Fear not, for they also have PBR. It’s expensive and you’ll feel like shit for a long time after you eat one of their burgers (which have serious variety. What do you like on your burger? Eggs? Goat Cheese and green chili? Pineapple? Whatever, they do it there), but that moment you’re eating the burger, you’re kind of drooling meat and saying things like, ‘you know, Chris, this probably IS the best burger I’ve ever had.’ The waitresses are all cute chubby Midwestern girls who have lots of tattoos and look like they probably eat too many delicious cheeseburgers. It’s kind of a douchefest in there, honestly, because it’s where the elite hipster dildos and the bohemian graphic designer soccer dads go to agree on something and, you know, the employees know that the place is awesome, and they kind of act elite for some reason (um, dude, I don’t care how cool your restaurant is, you’re still a busboy, okay?), but that’s all easily overlooked, cuz, man, that burger is delish.
Yeah, so I went there yesterday. I got sick. I blame it on a late night, early morning, latent hangover, giant burger, trip to Costco, internet pornography, my parents, the state of America’s public schools, religion (God specifically), sexual taboos, beet famine, shit fetishists, bowlers, grandma’s day and jalapeno cheetos.
Regardless, I’m not here to cast stones. I feel okay today, and me and the boy are going to hit the town as soon as he wakes up. Maybe we’ll go to the zoo, or maybe to a bar. Who can say at this point? The world is our oyster.
I think that one thing I can tell you for sure is that I’m tired, and I didn’t get nearly enough nudes from you guys! Come on, I know you’re proud of that neatly trimmed nutsack or almost symmetrical set of tits! This is your big chance. I’m actually too much of a luddite to even know how to post pictures on this internet thingy, so whatever…I’m not turning this into a porn site any time soon, I guess.
Blogs are boring, huh? I woke up, ate lunch, hated my job, missed my dead puppy, played some scrabble and made a manwich. Whoopee! Someday I’m going to do something exciting, and you people will all sit there in your cubes, just eating lean cuisines and reading about my endless adventures and you’ll just be like “man, I wish I was doing that shit!” but today, not so much. I’m just kind of kicking it, which, technically is cooler than being at work, so yeah, nevermind. Start your jealous little engines. I’m in my underwear right now! Nah, that’s not even true. What’s actually true? I’m going to have a sparks soon! I hear they’re trying to outlaw sparks, which is just sad…What do they mean it’s bad for you? Spoken like a true old world pussy if you ask me. We need to stock up. In a world where sparks is illegal, only outlaws will drink sparks.
Beliedat.
Monday, September 8, 2008
You say it's your birthday?
It’s my birthday. The garbage truck shook all the cars on my block, setting off a million alarms and woke my ass up at ten. My baby is at daycare, and I was supposed to sleep in as late as possible today. What a crock of bullshit. It’s one of those things, though. You can’t really get mad at the garbage man for waking you up…he’s, after all, hauling your old bloody Kleenexes and shit away, and has been since about 4 in the morning. I doubt he’s gonna be too sympathetic to my fucking woes. Okay, I don’t feel terrific. I’m tired. I’m going to have to nap soon, but I have to go to Costco first. Anyone ever been to this place? It’s THE go to for people who need a palate of toilet paper or two square feet of smoked salmon. I’m going for the formula and staying for the six pound bags of coffee.
My wife isn’t entirely convinced that all large stores are set up exclusively for women. I mean, obviously Target, Crate n Barrel, the Container Store, Pottery Barn, etc, are women stores. Look around next time you’re in there. It’s women with these predatory looks of excitement dragging around dead eyed men, without fail. Oh spare me! No, your boyfriend does NOT like target. He likes your vagina and so pretends to like Target as to keep his access more unfettered.
I would throw into this mix Home Depot. My wife insists that I’m just a pansy with no interest in home improvement, which is true. What she doesn’t understand is that that’s the male in me. It’s a farce on par with the fallacy of the liberal media that men are interested in home improvement. Ever see a bachelor’s house? MAYBE he has a dresser. Things like granite counter tops, recessed lighting, decorative sconces, dark hardwood, these are things like hair conditioner- Things that men don’t even really understand the appeal of but know that it makes women think you’re the kind of guy that they may someday want to blow. Sorry to ruin the illusion, but it’s true. Ladies, if your man really, truly likes sprucing shit up around the house, and he’s not just doing it to appease you, he’s gay. No question.
Tonight, I’m going to a shitty dive bar to hang out with my 2 besties. That’s all I want in the way of a celebration. I’m old.
I’m going to eat a large cheeseburger right now. It’s my birthday, man. I’ll do what I want. If you want to help me celebrate my birthday, please send naked photos of yourself to me. Dongs or clams, people. I don’t care. Thanks in advance, and if you’re sitting there being like ‘would he really like to see me naked?’ Of course! SPRING BREAK!
My wife isn’t entirely convinced that all large stores are set up exclusively for women. I mean, obviously Target, Crate n Barrel, the Container Store, Pottery Barn, etc, are women stores. Look around next time you’re in there. It’s women with these predatory looks of excitement dragging around dead eyed men, without fail. Oh spare me! No, your boyfriend does NOT like target. He likes your vagina and so pretends to like Target as to keep his access more unfettered.
I would throw into this mix Home Depot. My wife insists that I’m just a pansy with no interest in home improvement, which is true. What she doesn’t understand is that that’s the male in me. It’s a farce on par with the fallacy of the liberal media that men are interested in home improvement. Ever see a bachelor’s house? MAYBE he has a dresser. Things like granite counter tops, recessed lighting, decorative sconces, dark hardwood, these are things like hair conditioner- Things that men don’t even really understand the appeal of but know that it makes women think you’re the kind of guy that they may someday want to blow. Sorry to ruin the illusion, but it’s true. Ladies, if your man really, truly likes sprucing shit up around the house, and he’s not just doing it to appease you, he’s gay. No question.
Tonight, I’m going to a shitty dive bar to hang out with my 2 besties. That’s all I want in the way of a celebration. I’m old.
I’m going to eat a large cheeseburger right now. It’s my birthday, man. I’ll do what I want. If you want to help me celebrate my birthday, please send naked photos of yourself to me. Dongs or clams, people. I don’t care. Thanks in advance, and if you’re sitting there being like ‘would he really like to see me naked?’ Of course! SPRING BREAK!
Friday, September 5, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
I know that I must do what's right, sure as Kilamanjaro rises like Olympus above the Sarengetti
Hey there. It’s Thursday. As usual, I have to go to work, and as usual, I couldn’t be more excited. I’ve been thinking about this wacky election we’ve got coming up in our country, and of course, I can’t help but think of the Palin family. So, yeah, Mrs. Palin is a hardline moralist who’s against abortions, but also against sex education and in an unrelated story, she’s got a pregnant daughter who’s a seventeen year old boozehound (I think we talked about this before, right? Seventeen year olds + booze = pregnant teens/ all the Doritos in the house are gone, depending on how popular the kids are) and a retarded baby named Trig. That’s pretty fucked up. Trig. Can’t you already hear the kids on the playground making fun of his name? Oh, that’s right…they’ll already be too busy making fun of him for being retarded. Well, at least, if she already had the name picked out, she’s figured out a pretty great way to keep all the kids from making fun of it. The name, that is.
Okay, that’s just a little fun that I like to have with the misfortunes of others, and when I say others I mean people who are very actively trying to tell me what to do, which I don’t like so much. Just to be clear, I’ve got nothing against Trig, or Bristol. They’re just kids, and they’ve both got some serious struggles ahead of them. Kind of a bummer. BUT, in the service of community, I’d like to suggest a few things you, out there, can do that won’t lead to pregnancy, retarded or otherwise:
Butt fucking- All the pleasure of sex (for the guy) with none of the worry about pregnancy! Hey, sure you can spread disease this way, but come on! When’s the last time you read the sign over the sink in the bathroom? You can spread disease by not washing your hands after you pee. Trust me on this, if you’re unable to have sex, for fear of having a baby and upsetting your god, buttfucking is the next best thing.
Opiates- Ever take a handful of Oxycontins and try to get someone pregnant? Ever succeed? No man has. From Heroin to Codeine, nothing says “limp wiener” quite like an opiate. So go nuts kids! I’m also pretty sure that prescription drugs aren’t even immoral! IMPORTANT NOTE: If you’re a woman and you take opiates, you’ll probably still end up pregnant. I’m actually quite positive your chances go up, so watch out.
Domestic Violence- All the slapping, grunting and bad smells of sex with none of the chance that a vengeful stork will pop his head down your chimney in three quarters of a year. You’ve heard that pervert on Entourage talk about ‘hugging it out’? Well, I’m talking about ‘slugging it out’. NOTE: This is unacceptable if you’re just picking on someone smaller than you, but a full on back and forth slap off, well, there’s nothing immoral about that! Ask Jesus. It’s not like you’re masturbating.
Which leads me to…
Public Masturbation- So, you want the thrill of being risky but without the worry of a baby? Well, head down to the salon or the gym…anywhere where there are people basically stuck to a machine staring out a window, and just whip it out. This never stops being exciting and fun! Check out the face on that woman! Look at that fat guy trying to run out here and stop you! He’ll need to do a few more laps before he can catch you, right? Woo-hoo. See what I mean? Good times. Jesus doesn’t like this one, like we talked about before, but whatever…just go confess if you’re catholic. That’ll get you in good with the man upstairs for a few reasons. If you’re a protestant, hey, all you have to do is TALK about how bad that shit is. Your actions don’t matter! For example, if you just say things like “Being gay is a sin!”, that makes it okay for you to secretly be gay! Wear a shirt that says “My hands are for praying, not playing” or something like that, and you can whack off with impunity. At least, this is my understanding of evangelical protestant doctrine. But hey, what do I know? I’m a Zoroastrian. We have to beat off five times a day, to the east or we get eaten by hungry boars for eternity.
Well, that’s all the time I have today, everyone. I hope you guys have a great time staying pure in the eyes of god and party with these helpful tips.
Prost!
Okay, that’s just a little fun that I like to have with the misfortunes of others, and when I say others I mean people who are very actively trying to tell me what to do, which I don’t like so much. Just to be clear, I’ve got nothing against Trig, or Bristol. They’re just kids, and they’ve both got some serious struggles ahead of them. Kind of a bummer. BUT, in the service of community, I’d like to suggest a few things you, out there, can do that won’t lead to pregnancy, retarded or otherwise:
Butt fucking- All the pleasure of sex (for the guy) with none of the worry about pregnancy! Hey, sure you can spread disease this way, but come on! When’s the last time you read the sign over the sink in the bathroom? You can spread disease by not washing your hands after you pee. Trust me on this, if you’re unable to have sex, for fear of having a baby and upsetting your god, buttfucking is the next best thing.
Opiates- Ever take a handful of Oxycontins and try to get someone pregnant? Ever succeed? No man has. From Heroin to Codeine, nothing says “limp wiener” quite like an opiate. So go nuts kids! I’m also pretty sure that prescription drugs aren’t even immoral! IMPORTANT NOTE: If you’re a woman and you take opiates, you’ll probably still end up pregnant. I’m actually quite positive your chances go up, so watch out.
Domestic Violence- All the slapping, grunting and bad smells of sex with none of the chance that a vengeful stork will pop his head down your chimney in three quarters of a year. You’ve heard that pervert on Entourage talk about ‘hugging it out’? Well, I’m talking about ‘slugging it out’. NOTE: This is unacceptable if you’re just picking on someone smaller than you, but a full on back and forth slap off, well, there’s nothing immoral about that! Ask Jesus. It’s not like you’re masturbating.
Which leads me to…
Public Masturbation- So, you want the thrill of being risky but without the worry of a baby? Well, head down to the salon or the gym…anywhere where there are people basically stuck to a machine staring out a window, and just whip it out. This never stops being exciting and fun! Check out the face on that woman! Look at that fat guy trying to run out here and stop you! He’ll need to do a few more laps before he can catch you, right? Woo-hoo. See what I mean? Good times. Jesus doesn’t like this one, like we talked about before, but whatever…just go confess if you’re catholic. That’ll get you in good with the man upstairs for a few reasons. If you’re a protestant, hey, all you have to do is TALK about how bad that shit is. Your actions don’t matter! For example, if you just say things like “Being gay is a sin!”, that makes it okay for you to secretly be gay! Wear a shirt that says “My hands are for praying, not playing” or something like that, and you can whack off with impunity. At least, this is my understanding of evangelical protestant doctrine. But hey, what do I know? I’m a Zoroastrian. We have to beat off five times a day, to the east or we get eaten by hungry boars for eternity.
Well, that’s all the time I have today, everyone. I hope you guys have a great time staying pure in the eyes of god and party with these helpful tips.
Prost!
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
In this case I think you'd have to say 'looking at the window', bob.
Chicago has more bars than gas stations, but it’s not always easy to determine which type of bar is right for your particular evening. That’s where I come in. I’m here to tell you about a few different types of bars, when you should go there and what you should order. Sound good? Okay. Let’s begin.
Oh jeez! My baby is a grumpy little shit these days, and that’s probably contributing to my desire to write about (or sneak away to) bars. Unfortunately, I just don’t have it in me to ‘run out for a pack of smokes’ anymore, so you’ll have to be my vicarious selves, out there, making dicks of yourselves and sleeping under the ice machines.
Sports Bar-
Everyone knows the sports bar, right? Lots of TV’s, good looking waitresses dressed a little sluttily, probably some chick standing over a trough of Miller Lites, someone else walking around with shots (or ‘shooters’ if you’re Canadian) in test tubes…This is a good place to go if you want greasy food (wings, nachos, jalapeno poppers [which deserve their own blog entry]) and you like sports and you want to hang out with your guy friends and ogle girls who will never, ever talk to you outside of the establishment you’re in. It’s pretty much a slightly more/slightly less caveman-ish strip club, depending on your criteria. Beer is usually overpriced, and you can definitely expect a big crowd and loud assholes screaming about something stupid. Some of the really, really great sports bars have wall to wall Astroturf. Cool.
At the sports bar, drink a ‘bucket of bud light’ or whatever the dumb special is that day.
Gay Bar-
Uh, full of gay guys. Like the sports bar in terms of it being crowded, full of dudes in tank tops yelling and making spectacles of themselves, almost no women except for those desperately trying to get attention from the uninterested guys in the place, and a general sense that shit could fly off the handle at any minute. These bars also tend to have the ‘bucket of beer’ specials and a good amount of TV’s. One of my favorite features in a gay bar is the ubiquitous sign on the men’s room door that says “ONLY ONE PERSON PER STALL! VIOLATORS WILL BE EJECTED!” Poor violators! What about the violate-ees? Heh. Okay, seriously though, the gay bar is a great place to go if you are gay (duh) or you’re a girl and sick of all the assholes at regular bars trying to pick you up, or if you’re a poor guy who needs someone to buy you drinks, but your friends all already know what a cheap asshole you are. If you’re really feeling saucy, head to the gay bar dressed kind of stylish (read: gay) and try to pick up girls. It’s a little underhanded, but it tends to be easier than you’d think. The chicks that hang out at gay bars (uh…are the kids still saying ‘fag hags’?) tend to really like gay dudes (again, duh), and if they sense any interest from one (you, undercover) they will most likely build you up in their minds as some super fine gay specimen, simply because, as far as they know, you’re gay, and therefore unattainable. Once you let the curtain fall, (much later…give her time to think “oh man, all the good ones are gay”) she’ll be on you faster than you can say “ONE PERSON PER STALL.” I know, it’s a little fucked up, I’m just saying, that’s all.
At the gay bar drink whatever that lecherous, old creepy dude on the next stool is buying for you. After all, you’re him at straight bars! Treat yourself!
Former Dive Bar-
This is the place that was once really quiet, but the kids found out that they had two dollar well drinks, and now it’s full of hipsters and ‘actors.’ The old regulars still hang out, but they’re pissed off. This is where you go to be seen and hang out with the band, because this is where whoever is taking the band around is taking them. Fairly reasonable drinks and a decent male-female ratio make this a good stand by when you want to be social.
At the former dive bar you’re pretty safe with any simple mixed drink or bottled beer. Stay away from the taps; they’ve never been cleaned.
Faux Dive Bar- This is the bar opened by hipster turds that attempts to replicate the dive bar feel, but from an inauthentic, “I just got back from art school” perspective. Douchey paintings (irony laden), a bar that serves all cans (or some kitschy shit like that), lots of affected 70’s and 80’s esque touches, total shits behind the bar (usually slightly diseased looking dudes who resemble that thing that sat on Jabba the Hut’s shoulder if he rode a cool bicycle or tubby chicks with a million tattoos). Maybe a band is playing!!! Yay! This is where you go if you want to score coke, gonorrhea, or just check out what the absolute coolest dudes around are doing with their hair. Sheesh. Oh, and the DJ is terrible.
At the Faux Dive Bar drink whiskey, and lots of it. It’s the quickest way out.
Dive Bar- This bar is not full, but everyone in here is probably old, and probably keeping to themselves. Unironic modern country music peppers the jukebox, which probably also has some unironic Bob Seger and Eagles. Like the Former Dive Bar, but without…well, us, basically. Usually, at some point, a drunk couple in their forties will slow dance to um…Desperado, maybe? I don’t know. This is where you go when you just want to drink, and maybe hang out with one friend. Be careful, because good dive bars are like glaciers, or secret little towns in Mexico that are awesome. The more you go there, and tell people about them, the quicker they get overrun and ruined.
At the dive bar drink mixed drinks, that old lady behind the bar pours ‘em super strong.
Regular bar for hip or successful young people- There’s dance music, a dance floor, some shiny shirts, hot, drunk sluts with tits flailing everywhere, dago-types, a martini list, big black guys, tons of cologne, uh…I don’t know, probably some dumb theme, like lava lamps, or old movies, or prohibition, or lasers, or aquariums. This is where you go meet that person for a first date right before you realize that they weren’t really the person for you. This place has a hip-hop night. Also, they probably serve food that is disgusting.
In this place drink water. Everything else is so fucking expensive it’s ridiculous.
Okay, my baby is acting up and I have to get brunch. Keep your eyes on the prizes everyone, and happy bar hopping!
Oh jeez! My baby is a grumpy little shit these days, and that’s probably contributing to my desire to write about (or sneak away to) bars. Unfortunately, I just don’t have it in me to ‘run out for a pack of smokes’ anymore, so you’ll have to be my vicarious selves, out there, making dicks of yourselves and sleeping under the ice machines.
Sports Bar-
Everyone knows the sports bar, right? Lots of TV’s, good looking waitresses dressed a little sluttily, probably some chick standing over a trough of Miller Lites, someone else walking around with shots (or ‘shooters’ if you’re Canadian) in test tubes…This is a good place to go if you want greasy food (wings, nachos, jalapeno poppers [which deserve their own blog entry]) and you like sports and you want to hang out with your guy friends and ogle girls who will never, ever talk to you outside of the establishment you’re in. It’s pretty much a slightly more/slightly less caveman-ish strip club, depending on your criteria. Beer is usually overpriced, and you can definitely expect a big crowd and loud assholes screaming about something stupid. Some of the really, really great sports bars have wall to wall Astroturf. Cool.
At the sports bar, drink a ‘bucket of bud light’ or whatever the dumb special is that day.
Gay Bar-
Uh, full of gay guys. Like the sports bar in terms of it being crowded, full of dudes in tank tops yelling and making spectacles of themselves, almost no women except for those desperately trying to get attention from the uninterested guys in the place, and a general sense that shit could fly off the handle at any minute. These bars also tend to have the ‘bucket of beer’ specials and a good amount of TV’s. One of my favorite features in a gay bar is the ubiquitous sign on the men’s room door that says “ONLY ONE PERSON PER STALL! VIOLATORS WILL BE EJECTED!” Poor violators! What about the violate-ees? Heh. Okay, seriously though, the gay bar is a great place to go if you are gay (duh) or you’re a girl and sick of all the assholes at regular bars trying to pick you up, or if you’re a poor guy who needs someone to buy you drinks, but your friends all already know what a cheap asshole you are. If you’re really feeling saucy, head to the gay bar dressed kind of stylish (read: gay) and try to pick up girls. It’s a little underhanded, but it tends to be easier than you’d think. The chicks that hang out at gay bars (uh…are the kids still saying ‘fag hags’?) tend to really like gay dudes (again, duh), and if they sense any interest from one (you, undercover) they will most likely build you up in their minds as some super fine gay specimen, simply because, as far as they know, you’re gay, and therefore unattainable. Once you let the curtain fall, (much later…give her time to think “oh man, all the good ones are gay”) she’ll be on you faster than you can say “ONE PERSON PER STALL.” I know, it’s a little fucked up, I’m just saying, that’s all.
At the gay bar drink whatever that lecherous, old creepy dude on the next stool is buying for you. After all, you’re him at straight bars! Treat yourself!
Former Dive Bar-
This is the place that was once really quiet, but the kids found out that they had two dollar well drinks, and now it’s full of hipsters and ‘actors.’ The old regulars still hang out, but they’re pissed off. This is where you go to be seen and hang out with the band, because this is where whoever is taking the band around is taking them. Fairly reasonable drinks and a decent male-female ratio make this a good stand by when you want to be social.
At the former dive bar you’re pretty safe with any simple mixed drink or bottled beer. Stay away from the taps; they’ve never been cleaned.
Faux Dive Bar- This is the bar opened by hipster turds that attempts to replicate the dive bar feel, but from an inauthentic, “I just got back from art school” perspective. Douchey paintings (irony laden), a bar that serves all cans (or some kitschy shit like that), lots of affected 70’s and 80’s esque touches, total shits behind the bar (usually slightly diseased looking dudes who resemble that thing that sat on Jabba the Hut’s shoulder if he rode a cool bicycle or tubby chicks with a million tattoos). Maybe a band is playing!!! Yay! This is where you go if you want to score coke, gonorrhea, or just check out what the absolute coolest dudes around are doing with their hair. Sheesh. Oh, and the DJ is terrible.
At the Faux Dive Bar drink whiskey, and lots of it. It’s the quickest way out.
Dive Bar- This bar is not full, but everyone in here is probably old, and probably keeping to themselves. Unironic modern country music peppers the jukebox, which probably also has some unironic Bob Seger and Eagles. Like the Former Dive Bar, but without…well, us, basically. Usually, at some point, a drunk couple in their forties will slow dance to um…Desperado, maybe? I don’t know. This is where you go when you just want to drink, and maybe hang out with one friend. Be careful, because good dive bars are like glaciers, or secret little towns in Mexico that are awesome. The more you go there, and tell people about them, the quicker they get overrun and ruined.
At the dive bar drink mixed drinks, that old lady behind the bar pours ‘em super strong.
Regular bar for hip or successful young people- There’s dance music, a dance floor, some shiny shirts, hot, drunk sluts with tits flailing everywhere, dago-types, a martini list, big black guys, tons of cologne, uh…I don’t know, probably some dumb theme, like lava lamps, or old movies, or prohibition, or lasers, or aquariums. This is where you go meet that person for a first date right before you realize that they weren’t really the person for you. This place has a hip-hop night. Also, they probably serve food that is disgusting.
In this place drink water. Everything else is so fucking expensive it’s ridiculous.
Okay, my baby is acting up and I have to get brunch. Keep your eyes on the prizes everyone, and happy bar hopping!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
I dropped the comb!
Remember that concert where Neil Diamond is about to start playing…I dunno, maybe Cracklin’ Rosie or something, and he starts in with this totally hilarious, self indulgent line about how back in the day someone always told him to “write what you know” and so that’s what he did? Then he goes into some song about being on the circus train or whatever. It’s an amazing example of being out of touch with reality, but it’s also true. Any sort of art that’s going to be worth a shit has to come from a genuine place inside you. That’s kind of like “writing what you know” but it’s more than that, or, I should say, it’s simpler than that. Every person has a unique perspective that’s interesting if for no other reason than because it’s unique. Expressing your own perspective is the interesting part of art, whether it’s a painting or a movie or an anal penetration photo shoot.
Lately, art has been democratized and everyone can make records in their living rooms, or sell paintings on the internet or publish books via text messages (this is actually a big deal in Japan…books written on phones. Talk about a perspective…woah) Okay, so what’s my point? My point is that all that’s really happened is that there’s more garbage. There’s about the same amount of interesting paintings/books/music as there ever was and a huge spike in the crap. But here’s the thing…everyone is doing these blog-thingies now. I’ve been reading some blogs, because obviously, I have no life of any kind, and I’ve determined, on behalf of the world, that blogs are where people are actually fulfilling their creative expression vis a vis actually putting their unique perspectives out there. It’s probably sucking the perspective out of the real art, but it makes for interesting reads.
Seriously, think about any great book. Crime and Punishment, just for an example. The way Raskolnikov feels alienated in the bar, or how he sits there and simulates the chess game of the questioning detective while he’s lying in his room, that’s pretty much the contents of a blog right there. There’s something really interesting about seeing what people think and say when they think no one is paying attention. Once they know people are paying attention, then the blogs become WAY less interesting (see: Badsandwichchronicles.blogspot.com for an example of this).
I don’t know if this is the same as the ‘girl next door’ porn phenomenon that the internet has created, but it reminds me of it quite a bit. Okay, this was some sort of study some guy did where he looked at the traffic to certain porn movies or nude pictures based on the thumbnail images you click on and discovered something that is probably not surprising to anyone who looks at internet porn: Namely, the average looking girls got way more views than the traditional big titted, blonde ‘hot’ girls. So, essentially, this creates an interesting situation in which the women that a guy wants to see having sex on the internet are A) probably the only kind of woman he’s ever seen having sex in real life, and B) the very same woman that the guy would probably walk past in the bar, never attempting to actually bang in the, you know, non-virtual world. Fucking bizarre if you look at it that way, but it’s a lot like uninteresting minds of sixteen year old goth girls that become interesting as soon as they’re really laid bare in a blog- it’s that you’re really seeing into the mind/bedroom of someone that you could potentially be standing in line at the DMV with. Why is that interesting? I don’t know. I for sure wouldn’t want to take someone from the DMV back to my place and fuck them, or even engage them in conversation, but once all the tubes of the internet are between us, I become interested, transfixed. I guess what I’m saying is, thanks internet, for making art terrible and crappy boring, unattractive people almost compulsively watchable. I’m gonna start a shower cam just to bring this whole thing full circle. Ever want to see what the Bad Sandwich guy looks like washing his ass? Now’s your chance!
Okay, thanks for bearing with me. Here are two more places to visit while in Chicago.
Wrigley Filed-
Yeah dummy. It’s awesome. Oh, you don’t like baseball? Boo hoo. Go for the hot dogs and the beer and the nachos and all the asinine humanoids that are staggering around shouting offensive things. Go for the beautiful girls with some of the worst Illinois accents you’ve ever heard. Go just to check out the building, which is super old and cool. Go to sit on the roof and dump rum runners down the front of the big red sign. The point is, no trip to Chicago is complete without taking in a cubs game. Did I mention the hotdogs and beer? Okay, great.
The Art Institute of Chicago-
One of the best art museums in the world. Walking up to “American Gothic” or “Nighthawks” is crazy…it’s like standing next to Arnold Schwartzenegger or something. Those shits is famous, man! They have Picasso,Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Pollack, Warhol et-fucking-cetera…it’s free on Tuesdays and worth the price of admission the rest of the week. Come on! You drank plenty last night! Do something your mom wouldn’t be ashamed of for a change.
Woot!
Lately, art has been democratized and everyone can make records in their living rooms, or sell paintings on the internet or publish books via text messages (this is actually a big deal in Japan…books written on phones. Talk about a perspective…woah) Okay, so what’s my point? My point is that all that’s really happened is that there’s more garbage. There’s about the same amount of interesting paintings/books/music as there ever was and a huge spike in the crap. But here’s the thing…everyone is doing these blog-thingies now. I’ve been reading some blogs, because obviously, I have no life of any kind, and I’ve determined, on behalf of the world, that blogs are where people are actually fulfilling their creative expression vis a vis actually putting their unique perspectives out there. It’s probably sucking the perspective out of the real art, but it makes for interesting reads.
Seriously, think about any great book. Crime and Punishment, just for an example. The way Raskolnikov feels alienated in the bar, or how he sits there and simulates the chess game of the questioning detective while he’s lying in his room, that’s pretty much the contents of a blog right there. There’s something really interesting about seeing what people think and say when they think no one is paying attention. Once they know people are paying attention, then the blogs become WAY less interesting (see: Badsandwichchronicles.blogspot.com for an example of this).
I don’t know if this is the same as the ‘girl next door’ porn phenomenon that the internet has created, but it reminds me of it quite a bit. Okay, this was some sort of study some guy did where he looked at the traffic to certain porn movies or nude pictures based on the thumbnail images you click on and discovered something that is probably not surprising to anyone who looks at internet porn: Namely, the average looking girls got way more views than the traditional big titted, blonde ‘hot’ girls. So, essentially, this creates an interesting situation in which the women that a guy wants to see having sex on the internet are A) probably the only kind of woman he’s ever seen having sex in real life, and B) the very same woman that the guy would probably walk past in the bar, never attempting to actually bang in the, you know, non-virtual world. Fucking bizarre if you look at it that way, but it’s a lot like uninteresting minds of sixteen year old goth girls that become interesting as soon as they’re really laid bare in a blog- it’s that you’re really seeing into the mind/bedroom of someone that you could potentially be standing in line at the DMV with. Why is that interesting? I don’t know. I for sure wouldn’t want to take someone from the DMV back to my place and fuck them, or even engage them in conversation, but once all the tubes of the internet are between us, I become interested, transfixed. I guess what I’m saying is, thanks internet, for making art terrible and crappy boring, unattractive people almost compulsively watchable. I’m gonna start a shower cam just to bring this whole thing full circle. Ever want to see what the Bad Sandwich guy looks like washing his ass? Now’s your chance!
Okay, thanks for bearing with me. Here are two more places to visit while in Chicago.
Wrigley Filed-
Yeah dummy. It’s awesome. Oh, you don’t like baseball? Boo hoo. Go for the hot dogs and the beer and the nachos and all the asinine humanoids that are staggering around shouting offensive things. Go for the beautiful girls with some of the worst Illinois accents you’ve ever heard. Go just to check out the building, which is super old and cool. Go to sit on the roof and dump rum runners down the front of the big red sign. The point is, no trip to Chicago is complete without taking in a cubs game. Did I mention the hotdogs and beer? Okay, great.
The Art Institute of Chicago-
One of the best art museums in the world. Walking up to “American Gothic” or “Nighthawks” is crazy…it’s like standing next to Arnold Schwartzenegger or something. Those shits is famous, man! They have Picasso,Van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Pollack, Warhol et-fucking-cetera…it’s free on Tuesdays and worth the price of admission the rest of the week. Come on! You drank plenty last night! Do something your mom wouldn’t be ashamed of for a change.
Woot!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
