You know what to do, so I won't say please -or- Welcome to my lovely new color scheme.

So yeah, I spruced the place up a bit. I kind of figured that this page is like a virtual rec room, you know, where you go to hear your crass uncle expound on how shitty his job/kids/wives/friends are while he pounds a high life or two before heading to work. So, I used the colors that to me most represent a basment in the 70’s. There’s beer in the fridge. Oh, that? That’s a picture of me backstage at Subterranean last week. The old lady actually took it. Yeah, I think it turned out pretty good down here.
Funnily enough, as I’ve learned bartending, playing music, being a husband, being a dad, doing a limited amount of design and illustration work, that old maxim ‘no one is ever satisfied’ is truly, truly always fulfilled. People love to bitch. People hate the taste of Coke, it changes, they hate the new taste and demand the original that they hated in the first place. It’s like a wife. You hate her guts and you talk shit and write songs about how she should die and you undermine her confidence with shitty remarks about her ass in that dress and all that, but the second she blows her tennis pro, you’re all weepy. Everyone hated Russia, then we got the Taliban, now everyone seems to want Russia back. Everyone hates the old colors, everyone hates the new ones. No one will be truly satisfied until their own crappy tastes get justified by a graphic designer/chef/production crew/five star general and they can sit back there and languish in the stench of their own turds.
Don’t believe me? Everyone loves the smell of their own farts. My friend Mike scoops his farts from his ass right to his nose. It’s gross. He also chews up one Triscuit, spits it onto another and eats it like some sort of gnarly appetizer, so there’s that. Maybe he’s just a little nasty. Nonetheless.
Fuck, man. My baby is crying, my dogs are barking at a helium balloon, my wife is trying to pack and get me to help her do laundry as she’s going to Texas in a few hours for a wedding. Our house looks like someone got chased through it by a huge rapist (in that shit’s all scattered everywhere, it’s not like it’s all covered in Vaseline or blood…do rapists carry Vaseline? I guess the conscientious ones do) and I’m about to go to my shitty job and hang out with the rainy-Friday crowd, which means just enough douchebags blabbing at me that I can’t relax, but not enough to make money.
Tonight my friend Chris is picking my boy up from daycare and putting him down (a parental parlance that means put to bed), since my wife is gonna be eating jerky and shooting at satellites down in the Great Republic of Texas, and I’m gonna be stuck late at work. It’s going to be funny. I picture a rather charming little montage set to a tune by Alan Thicke (dad from Growing Pains. He also wrote and performed [get ready to have your minds blown] the Diff’rent Strokes theme song [“Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum…”] Yeah, for real. That’s him. He’s also dad of pop sensation Robin Thicke, and he’s Canadian. AND once when I was about 8 and in an airport, I saw, in that part of the airport newsstand where they have the porn [a classy move, by the way, reading Juggs or Shaved Snizz right there on the plane] an issue of Playgirl with Alan Thicke on the cover. The bumper headline, or whatever it’s called, said “Alan Thicke’s Growing Pains” and I was forced to picture his penis, and it grossed me out so completely that I’m still a little queasy, not from the memory, but actually from that moment. It’s lasted twenty four years. No shit)…okay, that was quite an aside. Back to Chris and the baby, I picture a charming little montage in which baby powder poofs thickly into Chris’s surprised face, the baby giggles while Chris gets tangled in the coat hangers in his closet…it’s gonna be like three men and a baby with only one man and a baby. Where are my Hollywood friends when I need them?
“Okay, it’s like Three Men and a Baby”
“okay, good. So far me likey”
“except for with ONE man.”
“Kelly, you’ve done it again! Have some money!”
Don’t steal that shit, okay? You can’t copyright ideas. I found that out the hard way when I told the wrong person about how I wanted to get, like Barbies, but dress them up as whores and sell ‘em to little girls. They’re doing that now, and I’m not in on it. ALSO, the Pussycat Dolls? That was my idea. I was like “yo, you know what we need? Some sluts singing about getting fucked. Here’s the beauty! They don’t even have to be good looking OR talented. We’re not selling the steak, we’re selling the snizzle!”
Fucked, right?
What else have I created, only to be thwarted by conniving dicks? Oh, you know when you say something and then you say NOT! At the end of it, and it like, totally negates it? I made that up. It was also me who first said that I didn’t want to be told what to do by anyone smarter than me. I also called for lax regulation regarding property appraisals and encouraged irresponsible lending in hopes that everyone could someday afford to own valuable homes. AND, I was like the first, maybe second guy to say that John Kerry was no hero. OH, and I coined the term “nibble on my dick like a rat does cheese” before the 2 Live Crew was even a fucking thought.
So, as you may have guessed, I’m pretty pissed. I’m gonna sit here and stew in my baby tears, barking dogs, piles of laundry, absentia wives, messy home, new barf colored blog and general malaise that comes every Friday morning and just kind of think about all the fucking money I should be counting right now. And Alan Thicke’s gross penis. That’s still just burned in there.