Today is my baby’s 8 month birthday. I don’t technically know if that’s a birthday, but it seems as good as any other time to decide that he’s officially been alive for a certain amount of time, right? Fuck, I’m not gonna bake him a cake or anything. He just gets some bananas and then he gets to go with me to the DMV. Happy two thirds of a year, dude. Life is one gigantic crappy line after another, get used to standing here. Not that he stands. You know what? I’m done with these semantics.
I still have to get Christmas gifts for everyone. What’s worse, I have to tell people what I want. I don’t want anything. Well, I mean I’m sure there’s shit out there that I want…Like maybe I’d like some shoes that have traction, don’t allow my feet to freeze in the winter and don’t look like they were made for someone who works on the enterprise or for some hippy turd. I mean I want that, but that’s like saying I want world peace, or a cure for AIDS or a black president. Whatever, man.
So yeah, I have to go to the DMV and then head out to some gigantic stores (which, as you may or may not know I cannot stand) to shop for people for Christmas all while toting a baby. Also, it’s my wife’s office party tonight and for whatever reason, that thing that hangs down in the back of my mouth (my uvula, for the nerds out there) got all swollen while I slept and now it’s dragging on my tongue and kind of vaguely making me feel like I’m going to choke at any minute. All I need is a lump on one of my testicles or maybe to step in dogshit with my face and this day’s just about perfect. God.
So, someone asked me recently if I ever draw a blank when I’m writing this thing. The answer is, pretty much every single day. Some days it’s worse than others, and today is one of those days. I have nothing interesting to discuss. I mean, I’m going to Minneapolis in two days to play a rock show at the ten year anniversary of this club called the Triple Rock, which is cool, but it’s not really, you know, interesting. There are some really interesting people out there though. They’re the ones who should be writing blogs and telling stories.
Mexicans- Now, I’m not talking Mexican Americans here, but honest-to-god, I-work-as-a-busboy-or-cook-and-I’m-here-illegally Mexicans. These guys ALL have at least one story that’s better than any story I have. It involves them sitting in the pitch black trailer of some truck or swimming across some river or climbing some fence and running and running and then figuring out how to get by in a place where technically, they’re illegal. I mean, I live in Chicago. That’s a LONG fucking way from Mexico. However these dudes that I work with ended up in the kitchen at my bar, I promise you it’s a way better story than the time that me and Marcus cooked pot resin in a spoon behind the bushes at the conservatory when we ran out of weed in high school.
Buzzards- These are the guys with the long hair that hang out behind the school or by the reservoir and they’re always dipping their joints in embalming fluid and shit like that. They’re not hippies at all but they’re not quite metal heads either. Cliff Burton is pretty much the most famous buzzard to ever live. They usually hang out in groups of two or three and they probably don’t say much at first, but let me tell you…I hung out with some buzzards my sophomore year of highschool, and between all the acid and wicky sticks and AC/DC and Sabbath and Public Enemy tapes they somehow still had time to steal their friends gold mercedes’ and cruise four counties over to the dude who cooks up PCP in his basement all while the fourteen year old girl that one of them was banging freaked out on acid in the back seat the entire way there and back. Usually, these stories involve cop chases and cornfields and all that. These guys often end up kind of grizzled and mean, so if you catch a young buzzard, you should get all the stories you can out of him, while he’s still excited about his shenanigans and before he’s completely crushed by realizing the consequences of not playing by the man’s fucking rules, dude.
Old women with lots of tattoos- These women aren’t just everywhere, sure, and by the time I’m old, this will no longer be an interesting segment of society, but back in the day, when people who are currently old were young, being a woman and getting a tattoo was crazy. There’s not even an equivalent now. People split their dicks in half for cosmetic reasons these days for fucks sake (uh, by the way, that’s a bad look and it um, how do I put this? COMPLETELY FUCKS UP YOUR ABILITY TO USE YOUR DICK!!!!!!!!!! I’d like to point out to all the lizard men and future primitive dudes out there that I’m not shocked, okay. You get no satisfaction. I’m not shocked. I’ve been seeing split dicks and guys who have their palates surgically altered to look like cat faces since I was a wee tot, so there. You’re not interesting. You’re stupid. I see splitting your dick down the middle as a really expensive, slow version of getting in a drunk driving accident—it’s dumb, it could have been prevented, it’s all your fault and you’re gonna have to live with the consequences of your rash stupidity forever…but it’s not shocking, sorry Xero, or whatever your dumb new name is) people do all sorts of dumb shit in an attempt to shock. Hell, that chick that got all the abortions and then painted pictures with the discharge didn’t even raise as much of a stink as these grannies did back in the day when they got that big bald eagle tattooed between their tits. That shit was crazy for the times, hence pretty cool stories. That’s the old days though. Tattoos are absolutely, positively, no two ways about it, no longer cool. Just like skateboarding and legal graffiti. Sure, it’s still an art form/sport/art form, but it’s no longer a COOL art form/sport/art form. Thanks a lot X games.
Anyway, these old birds probably have some great stories, but you know, they’re old, so they’ll probably be pretty drawn out and not really go anywhere.
Gay people- Most gay people have a pretty good little line up of stories. In my experience it goes ‘first overtly sexual gay fantasy story’ accompanied by confusion, excitement, some shame and some more confusion. (My friend in college used to tell me that he had this early fantasy that he was trapped in a room with dicks coming out of everything, the walls, the Kleenex boxes, everything; and he had to suck them all to get out of the room. Thousands of dicks…that’s way better than my lame fantasies of wanting to see naked tits bouncing.) Then the story of coming out, which is sometimes depressing, but almost always interesting, and finally the story of going fucking buck wild once they finally were able to be comfortable with who they are for the first time in their lives. This is often pretty graphic…as the best stories often are.
So there you go. A small sampling of people with something to say. I’m just a dull semi- young, straight white guy who has to go to the DMV with my baby. Wow. Some blog you picked to read, huh?