come closer...

My English muffin is ready. My baby is awake. My wife is home from work and her friend from Florida is in town. They’re rapping about zoning laws and real estate right now. I’m adding nothing to the conversation. I feel a little gross today. I have kind of an upset stomach that’s ruining my whole world view. It’s making me feel gross. I have to go to work and I can’t really concentrate. I ate a few dried apricots and aside from the fact that they have the exact same consistency of earlobes (which makes them fun to chew if you’re not feeling gross) I was revolted by the idea that if I end up barfing them up today, it’s gonna be intense and difficult. The rubberiness, you know? Oh, man. That’s enough to really make me sick.
Anyway, I’m distracted and not terribly interested in telling all you people about anything today. Any long treatise about ass fucking will only serve to push me closer to the point at which I inevitably barf up dried apricots at work when someone orders a huge bowl of coleslaw, or a packet of mayo to squeeze into their bloody mary. Any discussion of Bukkake (which is the ancient Japanese art of smothering some lucky girl in a gigantic amount of loads) will only push me closer to the edge of no longer being able to keep this stomach full of earlobes down as the guy with the freshly sutured lip orders a gin and milk. Any talk of inserting gigantic and painful things into the ass cavity will only serve to remind me that if things go differently than I expect today, I may end up sitting there, shitting uncontrollably after sneezing a chocolate squirt all over my underwear and down the leg of my pants. ANY talk of felching will only exacerbate the feeling of loneliness that comes with feeling less than a hundred percent at work.
These are those moments, everyone. Those moments where you feel just enough like shit that it will definitely make the day last a lifetime, but where you don’t quite feel bad enough to justify the amount of complaining you know you’re gonna inevitably feel like doing all day.
This sucks. Have I mentioned that I hate my job and that this isn’t gonna make it any better? Well, at least I’m not on tour. In Ft. Collins, Colorado, I was once so sick that I had no choice but to just shit my pants over and over again on stage. In Florida I once had a lung infection so bad that in ninety degree weather, I was, until the moment we went on stage in the van with the heat on under three sleeping bags. I’ve barfed off the stage more than a few times due to illness. This is going to suck, but it’s not going to be that bad. I mean fuck. I’m not even really sick. Just gross…uh oh. Gotta run. Have a good weekend.

heeeeey!

So, in regards to the post yesterday (“I got the Cruise Control Set at 35”)
Jarret asks a good question:

Q:
Ok the awesome story of the begining of The Lawrence Arms aside let me start by saying I'm 100% pro gay but isn't the whole your born with leanings not absolutes kind of lending credibility to the Christian-Right with their whole "your not born gay" stuff? Just wondering what everyone else thinks

A:
Well, here’s the thing, man. What I said yesterday, and let’s make no mistake, I’m no geneticist, I’m no biologist, in fact, I’m nothing with an ‘ist’ on the end of it as far as a quick scan has determined (sure, I’m a bassist, vocalist, blogist, egocentrist, beastialist, sensualist, Methodist, pansexualist, Athiest, polythieist, oligarchist, man with a wrist, master of the sensual fist, and so forth, but you get my meaning) but what I was saying (which, again, I’d like to stress I heard on a radio show about training dogs, so we’re dealing with some high science here) was that people have all these genetic predispositions that need triggers in the real world to set them off. Eventually, a bunch of them get fired off and you end up just like your parents after a while (this is really very depressing info that’s probably much better articulated in the last entry). That’s not saying that you’re born with leanings and not absolutes. That’s saying that there usually needs to be a trigger for these absolutes to manifest. Lots of them happen almost right away, and lots of them wait until you’re at a diner celebrating your seventieth birthday alone and someone brings you cold coffee and you just fucking snap.
Now, without listing my lack of credentials again, let me just say that when it comes to sexuality, I don’t think that ANYONE is really very sexual when they’re infants. I think people are born with preferences and awareness of difference. There’s a difference between the way my son interacts with males and females, and I’d tend to say, based on my empirical observation, that he seems like he’s a heterosexual child. If that’s not the case, great. I like this kid a lot and whoever makes him happy makes me happy. I don’t care if they’ve got a dick or tits or both, honestly. It’s really not something I worry about. Fuck, if he’s gay, he’ll probably be able to tell me about a lot cooler of restaurants when he gets older, right? BUT, regardless, like I said, I think he seems like a heterosexual child. However, I don’t think that ANY of his interactions at this point, be they with males or females, are sexual in any way. He just hasn’t developed like that yet. He’s a baby. He likes drooling on shit and slapping shit and putting shit in his mouth (hey, that sounds like the beginnings of GREAT sex, actually!) but he’s not doing anything sexual at any time…I’m sure that develops soon, but you know, little boys’ balls aren’t even where they’re supposed to be yet, uh, and so forth. Whatever, this is not the point.
The point is, that when it comes to DNA coding and the idea that a preference is wired into you, or a proclivity, like my example yesterday of being bipolar, or liking spinach, the theory I was talking about said it usually needed a trigger to come out. that could be anything, and it could happen when you’re a baby or when you’re old or maybe never. In the case of sexuality, I’d posit that everyone is coded in a certain way at birth, but they probably have no interest in that shit for a while (much like we don’t have any interest in courtroom television until we become like seventy five) and when they do, it just takes a trigger to launch their own, already coded preference. Hmmmm…What do you think a trigger would be that would launch gayness, or straightness? Maybe a dick, or a pussy or something? Maybe a good looking person who you’re attracted to who awakens in you the idea that you have a sexual personality? I mean, to put it another way, NONONONONONONONONNONONONONONONNONONONO there’s no fucking evidence in this that points to the retarded conclusion that nurture brings about sexuality. Man, all you need is a trigger. Here’s the thing, at this crucial time, when you’re awakening sexually, you see an attractive girl (to you…okay. Subjectivity aside), on TV, at the pool, on the bus, at school---do you want to (whatever is the most primordial, infantile version of) fuck her? Yes? Are you a female? Then you’re gay. Are you a male? Then you’re straight. Some combo? You’re some combo. That’s not nature versus nurture, that’s an empirical trigger unleashing a DNA encoded predisposition, which is exactly what I was talking about before.
In a word, if you think that anyone would, in the kind of dumb, backwards world we live in, CHOOSE to be in a situation where they’re persecuted, killed, systematically denied basic liberties and made fun of for being catty and fey (or burly and cheap, depending) just because of who they want to bang, you’re fucking nuts. There you go. That’s my sexuality/genetics class for the day. Class dismissed. Get out there and live! It’s gay day somewhere people. Probably on Halstead, actually. See you at the manhole.

I got the cruise control set at 35

The world will really grind you up and shit you out, won’t it? I was listening to this radio show about training dogs and the guy said something about genes and DNA. He said, and I’m paraphrasing to an almost ridiculous degree here, but the idea was that each bit of code in your DNA was essentially just a predisposition, but not NECESSARILY an indicator that you’d develop that trait. So for example, you could have a gene that makes you predisposed to be nuts, but that’s nothing but predisposition until you actually run into something that triggers it. That’s why some people have craziness all of a sudden take them over at seemingly random times and some people are born crazy and some people become crazy after some sort of trauma. It’s all how your body’s crazy gene is triggered and set up. That explains why this guy I went to high school with kind of just snapped one day after being normal his whole life, and why another buddy of mine just kind of recently took a quick little freefall into crazy. It’s crazy!
But, more to the point, regular, non crazy personality issues are coded in your genes too. I used to love talking to strangers, but one day that just stopped. It wasn’t like I was hanging out by the bus stop and this guy asked me for a cigarette and I was like “THAT’S FUCKING IT!!!! NO MORE LISTENING TO THESE DICKHEADS!” it was more like I just one day realized that I no longer enjoyed that and I hadn’t been doing it for some time. I used to hate spinach, and then one day I realized that I loved spinach. It’s all sorts of little shit like this just waiting, to flip on or off and slowly, but surely (and I’m sorry to bust this out on you all, but it’s as inevitable as death) turn you into your parents. Your mom has just been around longer than you. Your dad has just had more of his indicators flip than you have. If you don’t get hit by a bus, get SARS, get too drunk and fall down the stairs, shoot yourself while hunting or stumble into any number of other pitfalls, unfortunately for you, you will become your parents. Oh, if you’re a big ‘evolution is a bunch of nonsense’ type, well, then you’ve got much bigger fish to fry, because you’re, as we in the secular world put it, “retarded,” but of course, that’s really neither here nor there.
This is why young people try all sorts of shit and take risks and enjoy things while old people are stuck in routine. They’ve eliminated things they don’t like systematically. SO why does your grandpa watch golf, drink a beer, fall asleep in his chair, get up, make a sandwich, go to bed and then do the whole thing again the next day? That’s what he likes. That’s all he’s got left that doesn’t bug the shit out of him. Don’t believe me? Take him to a restaurant then and count how many things he bitches about.
I’m old. I can feel it, and I tell you what man. I HONESTLY thought it would never happen to me. I didn’t think I’d get old and turn into my parents, and hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…I’m not eating grapefruit with a corrugated spoon and going to see choral music or anything, but it’s gotta be happening. I’m not the kid I was ten years ago, that’s for sure, and unlike a lot of people my age, I haven’t had to really do a lot in terms of sacrificing what I love in order to make choices about growing up. I’ve been able to play in a band the whole time, AND we made money, AND we never got so big or important that it stopped being a fun project that we were doing as friends. There were no egos or anything like that and we could always tell people to go fuck themselves if we didn’t like how something was going…But man, I can’t even imagine ever doing what we used to do again (I mean, like when we first started the band, when our schedule was crazy). I used to live in a van, literally. We made enough money when we started playing that as long as we had a show every day, we could survive on loaves of bread and packs of American cheese and forty ounces. AND, keep in mind, this was when some pretty questionable versions of punk rock were big in the van touring circuit.
All the bands we dealt with back then were cry/scream bands full of sensitive guys with tight jeans and Jen Anniston haircuts, or that pop, spikey headed, nasal vocals, real polished, synchronized jumps pop punk stuff, and of course there were hardcore bands…that shit never goes into or out of style, interestingly. (even more interestingly, it seems like the ‘punk’ music of TODAY is a lot like a perfect thirds combination of these three styles, innit? Woah. Cool…)
ANYWAY, back then, there were no bands and I mean NO bands like us out there. I remember we played this show in New Bedford Mass and we came out right after the revamped Weston (once a really cool pop punk band, they’d recapitulated themselves as this keyboardy space garbage for some reason) and we were in flannels, big ripped jeans, with long hair and old, filthy mesh hats with the brims turned up (you’ve probably seen pictures of us at this time if you’ve ever looked in our old records). We got up there and started playing and we were drunk and having a great time and the crowd just started laughing. They were literally laughing like we were doing a comedy routine and you could hear it over our instruments. Because they were waiting for The Darkest August Bleeds Through Every Dead Winter, or whoever was after us, and we were NOT in touch, man. They were laughing at us because we were playing rock and roll with major chords and guitar solos and shit and we were smiling and having fun and not being super dramatic. AND WE FUCKING LOVED IT. This was our day every day. We’d show up, play a show with a bunch of stupid bands, make almost no fans, get paid almost no money, go to the van and eat our cheese sandwiches and drink our fortys, then we’d go sleep on some gross floor and we’d wake up the next day feeling like shit, but feeling great, and do it all again.
I could never do that shit now. I need a bed, or at least a couch. I don’t even like just getting one hotel room. It’s uncomfortable. We’re a bunch of men now, not boys. I couldn’t go play shows to just a few people who hate us…That sounds terribly depressing. (once we played in florida and one guy showed up to the show, and he left during our first song…that was great at the time, but today, that would make me pretty bummed) Grumpy men, that’s what you get if you do that shit for too long with no upward mobility. I guess it’s really good that our band grew as our synapses all snapped over so we were able to afford hotels, and real lunches and beer in smaller bottles.
I don’t know where I was going with this, but my baby is crying and I need to go to the grocery store. Now that’s rock n roll. Who says I’m turning into my parents?

what would I doo-ooo?

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tell your children not to heed my words, what they mean, what they say

Okay, so yesterday my world was turned upside down by a text message. I received it while suffering through another long day of fetching fourteen ounce faux pints of Stella for assholes, and it made the hairs on my arms stand on end. It was a once in a lifetime type of amazing text message. I read it over and over and wiped my eyes, and then, suddenly, because I was so happy, so overjoyed with the way the universe comes together sometimes, I sent a mass text to almost everyone in my phone book relaying the message I had just gotten. What, you may ask, was that message?

“VH1 just announced that Glen Danzig is going to be the next Rock of Love”

I mean, seriously, is there a greater idea in the world than an angry, inarticulate, musclebound satanic dwarf with a penchant for the macabre surfing through a sea of desperate fame addled skanks? I was so happy. I knew it was true because in my soul it just resonated. It’s like when Vader told Luke he was his father…You just kind of knew it wasn’t bullshit. It’s that “oh, yeah…of course. Awesome” sort of feeling that washes over you just every now and then, just when the perfect twist happens at the perfect time.

WELL, guess what? Not true. I got home and googled this shit only to discover within about fifteen seconds that it was complete horseshit (goatshit, perhaps?). I don’t blame my friend who sent me the text. Hell, I was overjoyed and I, myself sent out the text to everyone I know without doing the due diligence of checking my sources…and then I had to send the follow up text…

“Argh! It’s not true! It was a rumor. This is just like when we all thought that Rod Stewart was full of all that jizz! Sorry.”

This text prompted some questions from its recipients. Notably questions involving Rod Stewart and jizz. Not that (again) anyone doubted that Rod Stewart has a healthy relationship with copious amounts of jizz, but more the question of which instance I was actually referring to.
Well, I thought about it, and then I realized that I was mixing my stories. This joke is really probably only truly funny to my friend Pete, because it’s he who explained to me about the whole Rod-Stewart-jizz-overload-debacle back when we were in high school.

SO, back when I was in highschool a young woman named Jon Bon Jovi came flying out of New Jersey leaving a greasy, comet-like tail of whatever the 80’s equivalent of Axe Body Spray was across this great country of ours in a trajectory straight up, towards the pinnacle, the apex if you will, of superstardom. Bon Jovi, with his band, also named Bon Jovi were about one part springsteen, one part Springfield (rick), one part Dee Snyder’s costume from the front of “Stay Hungry” with some keyboards, an oily dago named Tico, and just the tiniest hint of hard rock thrown in there for good measure. At the height of their shiny, lubricated, diner smelling rise to the top, the main guy was, it quickly came out, revealed to be a jizz chugger of epic proportions. He in fact, chugged so much jizz (presumably straight from penises) that he had to be airlifted to the hospital to have over a gallon (or was it a quart?) of jizz pumped from his stomach. Everyone just knew it was true. It was like when Darth Vader told…anyway. You get it.
Well, my friend Pete and his buddies were all giggling about Jon Bon’s run in with the stomach pump (and probably more to the point, his run ins with the hundred or so dicks required to make a gallon sized wad of jizz) when some nearby parent asked em what was so funny. When they told her, she said “oh, when I was in High School, they said the same thing about Rod Stewart!” And POOF!!!!! Jon Bon Jovi was straight again.
But see where the whole rod stewart thing came from? It makes some sense, right? Okay, good.
Christ. Did I really devote this much of my life to telling this story? Look, suffice it to say, Danzig is not on Rock of Love, to my knowledge neither Rod nor Jon Bon has ever had their stomachs pumped for jizz and my reputation is tarnished beyond belief. I’m merely a cog in the rumor mill now. Sigh. Oh, one other thing, and it’s strange that I didn’t think of this with all the similarities to all the stories I’ve been interweaving here, but I just heard that Danzig actually had jizz, a quart of it, pumped out of his stomach two nights ago in a hospital in Reno right after a show. Crazy, right?

Okay, let’s move on to more sophisticated topics. Don’t you think that the word “Assume” should mean to consume something with your ass? Like, “I assumed about six condoms full of black tar heroin before I got on the plane, and now I feel a little sick” or “she assumed all twelve dongs and even one ballsack” would be nice new ways to use this in a sentence. Just something to ponder. Okay, I’m off to work. I assume you’ll all have a great weekend. I know I will. Bye.

strange things are afoot here, man.

Work sucks, man. It’s just dreadful. Today the cold snapped back and reminded all of us in Chicago why we’re able to afford to live in this town. See, Chicago is big and cosmopolitan, but compared to the only two comparable cities in the US (NY and LA) it’s dirt cheap. Why? Well, that’s because the weather here sucks the dick off a dog. SO, you can get a first class sushi dinner and go to the theater and then hit some after hours spot and hobnob with celebrities and you can drive and usually find parking (take that NY) OR you can just take the train or bus or a cab (take that LA), BUT and this is a big one, it snows like a motherfucker and very recently it was less than twenty below. That’s cold. That’s so cold that a few days after that I didn’t even have gloves or a hat on and I was walking to work and I thought to myself “man, it’s downright balmy today” so I looked at my phone to check the temp, and you know how warm it was? 18. That’s significantly colder than freezing. What the fuck, man? Yesterday it was thirty nine degrees and I ran errands in shorts. No shit. My body has adjusted to the cold somehow…it’s retarded. No one should have to be used to this.
Today, it’s cold. Frozen toes, hurty nose…all that shit. It’s painful to be outside. And the kick in the sack is, winter doesn’t end here until mid june. A few years ago a bunch of us had a pool to see when the first day you could really wear shorts and say “okay, the cold is gone” would be and Dan won, and his guess was June 22. AND THEN it gets so hot that old people just start dying. No spring, just arctic tundra straight into geezer killing sweatbox.
Whatever, I have to work today and I’m not exactly thrilled with the prospect. It’s just the typical dread that comes with a workday…I wish that this was my job. I wish I got paid to sit here and just write this bullshit…then my workday would be fifteen minutes long and I’d have the rest of the day to look for amazing things on the internet, like for example, triple penetration porn (Yes, it has happened, [Kelly wells, just btw] I saw it…it is one of the singularly GAYEST looking excuses for heterosexual sex I’ve ever seen…which, you know, is fine, but it’s more along the lines of “wow, will you look at that? I don’t believe that they pulled that off” and way less along the lines of “hey, this would be great to whack off to.”)
Although, let’s be honest, if I’m wishing for things that aren’t gonna happen, I’d like a Jacuzzi suit, a pneumatic tube that takes me anywhere in the world, a huge margarita, a few different clones of my wife (with on/off switches) a vast and successful media empire, someone to train my dogs, a huge house with a staff of naked maids and cooks, a pizza, a private pool/gym/yacht/jet/recording studio all in one and…hmmm…what else? Oh, a team of grandmotherly types who will take my baby and goof around with him, notably from when he wakes up (630) til when I wake up (in this fantasy, let’s say between 10am and noon), oh, and a bar in my house…a good bar, with stools and old men and the ambience of a real, nice bar. Hell it should be open to the public, but when I leave to go to bed, everyone else has to leave too. Yeah, that should do it.
Now, I’m not deluded enough to think that this could all make me happy if I didn’t have anything to do, you know, constructively, and that’s why I’d still type the blog. That seems like it would satisfy me. I’d probably have a media consultant on hand here to help me upload photos (which I don’t know how to do…maybe I do. If there’s a photo at the top of this entry, then you’ll know that I figured it out) and put songs on here and generally, this would be the dashboard for my media empire, right? Of course.
Okay, enough wishing. You know what they say: wish into one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first. I think the point of the exercise is to realize that in the end, the things you’re wishing for pale in comparison to the empirical, then-and-now NEED for a paper towel and some soap to clean the shit off the other hand. Is that what it means? It’s gotta be. I see no other interpretation.
Okay, here’s some advice:

Q:
I turned 21 in July and wanted to be single so I could try out the bar scene. Recently I’ve found my self wanting to get back into regular relationships…call me a pussy but I don’t wanna hook up with random sleazy girls at bars anymore….right now. In my experience it’s not really a good place to meet someone.__So, I was hanging out with a friend of mine and he brought along his girlfriend and her sister. Her sister and I were hitting it off pretty well. We traded phone numbers and talked on the phone for like 4hrs straight the first night. Then she came over to my place and it happen again. I haven’t talked like that since like high school. She seems pretty cool. She was so nervous on our first date, she seems really innocent, which is weird for me cuz I’m use to the aggressive types. __Now here is where it gets complicated, I go to night classes at school and theirs this girl that is in the same class that I will be making my major in. We get a 15min break in the middle of a 3hr long break. So this girl in my class starts talking to me on break. She didn’t hold anything back. I have a really good sense of humor and that’s where I get a lot of my confidence from. I’m very sarcastic, so id crack a couple of jokes to break the ice and she picked up on it and went with it. She’s really spontaneous and I like dating girls that keep me on my toes. She’s into tattoos and facial piercing which is a huge plus for me and she’s smokin’ hott. She’s made it pretty clear that she likes me. Only problem is she is 18 and a single mother! Knowing my self if I get into a relationship with her I’m gonna want to be their for the kid. Play with him, give him attention, and try to be a good male influence. But if the relationship doesn’t work out and kid and I get attached he is gonna be heart broken if I just leave his life, and I’m not gonna be any happier either. I don’t know what the picture is with the father but he’s gotta be an ass hole to just leave her with his spawn.__So now I’m not sure which one I should go for. The stable relationship which is why I wanna get a girl friend to begin with or someone exciting but being put in the moral dilemma of dealing with her son. I haven’t lead any of them on…I’m no player and nothing serious has happen in each situation yet. I’m not gonna cheat on them I just want one monogamous relationship. I was hoping you could shed some light on my situation.

A:
Dude, slow it all down. You’re already bonded to the kid and feeling his sense of disappointment at you, his new ‘good male influence’ abandoning him because it didn’t work out, just like his ‘ass hole’ dad (by the way, I love the space between ass and hole…that’s just funny text, man. Heh.)? Holy shit. That was fast. Look, she’s 18. You guys are not going to get married. Regardless of her kid. It’s just not happening. Anyway, you’re twenty one, and these are your choices…the innocent sister of your friend’s old lady, and the hot harloty single mom. Wow. It’s like straight out of a really lame tv show…Anyway, look, both of these choices will end in you eventually being single again. I absolutely promise you. Why? Because you’re all so young. NOW, that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t date them. Look, if you want a monogamous relationship then go for it. That’s a perfectly cool thing to want, and you don’t have to be dating the person you’re gonna marry to be in a monogamous relationship…It’s just a style of how you like to spend your time with chicks, man…And look, your projections about the future with the chick with the kid…unnecessary. She’s got a kid. Fine. That’s her deal. Just because you start casually hanging out with her, that doesn’t mean that kid is suddenly yours. There’s for sure a chance that you could end up attached to the kid and vice versa, but there’s also a chance (a better chance, actually) that the kid won’t like you/won’t give a shit about you either way…and that’s fine. She’s the one with the kid, not you. If you want to date this girl, don’t worry about someday breaking the kids heart, that’s pretty presumptuous. Worry about being a good monogamous partner to the mom. The rest is for you to deal with later. WAY later, once you’ve, you know, actually met the kid, for one thing.
Now, to get to your actual question. How the fuck should I know which one is better for you? AND, more to the point, what difference would it make if I told you? Okay, fine. Pick the innocent sister. Now, see if that little bit of direction actually gets you anywhere. I bet, and I could be wrong, but I bet that these women will have a little bit of say in whether or not they want to date you. Interest means different things coming from different people and their ideas about what a flirty conversation is implying could very easily be different from yours. Also, final word…innocent girls, tattooed girls what have you, they all have an outer persona but when the panties come off a whole different persona emerges. There’s no way to know what you’re unwrapping, so don’t go into this with expectations like that. The craziest girls can be shy in intimate situations while the nerdiest most seemingly innocent ones can be the ones that have flutes in their pussies (in the figurative sense…oh, come on. you’ve all seen American Pie.)
Ugh, gotta go to work. Bye.

jesus fucking christ

ever have one of those days? I'm already having one and it's nine in the morning...all I can tell you is my baby is pissed, some dumb piece of paper that I need is eluding me, i'm tired, the house is a mess, it's tax season, the world is going out of business, I'm tired, my breakfast was terrible and i don't think that Angelina is going to win the oscar. I've got six grand riding on her, for fucks sake. I don't know...I'm not in the mood. You name it, I'm not in the mood for it today. You can all entertain yourselves with stream of consciousness thoughts of deviant blowjobs and arcane arguments about the nature of being and how that relates to creating stuff. Oh, and talk about your babies when the rest gets boring. Also, try lists...Those are a great time waster. Fun to read, easy to write. AAARGH! I'm out of here, man.
Stupid car registration...YOU WERE JUST HERE!!!!!!!

and now for a mature bit of social discourse

Would you rather fuck a dog but no one would ever know or NOT fuck a dog but everyone would think you had fucked a dog and there’d be no way to convince them otherwise? This is the final question of the series that starts with the very similar hobo killer question from a few posts ago (POP QUIZ!!!!!). In between are various situations that are everything from boning a huge disgusting person to committing various victimless/almost victimless crimes…The only two questions that are really REALLY important are the hobo question and the dog fucking question.
SO, what’s it gonna be? Dog fucking? Or just the IDEA of dog fucking?
I was in hockey camp once and I remember that this dude who was there had the reputation of having fucked his own sister. I don’t know if it was true, but well, it didn’t matter because when you’re someplace as full of assholes as a hockey camp, and something like that comes up, dude, you’re a sister fucker. It’s that simple. Point is, sexual deviance, REAL sexual deviance…not shit that’s FINE that prudes and religious assholes are just creeped out by-- like buttfucking, or felching or being gay or using dildos or liking it when someone licks your ass…I’m talking incest, beastiality (or zoophilia for those of you from Massachusetts) uh…I guess we have to add kid fucking, and, hmmm…what else? Corpse fucking? Yeah, let’s throw in necrophilia too…is a pretty heavy stigma to live with. People LOVE to talk about creepy shit that other people have been caught doing, or even that they’ve just HEARD that they’ve been caught doing. It’s the kind of thing that makes motherfuckers feel great about themselves. People love the idea that they’re morally superior to their friends and/or everyone else. Don’t believe me? Go out and get drunk with your coworkers. Then, show up the next day and watch everyone come up to you and go “wow…YOU were WASTED last night” and kind of smugly condescend. Now, this will happen one hundred percent of the time. Why? Because people are assholes. Nevermind that the whole purpose of going out and getting drunk is going out to…duh…GET DRUNK. Never mind that everyone was drunk. Never mind that this asshole talking to you drove home after drinking all night (a far more reprehensible move than just being drunk, by the way). Never mind any of that shit. It’s irrelevant. The point is, some asshole wants to shame you. At all times. Why? Because they’re insecure or afraid of their own actions or they’re just genuine sadists who love that kind of shit.
Now, that’s just being drunk among a group of people who aren’t actually your friends…Take it to a new level: You’re a dog fucker. That’s just despicable, no two ways about it. (oh, and if there are any people out there who disagree…gross. You’re gross. Yes. I’m judging you to be gross. Sorry. Call me a closed minded small towner if you MUST, but man, fucking dogs…not cool). Motherfuckers are going to be ALL OVER calling you a dog fucker, making fun of you, hating you, probably doing shit to your house and car, and NOT just because they love the idea of shaming you, there’s also the very real task of making sure that you don’t get near anyone’s dog. I mean, can you imagine the looks you’d get petting your neighbor’s Labrador?…it would be bad. However, there is the other option….

You could actually fuck the dog.

I don’t even think I need to go into why this one is so fucked up…let’s just say you can’t get drunk before and….look, it’s just how it sounds, okay? No dildos, no sneaky shit…just regular old you fucking a regular old dog. Doggy style, I guess. I don’t know. (did you know that dogs actually fuck ass to ass? It’s true…anyway)
So there you go…Fuck a dog and no one ever knows, or DON’T fuck a dog and everyone is positive you did. Here’s the thing: Fucking a dog would be gross, wrong and difficult to do (I don’t know how you coax up a boner when the thing you’re about to bang is a dog…seems like it would be impossible) but having the STIGMA of having fucked the dog would A) last forever and B) ruin your life and the lives of people around you. I think, that if I was really put in this position, I may have to fuck the dog…I can’t have my kid growing up with everyone thinking his dad’s a dog fucker…that would be devastating. My wife would leave me for sure. I’d be unable to tour…because who wants to go see some dogfucker sing about getting drunk and seizing the day? No one. It takes on a pretty creepy new meaning once that rumor starts up…It would suck. I mean, actually fucking a dog would suck too, terribly (terrieribly…heh), but it’s not like the dog ends up dead, and it can still have a normal life and you can too…if you can some how put the dog fucking episode out of your mind. The thing is, that memory would be rough, but the dog fucking stigma, that would keep dog fucking in the front of your consciousness forever…fuck.
Hey, there are no easy answers in this world….
I’m gonna go, but in a related note, there was a guy in Russia a few weeks ago who tried to fuck a raccoon and got his dick bitten off. He admitted he was drunk at the time. What the fuck, man? A raccoon? Those things aren’t even hot! I mean, jesus, give me a dog over a raccoon…I guess. I mean, what? Nothing. Okay, this blog is over.

wow

yesterday was the ten year...one decade, anniversary of the lawrence arms, which is my band. Ten years ago I called this guy named neil from the student union at Northwestern and told him I wanted to do a band. I brought my friend chris along because he was really not doing anything of note, and next thing you know, we were in japan, europe, australia, hemet california et fucking cetera...it's been wild. ten years is a while...i just kind of don't believe it. I feel young, and i feel like our band is new...guess not. yup. pretty wild. happy birthday, TLA, now you're old enough to read MAD magazine and sit in the front seat.

sleep, that's where I'm disgusting.

So you think being a big successful rock star is all fun and games, eh? Well, it probably is…I know one or two rockstars and I’d say their lives seem a lot like fun and/or games, for the most part. Funny thing though, and I’m not just saying this the way all plebians say shit like this to make themselves feel better about the crappy straw they all drew in life, but they really don’t seem any happier than me. In fact, the old adage that fat hillbillies tell each other over mayonnaise sandwiches and unwanted teen pregnancies is actually true. Money does not equal happiness. Not that rock stars have money. I mean, listen…MC hammer went broke. That motherfucker sang “Can’t Touch This.” That was one thousand times the hit that “Cute without the e (cut from the team)” was, or whatever…the dudes in Skid Row went broke too, even after I remember you, youth gone wild, 18 and Life, piece of me, monkey business etc. Bret Michaels has to go on VH1 and pretend he’s got hair/tan/not wearing a girdle/not wearing eyeshadow/still desirable to rabid fame skanks….Rock and roll doesn’t pay the bills forever. Not for most people. For every rolling stones, there’s about a zillion Creeds. BIG HUGE bands that do not have enough money to retire on.
Here’s the other funny thing. When I was young, I was pretty sure that I didn’t care about that shit anyway. I was like, “yeah, bro, I know the stats, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ll just rock ‘til I can’t rock no more then I’ll figure something else out.” This was a solid plan, but what I didn’t bother to consider, what almost no one who lives a peter pan fantasy of rock and roll bothers to consider is that when it spits you out on the other side, you’re not a good looking, vivacious kid anymore. You’re thirty six. You’re forty five. You’re fat, you’re bald, you’re ugly. Chicks don’t look at you the same way, at least not the young ones. You’ve got no money and no prospects and you know what’s pathetic? Getting your pizza delivered by Dave “Snake” Sabo from Skid Row or buying protein powder from the dude from Samiam down at the GNC.
I mean, I know dudes who have sold hundreds of thousands of records, and they’re forty, they’ve never had a job and they’re out of money and no one likes their band anymore. They’re not still on busses. Now they’re a bunch of dads riding around in a van like teenagers. That’s not very rock and roll, you know. It’s a little gross. God forbid these guys get laid on the road. EEEEEEEEWWWW.
SO, I guess the early talking point here, simply, is that youthful idealism is great and awesome, but as you age, it starts to look an awful lot like a combover…pathetic. I’ve talked confidence before in this space, and let me tell you what saps a motherfuckers confidence and makes them the most unfuckable dude in the world: competing against younger, stronger more talented people who don’t even realize they’re competing with you. Just saying. Not that I know anything about that myself. I mean, have you seen me? Sheeit.
Anyway, my point was that money doesn’t equal happiness. Profound, I know. But then I think I realized that that wasn’t really my point at all. My famous friends have cool jobs, but they still have crappy girlfriends, senses that they’re wasting their time, apprehension about the future, all the same crap that bums out my drug abusing friends who live with their parents. There’s no way out.
Let me tell you briefly about some of the grossest places I’ve ever slept, just to paint, with a fine, delicate brush, the picture of rock and roll greatness as clearly as I can:

Miami FL: 1995- The Rabbi’s House-
Let’s ignore that we played with a band called “who killed Bambi” that was a bunch of forty year olds…We got back to the promoter’s house, who was a Miami rasta jew named “the Rabbi”. Someone had spit loogies all over the counter, and there was shit on the floor, which made the rabbi go “that’s strange. I don’t have any pets.”
When I woke up in the morning, my face was burning. I went to wipe it and my hand came back covered in blood. My entire face had been smothered SMOTHERED in mosquitoes. I was sleeping under the kitchen table and as I looked around there was a couple and a baby sitting above me having breakfast. Apparently it was their house too. Gross.

Lublijana, Slovenia- Probably around 2001. The actual room we slept in was just a carpeted room that was pretty unremarkable, but down the stairs was a methadone clinic and outside the door were tons of human shit logs and hypodermic needles…It was like a Japanese garden, but instead of sand and round pebbles…yup. Shit and needles.

Tennessee- I don’t remember if these were both in Nashville or both in Memphis or what, but I do KNOW they were both in Tennessee. First (1994) we stayed with a Nazi skinhead and his wife in a house with no furniture except for a television and watched porn while huge rotwiellers patrolled us…We didn’t know they were Nazis and by the time we found out, we were already amongst their dogs AND we were seventeen. It wasn’t gross in the “oh there’s a shit stain on the toilet seat” sort of way…That was the other Tennessee instance. This was in probably 2000. We stayed with this band where every single dude was morbidly obese and had dreadlocks. Our roadie got scabies from the couch and there were (sorry ladies) crusty jizz patches on EVERYTHING. I don’t exactly know what their scene was, but it involved pizzas and whacking off…that’s for sure.


Chris’s and my apartment- It was called the Lawrence Arms…It was on Lawrence Avenue and it was a shitty, shitty slum of a building. We had a four bedroom apartment that was somewhere in the neighborhood of four and a half thousand feet for six fifty a month. They took down the back porches because they were condemned, but then our back door just went out to space. Thirty feet straight down. AND, they didn’t put the porches back up for six months. SO, since there was no more taking out the garbage, we did what any reasonable human beings would do: we threw the garbage in the spare bedroom and forgot about it. When Marcus moved in, we told him he could live there rent free if he cleaned out the garbage room, which he did…also, that’s where he lived. Our next apartment was even grosser, actually, because we left it for months at a time to go on tour. We literally just threw our trash on the floor. It was the most remarkably gross social experiment of all time…Also, we were young and didn’t care and the garbage everywhere didn’t stop us from meeting girls and stuff…SO, full circle, what’s absolutely fine when you’re twenty one, not so much when you’re thirty one. Fair thee warned be thee says I. Have a nice weekend.

POP QUIZ!!!!!!!!!

Would you rather kill a hobo, but no one would ever know about it, or NOT kill a hobo but have everyone in the world think you had? I’m talking your parents, your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend best buds sisters…EVERYONE is POSITIVE you killed the hobo and there’s just no way you could convince them otherwise. What would it be? Here are some things to keep in mind.
1. You would not go to jail, either way.
2. You can not be black out drunk or any such thing to prevent you from remembering the hobo slaughter.
3. There is no third choice.
This is an ancient game that was developed by people who sit in vans/on busses for epic stretches of eternity to pass the time. It’s intended as a test of morality and/or world view and hopefully, it gets to the core of you, the answerer, as a person, at least a little. For example, in the above, we’ve got a hobo…he’s old and drunk, probably already completely numb…He’s not benefiting society in any way, in fact some would say he’s a defective and offensive part of society (though I would disagree, just for the record), and certainly, since he’s already out there, being a hobo, no one would miss him were he to suddenly be bludgeoned to death with a large soup tureen, just for example. It’s a victimless crime, unless of course, you count the hobo himself.
The downside is, you have to stand there and take a human life. AND you have to do it without the benefit of ideology, fear or any sort of concept of ‘otherness’ and those ‘others’ intent to harm the people you love (which are, as per my understanding the three things they drill into you to make you a killing machine…make you love the guys you’re out there with, tell you how the enemy hates them, repeat that you’re fighting not only for your family, freedom and country, but also for this guy next to you and his little kids…if you fuck up, hesitate for an instant, it’s old Ox here that dies, his little daughter that cries etc…). You just have to stand there and repeatedly stab that hobo with a cheese grater until he dies, (just for example). BUT, you get away with it…that’s cool too. People like getting away with things. I have personally stolen things I don’t need or even want just for the satisfaction of getting away with it (anyone need a patio couch?). So yeah…there’s that.
But there you are in bed with your boyfriend, and you’re hugging him and he tells you you’re so sweet, and all you can see are those yellow hobo eyes, pulled taut with rheumy fear…the three teeth, just dangling there as he screams “DO YOU GOT ANY MORE CIGARETTES?????!!?!!!!!!” as you bring the iron down on his neck. That’s gotta be rough…
On the flipside, the other choice, where everyone thinks you’re guilty though you’re not, there’s the personal satisfaction of having never killed a hobo, which I hope most of us already possess. BUT, the stigma would be brutal. Have you ever been innocent of something that everyone thought you did? How long before you began searching your mind to determine if perhaps it’s YOU who had it wrong? “Maybe I DID steal the tip off the table…Huh…I really didn’t mean to. And I didn’t THINK I did…Did I? NO! OF course not! Where’s the money if I did? These people are assholes!”
Something like this right? We’ve all been there. And listen, when it’s your poor old grandma calling you and saying “Katie, the neighbors are all talking about that hobo you killed. They say it was particularly brutal. I’m disappointed Katie. You’re out of my will,” it can’t feel good. How can you disappoint gam gam like that, huh?
Now, on the other hand, there will be people (horrible people) who will be stoked on you for killing a hobo, and if you can deal with drinking Jagermeister, openly mocking homosexuals, calling black guys ‘nigs’ calling Mexicans ‘spics’ (and on and on like this) and you know, high fiving about how brutal you were when you fucked the fat girl from the taco stand last night (“she had fear in her eyes! High Five!!!!!”) then maybe the celebrity of being a hobo killer is right for you. If so, hey, good on ya, but know here and now, I don’t like you. Sorry.
The real upside here is that you aren’t a killer at the end of the day, which is huge, but again, kind of small consolation when your entire world is positive you are.
I will tell you, I’ve asked this question a lot to people. Women, about 100% of the time pick option 2 and I think, (I hope) that any man that picks option 1 is just kind of goofing around and not taking the question that seriously…but you DO get dudes who say shit like “fuck it. Let’s kill a hobo.” You can just tell they don’t care…they’re not thinking about the question, which cheapens the game, BUT they’re also not driving from Denver to Chicago with nothing else to do to pass the time, so I guess that’s fair.
The final group are the assholes who say things like “I don’t have to answer this. This is stupid. I’m never gonna be in that situation. Shut up.” They try to worm through every loophole “my mom would ALWAYS BELIEVE ME. SO this question is stupid.” Yeah, sure…that’s true, hopefully. And I bet she’d be proud of you for wiggling out of this question by using semantics and avoiding the whole point/fun of the exercise too you lame fuck. Congratulations, you’re the social equivalent of the asshole who just buys the shit that’s tagged wrong in the grocery store, regardless of what it is, because that makes it free, or the douche that uses the internet to answer the question at the coffee place to get ten cents off his drink. Good work. You got out of answering a question. Here’s a new puzzle, ready? Why do people find you so irritating? CORRRECT! You do NOT have to answer that one either. Wow! 2 for 2. Good work.
Finally, I’m aware that uncreative dildos have co opted this game and named it ‘would you rather’ and created dumb cards with questions like “would you rather have seventeen regular sized testicles or one giant one?” But that’s just the new jack co-opting of a pre existing culture. To give those turds credit for this ancient tradition in time wasting would be like giving Snap Crackle and Pop credit for inventing hip hop just because of that cocoa krispies ad from the 80s. You all hear me?
Oh, and just one last thing: seventeen regular ones FOR SURE…you have so many more tucking options. That big one would have no give whatsoever.

i feel sick to my stomach...har dee har har

I don’t feel great. My kid got some sort of cough and I think he gave it to me. what an ungrateful little shit. I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but I WIPE HIS ASS. DAILY. And he just got me sick like it was nothing. Seriously. That’s fucked up. I don’t have the energy to do anything exciting in this space today and I really need to crank out my newest script, which is a musical about school shooters and terrorism. I think it’s called “taliban voyage, sweet columbine” (pronounced voy-AGE, of course) or something like that. I think I could do better actually…let’s see…Taliban, Al Qaeda…fareed zakaria…Dylan Kliebold…trenchcoats…Mexican border patrol…I don’t know, but listen, I don’t have to have the title all figured out today do I? Oh, how bout “I Left My Trenchcoat in the Cafeteria at the World Trade Center?” starring Angelina Jolie and Don Rickles, with James Earl Jones as Osama Bin Laden, McCauley Culkin as that Eric Harris guy and Haley Joel Osment as Heath Ledger. Haley Joel gives an oscar worthy performance, that’s for sure. It’ll be posthumously awarded because, you know, now that he’s ugly, his career is dead.
Okay, so someone asked me what I think of docking. Well, for those of you out there who don’t know what docking is, it’s when you put your penis (sorry ladies, this one’s dudes only!) head against another guys penis head and then you take the foreskin of whichever one of you is european and you pull that over both heads and then you kind of jack them both off like it’s one big dick with balls at both ends. (Jordan, if you’re reading this, I think I’ve got it right…Anything I’m leaving out?)
What do I think of it? Sounds like kind of a gross waste of time to me. I don’t know…fuck…might as well just suck each other off, I think. I don’t know. What else did people ask me? Uh, do I have a matching tattoo with Tom Gabel (guy from Against Me!)? Yeah. Three of em. I also have matching tattoos with Jason Black, matt skiba, John harris, my wife, Pete Anna, marcus Kretzmann, Jordan Schalich, Brian “coco” fallon, Shawn Smith, Tony Deriendzo, Chongo, Ryan Massey, Heather Gabel, Rory Henderson, maybe casey morgan, all those schlong garglers in Willhelm scream, and any number of assholes who just have seen pictures of shit I have and just gotten it without knowing what my tattoos are even supposed to mean…Nice move, by the way (note the sarcasm). For the record, they mean nothing. They’re just so I can walk around at night without people talking to me.
Best tattoo I have? On my dick it says “Welcome to Jamaica, have a nice day.” What doees yours say? Wendy? Heh. Do people still tell that joke?
Whatever, man. I don’t feel good and it’s raining, my baby is crying, I have to get out of the house for a while today because the baby is scared of the cleaning lady. In fairness to him, she’s four hundred pounds and wears one of those metal titted Valkyrie battle bras. I don’t know what I’m gonna do though…maybe I should get some Velcro, stick him to the wall and just go to a bar…
Nah. That won’t work…I don’t feel great. Whiskey sounds terrible…
I need some mashed potatoes and some soup. Or a grilled cheese. Perhaps some sausage. Do they say FEED a vaguely scratchy throat and general exhaustion that can’t easily be categorized as sickness, or starve it? Okay, fuck this. I’m done.
You want a quick list of things to try tonight? Here goes, and I’ll see you guys tomorrow.
1.Tit fucking (works if you’re a fat guy/lone woman with a cucumber too, by the way)
2. Making two pizzas and putting them right on top of each other, double decker style
3. one vicodin and three cans of beer
4. Hershey’s kisses smothered in Jif.
5. just put your cocaine right in your drink, Stevie Ray Vaughn style
6. watch your dog or baby go nuts trying to catch and/or hold a laser pointer
7. Shave your balls.
8. watch the first season of Perfect Strangers with the sound off and listen to the latest album by Hinder. It like, totally matches up, dude.
9. Docking.
10. Did I mention the two pizzas? Fuuuuck…

Are you unforgiven 2?

Jesus, so the baby has figured out how to pull himself into a standing position in his crib. I lay him down to take a nap and he just army crawls to the edge and pulls himself up. Then when I go in there to be like “dude, what the fuck?’ He’s just chilling on the railing like a particularly upset little dude looking over the neighbor’s fence or something. Here’s the problem—He can’t sit himself back down. SO, he’ll pull himself up, freak out, and then I HAVE to reward his freaking out by going in there and paying attention to him if I actually want him to sleep. Pain in the dick? Yes. Is there any solution I can see? Not really. It’s driving me nuts. I KNOW he’s in there standing up again. Right now. He’s standing. Little shit. JUST LAY THERE! I KNOW YOU’RE EXHAUSTED! FUUUUUCK….He’s really being a loudmouthed, stubborn little asshole. He must get that from his mother.
Over the course of the last hundred-something posts, people have asked to hear a little bit about my life in college…Well, I went to Northwestern University in Evanston, Il. I was there four years and graduated from the RTVF department (that’s Radio, Television and Film). I did well in college and graduated on the deans list (which isn’t like being cum laude or anything, it just means that I got particularly good grades that last semester of senior year.) Almost all of my classes that weren’t for my major were either broad introductions to science (Astronomy and an intro to Relativity, Plate Tectonics) or various world lit classes.
I applied to NU to satisfy my nagging mother. I was pretty much planning on getting out of high school and going on tour with my band forever. I figured, I’d apply to one school, right in town just to put it in her head that I was serious about trying to work a compromise, and then when I didn’t get in, I’d be free to go travel the world and make music with my ska band…That’s a foolproof groundwork for a stable future…Much like shoeing horses, ska isn’t going anywhere any time soon. Ah so.
SO, I didn’t apply early, and when I did finally apply, I wrote my essays about how I liked Taco Bell better than McDonalds, and how I thought that applying to college was a big waste of time (this was for the essay about “something you thought was important and then realized wasn’t actually a big deal”. This plan was perfect, except that I didn’t count on the fact that schools like risk takers. Had I actually been smart enough to deserve to go to NU, I would have written an essay about how my hero was my grandpa and that baseball game where I caught the game ending line drive was the best day of my life (and it taught me the value of not only teamwork, but also defense!). Bleh. Unfortunately, I’m not smart enough to engineer my own stupidity, SO, I got into NU. Then, I deferred a year, thinking there was no way they’d hold the spot for me. I went on tour and when I came home, there it was: my spot in the freshman class, waiting for me like a fat summer camp girlfriend…What do you have to do to avoid going to a prestigious school in this country, I ask you? Anyway…
Well, I got to NU and I had categorically refused to have a roommate, so I was put into a tiny, all male dorm that was pretty much just the star athletes and the med school geeks and me. It was the funniest place I’ve ever lived, hands down.
The highlight of the cast of absolutely bizarre characters in this dorm was a guy named Marquis (pronounced MarKEES) who was extremely fat, only wore sweat suits and loved Metallica. He was a black guy…not that that matters, but I’m pretty sure you were all picturing a white dude and I just want the image to be clear.
So this dude would put on “until it sleeps” or “unforgiven too’ and just run them on repeat, on volume TEN for, oh…six hours at a time. He’d start it up at about 8 thirty on Saturdays and just kind of jam out until dinner. I know every word to both of those songs thanks to Marquis. I can’t even tell you how many times I barged into his room and told him to ‘turn this fucking garbage down, man! It’s nine AM!!!!”
He also had this amazing ritual before exams. Everyone on our floor knew it and we’d all have our doors cracked and watch it while it took place. He’d start pacing up and down the halls, nostrils flaring. His breathing would get heavier and heavier, then he’d let out this low growl. Then the growl would intensify. Then just the breathing. Then, he’d punch the wall. Then he’d start howling and growling and kicking garbage cans and swinging at the clock that hung from the ceiling and we’d all be looking through our peepholes just pissing our pants laughing. He’d start screaming “IT’S TIIIIIIIIME! IT’S MIIIIIIIIIIINE! GRRRRRRRRRR IIIIIIT’S MIIIINE!!! GRRRRRRROOOOOOOORORORRRRWAAAHHH!!” and he’d just be tossing garbage everywhere, trashing shit. One time he brought a hockey stick and just swung that around at everything. Then, his last proclamation before he’d walk out the door and down campus to his exam was “THE PATH BEHIND ME IS DESTRUCTION!” and it was…you had to give him that. I don’t know if it was a wrestling thing or a dungeons and dragons thing or a video game thing or what…but yeah…that was Marquis.
In those days the internet was like the exact opposite of what pussy is now, in that the nerds had all seen it, but the rest of us had only heard about it…and I lived with nerds. These were the crème de la crème of nerds. International nerds compounded in the nerdiest dorm in one of the nerdiest schools in the world. So of course this is the first place I ever saw a girl drink milk out of another girls ass. Oh, yeah, sure….who hasn’t seen that now? I know, but back then, to my eyes, it was pretty graphic. I would even say I was shocked by my first viewing of “ass milk”
I was friendly with everyone in the dorm, and made quite a name for myself with the athletes after entertaining a rather loud sleepover guest…After that, I was allowed to sit at the table in the cafeteria with all the black girls, which, of course I did at every opportunity. That, unfortunately never went anywhere beyond lunch…but being that one guy with tattoos who sits at the black girl lunch table was just almost enough. I mean, everyone must have THOUGHT I was banging them, right? Nah, everyone probably actually thought I was gay and sassy. Eh…whatever. It was a good public persona to have, I think, although, now that I think about it, it hasn’t really paid any dividends in the connections-through-college department. Hmmm…Regardless, it was pretty fun.
Um, what else…I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted out of school, so I was drifting a little bit, and I was legitimately furious to be there, so I was making a point of drifting a bit…Well, look, I don’t want to give this all away today, and it’s sixty in Chicago and my baby’s grandparents are in town, so his standing little ass is going over to their place and I’m going to get some shit done. Happy Tuesday, everyone! Let’s rap tomorrow.

hola, dildos!

Hey welcome back! I’m home from Mexico, and I’m tan and relaxed and ready to get on with the rest of this winter…actually, I feel a strange sense of dread and anxiousness today…Not sure why. It’s probably the heightened expectations of all of you, your impatient anticipation of the worlds most exciting post here today traveling through the ether like so many sentinels of expectation and attacking me in my repose or whilst I slumber, right? Yeah, something like that, probably. Anyway, about my vacation:
So the night before we were slated to leave, we realized that my wife’s passport was expired…and it was a Friday at around eleven pm. The plane left Saturday morning at 9. There was really no way to get around this one…So, we decided that I would go ahead, as to save the hotel room and not spend money unnecessarily switching my flight around, and then when she got her passport sorted, she’d show up with the baby. Sounds great right?
Well, it was weird.
Firstly, it was a very guilty moment - getting on the plane and heading to Mexico and leaving my wife and baby behind, and it only got weirder once I got to the hotel. Being at a resort by yourself is a lot like being a ghost. You kind of walk around, sharing space with everyone who’s hanging out and having a good time, but you’re really not part of it at all. In my case, people kind of stared me down a lot…let’s face it, I looked creepy just dining by myself, hanging out at the swim up bar alone, lounging without any company, peering through people’s room windows, duct taping my wiener and balls up whilst hiding in the shrubbery... I wholeheartedly guarantee that when Sophia Coppola wrote ‘Lost in Translation’ it was after a very, very similar (although obviously Japanese) experience to the one I had those first two days. In that time, I went into town and watched a soccer game at a pool hall, went to a whorehouse (I was told it was a ‘cool bar’ by a cab driver. I guess it was pretty cool, but I just walked in, surveyed the situation while I chugged a beer as fast as I possibly could and then walked out, so I can’t say for sure) and watched the super bowl. I was in Bucerias at this lame bar with a lame hippy jam band, but I was getting along with the bartender really well. Right around when the game ended, the bartender got fired. I ran out to give him his tip, which he had left behind in his ‘i’m-storming-the-fuck-out-of-here” hurry to leave, and he invited me over to his buddy’s house to drink some beer and hang out, so of course, I went.
We got to this big house and lets just say that I was the least tattooed guy there by a long, long way. These dudes had uh…turtlenecks, I guess. Is that what it’s called when your whole throat and neck are tattooed? I mean, ‘turtlenecks’ doesn’t really sound that cool or tough, huh? Well, whatever. These dudes all had turtlenecks of tattoos and they wanted to do about three things, jam rock music pretty loudly, drink beers and systematically whup my ass in chess.
I must have played six or seven games of chess that night and I don’t think I even so much as put any one of them in check once. They were all astounding players. Also, I’m not that good…whatever, man.
The next day my wife and baby showed up and things drastically improved. Everyone at the resort was suddenly very nice to me, and very welcoming to them. Also, everyone at the resort was very Canadian. There were Canadians everywhere, and about ninety percent of them were over sixty. It was the ultimate party scene. The resort had one bar that wasn’t in the pool, and I never in one week saw anyone in there. I never even went in there myself, as it was a pretty desolate and depressing place. The whole place was a ghost town after 8 pm, which was fine, because after seven thirty, when the baby went to sleep, we were stuck in our room anyway. This insured a lot of quality relaxing, which was, actually, just what we all needed.
One day we went out and watched whales, which was pretty awesome. Whales, like people, come from their cold and crappy homes to mexico to fuck tons of random strangers, and their spring break is going on right now. While we were out there we saw three males all trying to bone the same whale MILF with baby in tow…shameless. We were in a boat that was way WAY smaller than the whales, and we were, at times, about five feet away from these surfacing monsters. At one point there were whales swimming under our boat and surfacing on either side of us. It was pretty awesome. Also, whales, when they’re that close, smell like gigantic, funky, wet monsters. Coincidentally, that’s the name of my new band…The Gigantic Funky Wet Monsters. We’re going on tour with Avenged Sevenfold this fall. Check us out. Our single is called “ladies, get your tits out!” and it’s inspired by my trip to Senior Frogs.
Last night I worked. Today my wife is at work and the baby is at daycare. The dream is over. Nothing to look forward to but the sweet embrace of death, eh? Pretty much. Best entry ever? I’d say so.