Thursday, April 30, 2009

And it continues...

Hey, in my continuing quest to describe all the jobs I’ve ever had, I’d like to present you with (drumroll) my next job: namely, my ongoing quest to describe every kind of person in the world.
Okay, up next—Rich assholes who have it all figured out.
These guys say shit like, ‘man, you just gotta stay true to what you believe in, and shit will work out.’ Oh really? Why’s that? Because it did for you? Look, there’s nothing worse than some dick who just happens to have hit all the green lights in life waxing philosophical about how life needs to be lived. Life is luck, man. It has almost nothing to do with hard work, dedication or believing in yourself. If it did, Mozart, Goodyear, Van Gogh, Bulgakov etc etc, would have died in luxury hospitals instead of, you know, wherever it is they died… My point is that for every guy who just ‘sticks it out, stays the course, wocka wocka wocka’ and becomes successful there is not only a guy who does the exact same shit, just as well or better who did just as much work (we’ll get into this in a second) and didn’t succeed, but there’s also a guy who didn’t stay the course, didn’t stick it out, and is even MORE successful. There’s no fucking recipe, you smug rich asshole who has it all figured out! You just got lucky. Sure, you can make luck by working hard, you can make luck by being dedicated, but you know what? Luck also passes the dedicated by and lands in the laps of the mouth breathing mongaloids too.
Take Nichole Ritchie. She’s fucking adopted for fucks sake! This bitch is so lucky it’s ridiculous. She got adopted by lionel Ritchie, got cast as a sidekick on some reality show even though she’s not particularly good looking or talented, parlayed that into public appearance fees and now I know the name of her fucking daughter because she’s got this life of joy and leisure where she skips around in the park and US Weekly takes pictures and they fucking pay her for it. Her fucking trajectory is astounding. She is not empirically good at anything at all. She was born to live in a trailer home, fuck her cousins and be on a first name basis with planned parenthood’s receptionist. Instead, her new dad sang her “dancing on the ceiling’ every morning while she got ready over a gold sink. AND NOW, she’s got her own gold sink! Why? Oh, no reason in particular. Just luck.
The thing is though, she’ll be the first to tell you that she’s worked very hard to get where she is. Everyone with any success says this. Oh, it wasn’t easy. I had to work hard to get where I am today. That’s what separated me was my hard work.” This is a ubiquitous mantra of a successful person, whether they’re an actual hard worker (Howard Stern) or have absolutely no idea what hard work is (Ashlee Simpson-Wentz [nice name by the way]). BUT, here’s the thing that none of these dipshits realize. Nothing motivates like success. They don’t know what real hard work is, because real hard work is done against insurmountable odds. Real hard work is toiling in the face of no reward, no potential for advancement. I mean, what? Did they have some late nights? Dealt with meanies? Lifted some heavy stuff? Boo hoo. They were climbing a ladder the entire time. Fat Mike can discuss how impossibly hard his band worked to get where they are, and they did, BUT they were constantly being rewarded with bigger shows, more money etc etc. This is the same idea in any realm of business, not just entertainment. Tell the guy who cleans the blood out of the organ vat at the slaughter house that you worked hard to get where you are, Real Estate Mogul. See how much empathy he gives you.
Now, and this is the most aggravating, most of these fucking people say things like “well, who needs money anyway? I just want to be happy.” I need money. I do. And you know what? Yeah, I’m pretty happy without it, but I’d be a zillion fucking times happier with it. Thanks, millionaire, for the totally awesome and relaxed guide to peace and harmony, but you’re neglecting to understand that you already have money and that’s why you see it as irrelevant. It’s the same reason that Robert Redford never worried about being bald and Ashton Kutcher doesn’t worry about being short. Just because it’s not relevant to you doesn’t mean that it’s not relevant.
So, in conclusion, rich assholes who have it all figured out are a lot like Michael Scott in that episode of the office where he finds out that his branch is the most successful and when asked why, he just kind of starts talking. He has no idea. It’s luck. These assholes have no more insight than any of us. Our balls are in your court, so to speak.
Okay, off to my dumb job. xoxox

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

No time for the old in-out, love, I've just come to read the meter.

In my quest to define everyone on the earth, here in the confines of this blog, I recently discussed Juggalos. Today, I’m going to discuss their natural enemy.

The unskilled, condescending superior asshole-
This guy…do I ever know him? You know this guy too. He thinks your taste sucks. He laughs at your idea of cool movies and openly mocks your mispronunciation of words, all the while conveniently ignoring he’s just some crappy hack musician/filmmaker/poet who actually has no money, no upward momentum, no class, lives with his parents/employed girlfriend/in his shitty flophouse with his crappy friends and generally has absolutely no concrete reason to feel superior about anything to anyone. His band sucks and he boils it down to people not ‘getting it.’ His art is trite and he boils it down to jealousy. His poems are pretentious bullshit and he’s a fucking WAITER and he has the nerve to suggest it’s the lack of culture in the city/town/world in general that’s keeping his masterpieces from being heard/appreciated.
Smugly, he can retreat into the idea that his job is just the means to a greater end, and that while you are out there, a slave, toiling like all the rest of the plebian fools in your chrome and glass prisons for the rest of eternity, he’s just biding his time until he’s discovered, or until his beat collective takes off or whatever. He conveniently ignores that there’s no fucking practical application to knowing how to pronounce “laden’ properly or how to pick out a good movie starring Mastroainni, or even namedropping hip, old Italian actors in his woefully self important blog. Heh.
Self awareness, actually, is usually not a trait found in the unskilled, condescending superior asshole, just btw, and joking at one’s own expense? Not typical at all. These are the guys who dish it out like CRAZY but can’t take it. This is why they somehow think that a semi decent grasp of flashy vernacular and some snide remarks will trump the fact that they’re an unemployed ex clerk, unable to have a bank account, express a cogent thought, create anything worth a shit or relate to anyone except for their dopey ‘caregiver issues’ girlfriend and probably one lackey who has mistaken this smugness for success.
Make no mistake, these assholes are confident and get laid often. This is almost always immediately followed by tantrums and open mockery (usually in regards to the poor, dumb deluded girl’s friends/cd collection/dumb job/plans etc.), after which the girls that these guys fuck detail these dumb turds’ loserdom on some hipster message board ( comes to mind) and express that being the bassist in some crappy local band and ordering in French doesn’t actually change the fact that you have a small penis and sleep on a mattress with no sheets and you don’t even have a drivers license.
Now, I’d like to be clear. There’s nothing wrong with being a slack motherfucker who just wants to kick it. It’s cool if you don’t have a bank account or a job or you play in some crappy band and you’re just you know, livin. It’s the superiority that’s what separates this particular breed of arty slacker dipshit from the rest and that actually takes him from the “arty slacker dipshit” pile and puts him in the “Total cocksucker” pile.
As I mentioned before, Juggalos are the natural enemy of the unskilled condescending superior asshole. They embody all the qualities that the superior asshole himself possesses (a crazy, unfounded but utterly unflappable belief that they’re KILLING IT, a crappy job, dumb girlfriend, stupid, stupid favorite band, complete lack of the broader world view etc.) but the Juggalos have quarantined and branded themselves (see yesterday’s entry “Everywhere I go from Tokyo to Spain, I see Juggalos dancing in a Faygo Rain” if you need a refresher) and as such, the condescending superior asshole, as of course, only he can, points and laughs at the very same qualities that he possesses himself (you know, along with the paint and the soda and all that shit).
Make no mistake, nothing on this earth is more painful than a mirror. Nothing breeds contempt like the familiarity that comes with seeing yourself in another. This, along with unfounded jealousy is what makes the superior hipster douche asshole who condescends from his crappy job serving sandwiches who he is. Poor hipster douche dildo…did the Gaslight Anthem ruin your day? Diablo Cody? John Safran Foer? Vice Magazine? Aw. That’s okay. It’s just, well, those people are talented, and you’re not. At all. You just know how to speak extemporaneously about the societal merits of porn, or schlocky old animated shows, but guess what asshole? When the chuds, swineflu, juggalos, economic downturn, north Koreans, Islamic fundamentalists, supervolcanoes and tyrannical governments all start converging, you’re just as fucked as everyone. Moreso, actually, cuz you’re a broke dildo with no practical skills. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

everywhere i go from tokyo to spain i see juggalos dancing in a faygo rain!

Swine flu. Sounds cool, right? Sounds like a great band name. Or maybe just the somewhat crappy name of a great band. Swine Flu from where? Germany? Texas? Somewhere with huge beers, that’s for sure. Anyway, yeah, sounds cool, but as it turns out, it’s not cool at all. It’s killing Mexicans, people. It’s popping up in remote spots like New Zealand. That’s some 12 Monkeys shit, man.
If you’ve never seen 12 Monkeys, it’s a pretty great movie starring Bruce Willis doing a remarkably spot on Sean Nader impersonation. If you don’t know what that means, just watch 12 Monkeys and you’ll get an idea.
Anyway, we’re all gonna die. That’s what the swine flu is here to do. Purge the earth of us, right? Either that or SARS, Ebola, bird flu, what else? It’s amazing. Diseases roll out like new lines of cars or specialty sandwiches every year. And each time “the media at large” realizes it’s already gotten everyone worked up over the last potential pandemic, so they kind of up the ante. This morning I read an article about the swine flu that started out with this titillating little series of sentence fragments: “Millions dead. Hospitals overflowing. Trains and schools shut down. Economic recovery snuffed out.” The article went on to say that of course, that’s just one reporter’s idea of what COULD happen. Fuck. That’s the best you can do? If you’re going to just haphazardly terrorize motherfuckers with your imagination, why don’t you go for it? “Swine flu! Total Devestation! State of Emergency declared. Roving gangs of mutant pedophiles terrorizing all major cities. Gunfire in churches. CHUDS have surfaced! Homosexual marriage! There’s a black president!’ Shit like that, you know? “Dicks falling right off bodies as a result of the new, mutated airborne version of the swine flu!”
That would send some panic, right?
Okay, I think I’m buying into swine flu a little bit, just based on proximity. It sounds like that shit’s right around here, and actually, aside from the article I was talking about above, lots of the shit I’ve read about swine flu seems to be stressing all the good stuff, which, let’s be honest, is much scarier. With Ebola, there was one guy in Africa who had it, pretty much no chance it would grow and become a serious threat and the news went apeshit. “DEADLY DISEASE! AIRBORNE VIRUS! NO CURE! KILLS IN MINUTES! YOU BLEED TO DEATH RIGHT INSIDE YOUR FUCKING SKIN! DOOM ASSURED!” But that’s just spin. With the swine flu, they’re kind of saying “ah, no no no no. Nothing to be alarmed about.” Which to me, sounds a lot like some smoky room government types whispering to each other “just let them live these last few moments free from terror. They’ll all be dead soon, after all.”
I didn’t buy SARS. It all seemed too funny to me. Especially the “Hong Kong will take your breath away!” ad campaign for international travel that just happened to get launched right at the height of the deadly respiratory disease’s scariness. That’s synergy, man. I can’t wait for the 2010 disease. It better have an awesome name and a can’t miss set of symptoms. I’d like to propose “dick flu” or ‘goblin fever’. Let’s go with airborne, but it also travels through the mail, and it makes you die, but first you go crazy and eat your own skin. How’s that sound? Pretty good. Okay. There you go media/government global fear conspiracy. Don’t say I never did anything for you.
Up next is the next installment of my continuing series of defining everyone on the earth. Today, as per popular demand-Juggalos.

Juggalos are, as a rule, fat people. These are no ordinary fat people, however. Juggalos paint their faces with clown paint, spray soda on each other and talk about cutting people up with hatchets all while listening to the musical stylings of the Insane Clown Posse. The Insane Clown Posse is a duo of the grossest white trash hillbillies Michigan ever shat out who paint their faces like clowns, rap about cutting people up with hatchets and spray soda on each other. This, regrettably is true. What’s also true? These two guys are fucking Bazillionaires thanks to the dedication of their ‘Juggalo family,’ which is their made up little word for their fans.
Juggalos are men. Almost no women are stupid enough to want anything to do with this tubby, sticky scene, but the few who do get involved are not juggalos. They are Juggalettes. Again. This is all true.
Okay, I don’t know where to begin, really. This is such a ripe topic. Okay, side story. My friend dealt with the talent hospitality at a large outside bandshell in Wisconsin and she once told me that when Ozzy comes through, they need to have buckets of water everywhere on stage, and super soakers all over the place, because Ozzy dumps water on himself and shoots the crowd and does the whole show soaking wet. Why? Because he’s incontinent and he can’t be wearing diapers on the stage, so he just stays wet and he can let shit flow whenever he needs to. THIS is a good reason for drenching yourself on stage.
The Juggalos have no such reason. They take this soda called Faygo, a generic Michigan brand, and just dump it on each other. Why? I don’t know. It has something to do with the dudes in the band being self proclaimed ‘scrubs’ and Faygo being the official beverage of the tubby Michigan scrub scene but that’s about as specific as anyone really gets.
Once, the Insane Clown Posse played a show around the corner from my apartment (an apartment in Uptown in a building called the Lawrence Arms) and I went down with a sixpack of beer and sat across the street from the line of roly poly, painted up, soda spraying juggalos and watched them for hours. It was like being in one of those sanctuaries where hippos approach your car.
They would all chant ICP songs. They would all dance and run in circles and spray soda on each other (yes…as a preshow ritual. These pre-diabetics were walking up armed with up to six two liters a piece) and the few times that a juggalette approached, the whole line (and again, I’m not shitting you people) about 3 thousand strong by 430, began chanting “show your tits”. I only heard this chant about forty times that day. That’s a pretty high juggalo to juggalette ratio. Ladies, if you like fat pimply sticky guys with spiked hair, bad teeth and clown paint all over them and you can bear listening to the worst music ever recorded, well, you may just have a future as a juggalette.
Okay, the neighborhood smelled like cotton candy for a week after the show, and the street by the venue was pink for a few days. The whole thing was fucked up beyond belief.
One final thing…I read an interview with the fat one from ICP, uh, violent J maybe, and he told a story about how he had just banged some juggalette and she had, when all was said and done, eaten his, ahem, jugalizz out of the rubber. G R O S S!!!!! He just volunteered that in an interview. Classy dude.
They have a ‘gathering’ every year in Peoria Illinois. That’s the kind of people Juggalos are. People who could plan an event anywhere in the world, and they decide that they’re all gonna load up the wagon with faygo and drive to Peoria. Soooooweeeeee!
Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that there’s this thing on the internet. It’s sad. And funny, but it’s so sad that it’s funny. It’s a juggalo funeral. Just look it up. I can’t even talk about it here because the conflicting emotions involved are too much for me, but man, let’s just say that it’s for a little kid, and the parents not only wrote the whole funeral prayer or whatever about the juggalo family, they painted their faces and wore ICP hoodies and shit to the funeral. The poor grandparents in the pictures, man.
OH! Juggalos call each other “Ninja.” It’s sort of like “nigga” but with less of a chance of getting your tubby white ass punched out (did I mention, or did I need to mention that Juggalos are all white?) and at the top of the handout at this juggalo baby’s funeral, it says “Ninja Down”. So fucking goofy.
Um…that’s all for today. I’m feeling a real pang of remorse for humanity.

Monday, April 27, 2009

I cant stop taking drugs

My wife thinks I need to offer more advice. She says it’s time to get back into the advice game here at BSC and I’m perfectly cool with that. That really takes the pressure off me to come up with shit, you know? It’s Monday, I’ve hit a minor snag in my latest script, I got a new bike pump, I’m getting all stoked to eat a cheeseburger…you know how it goes. Shit’s happening, man. No two ways about it. I guess, my point is, send me your advice querries. I know you can’t possibly be an even semi competent custodian of your own life, so let me drive for a sec, right? Enough.
Next up, my quest to define everyone in the world continues.
These are guys who are scary. Specifically with long hair and beards. I know quite a few Mansons and I think, and I could be wrong, but I’m nigh certain that they get off on the fact that people find them terrifying. I have a friend named gareth, and he’s a major league manson. Spooky as shit. He’s also sweetened the deal by getting a necklace of bullets tattooed on him. Yipes. He once told me that the only women who ever EVER talk to him are ‘completely terrified of him and that’s what draws them to me.’ woah. Manson himself couldn’t concoct such a creepy little slogan. Anyhoo. These dudes are often oven guys in pizza places, barbacks, minor league assholes at the bike shop. You get the idea. You see them, but they’re relegated to a spot where they’re not up in your face causing undo panic. Yup. Mansons. They say their favorite band is Skynnard, or Thin Lizzy or some such other ironic/non ironic unimpeachable perfect choice, but in reality, they love the Bosstones.
Up next- Chicks with gigantic cans-
These girls don’t have to be smart, they don’t have to be funny, adept or even good looking or particularly in shape. They’ve got their ticket written. Huge cans are like a trust fund that you carry around under your shirt. I used to work with a girl who was borderline retarded, crosseyed and kind of a cunt, but she had enormous, wonderful jugs and as a result she survived and even thrived. They’re that powerful. I know a lot of people out there will find this to be sexist, and sure, it is. Towards men. Only men could reduce this dumb pile of shit chick to her only redeeming quality and continue to treat her like a functional human being. The best part? She was kind of a bitch to the other girls she worked with and they sort of took it. Tits are a big deal, man. Like it or not, it’s not gonna change facts. People get surgery to get nice tits. Think about that. It’s nuts. Surgery. Thousands of dollars, the chance of death, people putting your fucking severed nipples into a dish while they stuff bags of something inside your skin! It seems like a lot to go through, but apparently it’s not too much suffering in the face of getting some decent cans. This is why girls who are born with giant monsters are so fucked up. It’s a lifetime of dealing with inappropriate suggestions and jealousy. That’s enough to make any person crazy. Poor, maligned girls with huge cans…sigh. I feel bad for you. Here’s a thing we can do…you send me a picture of your cans, regardless of size, (you know, just so I know what you’re dealing with) and I’ll write you some personalized advice, based mostly on what you need to do to succeed with the tits you have. I think this is a good plan and I hope you agree. This is selfless work on my part, ladies, so don’t let me down. Okay, next up—

Jews- They run Hollywood and maybe the world. They’ve got some sort of beef with black people and vice versa…beards and money and gold and uh…wait. This is a little questionable, isn’t it? Okay, forget it. Next group.

People into dance- These fucking people, man. Mostly chicks, they’ve got this dumb religious idea about dancing and how it’s the cure for all life’s problems and it’s totally aligning your soul with the cosmos and wocka wocka wocka. Listen, dancing is cool, it’s fine. It’s something to do when music is on and that’s wonderful. My son, who is 1, dances when music comes on. No one taught him. It’s just instinctive. So yeah, in that way, good one, people into dance, you’re right. Dance is marvelous. You know what else people do without being taught? Whacking off. Get spiritual on that for a while. You know what, actually? The very same people (again, usually women) who are into dance as a lifestyle/healing/otherworldly thing are often the very same people who have some oils and candles and a cadre of dildos and an enya tape and an icecube and a whirlpool tub and make a big spiritual deal about masturbating too, so shut my mouth, I guess.
Okay, I’ve got things to do, people. Let’s rap later.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Don't go down to the water's edge!!!!

Today, I’m gonna just jump right into my continuing series of defining everyone in the world, because I’ve got a lot to say, and so little time.

People who align themselves with things that have no business garnering allegiances-

A natural thing to do, especially in your teen years, is to seek out people you think are cool and figure out what sort of social group they belong to and sort of begin trying out identifying with that group yourself. SO, you’ve got an older brother who listens to the Dead, you get a tie dye, smoke some incense masquerading as ‘opium,’ dance around, figure out it’s not for you, then move on to the guy you kind of goof around with in science class who is really into lacrosse. Maybe you play a few games and get some sandals. Maybe you just reuse the sandals that you had when you were a hippy. Whatever. Anyway, maybe that too, is not for you and so you decide that after a few really fun jazz band practices, you’ll go back to your buddy Doug’s house and listen to his heavy metal and see if that grabs you.
This is the rotating identity cycle that anyone who’s got half a sense of adventure in their life goes through. Nothing really upsets me more than when someone points to someone and mentions that they’ve only been ‘into’ whatever it is (punk/graffiti/bondage) for a short time and therefore they’re a poser or lame or not worthy or whatever. Nope. They’re just figuring shit out. You know what’s sad? Someone who discovered exactly who they are at age fourteen and is still that same person. These are the people, often, who still act like fourteen year olds and are the most quick to decry the person who has just recently discovered the excitement of a particular subculture. Probably, on some level there’s a jealousy factor involved, since the ‘lifer’ has never really had the experience of associating himself with anyone but his initially chosen group of people.
I’m getting off topic here. My point is, categorizing things is a natural impulse in a world of chaos and disorder. That’s why language and ideas of family developed, to use two examples a little more significant than the Gay Ska Rollerbladers Alliance or whatever you’re involved in…but that’s a disingenuous joke, because I’m not talking about specific clubs like the GSRA (you’ll figure it out eventually), I’m talking about larger life choices. Being a working man, a bum, a skeezer, a deadhead, a goth. Almost all people do this shit, and often they defy easy classification because they’re deadheads who play in goth bands and work in an office but also hunt on the weekends (sounds like a RAD dude). But you get the idea. Life’s like jail. You get thrown in, and you better join up with one of these fucking groups, or you’re gonna get fucked in the ass and beaten to a pulp.
Now, the type of people I’m talking about today are not these people who defy easy categorization, as most individuals who are even remotely well rounded do. I’m referring to people who define themselves strictly by their allegiance to something that has no business garnering any allegiance. These are people who feel compelled to exist outside the box but who have no real interesting ideas, and so in a haphazard desperate grasp for an identity, they gripped onto something so fucking marginalized and stupid that no one in the world even cares enough to tell them it’s a pretty dumb little identity they’ve carved out for themselves.
An example? How bout the McRib?
There are motherfuckers who travel around the world just looking for McRibs. That wasn’t just an episode of the Simpsons, man. That’s based in truth. Okay, I understand music, sports, money, sex, food (yes, I said food), being the basis of an identity, but one lousy sandwich? Are you shitting me? that’s a little narrow in scope, no?
There’s that guy in Super Size Me who eats a big mac every day for every meal. What the fuck? That’s your defining characteristic? A sandwich? I mean, I know we JUST went through this with the McRib, but dduuuuuuuuuuuude! A sandwich? Jesus.
Okay, lest you think I’m picking on McDonalds, I have a friend who’s cousin is an avid follower of the band Seven Mary 3. You’ll have to look them up, but you’ll be sorry they did. A byproduct of the grunge scene in the same way that shitting is sometimes a byproduct of giving birth, Seven Mary 3 was a one (arguably 2) hit wonder from about 93. They were a three piece featuring a fat singer with a goatee and some of the dumbest lyrics/songs imaginable. “I have become cumbersome to this world, I have become cumbersome to my girl.” Okay, you’ve got the basic idea, right? Well, my friend told me that his cousin actually FOLLOWS 7M3 (as the fans like to abbreviate) with, I don’t know, how many could there possibly be? A group of fifteen? Thirty? Thirty five at MOST, a traveling, Deadhead like fanbase and they travel to county fairs and bars and shit to watch a still active (!!!) 7M3 perform.
Sounds like the makings of a great documentary, or a terrible lifestyle choice, right? Well, here’s the best part: The dedicated fans have a name for the fans who just come out to see the ‘hit’ song. The ‘hit’ song, as quoted above, is called “cumbersome” and the fair-weather fans? What are they called?
This is true. This is NOT A JOKE, PEOPLE. There are human beings that have dedicated their LIVES to the idea that the entire seven mary three catalog should be celebrated and that those who only like cumbersome should be mocked and ridiculed. Jesus. I wonder what they’ve got in store for the vast majority of earth that thinks seven mary three totally sucks the dick off a goat, cumbersome included.

Okay, I think we get the idea, right? I look forward to rapping with you guys on Monday. I have to go to work and do my best not to kill someone for 8 hours. Ta ta!

Thursday, April 23, 2009

My god you're greasy!

Work work work work work work work. Yaaaaaaaaay!!!! The highlight of my life, just a few moments away now. Hell, by the time you read this, I’ll probably be washing glasses or cutting limes. It promises to be awesome. I actually get a little surge of energy on the days when I have to work. I don’t know if it’s me rising to the challenge or what, but it seems like I waste all my free days dreading work and lots of my work days not really minding it so much. Hmmm…well, I hate washing the dishes and I hate a few of my coworkers and I hate a few of my regulars, but that’s not really any different than the amount of hate I have for anything…Let’s talk about something I love and I’ll tell you why I hate it too. Uh, let’s see…how about family. That’s a good one, right? Everyone can relate to loving their family, and also hating them, or just wanting them to go away, right? I love my family to death, but there’s no doubt about it, if they were all dead, there’d be a lot less pressure, headaches, guilt, shame etc. I’d also be completely destroyed, alone, depressed, without any will to live whatsoever, so make no mistake, I’m in no way looking for a dead family, but you get the point…Even the very best things in the world can get to you. Okay, not that my job is one of the best things in the world either. It bugs the shit out of me, BUT, without it I’d be broke, aimless, panicky and definitely feeling a lot more pressure, headaches, guilt and shame you know, because of having a family, which would probably be worse than just hating my job. Jesus. I should really change the subject.
For ever, playing in a band was my only job. Never mind that we just barely are big enough to do that as an only job and we kind of scrape through by being on the road constantly. It was our only job, and we even have employees, who, when we’re going full time, have no other job either. Something about meeting someone at a party and saying “yeah, I play in a band” when they say “what do you do?” and then responding to the inevitable follow up: “What else do you do?” with “nothing” feels pretty great. There are times when I think I’d almost, ALMOST rather just be jobless than be a bartender, because at least I could still maintain this completely false image of jet setting leisure, you know? “what do you do?” “Oh, I just hang out with my kid and fuck around. I used to tour in a band, but we’re taking some time off so I can be with the baby” sounds so much cooler than “bartender”. BUT, doesn’t really work, does it? Nah, because aimlessness is the worst cancer your soul can get. It’s impossible to shake and it’s what turns easy tasks into impossible obstacles.
Entitlement is the problem with music. There’s a point, after a band has gotten any level of success, that they start feeling entitled to it. And this is true on two levels. First, the actual empirical number of kids at a show/records sold etc. As soon as this number goes down, there is a soul crushing level of devastation that completely destroys the performers on said stages/records. This is, mind you, only true if you’ve actually reached a point where the kids are coming to SEE YOU SPECIFICALLY. If your crappy band played down the street to thirty kids one night, and ten the next week, well, that’s a bummer, sure, but it’s not that feeling of ENTITLED outrage and again, devastation that say, Puddle of Mudd probably feels playing county fairs right now.
The second and much more dangerous form of false entitlement is that of relative popularity. No one likes to see a band that opened up for them on tour blow past their level of success. This is the one that usually ends up making people bitter, shitty old grumps. It doesn’t matter if your band is still popular. If your friend’s newer band suddenly becomes more popular, or has stayed popular longer as you’ve started to fade a little, that’s a bad scene, spirit wise.
I try not to let this sort of shit get to me, especially the second one, because let’s face it, it’s not important. You can only worry about what you do as a band, not what other people do. That’s just a recipe for feeling like shit, because no matter who you are, there’s always someone who’s gonna go farther and last longer. Always. AND there’s nothing AT ALL that’s cool about hating on someone just for being popular. It’s jealousy, and you look like a fucking pussy. Every time, in every situation. (Yeah, crusty kid who no longer listens to NOFX or Against Me!, you too). That’s all it is, that’s all it ever looks like, and if you think it’s not, you’re deluded. Sorry.
The first one is trickier, because it’s actually your own numbers dipping, and this one DOES bother me (not that it’s really happened to us too much, actually…but I always prepare for it) but it’s still a completely retarded thing to worry about. There’s no point in worrying about something you can’t control. If people stop coming, or stop buying or listening, and you’re still doing your thing to the best of your ability, hey man, join the rest of the zillion assholes who make records and play shows that no one gives a shit about. It’s not like they’re gonna lock you up in a tiny shit filled box. You’re just going back to being a regular dude, and one with better memories than most people, so suck a dong, you fucking baby.
It’s funny, because I’m trying to book us shows right now, and I had forgotten what a headache it is. People’s agents, talent buyers, clashes of egos, money hungry cocksmokers on every fucking level of every fucking thing-- the whole thing makes me insane. It’s like bartending, or family or anything else…No matter how great it is, there’s something that’s just gonna fucking make you impossibly pissed.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

and now, a triumphant return to form!

I hung out with some good buddies who were in town last night, got to watch a rock show and had a overall amazing time. This morning I woke up, sleep deprived and with heartburn, smelling like ass and realizing that I’ve got these unpaid parking tickets just haunting me. I just went on the website to pay them and they’ve got no fucking record of them…I’m bummed. Also, I need to do this online traffic school bullshit and get a decent job and finish this script and book shows and I have zero energy for any of it. I’m supposed to be writing songs, but I’m avoiding it. I’m actually barely able to do this dumb blog…it’s irritating me today, which means this will probably end quickly, but none of this is here or there. My point is, I’m a little overwhelmed and I honestly can’t figure out why. I don’t do anything particularly stressful. I hang out with a baby most of the time and that’s about it. I go to the gym, write things, park my car illegally, have some friends over, work at a bar on occasion, and I’m feeling stressed out. Oh mercy me! I need to go to the bank today. How will I ever cope? It’s retarded, man.
I didn’t write yesterday because I didn’t have time. That’s not true. I don’t remember what the fuck was going on yesterday, but it sure wasn’t so fucking hectic that I couldn’t crank out a couple of dumb anecdotes about hanging out with a group of gay French teenagers or something. Who knows? I think my job is getting to me. It’s not a terrible job, but it’s been going on for a little while now, and I think I’ve wrung all the life experience I can out of it. I just feel like I’m constantly washing glasses and kissing ass and I don’t really enjoy either of those pastimes too much. I want to do something but I don’t know what. Watching my friends play music last night made me sort of want to be on the road for the first time in a long time, but it’s one of those things, you know? I mentioned that to one of the guys and he said, ‘okay. Let’s trade.’ It’s true what they say about happiness, you know? It’s fleeting and unstable and it doesn’t come from money or success or anything like that. It comes from everything, but only just for a second.
In those brief moments where everything’s kicking ass, you just got a blowjob and deposited a huge check and your mom likes you and your dumb little art project got a bit of recognition or whatever, happiness exists. No worries, right? It’s just sort of all firing together. Next week though? No blowjob, bad day at the office, your friend is acting like a dick and you got drunk and sent a questionable email to someone. Uh oh. Suddenly everything sucks. I don’t know what the solution is to this…I guess that’s the great mystery of existence, right? How can I be happy? There are lots and lots of easy answers out there and you know what? Most of them are correct. They will make you happy…How can I be happy? Well, lose weight, get a better job, some hair restoration, pop bigger boners than you ever have before, have a burger, drink Pepsi, put your baby in nice diapers, and on and on. These things DO make motherfuckers happy. Haircuts. Man, nothing like getting an nice haircut and hanging out feeling good about yourself, you know? It’s that small stuff that creates the temporary illusions of happiness that we cobble together into some sort of chain of memory to convince ourselves that we should keep living. Jesus chirst! Deeeeeepressing, huh? Well, fuck it. I don’t know.
My father in law has a social exercise that he busts out at parties and stuff. Someone will mention feeling aimless or directionless (which is sort of, in a nutshell what I’ve been talking about here) and he’ll ask “what would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”
It’s a good question. Do people really have an answer to this, though? I feel like what’s his dick from Office Space. I’d kind of just like to kick it…But I’d get bored and restless, I suppose. So, what? Travel show host? Blowjob contest judge? Those sound like pretty good jobs, I guess. Huh. Look, I’m not trying to figure it all out today, man. Okay, get out there and live. I gotta take my kid to the doctor. His penis is dangerously large. Heh.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Hey, lemme get one of those cigarettes.

Droids, wizards, fat kids, chronic masurbators, CEO’s and fry cooks, welcome to the greatest place on the internet! Finally, a website that isn’t just distended assholes and recaps of Sean Hannity’s show. That’s right! Welcome to Bad Sandwich Chronicles, every compulsive internet porn aficionado’s reload page (you know…filling the balls back up…Heh. Wait, what? Too far? Yeah?…sigh). As you may or may not have noticed, I’ve got no idea what to write about today. I decided not to go to the gym, due to the fact that I’m already in top physical condition and I’ve decided not to take my baby to the doctor for the very same reason. As a result, I’m just kind of letting shit roar.
His birthday party, Rambo themed, was a huge success, even if the idea of him in a bandanna on a tarp just manhandling a cake proved to be more fun for the wide eyed grown ups than for the confused and somewhat sleepy baby. Nevertheless, he got a little high on frosting and opened some great toys and the whole first birthday thing was successful. He was surrounded by hot broads that just wanted to squeeze him the whole time, which, believe it or not, makes almost any party easier to bear. AND we had a bagel bar, so there’s that.
I played a show this weekend. Hosted some in laws, had a birthday party, bartended. Fuuuuck. That’s productivity, man. What did you do? Thought so. See?
Okay, there are lots of people in this world and I’m dedicated to defining them all. Up next, crazy guys.

These people are all men over sixty and they walk around with their buttcrack just blazing over saggy sweatpants that are held up with an extension cord. They drink brandy and eat eggs and they kind of smell like a dead grandpa. Sometimes they’ll ask you for a marker and then lick the felt part. Crazy guys are funny, because you want to like them, and you tell your friends “oh, Wolfgtang, he’s rad” but secretly, he scares the shit out of you. That’s the thing about crazy. It’s magnetic and revolting at the same time. It’s really confidence gone wild. That’s why Richard Ramirez was able to get married in jail, you know? He’s so confident that he feels comfortable killing people, and as I’ve mentioned before, confidence is the ONLY thing on this earth that’s attractive to all women. Confidence is so powerful, that being the kind of guy that KILLS PEOPLE can’t even trump how sexy it makes you. Think about that, dudes. How many times have you heard a chick tell you that some guy (maybe even you) is creepy? What’s creepy mean? He skeeves them out? He seems like he might fly off the handle? She doesn’t know his motivation? Well, Richard Ramirez is a convicted rapist and murderer…kind of creepy, I guess…but he still got married in jail and could probably cheat on his wife with other women IN JAIL. The point is, that’s how powerful confidence is, gents. You think I’m fucking around when I mention confidence as the end all, be all of meeting women, but just look at crazy dudes if you want proof. They kill and rape and beat the shit out of chicks and the chicks keep on lining up. Why? Why do you think? Because these crazy motherfuckers command respect. It’s not their abs or their boats or their hair gel, it’s their crazy fucking confidence. Nothing is hotter than crazy. It’s intriguing. The best songs? Crazy dudes wrote em. The best movies? About and by crazy dudes. And what is crazy? Confidence gone berserk. Even the paranoid are so confident that everyone in the world is paying attention to them that it’s made em nuts.
Crazy guys are at their happiest with a slim jim, a pint of wild irish rose and someone sitting there listening to their oral manifesto. The very best crazy guys can still go into restaurants and bars because they’re not quite crazy enough to just get wasted and start fights with the waitresses, but those ones are rare. Mostly, you’ll find them pissing on traffic cones, talking to cops, kids and parking meters about how whatever the fuck it is is so fucked up and it’s preventing them from getting ahead and simultaneously making a half assed attempt to get their dickies back over their exposed buttcracks. Hey man, there but for the grace of god go I, right? Yeah. Let’s talk tomorrow. I got shit to do.

Saturday, April 18, 2009


The Lawrence Arms are performing at Reckless Records in Wicker Park at 3pm. Be there or be super lame. Happy Record Store day. Expect greatness and it will come to you.

Friday, April 17, 2009

you say it's your birthday?

Today is my kid’s first birthday. He’s one. Hard to believe. I don’t know if it seems like time’s flying or not. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t around or my wife wasn’t pregnant, but still, it’s been astounding. It’s been a hell of a year. So many firsts. Maybe I’ll enumerate them, you know, just to pass the time.

Things I’d never done before this year:
Wiped someone else’s ass- Man, what a joy. Nothing like getting dinner all ready to eat, on the table and then having to scoop feces out of the wrinkly chasms that surround someone else’s balls. It’s like an appetizer for your mind. Other times this is great? First thing in the morning. Middle of the night, when you’re trying to negotiate the terms of a beej. Any time, really. Never done any third party butt wiping before this year, but I look forward to more and more of it as we have more kids and my parents continue to decay.

Slept in until 830 and felt refreshed- Actually, when I was a kid I used to wake up at four and five and watch the lone ranger on tv. On Sundays I used to get up real early, excited to watch the WWF (which was what the WWE used to be called [for the ladies out there, I’m talking about pro wrestling]) but wrestling didn’t come on until 9 so I’d have to sit through Jerry Falwell’s televised sermons. Never occurred to me to not watch TV. Instead, I just suffered, and as a result began loathing Jerry Falwell and church in general. I mean, give me my fucking giant muscle men grappling around in speedoes! I don’t want to hear this religious nut blabbing conspiracy theories about gay recruiters attempting to draw in young people by sneaking pro homosexual messages into seemingly benign entertainment, you know?

Known about all this crazy baby shit- There are humongous companies out there with names like Graco, Chicco, McLaren, you get the idea. Shit you’ve never heard of, but it’s a gigantic business. Of course, like any successful commercial pillar of the economy, it’s all fear based. I know I’m not really busting out any amazingly surprising info here, but if you’re really feeling really really really bored and you want an idea of what I’m talking about, go to Babies R Us and be prepared to be amazed. They’ll tell you about the way the Snap n Go is okay, but the Graco seat that goes in it doesn’t have as good of a travel system and I don’t know if your baby may not just die if you go for the cheap option…here are a thousand car seats, some very deadly, here are some monitors, without these, your baby will certainly die. These are just a few items that may make your child grow up to not be retarded, never can tell, but lots of kids wind up autistic if they don’t get a few of these items…You get the idea. Domestic terror isn’t just crazy separatists in Montana anymore. It’s happening in babies r us.

Seen birth- and had it scorched into my memory. Pretty wild. Let's just say it's like absolutely nothing I've ever seen. Wowzers.

Okay, there’s more…much more but I have to go to work. All in all, pretty great year. Also, I had never blogged before this year. So there’s that. I’m talking about the fiscal year people, not the year of our lord. Okay. Happy birthday baby! Your daddy is very proud of you. The rest of you felch belching perverts can go suck a dog dick.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Ugh! Doooooooooogs.

Good morning. Last night I went out. It’s a rarity for me…I’m usually wiping asses and taking butt thermometer temperatures all night, but yesterday I got word that Blag from the Dwarves was gonna be hosting a burlesque show and that he was gonna give me some money. That got me out of the hose. I showed up only to discover that it was a classic bait and switch. He didn’t have money to give me, and actually, he wanted money from me. what the fuck? It’s like the Godfather 3 over here. Needless to say, I killed his family.
Okay, anyway, I have to work soon and I’m tired and I don’t feel like writing too much of this today, so I’m going to go ahead and fall back on my gimmick.
Different types of people in the world--
The woefully inappropriate:
These are most always guys. Usually, they’re kind of stupid and 100% of the time they have no idea how much they’re creeping everyone out. This is a self awareness issue more than anything, because the ‘woefully inappropriate’ guy never EVER recognizes himself as a woefully inappropriate guy. This is actually pretty simple. If said guy (let’s call him Stanley) knew that every time he talked to me, I wanted to punch him in the face, he’d surely slow his roll, BUT he’s got no idea that (for example) saying something like “that’s a big baby you’ve got there, Brendan…Looks like mama’s got some good milk, right?” and attempting to high five me is so woefully inappropriate. To him, it’s just a good, old fashioned joke.
To put it mildly, the woefully inappropriate dude is a massive bummer. Especially if you get into a situation where you have to introduce him to a real friend with a functioning brain. Oh jeez. You may as well just wear a shirt that says “sorry about this dildo. I’m just as bummed out as you are. Sorry again.”
Recently I had lunch with a woefully inappropriate friend and my kid and here are just a couple of the things he said while we were eating.

“wow, man. That kid came out of your dick.”
“Oh look, he’s flirting with the waitress.” (to the baby) “don’t worry. I’ll tell you how her pussy tastes.”
“Dude, you MADE that kid with your jizz!”

Seriously? That’s how you’re talking in public now? You’ve got no clue that this kind of banter is bad form? Here’s a quick rule of thumb: If the idea you’re about to share involves jizz or pussy juice or anal leakage or something, wait until people are done eating, count to three, picture saying it to your mom, think about it, wait, and then proceed, ONLY if you’re SURE that the laughability trumps the creepiness.
It’s actually kind of fascinating. I should take a poll and find out what these guys’ parents did, because their parenting has left me indefinitely uncomfortable, Interestingly, these dudes are almost always single (duh) and they have no idea why.
I don’t even know what else to say about the woefully inappropriate, except that I know one who comes into my bar and besides being just gross and constantly skeeving me out, he eats the gnarliest shit ever. It’s probably symptomatic of the same issue. He gets rocks glasses of Jager and orders a bowl of mayo with his burger, and also gets a big bowl of coleslaw on the side (extra mayo). He also tells me about doing key bumps at the Allman Brothers show and sits at the bar and downloads Phish bootlegs. Woefully inappropriate enough for you? Christ. I’m already so bummed and I haven’t even gone to work yet.
Okay, my inlaws come tonight, and tomorrow my kid turns one. This is an exciting time to be a daddy. I think I’m hung over. I should stay in bed, or at the very least tell Stanley to go fuck himself, right? Sigh.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

greetings everyone!

I'm not posting today, as you may have noticed, but i'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for making last night a great time, and also to give you guys a chance to talk about how great I was/how much you wanted to bone me/whatever. Don't say I never gave you nothin.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Show tonight, mofuckerz!

Aw yeah. Big day. Tuesday. I’m playing a show tonight with Blag from the Dwarves at the Debonair social club in Chicago. That’s in Wicker Park, people. Just south of North Avenue on Milwaukee. What time? Huh. Good question. I have no fucking idea. I figure I’m just gonna show up around dinner time and see what’s poppin off (an urban phrase which loosely translates as “examine the itinerary at [location x], and also see if there are any spontaneous happenings of interest occurring”). I honestly have no idea what to expect. If it’s me, Blag and a couple of Dwarves fans and some coked up club skanks in tube tops, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m pretty positive it’s a 21+ show, so there’s that. Also, I’m pretty sure I play before Blag, but again, I don’t really know what to expect. It’s his show, so I figure he’ll be headlining, but you never know. I mean, shit, just recently the Queers tried to make Teenage Bottlerocket play after them at a south by southwest showcase (that is, for those of you who don’t know, totally ridiculous)…you can’t trust that older generation of punk rockers, man. So, I’m coming armed with a switchblade, a comb and uh…dude. I don’t know. This is more thinking than any of us should ever have to do about a dumb acoustic show featuring dudes who don’t usually play acoustic taking place at a club that has foam parties. Just show up, kay? The more of you that show up, the better I’ll play.
My baby got super high last night and as a result, he slept in until 815 this morning and when he woke up, he was like “man, what happened?’
Nah. Just kidding. He doesn’t get high. Well, he gets pretty excited when you give him a piece of bread or a banana or a cup of water, but it’s really not ‘getting high’ per se, you know? Yeah, he’s just tired because he was up late night before last. Point being, um, he’s throwing off my schedule…erm, uh…Okay, that’s dull too. One more try…Here goes:
Different types of people that are in the world:
People who know what’s best for you:
THESE fucking people, man. They’re everywhere and they’re usually pretty hard to deal with. If you’ve seen the movie Magnolia, the John C Riley cop character is a great example of this type of person. In any given situation, he’s got a didactic little suggestion that would really be beneficial that he’d like to suggest. These people come in three major forms: parents, cops and bosses. Now, not all parents, cops or bosses are like this, but the second two (cops and bosses) are the types of jobs that tend to attract people like this and the first one is sort of different. Parents can be cool parents that grow to be friendly with their children, or they can be didactic nagging shits from the second the child is born until the moment that they (the parent, hopefully) die. Yes, there is a point when ALL parents say things like “Hey dummy, you CANNOT do that! It’s dangerous/stupid/dangerously stupid” but theres a massive difference between giving someone guidance and laying down stupid cop-like arbitrary directives based on taste/opinion.
(okay, let’s just get this out of the way now. Yes, parents should be reasonably allowed to impose their taste on their kids and yes, every parent probably gets overzealous and didactic at times and YES it IS the job of the parent to be the person who sets the rules and parameters and NO I am not purporting to know everything there is to know about parenting…fuck, man, My kid is 1. I know nothing. I don’t know which kind of a parent I even am, [I think that’s the kind of reflexivity that people are rarely privy to in their lives]. AND finally, you know what I’m talking about, you assholes. Think about how cool your parents are, and how you like them and you want to hang out with them all the time. Now think of your best friend’s parents. Notice that they’re not as much fun to be around? It’s not a difference in the quality of parenting. You and your friend turned out relatively similar. It’s that your parents were people who guided you through life and your best friend’s parents were know it all pricks. It’s not necessarily wrong, it’s just fucking irritating.)
Cops pull this kind of shit a lot. Pulled over for a broken light? They’ll also tell you that your music is a little too loud, or that you should know better than not to have an updated city sticker, or mention that your ashtray is too full, and anyway, you really shouldn’t smoke. It’ll kill ya, you know.
Bosses who always need to get the last word in, or lecture or shame employees for honest mistakes make up the final third of this category and I don’t even feel the need to go into this one, because EVERYONE knows this fucking boss.
I guess that’s really the thing, people who know what’s best for you tend to place a moral emphasis on every decision. Every thing you do wrong carries a hint of shame and everything that they explain to you that should be done their way comes with a righteous authority. It’s fucking irritating beyond belief. This is a close cousin to “judgmental cocksucker” who is probably my least favorite guy on the planet, and who will be addressed soon in this space. Suffice it to say, ‘people who know what’s best for you’ get the thumbs down from me in a big way.
Jesus, just writing about these people gets me sweaty with rage. Let’s write about a good type of person, just to clean the palate a little and end on a happy note.

People who love to give blowjobs: These selfless angels will stop at nothing to make your day. Some people of note who fit this category include Maya Angelou, Lindsay Lohan, Ted Haggard and Tom Cruise.
See you tonight.

Monday, April 13, 2009

SHOW TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, first and foremost, I was wrong. I said my show in Chicago with Blag from the mighty Dwarves was on Wednesday, but it’s tomorrow. It’s Tuesday the fourteenth. It’s at the Debonair social club (on Milwaukee, just south of North Ave) and I’m playing acoustic, Matt Skiba is (in theory) Djing, and Blag from the Dwarves is playing acoustic too. If the show in Florida on Friday is any indication, I’m gonna be great. Come on down and have some fun. Bring pills.
So, yeah, Florida show. It was swell. For those of you who don’t know what I’m referring to, Tom from Against Me, Dan from the Alkaline Trio and little old me got together down in the shaft of America to play some acoustic songs. Those guys were both great, but let’s be honest, I was the real highlight, right? Of course I was.
Nah, seriously it was a good time. There was a point though where I wanted to hang out with my friends (because, you know…socialization of mammals and all that; I get lonely just standing in a parking lot drinking amstel by myself) and the only people I knew there were Dan and Tom…but they both had lines of people waiting to get them to sign shit/pose for pics etc. And fuck, man. I’m not standing in line to get a picture with Tom. That’s crazy. Much less to just casually say, “check out that guy’s pants. What’s he? A medieval Russian blacksmith?” You know? That’s off the cuff stuff. Not ‘stand in line’ stuff. So I just kind of kicked it in the lot, drinking beer. But that’s cool. That’s how I grew up. Standing in parking lots drinking beer waiting for shows to start. It was a lot like Rocky going back to his old gym, or Dahmer killing dogs. You gotta remember and embrace what made you who you are. Unless it’s some kind of incest thing, then, probably it’s okay to just forget it and move on. Uh…woah, heavy. Anyway.
Yeah, so I looked around a little bit, and here’s what I noticed (and I probably rattled this little joke off about a zillion times while I was in Florida) it was all Trio shirts and Against Me! shirts, which pretty much means it looked EXACTLY like a Lawrence Arms show. Huh? Huh? Right? Hmmm… It seemed funnier at the time I guess. Fuck. You people are grumpy today. What’s the problem? Case of the Mondays? Had to take another morning after pill? Dead pet? Shitty job? No job? Going to Jail? Out of drugs? Yeah…bummer.
Okay, so last thing about the show…these young girls (22ish) were asking Dan and Tom to sign their posters (nice silkscreened posters were made for the show) and then, as an afterthought they approached me and said, “hey! You should sign the poster too!” As I was signing, one of the girls said “you’re gonna have to get used to this. You’ll be doing this a lot some day!”
Isn’t that sweet? She thought I was at the BEGINNING of my long arc of a career in the music business. Nowhere to go but slightly up, before ultimately plummeting back down. It was sweet. It was a real return to my roots…again, with the standing around in the parking lot and the…Look, you know what I’m sezzin, right?
Yeah, but it was good. I had a great, great time playing and Tom and Dan were both awesome. I’m assuming that tomorrow night is gonna be really fun too. I hope you guys come out.
Today, I’m gonna end this thing early, because I need to go pick up our first ever roadie and take him to breakfast. He’s back in Chicago after a long stint working as a bartender at the biggest strip club in Denver. Tits make this guy yawn now, but show him a set of sweaty nuts and he’s insatiable! He’d punch his aunt in the face for some nuts, boy.
Okay, whatever. Happy Monday. Tomorrow I’ll be back in proper form.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Why don't you open your eyes and see?

This is a highly unusual morning. My wife, who tends to be busy, and as a result, successful, is home. She’s on her computer right across from me, working from home as she waits to go to a meeting or something. This is preventing me from doing what I usually do, which is type this blog naked with a banana up my ass while watching german shit porn on the television. Oh, quit being such a puritan. The baby’s at daycare.
This is a hell of a segue into my new installment--Types of people:
Germans- These fucking people, man. Wow. Germany is the only place where I’ve seen a guy on the street with frosted tips, leather pants and a suede motorcycle jacket sparing for change. We told him to suck it up and go back to his salon and beg for his chair back. German men, as a rule have a very particular idea about how shit should be done, and they can be amazingly unbending when it comes to compromise. I know there’s a historical precedent for this that’s uh, what’s the word? Huge? Not quite right, but anyway, I’m not trying to suggest anything like that. Germans, in general, tend to be outspoken and absolute in their ideas of what’s stupid/great/working/not working and these opinions and ideas don’t tend to shift very often. This leads to lots of german guys coming across as a bit robotic and cold and German women coming off as either robotic and cold or completely fucking awesome. An outspoken, slightly bitchy frau with huge pointy cans is a fun frau to down some steins with, for sure. Prost.
Some funny Germans I know:
I know a 44 year old German with only a few teeth who’s about five five, bald, with a barbed wire tattoo around his neck. He wears XXL basketball jerseys and flannel pajama pants all the time. His ex girlfriend’s name is tattooed on his neck, on his wrist and huge on his belly. He told me once “yeah, I’m still not really getting over her.” No shit, dude. Your body is quite literally a shrine to her…Not surprising that you’re still attached in some way. This guy, who’s one of the best guys in the world, by the way, only eats two things: sugar and faces. I know, what the fuck does that mean? It means I’ve only ever seen him eat candy, but I’ve heard him threaten to eat more than a few people’s faces. The best time was when some security guards tried to encircle us in a London McDonalds. They were North African dudes, and my German friend didn’t even look up. He just sat there and said, “you think your dick is big? I’ll eat your face.” This, somehow, did the trick. They left us alone.
Keep in mind that we were being encircled because the other guy we were with had tried to pass a counterfeit 20 pound note and was being arrested. Somehow, instead of going to jail, he ended up picking up some chick and going back to her house and, you know, pumping her. Nice. Nothing like picking up a counterfeiting foreigner who’s on his way to jail in a McDonalds at two in the morning and taking him home. That’s just so well thought out, you know?
I think I may have written about this before…Okay, more Germans.
Nah, I don’t want to get into all these Germans. There are tons of them, but here’s the thing about germans, they will, make no mistake, insult you every single time that they try to compliment you. It’s called a German compliment, and anyone who’s EVER traveled through Germany extensively (especially in a band) knows all about it. It’s a compliment laced with an insult, AND the insult is as insulting as the compliment is flattering, so you (the non-german) usually walk away a little pissed off. Here are some German compliments:
“I love your records, but tonight you were so terrible.”
“Your voice is great, but you have gotten so fat”
“I think your band is awful, but tonight was not so bad.”
“Kids like your band, I don’t know why they don’t like your t shirts. Maybe it’s because the designs are so bad, or maybe it’s because you played so poorly”
“It’s funny that the girls all like you, because in my opinion you’re really not that good looking, you know?”
“Last time, you guys were great. This time it was so boring.’
“I think this show was much better than the last. That was terrible, right?”
“my friend, I think wants to have sex with you for some reason”
This last one needs to be punctuated with an index finger swirling at the temple to indicate the absolute crazy stupidness of the idea of sleeping with you.
Yeah, so you get it. German compliments. Reading over these, it seems like maybe we’re just not a very good band, and I’m at ease with that, but I swear to you, EVERY person who travels through Germany knows these compliments. God, I just had a vision of the backstage/bunkhouse in Schweinfurt and it gave me a cold chill. I don’t know why, though. That place has great food and good looking bartenders. Germany, man.
Once, we were hanging out after the last show of our tour, we were in Berlin at the guy with the sugar/face only diet that I was telling you about earlier’s house. His roommate, who I called half-a-mouth-of-teeth for some reason I don’t feel like I need to go into, and I were awake smoking some hash. Everyone else was asleep and I was dying to go to sleep. We flew out the next day and I was exhausted and we had to wake up in about two hours. I had tried to excuse myself politely a few times, but there was a certain germanness that could not be penetrated with polite suggestion, so eventually, I stood up and said, “dude. I’m going to bed. Thanks for the hospitality.” And he said, “okay, no problem. Just let me ask you one question before you go to sleep.”
“What do you think about the attacks of September the eleventh?”

That’s Germans folks. Up next: gay French guys. But first, come see me at cafĂ© 11 in St. Augustine tomorrow. Make some requests, and if they line up with the songs I’m already playing, I’ll take them. Later days, better lays.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

I'm a busy man. I don't have time to wait around for pain, ketchup, the weather. That's why I'm a heroin user. Heroin. It makes everything unimportant

I’ve been rehearsing for my show in St. Augustine, Florida this Friday with Dan from the Alkaline Trio and Tom from Against Me! and I think I’ve managed to scrape together something not entirely embarrassing. I’m also playing a show in Chicago on Wednesday night at the Debonair social club. It’s also an acoustic show and it’s with Blag from the Dwarves. I can’t even imagine how strange that show will end up being. The Dwarves are a mostly nude, highly crass, dick waggling tit groping rock and roll band, and besides me having no idea how that’s going to translate to an acoustic performance, the culture clash that is bound to occur when the dwarves fans meet the regular clientele of the Debonair Social Club (last time I was in that place, Pete Wentz was there, just to give you an idea) promises to be amusing, to say the least. Also, some guy named Matt Skiba is Djing the show, apparently. He’s single, fellas. Come get some. Or come for the music. I think I’m gonna play pretty much exactly what I play in Florida…So, if you can’t make it there, come to the Debonair in Wicker Park a week from today.
Okay, enough advertising. Sorry to do that, but that’s how I make my money, selling ad space here in the content of the blog. Thankfully, I only endorse products I believe in. By the way, unrelated topic, have you guys noticed that Tucks brand medicated pads beat the absolute piss out of those preperation H pads when it comes to soothing a raw and distended ass passage? It’s true. Sorry, that was just on my mind for some reason.
Where was I? Oh yeah, advertising. Eh, what a soulless endeavor. Who dares advertise?
It’s funny that advertising is SUCH a demonized thing. In essence, it’s really not bad. There’s someone providing a service (selling cars, blowjobs, acupuncture, cheeseburgers) and there are people who want that service and advertising is the way to connect them. It’s completely benign, yet somewhere along the way, advertising became this cultural shorthand for soullessness and moral bankruptcy. Why? Because there are too many people in the world. Too many things, too many potential consumers and there are ads everywhere and they have to resort to increasingly inane lengths of craziness to get your attention. People are sick of it and they blame the advertisers. And yeah, they’re kind of middle men, neither producing or consuming, but getting the word out there is important too, you know. Fuck, it’s not the ad guy’s fault that there are currently nine colas that taste exactly the same competing for that shelf in your fridge. I mean, I have my hotmail open right now, and there’s an ad here telling me that I can get four Disney dvds for two bucks each. Couldn’t be less interested. It’s mildly irritating. MILDLY. Less than a fly in the room, less than an itch. BUT, it’s not the fault of the advertisers, is it? No. It’s the fault of Disney for cranking crap out and Hotmail for allowing it to appear on my page.
I don’t know, man. In the world of movies, if a character is introduced as an advertiser, you can bet your ass that he/she has a distant relationship with their family, or no family at all, and is married to his/her job and will, usually with the help of a sprightly free spirited toe-ringed Jen Anniston or barely clothed Matt Mcconaughey learn how to feel the warmth of humanity and probably blow a big pitch, tell the boss to stuff it and be on the verge of getting fired when one of two things will happen. Either they will quit, shunning the cold, robotic, evil and calculating world of advertising and embrace their humanness, OR they will use that SAME humanity that Mateo and/or Jen exposed them to to create THE BEST ad campaign ever, to the chagrin of the soulless boss. There you go. All movies with ad exec protagonists—solved. Don’t bother seeing them. You can see Matt’s chest and Jen’s desperation disguised as cavalier living in magazines.
Back to the ad man, the thing is, why? Again, it’s really just bridging the gap between, for example, hungry fat guys and the place that makes the omelet, bacon, mayo, cheese, sausage and gravy breakfast hoagie. They WANT to find each other. We’re all just sick of it. That’s why it’s now being cleverly integrated into CONTENT so you don’t realize you’re being advertised to. Because in this day and age, an ad is like a panty line…as much as we may like what it represents, seeing it kind of fucks everything up.
In an unrelated note, I sure am crazy about Campbell’s new microwaveable line of soups on the go. They’re delicious. They absolutely make the competition’s slow ass soups taste like pig jizz in comparison. Just saying. Where was I? Oh yes. Felching.
SO the secret to really shooting a high quality felching video is to shoot through a clean piece of glass or, in a pinch, a piece of saran wrap.
Okay, enough of that. Uh, What else?
Oh, my guide to human beings. Right. How about these dudes:

People who come into a bar and ask what the cheapest thing is- These people don’t tip. They’re broadcasting that they don’t tip, AND more often than not, they’re so embarrassed by the fact that they don’t tip and that the bartender obviously hates them that they chug their Busch Light and leave within five minutes. Here’s some advice, you stupid cheap money wasting mongaloid—BUY A SIXPACK or a fifth of whiskey or a forty ounce at the fucking liquor store. You’re not in the bar for the ambience, obviously, and you have no money, and you…you know what? Forget it. If you don’t understand why this is a move of retardation on point with picking your nose with a drill, then I’m not going to be able to explain it to you, especially in print. These are not to be confused with “people who don’t tip because they’re oblivious assholes” which is a whole other kind of wretched dildo (that’s a good name for a band, “wretched dildo”. No stealing, you pud junkies. Fuck, that’s good too. Sheeeit.
It’s not too late to get your tickets to st. Augustine, to see me, Tom and Dan this Friday. Oh yeah, and have you noticed how much legroom Frontier has? It’s just divine. It makes flying United seem like being on the Amistad by comparison.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Calling Darren Johnston (or whatever his name was)!

Man, I wonder what ever happened to the guy on my fake ID. He was from Omaha and he was born in 72. Honestly, I can’t believe I remember even that much about him. I was him for a while and then my friend Farth became him once I turned 21. The guy didn’t really look anything like me. He was pale, five seven and, well, look, man. He didn’t look much like me. We were both sentient beings with faces and the same number of nostrils, and it worked on occasion. I used him to get cigarettes and beer at stores, and occasionally to get into bars, but that was kind of a joke, because I was WAY too chicken to go to any bars where I didn’t know anyone. And, of course, using the fake ID at the bar where your friend is the door man and your other friend is a bartender is sort of like telling your girlfriend that you’ve got a nine inch dick after she’s already you know, seen it and played around on it herself.
The result is something like “yeah, okay, whatever” followed by a smirk and an eye roll then followed up later with a conversation with their coworkers about how fucking deluded you are.
But anyway, there’s this guy out there somewhere and I was him for a second. That’s pretty cool, right? Identity theft. Pseudonyms, AKA [whatever that guy’s name was], aliases, that’s some KGB type stuff. And I was just a teenager. Take that civilization!
I know, we all had fake ID’s and a lot of them were way more illegal than the one I found in a grocery store parking lot. My ex girlfriend had a real ID that she got by using a fake birth certificate…that’s fucking serious, right? I also know that tons of people used their friend’s info to get duplicates with their own pictures or just went in and altered the numbers printed on the card. All good ideas, but this guy Ken that I went to highschool with freshman year had, by far, the greatest fake ID I’ve ever seen.
Ken was a true child of the corn, or the earth or the soil or whatever people are saying nowadays that’s a euphemism for being a hillbilly. He had those teeth that had spaces between each one, and a lot of them were kind of pointy. He had a flowbee haircut and some interesting (read:spooky) eyes. Ken and I took different trains to school, but always ended up at the train station waiting for the bus to school at the same time. He’s the guy who taught me to blow smoke rings, which was pretty cool. He was also the first person I remember knowing about with a fake ID.
It came up because he always had smokes, and I was impressed and told him so. He went on to tell me that he had beer back at his house and that he got it using a fake ID. He admitted it “wasn’t the best” but I was unprepared for how awesomely bad it actually turned out to be.
Ken, highschool sophomore in 1992, had a veterans ID that stated he was a decorated hero of the conflict in Viet Nam. The ID also said he was black. The ID also had a picture of a black veteran on it, but Ken had just scotch taped his own picture over that.
I mean, the balls on this kid!
I’m sure now that Ken’s in jail or working as a cashier in west Chicago, or maybe he’s some wealthy industrialist somewhere (not likely) but he’s got this connection with this old black guy that the old black guy doesn’t even know about. That’s amazing. Just like me and farth and the guy from Omaha. There are millions of bored people out there, staggering, dazed and open mouthed through the brutal hell on earth that is life, and the only thing that has ever made this intolerable death march bearable for even just a moment was assuming the identity or birthdate of someone else and somehow hopefully scoring enough cigarettes and wine coolers to come out on the other side with a handjob. That’s a beautiful thing, man.
I wonder if there are kids out there with my old ID’s. Nah…Impossible. I’ve never lost one. BUT I do have a friend who’s the kind of guy that can get pills from a hospital no matter what. He goes in and cleverly circumvents any behaviors that indicate that he’s “drug seeking” and lists the symptoms that he knows lead to getting prescribed opiates. Very clever…He apparently always uses my name when he does this. AND he’s been doing it since before we knew each other, which…flattering? I guess. I mean, it’s not like my name is Grundel Dingleballs or something. Brendan Kelly is pretty common actually. If you google it, the guy who invented one of those graphing calculators comes up first, and that actor comes up next and I don’t know, I’m in there somewhere…it’s cool. The only thing that really bums me out is, which is some sort of god themed website, further proving to me that the theocratti are spying on me.
Anyway, I’m off topic again. It always goes back to how tech god people want to drag me down just because I think their whole lives are devoted to making other people miserable and therefore hate their dumb god. Sheesh.
Oh, I almost forgot. Second in my installment of ‘all the different people in the world’ coming right up.

Tech God people- These people love god. They use the internet to profess said love for god ignoring the obvious problems of cravenness that arise from forcing people to essentially pray to screens. BUT hey, some commandments are a real bitch to follow. It’s not like they’re researching cures for cancer using stem cells or killing people. They’re just making websites and damning people to hell via angelfire and dreamweaver.
People who are into god, as a rule, have THE WORST sense of aesthetic of any people on earth that aren’t specifically into renaissance fairs, and their websites betray this. Some, but not all of these internet god types research pornography tirelessly on the web. Sometimes up to three times a day. That’s the kind of bravery that keeps the world turning, people.
Okay, enough of that. I want you to go out there today and find that person who’s identity you adopted all those years ago (or are still adopting now) and thank them. Actually, don’t. They’ll probably freak out/whup your ass/call the cops. Never mind. Have a beer at lunch, then. That should do it.

Monday, April 6, 2009

presenting a bold new strategic paradigm!!!!!

I have learned a thing or two during my time among you earth people, and not the least of this information has concerned successful blogging. This weekend, I carefully synthesized my blogging info, or ‘blogfo’ and came to a startling conclusion. Namely, I--Bad Sandwich Chronicles can never be popular/a book/recognized as some sort of harbinger of some cultural zeitgeist as I/it currently operate(s). It’s a real shame. I’ll pause for a second to let this settle in.

Okay, everyone recovered? Here’s the thing. Famous blogs (which is such a stupid category of things, by the way. It’s like ‘great surf spots in the Midwest’ or ‘sexiest corpse’) all have themes. “things white people like” or ‘passive aggressive notes” or the one where that asshole talks about all the chicks he fucks, or guess her muff. Hot chicks with douchebags. Cats saying misspelled shit. THIS is the precipice of hip blog success. You need a concept, man. All this sitting around and waxing poetic about your friends and the nature of art and bitching about your job, that’s livejournal shit, man. This is the big leagues. BLOGSPOT, where book deals are forged, where souls are scooped from the masses of teeming filthy schlongs and placed on glimmering pedestals made of crystal and bronze for…listen, you get the idea, right? You need a gimmick these days. Actually, this isn’t just the case with blogging, believe it or not.
A person can be very smart on their own, but PEOPLE are idiots. This is important for two completely opposite reasons. First, these dummies aren’t going to take the time to sift through all the bullshit to find something they like, they need to be handed something with a big, tangible reason to like it printed right on it. For example: “dude, have you heard this band, Gogol Bordello? They’re awesome! It’s like, a bunch of gypsies playing punk music!”
“Wow. That’s a novel idea. I think I like the idea so much, that the band probably doesn’t have to be particularly good…It’s enough that they came up with the idea. As long as I get to tell the next dude about them, I’m down.”
This isn’t necessarily terrible because of the second reason, namely, since people are stupid, most of the shit they make is also stupid, so there’s no point in sifting through a zillion different blogs, bands, painters, tv shows…it’s about ninety nine percent terrible as is…It’s maybe best to wait for someone to come up with a novel take on the already well tread concept and then, decide from there if it’s worth giving a shit about.
Pretty simple. So why do people try to market gimmick free things?
Because they’re stupid. I JUST got finished talking about how stupid people are, you stupid, dumb stupid. Don’t you listen? But listen, trying to market something with no gimmick, it can be a great thing, but it’s never gonna work. Even shit that supposedly has no gimmick, THAT right there is a gimmick, and don’t ever for a second think it isn’t. Who’s an example of a ‘gimmick free’ artist? Just jeans, tshirts, keeping it real? No fancy, obvious thing, like masks or trumpets? Uh…who cares? They’re as full of shit as anyone else. Mark my words.
SO, back to the issue at hand. I have this blog. According to my little counter thingy I’ve got a few hundred subscribers, and presumably some of you out there read this thing without being subscribers, probably most of you, actually, so there’s a tiny groundswell of support, but I’m never gonna push it to that next level, the big show, the tucker max or the Hot Girls with Douchebags level--the stratosphere/blogosphere/coffee table book/blurb in the onion level without some sort of gimmick. Fuck, I’ve wasted all our time for a while. I mean, this is the one hundred seventy sixth post and I have, from what I can tell, NO intertwining theme (felching does not count. A word is not a theme. Jesus, people). What the fuck am I gonna do?
Well, thankfully, I’ve got an idea. Actually, more to the point, I’m stealing one. I’ve noticed something in this world. In fact, you may say that in my time amongst you earth people I’ve learned a thing or two, not the least of which concerns stealing ideas. It’s the way to go. Picasso said something to the effect of “brilliant minds create. Geniuses steal” and his authority is good enough for me. Look at pepsi, Popeyes, Batman, Canada, Jerry Springer, facebook. They’re all just knock offs of already tried and true successes. That’s fucking brilliant. The heavy lifting is done, just step in and improve what’s there, or fuck it, do it worse…it doesn’t matter. Why? Come on dummy. People are stupid.
So I read this article this weekend. Toby forwarded it to me (he gets his pussylips all tangled if I neglect to credit him for things) with some snide note to the effect of “now THIS is a blog worth reading.” It was, actually, not a blog at all, but rather an article from Seattle’s finest free paper, The Stranger. It is this:

and it’s funny. It’s a guide to all the different kinds of people in this world. And sure, near the end, it gets a little stupid and defensive and there’s some part about people who have been turned into animals that’s a little bit precious for my taste, but you know what? It’s a GREAT idea and a great article. SO, from now on, here at bad sandwich chronicles, along with my daily tales of woe, I’m going to be stealing from miss West…Well, no. You can’t say that, right? I need to say that “yeah, my idea is similar, sure, but there are a lot of ideas in the ether, man. And similar is not same. After all, I’m a male, she’s a female. That gives us different perspectives. Besides, miss West, you, better than anyone should know that we fall into different categories of people, right? Huh? Huh?’
See what I did there? I love being creative. It’s so freeing and whimsical. Okay, gotta go. I’m heating up some baloney in the microwave to line the hole in the couch with and fuck, and it just beeped. Bye.

Oh right…people, the guide…Uh, Bikers-Big dudes with mustaches and crystal meth in the pockets of their vests. Moles, sunglasses, you get the idea. Like Lemmy, but not successful…Also black dudes with monochromatic outfits and dads with leather saddlebags full of Viagra and entirely too many denim buttonups. WooooooHoooO!
Pretty good. Wait, I don’t think I’m doing this right…fuck man. Back to the lab. See you all tomorrow.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Ladies! you know what to do!

Wow, I have NO time this morning, and it’s Friday which is the hardest day to make something happen on the internet. I’m just a whirlwind of emotions right now. Some readers have been kind enough to point out all the other badsandwich rip offs that have popped up lately and I’m at once flattered and appalled. What the fuck? Okay, firstly, Bad Sandwich started out as the worst band name I could think of. This was a game that we would play while on the road. We’d sit around and when someone would say something that could be a terrible band name, we’d write it on a list. It would go something like this….


The Lawrence Arms are on tour and driving out of LA. NEIL drives while a visibly hung over NADER sits shotgun. He’s rubbing his bloodshot eyes and sweating a bit. He turns around to address PT, who’s grossing everyone out by running his big sausagey fingers all over the velour ceiling of the van. BRENDAN and CHRIS are both laying down behind PT trying not to pay attention to his fingernails on the velour.

NADER: Man, dogs! I think I may have pissed my pants last night, and I definitely tried to bone that girl.

CHRIS (sitting up in the back with huge smile): WHAT?

PT: That shouldn’t surprise you, McCooch. Doesn’t surprise me. (shit eating giggle)

NEIL: Oh man. (beat) How do you feel right now?

NADER: Oh, well, I’m gonna be pretty hung over eventually, but right now, I’m still mostly monster.

BRENDAN (sitting up): Dude, did you say mostly monster?

CHRIS: That’s a band name.

NEIL: That’s a GREAT band name!

NADER (miming talking into a microphone): What’s up Syracuse! We’re Mostly Monster. This is our first song. Ladies, get your tits out!

NEIL: Hey, I need to take a dump so I’m gonna stop up here. Is anyone hungry? There’s an arbys and a taco time.

So, anyway, Bad Sandwich was one of the best bands we came up with, along with Interesting Cafeteria (Chris in Germany: “It kind of smells like an interesting cafeteria in this place”), Chin Business (due to mocking some completely inappropriate facial hair on some San diego style dildo [parenthetical note: the ‘just the chin’ action is dumb looking. Yes. Even on you. Be a man and grow a mustache. Sheesh]) Uh…Technical Sex was a good band name we came up with…well, you get the idea. I’m not spilling all the great secrets of terrific band names here. I know how uncreative all you cock farmers are, and I don’t need to get some myspace message from some band called Chin Business next week thanking me for inspiration. Come up with your own band names. Nah, never mind. Use Chin Business. I dare you. I’ve still got like a nineteen page list somewhere.
Anyhoo, that’s where bad sandwich came from. We started talking about the awesome band, BAD SANDWICH, as a way to have fun with uncreative interview questions about influences, favorite bands to tour with, etc. NOW, there’s a fucking ska-funk band from England called bad sandwich. I don’t know if they’re ripping me off, or if they just came up with the name on their own, and honestly, I have no idea which one is lamer.
That’s the name of your band? Bad Sandwich? Fuck. And you play what? FUNK? IT’S 2009! AND YOU’RE FROM ENGLAND!!!! England is about as funky as fargo, man. (see, THAT’S a good band name. “Hey, we’re Funky as Fargo from Brighton. Ladies, get your tits out!)
Now there’s this other badsandwich blog started by some lame amateur penis enthusiast douche from Wyoming. It’s literally like what fifth grade kids write when they’re trying to write their own porn. Very well done. Then there’s the one that’s run by robits that we’ve already discussed (see the entry I, robit for explanation of what a robit is), and THEN there’s the scary one. The bible one. The one that’s all about the rapture and 666 and mega churching and all that shit. HOW THE FUCK DID THEY COME ACROSS ME???? This is not the work of robits, man. This is way crazier. Take the S and the P in ‘blogspot and switch them in my URL to see this wacky shit. I guess Jesus has a computer after all. AND he reads my blog. Pretty cool. Okay. Fuck this. I’m going to work. Um…it’s Friday, so that means it’s gonna suck out there. Bye.
(personal message below)
Hey summer! You wanna hang? It’s been too long. Come over later.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Sleep, my dog of war...

Yesterday, after a little brunch with my buddies in the Cobra Skulls (a great band, in town recording at the infamous Atlas Studios) I started to head out to get my baby from his grandparents place, but then I suddenly started to feel a little sick, so I went home to take a nap. I was kind of feeling sore and I had a scratchy throat and had a bit of a chill, so I thought I maybe had a fever. I searched around and got a thermometer and was standing there taking my temperature, craning my eyes to look down at the digital display thing to see when the thermometer was done working, when suddenly I realized something.

This thermometer, the one in my mouth RIGHT NOW, is the baby’s ass thermometer.

So terribly sad. Well, I decided that my actual temperature was no longer important and instead brushed my teeth twice and took a nap. Sigh. That’s life though, right? You’re trying to do something, go out of your way to actually not cut corners and get all the info, and it blows up all over your dick and reinforces that you should never stop cutting corners, man. Just keep fucking around, you know?
For example, I’ve been nagged all my life, by my mom, girlfriends, teachers, bosses, wife, etc. Someday it’s very possible that I will have a daughter or even a granddaughter that will nag me. This is hardly my unique burden to bear. It’s the burden of lots of guys and gals. Disgustingly messy gals, and guys who aren’t hyper anal retentive, and therefore gigantic nags themselves, that is. SO, anyway, if you’re a guy and you’re at all like me, you’ve actually lived through the kinds of scenarios that crappy, hack comedians like Bobby Collins talk about in their acts. You’ve been scolded for drinking out of the milk carton, or farting at the table (God, I hope you all watched that south park about queefing last night. Mercy.) or having stinky shits or putting the ketchup/peanut butter/vodka back with only just the tiniest bit left. Fine. It’s the kind of shit that you don’t really think about, and it drives the people who DO think about it crazy. And they’re right. We’re disgusting, for sure. But there’s this tiny little transference of guilt and blame that happens every time, and it’s fucking exhausting. And yes, it’s exhausting for the nagger too. And this FURTHER makes me feel like I need to get my shit together, just to make all our lives less exhausting. SO, I decide, I’m gonna shape the fuck up, man! What would my wife/mom/irritating teacher/OCD roommate do in this situation? That’s how I’m gonna behave from now on.
And I end up standing there with an ass thermometer in my mouth.
I don’t go to the doctor. I don’t go to the dentist. I don’t do any of that shit because, like all men, I don’t have a body part that REQUIRES maintenance (uh, the vagina…right?) so I’ve fallen out of the habit of going. Plus, nothing’s ever wrong. And it’s not fun. Fingers go funny places and cup things. It costs money. I mean, there are a thousand excuses, but it all comes down to essentially the same reason that I don’t finish the milk and throw the carton away. It’s just not there, in the forefront of my mind. I’m lazy? Kind of. I’m lazy in THAT particular way. The way of basic, simple, ultimately unimportant, detail oriented maintenance. That shit’s important. Make no mistake, but I just don’t have the instinct necessary to properly do it. SO, of course, a big thing that I’ve been nagged at about over the years is going to the doctor. I mention sort of half assedly that ‘yeah, I should’ but then I forget, and it never really comes up again, so I don’t. Well, this time I decided that I was gonna be like the fucking moms and wives in the world and take my temperature and I ended up learning the same lesson I have when I’ve accidentally made the bed sideways or folded all of the jeans wrong or washed the china in the dishwasher or dried the towels along with a sweater or whatever the fuck it is…That shit’s a waste of my time and everyone’s energy. I should just go back to not paying attention to the details and deal with the bitching. It’s a lot less painful to sit through fifteen seconds of complaining than to have to unfold all the improperly folded laundry and refold it for a second time. There you go. Secrets to success. Or an easy guide to failing in style. That’s probably better and more accurate, right? Yeah. Okay, enjoy your stupid day. Barf.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

I, Robit

Hey y’all. Wednesday here and I’m fixin to have a real productive day. After yesterday’s doom fest, brought on by a big cheeseburger, I finally recovered only to end up eating a mammoth one pound steak for dinner. Guess what happened? I was tortured by nightmares and I’m once again feeling semi-doomed. At least this time it’s more manageable. Who cares about doom anyway? It’s like the dumbest video game of all time, right? Okay, I don’t even know. I’m not much of a gamer. That’s such a funny word, right? “Gamer.” I guess chronic masturbator/girlfriend irritator/dorito aficionado was too cumbersome. Har-de-har-har.
My grandfather was actually the first person I ever knew who got a Nintendo. He and my dad both LOVE video games, and I’m pretty sure my brother’s got a pretty bad case of dork fever too…I don’t know how I escaped. Regardless, that’s not the point. My grandfather had the most hilarious view of the world and the shit he would say would be so confusingly funny as a result…so I’d come by and he’d ask me if there was anything I wanted to do, and when I said ‘no’ (because all kids say no when asked if there’s anything they want to do…you must provide options to kids, actually and to most adults too…that’s the BSC life lesson for today) he’d say “well, Brendan, I’ve got this really fun robit in the basement. A robit. This was how he said robot and to my granddad, EVERYTHING that was in any way technical above basic machination was a robit. SO, there was a robit who automatically opened the door for you at the grocery store, and a robit that took your money for the toll at the automatic tollbooth and a robit that sat in the basement and played with the grandkids.
This was in fact, the Nintendo. I know what you’re all thinking, and YES there are stories out there about grandpas and basements and much more sinisterly uh, ‘grown up’ robits, but that’s just sick. I’m not Marylin Manson. I’ve never even worn jackboots for fucks sake! So get your minds out of the gutter and let’s continue, please. Ahem…The Nintendo was the robit in the basement and at first he just had duck hunt, which was, for those of you who don’t remember, a pretty great game that involved a gun and killing ducks and he had golf, which was his game, and presumably his entire reason for buying the robit in the first place. We loved this shit. At the time, there was Atari and the original sega, not the genesis, just the regular sega, but that shit was already old and played out and the Nintendo was SO much cooler than those were. I loved going over there and playing duck hunt, and even golf. So, one time we went over to my granddads house and he told me all about this new game he had for the robit. It involved, he said, a little boy trying to run along a wall and pick flowers and a bunch of girls trying to kiss him. If they kissed him, he’d fall off the wall.
This sounded like a pretty fucking lame game to me, but that’s how he sold it to me and I begrudgingly agreed to give it a try. Well, it was super Mario Brothers…that’s how he described it. A boy (not a middle aged plumber) picking flowers (not collecting coins) trying to avoid being kissed (what the fuck?). I don’t know. But yeah. That was the deal. Apparently he’s pretty into having dementia these days. Sad. He’s a good guy, although, as I look back over this, it seems like the complete unraveling of reality maybe started a while ago.
So now, there’s gamers. I was reading, which I think is a pretty good website, beyond just being funny, the articles can be pretty thought provoking, and I came across this paragraph where the main writer for cracked (david wong or something) talks about how when he was a kid there were only 3 tv channels and one newspaper, and now, he scours more sources than that daily just to get his video game news. What? Video game NEWS? Daily? Good Christ, man. What the fuck is that? I mean, I get the idea of wanting a schedule of releases and maybe a place for reviews, but then what? Interviews with Lara Croft? What’s next for the Halo franchise? I mean, I’m sure it IS actually shit like this. I can’t even think of something that’s patently ridiculous enough that it wouldn’t probably be included in this vast multi media influx of gaming news that’s funneling into this otherwise intelligent, funny and erudite man’s brain. There you go. I guess it’s true. I’m a luddite and the world has turned without me. I’m gonna go play with my jacks (which is an old timey slang for balls).
Right about now, my baby is asleep. We’re supposed to go to the library for baby story time today, in fact, we should be leaving in like, ten minutes, but he seems like he’s gonna sleep right through it. I’m pretty bummed out about this, actually. I was really looking forward to it for some reason. It’s like I’ve got this connection with this kid or something and I like to see him happy. Huh. I’m gonna have to go talk to the librarians, I guess.
Oh, and we’re gonna do a pretty rad Lawrence Arms tenth anniversary show this year. I just started booking it yesterday, and there are details to come, but let’s say it involves fan voting, free shit, a whole kaboodle of awesome surprises, felching, space docking, snoodling, a battle royal to the death featuring all our ex tour managers/road dudes (my money’s on beef or Nader to take the whole thing). It’s gonna be SICK. But that’s all for another time.
Oh, and it’s april fools day, but everything here is true. I don’t observe secular holidays.