Tuesday, June 30, 2009

slouching off to be born...

What’s going on here? Every day I come to this blog to lighten my mood and get me through my post-breakfast-and-smoke-break dump, and all I’m getting is self righteous proselytizing about how religion is stupid and how everyone dies someday. What the fuck is that? This isn’t the Bad Sandwich Chronicles I signed up for! This isn’t sassy advice, celeb watching, baby rearing, dick joking smartassing stream of consciousness shit with tons of cursing. I mean, I hate to have to point out the elephant in the room and all but HEY MAN, WHERE’S THE FUCKING FELCHING? What’s going on here? Is this like when Blink 182 suddenly decided that they’d be a ‘serious band’? Because I mean, let’s face the facts…they were already a serious band. Seriously retarded. HA! Nah, nah. I’m joking. I joke. I kid. What I mean is, they were fine, and they were evolving and there’s no need to eliminate humor from something. It doesn’t make it better, man. EVER. Humor is the key element that takes something that’s decent and makes it great. I’m not saying everything has to be laugh out loud funny, but there’s a self awareness that goes into humor that’s a goddamn necessity in creating something. Even something very serious. I mean, when Blink sang that song about that kid killing himself, it was resonant because it was surrounded by the humor of their personas, when they sang “what’s my age again” it completely hit you in the gut because it was funny, but it also turned serious at the end. You can’t make a good movie that’s devoid of humor, no matter what genre you’re in. That’s a fucking fact, jack. You wanna see what happens when you take humor completely out of something? Look at Jim Carrey. That’s what happens, man. The number 23. Yeah. I’ve shit out better reels.
So look, where did the felching go? Not to belabor the point, but how about a story about when you were on tour and used some of that confidence to felch some broads when some dudes walked in and had a drinking contest and you said something about tying their dick up in bows or something like you say…used to say, I guess, back when you used to tell dick jokes all the time and actually be fucking COOL, man. I mean, did you forget about your sam, mister Frodo? He’s been carrying you this whole fucking time, man. Dick jokes, fart jokes, pussy jokes. That’s the shit. That’s YOUR shit. You used to OWN THAT SHIT.
AND, that’s another thing! When’s the last time you begged your slaves for nudes? It’s like you’re not even you anymore. I want you to come out swinging. Yeah, I’m talking about your dick, cochese! I want you out there, mixing it up, telling that drunk kid from Australia that he types like a one eyed peacock with his dick in a pencil sharpener. How about some more shit about drugs? Sparks? They don’t even make the virgin sparks anymore, and you haven’t even mentioned that shit AT ALL. It’s all jesus this and god that. I mean, what are you, some fucking waterskier on the wake of the cultural zeitgeist? That ship has already been through here man. There’s mainstream movies mocking religion now. There are more non religious people in this country then there are black dudes. And that’s saying something man. And the shit about seizing the day? Uh, Robin Williams called using a space/time phone. He’s calling from 1989. He wanted me to tell you that he (another poor bastard who abandoned humor for complete homodom) that he already did a movie about that when you WERE IN GRADE SCHOOL.
You’re getting soft. That’s right. I said it. You’re sitting up there, in your tower, tossing these crappy sandwiches down at the rest of us like some sort of captain of industry in a zeppelin tossing nickels to the unwashed hordes (and you JUST used that analogy like 3 weeks ago! Right in this very space, you lazy bastard!) ignoring what we all want! What do you think of Taylor Swift? Does she swallow? WHAT HAPPENS ON THE ROAD? WHY WON’T THIS BITCH EVER LET ME TIE HER UP AND EAT SAUSAGES OUT OF HER ASS?????
I mean, if this keeps up, I’m gonna start a groundswell in the fucking sockdrawer and get you replaced with someone who knows what this space is for and why people come here, capice? Okay, that’s pretty much everything. Hope you’re well.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Everybody wants to go to heaven but no one wants to die

Hey kids, grownups, mongaloids, geniuses and assorted perverts. It’s Monday. This weekend was crazy…I don’t even know if I can really go for it today. I need to go buy a mullet wig and I need to go to the gym and ride my bike and celebrate being alive a little. That’s what I think we should all kind of do. There’s a lot of dying going on these days and, well, frankly it’s a bummer. I mean, there’s no way to really wrap your head around dying, and as a result it’s fucking scary as shit. It’s the same reason that you get terrified when you try to imagine an infinite universe. “What’s after the planets? What’s after the black space?” Uh, sorry kid. There’s no answer to that. Just kind of keeps going. Yipes.
I always used to imagine that the universe ended with scribble lines that gave way to a white background, where whoever made the whole thing eventually just got tired of coloring everything black and just gave up. Ultimately this was unsatisfying, because the next question, “well, what comes after the white space” was even more unnerving, because yeah, what the fuck comes after that?
I read some Stephen king book when I was a kid and its whole theory was that the entire universe was contained in a molecule in a single blade of grass in some larger universe, a la the Russian Nesting Doll model. This is, for some very inexplicable reason, comforting to me, although I don’t know why. For the record, that’s not really what I think is actually going on, but I don’t mind the idea. Something about it is less terrifyingly infinite than the other way, where shit just kind of spreads and spreads forever. I remember in uh…was it calculus? I dunno, it’s been years since I took math classes, they discussed various kinds of infinities and it was pretty nutty. There’s the one that just goes on, linearly, but then there’s also the one that comes from halving a unit over and over again. So within infinity there’s like, infinite infinities, man. Woah. Uh…dave’s not here, man. I mean, I’m not trying to figure it all out tonight, I just want to hang out with your daughter, ya know?
Okay, so yeah. Point being, there’s a comfort in knowledge and a deep, deep fundamental terror that comes from not knowing. This is, one could logically conclude, why people in small towns tend to be so much more distrustful of foreign countries and foreign people than people who deal with heterogeneous culture on a day to day basis. This isn’t just an American thing either. It’s pretty across the board. Shit’s strange? Oh, that’s just another word for terrifying. Don’t get me started on hummus, homos, Hondurans, Hindus etc. That shit is all potentially pants-crapingly frightening, but death, death is pretty fucking unknowable to everyone, at least everyone who’s alive, and therefore, it’s pretty fucking scary on a whole other level.
But, here’s the deal. You die. And when you do, unless you’re Nikki Sixx, you don’t get to come back and fix all the shit you fucked up, or do all the stuff that you didn’t get around to. When I was a kid, I always thought I’d be everything. I was positive I’d be a rock star, astronaut, cop, Marine, pro athlete, author, actor, comedian, etc. At some point, I realized, nope. You’re not gonna be all that stuff. You, in fact, won’t ever be any of those things unless you pick one and really go for it. Even then, I’m learning now, there’s a good chance that “astronaut” turns out to be “busboy” and ‘pro athlete’ turns out to be ‘CPA’…Life’s brutal. Life’s brutal and the fucking reward is death. Wow. Where do I sign up? Sigh.
Point being, this morning, Michael Jackson (just for example) didn’t wake up. Not only did he not get to go buy a bunch of gigantic golden faberge eggs at barneys, but he didn’t get to drink a cup of coffee and call his mom and tell her he loves her or walk around and enjoy the weather or any of that shit. He’s dead. You, me, we’re alive. That’s pretty huge and man, I don’t want to sound like some sort of cheesy hallmark card or something, but in the end, that’s kind of all you’ve got. One life, one time to do the shit that you want to do in the brief spaces between all the bullshit and people pissing on you and stuffing you into uncomfortable positions and telling you to go fuck yourself. Then it’s done. And yeah, I see where it’d be tempting to pretend that afterwards you get to go to heaven and be an astronaut and hang out with Miles Davis and eat all the cupcakes you want and still have great abs, but come on…it’s never really about that shit anyway. I mean, I just know it’s the small things that really get me by. A little boning, a funny joke, a beer, some dog deciding it likes me, a good song, a delicious burrito…yeah. Um…I dunno. I don’t feel like I’m gonna stick the landing today, prose wise, so uh…get out there and live? Sounds pretty lame. But look, that’s your choice. The alternative sucks balls, man.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Come and dance on our flooooooor

Do you think the Dead McMahaons is a good band name? I dunno. Maybe a little soon, right? Though, I’d guess that there are already some bands who are now calling themselves the Dead McMahaons. Hey, it’s timely, right?
For whatever reason, he’s been on my mind lately, old dead Ed. You know who else? Farrah Fawcett. Yeah. Where’s she? I mean seriously, what’s up her ass these days? Huh? Huh? Nah…tasteless joke. No good. Can’t speak of the dead like that, you know? It’s not cool.
That’s the way life works, Dogs of War. As long as someone’s alive, you can motherfuck them up and down, say they’re total pieces of shit, completely curse their name. Then they die. Here’s your choices: You can (if you’re a total asshole) get high and mighty and decide that they deserved it, like in the case of someone who puts themselves at risk knowingly, an Evil Kenevil or a Steve-O or an Artie Lang, or you just all of a sudden decide that they were great, and that it’s really sad. Yesterday, for example, I was making some joke about the lack of an afternoon crowd at my bar. I said “it’s deader than….” huh. Someone pretty big and beloved died recently, right? Let’s just use Johnny Cash as a place holder since I’m blanking right now. I said “man, it’s deader than Johnny Cash in here” and this guy, this insufferable wang chug who dj’s at the bar I work puffed up and got offended and said something to the effect of “Hey, I don’t think it’s appropriate to be telling jokes like that already, man.” What kind of jokes? Dead person jokes? He IS, in fact, dead. That’s not even much of a joke. That’s like making fun of someone for living in Missouri. Yeah, it might not be awesome, but man, it’s undeniable, and all the eulogizing in the world isn’t gonna make their house suddenly in Wisconsin. He’s dead, man. And you know what, dude? Lots of people have been making jokes about Johnny Cash, you know, bleaching his skin, fucking little boys, living in a zoo/amusement park, partying with chimps and being and all around nut job for a long fucking time. That’s hurtful. Mocking and probing and speculating when someone is alive to feel the sting of the cruelty at large is shitty. Simply joking about someone who’s dead being dead…fuck, man. That’s the sweetest, kindest Johnny Cash joke ever told. Jamon!
Okay, we’re skirting the real issue here, which is, of course that John Ritter died on the same day as Johnny Cash. That’s gotta be rough. I mean here he is, a seventies TV star on an ultimately disposable show that was all about pushing the network’s sexual envelope, dying on the same day as a genre defining musical legend. It’s a bummer for Ritter, that’s for sure. I mean, everyone knows where they were when Johnny Cash died…no, that’s not true. I have no idea where I was. I remember where I was when Farrah Fawcett died though! Man, that was a big blow, right? Seems like just yesterday I was standing there, stacking glasses in my bar when suddenly someone said “farrah Fawcett is no more”. I remember thinking two distinct thoughts: 1. Aw, she never got to go through with that marriage to Ryan Oneil. Bummer. And 2. Did you just say “Is no more?’ What are you, a wizard? Who talks like that?
Well, that’s one of those things right? Death. It’s scary, Sock Drawer. That’s why people invent gods and prolong their youths and hide themselves behind masks and new faces and fake voices and wigs and all this stuff. Because death is scary. Someday, Dogs of War, someday we’ll ALL moonwalk off to that big Star Search in the sky, but until then, we have to just kind of live, right? Keep whacking off to those Farrah Fawcett posters. Keep opening those publishers clearinghouse envelopes. Keep listening to Johnny Cash on the jukebox and pretending we actually like him, keep repositioning John Ritter as a groundbreaking physical comedian even though he….no. You know what? No. John Ritter WAS a groundbreaking physical comedian. No one could fall over a couch like that motherfucker, man. And in Bad Santa? Awesome. Take that, Cash. Now who’s being eulogized fondly?

I dunno…before death came along and ruined the weekend, I was gonna make a list of fun shit to do today, remember? Well, how bout this, in honor of our fallen celebrity friends, here are some dead, decaying, rotting celeb themed activities to try:
Try heroin
Fuck Ryan Oneil
Make a racist joke then loudly shout “HeyoooooO!’
Say something in the kitchen that sounds like you’re about to fuck someone if it’s overheard from the living room.
Bum out Reese Witherspoon with your drunken antics.
Wear a one piece bathing suit.
Take a large check to someone and tell them they’ve won something (don’t worry about the fact that you don’t have any money. You’ll brighten their day for a couple of minutes).
Cuddle with Corey Feldman.
Um….Okay, I gotta go to work so that’s it. Hope this helped. Death ain’t easy kids. I expect lots of consoling, nude picture swapping and general camaraderie in the comments section today. And as always, I’m thinking of y’all.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Let's go all the way!

Hello. Good morning. Welcome to BSC, Thursday edition. My baby woke up at five thirty this morning for some ungodly reason. It was nightmarish. By the time he finally woke us up, he’d really gotten himself pretty worked up crying and sputtering and shit. We kind of passed him back and forth a few times, thinking that maybe he’d just go back to sleep, but no such luck. Eventually I just hung out with him while my wife caught a few last minute z’s. Right now, I’m tired. I haven’t been to work in almost two weeks because I had that wedding and then we recorded those songs, so I’m ALMOST looking forward to getting back in there, making some money and feeling productive. ALMOST. The only problem is my exhaustion and my high stress level due to all the billion zillion fucking things I’m doing that require my full attention but do not, in any way pay me money. Well, that’s not entirely true, but you get the idea. It’s a struggle, man. And nothing is fucking easy. Never. Every time something seems like it’s just gonna work out great, along comes some asshole just grinning and pissing everywhere. Sometimes it’s god, yes. And other times it’s some meter maid or some shit head agent or some irritating acquaintance or your mom or your critical wife or your irritating boss or your dumb manic depressive Chihuahua…it’s enough to make me want to move to some tiny little island paradise and rent boogie boards to people on the beach and just die out there after a while. That seems like a pretty cool way to go. Sock away some cash, eventually get a jet ski. Rent that shit out. Grow your business like that. I could dig that, man. Really, truly, I could.
Only problem? Skin cancer. That and irritating tourists talking to you like you’re an idiot. No shows. Someone stole all my boogie boards and then smoked a joint and pissed all over my little beach hut. Dumb asshole down the way has nicer boards and he constantly gives me the stink eye. AND he’s fucking scary. Okay. Fuck it. Back to Chicago. What’s the problem here again?
Man, someone asked a good question in the drawer yesterday. They took my tirade against faith from yesterday’s post (You are all unique individuals!) and held it up to my tirade against calling people posers and shitting on people’s enthusiasm. What’s the difference, dude asked, between that and what I’ve been doing here regarding faith.
Good question. Here’s the answer.
I’m not shitting on enthusiasm. I’m shitting on the idea of faith period. And, I’ll get back to what the important difference is here, but first, a word or two about faith, belief and the supernatural (or whatever the fuck you want to call it). I believe in skepticism, I believe that I do not possibly possess the mental capacity to understand the innerworkings of the universe and I believe that there’s big, huge shit afoot out there that we can’t possibly grasp with our minds. The idea that there are people out there so arrogant as to have claimed to have figured all that out, and that they’ve done it just by believing in something they’ve never seen, heard, touched or even really read about in anything other than a constantly rewritten hodge podge of a book that’s in essence ancient creation myths mixed with morality plays and obviously made up shit is just offensive. And I’m talking about Islam, Christianity, Hinduism and Judaism here folks. It’s all stupidity masquerading as “all the answers”. Sorry. But it is. But back to the question.
I don’t like when someone gets involved in something and people call them posers. There’s no one (except Jesus, I guess) who’s just born into whatever cool subsect they’re part of. At some point, you learn about something and you get excited about it and then you get involved and this is when people already involved tend to call you a poser, or generally mock your lack of knowledge. This is shitty, because it’s nothing more than insecurity masquerading as hazing and it’s completely ignoring the fact that these ‘veterans’ of the scene were themselves at one time newbies who wanted nothing more than the acceptance of the people already involved. In religion, this would be like shunning a new member of a congregation, in neo nazi-ism, this would be like mocking the new guy’s shitty teenager-style see through Hitler mustache. Within the confines of whatever dumb, xenophobic group you want to talk about, there’s potential for this to happen, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like the blanket that it’s happening under. I don’t like cops. I’m sure that old cops are total shit heads to young cops, and I bet it sucks. Doesn’t mean I have to like cops. I don’t like Juggalos, but fuck, go down to the Gathering and see if there aren’t some deep rolling old timey juggalo soldiers mocking the new guys and the way they don’t know how to properly spray Faygo, or chant “show your tits”. I guess my point is, Juggalos, cops, religious people, Nazis, they all have one thing in common. They have this idea of what’s cool that completely sucks. So there you go. That’s my answer. Jesus I’m tired. Okay, see you people tomorrow where I’m gonna compile a great list of things to do over the weekend or something.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

You are all unique individuals!

Hello drones. How’s your Wednesday? It’s my friend, Jasper’s birthday today, and I’m going to a party for him tonight, and I’m taking my kid. Him and Jasper are super close. Jasper is also a dog, which makes the whole thing kind of funny. Dog parties. Dogs don’t know, man. Usually, dogs just kind of freak the fuck out or go to sleep when parties are going on, don’t they? I dunno. Fuuuuuuuuuck. Last night was the JBTV insider meet n greet and man oh man, was it ever star studded. I mean, let’s see, Dave Chapelle, Marlon Wayans, Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, Ben Johnson, Rodney King, Winona Rider, Taylor Negron, the drummer from Sugar Ray, Walter Payton’s kid, none of them were there, but man. Neil Hennessy was in the house sippin on Jack Daniels and working the room with his own unique and whimsical brand of spaceman-like charm.
Nah, that thing was cool. There’s this live room with a stage and some cabaret tables and lights and it’s probably the coolest room to play live music in all of Chicago. I’m thinking that maybe we should have a contest and the winners get to see us play up there the day before the big ten year show…I think that would be cool. The place, I can’t stress enough, is unbelievable. I dunno, though. We’re not the beatles or anything. That might be a little bit overboard to suggest that we could do something fun like that and people would care. I mean, it’s not like it’s hard to see my band in an intimate setting, right? Just go somewhere that’s not Chicago and BOOM! There we are. Intimate setting. Done.
Did all my little minions go get their tattoos of my face yet? Time’s running out, you know. Every day could be your last, and if you die without the tattoo, you go to hell and your family does too. Just sayin. I’m no prophet or anything, but that’s what God told me when he spoke exclusively to me last night while I was transcribing other words that an angel told me. Again, just sayin.
If you couldn’t tell, I’m sort of out of things to say here, so I’m just kind of running out the clock with casual blasphemy. I guess that brings up a good topic: On the new NOFX record there’s a song called “Blasphemy: the Victimless Crime” and it’s got lines like “rob a rabbi, bugger a nun” which is okay, I guess, but come on man. It’s 2009. Two Girls One Cup exists almost on a level of polite discourse these days. Without even trying I can change my screensaver to a picture of a Japanese schoolgirl in a mask shitting yellow drool straight up in the air and down onto her own face. Phrases like “bugger a nun” aren’t really all that blasphemous anymore. Maybe when your grandmother was a spry wisp of a thing, just casually blaspheming out back by the drinkin’ well while she waited for the ice wagon to come by that kind of language would be considered inappropriate, but now…I don’t think so. I think even god himself is nonplussed by this shit. (Side note. Nothing irritates me more than the smug douchebags who go out of their way to refer to god as “her’. OOOOH! Nice blow for gender politics you dickless turd/manish woman. What the fuck does reclassifying the gender of an already established fictional character get you? Huh? Okay, fine. Fuck it. You know who else is a woman? Darth Vader. See how fucking dumb that is? And listen, if there IS some sort of god, let’s fucking be honest with ourselves, it’s not gonna be something that’s so easily categorized as a male or female. It’s a GOD, assholes. It’s kind of beyond that shit, right? I mean, I hope I’m not bumming anyone out when I say that the idea of a big bearded old santa in a bathrobe in the sky [or on a planet, thank you, retarded Christians, or mormons as they’re sometimes known] is fucking laughable. I know, faith. What a great fucking boon faith is. Just an unquestioning belief that everything is gonna work out, and that shit’s getting handled properly by higher ups (god, angels). No need to question. No need to worry. No need to do anything but just love and believe and pledge zombie like allegiance to the big guy in charge. Hell, what does god call his followers? Sheep. Nice one. Uh, by the way, that’s a fucking insult you mouthbreathing assholes. DO YOU SEE WHY IT’S IN THE BEST INTERESTS OF THE POWERS THAT BE TO EXTOL THE VIRTUES OF FAITH AND RELIGION??????????? BECAUSE IT TURNS THINKING, SENTIENT PEOPLE INTO DOCILE DIMWITS. Ooh! Better just stay quiet or god’s gonna get me! No he’s not, you fucking coward! Really? REALLY? Okay, fine. Watch this.
Hey god! Go fuck yourself. Jesus has, HAS in fact sucked my penis. HE begged for it. HE’s gay. Gay as Christmas. The gayest guy I’ve ever met. I’ve never seen anyone take on a stack of schlongs like jesus. Oh, and don’t get me started on God. That mother fucker, he’s nothing but a racist shit fetishist with videos of naked kids under his sweaty jizz covered mattress up there on his perverted planet.)
Okay, sorry. That was a long side note. What were we talking about? Oh yeah. Mild blasphemy. Well, I dunno. I don’t have any examples of good, modern blasphemy just laying around, so I guess I’m just gonna knock off early today.
Good luck out there, Dogs Of War.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

The Plane! The Plane!

Happy Tuesday. Today, I’m with my child. He managed to piss all the way through his diapers, down his legs and into his little footsy areas before I caught on to his little scheme. He also escaped, Steve Mcqueen style from the bedroom this morning. We found him over by the dogfood. Crazy kid. Speaking of the dogs, Pancho, the dog that I took to the vet yesterday, is apparently fine. They tested the shit out of him-blood, poo, piss, skin, bones, all that shit. You know what I think the problem is? He’s depressed. It’s true. I know, I know, I know I know I know I know I know, it’s the dumbest thing in the world. Diagnosing an animal with depression is just, I don’t know, it’s for spaced out middle aged women with sunspots all over their pendulous, wrinkled breasts and chakra crystals and photo albums from Machu Picchu and their fruity little turtlenecked and ponytailed husbands. But man, this dog is depressed. He just lays around in bed. He doesn’t want to eat. He never hangs out with his friends anymore. He just mopes. Sometimes he goes and eats but then it’s back to bed. Maybe we need to get him one of those fancy, big city pet psychologists. I mean, fuck. How can you be depressed about a life where you get to shit on the floor and lay around and hump stuffed animals and bark out the window all day long? Huh? Answer me that? Fuck…that actually sounds a little bit crappy when it’s phrased like that, I guess.
Actually, he’s better since the doctor took his blood. I don’t know what that’s all about. Maybe he just had a little too much blood. I mean, Christ, he’s only seven pounds. Getting rid of extra blood has been a very popular form of medical treatment for a while you know. It dates back to Charlemagne for fucks sakes, before even. And that motherfucker cut the Gordian knot…wait. That was Alexander. Well, regardless, they both walked around with leeches on their dicks to cure their herpes, believe you me.
Okay, on to bigger and better things, down in the sock drawer, or should I say over in the other sock drawer, people seem to be pledging lifelong allegiance to the Sock Drawer, and by extension of course BSC and myself, with Sock Drawer tattoos. Well, let me be the first to congratulate you on a very well thought out little piece of trendsetting that’s bound to be huge in the next couple of years. Watch out Chia-obama, Sock Drawer tattoos are coming for you! I’d like to suggest, in the manor of a benevolent leader, just offering guidance where I think it’s warranted, that yeah, the sock drawer tattoos are cool, but have you guys considered my face? Or perhaps the entirety of your favorite entry of BSC? How about just a really, really obviously bad sandwich. OH! Now there’s an idea. You could either get a bad rendering of a sandwich (“dude, that’s a bad sandwich tattoo” “yeah it is!”) or just a good rendering of a sandwich that really sucks. Cod and chocolate? Flies and tires? What’s the worst sandwich? Pig vagina and miracle whip? Nah, that sounds okay. Zippy.
Anyway, point being, I think this is a great idea, but again, I can’t stress enough, I think my face is a better tattoo. Just saying. I’m gonna start making shirts very soon, using Sheila’s awesome design, and from there, you guys will be able to get your bad sandwich tattoos like crazy. Oh, I know, there’s a camaraderie in the Drawer between socks that makes the whole thing a big party, but let’s not forget who’s socks you are, my children. And like a mom sending her kid off to camp, it’s your duty to write my name on all of you. Oh, this is all very exciting. I’m gonna need to get a new webpage or at least learn how to post pictures of any and all BSC/Sock drawer tattoos. It can’t be that hard. I mean, I’ve read some of the internet. It’s written, by and large, by a bunch of assholes and mongaloids. If they can get pictures up, why can’t I? Right? If not me, who? If not now, when? Veni vidi vici and all that shit, man. You know who said that shit? That’s right, motherfuckers: Charlemagne…wait, Caesar. Either way, they both died of Syphilis in jail after being imprisoned for tax evasion, right? Oh, that was capone? Well, at least he wrote that book that blurred the lines between fiction and nonfiction about that murder. Oh…Who? Capote? I thought that was a typo. Fuuuuuuck. I got a lot of learning to do, people.
Okay, let’s get serious for a second…Okay, that was good. Tonight I’m going to an “industry insider meet and greet” at the JBTV house. For those of you who don’t know what JBTV is, it’s this show that’s been on forever in Chicago and it’s hosted by this very strange and sweet little grey haired and bearded rock and roll gnome. It was the local alternative video show, and it still is. My bands have all appeared on the show and it’s fun, if not a little strange, just due to Jerry’s (the gnome) odd mannerisms, which include staring intensely, but we deal, due to the fact that we all used to watch the show when we were kids.
Here’s the thing, I don’t know how many ‘insiders’ are really gonna be there. I’m picturing it being me, Jerry, the entire band “American motherload” (every bit as terrible as they sound) and that marty guy who came in second on ‘be the new dipshit standing in front of the old, out of touch geezers from INXS’ or whatever that garbage was called. Maybe there will be bagel dogs or something. I dunno. It’s things like this that make me happy that I squandered my youth in a van cruising around to see people all over the country get disappointed that our music is too sloppy/too tight/not drunk enough/too drunk/not punk enough/too punk…on and on. Let’s get to work on those tattoos of my face, kids…I need something to talk about to that INXS guy tonight.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Fuckin' Survive!

Dogs of war! Que pasa? Oh me? Thanks for asking. I’m feeling a rare mixture of exhilaration and sadness, like when you punch a clown in the face. Currently I’m sad because my little dog, Pancho is very sick. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s not even eating various dropped human-food off the floor. He’s just sitting in his crate and growling at anyone who comes near him. He’s going to the vet here before too long, but man, it’s depressing when animals and little weak things are in pain. One of the worst feelings in the world. And Pancho is both an animal and a little weak thing, so well, you can imagine.
My exhilaration is carrying over from my father’s day experience. Father’s day, for those of you who don’t know, was started in the early twentieth century as a weeklong celebration of man’s superiority over women and machines and has since evolved into that one precious day a year where dads don’t have to walk behind wives in Target carrying their purses like some nutless, mobile hat rack, at least according to my sources. This was my second father’s day and I don’t mind telling you it blew the first one out of the water.
I don’t actually remember the first fathers day, because my kid was what? Six minutes old? He was just crying and shitting motor oil and crying and shitting motor oil and on and on like that for all of eternity. Sleep was a fucking joke. Everything was a joke. My old lady was still all exhausted and in that “don’t touch me…That’s exactly what got us into this” mode and shit was generally in disarray. Yesterday though? Delicious breakfast, mimosas, coffee, fruit salad, and this is after sleeping until ten (TEN)!! I talked to my grandfather on the phone, the same grandfather who told us that he wasn’t going BULLSHIT! (see Thursday’s entry for details) all those years ago, and that was awesome, because he’s really one of my very favorite guys, and for whatever reason we haven’t spoken in a lot of years. (actually, it involves a morbidly obese former playboy centerfold and Alabama, subtle family politics and about one saltshakerful of dementia, but that’s kind of another story) My wife made me shortribs for dinner which were absolutely fucking delicious and I drank a busch light. You know what that means, right? Come on, Dogs of War! Where there’s busch Light, studio master, Matt Alison is not far away. That’s right assholes, yesterday I went to Atlas and peeled off a rough mix of our five song digital ep/7 inch and let me tell you what…it rocks. Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to Friday morning after I left you all…
We got into the studio and Chris started with all the guitars. We alternated a Soldano and a marshall head for the competing guitar sounds and went through a marshal half stack. Don’t worry if you don’t know what that last sentence means. That’s nerd language, kids. Okay, so the rhythm guitars ended up taking longer than we thought and I started singing kinda late. That too, took longer than we thought. My voice has changed, and it took me a second to get used to using it. Okay, here’s what I mean. Our last record, which was called Oh! Calcutta! Was recorded at a time when we’d been on the road for just years and years nonstop, and as such, all these calluses had formed all over my vocal chords which is what leads to that ‘impenetrable wall of rasp’ sound that is my voice on that record. Now, I’ve been off the road for so long that my voice is sweet and tender like a six year old boy’s powdered sack, and as a result my voice sounds way more like it used to on our older recordings, like the Cocktails and Dreams stuff. Not a huge difference, but one that makes a big difference to me in terms of approaching vocals.
Look, the results were ultimately good, then Chris sang, and killed as per usual. By the time he was done it was about 130 and we hadn’t done backing vocals or lead guitars. We decided to break the “get the shit done in two days” rule and head back in the next day (Saturday) to finish up. Saturday rolls around and I got there before Chris, so I did all my lead guitar playing and a little tiny bit of vocal doubling. Chris then arrived and cranked out the craziest, sickest most downright hilariously awesome lead guitar work that any of our records have ever seen. Think Bad Religion “No Control” as a point of reference. Seriously. It’s so great. Then I did my backing vocals and then Chris did his. By the time Chris was doing backing vocals, we were all late for things we had to do. Chris had a show, Matt had somewhere to be, I had a dinner date and a babysitter, so we were just making up parts and laying them to tape. The second we finished the last vocal, we all ran out the door. We never listened back to any whole song, just individual takes to make sure they sounded in tune and decent. We left the studio with the record done, performance wise, but with NO IDEA what it sounded like.
That night I got drunk in the same room as David Cross. I didn’t talk to him, even though I know him a little bit from when we played a show together in Texas. That kind of shit isn’t really enough to start a conversation that leads anywhere worthwhile. Take note. If you see someone famous and your whole thing is “hey, remember when we hung out/remember me?” that’s not gonna go very far. The answer is gonna be either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and either way, you’re just gonna be standing there, and David Cross is gonna be looking at you, and his friend is gonna be looking at you and they’re just gonna want to go back to talking about Thai hookers, and your presence is just bumming them out. So fuck it, man. Don’t do it. That’s the little talk I gave myself, and it worked out well, because, well, I had a great night anyway.
The next day (father’s day) I took a break from all the pampering to head down to the studio to get a rough mix of the record. Matt was kind enough to hook it up and man, I gotta say, I’m really pleased. It’s WAY better than I ever thought it would be. It definitely keeps in the tradition of not sounding exactly like anything we’ve done before but not being so different that it’s gonna bum people out (like that JFA psychedelic record…yipes!). I guess the best way to describe it is that there’s no mistaking that it’s the Lawrence Arms, but it definitely would never be mistaken for being on any of our other records. I’m happy with that. Also, I’m listening to it right now, and it makes for a good wake-up-style kick to the sack, which I’m pretty pleased about.
So there you go, kids. Studio update 2. Done. The whole thing is done. Once Matt Alison gets back from his fourth of july vacation smuggling Afghan heroin into Singapore in his anal cavity, we’ll mix this bitch and then-Let the leaking and inevitable shit talking begin!!!!!! WOOOOOHOOOO!!!!!
The great thing about this record is that when we first started, we had this idea for a seven inch, the title, the artwork, everything. That was gonna be our first seven inch, and well, we never made a seven inch (except the fat club 7” which is different, because it was part of a series, and it was subscription based, and you know, it wasn’t really its OWN thing) and so here we are, about to do our first seven inch, and we’re gonna use the title and cover art that we planned almost ten years ago. I think it still holds up to scrutiny. Good times.

On a slightly different note, I was perusing the Sock Drawer (the comments section for you newcomers) when I came across a post from “Joe Mushugana” wondering aloud how I could still drink Goldschlager. This is a big deal to me, kids.
Now, Joe Mushugana is from the amazingly under appreciated Chicago band, The Mushuganas. When I was a kid, they were my favorite band in Chicago, by far. We played shows together and we hung out a bit, but I was always sort of in awe of their shows and their records, and this dude, Joe, who was the guitar player.
He also did all the talking on stage. He was super smart and quick and funny and there was sort of no way to beat him. He commanded the room and he sliced up hecklers with the sharpest one-liners of all time. One time I made the mistake of yelling something at the Mushuganas at a show, all in good fun, and I remember that he fired back with something to the effect of “hey, look, it’s the guy from Chap Stick. He’s got something to say. Did you know that he named the band Chap Stick because he uses so much chapstick to keep his lips from cracking between all the cocks he constantly sucks down? It’s true.” Well, I didn’t really have much to say after that. I mean, that’s fucking funny, no matter how you slice it. He is also the guy who always said “This next song’s about killing yourself to live” before every song, which I also love.
Okay, the point is, this guy was and remains the whole reason that I sort of developed into who I am on stage. It’s all a big Joe Mushugana impersonation. Well, it used to be. Now it’s morphed into its own thing, I guess, but that’s the whole genesis. I haven’t seen Joe in probably ten years, but as strange as it sounds, I think about him and his whole thing that he did back then all the time. SO, long story short, uh, joe, if that’s really you, I don’t actually drink Goldschlager. It was kind of a joke. There’s no way to suck as many dicks as I do with all those gold flakes stuck in your throat.

Friday, June 19, 2009

stu stu studio

Yesterday we arrived at Atlas Studios around noon. Matt, the engineer, wolfed a junior whopper with some fries that were deemed “better than McDonalds” by the end of the meal. Chris had a veggie sandwich from this place called ‘the goddess and grocer’ (I know, such a terrible name….good sandwiches though, and surprisingly inexpensive wine). I don’t know what Neil or Justin ate. I had a turkey sandwich at home and then a blueberry and granola parfait yogurt cup, just to keep things punk rock and aggressive.
We set up to record the bass and drums live with scratch guitar, which, if you aren’t familiar with the jargon, means we all set up to play, but only neil (our drummer) and I (the bass player) were being recorded. The guitar is a sound you really have to fuck with to make interesting (so are the drums and bass, but we got those sounds set the night before) and is just in general a more specific and layered process than the bass and drums, so we figured this would be the best way to go. God, this shit is boring, isn’t it? It’s almost like BEING in the studio, but for someone else’s music, where you aren’t bound to the impossibly eternal minutiae by the undeniable lure of seeing your vision through. Let me skip to the visceral parts that I think would be interesting:
It’s been so long since I’ve recorded, the longest break in my life since I first picked up an instrument, that I no longer have what I would call “studio ears.” This is the ability to see how the little ditty that you crank out on your shitty acoustic guitar in your living room will eventually sound when it’s finally laid meticulously to tape. Of course, a great and dedicated engineer and producer can always supercede even your loftiest ideas of how shit’s gonna sound, regardless of if you or the songs are good or terrible, that’s sort of their job. They’re like makeup artists. They hide your receding hairline and your gut and your wrinkles and make you perfect. That’s why Good Charlotte sounds (and looks) how they do.
At the end of last night, we had the bass and drums on all five songs done, and we had laid down the rhythm guitar on one and that one, wow. It really came to life. This is a song that I’ve played acoustic before and it’s met an extremely split reaction. Some people love it and some hate it, but man, I can promise that NO ONE is expecting it to sound quite like this. What was a breezy little almost ska like number in the world of me just sitting on my porch playing it to my baby on a wooden guitar is now a big, burly, punchy really dynamic sounding song. I had forgotten that this is why we go to studios like Atlas and pay guys like Matt to be there and guys like Justin to run to the store and get us coffee and goldschlager…Because it makes all the fucking difference in the world.
We worked nonstop from noon to midnight yesterday, no small task for five notoriously lazy men. I play guitar on one of these tracks, and for reasons too dull to get into here, let’s just say that I HAD to do it live, with the drums and bass and I HAD to do it perfectly. There would be no way to go back and just fix a bit of it, if I fucked up, it was all the way back to the beginning. Well, I fucked it up in this way that I love, and so I’m keeping this shaky, crappy sounding guitar because it’s so much cooler than anything I could have ever done on purpose. That’s exciting. It’s just awesome and I don’t know where it came from. They say that kind of shit about kids. One day they’re just great at something that you’ve always sucked at, and supposedly you just go “holy shit! Where the fuck did that come from?!” and then you sit back and smile and slowly let your pride harden into jealousy. That’s when you get drunk and fight ‘em I guess. Hey, that’s what it says in my parenting magazines at least.
Man, those little accidents can really make you think, huh? Heh. Well, I’m jealous of neither my kid nor my song as of right now. Today, I head in in a moment to hear Chris blaze down the axe (which is nerd slang for ‘play the guitar’) and then we sing. I hope I can sing (and I hope the songwriting is) up to par with the instrumentation we’ve laid down. I wouldn’t say I’m nervous, but it’s a big challenge, and as I mentioned yesterday, I haven’t sang in a studio for three years, and that wasn’t even the Lawrence Arms. Jesus, I just read over this again and besides the part about food, it’s insanely dull…Allow me to spruce up the gash a bit:
We ordered a pizza from this place in wrigleyville last night around ten. A large pepperoni and an extra large half sausage/half cheese. It was pretty good, but that place uses brown sugar or something in the sauce and it’s more like a desert pizza to me, which isn’t typically my favorite course for pizza. We ate pretty much the whole thing, and when I got home, around 1230, full to the brim with pizza, my wife had left the remnants of her pizza in the fridge for me. Pizza pizza pizza. It’s the summer of pizza. Actually, I think that’s what we’re changing our band name to. “The Summer of Pizza.” It’s good. Yes it is, assholes! See, the Lawrence arms have been around too long, no one’s giving us a chance now…we’re doomed to just ride out the clock, Samiam style, but with a new band name and a new look (I’m thinking Red Baron style just to keep shit classy and well, pizza themed) I think we’ve really got a chance at the big time with this EP. Okay, that’s it. It’s decided. The Lawrence Arms are officially breaking up and starting a new band (all the same members) called “The Summer of Pizza.” Don’t tell anyone it’s us though. That’s gonna ruin our fucking chances in Hollywood. I can pass for nineteen, right?

Thursday, June 18, 2009

I've been trying to get organized for the last four hours and what do you do? You get a beer! Go in this car or that car. I'm not going! Bullshit!

This title is something my grandfather said to my dad before we went out to Pepe’s pizza (I think that was what it was called) one night, many years ago. My brother and I laughed about it for years after, and certainly we still would, were it to come up again. Granddad was just so pissed and confused and angry for no real reason, especially since my dad has always driven with open containers…He wasn’t holding up the party in the slightest by getting a beer. No real point to this, but I, like my grandfather before me sometimes feel the swell of confusion and just want to sit there on the floor of the garage, right in the oil puddle and just pout. I guess it’s a genetic response to stress, eh?
We had our last practice last night before heading into the studio today. My band, the Lawrence Arms, has been active and recording for ten years, but this will be our first time in the studio in four. That’s crazy, because that means almost half the life of this band has happened since we recorded our last record (which came out in 2006, but was recorded in 05). That’s a long time, man.
That was also a very different style of recording. Fuck, that was back when records still outsold digital downloads, even small bands got decent advances and records were hard to make at home. That was before the studio we used got protools, before our label downsized, before I had a kid and had to play guitar in quiet little corners of my house while he slept…it’s crazy to think of how much has changed in the last few years as far as making music goes. When we recorded our last record, we were in the studio for maybe three months. We did, I believe, eighteen songs, (some which were never finished), and we really took our time. This time, we’re going in for 2 days and we’re doing five songs.
We’ve done shit like this before though. Our first recordings were all quick ones. In my life, I’ve only been a part of two records that were recorded in over a week. This is a real trip back to the old school way of doing things for us, and it’s exciting and fun and scary. And fuck, it’s rough to think that we’re gonna take these five little songs that we record in 2 days and put them up against the best twelve of 18 that we recorded in three months 4 years ago, back when we were really in fighting shape, and up against the expectations that our fans have after waiting 3 years for a follow up, but fuck it. You can never please everyone, and nothing worth trying is ever easy. The alternative is to say, “I’m not going. Bullshit.” And just sit there. And I don’t want to start that just yet.
We did a lot of different things writing these songs too…I didn’t ever demo them, I just let the melodies and words grow and expand organically, rather than getting locked into what was on a tape that I made the day the song was written. That’s been helpful within each song, but it’s also made for less output than I’m used to, because nothing motivates my songwriting like listening to demos that I’m happy with. Each demo that turns out well is a tiny little successful project, and nothing motivates production like success.
Here’s the point, folks. I’d been apprehensive about this recording. Not because I didn’t believe in the tunes…I didn’t know why. Something was bumming me out and it was driving me crazy, like an itch you can’t find, and it was really harshing my mellow, to borrow a phrase from my favorite hippy jam band, Ultraviolet Hippopotamus. But last night, I realized what it was.
It was that fucking bridge in the fast song, the one about uh…overcoming personal demons by way of vague allusions to religious iconography, beer and friendship…The bridge was lyrically lazy. It didn’t fit the song, it was the worst part of the song and it was poisoning the whole fucking batch. All the songs were bumming me out because of this one little fifteen second part. SO, this morning, I rewrote the lyrics, and now I’m stoked. And now, well, you can go in this car or that car, I’m going. I’m sailing these little tiny five songs out of here with my friends, and we’re going up against impossible expectations, shit talking haters, deafening apathy and our own technical limitations and you know what, man? It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be even better than fine, because nothing else can happen until this record happens, and this is gonna be considered (by those few who even notice this record) a great departure, more of the same, regression, progression, really, really great lyrics, really really stupid lyrics, upbeat, depressing, great and terrible all at once. And man, didn’t you know? That’s how shit is. Nothing is all good or all bad. Look at yourself. Look at me. Look at your boyfriend and your mom and your favorite blanket. We’re all covered in stains and shit, man. That’s kind of what makes shit interesting, right?
Okay, enough pep. I’m fucking out of here, assholes. Tomorrow I’ll tell you all about what we did today, but for now, I gotta go change some strings.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Where is the goddamn sun?

People don’t know how to offer opinions, specifically negative ones. No, that’s not quite right. People are under the faultiest impressions of when it’s appropriate to offer negative opinions. That’s much better. Okay, here’s what I mean. Listen up. No, before I even get into this, I should explain my qualifications a little bit. My name is Brendan and I write this blog in which I expound on my often negative opinions of things. Also, I spend a lot of time dealing with other people’s negative opinions of me (ie ‘you’re an asshole, your blog is stupid, your band sucks, you can’t sing, you’re a terrible bartender, you dressed the baby in WHAT?) and on and on and on. Now, make no mistake, I also get plenty of praise and compliments and I’m fine, self esteem wise. I’m not looking for any sympathy here. I’m merely spelling out that I have lots of experience in both receiving and giving criticism. Why is this important? I’ll tell you why…because everyone’s an asshole. Hey, look, me too, but the new sort of western cultural currency of irreverence and this internet thingy have created a world where everyone’s an asshole because THAT’S the best way to be, EXCEPT no one is good at it. (Right now, extra credit question…What’s this all going to come down to, eventually? YES! Exactly. Thank you for paying attention…anyway)
SO, not only am I positing a mass critique of the world at large (which will lead every self important prick who’s been foolishly raised to believe that they’re special to the conclusion that I’m writing about them specifically) but I’m employing a rather sketchy method of operation. Namely, I’m criticizing people about how bad they are at criticizing people, which is the idiot’s definition of irony, and the FIRST thing people who are mentally lazy do when they argue is hop on hypocrisy/irony as an iron clad defense against anything their critics are saying (yes, I KNOW the definition of irony. I JUST said ‘the idiot’s definition’). Am I jumping around too much? Probably. Let’s just suffice it to say that I slept well last night for the first time in weeks and my brain is shooting half baked ideas out faster than I can type. Where are we?
Okay, hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is like blood. It’s in everyone. As such, it’s rather easy to point out if you know someone at all. Anyone who’s ever considered the complexity of the human spirit for any length of time has come to this conclusion, but the idiots of the world act like they’ve made some amazing discovery every time they point out someone’s hypocrisy. It’s the end of the argument as far as they’re concerned. “Oh, you won’t eat meat but you wear leather? That’s it. Game over. You’re an idiot.” This is a stupid perspective for several reasons.
1. Suggesting that you can’t make a small improvement unless you improve every single thing surrounding you is a lazy person’s excuse not to do anything. Small changes are the beginnings of big changes and to suggest you shouldn’t do something you feel strongly about because you can’t or won’t do all of it (oh, you’re in a band? Do you make a living at that? Ever win any awards? Sounds like a real cool band…heh) is just nothing but shit talking and naysaying and pissing on someone else’s enthusiasm/attempts to improve the world they live in. Yes, there’s a complicity that goes into buying leather shoes (I, by the way, eat meat and wear leather shoes, and I wear puppy skin briefs, but I won’t crack eggs. Too cruel.) and YES, self righteous assholes are irritating, but when you flip it on them like that, you’re playing their same stupid game. It’s all just semantics. “You shouldn’t eat meat!” “Well, you wear leather.” Sheesh, people. Which one of you is going to say “don’t tell me what to do” first? Because you’re having the kind of conversation that just sounds like farts to the rest of us.
2. There is no 2. I’m proving a point here. Go ahead and criticize.
3. Kidding! There is a 2. And here it is. YOU’RE a hypocrite too. Yes. Yes. Yes you are, dummy. Don’t pretend you’re not just because you caught someone up in some bullshit game of wordplay. You’re a hypocrite and if that’s an argument ender, then I’d bet that all I’d have to do is go through your text history or your netflix queue or your last FM account to be able to discount your argument completely too. What’s this? I thought you said that your favorite band was Grimple and that Dave Matthews is a dildo? Looks like all you listen to is Dave Matthews. You’re an idiot. Caught in a moment of hypocrisy. That’s the end of your argument about leather shoes. Now YOU’RE wrong forever. See? Yeah. Not the best argument in the world, certainly not an argument ender. (Oh, and yeah, Grimple is an awesome band, for reals)

Next up, opinions are like assholes and yours stinks:
The western world is currently running on a cultural fuel of irreverence. Punk and rap are mainstream music. Frat guys and hairdressers walk around with Mohawks and green hair. Tattoos are as common as obesity. Half our youth culture thinks that religion is retarded and the other half thinks science is retarded (yes…this is a loaded comment, smarty. Spare me. I’M EDITORIALIZING. THAT’S WHAT THIS PLACE IS FOR). Everyone who was once a rebel is now running things and even your parents listen to rock n roll. Hippies and metalheads run the place. What is the result? Irreverence is cool. Irreverence=success. People think that they MUST criticize in order to fit into the greater social scheme of things even when they don’t have a reason to. I mean, all the cool people just tell it like it is, right? No filter. If Howard Stern doesn’t like something BOOM! He just lets you have it, right? It shows that you’re keeping it real when you fucking insult someone a little. Take em down a peg, you know?
This is also the internet’s fault. Dumb people now believe that they have as much a right to everything as anyone else. It’s not just anonymous message boards either (though that’s a huge part of it.) Now that we can follow (for example) Chris Martin’s Tweets, we know he’s just like us, and where we used to see him and praise him, because, you know, we like his music (play along), now we’re so familiar with the culture of “letting it all get out there” that we feel compelled to inject our dumb opinions and say shit like “really liked that first record Chris, but the new one kinda sucks man.”
Why would we say that? Why would we go up to someone we don’t know and insult what they do? Why would we be more impolite to someone whose work we admire than to some total stranger we don’t even know anything about at all? Because we think, erroneously, that he’ll appreciate the candor. Well, news flash. He doesn’t. HE COULDN’T give less of a shit what you think, and he sure doesn’t want to have a conversation with someone boorish enough to just walk up and insult what he does out of the blue about the finer points of what works and what doesn’t. When my friends and I talk, or when I’m really interested in dissecting my work/someone else’s, I’ll ask someone with an opinion I trust, or I’ll enter a dialog with someone who’s opinion I respect. I don’t want yours, random asshole at the bar. I don’t want yours, vague acquaintance. AND before you begin to tell me and chris martin that we’re just being rockstar dickheads, stop and think for a second…YOU DON’T WANT SOME RANDOM DICKHEAD’S OPINION EITHER, MAN. When some asshole comes up to you at the bar and says “nice shirt, fag” that’s fucking FIGHTING WORDS. And, he’s just insulting your dumb shirt, not what you do. (nice shirt, by the way) Do you see what I’m saying? Andre 3000 is not more likely to be interested in lending a song to your movie just because you make it a point to tell him that you’re not a fan of his acting. Same with when I mention to John Mayer that I’ve always hated his music, but now I’m coming around on him because I think his tv show is funny. They don’t care. In fact, that’s wrong. They do care. They’re pissed that you just came up to them and insulted them under the guise of “keeping it real.”
You know why people who are famous for being critical make it? Because they put themselves in positions where their opinions are valid and they speak to an audience of dummies who need opinions. There’s a big difference between being a Howard Stern or a John Stewart or even a Sean Hannity and just being some douche with a half formed idea of what’s working and what’s not. It’s the same difference between being Phil Jackson and being your fat drunk uncle.

It is, to get to the answer portion of this epic post, all a question of confidence. There’s nothing inherently confident about blindsiding someone with your opinion. In fact, it’s pandering and pathetic in a way, because it’s really just dealing out a slight insult with the hopes of being seen as ‘more real’ or ‘cooler’ by the person we’re insulting, because that’s how the people they know and trust MAY talk to them, except we AREN’T one of those people. Howard Stern doesn’t tell Paul McCartney that he never liked Rubber Soul right before he mentions how great Wings was, because it’s irrelevant, and it’s not what he’s talking about and it’s just a weird thing to do, man. It’s not confidence. It’s complete lack of confidence masquerading as the opposite. BUT, as I think we’ve discussed before, that’s the most pathetic kind of insecurity, innit? That’s the combover. If all you want to do is impress upon someone that you like them, stick to nice things. Hell, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been guilty of this shit in the past. That’s why I’m here, right? To explain my own mistakes in hopes of making the world a better place.

Oh, and one more thing, if you really, really don’t like someone, why would you even waste your time giving them your opinion? You wouldn’t. Unless they were up in your face, at which point “go fuck yourself” should suffice. Is that enough hypocrisy and holier than thou, opinionated yet also shockingly sissyish and defensive ranting? Good. There you go kids. Have fun out there!

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

guess what buddy? You're on it.

Last night and the night before, I’ve been haunted by fever dreams and insomnia. I’m not exactly sick or anything…well, if I am, these are the only symptoms. I’m no stranger to insomnia, but the last two nights have been really filled with anxiety. I wake up around midnight or one and my mind begins racing. I’m a busy guy, and I start thinking about the impossibility of the things I have to do and the timeframe in which I’m gonna be able to get them done, then I begin to think about all the things I’ve done in the past, all the projects that I’ve taken on that have ended up half assed or unfinished or that have just languished due to my lack of follow through. THEN I begin to think in broader terms and start to become pretty terrified. I start thinking about the larger ways that I’ve failed as a friend, or just as a guy or whatever, and then I begin to panic that I’m a terrible dad/husband/friend/son/human being all that shit. THEN, and here’s where it starts to get really spooky, I begin recalling things from the dreams that I was having that just woke me up, and examining them as though they really happened. At this point, I’m sweating and my entire sense of self, conscious and unconscious has been skewered and I’m WIDE awake but there’s really no desire to go back to sleep, because that’s where those demented and crazy dreams are.
When I wake up again in the morning, none of this shit bothers me very much. Yes, I have a lot of shit to do in short periods of time right now, but it’s exhilarating and scary and exciting and it doesn’t really panic me (well, it does a little, but in a realistic and manageable way), I feel fine about myself and all that shit and I (of course) in no way feel responsible for my actions in dreams (which strangely, aren’t even really sins or transgressions, it’s just the general creepy nature of the dreams that wigs me out). I’m left with a tiny little seedling of doom sitting there in my chest though. Just reminding me that I terrified the shit out of myself two nights in a row. I mean, last night, I sat up reading, pretty sure I was totally fucked, through and through, but unsure of why. Today, I’m just tired. Ah well, I’m thinking it’s idle panic that comes from anticipation.
We’re going into the studio this weekend to record some songs for a 7”. We’re gonna look into doing four on the record with a spare track for the internet or something and with a possible alternate version of one, but we’re doing shit fairly quickly, so we may not get to everything. We need to practice. We’re practicing tonight and tomorrow night and then we’re recording for two days and then I’m kind of chilling. I hope to finish my book. I’m reading The Things they Carried by Tim Obrien, and I’d recommend it to anyone. It’s sort of a memoir about Nam, but it’s not as lame as that makes it sound. It was a finalist for the Pulitzer and there have been some points in reading it that I’ve been pretty fucking glued/terrified/on the verge of tears. It’s a great read, seriously. Hell, it got me through the night terrors last night. If you want to just read a great short story by him, the version of “Speaking of Courage” that appears in there is pretty fucking stellar, I think. I guess it’s a rewrite, so don’t go for the original, which apparently kinda sucks. Just to clarify, the one where the main character is Norman is the good one. The one where he’s named Paul, I can’t vouch for that shit, yo.
Um, what else? Oh yeah, down in the sock drawer, our buddy Kyle wanted to know if he should go to college…I was gonna respond, but I think the answer that was left below by your fellow sock was pretty spot on. What else, man? I feel like I’m forgetting something….uh, I talked about night terrors, I talked about recording, I talked about the book and the latest query from the drawer…Jizz? Felching? Anything like that?
I dunno, man. I took the whole week off from the bar to be in the studio. I think that right there should be reason enough to celebrate this week. OH! The cobra Skulls new record, American Rubicon is all done, and one of their new songs is up on their myspace page. Check that shit out, fools. Otherwise, you know, I’ll pity you, Mister T style.

Monday, June 15, 2009

sweating sweating sweating

Well, the wedding was a success, and like every trip to Florida, I’m glad it’s over and surprised I’m alive. I spent some time at the pool, and I spent some time at the poolside bar. I only flipped out and yelled at someone until they began to tear up once, but then I quickly recovered my composure, apologized and made friends. All in all, pretty good trip. Thanks for holding down the fort while I was away.
This weekend was my favorite festival in Chicago, Ribfest, and I missed it. Well, actually I got back just in time to sneak in, realize that everyone was out of ribs, and settle on a chicken kabob before passing out in the sweaty pile of exhaustion that is me after a destination wedding. I woke up at 320 am just losing my mind. My mind was racing and I was absolutely convinced that I’d done something real bad, though I couldn’t figure out what it was. My dreams were fucked up and I think that had something to do with it. Anyway, long story short, I’m tired and a little uneasy. Whatever though, right? Nothing a bike ride won’t fix.
I’ve been listening to “Forgot About Dre” lately. Man, that last verse of Dre’s is probably one of the single greatest verses in the history of rap, and do you know why? Confidence, people. He’s rapping about how he’s been sucking, but now, he’s back, and now that all yall didn’t stand by him when he was sucking, he’s leaving you, and the entire rap game, which he so very obviously dominates, behind. It’s real, real good, and I’m not a gigantic Dre fan or anything. It’s just like a perfect storm. Rappers always try to pretend that they’ve got so much confidence, and that they control the entire spectrum and future of rap, but only Dre really sounds like he’s just disgusted with everyone out there. It’s a total bitch slap to the face of every other rapper. He’s so fucking over it that he’s not even pretending that he wasn’t putting out records that were up to par. That’s confidence, man. I know, it’s nine years old, and Eminem probably wrote the verse and this probably couldn’t be more irrelevant, but I’m listening to lots of stuff now to keep my brain sharp, or perhaps to the point, sharpen it again. I’m feeding my head again after a LONG period of not listening to music or reading.
People often write in and ask ‘how do you write songs?’ well, here’s the answer everyone, take note: Read. Read tons of magazines, books articles, dumb self important blogs, whatever. Watch television and listen to music, but mostly, mostly you have to read. There’s no way to produce without putting gas in the tank. Listen to music that makes you think, not just the music that you want to make, although that’s important too. However, if Strike Anywhere went and listened to nothing but Rise Against for inspiration (or vice versa) there’d be no way to progress beyond that basic level. It’s always diminishing returns when you stay locked into a genre. My big influence lyrically, for a long time was Eminem, simply because I loved his ideas of how verses flowed and the intersyllabic rhymeschemes that he came up with. I don’t think that my music sounds particularly like Eminem, but I used that influence or inspiration to do something that I wouldn’t have been able to pull off otherwise. Does that make sense? I read books and find sentences that I think are super powerful and concentrated and I earmark them and come back to them, or just let them come out when I write words down. It’s a constant process of expulsion, consumption. Kind of like barfing up gigantic tubs of jizz and then eating them again…No, sorry. Not like that at all. It’s like eating all bran. You have to make yourself eat it, then it makes you shit more than you ever would otherwise, then you have to keep eating more and more all bran, and keep shitting and keep sifting through that shit for all the diamonds. Is that a decent metaphor? Good. See, kids, just keep reading and you too will be able to craft finely hewn uh…strings of sparkling shit metaphors. Good game today. I gotta go outside, man.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

to the hotel, to the motel to the holiday inn.

What is wrong with our world, people? Nuclear disaster, luxury hotels blown to bits, flooded gay couples in Iowa waiting patiently for marriage licenses and government aid, Osama, Obama and now this old dude with the gun in the Holocaust museum killing a guard. It’s really quite sad. The statement about the guard said he died ‘heroically in the line of duty’ which is, you know, true. But fuck, he was a security guard at a museum. It’s not really what they sign up for. A guy on the SWAT team can die heroically in the line of duty and it’s sad but it’s honorable and somewhat easier to deal with because it’s assumed that he knew the risks and at least he died doing what he loved (terrorizing brown people), but I seriously doubt this security guard ever expected to really put his life on the line. I mean, I don’t know what the museum guards are like in DC, but here they’re almost entirely fat, middle aged black women with walkie talkies and wine colored weaves. Not really a likely line of defense against deadly force. The one good thing is that in a few years, this slain guard’s family can say “oh, yeah, my brother-he died in the Holocaust…..museum” and that’ll maybe be kind of funny. Probably not yet though. Too soon.
The other thing that’s led me to believe that we’re headed straight into a postapocalyptic world of waking nightmares is the pile of magazines that lurks by where I take dumps. Recently some new magazines were added to the pile, which is nice, because I was almost all the way done with that Punk Rock Confidential from 3 years ago, and one of the things that got added was a Women’s Health. I flipped through this idly, mostly because I really wasn’t doing much else, when I came across this article about losing five pounds EASILY. It had lists of things you could eat-a breakfast list, a lunch list and a snack list. I’m not sure where dinner fit in, as I didn’t really read the article. The reason I didn’t read the article is because the first thing on the breakfast list was a ham and cheese omelet sandwich from Burger King.
Now, I’m no nutritionist, but I do know a little something about fast food sandwiches, ham, cheese and the general effect they have on people. And I’m not suggesting that this article is preaching bad science. I’m sure that they’ve got it all worked out so that if you follow the article’s direction, you WILL lose weight while enjoying the BK hamlette or whatever it’s called. I’m more appalled that as a culture we are so gross and disgusting and greasy that a fucking ham and cheese omelet sandwich is now a diet food. I mean, what the fuck are you people eating? Whole pigs stuffed with mayonnaise? It’s nuts. This reminds me of when Jared from subway ended up crapping out what, 300 pounds? He did it by eating footlong sub sandwiches? That just simply should not be, man. That. should. Not. Be.
This weekend my friend Jason is getting married in Florida and I’m headed down there to watch this all go down. I’m pretty excited to sleep in a little and kick it by a pool. I haven’t been out of town in a while.
Speaking of hotels, this kind of reminds me of something that a customer at my bar was telling me about his corporate travel stays. He said that the corporate conventions that pack hotels with businesspeople are crazy. The hotel bar is essentially a thinly veiled waiting room in which you pick people to randomly bone. He also said that the women are mercilessly direct and even moreso if they’re married and the guy they’re trying to seduce is wearing a ring too. This guy, he was at one of these things and his buddy was getting hit on like crazy, and he was convinced it was because of his wedding ring, so he let the other guy try the ring on, and sure enough, as soon as he was wearing the wedding ring, the married women started sizing him up like they were Garfield and he was lasagna. So, this guy, my customer, is now in the market for a fake wedding band that he can just wear at his corporate events. At first it sounded sleazy, but then I realized, it’s brilliant. These women are the ones who are really, truly being deceitful to their families, right? They want random sex with no followup and mutual guilt. If this guy is wearing a fake wedding ring to sneak into their pants, no strings attached style, that’s a real helluva switcheroo. I can’t even really explain why it’s so great, but it is. Next step, men of the sockdrawer, head out to the Airport Hilton, wear a button up shirt, a lose tie and a wedding ring. When the prowlers approach, tell em your reservation got fucked up and your room isn’t ready. Bring rubbers.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

I think of all the really cool things I could do or say, then you go and you tell me that you found out dean was gay...

Okay, man. What the fuck? Do you people think I have nothing but time on my hands? This is ridiculous. Oh sure, blame it on the internet and the general culture of depravity that we’ve fostered here in cyberspace! Blame it on divorce rates and daddy issues if you must, but know, Sock Drawer, KNOW that I blame you. Of course I’m referring to isshefilthy.blogspot.com. One of you socks turned me on to this one yesterday and FUUUUUUUCK. How am I supposed to get anything done with that website out there, man? I mean, shit, look what time it is! Okay, quick primer: Is She Filthy is set up a lot like guesshermuff, in fact, if it’s not set up by the very same people, it’s set up by seriously uncreative impersonators. THIS website’s little ‘game’ involves you guessing if the girl in the picture is ‘filthy’ which, in the context of the website seems to mean ‘sexually active’ (spoiler alert: The answer is always yes) and then clicking on the link to see said girl, oh, I don’t know…hogtied and buttfucked with big red handslap prints all over her ass and thighs, just for example. It’s captivating, I’ll say that much for it. Anyway, I don’t know what it is, the presentation or what, because it’s so much more compelling than just regular pornography. It’s kind of this real impressionist storytelling. You see one person in two various states and there’s this little connection that my brain tries to make as far as what happened between the pictures. I don’t know, man. That’s pretty philosophical for porn, I guess, and lord knows I’m no Nick Manning (DROPPIN LOADS!!!) Let’s just suffice it to say I’m thrilled and disgusted at the same time. Okay, enough of my life has been wasted on this thrilling website already. On to bigger topics.
Yesterday, late, someone posted in the sock drawer looking for advice. It’s pretty funny, I think, so I’m gonna give it a whirl. Here goes:

So there's this girl, I've known her since 6th grade, we dated for 3 and a half years from when we were 19-23 and I treated her like shit. I cheated on her frequently. I was not a good person, at all. I broke her fucking heart.__Since we've been broken up, we've always fooled around still when we were both single. But since about January she's been in a long distance relationship with this guy (he lives in Oregon, we live in Minnesota).__Needless to say, this guy hates me. Because, while I did pretty unforgivable things to this girl, she forgave me and we have remained best friends. We talk every day and still hang out once every couple weeks. Her boyfriend hates the fact that we're so close and is insecure.__He has every right to be, because, while at first after they started dating, when her and I would hang out, it was obvious there was sexual tension, but we never acted on it. Then a few weeks ago, I was coming off a pretty hard night of drinking and was at her place recovering from the hangover and we ended up sleeping together.__And then she got a call from him that same day and he broke up with her. He didn't even know that her and I were hanging out right then, he was just generally unhappy in the relationship. She was devastated and asked me to stay the night. Which I did. But the next day they got back together and she told me that we could no longer be as close as we were because she needed to try to make it work with him.__That was all fine and good, and at first we were more distant, but the more we hung out and talked, the closer we became again. After we got drunk together at a Lucero show the other night I spent the night over there again.__The next morning I left my phone there and she went through it and found some texts I had sent to a booty call I have. And while she knew about this girl, seeing the texts in print was too much for her to take. She just told me that she only wants to talk me once a month and only to hear that I am doing all right. She says she is going to move to Oregon at the end of July and is probably going to marry the guy out there. She says she doesn't feel about him, the way she did and does feel about me, but she's just not willing to get crushed again.__I don't want her to go. I have been trying to get her back for the past few months. But I know I fucked shit up in the past, and I feel like I owe it to her to let her go and to just see what happens. What should I do Brendan? Did I blow any chance of getting her back? Is it hopeless? Be as blunt as possible.

Dude, you know exactly what’s going on here, okay. You’ve been manipulating this girl successfully for a while now, and there’s no reason that I can see that you should stop now. You obviously like doing it, she obviously likes you doing it. What’s the question here? This seems less like a quest for guidance and more like a proclamation of awesomeness. You’re fucking STOKED on yourself and your dick sharing ways and this chick’s goofy drama. This much is very, VERY clear in this letter. And good on ya, man. I’m not here to judge. Someone in the drawer wrote in some sort of reply that’s like “just let the poor girl get her life together and be thankful she doesn’t hate you!” But that’s really missing the point here. She’s obviously got self destructive tendencies, and masochistic tendencies (why else would she go snooping through your text history?) and this dude obviously has a love of exploiting those tendencies. What’s the actual question? Can you get her back? Yeah, sure. Seems like you’ve already done that more times than I’ve toured Japan. Do you owe anything to her? Probably. Are you a dick? Most likely. Does any of this matter the next time you guys see each other and get drunk and end up posting pictures of it on isshefilthy.blogspot.com (she is, by the way)? Nope. Not even a little. I mean, what’s my role here? Should I say “nah, dude. Don’t go for it. Leave the poor girl be”? Are you gonna listen to me? No. and if you do (which you won’t), the second she gets drunk and texts you, it’s all gonna go out the window anyway. At this point your behavior and her behavior are so molded to each other’s various dominant and submissive tendencies, that she’s really gonna have to step up and get a sack to ever get rid of you. Is she gonna? Only she really knows, but I’d say that she’s all yours until that fateful day when she really, truly doesn’t want you around. At that point, you’ll just need to find another chick with low self esteem. Good luck.

Nerds, pussies out there. Take note. This guy uses the confidence method perfectly. Now, you don’t have to create a swath of destruction behind you, but if you employ my method of unflappable confidence, you’ll at least have the OPTION of creating said swath of destruction. We’re teaching powerful techniques here at BSC, mofos. Yeah. Okay, what else?
Ah, someone wanted to hear a good wedding story. Well, I don’t really have any, but my friend Sean Nader has a bunch. There was one wedding where by the time everyone got to the reception (which, if I’m not mistaken took place in the early afternoon) Nader was already shirtless and shotgunning beer. I believe he and his date (a dude, to bring it all back to yesterday’s advice concerning bringing a buddy to a wedding but not getting too fucked up) were actually both staggering drunk and shirtless and ended up fistfighting and getting kicked out. I don’t know if I’m telling this story entirely right, but I’m not far off. He’s amazing, ladies and gentlemen. Maybe I’ll talk to him and get the full and correct story for tomorrow. Hmmm…okay.
What else? Man, I got nothing. We practiced last night and I’m beat. All right, I got a lot of chicks to guess the filth level of before my baby wakes up. Good luck down there, Sock Drawer. See you tomorrow!

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

shut your mouth now, big boy!

Good morning Dogs of War! It’s a real pleasure to rap at you today. I’m tired. My friends were over late and we grilled and I stayed up way later than I would have liked to. Yesterday was productive in that I wrote a pretty cool song and had a meeting with my friend Nick regarding a huge bear of a project. Speaking of bears, any of you guys out there know how to get ahold of a bear mascot costume kinda on the cheap? I’m actually thinking I’m gonna need 2 of em, but maybe not. Maybe I can just dress the same one up differently. Jesus Christ…Anyway.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, someone mentioned that my complaint line here at BSC was actually 976 ANAL, which is hilarious, but not for the reason you think. The reason that’s hilarious is because my intent was to put 976 COCK. That means (brace yourselves) that COCK and ANAL are the SAME THING IN PHONE SEX NUMEROLOGY!!!! Pretty cool if you ask me, man. My baby is napping and I’ve got a ton of shit to do. My band has to practice, I’ve gotta get one of those containers to store coffee in (see Answers! Beautiful Answers! For a detailed description of why) and I’ve got another meeting with Nick. It’s gonna take place in a car or perhaps a kitchen, or maybe both. My friend Bob, who’s really into amphetamines is gonna be there too. He’s easily distracted. It’s a prescription thing, not a seedy prostitute/speed freak thing. Jesus, relax. Don’t you guys know that amphetamines are prescribed for everything from colds to personality disorders? This actually reminds me of a story, the part about hookers and speed freaks, that is… (now who’s easily distracted? Anyway…)
One night we were trying to get out of Barcelona. The guy driving our van was uh…freaking us all out. He was, and remains, german. He’s also very small and he has no hair or teeth. I’m not joking. He’s great. I love him dearly, BUT this particular day, he was acting kind of strange (a whole other story) and after circling Barcelona for about 2 hours I made the executive decision that we should pull into a truckstop and just fucking get off the road, man. Relax. Smoke a joint and chill out. SO, we did just that. There, between various euro semi trucks (or ‘lorries’ if you’re speaking the king’s English…goofy loyalists) we made our camp. Chris set to work rolling a cone and our driver guy told me he was gonna take off for a while because he wanted to see if the truckstop was home to any transsexual prostitutes. Because, and I’m not joking here, that’s what he wanted to spend his money on. SO, he takes off and we start talking about how he’s been acting kind of strange and how he was probably really pissing off the other band we were on tour with (Millencolin, on the Kingwood tour) but that was probably okay, because their tour manager was such a complete cock chugger that, well, he was pissing us off, so it was a mutual thing at least. Anyway, we got along with the band just wonderfully, it was a case of two very VERY different styles of tour management colliding. That’s all. Regardless, Millencolin, not that big in the states, but in Europe they’re ENORMOUS. This tour was a big fucking deal. Biggest tour I’ve ever been on and I’ve been on tour with Adam fucking Lazarra you plebes. Anyway…So our dude comes back with the sad news that all the hookers at the truckstop were just women with vaginas, so, you know, no dice. He settled for smoking some hash instead, so we lit the joint and were just kind of kicking it right there between the trucks, when who walks around the corner? Are you guessing prostitutes? Trannies? Nah. 2 cops.
They’re not looking too happy. Or more to the point, they’re looking real happy because they apparently love ruining people’s day (They’re cops, after all). SO, we start acting dumb and shrugging and speaking English loudly and stupidly in an attempt to gather a little bit of sympathy while our tour manager, who speaks Spanish, approached the cops to try to explain what was going on. Remember, he’s odd looking, and that’s putting it very mildly. He’s got a tattoo of barbed wire around his neck, just for example. So the cops kind of wig out a little, back off and shine a flashlight on him and that’s when they see his tour laminate. “Millencolin?” the cop asks pointing at the laminate. “si! Millencolin” says our driver, pointing at us. We wave. The cops suddenly become giggly and proceed to tell us how much they LOVE us (millencolin) and then tell us to have a great tour and even hand us back the joint. It was wonderful. Then we found a bunch of trannies and ran a real hell of a train on em all.
Okay, here’s a quick blast of advice then it’s off to the sock drawer for all of us, right? Good.

As usual, this concerns a girl--about four years ago I was dating this girl, it lasted for almost two years before I caught wind of her cheating on me. I did what any self respecting dude would do and dumped her ass, and even though I was/am pretty fucked up over it, I feel good about the fact that I didn't pussy out and try to get her back. Anyway, while I was dating her I became friends friends with her brother, and after we broke up I would still hang out with him. We pretty much agreed without talking about it not to talk about it, which worked out great. We got to be really good friends over the next few years and I got to know his girlfriend as well, and now we hang out all the time. Now here's the problem: my friend recently asked his girlfriend to marry him, and this shindig is going down in a few weeks. I'm invited, naturally my ex is invited (with her now-boyfriend, the guy she cheated on me with) and even though I know SOME of the other people my friend is inviting, I'm not really friends with any of them. I'm not dating anyone right now, I don't have a hot chick I can bring with me and I'm not looking forward to the prospects of hanging out by myself at this wedding looking like a loser in sight of my ex and her boyfriend while they're all over each other. Now I'd consider paying some really hot chick to go with me but not only is that pretty pathetic as well, my friend would know it's bullshit and it'd probably come out. That leaves not going, which isn't a real option either -- my friend and his girlfriend would be pissed at me, and my ex would get way too much satisfaction out of it because I know she'd assume she's the cause of me skipping it.

My question, is it a loser move to bring a guy friend as my +1? I mean, there's an open bar and I plan on getting shitfaced (probably a bad idea) but I'd look less of a complete loser if I was doing it with a friend. If you have any other possible tips for me, do share cause I can use the help.

You go. You bring your buddy. You don’t worry about shit. You have fun, you tell your friend congrats and you act nice to your ex but don’t lurk around her at all and just concentrate on having fun with your buddy. Weddings are great spots to meet girls and great spots to hang out with your snazzy new attitude that exemplifies that you’re confident, unflappable and way cooler than your ex’s dorky new boyfriend. Don’t worry about the slight gayness of bringing a dude. It’s cool. They invited you cuz they like you and want you to be there and have fun. If bringing your buddy makes it more fun for you, then hell, no worries. One small caution: DO NOT GET SO DRUNK THAT YOU ACT LIKE A DIPSHIT. You will be SO bummed out if you do. Have fun. I can’t stress this enough. You won’t be a loser at all if you keep it together and have fun.
Okay dildettes and dingalings…I’m outa here. Snoochy boochies.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Answers! Beautiful answers!

I just woke up. First thing I did was piss. That was a given. Next, I decided to make some coffee, you know, to shake the dust of the dick of this day. Well, we keep our coffee in this large glass jar that’s slightly fancy and has a nice clasp. I guess it looks nicer than just having a bag of coffee grounds in the fridge. It’s a woman thing, but whatever, I can dig it. So as I’m closing the clasp, the motherfucker slips off the counter and shatters all over the kitchen and suddenly, I’m in my underwear, bleary eyed, picking up all this broken glass and sweeping up about three quarters of a pound of coffee. It’s SUCH an awesome beginning to the week, I think I’m gonna burst. Yay.
I don’t have lots of time today. Lots and lots of shit to do. I’m gonna maybe surprise my friend’s family because I know where they’re eating lunch. Also, I’ve got like, a million muffs to guess and I just can’t put that off another day. Fucking work backlog, you know? Okay, so there’s some good advice queries that I need to get to and of course, there’s the all important answer key to the quiz from last week. I’m gonna do that and then see how I feel. Maybe we’ll get to advice today, or maybe the Sock Drawer will just have to provide it….Sigh. I’m so bummed about that coffee….
Okay, answer key:
1. Mexican construction worker
These dudes drink MGD. There’s no chance of anything else. If I see Mexican construction workers coming through the door, I can pull out and open MGD’s. This is the most indelible one in the whole game.
2. fat and skanky posse of white girls_
They’re drinking the three olives grape and soda. My theory? They’re trying to indulge the sweet tooth that got them into this mess in the first place and also be “drink responsible” and have a drink with no added sugar. They get this in pint glasses every time too. It’s, again, clockwork.
3. sharp dressed black guy
None of you guys got this and it shocks me, frankly. These dudes drink Long Islands. It’s such a phenomenon. In general, and yes mother, this is slightly racist, the fruity, juicy and very sweet drinks are the faves among our African descended customers (see mai tai). Of course, there are lots of people who get Long Islands, but the sharp dressed black dude almost always does.
4. effete hipster dipshit
He’s drinking PBR and a shot of rye. He thinks it’s gritty. He’s gotta bike home. He’s…wait, he’s me. Oh dear.
5. sorority skank
Effen BC and soda. I don’t know what’s up with this either, but this is clearly the nectar of those bitches who act like I’m a complete scumbag, then get wasted and try overtly to fuck me only to end up blowing a fat friend of their sister’s up against the urinal. I mean, in my experience.
6. businessman
He’s drinking Blue Moon. No joke here. It’s just kinda how shit is.
sassy black woman-
She’s drinking the mai tai. This goes back to the whole juice thing…I mean, what’s the deal? I know that were I one of only ten highly visible percent of the society at large, people would notice the patterns of behavior of me and my fellow uh…other ten percent, and I don’t exactly know how noticing that black guys and girls like juice and sweet things a disproportionate amount actually becomes racist, but it seems like you’re not supposed to say things like this out loud for some reason. Look, I bet there are plenty of sassy black women out there who fucking HATE mai tai’s, okay. I’m not trying to reduce a race to a preference. Jesus. This is why we’ll never have a meaningful discussion about race in America. Everyone gets their fucking dick all knotted up when someone mentions that eight black dudes in a row ordered Long Islands. We’ve got a long way to go, man.

7. Mexican (non construction)
Ah, fuck. My numbering system got all fucked. Stupid word program. Okay, anyway, this dude is drinking corona. It’s a popular beer, man.
8. total fucking wastoid who looks like they’re about to die (guy or girl)
They’re drinking vodka red bull. When you’re this hungover, it’s usually the only thing that will pull you through. Lots of people drink this, though. for example, last night, a musclebound guy with curly hair that had been highlighted and a skin tight affliction button up and a pair of true religions and a store bought tan and a ridiculously tiny penis (don’t ask) came in and ordered an effen black cherry and red bull. That’s its own category, man. Body-building-Bret-Michaels-enthusiast-mirror-boys. And the gayest drink of all time.
9. Pretend hippy
Sierra Nevada. Go fuck yourself, pretend hippy, and take your gross beer with you.
10. Gay dude out with a bunch of girls
Chocolate martini. It’s fun! Oh my god. Gavin! Did you just order a CHOCOTINI? You know I did Bitch! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
11. Eurotrash
These guys drink beer on draft. They don’t know cocktails and they don’t like bottles. Not on the list. It’s an extra credit. Sadly, once again, you’ve all failed me. Sigh.
12. Underager
Come on! These guys don’t drink in my bar at all! I’m a highly responsible bartender, folks!
13. coked up loser sitting by himself eating dinner while high
Chocotini, cosmo, pbr. This guy is all over the place. He’ll do whatever is the grossest and most irritating at the time. That’s his MO. To gross out and annoy the bartender. “hey, I don’t even like pretzels usually, but I LOVE this pretzel bun”. Yeah, I know. You’ve said that six times already.
Okay, thanks for playing. I’m out of here. Uh…also, of course, these aren’t the only answers. They’re just the best answers. If you’ve got a problem, please call the BSC complaint department and let them know 976 2625. No area code needed. You advice seekers are shit out of luck. I’m late, man.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Get your game on! Go play!

Today is a beautiful day. It’s sunny and warm without being oppressive and THAT my friends, means that my dumb bar is going to be slammed. I will be forced to wash dishes and restock bottles and hand endless numbers of margaritas and glasses of pinot grigio to flummoxed waitresses all while navigating sandwiches and beers to the dumb dildos who would rather sit in the dark bar than outside where it’s nice. I will have to talk to these people, regardless of their stupidity or lack of social graces. I will have to get them whatever they want. I will have to pretend I don’t hate them. Why do I do this, dogs of war? Why? I’ll tell you. I do it for the fucking TIPS you cheap fucks.
Yesterday, the Sock Drawer hosted a spirited debate regarding tipping. I feel that the general consensus was right on, but let me add my dollar, if I may.
Regarding the guy who mentioned that he tips every other round if he’s just drinking beers based on the ease of what the bartender is doing and yadda yadda yadda. Well, yeah, sure that makes sense. I get it, but you’re cheap. There’s nothing inherently wrong with your argument, but it’s an argument put in place to justify paying less money than what you know to be the standard, which is what cheap fucks do. They rationalize their cheapness. I mean, if I knock down a parking meter on the grounds that I put all my quarters in it and it didn’t register them, and I’m now out of quarters and I’ve already paid thousands dollars in tickets to this vampiric city’s department of revenue and I really need to go in and (let’s just say) contest a ticket, and this is the only parking space, and again, I’m out of quarters because this fucking meter just ate them without posting that I paid, well, sure, that’s justified in my mind, but it doesn’t erase that I’m a vandal.
If you tip less than a buck a drink, you’re cheap. Face facts. All the reasoning in the world isn’t gonna change anything. The bartender standing there looks at you and assesses thusly: “what a cheap fuck.” I mean, if you go to the Congo and hang out with Pygmies, you’re tall, right? Regardless of if you’re actually only 5’2”, you’re tall in a hut full of little tiny 3 footers. Everything is relative, and yes, if you go to mcdonalds and tip every other time you’re there, they will herald you as a Robin Hood or a wealthy tycoon showering nickels down on the unwashed hordes from a zeppelin, but at a bar (and you KNOW this already) you tip a fucking dollar a drink. You get a beer and a shot, you tip two bucks. This is the MINIMUM that you tip to not look like a cheap fuck. Again, I don’t want to hear your arguments. I’m not telling you that it’s right or wrong, I’m telling you how it is. Capice? Good.
Okay, now that you’re up to speed, you cheap fucks, let’s play a game. I’ll list some drinks and then I’ll list some outsized stereotypes and you match up which person orders which drink. This is just a little something I dreamed up behind the bar to pass time. I like to guess what kind of person is drinking the drinks that come through on my server’s tickets and see if I’m right. It’s just kind of racial and social profiling based on repetitive patterns of behavior as demonstrated by certain groups. That said, this is probably at least a little offensive to you if you’re a total pussy, so maybe stop reading I guess…For the rest of you heroes, here’s a little game to play in honor of Friday. I’ll post the answers Monday, the winner gets to send me a private photo of their naked asshole. Ready? Go!

The Drinks:
1. Long Island Iced Tea
2. Sierra Nevada
3. Effen Black Cherry/Soda
4. PBR/Shot of rye
5. 3 Olives Grape and soda-Tall
6. chocolate martini
7. MGD bottle
8. Vodka red bull-tall
9. bluemoon
10. Mai Tai
11. Corona

Okay, now here are the choices. Keep in mind, more than one answer may be correct, and answers can be used more than once.

The drinkers:
1. Mexican construction worker
2. fat and skanky posse of white girls
3. sharp dressed black guy
4. effete hipster dipshit
5. sorority skank
6. businessman
7. sassy black woman
8. Mexican (non construction)
9. total fucking wastoid who looks like they’re about to die (guy or girl)
10. Pretend hippy
11. Gay dude out with a bunch of girls
12. Eurotrash
13. Underager
14. coked up loser sitting by himself eating dinner while high

Okay, have some fun with this, kids. I’ll see you all on Monday. Enjoy your weekends!