Hey ho dildos, it’s Tuesday, which is farmer’s market day and also a day to reflect on how fucking insane things have become around here. I’m shooting test footage today for a movie, AND I’m organizing all the art/lyrics/mixes/song titles for our new record, AND I’m hosting a houseguest from Norway with a vestigial tail, AND I’m doing some stuff for my wife’s company and, and AND I’m being a daddy, and I’m doing all the goddamned laundry, not the least of which was a load of rugs brought on by the poo marathon that took place in here last week (see yesterday’s post “bizarre situations?” for details) AND, AND AND AND, there’s a chance one of the rugs is a little bit pink now, thanks to my harried attempt to get everything done. This will not go over well when my wife gets home, unless she’s in a great mood, and even then, who knows?
You know, it’s not really that pink. Just slightly tinged. I mean, pink’s a cool color, right? A lot of my favorite things are pink. Flamingos, perfect example.
Mark Twain once said that houseguests were like fish and begin to stink after about three days. I find myself completely flummoxed when it comes to having a guest these days. I go to bed early, I get up early. I’ve got a blog to write and hordes of people to entertain, and I’ve got this kid who kind of dictates my schedule, and, AND, I’ve got a job. I don’t know how long this guy is staying here. Frankly, I don’t want to know, I will say though, in his defense, that 2 years ago he stayed here for a solid 3 months and when he left it was a bummer, and not just for him…it was a bummer for my wife and for me too. However, that was, of course, before the baby came along and turned our house into an Elmo shrine, so we’ll see.
I dunno, folks. Sometimes having a lot to do is overwhelming and it makes it impossible to sleep, other times it offers a sense of purpose that has a very calming and focusing effect. When I was completely unemployed with nothing to do but dick around, I felt like I was going crazy. When I was just working a couple of days a week at a bar, I’d completely lose it if I had to get a shift covered or go to the post office or anything like that. Now that I’m so busy that I literally don’t have enough time to change my clothes, I’m getting tons of shit done in my scraps of down time. Yesterday, for example, my father’s day present finally came. It’s a ghetto revival hoodie. You may remember the Ghetto Revival and it’s spokesman, John Brown, the “King of the Burbs” from the greatest reality show of all time, Ego Trip’s uh…the next great white rapper (or something approximating that). He was the slope faced mongaloid with the flow that sounded kind of like he was deaf, who kept repeating catch phrases without any notion of what they meant, and without any comprehension of why people were angered and confused by him.
It’s a testament to how great (read:terrible) the competition was that he came in second place behind an irish inbred hillbilly who’s flow was one part lobotomized Appalachian auctioneer, one part terrible Bubba Sparxxx impersonation. (White people, take note: you should, under NO CIRCUMSTANCES be wearing a grill of any kind. It just looks creepy and gross. Yes it does.)
Anyway, my wife, who knew how obsessed I was with the show, hooked up an awesome John Brown “ghetto Revival” (apparently the name of his crew) hoodie, but it never came. She even had to get paypal involved and the whole deal.
Yesterday, before nine AM, I contested a traffic ticket and then went down to the post office where, using an old USPS slip, I sweet talked the lady into giving me my package even though it was addressed to my wife and it was already on the truck to go back to the hard assed Ghettos of Davis California (where the king of the burbs throne be), and it was my hoodie. Sweet. Only thing is, the fucking thing is an XL. Make no mistake, I’m still gonna figure out how to wear it, but I’m a tad bummed…He’s not printing mediums. He’s got a big sale on XL’s because he (like everyone who makes hoodies for the first time) foolishly believed that people wanted XL’s. He sold through all the rest of his sizes and doesn’t want to print anything else till he gets rid of the garage of xl’s he’s sitting on, at least that’s my theory.
Thing is, no one wants XL’s. We don’t even print but four of them for a tour, and we rarely have complaints, AND we’re a lot more popular than Ghetto Revival (at least I hope we are).
Anyway, I know he’s out of mediums and if I ship it back and say “yo! King of the burbs! I ordered a medium, what the fuck?” He’s not gonna send shit back and it’s just gonna be more drama, and frankly, I’m scared of John Brown. He’s hard. He’s got friends that look like authentic negroes and he smokes cigars with green tobacco inside. You’d best believe I’m afraid.
Okay, enough of this bullshit. I’ve gotta go interrupt the Norwegian guys’ jerk session to tell him I’m stepping out for a quick bike ride. Hope he’s at least got the dignity to be under the sheets, you know?