Been in trouble with the law since the day they was born

When I was a kid I’d sit there and listen to grownups prattle on endlessly about things that couldn’t seem more dull to me. This included a wide, wide swath of topics and a broad definition of the term ‘grownups,’ as anyone who was old enough to drive was pretty much considered a grownup and any topic that didn’t almost immediately touch on GI Joe, Transformers, comics, Dungeons and Dragons or skateboarding was considered dull; dull at a “white house briefing on national crop reports” pamphlet level. So, if my sixteen year old babysitter was talking to her friend about some boy being a jerk, it had the same resonance as my mom’s friend talking about Reganomics. Shit was insufferably boring and I remember wondering exactly what the fuck was wrong with grownups that they were so content to talk about boring shit, and even more to the point, not even DO anything while they talked about it.
I mean FUCK, man. These were adults! They could be shooting paintballs and driving dunebuggies and hanging out in pornography stores if they wanted to, but no, they’re sitting around my mom’s dining room table eating risotto and discussing what kind of metal best works for conducting heat while preparing cheese based fondues. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. The main line of argument against me doing the stuff I wanted to do was always that I wasn’t old enough, and whenever I got to be old enough to make my own decisions and/or money, I’d be allowed to do whatever I wanted. So, uh, YOU’RE ALREADY GROWNUPS! WHY ARE YOU HERE TALKING ABOUT SUB PRIME MORTGAGES? GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING FUN!!!!
Alas, they never did, and as such I have no role model for how to be a fun adult. Well, there’s the Dukes of Hazzard, Richard Simmons and Wilt Chamberlain. I remember them seeming to be pretty fun back when I was a kid, but well, there was something about each of these guys that was just a little off. I didn’t feel comfortable really emulating the Dukes. They were a little too uh…”family friendly” and I got the distinct feeling that Bo and Luke shared a bed and the whole thing with Daisy was pretty weird. She was their cousin, right? Well, that’s legal at least. Anyway, not the point. Never mind.
So, I grew up and all the while wondered when it was going to become interesting to talk about real estate or various kinds of wood or taxes or the state of unemployment or boys and well, guess what? It never did. AND, to top it off, all the shit that kids like to talk about: dinosaur guts and magical space potions and alien women with six tits, that shit got boring to talk about too. Now, I’m like a Hatian barge person, adrift with no land to call my own. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything. And it’s not that I’m anti social. Far from it. It’s just that there’s nothing interesting happening. Well, that’s not true at all, but there’s LIVING interesting things (which we’re all doing. This is one of the most fascinating times in the history of humanity for sure) there’s READING about interesting things, and then there’s having interesting conversations, which is really hard to do and rare. Usually they turn into monologues or games of one-upsmanship and either way, SNORE. You want to know how an interesting conversation starts? Here:
“Hey, I got some whiskey, wanna go into the back yard? I got a shotgun and an old car back there.”
or
“We’re having a blowjob contest and we need a judge. Are you busy this afternoon?”
Shit like that. Shit that leads into LIVING. Not just sitting around dissecting things. Of course, there’s an important need to hash shit out with other beings. Yeah yeah. That’s what you do while you eat, or while you’re waiting around to get tired enough to sleep or whatever. You go “Dude, how about that Mckenzie Phillips shit, huh?” And well, unless you’re talking to the kind of person that says something like “Yeah, I see where she’s coming from. Papa John was a hot chunk of man” well, the conversation’s basically over before it begins. You say “yeah, that shit’s fucked up” and then you both recount what you can about the situation, based on whatever creepy interviews you heard and somehow walk away feeling like you’ve had an interaction, but really, nothing has happened. No real information has been transferred. Nothing has changed. Nothing.
Anyway, I’m not trying to get all transcendental or abstruse or anything, just saying. Being a grownup is dull, even though we are allowed to buy guns and go to titty bars and have as many puppies as we want and eat frosting for lunch every day. That shit pales in comparison to the thoughts of what it would be like. Right? Yeah. Uh…what else? Oh, this:

I was thinking after yesterday’s post (“Good Morning Chicken”) about that Gaslight Anthem band and I was wondering something. Namely, do those guys really just love dancing that much? I mean, after the show is that what they do? They go out to the dancehalls and two step and shit? Seems mad gay to me, man. I can’t imagine that’s what they do. I mean, are there really such things as dancehalls anymore? Anyone?
Does anyone out there hang out with coco these days? His buddies are like “hey coco, we’re gonna get some beers, wanna come? And he’s like, “nah, I heard about a warehouse across town where there’s gonna be some honky tonk and rock and roll and some pretty good dancers. I’m gonna go down there and give em a little bit of the old “jump back jack.” Does that happen? Or is it just a bit? Is it like a way to recall the 1980’s version of the 1950’s in their songs? Because, since yesterday I was thinking about this, and it seems to me, if these guys are legit (and I’m not saying they’re not) that it’s all combs and jeans and dancing and crappy old dvds on the bus and trailers full of dirtbikes and shit, and well…I dunno, sure beats straightening your hair for an hour and then having bible study. It’s just funny. What’s happened here? I thought rock and roll was about seeing boobs and throwing things. Well, in the words of Andre 2000 (back before his upgrade) “aw, hell naw, but yet it’s that too!”
Okay, I’m really scatterbrained right now. I’m gonna go work on a new song.
Bye.

Good Morning Chicken (or: talking about a very narrow demographic of punk rock-vol.2)

Good morning and I hope you all had a happy jewish independence day! Mine was great. I spent it reorganizing my storage space. Not quite the blowjob contest I was hoping for, but still pretty excellent.
I read an interview with my friend Chicken recently. He plays in Dead to Me. They’re a great band. The song Arrhythmic Palpitations is truly one of my faves. The big anthem in that song is so devastatingly awesome. Now, intentionality means nothing one hundred percent of the time when you’re talking about creative endeavors, so what Chicken meant when he wrote the line “don’t let all the reasons why you’re here become the same reasons why you don’t stay” is irrelevant, but I read it as about the most heartbreakingly beautiful entreaty to someone to curb their enthusiasm for their addictions, whatever those may be. It’s awesome. This is not the purpose of this entry, to talk about people I know and enjoy the company of and the various songs they’ve written. Just saying, just throwing it out there before I get to the point. Just pointing out that I love and respect Chicken from DTM quite a bit.

Because see, I read this interview yesterday, and man, Chicken sounded like a real dildo.
In this interview, conducted by Punknews.org, Chicken asserts that bands that rip off/look up to/sound like Bruce Springsteen are “ruining’ bruce springsteen for him. He asserts that it’s a ton of bands doing it, and that he doesn’t have any problem with anyone, he’s just into talking shit, so he’s gonna say what he feels. Hmmmm….
Okay, let’s get all this out of the way right up front: I LOVE talking shit. Love it. Hell, I’m doing it right now. AND I don’t give two fucks about Bruce Springsteen or the bands that sound like him. I’m not springing to the defense of my favorite troubador/band here. AND, just to be PERFECTLY clear, I’d probably rather listen to Dead To Me than Bruce Springsteen about 99% of the time, BUT really dude? Someone’s ruining Bruce for you? Really? Like, the same way that all those bands on Fat ruined NOFX? Like the same way Rancid ruined the Clash? Like the same way Dead To Me ruined the second generation fat sound? What a crock of horseshit. There’s nothing about, say, the Gaslight Anthem (who IS the band you’re referring to, and all the shucking and jiving in the world isn’t going to make anyone think otherwise) that should have any fucking impact on your opinion and/or appreciation for Thunder Road. AND, I know you know that AND I know that they don’t. What happened here is a classic case of a shit talker biting off a chunk too big to swallow and then suddenly making up bullshit backpedaling excuses for why he said what he said, trying to defuse and diffuse the situation by pretending he was talking about a wide swath of people rather than just one specific band and generally trying to sweep it under the rug while still maintaining an “I just love to talk shit” kinda attitude. Well, no. No, no, no, no. You don’t get to do that. Hate on motherfuckers all you want, but don’t soften the blow when you get called on your shit. Apologize like a man or stand your ground. “They’re ruining Bruce for me.” fuck off. That’s piss poor, man. I expect better of you.
There’s no shame in acknowledging your influences. In fact, more bands should. There’s this unspoken rule that you can’t mention out loud any band that you’re influenced by if they’re anywhere near being your contemporaries. Bands never want to say that they are influenced by the bands that they sound just like. When a new ‘melodic hardcore’ band comes out, they’ll never say “oh, it was the first major label Rise Against record that really helped define our sound.” They’ll instead point to some bullshit in order to make it seem like they’re doing something more creative than what they’re actually doing. “oh, we listen to lots of Sammy Davis and lots of Judas Priest and so we combined those sort of melodic elements with the sort of aggressive drum machine blast of late era ministry but we used a real drummer.” No you didn’t. You heard “Give it All” when you were in the mall shopping for a new belt. And that’s fine. Hell, that’s AWESOME. More people SHOULD admit their influences. There’s no shame in it, and despite what some would have you believe, there’s no way that aping a sound has any effect on that original sound’s relevance. Period. I mean, fuck. I figured out how I wanted my voice to sound by listening to the bassist of the Goo Goo Dolls sing and trying to imitate it. Did I ruin “Hold Me Up” for anyone by doing it? I was straight up imitating him. No. I didn’t. Know why? Because my output has nothing to do with the output of someone else.
SO, in conclusion, Chicken, stop picking on bands that aren’t as cool as you and for gods sake, talk shit with a little more dignity. See, we, Chicken and I, are cut from the same cloth and I think of him as a good friend even though we never get to talk/see each other these days. He’s a shit talker, so am I. We play similar styles of music, we play bass, we’re one of 2 singers in our bands that are on Fat Wreck Chords. Let’s face the facts, we’re soulmates. So, that means this lazy shit talking of his is in danger of sullying MY shit talking, and I can’t have that. Besides, is Gaslight Anthem really the fucking fight to pick? They’re cool, man. There’s fucking idiots out there screaming about jesus over 6/7 mosh breakdowns for fucks sake. Let’s shit on those fuckers, man. Oh, yeah, I know…Coco from Gaslight loves his Jesus too. Whatever, not the same thing, man. You know who I’m talking about. Those guys with the liprings and the hairspray. Chicken, you, me versus those guys. How bout that? Huh? Huh?
Okay, this should cause me enough trouble today. Oh, and take notes. This is how you get up in someone’s face via blog.
Uh!

oooh, zing!

hmmmm....my wife has the day off, so I'm gonna pay attention to her today. Good luck out there, assholes. Be nice to each other.

a story from the author's past

When I was eighteen, I was on tour with my ska band and we were in Florida right as a hurricane was touching down. If memory serves, we were in Pensacola and we were playing at some dumpy bar that no one was planning on showing up at anyway, but on this particular night, there being a hurricane and all, it was more desolate than usual. The upside of all this was that they were serving us beer. We had recently gotten a booking agent, and though I now recognize his operation as the half assed run-out-of-a-garage program that it was, at the time the fact that we showed up somewhere and they had a contract that stated that they’d give us free beer seemed like the pinnacle of rock star grandeur. Anyway, they had beer for us so some of us started drinking.
Well, the show was unmemorable, but what was memorable was this old man at the bar. He was gross, pockmarked, stinky with his hair slicked back. He was loud and he was the only person I’ve ever seen in my life who had actually bought an entire bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. He literally had the whole bottle in front of him. I was sitting a few stools down and we started shooting the shit. He offered me a shot and I came over and sat by him.
Now, at this time in my life, I was unbelievably interested in strangers, drunks, old guys and random conversations. I ended up talking to lots and lots of bums and degenerates and this ended up informing a lot of my opinions about homelessness and the general harsh realities of uh…you know, livin’ in a society, man. Anyway, point being, if this story happened today, I’d have never gone and sat next to this guy, as now I have no interest in talking to strangers, but I digress…
His name was Charlie and, as I mentioned before, he was disgusting. When he talked, he sprayed gross, yellow spit all over my face, which wasn’t hard for him to do because when he talked he put his nose less than half an inch from my nose. He was pretty magnetic and intense and he had this crazy eye contact that kind of pulled me in even as his rotten breath and spatial proximity combined to repel me. He talked, loudly, extremely loudly, about how he wanted to fuck the bartender, how he wanted to eat the ass of the girl who was walking by, how he bet I had a nice smooth ass and dick sucking this and ass-pounding that and so on and I was loving it. I thought he was hilarious. I was also eighteen and far from home and drinking whiskey from a bottle and generally living the dream, so I think some of his creepier statements went kind of unchecked, just, you know, in the spirit of keeping the moment going.
Well, the moment went on and on and on and suddenly Pete was standing there saying “Brendan, come on! We’re all in the van and we’ve been waiting for you for half an hour!” The ska band was, not for the last time, bummed out at me.
I said bye to Charlie and went out into our van. The van’s name was Bernice and she was a tin, windowless cargo van with couches bolted into the back. As we drove off, I settled into my seat between Danny and Pete and picked up my book, which was “Memoirs of a Dirty Old Man” by Charles Bukowski. Pete looked at the cover of the book and pointed to the photo of the author and said “dude! That’s the guy you were JUST talking to at the bar!” Dan and I looked at the cover and sure as shit, same dude.

No shit.

I think back about this every once in a while and it kind of blows my mind. I wish I remembered the details a little better. Like, what was the whiskey? That’s not the kind of thing an 18 year old notices, but it’s the kind of thing that EVERY Bukowski fan has asked me when I’ve told this story.
People often ask me what Bukowski was doing in Florida, to which I can only reply “I have no fucking idea. I mean, I was in Florida too. I’m not from there either” Yeah. There’s a lot of unanswerable questions surrounding this story and it’s all pretty unconfirmable and mysterious. I’m not trying to set it out there as anything other than a personal anecdote told exactly how I remember it. And fuck, man. If that guy WASN’T Bukowski, fuck, he really, really really really really really really really kind of stole his whole style, from the ass breath to the creepiness to the look, and fuck, if it wasn’t him, I gotta imagine that’s about as close as a person can get to that kind of thing, both as an impersonator and as a young kid having a brush with grandiose perversity.
But I think it was him. We looked at that picture less than 2 minutes after we left Charlie sitting at that bar and it was fucking identical. I don’t know. Pretty wild, right?
That is all.

put the fucking lotion in the basket!

It’s not even nine in the morning and my kid has bitten someone in the daycare already. It’s a bummer, because it’s something that he’s obviously learned to associate with the environment there, since he doesn’t do it at home or in other situations with other kids, but today, apparently, he bit some kid as soon as I walked out the door, while I was still in the parking lot. Now, most of me is pissed off, but a small part of me admires his moxie. He’s obviously treading on the perimeter of what he can get away with. That’s risk taking behavior, which can manifest in stupidity like drunk driving, sure, but which is also the hallmark of greatness. Without risk taking, there’s nothing but stasis. Flying that kite with the key attached to it in a storm: Risk taking behavior, and for that risk, we named the hundred dollar bill after Benjamin Benjamin, our greatest president. Breaking the sound barrier, flying to the moon, inventing penicillin, creating Playboy, doing the first McTwist, ending slavery, uh… I guess you’ve gotta throw STARTING slavery in there too, which is a bad thing, but well, it laid the foundation for the greatest…look, never mind that one. Forget that all together. Let’s list more classic POSITIVE risk taking behavior: Crossing the deleware, Killing Kennedy…no. Fuck that one too, um…calling your shot (a la Babe Ruth), storming the Bastille, taking a gun to an Obama Rally…No, that’s just sociopathic idiocy, which is different. Anyway, you get the point. Risk taking behavior has been getting a bad rap lately, thank you health care professionals, abstinence counselors and anti teen smoking campaigns, but the truth is, it’s one of the most important characteristics for a capable person to possess. It’s what sets the spectacular people apart from the dullard turds that pollute the hallways and breakrooms of this world. Show me someone who did something truly great without taking any risks. Go ahead. Stumped? Well, that’s because nothing notable is without risk. Sure, sure sure sure sure sure, there’s calculated risk (investing in a little known coffee chain from Washington state in 1991) and there’s stupid risk (taking LSD and going out on your dirtbike) but there’s calculated risk that turns out pretty badly (Martha Stewart) and stupid risks that turn out amazingly well (Johnny Knoxville).
My point here is that what happened this morning in the daycare was more than just a kid biting a kid. He was waiting for me to leave so he could crack open his proverbial beer behind the garage. That is CLASSIC risk taking behavior, and although I must and will do everything I can to discourage such behavior, I’m cautiously optimistic that at least he’s got it in him to potentially cross the Delaware someday. Even if that means he might not always wear rubbers. Which he really should. Not that he needs to think about that anytime soon…Jesus. Stop thinking about my baby wearing rubbers please. That’s disturbing.
So, what’s the big lesson here folks? Can you guess? What is risk taking behavior a manifestation of? What is the character trait that leads people to believe that they can pull off a risky move? Give up? Come on! How long have you been reading this shit, man? It’s fucking CONFIDENCE. No more, no less. Look at all the examples above. They highlight the necessity of confidence in doing anything worthwhile, and that includes EVERYTHING from discovering electricity to toppling the French Monarchy to boning the girl in your physics class. Can’t stress this enough, people.
Okay, my good buddy and writing partner just told me last night that his cousin is now in correspondence with a serial killer on death row. He thinks that there’s a really good chance that they’re gonna get married someday. Now, that’s hardly shocking, is it? This happens all the time. Serial killers have chicks lining up to marry them. Why? Because what’s more confident than a serial killer? Not much. You’re essentially not only confident that you can out muscle whoever it is that you’re killing, but you’re confident that your reasons for doing it are more important than their lives, you’re confident that you won’t get caught or that if you do, you’ll be able to handle it and, AND you’re confident enough to get out there and date after being convicted of doing something pretty fucking heinous. That’s nutsack city, folks. Not saying it’s good. It’s bad. Okay? Yes. Killing people is a bad manifestation of confidence gone berserk. BUT, notice that it STILL draws in women. That’s how powerful this shit is, kids.
Okay, what have we learned today? Confidence engenders risk taking behavior which can be good but can also be bad, particularly when it gets to the point of serial killing. Also, my kid is a biter, and although I may have just inadvertently correlated that with taking the lives of several people and using their skin to reupholster the couch, what I really think is that he’s gonna be the next Ben Franklin. He’s already got that hairstyle after all. And Ben Franklin was a pimp. For real. His favorite thing to do was to invite his buddies over and then be in the middle of boning some chick right in the living room when they showed up. True. Not that I want my kid doing that either…Sheesh. This is a slippery topic, man. I’m going to work.
xoxox

hey, you're a crazy bitch, but you fuck so good i'm on top of it!

Okay assmasks and assmaskettes, welcome to Wednesday at the BSC. Not a lot going on here except for one truly exciting development. That’s right folks. The fresh pear cider I bought at the farmers market last week has fermented and turned into booze! Get this: They TOLD me that was going to happen, and apologized and said that since it was so close to becoming booze, they’d sell me two jugs for the price of one!!!! Talk about crazy! That’s like selling Action Comics number 27 for a nickel because it’s an old storyline, or giving me a discount on a Wright brothers stamp because the image was accidentally printed upside down. I mean, am I right, nerds? Well, anyway, it’s delicious. That’s for sure, and I don’t know how strong it is, but something tells me that today is going to be a pear-y good day. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Oh, mercy. Seriously, folks, I don’t have shit going on today. I want to take my kid somewhere fun and do something he likes, but his main interests are bottlecaps, opening drawers, his dog (izzy) and taking dumps right there in his pants. That doesn’t give me lots of ideas as far as getting him out into the world. We go to playgrounds all the time, and it seems like we’re always hanging out in bars, so those are out. Huh. I’m a little stumped. I guess we could just go to the park or something, but I would really like to blow his mind today. If there was a water slide around we could go there. He likes the zoo, maybe we could head back there. OR if all else fails, we’ll just go to the strip club and he can hang out in the nursery while I watch all the other baby’s moms work.
That reminds me of a tale of five star parenting that I heard recently. My friend was the bartender at a pretty nice skin shack in Denver. One day he was working and the cops roll in looking for the owner of a car in the parking lot. This dude who’d been sitting at the stage for about an hour was all “yo! That’s my car officer” at which point the cops dragged him out because…are you ready? There was a baby in the car. Dude had spent an hour getting table dances while he left a baby in his car. Truly a class act, right? Well, gets better. It seems that once the cops did a little investigating, they discovered that the baby was not his, but was in fact his girlfriend’s. This is the same girlfriend who had given him money and told him to take the baby down to McDonalds and get some lunch, the very same money that he had been getting the table dances with. How bout that, folks? Unbelievable, right? Not as unbelievable as the time Sean Nader and I got kicked out of the mutant strip club of horrors by the midget in the tuxedo, but still pretty good.
Look, my baby is awake and I think I speak for everyone involved when I say this is sort of a waste of time right now, so I’m gonna dip out. Have a good one, my gentle dogs of war. Let’s rap tomorrow.

Edit: Oh jesus! I already told this story once! This is a rerun! I had no idea. Look. Tomorrow's gonna absolutely slay. I guess I owe you fucks that much, eh? Christ...

Bitch I'm a kill you!

Hey hey! It’s the BSC’s triumphant return to advice! Without too much of a parade, let’s get to it.

Q:
Well my dilemma started about 2 months ago when I started hanging out with this girl that I met from a mutual friend. From the moment we started hanging out, it was instant chemistry. In my 26 years on this planet, I have never met a girl that "got" me the way she does. She gets my sick sense of humor, disregards my insecurities, and strokes my fragile ego in all the right ways. Sounds perfect, right? Wrong. Two years prior, she was dating my best friend/drummer. They Dated for about a month and a half before she dumped him. Shortly after, she had hung out with my ex-guitarist/close friend a few times. Now this guy was pretty much ostracizing himself from me/the band at this point so we were not very communicative, thus details were finite.
After things started getting serious with this girl, I confronted my drummer/bff and told him what was going on. After a few day's he gave me the "green light" and I continued to build a close relationship with this girl. Now two months have passed and things are getting (emotionally) serious. She is claiming to love me, and I am beginning to resiprocate those feelings. Unfortunately for me, the stronger my feelings for this girl grow, the more her past "dealings" with my friends irritate me. On a drunken whim, I confronted her recently about her time spent with my now ex-guitarist/friend. To my dismay, she did infact "bang" him (as I suspected, but chose not to acknowledge). Hearing this has left me feeling very apprehensive towards this girl. Am I a fool for persuing a girl that was with 2 of my best friends? She has always claimed (even before the recent developments) that she always had a crush on me, am the best looking and that I even bang her better than anyone in her past. I don't feel insecure about myself, but the thought of this girl that I am falling for banging this kid is really driving me mad.

I am basically looking to you as an unbiased opinion. Is it foolish to let a girl's past get in the way of a very potentially bright future? Am I overthinking something that is in reality very miniscule? She is falling pretty hard for me and I dont want to string her along if her past is gonna just eat away at me untill I am forced to move on.

A:
In one of my favorite bits of all time, Dave Chappelle asks the women in his crowd if they feel bad for Monica Lewinsky. They boo, at which point Dave tells them that they’re all mean and then goes on to say “Every woman has sucked a dick she regrets. All y’all ladies have at least one dick that you wanna forget about and I bet he wasn’t the president either. I bet he worked at Kinney Shoes or something.” I love that shit. It’s funny and it’s true. AND it’s not just true for women. Everyone has fucked someone that they regret, be it because they’re ugly, stupid, related to you, not your husband, whatever. It happens. There’s three things that are hardwired into you: eating, sleeping, fucking. You’ve snuck in inappropriate naps before because you were exhausted, right? You’ve eaten a gas station burrito because you were hungry and that’s all you could get, right? There’s really no difference when it comes down to fucking the intern, or your buddy’s sister or whatever. Not the greatest move, but hey! Shit happens, man. You’ve got a dick you regret too, don’t forget it. AND, on the off chance you don’t…say you’ve only had committed relationships and you’ve just banged your two girlfriends…wait around a minute. You’ll fuck up soon enough, and the last thing you’ll want once you do is some fucking turd guilting you about something you already feel is irrelevant and regrettable. None of this is advice. Just sayin.
Okay, so here’s the deal: your old lady banged some guy you know and it burns you up inside. Well, here’s the big lesson here: Never ask about that shit. Who cares? It’s the most counterproductive and torturous path of speculation to go down. Look, my wife, she’s fucked people before we met, as much as I hate to think about it. AND, though I’d NEVER ask her about it, I’m sure she’s fucked some people I know. Yes, it sucks ass to think about, which is why I don’t. Look, man. Past experiences, good and bad are the ones that have made the person you’re digging on right now who they are, and to dwell on something you can’t change is not only a waste of energy, frankly, it’s shitty to her. Not her fault. She fucked him. Oh yeah she did.. He jizzed right on her face and she sucked off his one creepy friend while your guitar player buddy was fucking her up the ass and she loved it. She absolutely fucking LOVED IT!!!! How bout that? Eh? Infuriating? Well, NOT YOUR BUSINESS!!! Her past is not beholden to you. What she did before you guys were dating is her deal. You want to be held accountable to her for everything you’ve ever done? No. Because firstly, you’ve done some stupid shit that you’d rather forget, and secondly, and more importantly, you’ve done stuff you’re fine with that you don’t want to have to feel compelled to explain. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to have fucked that guy and still enjoy the memory of it? Because it makes you feel insecure? Sack up, you pussy. This is among the most manipulative and small moves that a person in a relationship can pull, and if you can’t let it go, you don’t deserve a chick that “gets you.” Believe me, when this shit all goes down, it’s gonna be YOUR jealousy that’s gonna bite YOU in the ass, and no matter how hard she’s “falling for you,” it’s gonna be YOU sitting there, super bummed, once your jealousy ruins your relationship and she ends up banging someone else while you pretend to be pure and unspoiled, whacking off bitterly all the while. Yeah. That’ll happen too. Black dudes. Three at a time. That’s how these things always end, man.

Uh, what else? It was my buddy’s birthday last night and we drank red wine with dinner, which produces hangovers in blog authors, which means I’m going to the gym.
Hang in there baby!

crystal shit

Well, well, well, look who’s back? Just take a few days off and leave us all hanging, eh? No, that’s fine. What do we need with regular updates anyway? After all, we’re only FUCKING DYING out here with nothing to do while you ignore your fucking update window. How does it feel? Posting again, that is? Is it like working out after slacking off for a week? When every single line is just fucking a painful reminder of your sloth and decadence? Is that how it feels right now? Good. Good. I’m glad. We’re all glad, frankly. Don’t be so lazy next time, you fucking Calligula.

Yeah, it’s been a minute. What can I tell you? I’m lazy. I’m a lazy calligulan sloth with no soul. Don’t believe me? Well, yesterday my wife and my houseguest and my kid and I were sitting down to breakfast, a lovely meal I cooked consisting of eggs made with green chiles, a slab of bacon and some mimosas and we were all enjoying our Sunday, when suddenly my wife looks up and says, “hey, what’s the date today?” I said “September 20th.” She said “oh, happy anniversary.” And you know what? She was right. Yesterday was our sixth anniversary. Neither of us remembered and neither of us did anything for each other, and besides that, no one else remembered either. Well, Matt Alison, our recording engineer, remembered but only because our wedding favors were beer cozies with our anniversary date on them and he was sitting around drinking one yesterday. That’s some shit, huh? I mean, I’ve heard of the seven year itch, but not so much the six year ‘eh, whatever’. Well, eh, whatever. It’s all come and gone now. It was our houseguest’s birthday at midnight last night so I took the liberty of getting him a prostitute, and even with a pocket full of twenties, he STILL couldn’t score. Sad state of affairs around here, man. It’s gotta be all these town hall meetings and public displays of anger. It’s taking a toll on the national consciousness, man. You know it is.

So, I’ve got this idea for a book. It’s pretty good, I think. Here’s how it goes. What if, instead of dying and being buried beneath a dumb bust of himself, Jim Morrison (who I’ll refer to from here on out as ‘the poet’) instead faked his death and developed a utopian community on a west Indian Island based on the philosophy behind his * ahem*, rad poetry? Good idea, right? Well, here’s the thing. That’s ALREADY a book. And guess who wrote it? Ready? That’s right. Doors keyboardist and gigantic sycophant douche Ray Manzarek. How about that, huh? First, this guy’s got the misfortune of being the nerdiest looking bassist of all time because, well, instead of playing a bass he plays a fucking keyboard, which is not rocking, man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There is NOTHING cool about playing a keyboard. And the more you groove with it and jump around and all that, the more you’re highlighting exactly how lame the keyboard is. We’ve played with some band where dude jumps up on the keyboard and then does some kind of ‘rad kick jump’ off it, and let me tell you something: shit’s gay. It’s mondo, mondo gay. “um, excuse me, sir…That’s a keyboard, not a trampoline, and certainly not a guitar, so uh, relax. You chose the fucking thing. You could have picked up the guitar or the drums or whatever, but you CHOSE the keyboard, so face facts and try not to embarrass yourself any more than you have to, how bout that?” Did he listen? No.
Anyway, back to Ray Manzarek. He was the total gimp arm of the Doors to begin with. Didn’t even have a respectable part in the band. He was essentially filling in for the bassist they never had with one hand and with his other hand turning their self indulgent garbage dirges into some sort of awful white soul/baseball game organ hybrid that should never, ever be. That’s bad enough. But why stop there? Nah, come on Ray. Take the only famous guy from your band and write a novel about him that exalts him to jesus-like status, thereby making you just as pathetic as your legions of dorky fans. I mean, for fucks sake, you knew the Poet, right Ray? You had to have been sick of his shit. The Poet was a total dipshit. I’ve heard his songs. I’ve read his ‘poems’ and I’ve seen his interviews (thank you very much Doors fan Eric Halborg for forcing me to sit through that crapfest). The dude was a complete dildo and I’m pretty sure that any sort of utopian community that he helmed would be full of fat, drunk slobs wondering why Morrison gets all the pussy and they just hang out on the sidelines waiting for him to die so they can get theirs only to eventually realize that once he DOES die, they’re nothing but lackies to a complete turd, and the only way to really get anything of value from the whole experience is to write a book about their time with him. Uh, what would happen on that island, Ray? Well, to paraphrase the great line from the gay guy in Boiler Room: “Guess what, buddy? You’re on it.”
This isn’t even why I hate the doors. Just the tip of the iceberg, folks. Let’s rap soon.
XOXO

Try to run! Try to hide!

There’s this new sort of entitlement that the internet has really popularized, but which has always existed that drives me absolutely nuts. It’s the old “well, you can’t talk shit about something unless you can do it better” argument. It’s a bad, bad argument, for one thing, and for another thing, it’s often applied in completely inappropriate or subjective situations, which, let’s get down to brass tacks, completely ruins the credibility of the already douchey champion of said argument, don’t it? Let’s expand.
Today, I was riding my bike back from the gym and I got that REM song, I believe the title is “pop song 89” stuck in my head. The chorus is “should we talk about the weather? Should we talk about the government?” and I was thinking about how these are two perfectly good topics of conversation, and the first one is particularly poignant if you live in Chicago or some other such place where the weather completely effects the entire lifestyle of the city. I was also thinking that in his snide way, with these lyrics, Michael Stipe is probably going for ‘ethereal and parodic by way of Dadaist,’ but he’s really pulling off more of a ‘condescending prick’ thing. THEN I started thinking about how revered REM is, and how much I think they absolutely suck the balls. SO, then I decided I’d make a list on here today about things that people love that I can’t stand, which led almost immediately to my imagining some comments somewhere on the internet (not here in the Drawer, my Dogs, but elsewhere, outside the solace of BSC and the Sock Drawer) that would say, in essence “this guy is a dippshit(sic). When he can write a record as good as Green, then he can talk. Til then, stick to felching and being a bartender. What a self important dickholle(sic)” and shit like that.
Now, here’s where my original point comes in. Firstly, no. I do NOT have to make an album as good as Green to have an opinion on REM. By that logic, unless YOU’VE also made an album as good as Green, your accolades are as equally worthless as my bile. I can’t make beer, and despite the fact that if I tried, my first batch would probably be worse than MGD, I can say with certainty that MGD is a terrible beer. I don’t know how to perform plastic surgery, but I’m comfortable saying that the guy who performed it on Kanye’s mom was bad at it.
So, that’s settled, right? You don’t have to be able to do something better than someone in order to criticize them. Talent and criticism are two different words for a reason. They denote different things. Dumb-dumbs.
Secondly, I DID write a better record than Green, okay. Maybe you don’t think so, but I do, and since I’m the one passing all the judgment on REM, I’m gonna err on the side of my opinion.
This is what I’m talking about. There’s no empirical way to measure an album’s quality. If there was then the Monkees would be better than Jimi Hendrix and Doolittle would be a smear of shit compared to “Genie in a Bottle,” so when you give your two cents in a “his band blows compared to that band so he’s got no room to talk” way, you’re kind of negating your own argument right there. If opinion is what makes this little equation work, then it’s (in this case) mine vs. REMrulz1982 (moderator), and that, under the first law of argumentative mathematics, cancels out either opinion. Now, sure, there are more REM fans out there than fans of any of my bands, but hey, let’s look at the quality of them, shall we? Dildos, every single last one of both groups is nothing but a pile of simpering dildos, so who cares what any of you think, right?
Ah, come on, man, I’m kidding. You guys are okay. You’re my little dogs of war and I love you for it. Let’s see, just for that I’ll see if I can list things that I don’t like that everyone does. It’s gonna mostly be music, probably.

Nirvana- Eh. Nothing. I mean, whatever. Good on ‘em. I just don’t care.

Similarly…

Pixies- Yeah. Again, boring to me. I realize these two are intertwined and that most of us only know about the pixies one way or another through Kurt Cobain’s recommendation, so let’s just say the whole style kind of leaves me cold, eh? I LOVE frank Black’s solo stuff though. I think Show Me Your Tears is one of the greatest albums of the last ten years.

Cake- Not the band, the desert (though the band’s not exactly rocking my world either). Not a fan. I mean, in a pinch, I’ll eat a little cake, like if I’m in france and they’re out of bread, but as a general rule, nah. I’ll pass. Give my piece to Milton.

REM-Yup. Already did this one. They gross me out.

Velvet- It hurts my teeth. It’s some strange nerve memory hallucination thing between my fingertips and my teeth, and EEEEW. I can’t stand being around velvety things. I don’t know how else to say it. The shit hurts me teeth. I know this sounds strange. You gotta trust me.

Mint chip- any chocolate and mint combo is gross to me. I know that like everything else on this list I’m in the minority, but just saying. That shit has no business being combined.

Similarly:

Oranges and apples and strawberries and shit in salads- dude, really? You’re bumming me out with those little mandarin orange slices in there. It’s gnarly. And hey, I’m not one to blanketly diss combining sweet and savory. I LOVE peanut butter on a bacon cheeseburger, but fruit on a veggie salad? That’s just perverse.

What else? Uh…

Canada- No, I’m kidding. Like everyone else in the world, I have no opinion of Canada.

Jesus- Everyone and their mother loves this fucking guy, which I find to be odd, because (I’ve said this before) filthy hippies don’t really play well in Iowa. What’s so special about this guy? Powerful dad. Way to go sheep. Next thing you know, you’ll actually just refer to yourselves as sheep and call him your shepherd. Well, here’s a little tip: Know what the shepherd does to the sheep up on the hillside on those lonely afternoons? Yeah. He’s doing it to you right now. Mmmmhmmm.

The Doors- Easily the most overrated band of all time. Morrison is the worst ever. I could and probably will dedicate a whole entry to this theory.

Pictures of Boobs- Can’t stand em.

Lists that start out serious and then turn ironic before finishing and then just kind of stop half way through the

perhaps you should grow a beard!

Sometimes when I don’t know what to write in this space I go to Perez Hilton’s website and see what’s going on in the world of celebrity dildodom to get myself angry enough to fire off a tirade about some dumb facet of the popular consciousness. I haven’t ranted in this space for a while, Dogs of War. I was thinking that today would be a nice day to change that. Hell, I didn’t even write yesterday and nothing says “welcome back from three dismal days without your favorite words of wisdom on the whole internet” like a pointed rant about (for example) how completely retarded our twenty four hour news media has become. BUT, I went to Perez Hilton first, and just like on Yahoo, just like on cnn.com, just like everywhere people can only talk about two things: Kanye West and Vampires, and not even the death of Crazy Swayze can refocus everyone. Poor Swayze. He’s like Farah Fawcett, but his Michael Jackson is Kanye and True Blood.
Now, I’m not really terribly interested in blogging about Kanye West. It’s too popular, you know? I’m not a follower, man. I’m a goddamned iconoclast. Yeah, that’s right. If you want blogs about Kanye, go to Pink’s blog, or Kelly Clarkson, or John Mayer, or follow that dildo from Maroon 5 on twitter. I don’t care. I don’t care about taylor swift, I don’t care about Kanye West, I don’t care about the MTV VMA’s. I think I’ve mentioned before that I think awards shows are some of the most absolutely self important, grandiose bullshit parades of all time, and I don’t care about a bunch of millionaires sitting around patting each other on the back, getting all excited about someone stealing someone’s moment, or feeling slighted for something. It’s just a dumb masturbatory exercise in clapping and waiting for your moment to shine in a room full of egomaniacal dickholes. Who cares? Well, the whole world does, apparently. Look, I’m not talking about this anyway…Uh oh. Fuck. New subject. Fast.
I don’t like vampires. They listen to bad music, hang out in dumb clubs and they’re always eating blood, which, let’s be frank, is gross. I don’t know how that got recapitulated as sexy. At best, blood is fine and ignorable, like if you’ve got one chance to get laid, you’ve got a towel and she’s having her period. At worst, it’s fucking disgusting. There’s no part of me that ever sees a puncture wound and gets a boner. I don’t like any of that shit. I don’t like suspensions, I don’t like odd piercings that go through the arms or the webs of the fingers or whatever, and I don’t like some creepy undead person with too much makeup, deliciously disheveled hair and a british accent unskinning me with his or her eyeballs. It’s gross. And AND AND!!!! That shit is just retarded. I hate the whole sensual-virginal-blood-as-a-substitute-for-boning attitude of these pussified, preening vampires. You know what I want? I mean, if we’re gonna let a dumb movie turn everyone into something? If we’re gonna have a craze, let’s take a page from Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings and have a wizard craze. That’s what I want. Kids in flowing robes walking around with staves and seeing stones and fake beards. That’s a fucking look, man. And wizards party. They get high, they bone like crazy, they fly on brooms and they can get invisible and get down there and watch girls pee at the gym. That's so much cooler than vampires. What's cool about vampires? they never die? That’s not cool at all. The coolest thing in the world is recklessness, and there’s no such thing as recklessness if you can’t die. Therefore, immortality=not cool. What else? They sleep in coffins? Yawn. You can’t do any boning in a coffin, and boning is the coolest part about sleeping (though how those two things came to be associated is sort of beyond me, to paraphrase Seinfeld). Therefore, Sleeping in coffins=not cool. What else? They sit around in the dark and they only go out at night? Uh, whatever, man. That sounds like what cokeheads do. That sounds like what stoners do. The only thing cool about sleeping all day and going out all night is that it signifies that you’ve somehow eschewed the normal idea of the way shit works. You’re a millionaire, and so you can afford to sleep all day and just party at night. You’re Lil Wayne and you just want to roll around when the clubs are open and you don’t have to sign autographs for thirteen year old white boys. You’re completely nihilistic and you’re out there just killing yourself every night with booze and hookers. That’s all fine. BUT, when you’re a vampire, you HAVE to stay in during the day. That means that the exact opposite is true. They’re being pussies by staying inside in the day and going out at night. They’re not eschewing anything. They're being rational adults who adhere to strict bedtimes and then go out to work after a long sleep. Boring. You know what would be awesome? If a vampire painted himself up like a clown or something so the sun wouldn’t touch his skin and then went out in the day. THAT would be bad ass. He’d come home and his wife would be like “where were you? It’s almost six in the evening! What’s that on your face?” and he’d be all, “yo, baby, I’m a daywalker now, I’ve been leading kids around on ponyrides in the children’s zoo all afternoon.” Huh? Huh? Yeah. Told you so, man. That shit would be boss.
Okay, whatever. Vampires are dumb and I don’t care what anyone else tells you. They’re dumb. They’re sensualist, revolting, self important dipshit undead queerbos, and that’s final. In the words of pink, you can quote me on that.
Dumb vampires.
Oh, and RIP Swayze! You’ll be remembered as much cooler than you ever were, so uh…you can at least take that to heart, right? Right.

get up, get down, 911 is a joke in yo' town

Not a lot of time today. I woke up with no equilibrium, which was a little strange. I had a dream that I was on a speedboat trying to get out of some bay into open water with a corpse in a bag, and the girl I was with (a short, businesslike little person [not even remotely attractive]) was concerned about all the maritime traffic and what it was gonna mean for our successful exiting of the bay. The corpse was someone that we’d killed and we were taking it out to someone who wanted to examine the corpse and make sure that the guy was dead for sure.
So yeah, that led right into me staggering around with no balance like a drunkard. Then I left my coffee at home when I dropped off my kid. THEN I left the car seat in the car when I dropped him off instead of leaving it in the daycare like I’m supposed to.
It all goes to show, the events of September 11th continue to be devastating, confusing, and disorienting, like a morbid dream. Sigh.
My passport photo is hilarious. Well, not to some people, like TSA screeners for example. To them, my passport is an obvious forgery. Here’s why. In the picture I look so much like a terrorist it even freaks me out. I’m bundled in various rags and clothes (due to the picture being taken in the winter), I’m unshaven, swarthy and I’ve got a look on my face that you only get from a hangover and subsequent walk through the snow and bitter cold to the photo place or from days and days of living in Florida taking flying lessons. Not to put too fine a point on this amateur terrorist racial profiling that I’m doing here, but in this picture I look definitively middle eastern, and yet there’s my name “Brendan Kelly” which, uh, is also a terrorist name but from a whole different batch of terrorists. And it says I was born in Missouri, which is true, but it seems a little crazy that there’s a middle eastern guy walking around with an IRA name like Brendan Kelly and he hails from Missouri and right now he’s flying to London by himself. Hmmmm.
I get searched EVERY TIME I fly international as a result. Not the jellyfinger cavity search, but the pretty thorough patdown (hands cupping balls and spreading buttcheeks through pants are two of my favorite moves) and the extremely thorough carryon search (squeezing out all my toothpaste and checking seams in the bag and stuff like that).
I’m sure that in this day and age of fear mongering and acquiescence to xenophobia and any public humiliation in the name of safety (which sounds a lot like the beginnings of national socialism if I’m not mistaken) that I’ve got it relatively good. I mean, I’m NOT a terrorist, and I’m just a guy who actually IS named Brendan Kelly who WAS born in Missouri and just looks like a crazy jihadist in my passport photo but not so much in person. I’m sure any practicing muslims, anyone who’s actually Indian or Jordanian or Pakistani or whatever have it a lot worse than I do. I mean, I can’t imagine the trouble that someone deals with being a practicing muslim of middle eastern descent just, I don’t know, trying to go buy a stack of pancakes at an Ihop in Nebraska, much less taking a flight from Boston to California by himself.
Eh, well, I just read on Yahoo that Osama Bin Laden is officially a failure, so it looks like that’s it. Terrorists lose. We win. Superman can now start walking again and Mickey Mouse can come out of hiding and we’re gonna get all those poor, filthy unwashed hindus and muslims all the cheeseburgers and porkchops they can handle. And a jesus. Let’s give em a jesus, because lord knows that this different prophets thing isn’t working out. And we’ve been trying, lord knows we’ve been trying to show them that jesus is the only way, but no amount of bombing seems to get it through their heads. Well, maybe this article in yahoo is what they need to see. Hey Taliban! Check your yahoo! We win. You lose. Pick your jesus. You get either the rock and roll born-again jesus or the stately catholic jesus. No. wait. Never mind. That catholic jesus is nothing but trouble either. You get rock and roll, no abortions, death penalty, speaking in tongues, big stadiums full of worshipers, no sex, scare the shit out of people Jesus. Don’t worry. You’ll love him. He’s uh, wow...he's actually just like the born again mohammed but instead of boxcutters he uses questionable detention methods and patriot missiles. Okay, glad that’s settled. Happy September 11th everyone!

WDJD? Answer me that.

Sometimes when I watch movies, particularly war or action movies, and particularly scenes where people have to do incredibly brave or dangerous things I wonder how I’d react in those situations. In Saving Private Ryan, I think about that guy that just froze up during that final firefight and I wonder if I’d freeze or if I’d fight and I wonder if, when the chips are down, I’m a coward or not. Would I be able to stand there with a sword while all those drooling, maniacal orcs beat down the door to Helms Deep? Would I cry and panic? Would I try to hide or would I stand there and fight? It’s really impossible to say. I think everyone has these thoughts, right? But I also think men think about it more critically, just because the stigma of being a cowardly man is so terrible. But you never know. You could think that you’re brave and then get paralyzed in a situation, OR you could be positive that you’re a coward and then just suddenly surprise yourself with some serious ass kickery. Hard to say, man. There’s no test, only gut reaction. Deep.
One time I was in Sydney, specifically this beach area called Manly. The best part about Manly is that it has a ferry that can take you back and forth and it’s called the Manly Ferry. Hey, I found it funny. Whatever. Not the point. The point is, we went out to the beach, Chris, Neil and I and I just went in right away while they took off on a little stroll. There were big rolling waves and it was a beautiful day and I was just kind of floating there enjoying being in the best country in the world (at least that I’ve been to. Yes it is. Hands down), when the girl not far from me looked over and pointed out to a guy who was floating kind of far out there and said “I think that guy’s in trouble.” As I reached the top of the wave, I could see him, and I called to him “Hey, are you okay?” and he waved back and said what sounded like “yeah!” then another wave rolled between us and he went out of sight. I stopped paying attention. About twenty seconds later, he rolled up on top of another wave and when he saw me he screamed “HELP!”
Way before I even knew what was going on I was swimming out towards this dude. I got there and he was fully hyperventilating and panicking. I grabbed him under the armpit and he threw his arms around my chest and squeezed all the air out of me, kicking and flailing. He was caught in the undertow. He was exhausted, and he was suddenly exhausting me really quickly. I’m a pretty good swimmer, but this guy was about my size and he was flailing like an electrocuted chimp AND there was the undertow to contend with. At this moment I had my first conscious thought since he shouted ‘help’ and that thought was something to the effect of “ah shit, this was a bad idea.” They say that someone who’s drowning will stand on you and drown you in order to save themselves just due to panic and instinct and that seemed kind of likely to happen.
So I punched him. Not terribly hard, but hard enough to recalibrate his freak out a little. I said, “hey, you have to relax or we’re both gonna die” and he said “okay” and, thankfully he calmed down a little. I started swimming back with this guy under my arm and it was slow going. I started to feel pretty exhausted. I started to feel like I was not gonna make it. I could hear voices shouting but I couldn’t concentrate on anything but swimming until this huge guy shouted right in my ear “you can stand here!” and put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me down. My feet hit the bottom and he was right. We’d made it back to a point of shallowness where we could stand. I waded out of the water and fell on the sand right next to Chris and Neil, who were just coming back from their walk. Neil said “hey, beex, wanna go back in the water?” and I said “not for the rest of my life, man,” and just laid there, catching my breath. I was pretty fucking shaken.
About five minutes later, the dude came over to me. He was from Singapore and his name was Bread. No shit. His name, as I understood it, was Bread. He was vacationing in Sydney and he said “thank you. You saved my life. If it wasn’t for you and for Jesus, I’d be dead right now.” And I said, “yeah, no worries,” but what I was thinking was “Jesus? JESUS? What the fuck did Jesus do? Stuff your jesus up your ass, Bread.” We shook hands and he walked away.
Pretty strange though. If you look at a globe and make a line from Chicago to the beach at Manly and another line from Singapore to the same point , that’s a crazy sort of coming together right there. I went halfway around the world to pull some dude who was on vacation from Singapore out of the Ocean. What the fuck? One of the first things I remember thinking once I calmed down was “hey, I guess I’m not a total coward. That’s nice.”
Obviously, this doesn’t mean that I’m some sort of nerves of steel badass. I think that’s pretty clearly not the case. I just know that I’m at least not a COMPLETE coward. That’s a decent feeling, right? Yeah. Sure it is.
Anyway, I told this story to my friend Dan and he’s got an almost identical story about pulling an Asian tourist out of the ocean in Australia. How fucking bizarre is that? Illinois Punk Rock Musicians: Saving Asian Tourists in Australia From Drowning since 2000! Put that on a fucking tshirt, eh? Eh? I dunno. This world’s a crazy place, man. And I for one have to go to work and serve beers to people. So ta! See yall tomorrow.
xoxoxo

i'm preoccupied with 1985

Well, here it is, the longest possible time I’ll go without a birthday until I die. No more special attention. Sigh. Thanks for the nudes, and please know that I’m still accepting them, so if you were just being lazy, or your computer crashed, come on. Send em out. Don’t be stingy.
Last night at my birthday party celebration (where I consumed a slab of the best ribs in the world) we were all trying to figure out the best possible porn title derived from “Apocalypse Now.” It started slow, with “a pussy lips now” “a cock on lips now” and “a cock and tits now” but! Then dan came up with “bukakke lips now” and let’s just talk about how funny that is for a second, shall we? It’s really quite funny. If you don’t know why, google it. It was my idea that the DVD cover should be the puckered mouths of all the hundreds of dudes mid load-blow, just to keep things interesting. I mean, you expect the title to refer to the target right? Wrong. It’s the dudes. Heh.
Sex humor is easy to do. Like toilet humor. And because it’s easy, people tend to dismiss it. But that’s just wrong. That’s stupid. Because since it’s easy to say something funny if it involves a dick or taking a dump or someone’s distended asshole, that means it’s the duty of toilet humorists to go the extra mile and be extremely, and unbelievably funny. Toilet humor is the vehicle through which comedy breaks the sound barrier, if only because it’s far and away the most powerful delivery system for true hilarity. Even the dumbest throwaway gags are sometimes much funnier than they should be. For example:
When I was twenty three my band was on tour with the Alkaline trio. They had a song called ‘My friend Peter’ that was at the time a new song which they played every night. In our van, my band and I all came up with alternate lyrics to the chorus, a favorite pastime of ours and what we netted out on was, I still think, pretty golden.
The original:
I'm tired of sleeping with myself
I'm tired, all these drinks and drugs no longer help
I'm tired of lying about not thinking of you
Maybe my friend Peter can tell me what to do

Now here’s our version:
I’m tired of playing with myself
I’m tired, all these butts that I no longer felch.
I’m tired of lying about not eating your poo
Maybe my friend’s peter can make some homemade glue.

See man, that’s funny stuff. Yeah, when it’s written down it loses a bit of it’s true splendor, but sing it and realize, motherfuckers! That’s the good shit. Anyone who tells you that toilet level humor is somehow inferior to everything else, well, they’re just wrong for one thing, and for another thing, they’re unfunny themselves. Because let’s face facts: all the funniest people in the world (with a few notable exceptions [Bill Waterson, Jerry Seinfeld, Charles Schultz]) work blue. That’s the funny. Fraiser and Niles, while funny in the context of their show, would not be funny to hang around with. It would be duuuull. That’s actually a main premise of that show, right? Right.

By the way, I was singing this version of My Friend Peter to matt on that same tour, ten years ago, and I was also singing the opening line of their first album “goddammit,” but I was singing it as “Wide eyed! Thumbs in the butts of guys!” and he took me aside and asked why I was constantly making fun of him. Did I think that his band was stupid? Nah. No way. Firstly, I’m not making fun. I’m constructing parody. Secondly, love the band, love those dudes. I’ll defend everything about them to the death, (even that gay nazi thing that they seem to love doing).
Look, back to the topic at hand, that shit’s a labor of love, man. I love your music and it gets stuck in my head and the little potty mouthed gnomes up there tinker with it until it comes out hilarious. That’s all. You should be flattered. He was, and continues to be, and by the way, you’d never know to look at em, but those guys are three of the absolutely funniest, most clever guys I’ve ever known. No shit. Bukakke lips now. HA!

In closing, I’d never take the time to reconstruct a Bowling for Soup song. You know? That’s like pretending that you actually need to figure something out to make fun of them about. How can you ignore the retarded lyrics or that lard ass? And I’m talking about that dumb budget chris roe singer. That other guy is so fat that calling him a lard ass is like calling Hitler a neat freak. Yeah, it might be true, but that’s barely the tip of the iceberg, man. He’s so massive that his guitar looks like a chicken leg or a lollipop when it’s strapped on, and not just because he may end up eating it. I don’t need to repackage their songs, I need to ignore their songs. I don’t even believe I’m talking about them here. Listen. It’s just to prove a point. I’m getting out of here. Something tells me this entry is nothing but trouble. Bye.
xoxox

it's my birthday, 2

Wow. I look so distinguished this morning. Better looking than I’ve ever been, and that’s saying a lot. Why? Because it’s my birthday and like all men (and in stark contrast to all women) I’m just getting better and better looking as time marches on. My wife made me an awesome breakfast and I got a new beanie from my kid to replace the one I’d lost. So far the day’s shaping up to be great. I’m 33, but I think I might just start telling people that I’m 35, because I know how to properly lie about my age. I swear to god, nobody ever thinks anything through, ever.
People are morons. That’s the lesson here. Look, grownup people stupidly and improperly lie about their age all the time. Kids do it the right way and out of necessity, so they can buy beer and try to bang highschool chicks when they’re away at camp. This is totally right on. Grownups, on the other hand, lie about their age to seem younger. Shaving years off the arbitrary counter that signifies the number of trips they’ve taken around the sun, they reason, makes them more desirable than they’d be if they just admitted that they were (gasp) 40.
Well, think about it for a second. Let’s say you’re forty. You decide you’re gonna tell people that you’re only 35, The logic is that 35 is younger, more dynamic, probably in better shape, right? Well, see how stupid this is when it all comes down? You’re forty. You look forty, you act forty and you’re in the shape of a forty year old. If you’re thirty five, you’re the ugliest most bombed out thirty five year old in the entire Hooters, man. You should be telling motherfuckers you’re fifty. Suddenly you’re in GREAT shape, you look AMAZING for your age, you’ve got the magnetic dynamism of a forty year old. Fuck, you just went from pathetic to fascinating. But nobody does this. Why? Because they’re idiots who are concerned with all the wrong things, that’s why.
There is no situation where lying about your age to make you seem five years older will ever make you less attractive. It’s true. Ah! Not so fast. In the professional sphere, it’s always more impressive to be a young go-getter, so yeah, being a twenty five year old VP of marketing or bassist of Gaslight Anthem beats the shit out of being the same person if you’re thirty, just because it exemplifies that you’ve accomplished a lot in a short amount of time. But other than that? I mean, in terms of fuckability? Tell em you’re older. If you’re a slightly unattractive 24 year old, you’re probably a pretty decent 30 year old. And guess what? It opens up the range of people who will attempt to bone you. The 24 year olds who don’t want to date dumb twentysomethings, the thirty year olds who don’t want to dip down too far, the younger people who like age and experience, and ANYONE who’s impressed with the obvious great genes you have to be so well preserved are all now on the menu. Yeah, it’s deceitful, but it still seems better than lying the other way, right? Right. And it’s not as bad of a lie as “I don’t have a girlfriend” or “of course I’m wearing a condom” or “that’s just acne” SO there you go. That’s my lesson on my birthday. Lie like a thinking man, not a retard.
Good. My wife’s birthday, by the way, was a success. I got her an all night babysitter and a night in a luxury hotel, along with a gigantic history of typefaces that comes with an enormous font collection for her computer (she loves that shit). My kid got her a coffee mug. I think she was stoked. As for me, I’m just looking forward to a relaxing day with my kid and my friends, sifting through all the nudes you all send me for my birthday (click the link on this page to email me your nudes!) a trip to the gym, some afternoon cocktails, a nice dinner, some casual boning and then a nice, uninterrupted sleep. I’m a man of few needs, after all.
Man my kid’s not letting his morning nap take hold, which is a real bummer. That’s gonna fuck up my birthday. What a dick. Oh well, I’m gonna let him wail for a while and then we’ll go from there. Thanks for all the wishes, fishes and cans. Let’s rap soon.
XOXO

This ring is my burden to bear

Well, I’m fucked. It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow and it snuck up on me like a guy in a trenchcoat on a drunken cocktail waitress in her apartment lobby at 3am, if you get my drift. Not only do I not know what she wants or needs, but I’m out of time. I work today. I’ve already been shopping and shopping and shopping. Some of the most unbelievable stores too. After this week, I’m pretty sure that I’m the only man in the history of penises that’s spent forty five minutes alone in Anthropologie. I didn’t even get anything there! That’s the real sack punch. I’ve been to so many stores that sell decorative pillows and cute soaps and hand towels and various other shit that men would never notice if it all suddenly stopped existing, but I haven’t found shit. It’s vexing to put it mildly. I should have just said, “hey, for your birthday I’ll go with you to bed bath and beyond and target and CB2 and Antrhopologie and all those spots you love and I’ll pretend not to be bored off my dick, and I’ll even pretend to have an opinion about the various bedskirts.” That would have been a good move. But no. Now I’ve been all those places and I got nothing. I’m thinking about giving her another coupon book redeemable for performing blowjobs on me any time, no questions asked, but, well, she’s already got a lot of those. Sigh.
We got a new cable box when our old one crapped out. The new one is from the future. It looks awesome. Yesterday, my wife came home and looked at the new box and went “wow! Look at that thing!” and I said “happy birthday!” which didn’t really work…since she’s the one who scheduled the technician and requested the new box, but I thought it was a pretty good try.
Man, this is hard! My baby still has to shop for her too, and he picks out absolute crap. I’m sick of standing around in the back of the candle store while he hunts for the perfect combination of lavender and sage, you know? It seems so detail oriented for not only a baby, but also for something that’s designed to melt. She always loves his gifts though, mostly just cuz he’s cute. It’s not fair. I have a mustache. I’ve had it for a month and I have to have it for another month due to the movie that I’m shooting. I cannot, with a mustache, compete with the cuteness of my baby who, let’s face reality, is just a younger more dynamic version of me anyway.
And speaking of my faded youth, (ha! Good pun) my birthday is on Tuesday. You all know what I like, so send your nudes to my inbox please. Ask anyone who’s sent me nudes already, I don’t share them with any third parties, so a donation to the great Bad Sandwich Chronicles Nudes Bank (or BSCNB) is as sound an investment as a war bond. Think about it. We also accept video.
And, while we’re on the subject of great institutions created by and/or for the greater BSC viewing community, how are all my little Dogs of War and my sock drawer anyhoo? I feel like we never just sit down and have a glass of wine or a coffee and just, ya know, talk anymore. It’s always rush rush, in out, up down, suck suck spit, pay leave, right? Right. We need to slow down and take some time just for us, don’t we? Yeah. And what better time than my birthday week. So send in those nudes and/or cash or creative gifts. It’s the least you could do on your poor, lonely old mother’s birthday. Nah, you know what? I’m sure you’re busy. Just think of me and call if you get…nah, forget it. I know you’re always out running around with those friends of yours. Who’s got time for an old fossil like me? Forget I said anything.

Hi, everybody!

I was gonna write something brief and profane because I’m running late and it’s kind of been a while since I did anything like that, but then I got my shooting schedule for the next month and it kind of frazzled me. I’m gonna need to take lots of days off again. I panic about this, because I’ve been taking tons of days off and as a person with a kid and a bunch of stupid shit going on, I’m sort of unable to help other people out too much when they need shifts covered. It’s rough business, man. I feel like I’m taking advantage of my coworkers, but hey, fuck it, right? If I wasn’t taking advantage of them, I’d be taking advantage of the people I’m doing this movie with, and that would really suck the balls, and then I’d really feel like a morally reprehensible loser, sacrificing genuine friendships and experiences to toil in some crappy bar with assholes. Okay, thanks for listening, I think that’s just the perspective I needed. I think we can get on with the profanity now, right? Good.
Have you voted for your favorite Lawrence Arms songs to be played at the tenth anniversary show (oct. 24) in Chicago? You can do that by sending an email to tlavoting@gmail.com. It’s that simple, dildos! You can also vote for songs for any of our west coast shows too. For a summary of the rules check out the entry entitled “let the great experiment begin.”

Okay, so here’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. The bullshit female on female compliment. You know what I’m talking about? You know that one chick that you all know who’s not good looking, just barely, BARELY bangable, kind of cute face, but maybe she’s got a dumpy ass or she’s wide or has a Grimace body or gimp hand or something like that? You know her. Okay, well, have you ever noticed that this is the girl that all the girls that know her insist is just absolutely drop dead gorgeous? “Oh, you know who I think is beautiful? Betsy. She’s just gorgeous!” “Oh, I know. She’s got the prettiest smile in the world!” Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking to myself “BETSY? Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, neither of you are any fucking prizes yourselves but BETSY? She’s a bit of a pig. What the fuck is it that women see in other women?”
Well, that’s what I used to think. Now I recognize what’s really going on. It’s not that these girls see Betsy’s inner beauty that’s lost on piggish men like me. It’s that they’re hyping up the uggos in order to further their own stock. If betsy is hot, and I’m hotter than betsy, well, that makes me super hot. This works as an unspoken mutual compliment between the women discussing Betsy’s appearance, and a subtle hint to suitors, which is, in my theory, thought to be extra effective because it doesn’t call to mind any ACTUALLY attractive girls. That could lead to unflattering comparisons, and/or redirected energy.

Also, women tend to love to say that they like shit that they hate. I can remember my mom, every girlfriend I’ve ever had, and all my female friends for that matter talking quickly and quietly to me about how fucking retarded some boots are and then when the wearer of the boots come up and say hi, the shit talking turns to compliments. “Oh, I love those boots! We were just talking about them!” It’s not just boots and ugly chicks either. It’s also blowjobs, salads, experimental fake lesbianism (not to be confused with real lesbianism), football (this is a controversial one. Chicks will often be football fans. They talk football and watch games. But I never get the feeling from any of these girls that they like football as much as they like being the girl that likes football), facials, buttfucking, sensitive pussified dudes, and being judged solely on their merits and not at all on their appearance.
They hate all this shit, but pretend to love it for god knows what reason.
Okay, so now I’m a misogynist, right? Fine. Look. Men are retarded too, I’m just living proof of that so I don’t feel the need to really talk about it quite as much. And sure, I’m making broad (get it? Broad! Heh) sweeping generalizations that don’t apply to everyone. Yeah. True. Fine. Good for you. You poked a hole in my critical and hightly professional essay. Look. I gotta go to work. Enjoy yourselves out there. My kid bit another kid already today. Shit. Fuck. Shit. SHIT!!!!

Married! Nooooooooooo!

Do you ever lie there in relative comfort and try to really focus on how good you feel, and acknowledge that it’s fleeting. Do you lie there in bed and think ‘wow, my body is relatively young, I’m in no pain and I’ve got a full range of motion, it’s really gonna suck the dick off a dog when I’m lying here with cancer/liver disease/AIDS/Ebola/Swine Flu and my throat and muscles all hurt and I’m nauseous and I’m getting ready to die, so on top of it all, I’m freaking out and trying to get my dumb affairs in order and all my stupid relatives are driving me crazy and that lawyer is such a fucking scumbag…you ever think about that?
I do. And I think about it in regards to smaller issues than dying. I think about how I live in a nice house with a great family and I’ve got all sorts of friends and things going on, but someday (likely through my own fuckuppery) I’ll just be lonely, bitter and completely crushed by the world. Well, this, obviously is depressing and it’s sort of worst case scenario shit, but it’s crossed my mind. I’m not dwelling or doomsaying just saying it’s something that I’ve considered.
I sometimes think about how I’m just sitting here and I feel good, but at some point I WILL feel serious pain, emotional and physical. There’s no way around it. I WILL slam my finger in the door, get my dick stuck in my zipper, see someone die, make some dumb casual error that changes my whole life for the worse. These things WILL happen. There’s no way around it. They’ll happen to me and guess what assholes? Yeah. That’s right. They’ll happen to you too.
Okay, so at this point I bet you’re thinking that I’m super depressed, but you’d be wrong. This isn’t an exercise in depression or negativity. This is actually a celebration of how shit hasn’t blown up all over me yet. There’s no better feeling than lying there conscious of the fact that the cancer hasn’t taken hold, and you’ve still got some living to do and there are still choices and friends and hot chicks and dudes with great cans and dongs that still want to hang out with you and take off your underwear. Because, that too will change. For most of you it’ll happen soon…No one will ever want to bang you again. But for me, because I’m awesome, and for most of the girls out there, this is a ways off, but but but but!!!! It happens. Look at Liz Taylor. She was fucking SMOKING HOT and now she’s uh…what’s the word? Unfuckable? Are the kids still saying unfuckable? Okay, good. So yeah. Think about that. People out there want to bang you, maybe not the people you want to bang, maybe you haven’t been laid in a long time (or ever) but unless I’m completely confused on who my audience is, you’re more fuckable than Liz Taylor. And that’s huge, man. HUGE. She was Maggie from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for fucks sakes. Mags! Think about that.
So, yeah. What have we learned here today? Life is little more than a bullshit parade of soul crushing experiences, but man, the shit in between is great. And you don’t even need to be feeling actively good. Just simply not feeling like shit is pretty awesome. I dunno. There’s a lot of focusing on those horrible moments, you know? Like that second that she says “I don’t love you anymore” and your heart snaps, you keep replaying that over and over. You thought about its inevitability before it happened, and after it happened you dwelled on how much worse it was than you even imagined. But we don’t spend enough time just focusing on the small moments of relative tranquility and peace. Those are worth keeping too, man.
No, I’m not talking like a hippy. Go fuck yourself, naysayer. Don’t mistake this as kumbaya shit, because it’s really simpler than that. You know how people talk about how they have “baggage” and it usually comes from daddy issues or bad relationships or a drama teacher with a bushy mustache and a windowless van? Well, why not carry the baggage of just recognizing that you don’t feel like shit and you don’t have anything serious to worry about right now. Yeah, in twenty years, florida will be underwater, we’ll be dealing with pandemic disease, a crippled economy, super powered mega idiots that are being bred as we speak, rogue nations, fire in the streets, packs of dogs, warlords and rape squads and all that shit, so don’t get all fucking depressed today. You got plenty of time in your life set aside for being depressed. Get out there and whack off casually and eat a sandwich with something kind of gross on it. Live. You get one chance out there. Don’t be a pussy.

let the great experiment begin!

Man, Dan and I went to the cubs game last night and I ate a huge steaming pile of garbage. The farts that gently pepper the air around me are testament to the rottenness that infects one’s insides if you pour oldstyle and whiskey all over nachos and hotdogs. It was a pretty good time. I got a little loose and today I’m feeling a bit groggy. Not hungover, mind you, but groggy. Nothing a bike ride won’t fix.
I lost my favorite hat last night too. It’s just a regular knit beanie, but man, I’ve had that motherfucker since I was in highschool. I’m wearing it on the back of our Cocktails and Dreams record in the picture where Neil is entertaining Chris and I with the marionette in Greece. That hat was great and now it’s out there, lonely and scared getting worn by god knows who. It’s fucking troubling, fer reals.
Okay, so on to business. I’m sure you’re wondering about my movie. Let’s just say that on Sunday, I said ‘pig dick’ in front of a restaurant full of elderly people about six billion times and I watched a guy beat another guy with a gallon of milk. It was hilarious. From now on, the shooting’s gonna be mostly just on weekends, which means I may be a little more regular with this wonderfully witty little project that you all constantly hit refresh for all day long…Which brings me to my next point:
The voting for our ten year anniversary show is now underway. Here’s how the shit works. Send an email to tlavoting@gmail.com and vote for the song or songs you want to hear at the show at the metro on Oct. 24. This will probably end up informing our setlists out west too, so feel free to vote for any of the shows. Now, keep in mind a few things. Firstly, you can vote for as many songs as you want, but if you’re really irritating, or you send in a whole setlist, or you’re demanding or you sound in any way like a dildo, I’m not counting your vote. Yeah, boo hoo. Anyway, secondly, there are NO songs that are safe, meaning only the songs you vote for will be played, so don’t vote for obscure shit thinking that someone else is gonna do all the voting for 100 resolutions. If you don’t vote for it, it’s not getting played, understand? You gotta vote for the songs you actually want to hear. Don’t try to impress me by pulling out something obscure if it’s not legitimately a song you want to hear, because frankly, it’s not impressive, it’s just kind of dumb and counterproductive.
Third, if you all vote and the winning setlist just absolutely sucks, we’re not gonna play it, so no being a smartass and attempting to sabotage a show you won’t be at or any shit like that, got it? This is the kind of thing that really shouldn’t have to be said, but everyone’s a fucking comedian now days, and there’s nothing like laying down a little contest with a few rules to bring the assholes out of the woodwork to try to ‘beat the system’ or ‘culture jam’ or whatever dumb phrase you’re using these days as a euphemism for ‘being a dork.’
Uh, what else? Oh, okay, we’re gonna try to do a nice selection from all our records, which means that even if the top fifteen songs are all off one record, we’re only probably gonna play five of em, and then the tabulation will start again with the most voted for songs on the other records. This is mostly for 2 reasons. 1) I don’t want to play Ghost Stories front to back, and 2) it’s a fucking anniversary celebration type thing…it should have a retrospective vibe, don’tcha think?
Oh! And since it’s gonna be leaked all over the internet by then, don’t forget about our five new songs. You can vote for those too.
Uh, I think that’s everything. I fucking hate all of you.
xoxoxo