Friday, July 31, 2009

There's money on the counter and food in the fridge!

Okay, I saw this shit yesterday that I don’t really believe is real. It’s a bubblegum flavored vodka. It tastes EXACTLY like liquid bubblegum. It’s like, the cutting edge in child molester technology. I mean, it tastes like gum, it’s seventy proof, and it’s delicious if you’re the kind of person who thinks drinking gum sounds delicious, which essentially means if you’re six. It’s the greatest innovation to come around the pedophile scene since the windowless van and the nintendo. Good lord. It’s frightening that it even exists. And yes, for the record, I know there are lots of odd flavors of booze out there, like root beer and sweet tea, and I know that sparks and joose and all that shit used youth oriented marketing, but here’s the difference: That shit also appeals to grown ups. People who are adults drink root beer and energy drinks. NO ONE OVER SEVEN CHEWS BUBBLICIOUS. This is a vokda that ONLY a toddler would love. Oh well, the good news is that in about three minutes some kid somewhere is gonna come across a bottle, taste this shit, chug it all, because it tastes like liquid candy, die, and there’s gonna be a huge flap about it. Hey, you heard it here first people. I’m like Kreskin, man.

Last night I was exhausted and we were packing for our trip when suddenly I realized I had “VERY IMPORTANT SHIT TO TAKE CARE OF” before I left. I had to research and procure some custom labels, to be ready by the thirteenth of August. Not really the hugest deal, but since I’m out of town for the next few days, it makes things harder. Well, I sat down to do this, and that’s when I got a call that the mixing of my band’s record was happening in the studio. Again, not the biggest deal, but since I’m gonna be out of town, if I didn’t get down there and throw in my 2 cents, the mixes were essentially gonna be done and ready to ship off before I got back without me hearing them. That’s not really how I roll, so I shitcanned the labels and cruised down there. End result? The mixes sound great and I’m stressing over the labels, which I’ve simply not got the time to get to before I go…I mean, as soon as I’m done typing this bullshit, I have to pack up the car and bring everything that a family needs to succeed in Colorado for ten days. This is one of those jobs that’s impossible to fully kick ass at, because something’s gonna get left behind. It’s the nature of packing and the nature of me. THEN, when it’s discovered that oops! Forgot the baby sunscreen! Well, I’m suddenly dick deep in hearing about how I’m careless, or wasn’t thinking. Being a scatterbrained male in a crisis of organization is not easy, man. I feel like I’m on a fucking tilt a whirl twenty four hours a day.

Jesus Christ. It’s coming to my attention, as I type that due to behavioral problems, I may have to go pick up my kid at daycare right now. That’s gonna throw a real kitten into the gears. I got him super drunk before I dropped him off. I think he’s been telling everyone not to tell him what to do and that they don’t know him and shit like that. Nah, he’s just having a rough week because he’s transferred into the big kids room and out of the baby room. He was a big fish in that baby room, man. He ruled that shit. Out in the big kid room, he’s just another dude who walks like Charlie Chaplin and says “uh oh” every time someone drops something. It’s a rough transition. I hope he’s fucking exhausted when I finally pick him up, because flying with a squirming one year old on your lap is like trying to play the drums with two live fish. It’s hard, and pretty frustrating. Jesus. I gotta stop typing. Shit to do, man. Shit to do.

So, what do you kids have planned while I’m gone? Parties? Rainbow parties? Cool. That should be fun. Um, I found a very interesting website recently…
I have nothing to do with it, and I don’t know who does, but I think it goes without saying that it’s a definite harbinger of my complete and total domination of the internet. That’s cool at least. Um, what else? Nothing. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone and don’t drive my car. And NO BOYS!!!!!
Okay, I’m out.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Nobody knows the troubles I've seen...

I’m tired and my kid has a cold. It’s funny, dropping him off at the daycare when I know he’s got a cold…it’s like trying to sneak drugs onto a plane or something. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s a totally fucked up thing to do, but what’s the alternative? I can’t just stay home from work because the kid’s got a cold. I mean, if we’re talking about fucked up things, I can’t stay home from work if I’VE got a cold, and I make people’s drinks and serve food. It’s a problem with being a bartender…There’s really almost no one to cover for you, because there are so few shifts as is. With wait staff, there’s like 3 or so people working at any given time, and that turns over three times in the course of my shift, so there’s a huge pool of people who can work as a waitress on a Thursday morning, but I’m the only bartender. This is problematic for a few reasons. First, as I said, I could have explosive diarrhea and I’d still have to come in and serve people food, because if I don’t there’s literally no one to do it, and secondly, when I do need the time off, which is often, it’s a complete pain in the dick to get my shifts covered…This leads to a lot of really pedantic finger wagging and talking down to from my * ahem* superiors, who seem to think that because no one can cover my shift, I must need a general explanation of how society functions and how this place stays in business, and you know, why I’m such a self centered asshole. My manager actually tried to shame me for not being able to cover more shifts, never mind that the reason is that when I’m not at work I’m the sole ward of a fucking baby that I can’t just put in the closet when the other bartenders have jury duty or tickets to Jay Z or well, explosive diarrhea. This is the curse of being a manager, I suppose. Whatever, he’s a complete choach, and I try not to listen to anything he says, as a general rule.
It’s funny, on one hand, I need this job, and I like the flexibility and the cash and the general sense of not having some terrible job that keeps me constantly working long hours and freaking out, and on another hand, I feel like quitting would be the best thing that could happen to me. I constantly think I’m gonna get fired, which is ridiculous, because I don’t do anything that would warrant getting fired. It’s almost like a fantasy I have where I walk in, and they fire me first thing in the morning. That would be sweet, but that’s not how people get fired. People get fired at the end of the day. People close the door and tell you that they’re gonna have to let you go.
In the place I work, the person who would be in charge of firing me, were it to happen, would then try to have a bit of a dialog about why this was all going on, but I’ve already decided that when and if that fateful day comes, I’m not listening to that shit. As soon as I hear “we’re gonna have to let…” I’m out the door. I’ve already listened to these people talk more than I’m comfortable with for a lifetime. The SECOND it’s not somehow tied to my financial betterment, I’ll never listen to them again for even a moment.
Here’s the other thing I think about on occasion. It’s come to my attention that a lot of people are reading this thing, more than I really thought…I wonder if my employers are reading it. Is my manager sitting upstairs while I stack glasses reading this shit? That creates a strange situation. I mean, they, if they DO ever read this, surely don’t want me knowing they read it, as they don’t particularly like me, and they don’t want to feed into any ideas I have that they’re paying any special attention to my life one way or another, and I certainly don’t want them reading my random gripes about my job, but at the same time, I kind of love the idea of this manager sitting up in the office, reading this, then coming down and pretending that she didn’t read it and talking to me, even though she’s just read this part about exactly what she’s about to do…it’s like spaceballs, when they fast forward the tape to ‘now’. Do you know what I’m talking about, kids? Good times. Okay, enough about that place. Sheesh.
Tomorrow, I leave town for a week. It’s gonna be rough. How am I gonna write this bad boy? I don’t even think they’ve strung up internet wires out in Colorado yet. I’m going to a wedding, and I’m gonna see some friends and I’m gonna have to take my insanely wiggly baby on a plane. He’s a full on monster these days and I don’t know how in the hell we’re gonna keep him still for even a second. Do they make baby oxycontin? That seems like it would do the trick.
I’m tired. I’m always tired. I used to never be tired, then the baby came along and totally fucked up my sleep. If we have another kid, which is part of my plan for world domination (I want to birth out a whole boy band and be next Joe Jackson) I’m not gonna have a good solid week of sleep for the next what? Nineteen years? Jesus fucking Christ. It’s funny. Childhood lasts forever, particularly if you just get out of school and play in a band for a decade or so, but adulthood…that shit goes so fast. I feel like I’m already done and used up. It’s just all planning and the future and tracking and how old you are and jobs and retirement and fuck! I’m thirty two and I feel like I missed something and it’s too late to get it back. It’s time to die. There you go, you didn’t get yourself on the fast track in your twenties, you’re fucked. You might as well talk to those bar managers you seem to love making fun of, because that’s your future, man. Middle management in the service industry. Ooooh. Cool.
Don’t any of you people out there want to hire me for something? I can write a page about felching, tit fucking, farting, fucking animals, internet pornography or even something else, non butt/dong related pretty fast. I do these entries every morning in about 15 to 30 minutes, depending on the subject. I’d be a great addition to your magazine, editor of the New Yorker! Consider this here essay my application. Oh, what? Real jobs don’t take those…that’s right. Well, this is my resume? No? Huh…fuck it. I guess it’s back to the bar.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009


Good morning. Woke up with a case of the unidentifiable panics this morning. Not the best feeling. I don’t know what that’s all about, but every now and then, I start really freaking out for no discernable reason. I think, were I forced to venture a guess, it has to do with my job. Not only do I hate my job, but I hate that I spend time thinking about it, and I hate that I need it for money…AND it’s preventing me from doing anything else because it keeps me JUST complacent and busy enough that I can sort of just groove to the sticky sweet beat of self loathing and unease that being the kind of asshole who thinks he’s destined for better things working a crappy service job provides. Maybe it’s time to reassess my skill set, eh? Maybe I should quit…Nah. Quitters never win. I know! I’ll passive aggressively act shitty to everyone and bottle up my rage and disappointment in myself and take it out on internet porn and trips to the gym. That sounds like a plan. Okay, that’s settled. On to the next item of business.
My baby started talking. He says “uh-oh” and “izzy” which is the name of his dog, and “What’s this?” and “What’s that?” and he said banana yesterday when I pulled out a banana, but there’s been no repeat performance of that. Could be a fluke. He also said “Sesame Street” when I asked him what he was watching on TV, but that’s just so fucking mind blowingly out there that I’m ignoring it. There’s no way he learned all this talking yesterday, right? Well, he did. Next thing you know, he’s gonna be telling me to stuff it up my ass! He’ll do what he pleases, old man! Ah, they grow up so fast, you know?
Speaking of the father-son paradigm, there was an article on yahoo’s front page this morning about the quintessential American dad, Kfed. Apparently, according to the headline, his fans are shocked by his weight gain. This, everyone, is on the level of frogs falling from the sky, or the rivers running red with blood or locusts swarming into town on the apocalypse meter. Kfed’s FANS ARE SHOCKED AT HIS WEIGHT GAIN??????? Good fucking Christ! Okay, let’s talk about this for a second, if we could.
Kevin Federline is, make no mistake, a celebrity. My mom knows who he is. He’s also a dancer (apparently he’s awesome…I dunno) and a rapper. I’ve heard him rap, and it’s not good. It’s not the worst rapping I’ve ever heard, but it’s way WAY closer to the worst rapping I’ve ever heard than it is to the best rapping I’ve ever heard. Anyway, no surprise there, right? I don’t think anyone on earth thought that Kfed was gonna make a good album, but hey, he made it, right? That’s something.
The thing is, Kfed has a discernable talent (dancing) and he parlayed that into an unsuccessful but related artistic endeavor (hip hop) which makes him more of a legitimate star than Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian, Ali Lohan, Nicole Ritchie or any of those other drones. Plus, he married the most famous person in the world and made her flip the fuck out. I don’t know if I can go all the way and say Kevin is a performance art genius, but intentionality aside, he really did some pretty entertaining stuff with that divorce. What’s my point?
Well, my point, dogs of war, is that I’m not gonna go for that dumb obvious joke here, namely “Kfed has fans? That’s absurd!” because frankly, we live in a culture where much less talented and interesting people are hugely successful, even if it’s not exactly clear what they’re successful at. Nicole Ritchie is a great example of this. What the fuck does she do? I mean, I know she lends her name to products and takes credit for writing books that she hires other people to write, but HOW DID SHE GET INTO THAT POSITION? The simple life? She was the fugly sidekick! I refuse to give that show the credit for her meteoric rise to wherever the fuck she is now. I dunno. Off topic. Where was I? Ah yes. Kfed.
Kfed is, make no mistake, a hillbilly loser from Fresno. He’s rich through marriage, and he’s famous because of his marriage, but BUT BUT!!!! He also does SOMETHING. Or he did. Apparently he hasn’t been dancing lately (except with pies), hence the big headline. Anyway, point being, he’s allowed fans. Dumb fans, sure, but what are you gonna do? I mean, is a Kfed fan > or < to a Juggalo? Hard to say. I’d say >, honestly. That’s beside the point.
My issues with this whole piece of news are many splendored and sort of ethereal. I mean, yeah. Kevin is fat. Who the fuck cares? Why do his fans care? Why do people give a shit what people dumb enough to classify themselves as “fans of Kevin Federline” think about anything, including Kevin Federline? And WHY for the love of god, WHY would anyone be surprised that that lazy choad got fat? He was always kind of a doughboy in training. Now he’s in his late 20’s and he’s got his two practice kids and the two rich ones and he doesn’t need to dance anymore (thank you, child support!) so of course he’s fat. Didn’t you Kfed fans watch “Chaotic”? That motherfucker just eats cheetos and drinks coke all day. Of course he’s a lard ass.
For this fucking inevitable weight gain, and the subsequent (completely inexplicable) shock of his dozens of fans, one of the biggest news outlets on earth creates a headline. Nice fucking world we live in. What’s next? “Fans of Tito Jackson look on in shock as he mourns the death of his brother”? I mean, good god, powers that be. You’ve done it. You’ve finally provided us with enough information that finding out what’s really going on is impossible. That’s some real Brave New World shit, man. We’re fucked. We’re all good and fucked, so uh, pass me some Cheetos, I guess. If I’m going down, I want them to have to break down the wall to get me out of my house.
Prost, assholes!

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

who does number two work for?

Life is shit. For me at least, this is terribly and sadly true. Every day, first thing in the morning, I wake up, go into my kid’s room, where I’m greeted with the scent of freshly crapped pants and a smiling little man standing in the corner of his crib. Then, I go clean up dogshit. By this time, I have to dump, so I do that, and then I make coffee and eat bran cereal. That’s the whole morning. It’s almost completely devoted to shit. I don’t even need to get into the metaphorical way that life is shit, I’ve got a lifetime of literally shitty mornings to look forward to.
On tour, life becomes extremely routine. I guess it’s pretty routine when I’m not on tour, but I guess the thing that’s different is that it’s a completely compromised routine. You, your bandmates and crew all eat at the same time, sleep at the same time, ride around in a little box all day, deal with all the same people, go drinking at the same bars, etc. There’s a lot of down time, and not really a lot to talk about because, well everyone is doing the exact same thing you’re doing. Not a lot of new material coming out. There’s no “I ate at a really good place last night” sort of small talk, because everyone already knows that place. They ate there too. With you. Had the same meal. They know it was good. The end result is that bands on tour end up talking a LOT about shitting. It’s the only thing that’s left that’s a unique experience that’s not beating off.
Shitting on tour is very difficult. It’s almost like getting Yhatzee to be lucky enough to have to take a dump at a place where you actually CAN take a dump. Your standards plummet pretty quick. There was a time when I’d only crap at home. Now, I draw the line at outside onto the ground, although I’m really not a fan of portapotties. Anyway, not the point. The point is you WILL be at that Love’s truckstop in Wyoming sitting there on a filthy toilet dumping between two gigantic grunting sweating truckers. And your mind will suddenly remove all the stall walls and you’ll kind of float out above your body and look down and see you, just mere inches from these hulking, laboring men and you will say “wow…this is living the dream, huh?” And there will be sounds. There will be horrendous sounds coming out of these giants. You will want to laugh and cry, but you will just sit there and stew in the whole thing. It’s a real scene.
Club toilets are almost always gross, but you’ll use em, and you’ll talk about them and you’ll maybe take up writing graffiti, because all you do is sit and read all this crap and at some point you think “hey, if I’d been writing my name in all these stalls, I’d be pretty famous, graffiti wise.” I don’t know, maybe you won’t.
The diet is pretty much just junk, beer and very little sleep. Touring often starts with about two or three days of no one dumping at all, (just kind of what happens for some reason) but then it starts getting interesting. Sometimes, everyone has to shit at once. Sometimes there’s just no stopping it. A buddy of mine pulled his van off to the side of the highway and dove into the woods to crap during an all night drive. We talked about that for weeks.
This is not just for small bands either. The universality the quest for and inevitable lack of shittable bathrooms reaches from Coldplay to the Menzingers. You can’t shit on a tourbus. The toilets are made for liquid only. Shitting on a bus is a great way to get the driver to hate you. Drivers also don’t just pull over willy-nilly. They’re like truckers. They go and go so they can get to where you’re all going so they can go to sleep, score some meth and get a hooker. They don’t have time to be pulling over everytime the drum tech has to crap. End result? There’s Chris Martin in the stall at the Truckstop, middle door, between the two greasy large mustached men. Dumping. It’s the great leveler, really.

Okay, look. I’m not trying to sit here and reminisce about poop. I don’t even really like the subject at all. It’s gross. Also, I know from experience that once someone starts talking about poo, everyone who thinks they’ve got a good tale pipes up and it gets gross so fast. I don’t want to hear about it. There’s etiquette to talking shit. You don’t talk about the actual shit itself. I don’t want to hear about size or corn or spray (well, actually spray is okay. For example, if you just shit a whole bowl of drool…that’s not something you should have to keep bottled up…but see, it’s really gross, so keep it to a minimum). I NEVER EVER EVER want to see pictures of shit. AND, and this is very important, I never want to hear women talk about shitting. I know! I know! It’s sexist or something, but look, man. They took santa claus from me, they took the tooth fairy and jesus from me. They took gay marriage. Don’t take away my idealized world in which women don’t shit. Please. PLEASE. I’m not alone on this either. There’s not a man out there that wants to hear about women shitting. Well, no man that shouldn’t be under some sort of surveillance, at least.
My friend Sean’s ex wife once pushed her plate of eggs away and said “Sean. Let’s go home! I’ve gotta crap!” and I didn’t eat eggs for a year as a result. They also ended up divorced. Coincidence? No, man. No way. She shattered the mirror. There’s no coming back from something like that. God. This is all so disturbing. I think I’m gonna go lay in the fetal position in the shower.
Enjoy your day!

Monday, July 27, 2009

what a gyp!

I’ve got a bad feeling in my soul. My phone is fucked. It’s an iphone, and I recently discussed how fucking genius apple is at making disposable technology, so I know I’m screwed. I know there’s nothing they can do. I know some smug dick is just gonna shake his head and kind of giggle to himself and look down and say it’s out of his hands. AND I know that I’ve got the choice of going back to some bullshit abacus-like ancient piece of crap phone or shelling out what? Five hundred bucks for a new one? Fuuuuuuck. It’s irritating because the phone’s not TOTALLY fucked. It just doesn’t make sound or deliver sound unless it’s in headphone or speaker mode. SO, technically, I can still use it as long as I don’t care about other people hearing my conversations and/or walking around like a fucking lunatic with my headphones in just talking to the sky. I’m bummed. I can’t even handle this shit today, as I’ve got to go to some strip clubs in Indiana to research a project I’m part of. Art is hard, man. Don’t let ‘em tell you otherwise.
My wife’s out of town, and my baby is at daycare. I’m about to take my bike to the gym, and then I’m gonna go, like I said, see what the finest in Monday day shift strippers off the highway in Indiana have to offer. It’s gonna be great. If my phone worked, I’d say it was a perfect day, but alas…
I’m tired. Sunday nights kill me. It’s funny. It’s almost the only bearable day that I work at that shithole, but it makes me so exhausted that it’s almost not worth it. I mean, as per my usual routine, I go to bed at 930, not 330. that’s enough to really fuck someone up, you know?
Okay, so I really have to get moving. I’ve got to guess some muffs, figure out if a few chicks are filthy, and generally dust off my dick, brush my teeth and head out the door. Like I said, I’ve got some strip clubs to get to, and I’ve gotta be back here by 630 to get my midget out of daycare. I can’t just be sitting here typing to y’all in this situation. It’s masturbatory. Okay, I’m out. And listen, before you start thinking that I’m slighting you with a short entry, consider this, I almost didn’t write today at all. This is all gravy, man.
Okay, time to put on my same underwear from last night. Bye.

Friday, July 24, 2009

Healthy white baby? What else you got? They said 'two koreans and a nigra born with his heart on the outside.' it's a crazy world.

If my wife isn’t around, I don’t eat. It’s not because she cooks or she makes me eat or anything like that. It’s just that when she’s not around, my routine falls in the shitter. Instead of coming home, cleaning up the house and playing with the baby and cooking and eating as a family, I come home, play with the baby then just kind of lounge around, maybe surf the internet or read or watch tv or play guitar and then, fuck me! It’s nine thirty and I’m eating tuna right out of the can. It’s the truth. Men would just die without women, or you know, live in a messy box and eat olives and mustard and whatever’s just laying around. Unless you’re talking gay guys, in which case you’ll probably want some fennel thrown in there too. And the gay guys probably have a nice leather couch. Whatever. You get it. Anyway…
When we’re all home, we both cook, though lately I’ve been cooking more, which I like. However, after the events of last night and today, I don’t think I’ll ever touch food again. It’s so gross, I just had to pause, due to the grossness. There. I paused again. Come on. Deep breath. Here goes:

Last night, my old lady was working late. After my can of tuna (and small bowl of variously colored cherry tomatoes from the farmers market with some blue cheese) I was deciding on my after dinner, pre bed cocktail. I picked a Jim Beam, splash of soda, rocks. It turned out to be delicious. Not the point. Okay, so I was walking from the kitchen area where the booze is kept, back towards the tv when suddenly my sock kicked something. It was dogshit. But it was odd dogshit. It was fluffy, like it had been whipped or something. It was kind of the consistency of really fluffed, light peanut butter.
Now, these dogs don’t usually shit out of their prescribed zone. They’ll do it now and then when they’re pissed that we’ve been neglecting them, and one of them has to walk when she shits (don’t ask me why or how she came up with this methodology) so sometimes we get a trail from their little dumping ground around the general vicinity, but for the most part, the dogs keep their shit in the area where they’re supposed to shit, which is in the laundry room, on pads. Hey, they’re small dogs. It’s little turds, like cat turds almost. This is precisely why I didn’t see this one last night and kicked it all over the rug and floor and got it all in my sock.
So, I cleaned it up. I was pretty pissed. It was messy, mostly due to the fluffy, smeary, highly unusual consistency. But I got it all clean and settled in to watch some tv. A few minutes go by and suddenly I look up to see one of my dogs (the Business Monkey) barfing. She’s barfing right in the same spot that I had just cleaned. AND she was barfing stuff that looked just like what I had just cleaned up. Oh. Mystery solved and way less gross. That wasn’t a strange fluffy turd, it was strangely congealed barf. When the dog doesn’t feel well she usually comes near either me or my wife to barf, I guess just for moral support. So, anyway, the poor dog is sick. I cleaned up the barf and put her on my lap. She didn’t feel well. I started to fall asleep on the couch and went to bed. SPOILER ALERT: the next paragraph is the gross one.
This morning, I wake up to find, to my abject horror, the reason for the strange barf and sick dog. Apparently, last night, while I was putting the baby down, she (the dog) somehow snuck in the room, got into his diaper pail and ate a bunch of shit out of one of the diapers. So that fluffy peanut butter shit that I kicked wasn’t just shit, but dog-barfed-half-digested-baby-shit.
So yeah. I’ll never eat again, probably. Oh, the dog’s fine today. So’s the baby. Me, not so much.
I’m going out of town in a week, and I’m having trouble getting my shifts covered at work. It’s the kind of thing that I don’t care about at all, and if there weren’t all sorts of assholes looking for jobs everywhere, I’d just tell ‘em to stuff it up their asses and quit and get another crappy job, BUT, I can’t do that because, well I’ve got a baby to feed and a wife to appease and if I don’t put food in front of the baby, he won’t shit, then the dogs won’t eat, and that’s just cruel. Dogs can’t get jobs. It’s a crazy world.
Funny side note. Earlier this week, we were out on the porch just chilling when I noticed the baby about to put something in his mouth. It was a dog turd. I got it out of his hands just fine…but fuck, there’s something going on in this house. There’s really not an abundance of shit just laying everywhere, despite what this little tale would have you believe, but the “under thirty pounds club” that lives here seems to be really looking high and low for the opportunities to eat turds whenever they can get ‘em. The really crazy thing is that the dogs don’t eat their own shit. They’re like shit connoisseurs. Well, gotta be a nerd about something, right?
Whatever, man. Work time. Maybe I’ll get fired. Now THAT’S a song title, Andriano!

Thursday, July 23, 2009

boo fucking hoo

I’m asked often what I think of the ‘new world order’ of albums leaking before their release dates, of illegal file sharing, illegal downloading and so on and so forth and blah blah blah. It’s kind of a stupid question, right? I mean, what do I think about records getting out there for free when they used to cost money? What do I think about not making money? That’s the question? Really? What is my opinion about the fact that the industry that I have worked in for the last fifteen years is no longer profitable? Hmmm…good question. Tough one to figure out. Hold on a second. I’ve gotta pour some Jager shots. Be right back.

Oh man, they left me a buck for those nine shots. What a bunch of assholes. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah! My opinion on music suddenly being free. Right. Love it. I think it’s awesome. Can’t say enough good things about it.
Look, this is a stupid conversation 100% of the time, and here’s why. Everyone would rather make money. If there’s a dude just digging holes because he loves digging holes, and then suddenly digging holes becomes profitable, and he can just do what he’s been doing but he’ll get a check for it, he’ll take the fucking money (unless he’s retarded). So pretending that the money just cheapens everything or it doesn’t matter is, every time, disingenuous or plain old stupid. You’d be dumb not to want to get paid for doing something you love. If I could get paid to hang out at a bar or get blowjobs from my old lady, I’d jump at it. So IN WHAT FUCKING UNIVERSE IS A MUSICIAN GOING TO BE HAPPY THAT MUSIC IS SUDDENLY FREE???? BUT BUT BUT BUT, that’s the small half of why this is a stupid conversation.
The big half is this: it’s free. It is. There’s nothing you can do about it, there’s no point in acting like you’ve been slighted. You haven’t. Shit’s changed. Remember the guy digging holes? When digging stops being profitable, he can either go back to digging like he did before, for the love of it, or he can fucking adapt and move on like HUMAN BEINGS DO EVERY FUCKING DAY, YOU PUSSIES!!!!!!
Look, there used to be an industry built around shoeing horses. There were places that made horseshoes, people who put em on, took em off, people that built the nails, I don’t fucking know…bear with me. Well, at some point, probably right around when the car started getting popular, these poor schlongs all went out of business. You know why? The world changed. All the bitching in the world about tradition or how it’s gentlemanly to ride a horse or how this one is right and this one is wrong didn’t sway anything. Shit done changed and the option is, cry about it and look absolutely pathetic, or fucking sack up, look around and figure out what the fuck you’re gonna do.
I can’t stand listening to these fuckers in the industry bitch about illegal downloads…Not because I wouldn’t like more money. Of course I would, but it’s so fucking wimpy. It’s like crying because it’s raining. Hey, pussy! It’s gonna keep raining. You can either catch a cold crying out there, or you can fucking look for a place to dry off. I mean, musicians gripe and gripe because their profits are shrinking, and sure, that sucks, but the idea that since they used to make X amount of dollars and now they don’t, they’re allowed to just complain and throw a fit is just childish. Hey, I used to be allowed to shit my pants, and then some lady would come along and wipe my ass and put new pants on me. I used to shower in a room full of ten year old boys, I used to be able to eat cupcakes all day and never gain a pound. There’s A FUCKING MILLION THINGS that change on this earth, every day, and some are a real bummer (not being able to just eat cupcakes) some are the result of taking responsibility for yourself (shitting my pants) and some are just what fucking happens when shit changes (I’m no longer ten). This situation with music is really all three, but humans are at our best and most innovative when we adapt. There’s never been an exciting discovery made from complaining about the way things used to be. There’s never been progress made by sitting stubbornly in the rain or the road and there’s never been a blowjob received by someone who was such a pussy that the world turned and they just rolled over and cried.
That’s why this is a stupid conversation. I don’t have time to complain about the fucking tides, man. I’ve got real shit to worry about. Right? Good. Now, can everyone please just shut up about it forever? The old way is done now. Fucking get used to it. Thank you.

God. I’d forgotten about gym class showers until now…what a horrible nightmare. Ugh.
Have a good day, shitheads and hoes.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Happy birthday, Mister President...

My god, people. Can you believe it? It was ONE YEAR ago, today that I first threw my hat into cyberspace with a then unknown, then black and green little blog called Bad Sandwich Chronicles. The first entry, entitled Hello Blogsophere set out my mission statement of offering advice, mocking celebrities and complaining about my job, telling wang jokes and of course offering tips on child rearing.
Well, look how far it’s come. Go on, look around. Little did I know that here, just a mere single rotation of the sun around the earth later, that I’d be sitting on top of the whole internet, the sole proprietor of the single greatest source for content in all of the virtual world (except for that Ukranian website that has crack whores sucking off pigs right in their own slop…that’s awesome).
I don’t want to forget all the little people on a momentous day like today, but like I mentioned yesterday in my post entitled “The Darker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juuuuuuice!”, I broke my coffee pot over the weekend and as such, I have no coffee and, well, I think a lot of the little people are getting forgotten. Uh, thanks to my baby for being a never ending supply of content (‘content’ in this context is synonymous with ‘baby shit’, of which he is a neverending supplier) and thanks to uh…my neurotic Chihuahuas and well…who else? I don’t know, Dogs of War. Lots of things happen in a year. Shall we look back and see some highlights? Lets.
Okay, did you all just go back and read the previous 246 posts? Jesus. That’s what you were supposed to do. What do you want? Some sort of synthesis by me? You’re nuts, man. That’s not my job. This may be the internet, but I’m still playing to the highest level of intelligence, for fucks sake. And I’m lazy. And I haven’t had any coffee and it’s making my eyes cross a little bit. So, just go read em. Okay, we good? Good.
My baby is asleep, or I’d go to one of the ten thousand coffee shops within crapping distance of my front door, but hey, man, if the baby wasn’t asleep, I wouldn’t be writing this, and I wouldn’t be noticing how badly I want a cup of coffee. See how that shit works? It’s like a monkey puzzle. That’s when the jar’s opening is too small for the monkey to get his hand out if he’s holding a fistful of delicious monkey candy. It’s also a tree, I guess. And it’s my nickname for the maze that is my large intestine, but that’s another story. I got wild in college, man.
Anyway, happy birthday blog. You now have followers (the dogs of war) a place for your followers to congregate (the comments section, now known as the Sock Drawer) a name specifically for dogs of war who comment in the sock drawer (socks) and a whole other, completely separate sock drawer for the splinter cell of socks who didn’t feel that the sock drawer here offered enough features, and I think those crazy fuckers just made a whole NEW sock drawer because they were outgrowing their old one. That’s quite a lot of accoutrements for a little baby one year old blog. Good work, blog. Happy birthday. Have some cake.

Okay, it’s been a staple here at BSC over the past year for me to uh, tell it like it is, regarding how not to walk through life as a total sniveling dildo or as a complete mongaloid. I’ve done this through advice, through general ranting and I’ve done it through definitive lists. I haven’t done a definitive list in a while, but hey, in honor of the blog turning one, I thought I’d give it a go. Without further ado, here’s a definitive list of things that no self respecting man should ever wear:

Tapout shit: That’s right, rest of the world. I’m talking to you. What is this stuff and why is it so popular? I’m guessing it has to do with Mixed Martial Arts, right? Well that’s fine, but it looks like the logo of a motorcycle gang that meets up at Pizza Hut. This is the style of the times? Iron cross looking eagles and cheesy hawk shaped fonts and all this garbage just sprayed all over this shit willy nilly? The shit is beat, yo. AND it’s all just about flags and people grappling around in a mess of blood and sweat. Sounds like the gay parade, but it’s not. It’s Tapout, where idiots spend way too much money to wear shirts so gaudy that Phil Anselmo wouldn’t sell them to his fans.

Affliction and Ed Hardy: Here’s a little test. Look down. Does your shirt purport to be some sort of second skin by which you can have all the benefits of looking like you’re walking around with a bunch of cool tattoos without having to deal with tattoo parlors, pain or permanence? Then you’re a dork. You’re a dork, and while you might think that the eagle on your chest, or the olde English branding around your collarbones says ‘I’m tough,’ it really says “tiny penis.”

Rings- Are you still wearing a ring? What are you fifteen? Hasn’t a girl mocked your dumb rings yet? Look, a bracelet, MAYBE, if it’s not really supposed to be jewelry and you fancy yourself to be iconoclastic or something, but rings. Rings? You know who wears rings? The guys in Queensryche wear rings. Sleazy pornographers wear rings. If you’re not fat, old and in the mafia the ONLY acceptable ring is a wedding ring. Ah! Ah! Ah! That’s right. Anything else makes you look like the kind of guy who oils up his nipples before he masturbates.

Sandals-Your feet are disgusting. Your feet look stupid in sandals. “Oh, but they’re comfortable.” Yeah, so’s picking your nose, shitting your pants and jacking off when the mood strikes you. Doesn’t make it acceptable, bro. If your feet are too hot and you must wear some sort of open footed shoe, wear flipflops and a bathrobe and be a coke dealer and get it over with. (Actually, in this case you can probably get away with a ring or two as well).

Necklaces- What’s that? Hemp? Pukka shell? A JESUS CHAIN? Necklaces are the albatross of the painfully unaware or the overly sentimental pussy. Oh, is that locket? Well, that’s different, right? Hell, sure. You can wear a locket with your kid’s, or your mom’s picture in it if you want. Just know that it’s like a dog tag that says “Pussy-first class. Will call you everyday and cry after sex.” Get a wallet, you fucking sniveling choad.

Stocking style socks- What are you? Ben Franklin? Unacceptable. I don’t care how cool your bike is.

Jeans with crap all over the pockets or big stitching or any of that shit- Look, yeah, those guys on Queer Eye did us all a favor when they got us out of Wal Mart Rustlers, but have some fucking restraint, man. If your pants pockets look like the back cover of a Cher album, you’ve gone too far. Jeans like this are THE WORST fucking mistake you can make as a man trying to go out and impress people. At best, you look like you bathe in Axe body spray and come from the jersey shore. At worst, you DO bathe in axe body spray and come from the jersey shore. Shudduppayouface!

Okay, that was fun. Hope you’re ready for another fun filled year of Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Thanks to all my socks and dogs for reading and keeping me interested in doing this dumb thing.
Baby is awake. Time to go get some fucking coffee.
Seacrest out.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The darker the berry the sweeter the Juuuuuuice!

Brian Austin Green and Megan Fox. That’s a topic, right? I mean, people are talking about that shit like crazy. What are they saying? She’s hot, the hottest chick in the world and he’s just some schlubby dildo who used to be on 90210 and had a rap album (yes, he did) and is currently unemployed. People also talk about her bad tattoos, but mostly they talk about how it’s just inevitable that the two of them will break up and she’ll start dating someone who’s uh…you know, not David Silver.
Well, firstly, let’s not knock people with questionable tattoos, people who are unemployed and people who have put out bad music, kay? That’s um…I dunno. For some reason, I don’t like that. Second, David Silver, he’s a pretty good looking guy, isn’t he? I mean, I’ve got this picture of him in an unzipped, silver hoodie exposing his chest and…wait. No. Yeah, she’s super duper hot, and he’s a malorkus. That does kind of suck. Stupid, suck ass David Silver.
Seriously though, that chick is one of the best arguments against letting people pick tattoos when they’re young. She’s got some terrible portrait of Marilyn Monroe and some Shakespearean bullshit about gilded butterflies. Honey chile! That’s just nasty, baby. BUT, it’s not as bad as this picture I saw yesterday.
I saw, via the internet, a photo of this dude in a swimsuit. He’s either at some kind of pool party or beach or something and he’s got his arm around this pretty hot girl and on his arm there’s a tattoo of what looks like the little box at the bottom of a movie trailer that gives the rating and then kind of explains what the rating means, but where the PG or the R or the NC-17 would be, there’s a P, and then next to it, it says * ahem* “Player for life. Looking for luv? You’ve come to the wrong place.”
I don’t think there’s enough virtual ink on the internet for me to effectively list all the reasons that this is one of the most asinine things I’ve ever seen, but suffice it to say, I’m blown away. The dude kind of looks like a meaty Jim Carey and I dunno. Really? That’s your tattoo, bro? “Luv????” You couldn’t even be bothered to spell love correctly? I mean, what. The. Fuck?
Okay, I found the picture. Here’s the offending dumb dumb:
My baby isn’t napping. He’s in his crib stomping around and kind of singing to himself. I wish he’d nap, because I have kind of a lot that I want to do right now, during this naptime, but it’s not looking good, man. Aye Chihuahua. He’s amped it up now. It’s wailing. I broke the coffee pot over the weekend and it’s really putting a damper on my morning routine. I mean, I’m used to about two hours here where I can get shit done and drink coffee while he sleeps. Today though, I got no coffee, no napping baby, AND I got a fucking ticket on my car for having no city sticker, but I DID HAVE THE FUCKING THING!!!!AND IT’S ON THE CAR!!!!! I’m so pissed about that, I can barely fucking see straight. It’s already extortion the way they make Chicagoans buy these fucking stickers, but this whole new program of just writing tickets then seeing who contests them, the ‘mail in rebate’ style of city revenue collection, really chaps my sack.
They’re trying to get the Olympics here. That’s what this is about, apparently. I dunno. I’m just sick of it all, man.
Well, according to that kid from the Sock Drawer, I can still get the original Sparks down at this liquor store right down the road, so that’s a silver lining in an otherwise horribly oppressive shit storm of a life, right? Suuuuure. Well, that and I’m going to get a sweet tattoo today. It’s gonna be a picture of Brian Austin Green shirtless, and tattooed on HIS chest, it’s gonna say “playa!” What do you think? Oh, and he’ll be showing off his tongue stud. Maybe it’ll be Sean Nader instead of Brian Austin Green, now that I think about it. He’s a rapper too. Okay, I got some thinking to do, folks. Don’t want to wind up with something stupid on my body forever, right? That would be horrible.

Monday, July 20, 2009


Hey hey! Monday! Did you all get the blood stains out of your clown suits before work today? Good for you. I have a meeting to run to, so this shit’s gonna be fast. Last week in Wisconsin, I found three of the old, original, non bullshit sparks, and I’m drinking one right now because our coffee pot broke and I need some caffeine…and because it’s delicious, and because I’ve been saving it for a special day, and because I had a very productive weekend and this is, in the words of the lord, my day of rest. Except that I have this day full of meetings and shit to go to. Whatever. Stop judging me. I love sparks and this is like when the man and the boy found the bunker full of peaches and coffee and shit, okay? Yeah. The Road. Again. That’s right. Get some fucking culture, you troglodytes.
Okay, so there’s this guy…I don’t really know him, but he’s very memorable because he’s super cool looking. He’s got a gigantic mop of black hair and a huge black beard and he’s kind of vaguely brown and he wears hats that call to mind admirality. He could maybe be some sort of Maccabee or something he’s been in my bar a few times and he works the door at this place I go when I get off work every once in a while. One time, when he was in my bar we were small talking, and he mentioned that he ran this delivery service where he’d just bring you what you need and the charge was the price of the items and five bucks, no matter what. So I asked him, “so, theoretically, if I called you at 3 in the morning and said I want a forty of Colt 45, a twenty piece nuggets with hot mustard and an 8 ball, you’d round that shit up and get it to me for a five dollar service charge?” His answer: “yup.”
Wow. So pretty cool idea. Kind of almost uh…Bulgarian in its completely improvisational capitalist approach and affordability, but the problem is, this dude is kind of a dick. I see him around, and once I even asked if he still was doing the delivery service, and he kind of shined me, as though I’m not cool enough for his time. Hey asshole, you’re an entrepreneurial delivery driver. Don’t give me shit just because. Yes, you’re a handsome dude and you’re cooler than me. Fine. Let’s not forget, though, the watchword of customer service is courtesy. Fucking amateur.
This one time I was crawling off a tour bus in france. We were stopped at a mcdonalds and I woke up, brushed my teeth in the mens room and came out and ordered a royalle with cheese. The cashier was a total prick to me. He was superior and condescending. And I said “hey, asshole! This, right here, is a MCDONALDS COUNTER! The disdain only travels one way over the Mcdonalds counter, man. I don’t give a fuck if you’re French, and I’m still drunk. One way disdain, man.” Probably a little advanced for his grasp on English, but it got a chuckle out of the various drunkards standing behind me holding their toothbrushes, toilet paper and razors.
Uh…My hand is numb. That’s not good, right? Doctors? Nurses? People with pussies? I’m asking a serious question here. Left hand. Heart attack? Well, I had a good run.
That Lil Wayne song is killing me. It’s so brilliant. It’s humbling as an artist to see or hear something like that. Okay, The cobra Skulls, (a great band on Red Scare) just put out an awesome album called American Rubicon, and there’s this song on there, the unquestioned main jam, called back to the youth, and I KNOW, I KNOW that when Devin got that song down on tape he had a feeling of “nice, I’m the person who got to this song first” because it’s such an awesome melody and such timeless words, that it sounds like a song you’ve heard and loved for years, the first time you hear it, and the few times I’ve written songs like that, I’ve been stoked that I did it, because I’m well aware that if I hadn’t, someone else would write that song eventually. That’s Back to The Youth. A song that is destined to be written. Devin from the cobra Skulls got to do it, and he’s stoked.
That Lil Wayne song, though, no one would EVER have done that shit if Lil Wayne hadn’t come along. It’s like Relativity. You know why that paper by Einstein is considered to be so completely brilliant and his name is synonymous with genius? Because, it’s said in astronomic and mathematic and physical circles that it was SUCH a leap from what was going on, that if he hadn’t done it, it probably still would have never been discovered. Gravity, for example was gonna get discovered one way or another. Newton was smart, sure, but there’s zillions of smarties passing through the gates at any given moment. Newton was the dude that showed up that day, like Devin from the skulls, and got the credit for the universal truth (or totally sweet pop song). No dis to Devin or Newton. It takes brilliance to harness the ethereal zeitgeist of universality.
Relativity, however, is like “I’m Me” by Lil Wayne. TOTAL innovation that wouldn’t ever exist if not for the wacky genius of one guy. That’s humbling. I know that I do some funny and some rocking stuff, but I rarely get to the first point, where Devin and Newton reside, and as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think I’ll EVER do something like Einstein or Lil Wayne….That’s the kind of shit you have to be crazy (and black or jewish) to do, man. Fer realz.
Okay, My meeting has been going on for forty minutes, so I’m gonna go put on my underwear and get on my bike and ride.

Friday, July 17, 2009

I'm trying to get through this day like hair through a comb

Just poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down, only to realize I’d already poured myself a cup of coffee. Now I look like a complete freakshow, surrounded by coffees, typing this dumb thing, shirtless wearing nothing but a balloon stretched and twisted around my balls and weiner. The window is open. Hey neighbor.
Last night I broke with form and popped out for a quick drink and went to this Romanian bar in my neighborhood. Well, it used to be Romanian, back when I used to go there a little, way back before I had a kid, way, way back when I still just did what I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. I often wanted to go to the Romanian bar and drink Ursus, the Romanian beer and talk to the old Assyrian men and the young Romanian guys and ogle the beautiful, young Romanian bartenders and play the crazy jukebox and look around at the black, windowless sparkly walls and wonder what the fuck really went on in this place?
It was always super friendly, and they loved that I drank the Romanian beer. I used to bring friends there, or my wife and I would go, and it was just this really fun place full of bizarre eastern euros that most likely had something to do with human trafficking and prostitution rings, just based on the quick turnover of the beautiful, young, fresh-off-the-plane waitresses, but fuck it. No one’s perfect, right. I mean, even nick jonas picks his nose.
Anyway, we stopped going there for a while when the summer ended and the next time I went back, the bartender was from Tennessee, not Romania, she was NOT hot, she had dumb rock and roll tattoos (like a cat with a pompadour playing a bass and some flaming dice and dumb shit like that) and she was just an overall DORKUS. I asked for an Ursus and she brayed and whinnied and laughed and said “I don’t know what that is.” And I said (trying not to be pissed that this dumb Real-Worldian was interfering in my little eastern euro fantasy) ‘uh, it’s the Romanian beer that all the dudes in here drink (subtext: it’s what I order in here that makes everyone look up and smile and eventually talk to me to find out if I’m a new Romanian in town or just what my deal is generally. It’s my icebreaker, you dumb hillbilly) and she said “oh, I think I drank all them last night.” Well, needless to say, I didn’t go back for a while.
We tried to go back on new years eve, when my wife was pregnant, just to ring in the new year, and it was nuts-to-butts packed out the door and it was a fifty dollar cover and some DJ was making everyone in there go absolutely buck wild, so we went around the corner instead.
I didn’t go back for a year but a few months ago after a band practice when we were warming up to record this record, I stopped in for a drink. It was all different. They had moved shit around, they’d gotten rid of the crystal meth induced paintjob in the bathroom, and it was a lot more really old men and weirdos. People still talked to me, but it wasn’t the same. It was a little more suspicious and guarded. The bartenders were still young, but not all Romanian, and they no longer carried Ursus. Everyone was smoking, which is illegal in Chicago, but they just don’t give two fucks in that place. Smoking hookahs, smoking cigarettes, whatever. The owner sat down with me and asked me how I had come to find myself there, and I told him I live around the corner and I used to come here and drink ursus and blah blah blah and he smiled and looked around and said with a smile (almost verbatim) “Well, good, have fun, it’s not like we’re doing anything illegal.” Really? Totally awesome subterfuge, bro. Master criminal, that guy. Well, I paid for my drink and left, noticing that the once retardedly low prices had been replaced with retardedly high ones.
SO, yesterday I went there again, cuz my wife was (and remains) sick and in bed and she and my baby were both asleep. I went just to see what the place was like. I wasn’t expecting the glory days, but what I got was so fucking strange….
Okay, so I walked in and the first thing I noticed were the three Mexican girls dressed like hookers…(dressed like? Hmmm) writhing around on the pool table, showing their panties and posing suggestively while a fourth, non Mexican girl directed them and took pictures with a camera phone. She was also dressed like a hooker, by the way. There were about five old men in there, all smoking, including one big bald guy who was smoking the giant house hookah and there was a bartender, weary, older, not really attractive at all and not in any way happy to see me. I sat down and the old men glared and kind of tried to intimidate me to move down a seat. I stayed in my seat and ordered a cocktail and watched the photo shoot, which is what everyone was doing, because, well, they were a bunch of pervy old men, and the whole thing was too strange to not watch.
I noticed the drink prices had, once again increased. I noticed that I was actually way more comfortable watching the 2001 rerun of Chelsea v Arsenal than watching the photo shoot, and then I noticed that there were a couple of young dudes in the room too. A young eastern euro goon who looked like he probably sold blow to his Ukrainian construction team and this Mexican kid who was a latin king, and was thugged out to the nines. I swear he was wearing three hats. The Latin King was talking loudly to an old man and they were talking about ‘fucking people up’ and all the trouble that they both get into or used to get into and I was sitting there just drinking my drink thinking “wow, this place is now a pathetic hangout for wannabe gangsters and perverts and it’s dispensed with the cool vibe and the clandestine, high end, naive hooker ring and it’s just going for it, and it’s these kinds of losers who start fights with random dickheads like me because they’re nobodies and out to prove shit to their other nobody old man buddies.
So I left. I went across the street to the dive bar that always has alan Jackson and toby keith on the jukebox and sat next to a beautiful black/asian tranny for about ten minutes while I had a beer then came home. Quite a night. On my way home, the old bald guy with the hookah drove by in his convertible (heh…he should have a bumper sticker on his nuts that says ”my other penis is a car”) and yelled “motherfucker!” at me. Well, I think it was at me. Whatever. Fuck that place, man. I’m never going back. That’s for sure.
Enjoy your weekends. My theme song this weekend is “I’m Me” by lil wayne. I never got what all the hype was about til I heard this. It’s so creepy and amazing. If you’ve ever looked at the ubiquitous praise of Lil wayne and thought to yourself “really? this jagoff?” Check out the track “I’m Me”. It’s fucking sick.
Alright dildos, I’m gonna go try to get through this workday then it’s on to keeping on.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

notes from the cultural milieu

Hey hey hey! It’s Thursday which means that I’ve got some kind of disgusting stomach flu. It was nice enough to introduce it’s unique blend of cramps, running and burning to me at around four am, which was cool because let’s face it, I wasn’t really doing much else, so it really was able to get my full attention.
As usual, I’m on my way to work. My friend is in town staying at my house for one day only, and she’s in the shower, so in these few moments of solitude, I’m gonna attempt to uh, drop my daily dose of science on all y’all like ten cc’s of homemade glue out the frontal dong region of an old man onto the innocent smiling (then suddenly frowning) face of a young, troubled girl who hates her dad. Are the kids still saying that? “Dropping science” I mean. Yeah, probably. Whatever.
Yesterday’s post, which involved me talking about fetishizing people generated a few responses. Some were mildly funny. One guy had a wonderful analogy about tramp stamps and the difference between a fetish (you NEED whatever you’re fetishizing to get off) and a kink (you prefer it), and while I find this kind of categorizing entirely dorky and completely at odds with what makes fucking cool (raw, animalistic, fun, you know, not nickel and diming shit, kind of letting it slide and just having fun even when people queef or shit on the bed accidentally or barf on your balls) yeah, sure. You’re kind of right. Although, to be fair, I WAS talking about people who exclusively choose partners because they’re black, or crippled or whatever, so whatever. Like I said, dorky argument. The real loser of this argument is anyone who has to be part of it, and I’m stepping out, but that guy’s pretty funny anyway. Pretty sure he’s the dude that was gonna bang the porn star for his birthday. How’d that turn out? Did you have to bring your own cocaine?

That other poster in the Sock Drawer, on the other hand, the one who posted the hyper spatial reality check about how no one is born black or woman or anything and it’s only because of society that we ascribe these identities to bodies (real quote:
“So a black person isn't a thing that exists, he lives in a heterosexist, white supremacist society that has given a very specific meaning to his body. A fat person or a dwarf or an amputee exist within a cultural milieu that attaches certain meanings to their bodies.”)
Uh…look here spaceman. I don’t give 2 shits about the fucking post calculus theoretical math of intrinsic gender studies and neither should anyone. It’s the most pointless exercise in the whole big universe. And while I’ll stop short of saying it’s stupid, I will say that it’s worthless. There is no practical application to deciding suddenly that black guys don’t exist and it’s a construct. EVERYONE on the earth, besides a few stinky proto hippy punk post-polyamorous revolutionary lesbians and their friends in a few rooms (badly in need of air fresheners) in a few college campuses in the world, would look at Lebron James and categorize him as a black man. The theory of why that’s wrong is so fucking irrelevant that, not to belabor the point, you ALMOST couldn’t do something that’s a bigger waste of time. ALMOST. Right now, for example, I’m arguing a one sided argument against one of these people, who’s obviously intelligent, quite possibly offended, and I’m definitely not going to change their mind about this particular strain of study. THAT’s a much bigger waste of time. So, in THIS argument, I guess you win.
Next up:
I think the idea that people who fuck others to improve their self esteem or get ahead are somehow shallow is kind of fucked up. I mean, fucking is a mutually enjoyable activity. Sure, not always. But Racquetball isn’t always mutually enjoyable either, and people go out and hit the racquetball with their boss in hopes of getting ahead all the time. People also play racquetball when they want some exercise, and want to play with a good partner and see how they match up and this can, and often does bolster self esteem. It’s the idea that somehow sucking a dick is a cheap and easy back door to success…Fuck me, I just don’t think that’s true. Sucking a dick isn’t always easy, I’ve definitely seen some people do terrible jobs of it, and shit, man, to go back to the racquetball analogy, hitting a fucking racquetball around with some old man for half an hour does NOT sound to me like it’s harder than sucking him off.
Do you see what I’m saying here? Sex, a physical and fun activity can boost your self esteem and further your career, and yeah, there’s emotion involved, but there’s emotion involved in every human relationship, so that’s not really an issue. You can’t fuck the boss if he’s married (unless you really don’t like his or her spouse, then it’s a great move). You can’t fuck the boss if you’re married (unless you and your spouse agree that it seems like a smart family decision), but you can validate yourself with sex. Sure you can. Why not? Because someone else doesn’t automatically get a higher opinion of you afterwards? So fucking what? They didn’t have an opinion before either. Stop being such pussies. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m off to work. Thankfully, I’m all full up on self esteem, and my bosses…well, let’s just say I’d rather play racquetball. Way rather.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

ah. big news hidden in here today. read carefully

Is it okay to fetishize people for being black or fat or skinny or bald or white or whatever it is that makes them who they are that makes someone want to fuck them? I think it’s okay. I mean, when it comes to boning, there’s a certain level of sort of unbendable preferences that come into play, whether you like it or not, and you just kind of have to either go with it or deny yourself. You can’t reprogram the inherent desire to fuck whoever it is that you want to fuck. If you doubt the truth of this statement, talk to any gay guy who grew up in a strict conservative family. And sure, being gay is different than only wanting to fuck midgets, BUT, IF the only thing you ever want to fuck is a midget, what are you gonna do? Find midgets or settle for fucking something that you don’t want to fuck…and that’s a bummer, and it’s gonna lead to unhappiness.
Back to the question, can you fetishize someone and not feel bad about it? Sure. I mean, I guess there’s the whole question of getting to know a person and being up front and all that, but that’s really just basic manners stuff, right? I think a lot of people’s problems with person fetishization is the “Oh, she only fucks him cuz he’s a big black dude and she gets off on that and that’s it. She doesn’t care about him,” but that’s hardly the kind of attitude that’s unique to people who fetishize others. I’ve got several friends that will fuck anything with a vagina and a drivers license, and sure, call it a crappy way to be, does that mean they just have a vagina and drivers license fetish? Nah. They’re dudes. They’re dudes who don’t want to go to jail for pumping chicks who are still in highschool (or at least not seniors). Just purely getting off on someone and not giving a shit about them as people is pretty common. Is it a crappy thing to do? Eh…grey area. It’s not sweet. But you know what man, back in the day fucking and sweetness got all twisted together for some dumb reason, but they don’t need to be, you know?
Really, at the end of the day, fetishes are just standards, and yeah, they’re odd standards sometimes, but they’re standards, and everyone has to have standards.
Some girls will ONLY fuck dudes with jobs- Good for them. What’s then the difference if they’ll only fuck dudes with GOOD jobs? There’s none. Okay, so then what if they’ll only fuck pizza guys and plumbers who are on housecalls? Don’t tell me that meeting a CPA at a bar and fucking him later that same night is ANY different than fucking the Pizza guy when he stops by with your crazy bread. Strangers having consensual sex after a very brief introduction is no more acceptable because of some job, or some illusion that bars are great places to meet strangers but dominoes isn’t. Okay, sure, the pizza guy is actually WORKING while all this is going down, but hey! Who hasn’t dreamed of a little bone sesh during work now and then? I’m getting off topic. I started this example to lead into fetishes, I know that fucking a pizza guy isn’t exactly a fetish…But it IS an awesome move. Anyway, let’s continue:
Some people will only fuck people who are in good shape. People who are athletic. That’s acceptable. BUT then when people will only fuck fat people, suddenly it’s called a fetish. That’s odd, and seems a bit unfair. When someone says they’ll only date within their own race, that’s kind of old timey and vaguely racist, but people tend to think it’s fine, if a little antiquated/dull. BUT god help you if you like another race of people specifically. Then you’re a pervert. That’s not cool. I mean if I’m attracted to black guys and that’s it, that should be completely fine. Black guys are BORN black, just like women are BORN with vaginas. Now, I’m currently not really all that attracted to black guys as a general rule, but I AM attracted pretty exclusively to women. It’s not a fetish, right? I like people born with vaginas. Not all of them, but I sure as hell am not interested in fucking around with anyone born without a vagina (and that includes anyone, not just people with dicks). So in what way does that differ from having a disposition for black skin and letting that dictate your mate?
People are hung up, and having a meaningful conversation about race in this country is about as easy as talking about eating a wheel of cheese out of an old man’s ass at a Southern Baptist fish fry. There’s gonna be yelling, hurt feelings and lots and lots of judging, no matter how slowly and carefully you tread. My point is, for some reason, I was thinking about how most of the people I’ve been with have been slender, pretty white girls. Almost all of them…and now I’m married and the idea of banging (for example) an overweight black lady is never gonna be anything more than just an idea. Am I missing out? Who knows? But I’m definitely not missing out any more than the guy like me out there who ONLY fucks big beautiful black ladies, or the guy who just fucks midgets or the midget girl who only bangs surfers or the hairdresser that only fucks dudes that wear those crappy v neck shirts that go halfway down their chest and look like what would happen if Nerf made a disco shirt.
I guess the point is that indulging in what you like is cool, and habit is part of humanity and comfort is not to be taken lightly. There’s that one hippy that eats nothing but big macs for every meal of his life. I think it’s gross, but whatever. Good for him. I also think the idea of fucking a fat old man is gross, but there are people out there that line UP for that shit. So get out there and get freaky people. It’s all good. But keep it legal, eh? Most of those laws are in place for a reason.
Oh, and here’s some semi big news: My band, the Lawrence Arms is going on tour in early Novmber. West coast, starting in Arizona on November fifth and ending in SF a week later. Yeah, it’s not the biggest tour in the world, but it’s gonna be great and in support of our new digital EP and seven inch on Fat Wreck. You can buy tickets right on our myspace page I think, or at least you’re supposed to be able to. Technology is strange, man. We’re bringing Teenage Bottlerocket and the Cobra Skulls, so set wieners on hard and get your tickets, everyone.

See you all out there!

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

brain delay

What a week, eh? No update yesterday, and this one is gonna have to be short, cuz the baby is digging through my trash with the fervor of a hippy behind a dunkin donuts…Eh, I just gave him a graham cracker…should be okay for a couple minutes, right?
Okay, enough small talk. I’ve been busy lately, and I’ve had some buddies in town, and last night we went to see Green Day, and guess what? Billie fucking mentioned McGreggors AGAIN on stage! Go back to my post from last week “can I get an aw shucks” for a reminder of what McGreggors is/was. Look, the point is, it was a pretty good show. The stage was incredible and they had lots of energy. They played pretty much the whole new record, which I’m not really a fan of, but they played some of the old timey jams as well. A fat guy from the crowd sung Longview, which I think is a pretty funny way of pissing off thirty thousand people while kind of giving them what they want at the same time.
My friend who I went to the show with ended up losing his wallet and getting tattooed on his neck by Billie Joe…which is quite an evening, to say the least. He also bought a brand new motorcycle…good lord, man. Kind of a midlife crisis move if you ask me, but hey, what do I know? I think motorcycles are nothing but surrogate dicks and I like the idea of finding parked motorcycles and pushing them over as a sort of sport. My friend Mike and I had this game for a couple of years when he was our tour manager. One point per pushed over motorcycle. Proud to say that after about six years of this game we’re tied at zero points a piece right now. Shit’s a little too awesome to really do, but man oh man, if I knew hapkido or something…sigh.
My kid and I just shared a nectarine, and now he’s getting into the dogfood…sheesh. I gotta go. No time, really.
Look, I’ll get this shit back up to speed starting tomorrow. Today I’m just too tired and too busy with awake babies to really do anything worth a shit. He’s tossing the dogfood down to the dogs like some sort of great liberator…which is bad, because they’re supposed to be on diets. Fat chihuahuas. Now he’s headed for the bathroom…He likes to splash around in the toilet for some ungodly reason. Hey! Come back here dude! Fuuuuuuck.
Gotta run!

Friday, July 10, 2009

take off all your preppy clothes.

Hey hey.
I guess I didn’t cover swinging well yesterday. Swinging is the art of being married, but boning people who aren’t your spouse. Usually, in fact, almost always, it’s the kind of thing that happens when you’re in the same general place, like, you go to a swinger party and people are just pumping all over the apartment, or you and your spouse and another couple go out for drinks and then you all end up banging in the same room later on. This can involve you just banging your spouse while the other couple’s banging right there (exciting!) or the full on trading of partners (oh my!) Swinging is a ‘lifestyle’ apparently, and one of my lovely dogs of war asked yesterday what I thought of swinging. Well, looking back over the advice I gave, it really seemed like I was in a hurry to get out the door and well, frankly, there were parts of it that I think didn’t make sense. So let’s start again.
Swinging. It’s awesome. In theory. I love the idea. Banging chicks, letting my wife be free to experiment sexually with whomever she wants…Hey, it kind of completely eliminates the element of infidelity from a relationship, right? I mean, I really, really, really see the allure. It’s the end of cheating, the end of mistrust. It fixes everything that usually plagues relationships.
Yeah. It does. Here’s the issue for me with swinging. I hate dudes. I don’t want some guy there banging my wife. That’s my stuff, man. It’s not like I don’t want her to get the enjoyment (though, really, how could she even enjoy anything? It would be so pedestrian compared to the five star boneathons that I provide her with) it’s that I don’t want some greasy dickhead looking over at me and thinking he got one over on me. AND, for fucks sake, I don’t want my wife looking at me boning someone that’s not her. I mean, call me crazy, but my wife is my ideal mate, and having her in the room pretty quickly highlights what’s wrong with whomever I’m banging, right? Or what’s wrong with my wife, I guess…but that’s a realization I never want to come to.
And that’s the thing. People don’t treat sex like they should, and I’m as guilty of this as anyone. Sex should and could be like eating. Both are instincts after all. It COULD be that you have a favorite person to bang, but you bang other people, but you always return to that comfort bang, right? Like, let’s say my favorite meal is salami sandwiches. I often eat other things, stuff that I love, and sometimes that stuff I love makes me feel satisfied in amazing ways, but that never EVER effects my love of salami sandwiches. That’s always my favorite, and it’s always gonna be. But, in terms of sex, that’s quite a leap to make. And I see how in a really great, really strong relationship, that would be an amazing gameplan as far as porking strangers goes. BUT!!!!!! People don’t treat sex that way. People are cowards. People think dumb shit like (just for example) “once you go black you never go back’ and completely ignore the way human preference actually works. People are creatures of habit and people who love something will ALWAYS return to it. For example, I’ve got a ton of friends. Hanging out with someone new, and getting along famously, and having a great night doesn’t threaten the status of my best friend. Not at all. But we think that’s how it works with sex. I don’t know why. I mean, honestly I think all sorts of group swinging type shit seems like it’s cool, but I don’t think I’m man enough to handle it. I couldn’t see my wife in that situation and just be happy that she was enjoying herself. I couldn’t see my wife looking at me and not wonder what the fuck she was thinking to be okay with all this. It’s a hangup, sure, but BUT BUT BUT that’s sort of irrelevant. Hang ups are what make us who we are. They’re the things we need to tread lightly around to cultivate any relationship. AND, that’s the other problem with swinging. In a friendship, if you have a best friend who doesn’t like horror movies, but you love ‘em, you just kind of accept that and understand that you’ll never be the squad that sits down and has a Romero marathon…BUT with sex, people’s hang ups become suddenly things that you need to get around, or change or try to convince them to rethink, as though that’s even possible. This chick yesterday, who wants to swing, trying to rationalize why her husband should be okay with it…that’s not the way it works. Try to convince me that I should enjoy eating eggplant. Go ahead. I’m listening….Okay. Okay. Okay. Nope. I still hate eggplant. Sorry. It’s the same thing with shit like swinging. You can’t convince someone one way or the other…it’s either something they’re down with or not.
And, to just kind of cap this whole thing off, I’d suggest that it’s the middle ground relationships that would suffer from ‘the swinging lifestyle’. People who are truly comfortable with each other can probably make that shit work out and have the best BEST BEST BEST relationships of anyone, and people who really don’t give a shit about each other can probably have a pretty awesome time swinging too, because, well, who cares? But for the rest of us…the pussies. Sigh. I don’t think we’re all ready. And keep in mind, it’s not the kind of thing that’s specific to people. It’s specific to RELATIONSHIPS. I could be the type of dude who swings like crazy with one girl, but in my relationship with another be unable or unwilling or uninterested….It’s fucking complicated, man. Why you gotta go and make things so complicated? You know?
On that note, I actually met avril lavigne once. She came to our show in LA. She’s short, and she smells like shit. HA!
Okay, so this has been day 2 of swinging, and I’m still looking for eligible couples to convince me to give it all a try. Send your pics to the email address linked on this page. Let’s see what happens! Also, ladies, pics of your cans are always encouraged. Woot.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Can I get an "Aw Shucks!"?

I can’t stand false bumpkinism. You know what I’m talking about right? These dudes, often dudes in bands who’ve cultivated this “down home, laid back, fish n’ drink and dream and whittle’ kind of attitude, except it’s fake. Oh, yes it is, little girl. That’s just what he WANTS you to think. It’s ALWAYS fake when it’s a dude in a band at least, and I’ll prove it to you.
When I was uh…I dunno, sixteen or seventeen I saw greenday play second of four opening for Bad Religion. The show was at the Riviera, which is about 2500 capacity. At the time, they’d played only one other show in Chicago, and that was at McGreggors, which was this dumpy little bar in the suburbs that held maybe 200. the bands at McGreggors played on the floor, and I believe there was a banister between the bands and the crowd. It was a typical shithole that people now look fondly back on because they (for example) were able to catch Green Day there before all hell broke loose.
Anyway, this night at the Riv, Billy Joe walked out, looked around the huge room and said “Man, this is a lot different than McGreggors, huh?” then proceeded to play one of the best sets I’ve ever seen any band play. And that first line stuck with me. How crazy must it have been for him to walk out there and just see all those people when his experience before that had just been Mcgreggors?!!? Mind blowing.
What I didn’t realize then was that BJ had already been in the show room at the Riviera for soundcheck, and hung out there all day, he’d been on the Bad Religion tour all the way out from California and he was in no way surprised by the size of the venue or the amount of people there. In fact, quite the opposite, he was totally expecting it, and he played a show that betrayed that he was completely comfortable up there. He was doing something else entirely. He was name dropping McGreggors to the crowd, which is what you do if you’re a good showman and you’ve been around. You gently remind everyone that you were there too…It brings a feeling of camaraderie to the whole affair. That’s okay. I dig that. It’s JUST misleading enough without being phony. What I don’t dig is this kind of shit:
“Wow. This is a big place. We’re just some country boys from XXXXX, and we appreciate y’all makin us feel at home” (or whatever aw shucksy ‘man, this is a big ol’ city y’all got here’ type bullshit they’re pulling).
Dude, no. You’re traveling on a tourbus. You’ve been to Japan, you’ve been to Europe so many times you’re sick of it. You and your crew are among the most well traveled and cosmopolitan people in the world. You don’t get to pretend that the cities and the fast pace and all that shit blow your mind and get you down. They don’t. Fuck, man. You’re an ARTIST who travels CITY TO CITY all over the WHOLE WORLD making money. Don’t bullshit me, man. It’s a fucking gimmick and that’s all it is. At it’s best, it’s akin to that episode of different strokes where Willis and Arnold decide to start acting African (playing drums, fake accents, wearing colorful wraps) because even though it’s not who they are, it’s where they came from. At its worst, it’s no different than white kids acting black, completely co-opting something that was never part of their experience except as a transplant or observer because they think it’s cooler than who they really are.
But, let’s not get too complicated or specific. I’m talking about the complete bullshit show that goes into aw shucksin’ your way through a concert. You know what it’s like? It’s like George W Bush. That guy is a Yale grad, born in Massachusetts, son of a fucking PRESIDENT who somehow convinced everyone that he was a Washington outsider and just a down home good old boy. No you’re not, dude. You’re exploiting the very people you pretend to be in hopes that their simple charm will not only endear you to them, but also rub off on you and make you seem appealing. Well, here’s the thing, it works, but it sucks. It’s phony, it’s shitty and it’s driving me nuts. The emperor is wearing no clothes, man. Fuuuuuuck.
Okay, and on to the question about swinging. Someone in the drawer asked about swinging. She wants to try, he doesn’t (interesting twist).
I want to [swing], but my husband thinks it's becuase I'm unsatisfied with him in bed, or that I want a "legit" way to cheat. It's neither. Does that make me incredibly fucked up? And what guy doesn't want a free card to fuck another girl? Oh yeah, and the fact that I wouldn't be jealous, means I, "Don't care". Which is also untrue (I've started fights with girls looking at him the wrong way.) __Shouldn't it be ok as long as its mutual, no lying, non-emotional, and you really love each other? I think it's sweet that he's so committed and I feel bad that he thinks I'm not for suggesting it. I've never stayed with a guy more 3 months before him, and he and I have been married for a year and a half now. __And uh.. this isn't one of those "if she wants to do it, she's going to do it" scenarios. If he doesn't agree, it's off the table... he's not quite convinced I'm sharable.

Okay, to answer your questions in no particular order, yes, it should be okay as long as it’s mutual, no lying blah blah blah, but it sounds, very plainly, like it’s not mutual. What guy doesn’t want a free card to fuck another girl? Your guy apparently. There’s no way to argue this point. Fucking is a goddamn instinct and that kind of shit is wired into you. You’re going to use logic to get him to fuck someone so you can too? That’s like bringing a drill to a fishing trip.
Also, there’s a big difference between wanting to fuck someone and wanting someone else to fuck your spouse. I’d love to fuck a few people out there, but even more than that, I like my old lady fucking only me. That’s my style, I guess. I’d rather not fuck other people and deny myself that just because…nah. I dunno. It’s not really that simple, is it? Sex and love are funny things and the big deal is that they allow people to be vulnerable in front of each other. You and your dude know each other well, you know how to turn each other on, piss each other off, and I bet you could crush his soul (and vice versa) better than anyone else on the planet if you wanted to. That’s the thing with swinging. It’s serious business. Watching someone fuck your spouse…I wouldn’t want to do it. I can say that with assurance. I mean, if I was married to someone who said “hey, I’ll NEVER fuck anyone, but I want to watch you fuck other people” (and this attitude DOES exist) I’d maybe be able to give it a try. But I’m not married to that person, and it sounds like you’re not either. I dunno, man. Swinging’s cool. Seems like a real great time, but as much as I wish it wasn’t the case, I don’t think it’s really for me, and sounds like it’s not really for your dude, either. Convincing him that it is his thing is really nothing short of coercion with your relationship as the stakes. You could probably convince him (because, like you said, he’s a dude) but it WILL end your relationship. Again, drills on a fishing trip, man. Someday, he may decide that’s the kind of spice he wants. Til then, if the last line of your query is true, shit looks like it’s ‘off the table’.
That being said, I’m perfectly willing to be convinced regarding swinging, so everyone, send in your nude shots (couples only [mw or ww] and we’ll see if we can’t work something out. Gotta go to work.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Hi, I'm a mac

My baby’s nap didn’t take this morning. He was standing in his crib jumping around when I finally gave up and went in for him. His pants were full of poo, which, let’s be fair, would make it hard for even a junkie to sleep (hey, maybe that’s why god made heroin a constipator). Now, I’m not sure what to do, so I’m forgoing the gym, using the perfect pushup (see my first entry “hello blogosphere” for details), and an inflatable exercise ball, making sure he doesn’t eat any wayward dimes and trying to type this shit all at once. I think that’s what the more articulate san Francisco hobos refer to as “multitasking.”
We’re out of everything at this house. Dogfood, diapers, asswipes for midgets, lunch crap, breakfast crap. Fuck, the only thing we have is beer. I’m like a fucking college student again, except I’m even less qualified to engage in a witty discourse about anything not pop culture oriented…
Okay, here’s what’s chapping my dickskin lately: Apple. Steve Jobs is, make no mistake, a genius. I know, that’s hardly a revolutionary statement, but people ignore his most amazing invention and focus on the small stuff. People point to the ipod and go nuts about how this little gizmo revitalized a whole industry, destroyed another industry or two and you know, changed the world. And fuck, they’re right. It did. And the iphone is pretty great too, just in terms of pushing the envelope of how we think about phones, and the computers are cool, but man, none of that shit is as important as his greatest and most overlooked innovation.
(okay, just to build suspense, I’m gonna pause here and say, Sock Drawer, a debate regarding PC’s vs. macs is uninteresting and lame. Same with any trashing of operating systems or whatever. That’s really missing the point entirely, besides being just a lame thing to argue about, you fucking nerds. That’s like watching porn and getting into an argument about sheets or leather quality or the heat at which latex becomes viscous. Anyway…)
Disposable technology. Man. This dude found out that it’s not enough to keep offering technological upgrades, you have to make shit break after a while too. See, people are, first and foremost, creatures of habit. Once shit gets to a level of ease, only a few types of folks will seek out the next level of techie advances, because really, the energy it’s gonna take to learn the new way of doing everything is gonna outweigh the amount easier it becomes, at least at first. That’s why no one bought Laser Discs…well, and they were stupidly huge…but you get the idea. That’s why people don’t really give a fuck about blu ray, or watching the whole movie on Qmov. It’s not worth the extra effort and money to make something already easy just that tiny bit better. That’s why shit has to be poorly crafted.
Think about it. Apple really nailed this one. There’s an apple store here in Chicago, and I remember going in there only 2 years after the first ipods came out and there was a bin for ‘recycling your ipod’ right there in the store. There was a sign above it that said something like “it’s been good to you, now recycle it”. Dude? Are you fucking kidding me? Those things cost like 300 bucks! I hate to sound like a fucking grandpa, but back in my day shit that cost three hundred bucks wasn’t supposed to fucking die EVER. I mean, what kind of brass iBalls does this company have that they can sell this shit for so much money and then when you bring it in because it’s broken, they can smile smugly and say “hey, it’s not supposed to last much more than 2 years. It’s been good to you, right? Now recycle it and get another one.” Fuck. You. (and yeah, I’ll take another one…snivel)
I mean, you don’t even have to go back to the days of the model T and pewter plates to get an example of how fucked up this new world order is. Remember those bricklike nokia phones that we all had when this shit first started happening? You could stuff that thing up a coked out gorilla’s ass and let him party for a week, and then once he finally passed out, you could retrieve that fucker, wipe off the banana smell and go about your business. Those fuckers were indestructible. I mean, remember those big yellow walkmen? Those things were fifty bucks and you could toss those sumbitches out of a moving car and into a pool and they’d be fine. It’s not that the technology doesn’t EXIST to make these fucking things last…it’s that they actively have a business model that encourages the manufacture of shoddy products in order to keep everyone in lines at the apple store waiting to talk to dumb hacker nerds with pimples and bad breath and condescending attitudes and stupid ringer tees on and have them point out that the product line is perfect, but it’s quickly evolving and as such, this one piece of gear that you have that actually still works is outmoded, sorry. Can’t replace those speakers that totally suck and broke after six months, because we use new ports now.
ARGH! Fuck, man. You’re so fucking….smart. Jesus. It’s so smart it burns me up inside. I think that Steve Jobs seriously (seriously) applied the principles of the drug trade to the “white market economy” (get it? Because macs are to white people what uh…oooh, jeez, I dunno…this analogy is teetering dangerously close to uh, racist…nevermind). It’s like, they get you hooked, then you get some gear, then it suddenly runs out, then you need more shit to keep the shit you already have going and then you’re so deep into the fucking cult that learning to use a dell would be like drinking coffee instead of sniffing glue while you shoot heroin into your dickhole, and you’re on the fucking horse, or you’ve got a monkey on your back or you’re chasing the dragon or something….I dunno. Smart guy. That’s all I’m saying. You get it, dontcha?
In current events, the baby is asleep now, and I’m giving up on too much exercise. I mean, I don’t want to be one of those guys with the huge neck and tiny penis, right? So I better stop working out my neck…Heh. Oh, and Robb from the sock drawer, you win the prize for attention to detail/best use of lots of free time in middle school. I think you should win something pretty nice, but I don’t know what..hmmm. How about a recipe for a delicious gongbong?
First, be high, drunk or bored. Stand near a fence, on grass (this is important). Crouch and put your head between your knees. Breathe deeply in through your nose and quickly out through your mouth. Repeat for about a minute, maybe two. Then, in one big, splendid move, breathe in as much as you can using both nose and mouth, and hold it, standing up at the same time. Grab the fence. Feeling it? Hey, don’t let go, stud! Okay, good, breathe out. Try not to piss your pants or fall down. That’s a gong bong. More fun than it should be, people. (And hey, so we’re clear, this is NOT that passing out thing…that’s just creepy and dumb. Yeah, it’s got similarities, but there are similarities between, say, petting a dog and whacking a dog off. One’s cool, one’s not.)
Yeah, how’s it going down there in the drawer? Or over in the other one? Good to hear. Keep your advice coming people. You know I live for that shit. Oh, actually, there was a dude who was asking about his wife getting drunk and making out with another chick while his buddy watched. It bummed him out, and it’s the second time this has happened after a promise that it wouldn’t happen again. Ah fuck it. Here’s the letter:
I was hoping to get some advice from you to see if I'm taking my situation out of hand or if I should be really upset about this. The other day my fiance was beyond drunk and made out wiith my buddies wife while he was there watching. (all three were drunk, but was told my friend was not involved) they did this behind my back, and it seemed no one was going to tell me until we (me and my fiance) started arguing and she let it out. (2 days later that is.) So i'm all for watching two chicks make out and going the distance, but I feel cheated on when it's my fiance and behind my back. Any thoughts or suggestions. By the way she has done this before, and said it would never happen again. She's liar that's for sure.
Seems simple dude. She’s doing that shit to piss you off because she feels unfairly stifled by your hang-ups. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Irrelevant. Here’s the deal. She wants to occasionally kiss chicks (at least, right? If not more, if not dudes) and you don’t want her to (“I feel cheated on when it’s my fiancĂ©”) SO, you guys need to talk. Those are incompatible points of view. You are never, EVER going to have a marriage that works if you don’t get to the bottom of this, and frankly, I don’t really think this seems like the kind of thing you’re going to get to the bottom of. It’s not that you’re a square, or that she’s a liar or a skank, it’s that you guys have different ideas of monogamy, or the amount of monogamy that you want in your relationship right now, and there’s one solution. Don’t get married. Not anytime soon at least. Not until you guys truly don’t have completely opposite opinions. Sorry. And I know this isn’t easy to hear, and calling off a wedding is a pain in the ass, and your parents and her friends and blah blah blah and I know that you’ll maybe even show this little piece of advice to her and you’ll both make a big, grown up promise to each other to ignore your true instincts/feelings and work shit out, but you’re just postponing the inevitable. You’re TOO angry, and she’s obviously pushing your buttons. Relationship as it stands=Doomed.
I’m going to the grocery store! Fuck all yall!

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Do we REALLY like the name Gary?

My kid has a new favorite toy. It’s pretty funny. He started walking about a month ago, and with this new level of automotion he’s been able to indulge his previously inaccessible curiosities. The fridge is a big one, so are the drawers in the kitchen. Since his first step, he’s been loving this one particular drawer. It used to hold a sake set and some porcelain dishes for wasabi until they all somehow ended up broken on the floor, now it holds some of his toys. This is okay, because it focuses him a little and gets him playing with his shit instead of playing with the dogfood or the disgusting stuffed cat that Pancho fucks relentlessly (the fuck kitty) or, you know, any of the poison under the sink.
Anyway, what’s in the drawer? His beer.
We got back from this wedding and we suddenly had a thirty pack of Busch light. We bought it because it was cheap, and we wanted to have beer to bribe people with to come hang out with us on the porch of our hotel room after we put the baby down. Well, the reception was right by our room, and the baby monitor signal went that far, so we ended up not hanging in the room or even opening the beer at all. When we got home, I went to put it in the refrigerator and the baby walked over and grabbed one and man, it was love at first sight. Now, when we walk in the door, the first thing he does is run for his drawer and grab his beer. He walks around the house with it…he just carries it everywhere, and it’s dinged up as shit and I gotta say, it’s the funniest fucking thing in the universe. This little dude and his beer. It’s like a teddy bear or a blanket, but it’s a BEER. Someday that beer is going to burst, due to its many dings and constant quick trips to the floor and just hemorrhage all over the baby. That’s gonna be sad. Welcome to dying, baby. That’s how it goes. You drop your buddies enough, they’ll eventually bleed beer all over you until they’re nothing but an empty corpse shell (to borrow a phrase from the late, great Vincent Price) and there you’ll be, stinking of alcohol, super confused and wondering what to do with the body before the cops show up. Welcome to the cycle of life, kid.
Well, there’s still 29 other Busch Lights in the fridge that aren’t going anywhere any time soon. He probably won’t know the difference, right? It’ll be simple, like replacing a kitty or a mommy. Sigh.
What else is going on out there? Anything? I guess Matt Alison is going to start mixing our record this week, which is cool. There’s a funny part of the rough mixes where I sing the phrase “what shit was like…” as part of a bigger, lyrically incredible line (heh) and chris, who sings the line as well, sang “what THIS was like…” The result? It sounds like we’re singing “What JIZZ was like…” Hmmmm….
Well, it’s funny. Although the song itself isn’t actually about jizz and it’s really not that funny either. SO, I think we’re gonna have to change it up a little. I think if we just mix out chris’s sibilant “S” at the end of the word, it’ll be fine. That, or we could reverse it, a la Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How It Feels” (radio edit) where they turn the word “joint” into tnoij, which actually sounds a lot like “zhozhe,” but whatever. Look. I told you guys that studio shit was boring.
Uh, I’ve got production meetings all day and I’m….Jesus, this is so dull. What’s going on in the world? I feel like I’ve been completely ensconsed in a dirty diaper/cheese/beer/vodka/homemade pizza timewarp ever since that trip to the North Woods. I’m going to Yahoo real quick. Good god. Nothing. Some shit about Lance Armstrong and some shit about that goddamned dead celebrity. I’m sick of this dumb society.
I was talking about this earlier with my wife, but it’s really amazing that when something like the MJ death comes along, it really highlights what vacuous, pathetic toadies American Journalists are. The way they “interview” the location broadcasters and the way those broadcasters respond smack of the same desperation that grade hungry imbeciles demonstrate in a highschool class. It’s just stupid people assuming that they’re talking to even stupider people and dumbing shit down to a level that would be insulting to even the stupidest person out there. Never mind that this woman has been standing in front of Neverland for 3 days with nothing to say, nevermind that this guy has been asking her the same unanswerables for 3 days. All they can do is chuckle, glance furtively at their producers for signs of encouragement and continue to try to make a name for themselves (at the expense of each other…fuck teamwork entirely) in the world of talking heads, 24 hour news cycles and male bulimia.
These groups of people with communication and broadcasting degrees are the people that decide the spiciness of almost everything that you consume with your brain. This is problematic for 2 reasons: 1. Group thinking almost never leads to good, focused results unless after the group is done ONE person can take all the ideas presented and synthesize the good and ignore the bad. This NEVER happens though, for the very reason I was talking about before. These people are toadies and they are so desperate for approval that they’ll fight tooth and nail for their dumb ideas to be included, regardless of how that effects the result, therefore making it true committee thinking, which is, it’s been proven time and time again, completely useless (this is also what happens in our government, by the way, but it seems like it’s more pandering and euphemism than desperation…but fuck, man. That’s a whole other topic). Reason 2: We’re talking about communications majors, people. That’s the major the football players do so they can coast through school. It’s a college major that involves watching cartoons and pretending that there’s intrinsic truths in Bugs Bunny dressing up as a german frau and serving a stein of urine to Yosimite Sam. Fascinating! Look, full disclosure, I have a bachelor of science in radio tv and film, so I’m not in ANY way trying to dis communications majors…Hell, I’m right there with them, and I LOVED my communications classes, and shit, if I had a communications degree, I’d probably be a lot more qualified to get a job somewhere cool than I am now, but the point remains. These are the people giving you your news, watering down your screenplays, telling people that things are too edgy and don’t play in Iowa and generally jetsetting around and nickel and diming every single writer, artist, director, researcher, musician, scientist or anyone who comes up with something passably unique simply because they have that schoolroom mentality: If my idea goes in there, no matter how stupid it is, I’m validated, and I’ll emerge victorious over my coworkers (who are also for some dumb reason my enemies). It’s frustrating and it’s almost inescapable, and not just in broadcasting or Hollywood either. My wife deals with this bullshit from her clients all day long. They make her change everything from concepts to shades of green arbitrarily with no sense of goal and/or purpose, and she’s in marketing. You’d think that the clients, who make, let’s say soap, just for an example, would let her and her fellow marketers and designers do the job they hired them to do, but alas…committee thinking wins out, because, well, someone’s super stoked about sticking their dick/vagina where it doesn’t belong, and forcing her to work late into the night while I sullenly watch tv…sigh. Yup, you’re fucked, we all are, unless you work for yourself, in which case, good luck making any money. You better have a job at a crappy bar where you can deal with a whole different kind of toady. The service industry toady (manager) who will stop at nothing to make sure the bosses think they’re doing a good job even at the expense of employee happiness/productivity/or actual dedication to service. It's the same dumb shit where people foolishly treat the people they work with as their enemies as opposed to their teammates. Stupid. It's like Mark Twain said, man. "familiarity breeds contempt." So true, Twain. So true. God, I hate that I even know about that. AAAAARGH!!!!!!!! Where’s my baby’s beer?